CHAPTER 103

  SATISFACTORY DELIVERY

  The midday sun filtered through crystal archways, thrumming life into the cobbled veins of the capital. Clandor gleamed—each street a marvel of spell-touched fountains, marble avenues etched with runes, and domesticated sky-beasts that drifted lazily above the rooftops. The market bustled like a living hymn, as if artisans had once carved music itself into the city’s stone.

  Through this gilded chaos moved a curious party.

  At the front strode Theodred, his pace steady and posture relaxed but eyes searching for something subtly.

  Behind him walked Bernard—the Warlord of the Elven Realm, a silent guardian whose very presence drew eyes—and flanking him were two cloaked figures: a young prince and princess of royal blood.

  “I told you to cover your faces,” Bernard hissed at Theodred. “You attract unnecessary attention.”

  “We aren’t some thieves. Or in bad business. Why did you all cover your faces?” Hans never understood why these royals, not just of elven but human nations, did it. He never covered his face, not unless he was in some sneaky business.

  As men burned in jealousy and women in blush, Theodred strode forward.

  His objective was simple: to locate the SATR agent, the blacksmith told to him by the hunter in the borders, but Bernard was quite known to the Parvian tactics—and that gave him unnecessary challenge.

  Still, for a moment, Hans—buried beneath the guise of Theodred—let himself bask in the capital’s splendour.

  Man, elves really love their archways, don’t they?

  Everywhere he looked, archways of all shapes rose from stone and spell. Mana stones were embedded almost everywhere, glowing faintly. Some shifted colour to attract customers, others dulled the racket of the market, and a few enchanted the air with gentle breezes or warmth.

  This is nothing like Edenberg... I bet even Parv doesn’t have setups like this.

  He slapped both cheeks lightly, jolting him out of his wayward mind.

  Focus, I’m not here for sightseeing—but to send Arat back.

  Bernard noticed and tilted his head slightly. “Something wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Hans murmured, fidgeting with the Ledomi artefact in his hand. “Let’s just find a decent blacksmith.”

  “Aye,” Bernard nodded. He had no wish to linger in the streets with both royal heirs. Warlord though he was—capable of single-handed devastation—he was still only one man. And should another threat of equal power strike here... he wasn’t certain he could shield all three.

  They moved from one forge to another. At each smithy, Hans offered vague reasons for rejection or even vaguer requests.

  He sought a specific symbol: a rhombus encasing a circle—the sign whispered to him by the same hunter in borders.

  At last, as the sun tilted westward, Allynna following him for a while, finally broke the silence. “What are you looking for exactly?”

  “A heavy sword,” Hans replied. “The heavier it is, the harder it is to wield. Makes for passive training—”

  He stopped mid-sentence, eyes narrowing.

  Found you.

  It was the tenth forge they’d visited.

  A modest smithy hidden behind an apothecary's greenhouse, it stank of hot iron and thornwood coal. Its walls were soot-dark, but an elaborate lattice of flowers had grown into the eaves—a perfect disguise for a building that needed to stay unremarkable to elven eyes.

  Theodred stepped forward, peering into the shadowed interior. “Anyone there?” he called, rapping his knuckles against the half-open door.

  “This doesn’t look a shop of your calibre—Theodred,” Allynna hesitatingly called him. “Can I call you Theodred?” She asked.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “I suppose that’s what names are for, Princess.”

  His reply made the prince Riftal the quiet one, slip into controlled laughter, covering his mouth.

  “Look at this. Prince Riftal can laugh when he tries.” Theodred commented and Riftal turned to his usual self.

  Turning back to the smithy. He knocked again but none came greeting.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Only the hammering sound masked by some artefact slowly hummed its way to their ears.

  He stepped inside, Bernard and the royal siblings trailing cautiously behind. The interior reeked of hot iron and coal.

  A burly elf stood at the anvil, hammering with thick arms all of muscle—rare in a land where most elves were built lean and lithe.

  He didn’t look up.

  “What do you want? Need something forged?” The buffed-up elf grunted, eyes not lifting from his work.

  “No wonder your smithy is going downhill.” Bernard commented, hinting at his sword.

  The blacksmith gave him a passing glance, then continued hammering.

  “Don’t waste my time,” he muttered. “If you’ve a request, speak plainly—in Elvish.”

  Theodred nodded, voice careful. Calm.

  “Looking for something… delicate yet strong. A shell like perhaps. For a sword with a headpiece. Something elegant but…with the weight of ten hens’ gait.”

  The elf’s hammer stopped. Subtle but barely noticeable.

  But it stopped.

  He looked up, squinting. His face didn’t change, but his eyes studied Theodred for a flicker too long. Not suspicion— but as if to decipher something.

  That was all Hans needed. He got the confirmation that this was the place. The code was deliberately wrong.

  The real password was ‘An oyster a head by chicken’s leg.’ Hans had jumbled it just right. It was close enough to stir memory in the spy, but incorrect enough not to trigger a full response.

  The blacksmith knew nothing of this man before him. So he shrugged off the thought.

  In a dry voice, the blacksmith asked.

  “Sounds like an odd request. You sure are in the right place, Noble?”

  Bernard intervened. This was already the tenth smithy, and he had enough of Theodred asking for a sword in so much jumbled fashion. “Young man,” he pointed. “I told you. To speak in plain terms. If you don’t make this clear. They won’t understand.”

  “Hmm.” Hans got what he wanted, a confirmation. “I don’t think they had what it takes to’ve been in my mind. I should just let the royal forge take care of this and pay them back in instalments.”

  He sighed, imitating disappointment. “Let’s go back.”

  They left the cursing elf alone, after disturbing him and buying nothing. It was an obvious response.

  And when the blacksmith turned to the anvil, he found a piece of paper stuck between the gaps.

  Hans’s precision in controlling Ledomi had grown tremendous in the past days, and with the speed so high. Even the incautious Bernard, whose all focus was in detecting murderous intent of enemies, missed the harmless thing.

  The blacksmith opened the folded paper.

  ‘An oyster a head by chicken’s leg’

  To Arat:

  “I have fled the elven lands. Do not seek me further. I’m continuing in the Mystic Glades. Golems are needed. Time is scarce. And don’t mess in Clandor— control Dijkstra. Elves have tightened the security after the incident. By the time this report reaches you, I’d be gone.”

  — PH.

  He frantically looked, right and left, but there was none. He didn’t know how it reached him, but it was a genuine message that needed delivering.

  Now carefree, Hans wandered alongside the others. Their carriage lay parked far from the market; the walk back took them through quieter alleys and gardened lanes.

  “You’ve been quiet, Theo,” Allynna said, falling into step beside him.

  “Theo?” He arched a brow, turning toward her with an amused grin. “Taking liberties, are you?”

  “Theo rolls easier on the tongue.”

  “As you wish, Princess.” He sighed—part in jest. A part of him itched to drop the disguise and watch the shock bloom on her face.

  But that would come in time.

  Once he had Reina’s skill and a spirit of his own, his name would no longer be a secret.

  “You seem familiar with the streets,” he noted, glancing sidelong. “Do you sneak out often?”

  “Not often,” she said quickly, though her excitement betrayed her. “But yes, sometimes.”

  Man! She does not resemble her mother a bit. Hans shook his head. “Alone? Or with the prince?”

  “Not Riftal.” Her voice dipped, almost apologetic. “My brother is... reserved. I usually go with Deli.”

  “Deli?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

  “The silver-haired one. The girl who acts like you’ve been her mortal enemy for ages.”

  “Oh. That young lady, Winters.”

  “Stop calling her that, or she might actually kill you in your sleep.”

  Hans chuckled, imagining Delimira’s face twisted in outrage.

  “And why is that?” he asked. “Why does she behave like I’m her long-lost enemy?”

  “It’s not you.” Allynna answered. “I mean it’s not your fault. It’s just you are something very opposed to someone very dear to her.”

  “O!” Hans raised his brows again. “Someone dear to her?”

  “Mm-hmm. That’s all you get, Theo.”

  “Very well, Princess,” he smiled. “Since you sneak out not so often…"

  “Not so often.” Allynna stressed.

  “Yes, yes, not so often. Know any street foods?”

  “We can have whatever we want at the royal kitchen—”

  “There is something— you can’t get in the royal kitchen, princess.”

  “And what’s that?” Allynna asked, making even the quiet Riftal looking at him with expected eyes.

  “Enjoyment.” Hans said, spreading his arms. “Don’t you agree, Ser Bernard?”

  The warlord didn’t answer. His eyes scanned the rooftops, the alleys—the places danger might dwell. A tension lingered in him. He was feeling that he missed something, but it was too late.

  Hans had already finished his task without inviting any uneasy warnings.

  “Hmm… there is one place I’ve heard.” Allynna belatedly responded. “Chris said it served the best human food in the city.”

  “Then lead the way.” Hans gestured gallantly.

  As they turned down the lane, he drifted beside Riftal. Another potential powerhouse wasted in Elven culture and another that he was greedy for.