House of Ash and Gold

Chapter 21: Repercussions and Preparations

The first knock came at dawn. It was hard and deliberate, not the rhythm of a servant.

Cael was already awake, hunched at a side table near the hall. A clerk’s copy of the grain tallies lay open, the ink blurred at the edges from being read too many times. He rubbed at his temples, his mind tired from a sleepless night. He read and reread them, as if proof of what he had done could hold the Southern Guild at bay.

The chamberlain entered with measured steps, holding a sealed missive. The wax bore the sigil of the Southern Guild: a red coin balanced on scales.

Edric took it without a word. The hall stilled around him. Servants stopped mid-way through their work, the retainers leaned closer. He broke the seal, scanned the lines, then passed it back for the chamberlain to read aloud.

“A formal notice of dispute,” the chamberlain read. "Pending investigation into misappropriated surplus stock. Unlawful tampering with guild inspection rights. Allegations of coercion.”

Murmurs broke loose. A steward crossed himself. A guard spat on the flagstones.

Edric received the letter back, folded it once, then again, then set it aside as if it were nothing.

“Bluster,” he said finally. His voice wasn’t raised, but it carried through the hall. “Just a claim written to stall us. They won’t come at us with force. They’ll first attack us with the law, and if that fails—” His eyes shifted to Cael. “—they’ll come with swords.”

The room stayed quiet after that. Only when servants resumed their work as though they’d heard nothing, did the noise return.

***

Steel rang in the training yard.

Cael gripped a wooden sword, sweat running down his back as Ser Veynar — a grizzled knight from his father's retinue — pressed him hard. The knight, gray-bearded and broad, struck with real weight, forcing Cael backward step by step toward the line scratched in the dirt.

“Too stiff!” Veynar barked, blade cutting low at Cael’s leg. “If you lock your wrist, you lose reach! That puts you at a disadvantage in a fight”

Cael twisted away, the strike whistling past, and then jabbed forward. Veynar caught it on his guard and shoved him hard with the flat of his blade.

Cael staggered but held his ground.

From the railings, younger squires jeered half-heartedly, while others leaned forward, eyes intent. This was no child's bout. Veynar wasn’t pulling blows.

Cael’s arms ached, lungs burning, but he steadied himself. He couldn’t match for strength, so he leaned on timing. He feinted left, lifted his guard high, then at the last moment pivoted low, catching Veynar off-balance.

The knight grunted as Cael's wooden blade hit clean against his ribs.

The yard froze for a heartbeat. Then whistles and a few claps broke loose.

Cael lowered his weapon, chest heaving, and gave the knight a small nod. “Again.”

“Ha!” Veynar spat in the dust, though his eyes glinted. “You've got more grit than grace. But grit always holds longer.”

Cael reset his stance, already watching angles and distance, treating every exchange like rehearsal.

But even as he moved, the Veil bled into his sight unbidden. Threads curled at the edge of swords, faint glimmers sparking when blades struck shields. Every heartbeat, every shift of weight, every half-formed intention in his opponent’s shoulders — it all came at once.

He tried to blink it away, to shut it out. It didn’t vanish. It never did. His eyes had no filters anymore; they were always seeing through something the others couldn’t.

Sometimes it was an advantage, a strike predicted a breath before it landed. But mostly it was noise, drowning him in patterns he couldn’t control.

And worse: if anyone noticed him reacting to things they couldn't see or understand, the word “curse” would cling tighter than ever... like his mother.

So he forced himself to fight without leaning on it. Forced himself to miss openings he could see, to swing late, to hold back.

By the time he lowered his blade, he was exhausted. It wasn’t the sparring that wore him out. It was holding the Veil at bay.

***

The bout ended only when Cael’s arm throbbed too much to lift the blade. Veynar dismissed him with a grunt and strode off, muttering about “stubborn heirs.”

Cael set the sword aside, rolling his sore wrist. Tarren was already there, wide-eyed, holding out a flask.

“You had him, my lord,” the boy said quickly. “Everyone saw it. That last strike — clean as anything.”

Cael drank, slow, then capped the flask. “One strike doesn’t win a fight, Tarren.” His tone was even, not harsh.

The boy shifted. “Still, you showed them. They can’t keep saying—”

“Listen,” Cael cut in, lowering his voice. “What you did at the hamlet was important, brilliant even. You followed orders, and you kept steady head all through. But don’t think that makes you untouchable.”

Tarren blinked. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant.” Cael voice softened a fraction, but his words stayed firm. “But pride kills faster than any sword. You’ll have other chances. But if you walk into these games thinking you’re a player, someone smarter will gut you before you know it.”

The boy swallowed, then nodded hard. “I’ll remember.”

Cael rested a hand briefly on his shoulder. “Good. I’ll need you again. Next time the importance might be higher than this time.”

Tarren’s face lit with loyalty so fierce it made Cael uneasy. The boy bowed and clutched the flask like a prize.

From the shaded balcony above the yard, Serenya watched.

Her cloak hung light across her shoulders, her hair pinned neatly in a way meant to look effortless. She rested an arm on the carved rail, her mouth set in a faint curve that gave nothing away.

Her eyes never left Cael. She hadn’t caught the words, but she’d seen enough: the squire’s devotion, Cael’s edge softened with care. Not careless or cruel. Not the picture painted of him.

 She had been watching from the very beginning.

She saw him strip a practice blade from a veteran in three moves. She saw him cut the next bout short, giving the other man a chance to walk away with dignity. She noticed how he spoke to the squire at his side — measured, not indulgent. She found discipline where she had expected pride.

Later in her father's chambers, she would say her thoughts out loud: If he wields blades with the same precision he bargains, then perhaps he’s worth more than rumors suggest. Perhaps worth watching closer. Perhaps even worth standing beside.

For now, she stayed long enough for Cael to glance up, see her watching and acknowledge it.

***

By dusk the yard was becoming empty, banners shifting in the evening wind. Cael rolled his shoulder, sore, and turned toward the steps. Serenya was waiting by the stone rail.

“You court trouble,” she said, her voice cool.

“If you mean bruises, that’s the point of training.”

“I mean more than the bruises.” She tilted her head toward the field. “One bout, one bargain, and already the talk changes." She let out a short laugh. "Some even call you the merchant-knight now”

He slowed, wary. “You hear a lot for someone new here.”

“Servants talk. Grooms talk. I just have a habit of listening.” Her lips curved faintly. “What interests me is how the weak boy I was told about keeps throwing older men off balance.”

“Rumors are wind, my lady,” Cael said evenly. “They blow where they want.”

“Do they?” She studied him openly now. “Or do you steer them?”

Before he could reply, a bell tolled the call to supper.

Together they entered the hall. The fare was plain, but the talk wasn’t. Servants were whispering about the guild's expected reaction, while knights were wagering on the upcoming tournament.

Serenya leaned close enough that her words carried only to him.

“Do you know the format yet?” she asked. “Three days. Jousts, melee, and the final trial. Victors earn gold, contracts, sometimes even blood-oaths. Defeat brings shame and if a man dies in the tournament, well…” She paused, letting the thought hang. “Death is its own verdict.”

Cael’s jaw tightened, but he answered evenly. “Then better to make sure the verdict isn’t mine.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, studying him like she was testing the weight of his words. “If you fight the way you handle bargains, you might catch more people off guard than just the guild.”

He didn’t answer, only inclined his head.

Later, after the hall had emptied and the servants’ chatter faded, Cael moved alone through the corridor, the torches flickering along the walls. His hand flexed at his side, and his mind ran over the thought she hadn’t spoken aloud: one way or the other, the outcome would be final. There was no middle ground.