House of Ash and Gold

Chapter 3: The Sickly Child

The great hall buzzed with quiet conversation and the occasional scrape of cutlery.

Cael Ashveil, though everyone here called him Cael Varissen now, sat at the end of the lowest table. The smell of roasted fowl and garlic bread made his stomach knot, though not from hunger.

At the head table, Lord Edric Varissen presided over the meal. Beside him sat Jorlan Varissen, already holding court among the squires and cousins gathered near. Jorlan's laughter rang loudest even as he tore into his meat with the same decisive ease.

Cael's fingers curled into his tunic as he watched them.

Matilde set a trencher before him with a muttered, "Eat, boy," and moved on without waiting for thanks.

He picked at the bread, though his fingers trembled.

It was always like this.

Always the same ritual, Jorlan showing off his strength, Edric's silent approval, the low murmurs of relatives watching both sons, one golden, one… whatever Cael was supposed to be.

"…if Edric doesn't tighten his hold soon," one aunt whispered sharply, her voice carrying across the table to him, "they'll strip Varissen of the Ridge altogether. The king's already taken three of our villages after the scandal."

Another voice, an older uncle perhaps snorted. "And whose fault was the scandal, eh allowing Ashveil blood marry into our family, inviting that woman here in the first place. If he'd kept his hands clean we wouldn't be fighting to keep the title at all."

"Ashveil blood brings nothing but curses," said a third, a cousin perhaps, somewhere down the table.

Cael kept his eyes on the trencher, willing himself not to look up.

It was always like this too.

Even now, after all these years, his mother's name only ever came in whispers and curses.

Above it all, Jorlan's laughter barked across the hall again.

"… you should have seen his face," Jorlan was saying to the squires, "when he dropped the practice sword like it burned him, fell flat on his arse before anyone even struck him. Pathetic."

The table roared with mirth.

Cael gripped his bread tighter.

The locket around his neck seemed to grow heavy, its blackened steel pressing into his skin through the fabric.

His cheeks flushed hot, and for the briefest moment, he swore he could hear the faintest curl of whispers again, soft and sharp at once:

"… wait… watch… not yet…"

He squeezed his eyes shut until it faded.

When he opened them again, the laughter was still ringing through the hall.

A servant came by to refill cups of watered wine, and Cael reached for his. His hand shook, damn it, why did it always shake? the rim of the cup caught on the edge of the table.

The red wine sloshed over his fingers, splashing onto his tunic, the table, even the sleeve of the uncle sitting next to him.

The hall fell quiet in an instant.

Every eye on him.

The uncle cursed and pushed his chair back hard enough to scrape the stones.

"Clumsy whelp," he spat, rising and dabbing at his sleeve.

Jorlan was already half out of his seat at the head table, grinning as though this was his cue.

"Well, look at that," Jorlan called out, sauntering down toward him. "If it isn't the Ashveil heir, too weak to lift a sword and too blind to hold a cup. What a fine lord you'll make one day, little brother."

The laughter started again. Lower this time, meaner.

Cael stood, though his knees wobbled, and reached for a napkin to wipe up the spill.

Jorlan reached him in three long strides, clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, and leaned in. "Careful now. You'll drown in your wine before you ever see the Ridge for yourself."

His breath smelled of wine and arrogance.

Cael froze and for a moment, he thought he felt that strange warmth of the whispers coil low in his chest, the way they always did when he was alone, like they were waiting for him to say something, to do something.

But instead, he swallowed whatever words tried to rise, lowered his gaze, and sat back down.

Jorlan lingered just long enough to smirk before turning back to his place at the head table.

The conversation resumed slowly, though now the glances toward Cael carried fresh disdain.

Watch… wait… not yet…

The voice in his chest faded again, leaving only the thud of his heartbeat in his ears.

He forced himself to finish his bread with quiet, deliberate bites.

Later that evening, when the hall was nearly empty and only servants scurried about clearing platters, Cael slipped away.

He made his way toward the small antechamber where Edric sometimes met with stewards and merchants.

The door was ajar just enough for him to see inside.

Lord Edric sat at the far end of a long oak table, speaking with two men in fine wool cloaks and gilded chains.

"…if the harvest fails again, we can't pay the interest," one of the men was saying. "The Guild of Coin is already sniffing at the borders, my lord."

"Then raise tariffs on the lower market," Edric replied flatly. "And tell the Ridge tenants they'll have to make do. Varissen will not default."

The second merchant shifted uncomfortably. "Even so, Baron Varissen… House Carradine has offered to buy two of the western hills outright. You could pay off the Guild in full and still retain"

"Carradine," Edric interrupted, his lip curling faintly, "will choke on my bones before I sell them one stone of my land. The Varissen house will not bow to those carrion."

The merchants exchanged nervous glances.

Cael leaned closer, the words burning themselves into his memory without effort.

Carradine. Guild of Coin. Interest. Tariffs. Every phrase stuck in his mind like carved letters on a wall.

He didn't understand it all yet, but he knew this was important.

He also knew Edric hadn't so much as mentioned him, not once in the context of the Ridge's future.

He turned away quietly, retreating into the hall.

That night, in his room, he sat cross-legged on the thin mattress, turning the locket over and over in his hands.

It was warm again, faintly humming against his palm.

He could still hear the faintest scraps of whispers in the stones, but tonight they seemed weaker… as though even they pitied him.

At least his memory remained sharp, each insult and slight carved deep in his mind where he could not forget.

He could still hear Jorlan's laughter, the mutters of his aunts and uncles, the dry contempt of his father's voice.

And though softer than before, his mother's whisper like a faint breath through the crack beneath the door:

"… watch… wait… not yet…"

He held the locket tight but the slumber didn't come.