The infirmary was close enough to the armory to justify a quick revisit, but lingering any longer than necessary wasn’t worth it. Mack was still there, lying in his bed, at the mercy of his coma. Cole could visit later; for now, just familiarizing himself with the basic layout would do.
The kitchen proved more lively.
The area rivaled any modern commercial operation in scope. Despite the numerous occupied stovetops aglow with flames and red light, the room didn’t feel stuffy – like a Korean BBQ joint with proper ventilation. Another steampunk pastiche, courtesy of Celdorne’s finest artisans.
None of the dishes looked familiar though. Various meats Cole couldn’t identify sizzled in massive pots, surrounded by vegetables that definitely weren’t in any Earth cookbook. The smells were good, at least. Hell, after dealing with a JNI dirty bomb, the ensuing clusterfuck, and then getting isekai’d, his stomach could care less about alien gastronomy.
Fotham, despite his intentions on behalf of the kingdom, seemed at least considerate of the shit they’d been through. Probably having heard their growling stomachs, Fotham led them to a cook built like he’d spent his life hauling heavy sacks of food and cookware.
“Master Marwin,” Fotham greeted him. “Our special guests have been at practice. Three mana potions, if you please.”
“Training, are they?” The cook gave their gear a long look, but his thoughts remained unspoken. “Never seen soldiers fitted thus – begging your pardon, of course.” Turning to a shelf, he grabbed three blue vials. “Fair warning: nary a soul drinks this without grimacing. Bitter as an Aurelian at market. Though we’ve ways of making it less offensive.”
Marwin turned to what looked like an icebox built into the wall. “Sunfruit press helps it down. Or…” He pulled open the door, cold air spilling out. “Ah! Apples from the southern provinces, fresh as morning. Rare sight indeed. Though… well, there’s other mixtures that serve just as well.”
As enticing as it was to get hammered after dealing with the strangest day of his life, Cole had to turn down the offer. “Yeah, maybe another time. I think we’ll just go with the uh, the apple juice, right?”
His team nodded, eagerly so. Looked like no one wanted to play guinea pig with sunfruit – not today at least. The apple mix would do just fine; they’d already signed up for one mystery drink with that blue stuff, and that was plenty for now.
They downed the drinks together.
Not bad – the apple juice masked most of that promised bitterness, though a metallic aftertaste lingered. The warmth spreading through Cole’s chest felt like that first sip of coffee in the morning, minus the usual jitters. Some of that training fatigue started to fade too.
“Hungry lot, I’d wager,” the cook said, still tending his pots. “Got a good consommé on – marsh buck stewed with koreth root. Been at it since dawn. Also got drell flanks rubbed with viss and aged in wine. Sarn and cave pheasant from the eastern ranges. Riverfish in melted butter with fresh shrolt.” He wiped his hands on his apron. “His Majesty’s special guests ought to eat proper, after all.”
The aromas wafting through the kitchen conjured up those fancy cooking shows where even the intrepid hosts sometimes found themselves linguistically fucked. Koreth root? Viss? At least ‘marsh buck’ and ‘cave pheasant’ gave him some idea what he’d be eating. The wine-rich smell from that drell dish was pretty darn promising though. After months of MREs, he sure as hell wasn’t gonna turn down some royal Michelin star bangers.
“Hell, reckon we might as well try a bit of everything,” Miles said, probably thinking the same thing. “Ain’t had somethin’ proper in a minute.”
No argument there. At this point, Cole would’ve demolished a 7/11 hot dog, let alone whatever culinary extravagance they were about to get.
Fotham nodded to Marwin. “I shall have the maids fetch the meals when our guests have settled upon their quarters. Now,” he turned to Cole and the others, “let us proceed to the guest wing.”
From the kitchens, a series of corridors branched deeper into the castle complex. Cole kept track of their turns – left at the first major intersection, past what looked like administrative offices, then up a broad staircase lined with bright lamps.
Their path led through an open-air colonnade, where afternoon light threw bold shadows across a checkered marble floor. The castle grounds stretched out below, visible between the classical columns. Reminded him of those old European castles he’d visited years back. Same grandeur, same attention to detail, almost literally. Funny how that worked; of all the possible forms an isekai world could take, it just had to be medieval European fantasy. Maybe architectural styles followed some universal law of convergent evolution?
The guest wing occupied the castle's eastern corner. It was perfect for visiting nobles or foreign dignitaries – morning sun, decent elevation, multiple evacuation routes if Cole read those hallway junctions right. The deeper they went, the more refined the decor became. Polished wood replaced stone walls while elaborate carpets replaced marble.
Runic patterns lit up as they passed, almost acting like motion sensors – some kinda monitoring system, probably. The guards they'd passed were positioned at key junctions, maintaining clear lines of sight down each corridor. Between this and the fortress-level security from when they’d first arrived, it seemed like Celdorne definitely didn’t take any chances.
“Those runes,” Ethan said, “Motion sensors?”
“Indeed.” Fotham paused in front of one of the runes. Experience has taught us, rather painfully, that certain demons may bend light to conceal their presence. These runes perceive their movement and render such sorcery quite useless.”
He led them down the final corridor, stopping at the first of several identical wooden doors. “Your chambers,” he said, gesturing inside.
High ceilings, polished wood, brass fixtures? For all their practicality elsewhere, Celdorne didn't skimp on hospitality either. Though maybe that was practical in its own way, when it came to housing important guests. The room itself was spacious enough, centered around a canopied bed that put their Jadiran accommodations to shame. A desk caught the afternoon light from tall windows, and a side door opened to what had to be a restroom, given the pipes running along the walls.
“Damn,” Miles whistled. “Sure could get used to this.”
“We have four such chambers like this, reserved for diplomatic guests.” He brought them to the other rooms, each one following the same layout.
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Miles tugged at his collar as they entered the third room. “A bit warm in this one, ain’t it?”
“Ah.” Fotham moved to what first appeared to be metallic wall art – an ornate piece with flowing lines that, on closer inspection, formed a temperature gradient. He passed his hand over the left side, and a pleasant coolness began filtering through the room.
The runes flickered as he adjusted the temperature. The closest analogue would probably be one of those old analog thermostats, just with magic instead mercury. Different principles, same basic idea.
The rooms seemed comfortable enough, but something felt… off. Were they really gonna take separate rooms, leaving their backs bare to a bunch of strangers they hardly knew? Fuck no.
“If such private chambers prove unsuitable, perhaps I might show you our more commodious arrangements.”
Cole raised an eyebrow. Awfully on point, even for someone as keen as Fotham. Either their host had a doctorate in cold reading, or this world’s list of impossibilities included telepathy, telekinesis, and the other various flavors of extrasensory perception.
Well, if Fotham was a telepath, he sure as hell didn’t react to the image of the Booty Warrior and his plans for ‘Chris Handsome’ that Cole had intended to subject them both to.
The confirmation of mental privacy, unfortunately, wasn’t quite worth being the only one stuck with that mental image. “Uh… yeah. Let’s check those out.”
They walked down another corridor to a wider set of double doors. The ‘commodious arrangements’ turned out to be a family suite. A central parlor opened up into multiple bedrooms, not unlike the setups in period dramas where aristocrats traveled with entire households in tow.
Sunlight poured through tall windows that ran along a wall, bathing the living room. Lamps cast steady light from the corners, something closer to captured daylight instead of the flicker of flames or incandescence of bulbs. Fotham passed his hand near a runic panel on the wall, and the glow dimmed.
The room stretched up to a high coffered ceiling. Felt weird being in a space this grand after months of cramped quarters, though even ‘grand’ was an understatement. It was more like… stepping into some alternate timeline where the industrial revolution found purchase with magic instead of steam.
Miles seemed to have the right idea, sinking into one of the velvet armchairs with an appreciative sigh.
Cole looked out the windows. They were three, maybe four stories up, with a clear view over the castle walls to the city beyond. He’d expected something grimier given all the Victorian aesthetic, but apparently, he’d forgotten all about the other possibility: Gilded elegance. All the better for his lungs. Cole’s lifespan probably went up a decade just knowing that this city wasn’t some pseudo-London hellscape choking on industrial fumes.
Domed structures, early skyscrapers, and towers caught the sun, rising between buildings that wouldn’t have looked out of place in London or Paris or Prague. But where those ancient capitals drowned in their own antiquated civil planning, this place seemed to have considered traffic larger than carriages from the get-go. Wide boulevards stretched between buildings like they’d been transplanted from Los Angeles, as if someone had built a European capital from scratch instead of piling it on top of a thousand years of urban sprawl.
The harbor in the distance was almost as impressive. Ironclads and wooden sailing ships bearing all manner of flags and designs dotted the water, numbering in the dozens.
“Alexandria,” Fotham said, his reflection appearing in the window. “While our capital cannot boast the vast expanses of Aurelia’s cities – or coffers – we pride ourselves on rather more practical achievements. Those cranes you see at the docks? A Celdornian innovation. As are the steam vessels that grace our harbors. Indeed,” he continued, almost drunk on pride, “almost all the merchant houses and companies of the continent maintain offices here.”
Cole nodded, turning away from the window. Proper infrastructure, exclusive access to magitech, and heavy trade? It was the obvious recipe for small but loaded, yet Celdorne’s apparent lack of colonial reach was curious – ethics aside. Did the demons truly have enough of their attention to curb the kingdom’s ambitions, or was it something else?
“The bedrooms are this way,” Fotham offered.
They entered the master bedroom first – easily twice the size of the singles they’d looked at earlier. Canopied bed, tall windows, private restroom, various other furnishings. A heavy wooden desk sat beneath a mirror with dials built into its frame. Similar runic constructions to those throughout the castle were etched into the metal, likely the Scrying Pane. The master bedroom alone would be more than enough, let alone the entire suite.
The 3 other side bedrooms were smaller, but no less extravagant. At this point, calling dibs wasn’t even necessary.
But then, what was that other door down the corridor?
“The service passage.” Fotham opened it, revealing a simple hallway. “Though I dare say you'll find little purpose in it, save perhaps for giving the maids a fright.”
So, another entrance. Or exit.
Cole nodded, returning to the living room. The afternoon sun made it feel warm, cozy, well-earned. “Alright then. Four rooms; one for each of us plus one for Mack when he’s back on his feet. Seems good to me.”
“Yup,” Miles agreed.
Cole glanced at Ethan. He gave a thumbs up.
Perfect. Cole turned to Fotham. “We’ll take the suite.”
“Very good. Then, allow me to show you the Scrying Pane.”
He brought them back to the master bedroom, stopping at the mirror mounted above the desk. When he turned one of the brass dials on its frame, the mirror’s surface brightened with a magical glow.
“Each number upon the dial connects to its appointed chamber.” He gestured to the reference card. “The guard posts occupy the first four, followed by the throne room, infirmary, kitchens, and this floor’s servants. Here is your own copy of the registry – I suggest you commit the essential numbers to memory.”
Cole accepted it, looking through the list. A directory system. Simple, practical, much like the simple ones hotels usually had.
Fotham turned to the first position and the mirror’s surface rippled before showing two guards at their post. The image quality made early Skype look cutting-edge, but hell, they’d solved video calls while their counterparts on Earth were still working out the telegram.
“Director,” one of the guards nodded.
“As you were.” His image disappeared as Fotham returned the dial to the starting point. “When the mirror brightens and chimes, turn here from ‘inactive’ to ‘active.’ Return it so when you wish to end the connection.”
Fotham moved on to a second dial. “In times of urgency, turn to the first position – it shall alert all guard posts at once.”
Cole nodded. Before him were the essential features distilled to their simplest form – ring, answer, hang up. Even included their little version of 911. “And security?”
“The mirrors are fixed in place, and our chambers remain quite restricted. We’ve found no cause for concern these many years.”
Physical security – the original access controlled. Fair enough. When a network required line of sight and manual operation, ‘hacking’ became a strictly literal affair.
“Have you any questions? The Pane? Your chambers?” Fotham asked.
Miles and Ethan shook their heads.
“Think we’re good,” Cole said. “You’ve been thorough; thanks.”
“Very well. Your servants shall bring your evening meal in an hours’ time. Should you require anything before then, your servants may be reached via position eight.” Fotham gave a slight bow. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
The door closed with a soft click. Time to familiarize themselves with home sweet home.