Chapter 11: The Weight of Victory

Alaric awoke to the soft rustle of parchment and the scent of incense drifting through the air. His body felt like it had been put through a grinder, every muscle aching from the battle that had nearly ended him. He lay in a simple bed, wrapped in thick blankets, with sunlight filtering through the stained-glass window, casting colorful patterns across the stone walls.

The Zeton rested on a table beside him, a relic that looked deceptively mundane yet held the power to bend time. Alaric reached for it, his fingers brushing the cold metal, and a shiver ran through him. The memories of the battle flooded back: the overwhelming surge of power, the fear of losing control, and the sight of the raider leader being swallowed by the vortex he had created.

What have I gotten myself into? he wondered.

A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. Sister Elyndra stepped inside, her glaive nowhere in sight and her armor replaced by a simple silver robe. Her face bore fresh bruises, and a bandage wrapped around her head, but her eyes were steady and clear.

“You’re awake,” she said, a hint of relief softening her usual stern expression. “How do you feel?”

Alaric tried to sit up, wincing at the pain that flared in his ribs. “Like I’ve been trampled by a herd of wild horses,” he replied, forcing a weak smile. “But alive. So that’s something.”

Elyndra crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “You did more than survive,” she said. “You saved us. The monks and I owe you a great debt.”

Alaric’s smile faltered. “I’m not sure if ‘saving’ is the right word,” he said, glancing at the Zeton. “I still don’t fully understand this thing. I’m just lucky it didn’t rip me apart along with our enemies.”

Elyndra’s eyes darkened as she followed his gaze to the relic. “The Zeton is powerful, and power like that comes at a price. Brother Thalos has been consulting our oldest texts, searching for more information about it.”

Alaric’s heart sank. “And what has he found?”

Elyndra pushed away from the doorframe, her expression troubled. “Very little,” she admitted. “The texts speak of relics created by an ancient order known as the Weavers—artifacts that can shape time and reality. But the Weavers vanished long ago, and their secrets went with them. Even the Silver Flame has only fragments of their knowledge.”

Alaric rubbed his temples, the weight of responsibility pressing down on him. “So, I’m wielding something that could tear the world apart, and no one knows how to control it,” he said, his voice tight with frustration. “Great.”

Elyndra stepped closer, her expression softening. “We’ll figure it out,” she said. “You don’t have to face this alone.”

Alaric looked up, surprised by the warmth in her voice. Elyndra had always seemed unbreakable, a warrior who showed no weakness. But now, in the quiet of this room, he saw the human side of her—the side that had fought not just for the sanctum, but for the people she cared about.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded, and a moment of silence passed between them, heavy with unspoken understanding. Then, the door creaked open again, and Brother Thalos entered, his silver robes rustling. His eyes were weary, but his posture remained strong.

“Alaric,” Thalos greeted, his voice solemn. “I’m glad to see you awake. We have much to discuss.”

Alaric braced himself. “What now?”

Thalos pulled up a chair and sat down, folding his hands in his lap. “The monastery is safe, for now,” he began. “But the battle has left us vulnerable. The raider leader you defeated—whoever he was—had allies, and I fear they won’t rest until they recover what they came for.”

Alaric’s jaw clenched. “You mean the Zeton.”

Thalos nodded. “Yes. Its power is a beacon, drawing those who seek to control it. We cannot hide it forever, nor can we risk it falling into the wrong hands.”

Elyndra crossed her arms. “What are you suggesting?” she asked, her voice guarded.

Thalos met Alaric’s eyes. “I’m suggesting that Alaric leave the monastery. He must take the Zeton and continue his journey, away from this place. The farther he is from us, the safer the Silver Flame will be.”

Alaric’s stomach twisted. He had known this moment was coming, but hearing it out loud made the reality of his situation sink in. “You want me to leave,” he said, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. “To go where?”

Thalos’s gaze was compassionate but firm. “To the east,” he said. “Beyond the mountains lies the city of Tarvos. It is a place of scholars and mystics, and if there is any hope of understanding the Zeton, you may find it there.”

Alaric swallowed hard. The thought of venturing into the unknown, carrying a relic that could alter time itself, was daunting. But he knew Thalos was right. Staying here would only endanger the monastery and everyone in it.

Elyndra’s expression tightened. “You can’t send him out there alone,” she argued. “He’s not ready.”

Alaric’s heart lifted at her concern, but he shook his head. “I’ll manage,” he said. “I’ve gotten this far, haven’t I?”

Thalos stood, his robes swaying. “You won’t be alone,” he said. “One of our acolytes, Brother Jorin, will accompany you. He knows the lands to the east and will serve as your guide.”

Alaric’s eyebrows shot up. “A guide?” he echoed. “Does this Jorin know what he’s getting into?”

Thalos smiled faintly. “Brother Jorin is eager to serve, and he understands the risks. He will meet you at the eastern gate at dawn.”

Elyndra’s shoulders sagged, but she didn’t argue further. She stepped forward, placing a hand on Alaric’s arm. “Be careful,” she said, her voice low. “And if you ever need help, the Silver Flame will be here.”

Alaric felt a lump in his throat. He had spent so much of his life running from one job to the next, never staying in one place long enough to form bonds. But here, in this ancient monastery, he had found something that felt almost like... belonging.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “For everything.”

Thalos placed a gentle hand on Alaric’s shoulder. “May the Silver Flame guide you,” he said, his voice filled with quiet strength.

The sun had barely risen when Alaric stood at the eastern gate, his satchel packed and the Zeton tucked safely in his pocket. The sky was streaked with pink and gold, and the mountain air was crisp and cold. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves.

Brother Jorin appeared, a young man with bright eyes and an easy smile. He wore simple traveling clothes, a walking staff in one hand and a small pack slung over his shoulder. “Alaric,” he said, his voice cheerful despite the early hour. “Ready for an adventure?”

Alaric couldn’t help but smile. Jorin’s enthusiasm was infectious, and he felt a flicker of hope. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” he said.

Elyndra and Thalos stood nearby, watching with solemn expressions. Elyndra stepped forward, pressing a small, leather-bound book into Alaric’s hands. “This is a record of our knowledge,” she said. “It may help you understand the Zeton—or at least give you something to read on the road.”

Alaric clutched the book, feeling the weight of their trust. “Thank you,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

With one final nod to his friends, Alaric turned and stepped through the gate, Jorin at his side. The path ahead was steep and winding, but he forced himself to take it one step at a time. The city of Tarvos awaited, and with it, the hope of answers and maybe even a way to control the power that had chosen him.