Rowan's despair had festered into a desperate resolve. His father, lost to madness, offered no sanctuary. The castle, once a symbol of their power, was now a tomb, its walls echoing with paranoia. The tales of the hidden passage, long dismissed as mere rumors, began to gnaw at his mind. He spent sleepless nights, poring over fragmented old blueprints of the castle, searching for any hint of its existence. Finally, in a forgotten corner of his father's study, behind a loose stone in the fireplace, he found a crumbling, faded parchment detailing the very passage he sought: a secret route leading to the old, disused Watchtower of the Wyvern's Tooth, a remote outpost on the very edge of the castle grounds.
It was perilous, certainly. The passage was narrow, unmaintained, and possibly infested. The tower itself was crumbling. But it was an escape, a chance to slip past Kaelen's relentless watch, to reach the outside world and perhaps, finally, the distant capital. Rowan decided. He would leave at the next opportune moment.
Kaelen, from his vantage point, saw the faint, flickering light in Rowan's study late into the night. He saw the shift in the young lord's demeanor – a newfound, desperate resolve. Rowan was planning something. Kaelen had spent weeks observing the castle, and had himself discovered the faint, overgrown entrance to the Watchtower's passage from the outside. He had only been waiting for the prey to venture into his trap.
The night Kaelen chose was still and cold, a heavy silence hanging over the castle, broken only by the mournful hoot of an owl. A perfect night for a ghost to move. He slipped past the outer patrols, now sparse and listless, their morale shattered. He made his way to the forgotten Watchtower, its stones crumbling, its narrow door seemingly sealed by decades of disuse. With a pry bar and practiced strength, Kaelen forced it open, the rust-frozen hinges groaning in protest. He descended into the passage, a cold, damp tunnel that reeked of earth and forgotten things.
He didn't have long to wait. Hours later, he heard the faint sounds of movement from deeper within the passage. The scraping of boots, a muffled grunt. Rowan was coming. Kaelen extinguished his small lantern, plunging the passage into absolute darkness. He moved silently, melting into the shadows, his dagger ready.
Rowan, indeed, was struggling. He pushed aside cobwebs, his torch casting dancing shadows that made the cramped space feel alive with unseen threats. He had dismissed his personal guard, fearing they would alert his father. He was alone, armed with only a sword and a desperate hope for freedom. As he neared the end of the tunnel, a prickling sensation crawled up his spine. The air grew colder, heavier.
A sudden, chilling whisper cut through the silence, seeming to come from all around him. "Going somewhere, Lord Rowan?"
Rowan spun, his torch held high, but saw nothing. "Who's there?! Show yourself!" he demanded, his voice trembling.
Kaelen emerged from the darkness, a pale, wraithlike figure, his white hair stark against his grim face. His eyes, in the torchlight, were like chips of ice. Rowan gasped, a choked sound of utter terror. It was him. The Ash Shadow.
"You led me a merry chase," Kaelen said, his voice flat, devoid of warmth. "But now, the chase ends."
Rowan, surprisingly, found a flicker of desperate courage. He lunged, swinging his sword in a wide, desperate arc. He was no Gareth, no seasoned warrior like Dagran or Blackwood, but he fought with the ferocity of a trapped animal. Kaelen parried the wild strike with his dagger, the clang echoing in the confined space. He danced around Rowan's clumsy thrusts, his movements fluid and precise, a serpentine dance in the torchlight.
"You should have stayed in your cage," Kaelen taunted, his words like barbs. "Like your father. Like a mad dog."
Rowan roared, desperation fueling his blows, but Kaelen was relentless. He pressed the attack, driving Rowan back, forcing him deeper into the narrow confines of the tunnel. Then, with a sudden, feinting strike, Kaelen found an opening. His dagger flashed, burying itself into Rowan's sword arm, severing tendons. Rowan screamed, his sword clattering to the stone floor as his hand went numb.
Kaelen pressed him against the damp wall, his eyes burning into Rowan's. The last son's face was a mask of pain and pure, unadulterated terror.
"Do you remember the day, Rowan?" Kaelen whispered, his voice dangerously low. "Do you remember the fire? The smoke? The screams of my mother and sister?" He paused, letting the words sink in. "They didn't die quickly. They died from what you did. From the shame. From the trauma."
Rowan choked, tears streaming down his face. "No… no, please… I was just a boy! Father commanded it! I didn't…"
"You laughed," Kaelen interrupted, his grip tightening on Rowan's throat, cutting off his breath. "You stood by. You watched." He dragged Rowan further into the passage, towards a particular spot he had chosen. "My father, he fought for justice. He begged for reason. You gave him none. You gave them none."
He forced Rowan down, kneeling in a small, damp depression in the floor of the passage, where stagnant water had collected over years. He pressed Rowan's face into the cold, black water, holding him there. Rowan thrashed, his body convulsing, desperately trying to pull free, but Kaelen was implacable. He held him, forcing him to feel the cold, suffocating embrace, mirroring the feeling of being helpless, of being drowned in despair.
Kaelen held him there, watching the bubbles rise, until the struggles ceased. He kept him submerged for long moments, ensuring the silence was absolute. When he finally released his grip, Rowan's lifeless body slumped into the water, his eyes wide and vacant, staring up into the darkness.
Kaelen stood, breathing heavily, but his gaze was clear. Another name, the last son. He looked at the water, reflecting his own gaunt, haunted face. He wasn't the boy who had fled Elara's Point. He was the blade forged in its ashes.
He dragged Rowan's body deeper into the forgotten passage, concealing it within a hidden alcove he'd discovered earlier. He would leave no immediate trace. He then proceeded to dismantle the passage entrance from the Watchtower side, making it look as though it had never been used, resealing the door with heavy stones and mud. Let Valerius search. Let him wonder. Let him descend further into the abyss of his own making.
Kaelen emerged from the Watchtower into the predawn gloom, his face grim, his resolve unyielding. Only one remained. Lord Valerius. The lion was now utterly alone, stripped of his cubs, his power crumbling, his mind shattered. The final act of "The Ash and the Blade" was about to begin.