Lord Terrace and Damon returned to Elderglow Academy in the same carriage that had taken them to the marketplace. The ride back was silent, the weight of the day’s events settling over them like a heavy blanket.
Damon stared out the window, his mind replaying everything he had witnessed—the destruction, the brutality, and his father’s words.
The sun had long since set, replaced by the glow of a reddening moon, a reminder of the war that would soon descend upon them all. Shadows stretched across the academy grounds as they arrived.
Stepping out of the carriage, Lord Terrace guided Damon back to his dormitory. The quiet of the evening was interrupted only by the rustling of leaves and the distant hum of nighttime insects.
Once they reached Damon’s room, Terrace paused at the doorway, turning to his son with a rare softness in his eyes.
“What happened today was a harsh lesson,” he began. “I won’t pretend it was easy to see. But remember this: strength without purpose is nothing. If you do not know when to use your power, it becomes a tool for others to exploit—or a burden that destroys you.”
“I understand, Father. I will keep your words in mind.” Damon nodded, absorbing his father’s words. He wanted to ask more, to understand fully, but exhaustion weighed him down.
Lord Terrace reached out, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning,” he said, his voice low. “Focus on your training, and remember why we do what we must.”
With that, he stepped away, leaving Damon to his thoughts.
“Father,” Damon called out as he watched his father walk away and when the man turned to him, he politely bowed. “Thank you for your time today as well as the things you taught me.”
Lord Terrace smiled and waved to his son. “Go ahead and get some sleep, will you?”
With that, Lord Terrace continued his journey and as he made his way to the room Dean Godsthorn had assigned him, Terrace’s stomach grumbled, a reminder that he hadn’t eaten all day.
The thought of food pulled him from the depths of his reflections. He knew the academy’s cafeteria would still be open, so he decided to make a detour.
The cafeteria was a large, warmly lit space filled with the comforting aroma of freshly prepared food. Lord Terrace helped himself to a hearty meal, taking advantage of Dean Godsthorn’s offer to cover all expenses. He ate quietly, savoring the flavors.
The simple act of eating, after a day of conflict, was grounding. When he was finished, he leaned back in his chair, feeling a small measure of calm return.
As he stepped outside the cafeteria, he noticed a familiar figure waiting for him. Lord Acheon stood there, arms crossed, a slight smile on his lips. “Good evening,” Acheon greeted, his voice tinged with curiosity. “How did your outing with your son go?”
Terrace shrugged, his expression unreadable. “Nothing too serious.”
Acheon raised an eyebrow. “Come now. You asked for my account of my time with my son. It’s only fair I hear yours.”
Terrace sighed, the weight of the day catching up with him. “Fine,” he said lazily, gesturing for Acheon to follow. “We’ll talk as we walk.”
The two Lords strolled through the academy grounds, their pace slow and unhurried. As they walked, Terrace recounted everything—their encounter with Paul Haylen, the attempted assassination, and the brutal reckoning that followed.
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Lord Terrace spoke with the same calm detachment he had shown during the events themselves, but Acheon listened intently, his eyes narrowing at certain details.
“So, the noble tried to have you and Damon killed?” Acheon asked, his tone darkening.
“Yes,” Terrace replied. “And he paid the price.”
They walked in silence for a few moments before Acheon spoke again. “You handled it as I would expect, Terrace. But it’s a reminder—our enemies can be anywhere. We cannot afford to let our guard down.”
Terrace nodded, and the two men continued their walk, the conversation shifting to other matters. When they finally reached their assigned rooms, they exchanged brief farewells, each lost in his thoughts. “Get some rest.” Lord Acheon advised as he walked into his room.
~~~~~
Meanwhile, in the ruins of the Haylen manor, three figures moved through the darkness. They wore black cloaks that concealed their faces and masked their presence. As they entered what remained of the courtyard, they paused, taking in the devastation.
“Did someone else take the job before us?” one of the figures asked, his voice low and skeptical. The ruins did serve to prove that someone else had been here or at the very least, something had happened here.
Another shook his head, his movements slow and deliberate. “Unlikely. But something happened here. We need to find out what.”
They moved cautiously, their steps silent on the rubble-strewn ground. The sight of fallen guards and shattered walls told a grim story.
The three figures advanced further, their senses alert, until they reached a small clearing where the destruction seemed concentrated. There, lying amidst the debris, was the broken and barely breathing body of Paul Haylen.
“My God!” The third figure gasped softly, the sound betraying her gender. She knelt beside Paul, her fingers brushing his battered face. “He’s close to death,” she murmured. “But not yet gone.”
She reached into her cloak and withdrew a small vial filled with a glowing green liquid. Tilting Paul’s head back, she poured the contents into his mouth.
The liquid shimmered as it slid down his throat, and moments later, a faint glow spread through his body. His shallow breaths deepened, and the bruises and cuts began to heal, though the process was slow.
The woman stood, her gaze cold. “Our job was to kill you with you knowing who did it. Not like this.”
She turned and rejoined the other two figures. “You live for now,” she said, her voice devoid of warmth. “We’ll return to finish the job when you’re fully healed.”
With that, the three figures vanished into the night, leaving the ruins behind. Paul Haylen’s breathing steadied, but the knowledge that death would come for him again lingered like a shadow over the wreckage of his home. However, he was unaware!