Rylen's boots echoed on the stone floor as two guards shoved him forward into the grand hall.
He stumbled but caught himself. Behind him, Bram and Thorne moved to follow, but a third guard blocked their path with a spear. The older men stopped, hands hovering near their weapons. Bram's jaw clenched. Thorne's eyes went cold.
"Let them through." Rylen's voice came out steadier than he felt.
The guard looked back at the dais, waiting. Lord Harlan gave a slight nod. The spear lowered.
Bram and Thorne took up positions three steps behind Rylen. Close enough to act. Far enough to show they knew their place.
The hall was massive—fifty paces from the entrance to the dais, stone walls rising into shadow. Torches lined the walls, throwing dancing light across the banners. Black and silver. House Storm's colors. Rylen had grown up beneath those banners. Trained in the yards outside. Bled trying to meet their standards.
It hadn't been enough.
His father sat on the high seat, one hand resting on the armrest. Lord Harlan Storm looked like he'd been carved from the same stone as the keep—hard features, gray streaks in his black hair, eyes that missed nothing. A Formal Knight at peak strength. One step from Great Knight. The power that had earned House Storm its marquess title and control over the northern territories.
To the right of the dais stood Cassian. Tall, black hair tied back, face showing nothing. The perfect heir. Already a Formal Knight at twenty-two. He'd absorbed every resource the house gave him and turned it into strength. His hands were clasped behind his back, posture military-straight.
To the left stood Darius. Shorter than Cassian, broader in the shoulders, with their father's sharp features and his mother's cruel mouth. Twenty years old. Apprentice peak, which meant he could snap a normal man's spine without trying. He wasn't bothering to hide the satisfaction on his face.
Rylen stopped in the center of the hall. The box of gold sat on a small table near the dais—already prepared. They'd made their decision before he'd even walked in.
"Rylen Storm." His father's voice cut through the silence like a blade. "Third son of House Storm. Age sixteen. Four years since your life seed awakened. Four years of training, resources, and instruction."
Lord Harlan stood. The movement was fluid, controlled—a warrior's grace despite his age.
"Your assessment results: lowest grade talent. No measurable progress. No advancement beyond the initial awakening." He descended the steps slowly. "The Frost Flower dose we provided—wasted. The beast materials—wasted. The training manuals, the instructor's time, the family's investment—all wasted."
Each word landed like a punch. Rylen kept his face blank, but his hands balled into fists at his sides.
Darius laughed. Actually laughed. "Wasted is right. Do you know what I could've done with those resources? I'd be pushing Formal Knight right now instead of being stuck at peak Apprentice."
"Quiet." Cassian's voice was soft, but Darius shut up immediately.
Lord Harlan reached the floor level and walked toward Rylen. He stopped five paces away—just outside striking distance, Rylen noted. Even now, his father measured threats automatically.
"I gave you chances," Lord Harlan said. "More than I should have. Your mother—" He paused, and something flickered across his face. "Lady Elara requested I be patient. So I was. But she's gone now, and patience has limits."
Rylen's throat tightened. His mother had died two years ago. Illness, they said. She'd been the only one who'd really believed in him. The only one who'd seen past the trash talent to whatever else might be there.
"The house has rules," his father continued. "We survive through strength. We maintain our position through power. Dead weight gets people killed. Do you understand?"
"Yes, my lord." The formal address tasted like ash.
"I don't think you do." Lord Harlan turned and walked back toward the dais. "House Storm controls these territories because I broke through to Formal Knight peak. Because Cassian advanced faster than anyone in three generations. Because we produce results." He turned back. "You produce nothing. Worse—you consume resources that could strengthen those who matter."
Behind Rylen, Bram shifted his weight. It was a tiny movement, barely audible, but Rylen caught it. The old guard was getting angry.
Darius stepped forward from his position. "Father, why are we even having this conversation? Just throw him out. Send him to garrison duty at some border fort. Let him be useful for once, even if it's just as beast bait."
"I considered that," Lord Harlan said, and ice flooded Rylen's veins. "But garrison duty implies he's still part of the military structure. Still represents House Storm. I can't have that."
Cassian finally spoke up. "Father, he's still your son. Our brother. Exile seems—"
"Necessary." Lord Harlan cut him off. "This isn't about feelings, Cassian. It's about maintaining standards. If word spreads that House Storm keeps dead weight out of sentimentality, it shows weakness. Other houses will see opportunity. They'll test us."
He grabbed a scroll from the table and unrolled it.
"By my authority as Lord of House Storm and Marquess of the Northern Territories, I hereby strip Rylen Storm of all titles, rights, and privileges associated with this house. Effective immediately."
The words crashed over Rylen like a wave. He'd known it was coming—had felt it building for months—but hearing it officially pronounced was different.
"You will be sent to Frosthold. A mining town on the northern border. You will assume the position of mayor. Consider it a posting if you like—officially, that's what it is. In reality, we both know what this is."
Lord Harlan tossed the scroll onto the table.
"You'll receive one hundred fifty gold coins as severance. Enough to survive a year if you're careful. Your guards may accompany you if they choose, though they'll be released from formal house service." He looked at Bram and Thorne. "You two served Lady Elara with distinction. You're free to stay here if you wish. No one will think less of you."
Bram's response was immediate. "We go with him, my lord."
Thorne just nodded.
Lord Harlan studied them for a moment, then shrugged. "Your choice. Dismissed."
"Wait." Darius stepped forward, grinning. "Can I say goodbye properly?"
"Darius." Cassian's warning tone stopped him, but barely.
"What? I'm just being friendly." Darius walked up to Rylen, stopping just close enough to be threatening. "Listen, little brother. Do us all a favor and don't come back. You understand? Frosthold's a shithole. Cold, poor, dying. Perfect place for someone like you. Just... stay there. Rot quietly. Maybe catch a disease or get killed by beasts. Whatever. Just don't embarrass us by showing up again."
Rylen met his eyes. Saw the genuine hatred there. Darius wasn't joking. He actually wanted Rylen gone—permanently.
"I'll keep that in mind," Rylen said quietly.
"You do that." Darius clapped him on the shoulder—hard enough to hurt. "Oh, and that girl you liked? Mira? The merchant's daughter? Father's arranging her marriage to the Whitlock family's third son. Thought you should know."
The words hit harder than they should have. Mira. The one person outside family who'd treated him like he mattered. She'd known about his talent issues and hadn't cared. They'd talked about—
It didn't matter now.
"Enough." Cassian moved down from the dais. He walked past Darius, stopping in front of Rylen. For a long moment, he just looked at his younger brother. Then he leaned in close, voice dropping to barely a whisper.
"The strong rule. That's reality. I can't change Father's decision—I won't even try. It's the right call strategically." He paused. "But you're smart. Smarter than me, honestly. If you can't build strength through talent, build it through other means. Find leverage. Create value. Make yourself necessary."
Cassian stepped back, face going blank again. "Good luck, Third Brother."
Then he turned and walked back to the dais.
Lord Harlan made a dismissive gesture. "Take the gold. Carriage is waiting. Be gone within the hour."
Rylen grabbed the iron box. It was heavier than expected—gold had weight. He turned and walked toward the exit, Bram and Thorne falling in step.
Behind him, he heard Darius laughing again.
The doors slammed shut.