Chapter 12: Echoes of the Fallen

Liam awoke to the muted sounds of the infirmary – the soft rustle of linens, the distant murmur of voices, the rhythmic drip of some unseen liquid. He lay on a narrow cot, his body aching, his mind a fog of fragmented memories. He remembered the final… the clash of steel… the cold. The overwhelming, terrifying cold… and then, nothing.

He tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness forced him back against the pillows. He felt weak, drained, as if something vital had been ripped from him. He glanced around the room, taking in the simple furnishings, the medicinal smells, the quiet, sterile atmosphere.

He noticed a set of clean clothes folded neatly on a stool at the foot of his bed. Simple clothes, not his torn tournament tunic, but a plain, dark blue tunic and trousers, sturdy and unadorned.

His gaze fell upon his short sword and shield, which has been taken care of, resting on a small table near the bed. His weapons now. He reached out a trembling hand and touched the cold steel of the blade, the rough texture of the shield. They felt… different. Tainted, somehow.

His tunic had been removed, and he saw that his torso was wrapped in bandages. He carefully touched the fabric, feeling a dull ache beneath. He remembered the fight with Carla, the desperate gamble, the ice…

Then, he remembered the final. Kael. The darkness.

His hand instinctively moved to his back, to the spot where the stigma had been, where it always was. He could feel the raised, intricate pattern beneath his fingertips, a permanent reminder of the power that resided within him, a power he still didn't understand, a power that terrified him.

A quiet cough startled him. He looked up and saw Brad standing near the doorway, watching him with an unreadable expression.

"You're awake," Brad said, his voice neutral.

Liam nodded slowly. "How… how long?"

"Three days," Brad replied. "You've been… out of it. The healers said it was a combination of exhaustion, blood loss, and… something else. Something they couldn't explain."

Liam looked away, his gaze falling on the discarded remnants, on the floor. He knew what the "something else" was.

"The tournament…" Liam began, his voice hoarse. "What… what happened?"

Brad stepped further into the room, his movements quiet and deliberate. He pulled up a stool and sat beside the bed, his blue eyes regarding Liam with a mixture of concern and… something else. Something Liam couldn't quite decipher.

"You won," Brad said simply. "You defeated Kael Dergovia."

Liam stared at him, his mind struggling to process the information. He had won? But… how? The last thing he remembered was… the cold. The overwhelming, consuming cold… and the rage.

"After you collapsed," Brad continued, his voice low and steady, "there was… chaos. The crowd… they didn't know what to make of it. They had seen… things… they couldn't explain."

He paused, his gaze unwavering. "Kael Dergovia… he tried to attack you, even after you'd disarmed him. He was… not himself. There was a darkness about him, a power that…" He hesitated, searching for the right words. "…that was not natural."

Liam remembered the shadowy aura, the black light in Kael's eyes, the voice that wasn't his own. He shuddered.

"Your father intervened," Brad continued. "He stopped Kael. He moved so fast… no one could have followed. He was… worried about you, for the first time anyone could remember, but furious at Kael. He sensed… something deeply wrong with him."

Liam's heart clenched. He had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that his father might have been proud of him, might have finally acknowledged his strength. But worry and fury… those weren't the reactions he had hoped for.

"The Holy Kingdom ambassador was there," Brad said, his voice taking on a more formal tone. "He… recognized the energy emanating from Kael. He called it… demonic. He accused Kael of treason, of consorting with forbidden powers. He ordered his knights to arrest him."

Liam's eyes widened. "Arrest him? But… he's a Dergovia."

"Was," Brad corrected. "Boris Dergovia, Kael's father, tried to intervene, of course. He was… enraged. But the ambassador's knights were resolute. They took Kael, and Boris, away. They're to be transported to the Holy Kingdom for… investigation."

Liam tried to make sense of it all. Kael, a demon worshiper? The Holy Kingdom intervening? It was too much to take in.

"And… the other families?" Liam asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"They're… confused," Brad said. "Shocked. Some are… frightened. They saw what you did, Liam. They saw the ice. They saw… something… they couldn't explain."

"And my siblings?"

Brad's expression softened slightly. "They're… worried about you. Confused, certainly. But… they're your family, Liam. They'll stand by you, even if they don't understand."

Liam doubted that, but he didn't say anything. He knew his siblings, their pride, their adherence to tradition. They wouldn't easily accept what he was, what he had done.

"And… my father?" Liam asked, the question he dreaded most.

Brad's gaze was unwavering. "Your father is… waiting for you. He's in the main hall. He wants to speak with you."

Liam's stomach churned. He knew this conversation wouldn't be easy. He knew his father would be angry, disappointed, perhaps even… afraid.

"There's… something else," Brad said, his voice hesitant. He paused, choosing his words carefully. "News arrived from the East. A Volgunder outpost… the barracks… it was attacked by Rubak raiders. A large force, led by their new chieftain."

Liam's blood ran cold. "Casualties?" he asked, his voice trembling.

Brad nodded slowly. "Many. Only a handful of Volgunder swordsmen escaped. They… they brought back word."

Liam waited, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew what was coming.

"Van," Brad said, his voice filled with a quiet sorrow. "He… he didn't make it."

The words hit Liam like a physical blow. Van. The kind, fierce swordsman who had believed in him, who had given him a chance, who had taught him… gone.

Tears welled up in Liam's eyes, hot and stinging. He had known so few people who had shown him kindness, who had seen past his weakness. And now, one of them was dead.

"I… I'm sorry, Liam," Brad said, his voice gentle. "He was a good man. A brave warrior."

Liam couldn't speak. He simply nodded, his throat tight with grief. He felt a wave of guilt wash over him. If he had been stronger, if he had been more skilled, perhaps he could have been there, fighting alongside Van, defending the border.

After a long moment of silence, Brad spoke again. "Your father is waiting, Liam. He's… eager to speak with you." He gestured towards the clothes on the stool. "Those were left for you."

Liam took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. He knew this conversation would be difficult, perhaps the most difficult of his life. He didn't know what his father would say, what he would do. But he knew he had to face him.

As he reached for the clothes, Brad stopped him, placing a hand on his arm.

"One more thing, Liam," Brad said, his voice low. "Carla Razakia… she came to see you. Twice, while you were unconscious. She… left a message."

Brad reached into his tunic and produced a small, folded piece of parchment. He handed it to Liam.

Liam took the note, his fingers trembling. He unfolded it and read the elegant, flowing script:

"I would like to have another duel with you, Liam Volgunder, the magic swordsman. If you ever come to Razakia, come visit me."

A faint smile touched Liam's lips. Even in defeat, Carla Razakia was gracious, honorable. And she had called him… magic swordsman. The words sent a shiver down his spine.

"I'm ready," Liam said, his voice still trembling, but with a newfound determination. He stood up, his legs shaky, but he forced himself to stand tall. He put on the fresh clothes, ignoring the lingering aches and pains in his body.

He followed Brad out of the infirmary, leaving the quiet solitude behind and stepping into the uncertain, turbulent future that awaited him.