Dylan Nobleblood's Arc

Chapter 3 of 4

Dylan rode through the night and reached his father's house at dawn. He had left the sword here years ago, wrapped and hidden beneath a loose floorboard. He expected dust and silence. Instead he found the front door split from its hinges. Inside, chairs lay broken. Drawers hung open. Someone had torn the place apart. Dylan ran to the room where he had hidden the blade and pried up the floorboard. The hollow beneath was empty. He knelt there a long moment. Without the sword, he had no proof. Without proof, the royal would wed another, and his ride meant nothing. He searched every room twice. He found a muddy bootprint by the window and fresh wheel ruts in the yard. The thieves had come recently. Someone knew the sword's worth. Dylan rode the ruts to their end. They led to Nobleblood Manor, a tall stone house that bore his family's name. He had never been inside. He left his horse at the gate and climbed the steps, his hand near his sword hilt. The lord of the manor met him in a cold hall. White flowers climbed a vine on the wall, blooming far out of their season. The lord was pale, with frost-white hair and a black coat. He watched Dylan with sharp green eyes and did not rise. "You carry nothing," the lord said. "Most men bring a gift." "I came for a sword," Dylan said. "Taken from my father's house. The tracks end at your gate." The lord stood and crossed to a long table. A bundled cloth lay on it. He pulled the cloth back. The ancestral blade lay there, its hilt set with blue and green stones, the house mark cut into the steel near the guard. "My men found an empty house and a sword with no owner," the lord said. "I keep what wanders onto my land." Dylan stepped forward. "That mark is my family's. Look at it. It is the same as the name carved above your door." The lord lifted the blade and studied the mark. For a moment nothing moved. The flowers on the vine seemed to lean toward the hall's far door. He set the sword down. "Then we share a name," the lord said. "That is a thing to prove, not to claim." "Give me the sword and I will prove it to the royal court," Dylan said. The lord was quiet. He slid the blade back into its cloth, but did not hand it over. "Not yet. A sword this old has a story. I want to hear yours first." He gestured to a chair. "Stay the night. Convince me the blood is real. Then it is yours." Dylan had the sword in his sight. But it was not in his hand. To take it, he now had to win over a cold lord who shared his name and already doubted him. And the suitor's flowers still waited, unbrought.