On Bertram

A Quiet Reckoning: The King and the Captain

Late evening. The fire in the hall is low, the wine is old, and the truth walks without ceremony.

The balcony outside the king’s study overlooked Stormarrow Keep, cloaked in quiet and cooling stone. Priam Ryomar, King of Gorundia, leaned against the stone rail with a bottle in hand. No crown. No throne. Just a tired man beside another.

Sorek Redmarch stood beside him, arms folded, jaw set like it was carved out of rock.

“**He’s got a good heart, Sorek. That’s the worst kind.**”

Sorek grunted. “**A bad heart’ll get you killed. A good one? That gets others killed.**”

Priam nodded, eyes distant. “**You ever see someone so desperate to do the right thing they step on every soul in their path to get there?**”

“**Bertram means well. That’s the damn tragedy of him. He’s not cruel. Not lazy. Just blind to the cost of his own importance. He thinks being knighted made him right. But titles don’t teach timing. Or silence.**”

The king drank, slow and measured. “**He went to Alastair about Cornelia. About the marriage.**”

“That wasn’t his place.”

“No. But he thinks every place is his now. He’s loud with honor, quiet with sense.” Sorek shot the king a sideways glance. “**And you gave him a sword.**”

“I gave him a chance,” Priam said softly. “**It was his sword before I touched the hilt.**”

Sorek was silent for a beat. Then: “**Then let’s pray he learns where to point it. Before someone bleeds that shouldn’t.**”

They stood a while longer, the night pressing in, the keep holding its breath.

“**He’s Orin’s now.**” Priam said at last.

Sorek didn’t smile. Not quite. “**Poor bastard.**”

Priam allowed himself a brief, tired laugh. “**He’ll survive. Orin’s got patience. Braga, too. She won’t suffer nonsense, but she’s got a soft spot for strays. Hard-earned, that mercy.**”

“They’ll knock the shine off him,” Sorek said. “**Gods willing, they’ll leave the steel. He’s not hopeless—just unshaped. Like a blade fresh from the forge. Still loud. Still brittle.**”

“I didn’t knight him because he was ready,” Priam murmured. “**I knighted him because he might be. Might not, too. That’s the gamble.**”

Sorek nodded. “**He doesn’t listen yet. Not to voices older than his own. He talks over silence. That’ll cost him, eventually. Best if it’s a bruise and not a grave.**”

“**Do you think Orin can get through to him?**”

“If anyone can, it’s Orin,” Sorek said. “**He’s got weight when he speaks, and he doesn’t throw it around. And Braga? If Orin can’t get through to the lad, she’ll beat a lesson into him—with love, spite, or both.**”

Priam stared out into the dark.

“**I just hope when the lesson lands, it doesn’t come at someone else’s expense.**”

Sorek’s voice was gravel and truth.

“**It always does, Majesty. That’s how knights learn.**”