The Great Hall of Ashworth Estate looked different now. Usually, this place was cold, hard stone and had a practical purpose. But tonight, it was full of warmth and life that I had never seen in these walls before. Hundreds of torches lined the high walls, their flames dancing happily and casting flickering golden light on the long, heavy tables full of food worth a king's ransom. There were whole roasted boars next to piles of spiced birds, platters overflowing with dark breads and sharp cheeses from the mountain dairies, and huge flagons of ale and dark Northern wine were passed around freely among the people who had come. Minstrels played lively songs from a gallery above. Their music mixed with the loud laughter and talking below, which was a big change from the fortress's usual quiet.
I knew that my mother's strong will was behind the celebration, which was fit for a returning conqueror. She stood near the head table, her face glowing with happiness that seemed to light up the whole hall. She wore a deep emerald silk gown. She was a whirlwind of activity, telling servants what to do, welcoming household knights, and showing how happy she was that I was back by being very welcoming.
I stood just inside the main archway, dressed in fresh silks of Ashworth grey and black, the victor's laurel—a surprisingly heavy circlet of gold and silver leaves—feeling alien and slightly absurd on my brow. The transition from the life-or-death intensity of the capital to this overwhelming display of familial pride was jarring. Part of me, the part forged in the Voidstone Chamber and tempered in the blood-soaked alleys of Aethelgard, felt like an imposter. I was the champion, the hero of the hour, but beneath the fine clothes, my body still ached, and my mind was a battlefield of secrets and shadows.
"My lord." Rolan appeared at my side, his own face scrubbed clean, his usual guard's leathers replaced with a formal tunic bearing the wolf crest. His shoulder was bandaged, but his eyes shone with an uncomplicated, infectious pride. "They await you."
He gestured toward the head table where my family was seated. Taking a breath, I forced a smile onto my face – not entirely fake, but layered over the deeper currents within me – and walked forward.
A wave of respectful silence, followed by a roar of approval, followed my steps as I moved through the hall. Guards raised their goblets, servants paused in their duties to offer shy smiles and nods. The air thrummed with genuine excitement, with the pride of a house that had, against all odds, produced a champion. It was intoxicating, and deeply humbling.
I took my seat at the high table, placed in the seat of honor between my mother and father. Damian gave me a solid, approving nod from across the table. Elias, seated further down, pointedly avoided my gaze, nursing a goblet of wine with a sullen intensity. Some things, it seemed, even a championship couldn't change overnight.
My mother immediately fussed over me, piling choice cuts of meat onto my plate, her joy a tangible thing. "Eat, Lancelot! You're still too thin after that ordeal. The capital clearly doesn't feed its heroes properly."
The feast really got going. There were toasts to House Ashworth, the Western Marches, and my win. I said the right things, and my voice easily cut through the noise. The words felt rehearsed, like something I had learned from a life I barely remembered but whose social skills were surprisingly helpful. I told a few funny, cleaned-up stories from the tournament. For example, Marius Volanti's showy arrogance made people laugh, Cassius Ardane's disciplined strength made people nod in respect, and Lyra Corva's ghost-like speed made people murmur in interest. I talked about the last fight with Aria, but I didn't use fear to describe her power. Instead, I used a warrior's respect for a worthy opponent, leaving out the darker, more desperate parts of the fight.
It was a performance, but a necessary one. I was no longer just Lancelot; I was the Champion, a symbol of Ashworth's rising strength, and I had a role to play.
Later, as the minstrels struck up a particularly lively reel and the lower tables grew more raucous, I felt a heavy presence beside me. My father had leaned closer, his voice a low rumble beneath the noise of the feast, meant for my ears alone.
"You fought well," he said, the words simple, direct, devoid of flourish. He wasn't looking at me, his gaze fixed on the swirling dancers below, but his meaning was unmistakable. It wasn't just praise for the tournament. It was an acknowledgment of everything – the confrontation with him in the study, the duel with Elias, the Groc hunt, the exposure of Valerius, the survival of the ambush.
"Thank you, Father," I replied, my own voice quiet.
He took a slow sip of his wine. "You have also made us enemies," he stated, the words flat, pragmatic. "House Vane's influence runs deep. Their tendrils are wrapped around half the merchant guilds in the capital. This insult will not be easily forgotten. There will be repercussions."
A familiar chill tried to snake its way up my spine, but I met his gaze, holding it steady. "I understand the risks."
He turned his head then, and his grey eyes, so like my own, held a surprising depth. It wasn't anger or disappointment. It was… instruction. "Good," he grunted. "Understanding the cost is the first step. But know this, Lancelot." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping further, a low, powerful current beneath the music. "You won the battle. You exposed the rot. That was your duty, and you performed it admirably. Dealing with the political fallout? That is the House's duty."
He gestured subtly with his goblet toward the hall, toward Damian who was laughing with Garrick, toward the guards raising their tankards, toward the banners bearing the snarling wolf. "The pack handles the fallout. You brought the kill home; now let the pack defend the den. House Vane, House Volanti – they are vipers, yes, but they are known vipers. We have dealt with their kind for generations. This is a game we understand."
Relief washed over me, so profound it was almost dizzying. I hadn't expected absolution, perhaps just a grim acknowledgment of the storm I had brought down upon us. But this was something else entirely. It was acceptance. It was solidarity. He wasn't just acknowledging my strength; he was integrating me into the very structure of the family's power, defining my role and, crucially, sharing the burden. He was telling me I wasn't alone in this fight.
"Focus on your strength," my father continued, his gaze sharp again, analytical. "That unique Path of yours… it has potential far beyond embarrassing capital peacocks. You have proven you have teeth. Now, you must continue to sharpen them. The enemies we know are dangerous enough. The ones we don't know…" He left the sentence unfinished, the chilling memory of Valerius's betrayal hanging unspoken between us.
He finished his wine and rose abruptly, the private audience clearly over. "Enjoy the feast, Lancelot. You have earned it." He placed a heavy hand on my shoulder for a single, uncharacteristically paternal moment, a gesture of silent, profound approval, before turning and walking back to his place at the head of the table, the granite mask firmly back in place.
I sat there for a long moment amidst the swirling chaos of the celebration, the warmth of the food and wine doing little compared to the internal warmth spreading through my chest. My father's words echoed in my mind. Let the pack handle the fallout. It was the first time in either of my lives that I had truly felt like I belonged to something larger than myself, something strong and fierce and protective.
I looked around the Great Hall, at the roaring fires, the laughing soldiers, the proud faces of my family. The shadows of the Void Cult and the impossible challenge set by Elara still lingered at the edges of my thoughts, cold and sharp. But for the first time, they didn't feel quite so overwhelming. The wolf had returned to his den. And the pack was strong.