CHAPTER 82: PROJECT WHITESTONE

"Whitestone will rise in the Oasis Basin, a vast expanse over five times the size of the valley our current town occupies. That is where our Armourers, Mailers, and every blacksmith under our banner will have their own district, large enough to meet the demands of the growing army. Whitestone’s location is perfect, it can support the growing Bighorn herd, the Giant Honeybee colonies, and stands close to the Ivory Mine, which also holds limestone for our walls and buildings."

Damien finally found his voice, though it was tentative. "My Lord... this project could take years. Where will the Armourers work in the meantime—?"

"It won’t take years." Kaelor’s interruption was swift, firm, and carried no room for doubt. "I’ve considered every angle. All Benjamin and the architect must do is create a model of Whitestone. Once all the materials are gathered, my gift will handle the rest."

Vi’s brow arched, her tone skeptical but curious. "Will that truly work?"

"It will." His voice was iron. "But there’s a greater obstacle, right now we don’t have enough men to guard the miners from the bats, and the eastern part of the basin remains unexplored. Hound once mentioned a dreadful lion in that area, but much time has passed. There may be worse dangers now. I’ll lead a team to confirm it."

Damien shifted uneasily. "My Lord, gathering stone, wood, sand, nails, slates, everything for an entire city, will take months even at full pace."

"At least," Vi interjected smoothly, "that’s far better than building for years." Her voice held quiet confidence, though her gaze occasionally drifted toward Kaelor with a thoughtful glimmer.

Kaelor leaned forward, planting both hands firmly on the table, his posture commanding yet calm. "Damien, prepare for a feast tonight. Ensure there’s enough meat. And the slaves, set them free. I will not have men in chains when Baron Garrick could soon be at our gates."

He turned his head toward Vi, meeting her silver eyes directly. "You will head to Graystone. You can teleport, once you see any movement from Garrick’s forces, you return at once."

Vi’s lips pressed into a faint pout, her arms folding across her chest in reluctant defiance. But after a moment, she gave a slow, slight nod.

....

Osric sat on the cool grass of the open field, surrounded by a sea of weary slaves. Some lay sprawled on the ground, already deep in restless sleep, while others simply stared blankly into the night, too drained to speak. He tilted his head back, gazing at the endless scatter of stars that glittered in the black velvet sky. A soft, resigned sigh escaped him.

"No food for tonight," he murmured to himself, the words heavy in his throat. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, eyes drifting toward the inner gate in faint, desperate hope. But the heavy wooden doors stood firm, sealed shut. The only movement came from a handful of soldiers pacing the ramparts of the outer wall, the braziers crackling. No other Redwood citizen could be seen.

Osric’s shoulders sagged. Another deep, hollow sigh left his chest. "The young lord has tried..." His voice was barely more than a whisper to the night. He lowered himself fully, lying on his side and resting his head against his arm. The grass smelled faintly of earth and dust. Just as his eyelids began to close, a sound pricked his ears, muffled at first, then growing clearer: the rhythmic tramp of boots, the clink of metal.

He sat up quickly. Out of the darkness strode Jon, the second-in-command of the Guardsmen, famed among the slaves for being the most striking wolf-man they had ever seen. His fur glistened faintly silver under the moonlight, and his eyes scanned the crowd. Behind him marched twenty-five Guardsmen, each armed and armored, their steps steady and purposeful.

"His Lordship, Kaelor Dravion," Jon’s deep voice carried across the field, "in his name has decided to invite you to a feast..."

He paused, allowing the words to sink in. Around Osric, faces turned in shock, mouths parting. A few blinked as if they had misheard, while others began stirring those who slept, the word feast crackling through the crowd like fire through dry grass.

"...As free men."

For a heartbeat, the field fell into stunned silence. Then the Guardsmen behind Jon stepped forward, their huge frames catching the firelight from distant torches, and began unlocking the chains. The sound of iron falling onto the grass echoed like thunder in Osric’s chest.

He saw women pressing trembling hands to their mouths as sobs burst free. Men embraced one another, gripping each other tightly as though afraid the moment would dissolve. Some simply fell to their knees, hands clutching the earth.

Osric’s own vision blurred, this was freedom, sudden and impossible, like a death sentence lifted by the hand of God. For a moment, he feared he was still dreaming, that dawn would come and the chains would return. The ache in his chest at that thought almost hurt as much as the joy swelling there.

"The gates are open!" Jon called with a lighter tone now, pointing toward the inner gate. Four soldiers heaved the heavy doors wide, the wood groaning in protest, and beyond it glowed the warm lights of the town.

The crowd surged forward, feet pounding the earth as they rushed toward the open gates, laughter and cries of disbelief mixing in the night air.

By the time Osric passed through, he was met with a sight that rooted him to the spot. The town square was overflowing with people, freemen now, along with Redwood citizens settling wherever they could, whether on benches, steps, or even the bare earth. No one cared for comfort.

The air was alive with the rich, mouthwatering aroma of stew thick with meat, herbs, and spice. In the center of the square roared a great bonfire, its flames licking high into the night and casting a warm golden glow over the scene.

Around it, more than two dozen women worked beside massive iron cauldrons, ladling steaming stew into wooden bowls. In the flicker of the firelight, Osric could see generous chunks of meat floating in the thick broth, a sight many of them hadn’t seen in months, if ever.

And it wasn’t just stew. Nearby, cauldrons of porridge bubbled gently, and great bowls of rice steamed invitingly. Further down the line, spits turned slowly over crackling fires, the skins of roasted meat glistening with fat. The scent alone was enough to make Osric’s knees weaken.

He didn’t need to be told, this feast had cost their lord dearly. And yet, Kaelor Dravion had done it anyway.