Chapter 9 – The Weighing of Words
The morning after the siege dawned gray. Smoke clung low to Hawk Keep, seeping into stone and cloth alike. The yard below bustled with wounded carried to cots, bodies set in rows, and men whispering of the "young hawk" who had stood atop the wall.
But within the great hall, another battle brewed—a quieter one fought not with steel, but with words.
Messengers from nearby vassal houses had ridden through the night, banners heavy with rain, cloaks stiff with mud. Nobles and knights filled the benches, their faces lined from travel and tension. They had come not only to speak of war, but to see with their own eyes whether the rumors were true: that a boy of Hawk blood had turned aside an army.
Lord Arion presided at the long table, helm set at his feet, eyes as cold as the stone beneath them. Lysandra stood beside him, her hand on her sword, posture rigid. Aric waited in the shadows of the pillars, silent, but drawing every glance.
"Rumors outpace riders," muttered Lord Darven of Stonebrook, broad and bearded. "They say your son cut down a knight commander. But what I see here is a youth who should be chasing hounds, not carrying men's fear."
Another lord shook his head. "And yet the keep still stands. Perhaps youth or not, Hawk blood is sharper than we thought."
Arion did not look toward his son. "Rumor is mist. Stone holds or it falls—nothing more."
Still, eyes lingered on Aric.
Maps sprawled across the table. The river road was marked thick with enemy sigils. Scouts reported that the Veylans, though bloodied, gathered in greater number than before.
Lord Myrel of Highmere pressed a jeweled finger to the parchment. "Call the banners, Arion. If we march as one, the serpents will think twice. Alone, you will be crushed."
Darven barked a humorless laugh. "And when the crown hears of such a muster? Do you want royal banners flying here, too? The king does not lend aid without shackles attached."
Voices rose, splitting the hall. Some feared the enemy. Others feared their own king. Few looked at the map—most looked at Aric.
A lesser knight stood, voice wavering. "And what of him? If it is true what men say, then Hawk steel has found a sharper edge. Perhaps the boy is worth more than all our alliances."
The hall fell to silence. All eyes settled on Aric.
He stepped forward at last. His tone was measured, carrying without strain. "I am no demon, no savior. I am Hawk blood, nothing more. This keep stands because we did not bend. If men believe in me, let it only remind them that serpents bleed when struck. Fear already runs in the Veylan camps. We should use it before it cools."
The words were plain, yet they struck. The nobles shifted, exchanging glances. Respect edged into their gazes, even those who distrusted him.
Arion studied his son but said nothing.
When the council broke, Lysandra caught Aric by the stairs. Her voice was low, tight. "You speak as though you command them already."
"I spoke as one who stood on the wall," Aric replied.
Her lips thinned. "Do not mistake awe for loyalty. Nobles bow to power, but only until they see a chance to cut it down."
"Then I'll give them something sharper to fear."
She said nothing more.
As feasts were prepared to honor the survivors, a raven descended upon the keep. Its seal bore the crest of a house long absent from Hawk councils. The letter, opened before all, held but a single line:
"We have heard of the young hawk. If he lives to see another moon, we shall come to speak."
The words spread like fire through the hall. Allies whispered. Enemies listened. And as silence settled over the great hall, Aric felt the weight of every eye upon him, sharper than any blade. The world itself seemed to pause, waiting to see what the young hawk would become.