The retreat from Port Varrick was done quickly and quietly, like a military extraction. Kael, the old Ashworth guardsman who ran The Grey Anchor, showed his worth by getting on a nondescript merchant ship heading north. The captain was willing to look the other way for a large amount of untraceable gold. We left the city in the early morning fog, leaving behind the smell, the noise, and the ghosts of the Sunken District like a dream we couldn't quite remember.
The trip back north, following the same path we took to get to the familiar, rugged peaks of the Ashworth mountains, was very different from the trip out. The cautious hope and the feeling of starting a big, secret mission were gone. The mood was now sad, tense, and full of unspoken fears and the heavy weight of failure.
Thank God my mother took the faster route by carriage along the main trade roads, with her own elite guard, so we didn't have to deal with her frantic presence any longer. That meant that our small, tired group—me, my dad, Garrick, Rolan, Seraphina, and the new, awkwardly acquired Leo—had to move at a slower, more careful pace that was better for the injured.
My father rode at the front of our small group, a quiet, strong presence. He didn't say much, and his eyes were always on the road ahead, but I could feel his attention, a heavy weight at the edge of my awareness. He was watching me, judging my condition, the small changes in my Aether, and the way I held myself. I thought he knew a lot more than he let on.
His Grandmaster senses could sense the storm brewing just beneath my calm surface. He didn't say anything because he didn't care; he was like a wolf guarding a member of its own pack who was acting strangely.
I spent most of the week-long journey lost in the labyrinth of my own mind, the horrifying truths revealed by the Inheritor's Burden echoing relentlessly. Path of Integration. Trial of Wills. Fail, and be consumed. Become a Wyrm. The words were a cold fire, burning away the last vestiges of the naive confidence I had gained after the tournament. My power wasn't just a gift; it was a parasite, an ancient, alien will bound to my own, constantly seeking dominance. My foreign soul, the soul of a reader, not a warrior king, lacked the inherent strength to simply suppress it, unlike the Lancelot from the novel. My path was not one of command, but of a desperate, terrifying negotiation.
The memory of the berserk state was a raw wound. Not just the violence, but the feeling – the cold arrogance, the absolute certainty of superiority, the chilling disconnect from my own humanity. It had felt… powerful, yes, but also utterly empty. A hollow god of destruction. The thought that that was the price of failure, that I could become that mindless beast permanently, sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the cool mountain air. 'I will not be erased,' I repeated the vow silently, fiercely, the words a mantra against the encroaching dread.
The tension within our group was palpable. Rolan, his leg healing but still stiff, rode with a quiet, dutiful loyalty, but his eyes held a new, deep-seated wariness whenever he looked at me. He had seen the monster. He couldn't unsee it. Garrick, his own recovery progressing slowly, the Void poison leaving a lingering weakness, maintained his professional stoicism, but his usual gruff ease was gone, replaced by a watchful, almost clinical, distance. He was assessing me not just as his lord, but as a potential threat vector to the House he was sworn to protect.
Seraphina was perhaps the most difficult. She rode beside me, tending to my needs with her usual quiet diligence, but the easy warmth, the shared understanding that had been growing between us, felt fractured. Her fear was a tangible thing, a faint, trembling dissonance I could feel through my Rhythmic Sense. She avoided meeting my eyes for too long. I tried, one quiet evening as we made camp, to breach the wall.
"Sera," I began, my voice low as she handed me a cup of herbal tea. "What happened back there… I know it must have been terrifying. I… I lost control."
She flinched, almost imperceptibly, her knuckles white where she gripped the empty kettle. "You saved us, my lord," she whispered, her gaze fixed on the campfire. "You were… strong." She couldn't bring herself to say more, couldn't voice the horror of seeing me turn on her, claws extended.
"The woman," I prompted gently, changing the subject, sensing the direct approach was too much, too soon. "The one with wings. You said she gave you the ring?"
She nodded, touching the simple pouch at her belt where she now kept the Silverwood cutting. "She appeared from nowhere. She… stopped you. Effortlessly." Her voice held a note of bewildered awe. "She spoke of storms and teacups. And she mentioned a 'Captain'." She finally looked at me, her eyes wide with a fearful curiosity. "Who was she, my lord?"
"I don't know," I admitted truthfully. "Another player in a game I don't understand." The existence of this third faction, these Inheritors, was another deviation from the novel, another layer of complexity, another potential threat or ally. The ring on my finger felt suddenly heavier.
It was Leo who offered the most pragmatic, if cynical, perspective. He rode beside me for long stretches, his own recovery slow but steady, his sharp eyes missing nothing. He didn't offer sympathy or judgment, only blunt, practical observations.
"So, the dragon in your head throws tantrums," he rasped one afternoon, after I had briefly explained the core concept of the Inheritor's Burden and my Path of Integration. "Hardly surprising. Power like that doesn't come without a price. You think you're special?" He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Everyone fights their own demons, kid. Yours just happens to have scales and breathe metaphorical fire."
"The book says I have to integrate its will, find harmony," I said, frustration evident in my voice. "How do you find harmony with something that wants to obliterate everything?"
"You don't fight the storm," he replied, his gaze distant, as if recalling his own past battles. "You learn to ride the lightning. You don't aim for harmony; you aim for survival. Find its rhythm, its triggers, its desires. Understand why it rages. Then, maybe, just maybe, you can point the damn thing in the right direction when it breaks loose. Control is an illusion, lordling. Influence is the best you can hope for."
His words, bleak as they were, resonated. He wasn't offering easy answers, wasn't promising a cure. He was offering a strategy for coexistence, for managing the beast, not slaying it. It was the perspective of a survivor, and perhaps, the only realistic path forward.
When I saw the jagged peaks of the Ashworth home range on the horizon, I felt a mix of relief and fear. I was going home not as a hero who had won, but as a soldier who had been hurt and was carrying a dangerous enemy inside. The walls of the fortress, which used to make people feel safe, now felt like the walls of a cage. The real fight hadn't ended in the ruins of Port Varrick; it was just beginning, and the battlefield was my own soul.