THWACK!
The heavy wooden sword slammed into Fyrion's guard, sending a bone-jarring shock through his entire arm.
He didn't fly. He didn't even fall.
His feet, planted wide on the frozen earth, slid back six inches. He gritted his teeth, his newly formed muscles screaming, his Aura Core flaring hot to reinforce his bones.
Gregor, the old Watch Captain, grunted in surprise. His one good eye widened. "Good. You're not made of glass anymore."
He disengaged, his heavy form moving with a practiced, brutal grace. It had been four weeks since their first "lesson." Four weeks of agony.
"Again," Fyrion rasped, his arms trembling, his knuckles white on the sword hilt.
"Again," Gregor agreed.
He didn't charge. He lunged. Fyrion's mind, the mind of a 30-year-old Grandmaster, saw the opening. '[Stance Seven: Boar's Tusk]. Low-thrust. He's open high.'
Fyrion's body, now the body of a 19-year-old warrior, moved.
He didn't parry. He ducked under the blow, his aura flaring, and slammed the hilt of his own sword into Gregor's unguarded ribs.
THUD.
Gregor let out a sharp oof of pained surprise and stumbled, clutching his side.
A new sound echoed in the yard: a cascade of silver coins as Fyrion, still breathing heavily, tossed a small, heavy purse at Gregor's feet.
"That's... thirty silver for today, I think," Fyrion panted. "You're getting slow, old man."
Gregor, rubbing his bruised ribs, looked at the silver, then at the boy. The "rubbish" son was gone. This... this thing was learning at an inhuman rate.
His body was hardening, his instincts were sharp, and his eyes... his eyes were cunning.
"You're a monster, my lord," Gregor rumbled, but for the first time, it sounded almost like a compliment. He pocketed the silver. "Same time tomorrow. Don't be late."
Fyrion just nodded, dropping his training sword. Every muscle in his body felt like it was on fire.
This was good. This was progress.
He walked, bruised and aching, from the yard.
The castle was different. It was bustling.
Grom's former butchers and his father's old, now well-fed, guards were hauling wagons of coal ash and barrels of tallow. The forge was smoking day and night.
He entered his lab. It was the warmest room in the castle.
Silas, no longer a trembling, weasel-like scribe, was dressed in new, warm wool robes. He looked sleek, efficient, and well-fed. He bowed as Fyrion entered.
"Master. The reports are in." Silas's voice was crisp. "The 'Common-Brick' has, as you predicted, completely saturated the local market. We've driven every independent firewood seller in the territory out of business. Grom's men have doubled production at the new ash-kilns we built."
"Good," Fyrion said, slumping into his chair.
"Better," Silas said, his eyes gleaming. "The 'Sun-Brick' prototypes we sent south—under the 'Northern Hearth' company name—have caused a riot. The merchant guild in the capital is demanding an exclusive contract. They're offering... Master, they're offering 5,000 gold marks per shipment."
Fyrion just nodded. "Triple it. Tell them the cost of logistics in the 'barbaric North' is high. And tell them we only accept payments in refined, high-grade magical materials, not just gold."
Silas's eyes widened. "Master... they'll never..."
"They will," Fyrion said. "They're rich, soft, and cold. They will pay."
"Yes, Master." Silas bowed again, a true believer.
Fyrion had done it. In one month, he had secured his family's finances, built a monopoly, and started his own military. He was no longer a vassal. He was a magnate.
As he was about to head to his lab to work on his new soap formula, a figure blocked his path in the corridor.
He stopped.
It was Hanna. His mother's former handmaiden.
She was an old woman, frail and thin, but her back was as straight as Gregor's sword. In a castle where everyone now either bowed to Fyrion or fled from him, she just stood. She was the only person who still saw him as a boy.
"My Lord Fyrion," she said. Her voice was not warm. It was cold with a disapproval that hit him harder than Gregor's sword.
"Hanna." He nodded. In his past life, she had been the only one in the castle to sneak him food when his father had locked him in his room for failing his aura exams.
This was... complicated.
"I went to the market today," she said, her hands clasped in front of her.
"I hope it was warm," Fyrion replied, starting to walk past.
"It was," she said, her voice stopping him. "Grom's wife was there. She was on her knees, begging for scraps. His sons, who used to run that town, are now hauling your ash, guarded by your new soldiers. You didn't just defeat him, Fyrion. You broke him. You took his hall, his men, his name... all for one silver coin."
Fyrion turned. His face was a mask of cold patience. "It was an act of dominance, Hanna. He was a parasite. And I am the lord of this land."
"And Gregor?" she pressed on, her old eyes sharp. "I saw the yard. You pay him to beat you. You pay him in silver, like a... like a hired thug, not a loyal Watch Captain. You've turned your father's last honourable man into a common mercenary."
This hit a nerve. Fyrion scowled. "He's paid well for his services. He's not complaining."
"No. He's not," Hanna said, stepping closer. The corridor was cold, but her voice was colder. "Grom is broken. Silas is your terrified pet. Your father is a ghost in his own house. And you... you sit in your warm room, counting coins and breaking bones."
She looked at him, her gaze piercing, searching for the boy she once knew. "I've seen this before, Fyrion. This coldness. This calculation. This belief that money is the only loyalty, and that anyone weaker is just a tool to be used."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about those southern bastards!" she said, her voice finally rising, echoing in the hall. "The Southerners! The Queen's men! You are acting just like the people who starved us. The people who drove this house to its knees!"
The words hung in the air, sharp as glass.
Fyrion was silent. He felt a hot, unfamiliar, and deeply unpleasant emotion prickle in his chest.
Shame.
She was right. He was using their methods. He was the bully now. He was the one breaking guilds and enslaving men with contracts and gold.
He was becoming Corvus. He was becoming the Queen.
He thought of his death. The cold dungeon. The Queen's bored, triumphant voice.
A new emotion, colder and stronger than shame, rose up and extinguished it completely.
Fyrion's face, bruised and swollen from Gregor's "training," hardened into a mask of absolute resolve.
"You're wrong," he said, his voice a flat.
Hanna faltered, taking a step back. "Fyrion...?"
"Their 'morals,'" he said, his voice shaking with a cold, refined rage, "and Father's mindless 'honor'... that is what got our family killed. That is what left us starving and weak. That is what made us prey."
He took a step toward her. She was the one to retreat.
"My 'methods' will keep us alive. My 'methods' will forge an army. My 'methods' will feed our people and build a wall of gold and steel so high that no Southern snake, not even the Queen herself, can ever touch us again."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a terrifying hiss. "I will be a monster to keep the real monsters out. Do you understand?"
Hanna looked at him. She had come to scold a boy. She was being threatened by a man she didn't recognize.
She didn't see Fyrion, the child she'd snuck sweet-cakes to.
She saw something else. Something monstrous, and cold, and terribly broken.
She saw the tortured soul of the Grandmaster Alchemist, the eunuch who had died in a dungeon, staring out at her from her young master's face.
"You…"
She took another step back, her hand flying to her mouth, a small sob escaping.
"…are not the same anymore."
For the first time in her life, Hanna was not afraid for him.
She was afraid of him.
Fyrion said nothing more. He turned, his boots silent on the stone, and walked past her down the dark hall, leaving her trembling in the cold.