House of Ash and Gold

Chapter 16: The Heir and the Thorn

The Varissen banners hung limp in the courtyard, their colors dulled by dust and too many summers.

Cael stood to one side of the gathered household, hands clasped behind his back, watching the gate.

They'd spent the morning polishing the flagstones and brushing down the horses outside. Inside, the maids had cleaned the sconces and scattered fresh straw on the floor. But nothing could hide how worn the place looked, especially today.

A hush settled as the gates opened and the Drevane banners moved into view, vivid against the weathered walls.

Three carriages, lacquered deep and edged in brass, rolled forward in perfect sequence. Behind them rode six guards in matching cloaks, their horses well-groomed with tack glinting in the late sun.

The first carriage stopped. A rider swung down, barked an order and as if rehearsed, the servants rushed forward to open doors and lower steps.

The woman who emerged first didn't rush.

Her gown was a muted gold that caught light in subtle flashes as she moved. A clasp at her shoulder glinted faintly, and her green leather gloves fit without a crease.

Cael's Veil-sight stirred before he could stop it. Threads shimmered faintly around her. Gold, like fine wire, wrapped with darker thorns. Ambition and danger, braided tight.

She didn't look at him. Not at first.

Behind her two men descended, her father and some advisor by the look of him. Moving just slightly behind her pace, like afterthoughts.

Even without the Veil, you could see it. The way she carried herself, as though the place belonged to her already.

She paused in the center of the yard, her gaze moving slowly over the banners, the walls, the worn armor of the guards at the gate.

Cael didn't move, just watched her, noting every step.

Ambition and thorns, dressed in silk.

Edric stepped forward then, with Jorlan at his side. Edric's cloak was freshly brushed, but even so it couldn't quite match the sheen of Drevane silk.

"Lord Drevane," Edric said evenly, the words heavy in his mouth. "Welcome to Varissen Hall."

The older man gave a shallow bow, his face unreadable. But before he could answer, the heiress spoke, her voice smooth enough to draw every ear:

"Lord Varissen," she said, just loud enough to carry. "We thank you for your welcome."

Her eyes flicked to Jorlan briefly, before landing squarely on Cael.

The corner of her mouth curved, not quite a smile, before she turned and began walking toward the hall.

Inside, the great hall felt too small.

The Drevane party took their places without ceremony. The servants followed, adjusting their masters' collars and straightening the goblets on the table as if it were their own hall. The guards stood near the walls, relaxed but watchful, as though they'd done this a hundred times.

The Varissen staff lined the edges of the room, trying not to stare too openly at the Drevane silks and the faint sparkle of jewelry even on the guards' belts.

Cael took his place at the table, head slightly lowered, though his eyes stayed on them.

He caught the whispers of the Varissen maids as they retreated into the shadows.

That clasp must've cost more than a horse…

She sat quietly among them, leaning back slightly, fingers grazing the rim of her goblet, but somehow still drawing every eye.

Lord Drevane murmured something about trade routes and tariffs. Edric's reply came clipped, each word measured. Jorlan let his gaze linger on her face longer than was proper.

She noticed... Of course she did. Someone with her kind of beauty learns early how to wear it.

When a servant refilled her wine, she lifted her goblet and let her gaze drift to Cael.

"You've been staring since I walked in," she said, almost amused. "Is it curiosity or just bad manners?"

Cael blinked, then tilted his head slightly and pointed faintly at himself.

"Are you sure you mean me?" he asked, deadpan.

Her brow arched.

"I think you've got me mixed up with him," Cael added, nodding subtly toward Jorlan.

Instinctively, both of them glanced at Jorlan who stiffened, caught mid-glance, and very obviously tried to pretend he'd been looking somewhere else. His ears reddened as he focused hard on his goblet.

When they both turned back to each other, a short, quiet laugh escaped them at the same time, enough to draw a few curious looks from nearby.

Cael leaned back slightly in his chair, and she tilted her head, a faint smirk tugging at her mouth before she took another sip of wine.

The meal dragged on. She said little, but his eyes stayed on her, watching how the others fell quiet just a breath too late when she did speak.

Whenever Edric raised the subject of Dorvale grain shipments, it was her father who answered… but her eyes never left the table, shadowing him with a steady expression, already wearing the kind of composure others twice her age couldn't muster.

Cael's eyes narrowed. That wasn't just confidence. The threads the Veil had shown him were real, and so were the thorns, and she was proving it with every quiet move.

When the plates were cleared, she rose from her chair and drifted toward the archway, her movement unhurried, fingers trailing along the stone as she stepped outside.

Cael hesitated only a moment before pushing back his chair and following, a few paces behind. He caught the flicker of Jorlan's eyes on him, sour.

...

The yard was cooler now, torches hissing faintly in their sconces.

She stopped at the edge of the steps, one hand resting lightly on the stone rail, her gaze fixed beyond the walls.

For a moment, neither spoke.

She glanced at him, faint amusement tugging at her mouth.

"So," she murmured, "you're the heir, then."

Cael raised a brow, just slightly.

"I am."

Her gaze drifted back to the dark fields, fingers trailing lightly along the stone rail.

"Funny. Most houses wouldn't let a bastard brother outshine the heir, not when the heir's trueborn."

Cael's jaw tightened, though he kept his voice flat.

"You seem well informed."

...

She let her gaze drift over him, then back to the dark beyond the walls.

"I make it my business to know these things," she murmured. "You're a small house, but… interesting. Not many would've dared marry someone with Ashveil blood. Yet your father's parents urged him. That choice alone says something."

Cael's brow ticked, though he said nothing.

She went on, her voice light but deliberate:

"Your family has held the Ridge for generations, longer than most high ranking nobles can claim. Even now, worn thin as you are, you are still able to hold. There's a kind of weight in that. Fighting strength and desperation...That makes you..."

Her eyes flicked back to him, faintly amused.

"…dangerous and interesting."

Cael felt something cold settle in his chest.He'd grown up hearing the Ridge called a dying branch, a name no longer worth defending. But hearing her name its history, its strength, even its desperation, with such clarity… it struck him differently.

He answered dryly, though his pulse quickened.

"So that's what this is. An interesting bet."

"Pragmatism," she corrected smoothly. "My father has done business with yours before, modest shipments of grain at cheap prices. But it won't be enough this year, not the way things look. And someone in your position should already know that."

That landed.

Cael stayed quiet, his fingers flexing against the rail. She didn't need to spell it out, he already knew the ledgers didn't lie. But hearing it from her, hearing how easily she named his position made something twist in his chest.

Her eyes flicked to him again, with a knowing look.

"You'll have to do more than just watch if you want to keep your place," she added lightly. "Especially with a brother who knows how to play to a crowd."

Cael let out a quiet breath through his nose.

"And what would you know about keeping a place?"

She finally smiled, that small sharp one and turned fully toward him.

"Enough."

At that, something flickered at the edge of his sight. The threads the Veil showed him, seemed to flare brighter around her for just a breath. He blinked, unsure if it was real or just the way she was looking at him.

For a few breaths they just watched each other, the faint scent of her perfume cutting through the cooler air.

"You don't seem like the stories," she said suddenly, tilting her head.

"Stories?"

"Of Ashveil," she clarified, voice dropping slightly enough that even if Jorlan was still watching, he wouldn't hear from here. "My father says your bloodline is cursed. That they cling to things best left buried. He said that's why they fell."

Her eyes flicked to his curious, then she stepped closer. Not much, just half a step, but enough that her shoulder nearly brushed his. She tipped her head toward him, letting her breath warm his ear as she added:

"Magic, isn't it?"

Cael froze.

For just a breath, his stomach tightened and heat crept up his neck. His eyes darted to hers, too quick, too telling, and he felt himself stumble over the silence that followed.

He caught it just in time, forcing his expression flat again, though inside his pulse still raced.

That was deliberate. Had to be.

"You believe that?" Cael asked, his voice flat.

The faintest smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she straightened, as if she'd caught exactly what she wanted to see.

Cael let his lip curl faintly, masking his unease.

If she thought she could needle him into giving something away, she'd learn better soon enough.

She considered him for a long beat, then shrugged. "I don't know. But you… you don't deny it, either."

"There's nothing to deny," he said, sharper than he intended. "I've never seen magic. Never touched it. Whatever people whisper about Ashveil, it isn't me."

But even as he said it, he couldn't help thinking of the whispers at the edge of his hearing, the way his body and sight had begun to change. Just as the threads shimmered around her even now.

"My father says magic corrupts whatever it touches," she added softly. He says that's what happened to yours. But… I don't know. I've never seen it, either. We're not… at that level yet."

Her words trailed off, and she gave a faint, wry smile almost self-mocking, before looking back out at the dark.

Cael let the silence stretch before asking, "So what level is House Drevane at, then? Lesser lords now, or still merchants in all but name?"

Her smile sharpened again. "Smart question," she murmured. "But I don't answer questions like that outside of contracts."

Cael huffed softly through his nose. "Figures. You're very good at answering without saying anything at all."

"And you're good at watching," she said, tilting her head again. "But I'm still not sure what you're watching for."

"Neither am I," Cael admitted.

Her expression flickered at that, a faint surprise, quickly masked.

For the first time, her fingers tightened slightly against the rail.

...

When she finally stepped away, it was with that same measured calm as before.

"Goodnight, Varissen," she said simply, and slipped back toward the hall.

Cael stayed where he was, watching the torchlight dance below, his hands flexing against the now cool stone.

The air still carried her sweet perfume and the faint shimmer of her ambition hung there, too.

Thorns could cut.

But thorns could also be turned.

He let himself imagine it, weaving her ambition into something useful before she buried him with it instead.

If she thought Varissen would just bleed quietly into the dust, she was wrong.

He would see to it.

...

When he finally turned to go back inside, the scribe stood just within the archway, his thin expression unreadable.

"You heard that?" Cael asked.

The old man gave a slight nod.

"She's dangerous," he murmured.

Cael's mouth curved faintly.

"They all are," he said.

The scribe studied him another moment before giving a faint nod.

"Just so," he said. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

Cael let himself smirk faintly and slipped past him towards the hall.

Jorlan was still there, leaning against a pillar near the entrance, arms folded. His gaze tracked Cael with that same thin contempt he wore whenever they were in the same room.

For a breath, neither of them spoke.

Then Jorlan's lip curled in something that wasn't quite a smile. He straightened, gave a faint snort, and turned away, his boots echoing against the floor as he walked toward the barracks.

Cael watched him go, his jaw tightening.

Let him smirk. Let him play the crowd. Let him believe he's already won.

His fingers flexed once, then stilled at his side.

When the time comes, it won't be cheers or applause that decide this.

The faint threads of the Veil still glimmered in the air when he looked back toward the empty archway.

It will be me.