Chapter 62: Return to Wolfengarde

We left Thalosridge behind under a sky still bruised with the memory of last night’s storm. For one last time, I returned to the scar where Lyra’s life had ended—a wound of blackened earth and crystalized ash.


I knelt there alone, the egg cold against my palm. The remnants of Lyra’s magic pulsed weakly within, and for a moment, the world shrank: no guards, no rivals, no plans—just remembrance.


I whispered into the quiet:


“I’ll bury her death in silence... and drag them into the abyss for it.”


I didn’t look up. I didn’t need to. Behind me, the girls stood in respect, keeping their vigil beneath the lean branches. Helium crossed her arms, jaw set; Neon rocked on her heels, unusually subdued. Even Radon, so quick with a grisly joke, was silent. The royal guards, waiting up the trail with the horses, gave us all an unspoken berth.


By noon we crested the final ridge and saw the inn where we’d entered this mess days before. The guards—Loren, Gavric, Taryn, and Elias—were already waiting, their relief painfully obvious as they spotted me in the lead.


Loren, ever the first to voice what others thought, hurried over with a half-grin. “You had us worried, my lord. Thought we’d end up forming a search party before lunch.”


I shot him a tired smile. “I made it back in one piece. Mostly.”


Loren chuckled, sizing up the company trailing behind me—a distinguished formation that was anything but subtle. Gavric just nodded once, arms folded, his steady glare taking the measure of every new face.


Elias, always pragmatic, glanced at the faint scars across my exposed forearm. “More training, or did you wrestle the local wildlife this time?”


“Depends who’s asking,” I replied dryly.


Taryn, observant as ever, swept the area with a soldier’s gaze, taking in the surroundings and quietly assessing threats—or, perhaps, the sheer unpredictability of my companions.


Helium stepped up, flanked by the other girls in a practiced, disciplined array. “They’re with me,” I introduced flatly. “Allies, not trouble. They helped me survive. I taught them a few tricks.”


Neon caught the mood and performed a dramatic bow, her hair flashing. “We promise not to break anything. Much.”


Radon balanced her dagger atop two knuckles and gave Gavric a lazy, wolfish look. “Unless you want to spar. Winner gets your lunch rations.”


The guards exchanged a wordless round of glances—cautious, curious, then oddly respectful. Even without weapons on display, the girls’ discipline and presence spoke for themselves.


Krypton drifted near the horses, silent and vigilant. Argon, ever the tactician, began making quiet notes of the inn’s vantage points, while Xenon offered the guards the kind of diplomatic smile that belonged at a royal court. Oganesson, as always, remained just within my shadow, her intent unreadable but her stance protective.


The atmosphere was tense for only a heartbeat more—then Gavric, breaking his silence, simply said, “Welcome back, all of you.”


And, as we fell into formation—two squads now, from utterly different worlds—the road ahead felt a little more certain, and a lot more dangerous.


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Our convoy moved out at dawn, cutting through fog-wet woods and over highland roads that unspooled toward Wolfengarde like veins. The royal guards in midnight blue rode a tight formation, eyes scanning for threats with all the practiced vigilance of professionals whose pride demanded perfection, no matter how mundane the hour. Behind them, the girls walked as a seamless shadow, Helium commanding their rhythm with a single raised hand. Among all their differences, one thing was clear: everyone knew who led, and no one chose to challenge it.


As we drew closer to the capital, the current of tension thrummed more tightly. Inns swelled with travelers whispering in corners, words like “masked boy” and “Eclipse Order” pricking at the air like burrs. At checkpoints, out-of-town soldiers with stiff collars and sharper glares scrutinized every document, while a minor noble’s coach was flagged down for “unexpected inspection.” Xenon worked the edges, gathering rumor with a subtle touch—bringing back tidbits: a council reshuffling, a merchant “gone missing,” whispers of new alliances forming in darkened corridors.


We made camp one evening by a sluggish riverside, the bonfire flickering as the sun dipped behind pines. Loren, always one to break tension before it broke someone else, stretched back against his pack and grinned. “You know,” he began, loud enough for every ear, “they say the masked boy travels with seven deadly women. Glad you’re not him, right, Aren?”


Neon smirked from across the fire, eyes gleaming as she twirled a strand of blue hair. “Don’t be too sure, Loren. Maybe he’s in disguise.” She touched her finger to her lips and shot me a conspiratorial wink.


Radon, who was tracing concentric circles in the dirt with her dagger, murmured dryly, “If only they knew the real danger.” Helium simply rolled her eyes with the patient exasperation of a seasoned leader who’d seen too much.


Suddenly, Xenon leaned towards Loren with an exaggerated sigh. “So, tell me, sir—how does a brave knight like you keep his armor so well-polished?” Her smile was razor-edged but undeniably charming.


Loren, ever the boldest, wiped sweat from his brow and slid down next to Helium, aiming to catch her rarely unguarded attention. “I have to ask,” he said with a practiced grin, “is it leadership training or just natural talent that lets you command a group like that? Because my own lot barely lines up straight when I shout.”


Helium, perfectly composed as ever, arched an eyebrow. “Maybe you should try less shouting and more intent.”


Neon burst out laughing, elbowing Loren. “Careful. You’ll get a lesson you’re not ready for.”


Loren put a hand to his heart, feigning a wound. “So they say, but I think getting outfoxed by beautiful strangers should be a part of every knight’s journey.”


Taryn, stirring the pot over the flames, shot him a deadpan look. “Loren, can you not try your luck in front of the lord? At least keep it professional until breakfast.”


Elias, hiding a grin, added, “I can’t stitch up your dignity if she slices it, so fair warning.”


Gavric, gruff as ever, just grunted, “You’re on duty, soldier. Remember that.”


Loren tipped an imaginary hat, backing off with a sheepish, “Aye, my lordly audience. But for the record, the stories don’t exaggerate—your company is dangerously bewitching.”


Radon, smirking from the other side of the fire, drawled, “Just make sure you don’t trip over your own boots if Helium decides you’re a threat.”


I glanced up, amused. “Please, Loren, I’ve seen enough to survive a little flirting.”


Taryn, not missing a beat, added from behind a stack of packs, “Still, at least let him keep his innocence ‘til Wolfengarde.”


Helium smothered a laugh but the flicker of a smile betrayed her. “Honestly, if Aren was any more innocent, he’d mistake a knife for a dinner spoon.”


Elias chimed in, his tone bone-dry: “And if these lot are all deadly women, does that make us the hapless backup? Please say no—I have plans for retirement.”


Neon snickered and leaned her chin in her hands, eyes fixed on Loren. “Maybe I’ll teach you a little sorcery tonight, Loren. Beginner’s class—magical disappearing coin purses. Bring valuables.”


Gavric grunted. “Or keep everything locked, and your attention on the road. Some of us want to survive the trip without losing our pay.”


Argon, as usual, had been listening while scribbling in her notebook. Without looking up, she offered, “Statistically, attention loss is the leading cause of bandit ‘surprise.’ Just an observation.”


“That why you keep looking over your shoulder, Argon?” Taryn teased. “Afraid someone’ll upstage you as the new tactician?”


Argon’s reply was ice-dry. “If they could, we’d already be dead by now.”


Radon set down her dagger, eyes glinting mischief. “New rule—whoever can make Aren blush gets first pick at breakfast.”


“I am not blushing,” I deadpanned, absolutely, definitely not blushing.


Helium gave me a long, unreadable look. “You might have to start keeping track, Aren. You’re the rarest commodity out here—a prince who claims he’s not trouble but drags a storm in his shadow.”


Xenon dazzling Elias with overly complex hypothetical political scenarios, and even Radon telling a story so dry it made Gavric crack a rare, brief smile. Argon watched it all, ever the note-taker, catching small details as she always did. Oganesson, meanwhile, remained at the edge, silent, but somehow always at the center of the fire’s warmth, watching me with those deep, knowing eyes.


As the banter finally began to ease, Loren, now red-faced and short of breath, declared, “All right, that’s enough trouble-making from the deadly seven for one night—unless you want the captain to officially start recording our embarrassing tales.”


“Too late,” Neon chimed, flicking a tiny illusion of Torren’s disapproving face into the flames, earning a round of laughter.


Beneath the playfulness, I caught more than one exchanged look of silent respect between guards and girls. They were wary, yes, but in that hour around the fire, lines blurred between old loyalty and new trust.


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As we entered the gates of Wolfengarde, the city's pulse quickened beneath the towering spires and watchful eyes. The procession slowed, drawing curious gazes, but the royal guards maintained their disciplined formation.


Once within the relative safety of the estate walls, I turned to Helium, the unspoken leader of the Shadow Periodics. Her violet hair caught the fading light as she met my gaze.


“It’s time,” she said quietly.


One by one, the girls exchanged brief nods—a silent understanding forged in shadows and hardship.


Neon stepped forward, flashing a rare genuine smile. “We’ve done our part, Lord Aren. The rest is yours.”


Radon’s cold eyes lingered just a moment longer before she turned, already melting into the maze of side streets.


Helium glanced at me with steady resolve. “If you need us, you know where to find the shadows.”


Without another word, the seven vanished almost as ghosts, dissolving back into the city's veiled corners and secret paths—leaving only the faintest trace of their passage.


The courtarians and guards who had watched us moments before exchanged puzzled looks, not quite understanding the inexplicable disappearance.


Inside the estate’s great hall, the warmth of polished wood and centuries of memory closed around me. My father stood as I entered—his figure tall and unyielding, the lines around his eyes deeper than when I’d left. He held my gaze with that familiar severity, searching for signs of failure or change. My mother, Selene, looked far more undone by worry than she would let herself admit: her hands were clasped so tightly that her knuckles blanched, and her breath trembled despite efforts to keep her composure.


“Welcome home, Aren,” she whispered first, voice raw with relief. She crossed the hall in a few steps—restraint giving way as she reached out, her arms closing around me in an embrace gentler than armor but stronger than any shield. I felt her tremble against my shoulder, a brief, silent shudder.


“You’re safe,” she murmured, her words barely audible, “Thank the stars—you’re safe.” Only after that did she pull back, searching my face for wounds the tunic and travel-stains might hide, her eyes shining with the sheen of unshed tears and days of sleeplessness.


“It’s just rain and too much road, Mother. Nothing that stuck,” I told her, voice softer than I meant.


“Next time, write,” she scolded, but her tone lacked heat, and one hand lingered at my jaw a moment longer.


My father cleared his throat, a gruff anchor in the storm. “What did you learn out there?” His eyes still probed for truth beneath understatement.


I shrugged, careful and guarded. “Plenty. But nothing worth troubling the estate. Mostly rain, rural detours, and lessons I’ll keep for my own peace.”


He grunted, the ghost of approval flickering beneath the stern mask. “Glad to hear it.” His crossing of arms—more ceremonial than rebuke—said he trusted me, for now.


Slyvie appeared in the doorway, her maid’s apron freshly pressed but her cheeks smudged with what might’ve been tears or haste. She hesitated, unsure if she should interrupt the family moment, but I caught her eye and smiled.


“There’s work waiting, you know,” she managed, voice half-reproach, half-welcome—her attempt at formality warring with obvious relief.


I grinned at her familiar grumpiness. “You missed me, Slyvie. Admit it.”


She pursed her lips, affecting outrage and looking everywhere but my face. “If I did, it’s because no one else leaves their boots muddy after midnight. The scullery boards are ruined.”


I laughed, the sound both lighter and more tired than it used to be. Slyvie slipped close enough, as if to adjust my collar, but her hand paused as she saw the last of the travel bruises at my throat. I caught her hand, squeezing gently.


“I’m back,” I said, quietly for her ears alone. “You can stop worrying for now.”


She gave a small nod, then retreated, shoulders a little straighter


After dinner, scanning the candlelit estate, I slipped out under the pretense of “air.” In the inner courtyard, I drew in the quiet—settling into the old regimen, but this time, ready to refine something new.


Closing my eyes, I let Aura Sense emerge, then reshape itself, drawing on what I’d learned in the wilds. I let my mana spiral, creating outward ripples—gentle, deliberate, intent. With each pulse, I caught the flicker of distant energies: a pair of guards sneaking a game of dice, an apprentice shadow-weaving a mop into a scarecrow, a servant’s heart skipping anxiously in the kitchens.


Shadow Pulse. Broader than before. A net to catch those who thought themselves hidden.


Opening my eyes, I smiled—just a little—at how far I’d come. And how far I had to go.


In the city below, rumors were turning: whispers of a foreign masked boy, shadows moving in council halls. Eclipse Order—every tongue seemed to know it, none dared claim allegiance.


I moved careful in public, blending low, letting the guards be seen instead; the less my face stirred suspicion, the better. But every alley seemed to hold eyes, every festival poster a hidden phrase.


Loren, that evening, leaned close outside training, his voice low: “Politics are shifting quick, my lord. People are nervous. Eclipse Order has them on edge."


Alone at my desk, I mapped events, each more tangled than the last. The loyalty of the girls, the professionalism of the guards—it was solid ground. But what of the Eclipse Order? Why destroy Lyra—why not capture? Was Vareon a pawn, or a scapegoat? Did they fear what the dragon could become?


The memory returned: blue hair slicing through moonlight, the Eclipse Leader’s gaze, not cold but calculating. That moment was burned in.


What are you planning?


The question lingered as I pressed my palm to the egg, feeling its warmth. The path forward was shrouded in mist and mayhem, but one truth was clear:


I will not let this world rob me again. Every ounce taken will be repaid with ruthless precision.


Beneath the shadowed towers of Wolfengarde, countless eyes wait—not with hope, but with hunger.


This is no game to be played lightly. It’s a war to be won by the strongest.


And I will be the last one standing


To be continued