Republic City of Otto, Southern Islands, in the Luminous Seas, off the Coast of Hilde Kingdom, Eastern Continent
The hotel suite slled of expensive whiskey and sothing far more acrid—the tallic tang of death. A handso man in his mid-twenties crouched beside the corpse, his tailored suit straining slightly at the shoulders as he examined the diplomat's contorted fingers. Sunlight stread through the balcony windows, glinting off the half-empty whiskey bottle on the side table.
"Aithe vaadu ilaane chanipoyaada?" (So he just died like this?) His voice carried the polished cadence of soone accustod to giving orders rather than asking questions.
The hotel manager, a middle-aged woman wringing her hands nodded vigorously. "Avunu, vaadu breakfast ki raaledu kaabatti, mu atani daggara dooru knock chesaamu." (Yes, when he didn't co to breakfast, we knocked on his door.) She swallowed hard. "Pratirodhinchaka, mu dooru terchesaamu." (When there was no answer, we opened it.)
The brown-haired man humd, straightening with the effortless grace of a predator. His polished shoes clicked against the marble floor as he circled the room, pausing to study the harbor view before turning back.
"Vaadu Ancorna nundi oka diplomat kada?" (He was a diplomat from Ancorna, correct?)
"Avunu, Mr. Kenric," (Yes, Mr. Kenric) the manager confird, bobbing an awkward curtsy just as two sun-weathered guides, the sa n who'd escorted the dead diplomat through Otto's streets, entered the suite.
Kenric acknowledged them with a curt nod before resuming his search. His movents were thodical: tilting paintings to check behind them, running fingers along bookshelf edges, finally kneeling to inspect the bedside table's drawer. Across the room, the guides rummaged through cabinets with considerably less finesse, their calloused hands sending glassware clinking.
A forensic physician bagged the whiskey bottle, standard procedure for suspected poisonings—while Kenric's slender fingers traced the drawer's interior seams. His peripheral vision tracked the others: the manager lecturing a trembling maid, the guides arguing over a map's significance.
Perfect.
With practiced precision, he triggered the hidden compartnt. The false bottom gave way with a nearly inaudible click. Then he placed a folded letter inside that carried traces of sandalwood ink—the dead man's preferred brand.
"Danni chudandi," (look at this) Kenric announced just loudly enough to draw attention as he stood, holding the parchnt aloft. "Ancorna bhashalo rasindi." (Look at this. It's written in Ancornan.) His performance was flawless—the slight arch of his brow, the way he turned the letter as if examining it for the first ti.
Kenric started reading the letter. "My Final Confession,
I write this with a trembling hand, having stolen away under cover of diplomatic privilege. The Foreign Ministry's cris weigh too heavily upon my soul—their secret dealings with Conley agents. When I discovered their treason, I begged Duke Roland's office to transfer here under the Economic Ministry’s cover.
But even in Otto, their agents watch. The whiskey in my decanter tastes wrong tonight. I know what this ans.
To His Majesty Emperor Andrew—forgive my cowardice. I could not bear to testify against my own colleagues. Better this quiet end than the scandal my survival would bring.
To the Honorable Duke Roland—thank you for granting this final kindness. My replacent of Foreign Ministry personnel was done with your tacit approval, though you knew not why.
Let my death be the last sacrifice Ancorna makes to these vipers in our midst.
—Lord Ethan Flask”
After few minutes,
The heavy oak door of the hotel suite clicked shut behind Kenric as he stepped into the misty morning. A light but persistent rain slicked the cobblestones of Otto's rchant district, turning the bustling streets into a shimring tableau of blurred lanterns and hurried umbrellas.
One of the guides called after him in their Hilde tongue as he was walking off, "Idi Ancorna Samrajyamo lo antarika sanghatanamo la undi." (This looks like so internal conflict within the Ancorna Empire.)
Kenric paused beneath the hotel's awning, allowing just the right beat of contemplation before responding in kind, "Manaku prati okati pattukune samayam ledu. I pani Ancorna vadiki ichestamu." (We have enough on our plate. Let's leave this matter for Ancorna to handle.) His tone carried just the right mix of bureaucratic weariness and civic responsibility as he adjusted his cufflinks. The guides exchanged satisfied nods—this was exactly the reaction he'd engineered.
The rain provided perfect cover as Kenric took a andering route through back alleys, his polished boots splashing through growing puddles. After precisely seven minutes, enough to shake any amateur tails, he ducked into a nondescript carriage waiting in the shadows of a spice warehouse.
The interior slled of aged leather and clove cigarettes. A man in his mid-fifties occupied the far seat, his Conley heritage evident in the cut of his embroidered waistcoat and the silver rings weighing his fingers. The scent of sandalwood oil clung to him—too strong for Otto's humid climate, marking him unmistakably as foreign aristocracy.
"The letter's planted," Kenric announced in Ancornan as he settled against the velvet cushions. He shook the rain from his sleeves with the causal grace of a man who'd never known financial want. "Otto's senate will probably make it public within the week to avoid taking any sides in Ancorna’s internal conflicts."
The Conley noble's lips twisted around his heavy Ancronan dialect. "You're certain? We need that suicide letter read aloud in their marble halls. Every rchant guild must hear of Ancorna's corruption so it reaches their imperial court."
Kenric's laugh sparkled like the raindrops on the window glass. "Really, Viscount, must I explain my own craft? The letter specifically antagonizes Ancorna's Foreign Ministry while implicating Duke Roland's economic Ministry’s involvent." He leaned forward, the carriage's brass lanterns casting dramatic shadows across his sharp features. "Emperor Andrew already distrusts his spymaster Frank Eldric, head of foreign affairs. This will have the imperial court tearing at its own throat for months."
Viscount's ringed fingers tapped an impatient rhythm against his knee. "By the ti they look up from their squabbles, Conley will control both free cities."
"Precisely." Kenric extended a gloved hand palm-up. "Now. My paynt?"
A leather pouch hit his palm with a satisfying clink. "Thirty Ancornan mana coins, as agreed."
Kenric made a show of counting each enchanted coin—not because he doubted the amount, but because he enjoyed watching the Viscount's patience fray. Satisfied, he tipped an imaginary hat as he exited the carriage.
"Pleasure as always. Though do tell your shadows to be less conspicuous." His smile showed too many teeth. "The senate's intelligence agents may be provincial, but they're not blind."
The carriage door slamd shut behind him. Kenric lted back into Otto's rainy streets, already ntally spending his earnings.
Read 12 Advance Chapter by becoming a Patreon: 134. Free Cities And Annexation
User Comments
0 comments from readers