Infiltrating Drezhen

The first snow of winter fell lazily, fluttering before finally settling on Lyselle's black coat. The path ahead of them stretched out like an endless white ribbon, splitting the silent pine forest. The sharp air bit at their skin, turning every breath from their mouths into a thin wisp of steam.

"We've entered Drezhen's outer surveillance zone," Caelan said, his voice low but firm. He stooped slightly, as if his words could be caught by the trees. "From here on, every step will be watched."

Lyselle raised an eyebrow, looking at him from under her hood. "Outer surveillance? You mean... we're being watched even before we reach the gates?"

Caelan glanced around, his eyes following a raven that perched on a high branch. "Not all observers are human. There are royal spies disguised as merchants, wanderers, even animals. Drezhen isn't just a garrison town. It's an intelligence fortress."

His tone was not dramatic, just cold, time-tested facts.

Lyselle sighed, her eyes shifting to the road ahead. "In that case, does our plan to enter through the main gate still stand?"

Caelan looked at her for a moment, then nodded. "It does. But we need to prepare three layers of lies. First, official documents—even if they're fake. Second, body language and accent. Third, a strong enough alibi to hold up when they try to break our story's consistency."

Lyselle smiled faintly. "Three layers of lies? You sound like you've done it many times."

"That's because I have," Caelan replied simply.

They walked a few paces in silence. Only the sound of crunching snow and the occasional snap of a dry twig could be heard. After they were a safe distance from the main road, Caelan stopped at the edge of a narrow, frozen river. He knelt, opened his leather bag, and took out a parchment scroll and a small box of dark black ink.

"We start with the documents," he said. "Aliases: I'm Darien Halberg, a logistics merchant from Luthreim. You're Lysa Halberg, my sister. Our purpose: to sell metallurgy equipment to the garrison."

Lyselle moved closer, watching the neat writing he began to create. "Why do I have to be the sister?"

Caelan glanced at her. "Because a merchant's sister usually speaks less. It gives you a reason to observe without looking suspicious."

"I don't like that reason," Lyselle replied, her voice cold but not ending the conversation.

"You don't have to like it. You just have to live," Caelan answered, refocusing on the document.

That afternoon, they arrived at a remote cottage located at the foot of a hill, just a few kilometers from the path to Drezhen. The cottage looked like an ordinary hunter's home, but small signs indicated another function: rusty iron nails forming a certain pattern on the doorframe, and a small hole under the window to observe guests.

Caelan knocked on the door three times quickly, then two times slowly. The door opened slightly, revealing the wrinkled face of an old man with sharp, pale eyes.

"Myrk," Caelan said curtly.

"Darien," the man replied, though he clearly knew the name was not real. "Come in. Quickly."

Inside, the warm air from the fireplace greeted them, mixed with the scent of machine oil and paper dust. A long table in the middle of the room was covered with stamps, parchment scrolls, and pieces of metal badges.

"Her?" Myrk nodded toward Lyselle.

"My sister," Caelan replied without hesitation.

Myrk snorted, then picked up one of their documents. "If you only want to pass the outer gate, this is enough. But to enter Drezhen... that's another story. They don't just check the name, but also the accent, body habits, even the way you hold your bag."

"That's why we came to you," Caelan said. "We need a modification. A complete one."

Myrk narrowed his eyes. "Complete means expensive."

Lyselle leaned her back against a wooden chair, crossing her arms. "You can name your price. But if there are any problems, your name will not be mentioned. In fact, it won't even be remembered."

Her gaze silenced Myrk for a moment, then he began to work.

The process was meticulous. Lyselle had to change into a simpler coat, a dull scarf, and worn-looking boots. Myrk even added a little dark stain to the corners of her eyes, giving the impression of fatigue from a long journey.

Caelan also changed. His hair was half-tied back, a thin beard was attached, and a faint scar was made on his temple. The Luthreim merchant's badge was attached to his leather bag, complete with a fake wax seal that looked worn.

"Now you look like merchants who've been rejected by the market too often," Myrk said, circling them. "But remember, in Drezhen, appearance is only half the game. The other half is believing your own lies."

Lyselle looked at him flatly. "That's the easiest part."

Night began to fall as they left the cottage. The snow reflected the moonlight, making the path look like a silver ribbon leading directly into the mouth of a dragon. In the distance, the torchlights on Drezhen's watchtowers moved slowly, following a specific pattern.

"We have time until the changing of the guard," Caelan said, quickening his pace. "If we get to the gate just before the shift change, the inspection will be faster—the guards are usually more focused on their end-of-shift reports."

Lyselle looked at him from under her hood. "And if we're late?"

Caelan turned, his eyes sharp. "We won't be late."

They walked without much talk, but every step carried the weight of the plan they had crafted. Out there, Drezhen was waiting—with all the dangers and secrets that could change everything.

The gray stone towers loomed like giant spears, casting long shadows under the torchlight that flickered in the night wind. Behind the half-open iron gate, Lyselle could see the silhouettes of armored soldiers. The sound of metal scraping from their armor mixed with the clicks of crossbow triggers, ready to be used at any moment.

Drezhen did not welcome strangers—it interrogated them.

"I'll do the talking," Caelan whispered, his steps steady even though his gaze was wary. "You only answer if you're asked directly. Remember, we're logistics merchants. We have goods that the garrison has already ordered. They'll be more likely to trust us if our purpose benefits them."

Lyselle just nodded, but her eyes examined every detail. The watchtower on the left had three spy slots. On the right, there were only two, but one was wider—probably for a sniper. Above the gate, Drezhen's flag fluttered: deep red with a crossed spear emblem and a raven skull.

They arrived at the entrance queue. In front, an old farmer was being interrogated for quite a while. Lyselle noticed: the officer checked his sack, poking its contents with a long knife to make sure there was nothing forbidden. The farmer looked shaky, whether from the cold or from fear.

When it was their turn, Caelan stepped up to the wooden inspection desk. A thick-bearded officer looked at them from behind a half-open helmet.

"Name," he commanded, his voice heavy like a falling stone.

"Darien Halberg," Caelan answered without hesitation, sliding the documents onto the desk. "Logistics merchant from Luthreim. This is my sister, Lysa Halberg."

The officer raised an eyebrow. "Merchants? Coming at night, in the winter?"

Caelan smiled slightly, his tone a little dismissive. "We don't choose the season, sir. The garrison needs logistics, and the demand comes when it comes."

Lyselle was silent, her eyes watching the way the officer flipped through the documents. His fingers were thick, but his movements were meticulous, like someone who had looked for mistakes in a thousand papers.

"You know, Darien Halberg," the officer said, "I've heard Luthreim has a… different accent." His eyes stared sharply.

Caelan didn't flinch. "Of course, sir. But I travel a lot to the north. My accent might be mixed."

There was a brief pause. The officer leaned forward, his eyes now shifting to Lyselle.

"You, girl. Name?"

"Lysa Halberg," Lyselle replied calmly. There was no tremor in her voice.

"You don't talk much?" the officer asked.

"I rarely answer unnecessary questions," Lyselle retorted, looking straight back.

The atmosphere hardened. Around them, two other guards adjusted their crossbows, as if ready for words to turn into action.

The officer chuckled faintly, but his eyes remained cold. "You have a sharp tongue. But sharp tongues are often cut in Drezhen."

Lyselle just shrugged. "If it's profitable, cut it."

Caelan quickly intervened, bowing slightly. "Forgive my sister, sir. The long journey has made her tired."

The officer looked at them in turns, then gestured to his subordinate. A young guard approached, beginning to check their bags.

"What's this?" the young guard asked, holding up a metal chisel.

"Work tools for the garrison's workshop," Caelan answered quickly. "A special order from the eastern forge."

The guard nodded slowly, but his eyes glanced at the officer.

"Check their caravan," the officer commanded.

They were directed to the side, to the goods inspection lane. A burly female soldier took over, checking the crates one by one. Lyselle stood a little behind, pretending not to care, but her mind was counting the time. The gate would change shifts in five minutes. That meant the inspection process had to be finished before the change to avoid a re-inspection.

The female soldier stopped at a large wooden crate. "Open it."

Caelan nodded, opening the crate slowly. Inside, a stack of metal tools covered in rough cloth. The soldier poked it with her knife, checking. Nothing suspicious—at least not to the untrained eye.

"Clean," she finally said.

The bearded officer looked at them again. "Alright, Darien Halberg. You may enter. But remember, in Drezhen... eyes are always watching."

The iron gate creaked heavily as it was opened wider. A cold wind from inside brought the smell of metal, glowing embers, and the faint scent of dried blood. Lyselle stepped in first, followed by Caelan.

As soon as they were past the gate, Caelan whispered almost inaudibly, "That was too close."

Lyselle turned, a faint smile appearing. "Too close makes the blood warmer."

Caelan just shook his head. "We have to be more careful inside. Here, one wrong word can mean the end."

And on the tower, a lookout who had seemed nonchalant earlier now followed their steps with sharp eyes, as if he had already smelled that these two merchants were not just merchants.

A light rain began to fall as Lyselle and Caelan walked through Drezhen's main street. The paving stones beneath their feet were slippery, reflecting the light of the torches that lined the buildings. Everything here smelled of the military: the sound of iron boots, the shouts of commands from the training ground, and the smell of weapon oil soaked into the air.

Drezhen was not a city for ordinary people. It was the belly of an insatiable wolf.

“Don't look around too much,” Caelan whispered as he kept walking. “Their eyes are sharp. A small movement can trigger suspicion.”

Lyselle kept moving, but her senses were at work. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a group of soldiers sitting outside a tavern, polishing their swords and laughing loudly. Across the street, a records clerk was writing a list of goods on a table, while two guards checked a parchment scroll that looked like a list of prisoners.

“A place to stay first, or straight to the target?” Lyselle asked, her voice low.

“A place to stay first,” Caelan replied. “If we don't have an address, everyone will wonder why two merchants are sleeping in the street.”

They turned onto a quieter street. The houses here were made of heavy wood with small windows, almost all tightly locked. Some doors had white chalk marks—perhaps an internal code for soldiers or suppliers.

Caelan stopped in front of a small inn called The Iron Pike. The oil lamp outside its door flickered. From inside came the sound of a string instrument being played lazily.

As they entered, the smell of salty meat stew and pipe smoke greeted them. The room was not large, but it was full of people—mostly wearing uniforms or warehouse worker clothes.

A middle-aged woman with a dirty apron came up to them. “Room or food?”

“A room. Two beds. Two nights to start,” Caelan replied.

“Pay upfront,” she said curtly.

Caelan handed over a few copper coins. The woman weighed them for a moment then nodded. “Room upstairs, number four. Don't be noisy, and don't cause any trouble. Guests can disappear here if they're too chatty.”

The sentence sounded like a vague threat, but Caelan just nodded. “We understand.”

Their room was cramped, just enough for two wooden beds, a small table, and one candle in the corner. As soon as the door was locked, Lyselle sat on the bed, taking off her boots.

“This place smells of metal,” she muttered.

“That's because this whole city lives off of war,” Caelan replied. He sat at the table, opening a small scroll—a rough map of Drezhen he had obtained on the journey.

Lyselle came closer. “Where do we start?”

“We need two things,” Caelan pointed to dots on the map. “First, the garrison's supply routes. Second, the location of the black market that sells seized goods. From there, we can pull the thread to who is in control.”

Lyselle looked at the lines on the map. “The black market… must be heavily guarded.”

“Yes,” Caelan looked at her. “That's why we have to observe first, not go straight in.”

That night, they went back down to the main room of the inn. The tables were more crowded, with soldiers playing cards or gambling with dice. Lyselle and Caelan sat in a corner, pretending to eat while listening to the conversations around them.

Two soldiers at the next table were talking loudly enough to be heard.

“Did you hear? Captain Dros ordered another seizure in the Eastern District.”

“Yeah, he said there were smuggled goods coming in. But strangely, it was the official merchants who got hit.”

Lyselle glanced at Caelan—that was the first clue. Official goods being seized meant there was a game being played by insiders.

Not long after, a man in a leather jacket entered. He was not in uniform, but his movements were military-like. He spoke briefly with the inn owner, then handed over a small cloth bag. The owner nodded and hid the bag under the table.

“A black market contact?” Lyselle whispered.

“Could be,” Caelan replied softly.

The next morning, they left early. The main street was already bustling with military activity: formation training, patrol shifts changing, and logistics carts passing every few minutes.

They walked casually toward the eastern warehouse. Lyselle noticed that every entrance was heavily guarded, but some civilian workers were allowed through without too detailed of an inspection. That meant there was a civilian supply route they could exploit.

Near the warehouse, they saw something that made Lyselle hold her breath: three carts containing closed crates, escorted by four armed soldiers. One of the crates shook as if something was moving inside.

Caelan glanced quickly, then turned to Lyselle. “Don't look for too long.”

But Lyselle's mind had already jumped to the worst-case scenario: prisoners, or… slaves.

That afternoon, they returned to the inn. Caelan began writing on a piece of paper, redrawing the patrol routes they had seen.

“We know the logistics routes. Tonight, we'll try to get closer to the Eastern District,” Caelan said.

Lyselle nodded. “And the black market?”

Caelan smiled faintly. “We'll find it… but through the right person.”

A loud laugh from downstairs interrupted their conversation. Lyselle turned toward the window, seeing the torchlight flicker in the street. A group of soldiers passed by, dragging someone who was tied up.

“Look at that,” she muttered.

Caelan stood beside her. “This is Drezhen. You stay silent… or you get buried with it.”

Lyselle didn't answer, but there was a glint of determination in her eyes.

That night, a thin fog covered Drezhen's narrow streets. The oil lamps on the street poles flickered as if they were about to go out, providing a perfect opportunity for anyone who wanted to move without being too visible.

Lyselle and Caelan left The Iron Pike inn in different clothes: a dull long coat, a low hood, and leather gloves. They were no longer the merchants who entered the city earlier that day—now, they looked like warehouse laborers or dock workers.

“The black market doesn't usually appear on a map,” Caelan whispered as he walked on the left side of the street. “But they always leave a sign.”

“A sign?” Lyselle asked softly.

Caelan quickly pointed to a brick wall they were passing. There was a charcoal mark—a circle with three slashes inside. “That's for 'hot goods'. It means this path is safe for couriers.”

They continued to move, following the faint signs on the back doors of shops, lamp posts, and even on wooden barrels left in the corner of the street. All of it led to the Eastern District.

The Eastern District was very different from the rest of the city. There were fewer lights, and the smell of the sea mixed with the scent of rusty iron from the port warehouses. In the distance, a faint scream could be heard, but it stopped so quickly as if swallowed by the air.

Caelan raised his hand to signal them to stop. They hid behind a stack of wooden crates when two soldiers passed, escorting an old man with his hands tied.

“I don't have any smuggled goods!” the man shouted.

One of the soldiers laughed. “You think we care? You're on the list, that's enough.”

As they moved away, Lyselle whispered, “If a person like that is arrested for no reason, it means there's a 'list' made for a specific purpose.”

“Yes. That list might be the key to the black market trade,” Caelan replied.

They found an inconspicuous entrance: an old wooden door between two large warehouses, with no guards. Caelan knocked three times, paused for a moment, then once more. The door was opened slightly by a man with a thin face.

“Who sent you?” the man asked suspiciously.

Caelan replied curtly, “The iron bird.”

The door opened fully. They entered a narrow corridor that smelled of rotten fish and smoke. At the end of it, a red light from an oil lamp illuminated a large space containing rows of tables and wooden shelves full of boxes, cloth scrolls, and items that were clearly not from the official market.

Lyselle quickly counted—there were at least two dozen people in the room. Some were working, some were gambling, and some were sitting, watching from the corners.

A big man with a shaved head approached. “You're not faces I usually see here.”

“We're just looking for certain goods,” Caelan replied calmly.

“Certain goods?” The man narrowed his eyes. “Here, all goods are certain. Name it, or get out.”

Lyselle stepped halfway forward, her voice flat. “Information. About a shipment from the north. The one not on the official list.”

The room immediately became quieter. The big man stared at them for a long time, then laughed softly. “Information is expensive.”

“We can pay,” Caelan said.

The man weighed them, then gestured. “Follow me.”

They were led to a smaller back room. There was a large table with a map of the region on it, as well as several scrolls of notes. The big man sat down, raising his chin. “The shipment from the north… are you talking about a 'sealed cargo'?”

Caelan pretended not to know the term. “If that's what you call crates that move on their own, maybe.”

The man laughed again, but this time it was shorter. “You have guts.”

Lyselle leaned forward. “I don't care what's inside. I just want to know who's moving it, and where.”

The man tapped his finger on the table. “If I tell you, I'll lose my life. If I don't tell you, you might try to find out on your own… and that's going to make you lose your lives. So tell me… why should I take a risk for you?”

Caelan looked him straight in the eyes. “Because the person moving that cargo will also kill you when the time comes. And we might be the only ones who can stop them.”

The silence stretched. Finally, the man sighed. “The eastern port, warehouse number seven. On the fourth night of every cycle, a shipment arrives. Half of it is weapons, the other half is… living flesh.”

Lyselle felt her anger boil. “Living flesh?”

“Slaves,” the man replied flatly. “Some from the north, some from the surrounding villages. If you're smart, you'll pretend you never knew.”

As soon as they left the black market, the night air felt heavier. Lyselle walked quickly, her breath ragged.

“We have to stop this now,” she said.

“We can't be rash,” Caelan reminded her. “If we make one wrong move, they'll move the entire operation before we can even touch it.”

Lyselle stopped, looking at Caelan. “Those are people, Cael. Children. Women. We can't—”

“I know!” Caelan cut her off, his voice louder than usual. “But we're also in their den. Once we act, there's no turning back.”

Silence fell between them. Only the sound of their footsteps on the wet stones could be heard.

That night, in the inn room, they laid out their plan. The port map was spread out on the table, along with notes on patrol schedules and guard changes.

“We need an insider,” Caelan said. “Someone who works at the port and isn't loyal to the system.”

Lyselle thought for a moment. “What about the inn owner? She clearly has connections.”

“Risky. If she's playing both sides, we could be sold out,” Caelan replied.

Finally, they decided to observe warehouse number seven from a safe distance for the next two nights. If there was an opening, they would go in during the next shipment.

However, Lyselle knew one thing: waiting would only make her blood boil even more.

And in a place like Drezhen, one wrong emotion could be the beginning of the end of everything.

A thick fog covered the entire port that night. The seawater reflected the faint moonlight, while anchor chains scraped slowly in the wind. From a distance, the sound of patrol horses' hooves could be heard and then disappeared.

Lyselle crouched behind a stack of crates, her eyes fixed on warehouse number seven. Caelan was beside her, his breath steady even though the cold air bit to the bone.

“The shipment should be arriving now,” Lyselle whispered.

“Yes,” Caelan replied. “Look at the left pier.”

Two small ships without flags docked. The crew, all in dark clothing, began to unload large crates. There were no documents, no official inspection—everything moved quickly and with practiced skill.

Lyselle counted the number of crates. “At least thirty. Half of them must be for weapons.”

“And the other half…” Caelan didn't finish. They both knew the rest were people.

From their vantage point, the warehouse door opened and several armed men came out, inspecting the shipment. Among them, Lyselle saw a figure that made her blood run cold.

A man in a black robe embroidered with gold, his face partially covered by a silver beak-shaped mask. His hand held a scroll of notes, and for every crate that was opened, he marked something on the scroll.

Lyselle whispered, “Who is that?”

Caelan stared for a long time, his face hardening. “Lord Albrecht.”

The name hung in the air like an invisible threat.

“He…?” Lyselle waited for an explanation.

“He is the main economic advisor to the Virelion kingdom,” Caelan said slowly but with pressure. “If he is here, it means this trade… has protection from the palace.”

The atmosphere at the port changed when one of the crates was opened—inside, three young boys around ten years old, their eyes empty, their bodies thin and gaunt. One tried to struggle, but was hit hard by a guard.

Lyselle almost stood up, but Caelan gripped her arm. “Don't! We're not ready. One move now, and we'll die and they'll remain slaves.”

“Cael…” Lyselle's voice trembled. “Those are children.”

“I know,” he said, his jaw tight. “But we have to take this as evidence. Without evidence, no one will believe us.”

Lyselle looked down, trying to control her anger.

They retreated from the port and went back to the narrow alley, then followed the back paths to the inn. However, at a street corner, two figures emerged from the shadows and blocked their way.

One of them was the big man from the black market they had met two nights ago. “You two shouldn't be here tonight,” he said coldly.

“We were just passing through,” Caelan replied calmly.

“Passing through?” the man laughed slightly. “If you were just passing through, why were you spying on a warehouse that's none of your business?”

Lyselle reached for her dagger. “If you want to live, get out of the way.”

The man narrowed his eyes, but before he could move, Caelan took out a small bag of gold coins. “Consider this payment… for not having seen us.”

The man looked at the coins, then took them. “You're playing in deep waters, friends. Don't drown.”

They passed without further trouble, but Lyselle knew the threat was real—they were being watched.

Back in the room, Caelan locked the door and sat in a chair, staring at the port map spread out.

“Lyselle, you understand what this means, right?” he said.

“That the palace is involved?” Lyselle replied.

“Not just involved. Lord Albrecht doesn't act alone. If he's leading this trade, he's doing it with the consent… or at least the knowledge… of my father.”

Lyselle looked at him sharply. “Your father… the King of Virelion?”

Caelan nodded slowly. “If it's true, this means the entire system is corrupt to its core. And if I oppose it… I'm opposing my own blood.”

Silence. Only the sound of creaking wood from the night wind.

Lyselle finally said, “So what are you going to do?”

Caelan looked at her, his blue eyes sharp but full of a heavy burden. “I don't know yet. But one thing is for sure—after tonight, I can no longer pretend to be blind.”

The next morning, they received an unmarked message. Just a small piece of paper slipped under the door:

“Leave Drezhen before the next night. Or you will not see the sun again.”

The message was written in red ink. Lyselle looked at Caelan. “We've been found.”

“Yes,” Caelan replied. “And that means time is up.”

That night, they returned to the port—not to infiltrate, but to retrieve a small crate they had stolen from a side lane. It took time and risk, but they finally got it: a crate containing a list of names and detention locations of the slaves.

However, inside was something even more shocking: a personal letter from Lord Albrecht to “Your Majesty”—with the signature of the King of Virelion himself.

Lyselle read the letter, her face tightening. “Cael… this is evidence. Direct evidence.”

Caelan took the letter, stared at it for a long time, then crumpled the paper in his hand. “This… will destroy everything.”

“And maybe that's what's needed,” Lyselle said softly.

But before they could get out of the port, a shout was heard. “THEY'RE OVER THERE!”

Soldiers ran, weapons drawn. Lyselle and Caelan ran between crates and ship nets, arrows hitting the wood around them. One almost hit Lyselle, but Caelan pulled her back behind a barrel.

“We can't go back to the inn,” Caelan panted.

“Then we'll get out by sea!” Lyselle pointed to a small boat at the end of the pier.

They jumped into the boat, untied the rope, and pushed it into the water. Cold waves hit them, but they rowed quickly, moving away from the port which was now full of torchlight and the sound of shouting.

From a distance, Lyselle saw the silhouette of Lord Albrecht standing on the pier, looking in their direction. He didn't shout or give orders—he just stood there, as if he was sure this hunt was far from over.

A few hours later, their boat reached a small bay outside the city. They came ashore, exhausted but safe. In Caelan's hand, the letter was still held tightly.

Lyselle looked at him. “We have the evidence.”

Caelan nodded, but his gaze was empty. “Yes… but now, we also have an enemy who won't stop until one of us is dead.”

He stood up, looking toward the faint light of Drezhen in the distance. “And I'm not sure… if the palace will call me their son after this.”

The sea fog covered them, and the waves hit the shore with a quiet but continuous sound—like the ticking of time toward a great confrontation.