A Background Character’s Path to Power

"Jump!" Baron barked, already scooping up three unconscious guards in his arms.

Lumin didn't hesitate; he grabbed the remaining two figures and leapt backward through the portal just as the baron charged after him.

Crunch!

The baron hit the ground back-first, his body curling protectively around the guards as the portal sealed with a snap—the first tendril of pursuing snow severed mid-air.

For a heartbeat, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and the faint drip of melting snow in his hair.

Thud-! x2

One by one, two more figures collapsed onto the marble floor—Aeron landing hard on his knees, his golden eyes dull with exhaustion, while Lumin sank down more gracefully, though his shoulders trembled slightly. Sweat and melting snow dripped from their hair and forehead, forming small puddles on the polished floor.

Only Zephyr remained upright, lowering himself into a cross-legged position with deliberate control. His lashes fluttered shut as he began circulating his loci to restore his aura.

The baron carefully arranged the unconscious guards beside him before sitting up, brushing snow from his coat with methodical strokes. His gaze swept the grand hall, the same one where he'd welcomed these very guests not so long ago.

Of course, he realized.

The shelter's spatial wards would have blocked teleportation. This was the next safest place... and gave them precious minutes before the storm reached the upper keep.

His eyes drifted upward, toward the west wing's balcony. Toward her room. A faint smile touched his lips.

Our son made good friends, dear...

Then, the memory of the nightmare, Aman's burning hands, those hollow eyes, flashed behind his eyelids.

He looked at Lumin, now calmly checking a guard's pulse despite his own fatigue. That voice pulling him from the illusion... it must have been the young healer's doing.

I owe him another favor now.

The thought settled in his chest like a warm stone. His gaze moved to the other two, Aeron now flat on his back, panting, and Zephyr's serene meditation.

A quiet sigh escaped him.

Thank goodness the younger ones aren't here.

The absence of their familiar footsteps and bright laughter in these vaulted halls suddenly felt like a mercy rather than emptiness. His younger children, safe in the capital city, were far from this nightmare.

The realization sat bitter in his throat.

Even now, after decades of training, after wars won and titles earned... he wasn't strong enough.

Had those bright-eyed imps been here today, could he have shielded them from those hollow eyes?

From the storm that stole minds and froze souls?

His gaze fell on the unconscious guards.

Without the golden-eyed youth's blades cutting through Mistborn, without the silver-haired young man's strength and portals, without the young healer's quiet competence and pulling him from that illusion... how many more would be lying cold in the snow?

The answer was obvious:

The cost would have been unbearable.

I am weak, he admitted to himself, the old shame coiling tight around his ribs.

The words tasted like ash, dredged up from battles long past and failures never truly forgotten.

He was a lord, a shield of the kingdom, yet here he was, reliant on three exhausted youths to protect his own. The chasm between his duties and his perceived capabilities yawned before him, a cold dread seeping into his bones.

I... I have to work harder.

His hands curled into fists.

I have to get stronger.

The words were a burning ember in his chest, igniting a resolve he hadn't felt so acutely in years. He would push past his limits, for his children, for his people.

As he crossed his legs and closed his eyes, the last thing he saw was Lumin, calmly removing his cracked monocle to wipe it clean. The simple, almost mundane gesture offered an oddly comforting normalcy amidst the chaos, a quiet beacon against the encroaching despair.

_____ ___ _

Lumin moved quietly, kneeling beside Aeron's prone form. A vial appeared between his fingers, its contents shimmering faintly blue. "Here," he said, voice soft but clear. "A stamina recovery potion. You'll need it, young friend."

Aeron accepted the vial with a weak nod. "Thanks..."

The honorific stuck in his throat - this "young friend" address from someone who barely looked twenty. But the pointed ears peeking through blue hair reminded him: elves aged differently. Lumin could be decades older for all he knew.

The half-elf offered a faint smile before producing an identical vial for himself.

As Aeron gulped his down, he watched Lumin's measured movements, the precise tilt of the head as he swallowed, the way his fingers immediately formed a meditation seal to circulate loci. Within three breaths, the potion's effects visibly steadied his hands.

Aeron marveled at how the healer transitioned seamlessly back to examining the corrupted guards, his movements as fluid as if he'd rested for hours.

_____ ___ _

Ten minutes later, the castle groaned under the storm's assault.

Icy winds howled against the obsidian walls, their fury echoing through the halls. The second wave had reached the upper keep, so they could hear distant crashes through the stone.

Yet the work was done: all corrupted personnel stabilized and escorted to the underground safe rooms.

Baron Nusayel had guided Zephyr to the hidden chamber's entrance himself, watching as the silver-haired youth sliced open another portal directly into the secured space.

One by one, they'd passed the unconscious forms through.

Now, standing at a narrow arrowslit window, the baron watched tendrils of mist curl around the castle's foundations like grasping fingers. His reflection in the leaded glass showed a face hardened by resolve.

Seven paces took him near the great hearth.

His gaze landed on the wall a few meters to its right, where an ancestral shield hung directly above him - his grandfather's, he believed, flanked by crossed swords. He reached up, his fingers bypassing the weapons to grasp the shield itself. Pulling it free, he revealed a small lever embedded in the stone.

Clunk.

The castle came alive with hidden mechanisms. Iron shutters descended over windows with synchronized thuds. The great oak doors sealed themselves as thick obsidian-alloy panels slid into place behind them. Even the hearth's opening narrowed, its flames dimming behind a lattice of black metal.

"We're safe," the baron murmured, his voice a low rumble, "for now."