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Chapter 45: The Night Veil
As soon as Brandon dismounted from the Gargoyle with his group, he noticed pale-faced Freya was glaring at him with an unmistakable look of resentment. Yet, Brandon couldn’t help but suppress a chuckle—how ironic that the mighty Valkyrie would be afraid of heights! Thinking back to her panic-stricken expression mid-flight made her seem no different from any other girl he’d known in past adventuring parties.
“Alright,” Brandon began, preemptively cutting off any chance of Freya holding a grudge for later. “Let me explain the situation.”
Freya saw through his ploy immediately but simply sniffed dismissively. She turned her head away, unwilling to waste energy on arguing with him.
“The message has been delivered; whether or not the nobles choose to believe it is their concern now. Our next objective is clear: before Madara launches its attack, we need to locate Roma’s aunt and escape Ridenburg. But I won’t lie—it’s not going to be easy.” With a wave of his hand, Brandon sent the Gargoyle soaring up to perch atop a nearby rooftop, where it froze into stillness, vigilant and ready to monitor their surroundings. Since nightfall, he had been experimenting with the amulet’s incantations, finally managing to unlock one useful spell.
But offensive spells were still lacking.
“Freya and Roma, both of you are registered militiamen, meaning your relatives within Ridenburg will have records filed under their names. If we attempt to contact Roma’s distant relative without knowing if they’re trustworthy, we risk exposure. And given the current climate, that could mean disaster.”
“What about Aunt Jenny?” Freya interjected, turning toward him at last. “Won’t she be in danger?”
Brandon glanced at Roma, who remained silent, absently fiddling with the hem of her sleeve.
“There’s always some lag time for them to react,” Brandon replied calmly. “But if we rush in blindly, the likelihood of failure increases dramatically. To save time, we’ll split into three groups, each with specific tasks. We must ensure everyone knows exactly what they’re doing.”
He took a deep breath, unconsciously slipping into the authoritative demeanor he once held as the leader of his gaming guild. Yet here, commanding real lives instead of virtual ones, Brandon felt a faint tremor of unease coursing beneath his resolve.
His gaze swept across the trio before him, assigning roles decisively:
“Freya, you’ll handle contacting Roma’s relative.”
“Me?” Freya pointed at herself, surprise etched across her features.
“Yes.”
“But all I know is that he lives near Bonneau Market—I don’t even know the exact address! And honestly, I’m not sure where Bonneau Market is…” The ponytailed girl frowned, clearly troubled by the task ahead.
“You can ask around,” Brandon reassured her with a small smile. “Bonneau Market isn’t far from here. Just leave this alley, and you’ll find a tavern called ‘The Copper Dragon Tales.’ You can gather information there. But be careful—the mercenaries frequenting such places aren’t exactly saints. Don’t let anyone take advantage of you.”
Freya flushed crimson, shooting him a venomous glare. “Shameless!”
Chael stifled a laugh beside them, finding amusement in his lord’s antics. Nobles rarely ventured into such crude establishments, yet Brandon seemed remarkably well-versed in every corner of this kingdom. Wizards often preferred the company of clever minds—especially those with broad knowledge—and this young man certainly fit the bill.
“Once you locate the wool merchant named Hood, don’t reveal your identity right away. Instead, arrange a meeting at the tavern and observe his reaction. That should tell us how reliable he is. If you spot signs of military involvement, don’t panic—they won’t act rashly until they understand our connections. They’ll want to catch us all at once.”
Freya mulled over his instructions, silently assessing whether she could pull it off. After a moment, she nodded.
“And what about me, Brandon?” Roma asked, blinking curiously.
“Roma, you’ll secure transportation for us. Head to the northern gate and wait. There are only two inns in Ridenburg, so there’s a good chance they’re being watched. If one seems suspicious, switch to the other. If both are compromised, go alone to the northern gate. Regardless, we’ll leave the city as soon as the gates open at dawn. With luck, we might slip out before the lockdown order is issued.”
Roma nodded briskly, accepting her mission without hesitation.
Brandon then retrieved the money salvaged from the noble artifact earlier, dividing it into two portions. He handed one to each of them. “Both of your tasks may require funds. This is thirty silver coins—more than enough for each of you. Roma, if possible, purchase some provisions along the way.”
Roma nodded again, her determination evident.
“And you, Brandon?” Freya pressed.
“You two can’t afford to face these challenges alone. The White Mane Legion could intervene at any moment. Chael and I will pay visits to a few… old acquaintances. It’ll draw attention away from you and keep the guards occupied.”
No one could fathom the weight of Brandon’s decision as he spoke those words. His philosophy had always revolved around calculated risks—like crossing Xavier Mountain Pass, which he undertook because he believed he could guarantee safety for himself and Roma. He never considered himself a natural-born savior or hero.
“A meticulously planned operation can still fail, let alone one based on reckless gambles.” These words, imparted to him by his former guild leader, served as his guiding principle.
Yet even he didn’t fully grasp the magnitude of the danger this time. Still, he had promised Roma back at Buchi’s old estate that sometimes, a man needed to stand firm—even recklessly so. A surge of adrenaline coursed through Brandon’s veins, steadying his nerves and fueling his resolve to see this promise through.
“You’re insane, Brandon!” Freya exclaimed, wide-eyed. “You’ll get yourself hanged! What are we supposed to do then?”
Realizing the unintended implication of her words, she blushed furiously and stammered, “I mean—I don’t want to turn into a bandit alongside you…”
For a fleeting moment, Brandon found her flustered sincerity endearing. “Don’t worry,” he teased lightly. “If the opportunity arises, I’ll invite you to join us.” Privately, he thought the odds of persuading this future Valkyrie weren’t entirely hopeless.
“No thanks,” Freya shot back, her voice laced with irritation. “You and Roma can stick together—I’m worried about her.”
“There’s no need,” Brandon replied smoothly. “I trust little Roma completely.”
Roma raised an eyebrow, secretly delighted.
Freya clenched her teeth in frustration. Why did he insist on making her say things aloud when he already knew full well whom she was truly worried about? Worse yet, even if she voiced her concerns, he wouldn’t listen anyway.
“Forget it,” she muttered, lowering her gaze and flicking her ponytail behind her shoulder. “Just… be careful, alright?”
Meanwhile, Roma flashed Brandon a discreet thumbs-up gesture—a signal she’d picked up from him recently. She wiggled it playfully. “I’ll wait for you at the northern gate, Brandon! The carriage of the future great merchant won’t budge until you board!”
A flicker of warmth passed through Brandon, and he smiled faintly.
…..
Approximately ten minutes later, inside the barracks of the White Mane Legion’s Swordsmen Regiment—
“So you’re telling me you heard nothing?” Luc Besson demanded, brandishing a splintered piece of wood. Pointing to the fractured surface, he continued, “Judging by the degree of pulverization, whoever broke this door possessed at least First-Level Strength. An Iron Swordsman breached our White Mane Legion prison, and you claim you didn’t hear a thing?”
Known as “The Tiger,” Luc Besson was forty-five years old, with dark skin and a chiseled forehead reminiscent of a blade’s edge. His prominent cheekbones hinted at mountainfolk heritage, while his sunken eyes gleamed with untamed ferocity. Having led the 104th Swordsmen Regiment for a decade, Luc sought further advancement—but political affiliations complicated matters. Aligned with the Everton faction, the so-called Revival Party, he stood apart from the privatization of the White Mane Legion, which was controlled by Earl Pral. Despite this, Luc Besson commanded respect among his subordinates—not least because he earned his rank through merit rather than privilege.
The officers exchanged uneasy glances, particularly the night watch commander, whose face reddened under scrutiny. Clad in blue uniforms adorned with distinctive white wolf feathers dangling from their epaulets, the White Mane soldiers moved briskly throughout the room. Those feathers symbolized the regiment’s valor during the Battle of Jartings, commemorating their unyielding courage.
“If the intruder was indeed a Highland Knight, his mage apprentice squire could easily achieve such feats,” someone ventured cautiously.
“For the White Mane Legion, the issue isn’t what the enemy accomplished,” Luc snapped. “It’s what you failed to do. Ten whole minutes of response time? Are you militia recruits or trained swordsmen?”
His rebuke silenced the room instantly.
At that moment, another officer entered with a subordinate, clutching a stack of parchment. “Commander, we’ve reviewed the militia records from Buchi. Two individuals named Freya and Roma are indeed registered. However, the youth called Brandon doesn’t appear to be a local.”
Luc nodded, unsurprised. Tapping the table with his finger, he prompted, “And?”
The aide leaned closer, whispering something into Luc’s ear. Nodding thoughtfully, Luc followed up, “What’s His Majesty’s envoy’s stance?”
“The Earl hasn’t stated outright, but it seems he’s hinting at immediate execution,” the officer reported.
Luc paused, puzzled. Would a royal emissary truly target a mere commoner? Rubbing his chin, he pondered the hidden implications. Before he could delve deeper, murmurs erupted throughout the chamber.
“Really? Is the old man that petty?”
“He probably has designs on the women—what a lecher.”
“Just a court jester admiring an elven blade.”
“Some bumpkin dazzled by shiny trinkets.” Someone sneered derisively.
Luc slammed the table, silencing the chatter. As he prepared to reprimand them, another messenger burst through the door.
“Commander, the local council hall is ablaze!”
“Well played,” Luc muttered under his breath. Rising swiftly, he barked orders. “Ten minutes! Get Companies Two and Three assembled immediately!”
Officers sprang to their feet.
Pointing to two others, he instructed, “You two—monitor the designated targets. Marquelin, your assignment is the inn. Proceed cautiously; don’t alert them prematurely.”
The selected individuals bowed and hurried out without delay.
“Sir, what about Lord Ceberus?”
“No need to remind them. Those cowards are probably groveling before the king’s envoy already. They’ll cling to whichever side offers protection.”
Low laughters rippled through the room at the commander’s remark.
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