Chapter 17: Somewhere in The Memory

Serena sat upright on the edge of a lavish bed, her fingers knotting the soft quilt as though it were a lifeline. The room was richly furnished—canopied ceilings, velvet drapes, and the faint scent of lavender oil wafting from a glass decanter on the nearby table—but none of that registered.

All she could feel was disbelief. Cold, sinking disbelief.

Her eyes, wide and glassy, stared straight ahead as though the sockets had stretched to hold them. The lids seemed to have forgotten how to blink. Her lips parted slightly, her breath short, shallow.

“So… let me get this straight.” Her voice was flat, brittle, as she slowly turned her gaze toward Elliot. “I… cast a high-tier spell—a long-forgotten element of spellcasting, to be exact—dissintegrated a reanimated orc abomination... and then proceeded to black out for nearly ten days?”

She bobbed her head in slow, stunned affirmation, as if trying to convince herself the words were real. “That’s what you’re saying? Did I at least get that first part right?”

Elliot, leaning back against the wallpapered wall with his arms crossed, nodded casually. “Yes.”

Serena let out a dry, bewildered laugh, almost a scoff. “Of course. That tracks. Sure.”

Her attention flicked toward Cassandra, who stood a few feet away—silent, tense, shoulders drawn with quiet guilt. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Serena narrowed her eyes.

“And you’re here because... Mr. Barrenworth was—what?—deeply concerned I hadn’t woken up yet?”

Cassandra nodded slightly. “He gave Corrin a week to stabilize you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But after you showed no improvement... he sent for me.”

Elliot didn’t miss a beat, his tone dry and pointed as he added, “And of course, this woman answered the call.”

The bitterness in his voice sliced through the room like a dagger. Serena’s head tilted slowly, a brow arching. She picked up on it instantly.

Oh. There’s something going on there.

“I see…” she said, her voice trailing with a thoughtful weight. “Corrin—the same half-orc who tried to hunt us down—is now part of the team?”

“Yes,” Elliot replied. “Seems the hunter’s grown tired of being hunted. He’s terrified of going back to the Raiders. Apparently, his master doesn’t handle failure with... forgiveness.”

“So now,” he gestured vaguely at the room, “he’s holed up here, same as us. Hiding in Barrenworth Manor with a bunch of scorched fugitives, all of whom are now wanted by the Alaric City Guard for turning half of Rutterslide into rubble.”

Serena exhaled slowly, letting the weight of it all sink in.

“Dear holy Artheons…” Serena muttered, the words barely audible beneath her breath. “I pass out for ten days, and everything turns upside down.”

Her chest began to rise and fall in quick succession, breath hitching, eyes darting. Panic took root like a thorned vine, winding its way up her spine. Cassandra saw it immediately—the way Serena’s grip clenched the blanket again, the way her lips parted as if the air had grown too thin.

Before the spiral could take full hold, Cassandra stepped forward, voice smooth and measured, sliding into the role that had once calmed a restless apprentice at Orias Academy.

“Steady yourself, child,” she said, gently but firmly. “Breathe. There is no need to panic. You are safe now. Everything is under control.”

Her tone carried that mentor’s grace—reassuring, practiced, the same one she'd used during spell collapses and mid-term meltdowns. But this time… it didn’t land the same.

“Steady?” Serena snapped, incredulous, her voice cracking into a breathy laugh. “You—you’re asking me to calm down?”

Her tone was brittle, teetering on the edge. She pushed the blanket aside and swung her legs off the bed, fingers trembling as they ran through her disheveled hair.

“With all due respect, Professor Willthrope,” she said, the title sharp with old-school sarcasm, “I’m finding it rather difficult—no, impossible—to steady myself right now. In fact, I don’t want to be calm!”

The tremor in her limbs giving way to sheer frustration, eyes glassy with overwhelmed panic.

“All I ever wanted was to pass my last assignment, earn my Adventurine Permit, and go on sanctioned quests like a normal mage! That’s it! That’s all!” Her voice cracked slightly as she gestured wildly. “And now I wake up and apparently I’ve burned down half of Rutterslide, committed half a dozen capital crimes, somehow destroyed a reanimated monster with a spell no one’s used since the Age of the Ancient—and oh, right! I’m now a wanted fugitive!”

Cassandra opened her mouth, but Serena was far from done.

“Okay, yes! We may have caused a lot of damage in Alaric—fine! But heaven forbid we were just trying to survive!” Her hands balled into fists. “The guards should’ve been chasing the Horn Raiders, not us! They’re the ones who attacked first! They’re the ones who cornered us! All we did was defend ourselves!”

Her voice was shaking now, barely holding back a wave of tears and rage.

“I—I just… I don’t understand how it all went so wrong.”

For a moment, silence reclaimed the room, thick with emotion. Elliot shifted his stance by the wall but said nothing, letting the storm pass on its own.

Cassandra stepped closer, her gaze softening, though her hands remained at her sides—offering presence, but not force.

“We will make this right,” she said quietly. “But first, you need to remember who you are.”

Serena met her gaze, eyes searching—haunted, uncertain.

“And who exactly is that now?” she whispered.

Elliot shot Cassandra a glare that could've melted stone—sharp, unforgiving, and full of unspoken accusation.

Cassandra felt it burn through her, but it wasn’t the worst thing haunting her in that moment.

Inside her mind, the memory returned like a hammer cracking through the silence. The white-haired boy's voice—steady, cold, and absolute—echoed once more:

“If you won’t tell her, I will.”

The words clung like smoke, thick and inescapable.

With a heavy breath, Cassandra closed her eyes briefly, then turned toward Serena.

“Serena…” she began, her voice low and measured, “why do you think you were able to cast such an advanced spell? A spell far beyond your rank. Beyond anything you were ever taught?”

Serena blinked. Her earlier panic gave way to confusion, her brows furrowing as her gaze drifted to her open palms. Her fingers twitched slightly, as if trying to remember the shape of that long-lost magic.

“I... I don’t know,” she said, her tone laced with hesitation. “It just happened. I wasn’t thinking about the chanting ring or the caelus cores—I wasn’t…”

A flicker of memory flashed across her face—the reanimated orc charging toward them, her companions behind her, paralyzed with fear. She remembered the heat in her chest, the way the world slowed, how her heart screamed only one thing: Protect them.

“In that moment, all I wanted was to keep everyone safe,” she whispered. “That was the only thing in my head. I don’t know what came over me. It felt like... something else took hold. Like my body was moving, acting, without waiting for my mind to catch up. Like I wasn’t the one casting the spell”

Cassandra gave a slow nod, her eyes dimming with a kind of sorrow that only older souls carried. “The mind may forget,” she said softly, “but the body remembers. Even under the strongest mental wards, the flesh does not lie. It holds on. To instinct. To truth. To power.”

Serena’s gaze snapped to her. Her eyes narrowed, the hairs on her arms rising.

“Im sorry… what?”

From the corner of her eye, Cassandra noticed Elliot still watching her—his posture stiff, his jaw locked, his silence louder than any shout.

Cassandra closed her eyes again and exhaled, long and deep. The weight of years sat heavy on her shoulders, and for the first time in Serena’s life, her old mentor didn’t look wise or composed—she looked tired. Human.

“Serena…” she said, voice laced with guilt, “with everything that’s happened—everything that’s unraveling—I owe you the truth. And an apology.”

Serena looks uncertain. “Professor… you’re scaring me.”

Cassandra reached out, slowly, and took her student’s hand in hers. Her touch was warm, but there was a tremor there too—small, almost imperceptible, but real.

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“I was part of something,” Cassandra admitted. “Something done in the name of protection. In the name of order. I told myself it was for your own good. That the truth would only bring chaos. But now... now I see the damage silence can do.”

Serena’s breath caught in her throat.

Cassandra looked her in the eye, her voice steady but heavy.

“There’s something you need to know about yourself, Serena. Something that was kept from you. A truth buried long ago… about who you really are. About your origin.”

Meanwhile, just beyond the heavy oak doors of the guest chamber, the rest of the household teetered on the edge of anticipation—some more gracefully than others.

The matter of who would be present during Cassandra’s revelation had already stirred a storm of heated whispers and reluctant concessions. The result? Only Cassandra and Serena were permitted inside, while the rest waited... and simmered.

Roderick Barrenworth stood like a chiseled statue at the far wall, arms folded tightly across his broad chest. His jaw was set, his eyes sharp, but the faint twitch of his fingers against his coat sleeve betrayed the sliver of excitement stirring beneath his stoic veneer.

Beside him sat Maggie, cross-legged atop a velvet bench, idly polishing the barrel of her custom rifle with a grease-stained cloth. She didn’t speak, didn’t even lift her eyes—but the way she kept glancing at the door between strokes betrayed a quiet eagerness.

Corrin paced like a caged beast just before the door, arms swinging in agitated arcs. His jaw clenched tighter with every step. “Damn her wards,” he snarled, his voice low and guttural. “Even my boulder frog can’t slip past them. She's blocking my familiars like I’m some bloody intruder.”

“You are a bloody intruder,” Gerald piped in, his face practically glued to the door. One canine-like ear twitched furiously while the other was pressed flat against the wood, catching murmurs and footsteps. His tail wagged with unbidden impatience, betraying the halfling’s excitement. “She’s saying something about origins… and body memory—oof, Cassandra’s laying it on thick.”

And then there was Ronald.

The head butler stood by the hallway window, back straight, face serene as a monk in meditation. In his gloved hands he held a silver tray, upon which rested a crystal decanter of aged honey-wine, two glasses, a silk handkerchief, and what looked suspiciously like a fainting tonic.

Unlike the others, he neither strained to listen nor bothered to ask what was being said. His interest lay not in the storm, but in tending the aftermath.

“How do you think she’s going to react?” Maggie asked, her voice low as she clicked a fresh cylinder into her rifle. Her eyes, though steady, betrayed the tension beneath.

Roderick simply shrugged, arms still crossed, brow furrowed like a man watching thunderclouds gather on the horizon.

It was Corrin who spoke—loudly, and with increasing distress. “React? React!?” He threw his hands in the air, pacing once again like a restless animal in too small a cage. “Take your pick—collapsing into a sobbing heap? Bolting out the window? Screaming until the walls crack? Laughing so madly that I start laughing and forget what’s real?” His voice climbed higher with each guess. “We’re talking about a girl finding out she’s not even human! That her whole life—her memories, her dreams, her very being—was just a manufactured shell! That she’s some unknown entity that fell from the godsdamn sky, brimming with power even ancient mages can’t explain. And you’re asking me to guess her reaction like we’re voting on soup flavor for dinner?!”

Maggie blinked, unimpressed. “And yet, here you are, somehow a decorated officer in your guild,” she said flatly, shaking her head in dismay. “Astounding.”

Corrin shot her a murderous look, eyes flashing. Before he could spit out a rebuttal, Ronald’s calm voice cut through the tension like a dagger wrapped in velvet.

“A simple answer of ‘distressed’ or ‘shaken’ would have sufficed, Master Corrin,” the butler said, tone utterly neutral as he adjusted a wine glass on the tray.

“Thank you,” Maggie said, pointing at Ronald with an open hand as if he'd just settled a heated council vote. “See? That’s all I was asking. Brevity. Clarity. Not a stage performance.”

Corrin’s lips curled. “Would you look at that. The butler defends The Lady,” he sneered, dragging weight onto the title like it was dipped in poison.

Maggie stiffened. “He is not defending me because I’m—he’s just being honest!”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Corrin said, voice dripping with mockery. “For your sake, I do hope it was honesty and not pity.”

“Careful,” Maggie warned, her eyes narrowing.

Corrin leaned in just slightly, enough to needle her nerves. “And just so we’re clear, that honest opinion he gave you? Was a veiled insult, Miss Wannabe Artificer.”

Maggie blinked once. “A what?”

“A blacksmith,” Corrin said with deliberate flair, lips moving exaggeratedly as if she were hard of hearing, “pretending to be an artificer. Newsflash, milady—just because you managed to slap together a few makeshift mechanical contraptions doesn’t mean you’re suddenly the next Artheon of Gears.”

Maggie’s jaw clenched as she snapped the bolt on her rifle back with a sharp click.

“Run that by me again,” she said slowly, her voice laced with menace. “I dare you.”

“Go on then! Shoot!” Corrin snapped, throwing his arms out wide, the smug challenge painted across his face. “Let’s see if that overgrown pipe rattles me.” He even threw in a theatrical beckon with both hands, his grin practically begging for conflict.

“Children,” came Roderick’s voice, gravelled and thunder-worn as he finally stepped forward, arms unfolding with a heavy sigh. “Please. Behave. No more brawling in the corridors. This manor has already suffered enough.”

Corrin threw his hands up defensively. “Oh, don’t you dare look at me like I lit the fuse! She loaded that damned thing first! I was preparing to defend myself—defend, mind you!”

“You’re the one who overreacted like a toddler and started slinging insults,” Maggie shot back, her voice sharp and her eyes locked on Corrin like the barrel of her rifle. “All because I pointed out your panic attack dressed as a personality trait.”

“Excuse me?!” Corrin’s voice cracked upward like a kettle hitting its boil.

“Alright, enough,” Roderick growled, stepping between them again and raising a hand like a weary commander calling off a duel. “I am officially putting my foot down. That’s it. No more.”

But of course, neither backed down.

Words flew like poisoned darts. Snide jabs. Rolling eyes. Petty scoffs. Back and forth like two rival nobles fighting over spilled wine. It was all rather ridiculous, Roderick thought—especially considering the whole thing had ignited from Maggie’s offhanded question.

Now he stood there, caught square in the middle of their spiraling nonsense, his patience thinning like fraying rope.

Ronald, meanwhile, stood immaculately poised near a carved support column, his silver tray balanced perfectly in one hand. Though expressionless, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his quiet amusement.

And just as the argument teetered on the brink of absurdity—

“Oi!” Gerald hissed loudly, still crouched with one ear pressed to the wood. “Will you all shut up for two seconds?!”

The entire hall froze.

“She’s coming out!” Gerald whispered again, eyes wide. “She’s coming out!” all while quickly stepping away from the door.

Every sound seemed to die at once—Corrin’s next insult hanging unsaid, Maggie’s finger pausing above the trigger, Roderick caught mid-exhale.

All eyes turned to the tall guest room doors.

A breathless hush fell over the hallway as the handle turned with a slow metallic click. The door creaked open, and from within, Serena stepped out.

Her head was bowed low, long strands of hair veiling her face in shadow. No one could see her eyes. No one dared to ask. Silent as snowfall, she walked past them all—drifting like a ghost among statues.

Not a word was uttered. Not a hand reached out. Every soul lining the corridor felt their voice retreat into their chest. For though they had seen Serena flustered, frightened, overwhelmed—they had never seen her like this.

She didn’t look angry. She didn’t look broken. She looked hollow.

The earlier tension between the group, which moments ago bristled with insults and raised voices, now evaporated like fog in firelight. Her presence carried a heavier weight than any of their petty quarrels—an invisible burden that pressed down on every chest and stole the breath from their lungs.

Corrin was the first to break the silence. “Okay… I didn’t expect that.”

Gerald blinked, still crouched near the wall. “A-agreed. Honestly, I was betting on tears, wailing, a dramatic collapse… not this…”

“I don’t even know if that’s better or worse,” Corrin muttered, genuinely unsettled.

Maggie, who had remained uncharacteristically still, spoke with grim clarity. “It’s worse. Whatever that was... it’s worse than any of your guesses.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Roderick said, his voice unusually low. “I’ve seen warriors stare death in the face with more light in their eyes.”

From the room behind her, Elliot emerged next—his face painted with anguish, as if every step forward tugged against invisible chains. He looked as though he wanted to run after her, to call out—but his legs remained rooted. The weight of guilt, or fear, or both, anchored him in place.

Then came Cassandra Willthrop, her own head lowered—not in sorrow, but in shame. Her steps were measured, her expression carved from guilt and old regrets.

But even burdened as she was, she couldn’t resist a barb.

“Well done, young Hargrove,” she said, not bothering to hide the bitterness in her voice. “You got what you wanted. She knows now—the terrible truth. I do hope your precious plan includes a way to undo the damage.”

Elliot didn’t turn to face her. He merely glanced back over his shoulder, the fury in his gaze unmistakable.

“You are such a bitch,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “You do know that, right?”

And then he was gone—rushing down the corridor after Serena, footsteps echoing like fading thunder.

Cassandra raised her hand as if to stop him—but Roderick stepped in, blocking her path like a wall of stone.

“She needs somebody to talk to,” he said, eyes fixed forward. “Not you. Not after what she just learned. You lost that right the moment you helped hide who she really was.”

His words weren’t cruel, only honest. And they stung all the more because of it.

Cassandra let her hand fall. She didn’t argue. She didn’t speak.

But then—amidst the uneasy silence—Corrin’s eyes snapped wide.

His head whipped toward the front of the manor, face stiff with dread. A hard swallow echoed from his throat, loud enough to silence the others. Everyone turned to him, instantly alert, sensing the shift in air.

“What was that... Pom-Pom?” he whispered, already digging into his satchel with frantic fingers. When he pulled it open, his heart sank.

One of the small ceramic frogs had shattered to dust.

“Damn it…” he muttered. His voice was tight. One of his familiars was gone—snuffed out, violently.

And he wasn’t the only one who felt the incoming storm.

“My Lord Roderick,” Ronald spoke up, his usual dispassionate tone sharpened by something rare—urgency. His eyes, once lazily half-lidded, now gleamed with cold awareness. “Something just crossed through the estate’s front gate.”

Corrin snapped the broken remains of his frog familiar back into the pouch, grinding his teeth. “And whatever it was… it killed Pom-Pom. Didn’t even hesitate.”

Roderick’s broad form stiffened. His jaw locked.

“What is it, Ronald?” he asked, voice low.

“I don’t know, my lord,” the butler replied calmly—perhaps too calmly—but his hand had already wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sheathed saber. “But I’m sensing an immense force approaching. Something old… and deliberate.”

“I’ll find out. Gammy. Sunny. Report.” Corrin threw more animus into two of his ceramic familiars. Commanding them to flew above the incoming unidentified danger.

His face went pale as he listened to the flickering feedback.

“They’re saying… it’s…” Corrin’s throat locked up. “Oh by the Celestial Artheons—we are so, so screwed.”

“What is it?!” Roderick barked, impatience crackling in his tone. “Stop speaking in riddles—what's coming?”

Corrin’s voice dropped, trembling with terror. “The Lion in Shining Armor… and his Pride Rock.”

A stunned silence.

“The—the what now?” Gerald stammered, paling instantly. “You mean the Lion? That one? Because… it could be any Lion, right???”

“The Pride Rock?” Maggie echoed in disbelief, her brow furrowed. “That’s not—no, that’s impossible.”

She moved to the nearest window and peered through the curtains. Beyond the manor’s iron gates, she could make out the glint of sunlight bouncing off polished armor. A phalanx of guards—disciplined, pristine—advancing in perfect formation.

“So many,” she whispered. “At least three dozen. And…”

Gerald joined her, nearly pressing his nose to the glass. “That’s not just a patrol. That’s a full division. The Lion himself never moves without his entire company. But why?? Did we causing trouble in Rutterslide does commence such troop? They sent the leader of the Royal Crusade, and his personal division just to catch us??? I mean… that doesn’t make any sense right?”

“They’re not here for any of you,” Cassandra said.

Her voice was low. Haunted.

That was enough for Roderick. He turned sharply toward her, face tight. “They’re here… for her?”

Cassandra gave a single, solemn nod. Her eyes shimmered—not with tears, but with the cold clarity of dread.

“Yes,” she whispered. “They’re here for Serena.”