Ash awoke to the familiar ache of a poor night’s sleep, his back, neck, and shoulders protesting the hard ground.
Tyllian, ever vigilant, was already tending the bonfire, the dying embers casting a faint glow across the makeshift camp.
He noticed Ash stirring, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly.
“Are you awake?”
Tyllian asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that was both comforting and ever so slightly exasperating.
“You didn’t sleep?”
Ash mumbled, pushing himself upright with a grunt, rubbing a crick in his neck.
The exhaustion was a dull throb behind his eyes, a stark contrast to the surprising lightness in his chest.
“I caught a bit of sleep. Knights have sensitive senses, so they can’t consciously relax,” Tyllian replied, his gaze returning to the flickering flames.
He poked at the embers with a charred stick, sending a small shower of sparks dancing into the pre-dawn gloom.
Ash nodded, recalling the vivid memory of the shiver that had run down his spine just hours before.
He’d been so certain Tyllian was deep in slumber, his breathing even and deep, and had carefully, painstakingly, tried to slip away unnoticed.
But then, Tyllian’s calm voice had cut through the quiet, calling him from behind, making Ash jump.
The memory still sent a flush of embarrassment to his cheeks.
“…What do you mean?”
Ash prodded, a grin spreading across his face despite Tyllian’s slightly displeased expression.
He found Tyllian’s stoicism endlessly amusing, a challenge to his own effervescent nature.
“No, no.
It’s so good!
As expected, you’re my knight.”
That unwavering loyalty, the simple, undeniable fact that Tyllian had helped him escape the castle’s oppressive walls, risking everything, and then, inexplicably, had returned as his escort knight, filled Ash’s chest with a surprising warmth.
It was a feeling he hadn’t realized he craved, a deep sense of belonging and protection.
It felt good, a profound, emotional counterbalance to the physical discomfort of their makeshift bed and the gnawing uncertainty of their future.
He even let out a soft, almost imperceptible ‘Hehe’ to himself.
He then, with a familiar boldness, pressed himself against Tyllian, a gesture that usually elicited a long-suffering sigh from the knight.
Today, Tyllian looked down at him with that same displeased expression, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes.
“What is it?” he asked, his tone flat.
“What’s with you? What’s with this reaction?! It’s really weird. Why do you dislike it when someone who likes you approaches you?”
Ash complained, genuinely baffled by Tyllian’s constant aloofness, his resistance to any form of physical affection or outright emotional expression.
Tyllian let out another, longer, more drawn-out sigh, as if he carried the weight of the world on his broad shoulders.
“Lord Ash. The phrase ‘someone who likes me’ isn’t an all-purpose weapon. Don’t use it whenever you want… Never mind. I don’t think you understand its weight anyway. Don’t worry about it.”
He began to nag, a familiar litany of gentle reproaches, then abruptly shook his head, a gesture Ash almost wished he hadn’t made.
He was almost curious to hear the rest of the lecture, to see if Tyllian would actually finish it for once.
“What is it?”
Ash prompted, leaning back slightly, eager for the continuation.
“Why would I like it when good things have never happened after you clung to me, smiling?”
Tyllian countered, deftly changing the subject, his eyes fixed on the fire.
This, too, was infuriating, a challenge to Ash’s sense of self, and he couldn’t help but get drawn into the argument.
“When did I ever?!”
Ash demanded, his voice rising slightly in indignation.
He racked his brain, trying to recall any recent incidents that would justify such a claim.
“It happened recently, even. If you don’t remember, never mind.”
Tyllian grimly poked the makeshift wooden poker deeper into the fire.
Sparks flew up into the dim sky, momentarily illuminating the knight’s stern profile, and ‘what happened recently’ indeed came to Ash’s mind with a sudden, sickening clarity.
The memory was sharp, vivid, and deeply embarrassing.
‘I shouldn’t have brought it up,’ he thought, a fresh wave of irritation, this time directed at himself, washing over him.
Ash nodded, pushing the mortifying thought aside with a deliberate effort.
“I have no idea. Anyway, we can’t keep sleeping on the road, can we? I have a plan, first of all.”
He straightened, trying to project an air of confidence he didn’t quite feel after the fleeting memory.
“You have a plan?”
Tyllian asked, a hint of genuine surprise in his voice, his usual composure momentarily ruffled.
Ash’s face instantly became displeased, a slight frown creasing his brow.
“Why are you surprised? Do I look like someone who lives without a thought?”
“I never said that…”
Tyllian mumbled, avoiding Ash’s gaze, a slight flush rising on his neck.
“But your attitude says it! You speak with your eyes, you know? Don’t even think about lying anywhere. Anyway, you and master don’t know me at all. I’m also someone with a clear future plan.”
Ash huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, feeling a surge of defiant pride.
“Surprising,” Tyllian said, his expression completely unsurprised, his gaze still fixed on the fire, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in his lips that suggested he was holding back a smirk.
“At least pretend to be surprised properly!”
Ash snapped, feeling a surge of pure annoyance.
Was this guy deliberately trying to make him angry this early in the morning?
Was this some new form of psychological torture?
“Please tell me your plan. I will listen carefully,” Tyllian said, his attitude serious despite his earlier lack of surprise, finally turning his full attention to Ash.
Ash snorted, still annoyed but ready to lay out his strategy, the grand design that would reclaim his birthright.
“First, Owen’s motive for imprisoning me is obvious. Isn’t it because I might get in the way of him becoming duke?” he began, his voice gaining strength as he outlined his thoughts.
“Lord Ash getting in the way? …Perhaps so,” Tyllian conceded, his gaze thoughtful, a slow nod indicating his consideration.
Ash pointed out sharply, a touch of indignation in his voice, “You thought I wouldn’t be a hindrance no matter what I did?”
“That’s not true. When you set your mind to it, Lord Ash, you cause big things to happen,” Tyllian replied, his tone surprisingly earnest.
“Is that a good thing?!”
Ash lightly clenched his fist and punched Tyllian’s stomach, a playful yet firm jab that still made Tyllian wince and let out a soft groan.
This guy had been interrupting him constantly, his sarcastic remarks puncturing Ash’s attempts at seriousness.
“If I wasn’t going to be a hindrance, why would he need to imprison me? There’s something, so he excluded me. He prevented me from hearing my father’s will.”
“Certainly… No matter what mistakes Lord Ash made, that was too harsh a treatment,” Tyllian, ever strict about rites and ceremonies, finally agreed, his expression hardening slightly at the thought of the injustice.
“Exactly. So it’s suspicious, isn’t it? There’s something in the will. There must be some clause that’s disadvantageous to Owen and advantageous to me… At first, I thought about trying to steal the will from Owen’s possession somehow, but there was no way. It’s guarded far too heavily. So I decided to change my approach. After all, to get what’s mine back from Owen, I’ll need the support of the vassals anyway,” Ash explained, his conviction growing with each word.
Tyllian raised an eyebrow, a silent prompt for Ash to continue.
“I’m going to persuade the vassals who heard my father’s will. To support me.”
Ash stated, his voice ringing with newfound determination.
Tyllian remained silent, listening intently, his expression unreadable, but his focused attention was enough encouragement for Ash.
“And by checking the will’s contents and messing with Owen, I get my share, you become the Duke’s escort knight, and everyone lives happily ever after. That’s it. How about it?”
Ash finished, a triumphant grin on his face, convinced he had presented an irrefutable, foolproof plan.
Tyllian seemed lost in thought, slowly rubbing his chin, his gaze distant.
He considered Ash’s words, weighing them carefully.
“It’s not bad,” he finally conceded, his voice thoughtful.
“Right?”
Ash beamed, his grin widening even further.
“Frankly, I’m not entirely sure about the will… But even if His Grace the Duke brought Owen Mills, whose origins are unclear, to be his successor, there are vassals who distrust him.”
“Oh, right, right. The bloodline purists. But I don’t really like those people either.”
Ash thought to himself, ‘Because I’m an Omega.’
These were the people who constantly tried to marry Ash to their children, desperate to continue their family lines through the ducal blood.
They saw him not as a person, but as a vessel for lineage.
Ash had, to be honest, considered it as a last resort, a desperate measure to secure his position.
But the thought of tying himself to any of them, of becoming a pawn in their schemes, was nauseating.
Choosing one would inevitably make enemies of all the others, creating a web of resentment and political intrigue that even his father, the shrewd Duke, had likely found too complex to navigate.
His father had probably ignored their opinions for the same reason.
“Most importantly, those people probably didn’t hear my father’s will.”
“Yes. They wouldn’t have,” Tyllian confirmed, his voice devoid of emotion, but his agreement was clear.
“I thought so, too!”
Ash exclaimed, feeling a surge of vindication.
They were the ones who openly opposed Owen, the Duke’s favored choice, and tried to manipulate Ash to gain control of the ducal family.
Even if their true intentions weren’t sinister, hidden behind a veneer of concern for the ducal line, there was no way the Duke would view vassals who defied his wishes favorably.
The probability of them hearing the Duke’s will was extremely low, bordering on impossible.
Ash frowned and rubbed his forehead, the implications of his own reasoning sinking in.
“It has to be someone who definitely heard the will. And among them, someone who doesn’t like Owen much.”
The criteria narrowed the field significantly.
“There is one person who comes to mind,” Tyllian stated calmly, his voice breaking Ash’s intense concentration.
“Who?”
Ash asked, intrigued, leaning forward slightly.
“Baron Maynor,” Tyllian replied, his voice even, as if he were discussing the weather.
Ash was dumbfounded, his jaw dropping slightly.
“You’re talking about your father…” he trailed off, the words feeling alien on his tongue.
It was a bizarre dynamic.
Tyllian always spoke of his father as if he were a stranger, a habit that confused and sometimes annoyed Ash.
Yet, it was typical of him to hate his father so much, to harbor such deep-seated resentment, but still get angry when Ash dared to insult the Baron, even implicitly.
“No, but is that right? Baron Maynor opposing Owen? The Baron wouldn’t go against my father’s wishes. In fact, he was the first to bow to Owen.”
Ash’s voice rose in disbelief.
The memory was etched into his mind with painful clarity.
Ash remembered it vividly, the day the Duke had introduced Owen to his vassals.
It was Baron Maynor who stepped forward first, his voice booming with a false enthusiasm that grated on Ash’s nerves.
“His Grace has gained a magnificent successor through destiny; there is no longer any worry,” he had declared, his words echoing through the cavernous hall.
Thanks to his initiative, his swift and public acceptance, the other reluctant vassals had no choice but to follow suit and accept Owen’s presence.
Who would dare object when the Duke had made his decision, and his most loyal and powerful vassal followed suit?
It was a political maneuver, cold and calculated, disguised as heartfelt loyalty.
Young Ash, then a mere child, had pouted, his small face contorted with confusion and hurt.
The Baron’s words were so outrageous, so contrary to everything he believed about his family, about his place, that he still remembered his voice, every inflection, every word, as if it were yesterday.
‘What, gaining a successor? Then what am I? Am I not Father’s child?’
What young Ash felt then was a deep, burning sense of betrayal, a wound that had never truly healed.
Baron Maynor had been like an uncle to him, a warm, comforting presence who would run to him with open arms, exclaiming, “Oh, our young master,” showering him with sweet treats and endless stories.
He was like a brother to his father, a very close friend, a trusted confidante.
And such a person, someone so integral to Ash’s childhood, had acknowledged Owen, an unknown, a stranger, as his father’s successor.
From that day on, Ash would glare at Baron Maynor whenever he saw him, a silent, childish protest against the perceived slight.
The Baron would just laugh heartily, seemingly oblivious to Ash’s childish fury, and say things like, ‘Our young master seems to be in a bad mood again today,’ but the words, even when delivered with a chuckle, never ceased to sting.
“No. That’s impossible! He’ll never be persuaded,” Ash declared, waving his hand dismissively, the very idea absurd.
Tyllian looked up, his eyes meeting Ash’s, a calm, unwavering gaze that held a surprising depth of understanding.
“Wouldn’t you need to persuade such a person to become the Duke? What kind of easy backers are you trying to use to legitimize yourself?”
Tyllian’s words, though delivered without malice, stung with the sharp edge of truth.
He wasn’t accusing, merely stating a fact that Ash had been trying to avoid.
“Just stop stating the obvious,” Ash grumbled, his voice lacking its usual energy, the wind momentarily knocked out of his sails.
It was true, after all.
He knew it, Tyllian knew it, and there was no escaping the reality of the situation.
Tyllian continued, his voice softer now, almost comforting.
“And no one will think you went to persuade Baron Maynor. You’ll be able to shake off any pursuers.”
“…Why would no one consider that possibility? Because there’s no way I could persuade him?”
Ash asked, a hint of vulnerability in his voice, the question laced with a bitter self-awareness.
“Yes. Exactly,” Tyllian confirmed, his tone flat, yet oddly reassuring.
Ash, annoyed but also a little grateful for the frankness, punched Tyllian twice in the stomach.
He knew hitting him hard would only hurt his own fist, so he didn’t put much force into it.
Tyllian winced and feigned rubbing his stomach, a theatrical gesture Ash had come to expect, a small concession to their unusual friendship.
He was good at playing along, at indulging Ash’s quirks, at being the steadfast anchor in Ash’s chaotic life.
That was Ash’s Tyllian.
His closest friend.
Someone reliable, despite all his nagging, a constant presence Ash cherished more than he often let on, a fact he rarely admitted even to himself.
His quiet strength, his unwavering loyalty, his irritating practicality – all of it made him irreplaceable, a cornerstone in the shifting sands of Ash’s existence.
***
“Then our destination is decided,” a dying voice interjected, startling Ash, making him jump.
His Master, who had been eerily silent for what felt like an eternity, was now slumped even further over, looking even more disheveled and miserable than usual, his usually vibrant magical aura barely a flicker.
The Master’s appearance was a stark reminder of the sacrifices being made, the true cost of their escape.
“Were you sleeping, or did you just come back from the dead?”
Ash asked, genuinely surprised by his Master’s sudden appearance in the conversation, his voice a mix of concern and exasperation.
It was always a gamble with the Master; he could be a profound genius or utterly useless, depending on the whims of his strange magical energies.
“Both. I haven’t slept in so long that I’ve forgotten how to fall asleep. And since I can’t return to my clean workshop, my body isn’t maintaining its normal condition…” the Master groaned, his voice weak and raspy, a testament to his prolonged discomfort.
He shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a less painful position against the unforgiving earth.
His face was pale, drawn, and his eyes held a hollow look that deeply unsettled Ash.
“Why didn’t you just go back to your workshop? Why couldn’t you return?”
Ash asked out of genuine curiosity, not quite grasping the severity of his Master’s predicament, his mind still reeling from the implications of his conversation with Tyllian.
He honestly hadn’t given the Master’s living arrangements a second thought after their chaotic escape.
But his Master looked at Ash with a gaze full of resentment, a deep-seated weariness in his eyes that spoke volumes of his suffering.
A silent accusation that cut deeper than any words.
“You’re my disciple, but sometimes I think you’re just too much…” he muttered, his voice barely a whisper, laden with a blend of exasperation and profound exhaustion.
He shook his head slowly, a gesture of profound defeat.
“That’s true. Lord Ash. Everyone in the castle knows you escaped with the help of this magician, don’t they? It was a rather noisy escape. Wouldn’t Owen Mills search the magician’s workshop first?”
Even Tyllian, who had developed a clear dislike for his Master since yesterday’s chaotic events, sided with him, his logic undeniable, brutally practical as always.
Tyllian’s gaze was sharp, assessing the full scope of their current predicament.
He knew Owen’s methods, his ruthless efficiency.
The Master’s workshop would have been the first place Owen’s men would have ransacked, a clear sign to anyone watching.
“Ah.”
A sudden, painful realization dawned on Ash, washing over him with the force of a cold wave.
‘Is that so?’
He hadn’t worried about his Master’s whereabouts at all. In fact, he hadn’t cared, completely absorbed in his own plight, his own grand plan, his own emotional turmoil.
The sheer self-centeredness of his oversight hit him with a sickening thud, a stark and unwelcome mirror reflecting his own flaws.
He felt a blush creep up his neck, a genuine pang of shame.
“What should we do?”
Ash asked, trying to sound worried belatedly, a futile attempt to mask his prior indifference, to salvage some semblance of concern, but his Master was already slumped over, his head resting heavily on his chest, a picture of utter defeat, his magical energy flickering even lower.
His breathing was shallow, his form almost imperceptible in the dim light.
“Such is life. Helping one’s disciple, only to ruin oneself…” he mumbled, his voice barely audible, a mournful sigh escaping his lips, laced with an profound sense of resignation.
It was a lament not just for himself, but for the choices that had led him to this desolate place.
“No…”
Ash began, a flicker of genuine guilt, sharp and insistent, finally stirring within him.
He felt a pang of remorse, a rare and uncomfortable emotion that he usually managed to avoid.
The weight of his Master’s sacrifice, freely given for his sake, settled heavily on his shoulders, a burden he was only just beginning to truly comprehend.
The journey ahead would be far more challenging than he had initially imagined, not just for himself, but for those who had chosen to follow him.