The weeks following the Groc hunt were a precious, deceptive peace. My days were spent in the training yard, my body growing stronger, my control over the Two-Heart Cadence becoming as natural as my own heartbeat. My nights were a quiet storm of planning and preparation, my mind a battlefield where I war-gamed a hundred different ways to save a world that didn't know it was dying.
My new life had found its rhythm. It was a good rhythm. And I knew, with the certainty of a man who had read the book, that it was about to be broken.
The summons, when it came, was not a formal command but a frantic, whispered plea. I was in my study, reviewing a copy of the kingdom's legal statutes—a text so dry it made my old corporate tax law textbooks look like thrilling spy novels—when Seraphina burst into the room, her usual composure gone, her face pale in the candlelight.
"My lord," she gasped, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts. "It's… the garden. You must come. Now."
I was on my feet in an instant, my heart hammering a sudden, anxious beat. We hurried through the deserted corridors of the keep, our footsteps echoing in the late-night silence. The air grew cooler as we neared the gardens, and I could smell the rich, damp scent of earth and something else… something clean and sweet and utterly strange.
When we stepped into the walled herb garden, I stopped dead.
The entire garden was bathed in a soft, ethereal, silver light. It was a light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, casting no shadows, painting the familiar herbs and flowers in shades of ghostly luminescence. In the center of the garden, the source was clear. The Silverwood Sapling, the 'mystery' I had brought back from the canyon, was no longer a simple plant. It was a beacon. Each of its silvery leaves pulsed with a gentle, internal light, and the very air around it shimmered with a visible, life-aspected Aether. The Kingsfoil around its base had grown thick and lush, the simple night-blooming moonflowers nearby had unfurled into blossoms the size of dinner plates.
Seraphina stood trembling beside me, her hands clasped to her chest. "I came to check on it," she whispered, her voice full of a terrified awe. "I touched it, just for a moment, and… this happened. My lord, what is happening to me?"
"Nothing is happening to you, Sera," I said, my voice deliberately calm and steady. I turned to look at her, at the raw, untamed magic that was practically radiating from her. "Something is happening from you."
I reached out and gently took her hand. It was warm, tingling with a current of humming energy. "In the old tales," I began, choosing my words with care, "before the great Academies and the formal Paths, there were those who drew their power not from a Mana Core or a Ki Center, but from the lifeblood of the world itself. They could coax life from dead soil, mend wounds with a touch, and hear the whispers of the forest. They were called Hedge Witches."
Her eyes, wide and luminous in the silver light, were fixed on my face. "A witch?" The word was a fearful whisper. Witches, in the common parlance, were dark and dangerous things.
"Not a witch of curses and shadows," I clarified, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. "A witch of life. Of growth. Of healing. A rare and beautiful talent, Sera. This sapling… it's not just a plant. It's a catalyst. It's responding to the Aether you are subconsciously channeling. You're not just tending to it. You're feeding it. And it's showing you what you're capable of."
I led her forward, until we stood just before the glowing sapling. "Try again," I urged. "Don't be afraid. Just… reach out. Feel it."
Hesitantly, she extended her hand. The moment her fingers brushed against a silvery leaf, the light pulsed, brightening for a moment in a wave of gentle, welcoming warmth. A small, wondrous gasp escaped her lips. The fear in her eyes was replaced by a look of profound, staggering wonder. She was not cursed. She was connected.
It was in that quiet, magical moment, a moment of a new beginning for my most trusted friend, that the world decided to remind us of its own harsh rhythm.
A single, clarion horn blast echoed from the main gate, sharp and clear in the night air. It was not a sound of alarm, but one of ceremony. A sound of arrival.
Immediately, the magical light in the garden flickered and died, the Silverwood Sapling returning to its normal, unassuming state as Seraphina's concentration was broken. The spell was shattered, and the mundane world came rushing back in. We could hear the sounds of running feet from the courtyard, the sharp, barked commands of the guard, and the heavy, groaning sound of the main portcullis being raised.
"Who…?" Seraphina began.
"The heir," I said, my voice flat. A cold knot of anticipation tightened in my gut. "My brother has come home."
We made our way to the main courtyard, which was now a blaze of torchlight. The entire household seemed to have assembled. My father stood at the top of the main steps, his expression as stern as ever, but I could see a rare, almost imperceptible gleam of pride in his eyes. My mother stood beside him, her hands clasped in joyous anticipation, while Elias stood a few paces behind, a complex mixture of admiration and simmering jealousy on his face.
The portcullis was fully raised, and a party of twenty riders trotted into the courtyard. They were clad in the gleaming steel of the Western Legion, their armor dusty and travel-worn but of a far higher quality than our household guard's. At their head rode a young man on a powerful, black warhorse.
Damian Ashworth.
He was the perfect picture of the heir I'd read about. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with the same dark hair as the rest of us, but his features were sharper, more defined, like a finer version of our father's granite visage. He carried a long, steel-tipped spear strapped to his back with a casual familiarity that spoke of thousands of hours of practice. But it was his presence that truly set him apart. The Aether around him wasn't agitated like Elias's or overwhelming like my father's. It was a deep, calm, and unshakable pressure. The aura of a true Master, perfectly controlled and utterly confident.
He dismounted in a single, fluid motion and knelt before our father. "Father. I have returned. The border is secure."
"You have done well, my son," the Count said, the words ringing with a pride he never showed me or Elias.
Damian rose and embraced our mother, a genuine, warm smile finally breaking through his stoic expression. He clapped Elias on the shoulder, a gesture that was both brotherly and subtly dismissive. Then, his gaze swept over the courtyard and landed on me.
His eyes, the same cold grey as our father's, lingered. They were not scornful like Elias's had been. They were sharp, analytical, and filled with a calculating curiosity. He took in my changed posture, my calm demeanor, the faint, humming energy that was now a permanent part of my being.
He walked over to me, stopping just a few feet away. The pressure of his presence was immense, a silent declaration of the vast gulf in power between us.
"So," Damian said, his voice a low, smooth baritone. "The rumors are true. The lost lamb has returned to the fold." He looked me up and down, a faint, intrigued smile playing on his lips. "And it seems he's learned how to bite."
"I learned to survive," I corrected him, my voice just as calm, meeting his intense gaze without flinching.
His smile widened. "Survival is a good start. But this is House Ashworth. We don't just survive; we dominate." He looked me over one last time. "They say you made a fool of Elias. That you have a new, peculiar way of fighting."
"I'm still learning," I said.
"Then you'll need a proper teacher," he concluded. He clapped a hand on my shoulder, his grip as strong as iron. "Welcome home, little brother. Tomorrow at dawn, in the training yard. You and me. It's time I saw for myself what the dungeon spat back out."