Through it all, the shard remained cold against Soren’s chest, Valenna unusually silent as she observed. He felt her presence sharpening, assessing, calculating the changed landscape they now faced.
Within the hour, messengers departed from each noble house, racing toward distant estates with sealed letters. The lords might have returned in shared defeat, but their political maneuvering had already begun. Blame would be assigned. Alliances would shift. Power would change hands.
Soren made his way to the bathhouse first, desperate to wash away the grime of travel and the stench of fear that seemed to have seeped into his very skin. The hot water stung countless small cuts he hadn’t noticed receiving, turning the bath cloudy with dirt and dried blood.
As he dressed in clean clothes, a servant appeared at the doorway. "Lord Ashgard awaits," the man said, his expression carefully neutral. "The lords have gathered in the great hall."
Soren followed him through corridors that seemed unnaturally quiet. Servants moved like ghosts, speaking in whispers if they spoke at all. The atmosphere of the entire manor had changed since their departure, lightness and life replaced by something heavier, more cautious.
The great hall’s massive doors stood closed, two guards positioned outside. They regarded Soren with flat, unreadable expressions as he approached.
"Wait here," one said. "You’ll be called when needed."
From beyond the thick oak, raised voices leaked through, the controlled fury of men accustomed to being obeyed now finding themselves victims of circumstances beyond their control.
"—abandoned my men in their hour of need!" Lord Trescan’s voice, sharp with accusation.
"While you cowered behind your banner-bearer?" That was Karvath, his usual diplomatic tone replaced by open contempt.
"My son is DEAD!" Lanther’s voice cracked with grief and rage. "Dead while you squabbled over formation and precedence!"
The accusations flew faster, each lord desperate to assign blame elsewhere. Through it all, Ashgard remained silent, allowing the initial storm to exhaust itself before he spoke.
When his voice finally cut through the chaos, it carried the cold authority of a man who had anticipated every word uttered in that room.
"Enough." The single word silenced them all. "This serves nothing except our enemies."
"Enemies?" Trescan snarled. "The only enemy I see is the incompetence that led us into that slaughter!"
"Then you are blind as well as foolish," Ashgard replied, his tone unchanged. "The noble houses face extinction if we continue this petty bickering. Sylas is merely the blade, the hand that wields him remains hidden."
A moment of stunned silence followed this declaration. Then Karvath spoke, his voice lower but no less intense. "You suggest some... conspiracy? Some power behind this killer?"
"I suggest nothing," Ashgard countered. "I state fact. This was a test, of our unity, our resolve, our ability to stand together against a common threat. We failed."
"We failed?" Lanther’s laugh held the brittle edge of hysteria. "My son lies dead in the forest, and you speak of failure as if discussing a tournament loss!"
"Your son died because we could not set aside our rivalries long enough to face a single opponent," Ashgard replied, unmoved by Lanther’s grief. "What do you imagine will happen when the real attack comes?"
The silence that followed felt heavier than before. Soren shifted his weight, acutely aware of the guards watching him with undisguised suspicion.
"We leave this room with one voice," Ashgard continued after a moment. "One account of what occurred. One response to the questions that await us. Or we die divided, picked off one by one while pointing fingers at each other."
"And what story would you have us tell?" Dravien asked, speaking for the first time. "That the finest knights of five houses were slaughtered by a single man? That we fled like common soldiers?"
"We tell the truth," Ashgard replied, "carefully measured. Sylas employed tactics we hadn’t anticipated. We suffered losses but gathered valuable intelligence. We return to regroup, not retreat."
"A pretty lie," Trescan muttered. "When half our knights won’t return at all."
"Not a lie," Ashgard countered. "A perspective that serves our interests rather than our enemies’. Unless you prefer to announce our weakness to every rival house and foreign power watching us?"
The debate continued, voices rising and falling as arguments were presented and dismissed. Soren listened with growing unease, realizing that even in defeat, the game of politics continued unabated. Lives lost became pieces moved on an invisible board. Failure became opportunity, if properly managed.
Eventually, a guard opened the door, beckoning Soren forward. "Lord Ashgard requests your presence."
Soren stepped into the great hall, instantly aware of how the temperature seemed to drop as every noble eye turned to him.
The massive oak table that dominated the center of the room was surrounded by lords whose fine clothes couldn’t disguise their exhaustion and rage. Maps and documents lay scattered before them, abandoned mid-discussion.
"Thorne," Ashgard said, his voice neutral. "Recount what you witnessed during the attack."
Before Soren could speak, Lord Trescan slammed his palm against the table. "Why question this... recruit? What could he possibly add that my knights haven’t already reported?"
"Perhaps why he alone was spared when seasoned warriors fell," Harrick suggested from his position behind his father, voice dripping with insinuation.
The room fell silent. Soren felt the weight of their collective stares like physical pressure against his skin.
"I was not spared," he said carefully. "The killer attacked without discrimination. I was simply... fortunate."
"Fortunate?" Lord Lanther’s laugh held no humor, only grief sharpened to a cutting edge. "My son’s throat was opened while you stood untouched. Explain your... fortune."
Soren’s mouth went dry.
"I cannot explain why I was spared." Soren met Lanther’s gaze directly. "I fought as others did, yet lived. That is all I know."
The silence that followed felt like a physical weight pressing down on his shoulders. Lanther’s eyes, red-rimmed and hollow with grief, burned into him with the intensity of a brand.
Before anyone could speak, the chamber doors swung open. A messenger in Ashgard’s colors entered, face glistening with sweat, chest heaving from exertion.