CHAPTER 433: THE GATES OF VELLORE

The Gates of Vellore

"I see. That’s reasonable."

He swung his head, allowing the sun to catch in his red hair as he gazed out through the slitted window. His eyes relaxed, though it was impossible to determine if it was real or calculated, a mask he affected with ease.

The air between them settled into stillness. For the first time in hours, Leon granted himself the indulgence of relief. He breathed slowly, the exhalation shallow enough to go unseen, a quiet concession to the peace which hung in the enclosed space. Zetch’s presence, while unnerving, had settled into nearly companionable silence, no queries nagging, no words pushing.

Leon’s gaze wandered along the line of his friends. Cloaks drawn tightly around them, they blended like dark shapes with the rest of the travelers, each one carefully inconspicuous. Nova was seated only a few rows away, hood drawn low over her face. A flash of green under the cloth caught his attention for the shortest moment before she cast her eyes downward, almost as if she did not dare be noticed.

Closing his eyes, he relaxed, allowing tension to drain from his shoulders. Relaxing back, he centered inward, allowing his mind to concentrate, sharpening to clarity. Sinking easily into a peaceful meditation, he followed the subtle pulse of mana running through his veins. The beat of his heart began to sync with the smooth sway of the cart, the creak of its wheels a soothing rhythm.

Hours bled past, stretching and compressing until the world outside the windows was a muted blur. Time slipped away unnoticed. The only constant was the buzz of energy in his veins and the silent, lingering presence of Zetch across from him.

The morning sun had poured its golden warmth over the land, stretching long fingers through the cracks of the cart. Light hardened and relaxed in time with the day, gliding slowly into afternoon. The air grew heavy, holding heat that clung to skin slick with sweat, blending with dust raised by the wheels on the weathered road. Passengers inside slept and awakened, heads bobbing in syncopation with the cart’s rhythmic sway. Merchants muttered softly concerning goods and prices, and mothers muttered quiet comforts to fidgety children, silencing their tiny voices into obedience.

As the light began to fade, the mood changed. Shadows grew longer and stretched out across rolling hills and roads in dark, finger-like digits reaching toward the earth. The golden brilliance of afternoon gave way to a warm, amber glow that seemed to envelop everything. In the distance past the cart, the thrum of passing travelers blended with the moos of animals traveling toward village pens, a symphony of life unwinding into the night.

And then, as the cart went over a slight rise, the horizon yawned open.

The city was revealed.

It was first a spark—sunlight glinting off tall walls, flashing in greens, golds, and whites. But with each curve of the cart’s wheels, the mirage grew into substance: Vellore, the capital. Huge, sprawling, and pulsating, it lay across the country like a jewel inserted neatly into stone. Majestic walls of carved rock and strengthened steel rose upwards, almost two hundred meters tall, each summit topped with fluttering pennants that carried the proud crest of a lion’s face. The view commanded respect, as though the city itself was aware that it was wondrous.

Inside, the travelers awakened, lips lifting in awed voices. Gasps flew from mouths, whispers collided in thrilled whispers, and fingers shook and pointed as the majesty of it all finally registered. The excitement was contagious, running along the cart like a spark.

Leon’s head came up, the eyes squinting with the effort of seeing through the thin crevice. "Fucking." He spoke in a hushed tone, the words for his own ears alone, but with the tone of incredulity. "This city... it’s larger than Moonspire."

Around him, friends leaned in, looking from under the brims of their hoods. Aghast tinged every face—eyes wide and staring, jaws hanging open, hearts racing at the sheer size of what stretched out before them. Natasha alone was unmoved, eyes calm and steady, as if she had trod these streets many times and had long ago mastered the art of keeping her wonder at bay.

A soft voice caressed Leon’s mind, gentle and intimate, like a lover whispering close at night. Don’t you think this city is magnificent, sweetheart?

He didn’t have to turn; he recognized it was Nova. Her voice had that comfortable warmth, touched with humor, the kind of smile that lingered unseen even behind her hood.

Leon’s lips curved, small and certain. His response was silent, but final. Yes, sweetheart. Ideal. A city such as this... it’s the platform we require. The destination where our domination starts.

A thin glint of assent shone in Nova’s eyes under the overhang of her hood. Of course, darling.

The cart rolled on steadily, every throb of the wheels bringing them nearer to their fate. The sun dipped towards the horizon, showering molten gold and deepening crimson over the city walls. Shadows stretched and the lion banners looked as if they breathed, their embroidered eyes flashing as if challenging anyone to come near without prudence. The city stood in silence, watching.

Lastly, the cart slowed, its wheels squeaking against the cobblestones as it ground towards the huge gates. They loomed like ancient sentinels, carved out of solid oak and strengthened with bands of iron, wide enough for three carts to ride abreast. Light reflected off polished armor, halberds held at rigid angles, the guards’ eyes scanning, hard and unyielding.

He bowed down, the permit held in his calloused fingers. He moved forward, holding it out in a practiced pose. The lead guard accepted it, eyes narrowing in appraisal of the seal and the cart in the background. His eyes stayed on it a heartbeat too long, then returned to the paper, lips compressing into a thin line. He nodded, waited a calculated moment, and raised his spear in wordless command.

With a creak and a shiver, the gates swung open, the iron and wood groaning as if it carried centuries’ weight. The cart lurched ahead, hooves ringing against stone, the noise ringing down the streets beyond the portal. Leon experienced a thrill kindling within him—the city was theirs to rule, and all hints of wind seemed to announce their coming.

Leon’s head was bowed, the hood dropping down over his face, concealing the sharpness in his eyes. Vellore’s streets were now still, but the stillness was the kind that squeezed at the chest, heavy and unrelenting, as though the air itself judged him. As the cart pushed under the imposing gate, the scale of the city struck him. Stone walls ascended like silent sentries, and smoke, sweat, and the smell of money were in the air. Kindness was a luxury no one could afford here, where the weak were trodden under the heels of the ambitions of the strong.

Nevertheless, a smile stretched his lips thinly. He could sense it—the subcurrent of fatalism that throbbed through the streets, the unseeable strand of destiny pulling him along. Vellore was a city that insisted upon respect, that measured every man before allowing him through. And yet, it could not bear him down.

Each shadowed alley, each shuttered window whispered of struggle and plots that flourished here. The capital did not easily welcome strangers, particularly peasants. It had a method of weighing strength, of gauging mettle, of revealing who was to stay and who would quietly disappear into its alleys. And Leon sensed that test sweeping against him already, sweeping and drawing back, as if it knew he would not fail.

Under that strangling quiet, he gave himself a breath, a consideration that curled the corners of his mouth upward to something hungry and sure. Fate had picked him. Had always picked him. And now, the gears of the city were going to turn, not around him, but due to him. The capital would be altered.