The moment we passed through the main gates of the Ashworth estate, I ceased to be a person and became a piece of cargo that had reached its destination. Garrick gave a curt report to the gate commander, his duty fulfilled. The other guards dismounted with the tired indifference of men finishing a long shift, their part in the drama of the third son's foolish adventure officially over.
Only Seraphina remained, her brow furrowed with a concern that seemed to deepen with every step we took into the heart of the fortress. "You should see a physician, my lord," she insisted, her voice a low murmur as a stern-faced butler led us through stone-flagged corridors. "That arm… the way you were favoring it—"
"I'm fine, Sera," I cut her off, perhaps a little too sharply. The truth was, the scorched feeling in my arm from my failed spell was already gone, healed by the relentless, humming energy of the Dragon Heart. But I couldn't exactly tell her that.
The butler, a man whose face seemed permanently fixed in a state of mild disapproval, stopped before a heavy oak door. "The Countess wishes to see you in the west solar. The Count… will see you in his study. Immediately."
The unspoken message was clear. Mother first, for comfort. Then Father, for judgment.
The west solar was a small pocket of warmth in the otherwise spartan fortress. A large fireplace crackled merrily, and the room was filled with plush chairs and intricate tapestries depicting the founding of the Ashworth line. A woman with streaks of silver in her dark hair rose from a chair by the fire. Countess Eleonora Ashworth. My—Lancelot's—mother.
"Lancelot," she breathed, rushing forward. Her hands, soft and warm, cupped my face, her thumbs gently brushing away streaks of grime. Her eyes, the same shade of deep blue as my own, were filled with a genuine, heart-wrenching relief. "Oh, my foolish, foolish boy. We were so worried."
Her power signature was faint, a gentle, passive aura barely at the level of an Awakened. She was a noblewoman, not a warrior. Her embrace was soft and real, and for a terrifying second, I felt the composure I was desperately trying to maintain begin to crack. This was the first truly unconditional affection I had felt since waking up in this world.
"I'm alright, Mother," I managed to say.
She held me at arm's length, her eyes scanning me for injuries. "Your father is furious. He's been… difficult. But seeing you safe will calm him." She squeezed my hands. "Go on. Get it over with."
The butler led me from the solar to another, far more intimidating door at the end of a long, torch-lit hall. He knocked once, a sharp, precise rap. A low, gravelly voice from within commanded, "Enter."
The butler opened the door and stepped aside. I walked in.
The Count's study was a room built for a king of winter. The walls were lined with bookshelves groaning under the weight of histories and military treatises. A massive stone fireplace dominated one wall, but the fire within was a low, sullen glow that offered little warmth. Behind a desk of polished blackwood sat my father, Count Theron Ashworth.
He didn't look up when I entered. He was signing a document with a steady, deliberate hand. But I felt his presence the moment I crossed the threshold. The air grew thick, heavy, as if the pressure in the room had suddenly increased. It was like standing at the base of a mountain that might decide to collapse at any moment. This was the presence of a Grandmaster, a Tier 6. A being whose mastery of Aether was so absolute it passively warped the space around him.
"You have been a profound disappointment," the Count said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in my bones. He still hadn't looked up. "You took household guards on a fool's errand, wasted valuable resources, and brought shame upon this family with your childish quest for power you do not possess."
I stood in the center of the room, the wool cloak Seraphina had given me feeling flimsy and useless against the crushing weight of his aura. My heart—my new heart—beat its steady thump-THUMP, a silent drum against the oppressive silence.
"You are a son of Ashworth," he continued, finally setting down his quill and blotting the ink. "Your place is here, to serve the County in whatever meager capacity you can. Not to die in some forgotten hole because you cannot accept your own limitations."
He finally lifted his head, and his eyes met mine. They were eyes of cold, hard grey, like chips of granite. He expected me to flinch. He expected me to bow my head in shame, to stammer out an apology. That's what the Lancelot from the novel, the boy whose memories were a faint echo in my mind, would have done.
I did not.
I held his gaze. I stood my ground, my back straight, my chin up. It was a small act of defiance, but in this room, it was everything.
A flicker of surprise registered in those cold eyes. He fell silent, his gaze narrowing. For the first time, he wasn't just looking at the idea of his failure of a son; he was truly looking at me. A Grandmaster's senses were leagues beyond a normal person's. I knew, with a sudden, chilling certainty, that he could perceive it. The change. The low, thrumming hum of the draconic mana in my veins, so different from the weak, sputtering Aether signature I'd had before. He might not know what it was, but he could feel that something was there.
The anger in his aura didn't vanish, but it was banked, replaced by a cold, calculating curiosity. The lecture was over. The assessment had begun.
"You went into the dark," he said, his voice devoid of its earlier fury, now a flat, analytical tone. "Did you find what you were looking for?"
The question. It was the exact same line from the book. I remembered the scene perfectly. Lancelot, terrified and overwhelmed, had simply nodded, unable to meet his father's eyes. The Count had sighed, dismissed him, and their relationship had remained frozen in that state of disappointment. The original Lancelot had been too scared to see the truth: this wasn't just a scolding. It was a test. It was the faintest glimmer of a father's hope, hidden beneath layers of harsh pragmatism. 'Did my useless son finally do something to change his fate?'
The boy from the book had failed that test. I would not.
"Yes," I said. My voice was clear and steady, cutting through the heavy silence of the room. I met his gaze without wavering. "I did."
The Count's stony expression didn't change, but I saw a subtle shift in his posture. He leaned forward ever so slightly. He had expected a nod, a mumble. He had not expected an answer.
"I found more than I could have imagined," I continued, pressing the advantage. "But this power… it is new. Unstable. I cannot control it."
I took a deliberate step forward. "My foolish quest, as you call it, has borne fruit. And now, I require a reward to cultivate it."