CHAPTER 30: THROUGH THE HALLS OF VELRANE

Morning light spilled across the barracks floor like watered-down mead, just enough to illuminate the dust motes but not enough to warm anything.

Soren tugged his worn boots on, the leather stiff from yesterday’s training. His muscles ached with the pleasant burn of progress, Master Durnach’s lecture on Bladecraft ranks still ringing in his ears.

Five promotions between him and what he needed. Five hurdles, five tests, five chances to fail.

’Or succeed,’ he reminded himself, checking the position of the shard against his chest. Valenna remained quiet this morning, but he felt her presence like a winter draft under a door, constant, subtle, impossible to ignore.

He was halfway across the yard, heading toward the training area for morning drills, when a familiar figure cut across his path.

Veyr Velrane moved with the casual authority of someone who never questioned his right to interrupt anyone’s day. His mismatched hair, the blonde and black streaks, caught the sun in ways that seemed deliberately theatrical.

"You’ve seen the yards. You’ve seen the mess hall," Veyr said curtly. "That’s not the estate. Come on."

He didn’t wait for a response, just turned and started walking, clearly expecting Soren to follow.

Soren hesitated for only a moment. Missing morning drills would earn him a reprimand, possibly extra duties. But refusing Veyr Velrane would be... unwise. He fell into step behind the noble, trying to match the longer stride without looking eager.

"Should I tell Master Durnach—" Soren began.

"Already handled," Veyr cut him off, not bothering to look back. "He knows you’re with me today."

They passed through a side entrance Soren hadn’t used before, the stonework growing finer with each corridor they traversed.

Tapestries replaced the bare walls, the woven scenes depicting battles and ceremonies Soren couldn’t name.

The floor changed from packed earth to stone to polished marble in a progression that mapped the exact social distance between Soren’s origins and Veyr’s birthright.

The corridor widened suddenly, opening into a space so vast that Soren’s footsteps faltered. The Great Hall of House Velrane stretched before him, its ceiling arching impossibly high above polished marble floors.

Towering columns carved with the house heraldry, silver falcon wings on black, lined the hall like silent sentinels. Morning light streamed through stained glass windows, painting the marble in pools of amber, crimson, and azure.

"This is where we host the formal feasts," Veyr said, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space.

"Endless, tedious affairs where everyone pretends to enjoy themselves while plotting how to stab each other in the back."

He gestured toward the far end of the hall. "My father sits there, of course. I’m placed three seats down, close enough to be seen but far enough that I don’t have to participate in the serious conversations."

Soren took in the massive dining table that dominated the center of the hall. It could easily seat fifty people, with room for servants to move between the chairs.

"I’ve never even seen a dining table that could seat more than six," he admitted, the words slipping out before he could catch them.

Veyr turned, eyebrow raised. "Six? Where was that, a tavern?"

"Trade caravan," Soren replied, keeping his tone neutral. "A merchant I traveled with as a child sometimes let the hired hands eat at his table when we made good time."

"Hmm." Veyr’s expression shifted to something harder to read.

"Well, trust me, you’re not missing much. The food gets cold before it reaches you, and you spend the entire night listening to old men complain about border disputes that have been going on since before you were born."

He turned abruptly, gesturing for Soren to follow. "Come on. More to see."

They wound through corridors that grew increasingly ornate, passing servants who bowed to Veyr and pretended not to notice Soren at all.

Eventually, they reached a set of double doors carved with intricate patterns of vines and books. Veyr pushed them open without ceremony.

The library of House Velrane unfolded before them, a forest of shelves stretching two stories high. Ladders on brass rails provided access to the upper reaches, where leather-bound volumes sat in neat rows.

Sunlight filtered through tall windows, catching the dust motes that danced in the air like tiny stars.

"My prison from age six to sixteen," Veyr said, running his fingers along the spine of a nearby book.

"I spent every morning here with tutors, memorizing the lineage of every major house until I could recite them backward in my sleep."

He pulled a volume from the shelf, flipping it open to reveal pages of family trees, names and dates written in careful script.

"The complete genealogy of House Kaldris. Fascinating reading, if you enjoy tracing exactly how many cousins married each other to keep their bloodline ’pure.’"

Soren approached one of the shelves, eyeing the books with a mixture of wariness and fascination. "My first ’library’ was a locked merchant’s wagon I used to sneak into as a boy," he said.

"There were weathered ledgers and half-torn maps. I taught myself to read from shipping manifests."

Veyr snapped the book shut, returning it to the shelf. "Probably more useful than what they made me read. At least you learned something practical." He paused, studying Soren. "Can you really read? Most of the recruits can barely write their own names."

"I can read," Soren confirmed. "Not as fast as you, probably. But well enough."

"Interesting." Veyr seemed to file this information away for later use. "That explains a few things."

Before Soren could ask what things, Veyr was moving again, leading him through another door and down a long corridor lined with portraits of stern-faced men and women in Velrane colors.

"My ancestors," Veyr explained, not slowing his pace. "Each one more disappointed in their descendants than the last. My father’s portrait will join them someday, looking down at me with the same expression."

They passed through an arched doorway, and suddenly the stone world of the estate gave way to something entirely different.

The private gardens of House Velrane spread before them, a stark contrast to the massive architecture they’d just left behind.

Quiet paths wound through beds of winter flowers, white hellebores, witch hazel with its spidery yellow blooms, and snowdrops hanging like tiny lanterns from green stems.

Stone benches edged ponds where thin ice formed delicate patterns around the edges.

Despite the season, the garden felt alive, protected from the worst of winter’s bite by the walls that surrounded it.

"I come here when I need to escape my father’s lectures," Veyr said, his voice softer here. "The gardeners know to pretend they don’t see me."

He sat on one of the stone benches, gesturing for Soren to join him. After a moment’s hesitation, Soren complied, acutely aware of the strange picture they must make, the noble heir and the gutter recruit, sitting side by side in a garden meant for contemplation.

"It’s peaceful," Soren acknowledged, unsure what else to say. "I’m more used to sleeping in ditches and under carts than in gardens, but I admit the flowers don’t smell bad."

That earned a small laugh from Veyr. "High praise indeed." He plucked a snowdrop, twirling it between his fingers. "You’ve slept in a lot of ditches, then?"

Soren shrugged. "When you travel with caravans, you take what shelter you can get. Ditches are actually better than some alternatives. Fewer rats than stables, usually."

"You traveled with caravans before Ashgard took you in?"

"Something like that." Soren kept his tone casual, though he felt Veyr’s curiosity like a physical pressure.

"Did odd jobs for scraps of food. Learned to make myself useful enough that they’d keep me around."

Veyr was silent for a moment, still turning the flower between his fingers. "Thorne isn’t your birth name, is it?"

The question was direct, but not accusatory. Soren considered lying, then decided against it. "No. I didn’t have a surname until recently. Thorne is something I took for myself."

"Why Thorne?"

"Because thorns survive," Soren said simply. "They protect what matters. And they make people think twice before grabbing."

Veyr nodded, as if this made perfect sense to him. "Smart choice." He stood, dropping the snowdrop onto the bench between them. "One more place to show you."

They left the gardens, retracing their steps through part of the main building before taking a different turn. This path led them outdoors again, but to a section of the estate Soren hadn’t seen before.

A smaller, private yard opened before them, walled off from the main training grounds. Unlike the public yards, this one contained practice dummies built for live steel, their wooden bodies reinforced with metal plates at vital points.

The sand here was finer, the markers for footwork more precisely laid out. At one end stood a rack of weapons, real weapons, not the blunted training swords used in the main yard.

"This is where the family trains," Veyr explained. "And those close to the family. The elite guard, personal swords, occasionally a particularly promising recruit."

He ran his hand along the hilt of one of the swords. "Only those close to us use it. You might be allowed here soon, if you continue to progress."

Soren absorbed this, recognizing the statement for what it was, both a compliment and a challenge. "These dummies are built for more complex drills," he observed.

"Yes. Precision work. Killing strikes, not just disabling ones." Veyr drew one of the swords, testing its balance. "Have you fought with live steel before? Not in training, I mean."

"Not in tournaments," Soren said carefully. "But yes, I’ve fought. In alleys, against grown men who didn’t care about rules or fair play."

"And you survived." It wasn’t a question.

"I’m standing here, aren’t I?"

Veyr resheathed the sword. "That’s what makes you different from the others. They’ve trained for combat. You’ve actually been in it."

They left the private yard, climbing a narrow staircase that wound up one of the towers. It led to a small balcony overlooking the city below, the sprawl of Nordhav stretching out beneath them.

From this height, the city looked almost beautiful, its flaws softened by distance and the blanket of snow that covered the worst of its grime.

Veyr leaned against the stone railing, looking out over the view. "If you weren’t here, if you weren’t training, where would you be?" he asked, his tone half-serious.

Soren considered the question, looking out at the city where he’d once been just another shadow. The shard pulsed gently against his chest, a reminder of how much had changed.

"Moving," he answered honestly. "Always moving. Until something caught me."

Veyr smirked, not looking at him but out at the horizon. "I think it just did."

The words hung between them, loaded with meaning Soren wasn’t sure he fully understood yet. But he felt the weight of them, the way they settled like a contract neither had signed but both acknowledged.