Chapter 35:
What Careless Words Do
> We refuse to invoke the Bladesong. Our enemies do not deserve mercy, but our mercy is not for them.
>
> — High Voice Ozymandae
Godfrey deposited his armor with the Quartermaster the next morning, and strode toward the auditorium, which, truth be told, was the only place he could think of where his class might be held. He had no instructions beyond that.
As he walked through the grounds, the Institute seemed alive with activity. Squires and Scribes of all ages moved around him, their expressions varying from determination to exhaustion. Some looked no older than he was, while others bore the marks of years spent training—lines of wisdom or scars of experience. Age, Godfrey had realized, wasn’t a real indicator of progression here. One might remain a Squire for decades or ascend to a higher rank unexpectedly. The same was true for the Listeners.
To be perfectly honest, that was the only thing Godfrey knew about the progression from Squire to Soldier, or any other rank for that matter. The rest was a mystery—one he hoped to uncover during his time here.
As he rounded a corner of the large, swept-architecture buildings, the early morning sun broke free of the shadows, shining through a cloudless patch of sky nestled between towering structures. The light caught on the tall, stained-glass windows that lined the corridor, glinting with a soft red brilliance. Each pane, meticulously crafted, depicted moments of long-forgotten history—figures from legend, battles of ancient times, and symbols all in shades of red.
Godfrey approached the building, his eyes catching sight of several attendants in Institute uniforms standing around a large piece of parchment stretched onto a portable notice board. His peers were milling around in small groups, some speaking in low murmurs while others conversed quite animatedly with the attendants. The attendants, for their part, responded with calm, measured tones, their expressions neutral despite the rising emotions of those gathered.
He walked straight to the board, weaving through the small groups until he found an attendant who seemed unoccupied. “What’s the situation here?” he asked, his voice steady but curious.
The attendant, a woman with sharp eyes and a calm demeanor, glanced at him before gesturing toward the notice board. “Rank assignments and the locations of your training hall,” she explained. “If you need assistance in finding it, one of us can take you.”
Godfrey nodded, his gaze shifting toward the board. The parchment stretched across it was filled with names and ranks, the very thing everyone here seemed so eager to discover.
Godfrey scanned the parchment, his eyes quickly absorbing the layout. There were, evidently, four separate ranked classes, and individuals were listed alphabetically within those classes, from Omega at the bottom to Alpha at the top. He rolled his eyes at the arrangement. There was no way the strange induction trial could have resulted in such precise rankings—it had to be some ploy to stir competition among them.
He started at the bottom of the document, scanning the names upward. A few caught his eye: Farid ul-Hambra, Alpha of Class Three, Squire; Thyra Myr, Alpha of Class Two, Scribe. As his eyes drifted higher, he found himself unexpectedly near the top.
"Godfrey Marcellus, Delta of Class One, Squire."
He didn’t know what to feel about that. He had killed a man for this placement. Shouldn’t that mean something? He should feel pride, shouldn’t he? Pride that Marian’s death wasn’t for nothing. But deep down, he knew better. This was exactly what they wanted—for them to grow comfortable being both judge and executioner. To accept that their worth is measured by how efficiently they could take a life. To feel either rewarded or punished for their ability to do so.
The realization left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Godfrey asked the attendant for directions to the Class One training hall. A flicker of surprise crossed her face, but she quickly gestured to a younger male attendant nearby. “Take him to the Class One hall,” she said, her tone firm but polite.
The young man nodded silently and motioned for Godfrey to follow. He thanked her before setting off behind his escort, who remained unusually quiet. They walked along a well-manicured path that traced the edges of small, bubbling extensions of the canals crisscrossing the city. The water flowed smoothly, but the scene felt too controlled, too perfect.
As they walked, Godfrey’s thoughts drifted, his mind unraveling the threads of everything around him. The entire experience felt like a hollow performance. The Sculpted faces of his peers—so carefully crafted, too perfect to be real. The induction trial, where lives had been whittled down to mere numbers, stripped of meaning, reduced to ranks. Even the tall walls of the Upper City served the illusion, separating the plebeians, who now lived their colorful lives in quiet submission. Now that he thought of it, he had not heard a single commoner in the Lower City mention their open containment; were such things so commonplace as to never warrant mention?
Even the paths beneath his feet, too, felt false, each stone placed with such precision that it seemed almost mocking, all over top of what looked like a babbling brook. Everything reeked of pretense, a carefully woven veneer hiding something darker, yet tangible and real.
Godfrey cleared his mind as the attendant indicated a squat building ahead. It shared few of the elegant, sweeping architectural notes of its sister structures, appearing far more utilitarian—even more so than the bulky auditorium. The doorway was large and inset, thick double doors standing wide open, as if always ready for the flow of bodies in and out.
To his right, he noticed a wooden port set into the side of the building, likely for carts or wagons to deliver large pieces of equipment or bulk goods. The area bustled with activity. There were more Institute attendants here than anywhere else he’d seen so far, each moving swiftly, arms full of training weapons, buckets of water, and all manner of other sundries required to keep the place running.
He saw none of his peers outside, so he stepped through the open doors, finding himself in a long hallway. It stretched the length of the building, disappearing around corners at both ends, giving the impression that it wrapped around the entire circumference. The air was cooler here, the faint echoes of activity from outside muffled by the thick walls.
Ahead, another set of heavy double doors stood mostly closed, with just a sliver of light cutting through the dim hallway. The contrast between the darkness of the corridor and the light beyond the doors made the space feel all the more isolating.
As Godfrey pushed open the door, a wave of sound crashed over him—clacking weapons, grunts of exertion, and the rapid shifts of cloth followed by the unmistakable thud of strikes landing. The room before him was massive, its ceiling soaring several dozen feet above his head. Unlike the usual stained-glass windows that adorned the Institute, large, clear panes allowed natural light to flood the space, though he noticed grand candelabras hanging from the ceiling, ready to provide light on cloudy days.
The scent of old sweat and effort filled the air, grounding the room in the labor it was meant for. Beneath his feet, the wooden planks gleamed, polished to a high shine, either through the diligent care of attendants or the relentless scraping and shuffling of boots over countless hours of training.
Scanning the room, Godfrey spotted Adrian near the front, deep in conversation with two Scribes. A smile tugged at the corner of Godfrey’s mouth as he made his way over, weaving through the scattered Class One as they milled around, waiting for direction as more advanced Squires and Scribes trained in the rest of the building, sometimes throwing taunts at the stationary class.
“Godfrey!” Adrian exclaimed, his face lighting up the moment he saw him. The Scribes fell silent, turning to regard Godfrey with mild interest as Adrian stepped forward.
Adrian was radiant today, seemingly having chosen the exact spot where the light would catch in his flowing blonde hair, creating a halo of light around his face. Godfrey couldn't help but marvel at the perfection of it, though he suspected Adrian had positioned himself there on purpose. The Scribe to Adrian’s left, a striking figure with Sculpted red hair, stood almost as tall as the golden-haired man. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders, smooth and deliberate, her pale skin flecked with subtle freckles that seemed more art than nature. She stood with her hands lightly clasped, her serene expression betraying no hint of the chaos of their current situation.
On Adrian’s right, the second Scribe stood shorter, but still half a hand taller than Godfrey. Her black hair, pulled into a ponytail, had thin strands falling loosely across her sharp, focused eyes—a disheveled look that seemed intentional. There was a restless energy about her, a tension in her stance, as though she was waiting for something to happen, ready to act. Both Scribes, in their carefully Sculpted beauty, seemed otherworldly, distant from the confusion that swirled around them, yet each carried themselves with their own kind of purpose.
Godfrey regarded it all as theater, a performance of perfection that felt hollow. But he didn’t begrudge them. After all, it wasn’t as if they had chosen to be Sculpted, to be shaped by the desires of their powerful parents.
Clearing his thoughts for the second time that morning, Godfrey pushed aside the judgment that crept into his mind. When had he become so critical of others?
Pushing the thought away, he approached Adrian with a nod. “Congratulations on being at the top of the class, Adrian.”
Adrian’s grin widened, his usual lightness returning. “And to you, Godfrey. It seems we’ll be competing at the same level. Should be interesting, no?”
He couldn’t help but laugh at Adrian’s mirth. Despite everything, it was good to see his friend back to his old self, even if it was just a mask. He’d have to ask how Adrian was really doing later. But for now, Godfrey turned his attention to the Scribes, nodding politely to each.
“Godfrey Marcellus, nice to meet you.”
Thyra Verdentia, the red-haired Scribe, offered him a slow nod in return, her eyes calm and distant. “Thyra Verdentia,” she said softly, her voice carrying a serene weight to it, as though she were speaking about something much larger than just an introduction. “A pleasure.”
She didn’t offer more, but her steady, unwavering gaze made it clear she wasn’t one for small talk, nor did she seem bothered by the uncertainty of their situation. Her presence was peaceful, but with a certain detachment, as if she was observing the world from a step removed.
Riella Valoran, on the other hand, had a spark of energy behind her sharp eyes. “Riella Valoran,” she said with a slight smirk, her tone bold and direct. “I hope you're less formal on the training floor.” Her posture shifted slightly, almost like a challenge, though it was wrapped in a teasing manner. The way she looked at him, head held high, showed she wasn’t the type to back down from anything or anyone.
Adrian boomed a laugh, his voice echoing through the room and drawing stares and glances from those nearby. “As you can see, my friends, our young Godfrey here is a true icon! Not only the only one of us not cursed with Sculpture,” he said with exaggerated flair, “he’s overcome that and placed among the best of us!”
The attention shifted to Godfrey, some curious, others appraising, as Adrian's words lingered in the air. It was a bold statement, typical of Adrian, but it hung there nonetheless, the mix of admiration and teasing unmistakable.
Godfrey smirked, shaking his head. “Oh yes, the burden you all bear must be great. Also, how do you know you’re older than me?”
“Semantics, my dear friend,” Adrian shot back with a wink. “And yes, it is a great burden, and yes, I repeat, curse to wear such a visage. If only others could see me for who I truly am!” He placed a dramatic hand over his heart, sighing deeply as if lamenting the fate of his perfect appearance.
Godfrey shook his head at Adrian’s theatrics before turning to Riella. For a moment, as he met her gaze squarely, he found himself struck dumb. Something in her presence, the intensity of her eyes, the shape of her mouth, made him falter.
He quickly recovered, but not quickly enough—he could tell she noticed by the way her smirk turned into a snarky grin.
“I’m less formal with my friends,” Godfrey said, finding his voice again. “And the best friends are made on the training floor.”
Riella stood straighter, as if trying to tower over him, but Godfrey only raised an eyebrow at the attempt. She met his gaze, the challenge still in her eyes. “I couldn’t agree more,” she said, her voice bold and unwavering.
Adrian, ever the one to stir things up, interjected with a playful grin. “I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time this year to beat each other senseless. I’m more wondering how this will all start. Surely they won’t have the Squires sparring with the Scribes the whole time, or else there wouldn’t be much for you two to learn.”
Even Godfrey knew that was a mistake.
Riella’s eyes blazed, her playful demeanor vanishing as she whipped her head around to stare daggers into Adrian. Her entire stance shifted, her intensity sharp as a blade. Thyra, as serene as a human being could be, merely flicked her eyes toward Adrian, but even then, a brief flicker of anger crossed her composed features.
Godfrey couldn’t help but let out a low whistle.
He shook his head with a smirk. “You have a way with words, my friend,” he said, before turning his attention to the red-haired Scribe. “Thyra Verdentia, right? Isn’t your family the one that owns the fields around the city?”
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Adrian, sensing the sharp stares still lingering on him from both Riella and Thyra, wisely stayed silent, a placating look crossing his face.
Thyra’s serene gaze softened only slightly as she nodded. “Yes. My family has tended those fields for generations.”
Godfrey’s blood chilled slightly as Thyra’s words settled in. The woman standing before him wasn’t just another Scribe; she was a member of one of the most powerful families in Centria, a family whose grasp on the lives of their thousands of workers was absolute. He had heard, at least, that the farmers under Gens Verdentia were allowed to keep a small percentage of their crops, a tiny mercy in a system that rarely offered such things.
But the implicit oppression gnawed at him. The thought of so many lives, bound to the will of a single family, ground against his sense of fairness.
Godfrey put her in a box in his head, compartmentalizing the reality of who she was. He nodded once, turning away from her just as a flicker of annoyance crossed her serene face, clearly displeased by his apparent dismissal.
As he scanned the crowd, movement at the entrance caught his eye. Knight-Captain Rexia strode into the room, flanked by several Listeners and Soldiers, easily identifiable by the sharp cut of their uniforms. The room shifted as their presence commanded immediate attention.
“Class One, this is Soldier-Corporal Rhys and Listener Halen,” Knight-Captain Rexia began, his voice sharp and commanding. “They will be administering your first months of training, so I expect you to perform to your utmost. Remember, class placement and rank are subject to change at your quarterly benchmarks. The classes before you have dubbed such tests 'Reckonings,' and I approve of the term. Do not get complacent.”
His sharp eyes scanned the crowd, lingering just long enough to make each student feel seen. “You will be in this hall every morning at dawn, and you will leave only when your instructors allow it. You may quit at any time, but you know the ramifications of that.”
With no further ado, Rexia turned on his heel and strode through the door, letting it slowly close behind him, sealing the room. Soldier-Corporal Rhys and Listener Halen stared back at the class, their expressions calm, almost indifferent.
“Squires, line up on me,” Rhys barked. “We’ll be heading to the floor in a moment, but first, I want you all to filter into the armory room to your left and select your weapons. Rest assured, if your chosen armament is unfamiliar to either Listener Halen or myself, we will locate additional instructors.”
As Halen barked similar orders to the Scribes, Godfrey found himself walking alongside Adrian toward the half-walled armory, which was little more than a corner of the building lined with racks of weapons. The assortment was impressive, but mostly standard training gear. Godfrey quickly found a longsword, the familiar weight of it settling comfortably in his hand.
He then turned to a nearby attendant, motioning for attention. “I need a parrying dagger, preferably one with swordbreaker teeth,” he said.
The attendant stared at him blankly for a moment before wandering over to a rack of daggers. After a few seconds of sorting, he selected one. The dagger lacked the teeth Godfrey had requested, but it was clearly crafted for parrying larger blades.
Handing it to Godfrey, the attendant spoke in a flat tone. “Wooden swordbreakers are weak and won’t give you the same effect as steel. This is what we have.”
He sighed, accepting the dagger. “It’ll do, thank you.”
The attendant, momentarily surprised, hesitated before adding, “If you want to request live steel training, all you have to do is ask. The instructors love that, and they usually make a spectacle of the first person to ask.”
Godfrey blinked. “Really?”
The attendant nodded. Godfrey considered it for a moment. He shouldn’t train with a weapon he had no intention of using, and if the training weapons couldn’t hold teeth like steel, then his decision was clear.
Without a second thought, Godfrey left the training dagger behind and made his way to Soldier-Corporal Rhys, who stood surveying the slowly amassing group of students, arms crossed behind his back. Godfrey approached confidently.
“Soldier-Corporal Rhys, may I make a request?” he asked.
Rhys turned sharply, his eyes narrowing. “Speak, Squire.”
“I wish to train with my own weapons,” Godfrey replied, his voice steady. “Live steel.”
Rhys’s eyes narrowed slightly further, though the corners of his lips began to twitch, betraying the slightest hint of amusement. “Very well, Squire Marcellus.”
He turned to the assembled students, his voice rising with authority. “Class One, attention. Squire Marcellus has requested live steel. Do we have a volunteer who is willing to train with him?”
The room fell silent for a moment, the challenge hanging in the air, waiting for someone to take it.
Across the width of the room, some of the Scribes had taken notice of the challenge, particularly Riella. She turned and spoke to Listener Halen, her words deliberate and clearly seeking permission. Halen shook her head, the response immediate and firm. Riella’s frustration was evident as her expression tightened, but she said nothing more, merely turning back to watch the unfolding scene with keen interest.
A voice called out from the line. “I’d rather work live steel, Soldier-Corporal.”
Rhys barked immediately, “Squire Marco, front and center.”
Squire Marco stepped out of line, walking confidently to the front. He stood tall, his chestnut hair cropped short, his hawk eyes steady as Rhys looked him over.
“Squire Marco,” Rhys said, his tone sharp, “you understand that neither you nor Squire Marcellus have been Intoned, therefore any wounds you may accrue during sparring will take some hours at the Respital to heal? Your Intonations are not scheduled until the end of this week.”
Marco nodded firmly. “Yes, Soldier-Corporal.”
Godfrey had not been asked, but he also nodded.
Rhys’s grin widened, a touch of satisfaction in his expression. “Well then, Squires, to the floor.” He gestured to an attendant nearby, busy stocking arrows in barrels. “Collect these Squires’ weapons and bring them here.”
The attendant quickly scurried off, disappearing behind a row of gear. Moments later, he returned, carrying Godfrey’s swordbelt and, presumably, Marco’s falchion along with a narrow shield that ended in a gruesome point.
The room fell silent, the anticipation thick as the weapons were handed over.
Rhys turned his attention to the rest of the class, listing off more sets of pairings, each directed to the round patches of smooth wood set into the stone floor. These would serve as their sparring floors. The other half of the class he sent to a wide series of wooden steps built into one wall of the room, a natural observation area.
As the students began to settle on the steps, Rhys’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. “Watch carefully. I want each of you seated to note one technique which the duelists perform well, and note one area where they could improve. Be ready with your suggestions.”
The students quickly quieted, their attention shifting to the dueling areas as the tension in the room thickened.
Godfrey strapped on his swordbelt; no reason to train with it off if he fully intended to wear it most times. He drew both his sword and dagger, settling into his standard guard, feeling the weight of the weapons in his hands as he faced Marco.
Across from him, Marco unsheathed his falchion from its scabbard, handing it off to the attendant before strapping on his pointed shield. The shield’s menacing tip caught the light as Marco took his stance, confidence radiating from him.
All around them, two dozen other dueling pairs prepared themselves, tension mounting as they faced off.
Rhys’s voice cut through the room like a whip. “Squires, begin.”
Marco surged forward, shield leading as he sought to impale Godfrey with its vicious point. Godfrey slipped to the side, reacting quickly, and unleashed a flurry of slashes at Marco’s exposed flank. Each strike met the solid defense of Marco’s shield, but Godfrey remained relentless. He shifted his longsword into a scorpion guard, angling for an overhead pierce above Marco’s defense. As he did so, he threw his dagger underhanded, aiming for Marco’s exposed ribs.
Marco’s shield dropped almost instantly to block the dagger, but the dual threat forced him to twist out of the way of Godfrey’s longsword. Off balance, Marco tumbled onto his back.
Godfrey was on him in a flash, gripping his longsword in both hands and hammering down with thunderous blows onto Marco’s shield. The leverage was in Godfrey’s favor, and each strike reverberated through the air.
“Squire Marcellus, enough! Reset!” Rhys barked, calling a halt to the bout.
The next round began, and this time, Marco managed to get past Godfrey’s sword, slipping inside his guard. Godfrey reacted, catching the tip of Marco’s falchion with his dagger, but it left his left side completely exposed to a follow-up strike.
“Squire Marco, reset!” Rhys called again, restarting the bout with the same efficiency he was demonstrating with the other duels happening around them.
Godfrey couldn’t help but glance at Rhys, noticing the strange dilation of his eyes. They were so dark, it seemed as if the whites had disappeared entirely. Rhys was watching all the duels at once, a subtle but undeniable mastery of his Focus. Some nearby attendants were also stopping bouts, but Rhys was mostly handling the entire floor of Squires by himself. Godfrey marveled at the display.
After a particularly aggressive bout, about an hour later, Godfrey emerged victorious. He had drawn first blood, which called for an immediate stop. Marco’s wound, a shallow cut to his upper right arm, was quickly assessed as superficial, and Rhys called for a general break for the duelists while he went to debrief the seated Squires.
Across the floor, the Scribes, who had been engaged in similar training—though focused on hand-to-hand combat and submission holds—were also breaking. Godfrey and Marco made their way over to a set of tables that had been set up with barrels of water. They laughed together, sharing easy banter about how evenly matched they’d been throughout the bouts. It defied belief how often their skills mirrored one another, and they joked about that very thing.
As they continued to chat, Adrian walked up, huffing and puffing. “I swear, gentlemen, that Rhys has it out for me. He let quite a few of us at the back go unnoticed. Is he trying to show off, watching all of us at once?”
Godfrey laughed. “Practice with live steel and he might take more notice.”
Just then, Riella and Thyra wandered over. Riella looked like a cat ready to pounce, her eyes gleaming with energy, while Thyra seemed almost more composed than she had before the hour of intensive training, as though nothing could ruffle her.
Godfrey grinned, his eyes gleaming with playful mischief. “Did I see you asking Listener Halen for permission to fight me?”
Riella rolled her eyes, her expression both amused and sharp. “From what I saw, you weren’t quite ready for me.”
Godfrey laughed easily. “So, you were watching, huh?”
Riella shrugged casually. “Only a fool wouldn’t keep an eye out. But from what I saw, your technique isn’t even fit for fetching me water.”
Godfrey turned from Riella, walking over to the water table with deliberate steps. He pointedly poured himself a cup and began to lift it to his lips when he noticed Riella raising an eyebrow, a secretive smile curling at the edges of her lips. She whispered something too soft for him to catch.
Suddenly, the air around his ears warped, the world tilting as his vision went black. He felt as though he’d been pulled into a void, weightless and detached. When his senses returned, he found himself standing in front of Riella, his hand extended, offering her the cup. She took it from him and drank, one pinky raised in an almost mocking gesture.
Godfrey gasped, stumbling back, his mind racing as a cold, black panic surged through him, swallowing him whole. His breath hitched as he scrabbled away, desperate to get away from her.
A man in black armor. Blood, splintered bone. Blood on his hands.
Someone was grabbing him, holding him down. Godfrey asserted Control, and tossed whomever it was off like dry kindling as his tendons snapped and his muscles swelled.
Another set of hands, a voice. Adrian, telling him to calm down.
Godfrey forced his blood to slow, drawing inwards as his pupils darkened, his mind stilling with practiced precision. He blanketed himself with his favorite white numbness, shutting out the panic that had threatened to consume him. His breathing steadied, and slowly, he managed to stand.
As his vision returned, the first thing he saw was Riella’s face—her expression filled with shock. Her eyes, wide with fear and guilt, met his. Her mouth hung open slightly, as if words had failed her.
The next thing Godfrey saw was Rhys and Halen jogging toward them, barking orders at the assembled Squires and Scribes to continue with training. "Get back to it!" Halen shouted, waving off the curious onlookers. "You've got better things to do than stare!"
XXX
Godfrey leaned against the wall in the hallway outside, his body still tense from the encounter. He could only assume that Riella was on the other side of the building, likely having a similar conversation with Listener Halen. Rhys stood in front of him, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
“I don’t care that you were Compelled, Squire Marcellus,” Rhys began, his voice low but firm. “It will be a regular part of your training if you become a Soldier, and you need to find a way to get over its effects. Speak with the Institute’s apothecary about it, or ask around at the Respital.”
Godfrey nodded, but Rhys’s eyes narrowed, cutting through the tension. “No, I’m more concerned with why a dozen people witnessed you using Hand arts, when we both know it should be impossible for you to have learned those talents. Those are, of course, secrets of the highest order, and it goes without saying that you have no way of knowing them. Correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Godfrey replied, unsure of where Rhys was heading with this.
Rhys’s eyes remained sharp. “Good, so those people must have been mistaken. Everyone at the Institute knows that ex-Hand members are not allowed to ply their knowledge for a living after retirement. So, whoever you trained under couldn’t have taught you those skills, and thus, you couldn’t have used them. Correct?”
“Yes, sir. They must have been mistaken,” Godfrey said, the realization settling in. He understood now—no one wanted to enforce this particular rule, especially when they might rely on similar illegalities themselves in retirement.
Rhys gave a curt nod, seemingly satisfied with the answer.
“May I return to the floor?” Godfrey asked, eager to move past the scrutiny.
“Not yet,” Rhys said, his tone firm. “I’ve been told you own a decent set of half-plate, correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Godfrey replied.
“Good,” Rhys continued. “You will report to this hall every afternoon, after morning training, and you will attend my armored training session during what would have been your meditation sessions. As you would have no way of knowing, those classes are meant to prepare Squires for the rigors of Focus and of Control. For entirely separate reasons, your time could be better served elsewhere. Do you understand, Squire?”
Godfrey was tiring of the hidden meaning, but he kept his tone neutral. “Of course, sir.”
“Dismissed, Marcellus,” Rhys said, his voice clipped. “No need to return to the floor—your little fainting act prevented you from seeing your peers' duels, and therefore your input would be worthless.”
Godfrey bristled at the comment but held his ground. “What about my bouts, sir? Where should I improve?”
Rhys grinned, the expression sharp and knowing. “Oh, everywhere, Marcellus. I expect to see rapid growth. Oh yes. Dismissed, get out of my sight and all that.”
Rhys turned abruptly and strode back onto the training floor without another word. Moments later, Halen rounded the corner with Riella in tow, her expression suitably chastened. Halen didn’t spare a glance in their direction as she turned back to the training floor, leaving Riella standing at the doorway, eyes fixed on Godfrey.
“I’m sorry, Godfrey, I didn’t mea—”
“Yes, you did, Riella,” he interrupted, his voice cold and steady. “You meant to take over my mind, and you did.” His words hung in the air like a blade. “I should get used to it, after all.”
Riella’s face tightened, frustration flashing in her eyes as she opened her mouth to protest, but Godfrey was already turning away, walking off without another glance.