CHAPTER 66: THE GATHERING (2)

"One man," a portly lord scoffed, though his eyes darted nervously. "Surely our combined forces could hunt down a single assassin."

"If he were just a man," countered another, leaning forward. "Some say he’s more myth than flesh. A vengeful spirit sent to punish noble excess."

Laughter, strained and hollow, met this suggestion.

"I saw him," Lady Dravien said suddenly, her voice cutting through the noise. The hall fell silent once more. "The day my cousin died. I glimpsed him fleeing the scene."

Her eyes, dark with memory, swept the assembled lords. "He moves like no man I’ve ever seen. Faster than thought. And his eyes..." She shuddered visibly. "They burn with a hatred that goes beyond the personal. He kills because we exist."

The shard against Soren’s chest warmed slightly, Valenna’s interest piqued by this description.

"Green hair marks him as foreign," Lord Callen observed, his tone unchanged despite the rising alarm around him. "The question becomes: who benefits from these targeted killings?"

And with that simple query, the discussion erupted into barely controlled chaos.

"He’s clearly hired by House Karvath," accused a Trescan knight, stepping forward from his position. "The victims all opposed their trade monopoly."

Lord Karvath surged to his feet, face flushing. "How dare you! If anyone stands to gain, it’s House Dravien, the deaths have opened shipping routes they’ve coveted for generations!"

Lady Dravien’s laugh was cold as grave dirt. "My cousin was among the dead, you bloated fool. Or did that detail escape your wine-soaked memory?"

On and on it went, accusations flying like arrows. Old grievances surfaced, thinly disguised as concern over the assassin. House Trescan blamed House Karvath. House Karvath implicated House Dravien. A minor lord suggested the Church might be behind it all, earning scandalized gasps and hurried signs against evil.

Soren watched it all unfold, realization dawning like a cold sun. This wasn’t about the assassin, not really. The green-haired killer was merely the excuse, the pretext for settling scores and testing alliances that had been fraying long before the first noble throat was cut.

’This is just another form of combat,’

he thought, studying the flushed faces and clenched fists. ’The weapons are different, but the intent is the same.’

The shard pulsed against his chest, Valenna’s voice sharp with disdain. "Look how they tremble at one man with a sword," she whispered. "And yet they would command armies. The weakest link in any chain of power, little knife, is the one who fears death more than dishonor."

As the debate grew more heated, Soren noticed something odd. While most lords were engaged in the argument, some shouting, others whispering urgently to their neighbors, Lord Callen remained utterly still.

His pale eyes tracked the discussion with the detached interest of a hawk watching mice scatter in a field. Measuring. Assessing. Waiting.

"The assassin must be found and executed publicly," declared the Trescan lord, pounding his fist on the table. "Every house must commit men to the hunt. No resource can be spared."

"And leave our own holdings undefended?" countered Lord Karvath. "Folly. We should increase our personal guards and let the king’s men handle this criminal."

"The king’s men?" Lady Dravien’s laugh was brittle as winter ice. "They can’t even keep the capital’s streets clear of pickpockets. We need a coordinated effort among our houses—"

"Enough."

Lord Callen didn’t raise his voice, yet his single word sliced through the chaos like a blade through silk. The hall fell instantly silent, lords and ladies freezing mid-argument as if struck by some arcane spell.

Even the servants hovering at the edges of the room stilled, goblets and pitchers suspended in their hands.

Soren watched as Lord Callen rose to his full height, his presence expanding to fill the suddenly quiet space. This was power in its purest form—not shouted demands or theatrical displays, but the absolute certainty that one would be obeyed.

"We waste time with accusations," Lord Callen said, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall without apparent effort. "The assassin, this Sylas...is a symptom, not the disease."

The gathered nobles exchanged uneasy glances. Lord Callen’s gaze swept across them, those pale gray eyes missing nothing.

"Before we hunt this man, we must understand what forces move him. A blade does not wield itself."

Soren shifted his weight slightly, the floor cold and hard beneath his polished boots. Standing perfectly still as the other knights did was proving more difficult than he’d anticipated.

His back ached from maintaining the rigid posture, but he didn’t dare relax. Not with so many eyes watching for any sign of weakness.

A thin lord with a pointed beard leaned forward. "What are you suggesting, Lord Callen? That one of us directs this killer?" His voice dripped with manufactured outrage, though Soren noted how his left hand trembled slightly against the table’s edge.

"Frightened rabbit in fox’s clothing," Valenna whispered through Soren’s mind. "See how his collar is fastened too tight? Hiding something...a scar perhaps, or worse. And the way he leans away from the Trescan table... there’s history there, bloody and unresolved."

Lord Callen’s expression remained impassive. "I suggest nothing. I observe. Three dead nobles in two months. All with connections to the northern trade routes. All opposed to the new tariff proposals." He paused, letting the implications settle. "Coincidence is a luxury we cannot afford."

The debate ignited again, though more controlled this time, simmering rather than boiling over. Soren watched as alliances revealed themselves in subtle ways, a nod of agreement here, a shared glance there, the careful positioning of hands near or far from sword hilts.

"The killer must be found," insisted a heavyset lord whose jeweled rings caught the firelight with each emphatic gesture. "My cousin travels from the eastern provinces next week. I’ll not have him slaughtered on the road like common game."

"Your cousin’s safety concerns us all, Lord Marrath," said Lady Dravien, though her tone suggested exactly the opposite. "Perhaps he should postpone his journey until this matter is resolved."

Lord Marrath’s face darkened. "The wedding preparations cannot be delayed. Unless you’re suggesting my niece should forfeit her advantageous match?"

The lady’s smile was sharp as a dagger. "I would never presume to advise on family matters. I merely observe that a delayed wedding is preferable to a funeral."

Soren caught the undercurrents flowing beneath the polite exchange. This wasn’t about weddings or safety, it was about the alliance the marriage would cement, and how it might shift the balance of power in the council.

"They dance like drunken bears around the real issue," Valenna murmured, her voice cool with disdain. "Trade routes mean tax revenue. Tax revenue means military strength. Military strength means survival when the inevitable war comes. All their pretty words are just masks for the oldest hunger, power."

A new voice entered the fray, a slender, silver-haired lord whose quiet tone somehow cut through the debate more effectively than a shout.

"Perhaps we should consider what we know of this Sylas," he said, fingers steepled before him. "The descriptions are consistent: a man of unusual height, with green hair and eyes of the same shade. He fights alone, without banner or proclaimed allegiance. His victims die by the sword, not poison or treachery."

The hall quieted, attention shifting to this new speaker.

"These are not the methods of a hired assassin," the silver-haired lord continued. "There is... personal intent in his killings. Witnesses speak of how he addresses his victims before striking. How he seems to take no pleasure in the act, yet performs it with ritual precision."