Plundering Worlds: I Have a Shotgun in a Fantasy World-Chapter 70: First meeting

[Blackstone Keep - Main Gate - Early Morning]

The escort unit was already formed up when Kael reached the gate.

Twenty men—Valen’s personal guard. The distinction showed in their gear: superior leather, hardened steel, and horses bred for distance and endurance. Kael’s mare stood a head taller than the others, better fed and better rested.

The carriage stood at the center of the formation. Solid construction, iron-banded wheels, curtained windows. Built for distance and endurance, with only the bare essentials for the road.

Elira was already inside. The curtain remained drawn.

Kael’s squad waited at the edge of the gate.

Silas broke the silence. "Captain, men can serve a lifetime and never come under a captain like you."

Griggs met Kael’s eyes. "Take care."

Kael gave a short nod.

Bren stepped in and caught his forearm, quick and firm, then let go. "We’ll see you again, Captain."

"That you will."

Kogan came last. He moved up beside Kael and stopped, both of them facing the gate instead of each other. They stood level, shoulder to shoulder.

"Valen had you do it personally. Not because the others couldn’t."

Kogan kept his eyes on the gate.

"A divine-blessed can look like anything. Remember that."

He set a hand on Kael’s shoulder once, then walked back to the others.

Kael looked at his squad. Silas with his hands in his pockets. Griggs quiet and still. Bren standing straight. Kogan already turning toward the barracks.

"Take care of yourselves."

He mounted.

The gate opened. The formation moved. Kael rode at the left flank of the carriage, close enough to hear the wheels grind over stone. He kept his eyes on the road ahead—the wagon ruts cut deep, the mud at the edges still soft from the thaw, the tree line waiting in the distance.

The gate shut behind him.

[The Road - Fourth Night - Roadside Camp]

On the fourth night, they camped in a field outside a waystation too small for the full party. The horses were picketed to the east. Fires burned in two rings. The men moved through their routines without pause.

Kael made a circuit of the perimeter and returned through the center of the camp.

The carriage lamp was lit. He walked past. Then stopped.

The curtain hung half-open. Inside, Elira sat at the small fold-down writing surface, the pen in her hand, a sheet pinned beneath her wrist. The ink vials were stoppered and set in the corner.

She looked up.

"Would you like to come in?"

He glanced at the interior. He had kept his distance for four days. He bent and climbed in, folding himself into the seat opposite her. His shoulders brushed both walls. His knees had nowhere to go. He shifted once, found a workable angle, and held it.

Elira watched him. The corner of her mouth shifted, faintly. Then she returned to her writing.

The lamp swayed with the wind. Outside, a horse stamped once.

After a while, she set the pen down.

"Would you tell me what happened?"

Her eyes stayed on the page.

Kael said nothing.

"If you’d rather not," she went on, "I understand."

The lamp cast her face in uneven light. The pen rested loose between her fingers.

He did not answer.

Elira picked up the pen again. She wrote another line, then another, the new nib moving cleanly across the page. Kael remained in the narrow space while the nearest fire outside sank lower.

Then he bent and climbed back into the cold.

She kept writing.

He stood beside the carriage, breath clouding in the dark, then turned and walked the perimeter again, slow and unhurried.

[The Road – Ninth Day – Midmorning]

The road had widened. Traffic moved both ways now—merchants, a group of pilgrims, a family driving a loaded cart. They were past the frontier.

Kael rode beside the carriage. The curtain on his side stood open a little in the morning warmth.

He had been turning it over since before they left. Not the words. Those were simple. It had been decided without her voice.

In the end, he spoke.

"Lady Elira."

The curtain shifted. Her face appeared in the narrow opening, composed, attentive.

"You are aware," he began, "that we are to be engaged."

A breath.

"And is that acceptable to you?"

She stilled.

Color touched her collar, faint but undeniable. Her gaze lowered once, then steadied on him again.

"Yes," she said. "I am aware."

A pause.

"And it is."

He held her gaze a moment, then turned back to the road.

After that morning, she left the curtain open. They still spoke little. Nothing in her manner suggested retreat.

[Rathmere – City Gate – Seventeenth Day]

The city announced itself before it appeared—coal smoke, baking bread, the press of animals, bells somewhere within the walls. The road beneath the horses’ hooves turned smoother.

Rathmere was not large. By other standards it would not have drawn notice. But here it carried weight. Stone buildings three and four stories high. A market square visible through the gate. People moving with the ease of those who had never lived close to a frontier.

The formation slowed at the entrance. Papers were examined. The escort captain exchanged words with the gate official.

Ahead, a small group was already making its way toward them—four people, well-dressed, one carrying a document. Farther along the street, the roofline of a manor house rose above the surrounding buildings.

The carriage door opened. Elira came down, one hand on the frame. She took in the city with the composed look of someone returning to familiar ground. She glanced up at Kael, still mounted.

"We’re here."

"We are."

A brief pause.

"My family will have sent someone to meet us. It may be—formal."

"I understand formal."

Her expression shifted—not quite a smile, but near enough. "Yes. I imagine you do."

Kael dismounted. He came to stand beside her as the family’s representatives approached. He was a full head taller than the tallest of them. Behind him, Valen’s men remained mounted, disciplined and silent.

"Lady Elira," the steward said, bowing. "We received word three days ago. The rooms are prepared."

Kael remained where he was.

The captain of Valen’s escort rode forward, handed a sealed document to the steward, and said, "Our orders were to deliver Lady Elira safely to Rathmere. That duty is complete."

The steward accepted the seal. "Rathmere acknowledges."

The escort captain saluted, turned his horse, and signaled the men. Within moments, Valen’s company wheeled as one and took the road north, the sound of hooves fading past the gate.

The open space they left behind settled into silence.

The steward waited. Elira did not watch them go.

She moved forward, her bearing shifting into something cooler and more exact.

"Lead the way."

The steward bowed and turned toward the street. He led them into the city proper. The noise of the outer road dropped away, replaced by the closer rhythm of the inner district.

Elira kept an even pace.

"This is my family’s house in Rathmere. My uncle’s branch oversees the northern trade routes from here."

Ahead, beyond the narrowing streets, the house rose behind a stone wall and an iron gate worked in a simple crest.

"It isn’t the main seat—that remains in the capital. This one manages what passes through the north."

She glanced at him once.

"They will measure you. Quietly. And by tomorrow, you’ll have something appropriate to wear."

The houses around them shifted from timber to stone. Windows sat deeper in their frames. No banners. No bright paint on the doors.

The iron gate bore no gilding, only maintenance. It swung open without sound.

Inside, the courtyard was laid in worn flagstone. A plain fountain stood at its center—no figures, no ornament—water falling in an even thread. The house itself was older than those around it. Darker stone. Straight lines. Balanced proportions. Nothing ornate. Nothing neglected.

Servants crossed the yard without rushing.

The steward paused at the base of the steps. A woman stood at the entrance. She was dressed plainly—dark fabric, clean lines, a single ring set with an old stone. She did not come down.

"Lady Elira."

Elira looked up at her. "Cousin."

The woman’s gaze moved to Kael.

"And this," she said, "is the gentleman."

"Kael, Captain of Blackstone."

The cousin held his gaze a beat longer than courtesy required.

"You are welcome. Rathmere extends its courtesy."

She moved aside. "Come in."

The entrance hall was cool and high-ceilinged. No banners on the walls. Two old portraits in dark frames above a long table laid with ledgers and sealed packets. The stone floor worn smooth along the central path.

"Your chambers are prepared."

"Elira," the cousin added, "you’ll wish to wash before we speak further."

Elira nodded. "Of course."

She turned toward Kael. "You’ll be shown to yours."

A maid led her up the main stair. The door that closed behind her was tall, carved, and set with glass panes that caught the light.

A servant led him down a side corridor.

His room was in the west wing. Smaller than hers, but not sparse. A narrow bed. A writing desk. A basin filled with warm water, a folded towel beside it.

Inside the wardrobe hung two sets of formal attire. Dark wool. Good stitching. Conservative cut.

He lifted one from its hanger. The shoulders drew tight when he put it on. The sleeves stopped just short of his wrist.

Someone had estimated.

He let the fabric fall back into place. It would do.

He washed in the basin, the water already cooling. He shaved with the razor left beside the mirror—clean strokes, nothing wasted. When he dressed again, the coat pulled faintly across his back, but the lines were clean. The boots left for him were polished, a shade finer than those he had worn in from the road.

A knock.

"The evening meal will be served at the seventh bell, sir."

He went out.

The corridor had dimmed. Lamps burned along the walls. From somewhere deeper in the house came voices—low, controlled, measured.

He descended without pausing.

The dining room was long rather than wide. A single table set for eight. Silver polished but not newly acquired. Candles for light, not display.

Elira was already at the far end. She had changed. The gown was restrained—dark fabric, precise detailing, no jewels beyond a narrow band at her throat.

When he entered, conversation adjusted by a degree.

The cousin looked up. "Captain."

He took his place. The chair did not creak. He sat without moving.

The meal went without excess. Soup first. Bread passed. A roast carved thin. Wine poured once. Talk ran to trade figures and road conditions.

No one drew him in. No one cut him out.

When the final plate was cleared, Elira’s cousin set her napkin down. "We will speak further tomorrow."

Chairs moved. Servants came in.

In the corridor outside the dining room, voices separated and faded.

"Kael."

He stopped.

Elira stood beneath one of the lamps. The light traced her sleeve.

"For tonight, you won’t have to stand by yourself."

He looked at her.

"If anything sits wrong, tell me."

He held her gaze.

"I know."

She studied him a moment.

"Alright."

She turned first.

He watched until she was gone, then continued toward the west wing.