The courtyard stones were still wet from the morning wash when they called him out.
Jason had been stacking firewood behind the side hall. It was quiet work. No one bothered him there most days. The servants kept their distance, not out of cruelty, just habit. He was something that existed around the estate, not in it. Useful when needed. Invisible when not.
"Jason."
Marcel's voice carried easily across the yard. Loud. Always loud, like he needed the air to know he was there.
Jason didn't answer at first. He wiped his hands on his trousers and turned slowly. The three of them stood near the training posts. Edric in front, straight-backed, hands clasped behind him like he was already a noble receiving reports. Marcel leaned on a wooden spear. Tobin shifted his weight from foot to foot, restless, eyes bright in a way that never meant anything good.
Jason walked toward them because there wasn't another option.
The courtyard felt too open. The walls too tall. He kept his gaze lowered but not fully. That had been a mistake before. If he looked too submissive, Marcel would mock him for it. If he looked too steady, Tobin would take it as a challenge. There was a narrow space between the two. He tried to stand there.
"You're slow," Marcel said. "We called you twice."
Jason nodded once. He hadn't heard them the first time. He almost said that, then didn't. It wouldn't matter.
Edric studied him quietly. His eyes moved over Jason's thin frame, the worn cuffs of his sleeves, the faint bruise near his jaw from yesterday's "training." Edric's face didn't change much. It rarely did. That was worse somehow.
"You've been avoiding us," Tobin said suddenly.
"I've been working," Jason replied.
His voice sounded smaller than he intended. He cleared his throat but didn't repeat it.
Marcel pushed off the spear and stepped closer. He smelled faintly of oil and steel. "Working," he echoed, amused. "He thinks stacking wood is work."
Tobin snorted.
Edric finally spoke. "You are family. You should train."
The word family landed oddly. Jason felt it in his stomach more than his ears.
"I train," Jason said.
Marcel laughed outright this time. "You are frail."
It happened quickly after that. It always did. The shift from talking to movement was so familiar it almost felt rehearsed.
Marcel shoved him first.
Jason stumbled but didn't fall. He had learned to brace without looking like he was bracing. Tobin circled behind him. Edric stepped back, giving space, as if observing a drill.
"Guard," Marcel said mockingly, raising his fists.
Jason lifted his hands. They felt too light. Too slow. His arms already ached and nothing had happened yet.
Marcel's punch struck his ribs. The air left him in a dry rush. He bent, tried to step sideways, but Tobin kicked the back of his knee. Stone met his palms hard enough to sting.
"Pathetic," Tobin muttered.
Jason felt something, shift in himself. He felt pathetic, even though he always took the beating. He wanted to do something this time, to hold his defiance to this cruel world.
Jason pushed up again. He swung once, not well. His knuckles grazed Marcel's shoulder. It was enough.
Marcel's expression shifted. The amusement thinned.
He drove his fist into Jason's stomach.
Pain bloomed sharp and hot. Jason folded around it. He tasted something metallic at the back of his throat. He tried to swallow it down.
He didn't want to make noise.
Tobin grabbed his collar and dragged him upright just so Marcel could hit him again. A blow to the cheek this time. His vision flashed white for a second. The courtyard tilted. He blinked hard.
Somewhere near the steps, an older man stood watching. One of the uncles. Jason couldn't tell which from this angle. The man's hands were tucked into his sleeves. He did not intervene. He never did. This was considered correction. Discipline between heirs.
Jason wasn't an heir though.
Marcel drove him back toward the training post. Wood scraped against his shoulder blades. Tobin's kick landed lower this time. A sharp crack of pain along his side. He felt something shift unpleasantly under the skin.
He tried to breathe evenly. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. If he panicked, it lasted longer.
"You don't belong here," Tobin said, almost breathless with effort.
Jason didn't answer.
Marcel hit him again. And again.
His ears rang. The sounds of the courtyard grew distant and then rushed back in uneven waves. He felt the stone under his boots, the rough grain of the post against his back, the warmth of blood slipping from the corner of his mouth down his chin.
Edric stepped forward at last.
Marcel lowered his fists immediately, chest heaving.
Tobin straightened, trying to look composed.
Jason sagged slightly but forced himself upright. His legs trembled. He hoped it wasn't visible. It probably was.
Edric stopped a few feet away. Close enough that Jason could see his reflection faintly in Edric's polished boots. Dirt-streaked. Thin. Mouth red.
It looked pathetic.
Edric's voice was calm when he spoke.
"You make things complicated."
Jason lifted his eyes to look at Edric.
Edric held his gaze for a long moment. There was no heat in it. No anger. Just calculation. As if Jason were a piece on a board placed in the wrong square.
"You should have died quietly," Edric continued.
Marcel let out a soft chuckle.
Tobin's lips twitched.
Jason's fingers curled at his sides. Not into fists. Just curled. He felt something heavy in his chest. Not anger exactly. Something tighter. Pressed down. like a premonition.
Edric glanced at the uncle on the steps. The man did not move.
Then Edric looked back at Jason and said, almost conversationally,
"Even trash deserves a proper place."
For a second Jason didn't understand.
Then Marcel's hand closed around the back of his neck and shoved.
His knees hit first. The impact jarred his teeth together. He caught himself on his palms but Marcel kicked his arm out from under him. His cheek struck the stone.
The courtyard smelled faintly of soap and old dust.
Tobin pressed a boot between Jason's shoulder blades and pushed him flat.
"Look at him," Tobin said, laughing. "Perfect."
Jason's mouth filled with grit. He spat, but it didn't clear.
He could hear his own breathing. Uneven. Wet.
Marcel crouched beside him and grabbed his hair, forcing his head up just enough that his face scraped across the stone. Skin burned. He didn't cry out. Not because he was strong. Because it felt pointless.
"Know your place," Marcel said softly.
Jason's vision blurred. Not fully. Just at the edges.
He saw the sky above the courtyard walls. Pale blue. A thin cloud drifting past.
He wondered, distantly, what it would feel like to climb over the wall and just keep walking. He pictured the outer road. The trees beyond it. He had never gone far.
Tobin's boot pressed harder.
"Say it," Tobin demanded.
Jason swallowed. The taste of iron thickened.
He could say it. It would end faster if he said it. It always did.
But his throat wouldn't open.
Marcel let go of his hair abruptly. His head hit stone again.
"Useless," Marcel muttered.
Edric turned away first. The signal was subtle but clear. The session was over.
Tobin gave him one last kick, not hard enough to break anything, just enough to remind him.
Then they walked back toward the manor steps together. Three figures in clean training clothes. Straight spines. Easy strides.
The uncle followed after a moment, expression unchanged.
Jason stayed where he was.
The stone felt cool against his cheek. He focused on that. On the way the coolness dulled the heat under his skin.
His side throbbed with each breath. He tested it carefully. Pain flared sharp. Not broken, he thought. Or maybe cracked. Hard to tell.
He rolled onto his back slowly. The sky above seemed too wide.
For a moment, he imagined not getting up.
If he lay there long enough, someone would eventually drag him out of sight. Or maybe they wouldn't. Maybe he would just… remain.
A servant crossed the courtyard carrying a basket of linens. She avoided looking at him.
Jason turned his head and spat again. This time more blood than dirt.
He pushed himself up on shaking arms. It took two tries. His legs felt thin as reeds beneath him.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and left a dark smear across his skin.
Even trash deserves a proper place.
The words sat in his head without moving.
He bent to pick up the fallen piece of firewood he had dropped earlier. His fingers slipped once before gripping it properly.
Work still needed doing.
He carried the wood back behind the hall, each step measured. The courtyard noise resumed as if nothing had happened. A sparring match began near the posts. Laughter rose and fell.
Jason stacked the logs carefully. One on top of another. Straight lines. Clean edges.
His hands trembled less as he worked.
By the time he finished, the blood at his lip had dried. The swelling at his cheek had begun.
He pressed his tongue gently against a loose tooth and felt the dull ache there.
He told himself it would tighten again. It always did.
When he finally sat down in the narrow shade behind the hall, out of sight, he leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.
He did not cry.
He did not think of revenge.
He just listened to his own breathing and waited for it to steady.
Somewhere in the distance, a crow called once and then fell silent.
Jason opened his eyes again.
He was still here.
For now, that was enough.