18. Stone Yard #2
The first floor housed the newest arrivals and those still proving themselves.
Shared rooms with basic amenities, gear racks that looked sturdy but utilitarian.
Through open doors, I caught boys and girls maintaining their equipment with the kind of care that comes from knowing how easily it could be taken away.
“Your floor,” Armand announced as we reached the second level. “You’ve proved you can work as a unit, so you get a shared room. Lose cohesion or fail standards, and you’ll be split up among the individual quarters.”
The space he showed us was functional rather than comfortable. Four beds with honest mattresses, but nothing elaborate. A window overlooking the training yards, but with bars that reminded us we were still contained. Weapon racks built for rapid inspection rather than long-term storage.
“Equipment allocation happens after evening meal,” Armand continued. “You’ll receive gear appropriate to your current standing. Maintain it properly, and upgrades follow achievement. Damage it through negligence, and replacements come from your own prospects.”
He moved toward the door, then paused. “A word of advice, bastard. Baldir would have killed you if that blow had landed. If you want the chance, build up to it. We do battles where you won’t lose your life just for the attempt.”
The words hung in the air. Armand’s voice carried no mockery, just the flat certainty of someone who’d seen what his older brother could do when properly provoked.
“Legal duels?” I asked.
“Training matches. Ranked competitions. Tournament brackets.” He shrugged. “Father encourages competition among us. Builds character, weeds out weakness. But there are rules, witnesses, proper forms to follow.”
“And if someone dies?”
“Then they weren’t strong enough to matter.” Armand’s expression didn’t change. “But at least the death serves better purpose than being cut down over pride.”
I nodded slowly. The logic made sense in its own brutal way.
“When’s the next opportunity?”
“Weekly ranking matches. Every eighth day, voluntary participation.” Armand almost smiled. “Baldir hasn’t lost one yet.”
“There’s always a first time.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “There is. But it won’t be the next eighth day.”
◇ ◆ ◇
After he left, we explored our new quarters with the attention of soldiers checking defensive positions. The room was clean, functional, and completely lacking in warmth. Every surface designed to remind us that we were here on sufferance.
“Different world,” Maise muttered, testing one of the beds. “Better than where we came from, but they’re making sure we remember our place.”
The mattresses felt almost luxurious compared to the straw pallets from the barracks, but the metal frames were bolted to the floor.
The weapon racks showed wear patterns from countless previous occupants.
Even the window, despite its view of the training yards, bore scratches around the lock mechanism from fingers that tested escape routes and found them wanting.
Grit claimed the corner bed without discussion, already calculating sight lines and defensive positions. Within minutes, he’d arranged his sparse possessions with the economy of a man who keeps everything positioned for quick access.
“Listen,” he said quietly, tilting his head toward the ceiling. “Third floor conversations.”
We strained to hear through the floorboards. Words drifted down, too muffled to understand but clear enough to catch tone. Planning. Strategy. Discussion of matters that didn’t include us, conducted by voices that carried the confidence of people born to consequence.
“They’re fighting their own battles up there,” Perrin observed, settling onto his chosen bed. “Succession politics, proving themselves to their father. We’re just new pieces on the board.”
A commotion outside drew our attention to the window. In the yard below, two trainees were engaged in serious combat, live steel ringing against live steel. This wasn’t the controlled sparring we remembered from Rulfen’s instruction .
One fighter was clearly dominant, driving his opponent back step by step with calculated aggression. When the weaker trainee stumbled over loose cobblestone, his opponent pressed the advantage without hesitation. Steel opened a line across exposed ribs. Blood spattered stone.
The wounded boy tried to yield, raising his off-hand in surrender, but his opponent didn’t stop immediately. Another cut, this one across the forearm, before one of Danzing’s sergeants intervened with a sharp whistle.
“Adequate,” the veteran announced without emotion. “Loser reports to medical station, then kitchen duties until healed. Winner gets first choice at evening meal for eight days.”
The victor cleaned his blade while his opponent staggered away, clutching his wounds. No rush to provide aid. No concerned voices asking about severity of injury. Just the daily arithmetic of the Stone Yard calculating worth through blood.
“Stakes are higher here,” Maise said quietly.
“Everything’s stakes now,” I replied, watching the winner sheath his sword.
◇ ◆ ◇
A horn sounded across the yard, two sharp blasts that sent trainees scurrying toward the main building.
Through our barred window, I watched the hierarchy reassert itself in the movement patterns.
Legitimate heirs strode toward the entrance with casual authority.
Acknowledged bastards and cousins followed at respectful distances.
The newest arrivals clustered together, uncertain but trying to project confidence .
“Evening meal,” Grit observed. “Time to learn how badly they want to remind us where we stand.”
The dining hall proved his point immediately. Long tables arranged by status, with the legitimate heirs claiming the raised platform at the far end. Their table had actual silverware and ceramic plates that caught lamplight. Servants moved between them, offering choices and second helpings.
Below the platform, acknowledged bastards and collateral cousins occupied the main floor tables. Decent wooden trenchers, adequate portions, respect but not deference from the kitchen staff. They ate well enough, but every detail reminded them they were one step removed from true privilege.
At the back, nearest the kitchen doors where heat and noise made conversation difficult, rough wooden tables waited for newcomers and those still proving themselves. Clay bowls, wooden spoons, whatever remained after the higher ranks had taken their fill.
We claimed spots at one of the back tables, the wood scarred from years of use by hands more accustomed to weapons than delicate dining. The clay bowls showed chips and cracks that spoke of functional rather than ceremonial purpose.
A kitchen attendant walked over with a wooden bucket and ladle. I recognized him: one of the bastards who’d failed out of martial training, now earning his keep through service. His eyes didn’t quite meet ours as he portioned stew into our bowls.
The food itself surprised me. Thick broth with actual chunks of meat, vegetables that hadn’t been cooked to mush, bread that was only a day old. Far better than anything we’d received at the barracks, but served in a way that emphasized our position in the hierarchy.
From the platform, Baldir’s voice carried across the hall, discussing strategy and tactics with his siblings. Casual references to battles, campaigns, political maneuvering that revealed a depth of education we lacked. They weren’t just being fed up there. They were being prepared to rule.
The stew tasted good despite everything else. Warm food after a long day of adjustment and tension, shared with people who’d faced trials beside me. Simple pleasures that matter more than ceremony.
“So…” I said, breaking the quiet that had settled over our table. “Do you think they let us have seconds?”
Two pairs of eyes stared at me. Grit didn’t look up from his bowl, but his spoon paused.
Maise snorted first. “Eat what’s in front of you before someone takes it.“
◇ ◆ ◇
「Hel’s Ledger」
Vessel: Danarre de Blaise | Year 824 | Age 9
House de Blaise | Status: Bastard (Unacknowledged)
Location: de Blaise Estate, Stone Yard
「Knight of Swords」 — Waking
「Emperor」 — Sleeping
「Magician」 — Sleeping
Active Charge: Find the one who broke Hel’s claim.
New teeth learn to bite.