Paragon of Destruction

Whatever the reason for Brightblade’s summons, it had to be something different. And if he were to guess, Arran thought it would be something related to his training. With her new responsibilities, she’d had little time to be involved in that, and he knew the matter caused her some frustration — especially because the Matriarch still taught him several times a week.

But whatever the reason for Brightblade’s summons, there was no point in delaying, and he sought out Jovan immediately.

"How long do you expect to be gone?" his steward asked after he explained the situation.

"I don’t know," Arran replied. "Months, maybe more."

"That long?" Jovan’s eyes went wide with surprise. It seemed that he had expected ’gone for some time’ to mean several weeks at most.

"As I said, I can’t be sure." Arran shrugged. "I’ve prepared some supplies for you — Essence Crystals, for the servants." He handed Jovan a void bag and continued, "There’s enough for several months’ payment."

"I trust that will be enough," Jovan said, his tone unconcerned.

Arran did not share his steward’s confidence, however. He frowned, then added, "Ask the Elders from the House of Swords and the House of Flames to continue the servants’ training, as a personal favor to me."

This was no small request, but Arran did not expect either of the Houses to refuse it. Not with Brightblade and Elder Theron leading them. And if he was gone longer than expected, it would go a long way in ensuring his servants’ continued loyalty.

Jovan looked at him in surprise. "You want their Elders to train your servants?"

"Until I return," Arran confirmed. "But I should go. I doubt Brightblade wants me to delay any longer than needed."

"Lord Ghostblade," Jovan interjected hastily, "shouldn’t you bring an escort? I can half a dozen guards ready within moments."

Arran shook his head. "Guards will only draw attention. Don’t tell anyone I’ve left until tomorrow. By then, I’ll have reached Brightblade’s stronghold."

"As you say," his steward responded, albeit reluctantly. "Then I wish you safe travels."

Arran gave the man a nod, then quickly changed into a hooded robe. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but it should be enough — the only thing that stood out about him was his blond hair, and even that was something shared by thousands of others in the Valley.

Of course, with the Matriarch’s opponents eliminated, the Valley should be safe. But then, it should have been safe from the beginning, and Arran had no intention of making the same mistake twice.

Before leaving, he spent a few minutes writing brief notes to Doran, Anthea, and Oraia. They were the closest thing to friends he had in the Valley — though whether he could truly call Oraia a friend was questionable — and if he was to spend months away from the estate, informing them was the least he could do.

Then, all matters he could think of settled, he left the estate.

As he made his way through the House of Seals, it wasn’t long before he realized that the House had undergone major changes while he was engrossed in training. It had been months since he last set foot outside his estate, and now, he was astonished to see that the House’s population had more than doubled.

The House was abuzz with activity, numerous novices crowding wide streets that were lined with many new stores and restaurants.

Some of the older mages looked at the liveliness surrounding them with weary eyes, as if they still silently longed for quieter days. This, Arran understood all too well — the dense crowds caused him some unease, too, and it took more than a little willpower for him to refrain from forcefully jostling his way through the masses.

Things were better outside the city center of the stronghold, if only slightly. Here, the crowds weren’t quite as dense. And if the roads were still busy, at least they lacked the suffocating pressure of thousands using streets that had been designed for hundreds.

Yet as Arran slowly made his way to the stronghold’s main gate, he noticed that there had been more changes. Many large training halls now lined the road, and the practice fields behind them were filled with thousands of mages, all engaged in training.

It was as if the stronghold had been transformed, and as Arran observed the many changes, he wondered just how much of it all had been planned decades in advance.

The Valley’s vast number of mages had made little sense to him when he arrived, and that most of the mages received little training had puzzled him even more.

But now, those endless ranks of barely trained mages provided the Valley with the means to rapidly build its strength. Hundreds of thousands of fresh recruits were anxiously awaiting the chance to learn, and even if they were weak now, a few years of hard work would see their strength increase dramatically.

It was as if the Matriarch had carefully prepared the ingredients for an army, then set them aside until they were needed. And now, it seemed, she had decided that time had come.

Outside the stronghold, Arran was unsurprised to find that the changes weren’t confined to the House of Seals.

Although the inner Valley’s roads weren’t as busy as the ones inside the stronghold, they were filled with a steady stream of traffic, mages and merchants alike making their way through the Valley. And even without visiting any of the other Houses, Arran knew that the situation there would be much the same.

While the changes made him wonder what the future would hold for the Valley, they held a small blessing as well — among the endless masses, it was easy to go unseen.

Few of the people he passed on the way to Brightblade’s stronghold so much as gave him a second look, and of those who did, none seemed to recognize him. A hooded robe might not be much of a disguise, but with thousands of people around, it was enough to go unnoticed.

The full journey to Brightblade’s stronghold took him over half a day, most of which he spent observing other travelers. Occasionally he made conversation with them as well, eager to hear more of what had happened in the Valley while he was absorbed with training.

Some of the stories were familiar. Both Brightblade’s duel and the banquet were things he had witnessed himself, and if the Valley’s mages added some exaggerations in retelling the events, most of what they told was still close enough to the truth.

Other stories, however, filled him with no small amount of wonder — especially those concerning himself.

He had not forgotten about the attack he had suffered near the House of Seals, and he knew that the attackers had all been adepts. Yet the way the mages on the road told the story, the Valley’s heir had singlehandedly defeated two Elders and several dozens of Hunters.

Moreover, while Arran distinctly recalled growing up the son of a simple guardsman, it was established fact in the Valley that he was a Hunter prince, betrayed by his own people when he renounced the Hunters’ aggression against the Valley.

Arran listened to these tales with amusement and puzzlement in equal measure, though he feared the mages would be sorely disappointed if they ever discovered the truth.

It was near dusk when he finally reached Brightblade’s stronghold, and at a glance, he saw that it was even more impressive than he had expected. While the Houses’ strongholds were all walled and well-guarded, this stronghold was something else entirely.

Its walls were high — fifty feet, if not more — and thick, with numerous armored guards patrolling both the battlements and the surroundings. And these guards weren’t just there to keep up appearances. Rather, they looked around as if they expected an attack at any moment, their hands never dwelling far from their weapons.

At first, the defenses seemed excessive to Arran. If the Valley’s enemies ever made it this far, the war would already be lost. But then, perhaps Brightblade’s purpose wasn’t to protect her stronghold but to prepare her students for the future, forcing them to learn skills they would need eventually.

Arran approached the gate with curiosity, already curious to see what lay beyond it. If his suspicions were correct, the training Brightblade offered would be wholly different from what the Houses offered their students.

He was stopped at the gate by the guards there, a dozen of them blocking his path with their hands already on their swords.

"State your business," the guards’ leader said curtly.

"I have a message for Lady Brightblade," Arran replied. "From Lord Ghostblade." As he spoke, he handed the guardsman a messenger’s badge.

"Commander Brightblade," the man corrected him, but as he inspected the badge, his expression softened. "Is it true?" he asked as he handed the badge back to Arran. "What they say about him?"

"That depends," Arran said. "What do they say?"

"That he’s invincible with a blade," the guardsman said in a low but excited voice. "And that all he does is train day and night, not even stopping to sleep."

Suppressing a chuckle, Arran replied, "He definitely sleeps, and although he’s pretty good with a blade, I doubt he’s invincible."

The man gave him a doubtful look, then waved him through. "Follow the road to your right. She should be instructing the novice cohorts today."

Arran did as the man said, and it wasn’t long before he was making his way through the stronghold’s training grounds. And just as he expected, Brightblade’s training was completely different from anything seen in the Houses.

Tens of thousands mages filled the training grounds, split up into groups of a few hundred each. And while mages normally trained individually, here, they trained together, each of the groups moving as one.

Although Arran wasn’t familiar with this type of training, its purpose was immediately obvious. The mages here weren’t training for individual combat but for war, preparing for battles with thousands of fighters.

He observed their practice with great interest as he made his way past the groups. Some were training with magic and others with weapons, but they all showed impressive discipline, and none could be seen shirking their duties.

His pace quickened when he finally saw Brightblade in the distance, instructing a group of over a hundred mages — novices, if the guardsman was correct.

As he came closer, however, two women moved to block his path, neither of them novices. At the very least, Arran thought they would be Masters, but perhaps even stronger than that.

"What’s your business here?" one of them asked in a rough tone, suspicion in her eyes as she gazed at Arran.

Before Arran could respond, Brightblade called out, "Stand down. Unless the two of you want to see if you can match the Valley’s heir?"

At this, the women’s eyes instantly went wide with shock.

"Lord Ghostblade?" The woman in front gave a horrified expression. "I apologize. I didn’t mean to—"

"It’s alright," Arran responded. "I’m just glad to see Brightblade is well-protected." Not that she needed it, of course.

When he approached Brightblade, she gave him a bright smile. "I hear your training’s going well."

"No thanks to you," Arran replied with a grin. "While you were busy teaching these novices synchronized dancing, I’ve been studying day and night."

"So I hear," Brightblade said. "Word is that you no longer need sleep, and that you can best Elders just by looking at them."

"I was surprised to hear it, too," Arran said. "I guess my training has paid off even more than I realized."

"I wonder," Brightblade said, her pensive tone suggesting nothing good. "Would you be interested in a little wager?"