Chapter 256: Theatrical Lord veynar
It made him look larger, more untouchable—like a man so sure of his power that he didn’t need to hold a weapon properly at all.
When at last he reached a spot just beyond bow range, he stopped. He slid the spear down, planting its point into the earth with a sharp, ringing sound. The pause stretched. A faint breeze tugged at his cape, sending it flaring out behind him. Then he let out a sigh—loud, theatrical, the kind that belonged more to a stage than to a battlefield.
"My, my," Veynar said. His voice carried far too easily, clear as though he were standing among them instead of across the field. "This is what your kingdom sends to hold the border? Children in armor that still smells of the forge? You wound me."
He shook his head slowly, the gesture exaggerated until it felt almost mocking. His long hair shifted with the movement, dark against the shine of his armor. "I march for days across empty land expecting a contest worth my time, and instead I find... this?"
A ripple went through the cadets. Some flushed red, bristling at the insult, while others froze, their fear only sharpened by the man’s casual disdain. One cadet’s hand shook so badly on his sword that the tip scraped against the dirt. Another pressed his lips so tight together they turned white. None of them dared step forward.
Jae stood among them, arms folded, his expression calm, unreadable. His crimson eyes narrowed a fraction, a faint spark lighting them. Amusement, maybe. Or something quieter, steadier. He didn’t look away, didn’t shift in place like the others. His stillness alone seemed to set him apart.
Byun leaned close to him, lowering his voice until it was little more than a breath. "Please," he muttered, "tell me I’m not the only one who feels like we’ve walked into a badly written play."
Jae didn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth lifted slightly, enough for Byun to notice. The tiny curl of a smirk said more than words could.
Across the way, Veynar let his gaze drift lazily over the cadet ranks. He didn’t rush. His eyes swept left, then right, pausing just long enough to make the silence stretch tighter. He looked as though he were savoring it, drawing it out until the tension in the air thickened like smoke. His soldiers stayed perfectly still behind him, their shields gleaming, their spears angled like rows of teeth.
Then, without warning, Veynar stilled. His head tilted slightly, and his eyes locked onto Jae.
The grin that followed was slow, deliberate, and far too wide. It spread across his face with the ease of someone who knew exactly how much attention he commanded.
"Well," Veynar said, resting both hands atop the spear and leaning on it as if it were a walking stick. "At least one of you has eyes that don’t dart about like frightened mice." He lifted one hand from the spear and swept it toward Jae in a broad, almost careless gesture. "You. The calm one. That’s dangerous."
Byun groaned under his breath. "Perfect. Out of a thousand nervous faces, he picks yours. You’ve got the worst luck, farmboy."
"Quiet," Jae replied softly, though his faint smirk lingered.
Veynar leaned forward, peering across the gap as though trying to see Jae more clearly. His voice lowered, but it still carried. "Yes... yes. That’s it. Not drilled discipline, not blind obedience. No. You wear yourself differently. Like a storm hidden inside a man’s frame. The kind that breaks things without meaning to."
His laughter came sharp and sudden, ringing out across the plain like a strike of iron against stone. It was too loud, too deliberate, and it carried far across the wind. The sound didn’t just echo—it clawed its way into the ears of every cadet, scratching against nerves already stretched thin.
Some flinched outright, shoulders jerking before they could stop themselves. Others only stiffened, jaws clenched, hands gripping weapons tighter, as though afraid that even the smallest motion would shatter what little composure they had left. The veterans along the line gave nothing away, their faces hard as weathered rock, but the recruits were not stone. They were young, untested, and the general’s laughter had stripped them bare.
For a long moment it seemed to go on forever, echoing longer than sound had any right to linger. The silence that followed pressed down heavier than the noise itself. Hundreds of young soldiers stood rigid, armor creaking faintly, breaths too shallow, each one desperate to appear braver than they felt.
It was Sun who broke the stillness.
The crown prince stepped forward with deliberate weight, every bootfall sinking firm into the earth as though to anchor himself and everyone behind him. His voice rose clear and sharp, edged with steel that had been forged through years of expectation.
"Enough. You face the crown prince of this kingdom. If you seek an opponent, then face me."
The words cut clean through the air. They carried the tone of command, the certainty of bloodline and authority. And for the cadets, it was something to cling to. Relief flickered across strained faces as stares shifted toward Sun. They could rally around that. A prince at their head was a banner more powerful than cloth or crest—it was legacy, order, the weight of history standing in front of them. For just a breath, they could believe again.
Lord Veynar turned his head slowly, deliberately, as though the statement had taken longer to reach him than it should have. The grin never faltered, but it bent, reshaping into something almost amused.
"Ah. The prince," he said at last. His tone was warm, admiring even, but every syllable dripped with mockery. He sank into a bow—too graceful, too precise, every movement exaggerated until the gesture became insult. He held it a fraction longer than courtesy allowed, a parody of respect.
"Forgive me, highness," Veynar drawled as he straightened. "I was distracted. You must understand—storms are more interesting than crowns."