"I saw men who train for tournaments facing war," Soren said carefully. "They fought as they were taught to fight. It wasn't enough."
Ayren's eyes narrowed slightly. "And Ashgard's failure? How do you explain that?"
"He underestimated his enemy," Soren replied. "We all did."
"We?" Ayren leaned forward, voice sharpening. "You place yourself alongside lords and trained knights? How presumptuous for someone elevated by circumstance."
The insult struck with precision, finding the old wound of Soren's origins. Heat rose in his throat, anger threatening to override caution.
"He is my Blade." Veyr's voice cut through the tension, cold and absolute. "You will not break him before he's tempered."
Soren glanced sideways, surprised by the intervention. Veyr hadn't moved, his posture still relaxed, but something in his voice carried unmistakable authority. Not protection, possession. The distinction was crucial.
