The night before the execution was quiet.
Ren sat on the floor of the inn room, his back against the cold stone wall. He wasn't sleeping. He was listening to the city. Oakhaven breathed with a restless, jagged energy. Above the slums, the spires of the High Court caught the moonlight, looking like silver needles ready to sew the sky shut.
"He'll use the Saber claw," Thorne said from the shadows.
The old man was cleaning a piece of dried meat with a small, serrated knife. His one eye was fixed on Ren. "Jace is arrogant, but he isn't stupid. He saw what you did to the Hada boy. He knows you're fast. He knows you hit hard. He's going to try and open you up before you can get inside his reach."
"Let him try," Ren said. His voice was flat. A dead calm.
"It's not just the technique, Ren. It's the weapon. The Vane Successors carry a forged artifact called the Silver Fang. It's a curved saber designed to channel wind element Aur. It doesn't just cut skin. It cuts the air around the skin. If you're an inch off on your dodge, you'll lose a limb."
Ren looked at his hands. They were steady.
"The Vane Clan thinks the wind belongs to them because they can move it," Ren said. "They forget that the wind only exists because the earth stays still. I'm not going to dodge the air, Uncle. I'm going to break the hand that holds it."
Thorne let out a short, dry laugh. "Spoken like a man who wants to die young. Your father had that same certainty. It made him a king. It also made him a target."
"I'm already a target," Ren said. He stood up, his joints popping in the silence. "The difference is, I'm the only one in this city who knows exactly what the stakes are. To Jace, this is a game. A way to prove he's better than a peasant. To me... this is the first payment on a debt that's ten years overdue."
He walked to the window. In the distance, he could see the torches of the Vane estate. They were bright. Proud.
Ren closed his eyes. He didn't see the torches. He saw the fire in the Great Hall. He felt the phantom heat of his mother's hand letting go.
"I'm going to take his pride, Uncle. And then I'm going to take his name."