A week after Ciolove was inaugurated, I set out with Karrel, several council
members, and Brundir Stonevein toward Willodale. The town now looked like an
empty shell. Doors left ajar, windows creaking in the wind, chairs overturned
on porches, a clothesline swaying without cloth. It was not a place heavy with
grief—more like a home that had completed its duty of sending its people
elsewhere. Life had moved to Ciolove; Willodale was nothing more than a name on
a map and the scent of old timber in the air.
We dismounted in the central square. Karrel unrolled a map atop a crate.
Brundir, with his thick white beard, immediately crouched down, pressing his
ear to the ground. With a small hammer, he tapped the earth in steady rhythm,
like a midwife listening for a child's heartbeat.
"There's still a pulse," he muttered without looking up. "The stone beneath
us isn't dead yet."
"How deep?" I asked.
"Forty… maybe fifty fathoms," he replied as he stood, brushing dust from his
knees. "The vein is wide. It's unusual for a mana stone to rest beneath human
homes. They usually prefer silent caves or untouched forests. This one… is
different."
Karrel pointed at the map. "Two shafts. The east for workers moving in and
out. The west only for lifting stone. We'll fit the western shaft with a steel
lift. On the surface, rails will be drawn in a circle so they won't cut across
paths of citizens who might return occasionally for their belongings."
I nodded, though my gaze remained sharp. "And the safety of the tunnels? I
don't want to hear of collapses burying our workers alive."
"Every three fathoms we'll reinforce with wood-and-steel supports," Karrel
replied quickly. "We'll place fracture markers. If hairline cracks appear, we
halt, reinforce, then continue."
Brundir tapped the ground once more, then rose to face the waiting foremen.
"Listen well," his voice rumbled deep and round. "The earth can be your ally,
or it can be your grave. Tend to your supports, measure your steps, and respect
the rhythm of the stone, and it will hold you. But act carelessly, and it will
swallow you whole. I don't want any of your names turned into headstones."
A young worker raised his hand, his voice unsteady. "Elder… what if we hear
something like… whistling? Some say stone can 'sing' before it cracks."
"If the stone whistles," Brundir's lips curled into a thin grin, "that's its
warning. Don't be a fool and ignore it. Pull back a team, reinforce the walls,
and only then return. Stone is family—when it rebukes you, you listen."
I leaned over the map. "Today you open only the first shaft. No rushing, no
boasting of speed. I don't need results today. I need a report that everyone
came home alive."
"Yes, Your Majesty," the foremen answered almost in unison.
I turned to Brundir. "You'll be the chief overseer. Each evening, report to
Karrel. Each week, a summary to the palace."
The old dwarf bowed low. "If this stone starts sulking, I'll be the first to
know—and you'll be the second to hear of it."
We parted ways there. As I mounted my horse, a boy carrying water stood at
the edge of the square, staring at me wide-eyed. I nodded toward him. The boy
blushed and waved his small hand. The wind carried the first hammer strike on
timber supports. Not the sound of harvest, but the opening note of long labor.
On the ride home, I looked back once more. Empty Willodale, breathing earth,
and the quiet ridge line in the distance—they all felt like a sentence waiting
for its final period. Four years of peace remained. To one who waits, that time
may feel long. To one who builds, it is far too short.
A few days later, Brundir's report landed on my desk. The first fragment—no
larger than a child's head—was lifted on the fourth day after the shaft's
opening. Its deep blue glow pulsed slowly, alive. The mages nearly clapped in
delight; Brundir wrote only one line at the end of his report: "The stone
breathes, and today it drew breath for Valoria." I closed the letter and,
for reasons I could not name, felt calmer.
In Ciolove, Clara sat in a wrought-iron chair at the infirmary, holding
Marta's hand. The old woman lay curled on her side, her breath short, her eyes
closed more often than open. More than eighty years weighed heavily on her
frail body.
"I hate the smell of medicine," Marta whispered. "It feels like being
hunted."
Clara gave a faint smile. "You still smell the same, Grandma. Like toasted
bread in the early morning."
"Toasted bread?" Marta chuckled, then coughed. "That's only because we never
had anything else."
Clara lowered her head, her eyes warming. "Yet you always split it in half
for me."
"Half of little is still something," Marta replied, opening her eyes
briefly. "Do you remember? You always cut the bread crooked. I scolded you, and
you cried."
Clara laughed softly. "You said, 'Bread is like a road—if it slants too
much, you'll stumble.'"
"And look at you now," Marta whispered. "You walk straight. Sometimes too
straight."
A nurse came in, checking Marta's temperature and changing the compress on
her forehead. Afterward, silence returned. The afternoon light spilled across
the floor, casting warm lines upon the walls.
"If you must leave one day," Marta murmured without opening her eyes, "leave
as yourself. Not as someone else's name."
Clara was quiet for a long while. "I'll try, Grandma."
"You don't need to promise," Marta answered. "Just make sure you come home."
Clara bent and kissed the back of her hand. In her mind, Ciolove appeared
like a weaving that slowly tightened: a bustling market, a small school being
prepared, plans for a public well near the station. She told Marta all of it,
piece by piece, like a bedtime story.
"The market needs a roof that can open," Clara said, "so air can flow. On
the eastern side, we'll line up all the bread stalls together. And… I want
benches under the maple trees. You'll sit there in the mornings, and I'll bring
you hot tea."
Marta nodded faintly, her lips curving into the smallest of smiles. "Then
I'll have a reason to stay."
"Not a reason," Clara whispered. "A home."
In Solaris, the underground chamber felt too small for Lucian's ambitions. A
map of Valoria spread across the table, pinned with colored needles. The
lamplight cast shadows of the pins like spider legs creeping across the land.
"Report," he said without turning.
The spymaster stepped forward, handing him a scroll. "Our new recruits are
practicing the basic technique we copied from Valoria—gathering qi, storing it
in the dantian. For the young, the results come quickly. For the older ones…
many cling to old habits."
"And the higher techniques?" Lucian asked, his tone unchanged.
"None yet. Every spy who tried to enlist as a Valorian soldier was rejected.
Some were turned away before they even spoke. As if… sniffed out."
"Arthur?" Lucian turned to face him.
"Perhaps Arthur, perhaps his system. Some whisper of an HVT technique that
sharpens the senses, others of an artifact that can read intent."
Lucian twisted the ring on his finger. "If the front door is locked, we
don't knock louder—we find another. Merchants. Caravans. Cargo manifests. Sick
men's gossip." He cast a glance sideways. "And the northern port?"
"We've planted two agents. One secured a post as warehouse clerk. The other…
vanished."
"Vanished because he was careless, or because someone sharper found him?"
Lucian clicked his tongue. "Their clothes are tidy, but their minds a mess.
Recruit replacements. Not soldiers. Find an old woman who remembers names, or a
skinny boy who reads fast. Such people slip past guards' eyes."
The spymaster hesitated. "There is more. A new city—Ciolove. The name is
already spreading among trade routes. They say a rail line will connect
Willodale and Ciolove."
Lucian picked up a pin and drove it into the map on that city's name. The
needle trembled, then stilled. "Our peace with Valoria lasts four more years.
My father spent the first year celebrating, then the next three in panic. I did
not inherit his habits." His eyes remained cold on the map. "I inherited his
time."
"Orders, Your Highness?"
"Build ears before we build hands," Lucian replied. "First, we listen to
their rail lines. Then we decide which to cut—and which to hide until the time
is right."
"Yes, Your Highness."
When the man departed, Lucian remained alone in the deepening dark. On the
wall, the shadows of the pins stretched like roots clawing at the floor. He
exhaled sharply. Four years. For the patient, enough to redraw the map.
Night fell on Valoria.
In Willodale, the hammer blows no longer sounded strange; they became a
rhythm the workers knew by heart. Inside the shafts, supports rose every three
fathoms, oil lamps lined the walls like disciplined fireflies. One team
emerged, clapping shoulders, as another descended—an orderly exchange of
breath.
In Ciolove, Marta slept, her frail hand still held tightly in Clara's.
Outside the window, street lamps flickered to life, low stars faithful to the
town. Clara looked at them for a moment, then closed her eyes, letting her
weariness seep away.
In Solaris, Lucian extinguished one lamp, leaving two. Enough light to see
the map, enough shadow to conceal intent.
And deep beneath Willodale, the blue stone breathed again—slow,
steady—aligning its rhythm with the heartbeat of a kingdom.