Days blurred into a week, perhaps slightly more. Malrik's body slowly knitted itself back together under the quiet, simple care of Thomas and Elara Meadowlight. The excruciating pain dulled to a persistent ache, the sharp agony of movement lessened to a bearable discomfort. He still moved stiffly, favored his injured side, but he could walk, feed himself, and manage basic needs. His mana reserves, slowly replenished through careful, quiet Nexciva, began to flow more smoothly, a precious resource he hoarded.
The ambiguity surrounding the ogre and Descate was an unacceptable loose end. They had been spared, but the how was unknown. Had his desperate, final blow been truly fatal? Or merely a temporary setback for the creature? The Holy Knights were confirmed to be dead, a testament to the ogre's power, or perhaps their own incompetence. He needed certainty. He needed data.
He knew he couldn't remain here. His absence from the Lodge, however well his crude clone might have served its purpose, had a limited window of plausible deniability. Discovery would jeopardize everything – his hidden training, his efforts to acquire power, his very survival. He needed to return, reinstate the facade, and continue his preparations.
On the morning he deemed himself sufficiently recovered to make the journey, he sat up in bed as Thomas and Elara entered with his breakfast. He met their kind eyes, registering their simple concern. They had provided a necessary service – shelter and basic healing. Such utility deserved... acknowledgement.
He placed a hand over his heart, a gesture easily interpreted as thanks, then bowed his head deeply, holding their gaze. It was a performance of gratitude, a necessary social transaction. Then, he extended his hand towards them, made a gesture encompassing their home, before drawing his hand back and placing it firmly on his own chest, following it with a determined nod. It was a silent communication: You provided aid. I register this. Should our paths cross when positions are reversed, this will be taken into account. A promise of potential leverage, not heartfelt repayment.
Thomas and Elara looked at each other, then back at him. Thomas offered a slow smile, interpreting it through the lens of simple decency. "No need for all that, son. Just glad to see you on the mend." Elara nodded, her eyes warm with genuine relief. "Safe travels back home, wherever that may be."
(Internal Monologue - Malrik: They interpret it as debt, gratitude. Useful. Their kindness is a weakness, easily manipulated. A record has been made. Should I require something from them, or from Descate, their service will be... noted. A minor calculation in the larger schema.)
Leaving their home was quiet, efficient. He waited until midday, timing his departure for minimal observation. He slipped out, wearing the simple, mended clothes, a small bundle of their food a practical provision. He moved quickly, favoring his less injured side, heading back towards the Lodge.
The journey was a strategic exercise. He stuck to the edges of fields and the cover of scattered trees, avoiding detection. His mana sense was active, a radar sweeping for threats – Duchy patrols, potential lingering energy from the ogre. The air felt less tainted here than in the deep woods, but the memory of the scars on the earth, the signs of immense power, fueled his caution.
As he neared the Lodge grounds, he slowed, masking his presence, moving with maximum stealth. He sensed the familiar, dull presence of Kaelen's guards, their fear still a palpable energy, but now mixed with the monotony of routine. He slipped through the boundary and onto the Lodge grounds, moving towards his wing, towards the point of entry.
He reached the corridor leading to his door and froze. A sound. A voice, soft but persistent, coming from behind his door.
"...Young Master? Are you awake? It's Helga. Just checking if you need anything."
Helga. The maid. Checking on him. Now.
(Internal Monologue - Malrik: Helga. A predictable variable. Unexpected timing. The clone... is it holding? If she discovers it... Exposure. The entire operation compromised. Unacceptable.)
Adrenaline, cold and sharp, surged through him, overriding the ache in his injuries. He moved silently, swiftly, reaching his door. Helga's voice continued, her concern a tiresome drone. He slipped the key into the lock, his fingers precise, turning it soundlessly.
He opened the door just enough to slide through, closing it behind him with a soft click. Helga's footsteps finally receded down the corridor. Inside, his room was undisturbed. The wooden clone lay in his bed, the illusion intact.
He wasted no time. He darted to the bed, his movements swift, scooping up the clone and discarding it near its hiding place. He pulled back the blankets and slid into the bed, arranging the covers, his body sinking into the familiar mattress. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, controlling his breathing, forcing his mana into a pattern of calm, deep sleep, a calculated simulation of rest.
He heard Helga's footsteps fade entirely. He waited a few more moments, then opened his eyes. He was back. The facade was restored. The vulnerability of his absence was contained.
He spent the rest of the morning acting out the role – a slow, deliberate "awakening," feigned weakness, polite but silent acceptance of breakfast. The guards seemed placated by his appearance, their fearful expressions easing.
Later that day, feeling a resurgence of focused intent now that his physical needs were met and his secret safe, he made his way to the main hall, where Kaelen was overseeing administrative tasks. His experience with the ogre had confirmed the inadequacy of his current tools. His mana-infused knife was a good instrument for smaller threats or exploiting specific vulnerabilities, but it lacked the reach and power necessary for the direct confrontation of entities on the ogre's scale. He required a weapon capable of channeling greater force, a tool for dominance, not just survival. A sword.
He approached Kaelen, who looked up, surprised to see him. Malrik offered a small, polite bow, maintaining his silent, slightly frail demeanor. He then used gestures to convey his requirement. He pointed towards himself, then made a gesture of going somewhere (towards the town, Descate). He then made a motion of holding a sword, and finally pointed to himself again, indicating this was a necessity for his future activities.
Kaelen watched him, a look of confusion on his face, processing the silent request. He understood the desire to go to town, the request for a sword, but the implication that this young master, this quiet, seemingly weak figure, required it for any practical purpose beyond a decorative affectation, was bewildering.
"A sword?" Kaelen finally said, a hint of bewildered amusement in his voice. He glanced at Malrik's slight frame, his quiet demeanor. "You? A sword? For... hunting, Young Master?" He shook his head slightly, a dismissive, internal thought clearly playing across his features.
(Internal Monologue - Kaelen: A sword? For this one? He barely moves without looking tired. Hunting? What prey could he possibly envision? Does he see weapons as mere status symbols? Another strange, useless whim from the exiled young master. What a waste of steel. Not my concern, ultimately.)
Kaelen sighed internally, then adopted a neutral expression. He nodded slowly. "To town... for a sword. I understand. Well, Young Master, we can arrange a trip to Descate soon. Though perhaps... a walking stick might be more... suitable for your constitution?" The last was said with subtle, ingrained condescension, born of seeing only the facade.
Malrik simply offered a silent, polite nod, registering Kaelen's assessment. They saw a weak, foolish noble with impractical desires. Let them. It was the desired misdirection. Kaelen's agreement to the trip to Descate was the objective achieved. In Descate, he would acquire the necessary tool. And perhaps, find the answers about the ogre's fate. The silent young master had returned to his cage, but he was no longer the same. He was injured, yes, but alive, his will hardened, focused on the acquisition of power and the elimination of obstacles. The hunt for dominance was not over. It was merely entering a new, even more dangerous phase, requiring better tools.