Chapter 4 Verr
VERR
The garden smells like polished stone, perfume, and bloodshed waiting to happen. I can’t even smell the plants. They’ve been overwritten by dark elf essence. The essence of violence.
Not literal violence. Not yet. But it’s there. Under everything. I feel it envelop me the second I step onto the flagstones and into an arena far more dangerous than any on Minos.
The space opens wide and tall, columns rising like blades carved from black-veined marble, the ceiling lost in shadow where light from suspended magic burns cold and steady. You can’t even see the moon or stars this eve. Just blackness beyond the edge of sorcerous machinations.
Sound carries differently here—voices layered over one another, edged with something sharper beneath. Expectation. Hunger. I don’t allow my thoughts to reach my face, keeping my expression on the cold, neutral ‘edge of readiness’ like my father taught me with the back of his hand.
They notice anyway. Of course they do. Their skill at this game far exceeds my own. Conversations shift—not stop, never stop—but bend. Tilt. Like I’ve stepped into water and everything around me has to adjust to the disturbance.
“Verginyon.”
My father’s voice finds me before anyone else can. I turn.
Maltos stands near the center of the hall, surrounded but untouched.
Nobles cluster around him like they’re drawn to gravity they don’t understand, their laughter just a little too sharp, their posture just a little too careful.
He is resplendent in thin, breezy silk that clings to his form and shows off his daily physical regimen.
The smile on his lips has nothing to do with warmth.
It never has before and likely never will.
I cross the distance without hesitation. Each step deliberate. Just the way I am supposed but not expected to. Everyone watches without seeming to, aware of my every breath. Possibly every beat of my heart.
“Father.” I bow my head with deference. “It seems like a lovely eve for a garden party.”
His gaze moves over me once, slow, assessing.
“Do not embarrass me tonight.”
Not even a pretense of greeting. Simply that. .
“I won’t,” I say.
His eyes narrow slightly.
“You misunderstand,” he replies slowly, his eyes lancing deep into my soul, “that this gathering has more import than a simple diversion?”
“I know, Father.”
His nostrils flare briefly in a rare loss of control.
“Do you? You are my heir--for now--and everything you say, do, or even think will be seized upon and picked apart by every person here, from the highest to the lowest.” His eyes narrow ever so slightly.
“You must not be found wanting. I have already buried three sons before you. I have no compunctions about burying a fourth.”
I nod, accepting his threat for what it is--sincere, but nothing to panic about. I’ve lived under that threat since my brothers died.
I hold his gaze. He doesn’t blink.
“Do you understand, boy?”
“I heard you.”
A pause, as he considers whether it’s worth the public spectacle of cowing my minor rebellion.
Then he relaxes.
“Good.”
His attention shifts past me almost immediately, dismissing me without needing to say it. I step away before anyone else can fill the space. Let them circle him. Let them pretend they are his peers, his friends, rather than his rivals.
I’m not here for that. I scan the room instead. Habit. Instinct. Every entrance. Every exit. Guard placement. Noble clusters. Who stands where, who avoids whom, who’s watching and who’s pretending not to.
Lord Kholara, a man who has caused me problems in court of late, is not immediately visible. He should be. A gathering like this? Hosted in his greatest rival’s very household? He should be at the center of it. Not absent. Not hidden.
I move along the edge of the hall, not lingering long enough in any one place to invite conversation..
“Strange,” a voice murmurs to my right.
I don’t look as I reply.
“Is it?”
“Mm,” the noble continues. Male. Younger. Trying too hard to sound unconcerned. “You’re…calm.”
That almost earns him a glance.
“Should I not be?”
He hesitates.
“No,” he says finally. “It’s just—”
“Unexpected?”
“…yes. Long have I heard the tales of fiery Verginyon, whose hand never strays far from his blade. Whose rage rivals that of the most puissant of the Thirteen Hungry Maws. And instead, I see you are just…ordinary. ”
I turn my head then, just enough to meet his eyes. There’s something in their depths that gives me pause. Not just scorn, though there’s plenty of that, not to mention calculation. No, this man has purpose in every breath.
Purpose that bodes ill for me.
“My apologies for disappointing you,” I say with a polite smile. “Perhaps you should adjust your expectations?”
He swallows. Good. Perhaps he will think again about meddling with me. I move on.
The music shifts—something softer, woven through the low murmur of voices, barely noticeable unless you’re listening for it. I am.
Because something about this— Doesn’t sit right. Too smooth. Too controlled. Even for this place.
And then I see him at last. Kholara stands near one of the far columns, half-turned into a conversation that looks casual from a distance.
His house is of lower station than our own, yet you would never know by his garb.
Elaborate embroidery festoons his gown, far too showy for a simple garden party.
He wanted to be sure that everyone would see him.
His smile seems genuine, born of pleasure and amusement. But nothing is how it seems with Kholara.
Nothing about him ever is.
And the people around him—They’re positioned wrong. Not randomly like guests and sycophants attaching themselves one by one. No, this looks…placed. Deliberate. I slow slightly, adjusting my path without making it obvious, angling closer without approaching directly.
His gaze lifts, finding me as if by accident though I know better. There it is. That flicker of recognition…no, anticipation. He knew exactly when I’d see him. Of course he did.
“Verginyon,” he calls, voice carrying just enough to draw attention without demanding it. “You’ve arrived at last. And how does this evening find our young heir?”
I stop. Turn fully now. Let the space open between us.
“Lord Kholara.” My gaze flicks over his garment. “I like your garb. Understated, as usual.”
His smile widens, ignoring my verbal barb. That’s another warning as sure as a rattletail snake’s distinctive percussion.
“You honor me.” He bows his head slightly.
“Do I?” I ask, my tone cold but hellfires raging in my gaze. I can’t stop it all from showing. There's so very much.
A few nearby nobles shift, their attention sharpening. He takes a step closer, closing part of the distance—but not all of it. Careful. Always careful. He plays the Game well.
“I was beginning to think you might avoid the gathering,” he says.
“Why would I?”
A tilt of his head.
“Some find public scrutiny…uncomfortable.”
There it is. Subtle. A test. I let the silence stretch just long enough to make it noticeable.
Then—
“Only if they have something to hide.” My gaze never wavers. “Or someone to hide from.”
His smile tightens.
Good.
“Of course,” he says smoothly. “And you?”
I step forward. Close the rest of the distance.
“I don’t hide. I run toward trouble, not away from it.”
That’s not entirely true. But it’s true enough for him. His eyes flick over me, searching for something. A crack. A tell. He won’t find one. Not tonight.
“Good,” he says. “I would hate for this evening to be…disappointing.”
I hold his gaze. “It won’t be.”
A pause. Something passes between us. Unspoken yet as tangible as the stones beneath our feet.
“Ah,” Kholara says lightly, glancing past me. “Perfect timing.”
I don’t turn immediately. I don’t need to. I feel the shift in the room before I see it. The way attention moves. The way space opens. Royal. Of course. I turn. Slow and deliberate.
A member of the royal line approaches—young, a distant cousin, but just connected enough to be important. Dressed in layered black and silver, their posture just slightly too relaxed for someone with that much power behind their name.
Their gaze lands on me. Lingers. Then slides to Kholara.
“Quite the gathering,” he says.
Kholara inclines his head.
“Indeed, it is, Baronet Valtosh. I was just about to remark so with Lord Maltos’s son--the one that lived, that is.”
“Speaking with him?” The apparent Valtosh says, gesturing vaguely in my direction. “Didn’t he break a mug over the head of your third cousin last spring?”
A few nearby nobles shift, their interest sharpening. Kholara smiles faintly. The trap is closing around me.
“I am sure that it was a simple misunderstanding,” he replies smoothly, though his eyes and tone suggest he thinks otherwise. Valtosh sees it, as do the gathered nobles.
“Really? I would have thought you’d believe differently,” Valtosh says, looking back at me. “Given the rumors of his manic streak.”
There it is. The room tightens. I feel the rage building but hold it down. This is Kholara’s game, Valtosh is just a piece on the board…
Yet all I wish to do is cut him into quivering lumps.
“Which rumors would those be?” I ask, surprised at how calm my voice seems.
The royal’s lips curve.
“Oh, you know,” he says. “Unpredictable. Volatile. Apt to losing control.”
Each word lands clean. Textbook courtly jibes and insults delivered in a veneer of polish.
I don’t move. Don’t react. Not yet.
“I didn’t know those of royal lineage had the time for rumormongering,” I reply.
A soft laugh ripples through the immediate space. Valtosh tilts their head.
“Oh, but sometimes rumors can have a kernel of truth in them, can they not?” they ask. “Or is it perhaps, that the rumors are not rumors at all but boldfaced facts?”
Kholara is watching. Closely. Not Valtosh, who is clearly a puppet dancing on his strings.
Me. He’s watching me. There’s a pattern here.A rhythm. This isn’t spontaneous. It’s structured. Each word building on the last. Each reaction expected and planned for.
A setup. And there’s no way out of it but through.
“Accuracy depends on perspective,” I say.
“And yours?” the royal presses.
“My perspective,” I reply, “is that you’re speaking a great deal without saying anything of value.”
A sharper reaction this time. A few murmurs. The royal’s smile tightens.
“Careful,” he says softly. “That almost sounded like the words of a man about to lose control.”
“Did it?” I take a step closer. Not aggressive. Not yet. Just enough to shift the balance.
“It sounded like honesty,” I continue. “Though I know that Kholara doesn’t traffic in such trifles.”
The air shifts. Tension threads through it now. Real. Not just anticipation. Kholara’s gaze sharpens.
I can feel it. The edge of disaster. The moment where it either dissipates—
Or escalates.
The royal’s expression changes.
“Well,” they say, voice cooling, “perhaps your anger has caused you to lose perspective of what is true, and what is merely…illusion.”
There it is. The insult.
“Your family has always struggled with…control,” they add.
The words land heavier. They are directed at more than just me. They are directed at my father, Maltos. House Dzaltos. Our entire legacy.
The room stills. Not silent. But listening. Watching. Waiting.
Kholara doesn’t move. But his attention is locked on me. This is it. The trap. Clean. Simple. Elegant.
React—
And I prove them right.
Don’t—
And I look weak.
I understand the game. I always have. The question is—
Do I play it?
I step forward. Close enough now that I can see the faint pulse at their throat. Hear the slight catch in their breath.
“Careful,” I say quietly.
The word lands between us.
“You’re close to saying something you can’t take back.”
Their chin lifts.
“I already have.”
Good.
That makes this easier. My fingers curl slightly. The angle is perfect. The distance, ideal. I could end it now. Right here. In front of everyone.
I know exactly how it would go. The moment of shock. The silence. The aftermath. I know the consequences.
I see them clearly.
And I am prepared to do it anyway.