"The materials are being prepared, but it will take at least two or three months to gather everything required for the city's construction," Benjamin reported, his voice carrying the faint pride of a craftsman whose work had received Kaelor's approval.
Osric stepped in smoothly. "The ballista project is still stalled. The engineers haven't finalized a workable blueprint yet. If they fail to complete it before the materials are ready, will construction still proceed?"
Kaelor's answer came without hesitation. "Of course. A few unfinished ballistas will not delay Whitestone's rise. Those siege engines will be far more critical for Ivory Hills than here."
While their discussion continued in the high-roofed hall, sunlight streaming across crude stone floors, Hound made his way to the massive blacksmith compound, a sprawling structure of timber, brick, and soot-stained iron. Heat radiated from its many open forges, the clang of hammer on metal ringing like a chorus of war drums.
Sparks showered in bursts from anvils, and the air smelled of molten steel, burnt oil, and sweat.
Hound's eyes swept the space, taking in dozens of blacksmiths hard at work and couriers darting between workstations carrying tools, tongs, or newly forged blades. In the largest open forge, he found Vulcanus, his imposing figure well over two meters tall, with shoulders like a siege wall and arms corded with muscle.
His broad back was to Hound as he inspected the work of a younger blacksmith, holding an enormous Mountain Saber in one hand as if it were nothing more than a cane.
Sensing the shift in attention, Vulcanus turned his head, a faint smile curling his lips. "I take it His Lordship told you about your new weapon."
Hound's lupine eyes gleamed. "He did."
"Bring it," Vulcanus commanded, his deep voice carrying across the forge.
Two couriers bolted into the adjoining storehouse and emerged moments later, their faces flushed from the strain. Each bore a long, broad package wrapped in thick leather. They staggered under the weight before dropping the burdens onto a heavy oak table with resounding metallic thuds that rattled the nearby tools. The couriers stepped back quickly, rubbing sore shoulders.
Hound closed the distance, the smell of hot iron and oiled leather thick around him. Vulcanus peeled away the wrappings, and the forge light caught on polished steel. Two monstrous sabers emerged, blades of such size and weight they seemed almost ceremonial, yet their edge promised ruin.
The curved blades were as broad as three longswords laid side-by-side, each etched with delicate star-shaped engravings laced with black inlay to make them stand out. The hilts were ornate silver, their guards swept in elegant curves, and each pommel ended in the snarling, open-mouthed head of a wolf frozen mid-howl.
Both sabers bore identical runes, deep and deliberate: RAK, meaning Chaos, and THU, meaning Voice.
Vulcanus tapped the first rune with a calloused finger. "Activate this, and the air around you will break into turbulence, chaos itself, bent to your will. The second," he tapped THU, "will empower your howl. It can make your voice a weapon."
Hound's lips pulled back in a grin, his fangs flashing, not in menace, but in the unrestrained excitement of a predator given new fangs. He lifted both sabers as though they weighed little more than training sticks, though the air gave away the truth.
The wind howled softly with each shift of the blades.
"Each weighs two hundred pounds," Vulcanus remarked, his voice edged with satisfaction.
A younger blacksmith's eyes widened. "Two hundred?!" His arms trembled as he imagined even holding one.
"I've named them the Constellation Sabers," Vulcanus continued, pride unmistakable. "They are gold-ranked, fit for no one else but you."
Hound stepped outside into the training yard, the ground dry and dusty under the sun. His claws flexed against the sabers' hilts as he activated RAK. The rune flared, and the still air warped into a wild tempest. Dust lifted and swirled like specters dancing around him, the wind groaning as if invisible titans wrestled in the space.
He swung the sabers outward, and the second rune blazed to life. His roar erupted, a sound so deep it seemed to shake the ground, amplified into a concussive blast. The shockwave rolled through the yard, sending startled blacksmiths skidding back, their boots scraping against stone.
The Chaos rune answered in kind, its winds exploding outward, scattering crates of ore, hurling men into walls, and overturning tables in a clattering, metallic avalanche.
Vulcanus stepped back, his thick arms folded, eyes alight with the quiet pride of a creator watching his masterpiece unleashed.
"This is perfect." Hound's grin stretched wide, his golden eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
"It is," came a calm, familiar voice from behind.
Recognizing it instantly, Hound turned sharply and bowed. "My Lord."
Kaelor stood a short distance from the edge of the training yard, his black tunic catching the sunlight, a faint breeze stirring the strands of his blonde hair. "I happened to see your sabers in action," he said, his tone half-measured, half-challenging. "Might be a match for Keranous." His hand tapped the hilt of his sheathed sword, the gesture deliberate.
Keranous itself had changed. Two weeks ago, Vulcanus had etched a new rune into the blade, a subtle but potent enchantment that allowed its weight to shift. At maximum, the sword could press down with the force of five hundred pounds. At present, Kaelor carried it at two hundred and thirty, heavy enough to crush bone with a glance of its edge, yet light enough to flow in his hands like water.
"Once you have custom-made armor with the right runes, you both might stand against a Swordmaster in single combat and win," Vulcanus said in his deep, measured voice, the words carrying the weight of genuine appraisal.
"Well," Kaelor replied, glancing briefly at him, "there's no armourer in my domain yet who rivals your skill."
He beckoned to Hound, and the two left the forge together, the smell of hot iron and ash fading behind them.
As they walked, Kaelor's voice lowered, the steel in it softened. "I still haven't heard a word from Vi. How are the Guardsmen preparing?"
"All three hundred of us are ready, My Lord," Hound answered without hesitation, the quiet conviction in his tone leaving no doubt.
They moved through the outer section, where the air carried the scent of tilled soil and ripe grain. Vast farmlands rolled out in every direction, fields of golden stalks and emerald shoots swaying gently in the wind. The crops thrived under Redwood's rich soil; healthy, full-headed grains gleamed beneath the sun, and the steady hum of life buzzed across the fields.
Already, six hundred sacks of Starlight Rice, milled to pearly white perfection, waited in the storehouses for trade. Another four hundred sacks of Eonwheat, golden and fine, were stacked neatly in granaries. And these figures did not even include the provisions reserved for the people's tables. Every month's harvest matched the bounty of an entire year elsewhere, and the next month promised no less.
Kaelor's stride carried him toward a wooden stronghold on the right, less ornate than the structures of the inner section, but built with sturdy, functional precision. The palisade walls framed a cluster of long, dormitory-like buildings, capable of housing a thousand men. Inside, the hum of activity was relentless.
Beyond the barrack's walls lay sprawling training fields. On one side, wolf-men and women, muscles taut beneath leather harnesses, clashed with heavy Mountain Sabers, their blades ringing against round wooden shields.
Dust swirled under their footwork as they struck, blocked, and countered in a fierce rhythm. Their snarls mingled with the barked orders of the sergeants, creating a cadence of discipline and raw power.
A few yards away, the Bloodstone Archers stood in perfectly aligned ranks, their bows drawn in unison. The thrum of bowstrings filled the air as volleys of arrows streaked toward rows of training dummies. The arrows landed in rapid succession, their tips quivering in tight, precise clusters that spoke of relentless practice.
With the scent of steel, sweat, and oiled wood heavy in the air, the sense of urgency was palpable. An approaching war loomed over every movement, and every soldier, whether wielding saber or bow, carried the weight of readiness in their eyes.
A guardsman at the barrack gate narrowed his eyes as a lone rider approached on a sleek black horse, silver hair spilling over one shoulder while the rest streamed freely down her back.
"Lady Vi is back!" he called, the shout carrying across the yard.
Kaelor and Hound froze mid-stride, then broke into a run toward the gate. Vi, heading for the inner wall, caught sight of them. Her gaze lingered a heartbeat before she jerked the reins, angling her mount toward them instead.
As she drew near, Kaelor saw the strain in her eyes, the faint edge of panic beneath her composed face. His own expression hardened.
"The Baron suspects you're building an army with the slaves you've bought," Vi said sharply as she swung down from her saddle. "He's hired mercenaries to bolster his forces, seven hundred footmen and a hundred and fifty men-at-arms is the number of his total army. The moment the mercenaries arrived at Graystone, I teleported back. They'll need a few days to prepare, then four or five to march here. That gives us ten days at most to get ready."