Chapter 16
Ser Renly of Bluestone
The forest road was a tunnel of dappled sunlight and deep shadow, the air thick with the scent of pine, damp earth, and the distant, sweet perfume of unknown flowers. The rhythmic clop of their horses' hooves on the packed earth was a meditative sound. For Kaelen, nestled deep within Renly's consciousness, it was a stark contrast to the sterile hum of Aethelburg. This was reality, raw and breathing.
Ser Joric broke the comfortable silence, his voice a low rumble that fit the forest. "You've taken the first step on the path, lad. An Official Knight, with a spark of your own. But the path stretches far ahead. What do you know of what comes next?"
Renly glanced at him. "That there's always a next, Ser. I've heard the titles. Senior Knight. Grand Knight."
"Aye," Joric nodded. "A Senior Knight isn't just an Official Knight who's gotten older. It's a qualitative leap. You've mastered the basic expression of your bloodline. A Senior Knight refines it, masters it, and pairs it with a combat skill that becomes their signature. Lord Corvan, for instance. His Iron-Scale defense is formidable, but he's also mastered the 'Sundering Strike,' a technique passed down in his family that can focus his entire strength into a single, armor-shattering blow. Such skills are rare, often hereditary, or won through great trial. They are what separate a soldier from a commander."
He gestured ahead, as if pointing beyond the trees. "Beyond that lies the realm of Grand Knights. Men and women whose power is so vast it can no longer be contained within their flesh. They project an Aura Field, a zone of influence that radiates their will and their bloodline's nature. The Count of Rose City to the southeast, they say his bloodline is one of incredible regeneration. His aura is said to be a palpable, soothing warmth that can mend minor wounds in his allies and instill a sense of hopelessness in his foes. To stand against a Grand Knight is to fight the very air around you."
Renly absorbed this, the hierarchy mapping itself in his mind. It was a path of progression, not unlike the Federation's Order system, but born of blood and will rather than technology. "And the warriors we train with? The men-at-arms?"
"A different path, from the northern barbarian tribes originally," Joric explained. "Similar in essence—they cultivate their vital force, their chi, as we do. But without a bloodline to focus it, their enhancements are broader, less specialized. A trainee, an official warrior, a senior, a great warrior—their ranks mirror ours. There's a famous Great Warrior, a mercenary named Bor the Mountain, who operates in these parts. No bloodline, but they say he can punch through a castle gate with his bare fists and his roar can shatter a shield wall. Never underestimate a pure warrior, Renly. Their will is their bloodline."
"And the Shamans?" Renly asked, recalling the whispers in the castle.
Joric's expression grew more contemplative. "A rarer, stranger path. Mostly from the southern rainforest tribes. They don't cultivate their own life force so much as they learn to ask the world's for help. They use herbs, rituals, and tattoos to channel power. Their bodies are often weak, but their abilities can be… profound. Not for direct combat, but for healing, scrying, influencing the weather. The most famous is the Great Shaman of the Stone-Tree tribe. He left the forests decades ago and now serves as the royal apothecary in the capital. They say he can grow a healing herb from barren stone and his potions can cure any poison. A different kind of strength."
The conversation lulled as they forded a shallow, chattering stream. The journey was a living lesson, each mile revealing more of the continent of Valeria—a patchwork of kingdoms, merchant alliances, and tribal lands, all bound by the common threads of vital force and the struggle for power.
It was near dusk on the second day when they arrived. The village of Bluestone lay in a gentle valley, a cluster of perhaps three dozen stone-and-timber houses nestled along a clear river. A small, stone bridge arched over the water, giving the place its name. But the idyllic scene was marred. A section of the wooden palisade was freshly rebuilt, darker wood standing out against the old. Several houses on the outskirts were scorched shells, and the fields beyond showed patches of ruin.
As they rode in, people emerged from their homes. Their faces were not filled with joy, but with a wary, weary curiosity. These were people who had known loss, recently and deeply.
An old man, back bent but eyes sharp, stepped forward, leaning on a gnarled staff. His tunic bore a faded emblem of a stag's head with oak-like antlers—the Oak-Horn sigil.
"Ser Joric," the elder said, his voice raspy but firm. He then turned his gaze to Renly. "And you would be the new Knight. I am Elron, elder of the Oak-Horn clan."
Renly dismounted, feeling the weight of their stares. "I am Renly. Lord Corvan has granted me the charge of Bluestone."
Elron nodded slowly, his eyes scanning Renly, assessing the young man who now held their lives in his hands. "We are grateful for the protection. The tide… it hit us hard. We lost twelve. Four farmers, six militiamen… and Oakhorn's two youngest sons." He said the names with a quiet gravity that hung in the air. "The beasts came from the Bramblewood. We held the bridge as long as we could."
Renly felt a pang of sorrow that was both his and the collective grief of the village. "I am sorry for your losses. I will do everything in my power to ensure it does not happen again."
He spent the next hour walking through the village with Elron and Joric. He saw the repaired wall, the grieving families, the determined set of the remaining militiamen's jaws. He saw the potential too—the fertile land, the sturdy bridge, the resilient people. This wasn't just a fief; it was a community broken and waiting to be mended.
His new home was the Knight's manor, a modest, two-story stone building on a small rise overlooking the village square. It was sturdy but dusty and bare, untouched since the previous Knight's death. It felt more like a outpost than a home, but it was his.
That evening, he shared a simple meal of stew and hard bread with Elron and the other clan heads in the manor's main hall. The conversation was quiet, focused on immediate needs: reinforcing the palisade, the upcoming harvest, the fear of remnant beasts in the woods.
The next morning, Ser Joric prepared to leave. They stood in the manor's courtyard as the sun rose, painting the valley in soft gold.
"The hardest part begins now, Renly," Joric said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "It's one thing to fight a battle. It's another to build a peace strong enough to withstand the next war. These people don't need a hero. They need a guardian. Be fair. Be strong. Listen to Elron; his wisdom runs deep."
"I will, Ser. Thank you… for everything."
Joric gave a final, grim smile. "You earned your place, lad. Don't let them, or yourself, forget it." He swung onto his horse. "Farewell, Ser Renly of Bluestone. Send word if you have need."
And with that, he turned his horse and trotted back across the bridge, leaving Renly alone.
Renly—Kaelen—stood there for a long time, watching the empty road. The title Ser Renly of Bluestone settled on him, no longer just a disguise or a means to an end, but a tangible responsibility. He looked down at the village beginning its day, at the smoke rising from hearths, at the children peeking from doorways at their new lord.
He had a place here. A purpose. And as he turned to walk back into the manor, the silent, empty halls awaiting his command, he knew this was more than just a foothold for power. It was the first real home either he or the soul within him had known in a very, very long time. The path of the Knight of Bluestone had begun.