Finally, he sheathed his blade, breathing hard as he surveyed the pattern his boots had traced in the sand. Blood dripped from his fingertips, small dark spots marking his path like breadcrumbs leading back to this moment of clarity.

The shard pulsed faintly against his chest, its rhythm matching his slowing heartbeat. Valenna's presence softened slightly, though her voice remained winter-cold as it brushed against his thoughts.

"One cut, placed true, can end the patient man," she whispered. "Remember that when he tries to measure you."

Soren nodded, flexing his bleeding hands. He wasn't ready—not truly, not completely. But he was sharper than before, honed by understanding what had previously been instinct.

He walked away from the practice ground as the first servants appeared, come to prepare the arena for the day's matches. They stared at his bloodied hands, at the dark stains on his clothes, but said nothing as he passed.

The tournament horns would sound soon. Blood would flow on the sand again. But this time, he would not be chaos incarnate. This time, he would be the blade that strikes once, perfectly, where least expected.

—

The walk back to his quarters felt like a march toward execution. Each step echoed off the stone walls of the Velrane compound, the sound unnaturally loud in the pre-dawn quiet. Soren's bloodied hands left smears on the door handle as he pushed inside, the metallic scent mixing with the lingering herbs from Kaelor's salve.

He needed to wash the blood away before anyone saw. Questions would follow discovery, and he had no answers that wouldn't reveal too much.

The basin of water on his washstand had grown cold overnight, but it served well enough to clean his palms and rinse the crimson from beneath his fingernails.

The face that stared back from his small mirror looked haggard, hollow eyes, pale skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones.

The cut on his cheek from Aric's blade had begun to scab, adding another line to a collection that grew with each passing day. He touched it gingerly, feeling the raised edge where skin had split.

'You look like what you are,' he thought grimly. 'A weapon being sharpened to its breaking point.'

A knock at his door interrupted his brooding. Three sharp raps, precisely spaced, Veyr's signature announcement.

"Enter," Soren called, not bothering to turn from the mirror.

The door opened to reveal Veyr Velrane, pale and elegant as always, though something in his posture suggested urgency beneath his usual composed facade. His ink-stained fingers held a rolled parchment, and his pale eyes tracked immediately to Soren's freshly bandaged hands.

"You've been practicing," Veyr observed, his voice carrying that familiar note of detached calculation. "Alone. Before dawn." He stepped inside, closing the door with deliberate care. "Interesting choice, given that today determines whether you live to see another tournament."

Soren finally turned from the mirror, meeting Veyr's assessing gaze. "Kaelor said I needed to evolve."

"Did he?" Veyr's mouth curved in what might have been amusement on a warmer man. "And have you? Evolved, that is?"

The question hung between them, weighted with implications Soren couldn't fully grasp. He flexed his bandaged hands, feeling the sting of split skin beneath the cloth.

"I suppose we'll discover that soon enough," Soren replied.

Veyr unrolled the parchment in his hands, revealing a detailed sketch of the tournament brackets. Names had been crossed out in black ink, Aric Lanther, Marcus Karvath, replaced by others as the competition narrowed toward its inevitable conclusion.

"Ser Daven Trescan," Veyr said, tapping one finger against the parchment. "Twenty-seven years old. Trained at the Academy of Blades in Vaelthorne. Never lost a formal duel. Methodical to a fault." His pale eyes lifted to meet Soren's. "He's studied your previous matches. Extensively."

Soren's stomach tightened. He had expected as much, but hearing it confirmed made the reality sharper, more immediate.

"What does that mean for me?"

"It means," Veyr said, rolling the parchment with precise movements, "that everything you've shown, every technique, every pattern, every weakness, he's catalogued and prepared counters for." He paused, studying Soren with that unnerving intensity. "Unless, of course, you show him something new."

The shard pulsed cold against Soren's chest, Valenna stirring from her morning silence. Her presence sharpened like a blade being drawn, though she offered no words.

"My father believes this match will determine House Velrane's trajectory for the coming year," Veyr continued, moving to the small window that looked out over the courtyard. "Victory confirms our ascendancy. Defeat..." He shrugged with calculated nonchalance. "Well. Defeat would be unfortunate for all concerned."

The threat wasn't spoken directly, but it hung in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre. Soren understood perfectly, his life had become secondary to House Velrane's political calculations. Win, and remain useful. Lose, and become expendable.

"How long until the horn sounds?" Soren asked.

"Two hours." Veyr turned back from the window, his pale features unreadable in the growing morning light. "Enough time to eat, to prepare, to make peace with whatever gods you favor." His lips curved slightly. "Though I suspect the only god that matters today is the one that guides your blade."

Soren studied Veyr's face, searching for some hint of the heir's true thoughts, but found only that familiar mask of calculated interest. The words hung between them—'the god that guides your blade'—too precise to be coincidence.

"What do you mean by that?" Soren asked, voice low.

Veyr's expression remained unchanged, though something flickered in those pale eyes, curiosity, perhaps, or confirmation of a theory long held. "Simply that we all have forces that drive us, Soren. Some more... literal than others." He stepped closer, those ink-stained fingers adjusting the collar of Soren's shirt with deliberate care. "My father believes you're merely a street rat with unusual reflexes. My brother thinks you're a fascinating disruption to be unleashed upon the noble houses."

His fingers paused, hovering just above where the shard rested against Soren's chest. The cold metal seemed to pulse in response, as if aware of its proximity to discovery.

"And you?" Soren managed, holding himself perfectly still. "What do you believe?"

Veyr withdrew his hand, lips curving in that not-quite-smile that revealed nothing. "I believe survival requires secrets. Keep yours, Blade. Just ensure they serve House Velrane's interests as well as your own."

He turned to leave, pausing at the doorway. "The servants will bring food shortly. Eat. Prepare. Win."

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