The silence after the collapse of the West Gate wasn't truly silent. It was a ringing echo in Lysander's ears, punctuated by the agonizing groans of the wounded, the trickle of displaced stone, and the chilling realization of what he had just done. Dust, thick and acrid, hung in the air, stinging his eyes and coating his tongue. He coughed, a ragged, painful sound, as he pushed himself fully upright, every muscle in his body protesting. He was battered, bruised, and covered in grit, but he was alive.
Around him, the few surviving soldiers of the West Gate contingent stood frozen, their faces pale masks of disbelief. They stared at the monstrous pile of rubble, then at Lysander, their expressions a mix of awe, terror, and a bewildered respect he'd never seen directed at the original Lysander Thorne. The stench of troll blood and pulverised monster parts was overwhelming, a gruesome testament to the sheer devastation he'd wrought.
Sir Reginald, his face streaked with grime and sweat, slowly approached, his heavy armor clanking with each deliberate step. His eyes, usually narrowed in disdain, were wide, reflecting the chaos of the ruined gate and the impossible figure standing before him. He stopped a few feet from Lysander, looking him up and down.
"Thorne," Reginald rasped, his voice barely a whisper, utterly devoid of its usual contempt. "What in the blazes did you just do?"
Lysander met his gaze, forcing himself to appear calm, even authoritative, despite the tremor in his hands and the adrenaline coursing through him. "I ensured the West Gate held, Sir Reginald. In the only way left to us." He kept his tone even, professional, as if collapsing an ancient gate on a monstrous horde was merely standard operating procedure. He was, after all, playing the part of a cunning noble, not a panicked commoner.
Reginald shook his head, a slow, disbelieving motion. "You… you brought down the arch. On your own men. On us." His voice rose slightly, a tremor of anger beneath the shock.
"A necessary sacrifice, Captain," Lysander countered, his voice firm, his mind already spinning narratives. "The gate was breached. The Brute Trolls were through. Without that action, we would all be dead, and the fortress would have fallen from this point. Casualties were inevitable. I merely chose the lesser of two evils to save the greater whole." He gestured vaguely towards the devastated enemy forces. "The enemy is crippled here. The West Gate stands, impassable, albeit in a different form."
Reginald stared, his initial anger flickering into grudging acceptance as he surveyed the crushed creatures. The logic, cold and brutal, was undeniable. Lysander had effectively turned a point of fatal weakness into an impregnable chokepoint, at least for now. But the sheer audacity, the ruthless decision-making, was utterly alien to the Thorne he knew. It was the decision of a villain plotter, a calculating mind willing to sacrifice pawns for the greater game.
"Report!" Reginald barked, turning to the other bewildered soldiers, his command voice cracking back into place. "Assess injuries! Secure the rubble! Send word to the High Commander – the West Gate is fallen, but the enemy is broken here!" His eyes returned to Lysander, a new wariness in them. "You… you come with me, Thorne. The High Commander will want answers."
Lysander nodded, a silent victory thrumming beneath his battered exterior. He had survived. More than that, he had made an impact, an undeniable mark that could not be swept under the rug. His existence as a mere extra was over. He had forced himself onto the main stage, even if it was as an unpredictable, dangerous element. This was the first, monumental step in his return – not to a throne, but to agency in a world that had written him off.
As they began to move towards the inner parts of the fortress, the sounds of battle from the other gates seemed to lessen, suggesting the main assault was perhaps faltering. Lysander's mind, despite the pain, raced. He had changed a key event. What would be the ripple effect? The novel's plot was intricate, a delicate web of cause and effect. His survival, and this victory, meant that Kaelen, the "hero," would not have Lysander's death to inspire him. How would that shift the narrative? Would Kaelen still achieve his destined greatness without that catalyst? Lysander felt a thrill, cold and sharp, at the thought of truly disrupting the preordained story. He was a stone tossed into still waters, and the ripples would be profound.
They soon reached the main courtyard, a hive of activity where injured soldiers were being tended to and messengers dashed back and forth. The fortress's central keep loomed, its banner emblazoned with the roaring lion of House Alden. Lysander knew this place. This was where Kaelen, the main character, would be.
As if on cue, a figure emerged from the keep's grand archway. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a stern, handsome face framed by dark, wind-swept hair, he carried a magnificent, two-handed sword sheathed on his back. His eyes, sharp and intense, swept over the courtyard, assessing the wounded. This was Kaelen Alden, the true hero of The Crimson Blade, the destined savior of the realm. Lysander felt a strange, almost surreal sense of meeting a celebrity, mixed with the chilling awareness that this man's story was supposed to be built, in part, on Lysander's corpse.
Kaelen's gaze landed on Sir Reginald, then flickered to Lysander, his brow furrowing slightly in recognition, though likely not of anything significant. Lysander could almost hear the original script whispering: 'Kaelen glances idly at the cowering noble Lysander Thorne, dismissing him from his thoughts as he turns to address the brave Captain Reginald.'
But Lysander wasn't cowering. He stood tall, though his body screamed in protest, his gaze steady, meeting Kaelen's. Their eyes locked for a fleeting moment – an extra meeting a hero, a pawn meeting a king. The unspoken confrontation was brief, yet charged. Kaelen's expression shifted from casual dismissal to a faint flicker of curiosity, then perhaps, surprise. Lysander Thorne was not where he was supposed to be, nor was he behaving as he should.
This was a direct consequence of his actions. He hadn't just survived; he had altered the hero's perception, however subtly. The true challenges, the ones where his mastermind intellect and future powers would truly come into play, were yet to begin. He needed to secure his position, learn more about this world, and figure out how to acquire the means to defend himself, not just with cunning, but with true might. The path of an exiled noble plotting his return was long, treacherous, and demanded every ounce of his new resolve.