The morning sun hit my face, and for the first time in months, I didn't flinch. I didn't wake up with a gasp, clutching my chest, my heart racing from a nightmare of Thomas's scream or Leonidas's rage.
I simply opened my eyes.
I lay there for a moment, performing a diagnostic of my own mind. I reached for the anxiety that usually defined my mornings—the fear of exposure, the guilt of my crimes. I found them, but they were not in my chest. They were behind a thick, iron door in the mental fortress I had built. I could see them through the small, barred window of the cell: a writhing, dark mass of panic. But I could not feel them.
I was sitting on the Throne. The room was cool, quiet, and perfectly still.
I rose, dressed, and groomed myself with mechanical efficiency. My reflection in the mirror was no longer a stranger; it was a tool I kept sharp. The gray eyes that stared back were clear and steady.
Today was a workday.
I went to the Verdant Archive early. I didn't go there to research; I went there to forge.
If I wanted Damien to send the Syndicate on a wild goose chase into the mountains, I needed bait. A rumor wasn't enough for a man like him. He needed proof.
I found the book I had been using as a prop: Forged in Stone: The Lost Clans of Ironspine. It was an obscure, dusty tome that likely hadn't been opened in fifty years. Perfect.
I turned to the chapter on the "Stonehammer Clan," a minor dwarven house that had vanished centuries ago. I took out a specialized quill and a pot of ink I had treated with a mild aging-agent—a simple alchemical trick I'd picked up from a first-year textbook.
With a steady hand, I added a single footnote to the bottom of page 204. I mimicked the font and the archaic dialect of the original author perfectly.
"...rumored to have been entrusted with the 'Silver Eye of the Architect' by a human mage of great renown, shortly before the Clan's retreat into the Deep Roads."
"Silver Eye of the Architect." A poetic name for the "Warden's Sigil" I had invented.
I blew on the ink, watching it dry and fade until it looked as old as the rest of the text. I closed the book. The trap was baited.
I went to Damien's quarters at noon.
He was pacing, his energy restless. The "Leonidas victory" high was fading, and his hunger for the next step—the Verboten Archive—was growing.
"Report," he said the moment I entered. No pleasantries.
"I found it," I said. My voice was level, modulated to convey a suppressed excitement I did not feel.
Damien stopped pacing. "You found the Sigil?"
"I found a trail," I corrected. I placed the heavy dwarven tome on his desk and opened it to page 204. I pointed to the footnote.
Damien leaned over, his eyes scanning the text. He read the forged line. His eyes widened.
"The Stonehammer Clan," he whispered. "The Silver Eye... yes. Yes, this fits. Alastair had ties to the north. If he wanted to hide a physical key, where better than with a clan of isolationist dwarves?"
He looked up at me, a feral grin spreading across his face. "This is it, Lucian. Concrete proof."
"It is a lead," I said, maintaining the persona of the cautious scholar. "But the Stonehammer Clan is extinct. They retreated into the 'Deep Roads' beneath the Ironspine Mountains centuries ago. Finding their ruins... it will be an expedition. It will require resources. Manpower. Specialists in subterranean tracking."
I was listing the costs, making the lie expensive.
Damien waved his hand dismissively. "Resources are irrelevant. This is the key to ultimate power. I will contact Lady Vesper immediately. The Syndicate has dig-teams in the north. We will repurpose them."
He walked to his window, looking out toward the distant, snow-capped peaks of the Ironspine range. "It will take time," he muttered. "The mountains are treacherous in winter. But we will find it."
"I estimate three months," I said, offering a timeline. "Minimum."
"Fine," he snapped. "Three months is nothing compared to what lies inside that Archive."
He turned back to me, his expression shifting to one of proprietary pride. "You continue to amaze me, Lucian. Most students would have given up after a week in those archives. You found a needle in a haystack."
"I simply looked where others did not," I replied.
"Indeed." He sat down at his desk and pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment, already beginning to draft his orders to the Syndicate. "You are dismissed for the day. Go. Rest. You've earned a reprieve."
I bowed and left the room.
As I walked down the hallway, I felt... nothing.
In the past, deceiving Damien would have filled me with terror. I would have been sweating, my heart racing, analyzing every word for a mistake. Now? I simply reviewed the interaction like a completed chess move.
Objective achieved. Disinformation planted. Enemy resources diverted.
I had bought myself three months of relative freedom. Three months where Damien's attention would be focused on a hole in the ground hundreds of miles away.
I didn't go to my room to "rest." I went to the practice courtyards.
With Damien distracted, I could focus on the one weakness I still had: my combat ability. The Scribe's Path required a specific mental state to open the door, but once inside, or if I was ever discovered, I needed to be able to fight without relying on trickery.
I found an empty ring. I drew my training sword.
Before, my fighting style was based on fear—the "porcupine" defense, desperate and reactive.
Now, I sat on the Throne in my mind. I looked at the training dummy. I didn't feel the urge to hit it. I simply analyzed its structure. Wooden post. Straw padding. Center of gravity.
I moved.
My strike was not angry. It was efficient. My sword snapped out, a blur of motion, and struck the dummy's neck. I didn't overextend. I didn't waste energy on a follow-through. I struck, and I returned to guard.
Strike. Return. Strike. Return.
I practiced for hours. My movements became robotic, precise. I stripped away the flair, the "noble" flourishes of the Greyfall style, and boiled it down to simple geometry. The shortest distance between two points. The most efficient angle of deflection.
Sweat dripped down my face, but my breathing remained steady, synced to the pulse of the world.
"You fight like a machine."
I stopped, my sword hovering mid-strike. I turned.
Marcus Thorne was leaning against the fence, watching me. He held two wooden practice swords.
"Efficient," he clarified, walking into the ring. "But boring. Where's the passion, Greyfall? Where's the fire that took down Aris?"
"Passion is wasted energy," I said calmly.
Marcus laughed. "Is that right? Well, Lord Vrael says you're a genius, but I want to see if you can actually fence. Care for a spar? Or is your arm still 'tender'?"
He was testing me. Not out of malice, but out of the competitive pecking order of the pack. He wanted to see if the "Guest of Honor" was actually tough, or just lucky.
I looked at him. I analyzed his stance (too wide), his grip (too tight), and his aura (arrogant, eager).
"One match," I said.
He grinned and tossed me the other sword. "First to three hits."
He didn't wait. He lunged, a fast, aggressive thrust aimed at my chest.
I didn't panic. I didn't feel the spike of adrenaline. From the Throne Room of my mind, I watched his arm extend. I saw the telegraph in his shoulder.
I stepped six inches to the left. His blade stabbed empty air.
As he stumbled past, overbalanced by his own eagerness, I flicked my wrist. The tip of my wooden sword tapped him sharply behind the ear.
"One," I said.
Marcus spun around, face red. "Lucky step."
He came again, a flurry of slashes. I parried them. Clack. Clack. Clack. Minimal movement. Just enough to deflect the force. I waited for the gap.
He swung wide for a power blow.
I stepped inside his guard and tapped his ribs.
"Two."
He roared, frustrated now, and swung wildly. I ducked, swept his leg with my foot, and as he fell, I tapped his shoulder.
"Three."
Marcus hit the ground hard. He lay there for a second, staring up at the sky, then looked at me. There was no anger in his eyes. Just shock.
I offered him a hand. He took it, and I pulled him up.
"Spirits, Lucian," he breathed, dusting himself off. "You weren't kidding. That was... cold. I couldn't even touch you."
"You telegraph your lunges," I said simply. "And you rely too much on your reach."
He didn't sneer. He nodded, looking at me with a new kind of respect. Not the fawning sycophancy of the dinner party, but the genuine respect of a warrior who realizes he is outclassed.
"You've changed," he said, shaking his head. "That arm injury really woke something up in you, didn't it?"
"Yes," I said. "It did."
I walked away, leaving him there.
I had secured my position with Damien. I had asserted dominance over his pack. And I had done it all without feeling a single thing.
The Frozen Keep was strong. And inside it, I was invincible.