Chapter 23: Aftermath

The woods were dark and entirely unforgiving.

The snow was thick on the ground, reaching past the knees of a grown man. The trees were tall, their branches blocking out the faint moonlight.

Kael, the leader of the Bandits, was running through the deep snow. His breath was ragged and was forming thick clouds of steam in the freezing air. His boots were slipping on hidden patches of ice, but he did not stop. He did not look back.

He was abandoning his men.

Behind him, the sounds of the chaotic rout were fading into the distance. The terrified screams of his bandits, the howling of the winter wind were blending together. The siege was completely broken.

Kael stumbled over a hidden tree root. He fell hard, his face crashing directly into a pile of freezing slush.

“Damn it!” Kael screamed, his voice raw with rage.

He pushed himself up from the snow, spitting dirt from his cracked lips. His sword was still in his hand. He looked at the blade, and a wave of absolute disgust washed over him. He threw the sword into the dark trees.

He was not supposed to be fighting with scrap metal. He was not supposed to be leading a pathetic mob of starving peasants and runaway criminals through a frozen wasteland.

He was an Iron Core mage. Or, at least, he used to be.

Kael clutched his chest, his fingers digging into his leather coat. Deep inside his soul, he could feel the suffocating weight of the imperial binding ritual. The Holy Church inquisitors had placed the seal on him three years ago. The glowing chains of holy magic were permanently wrapped around his core, completely cutting him off from his power.

Because of a single political mistake in the capital, the Church had branded him a heretic, sealed his magic, and cast him out into the northern wilds to freeze to death.

“If I had my magic,” Kael snarled into the empty woods, his teeth grinding together. “If my core was not sealed by those zealous fools, I would have melted those golems into a puddle of slag. I would have burned that entire castle to the bedrock!”

He turned his gaze back toward the castle. Even through the dense trees, a faint, dark smudge of smoke was visible against the night sky. It was the smoke from the castle’s hearth.

Kael’s fists clenched. His pride was completely shattered. He, a true noble of the west and a trained Iron Core mage, had just been utterly humiliated by a sickly boy and a single, hiding Grey Core mage controlling a pair of iron statues.

But Kael was a survivor. His rage quickly hardened into a cold resolve.

“You think you have won, you northern rat?” Kael whispered, his eyes narrowing with hateful intent.

The mountain pass was blocked by the blizzard, but the western pass was still barely passable for a single, desperate man willing to risk the high cliffs.

“I will survive this winter,” Kael vowed to the dark forest. “I will cross the western ridge. I will return to my father’s domain in the western provinces. He still has an army. He still has mages.”

Kael turned away from the distant castle. He wrapped his coat tightly around his shoulders and began to march toward the west.

“When the spring thaw comes, I will return to this valley,” Kael promised himself, his pace quickening with renewed purpose. “I will bring a real army. I will find that hidden mage, and I will rip his head from his shoulders. I will slaughter every peasant in that village, and I will take that castle for myself.”

With his dark vow made, Kael vanished into the freezing depths of the woods, leaving his broken bandit army behind to die in the snow.

The morning light was pale and quiet.

The bed in the master chamber felt incredibly soft, and the wool blankets were thick with trapped heat. Jack opened his eyes slowly. The stone ceiling of his room was above him.

The fire was roaring in the hearth. The crackling of the dry wood was the only sound in the room.

Jack took a slow, deep breath. His lungs expanded perfectly, drawing in the warm air without a single hint of a cough. But his head felt incredibly heavy. It was the lingering spiritual damage from the violent snapping of Dusty’s mental thread.

“Lord Jack?”

A soft, hopeful voice was near the fireplace.

Jack turned his head. Karen was sitting on the three-legged stool near the hearth. She was holding a damp cloth in her hands. Dark circles were under her eyes, indicating she had not slept a single wink the entire night.

“Karen,” Jack said, his voice quiet and slightly hoarse. He pushed himself up onto his elbows. “The castle…?”

“The castle is safe, My Lord,” Karen said, rushing over to the side of the bed. A relieved smile was on her face. “You collapsed on the balcony last night. Giles carried you to your bed. The battle is completely over.”

Jack rubbed his forehead, a sudden realization hitting him. When he passed out, his active control had been severed. “And my retainers? Bones and Rusty? Where are they?”

“They are still in the courtyard,” Karen answered, her voice filled with a mix of awe and lingering fear. “When you collapsed, they just… stopped. They stood perfectly still in the snow all night, like iron statues over the bodies of the bandit mages. Giles was too terrified to let any of the men approach them.”

Jack let out a quiet sigh of relief. He closed his eyes and reached into his chest. He found the two dormant grey threads and pushed a steady stream of mana into them. The two armored mages in the courtyard were officially back.

“The bandits?” Jack asked, opening his eyes.

“They ran,” Karen answered, her voice filled with pride. “When your armored mages crushed their spellcasters and the magical storm died, the rest of the bandits broke entirely. They dropped their weapons and scattered into the woods. Giles sent the scouts out at dawn. The bandit camp is empty. They are gone.”

Jack let out a long sigh of relief. The desperate gamble had worked. The siege was broken.

Knock. Knock.

Footsteps were outside the bedroom door.

“Lord Jack? Are you awake?” It was Giles’s voice.

“Come in, Giles,” Jack called out, shifting his posture to look as composed as possible.

The door opened. Giles stepped into the room. The carpenter was covered in dirt and soot, and a large, purple bruise was on his left cheek from being tossed around by the wind magic the night before. But despite the exhaustion, Giles looked incredibly proud.

“The valley is ours, My Lord,” Giles said, pulling off his wool cap and bowing deeply. “We are piling the bandit dead on carts to haul them far into the woods for the wolves. But it came at a heavy cost. Four of our own militia fell at the gates before your retainers arrived. They were good men.”

Jack’s chest tightened. He felt a genuine pang of guilt for the lost lives. “See to their families, Giles. They will not go hungry this winter. I swear it.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Thank you, My Lord,” Giles said respectfully.

“And the two bandit mages?” Jack asked. “Where are their bodies?”

“Still in the snow outside the gates,” Giles replied.

“Do not put them on the carts with the others,” Jack instructed, his tone turning cold and serious. “Let my armored mages take care of their bodies.”

Giles frowned slightly, scratching his bearded chin. “Why, My Lord? They are just dead meat now.”

“Even a dead mage has secrets, Giles,” Jack said, keeping his voice smooth and authoritative. “Their cores and their magical tools are dangerous if they are not disposed of with the proper rites.”

Behind Giles, Karen’s eyes widened slightly. She kept her mouth firmly shut, but she internally understood exactly what Jack actually meant. Her lord was not going to give those enemy mages a respectful burial; he was going to drag them into the crypts, strip them of their valuable magical cores, and likely use them to create new, terrifying servants.

“I understand, Lord Jack,” Giles said, accepting the explanation without further question. “Which brings me to a difficult matter. The fallen mage in the Great Hall.”

Jack glanced quickly at Karen, who gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. She had maintained the lie perfectly.

“He saved the women and children,” Giles continued, his eyes lowering to the floor. “He took an axe to the spine to protect Karen and the little ones. He is a true hero of this village. The men and I… we wish to give him a proper burial. We can build a pyre in the courtyard, or carve a stone tomb in the village square to honor his sacrifice.”

Jack kept his face completely flat. If Giles tried to move that armor onto a pyre, the helm would slip, the white bones would spill out, and the entire village would realize they had been saved by a necromancer’s puppet.

“Your respect does you honor, Giles,” Jack said, his tone solemn and heavy. “But we cannot bury him in the village.”

Giles frowned slightly. “My Lord?”

“As Karen told you last night, the vows of their ascetic order are absolute,” Jack explained smoothly, weaving the lie with perfect conviction. “In life, their faces are hidden from the uninitiated. In death, their bodies must be returned to the sacred earth of their ancestors. If you attempt to burn his body or bury him in common ground, you will break the ancient seals of his order.”