As Aethyr wakes in the infirmary, he’s greeted by Penelo’s intense, slightly pained gaze.
“Hello, Penelo! Good weather today, huh?” Aethyr jokes, wincing as he shifts his legs, numb and weak beneath him.
Penelo throws a glance out the window, where rain is pouring in torrents. She raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.
“Penelo, I’m sorry. It was… the only way. Look—I’m still alive, and I even managed to walk… for a few minutes! Doesn’t that prove I’m harder to kill now?” He flashes a smile, hoping to soften her mood.
Penelo’s eyes betray a flicker of relief as she inspects his injuries but, with her emotions carefully hidden, she stands to leave. Just before exiting, however, Aethyr catches the faintest curve of a smile on her lips.
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As Aethyr slowly recovers over the next few days, he navigates the college in a wheelchair or with a walking stick, and wherever he goes, whispers follow him like a shadow. In the dining hall, students murmur in hushed voices, some in awe, others in disbelief.
“Is that him—the Spellsword? He doesn’t look so strong…” whispers one doubter, eyeing Aethyr's walking stick.
Another sneers, “Barely able to chant a candle flame, I heard.”
But other students shush them, eyes wide with reverence. “That’s Whitemane. He went toe-to-toe with Grand Master Grandyr, you know.”
“The one who left the Head Master’s hands in bandages?” asks another, lowering their voice. “I heard he’s broken the training hall like a battleground!”
At lunch, Aethyr feels the weight of their stares, some curious, some skeptical, and others laced with a quiet admiration. As he sits to eat, Master Alious joins him, observing him with a calm, knowing smile.
“How’s the heart, underneath the silence?” Alious asks quietly.
“It still beats… I took the leap,” Aethyr replies, glancing at his mentor with gratitude.
Alious nods approvingly. “And remember, son—an act of kindness, done in silence, needs no amen.”
Their conversation is short, but the meaning lingers in Aethyr’s mind. Alious’s words reinforce the value of what Aethyr fought for—a cause greater than glory.
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In the practice field, Aethyr’s strength gradually returns, and he spars with members of the Phalanx. Vaan and Rex, two close friends, join in, though they can barely last 30 seconds against him.
Aethyr then squares off against Valiant, the infamous ambusher of the Nine, renowned for his unorthodox style. They trade blows with the clack of wooden swords, each strike echoing like a hammer on an anvil.
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“Move your legs, keep your balance!” shouts Njada, one of the Phalanx, as she watches Aethyr closely. “Don’t hesitate—forward or back, but move!”
Aela adds from the sidelines, “Lock onto him, Aethyr! Feel his movements!”
Just then, Valiant delivers a swift strike to Aethyr’s neck, forcing him to his knees, coughing. The blow might’ve killed him in a real battle. As Valiant lifts his sword in victory, he smirks, calling out, “Anyone else?”
The Phalanx offers Aethyr advice, admiring his determination even as he struggles to keep pace with them. Njada’s expression softens. “There are fighters out there who can match Valiant’s skill,” she says. “Be ready. You’re far from defeating us one-on-one, but you’re getting better.”
Aela, placing a gentle hand on Aethyr’s shoulder, adds warmly, “When the day comes that you’ve bested us, Little Foot, I’ll be the first to welcome you into our inner circle.”
Out of nowhere, a package arrived, bearing the unmistakable seal of Eorlund Graymane, the master blacksmith of Fjallgard. Aethyr’s hands trembled as he opened it, the faint scent of smoke and metal wafting from within. Inside was a letter scrawled in rough, sturdy handwriting:
"Dear boy,
I saw the schematics of the armor you wore on that last dungeon raid. It was inventive, but I knew I could perfect it. I’ve made some adjustments and adapted parts to better suit the demands of a warrior like yourself. I heard you’ve been working with relics and enchanted gems, so I’ve included adaptive slots in the armor, designed to hold and enhance any artifact or infusion you choose.
Now, my greatest work: your weapon. It’s not as strong as Whitebrand, our sacred axe that was lost to the ages, but I used the dragon bone that once hung above the Jarl’s throne. It’s a relic in itself, its strength and resilience matched only by its rarity. The fusion of this bone into your weapon and armor is nothing short of divine—it holds an essence that few could afford, save for heroes and kings.
For you, son, the only price I ask is that you live. Come home one day.
* Eorlund Graymane"
Aethyr’s eyes stung as he held the letter, moved by the thoughtfulness and care hidden behind the gruff words. The sense of kinship and the belief others had in him filled him with renewed determination.
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Modifying the Armor
The armor gleamed with Eorlund's improvements, a blend of elegance and raw power. Aethyr worked for hours, adding his own modifications, layering it with relics and elemental infusions suited for his descent. The adaptive slots proved invaluable, allowing him to enhance his defenses with temporary infusions of fire resistance or swift mana recovery.
The centerpiece of his preparations, however, was a set of Emergency Talismans. Aethyr carefully embedded these charms within the armor plating, each ready to activate at the barest touch. One talisman granted him a brief shield of invisibility—a mere handful of seconds but enough to evade detection or make an escape.
The Weapon
Eorlund's masterwork weapon was a marvel in itself. At Aethyr’s will, it could transform—a sturdy staff, a razor-sharp sword, a grappler armed with a magical mana rope, and even a crystal detector. Small, throwable sensors were strapped to the weapon’s side, each able to relay hidden threats back to Aethyr.
The dragon bone gave the weapon a faint, eerie glow, a silent promise of strength, resilience, and a fearsome history that now belonged to Aethyr. He marveled at the weapon’s weight, feeling the balance and energy that pulsed through it, an extension of himself.
Aethyr took a final look at his gear, feeling the combined efforts of his kin, friends, and even his own indomitable spirit. Whatever awaited him in the depths of the dungeon, he was prepared.