Metal and Flesh (The Rohvim, Book 1)

3.4 Judged

Aeden had hoped to slip into the family estate unnoticed, but it was not to be. Harvey, the family’s steward, greeted Aeden as he opened the front door, and Lord Rossam, hearing the greeting, marched out of his study. The man looked at Aeden’s arm, the usual frown on his face deepening into a scowl.

“What happened?”

“Just the pre-trials. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing? Your arm is covered in blood.” Lord Rossam stated the obvious—his arm was indeed still dripping, dripping onto the pristine marble floor. And yet the man didn’t even move to offer a hand, or anything to staunch the bleeding. Thankfully, Harvey reappeared moments later with some cloth and began wrapping the wounds.

“Yeah, it’s ok. Just a flesh wound. Really, father, it’s nothing.”

The man eyed Aeden suspiciously. “Who did it?”

“I can’t remember.”

“You lie. Tell me, or you’ll be punished”.

“One of the judges. I can’t remember his name.” Aeden waved a hand—his good hand—as if he were trying to remember but couldn’t.

“One of the judges? Since when do the judges duel the tournament contestants?” Lord Rossam took a menacing step toward Aeden. “Again I ask, are you lying to me? Tell me what you and that sewer rat have been up to. What have you been doing? Why would you be so reckless the day before the tournament?”

So. His father didn’t even think he’d been at the pre-trials. “I was there, father, really. I was to fight Sir Jack, but after three duels he got tired and needed a rest. One of the judges offered to help out. That’s all. Everyone was there—they all saw it. I’m not hiding anything.” Believe me, he thought. Believe me.

Lord Rossam, who had been inspecting Aeden’s shoulder, snapped his head back to face him, with an odd look on his face. The scowl returned. “Very well. Get cleaned up. Get some rest. You’ll need it after this. And Aeden,” he said, as Aeden walked towards the bathhouse, “our deal still stands. Win your bracket, and you enter the royal guard. Lose, and it’s off to the warm spittoon with you.”

The warm spittoon. Aeden almost cried when he looked at his shoulder again—all he could see was the future arm of a useless priest.