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In the early morning light of Sedona City, a modest inn run by common folk stirred to life.
"Achoo!"
A loud sneeze shattered the quiet, heralding the start of a new day. Manager Hank rubbed his nose vigorously, his face scrunching up in discomfort. The chill from the previous night had left him with a slight cold, and now his nose was annoyingly runny, a persistent reminder of his misery.
His mind drifted back to the events of the prior evening, and a shiver ran down his spine, unrelated to his cold. The leader of their group was a terrifying figure. Her voice, smooth as silk and dripping with charm, could enchant anyone who heard it—but it was also a voice that could snuff out his life in an instant if she so chose. The thought alone made his heart race with unease, a stark contrast to the warmth of the inn's hearth.
Manager Hank was a portly man, his cheeks puffed out with excess flesh that jiggled when he moved. His round, greasy face gave him a deceptively friendly appearance, the kind that naturally disarmed people, making them drop their guard. It was a useful trait in his line of work, where trust was a currency he wielded with precision.
"Achoo!"
Another sneeze erupted, and a stream of snot dribbled down his nose, splattering onto the quilt draped over his lap. With a careless swipe of his sleeve, he wiped it away, muttering under his breath about the inconvenience. He wasn't one for fussing over appearances, not when bigger concerns loomed.
From outside his door came the urgent shout of one of his subordinates. "Manager Hank! Patrol officers are here. They want to inspect the use of candles and fire safety."
"Fire safety inspection? Hold on, I'll be right out!" Hank called back, his voice tinged with irritation. He pursed his lips, his plump cheeks twitching. Sedona City was a place he mostly liked—its bustling markets, its opportunities for profit—but there were aspects he found utterly exasperating. These frequent fire safety checks were one of them.
What was the city lord thinking? Every few days, patrol officers descended on inns, shops, and other establishments, poking around to ensure candles and fires were used safely. They'd lecture about not piling flammable items near flames, as if he, a seasoned operator, needed such basic reminders. It was tedious, and Hank had little patience for it.
With a groan, he heaved himself out of bed, his heavy frame protesting the effort. He slipped into his clothes, smoothing out the wrinkles with a quick pat. His usual scowl melted into a practiced smile, one that radiated warmth and approachability. Opening the door, he strode out to the inn's main hall, where three patrol officers were already questioning the innkeeper. One of them scribbled notes in a small booklet, their expressions serious and focused.
The first time the patrols had come, a few days earlier, Hank's heart had pounded with fear. He'd been certain they'd seen through his carefully crafted disguise. But now, he was more at ease—or at least, he projected ease. A faint thread of anxiety still lingered in his chest, a reminder of the stakes. One wrong move, and his cover could unravel.
"Well, well! If it isn't Captain Andrew!" Hank exclaimed, spotting the familiar figure of the bull-like beastkin among the officers. He flashed a wide grin, his tone hearty. "You're up early, working hard as always. Quite the dedication!"
In his time in Sedona City, Hank had made it his business to memorize the key players—especially those in the city's guard force, a martial institution that demanded his attention. Knowing who held power, who enforced the rules, was critical to his mission.
Captain Andrew furrowed his brow, his sharp eyes studying Hank's overly cheerful face. "And you are…?"
"Oh, allow me to introduce myself!" Hank said quickly, bowing slightly. "My name is Hank, a humble linen merchant passing through your fine city."
Under this guise, Hank had spent days cultivating a reputation as a wealthy trader in linen, a role that opened doors and loosened tongues. Wealthy merchants were always welcome company, even if the friendships were superficial. His jovial demeanor and generous spending had made him a known figure in Sedona City's social circles.
"Ah, Mr. Hank. You're a guest at this inn, then?" Andrew asked, his tone neutral but probing. "We're conducting a routine fire safety inspection. I hope you'll cooperate."
"Of course, Captain! Ask anything, check anything—my doors are open!" Hank replied, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. He gestured expansively, as if inviting the officers into his home.
"Thank you for your cooperation," Andrew said, flipping open his notebook. "The innkeeper mentioned you've reserved the entire place. How many people are staying here?"
"Including myself, seven," Hank answered, his smile unwavering.
"When did you arrive?" Andrew pressed.
"Eight days ago," Hank replied promptly, his tone steady.
Andrew asked a few more routine questions, his pen scratching across the page. Then he straightened up. "Please show us where you've placed your candles."
"Right this way, gentlemen!" Hank said, leading the group with a flourish. The innkeeper trailed behind, looking slightly nervous but compliant.
Hank wasn't worried about the inspection. He carried no forbidden weapons on him—those, along with armor, were safely stashed outside the city. Smuggling anything substantial into Sedona City was too risky, and Hank was nothing if not cautious.
The officers followed him through the inn, checking candle placements with meticulous care. The first two rooms passed without issue, but in the third, Andrew's expression darkened.
"What's this?" He barked, pointing to a table where a candle sat atop a piece of beast hide. "You never place a candle on flammable material like this! It needs to be on a ceramic dish. One slip, and you're looking at a fire that could kill people."
Hank's face flushed with embarrassment, though he kept his tone obsequious. "My apologies, Captain! I'll fix it immediately, I swear!"
Andrew turned to the innkeeper, his voice stern. "You need to remind your guests about this. A fire here would hit you hardest."
"Yes, yes, I'll make sure it's handled," The innkeeper stammered, nodding vigorously.
"You'd better," Andrew warned, jotting something in his notebook. "Neglect this, and you could be forced to shut down for a review."
"Understood, lord," The innkeeper said, his face pale.
"I'll be back in a few days to check again," Andrew said, waving a hand dismissively. "We're done here. On to the next place."
As Andrew and his team turned to leave, a glint flickered in Andrew's eyes, and a faint smirk tugged at his lips. 'Clever, hiding your weapons. I only saw a few short blades,' he thought, his suspicions lingering but unvoiced.
The sound of their boots echoed as they departed. Hank and the innkeeper watched them go, the air heavy with unspoken tension.
The innkeeper turned to Hank, his tone polite but firm. "Mr. Hank, please be more careful with the candles. It's not just a rule—it's dangerous. Just last month, a shop burned down because of carelessness."
"Of course, I'll make sure my men know," Hank said, nodding graciously.
"I won't take more of your time," The innkeeper said with a tight smile before walking away.
As soon as the innkeeper was out of sight, Hank's warm expression vanished, replaced by a cold, hard stare. He turned to his subordinates, his voice low and sharp. "This kind of mistake won't happen again. Understood?"
"Yes, lord," They replied in unison, their voices tense.
Hank was no ordinary merchant. He was a mid-level operative in the Black Iris organization, a shadowy group with ambitions far beyond simple trade. Above him were the enforcers, the true power in the organization. If he could pull off this mission—to destabilize Sedona City—he'd be one step closer to joining their ranks. It was a prize worth any amount of groveling or pretense.
For the sake of the mission, he could play the part of a jovial, harmless merchant. He could smile, bow, and endure the city's endless rules. Patience was his weapon, and he wielded it well.
"Stick to the plan," He ordered, his voice icy as his cheeks quivered with suppressed anger. "Meet our contacts, but don't get caught. Keep your eyes on the castle. If Ayesha shows up, track her every move. If she leaves the city, we will strike immediately."
"Yes, lord!" His men replied, their voices low but resolute.
Hank waved them off. All but two of his men dispersed, blending into the morning crowds to rendezvous with other operatives hidden throughout Sedona City, exchanging intelligence and coordinating their next moves.
"Time to get moving," Hank muttered, stretching his arms with a yawn. He'd promised to meet Bryan, another merchant, to watch a shadow puppet play. Bryan was a useful contact, a talkative man who unwittingly provided valuable information. Just yesterday, Bryan had rambled about the castle's cuisine—supposedly the finest in the world, surpassing even the famed Drunken Night. Hank had joined Bryan and other merchants at the tower once, a lavish place perfect for building connections, though the prices were exorbitant.
As he stepped out into the bustling streets of Sedona City, Hank's mind churned with plans. Every smile, every deal, every casual conversation was a step toward his goal. The city might feel safe, with its patrols and rules, but he knew better. Chaos was coming, and he would be the one to bring it.
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