He laid his bare hand on its snout.
The scales were warm and faintly textured, like river rock left in sun. For a heartbeat nothing happened. Then the growl changed—dropped into a low rumble that vibrated through Bram's bones and into the cobblestones. The thrashing eased. The great head settled, not tame, not owned, but listening.
Bram half-smiled, startled into honesty. "Maybe it dislikes knights."
Elowen stepped forward. Her scrutiny was a blade with no flourish. "What is your family name?"
"Hale."
Her face changed. Shock moved through it the way wind moves through a field—swift, total, impossible to pretend had not happened. "Your mother's name?"
"Mara?" The question mark was habit. He had said the name a thousand times to empty rooms and once a year at a small stone outside Millcross.
"That is impossible."
"Why?"
Behind him, the wyvern lowered its whole body. Wings folded. Neck stretched. The massive head came down to the cobblestones until the horns nearly kissed the hay-strewn stone. It knelt.
In Veldorn, children learned the lore with their letters: a wyvern kneels for royal blood and for nothing else. Not for gold. Not for fear. Not for the prettiest speech a court poet ever wrote.
Bram turned, confused, still feeling the creature's warmth under his palm. "Your Grace?"
Elowen lunged. She grabbed the front of his vest and pulled him inches from her face. Her breath smelled of mint and iron resolve. When she hissed, it was for him alone.
"Do not tell them your mother's name."
Then the world, for Bram Hale, stopped being a courtyard and became a cliff.