The great hall smelled of oil and cold stone. Torches guttered in their sconces, shadows stretching long across the banners of House Marrow. Elias stood in the center, flanked by guards, his chains gone but the memory of them still heavy on his wrists.
Lord Hadrien sat at the high seat, draped in a cloak of deep green, his gaze like iron on the anvil. Beside him, Kael leaned on his staff, quiet but alert, and Silven Marrow stood with folded arms, sharp-eyed, a wolf on the scent.
"You stand before me again, Elias of… nowhere," Hadrien said, his voice cutting through the hall. "When last you were here, you gave me a tale. A curious one. Tonight, I would know whether your words are worth more than smoke."
Elias inclined his head, keeping his breath steady. Weeks ago he'd been dragged here trembling like a whipped dog. Tonight, he stood straighter. Not fearless, never that—but he had learned to wear his fear like a mask.
"What would you have me prove, my lord?" he asked, voice even.
Silven's eyes narrowed. "Your story was thin. No accent from the east, no trace of the north or south. Clothing of no make we've seen. And yet—your tongue has grown sharper in our speech faster than any child's. Too fast."
The hall stirred with whispers. Elias caught fragments: witchcraft… spy… liar.
Hadrien raised a hand and silence fell. His gaze weighed Elias, measuring. "A man without land, without name, without place. Useful, perhaps. Dangerous, certainly. Tell me again, Elias—where do you come from?"
The question struck like a hammer, but Elias was ready. He bowed his head slightly, his voice steady.
"I come from a place far across the sea. A place with no name in your maps. I was a clerk, a servant to lords greater than myself. When raiders came, I fled with only the clothes I wore. A storm caught my vessel, and I washed ashore. Your knights found me, and—" he let a flicker of bitterness show "—cast me into the pit."
Murmurs again. Some scoffed, some frowned. Hadrien's expression didn't move.
Silven's voice was sharp. "A man of parchment and quills, yet you survived the pit? Weeks among killers and madmen?"
Elias met his eyes. "By wit, not by strength. Men spare the fool who can count their rations and remember their debts."
Even Kael cracked the faintest smile. The guard outside had once told him the same—his "reckoning of bread and blows" had bought him time in the darkness.
Hadrien's gaze didn't waver. "A tale. A clever one. But cleverness is not proof."
The lord rose slowly, his cloak spilling across the steps like shadow. He descended a single stair, his presence filling the hall. "You have no chains, Elias, but do not mistake that for freedom. Not yet. I will see what fate—or the gods—make of you. Until then, you are under my eye."
Elias bowed, every muscle taut. "As you will, my lord."
A long silence stretched before Hadrien spoke again, this time softer, almost thoughtful. "You wear fear better than most men wear pride. That may keep you alive. Or it may undo you."
With a wave of his hand, the audience ended. Guards closed in—not to drag Elias away, but to guide him back to his chamber.
As he walked, Elias allowed himself the smallest breath of relief. He had survived again, on words alone. Yet he knew each time he stood in that hall, the leash around his neck grew tighter.