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—"
