The first few days after the attack were a quiet, hazy affair spent within the grey granite walls of the Ashworth estate. My body was a tapestry of aches and deep, bone-weary exhaustion. The assassin's blade had left a clean, deep gash in my calf that, even with my draconic healing, sent a sharp, protesting throb up my leg with every step. Rolan and the other guards were in worse shape, their wounds smoking with a faint, dark energy that the healers struggled to cleanse.
The official story, as decreed by the Marquis's office, was a masterpiece of political fiction. Lord Lancelot Ashworth and his retinue had been the unfortunate victims of a brazen gang attack in the coppersmith's district. The Imperial Knights had intervened, but the assailants had scattered, leaving several guards wounded and their leader having tragically fallen into a sudden, inexplicable street collapse. It was a bizarre, almost comical story, and no one in the capital's high society believed a word of it. But with no other evidence, it was the only story they had. House Vane remained silent, their fury a coiled serpent hidden from public view.
I spent most of my time in the estate's garden, a quiet sanctuary of Western flora that felt a world away from the capital's perfumed elegance. I would sit for hours, my mind replaying the "accident." It wasn't the raw power that left me in awe; my father was a Grandmaster, I knew what overwhelming force felt like. It was the method. I had fought a war with fists and instinct. She had fought a war with physics. She hadn't thrown a thunderbolt from her spire; she had simply reached across the city and convinced the ground to stop being the ground. It was a level of control so absolute, so conceptually profound, that it completely redefined my understanding of what it meant to be powerful.
'I'm a child playing with firecrackers,' I thought, my gaze drifting toward the distant, gleaming spire of the Imperial Palace. 'And she is the sun.'
On the third day, as I was sitting by a small, gurgling stream, Seraphina approached, a small, unmarked scroll in her hands.
"This was delivered for you, my lord," she said, her voice quiet. "From a palace servant. He said it was anonymous."
My heart gave a sudden, sharp thump. I took the scroll, my fingers trembling slightly. The parchment was simple, the seal a blank wafer of wax. I broke it open. The script inside was elegant, unmistakable, and contained only a few, world-altering lines.
"You are reckless. And you are weak. But you are interesting. Come and find me again when you are a Master. Then... we will talk."
I read the words once, then twice, the meaning settling over me like a warm, heavy cloak. It was everything. It was her confirmation that she had saved me. It was her acknowledgment of the secret, shared moment in the garden. And it was my new true north, a clear, impossibly difficult goal set by the one person in the world whose judgment mattered.
A slow, genuine smile spread across my face, the first I had felt since the attack. The uncertainty was gone. The path was clear.
"Good news, I hope?" Seraphina asked, her voice tinged with the worry that had been her constant companion for weeks.
"The best," I said, looking up at her, my eyes clear and resolved. "It's a map."
The decision was not a difficult one; it was an inevitability. The capital was a death trap. I had survived this attempt by a miracle, a literal act of god. The next time, I wouldn't be so lucky. My enemies were in the shadows, and they were in the gilded halls, and I was not yet strong enough to face either. I had achieved everything I had set out to do. I had won the tournament. I had saved Aria. I had forged alliances with Cassius and Lyra. And I had caught the eye of Elara. It was time to go home.
I spent the next two days setting my affairs in order. I met with a now-sober and deeply grateful Aria, who pledged the support of House Thorne, for what it was worth. I had a final, grim strategy session with Cassius, our two houses now bound in a political war against House Vane. We agreed to share intelligence, a pact between the North and the West.
Then, I penned a formal, respectful message, addressed to the Marquis's office but meant for a far higher authority. It was a simple acceptance of her challenge.
'I am returning to the West to train. I will see you when I am a Master.'
I knew she would understand.
The morning of our departure was cool and overcast, the sky the color of slate. Our retinue gathered in the main courtyard of the estate. Rolan and the other wounded guards, their injuries now mostly healed, sat taller in their saddles, their loyalty forged in the fire of a real battle.
Seraphina was already in the carriage, her face a mixture of relief at leaving this dangerous city and apprehension for the road ahead. She had not questioned my decision. When I had told her we were leaving, she had simply asked, "When do we ride?" She was no longer just my maid; she was part of my war council, my most trusted confidant.
I mounted my grey stallion, the leather of the saddle familiar and comforting. I looked up one last time at the distant, needle-thin spire of the Imperial Palace, a silent promise passing between me and the lonely star who resided within it.
'Wait for me,' I thought.
With a final nod to the estate's steward, I turned my horse and led my entourage out of the main gate. We rode through the quiet, morning streets of the capital, our snarling wolf banner a stark, grey contrast to the city's white marble. I had arrived here as a boy, a curious anomaly with a dangerous secret. I was leaving as a champion, a target, and a man with an impossible quest.
As we passed through the grand western gate, leaving the city's gilded cages and shadowy politics behind, my gaze was fixed on the long road ahead. The road home. The road back to the harsh, unforgiving borderlands where I had been reborn.
The capital had been a stage. Now, it was time to build a fortress. It was time to forge myself into the Master she expected me to become.