The room was quiet.
Not the ceremonial silence of court, or the reverent hush of towers—this was colder. A waiting silence. Functional. Like sound had no place here anymore.
Auren stood across from the Marquis, who hadn't yet acknowledged him. The man sat behind a dark oaken table, sleeves buttoned, hands folded with precision that mirrored the room. Nothing in disarray. Nothing wasted.
No guards flanked the door. No advisors lingered. That was the warning.
This wasn't a meeting. It was a decision being dressed in civility.
On the table between them sat a folded parchment, sealed in matte black wax. The sigil wasn't ornate—just the sharp, narrow lines of House Veyr's crest: a closed eye over a broken sword.
Unopened.
Waiting.
The Marquis finally looked up from a letter he'd been reading. His expression didn't shift, but something in his gaze sharpened as it landed on Auren. Not anger. Not disappointment.
Calculation.
"I asked myself," the Marquis began, voice even, "whether you did it out of hatred."
He didn't wait for an answer.
"I watched the faces in the hall. The murmurs. The way silence bent around you afterward." His fingertips tapped the edge of the letter once, thoughtful. "Hatred would have been louder. Clumsier. A broken glass, not a clean cut."
He exhaled softly. "What you did wasn't emotional. That's what made it dangerous."
Auren said nothing.
He didn't move.
The Marquis studied him a moment longer, then pushed the black-sealed parchment forward. It slid halfway across the table and stopped.
"There is a stretch of land along the northeast edge of Veyr territory. It's barely a fief, more a name on an old charter. Trees, two rivers, remnants of a village. No standing militia. No noble oversight. No coin."
He folded his hands again.
"It is yours."
The words were spoken with the weight of a closing door.
No threat. No punishment. Just the finality of being removed—quietly, cleanly, without spectacle.
"You will not return to court," the Marquis continued. "You will not speak for this House. You will not carry its crest beyond that decree."
He gestured to the sealed document.
"That paper gives you the right to exist somewhere else. That is all."
Auren stepped forward. Slowly. Deliberately.
He picked up the parchment.
The seal was cool beneath his thumb.
Still, he said nothing.
As he turned to go, the Marquis added—quietly, almost as an afterthought:
"This family no longer has need of a second son."
Auren paused for half a second in the doorway.
Not long enough to acknowledge the words.
Just long enough to bury them.
Then he left.
And the door clicked shut behind him.