The keep was a living thing.
Stone corridors whispered with footsteps, banners stirred like lungs drawing air, and every hall carried the scent of sweat, steel, and bread. For the first time since his arrival, Elias was allowed to walk its veins freely—though "freely" was a generous word. Two guards shadowed him at all times, their eyes sharper than the spears they carried.
Still, it was something. Not chains. Not the pit. Not silence.
Better a caged hawk than a buried worm, Elias thought as he descended the steps into the training yard.
The clang of steel rang like a choir. Squads of young men battered each other with blunted blades, sweat glistening on their brows. Knights barked corrections, calling out footwork, balance, discipline. A few of them glanced at Elias as he passed, whispers trailing in his wake. Some curious. Some resentful.
That resentment found a voice soon enough.
"Look at him."
The words cut through the din, spat like venom. A knight, broad-shouldered with a scar running from jaw to ear, leaned on his practice blade. His gaze raked Elias from head to toe, dripping disdain. "The lord's pet stranger. Fed, clothed, and coddled while real men bleed."
The yard quieted. Elias felt the weight of a dozen eyes.
His heart thumped once—hard. Old instincts screamed: Bow your head. Say nothing. Survive.
But the scarred knight's sneer tightened something in him. He remembered the chains, the pit, the whip raised high, and he thought: I will not crawl again.
So he smiled. Thin. Controlled. Dangerous.
"Fed, clothed, and coddled?" Elias tilted his head, his Orravian halting but sharp. "Strange. I recall chains. Whips. And the pit. Do your men call that coddling?"
A ripple ran through the watching squires. Some snorted. A few smirked. The knight's face flushed crimson.
Elias' guard shifted, one hand tightening on his spear, but Elias didn't stop. His blood was singing now, carried by equal parts fear and defiance.
"Tell me," he added, voice low enough to sting, "did you earn your place through chains? Or only through your lord's grace?"
The knight's jaw clenched. His hand whitened on the hilt of his practice sword. For a heartbeat Elias thought the man might strike him down there in the yard.
But before the blow could fall, a laugh broke the tension.
"You've teeth, foreigner. Not sure if that's courage or stupidity."
A boy, perhaps sixteen, stepped forward from the line of squires. He was lanky, with straw-colored hair plastered to his sweaty brow, training sword slung over his shoulder. His grin was lopsided, but his eyes—sharp, quick—studied Elias with something more than mockery.
The knight snarled. "Stay out of this, boy."
The squire shrugged, unbothered. "Just saying what we're all thinking. The stranger's got more wit than half the yard."
Laughter rippled again, this time bolder. The scarred knight spat into the dirt, muttered a curse under his breath, and stalked off. His retreat didn't feel like victory—more like a promise of trouble later.
But Elias was alive. Standing. And oddly enough, a little exhilarated.
The straw-haired squire approached once the yard's noise resumed. He leaned in, voice pitched for Elias alone.
"Name's Alaric," he said, grin lingering. "Don't mind Ser Garran. He's bitter his glory days are behind him. He'll hate you more for making him look the fool, though."
Elias studied him. The boy was bold, but not reckless. Quick with his tongue, quick with his eyes. The kind who listened while others spoke.
"Elias," he answered simply.
Alaric smirked. "Elias of… nowhere, aye? That's what they whisper. No house, no banner, no tale anyone can place. Just a ghost who speaks our tongue too fast and too sharp."
The words stung more than they should have. Elias forced a shrug. "Ghosts live longer than fools."
Alaric barked a laugh. "Fair. Still, you'll need allies if you don't want Garran gutting you in a dark hall. Lucky for you, I've an ear for whispers. And whispers, in this keep, are worth more than steel."
Elias narrowed his eyes. He didn't trust the boy—not yet. But he recognized the offer for what it was: a hand extended, palm open, no chains.
"Then let's hope," Elias murmured, "your whispers are kinder than your knights."
The boy grinned again, wider this time. "We'll see, foreigner. We'll see."
As Alaric jogged back to join his fellows, Elias stood a moment longer in the yard. His heart was still racing, his palms still damp, but a slow realization settled in his chest.
He had survived the knight's scorn. He had gained, perhaps, a friend. And in this place of blades and banners, that was worth more than bread or chains.
First an ally. First an enemy. The board is set.
Elias turned, following his guards back through the keep's corridors, his thoughts already racing ahead.
Words, not swords, will keep me alive. And words, if wielded well, can cut deeper than steel.