The journey to Emberhold was a stark change from the frantic, closed-in feeling of Oakhaven under siege. The air, initially heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth, grew thinner and sharper as they climbed into the mountains. Lysander, riding a sturdy but plain horse, felt the cold bite at his skin, a constant reminder of how alien this world truly was. His escort included Gareth, his silent, powerful shadow; Elara, whose sharp, watchful eyes missed nothing; and Joric, still Lysander's most loyal, if bewildered, follower.
Lysander's body, though not naturally strong, had grown more resilient, a quiet benefit of the Earth's Whisper. He found he could handle the long hours in the saddle, the biting cold, and the simple meals with less complaint than before. His senses, too, were sharper. He could pick up the distant calls of mountain beasts, the subtle shifts in wind patterns, and the faint smell of hidden streams. He was becoming attuned to this world, less like a visitor and more like a true part of its rugged landscape.
His nights, stolen moments of privacy in the biting cold, were for a pressing, and frustrating, task: active magic. He would draw a small, flickering flame with his Resonance Crystal, its warmth a meager comfort against the mountain chill. He had moved beyond just sparks; now, a small, unstable flame, no larger than his thumb, would stubbornly stay lit for a few precious seconds. It was small, even pathetic, compared to the effortless magic of mages in The Crimson Blade, but it was real progress, a painstaking effort to forge power that wasn't naturally his.
He also practiced using the Veil Weaver's knowledge, the understanding of illusion magic that had burned into his mind. He couldn't create grand illusions yet. But by focusing with the Resonance Crystal, he found he could, with huge effort, make a small, unimportant object—a pebble, a fallen leaf—shimmer faintly, its edges blurring for a brief moment, making it slightly harder to see. It was a tiny, almost invisible change, but it was the blueprint for true illusion, and he was determined to master it. This was the disciplined work of Lysander, forging his new abilities, step by meticulous step.
As they rode higher, the land became more dangerous. Jagged peaks cut through the clouds, and the winding mountain paths were often choked with snow. Lysander, however, guided them with an unsettling confidence, leading them along routes that seemed less obvious but proved safer. His meta-knowledge of the "Northern Road" from the novel, including minor landslides, hidden Beastmen patrols, and even a specific, easily missed shortcut, proved priceless. He wasn't just following High Commander Valerius's orders; he was making the journey faster and safer, proving his value with every smart detour.
One evening, as they huddled around a small campfire in a sheltered mountain nook, Elara spoke, her voice cutting through the crackle of burning wood. Her sharp, watchful eyes, dark in the firelight, were fixed on him. "You know these mountains, Private Thorne. Better than any guide I've seen. And your… predictions. They're more than just good scouting. How?" She wasn't asking out of idle curiosity; she was trying to piece together a puzzle.
Lysander met her gaze steadily, allowing a hint of weary mystery to touch his face. "These mountains have a long history, Elara. My 'research' looks into old routes, forgotten fights, and the habits of the creatures that live here. Most people overlook such details, but sometimes, the past offers the clearest path through the present." He kept his answers vague, believable, strengthening his image as an unusual scholar. He was careful not to reveal the true depth of his knowledge, the layer of his existence from another world. He was Lysander the plotter, slowly gathering power and influence, but never showing his full hand.
Elara continued to watch him, her doubt not entirely gone, but now mixed with a deep, almost uncomfortable respect. "Right. 'Research.' You're an odd one, Thorne. But effective. I'll give you that."
The journey continued, marked by close calls with mountain predators and the harsh, unforgiving weather. Lysander pushed himself, constantly practicing, always observing. He learned to trust Gareth's unwavering loyalty, Joric's quick obedience, and even Elara's grudging skill. This small, unusual unit was becoming his first, crucial asset, unknowingly helping his grander plans.
After nearly two weeks of hard travel, a breathtaking sight appeared before them. Nested deep within a vast, snow-dusted valley, protected by towering, magically strong walls, lay Emberhold. Its spires, built from dark, volcanic rock, pierced the sky, decorated with glowing runes that pulsed with a vibrant, inner light. The air here vibrated with raw, untamed magic, far stronger than anything Lysander had felt in Oakhaven. This was a city built on the very veins of the world's power.
Lysander's heart pounded. He could feel the sheer amount of magic energy here, the hum of it thrumming through the ground beneath his feet, made stronger by his Earth's Whisper. The Resonance Crystal against his skin grew warm, almost eager. This was where Kaelen had briefly found a deeper part of his Battle Aura in the novel. This was where ancient elemental magic flowed like rivers.
As they approached the main gate, guarded by armored sentinels whose very presence hummed with hidden power, Lysander straightened in his saddle. His clothes were worn from travel, his face dirty, but his eyes held a cold, unwavering resolve. He was here, not as a helpless extra, but as Lysander, the Ash-Forged Sovereign in the making, ready to plunge into the heart of a new power, to uncover its secrets, and to bend it to his will. The next phase of his transformation was about to begin. He could almost feel the fire in the very air, waiting to be claimed.