In broad daylight, Valisar roared with the clamor of merchants, the air alive with the chaos of trade season. Vendors from distant lands had gathered in the capital, their stalls overflowing with exotic goods spices from the southern isles, silks dyed in vibrant hues, and gleaming trinkets forged from rare metals. The streets were a whirlwind of haggling voices, the scent of grilled meats and fresh bread mingling with the earthy aroma of herbs and perfumes.
Crowds surged like a living river, nobles in fine robes brushing shoulders with travelers in dust-worn cloaks, children weaving through the throng with wide-eyed wonder. But amidst all this bustling prosperity, in the shadowed corners of old Valisar where Hardard ruled from the depths of the undercity, two figures sat on the roadside, their ragged clothes blending into the filth of the cobblestones.
"Please, sir, spare a few coins," the young lad pleaded, his voice hoarse and desperate as he held out a cracked bowl. "Our parent is sick… just a zerk or two."
The teenage girl beside him echoed softly, her head bowed. "Please, kind sir… our mother is dying. We need food."
Passersby ignored them one after another, merchants too busy counting coins, nobles sneering as they stepped around the beggars like puddles in the rain. A few cast pitying glances, but no one stopped.
The pair was none other than Magnus Caldryn and Rhea Varyn, disguised as young beggars. Magnus's usually imposing frame was hunched, his crimson eyes hidden under a tattered hood, dirt smeared across his face to mask his noble features. Rhea, her raven hair matted and her grey eyes downcast, played the part of a frail teenage sister, a dagger concealed beneath her rags.
This was the scouting phase. They were mapping the undercity's veins and tracing the Gilded Ledger's ties to Valisar's criminal heart.
Magnus muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Rhea to hear. "This disguise works too well. These people are blind to the suffering right in front of them."
Rhea's voice was low and steady. "That's why it's perfect. Beggars are invisible here. Keep an eye on that grate across the street the scroll marks it as an entry point."
As they continued their act, a man approached, his boots thudding heavily against the cobblestones. Broad-shouldered and scarred, he wore a leather vest emblazoned with a faint claw emblem Hardard's gang, no doubt. His eyes raked over them, not with pity, but with calculation.
"You two," he grunted, voice rough as gravel. "New faces. Begging without permission? This street's ours. Pay up or get lost."
Magnus kept his head low, crimson eyes hidden, but his enhanced senses caught the man's aura crude, aggressive, tainted with the same fiery corruption that marked Hardard's men.
"Please, sir," he said in a trembling, youthful voice, "we're just hungry. Our parent's sick… we don't have anything."
The man barked a laugh, cruel and sharp enough to draw a few glances from passersby. "Sick parent, huh? Heard that one before. Come with me, boss has work for kids like you. Earn your keep, or we'll make you."
Rhea tensed, her hand inching toward her hidden dagger, but Magnus shot her a subtle glance. Scouting only. Follow the lead.
They rose slowly, feigning reluctance, and followed the man through twisting alleys. The vibrant market faded behind them, replaced by Valisar's grim underbelly shanties leaning like drunken men, beggars huddled in doorways, thugs collecting "tolls" with fists and blades.
Their guide led them to a squat, nondescript office tucked behind a warehouse, guarded by two rough sentries. Inside, the air was stale, lit by oily lanterns. A desk stood at the center, manned by a weaselly clerk with ink-stained fingers and stacks of ledgers piled around him. Several young boys, no older than Avar, sat silently on benches, eyes dull with resignation.
"Fresh recruits," the man said, shoving Magnus and Rhea forward.
The clerk looked up, his beady eyes appraising them like livestock. "Names? Ages?"
"Max," Magnus said, keeping his voice timid. "Fourteen. This is my sister, Rea, thirteen. Our mom's sick, we need work."
The clerk snorted, scribbling in his ledger. "Sick mom, huh? Common story. You'll beg in the market bring back twenty zerk a day, or no food. Miss your quota, and the boss's men pay a visit. Understand?"
Magnus nodded meekly, though his mind was already racing. A recruitment front. Forcing kids to beg and probably worse. Definitely tied to Hardard.
Rhea played her part perfectly, her grey eyes lowered but sharp, noting every detail—the ledgers likely tracking stolen earnings, guards changing every hour, a back door leading deeper underground.
A boy on the bench whispered to Magnus, "Don't mess up. The last kid who did… they took him to the undercity. He never came back."
Magnus's jaw tightened, rage simmering beneath his calm facade. "Who's the boss?" he whispered.
The boy's face went pale. "Hardard—the Fury. His second, Lyra Danils, handles everything. She's worse. Cold as ice."
"Enough chatter!" the clerk barked. "Out to the streets. Beg or starve."
Magnus and Rhea were shoved back into the alley, but once they were alone, they slipped behind a dumpster and shed their disguises.
"That office is a Gilded Ledger front," Magnus said, voice low with fury. "Recruiting kids as beggars, then selling them off to worse things. Hardard and Lyra are both in it."
Rhea nodded grimly. "The back door leads to the undercity. We scout it next quietly."
They moved toward the marked grate and descended into the undercity's depths. The tunnels were a labyrinth of dripping stone and flickering torchlight. Magnus's Phantom Lotus Steps made him glide like a shadow, while Rhea'black veil stealth turned her into a ghost.
They mapped the area carefully, an entry through a sewer grate near the slums, another through an abandoned warehouse, and a ladder from a storm drain. Guard rotations were lax every two hours, with inattentive patrols in the outer tunnels.
Weak points stood out: a crumbling wall in the northern sector, unguarded supply caches, and overconfident sentries chatting near the fires.
To heighten tension, they ventured closer to the central den, hiding in a side tunnel. Voices echoed from a nearby chamber, Hardard and Lyra.
"Caldera is becoming a problem," Lyra said, her voice cold and precise. "That drunk noble, Magnus Caldryn he's not weak. He raided the docks, killed our mercenaries. If he comes here, our operations for the kingdom could collapse."
Hardard's rumble replied, his fiery aura crackling. "Let him come. I'll burn him alive. The Valisar kingdom needs our gold flow, the Gilded Ledger's bribes keep the leaders fat. But if Caldryn's here, send the gangs. End him before he finds the ledger."
Magnus Caldryn's pulse raced, shadows cloaking them as a guard passed dangerously close, his lantern swinging. One wrong breath, and they'd be discovered. Rhea's hand tightened on her dagger, the tension electric.
They slipped away, the eavesdropped conversation burning in Magnus Caldryn's mind. Back at the tavern, they drew hot baths, the steam a brief respite from the day's strain. After, they met for dinner "Flame-Kissed Dragon Stew," its savory heat a comfort.
Magnus and Rhea exchanged a knowing look. The time for scouting was over.
The storm was coming.
To Be Continued in Chapter 15…..