Chapter 8 – Whispers in the Keep
The fires from the battlefield still smoldered when dawn bled fully into the sky. Smoke drifted low, clinging to the stones of Hawk Keep like a shroud. Men dragged bodies into ordered rows, some whispering prayers, others silent, jaws clenched as they carried comrades who would never rise again.
Aric walked among them. His mail was still streaked red, his blade not yet cleaned. Soldiers parted for him without thinking, though none were ordered to. Some gave curt nods, others simply looked too long, as if trying to decide whether the boy before them was truly flesh and bone.
"The young hawk…" a spearman muttered, not quite softly enough.
Another spat into the dirt. "Not a boy anymore. Not after last night."
Aric said nothing. He let their words hang, allowed them to look. He did not seek their voices, but he did not silence them either. A name once spoken spreads on its own.
---
In the great hall, a council gathered. The air smelled of ash and sweat, the banners above stained by the battle's smoke. Arion sat at the head, helm at his feet, his eyes shadowed. Lysandra stood to his right, her hand resting on her sword hilt, expression taut. Aric entered quietly, but every head turned as he stepped into the light.
"You should not be here," Arion said, though his voice lacked force.
"I fought," Aric replied. His tone was steady, not defiant. Simply fact.
A murmur rippled through the captains seated along the benches. Some frowned, others smirked faintly, but none dismissed him outright.
"You fought, yes," Arion said slowly. "And bled enough men to keep the wall. But know this: one victory does not crown a warrior. And disobedience still has its price."
Aric inclined his head once. He did not argue, nor lower his gaze. "Then let the price be weighed against what was gained."
The room stilled. For the briefest breath, silence pressed on the beams overhead.
Arion's jaw shifted, but he said nothing more. Instead, he gestured to a map spread across the table. "The Veylans will not stop. We broke their first host, shattered their second. Yet word has it more forces muster along the river. Scouts say their banners multiply with every passing day."
A captain leaned forward, scarred fingers tracing the roads. "They'll come in numbers too large for us to break from the walls again. We'll need allies."
Lysandra glanced at her brother, the memory of his blade flashing across her eyes. "Or champions," she said softly.
---
Later, in the yard, men drilled though their bodies ached from the night before. Aric stood at the edge, watching. A young squire fumbled with his spear, grip too high, feet unsteady.
"Lower," Aric said, stepping forward. He took the shaft, pressed it down. "Feel the weight at your center. The weapon moves where your stance commands it. Not the other way around."
The boy nodded quickly, eyes wide. Around them, others stole glances. When Aric walked the line, backs straightened, grips tightened. No order given—yet the effect was there.
"You train them like you've worn command for years," Lysandra's voice came from behind.
Aric didn't turn. "They will face another storm soon. Better to stumble here than die atop the wall."
She studied him, brow furrowed. "You've changed."
"Battle changes everyone," he said simply.
---
By evening, a rider arrived, dust-caked and haggard, cloak torn by travel. He bore no serpent crest, but a sigil of another noble house—an ally in name, though not always in deed.
"Lord Arion," the rider rasped in the hall. "Word spreads beyond these walls. They speak of your son—of the boy who carved a commander in three strokes. Already the Veylans call him 'demon child.' Already other lords whisper of him."
Arion's face darkened. Lysandra stiffened. All eyes turned again to Aric, who stood silent in the corner.
He stepped forward at last, calm, voice measured. "Then let them whisper. Fear travels faster than armies."
No boast. No smile. Only truth spoken like steel laid on the table.
For the first time, Arion did not rebuke him.