Chapter 21:
The Road To Ashford Part: I
The Grand Castle of Velport loomed above the harbor like a crown of stone and silver. Below its terraces, the city of Velport sprawled out in elegant tiers, sloping gently toward the great sea where ships bobbed and banners snapped crisply in the salt-laden breeze. Hundreds of masts crowded the water, their rigging singing faintly with every shift of the wind. Merchant galleons, sleek warships, and gilded pleasure barges all jostled for space in the bustling port that fed the Duchy of Velmire’s endless coffers.
Lady Selira of House Velmire stood alone on the castle’s west balcony, the morning sun gilding kissing her face. From here, she could see almost everything: the merchants shouting on the docks, the city guards patrolling the wharves, the priests of Velarion weaving saltwater blessings over departing ships. Silver-threaded charms fluttered from the masts, prayers to tame the seas and call favor from the God of Storms.
It should have been reassuring. It wasn’t.
She knew the world had changed. In the cities, the banners of Lirien’s Church hung highest now, and the temples of growth and harvest overflowed. But here in Velport, in the salt and the spray, it was still Velarion’s name sailors whispered when the tides turned foul.
Her hands, clad in dove-gray gloves, tightened imperceptibly on the marble balustrade.
"You are troubled," said a voice behind her.
Selira turned, her expression serene by long habit. Her father approached with the measured grace of a man who commanded fleets and courts alike. Duke Velmire wore simple dark velvet, the mark of a ruler who understood that true power needed no ornamentation.
"Only a little, Father," Selira said, dipping her head. "It is a long journey."
He stood beside her, silent for a moment, hands clasped behind his back.
"You fear what lies at the journey’s end," he said quietly.
Selira hesitated. Then, in the safety of the balcony’s shadow, she let her worries slip free.
"I fear the role I am being asked to play, Father," she admitted. "Ashford is no ordinary house. Ronan is no ordinary husband."
The Duke gave a small smile. "You are wise to see it."
She looked out over the city once more. "If I marry Ronan... if I bear children... they would inherit Ashford. And if Lady Liliana wishes her own blood to rule, not the blood of Virethorn mixed with Velmire, then I become an obstacle."
The words hung heavy in the morning air.
Her father did not dismiss her fear. Instead, he leaned on the balustrade beside her, gaze distant.
"You see the deeper game. Good. But listen well, Selira: Liliana is not reckless. She does not act from petty emotions. If you prove yourself useful to her vision, she will protect you, not destroy you."
Selira said nothing, so he continued, voice lower.
"There is much you were never told, even among the nobility. About Ashford. About the Duke."
She glanced at him sharply.
"You know," he said, "that Ronan’s mother was a Princess of Virethorn, the sister of the current king."
Selira nodded.
"And you know the Duke remarried Liliana of Ashford, a cousin, of pure Ashford bloodline. It caused scandal among the courts, though the marriage was legal. What you may not know is that it was not ambition that drove them together. It was love. Real and dangerous love."
Selira’s brow furrowed. Love among nobles was a rare, risky thing.
The Duke’s mouth tightened. "The king feared Liliana. Even then, she showed brilliance in the border wars, tactics, magic, loyalty none could match. He feared she would have children of pure Ashford blood and challenge the throne’s influence over the duchy."
He looked at her, and there was something grim in his eyes.
"So, the king lured the Duke of Ashford to court... and imprisoned him. Silently. Secretly. No trial. No accusation. Just a royal command. Only a few of us know."
Selira’s breath caught. "Then... why...?"
"Because," he said, voice heavy, "Liliana was already pregnant with Grace. They were too late."
He straightened slowly. "Since then, Liliana has ruled alone. She never spoke a word of treachery publicly, because she knows it would ignite rebellion. But she has not forgiven, nor forgotten."
Selira absorbed this in silence. Pieces slid into place inside her mind.
"And the older brothers?" she asked quietly.
"Alaric and Cedric. Both sent into danger in the north. Both killed. Accidents, they said. Coincidences. Perhaps. Perhaps not."
The Duke’s smile did not reach his eyes.
"Now only Ronan remains. A third son, untrained for power. A pawn, if Liliana wishes it."
Selira’s throat tightened. "And me?"
He looked at her fully now, and his voice softened, just slightly.
"You are not a pawn, Selira. You are my daughter. I have trained you better than that. You will enter Ashford’s halls not as a lamb, but as a needle. Sharp. Unbreakable. Needed."
He paused, and then his voice dropped even lower.
"You are not just marrying for survival," the Duke said. "You are being woven into the future of the realm itself."
Selira turned fully toward him, the gravity of his words anchoring her.
"War is coming, Selira," he said, gaze sharp as a drawn blade. "Inside the kingdom, and beyond its borders. I have seen the signs: the king’s weakness, the old alliances fracturing, the beastkin stirring on the eastern borders."
His hand tightened behind his back.
"Liliana prepares for it already. While others cling to peace, she forges armies. I intend for Velmire to stand beside the victors when the storm breaks, not begging for scraps after the walls fall."
He smiled thinly, cold and full of certainty.
"By sending you now, we tie Velmire’s ships to Ashford’s spears. Before the others even realize the game has changed."
Selira’s heart thudded in her chest. She understood now: her marriage was not merely a sacrifice. It was a gambit. A move in a larger war where only the bold would survive.
She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them anew; clear, calm, and cold.
"I understand, Father."
The Duke nodded once, but when she stepped closer to bow properly, he did something unexpected.
He reached out and placed both hands on her shoulders, holding her still for a long, quiet heartbeat.
"You are my daughter," he said softly, his voice almost losing its iron edge. "You carry the pride of Velmire. But more than that, you carry my heart. Return victorious, Selira. Carve your place into history."
For a moment, the great Duke of Velmire was simply a father sending his child into a storm.
Selira bowed deeply. "I will not fail you."
Then she turned, her steps steady, her face serene, and descended the marble steps of the Grand Castle for the last time as a daughter of Velmire.
The courtyard below buzzed with the low, controlled energy of departure.Her entourage awaited: nearly one hundred and fifty souls in total.
At the front stood her closest companions, young noblewomen from loyal retainer houses of Velmire, dressed in travel cloaks embroidered with their family sigils. They bowed as she approached, their faces a mixture of pride and worry.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Behind them, a row of maids prepared carriages laden with chests of gifts: fine silk, polished jewelry, alchemical wares, rare books, and casks of southern wine, all traditional offerings to the household of her future husband. A formal tribute, as custom demanded, for the honor of hosting her until the wedding vows were sealed.
Further back, fifty soldiers in Velmire’s dark blue and silver livery mounted their horses with crisp discipline. Two knights in plate armor stood ready at either side of her main carriage, and beside them, a third figure: a war-mage clad in a cloak stitched with Fourth Circle runes, the subtle but unmistakable mark of deadly power. Her personal protector.
Selira took a slow breath as she surveyed them all. This was no simple bride’s procession. This was a statement of Velmire’s wealth, pride, and quiet strength.
She lifted her chin.
"Let us depart," she commanded.
With a great creak and a flurry of banners catching the rising breeze, the carriages rolled forward, guards fanning out around them, and Lady Selira of Velmire left her birthplace behind, carrying both gifts and ambitions toward the heart of Ashford.
The bells of Velport rang behind her, not for farewell, but for destiny.
The gates of Velport yawned open like a great, slow-breathing beast as the procession assembled beneath the early morning mist.
Lady Selira of House Velmire sat poised within the lead carriage, her gloved hands resting lightly in her lap, her eyes fixed unblinking on the world beyond the glass window. Outside, the banners of Velmire, silver ships on a deep blue field, fluttered from every archway and tower. Merchants and citizens lined the broad avenue to watch the departure, their faces bright with smiles and well-wishes.
It should have been comforting. It wasn’t.
The great harbor of Velport glittered behind the city walls, a field of masts and sails swaying with the rising tide. The sea breeze carried the scents of salt and spices, of warm stone and distant lands, the scents of home.
And she was leaving it behind.
As the gates of Velport shrank behind them, Selira felt a hollow ache settle deep within her chest. She had never left her home duchy before.
The soft green hills of Velmire rolled away beneath the wheels of the carriage, dotted with vineyards and open fields where farmers waved lazily as the noble procession passed. The villages were bright and welcoming; the roads well-tended; the inns along the way wore banners of welcome.
Here, everything was known. Familiar. Safe.
But as the hours slipped past, as the sun climbed higher and the gentle lands gave way to harder soil and thinner trees, Selira felt the first stirring of something new: unease.
Toward evening, just as the light began to slant in molten gold across the land, she glimpsed them, distant and vast upon the horizon:
Mountains.
Towering shapes of shadow and stone, jagged against the reddening sky.
Her breath caught.
She had read of mountains, of course. Heard songs sung of their majesty. But seeing them, cold, immense, unmoving, was something else entirely. They loomed in the distance like ancient gods, their peaks crowned in mist, their lower slopes dark with dense forests.
The eastern mountains. Ashford’s shield. Ashford’s cage.
Selira shifted in her seat, feeling the weight of them settle over her like a cloak. They would grow closer with each passing day, each turn of the wheel.
The carriage slowed as they approached their first stop for the night, a noble estate flying the colors of House Veylor, one of Velmire’s loyal vassal families.
The manor was beautiful: low, wide buildings in the coastal style, soft stone archways, flowering gardens lining the entry road. Lanterns had been lit in welcome. The banners of Velmire and Veylor snapped together in the warm evening breeze.
Selira stepped out of the carriage with measured grace, her companions following behind her in careful formation.
Lord Veylor himself, a round, silver-haired man in finely cut robes, greeted her with deep bows and polished words of welcome. Servants rushed to see to her needs. A banquet had been laid out: fresh bread, roasted fowl, sweet wine from the southern groves.
It was everything a noble lady could ask for.
And yet, when Selira looked toward the east, beyond the gardens, beyond the gentle slopes,she could still see them: the mountains, dark against the dying sky, waiting.
Waiting for her.
She dined politely. She smiled when custom demanded it. She listened to Lord Veylor's reassurances about the strength of Velmire's fleets and the prosperity of its people.
But part of her mind was already reaching forward. Toward the mountains. Toward Ashford.
--::--
The second morning dawned gray and cold.
Mist clung to the fields as Selira’s procession pulled away from House Veylor's estate, the banners of Velmire folding against the damp breeze. The road eastward narrowed, the landscape growing wilder, rougher. Fewer villages dotted the horizon. Fewer smiling faces lined the roads.
The closer they drew to the border, the more the world seemed to hold its breath.
By midday of the third day, the border came into view: a massive stone fortress squatting astride the road like a brooding beast.
Selira peered through the carriage window, heart beating a fraction faster. Highmarch Fortress, the gateway into Ashford. Built not to welcome, but to withstand siege.
Thick stone walls loomed high, bristling with crimson-and-silver banners of House Ashford. Watchtowers crowned the corners, archers visible behind crenelations. A heavy iron portcullis hung suspended over the main gate, the chains thick as a man’s arm.
Before the gate, rows of Ashford soldiers in full armor stood at attention, spears glinting in the cold light. Their tabards bore the sigil of Ashford.
The mood within Selira’s retinue shifted immediately.
Her soldiers straightened in their saddles. Her ladies lowered their voices. Even the war-mage at her side sat a little stiffer, his hands resting lightly on the hilt of the staff strapped to his back.
As they approached, a trumpet sounded from the walls, sharp and short.
The caravan halted.
An officer on horseback rode forward, a stern-faced man in crimson cloak and polished steel, bearing the emblem of Highmarch.
He called out in a carrying voice, formal and without warmth: "Lady Selira of Velmire, by order of Marquess Edric Ravenshade, you are required to present your documents for inspection before entering Ashford lands."
Selira nodded to her steward, who stepped forward and produced the sealed letters from Velmire’s ducal court.
The officer examined them without haste, then gave a curt nod.
"You may enter. With the Marquess permission."
The portcullis creaked upward. Slowly. Deliberately. The noise was not welcoming; it was a warning.
Selira’s carriage rolled forward under the raised gate. She felt the eyes of a hundred soldiers burning into the wood and silk of her procession.
Inside the fortress walls, the world shifted sharply.
No colorful market stalls here. No flowered gardens or strolling nobles.
Only drill yards. Armories. Stables filled with war-horses. Everywhere, the smell of oiled leather and iron. Ashford was a duchy prepared for war. And it made no effort to hide it.
They were escorted — not led — through the fortress grounds to the inner keep. Marquess Edric Ravenshade awaited them atop the steps.
He was tall, lean as a whip, with weathered skin and a hawk’s sharp eyes. His cloak bore the same stag emblem, but the edges were embroidered with black thread, a mark of mourning, or memory.
He bowed precisely, the gesture perfect, but utterly cold.
"Lady Selira of Velmire," he said, voice cutting through the mist. "On behalf of House Ashford, I welcome you to Highmarch Fortress. You will be granted full hospitality tonight before continuing on to Valewick."
Selira dipped into a flawless curtsey, her voice smooth and steady.
"You honor me with your welcome, my lord."
A lie, and they both knew it.
Without further ceremony, she and her retinue were led inside, into high-ceilinged stone halls hung with ancient Ashford banners. Servants moved silently around them, efficient and unsmiling.
They were given guest chambers, clean, but plain. No luxuries. No comfort.
That night, Selira dined with the Marquess in a hall lined with empty shields. The meal was simple: meat, bread, hard cheese, dark wine. Conversation was formal, clipped, heavy with subtext. Marquess Ravenshade asked no questions about Velmire. He offered no gossip, no idle talk. Only updates about roads, patrols, weather.
War words.
Selira answered with equal care, presenting the polished face of Velmire diplomacy. But inwardly, she catalogued every word, every glance. This was no friendly welcoming party. This was a duchy that viewed all outsiders with suspicion, even a bride. When the evening ended, and Selira was escorted back to her rooms, she allowed herself a slow, silent breath.
--::--
The morning at day four of her journey broke cold and still.
Selira’s carriage rattled out of Highmarch Fortress beneath a sky the color of iron, her retinue falling into disciplined formation behind her. The portcullis clanged shut as they passed, a final, unspoken warning.
Ahead lay Ashford.
At first, it was the landscape that struck her. Gone were the gentle fields and flowering roads of Velmire. Here the earth was harder, rocky, scarred by old battle trails. Low forests clung to the hillsides like dark scars. Crows circled overhead.
The roads narrowed, sometimes little more than rough tracks gouged between boulders. Old watchtowers, half-collapsed or repurposed, loomed on ridges. Guards stood on them, not ceremonial, but armed, watching the roads with flat-eyed suspicion.
Selira sat stiffly, gloved fingers folded neatly in her lap, her eyes never leaving the window.
And then she noticed. No banners of the kingdom. Not one.
In Velmire, every town, every castle flew both the ducal standard and the royal banner of Virethorn. It was custom. It was law.
Here... nothing.
Only the stag of Ashford, black and proud on fields of silver and crimson, snapping in the cold wind.
It was more than absence. It was defiance.
Her mouth tightened as her mind raced. Her father had warned her: Liliana prepared for war.
But this... this was not mere preparation.
It was as if she had crossed not a duchy’s border, but into another country altogether.
The caravan wound through villages along the way. At each crossroads, she saw them:
Banners nailed to posts, calling men to arms.Draft lists nailed to inn doors.Weapons stockpiled openly in carts and barns.Boys barely of age drilling with spears in muddy fields under the grim gaze of veteran sergeants.
Selira leaned closer to the window.
The villagers did not shout welcomes or offer flowers. They watched the procession in silence, wary, calculating.
In the distance, she spotted a checkpoint: a crude barrier of sharpened stakes across the road, manned by Ashford soldiers. Every merchant, every farmer, every noble carriage was stopped and searched.
Their commander, a hard-faced woman bearing Ashford’s sigil, waved Selira’s carriage through only after inspecting her travel seals with slow, deliberate care.
Selira forced herself to remain still, composed. But inside, a knot tightened in her chest.
Whispers filtered through the villages.
The beastkin tribes are gathering in the east.There will be war — soon.The King cannot protect us. He is a traitor.Lady Liliana will stand alone if she must.
And no one silenced them. No soldiers tore down the rumors. No magistrates declared loyalty to the crown.
The rot of rebellion was open here, tolerated, even encouraged.
Such talk would have been unthinkable in Velmire. There, a single whisper against the throne would have been met with immediate censure. Here... it was part of the very air.
Selira leaned back against the carriage seat, her heart pounding.
She had known Ashford would be different. She had known Liliana was a force to be reckoned with. But this, this was not fear of war to come.
This was readiness for war already here.
She glanced sideways at her companions in the carriage: Lady Arin, her childhood friend, stared wide-eyed at the bleak countryside. One of the handmaidens was silently weeping into her cloak.
Selira said nothing. There was no comfort she could offer that would not sound hollow.
Instead, she lifted the curtain slightly, watching the road roll on. Watching the mountains grow closer. Watching the future close around her like a steel trap.
Ashford was no longer merely a duchy within Virethorn. It was something else.