The evening wind carried the scent of the keep's kitchens and the distant river. Elias stood at the balcony of his new quarters, Kael leaning casually on the railing beside him, one hand absently brushing dust off a stack of scrolls. Below, the town sprawled like a living map of human chaos: merchants shouting over the din, children chasing stray dogs across cobblestone streets, guards pacing along stone walls. Beyond the hills, spires of rival lords' keeps glimmered in the fading light, each one a testament to ambitions, grudges, and centuries-old rivalries.
Elias inhaled sharply, letting the cool air steady him. "Kael," he began, careful not to betray curiosity too openly, "tell me about the land beyond these walls. Who rules what? Who envies whom? And… what can threaten Hadrien?"
Kael exhaled through his nose, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "You have the patience of a scholar, Elias, though I doubt you've ever had formal schooling." His tone was teasing, yet measured. "Orravia is fractured—countless petty kingdoms, each with its own lords, levies, and ambitions. Some seek alliances, others, dominance. Hadrien holds sway here, but skirmishes flare in the north, and whispers of plots stir in the east. And always, the Church of Radiance meddles; priests advise, dictate, and sometimes manipulate lords who value divine favor more than reasoned strategy."
Elias' eyes narrowed, absorbing the names, titles, and locations like mental markers. Invisible lines stretched between cities, walls, and roads in his mind. Each whispered rumor, each tale of allegiance or betrayal, became a stored calculation. He noted the gaps: poorly fortified northern passes, towns with weak supplies, nobles drunk on wine rather than vigilance.
"You say some lords rely on priests, others on swords, and some…" Elias paused, glancing at Kael, "on what else?"
Kael's smirk deepened. "Mages, of course" he admitted reluctantly. "A few are attuned to mana. Battle mages, spiritual casters, and the rare few who can bind runes into weapons and armor. Their lords hoard them like gold. Only ten percent of the populace is even attuned—and fewer still can control it effectively. The rest," Kael gestured, "must rely on knowledge, strategy, and careful observation. Steel and strength are tools, yes, but insight often wins where force fails."
Elias tilted his head, pretending familiarity. "Ah… in my homeland, some use such skills to heal, others to defend." His voice sounded casual, as if recalling a childhood memory, though inside, every term—mana, attunement, runes—was a puzzle piece he filed carefully.
Kael's eyes flickered with subtle envy. "A pity we were not born attuned," he muttered, almost under his breath. "Knowledge can only carry us so far against fire and blade."
Elias nodded, a slow smile forming. He cataloged the weaknesses inherent in relying on raw power: overconfidence, lack of logistics, dependence on gifted individuals. Knowledge, observation, and cunning could bend a world built on mana to one's advantage—if one learned fast enough.
He shifted his gaze toward the distant hills, dotted with rival keeps and merchant towns. "And these neighboring lords?" he asked. "Who plots against whom? Where does loyalty end and ambition begin?"
Kael sighed, brushing a hand over his jaw. "The northern Marches are restless. Lord Veyric bears a grudge against Hadrien for a border dispute five years past. Supplies are scarce, levies thin, and spies more numerous than most suspect. Eastward, minor lords jockey for the Crown's favor through marriages, mercenaries, and bribes. Alliances shift faster than wind across the plains."
Elias silently mapped the information, sketching political fault lines. Information is power, he reminded himself. Survive here, and I can bend it to my advantage.
The conversation drifted naturally to the town below. Kael gestured toward trade routes, inns, and local garrisons. "Every road, every market, every inn can be a weakness—or a tool," he said. "And every garrison depends on the lord who commands it."
"And the Church?" Elias asked, weaving his curiosity into his story of a homeland he barely knew. Kael's tone sharpened. "Priests speak in divine tongues, claim mana comes from blessings, control minds through faith as much as skill. The clever lord balances their influence. Too little respect, they stir rebellion; too much, and he becomes a puppet."
Elias nodded subtly, pretending comprehension while internally calculating mundane power: supply lines, alliances, guard rotations. The spiritual influence mattered, yes, but logistics and observation could outmatch even divine sway if wielded correctly.
Their discussion was abruptly cut short by a breathless messenger, delivering a summons from Hadrien himself. Kael's eyes met Elias' for a fleeting moment before he departed. Alone, Elias leaned on the railing, steadying his thoughts.
The mark on his arm pulsed faintly, unnoticed by anyone but him, a reminder of forces beyond politics, observation, or cunning. The land, the keep, the lords—everything was a chessboard. For the first time, Elias could see the pieces clearly.
If survival is my first rule, power my second, then observation will be my weapon, he thought. The faint glow of the mark whispered promises he did not yet understand. Orravia was alive, chaotic, and full of opportunity—and Elias Veyne was beginning to learn how to navigate it.