The gates of Louzvel's capital groaned open as Garfield approached, his cloak scorched and torn, his body trembling with exhaustion. Yet his stride was steady, his eyes sharp, the weight of victory clinging to him like a mantle. Word had already spread—he was the boy who had slain the dragon of Mount Therion.
Knights in silvered armor waited at the gates, their expressions caught between awe and suspicion. The captain stepped forward, saluting stiffly.
"You are Garfield Van Turner?"
Garfield inclined his head. "I am."
"The king summons you."
They escorted him through the winding streets of Louzvel. The city was alive with rumor. Merchants whispered, beggars pointed, and nobles peered from their balconies, their gazes sharp with calculation. To them, Garfield was no longer invisible—he was a name on every tongue, a spark of legend walking among them.
The castle of Louzvel loomed ahead, carved from dark stone veined with silver. Its towers reached for the storm clouds above, banners snapping in the wind. Inside, torches lit the great hall, where a throne of iron and obsidian waited. Upon it sat King Athur Louzvel.
The king was a man of presence. His hair, streaked with gray, framed a face marked by battle. His gaze was piercing, a predator's gaze. Yet when it fell upon Garfield, it did not hold contempt or dismissal—it held interest.
"Step forward," Athur commanded, his voice carrying the weight of command.
Garfield obeyed, his boots echoing across the stone. He bowed—not deeply, not humbly, but with measured respect.
"They tell me you slew the dragon of Therion," the king said, leaning forward slightly. "Alone."
"I did," Garfield answered, his tone calm, unshaken.
A murmur rippled through the court. Nobles exchanged doubtful glances. One, a minister with narrow eyes and a jeweled robe, sneered. "A boy with no knighthood, no rank, no training—slaying a dragon? Impossible. Surely, he lies."
Garfield turned his head toward the man, his eyes glinting like ice. "Would you like me to drag its carcass through your chamber doors?"
The minister blanched. Silence fell.
King Athur's lips curved faintly, almost a smile. "Enough." He rose from the throne, his steps echoing. "I do not doubt you. The mountain burns still, and the people's tongues are not so easily swayed by lies."
He halted before Garfield, studying him. "You are Van Turner, are you not? The outcast son of that clan."
Garfield's jaw tightened, but his gaze did not waver. "I am."
"Interesting," Athur murmured. "The Van Turners breed knights and mages like rabbits, yet their most despised son does what none of them could." His voice rose, sharp as steel. "For this deed, I grant you the title of Duke. You shall hold lands along the southern border and serve as shield of Louzvel."
Gasps erupted in the hall. A boy—a foreigner, a supposed failure—raised to dukedom? The nobles' faces twisted with fury, envy, disbelief.
Garfield bowed once more, though his eyes remained unreadable. "I accept."
The king leaned closer, his voice low enough for only Garfield to hear. "Do not mistake this gift for kindness. I grant it because Louzvel needs men who defy limits. If you falter, your head will decorate these walls."
Garfield's lips curved in a thin, cold smile. "Then I will not falter."
---
The days that followed were a storm. Messengers came and went, scribes drafted edicts, and Garfield's name spread like wildfire. The Duke of Louzvel—the dragon slayer.
Yet Garfield did not bask in glory. While feasts were held in his name, while nobles schemed and whispered, he spent his nights in solitude. His chambers were lit only by a single candle, the Being's shadow ever-present at the edge of sight.
"This is the first step," Garfield murmured, tracing patterns in the air with his mana. Sparks formed, unstable but stronger than before.
The Being's voice coiled into his thoughts.
"Power attracts envy. Already, they whisper against you. Already, blades are being sharpened in the dark."
Garfield smirked faintly. "Let them. Every enemy is an opportunity."
He pressed harder, testing his mana, forcing it into crude shapes. Each failure seared him, but each success, no matter how small, was cataloged, refined, mastered. His mind never rested.
---
Weeks later, he stood in the Eternal Rein Library, the greatest collection of knowledge in Louzvel. It was said to be endless, a labyrinth of shelves carved into the mountains themselves, its books bound in dragonhide, its scrolls older than kingdoms.
The king had granted him access, a rare privilege.
Garfield's fingers brushed along spines etched with runes. He read for hours, devouring texts on mana theory, forbidden rituals, the records of the Architects. Each page added to the puzzle in his mind, each fragment feeding the hunger that burned in his chest.
And then he found it. A passage half-buried in dust, written in a forgotten dialect:
"When body fails and mana overflows, flesh may yet be vessel. Turn life to source, and mana shall never end."
His lips curved into a cruel smile. "So that's the key."
---
Not long after, she appeared. A girl of noble birth, beautiful, cunning. She approached him with practiced charm, her laughter too sweet, her eyes too sharp. She wished to bind herself to the new Duke, to claim his rising star.
Garfield saw through her in an instant. But he did not dismiss her. He welcomed her.
She became his experiment.
Slowly, methodically, he tested theories, blending ritual with flesh, seeing if a body could be reshaped into a vessel of mana. She never knew, not until it was too late.
Her screams echoed in his chamber. Her body twisted, her veins glowing faintly with stolen power. She failed, as most experiments do. Garfield recorded every detail with steady hands, no flicker of remorse in his eyes.
The Being whispered. "Cold. Ruthless. Necessary."
"Yes," Garfield murmured. "Necessary."
---
But power invites danger.
One night, as the moon bled red across the sky, assassins crept into his estate. Six of them, cloaked in black, blades coated with poison. They struck without warning, shadows in the dark.
Garfield fought like a man possessed. His mana roared, his fireball swelling larger than ever before. The estate burned, corpses littered the halls. But victory came at a cost—his body shattered, his veins torn, his mana consumed.
When dawn came, the king's edict was swift.
The Duke of Louzvel was dead. Garfield Van Turner was stripped of title, land, and honor. He was cast in chains, branded a traitor, and sold like livestock.
And so the Duke became a slave, dragged north into frost and ruin.
But Garfield's eyes never dimmed. Even in chains, they burned with the same cold fire.
"This is not the end," he whispered to himself as the slave caravan moved into the frozen wastes. "This is another beginning."
---