Legacy's Edge

The stairs, shrouded in an eerie silence, wound higher into the heart of the ancient keep, Alaric’s childhood home. The stillness enveloped them, an ominous prelude to the unknown. Not a single flicker of light dared to pierce the all-encompassing darkness, save for the lantern that Ezran had taken from a wall mount. It was a lone light pushing against the shadows as they climbed, step by cautious step, bypassing one deserted floor after another.

Upon reaching the main landing on the ground floor, Alaric paused, casting a wary glance along the corridor that stretched out before them, shrouded in mystery and potential hidden threats. Only two oil lanterns along the entire length of the corridor were lit. These provided a meager light.

To the left, a few yards away, lay the entrance to the great hall, its once grandiose splendor now hidden behind the cloak of night. To the right was a closed door that led to the courtyard and, beyond it, the castle walls—their objective.

“That’s the exit,” Alaric breathed to Ezran. “The lantern will have to be left here.”

Ezran nodded and set the lantern on the ground against the wall, leaving it to burn with a ghostly glow set against the cold stone floor. Sword at the ready, Alaric led the way down the hallway toward the exit.

Upon reaching the door at the corridor’s end, he lifted the iron latch and, with a gentle push, opened the door, slipping outside and into the cold night. Along the outer defensive walls were several torches that fought back the darkness, their light shifting across the stones. A handful of sentries stood vigil near the torches, their figures casting long, sinister shadows, yet none were close enough to notice them.

Concealed within the deeper shadows, Alaric and his party, with the stealth of the shadows themselves, veered right and navigated around the keep’s imposing perimeter to the castle’s rear. The sky, a tapestry of the coming dawn, had just begun to shed its night-time hues, heralding the approach of day with subtle strokes of light. Alaric knew they had to hurry.

Finding the staircase they sought at the back wall, the group ascended the dark stairs, climbing rapidly. The staircase led them to the fighting platform above at the top of the wall. Remarkably, they encountered no one; the path was deserted, as if the castle itself held its breath in anticipation of what was coming.

Upon their arrival at the top of the stairs, their footsteps echoed hollowly against the wooden expanse of the platform. This elevated and protected walkway, cloaked under the protective awning of a sturdy roof, served as a sanctuary from the elements and enemy missile fire if it ever came to a siege.

The wall itself stretched out like a sleeping dragon, its spine running for five hundred yards in either direction, a formidable barrier against the threats that lurked beyond the castle’s heart. The ancient stones whispered tales of past sieges and silent watchers, bearing the scars of time, the elements, and conflict with stoic resilience.

Thorne, with a subtle urgency, tapped Alaric on the shoulder, his gesture drawing attention to the leftmost reaches of the wall. There, at the far corner, a lone torch flickered—a flare in the oppressive gloom of the early morning. Beneath its halo of light, two sentries stood in casual conversation, their guard lowered. The torch unwittingly served to blind them to the shadows beyond its reach, a critical oversight in the cloak of night, a serious lapse in discipline.

Alaric’s eyes, sharp and calculating, lifted to assess the interplay of light and shadow around them. The roof overhead cast a deep, enveloping shadow, making the platform beneath a realm of near-absolute darkness. In this hidden world, they were mere phantoms, their presence as insubstantial as the whispers of the wind. The realization of their advantage, the perfect cloak provided by the night and the structure itself, almost coaxed a grin from Alaric’s lips. Here they were unseen, moving with the freedom of the dark itself.

Alaric, with a predator’s grace and the silence of the night cloaked around him, led the way toward their objective, a mere hundred yards to their left and away from the sentries. Each step was measured, his body hunched to better meld with the shadows cast by the roof.

The sentries, bathed in their false sense of security under the torchlight, remained blissfully unaware of the shadowy figures moving with intent along the wall. Alaric, mindful of their gaze, hoped their attention remained tethered to their idle chatter, their eyes dulled by the comforting and warm glow of their torch.

Pausing in his tracks, Alaric straightened up between two battlements. Leaning, he peered over the edge of the wall, looking straight down the other side. Below, hidden within the embrace of night’s deepest shadows, were twenty men—his men—who had braved the moat to reach the castle’s base. Among them was Grayson, who gave a wave. Alaric waved back as Grayson began moving, leading the others so that he and they were directly under Alaric.

“Here,” Alaric said to Jasper and Thorne, his voice barely above a whisper. “This is the spot. Tie the ropes to the battlements and lower them down, quickly now.”

His words set them into motion, their movements a blend of urgency and stealth. Under the protective veil of darkness, they fastened the ropes securely to the ancient stone, their hands deft and experienced in the task. The knotted lengths of rope, lifelines to their compatriots, were soon dropping to the ground below. Within moments, they became taut as the first of those waiting with Grayson began to scale the wall.

Throughout this endeavor, Alaric’s gaze remained fixed on the distant sentries, his senses honed to any shift in their languid posture or the slightest break in their conversation, which he could not overhear due to the distance. They continued their talk, oblivious to the drama unfolding mere yards away. Alaric held his breath, acutely aware of the razor’s edge upon which their fate balanced.

The sudden scuff of movement against the ancient stone momentarily pierced the veil of night’s stillness, redirecting Alaric’s gaze. As if conjured from the darkness, a figure emerged from the shadows of the other side of the wall. First a head, then an arm, materialized with the quiet determination of a ghost transitioning through the veil between the world of the dead and living.

Thorne and Ezran moved to aid the newcomer, their hands grasping and pulling, helping him over the lip of the wall. The man who emerged onto the platform was Grayson, his tunic soaked and clinging to his skin from crossing the moat, with a sword strapped to his back. His face, masked in charcoal, melded with the darkness.

“I never thought we’d be storming our own keep,” Grayson remarked, his voice a low blend of irony and resolve as he crouched beside Alaric in the shadows. Almost in tandem with his words, another man came over the wall, Thorne and Ezran helping him.

“Neither did I,” Alaric responded, the weight of his words reflecting the gravity of their situation. He turned to Grayson, a silent question in his eyes. “Think you can handle things from here?”

“I do,” came Grayson’s reply.

“Good. We’re going to free my mother. As soon as you have enough men over the wall, go for the gate and, as planned, open it,” Alaric instructed.

“I will.” The resolve in Grayson’s voice was matched by the firmness of his grip on Alaric’s shoulder, a gesture of solidarity and concern. “Be careful, and good fortune.”

“Always,” Alaric replied with the terse assurance of a man who had long made peace with the peril that shadowed his every step. With a determined gesture, he beckoned Ezran, Thorne, Jasper, and Rikka to his side. “Let’s go.”

Together, they retraced their steps with a swiftness born of necessity, each a shadow flitting through the darkness. Alaric spared a fleeting glance toward the sentries, noting with a mix of relief and satisfaction that they remained engrossed in their conversation, blissfully unaware of the storm quietly brewing under their watch.

With not a moment wasted on further observation, Alaric led his companions back down the staircase, their descent swift. Circling back around to the side entrance of the keep, he found the door as they had left it, ajar and inviting. The lantern Ezran had set down was still there, a few yards inside the entrance and sitting against the wall, its light dim and low. As they stepped into the keep’s shadowy embrace, the stillness that greeted them was profound.

The corridor stretched before them, a veiled path leading toward the great hall. Alaric started moving down it. As they approached the hall, the soft, rhythmic sounds of snoring drifted to their ears, a discordant lullaby. Slowing their advance, Alaric paused at the corridor’s end, caution tempering his momentum. Peering around the corner, he looked into and surveyed the hall.

Before the dying embers of the hearth, two men lay in a state of unguarded repose, sprawled across benches and overtaken with sleep. The low, flickering light of the fire from the main hearth cast long shadows across the hall, painting a scene of peace.

Alaric leaned back and gestured, pointing two fingers to his eyes. That was all it took to be understood by his companions. As Alaric’s gaze swept across the hall once more, the weight of memories, both bitter and sweet, pressed upon him. The hall, a custodian of his family’s legacy, stood much as he remembered it—dozens of tables arranged in orderly rows for feasts and councils of days long past. The walls, adorned with old standards and trophies, spoke of valor and the victories of his ancestors, his family’s history. Large iron candelabras and the imposing silhouettes of chandeliers loomed in the darkness, their candles unlit, as if in mourning for the splendor and life that had once filled the space.

The pang of sadness that gripped Alaric as he spied his father’s chair at the head table was unexpected, a sharp reminder of unhealed wounds and lost opportunities, ones he’d never have back. Part of him had harbored the hope of reconciliation, of bridging the chasm that had grown between them with time and misunderstandings. Now, with that possibility forever out of reach, the weight of what could have been pressing down upon his heart.

Directly across from him were a set of stairs. Those were the ones he wanted, for they led higher up and into the keep, to the personal quarters. With a resolve forged from necessity and the urgency of their mission, Alaric steeled himself against the tide of emotions threatening to undermine his focus. He stepped out into the great hall and moved across it, a spectral figure against the backdrop of history and heritage within these stone walls. His companions, shadows in his wake, followed with equal care.

The sleeping enemy, Masterson’s men, lost to the world in their slumber, remained snoring and oblivious to their presence.

Ascending the staircase, Alaric and his companions embarked on a climb that was as much a journey through the corridors of his memory as it was a physical ascent within the stone heart of the keep. The staircase appeared to stretch endlessly into the shadows above, each flight a step closer to the past that Alaric had left behind and the future he hoped to claim.

Three flights they conquered in near silence, the only sound the muffled echo of their footsteps until they reached the fourth and highest level—a sanctum of private lives and personal histories, where the echoes of his family’s existence still lingered on the air like ghosts of the past.

The corridor into which they emerged was hauntingly familiar to Alaric, a pathway lined with doors that held within them the remnants of his childhood, his upbringing, and the many lives that had intertwined with his own, the servants’. Near the middle of this corridor, guarding the threshold to his parents’ quarters, sat a lone figure. He was slumped in a chair—also lost to the grip of sleep.

With the urgency of their mission renewed by the proximity to his goal, Alaric advanced. The distance between them closed rapidly, the element of surprise firmly on his side. However, fate, with its capricious twist, intervened—a muffled cry shattered the silence, followed by the piercing clamor of an alarm bell being rung desperately somewhere in the distance. An agonized scream sounded. Alaric thought it might have come from somewhere in the keep.

Startled from his slumber, the guard snorted and jolted awake, his disorientation lasting only a moment before the grim reality of his situation became clear as he turned his head toward death, eyes going wide. Alaric was upon him and drove his sword, Oathbreaker, into the man’s chest, blade diving between ribs. He forced it in, deep, even as the man made to stand. Then the blade pierced the heart, rupturing it, and the guard let go a breath and collapsed in a heap, the chair toppling in his wake with a crash.

Placing a foot upon the man’s chest, Alaric withdrew his blade. The air behind him was split by a heavy thud. Turning, he witnessed Thorne delivering a formidable kick to the heavy oak door of his parents’ quarters. A scream from within pierced the tumult, a harrowing sound that spoke of fear and confusion. Another determined kick from Thorne and the door yielded, its lock cracking and breaking under the assault. The two doors violently swung inward with a resounding crash.

Light from the corridor flooded into the darkened room beyond. In the bed, a woman was sitting up, clearly startled from her slumber into a world turned abruptly chaotic, fear and confusion plain upon her face. The disarray of her silvered hair and the protective clutch of the blanket around her spoke of her vulnerability in that moment of alarm. Yet it was the wildness in her eyes, a primal response to the unexpected, that captured the essence of the scene—raw human emotion laid bare.

Alaric, standing on the threshold of the room, the harbinger of the upheaval that had shattered the night’s peace, found himself overwhelmed by a surge of emotions. The sight of his mother, alive and before him after all the trials and tribulations that had led to this moment, ignited a flame of relief so intense, it manifested as a grin, an incongruous expression amidst the tension of their circumstances.

“Mother, I’m home,” he announced.

Under the dim illumination that invaded the room, his mother’s recognition was hesitant, her voice tinged with disbelief as her eyes narrowed. “Alaric?” she queried, as if saying his name could conjure the reality of his presence from the shadows of doubt.

“None other,” he affirmed, his response lightened with an extravagant bow.

Behind him, shouts filled the air, a cacophony of urgency and alarm. Feet were pounding on the stairs, climbing, coming for them. Thorne, Ezran, and Jasper were already moving in that direction.

“Who the bloody fuck are you?” The abrupt challenge, a crude bellow, tore through the tense air. Alaric spun around to confront the new threat, his posture instinctively shifting to one of readiness. Three men had reached the top of the stairs. Their advance, however, faltered at the sight that greeted them—their comrade fallen, a growing pool of blood around the body, and Alaric’s party, of which Jasper, Ezran, and Thorne were facing them, swords drawn with grim looks.

Rikka, with a gesture of her hand, whispered an incantation, her voice a soft thread on the air. The words passed from hearing and memory instantly, like water through one’s open fingers. From her outstretched hand, a dart of light surged forth with unerring precision, striking the man who’d spoken in the center of his chest. He collapsed, a puppet severed from its strings, the shock of his abrupt downfall sowing a momentary hesitation among his comrades, who, in sudden uncertainty, took a step back in unison.

This hesitation was all the opening that Thorne and Jasper needed. They launched themselves into the attack with a ferocity born of necessity and the understanding that hesitation was a luxury that could ill be afforded.

The man on the left, his reactions a beat too slow against the seasoned warrior he faced, managed a block. Thorne easily circumvented this defense with a speed that bordered on the unnatural. His blade edge, a flash of silver in the dim lamplight, twisted around and found its mark on the sword arm of his adversary. The impact was swift, merciless, a surgical strike that severed the man’s ability to fight as effectively as it cut through flesh and tendons of the arm. His opponent’s sword was dropped by nerveless fingers. The sound of it hitting the floor, a metallic lament, was quickly overshadowed by the man’s scream, a raw expression of pain and shock as he looked down upon his ruined arm.

Jasper, with a powerful strike, easily batted his opponent’s sword away. Fear plain in his eyes, the man took a step back toward the stairs. Jasper followed up with a powerful kick that landed squarely to the chest—sending the man reeling backward with such force that he disappeared down the stairs, his retreat marked by the tumultuous echo of his fall and a scream.

Thorne stabbed the disarmed man in the chest. He fell to the floor and gasped in pure agony. Thorne yanked his blade out and stabbed downward, opening the man’s throat and ending him.

There were more shouts within the keep. Jasper and Thorne stepped to the edge of the stairs and looked down. At the same time, Alaric’s attention was snatched by a peripheral flicker of motion. Ezran was turning as well, his scimitar held at the ready. A new threat emerged from the other side of the hallway.

Alaric found himself confronted with the sight of five more men advancing toward them. Behind him, in the direction of the stairs, there was more shouting, and he had a glimpse of both Jasper and Thorne starting down the stairs, charging toward the threat from that direction.

“Who are you?” one of the men in the center demanded as he stopped several feet from Alaric and Ezran.

“Didn’t we just get asked that?” Ezran asked Alaric.

“You know who I am.” Sword held ready, Alaric moved up to Ezran’s side. He recognized the bushy mustache. He pointed his sword at the man. “And you are in my home.”

Masterson’s eyes narrowed under the low light as he understood who he now faced.

“Am I?” the other man asked with a mocking laugh. “What are you going to do about it?”

“You are trespassing, Masterson,” Alaric said. His enemy was dressed only in a tunic. His feet were bare as he stood on the cold stone. Alaric looked at the other four men. They were similarly attired and had clearly been awoken from a cold sleep. “My company is even now breaking into the castle. It’s over. Drop your weapons and surrender.”

“So that you might hang me?” Masterson asked, his tone mocking. “Or torture me and my men? I think not.”

The men flanking Masterson stiffened as realization of what they faced hammered home, the consequences of their actions. They glanced uncertainly amongst themselves.

“Kill him,” Alaric’s mother ordered as she emerged from her room clothed in a nightdress. “Kill him for all he’s done to me and Dekar… to our family and people.”

Alaric glanced over at his mother. She stood somewhat smaller than he by a head. She was older and frailer than when he’d last seen her. She even seemed gaunt with hunger. His heart hardened with that.

“Shut up, Elara,” Masterson said. “When I am done with your son, I will tend to you as I should have from the start.”

Alaric’s resolve crystallized in the heat of the moment, his patience worn thin by the weight of the stakes before him and what this man had done. Deciding to take the head from the snake, he launched himself at Masterson. Almost instinctively, Masterson took several steps back, retreating and placing his own men between himself and danger.

Alaric, with a warrior’s focus, shifted his attack, singling out an opponent. The man, surprised by the sudden attack, was clumsy, and his sword was easily forced aside. Before that man could recover, Alaric was stabbing down into his extended left leg, delivering a crippling blow. He fell as the leg gave out, dropping his weapon.

Alaric saw a blade jabbing out for him. It flashed under the dim light. He jumped to the left, and the sword point only met air. Alaric took a step back as Masterson advanced, following up the strike, stepping over his injured man, who was rocking on the floor in agony and gripping his leg, even as he bled fatally out.

“Kill them!” Masterson roared to the other men with him.

Behind Alaric, the sound of battle rang out on the stairs, the clash of swords a grim backdrop to the fight he and Ezran now faced. Jasper and Thorne were each engaged in their own struggles.

With the ancient stones of the keep echoing the clash of steel, Alaric found himself on the receiving end of Masterson’s aggressive onslaught. Two of the men with Masterson started forward, both attacking Ezran, while the other two hesitated, even taking a step backward. Ezran, locked in his own dance of death, faced his two opponents with a measure of skill that made their fight a perilous ballet of rapid strikes and parries.

Behind Alaric, the sounds of battle intensified. It was punctuated by screams and much shouting. Yet, for Alaric, there was no opportunity to glance backward, no moment to spare for concern beyond the immediate threat that Masterson posed. Each jab and strike from Masterson was met with a desperate parry, Alaric’s focus narrowed to the singular task of survival.

Masterson, emboldened by his initial success, pressed his advantage with a ferocity that forced Alaric off-balance and into a defensive posture. But Alaric soon found his rhythm, his defense solidifying into a wall that Masterson could not penetrate. Alaric could easily read the frustration in the other’s eyes. Then, he launched a counterattack. With a series of swift, precise blows, he turned the tide, his offensive a storm unleashed upon his enemy, the man who thought to usurp his home. The momentum shifted, with his enemy now the one retreating under the weight of the attack, one grudging step, then another.

There was a snap, a flash of light, and a crack. Alaric had a glimpse of one of the men engaging Ezran being flung violently to the ground, his sword clattering away and down the hallway. Surprised, Masterson glanced away from Alaric.

That was a mistake.

“Bastard,” Masterson hissed venomously, recoiling as Alaric, with the precision of a seasoned fighter, managed a small yet deliberate nick on the other man’s forearm.

Masterson danced back several paces and gazed down at the thin line of blood that began its journey from the shallow cut, tracing a red path along his skin.

“Bastard,” Masterson repeated, the word laced with a blend of hatred and begrudging respect as he turned his gaze back to Alaric.

“I’ve been called worse,” Alaric responded, tone steady and unnervingly calm. His eyes, sharp and focused, never left his enemy, betraying none of the fatigue that clung to his limbs from lack of sleep and the effort of the fight.

In the background, the repeated clang and clash of steel and the shouts of combatants filled the air. The man Ezran was locked in combat with gave a strangled cry, a sound of despair and finality, his belly cut wide open, entrails spilling out. His body hit the ground with a thud that echoed ominously, signaling the end of his fight, not to mention his life.

Behind them, the tumult of the battle on the stairs dwindled as yet another scream rang out. Then there was silence, except for the muffled sounds of fighting off in the distance. The last two men standing with Masterson, the two who had not come forward to fight, witnessing the tide of battle turn, made a split-second decision. Their courage failing, they both turned and ran, their footsteps echoing off the walls.

Masterson watched them go, his expression morphing into one of utter disgust mixed with bitterness. The abandonment by his allies seemed to carve deeper wounds than any blade could inflict. With a heavy sigh, masked by the sound of his labored breathing from the fight, he faced Alaric, the resolve in his stance unwavering even as the inevitability of his situation dawned upon him.

“Surrender,” Alaric said, his voice clear and authoritative. It was not a request, but a command.

“Never,” Masterson declared with a defiance that belied the vulnerability of his position, his words forced through clenched teeth as he inched another step backward. The blood continued to run down his arm, dripping to splash upon the stone floor. “I’d rather die by the sword blade than by the hangman’s noose.”

“That can be arranged,” Alaric replied, a chilling promise hanging in the air between them. He advanced a step. Masterson retreated once more, his movements hesitant, the sword he held a faltering extension of his dwindling resolve. The steel of his gaze, once sharp and unyielding, wavered, a crack in the armor of his defiance.

“What if I tell you who sent me… who gave me my orders?” Masterson ventured, desperation creeping into his voice. “Will that matter? On your honor as a noble, will you let me go, free me to go my own way?” His eyes searched Alaric’s for a sign of concession, of mercy, a lifeline in the dire straits in which he found himself. “I will disappear, and you will never see me again.”

Alaric’s advance halted as he contemplated the proposition. His gaze, penetrating and calculating, studied Masterson with a new intensity. This moment of hesitation was not born of uncertainty, but of strategy, weighing the value of the information against the principle of justice. He thought of what the man had done to his mother, Hamlin, and Dekar. Masterson was but a pawn, a fact now crystal clear and unassailable, sent to enact the will of another, a puppet whose strings were pulled by hands shrouded in shadows.

But what was the endgame? To destabilize Dekar? To sow discord and weakness? To strike at the heart of his family’s legacy? To take the land that was Alaric’s ancestral right? He pondered this and more, mind racing through the possibilities. His father, the leader of their house, had always been a focus for envy and animosity amongst their peers. The identity of the mastermind, a rival noble or perhaps an unknown adversary or a foreign threat, was a puzzle yet to be solved, one Alaric desperately wanted. He needed to know the game being played and his ultimate opponent.

“No,” Masterson abruptly declared before Alaric could articulate his thoughts, his voice suddenly resolute. “Were you to let me live, I would not survive long, even if I went into hiding. My employer would see to that. He would find me, hunt me down. Besides, he would make my family pay first, and I can’t have that. No, on second thought, I will not tell you anything. Death is my only escape, my only true choice.”

In this declaration, there was a grim acceptance, a surrender, not to Alaric, but to the inevitable fate that awaited him beyond the confines of this confrontation. Masterson’s resolve hardened as his eyes narrowed, crystallizing in the fatalistic understanding of his doomed fate, regardless of the outcome of their duel.

With a deliberate step backward, a step that carried the weight of a final decision, Masterson dropped his sword. The blade hit the stone floor in an echoing clatter. In one swift, fluid motion, he drew his dagger from his belt and, without hesitation, plunged it into his own belly. The action was shockingly swift.

Alaric was taken aback by the suddenness of Masterson’s self-inflicted wound. He had never seen anything like it, never seen anyone do that. He shared a look of disbelief with Ezran, their eyes locking in an exchange of astonishment.

Blood, dark and relentless, flowed from the terrible wound Masterson had inflicted upon himself, spilling out and painting the ancient stones beneath him in unforgiving crimson. Masterson doubled over, grunting in agony as he fell to his knees, a grimace of pain etched upon his face as his lifeblood continued to spill out.

After a moment, with an effort that seemed superhuman, Masterson looked up at Alaric. Sweat beaded his brow. It ran down his face, mingling with the blood that frothed at his mouth, a grotesque smile revealing rotten teeth stained red. The dagger, still embedded in his body, became an instrument of further torment as he twisted the hilt, inflicting horrendous damage upon himself, a final act of defiance and control over his own fate.

“At last,” Masterson breathed softly to himself. “I am free.”

He twitched from the agony he had visited upon himself, a visceral reaction to the unbearable pain, before pulling the dagger out with a final act of will. He tossed it away. The weapon clattered across the floor, stopping at Alaric’s feet.

A scream pierced the heavy air behind them, an interruption to the grim scene unfolding between Alaric and the dying Masterson. The tension momentarily shifted, eyes darting toward the source of the disturbance, but it was quickly resolved as Thorne’s voice cut through the uncertainty. “It’s clear,” he shouted from somewhere out of view on the stairs below, a declaration that the immediate threat had been neutralized, that their position was, for the moment, secure.

Masterson, his strength visibly waning as his lifeblood continued its relentless escape, pooling on the floor around him, attempted to speak again, his voice a hoarse whisper, strained with pain and the effort to impart something of significance. “I—go to my—death—with the know—knowledge you need…” The words trailed off, an incomplete confession, a tantalizing hint at secrets unshared. The effort to continue proved too much, the pain overwhelming, silencing him with its brutal finality. Trembling, he rocked, caught in the throes of agony, his breathing heavy and labored, a man on the precipice of death yet burdened with untold truths, ones Alaric desperately wanted and needed.

“My lord,” came another voice, this time from Grayson, calling from somewhere on the stairs below. “We have the gate and it’s open. The company is inside the walls!” This news carried with it the weight of victory, of a battle turning decisively in their favor. The castle would soon be theirs, and more importantly, his mother was safe.

Alaric, absorbing the significance of these developments, turned back to Masterson. Despite the gravity of the moment, a sense of inevitability settled over him, the knowledge that their victory was near, that their efforts had not been in vain.

“You’ve lost,” Alaric stated, a simple declaration of fact.

“I have, but not my master,” Masterson managed to articulate in a low, strangled voice. “You will not—cannot—beat—him.”

Masterson’s body wavered, barely maintaining its kneel; yet even in these final moments, his spirit fought on, a gruesome grin etched on his face as bloody spittle drooled from his mouth. It was a sight that stirred a complex whirl of emotions in Alaric, an acknowledgment of the end drawing near. He lowered the point of his sword to the floor, an unspoken declaration that the justice to be meted out would not be by his hand, not this time. For all the crimes this man had committed, he was to be left to suffer his final moments in agony and defeat. Alaric would not speed him on his way. He did not deserve such a kindness.

A hand, swift and determined, snatched the dagger from Alaric’s belt. As it was yanked out, his mother rushed past him. Before he could react, she had already plunged the dagger deep into the side of Masterson’s neck. The man stiffened, a look of shock fleeting across his face as he looked up at his new tormentor. Elara mercilessly grabbed his hair tightly in a fist, pulling his head back to expose his throat. With deliberate care and a grimace, she slowly opened his neck from one side to the other, a final act of retribution. Blood flowed and sprayed outward, painting her white nightgown in crimson.

“That is for what you did to me and our people,” Elara declared, her voice a cold echo of finality as Masterson’s eyes rolled back, his life extinguished by her hands. With a rough toss, she discarded him like a piece of refuse, his body hitting the stone floor with a decisiveness that underscored her contempt. A spit upon his corpse was her last insult.

Then, turning to face Alaric, she regarded her son with an intensity that bridged the gap between them, a silent conversation passing in the space of a look. The look spoke of justice done. Her nod was more than an acknowledgment; it was a conclusion to an internal debate, a decision made and acted upon. Dropping the bloodied dagger, she turned away, her movements resonating a resolve as steadfast as the blade she had wielded.

“I am going to change,” she stated. With that, she entered her chamber and closed both doors, which had been broken open by Thorne. The lock would need repairing, for they refused to completely close.

“I like her,” Rikka’s voice cut through the heavy atmosphere. The lumina gave a nod. “Oh yes, I like your mother very much.”

Ezran placed the point of his saber upon the stone floor with a heavy click. “Now I understand.”

“Understand what?” Alaric asked, looking over.

Ezran glanced at the two closed doors. “What I just witnessed explains a lot about you. I thought you had gotten your drive and passion from your father, but now I know it came from your mother, especially that killer instinct of yours. That is something I have always admired.”

Alaric felt a scowl forming as he looked up the hallway in the direction Masterson had come and the two men had fled, his thoughts briefly diverted to the awaiting concerns. With the gate secured and their forces sweeping through the castle, victory was imminent, yet the necessity of vigilance remained paramount. Some of the enemy were bound to hide, especially since there was nowhere to run. The faint sounds of distant fighting and shouts served as a reminder of the ongoing struggle, even as confidence in their eventual triumph remained unshaken.

The hallway, with its familiar doors and haunting memories, especially that of his sister’s room, served as a poignant reminder of what had been lost, of the family and his childhood that had once filled these spaces with life and laughter.

Jasper and Thorne had come back up the stairs. Swords, arms, chests, and faces splattered with the enemy’s blood, they looked grimly upon him and waited. Alaric understood that a new chapter was about to be written, not only for Dragon Bone’s Rest, but also Dekar. Though he’d thought to have put his sword away, the killing was far from done, his job far from finished.

“Check the other rooms on this floor,” Alaric ordered. “Make sure no one is lying in wait.”

Without question, they moved past him to carry out his orders. Alaric was left with Rikka and the bodies of the fallen, along with the overturned chair. He glanced over at her. She looked exhausted, weary, and spent. Was that the result of using her magic? Rikka’s eyes were deep, captivating, and Alaric found a strong stirring of desire within him. Though they spent their nights together, he still knew so very little about her, but like a moth to a flame, he was drawn to her, captivated in a way he could not easily explain. Oddly, the ring on his finger began to warm with his thoughts.

Alaric forced his gaze away and to the blood-drenched and body-strewn corridor. The triumph of reclaiming his home was bittersweet, tinged with the loss of his father and the heavy mantle of responsibility that now rested squarely upon his shoulders. Today’s victory was not just a reclaiming of stone and mortar, but the start of reclaiming his legacy, his ancestral right—by a sword’s edge.

There was work to be done. He understood he could not rest after this, not for long. For Dekar, overrun with bandits and raiders, was far from safe. More importantly, someone meant his family ill. Of that, there was no longer any doubt. He had to find out who, and fast.

“You are now truly the Earl of Dekar,” Rikka breathed, drawing his attention once more. She took a step closer to him, her gaze seeming to grow more intense. “Destiny brought us together, destiny has its stamp upon you, destiny is the path you walk—Child of the Ordinate and last true heir of the empire.”

Alaric looked over at her sharply. He considered her for several long moments. The Ordinate and his ties to it were not something he wished to discuss, not now, not ever. “The empire no longer exists. It collapsed and is done.”

“You are heir nonetheless, heir to the Obsidian Throne,” Rikka said fiercely. “You know that to be true. It is why you and I were brought together.”

Alaric almost felt sick to his stomach. “You are my lumina? The heir’s lumina? Is that it? That is what you are telling me?”

She gave a slow nod. “I was led to you, Alaric of Dekar. As Eldanar wills, so has it been done.”

“And what of the other gods?” Alaric asked. “The Ordinate honored many. There was once tolerance, acceptance, or so the histories say, before the Great Rift and Crusade.”

She gave a shrug. “I worship only one god. It is he to whom I answer and respond.”

Alaric rubbed his jaw as he continued to regard her. He shook his head sadly. “The killing will never end, will it?”

“Not until the coming of the Second Ordinate, not until you ascend the throne that is rightfully yours.”

“No,” Alaric said with a firm shake of his head. “That is not my destiny, not my torch to bear. I will not raise that banner, not now, not ever.”

With a fierce look, her hand went to her belly. “Then, Lord Alaric, it will be your child’s destiny.”