Chapter 125 Someone Missing
Chapter 125 Someone Missing
The solar was warm, contrasting with the early morning light, though none of the men within it felt particularly comforted. Dust motes drifted through the amber glow as if suspended in judgment, watching four men wrestle with the shape of their city’s future.
A brazier burned low near the window. Documents from a wax-sealed satchel lay scattered across the long table—maps, ledgers, charcoal sketches, and proposals inked in a distinct, messy hand. Caelen’s hand.
Lord Eldric sat at the table’s head, his silvering hair catching the sun. Lord Branric leaned back in his chair, arms folded, his expression flickering between disbelief and irritation. The steward of Litus Solis hovered by the hearth with a ledger, and Magus Calvred—robes smelling faintly of mint and smoke—sorted the papers with scholarly precision.
A heavy silence hung until Branric broke it with a low, wary growl.
“I cannot agree with all of this,” he said, tapping a packet of neatly folded proposals as though they might bite. “Some of it sounds… bold. Far too bold. The south will not know what hit it if we follow every line penned in this accursed satchel.”
Eldric rubbed his brow with two fingers. “There are parts that make good sense to me.”
Calvred lifted his head sharply. “Then let us review the pieces that do make sense—and leave the more… transformative suggestions for last.” His tone implied: before Branric bursts a vein.
With a steady breath, Eldric reached for the topmost sheaf—the one once tied in thin blue twine. Smoothing the page with his palm.
“Very well,” Eldric said. “Let’s begin with the first proposal.”
He read aloud, voice carrying the weight of something half administrative, half revolutionary:
Establish the Soldier’s Pension Fund
For the City Guard and Navy
Funded by the auction of any cargo, only, of seized pirate vessels.
Branric snorted, though not dismissively. “This personally makes sense to me. It rewards those who bleed for us. A wounded man ought not beg coin to feed his family.”
Eldric nodded. “It is what we owe those who stand between our homes and the sea-raiders.”
But the lord of Litus Solis was not finished. His eyes narrowed. “However, what happens if the seized cargo were silver? Or gods forbid, a hoard of gold? I am not eager to turn over a king’s ransom to a pension fund.”
Calvred gave a short, mirthful laugh. “And when have we ever seized a pirate ship filled with gold? Or even silver? Branric, the day pirates start delivering treasure-laden vessels to your harbor, I shall eat my staff.”
Branric glared at him, but his ears reddened.
Eldric pressed forward. “So. Do we agree this—this fund—is a policy worth keeping?”
Branric exhaled through his nose, long and slow. “Reluctantly… yes. It is the best thing for the men who follow us.”
Eldric placed the page in a separate pile. “Very well. Next.”
He pulled free a bound set of diagrams—thin parchment covered in precise ink-work: a street grid, a central courtyard, secured warehouses, numbered locks, gatehouses, tariffs, rotation schedules for guards. At the bottom, Caelen’s careful marking: SALT QUARTER—PHASE I.
Branric’s eyes widened as he recognized the scope. “By the Veils,” he breathed. “This—this will put us at odds with the salt merchants. They will claw our eyes out rather than surrender their profit.”
But Eldric was smiling faintly now, the expression of a man glimpsing the shape of a future long denied him.
“Perhaps not,” Eldric said. “This looks to be a shared enterprise. They gain new revenue and limited access to imperial salt. The city gains proper oversight. And Avalon retains control over the most valuable commodity in the south.”
Calvred leaned in, adjusting the papers so the sunlight struck the neat rows of figures. “If even half these numbers are correct,” he whispered, “the income is staggering. Tens of thousands of silver each season. Trade from the coast to the capital.”
Branric swallowed. “We have never handled such volume. Never.”
“It is a plan of caution and protection,” Eldric said softly, closing the folder. “And a plan that gives the city the wealth to stand on its own feet. The right balance, I think.”
They were quiet then, each man staring at the proposals with a mingled sense of awe and dread—like men holding the blueprint for a new city, a new world, and realizing it had come from the hand of a child barely past boyhood.
A child who saw further than any of them. A child who was divining a new future for Avalon and the city.
In the crackle of the brazier, with parchment whispering under their hands, they understood—
These were not suggestions. These were the beginnings of a realm remade.
Eldric lifted the next document—thicker than most, bound with a narrow strip of gray cloth. He read the title slowly, as though tasting each word for danger.
“The Survey of the Southern Lands
For the Sole Purpose of Parceling and Selling to Merchants and Nobles.”
Branric nearly choked on his wine.
But before any of them could speak, Magus Calvred’s hand shot out—quick as a hawk snatching a field mouse.
“No,” Calvred said sharply. “Not that one. Not yet.”
Eldric blinked. “It seems straightforward—”
“It is not straightforward,” the Magus snapped, gathering the offending proposal as though it might ignite. “We cannot discuss selling off land—city land—until we settle the matter of this new concept of communal farming.”
Branric muttered, “Communal… what in blazes does that even—”
Calvred overrode him. “If the boy intends to restructure the southern demesnes from the soil upward—to change how farms are laid, how fields are owned, how workers rotate—then we must understand the framework before we debate who can buy a single acre.”
He placed the communally bound treatise in the center of the table, tapping it with two fingers. The gesture reverberated like a gavel.
Eldric exhaled. “He means to change the entire social contract of the countryside.”
“Yes,” Calvred murmured, “and if this is to be followed, the land itself becomes something… shared. Stewarded. Managed by communities, not seized by lords. The implications are enormous.”
Branric’s face reddened. “The merchants will riot. You’ll have every minor house from Windwatch to Haldrith banging on our gates—”
“And yet,” the steward said softly, “the boy’s notes indicate yields rising by a third. Infrastructure is maintained at the local level. Irrigation controlled by villages, not left to rot under absentee lords.”
A long silence stretched.
It was the Magus who broke it, reaching—almost reverently—for another parchment still sealed.
“And besides,” he added, quieter now, “we must discuss this.”
The flowing script like a whisper in a crypt.
THE SOUTHERN ACADEMY OF CRAFT AND LEARNING
For Navigation, Engineering, Letters, and the Studies of Law & Veil-Lore
Branric murmured a prayer under his breath.
Eldric stared at the page as though seeing a city that did not yet exist but somehow already breathed.
“A school,” he whispered. “Not merely for mages. For engineers. Shipwrights. Clerks. Builders.”
Calvred’s eyes gleamed. “For tomorrow’s Avalon.”
And then all four men began to speak at once—arguments, hopes, fears, logistics—papers sliding, hands gesturing, voices rising and falling like tide against stone.
One by one, more documents spilled across the table:
—plans for reshaping the salt quarter
—tax reforms
—trade routes
—river dredging
—militia training rotations
—shipwright guild reforms
—market law
—grain reserves
—a quayside redesign
—and something new called civic charters.
The debate swelled like storm winds trapped in a room.
The steward scribbled notes as fast as his hand allowed.
Branric railed. Calvred analyzed. Eldric weighed and measured with the gravity of a lord who suddenly realized that every choice he made in this room would shape a century.
Outside, the sun dipped below the sea. Inside, the candle flames guttered low.
Still, they argued, page by page, through ideas too large for any one city— ideas that could lift a realm or remake it entirely.
And though none of them said it aloud, each man felt the truth settling on their shoulders:
These were not plans. They were prophecy waiting for a voice. And the boy who wrote them saw far, far further than any of them had understood.
…
The governor’s manor dozed uneasily.
Long after the small council had dispersed and the last of the wax had guttered low, Lord Eldric remained in the solar, alone with the final stack of parchment—those proposals that dared to reach beyond Litus Solis, beyond even the southern marches, into the heartstone of all Avalon.
He read in silence.
Plans for river forts, Roads, and for reorganizing the militias. Tax reforms so elegant they might have been chiseled by the Veils themselves. All for a realm knit together tighter than in his grandfather’s day. Most shocking was that he even shared his thoughts about the king's levy, which were startling and unimaginable.
When he finished, Eldric exhaled slowly, rubbing weary eyes.
“Veils bless the boy,” he muttered, half pride, half dread. “And veils help him when Seraphine sees what he wants to set in motion.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—gone as quickly as it came.
Needing air, he slipped from the solar and walked the starlit corridor toward the small ocean-facing courtyard. The night wind carried brine and faint lantern-smoke from the harbor. As he neared the archway, he heard voices—low, urgent, troubled.
He stepped through.
They were gathered in a tight knot around the old fountain basin, where the nucleus of the hollows people was discussing with the restless energy of youth.
They froze as the Lord of Avalon entered.
“It seems,” Eldric said quietly, “I am not the only one who feels a crucial member of our company is… absent.”
A shared sorrow passed through the group like a shadow.
Brother Renn lowered his head, the lines of his face drawn with fatigue and longing. “My lord… without him, I fear we are half-blind. We do our work, yes—but the heart is missing.”
Mirelle gave a single sharp nod. “When he is here, my lord, the path is clear. We know what must be done. Without him…” She let the sentence unravel into the night air.
Tamsen blew out a breath, arms crossed tight. “My lord, this is beyond us. All of it. Saltworks, aqueducts, councils, law-weaving—I wasn’t meant for half of what he’s thrown me into.” Her eyes softened, though begrudgingly. “But when he speaks… it all makes sense. As if the world itself shifts to show the path. And damn him, but he makes you believe you can do the impossible.”
Pit, standing behind her, murmured, “He sees things I can’t even name. But when he tells me to act…” He shrugged helplessly. “It works.”
Ser Dathran—who rarely spoke unless necessity demanded it—stepped forward.
“My lord,” as the Lawweaver said, voice steady but edged with unmistakable awe, “I do not understand. Why must he hide in that valley? Why must the hollow hold someone who should stand beside kings?”
The courtyard stilled, the ocean wind whispering in the silence.
Dathran continued, almost reverently:
“He told me himself—Aldric is the heir. He will not contest it. He is content to serve. But… my lord…”
He swallowed.
“There are men born to inheritance, and there are men born to legacy. Your younger son is the latter. In my judgment, he will stand among the great ones of history. He sees farther than any of us. He bends the world as though it were greenwood. I cannot fathom—why hide him away?”
The others bowed their heads, as though his words had touched something raw and genuine.
Eldric lifted a hand—quieting them.
“That,” he said, voice low with a father’s pride and a lord’s terrible knowledge, “is precisely why he hides.”
Confusion flickered across their faces.
Eldric stepped closer, gaze sweeping them all.
“If the realm knew what he is,” he continued, “what he sees, what he can shape—there would be factions clamoring to claim him. Enemies eager to break him. And allies… who would bind him in golden chains of expectation.”
He paused.
“And he is still so young. His power outruns his years. His brilliance outruns his caution. But he is also bound in chains, the soulbind.”
Tamsen swallowed hard.
Brother Renn whispered, “So he stays hidden… because greatness draws fire.”
Eldric nodded.
“Because the first step to protecting him,” he said softly, “is you all understanding the burden you bear. Not merely to follow him… but to guard him. Even from himself, at times.”
A hush settled over the courtyard—somber, solemn, binding.
Slowly, one by one, each companion bowed their head—not in fealty, but in recognition of the truth laid bare.
A fellowship formed not by oath, but by understanding. By duty.
By love—for a boy who saw the shape of a future more clearly than any of them.
And for the first time, Eldric felt the full weight of it settle on all their shoulders.
The boy was rebuilding the realm.
They must be the shield that let him do it.
…
The Tribunal chamber smelled of salt, ink, and the smoke of guttering tallow-candles. Dawn had not yet colored the windows, leaving the long stone hall lit only by wavering flame. The shadows clung deep in the arches above, as though listening.
At the center table sat the Steward of Litus Solis, Branric’s steward, robed in somber gray, the seal of the city hanging heavily at his breast. Before him lay three thick ledgers, newly inked and weighted with wax.
Along the bench, the four members of the tribunal waited in rigid silence.
All bore the same tired gravity. Judgment was a difficult business, even when just.
The steward cleared his throat, voice echoing faintly in the cold air.
“Let the record show,” he began, “that the lower tribunal has concluded its review of the captured pirates from the assault on Litus Solis.”
He opened the ledger.
“As per the Law of Avalon, any who drew blood with intent to kill—any who murdered—shall meet the death they earned.”
A long pause.
“This number has been judged to be one hundred and thirty-two.”
The candles fluttered, as if in comment.
Lord Branic bowed his head once—short, firm, without pity.
Brother Renn's fingers tightened briefly.
The steward continued.
“For those judged not guilty of murder—those whose crimes, while grave, fall short of bloodshed—the Lawweaver recommends clemency with penalty.”
A faint rustle as all eyes flicked briefly toward Tamsen. Her expression was as stone.
“These men, numbering two hundred and one, shall be bound to two years’ compulsory labor for the realm: roadworks, quarry duty, and service in the construction of the new aqueduct.”
The words hung in the chill air: not mercy, but purpose—punishment shaped into labor, labor shaped into value.
The steward looked up from the ledger.
“Thus, these are the findings of the lower tribunal review.”
He straightened, gaze steady as he surveyed the four. “Do you all agree?”
Lord Branic answered first. “Aye.”
Tamsen inclined her head. “Aye.”
Master Demagus grunted his assent. “Aye.”
Brother Renn whispered, “Aye,” his voice a prayer unto itself.
The steward closed the ledger with a soft, final thud.
“So it is decided,” he said. “These findings shall be sealed and delivered to the Lord of Avalon for execution of punishment… or any mercy he may grant.”
A breath of wind slid through the arrow-slit windows, carrying the distant roar of waves. Outside, dawn’s first pale glimmer touched the sea.
Inside the tribunal hall, judgment was complete.
And Avalon’s justice—stern, ancient, unyielding—had spoken.
…
Word traveled faster than bells.
By midmorning, the streets of Litus Solis thrummed with whispers as the judgment of the lower tribunal passed from mouth to mouth—by washerwomen at the wells, merchants in the Salt Quarter, fishermen mending nets along the quay.
One hundred and thirty-two to hang.
Two hundred and one sentenced to labor.
The Law of Avalon, stern as stone, has spoken.
Reactions came in waves.
Some muttered it was too harsh—old sailors remembering lean days and strange choices made on dark seas. Others said not harsh enough—families who had lost kin to piracy cursing the pirates’ names.
But most—most nodded with the weary sobriety of a people who had tasted danger too recently.
“It is justice,” they said. “And mercy enough to make it lawful.”
By noon, the condemned were taken—quietly, without spectacle—to the old execution yard behind the Harbor Gate. The gallows boards creaked, and justice dropped 132 times, and then silence fell. No bodies were left to rot on the walls as a warning. The city had no wish for gore. The men were buried swiftly and with the dignity owed even to the fallen guilty.
But there was little time for reflection.
For already, the city hummed with a different energy—brighter, sharper. A new spectacle took place on the quay, now named by the people the Lawweavers Quay, and the name stuck immediately.
It was on this newly christened stretch of waterfront that the cargo of the three captured pirate ships was laid out—bales, crates, barrels, coils of rope, tools, provisions, tar, sailcloth, even small luxuries. The auction was brisk, the stewards calling out numbers loudly, clearly, so that no shadow of doubt touched the proceedings.
And the people saw—astonished—that every silver piece was tallied there on the quay for all to witness.
More astonishing still was what followed.
When the final bid was struck and the ledgers sealed, Captain Darius stepped forward and called the names of the wounded and maimed of the Watchmen who had limped through fire and blood defending their home.
They came forward uncertainly, unsure what to expect.
And then each man—each one—received his pension payout immediately, on the spot, from the freshly filled coffers. Some wept openly. Others saluted through shaking hands. The crowd roared its approval, the sound rolling like surf against the breakwall.
A city’s pride had been rekindled.
The day did not end there.
In the late afternoon, as gulls wheeled overhead and the tide lapped lazily at the harbor pilings, the three captured vessels themselves were put to auction. The bidding was fierce—three merchant houses and one cooperative of smaller traders vying like wolves scenting fortune.
In the end, two houses and the collaborative secured the vessels, cheers rising as the gavel struck. Already, carpenters and sailwrights swarmed aboard the ships to take measure of repairs and outfitting.
Talk of new trade routes sprang up on every corner.
Hopes of prosperity shimmered like sunlight on the harbor water.
For the first time in many months, Litus Solis felt the future stirring, bold, bright, and possible.
…
Avalon City
Snow sifted down the tall windows of the Lady’s Solace like drifting feathers—soft, steady, the kind of snowfall that swallowed sound and made even stone halls seem tender. Embers glowed in the hearth, casting a red-gold hush over the room.
Lady Seraphine reclined on a long couch of woven blue wool, her hair unbound at last, her expression the picture of a woman who had survived a season of nobles with her sanity intact.
“Bless the Veils,” she murmured, cradling her tea. “At last… silence.”
Aldric lounged opposite her, boots stretched toward the hearth, tunic half unlaced, looking—for once—almost his seventeen years. The hardened cast of worry he had carried all winter had eased, leaving something gentler on his face.
“It’s good not to attend another feast,” he said, rubbing his temple. “If I hear one more minor lord try to wed me to his daughter, I may throw myself into the snow.”
Lady Seraphine’s lips twitched. “Darling, that is because you are handsome, dutiful, and heir to one of the most desirable lands in the realm.”
“Mother.”
“Also,” she continued serenely, “because you look exactly like your father did at seventeen, and half the Continent tried to marry him.”
Aldric groaned.
Across the room, by the frosted window, Lissette sat curled in a great chair, arms crossed, muttering darkly under her breath. Her hair—half braided, half undone—was a map of her frustration.
“My friends have all left,” she complained. “Avalon is dull again. The snow is dull. The halls are dull. Aldric is dull.”
Aldric arched a brow. “Charming.”
Lissette ignored him completely.
“It is good to relax finally,” Lady Seraphine said. “No councils, no banquets, no catching Lord Varlen’s wife hiding wine in her cloak.”
Aldric laughed. Lissette didn't.
“And,” Seraphine added lightly, “your birthday is nearly upon us, Aldric.”
He stiffened. “…must we?”
“Oh, we must,” she said, in the tone of a woman who feared neither brigand nor king. “It shall be proper. And large. And entirely too loud. We will invite all the cousins.”
Aldric blanched. “Mother, please—”
Seraphine smiled sweetly. “Is there any particular young lady you would wish us to invite?”
Aldric nearly choked.
Lissette perked up instantly, a wicked grin. “Yes, Aldric. Anyone special? Anyone you blush around? Anyone with braids? Anyone with both eyes? Anyone human?”
Aldric lobbed a cushion at her. She dodged, cackling.
Then—mid-laugh—something clicked in Lissette’s expression—a sudden spark.
She froze.
“Wait,” she said slowly. “If we invite all our family… that means…”
Her eyes widened.
“…Caelen must come.”
Lady Seraphine smiled over her teacup. “Of course. He is family.”
Lissette sprang upright. “Mother—write him now. No—write father and my brother immediately. I expect them both to come. And bring gifts.”
Aldric groaned again. “Lissette, it is my birthday. Gifts go to the birthday person, not the random attendees.”
Lissette placed a hand over her heart, affronted to her core.
“Random?” she gasped. “Random?”
“You are not the reason people attend my birthday,” he said with elder-brother patience. “I am.”
Lissette sniffed with aristocratic disdain. “Hardly. Most people only tolerate you because of me.”
Aldric’s mouth opened—then closed. He looked at his mother for rescue.
Seraphine merely sipped her tea.
The room warmed with laughter—not loud, not riotous, but deep and familial. The kind that filled the spaces the wind could not reach.
Outside, snow continued its steady fall.
Inside, a family—each marked by destiny, each unaware how close it drew—found a moment of peace.