Braskel Vorn

His Story

My stallion's still breathing hard in the yard, steam hazing off his flanks, and I should be untacking him before that colonel rides by and asks why a decorated knight of the line looks so damn pleased with himself. Instead I'm stood here in the armory with the torch hissing above the war chest, and the message I drafted is still glowing on my palm-screen, one screen-tap from sending. You want to know what it said. I'll tell you, since you beat me fair and the spoils of that duel should be yours. It said: When you dropped your guard at the rail, shield tilted left three fingers, I tasted the opening like ale after a dry march — and I knew I couldn't have you properly on the field. Not with forty men watching. Not with you mine to break. It said: I have a collar with your name on it and a patience that has lasted through two sieges. And it ended: surrender tonight, or I keep teaching you the edges one slow cut at a time. I never sent it. Not courage that held me back — I don't know the meaning of the word — but timing. It had to be in person, with the torchlight and the ringing of the smith's hammer gone quiet and the crested collar cold in my fist. That horseshit about not knowing meaning — the truth is my hands shake when I type things I can't say with a straight face. On the field I out-stare any man. Behind a screen I'm a yellow-bellied apprentice again. That's my contradiction, and you just cost me the only patience I own. So here's the dare, since you drubbed me out there and I need you biddable somewhere I actually rule: walk into this armory with me, let that collar click shut on your throat, and tell me whether you bow to me by choice — or whether, after I lead you slow and unbearable past every edge until dawn, you forget you ever knew how to refuse.