Chapter 7

The journey to the city was a silent, tense affair. They traveled on foot, moving through the dense forest with a swift, silent grace. Soren led the way, his movements a fluid, confident stride. She followed closely, her senses on high alert, her hand resting on the hilt of one of her daggers. Bandits, monsters, they weren’t just traveling; they were on a hunt.

As they got closer to the city, the landscape changed. The dense forest gave way to rolling hills, then to the sprawling, squalid outskirts of the metropolis. The air grew thick with the smell of coal smoke, unwashed bodies, and rotting garbage. The sounds of the city—a cacophony of shouting, crying, and clanging metal—grew louder, a constant, oppressive drone.

Soren led her through the winding, labyrinthine streets, his knowledge of the city’s underbelly apparent in every turn. Aoba stuck to the shadows, her movements a blur of motion, a ghost in the chaos.

Finally, they arrived at the safe house. A small, unassuming building in a quiet, abandoned neighborhood. He pulled out a key and unlocked the door. She stepped in after. Inside, the cool, clean air was a welcome relief from the city’s stench.

The safe house was Spartan but functional. A table in the center facing a fireplace, a couple of chairs, stairs leading up to the second floor by the far corner from the entrance, and a workbench on the other end.

“For today, we rest. Bedrooms are upstairs. Starting tomorrow, we will solidify our plan. Three nights before the gala, we’ll be staying at an inn. I’ve arranged for a royal treatment, including a carriage on the night of,” he explained the itinerary.

“How long have you been planning this?” she asked him. He kept quiet for a moment.

“Too long.”

“I found this blueprint from the public archives.” Soren unrolled a parchment on the table while Aoba was mending the dress.

She draped the dress over the back of her chair and leaned over the blueprint, her finger tracing the perimeter of the manor.

“So, our target is Caldris’s study. Here.” She pointed to a room on the second floor. “It is most likely to be where it is.”

“The guard is heavy,” Soren remarked. “Killing and cheating people will make you paranoid,” he sighed.

“What will be in that ledger?” Aoba straightened up. “I don’t plan to linger for a meet and greet after I cut his throat.”

“Everything,” he replied. “Caldris may be dealing with goods on the outside, but he buys and sells information. That’s what the gala is for. He fears for his life, but not enough to overcome his greed.”

Aoba looked up at him, her eyes cold and focused. “We have a problem,” she said, her voice flat and direct. “Lord and Lady Mossworth. I can pick locks in the dark, kill a man with a hairpin, but I don’t know the first thing about being a lady. I don’t know how to dance or which fork to use.”

He drew a breath. “You’re right,” he said, weary. “We’ll need to give you a crash course.”

“From you?” Aoba raised an eyebrow, and he looked back at her, seemingly offended.