Chapter 67:
Chapter 67 – Kael’s Nightmare
The Sovereign Ascendant
[ Kael Perspective ]
The air was not air.
It was ice, pressing in from all sides.
I stood barefoot in a grey courtyard that could have been built from the bones of a god — high walls weeping with rain, iron gates yawning at their hinges. Chains as thick as my wrist wound around my torso, my arms; every breath I took sent cold metal gouging deeper into my skin.
Rain pattered against my hair. Not gentle. Icy. Knife-points for raindrops.
And standing before me, through the rain-mist…
Lysra.
Her pale dress was little more than tattered cloth clinging to her, stained down one side. Her hair, once the color of ripe wheat in early autumn, clung damp to her face. Two guards had her by the arms, dragging her forward across the wet stone.
I tried to move. My chains bit down.
> “Lysra—!”
A voice cut across mine, smooth and cruel, like polished glass.
From the far archway strode the man I’ve dreamed of killing a thousand times — The Commander. His black armor gleamed with rain. A long cloak dragged behind him, mud collecting at the hem, as if the ground itself tried to chain him too but hadn’t learned how.
He smiled at me like at an animal that had once been dangerous.
> “Kael Lysbourne,” he said, almost gently. “You brought this on yourself.”
He paced, boots ringing against the stone in steady rhythm.
> “You... fancied yourself untouchable, didn’t you? The great Kael Lysbourne. The great scholer. The man with endless knowledge and no weaknesses.”
He gestured lazily toward Lysra.
> “And yet—here she is. Because of you. Because when you choose enemies… you choose kindness.”
I felt my nails digging into my palms. But my face — my face did not move. I gave him nothing.
He hated that.
> “I think,” the commander said, leaning close enough for his smirk to fill my vision, “you are not the stone fortress they say you are. You’re dust. And she’s just the proof.”
That was when Lysra moved.
Bruised cheek, gashed lip — but her chin lifted as the guards shoved her forward. Her eyes found mine. Unwavering.
Her mouth didn’t move, but I heard her all the same.
*Survive.*
Not *farewell*. Not *I love you*. Just that single order I already obeyed in my bones.
The commander saw the exchange and his smile faltered for the smallest fraction of a second before twisting into something nastier.
For an instant, the rain was gone.
She was beside me again, laughing at sunsets from the fortress balcony.
Her hand slipping into mine under council tables where no one could see.
Her whisper the night she told me we were going to run — leave the game behind.
The betrayal that dragged her back into it.
And then—back to the courtyard. The rain. The iron smell in the air.
The commander’s voice was a blade sliding home:
> “You lose everything, Kael. Your legacy ends here.”
They forced her to kneel.
I strained until the chains cut skin.
The block waited.
One more moment and—
It didn’t matter if I screamed.
I screamed anyway.
It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t grief.
It was *finality.*
It was the sound of something human tearing in half.
I tore upward from the darkness like a drowning man breaching the surface.
Breath ragged.
Throat scorched raw, as though the scream from the dream had clawed its way into reality.
The candle on the bedside table guttered hard, its flame bowing away from me before shrinking to a thin, shaking thread of light. Cold sweat traced crooked lines down my back, soaking the linen at my spine.
I sat there for a long moment, unmoving, the echo of those chains still gripping my shoulders. The air in the chamber hung heavy — no sound but the hollow thump of my heartbeat, slow and methodical despite the venom still in my veins.
It took a moment for me to remember where I was.
Night air crept in from the cracked window. The stone walls did not lean inwards like the courtyard from my dream.
My head turned, automatically, to the right — to that familiar space on the mattress.
My hand followed. Fingers reaching. Searching.
They closed on nothing.
Empty sheets.
Cold. Always cold.
The stillness pressed in tighter.
Eventually, I swung my legs over the side of the bed. The wooden floor groaned faintly beneath my weight as I pushed myself to standing. Every step toward the far wall felt slower than the last until I was standing before the narrow mirror.
Moonlight leaking through the shutters lay across the glass in ragged bands, cutting my reflection into fragments.
My face stared back at me — pale, eyes ringed with shadow, lips pressed into a thin, unbroken line.
No rage. Only silence.
This… was what remained. Not the man in her memory. Not even the man before the war. Something stripped bare, hollowed, but still walking.
I didn’t feel the decision form.
My fist struck the glass.
It didn’t shatter into chaotic ruin — it cracked, a deep fracture running diagonally across the pane, splitting my reflection in two uneven halves.
Shards trembled in the frame, catching the moonlight like slivers of frozen water. I let my knuckles rest against the cold surface for a moment longer, the sting creeping along my skin.
A thin line of blood slipped down my hand. It felt… distant.
I stepped back, taking in the broken image — two faces where there should have been one.
Without a sound, I turned from it and walked back into the dark.
The sun rose, I walked the stone outer paths alone. Cold dew clung to my boots. The estate loomed behind me; in front, the quiet little corner of the city where laughter sometimes lived.
The orphans were there. My orphans — though they didn’t know that. They thought I was simply “Mister Kael who brings bread that tastes better than guild rations.”
They froze when they saw me, as they always did when my presence broke their games.
One boy, braver than the rest, darted forward with a grin. Behind him, the others gathered strange treasures.
A muddy sculpture of… a dragon, apparently. A rough little clay house leaning to one side. And from the smallest girl, holding it like treasure — a lily.
Wilted. Brown-edged. But still a lily.
> “This one’s for your wife,” she said with perfect childish bluntness. “You said she liked lilies, right?”
I crouched so we were eye to eye.
> “You remembered,” I told her, and smiled — a soft one. “She would have liked this one the most.”
I took the flower as if it were made of gold. I let their laughter return, let it drown the quiet that waited for me inside the estate walls.
The girl beamed. The others grinned too.
I stood, still smiling. And when I turned away, unseen by them, the lily drooped a little more.
And in my palm, the weight of it stayed long after I left.
---------------------
The marble courtyard’s enchantments kept the breeze pleasantly cool. Marble benches curved around a small fountain where enchanted birds dipped their beaks in water and sang their programmed melodies. Above the table floated trays of tea and delicate cakes.
I eyed the array, then the woman across from me.
Nerissa Ashford looked like she’d walked straight out of a noble gala — hair pinned with silver combs, dress a swirl of dark violet silk, a lazy smile in place as she lifted her porcelain teacup.
> “Is this a magic lesson,” I asked flatly, “or a tea party?”
She sipped, then set her cup down with exquisite care.
> “Both. Magic is about grace, darling.” Her eyes glittered. “Not sweaty explosions. *That’s* his job.” She nodded toward Corvin’s distant silhouette across the training field.
She flicked open a floating tome that shimmered in the air between us.
> “Now,” she began, pacing like she was on stage, “Magic Power — or MP — is the glamorous life force inside you. Think juice… but less tasty, more deadly.”
An illusion bloomed above the table — a tiny chibi version of me blasting fire from my hands… then one punching a tree until it exploded.
> “Mana lets you throw fireballs,” Nerissa narrated.
> “Aura lets you *be* the fireball.”
[Aren’s Internal Note]
Mana — raw magical energy, produced by the body’s core and circulated via ley-like channels that even non-mages possess. It’s a biochemical–ethereal hybrid system: fueled partly by the body’s own life processes, partly by metaphysical energy saturation from the surrounding world. Think muscle ATP meets quantum field resonance.
> “You can be a storm mage or a punchy warlord,” Nerissa continued, circling back toward me. “Or both. But if you’re both, I’m going to judge you while drinking tea.”
She flicked her wrist, and runes of fire, water, wind, earth, and lightning spun in the air.
> “Your basics. Like common nobles — predictable, everywhere, reliable. Sometimes dull.”
Then she filled the air with newer, stranger symbols. Ice, metal, poison, illusion, gravity.
> “Now these,” she said, her voice dropping mock-dramatically. “These are the risky cousins. Misdraw one rune, and you’ll accidentally turn your eyebrows into mushrooms.”
> “That happen often?” I asked.
She gave a pointed look. “You’d be surprised. *And* you’d laugh.”
> “Aura?” She waved it off. “That’s muscle wizard nonsense. Go to the grumpy knight with the six-pack. I don’t fight wars. I make sure the right people lose them.”
From her bag came a gleaming orb in a velvet-lined case.
> “Mana Resonance Crystal,” she announced. “Pour your MP into it, gently.”
I placed my palm on it. Let the energy flow. Soft glow.
> “Good,” Nerissa said. “Stable output. I’m… shocked, honestly.”
A slow smile crept on my face.
> “I Think I can push more.”
Her eyes widened. “No. No-no—”
Too late.
The crystal flared, heat prickling up my arm, glow swelling from egg-size to small-sun.
> “AREN—!”
It burst.
Not shards. Just… poof. Glittering dust drifting into the air..
To be continued…
[ Name: Corvin Draxler
Age: 20
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Field of Expertise: Aura & Weapon Mastery
Aura Stage: 4th
Weapon: Longsword (a custom-forged blade, balanced for both offense and defense)
Appearance:
Height: About 185 cm (6’1")
Build: Broad-shouldered, muscular but agile
Hair: Dark, short, slightly tousled
Eyes: Steely gray, sharp and assessing
Personality:
Calm, confident, and no-nonsense
Focuses on clean technique over flashy moves
Values results but insists on discipline and refinement
Commands respect without raising his voice
Background:
Rose through the ranks purely by skill and determination, a self-made warrior.
Sometimes looks down on nobles who rely on status rather than hard work.
Once a renowned duelist in the border provinces, Corvin earned his reputation through countless honorable victories.
After a personal tragedy , he left the frontline to focus on teaching the next generation.
Known for his unyielding discipline and a calm demeanor that masks a fierce dedication to perfection. ]
The air was not air.
It was ice, pressing in from all sides.
I stood barefoot in a grey courtyard that could have been built from the bones of a god — high walls weeping with rain, iron gates yawning at their hinges. Chains as thick as my wrist wound around my torso, my arms; every breath I took sent cold metal gouging deeper into my skin.
Rain pattered against my hair. Not gentle. Icy. Knife-points for raindrops.
And standing before me, through the rain-mist…
Lysra.
Her pale dress was little more than tattered cloth clinging to her, stained down one side. Her hair, once the color of ripe wheat in early autumn, clung damp to her face. Two guards had her by the arms, dragging her forward across the wet stone.
I tried to move. My chains bit down.
> “Lysra—!”
A voice cut across mine, smooth and cruel, like polished glass.
From the far archway strode the man I’ve dreamed of killing a thousand times — The Commander. His black armor gleamed with rain. A long cloak dragged behind him, mud collecting at the hem, as if the ground itself tried to chain him too but hadn’t learned how.
He smiled at me like at an animal that had once been dangerous.
> “Kael Lysbourne,” he said, almost gently. “You brought this on yourself.”
He paced, boots ringing against the stone in steady rhythm.
> “You... fancied yourself untouchable, didn’t you? The great Kael Lysbourne. The great scholer. The man with endless knowledge and no weaknesses.”
He gestured lazily toward Lysra.
> “And yet—here she is. Because of you. Because when you choose enemies… you choose kindness.”
I felt my nails digging into my palms. But my face — my face did not move. I gave him nothing.
He hated that.
> “I think,” the commander said, leaning close enough for his smirk to fill my vision, “you are not the stone fortress they say you are. You’re dust. And she’s just the proof.”
That was when Lysra moved.
Bruised cheek, gashed lip — but her chin lifted as the guards shoved her forward. Her eyes found mine. Unwavering.
Her mouth didn’t move, but I heard her all the same.
*Survive.*
Not *farewell*. Not *I love you*. Just that single order I already obeyed in my bones.
The commander saw the exchange and his smile faltered for the smallest fraction of a second before twisting into something nastier.
For an instant, the rain was gone.
She was beside me again, laughing at sunsets from the fortress balcony.
Her hand slipping into mine under council tables where no one could see.
Her whisper the night she told me we were going to run — leave the game behind.
The betrayal that dragged her back into it.
And then—back to the courtyard. The rain. The iron smell in the air.
The commander’s voice was a blade sliding home:
> “You lose everything, Kael. Your legacy ends here.”
They forced her to kneel.
I strained until the chains cut skin.
The block waited.
One more moment and—
It didn’t matter if I screamed.
I screamed anyway.
It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t grief.
It was *finality.*
It was the sound of something human tearing in half.
I tore upward from the darkness like a drowning man breaching the surface.
Breath ragged.
Throat scorched raw, as though the scream from the dream had clawed its way into reality.
The candle on the bedside table guttered hard, its flame bowing away from me before shrinking to a thin, shaking thread of light. Cold sweat traced crooked lines down my back, soaking the linen at my spine.
I sat there for a long moment, unmoving, the echo of those chains still gripping my shoulders. The air in the chamber hung heavy — no sound but the hollow thump of my heartbeat, slow and methodical despite the venom still in my veins.
It took a moment for me to remember where I was.
Night air crept in from the cracked window. The stone walls did not lean inwards like the courtyard from my dream.
My head turned, automatically, to the right — to that familiar space on the mattress.
My hand followed. Fingers reaching. Searching.
They closed on nothing.
Empty sheets.
Cold. Always cold.
The stillness pressed in tighter.
Eventually, I swung my legs over the side of the bed. The wooden floor groaned faintly beneath my weight as I pushed myself to standing. Every step toward the far wall felt slower than the last until I was standing before the narrow mirror.
Moonlight leaking through the shutters lay across the glass in ragged bands, cutting my reflection into fragments.
My face stared back at me — pale, eyes ringed with shadow, lips pressed into a thin, unbroken line.
No rage. Only silence.
This… was what remained. Not the man in her memory. Not even the man before the war. Something stripped bare, hollowed, but still walking.
I didn’t feel the decision form.
My fist struck the glass.
It didn’t shatter into chaotic ruin — it cracked, a deep fracture running diagonally across the pane, splitting my reflection in two uneven halves.
Shards trembled in the frame, catching the moonlight like slivers of frozen water. I let my knuckles rest against the cold surface for a moment longer, the sting creeping along my skin.
A thin line of blood slipped down my hand. It felt… distant.
I stepped back, taking in the broken image — two faces where there should have been one.
Without a sound, I turned from it and walked back into the dark.
The sun rose, I walked the stone outer paths alone. Cold dew clung to my boots. The estate loomed behind me; in front, the quiet little corner of the city where laughter sometimes lived.
The orphans were there. My orphans — though they didn’t know that. They thought I was simply “Mister Kael who brings bread that tastes better than guild rations.”
They froze when they saw me, as they always did when my presence broke their games.
One boy, braver than the rest, darted forward with a grin. Behind him, the others gathered strange treasures.
A muddy sculpture of… a dragon, apparently. A rough little clay house leaning to one side. And from the smallest girl, holding it like treasure — a lily.
Wilted. Brown-edged. But still a lily.
> “This one’s for your wife,” she said with perfect childish bluntness. “You said she liked lilies, right?”
I crouched so we were eye to eye.
> “You remembered,” I told her, and smiled — a soft one. “She would have liked this one the most.”
I took the flower as if it were made of gold. I let their laughter return, let it drown the quiet that waited for me inside the estate walls.
The girl beamed. The others grinned too.
I stood, still smiling. And when I turned away, unseen by them, the lily drooped a little more.
And in my palm, the weight of it stayed long after I left.
---------------------
The marble courtyard’s enchantments kept the breeze pleasantly cool. Marble benches curved around a small fountain where enchanted birds dipped their beaks in water and sang their programmed melodies. Above the table floated trays of tea and delicate cakes.
I eyed the array, then the woman across from me.
Nerissa Ashford looked like she’d walked straight out of a noble gala — hair pinned with silver combs, dress a swirl of dark violet silk, a lazy smile in place as she lifted her porcelain teacup.
> “Is this a magic lesson,” I asked flatly, “or a tea party?”
She sipped, then set her cup down with exquisite care.
> “Both. Magic is about grace, darling.” Her eyes glittered. “Not sweaty explosions. *That’s* his job.” She nodded toward Corvin’s distant silhouette across the training field.
She flicked open a floating tome that shimmered in the air between us.
> “Now,” she began, pacing like she was on stage, “Magic Power — or MP — is the glamorous life force inside you. Think juice… but less tasty, more deadly.”
An illusion bloomed above the table — a tiny chibi version of me blasting fire from my hands… then one punching a tree until it exploded.
> “Mana lets you throw fireballs,” Nerissa narrated.
> “Aura lets you *be* the fireball.”
[Aren’s Internal Note]
Mana — raw magical energy, produced by the body’s core and circulated via ley-like channels that even non-mages possess. It’s a biochemical–ethereal hybrid system: fueled partly by the body’s own life processes, partly by metaphysical energy saturation from the surrounding world. Think muscle ATP meets quantum field resonance.
> “You can be a storm mage or a punchy warlord,” Nerissa continued, circling back toward me. “Or both. But if you’re both, I’m going to judge you while drinking tea.”
She flicked her wrist, and runes of fire, water, wind, earth, and lightning spun in the air.
> “Your basics. Like common nobles — predictable, everywhere, reliable. Sometimes dull.”
Then she filled the air with newer, stranger symbols. Ice, metal, poison, illusion, gravity.
> “Now these,” she said, her voice dropping mock-dramatically. “These are the risky cousins. Misdraw one rune, and you’ll accidentally turn your eyebrows into mushrooms.”
> “That happen often?” I asked.
She gave a pointed look. “You’d be surprised. *And* you’d laugh.”
> “Aura?” She waved it off. “That’s muscle wizard nonsense. Go to the grumpy knight with the six-pack. I don’t fight wars. I make sure the right people lose them.”
From her bag came a gleaming orb in a velvet-lined case.
> “Mana Resonance Crystal,” she announced. “Pour your MP into it, gently.”
I placed my palm on it. Let the energy flow. Soft glow.
> “Good,” Nerissa said. “Stable output. I’m… shocked, honestly.”
A slow smile crept on my face.
> “I Think I can push more.”
Her eyes widened. “No. No-no—”
Too late.
The crystal flared, heat prickling up my arm, glow swelling from egg-size to small-sun.
> “AREN—!”
It burst.
Not shards. Just… poof. Glittering dust drifting into the air..
To be continued…
[ Name: Corvin Draxler
Age: 20
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Field of Expertise: Aura & Weapon Mastery
Aura Stage: 4th
Weapon: Longsword (a custom-forged blade, balanced for both offense and defense)
Appearance:
Height: About 185 cm (6’1")
Build: Broad-shouldered, muscular but agile
Hair: Dark, short, slightly tousled
Eyes: Steely gray, sharp and assessing
Personality:
Calm, confident, and no-nonsense
Focuses on clean technique over flashy moves
Values results but insists on discipline and refinement
Commands respect without raising his voice
Background:
Rose through the ranks purely by skill and determination, a self-made warrior.
Sometimes looks down on nobles who rely on status rather than hard work.
Once a renowned duelist in the border provinces, Corvin earned his reputation through countless honorable victories.
After a personal tragedy , he left the frontline to focus on teaching the next generation.
Known for his unyielding discipline and a calm demeanor that masks a fierce dedication to perfection. ]
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