CHAPTER 56: ON TIME (1)

Soren arrived at Ayren’s chamber half an hour before the appointed time, his boots silent on the polished stone.

The corridor stretched empty in both directions, torches casting long shadows that seemed to reach for him with smoky fingers. No servants bustled past, no pages rushed on errands. Just silence and the weight of House Velrane pressing down from above.

Perfect. Early was better than late. Early meant prepared.

He positioned himself beside the unadorned wooden door, back straight despite the protests of muscles still recovering from Kaelor’s attentions.

The bruises beneath his tunic had faded from angry purple to sickly yellow-green, but they made their presence known with each breath. He ignored them. Pain had become background noise, hardly worth acknowledging.

The shard rested cool against his chest, Valenna’s presence a distant thing, watchful but silent. She’d been quiet since his breakthrough in the yard, as if waiting to see what he would do with the spark he’d found.

Minutes crawled past. Soren remained motionless, conserving energy, practicing the stillness that had kept him alive on Nordhav’s streets. His mind reviewed the information he’d gathered over the past days, weaknesses cataloged, alliances mapped, secrets unearthed. Each fact honed to a cutting edge, ready to be presented.

When the door finally opened, he didn’t flinch.

Ayren emerged, violet eyes widening fractionally at finding Soren already waiting. The surprise vanished almost before it registered, his face returning to its usual mask of cold assessment.

"Follow," he said simply, turning back into his chamber without waiting for acknowledgment.

Soren obeyed, closing the door behind him with careful precision. The room felt colder than he remembered, the air still and lifeless despite the small fire burning in the grate. Maps and ledgers covered every available surface, the organized chaos of a mind that never truly rested.

Ayren took his place behind the desk, not offering Soren a seat. A test, perhaps, to see how long he could stand comfortably while delivering his report. Soren kept his expression neutral, betraying nothing of the calculations running behind it.

The silence stretched, heavy and expectant. Ayren made no move to break it, his attention seemingly absorbed by a parchment on his desk. His quill scratched across the surface, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet chamber.

Soren recognized the tactic, the same one he’d used himself when stalking prey in Nordhav’s alleys. Make them speak first. Make them fill the emptiness. Make them reveal themselves through impatience.

He waited, matching Ayren’s silence with his own. Two could play this game.

Minutes passed, marked only by the soft scratching of the quill and the occasional pop from the fireplace. Soren’s legs began to ache from standing motionless, but he refused to shift his weight or show discomfort. His face remained a careful blank, his breathing even and controlled.

Finally, without looking up, Ayren spoke.

"Your report." The words weren’t a question but a command, delivered with the casual certainty of one accustomed to being obeyed.

Soren inclined his head slightly, though Ayren wasn’t watching to see it. "I’ve compiled information on all twenty-three recruits, as requested."

He began without preamble, his voice stripped of emotion or emphasis. "Tavren Morwell. Third son of Lord Kaster Morwell, a minor noble with land holdings east of the city. Excellent swordsman, poor archer. Maintains a circle of five loyal followers, mostly younger sons of allied houses. Weaknesses: fear of disappointing his father, who reportedly threatened to disinherit him after a gambling incident last year. Drinks to excess when stressed. Carries a talisman for luck, a small wooden carving his mother gave him before her death."

Soren continued, moving methodically through the list he’d prepared. Each recruit dissected with clinical precision, their strengths noted but their weaknesses emphasized. Family connections, personal habits, private fears, all laid bare in his monotone recitation.

"Marken Thale. No noble blood but considerable wealth, his father owns three shipyards in Nordhav’s harbor. Skilled with blade and bow. Maintains careful neutrality in barracks politics, though clearly allied with Jost Danner in private. Gambling debts to at least two older recruits. Weakness: his younger sister’s illness, spends most of his stipend on expensive medicines sent from the capital."

On and on he went, the catalog of secrets and vulnerabilities growing with each name. Who envied whom. Who hated whom. Who might be manipulated through ambition, fear, or desire. The information delivered without judgment or embellishment, simply facts, sharp and clean as newly forged steel.

Ayren remained motionless throughout, his quill continuing its steady progress across the parchment. Nothing in his posture or expression suggested whether he found the report satisfactory or lacking. Only when Soren reached the final name did he set the quill aside and look up.

"Adequate," he said, the word falling between them like a stone in still water. "Now tell me how you would use it."

Soren blinked, caught off guard despite his preparations. He’d expected critique of his methods, perhaps, or questions about specific details. Not this immediate pivot to application.

"Use it?" he repeated, buying time to organize his thoughts.

Ayren’s mouth curved in a cold smile that never reached his eyes. "Information is nothing. Leverage is everything." He rose from his chair in one fluid motion, moving to a slate board mounted on the wall. "Watch and learn, Thorne. This is where knowledge becomes power."

He picked up a piece of chalk, its white surface stark against his pale fingers. With quick, precise strokes, he began drawing lines between names Soren had mentioned, creating a web of connections that grew more complex with each addition.

"Tavren fears his father," Ayren said, chalk tapping against the slate. "Marken needs money for his sister’s medicines. Do you see it? The lever that moves them both."

Soren studied the intersecting lines, understanding dawning like a cold sunrise. "Tavren could provide Marken with funds, his family has wealth to spare. In return, Marken’s silence about Tavren’s drinking..."

"Good," Ayren nodded, adding another line. "But think deeper. What happens when Marken becomes indebted to Tavren? When his sister’s health depends on Tavren’s generosity?"

"Marken becomes a tool," Soren replied, the words tasting bitter yet somehow satisfying. "Tavren gains an ally who appears neutral to others—valuable for spreading information or influence."

"And if Marken resists?" Ayren pressed, chalk poised.

Soren hesitated only briefly. "Then his sister suffers."