(KBTCM) Ch 15: A Worthy Kingdom, Coming Of Prince Karlor

The gates of Vaeloria stood like a divine challenge to all who entered—massive and ancient, their gilded edges etched with glowing runes and patterns of old wars long forgotten by lesser kingdoms. But not by Prince Karlor. Oh no, he remembered his tutors droning on about them well enough, though none of their tales impressed him. Gates were gates. What mattered was what lay beyond them—and what would soon be his.

Karlor rode tall upon his obsidian-black steed, armor polished to a mirror shine, his crimson cloak trailing behind him like the tongue of a flame. He barely noticed the creak of the gate as it opened, nor the chill of the Vaelorian winds that kissed the back of his neck. His eyes were on the road ahead.

"Grelling Row..." he muttered beneath his breath, voice twisted in disdain.

The air here stank. Not of death, but of something worse—poverty. Grelling Row sprawled wide, the road broken and cracked, patches of moss and dirt claiming space between loose stones. Buildings here were narrow and sagging, wooden bones exposed, their roofs patched with thatch and hope.

The people, if one could call them that, lined the road. Children with smudged cheeks and threadbare tunics clung to their mothers. Old men with missing teeth waved wooden spoons as makeshift salutes. There were cheers—of course there were—but even Karlor could tell they weren't from joy. They were from curiosity, maybe desperation. He didn't like being looked at by the desperate.

Still, he gave them a smile. A perfectly measured, regal smile. And a wave—gracious, slow, confident. A prince's wave. "Smile, and they love you," he muttered to himself. "Even if they can't afford shoes."

He looked at one of his knights, Sir Brellin, who was trying not to hold his nose. "Do remind me to fund a bathhouse here, after I'm king. One can't have a royal procession choking on filth."

Soon the smell lifted and so did Karlor's spirits as they crossed into Eldermere, the middle ring of the city. Here, the buildings grew taller and more symmetrical. The houses had proper roofs, tiled and trimmed, and actual windows with wooden shutters. People wore layered tunics and cloaks dyed in simple greens, browns, and greys. Merchants watched from their booths and balconies, and there was a sharpness to their gazes.

"Ah, the respectable folk," Karlor mused. "Too poor to dine with us, too rich to ignore us. The salt of the city." He gave them a more generous smile, and this time his wave carried some genuine amusement. These people, he thought, were the kind you could govern. They respected structure, strength, and spectacle. They were the clay of civilization.

By the time his horse's hooves struck the white stones of the Noble District, Karlor could not help but grin.

"Now this..." he said aloud, loud enough for all his knights to hear, "this is what a kingdom should look like."

The roads gleamed under the midday sun, each cobblestone placed as if by a jeweler's hand. The buildings were marvels—some chiseled from imported marble, others of fine polished stone with golden inlays along their balconies. Trees, tall and lush, lined the avenue like sentinels, their branches swaying gently in the breeze as though bowing before his presence.

The nobles themselves stood poised along the road, arranged in precise rows by rank. Men in embroidered vests and shining boots, women in gowns of velvet and silk, each person with a gloved hand held just right, faces sculpted into gracious, measured expressions.

Karlor returned their stares with the practiced grace of a man born to be watched. His eyes flicked from mansion to mansion. Their coats of arms. Their private guards. All of it... impressive. Worthy of his time.

"Yes," he said to himself, "this kingdom shall wear my name like a crown."

His knights fell silent as the road bent upward toward the palace gates. And what a palace.

The Royal Palace of Vaeloria was not a castle. It was a monolith. A living monument carved from stone and memory, its towers scraping the clouds, its walls wide enough to house entire noble courts. Stained glass windows gleamed like jewels, and towering statues of past queens—giantesses with swords, scrolls, and scepters—watched over the land below like goddesses from myth.

Karlor's smug grin faltered. Only slightly.

His father's palace in Draymoor was grand—yes, respected throughout the empire—but it could have fit in the west wing of this place and still had room for a garden.

The steps before the palace stretched taller than most men. The doors... they were gargantuan, easily fifteen times his height, built for beings whose very footfalls could split the earth.

He sat still atop his horse, eyes trailing up the door's polished surface, tracing the emblems etched into the dark iron—the royal crest of Vaeloria: a rising oak entwined with a silver serpent.

The horns cried out first—three long, regal blasts that echoed like thunder through the courtyard and deep into the high halls beyond. It was the kind of sound that demanded attention, and for a moment, even the birds circling the tallest towers of the palace scattered into the sky.

Prince Karlor tilted his chin upward, letting the cool wind tug at his red-and-gold cloak as the horns fell silent. His horse stomped once, snorting, as if it too felt the weight of the moment. The prince's knights flanked him, polished and pristine, their helmets gleaming with the reflected grandeur of Vaeloria.

"Make way for His Highness," one of the trumpeters shouted, his voice small against the towering stone façade of the palace.

The great doors rumbled.

It started with a hiss of shifting gears, a clunk of ancient locks, and then the stone beneath their feet trembled—not violently, but with the kind of subtle, creeping power that suggested something impossibly large was about to happen. And it was.

The twin doors opened.

No guards greeted them. No footmen, no chamberlains. Just the shadow that spilled from the threshold like a tidal wave of dusk.

Then they saw it.

A red heel.

No, not just red—crimson, like fresh lacquered blood, glinting in the sunlight. The heel alone stood taller than any man among Karlor's ranks. It was connected to a wide, sculpted ankle, smooth and pale like marble, but unmistakably flesh. It rose up, disappearing beneath the flowing hem of a white dress that billowed gently as wind rolled in from the open hall behind her.

The knights shifted in their saddles. Karlor narrowed his eyes, his head tilting back—far back.

The dress, a gown of such immense proportion that it could have blanketed a town square, framed a torso like a temple. Her figure was... prodigious. Colossal, even by the standards he'd been warned of. Her chest alone cast a curve of shadow over the steps, and her crimson hair—thick and flowing—swayed behind her like a tapestry unfurling from the roof of a cathedral. She wasn't armored. She didn't need to be.

The Giantess of Vaeloria stood in the doorway like a living myth.

"By the gods," one of the knights muttered, earning a sharp elbow from another.

Prince Karlor said nothing. His face was still—so still it was hard to tell whether he was impressed, shocked, or simply recalculating.

But then, his eyes locked on her hand.

She wasn't simply standing. Her right arm was raised, held close to her chest, palm turned slightly forward as if she were shielding a flame from the wind.

And there, in the palm of the massive woman's hand, stood the King himself.

King Thandor Vaelorian.

He was small—relatively—but still striking. Dressed in deep blue robes trimmed in silver, a sash bound across his chest bearing the symbol of the rising oak. Silver gauntlets adorned his forearms, polished to mirror-shine, and his golden hair was combed back neatly, as if not a single strand dared misbehave. His stance was relaxed, but his expression was sharp. His eyes, sky-blue and piercing, scanned the group with practiced grace.

He stepped forward, just a pace, still firmly in the center of the giantess's open palm.

"Welcome," he said, voice amplified with the help of subtle magic—just loud enough to carry without sounding forced. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Welcome to my kingdom."

There was a pause. Not because anyone forgot their lines or didn't know what to say—but because no one, not even Karlor, had expected this.

The prince's brows lifted a fraction. He opened his mouth... then promptly closed it.

It was one thing to read about the "bonded titans" of Vaeloria in dusty tomes. It was another to see it. To see a queen-sized woman holding her king in the palm of her hand like a treasured keepsake—and doing so not as a show of dominance, but as something more ceremonial. Sacred, even.

One of Karlor's younger knights leaned over and whispered, "That's the princess's sister, isn't it? The one they call the Crimson Wall?"

"Quiet," Karlor hissed through clenched teeth, eyes still locked on the giantess. "She can probably hear your thoughts."

Sylara, though silent, tilted her head ever so slightly at the prince. Her eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in vague, amused curiosity. As if she were already forming opinions about him.

Karlor turned his attention back to the king. He nudged his horse forward a step and swept into a low bow from the saddle—flawlessly practiced, nothing less than a prince of Draymoor could offer.

"Your Majesty," he said. "It is an honor to stand before you—and your towering kingdom."

King Thandor chuckled lightly, resting a silver-clad hand on the base of Sylara's thumb for support. "Oh, you haven't seen towering yet, Prince Karlor. Come. We've prepared a welcome feast."

Karlor glanced once more up at the giantess, at the glint in her amber eyes. She said nothing—but he got the distinct impression that she was sizing him up.

And perhaps, more disturbingly...

...he wasn't sure if he measured up.