Dawn crept through the shutters like a thief testing locks, finding Avian already awake. His body had stopped screaming and settled into a steady litany of complaint — ribs that had forgotten their proper shape, a shoulder that suggested retirement, and muscles that had filed formal protests with management. But he was alive. They both were.

Lux hadn't stirred since the laboratory. The ring sat heavy on his finger, warm but dormant, like an ember buried in ash. He could feel her presence, faint as morning mist, drawing on his mana in tiny sips. Each pull was a reminder of how close he'd come to burning her out entirely.

Rest, girl. We're almost home.

From the other bed came sounds that suggested Thane was discovering new frontiers in discomfort. His brother sat up in stages, like someone learning to operate an unfamiliar machine. When he finally made it vertical, his shadow did something deeply wrong — it pooled beneath him like spilled ink, moving seconds after he did, occasionally stretching in directions that had nothing to do with the room's lighting.

"Well," Thane said, voice carefully controlled despite the pallor of his face, "this is educational."

He stood, swayed, caught himself on the bedpost. His shadow lagged behind, then snapped back like a rubber band, making him wince.

"Whisper?"

No response. Thane's expression tightened.

"He's... somewhere. Deep. I can barely feel him." He took a experimental step, grimaced. "Apparently shadow spirits can sulk."

"The healer left stimulants," Avian offered, nodding toward the small pouch on the table. "Said they'd help."

Thane picked up the pouch with the care of someone handling explosives. "Mother always said that borrowed strength came with compound interest." He studied the bitter pills like they might bite. "But then, Mother said many things that turned out to be more true than I gave them credit for."

They dressed slowly, every movement a negotiation. The clean clothes Martha had provided felt strange against skin that had grown accustomed to blood and grime. Avian's various cuts had closed but left interesting patterns — a map of close calls written in scar tissue that would fade but never fully disappear.

The stairs presented their own challenge. Avian's legs had opinions about supporting his weight, while Thane's shadow kept trying to go down faster than the rest of him, creating a disturbing ripple effect.

Martha waited in the common room like a general surveying troops before battle. The breakfast table groaned under enough food to feed a small army, steam rising from fresh bread and thick porridge and what looked like half a pig transformed into various configurations of meat.

"Sit," she commanded before they could speak. "And don't even think about telling me you're not hungry. I've raised six boys and heard every excuse invented by man. You'll eat, or I'll spoon-feed you like infants."

The threat in her voice suggested this wasn't hyperbole.

They sat. The stimulants went down first — small, innocent-looking pills that tasted like regret and left an aftertaste of impending consequences. Within moments, Avian felt his exhaustion retreat to manageable levels, pushed back by alchemical determination. His heartbeat steadied, not racing but insistent, like a steady drum keeping time.

"Efficient," Thane observed after swallowing his dose. His color improved marginally, though his shadow continued its disturbing behavior.

"Eat first, talk later," Martha commanded, already filling their plates. "And I mean eat properly. Not that noble nibbling you're used to. You've got ninety miles to cover before sunset, and these horses won't carry corpses."

The food was simple fare elevated by expertise — eggs that had clearly come from happy chickens, bread that remembered being grain that morning, meat seasoned with herbs that probably grew in Martha's own garden. Avian ate mechanically at first, then with increasing appreciation as his body remembered that food served purposes beyond mere survival.

"The whole town knows," Martha said, watching them eat with the satisfaction of someone whose cooking was properly appreciated. "Two Veritas boys walking out of Malethar alive. That's the kind of story that grows in the telling."

"Stories have a way of improving with distance," Thane replied.

"This one doesn't need improving." She refilled their cups without asking. "My nephew's got the horses ready. Good beasts — not pretty, but they'll run true. Treat them right and they'll see you home."

Through the window, Avian could see the stable yard filling with more people than strictly necessary for two nobles departing. Word had spread, as word always did in small towns. But this wasn't the ugly curiosity of disaster-seekers. These were people who'd helped when help was needed, wanting to see the story's next chapter.

"We should go," Thane said, reading the sun's angle with practiced ease. "Time becomes our enemy if we delay."

Martha packed them provisions with the efficiency of long practice — water, hard bread, dried meat, and small cloth bundles that smelled of herbs. "For the horses," she explained. "They'll run better with proper encouragement."

They rose, muscles protesting the audacity of movement. The walk to the stable felt longer than it should, each step a reminder of yesterday's extremes. But the stimulants were working their artificial magic, painting sharp edges on a world that had been growing fuzzy.

The horses were exactly as promised — two mares built for distance rather than display, with the kind of steady eyes that suggested they'd seen enough of the world to not be easily startled. Martha's nephew stood with them, running through final checks with professional care.

"Distance runners," he explained, patting the near mare's neck. "Not the fastest, but they'll maintain pace when the pretty ones are blown. The bay's name is Steady. The chestnut answers to Faith."

"Appropriate names," Thane murmured.

"My grandmother named them. Said horses should have names that remind riders what matters."

Avian approached the horses, laying a hand on each neck. The gravity magic came reluctantly, channels still raw from yesterday's abuse. But it answered, letting him feel the animals' weight, their connection to the earth that held all things.

The working would be delicate. Too much lightening and the horses would panic, feeling disconnected from the ground that had always defined their existence. Too little and the effort would be wasted. He found the balance through instinct more than calculation, reducing their effective weight by perhaps a third. Enough to make each stride cost less, to let them run longer without exhausting reserves they'd need for the full journey.

The horses' ears flicked forward, nostrils flaring as they sensed the change. But they didn't shy or protest — these were working animals, accustomed to the strange things humans sometimes did.

"What—" the nephew started, then stopped, eyes widening as he watched the horses shift their weight. Their hooves still touched earth but with less authority, as if they'd been reminded that contact was a choice rather than a requirement.

"Just a little help," Avian said. "They'll run easier now."

"Magic?" The young man's voice held curiosity rather than fear.

"Of a sort."

The guard captain from yesterday stood with several townspeople, forming a loose farewell committee. They mounted carefully. Avian swung up with practiced ease despite his injuries, while Thane had to contend with a shadow that wanted to mount from the opposite side. He managed with dignity intact, though his jaw tightened with the effort.

"House Veritas remembers its debts," Thane said, addressing the small crowd. "Your kindness came when we were strangers in need. Such things are not forgotten."

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"Just see you prove worthy of it," the guard captain replied. "Your father cast a long shadow. Time to see if his sons can step out from under it."

They rode through the gates at a measured pace, letting the horses find their rhythm. Once Thornbrook fell behind, the mares settled into the kind of ground-eating lope that suggested they understood the day's work. The lightened weight transformed what should have been a steady trot into something almost like floating, hooves barely kissing the road before lifting again.

"The gravity working's holding well," Thane observed once they were properly alone. "How long can you maintain it?"

"Long enough," Avian said, though he could already feel the strain.

"It seems like such a simple working. Why is it taxing you?"

"Bursts of combat gravity are like throwing a punch — violent, brief, done. This is like holding a weight at arm's length for hours. The sustained precision is what kills you, not the power itself."

"Ah. Like the difference between lifting a sword and holding it in guard position for an hour."

"Exactly."

The road stretched ahead, a ribbon of packed earth winding through farmland that showed the kingdom's prosperity. Fields of grain swayed in morning breeze, orchards heavy with fruit that would be harvested within the week. This was the heartland, the stable center that let the borders play their deadly games.

They rode in silence for the first hour, letting the rhythm of hoofbeats substitute for conversation. The stimulants sharpened everything — the play of light through leaves, the distant calls of field workers, the way the air tasted different as they climbed through subtle elevation changes.

The second hour brought them to the King's Road, the main artery connecting the frontier towns to the capital. Here they could push harder, the excellent surface letting the horses stretch into a canter that devoured miles. Other travelers moved aside, recognizing noble colors and the urgency in their bearing.

By midday, they'd covered nearly half the distance. The horses needed rest, and Avian's gravity magic was becoming increasingly expensive to maintain. At a crossroads, Thane studied the signs.

"There's a shortcut through Millbrook Forest," he said. "Saves five miles."

A passing merchant overheard and called out: "Wouldn't take that road, m'lords! Bandits have been working that stretch. Isolated, no patrols."

Avian checked the sun's position. Time was becoming their enemy. "Five miles could make the difference."

"Worth the risk?" Thane asked.

"We're armed and I have magic. They'd have to be stupid to attack us."

"Bandits aren't known for their wisdom," the merchant warned, but they'd already turned onto the forest road.

Twenty minutes later, they stopped at a waystation — little more than a well and some shade in the isolated stretch, but the horses needed water.

The horses drank gratefully while the brothers stretched legs that had forgotten shapes other than riding. Thane moved to a flat stone beside the well, staring at the water with the thousand-yard gaze of someone seeing memory rather than reality.

"She loved water," he said suddenly. "Mother. Said it was the only honest thing in nature — it always flowed downhill, always found its level, never pretended to be anything but what it was."

Avian said nothing, recognizing the tone of someone approaching difficult truths.

"She'd read to me beside streams. Always the same kinds of stories. Clever shepherds outwitting dragons. Kind fishermen's daughters earning rewards through compassion." Thane's expression grew thoughtful. "I spent so long trying to make those stories mean something else. But she was right all along. The shepherd didn't need to be stronger than the dragon. He just needed to be clever. To understand."

He stood abruptly, facing Avian. "I need to know something. The truth."

The moment balanced on a knife's edge.

"Ask," Avian said simply.

"Are you the Demon King?"

The question hung between them like a blade waiting to fall. In the distance, a hawk cried, the sound sharp in the stillness.

Avian could lie. Should lie. Every instinct screamed for the comfortable deception.

Instead: "No. I was a hero."

Thane's eyes sharpened at the emphasis. "Was?"

"Past tense. Heroes don't survive their own victories. They get arrows through the heart from best friends who need cleaner narratives. They get written out of history because the truth is messy and inconvenient." The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable. "So no, I'm not the Demon King. I'm just what's left of someone who saved the world and got murdered for it."

Thane stared at him for a long moment. Then he laughed — not bitter, but surprised and genuine.

"Of course," he said. "Mother's stories were right. The heroes were never the strongest. They were the ones who understood, who chose wisely." He reached into his pack, movements decisive. "She would have loved this. Her shepherd and dragon story, but real."

He pulled out the Covenant Seal, the artifact humming with quiet power.

"I owe you an apology," he said. "For what I've done, what I planned to do. Mother believed in understanding over assumption. I forgot that lesson."

He held out the Seal. "Take it. You earned it when you burned through your spirit's essence to save us both."

Avian accepted the Seal, its weight both nothing and everything. "You'll fail the trial."

"Then I fail." Thane shrugged. "I've been chasing Father's approval so long I forgot to ask if I wanted it. What I want is simpler — a brother. Not a rival or an obstacle. Just family."

They stood there for a moment, brothers in truth for the first time. The Seal rested in Avian's hands, warm with possibility.

"Though," Avian said after a moment, "there's nothing that says we can't both present it. Let Father sort out what joint success means."

Thane's smile was slow but genuine. "He'd hate that. Rules unclear, precedent broken."

"Exactly."

The sound came from nowhere — the whistle of arrows cutting air. Avian reacted on instinct, shoving Thane behind the well's stone wall as shafts sprouted from the ground where they'd been standing.

"Stay down," he hissed, already counting trajectories. Twenty, maybe more, spread through the trees in a half-circle.

"Throw down your purses!" A voice called from the treeline, rough with false confidence. "We've got you surrounded! Nobody needs to die!"

"Bandits," Thane muttered. "Now? Really?"

More arrows thudded into the ground, keeping them pinned. Avian's hand found Fargrim's hilt, mind racing through options. Twenty bandits, good positions, element of surprise on their side.

"When I move, stay here," Avian said.

"What are you—"

But Avian was already moving. He came up and over the well's edge in one fluid motion, hand extended toward the treeline.

"Down," he commanded, and gravity answered.

Twenty bandits suddenly found themselves pressed face-first into the earth, their own weight tripled in an instant. Bows clattered from nerveless fingers, arrows meant for noble hearts instead burying themselves in dirt. The carefully planned ambush became a collection of men trying desperately to breathe while the earth tried to swallow them.

"Sorcery!" one managed to gasp. "He's a mage!"

"Physics," Avian corrected, drawing Fargrim as he walked toward them. Behind him, he heard Thane engaging two bandits who'd been outside the gravity field — steel ringing against steel, his brother's form sloppy from exhaustion but still better than desperate bandits.

The pinned men could only watch death approach, pressed too firmly to earth to even flinch. Avian moved among them with grim efficiency, Fargrim ending lives quickly and without ceremony. No joy in it, no humming or arranging — just the brutal mathematics of survival. They'd chosen to attack armed nobles. This was the predictable result.

"Three down on this side," Thane called, breathing hard. "My shadow's being unhelpful — can't use spirit magic with this shadow-burn." He parried another clumsy strike, realizing how much he'd been relying on Whisper lately. His aura training, once the core of his identity, felt rusty from neglect. "Should have kept up with basic swordwork instead of depending on shadows."

The moment Avian released the gravity field, the few survivors ran. No words, no backward glances, just the desperate flight of men who'd survived their own poor decisions. They scattered into the forest, some leaving weapons, all leaving with wisdom painfully earned.

"Well," Thane said, leaning on his sword and surveying the scene. "That was... abrupt."

"They picked the wrong waystation."

"Clearly." Thane wiped his blade clean. "Though I notice you didn't enjoy it."

"Should I have?"

"No. But the old stories, the propaganda — they paint you as someone who delighted in violence." Thane studied him. "You kill efficiently, but there's no joy in it. Just necessity."

"Dead men can't rob other travelers," Avian said simply. "That's all."

They returned to the horses, who had watched the entire event with professional disinterest. The brothers mounted and resumed their journey, leaving the waystation's grim new decorations for the crows.

The afternoon wore hard. Avian's gravity working scraped his channels raw, each renewal a fresh argument with exhaustion. The horses began to flag despite the magical assistance, ninety miles being extreme even for distance runners.

As the sun touched the horizon, painting everything in shades of ending, the Veritas compound walls finally came into view. Faith stumbled on the road, her legs shaking. Steady's head hung low, foam dripping from her mouth despite the lightening.

"Almost there," Avian murmured, patting Steady's neck. The trial's deadline — seven days, and this was their last sunset before time ran out.

"Halt!" The gate guards snapped to attention, then did visible double-takes. "Lord Veritas? Lord Thane?"

They were quite a sight — blood-spattered, swaying with exhaustion, on horses that looked ready to collapse.

"State your business," the guard captain said, protocol overriding shock. "And explain the blood."

"Bandits," Thane said simply. "Waystation ambush. We survived, they didn't."

"I... see." The captain processed this. "And you're returning from?"

"The third trial. Which ends at sunset." Thane gestured at the dying light. "So perhaps we could discuss this inside?"

That changed everything. "Open the gates! Get restoration draughts for these horses — now! And send word to the Patriarch!"

They rode through, Faith actually stumbling on the cobblestones. Stablehands rushed forward with bottles of silvery liquid, expensive draughts usually reserved for warhorses.

"Straight down their throats," Avian said, dismounting on legs that barely held. "They've earned whatever we can give them."

Within moments the horses' breathing eased, magic working its expensive miracles.

"The Patriarch awaits all returning candidates in the main hall," a servant informed them. "Immediately."

"No time to clean up then," Thane noted, brushing at blood that had already dried. "We present ourselves as we are."

They walked through familiar corridors, servants scattering before them, whispers following in their wake. Two sons who'd left as rivals returning as... what? Brothers? The blood and exhaustion told one story, their shared success another.

The main hall doors loomed before them.

"Ready?" Thane asked.

"No."

"Good. Neither am I."

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