Chapter 128: Asherian Viscounty [2]

A rich, hearty laugh bubbled up from Craig’s throat, breaking the heavy tension at the checkpoint.

He did not take the slightest offense at the sentry’s cautious demand; rather, his easygoing demeanor remained entirely unshakeable.

He understood the precarious, volatile climate gripping the Asherian Viscounty all too well.

Before arriving at these imposing gates, Craig had utilized the hours following the midnight ambush to dispatch scouting queries and gather intelligence from the neighboring border villages.

Through discreet inquiries, he had uncovered the exact catalyst driving the viscounty’s heightened paranoia: just a week prior, a devastating hit had struck the ruling elite when Vickor Kartrina.

The eldest son and primary heir of Viscount Mysar Kartrina—was brutally assassinated within his own secure bedchamber.

The whispers across the frontier pointed directly to the shadow syndicate, the Black Winter.

Viscount Mysar Kartrina was not an ally; in the complex chessboard of regional politics, he stood as a loyal vassal to Craig’s second eldest brother, one of his primary rivals in the impending Succession War.

Consequently, Craig felt not a shred of grief or personal loss over Vickor’s untimely demise. Why should he mourn the son of an adversary?

Yet, while he felt no pity for the Kartrina family, his hatred for the Black Winter remained absolute.

They had dared to treat him as common prey, dispatching a disposable cavalry squad to intercept his mountain passage under the arrogant assumption that he was merely an isolated, unprotected noble.

By now, looking back at the mangled corpses left bleeding in the mud of the Opark Mountain range, those syndicate bastards would undoubtedly realize what a catastrophic, fatal miscalculation they had made.

While Craig quietly weighed these thoughts, one of the sentries turned sharply and marched through the iron gateway, disappearing into the internal guardhouse.

A few tense minutes ticked by before the heavy wooden door creaked open again.

The sentry returned, flanked closely by an armed squad of elite security enforcers clad in reinforced plate mail, their hands resting menacingly on the hilts of their sidearms.

The squad fanned out instantly, forming a tight, aggressive perimeter that completely surrounded Craig’s small party.

Yet, despite being boxed in by hostile, suspicious guards, Craig, Ser Hughway, Ser Damian, and Annie remained entirely calm, their peaceful postures radiating an unbothered, sovereign confidence that unnerved the local enforcers.

Because of bureaucratic delays and the sluggish tardiness of the viscounty’s migration officer, who took his sweet time wandering down from the inner keep to facilitate their processing, the mandatory screening procedure dragged on for a agonizing full hour.

Every pack was unbuckled, every identity document scrutinized under harsh sunlight.

In the end, to expedite their clearance and avoid unnecessary friction, Craig nonchalantly reached into his pouch and paid the steep processing bribe of one hundred silver coins.

Satisfied by the heavy coin, the migration officer stamped their temporary travel permits with a heavy thud, finally granting the merchant delegation official entry into Makari Town—the sprawling, heavily fortified capital of the Asherian Viscounty.

Passing through the massive inner gates, the party found themselves immersed in the vibrant, chaotic pulse of the capital.

Makari Town was a masterclass in bustling frontier commerce.

Just like every other busy day, the grand central marketplace was an absolute labyrinth of life.

Merchants shouted hoarse prices over stacks of exotic goods, farmers unloaded wagons bursting with fresh foodstuffs, and scurrying buyers bargained aggressively for textiles and spices.

It was a remarkably peaceful, lively town on the surface, entirely divorced from the dark political paranoia gripping the noble estate, with children laughing and playing tag as they darted cheerfully through the crowded, cobblestone streets.

As their four war stallions trotted at a measured pace down the wide thoroughfare, Ser Hughway leaned slightly toward his master, keeping his voice down to an almost imperceptible murmur.

"My Lord," Hughway reported quietly, his eyes fixed straight ahead. "We are being tailed. Two individuals—likely plainclothes intelligence operatives working for the viscounty guard—picked up our trail three blocks back. They are maintaining a fifty-meter distance."

Craig did not turn his head.

A faint, knowing smile touched the corners of his lips as he adjusted his reigns.

"Let them watch," Craig replied smoothly, his voice calm. "It would be profoundly strange if we weren’t being followed. The security apparatus in the Asherian Viscounty is currently tighter than a coiled spring.

Given that their lord’s heir was brutally murdered only a week ago, Viscount Mysar is glaring at every passing shadow with bloodshot eyes."

Craig shifted his gaze slightly, casting a warning look toward his companions.

"Remember why we are here, everyone. We are merely a peaceful merchant delegation passing through to secure maritime transport to the Northern Continent.

While we are in Makari Town preparing to head straight for the coastal seaport, we must not do anything foolish that might trigger the wrath of the local lord.

I am operating strictly undercover; exposing my true identity in a town governed by my second elder brother’s vassal would invite an unnecessary avalanche of trouble."

Both Ser Hughway and Ser Damian dipped their heads in synchronized, silent acknowledgment of the warning.

Meanwhile, Annie Blacksun was taking in the sights with wide, enchanted eyes.

Peeking out from beneath the shadow of her dark hood, a soft, genuine smile graced her pale face.

It had been quite a while since she had last visited the bustling capital of the Asherian Viscounty, and she genuinely admired the lively, vibrant architecture and colorful market stalls.

However, she knew the gravity of their mission; she would never act against the explicit will of her beloved brother and her master.

After navigating another winding avenue lined with timber-framed inns and bustling merchant houses, they arrived at the grand entrance of the Golden Anchor Inn, a reputable, well-secured lodging establishment situated near the western trade district.

Craig reined in his stallion, bringing the party to a halt. He turned his attention toward the younger knight.

"Damian," Craig instructed smoothly, sliding his foot out of the stirrup and dismounting gracefully onto the cobblestones.

"Go inside and secure accommodations for us. We will be staying in Makari Town for exactly two days while I finalize the purchase of our maritime traveling tickets at the port registry. Rent two private rooms."

"Understood, My Lord," Ser Damian replied crisply.

Damian swung his leg over his saddle, dismounting with fluid athletic precision.

He stepped past the heavy oak doors, disappearing into the warm, bustling interior of the inn.

True to his efficient nature, exactly thirty minutes later, Ser Damian reappeared in the doorway.

He walked briskly down the wooden steps toward his liege, holding up two polished bronze keys attached to small wooden tags.

"The arrangements are complete, My Lord," Damian reported, his voice low and steady. "I have secured two private, high-tier rooms on the second floor. The rate is one hundred bronze coins per room, plus an additional fifty bronze coins per night for stable upkeep and feed for our horses."

Craig nodded approvingly, stepping forward to accept one of the heavy bronze keys from Damian’s outstretched palm.

"Excellent work," Craig praised. He tossed the key lightly in his hand before organizing the lodging arrangements.

"Here is how we will divide the quarters: Annie will share a room with you, Damian, ensuring she has a secure, private space to rest and meditate on her mana pathways. As for the second room, Ser Hughway will stay with me."