Toren's voice lingered in the air, quiet but unyielding.
"I didn't like their gaze."
The words weren't sharp. They didn't need to be. There was something in the way he said it—measured, like a blade drawn not to swing but to warn.
He shifted his weight, still seated on the edge of the garden wall, shadows pooling at his boots.
"Some of the ones from baronies, viscounties... they weren't bad. Spoke plain. Asked questions that actually mattered. One of them—Marian, I think—offered to trade training drills."
Caeden nodded, recognition flickering in his eyes. "Tall girl, braid like a whip? She's from Varnholdt's coast. Good reflexes."
Toren gave a quiet grunt of assent. "But the others. The real ones. The old names. The ones that didn't introduce themselves—they just looked. Like they were memorizing our weak points."
He didn't say it with bitterness. Just clarity.
