The silence after the West Gate's collapse wasn't truly silent. It was a ringing echo in his ears, broken by the agonizing groans of the wounded, the trickle of displaced stone, and the chilling realization of what he had just done. Dust, thick and biting, hung in the air, stinging his eyes and coating his tongue. He coughed, a ragged, painful sound, as he pushed himself fully upright, every muscle in his body protesting. He was battered, bruised, and covered in dust, but he was alive.
Around him, the few surviving soldiers of the West Gate stood frozen, their faces pale with shock. They stared at the monstrous pile of rubble, then at him, their expressions a mix of awe, terror, and a bewildered respect he'd never seen directed at the original Lysander Thorne. The stench of troll blood and crushed monster parts was overwhelming, a gruesome sign of the devastation he'd caused.
Sir Reginald, his face streaked with dirt and sweat, slowly approached. His heavy armor clanked with each careful step. His eyes, usually narrowed in disdain, were wide, reflecting the chaos of the ruined gate and the impossible figure standing before him. He stopped a few feet away, looking him up and down.
"Thorne," Reginald rasped, his voice barely a whisper, completely without its usual contempt. "What in the blazes did you just do?"
Lysander met his gaze, forcing himself to appear calm and in command, despite the tremor in his hands and the adrenaline rushing through him. Keep it simple. Logic. Facts. "I made sure the West Gate held, Sir Reginald. In the only way left to us." He kept his tone steady, professional, as if collapsing an ancient gate on a monster horde was just normal procedure. He was, after all, playing the part of a cunning noble, not a panicked commoner.
Reginald shook his head, a slow, disbelieving motion. "You… you brought down the arch. On your own men. On us." His voice rose slightly, a hint of anger beneath the shock.
"A harsh necessity, Captain," he countered, his voice firm, his mind already spinning new reasons. "The gate was already breaking. The Brute Trolls were pouring through. Without that action, we would all be dead, and the fortress would have fallen from this spot. Casualties were bound to happen. I simply chose the lesser of two evils to save the whole." He waved vaguely towards the crushed enemy forces. "The enemy is crippled here. The West Gate stands, blocked, even if in a new form."
Reginald stared, his initial anger fading into a grudging acceptance as he looked at the crushed monsters. Thorne's cold, brutal logic was undeniable. He had turned a fatal weakness into an impassable barrier, at least for now. But the sheer boldness, the ruthless decision-making, was completely unlike the Thorne he knew. It was the choice of someone planning a grand strategy, willing to sacrifice small parts for the bigger game.
"Report!" Reginald barked, turning to the other bewildered soldiers, his command voice snapping back into place. "Check for injuries! Secure the rubble! Send word to the High Commander – the West Gate is down, but the enemy here is broken!" His eyes returned to Thorne, a new wariness in them. "You… you come with me, Thorne. The High Commander will want answers."
Lysander nodded, a silent wave of triumph washing over him so strong it almost buckled his knees. He was alive. More than that, he had made an impact, a clear mark no one could ignore. His existence as a mere extra was over. He had forced himself onto the main stage, even if it was as an unpredictable, dangerous part. This was the first, huge step in his rise – not to a throne, but to control over his own path in a world that had written him off. He felt the joy of victory, sharp and clean, pushing down the last bits of fear and the body's inherited wish for simple safety.
As they began to move towards the inner parts of the fortress, the sounds of battle from the other gates seemed to lessen, suggesting the main enemy attack was perhaps losing strength. His mind, despite the pain, raced. He had changed a key event. What would be the butterfly effect? The novel's plot was complex, a delicate web of cause and effect. His survival, and this victory, meant that Kaelen, the hero, would not have Lysander's death to inspire him. How would that change Kaelen's story? Would Kaelen still become the great hero without that specific push? He felt a thrill, cold and sharp, at the thought of truly disrupting the preordained story. He was a stone thrown into still water, and the ripples would be profound. His old life felt like a faded photograph now, but the rules of this game were becoming terrifyingly real. No respawn points here.
They soon reached the main courtyard, a busy place where injured soldiers were being helped and messengers hurried back and forth. The fortress's central keep loomed, its banner showing the roaring lion of House Alden. He knew this place. This was where Kaelen, the main character, would be.
As if on cue, a figure stepped out from the keep's grand archway. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a stern, handsome face framed by dark, wind-swept hair, he carried a magnificent, two-handed sword sheathed on his back. His eyes, sharp and intense, swept over the courtyard, judging the wounded. This was Kaelen Alden, the true hero of The Crimson Blade, the destined savior of the realm. Lysander felt a strange, almost unreal sense of meeting a celebrity, mixed with the chilling awareness that this man's story was supposed to be built, in part, on his dead body.
Kaelen's gaze landed on Sir Reginald, then flickered to Thorne, his brow slightly creased in recognition, though likely not for anything important. Lysander could almost hear the original script whispering: 'Kaelen glances idly at the cowering noble Lysander Thorne, dismissing him from his thoughts as he turns to address the brave Captain Reginald.'
But he wasn't cowering. He stood tall, though his body screamed in protest, his eyes steady, meeting Kaelen's. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment – an extra meeting a hero, a pawn meeting a king. The unspoken challenge was brief, yet charged. Kaelen's expression changed from casual dismissal to a faint flicker of curiosity, then perhaps, surprise. Lysander Thorne was not where he was supposed to be, nor was he acting as he should. A subtle frown touched Kaelen's brow, a hint of confusion in his sharp eyes, as if encountering a complex puzzle where he expected a simple, known quantity.
This was a direct result of his actions. He hadn't just survived; he had changed the hero's perception, even if only slightly. The true challenges, the ones where his mastermind intellect and future powers would truly come into play, were yet to begin. He needed to secure his standing, learn more about this world, and figure out how to gain the strength to defend himself, not just with cunning, but with real power. His path, shaping his own fate from the shadows, was long and dangerous, demanding every ounce of his new resolve.