Chapter 107 (Part I): The Archmage's Farewell
The Letter from the Abyss
The parchment crinkled in Bennett's trembling hands, its edges singed from the green flames that had summoned it into existence. Gandolphus's spidery script coiled across the page like secrets etched in smoke:
Dear Bennett,
If you're reading this, I've either died heroically or embarrassingly—hopefully the former. Let's not dwell on the how. More importantly, you're alive. And that means the world hasn't ended… yet.
You hate destiny, don't you? I saw it in your eyes every time I mentioned Aragon's name. But here's the rub, boy: Destiny is a river. You can't stop it, but you can damn well steer the boat. You've got the makings of a captain, but your oars are splintered. Too much cleverness, not enough grit. That's why I rode you hard. Pity I won't be around to see you curse my ghost for it.
Now, about magic. You're a mess. Brilliant, but a mess. Your foundation? Shoddier than a goblin's shack. No proper teacher, no discipline—just scraps pilfered from books. Fix that. Go to Flying Horse Gorge on the June full moon. Light the green vial's smoke. Someone… interesting will find you. He's vile, brilliant, and owes me a favor. Learn from him. And Bennett—don't die. It'd ruin my legacy.
P.S. Burn this after. The map's on the back. Oh, and be kind to Vivienne. She's softer than she looks.
—G
Bennett's throat tightened. The old bastard's voice seemed to linger in the ink—equal parts mocking and fond.
The Weight of Inheritance
The hidden map glowed under Bennett's alchemical spray, its lines snaking toward a mountain peak crowned with starlight. Starfire Spire—Gandolphus's sanctum. The archmage's final gifts lay there: tomes of celestial magic, relics humming with forgotten power… and Vivienne.
"Treat her well."
He stared at the flickering campfire. Vivienne—sweet, stammering Vivienne, who'd blushed when he'd first stolen a kiss—waiting alone in some remote hut, unaware her master was ash. Guilt curdled in his gut.
When the flames consumed the letter, Bennett didn't flinch. The heat felt like Gandolphus's hand on his shoulder—one last push.
Masks and Metamorphosis
By dawn, the party stood transformed:
Hussein
The once-knight now resembled a mercenary from the barbaric Frostfang tribes. A leather eyepatch hid his ruined left eye; black dye stained his hair raven-dark. Tribal runes (painted with berry juice) snaked down his arms. "Call me Karg," he growled, hefting a double-headed axe "borrowed" from a treeant.
Medusa
"Nyx," the serpent queen declared, her veils swapped for a traveler's cloak. "A name from human ballads. Suitable, no?" Her hair coiled beneath a silver net—a wedding gift from a long-dead elven prince, she claimed.
Grubbs (Goblin)
The rat-mage shrank to palm-size, nestled in Bennett's hood. "Squeak twice for danger," Bennett instructed. Grubbs responded by nibbling his ear.
QQ
The penguin-like "divine beast" waddled mournfully. "No talking," Bennett warned. QQ retaliated by regurgitating a fish onto his boot.
Bennett
He'd aged a decade in days. The boyish glint in his eyes had hardened to flint. When Hussein caught him studying the northern stars, he merely said, "Gandolphus left… instructions."
The Road South
The checkpoint loomed—a fortress of sharpened logs manned by triple the guards. Wanted posters flapped in the wind, Hussein's likeness glaring beneath the word TRAITOR.
"Papers," a sergeant barked.
Bennett stepped forward, all naive charm. "Sir! We're herb traders from Frosthold! Our caravan was ambushed by ice wolves, but Saint Aragon's grace led us here!"
The guard squinted at "Karg," whose axe still dripped wolf blood. "That one's no trader."
"Oh, him?" Bennett laughed nervously. "Our… muscle. Frosthold's temples hire reformed bandits now. Bishop's decree!"
A coin purse changed hands. The sergeant smirked. "Move along, zealots."
As they passed, QQ let out a muffled quack. Bennett kicked him.
Whispers of the Hunted
That night, around a smuggler's fire, hushed voices rose:
"The Guild's sealed the borders," Grubbs squeaked, eavesdropping via rat spies. "Every mage from here to the capital's hunting you, Bennett. They say Gandolphus hid something… big."
Nyx (né Medusa) traced a rune in the snow. "The stars shift. Enemies converge."
Hussein—Karg—cleaned his axe. "Let them come. I owe the Goldscale a debt."
Bennett said nothing. The weight of the map burned against his chest. Somewhere north, starlight waited. So did answers.
And Vivienne.
Chapter 107 (Part II): The Price of Shadows
The Scarlet Brand
The world beyond the Frozen Wastes had become a tapestry of whispers. Hussein's name—now synonymous with "traitor"—blazed across tavern walls and royal decrees. Stormwind Garrison's patrols swarmed like hornets, their tripled numbers a performative gesture. As if a hundred spearmen could cage a lion, Bennett mused bitterly.
The border checkpoint loomed, its banners emblazoned with the twin sigils of the Empire and the Temple. Bennett's fingers tightened around Gandolphus's expired writ, its century-old seal still faintly luminescent. The garrison captain squinted at the parchment, then at Bennett's frostbitten face.
"You're the one who went in with the old mage," the man grunted, eyeing Hussein's bandaged visage and Medusa's veiled stillness. "Temple's been asking questions. But a writ's a writ." His blade tapped the permit. "Even a dead man's."
As they passed, Bennett caught the captain's signal to a scout. Hooves thundered southward—a rider bearing news: The Ghost of the North has returned.
Copper and Blood
Frostpine Hollow, the last outpost before civilization, stank of pine resin and desperation. Bennett haggled over frostwolf cores, the merchant's beady eyes narrowing at his aristocratic vowels.
"Fifty gold for six mid-tier cores? You'd rob your own mother," Bennett sneered, channeling his inner dockside hustler.
"Forty, and I'll throw in a prayer to the Temple for your soul," the man retorted, nodding at Hussein's temple-branded wanted poster.
They settled on forty-five.
The weaponsmith proved easier prey. Twin scimitars—"Salvatari desert-steel!" the man lied—were bartered for a handful of silver. Hussein tested their balance, the blades whirling in arcs that sang of forgotten duels. No longer a knight, Bennett thought. A mercenary. A ghost.
When the last coin vanished for nags more bone than horse, Bennett glared at their "steeds." "They'll collapse before the plains."
Medusa stroked her mount's mangy mane. "All things die. Some sooner."
The Road Home
Southward they rode, the icy trails giving way to mud-slick paths. QQ squawked indignantly from his luggage crate, while Grubbs's whiskers twitched through airholes.
Bennett's mind churned—Joanna's pirate-hunting fleet, the coastal trade routes, the vaults beneath Castle Roland. His empire of shadows, built on smuggled silks and whispered secrets, now hung in the balance. That madwoman will torch the ports if I'm late.
A thunderous rumble shattered his thoughts.
Hussein wheeled his horse, scimitars flashing. "Cavalry. A hundred. No—more."
The horizon birthed a silver tide: Stormwind's elite, their lances catching the weak winter sun. Above them, white-robed Temple mages rode the winds, their staves crackling with censure.
"Play meek," Bennett hissed, dismounting. "Medusa, veil your hair. Hussein, slouch."
The vanguard surged past—a tempest of clinking mail and judgmental glares. A Temple knight slowed, his helm's slit lingering on Hussein's scarred hands.
"You." The voice boomed with holy authority. "Remove your eyepatch."
Stormwind's Gambit
Hussein's fingers brushed steel. Bennett stepped forward, all feigned awe. "Honored knight! We're but humble fur traders! My brother's eye was lost to a frost bear—a tragic tale!"
The knight's mount snorted. "Your 'brother' carries blades worth a duke's ransom."
Medusa's veil fluttered. A tendril of hair slipped free, its scales glinting.
The mages descended, their leader's beard frost-white. "Roland's whelp and the Serpent Queen. How quaint." Staves flared. "Surrender the traitor, boy. The Temple's mercy is finite."
Bennett's smile turned feral. "So is my patience."
The Cloak of Zephyrs billowed as he soared, green flames spiraling from his palms. Hussein's scimitars became a silver hurricane, carving through sanctified plate. Medusa's veil fell, her gaze freezing a charging phalanx mid-stride—stone soldiers toppling like chess pieces.
Yet the true horror emerged from the luggage: QQ waddled forth, his beak gaping in a soundless shriek. The earth itself recoiled. Horses reared; mages faltered. The penguin's cry birthed a vortex, swallowing arrows and spells alike.
"What is that thing?!" a knight screamed.
"A gift from Aragon!" Bennett laughed, hurling a vial of Everfrost. "Compliments of Roland!"
The Cost of Shadows
Dawn found them amidst scorched pines, the Stormwind battalion retreating north. Medusa's hair lay dormant, its magic spent. Hussein knelt beside a fallen knight—barely eighteen, his throat slit by a panicked comrade.
"We can't go to the plains," Bennett said, staring at the boy's Imperial insignia. "They'll burn Roland lands to flush us out."
Hussein cleaned his blades on Temple banners. "Then we vanish. Let the world think us wraiths."
Medusa cradled QQ, the creature now shrunken and frail. "He will need the sea," she murmured. "The old waters heal his kind."
Bennett gazed south, where his empire awaited. Joanna will have to wait. A pirate queen's better than a dead one.
As they turned east toward the uncharted coasts, a single rider approached—a girl on a donkey, her cloak emblazoned with Roland's crest.
"Lord Bennett!" she panted, thrusting a sealed scroll. "From the docks! Lady Joanna said… said to burn it after."
The message bore three words:
Ships ready. Hunt begins.
Chapter 108: Storm and Sanctuary
The Iron Tide
A thousand riders thundered across the frosted plains, their ash-gray cloaks snapping like war banners. Bennett's blood chilled—not at their numbers, but at their insignia. Stormwind Legion. Not the ragged border patrols, but the silver-helmed elite, their breastplates etched with the crossed sabers of House Roland's oldest allies.
The lead knight spurred forward, his crimson cloak a slash of blood against snow. "Identify yourselves!" His voice boomed with the cadence of parade grounds and pyres. "By order of the Northern Warden, we seek Bennett of House Roland!"
Bennett's hand drifted toward his concealed dagger. Traps come cloaked in steel or silk. Which is this?
Then came the clatter of hooves from the flank—a skeletal figure in mageweave robes, eyes like tarnished coins. Clarke. The man who'd once declared him "magic's stillborn heir."
"Bennett!" Clarke's smile revealed teeth stained by decades of alchemical fumes. "How the runt has grown! Last I saw you, you were sobbing over a spilled potion."
Webs of Iron and Ice
The truth unfolded over bitter campfire wine. Gandolphus's expired permit had lit a fuse across empires. The Mage Guild, desperate to unravel the old wizard's final hours. The Stormwind Legion, honoring ancient debts to House Roland. And Clarke, hungry for the guildmaster's vacant seat.
"Your father's influence reaches far," rumbled Andrei, the crimson-cloaked commander, tossing a wolf's femur to his warhound. "Even frozen hells answer to Roland gold."
Bennett studied the man—a northern brute carved from glacier stone. His every gesture screamed loyalty-for-sale. Yet the real danger sat sipping mulled wine: Clarke, whose gaze lingered too long on Medusa's veiled face, on Hussein's calloused swordsman's hands.
He knows, Bennett realized. Or suspects.
Nightfall brought them to Fort Kroll, its walls patched with siege scars. The local garrison fawned like hounds, clearing the finest inn for "Lord Roland's heir." Bennett almost laughed. Heir to what? A fugitive's shadow?
Serpents in the Hearth
Dinner became a dance of poisoned courtesies. Clarke prodded between courses.
"Gandolphus's final moments—did he speak of the Codex Arcanum? The guild's archives suggest..."
"His last words were about the soup," Bennett deadpanned. "Too much pepper, he said."
Clarke's smile tightened. Across the table, Hussein methodically dissected his pheasant, the knife work too precise for a "third-rate mercenary." Medusa sipped broth through her veil, each movement a sonnet of lethal grace.
The explosion came not from the mage's temper, but the door.
"Sanctuary for the Devout!" roared a voice drenched in holy arrogance.
Temple knights flooded the hall, their white tabards smeared with road filth. The leader—a bull-necked zealot—kicked aside a serving boy. "Out! This inn is requisitioned for His Radiance's servants!"
The garrison captain rose, quivering with misplaced valor. "You trespass on military grounds!"
Bennett leaned back, savoring the chaos. Let the vipers bite each other.
Gods and Gambits
Clarke's whisper cut through the clamor. "The Temple seeks something. Or someone." His gray eyes flicked to Hussein. "Your 'mercenary' reeks of Roaring Plains steel. Odd, for a man claiming northern birth."
Medusa's veil shifted. A single golden scale glinted at her throat.
Outside, the Temple's "humble servants" began dragging travelers into the snow. A priestess in opal robes swept past, her entourage chanting hymns to drown the protests.
Hussein's hand found his scimitar. Bennett shook his head infinitesimally. Not yet.
The priestess paused, her gaze locking on Medusa. "You." Her voice honeyed with threat. "Remove that veil. The Light demands purity in its presence."
Bennett rose, green fire coiling around his boot soles. "The Light should learn to knock."
Clarke's staff glowed azure. "Stand down, Temple dog. This one's under Mage Guild protection."
Steel hissed. Prayers became curses. And in the shadows, Medusa's hair began to writhe.
Frost and Flame
Chaos erupted in divine hues. Temple paladins charged, only to freeze mid-swing—Clarke's paralysis hex snapping bones as momentum betrayed them. The inn's oak beams groaned under conflicting magics: ice shards from the guild mages, searing light from the priests.
Hussein moved like winter's breath, his "rustic" blades shearing through sanctified mail. Each kill was art—a slit throat here, a severed tendon there. No wasted motion. No mercy.
The priestess screamed, her holy aura flaring. "Heretic! You harbor the Marked One! The Serpent Queen's taint—"
Medusa's veil fell.
For one heartbeat, the world held its breath. Golden eyes. Hair of living jade. The priestess's censer clattered to the floor.
"Gorgon!"
Bennett's firebolt silenced her. The body collapsed, robes smoldering.
Clarke stared, triumph and terror warring in his face. "You… you've been traveling with that?"
"Problem?" Bennett kicked aside a charred hymnal. "She hates Temple hymns too."
The Price of Shadows
Dawn found the inn a scorched husk. The Temple forces had retreated, bearing their dead. Clarke paced, his earlier bravado crumbling.
"The guildmaster will have my head! Harboring a gorgon? A heretic?"
"Then don't tell him," Bennett said simply.
Clarke's laugh bordered on hysterical. "You think this stays buried? That priestess recognized her! By nightfall, every bishop from here to the capital—"
"Let them come." Hussein cleaned his blades with Temple sanctity oil. "We've outrun death before."
Andrei's men arrived at noon, their earlier warmth replaced by wary discipline. The Stormwind commander avoided Medusa's gaze. "The Legion's honor is satisfied. Our roads part here."
As the steel tide retreated north, Clarke gripped Bennett's arm. "The guildmaster's questions—what do I tell him?"
"Truth's overrated." Bennett tossed him Gandolphus's charred journal. "Give him this. Say we perished in an avalanche."
"And you?"
The wind carried Bennett's smile southward. "Ghosts don't need roads."