Chapter 131: The Cell and the Swordmaster
Dampness crept through the thin fabric of Veyr’s shirt, a chill that had become so familiar he scarcely noticed it anymore.
He sat motionless on the narrow stone bench, back pressed against the cold wall of his cell, counting his own shallow breaths in the gloom.
Twenty-three... twenty-four... twenty-five...
How long had he been here? The days had melted into one another, marked only by the changing of torches in the sconces outside his cell. Three torch changes meant one day. Or was it four? The rhythm of time had become as uncertain as everything else.
Fragments of memory crashed against him like waves, Soren kneeling before the Inquisitors, the impossible moment when the Flame bent toward him instead of consuming him, the look of absolute shock on the marble-faced Inquisitor’s features, the screams and chaos that followed.
Then darkness. Being dragged away while the Cathedral itself seemed to groan and shudder around them.
Veyr closed his eyes, but that only made the images sharper. Soren’s face, determined even in chains. The golden fire wrapping around him like a living thing. The terrible moment when Veyr had remained silent, protected by his family name while a common-born Blade faced judgment alone.
"Coward," he whispered to himself, the word tasting bitter on his tongue.
His stomach clenched, though whether from hunger or self-disgust, he couldn’t tell. The last meal they’d brought him, a crust of bread harder than the stone he sat on and a tin cup of tepid water, sat untouched beside him. Food seemed irrelevant now, as remote and meaningless as the political games that had occupied so much of his attention before... before everything shattered.
Soren was dead. He had to be. No one survived once the Cathedral decided they were tainted. The fact that the fire had reacted so strangely to him would only have made them more determined to erase him completely. Or perhaps they’d taken him away for further questioning, a fate potentially worse than a clean death.
Veyr’s fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms until pain provided momentary clarity. He should have spoken sooner, done more than offer clever political deflections. He should have stood beside Soren instead of calculating the minimum intervention required to maintain his own safety.
A Velrane always keeps his pieces in play, his father’s voice whispered in his mind. But Soren had never been a piece to him. Had he?
The sound of footsteps in the corridor outside broke through his spiraling thoughts. The regular patrol, two guards whose faces he’d never properly seen, their steps precise and measured as they passed his cell without acknowledgment, as if he were already a ghost.
"—collapsed the eastern wing entirely," one was saying, voice low but carrying in the stone corridor. "Took three Inquisitors with it."
"The Archon’s furious," the other replied. "Says we’ve lost control of the narrative. Noble houses are asking questions about what really happened."
"What really happened is those traitors fled into the Wastes, and that heretic with them."
Veyr’s breath caught. He leaned forward, straining to catch every word as the guards moved past his cell.
"—Thorne’s name on the official execution record, but Halren swears he saw—"
Their voices faded as they turned the corner, leaving Veyr with his heart pounding against his ribs. Soren. They’d mentioned Soren’s name. And something about fleeing into the Wastes. Could he possibly have escaped?
It seemed impossible, the Cathedral’s security, the chains, the Inquisitors themselves. Yet a tiny spark of hope flickered to life despite his best efforts to extinguish it.
Hope was dangerous. Hope made you vulnerable. Hope made you stupid. These were lessons he’d learned at his father’s table, reinforced through years of Velrane education in the subtle arts of power and manipulation.
Yet the spark remained, stubborn as Soren himself.
The sound came again, footsteps. But these were different. Heavier, more deliberate. Not the measured patrol of guards but someone with purpose. Someone coming directly to his cell.
Veyr straightened, smoothing his expression into the careful mask of boredom that had served him well in countless political confrontations. If the Inquisitors had returned for another round of questioning, they would find him composed, distant, revealing nothing.
The footsteps halted outside his door. Metal scraped against metal, a key in the lock. Veyr’s shoulders tensed despite his efforts at appearing unconcerned.
The door swung open with a groan of hinges that hadn’t been oiled in possibly decades. Light from the corridor spilled into his cell, momentarily blinding after hours in near-darkness.
"Well," said a familiar voice, gruff and weathered as old leather. "You look terrible."
Veyr blinked against the light, his carefully constructed mask slipping. "Kaelor?"
The old swordmaster stood framed in the doorway, his tall figure blocking most of the torchlight from the corridor.
Gray hair bound back in a simple knot, face lined with years of sun and wind, eyes that missed nothing despite their apparent weariness. He wore travel leathers rather than armor, though the Velrane crest was subtly sewn into the shoulder, copper and slate against darker brown.
"You’ve grown thinner," Kaelor observed, stepping into the cell. "You always did forget to eat when trouble came."
The casual observation, delivered in that same steady voice that had guided Veyr through thousands of training sessions, nearly undid him. He swallowed hard, forcing his voice to remain level.
"What are you doing here? Where’s Soren? Why are we prisoners?"
Kaelor’s weathered face revealed nothing as he produced a ring of keys from his belt. Not a guard’s set, these were older, heavier, marked with the seal of House Velrane. Without answering, he unlocked the chains that bound Veyr’s wrists, the metal falling away with a dull clank against the stone floor.
"Your brother has arranged for your release," he said finally, stepping back as Veyr rubbed circulation back into his wrists. "Though ’arranged’ might be too gentle a term for what was required."
"Ayren." Veyr’s mouth twisted. Of course it would be Ayren who navigated this disaster, who found the political leverage necessary to extract a Velrane heir from the Cathedral’s clutches. "And Soren? What of him?"
Kaelor’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly. "Soren Thorne is gone, whether dead or fled, none can say. The Church says he’s a heretic. Your brother says he’s a fool for trusting him." He paused, eyes meeting Veyr’s directly. "I say the truth is rarely so simple."
Veyr stood, his legs unsteady after so long sitting on the stone bench. "Gone? What does that even mean? The Inquisitors had him in chains. The Flame..." He trailed off, the memory of that golden fire bending toward Soren still too vivid, too impossible.
Instead of answering immediately, Kaelor reached into his travel pack and withdrew a folded bundle of fabric. He tossed it to Veyr, who caught it reflexively.
A cloak. Heavy wool lined with silk, dyed the deep slate blue of House Velrane, with the copper tree sigil embroidered at the shoulder. A nobleman’s garment, meant to be seen and recognized. Meant to remind everyone,including Veyr himself, exactly who he was.
"Put it on," Kaelor said, his tone making it clear this wasn’t a suggestion. "We’re leaving."
Veyr hesitated only a moment before swinging the cloak around his shoulders. The familiar weight settled against him like armor, the soft lining a shocking luxury after days against rough stone.
"The Cathedral is in disarray," Kaelor continued, moving toward the door. "There was an... incident during Thorne’s final questioning. Structural damage to the eastern wing. Multiple casualties among the Inquisitorial order."
"An incident," Veyr repeated, the words hollow in his mouth. "That’s what they’re calling it?"
Kaelor’s eyes narrowed slightly. "That’s what your brother is calling it. And that’s what you’ll call it too, if you want to keep your head attached to your shoulders." He glanced into the corridor, then gestured for Veyr to follow.
"Your brother pulled every favor House Velrane has accumulated in the last decade to secure your release. He convinced the remaining Inquisitors that you acted under duress during the Flame incident, that your concern for your family’s Blade clouded your judgment temporarily."
Veyr followed him into the corridor, the cloak swirling around his ankles. Even this simple act of walking felt strange after days of confinement. "And they believed that? After what they saw?"
"They believed the considerable political and financial incentives that accompanied the explanation." Kaelor’s voice dropped lower as they moved down the corridor. "But the cost was high. Your brother has committed House Velrane to greater service to the Church. The exact nature of that service remains... undefined."
The implication hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken danger. Undefined obligations to the Church were like blank contracts signed in blood, they could be filled in later with whatever terms suited the Cathedral’s needs.
"Your brother has kept you alive," Kaelor continued as they turned down a broader passage lit by wall sconces, "but he’s tied our house tighter to the pyre. One wrong move, one misplaced word, and we all burn."
They walked in silence after that, their footsteps echoing against ancient stone. Veyr’s mind raced, calculating possibilities, assessing the damage to House Velrane’s position, trying to imagine what Ayren might have promised in exchange for his freedom. But beneath these practical concerns lurked the question he couldn’t shake.
Soren. Gone. But gone how? Dead at the Inquisitors’ hands? Executed in secret to avoid the questions raised by his strange interaction with the Flame? Or, and here was the dangerous hope again, somehow escaped in the chaos of whatever "incident" had damaged the Cathedral?
They reached a junction where the corridor widened, branching in three directions. Kaelor paused, his weathered hand coming to rest on Veyr’s shoulder.
"You understand, lad, your name keeps you breathing. Soren’s took that from him." His eyes, sharp despite their apparent weariness, studied Veyr’s face. "You can mourn later, but you’ll move forward now."
Veyr shrugged off the hand, a flash of anger cutting through his careful composure. "Soren wouldn’t have betrayed us. You know that as well as I do. The way the Flame reacted to him, that wasn’t heresy, that was something else entirely." He lowered his voice, though the corridor appeared empty. "Something the Church fears."
Kaelor’s expression tightened, lines deepening around his mouth. For a moment, Veyr thought he might argue or offer one of his usual blunt reprimands. Instead, the old swordmaster simply nodded once, a barely perceptible movement.
"Perhaps," he said, voice pitched so low Veyr had to strain to hear it. "But whether your theories are correct or not, the game has changed. House Velrane walks a knife’s edge now. One misstep..." He left the sentence unfinished, but his meaning was clear.