Chapter 13

  The Foundations of the Resistance

  In a village in the lands of Delirath, inside a private room on the second floor of a discreet establishment, Haralf studied a series of maps spread across a heavy wooden table. Around him lay open documents, notes scribbled in the margins, and markings indicating routes, trade zones, and strategic points.

  The door opened without ceremony. Five members of Reydem entered: Reimon, Emilio, Patrick, and Mia stepped in first; behind them came Captain Sara.

  “Finally, we made it. What a busy day,” Sara said as soon as she crossed the threshold.

  She dropped into a chair without much grace. The others took the remaining seats around the table.

  Sara dragged her chair slightly forward until she was facing Emilio. Without asking permission, she lifted her legs and rested her boots on his thighs.

  “Uff… it’s been an exhausting day.”

  Emilio looked at her with a mix of discomfort and confusion. He didn’t move her legs away, but his expression made it clear he hadn’t expected that gesture.

  “Sorry, Emilio, but I need to rest my feet. I walked more today than a religious pilgrim. If it bothers you, I can move them.”

  She flexed her toes inside her boots, seeking some relief.

  Emilio shook his head, still a bit stiff.

  “No… no problem, boss.”

  Sara nodded casually.

  “Alright.”

  She settled deeper into the chair, letting the weight of her legs rest more confidently on him. Crossing her arms, she let out a tired breath.

  Sara, Captain of Division Roca (35 years old)

  The others remained silent for a few seconds, waiting for her to settle in before returning to the matters that had brought them there.

  Reimon broke the silence.

  “Any news, Haralf?”

  Haralf set one of the maps aside and rested both hands on the table.

  “I’ve received reports from Victor. Everything has gone according to plan. Amarantha managed to infiltrate the palace and has already begun filtering out useful information. Thanks to that, several troops were redirected in the regions of Drafta, which allowed Division Violeta to continue its investigations without direct interference.”

  He paused briefly before continuing.

  “The attacks carried out in Roterfudd also served their purpose. They hit several houses in the region economically and diverted attention toward the immediate commercial losses.”

  Emilio, who was still holding Sara’s feet on his legs, lifted his gaze.

  “Won’t that put us more in Direcrim’s sights?”

  Haralf nodded slightly.

  “It might. However, from the palace we’re still not considered a major threat. What we did destabilized an important trade hub in Drafta, but it wasn’t enough to set off every alarm in Rousth.”

  His tone grew more serious.

  “That doesn’t mean it will stay that way. Even if they don’t see us as the main enemy right now, they know we exist.”

  He straightened a little and pointed to one of the maps.

  “Rousth has concentrated military power in several regions. Some areas are protected by armies formed by multiple houses. Others rely on the direct control each feudal lord holds over his own lands. That constant presence makes our operational movement difficult.”

  He looked at each of them in turn.

  “Our expansion, our reconnaissance incursions, and the investigations carried out by the other divisions—both Violeta and the now-defunct Oro—are limited as long as the lords’ armies continue watching every strategic point in the region.”

  The message was clear.

  As long as Rousth maintained that level of control, Reydem could only move forward from the shadows.

  Emilio frowned before speaking.

  “But if we find a way to operate in secret, without destroying anything, without direct attacks… don’t you think that would keep the whole world from turning against us? I’m just saying maybe we could avoid the conflict.”

  Emilio, Division Roca (28 years old)

  Haralf didn’t interrupt him. He remained silent, watching him from the other side of the table.

  Sara didn’t move her feet from Emilio’s legs. She simply adjusted herself in the chair, letting her weight rest on him as she spoke.

  “Emilio, you’ve proven to be one of the most loyal and intelligent men since the day I met you. You rose quickly among us. You helped Fernando expand our influence in different corners, always working from the shadows.”

  She paused briefly.

  “But you need to understand something. Sitting at this table to make decisions isn’t easy.”

  Emilio held her gaze, her legs still resting on his.

  “You’re wondering why we don’t do nothing. Why we don’t live as if nothing ever happened.”

  Sara’s voice lost all of its earlier lightness.

  “Before you arrived, we lost many men. They were tortured, flogged, crucified by the armies of the kingdom of Rousth.”

  The atmosphere in the room grew heavier.

  “And do you think it was because we attacked a trade center or one of their houses?”

  Emilio lowered his gaze slightly.

  “No…”

  Sara continued without moving her feet.

  “Ever since Reydem came to exist as an organization, the kingdom will not rest until it exterminates us, whether or not we are still the great threat we once were to Rousth.”

  A brief silence followed.

  Then Mia spoke up, her tone more practical.

  Mia, Division Roca (35 years old)

  “We need to keep this organization well managed so it can remain active. That’s our role as members of Division Roca: managing resources, overseeing economic activities, and sustaining the expansion.”

  She crossed her arms.

  “Because all of that funds this war and keeps us alive, whether we like it or not.”

  Patrick, who had remained silent until then, spoke in a more analytical tone.

  “And that’s where Division Zafiro comes in. It diverts attention and keeps the kingdom’s troops occupied. Meanwhile, Division Roca protects and expands territory from the shadows. And Division Violeta, along with the now-defunct Division Oro, continues investigating the supernatural threats that are rotting this world.”

  Patrick, Division Zafiro (38 years old)

  Haralf nodded slightly.

  “In short, Emilio,” he said calmly, “as Hedo Murem used to say, our mission as Reydem is not to win a war against Rousth.”

  He walked toward the window and gestured toward the darkness outside.

  “It’s to survive, one way or another. Long enough to face the real threat.”

  His gaze wasn’t dramatic—it was firm.

  “And that threat isn’t Rousth. It’s those things that are devouring us from the darkness, even if the world prefers to ignore it.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Haralf, Commander of Division Roca (60 years old)

  Emilio lowered his gaze for a moment.

  “I’m sorry… I was just trying to think if there were better options for us. I didn’t mean to offend—”

  Before he could finish the sentence, Sara lifted her foot and brought it down sharply, straight into Emilio’s crotch.

  The impact was blunt.

  Emilio bent forward on instinct, clenching his teeth to keep from crying out. The pain shot up through his abdomen as he struggled to keep his composure in front of the others.

  Sara didn’t remove her foot.

  “Don’t apologize for stupid things,” she said with a smile.

  Some of them let out restrained chuckles. Others laughed openly without even trying to hide it.

  Reimon remained silent.

  The tension faded, but the message had been made clear.

  Haralf broke the silence.

  “Anyway… how did things go for you?”

  Reimon spoke up.

  Reimon, Division Roca (42 years old)

  “We managed to establish more establishments and businesses across several regions in the north. Fernando turned out to be a far more skilled merchant than I expected. He knows how to persuade people, and he knows how to close deals. He surprised me.”

  Haralf nodded.

  “That’s why he’s the one who administers and manages all of our commercial operations in Penteros. Hedo trusts him completely. He’s our man of coin.”

  Mia added in a practical tone:

  “We opened more taverns, smithies, and other establishments. Many of them are under the names of collaborators who have no idea who’s really behind it all. They think they’re working for independent merchants.”

  Haralf stood up and walked to the window. He looked out at the dark village street before speaking.

  “That’s good. The kingdom has no idea we operate from the shadows. Those establishments, lodgings, and workshops spread across different regions don’t just fund us. They also give us presence. Eyes and ears.”

  He turned toward Patrick.

  “I imagine you’ll be leaving tonight.”

  Patrick nodded.

  “Yes. I came because of some matters Martha assigned to me. But I’m glad to hear the expansion went well. I’ll carry good news back to the rest of the organization.”

  He stood up.

  One by one, the others began to rise.

  Haralf was the first to approach and shake his hand firmly.

  “Take care. Give Victor and Martha my regards.”

  Emilio stepped forward as well.

  “Nice meeting you.”

  Mia shook his hand.

  “Stay safe on your way back to Zafiro.”

  Reimon, more reserved, gave him a brief hug.

  “Good luck.”

  Sara was the last. She stepped in front of him and wrapped him in a strong embrace, almost exaggerated.

  “Take care, Patrick.”

  Patrick let out a muffled laugh.

  “Yeah, sure… but let go before I die from not being able to breathe.”

  Some of them smiled.

  Patrick was an intelligence agent under Martha’s command. His role was to connect mission statuses, transport information, and keep the network united between divisions.

  Finally, he left the place.

  Mia adjusted her cloak.

  “I’m heading out too. Take care.”

  Emilio nodded.

  “I’ll go with you.”

  The two of them said their goodbyes to the others before leaving the room.

  Sara sat back down and this time placed her feet directly on the table.

  “I want a drink. Coming, Haralf or Reimon?”

  Reimon shook his head.

  “I’ll pass, Captain.”

  Haralf shook his head as well.

  “I’ll pass this time too.”

  Sara stood up energetically.

  “Well then, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me. Have a wonderful night. This woman is going out to enjoy herself tonight.”

  Haralf looked at her with a half-smile.

  “Don’t drink too much. We leave early tomorrow.”

  Sara was already walking toward the door when she replied without turning around.

  “Don’t worry. If something happens, you can carry me.”

  She laughed as she walked out.

  Haralf shook his head.

  “It’s always the same with her… What was I thinking the day I suggested her as captain?”

  He said it jokingly, though with a hint of resignation.

  Reimon didn’t answer. He was standing by the window, watching Patrick in the distance as he spoke with a few men before leaving.

  Without taking his eyes off him, he asked:

  “Do you think it’s wise to give so much information to the Zafiro agents?”

  Haralf looked at him carefully.

  “Why do you ask? Don’t you trust them?”

  Reimon spoke calmly.

  “It’s not that. But the more they know, the greater the risk for all of us.”

  Haralf crossed his arms.

  “Patrick has been with us for years. Martha and Victor trust him. He’s no longer just an informant. He leads the field espionage network alongside them. He’s the bridge that connects information between divisions.”

  Reimon continued watching him in the distance, silent.

  Haralf stood quietly for a few seconds. Then he closed the bag where he had stored the maps and documents, making sure it was properly secured.

  “On second thought… what do you say we go have a drink? After today, the opening of new establishments and the economic alliances are reason enough to celebrate.”

  He slung the bag over his shoulder.

  Reimon didn’t move.

  “I know we’re achieving all this because we have violet gold mines.”

  He said it bluntly.

  “Where else would all these resources come from?”

  Haralf didn’t answer right away. He simply adjusted his coat.

  “Who knows.”

  Reimon looked at him directly.

  “You know. You just don’t want to say it.”

  Haralf held his gaze a moment longer than usual.

  “You’re right.”

  His voice lowered slightly.

  “But for our own good, that’s highly classified information. And I can’t talk about it.”

  Reimon nodded slowly.

  “I figured. And maybe it’s better that way. The worst thing that could happen is the entire kingdom coming down on us trying to find those mines.”

  Haralf stepped closer and gave him a firm pat on the shoulder.

  “That’s why you’re one of my favorites, Reimon.”

  He headed toward the door.

  “I’m leaving. See you another time.”

  He walked out of the room, leaving Reimon alone, still looking out into the darkness beyond.

  The Changing of Masks

  Amarantha emerged from the tunnels with the damp scent of the underground still clinging to her clothes. She had managed to open the grate without leaving any visible marks and carefully placed it back before resurfacing. Once outside, she blended naturally into the shadows of the lower district. No one paid her any attention.

  She moved through narrow alleyways where mud pooled between uneven stones. She passed beggars, night porters, and hooded figures who avoided direct eye contact. On other occasions, she would have depended on carriages and strict schedules to leave the palace—something that could take hours. This time, the route had been direct. Faster. Cleaner.

  Her first stop was to drop off the manuscripts: brief, precise reports encoded using level-two symbolism. She placed them at the agreed locations without lingering longer than necessary.

  Then she continued through the dark, worn corridors of the lower district. She alternated between silent movement and an appearance of casual normality, depending on the surroundings. She knew when to look invisible and when to look like just another passerby.

  She spotted a patrol of guards making their routine rounds to maintain some semblance of order in the area. They weren’t a direct threat, but their presence could attract unnecessary attention. She slipped deeper into the shadows of the alley, lowering her face slightly beneath the hood. She waited.

  The patrol passed without stopping.

  Once they were gone, she resumed walking.

  She took several hand-drawn maps from her bag. Checking names and references, she located the place she was searching for. She moved through wider streets and then narrower corridors, adjusting her pace as she went.

  Finally, she found the name that matched the manuscript. The establishment was closed: a luxury armor shop with dark display windows and a reinforced door.

  Amarantha didn’t approach right away. She kept a prudent distance, positioning herself in a slightly elevated, dimly lit spot from where she could watch the entrance without being seen.

  She waited.

  An hour passed.

  The street remained almost motionless, occasionally crossed by a solitary figure. Then she saw a hooded man arrive. He walked without haste, but with clear purpose. He glanced briefly to both sides before opening the shop door and entering.

  Amarantha did not move.

  Minutes later, more men began to arrive, also hooded. They didn’t speak to one another outside. They entered one by one, as if the meeting had already been arranged.

  She descended from her vantage point and moved closer, just enough to reduce the distance without exposing herself. During the next hour, she changed positions twice to avoid drawing attention.

  Nearly two more hours passed.

  Finally, the door opened.

  Several men stepped out together. Among them, Amarantha clearly recognized one when a side light illuminated his face.

  He was a lord of the palace.

  Not just any lord.

  She had seen him before in meetings and along the inner corridors.

  The man spoke briefly with the hooded figures. They exchanged quiet words and short gestures. Then they parted ways.

  The lord began to walk.

  Amarantha followed at a distance, matching his pace without making it obvious. When he turned a corner, she waited a few seconds before doing the same. When he slowed down, she pretended to check something or shifted direction.

  On a wider street, a carriage of status appeared. The lord didn’t hesitate. He stepped inside, and the door closed.

  The carriage departed.

  From a distance, Amarantha studied the emblem engraved on one of the side panels. She recognized the symbol of a noble house that operated within the palace. She had seen that same emblem before in the inner gardens.

  She didn’t need anything more to assume the destination.

  She took out a small document and recorded what she could remember of the symbol, the carriage’s structure, and the visible details. She didn’t write much. Only what was necessary.

  She put the document away.

  Then she withdrew carefully, taking different routes from the ones she had used to arrive.

  She crossed narrower passages until reaching a specific point in the lower district. There, among damp walls and thick shadows, stood a large refuse area. The crates were stacked in a particular way, with bags placed strategically on top.

  She recognized it immediately.

  She approached without hurry. Pretending to sift through the waste, she slipped between the crates. Placing her foot on an uneven edge of the wall, she climbed carefully. At the top, on the other side where there was no direct visibility from the street, she found what she was looking for.

  A bag tied to a rusted nail driven into the stone.

  She untied it quickly, checked the weight with one hand, and climbed back down.

  She didn’t look back.

  Taking the bag, she left.

  She returned by different routes from the ones she had used earlier. In some stretches she moved with absolute stealth. In others, she walked normally, just another figure of the lower district.

  When she reached the tunnel entrance, she checked the surroundings one last time before slipping inside. She closed the iron grate she had loosened earlier, adjusting it carefully so it would appear untouched.

  She crossed the damp conduits again until reaching the access point within the palace. Emerging was easier than leaving had been.

  She headed toward the common washroom without drawing suspicion. No one paid her any attention. She removed the outer cloak and quickly washed herself, scrubbing her arms, neck, and hands until the smell of the underground was gone. The water carried away the traces of the lower district.

  Then she dressed again as a servant—though only halfway: her arms still uncovered, her hair damp and slightly disheveled from the bath, and a basket in her hands filled with what appeared to be dirty laundry.

  She walked through the inner corridors with the proper posture, without hurrying. When she reached her room, she closed the door carefully.

  She knelt beside the slatted floor. Lifting a loose board, she pulled out several documents hidden beneath it and spread them across the bed.

  As she picked up the manuscript where the name of the shop was written, a memory stirred in her mind.

  She saw herself standing at the edge of a hall, positioned like a cloth-maid servant, waiting for instructions yet invisible to them.

  “So you’re telling me the place where they meet is the blacksmith’s shop on 6383 Street, in the lower district.”

  “Yes. I was invited. They say some investigators from the lower district gather there. Supposedly they sell information that might be interesting.”

  “I’ll let you know how things go with what we discussed.”

  Another lord replied with an ambitious tone.

  “If we find those violet gold mines, we could earn the approval of House Susaku. Can you imagine?”

  The image faded.

  Amarantha returned to the present, standing in her room.

  “I need to investigate that network of secret investigators.”

  She reviewed other documents: reports Victor had sent her, internal palace notes, details she had quietly gathered.

  The memory returned.

  “Apparently they meet there every seven days. I’ll go on the next visit to close some kind of deal.”

  “Keep me informed. All of this works in our favor.”

  The sound of glasses clinking dissolved, and the silence of the room returned.

  Amarantha slid the papers back beneath the floor. Then she retrieved the bag she had hidden inside a container meant for laundry.

  She opened it.

  She took out knives, fine needles, a thin but durable chain, and several other tools.

  And finally, a different mask.

  Black.

  It covered the entire face. Only openings for the eyes and nose.

  There was no mouth.

  She held it in her hand for a few seconds.

  She looked at it without expression and said:

  “It’s time for the next step.”