Aric strode back to his room, determined to begin mapping out his path. Sitting at his desk, he pulled out the ancient maps he had assembled—fragments of history, relic locations, and the limited knowledge he had of the prophecy itself. The Cultists and their obsessive hunger to destroy the Veil made one thing clear: if he wanted to survive, he would need to stay multiple steps ahead, not only of them but of every hidden current within his own family’s plans. This was no longer mere survival; it was a chess game, a game of calculated risks and strategic positioning.
The others, he thought, reflecting on the alliances he was bound to forge. They could be useful, but only so far as they served his ends. He would draw on their strengths, exploit their loyalties, but he would remain guarded, always holding his own plans close to his chest.
The silver dagger lay on his desk, a relic. He picked it up, feeling its weight in his hand—a silent weapon, a tool honed by the Oswins. Perhaps an extension of myself, he thought, tracing its edge thoughtfully.
He would use the prophecy to his advantage, turning it into something he could leverage, weaponize, and—ultimately—transcend.
But how could he grow stronger to face the inevitable challenges that awaited him? His mind drifted to the fragments of memory of the lives he lived in the illusion of the 4th gate. The ancient techniques of spatial magic and sigils, the intricate rituals that drew on the Veil and the Wyrd—these would be essential. Every lesson, every technique, every piece of knowledge would be another layer of armor, another weapon in his arsenal.
He recalled the hidden techniques he had learned: the power of rituals to manipulate mana, the potential in sigils to enhance protection, movement, even summoning. These were not things one could master lightly, but he was prepared to make every sacrifice necessary. To increase his power, he would practice until he could use it as second nature, allowing him to move swiftly, outmaneuver opponents, and launch attacks with pinpoint precision.
No more fumbling, he resolved. His approach would be methodical, calculated. He would research the Veil’s properties and the Wyrd’s chaos, knowing that harnessing them would require both a steady hand and a clear mind. He knew that delving too far could lead to madness, as many before him had learned, but he was not like those who came before. The fragments of ancient knowledge he possessed offered him just enough guidance to dance on the edge of sanity without slipping into the abyss.
But knowledge had a price. He remembered the warnings—the corruption that came from wielding forbidden power, the sanity at risk with every brush against the Wyrd. It wasn’t a matter of if he would have to pay; it was only a matter of when. And he was willing to pay it. This was the true cost of strength—one that few were willing to accept, but he would.
Aric leaned back, letting his gaze drift over the room. The Oswin estate felt less like a home these days and more like a battlefield—a place laced with shadows and echoes of ancestors who had likely faced the same reckonings he did now. But unlike them, he had no intention of simply playing the role of a pawn.
When he met with the other families, he’d show them what they expected: the dutiful heir, obedient to his family’s legacy, speaking the words they wanted to hear. But behind that carefully crafted mask, he’d remain vigilant. If his role as Oswin heir demanded he wear the prophecy like a shroud, he would do so, but he’d wear it on his own terms, his mind as sharp and unyielding as the silver dagger he held.
He allowed himself a faint smile. Yes, the prophecy was his to fulfill—but it was also his to shape, to bend, and, if necessary, to shatter. Should the day come when it no longer served him, he would find a way to dismantle it and break free from its chains—if that was even possible.
“Been thinking in such a cringe way lately,” he muttered to himself. “Seems I’ve finally lost it.”
...
Two weeks had slipped by since the alliance meeting, which had taken place just a week ago. Not much of note had occurred since then.
Aric could still picture Cedric at the head of the table, his presence filling the room as he spoke with undeniable authority.
"Thank you all for coming," Cedric had said, his voice resolute. "We’re here to solidify our alliance against the Cultists. With the Veil at stake, unity isn’t a choice anymore—it’s a necessity."
Aric remembered exchanging glances with Aela and Sylvan, both of whom mirrored his resolve. This wasn’t just another meeting or some fleeting talk of strategy. The stakes were higher than ever, and the gravity of it weighed on every one of them. They were all too aware that the cost of failure could be unimaginable.
Aela, never one to mince words, had taken the floor with a fierce declaration. “We need a blood oath,” she’d proposed, her gaze hard and unyielding. “A vow to protect one another, to defend each family’s relic. Betrayal will not be an option.”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
The proposal had stirred a flurry of reactions, some murmurs of agreement and others of quiet dissent. Kael had been quick to voice his support. “We’re stronger together. Our families have spent too long isolated—it's time we acted like a true alliance.”
Aric could still see the sharp-eyed elder from the Elysian family, scrutinizing them all with her piercing gaze. “A blood oath is easy to speak of, but trust is more difficult to earn," she’d said, her voice steeped in caution. "We’re placing centuries of legacy on the line. How do we know this won’t be just another failed alliance?”
That had been his cue. Aric remembered stepping forward, his voice steady as he argued, "Isolation has only brought us closer to ruin. The Wyrd thrives on division, and if we want to protect our families—and our world—we need each other."
The elder hadn’t looked convinced, but after a tense pause, she’d remained silent, allowing the conversation to press on. One by one, they’d presented plans and contingencies. Sylvan, ever cautious, proposed sharing magical techniques and defensive rituals that could bind their relics in powerful wards. Kael, the warrior, had outlined training regimens, discussing strategies to maximize their strengths. Each contribution seemed to build upon the last, their voices rising in a shared sense of purpose.
When Aela proposed scouting near the Vhalar ruins to monitor cultist movements, Aric had immediately offered his support, knowing that facing the Cultists head-on was as dangerous as it was necessary. The decision to go with her wasn’t one he’d made lightly; they’d both understood the risks but agreed the benefits were worth it. Sylvan had cut in, reminding them that a strategy wasn’t enough—they’d need escape plans, safe houses, and a network of spies.
By the end, he’d felt something rare flicker to life among them. In that meeting, it was as though they weren’t just individuals with family obligations—they were a united force, determined and bound by more than blood alone.
He could still feel the faint echoes of hope from that moment, even now. The alliance wasn’t perfect, but it was a step, one they would each have to honor and defend.
...
As days passed and the alliance slowly took shape, each family rallied their defenses, sharpening their skills in preparation. Aric trained with the others, often sparring with Kael, whose raw strength and relentless energy pushed him to the edge. Aric kept his movements precise but restrained, masking the depth of skill he had gained after navigating countless lives in the Fourth Gate of the Trial. He adapted just enough, matching the pace and rhythm expected of him as an heir but nothing more. It was an unspoken rule—a caution that kept his true power hidden.
“You’re getting better,” Kael remarked one afternoon, his respect evident as Aric sidestepped a heavy blow, his sword barely grazing Kael’s arm in a practiced miss. “But you need to find your rhythm. Swordsmanship isn’t just technique—it’s about understanding the person standing before you.”
“I know,” Aric replied, letting his breath come a little heavier than necessary. “It’s…a bit overwhelming when every swing feels like it holds the weight of our families’ legacies.”
“Then don’t fight against it,” Kael said, lowering his blade with a grin. “Use it. That weight should be what drives you, not something you dodge.”
Aric nodded, glancing down at the blade in his hand, its edge glinting in the sunlight. He could feel the power waiting, the instinct born of hundreds of lifetimes, memories whispering to him how easily he could take control of the fight. But each time he held back, grounding himself with the limits expected of him. If they were to believe he was simply one of them, he needed to wear his strength like a shadow, unnoticed but present.
Later, he found Aela in the garden, her silhouette framed against the horizon as she leaned on the stone railing, deep in thought.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked, joining her and casting a casual gaze toward the distant mountains.
Aela didn’t look at him, her voice soft. “The future, I guess. I’ve always known what it means to carry a legacy, but this… I’ve never faced anything like this. I can’t afford to fail, none of us can.”
Aric’s gaze softened. “We won’t. This alliance isn’t just about tradition or expectation—it’s about creating something beyond ourselves. We’re not bound by the past anymore; we’re forging our own path.”
Aela turned to him, her expression curious. “There’s something different about you, Aric. It’s like you’ve found a strength I hadn’t seen before, as if you’re standing in the center of it now.”
“Maybe it’s the pressure,” he replied, a faint, self-deprecating smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. He was careful to keep up the act, the image of who he used to be. “Or maybe…you and Kael just keep pushing me to be better.”
Aela chuckled, a sound as light as a breeze and unexpectedly reassuring. “Well then, let’s keep pushing. Whatever strength you’re holding onto, don’t let it go.”
Suddenly, Aela’s expression shifted from contemplative to playful. Without warning, she took a step back, lifting her arms, and in a swift, graceful motion, her wings unfurled—a striking expanse of pearly white feathers, almost iridescent in the sunlight. With a few powerful beats, she lifted off the ground, soaring effortlessly into the sky above them.
“Sometimes, Aric,” she called from above, her voice bright and ringing with cheer, “you just need to step back and let things come as they will. Not everything has to be a battle.” She spun mid-air, her smile radiant as the sun glistened against her, lighting her face and casting a warm, golden glow around her.
Watching her, Aric was momentarily taken aback, her easy, joyful freedom so different from the weight he felt every day. He felt a strange calm settle over him, and almost without realizing it, he allowed a small, nearly invisible smile to slip through.
“Take things slow, Aric,” she said, floating down softly until her feet touched the ground. “Sometimes, we just need to breathe.”
Aric gave a quiet nod, his usual guarded expression softening as he looked at her. It wasn’t often he felt this way—a feeling that, for a fleeting moment, eased the intensity of his purpose.
---
As the days turned to weeks, the alliance grew stronger. They honed their skills, shared knowledge, and built a network of scouts. Aric often found himself alongside Sylvan, delving into the history of eir families’ relics, piecing together their strengths and weaknesses.
...