CHAPTER 61: THE CITY OF SPIRES

The road crested the final ridge, and Soren’s breath caught in his throat.

The City of Spires sprawled beneath them, impossibly vast, a creature of stone and timber that had devoured the valley floor. Massive walls studded with watchtowers encircled the metropolis, their pale stone catching the midday sun.

Countless banners snapped in the wind, crimson and gold, azure and silver, colors Soren couldn’t even name, each marking territory, proclaiming allegiance, demanding recognition. Through the heart of it all, a silver river cut like a blade, spanned by bridges that looked like the stitches of some giant’s needle.

The shard against Soren’s chest stirred, a faint warmth pulsing once, twice. Not Valenna’s voice, not exactly, but something deeper, recognition, perhaps. Memory. As if it knew this place.

"Impressive, isn’t it?" Veyr’s voice carried no wonder, only cool assessment as he guided his mount alongside Soren’s. "Most visitors waste their first glimpse gawking like children. But you’re not here as a tourist, Thorne."

Soren forced his expression back to neutrality, though his heart hammered against his ribs. "No, my lord."

"Good. Then see it properly." Veyr pointed toward the highest point of the city, where a fortress of white stone crowned the central hill. "The Royal Citadel. From there, the king believes he governs. In truth, he merely presides over carefully cultivated illusions."

The young lord’s finger shifted, indicating a sprawl of buildings near the river. "The merchant quarter. There, coin speaks louder than bloodlines. New wealth buying what old names can no longer afford." His mouth curled slightly at the corner. "Remember that...sometimes the most powerful man in a room is the one nobody bothers to remember."

Soren’s gaze followed Veyr’s guidance, trying to see beyond the overwhelming scale to the patterns beneath. The shard pulsed again, warmer now, as if encouraging this deeper vision.

"And there," Veyr continued, gesturing to distinct sections of the city separated by internal walls, "the noble wards. Each house’s colors displayed like peacock feathers...some faded, some fresh, all desperate to be noticed."

He turned to Soren, eyes sharp with something that wasn’t quite challenge. "Every wall, every tower, every banner, someone paid for it, and someone profits from it. Learn to see those connections, and you’ll understand more than most who’ve lived here their entire lives."

The knights repositioned themselves as they descended toward the city, tightening their formation around Veyr. The road widened, joining with other paths that fed into the main approach.

Suddenly they weren’t alone, farmers with carts of produce, merchants with wagons of goods, pilgrims walking in dusty clusters, lesser knights in travel-worn armor, all funneling toward the massive gates that gaped like the mouth of some stone beast.

Ser Dallen raised House Velrane’s banner higher, its copper-and-slate colors catching the light. Like water parting before a blade, the crowd began to yield, pressing to the roadside. Heads bowed as they passed, some low and reverent, others barely inclining, just enough to avoid offense.

Soren felt the weight of their stares, curiosity from some, naked resentment from others, occasional flashes of awe or envy. None of them familiar.

None of them kind. He kept his back straight, his face impassive, as Kaelor had taught him. ’Let them wonder,’ the swordmaster had growled during one particularly brutal lesson. ’Uncertainty is your ally when outnumbered.’

The gates loomed closer, more massive than Soren had imagined possible. Ancient stone rose higher than ten men standing on each other’s shoulders, carved with scenes of battles and conquests that predated any history he knew.

Armies clashed in frozen combat, kings knelt before greater kings, strange beasts fell beneath heroic blades, the litany of victories that had built this place, preserved in stone for all to remember.

Guards in polished breastplates and crimson cloaks stood at attention, their formation perfect, their faces expressionless. As Veyr’s party approached, they saluted with practiced precision, not warmly, not with any particular enthusiasm, but with the rigid acknowledgment of rank that formed the backbone of the realm.

"House Velrane," Ser Dallen announced, unnecessarily. The guards already knew. One of them, wearing the insignia of a captain, stepped forward with a shallow bow.

"Lord Veyr. The city welcomes you. Your father’s courier arrived yesterday."

Veyr inclined his head slightly, the barest acknowledgment. "We’ll proceed directly to the Velrane estate. Ensure our passage remains uninterrupted."

"Of course, my lord." The captain’s eyes flicked briefly to Soren, a moment of assessment quickly masked. "As you command."

They passed beneath the shadow of the gate, hooves echoing against ancient stone. Soren noted how the guards’ posture remained rigid, how their eyes followed Veyr with a mixture of deference and wariness. Not love, not even respect, something closer to fear wrapped in protocol.

Then they were through, and the city swallowed them whole.

The assault on Soren’s senses was immediate and overwhelming. Noise crashed over him in waves, blacksmiths’ hammers ringing against anvils, children shrieking as they darted between market stalls, hawkers bellowing the virtues of their wares, priests chanting from street-corner shrines.

Smells layered atop each other in dizzying complexity, fresh bread from bakeries, sewage from gutters, incense from temples, sweat from bodies packed too tightly together.

The sheer density of it all made Nordhav’s most crowded markets seem like empty plains by comparison. People pressed against each other, moving in currents and eddies like a human river.

Buildings rose on either side of the broad avenue, three and four stories tall, leaning toward each other as if sharing secrets across the gap.

The knights maintained their tight formation, creating a bubble of space around Veyr through sheer intimidation. Soren stayed close, suddenly grateful for their presence as the crowd surged around them.

"House Karvath’s banner," Veyr said quietly, nodding toward a standard of black and green hanging from a balcony.

"Once among the greatest of trading houses, now barely clinging to relevance. The father gambled away their shipping contracts, the son lacks the cunning to win them back."

He continued this quiet commentary as they moved deeper into the city, pointing out signs Soren would have missed entirely.

A particular shade of blue worn by servants indicating a house in mourning. A street where the buildings’ shutters were painted red, marking territory controlled by a guild whose name Veyr mentioned with faint distaste.

A square where merchants from three rival factions conducted business within sight of each other, their apparent cooperation masking decades of sabotage and betrayal.

"What do you see there?" Veyr asked suddenly, gesturing toward a mansion whose windows had been boarded over, though its facade remained grand.

Soren studied it, trying to apply what he’d learned. "Abandoned. Recently. The stone’s still clean, but no one’s tended the entrance."

"Good. And what does that tell you?"

He hesitated, aware this was another test. "That whoever owned it fell from power. Quickly. Not a gradual decline or they’d have sold it before abandoning it entirely."

Veyr’s mouth curved in what might almost have been approval. "House Marden. The patriarch backed the wrong faction in last month’s Council vote. Now he’s entertaining guests in his country estate, indefinitely." There was a cold amusement in his voice. "The king’s hospitality can be quite... prolonged."

They turned onto a broader avenue, where the buildings grew taller and more ornate. Here, each structure seemed designed to outdo its neighbors in grandeur. Marble facades gleamed in the afternoon sun.

Statues of heroic ancestors gazed sternly down from rooftop perches. Fountains played in private courtyards glimpsed through iron gates.

"The Street of Ambitions," Veyr said, his tone suggesting the name was ironic rather than official. "Where new money comes to play at being old blood."

Soren absorbed it all, cataloging details as Ayren had taught him. Which houses displayed armed guards prominently. Which concealed them behind decorative armor.

Which relied on reputation alone for protection. The patterns of power revealed themselves slowly, like a language he was just beginning to decipher.

"And what of House Velrane?" he asked, the question escaping before he could reconsider.

Veyr glanced at him, something flickering behind his eyes...surprise, perhaps, that Soren had dared to ask. "We have no need to display our worth on this particular street," he said after a moment. "When you’ve held power for eight generations, you needn’t shout to be heard."

The avenue widened further as they approached what must be their destination. Ahead, a mansion of gray stone stood apart from its neighbors, set back behind walls topped with decorative ironwork that Soren immediately recognized as functional despite its beauty.

Sharp points disguised as leaves. Angles designed to snag climbing ropes. Defensive architecture masquerading as art.

"Home, for the duration of our stay," Veyr said, his tone suggesting the word held little meaning for him. "Try not to embarrass me too thoroughly, Thorne. The city has eyes everywhere, and my father’s agents are particularly attentive."

As they approached the gates, Soren felt the shard warm against his chest one final time, not Valenna’s presence, but something deeper and less distinct. A warning, perhaps. Or a welcome.

He couldn’t tell which prospect unsettled him more.