The moment the Imperial carriage turned and rumbled away, the silence that fell upon Kaelen, now Prince Alaric, was absolute.
It was the silence of a tomb, broken only by the shriek of the harsh, northern wind tearing through the broken ramparts of Stonehaven.
The fortress was worse than the memories suggested. It was actively dying. The massive, dark basalt walls, meant to hold back armies, were scarred by decades of frost and monster attacks. Patches of sickly green lichen clung to the stone, and in the largest breaches, the dark, wild forest seemed to actively lean in, reclaiming its territory.
Only fourteen soldiers remained to guard the ruin, and their loyalty was clearly to their meager pay, not to the disgraced sixth prince. They were uniformed in mismatched, threadbare Imperial colors, and they watched Kaelen with heavy-lidded contempt.
Kaelen ignored them and surveyed the perimeter. The front courtyard was paved with ice and cracked stone. He cataloged the structural damage with the tactical precision of a man who had once commanded a continent-spanning legion. The northern wall had a massive collapse, and the gatehouse defenses were non-existent.
A man stepped forward, the only one wearing a clean, if faded, uniform.
He had a grizzled beard, cold blue eyes, and the tired slump of a veteran officer who had lost too many battles he hadn't chosen to fight in the first place.
"You're the prince, then," the man said, his voice grating like gravel. He didn't bow.
"I am Alaric," Kaelen confirmed, offering the man a short, dismissive glance. He was already adopting the air of someone profoundly annoyed by minor inconveniences. "And you are?"
"Captain Varrick. I command this post. Such as it is." Varrick gestured vaguely at the ruin with a jerk of his chin. "We got a shipment of dried rations and a memo two weeks ago. Says you're here to 'observe the northern border defenses' and act as the Imperial presence."
A thin disguise for 'bait,' Kaelen thought.
"Your mission remains the same, Captain," Kaelen said, his voice taking on a new, sharp edge that was entirely the Arch-Mage's. "Mine has changed. You will refer to me as 'Prince Alaric' in all communications, but you will otherwise treat me as a nuisance you are required to tolerate. Understood?"
Varrick's eyebrows rose slightly, the first sign of life Kaelen had seen from him. "Understood. We're used to nuisances, Your Highness. What do you require?"
Kaelen stepped forward, his slight frame seeming to fill the space by sheer force of presence. He pointed toward the massive, shattered tower on the highest point of the keep.
"First, I require complete isolation. That tower is structurally sound enough to survive the winter. I want that chamber at the very top, regardless of the climb. It is the most isolated spot, and I value privacy above all else."
"That tower is freezing, Your Highness, and prone to collapses in a high wind," Varrick warned, testing him.
"Then I suggest you focus on repairing the roof, not arguing with your superior," Kaelen countered, using the political pressure inherent in his title. "Second, I want the full inventory list of supplies and a breakdown of the garrison payroll. Third, I want an accurate, updated map detailing the perimeter patrol routes and the last recorded sightings of any high-tier monsters."
Varrick stared, momentarily baffled. The original Prince Alaric would have probably demanded soft blankets, wine, and a swift horse to run away.
This prince was demanding logistics.
"We don't have high-tier patrols, Prince. We avoid anything above a Feral Ghoul," Varrick stated plainly.
"Then you will log every Feral Ghoul and the routes they prefer," Kaelen corrected smoothly. "Now, take two men and secure my room. I do not wish to be disturbed for the rest of the day, regardless of what noises you may hear coming from my chamber."
Kaelen had learned long ago that true authority was established not through bluster, but through an immediate demonstration of control over the environment and the resources. By forcing Varrick to deliver mundane paperwork and a detailed operational map, Kaelen stripped the Captain of any remaining illusions of autonomy and gained essential intelligence.
He navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the ruin until he reached the chosen tower. It was a brutal climb, exhausting the thin muscles of Alaric's body. The staircase was worn down and icy, lit only by thin shafts of gray light that sliced through cracks in the stone.
When he reached the top chamber, Kaelen surveyed the room. It was bare, frozen, and coated in a decade of fine stone dust. It was perfect. The thick walls would contain any sound, and the height offered natural protection from the common, sluggish monsters that wandered the forest floor.
He found a few splintered planks and wedged them into the shattered window frames, slowing the wind but not stopping it entirely. The perpetual cold of Stonehaven, he realized, was going to be a cruel ally in his cultivation—a constant, painful irritant that would prevent complacency.
As the northern twilight began to settle, casting the jagged peaks in a bruised violet hue, Kaelen stripped down to his thin undershirt. He sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, placing the silver signet ring—Alaric's only possession—on the ground before him. It was a tangible focal point for his Arch-Mage spirit.
He closed his dull brown eyes and began the arduous internal process.
My power is gone. My identity is compromised. My will remains absolute.
He focused on the Draconic Heart beneath his sternum. It was not a physical organ, but a dense knot of primal energy, latent in the Imperial bloodline, waiting to be unleashed.
The Coiling Serpent technique was simple in theory: use sheer mental force to push a thread of this primal energy along the spinal column, forcing it to burn away the magical calcification that sealed the channels.
Kaelen initiated the process.
He drove his will into the energy core like a spike.
The resulting pain was immediate, sharp, and exponentially worse than the attempts in the carriage. It was not mere burning; it was the sensation of his bones turning brittle and his nerves fraying like old rope. A wave of nausea hit him, threatening to drag him down into unconsciousness.
Breathe. Focus on the core of the pain. Do not let the mind wander.
The former Arch-Mage had suffered through tortures that would drive most men mad, but this pain was unique because it was self-inflicted and constant, aimed at the fragile foundation of his new life. Alaric's body screamed in protest, unused to such violence. His muscles tightened into knots, and he could feel a thin stream of blood trickle from his nose onto the stone floor.
He pushed harder, demanding a response from the Draconic Heart. He knew that if he stopped now, the partially mobilized energy would dissipate, and the agonizing process would have to begin again tomorrow.
Elam. The Empress. The Dreadlord. The coming war.
He anchored himself to the future disaster, to the betrayal that had cost him his life. He pushed past the screaming threshold of the body's tolerance, using the sheer weight of his vengeance as the final, desperate catalyst.
There was a soundless internal rupture, a blinding flash of psychic white-hot heat inside his chest.
Kaelen gasped, his back arching off the ground. He felt the primal energy surge, not along the path he intended, but exploding outward. It was uncontrolled, raw, and dangerous.
Control it! Contain it!
He funneled the runaway heat toward the closest, most obstructed magical channel—a tiny artery in his right arm. The energy hit the blockage like a hammer against ice.
Crack.
The sound was not auditory, but Kaelen experienced it fully. A single, infinitesimally small break occurred in the calcification. The primal energy, sensing a path, flowed through the breach, a tiny stream of molten fire carving out a new path.
The pain vanished instantly, replaced by a sudden, exhilarating surge of warmth. The oppressive cold of the room was momentarily banished.
Kaelen opened his eyes. They were wide, unfocused, and no longer dull brown. For a fleeting second, they burned with a terrifying, ethereal blue light, reflecting the raw, undiluted mana he had just managed to touch. It was the blue of lightning, the color of a dragon's breath.
Then, just as quickly, the magical light faded, leaving his eyes a deeper, sharper shade of brown than before, but dull nonetheless. He was exhausted, shaking, and weak, but he was victorious.
He had completed the first major breakthrough. He was now, officially, equivalent to a Rank 1 Practitioner in the Imperial System.
The breakthrough was barely perceptible as a single, thin magical thread in his right arm, but it was everything. It proved the theory worked. It proved Alaric's body was capable of wielding true power. It meant that in the long, cold years ahead, he would not be an exile, but a hidden weapon.
Kaelen slumped back against the stone wall, sweat freezing on his skin. He had barely ten minutes of useful energy left before his body shut down completely. He used it not for rest, but for observation. He carefully examined the tiny, newly-formed channel, tracing its strength, its capacity, and the lingering threat of the seal surrounding it.
He understood that this rebirth would not be a swift return to glory; it would be a meticulous, agonizing ascension, layer by layer, channel by channel. But he had started.
"Hah. Haha. Hahahaha—"
A faint scratching sound reached his ears, a sound that should not exist in this dead fortress. Kaelen stiffened, his professional instincts overriding his exhaustion. It was the sound of claws on stone, high up on the exterior wall. Not the lumbering steps of a Feral Ghoul, but the calculated, rhythmic climb of something smarter.
He slowly moved to the shattered window, peering out into the violet darkness. Perched on a broken cornice, illuminated briefly by the pale light of the northern moon, was a massive, hawk-like monster with gleaming obsidian feathers and eyes the color of sulfur.
It was a Harpy-Fiend, a Tier 4 monster, a vicious predator that preferred isolated, high places. It was the kind of monster that Captain Varrick had claimed they never encountered.
The Harpy-Fiend slowly turned its head, its sulphurous eyes locking onto Kaelen's. It was drawn not by scent, but by the brief, brilliant flicker of raw magical power Kaelen had just unleashed.
The creature's razor-sharp talons scraped against the stone again as it adjusted its grip, preparing its final, fatal leap toward the shattered window.
They expect me to freeze or be eaten. They don't want the body back, Kaelen recalled, his initial assessment of the Empress's intent.
The Arch-Mage looked at the approaching death with cold clarity. He was completely out of power, exhausted, and trapped in a defenseless body. He had only two options: retreat or use the environment. Retreat was impossible.
He glanced at the brittle, wooden planks he had wedged into the window, a mockery of a defense. He looked at the few loose stones scattered on the floor. His lips curled into a faint, strategic smile.
The fortress was a ruin, the body was maimed, and he was cornered, but Kaelen, the Arch-Mage, was a master of improvisation. He did not need magic to kill.
"Welcome to Stonehaven," he whispered to the wind, his voice dry and resolute. "You are my first visitor."