Chapter 16 — The Fall of a Hero and The Rise of Everything Else
Part One — Aldric
The cell smelled like wet stone and old blood.
Mostly his.
Aldric Voss sat against the far wall with his wrists raw and his golden hair matted with grime and something darker he’d stopped trying to identify. The manacles had been removed after the third week — not out of mercy but because he’d stopped fighting them and fighting was the only reason the manacles had been interesting to anyone. Now they left him loose in the cell the way you left something in a jar you’d caught and hadn’t decided what to do with yet.
The light was wrong here. A faint sickly green bioluminescence from the walls — corrupted mana, old and settled into the stone like damp — enough to see by, not enough to feel like anything except being inside something that was slowly digesting you.
Three demons sat outside the cell door playing a game with bones.
They weren’t watching him. They didn’t need to. There was nowhere to go and they knew it and he knew it and the knowing of it was its own particular kind of suffering that sat on top of the hunger and the cold and the specific ache of ribs that had been broken and had healed wrong and would probably never sit right again.
"This is his fault," Aldric said.
The demons didn’t look up from their bone game.
"Cidd Ashen." He said the name like it tasted like something. "This is his fault. All of it."
One of the demons made a sound that might have been amusement. Might have been nothing.
Aldric looked at the ceiling.
He had a lot of time to look at ceilings here.
He had a lot of time to think, which was worse.
Two and a Half Years Prior — After the Banishment
The first months had felt like winning.
He’d told himself that at the time, told himself it repeatedly, with the specific insistence of someone constructing a belief rather than discovering one. The party was cleaner now. Simpler. No quiet presence at the edge of camp doing things nobody asked him to do. No competence hovering just outside his peripheral vision making him aware, in ways he could never quite articulate, of the gap between what he was and what he performed.
Just him and the girls and the open road and every town they passed through throwing flowers and calling his name.
He’d spent those months exactly as he wanted. Feasts in liberated towns. Songs commissioned in his honor. The specific pleasure of being the center of everything without the nagging awareness that something else was quietly holding the center together from underneath.
He refused to think about Cidd.
When he did think about him — in the brief unguarded moments before sleep, in the odd silence of a night watch he’d forgotten to assign to anyone — he thought about him with contempt. The boy had been a footnote. Background noise. The kind of useful-but-replaceable presence that every party needed and nobody remembered.
He told himself that.
Then the complaints started coming.
The first one arrived six weeks after the banishment. A formal letter from a guild hall in Drenfall, politely worded, inquiring about the status of a regional assessment report that had apparently been promised to them prior to the party’s last visit. Aldric had no memory of this promise. He went through the party’s records — such as they were, now that the meticulous documentation that had apparently been maintained on his behalf had stopped — and found nothing.
He wrote back that the report had been lost in transit and ignored the follow-up.
The second complaint was from a church in Velmoor. A supply allocation that had been carefully negotiated, they said, and cross-referenced with projected healing requirements for the upcoming eastern campaign — had not been followed up on. Without the projected usage data they’d been promised, they couldn’t properly allocate resources and three field healers were now operating without adequate potion reserves.
Aldric didn’t know what projected usage data they were talking about. He’d never provided projected usage data in his life.
He had, he was slowly and uncomfortably realizing, never had to.
The third complaint was from an entire city council. The fourth from a border garrison. The fifth from a supply merchant in three separate cities simultaneously, which shouldn’t have been possible and which suggested the merchant had been waiting for an opportunity to escalate something he’d been quietly tolerating for a long time.
Each letter said, in various polished and professional ways, the same basic thing: something that used to happen no longer happened and we need to know why.
Aldric dealt with the stress the only way he knew how.
He took bigger quests. Chased bigger glory. Told himself that results would silence the paperwork, that victories would bury the administrative complaints beneath the kind of stories that got written into history.
The victories stopped coming as cleanly as they used to.
It happened in pieces, the unraveling.
A goblin incursion near Fennmarsh that should have been a three-day quest that took eleven because nobody had verified the nest size estimates and they walked into something three times larger than the scouting reports suggested. Six civilians died in the retreat. The guild hall’s formal censure was worded diplomatically. The regional newspaper’s account was not.
A demon incursion response in the southern territories that went catastrophically wrong due to what the subsequent inquiry called a failure of coordination and advance planning, which was the official way of saying nobody had done the work that made coordination possible.
A hostage recovery mission that succeeded technically and failed completely in every other way, resulting in property destruction, three collateral injuries, and a duke who had previously been one of Aldric’s most enthusiastic patrons publicly withdrawing his endorsement.
He understood, somewhere underneath the rage that was becoming his default register, what was happening.
He understood it and could not say it out loud because saying it out loud would mean admitting what it meant and what it meant was the one thing he had never been able to look at directly.
That the hero everyone had celebrated for two years had been, in significant and measurable ways, a performance. And the infrastructure that made the performance sustainable had walked away from a dying campfire at twelve years old with forty silver coins and too-big a sword and no one to stop him.
He didn’t apologize. He couldn’t. Apologizing required admitting the shape of the thing and admitting the shape of the thing was a door he’d spent his entire life building walls around.
Instead he pushed harder.
And the kingdoms watched.
The Stripping
It didn’t happen all at once. Nothing real ever did.
It started with the smaller territories — city-states, border provinces, semi-autonomous regions with the authority to revoke formal hero endorsements that had been granted under their charters. Three of them acted within a month of each other, their formal declarations politely worded and diplomatically devastating.
Then the midsize kingdoms began their reviews.
By the time the larger powers moved, there was enough accumulated testimony, enough documented failure, enough witness accounts of behavior that the formal inquiries chose to describe as conduct unbecoming a sanctioned representative — that the outcome was never really in question. Seven kingdoms moved formally. Then eight. Then twelve, in a joint declaration that the courier who delivered it to Aldric would not meet his eyes while handing over.
Title revoked. Sanctioned status removed. All associated rights, resources, and recognition suspended indefinitely across all signatory territories.
He read it in a tavern in a border town.
He read it twice.
Then he destroyed most of the tavern’s furniture and walked out into the night and kept walking until the town was behind him and the road was dark and empty in every direction and the specific silence of having nothing left pressed against him from all sides.
He remembered Cidd then. Properly. For the first time in two years he let himself think about the boy he’d sent away — not with contempt, not with the practiced dismissal he’d constructed and maintained, but clearly.
He thought about the reports. The supply notes. The medical recommendations quietly filed with every potion requisition. The pre-mission assessments nobody had asked for and everyone had relied on.
He thought about a twelve year old raising his fist and stopping and walking into the dark without looking back.
He thought: This is his fault.
He thought it with everything he had because the alternative was thinking: This is mine.
And he wasn’t ready for that. Would never be ready for that. Might never have the space to become ready because six days later, riding east alone on a mission he’d constructed from desperation and pride and the specific insanity of a man who had nothing left to prove anything with except himself —
The demon army’s vanguard found him first.
Present Day — The Cell
A demon came through the door.
Not one of the bone-game ones. A different one, larger, with the particular quality of something that had been given a task and was going to complete it with whatever enthusiasm the task allowed.
Aldric saw it coming and couldn’t stop it and didn’t try anymore.
Afterward, in the familiar grey aftermath of pain that had become just another condition of existence like cold and hunger, he lay on the cell floor and stared at the glowing green ceiling and thought about Cidd Ashen.
He thought about the legend — he’d heard fragments of it before the capture, in the final months of his unraveling, from guild halls and city councils and the mouths of people who’d mentioned the name with the specific reverence reserved for things that had proven themselves beyond question. An S rank adventurer who had appeared seemingly from nowhere. Dragon kills at ages that shouldn’t have been possible. A reputation built from nothing with no party, no support, no one carrying him.
He’d heard it and recognized, with a clarity he immediately buried, the specific quality of that work ethic. The specific kind of person who got things done without needing anyone to watch.
He’d buried the recognition because what it meant was unbearable.
"It’s his fault," he said again, to the ceiling, to the green light, to the bone-game demons who weren’t listening.
His voice echoed in the wet stone cell.
Nothing answered.
Nothing ever did.