He glanced towards the monolithic four-poster bed shrouded in shadows across the room. Silence. No movement. Was Rosa asleep? Meditating? Mentally composing scathing critiques of his breathing technique? Impossible to say. Since the revelation about the failed engagement plot Rubel had orchestrated years ago – a secret he shouldn't possibly have known – the already frigid atmosphere between them had acquired a new layer of bewildered tension. She hadn't asked how he knew. She hadn't asked anything. Just… observed him with that unnerving, analytical intensity, like he was a particularly baffling physics problem she couldn't yet solve.
Fine by me, he thought, grabbing his tunic. Let her analyze. Less chance of unexpected Spirit Pressure applications while she's busy running diagnostics. He dressed quickly, foregoing any attempt at nobleman finery. Simple trousers, sturdy tunic. Practical. Today wasn't about impressing anyone; it was about function.
He paused at the door, listening. Still silent from the bed. Good. He slipped out, closing the heavy door softly behind him, leaving the scent of lavender and lingering questions in his wake.
The grand halls of the Ferrum Estate were hushed in the pre-dawn gloom, echoing slightly with his footsteps. Torches flickered in wall sconces, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to writhe like living things. Ancestral portraits stared down from the walls, their painted eyes seeming to follow his progress with silent judgment. Morning, Great-Uncle Vorlag, he mentally nodded at a particularly grim-looking warrior in elaborate plate mail. Try not to frown so hard; you'll crack the varnish.
He bypassed the kitchens today. The final ritual deserved more significance than a hurried exchange near the larders. He needed space, quiet, a place less steeped in the suffocating formalities and simmering resentments of the estate proper. His steps carried him out through a side entrance, into the cool, damp air of the awakening gardens. Mist clung to the sculpted hedges and dripped from the leaves of ancient oaks, muffling sound, creating a world of grey and green solitude.
He followed a less-traveled path, winding away from the main gardens, the gravel crunching softly underfoot. The air grew cleaner here, smelling of wet earth, decaying leaves, and the faint, metallic tang of ozone that often preceded a storm – or perhaps, just the proximity of potent magic. He reached his destination: a small, secluded pond nestled within a protective embrace of weeping willows, their long tendrils brushing the still, dark surface of the water.
This felt right. Calm. Removed. A place where the mundane rules of court intrigue felt distant, less relevant. He stood at the water's edge, watching the sky slowly bleed from bruised purple to pale rose in the reflection. The silence was profound, broken only by the gentle plip of water dripping from willow leaves and the first tentative chirp of a waking bird.
Okay, System. Seven days. Paid my dues in poultry. He took a deep, centering breath, feeling the cool air fill his lungs. Let's see the payoff.
He reached for the Spirit Stone tucked inside his tunic. Not the smooth, inert pebble it had felt like a week ago. Now, it seemed to thrum faintly against his skin, holding a latent warmth. He pushed his energy into it – not the hesitant trickle of before, but a confident, steady stream. The connection felt instantaneous, solid.
The air before him didn't just shimmer this time. It vibrated, warping the reflection on the pond's surface. Light seemed to bend inwards, drawn towards a focal point with an audible, resonant hum that vibrated deep in Lloyd's chest. It wasn't a simple summoning; it felt like reality itself was being peeled back to allow something powerful to step through.
Then, Fang materialized.
Lloyd's breath caught in his throat. He'd seen the progression, the daily improvements, but the final leap… it was staggering. This creature standing silently before him bore only a passing resemblance to the scrawny, hesitant wolf-thing of seven days prior.
Fang was magnificent. Terrifyingly so. He stood taller now, radiating an almost visible aura of contained power that made the hairs on Lloyd's arms stand on end. His coat wasn't merely grey; it was the deep, shifting colour of a thunderhead heavy with unshed lightning, dark and sleek, with intricate, darker patterns swirling across his flanks like captured smoke. When he moved his head slightly, the light caught subtle undertones of deep indigo and electric blue. His form was lean, honed, every line speaking of speed and lethal grace. Muscles rippled beneath the storm-cloud fur with fluid power, promising devastating speed and strength.