Lysander returned to his humble chamber with a lightness in his step that belied the aches in his body. The air in the keep still carried the scent of battle, but here, in the quiet corridors, it mingled with the faint aroma of old parchment and beeswax. He had done it. He had not only defied death but had leveraged his improbable survival into a position of unexpected influence. He was no longer just an extra clinging to the fringes; he was directly under the High Commander's scrutiny, and, more importantly, free to pursue his own agenda.
His new assignment from Valerius's adjutant was sparse, almost deceptively simple: "Locate and neutralize the source of the eastern border disappearances. Report directly to the High Commander upon significant findings." No detailed orders, no fixed patrol routes – just a directive to use his "unconventional thinking." It was exactly what Lysander needed: a blank canvas, shrouded in danger, where he could truly begin to plot his ascent.
The next morning, Lysander found himself in the armory, a cavernous hall filled with the clang of hammer on steel and the scent of oil. A grumpy quartermaster, a stout man with a suspicious squint, grudgingly outfitted him. "A noble asking for scouting gear? Never thought I'd see the day. Thought you Thorne types preferred velvet and banquets."
Lysander merely offered a tight, polite smile. "Circumstances change, Quartermaster. And survival requires… adaptability." He selected a sturdy, but light, leather tunic, a reliable short sword that felt awkward in his unpracticed hand, and a bow with a quiver of arrows. He knew his combat skills were negligible compared to any seasoned soldier, but he also knew that, in this world, such tools were essential. He'd have to rely on his wits, but he also needed the means to defend himself until he could truly begin to acquire the raw power he craved.
His "team" for this unconventional mission was even more telling. Valerius's adjutant, with a dry cough, introduced them: Private Joric, the young, nimble soldier who had answered Lysander's desperate call at the counterweights, and two other cast-offs from various units – a quiet, hulking man named Gareth, whose massive frame and scarred face suggested more brawn than brains, and a sharp-eyed, cynical woman named Elara, whose past assignments hinted at a knack for infiltration and a deep distrust of authority. They were rejects, misfits, but in Lysander's eyes, they were precisely the kind of overlooked pawns an exiled strategist could mold. They were expendable, yes, but also malleable.
Joric's eyes, when they met Lysander's, held a strange mix of fear and fervent loyalty. He had witnessed Lysander's desperate, impossible gamble and its horrifying success. He was Lysander's first, unwitting follower. Gareth grunted a greeting, his eyes assessing, while Elara merely crossed her arms, her gaze sharp, skeptical, and frankly, dismissive. She saw him as a sheltered noble playing at war.
"Our mission is simple," Lysander stated, his voice calm, projecting an authority he was only just beginning to truly feel. He unrolled a map of the eastern borders, pointing to the Whispering Crags. "We are not patrolling. We are hunting. The enemy is using specialized units, operating outside conventional patterns, to blind our scouts. My… research suggests they operate in terrain that favors stealth and ambush." He didn't elaborate on the "research," letting the previous day's performance speak for itself. He knew this group wouldn't question him too deeply, not yet. They were desperate for direction, and he provided it.
As they passed through the main gate, now guarded by fresh, wary troops, Lysander felt a thrill ripple through him. The morning mist still clung to the lower ground, shrouding the world in a veil of secrecy. Leaving the supposed safety of Oakhaven, the world truly opened up before him – a vast, dangerous expanse filled with hidden knowledge and forgotten power. This was the wilderness where Kaelen, the novel's hero, had stumbled upon his first legendary artifact, where he'd encountered ancient spirits, and where he'd truly begun to awaken his innate martial prowess.
Lysander's knowledge wasn't just about avoiding his own death; it was about fast-tracking his ascent. He knew the how and where of potential power-ups that Kaelen, without a literary guide, had discovered through sheer chance and plot convenience. His exile had given him this map, this blueprint for his return to power.
Their first day was uneventful, a grueling trek through dense forests and over rocky hills. Lysander, despite his aching muscles, pushed himself, determined not to show weakness. He observed Elara's tracking skills, Gareth's brute strength in clearing paths, and Joric's surprising endurance. Each was a piece in his emerging puzzle.
They reached the foothills of the Whispering Crags by late afternoon. The air grew colder, and strange, elongated shadows stretched from twisted rock formations. Lysander's internal map, overlaid with details from The Crimson Blade, hummed with a particular location: a Goblinoid ambush point, notorious for its use of sound-based traps. The novel had described it in painstaking detail, a minor skirmish where Kaelen had almost been caught, a few chapters before he gained his first significant power-up from a hidden shrine.
"Hold!" Lysander whispered, raising a hand. Elara, already sensing something, dropped into a crouch, her hand on her dagger. Gareth stiffened, his eyes scanning the treeline. Joric, ever Lysander's shadow, mimicked his posture.
"There's an ambush ahead," Lysander breathed, keeping his voice low. "Goblinoids. Vilefang's units. They use rudimentary sonic traps – tripwires connected to rattling gourds. Designed to disorient, then funnel us into a killing zone." He pointed to a seemingly innocuous patch of twisted roots. "There, and there." He indicated two precise locations.
Elara's eyes, normally cynical, widened. She moved with practiced stealth, confirming his spots. "You… how did you know?" she whispered, genuine surprise coloring her tone.
Lysander merely gave a tight, almost grim smile. "As I said, Adjutant. Research. They are predictable, if you know what to look for." He didn't waste time on explanations. "Gareth, clear that path. Elara, be ready for their archers in the higher positions."
They dismantled the traps with ease, bypassing the goblins' crude but effective ambush. Moving silently, they found the goblinoid camp, a crude, hidden hollow further into the crags. Lysander watched from the shadows, observing their numbers, their patrols. This wasn't the massive force that would eventually besiege the fortress, but a specialized raiding party.
"We don't engage," Lysander whispered, a cold glint in his eye. "Not directly. Our goal isn't to kill every goblin. It's to find their source of intelligence, their leader's unique methods, and more importantly… a potential advantage for us." He scanned the camp, looking for anything out of place, anything that hinted at the deeper lore of The Crimson Blade. The novel had mentioned a specific, glowing fungus used by the goblins to navigate the crags at night, which had strange, minor magical properties. Kaelen had simply noted it as peculiar. Lysander knew it was a step.
And there it was. Not the glowing fungus itself, but a faint, almost invisible shimmer in the air near the deepest part of the camp. It was a distortion, a faint ripple in reality, almost imperceptible unless you knew what to look for. In the novel, Kaelen had stumbled upon a minor shrine dedicated to a forgotten Earth spirit in these very crags, guarded by these goblins, and gained a slight enhancement to his senses and physical resilience from it. It was a small, early power-up, quickly overshadowed. But for Lysander, it was everything.
This was it. His first lead to tangible power. Not a fireball or a sword with a swirling aura, not yet. But a path. A chance to tap into the very magic of this world. The exiled noble was not just plotting his return; he was finding the hidden keys to his future kingdom.
"Quietly," Lysander whispered, his gaze fixed on the shimmer, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "We secure one of them. Alive. And then… we investigate that." He pointed to the shimmering air, a place of power that the main hero would eventually claim. But Lysander was here first. The unwritten future was finally within his grasp.