19. First Blood
First Blood
Perrin got up without a word, slipping away toward the kitchens with the quiet confidence of someone who knows where supplies are kept. He returned minutes later with a second loaf of bread tucked under his arm, setting it on the table without comment.
“He asked nice,” Maise said, and her grin was sharp with the first hint of shared history being built.
We ate in comfortable silence for a moment, the four of us a small island of familiarity in this new and considerably more dangerous ocean.
The sounds of the dining hall faded into background noise: the clatter of silverware from the high table, the low murmur of conversations we weren’t yet privy to.
“So, weekly matches,” I said, tearing off a piece of the fresh bread. “Every eighth day.”
“Baldir’s undefeated,” Maise reminded me. “Someone mentioned that earlier.”
“There’s always a first time,” Perrin added, his eyes scanning the room, cataloging exits and opportunities the way he always did, a boy who’d survived on awareness long before he survived on skill.
“Not yet,” I said. “He’s sixteen. I’m nine. He’s got years of training, better food, armor that was probably enchanted before he was born. Rushing that fight is suicide.”
“So we wait?” Maise asked, her tone making it clear she didn’t like the idea .
“We train,” I corrected her. “We learn the rhythms of this place. We watch who wins, who loses, and why. We let them underestimate us until they can’t afford to anymore.”
Grit nodded once, a short and sharp motion of agreement. His gaze was fixed on the high table, on Baldir, who was laughing at something one of his brothers said. Patient. Absolute.
Around us, the mess hall emptied in careful order. Legitimate heirs first, their attendants clearing plates and wiping tables clean. Acknowledged bastards next, followed by the rest of us in rough order of current standing.
We were among the last to leave, still learning where we fit in this machine.
◇ ◆ ◇
Exhaustion caught up with us after the meal. The trial at the Palisade felt like it happened weeks ago, not this morning. My body ached in places I’d forgotten existed, and the Knight Brand between my shoulders throbbed with a steady heat that hadn’t faded since the Warchief went down.
The others settled into their beds with the easy efficiency of people who’d learned to sleep anywhere.
Maise curled on her side, one hand resting near her sword hilt even in sleep.
Perrin disappeared so completely under his blankets that I almost forgot he was there.
Grit closed his eyes and became motionless, a shadow that’d found its resting place.
I lay awake longer, staring at the ceiling and listening to the sounds of the Stone Yard settling into night. Footsteps on the floors above, the distant ring of someone practicing forms in the yard below, the creak of old timber adjusting to the day’s heat bleeding away .
When sleep finally came, it was deep and dreamless.
Until the hand on my shoulder woke me.
◇ ◆ ◇
I was reaching for my blade before I was fully conscious, but the fingers that gripped my wrist were gentle. In the darkness, I made out the shape of a woman in servant’s robes, her face hidden by a hood.
“Quietly,” she whispered. “Lord Henrik waits.”
I dressed in silence, strapping on my sword but leaving the spear. Whatever this was about, it wasn’t a training exercise. The woman led me through corridors I didn’t recognize, past rooms where other trainees slept unaware of midnight summons.
We left the Stone Yard through a side gate, moving through the compound toward sections I’d never seen. The servant knew the way by heart, avoiding main paths and guard stations with the skill of someone who’d made this walk before.
The Place of Graves spread before us. Headstones and monuments rose from manicured grass, marking generations of de Blaise blood. The wealth of the house showed even here. Carved angels, mausoleums built to last centuries, memorial walls that spoke of craftsmen paid well for their work.
But we weren’t heading for the grand monuments. The servant led me toward a quieter section where simpler stones marked simpler lives. The second circle, where those who served the house but weren’t born to it found their rest.
Near a grove of willow trees, a lone figure waited.
Lord Henrik stood before a modest headstone, his hands clasped behind his back. He’d traded his formal garments for simple traveling clothes, but his presence remained unmistakable. Even in mourning, he radiated the kind of authority that bends knees and breaks wills.
The servant disappeared, leaving us alone among the dead.
“Her name was Clarissa de Hellen,” Henrik said without turning. “She came from a minor noble house in the eastern provinces. Distant cousins to the crown, but that connection meant nothing when their lands were overrun by plague-touched bandits.”
He turned to face me, and in the moonlight, I saw something I’d never witnessed from him before. Grief, raw and unguarded, cutting lines across his features.
“She arrived at our gates with nothing but the clothes on her back and a letter of introduction from her dying father and a talent that was mentioned but unnamed. Asked for sanctuary. Offered to serve the house in whatever capacity would have her.”
I remained silent, letting him speak words that seemed to have been waiting years for the right moment.
“I should have turned her away. A minor noble’s daughter, too well-bred for menial work, too soft for the life we lead here. But she had fire in her, something that reminded me of better things than this place usually produces.”
“She drew pictures,” I said, remembering his earlier words about beautiful things.
“Constantly. Whatever she could find. Charcoal, ink, even mud when nothing else was available. She saw beauty in things that had never occurred to me.” His voice dropped.
“If you cared so much, why didn’t you save her? ”
The question hung between us. Henrik’s jaw worked, something dangerous flickering behind his eyes. For a moment, I thought he might strike me for the insolence.
Instead, he sighed.
“Because this house raises bastards and has for generations. There are expectations, protocols, rival houses watching for any sign of weakness that might destabilize succession. A lord who shows favoritism to his mistresses, who places sentiment above duty.” He shook his head. “Such men don’t rule long.”
“So you let her die.”
“I didn’t choose to let her die, but I wasn’t with her as I should have been. Not until the end.” he admitted. “Because I chose the safety of my position over the life of the woman I loved. Because I chose the lord over the man.”
His hands clenched behind his back. “But here? Now? After you’ve survived your first trial and moved to the Stone Yard? For a moment we can talk.”
He knelt beside the headstone, fingers touching the letters carved into stone. “It was poison that killed her. Something that tore her apart from the inside during the birth. I’ve had people working for nine years to find the source, but poison masters are careful people. They leave few traces.”
“Why tell me this?”
Henrik rose, turning to face me fully. “Because in this life, she would have wanted you to survive. To grow strong enough to leave this place if you choose. To be more than another sword in the house’s service.”
“As a killer? A swordsman for the house? ”
Lord Henrik looked at me, and for a moment, I saw past the Winter Lord to the man beneath. The one who lost something precious and never forgave himself for it.
“If that’s what it takes for you to one day be free, as she said you should be, then yes. But the choice will be yours to make.”
He stepped back, authority settling around him like armor he’d worn too long to remove. “Train well, Danarre. Grow strong. When you’re ready to learn more about your mother’s death, come find me. Until then, be what this place demands. Survive.”
“And if I discover who killed her?”
Lord Henrik gave a half smile. “Then you’ll have learned everything I have to teach you about justice.”
◇ ◆ ◇
The servant reappeared, ready to guide me back to the Stone Yard. But I lingered for a moment, looking at the simple stone that marked where my mother lay.
Clarissa de Hellen. Beloved. Remembered.
Nothing about her being a mistress or a servant. Just a woman who was loved and is remembered. In its own way, that was more honor than many receive.
The walk back passed in silence. By the time I slipped back into my bed, dawn was still hours away. The others slept on, unaware of midnight revelations and family secrets shared over cold stone.
But I lay awake, processing what I’d learned. My mother had a name, a history, a life before she became another casualty of noble politics. Someone murdered her with poison subtle enough to work slowly, to look like a complication of childbirth rather than assassination .
And Henrik, for all his power and authority, couldn’t prevent it. Couldn’t even investigate properly without risking the foundations of his rule.
But I wasn’t bound by the same constraints. I was just another bastard finding his place in the world. No one expects political sophistication from someone still learning to hold a sword properly.
That might be exactly the advantage I needed.
◇ ◆ ◇
The next morning brought our first real training session with the advanced cohort.
Danzing stood in the center of the practice yard, his massive sword planted point-first in the packed earth.
Around him, the legitimate heirs and senior bastards formed a loose circle, their gear showing proper maintenance and the kind of quality that money can’t fake.
“Today you learn the difference between killing and combat,” he announced, his voice carrying across the yard. “Killing is what you did at the Palisade. Beasts acting on instinct, desperation given claws and fury. Combat is what happens when two skilled opponents meet with intent to harm.”