The hall didn't recover.
Not really.
After Valtan was taken out—arms stiff, face stained, breath ragged—the noble crowd began to thin without anyone officially calling it off. A few offered half-smiles and parting bows. Most just left in awkward silence.
No one said what had happened,But they all felt it.
Something had cracked. And it wasn't just pride or pageantry.
It was the illusion.
The illusion of supremacy and power of House of Veyr
Auren stayed behind in the shadows until nearly everyone was gone. Not because he was hiding. Because he wasn't done watching.
He had given them what they wanted, in a way—a spectacle.
But not the kind you clap for.
Back in his quarters, the air felt cold. He shut the door behind him and paused. He hadn't even taken off his cloak when the Wazir spoke.
"I suppose congratulations are in order."
Auren didn't respond. He moved slowly, unfastening the front clasp, shrugging the fabric off his shoulders. His arms were still tense—like something was holding on from inside.
He hung the cloak neatly and turned. The Wazir was perched on the edge of the window frame, cross-legged, draped in half a dozen layers that somehow looked weightless.
"You didn't pull lightly," the Wazir said.
"I wasn't trying to."
"No," he said. "You weren't."
A pause. The kind that sits in a room, waiting to be broken.
"He looked right at me," Auren said finally. "Right after. He knew."
"Yes," the Wazir said without hesitation. "Because part of him felt it. You didn't just make him remember—you made him feel the memory like it was happening again. And when people feel something that raw, they go looking for the one who gave it back to them."
Auren exhaled, slow. His hands still hadn't stopped tingling.
The Wazir stood and crossed the room, robes whispering against stone. "Do you want to know what they're calling him now?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
"The Weeping Heir.""Sword-Soft.""Crownless."
"They forget fast," he added with a shrug.
"Let them," Auren said.
But he didn't believe that. Not really.
Valtan would remember.
And so would the man who gave him the title of heir.
That evening, the summons came.
Not with shouting or guards. Just a folded letter. Black wax. No name on the seal—none needed.