Chapter Three — Echoes That Follow
Lucius dreamed of fire.
Not the violent kind that consumed forests or devoured flesh, but a distant, controlled heat—like embers buried beneath stone, waiting. He stood on a vast obsidian plain beneath a sky split by chains of light. Somewhere far below, something enormous breathed.
Stand straight.
The thought was not a command. It was an expectation.
Lucius woke with a sharp gasp.
His chest rose and fell too quickly, sweat clinging to his skin despite the cold morning air seeping through the shutters. For a moment, he couldn't tell if the weight pressing against his ribs was fear or something else.
He sat up slowly.
The room was unchanged. Rough wooden walls. A narrow window. Jak's bed opposite his, empty now, blankets folded with surprising care for a man his size.
Lucius rubbed his face and exhaled.
Just a dream.
But the presence inside him did not retreat.
It lay coiled behind his thoughts, vast and patient, like a crown waiting to be worn.
---
The Mercenary Guild outpost was louder in the mornings.
Steel clanged in the yard as fighters trained. Orders were shouted. Someone laughed too loudly over breakfast ale. The smell of bread and grease filled the hall, grounding Lucius more than he expected.
He found Lucy at a corner table, parchment spread before her, fingers stained with ink. Symbols were sketched across the page—some familiar, others unsettlingly wrong.
"You're dissecting magic residue now?" Lucius asked.
Lucy didn't look up. "Trying to."
"That sounds encouraging."
She finally met his eyes. "It's not."
Lucius sat. "Bad?"
"Unprecedented," she corrected. "The residue from the rift isn't dispersing naturally. It's… clinging. Like it recognizes something."
Lucius stiffened. "Me."
"Yes."
He looked away.
Lucy softened her tone. "I'm not accusing you. I'm trying to understand what the Abyss sees when it looks at you."
"I don't want it looking," he said flatly.
Lucy gave a humorless smile. "Neither do I."
Jak joined them shortly after, his arm strapped securely to his chest. He looked irritated rather than injured, which Lucy assured Lucius was a good sign.
"If I miss training for another week, I'm breaking something," Jak muttered, sitting heavily.
"Preferably not your other arm," Mike said, sliding into the seat beside him with a bowl of stew. "I'd hate to carry your axe and your pride."
Jak snorted. "You couldn't lift either."
Alicia arrived last.
She wore a traveler's cloak now, hood drawn low, but her posture was wrong for someone pretending to be ordinary. Too composed. Too aware.
"We need to leave," she said without preamble.
Mike blinked. "Good morning to you too."
"The guild master just received a sealed message," Alicia continued. "Dragonian crest."
Lucius felt the air tighten.
"What does Dragonia want with a mercenary outpost?" Jak asked.
Alicia's gaze flicked briefly to Lucius before returning to the table. "Information."
Lucy's jaw set. "About the rift."
"And the survivor," Alicia added quietly.
Silence followed.
Lucius exhaled slowly. "Then I'm the problem."
"No," Alicia said firmly. "You're the excuse."
---
They left before noon.
Officially, they were taking a low-risk escort contract—caravans moving toward the border towns. Unofficially, they were disappearing.
The road stretched long and dusty, flanked by rolling hills and scattered ruins—remnants of a time when borders meant less than banners.
Mike walked ahead, humming softly, testing melodies under his breath. Jak kept to Lucius's left, scanning the terrain with practiced ease. Lucy walked slightly behind, senses extended, alert for distortions.
Alicia rode ahead on a borrowed horse.
Lucius watched her when she thought no one noticed.
She handled the reins too well. Sat too easily in the saddle. Her sword—when visible—was well-maintained, not decorative.
"You're not just a noble," Lucius said quietly, matching her pace.
Alicia didn't look at him. "Neither are you."
Fair enough.
---
They reached the ruins by dusk.
Stone arches jutted from the earth like broken ribs, moss-covered and half-swallowed by time. Faded elven script marked the walls—Lucia-era craftsmanship, elegant even in decay.
Lucy's breath caught.
"This place," she whispered. "I've read about it."
"Of course you have," Mike muttered.
"It's a Lucian waypoint," Lucy said. "Used to stabilize long-distance mana travel. If it's still active—"
"It won't be," Jak said. "Nothing that old survives untouched."
Lucy frowned. "You'd be surprised."
They entered cautiously.
Inside, the air was cool and unnaturally still. Faint blue light traced along carved runes, flickering weakly as if responding to Lucy's presence.
Lucius felt it again.
That pressure.
Something remembered him.
A sound echoed from deeper within.
Footsteps.
"Not monsters," Jak murmured. "Too measured."
They weren't alone.
Figures emerged from the shadows—humans, armored lightly, movements disciplined. At their center stood a man wearing dark silver insignia: a noble retainer's crest.
"By order of the Dragonian Crown," the man said smoothly, "you are to identify yourselves and submit to inspection."
Alicia's hand tightened on her reins.
Lucius stepped forward before she could stop him.
"We're mercenaries," he said evenly. "Registered. Passing through."
The man's gaze lingered on him, sharp and assessing. "You don't look like most mercenaries."
Lucius met his stare. "Neither do you."
The man smiled thinly. "Hand him over," he said casually. "And you'll be compensated."
Jak's axe slid an inch from its loop.
Lucy's mana flared.
Alicia dismounted.
"No," she said.
The word carried weight.
The man frowned. "And who are you to refuse—"
The ruins reacted.
Runes ignited.
The ground trembled.
Lucius felt fire surge in his veins—not wild, not explosive, but focused.
Equivalent exchange demanded payment.
He stepped forward anyway.
"I'm done running," Lucius said.
The retainer's smile vanished.
"Kill them," he ordered.
The first blade never reached Lucius.
The ruin answered him instead.
Ancient magic surged upward, throwing men off their feet. Stone pillars cracked. Blue light flooded the chamber.
Lucius raised his sword—not blazing, not roaring—but steady.
Controlled.
The presence inside him did not resist.
It approved.
And far away, in Dragonia's capital, the First Prince felt something shift—and realized the boy was no longer merely surviving.
He was choosing.