The City of Lowden stirred with the hum of barter and bootsteps long before the sun
had fully risen. Narrow cobblestone streets wound between timber-and-stone buildings—some rising two stories, others stretching to three—with their upper floors jutting slightly over the lanes like watchful brows. Smoke curled from chimney stacks, carrying with it the scent of roasted grain and spiced meat from early tavern kitchens.
Merchants called out from awning-shaded stalls, their voices mixing with the clatter of wagons and the jingle of coin. Caravans from the far reaches of the continent filled the main square, their wagons heavy with spices, tools, and shimmering fabrics gathered from distant lands. Mercenaries in half-polished armor and worn leather coats leaned against doorways, their hands never far from the hilts of their blades as they watched potential employers pass.
Lowden was one of the largest cities in the Empire—a place where merchants, mercenaries, craftsmen, scholars, and countless other professions converged in search of coin and opportunity. The air was mild—neither damp nor arid—but carried a faint tang of iron and oak, the scent of a place that thrived on work and wanderers. Every corner had an inn, and every inn had a story, told between clinks of mugs and laughter that hid more truth than words ever could.
"Fresh bread! Still warm from the ovens—two copper a loaf, and you'll not find softer crusts in all of Lowden!"
"Silver trinkets and fine glass! Forged in the north, polished by hand—five silver for a pair, three if you've the charm to bargain!"
"Spiced wine from Kar'dunn! A sip to wake your bones—one silver the cup, or a bottle for six!"
"Leather satchels, sturdy as a mule's back! One silver and a half—keep your gold safe, traveler!"
"Salt and spices! Straight from the southern ports—three copper a pouch, or five for the red pepper!"
The town was full of sound—the voices of merchants rising and falling in practiced rhythm, mingling with the chatter and laughter spilling from tavern doors.
Through the flow of bodies moving along the roads, a man with brown hair and steady brown eyes walked with measured calm, a dark cloak wrapped around his shoulders. He guided his horse beside him, its hooves tapping lightly against the cobblestones. His gaze moved constantly, taking in the stalls, the faces, the layout of the streets — every detail that might matter.
It was Kaisel, disguised as the knight from the storybook his sister read. It took Kaisel four long days to get to the Lowden city from Ravengard Duchy.
Kaisel hadn't come to this sprawling city just to wander its crowded streets—he had a purpose. A city this large, buzzing with merchants, mercenaries, travelers, and beggars, was a natural nest for secrets. If information existed anywhere, it would surface here.
He was hunting the assassins who had taken his mother's life, and through them, the shadowy hand that commanded her death. But knowing what he sought didn't mean knowing where to begin. Information had its own currents, and diving into the wrong one could drown him instantly.
Sure, for ordinary news—the state of the roads, rumors about nobles, or market gossip—one or two silver coins would open mouths easily. But asking strangers about assassins? About killings? That was the sort of question that drew eyes, suspicion… or a blade in the back. In a city like this, the wrong inquiry could make him the next target.
But for Kaisel, there was at least one advantage—Arthur had given him a few hints, subtle directions on where information flowed more freely and where questions didn't immediately invite trouble. It wasn't much, but it was enough to give him a starting point in this maze of stone and shadows.
Kaisel slipped away from the crowded main road and stepped into a narrow, shadow-soaked alley where crooked stalls and makeshift huts sold cheap knives and other questionable wares. The place was nearly deserted—only a few drunkards collapsed against the walls and scattered beggars wrapped in rags.
He walked toward one of them: an elderly man hunched beneath a filthy, threadbare cloth, clutching a stained wooden bowl that held only a few dull coins.
Kaisel dropped a silver coin into the bowl. The faint clink sounded louder than it should have. He spoke quietly, almost swallowed by the darkness.
"I need information."
The beggar's face lifted. His features were buried under layers of grime, his tangled white hair turned grey by dirt. For a moment, caution flickered in his clouded eyes. He snatched the silver coin and hid it beneath his rags as if afraid the alley itself might steal it.
When he finally spoke, his voice was rough and thin.
"…What kind of information do you want?".
The beggars found in these alleyways weren't ordinary beggars asking for spare coins. Most of them were informants who made their living selling information. They had connections to the black market and to what people commonly referred to as the Underworld.
The Underworld wasn't an official group or an organized faction. It was simply a term used by common people to describe the dangerous side of society—criminals, smugglers, kidnappers, slave traders, illegal auction groups, and other similar forces.
Because of their contacts and the way they blended into the streets, these "beggars" could gather information more easily than most. They also had their own small circles and guilds where they shared what they learned. One of their biggest advantages was that they kept all dealings confidential, never revealing who bought what information. In places like this alley, they were reliable sources for anyone seeking news or secrets.
Kaisel asked with an unchanged expression, "Do you know of any assassin organizations that operate in groups?"
The old man glanced at him again, this time with deeper caution. He stayed silent for a few seconds before replying in a hoarse voice, "…Information like that costs more."
Kaisel didn't argue. He flicked five more silver coins into the wooden plate. In truth, giving a gold coin wouldn't have bothered him, but taking out something that valuable here would attract the wrong kind of attention.
"There are two groups like that," the old man finally said. "Ashen Hounds and Black Thorn. The Ashen Hounds can be contacted through the black market. As for Black Thorn… not much is known about them. Anything else similar usually belongs to nobles—they hire their own people for their dirty work."
Kaisel nodded. He tossed in three more coins and continued asking several other questions.
.....
Kaisel made his way back to the wider streets, letting the noise of merchants, carriages, and footsteps swallow him again. The brief detour into the alley had given him a few answers, though not as many as he hoped for. From the old beggar, he had inquired about the black market and the current state of the empire's politics and noble families.
He didn't obtain anything major, but what he did get was still useful.
For one, he now knew several points of contact—places where he could enter the black market if he approached the right individual. The routes weren't fixed; they changed often, but having a few leads was enough for now. He also learned of a recent piece of gossip: the Duke of the Veldrath Household was heading toward the Forbidden Lands. No one seemed to know the reason behind the journey. The rest of the information was trivial and didn't offer much insight.
As for the assassin groups, he intentionally avoided digging deeper. Asking too many questions could raise suspicion. Everyone knew that the Ravengard Duchess had been killed by a group of assassins. If he pushed the topic, the beggar might start connecting things he shouldn't.
For the moment, Kaisel had something else to handle—creating a proper fake identity that matched the face he currently wore. Registering as a mercenary was the simplest method. Mercenary guilds didn't demand strict records; a name and a place of origin were usually enough. Since commoners had no formal documents like nobles, he could easily claim he was from a remote village. It would be believable and uncomplicated.
Once he reached a quieter area with fewer people moving around, someone brushed past him from the side. The movement was subtle, but Kaisel felt a faint tug at his hip. Without hesitating, he caught the person's wrist.
"Stealing from others isn't a good thing," he said in a low voice.
"Eh?!"
Kaisel blinked in surprise. The wrist he held was thin, the skin small and soft. The would-be thief was just a child—barely six or eight years old—looking up at him with wide, startled eyes.
To be continued.