The hall of Blackthorn Keep pressed heavy with silence. Elias stood chained at the center, iron biting at his wrists. He had grown thinner in the weeks since the pit, but his eyes—once dulled by despair—now held a wary, sharpened clarity.
On the dais sat Lord Hadrien. Beside him stood a man unfamiliar yet instantly formidable. Dark hair streaked with silver, his beard neatly trimmed, his bearing steady as stone. No jeweled rings or fine robes adorned him, only a simple black mantle. Yet when his gaze fell upon Elias, the room itself seemed to still.
Silven Marrow.
Whispers carried through the chamber. A name known in Orravia for its weight. A tactician, a confidant, a man whose counsel swayed lords and toppled foes.
Hadrien's voice broke the hush. "Stranger. Elias, as you call yourself. You were found in my lands clad in garb no craftsman here could weave. Weeks in my walls, taught our tongue like a child, and now you speak with unsettling speed. Who are you? From where do you come?"
Elias bowed his head, voice measured. "I am Elias. From the far east. A merchant ship—caught in storm. I washed ashore. Your knights found me."
The words felt brittle, but they were the story he had forged.
Silven's tone slid in, calm but cutting. "The east? Then name it. Which coast? Which port? What lord rules it?"
Elias let a pause stretch before he answered, feigning struggle. "Small port. Fish, salt, cloth. No lord worth naming. Not known here."
Silven's eyes narrowed. "Convenient, that a nameless port weaves finer cloth than Orravia's proud guilds. Shall I believe peasants in a mud village outspin our master weavers?"
Elias met his gaze briefly, then lowered it. "Where I come from… common. Strange only here."
A thin curl of disdain touched Silven's lip. "And our tongue? You grasp it in weeks. Kael reports you remember words as if burned into your mind. That is not common."
Elias forced weariness into his tone. "I listen. I remember. Gift, curse… I do not know."
The chamber watched the exchange like hounds waiting for blood.
Finally, Hadrien stirred, his dark gaze fixed upon Elias. "And the storm? The shipwreck? What proof lies with you?"
Elias raised his bound wrists. "None. Clothes ruined. Ship swallowed. All lost—save scars."
A hush hung, deep and heavy.
Then Hadrien rose. His boots echoed on the stone as he descended the dais. He stopped before Elias, looming but calm. "You fell into my pit like a criminal. You suffered chains fit for thieves and slaves, when your only crime was mystery. For that…"
He gestured. A knight stepped forward, unlocking the shackles. Iron fell to the floor with a hollow clatter. Elias rubbed his wrists, skin raw where the manacles had bitten.
"…for that, I owe you this."
Murmurs rippled across the hall, shock at the lord's words.
But Hadrien was not finished. He leaned closer, voice low but carrying. "Do not mistake this mercy. You are not free. You are no longer a prisoner—but neither are you master of your fate. The gods, or fate itself, will decide what use you serve. Until then, you remain under my roof, my eye… and my judgment."
Silven's stare never wavered. Hawk-like, unblinking. The weight of suspicion in his silence said more than protest could.
Elias bowed his head, not in surrender, but in acknowledgment. His chains were gone—but he could feel the invisible ones tighten all the same.