Pain faded slowly.
Not all at once, not cleanly but like ice retreating under stubborn sunlight, inch by inch. Valen lay still as hands moved over him, warm and deliberate, murmuring old northern incantations beneath their breath. The scent of crushed herbs and burning resin filled the chamber, sharp enough to sting his nose.
"Hold him steady," a woman's voice said. Calm. Commanding.
Another voice replied, strained. "He is steady."
Valen almost scoffed. His entire body felt like it was held together by stubbornness alone.
Blue-white light pulsed beneath the healer's palms, sinking into flesh and muscle. The wound at his abdomen once screaming, once fatal knitted slowly, skin drawing together like torn fabric pulled by invisible thread.
Magic.
Real magic.
Something Valen Arkwright had never been talented in.
Something he the man from another world had only ever used through menus and hotkeys.
A sharp breath tore from his chest as the healer pressed deeper.
"That will leave a scar," she said. "But it will not reopen unless you are foolish."
Valen opened his eyes. "Then I'll try to be less foolish than whoever thought stabbing me would end this."
The woman snorted softly. She was older, hair bound in tight braids streaked with gray. A senior healer trusted, expensive, and not easily frightened.
"You should not be alive," she said plainly. "Another inch, and you would not be speaking."
Valen smiled faintly. "Seems I'm inconvenient like that."
She finished the final sigil and stepped back. The light faded. Exhaustion washed over him, heavy but tolerable.
Edrik exhaled loudly from near the door.
"It's done?" the captain asked.
"He will live," the healer replied. "Do not mistake that for readiness. His body remembers pain. It will remind him."
Valen sat up slowly.
The pain was there but distant now. Manageable.
More importantly
I'm no longer dying atleast.
The healers left soon after, the chamber quiet once more. Outside, the sounds of chaos had dulled not ended, but paused. Both sides were bleeding. Both sides were waiting.
Valen leaned back against the headboard, eyes half-lidded.
In the original timeline, this was where he died quietly.
Now?
Now the board was open.
"Edrik," Valen said.
The captain straightened. "My lord."
"Send word across the keep. Ring the iron bells."
Edrik frowned. "That signals a formal decree."
"Yes," Valen said. "That's the point."
XXXX
The great hall filled within the hour.
Nobles wrapped in fur and steel. Commanders with blood still drying on their armor. Clergy in white and blue, eyes sharp with calculation. Even merchants lingered at the edges silent, watching.
Valen stood at the centre dais
Not armored.
Not weakened.
Just dressed in black and silver, the wolf crest clasped at his throat.
Platinum-blonde hair fell loose down his back, catching the firelight. His blue-green eyes swept the hall, unhurried.
Whispers rippled.
He should be dead.
He doesn't look strong enough.
Why hasn't he collapsed?
Morwen stood to the right of the dais, flawless as ever. Dark hair pinned elegantly, expression composed. Beside her, Kael Arkwright leaned casually, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
He smiled when Valen met his gaze.
A brother's smile.
Warm.
False.
Valen raised a hand.
Silence fell.
"I will not speak long," Valen said. His voice carried calm, unforced. "The county bleeds. Houses fight houses. Brothers kill brothers."
His eyes flicked briefly to Kael.
"The North does not fear war," Valen continued. "But it despises waste."
Murmurs of agreement followed.
Valen let them settle before speaking again.
"So I offer the North its oldest solution."
He turned slightly, addressing both banners.
"In one week's time, I will face my brother in formal duel."
The hall erupted.
Steel shifted. Voices rose.
Kael's smile froze.
Valen didn't stop.
"The fighting will cease until that day. No raids. No assassinations. No sabotage. Whoever wins the duel will be named Count of Arkwright by blade, by blood, and by tradition."
He let the words sink in.
"In this land," Valen said softly, "a warrior's right is unquestioned."
The hall stilled.
They couldn't deny it.
Even Morwen knew that.
She inclined her head slightly, eyes cold. "A bold proposal," she said. "You are wounded."
Valen met her gaze. "Then it will be an easy victory for your son."
A flicker.
Gone in an instant but there.
Kael laughed lightly. "Brother, you don't need to—"
"I do," Valen said. "And you'll accept."
Kael studied him now. Really studied him.
Then he nodded.
"I accept," he said. "The North deserves clarity."
The hall roared.
The war paused.
Exactly as Valen intended.
XXXX
The training yard was quiet at dawn.
Snow crunched beneath Valen's boots as he stepped onto the frost-hardened ground. His breath fogged the air.
Edrik waited with two swords.
"One-handed or two?" the captain asked.
Valen took the simpler blade.
"Two," he said. "I don't need elegance."
Edrik snorted. "That's fortunate."
They began slowly.
Valen moved with competence nothing more. His strikes were clean, his footwork disciplined. He blocked when he should, retreated when necessary.
But he watched.
Every motion. Every correction.
I remember this, he thought.
In the game, Valen's swordsmanship was rated average. Balanced. Reliable. Nothing exceptional.
But the game had never accounted for someone who knew every technique tree, every synergy, every hidden mechanic.
Edrik struck harder.
Valen adapted.
Again.
Again.
By midday, sweat soaked his clothes.
By dusk, his arms trembled.
Still, he didn't stop.
At night
He turned to magic.
The instructor a young mage assigned more out of duty than belief stood nervously before him.
"My lord," the mage said, "you have no affinity."
"I know," Valen replied. "Start anyway."
They began with focus exercises.
Breathing.
Visualization.
Pain lanced through Valen's skull as mana resisted him foreign, heavy.
He nearly blacked out.
"Again," he said.
By the third night, something shifted.
Not power.
Awareness.
A thin thread of cold stirred beneath his skin.
Not much.
But real.
And enough.
XXXX
On the fourth night, Valen left the keep alone.
No guards.
No banners.
Just memory.
The path wound down into the cliffs beneath the fortress, through half-forgotten tunnels carved by hands long dead. Frost coated the stone. Ancient markings glimmered faintly in the dark.
Here, Valen thought.
In the game, this place didn't exist until five years from now.
Morwen would find it by accident.
This time
Valen pressed his palm to the wall.
Stone shifted.
A hidden door groaned open.
Beyond lay a chamber untouched by time.
At its center stood a pedestal.
And atop it
An artifact wrapped in blackened chains.
TheDominion Sigil.
Inactive.
Waiting.
Valen didn't touch it.
Not yet.
"Soon," he whispered.
Because domination wasn't taken by force.
It was earned.
And only as the count it was possible.
Broken.
And when the time comes
The North would kneel.