The blunt truth of it settled into Soren's bones. He wasn't truly Velrane's Blade—he was Velrane's tool, to be used or discarded according to its master's whim. The tournament hadn't changed that fundamental reality; it had only raised the stakes of failure.

By midday, when Kaelor finally dismissed him, Soren could barely keep his sword raised. Every muscle screamed with exhaustion, his shirt soaked through with sweat and blood. The watching knights had long since lost interest in his humiliation, moving on to more pressing concerns.

He made his way toward the washroom, desperate to clean the grime from his skin before it crusted there. As he passed the kitchen courtyard, two serving girls fell silent, their heads bending together as soon as he moved past.

"—seen with the heretic woman—"

"—Cathedral wants him questioned—"

"—says she practiced forbidden rites—"

The fragments followed him like persistent shadows, whispers dying whenever he turned but resuming as soon as he passed. The entire household buzzed with it, Naeria Veyl, the fugitive archivist, and Soren's foolish intervention.

In the narrow corridor leading to the servants' quarters, he nearly collided with Marwen, the estate's head chamberlain.

The older man's eyes widened momentarily before his face settled into careful blankness. He stepped aside with exaggerated care, as if proximity itself might be dangerous.

"Excuse me, sir," Marwen murmured, gaze fixed firmly on the middle distance.

Before Soren could respond, the chamberlain was gone, his hurried footsteps echoing against the stone walls.

The interaction lasted mere seconds, but its message couldn't have been clearer. Word had spread beyond House Velrane. The Cathedral's interest in him had transformed him from curiosity to contagion.

The shard against his chest suddenly pulsed with violent cold, so intense that Soren gasped aloud. He stumbled into an empty alcove, one hand pressed against his sternum as frost seemed to spread beneath his skin.

'They think to cage you,' Valenna's voice cut through his mind like a blade of ice, sharper than it had been in days. 'Walls. Guards. Rules. Whispers. All designed to make your world smaller.'

"Not now," Soren muttered, glancing around to ensure no one witnessed this one-sided conversation.

'Every chain they forge, I'll show you how to snap,' she continued, her presence crystallizing within him, cold and implacable as midwinter. 'Every leash, I'll teach you to sever. They fear what you might become. They should.'

The intensity of her voice made him flinch. This wasn't the calculating guidance she'd offered before the tournament, nor the quiet assessment during his recovery. This was something harder, something that tasted of vengeance rather than survival.

"I need to be careful," he argued quietly. "The Cathedral—"

'The Cathedral fears what it cannot control,' Valenna cut in. 'As they should. Their power is built on chains, on binding, on limiting, on denying. But there are older powers they cannot bind.'

The shard pulsed again, and with it came a flash of something, a memory not his own. Golden armor splashed with crimson. A sword breaking against stone. Words whispered in a language he almost understood.

Soren pressed his palms against his eyes until colored spots danced in his vision. Valenna's presence receded gradually, the bone-deep cold fading to its usual chill. He straightened, forcing his breathing to steady before continuing toward the washroom.

Her words lingered, though, settling into the cracks of his resolve like water that would later freeze and split stone. Every chain they forge, I'll show you how to snap.

---

The library's familiar scent, old parchment, leather bindings, the faint tang of the oil used to preserve ancient texts, wrapped around Soren as he slipped through the heavy oak door.

After the day's brutal training and the constant whispers that followed him through the estate, the silent chamber felt like sanctuary.

He moved between the towering shelves with practiced quiet, seeking the section on martial traditions that had become his regular haunt.

The wound in his shoulder throbbed dully, a constant reminder of his limitations, of the gap between his hard-won skills and the power nobles took for granted.

"I wondered when you'd return."

Soren startled, turning to find Veyr Velrane seated at his usual table, surrounded by stacks of ancient texts. The heir looked paler than usual, the shadows beneath his eyes suggesting nights spent in study rather than sleep.

His ink-stained fingers traced patterns on the open page before him, symbols similar to those Soren had glimpsed in Naeria's books.

"My lord," Soren acknowledged with a slight bow. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"And yet your interruption might be the most interesting part of my evening." Veyr gestured toward the chair opposite him. "Sit. There are matters we should discuss."

Soren obeyed, acutely aware of the contrast between them, Veyr's immaculate appearance despite his obvious exhaustion, and his own battered state after Kaelor's punishing regimen. The heir studied him with those pale, intelligent eyes that missed nothing.

"You look like you've been dragged behind a cart," Veyr observed. "Kaelor takes his duties seriously, it seems."

"He's thorough," Soren replied, the diplomatic understatement almost making him wince.

"Thorough." A ghost of a smile touched Veyr's lips. "Yes, I suppose that's one word for it." He closed the book before him with careful movements. "Has anyone told you about the inquisitors yet?"

The question dropped between them like a stone in still water, ripples of implication spreading outward. Soren felt his mouth go dry.

"No, my lord."

Veyr nodded as if this confirmed something. "I thought not. My father prefers to restrict information to those who 'need to know.'"

The slight emphasis suggested what he thought of this policy. "The Cathedral has dispatched a delegation from the southern temple. Not just Watch, but true inquisitors. They crossed the Karvath bridge yesterday."

Cold settled in Soren's stomach that had nothing to do with the shard against his chest. Everyone in Northaven knew the stories, inquisitors, the Church's most feared servants, empowered to act beyond the constraints of common law.

"Because of Naeria?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Because of what Naeria knows," Veyr corrected. "And because of who might have been... influenced by her research." His pale eyes fixed on Soren with uncomfortable intensity. "If they suspect you're 'touched' by her knowledge, even peripherally, they won't need evidence to mark you as heretic material."

The clinical way he delivered this death sentence made it somehow worse. Not a threat, but a simple statement of fact, the sun rises, water flows downhill, and the Church destroys what it cannot control.

"I barely spoke to her," Soren said. "I didn't even know who she was."

"Intent matters little in matters of heresy." Veyr absently traced a symbol on the table's surface, a gesture that seemed unconscious. "The taint of forbidden knowledge spreads through mere proximity, or so the doctrine claims."

He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping though there was no one else in the vast library to overhear. "The inquisitors who come are not like the Watch you evaded. These are men who have built their lives on rooting out corruption. They will not be bribed, reasoned with, or evaded through ordinary means."

"What do they want?" Soren asked, though the question felt hollow as soon as he voiced it.

"What the Church always wants," Veyr replied. "Control. Obedience. The elimination of anything that challenges their authority." He paused, studying Soren's face. "But specifically? They want Naeria."

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