Chapter 180 Preparations
The southern road of the Heartlands ran straight for nearly three miles before it began to curve gently toward the hills. Beyond that bend, the cultivated fields ended, and the land passed into the Southernwood—a broad belt of old forest that had never been fully cleared nor brought entirely under the hand of any lord.
It was not wilderness.
But neither was it tame.
The road itself, however, was another matter entirely.
Where once it had been a rutted trail suitable only for wagons and drovers, it was now being transformed. Fresh-laid stone ran in long pale ribbons between the fields, carefully graded and wide enough for two wagons to pass without quarrel. Drainage channels had been cut with almost obsessive precision. The work crews had moved steadily northward over the past months, leaving behind a roadway that felt less like improvement and more like the return of something older and more deliberate.
Lord Jorren Pell had ridden its length twice already.
He did not yet know what to make of it.
Which was why he now sat at the long dining table in his manor hall, listening very carefully.
The evening fire burned low in the hearth, its warmth spreading across the polished wood of the table where a group of traveling merchants from Avalon shared bread, roasted pheasant, and dark wine.
At their head sat Tavian Bargiani, a young merchant in his late twenties who carried himself with a composure beyond his years. He had not come south on speculation alone. His family had sent him—at the direct invitation of Caelen of Avalon, whose summons had quietly reached several merchant houses in the north. Tavian remembered the young lord from the birthday gathering earlier, where he had seemed little more than an unusually curious noble youth. Yet the further Tavian traveled into the south, the more he began to understand that the boy he had met was no longer merely a curiosity. Here, roads were being rebuilt, trade routes were shifting, and entire communities spoke the name Caelen with a mixture of respect and anticipation. Tavian listened more than he spoke, observing the land and its people with growing interest, realizing that whatever was happening in the Hollow was far larger than he—or perhaps anyone in the north—had first understood.
Across from him sat Lord Pell, broad-shouldered and thoughtful, his grey beard trimmed close.
The meal had been proceeding comfortably enough until one of Pell’s stewards approached quietly and murmured in his ear.
“A rider from the south, my lord. Says he bears word from the Hollow.”
Pell’s brow lifted slightly.
“Send him in.”
Moments later, the visitor entered the hall—dusty from travel but standing straight despite the long road behind him. He wore the plain but well-maintained cloak of a courier rather than a soldier.
He bowed politely.
“My lord. I bring greetings from the Hollow and from its lord.”
Pell gestured to an empty place near the end of the table.
“Sit. Eat. Then speak.”
The man did not argue.
Bread and meat were placed before him, and for several moments the hall returned to the quiet rhythm of a shared meal. Only when the rider had taken several bites did Pell lean back slightly.
“Well?”
The courier wiped his hands and inclined his head.
“My lord of the Hollow wishes to establish a mansio upon the southern edge of your lands—at the point where the road enters the Southernwood.”
The unfamiliar word caused several heads around the table to tilt.
“A mansio?” Pell repeated.
The courier nodded.
“An inn of sorts. A waystation.”
Pell’s expression sharpened slightly.
“At the southern border,” he said slowly. “Along the new road, but not on my lands?”
The courier nodded again.
And Pell understood.
“The road,” he murmured.
He had watched the work crews pass through his lands over the past season. He had admired the craftsmanship and wondered privately how a frontier settlement had managed to fund such a project.
Now the answer began to form.
Before Pell could speak again, Tavian Bargiani leaned forward with open curiosity.
“And what exactly will the function of this mansio have? Governance, trade, hospitality?”
The courier turned toward him politely.
“Primarily, it would serve as a waystation for travelers and merchants. Fresh horses, lodging, food, repairs—such things.”
He paused briefly before adding:
“And eventually it may also support the towpath.”
Another new word passed across the table like a pebble dropped into water.
“Towpath?” Pell repeated.
But before the courier could answer, a younger voice spoke up.
“And what is a towpath?”
All eyes turned.
At the far end of the table sat Pell’s youngest daughter, Luciana Pell, sixteen years of age and already well known within the household for two things: a keen mind and an almost reckless love of horses.
Luciana leaned forward eagerly, dark hair falling across her shoulder as she waited for the answer.
The courier hesitated.
“To be honest, my lady, I am not entirely certain myself.”
A ripple of quiet laughter moved around the table.
“But the lord of the Hollow has explained that the purpose is to improve river travel. A path will be built beside the riverbanks. Horses will walk that path and tow the boats both up and down stream, relieving the need for rowers.”
The room fell silent.
Luciana’s eyes widened.
“That sounds amazing.”
Pell frowned slightly.
“Horses pulling boats?”
The courier nodded.
“So it has been explained. The river flows under the shadow of the mountains, and sails cannot be used reliably. With horses on the banks, however, barges could travel both directions with far greater speed and less labor.”
Luciana was already half out of her seat.
“But where would the horses come from?”
The courier shook his head.
“My lord does not intend to supply them himself. His intent is to partner with those who wish to invest. Horses could be rented to merchants and travelers who require them.”
Luciana’s mind was already racing.
Her father saw it instantly.
“Luciana…”
But she was already speaking.
“Father, this is a wonderful windfall for us.”
Pell folded his arms.
“How so?”
“If merchants can rely on horses instead of rowers, they’ll move faster. They’ll travel farther. They’ll need fresh teams along the river and along the road.”
Her eyes shone.
“That means we can expand our breeding. Training. Stabling. Resulting in contracts.”
Tavian Bargiani chuckled softly.
“The young lady understands commerce.”
Another merchant nodded.
“And logistics.”
They began speaking among themselves now, the conversation growing more animated.
“This would regulate travel times.”
“No more spoiled cargo because crews tire halfway through the journey.”
“With proper teams, the journey upriver could be half the time.”
“And far more predictable.”
Luciana leaned toward the courier again.
“How many horses would a barge require?”
He shrugged. “That depends on the current and the cargo. Perhaps two. Perhaps six. I only know what wagons need, my lady.”
Luciana sat back slowly, already calculating.
Her father watched her carefully.
And Tavian Bargiani smiled into his wine.
Because in that moment, every merchant at the table realized the same thing.
That their destination, The Hollow, was not merely building roads.
It was building an entire system of movement.
And the families who recognized the opportunity first would become very wealthy indeed.
…
The Hollow
The practice field beside the encampment, in the Hollow, had been beaten flat by months of drilling. What little grass had once grown there had long since surrendered to boots, shields, and the relentless rhythm of training. Dust hung in the warm air, rising in pale clouds whenever the soldiers shifted their stance.
Twenty-five soldiers of the White Company stood ready.
They were unmistakable in appearance.
Each man wore the distinctive armor that had already begun to earn them their name across the southern lands—white leather lorica musculata, the molded cuirass shaped to the body's form. The armor was hardened leather, polished pale, and fitted closely to the chest and shoulders so that every movement remained fluid rather than restricted by heavy metal plates. The stylized musculature of the cuirass gave each soldier the appearance of carved statues come to life, white against the rising dust.
Leather pteruges hung at the waist and shoulders, protecting the joints without limiting movement. Their helmets gleamed softly in the sun, crests low and practical for combat.
Each man carried the curved shield—the scutum—broad, rectangular, and in the center it bowed outward to deflect blows and absorb force. When they stood together, the shields overlapped like a living wall.
Three of the soldiers held strange devices.
Lengths of thick braided leather and rope, weighted and designed to lash outward and wrap around limbs or legs, meant to trip and entangle something stronger than a single man could handle.
At the center of the field stood Caelen.
He wore no armor.
No helm.
No cuirass.
Only a light training shirt that was already darkened with sweat.
In his left hand, he carried a scutum.
That was all.
Yet he held it not like a man hiding behind protection, but like a craftsman holding a tool he understood intimately.
Across the field, the White Company began to move.
“Advance!”
Twenty shields stepped forward together.
THUD.
The impact of the shields locking together echoed across the yard.
Dust burst upward from beneath their boots.
Caelen moved immediately—not backward, but sideways, slipping along the edge of their encirclement. His eyes tracked the formation rather than the individual men. He watched the rhythm of their steps, the tightening of their spacing.
A whip-like cord snapped toward him.
The weighted leather hummed through the air.
Caelen twisted his body just enough that it passed inches from his hip. At the same moment, his shield flicked outward in a short, precise motion, deflecting the trailing cord away from his legs before it could wrap.
He did not stop moving.
A soldier rushed him from the left.
Caelen stepped inside the man’s reach.
The rim of the scutum slammed into the soldier’s forearm, jarring his grip and knocking the shield aside. Caelen pivoted immediately, the heavy metal boss of his shield driving forward into the man’s chest.
WHUMP.
Air exploded from the soldier’s lungs.
He staggered backward, dragging two others with him.
Another whip snapped toward Caelen’s legs.
This time, he dropped low, sliding one foot through the dust as he brought the shield down sharply. The weighted cords struck the curved surface of the scutum and skidded harmlessly away, unable to catch hold.
He rose in the same motion.
And attacked.
The scutum swung sideways in a tight arc, the iron boss striking another shield with a heavy crack. Due to the man's light grip, the curved wood amplified the force, transferring the blow to the man behind it.
The soldier lost his balance.
Caelen stepped forward and shoved the shield edge into the man’s shoulder, pushing him into the next soldier in line.
The formation buckled.
“Hold the line!” someone shouted.
Sweat ran freely now beneath the soldiers’ helmets.
They pressed inward again.
Another cord lashed toward Caelen.
He retreated two quick steps—not fleeing, but drawing them forward. The whip cast too early, the weighted rope skidding across the ground where he had just been standing.
Caelen surged forward again before the line could retract.
His shield drove upward from below, the iron boss striking the underside of another scutum.
The impact lifted the shield high, exposing the soldier’s torso.
Caelen immediately twisted his body and used the curved rim of the shield to hook the man’s shield edge, wrenching it sideways and dragging the soldier out of position.
Three more men collided with him.
Dust exploded beneath their boots.
The line staggered.
Another whip snapped outward.
This time, Caelen ran toward it, forcing the soldier to cast hastily. The rope wrapped around the legs of the man beside him instead, sending two soldiers tumbling in a clatter of armor and shields.
The watching soldiers outside the ring shouted warnings.
But Caelen was already moving again.
His breathing had grown heavier now.
Sweat ran down his temples.
Yet his movements remained precise.
He never stayed still.
Never allowed the circle to close completely.
Every time the White Company tried to overwhelm him with numbers, he struck a shield, twisted a formation, or redirected a man just enough to break their alignment.
The scutum became an extension of his body.
He used the rim to hook.
The face to shove.
The boss to strike.
Once he spun fully, using the shield’s weight and momentum to drive the iron boss into another soldier’s shield with a resounding CRACK, sending the man stumbling sideways into two others.
The soldiers were breathing hard now.
But they were learning.
Two shields advanced together this time, forcing Caelen backward.
Another pair stepped in behind them.
The circle tightened.
Across the field, two men watched closely.
The White Company’s Cohort Marshal Kellis stood with his arms folded, studying every movement.
Beside him stood Ser Dathran.
The Marshal Kellis nodded slightly.
“He’s controlling the fight.”
Dathran said nothing.
On the field, Caelen struck again, smashing the boss of his shield into a soldier’s scutum and using the recoil to pivot away from another whipping cord.
“He never lets them surround him,” Marshal Kellis continued.
Dathran finally spoke.
“Because once they surround him,” he said quietly, “it ends.”
Marshal Kellis glanced toward him.
“Is this what they will face?”
Dathran watched Caelen duck another entangling cord and slam his shield into two men at once.
“No.”
Marshal Kellis frowned.
“Then what is this?”
Dathran’s answer came softly.
“This is them learning how to survive and capture something they cannot stop.”
On the field, Caelen drove forward once more, the iron boss of his shield smashing into another soldier’s scutum.
Dust rose again.
Shields crashed.
Leather cords snapped through the air.
And the White Company continued to learn.
And in the center of it all, one man fought twenty-five—teaching them the strength of their armor, the power of their shields, and the necessity of unity.
Because someday the thing they faced would not be a man at all.
…
Avalon City
The citadel of Avalon was quieter than usual that morning, though the quiet was not the stillness of idleness. Rather, it was the particular hush that accompanied careful work and quiet ambition.
In one of the western parlors, the long chamber had been rearranged for an unusual purpose.
Tables lined the walls.
Carpets had been rolled out upon the polished floor so that samples of cloth and tapestries could be displayed properly. Several merchants stood patiently beside their wares, while craftsmen from the city and surrounding estates waited with portfolios, sample boards, and small chests containing their finest work.
At the center of the room stood Lady Seraphine of Avalon.
Beside her, turning slowly in a small circle as she took in the spectacle with widening eyes, stood Lisette.
Thirteen years old and rarely still even on the most ordinary day, Lisette had never seen the parlor transformed into something like this.
Her mother watched her reaction with quiet amusement.
“Well?” Seraphine asked gently.
Lisette blinked.
“Mother… are we… buying all of this?”
Seraphine smiled faintly.
“Not all of it, my dear. Only what we require.”
Lisette turned again, staring at the tables.
“But there are so many beautiful things.”
“Yes,” Seraphine replied calmly. “Because we are outfitting an entire manor.”
Lisette’s excitement sharpened immediately.
“The one Caelen is building?”
Seraphine inclined her head.
“The very one.”
She gestured toward the merchants waiting along the walls. “I am led to believe it is a house of a scale that requires more than walls and furniture. It requires comfort. Identity. Beauty. Every chamber must be prepared properly.”
Lisette clasped her hands together in delight.
“Our rooms too?”
“Especially our rooms.”
That answer alone was enough to send Lisette forward like an arrow released from its bow.
The first merchant stepped forward quickly, bowing respectfully.
“My lady, I bring carved cedar chests from the northern workshops.”
He opened the lid of one of the examples.
The scent of fresh cedar drifted immediately into the room. Inside, the compartments had been fitted with delicate inlays designed to hold folded garments or delicate items.
Lisette leaned forward eagerly.
“Oh! Look at the carving!”
The lid bore small scenes of flowering vines and tiny birds worked into the wood.
Seraphine ran her fingers lightly across the craftsmanship.
“Two of these,” she said calmly.
The merchant bowed deeply.
The next table held embroidered bedding.
Soft linen sheets lay folded beside heavier woolen covers, each trimmed with hand-stitched borders. Several bolts of velvet and damask had been brought as well for curtains and bed hangings.
Lisette touched one with reverent care.
“This one feels like clouds.”
“That is velvet from the western houses,” the merchant explained proudly.
Seraphine nodded.
“We will require several sets. One for each chamber, and heavier covers for the winter rooms.” She looked at the steward and asked how many rooms were listed for the family. He checked the papers as said, “12, my lady.” She turned back to the merchant and said, “12 sets for now.” The merchants all reacted to the number of buyers and their willingness to buy.
Lisette’s eyes sparkled.
“And can mine have blue?”
Seraphine glanced toward the merchant. “Can it?”
The merchant smiled.
“For the Lady Lisette? Of course.”
Lisette clapped her hands once in delight.
At another table, a craftsman displayed jewelry boxes of polished walnut and cherry wood. Their interiors were lined with velvet, each compartment carefully designed for rings, chains, and small heirlooms.
Lisette lifted one delicately.
“Oh, this one is perfect!”
Seraphine nodded again.
“Add it to the list.”
Nearby, another artisan revealed carved dressers and wardrobes, their doors decorated with delicate reliefs of ivy and roses. The drawers slid smoothly, their interiors scented faintly with lavender oil.
Lisette turned toward her mother with growing astonishment.
“Mother… are we allowed to choose all of this?”
Seraphine’s expression softened.
“My dear,” she said quietly, “this house must be worthy of Avalon.”
Lisette absorbed that statement with wide-eyed understanding.
Across the room, a merchant unrolled a magnificent carpet from the eastern markets—deep crimson threaded with gold and dark blue patterns.
Lisette gasped.
“Oh, we must have that one!”
Seraphine examined it thoughtfully.
“Yes,” she agreed. “That would suit a southern-facing gallery.”
The steward standing nearby made careful notes as the purchases accumulated.
Carpets.
Tapestries.
Bed hangings.
Curtains.
Carved furniture.
Small chests.
Jewelry boxes.
Even several banners bearing the sigil of Avalon were commissioned for the new hall.
After nearly an hour, the steward finally cleared his throat politely.
“My lady…”
Seraphine looked up.
“Yes?”
He hesitated only briefly.
“Which treasury account shall be used to settle these commissions totaling almost 8,000 silver?”
Lisette paused mid-inspection of another velvet curtain.
Seraphine did not hesitate at all.
“For the moment,” she said calmly, “take the coin from the levy station and road fund.”
The steward blinked.
“Until such time,” Seraphine continued smoothly, “as the manor fund from the Hollow replaces it.”
The steward’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly.
But only for a moment.
He bowed.
“As you wish, my lady.”
He did not ask another question.
Lisette, however, had been listening very closely.
She leaned toward her mother with delighted curiosity.
“Mother…”
“Yes?”
“This is much more fun than ordinary shopping.”
Seraphine allowed herself a quiet laugh.
“Yes, my dear,” she said. “It rather is, but the best part is yet to come.”
Lisette stared at her mother, waiting.
Once it arrives, we get to place it in our new Manor.
…
One floor below
In a stone-walled office overlooking the lower courtyards, Lord Eldric sat behind a wide table covered in maps.
The maps were weighted at the corners with small bronze figurines—cavalry, wagons, and towers—each placed carefully along the winding road that ran southward through the Wild toward the river crossings.
Across from him stood Ser Cuthred of Dalmere, a knight whose scarred hands rested comfortably on the table’s edge. He had spent most of his life guarding the borders of Avalon at the wilds, and the lines at the corners of his eyes spoke of long rides beneath hard skies.
For several moments, neither man spoke.
Eldric studied the map. “We took four thousand five hundred guards last year.”
Cuthred nodded. “And had the wilds attacked in normal numbers, it would barely be enough to guard such a large train properly.”
Eldric leaned back slightly. “The caravan this year may be twice the size.”
Cuthred’s brow creased.“Twice?”
“The wagons alone will be near double,” Eldric replied. “Grain, Rum, sugar, tools, and the materials being sent south. Not to mention the merchants who have attached themselves to the route.”
Cuthred considered that quietly. “A larger caravan moves more slowly,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And it spreads out.”
“Yes.”
Cuthred tapped the table lightly with one finger. “That means more ground to protect.”
Eldric nodded once. “And more temptation for the Wilds.”
That word hung in the room for a moment.
Both men knew what it meant.
The scattered tribes, opportunists, and desperate bands that watched the trade roads from the forests and broken hills.
Greed had a way of spreading quickly once a caravan’s wealth became known.
Cuthred exhaled slowly. “We could scrape together another thousand men.”
Eldric raised an eyebrow. “That many?”
“If we draw from the outer levies and the deeper garrisons,” Cuthred said. “It will stretch us thin, but it can be done.”
Eldric’s fingers moved one of the small cavalry figures along the road.
“And how would you place them?”
Cuthred leaned forward. “We divide the guard.”
Eldric frowned slightly. “Explain.”
“A vanguard,” Cuthred said, moving one figurine ahead of the wagons. “Light cavalry and scouts.” Another figure slid into position. “A forward guard with the first quarter of the wagons.” He placed another behind the caravan. “A rear guard strong enough to discourage pursuit.” Then he tapped the center. “And the mid guard around the heaviest wagons.”
Eldric studied the arrangement.
“That gives us flexibility.”
“Yes.”
“But it also means we cannot concentrate our strength if a large force strikes.”
Cuthred nodded. “That is the risk.”
Silence filled the room again as both men stared down at the map.
Finally, Cuthred spoke again.
“No matter what we do this year,” he said quietly, “the Wilds will be watching.”
Eldric said nothing.
“They may test us now,” Cuthred continued. “Or they may wait.”
His finger traced the road south.
“But next year… they will come down in force.”
Eldric leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Yes,” he said calmly. “I suspect they will.”
Cuthred looked up.
“So we prepare for that?”
Eldric nodded slowly. “We prepare for this year first.”
He tapped the map where the road crossed the river.
“We must also think about the steps and crossings.”
Cuthred grimaced slightly. “The ford near the stone hills is still the narrowest point.”
“And the most dangerous,” Eldric agreed. “A perfect place for an ambush.”
Cuthred studied the map again, measuring distances in his mind.
After a moment, he looked up again with a faint, thoughtful smile.
“You know,” he said.
“We might have asked the boy his opinion before we let him leave.”
Eldric laughed.
Not loudly, but warmly.
“Perhaps.”
Cuthred gestured toward the south on the map.
“He has a way of seeing roads differently than the rest of us.”
Eldric nodded. “That he does.”
The knight leaned back slightly. “So why did you let him go?”
Eldric’s smile softened. “Because the work he is doing in the south matters.”
Cuthred watched him closely. “And next year?”
Eldric’s expression shifted into something firmer. “Next year,” he said, “Caelen marches with the caravan.”
Cuthred raised an eyebrow. “As a captain?”
Eldric shook his head slightly. “As a son of Avalon.” Then he added quietly: “It is his right.” And after a moment: “And his duty.”
Outside the window, the late-afternoon sun cast long shadows across the courtyard.
Inside the chamber, the small bronze figurines remained scattered across the map—tiny soldiers standing guard along a road that would soon carry more wealth, and more danger, than any caravan before it.
Across the realm, preparations continued.