The single day Valerius granted himself was not a day of rest. It was a day of methodical, painstaking reclamation. Rest was a luxury afforded to the safe and the whole; for Valerius, it was merely a pause between battles, and every moment had to be weaponized. He awoke before the sun, the bitter tang of Elara's willow-root infusion still on his tongue. The throbbing in his arm and ankle had subsided to a dull, manageable ache, a physical reminder of his mortality that he welcomed. Pain was a sharpener; it honed the senses.
He did not rise immediately. Instead, he sat cross-legged on the bed, ignoring the protests of his injured ankle, and entered a state of deep meditation. This was not for peace of mind, but for spiritual triage. He turned his senses inward, delving into the ravaged landscape of his own soul. Where his power, the Eternal Blizzard, should have been a vast, placid sea of crystalline energy, it was now a shattered ice field. The battle with the Lich and the final, desperate casting of the Cuneus Aeternus had not just drained him; it had created fractures, micro-fissures in the very fabric of his being.
With intense concentration, he began the arduous process of repair. He drew upon the faint trickle of returning energy, not to form weapons, but to perform a delicate, internal surgery. He guided the nascent cold along the fissure lines, like a smith pouring molten metal into a crack. The process was agonizing. Every time a spiritual connection was reforged, a wave of chilling pain, far worse than any physical wound, washed over him. It was the feeling of frostbite on the soul. But he persevered, gritting his teeth against the silent screams of his own spirit, his breath pluming in the cold air of the room as his innate power manifested. By the time the first true rays of sunlight pierced the window, he was drenched in sweat, but the chaotic, shattered feeling within him had been replaced by a fragile, newly-formed whole. He was far from powerful, but he was no longer broken.
He rose, using his walking stick, and found a fresh set of clothes laid out for him—simple woolen trousers and a linen tunic, mended and clean. He dressed slowly, his movements stiff. His own armor lay in the corner, cleaned and oiled. He noted with a professional's eye that the leather had been treated, the few dents in the pauldrons carefully hammered out. Gregor's work, no doubt. A soldier's respect.
His first stop was the great hall, where Elian and Gregor were waiting for him, hunched over a large table upon which several scrolls and pieces of parchment were unrolled. These were the maps he had requested.
"They are not much," Elian said apologetically. "This is a forgotten corner of the world. Most of these are generations old, drawn by hunters and prospectors."
Valerius waved off the apology, his eyes already scanning the crude drawings. He saw the familiar outlines of the valley, the river, the forest. But his focus was on the mountains. He saw the peak where the fortress had stood, marked on one old map with a simple skull and the word "CURSED." He traced the lines of the ridges, the shadowed valleys, the paths that led nowhere.
"This is not a map of terrain," he murmured, more to himself than to them. "It is a map of fear."
He noticed how paths would veer away from certain areas for no apparent geological reason. He saw how prospectors' claims would cluster in one region, while an adjacent, seemingly identical area, was left completely untouched. He was not looking for paths; he was looking for patterns. He was looking for the subtle geography of magic.
"Ley lines," he said, his finger tracing a path between three oddly untouched valleys. "Streams of telluric energy. Your fortress was not built there by accident. It was built on a confluence, a place where the world's magical energies pool. The Lich used it as a battery."
Gregor looked at the map, then back at Valerius, his brow furrowed. "I just see rocks and trees."
"Because that is all you have been trained to see," Valerius replied, not unkindly. "I was trained to see the skeleton beneath the skin of the world." He pointed to a spot on the map, a secondary peak a few miles north of the fortress's remains. "And the energy flows from here. The source of the confluence. If I were trying to hide something of immense power, something I wanted to nurture with that energy but keep separate from my main stronghold… I would place it there."
"The scouts didn't go that far," Gregor admitted. "There's nothing there but jagged rock and ice."
"Exactly," Valerius said. His new destination was set. He was not going back to the rubble. He was going to the source.
His next preparations were more practical. He handed Gregor a list. It was short and peculiar. It contained requests for items that made the captain raise an eyebrow: two sacks of pure rock salt, a pouch of finely ground silver dust, a bundle of dried rowan branches, and all the iron filings their blacksmith could spare.
"Salt and iron?" Gregor questioned. "What are you planning to do, season the beast to death?"
"Salt creates barriers against ethereal entities. Iron disrupts magical fields. Silver burns that which is unholy. Rowan wood wards off malevolent spirits," Valerius explained curtly. "These are not weapons. They are tools. The book is not a creature to be fought with a sword. It is a font of corruption. I intend to isolate it, to contain it before I can decide how to destroy it."
The sheer, confident expertise in his voice silenced Gregor's questions. Here was the battlemage in his element, the scholar of the arcane preparing for his true work. Gregor departed with a new understanding, realizing the battle to come would be one of intellect and will as much as strength.
It was Elara who brought him the requested items throughout the day. She arrived first with the herbs and silver dust, her hands carefully holding the small pouches.
"The apothecary was confused by your request for wolfsbane and nightshade," she said, her expression curious. "He said they are poisons."
"All things are poison, and all things are medicine. It is the dose and the intent that matters," Valerius said, taking the pouches and inspecting their contents with a critical eye. "These are for bindings. Their toxic properties can be used to create sigils that attack the very essence of a magical construct."
He could feel her watching him as he worked at a small table, grinding the salt with a pestle and mortar, mixing in the silver dust and iron filings to create a dull, greyish powder. Her presence was a quiet counterpoint to his intense focus.
"You know a great deal about such things," she observed.
"I have made it my life's study," he replied without looking up.
"Was it… was it Isolde who taught you?" she asked, her voice tentative, almost fearful of overstepping.
His hands stilled. He had not expected her to bring up the name again. He had offered it in a moment of weakness, a crack in his armor, and now she was gently probing that crack. He found he was not angry. Just… tired.
"No," he said, his voice flat. He resumed his grinding. "Isolde was my Queen. She was a master of statecraft and strategy, not sigils and spirits. My tutor was an old, bitter man named Kael. He believed the only way to defeat the darkness was to understand it so intimately that you risked becoming it. He saw magic not as a gift, but as a cancer that required constant, painful treatment to control."
"He sounds like a dreadful teacher," Elara said softly.
"He was the best there was," Valerius stated. "He kept me alive. He taught me that power must be chained, disciplined, and respected. Unfettered power, whether it is the light of a thousand suns or the darkness of an endless void, consumes everything. Including its wielder."
He looked up at her then, his blue eyes holding the weight of that lesson. "Your gift, your healing. You give of yourself to mend others. Do you not feel the cost? The drain on your own life force?"
She seemed taken aback by his question. "I… I suppose so. I feel tired after a long day. But it is a good kind of tired. It is the satisfaction of having helped."
"Be careful, Elara," he warned, his voice low. "Kindness is a flame. It can warm many, but it can also consume the one who carries it, leaving nothing but ash. Build your own walls. Do not give so much of yourself that there is nothing left."
It was the closest he had ever come to offering genuine advice, to showing concern for another. The words felt strange in his own mouth. He turned back to his work, the conversation over. But he knew she was still there, contemplating his words, a new line of thought opened between them.
The rest of the day was a montage of preparation. He meticulously sharpened his own steel sword, the motions rhythmic and meditative. He packed his supplies, portioning the warding powders into small leather pouches. The villagers, hearing of his impending departure, began to leave small tokens outside his door. It started with a finely crafted sharpening stone from the blacksmith. Then came a small loaf of dark, dense bread, still warm. A child, no older than five, darted up and left a small, crudely carved wooden bird at the threshold before running away, a good luck charm.
Each small gift was a weight upon his soul. He was used to being paid in cold, hard coin. This currency of gratitude, of community, was a much heavier burden. He was no hero. He was an exterminator. A specialist. Yet these people looked at him and saw hope. He found the disconnect deeply unsettling.
As twilight began to paint the sky in shades of bruised purple and orange, he was ready. He stood in the stables beside Boreas, now fully clad in his dark leather armor. The wounds on his body were bound, his supplies were packed, his mind was sharp, and his soul was a newly-frozen sheet of ice, fragile but whole.
Elara found him there, just as he was tightening the last strap on Boreas's saddle. She wasn't carrying any infusions or supplies this time. She simply stood in the doorway of the stable, a silhouette against the dying light.
"All of Oakhaven prays for your safe return," she said.
"Tell them not to waste their prayers," he replied, turning to face her. "Pray for a cold, clear night and a stable mountain. Those are of more practical use to me."
She smiled sadly, a familiar expression now. "You can deflect with your words as well as you do with your magic. But I know you, Valerius. I have seen the man beneath the ice."
She stepped forward and held out her hand. In her palm lay a small, smooth, white stone, a river rock polished by years of flowing water. It was utterly plain.
"What is this?" he asked.
"When I was a little girl," she began, her voice soft and steady, "my mother told me that some stones hold memories. That if you hold it tight when you feel warmth or happiness, it will remember for you. And when you are lost in the cold and the dark, you can hold it again, and it will give that warmth back to you." She pressed the stone into his gauntleted hand. His large, leather-clad fingers dwarfed it. "This stone has no memories yet. It is for you to fill. Find a moment, Valerius. Even just one. A moment of sun on your face, the satisfaction of a puzzle solved, the view from a conquered peak. Give it one good memory. So you have something to hold onto when the darkness returns."
He looked down at the simple white stone in his hand. It was an absurdly sentimental gesture. It was illogical, impractical, and useless in a fight. It was, he realized, the most precious gift he had ever been given.
He curled his fingers around it, the smooth stone cool against his leather glove. He could feel its potential, its quiet, empty promise. For a man whose past was a ruin and whose future was a battlefield, the idea of creating a single, good memory felt like an impossible, terrifying task.
"Elara…" he began, his voice rough with an emotion he could not name.
"Be safe," she interrupted, her voice thick with unshed tears. She did not wait for a reply. She turned and walked away, disappearing into the twilight of the village.
Valerius stood for a long time, the white stone clutched in his hand. He then carefully placed it inside a small, secure pouch on his belt, separate from the salt and the silver and the iron. A tool of a different sort.
He mounted Boreas, the familiar creak of leather a comfort. He took one last look at the village of Oakhaven, at the warm lights beginning to glow in the windows, a small island of life in a vast, dark wilderness. He had arrived as a mercenary hired to solve a problem. He was leaving as something else. He was no hero, but he was no longer just a scalpel for hire. He was a man with a purpose, a past he was atoning for, and, perhaps, a single good memory yet to make.
With a gentle nudge of his heels, he turned Boreas away from the warmth and the light, and rode north, back towards the cold, waiting silence of the mountain.