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Chapter 29 - Chapter 22

Two days after the secret meeting in Lord Brenwick's manor, word began to spread through Drachenhalm's lower districts. It was never proclaimed from the castle steps, nor inked into any royal decree, yet somehow the message found eager ears.

"Mercenaries wanted for a grand venture beyond the borders," the whispers went. "Gold, glory, and the favor of powerful lords await."

In the dim tavern of the Broken Stag, men gathered around a tall, broad-shouldered figure wearing a hood — one of Brenwick's trusted agents. He spoke in a voice low enough to suggest danger, but loud enough to stir ambition.

"A journey is planned," he said, "one that will take brave souls into the unknown lands — far beyond our maps, where the prize is worth more than any treasure locked in the king's vaults. We seek riders, archers, swordsmen. Men who do not fear strange machines, nor the thunder of metal beasts."

Some of the patrons exchanged uneasy glances. Others leaned in, curiosity overcoming caution.

"What is the quarry?" one scar-faced veteran asked.

The agent's lips curled into a knowing grin. "You will know it when you see it. The lords pay for skill and loyalty, not questions. Ten gold crowns now, fifty upon return. And should you succeed, your name will be sung in every hall for a hundred years."

By nightfall, mercenaries began arriving in small numbers, drawn by greed, wanderlust, or the faint hope of immortality in song. A pair of sellsword captains from the northern marches pledged their companies; a band of exiled knights, stripped of title but not of pride, offered their swords. Even wandering adventurers — drifters armed with mismatched armor and foreign steel — came forward, each imagining themselves as the one to strike the first blow against Aurion's mystery.

The recruitment was careful, never public. Each man was sworn to secrecy with the promise that revealing the plan would cost him his tongue. Yet for all the lords' plotting, the nature of the target was left vague — spoken only in symbols, as "the prize that breathes smoke and fire."

By the week's end, Brenwick and his allies had gathered over a hundred men, a mixture of hardened killers and reckless dreamers. They drilled in an abandoned tiltyard outside the city under the watch of hooded overseers. Their numbers were small for an army, but large enough for a raid — and each man had been promised a share of something far greater than coin.

Far above Drachenhalm's walls, the first snowflakes of the season began to fall, and with them came the quiet, inevitable truth: the steel beasts of Aurion were no longer merely the stuff of rumors. They had become prey in the minds of men who believed no prize was beyond their grasp.

---

The flickering light of the candelabras cast long, wavering shadows upon the oak-paneled walls of Lord Brenwick's private hall, where the air was thick with the mingled scents of wine, parchment, and the faint tang of oiled steel brought in by the newly arrived mercenaries; seated in high-backed chairs carved with the crests of their houses, the gathered merchant-lords and conspirators watched with measured satisfaction as Captain Draeven Korst strode forward, his mail and leather creaking with each step, followed by two dozen hardened men-at-arms whose faces bore the scars of campaigns fought far from the gilded safety of court, their eyes cold and unreadable, the sort of men for whom gold was both the means and the end of loyalty.

Brenwick, his rings glinting in the firelight as he drummed his fingers on the armrest, allowed himself the faintest of smiles, the kind reserved for a man who saw the first stones of a grand design being laid into place; beside him, Merchant Halden Rusk leaned forward like a vulture sensing the first stirrings of carrion, his voice low but tinged with that particular greed which no amount of coin could ever sate, remarking how these men were worth every silver weight spent on their recruitment, for their sinews were thick, their weapons sharp, and their resolve not to be shaken by the strange weapons or thunderous beasts of the far-off Aurion.

In the corner, Toric Velmar swirled his goblet, his reckless grin at odds with the gravity of their plotting, speaking of how the maps and whispered accounts from Sir Edric's first visit painted Aurion's land as both isolated and vulnerable, where patrols were diligent but few enough to leave gaps for a swift, daring force to slip through; yet it was Lord Halvar Greystead, who had thus far worn a mask of reluctant distance from the scheme, who now finally leaned into the candlelight, his voice even but firm as he declared that while he still doubted the wisdom of provoking a realm whose machines could fly like falcons and roar like storms, he could not deny the efficiency of Draeven's company and the quiet discipline with which they had assembled, as if the promise of both coin and glory had tempered them into a single blade.

From the far end of the table, the hooded agent shifted silently, unrolling a piece of parchment that detailed the final rendezvous point near the border forests where the company would vanish into the night, their path taking them through hamlets whose folk would ask no questions so long as silver crossed their palms, and onward toward the hidden pass that would lead them, if fortune favored, into the very shadow of Aurion's outposts. The murmurs around the table grew softer but sharper, like knives being drawn across whetstones, for the nobles could almost taste the prize—one of the steel beasts—rolling under their own banners, a weapon to tilt the balance of every negotiation and battlefield in their favor.

Even as the hall filled with the low hum of agreement and the dull thud of goblets meeting wood, none spoke aloud the truth that hung between them: that should the raid fail, the wrath of Aurion would not come as mere reprisal, but as fire and thunder that could scour fields and topple keeps; yet greed and ambition are masters more persuasive than fear, and so, with subtle nods and the signing of one more sealed letter to fund the venture, the conspirators let the night carry their confidence forward, never suspecting that in plotting to steal a machine, they had already set in motion a chain of events that would place Drakensport's very sovereignty in peril.

---

The first week of winter had settled upon Drakensport with a pale, unforgiving light, the sort that bleached color from the sky and wrapped the city streets in a quiet that was less peace than the waiting breath before a storm. It was under this muted sun that the first contingent of the conspirators' plan rolled out from Drachenhalm's eastern gate—not in the gleaming armor and proud banners of war, but beneath the humble guise of trade. Twenty men, their weapons hidden beneath crates of cloth, barrels of salted meat, and casks of cheap wine, led a modest caravan of mule-drawn wagons, their manner unhurried, their eyes lowered in the practiced ease of merchants who had no need to draw attention.

These were the spearhead, the vanguard of deceit, each handpicked for their ability to play a part and, if need be, to kill without hesitation; their wagons bore the royal seal of commerce, forged by deft and dishonest hands, a symbol that would ease their passage through friendly hamlets and border posts without question. Their cover was simple yet effective—they were the first merchant envoys dispatched under the new trade agreement with Aurion, a perfect pretext that not even the most loyal of the king's own guard could easily challenge.

Shadowing them, far enough to avoid suspicion yet close enough to close the distance in hours if called, came the true weight of the scheme: two hundred hardened men, a mix of sellswords lured by gold and veterans whose loyalty lay not with crown nor country but with the coin-purse of their employer. They traveled in loose columns along the frost-hardened road, slipping between the shelter of bare-limbed woods and frozen fields, their gear wrapped in canvas to keep the glint of steel from betraying them to any curious eyes.

The nobles themselves were conspicuously absent, their names erased from the venture as carefully as one might scrape ink from parchment, leaving only their most trusted retainers to oversee the journey. These men rode at the head and tail of the main body, speaking little, their orders clear: protect the vanguard at all costs, follow the route to the letter, and wait for the signal that would bring the full company crashing upon their target once the merchant guise had passed beyond Aurion's first lines of watch.

The wind off the high hills carried the faint chime of harness rings and the muffled thud of boots on hard earth, and though the land seemed empty, more than one among the company felt the prickle of unseen eyes upon them; a sensation quickly swallowed beneath thoughts of silver, glory, and the whispered promise of riding home with one of the steel beasts under their command. They pressed on, the white breath of men and beasts rising like smoke into the cold air, toward a border they believed was under-guarded, never knowing that in the shadow of that same horizon, Aurion's watch had already been awakened.

---

The frost-bitten wind cut across the barren strip of no-man's-land near Outpost Sierra-17, carrying with it the low hum of a Lancer-5 armored personnel carrier as it rolled steadily along the perimeter road. Its olive-drab hull, streaked with winter dust, looked like a moving wall against the pale, icy horizon. Inside, six Aurion soldiers sat in padded seats, weapons slung across their chests, the interior rattling faintly with each bump of the frozen dirt track.

Staff Sergeant Miguel Ramirez sat nearest the side hatch, one gloved hand resting lazily on the sling of his CR-77 rifle, the other holding a small digital tablet that streamed the patrol's route. His eyes moved between the road ahead and the grainy map, occasionally flicking to the gunner's overhead feed.

"Convoy ahead," came the voice of Corporal Leste from the driver's seat, breaking the monotonous hum. "Small wagons. Ten… no, maybe twelve mules. Looks like the trade caravans from Drachenhalm."

Ramirez leaned forward, squinting past the narrow bulletproof viewport. The lead wagon had a painted seal on the tarp—royal commerce, as expected—and the riders waved as if greeting an old friend. He knew the agreement had started bringing in merchant trains, but Sierra-17's orders were absolute: inspect everything.

"All right," Ramirez muttered, tapping the side of his helmet to switch comms. "Sierra-One to Command, we've got an inbound merchant convoy, requesting permission to halt and inspect under trade compliance protocols."

The reply came after a short burst of static. "Copy Sierra-One, proceed with inspection. Maintain civility. Report any prohibited goods immediately."

The APC slowed, brakes hissing, until the great machine loomed beside the first wagon. The soldiers disembarked in a smooth, disciplined motion, boots crunching on the frost. The merchants—faces red from the cold—smiled politely, though more than one set of eyes lingered on the Aurion rifles with quiet unease.

"Morning," Ramirez called, stepping toward the lead wagon, his tone neutral but firm. "Aurion border compliance check. Part of the trade agreement—you know the drill. Weapons, contraband, or restricted materials are not permitted."

One of the supposed merchants, a broad-shouldered man with a wool scarf pulled high over his face, nodded quickly. "Of course, Sergeant. We carry only goods for trade—cloth, wine, and tools. You're welcome to look." His voice was steady, almost too steady, as though rehearsed.

The soldiers moved wagon to wagon, peeling back tarps, poking into barrels, lifting crates. All they found—at least to a cursory glance—were mundane goods. Ramirez knew smugglers could be clever, but nothing here set off alarms. Even so, his eyes narrowed at the way some of the men stood, hands close to their sides as if ready to signal.

"Looks clean," Leste murmured over the squad channel.

Ramirez gave a final look, then signaled the APC. "All right, you're clear to proceed. Safe travels."

The merchants smiled again, offered polite thanks, and began rolling forward toward the distant road that would lead them deeper into Aurion's periphery. The soldiers climbed back into their APC, unaware that this was not the first caravan from Drachenhalm—and that this one carried more than goods in its wake.

---

The wagons creaked forward at a steady pace, the crunch of hooves and wooden wheels fading into the winter air. Behind them, the distant growl of the Aurion APC diminished until it was nothing but a faint rumble swallowed by the snow-covered hills. The supposed merchants kept their eyes forward, expressions calm, but under the cover of thick scarves and gloves, small movements passed between them.

The man who had spoken to Sergeant Ramirez earlier—known among the conspirators as Garrin—waited until they rounded a bend in the frost-hardened road, well out of the patrol's line of sight. Then, without breaking stride or altering his pace, he reached into his coat and pulled out a polished brass tube no longer than his palm. He twisted the end, revealing a narrow slit.

A flick of his thumb produced a glint of mirrored glass inside. He angled it toward the hills to their right, catching the pale morning sun, and sent three sharp flashes of light into the open expanse. To anyone else, it would have been nothing—just stray glare in the snow—but to those watching from a distance, it was the agreed-upon signal.

Somewhere far beyond the ridge, in the shadowed folds of the land where the frost lingered thicker, figures stirred. Hidden in shallow gullies and behind leafless thickets, the rest of the mercenary force—two hundred strong—began to move. Shapes rose from the white ground like phantoms, leading horses, checking harnesses, pulling cloaks tighter against the biting wind.

They had been waiting for this sign since dawn.

One man, his face wrapped in a strip of black cloth, turned to the others and muttered, "The path is clear. The steel beasts are near."

The air was heavy with the stillness before a storm. No banners were raised, no trumpets sounded—only the slow, purposeful advance of an unseen force slipping deeper toward Aurion territory, under the guise of silence.

Somewhere ahead, the road bent toward Outpost Sierra-17, and beyond that, the land where Aurion's machines slept.

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