Chapter 61 – Provisioned Against the Clock

  The afternoon light in the courtyard had gone soft and gold when Caelen wheeled himself toward the eastern alcove. Two figures were waiting there—both in simple guard leathers, both wearing the same hesitant grins that came from seeing an old friend they hadn’t expected to see again.

  The shorter one stepped forward first. “You’re looking… alive,” he said, the words blunt but warm. This was Pit—a nickname earned, as Caelen had learned from the household gossip, for his endless duty of digging the latrine pits. Of course, the real reason was whispered to be something else entirely—a gray essence that let him work earth like a mason with wet clay. No one outside a very small circle knew that.

  The taller one, named Tiberan, clapped a hand to his chest in salute, his broad smile making his face younger. Caelen had learned enough about him from Aldric and Lisette to know he was the one with endless fieldcraft experience—sleeping under the stars, finding water where none should be, moving without leaving a trail, precisely what was needed for what lay ahead.

  They greeted him with an ease that surprised him. He didn’t remember the shared jokes or the fights they must have had, but something in their eyes told him these were men who’d seen him at his best and worst and counted him as one of their own.

  “We thought you were gone for good,” the tall one said quietly.

  Caelen’s lips quirked. “Almost,” he replied. “Not yet.”

  They didn’t press for more—just leaned in when he said, “Mission. Lower Vale. Hollows. Maybe steppes… coast.”

  That raised their brows. “That’s half the south,” Pit said. “How long are we talking?”

  “Months.”

  They traded a quick look, somewhere between excitement and wariness. “What’s the plan?”

  Caelen didn’t answer in words first. Instead, he led them to the alcove where the Free Peoples were already gathered. Mirelle stood off to one side with a list in hand, ticking items off as they came forward.

  First came the boots—thick leather, hobnailed soles, built to grip slick stone and churned mud alike. The guards took them in hand, turning them over.

  “Hobnails?” the tall one asked.

  “Traction,” Caelen said. “Last longer.”

  Pit tested the weight and grinned. “Not bad.”

  Next came the small spade and a pickaxe, their iron heads clean and sharp, their wooden handles oiled smooth. Pit’s grin widened further. “Guess I’m still on latrine duty.”

  Caelen only shrugged. “Dig faster.”

  A foldable saw followed—its teeth gleaming—and then heavy woolen bags, rolls of warm clothing, and small oilskin bundles of kit. Piece by piece, they were equipped until their pile matched his own.

  “How much weight carry?” Caelen asked.

  The tall one lifted his new pack experimentally. “Depends. For a march, twenty-five kilos easy. Longer term… maybe fifteen if you want us fast.”

  “Fast,” Caelen said simply. Then, almost as an afterthought, “Armor?”

  They hesitated. “Wouldn’t say no,” the tall one replied. “But not metal. Too slow.”

  “Leather then,” Pit added. “Will block some of the bite if we run into something with teeth, unless it is big.”

  Caelen nodded to Bran, the burly blacksmith leaning against the alcove’s arch. Without a word, Bran ducked away and returned, lugging two sets of long chainmail that covered shoulders to thighs, the rings gleaming in the fading light.

  The guards froze. “You’re giving us these?” Tiberan asked, voice low as though afraid the offer might vanish.

  “Yours,” Caelen said.

  Pit ran his hand down the weave, shaking his head. “This is worth more than my father’s farm.”

  “Then don’t lose it,” Caelen said, a ghost of a grin on his lips.

  There was laughter then, the three of them bantering like lads preparing for the world’s most dangerous camping trip. The tension eased into something familiar—plans made, supplies checked, armor tested for fit. By the time they left the alcove, all three were carrying more than gear. They carried the start of something that felt like a bond reforged.

  Pit hefted his pack one last time and said, “This is a good start… but we’re missing the most important thing.”

  Caelen’s head came up sharply. “What?”

  “Cooking things,” Pit said, ticking them off on his fingers. “Pots, kettles. Water skins. Flint for fire, and defensive knives—daggers, at least.”

  Caelen gave a short, approving nod. “Yes. Add to list.” He glanced at Mirelle, who was already scribbling. “Tomorrow—more.”

  The guards grinned. This was shaping up to be quite the journey.

  The late sun slanted through the garden arbor, gilding the table in warm light.

  A scattering of slates and scraps of parchment lay between them, Mirelle’s neat script half-covering Caelen's blocky chalk marks. The smell of harvested mint from the garden mingled with the faint tang of oil from the leather pouches on the table.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Caelen sat forward in his chair, one hand on the wheel rim, the other tapping a slate with three chalk circles drawn along a winding line.

  “Second month, Drop… here. Here. Here.” He glanced up at Mirelle, who was already jotting the locations down with quick, practiced strokes.

  Pit—short, wiry, with dirt under his nails even at supper—leaned in, frowning at the route.

  “That’s a lot of ground to cover. If we check each drop every week like you want, we’ll be moving more than we’re resting.”

  “Rest… at drops,” Caelen replied, voice clipped but steady. “Food. Letters. Move on.”

  Tiberan—taller, broad-shouldered, the kind of man who could sleep in a ditch and wake ready for a fight—crossed his arms. “What about if the drops get found? Hunters, thieves… someone will notice a stash out in the open.”

  Mirelle didn’t look up from her notes. “We won’t make them obvious. He’s already marked places shepherds or woodcutters use—hidden hollows, under stone ledges. And he said the food will keep for a long time, so we can rotate stock, not leave fresh bait for animals.”

  Pit scratched at his chin. “Still think we need decoys. Fake drops. Throw anyone trailing us off the scent.”

  Caelen's lips curled faintly. “Good.” He shifted a slate toward Mirelle and pointed to three new symbols. “Real… false… code.”

  Tiberan nodded slowly, tracing one finger along the route. “Alright. But I’m saying it now—we need more water skins, and I’m not hauling half a forge on my back. Keep it light.”

  Mirelle finally set her pen down. “Light, but enough to survive. Which means you’re both carrying the one big pot and three kettles, whether you like it or not.”

  Pit groaned, throwing up his hands. “Fine. But I’m naming mine.”

  That got the smallest of chuckles out of Caelen, his fingers tapping again on the map. “Name… after… goat.”

  Tiberan raised an eyebrow. “Why a goat?”

  “Carry… anything,” Caelen said, matter-of-fact.

  For a moment, silence settled over the table, broken only by the rustle of the garden leaves and Mirelle’s quiet laugh as she dipped her pen again. The plan was coming together—routes, drops, code marks, and a growing list of missing supplies.

  They still had a month. But each scratch of chalk, each note in Mirelle’s tidy hand, brought the wilds one step closer.

  …

  The rain had been steady all afternoon, tracing silver lines down the tall windows of the parlor. Lady Seraphine sat curled in one of the deep chairs by the hearth, the fire’s glow painting her gown in warm hues as she turned the thin pages of her book. The soft crackle of the logs was broken only by the occasional sigh when a particularly tiresome passage crossed her reading.

  From the doorway came the faint sound of wheels on carpet. She didn’t look up at first, but she could feel it—her son lingering just inside the room, watching her. That hesitation meant he wanted something. Something, she thought with both resignation and affection, that would almost certainly test her patience.

  She marked her page and closed the book in her lap, smoothing her skirts. Alright, Seraphine, she told herself. This time, listen first before you start saying no.

  Caelen rolled closer, then stopped beside her chair. He looked at the fire for a long moment, as if measuring his words with the same care he’d measure a cut of wood.

  “Mother… may I ask… for tea?”

  The question landed so softly, so unexpectedly, that she blinked. For a beat, she simply stared at him, certain she had misheard. Of all the wild schemes and demands he had put before her in recent weeks—armor, tools, guards—this was… tea.

  “You… want tea?” she asked, voice caught between surprise and a laugh.

  He nodded once, a little sheepish. “For… travel. Only small. Know… it’s dear.”

  Her gaze softened. She knew exactly what he meant. Tea was costly here, a luxury they managed carefully. And he was asking not for now, but to take some with him when he left—knowing it was no small thing. Beneath the boy who had plans and maps and guarded secrets, she saw a flicker of the child he had once been, who used to sneak into the kitchen just to smell the leaves before they steeped.

  She reached over and laid her hand over his. “My dear boy… you may take all the tea you need. I’ll even pack it myself.”

  His eyes met hers, and though his voice was still quiet, there was something warm in it. “Thank you… Mother.”

  She squeezed his hand once before letting go. “But you’ll have to promise me one thing.”

  “What?”

  “That when you drink it out there in whatever wild corner you find yourself… you’ll think of home. And maybe—just maybe—you’ll come back sooner.”

  For the first time that afternoon, Caelen smiled, small but sure. “Promise.”

  …

  The road was little more than a strip of mud between black, skeletal trees. The rain had stopped hours ago, but the wheels of the carriage still hissed and squelched through the muck. Lanterns swung low on either side, their light caught in the mist like dying embers.

  Riders flanked the carriage, their movements precise, disciplined. They rode in staggered lines, each keeping a measured distance, eyes scanning the tree line. Cloaks of mottled gray and green blended with the undergrowth, and though their hands rested idly on their saddles, the shapes beneath the cloaks told of bows, short spears, and curved hunting blades. These were not common guards—they moved with the quiet, calculated alertness of men who had lived more under open sky than beneath a roof.

  Inside, the carriage smelled faintly of leather and wet wool. A man sat in the far corner, hands folded neatly atop a walking cane. The hood of his dark coat hung low over his face—until he spoke.

  “Speak.”

  One of the riders drew his mount close, leaning toward the window. His voice was low and sure. “We crossed the southern markers at dusk. The Avalonian sentries did not see us. By tomorrow night, we’ll be in the valley.”

  The man inside nodded slowly, the light catching his face just enough to reveal eyes the color of bleached bone—pale, opaque, and faintly luminescent in the dark.

  “And the manor?” His voice was calm, but each word carried the deliberate weight of command.

  “We know the paths,” the rider said. “Ten days more and we’ll be in sight of its walls. The rest… depends on you.”

  The white-eyed man’s lips curved into something too controlled to be a smile. “It will open. All doors do, in time.”

  A grizzled scout riding on the far side of the carriage cleared his throat. “Avalon’s guard isn’t weak, but they’re predictable. Still… there’s risk. The Lord is not a fool.”

  “They will not see me coming,” the leader interrupted. His tone was soft, but the kind of soft that made the others straighten in their saddles. “By the time they understand, it will be too late. And the boy…” He glanced at the mist curling at the edges of the window. “…will be presented to me willingly.”

  The words settled over the group like a slow frost. No one dared ask how the leader intended to draw the boy out.

  The riders’ pace did not falter, but the forest seemed to close in around them. The weight of their task—and the weapons at their sides—made them an unspoken threat, a shadow already threading its way through the heart of Avalon.

  Somewhere ahead, a young man was counting the days until his departure.

  And behind that quiet count, the pale eyes from his dreams were already riding hard to meet him.