The torch fires of Northaven dimmed as Soren dragged himself from the tournament grounds, each step a negotiation between exhaustion and necessity. Night had fallen, bringing no relief from the day's heat or memories.

His cuts stung, sweat-salted and throbbing beneath hastily applied bandages. The tournament physician had offered little beyond basic cleaning and wrapping, not surprising when noble sons awaited his more dedicated attention.

"There he goes! Velrane's wolf!"

The shout came from across the street where a cluster of common folk had gathered outside a tavern. Their faces lit with recognition as Soren passed, eyes bright with an enthusiasm that felt foreign, almost alarming. A man raised his tankard in salute, amber liquid sloshing over the rim.

"Two nobles in the dirt! Tomorrow makes three!" someone else called, voice slurred but earnest.

Soren ducked his head and quickened his pace, though his aching muscles protested the effort. The narrow street opened into one of Northaven's main thoroughfares, still bustling despite the late hour.

News traveled fast in the city, especially news that allowed the common folk to savor noble discomfort. Twice now, he'd drawn noble blood in the arena. Twice, he'd violated their unspoken rules of engagement. The story had spread like fire through dry timber.

"Showed them fancy lords what real fighting looks like," a grizzled laborer remarked loudly as Soren passed a carpenter's shop. "No fancy twirls, just steel where it counts."

A woman carrying a basket of late vegetables nodded vigorously. "My brother's boy watched it all. Said the Karvath knight bled like a stuck pig when the street boy got him."

Soren kept his eyes fixed on the cobblestones, uncomfortable with the weight of their admiration. These people didn't know him. Didn't know what drove him. Yet they'd assigned him meaning, made him a symbol of something that had nothing to do with his own survival.

'They make you theirs,' Valenna whispered, her voice frost-edged within his mind. 'A weapon against their oppressors.'

'I'm just trying to stay alive,' Soren thought back.

'Are you?' Her presence sharpened like a blade being drawn. 'Then why not flee? Why step into the ring again tomorrow?'

He had no answer that satisfied either of them.

As he approached the noble quarter, the streets changed – wider, cleaner, lit by expensive oil lamps rather than common tallow. Here, the reception shifted. Shutters snapped closed as he passed. Conversations died behind ornate garden walls.

A pair of young lords exiting their carriage caught sight of him and stiffened, hands moving instinctively to sword hilts before their driver hurried them inside.

From an upper window, someone spat. The glob of saliva landed near Soren's boot, a deliberate insult that required no words.

The shard pulsed cold against his chest, Valenna's anger flaring with his own. But he kept walking. Tomorrow would bring enough battles without starting new ones tonight.

Near the Velrane compound, a group of nobles stood conversing beside a stone fountain. Their voices carried in the night air, deliberately pitched to reach him.

"—tournament has become a farce—"

"—what's next, letting the stable boys compete?—"

"—Velrane overreaches, as always—"

Soren felt the weight of their stares as he passed, the contempt in their perfectly modulated voices.

To them, he was an affront to tradition, a stain on their carefully maintained hierarchy. To the commoners, he was hope personified, proof that noble blood could be spilled by common hands.

Neither saw him. Not really. They saw what they needed him to be.

The Velrane guards at the compound gate straightened as he approached, their faces carefully neutral. They knew what he'd accomplished today, knew what it meant for House Velrane's standing.

But they also knew what he was, or rather, what he wasn't. Not truly one of them, despite the wolf sigil he wore.

"Lord Callen has retired to his chambers," the senior guard informed him as he passed. "Lord Veyr is in the archive. Lord Ayren has not yet returned."

The information was delivered without inflection, yet Soren heard the underlying message: Account for yourself. Know your place. Remember who holds your leash.

He nodded acknowledgment and continued into the compound's inner courtyard, where shadows gathered between torch brackets.

His body ached for rest, for the oblivion of sleep that would erase, however temporarily, the memory of steel against steel, of blood on sand, of eyes watching his every move with calculation and contempt.

But sleep would have to wait. Politics never rested in House Velrane, especially not on tournament nights.

—

Lord Callen Dathen Velrane stood before the hearth in his private chambers, one hand resting on the mantle as he stared into the flames.

The fire cast his ash-silver hair in metallic relief, shadows deepening the lines around his mouth that spoke of decades of careful calculation.

Behind him, four of his most trusted retainers waited in patient silence, accustomed to their lord's deliberate pauses.

"Two victories," Callen said finally, his voice as cool and measured as winter rain. "Lanther humiliated. Karvath wounded. Both houses now seeking ways to recover their honor at our expense."

He turned to face the gathered men, pale eyes reflecting the firelight. "Precisely as anticipated."

Ser Donal, Velrane's master of intelligence, stepped forward slightly. "The common folk have embraced him completely, my lord. They've already composed crude songs about 'the wolf who bites lords' fingers.' The lower quarters hum with it."

"And the nobles?" Callen asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

"Outraged, as expected. House Lanther has withdrawn entirely from the tournament. Lord Karvath speaks openly of formal censure before the Council. Several minor houses have already pledged support to either position."

Callen's mouth curved in what might have been a smile on a warmer man. "And House Ashgard?"

"Watching. Assessing. Lord Ashgard himself has requested private audience with you tomorrow before the final matches."

"Declined," Callen said without hesitation. "We meet on equal terms or not at all."

He moved to his desk, where a detailed map of Northaven's political alliances lay spread across the polished surface. Each noble house was represented by colored markers, their positions indicating current relationships and leverage.

With precise movements, Callen adjusted several pieces, reconfiguring the board to reflect the day's developments.

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