Page 32

The noble nearest Varrus stiffens. He descends from one of the houses that claimed those valleys after Morwen’thir armies withdrew. History becomes offensive when spoken accurately.

Varrus faces me fully.

He is lean by Khuzuth standards, though still taller and stronger than every human I passed during the journey. Black hair falls to the collar of his armor. His red eyes carry the same resentment they held when I defeated him in formal combat.

“You build fortifications because walls cannot question their lord,” he says. “You sign treaties because merchants flatter whoever protects their profit. Yet alliances formed through coin vanish when a richer hand appears.”

“Which explains your recent interest in merchants.”

Several heads turn.

Varrus ignores them. “A dynasty cannot be built from roads and contracts.”

There it is.

He allows the silence following the statement to serve him, then continues.

“House Morwen’thir has no lady. No recognized consort. No heir. Its lord secures stone while neglecting blood. Perhaps he understands that no worthy Khuzuth house wishes to bind its future to his caution.”

A noblewoman on the western tier inhales softly. Another lord turns toward King Rython, measuring whether the insult has exceeded what royal debate permits.

Varrus has chosen his words well.

He has not called me unworthy. He has invited every noble here to consider why I remain unmarried. The question damages more than pride. A house without a direct heir invites royal intervention, disputed succession, and opportunistic alliances.

I step away from the column.

“House Morwen’thir chooses its commitments with care,” I say. “A wise house secures its foundations before adding new wings. Only a desperate one builds upon unstable ground and calls the collapse tradition.”

The amusement this time is more difficult to conceal.

Varrus’s hand closes around the pommel of his ceremonial sword. Drawing it here would end his argument and perhaps his life. He releases it.

“Foundations serve no purpose when no descendant stands upon them,” he says.

“That assumes descendants are as difficult to acquire as competent strategy.”

A courtier coughs into his fist to hide a laugh.

Varrus’s red eyes narrow. “Then where is your heir?”

King Rython rises.

Every noble bows.

I lower my head with the rest, though my nearly black eyes remain fixed upon the neptherium floor.

“The military petition will be reviewed by my council,” the king says. “Lord Varrus will provide a full account of toll revenue and patrol expenses. Lord Rhysandir will provide the reports concerning waira movement and caravan diversions.”

Varrus bows more deeply. “As His Majesty commands.”

“The open court is concluded.”

The assembly answers as one. Nobles begin withdrawing according to rank, highest houses first. No one speaks directly of the exchange, but glances follow both Varrus and me.

He has exposed the vulnerability exactly as intended.

My answer prevented him from claiming victory. It did not produce an heir.