Chapter 144 The Heir’s Day
The bells of Avalon rang out at dawn—loud, rich, and full of joy. It wasn’t the sharp clang of warning or meetings, but a sound with real happiness in it. Aldric turned eighteen that day. Even though the law wouldn’t call him a man for another year, everyone in the realm already treated him like one, or at least close enough that it didn’t matter.
All through the night, people hung up banners— historical ones, Avalon’s blue field and black tower, and their family’s old symbols stitched fresh and bright. They swept the courtyards, opened windows to air out the halls, and laid out the tables, all set for a feast that hadn’t started yet. This was supposed to be a family thing—a time to mark growing up, to feel grateful, to pause and really notice the quiet miracle of a son making it through childhood and standing strong.
But Aldric was heir to Avalon.
And nothing belonging to an heir ever stayed small.
He emerged into the morning light with his mother’s hair—golden and unruly when he forgot to comb it—and his father’s height and carriage. He had already proven himself in arms and command, already ridden at the head of men, already borne responsibility without breaking beneath it. The people knew this. They watched him with open pride, and with the careful measuring that always followed those who might someday rule them.
Where Aldric went, eyes followed. Not least among them were the eyes of young women.
There was no betrothal yet—no duke’s daughter formally named, no great house bound by promise. And so the air around the Citadel buzzed with speculation and quiet ambition. Daughters were dressed with care. Mothers whispered advice. Laughter lingered just a moment longer than necessary when Aldric passed.
Lady Seraphine had anticipated all of this.
For weeks, she had orchestrated the celebration with the precision of a general preparing a campaign. Seating, music, order of events, the careful balance of honor and restraint. She had also had many conversations.
With Lissette, first and most urgently.
“You will not tease him, or anyone!” Seraphine had said, fingers steepled, voice calm in the way that promised consequences. “No pranks. No spectacles. This is not about you.”
Lissette, who had smiled sweetly and said, “Of course, Mother,” in the same tone she used when planning mischief, had then been subjected to a second, longer discussion.
And then a third with Caelen, the conversations had been… different.
“I don’t know what you may be devising or even pondering about,” Seraphine had said frankly, pacing before the hearth. “And that is precisely why you are not to do anything, no impulse actions, no new thoughts, and no making anything!”
Caelen had inclined his head with grave obedience. “I have no plans.”
Which, somehow, had not reassured her in the slightest.
The day began not with a feast, nor with dances or declarations, but with an invitation—one that surprised nearly everyone.
All boys of the extended House of Avalon, twelve years and older, were mustered to the lower training fields beyond the outer walls. Sons of the main line, of cadet branches, of sworn houses, and long-loyal kin. Cousins twice removed, nephews, foster-sons, boys who shared blood or bond with Avalon’s name.
They came in a tide—nearly four hundred of them—boots muddy, eyes bright, laughter spilling unchecked.
Waiting for them were two hundred soldiers of the White Company.
The fields had been transformed. Targets of layered straw and wood stood at measured distances. Colored flags marked lanes and boundaries. Racks of practice javelins gleamed dull in the morning light. And laid out in careful order—hundreds of them—were slings.
Not the old, knotted things of childhood games, but new designs: balanced, reinforced, sized properly for hand and arm. Each boy would receive one.
Chaos followed.
Two hundred soldiers attempting to instruct four hundred excited boys—and nearly as many accompanying fathers, uncles, and elder brothers—was an exercise in controlled bedlam. Voices overlapped. Orders were repeated. Laughter broke out in fits as stones went wide and targets survived unscathed.
Despite the surrounding noise, there was an inherent discipline that quickly brought order and structure to the chaos.
Red flags rose when the people crossed the trowing lanes. Green flags followed when lanes were clear. No one stepped forward until the signal came. No one threw unless told. The White Company moved through the boys—firm, patient—fixing a grip here, nudging a foot there, and encouraging them all. They didn’t just correct; they clapped boys on the back for control, not brute force.
“This isn’t about distance,” one sergeant barked as they drilled with javelins. “Anyone can launch it. What matters is where it lands.”
The boys got it fast. Stones smacked against targets. Javelins thudded into the ground close to the rings instead of sailing off wild and wide. Their confidence didn’t flare up recklessly. It settled in—solid, honest.
Men on the sidelines grinned. Watching the scene, a woman shook her head. Amused, she couldn’t help but mutter, “Boys will be boys.” Arms folded, but she was smiling.
“Too dangerous,” another muttered, though she did not look away.
Nobody got hurt. Nobody screamed. Just red cheeks, sore arms, and that wild pride you get when someone lets you handle something dangerous and with trust. Aldric weaved through the group, grinning, tossing out tips, explaining, and even demonstrating, and all the while handing out praise where he saw fit. And Caelen? He wasn’t front and center, but somehow, he was everywhere, interacting one-on-one with the young men. One second calming down an anxious boy, the next whispering advice to an instructor, or sharing a look with Aldric—nothing spoken, but everything understood.
By midday, the fields rang with cheer, and every boy departed with a sling of his own, tucked like a promise beneath his arm.
The celebration would continue into the evening with music and food and dance, with glances and games of power played behind fans and goblets.
But the morning had already said what mattered most.
Avalon did not merely celebrate its heir.
It honored all its youth and prepared its future.
And as Lady Seraphine watched from the shaded rise above the fields, seeing her sons at the heart of it all—one bright and visible, the other quiet and impossible to miss—she allowed herself a single, private breath.
The day was only beginning.
And the realm was watching.
…
Way before the musicians tuned their instruments and the banners caught the glow of torchlight, Lord Eldric started a different kind of celebration of the future—quiet, sober, and without any of the usual tricks.
Everyone met in a narrow hall that looked out over the eastern yards. The stone walls still carried some broken stone, marks from old battles, reminders that this place had seen its share of trouble. High windows let in the weak sunlight—just enough to light up the room with that washed-out glow you get in winter afternoons. The fire in the hearth barely crackled, put there out of politeness, not because anyone needed it. This was definitely not a grand hall meant to impress guests. No, Eldric chose this room to strip away all the masks and distractions—to show things as they really were.
The young men stood in a line at first—nine of them—each drawn from branch families of Avalon, sworn households, and long-loyal cadet lines. None was a great lords. None were nameless. All had been noticed.
They had come dressed plainly, though each had chosen his best: clean cloaks, polished boots, belts worn with the easy familiarity of men who worked rather than posed. Each man worked to control his uneasiness, unsure of the true purpose of this meeting. Some carried the quiet confidence of foremen already used to command; others stood straighter than necessary, gauging every look and breath.
Lord Eldric entered without ceremony, along with over half the high nobility of Avalon.
The Lady Anastara of Hollow March followed close behind, her presence sharp and unsettling, like someone setting a knife on the table between friends. Two more nobles joined them—Malric of Ironford and Ser Cuthred—each wielding influence in their own ways. Down at the end of the hall, the steward hovered with parchment and ink, but just watched for now, his quill hardly moving.
Eldric stayed on his feet.
“Gentlemen,” he began. His voice was steady, filling up the cold stone room. “You’re here because people mentioned your names without needing a reason. That matters.”
He let that hang there, waiting for the words to sink in.
“We’re not just laying stones,” he went on. “What we’re building will last longer than any of us. Roads aren’t just borders or unimportant things; they’re promises. Trade, travel, safety. But they’re also a temptation—a chance for theft, for tolls, for crooked deals.”
Lady Anastara edged forward, hands clasped neatly. “That’s exactly why,” she said, her tone silk and steel, “we aren’t just hiring builders. We need governors. People who can handle workers, bargain with villagers, push back against power-hungry lords—and still get the road done on time.”
Her eyes moved along the line, sharp and appraising.
“Tell us,” Eldric said, turning to the first man, “why you think you were summoned.”
The man swallowed, then answered plainly. “Because I’ve run building crews before, my lord. Quarry and bridge work. Because I don’t steal from my men.”
Eldric inclined his head. “How many?”
“Eighty at peak. Mixed labor.”
“And when the local lord demanded a toll?”
“I showed him the charter,” the man said. “And when he ignored it, I finished the work anyway and sent his ‘bill’ to his lord.”
A flicker of approval passed—not smiles, but acknowledgment.
Another was asked how he handled shortages. Another, how he broke strikes. One admitted he paid more than required when the work was dangerous. Lady Anastara’s brow lifted at that.
“Generous,” she observed. “Or foolish?”
The man met her gaze. “Cheaper than funerals, my lady.”
That earned him a mark on the steward’s page.
Malric pressed a different angle. “What will you do when a duke claims the road crosses his land and demands compensation?”
One candidate hesitated. Another answered too quickly.
A third spoke after a breath. “I’ll ask for the claim in writing. And then I’ll keep building while it’s being argued.”
Lady Anastara smiled thinly. “Good. Delay is a tool. Use it.”
They were questioned about logistics—stone sourcing, tool repair, winter camps, discipline. About men who drank. Men who fought. Men who ran.
At last, Eldric gestured for them to sit. Only then did he lower himself to the bench.
“These roads will not belong to you,” he said quietly. “They will not make you or your families rich. They will make you visible.”
The weight of that settled hard.
“Every village, in the south, will know your name,” Anastara added. “Every failure will echo. Every success will invite envy.”
One man nodded slowly. “Then we’ll need authority.”
“You’ll have it,” Eldric said. “Borrowed. Limited. Watched.”
“And if we succeed?” another asked.
Lady Anastara answered that one. “Then you will never again be merely a branch.”
The interview did not end with promises. It ended with silence, as each man measured what had been offered and what had not.
When they were dismissed, the hall felt larger, emptier.
“They’ll break some of them,” Malric said.
“Yes,” Eldric replied. “But not all.”
Lady Anastara’s gaze drifted toward the door through which the young men had gone. “And the boy?”
Eldric allowed himself the smallest smile. “Caelen will see what we cannot.”
Anastara nodded. “Then Avalon has chosen well.”
Outside, the bells began again—calling the court to celebration.
Inside, the foundations of a future were quietly judged.
…
Aldric left the training fields with dust still clinging to his boots and the echo of boys’ laughter ringing in his ears. The day had been loud, physical, uncomplicated—everything the coming night would not be. As the Citadel rose before him, banners stirring in the cold air, he felt the familiar tightening in his chest: excitement intertwined with dread.
The outer halls were already crowded.
Young women moved through the corridors in bright knots, voices pitched just a little too high, laughter timed to be overheard. Silks brushed stone. Perfume lingered where it had no business lingering. Aldric slowed, then—without thinking—turned aside down a narrower passage, one known only to those who had grown up running its length.
He ducked behind a tapestry—one with deep blue threads showing Avalon’s first tower and fields—and slipped out the other side of the corridor without anyone noticing. As he passed, a page looked up, spotted him, and flashed a grin. Aldric just tapped his lips with a finger, and the page fell right in line, conspiratorial obedience. He bounded up a narrow servant’s staircase, barely missing a low beam, then crossed through a dim gallery where the tapestries drooped, faded, and were worn.
Aldric didn’t mind the attention, not really. He got it. Being the heir meant you were basically walking symbolism—you weren’t just yourself, you were what people hoped for, or feared. Tonight he’d be judged for everything: the way he stood, the way he smiled, the way he handled everyone’s expectations. Still, slipping through the castle unseen felt like a weight rolling off his shoulders.
Just ahead, he caught the sudden sound of wild laughter, then someone yelping in surprise.
Lissette.
He paused long enough to see her at the far end of a side hall, flanked by two younger cousins who were attempting—badly—to escape her grasp. She had trapped one with a look alone and was lecturing the other with all the authority of thirteen years and absolute certainty.
“No, no, if you run like that, you deserve to be caught,” she declared. “Now do it again, properly.”
Aldric smiled despite himself and moved on. Better them than me, he thought, with heartfelt gratitude.
He turned another corner and nearly collided with a maid carrying an armful of fresh linens. Apologies were exchanged in murmurs. He was about to continue when he noticed the light spilling from a small chamber to his right—a room usually used for quiet clerical work.
Curiosity tugged at him.
He stepped inside.
The air was warm and close, heavy with candle smoke and the rustle of parchment. A long table had been claimed utterly—covered in papers, diagrams, drafts upon drafts. Ink pots stood everywhere. Cups of cold tea had been abandoned and reclaimed more than once.
Calvred the Magus stood at the head of the table, arms crossed tight, eyes narrowed in quiet doubt, reading a page. Across from him, Tamsen paced in slow, restless loops, whispering bits of the text to herself. Her finger trailed the lines until—abruptly—she stopped and scrawled something in the margin.
“That clause falls apart under the provincial charter,” she snapped. “We need to tie it to obligation, not just privilege.”
Mirelle barely looked up, sleeves pushed way past her elbows and hair tumbling out of her pins as she shuffled the papers into tidy stacks. “Then it works—people can enforce it,” she said, voice steady. “But it can’t be too stiff, Tamsen. If it doesn’t flex, someone’ll break it just to make a point.”
All the while, Lady Alessa perched at the table’s side in a high-backed chair, reading quietly. Her face stayed calm but sharp, every so often flipping a page and setting it aside with the tiniest approving nod.
And at the corner of the table—half-hidden behind a spill of documents—Somanta wrote.
She did not look up. Her pen moved quickly, decisively, as though the words could barely keep pace with her thoughts. There was ink smudged along one knuckle. A lock of hair had slipped free, catching the candlelight when she leaned closer to the page. Her brow furrowed in concentration so complete it bordered on threatening.
Aldric stopped just inside the doorway.
He scanned the room like a soldier, always alert for anything off-balance or lurking danger. But what hit him next was quieter—something deeper, almost electric. Everyone looked tired, no doubt about that, but under all that exhaustion buzzed a sense of purpose. They could feel it—what they did here mattered. This was bigger than tonight’s party or whatever political games were going on.
Calvred spoke up. “I’ve tried to get around this Twin-Seal Rule in at least six different ways,” he said, tapping the parchment with his finger. “Yeah, there are traps in it, but they catch everyone. Anyone who tries to overstep gets caught, just like anybody else.”
“That was Caelen’s rule,” Mirelle replied. “No one gets all the power. No one acts without being answerable.”
Aldric’s attention returned to Somanta despite himself.
She sat a little off to the side, but it was like the whole room leaned her way anyway—papers seemed to end up by her hand, people’s questions naturally found her voice. She held herself with a quiet kind of poise that came from paying attention, not from any kind of polished court upbringing. Her back was straight, shoulders loose, ready for anything—her strength didn’t shout; it just waited.
When she bent over to write, every movement was careful and sure. Nothing extra, nothing wasted. Candlelight caught the loose strands of her hair, turning them gold for a second. It framed a face that was sharp with focus, though now and then, when she solved a problem or finished a line, a small look of satisfaction softened her features. Ink smudged her knuckle, an honest little streak that, for some reason, drew Aldric’s eye. It wasn’t a flaw. It meant she worked—really worked, and didn’t care if anyone saw it.
She wore nothing to draw attention to her figure. Maybe that’s why Aldric found himself seeing her, not just noticing her. There was strength in her, but not the obvious kind people praise in battle. Hers was a steady, deep sort of strength that holds up under pressure—quiet, reliable, and impossible to overlook if you really looked.
Without warning, he pictured her beyond the desk—walking the long halls of the Citadel, facing down challenges, lifting her gaze, steady and unflinching. The image caught him off guard.
He wasn’t naïve about politics or the future mapped out for him. He knew marriage in his world was a transaction, a union of names and territories, not feelings. Love wasn’t on the table. His life was already charted out in bloodlines and treaties, sealed and stamped long before desire ever meant anything.
And yet—
His eyes lingered a moment longer than was wise.
He caught himself thinking what it might feel like to matter to someone like her—not because of status or anyone’s expectations, but simply because he’d earned it. And who was she, really? The kind of woman who could sit surrounded by tough decisions and heavy responsibility, and still stand out—not because of how she looked, but because of who she was and what she did.
Aldric let the thought settle in his mind, then deliberately pushed it aside.
Desire had its place, just like ambition. He wasn’t about to let either run wild.
Still, as he turned away, he couldn’t shake the image of Somanta. She wasn’t just a temptation. For him, she was a warning—and a beacon—of something far more potent than beauty: genuine ability, fueled by conviction.
And honestly, he knew that kind of force could rival any crown or sword.
Aldric cleared his throat softly.
Four heads lifted at once. Somanta’s eyes met his—and for a heartbeat, the room seemed to hold its breath.
“My apologies,” he said, smiling, already stepping back. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was… passing.”
Tamsen waved him off. “You’re not interrupting. You’re avoiding,” she said dryly, and Mirelle laughed.
Calvred dipped his head. “Go on. Tonight’s yours. All this,”—he waved at the table—“can wait till tomorrow.”
Aldric nodded, thankful, and slipped out.
Once the door clicked shut, the low buzz of work picked right back up, calm and methodical.
He paused in the corridor and pressed his back against the cold stone. Let out a breath. Pulled himself together. The party was out there. The realm was watching.
Behind him, ink dried on pages destined to steer Avalon’s fate—pages penned by hands most people would never truly understand.