As with all great performances in the Vale, it began with ignorance.
Cups were raised. Conversations murmured softly. Eyes drifted deliberately elsewhere, lingering on braziers, half-finished plates, distant banners.
Of course, no one was fooled.
But it was far more convenient than admitting the simple truth: they were listening. All of them were listening.
Viren stood beside Chion with his hands clasped behind his back, posture flawless, expression relaxed in the effortless way only veteran warriors could manage. He lingered at Chion's side like a storm deciding whether or not to break.
"You're rather uptight, aren't you, boy?" Viren remarked, his eyes sharpening slightly. "But are you certain you wish to carry such rigid sentiments over mere pleasantries?"
Chion did not look up. He swirled the last of his wine, watching the dark liquid spiral along the cup's interior.
"Seems not," Viren continued lightly, a mocking edge creeping into his tone.
Chion raised the cup to his lips and took a measured sip.
"I think you're mistaken, Senior. I was simply being cautious — granting you the time you required to disgrace yourself more clearly."
Nearby Mantled froze mid-sip. The ambient noise of the hall dipped.
Chion's silver gaze rose, locking onto the veteran.
"Which, by all accounts, you have."
Viren's jaw tightened.
The casual aura he had cultivated began to fracture beneath the sudden weight of gazes, a mocking chuckle, a displeased sneer, clear murmurs.
He looked for a weakness, an opening — and found only an unsettling truth.
Chion wasn't cornered.
He had been waiting for someone to try.
"I must say, you carry yourself well," Viren admitted. "But tell me — is it confidence that backs your tone, or merely the perfume of ignorance?"
The hall tilted, waiting for the strike.
"Only certainty," Chion said, "that you're projecting your own loose sentiments onto someone who holds no regard for them."
The silence between them narrowed until it was razor-thin.
Then Viren chuckled softly — dry, humourless.
"Quite the rude assumption."
"Then why are you here, Senior?" Chion asked. "Why stand before me at all, if not to project your unwillingness to relinquish what is no longer yours to hold?"
The hall went completely still.
"Honour. Tradition." Viren's gaze lowered slightly. "And to measure the worth of the infamous murderer who now holds the Eighteenth."
He said it. He actually said it aloud.
A few tilted away. The rest leaned in — hoping for reaction. A flinch. A confession.
"Mm."
Chion took another sip before setting the cup down with measured care. The faint clink of metal against stone carried far farther than it should have.
"Quite the sentiments," he said. "But unless you intend to support them with something more substantial than words, I'd advise you to keep them to yourself."
A faint, collective shift rippled through the onlookers.
Viren laughed again — louder this time, more genuine, though his knuckles were white.
"You're bold," he admitted. "A fine virtue." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Reminds me of myself. Before I learned how to back it up."
Chion turned the empty cup slowly between his fingers.
"I'm fairly confident I can."
"Is that so?"
Viren leaned closer — not enough to touch, only enough to loom.
"Then perhaps you wouldn't object to a friendly duel." A casual gesture accompanied the offer, as though he were suggesting another drink. "Nothing serious. Merely a test of sentiments."
Chion gave no answer. He continued turning the cup in his hand.
The silence stretched long enough for pretense to die completely.
Heads turned openly now.
Across the hall, Violet sat rigid, her eyes darting between the two, her breath held.
Then Chion hummed softly.
"Oh, I would object."
Viren's eyes narrowed.
"Afraid?"
"Concerned," Chion said. "About you."
A few brows rose around the room.
"How much more shame can you actually endure? An esteemed Bearer provoking a child. Begging for a duel in front of the entire lineage…"
His silver gaze held Viren's without wavering.
"And then being brought low in the arena."
A quiet ripple moved through the hall. One Mantled hid a grin behind his goblet. Another leaned forward, elbows on the table.
Then Chion rose — not reaching for a weapon, not shifting his stance, yet the air around him seemed to tighten like the moment before a blade left its sheath.
"For your own sake."
A small shake of his head.
"Carry whatever dignity you have left."
He stepped past Viren, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed — but not quite.
"And make yourself scarce. You'll have your duel," he said, "when you are no longer beneath the price of my time."
The words settled over the hall like falling ash.
Behind him, Viren's voice came low and controlled.
"Walk away while you can, boy. Boys who play at wolves eventually meet the real thing."
Chion did not turn.
"I'll take heed," he replied. "Senior."
He continued walking.
No one pretended not to watch. A quiet murmur moved along the tables. Some exchanged glances. A few smiles appeared and vanished just as quickly.
Viren remained where he stood — bound by laws he had never truly wanted to test in the first place.
How utterly disgraceful.
His eyes traced the boy's retreating form one last time.
"Unforgivable," he said, barely a breath.
He turned and walked away, the weight of the room pressing against his back.
Across the hall, Violet exhaled slowly.
Gods. He had done that on purpose.
She wasn't sure whether to be relieved or terrified.
At the high table, the Patriarch watched the exchange with an expression balanced somewhere between amusement and concern — and chose, quite deliberately, to settle on neither.