The sound of blades striking carried through the keep, a harsh rhythm that quickened as Cael approached the yard.
A crowd had already gathered along the walls.
Jorlan stood at the center of it all. Tall, bright, with the faint sheen of sweat already making his hair gleam like bronze. His practice blade flashed as he drove the tip up beneath a knight's guard, forcing the man back on his heels.
The squires cheered.
Lord Edric stood nearby, arms folded and his eyes fixed on Jorlan with that cold satisfaction that spoke louder than applause.
Cael stayed still. If he stepped out now, they'd notice. They'd watch, he hated that part even more than being invisible.
Jorlan parried another blow with a clean riposte, then pivoted. The knight's blade slid harmlessly past, and Jorlan caught him in the ribs with the hilt. The man stumbled.
There it was, the faintest smirk curling Jorlan's mouth.
The squires roared again. One of them called out:"Lord Jorlan Varissen, Champion of the Ridge!"
Cael flinched at the title.
It wasn't official, but already the words carried weight. Already people spoke them like prophecy.
Jorlan lowered his blade, gave the knight a perfunctory nod, then turned to the line of waiting squires. His voice carried easily across the yard."Who's next?"
Another squire stepped forward, eager and flushed with pride to test himself against the heir-in-practice, though everyone here already knew how it would end.
Cael drew back, leaning against the stone.
That smirk… that sharpness… the way Jorlan moved, as confident as a lion among sheep, it never wavered. Except...
If you watched long enough, closely enough, you could see it.
Just under the surface.
Fear.
It lived in the tightness of Jorlan's jaw between strikes, in the faint hitch of his breath after a near miss. It was there, fleeting, but real, behind his golden mask.
Cael didn't know when he'd learned to see it.
Not just in Jorlan. In others too, the little cracks in the façade. Even the steward yesterday, bowing low to Edric but gripping his ledger too tightly to hide the sweat in his palm. Or the young visiting lady at supper, smiling prettily while her eyes darted like a cornered doe's.
It had started small, but now…
Now it was hard to unsee.
...
"Good," Lord Edric's voice cut through the air. "Enough for today."
The bout ended. Jorlan stepped back, breathing hard but triumphant, and offered the battered squire a gloved hand.
When the boy accepted, Jorlan pulled him upright with casual ease and clapped him on the shoulder before turning back toward the spectators.
Even the knights watched him now with a mix of admiration and wariness.
Cael slipped further back, keeping himself half-hidden behind a column.
This was how the world worked, he reminded himself. How noblemen and their houses survived.
Strength earned you land. Skill in arms earned you glory, and glory displayed loudly in the yard, in tournaments, on the battlefield was how you secured your name in the records and your family in the Crown's favor.
Here, the Ridge didn't matter much, nor the worth of its mines. But if a Varissen son earned renown in war or even in one of the royal tournaments... that would matter.
Tournaments weren't just sport. They were a display of brutal competition and pageantry rolled into one, a public ledger of who mattered and who didn't. Each knight or lord who won a tourney added weight to his family's claim. A younger son who won enough could even rise higher than his elder brother and knights who won enough could rise far beyond their station if the right patron took notice.
And war…
War made or broke entire bloodlines.
A distant uncle of Edric's, so the kitchen girls whispered, had been knighted on the field for dragging three enemy banners back to the Crown's tent. Of course, he'd died of infection three months later but his name still hung in the Varissen hall.
That was the game. That was what they all chased.
Jorlan already played it better than anyone else here.
...
When the yard cleared, Cael finally moved.
He crossed slowly to the far side where a rack of dulled training blades stood.
He didn't touch one, he just stared at the rows of weapons, each hilt worn smooth from years of hands stronger than his.
A faint sound drew his gaze back to the center of the yard.
Jorlan remained there, alone now, sword resting across his shoulders as he rolled it lazily, one hand at either end.
He'd taken off his practice helm and stood with his back to Cael, head bowed as though listening to something only he could hear.
Cael watched him silently.
Even now, when there was no one left to impress, Jorlan's jaw stayed tight. His shoulders were tense, too stiff for someone who'd just won another match.
And though Cael couldn't hear it exactly, he could feel it.
That same brittle hum of fear beneath his brother's pride.
He blinked and looked away.
...
At supper that night, the Great Hall was louder than usual.
Jorlan sat at their father's right hand, recounting his bout to a minor knight visiting from the eastern passes.
The knight, some minor cousin to the royal household listened with a broad grin, nodding enthusiastically at every boast.
"And when he feinted left," Jorlan said, loud enough for the servants to hear, "I let him think he had me. Poor lad charged straight into my swing."
Laughter rose from the table.
Cael sat at the far end, picking at his bread.
He caught snatches of the other conversations swirling around him.
"… House Erran may have more land, but their line's been diluted. His mother was only a merchant's daughter, did you know?"
"… better steel on his banner than in his blood, if you ask me…"
"… the mines at Highridge brought him a fortune, but what use is gold when his name's soiled?"
They all spoke the same language here.
Land. Bloodline. War deeds.
That was how nobles measured worth, how they measured one another, and how they measured who got crushed when the Crown's favor shifted.
It occurred to Cael, not for the first time, that no one at this table was truly safe.
Not even Jorlan.
...
When the meal ended, and the hall began to empty, Cael rose.
He caught sight of Jorlan by the hearth, now surrounded by two young ladies of the court. Both hung on his words as he gestured animatedly with his goblet, recounting yet another blow-by-blow of his sparring match.
His smile was wide and easy, but his knuckles, Cael noticed were white where they gripped the goblet's stem.
The Veil's Eye as he'd begun to think of it, though he didn't know why, stirred faintly behind his own eyes.
And then he saw it clearly.
In Jorlan's expression, in the faint sheen of sweat at his temple despite the cool air, in the way his gaze darted too quickly to the doorway when the steward appeared...fear.
Jorlan wore his pride like armor, but beneath it the cracks were already forming.
And no one else here seemed to see.
...
Later, in the quiet of his tower chamber, Cael sat cross-legged on the cot, staring at the moonlit yard below.
It lay empty now, the stones pale under the moon, and it seemed peaceful.
But he knew better.
He thought of Jorlan standing alone there earlier, the way his shoulders had tensed even when no one watched.
Cael let his head fall back against the wall, closing his eyes.
He thought of the brittle hum he'd sensed beneath everything. In the hall, in the yard, even in his brother. It lingered.
And for the first time, he wondered what would happen if he learned to pull at those threads he kept seeing — the little fractures beneath their masks.
What if he stopped just watching… and started acting?
...
The door creaked open softly.
Matilde entered, carrying a small pitcher of water and a cloth.
"You missed your chance again," she said lightly, though her eyes betrayed something sharper.
Cael didn't answer.
She set the pitcher on the table and straightened. "Your brother'll win more than tournaments before he's done. He'll have the ear of kings if he keeps it up."
Cael opened his eyes but kept his gaze fixed on the moonlit yard.
"And you?" she pressed. "What will you win?"
"I don't know yet," he said quietly.
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
"Be careful, boy," she said lightly. "Pride's a dangerous game. But envy… that'll rot you faster than any curse."
Then she left.
...
Cael stayed by the window long after the moon had climbed high.
From here, the yard seemed calm.
But he knew the ground here carried more than dust and steel.
It carried fear too, buried but there all the same.
Even in his golden brother.
Especially there.
And somewhere deep inside, he almost heard his mother's voice again — faint, steady:
"…watch them… wait…"
So he did.