Smoke still curled from the charred remains of Caelan's manor, thick against the slate-gray sky. Snowfall had begun again, light and listless, a quiet contrast to the chaos that had just unfolded. Seraphine stood motionless at his side, the blade in her hand now clean, the snow melting beneath her feet as her aura pulsed faintly with anti-magic energy.
Caelan stared over the ridge at the villagers who had not fled. Many stood frozen, eyes wide with disbelief and fear, gripping makeshift weapons in trembling hands. Others shifted anxiously, looking between the bloodied snow and the black-haired woman who had just ended a captain of Stoneveil without hesitation.
"They still raise arms," Caelan said quietly, as if to himself.
Seraphine tilted her head. "Shall I execute them?"
"No," he said after a long pause, his eyes narrowing. "Not yet. I want them to understand the price of betrayal. Capture anyone who tries to attack me. No deaths unless necessary. Bind them. Cripple if you must, but let them live to witness what's coming."
"As you command."
She moved, vanishing into a blur of black and red. One man lunged with a rusted pike; she knocked it aside with the flat of her blade and slammed her fist into his chest, sending him flying backward into a snowdrift. Another woman tried to cast a simple flame spell—only for the incantation to unravel mid-air, nullified by Seraphine's presence. She disarmed her with brutal efficiency, dragging her by the collar into a growing pile of captives near the old granary.
Caelan watched with no satisfaction in his gaze. He stepped over a shattered crate, its contents—a broken heirloom clock—scattered in the snow.
"You betrayed your own salvation," he said aloud, to no one and to all of them. "When I came, I brought food. Firewood. A future. And you chose fire and ruin. Because someone whispered promises in the dark."
One of the older villagers, still on his knees, raised his head. "Please… we thought you were cursed. That the Empire abandoned you. That woman told us—"
"Mirelle?" Caelan's voice sharpened. "She lied. And you followed."
A scream rang out behind him as Seraphine disabled another would-be attacker, snapping a spear in half over her knee. The man groaned in pain, then fell unconscious.
"Let them see their weakness," Caelan muttered. "Let them know they had a choice, and they made the wrong one."
Within the hour, the fires had died down, and the last of the armed villagers had either been captured or fled into the woods. Seraphine returned to his side, bloodless but grim, her silver cloak billowing in the rising wind.
"All hostiles secured," she reported. "Five fled. Twelve detained. Three wounded."
"Hold them in the cellar ruins," Caelan said. "We'll decide their fates later. For now, they'll rebuild what they helped destroy."
She bowed slightly. "Understood."
Then Caelan's eyes found Mirelle, standing bound, bloodied and bruised. Her cloak was torn, her face marked with dried blood, a gash streaking her temple. One of her arms hung at an awkward angle, clearly dislocated or broken. Yet despite her injuries, her glare was defiant, smoldering with hatred and pride.
"Take her," Caelan said, voice cold. "And the others. Lock them in the village prison. No food or fire until I say so. They'll sit in the cold and think about what they've done."
Mirelle opened her mouth to speak, but Caelan cut her off with a raised hand.
"Not a word. Not until I've taken a full count of what's been lost. Then you'll tell me everything."
He turned his back on her, surveying the smoldering ridge as the wind picked up.
"When I return," he said without turning around, "you'll tell me who ordered this."
Seraphine gave a nod and led the prisoners away. Mirelle was dragged behind them, silent now, her expression unreadable.
Caelan remained for a moment longer, watching snow blanket the ruins of his work. His enemies sent soldiers and whispers, they had tried to erase him.
But he was still standing.
And now, he would begin again—with fire in his eyes and retribution in his heart.
His gaze swept beyond the prison and the corpses, past the trembling captives and bloodied snowscape.
Turning from the scene, Caelan ascended the slope to what remained of his manor. The stone walls still stood in places, but the roof had collapsed, and ash covered everything like a death shroud. Inside, his steps echoed across the burnt floorboards. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid scent of scorched timber.
Everything was destroyed. Books, maps, journals—all reduced to cinders. The contents of his study were scattered, charred and broken, like memories torn apart. His room, once filled with the quiet clutter of plans and tomes, now stood gutted, open to the gray sky. In a corner of the remaining stone frame, Caelan set down the two large sacks slung over his shoulder—his mined cache of raw magic stones. For now, he'd hide them here, in the ruins of what once was his home. A temporary vault until Gravenreach was rebuilt.
He looked around slowly, taking in the desolation. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional creak of scorched wood. Everything was gone.
But not everything lost would remain so.
His eyes turned to the staircase—or what was left of it—leading down to the cellars. Beneath those stone steps lay the ancient seal, the hidden legacy of the First Sovereign. The place where that cursed power had been locked away.
Caelan exhaled slowly, the frost of his breath mingling with smoke. That, too, would need to be faced.
But first, Baron Braedon.
Caelan's jaw tightened. The man had moved too boldly, too quickly. This wasn't some act of local opportunism—it was a maneuver with backing, funding, and intent.
"I'll start with you," he said aloud, eyes glinting with cold fire. "And then whoever dared stand behind you."
He turned away and walked out of the wreckage, his heart set.
It was time to awaken what had been buried.
And claim it as his own.