Chapter 12: Bloodlines and Belonging
(Where Rivers Whisper Forgotten Oaths)
Part 2: Names Carved in Water
Two centuries past, this torrent had been christened Jadeflow. Now it bore a dynasty's name—a reward for a Roslyn ancestor who'd turned tides of war with steel and sorcery. The southern bank sprawled into the Roslyn Plains, a quilt of wheat fields and orchards nourished by loyal hands.
As wheels clattered over the bridge, the cavalry erupted. Hats flew. Hooves danced.
"Home! By the Old Marshal's bones, home!"
Bennett watched through parted curtains. These men—third-generation stablehands, blacksmiths' sons—wept into their sleeves. Their joy was primal, tribal. A lineage thicker than blood.
Madd's earlier warning echoed: "We are Roslyn Plainsfolk, never 'Kott Province' rabble. Our soil breeds loyalty sharper than swords."
The steward's face glowed with fervor. Bennett's fingers traced the carriage's velvet interior—a prince's cocoon, yet colder than the river stones outside.
What does it mean to belong?
Part 3: The Fractured Mirror
Memories flickered—unwelcome, vivid.
The Count's study, six years past. Bennett at seven, reciting battle tactics flawlessly. His father's quill snapping mid-praise. "A Roslyn heir must be more than clever. He must be unbreakable."
Then, the fall. The feigned stupidity. The Count's eyes hardening to frost.
Now, watching these riders kiss the earth, Bennett understood. Roslyn's greatness wasn't won by brilliance—it was cultivated, season upon season, like the plains' golden wheat. A legacy demanding roots deeper than any individual mind.
He stepped from the carriage. Sunset gilded his silhouette as the cavalry knelt—not for him, but for the soil beneath his boots.
Lynne watched from the shadows. The boy-king's mask had slipped. In its place stood something raw, hungry.
Part 4: The Seed of Obsession
"My lord?" Madd approached, bearing a scroll stamped with the family seal. "The ancestral manor awaits."
Bennett ignored him. His gaze drank the horizon—the plains stretching endless, the river carving its eternal claim.
This is power. Not spells or schemes, but the slow-burning fire of ten thousand souls who'd die singing Roslyn.
He turned to Lynne, moonlight catching her bow's lunar crest. "You pledged your blade to a fool's whim. Regret it yet?"
Her answer came swift as an arrow's flight: "A fool sees only his reflection. You see beyond."
For the first time since crossing the river, Bennett smiled. Not the lazy smirk of court, but the grin of a wolf scenting weak prey.
"Gather the knights," he ordered Madd. "All ten slots—filled by dawn."
"But the law permits—"
"To hell with quotas." Bennett's voice cracked like a whip. "Let the Empire choke on its 'Honor Knights'. We'll forge our own."
The steward paled. Lynne's pulse quickened. Somewhere in the manor's crypts, a long-dead marshal's sword hummed in its sheath.
Chapter 13 (Part 1): The Weight of Ancestral Stone
(Where Bloodlines Carve the Earth Itself)
Part 1: The Bones of History
The Roland ancestral estate crouched at the southwestern edge of the Roland Plains like a slumbering titan. Centuries of conquest and compromise had shaped its bones: crimson-stone walls quarried from mountains now reduced to valleys, towers clawing at the sky as if to seize the stars their builders once worshipped. Bennett's carriage rattled past obsidian groves, their leaves whispering tales of long-dead lords. To the left, a mist-wreathed valley cradled the ghost of a forgotten village—the cradle of Roland ambition. To the right, a spire pierced the clouds, its shadow stretching across the land like a blade.
Three hundred private soldiers lined the approach, armor polished to mirror the setting sun. Their steeds stamped impatiently, nostrils flaring at the scent of the blackwoods—a hunting ground where generations of Rolands had honed their killers. Bennett noted their discipline, the way their eyes tracked his carriage not with loyalty, but calculation. These were not mere garrison troops; they were wolves leashed by tradition.
The castle itself was a paradox: part fortress, part ossuary. Its white stone walls, mined from a vanished hill, bore the scars of siege engines and the fingerprints of stonemasons long dust. The arched gate yawned wide, revealing a courtyard where history hung thicker than ivy. As Bennett stepped onto the scarlet carpet unfurled for his arrival, an ashen-haired figure materialized—Hilgard Roland, steward of the ancestral keep. His bow was a blade's edge: precise, cold, unyielding.
"Welcome, Young Master. The house has awaited your scrutiny."
Hilgard's voice echoed through the vaulted entrance hall, where a banner the size of a warship dominated the far wall. Twin swords crossed beneath a crown, wreathed in lilies and flame—the Roland crest. It glared down at Bennett, its threads frayed but unbroken.
Part 2: The Library of Ghosts
The study—no, the mausoleum—of Roland memory swallowed Bennett whole.
Circular walls rose to a domed ceiling etched with constellations, their plaster yellowed by centuries of candle smoke. Shelves climbed two stories high, groaning under the weight of ledgers, grimoires, and battle chronicles. Iron cabinets hunched in corners, their locks crusted with age—genealogies, treaties, secrets. Between the stacks stood marble effigies of ancestors: a general clutching a broken standard, a woman with a star-chart clutched to her breast, a boy-king frozen mid-sneer.
But it was the weapons that seized Bennett's gaze. A two-handed greatsword hung above the hearth, its edge still sharp enough to split a soul. Glass cases displayed relics: a centurion's short bow, its string intact; a cavalry saber notched from cleaving bone; a blackwood longbow strung with hair-thin steel. Each piece hummed with violence preserved.
"These blades wrote our family's glory," Hilgard intoned, his voice reverberating like a funeral bell. "They demand remembrance."
Bennett trailed a finger along a bookcase worn smooth by generations of restless hands. The wood pulsed with the ghosts of decisions made here—marriages bartered, wars declared, sons disinherited. He sank into the patriarch's chair, its oak arms carved with wolves devouring their own tails.
"Tradition dictates," Hilgard pressed, "that every returning lord spends his first night here. To… reflect."
Ah. A test. The steward's gaze sharpened, probing for weakness. Did the boy understand the weight of this room? Or would he flee to softer beds?
Bennett smiled—a lazy, feline curl of lips. "Bring the account books. And supper. I've an empire of ledgers to conquer."
Part 3: The Unspoken Pact
Dusk bled through stained glass, casting rubies and sapphires across the desk. Bennett ate absently, his eyes devouring columns of numbers while Hilgard hovered like a specter.
Roland Plains: 12,000 acres of wheat. 3 silver mines (depleting). 8 villages (tax arrears: 2,340 gold).
Blackwoods: Timber revenue down 17% (poaching? Banditry?).
Garrison costs: 45,000 gold annually (insane).
Hilgard cleared his throat. "Shall I summon the bailiffs? Or perhaps the—"
"No." Bennett scribbled a note in the margin: Replace garrison commander. Audit mines. "I'll visit the villages myself. Tomorrow."
The steward stiffened. "My lord, protocol requires—"
"Protocol," Bennett interrupted, "is why our mines are empty and our soldiers fat." He leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Tell me, Hilgard… did my father ever actually read these reports? Or did he just sign where you pointed?"
Silence.
A moth battered itself against a lantern. Somewhere in the rafters, an owl screamed.
Finally, Hilgard bowed—deeper this time. "I serve the Roland bloodline, my lord. Not its… habits."
Bennett's grin widened. There you are. Beneath the starch and ceremony, a flicker of disdain—for the drunken count, the squandered legacy.
"Then let's rebuild habits worth serving," he said softly. "Starting with the poachers in the blackwoods."
Part 4: The Watchful Dark
Midnight found Bennett alone, the study lit only by embers and moonlight. He traced the hilt of the greatsword, its leather grip molded to a hand larger than his own. Outside, the Roland banner snapped in the wind, its fabric hissing like a serpent.
Lynne's face flashed in his mind—the oath, the desperation, the unspoken hunger. She thought him a ladder to climb. Hilgard saw a pawn to manipulate. Even the castle itself seemed to whisper: Prove you deserve these stones.
From his satchel, Bennett withdrew a water-orchid gem, its surface swirling with trapped moonlight. His mother's last gift. "Use it when the walls listen," she'd said.
He pressed the gem to the hearthstone. A pulse of blue light raced through the mortar, revealing hidden sigils beneath the plaster—a warding spell, ancient and frayed.
"Sleep well, ancestors," he murmured. "Your heir is awake."
Chapter 13 (Part 2): Ledgers and Loyalty
(Where Numbers Whisper Hidden Truths)
The Tea and the Test
Bennett savored the last crumb of his pumpkin tart, the sweetness clashing with the bitter tang of suspicion. No sooner had the porcelain clinked against its saucer than the library doors groaned open. Two burly servants wheeled in a cart stacked with ledgers—towering, teetering monoliths of parchment that dwarfed the boy.
"These… are this year's accounts?" Bennett's voice tightened, eyes narrowing at the mountain of paperwork.
"Indeed, Young Master." Old Hilgard's tone held the solemnity of a priest reciting scripture. "Included are land surveys of the southern Kott Province, crop yields from six towns, military expenditures for three garrisons, weapon inventories, construction budgets…" He paused, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. "And preliminary projections for next fiscal year. Though unfinished, given your… extended stay here, we've ample time to refine them."
Bennett leaned back, fingertips drumming the carved oak table. A test. Or a trap. The steward's motives hung thick as the dust on those ledgers. Was this a power play? A warning from a retainer clinging to his fiefdom? Or worse—a veil for embezzlement, banking on a child's ignorance?
He said nothing. Merely plucked the top ledger, blew off a century's worth of neglect, and began to read.
The Dance of Deception
Hilgard lingered, a shadow in brocade. "Will there be anything else, my lord?"
"Yes." Bennett didn't glance up. "Privacy."
The steward's jaw twitched—a crack in his marble composure. With a bow deeper than propriety demanded, he retreated, the door's thud echoing like a gavel's strike.
Alone, Bennett circled the room, boots whispering against flagstones worn smooth by generations of pacing lords. Moonlight seeped through stained glass, painting the Roland crest—swords, lilies, flame—in fractured hues across his face.
"Oh, Hilgard," he murmured, tracing a ledger's spine. "You've no idea what games you've invited."
When the steward returned hours later with tea and candles, he found the boy hunched over spreadsheets, quill darting like a duelist's blade. Numbers danced under Bennett's gaze, not as dry figures, but as living threads:
Tax codes revealing House Roland's autonomy to adjust imperial levies.
Garrison costs hinting at private armies larger than legally permitted.
Construction budgets masking slush funds ripe for diversion.
"The wheat yield in Eastvale," Bennett said abruptly, quill poised. "Why does it dip 12% annually after harvest?"
Hilgard froze, a teacup trembling in his grip. "Bandit raids, my lord. A… recurring issue."
"Bandits." Bennett's smile didn't reach his eyes. "How convenient."
The Unseen Ledger
Night deepened. Candle wax pooled like molten accusations.
Bennett cared little for debits or credits. What sang to him were the silences:
No records of the blackwoods' timber trade.
Gaps in mine revenue coinciding with Hilgard's "charitable donations."
Overstocks of armor… yet shortages in soldiers' pay.
A second ledger, he realized. One written in omissions.
When the steward returned a third time, Bennett was waiting.
"Tell me, Hilgard." He slid a ledger across the table, its pages marked with crimson ink. "Does House Roland's loyalty to the Crown… or its ledgers… weigh heavier?"
The old man's face paled to parchment.
The Boy and the Blade
By dawn, Bennett had deciphered the true text:
The Rolands ruled their fiefdom as kings in all but name. Taxes bent to their whim. Magistrates bowed to their appointments. Even imperial laws frayed at the edges here, reshaped by centuries of quiet rebellion.
As first light gilded the library's stained glass, Bennett leaned back, fingers steepled. Across the room, the ancestral greatsword glinted—a reminder that power, like steel, required both force and finesse.
"Well played, old man," he whispered to the empty air. "But the game's just begun."