The keep was a hive of whispers.
Servants carried food through the hallways with hushed voices, guards exchanged mutters while on patrol, and even knights lingered too long by the hearth to trade rumors. The name on every tongue was not Hadrien's, nor Silven's, nor even Kael's. It was the prisoner—no, the foreigner. Elias.
"Did you hear? Lord Hadrien ordered his chains struck off."
"A prisoner freed? Not even ransomed?"
"They say he speaks Orravian now. Fluent enough to answer in the hall."
"Impossible. No man learns that fast unless the gods favor him—or curse him."
The whispers spread, growing wilder with each retelling. Some said Elias was a fallen noble from a far-off kingdom, stripped of his lands. Others swore he was a spy sent by Sarradon or the East, planted in Orravia to sow discord. A few, more superstitious, claimed he was touched by the Radiant God himself, chosen to walk free where others rotted.
No two stories agreed. But all shared one truth: he was not a man to ignore.
In the training yard, two knights leaned on their swords, watching squires spar.
"A man who lived in the pit should stink of fear," one said, spitting in the dirt. "But this Elias… he walks like he belongs."
"Belongs?" The other knight scoffed. "He's a rat dressed in clean linen. Don't be fooled."
"You didn't see him in the hall. Lord Hadrien questioned him, and he didn't shake. Not once."
"Then he's either a liar or a fool."
"Or both."
Their words were sharp, but beneath them lay unease. For in Orravia, survival was rarely won with words. Yet this man had spoken, and lived.
In the kitchens, a maid scrubbed bowls as another whispered close.
"They say he's tall, dark-haired, with strange eyes."
"All men have strange eyes when you look too long."
"No, I mean foreign eyes. Eyes that watch everything. Like he's measuring, weighing."
The older cook leaned in, voice low. "Careful. I've seen lords fall from less than loose tongues. If the master favors this Elias, then we'd best keep our suspicions to ourselves."
But the youngest maid could not resist a final thought. "If he were just another prisoner, he'd be bones in the pit. Yet he's alive. Freed. Fed. Seen by the lord himself." She shivered. "That is not luck. That is something else."
Far above the noise, in a quiet chamber lit only by candlelight, Silven Marrow sat across from Hadrien. The lord's closest advisor and oldest friend, he did not waste words.
"You've let him walk free," Silven said, eyes sharp beneath his hooded lids.
"Free?" Hadrien chuckled softly, though it carried no warmth. "A man watched on every step is not free."
Silven leaned back, fingers steepled. "Then let me ask plainly. What is he to you? A curiosity? A danger? A pet project?"
"He is… interesting." Hadrien's gaze drifted to the window, beyond which torches flickered against the night. "A man who should be nothing more than bones in the dark pit, and yet he stands before me, speaking my tongue as if he had always known it. A man whose story is full of holes, yet stitched well enough to hold."
"Stitched," Silven repeated. "And stitches unravel with time."
Hadrien smiled faintly. "Then let us see how strong his thread is."
Silven frowned. "You risk much, Hadrien. A foreigner of unknown birth, clever with words, quick with tongues—these are the marks of a spy, not a guest."
"And yet," Hadrien countered, "he lives still. The gods have not struck him down. Fate has not swept him aside. Until it does, I will watch. And you, my friend, will watch closer."
Silven's eyes narrowed, but he inclined his head. "Very well. I will keep my gaze upon him. And if the thread frays…"
"Then," Hadrien finished for him, "we will pull it loose."
By dawn, the whispers had only grown. Elias of Nowhere—spy, noble, chosen, cursed. No one agreed. But all agreed on this: he was not a man to be forgotten.
And in a world where memory was as dangerous as steel, that alone was enough to make him feared.