Chapter 164 (Part I): The Weight of Ashes
Exodus of the Fallen
"Left! Left, you oaf! Lash it tighter unless you want our coffers spilling across the highway!" Madde's bark cut through the chaos as servants scrambled to secure the final trunks onto six groaning wagons.
The once-grand gates of House Rolin's estate stood open, revealing a courtyard stripped bare. Tapestries lay rolled like corpses, ancestral portraits stacked carelessly beneath cracked vases. Ten loyal retainers and Captain Alfard's sixty guards moved like ghosts through the ruins of privilege.
Bennett watched his mother, still luminous in mourning gray, press a trembling hand to the carriage door. She'd wept for hours when Raymond returned from prison—alive, yes, but hollowed. Now she turned one last gaze upon her eldest son, a silent plea for absence to mend what politics had shattered.
Gabriel's absence burned sharper. The boy had stormed into Bennett's chambers at midnight, fists clenched. "Let me stay! I'll claw back our glory here in the capital!" But dawn found him sulking in the lead carriage, refusing even farewell.
"Children nurse grudges like poisoned sweets," Raymond remarked, appearing suddenly at Bennett's shoulder. The former earl wore immaculate white—a deliberate contrast to the grime of retreat.
Farewells Etched in Dust
They settled on upturned crates in the shadow of the gutted manor. Raymond's chuckle held no mirth. "You disobeyed me. Again."
Bennett met his father's gaze. The man who'd once commanded legions now seemed smaller, though his posture remained arrow-straight. "Would you rather I let the executioner's axe fall?"
"Sacrifices preserve lineages." Raymond's fingers traced the crate's splintered edge. "Yet here we are—you a duke, me a pensioner, and your brother nursing delusions of grandeur."
A cold wind swept through the courtyard, carrying the metallic tang of dismantled armor.
"Desa Province." Raymond spat the name like bad wine. "Of all the festering sores in the empire, you chose the one pressed against Kilimaros' teeth."
Bennett's smile held no joy. "Chen's generosity only extends to poisoned gifts."
The Wound Named Northwest
Raymond produced a leather-bound dossier, its pages yellowed with military dispatches and charcoal sketches of hard-eyed men. "Twenty years ago, we called them 'Sandfoxes'—the warlords who bleed caravans dry while saluting the imperial banner. They'll test you."
He flipped to a page marked with crimson wax. A hawk-nosed commander glared up, scar bisecting his brow. "General Karthas. Runs the 3rd Garrison like his personal bandit kingdom. His men 'lose' supply caravans whenever tribute payments lag."
Bennett's knuckles whitened. The dossier detailed alliances forged in extortion, villages vanished under suspicious fires, and three previous lords driven mad or dead.
"Your dukedom's a jest to them." Raymond's voice dropped. "The last fool who tried taxing the Sandfoxes? Found nailed to his own gates with silver coins sewn into his eyelids. Chen's decree won't protect you there."
Seeds in Barren Soil
As the caravan creaked into motion, Bennett lingered beneath the estate's crumbling crest—a lion rampant now chipped and soot-stained. Madde approached hesitantly, clutching a velvet pouch.
"Your mother's jewels," the steward muttered. "She said... the northwest favors practical steel over pearls."
Bennett weighed the pouch. Emeralds glinted between his fingers—stones worn by five generations of Rolin brides. "Sell them. Buy grain carts and crossbow quarrels."
Madde's gasp echoed as the first carriage disappeared down Sovereign's Boulevard. In the distance, the palace's golden domes caught the sun, indifferent to noble houses rising and falling like tides.
At the city gates, a rider in Chen's livery materialized, thrusting a scroll into Bennett's hands. The regent's seal dripped crimson wax.
"To Our Esteemed Duke of Desa,
May your new domain prosper under Heaven's grace.
Kindly note: Annual tribute set at 20,000 gold standards.
Payment due by winter solstice."
Bennett laughed—a raw, jagged sound that startled sparrows from the ramparts. Far to the west, beyond the jagged teeth of Kilimaros, desert winds began to howl.
Chapter 164 (Part II): The Last Counsel
A Father's Farewell
Raymond straightened his collar, the fading sunlight casting long shadows across the empty courtyard. "The Northwest is a crucible," he said, voice low and urgent. "Establish your authority swiftly, Bennett. Roots grow deepest in cracked soil."
The two men embraced—a rare moment of unguarded kinship. Bennett inhaled the scent of his father's soap, a sharp contrast to the mildew clinging to the abandoned estate.
At the carriage door, Bennett forced a smile for his weeping mother. "I'll visit Rolin Plains soon," he promised, though they both knew imperial eyes would track every mile.
Gabriel's sullen face peered from the shadows. Bennett leaned in, conjuring mischief. "Remember the hot-air balloon schematics in the old vault? And those frostwine casks labeled 'Dawn's Absolution'? Consider them your inheritance."
The boy's eyes lit briefly before hardening. "I'll find you when I'm grown," he vowed, knuckles whitening on the carriage rail.
As the convoy rumbled into the dust-choked horizon, Captain Alfard stepped forward, armor polished to a merciless sheen. "By Lord Raymond's order," he declared, fist over heart, "I now serve House Roudolf."
A Province Without Proconsuls
The reality of governance struck like a desert storm.
Bennett paced his study, maps of Desa Province unfurling like accusations. A wasteland of bandits and bureaucrats. The imperial decree granted him lordship but stripped him of tools: no seasoned administrators, no loyalists—just sixty ex-pirates eyeing tax ledgers like treasure manifests.
"Governor Madd?" Bennett muttered, half-hysterical.
The old groom recoiled as if offered poison. "Mercy, milord! I'd sooner teach mules ballet!"
Sunset found Bennett galloping northwest, magic artifact burning against his chest. Time—that most fickle ally—demanded sacrifice.
Brokeback Mountain's Secret
The renamed gorge lived up to its ignominy: twin slopes hunched like drunken sentinels, their stony embrace trapping the stench of damp moss. Bennett dismounted, boots crunching on shale that whispered of ancient hooves.
Firelight flickered ahead.
The figure by the flames was smaller than expected—a girl drowning in patched robes, her trembling voice carrying through the gloaming.
"P-please, gods… send s-some supper. Or a n-nice wolf. Quicker that way."
Bennett froze. This was Gandorv's vaunted mentor? The archmage's final jest?
He stepped into the light. "Vivian?"
The girl whirled, sparks dancing around fingers suddenly ablaze. "S-stay back! I-I've incinerated t-ten bandits this week!" Her stomach growled louder than the spell.
Bennett unslung his provisions. "Trade you lamb jerky for firewood."
Her eyes widened. The flames died.
Thus began the education of Desa's future duke—taught statecraft by a half-starved pyromancer who mistook tax codes for pastry recipes.
Chapter 165: Whispers of the Green Flame
A Ghost in the Gloom
The mountain air bit like winter's last spite. Vivienne huddled closer to her meager fire, embers reflecting in wide eyes that darted between shifting shadows. An owl's mournful cry pierced the dark—then came the crunch of gravel behind her.
She spun, heart hammering. A specter emerged from the trees—tall, gaunt, black robes blending with the void between stars.
"W-w-who's th-there?" Her voice cracked.
The figure stepped into firelight.
"Still jumping at shadows, little fool?" Bennett brushed pine needles from his cloak, smile softer than moonlight.
Vivienne froze. Recognition dawned. With a choked sob, she stumbled forward, tripping over roots in her haste. Bennett caught her—a collision of elbows and frightened warmth.
"Ow! By the gods," he groaned, rubbing his jaw where her forehead struck. "Still as graceful as a drunkard's first duel."
She clung to his tunic, tears soaking the fabric. "H-h-he left me!"
Crumbs and Confessions
By the resurrected fire, Vivienne devoured rock-hard journeybread like a starved wolf pup. Bennett watched, torn between laughter and pity.
"T-two days," she mumbled through crumbs, clutching the waterskin he offered. "N-no coins. Innkeeper s-said... said my smile wouldn't pay rent."
The tale unfolded in hiccuping fragments—months waiting in their master's empty cottage, dwindling supplies, the terrifying journey to Flying Horse Town.
"Teacher said... s-said if he didn't return..." She fumbled with her patched sleeve, producing a crumpled note in Gandolf's spidery script: June 15th. Brokeback Mountain. Light the beacon.
Bennett's gut tightened. The green artifact in his satchel seemed to pulse.
Dance of the Damned
Midnight's chill deepened as Bennett planted the device—a brass cylinder etched with alchemical sigils. A twist released a viridian comet streaking skyward.
Vivienne gasped. The green flame hung suspended, painting the woods in sickly hues. Somewhere between phosphorescence and decay, its glow revealed claw marks on ancient oaks—marks Bennett hadn't noticed before.
The forest held its breath.
Then came the flute.
Not a melody but a lament—shrill yet sweet, like wind through battlefield bones. Vivienne stiffened.
"Sister?" she whispered.
A figure materialized atop the ridge, robes the color of poisoned moss. Moonlight kissed a face both familiar and alien—Gandolf's features twisted younger, crueler, crowned by a hat woven from nightshade vines.
"Greetings, thief." The Green-cloaked One's voice held honey and hemlock. His flute gestured toward Vivienne. "You've brought my wayward sparrow home."
Bennett's hand found his dagger. Vivienne trembled violently, half-hiding behind him.
"Who—"
"Tut!" The stranger's laugh slithered through trees. "Ask rather what I am. Gandolf's echo? His sin given flesh?" He crouched at the fire's edge, eyes reflecting twin green flames. "Or perhaps... your new teacher?"
Chapter 166 (Part I): Shadows of the Sundered Sage
The Green Flame's Reflection
The fire crackled like a mocking laugh. Two men faced each other across the flames—one young and sharp-edged, the other cloaked in verdant shadows that writhed like cursed ivy.
"You…" Bennett's voice carried genuine disbelief.
"…shouldn't look so surprised," the Green-robed One finished, though his fingers tightened imperceptibly around his staff. Emerald eyes flickered past Bennett's shoulder, scanning the treeline.
"Did Gandolf send you to play nursemaid?" Bennett stepped closer, the name Selma poised on his tongue like a blade.
A twitch. The slightest recoil. The Green One's veneer cracked. "Where is she?" he hissed. "Is that meddling wraith lurking nearby?"
Before Bennett could answer, Vivienne's timid voice piped up: "M-Mister Green Hat?"
Bennett snorted. Green Hat. A title both absurd and apt for this counterfeit sage.
"You… know him?" Bennett asked, watching Vivienne shrink under the Green One's glare.
"H-he's Joanna's teacher," she whispered.
Joanna's master. Gandolf's shadow. Puzzle pieces clicked into place, each sharper than the last.
Burning Truths
Bennett gestured Vivienne toward the woods. She retreated like a startled hare, casting anxious glances over her shoulder.
"So the old fool's apprentice follows you now," the Green One mused, settling by the fire. "How very noble of him to bequeath his orphans."
Bennett tossed Gandolf's sealed letter into the flames between them. The Green One read it with a sneer before consigning it to ash.
"Speak plainly," Bennett demanded. "What are you?"
The Green One's laughter slithered through the night. "You reek of demon musk, boy. That horn you hide? A gift from Kris, no? Pathetic."
Bennett's hand flew to his hair-concealed spike. How—
"I've walked the shores where your kind are butchered for sport," the Green One interrupted, eyes glowing poison-bright. "Your stench is unmistakable."
Sisters in the Storm
Vivienne's muffled sob cut through the tension. Across the clearing, Joanna stood rigid as her sister collapsed into damp leaves.
"Didn't know, did you?" Joanna's voice carried cold precision, yet her gloved hand hovered awkwardly above Vivienne's heaving shoulders. "About your precious master's demise."
"L-lies!" Vivienne wailed.
Joanna knelt—a hesitant predator comforting prey. "Cry louder," she muttered. "Summon every bandit within ten leagues."
The gesture shocked Bennett. This ice-hearted warrior, this rival who'd once tried to skewer him over a loaf of bread, now cradled her weeping sister with something akin to… guilt?
A Sundered Soul
"We were both Gandolf." The Green One's voice dropped, stripped of mockery. "A butcher's blade cleaving one soul into two."
He gestured to the moonlit hills. "Born here. Raised among flour sacks and sewing needles. Then came magic. Glory. And him—that self-righteous fool who believed in Aragorn's cursed legacy."
Bennett's throat tightened. The confession mirrored his own fractured journey—noble blood warring with smuggler's cunning.
"We loved Selma," the Green One spat. "He wanted to worship her like some damned saint. I wanted to take her. To feel her pulse quicken beneath—"
A branch snapped. Both men turned as Vivienne stumbled into the clearing, Joanna's arm half-supporting her.
"Enough ghosts," Bennett growled. "Teach me what Gandolf promised, or crawl back to whatever hell spat you out."
The Green One smiled—a predator's grin. "Oh, I'll teach you, boy. But first…" His staff flared viridian. "…let's discuss payment."
Chapter 166 (Part II): Echoes of the Sundered Soul
The Devil's Bargain
The fire hissed as if offended by the Green-robed One's tale. Shadows clawed at his face as he spoke, his gaze darting between the trees like a hunted thing.
"We were fools," he spat, fingers tightening around a charred stick. "Two souls crammed into one rotting carcass, clawing for control. He wanted to play hero for Aragorn's ghost. I wanted to burn it all down and start anew."
Bennett leaned forward, the name Kris sour on his tongue. "So you let a demon split you like firewood?"
The Green One's laughter scraped raw. "Desperation makes fine kindling, boy. Imagine centuries sharing your skull with a self-righteous prig who wept over ancient scrolls!" He jabbed the stick into embers, sending sparks fleeing skyward. "Kris offered freedom. A body of my own. All I had to do…"
The pause stretched taut.
"…was swear to aid his chosen puppet." His emerald eyes locked on Bennett. "You."
A moth immolated itself in the flames.
Fractured Legacy
Vivienne's whimper cut through the silence. Across the clearing, Joanna stood stone-faced as her sister clung to Bennett's sleeve.
"Teacher's… gone?" Vivienne's whisper could've shattered glass.
Bennett nodded, thumb brushing a tear from her cheek. "But he left you protected. Left us—"
"Protected?" The Green One snorted. "He left you shackled to Aragorn's corpse of a prophecy! That sentimental fool never—"
"Enough." Bennett's voice cracked whip-sharp. "Your grudge is with a ghost. My path is my own."
The Green One studied him, then grinned—a wolf savoring prey. "Oh, you'll do nicely."
A Pupil's Plea
Dawn bled across the mountaintop when terms were struck.
"Three months," the Green One decreed, brushing ash from his robes. "I'll find you when the maple leaves blush. Expect no coddling, no heroic ballads. Just power."
Bennett met his gaze. "And no sermons about Aragorn's 'noble cause.'"
"Ha! We'll make a proper cynic of you yet."
As the Green One vanished into mist with Joanna, Vivienne sniffled into Bennett's shoulder.
"P-promise," she hiccuped, fists balled in his tunic. "N-no mean tricks. N-no… s-squeezing my cheeks like dough!"
Bennett's laughter startled an owl from its perch. "On my honor," he swore, fingers already pinching her nose. "Only gentle torment."
Her indignant squeal echoed through the valley—a fragile, precious sound in the gathering light.