Chapter 91: Another Visit To Grant
Upon them, broad, round towers of pale grey stone rose at regular, imposing intervals, their crenellated battlements already strategically primed for legions of archers to command every lethal angle of approach.
Beyond the outer defenses, the sprawling rooftops of the city within gleamed a brilliant, almost blinding white beneath the midday sun, a sea of terracotta tiles laid so perfectly they appeared like a vast bed of polished marbles.
The buildings themselves were not hovels but substantial structures, their walls sturdy and well-drafted, punctuated by the dark, empty sockets of proper windows and the sturdy, promising stacks of chimneys.
It didn’t take long for the river of people to flood through the gates and into the pristine avenues, their voices rising in a wave of awed and joyous noise, while Kaelor, broke from the current and went straight to the citadel.
This castle was a fortress unto itself, separated from the bustling city by another, even higher curtain wall, its stones fitted together with seamless precision.
He passed through its guarded gatehouse into a vast bailey, heading for the heart of power. The Great Hall was his first destination; a cavernous space designed to swallow sound and ambition alike, where he would deal with the tedious pageantry of court. It was a hall of standing supplicants and pronouncements, deliberately lacking chairs, for here he would grant titles, attend to grievances, and announce decisions that would ripple through the fledgling kingdom.
For more intimate counsel, there was another hall, a much smaller, oak-paneled chamber called the Council Hall.
It was both a chamber for deliberating on the land’s governance with his trusted advisors and a place to plot war and strategies over maps with his hardened generals.
For lighter times, there was the Banquet Hall, a space dedicated solely to celebration and feasting. It was, by far, the most beautiful hall in the castle, a masterpiece of design. Its floor was a mosaic of polished marble, cool and gleaming, and the walls rose to a vaulted ceiling without a single pillar to interrupt the sweeping space.
It was a blank canvas of merriment, lacking any permanent throne or rigid arrangement, for this hall’s very purpose was to be transformed and prepared anew for each specific occasion, from a grand coronation to a harvest festival.
His personal sanctuary, he discovered, was the White Keep, a slender, defiant tower that was the tallest and most secure building in all of Whitestone City, its pale stone seeming to capture and hold the light. His private chambers within were broad and well-appointed: a bedroom for deep, secure sleep, a parlour for quiet contemplation before a hearth of cold, dark stone, and a bathroom which was technically a sunken pool hewn from a single massive rock, though currently it was a dry, smooth basin waiting for water. A peculiarity of the castle’s construction was that most of its window openings were bare, lacking any glazing or shutters, an austere, artistic style born from necessity, as they had no access to glass.
Yet, here in the keep, his own chambers were fitted with stout, iron-bound wooden windows, a testament to the need for better protection against both the elements and any ambition that might climb so high.
Swinging one of these heavy windows open on its forged hinges, Kaelor leaned into the daylight, watching from a height no different from a third floor. The panorama unfolded below him, a living tapestry of his people celebrating, their tiny forms moving through the white-stone canyons of the city, pointing and marveling at their new homes. The skeleton was complete, the body of the city built.
Everything had been raised and made ready, but much still awaited to give the city soul. Beds must be carried into chambers, fur rugs spread for warmth, candelabras set upon mantles, chandeliers hung high in the banquet hall, banners unfurled to dress the bare walls, and hearths filled with fire. Whitestone stood complete in stone, yet hollow of its living touches, a vessel awaiting the color and comfort of its people. And as Kaelor watched from his keep, the thought came to him that though the walls were high and the towers strong, it was the filling of these spaces, the laughter, the labor, the feast and the fire, that would make Whitestone truly a city.
Descending into the Great Hall, Kaelor’s boots echoed against the polished stone, each step resounding like a claim of ownership over the vast chamber. The three waiting figures, Mildred, Damien, and Vi, stood before the throne. The moment the sound of footsteps reached them, they stirred. Mildred and
Damien turned sharply, backs straight, every movement wrapped in courtesy and duty. Vi, however, was the most casual. She only tilted her head at first, strands of her silver hair slipping from behind her ear, but when her eyes confirmed it was him, she turned fully, her posture languid yet attentive.
"This place should be about an acre or so," Kaelor said, his voice filled with pride as he drew closer. His gaze swept across the vaulted hall, the expanse of pillars and banners dwarfing them all. "You cannot handle it alone, Mildred. From this moment, your duty is to hire those who fit as servants."
Mildred lowered her head with practiced grace, gathering the skirt of her gown as she bowed. "I shall see to it swiftly, My Lord," she answered, her voice carrying the soft precision of someone used to responsibility. Then, with a faint crease on her brow, her expression shifted into contemplation. "How many do you require?"
"As many as you deem necessary." Kaelor’s reply came without hesitation, his tone carrying trust as much as command. He then turned to Damien. "Put the carpenters to work. Yes, they have made much already, but it is far from enough for a city. And more than that, hire competent and educated men and women to aid you with internal affairs. For now, the distribution of houses will be their first task."
Educated folk were rare among the masses, their knowledge scattered like gems in dirt, but Kaelor knew he needed little, ten would be enough, if chosen wisely.
"The distribution," Kaelor continued, his voice filling the chamber with authority, "shall be based upon their deeds these past two months. It is the first month of a new year, let it begin well." His gaze swept the three, pausing only for the briefest heartbeat before shifting. "Also send word to Elsa. The grains must be readied, we ride for Graystone at dawn tomorrow."
Halfway through the sentence, Kaelor’s eyes locked onto Vi, unspoken meaning shimmering within his look.
"I will prepare," she said without waiting for his words. The conviction in her tone carried no hesitation. Over the past two months, her blade had been stubborn to her hand, her progress in swordplay crawling step by step. Yet in magic, her growth was nothing short of startling. Now a mid-level Master Acranist, her presence radiated mana, so potent Kaelor could feel his body react to it.
....
The next day, while the sun had only just begun to rise, painting the horizon with a faint golden hue, Kaelor sat astride his towering cebereus, its three heads snorting wisps of hot breath that curled into the morning air. Beside him, Vi rode a sleek black mare, her posture straight and steady, her hood drawn low to shadow her sharp gaze. Behind them stretched the caravan: more than twenty-five creaking wagons, each piled high with over two thousand five hundred sacks of grain stacked neatly, hides of the monstrous Devil Bats folded like dark sails, and three hundred barrels of honey, their golden contents rich and fragrant, sealed tight in reinforced oak.
Kaelor’s cloak swayed with the chill breeze, his hood mirroring Vi’s. Both of their faces wore the same grim, guarded expression as their eyes lifted toward the looming battlements. Atop the high stone walls stood rows of soldiers clad in gleaming plates, the steel catching the light of dawn, their tall spears angled like a silent forest of death. The sight gave weight to the air, and though Kaelor’s jaw tightened, he pressed his mount forward.
The caravan moved under heavy silence. The fifty Bloodstone Archers flanking them were tense, their fingers brushing the strings of their unstrung bows, eyes sharp as knives, ever-wary of a sudden command from above. They too wore their Eldermark Armour, light and tailored, fitted to their lean frames. The clever design left spaces for their wings, hidden beneath dark cloaks so that to any casual eye they seemed no different from hardened mercenaries. But still, the soldiers on the walls watched them with suspicion.
Kaelor’s heart grew heavier as they passed through the city gates. Within, the streets lay hushed. The usual bustle was absent, the clamour of buyers haggling, merchants bellowing prices, children darting through crowds, all of it replaced by subtle whispers.
At the broad thoroughfare, he spotted Grant waiting. The merchant stood tall, his gilded robes cut in fine folds, but his smugness seemed dimmed by the emptiness around him. Behind him loomed his bodyguard, the "Mountain," a brute of a man whose sheer presence dwarfed everyone else in sight. His face remained hidden as always, eyes obscured behind the narrow horizontal slit of his helm, his stillness more unsettling than any blade.
Kaelor drew his cebereus to a halt, the beast growling low in its throats, and his gaze flicked to the shops that lined the street. They were as well-stocked as ever, silks draped across open stalls, spices glinting in the morning light, blades hung with care. But there were no hands to reach for them, no coins to clink across counters. The merchants stood idle, eyes following him in silence, whispers crawling behind shutters.