Plundering Worlds: I Have a Shotgun in a Fantasy World-Chapter 71: West Wing Morning

[West Wing - Morning]

The bed was the best he had slept in.

He registered it before he was fully awake—the mattress supporting his weight evenly, the sheets smooth against his skin, the pillow set at a height that hadn’t required adjustment. At Blackstone Keep he had slept on a standard-issue military cot and woken each morning with his feet pressed against the footboard. Here the frame was long enough. The blanket was heavy without being stiff.

He lay still, assessing the ceiling.

The ceiling was stone, plastered smooth, with a single beam running its width. Morning light cut through the gap in the curtains at an angle that placed the hour just past six.

He sat up.

A knock at the door. Measured. Unhurried.

"Enter."

The steward from the previous evening came in—an older man, precise in his movements, carrying a garment across both forearms as though it might crease at a touch.

"Good morning, sir. The household rises at the seventh bell. Breakfast is served in the east room." He set the garment across the back of the chair by the writing desk. "Lady Maren asked that this be delivered before you came down."

Kael stood and studied the garment.

A coat, charcoal grey, almost black in the room’s morning light. Wool of a weight and density he recognized as expensive, though he could not place its origin—tight weave, no visible nap, the kind that held its shape under hard use. The cut was severe and clean: high collar, double-breasted, no decorative stitching, no embellishment beyond the buttons, dark iron set flush to the fabric.

He lifted it from the chair. The shoulders were cut wide, the body tapered without constricting. He put it on, It fit.

The shoulders sitting exactly at the joint, the sleeves reaching his wrist, the chest moving without pulling when he rolled his shoulder forward.

He turned slightly toward the mirror on the wardrobe door. Someone had measured him precisely, and without his knowledge.

He looked at the steward.

"The family retains a master tailor in the city," the steward said, in the tone of a man answering a question that had not been asked aloud. "He has worked with us for three decades. Lady Maren sent your measurements last night."

Kael looked at the mirror again. "I was not measured."

"No, sir. You were observed. The coat was cut and finished before dawn."

Kael’s gaze moved once more over the line of the shoulders, the fall of the fabric.

Dark trousers, same fabric. A white shirt beneath, high quality but plain. The coat over it, the iron buttons down the front, the collar sitting without gap or fold.

"Breakfast at the seventh bell."

"Yes, sir."

The steward withdrew.

[East Room - Breakfast]

The east room was smaller than the dining room he had seen the previous evening—a family room, not a formal one. Windows lined two walls, a round table set for four, the light fell clean across the wood.

Elira was already seated. She looked up when he entered, her gaze flicked once to his coat before returning to neutral.

"Good morning."

"Good morning."

Kael took the chair across from her. The table was proportioned for ordinary people; his knees barely cleared it.

Lady Maren stood at the window with a cup, reading from a folded sheet of paper. She acknowledged him with a nod and returned to it.

The fourth chair was empty, and food was already laid out on the table—bread still warm, soft cheese, sliced cold meat, and a pot of something dark, thicker than tea. He poured himself a cup and drank. Strong, slightly bitter. It cleared his head quickly.

He was halfway through his second piece of bread when the door opened.

The man who came in was built solidly—wide through the chest and shoulders, moving with the ease of someone who had once trained hard and had since let himself soften. He was perhaps forty-five, the lines in his face settled rather than strained. A short beard, uneven, grown just past the point of intention. His eyes were faintly red at the edges.

He saw the table, pulled out the fourth chair, and took the seat like it had always been his.

Aldric. This is Kael." Lady Maren did not look up.

"I’m here." He reached for the bread, then registered the name and saw the stranger across the table. His hand paused over the crust as he took him in more closely—the height, the coat, the hands resting calmly on the wood. A faint smile touched his mouth and lingered before he gave a single nod. Kael returned it.

No one spoke. Chairs scraped against the floor as Aldric stood.

Aldric poured himself a cup of the dark drink, swallowed half in one pull, exhaled through his nose, then tore open a piece of bread and began to eat. No one spoke. Chairs scraped against the floor as he stood; Lady Maren folded her paper and rose with him, and they left the room together. Elira remained seated a moment longer before standing. In the corridor, she fell into step beside Kael.

"Did you rest well?"

"Yes."

She nodded. "We leave for the capital in three days."

"I’ll be ready."

[Courtyard — After Breakfast]

In the mid-morning quiet of the courtyard, the fountain ran steadily and two stable boys crossed the far end with a cart.

Kael stood near the gate, looking through the iron bars at the street beyond—the city moving at its ordinary pace, with merchants, clerks, and the occasional horse moving along the street.

Footsteps sounded behind him, and he turned.

"Captain."

Aldric came across the courtyard with his hands in his pockets, his coat half-buttoned, pausing only to nudge a stray bucket back with his foot before it tipped, then stopping beside Kael to look out through the bars.

"How long were you at Blackstone?"

"Six months."

"Serving?"

"Six months."

Aldric’s eyebrows lifted. "Six months to captain."

Kael didn’t answer.

Aldric let it pass. "Blackstone’s colder than here this time of year."

"It is."

"Food’s worse too."

Kael glanced at him. "I’ve had worse."

Aldric gave a brief smile. "You’ll find ours tolerable."

"Valen isn’t in the habit of sending men. He sends paperwork." Aldric shifted his weight against the gate post. "So if you’re here, someone wanted a closer look."

He gestured vaguely toward the house. "This place has branches. Trade, land, contracts, ports. Different hands running each of them. Maren keeps the city side steady. The main line’s in the capital—bigger house, longer reach, more rules." He tilted his head slightly toward the street. "And over all of it, the High Lord."

"You’ll see soon enough."

"We’ll see."

Aldric scratched at the edge of his beard. "First time I went up there, I nearly used the wrong title on the wrong cousin." The corner of his mouth twitched. "They notice things like that."

Kael inclined his head slightly. "I’ll keep that in mind."

Aldric studied him for a moment. "Well, you don’t look like you’ll embarrass anyone."

He pushed off the gate post and glanced toward the street. "The capital keeps a quiet face; everything else happens underneath." He paused, weighing the thought, then shook his head.

"Elira’s from the northern branch—Valen’s niece. Same branch I married into."

He gave Kael a longer look.

"I’m going to walk before Maren finds another list for me. You’re welcome to come."

He set off across the courtyard without waiting, and after a moment Kael left the gate and followed. They crossed the yard in silence, gravel shifting underfoot, until the stables came into view and the packed strip of sand behind the wall lay open and freshly raked in the morning light. Aldric slowed there and glanced toward it.

"You still train?"

"When I have the time."

They stepped onto the sand to spar, bare-handed. Aldric stripped off his coat and folded it over the fence; Kael did the same. They circled once, boots shifting softly against the packed ground. Aldric moved first, probing the distance, quick for a man his size. Kael yielded a step and kept his feet light beneath him, committing to nothing, only measuring the space between them.

Then Aldric’s guard opened for a fraction of a second, and Kael moved. A short, straight punch snapped out and stopped just shy of full force, his knuckles striking Aldric’s raised palm clean. The sound was flat and sharp.

Aldric held his ground as the impact drove his arm back farther than he had braced for, the jolt running up into his shoulder. He looked down at his hand, then back at Kael.

"...You held back?"

He flexed his fingers slowly, testing the sting in his palm, then rolled his shoulder once.

"You fight like one of the capital heirs. Drilled since they could stand."

He reached for his coat, still watching Kael.

"Kael."

"You’re a monster." A short breath escaped him, almost a laugh. "Try not to break anyone important."

They were still crossing back through the courtyard when one of the house staff appeared at the far archway, moving with the brisk efficiency reserved for unannounced arrivals.

"Sir." He addressed Aldric first, then inclined his head slightly toward Kael. "A visitor at the front gate. Lord Garrick Holt of Greyfield Manor requests an audience."

Aldric’s expression did not change. He gave Kael a brief look before turning back to the staff.

"Tell him we’ll be a moment."