Chapter 134: The Weight of Winter
Cold. Unrelenting, yet oddly bearable. Lady Clarke floated in the darkness, her thoughts dulled by the oppressive stillness. Her voice had long since fallen silent, swallowed by the void when the giant white snake devoured her. She’d screamed at first, thrashed and fought, but it became clear there was no escape, no resistance to be made. All that remained was the wait.
Time lost meaning in this place. Minutes? Hours? Days? She couldn’t tell. The surprising part, though, wasn’t the time—it was her body. No hunger clawed at her stomach, no thirst parched her throat. The cold was ever-present, pressing against her like an icy tide, but even that had grown strangely tolerable. If anything, she almost felt... comfortable, as though the void had sapped her will to fight.
Clarke had tried countless times to reach out with her aura, her senses straining to find the others. Each attempt met with failure, her efforts swallowed by the endless abyss. The isolation gnawed at her, feeding the resentment slowly brewing inside her chest. Thoughts turned sharp, cutting at the edges of her composure. 'Why was I even forced to come?' The question lingered, festering as she began to wonder if this entire ordeal had been some elaborate trick.
She forced the thought away, her jaw tightening. 'Focus. This isn’t the time to doubt—'
A sudden pull cut her thoughts short.
The void twisted and buckled, the darkness collapsing inward as her body lurched. Then, just as abruptly, her world exploded into light. The brightness burned her vision, forcing her to shield her eyes. Instinctively, she drew mana to her senses, focusing it into her eyes as she blinked.
When her sight finally cleared, she froze.
She wasn’t back in the garden as she’d expected. Instead, she was kneeling in the middle of a lavish bedroom. The opulence of her surroundings struck her like a blow. Rich tapestries draped the walls, their intricate designs shimmering with gold embroidery. Plush velvet adorned every surface, its deep crimson fabric catching the light of an ornate chandelier above. The furniture was a masterwork of polished wood, each piece carved with expert craftsmanship. It was a room of excess and grandeur, the kind of place that belonged to a king.
Clarke spun as she leaped to her feet, panic flashing in her golden eyes. “What is this?!” she shouted, her voice cutting through the oppressive silence. “Is this how you treat a guest? Where are Marcus and Judith?!”
The room answered her with nothing but stillness. Her breath quickened as her gaze landed on the large double doors. Gritting her teeth, she stomped toward them, her aura flaring. She grabbed the latches and pulled, only to find them locked.
“Damn it,” she hissed under her breath, slamming her fist against the heavy wood. She turned sharply, her frustration building—and froze.
Her eyes locked onto a corner of the room she’d swore was empty. “This isn’t happening,” she muttered, her voice trembling with both anger and disbelief. Her aura solidified around her, a thick yellow glow encasing her as her fists clenched.
Tucked neatly into the corner was a large basin of steaming water, its surface scattered with crimson petals. Their sweet, delicate scent finally reached her, though it did nothing to calm her nerves. Beside the basin stood a tall rack, draped with a heavy cloth and crowned with a lavish red gown. The dress shimmered in the soft light, its golden embroidery shining like molten sunlight.
“Wash and change. Once you’re done, join me for dinner.”
Gillian’s voice echoed in her mind, low and commanding, sending an unwelcome chill down her spine. Her jaw tightened as she shook her head, the reality of her situation settling over her like ice. “Stop this nonsense!” she shouted into the air. “Do you really expect me to wear this? Release me! I am a knight, not some doll for you to dress!"
There was a pause, then the voice returned, laced with casual amusement. “You can always go back. Perhaps a few months in the dark would change your mind.”
Her breath hitched, she realized her options were limited, and the memory of the void’s unrelenting cold flashed through her mind. “Bastard,” she muttered, her hands trembling with restrained fury. Even so, she refused to bathe. 'No way I’m getting naked.'
With a thought, her armor faded into her storage pouch, leaving her in trousers and a plain tunic. Kicking off her boots, she marched over to the dress, yanking it down from the rack. She pulled it over herself in one swift motion, the fabric flowing like liquid gold against her skin. Huffing, she tugged and fluffed the gown until it settled, her movements quick and efficient. Without missing a beat, she used her womanly skill to somehow remove her tunic and trousers from beneath the dress with little fuss.
Brushing her hair back with quick, frustrated strokes, she glared upward. “Happy now, my lord?” she called, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
The silence that followed was deafening. Finally, his voice came again, smooth but tinged with disappointment. “Follow the candle.”
The double doors groaned as they swung open, revealing a darkened hallway beyond. Hovering in the air, a single candle floated, its flame steady despite the black stillness of the corridor. Its soft glow guided the path ahead, casting flickering shadows against the walls.
Lady Clarke followed the floating candle through the dark corridor. The air grew sharper with each step, frost creeping along the walls as the chill bit through her thin gown. Her jaw tightened, yellow eyes locked on the faint glow ahead.
The candle stopped before a massive pair of double doors. A soft blue light seeped from the gap beneath, frost snaking across the floor and biting at her boots. Clarke stared at the icy glow, her breath misting as tension coiled in her chest.
'What am I doing here?! Why'd I even agree to this?’ Her mind raced, frustration twisting in her chest. ‘I could’ve just—'
The creak of the doors shattered her thoughts, a rush of cold air spilling into the hall and chilling her skin. But just as quickly as the frost bit, it was replaced by a wave of warmth.
“Come in. Sit,” Gillian’s voice rumbled from within, calm yet commanding. “I trust you enjoy mana-beast.”
The scene before her was almost surreal. A massive table stretched across the grand room, its surface laden with an extravagant spread. Roasted mana-beasts of every size and shape were displayed, their glistening, golden skin crackling under the light of glowing blue chandeliers. The aroma hit her like a hammer, rich and intoxicating. Spices she couldn’t place filled the air, mingling with the mouthwatering scent of cooked flesh. Her stomach betrayed her with a loud, guttural growl that echoed through the hall.
Clarke froze, her cheeks flushing as she glanced at Gillian. The Legend Knight was already rising from his seat, his glacier-like eyes narrowing slightly, though his expression remained unreadable. Her composure faltered completely as the hunger she’d been ignoring surged.
Before she could stop herself, she moved. Clarke dashed forward, her hands reaching out before her mind could catch up. Her restraint crumbled as she tore into the feast, the noise of crunching bones and tearing meat filling the air.
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Gillian’s expression halted, his towering frame motionless as he watched the spectacle unfold. His piercing eyes widened slightly, his mind caught between disbelief and amusement. Slowly, his pale cheeks colored, the rare hint of warmth.
“My, my...” he muttered, his voice low. Moving carefully, he lowered himself back into his seat, his gaze never leaving the ravenous woman before him.
Hearing his words, she quickly realized she'd lost control, freezing mid-bite, her jaw tightening as heat rushed to her cheeks. Slowly, she set the half-eaten leg of meat down on the plate before her, her hands trembling faintly with embarrassment.
Grabbing the nearest golden napkin, she flicked away the loose bits of meat clinging to it before dabbing at her mouth. Her voice was calm but clipped. "Excuse my behavior. I haven’t had more than dried rations for a while now."
Gillian’s gaze didn’t waver, his tone smooth and unbothered. "Don’t hold back on my account. Please, eat until you’re full. That is, after all, why I invited you." He motioned toward the lavish spread, a loaf of bread in hand as he bit into it casually, the gesture dismissive.
Clarke hesitated for a moment, her pride warring with her hunger, before finally relenting. Sitting down, she composed herself and ate at a steady pace, refusing to let her earlier slip show again. After several bites, the tension lingering between them finally broke as she leaned back slightly, her sharp yellow eyes fixed on the Legend Knight.
"Will Marcus and Judith be joining us?" Her voice was measured, but there was a clear edge to her words.
“They will not,” Gillian replied, his tone steady, though his glacier-like eyes flickered with something she couldn’t place. “My daughter, as you’ve likely noticed, has a temper that rivals the storm. She needs time to think things through.”
Clarke set down her fork, her golden gaze narrowing. “With all due respect, I think she’s had more than enough time. Perhaps you’re the one who needs to think things through.”
Gillian’s brow twitched, though his expression remained calm. “Respect... an interesting word to use in this context.” He lifted a goblet filled with a dark red liquid, swirling it gently before taking a long sip. Setting it down, he sighed, his eyes meeting hers with an unsettling calm. “You must think the worst of me, and I can’t say you’re wrong. But even so, your willingness to risk your life for my family is… commendable.”
Clarke swallowed hard at his comment, her fingers tightening around the goblet as she took a long drink. The burn of the alcohol seeped into her nerves, giving her a moment’s reprieve. “I don’t mean—”
“But you have no idea of the immensity of your request.” Gillian’s voice cut through hers, calm yet unyielding. His fingers brushed his white beard thoughtfully as he leaned back in his chair. After a pause, he tilted his head and asked, “You know of the Reformation, yes? Tell me, what story are they spinning about it at the strongholds?”
Clarke straightened, setting the goblet down with a soft clink. Clearing her throat, she began, “I know that after Warwick Valdene disappeared, the Knights' Council declared a Reformation to consolidate our strength in the vacuum he left behind.”
She paused for a moment, her golden eyes narrowing slightly as realization struck. Her earlier pain—the burning in her eyes when she looked at him—had been deliberate, because now there was none. Anger flashed across her features as it dawned on her that Gillian had just been showing off.
Shaking off the thought, she continued, her tone sharp but measured. Her hands absently tore pieces of meat from the plate before her, the motion almost mechanical. “The council decreed that all knights must fall under the banner of the Union. Free knights were commanded to join the Penitent Knights, as the practice of free knighthood was officially banned.”
Her voice dipped slightly, her words growing slower, heavier. “Due to their nature, some free knights refused. They formed a resistance against the Union, which was tolerated for a time. But eventually, the Council issued an order: the remaining free knights were to be hunted down. Anyone who dared to claim the title would face execution on sight.”
“And what of me? What farce have they spread?” Gillian’s tone was calm, but the subtle weight behind his words pressed down on her.
“To be honest, my lord, not much is spoken about the free knights among my generation.” Clarke met his gaze, the faint flush from the alcohol emboldening her. “All records were either destroyed or confiscated by Avalon. I’ve never been to the capital, so most of what I’ve heard about you before coming here were rumors at best.”
“Rumors, you say?” He leaned back slightly, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his lips. “Sometimes, rumors hold more truth than facts. Go on, then. What tales are told of the Last Winter?”
The alcohol, surprisingly potent against her strength, loosened her tongue further. “Well, the main rumor I’ve heard—and mind you, this came from a colleague who heard it from his father and so on—but the story goes that you led a company of free knights in an attack on Avalon itself. The Council’s combined strength supposedly wiped out the Last Winter and all his men.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Gillian’s expression didn’t change, but the stillness in the room grew suffocating, the air colder than before.
Realizing her misstep, Clarke’s voice quickened as she stammered, “I’m sorry—that’s just what I heard. Of course, it’s obvious the stories were false—clearly, you’re alive, and...” She trailed off, feeling the weight of her words as they hung in the air. But suddenly, her caution was overcome as her eyes lit up due to realizing; she could ask the Last Winter himself. “So what did happen? Did you really attack the capital?”
Seemingly lost in thought for a moment, a cold frost escaped his mouth as he sighed. "No. I went there to negotiate. In fact I responded to a call to parlay, one that I was warned repeatedly not to attend."
“Wait, they asked you to come? It should have been obvious it was a trap then,” Clarke said, her brows furrowing.
“It was,” Gillian replied, his voice steady, almost resigned. “But my pride and ego refused to let me fear it. At that time, the Council were mere juniors—none of them individually worth concern. Even combined, their strength wasn’t anything I needed to fear.”
Clarke’s expression shifted as the weight of his words settled in. Her knowledge of that era, sparse though it was, painted a different picture. The knights on the Council at that time—each one was a Legend Knight. Her gaze sharpened, seeing him in a new light.
“So, I accepted.” His tone darkened, his icy eyes narrowing as his hand absently brushed over the frost-covered table. “And with the few remaining free knights—brothers who had stood with me for years—we strode into the capital, our pride on full display.”
A bitter laugh escaped him, hollow and self-mocking. “I never dreamed they’d stoop so low. A trap? Of course, that was expected. But to seek help from the Towers? To grovel on their knees and beg the Primus for his aid?” His hand clenched, the frost beneath his palm cracking audibly. “That, I never imagined.”
“The Primus?!” Clarke whispered, the name striking a chord within her, sounding with the weight of untouchable power. Her golden eyes widened as the shock settled in. “I’ve never heard about this. Every movement of that man is recorded in history. If he stepped into Avalon itself, they must have spent an unfathomable amount of time and resources to bury it.”
“You have no idea of the capabilities of the true ascended,” Gillian replied, his tone cold. “For beings like us, sealing a space and erasing traces of an event from those weaker isn’t just deliberate—it’s effortless.”
The Primus, a title that carried a weight unparalleled. One that was eternal, belonging to one man throughout all of time. The first mage of the Arcane Ascendancy System, and the first to achieve the rank of Archmagus—the oldest living member of the human race. The Primus was legend incarnate.
“They lured you into Avalon,” Clarke said slowly, her voice barely above a whisper, “while secretly recruiting the Primus himself to their side for the ambush.” Her gaze lifted to meet his, her respect deepening with the enormity of his survival. She hesitated but couldn’t hold back. “Then… how are we talking right now? Even Warwick had to tread lightly around him.”
Gillian’s brow furrowed, his expression darkening as a wave of frost crept across her plate, the food stiffening under its icy touch. His voice, when he spoke, was devoid of its usual mocking edge. “We’re talking because my comrades are not. Their sacrifice, paired with my own incompetence, forced me through an escape spell at the last moment.”
His words hit like lead. There was no grandeur in his tone, no embellishment. “No heroic last stand. No desperate flight leading to some hollow victory. Just the shattered remains of pride and foolish bravado.”
Clarke remained silent, her stomach sinking as his words pressed on.
“The only good that came of it,” he continued, his voice sharp with bitterness, “was that I returned in time to save my family. But I wasn’t fast enough to save my wife.”
The pressure around him deepened, its chill almost tangible. “When I arrived, she was gravely wounded. She survived only because of a spell—a spell that didn’t completely heal her, but it extended her life. It gave her time, nothing more.” His hand rested on the frozen table, the ice radiating from his fingers like veins of regret.
“Years later, when we accidentally conceived Judith, she hid from me the price she’d pay. I only learned the truth when it was too late. She used the last of her life to bring Judith into this world.” His voice cracked ever so slightly, a fleeting break in the armor of his composed demeanor. “And in doing so, she left me with a lonely daughter and an empty world.”
“So, I will not risk my family further for some boy’s foolish pride. If he wishes to challenge those stronger than him, so be it. I have no obligation to the Valdene family.”
The weight of her growing respect for him shattered under the finality of his words. She inhaled deeply, steadying herself against the sting of disappointment. Raising her gaze, her golden eyes locked onto his, unwavering. “I am sorry for your loss, I truly am. But you’re wrong. You do have an obligation—not to the Valdenes, but to your own blood.”
Gillian’s expression hardened, his frosted brows knitting together. “I’ve heard this before. I have no—”
“My lord.” Clarke interrupted, her tone firm but carrying a sharp sincerity that cut through the room’s chilling air. Her voice softened slightly as her eyes burned with conviction. “Your grandson, though scared and weak, knowing full well he would likely die, sacrificed himself to save the ones he held dear. He believed in Darius, devoted himself to what he’s trying to achieve. All you’re being asked to do is honor your grandson’s memory—to fulfill your duty as his grandfather.”
Silence enveloped the room, the tension heavy as Clarke rose from her seat, her movements steady and deliberate. When she spoke again, her voice was even, almost gentle. “One day, the Towers’ reach will extend to every corner of this world. When that time comes, what will you do?”
Her gaze lingered on him for a moment, gauging his reaction, but his expression remained frozen, unreadable. Clarke pushed in her chair with quiet resolve and continued, “Thank you for the meal. If I may, I’d like to retire. It seems the food and drink have caught up with me.”
Gillian studied her for a moment before giving a curt nod. “You may return to your room. Follow the candle, and it will guide you back.”
She inclined her head slightly, her words measured as she moved toward the door. “Goodnight, my lord.” Pausing mid-step, her shoulders tensed, and her hands curled into fists. “Percy had feelings for me, you know. Toward the end, he became the kind of man I might have noticed.” Her voice dropped, quiet and raw. “It’s a shame I never got the chance.”
The soft glow of the candle lit her way as she stepped through the doorway, the flickering light casting her shadow long against the cold stone walls. Her parting words lingered, heavy and unyielding, like the toll of a mourning bell.
Left alone in the silence, Gillian remained seated, his gaze fixed on the empty doorway. The frost on the table began to spread, creeping outward and filling the room like the regrets etched into his soul. His voice broke the stillness, a quiet whisper, almost lost to the frozen air.
“He was a beautiful child… I wish I could have seen that.”
The frost stopped spreading, and the room fell into stillness once more.