30. Lordling #2
“You’re my son who coordinated the killing of a Warchief. Who manifested a Knight Brand before his voice changed. Who carries his mother’s look in ways that certain people will notice.”
The last part made me straighten. “You think someone will recognize me? As Clarissa’s son?”
“I think someone already has.” His voice carried edges now. “Several inquiries about you, specifically. Some from minor houses looking to understand our training methods. One from someone who was very careful about keeping their identity hidden.”
The White Cardinal. It had to be. The man from Hel’s vision, walking among corpses, spilling black sand from a chalice.
“You think my mother’s killer will be there.”
“I think,” Henrik chose his words carefully, “that whoever poisoned Clarissa had reasons that went beyond removing an inconvenient mistress. And I think seeing her son might motivate certain reactions.”
“You’re using me as bait.”
“I’m using you as a snare,” he corrected. “To draw out reactions. To see who moves and how.”
I took a sip of water, thinking. “And if they come for me at the tournament?”
“Then you defend yourself. You survive. You show them that de Blaise bastards aren’t easy prey.”
He paused. “And maybe we learn who wanted your mother dead badly enough to risk poisoning someone under my protection.”
The Knight Brand pulsed, responding to the promise of violence. But another instinct stirred alongside it, older than the Brand and colder. The possibility of answers. Of learning why Clarissa was killed and what threat she’d posed that was worth a lord’s vengeance.
“My team comes with me.”
“To the tournament, yes. I’ll give them to you as your men, so long as you remain of our house.
” His tone made clear this was a significant concession.
“But there will be separation. Different functions, different rules. In the fighting circles, your team strengthens you. In the political arena, they’d be vulnerabilities. ”
He was right, much as I hated it. Maise, Perrin, and Grit could handle themselves against steel and aggression. Against poisoned words and courtly manipulation? They’d be lost.
“What else?”
Henrik almost smiled. “Quick learner. Yes, there’s more. You’ll have additional training. Cromwell will double your sessions, comportment specifically. How to hold yourself among those who think breeding determines worth. How to speak when words carry more weight than swords.”
“More polish for your bastard?”
“More investment in a tool that’s proving useful.”
But his expression gave him away. Behind the calculation sat a reluctant acknowledgment that I was more than just another asset to be sharpened and deployed.
He moved back to the window. “The combat training continues as normal. The tournament’s first blood rules, but first blood can mean many things.” He glanced back. “I trust you understand the difference between incapacitating an opponent and killing them?”
I thought of Erik’s broken teeth, his crushed fingers. “I understand necessity.”
“Good.”
He returned to his desk, pulling out a sealed envelope. “Take this to the quartermaster. You’ll need tournament-grade equipment. Formal armor for the arena, clothing for the ceremonial functions.”
I took the envelope, feeling its weight. Another investment. Another chain disguised as privilege .
Henrik studied me for a long moment. Then he spoke words that changed everything.
“Win the tournament, Danarre. Show the realm what House de Blaise can produce from bastard blood.” He let that settle. “Do that, and I’ll formally acknowledge you as my son. Publicly. Before the assembled houses.”
My breath caught.
Formal acknowledgment meant everything. A name, a place, a future beyond surviving each trial.
“And,” he continued, watching my reaction carefully, “I’ll give you Maise, Perrin, and Grit. As your sworn people. Your personal guard, bound to you as long as you remain of this house.”
The offer hung between us. Everything I’d fought for, everything my team had bled for, wrapped in a single tournament victory.
“That’s generous,” I managed.
“That’s practical.” His voice hardened. “Acknowledged sons need people they trust absolutely. You’ve proven you can inspire loyalty. This would formalize it, give you the authority to protect them as they protect you.”
“And if I lose?”
“Then you remain what you are. A promising bastard who might someday matter.” He shrugged. “The offer stands only for victory. Second place earns nothing but survival.”
I understood. This was how House de Blaise operated. Everything had a price, and every reward demanded excellence. This price I was willing to pay.
“I’ll win. ”
“Good.” Henrik waved dismissal. “Take that envelope to the quartermaster. Prepare yourself. The tournament approaches quickly.”
I stood, legs steady despite the weight of what had just been offered. At the door, I turned back.
“Why now? Why offer this?”
Lord Henrik’s expression didn’t change, but his jaw tightened the way it did when control cost him effort.
“Clarissa asked me once to look after you properly. As a son.” He turned back to the window. “I told her there would be time for that later. Then she died, and later never came.”
His hands clasped behind his back. “Consider this my attempt at keeping a promise I should have made years ago. Now go. I’ll see you at dinner.”
The dismissal was firm. I stepped into the hall, the envelope gripped tight in my hand, and tucked it into an inner pocket.
His refusal to say more told me everything his words didn’t. The man who’d sired me carried a debt to a woman he’d failed to protect, and now he was trying to shield what was left of her.
I’d win this tournament. For the acknowledgment. For my team. For the mother I’d never known except in the space between her last breath and my first.
And if the White Cardinal stood between me and any of that, I’d kill him. Whatever it took.
◇ ◆ ◇
「Hel’s Ledger」
Vessel: Danarre de Blaise | Year 828 | Age 13
House de Blaise | Status: Bastard (Unacknowledged )
Location: de Blaise Estate, Main House
「Knight of Swords」 — Burning
「Emperor」 — Sleeping
「Magician」 — Sleeping
Active Charge: The trail leads to the Temple’s highest seat.
The sire offers a name. The vessel thinks of what comes after.