Chương 22: The Duke of Ashes

"The phoenix rises from the pyre as an act of defiance, a refusal to be consumed by the inevitable. Yet it returns to the strangeness of a world that has moved on in its absence. The bird carries the heat of the fire in its marrow, a reminder that every future flight is paid for with the ashes of the past it leaves behind." - From Mythos of the Phoenix, translated from the Aetheric Fragments. MASON I coughed and a torrent of saltwater erupted from my lungs, the violent spasm sending a blinding jolt through my ribs.

I collapsed onto my side, my cheek pressed against wet sand. Land. I'd swum for hours, navigation in the dark aided by the steady beacon of my mapping ability. The mana surge had gotten me through the worst of it, but even as the storm died, my strength had started to die with it. A stroke of much-needed good fortune put me in the path of some driftwood, the extra buoyancy allowing my legs to rest as the tide pulled me mercifully toward the shore.

The rain had softened to a persistent drizzle and a pre-dawn grey had begun to bleed into the edges of the night sky when I finally reached land. The roar of the waves beat a percussive crash against the rocky beach. My [Cold Resistance] skill, which had felt so potent in the water, was a sputtering candle against the relentless wind. I trembled with physical exhaustion. My hand was raw, the skin pale and abraded from my frantic swim, the knuckles bloody where I'd clawed at the bag.

The huge gash on my palm where the knife had cut deep was already closing, but stung with salt in the wound. Still, I'd made it. I'd survived. I was free. The thought didn't land with the exhilaration I had imagined. It didn't land at all. It was just another fact among many, as cold and inert as the sand beneath me. The manic energy of the mana-rush had completely dissipated, leaving a frightening emptiness in its wake. There was no joy. There was no relief.

The same thought replayed in my mind like a drum beat: he's gone. I closed my eyes, the drizzle cool on my face. I saw him then, not as the frail, dying friend, but as the vibrant scholar I first met, his eyes alight with intellectual fire as we broke the code of the gods. I heard his deep laugh echoing in the confines of our shared prison. In a place designed to crush the soul, he had given me a reason to have one. He was my friend. In the entire cosmos, in all the years I had now lived, he was my only one.

And he was gone. I lay on that windswept shore, the tide lapping at my bare feet, and for the first time in years, I simply existed, a broken thing washed up from the sea, every ragged breath a testament to a sacrifice I could never repay. I was alive, and I was utterly, crushingly alone. A wave, bolder than the rest, crashed over my legs, its icy shock a rude interruption to my numb despair. It pulled at me as it receded, an invitation to be dragged back into the abyss.

Part of me, the tired, broken part, wanted to let it take me. To just let go and drift away, to join him in the silent depths. Another memory surfaced, pushing through the fog of grief. It was Fenris, a few nights before the end, his voice a dry whisper as he stared at a crude map of the stars I'd scratched on the wall above his bed.

"Tell me of the sky on Earth again, Cassius," he'd rasped, his gaze distant.

"You say you have only one moon?"

"Just one," I had replied, tracing the phases with my finger.

"And our stars… from the cities, you can barely see them. Too much light. But out in the desert, they say it's like a glowing river of dust. The Milky Way. I wish I'd taken the time to experience it." I could almost see the wonder in his eyes, even in the memory.

"To think," he'd murmured, "a place so full of beauty, and I will never have the chance to see it. Don't take a single sunrise for granted, Cassius, every one will be a reminder of what you survived." The memory was so vivid, it was as if he was sitting right there beside me. I pushed myself up, my arm shaking with the effort. The hollow throb in my chest was still there, a wound that would never fully heal, but beneath it a defiant ember began to glow. Slowly, painfully, I got to my feet.

The wind tore at my rags and the drizzle was needles against my skin, but I stood. I looked east toward the grey horizon where the sun was just beginning to burn away the night. As the first sliver of golden light broke over the churning water, I turned my back on the ocean and began to climb. The cliffside path was a treacherous, winding staircase carved into the rock face, the steps slick with rain and crumbling from years of neglect.

My body, an emaciated frame, struggled with the exertion; my once legendary fitness had been reduced to the plodding steps of an invalid. My arm shuddered as I hauled myself up, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the mossy stone. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. With each step, another memory of Fenris surfaced. …

a booming laugh that echoed in our shared darkness as I tried to explain why men in tight pants and hard helmets would throw a ball to each other for a literal fortune… I grabbed a handhold, pulling myself up. … a huge, clawed paw patiently correcting my clumsy, one-handed attempt to tie a mariner's knot… My foot slipped and I slammed my knee into the rock, pain flaring. I hung there, gasping, the taste of blood still in my mouth. … his voice, calm and steady, guiding me through a complex meditation.

"The pain is a signal, Cassius. Nothing more. Acknowledge it, and let it pass through you." I acknowledged the pain and I let it pass through me. My hand was white, the blood barely flowing, but I found my footing again. And again. And again. As many times as it took. I finally hauled my battered body over the cliff's ledge and collapsed onto a patch of wet grass at the edge of the estate's ruined gardens. For a long moment, I just lay there, the damp earth a welcome relief.

The oppressive grey clouds hanging over the bay parted, shafts of golden sunlight slicing through and setting the world alight. The rain-soaked ruins of my family home drank it in, the wet stones multiplying the light, the clinging vines flashing a vibrant green. When I'd last visited this place, I had seen only a graveyard, a monument to a life stolen from me. I saw it now as it could be. I stood up, the first sun I'd seen in half a decade warm on my face.

I walked through the skeletal remains of the manor, my attention drawn to the small details, my senses overwhelmed after so long in the emptiness of the pit. I could smell the floral scent of a single five-petaled bloom growing amidst a patch of weeds as I ran my hand along a section of collapsed wall, a layer of dwarven stonework revealed underneath. It was etched with runes now familiar to me from a book on ancient Calderan masonry, the craftsmanship a masterwork I now had the knowledge to appreciate.

I was the last student of Fenris of the High Peaks and I could feel him with me, a quiet presence that would sustain me in my lowest moments. My steps, now sure and steady, led me to the western wing. The fire had burned hottest here, the stone blackened and crumbling. I stepped into the study whose replica in the construct I could have mapped with exacting detail, down to every volume of text. The heavy mahogany doors had been burned away, leaving behind a charcoal-edged frame.

The roof above was a gaping hole, allowing years of rain to rot the priceless rug and warp the once-gleaming floorboards. The bookshelves were empty skeletons, their contents either turned to ash or looted long ago. Scraps of burnt tapestry hung from the walls like withered skin. Everything of value was gone. Everything but the memory. I walked to the hearth, its marble mantle cracked and stained with soot. This was where my mother's fireplace had burned with its endless flames.

I ran my hand along the stone, a solemn moment of connection with a woman whose rebellion had defined my entire existence. My fingers traced the outline of where a painting had once hung. The portrait of my father, the vast knowledge of the Athenaeum a hollow consolation to the longing I felt to know him. A glint of light in the rubble caught my eye. I brushed away debris to find a large shard of a shattered mirror, its silvered backing flaking away.

Staring back at me was a stranger, a wild man with haunted eyes that were much too old. His face was a gaunt mask, severe angles and sunken cheeks framed by a tangled mane of black hair and a matted beard. I was not yet twenty-three, but the man in the reflection could have been fifty. He was one-armed, scarred, and looked more a ghost than flesh and bone. I let the shard of mirror fall back into the dust and walked out through the rusted iron gates of my family home, not looking back.

The sun was higher now, warm on my neck, the air fresh and clean after the storm. I walked the same road back toward Eastwatch I had taken all those years ago, but the world had become a different place. The streets felt both strange and familiar. The layout was the same, but the atmosphere was strained and anxious. The black and silver banners of House Thorne were more numerous now, hanging from nearly every storefront like a claim of ownership.

My path took me past the town square, standing outside what had once been Cornelius's apothecary shop. The lovingly maintained, hand-carved sign was gone. In its place was a silver-and-gold plaque: Eastwatch Supply Depot - Official Requisitions. Guards flanked the entrance in Thorne House regalia, their expressions hard and unwelcoming. The warm, cluttered shop that smelled of herbs and alchemy was now a soulless outpost of Thorne's regime.

I took the small side street that led to their home and stopped across the way, lingering in the shadow of an awning. The cottage was the same if a bit more ragged, a small pot of flowers now sitting on the windowsill. Through the window, I saw Sara. The weariness in her face had been carved into deeper lines by the years, her hair now streaked with grey. She was helping a tall, lanky boy with his tunic. William. He had to be close to seventeen now, no longer a child.

He said something that made her laugh, a genuine warmth that scattered the gloom, an important reminder that even grief had limits. As he stepped into the frame of the window I could see he wore a silver and black uniform, the rose and thorns emblem freshly pressed on his chest. I fought back the rush of anger and turned away before they could see the one-armed stranger watching them from the shadows, my own path now clearer than ever.

It wasn't his fault, I knew, life did that to people, turned them into the thing they hated most. The city gates stood open, welcoming the morning's traffic of merchants and farmers, though new walls had been erected to funnel traffic into processing lanes that spoke of a shift toward control over commerce. Standing at his post, his helmet gleaming in the sun, was a familiar face wearing a new uniform.

It was the same stocky guard who had first called for a healer, the first person in this world to show me a moment of simple, human decency. He saw me approaching and his hand went to the hilt of his sword, eyes narrowing.

"Keep walking, friend," he said, his voice not unkind, but firm, the professional weariness of a man who had seen too much trouble or perhaps was avoiding getting in trouble himself.

"This city no longer tolerates vagrancy, leave on your own or face the Duke's justice." I held the guard's weary scrutiny and saw not an enemy, but another pawn in Thorne's game, a good man trying to do his job in a corrupt system the best way he knew how.

"Thank you," I said, my voice quiet but determined. The guard blinked, thrown off by the earnest gratitude. He searched my face, a flutter of confusion, maybe even a hint of recognition that was quickly dismissed. He gave me a curt nod, accepting my compliance. I turned away from the gate and began walking west, away from the city, away from my home. The guard watched me go, another piece of driftwood pushed back out to sea. I was no one, and I was coming for everything.