Chapter 15
Foundations of Stone and Soul
The day had been a long, satisfying blur of finality. Kaelen's small apartment was now empty, his few possessions digitized or discarded. The transaction with the orphanage was complete, the weight of the past acknowledged and settled. As evening cast long, artificial shadows across the Aethelburg arcology, he found himself in a brightly lit supermarket, the hum of refrigeration units and the soft chime of transactions a familiar, mundane symphony.
He picked up a pre-packaged meal—a nutrient-efficient pasta dish. At the checkout, the scanner read his biometrics.
"Identity: Kaelen. Status: Enhancer. Balance: Approved. Thank you for your service to the Federation."
The automated voice was neutral, but the cashier, a young woman, looked up with a flicker of recognition. "The Electric Surge, right? Saw the AVRC bulletin. Good luck on Elysian." She gave him a small, genuine smile.
It was the first time a stranger had acknowledged his new status without pity or bureaucracy. It felt… normal. "Thank you," he replied, the words feeling strange. This was his life now.
Back in the sterile silence of his empty apartment, he ate, showered, and lay on the bare sleeping pad. The chronometer glowed: 21:47. In six days, his life would change again. But tonight, it was time to check on his other life. He closed his eyes, his mind finding the familiar path with the ease of turning a key. The silver cord stretched across the infinite, and his consciousness followed.
---
The world resolved into sunlight and the smell of clean stone and timber. He was walking, his—no, Renly's—boots clicking firmly on the flagstones of the castle's main keep. He felt the powerful, easy stride of the body, the well-fitted tunic and breeches he wore, a marked improvement from the squire's rough-spun wool.
Ser Joric walked beside him, his own armor polished, a cloak of Corvan blue and silver clasped at his shoulder. "Remember your posture, lad. You're a Knight of the realm now, not a boy scrubbing pots."
Kaelen, as Renly, straightened instinctively. "I still feel like one, Ser."
Joric chuckled. "That never truly goes away. Now, listen. Viscount Corvan's family, the Iron-Scales, have held this fief for three generations. His grandfather was the first to swear fealty to the King of Lythos when these northern lands were tamed. Their bloodline is one of defense—the ability to harden their skin like iron for a brief moment. It's saved his life more than once."
They turned down a long corridor, tapestries depicting hunts and battles lining the walls. "The Viscounty is small, but strategic. We control the pass to the Bramblewood and the trade route from the Merchant Alliance of Silverstream to the east. That's why the beast tide hit us so hard—we're the border's shield. To our north, beyond the wood, is the Kingdom of Stonewatch. They're not openly hostile, but they're not friends. They covet our stability and our trade."
Joric gestured out a narrow window slit, towards the lands below. "The Viscount rules from here. His younger brother, Ser Tomas, holds the village of Lakeside. Good man, strong Knight. Then there's Ser Eldric, of the Mist-Ice line—he holds the mountain village of Frostfall. Cunning, that one. The squire's family, the Oak-Horns, used to hold the village of Bluestone you're about to see. Good stock, but they've had no Knight for twenty years. The last one fell to a Shadow-Stalker. The fourth village, Pinebridge, is mine." He said the last part with a quiet, proud finality.
They stopped before a heavy oak door. "And now," Joric said, placing a hand on Renly's shoulder, "one of them will be yours. Remember your oath. Serve well."
The meeting with Viscount Corvan was brief and formal. The Viscount, a man with a stern face and eyes that held the weight of command, sat behind a great desk of dark wood.
"Ser Renly," he began, his voice a low rumble. "Your actions during the tide were noted. The Spark of the Storm-Runner is a rare gift, and your courage rarer still. The village of Bluestone, to the south, has been without a protecting Knight for too long. Its people are hardy, but they need a leader. I would grant you its fief. You will receive a monthly stipend from my coffers and the fealty of its people. In return, you keep the peace, train a militia, and answer my call to arms. Do you accept this charge?"
Kaelen's mind raced. This was stability. A base of operations. A place where Renly could train and grow stronger without the immediate chaos of the castle. It was perfect.
"I do, my Lord. I accept this charge and swear to serve faithfully," Renly said, his voice clear and firm.
"Good. Ser Joric will accompany you to introduce you to the village elders. You may go."
Back in the squire's housing area—a section of the barracks that had been hastily repaired after the battle—Kaelen began gathering his meager belongings: his sword, a spare set of clothes, a bedroll. As he was packing, Corin, the squire who had once been his rival, approached. The jealousy in his eyes had been replaced by a sullen, grudging respect.
"So. Bluestone," Corin said, his tone flat.
"Yes," Renly replied, not stopping his work.
"My great-uncle was their last Knight," Corin said, a hint of old family pride and pain in his voice. "Don't… don't let it fall to ruin."
Kaelen looked up, meeting the other boy's gaze. He saw not an enemy, but another product of this world's harsh system. "I won't."
An hour later, he was mounted on a steady gelding, his few possessions in a saddlebag. Ser Joric sat astride his own warhorse nearby.
"Ready, lad?"
Renly took one last look at the castle that had been his home and his training ground for subjective years. It was no longer his home. He was heading to a broken village, a place with a history of loss. But it was his.
"Ready, Ser."
He nudged his horse forward, falling in beside Joric as they passed under the main gate and onto the dirt road leading south, towards his future, and towards Kaelen's next foothold in a world of endless possibilities.