Kaelor and his companions departed from the capital as the sun was still low on the horizon, their horses thundering across the frozen roads with tireless urgency. The four soldiers he'd handpicked from his command were experts in both blade and silence, each understanding the gravity of the mission ahead. They rode hard, barely stopping, the wind biting against their cloaks, but none of them complained—not once. They knew this was not just another journey. This was about truth. And consequences.
As the distant outlines of Campnou came into view—its crooked rooftops and mist-veiled alleyways—something shifted. The air felt heavier. Watchful. Paranoid.
The streets were quieter than expected. Faces peered from behind half-closed shutters and shadowed doorways. One of the soldiers edged his horse closer to Kaelor's and leaned in, voice low but edged with unease.
"They are watching us… All of their eyes are on us."
Kaelor's expression remained unreadable beneath the shadow of his cloak, but his tone held a sharp bite of sarcasm. "Don't think it. Behave like you're not staying here.... but ironically, it's an inn." His smile was fleeting, humor buried in tension. "But be on your guard."
The group dismounted in silence and tied their horses to the wooden rails outside the inn. The stable keeper, a scrawny man with soot-stained hands, hesitated before approaching. Kaelor flipped a silver coin toward him without a word. The man caught it and quickly stepped back, nodding with forced politeness. The tension in the air was unmistakable.
Inside the inn, the atmosphere was suffocating. The scent of expensive wine clung to the air, and cigar smoke coiled lazily toward the rafters. The crowd here was not the rugged, ragged group Kaelor had seen during his last visit. No—this time, the room was filled with well-dressed men in silks and furs, their jewelry glinting like small daggers under candlelight. But their eyes… they were just as dangerous.
The moment Kaelor and his men stepped inside, conversations faltered. Heads turned. And beneath the polite smiles, Kaelor could feel it—hostility simmering like oil over flame.
Behind the polished wooden counter stood the inn's manager, a stout man with slicked-back hair and the kind of smile that tried too hard. He greeted them with rehearsed civility.
"Greetings, sirs. How may I help you? What type of room are you looking for?"
Kaelor didn't answer immediately. He stepped forward, letting the silence stretch as he approached the counter. Then he tilted his cloak just enough to reveal the silver crest of House Vale glinting faintly in the dim light.
"Not staying that long. Remember me, do you?"
The manager blinked, his rehearsed smile faltering. "I… I'm deeply sorry, but it's hard to remember so many faces…"
Kaelor let out a quiet chuckle and adjusted his cloak a bit more, the sigil now plainly visible. His eyes were cold, but his voice remained eerily calm.
"This might help you," he said.
The manager's eyes locked onto the crest. His face tightened, his throat bobbing in a nervous swallow. Kaelor watched him closely—the way his fingers twitched ever so slightly beneath the desk.
"Oh, don't be so nervous," Kaelor added, stepping closer with a sinister calmness. "I'm just another customer who knows your secrets. You're so nice to keep slaves in your inn… so considerate of you."
That hit the mark. The manager stiffened, and Kaelor's gaze flicked down—subtle, but not missing a thing.
"I'm here not as your enemy, just like I said," Kaelor continued, voice lower now, smoother, like poison sliding into a cup. "I'm just an another customer. Ask for your other service.don't be so hasty and do what you are not suppose to, You think I don't see you hiding that knife under the desk?"
All across the room, the air crackled with tension. Several of the well-dressed men shifted in their seats, hands lingering near belts and cloaks.
"I'm here to talk business," Kaelor said, the corners of his lips curling into a cold, almost mocking smile. "You have nothing else rather than to accept. By killing us, you'll make yourself the most powerful enemy. Understand?"
He leaned in slightly, voice almost a whisper now, calm yet threatening.
"So can we talk somewhere private?"
The manager led Kaelor and his men through winding wooden corridors, lit with golden chandeliers and perfumed with expensive incense. He was all charm and courtesy, walking with the grace of a seasoned host. They climbed to the uppermost floor of the inn, past velvet-draped doors and silent guards pretending to be decoration.
He stopped in front of an ornate double door, unlocked it with a silver key, and gestured inward with a small bow. "Make yourself comfortable, sirs."
The room was luxurious—almost too much. Velvet curtains muffled the city noise, and the golden embroidery on the upholstery shimmered in the low light. Kaelor strolled in without a word, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. He settled on a lavish sofa with calculated ease, surveying the room.
"Is this room always available?" he asked coolly, "or one of your most... busy rooms?"
The manager's smile thinned. "This room is not for customers."
Just like that, the mask of hospitality slipped. The warmth vanished from his expression like mist from a mirror. What remained was something cold, sharp, calculating. He sat opposite Kaelor, now eyeing him like a man across a chessboard.
Behind Kaelor, his four men stood silent and still—alert, hands near their hilts, eyes like hunting hawks.
"So," the manager said, folding his hands, "what do you want?"
Kaelor leaned forward just slightly, the flicker of firelight catching in his eyes. "I know you smuggle slaves from the Westeroses Isles. I'm looking to acquire them."
The manager chuckled darkly. "You know that's illegal, right? Or have you decided to go bad all of a sudden, Kaelor—the General Commander of War?"
Kaelor smiled, not denying it. "So you do know me."
"How could I not?" the man replied with a shrug. "The most dangerous man in the Western Empire, walking into my inn. I just didn't want to scare the people downstairs, you know. They're all involved in... sad little businesses."
Without a word, Kaelor reached into his cloak and slid a sealed parchment across the table. The wax bore the emblem of House Vale.
The manager's eyes flicked down. His smile faded further as he broke the seal and scanned the document. A Royal Decree.
"I'm just working on orders," Kaelor said.
The manager sighed, folding the parchment with care. "So you all want to revive an old culture of your ancestors, is that it?"
Kaelor narrowed his eyes. "Don't enjoy yourself. I want you to give me five thousand warrior slaves. Under four days."
The manager's brows lifted in disbelief. "That's impossible," he said flatly.
"Two hundred gold coins," Kaelor replied, his voice without emotion.
The man scoffed, waving the offer away. "That's impossible, no matter what money you offer."
"Five hundred," Kaelor said, his tone not rising, but sharpening.
The manager flinched—visibly this time. A bead of sweat formed at his temple. "But—"
"Seven hundred."
Silence. The man bit his lip, then nodded slowly. "You've got yourself a deal," he said, extending a hand across the table. "Let's shake on it."
Kaelor took his hand—but did not shake. Instead, he pulled him forward in a single fluid motion, their faces inches apart.
His voice dropped to a cold whisper. "If you fail, or if this deal's information leaks outside this room… you will no longer have any existence in this world. You will not be left with a future… and even less with a past."
The manager froze. He was sweating now, his lips slightly parted, panic dancing behind his eyes.
"I would never," he whispered. "As I said… I know who you are, General Kaelor."
Kaelor released him, brushing his cloak aside as he stood.
"Good," he said. "Then we understand each other."