Alaric was back in his room after another day of killings. He closed the door quietly behind him, the heavy wooden barrier muting the sounds of the bustling estate. The room was dimly lit, the flickering candle casting long shadows across the walls.
Alaric walked over to his desk and set Arcane Reaver down gently, the weight of the weapon a familiar comfort in his hand. He glanced at the small pile of notes and sketches that detailed his ongoing improvements to the pistol, but tonight he was too tired to tinker.
With a sigh, he slumped into the chair by the window, looking out at the darkened courtyard below. His mind replayed the events of the day: the three robbers, their startled faces, the quick and efficient way he had dispatched them.
"Another day, another set of lives taken," he muttered to himself. "When did this become so routine?"
The room's door creaked open slightly, and Geralt's head appeared. "Master Alaric, do you need anything?"
Alaric shook his head. "No, Geralt. Just... thinking."
The steward stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. "Thinking about what, if I may ask?"
Alaric turned his gaze from the window to Geralt. "How many more of these thugs do I have to kill before it starts to mean something? Before it feels like more than just survival?"
Geralt walked over and sat in the chair opposite Alaric. "You've come a long way, Master Alaric. You've turned yourself into a formidable force, something no one would have ever expected. But perhaps it's time to consider what comes next."
Alaric leaned back, rubbing his eyes. "Next... yes, the Iron Dominion. They're the real threat. All this... it's just been preparation."
Geralt nodded. "Precisely. But you can't take them on alone. You need allies, resources, and a plan."
Alaric's lips curled into a bitter smile. "Allies? Who would stand with me? My father has made it clear he sees me as nothing more than a pawn. My siblings wouldn't hesitate to shove me aside if it meant furthering their own ambitions."
"Not everyone sees you that way," Geralt said gently. "There are those who recognize your value, who see what you've accomplished."
Alaric sighed. "Maybe. But for now, I need to keep pushing forward. I need to be ready for whatever the Iron Dominion throws at us."
Geralt stood, placing a reassuring hand on Alaric's shoulder. "Then rest tonight, Master Alaric. You've earned it. Tomorrow, we can start planning our next move."
Alaric nodded, a weariness settling over him. "Thank you, Geralt. For everything."
As the steward left the room, Alaric allowed himself to relax for the first time in days. The candle's light danced on the walls, and the weight of his actions began to press down on him. He knew he was on a dangerous path, one that could lead to his ruin or his redemption.
"One step at a time," he whispered to himself. "I'll face them all, one step at a time."
With that, Alaric rose from his chair and prepared for bed. The road ahead was uncertain, but he was determined to see it through. For himself, for the people of Mythoria, and for the legacy he intended to carve out with his own hands.
Another day was over, and another dozen thugs were now dead. However, this time, the price was a bit steep. Alaric sat on his bed, half-naked, as Geralt tended to his wounds, the sharp sting of the antiseptic mixing with the steward's admonishing words.
"Master Alaric, you need to take better care of yourself," Geralt scolded, his voice a blend of concern and frustration. "You cannot keep putting yourself in such danger. It's reckless."
Alaric's mind was elsewhere, replaying the fight over and over. He hadn't expected to encounter a swordsman with wind magic among the bandits. The fight had been tough—the bandit had used his magic to increase his speed, making his attacks faster and more precise. Supported by his allies, the battle had pushed Alaric to his limits.
Before he could delve deeper into his thoughts, Geralt's voice cut through his reverie. "Are you even listening to me, Master Alaric?"
"Hmm?" Alaric's eyes refocused on the steward. "Sorry, Geralt. I was... thinking."
Geralt sighed, packing up the healing supplies. "You need to rest for a few days. Give your body time to heal. Think about things later."
Alaric nodded, though his mind was still racing. "I know. It's just... that fight was too close. I wasn't prepared for someone with that kind of magic."
The steward's expression softened. "You can't anticipate everything, Master Alaric. Sometimes, even the best-laid plans go awry. But that's why you need to rest and recover. You won't do anyone any good if you get yourself killed."
Alaric sighed deeply, feeling the exhaustion seep into his bones. "You're right, Geralt. I just... I didn't expect to face someone that skilled. It caught me off guard."
"Which is why you need to be at your best," Geralt insisted. "Rest now. We'll figure out our next steps once you've recovered."
Alaric lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "Thanks, Geralt. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"You'd likely be in far worse shape, that's for sure," Geralt said with a wry smile. "Now, sleep. We'll talk more in the morning."
As Geralt left the room, Alaric let his eyes close, his mind still buzzing with thoughts of the day's events. The fight with the wind swordsman had been a wake-up call. He couldn't afford to let his guard down, even for a moment.
His mind drifted back to the details of the fight—the way the swordsman had moved, the speed and precision of his strikes. It had been like facing a force of nature, and it had taken every ounce of Alaric's skill and cunning to come out on top. He had used the Arcane Reaver to its fullest, but even then, it had been a close call.
"How many more close calls can I survive?" he wondered aloud, his voice barely a whisper. "I need to be better. Stronger."
But as the exhaustion of the day's events finally caught up with him, Alaric's thoughts began to blur and fade. His last coherent thought before sleep claimed him was of the long road ahead and the countless battles still to come.
"I need to be ready for anything," he murmured, his voice trailing off as he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. "I need to be stronger..."
Morning light filtered through the window, casting a soft glow over the room. Alaric stirred, wincing slightly as his muscles protested the movement. He was sore, but the wounds Geralt had tended to were healing well.
Geralt was already there, setting a tray of food on the bedside table. "Good morning, Master Alaric. How are you feeling?"
"Better," Alaric replied, sitting up slowly. "Still sore, but better. Thanks, Geralt."
The steward nodded, his eyes filled with a mix of relief and concern. "Take it easy today. Eat, rest, and let your body heal. We'll discuss our next steps when you're ready."
Alaric picked up a piece of bread, chewing thoughtfully. "I was thinking about the fight. I need to improve. If I want to take on the Iron Dominion, I can't afford to have any weaknesses."
"True," Geralt agreed, "but don't push yourself too hard. You're only human, Master Alaric. Even you have limits."
Alaric smiled faintly. "I know. But I can't help feeling like I need to do more. Be more."
"And you will," Geralt said firmly. "But for now, focus on getting better. One step at a time, remember?"
"One step at a time," Alaric echoed, feeling a renewed sense of determination. "Thanks, Geralt. For everything."
"Always, Master Alaric," Geralt replied with a warm smile. "Now, finish your breakfast. You have a lot of resting to do."
As Alaric ate, he couldn't help but feel a spark of hope. The road ahead was long and fraught with danger, but he wasn't alone. With Geralt by his side, he knew he could face whatever challenges came his way. For now, though, he would rest and gather his strength. The fight wasn't over yet, and he intended to be ready for whatever came next.