The corridor outside the dueling yard was colder than the stones beneath his boots. Caelen walked with one hand pressed lightly to the cut that was placed on his neck, feeling the tacky warmth of drying blood, and the sting of another loss that went deeper than any blade had ever gone. Torches flickered in the sconces along the hall, casting his shadow across portraits of warriors who had earned their place in the Velthran's history. He kept his gaze down. He didn't want to meet their eyes. Not tonight.
He reached the stairwell that lead to the upper halls. The air in the keep smelled of oil, steel, and age. A fortress built upon legacy. Built to remember every triumph, and never forget a mistake.
Caelen paused there, not for reverence, but to gather himself. His hand drifted to the hilt at his hip, dull-edged and plain. A sword he had never bonded with. A sword with no name.
The doors to the grand hall loomed ahead, already open, the light within spilling golden warmth across the threshold. he could hear voices, Tarran's clipped and cold, Lira's smooth and amused, Brann's too loud. Their words weren't clear, but the tone was obvious: confident, and comfortable. He stepped inside.
The long table stretched beneath a glass skylight that filtered moonlight into lines across the obsidian surface. His family sat in order of rank. His father, Duke Verent, at the head, unreadable as stone. Beside him, Lady Maeryn, eyes sharp as the blade she one held. The others arranged like players apart of a strategy game: Tarran at the Dukes right, Lira near her mother, Brann leaning halfway across the table for more meat.
No one looked up when Caelen entered.
He took his place at the far end, near the servants approach and beneath the coldest draft in the room. His plate was already cooling.
"Third skirmish in the borderlands was resolved by dusk," Tarran stated. "The northern tribes scattered once they realized who was leading the vanguard."
"Of course they did," the Duke replied. "They remember what a Velthran blade looks like."
"I heard your blade never leaves the sheath," Lira added, swirling her goblet. "Intimidation is a fine tactic. Saves on mess."
Tarran didn't rise to the bait. He never did.
"Skirmishes are for soldiers," Brann said, cutting a hunk of meat with the edge of his blade. "Let the others handle the mud. Put me on a proper field, with something that bleeds."
"You'd bleed fast enough without a second to carry your temper," Lira said, but she was smiling.
Caelen ate in silence. His food tasted like nothing.
eventually, the conversation turned to academy placements. Lira was set to enter the College of Tactical Arts next month, as a formal tactician in training. Brann was due for final combat trials, aiming to earn a soulforged upgrade for his blade, Emberfang.
"And Caelen?" the Duchess asked at last, her tone distant, decorative.
There was a pause. The Duke didn't answer immediately.
"He'll be evaluated again at the end of the season," he said. "If no progress is made, we will consider alternatives."
"Alternatives," Lira repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Like what? Politics? Prayer?"
Brann snorted. "Maybe service with the outer guard. They always need someone to clean up ager beasts."
Caelen's hand tightened around his fork.
The Duke spoke again, voice low but deliberate. "Legacy is not inherited. It is carved. Only those who shape themselves into steel are worthy of our name."
He didn't look at Caelen. He didn't need to.
Later, Caelen stood alone in the hallway outside the grand hall, cold air brushing his skin through the gaps in his tunic. A figure approached, Tyel, a younger cousin, small for his age, always more book than blade.
"You held your ground," Tyel said quietly.
Caelen let out a breath. "I didn't land a blow."
"That doesn't mean you didn't stand," the boy offered. "They forget that sometimes."
Caelen almost smiled. "You should try that speech when it's your blood on the stones."
Tyel shrugged. "You know the founder of our House? The one they call the Firstblade?" Caelen nodded.
"There are old records, some say he used to wield both sword and... something else. Before the lorekeepers started burning books that didn't match the motto."
"That souds like a story told by people who never had to draw steel," Caelen replied.
Tyel tilted his head. "Or by people who knew it wasn't enough,"
They stood in silence a moment longer. then Tyel left, and Caelen made his way to his quarters.
His room was spare: a cot, a desk, a wardrobe, and a narrow slit of a window. His training sword sat propped in the corner, still faintly scratched from the match. He sat down beside it, unbuckled his tunic, and examined the cut on his neck in the mirror.
It wasn't deep. It wouldn't scar.
He ran a hand through his hair and stared at himself steel-gay eyes under a shadowed brow, lips pressed into a line he couldn't seem to smooth out.
He reached under the bed and pulled out a small wood figure, crudely carved. It was meant to be a knight, though the sword arm had long been broken. He'd made it when he was ten.
Caelen set it upright on the table, next to his blade.
"They want me to become steel," He murmured. "But steel breaks."
He stared out the window, watching clouds pass overt the moon.
"I'll be something they can't bend."