Entering Silverwood was like stepping into a beautiful, meticulously crafted trap. On the surface, the city thrived. The market stalls were full, merchants hawked their wares, and the silver towers of the nobility gleamed under the afternoon sun. But it was a prosperity built on a foundation of fear. Soldiers of the Duke's Black Guard were everywhere, their polished plate armor a stark contrast to the colorful silks of the merchants. Their presence was a constant, oppressive weight on the city's spirit. Public squares, once filled with minstrels and laughing children, now featured gibbets and stocks as a grim reminder of the Duke's justice.
Himari and Sakura, clad in their drab travelers' clothes, merged seamlessly into the crowds of farmers and refugees flocking to the city for safety. Sakura's internal sensors were working overtime, mapping the city, logging guard patrol routes, and identifying potential surveillance points. Himari, meanwhile, was reading the city's heart. She saw the way people avoided eye contact with the guards, the hushed, fearful tones of their conversations, the way a mother would pull her child closer when a patrol passed. Her city was alive, but it was holding its breath.
Their first task was to find lodging and a point of contact. Himari led them away from the main thoroughfares into a winding labyrinth of artisan workshops and residential quarters. She stopped before a small, unassuming textile shop, a simple wooden sign bearing the name "Minato's Weavings" hanging above the door.
"I know the man who owns this shop," Himari whispered to Sakura. "Kaito Minato. He was a close friend of my father's, and a quiet supporter of the crown. If there is anyone in this city who remains loyal, it is him."
"A civilian contact is a high-risk variable," Sakura noted, her voice a low murmur. "His loyalty may have been… renegotiated."
"It is a risk we must take," Himari replied.
They entered the shop, which smelled of dyed wool and cedar. An old man with a kind, wrinkled face and clever eyes looked up from the loom he was working. He gave them a polite, professional smile, the kind he would give any customer.
"Welcome. How may I help you ladies?"
Himari pulled back her hood slightly. "We are looking for a rare thread, Master Minato. A thread of silver, spun under a dying star."
It was a code phrase, a piece of poetry her father had been fond of. Minato's practiced smile froze. His eyes widened, first in disbelief, then in dawning recognition, and finally, in stark terror. He glanced frantically towards the open door of his shop, his hand making a subtle gesture for them to move further inside, away from prying eyes.
"The star… the star is not yet dead," he whispered, his voice trembling. He quickly shuffled to the door and flipped the sign to 'Closed,' barring it from the inside. He turned back to them, his face pale. "Your Highness… by the gods, we thought you were dead. To come here… it is a death sentence!"
"The kingdom is not dead either, old friend," Himari said, her voice filled with a warmth that seemed to steady the old man. "But I need to know who still keeps the faith."
Before Minato could reply, the sharp rap of a soldier's gauntlet echoed on the shop door. "Open up! Routine inspection!"
Panic flared in Minato's eyes. Sakura reacted instantly. She grabbed Himari and the old man, pulling them behind a massive rack of rolled carpets in the back of the shop. She drew her plasma pistol, the weapon making no sound in the sudden, tense silence.
The soldiers, not waiting for an answer, shouldered the door open with a splintering crash. Two Black Guards stepped inside, their gauntleted hands resting on the pommels of their swords, their cold eyes scanning the shop.
"Shop's closed, eh?" one of them grunted, kicking over a basket of yarn. "Getting a bit lazy in your old age, weaver?"
From their hiding spot, the three held their breath. Sakura calculated the trajectory needed to drop both guards before they could raise an alarm. It was possible, but the aftermath would be messy. This was the razor's edge. Their infiltration, their entire mission, was seconds away from ending in a bloody firefight in a quiet textile shop.