Chapter 63 March Towards the Gate

  The horses snorted in the cooling air, their tack rattling with each shift of weight. A column of guards in front, walking beside their horses, led the way along the stony road, boots thudding in measured rhythm. The leader, a broad-shouldered man with a scar across his cheek, raised his hand.

  “We’ll march another twenty minutes,” he called back, his voice carrying over the creak of leather and clink of steel. “Then we’ll rest the beasts at the blackwater. They’ve gone far enough without water.”

  In the middle, the priests fell in step behind the soldiers. Dust rose around their boots, clinging to black hems. None rode in the carriage as they had tired out the horses with the fast pace. The youngest among them, Brother Matteo, tugged at his robe and drew closer to one of the guards, his brow knit in thought. He had carried a question since their departure, and at last, the silence pressed it out of him.

  “Sir,” Matteo said, his tone hesitant but curious, “I have heard the word many times in these lands—the Hollows. Yet I do not understand. All call the place Avalon, or the Vale, but what are the Hollows? What does it mean?”

  The guard glanced back, measuring the youth with a faint smirk, then looked to the valley stretching ahead. His hand lifted, gesturing broadly as though the sweep of his arm might lay out the land itself.

  “All of Avalon is one long river valley,” he began, “hemmed in by mountains to the north and south. The river runs straight as a blade through its heart, clear and cold. To the far west, the land opens into the steppes—endless grass and sky. But eastward?” He tilted his chin toward the looming ridges in the fading light. “Eastward it closes in, the mountains crowding close until the Vale becomes a cradle of stone only emptying into the kingdom proper.”

  Matteo’s eyes followed the man’s gesture, and he began to see it: the northern peaks dark against the sky, the southern ridges jagged and sheer.

  The guard proceeded: “Those mountains house too many hidden valleys to provide each with a title.” “So they call them Hollows—simple names for simple people. Anything north of the river is an Upper Hollow. Anything south, a Lower Hollow.”

  “And the difference?” Matteo pressed, curiosity overcoming caution.

  The guard’s mouth thinned, his gaze sliding toward the looming north. “The Upper Hollows are worse by far. More dangerous. Those valleys climb into the Reach Mountains—cold, cruel country, home to things that should not be spoken of after dark. Folks there rely on fire and steel, but even that is not always enough. The Lower Hollows, south of the river, are tamer. Hard country, aye, but a man can live there.”

  He spat into the dust, as if to ward off ill-luck.

  “Best you remember that, priest. North means teeth in the dark. South means sweat and stone. That’s the way of it.”

  Brother Matteo nodded, though unease lingered in his face. He fell back into step, his question answered yet leaving his imagination restless.

  The road bent ahead, carrying them deeper toward the valley’s heart. The guards’ words still clung in the boy’s ears when His Holiness, the man with white eyes, called them together.

  The road was long, stretching like a scar through the rolling hills. Four cloaked figures moved along it—dusty, weary from the march, yet bound together by duty, and at their head strode the man with the white eyes, his steps sure, his bearing calm, as if the very path bent to him rather than the other way around. Behind him followed three of the Order’s younger faithful, their faces betraying unease despite their practiced piety.

  At last, one of them dared to break the silence. Brother Matteo asked, “Your Holiness… what will we find at Avalon? Truly? The stories say it is a place of peace, where the people and nobility walk hand in hand. But…” His voice faltered, the words catching in his throat. “I fear we will not be welcomed.”

  The man with white eyes stopped mid-stride, his cloak swaying with the motion. Slowly, he turned, and those pale, sightless orbs fixed upon the young brother like a hawk pinning prey. His voice was soft, but the kind of softness that cuts.

  His Holiness: “Matteo, you worry because you do not yet understand. The Morasss—that is a noble's house. To the people, they are a beacon, a light to strive for. But beneath the polished stone, beneath the gilded banners, they are hateful. Proud. Selfish.”

  The other two shifted uneasily, but he went on, his tone sharpening with a cruel satisfaction, as though savoring truths others found bitter.

  His Holiness continued, “Listen well. A noble house is not walls or titles—it is scales stacked upon scales. Each lord must balance children, allies, enemies, and servants, or the house collapses. It is true of all: every noble house is but three bad decisions from ruin. Three.” He raised a pale finger, arrogant, almost mocking. “And none are ever far from ruin, and some are less than three.”

  Acolyte Lorenzo frowned, trying to muster courage.

  Lorenzo questioned, “But Avalon has avoided such ruin, has it not? They are far removed, a minor house, large lands but poor, spared from the endless games of the high courts.”

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  A thin smile tugged at the white eyed man's lips, a humorless curve of disdain that carries into his voice, “Avoided much, yes… until now. The storm gathers at their gates—a perfect storm, one that will rip them apart at their very foundations.”

  The eldest among them, Brother Giacomo, lifted his voice with caution, “Your Holiness—what storm? I see blessings, not chaos. The lord’s eldest son has proven his abilities beyond his young age. His daughter has awakened an affinity long thought dormant in his line. And his youngest son… he survived eternal punishment itself. These are signs of strength, of divine favor.”

  The man’s white eyes gleamed, his voice cracking like a whip. “You think like a priest, loved by the veil, not a noble. Where you see blessings, they see only threats. Where you imagine unity, they smell rivalry. Open your eyes, Giacomo. The eldest son—his claim, his authority—already frays, for his siblings have stolen pieces of his glory. The daughter’s awakening? It robs him further, drawing eyes, stirring whispers. And the boy—the one who should have been erased, forgotten, cast aside—he returns. Returns with a shadow no man can weigh. Do you still not see? In such houses, blood does not bind. Blood is the first blade drawn.”

  Silence fell over the company. The road ahead stretched into a haze, the valley of Avalon still hidden.

  Then Giacomo spoke again, hesitant, almost fearful of his own question, “…Your Holiness, forgive me. But I must ask. Do you speak so darkly because you fear Avalon’s fall… or because you wish it?”

  The air seemed to still. Even the others froze, staring.

  His Holiness resumed walking, unhurried, as though the question amused him. “What I wish is of no matter. The storm does not ask for permission to break. It simply comes. And Avalon… will not be spared.”

  For a time, only the crunch of boots on dirt filled the silence. Then, with a sudden shift of tone, the man began again, his voice now smooth, almost coaxing. “But enough of fear. Fear serves nothing. Let us instead speak of what this storm can give us.”

  The three looked at him warily.

  He went on, “A house in balance has no need of us. But a house in chaos? That is where the Order thrives. That is where opportunity breathes. And in Avalon’s storm lies a prize worth more than banners, more than coin.”

  He let silence hang, savoring it, before lowering his voice to a near-reverent whisper:

  “The boy.”

  Matteo recoiled. “The youngest son? But… Your Holiness, he is broken, scarred by his punishment.”

  A faint, arrogant smile crept across the white eyed man's lips. “Broken clay is easiest to shape. He survived what should have destroyed him—do you not see the hand of providence? Such a boy can be remade and remade into whatever we choose. A tool. A weapon. A banner we raise in our own name.”

  Lorenzo swallowed hard, “You mean… to set him against his own blood?”

  As if confirming the statement, he said, “Through him, the Order could claim what we have long sought: roots in the valley, profit in its fertile lands, a voice in Avalon itself. And if the heir falters—if he falls early—then perhaps more than a voice. Perhaps control.”

  Giacomo’s brow furrowed, remembering what happened to the ministers who meddle with nobles, “Your Holiness… this is dangerous. To tamper with bloodlines, with succession—if discovered, it could ruin the Order.”

  His Holiness' expression hardened, his white eyes like frost, “No, Brother Giacomo. What ruins an Order is hesitation. The scales will topple whether we act or not. Better they topple by our hand than by another’s.”

  The three priests walked on, silent but shaken, the valley of Avalon looming closer with every step. Behind their master’s pale eyes, it seemed, Avalon was already broken—its stones scattered, its children already puppets in his grasp.

  The sun dipped lower, throwing long shadows across the road. The priests kept close to their master, their silence heavy, until at last His Holiness spoke again. His tone had shifted, less prophetic now, more deliberate—like a man laying stones for a foundation only he could see completed, “When we arrive, you will remember this: we speak plainly only to the men of the house. Never the mother.”

  He halted and glanced back, pale eyes glinting with scorn. “You truly don’t grasp it, do you? Strong mothers bend the scales in ways no priest or lord can hope to measure. Their reach is hidden, their influence far beyond your reckoning. To approach her would be sheer stupidity. She is a tripwire—untouched, never crossed. Must I spell it out further?”

  The brothers bobbed their heads in quick agreement. Matteo fumbled through a blessing, muttering a prayer as if to shield himself from rebuke.

  His Holiness resumed walking, his voice firm, each instruction delivered like a commandment, “Two of you will concern yourselves with the heir. Giacomo, Matteo—you will go to him with words dressed in silk. Praise him lavishly, speak of his strength, his promise, his destiny. Yet—” He lifted a finger. “—in the same breath, you will praise his siblings. You do not need to plant doubt in him. That seed already grows in his heart. But by drawing his rivals into every compliment, you sharpen his awareness of them. You turn his victories into burdens. He will begin to feel it without us pressing further.”

  The two men exchanged uneasy glances but bowed their heads.

  His holiness continues, “And when you have done so, do not speak of fear or division. Speak instead of the benefits of our friendship. Of the influences we command beyond this valley. Give him a taste of how wide our reach stretches, coins, a beautiful wife, and he will hunger for it. Nobles are like hounds—they sniff the leash before they realize it has been fastened.”

  The faintest curl of a smile touched his lips—pride dressed as wisdom.

  Then he turned to Lorenzo, next to the youngest, who looked pale beneath the weight of his gaze. He stated, “As for you, Lorenzo, your task lies not in marble halls but among the stone and hay. Find friends, with faith or coin, in the servants. The guards. The unseen hands that carry trays and polish blades. They hear much, and they see more. The servants’ gossip is the marrow of a house; from them, we will drink truths no lord will ever confess. And when the moment comes, it is their whispers that will tell us where to place our weight upon the scales.”

  With thick confidence, he continues, “I myself will speak with the lord, paying his tribute, demanded just to line his pockets and plant the idea that we can relieve him of the burden of the middle son while providing him abilities to balance scales in a way that saves noble honor.”

  He stopped again, the wind tugging at his cloak, and his white eyes drifted toward the horizon where Avalon’s valley waited, unseen but certain.

  He declared, “This is how we enter the morass of House Avalon. Not as beggars, not as guests—but as the shadow behind the curtain, the unseen hand upon the balance. Let them believe us, friends. Let them invite us in. By the time they realize what we are up to, the scales will already be ours to tip.”

  None of the brothers spoke. The arrogance in his words left little space for question. They walked on in silence, yet the thought burned in each of them: Avalon was not simply to be visited—it was to be claimed.