Chapter 110 Rumors, Whispers, and Party

  Litus Solis awakened hungry for rumor.

  By mid-morning, the merchant district was abuzz—salt and blood being the topic of every mouth and thought. The pirates’ downfall, the defeat of the red-haired brute who once made even hardened sailors cross themselves in fear—this was a victory the city had long prayed for. And victory demanded celebration.

  Yet beneath the cheers, there was calculation.

  The foundation question of every merchant's table was Who was the knight from the Heartlands? What lord would gift a man such purity of salt? And what wealth lay behind that secret trade?

  “I heard he slew the pirate overpowered him with one hand,” a dockworker boasted, slamming a fish-barrel lid down like a sword. “Just like that.”

  The same story was taking place in a jewelry shop. “Nonsense,” sniffed a jeweler, polishing a ring. “Only the mass city guards trapped the pirate. The knight merely made the final blow.”

  But it was whispered everywhere that a capable knight of Avalon now walked the southern coast, and that alone set tongues wagging.

  The day also brought fresh rumors—new and delicious as ripe figs.

  It began first at the city gates. When the Lord’s bannermen arrived, gleaming in crimson and gold, word spread like lightning through the streets:

  The Lord of Litus Solis would soon return. And some whispered more—that he would not be alone. That the Lord of Avalon himself might accompany him.

  Such speculation ignited every tavern tongue.

  In the merchant quarter, the gossip turned sharper still. A certain merchant woman, shrewd and newly flush with coin, had begun acquiring strange supplies—white cloth, tools, metals, herbs—and paying for them in three-pound bags of pure Imperial salt.

  There was only one source for such a treasure.

  Her dealings with the foreign knight were no longer secret.

  Down along the dockyards, fresh murmurings tangled with the salt wind. Fishermen returned with stories stranger than storms—black ash from the volcano’s slopes bought at a generous price. Paid not by the handful but by the ton.

  “To what purpose?” they asked each other. No man could guess. But with a coin in hand, questions are fewer.

  And everywhere—from open markets to candlelit parlors—traders were aflame with anticipation:

  What would become of the three seized pirate ships?

  Would they be dismantled for timber and iron? Sold back to the sea-folk? Or, most tantalizing of all… auctioned to the highest bidder?

  Many dared to dream that their time had finally come—to step into the void left by the pirates and seize new fortunes upon the tide.

  Hope was rising in Litus Solis.

  Hope—and ambition sharp enough to cut steel.

  In the alehouses, men argued what the city should do now with this turn of fortune; in fine parlors, their betters discussed the same, more quietly, with sharper knives.

  Tonight, the city’s elite would celebrate triumph and sniff out opportunity in equal measure.

  And every eye would be measuring that Knight of Avalon.

  …

  By late afternoon, the watch was in crisp array—tabards of red and yellow pressed perfectly, helms polished to a shine that hurt the eye. Their spears created a glittering arch beneath the warm autumn sun, marking the way to the Governor’s Villa.

  Coaches and litters rattled into the courtyard, bearing men and women dressed in silk and ambition. Perfumes of crushed citrus, rose oil, and sea-salt air competed to dominate the breeze.

  Tamsen, meanwhile, scowled at her reflection in the carriage window.

  “I look ridiculous,” she muttered.

  “You look radiant,” the merchant—Alessa—retorted, patting Tamsen’s knee. “And remember: radiant people get better prices.”

  “I am not here to sell anything.”

  “No,” Alessa replied, amused, “but you are representing someone who is. And the guard captain personally requested you attend. Which means you have already become interesting. Try not to glare so hard; your face might crack.”

  Tamsen crossed her arms. “I could still run.”

  “You could,” Alessa conceded. “But I would drag you back by your hair and make you walk through that door barefoot and fuming, and the nobles would assume it is the newest fashion. So—sit up straight.”

  Tamsen mumbled a particularly creative curse, which only made Alessa smile triumphantly.

  …

  When the coach door swung open, Captain Darius himself stood waiting. His red cloak fell in clean lines; his helm was absent, revealing dark hair perfectly combed and the confident posture of a man who believed no blade could best him in his own city.

  He offered his arm.

  “Tamsen of Seps Nova,” he greeted with courtly grace. “I am honored you accepted my invitation.”

  Against her better instincts, Tamsen took his hand to dismount—and his grip lingered a heartbeat too long. His eyes traveled the length of her gown—a soft forest-green that complemented neither her temper nor her patience—and returned to meet hers with an unmistakable spark.

  Alessa’s eyebrows rose in silent amusement.

  Tamsen pretended she hadn’t noticed.

  “That remains to be decided,” she said plainly.

  Darius’s grin deepened, entirely unbothered. “Then I live in hope.”

  He released her hand reluctantly and escorted the two women inside, stepping just slightly closer to Tamsen than propriety allowed.

  The ballroom opened like a golden dream.

  Lanterns of colored glass washed the grand chamber in shifting hues—amber, azure, and emerald—glinting off marble floors polished to mirror sheen. A quartet of musicians played an airy reel that carried the sea-salted breeze through open balconies.

  A feast sprawled along the sideboard:

  Roast fish and lemon-wine sauce

  Spiced olives and sugared nuts

  A tower of peach-glazed pastries

  Steaming platters of honeyed pork

  And a surprise to the delight of the city was Fresh Lemon water, clean and clear.

  But more intoxicating than the food were the eyes—hundreds of them: Calculating. Weighing. Waiting.

  Tamsen felt the press of their interest like a too-tight cloak around the shoulders. Her jaw clenched.

  Alessa leaned closer and whispered:

  “Remember—smile. They can smell fear.”

  Tamsen bared her teeth with the enthusiasm of a cornered wolf.

  “That will do,” Alessa murmured, patting her arm.

  Across the room, noble ladies and wealthy merchants fluttered fans, already angling for the best position when the knight would be revealed.

  Somewhere within the glitter and laughter, the future of Litus Solis—and its uneasy alliance with this Avalon knight—had begun to shift.

  And Tamsen knew: She had just stepped into a ballroom full of predators.

  …

  The herald’s staff struck thrice — a crisp crack that silenced music and laughter alike.

  “My lords and ladies, presenting Lord Marcus Luceron, Governor-Regent of Litus Solis — and Ser Dathran of the Hollow!”

  The ballroom turned as one.

  The young Lord entered first, stern in his red-and-gold doublet, though the pride he held tonight was plainly shared— every gaze slid past him to the knight at his shoulder.

  Ser Dathran cut an imposing figure in a dress tunic and a fresh black sash. He bore no sigil — no banner to claim — which made him all the more tantalizing.

  A knight with no declared allegiance? A weapon seeking a wielder.

  Whispers fluttered like startled birds:

  Avalon’s own? No, Avalon's knights declare their Houses. Then who?

  Speculation tasted like wine — bold and intoxicating.

  The first wave of nobles surged forward with smiles sharpened to razors — bowing, flattering, offering cups of spiced wine and questions dressed as compliments.

  But Ser Dathran’s attention remained fixed ahead — pushing past hands desperate to catch his arm, past a young maiden who practically fell into his path, past a Merchant-Patron of spice whose grin soured with offense when ignored.

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  The knight’s duty marched him through the sea of silk, with Lord Marcus Luceron in tow.

  Straight toward two women waiting near a fragrant display of orange blossoms.

  One stately — the merchant Alessandra of House Bargiani, every ring on her hand gleaming like she’d bitten fortune and kept the teeth.

  The other — Tamsen of Seps Nova — plainly dressed but glowing with a fierce, unadorned strength that unsettled courtiers. A peasant by birth, clearly. A woman used to being in charge, dangerously so.

  Dathran bowed, formal and crisp. Turning to Lord Marcus Luceron

  “My lord — may I present Tamsen of Seps Nova and the Hollow and Mistress Alessandra of my mother's fine House Bargiani.”

  Silence followed.

  Of the Hollow. The phrase carried weight.

  In Avalon’s traditions, “of the Hollow” marked those bound by oath, not birth. It was used when lineage must remain veiled.

  The nobles understood immediately: These two are tied to someone influential. Someone who wishes to remain unseen.

  Eyes narrowed. Curiosities sharpened.

  Tamsen gave the knight a flinty look that was not gratitude. The merchant inclined her head with the grace of one who knew exactly how valuable she was becoming.

  The young Lord cleared his throat and continued swiftly — as though trying to outrun the questions forming around them.

  “Tonight, we honor valor…” His voice lifted for the room. “Ser Dathran struck down a scourge upon our shores. The city sleeps more safely because of them.”

  A ripple of applause followed — polite at first, then swelling into cheers accompanied by triumphant claps on the knight’s back… and sideways glances at the two women now placed firmly in the center of the storm.

  The music resumed — this time quicker, brighter, emboldened by the story forming before them.

  Courtiers and merchants began their slow circling again — this time like wolves scenting an injured stag.

  Questions were knives sheathed in courtesy:

  “Ser Dathran — from where do you draw your salt?”

  “Mistress Alessandra — what arrangements exactly do you hold with this fine knight?”

  “Tamsen, was it? What draws you to the southern coast? Where in Avalon do you hail from? What is your involvement in the salt trade?”

  Tamsen met every probing query with a bluntness that left noble tongues twisted.

  “I’m here to drink your wine, not answer your prying questions.”

  “Where I come from is none of your business.”

  “If you want trade terms, speak to the merchant — not me.”

  Cold, cutting truth — delivered with a hint of a grin.

  Some nobles recoiled.

  Others leaned in, intrigued.

  The merchant Alessandra, however, glided gracefully from conversation to conversation — words weaving opportunity as easily as silk. Each comment carefully measured to reveal nothing while suggesting everything desirable.

  And Ser Dathran took up post always near Tamsen’s back — a half step behind and to the left — engaged with the people but always watching.

  The night, once stiff with ceremony, loosened into laughter and song.

  The musicians found their pace, the wine found its way into empty cups, and soon the hall breathed like a single, great creature — warm, loud, and hungry for novelty.

  To everyone's bewilderment, Tamsen — that sharp-tongued stranger with no title to soften her roughness — became the axis of more and more attention.

  Not from preening young lords or silken gallants.

  But from Captain Darius himself.

  He approached like a man testing uncertain ground — first a jest, then a question, then another jest — until the stern lines of Tamsen’s face cracked into a reluctant smile. And once she smiled, she laughed… and that laugh surprised them both.

  Those who witnessed it traded quick whispers:

  “A guardsman? With her? He must like a challenge. Or he’s smarter than he looks,” whispered one woman.

  Dathran, watching from close enough to intervene, muttered into his wine: “Veils save the poor fool.”

  Whenever merchants tried to corner the knight into trade talk, he simply nodded toward Alessandra, who was already deep in negotiations. In one afternoon, she had gone from desperate to queen of opportunity, and it showed in her poised confidence.

  …

  Half-drunk heirs of merchant houses crowded Dathran near the marble column.

  The knight responded with blunt discipline:

  “We fought. My men held. Their courage outshone mine.”

  “But did you sever his head? Stab him through the throat? Did he beg—”

  “He died standing. A man deserves better memory than children’s cruelties.”

  That reply silenced the worst of the blood-hungry pups — some ashamed, others merely disappointed they wouldn’t get a heroic spectacle described in gore.

  Elsewhere, the steward Hadron had cornered a cluster of nobles near a cascade of roses.

  “We must determine the fate of those three seized hulls,” he fretted. “Can the city claim prize rights?”

  A balding salt-merchant chimed:

  “Auction them! The harbor needs strong hands. If the pirates return—”

  “They should be returned,” hissed a seapeople merchant hunched like a crow. It was said he was more pirate than merchant.

  A lady in emerald leaned close, whispering:

  “And the prisoners? The city must hang them. A display of strength.”

  “The kingdom’s magistrates will arrive any day,” the steward reminded sharply. “Their courts—”

  “Their meddling,” someone muttered.

  Voices lowered, suspicion rising like smoke.

  …

  At a quieter table, two shrewd traders eyed the dark-haired knight again.

  “The staff stated that you brought barrels with you,” one murmured.

  “Water,” said the other. “But from where?”

  Fresh water on the Blue Coast was worth its weight in pearls.

  If this knight could supply it, trade, coin, and power.

  The knight's response was odd to both traders when he hinted that the water trade would not be profitable for long.

  Tamsen and Captain Darius had found a strange rhythm.

  She jabbed him verbally — he parried with charm.

  She mocked his polished boots — he teased her rough hands.

  She demanded stronger wine — he fetched it personally.

  To the watching nobles, this was almost scandalous.

  A noble captain, a — dutiful, silent, unapproachable — and a woman of unknown birth who laughed freely and took up space without apology.

  More than one lady marked Tamsen with envy.

  More than one lord marked her with calculation.

  And not a single one of them understood the truth:

  She was there because the Hollow’s future demanded a voice — and she had been chosen to wield it.

  Even if she had not yet chosen to accept that weight.

  …

  Most were drunk on revelry by then — flushed cheeks, loosened tongues, and a rising hope that the city’s troubles might finally be shifting in their favor.

  Thus, very few noticed the side door whisper open.

  A lone footman, cloak draped stiffly over his livery, slipped into the hall. He walked with practiced quiet toward the dais where the young Marcus Luceron stood in quaint conversation. A murmur — a nod — and then the footman moved briskly into the crowd.

  One by one, he gathered: The Steward, Captain Darius, Sir Dathran…and, after a beckoning gesture from the knight, Tamsen.

  The cluster formed in a curtained alcove, lit only by low wall sconces. The noise of the party seemed to fade beneath the weight of the secrecy.

  Lord Luceron frowned when he realized Tamsen had been included — a subtle twitch of skepticism in his brow — but he restrained any comment out of respect for Avalon’s victorious knight.

  “The message is… curious,” he began.

  Captain Darius leaned in. “What message?”

  “A northern levy caravan arrived at the river gate.” Marcus’s voice remained low. “At night.”

  Darius scowled. “The gates were locked. No sane man travels these roads in darkness. Why come now?”

  “That,” Marcus continued, “is not the strangest part. The courier reports they encountered a company traveling south.”

  The steward’s jaw tightened. “A company? Armed?”

  “Yes.” Marcus hesitated. “Avalon’s company. And they have taken up residence — or some activity — in the Gloamhollow.”

  The name hung like a curse. Superstition stirred.

  Dathran stiffened.

  Tamsen’s breath caught.

  The Lord was not blind to subtle tells. His eyes narrowed.

  “You know something of this,” he said carefully.

  For a beat, even Dathran expected to speak… but the first voice to answer was Tamsen’s.

  Her tone was crisp, composed — utterly unlike the woman who had stomped into this party refusing to belong here.

  “There is nothing to fear, my Lord,” she said. “It is the White Company.”

  The title itself seemed to reverberate. Darius blinked.

  The steward frowned in bafflement. “There is no White Company,” the steward protested. “I manage the rosters. That unit does not exist.”

  The young Lord cocked his head slowly — and memory struck him like a drawn bowstring loosed.

  “No…” His voice softened. “Yes. Yes, there is.”

  He glanced at Tamsen, confirming what he already suspected.

  “It was newly raised,” Marcus murmured. “A fresh banner — Avalon’s own. Directly under the authority of the House of Avalon.” His breathing steadied as he pieced the implications.

  “And if a company marches south,” he whispered, “it does so with purpose.”

  A long silence followed.

  The steward licked suddenly dry lips.

  “So,” he said quietly, “Avalon moves.”

  Captain Darius swallowed.

  “And they move here.”

  Sir Dathran bowed his head slightly — the most confirmation he dared offer.

  The young Lord of Litus Solis looked between the knight and Tamsen — no longer doubting their importance, nor the dangerous potential sleeping in Gloamhollow.

  The music outside continued — unaware — as if nothing had changed.

  But in that alcove, the ground of the Blue Coast quietly moved.

  Avalon had shifted pieces on the board. And now every other piece would move differently.

  …

  Night pressed cool and heavy upon the Bay as the hired vessel crept south along the rocky coast. The water below shimmered with a ruddy glow, cast by the distant volcano — its simmering pyroclasm reflecting on the low clouds like banked embers beneath a hearth. Ahead, faint pinpricks of civilization marked the city of Litus Solis, though it was still too far to hear its surf or its sleepless unrest.

  Frater Alborum of the Order Alborum, White Priest of Order, stood near the prow — a stark figure in white vestments amid sailors wearing worn canvas and sweat-shined skin. His hands gripped the railing hard enough to numb the fingers. Beneath his palm, the ship trembled with each pull of the oars, each shift of canvas.

  Around him, the crew worked in anxious silence.

  The vessel was being changed — made to resemble a Kingdom Minsters ship rather than the unremarkable trade barge they had boarded in Eastwatch. They had darkened tar-soaked planking, swapped banners, and stowed certain crates deep in the bilge—anything to keep “prying eyes” from guessing their purpose.

  A deception for the sake of necessity. He was experienced at that.

  But his mind was not at peace. There had been… failures.

  Threads of compulsion he had woven for years — perfect bindings into the minds of three key figures: the Avalon steward, Chief Scribe in Avalon city, and a master of correspondence in Isenford.

  One by one, those silver threads had begun to unravel.

  Compulsion magic did not unravel. Not without intervention.

  His jaw clenched. “Someone or something is cutting my work free.”

  Not the steward — he was under too deep a layer of conditioning to struggle. Not the scribe. She lacked the will. Yet their quietness these last days felt intentional. Protected. Shielded.

  His chest tightened. He hated not being in control, and now learned he hated the not knowing even more.

  He replayed the sensation: each morning, when the sun crested the sea, his mental grip slipped a little further. A thread snapped yesterday. Two more this morning. It felt as if a blade of quiet will was slicing at his magic every day.

  That should be impossible.

  No White Priest in recorded lineage had ever encountered resistance from Avalon. Its people didn’t follow the Church’s law, their lords tolerated no priesthood, and their souls were not blessed enough to ward their thoughts.

  Yet someone was undoing him—someone in Avalon.

  His tongue felt dry. He whispered a prayer under his breath — but no warmth answered it.

  Along the deck behind him, Minister Joral murmured sharp commands to a group of hired soldiers, adjusting their armor’s insignia to display the crest of the King. They would pass as royal attachés when they arrived — an entourage with purpose. He heard Joral hiss:

  “Remove that merchant rope. Replace it with navy braid. Litus Solis must see an arm of the Kingdom arrive — not beggars.”

  The magician — a fire-touched mage named Vosk — quietly observed from the stern, his fingers flickering small sparks as though rehearsing. Alborum distrusted him. Fire was too passionate, too wild, and such men rarely respected law or hierarchy.

  But fire was useful when the night might need to burn.

  Alborum’s gaze drifted again toward land. Litus Solis slept uneasily tonight — pirates rioting, wealth draining, Confusion and stupidity in the city lords.

  “Avalon will always sleep,” he whispered. The thought turned to a thorn. He squeezed the rail harder.

  He must discover the truth.

  “Some in the city remain loyal to me. Bound. Controlled.” Yes. Some minds are still bent toward his will.

  But the steward — his primary tether — had stopped responding.

  “Where are you?” Alborum whispered to the night. “Why is your mind no longer mine?”

  A faint burn pulsed behind his eyes — the familiar ache of compulsion strain. He needed rest. But rest would not come while uncertainty festered like an infection beneath a scar.

  He feared the shore before him.

  He feared what he would learn.

  He feared he might find not weakness to exploit, but strength rising against him.

  The shifting crew around him did not notice his quiet dread — they labored, prepping the ship’s appearance for morning. Ropes creaked; canvas flapped; tar burned faintly in iron pots used to fix the new heraldry.

  The volcano’s glow brightened — a warning from the earth itself.

  Joral stepped beside him, forcing cheer.

  “A good omen,” he declared softly. “A red dawn will greet us. The city is ours to reorder.”

  Alborum did not answer immediately.

  His fingers brushed a smooth, cold stone hidden in his sleeve — the one he had found on deck.

  It sat against his skin like a verdict waiting to be spoken.

  “…No,” he finally murmured. “The city will test us first.”

  The minister frowned. “Test? By whom?”

  Alborum’s eyes remained fixed on the silhouette of the city, dark and waiting just beyond the horizon.

  “By whatever power thinks to undo my law,” he said, voice thin with controlled fear. “And I must learn its name.”

  Morning would bring answers. Or disasters. Perhaps both.