Chapter 21: The Message from Caelrhime

As the first pale light of dawn spread across the skies, Caelan, Raye, Kael, and the gathered forces of Aeldenmarch and Aurellian prepared to depart. The northern gate of Aurellian creaked open under the watchful eyes of the sentries, revealing the long road ahead. Their destination was the town of Grayhaven, a settlement laoyal to Aeldenmarch and serving as a safe waypoint before reaching the capital.

Civilians were carefully loaded onto wagons — the injured soldiers and townsfolk placed under the care of healers and attendants. The able-bodied soldiers, including the remnants of the Fire Kingdom’s knights, formed disciplined ranks behind their leaders.

By noon, the company reached Grayhaven safely, the banners of Aeldenmarch fluttering against the midday breeze. Healers swiftly moved to tend the wounded at the town's infirmary, while Caelan gave orders to ensure every civilian and soldier had food and shelter for the day.

However, there was little time to linger.

Once the wounded were stabilized, the bulk of the soldiers — along with Kael, Raye, and Caelan — continued their march toward Aeldenmarch's capital, the heart of their kingdom.

As they approached the grand gates of Aeldenmarch, the city's towering walls loomed over them, offering both reassurance and a solemn reminder of the burdens still ahead. The guards saluted briskly, opening the gates for the returning party.

Through the bustling streets they rode, citizens parting and bowing as they made way. Their armor and banners marked them clearly — the defenders of the realm, returning from another battle fought and won.

When they finally reached the royal palace, the tired soldiers began dismounting while the leaders made their way inside. But before Caelan could even fully remove his traveling cloak, a soldier came rushing up the palace steps, breathless but determined.

“My lord!” he called urgently, bowing quickly before continuing. “A scout from the Ice Kingdom awaits you. He brings news — and it seems urgent.”

Without hesitation, Caelan nodded. “Take us to him.”

Raye, Kael, and a handful of trusted knights followed Caelan down the marbled halls, their footsteps sharp and echoing. The tension grew as they neared the Waiting Hall, a simple but secure room where messengers and informants were kept until summoned.

Inside, seated and cloaked in travel-worn garb, was a man bearing the unmistakable crest of Caelrhime — stitched onto his shoulder.

All eyes fixed upon him as the doors to the hall swung open.

The room fell silent as the scout stood and approached Caelan, his boots scraping lightly against the stone floor. His expression was grim, jaw set tightly, as he reached into his cloak and pulled out a sealed letter. The seal was unmistakable — the crest of Caelrhime, Aurette’s kingdom.

He bowed his head and handed the letter directly to Caelan.

“My lord… it’s from Lady Aurette. She instructed me to deliver it to you directly. It is urgent.”

Caelan’s face remained unreadable as he broke the seal. The room seemed to grow colder as he unfolded the parchment, his eyes scanning the words quickly but thoroughly.

Everyone in the hall waited, holding their breath.

The letter read:

"To His Majesty, Caelan V. Eirwyn,

The storm that battered our lands has finally settled. However, unsettling movements have begun to stir within the enemy encampments.

Our scouts report that Vaerond’s soldiers are tightening their formations, fortifying their ranks, and moving with greater discipline — signs that they are preparing for another strike.

A messenger of Vaerond’s army rode close to our gates and declared their terms:

Kneel before Empire, or perish.

We, the people of Caelrhime, have chosen not to kneel. We choose to stand.

While there is yet no confirmed sighting of Vaerond himself among their ranks, the signs point toward an inevitable attack now that the storms have lifted.

If they come at us now, we may not be able to hold them off. We may not survive.

Thus, I do not write to ask you to join us in battle.

I ask only for your help in rescuing our people — the civilians, the wounded, the ones who still have life left to live.

Until that moment arrives, I shall hold them off myself.

No matter the cost.

— Aurette Rhimehart"**

Caelan’s hand tightened slightly around the letter as he finished reading.

The weight of the message filled the air around him like a storm cloud ready to break.

He slowly lowered the parchment, his gaze hardening as he looked toward Raye and Kael, who had both stepped closer, reading the tension in his posture.

“She’s preparing for the worst,” Caelan said, his voice low but heavy with resolve. “And so must we.”

The room was dimly lit, the only light filtering in from a small brazier in the corner. The walls were stone — cold and cracked — echoes of an older time when Caelrhime stood strong and proud. Now, it was a fortress of survival.

Aurette sat beside her mother, Seralyne, across a long table marked with maps, rough sketches of enemy camps, and scattered notes. Aelric stood near them, his arms folded tightly, jaw clenched.

Around them, the leaders of the remaining bloodlines of Caelrhime were gathered — grim-faced, their cloaks damp from the lingering storm mist, tension stiffening the air. Each one bore the weight of loss, the heavy knowledge that they were cornered.

Seralyne’s voice broke the heavy silence, steady but low.

"The scouts returned at dawn."

She let her words settle before continuing, her eyes sweeping across the room.

"Vaerond's forces are still gathering beyond the outer ruins. Their number is greater than we first estimated. They’re preparing siege weapons — likely salvaged from what remains in the northern lands. If they strike, they will strike to end us."

A murmur rippled through the chamber — worried whispers, sharp glances.

Eiran Veylor, head of the Veylor bloodline, leaned forward, his brow creased in unease.

"We barely have enough to defend the Hollow’s gate. If they bring siege weapons…"

He let the sentence hang.

Lady Mierelle of the Frostborne bloodline shook her head, her voice tight.

"We have old shields and tired men, Seralyne. We are not ready for this."

Another elder from the Maevryn bloodline added,

"If the walls break, the Hollow will be overrun. We will not last."

The anxiety was thick now — palpable. Hands clenched, some looked down, others looked to Seralyne, desperate for something, anything to hold onto.

Seralyne waited, letting them speak their fears, before standing slowly. Even now, with silver strands in her hair and weariness carved into her face, she commanded the room with quiet authority.

Her voice broke the silence — cool and resolute:

"We will not meet them in the open field. That would be death."

She placed her hand over the map of Caelrhime, her finger tracing the old, broken streets that wound like veins through the ancient stronghold.

"Our strength lies within these ruins. The narrow, shattered roads will break their numbers. Barricades will be built, paths collapsed behind us. We will lure them into choke points — into dead ends and twisted corridors where even their strongest will be forced to fight hand to hand."

She paused, letting the image settle in their minds.

"And when the main force is slowed, we strike from above and below. The rooftops, the hidden tunnels beneath the Hollow — all of it will be turned against them. We will make them bleed for every stone they try to claim."

For a heartbeat, the room was silent — heavy with grim understanding.

Then, Seralyne spoke again, her voice dropping slightly:

"We will hold. Long enough for reinforcements to arrive."

That word — reinforcements — shattered the fragile stillness.

Murmurs immediately turned into protests.

Eiran Veylor stood abruptly, his chair scraping harshly against the floor.

"Reinforcements? You mean asking outsiders for aid? Letting them see Caelrhime's weakness?"

Lady Mierelle’s expression hardened, her arms crossing tightly.

"We have defended these walls alone for centuries! You would stain our pride now?"

Others joined in — old voices, bitter with pride and fear. The noise rose like a storm — distrust, outrage, wounded pride boiling over.

Seralyne remained still, her face unreadable as the room around her erupted.

Then her gaze turned — steady and sharp — to Aurette.

For a moment, nothing moved.

Aurette took a breath, feeling the weight settle onto her shoulders. She rose from her chair and took a step forward, her voice cutting through the chaos, bold and unwavering:

"Listen to me, people of Caelrhime."

The chamber quieted — not instantly, but enough that the authority in her tone pressed them back into uneasy silence.