Lucian's eyelids fluttered. Shapes, shadows, the faint scent of damp linen. A soft hand brushed against his arm.
"You're awake, my lord," the maid said softly, stepping aside. "You've been unconscious for hours."
At the doorway, Captain Harlan stood, tall and broad, armor polished, wolf emblem gleaming, sword at his side. His presence alone pulled Lucian upright with tension.
Harlan stepped closer, voice low but firm. "Lord Blackwell, you've survived. That is what matters most. Everything else…" His eyes darkened, but he spoke evenly, "The rest of your family who were on the field… they did not."
Lucian's throat tightened. He leaned slightly forward, letting his words sound cautious but natural. "My father… my brother?"
"They are gone. Every man of the left flank… destroyed. The cavalry of Blackwell and allied bannermen—all but five hundred are dead. The enemy's magic struck with devastating force. There was nothing we could do against it."
Lucian nodded slowly, letting a faint frown crease his brow. "And the battle itself? The kingdom?"
"The king won," Harlan said, tone steady. "The Blackwell flank's delay—tragic as it was—allowed the center to strike hard. The right flank, only three thousand strong, charged against the five thousand mercenary cavalry. They routed them. The mercenaries abandoned the principality's army entirely. The prince escaped with the rest of the army, and the enemy wizard… unleashed everything he had on our flank, then vanished, utterly spent. All told, twenty thousand of the principality's soldiers died, fifteen thousand of the king's."
Lucian's mind raced, but he asked calmly, choosing his words: "And the infantry? How many remain?"
"Ten thousand of Blackwell's infantry are ready, stationed behind Ashborne's walls, awaiting orders. The casualties were concentrated among the cavalry who rode with your flank."
He let his eyes drift toward the window. Outside, the castle courtyard stretched, orderly despite the chaos beyond the walls. Fires smoldered in distant camps, banners fluttered. The surviving soldiers were alive, disciplined, and waiting.
Lucian tilted his head, expression controlled. "So… the house is mine, then."
Harlan's jaw tightened. "Yes. Lord Blackwell. You inherit the name, the soldiers, the bannermen. And the king… he requested your presence as soon as you woke. You are to meet him and answer as Lord Blackwell, in full authority. Your men, your bannermen, and my guards will ensure nothing happens to you before that meeting."
Lucian's lips curved faintly, a careful gesture. "I see. Very well, Captain. Thank you for seeing me here safely. You… have done more than duty requires."
Harlan inclined his head slightly. "It was my duty, my lord. Now you must decide. Every order you give, every move you make, will shape the house, the soldiers, and the kingdom. Hesitation is not an option."
Lucian studied him a moment, then asked, carefully choosing words that sounded casual:"And the wizard? Could he… do that again?"
Harlan's eyes darkened, and his voice took on a weight that made the air feel heavier. "Do that again? No, my lord. That was no ordinary spell—it was devastation, sacrificial and precise. To unleash such power, a wizard pours everything into the heavens themselves, leaving nothing in reserve. It demands immense energy, focus, and… time. He is alive, but spent. Not broken, not crippled—but incapable of anything like that for the foreseeable future. He will not strike again soon."
Harlan let the pause stretch, ensuring Lucian understood. "You must know this: the Varkell Principality has only three wizards in total. Their power is rare and precious. Using one in this way leaves them exposed, vulnerable. After that strike, only two remain active and combat-ready. Such magic is a weapon of last resort—they cannot repeat it without risking themselves entirely."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a sacred truth. "The wizard is probably back in the principality's capital with the prince, tending to his strength, recuperating from what he spent. It is tragic and terrifying, all at once—but for now, we may consider that flank safe from his fury."
Lucian nodded slowly, letting the words settle. Every detail—the rarity, the risk, the scale of devastation—etched itself into his mind. He asked no more, appearing curious rather than alarmed, quietly filing away information that could one day save lives.
Lucian's gaze drifted back to the window. The castle walls loomed wide and tall. Ten thousand infantry waited. Thousands had died. His father and brother was gone. And yet, survival had given him control, responsibility, and a path forward.
He was the sole heir. He was Lord Blackwell. And the king awaited him.