QUICK RECAP-
Trimat and the voidcaster clash in an earth-shaking duel, their powers rewriting reality itself.
Just as their blades meet at each other's throats, they lower weapons—revealing themselves as old allies.
The voidcaster is Greton the Nightmare, master of illusions.
His brutal ambush was a test; no one died. When James protests, Greton chillingly explains: "You needed fear to survive."
The chapter ends with a gut-punch—Greton declares James must die, as the Abyssal Plague within him has awakened, not merely returned.
Themes: Illusion vs. truth, the weight of legacy, and the cost of power.
-RECAP ENDS
"You have to die."
Greton's words hung like dust caught mid-collapse.
His scythe pointed toward James—cold, final, ancient.
The forest didn't move.
The carriage waited.
Arthur's grip tightened.
Adam reached forward instinctively.
Ronald tried to stand again.
James's eyes didn't blink. But rage stirred at the edges of cold shock.
Then—
Trimat stepped between them.
"Not today."
Greton's blade didn't lower.
"Then tomorrow?"
Trimat didn't flinch.
"No," he said.
"Not ever."
Greton tilted his head. "Even you must see—he's the plague reborn."
"He's not just carrying it," he whispered. "He is it."
James clenched his fists.
Arthur half-stepped between the carriage door and the tension.
Trimat gestured once with his palm—soft wind gathering.
"I need a moment," he said to the group.
Greton nodded once.
Then followed.
They moved twenty paces off—toward the shadow curve of the frostpath ridge.
Dead trees leaned but didn't listen.
Greton sat on a carved rock.
Trimat stood.
His sword dissolved—wind scattering like sleep interrupted.
"You haven't changed," Greton said.
"Still dramatic."
Trimat looked upward.
"No," he replied.
"Just patient."
Greton's scythe hovered beside him.
"Then explain."
Trimat took a breath.
"James carries the plague, yes. But not by ambition."
"Not by will."
"It is a curse stitched into blood—written long before his breath became voice."
Greton frowned. "That curse erases cities."
Trimat nodded slowly.
"And yet one voice can steer floods."
Greton gripped his knees.
"Don't philosophize this, Trim. Death doesn't care for metaphor."
Trimat stepped closer.
"You remember Instripo's final breath."
Greton froze.
Wind whispered.
Trimat's voice fell.
"You remember what he said."
Greton nodded. Once.
Trimat continued.
"When he collapsed in my arms—bones cracked from cast overload—his breath weak, vision half-gone…"
"…he whispered to me."
'The Ice Plague you see me as today—'
'—one day, you will see as your last hope.'
Greton didn't respond.
Trimat waited.
The wind circled his boots.
"He was mad," Greton finally said.
"No," Trimat replied. "He was mourning."
"The plague doesn't want balance," Greton argued.
"But James does," Trimat said.
"That boy stood between you and a kingdom's grief—and didn't kneel."
"He doesn't want power."
"But he owns the one burden that might still matter."
Greton lifted his scythe slightly.
It didn't shimmer.
It just waited.
"And what if he breaks?" Greton whispered.
"What if the plague eats the hope?"
Trimat looked back toward the carriage.
James still sat.
Alone.
Staring at nothing.
"Then I'll break him myself."
"But he deserves time."
Greton studied him.
Then nodded.
"Time, then."
They walked back together.
Quiet.
No tension.
Just consequence held at bay.
The group stood waiting—unsure whether to speak or raise shields again.
Arthur stepped forward.
Sir Ronald grunted, still bandaged, voice strained.
"Why were you after us, Greton?" he asked.
Greton didn't pause.
"Commissioned assignment."
Arthur stiffened.
Greton continued.
"Private contract."
"Assigned by Regal Chambers."
"Under Dentrian law's veil."
"Filed through back channels."
He looked toward James again.
"The file said: Ice Plague confirmed."
"No other phrasing."
Ronald's eyes widened.
"You're part of the Assassin Reid Order…"
Greton nodded.
"I lead it."
Adam stepped forward. "Then why come personally?"
Greton didn't look away.
"I wanted to be sure."
"No mistake. No politics."
"Just certainty."
His scythe lowered again.
No threat.
Just preparation.
James finally spoke.
His voice thin.
"You were going to kill me for a report?"
Greton nodded. "Yes."
James exhaled, cold aura spinning slightly.
"And now?"
Greton blinked.
"Now, you live."
"But only because someone reminded me—"
"—that curses don't choose heroes."
James didn't reply.
Trimat closed his eyes.
Arthur nodded faintly.
Ronald leaned back against the wheel.
Adam whispered, "This day's cost keeps rising."
The carriage remained whole.
The forest didn't crack again.
But somewhere behind the frostpath—
Legacy watched.
And fate waited to pick sides.
The wheels churned against flattened snow.
Two days into the royal road, and the forest had long faded behind bare ridgelines and open skies. The wind softened. The mountains that loomed yesterday turned silhouettes in reverse.
The capital waited.
Its border still unseen, but its gravity already pulling.
Inside the carriage, Ronald lay across the velvet-lined bench, left leg bandaged, shoulder still numb, ribs wrapped by Trimat's woven spellcloth.
The pain was less now. But clarity, when it struck, was crueler than wounds.
Across from him, Arthur sat—sword sheathed, armor clasped neat once more, but face still bruised.
James stared out the right window, silent as a prayer never answered.
Adam rode up front beside the coachman, fingers fidgeting at his waistblade. Greton rode behind them—on horseback now—his black cloak signaling no allegiance, only arrival.
He hadn't left.
Not by mercy, not by guilt.
Greton remained because he had private matters with the King.
That's how Trimat had phrased it.
No one argued.
Because no one ever argued with Greton unless they had an army behind them.
Ronald shifted.
His breath sharpened against the woven linen.
He turned toward Arthur and muttered:
"Was it him?"
Arthur raised an eyebrow.
"Him?"
Ronald's voice found grit.
"The one from Hollow Bastion. The man who declared James's sentence—public, final, and without trial."
Adam leaned slightly from the front.
Arthur nodded once. Slowly.
"Yes," Arthur said.
"The same."
Adam added, "Regal Chambers. A minister under Duke Goldsen. Official arm of the central court."
Ronald's jaw clenched.
"And his son—"
"Noah Chambers," Arthur confirmed. "Entitled. Cruel. Spoiled from birth and proud of it."
James didn't look away from the window.
But the frost gathered near his boots.
Greton's voice cut through.
He rode close enough to hear everything.
"Noah was never the danger. His father was."
"Regal Chambers holds sway. The boy plays games—but the man builds verdicts."
Arthur didn't reply.
Ronald nodded faintly.
"They wanted the plague to die," he said.
Greton answered plainly.
"They wanted the name to die."
Adam frowned. "But they want the story to live. One they control."
James's voice, soft:
"Then let's rewrite it."
Silence.
The carriage pressed forward.
No beasts attacked.
No ambushes from frost-wanderers or rogue pockets of rebel kingdoms.
Just road.
Stone-laced with royal sealmarks every mile.
Gold-thread symbols shone on the path's edge.
Proof that the Duke's assistance carried weight even here.
Three days this ride should've taken.
It had taken half that.
Midday curved into foglight.
And then—
The border of the capital.
Not just walls.
But gates.
Two massive spires stretched upward—etched with the crest of House Leontius: a lion curled around a constellation of thirteen stars.
Guards lined the gate—twenty, maybe more.
Not in armor, but robes of the Kingdom's Civil Archive.
These were not warriors.
They were watchers.
One stepped forward.
Ronald grunted upright, half-reaching for his badge.
Greton moved first.
"No need."
He flashed a seal.
Black metal.
No crest.
Just flame—sharp at its edges, shaped like twin daggers dancing.
The symbol of the Assassin Reid Order.
Half the watchers bowed.
The rest blinked and lowered spears.
Arthur whispered, "That's one way to skip lines."
Ronald chuckled despite pain.
James stepped from the carriage with Trimat.
No one stopped him.
Because Ronald walked beside them.
Though limping, though bruised—
His cloak bore the royal rose.
And that was enough.
The gate opened.
Not just for entry.
But because this was permission—
And caution.
The capital rose in arcs.
Not as chaos, but geometry.
Stone plazas bent into garden crescents.
Libraries towered beside forge-halls.
And above it all—
The Palace of Twelve Whirls.
Named after the first monarch's final dying dream.
It shimmered above the skyline like memory suspended.
They didn't enter it yet.
The Duke's quarters waited beside the southern colonnade.
Their carriage turned east.
Greton dismounted.
Walked beside Arthur now.
The silence stayed.
But it wasn't tense.
Just layered.
Like words waiting for the right speaker.
They passed through the rose-gilded courtyard and into the final stretch toward the guest wing.
Then, inside the carriage—still moving slowly across frost-worn stone—
Ronald stirred.
His voice low.
Threaded with pain and memory.
"I keep seeing his face."
Arthur tilted his head.
"Regal?"
Ronald nodded.
"At the Bastion, that man didn't hesitate. It wasn't personal. It was like he'd already buried James in his mind."
Adam's voice, drifting from the front:
"Because to him, James is a stain."
"A walking contradiction."
"A reminder that control isn't absolute."
Arthur looked at James.
But James didn't move.
Only his breath changed.
Just slightly.
Trimat turned from his seat.
Then said, quietly:
"It's time, kiddo."
James turned to him.
Trimat's eyes weren't judging.
Just calling.
"Prove why you must live."
James didn't answer at first.
But something stirred.
Not voice.
Not memory.
But knowing.
The frost at his boots shimmered.
Then cracked.
Not in violence.
In growth.
He clenched his fists.
The air didn't freeze.
But it shifted.
Like winter finally choosing where to stay.
His whisper came next.
Barely audible.
But firm.
"I will live."
And somewhere deep—
Somewhere not quite him, not quite other—
A voice echoed.
From beneath skin, soul, scar, and curse.
A voice familiar and unfamiliar.
Not just echo.
But agreement.
Not possession.
But partnership.
"We will live."
The others didn't hear it.
But James did.
And he knew—
The fight was no longer his alone.
And the story?
It had just rewritten its beginning.
**"When Fate Hesitates,
Memory Commands"**
End of Chapter-23
To Be Continued