The journey out of the mountain was a brutal, clarifying lesson in my new reality. Every step was a negotiation between my mind and a body I didn't truly own. The path was treacherous, a winding maze of collapsed tunnels and sheer rock faces that Garrick and his men navigated with the grim competence of seasoned veterans. I, on the other hand, was a mess.
The raw power humming in my veins was a constant distraction. My senses were still dialed to eleven; the drip of water from a stalactite sounded like a hammer blow, the scent of damp earth was an overwhelming perfume, and the body heat of the people around me felt like a physical presence. Several times, I misjudged a step, putting too much force into it and nearly sending myself tumbling into a chasm, only to be steadied by Garrick's iron grip.
He never said a word, but I could feel his judgment. It wasn't malicious, just a professional's weary assessment of an amateur. And in his eyes, that's all Lancelot Ashworth had ever been.
As we walked, the memories—both from the book and from Lancelot's life—swirled together, painting a bleak picture of the boy I now was. The County of Ashworth. One of the great Western Pillars of the Kingdom of Veridia. The Ashworths were border lords, their lands a bulwark against the monster-infested wilds and the simmering tensions with the neighboring Draconian Empire. Here in the West, strength wasn't just a virtue; it was the price of survival. And Lancelot had been born without the coin to pay.
His father, Count Theron Ashworth, was a man carved from mountain granite, a pragmatist who measured his sons by their Tier.
The first son, Damian, was the perfect heir. Twenty-one years old and already a Master, a Tier 5 Spearsman whose name was known throughout the Western territories. He was the pride of the family, the future of the County.
The second son, Elias, was a disappointment, but a functional one. At twenty, he was an Artisan, a Tier 3 who, while lacking Damian's talent, was at least competent enough to command a small garrison.
And then there was Lancelot. The third son. The spare. Seventeen years old and, until a few hours ago, a stubbornly powerless Tier 1 Initiate. In a family of lions, he was the lamb, a constant, quiet source of shame for the Count. He wasn't cruel to Lancelot, not in any overt way. He was simply… indifferent. Lancelot's desperate plunge into a dungeon hadn't been an act of bravery in his father's eyes, but the foolish flailing of a boy who refused to accept his own mediocrity.
"My lord, you should eat."
Seraphina's soft voice pulled me from my bleak thoughts. She was holding out a piece of dried, salted meat, her expression etched with a concern that felt entirely out of place in this cold, pragmatic world. The guards had paused for a brief rest, chewing on their own rations with grim efficiency.
I shook my head. "I'm not hungry."
It was true. The Dragon Heart in my chest seemed to be sustaining me, a low, steady burn of energy that had completely silenced the normal pangs of hunger and thirst.
"You must," she insisted, pushing the ration into my hand. "Your body needs fuel to heal, even if you don't feel it."
Her gaze was locked on the scrapes and bruises I'd accumulated, her worry so genuine it was almost painful to witness. To everyone else, I was a package to be delivered. To her, I was a person. I remembered a line from the novel, a passing thought from Lancelot: 'Sera is the only one who looks at me without seeing a failure.'
I took the meat and forced myself to chew. It tasted like ash in my mouth, but I ate it for her. Her presence was a constant, grounding force. When I stumbled, she was there, not to grab me like Garrick, but to place a steadying hand on my arm. When the cold of the mountain seeped through the cloak, she would adjust it around my shoulders without a word. She was treating me like the boy she had always known, and in doing so, she was giving me the space I desperately needed to pretend to be him.
Hours later, we finally emerged from the mouth of the cave. The sudden rush of fresh air and the sight of a sky bruised with the colours of twilight was so overwhelming I had to stop, leaning against the rock wall for support. The world felt impossibly vast and vibrant to my new senses.
"We're a day's ride from the estate," Garrick announced, his voice carrying a note of finality. Horses were waiting for us at a pre-arranged camp, tended by a few other guards.
The ride home was a blur. I sat slumped in the saddle, letting the horse follow the one in front of it, my mind racing. I was returning to a home that wasn't mine, to a family that saw me as a disappointment. I was armed with a power I couldn't control and a future knowledge that felt like a millstone around my neck.
As the sun finally dipped below the rugged horizon, we crested a large hill. Below us, nestled in a valley carved by an ancient river, lay the Ashworth Estate. It wasn't a castle of fairy tales, but a fortress. Thick, granite walls, reinforced with dark iron and glowing with the faint, blue light of defensive runes, encircled a sprawling complex of stone buildings. The central keep, stark and imposing, rose against the twilight sky, its banners bearing the sigil of a snarling grey wolf.
This was my new home. A bastion of strength on the edge of the world. A place where weakness was a sin.
Garrick raised a hand, and our party came to a halt. "Welcome home, Lord Lancelot," he said, his tone flat and unreadable.
I looked down at the fortress, at the warm lights beginning to glow in its windows, and felt nothing but a profound and chilling sense of dread. I was a stranger in a stolen body, returning to a family of strangers, armed with a power I couldn't control, all while knowing a storm was coming that would tear their entire world apart.
Home. The word felt like a lie. This wasn't a home. It was the first stage of a war I was now destined to fight.