Chapter 22:
The Road To Ashford Part: II
By the fifth day, the mountains filled half the sky.
Selira’s carriage rattled down the worn stone road, her hands steady in her lap despite the endless tremors. The forests had thinned. The fields were rough and stony, the villages fortified.
Toward afternoon, the land opened into a broad plateau, and she saw it.
Stonefield.
The city crouched behind towering walls of gray stone, its rooftops packed tightly together, smoke rising in thin threads into the iron sky. Watchtowers bristled along the battlements. The main gate stood open, but iron portcullises loomed above like ready claws.
As they approached, Selira leaned forward slightly.
Stonefield was... bigger than she expected for an inland duchy city. Perhaps fifty thousand souls, by her estimation, impressive.
But it was a different kind of city than Velport.
There were no colorful sails, no open-air markets bursting with spices and silks, no musicians playing along the harbor boulevards. Here, the streets were wide but plain, designed for wagons and troops. The people moved with purpose: soldiers drilling, blacksmiths hammering armor, merchants hauling grain and weapons.
No art, no display. Only readiness.
It was not smaller than Velport, not truly, but it lacked the life, the freedom, the easy wealth of her home.
Stonefield did not dance. It endured.
As they passed through the gates, she saw again the black stag of Ashford flying from every pole, but no royal flags of Virethorn. Again.
The omission struck her harder than anything else.
Her steward, following her gaze, leaned closer. "My lady, we see now how deeply Ashford prepares."
Selira nodded, her lips thinning.
They wound through the city streets, past barracks and warehouses, until they reached the Haldrik Manor, a squat stone fortress tucked against the city’s inner wall.
Baron Jorvan Haldrik awaited her at the steps, clad in simple dark robes marked only by the silver bear of his house.
He bowed deeply.
"Lady Selira of Velmire," he rumbled. "Stonefield welcomes you, and House Haldrik offers you safe walls for the night."
Selira descended with a graceful nod. "You honor me, my lord," she said, voice smooth as water. "And your city speaks well of your house’s strength."
At that, Haldrik smiled faintly, a flash of grim pride.
"You think this city impressive?" he asked. "Wait until you see Valewick."
Selira tilted her head politely. "Is it truly so vast?"
"Half a million souls," Haldrik said, his voice lowering. "Streets broad enough to march armies down. Walls thick enough to stop dragons. Valewick was built to rule, and to endure what comes."
He paused, his gaze sharpening.
"And now, it stands for the Duchess alone."
Selira bowed her head slightly, masking the flicker of unease curling through her. Open treason.
"Then I shall look forward to seeing it," she replied.
That night, she dined in the great hall of Haldrik Manor, a fortress in everything but name. The meal was hearty but simple. The talk circled roads, stockpiles, eastern threats.
No one spoke of the King. No one wore the crest of Virethorn.
Selira sat at the long stone table, listening, noting every word and every silence.
Ashford was not hiding anymore.
It had built its own world, hard, grim, and ready.
And she was a foreign jewel, gleaming too brightly amid the iron.
--::--
The sixth day dawned clearer, but colder still.
Selira’s caravan rolled out of Stonefield with little ceremony. Behind them, the fortified city faded into the rising mist, a heavy weight that pressed against her mind long after the gates had disappeared from sight.
The road eastward narrowed again, cutting through low hills and thick woods, but the land here seemed better tended. The villages were larger, the farms more prosperous. Not softer, never that, but there was a sense of old wealth here, of generations that had survived not through war alone, but through careful alliance and quiet strength.
Ashford’s core.
The soldiers guarding crossroads checkpoints wore the same crimson and silver tabards, but their armor was newer, their weapons better kept. Even the drafted militia units trained on the fields carried themselves with sharper discipline.
And yet, there were still no royal banners. Only the black stag of Ashford, flying proudly from every steeple and watchtower.
Selira sat straight-backed in her carriage, her hands folded neatly, her mind sifting through every detail.
Stonefield had been brute strength. This land spoke of something more dangerous: enduring ambition.
By late afternoon, the spires of House Drelmore’s estate rose into view.
It was not a fortress like Haldrik’s manor, nor a mere country house. Drelmore’s seat was a sprawling estate of elegant stone buildings, gardens walled by high hedges, towers crowned with silvered domes that caught the dying sun. It was beautiful, calculatedly so.
As her carriage slowed at the outer gates, Selira’s steward leaned in.
"Count Drelmore," he murmured, "is a man of ambition, my lady. Wealthy, cautious. Loyal to Ashford... but loyal first to himself."
Selira offered a faint, unreadable smile. "The most dangerous kind."
The gates opened smoothly at her approach, flanked by guards in deep crimson livery. She was welcomed by a steward of the house, an older man with a bow so polished it might have belonged at a royal court.
"Lady Selira of Velmire," the steward intoned, "House Drelmore welcomes you with honor. Please accept our hospitality for this night."
Selira stepped from her carriage with practiced grace, accepting the welcome with a nod.
Inside, the estate was all refined wealth: marble floors, intricate stained-glass windows depicting Ashford’s victories, halls filled with paintings and old banners.
It was beautiful, but every beauty here was sharpened like a blade.
At the formal dinner that night, Lord Alric Drelmore himself received her.
He was a tall man, perhaps forty-five, his dark hair shot through with silver. His smile was warm, but his eyes measured her like a merchant appraising fine silk.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!
"My lady," he said, bowing deeply. "It is a rare honor to host a daughter of Velmire. And one soon to be tied to Ashford itself."
Selira curtsied with flawless poise. "The honor is mine, my lord. Your lands are beautiful, and speak of great stewardship."
"A stewardship we hope will continue long into the coming years," Drelmore said smoothly, gesturing her to the seat of honor beside him.
The feast was elegant, the dishes rich and complex, a subtle display of wealth and taste. But the conversation was a dance of knives. Drelmore asked about Velmire’s fleet sizes, about trade routes, politely veiled questions aimed at gauging Velmire’s future influence.
He spoke of Ashford’s stability under Duchess Liliana’s rule, but with careful emphasis on Ashford’s independence.
There was no mention of the king. No mention of the kingdom beyond.
Selira parried each inquiry with diplomatic skill, offering polite truths without substance, smiling when needed, laughing softly when appropriate.
But inside, she measured every word.
House Drelmore was loyal to Ashford. But their loyalty, she realized, was tied to opportunity, not faith. If the winds shifted, they would bend with them, not break.
As the evening wore on and the candles burned low, Selira rose to retire.
Lord Drelmore bowed deeply once more. "We are honored to have you under our roof, my lady," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "And I am certain you will find your future within Ashford... rewarding."
Selira smiled, and for a moment, allowed a sliver of steel to gleam behind her courtly mask.
"I am certain," she said softly, "that Ashford will find me just as rewarding."
Their eyes locked, an unspoken promise of future games to come.
--::--
On the seventh day, as the sun climbed pale and thin above the horizon, Selira saw it.
Valewick.
Even from miles away, it dominated the world.
The city spread across the plains like a living sea of stone and iron, rooftops and towers rolling outward in waves from a massive heart: the Ashford Citadel. Sprawling avenues stretched like arteries toward the towering outer walls, thick and high enough to hold back dragons, lined with battlements, banners, and black-iron gates shimmered faintly with warding sigils.
Half a million souls lived here, and it felt as though every one of them stirred beyond the horizon.
Selira sat straight-backed in her carriage, heart steady, but her breath caught for a single, treacherous moment.
This was no mere city. This was a declaration.
Ashford's capital. Ashford's strength. Ashford's future.
As they drew closer, the city gates loomed higher and higher, flanked by massive statues of armored stags rearing proudly toward the sky. Ashford’s crimson-and-silver banners snapped in the cold wind, dozens upon dozens of them, lining the walls, draped across towers, sewn into the very soul of the place.
And still, no royal banners.
The guards at the gate, elite soldiers in polished plate armor, helms crested with crimson plumes, waved Selira’s carriage through without delay. Her presence had been announced days in advance.
Inside the city, the streets were wider than any she had ever seen, easily broad enough for three carriages to ride abreast, and paved with dark gray stone that gleamed like wet slate underfoot.
The buildings soared five, six, even seven stories high, carved from thick stone, fortified and beautiful in the Ashford style: functional first, elegant second. Crowds thronged the streets, but at the sound of the Ashford trumpets, they parted smoothly, bowing their heads respectfully as the Velmire procession passed.
Selira glanced out through the window, feeling eyes on her from every corner.
Not hostility. Not welcome. Judgment.
They watched her with the sharp, measuring gaze of a people hardened by years of war and silence, loyalty and pride.
By midday, the carriages rolled into the inner circle of the city, past gilded gates guarded by Ashford knights, into the heart of Valewick itself.
The Ashford Citadel rose before her: a colossal fortress-palace of black stone veined with silver, its towers clawing at the sky, its walls thicker than any she had ever seen.
It was magnificent. Terrible. And utterly unshakable.
The carriages halted before the grand stairs leading up to the main hall.
Trumpets sounded, a deep, rich note that seemed to vibrate the very air.
Selira’s steward stepped forward first, holding the formal parchment sealed with Velmire’s crest, while her ladies and guards disembarked behind her, arranging themselves with precise discipline.
Selira herself stepped down last.
She wore deep gray and silver today, Velmire's colors muted out of respect for Ashford’s dominion. A fine cloak clasped at her shoulders, a simple circlet of pearl crowning her hair.
Poised. Composed. Every inch the noble daughter sent to forge an alliance.
The wide stone steps of the Ashford Citadel rose before Selira like the spine of a sleeping giant.
The court of Ashford awaited at the top of the stairs.
The courtyard behind her buzzed quietly with the presence of lords and ladies, knights and officers, all watching as she ascended toward the great bronze doors that marked the entrance to Ashford's formal court.
Each footstep echoed faintly in the crisp winter air, and every eye followed her progress.
Inside, the hall stretched vast and high, its vaulted ceiling lost in a weave of banners: Ashford’s black stag rampant on fields of silver and crimson.
The walls were carved with scenes of battle, not abstract allegory, but precise, brutal depictions of Ashford victories: the suppression of the river lords, the last stand against the mountain tribes, the siege of Redmere. There was no art for art’s sake here. Only memory. Only warning.
At the far end of the hall, atop a dais of dark stone, Duchess Liliana stood in formal court attire, a severe gown of black velvet laced with silver, a narrow coronet resting lightly on her brow. Her hair, gold and unbound, caught the cold light like a living banner.
Around her stood the nobility of Ashford.
Selira recognized the houses her steward had briefed her on during the journey.
All of them gathered, not to celebrate her arrival, but to measure her.
Selira felt their gazes like the weight of iron chains: appraisal, judgment, calculation.
She moved forward with practiced grace, every step perfectly measured.
When she reached the base of the dais, she curtsied, low, deep, without trembling.
"My lady Liliana," she said clearly, her voice carrying easily through the hall, "I come in honor of the alliance forged between Velmire and Ashford, and in service to the strength of both our houses."
A moment of silence. Then Liliana spoke, her voice calm and resonant.
"Lady Selira of Velmire," she said, "you are welcome in Ashford. You shall be granted every courtesy due your station, and every opportunity to prove yourself worthy of the bonds we seek to weave."
Selira rose smoothly, meeting Liliana’s gaze for the first time fully.
It was like looking into a glacier: beautiful, ancient, and utterly without mercy.
Liliana gestured lightly, and a herald stepped forward.
"Lady Selira will be housed for the night at the Velmire Guest Wing," he announced formally. "On the morrow, she will be escorted to the Ashford Estate, where she shall take up her place among the household until the day of her marriage."
Selira bowed her head in acceptance.
There would be no lingering in the city, no idle court games to buy time.
She was being drawn directly into the heart of Ashford’s power, into Liliana’s domain.
The nobles filed past after the formalities, offering brief greetings, polite smiles, stiff bows. None offered warmth. Only measured, cautious civility.
Selira received each one flawlessly, noting the subtle shifts of expression, the coded gestures of rank and rivalry.
At last, the formal audience ended.
As her steward led her toward the Guest Wing, Selira cast one last glance back at the dais.
Liliana remained where she stood, high above the hall, a still point of power and will.
Ashford did not kneel. Ashford did not yield. Ashford endured.
And now Selira would have to endure as well.
--::--
The eight day was the last day of her journey.
The road wound through low wooded hills, the carriage rocking steadily under Selira’s steady gaze. The towering skyline of Valewick had long since faded behind them, replaced by frost-touched fields, small hamlets, and clusters of pine and birch.
The air here felt different, cleaner, sharper. Heavier, somehow.
Two hours after leaving the city gates, the Ashford Estate came into view.
It rose from the hills like a fortress carved from the earth itself: high walls of dark stone, sharp towers crowned with crimson banners, and massive wrought-iron gates guarded by knights in gleaming armor. The main keep loomed at the center, flanked by sprawling gardens, less ornamental, more martial in layout.
Selira straightened in her seat.
This was not a courtly estate for leisure and pleasure. It was a place of legacy, of command.
As her carriage rolled to a halt before the great courtyard, she caught sight of them:
Waiting at the foot of the grand steps stood Ronan of Ashford, her intended. At his side, a small figure in an elegant silver-gray cloak, Grace of Ashford.
Behind them, assembled in crisp formation, stood the Ashford household: stewards, knights, ladies-in-waiting, and personal guards, the living pillars of a house that had endured wars and betrayals for centuries.
The carriage door was opened by her steward.
Selira descended with flawless poise, her cloak catching the winter wind, her silver-threaded gown shimmering softly beneath the pale sun.
For a breath, the entire courtyard seemed to still.
Ronan stepped forward first, his expression formal but not unfriendly.
He was a tall young man, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, wearing a deep crimson coat marked with the silver stag of Ashford. There was strength in his bearing, and something else too: a deep, quiet tension behind his polite smile.
Grace stood at his right side; hands folded neatly in front of her.
A child still, yet there was nothing truly childlike about her presence. Her golden curls framed a face too calm, too watchful for her age. Her pale blue eyes, tinged subtly with a strange shimmer of pink, studied Selira with unsettling focus.
Selira crossed the courtyard with measured steps, halting a precise distance from Ronan and Grace. She curtsied deeply; the bow required of a guest entering a noble house under formal welcome.
"My lord Ronan. My lady Grace," she said clearly, her voice carrying easily across the courtyard. "I, Selira of Velmire, come in honor and service, and place myself under the hospitality of House Ashford."
Ronan bowed deeply in return, formal, respectful.
"Lady Selira of Velmire," he replied, "we welcome you into our house, and into the bonds we shall forge together."
Grace stepped forward, bowing smoothly in a gesture far too practiced for her years.
"On behalf of the household," she said in a clear, lilting voice, "I welcome you as well, my lady."
The courtiers behind them bowed as one, a ripple of crimson and silver.
Selira rose from her curtsy and met Ronan’s gaze directly, then Grace’s.
She smiled, the kind of smile that concealed a hundred calculations behind a single, flawless gesture.
"May our bonds be strong," she said.
And in that moment, with the cold Ashford banners snapping above, with the mountains looming in the distance like silent judges, Selira felt the full weight of her choice settle onto her shoulders. There would be no easy path here. No safe harbor. Only strength, or ruin. And she would have to find her place among them, or be swept away like all who had come before.