Kaelen heard the commotion long before the men reached the top of the tower.
It was the sound of confused shouting and the heavy crunch of boots on the icy courtyard below, swiftly followed by the measured, authoritative climb of Captain Varrick and two soldiers. The monster's impact had been impossible to ignore.
He used the last dregs of his adrenaline to push himself into a sitting position against the wall, pulling his thin shirt over his torso. He leaned his head back, allowing the exhaustion to look like cold indifference, rather than near-death collapse. The faint, metallic smell of his own blood was masked by the sulfur left behind by the Harpy-Fiend's passing.
Varrick appeared in the doorway, his cold blue eyes immediately sweeping over the scene: the shattered window, the scattered wood, the fresh gashes in the stone floor, and the thin stream of blood—Alaric's own, not the monster's—drying on the floor.
The Captain was a professional, and his bafflement was palpable.
"Your Highness," Varrick said, his voice flat, devoid of disrespect but heavy with disbelief. "We heard the crash. A Harpy-Fiend, Tier 4, is lying dead in the courtyard. My men confirm it came from this tower."
Kaelen opened his eyes slowly, looking past Varrick toward the men gathered on the landing. "A Tier 4, you say? The very monster you claimed never came this far?"
Varrick ignored the rebuke. "How did you kill it, Prince? You have no visible mana core, no weapon, and it broke the window."
"I killed it with observation, Captain," Kaelen replied, his voice dangerously level. "I noted its weight, its wing span, and the structural weakness of the glass and wood I used to seal the opening. It was clumsy, and this tower is a perfect choke point. The creature died on the granite you failed to repair."
He paused, letting the silence stretch. He needed to turn this terrifying vulnerability into an immediate strategic advantage. Varrick needed a lie that justified Kaelen's presence and, more importantly, his isolation.
"This confirms my earlier assessment, Captain. This post is inadequate, and I am in constant, mortal danger. Your men are too slow to react, and your defenses are too weak to hold. The Empress's intentions are now clear: she wishes me to die here, whether it be by claw or exposure."
Varrick shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the floor. "With respect, Your Highness, we have to log this kill and secure the perimeter. We need to check you for injuries."
"You will do no such thing," Kaelen commanded, the Arch-Mage's authority snapping into place. "You will go down and ensure that monster's corpse is disposed of immediately, before its blood attracts others. And more importantly, you will inform your men of the severity of the threat we now face."
Kaelen leaned forward, the change in his voice demanding attention. "From this moment forward, I am not to be disturbed for any reason short of the north wall collapsing. Not for dinner, not for reports, and certainly not for inspection. What just happened proves that any interruption could cost me my life and, by extension, the Imperial lineage."
He locked eyes with Varrick, feeding the Captain a half-truth rooted in ancient history. "I am cultivating a private defense mechanism against the unique magical corruption in this region. This fortress sits upon an ancient ley line tainted by the very curse the Imperial line has long ignored. My method is a fragile process. If you interfere, or if you allow anyone else to interfere, you will be directly responsible for the collapse of the Northern Border." The sheer weight of the implied danger was enough.
Varrick, a soldier who understood responsibility and risk, saw the cold, rational command in the prince's eyes. This was not the fear of a noble; it was the discipline of a veteran. The mention of corruption explained the impossible kill far better than simple luck.
"Understood, Your Highness," Varrick finally said, giving a stiff, professional bow. "The tower will be sealed. I will personally supervise the disposal."
The Captain backed out, leaving Kaelen alone once more. The air immediately grew colder.
Kaelen slid back down the stone wall, his strength completely gone. The political and physical exertion had been immense. He had managed to salvage the situation, turning an assassination attempt into an enforced period of isolation for his vital training.
For the next days, the routine was brutal.
The agonizing process of pushing the Draconic Heart's primal energy through the calcified channels had to be repeated dozens of times a day. Each attempt brought the searing, bone-deep pain that had marked his initial breakthrough. It was a self-immolation without fire, a precise, methodical violence against Alaric's own physiology. The pain was exponential: forcing the primal energy through the sealed arteries felt like molten iron being injected into his skeletal structure.
He spent his nights in a state of controlled agony, carving out new, microscopic pathways for the Draconic Blood Magic. Unlike the gentle, regenerative flow of standard Imperial magic, the Draconic power was raw, destructive, and untamed. It literally consumed the blockage by force.
He could not eat or sleep for more than four hours at a time. The pain prevented deep rest, and the unstable nature of the unsealed channels prevented him from concentrating on anything else. His body, Alaric's frail, Imperial body, began to revolt. He suffered constant fevers and chills, his weight dropped drastically, and his muscles were perpetually locked in spasms. He endured it all by anchoring his mind to the things that mattered: Vengeance, Survival, and Power.
By the end of the first week, he had managed to open a second channel, a tiny thread running down his left shoulder. He was now a Rank 2 Practitioner by the Imperial System. This jump, achieved in just seven days, would be an impossible feat for a standard mage, who might take months to advance beyond Rank 1. The power was still useless for large-scale external casting, but internally, it granted him a new, subtle resilience. The second channel allowed for faster localized healing and provided a thin, internal shield against the pervasive northern cold. He could now stabilize the tremors in his hands long enough to appear lucid.
He knew that the arrival of his betrothed, Lady Seraphina was imminent. The messenger had already been dispatched. He had to be strong enough, or at least lucid enough, to execute the cold, political negotiation he needed. He lived in a perpetual cycle: pain, faint progress, collapse, and immediate return to the carving process. Every drop of sweat, every moment of nausea, was a calculated investment in his future war.
He was not rebuilding a comfortable life. He was rebuilding a weapon. The vessel of Prince Alaric was being consumed and reforged by the fire of the Dragon's Blood, brick by agonizing brick.