Chapter 56: A pretty word

  Outside the windows, Knighthelm slowly receded.

  The Frostwall’s jagged silhouette lingered in the distance for longer than Lance expected, its darkstone-lit ramparts catching the pale northern sun. Smoke rose from hearths and smithys, thin gray lines against a sky that always seemed sharper in the North. Snow still clung stubbornly to shaded corners, to the roots of ancient pines, to the stone bases of watchtowers that had never known peace long enough to soften.

  Even after several hours of travel, the Town of Knighthelm is still in eyeshot. Although the time they have been travelling pales to the journey they have ahead of them.

  Slade pressed his face closer to the glass, breath fogging it faintly.

  “So that’s it,” he muttered. “Three years.”

  Aoife sat cross-legged on one of the cushioned seats, elbow propped on her knee, chin resting in her palm. She watched the trees slide past with an unreadable expression. Not sad. Not excited. Focused, like she was committing every detail to memory.

  “It’s not like we’re never coming back,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Slade replied. “Just long enough for everything to change.”

  Lance didn’t answer right away.

  He was watching the guards.

  Through the reinforced side window, he could see them riding in loose formation around the carriage. Six figures, evenly spaced, their horses moving with disciplined ease. There was no chatter yet, no relaxed posture. Just quiet vigilance. Spears were secured, shields angled comfortably at their sides, their armor still having that steady pulse of absorbing the ambient mana.

  Tier threes, his mind supplied automatically.

  It still felt strange that he could sense that now. Himself just inches away from tier two.

  The carriage passed the last outer watchtower. The road widened slightly, packed stone giving way to a carefully maintained trade path. Rune markers were set into the ground at regular intervals, their glow faint but reassuring. Beyond them, the land opened up.

  The Darkwood Forest loomed ahead.

  Its edge was unmistakable. Where the North had been harsh and utilitarian, Darkwood was… starkly different. Massive trees rose like pillars, trunks thick enough that Lance doubted even Slade could wrap his arms around them. Their bark was dark, almost black in places, streaked with veins of deep emerald moss that pulsed faintly with life mana. Leaves overhead formed a dense canopy, filtering sunlight into soft green shafts that painted the road in shifting patterns.

  As the carriage entered the forest proper, the light changed.

  The air grew warmer. Not hot, but comfortably temperate, like a late spring morning. The ever-present bite of northern cold faded, replaced by the scent of damp earth, sap, and something floral Lance couldn’t quite place.

  Truly, the Darkwoods really was the wall against the Northern cold.

  Slade inhaled deeply. “Oh wow. This place smells… alive.”

  “That’s because it is,” Perrin said from his seat, pipe clamped between his teeth. He hadn’t turned from the window, but his voice carried easily. “Darkwood’s a managed forest. Old growth, yes, but cultivated. Druids, rangers, even a few mad scholars keep it balanced. You don’t cut here without permission. And you don’t take more than you need. Duke Nox plus even the Royal family monitor this.

  Ellowen nodded, cradling his teacup. “Several minor nature spirits call this forest home. Nothing dangerous to travelers who behave themselves. Plenty dangerous to those who don’t.”

  Aoife’s eyes lit with interest. “Like what kind of spirits?”

  Ellowen smiled faintly. “The kind that enjoy tying bootlaces together when you’re not looking. Or leading you in circles until you apologize.”

  Slade snorted. “That’s it? That’s what everyone’s afraid of?”

  Perrin finally turned, one bushy eyebrow rising. “That’s the friendly ones, boy.”

  Slade closed his mouth.

  Outside, the guards began to relax.

  One of them, riding closest to the window, leaned slightly toward another and said something Lance couldn’t hear. The second guard chuckled, shoulders loosening as he replied. A third reached into his saddlebag and passed something over, earning a grateful nod.

  Ellowen glanced out, then back at the kids. “They’ll keep formation, but once we’re well within Darkwood’s safe corridor, things ease up. No bandits stupid enough to try something here. Not with the forest watching.”

  “Forest watching?” Lance echoed.

  Ellowen’s smile widened just a fraction. His beard swaying a little, “You’ll learn.”

  The road curved gently, following the natural contours of the land rather than cutting through it. Streams crossed beneath small stone bridges, water so clear Lance could see smooth pebbles and darting fish below. Every so often, they passed carved markers bearing sigils of protection and guidance, old and well-maintained.

  Hours slipped by.

  Conversation drifted from the academy to less serious things. Slade recounted, for what must have been the fourth time, the story of how he’d accidentally grown roots through his own boots during early training. Aoife laughed openly this time, sharp and bright, while Perrin wheezed with pipe smoke and amusement.

  “You should’ve seen his face,” Aoife said. “He panicked. Thought he was stuck forever.”

  “I was stuck forever,” Slade protested. “Darvish just stood there laughing.”

  Ellowen chuckled. “A valuable lesson. Control before power.”

  Lance listened, smiling faintly, but his attention drifted again to the scenery.

  The further south they traveled, the more the land softened.

  The evergreens thinned, giving way to broadleaf trees with wide canopies. Snow vanished entirely. Grass grew thick and green along the roadside, dotted with wildflowers in colors Lance had never seen before. Birds flitted between branches, their calls melodic and varied, not the harsh cries common in the North.

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  The sky itself seemed different. Alive and busy.

  By mid-afternoon, the forest began to open up.

  Rolling hills stretched beyond the trees, layered in shades of green and gold. Farmland appeared, neatly terraced fields bordered by low stone walls. Small villages dotted the landscape, smoke curling lazily from chimneys. People paused in their work to watch the carriage pass, some bowing, others simply staring in curiosity.

  Slade waved enthusiastically out the window.

  Aoife smacked his arm. “Stop that. You look like an idiot.”

  “They’re waving back,” he said defensively.

  “They’re staring at the guards,” she replied.

  Lance leaned closer to the glass, curiosity stirring. “I’ve never seen land like this.”

  Ellowen followed his gaze. “The central regions of Lascara are fertile by design. Ley lines converge gently here, not violently like in the North. Easier living. Different problems.”

  “Such as?” Lance asked.

  Ellowen shrugged. “Politics. Ambition. Too many people in too little space.”

  Perrin snorted. “Give me a dungeon leak over a council chamber any day.”

  As the sun dipped lower, the carriage finally slowed near a broad clearing beside the road. A small waystation stood there, stone-built and well-kept, with a stable and a low watchtower. The guards dismounted smoothly, stretching and rolling their shoulders.

  One of them, a broad-shouldered man with a scar across his jaw, laughed as he removed his helm. “I’ll say this for escort duty. Beats freezing my ass off on wall patrol.”

  Another guard grinned. “Aye. And no alarms yet. Don’t jinx it.”

  They began setting up a perimeter with practiced ease, more habit than necessity.

  Inside, Ellowen rose. “We’ll rest here for the night. Hot food, proper beds for the guards. You three can sleep inside the carriage if you like, but there are rooms available.”

  Slade looked at the bunks longingly. “I kinda want to sleep here.”

  “Same,” Aoife agreed. “Sleeping on a bed is always the best.”

  Lance nodded. The idea of leaving the carriage, even briefly, felt wrong somehow.

  Dinner was brought to them. Stew rich with herbs and tender meat, fresh bread still warm, and fruit Lance didn’t recognize but tasted sweet and sharp. They ate at the stone table, conversation easy and unguarded.

  Outside, the guards sat around a small fire, laughter carrying faintly through the air. One told a story about a failed dungeon crawl that ended with half the party running from animated mushrooms. Another complained about Duke Nox’s handwriting.

  Night settled gently.

  Lance lay on the lower bunk, staring at the softly glowing runes along the ceiling. Aoife had claimed the top bunk without comment. Slade slept across from him, already snoring quietly.

  The carriage hummed softly, wards adjusting as temperatures dropped.

  For the first time since leaving Knighthelm, Lance felt something loosen in his chest.

  Not fear.

  Anticipation.

  The road stretched on ahead. The world was opening, wider and stranger than he had ever imagined. And for now, wrapped in spellsteel and ancient magic, flanked by monsters in human skin, they rolled forward in calm.

  Toward whatever came next.

  _________________________________

  The central throne room of Asterhold was never silent.

  Even now, with only three figures present, it breathed.

  Mana flowed through the chamber in slow, deliberate currents, embedded into every arch and pillar. The vaulted ceiling soared high enough that clouds could have passed unnoticed, its surface etched with reliefs of past kings standing over kneeling enemies, broken banners crushed beneath their boots. Pillars of white-gold stone lined the hall, each engraved with runic oaths older than the kingdom itself, promises of dominion, conquest, and permanence.

  At the far end sat the throne.

  Forged from layered spellsteel and dragonbone, it radiated authority not through ornamentation, but restraint. No gems. No gilding. Just weight. Power condensed into form. The air around it felt thicker, as though reality itself bent slightly in deference.

  King Walsh Lascara occupied it like it had been built around him.

  He leaned forward, elbows resting on the armrests, fingers loosely interlaced. His expression was blank…some would say this was worse than anger. Calculating. Evaluative. The kind of stare that had made warlords forget their rehearsed speeches and seasoned generals swallow their protests.

  Below him, standing alone on the cold marble floor, was his youngest son.

  Prince Rhalin Lascara kept his back straight, hands clasped behind him as protocol demanded. He was dressed immaculately in royal blues and silvers, the sigil of the Lascara line embroidered over his heart. The weight of generations rested there—every legendary class holder before him, every triumph bought with blood and sacrifice.

  And yet, compared to the throne above him, he felt small.

  King Walsh finally spoke.

  “Your academy term approaches.”

  The words were calm. Even casual. But they carried, echoing off stone and sigil alike.

  Rhalin nodded. “Yes, Father.”

  “There will be others like you,” Walsh continued, his gaze never leaving his son. “Children born into power. Forged by inheritance. Eight legendary class holders in a single generation.” His lip curled faintly. “Unprecedented. Dangerous.”

  Rhalin shifted his weight, just barely.

  “You will not be exceptional there simply because of your name,” the King said. “Nor because of what sleeps in your blood. You will be surrounded by peers raised to devour weakness.”

  Walsh rose from the throne.

  The sound of it, stone grinding softly beneath his boots, sent a ripple of pressure through the hall. Rhalin’s breath caught before he could stop it.

  “You will rise above them,” the King said, descending the steps one at a time. “By talent. By strategy. By ruthlessness, if necessary. The Lascara family does not settle for second place.”

  He stopped three steps above his son.

  “Ever.”

  Rhalin swallowed. “Yes, Father.”

  The King studied him for a long moment. Too long. As if peeling back layers, searching for something harder beneath the polish.

  Such a timid boy, Walsh thought. All that power, and still asking the world for permission.

  At last, he spoke again, his tone almost conversational.

  “Tell me. Do you have expectations?” A faint smile touched his lips, sharp and knowing. “Hopes? This is meant to be an exciting time for children your age. Especially those bound for the Royal Academy of Asterhold.”

  Rhalin hesitated—only a heartbeat—then lifted his gaze.

  “I am most excited for the people I will meet,” he said honestly. “I have lived my whole life within the Royal Walls. To see the world beyond them… to have some measure of freedom…” His voice warmed despite himself. “That is what I look forward to most.”

  For a moment, the King simply stared.

  Then he laughed.

  It was not cruel. But it was not kind, either. It echoed through the throne room like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath.

  “Freedom,” Walsh repeated. “A pretty word.”

  He leaned closer, eyes locking onto Rhalin’s.

  “Only the strong are permitted to keep it,” he said quietly. “Remember that. Power is the price of freedom and weakness is its forfeiture.”

  Rhalin straightened. “I will remember, Father.”

  “Good.” Walsh turned away. “You are dismissed.”

  Rhalin bowed deeply and retreated, his footsteps echoing until the great doors sealed shut behind him.

  Silence returned.

  From the shadows beside the throne, Julius stepped forward at last. The Royal Advisor’s expression was thoughtful, fingers folded behind his back.

  “He will be well-liked,” Julius said. “With guidance. We will need to harden him. Keeping him within the walls has softened his edges.”

  Walsh snorted. “I am aware. You once told me he refused to pick a flower because he feared killing it.”

  Julius allowed himself a thin smile. “A gentle soul.”

  “Gentle souls break,” the King replied. He returned to his throne and sat heavily. “The academy will change him. Or it will hollow him out.”

  Julius inclined his head. “Such is the way of the world.”

  He produced a slim folder of enchanted parchment. “Shall we review the reports? The other legendary class holders attending this year?”

  Walsh exhaled slowly. “Yes.”

  His eyes sharpened.

  “Let us see who my son will be competing against.”