CHAPTER 34: THE LOWBORN BLADE

Kaelen lowered his hand, amusement playing across his features as he smiled faintly at Soren.

The duel hung suspended between them, over but undeclared. Both could have killed. Neither did. The silence in the courtyard pressed down like a physical weight, heavy enough to crush lungs.

Lord Callen’s voice cut through it, sharper than any blade.

"That will do."

The words fell with the finality of an executioner’s ax, severing the moment clean from its tension. Soren felt the heat from his blistered knuckles pulse in time with his heartbeat as he lowered his sword, the metal still warm against his palm.

The whispers started immediately, rippling through the gathered recruits like wind through dry grass.

"Lucky peasant," someone hissed from the back row.

"Did you see how he—"

"—impossible, he must have cheated—"

"—never seen anyone move like that against a mage—"

Soren kept his eyes forward, not giving them the satisfaction of a reaction. The shard against his chest hummed with a quiet vibration that only he could feel, Valenna’s presence sharp and alert beneath his skin.

Kaelen circled him slowly, head tilted like a curious bird examining something unexpected in its path.

The mage’s robes whispered against the packed earth as he moved, studying Soren from different angles with the detached interest of a scholar presented with a rare specimen.

"You watch flame as if you’ve seen it before," Kaelen murmured, leaning in close enough that only Soren could hear him. His breath smelled of cloves and something metallic. "Strange, for a boy who’s never left the gutter."

Soren met his gaze without flinching, refusing to give ground even as his mind raced through the implications of the mage’s words.

Valenna’s voice slipped into his thoughts, cool as winter shadow: ’Do not bask in their stares. Men love what they fear, until they decide to cut it down. Stay small. Stay sharp.’

He answered only with a slight nod, leaving words unsaid.

Up on the balcony, Veyr maintained a carefully measured expression, but his eyes gleamed with undisguised vindication. His fingers tapped once against the stone railing, a private rhythm of satisfaction. Lord Callen stood beside him, face unreadable as carved granite, his silence a judgment held in perfect suspension.

The crowd of recruits began to disperse, some casting backward glances at Soren, others deliberately avoiding his eyes. The air felt different now, charged with something new, fear, perhaps, or respect. Or both.

A figure detached itself from the shadows beneath the balcony, moving with fluid grace across the courtyard.

He resembled Veyr in height and the sharp angle of his jawline, but where Veyr’s mismatched hair drew immediate attention, this man’s was a uniform midnight black with a distinctive violet sheen that caught the winter light.

His eyes, deep amethyst, cut through pretense with unsettling precision. He wore a high-collared coat embroidered with House Velrane’s crest, its tailoring so perfect it seemed an extension of his body rather than mere clothing.

"Well, well," the newcomer said, his voice pitched to carry just far enough. "My brother’s fire didn’t cook you after all." He stopped a precise distance from Soren, close enough to converse but far enough to maintain superiority. "Perhaps our House does need a blade like you...raw, unpolished, but... useful."

His smile was perfect, practiced, revealing nothing while promising everything. It was the smile of someone already playing three moves ahead in a game whose rules Soren had yet to fully grasp.

"Ayren Velrane," Soren said, recognizing the name from whispers in the barracks. The second son. The shadow prince.

Ayren’s eyebrow ticked up a fraction. "You know me. How flattering." His gaze flicked over Soren’s sword, his stance, lingering momentarily on the singed edges of his sleeve. "I look forward to seeing what other surprises you might offer, Thorne."

He turned and walked away without waiting for a response, his steps measured and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world and knew exactly how to spend it.

The courtyard emptied gradually, recruits drifting back to their duties, knights resuming their posts. Soren sheathed his blade, feeling the weight of every whisper at his back. The morning’s frost had melted beneath his boots, leaving dark impressions in the earth where he had stood his ground.

He wasn’t just a recruit anymore. He was something more dangerous: noticed.

’Not good. Not safe,’ he thought, scanning the yard one last time before turning toward the barracks. ’But necessary.’

As he walked away, Valenna’s whisper curled through his mind, amused and proud: ’Now they see what I saw. Let them choke on it.’

The words settled into Soren’s bones like winter marrow. He made it halfway across the courtyard before his hands started shaking, not from fear, but from the slow burn of realization. The shard at his chest pulsed with each step, matching the rhythm of his heart as it hammered against his ribs.

’They’re watching now,’ he thought, flexing his blistered knuckles. The pain helped center him, a sharp reminder that he’d survived something most wouldn’t have attempted. ’All of them. Every move I make from here on out gets measured.’

He passed through the archway leading back to the barracks, boots echoing off stone that suddenly felt less like shelter and more like the walls of a cage.

The familiar sounds of training drifted from the main yard, wooden swords clacking together, instructors barking corrections, the steady thud of bodies hitting sand. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.

Sounds that no longer included him.

A recruit he didn’t recognize stepped into his path, forcing him to stop. The boy was maybe sixteen, with the soft look of someone who’d never missed a meal and the calculating eyes of someone who’d learned to survive by picking the right enemies.

"You’re the one who fought the mage," the boy said, not quite a question.

Soren studied him, noting the way the recruit’s stance favored his left leg, the fresh bruise along his jaw that spoke of recent defeats in the practice ring. "I am."

"My name’s Corwin. Corwin Ashfeld." The name came with a slight lift of the chin, as if it should mean something. When Soren didn’t react, the boy’s expression tightened. "My father serves House Kaldris. He told me to watch for... opportunities."

The word hung between them like a blade waiting to fall. Soren felt Valenna’s presence shift beneath his skin, coiling tighter with interest.

"What kind of opportunities?" Soren asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

Corwin glanced around, then stepped closer. His breath smelled of mint leaves—the expensive kind that came from the southern provinces. "The kind where a smart man knows when to step aside. And when to push someone else forward."

’Politics,’ Soren realized with a sinking feeling. ’They want to use me as a weapon against someone else.’

"I’m not interested in your father’s games," he said, moving to step around the boy.

Corwin’s hand shot out, not quite touching Soren’s arm but close enough to make the threat clear. "Everyone’s interested in something, gutter rat. The question is whether you’re smart enough to know what’s good for you."

The shard flared with sudden heat against Soren’s chest, and for a moment he felt Valenna’s rage bleed through their connection, ancient fury at being dismissed, at being threatened by children playing at war. His hand drifted toward his sword hilt before he caught himself.

’Not here. Not now. Too many witnesses.’

"My name is Soren Thorne," he said quietly, meeting Corwin’s eyes with steady calm. "Not gutter rat. If your father wants to speak with me, he can do it himself."

He stepped around the boy, ignoring the way Corwin’s face flushed red with embarrassment. The recruit called after him, voice pitched just loud enough to carry.

"You think you’re special because you got lucky once? Everyone gets lucky once, Thorne. The question is what happens when your luck runs out."

Soren kept walking, but the words followed him like smoke. By the time he reached his bunk, three more recruits had found excuses to cross his path. None spoke directly, but their eyes held the same calculating look as Corwin’s. Measuring. Weighing. Planning.

He sat heavily on the edge of his cot, pulling off his boots with fingers that still trembled slightly from the morning’s exertion. The leather was scuffed and worn, a reminder of how far he’d come from the streets. How far he still had to go.

’Valenna,’ he thought, pressing his palm against the shard through his shirt. ’What did you see in that fight?’

Her voice came immediately, sharp with approval and something darker. ’I saw a mage who expected an easy victory and found steel instead. I saw nobles taking note of a new piece on their board. And I saw you refusing to break under pressure.’

’Is that good or bad?’

’Both. Always both, little knife. The strong survive by being useful until they’re strong enough to be feared. You’ve just moved from useful to... interesting.’

He understood. Interesting meant dangerous. Dangerous meant watched. Watched meant every mistake would be magnified, every success scrutinized for weakness.

The barracks door creaked open, admitting a familiar figure. Mira entered with her usual careful grace, eyes sweeping the room before settling on Soren. She approached his bunk, movements deliberate and unhurried.

"Heard you made quite the impression," she said, settling onto the adjacent cot without invitation. Her voice carried the same flat tone she used for everything, but he caught something else underneath, curiosity, maybe even respect.

"News travels fast."

"News travels faster when it involves someone nearly getting himself killed for no good reason." She pulled a small cloth bundle from her pocket, unwrapping it to reveal strips of clean bandage and a vial of something that smelled like herbs and alcohol. "Let me see your hands."

He hesitated, then extended his blistered knuckles. Her touch was gentle but efficient as she cleaned the burns, her fingers cool against his heated skin.

"Why?" she asked quietly, not looking up from her work.

"Why what?"

"Why challenge a mage when you could have just watched like everyone else? What did you hope to prove?"

The question cut deeper than he expected. He watched her wind the bandages around his knuckles, noting the way her own hands showed calluses from sword work, small scars from countless training sessions.

"I needed to know," he said finally. "What it felt like. What I was capable of."

"And now you know?"

He flexed his newly bandaged fingers, testing the range of motion. "Now I know it’s not enough."

She looked up then, blue eyes sharp with something he couldn’t quite read. "Nothing ever is, is it? That’s what makes us dangerous."

Before he could ask what she meant, she stood and moved toward the door. She paused at the threshold, glancing back over her shoulder.

"Be careful, Soren. You’re not the only one they’re watching now."

The door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving him alone with the weight of her words and the growing certainty that his life had just become infinitely more complicated.