The Grand Duke's Son Is A Heretic

The group reached a small, inconspicuous inn near the docks. The building, dusty and dark, bore signs of disrepair—planks stacked against the side, cobwebs in the corners, and a faded sign barely holding on to its hinges.

Though it appeared abandoned, there was a quiet tension in the air that told otherwise.

Martina led the way, her boots silent on the wooden bridge leading to the inn's rear. She pulled out a silver, metallic mask from her cloak and placed it over her face. The mask clinked softly, locking in place, its design sleek and smooth with only thin slits for the eyes.

The rest of the team followed suit, each pulling out their own mask—custom fit, concealing their identities with efficiency.

"Remember," Martina said, her voice muffled slightly through the mask, "don't let anyone see your face. If you're recognized… this mission could turn very brutal."

Sol scoffed, confident as ever. "For real? You all act like we aren't ghosts in the night."

Freya smacked him on the back of the head. "Then act like one."

Quiet now, they crept through the side alley, slipping into the pre-identified blind spot between rotating patrols. Moonlight glinted faintly on metal helmets of guards in the distance. Just as they approached a hidden path carved between the crates and stone walls, a knight stepped out from the shadows.

Martina stepped forward calmly, her hand subtly resting on the hilt of her concealed blade.

"Are you the team sent by Her Highness?" the man asked, voice low and cautious.

"Yes," Martina answered flatly, her voice modulated to stay unrecognizable.

The knight gave a slow nod. "The patrols have increased tonight. Inside, the guards are swarming. You'll need to be on high alert. I can only let you through—what happens next is your burden."

Martina gave a curt nod in return. No further words were exchanged. The knight tapped on a loose brick in the wall behind him. A moment later, a small section of the stone wall creaked open—just wide enough for a person to squeeze through.

"Go now," the knight muttered.

One by one, the group passed through the narrow gap, entering a dark corridor that curved beneath the port. The path was tight, lit faintly by flickering torches embedded in the walls at uneven intervals. Moss clung to the stone, and a constant trickle of water echoed faintly beneath their boots.

Their journey through the hidden passage was silent, yet tense. As they approached an iron grate near the end, Martina raised a hand to stop them. She crouched and listened. No footsteps above. She signaled, and Adonis pulled the release latch, pushing open the grate silently.

The group emerged beneath a stack of tarps beside towering cargo boxes, their entrance perfectly hidden from patrolling eyes.

Kael looked around, his nerves buzzing. He whispered, "Is this safe? Can we really trust this?"

His words sliced through the stillness like a dagger. Everyone froze for a second.

Martina didn't turn, but her voice was clear. "No."

Sol gave a short squeak. "W-what?"

Herion and Adonis, without a word, both gave him a synchronized smack to the back of the head.

Martina continued without humor. "No one can be trusted, not in this kind of game. Even if it's revealed I made the arrangement—it doesn't matter. What matters is that we cannot be caught. If it comes to that—if it all goes south—you must escape. Leave me if necessary. I trust you all remember the escape route."

Every head gave a solemn nod.

They moved through the last of the narrow lanes until they reached a secluded watchpost—an elevated wooden shack half-collapsed but stable enough to hold them. There, they waited, crouched in silence.

"Should we move now?"Linda asked.

"No!"Martina narrowed her eyes.

"Let's first oversee. After people are clear and shipment arrived we will sneak in."

Then… a soft, low whistle echoed in the night.

Herion, already half out the window, responded instantly. He raised his telescope and focused on the port.

A ship emerged from the thick fog—its hull blackened from age, a hybrid of sail and steam, its tall chimney puffing quiet trails of smoke into the night sky. Its movement was slow, deliberate. As it docked, seven squads of soldiers emerged from nearby barracks, rushing out in perfect order. They wore red coats and crisp white trousers, forming two flanking lines by the dock with rifles at their sides, their formation disciplined and tense.

A gangway lowered with a thud, and people began disembarking.

First came sailors—burly, grizzled men carrying heavy wooden crates, the kind used to hold cargo of importance.

Then came someone different.

A young man stepped out, his posture stiff, dressed in a major's uniform that glimmered faintly under the lantern light. In his gloved hands, he carried a small crystal casket, sealed and glowing faintly with a pale blue hue.

Around him, crew members held up lanterns to spotlight the casket—deliberate, purposeful. Whatever was inside, it was meant to be seen.

Kael's breath caught as he watched.

"What is that…" he whispered.

Martina's eyes narrowed behind her mask, her voice cold and quiet.

"That," she said, "is what we came for."

He is from Nightstar, right?" Sol muttered with uncharacteristic seriousness, eyes fixed on the man carrying the crystal casket.

Kael frowned. "How do you know?"

"Even without insignia, his face gives it away. That high-ridged nose, pale complexion, and sharp features—they're common among the Nightstar elite," Sol said, surprisingly sharp.

"Don't listen to this idiot," Adonis scoffed, folding his arms as he stared straight ahead.

"We're not certain," Herion added calmly, though his tone hinted at something left unsaid.

Kael narrowed his eyes. Their reactions, the way they brushed past the subject, didn't feel right. They knew more. Did the Princess plant a spy among the Nightstar ranks? Or did these men have other sources? Either way, it wasn't information that should've come lightly.

He was still thinking when Sol suddenly stiffened and pointed forward. "Who is she?"

Everyone turned their attention to the figure descending from the ship.

And then from afar,a woman emerged, dressed in a black evening gown that shimmered subtly under the lantern light. Her face was covered by a thin silk veil, mysterious and elegant. She moved slowly, each step poised and graceful. Around her, six armored guards walked in tight formation.

Martina's brows furrowed deeply. "There's nothing in the briefing about a woman of this rank…"

"From the escort, she must be someone important," Adonis said, but his voice faltered midway.

Before he could finish, a sudden chill ran down everyone's spine.

Adonis's words froze on his lips. Herion instinctively took a step back. Even the usually boisterous Sol held his breath.

All eyes turned—without a word—to Kael.

Something was off.

From Kael's body radiated a dense, almost suffocating killing intent. Though his metallic mask covered his face, the others felt a twisted smile hiding beneath it, cruel and cold like a blade dipped in blood.

His voice came, sharp and distant—like it didn't belong to him.

"Well… What a coincidence…"

It wasn't loud, but it echoed within them, as though spoken right beside their ears.

The atmosphere cracked like glass under pressure.

No one dared speak.

Even Martina, composed and controlled, felt the weight in her chest. She stared at Kael, but couldn't read him.

The mysterious woman continued walking, unaware—or perhaps uncaring—of the storm she had stirred in the shadows.

And Kael… he remained frozen, eyes fixed on her, as if he'd just seen a ghost.