THE CROWN OF ASH

Chapter 7 : The Sound of Wisdom

The sun crept over the Mountainlands west of Silhaven, its light glinting off the steel tips of crossbow bolts. Lord Ronan Velmore of house Velmore, one of the First Houses. Stood over his latest kill, a stag brought low by his keen aim. The wound on the beast's flank was a mark of precision, and his men congratulated him.

"You're a natural, my lord," one of his retainers said, clapping him on the back. "No beast escapes your aim." 

Ronan smirked but said nothing. His eyes, sharp and restless, betrayed his discontent. Another man, emboldened by the morning's success, spoke up. "Did you hear about the prince and your cousin, the marshal? They're arming lowborns now, putting swords in their hands." 

Ronan's jaw tightened. He turned, his voice cutting through the air like his bolts. "I know. That's why I'm out here—to forget. Tell me, what separates the First Houses from peasants if not the sword? If they wield steel as we do, what is left of our blood and our heritage?" 

Before the retainer could respond, another voice interrupted. "Careful, Velmore," drawled Lord Cillian, stepping from the trees, his own hunting party trailing behind him. The Duskbane lord wore a wolfish grin, his bow slung casually over his shoulder. "Keep talking like that, and your wedding to Princess Bella might find itself... postponed." 

Ronan's lip curled. "I wasn't aware Duskbane lords made a habit of skulking about other men's hunts." 

"And I wasn't aware Velmore lords made a habit of complaining," Cillian shot back, his tone light but barbed. He glanced at the dead stag and then at Ronan's men. "But for once, I agree with you. Putting swords in the hands of lowborns? Dangerous. They'll wield them against each other at first, but soon they'll turn on the crown. And don't forget the rioters in the Pisspit. Those rats are getting bolder by the day." 

Ronan nodded, his expression grim. "It's a madness I'll never understand. Giving the mob the tools to destroy us? I couldn't agree more." 

Their mutual distaste hung in the air and the hunt was over, but the scent of danger lingered. 

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The Pisspit reeked of desperation. In the narrow, filth-strewn streets, the hopeless and the drunk lay tangled in heaps. Fights broke out over scraps of food, and the unlucky simply slumped where they fell, ignored by the living and soon lay with the dead. 

Amid the chaos, a knight on horseback approached, his polished armor a stark contrast to the squalor around him. The wretched crowd surged, brandishing sticks and stones. But before they could strike, a familiar figure dismounted and stepped forward. 

"Ray!" someone cried, their weapon falling to the ground in surprise. 

Ray climbed onto a broken cart, rising above the sea of ragged faces. His shaved head caught the sunlight, a sharp reminder of who he was—the boy who led the riots and still walked free. 

"I've come with news," Ray began, his voice steady, though his heart pounded in his chest. "Prince Aiden has kept his word. The villagers on the coast—they have swords now. They will defend themselves, and soon they'll thrive. Food, shelter, safety—it's all part of his plan." 

The crowd muttered, suspicion thick in their voices. 

"Why should we trust a Silveryn?" someone jeered. "King Julias fled like a coward. What makes this prince any different?" 

Ray raised a hand, silencing them. "Aiden doesn't ask you to trust him," he said, his voice rising. "He asks you to trust me." 

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the soft murmurs of those daring to believe. One by one, voices rose in agreement. 

"In Ray, we trust!" 

The chant spread, growing louder until it echoed through the streets. Ray smiled, but his gaze lingered on the knight, who had turned his horse to leave. 

"Wait," Ray called, jumping down from the cart. "Take me to the Redcastle." 

The knight stopped, his tone sharp. "A lowborn like you, giving orders? Watch your tongue." 

Ray folded his arms, defiant. "The prince's orders, not mine." 

The knight scowled but said no more. 

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The gates of Redcastle loomed large, their iron bars as imposing as the men who guarded them. Ray walked beside the knight, who treated him more like a prisoner than a messenger. The guards at the gate eyed him with open disdain. 

"What's this?" one of them sneered. "A street rat expecting us to roll out the carpet?" 

"I have a message," Ray said calmly. "For Ser Braun." 

The guards burst into laughter. "A message for the commander? From you?" 

Their mockery drew the attention of a tall, broad-shouldered man emerging from the castle. Ser Braun himself, his armor catching the last light of day. He crossed his arms, his voice a growl. "What's the message, boy? And if it's a lie, I'll have your tongue." 

Ray met his gaze without flinching. "The prince said to let me hear the sound of wisdom." 

Braun froze. His expression shifted from suspicion to shock, though he hid it poorly. 

The guards exchanged confused glances. "Commander?" one ventured. 

Ray smirked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "What's the matter, Ser Braun? Did you cut out your own tongue?" 

One of the guards reached for his sword, bristling at the insult, but Braun raised a hand. "Stand down," he ordered. 

"But Commander—" 

"The crown prince has commanded me to teach this boy the sword," Braun snapped, his tone leaving no room for argument. 

The guards fell silent, their faces a mix of confusion and disbelief, the questions loomed large. The Silverguards commander, training a lowborn? What was Aiden's plan? And could it possibly work, or would the prince's ambitions lead to the ruin of all?