---
Chapter 9 - Whispers Beneath Stone
The aftermath of the battle hung over the Caspian estate like a heavy fog, a silent witness to the chaos that had unfolded. The shadowy assailant's body, now little more than a mass of flesh and bone beneath the massive boulder Baron Caspian had summoned, left a crater where it had fallen, the earth stained with blood. By morning, the servants had been sworn to secrecy, and a quiet investigation was already underway.
The Caspian family investigators—clad in their forest-green cloaks, bearing the seal of the Verdant Vigil—arrived at dawn. There was no noise, no dramatic entrance. They moved with purpose, their questions whispered in hushed tones as they conducted their work. Rune-seekers and spirit-scribes sifted through the remains, looking for traces of foreign magic, but the scene yielded nothing. The shadowy figure had left no trace, no magical residue that could give them a clue. It was as if the attacker had never existed, a phantom that had dissipated into the night.
Baron Caspian stood by the crater for hours, unmoving. When the investigators approached him, their questions were met with cold, calculated responses. He gave them only the bare minimum. "He was after my children," he stated simply. "That alone justifies his death."
Julius, recovering from the brief illness that had kept him in bed, threw himself into his training with renewed vigor. His fire affinity burned hotter than ever, pushing him to demand more from his tutors. But Lysander? He remained silent, watching from the shadows, his mind ever more distant.
He hadn't spoken to his father since that night.
Yet, as each moment passed, there was a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach, an uneasy sensation that never seemed to leave.
It wasn't a voice. Not a presence. But it was there. Just beneath his skin, like something waiting, watching.
He had asked the mythical beast before their pact, "Will you vanish into me?"
Its reply had been cryptic: "Until the time comes, I will not stir."
Still, Lysander felt it—the beast hadn't left. The emptiness in his soul felt... different now. It was occupied.
---
The day after the funeral for the three guards who had perished during the breach, Baron Caspian summoned Lysander to his study.
The room smelled of ancient stone, scorched parchment, and the fresh scent of ink. Baron Caspian sat behind a wide oak desk, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, staring down at a scroll.
"Lysander," he said without looking up, his voice steady, "I need you to travel north."
Lysander blinked. "North?"
The baron finally looked up, his eyes sharp and calculating.
"To the Black Wind Vale. There's an old ally of mine there—Elder Thorn. A scholar of the Verdant Vigil, a master of lost knowledge and spiritual anomalies."
Lysander kept his expression neutral. "Am I being sent away as punishment?"
Baron Caspian frowned. "No. You're being sent because there are answers I cannot give you. Elder Thorn may know more than I do."
He paused, then leaned forward, his gaze intense. "You encountered something that night. I don't know what it was, but I know it marked you."
Lysander met his father's gaze and lied smoothly, the words slipping out like second nature. "I was just hiding, Father."
The baron didn't believe him. That much was clear. But he didn't push further.
"You leave in three days. You'll be escorted by a Vigil member named Arno. Trust him. Speak only when necessary. Do not reveal what you are. Not even to Thorn, unless he asks the right questions."
"And what exactly am I, Father?"
For the first time in years, Baron Caspian hesitated, his gaze flickering with something that bordered on uncertainty.
"That's what you need to find out."
---
The next three days passed in a blur. Servants packed Lysander's satchels, and Julius handed him a sparring blade, offering a half-hearted warning to not get himself killed. Lysander simply smiled, promising to return with a tale worth telling.
But in the quiet hours before his departure, a gnawing tension built in his chest. Something was moving beneath the surface of this world—something unseen. He had felt it in the eyes of the attacker. Not rage. Not malice. Desperation.
Whatever they had come for, it wasn't gold or glory. It had been him.
On the morning of his departure, the gates of the Caspian estate creaked open. The carriage was simple but well-warded, marked with green sigils that pulsed faintly in the first light of dawn.
Arno stood beside it, a tall figure with weathered skin and a single hawkish eye. His other eye was covered by a bronze plate etched with runes. His cloak, grey and well-worn, carried the emblem of the Verdant Vigil on its shoulder.
"You ready, boy?" Arno asked, his voice low and gravelly, like smoke.
Lysander climbed into the carriage without a word.
As the wheels began to roll and the Caspian estate grew smaller behind them, Lysander glanced back. His father stood on the balcony above, arms crossed. No wave. No farewell. Only silent expectation.
The road ahead led through the cold northern passes and into the forest of Black Wind Vale—a place whispered about in superstitions and half-forgotten war songs. Thorn, they said, was old enough to have survived the Age of Screams.
And somewhere in that frozen wilderness, answers waited.
Lysander settled back in his seat, his eyes fluttering closed.
Something stirred inside him—a faint ripple, like the first signs of a storm across still water.
The beast slumbered.
But not forever.
---
--