My father's study smelled of smoke and steel. The fire hissed in the hearth, but its warmth never reached beyond the stones. The rest of the room was kept cold on purpose — to sharpen the mind, he said. To dull comfort before it dulled the will.
He stood behind his desk, a figure cut from stone, dressed in black with the silver crest of House Veylen stitched across his chest. His eyes — gray, hard, without hesitation — moved from me to the ritual blade resting on the table.
"Stillness," he said. Not instruction. Demand.
I kept my face a mask.
He gestured toward the blade. Its edge caught the firelight, bright as ice. "This is the inheritance of our line. Every Veylen learns to endure its weight. You will too."
I moved forward. Each step measured, each breath unbroken. My fingers hovered above the hilt, not yet touching.
"Pick it up," my father said.
I obeyed. The leather was cold, the blade heavier than it looked. He watched for a flinch, for the smallest betrayal of weakness. He found none.
"Good," he said. "You are not flesh alone. You are a vessel. House Veylen's offering to the Veil."
I lowered my eyes just enough to please him.
Inside, I thought: An inheritance may pass hands, but I am no object to be given.
He pressed the blade lightly against my palm. I allowed it to draw a shallow line, blood welling dark against pale skin. I had chosen to bleed. He did not see that.
And that, I decided, was mine alone.