The summons came without warning or explanation, delivered not as an order but as an expectation so firmly assumed that resistance never crossed my mind. I was removed from the training line halfway through the morning drills by a quiet gesture from the instructor, and a man I did not recognize stepped into place beside me, guiding me away from the others and deeper into the noble house without a single word exchanged between us.
We walked through corridors that felt older than the rest of the estate, their stone floors worn smooth by time rather than traffic and their walls stripped of banners or decoration, as though these passages had been built for endurance rather than display. The silence stretched with every step, pressing against my thoughts until even curiosity felt like something that should be restrained, and I understood that asking questions here would reveal more about me than any answer ever could.
The room I was led into offered no comfort.
There were no windows, no symbols, no furnishings beyond a single table and two chairs positioned with deliberate symmetry, and when the door closed behind me the sound carried a finality that made the space feel sealed rather than enclosed. I was instructed to sit, and after that, nothing followed, leaving me alone with the silence and the slow passage of time.
Minutes blurred into something less distinct, long enough for unease to fade into something colder and more controlled, and I realized that the quiet itself was part of the design, meant to strip away impatience and reveal what remained once discomfort became familiar.
When the door opened again, more than one presence entered, though I did not raise my gaze immediately, choosing instead to wait until attention was directed toward me rather than assume it had been granted.
They did not introduce themselves.
They spoke among themselves instead, discussing matters that had nothing to do with me, their voices calm and deliberate as they addressed issues of efficiency, allocation, and loyalty within a household that valued order above sentiment. The deliberate exclusion was unmistakable, and I understood that being ignored was as much a measure as being questioned.
Eventually, the focus shifted.
I was asked about duty, not as an abstract principle but as a burden that must be carried without recognition. I was asked about obedience, framed not as submission but as alignment with structure, and about strength, not in terms of violence but in how it should be applied within a system that could not afford instability.
I answered carefully, drawing from experience rather than belief, speaking of duty as something borne rather than imposed, of obedience as a choice renewed daily rather than a condition forced by fear, and of strength as something that existed to support order rather than challenge it.
No response was offered.
No indication of approval or concern crossed the room.
Then the questions changed, shifting from ideals to situations that carried weight. I was asked what I would do if ordered to act against another trainee for the good of the house, what I would choose if loyalty demanded silence instead of action, and what I would be willing to sacrifice if survival required it. At no point was I guided toward a correct answer, and at no point was honesty confirmed as the desired approach.
I answered anyway, aware that hesitation would be recorded just as clearly as defiance.
When the questioning ended, it did so without declaration.
Those who had entered left the room without explanation, the door closing behind them and returning the silence to its earlier weight. I remained seated, uncertain whether leaving without instruction would be seen as initiative or insubordination, and chose stillness as the safer interpretation.
Time passed again, slower than before.
When the door opened once more, only one figure entered.
The young lord regarded me from across the table with the same calm curiosity he had shown during the duel, his expression unchanged, as though this meeting were merely a continuation rather than a consequence. He observed me for a long moment before speaking, his tone measured and devoid of praise as he stated that I had performed adequately.
The words were not reassurance.
They were a conclusion.
I was dismissed and returned to my routine without ceremony, no title given to what had taken place and no explanation offered for what would follow. Training resumed as it always had, yet the weight that had once pressed down from all directions had narrowed into something sharper and more deliberate.
That night, as I lay awake beneath the quiet ceiling of the trainee quarters, I understood with uncomfortable clarity that whatever I had endured had not been meant to decide whether I belonged.
It had been meant to determine what kind of tool I could become.
And tools, once shaped, were rarely allowed to decide how they were used.