Ayren leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His violet eyes narrowed slightly, and the room seemed to grow colder despite the morning sun streaming through the windows.
"Tell me, Soren Thorne…what is your house?" The question sliced through the air, sudden and sharp as a blade in the dark.
Soren felt his pulse quicken. This wasn't about politics anymore; this was personal. The truth was simple, but admitting it here felt like laying down a weapon.
"I have none," he said, meeting Ayren's gaze steadily. "I'm gutter-born."
"Gutter-born," Ayren repeated, rolling the words on his tongue like he was tasting an unfamiliar wine. His lips curved into a smile that never reached his eyes. "Then you are the most dangerous kind. A blade with no sheath, no scabbard, no master. Such blades cut everything…including the hand that wields them."
