The cool night air carried the scent of damp stone and freshly oiled leather. Hooves scraped against the cobblestones as the stable hands made their final adjustments.
The Prince stepped into the courtyard, where his knights were already preparing the horses. While he faintly recognized most of them there were a few he knew by name.
He approached Callum, captain of his knights. Callum stood beside his horse, adjusting the straps on his gauntlet.
“I see you were previously informed,” the prince said.
Callum glanced up with an easy smirk. “Of your desire for a nighttime hunt? Of course, my prince.”
The prince made his way to Deborah, his black mare. She stood ready, her saddle already secured.
Hound Master Aldric had gotten his favorite hounds ready, “we are ready for the hunt your grace”
Sword master Jerimiah came over to inspect the horse and saddle once more, he helped the prince equip his sword. “you will follow my lead and remain by my side” he said simply before turning towards his own horse.
Dame Rowena and Sir Fenric where busy placing they wands on the saddles of their horses.
Without hesitation, he took the reins and swung into the saddle.
Sir Aldric, the broad-shouldered knight chuckled with the patience of a seasoned lecturer. “If the quarry bolts, remember, always let the hounds flush them first. It spares your blade needless work.” His hounds followed his horse’s gait.
Sir Matthias, sharp-eyed and wiry, snorted, while adjusting the strap on his quiver. “Aldric, you’ve told that to every squire who’s passed your lessons. No quarry ever runs the way you plan.”
“Discipline makes the difference,” Aldric countered, his tone calm but firm, as though giving a lecture at the academy.
After only a few moments of bickering, his dozen knights were mounted, waiting now in disciplined silence. Callum met his gaze, his expression unreadable. The prince gave a small nod and they rode out of the castle.
They rode hard through the night, the streets of the city proper stretching out before them, lanterns flickering in the dark. The rhythmic beat of hooves on cobblestone echoed between the narrow buildings, the chill of the night air biting at their skin. The knights spoke in measured tones, feigning talk of a hunt for any prying ears.
Their light banter of the hunt carried them down the avenue, though it was soon swallowed by the hiss of magic.
Sir Fenric whispered a spell as he waved the wand in a circular motion around the party, and a low fog curled around the riders, cloaking them from curious eyes. Behind him, Dame Rowena murmured another incantation, this time her wand pointed at the horses shoes, and the sound of their hoofbeats dulled to near silence.
The warehouse loomed dark against the trade quarter’s lantern light, its wide doors hanging crooked on rusted hinges. Inside, the air smelled of old grain and dust, the floor littered with splintered crates and scattered straw. Shadows clung to the rafters where rats skittered, their claws clicking faintly on the beams above.
The knights moved quickly, their boots echoing in the hollow space. Callum ordered the lanterns lit only enough to cast a low glow, leaving the rest of the building swallowed in shadow.
Jerimiah tossed Lucien a folded bundle of cloth. It landed against his chest with more force than necessary.
“Change into this. You’ll play the part of my attendant,” Jerimiah said, already stripping off his armor. The garments he pulled on were simple but dignified, the muted colors and plain trim befitting a minor noble.
“You’ll remain at my side at all times, as if to guard me. That will be enough to keep you close.”
Lucien glanced down at the clothes in his hands. Rough wool, plain stitching—nothing of a prince’s station. His jaw tightened.
“Why this charade?” he asked. “Don’t we simply need to leave the castle?”
Callum buckled his swordbelt with deliberate calm. “We’re going to the Adventurers’ Guild,” he explained. “Twelve knights alone won’t be enough to survive the mountains.”
Sir Fenric gave a low scoff as he fastened his cloak. “Do we really need them?”
The look Callum shot him was sharp enough to cut. “I know they are unsightly,” he said smoothly, “but they are the best we can get on such short notice.”
Lucien drew a slow breath and stripped off his cloak and armor. The warehouse’s damp air bit at his skin as he pulled on the attendant’s garb. The coarse fabric itched at his neck, unfamiliar and humbling. Around him, the knights did the same, setting aside gleaming plate for the plainer uniforms of guardsmen.
By the time they stepped back into the night, their silhouettes had shifted. No longer royalty surrounded by knights, but a baron with his household guard, trudging toward the city’s darker quarters.
***
The Mercenary Guild loomed ahead, a fortress of stone and iron built for function rather than beauty. Its heavy walls rose stark against the softer lines of the noble quarter behind them. Torches burned in iron sconces, their light catching on mismatched armor as mercenaries patrolled the streets—some leaning lazily on their weapons, others watching with the sharp, appraising eyes of men who lived by the sword.
Two guards flanked the entrance. They gave the disguised party a cursory look before stepping aside, their expressions unreadable.
Inside, the air pressed heavy with the mingled scents of sweat, leather, and burning tallow. The corridor stretched forward, lined with thick wooden doors that likely concealed barracks or negotiation chambers. The sound of laughter and clinking tankards drifted faintly from somewhere deeper within.
Callum signaled, and the knights dispersed with practiced ease: Aldric remained outside with the hounds, Matthias and Fenric took up positions near the entrance, Rowena settled at the bar, and the rest scattered like common guards. That left only Callum, Jerimiah, and Lucien to approach the front desk.
The clerk sat slouched behind the counter, tapping his fingers against the wood. His eyes were glazed with boredom until he noticed them. At once he shot upright, nearly knocking over an ink bottle in his haste. He bowed low, his attention fixed squarely on Jerimiah in his borrowed noble finery.
“My lord,” the clerk said, voice suddenly eager. “I am at your service.”
Lucien felt the weight of the moment settle on him like a stone. He stood a half-step behind Jerimiah, dressed in rough wool, his sword hidden, his voice silenced by disguise. A prince in truth, mistaken for a servant. His hand tightened unconsciously around the strap of his cloak, but he forced his expression to remain still.
Callum let the deference hang in the air a beat before speaking. “We are in need of a party.”
“Of course, my lord,” the clerk replied quickly. “What rank of adventurers are you seeking? And for what purpose?”
“C-rank,” Callum said. “Escort.”
The man hesitated, fingers twitching as though he were tallying sums in his head. “That will require a significant security deposit.”
Jerimiah arched a brow, his performance as a noble flawless.
The clerk wet his lips before continuing. “If they return alive, you’ll have your deposit back. If not, the guild ensures it reaches their loved ones. A measure to see our men aren’t led as lambs to slaughter.”
Jerimiah gave the faintest nod. Lucien caught the gesture, understanding his cue. He reached into his cloak and withdrew the heavy bag of coins, the gold clinking loudly as he placed it on the desk.
“Will that be sufficient?” Callum asked.
The clerk nodded quickly, scooping the bag toward himself before gesturing toward a side door. “I’ll have the men brought in shortly, for your interview.”