Hadrian Peverell: High Lord of Skagos

Chapter 26: Outposts of Stone and Roadways of Power

The last of Hadrian's grand projects during those three moons was, perhaps, the most subtle yet profound. He turned his attention to the sprawling land itself, realizing that the towns, villages, and even the two forgotten castles needed to be connected. Without proper infrastructure, all his previous efforts—the flourishing farms, the weirwood wards, and the growing city of Norhold—would be isolated pockets of power, vulnerable to the harsh elements and the wilds that still lurked in Skagos.

Roads. They were the arteries that would tie the island together, allowing his influence to reach every corner of Skagos. And with his power, building these roads would be far more than a mere act of engineering.

Hadrian stood at the edge of a Great Plateau, overlooking the patchwork of villages and hills that spread out before him. Beneath his feet, the smooth stone of the first road he had raised was cool to the touch, stretching in a perfect line toward the horizon. The road was wide—wide enough for carts, horses, and travelers to move freely between the towns and Norhold without fear of being caught by the island's infamous terrain. It was lined with low walls of carefully hewn stone, and every few miles, tall iron posts rose, topped with orbs that gleamed faintly in the moonlight.

Each of these posts held within them the same subtle magic that Hadrian had woven into the weirwoods. They radiated a gentle warmth, enough to keep the worst of the cold at bay for those traveling the roads. Even in the dead of winter, the roads would remain clear of snow and ice, the travelers protected from the worst of the elements. To the Skagosi who had lived their entire lives struggling against the island's harshness, these roads were nothing short of a miracle.

But for Hadrian, they were more than that. They were power. Each road he built was enchanted with wards that reached deep into the land itself, tying the magic of the weirwoods into a vast, interconnected network. He could feel it—like threads of energy stretching out from Norhold, linking the island together, binding it to him. It was a web of control, one that the Skagosi would never see but would feel in every aspect of their lives.

By the time the roads were completed, nearly every settlement on Skagos was connected. The main road, a great structure of stone, stretched from Norhold all the way to the northernmost villages, cutting through the wild forests and over the rivers that had once isolated them. Smaller roads branched off from it, leading to the villages and the farmland that Hadrian had so carefully cultivated. Every inch of these roads was infused with magic—wards to keep the roads free of snow, charms to make travel faster, and subtle spells that would ensure the people felt safe and secure as they moved about the island.

And yet, for all their power, the roads were designed to look simple, natural. They blended into the landscape as though they had always been there, as though the very earth had risen up to offer itself to the Skagosi.

As the final stretch of the road neared completion, Hadrian found himself drawn to the two castles that had been all but forgotten in his grand designs. These castles, once the strongholds of minor Skagosi lords, had been left to rot after he had consolidated his power at Norhall. The soldiers who had once manned their walls were now stationed in Norhold, the garrisons abandoned, the halls empty.

It wasn't until he began planning the roads that Hadrian realized their strategic importance. Though Norhall was now the center of power on the island, these castles could still serve a purpose. They were situated in key locations—one to the north, guarding the approach from the sea, and the other to the east, near the largest forested area of the island. Both stood as silent sentinels over important parts of Skagos, places that could one day be staging points for new towns, new cities.

Hadrian traveled to these castles, his thoughts swirling with possibilities. The first, which the locals called Stoneguard, sat atop a rocky outcrop overlooking the northern coastline. The sea crashed against the cliffs below, sending up great plumes of mist, and the wind howled through the empty towers. Stoneguard had once been a proud fortress, its walls thick and unyielding, built to withstand not just men but the unforgiving storms that battered Skagos.

But now it was crumbling, its stone walls cracked and worn by years of neglect. The towers leaned precariously, and the courtyard was overgrown with weeds. It would take too much to restore the castle to its former glory—far more than it was worth. Hadrian stood in the center of the courtyard, his eyes scanning the ruined battlements. He didn't need this place as it was, but he did need the location.

With a flick of his hand, the air around him crackled with energy, and the earth beneath the castle shuddered. Slowly, the old stones began to crumble, dissolving into dust as if centuries were passing in the blink of an eye. The towers collapsed inward, the walls crumbled to rubble, and within moments, Stoneguard was nothing more than a pile of rock and debris.

In its place, Hadrian began to reform the castle. He raised new walls from the ground, not with the heavy, crude stone of the past, but with sleek, dark granite that gleamed in the light of the setting sun. The new castle was smaller than the old one, more of an outpost than a fortress, but it was far more practical. It was designed to house a small garrison of soldiers, enough to defend the coastline and patrol the northern roads. The towers were short but sturdy, offering a clear view of the sea and the surrounding land. There were no great halls or lavish chambers—just the essentials.

This was no longer a lord's stronghold. It was a watchtower, a place from which Hadrian's soldiers could keep a close eye on the northern approaches to the island. And, like everything else he had built, it was infused with his magic. The wards around the new castle would keep it safe from the elements, and the stones themselves were enchanted to be stronger, more resilient than anything built by human hands.

Once the new castle was complete, Hadrian moved on to the second forgotten fortress. This one, known as Frosthold, was nestled deep in the eastern forests. Like Stoneguard, Frosthold had been abandoned after Hadrian's rise, its soldiers recalled to Norhold, its halls left to decay.

The eastern forests were vast and untamed, full of resources that could be of great value to his growing empire. And Frosthold, situated in the heart of the forest, could serve as a perfect outpost for future expansion.

As he had done with Stoneguard, Hadrian destroyed the old castle, breaking it down to its very foundation. The earth trembled beneath his feet as the stones cracked and fell, the ancient walls collapsing into dust. In its place, he raised a new structure—smaller, simpler, but far more practical.

This new Frosthold was little more than a fortified lodge, designed to house a small detachment of soldiers and scouts who would patrol the western forests. It was built of the same dark granite as Stoneguard, its walls thick and strong, its towers squat but well-defended. The forest pressed in close around the castle, but Hadrian had no intention of clearing it. The trees provided natural cover, and the wards he placed around the outpost would keep the wild creatures of the forest at bay.

With these two new outposts in place, Hadrian's control over Skagos was nearly complete. The roads he had built connected every village, every farm, every settlement to Norhold, and the outposts would ensure that his soldiers could maintain order across the island. The people of Skagos, scattered though they were, were now tied together by the network of roads and outposts, all leading back to Hadrian.

Hadrian stood on the battlements of Norhall, looking out over his new domain. The city of Norhold sprawled below him, its streets teeming with life, its parks and weirwoods offering a sense of peace and serenity. Beyond the city, the roads stretched out like veins, pulsing with the magic he had woven into them.

He had done it. In just three moons, he had transformed Skagos from a wild, fractured land into a cohesive whole, bound together by his magic and his will. The weirwoods, the farms, the roads, and the outposts—all were part of a grand design, one that would ensure his dominance over the island for generations to come.