The north had transformed.
Not overnight. Not dramatically.
But steadily, methodically, like ice forming layer by layer.
Arden stood on the battlements of Frostholm's expanded walls, surveying the changes three years had wrought.
Where there had once been empty plains, now stood a thriving settlement.
Sturdy stone buildings with dwarven architecture—functional, beautiful, eternal.
Smoke rose from dozens of forges, the constant ring of hammers on anvils creating a symphony of industry.
The Heart of Stone wasn't fully complete yet—that would take another decade—but the subsidiary forges were operational.
And their output was staggering.
"Lord Arden!" A young blacksmith called out, waving. "Look at this blade!"
Arden descended from the walls, approaching the forge.
The blacksmith—a human trained by dwarven masters—held out a sword with pride.
It was beautiful. Perfectly balanced. Sharp enough to split hair.
"Dwarven steel?" Arden asked.
"Dwarven technique, northern iron, with a touch of the forge's blessing." The blacksmith beamed. "We're producing a hundred of these a week now. And they're better than anything the central forges make."
"Good work."
Arden moved on, noting the other changes.
Dwarven engineers had redesigned Frostholm's water system. Now waste was efficiently removed, and clean water flowed constantly.
Dwarven architects had reinforced the walls. Now they could withstand siege engines and monster assaults that would have crumbled the old fortifications.
Dwarven craftsmen had taught northern smiths their techniques. Now Frostholm produced weapons and armor that rivaled the best in the kingdom.
The alliance wasn't just political, Arden thought. It was transformative.
We're becoming something the kingdom has never seen—a northern power that can sustain itself.
------
Another new development.
Where there had been makeshift training grounds, now stood proper facilities.
Combat arenas. Lecture halls. Libraries.
The "Northern Military Academy" wasn't as prestigious as the Imperial Academy yet.
But it was growing.
And it had something the Imperial Academy didn't.
"The Azareth Techniques," Arden muttered, watching instructors drill students in precise hand gestures.
Only the most trusted were taught those. Only those who'd proven absolute loyalty.
But there was another revolution happening here.
One driven by Seravelle's "notes."
-----
Arden found her surrounded by papers, quills, and exhausted-looking scholars.
"Still writing?" he asked.
Seravelle looked up, her ancient eyes sparkling with enthusiasm barely contained.
"Writing, editing, publishing. Did you know that northern scholars are actually more receptive to new ideas than their southern counterparts? It's fascinating!"
She gestured to a stack of published works.
"Advanced Elemental Theory - Notes from a Reclusive Master"
"Mana Circulation Optimization - Teachings of the Witch of the Tower"
"Soul Integration Principles - Lost Knowledge Recovered"
All attributed to "Tinasha the Witch's teachings, transcribed by her humble apprentice Seravelle."
"How many copies have circulated?" Arden asked.
"In the north? Thousands. In the central territories? Hundreds, but growing." Seravelle's smile widened. "The Imperial Mage Council is furious. They're calling these works 'dangerously radical' and 'unvetted by proper authorities.'"
"Which means they're correct and threatening the establishment."
"Exactly!" She pulled out another manuscript. "This one explains how conventional magic education is inefficient by at least thirty percent. I'm projecting riots when it publishes."
"Maybe delay that one."
"Oh, I will. Can't destabilize everything at once." She returned to her work. "But the point is, northern mages are advancing faster than southern ones now. In another five years, the gap will be undeniable."
Arden nodded.
Another piece of the foundation. Make the north strong enough to stand alone if necessary.
"These theories—they're being adopted in the Frostholm Academy?"
"Of course. We're already seeing results. Students who would have taken five years to reach Second Stage are doing it in three." Seravelle's expression turned more serious. "The magical infrastructure we're building here... it's going to change the balance of power in the kingdom. The nobles in the capital don't realize it yet, but the north is becoming a magical powerhouse."
"Good. We'll need every advantage."
------
Thorin Ironbeard stood overseeing the latest excavation, his weathered face split in a satisfied grin.
"Arden! Come see!"
Arden descended into the massive pit that would one day house the forge's core.
It was enormous. Hundreds of dwarves worked in coordinated precision, carving channels for lava flow, laying runestones, constructing the complex mechanisms that would regulate eternal flame.
"Another year, maybe two, and the main chamber will be operational," Thorin said proudly. "Full completion in five to seven years. But even incomplete, this forge surpasses what most holds can produce."
"The subsidiary forges are already transforming the north's military capacity."
"Aye. And once the Heart is complete?" Thorin's eyes gleamed. "We'll produce masterworks. Legendary-grade equipment. Weapons that can stand against Outer Gods' servants."
He led Arden to a private workshop.
"Which brings me to why I wanted to see ye."
Inside, on a workbench, lay Frostbrand.
Arden's sword, forged by Valdren three thousand years ago.
"Ye've been pushing this blade hard," Thorin said, examining it critically. "Three years of constant combat. Peak Fourth Stage cultivation channeling through it. It's held up remarkably, but..."
"But?"
"But it's reaching its limits." Thorin ran his fingers along the edge. "Not breaking. Not dulling. But the blade isn't growing with ye. It's static. Perfectly preserved from when Valdren made it, but static nonetheless."
Arden frowned. "Can you reforge it? Improve it?"
"I could. But that would destroy what makes it special—its connection to yer bloodline, to Valdren's techniques." Thorin paused, studying the blade more carefully. "Tell me something, lad. Has any Head of House Valekrest in recent generations actually used this blade in serious combat?"
"Not that I know of. It's been more of a ceremonial weapon. A symbol."
"Aye. And do ye know why?"
"Because... it's an heirloom? Too valuable to risk?"
"No." Thorin's expression grew serious. "Because they outgrow it. A Valekrest who reaches Fifth Stage finds the blade limiting. One who reaches Sixth Stage can barely channel their power through it without damaging the weapon. By the time they become Duke, Frostbrand is relegated to ceremonies because it can't keep up with their strength."
He tapped the blade.
"But here's the thing—that shouldn't happen. Not with a blade forged by Valdren himself. Not with a weapon that's seen three thousand years of history."
"Then why does it?"
Thorin raised an eyebrow. "What makes ye think yer family weapon doesn't have an ego?"
Arden froze.
"What?"
"Frostbrand. Forged by Valdren Valekrest, one of the greatest heroes in history. Quenched in the blood of Outer Gods' servants. Used in battles that shaped the world." Thorin's voice was reverent. "Ye think a blade like that is just a tool? That it doesn't have consciousness after three thousand years of existence?"
"I... an ego weapon?" Arden's mind raced. "You're saying Frostbrand is sentient?"
"I'm saying Frostbrand has always been sentient. But it's been sleeping. Waiting." Thorin's eyes gleamed. "And the reason yer ancestors outgrew it? Because they never awakened it. Never formed a proper bond. They used it as a tool, and tools have limits. But a true partner? An ego weapon that chooses ye? That grows with ye?"
He leaned forward.
"That has no limits. Or at least, limits far beyond what any normal blade possesses."
Arden stared at his sword with new understanding.
An ego weapon. A partner, not a tool.
That's why Valdren could channel his power through it. Why it never broke, never failed him.
Because it was alive. Fighting alongside him.
"How do I awaken it?"
"Blood. Sacrifice. A trial of worthiness." Thorin's expression turned grave. "And risk. If the blade rejects ye, it could kill ye. Ego weapons don't accept masters—they choose partners. And they're very, very picky."
"When could we attempt it?"
"Not yet. Ye're Peak Fourth Stage—impressive for sixteen, but not enough. Frostbrand was forged for Valdren at his peak. It'll want Fifth Stage minimum. Sixth Stage to truly accept ye." Thorin crossed his arms. "Keep growing. Keep proving yerself. And when ye're ready, we'll wake the sleeping dragon in that blade."
Arden nodded slowly, processing this information.
An ego weapon. A real partner for the battles ahead.
If I can awaken it...
"Now," Thorin said, his tone shifting to something more mischievous. "Let's talk about something more important."
"More important than awakening a legendary weapon?"
"Aye. Yer love life."
Arden's expression went carefully neutral. "My what?"
"Don't play dumb with me, lad. I've seen the way those lasses look at ye."
"I don't—"
"Elara. Serra. That ancient witch pretending to be a youngster. Even the twin-soul warrior Kari." Thorin counted on his fingers. "Four women, all clearly interested, and ye're treating them like comrades-in-arms."
Arden sighed, a wry smile crossing his face.
So I wasn't imagining it. Or rather, I was ignoring what I didn't want to acknowledge.
"I know," he admitted quietly.
Thorin blinked. "Ye... ye know?"
"I'm not blind, Thorin. Or completely oblivious. I'm a thirty-five-year-old man in a sixteen-year-old body. I notice these things." The wry smile turned slightly bitter. "I just don't act on them."
"Why the hell not?"
"Because it wouldn't be fair." Arden looked out the workshop window toward the fortress. "I'm preparing for apocalypse. For battles against Outer Gods' servants. For scenarios where I might die tomorrow, next week, next month."
He turned back to Thorin.
"What kind of person would I be if I pursued a relationship knowing I can't guarantee I'll survive? Knowing that every woman who gets close to me becomes a potential widow?"
"That's—"
"And even if I survive, I can't give them what they deserve. Time. Attention. The normal life they should have." Arden's voice was firm but sad. "Elara deserves someone who can focus on her, not someone who's always planning the next defense or studying the next threat. Serra deserves a partner who can help her grow without constantly dragging her into danger. They all deserve better than what I can offer."
Thorin stared at him for a long moment.
"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. And I've heard dwarves argue about the proper angle for forging tongs."
"It's realisti—"
"It's cowardly." Thorin's voice was sharp but not unkind. "Ye're using the 'protecting them' excuse to protect yerself. From getting hurt. From being vulnerable. From caring about something beyond yer grand mission."
Arden opened his mouth to argue, then closed it.
Is he right? Am I using logic as an excuse for fear?
In my last life, my love life was... unsuccessful. Failed relationships. Women who wanted more than I could give.
Am I just repeating that pattern with better justification?
"Those lasses," Thorin continued, "they know the risks. They're fighting beside ye. Bleeding beside ye. They've chosen this life. And they're choosing ye. Who are ye to decide for them what they deserve?"
"I'm trying to be responsible—"
"Ye're trying to be alone. Because being alone is safer. Because if ye don't let anyone close, ye can't lose them." Thorin pointed at him. "But ye're going to lose them anyway, lad. Not to death. To neglect. They'll eventually realize ye're never going to open that door, and they'll stop knocking."
He picked up Frostbrand, holding it out.
"This blade has been waiting three thousand years for someone worthy. Don't make those lasses wait that long. They don't have three thousand years. Neither do ye."
Arden took the sword, its familiar weight settling in his hand.
"I don't know if I can be what they need."
"Then figure it out. Ye're smart enough to revolutionize monster theory. Surely ye can figure out how to tell a lass ye care about her." Thorin grinned. "Start with being honest. That's always a good first step."
"Honest about what?"
"About the fact that ye're interested but scared. That ye care but don't know how to balance it with yer responsibilities. That ye're not rejecting them—ye're just a damaged fool who doesn't think he's good enough."
"That's... surprisingly insightful."
"I'm five hundred years old and I've been married three times. I know a thing or two about relationships." Thorin clapped him on the shoulder. "Now get out of me forge. Ye have some thinking to do. And maybe some apologizing."
-----
Arden sat at his desk, Thorin's words echoing in his mind.
Am I being practical or cowardly?
Protecting them or protecting myself?
I genuinely don't know.
In his past life as Marcus, relationships had been... complicated. Always putting work first. Always finding excuses. Always ending up alone.
And now I'm doing it again. Different life. Different body. Same patterns.
Fuck.
A knock at his door.
"Come in."
A messenger entered, holding a sealed letter.
"From House Valekrest, my lord. Your father."
Arden broke the seal, reading quickly.
Arden,
You are sixteen. By law and tradition, you must return to the Dukedom for your coming-of-age ceremony.
This is not a request. This is an order.
Your achievements in the north are noted and appreciated. However, you remain a member of House Valekrest, and as such, you will fulfill your obligations to the family.
The ceremony will take place in one month. You will attend. You will be presented to the King. You will accept your formal titles and responsibilities.
Bring your retinue. The realm should see what the north has produced.
I expect you to conduct yourself with the dignity befitting our house.
The Imperial Academy will also be hosting their annual exhibition matches during your visit. It would reflect well on our house if you attended.
Your father,Duke Vareth Valekrest
Arden set down the letter.
Coming-of-age ceremony. In the capital. In one month.
And the Academy exhibition matches. Which means I'll probably see Kael Thorne in action.
Perfect timing. Right when I don't want to leave the north.
But he knew he had no choice.
Refusing would be a political disaster. Would undermine everything he'd built.
Fine. One month in the capital. Smile for the nobles. Play politics. Watch Kael be heroic. Then return to real work.
He began writing a response, already planning the logistics.
Who to bring. Who to leave in command. How to maintain northern operations during his absence.
Elara. Serra. Seravelle. Brick. Kari and Nari.
Small group. Competent. Loyal.
And maybe... maybe I should talk to them. Before we leave. About... things.
He grimaced.
Or maybe I'll just continue being a coward and pretend Thorin never said anything.
That sounds more likely.
But even as he thought it, he knew Thorin was right.
He couldn't hide forever.
Eventually, he'd have to face the fact that he cared about these people as more than just allies.
And figure out what the hell to do about it.
Later. After the ceremony. After the capital. After everything else.
Always after.
He returned to his planning, pushing the uncomfortable thoughts aside.
Always easier to focus on work than feelings.
Some things never changed, even across lifetimes.