CHAPTER 42: VELVET GLOVES, IRON CHAINS (1)

The summons came at the worst possible moment, they always did. Veyr’s fingers froze above the chessboard, one move away from checkmate, as the page cleared his throat from the doorway.

"Lord Veyr," the boy said, his voice cracking on the title. "Your father requests your immediate presence in the west study."

Veyr glanced at the board, calculating. One move to victory, but Father’s summons meant the game would go unfinished. He sighed and straightened, offering an apologetic smile to his opponent, an elderly scholar whose name he’d already forgotten.

"It seems we’ll have to continue this another time," he said, rising with deliberate grace that concealed his slight limp. The old injury only bothered him when he sat too long, a flaw he’d become adept at hiding.

The scholar nodded, seemingly relieved at the reprieve from imminent defeat. "Of course, my lord. Another time."

Veyr followed the page through corridors he’d known since childhood, each tapestry and stone as familiar as his own reflection.

The afternoon light slanted through tall windows, catching dust motes that danced in the air like tiny stars. He adjusted his copper-trimmed cuffs, a nervous habit he’d never quite overcome, and tried to guess what crisis demanded his attention this time.

The page stopped at the west study door, bowed, and scurried away like a mouse escaping a hawk’s shadow. Veyr straightened his spine, smoothed his expression into something suitably neutral, and knocked once before entering.

Lord Callen Dathen Velrane stood by the window, his ash-silver hair catching the light, his tall frame silhouetted against the glass.

He didn’t turn when Veyr entered, a calculated slight that spoke volumes. At the edge of the room, Ayren lounged in a chair, seemingly engrossed in a ledger but undoubtedly absorbing every word about to be spoken.

"You summoned me, Father?" Veyr kept his voice even, betraying none of the tension coiling in his stomach.

Lord Callen turned then, his face set in lines of weathered stone. "Lord Halworth will be arriving within the hour. He demands satisfaction for his son’s... injuries."

’Ah. So this is about that. Jerric Halworth and his bloodied face. Soren’s handiwork.’

"I see," Veyr said, mind already racing through possible approaches. "And you wish me to handle this matter?"

"You brought Thorne into our house." His father’s voice cut like a winter wind. "You will clean his mess."

The words landed exactly as intended, a reminder of responsibility, of consequences. Veyr felt his cheeks warm but kept his expression carefully neutral. "Of course, Father. I’ll speak with Lord Halworth."

"You’ll do more than speak," Lord Callen replied, turning back to the window. "You’ll resolve this without weakening our position. Halworth is a minor house, but one we can ill afford to alienate."

Veyr nodded, though his father couldn’t see it. "I understand."

"Do you?" His father’s voice softened dangerously. "This is your test, Veyr. Handle it properly."

From his corner, Ayren finally looked up, violet eyes gleaming with amusement. "Don’t worry, Father. My brother has always excelled at... smoothing ruffled feathers."

The subtle mockery stung, but Veyr ignored it. He had more important concerns than Ayren’s barbs. "I won’t disappoint you."

Lord Callen made a noncommittal sound that might have been acknowledgment. "See that you don’t. I’ll be monitoring the situation, but this is your responsibility." He waved a hand in dismissal. "Prepare yourself. Halworth has never been known for his restraint."

Veyr bowed slightly and backed toward the door, mind already assembling strategies like pieces on a chessboard. As he turned to leave, he caught Ayren’s smirk, anticipatory, as if watching the opening moves of an interesting game.

The door closed behind him with a soft click that felt oddly final.

–

Lord Erion Halworth arrived exactly as Veyr had expected, with maximum noise and minimum grace. His voice echoed through the entrance hall before he’d fully crossed the threshold, demanding immediate attention from servants who’d been warned to expect the storm.

"Where is Lord Velrane? I demand to see him at once!" The words bounced off marble and stone, amplified by the vaulted ceiling.

Veyr descended the grand staircase with measured steps, his face composed into a mask of polite concern. He’d changed into formal attire, House Velrane’s colors of copper and slate, tailored to emphasize his slender height while disguising his slight limp. Every detail mattered in these encounters.

Lord Halworth stood in the center of the hall, a stocky man with ruddy features and an impressive gray beard that did little to disguise his double chin.

His traveling cloak, an ostentatious affair trimmed with more fur than the season warranted, was clasped with a silver pin bearing his house crest. His eyes, small and sharp beneath bushy brows, fixed on Veyr with immediate displeasure.

"Lord Halworth," Veyr greeted him, extending both hands in formal welcome. "My father sends his regrets that urgent matters prevent him from greeting you personally. I am to receive you in his stead."

Halworth’s face darkened further. "The boy? They send me the boy to address this outrage?" He made no move to accept Veyr’s outstretched hands.

Veyr let his hands fall smoothly to his sides, maintaining his pleasant expression despite the deliberate slight. "I assure you, my lord, I speak with my father’s full authority in this matter." He gestured toward a side door. "Please, let us discuss your concerns in more comfortable surroundings. Refreshments await us."

For a moment, Halworth looked ready to refuse even this courtesy. Then, with a visible effort at restraint, he nodded curtly. "Very well. Lead on."

Veyr guided him to the Blue Room, chosen specifically for this encounter. Not so grand as to suggest Halworth warranted special treatment, but comfortable enough to avoid insult.

The windows overlooked the winter garden, providing a pleasant view while allowing Veyr to seat his guest with the afternoon sun in his eyes. Small advantages, but potentially useful.

A servant appeared silently with wine and delicate pastries, then vanished at Veyr’s subtle nod. Halworth accepted a goblet but left it untouched, his impatience visible in every tense line of his body.

"I didn’t come for pleasantries," he said bluntly. "I came about my son."

Veyr settled into his chair, arranging his features into an expression of appropriate concern. "Yes, a most unfortunate incident. How is Jerric recovering?"

"Recovering?" Halworth’s voice rose sharply. "That gutter rat nearly killed him! His face is barely recognizable. The healers say some of the damage may be permanent."

"A regrettable situation," Veyr agreed, taking a small sip of wine. "Violence between recruits is strictly forbidden, of course. Thorne has already been disciplined severely for his actions."

"Disciplined?" Halworth slammed his untouched goblet onto the table, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "That’s not enough! I demand real punishment, public flogging, at minimum. Better yet, expulsion. Send that street filth back to whatever gutter you found him in."