Chapter 89: Scarface’s Threat
The sound of metal clinking softly against leather whispered through the crisp morning air, so faint that even the great herd of white deer in the meadow remained unaware of the eyes upon them.
Hidden behind a thick curtain of shrubs, Kaelor crouched low, the frame of a seasoned warrior outlined in the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves.
Short, sun-blonde hair crowned his head, and his steady brown eyes locked through narrow gaps in the foliage, tracking the movements of the herd with patient precision.
The deer grazed in a lush field that seemed almost untouched by time, the silvery ribbon of a brook cutting through it and glinting under the sun. The females stood about five feet at the shoulder, graceful and sleek, while the males loomed an impressive six and a half to seven feet tall, their antlers sprawling like intricate ivory sculptures. In the far distance, separated from the deer by a rolling expanse of grass, a massive herd of Devil Cattle shifted restlessly; hulking beasts standing a staggering seven to eight feet at the shoulder. Their horns twisted like ancient, gnarled trees, and Kaelor knew all too well that even a charge from a single bull could crush an armored Adept beneath its weight.
Squatting in a loose semicircle around Kaelor were his Guardsmen, their broad, furred bodies perfectly still despite their size. The wolf-like beastkin wore the freshly forged Eldermark Armour, a marriage of steel plate and leather born from fusing the iron-rank armor designs found in Graystone with Kaelor’s own blueprints. Two months of labor and an enormous haul of iron had been poured into crafting the silver-rank armor for all two hundred and ninety-one Guardsmen of which only ten were present.
The cuirasses were a layered blend of thick plates riveted to dense leather, absorbing and dispersing the force of strikes. Steel pauldrons shaped like jagged wolf jaws sat on their broad shoulders, while rerebraces and vambraces guarded their arms.
Greaves wrapped their inverted, powerful legs, and loose, split tunics of reinforced fabric hung between their legs like battle-ready loincloths. Against the backdrop of sunlit grass, their gray fur bristled faintly in the breeze, the faint glint of polished steel making them look like statues carved for war.
Right beside Kaelor crouched Hound, the only white-furred Guardsman in the entire company, his sharp, crimson eyes locked on the herd. His breathing was slow, deliberate, almost inaudible.
"There they are, My Lord," Hound murmured. "Thousands of them in scattered herds. They’ll make good stock for forging more beastkin soldiers."
Kaelor’s eyes narrowed slightly. Hound caught the look and pressed on.
"My lord, we’ve not found a single direwolf in two months. We’ve swept the north, east, west, nothing."
"We’ve barely scratched the Eastern Forest," Kaelor replied quietly. His gaze shifted toward the far edge of the plain, where the lush grass gave way to a looming wall of trees. "For two months we’ve been waiting for Scarface to show himself. Not once has he appeared. It might be time to push beyond the known edges to see what’s hidden in the depths. The entire east is shrouded in obscurity."
His eyes fell back on the grazing deer. "But... they would indeed make a fine new unit. Let’s return for now, we—"
A thunderous roar split the air.
It rolled across the plains like a physical force, vibrating through the ground and into Kaelor’s bones. From beyond the distant tree line, the sound seemed to tear the serenity apart. The deer froze mid-graze, ears flicking upright, muscles tensing, and then, as if a single unseen signal had been given, the entire herd exploded into a panicked sprint.
Out of the trees came three lions, each six feet tall at the shoulder, their black-and-brown manes flaring as they bounded with frightening speed. Their bodies were heavier and more compact than any lion Kaelor had ever seen, built for crushing rather than chasing. They tore into the fleeing herd like avalanches given muscle and claw.
Then, from the right flank of the stampede, another form emerged, and the world seemed to tilt under its presence.
An eight-foot behemoth of a lion, its mane a deep, regal black streaked faintly with gray, its fur dark brown like rich earth. The raw, unshakable aura of a sovereign radiated from it with such intensity that Kaelor’s instincts screamed before his mind caught up.
In its massive jaws, the beast carried a stag so large it could have been mistaken for an elk, a two-thousand-pound carcass dangled as though weightless. With a single brutal stomp, its claws crushed two more deer. The kill meant nothing; this was not a hunt for sustenance.
Kaelor’s gaze caught the jagged scar tearing diagonally across its face, the mark of a claw, likely left by another apex predator.
"That’s it," Hound breathed, almost reverently.
"Withdraw," Kaelor ordered.
They melted backward into the brush without a sound. Yet Kaelor knew, from that single heartbeat of eye contact across the plains, that Scarface had already marked them. This was no random encounter, it was a warning. A declaration of dominion: everything within these lands was his.
And with only ten Guardsmen at his side, Kaelor would not tempt fate.
If Scarface’s skin was anything like the White Bat’s impervious skin, only a well prepared force could bring him down and the forest beyond the brook likely held dangers even worse.
He would return... but next time, he would bring the full weight of his warhost.
....
A few hours later, they reached the edge of the Oasis Basin, now proudly renamed the Whitestone Basin, and the sight that greeted them stretched as far as the eye could see. Thousands of people dotted the vast expanse, moving like the ceaseless tide of a human sea. The ground trembled faintly beneath the combined weight of labor and purpose.
Towering stacks of meticulously chiseled stone blocks stood like silent monuments to progress, their pale, angular faces catching the sun and gleaming as if carved from light itself. Around them, streams of workers bustled back and forth, guiding horses harnessed to heavy carts laden with stone, timber, and tools. The air smelled of sawdust, sweat, and the faint tang of wet stone.
To the west, an almost miniature mountain range of timber rose in chaotic beauty, the trunks stacked with mathematical precision, some as thick as a man’s chest. Coils of rope, each as thick as a wrist and taller than a man, lay in orderly heaps, their coarse fibers still smelling faintly of hemp and sea salt. Vast slabs of slate, quarried from the distant Ivory Quarry, gleamed under layers of fresh white paint, their smooth faces reflecting the sun’s rays like a mirror.
The atmosphere was alive with noise. Voices rang out in a hundred directions at once, the bark of overseers driving men to greater speed, the grumbling complaints ever consistent.
Among them, clusters of women moved about, tasked with bringing water and food to the exhausted laborers. But their duties often paused as their attention strayed to gossip, likely about the young, hard-working masons whose sweat-slicked, chiseled bodies caught the light like sculpted marble, each swing of the hammer drawing as much admiration as it did dust.
Far from the construction site stood a pair of modest canopies, rectangular sheets of treated leather stretched taut over four sturdy wooden poles, their shade offering a brief respite from the relentless afternoon sun. Beneath one of them, Mildred lounged with casual poise in a carved wooden chair, her elbows resting lightly on the table before her.
From her vantage point, she observed the spectacle unfolding in the open space ahead: a silver-haired woman clad in a fitted tunic and tight, practical trousers, the attire of someone far more accustomed to the battlefield than the salon, squaring off against two female Guardsmen, each towering and broad-shouldered, their gray tails bristling in anticipation.
In the silver-haired woman’s grip was Ignis, its blade glinting with dangerous promise under the sunlight. The Guardsmen lunged forward with predatory precision, the first unleashing a downward strike with her Mountain Saber that came like a falling guillotine, while the second swept in from the flank, her saber cutting through the air in a wide horizontal arc.
Vi didn’t retreat. Instead, she surged forward into the attack, her own blade meeting the flank assault with a sharp upward sweep that curved like the crescent of a half-moon, using that same flowing motion to turn and bat away the vertical strike in the same breath. Steel rang against steel, the clash carrying a harsh, musical resonance.
Without breaking momentum, Vi feinted a thrust at the first Guardsman, only to suddenly drop her stance and kick at the warrior’s legs. But instead of toppling, the Guardsman merely stood her ground, her powerful frame unmoved. A brief flash of frustration colored Vi’s face, her jaw tightening as she spun away just in time to avoid a strike from behind. Her counterattack came instantly, the pommel of Ignis slamming hard into the second Guardsman’s back with a hollow thud, forcing a grunt of pain as the wolf-woman fell to her knees.
The first Guardsman stepped in to retaliate, but her vision was blocked for the briefest of moments by her comrade’s movement, a heartbeat of distraction that was all Vi required. When the opening came, the triangular tip of Ignis was already poised inches from the first warrior’s face, its faint glow daring her to move.
"She’s good," a male Guardsman murmured beside Jon, his voice carrying an edge of genuine respect. Jon, arms crossed, chuckled in quiet agreement.
Vi stepped out from the circle of watching Guardsmen and Bloodstone Archers, the tension in her shoulders giving way to a confident sway. She tossed Ignis onto the table, the steel clinking against wood. Her smirk was playful yet smug, and she lifted her eyebrows twice in a teasing gesture toward Mildred.
"I won. You owe me ten silver," she declared.
Mildred’s lips curled into an amused snicker. "You barely won. Had it been an Alpha Dreadclaw, you wouldn’t have survived. Their strength and speed are on an entirely different level."
"Those are excuses. Pay up before Kaelor arrives," Vi shot back, her smirk fading into a mild scowl.
"Oh?" Mildred’s brow arched, her gaze shifting to something, or someone, over Vi’s shoulder.
"Why?" came a deep, steady voice from behind her, one Vi instantly recognized. The familiar timbre sent a flicker through her expression before she even turned.
It was Kaelor.