Part I: The General's Burden
Lyra, Brimor, Arthur, and Ingrid made their way back to the Guild in a heavy quiet. Lyra's mind was already a whirlwind of strategy, the recent revelations from the manor churning into a complex, dangerous equation. Fighting monsters was simple; you found the beast, you learned its weakness, you killed it. This… this was different. Rescuing a political prisoner from the heart of a hostile capital city, a viper's nest where any face could be a foe.
She assessed her team. Maeve was sharp-witted and adaptable. The twins were loyal and effective, but still green. Thorgar was a battering ram, not a scalpel. Aeris was an overwhelming force, but her aloof nature made her a wild card, and her elven features would make her an eyesore on a stealth mission. No, it had to be Maeve and the twins, with Faelan's sword to back them up. It was the only choice.
They entered the Guild, the hall now empty and echoing. Lyra turned to the two children. "It was a long day for both of you," she said, her voice softer than usual. "You should call it a night."
They didn't object, their exhaustion plain to see. As they started for the stairs, Lyra called out, "Ingrid. Ask Maeve and the twins to come downstairs. I need to speak with them."
"Okay," Ingrid replied quietly, and the two children disappeared up the stairs. Lilia, seeing the children depart, rushed from behind the counter. "Ma'am, they haven't had dinner!"
"We ate at the manor, Lilia. Thank you," Lyra reassured her, and the receptionist's worried expression softened.
Lyra and Brimor took a seat. The dwarf's voice was a low grumble. "So. What did you and the lad learn from the Greyoaks?"
"I'll tell you when the others are here," Lyra replied.
A few moments later, Maeve and the twins descended, the latter pair embroiled in a hushed but intense debate.
"I'm telling you, it was thirteen to twelve," Edwin insisted.
"It was twelve to twelve until the last one you stole from me," Elwin retorted.
"Would you two be quiet?" Maeve said, her voice calm but edged with irritation. They reached the table. "You asked for us, Lyra?"
Lyra began to speak, her voice low and serious in the quiet hall. She unpeeled all of it—the grim political assessment from Alistair,the new, desperate plan that was forming in her mind.
"Maeve, Elwin, Edwin," Lyra said, her gaze hard and steady. "I need you to infiltrate Bluemoth with Faelan and rescue Tybalt." She saw them tense. "Look, I won't force you. You are adventurers, not spies. But if you take this on, know that the cost of failure is your livelihood, if not your life. Adventurers are forbidden from meddling in the politics of a kingdom. If you're caught, the Guild won't protect you. If at any point you think your life is in danger, you abandon the mission. I want Tybalt, but not at the cost of any of you."
The three of them listened, their expressions grim. After a few moments, it was Elwin who broke the tension with a wry smile. "So how early do we have to leave? I'd like to get a full night's sleep first."
Maeve looked straight into Lyra's eyes, her own gaze unwavering. "Don't worry about them. I'll keep them in line."
"How much harder can it be than slaying a Wyvern?" Edwin added with a confident smirk.
A wave of profound relief and pride washed over Lyra. "Thanks, you three."
The moment was broken by a new, unholy stench wafting in from the front door. "What in the hells is that smell?" Lyra grimaced.
Everyone turned to see a filthy, dripping, and utterly miserable-looking Thorgar squelching into the hall.
"Did you bathe in a Troll's latrine, Thorgar?" Elwin joked, pinching his nose.
"STOP!" everyone shouted in unison as he started to walk further in.
"Thorgar, I don't want that stench on my floors," Lyra commanded. "Go around the back. Lilia will bring you a bucket and soap. You will not set foot inside until that smell is gone." She looked at him, a mixture of confusion and disgust on her face. "How did you even manage this?"
Thorgar's face crumpled, and he began to bawl, tears pouring down his face, snot dripping into his beard. "The… the shape… shifter, boss! I chased it down into the sewers! It got away, and I… I fell in!"
"But why are you crying?" Edwin asked, baffled.
"Everyone in town ran from me!" he wailed like a child. "They held their noses and pointed and… and they mocked me!"
Just then, Lilia appeared, a large bucket of water in each hand and a clothespin on her nose. Her voice was still impossibly sweet. "Shall we go, Adventurer Thorgar?" His face lit up at her kindness, and he followed her out into the night.
Maeve shook her head. "How will we reach Bluemoth? The main roads will be watched."
"You'll go through the Weeping Woods," Lyra replied. "I know a hidden path. It will cut the journey to two days." Maeve nodded and took her leave with the twins.
Lyra, about to head for the baths herself, was stopped by Brimor's quiet voice. The dwarf, a creature of few words, spoke up. "The boy… Arthur. He rode a horse today. Smiled."
"He did," Lyra said, a faint warmth in her voice.
Brimor looked at her, his stoic gaze heavy. "He is not a piece on your chessboard, Lyra. He has earned the right to be a child."
Lyra sighed, the day's exhaustion finally catching up to her. "That's what I'm trying to give him, old friend. If we can rescue Tybalt, then Tybalt can take up the burden. The regency, the politics… all of it. Arthur can go back to being a boy, back to the life he was supposed to have."
Brimor stood and started for the stairs. He paused at the first step and looked back at her, his voice a deep, guardian-like rumble that chilled her to the bone.
"That's what I fear the most." And then he was gone.
Part II : What did he mean
Lyra sank into the steaming water of the Guild bath, the heat a welcome balm on her weary muscles. Her mind, however, refused to rest. It wasn't the mission that troubled her. The thought of infiltrating Bluemoth, of rescuing Tybalt from the Wolf's jaws—that was a problem of tactics and steel. It was dangerous, yes, but it was a language she understood.
No, the splinter lodged in her mind was Brimor's final, cryptic statement.
"That's what I fear the most."
She replayed her own logic, certain of its flawless design. The path was clear: rescue Tybalt. The respected regent would stabilize the kingdom, the council would rally behind him, and Vorlag's legitimacy would crumble. And Arthur... Arthur could finally be a child again. He would be safe, cared for by Tybalt, free from the crushing weight of a crown until he was truly ready for it. He could have the life that had been stolen from him, restored. It was the perfect solution.
So why? Why had Brimor, her oldest and most stoic friend, looked at that perfect, logical outcome with such profound fear? What was there to fear in restoring a boy to his birthright?
The question was a knot she couldn't untangle, a type of enemy she couldn't assess. Frustrated, she slid deeper into the tub, letting the hot water close over her head, hoping the silence of the water could drown out the unsettling echo of the dwarf's words.
Part III: Rules of Engagement
The morning began with the crowing of a rooster from the Guild's small backyard, a mundane sound at the start of an extraordinary day. Ingrid, having woken early from a night of restless thoughts, came downstairs to find the main hall empty but for the figures gathered at the gate.
It was Faelan, Maeve, and the twins. But they were not the warriors she had met the before. Gone were the familiar lines of leather armor and the weight of steel at their hips. They were dressed in the simple, durable clothes of traveling merchants, with large, unassuming packs on their backs. Pip Applebottom was with them, pressing a small, carved wooden token into each of their hands.
Faelan looked up and saw her standing in the shadows of the hall. He offered no words, just the faint, weary smile he now seemed to wear permanently. He raised a hand in a silent, final goodbye. Then, the four of them turned and melted into the post-dawn gloom of the Half-Wit's District, leaving only the city's quiet hum behind.
Ingrid walked to the gate, joining Lyra, Brimor, and Aeris as they watched the last of the group disappear.
"Where is he going?" Ingrid asked, her voice the same soft, unfluctuating monotone.
"To get some rust off," Lyra replied, a warm, genuine smile on her face as she watched the path her friends had taken. She finally turned to Ingrid. "Shall we? You must be hungry."
They made their way to their now-familiar table. "Before we eat," Lyra said, "could you ask Thorgar and Arthur to join us? I'd like to discuss the day's plans."
Ingrid simply nodded and headed for the stairs. Thorgar's room was easy to find; a loud, rumbling snore was vibrating through the wooden door. She knocked. No response. She knocked again, louder. The snoring continued, unabated. Frustrated, Ingrid placed a hand on the door, channeling a sliver of her magic. The air inside the room instantly plunged to a biting cold.
A loud, explosive sneeze echoed from within, followed by a grunt. Ingrid knocked again, softly this time. The door creaked open to reveal a bleary-eyed Thorgar.
"Huh?" he mumbled, looking left and right down the empty hallway, not seeing her.
"Lyra asked for you downstairs," Ingrid's voice came from near his waist.
Thorgar nodded dumbly and, without a second thought, turned to make his way back to the warm embrace of his bed. Anticipating this, Ingrid had already used a whisper of wind magic to slice cleanly through the bed's four legs. A loud, splintering CRASH and a roar of surprise and pain was heard as Thorgar jumped onto the now-unsupported frame. Unbothered, Ingrid continued down the hall to Arthur's room.
His door was unlocked, the latch broken. She knocked softly. A muffled "oomph" came from within, which she took for an affirmative. She pushed the door open.
Arthur was on the floor, his back to her, in the middle of a pushup. He was wearing nothing but trousers, his young, lean frame glistening with a shocking amount of sweat that had pooled on the wooden floor beneath him. He pushed himself up, his head tilting back, and saw her.
"Your sister wants you downstairs," Ingrid said, her face as impassive as ever, and turned to leave before he could respond. Her eyes, however, had registered the sheer amount of sweat. He must have been at this for hours, she thought.
For Arthur, the moment was pure mortification. He was used to being bathed by old, matronly servants in the palace, but to be seen half-naked and in such a state of exertion by a girl his own age sent a hot flush of shame creeping up his neck. He waited a few minutes for his red cheeks to cool before making his way downstairs.
When Arthur and Thorgar arrived, the others were already seated. Aeris was lost in a book. Lyra looked at her brother's bright red face. "Fever?" she asked, a teasing glint in her eye.
"Nothing," Arthur mumbled, pulling the collar of his shirt up as if to hide.
Lilia and the other waitresses brought out a feast. A plate of green vegetables and grilled mackerel for Aeris and Ingrid; a massive platter of chicken, sausages, eggs, and bacon for the table; and a whole roasted turkey placed directly in front of Thorgar, who was already salivating. Brimor and Thorgar were served ale, the others, coffee. The new day, and the new fellowship, had truly begun.
They fell upon their breakfast, each in a manner that spoke volumes of who they were. Thorgar and Brimor, unbothered by courtly grace, used their hands to rip into sausages and bacon. Aeris, with an effortless, otherworldly poise, held a book open with one hand while her other gracefully carved into her fish. Ingrid's focus was absolute, her attention directed solely at her meal, as if it were a task to be completed with grim efficiency.
Arthur, however, was a man caught between two worlds. His mind was a battlefield. One part of him, trained by years of royal etiquette, was horrified by the casual brutality of the warriors' table manners. The other part knew his own refined movements were a dangerous liability. Confused, he decided to simply imitate his sister. His gaze, however, kept momentarily drifting to Ingrid's face. He hadn't truly noticed her before, not as a person. But her sudden, violent intrusion into his room had sparked something, and now he was struck by the quiet, fierce beauty in her solemn expression.
Lyra finished her coffee and set the mug down with a decisive thud. The table went quiet.
"Right," she began, her gaze falling on the two youngest members. "You want to win a tournament," she said to Ingrid, "and you want to learn how to fight," she said to Arthur. "But before we can talk about training, I need to see what I'm working with. I need a baseline."
She smirked, a dangerous, competitive glint in her eyes. "So, how about it? You two, against Thorgar."
Thorgar, who was about to bite into a massive turkey leg, stopped. "Boss, they're kids!" he whined.
"Exactly," Lyra retorted, her logic sharp and cold. "If I put them against Brimor, they'd be a dent in the wall. If I put them against Aeris, they'd be asleep or on fire before they could blink. You, Thorgar, are the perfect measuring stick. You're strong enough to make them sweat, but clumsy enough not to kill them by accident."
Before Lyra could continue or Thorgar could protest further, a quiet, firm voice cut in. "I agree." It was Ingrid.
Arthur, startled by her quick acceptance, quickly added, "Me too."
"Excellent," Lyra grinned. Her gaze drifted to the elf. "Aeris, care to grace us with your presence? We may need a healer on standby, just in case Thorgar manages to lose a limb or two."
Thorgar bristled. "Boss, I'm not that weak!"
Aeris didn't look up from her book. "Considering an Initiate-level girl and a shapeshifter gave you so much trouble ," she said, her voice a soft, cutting whisper, "the risk seems… plausible."
Thorgar flushed with frustration and turned back to his turkey.
"Brimor?" Lyra asked.
The dwarf finished the last of his ale and set the heavy stein down with a loud grunt. "I'll join you."
"Then that's settled," Lyra declared, standing up. "Everyone finish up. We're heading to the open ground beyond Lake Stillwater. Not many people go there. It'll be our new training spot."
An hour and a half's walk took them through the city and beyond the shores of Lake Stillwater, to a vast, empty plain that stretched towards the horizon. In the far distance, some twenty miles away, the dark, menacing line of the Blightwood Forest was a smudge against the sky. This was their proving ground.
Thorgar, who had carried a long, heavy case on his back the entire way, dropped it to the ground with a resounding THUD. Arthur and Ingrid watched with intrigue as he unfastened the leather straps and opened it.
Resting on a bed of worn velvet was a two-handed hammer of breathtaking craftsmanship. It was nearly as tall as Thorgar himself, with a long haft wrapped in brown leather. The twin heads of the hammer were a gleaming, golden alloy that seemed to pulse with a faint inner light, while the body was a pristine white, etched with glowing Dwarven runes. At the center, just above a single, glowing obsidian gem, was the maker's mark of a master from the Runic Pass.
Ingrid stared, confused. "I thought you were a mage," she said, recalling his sloppy but effective spell at the refugee camp.
Thorgar let out a booming laugh. "Child, look at me. Do I look like someone who sits around reading books?" He hefted the magnificent weapon, its weight settling comfortably in his hands. "I'm a spellsword." He paused, a look of genuine confusion on his face. "Well, more of a spellhammer, I suppose. But that just sounds clumsy."
Ingrid grew cautious. The bumbling oaf who had captured her was also a warrior who wielded a weapon that looked like it could shatter a fortress wall. This was not the same man she had fought before.
Lyra stepped forward, her voice cutting through the tension with the crisp authority of a fight master. "Alright, you two," she said to Ingrid and Arthur. "The rule for you is simple: make him bleed. I don't care how you do it or how long it takes. Draw blood."
She then turned to her subordinate. "Thorgar. Your job is to stop them. Without killing or maiming them." She paused, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "Aaaand…" she said, her voice becoming a loud, cheerful declaration, "you can't use your hammer."
Before Thorgar could react, she deftly plucked the massive weapon from his grasp.
"But, Boss!" he whined, his hands suddenly empty.
Lyra's grin was dripping with sarcasm. "As you said, Thorgar, 'they're just kids'."
He grumbled under his breath, "Could've told me that before I lugged fifty pounds of Dwarven steel across the city…"
"You said something?" Lyra asked, her voice dangerously sweet.
"Nothing, Ma'am!" he yelped, snapping to attention.
Lyra, now holding the hammer, gestured for the others to move back. "Let's give them some room."
She, Aeris, and Brimor made their way to the shade of a solitary, ancient oak tree some distance away. Brimor sat at its base, his back against the trunk. Aeris, with the fluid grace of a cat, scaled the tree in seconds, settling on a thick branch that gave her a perfect, elevated view. Lyra simply leaned the great hammer against the trunk and crossed her arms, her expression a mix of amusement and keen-eyed assessment.
In the center of the vast, empty plain, Thorgar stood alone, now stripped of his greatest weapon. Across from him, a nervous prince and a grim-faced girl stood side-by-side, readying themselves for their first, impossible test.
Part IV : The Fight begins
Ingrid took the initiative. She slammed her palms onto the cold earth, and a familiar spell sprung to life. The ground beneath Thorgar's feet instantly softened into a grasping, muddy mire.
"Is that the only trick you know, girl?" Thorgar grunted, unimpressed, as he began to sink to his ankles.
From the shade of the oak tree, Lyra watched with a new intensity. Chantless casting, she thought, a flicker of genuine surprise on her face. At her age? That takes incredible focus.
Ingrid pressed her advantage. A second spell followed, and thick Rock Cuffs erupted from the ground, locking around Thorgar's wrists, thighs, and neck, binding him in place. Her plan was simple: immobilize, then strike. She gathered her will for a volley of Frost Shards to draw first blood.
She never got the chance.
A concussive blast of raw, untamed power erupted from Thorgar. The rock cuffs didn't just break; they exploded into a shower of gravel. With a single, powerful leap, he was free of the quicksand and standing on solid ground, casually dusting off his clothes
"Lilia just washed these," he grumbled.
Then he moved. To Ingrid, it was like a bolt of lightning. In one instant, he was twenty feet away; in the next, he was upon her, his leg scything through the air in a brutal arc. The kick connected with her torso with the force of a battering ram.
The world became a violent, tumbling blur of green and blue. She flew past Arthur, a rag doll in a hurricane, bounced twice on the hard-packed earth, and rolled to a crumpled heap nearly twenty feet away. The air was stolen from her lungs, and a pain so sharp it was white bloomed in her side.
She was conscious, but the world was a tilting, hazy mess. She curled around the agony in her ribs, each breath a fresh stab of fire. A grim realization cut through the pain. The kindness she had been shown, the gentle teasing at the breakfast table—it had all been a lie, a soft blanket laid over this hard, cold truth. This wasn't a game. This was a lesson. This was to show her exactly how far she had to go, and the dangers that awaited her in the real world. A new thought, even more chilling, surfaced: If he is this strong without his hammer… what in the hells is he with it?
With a groan, she tried to push herself up. She failed, collapsing back to the ground. But even as her body ached, her mind was already racing, searching for the next move.
Arthur hadn't moved. His hand was on the hilt of his sword, but his muscles had turned to lead. The sight of Ingrid being sent flying, the sickening thud of the impact—it had frozen him solid. All of Tybalt's lessons on swordplay,it all felt like a child's daydream. That had been practice. This was real. There was no uncle to fight for him, no royal guards to die for him. There was only this… this smiling giant, this monster. The idea of drawing blood, once an abstract goal, now felt like a terrifying, impossible necessity. He glanced at his sister, a desperate, silent plea for help, but her face was a mask of calm, detached analysis. No help would come from there. It was win, or endure this unending pain.
Thorgar, seeing the boy's paralysis, let his friendly smile drop. His voice became flat, devoid of emotion. "What's the matter, boy? Not joining the fun?"
To Arthur, it was the voice of every nightmare he'd had since the coup, a ghost promising to tear him apart.
"Let me make it more interesting for you," Thorgar said, and lunged. His fist, the size of a small ham, was a blur of motion aimed straight for Arthur's head, ready to send him flying just as he had Ingrid.
But just as the blow was about to land, a sharp gust of wind, a desperate Zephyr Push, slammed into Arthur's side, shoving him out of the punch's devastating path. Thorgar's fist hit empty air.
He turned. Twenty feet away, grimacing in pain but with one hand outstretched, Ingrid was already on one knee, ready for the next round.
Arthur watched as Ingrid, battered and bruised, forced herself back to one knee. He saw her face, and for the first time, it was not the impassive mask of a survivor, nor was it twisted in rage. It was an expression of pure, cold decisiveness. Of courage.
He remembered his awe before the statue of Silas standing perfect and fearless in the museum. But that was a lie, a story told after the battle was won. This—this was the truth. He looked at Ingrid, her face pale with pain, her body trembling with exertion, yet her eyes burned with a fire that refused to be extinguished In that moment, watching Ingrid rise through her pain to protect him, he knew the answer. Courage wasn't a grand, fearless pose; it was the grim, painful, and absolute refusal to give up.
A wave of shame, colder and sharper than any fear he had yet felt, washed over him. He was a burden. To his father, a disappointment. To his uncle, a charge to die for. To Pip, a mouth to feed. And now, to this girl, a liability to be saved.
A memory, clear as a striking bell, rushed to the front of his mind: a training session years ago, his uncle kneeling before him, a proud smile on his face. "You know your way around a sword, Arthur," Tybalt had said. "Now, learn to trust your intuition."
Across the field, Thorgar was growing bored. He let out a great, theatrical yawn. "Hey, Boss!" he shouted over to Lyra. "This is getting tedious. Can I just put them to sleep? That's not maiming, and I'd be free for the day."
Lyra exchanged a look with Brimor, then called back, a grin in her voice. "I think that works!"
A new, cold certainty flashed in Thorgar's eyes. The game was about to end.
That certainty galvanized Arthur. His shock and fear were incinerated by a new, desperate resolve. He looked at Ingrid.
"Ingrid!" he shouted, his voice cracking but clear. "Together! Help me!"
He drew the small sword Tybalt had given him. The familiar weight felt natural in his hand, an extension of his own will. He settled into a longpoint stance, the blade aimed directly at Thorgar.
From the shade of the oak, Lyra's eyes widened, and a slow, proud smile spread across her face. "Now it begins," she murmured.
Ingrid, for her part, was surprised by the boy's sudden declaration. She had dismissed him as a meek, privileged child. But seeing his stance, his focus, she knew she couldn't let him be mercilessly beaten. She would assist, as she had before.
Before her thoughts could progress further, Arthur charged.
He was a blur of motion, four quick dashes that ate up the ground between them. It wasn't Thorgar's lightning speed, but it was decisive and utterly unexpected. He closed the distance, his blade a silver arc aimed at Thorgar's neck. For the first time, Thorgar's amused expression was replaced by one of genuine surprise. He saw the focus in Arthur's eyes—the look of a young swordmaster.
With a grunt, Thorgar hardened his hands with earth magic, a gauntlet of rock forming an instant before the blade made contact. The screech of steel on stone was deafening.
"Now that's more like it!" Thorgar grinned, and counter-attacked with a powerful kick aimed at Arthur's waist.
But Arthur, guided by an intuition he didn't know he possessed, was ready. He released one hand from his sword, dropping his center of gravity. As the kick came, he slapped his free palm against the top of Thorgar's foot and unleashed a sharp Zephyr Push.
The kick's momentum, combined with his own Zephyr Push, sent Arthur launching into the air. For a single, weightless moment, he was suspended directly above the stumbling Thorgar, his body stretched straight. Their eyes locked—Thorgar's wide with surprise, looking up, and Arthur's, now cold with focus, looking down
He hung there for a split second, a boy suspended between earth and sky. He didn't need to look at Ingrid. He didn't need to speak. He trusted she would understand.
And she did. A shimmering platform of solidified, invisible air—a wind-magic trampoline—materialized at the very apex of his ascent. His feet found it not as he fell, but as he arrived. He landed, his legs coiling for an instant like a predator's, his sword now gripped in both hands, the pommel drawn back to his neck for a devastating overhead strike.
With another surge of wind magic from Ingrid accelerating his descent, he launched himself downwards like a hawk diving from the sky. Thorgar, still regaining his balance, looked up just in time to see the blade whistling towards his head.
The sword missed its mark by a hair's breadth, shearing a lock of hair from Thorgar's beard. At the same instant, the ground beneath Arthur's feet turned to quicksand, another of Ingrid's spells. He landed softly, the mire absorbing his momentum, allowing him to easily dislodge his sword and leap back, putting distance between himself and his opponent.
The two children now stood side-by-side, breathing heavily, facing a genuinely surprised Thorgar for the first time.
Part V: The Dance of Three
A pleasant smile touched Thorgar's face as he watched the two children, sweating and gasping, ready themselves.
Ingrid was the first to move, walking to stand beside Arthur. "You take his right flank. I'll go left," she commanded, her voice a low, steady whisper.
"Understood," Arthur replied, his voice clear. The hesitation was gone, replaced by a new, hard-edged resolve.
They rushed him. At their approach, Thorgar crouched low. He met Arthur's charge by raising a thick Earthen Wall, which the boy's sword struck with a useless clang. On the other side, Ingrid had conjured a Rock Hammer, a crude imitation of Thorgar's own but swung with vicious intent. A Zephyr Push lifted her a few feet into the air, and another blast of wind magic slammed into the back of the hammer to give it more torque.
From the sidelines, Brimor grunted in approval. "She's learning to lose her rigidity," he murmured to Lyra.
Ingrid's charge was met not by a hand, but by Thorgar's leg, a powerful kick aimed to send her flying. This time, however, she was ready. She twisted, bringing the hammer down on his thigh just above the knee. The blow lacked true power, but it was enough to disrupt his attack. The kick still connected, but its force was lessened. She was sent tumbling, but immediately used an Earth spell to raise a mound of soft soil to absorb her fall.
In that split second, Thorgar let the wall crumble. Arthur's eyes instinctively followed the flying Ingrid, giving Thorgar the opening he needed. He swept his leg low, but Arthur instinctively jumped, twisting in mid-air to bring his sword down in a slice. Thorgar's hand became a rock gauntlet, shielding himself from the blade with a screech of steel on stone, while his other two feet shot up, kicking Arthur square in the stomach and sending him flying in the opposite direction. Arthur spun through the air, but with a presence of mind that surprised even himself, he angled his sword down, grounding it in the dirt to arrest his momentum. He slid to a halt, bruised but on his feet.
The three now stood as points on a straight line: Arthur, a furious Thorgar in the middle, and Ingrid, already conjuring two sharp Ice Daggers.
She charged, using wind magic to close the distance. At the same instant, Arthur charged from the other side. As he moved, a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer of power flared around his soles for a split second.
Lyra and Brimor both saw it. Her relaxed posture snapped straight. "You saw that," she whispered, her voice deadly serious.
"Aye," the dwarf rumbled. "Aura."
Thorgar, however, was in his element. He twirled, a surprisingly graceful movement for a man his size. One leg swept out, knocking Arthur to the ground. In the same motion, his other hand shot out, shattering Ingrid's ice dagger with a pulse of earth magic as he twisted her arm, forcing her into a crouch with both hands pinned behind her back.
With both children subdued, Thorgar threw back his head and let out a monstrous, mocking laugh. "HA HA HA! And now," he said, his voice a menacing purr, "it's time to go to sleep."
Ingrid was on her knees, her eyes staring at the blades of grass, her arms aching in Thorgar's iron grip. I can't fail, she thought, the images of her burning village, of her stolen siblings, flooding her vision. Not now.
Her unrelenting spirit found a last reserve of power. She looked at Arthur, pinned under Thorgar's heavy boot. A silent, chantless earth spell flowed from her.
The ground beneath Arthur erupted upwards, a sudden pillar of stone that threw Thorgar completely off balance. In that instant of chaos, Ingrid's hands came free. She spun, a new ice dagger flashing into existence, and as Thorgar staggered back, she lunged, the blade slicing a clean, shallow line across his cheek. Blood welled.
High above, Arthur had come to his senses. He leaned over the edge of the rising pillar, pushed off, and then, with two more controlled bursts of wind magic, accelerated downwards like a hawk. As Ingrid's blade made its mark, Arthur was already descending, his own sword aimed straight for Thorgar's heart.
Thorgar, too amused by his own failure , forgot to defend himself.
But Lyra didn't. She was a flash of crimson, covering the distance in an instant. Her hand, wreathed in a protective aura, met Arthur's sword not with a block, but with a sharp, open-palmed strike. The sword went flying. The impact sent a shockwave up Arthur's arms and sent him tumbling uncontrollably.
He landed, with his backside directly on Thorgar's face, his head resting on the big man's stomach. A moment later, a small, unfortunate noise escaped him. Pfft.
Half of Ingrid was pinned beneath the stunned Thorgar, and on top of him was the mortified Prince of Magellan, his buttocks firmly planted on the warrior's nose.
A stunned silence fell over the field. Then, a low chuckle rumbled from beneath Arthur. It grew into a deep, booming, uncontrollable laugh from Thorgar. A second later, a choked, surprised giggle escaped Arthur. Then Ingrid, seeing the utter absurdity of it all, let out an airy, breathless laugh of her own.
The adults watched, stunned. The two gloomy, traumatized children were laughing. Genuinely laughing. Lyra looked at their faces, covered in mud, sweat, and bruises, and thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
Lyra watched, and the sound of their laughter—raw, real, and utterly unburdened—struck her with the force of a physical blow. A slow, knowing smile—one of profound, bittersweet wisdom—spread across her face. She turned her head slightly, her eyes still on the laughing children, and murmured so only Brimor could hear.
"I understand now, old friend. I fear it the most now, too."
Lyra walked over, a warm, genuine smile on her face. She offered a hand to her brother. Thorgar pushed himself up, and Lyra helped Ingrid to her feet. The girl was so bruised she could barely stand.
"I can't have you two sending a member of the Dawnbreakers to the grave," Lyra teased, dusting them off. "What would people say? 'Most formidable party in Oakhaven, defeated by a fart'."
"Hey! What about my life?" Thorgar whined.
"What about it?" Lyra shot back.
"Bossss!"
Brimor's shoulders shook with a silent, growling laugh, and even Aeris, who had descended from her tree, allowed a small, rare smile to touch her lips. The kids' own smiles were wide, though Ingrid tried to hide hers behind her hand.
Lyra's gaze softened as she took in their injuries—Ingrid's bruised ribs, Arthur's swollen hands. "Alright, that's enough. Let's get you to the shade. Aeris will heal you." She turned to her subordinate. "Thorgar. Fetch my brother's sword."
As Thorgar lumbered off, Lyra scooped the injured Ingrid into her arms.
"I can walk," Ingrid protested weakly.
"It's fine," Lyra said, her voice surprisingly gentle. "You're light as a feather. You need to eat more."
Tucked against Lyra's chest, Ingrid was struck by the contradictions. The arms holding her were hard as iron, yet the bosom she was pressed against was surprisingly soft and comforting. As they walked, she looked up at Lyra's face, at the crimson hair shining in the winter sun, and thought that this fierce, complicated warrior was even more beautiful up close. Before she could complete the thought, the day's exhaustion, the pain, and the sudden, overwhelming sense of safety pulled her under into a deep, welcome slumber.
Part VI: The assessment and the plan
Ingrid awoke to the sensation of soft grass and the gentle warmth of the winter sun. The first thing she saw was a curtain of jet-black hair, flowing in the slow wind. The boy, Arthur, was leaned against the oak tree beside her, his head lolling to one side in sleep. Her own head, she realized, was resting in his lap.
She sat up slowly, the movement a map of dull aches from the earlier fight, though the sharpest edges had been smoothed away by Aeris's healing magic. The shifting weight woke Arthur. His eyes blinked open, and the moment he realized the situation, a hot, crimson flush crept up his neck.
"Lyra—she said your head shouldn't be on the hard ground," he stammered, a flustered torrent of explanation. "That you'd get a headache. So she… she told me to…"
Ingrid, her face once again an impassive mask, wasn't looking for an explanation. She looked around the empty, sun-drenched field. "Where is everyone?"
"Fishing," Arthur replied, still visibly embarrassed. "At the lake."
Ingrid fell silent, her gaze lost in the vast, green horizon. The wind picked up, catching a strand of her silver-white hair and whipping it across her face. She brushed it back behind her ear with an unthinking grace. For the first time, Arthur saw her not as a fellow survivor or a stoic mage, but simply as a girl, and the sight was so unexpectedly beautiful it stole the breath from his lungs.
He finally found his voice, though it was hesitant. "Hey."
She turned her head, and her clear blue eyes met his. He was captivated for a second before he remembered his question. "May I ask you something?" he asked, the formal politeness of his royal upbringing evident in his speech.
"What?" she replied, her voice soft and even.
"My sister… at breakfast, she said you wanted to take part in a tournament. Can you tell me what it is?"
Ingrid took a moment, her gaze returning to the horizon. "The Annual Solstice Tournament," she said, her voice a monotone. "It begins in three months." She fell quiet again.
Her response was a fact, not an invitation to converse. But Arthur, remembering his vow at the museum, pushed past his own hesitation. "And… why do you want to participate?"
This time, she didn't turn. "To get into the University of Lumina."
Arthur knew of the University, of course, but for the wealthy, admission was a matter of coin, not competition. He wanted to ask more, but her aloofness was a wall. He took a breath. "How does it work?"
Ingrid turned her head back to him, her expression unchanging. "How does what work?"
"The tournament."
She began to explain, the cadence of her voice natural and clear, like a teacher patiently instructing a student. "There are two brackets. The Experienced is for ranking adventurers and soldiers looking for recruitment by noble houses or elite parties. It's a simple one-on-one elimination."
She paused. "The first two days are for them. The next seven are for the Rookie bracket. That's for people like me—under eighteen, seeking admission to the great academies."
"How is it different?" Arthur asked, listening earnestly.
"It's a team-based survival trial. Parties of three to five are sent into a sealed-off section of the Blightwood Forest. You have five days to survive and hunt. If a single member dies, the entire party is disqualified. To even qualify for the next stage, your party needs to bring back proof of at least five D-rank Mana Beast kills."
"And then what?"
"At the end of the fifth day, there is an auction," she explained. "The great noble houses and rich merchants who want a champion buy a token to participate. They use telepathic mages to scout the candidates during the trial, and in the auction, they bid on the one they wish to sponsor and have represent their house in the final stage."
Arthur's eyes sparked with curiosity. "Can we buy only one champion?"
The word—we—hung in the air. For the first time, a flicker of genuine emotion crossed Ingrid's face: a flash of cold, sharp disgust. Her eyes narrowed. "Who," she asked, her voice dropping an octave, "is we?"
Arthur, oblivious to the source of her anger but sensing the shift, quickly corrected himself. "I meant… they. Can they only buy one?"
Ingrid's expression returned to its impassive state. "Yes. And after the auction, it becomes a one-on-one elimination, just like the other bracket. If a university wants you, they select you at the end. But you're bound by the sponsor's contract."
"What if no university picks you?"
"Then your sponsor can buy you a seat at full price, but that almost never happens. Or, you fail."
"And the winner?" Arthur asked, his mind racing.
"The winner," Ingrid said, a flicker of her old dream in her eyes, "gets a full scholarship to the university of their choice. No sponsor. No contract. They are free."
"I see," Arthur exclaimed.
Their conversation was cut short by the sound of approaching laughter. The rest of the party was returning from the lake, Thorgar carrying a freshly hunted boar on his shoulders.
"What are you two whispering about?" Thorgar boomed. "Plotting how to take me down for real next time?"
"Nothing," they both responded in perfect, unrehearsed unison.
Lyra, watching them, smiled. Synergy, she thought. That's a start. Aeris immediately set about starting a fire, and the afternoon began to shift from a training session to a well-earned picnic.
They all settled around the crackling fire, the day's tension melting away in the warmth of the flames. The fish, skewered on sticks, began to sizzle, their aroma mingling with the scent of pine and woodsmoke. For Arthur, the experience was entirely new. He had eaten rabbit cooked over a smokeless fire in the desperate quiet of the Weeping Woods, but this was different. This easy camaraderie, the shared task of a meal after a hard-fought contest—it felt pleasant, in a way he couldn't quite grasp.
As Thorgar lumbered back from setting his boar to roast over a larger fire, Lyra passed a cooked fish to Ingrid.
"So, Thorgar," she began, her tone all business. "You were the one on the receiving end. Give us your assessment. What do you make of them?"
Thorgar, his eyes greedily fixed on the roasting fish, reached for one. His hand was promptly and sharply slapped by Aeris, who didn't even look up from her book.
"Ow! They were strong, boss?" he offered, shaking his wrist. He looked at Lyra's face, saw the thundercloud gathering there, and quickly understood she required more than a one-word answer. He nervously began to speak.
"How do I… explain this?" he started, his gaze darting around as if searching the trees for the right words. "I'd fought the girl before, so I had some idea of her tricks. But she was different today. More adaptable. Most mages want to keep their distance, but she knew she couldn't win that way, so she charged me. Twice."
Lyra listened, genuinely surprised by his articulate analysis.
"She's versatile, too," he continued. "Rock hammer, ice daggers, wind pushes… and her synergy with the boy was instantaneous. And that chantless casting… for a kid her age, that's formidable." He paused. "Her weakness? She's a glass cannon. A frail body. That first kick I landed hampered her casting for the rest of the fight. And she's mindlessly aggressive." At this, Ingrid, who had been quietly eating, flinched, her gaze turning inward as she reflected on his words. "She attacks without accounting for that weakness. She should have played support to the boy. But… that's just inexperience."
Lyra nodded, then asked, "And Arthur?"
Thorgar, busy chewing, gave a muffled, "Strong too, boss." He saw Lyra's eye twitch, swallowed hard, and quickly elaborated.
"Honestly, at first, I thought he was a training mannequin," he said, causing Arthur to flush with embarrassment. "Stood there, frozen. In a real fight, he'd be dead. But then… when he finally moved, he surprised me more than the girl did. He wasn't reckless. He was… efficient."
Ingrid looked up from her meal, a flicker of curiosity on her face.
"That second charge," Thorgar explained, "Way faster than the first. He understands how to manage his output. His spells were simple, mostly for movement, but he used them perfectly. And his instincts… that mid-air twist, the trust in Ingrid to have his back… you can't teach that. His swordplay is all aimed for the kill. Dangerous." Arthur turned an even deeper shade of red. "Aside from his initial hesitation and low mana reserves, I can't find many faults. It's strange. He lacks experience, but he fights like it's second nature."
Thorgar finished his report and, seeing his duty done, finally grabbed a fish. Brimor, in his quiet way, handed another cooked fish to Arthur before taking one for himself. The brief silence was filled by the crackling of the fire.
Lyra took the fish Brimor offered her, but she didn't eat. She stared into the flames, her mind processing Thorgar's report. An adaptable, reckless prodigy with immense potential. And a hesitant boy with the instincts of a master swordsman and a flicker of a power he shouldn't possess.
Her two new wards were far more complicated than she had anticipated.
The last of the grilled fish was gone, save for the one Lyra held, forgotten, in her hand. Thorgar, had dragged a great, clean rock slab from the lakeside and placed it near the fire, and the boar he had hunted was now roasting over the coals, its skin crackling and spitting. The scent was rich and savory.
Lyra's reverie broke. She tossed the uneaten fish into the fire, a small sacrifice to the thoughts she was leaving behind, and stood. Her voice was no longer that of a sister or a friend; it was the crisp, commanding tone of the Dawnbreakers' leader. The table went quiet.
"Alright," she began, her gaze sweeping over Arthur and Ingrid. "The next three months will be hell. Your days will be divided into three parts. Listen closely."
"First, the body. You are both weak. Brimor," she nodded to the dwarf, "will be in charge of your physical conditioning. Every morning, you will run, you will jump, you will train until your muscles scream. A strong body is the foundation for everything else. He will not be gentle." Brimor grunted, a sound that was both an agreement and a warning.
"Second, your weaknesses." Her eyes landed on Arthur. "Arthur. Your instincts with a blade are good, but your mana is a shallow puddle. In a real fight, against a true monster or a skilled mage, that makes you a one-trick pony. One-trick ponies die fast. You will work with Aeris to deepen your mana reserves and expand your knowledge of practical spells."
She then turned to Ingrid. "You have the opposite problem. You have a deep well of power, but you're a glass cannon. That kick from Thorgar nearly broke you. After Arthur is done with Aeris, you will train with her to strengthen your own reserves, with the goal of reaching the Scribe level before the tournament. Before that, however, you will learn close-quarters combat from me, using conjured weapons. You will learn how to fight when the enemy is close enough to smell your fear."
"Third, the battle. Every three days, we will have a mock combat. You will put what you have learned to the test. It is where you will build awareness, instinct, and strategy." She let the grueling schedule sink in before her expression softened, a warm smile briefly breaking through the commander's facade. "And at night, you will both eat until you can't move. An army runs on its stomach. So does a training camp."
She finally turned to the silent Elf, who had been observing the entire briefing over the top of her book. "I hope you don't mind, Aeris."
Aeris closed her book with a soft thump. "Elves do not mind spreading knowledge," she replied, her voice calm and even.
Arthur and Ingrid exchanged a look, the sheer, monumental scale of the task ahead of them finally clear. It was going to be a long three months.