48 - Infiltrate
Far to the south of the Empire—
Where the air grew warmer and the winds carried the scent of dust and iron. A worn carriage creaked slowly along a rugged road.
Its wooden wheels groaned with every turn. The horses pulling it were sturdy, but clearly overworked. Their pace was slow, deliberate, unremarkable. Just like the man holding the reins.
He was… unimpressive. Plump. Round-faced. With slightly sagging cheeks and a faint double chin.
His clothes were those of a traveling coachman—simple, faded, and dust-stained from long journeys. A straw hat rested low over his face, casting a shadow over his eyes.
At first glance, he looked like nothing more than a middle-aged man who had spent too many years eating roadside meals and too little time exercising.
Completely forgettable. Exactly as intended. Because beneath that disguise was Crown Prince Zafiel Abaddon Morrigan von Clematis.
---
Ahead, the gates of a town came into view. Stone walls. Weathered. Guard towers manned by knights.
Banners bearing the insignia of the ruling lord fluttered lazily in the dry wind. The County of Libera. The first fief under investigation. Zafiel’s gaze flickered upward beneath the brim of his hat.
So this is where it begins.
The carriage rolled forward. Two knights stood guard at the entrance. Their armor was… poorly maintained. Scratched. Unpolished.
One of them was leaning lazily against his spear. The other was chewing something. Zafiel noted it immediately. Undisciplined. The carriage came to a halt.
“Oi.” One of the knights stepped forward. “State your business.”
Zafiel scratched his cheek lazily. His voice came out slow and slightly rough. “Just a coachman passin’ through, sir.” He gave a small, awkward chuckle. “Been on the road for weeks. Thought I’d rest the horses here a bit.”
The knight eyed him suspiciously. “Where from?”
Zafiel shrugged. “Bit of everywhere.”
He gestured vaguely behind him. “Came down from the northern trade routes. Carried some goods before, but now I’m just lookin’ for work.”
The knight frowned. “Work?”
“Yeah.” Zafiel leaned forward slightly. “Got a strong back. Can drive, haul, fix wheels. Not much else, though.”
The second knight snorted. “Another drifter.”
Zafiel laughed awkwardly. “Yeah, yeah. That’s me.”
The first knight waved a hand dismissively. “Fine. Pay the entry tax.”
Zafiel blinked. “Entry tax?”
“Three silver.”
Zafiel’s brows lifted slightly beneath the hat.
Three silver? For entry?
He scratched his head. “Bit steep, ain’t it?”
The knight’s expression hardened. “You complaining?”
Zafiel immediately shook his head. “No, no.” He reached into his pouch and handed over the coins. “Just surprised, is all.”
The knight snatched the money without another word and stepped aside. “Move along.”
Zafiel flicked the reins lightly. The carriage rolled forward. As he passed through the gates, his lips curved into a faint smirk.
Three silver for entry? Interesting.
---
Inside the county—
The streets were… tense. Bustling, yes. But not lively. Merchants called out their goods. People moved about. Yet beneath it all, there was unease.
Zafiel guided the carriage slowly through the main road, his eyes observing everything without seeming to look at anything. Shops. Stalls. Guards. Too many guards. And they were not behaving like protectors.
They loitered. They barked orders. One of them shoved a merchant aside for being “too slow.” Zafiel’s gaze darkened briefly. Then returned to dull indifference.
Unruly.
A group of knights passed by. Laughing loudly. One of them carried a pouch that jingled heavily with coins. Another was boasting. “Collected twice the usual this week!”
“Ha! These idiots will pay anything if you scare ‘em enough!”
Zafiel’s fingers tightened slightly around the reins. Then relaxed.
So that’s how it is.
He guided the carriage toward a quieter corner of the town. Eventually, he stopped near a modest roadside stall. An elderly woman was selling bread.
Zafiel climbed down slowly, stretching his back exaggeratedly. “Ahh… finally.” He approached the stall. “Morning, ma’am.”
The old woman looked up. “Morning.”
Zafiel picked up a loaf. “How much?”
“Two copper.”
He handed over the coins and took a bite. Then he spoke casually. “Busy town.”
The woman snorted. “Busy takin’ our money, more like.”
Zafiel tilted his head. “Oh?”
She leaned closer slightly. “Taxes keep goin’ up.”
Zafiel frowned. “Taxes?”
“Mm.” She gestured vaguely toward the street. “Entry fees, market fees, road fees… they even started collectin’ ‘security contributions.’”
Zafiel chuckled lightly. “Sounds like they’re workin’ hard.”
The woman gave him a flat look. “Workin’ hard to bleed us dry.”
Zafiel scratched his chin. “Where’s all that coin goin’?”
The woman lowered her voice. “… not to us.”
Zafiel took another bite of bread. “Military, then?”
She hesitated. Then nodded. “They’ve been stockpiling.”
Zafiel’s eyes flickered. “Stockpiling?”
“Weapons. Armor. Supplies.” Her expression darkened. “And recruitin’ men.” Zafiel leaned casually against the stall. “Recruitin’ or conscripting.”
Zafiel hummed. “Sounds serious.”
The woman glanced around nervously. “It is.” She lowered her voice further. “They say the Count’s been meetin’ with outsiders.”
Zafiel’s interest sharpened. “Outsiders?”
She nodded. “Men we don’t recognize.”
Zafiel smiled faintly. “Merchants?”
The woman shook her head. “No.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Soldiers.”
Silence hung between them.
Zafiel straightened slightly. “Well.” He chuckled. “Guess I picked an interestin’ place to stop.”
The woman gave him a worried look. “If you’re smart, you won’t stay long.”
Zafiel smiled warmly. “Don’t worry, ma’am.” His eyes, however, held no warmth at all. “I won’t.”
He turned back toward his carriage. Climbing up slowly. Taking another bite of bread. His gaze swept across the town once more.
The unruly knights. The fearful citizens. The heavy flow of coin. The quiet whispers of rebellion. His lips curved. A sharp, dangerous smile.
So this is your game? Using taxes to fund a private army and preparing for a coup.
He adjusted his hat slightly, blending once more into the image of a harmless, overweight coachman. But beneath that disguise, the Crown Prince’s mind was already moving. Calculating. Planning.
And far away in the north, a certain Grand Princess was enjoying her newfound freedom. Completely unaware that the man she feared most was quietly dismantling a rebellion one fief at a time.