The prison cell was damp and cold, the stones slick with northern frost. Mirelle sat slumped against the far wall, her injuries freshly bandaged, but the pain evident in the lines etched on her face. Seraphine stood at Caelan's side, her presence filling the cramped space with an eerie calm. Her black hair hung like a curtain over one shoulder, hand resting on the hilt of her blade, gaze unwavering.
Caelan studied Mirelle in silence for a long time, arms folded. The only sounds were the distant whistle of wind through the broken eaves of the prison and the occasional groan of tortured timber settling under snow.
"Speak," Caelan said at last, his voice as cold as the stone beneath their feet. "Who gave the order?"
Mirelle met his eyes. Despite the bruises and weariness, her hatred hadn't dulled.
She spat blood to the side. "You wouldn't believe me."
"Try me."
She laughed—a short, broken sound. "It was her. Your beloved, wasn't it? Seline Leonhart."
The name hit him like a phantom blade.
Caelan froze, lips parting slightly. Something inside him shuddered—not his current self, but the memories that had fused with the body he now wore. The boy whose name had once been a footnote in noble circles. The weak son. The failure.
He saw her again—Seline, the golden-haired daughter of House Leonhart. Regal, poised, and distant. Her eyes like carved glass, always gazing beyond him as if he were a shadow. He had loved her, or rather, the boy had. Desperately. Naively. With the devotion of a moth chasing a sunbeam that would never return the warmth.
He remembered her soft laughter echoing in the palace courtyard. The fleeting warmth of her hand in his. Despite his lack of a mana core or sword aura for many years, she had stayed engaged to him—until one day, without warning, she broke it off. The decree came cold and final just before his banishment: the engagement was nullified. No explanation followed. No parting words. Just silence.
Now, the chill inside him deepened.
"Seline," he repeated, voice low and dangerous. "Did she simply send a letter to Braedon? Or was he her blade from the beginning—sent directly by her hand?"
Mirelle smirked, though her face twisted in pain. "A letter bearing her crest. Gold wax. I saw it with my own eyes. She wants you gone. Wants this place... erased."
Caelan turned away, his jaw clenched. Seraphine shifted behind him but said nothing. The silence hung thick with implications.
A betrayal older than the snows of Gravenreach.
He thought of the ruined manor, the lost knowledge, the villagers who had turned on him so easily.
Fools, every one of them.
Caelan stepped toward the cell door, the torchlight catching the edge of his eyes.
"Lock her in. Keep her alive. She may be useful yet."
Seraphine obeyed without question, sealing the heavy iron door behind them.
As they emerged into the frozen twilight outside, Caelan breathed deep, letting the sharp wind ground him. Each breath was laced with ash and cold, but it calmed the storm within.
He could not afford sentiment. Not now.
The villagers had followed Mirelle, yes—but that did not mean their crimes could be forgiven.
He would rebuild, yes. But not with the same hands that tore it down.
He rose slowly, mind working through the next steps.
The loyal would be rewarded. The traitors marked. Public trials would be held. Those who raised arms would labor in chains, rebuilding the manor they burned. The rest would rebuild the village under his rule—or leave.
Seraphine stood outside, watching the snow fall, a sentinel to his wrath.
"Seraphine," he said, stepping beside her. "We will begin sorting the villagers. I want names. Every man and woman who lifted a hand against this hold. Every child of theirs recorded. This is Gravenreach, and they will learn what loyalty means."
"And the innocent?" she asked quietly.
He met her gaze. "We protect them. But not blindly."
She nodded once. "And Seline Leonhart?"
Caelan looked eastward, beyond the frozen trees, past the borders of the North.
"She will answer for what she's done."
The snow began to fall harder, thickening the air with white silence. Yet Caelan's path had never been clearer.
Back at the ruins of the manor, Caelan descended once more into the charred remains of what had once been his study. The sacks of magic stones still lay where he had left them, hidden beneath scorched beams. He knelt, brushing soot from one of the sacks and placing his hand atop it.
"They burned my home, betrayed my name, and now want me dead," he murmured, his voice heavy with quiet fury. "But I will rebuild it all—stronger, and on their ashes."
First Gravenreach. Then Braedon. Then the serpent in the golden palace who had once held his heart.
Let the world remember:
He was not the boy who had been cast aside.
He was the man who would rule.
Three days passed in cold silence and harsh judgment. During that time, Seraphine worked tirelessly through the ashes of Velmire village and the twisted loyalties hidden among its people. Through intimidation, clever interrogation, and fear of her sword, she uncovered a grim truth—at least one member of each of the twenty households in the village had taken part in the coup. Whether by offering food, hiding supplies, sending messages, or directly participating in the looting of the manor, none had clean hands.
On the third day, a captured soldier of Baron Braedon was brought before Caelan. His face was pale, bloodied, and hollowed with fear.
"Speak," Caelan commanded.
The soldier trembled. "We were told... you were a usurper. That the hold needed to be purged."
"By whom?"
"The Baron. Said the order came from the capital—didn't know exactly who gave it."
Caelan exchanged a glance with Seraphine. The threads were tightening.
He leaned in, voice like steel. "Then tell your comrades in the afterlife: the North remembers."
He turned and walked away as the soldier was dragged back to his cell.