Three days passed.
No one said welcome.
No one said I should have died.
They just watched.
---
The south wing of the estate was quiet — but not forgotten. Servants moved through it like ghosts, never looking me in the eyes. A few left food on the table without a word, heads slightly lowered — not in respect.
In caution.
Like feeding a wild animal you didn't quite trust.
The bed was too soft. The walls were gray stone, hung with dark tapestries bearing the tiger of Westenra — all seven fangs stitched in silver thread. My old name. My old House.
My old room, they said, had been sealed.
I didn't ask why.
---
I spent most of the days walking the upper grounds.
There was a terrace above the training courts, where the wind cut through the bannisters and left ice-slicks on the marble floor.
From there, I could see the distant black hills. The smoke had cleared, but something in my ribs remembered it. A scent. A weight. A sound like metal folding.
---
On the third morning, I found the practice courts empty.
Until he arrived.
Cassian.
Hair tied back with a silk cord, blade already drawn. He didn't look at me until he passed.
Then: "Walk or watch. But don't stand there like a ghost."
I stepped forward onto the gravel.
He arched an eyebrow.
"You want to spar?"
"No."
"Then what?"
I drew my sword.
He laughed.
Not loudly. But with the kind of ease people use when they think they already know how the fight ends.
---
He struck first.
A smooth side-sweep, angled to open the ribs. Fast. Clean.
I blocked it.
He blinked.
Then struck again. Upward. Reversed grip. Downcut.
I stepped inside his guard and kicked his knee out.
He went down with a grunt.
Dust bit the air.
---
Cassian sat up, coughing. His expression darkened, but his voice stayed light.
"Well. The street rat *does* have claws."
I didn't answer.
"You'll need more than instinct to survive in this house," he said, brushing off his robe.
"Then show me."
He paused.
Then rose.
"You'll regret that."
---
He attacked again.
Harder.
Faster.
And I let the sword move for me.
Every motion was memory burned into my muscle. I didn't think. I *remembered*. Not with my mind — with my bones.
I ducked under a rising cut and brought the pommel of my sword up into his jaw.
He staggered back. Blood on his lip.
For a moment, silence.
Then:
"You were trained."
"No," I said. "I was *made*."
---
That ended the spar.
Cassian didn't thank me. Didn't bow.
He just turned and left, blade hanging loose at his side.
---
Later that day, a servant delivered a scroll.
Handwritten. Sealed with red wax.
The seal bore a new crest — not Westenra. A crescent wolf on a black field.
The invitation was simple.
> *To Atlas Westenra,
You are hereby invited to attend the Bloodline Briefing for all recognized nobles of combat rank.
Date: Tomorrow, second bell.
Location: High Chamber Hall.*
>
> —Lord Ferris of House Duvhal
---
I folded it once. Twice.
Then burned it in the hearth.
---
I went anyway.
---
The High Chamber was warmer than the rest of the estate.
Candles burned along every wall. Marble steps led down to a central floor surrounded by tiered benches. Nobles filled them — young men in dueling coats, women in ceremonial robes, some my age, some older.
All watched me enter like I was a wrong word in a sacred text.
Varian stood at the head of the chamber.
To his left, Lord Ferris — tall, skin like gray ash, with hair bound in three copper rings. Beside him, his son. A boy with sharp eyes and a wolf's grin.
Cassian stood opposite them, arms crossed.
Varian raised a hand.
"This meeting is formality," he said. "But we observe it for the sake of record. Atlas Westenra, once thought dead, has returned. By blood and breath, he is recognized. By sword, he has proven claim."
Murmurs.
Someone scoffed quietly behind me.
Ferris's voice cut through: "Recognition doesn't make control. Has he tested aura? Shown his art?"
"No," Varian said. "And he will not. Yet."
---
The son — Dren, I later learned — stepped forward.
"I'll test him."
The nobles quieted.
Varian's eyes flicked sideways. "This is a briefing, not a duel ground."
"No duel," Dren said. "Just pressure."
He raised one hand.
His aura bloomed.
It hit like winter air turning solid.
Pale silver, ringed with frost. A wolf's breath made visible.
---
I didn't move.
I didn't flare.
I didn't *need* to.
The sword at my hip shuddered slightly.
My ribs burned.
The ground beneath me seemed suddenly too quiet.
---
Then Dren's aura cracked.
He stepped back.
Face pale.
The heat between us vanished.
---
I hadn't raised mine.
But something in me had answered anyway.
---
Varian nodded once.
"Enough."
Dren said nothing, but didn't meet my eyes.
Ferris looked at me with new calculation.
Like a man re-counting his coin purse after hearing a thief hum a noble hymn.
---
After the chamber emptied, I remained behind.
Alone.
I stood in the center of the floor, staring at the polished tile.
There were sigils in the stone — family crests I didn't know, arranged like a spiral of bones.
My hand found the hilt again.
It never really left.
And in the corner of my eye—
A flicker.
Not light.
Not memory.
But a shape.
A face.
A woman.
And a name—
Gone before I could speak it.
---
I turned toward the wind.
And waited for it to bring me something worth remembering.