House of Ash and Gold

Chapter 17: The Weight of the Yard

The morning was clear but cold, the kind of cold that seeped through even a padded jacket and lingered in the joints.

Cael stood just inside the archway of the training yard for a long moment before stepping out, breathing in the damp air and the faint smell of dust and sweat.

The yard was already alive. Squires striking at posts. Guards crossing blades. Servants carrying buckets to and fro between the barracks and the well.

He folded his hands behind his back and took his usual place near the fence. Nobody noticed him which worked better according to his ideas.

Her words still lingered.

Your bloodline is cursed. It clings to things best left buried... Magic, isn't it?

He exhaled slowly, watching two guards sparring in the sand. The word magic burned in his mind.

Coming to think of it, what did she see? What did he see?

The Veil shimmered faintly at the edge of his sight, threads stretching like spiderwebs across the yard, impossible to shut out completely.

He blinked and they dimmed. Blinked again and they sharpened.

It was never on his terms.

Sometimes the threads glowed bright and tangled, climbing up a man's shoulder or curling around a blade. Sometimes they barely showed at all. And sometimes, like now, they flickered just enough to catch his attention and refuse to leave.

He hated that.

He hated how little control he had over it.

Why could he see it at all? Why did some shimmer gold while others stayed dark? Why did they change? Sometimes bright, sometimes dull, sometimes twisted into odd patterns that made no sense.

Did that mean the dark ones had no potential? Or was it there but too faint for him to notice? And the ones that changed, did their patterns shift because of what they did, or because of how their relationships changed? Or worse, because of him?

Maybe it wasn't even potential he saw. Maybe it was something else entirely.

And did his mother see the same? Did she understand it? Did Matilde? If so, why hadn't she told him? Or maybe his mother was already telling him, guiding him through the whispers and it was only a matter of time before it would all make sense.

And if even he didn't trust his own sight, how much of what he thought he saw could he believe? The way it shifted unsettled him. Some days it seemed clear, certain, almost like a ledger. Other days it was nothing but noise, threads crossing and tangling into confusion.

The scribe's words came back.

Most heirs care about banners and swords. The ones who care about ledgers are the ones who survive.

But who cared about this? The Veil didn't fit in any ledger.

He focused on the sparring pair in front of him. Both big men, seemingly reaching exhaustion already.

One had a faint gray thread curling along his forearm, the other was dark. He stared at the dark one longer. Was the absence of light a lack of strength? And why did the threads on the gray one change shape every time his blade struck?

If this was magic and it was cursed, why hadn't it hollowed him yet? Or was that still coming?

The bout ended, the guards broke off to fetch water. Then Tarren caught his eye, the boy was by the fence with a practice blade.

A bit too skinny but too quick to be clumsy. Still not quite graceful enough to impress.

There was the faint gold wire again. Thin as hair, glinting faintly above the boy's collarbone.

Cael gestured two fingers. The boy froze, then walked toward him.

"My lord," Tarren murmured.

"Are you quick?" Cael asked.

Tarren blinked. "I think so, my lord."

"You think so."

"Yes."

"You're going to find out. Take this."

He pulled a folded scrap of parchment from his sleeve. Tarren stared at it before taking it.

"You know Jorlan's circle?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Good. You're going to walk into the barracks, hand that to the man at the end table by the hearth and walk away before he can pin you to the wall. Bring it back if you can."

Tarren hesitated after having a look at the parchment.

"Unless you're not quick," Cael said.

That earned him a faint frown before the boy straightened, nodded, and slipped off toward the barracks.

Cael watched.

The boy kept his pace steady, head down. At the door, he glanced back once, then disappeared inside.

The yard returned to its rhythm with squires striking posts while the guards barked, but his mind stayed on the boy.

Then the whispers came. Loud this time around but with no clear words, just whispers that seemed to overwhelm him, as if to answer his questions about magic. The voices were so heavy he almost collapsed there and then.

Threads stretched into the barracks from him towards Tarren.

Magic corrupts whatever it touches, the heiress had said.

He held his head and rested on the fence to keep the whispers from overwhelming his thoughts. They disappeared almost as soon as they came.

 If this was corruption, it was not subtle. But it was still not enough to destroy him, at least not yet.

Tarren returned five minutes later, breathlessly walking. A fresh bruise darkened his jaw and his tunic hung loose at one shoulder. But he still held the folded scrap, now marked with a smear of ink.

He handed it over without a word.

Cael glanced at it, then tucked it back into his sleeve.

"You did well," he said.

"Thank you, my lord." Tarren dipped his head and stepped back to the circle. Sparring resumed.

Cael lingered at the fence, letting himself see.

The heavyset guard — still faint gray smoke on his arm.

The kitchen boy — a faint green glow at his boots.

Tarren — the gold wire now brighter, thicker.

What was it? Potential? Strength? Or something more? Did it depend on what they did? Who they were? Was it their ambition? Or his own expectations shaping what he saw?

His hands flexed behind him.

If this was a curse, it hadn't hollowed him yet. But if it wasn't and was something with more potential to unearth, he needed to know that.

The bout ended and now men gathered at the water barrel.

Cael walked a slow loop around the yard, noting each face, each name he knew and those he didn't yet.

And a few stood out that might be worth remembering.

He paused briefly by the fence as he felt the veil stir faintly as he looked at them.

Threads here and there, faint sparks in the gloom, the kind of sparks nobody else could see.

Contracts and alliances mattered but so did this. Names and faces nobody else cared to remember. Men who'd bleed if you gave them a reason to. Men who, if you didn't, would sell themselves to the highest bidder.

He thought of the heiress's words the night before.

You'll have to do more than just watch if you want to keep your place.

She was right.

This here was more.

He finally stopped in the center of the yard and let the air settle.

The whispers were back now, curled faintly at the edge of his hearing.

The Ridge felt alive underfoot. 

He thought of what she'd said.

Your house has weight. Fighting strength and desperation. That makes you dangerous.

And what she'd whispered.

Magic, isn't it?

If it was magic, someone out there had to know more about it.

His father wouldn't tell him. Matilde...maybe.

But there were others. There had to be.

He let his gaze sweep the yard one last time, noting the gold, gray, and green, then turned toward the hall.

At the archway, Tarren still watched him from the fence. The boy gave a faint nod. Cael allowed himself a smile before stepping into the shadows.

The whispers followed him inside.

He would have to find someone who understood. And soon.