Chapter 117: Homecoming in the Viper's Den
The Mask of Triumph
Yanjing's cacophony clawed at the carriage walls—hawkers peddling Sarnathi silks, street poets extolling long-dead emperors, the clang of temple bells summoning the faithful. Bennett kept the curtains drawn. The city he'd fled as a scorned boy now welcomed a prodigal son: Gandorff's protégé, the Liath Consortium's rising star, Magic Guild's favored pawn. Yet beneath the accolades festered old wounds.
Clark's parting whisper lingered like smoke: "The Guild's eyes are never blind."
As wheels rumbled over the Jade Bridge—its stone lions carved from rebellion-era cannons—Bennett glimpsed the palace's alabaster spires. Father's domain. The thought curdled his triumph.
Echoes of the Unworthy
The Roland estate sprawled behind iron gates wrought with thorns and crowns. Unlike the ostentatious mansions flanking it, the compound exuded martial austerity—barracks-turned-stables, training yards where steel sang at dawn, and a central tower doubling as an armory.
Alfred, the Roland family's legendary swordsman, awaited like a gilded statue. His golden mane belied the precision of a warhammer, his famed beauty etched with new scars. When Bennett emerged, the knight knelt—a calculated gesture.
"Welcome home, young master. The Count awaits."
Bennett's smile masked a blade's edge. Since when does Father send his right hand to greet the 'disgrace'?
The Thorned Welcome
Past courtyards heavy with peonies for the Summer Solstice rites, Alfred's warning came soft as poison: "The capital wears too many smiles."
Bennett stiffened. The gardens teemed with unfamiliar faces—servants too well-armed, masons repairing walls with Tellian marble (a king's ransom), and a faint hum of wards along the eastern wing.
Father's paranoia has teeth now.
The study door loomed like a tomb slab. Inside, Count Raymond stood framed by maps of frozen battlefields, his back to the son he'd deemed worthless.
Blood and Ice
"You've grown… competent." The Count's voice held the chill of northern glaciers.
Bennett bowed, fingers brushing the frost-sealed vial beneath his sleeve. Competent. Not 'son.' Not 'heir.'
"The Guild's pet, the merchants' darling." Raymond turned, eyes like flint striking steel. "But can you hold a blade?"
On the desk lay the crossbow bolt from the ambush—its imperial crest filed away.
So he knows.
Bennett met the gaze unflinching. "Blades break. I prefer poisons."
A flicker—almost approval—passed between them.
The Dance Begins
Dusk found Bennett in his childhood chambers. Beneath floorboards lay relics of the boy who'd wept over failed spells: a dagger from his mother's deathbed, journals filled with Clark's early tutelage, and a dried sprig of Winter's Breath—the flower that had choked his lungs during his first magic surge.
Alfred's shadow darkened the doorway. "The Count requests your presence at tomorrow's war council."
Request. Command. Bennett traced the frost patterns creeping across his palm—a side effect of overusing Clark's emergency spell.
"Tell Father I'll attend… after visiting the Guild."
As Alfred withdrew, Bennett whispered to the gathering dark:
"Let's see whose masks crack first."
Chapter 118 (Part I): Veil of Thorns
The Unspoken Overture
Alfred's parting smile lingered like a phantom. Bennett stared at the closed study door, his pulse a drumbeat in his ears. Why the kindness now? The man who'd once dismissed him as a "magic-stunted whelp" had escorted him through the manor's lethal wards without a word of reproach.
The study smelled of aged parchment and iron gall ink. Count Raymond sat beneath a portrait of Roland the Conqueror, his quill scratching final notes onto a military dispatch. Sunlight through leaded glass cast his face in fractured shadows—a face once carved from battlefield granite, now softened by time's erosion.
Bennett counted breaths. Five. Ten. Fifteen. The silence stretched taut as a crossbow string.
When the Count finally looked up, his eyes held the glacial detachment of a general surveying fresh recruits. "So. You've returned."
"Yes, Father."
The title hung between them like a blade. Raymond's fingers tightened imperceptibly on the quill. "Father. How… novel." His laugh was dry leaves underfoot. "Thirteen years since you last deigned to use it. Tell me—does it taste of obligation? Or poison?"
Mirrors of the Past
Bennett's gaze traced the room's defenses—the faint glyphs shimmering beneath wainscoting, the hidden murder-holes disguised as ventilation grilles. This was no scholar's sanctum; it was a war room veiled in oak and leather.
Raymond rose, his movements slower than memory allowed. The man who'd once towered over naval decks now leaned slightly to the left—an old injury from the Siege of Karak's Pass, perhaps. When he circled the desk, Bennett caught the scent of wintergreen salve mingling with gunpowder.
"You've grown." The Count's hand hovered near Bennett's shoulder—a commander's gesture warring with a father's impulse. "Last spring, you barely reached my breastbone."
Bennett forced a smile. "Genetics are fickle. I fear even Edmund will outpace me soon."
The name of his half-brother—Raymond's legitimate heir—doused the moment in frost. The Count's hand fell away.
"Sit." Raymond gestured to a chair carved with snarling griffins. "We'll speak as men, not ghosts."
The Chessboard Revealed
Two goblets of Velian crimson glowed like trapped sunsets. Raymond sipped slowly, his eyes never leaving his son.
"The reports from Roland Plains made for… entertaining reading." He tapped a dossier stamped with the Imperial Seal. "Football leagues funding orphanages. Sky lanterns dubbed 'Aurora's Absolution.' And this—" He flipped open a page inked with ledgers. "Fourteen thousand gold sovereigns, amassed without touching family coffers. Quite the philanthropist warlock."
Bennett kept his face still as cathedral stone.
"You mistake my tone." Raymond leaned forward, the firelight etching new lines around his mouth. "I'm not chastising you. I'm applauding you. To spin straw into gold while half the court thinks you dead? That takes more than magic. It takes a serpent's cunning."
"And if I said it was mere survival?"
"Then I'd call you a liar." The Count's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Survivalists hide. Schemers build empires in plain sight."
The Poisoned Chalice
Raymond produced a lacquered box, its surface inlaid with obsidian thorns. Inside lay a pendant—a silver raven clutching a rose.
"Your mother's," he said, voice roughened. "She wore it the night you were born."
Bennett's throat tightened. The last time he'd seen this trinket, it had been clutched in a corpse's hand.
"Take it." Raymond pushed the box across the desk. "Consider it… an apology."
"For what?" The words escaped sharper than intended. "Her death? My exile? The crossbow bolts in Willowbrook Pass?"
The Count went very still. Somewhere beyond the wards, a clock tower chimed midnight.
"So you know."
"I know the assassins carried Imperial-issue quarrels." Bennett stood, the chair screeching against flagstones. "I know their blades bore the War Council's sigil. And I know—"
"Enough." Raymond's fist struck the desk, goblets trembling. "You know nothing. The game you've stumbled into makes dragon politics seem child's play. The Liath Consortium? The Magic Guild? They're but pawns. The true players wear crowns and carry scepters."
He rose, his shadow engulfing the room. "You want vengeance? Fine. But first, learn who truly holds your leash."
Chapter 118 (Part II): Reckoning in Crimson Threads
The Ledger of Shadows
Raymond's fingers drummed the ledger open on his desk—a ledger Bennett had kept encrypted in runic ciphers, guarded by mercenaries sworn to bleed before revealing its secrets. Yet here it lay, dissected.
"Fourteen thousand gold marks from spice trade tariffs. Eighteen hundred from the Emerald Isles' pearl divers. And this—" The Count's nail tapped an entry smudged with saltwater stains. "The Stormcrow fleet. Twelve warships disguised as merchant cogs. A 'toy navy,' you called it?"
Bennett's spine stiffened. Mad would die before betraying me. Which means Father's spies slithered past blood oaths.
"Genius," Raymond murmured, not without pride. "Yet you let Yanjing brand you a fool. Why?"
The question hung like a blade over old scars.
The Fool's Gambit
Memories flickered—childhood taunts ("The mute heir!"), noblewomen's pitying coos, Edmund's sneer as he snatched away toy soldiers. Bennett had worn their scorn like armor. Freedom required invisibility.
But how to explain that to a man who measured worth in battlefield trophies?
"Silence suits you ill." Raymond circled, the ghost of naval command in his stride. "At thirteen, you let Baronet Wyman's brat push you into the Serpentine Canal. Made no outcry. Drew no blade. Just… sank."
Bennett's jaw tightened. The water had been frigid, the shame colder.
"Was it cowardice?" The Count's breath carried winterwine bitterness. "Or calculation?"
The Unseen Shield
When Bennett remained mute, Raymond wrenched open a hidden panel. Inside lay a child's dagger—rust-eaten, its hilt wrapped in moth-riddled silk.
"Your mother's," he said hoarsely. "She begged me to let you keep it. Said even a 'magic-crippled' boy deserved a warrior's token."
Bennett's throat closed. He'd buried the blade in the rose garden the night they exiled him.
"I sent you to Roland Plains not to discard you." Raymond's voice cracked. "But to save you. Yanjing devours gentle souls. And you… you wept over dead songbirds."
Lies. Bennett's nails bit palms. You exiled me because I couldn't swing a sword.
Yet the Count's next words froze his blood:
"The night you left, three carriages of House Wyman vanished en route to their summer estate. Slaughtered to the last babe. Their crime? Mocking my son."
The Crown's Maw
Raymond gripped Bennett's shoulder—a touch both tender and terrifying. "You think power lies in fireballs and fleets? True power is making wolves fear your shadow. For ten years, I let the court believe you worthless. Let them laugh. Because laughter doesn't provoke poison in the wine."
He gestured to the window, where the palace's obsidian spires clawed at twilight.
"But now?" A mirthless laugh. "Gandorff's mantle has painted you gold. The Guild hungers for your secrets. The Liaths want your ships. And the Crown…"
A wax-sealed scroll thudded onto the desk—emblazoned with the royal phoenix.
"His Majesty requests your attendance at the Equinox Masque. As my honored heir."
The Mantle's Curse
Bennett stared at the invitation. The parchment reeked of belladonna perfume—the Queen's signature scent.
"Why does a robe matter?" he whispered.
Raymond yanked open a drapery, revealing a tapestry of the First Sorcerer-King. The figure's cloak billowed with living constellations.
"Gandorff's predecessors didn't just wear those robes. They became them. Each thread spun from leviathan sinew and comet dust. To inherit the mantle is to inherit…" He hesitated.
"What?"
"A throne," Raymond said grimly. "One the Magic Guild would raze nations to control. And you, my son, have just claimed it."
Outside, storm clouds swallowed the moon. Somewhere in the gardens, a nightingale fell silent mid-song.
Chapter 119: The Sorcerer's Shroud
A Robe of Shadows
Bennett met his father's gaze, the air between them thick with unspoken truths. The study's fire crackled, casting flickering light across Count Raymond's face—a face that had always been a mask of frost, now thawed into something dangerously close to warmth.
"A mere mage's title holds no weight," Bennett said, forcing a dry laugh. "Even if I were granted a senior rank, who would care?"
"But that robe you wear is no ordinary robe." The Count's voice sharpened like a whetstone on steel. "Magic Scholar—a title buried in ashes for three centuries. You think it's coincidence the Guild let you walk out alive with that stitched to your back?"
Bennett opened his mouth, but Raymond raised a hand. The gesture was weary, almost paternal. "Enough. You've only just returned. These tides will pull you under soon enough." His tone softened abruptly. "Your mother awaits. She's worn your birthday fireworks around her neck since you sent them. Go. She's paced holes in the carpets."
The dismissal stung more than any interrogation. Bennett bowed, the motion perfected through years of courtly survival. "Of course, Father."
Threshold of Trust
At the door, Raymond's voice halted him—a blade sheathed in velvet.
"Wait."
Bennett turned, sunlight from the leaded windows catching the silver threads in his robe. They shimmered like trapped stardust.
The Count's eyes roamed his son's face, searching crevices a fourteen-year-old shouldn't possess. "Have you… nothing to tell me?"
The crossbow bolts. The imperial seals on their triggers. The words burned Bennett's tongue. But the man before him—this sudden stranger wearing his father's face—had spent a lifetime teaching him silence.
"Nothing," Bennett lied, sweet as poisoned honey.
Raymond's jaw tightened. "I heard of your… mishap on the North Road."
"Bandits." Bennett kept his smile placid. "A passing nuisance."
They both knew the charade. The cavalry captain's terror when Bennett had found those military-grade weapons among the attackers' corpses. The way the man's eyes had darted to the raven crest on the arrowheads—the same crest that graced the royal armory.
Yet here stood Raymond, playing the outraged patriarch. "I'll have the garrison sweep every forest from here to the Iron Peaks! No one threatens my blood and lives to boast of it!"
Bennett's heart iced over. He knows. He knows and says nothing.
Sunlit Betrayal
The courtyard's midday glare blinded as Bennett stepped outside. Spring blossoms perfumed the air, but he tasted only ash.
Not a word about the crossbows. Not one.
Captain Alfar materialized from the colonnade's shadows, his smile not reaching the scar bisecting his left brow. "Did His Lordship lecture you on fiscal responsibility again?"
Bennett mirrored the expression, the perfect picture of a chastened heir. "Quite the opposite. He nearly offered me a hug."
Alfar chuckled, the sound as rehearsed as a stage actor's. "To the gardens, then. Her Ladyship's maids have been fluttering like panicked sparrows."
As Bennett walked away, the silver threads of his robe caught sunlight, weaving constellations only Guild adepts could decipher. Behind him, Alfar slipped into the study, the door clicking shut like a coffin seal.
The Spider's Parlor
Inside, Raymond stood before a map of the empire, crimson pins marking territories swallowed by shadow.
"Well?"
"He hides it well," Alfar admitted. "But his steps were heavier leaving than entering."
The Count traced a fingernail along the Liath River—a territorial line now crawling with warships bearing Bennett's falcon sigil. "He tested me. Left those crossbows like breadcrumbs, hoping I'd confess to plotting his death."
"Shall we silence the captain?"
"Too late. My son's already sniffed the blood." Raymond ripped a pin from the map, its tip glistening rust-red. "Let the fool stew in his suspicions. When the Crown's inquisitors come asking why imperial weapons attacked a noble heir, I'll weep fatherly outrage."
Alfar hesitated—a rarity for the man who'd once carved through rebel lines to deliver his lord's severed head. "The boy's clever. With training—"
"He's a lit fuse," Raymond snarled. "That robe makes him the Guild's pawn, the Crown's leverage, and every schemer's target. Pray the explosion takes our enemies with him."
Outside, a gardener clipped rose thorns, their falling petals as silent as a son's shattered trust.