Chapter 181 New Homes
Weeks passed, and Ventresca adapted to the rhythm of the hollow. Morning light poured through the tall arched windows of the new manor rising above the Hollow, casting long bands of gold across the floors that were still alive with the quiet bustle of craftsmen. The structure of the lower floors was no longer the raw framework Lady Ventresca had first seen when she arrived. Walls were finished, doors hung, and the echo of hammering had softened into the more delicate sounds of finishing work—the tapping of chisels, the brushing of plaster, the murmured consultations of artisans as they debated the final details of their craft.
Lady Ventresca walked slowly through the grand entry hall, her hands clasped loosely before her as though she were merely inspecting progress. In truth, she was absorbing every inch of the place.
She would never tell Caelen how impressed she was.
It would not do.
The boy had always possessed enough confidence without encouragement.
Yet as she moved beneath the high ceiling and across the newly laid mosaic tile floor, she found herself slowing almost to a halt.
The floor alone was extraordinary.
Thousands of small cut tiles—stone, marble, and colored glass—had been set together in geometric patterns that flowed outward from the center of the hall like ripples across still water. The colors were not loud, but deliberate: deep greens, warm golds, soft whites, and veins of blue that caught the morning light. She did not understand the magic of it, but the master could make the floor as reflective as a mirror.
The effect was both elegant and strangely calming. It was even more amazing when she learned Caelen had ordered the collection of all the broken material from a ruined villa in the city and old manors.
A master mason knelt nearby, adjusting the final grout lines. When he noticed her watching, he bowed slightly but did not interrupt his work.
Ventresca nodded politely and continued.
The first floor had become a maze of finishing touches. Carpenters fitted the last of the doors while painters worked along the upper trim with delicate brushes. Every corridor she passed revealed another small innovation.
Corridors.
She still found that design remarkable.
Unlike the long communal halls of most noble houses, this manor allowed rooms to open from interior passages, permitting both privacy and movement without constant intrusion. Servants could pass unseen. Guests could walk without crossing the household’s private quarters.
It was… civilized.
She moved on.
Down another corridor, across another stretch of shimmering tile, and through a wide archway that opened into the kitchen complex.
Ventresca stopped immediately.
“Good heavens.”
The kitchen was enormous.
Not simply large—but organized.
Instead of the usual single cavernous cooking hall with fires and tables scattered wherever space allowed, this room had been divided carefully into stations.
Worktables ran along the walls in deliberate sections. Some even had running water. One area held cutting boards and racks of knives. Another held rows of ceramic bowls for mixing and preparation. Shelves had been built directly into the stone walls, each sized precisely for jars, spices, and storage vessels.
The cooking hearth itself dominated the far side of the room.
But even that was not ordinary.
The baking oven built into the stone wall had eight small iron doors, arranged in two rows of four. Each chamber could be heated separately by the main firebox beneath, allowing several different dishes to bake at once without interfering with one another.
Ventresca walked closer, studying it.
A baker from the hollow, who was testing the oven, noticed her interest as she worked nearby.
“My lady,” she said respectfully, “the heat rises through channels beneath each chamber.”
She pointed to the small iron levers beside the doors.
“These control the draft.”
Ventresca examined them thoughtfully.
“So each oven can be hotter or cooler?”
“Yes, my lady. Bread here, pastries there. Roasts may be finished while other dishes bake.”
She nodded slowly.
Ingenious. Not magical.
Simply… thoughtful.
Several large wooden tables stood near the center of the room, where multiple cooks could work simultaneously without crowding one another. Hooks in the ceiling held racks for drying herbs and meats. A small stone basin near the wall allowed water to be drawn directly from the aqueduct line above.
Even the drainage channels had been carefully cut to keep the floor dry.
Ventresca turned slowly in place.
“This kitchen,” she murmured quietly, “could feed half the citadel.”
The baker smiled.
“That is rather the idea, my lady.”
She did not answer, but she was impressed.
From the kitchen, she stepped through a rear doorway that opened into the service yard behind the manor.
Here, the air smelled of sawdust, fresh timber, and damp stone.
Several outbuildings had been constructed around the yard, each clearly dedicated to a specific purpose.
She inspected them one by one.
The laundry house and sewing house stood closest to the water channel, with long basins built into the floor and racks for drying linens.
Next stood the repair workshop, where tools, wagons, and household equipment could be maintained without cluttering the main house.
Nearby, she found a large cold-storage building, partially sunk into the earth to keep its interior cool for meat and perishables.
Beyond that stood a brewery shed, smaller than the ones within the Hollow itself but clearly intended for the manor’s own supply of beer and cider.
And finally, a long structure Ventresca had not expected.
The stable infirmary.
Inside, stalls had been arranged not merely for housing horses, but for treating them—equipped with slings, grooming racks, and storage for salves and medicines.
She paused at the doorway.
The boy thought of everything.
She would never say that aloud.
But she thought it.
Returning inside, Ventresca climbed the broad stairway that curved upward toward the second floor.
The steps were wide and shallow, designed for comfort rather than haste. Sunlight poured through tall windows along the stairwell, illuminating more of the mosaic flooring.
Everywhere she looked, the same quiet elegance appeared.
Patterns.
Order.
Balance.
It felt less like a house built quickly, almost magically so, on a frontier and more like a palace grown patiently over generations.
Halfway down a corridor, she passed a doorway where two craftsmen worked carefully on wall panels.
Inside stood Caelen himself.
He wore simple work clothes, sleeves rolled up, speaking quietly with the artisans while examining a set of carved panels.
Ventresca did not interrupt.
Instead, she continued walking, though she carefully noted the room.
He had done this before.
Selecting certain rooms to shape personally.
Rooms he wished to make… special.
Ventresca turned a corner and paused before a familiar door.
The panel bore a small chalk mark left by the foreman.
Lisette’s chamber.
The door itself, however, had been sealed.
Not permanently—but closed firmly enough that no workmen entered and no dust escaped.
Ventresca frowned slightly.
She had asked the foreman about it earlier.
“Special instructions from Lord Caelen,” the man had explained nervously.
“Special?” she had asked.
“Yes, my lady. Certain touches are being crafted elsewhere and will be installed together.”
Ventresca had not pressed the matter.
Still, she paused a moment longer before the sealed door.
What precisely the boy intended for Lady Lisette’s rooms, she could not yet guess.
But if it matched the rest of this house, it would be something unexpected.
Eventually, the corridor opened into the chamber that had already begun to overwhelm her whenever she visited.
The Lady’s Hall.
It occupied the upper level of the octagonal tower, a vast circular room whose windows opened in all directions across the valley.
Ventresca stepped inside slowly.
Even unfinished, it was magnificent.
The mosaic floor here was the finest yet—an intricate pattern radiating outward from the center like a great tapestry. The colored stones shimmered softly beneath the sunlight pouring through eight tall windows. Its image took her breath away.
At the center of the room stood a carved table still wrapped in protective cloth.
Along one wall, she noticed something unusual in the servant’s nook.
A narrow wooden cabinet built directly into the wall.
When opened, it revealed a small platform suspended by ropes.
A dumbwaiter.
She examined the mechanism carefully.
A servant could load food or items below and raise them silently to the tower without climbing the long staircases.
Remarkable.
Even more astonishing was the not-so-small adjoining chamber to the large hall.
Ventresca opened the door and stepped inside.
She froze.
Inside was a powder room with space for a massive mirror and lounge benches, and 8 doors to individual water closets.
A small basin fed by the aqueduct system, with drainage carefully concealed within the stone walls. No chamber pot. No servant required.
Ventresca stared at it for several seconds.
No manor she had ever visited possessed such a thing, yet this manor had outfitted them as if it were normal.
She closed the door slowly and returned to the Lady’s Hall.
The wind stirred faintly through the opened window panels.
From this height, the view stretched below like a living map—roads, workshops, fields, and the distant glint of the river.
Ventresca stood quietly at the center of the room.
She imagined it filled with light.
With music.
With nobles gathered beneath the high ceiling.
Garden parties spilling out onto the terraces below.
For the first time since arriving, she allowed herself to feel something she would never admit aloud.
Wonder.
The boy had built something extraordinary.
And though she would never tell Caelen how deeply impressed she was, she resolved silently that she would do everything in her power to ensure the manor lived up to its promise.
Because if this house were to stand as the heart of Avalon in the south—
Then it would be worthy of the name he had given it.
The Matron’s Manor.
…
Southern Ridge of Hollow
The sun had set, and twilight glowed in brilliance as Caelen walked down the narrow stone path that followed the watercourse above the Hollow. The aqueduct channel ran beside him in a clear ribbon of moving water, its steady current whispering against the carved stone walls that guided it down toward the manor and the baths beyond.
He could not summon them. Yet they came by their own inclination. The water stilled first.
Then the surface lifted in quiet ripples, as though the stream itself were drawing breath. Two slender shapes rose from the water’s edge where the channel widened beneath the shade of alder trees.
The Water Faeries stepped lightly onto the stone.
They were small compared to mortals, though not childlike. Their forms shimmered faintly, like reflections on a river at dusk. Their hair flowed like strands of pale silver and dark green waterweeds, and their eyes carried that curious brightness that never quite belonged to the world of men.
One tilted her head, laughing.
“Heavy slow one, you are building again,” she said.
Caelen smiled faintly. “Yes.”
“You build quickly,” it said.
“We are trying to.”
The second faerie crouched near the edge of the aqueduct and touched the water flowing through the channel. Its expression brightened immediately.
“This water dances well,” she said approvingly.
Caelen nodded.
“The dwarves and masons did most of the work.”
The first faerie laughed softly. “You always say that.”
Caelen shrugged. “It is usually true.”
They traveled together toward the Manor rising south of the ridge. Even unfinished, it dominated the hillside, the octagonal tower catching the light like a pale beacon above the valley.
The faeries slowed as they approached.
“Oh,” one whispered. The other’s eyes widened. “You built a castle.”
“It is not a castle,” Caelen replied calmly. “Just a house.”
The two fairies exchanged a glance.
Mortals, they seemed to agree silently, were sometimes impossible to understand.
They followed him through the rear garden terrace and into the manor’s great entry hall. Sunlight spilled across the mosaic floor in shifting patterns, and the air still carried the scent of fresh stone and plaster.
The fairies moved quietly through the hall, touching nothing but examining everything.
One leaned close to the floor. “These stones are singing,” she said.
“They were cut carefully,” Caelen answered.
“They like it here.” The second faerie floated toward the grand staircase, looking upward through the open galleries.
“This place has good air and has many places for us to dance.”
“That was the idea.”
They climbed the stairs together.
Workers had already finished most of the second floor, and the corridors lay quiet in the starlight. Caelen led them past several finished chambers before stopping before a closed door.
The door bore a chalk mark.
One of the fairies leaned forward curiously.
“This room is hiding.”
Caelen nodded. “It belongs to my sister.”
“Lisette?”
He looked mildly surprised. “You remember.”
The faerie smiled.
“She is bonded to a clever ice fairy.”
The second faerie examined the door carefully. “Will she come soon?
“Yes,” nodded Caelen
“But the room is not finished,” it said.
“No,” Caelen said. “I had something special planned.”
The fairies looked at one another again.
Then both smiled. “We could help.”
Caelen folded his arms slightly. “That depends.”
The first faerie stepped forward and placed her hand gently against the door.
“We will not break your house.”
“I know,” he said.
“We will not flood the room.”
“I would appreciate that.” The young man replied.
The faerie laughed.
Then she turned back toward her companion.
“We could make a window garden.”
The second faerie nodded thoughtfully.
“Yes.”
She turned back to Caelen.
“If your sister wakes early, she will see flowers on her window glass.”
Caelen frowned slightly.
“Flowers?”
“Morning frost patterns, to delight the ice fairy,” the faerie explained. “Very thin. Like vines and petals.”
“They would appear only when the air cools at night,” the other added. “When the sun rises, they fade away again.”
Caelen considered that.
“They would not damage the glass?”
“No.”
“They would not stain or weaken it?” concern in his voice.
The fairy shook her head.
“It is only water remembering shapes.”
Caelen nodded slowly.
“That sounds like something Lisette would enjoy.”
But the second faerie had another idea.
She flew down the corridor and peered through one of the open windows overlooking the gardens.
“We could also give her the singing light.”
Caelen raised an eyebrow.
“Explain.”
The fairy returned to the door.
“When the wind passes the tower windows at night,” she said, “we can guide the air through small water threads in the stone.”
“Very small,” the other added.
“Almost invisible.”
The second faerie nodded.
“The air would move the water gently, and it would make a soft sound. Like distant chimes.”
Caelen leaned against the wall, thinking.
“Not loud?”
“No.”
“Not every night?”
“Only when the wind is right.”
“And only in her room.”
The first fairy smiled mischievously.
“So she can pretend the tower is singing to her alone.”
Caelen exhaled slowly.
He imagined Lisette discovering such a thing.
Her delight would be immediate.
And endless.
He looked back at the sealed door.
“These are subtle enough,” he said finally.
The faeries brightened immediately.
“We prefer subtle.”
“Most magic should be.”
They placed their hands briefly against the wood of the door.
The corridor grew very quiet.
For a moment, Caelen felt the faintest shift in the air, like cool water passing through unseen channels in the stone.
Then it was gone.
The faeries stepped back.
“Done,” one said.
“That was quick.”
“It is small magic,” the other replied.
Caelen nodded.
“That is often the best kind.”
The faeries wandered farther down the hall toward the tower stairs.
“Show us the high room,” one said eagerly.
“The round one.”
Caelen followed them.
As they climbed the tower steps, the starlight poured through the tall windows, casting long lines across the stone.
The manor felt alive now.
Not just with workers, stone, and timber.
But with quiet touches of wonder.
…
Border of the Southern Lands
Four days later
The land west of Lady Alessa’s holdings had always been described as broken country, though most who used the term had never actually ridden through it.
Now Caelen understood the truth of it.
The hills rose sharply from the last settled farms and then collapsed into a wide scar across the earth—an ancient landslide that had torn half a mountain loose a decade before. What remained was a jagged maze of stone ridges, shattered cliffs, and narrow gullies where rainwater cut winding channels through loose gravel.
It was a miner’s dream.
And a soldier’s problem.
Caelen stood at the crest of a low ridge studying the terrain while the White Company fanned out behind him. Forty men had come with them—twenty shieldmen and twenty slingers, the latter carrying the long leather cords and weighted stones that gave them their name.
The shieldmen stood closest to Caelen and Ser Dathran, their curved shield resting comfortably against their shoulders. The soldiers wore their distinctive pale armor, catching the grey daylight as they moved through the rocky ground.
The slingers spread along the higher rocks behind them, each man already unwinding the cords of his sling.
Dathran spat lightly into the dust.
“Ugly land,” he muttered.
Caelen crouched near an exposed rock face.
“Beautiful land,” he corrected quietly. “I will have you maneuver the men to that ridge line while protecting me.”
“What?” Dathran spat. “And just what will you be doing?”
Caelen brushed away loose gravel and ran his fingers along a narrow green streak in the stone. “I will be picking up rocks.”
They moved into an area where a landslide had torn the hillside open like a wound, exposing veins of ore and stone that would otherwise have remained hidden for centuries.
Behind him, one of the shieldmen shifted uneasily.
“Something moved.”
The words traveled quietly through the line.
Caelen did not look up immediately.
“Where?”
The soldier pointed toward a cluster of shattered boulders and plants half a hundred yards downslope.
Dathran turned his head slowly.
For several seconds, nothing moved.
Then something black slipped between the rocks.
Not large.
But fast.
Another followed.
And another.
Dathran swore softly.
The creatures emerged from the rocks in a ripple of motion.
At first glance, they resembled monkeys—lean bodies, long arms, hunched shoulders—but their skin was covered in small black scales that caught the light like dull iron. Their faces were narrow, with sharp teeth that showed even when their mouths were closed.
Their eyes were yellow.
And there were many of them.
Caelen’s voice spoke low, “Practice containing. Only let none get hurt.”
“They hunt in packs,” Dathran said grimly, “Shields!”
The White Company moved instantly.
The shieldmen stepped forward, raising their scuta into a tight overlapping line.
The curved shields locked together with practiced precision.
Behind them, the slingers began to spin their cords.
The first of the creatures lunged.
It moved faster than any natural animal should have, leaping across the broken ground toward the soldiers.
A slingstone cracked through the air.
THWACK.
The creature tumbled sideways as the stone struck its skull.
But three more came behind it.
The shield line braced.
The first beast slammed against the scutum wall with surprising force, claws scraping across wood and iron.
Another leaped over its companion, claws reaching for a soldier’s head.
The man behind raised his shield at the last second.
The creature hit the curved surface and bounced off, landing badly in the dust.
“Drive them back!” Dathran shouted.
The slingers released another volley.
Stones snapped through the air like thrown thunder.
Two creatures collapsed.
But the pack kept coming.
They moved in bursts—darting in, testing the shield wall, then retreating before the soldiers could counterattack.
Caelen stepped sideways along the ridge, eyes scanning the exposed stone around him even as the battle unfolded, knowing they would have to withdraw soon.
He knelt briefly beside another rock face.
A dull grey vein cut through the stone. Heavy and soft.
He scraped a small sample free with his dagger and slipped it into his pouch.
Behind him, the fight intensified.
One creature slipped past the shield line, scrambling toward the slingers.
A shieldman pivoted instantly, smashing the brass-lined edge of his scutum into the beast’s ribs.
The creature shrieked and tumbled back down the slope.
“Left flank!” someone shouted.
Three more beasts burst from behind a broken rock shelf.
The slingers turned as one.
Their cords whirled.
The stones struck almost simultaneously.
Two creatures fell.
The third kept coming.
Dathran stepped forward and, with all his power, drove the rim of his shield into its jaw with brutal precision.
The impact cracked the bone jaw and skull.
The creature collapsed.
“Keep the line!” he barked.
Caelen had moved farther, almost too far, along the ridge now, studying the exposed rock like a scholar examining a library.
Another streak caught his eye. He chipped away the loose stone. The landslide had laid the mountain bare. And it exposed the bones of the land.
Behind him, the slingers continued their deadly rhythm.
Spin.
Release.
Spin again.
The creatures were fast—but the slingstones were faster.
Each strike shattered bones or cracked skulls with brutal efficiency.
Still, the pack pressed forward.
They were testing.
Looking for weakness.
Dathran recognized the pattern.
“They’re probing the line,” he said.
A soldier grunted as another beast slammed against his shield.
“Probing?”
“Yes,” Dathran replied calmly. “They’re learning.”
Another slingstone struck.
Another creature dropped.
But the rest did not retreat.
They circled wider now, darting between the rocks and trying to force the White Company to spread thin.
Dathran raised his voice.
“Slingers, tighten your arc!”
The twenty men adjusted instantly, repositioning themselves so their stones covered the entire front of the formation.
A creature leaped high from the rocks—
And caught a stone directly in the throat.
It collapsed midair.
The pack hesitated.
Just for a moment.
That was enough.
“Draw and advance two steps,” Dathran ordered.
The shield line moved forward, swords now out
The beasts recoiled from the sudden pressure.
Caelen stood again, brushing dust from his hands.
His pouch already held several small ore samples.
He glanced back toward the fighting line.
“Are we finished?” Dathran snorted.
“Almost,” Caelen said.
As if answering him, the pack leader appeared.
Larger than the others.
Its scales were darker, almost black, and scars marked its shoulders.
It hissed sharply.
The remaining creatures fell back around it.
Dathran watched the formation carefully.
“They’ll break now,” he said.
The slingers began their final volley.
Twenty cords spun at once.
Twenty stones flew.
The pack scattered instantly.
Two beasts fell.
The rest vanished back into the broken rocks as quickly as they had appeared.
The ridge grew quiet again.
Dust drifted slowly back to the ground.
One of the shieldmen exhaled loudly.
“Gods, what the hell were those!?”
Dathran lowered his shield. “I have no idea, but they’ll remember us.”
Caelen walked back toward the formation.
“You held the line well.”
Dathran glanced toward the exposed cliffs behind them.
“And you found what you came for?”
Caelen opened the small pouch.
Fragments of metal gleamed faintly inside—enough to confirm what the dwarves hoped.
The land held wealth.
He tied the pouch closed.
“Yes,” Caelen said quietly.
Dathran looked back toward the shattered landscape.
“And the beasts?”
Caelen studied the broken land where the creatures had disappeared.
“They were here first.”
He turned toward the ridge leading back toward the Avalon land.
“But the dwarves will come.”
Dathran nodded slowly. “And next time,” he said, “we won’t just scout!”