CHAPTER 62: CLASH ON THE ROAD

The capital road choked with bodies and beasts as they neared the city proper. Soren had never seen so many people pressed into one stretch of earth, merchants hauling carts piled high with goods, pilgrims trudging with downcast eyes and prayer beads clutched in calloused hands, messengers on lathered horses weaving through gaps with reckless determination.

The very air felt different here, thick with the mingled scents of sweat, perfume, livestock, and desperation.

"Close ranks," Ser Dallen commanded, his voice cutting through the cacophony of shouts and hoofbeats. "Noble territory ahead."

The knights shifted their formation without hesitation, drawing tighter around Veyr. Soren found himself squeezed closer to the young lord, their knees nearly touching as they navigated the crowded thoroughfare.

The casual distance Veyr had maintained throughout their journey had vanished, replaced by a careful proximity that spoke volumes about the dangers they now faced.

’Different kind of wilderness,’ Soren thought, watching how Ser Caldre’s hand never strayed far from his sword hilt. ’Different predators.’

The shard against his chest remained cool and silent, Valenna’s presence withdrawn to that distant place she retreated to when observing rather than guiding. He missed her counsel, though he’d never admit as much aloud.

Ahead, the road narrowed between two stone markers carved with royal insignia. Traffic bottlenecked at this point, forcing travelers to funnel into a more orderly procession. Merchants yielded to nobility with grudging bows, pilgrims pressed themselves against the roadside, and even the messengers slowed their headlong rush when confronted with travelers of higher status.

As they approached the bottleneck, Soren spotted trouble.

From the opposite direction came a procession that made Veyr’s small company look positively austere by comparison.

Banners of crimson and gold fluttered above armored knights whose polished plate gleamed blindingly in the afternoon sun.

A silk canopy supported on silver poles sheltered the central figures from the elements, unnecessary protection on this clear day, but an unmistakable declaration of status.

"House Trescan," Veyr murmured, his voice pitched for Soren’s ears alone. "Old blood, old gold, and the arrogance to match both."

At the center of this ostentatious display rode a young man perhaps Veyr’s age or slightly younger.

Even at a distance, his bearing proclaimed nobility as clearly as the banners above him. His clothing, crimson silk embroidered with gold thread, would have cost more than everything Soren had ever owned in his life. His mount, a gleaming black stallion with a braided mane, pranced with the same haughty confidence as its rider.

"The heir," Veyr continued, his tone unchanged though his posture had subtly straightened. "Lord Ellian Trescan. Father sits on the King’s High Council. Mother claims distant royal blood. Both facts he’ll work into conversation within the first three sentences."

The knights exchanged glances, their expressions carefully neutral but their bodies tensing like bowstrings drawn tight. Ser Dallen raised House Velrane’s banner higher, ensuring it could not be missed, not a challenge, exactly, but a firm reminder of their own status.

The narrow passage forced both parties to adjust their formations. Veyr’s company pressed toward the right side of the road, while the Trescan procession held the center, yielding less ground than courtesy might demand.

As they drew closer, Soren noted the calculating assessment in Lord Ellian’s eyes, measuring Veyr’s smaller escort, weighing the political cost of different responses.

What happened next occurred so quickly that Soren nearly missed it. As the groups began to pass each other, Veyr’s horse shifted slightly, whether spooked by the proximity of the larger animals or responding to some unconscious tension in its rider’s posture, Soren couldn’t tell.

The movement brought Veyr’s mount a handspan closer to Lord Ellian’s stallion, their flanks brushing in the briefest of contacts.

The heir’s reaction was immediate but contained. His spine stiffened, his chin lifted, and his gaze swept over Veyr with glacial disdain. But he said nothing, apparently deciding the incident beneath his notice.

Not so the squire who rode at his right hand.

"Mind your mount, peasant!" the young man snarled, his face flushing red beneath a shock of copper hair. "Or does House Velrane now recruit its nobles from the stables?"

The sudden silence that fell over both companies seemed to swallow all other noise from the road. Traders, pilgrims, and messengers melted away from the confrontation, creating an island of empty space around the two noble parties. Soren felt the air change, pressure building like the moment before a storm breaks.

Veyr’s expression remained perfectly neutral, though a muscle ticked at the corner of his jaw. "My apologies for the inconvenience, Lord Ellian," he said, deliberately addressing the heir rather than the squire. "The road narrows unexpectedly here."

The squire’s flush deepened, anger at being bypassed overriding whatever training might have cautioned restraint. "You address your betters with such familiarity?" he demanded, urging his mount forward until he partially blocked the heir from view. "House Velrane, three generations of coin-counters playing at nobility while real bloodlines trace back centuries."

Ser Dallen’s hand moved to his sword, the motion checked but visible. The Trescan knights responded in kind, the subtle shift of armor and weaponry creating a metallic whisper that cut through the silence.

Lord Ellian’s expression showed nothing beyond mild irritation, though whether at Veyr or his own squire remained unclear. He made no move to intervene, watching the confrontation with the detached interest of one observing a mildly diverting entertainment.

"Stand down, Harrick," he said finally, his voice carrying the bored command that only true nobility seemed able to perfect. "We’re expected at the palace."

But the squire, Harrick...had committed too fully to retreat with dignity intact. His hand dropped to his sword hilt, fingers curling around the ornate guard.

"Your father purchased your title with merchant gold," he spat at Veyr, each word a deliberate provocation. "While mine earned his on the battlefield. Perhaps I should teach you the difference between earned steel and bought silk."

The blade cleared its scabbard with a sound that seemed unnaturally loud in the tense silence. Sunlight caught the edge, sending a flash of reflected light across the gathered faces. The Trescan knights tensed but did not intervene, bound by their lord’s command to stand down, yet clearly anticipating violence.

Soren saw it all unfold with strange clarity, as if time had slowed to accommodate his observation. Ser Dallen and Caldre, moving to intercept but too far from Veyr’s side to reach him before the blade.

The heir, Ellian, watching with that same detached interest, making no move to check his squire’s recklessness. Veyr himself, expression unchanged though his hands had tightened on his reins.

The shard against Soren’s chest flared hot, a pulse of heat that matched the sudden surge of his heartbeat. Valenna’s presence rushed back from whatever distance she’d maintained, sharp and focused as a blade point.

’Now,’ she whispered, her voice like ice breaking. ’Show them.’

Soren moved without conscious thought, his body responding to some deeper imperative than reason. He slid from his saddle, boots hitting the packed earth with barely a sound. Two steps brought him between Veyr and the advancing squire.

His hand found his sword hilt, drawing the blade in one fluid motion that felt both foreign and intimately familiar.

Steel met steel with a sound like a bell struck too hard. The impact jarred up Soren’s arm, but his grip held firm. T

he squire’s blade, diverted from its path toward Veyr, trembled against Soren’s own. For a heartbeat, surprise registered in the young man’s eyes...surprise that quickly transformed into fury as he recognized the interruption came not from another knight, but from someone he’d dismissed as unworthy of notice.

"You dare?" Harrick hissed, pressing forward with strength born of rage and wounded pride.

Soren held his ground, the shard burning against his chest. Somewhere deep in his awareness, he felt Valenna’s presence shift, not taking control, but offering something like guidance, a whispered knowledge of how to position his feet, how to angle his blade, how to distribute his weight for maximum resistance.

"I dare," he replied, his voice emerging lower and colder than he’d intended. "And I promise you this...another inch toward Lord Veyr, another word from your mouth, and they’ll carry you from this road in pieces."

The threat hung in the air between them, stark and unadorned. Not a boast, not a performance for the watching crowd, but a simple statement of fact delivered with the certainty of one who has killed before and will do so again without hesitation.

The squire’s eyes widened, something in Soren’s tone or expression finally penetrating his anger. He tried to press forward again, but found himself inexplicably yielding ground instead.

Their blades remained locked, but the advantage had shifted, Soren advancing with a steadiness that belied the hammering of his heart.

"Harrick." Lord Ellian’s voice cut through the tension, sharper now, command replacing boredom. "Enough."

The squire hesitated, pride warring with obedience. For a moment, Soren thought he might ignore his lord’s command entirely. Then, with visible reluctance, he stepped back, though his blade remained drawn.

"This isn’t finished," he muttered, the words meant for Soren alone.

"It is if you wish to live," Soren replied, matching his volume. The shard pulsed once more against his chest, a flare of heat that felt almost like approval.

The two companies faced each other across the narrow stretch of road, the air between them charged with potential violence.

Knights on both sides had hands on weapons, bodies tensed for the conflict that still hovered at the edge of possibility. Traders and travelers had backed even further away, creating a ring of unwilling spectators around what might yet become a battlefield.

Veyr broke the silence, his voice carrying the perfect blend of courtesy and dismissal. "Safe travels, Lord Ellian. I’m sure your father eagerly awaits news of your... diplomatic skills."

The heir’s expression tightened fractionally, the only sign that the barb had found its mark. He inclined his head a precise degree, acknowledging Veyr’s rank while simultaneously diminishing it, then gestured for his company to proceed.

As the Trescan procession moved past, the squire’s eyes remained fixed on Soren, promising retribution for the public humiliation. Soren met his gaze steadily, the shard cooling against his chest as the immediate danger receded. Valenna’s presence withdrew slightly, though she remained closer to the surface of his awareness than before.

Only when the last of the Trescan knights had passed did Ser Dallen speak, his voice pitched low but carrying an edge that could have cut stone. "Mount up. We move on. Now."

Soren sheathed his blade and returned to his horse, aware of the eyes that followed his movement, not just those of the lingering spectators, but of Veyr’s knights as well. Their assessment had changed, he realized.