The carriage rocked steadily over the frost-hardened road, wheels crunching on gravel and ice. Inside, the space was dim, lit only by a single hooded lantern swinging from the roof hook.
Sylvia sat opposite Aden, Eris curled asleep in her lap, silver-dark hair spilling over the blanket like moonlight on water. The rhythmic clop of hooves and the occasional low command from the riders outside were the only sounds for a long while.
Aden stared at his hands, folded in his lap. Callused now from years of chopping wood and fishing nets, not from sword grips and battlefield reins. He turned them over slowly, as though seeing them for the first time.
He had made up his mind the moment Sylvia spoke.
He would see Zwalter one last time. Not for the dukedom. Not for the war. Just to kneel at the old man's bedside and say the words he had buried eight years ago:
I'm sorry. For running. For faking my death. For letting you believe you had lost me.
After that… he would decide what came next. But he owed the old conqueror that much.
His thoughts drifted deeper.
If the Vasco family fell, the wolves would not stop at the borders. They would hunt every drop of Vasco blood. Sylvia and Eris would never be safe, no matter how far west they ran.
And his core, the cracked ruin that had driven him away in the first place, was no longer the death sentence it had once been. He had fixed it. Or at least tamed it.
Eight years ago, bleeding and half-mad, he had staggered across the hidden border into the Elven Kingdom. Sylvia had found him collapsed in the sacred groves, half-dead, aura leaking from the fracture in his core like blood from a mortal wound. The elves should have killed him on sight. Instead, she had hidden him, healed him, challenged him.
Together, in stolen nights and hidden glades, they had pored over the forbidden tome he had carried in secret: Blades of Deception, written in the hand of Lucius Vasco himself. The primal manual no living Vasco had fully understood in centuries.
Layer by layer they peeled away the misinterpretations that had crept in over generations, mana circulation patterns mistaken for pure aura reinforcement, meridians misaligned, intent corrupted.
In the end they found the truth buried beneath: a way to knit a shattered core back together, not by force, but by deception, by routing aura and mana in parallel flows that never touched, yet strengthened each other through the void left by the crack itself.
It had nearly killed him a dozen times. But he had crossed the wall. And in doing so, he had become something the continent had never seen.
The carriage lurched slightly, pulling him back. Ghislain rode alongside now, having handed command of the column to his lieutenant. The captain lifted the flap and leaned in, broad shoulders filling the doorway.
"Room for one more?" he asked gruffly.
Aden nodded toward the empty space beside him. Ghislain climbed in, settling with the creak of leather and mail. The flap fell shut again.
For a moment the three adults sat in silence, the only sound Eris's soft breathing.
Ghislain studied the sleeping child, then Sylvia, then Aden.
"I was confused at first," he said finally, voice low. "When we stepped inside and saw them. Thought my eyes were playing tricks. But now… it's clear. She's yours."
He shook his head slowly, a faint, wondering smile tugging at the corner of his scarred mouth.
"Never thought I'd see the day. The Aden Vasco I knew eight years ago… the one who walked through fire and left nothing standing… protective like this. Soft, almost."
Aden's gaze stayed on Eris. "That Aden is dead. Bury him deep. He earned it."
Ghislain accepted the words without argument.
"How bad is the old man?" Aden asked after a pause. "How did it get this far?"
Ghislain's expression sobered. "It's the technique. The one that's banned in every hall but ours. The root of everything we are. He kept using it long after his body began to fail. Said giving it up would be like cutting the roots from an ancient oak and expecting it to stand."
Aden nodded slowly. He knew the technique well, the forbidden foundation woven into every core Vasco sword art. Over centuries the family had built towering branches of power atop it, but the original meaning had been lost, twisted, half-forgotten. Strength bought at terrible cost.
"Without it," Ghislain continued, "we wouldn't be the house we are. With it… it eats us from the inside. Lord Zwalter refused to let go. Not while the empire still needed frightening."
Aden's voice was quiet. "And the heir now?"
Ghislain coughed once, a deliberate, pointed sound before answering.
"Ronan Vasco. Fresh out of Grieckel Academy this year. The strongest out of the bunch. The Senate confirmed him after…" He glanced at Aden. "After there was no one else."
Aden let the unspoken finish hang in the air. After you died.
Ghislain shifted, looking out through a slit in the canvas. "He'll do his duty. But the men on the walls… they still talk about the one who should have been there."
Aden didn't respond. The carriage creaked on through the night.
Hours passed in near silence after that. Ghislain eventually stepped out again to ride with his men. Sylvia slept lightly, Eris nestled against her. Aden kept watch through the slit, mind turning over old ghosts and new dangers.
Dawn bled pale across the horizon when the road began to rise. The air changed, sharper, carrying the faint metallic tang of forges and the distant scent of pine forests that marked the heart of the empire.
Ghislain appeared at the flap again.
"We're crossing the border spires," he said. "Another day and we'll reach the dukedom proper."
Aden looked out.
Ahead, towering stone pillars rose on either side of the road, old watch-spires of the Chronos Empire, carved with the imperial eagle and lit by ever-burning braziers. Beyond them, the land opened into rolling hills and fortified valleys he had once known better than his own reflection.
The carriage passed between the spires.
No horns sounded. No alarms. The Ghost Legion's banners stayed furled, their passage quiet and swift.
But Aden felt it all the same, the weight of returning.
The Vasco lands lay ahead.
And with them, the dying Archduke who had once been the closest thing he had to a father in the storm.