"The wolf has served his purpose well," he remarked, studying the new arrangement with clinical detachment. "Two houses destabilized. Alliances strained. The common folk stirred to enthusiasm that makes the nobles uncomfortable."

He looked up at his retainers. "The question becomes: how much further do we push before it becomes counterproductive?"

Ser Tolvic, the oldest of the retainers, cleared his throat. "My lord, the boy faces Ser Daven Trescan tomorrow. Trescan is not like the others. He's methodical, disciplined. He won't be baited into mistakes."

"I'm well aware of Trescan's capabilities," Callen replied, the slight edge in his voice causing Tolvic to bow his head in apology. "The question is not whether our Blade can defeat him. The question is whether we want him to."

The chamber door opened without warning. Ayren Velrane stepped inside, midnight-blue coat immaculate despite the late hour. His amethyst eyes took in the gathering with practiced nonchalance before settling on his father.

"Discussing our newest asset without me?" he asked, voice carrying that familiar note of cultured amusement. "How terribly inconsiderate."

Callen's expression didn't change, though something in his posture suggested he'd anticipated this interruption. "You were occupied elsewhere."

"Indeed." Ayren moved further into the chamber, each step deliberate and fluid. "Gathering quite useful intelligence, as it happens. The noble houses are in disarray. Trescan believes they can restore order by breaking our wolf tomorrow. Karvath suggests more... permanent solutions might be required."

He stopped beside the strategy table, elegant fingers adjusting one of the markers with casual precision. "They fear him now. Not just what he represents, but what he might become."

"Fear makes men predictable," Callen observed. "Useful in the short term. Dangerous if allowed to fester."

"Or," Ayren countered, perfect eyebrow arched slightly, "extraordinarily valuable if properly directed." He gestured toward the map, where House Velrane's position had strengthened considerably with the day's developments. "A storm is only useful if you let it rage first, Father. Leash the wolf too soon, and you waste the chaos he creates."

The other retainers shifted uncomfortably at the subtle challenge in Ayren's tone. But Callen merely studied his son with those pale, merciless eyes that had assessed a thousand such moments.

"And if the storm destroys what we've built?" he asked, voice neutral.

Ayren's perfect mouth curved in a smile that never reached his eyes. "Then we rebuild with better materials, atop the rubble of our enemies."

---

Soren sat on the edge of his narrow bed, pressing a damp cloth against the cut on his arm. The wound stung, but the cool water provided momentary relief from the burning that had persisted since Marcus's blade found its mark. His quarters were small but private, a privilege granted to Veyr's chosen Blade rather than any recognition of personal worth.

A sharp knock rattled the door, the sound distinctive enough that Soren recognized the visitor before speaking.

"Enter," he called, not bothering to rise.

Kaelor pushed the door open with his shoulder, his scarred face set in its usual expression of controlled irritation.

The Swordmaster carried a small clay pot in one hand, a bundle of clean bandages in the other. Without ceremony, he kicked the door closed behind him and approached the bed.

"Let me see it," he demanded, gesturing toward Soren's arm.

Soren removed the cloth, revealing the angry red line where Marcus's blade had sliced through skin and into muscle beneath. Not deep enough to cripple, but painful enough to remind him with every movement.

Kaelor studied the wound with his single eye, then grunted what might have been approval. "Clean, at least. Karvath keeps his blades free of rust, unlike some." He unstoppered the clay pot, releasing the sharp herbal scent of healing salve. "This will burn. Try not to scream."

He wasn't exaggerating. The salve felt like liquid fire against raw flesh, and Soren bit down hard on his lower lip to keep from making a sound. Kaelor worked methodically, applying the mixture with practiced efficiency before wrapping the arm in fresh bandages.

"You won," the Swordmaster said when he'd finished, his gruff voice betraying nothing of his thoughts. "Twice. Against better-trained opponents."

Soren flexed his bandaged arm, testing the range of motion. "You sound surprised."

"Surprised you're still breathing," Kaelor corrected. He settled onto the room's only chair, the wood creaking beneath his weight. "But tomorrow's different. Trescan isn't like the others. He won't crack. He won't

charge with rage. He won't make the mistakes that let you survive."

Soren leaned back against the cold stone wall, feeling exhaustion settle into his bones like sediment in still water. "Then what do you suggest?"

Kaelor's scarred face remained impassive, though something shifted in his single eye, not concern exactly, but the calculating look of a man assessing odds he didn't like. "You've shown them your hand twice now. Street tactics. Unpredictable movement. Breaking their precious forms." He paused, fingers drumming against his knee. "Trescan will have watched. Studied. He'll come prepared for chaos."

The words hit Soren like cold water. He'd been so focused on surviving each match that he hadn't considered the larger pattern, how each victory revealed more of his approach, gave future opponents more information to work with.

"You're saying I should lose," he said, though even as the words left his mouth, he knew that wasn't what Kaelor meant.

"I'm saying you need to evolve faster than they can adapt." The Swordmaster leaned forward, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper.

"Tomorrow, you can't be the same fighter who beat Lanther and Karvath. You need to become something else. Something they haven't seen yet."

Soren touched the shard through his shirt, feeling its familiar coolness against his palm. Valenna stirred in the back of his mind, her presence sharpening.

'I need something they haven't seen,' Soren thought, his mind racing despite his exhaustion. Every muscle in his body screamed for rest, but Kaelor's warning echoed in his head, impossible to ignore.

"What would that even look like?" he asked, rubbing his temple where a dull ache had been building since his match with Marcus.

Kaelor's scarred face remained impassive. "You survived the streets before Velrane found you. You survived the forest when better men fell. There's something in you they don't understand." His single eye narrowed.

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