Chapter 57 Preparations

  The Manor of Avalon stirred to life beneath a pale, chilled dawn. Muffled footsteps crossed the inner halls as hearths were stoked and windows cracked for the last of the autumn air. But deep in the west corridor, near the old root cellar, Caelen was already at work.

  A long wooden table had been dragged from the kitchen, and spread across it was a peculiar arrangement of crushed beef, heavy-smelling pots of tallow, and a linen-draped wooden tray lined with fine cheesecloth. Mirelle stood beside him, sleeves rolled, eyebrow arched.

  “Two inches deep?” she asked, eyeing the thick box.

  Caelen nodded firmly. “Flat. Even. Seal tight.”

  He guided her hand to where the dried beef had already been pulverized—sun-dried over several days, then pounded into fine crumbs by pestle and stone. The scent was rich: smoky, sharp, and mouthwatering. From another bowl, he added dried berries that had also been pulverized into a coarse powder. Finally, he worked with the cook to mix in the rendered tallow—warm, faintly golden, and fragrant with rosemary and wild bay.

  The substances melded with surprising ease under a broad wooden spatula, forming a dense, cohesive mass that spread like warm clay across the cheesecloth lining.

  “You’re… pressing it?” Mirelle asked, her hands mimicking the motion.

  Caelen gave a short nod. “Push air. Pack tight. Cool, dry place.”

  The result was no ordinary ration. It had weight, color, and a clean, savory aroma that clung to the fingers. Mirelle hesitated a moment before taking a crumb between her teeth.

  The flavor startled her. Not the flat, briny bite of soldier’s jerky or dried stew-bits—but something earthy, almost buttery, with the depth of smoked meat and just a hint of herb. It lingered long after she swallowed.

  “This… this isn’t travel food,” she muttered.

  Caelen gave her a sideways look, as if not quite understanding her meaning.

  “If it lasts even half as long as you say,” Mirelle said, staring down at the box, “if it holds through weather and time—then this will change travel. Merchant caravans. Long patrols. Explorers. You could march for weeks with only this.”

  Caelen grinned faintly and tapped the sealed wooden lid. “No rot. No spoil. Warm belly.”

  …

  That afternoon, the freedfolk arrived. Baelric announced them gruffly, though his tone held something close to pride. Among them was the cobbler Perin, the smith Bran, whose beard was more soot than hair. Caelen met them at the table in the courtyard.

  From a wrapped linen bundle, Bran presented the first tool: a short-handled spade, the head forged with a slight curve, narrow but strong. The second was a hand-pick/axe, more like a miner’s tool than a farmer’s—Iron, with a wood grip wrapped in boiled leather.

  Caelen ran his hand along the handle, then gripped both tools one at a time, testing their weight and balance. He gave a nod of approval.

  “Not too heavy,” he said.

  “Forged light,” Bran replied, he always copied Caelen's phrasing, “But bite deep.”

  Next, the smith brought out a small, lightly curved piece of wood. Bran wiped the last trace of oil from the wooden handle, the rich grain gleaming in the light of the forge. He turned the piece over in his hands once more before calling out, “Caelen. Come here, lad, saved the best for last!”

  Caelen rolled closer to the smith, eyes narrowing in curiosity.

  Bran held up the unique tool. “You recognize it?” he asked, a faint grin beneath his beard. “Your drawing—forged in life.”

  The boy’s gaze fixed on the object. A slim, curved wooden handle, smooth and fitted to the hand, with a gleaming saw blade folded neatly into it.

  Bran pressed a brass latch, and the blade swung out with a satisfying click, teeth long and sharp. “Folds away safely, just as you planned. First time I’ve ever made such a thing.”

  Caelen reached for it, running his fingers along the polished handle. “… perfect.”

  Bran gave a short chuckle. “Your idea, lad. I only gave it teeth and a backbone.”

  Caelen folded the blade back into the handle, the motion smooth and sure. “Good in wild,” he said quietly.

  Brand’s grin widened. “Aye. And it’s the first of its kind. Let’s see how well it bites.”

  …

  Then Perin was next, another parcel. Boots. Heavy-soled, laced, with reinforced toe caps and stitched leather that shimmered faintly with oil. The cobbler had followed every instruction from Caelen’s slates—hobnailed soles, wide treads, and small ridges at the heel to grip uneven terrain.

  Caelen slipped them on slowly, using the chair’s footrests for leverage. Once laced, he stood—still with effort—and took three stiff steps.

  “Fit good,” he said, the faintest pride flickering in his voice.

  The freedfolk murmured among themselves, watching him balance, watching the boy who had once lain still for months now begin to shape his path forward.

  As they packed their things, one stayed behind. A lean man with nimble fingers and a leather apron: Dorven, the tanner. He stepped forward, holding something small wrapped in linen.

  “As you asked,” he said.

  It was a sling. A proper one. Braided from deer sinew and waxed hide, with a shaped cradle and tightly knotted loops.

  Caelen took it reverently, turning it in his hands. “Try now?”

  “Try now,” Dorven confirmed, stepping back.

  Aldric appeared then, drawn by the small crowd gathering near the archery posts.

  “What’s this, then?” he said, arms crossed.

  Caelen held up the sling.

  “Old weapon,” he said. “Show.”

  He placed a small, smooth stone in the cradle and spun the sling over his head—once, twice—and let fly.

  The stone snapped across the yard with a whistle, thudded into the hay bale stacked beside the target dummy, and embedded deep.

  Aldric raised his brows. “Well, I’ll be. That thing’s no toy.”

  “No toy,” Caelen echoed. “Fast. Quiet. Range.”

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  They spent an hour tossing rocks and laughing, Mirelle taking notes and Dorven grinning behind his palm. Then, as the wind began to carry hints of the season's change, Caelen excused himself.

  There was one more thing to do.

  In his room, he laid out his new outfit.

  Layer by layer, he assembled it—sturdy wool trousers with reinforced knees, an under-shirt of quilted linen, a loose, cream-colored tunic with billowing sleeves gathered at the cuffs. Over this, a dark sleeveless gambeson, fastened with a row of brass or bronze buttons down the front. A broad brown leather belt cinches the vest at the waist, complete with a metal buckle and a smaller strap crossing diagonally across his chest, ending in a circular brass ring.

  A second hooded cloak, lined with soft fur, lay folded on the bed—his winter coverage. It was heavier than he liked, but necessary for the high trails and sudden snow.

  He carefully placed everything in a bag, then rolled and sealed it. His fingers paused on the last item: the sling. He coiled it and tucked it beside the spade.

  He sat back in his chair, breathing hard, satisfied.

  Everything was ready. Soon, the wilds would know his footsteps.

  And he would not return the same.

  …

  The study was cloaked in lamplight, the kind that threw long, flickering shadows against stone walls and carved beams. A fire murmured in the hearth. Maps were pinned to a board near the windows, some half-rolled parchment set aside from the day’s planning. Lord Eldric—tall, broad, stern—sat behind his desk with a goblet untouched beside him and a half-finished letter in front of him.

  There was a soft knocking. Straightforward. Measured.

  “Enter,” he called, not expecting anyone at this hour.

  The door creaked, and a familiar shape rolled into view. Caelen pushed himself into the study, slow but steady, his pale hands guiding the wheels with quiet determination.

  Eldric straightened, rising to his full height. “Caelen?”

  The boy didn’t answer right away. He rolled forward, just a few paces, until he reached the edge of the fire’s warmth.

  “Talk… now?” he said.

  That alone made Eldric come around the desk. He pulled one of the sitting chairs near and eased into it, so he was across from his son.

  “All right. Talk.”

  There was a long pause. Then Caelen looked up, voice low, halting.

  “Kingdom… Avalon… don’t understand.”

  Eldric’s face shifted slightly—surprise, then understanding. “You mean… how we stand? What is the relationship?”

  The boy nodded, eyes unwavering.

  Eldric leaned forward, elbows on knees, his voice dropping into the soft gravel of remembered history.

  “Our house was born in the north. Old Avalen lands, long before the crown unified the lowlands and the valley. We were soldiers then. Vassals. We earned every step south with steel and sacrifice. We hold the land only because we bled for it. We weren’t gifted status—we took it. And when the crown proposed for the Vale to be tamed, we came.”

  He gestured vaguely toward the window, where beyond the walls lay the darkened fields of their holding.

  “We carved Avalon out of the wild. Took it from the bones of the fallen Kingdom of Monteluz. That’s what gave us our domain, what earned us the lake, the city, the mountain passes.”

  He looked Caelen square in the eyes.

  “But we are not like the others. We are not old blood from the Capitol. Not chartered lords of the kingdom, not silk-gloved courtiers or temple-chosen lords. They see us as border men. Iron-throated. Uncivil. Unclean.”

  Caelen’s brow furrowed.

  “They… hate us?”

  “Some do. Many do. Others simply ignore us.”

  Caelen’s voice was slow. Careful.

  “Our… strength?”

  That made Eldric pause. Not because he didn’t have an answer—but because he wasn’t sure how honest to be.

  He answered anyway.

  “Our strength, Caelen… is this: we are real. We are forged in iron and stone. We do not sit on silk and call it rule. We’ve bled beside our people. Every stone of this house is paid for in labor and swordwork. Our word means something in the Lower Vale. When we say we’ll protect, we do. When we promise peace, we bring it by force. We are the only house left in this kingdom that still remembers what it is to earn land rather than inherit it.”

  Caelen nodded slowly. Absorbing it.

  Then he asked, more softly.

  “Our… weakness?”

  Eldric leaned back. His jaw tightened, eyes darkening.

  “Our weakness is isolation. We are alone in the court. We lack the alliances that others are born into. We have fewer priests, fewer coin-counting merchants, fewer friendly ears. Most of all—” he paused “—we are vulnerable because of their fear and our pride. And sometimes that pride blinds us. Sometimes it stops us from asking for help… even when we need it.”

  Caelen stared at the firelight as it caught the silver filigree on the edge of a nearby map. Then he said, very quietly:

  “Change… that?”

  Eldric’s gaze sharpened. “You want to?”

  Caelen nodded once. “Fix…weakness.”

  A long silence.

  Then a strange smile touched Eldric’s mouth. The kind that held pride and fear in equal measure.

  “You really are your mother’s son,” he murmured.

  He reached forward and rested one calloused hand on the boy’s small shoulder.

  “Very well. We’ll do it together. You and your brother will shape the next Avalon. One stone at a time.”

  Caelen looked up and, just for a moment, there was something ancient in his eyes—a flicker of that impossible, unreadable calm.

  Then he leaned forward slightly and whispered, “First… need boots.”

  Eldric blinked. “Boots?”

  Caelen nodded firmly. “Many.”

  Eldric barked a short laugh and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head.

  “Gods help me,” he muttered. “You’re already building an army.”

  Caelen’s small hands rested on the arms of his chair. His face—still soft with youth—was stern in the flickering firelight. He shook his head once.

  Caelen’s fingers began tapping the armrest of his chair. Slow at first, then more deliberate, like hammer taps against iron.

  “Different,” he said, eyes steady on the fire.

  “Trained. Equipped. Armor… faster. Smarter. Engineers. No waste.”

  Eldric leaned forward in his chair, the weight of his son’s words pushing against the silence. There was no boyish bravado in Caelen’s voice—just clarity—a blueprint spoken in fractured syllables, but ironclad in intent.

  “You want a professional army,” Eldric said slowly. “Not just swords and shields. You want tactics, machines?”

  Caelen nodded. “Every man… do more. Tools. Armor. Bowmen. Builders. Roads. Bridges. Forts. Fast. Strong.”

  He looked up at his father now, the flicker of the hearth fire casting glints in his eyes.

  “Fight smart. Never… waste lives.”

  Eldric exhaled through his nose, nodding slowly. “That’s a commander’s thinking.”

  But Caelen wasn’t finished. He pushed forward slightly in his chair, eyes sharpening.

  “Not just army,” he repeated.

  “Will build. Grow. Valley… has riches. Forests, water, stone. Old places. Forgotten. Find. Use.”

  Eldric blinked, surprised again—not just at the depth of the idea, but at the momentum behind it. The boy wasn’t just imagining a better Avalon. He was preparing for it. Mapping it and already choosing tools and people.

  “Fix roads—open rivers. Bring trade. Grow towns. Feed cities,” Caelen said, words clipped but certain. “Make valley… strong.”

  There was a pause, not for drama, but for breath.

  Then:

  “Then… no one takes it.”

  Eldric’s expression darkened—not with fear, but with understanding. The boy wasn’t trying to impress him. He was laying foundations.

  “You want Avalon not only defended,” Aldric said. “You want it untouchable.”

  Caelen nodded once. “Yes.”

  The silence stretched between them, full of firelight and shadows.

  Eldric ran his thumb along the rim of his goblet. “It will take more than will. This valley’s old. The Kingdom eyes it. The merchants ignore it, unless they can bleed it. The priests dismiss it. The ministers mock us.”

  Caelen nodded again, undeterred.

  “Then… change it. Make them… witness”

  Eldric studied his son for a long while. This wasn’t the boy he had left behind. This was something harder. Sharper. A steel not forged by his hands, but by fire and fracture.

  He stood slowly and walked over to the window, gazing out at the moonlit hills that ringed their lands. Then back to Caelen.

  “I’ll call Baelric,” he said. “We’ll dig up old maps. Land contracts. Charters. If we’re to revive the valley… we’ll need proof, allies, and coin.”

  Caelen’s lips quirked in a tiny half-smile.

  “Already started,” he said.

  Aldric froze, one eyebrow lifting. “Already—?”

  “Maps. Slates. Records. Mirelle helps,” Caelen added, shrugging as though it were obvious.

  A long breath escaped Aldric’s lips. He let out a dry laugh and shook his head.

  “You are your mother’s son,” he muttered. “And probably my worst headache to come.”