The Knights Gallant didn't get their names from a rhyming dictionary. They got them by being the kind of men who could look a seven-foot-tall wall of hobgoblin muscle in the eye and not even blink.
The three hobgoblins at the breach didn't just walk in; they claimed the air around them. They were built like heavy-duty refrigerators wrapped in leather and spite, their eyes tracking the room with a tactical coldness that made the regular goblins look like hyperactive toddlers.
"Gallant! Front!" the Captain roared.
It was like watching a machine click into gear. There was no shouting, no panic, just the heavy thud-thud-thud of boots on stone and the metallic snick of shields locking together. A defensive line formed in a heartbeat, white capes fluttering, gold trim gleaming in the lantern light. They weren't just soldiers; they were a wall that had decided to be stubborn.
The Captain stepped through the gap in his own line. He didn't use a shield. He didn't need one. He drew a bastard sword from his back. A heavy, two-handed monster of a blade that looked like it weighed as much as a small horse.
"For the Fief!"
The blade didn't just swing; it ignited. Blue-white lightning crawled across the steel, snapping like a whipped cord. He met the first hobgoblin's cleaver mid-air. The sound wasn't a clank, it was an explosion. Lightning arched into the floor, shattering the stone beneath the hobgoblin's feet, and for a second, the Captain looked less like a man and more like a storm wearing plate armor.
For Alaric, being seven years old in the middle of a medieval riot was mostly just seeing a lot of knees and smelling a lot of dirty leather. Gina was a whirlwind next to him, her three-section staff snapping bones with every clack, but even she couldn't stop the physics of a swarm.
James Silver's brain screamed inside the child's skull. He was a prince, and he was about to be eaten by a guy who hadn't brushed his teeth in three centuries.
And then the captain's voice changed. "Seal it!" he barked.
Gina snapped her head toward the rift, then toward Alaric, her amber eyes widened. "Alaric, no—" she began, because she understood before he did what "seal it" meant.
Inside his mind, Alanor stirred.
This breach cannot remain, Alanor said, voice calm and absolute. They will return with more. They will return with numbers that even griffons and knights cannot hold within these walls.
Alaric swallowed hard. "I—I can't," he whispered aloud. "I'm—"
You cannot, Alanor agreed. But I can. For a moment.
A cold pressure slid through Alaric's skull, not pain. Control.
The next thing he knew, the smooth black basalt lining the breach had stretched, stirring and congealing into a thick mass. Hardening, sealing the breach.
Stone Shape, a Third-Sphere Spell. Thought Alaric.
And then darkness took him.
The world didn't just come back; it slammed into Alaric's face.
The first thing he smelled was lavender. The second thing he felt was the most intense "hangover" of his combined lives. His head was pounding, his mouth felt like it was full of copper wool, and every muscle in his tiny body was twitching like a dying fish.
"Don't try to sit up," a voice said.
It was a soft voice. It was a beautiful voice. And it scared the absolute hell out of him.
Alaric opened his eyes and saw Asimi Ecthellion sitting in a chair by his bed. She looked perfect. Silver hair, metallic eyes, not a single hair out of place. She could of walked off a movie set, but the air around her was heavy. Like the atmosphere before a tornado hits.
"Mother," Alaric croaked. It sounded like he'd been eating glass.
"You cast a Third-Sphere Stone Shape, Alaric," she said, her voice terrifyingly calm. "I watched the reports. I saw the wall you sealed. It's perfect. It's elven. And it's something you shouldn't be able to do for at least another ten or twenty years."
She leaned in, her eyes searching his. Behind his pupils, Alanor, the ghost in the ring, was being very, very quiet. He was hiding in the basement of Alaric's mind, and the boy couldn't blame him.
"Gina is in the guardhouse," Asimi continued. "She failed her duty. She let a seven-year-old child enter a death trap. I should of had her head for it."
"No!" Alaric tried to sit up, but the world spun. "It was me. I... I tricked her. I used the mana to hide."
Asimi's hand reached out, brushing a stray hair from his forehead. Her touch was cool, but her eyes were like steel.
"We are going to talk about that ring, Alaric," she whispered. "And we are going to talk about the man inside you who knows how to 'trick' an Imperial Head Maid. But first... you are going to rest. Because tomorrow, your training begins. And I promise you, it will be much harder than the goblins."
She didn't take the ring. She knew she couldn't.
Alaric closed his eyes, feeling the cold weight of the silver band on his finger. He'd survived the dungeon, but looking at his mother's face, he realized the real game had only just started.
Worth it? James Silver asked himself as he drifted back into the black. Ask me again when my head stops exploding.