The Road to Valecourt

The cart rattled softly beneath Darin

as the eastern road opened before him.

Morning mist clung to the grass,
and when he looked back,
Embervale lay wrapped in silver light—
small, peaceful,

half-hidden behind the horizon.

 

He forced himself not to stare too long.
Homesickness grows quickest

when fed.

 

The old driver,

who had taken workers to Valecourt
each spring for decades,
clicked the reins lightly.

 

“Wind’s good today,”

he muttered.
“We’ll reach the forest by dusk.”

 

Darin nodded,

adjusting the strap across his shoulder.
“It’s been a while

since I took this road.”

 

The old driver chuckled.
“You say that every year.”

 

They rode mostly in silence.

Birdsong trailed them;
the sky warmed from rose to blue.

 

At a stream they stopped for water,
and Darin knelt

to splash cold against his face—
steadying himself,
anchoring the ache in his chest.

 

He pictured Daisy

tying his coat.
Mikhail half-asleep.
Their home

resting around them
like a gentle promise.

 

“You’ve got something worth coming back to,”
the driver said quietly.
“Men work better when their hearts know
where to return.”

 

Darin only nodded.

 

By the next afternoon,
the road had grown crowded—
merchants, riders,

farmers hauling grain toward the city.

All streams flowing toward the same river.

 

And then Darin saw it.

 

Valecourt.

 

Stone rising from the valley floor

like a crown.

Broad granite walls,

massive as cliffs.
Gates arched high enough
for three carts abreast.

 

Beyond them,

the city climbed the rise
in narrow circling streets —
houses layered like stacked parchment,
balconies bridging alleyways,
lines of laundry drifting overhead
like the soft flags of everyday life.

 

And above it all,

watching the city from its height—
the Shrine of the Vale.

Twin towers,

pale stone glowing in late light,
the golden ring atop them catching the sun so brightly
Darin had to narrow his eyes.

 

“It never gets old,” the driver murmured.

 

“No,” Darin said quietly.
“It doesn’t.”

 

Inside the walls,
noise replaced birdsong—
forges ringing,

vendors shouting,
carts grinding over cobblestone.

 

Darin breathed deep.

The air here was heavier,
sharpened by work,
thick with purpose.

 

“Stonemaker’s quarter,” the driver announced
as the cart rolled on.

 

The street narrowed,
packed with sheds and scaffolds.

Men hauled granite blocks;
chisels rang in steady rhythm—
a music made of dust and labor.

 

A foreman,

broad-shouldered and grey-bearded,
looked up from a half-shaped stone.

His eyes measured Darin
the way only craftsmen measured one another.

 

“Emberline,” he said,
a hint of approval in his voice.
“Good you made it.
We’ve a wall that won’t build itself.”

 

Darin slipped on his gloves.

“I’m ready.”

 

And the work began.