The journey home was a long, slow exhale. Leaving the capital felt like surfacing from a deep, crushing ocean dive. With every mile we put between ourselves and the city's gleaming white spires, the air seemed to grow cleaner, the weight of a thousand hidden agendas and watchful eyes lifting from my shoulders. The soft, manicured hills of the heartland slowly gave way to the rugged, ancient mountains and deep, shadowed forests of the West. The landscape grew wilder, more honest, and my soul settled with it.
My retinue, once a tense, wary unit navigating a hostile city, had transformed into a band of returning heroes. Rolan and the other guards, their wounds now faded to proud scars, rode with a straight-backed confidence they hadn't possessed before. They were no longer just household guards; they were the champion's men, and they had bled for that title in the capital's dark alleys. Their laughter was louder, their camaraderie a solid, comforting presence at my back.
I, however, was quiet for most of the ride. My mind was a landscape of its own, replaying the chaotic symphony of the past few weeks. The roar of the colosseum, the chilling wrongness of the Void, the impossible weight of Elara's presence, and the quiet, elegant script of her final message. 'Come and find me again when you are a Master.' It was not just a challenge; it was a promise. A single, shimmering point of light on a distant, fog-shrouded shore, a destination that gave my entire existence a new, terrifyingly clear purpose.
On the seventh day of our journey, we crested the final hill. Below us, nestled in its valley like a grey wolf curled in its den, lay the Ashworth Estate. The last time I had seen it from this vantage, I had been a stranger in a stolen body, my heart filled with a cold, profound dread. Now, as I looked at the thick, granite walls and the snarling wolf banners snapping in the wind, a different emotion washed over me. It was not joy, not precisely. It was a deep, grounding sense of relief. This was not just a fortress. It was my fortress. It was home.
Our approach had been sighted long before we arrived. As we rode up the main causeway, I saw that the guards atop the walls were not in their standard patrol positions. They were lined along the battlements, a silent, armored gallery of witnesses. As we passed beneath the raised portcullis, a single, sharp command echoed from the gatehouse, and every soldier on the wall slammed their fist over their heart in a unified, thunderous salute.
The main courtyard was not empty. My entire family was waiting for us at the top of the keep's grand steps, a rare, complete assembly.
My mother was the first to move. The moment I dismounted, she was a blur of dark blue silk, descending the steps and pulling me into a fierce, trembling embrace. "Lancelot," she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears of relief. "You're home. You're safe." She held me at arm's length, her hands cupping my face, her eyes shining with a pride so fierce it was almost painful to behold.
Behind her stood my father. Count Theron Ashworth was, as always, a statue of granite, his expression unreadable. But as my eyes met his, I saw something new. The cold, analytical assessment was gone. The weary disappointment of a lifetime was gone. His gaze was heavy, yes, but it was the weight of approval. He gave a single, sharp nod, a gesture that, from him, was as loud as a king's proclamation. "You have brought honor to this house," he said, his voice a low rumble that carried across the courtyard. "Welcome home, my son."
Damian strode forward next, a wide, genuine grin on his face that was all teeth and respect. He clasped my shoulder in a warrior's grip, his Master-level power a solid, grounding presence. "They say the final blow was a thing of beauty," he said, his eyes glinting with professional admiration. "A pity I wasn't there to see it. You've done well, little brother. Very well."
Even Elias was there, standing slightly behind our father, his arms crossed. His expression was a complex, sour mixture of disbelief and resentment, but he could not deny the reality of the moment. "Congratulations," he said, the words clipped and formal, but they were spoken nonetheless. The chasm between us remained, but the foundation had shifted.
I looked past them, at the faces of my retinue. Rolan was beaming, his chest puffed out with pride. And Seraphina, standing just inside the keep's doorway, her hands clasped before her, had a smile on her face so bright and full of quiet joy that it felt like the sun finally breaking through the clouds.
"This calls for a true celebration," my mother announced, her voice ringing with a joy that had been absent from these halls for too long. "I will have the Great Hall prepared. A feast, to honor the Champion of Blossoms! To honor my son!"
The entire estate seemed to buzz with a new, vibrant energy as we entered the keep. Servants hurried through the corridors, their faces lit with excitement. The scent of baking bread and roasting meats, already underway, filled the air. My mother, in her element, was already issuing a flurry of commands, a masterful general planning a campaign of celebration.
When I finally reached the quiet sanctuary of my own rooms, the contrast was jarring. The chamber was the same as I had left it—simple, spartan, the room of a forgotten third son. But the man who stood in it was a stranger. I looked at my reflection in the polished silver of a water basin. The boy who had left this room was gone, replaced by a man with new scars on his skin and an old war in his eyes.
Seraphina entered quietly, carrying a pitcher of fresh, cool water. "It is good to have you home, my lord," she said, her voice a soft, comforting melody.
"It is good to be home," I replied, the words feeling truer than any I had ever spoken. I sank onto the edge of my bed, the familiar, lumpy mattress a welcome comfort after weeks in the saddle. "Thank you, Sera. For everything."
"I did nothing," she protested gently.
"You were my anchor in the storm," I said, looking up at her, my voice filled with a gratitude that went beyond words. "And for that, I am eternally grateful."
She blushed, a rare and beautiful thing, and gave a small curtsy before slipping out of the room to help with the feast preparations. I was left alone with the silence and the scent of home. The tension of the capital, the constant, grinding pressure of the secret war, finally began to recede, washed away by the simple, profound relief of being in a place where I belonged. The celebration tonight would be for the champion. It would be a night of wine, food, and glory. But in this quiet moment, I felt a peace that no victory could ever grant me. It was the peace of a wolf, finally returned to his den.