The breakthrough to Artisan was a line drawn in the sand. The quiet, simmering power that now circulated through me wasn't just a tool; it was a statement of intent. It was the foundation upon which I could finally begin to act, to move from a defensive posture to an offensive one. The time for patient observation, for gathering allies and slowly building my strength, was over. A serpent was coiled in the heart of my home, smiling at my father and patting my shoulder, and I could no longer suffer its presence.
My initial strategy of a slow, methodical investigation using financial records now seemed like a fool's errand. It would take months, possibly years, to gather the kind of undeniable proof my father would accept against his oldest friend. Time was a luxury I didn't have. The novel's grim timeline was a relentless clock ticking in the back of my mind. Every day I waited, the Void Cult's roots grew deeper. I had to force the confrontation. I had to make the serpent show its fangs, not in a year, but now.
The decision solidified during a grueling afternoon training session. I was sparring with Damian, a regular occurrence now. As always, he was a mountain of calm, effortless skill, his Master-level power a dense, controlled wall that absorbed my best efforts. But today, my focus was shot. Every time I tried to sync with the Two-Heart Cadence, my mind would flash to an image of Valerius at the dinner table the night before, laughing at one of my father's dry jokes. The image filled me with a cold, impotent rage that threw my rhythm into chaos.
After effortlessly disarming me for the fifth time, Damian lowered his spear. "Your mind is not on the field, Lancelot," he said, his voice a sharp, analytical edge. "Your rhythm is sloppy. Your infusions are unfocused. You are fighting phantoms. What is troubling you?"
I looked at my brother, at his concerned, commanding presence, and the plan crystallized in my mind. "You're right," I said, my breath coming in ragged bursts. "There is a phantom in this house. And I intend to make it real."
That evening, I requested an urgent and private audience. The request itself, delivered with a grim seriousness that was utterly out of character for the 'new' Lancelot, was enough to grant me immediate access. I found my father and Damian in the study, a rare occasion for the three of us to be together. They stood before the fireplace, the mood already tense.
"You said this was a matter of the highest security," the Count began, his voice a low rumble. "Speak."
"It is," I confirmed. "It concerns a threat so deeply embedded that I believe it could shatter the foundation of our house. It is a matter of internal rot, not external enemies."
Damian's eyes narrowed. "What kind of internal rot? Be specific. Vague accusations are for cowards, Lancelot. If you have something to say, say it plainly."
"I intend to," I replied, meeting his gaze. "But the nature of this threat is such that it must be confronted directly. I cannot simply present evidence, because the evidence itself is unbelievable. The truth must be drawn from the source." I turned my attention to my father. "That is why I must insist that Lord Valerius be present."
The name dropped into the room like a chunk of ice. My father's expression hardened. "Valerius is my most trusted advisor. His loyalty is beyond question. This is a dangerous accusation to even imply."
"I am not accusing him of anything, Father," I said, choosing my words with the care of a man walking through a minefield. "I am stating that he is central to the matter. If I am wrong, then his wisdom will be invaluable in identifying the true threat. If I am right…" I let the sentence hang, the implication clear. "I need him here to hear what I have to say. I am staking my honor, my newfound standing, everything, on the fact that his presence is essential. Trust me in this. Please."
Perhaps it was the desperate sincerity in my voice, or perhaps the memory of my recent, impossible changes, but my father saw that I was not being flippant. This was not a boy's tantrum. It was a warrior's gambit. He stared at me for a long, heavy moment, his Grandmaster's gaze seeming to peel back the layers of my soul.
"Very well," he said finally. "You will have your audience. But if this is some fool's errand, if you waste my time and insult my oldest friend with baseless fantasies, the consequences will be severe." He gestured to a guard at the door. "Summon Lord Valerius. Tell him his presence is required immediately."
The ten minutes we waited were the longest of my life. I centered myself, forcing my mind into the steady thump-THUMP of the Two-Heart Cadence. The silence in the study was absolute, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Damian stood with his arms crossed, a statue of tense neutrality. My father sat behind his desk, his fingers steepled, his presence filling the room with an immense, silent pressure.
Finally, the heavy oak door swung open, and Lord Valerius stepped inside, his face a mask of polite, fatherly concern.
"Theron? Damian? Young Lancelot?" he said, his voice a smooth, comforting baritone. He looked from face to face, his performance of a loyal friend caught in a confusing family drama utterly flawless. "The guard said it was urgent. Is everything alright?"
"That," my father said, his voice like grinding stone, "is what we are here to determine." He gestured to me. "Lancelot has uncovered something he claims is a threat to this house. He insisted you be here to listen."
Valerius's smile turned to me, indulgent and warm. The look of a kindly uncle about to listen to a child's fantastic story. "Indeed? Well then, Lancelot, you have the floor. What is this grave threat you've discovered? Pirates? A goblin king?"
I took a breath, the cadence a steady, powerful rhythm in my chest. This was it. The point of no return. I didn't look at my father or my brother. I looked directly at Valerius. I gave him a small, conspiratorial smile of my own.
"I was exploring the deeper parts of that canyon, my lord," I began, my voice deceptively casual. "After we dealt with the Grocs. I found a body. A scout, looked like. Crushed by rockfall. He was carrying a journal."
Valerius's expression remained one of polite interest. "How unfortunate. Did you recognize the man?"
"No," I said. "But I recognized the words in his journal. He wrote about his mission, his faith. He seemed to be waiting for a contact." I leaned forward slightly, lowering my voice as if sharing a profound secret. "He wrote the same phrase, over and over. A password, perhaps. I was hoping, as the Count's most trusted advisor on all matters of security, you might be able to shed some light on it for me."
I held his gaze, my mind a perfect, cold calm. With absolute clarity, I spoke the coded phrase I had memorized from a chapter deep within The Crimson Dragon's Lament.
"Does the Black Sun still cast a shadow?"