CHAPTER 42: ROADS OF GREYTHORNE AND THE CAPITAL’S BREATH

They did not fly.

No Golden Light tore through the clouds, no golden divine aura lit their path. This time, Alaric and the four girls walked.

The journey was not born of urgency, but something far rarer in their lives—the quiet wish to see, to breathe, to be. From Veldroth, the second-most powerful city in the Kingdom of Velmora, they set forth toward Weisskante, the principal city of the Vice County of Greythorne.

Though the road was long, many times over what would normally take three days, they took it leisurely. And in doing so, they transformed the path into pilgrimage.

Alaric walked in front, each step measured and effortless, his gaze lifted, not with arrogance, but clarity. Behind him came Aurevia—Her frost-imbued aura pulsed beneath her skin like a whisper of winter.

Beside her walked Cellione, the fire mage whose laughter often sparked like embers breaking silence.

Serineth trailed at an oblique angle, shadows flickering along her ankles, the hem of her robe stitched with darkness.

And finally, Virellen—the mischievous maid, shoulder-length black hair catching the wind, grey eyes alight with mischief and curiosity.

They stopped often.

Not from weariness, but to savor. The trees lining the southern trail toward Greythorne bore petals the color of sunrise, and when wind brushed past, it scattered them like prayer papers.

Birds darted overhead, their songs warbling with the carefree joy only those untouched by war or politics could manage.

Serineth once vanished into the underbrush and returned holding a flower that grew only in this season—white-veined, sweet-scented, and incredibly poisonous. She grinned.

"Just for decoration,"

She promised. Cellione didn’t believe her.

Aurevia was quieter. She had taken to watching the road’s horizon, her hand never far from her sword’s hilt.

Her body had matured rapidly since her last breakthrough, her figure now that of a woman in her early twenties despite her youth. Her eyes, however, remained contemplative. There was distance there. Reverence, even.

Virellen, of course, refused to let the mood grow too heavy. She harassed Alaric with constant questions about his preferences—

"Master, do you prefer sweet wine or dry?"

"Master, when was your first kiss?"

"Master, if we all died, who would you mourn the most?"

Alaric ignored most of them. But his silence carried weight, not dismissal.

They reached Weisskante on the sixth morning.

The city of Weisskante of Greythorne was unlike Veldroth in temperament. Where Veldroth exuded raw power and reserved mystery, Weisskante was alive with movement, color, and commerce.

It stood between two opposing landscapes—the foothills of the Greythorne Mountains and the broad golden plains of inner Velmora.

High stone walls ringed the city, carved with protective wards that shimmered under morning light.

Towers rose like silent sentinels, their glass tips reflecting the sun with near blinding brilliance.

Streets were broad and orderly, paved with dark gray stone in a mosaic of interlocking hexagrams—a style inherited from olden elven architects, now repurposed for human trade.

Weisskante pulsed with life.

Vendors called out under bright banners, their voices overlapping in a choir of bartering and charm. Mana-infused automata rolled through the lanes with fresh produce, their eyes glowing faintly blue.

Children weaved between the legs of travelers, chasing the shimmer of illusion spells cast by bored apprentices. The girls stared with varying expressions—Cellione, delighted; Serineth, mildly annoyed; Aurevia, reserved; and Virellen, gleefully overwhelmed.

At the city’s heart stood the teleportation spire.

Unlike the humble magical stations scattered across Velmora’s rural lands, Weisskante’s teleportation tower was an architectural marvel.

It spiraled upward like a fang of crystal and obsidian, runes engraved in a flowing script from base to tip.

The platform itself floated in place, held aloft by layers of gravity-defying enchantments drawn directly from the kingdom’s arcane grid.

They approached the tower, passing under a gate flanked by two armored constructs.

Inside, the air was heavy with magic. Circular glyphs floated above the floors, shifting and adjusting with each new entrant.

Clerks wearing white robes inscribed with golden thread managed counters formed of translucent quartz.

Alaric stepped forward.

"Five travelers to the capital,"

He said. His voice was low, calm, and undeniable.

The clerk, a woman with light blue spectacles and precise handwriting, glanced at him, then at the girls. Recognition flickered behind her expression, but she did not question him.

"Next departure is dawn tomorrow,"

She said.

"Aether alignment recalibrates every twelve hours. Your passage is registered. You may rest in the city until then."

The girls seemed almost disappointed they wouldn’t teleport immediately, but Alaric made no complaint. They were in no rush.

That night, they stayed in a quiet inn carved into a redwood structure near the mountain’s edge.

From their balcony, Weisskante shimmered below like a hearth. The lights of mana-lamps reflected against glass tiles, creating a rippling illusion of stars on earth.

Alaric stood alone at the railing while the girls quarreled inside over who would bathe first. He did not look at them. He looked east—toward the capital.

*****

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

✶ I Reincarnated as an Extra ✶

✧ in a Reverse Harem World ✧

⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

*****

The next morning, the grid activated.

The sensation of teleportation was brief but jarring—a collapse inward, a flash of divine resonance, then rebirth in light.

When they opened their eyes, the capital welcomed them.

They arrived not in some modest terminal, but in the Grand Arcanum—a teleportation hub carved into the capital’s second highest spire, overlooking the entire city like a divine eye.

It was the heart of the kingdom, the seat of the monarch, and the center of all roads, magical and mundane. It stretched across the hills like a coiled dragon—layered, armored, alive.

Its outer walls were embedded with sentinel cores that could awaken to defend against a siege. The inner city shimmered with enchantments that ensured peace, or at least the appearance of it.

The Royal Citadel rose from the highest point, its marble domes inscribed with celestial paths. The upper courts floated above it in rings of suspended land—the result of ancient floating magic, long lost but still pulsing.

Where Weisskante was vivid and charming, the capital was immense and solemn. It was not a place for wandering. It was a place to arrive.

Here, power had shape. Not just in the royal family, but in the nobility, in the guilds, in the unseen shadows that moved beneath them all.

They booked a high end luxurious hotel. Though temporary, it was luxurious—lush carpets, inlaid floors of mana crystal, private bathing halls fed by springwater from enchanted wells.

Virellen sank into the cushions like she’d found her true calling.

"I refuse to leave,"

She declared.

Cellione opened every door with childlike excitement. Serineth disappeared again. Aurevia remained composed, but Alaric noticed her fingers tightening around the strap of her scabbard.

He understood. The capital was beautiful. But it was also dangerous. And soon, they would have to move with care.

But for now, they rested.

And outside, the capital breathed—grand, watchful, eternal.

-To Be Continued