The world felt tilted, off-balance. One moment, I was grappling with the terrifying, soul-altering truths contained within the Inheritor's Burden, the revelation of my Path of Integration, the chilling threat of becoming a mindless Wyrm. The next, the door to my room burst open, and the mundane world crashed back in with the force of a tidal wave, embodied by my mother.
Countess Eleonora Ashworth stood there, a whirlwind in dusty traveling silks, her usual regal composure utterly shattered. Panic radiated from her in palpable waves, her eyes wide with a fear that had clearly ridden alongside her for days. Flanked by two grim-faced household guards—men I recognized from the inner circle, loyal only to the Count himself—she looked like a queen who had stormed the battlefield to retrieve her wounded son.
"Lancelot!" she breathed, the name a choked sob of relief that cracked the air. She rushed forward, bypassing my stunned silence, her hands immediately fluttering over me, searching for wounds her eyes couldn't see, her gaze frantic. "Oh, my boy. My foolish, brave boy. I came as soon as the raven arrived. Attacked in the streets… mercenaries… I imagined the worst…"
She pulled me into a fierce, trembling embrace. She smelled of the road, of horses and rain, but overwhelmingly of home, a scent so potent it almost brought tears to my eyes. The sheer, unconditional force of her love was a shock to my system after the cold, calculating dangers of Port Varrick and the chilling truths of my own nature. She held me at arm's length, her eyes welling with tears as she took in my pale face, the bandages peeking from beneath my tunic, the haunted look in my eyes she couldn't possibly understand.
"You are too thin," she declared, her panic shifting instantly into a mother's fierce, practical authority, a force as formidable as any Grandmaster's Aura. She turned to her guards, her voice sharp. "Unpack the provisions immediately. I brought blankets from his own bed, broth from our kitchens. This city's water is filth." She turned back to me, already beginning to fuss, straightening my simple tunic, brushing a stray lock of hair from my forehead as if I were still a boy caught playing in the mud.
The sheer, profound absurdity of it struck me again. Here I was, grappling with the knowledge that my soul was at war with a Paragon-level dragon's will, terrified of becoming a mindless beast, and my mother was primarily concerned that I hadn't been eating properly. The disconnect was dizzying, a painful, almost comical reminder of the chasm between my reality and the world's perception of me.
Trying to keep up the act of being the son hurt in a simple "gang attack" felt weak and almost insulting because she was so worried. "Mom, I'm getting better," I said, trying to sound calm even though I wasn't. "Seraphina has taken great care of me..."
My words were cut off as the door creaked open further. Leo stood there, leaning heavily against the doorframe, drawn by the commotion. His chest was tightly bandaged, his face pale beneath his tan, but his cynical, weary eyes missed nothing. Behind him stood Garrick, his arms still wrapped but his posture radiating disapproval at the disruption, and Rolan, looking wide-eyed and deeply uncomfortable.
My mother's gaze snapped towards Leo. She took in his rough appearance, his visible injuries, the aura of barely contained danger that clung to him. Her expression, already fraught with worry for me, turned instantly glacial, protective fury replacing panic. "And who," she demanded, her voice dripping ice, her tone leaving no doubt as to her assessment of him, "is this?"
Leo, despite clearly being in pain, managed a shallow, mocking bow that was pure insolence. "Leo, madam," he rasped. "Or Silas, if you prefer the local flavor. Consultant. Problem solver."
"Consultant?" she echoed, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. "He looks like he crawled out of the bilges and lost a fight with whatever lives down there." She took an involuntary step back, pulling me slightly behind her, as if shielding me from his very presence.
"Mother," I interjected quickly, stepping slightly forward again, trying desperately to regain control. "Leo is… a local guide. He possesses unique knowledge of this city. He was instrumental in helping us navigate… certain complexities. He was grievously wounded protecting me during the… incident." It was a tissue-thin lie, stretched almost to transparency under her sharp gaze.
Her eyes flickered between Leo's cynical face, Garrick's grim silence, Rolan's averted gaze, and the palpable fear still lingering around Seraphina, who hovered near the doorway like a nervous bird. My mother wasn't a fool. She had spent her life navigating the subtle currents of courtly intrigue and Ashworth politics. She knew a carefully constructed lie when she heard one. She didn't know the truth, but she knew this wasn't it. Her gaze hardened, her maternal worry solidifying into a fierce, unwavering resolve.
She surveyed the room again, taking in its starkness – the rough-hewn furniture, the damp patches on the stone walls, the faint but persistent smell of stale ale and something vaguely fishy wafting up from downstairs. Her lip curled in distaste. "And this… place? This den? This is where my son, the Champion of Blossoms, recovers from an assassination attempt? It is unacceptable. Utterly unacceptable."
She drew herself up to her full height, the Countess of Ashworth in her full, formidable authority. "We are leaving," she declared, her voice ringing with an absolute finality that tolerated no argument. "Now. Gather your belongings, Lancelot. My guards will secure passage. We return to Ashworth immediately. You will recover properly, under my care, within safe walls."
I opened my mouth to protest, to argue about the mission, about Leo, about the vital importance of staying, but the look in her eyes stopped me. It was not just worry; it was the raw, unyielding terror of a mother who had almost lost her child and would burn the world down to prevent it from happening again. Arguing would mean revealing the truth – the Cult, the Huntsman, the berserk state – a truth that would shatter her. Hiding my secrets meant obeying her command.
I looked at Leo. He met my gaze, a flicker of dark amusement in his eyes. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shrug. Your family, your problem. Garrick looked relieved, the prospect of getting me out of this dangerous city clearly outweighing any concern about the aborted mission. Rolan looked torn but ultimately resigned. Seraphina simply looked exhausted, caught between too many conflicting loyalties.
"Yes, Mother," I said, and the words tasted like ash in my mouth. My search was over before it even started. The trail would go cold. The Cult would come back together. But I had to do it. I kept my secret, but I failed at my mission. The small room was filled with the chaotic, frantic energy of an immediate departure. My mother gave sharp, clear orders, and her relief showed up as a whirlwind of logistical efficiency. I felt like a piece of cargo being quickly packed up for shipping. My own goals and desires were pushed aside by the strong force of maternal love.