House Valdrake taught threats the way other families taught table manners.
Quietly.
Early.
With consequences if a child misunderstood which fork belonged to fear.
Maeron Vale returned at tenth bell, this time without the carriage.
That made it worse.
The carriage had been spectacle. Noon sunlight, black lacquer, void-thread horses, a courtyard full of witnesses. A stage.
Today, he came as etiquette.
One man in black household uniform. White gloves. Silver hair tied precisely. A sealed folder under one arm. No guards. No driver. No horses pretending not to be memory constructs.
Just a servant of House Valdrake standing outside the academy recovery room with enough composure to make the walls feel underdressed.
Ren opened the door.
He did not step back.
Progress.
Dangerous, infuriating progress.
Maeron's gaze moved from Ren's gray twine bracelet to the Support Witness pin at his collar.
A tiny movement.
Enough.
"You have been decorated," Maeron said.
