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 couldn't 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.
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 barely on the telegraph.
“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 hour's time. Should you require anything before then, they 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.