Morning arrived under a gray sky, thick clouds weighing heavily above the scorched fields of Eryndor. The chill didn't come from the wind, but from the cold stares of those who now walked the village streets and ruins once protected by the Archducal House.
A village that, in the past, would tremble at the sound of trumpets and the march of Eryndor knights, was now filled with whispers, timid footsteps, and malicious smiles hidden behind wine mugs and dust-covered faces.
[Harven's Perspective – A Commoner]
"It was about time..." thought Harven, the village baker, as he arranged loaves of bread on a rickety stall in the square. His weathered face bore a smug grin.
— The old lord's dead, and the heir's a vegetable. And they still want to pretend that house means anything — he muttered to a customer, handing him two loaves hard as stone.
The other man chuckled, spitting to the side.
— Only thing left is the daughter. That Lyara. Easy on the eyes, if you ask me. Maybe someone worthy'll bring order back—with her at his side, of course.
— Some nobles are already talkin'... a forced marriage solves a lot — Harven whispered.
— And the little one? — the man asked, referring to Elene.
— Still young. But she'll grow. Snakes know how to wait.
They both laughed, quieting their voices as a guard from Eldam passed by.
[Lyara's Perspective – Watching the Village]
Lyara kept her hood low as she walked through the marketplace, flanked by two silent handmaidens. Her eyes scanned the stalls, but she wasn't looking at goods. She saw faces, heard between the lines, read the unspoken — which burned hotter than any blade.
She had heard them. Again. Always.
They didn't need to speak loudly. The lingering stares, the muffled laughter, the whispers cut short as she passed by. And lately, the smiles had become bolder. More suggestive.
"They're waiting for me to fall. Or to be sold."
Her hands clutched the edges of her cloak. She wanted to scream. To confront them. But a fallen lady who reacts with anger only proves her enemies right.
— Milady — one handmaiden whispered — we should return. There are men watching.
Lyara nodded, breathing deeply. Her gaze caught a crude sign nailed to the tavern wall: a caricature of a ruined castle, the Eryndor crest toppled.
"Easy target," it read.
[Kael's Perspective – Within the Crumbling Hall]
Kael knelt, sweating, breath shallow. In front of him, an incomplete rune flickered faintly across the stone floor. Tiny wisps of aura danced between his fingers, like reluctant sparks resisting command.
— Focus... align the flow with the breath cycle. Inhale, expand. Exhale, compress... — he muttered to himself.
This exercise was the foundation of building the arcane body. It consisted of aligning the flow of aura and mana in rhythmic cycles, gradually reinforcing internal organs. A normal practitioner would take weeks just to feel a warm pulse. Kael already felt pain. Excruciating pain.
The process was slow, almost cruel. With every attempt, he forced a part of his body to accept the impossible — that he could wield both aura and mana. Most would faint. Some would go mad. Others would simply die.
Kael kept going.
Each morning, he unlocked something: the left lung's resilience; the stomach's tolerance to energy compression; the nerve responsiveness in his right leg. A new body, carved beneath the broken shell.
One phase at a time.
Sweat dripped, his chest burned, but the glow in his core grew steadier. With every completed cycle, a small victory. A new puzzle piece set in place.
[Sir Osric's Perspective – Speaking with Lyara]
— They're circling us — Osric said, cleaning his sword as he watched other houses' men mix among the servants.
Lyara sat quietly on a shattered stone balcony.
— And we have no allies. Not a single strong name left to protect us.
— Dogs sniff out weakness — Osric growled. — They see Kael as a cripple, you as a prize, and Elene as a future coin.
Lyara narrowed her eyes.
— And what do you see me as?
Osric paused, meeting her gaze with respect.
— The only reason this house still has a flicker of fire.
She looked away, but a slight blush betrayed her composure.
— Then say that to Lord Vancor.
— That peacock? He's just waiting for the signal to claim the estate and declare Eldam's domain.
— He wouldn't dare without royal backing.
— He doesn't need it. Rumors are enough. And rumors serve those with ambitious eyes.
Lyara said nothing. The wind blew, carrying the scent of scorched bread and the distant hum of gossip from the village.
[Elene's Perspective – Alone in the Greenhouse]
Elene, hidden among the ancient plants, was talking to the fairies. One of them perched gently on her finger, its wings fluttering like silver silk.
— They speak ill of Lyara. Always. And she knows it, but says nothing. Her eyes get so sad…
—The crows have landed on broken branches — the fairy whispered. — They wait for the trunk to fall.
—But it won't. Because Kael's awake. And I'm here. And you're here.
The fairy spun in the air, leaving behind a golden shimmer.
—Don't be afraid, Elene. Sometimes trees look dead before they bloom again.
Elene smiled gently—a fragile smile.
—I'll tell that to Lyara.
[Lord Vancor's Perspective – In the Abandoned Council Room]
— They hold no votes in the Assembly anymore — said Vancor, lounging in a chair once reserved for noble advisors, a goblet of cheap wine in hand. — The eldest daughter is beautiful, the youngest will grow, and the heir... a glass legend.
— Some of the lesser houses might consider a marriage alliance — a knight commented.
— So would I. But ideally, we take everything. Slowly. First the lands. Then the halls. Then… the name.
He raised the goblet toward the cracked family crest on the wall.
— To House Eryndor. May it rest in pieces.
Laughter echoed through the hollow hall.
[Kael's Perspective]
Kael walked alone through the courtyard at dusk. His steps were slow, but firm. Training was far from over. But each ache was a stone laid on the path of return.
He saw the servants, the spies, the fake smiles. But he also saw Osric polishing his blade. Lyara helping a fallen maid. Elene smiling at a butterfly.
House Eryndor had fallen, yes. But something was growing among the ruins. Small. Fragile. But alive.
And one day, Kael thought, he would make all of them—nobles, peasants, traitors, and cowards—remember that fire doesn't die in ash. It only waits.