I walked out of the Count's study feeling like I'd just survived a gravitational collapse. The oppressive weight of my father's presence lifted the moment the heavy oak door thudded shut behind me, and I had to physically stop and lean against the cold stone wall, dragging in a breath that didn't feel like it was being rationed.
I had won. The thought was so staggering, so completely alien to everything I knew about the original Lancelot's life, that I almost laughed. I had faced the wolf in his den and walked out with his prize.
But as I began the long walk back to my own quarters, the initial adrenaline of the confrontation gave way to a different, far more profound emotion. It was a wave of pure, unadulterated joy.
It wasn't just about gaining access to the training chamber. It was about the month. Thirty days of guaranteed, uninterrupted silence. For the first time since waking up in this nightmare, I felt like I could breathe. The plot, the relentless, suffocating script of The Crimson Dragon's Lament, was on pause. For one month, I didn't have to worry about which one of my future allies was scheduled to die next. I didn't have to stress about the Void Cult's insidious plans or my brothers' wary glares. I didn't have to carry the crushing weight of the Zenith's impending tragedy.
This month wasn't just for training my body. It was for me. It was my chance to stop being a terrified reader who'd been shoved onto the stage and start becoming the protagonist who could actually rewrite the story. I needed to organize the chaotic library of future knowledge in my head, to turn vague plot points into a concrete battle plan. How do you save a world? Where do you even start? For the first time, I had the time to actually figure that out.
Seraphina was waiting for me when I reached my rooms, her expression a mixture of anxiety and hope. A massive wooden tub steamed in the center of the room, and a set of clean, simple clothes were laid out on the bed.
"The Count…?" she began, her voice barely a whisper.
"He agreed," I said, and the relief that washed over her face was so absolute it was like watching the sun rise.
"Thank the ancestors," she murmured, immediately bustling about. "I've taken the liberty, my lord. You must wash away the filth of that mountain. I'll have a proper meal sent up while you bathe."
"Thank you, Sera," I said, the words feeling hopelessly inadequate. "My brothers… are they here?"
She shook her head, busying herself with a stack of towels. "Lord Damian is with the Western Legion on border patrol, and Lord Elias was summoned to the capital for the seasonal tournament. They are not expected back for several weeks."
A small mercy. I wouldn't have to deal with their brand of disappointed pity just yet.
"I'll be entering the Voidstone Chamber tomorrow morning," I told her. "For a month."
Her hands stilled. "A month? My lord, that place… it is not for the faint of heart. To be so alone…"
"It's what I need," I said, my tone gentle but firm.
She looked at me, her gaze searching, and then she gave a small, resigned nod. "Then I will have everything prepared for you. I will… I will see you in a month, Lord Lancelot." She gave a quick, formal curtsy and slipped out of the room, leaving me alone with the steam and the silence.
The simple act of getting clean felt like a resurrection. As I scrubbed away layers of dirt, grime, and dried blood, it felt like I was washing away the last vestiges of the terrified boy who'd woken up in the dragon's cave. By the time I sank into the impossibly soft feather bed, clean and clothed, I felt more human than I had since my second life began. Sleep, deep and dreamless, claimed me instantly.
I was woken the next morning not by a servant, but by my mother. She was sitting in a chair by my bedside, a sad, gentle smile on her face.
"I heard what you did," she said softly. "Demanding a reward from your father. No one has ever been so brave. Or so foolish."
"It was necessary, Mother."
"I know." She reached out and brushed a lock of dark hair from my forehead. Her touch was hesitant. "This power you've found… it has changed you. Be careful in that chamber, Lancelot. True strength is not just about power, but the wisdom to control it. Do not lose yourself in the dark."
"I won't," I promised.
She leaned in and kissed my forehead. "I am proud of you," she whispered, and the simple words hit me with the force of a physical blow. It was something the original Lancelot had longed to hear his entire life.
An hour later, I stood before it. The entrance to the Voidstone Chamber was deep in the catacombs beneath the fortress keep. It wasn't a grand, ornate gate, but a simple, terrifyingly perfect slab of polished black stone that seemed to drink the torchlight around it. There was no handle, no lock, just a seamless surface of absolute nothing.
Garrick, who had escorted me, stood beside me. "The Count has given the order. One month," he said, his tone still flat, but his eyes held a flicker of something new. Curiosity. "The door will not open until the thirtieth day. Food and water are stocked within. Good luck, my lord."
With a grunt, he and another guard placed their hands on the wall beside the door. They channeled their Aether, and runes I hadn't even seen flared to life. The massive stone slab receded into the wall with a low, grating groan that vibrated through the soles of my feet.
The chamber beyond was not a room. It was an absence. A pocket of pure, silent, unlit darkness. The Aether-rich air of the fortress stopped at its threshold as if hitting a glass wall.
This was it. My sanctuary. My training ground. My war room.
I took one last look at the torchlit corridor behind me, then turned to face the void. With a deep breath, I took the first step over the threshold, and the world fell away behind me. The door began to slide shut, and as the last sliver of light vanished, I was left with only the silence, the darkness, and the steady, powerful thump-THUMP of the engine in my chest.