The grueling two-week period of cultivation was at an end.
Kaelen sat cross-legged in the frozen tower chamber, no longer trembling, but simply sustained by sheer force of will and the tiny, flickering warmth of his Draconic Blood Magic. He had managed to stabilize three complete pathways—the minimal requirement for a Rank 3 Practitioner—but the effort had taken a devastating toll.
Alaric's body was a wreck. His face was gaunt, his skin stretched tight over the sharp angles of his bones, and his eyes were sunken, shadowed by perpetual exhaustion. He looked precisely like what the Empress had hoped for: a sick, fragile Prince who had survived a monster attack only to be consumed by northern consumption. It was a perfect guise, bought with the currency of agonizing pain.
He was no longer dependent on the garrison for immediate survival, but for information. He summoned Captain Varrick.
Varrick entered, his respect now a careful mix of professional compliance and deep wariness. He knew his Prince was dangerously clever, but the source of that genius remained a mystery.
"Report, Captain. Be concise. I have little energy for military formalities," Kaelen commanded, forcing a strained, high-caste tone into his voice.
"Your Highness," Varrick stated, his reports now crisp and efficient. "The logistical supply chains you requested are established. Sergeant Jarek, as the new Logistics Master, has reorganized the quartermaster's inventory and identified three primary avenues of smuggling that we can now exploit for external communications. Private Torvin executed his first reconnaissance run toward the Southern March and returned undetected. Your private assets are functional."
Kaelen nodded, a slight, almost imperceptible movement. "And Lady Seraphina?"
"Her carriage is due to pass the last major Imperial outpost two days from now. She will arrive at Stonehaven by the morning of the third day. She travels light, but she travels with a full retinue of thirty Imperial Swords and a specialized Mana-Sensitive Shield detail. They are highly efficient and loyal to the Empress."
Kaelen mentally cataloged the information. Seraphina was a tactical asset, not just a noble. Her detail suggested she was here to observe and report on his cultivation, or lack thereof. The Mana-Sensitive Shields were designed to register any significant magical fluctuation within a mile radius. He would need to keep the Draconic Blood Magic completely internalized and silent.
"Jarek and Torvin are invaluable. Reward them with extra rations from the captured supply cache. They will be my hands in the coming political theater," Kaelen said. "Now, I require a new objective. This one is sensitive and entirely political. It requires extreme discretion."
Varrick leaned forward slightly.
"I require information on a specific individual stationed somewhere on the Northern Frontier. Not here in Stonehaven, but within a hundred miles of the Dreadlord's territory. Her name is Lysandra."
The mention of the name caused Varrick to visibly stiffen, his hardened expression momentarily slipping into something akin to regret. "Lysandra. Yes, Your Highness. Everyone at the border knows of her. The Elven commander."
"Tell me what you know of her exile."
"Her service records state treason. But the truth whispered along the frontier is that she took the fall for Arch-Mage Kaelen; after his execution, she refused to cede control of his personal estate and assets back to the Crown, claiming his will stipulated their use for northern border defense. The Empress saw it as an act of defiance, stripped her of her rank as High Commander, and exiled her to the farthest garrison west of here, near the Icefang Peaks. She commands a handful of disgraced Elven archers. They call her the 'Winter's Hand.'"
Kaelen felt a cold, familiar pang in the core of his spirit, a professional respect. Lysandra was an Elven veteran of three hundred years, a tactical genius, and the only person he had ever fully trusted to command the flanks of his legions. She was indispensable.
And she would be the most difficult to recruit.
Jarek and Torvin were pliable because of their debt and injustice. Lysandra was driven by a stubborn, political loyalty to the Arch-Mage's memory. She would look at the living Prince Alaric and dismiss his strategic insight as a fluke, demanding proof that he was the man she had sacrificed everything for.
"Lysandra is my key to claiming the North," Kaelen explained to Varrick, his voice lowered, carrying the weight of ancient history. "The Empress intends for me to die here, whether by monster or the political blade of Lady Seraphina. Lysandra can neutralize both. But she will not trust a letter from an official Imperial messenger, and she certainly will not trust me."
He required Varrick to deliver a coded message.
"Find the location of her exile. Then, you will send Jarek, not Torvin, with a letter. Jarek is a veteran, a man she will respect, and his demotion makes him less suspicious than Torvin's youth. The message will contain only three words, written in the lowest Imperial script. Tell Jarek he must destroy the message if captured, but he must memorize its contents."
Kaelen retrieved a small, splintered piece of wood from the window frame, dipped his finger in the dark, drying blood from his nose, and wrote the words. The blood dried instantly in the cold air.
The words were not a command, nor a threat, nor a promise of wealth. They were a secret shared between the Arch-Mage and his High Commander during the deepest, most desperate hour of a campaign. It was a detail known only to them. It was a detail so specific, so emotionally binding to their shared trauma and victory, that no living soul would ever think to use it as a code. Kaelen was wagering his entire recruitment plan on three words that would prove he was not a simple replacement, but the one she had sacrificed everything for.
"Captain," Kaelen said, handing him the bloody scrap of wood. "You will give this to Jarek, instruct him on its importance, and ensure he leaves within the hour. Tell him that if this mission fails, the consequences will extend far beyond his pension, threatening the entire stability of this border region."
Varrick took the splinter, his gaze scanning the bizarre, bloody characters. He realized that this was not a matter of Imperial duty or court politics, but a private, desperate move by the Prince to secure an old, trusted ally using a secret only they could share.
"She will be the hardest person to convince, Your Highness. She has already sacrificed everything," Varrick warned, his voice barely audible.
"Then she will be the strongest," Kaelen replied, his gaze distant, already visualizing the complex, high-stakes conversation to come. "Go. Lady Seraphina is coming, and I need the Winter's Hand firmly aligned before the politics begin."
Varrick executed his orders with speed. Alone once more, Kaelen moved back to the stone wall, resting his aching head. He thought of Lysandra: the Elven archer, the tactical genius. She would demand proof, not of his power, but of his soul.
The sheer exhaustion and the psychic cost of retrieving the memory had been immense. He was left with barely enough energy to stand. But the foundation of the war machine was complete. Varrick was the chief strategist and anchor. Jarek was the logistics master. Torvin was the messenger. And Lysandra would be the sword.
All that remained was to survive Lady Seraphina's visit and wait for the response of the Winter's Hand.