CHAPTER 43: VELVET GLOVES, IRON CHAINS (2)

Veyr set his own goblet down carefully, buying a moment to compose his response. "I understand your anger, my lord. Any father would feel the same." He leaned forward slightly, voice softening with practiced sincerity. "But perhaps we should consider what’s best for Jerric’s future, rather than focusing solely on punishment."

Halworth’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Veyr said, as if the thought had just occurred to him, "incidents like these can cast shadows on both parties. The noble recruit bested by a commoner... such stories tend to grow in the telling." He sighed regretfully. "Already I’ve heard whispers suggesting Jerric might have... provoked the encounter."

"Provoked?" Halworth’s face flushed deeper. "Are you suggesting my son deserved this treatment?"

"Not at all," Veyr soothed, raising a placating hand. "Merely that court gossip rarely concerns itself with truth. What matters is perception." He paused, letting the implication sink in. "And how we resolve this will shape that perception."

Halworth’s expression wavered between outrage and calculation. "House Velrane’s standards are slipping," he muttered, but with less conviction. "In my father’s day, such rabble would never have been admitted to training."

Veyr felt a flicker of irritation break through his careful composure. The insult was aimed at his judgment, his choice to bring Soren into the household. He kept his smile in place, but something shifted in his eyes.

"Times change, Lord Halworth," he said, voice still pleasant though marginally cooler. "Talent can be found in unexpected places. And I believe our houses both benefit from strength, regardless of its origin."

"Talent?" Halworth scoffed. "What talent justifies such savagery? Your pet street rat broke my son’s nose! Knocked out three teeth! All over some harmless words."

Something snapped inside Veyr. The carefully constructed mask slipped, revealing a flash of the steel beneath. He leaned forward, smile fading, voice dropping to a soft, dangerous register.

"Your son should be grateful he still breathes," he said, each word precise as a blade strike. "He insulted blood he could not hope to match. That he survived the lesson is mercy enough."

Halworth recoiled slightly, caught off guard by the sudden transformation. The petulant youth had vanished, replaced by something colder and more calculating.

For the first time, he seemed to recognize that he faced not merely Callen Velrane’s son, but a potential threat in his own right.

"Are you threatening me?" he asked, his bluster failing to mask his uncertainty.

Veyr’s smile returned, sharp as a freshly honed knife. "Not at all, my lord. I’m offering a solution that benefits us both."

He leaned back, resuming his earlier pose of relaxed courtesy. "House Velrane will, of course, provide the finest healers to ensure Jerric’s complete recovery. We’ll also personally oversee his continued training...special attention from our master-at-arms to develop his... defensive skills."

Halworth frowned, sensing the trap but unable to see its full shape. "And in return?"

"In return," Veyr said smoothly, "House Halworth strengthens its ties to Velrane. A formal renewal of fealty oaths, perhaps. Nothing onerous...merely a public affirmation of our houses’ historic bond." His fingers traced the rim of his goblet. "A small price for such comprehensive care of your heir, wouldn’t you agree?"

The older man’s eyes widened as understanding dawned. What had begun as his righteous complaint was transforming, under Veyr’s deft handling, into an obligation, a chain binding his minor house more tightly to Velrane’s greater power.

"I came here demanding justice," Halworth said stiffly.

"And you shall have it," Veyr finished, letting the words settle like poison in wine. "Justice served to both our houses’ advantage."

The silence stretched between them, thick with implications neither man wanted to voice. Veyr watched Halworth’s face cycle through expressions, anger, calculation, reluctant understanding. The older lord’s fingers drummed against the table, a nervous rhythm that betrayed his internal struggle.

"You’re asking me to reward your house for my son’s injuries," Halworth said finally, his voice tight with suppressed fury.

"I’m offering you a path that salvages your son’s reputation while strengthening your house’s position," Veyr corrected, his tone reasonable as a merchant discussing grain prices. "The alternative is a public inquiry into the incident. Witnesses questioned. Details examined." He paused, letting imagination do its work. "I’m told several recruits heard Jerric’s... colorful commentary about bloodlines and parentage. Such testimony might prove... illuminating."

Halworth’s face went pale beneath his weathered complexion. Veyr felt a cold satisfaction at the reaction, the older man understood the trap now, saw how his son’s own words could be weaponized against him.

"That’s blackmail," Halworth whispered.

"That’s politics," Veyr replied smoothly. "The currency of noble houses since the first crown was forged." He lifted his goblet, taking a measured sip while maintaining eye contact. "Your son learned a valuable lesson about the cost of careless words. Surely that education has some value?"

The older lord’s hands clenched into fists on the table, knuckles white with tension. Veyr could practically see him weighing his options, public humiliation against private submission, his son’s reputation against his house’s autonomy.

"And if I refuse?" Halworth asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

Veyr’s smile never wavered. "Then justice takes its natural course. A formal hearing before the assembled houses. Evidence presented. Witnesses called." He set down his goblet with deliberate precision. "I’m sure the other lords would find the proceedings... educational."

The threat hung in the air between them, delicate as spun glass but sharp enough to cut. Halworth’s breathing had grown shallow, his earlier bluster evaporating like morning mist.

"You’ve grown into your father’s son," he said finally, the words carrying grudging respect alongside their bitterness.

"I’ll take that as a compliment," Veyr replied, though something twisted in his chest at the comparison. Was this how his father felt during such encounters? This cold calculation, this careful manipulation of pride and fear?

Halworth reached for his goblet with unsteady hands, draining half its contents in a single gulp. The wine seemed to restore some of his color, if not his confidence.

"Very well," he said, voice hoarse. "House Halworth accepts your... generous offer of healing and training for my son."