Chapter 2 Verr
VERR
The silence after fear is always the same.
It clings.
Thick. Expectant. Like the air itself is holding its breath, waiting to see if I’ll break it.
I turn away from the groveling human, my attention already shifting, sliding across the corridor—the angles, the shadows, the open archway leading out toward the gardens. Movement registers in pieces. Servants. Guards. Nothing worth—
A flicker of red scarf, and a flash of verdant green gaze. My gaze catches on it without meaning to.
She’s half-hidden between rows, hands in the soil, posture angled just enough to look like she belongs there. Like she isn’t watching anything but the plants in front of her.
But she’s too still. Too aware. She saw. Of course she did.
My focus narrows, something sharper threading through the lingering heat in my chest.
“She dares to stare at me so?”
The words leave before I decide to say them.
“Mm.”
Skot’s voice answers from behind me, smooth as ever. I don’t turn right away.
“And yet she lives,” he adds.
I flex my fingers once at my side, grounding the sensation that hasn’t quite faded.
“I have better things to do than discipline foolhardy servants.”
“No,” Skot agrees mildly. “Of course not.”
I glance at him then. He’s standing just off to the side, posture relaxed in a way that’s entirely intentional. Nothing about him is accidental. His cunning gaze moves between me and the human, now diligently working in the dirt.
“She should have known better,” I say.
“And yet she didn’t.” Skot shakes his head, a grin tugging at the corners of his thin lips. “That one is too sharp for her own good. An overhoned blade may easily break if wielded improperly.”
I look back toward her, bent in the dirt. Despite her garb, the feminine curves of her form are obvious. I feel a slight stirring of interest but quickly tamp it down as best I can.
“You stare so, young lord Verginyon,” Skot intones beside me.
“If you like,” I reply with barely a thought. Those green eyes, emerald and fresh like the first leaves of spring…so unlike the cruel stone lances of a dark elf gaze.
“Be careful with that one,” Skot says.
My jaw tightens slightly.
“Why?” I ask. “Is she troublesome?”
“Oh no, my Lord,” Skot replies with a slight shake of his head, a human affection if I ever saw one. “She gives all appearances of being quite tamed. I warn you because you noticed her.”
“That’s not a reason.” I snort, and give him a cocked eyebrow. “As always, your words dance around the truth like the tip of a duelist’s blade.”
“You give me too much credit,” I reply.
“And you do not give me enough,” Skot replies, as insubordinate as I’ve ever heard him. Yet I value his counsel, this man who would be my uncle if not for his impure blood. So I don’t cut him down where he stands.
Yet.
“Then please, explain in as plain of words as you would use with a mere orc, why must my interest be a danger? Many of my brethren take the human servants into their bedrooms.”
“Yes, but they don’t take them into confidence,” Skot says. “That one is more dangerous than she looks.”
I don’t answer. Because the irritation that follows his words is too sharp to ignore—and I don’t like examining it closely enough to argue.
“Leave it,” I snap, my face twisting into a snarl. The anger boiling within me froths over, threatening to overwhelm my good sense. As it often does.
“As you wish, my lord. I would be remiss if I did not bring it to your attention.”
He steps back, already dissolving into the background of the estate like he was never part of the moment at all. I feel the anger abate somewhat, and turn back to the human.
She’s gone, perhaps to fetch more water from the well. I remain where I am a second longer, gaze lingering on the space she occupied.
Then I turn away.
The hall is louder than it should be when I enter.
Voices overlap, low and controlled, but there’s a current running beneath them—something sharper, something that shifts when I cross the threshold. Conversations pause, fracture, reform.
I don’t slow. They move. They always move.
“Verginyon.”
My father’s voice doesn’t need volume to carry. It cuts clean through everything else. I stop and turn to face him.
Maltos stands at the far end of the hall, one hand resting lightly against the back of a chair carved from the same dark stone as the rest of the estate. He looks exactly as he always does—composed, still, like nothing in the world has ever required effort.
I walk toward him. Each step measured. Precise. The epitome of dark elf detached ease. A mask I wear well, though it does tend to slip when I grow angry.
“Father.”
His gaze drags over me once. Slow. Assessing. Like he’s looking for something out of place. Or more likely, a sign of weakness.
“I hear there was an incident,” he says. “With one of the servants.”
“It has been handled.”
The word settles between us.
He tilts his head slightly.
“Handled,” he repeats. “I hope that you at least gave him a good scar to remember his failure by, or perhaps removed one of his fingers? He can till the soil with only nine I’d wager.”
My silence is telling. I hold his gaze, but cannot speak. It is difficult for me to lie to my father. Perhaps I fear him more than I let on…but disappointing him is somehow worse.
“I see,” he says, his tone calm but eyes afire. “Why did you hesitate to administer discipline? You know the humans are little more than beasts.”
There it is. The accusation that I’m not hard enough, not sharp enough, not strong enough to be his heir.
I hold his gaze.
“I chose not to waste time on something insignificant.” I shrug as casually as I can muster. “I just oiled my blade, I don’t want sticky human filth besmirching it.”
His mouth curves faintly.
Not approval.
Never approval.
“Insignificant,” he echoes. “And yet you spent time on it regardless.”
“I corrected the issue.”
“You avoided the issue. If the humans see you being merciful, then they will all begin to expect it.”
The words land heavier than they should.
Around us, the air shifts. Conversations soften—not enough to stop, but enough to listen.
I keep my posture steady.
“I made a decision.”
“Yes,” Maltos says softly. “You did.”
A pause stretches between us.
Long enough to feel deliberate.
“And that is precisely the problem.”
Something tightens low in my chest. I ignore it.
“You think restraint is weakness,” I say.
“I know it is weakness,” he replies. “When it applies to disciplining the humans. Tell me, my boy, does the huntsman tarantula fear a mere ant?”
“Of course not,” I say.
“But what would happen if that same spider stumbled onto a nest of ants? They would swarm the huntsman and slay it.”
I arch an eyebrow at him, choosing my words carefully.
“Humans are not ants,” I reply. “They do not act with one singular mind.”
“No, but they might, and if we let up on them even slightly, our way of life is in jeopardy.”
I snort.
“It sounds almost as if you fear them--”
I see the movement, and I could dodge it, but I know better.
The slap lands heavy on my cheek, turning my face to the side.
I taste the bitter iron of my own blood in my mouth.
I’ve bit my own tongue and my lip already swells plump like an overripe fruit.
Despite this, I keep my feet, and do not even take so much as a step back.
“See, boy?” Maltos says, his eyes widening. “That is the power of discipline.”
“I was fully in control,” I reply, not giving him the satisfaction of displaying any discomfort or pain.
His gaze sharpens, just slightly.
“You are either controlled or you are not. You do not get to choose when it suits you.”
“I was controlled.” My voice lacks conviction. The truth is, I was not fully in control of the raging fire within me. And my father knows it.
“No,” he says. “You were conflicted.”
The word lands like a blade sliding between ribs.
Clean.
Accurate.
I don’t react. I don’t give him that.
“Is that what they say at court?” I ask instead.
His expression shifts—just enough to acknowledge the deflection.
“They’re saying worse.”
A soft laugh threads in from the side.
Light. Polished.
Valloa. Dark, cruel, beautiful, and conniving--the perfect dark elf wife, and my ambitious stepmother. Even heavily pregnant she carries an ease, a grace I can never emulate.
“Now, now,” she says, stepping closer, her presence sliding into the space like she belongs there. “We don’t want to disillusion our dear Verginyon, do we husband?”
Her gaze flicks over me, bright with something that isn’t quite amusement but not quite open rancor either.
“Though,” she continues, “it is…interesting.”
I turn my head just enough to meet her eyes.
“Say it.” I don’t bother to soften my tone. Her house is of lower standing than ours, and I see her as my inferior no matter if she shares my father’s bed.
Her smile sharpens. I get the feeling I have fallen into another of her word traps. She’s a sly one, I’ll give her that.
“People are beginning to wonder,” she says, “whether your temper is truly as…unpredictable as they thought.”
There’s weight behind the words. Not accusation. Invitation.
I study her for a moment.
“And what do you think?” My lips twist into a smile that does not reach my eyes. “Dear Stepmother?”
“Oh, I don’t think anything,” she says lightly. “I observe.”
Of course she does.
“They’re watching you,” she adds. “Waiting to see if you’ll prove them right.”
“Or wrong.”
“Or irrelevant,” she corrects.
Maltos exhales softly, as if the conversation has already outlived its usefulness.
“There is a gathering at court,” he says. “Ostensibly about increasing productivity in our agriculture, but it will be far more than that.”
My attention shifts back to him instantly.
“When?”
“Soon,” he replies. “You will attend.”
Not a question.
“Of course.” I bow my head respectfully.
His gaze lingers.
“You will not embarrass me.”
I meet his eyes.
“I will not.”
A long silence, then…
“We’ll see,” Valloa murmurs.
I ignore her. But the words settle anyway.
A gathering.
Court.
Public.
Visible.
My thoughts move ahead of the moment, mapping possibilities without effort. Kholara doesn’t host without purpose. Not something like this.
“Who’s hosting?” I ask.
Maltos studies me for a moment.
Then—
“Kholara.”
The name settles into place like a blade locking into its sheath. My shoulders remain still, but everything else sharpens. That Kholara bothers me. He smiles too widely, laughs at my jokes too readily. As if he seeks to put me at ease.
Which means I must be doubly careful.
“Interesting,” I say.
“Isn’t it?” Valloa replies.
I don’t look at her again.
I don’t need to.
“Be prepared,” Maltos says. “Your behavior is a reflection on me and this house.”
The implication hangs between us.
I incline my head once.
“I will be.”
“Good.”
He turns away.
Conversation over.
I don’t linger.
There’s nothing here worth staying for.
The training yard is empty when I reach it, the air cooler away from the press of bodies and voices. The scent here is different—cleaner in some ways, sharper in others. Metal. Sweat. Old blood baked into stone.
I pick up a blade.
The weight settles into my hand like it belongs there.
Unlike everything else today.
I move.
The first strike cuts through the air with a clean, familiar sound. The second follows immediately, then the third—each one tighter, faster, driving the tension out through motion instead of letting it sit.
The rhythm builds.
My body falls into it easily. Muscle memory. Precision. Control.
But there’s something underneath it.
Something pushing harder than it should.
I pivot, drive forward, stop the blade a breath from the training post. The air between steel and wood hums with the force I didn’t release.
Again.
Faster this time.
The blade flashes, carving arcs that would split bone clean if anything stood in front of me. My grip tightens. My breath deepens.
I don’t think.
I act.
That’s where control is easiest.
The post splinters when the blade finally connects. The crack echoes, sharp and loud in the empty yard. I stop. The sound lingers.
“You’re pushing it.”
Skot. Of course. Who else would be so audacious?
I don’t turn.
“I know exactly where the line is,” I say.
“Do you?”
I glance back at him.
He stands at the edge of the yard, hands clasped behind his back, watching like he always does.
“You’re angry,” he says.
“I’m focused.”
A pause.
“They’re baiting you,” he continues. “The gathering. The whispers.”
“I know.”
“And you’re reacting.”
“I’m preparing.”
His gaze doesn’t shift.
“Then prepare smarter,” he says. “Not harder.”
My grip tightens slightly on the blade.
“I don’t need—”
“You don’t need to prove anything,” he cuts in. “Not like this.”
Silence stretches.
The pulse in my hands hasn’t fully settled yet.
“They want you to lose control,” Skot says. “Because it’s easier to remove you if you do.”
I know that.
I’ve always known that.
“I won’t,” I say.
He nods once.
“Then don’t.”
He turns slightly, already leaving.
“And watch the human,” he adds.”Stay wary of her.”
My gaze sharpens.
“What about her?”
“I was not the only one who noticed your interest.”
The words settle cold.
I look back at the post, at the splintered wood where my blade struck harder than it should have.
“I have no interest in the help,” I scoff, and it sounds so sincere I almost believe it myself.
Skot dares to smile.
“You lie poorly,” he says, turning away from me. “Do work on that skill, before your lack of acumen causes your head to roll from your shoulders.”
I can’t help but feel my neck on reflex. One of my older brothers, Ziditri, he dared displease father. Father smote his ruin with less effort than I use to stir my tea.
“You worry needlessly,” I mutter, but he’s already gone, leaving me be again. I roll my shoulders once, forcing the tension to shift, to settle back into something usable.
Control. I wrap myself in the armor of control..
But tonight—
It feels thinner than it should.