The feast went on and on, a colorful mix of noise, light, and the simple, hearty joy of the West. Ale flowed freely, stories got bigger with each telling, and the Great Hall, which is usually a place of strict duty, echoed with a level of partying that it probably hadn't seen in decades. At least for tonight, the shadows that always hung around the edges of Ashworth territory, both literal and political, seemed to be kept at bay by the power of celebration.
I moved away from the high table and into the lower benches, where the guards and household knights were having a good time. Instead of the stiff way of talking to a lord, they talked to me like a friend, like a soldier would. They raised their tankards and clapped their shoulders. The questions they asked weren't the probing, political ones that nobles ask, but the blunt, grateful ones that warriors ask.
"That last move, my lord," Pike, the grizzled sergeant whose wooden sword I'd shattered weeks ago, slurred slightly, his face flushed with ale. "Against the fire-witch. Walking through her flames… Ancestors' breath, I've never seen the like. How?"
I grinned, leaning against a thick wooden pillar. "Stubbornness, Pike. And perhaps thicker skin than I thought." I didn't mention the scales. That secret was still mine alone, a dangerous, untamed power I was not yet ready to reveal, even to these men I trusted.
Rolan, never far from my side, refilled my goblet. "They're calling you the 'Dragon of the West' in the barracks, my lord," he said, his voice filled with pride. "Some of the newer recruits are half-convinced you actually breathe fire."
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," I laughed, taking a deep drink. The ale was strong, earthy, leagues away from the delicate, perfumed wines of the capital, and it felt grounding. "Fighting fair is much less messy."
Their easy acceptance, their pride in my victory as if it were their own, was a stark contrast to the calculating praise of the capital nobles. This felt real. Earned.
Later, seeking a brief respite from the boisterous energy, I stepped out onto one of the high balconies overlooking the courtyard. The night air was cool and clean, carrying the scent of pine from the surrounding forests. Below, the courtyard torches cast long, dancing shadows.
"Hiding from your adoring public?"
I turned. Damian stood there, leaning against the stone railing, a goblet of wine in his hand. The formal stiffness of the high table was gone, replaced by the relaxed posture of an older brother.
"Just catching my breath," I admitted. "It's… louder than I remember."
He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Mother does enjoy a celebration. Especially when one of her sons finally decides to stop being a disappointment." The words were teasing, but held no malice, only the comfortable bluntness of family.
"I saw the recordings," he continued, his gaze turning serious, analytical. "Memory crystals arrived this morning. Your fight against Thorne… impressive. Foolish, reckless, but undeniably impressive. Those scales… that was not part of the Path you demonstrated before."
My heart gave a slight lurch. Of course, he would notice. His understanding of Aether was leagues beyond anyone else's in the family, save perhaps our father.
"It was… instinct," I said carefully, choosing a partial truth. "A reaction born of desperation. Not something I can control."
Damian nodded slowly, accepting the explanation for now, though his sharp eyes told me he knew there was more to the story. "Control will come. Your foundation is stronger now. I can feel it. The Artisan level suits you, but it is merely a step. Don't let this victory make you complacent."
"Never," I assured him, meeting his gaze. My promise to Elara echoed in my mind. Artisan was not enough. Expert was not enough. Master was the goal.
We stood in comfortable silence for a moment, two brothers looking out over the lands they were sworn to protect. The rivalry, the distance that had defined our relationship for so long, felt distant, replaced by a shared sense of duty, a shared understanding of the burdens that came with our name.
As I turned to head back inside, I nearly collided with Elias. He had clearly been seeking the same escape, and his face tightened into its familiar sneer upon seeing Damian and me together.
"Well, well," Elias drawled, his voice slurring slightly from the wine. "The conquering hero and the golden heir, sharing secrets? Plotting how to divide the County once Father finally kicks the bucket?"
Damian's expression hardened instantly. "Hold your tongue, Elias. You're drunk."
"Am I?" Elias laughed, a bitter, unpleasant sound. He took a step closer to me, his eyes narrowed. "Or am I the only one willing to say what we're all thinking? He comes back with this… freakish power, wins one fancy tournament, and suddenly he's the future of the House? Don't make me laugh. He got lucky."
"Luck had nothing to do with it," Damian said, his voice dangerously quiet.
I held up a hand, stopping my older brother. I looked at Elias, at the raw, pathetic jealousy twisting his features, and I felt not anger, but a profound sense of weariness. This fight was beneath me now.
"You're right, Elias," I said, my voice calm, almost gentle. "I did get lucky. Lucky to survive the dungeon. Lucky to find a power I didn't deserve. Lucky to have brothers who, despite my weaknesses, still stand beside me." I gave him a small, pitying smile. "Enjoy the feast. Try not to choke on your envy."
I turned and walked back into the hall, leaving him sputtering in stunned silence, Damian watching me with a newfound, thoughtful respect. The old Lancelot would have shrunk away or lashed out in anger. This Lancelot simply… didn't care enough to fight that particular battle.
Back in the warmth of the hall, I sought out Seraphina. She was standing near a quiet alcove, observing the celebration with her usual quiet intensity, a small, contented smile on her face.
"Escaping the noise?" I asked, joining her.
"Just appreciating it, my lord," she replied. "It has been too long since these halls felt so… alive."
"Indeed." I lowered my voice. "The Silverwood Sapling. Any new developments while I was gone?"
Her eyes lit up, the shy healer momentarily eclipsed by the excited scholar. "It grows stronger every day, my lord! Especially when I… lend it my focus. The herbs planted near it are thriving, and the strangest thing – the water from the stream beside it, it now tastes purer, cleaner. I think it's influencing the Aether around it, promoting life."
"Excellent," I said, genuinely pleased. Her progress was a quiet victory in the midst of all the noise. "Keep studying it, Sera. I believe it holds more secrets than either of us realize. Your work is important."
The gratitude in her gaze was reward enough. Before she could reply, however, my mother swept down upon us, her face beaming. "Lancelot! There you are! Your father wishes to make a final presentation."
She led me back to the high table, where the Count stood waiting. The hall quieted expectantly.
"Lancelot," my father began, his voice carrying clearly. "Your victory has brought great honor to this house. Such achievements deserve recognition." He gestured, and a servant brought forward a long, velvet-lined box. "While your chosen Path may favor unarmed combat, no son of Ashworth should be without steel."
He opened the box. Inside, nestled on dark blue velvet, lay a magnificent arming sword. It was clearly a masterwork, the blade forged of dark, subtly rippling Northern steel, the crossguard and pommel crafted from unadorned, polished silver in the stark, practical style of the West. It radiated a quiet, potent strength.
"This blade was forged for your grandfather," the Count said, his voice holding a rare note of sentiment. "It has served our house for generations. May it now serve you."
A low murmur of awe went through the hall. This wasn't just a trinket; it was an heirloom that showed you were part of the Ashworth warrior family. I carefully picked up the sword. The cool steel hummed with a hidden power as I held it in my hand. The weight of it and the history it stood for were huge, even though I didn't use it very often.
"Thank you, Father," I said, my voice thick with a feeling I couldn't quite put my finger on. "I will try to be worthy of it."
The feast came to an end, the torches burned low, and the music got quieter. I was back on the balcony, and the cool night air felt good. The sword was now strapped to my side, and its weight was a comforting, real thing.
I looked out at the dark, quiet mountains that surrounded the valley. Home. Safe. For now. The capital seemed like a far-off, fevered dream. But the threats were real. The Cult of the Void. The enemies in politics. And Elara's challenge, her quiet order: "Become a Master."
I could feel the deep, steady well of Artisan power inside me and the steady beat of my two hearts. It was powerful. Stronger than I had ever been before. But it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough for the wars to come, both the ones fought in the shadows and the one I was fighting within myself, trying to reach an impossible peak. The way home was over. The long climb had just begun.