The sound of clinking coins echoed faintly in the small, smoky bounty hall as Callum—the real Callum, without his Claude persona—accepted the pouch of money. The receptionist, a wiry man with a perpetual sneer, gave a small bow, his words dripping with unearned gratitude.
"Always a pleasure working with you, sir," the receptionist said, his eyes gleaming with admiration. "You've done Neolandia a great service."
Callum forced a smile, a carefully rehearsed expression of modesty that he had perfected over months of deception. "Just doing my part," he replied, his voice even. With that, he turned and walked out, the weight of the coins in his pocket a hollow reassurance of his carefully orchestrated duplicity.
Outside, the bustling streets of Neolandia sprawled before him. Merchants called out from stalls, hawking wares ranging from exotic spices to gleaming weapons. Callum pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, his bald head catching the glint of the midday sun. He looked every part the loyal palace guard, an unassuming cog in the royal machine.
But under the surface, his mind was a labyrinth of schemes. Over the past few months, his dual identity had become more than a necessity—it was his weapon. As Claude, he had embedded himself in the rebellion, becoming a trusted operative and even a vital member of their leadership. He executed missions with precision, earning their respect while subtly steering them toward carefully calculated victories—just enough to maintain their trust, but never enough to truly destabilize the crown.
As Callum, he positioned himself within the palace guard, ensuring proximity to the royal family. His shaved head and polished demeanor rendered him nearly unrecognizable from the scrappy rebel persona he adopted as Claude. His role in the palace allowed him to manipulate the narrative, feeding just enough information to both sides to keep them on edge.
And, in the whispers of the city's streets, Callum's subtle rumors began to take hold. Descriptions of the rebellion's leaders—Hayreddin's commanding presence, Serina's tactical brilliance, Darek's scarred face—floated through taverns and guard posts alike. But Claude's name was never mentioned. It was his insurance, his way of ensuring that, when the inevitable collapse came, he would emerge unscathed.
That evening, Callum returned to the guard barracks within the palace. He shed the cloak and armor of his royal identity, slipping into the worn leather garb of his alter ego. Within moments, Callum became Claude—a transformation as seamless as slipping on a second skin.
As he prepared to leave for the rebel camp, a small, weathered parchment was slipped under the door of his rented room. Picking it up, he quickly scanned the brief, urgent words:
"Claude, your presence is required. Tonight, the council convenes. Hayreddin trusts only you to speak on behalf of the outer districts."
A smirk crept across his face. Perfect, he thought. If the council was summoning him, it meant they were either planning their next major move—or scrambling to address a new crisis. Either way, the gathering would give him the opportunity to weave his plans further.
The Council Meeting
The rebel hideout was concealed in a network of abandoned catacombs beneath the city. Claude's boots echoed softly against the damp stone as he approached the central chamber. Torches flickered along the walls, casting elongated shadows over the gathered leaders.
Hayreddin Barbarossa stood at the head of the chamber, his presence as imposing as ever. Beside him was Serina, her sharp eyes scanning the room with suspicion, and Darek, whose scarred face twisted into a scowl when Claude entered. Others stood in smaller groups, their murmured conversations ceasing as Claude approached.
"You're late," Darek grunted.
Claude shrugged, his expression calm. "Had to make sure the outer districts weren't crawling with royal patrols. You're welcome."
Hayreddin's voice cut through the tension. "Enough. Claude is here now, and we have much to discuss." He motioned for the group to gather closer. "The rebellion faces a critical moment. The crown has tightened its grip, and our safehouses grow fewer by the day. We must act decisively."
Claude nodded, his face a mask of concern. "What's the plan?"
Serina stepped forward, unrolling a map across the central table. "Our informants have confirmed the location of a critical royal armory. If we can seize it, we'll cripple their ability to equip their soldiers for months."
Murmurs of approval rippled through the room, but Claude's mind was already calculating. The armory was a logical target—but one fraught with danger. If the rebels succeeded, the crown would retaliate with devastating force. If they failed, the rebellion's morale would shatter. Either outcome could serve his purpose, depending on how he played his cards.
"We'll need precision," Claude said, leaning forward to examine the map. "This can't be a brute-force attack. What's the plan for infiltration?"
Hayreddin exchanged a glance with Serina before replying. "You'll lead the team."
Claude hid his surprise, nodding smoothly. "Of course. It would be an honor."
The meeting dragged on late into the night, the leaders debating strategies and contingencies. Claude participated just enough to maintain his credibility, offering insights and suggestions while subtly steering the discussion toward plans that aligned with his broader goals.
By the time the gathering adjourned, Claude's mind was buzzing. The coming days would test his ability to balance the delicate threads of his deception. He needed to ensure the rebels' armory raid neither succeeded too well nor failed too catastrophically—just enough to prolong the conflict and solidify his position.
As he slipped away from the catacombs, the moonlight filtering through the city's winding alleys, Callum allowed himself a moment of reflection. The rebellion, the royal family, the crown's paranoia—they were all pieces on his board. But his endgame was clear: the throne.
If he could play both sides long enough, manipulate the survivors, and ensure his rise, he would not just survive the coming storm. He would rule it.
The meeting had concluded, and Claude had played his part perfectly, ensuring the rebels' trust in his ability to lead the upcoming raid. But as the others dispersed into the shadows of the catacombs, Callum had no intention of waiting idly.
Within the hour, he had shed his rebel guise and resumed his role as Callum, the loyal palace guard. The transformation was swift but thorough—his bald scalp shone under the moonlight as he donned the polished armor of the royal guard. He moved through the city with purpose, blending seamlessly into the nighttime bustle of Neolandia's winding streets.
The critical armory was situated on the edge of the city, perched atop a slight hill where its limestone walls gleamed pale under the starlight. The fortress itself was modest in size but formidable in its simplicity. Thick walls, narrow slits for archers, and a single iron-reinforced gate made direct assault a fool's errand. Callum had once been stationed here during his early days as a palace guard, and the fortress's defensive design had left a lasting impression.
It was a place built to endure, but as Callum approached under the guise of a patrol guard, he focused on finding its weaknesses.
Circling the perimeter, Callum moved casually, nodding to the sentries stationed at intervals along the walls. His familiarity with guard protocol allowed him to avoid suspicion, and as he walked, his trained eyes cataloged every detail.
The sewerline drew his attention first. A wide grate near the fortress's eastern edge led into the underground tunnels that connected much of Neolandia. The grate itself was rusted and partially obscured by overgrown weeds, suggesting it hadn't been used—or inspected—in years. From his position, Callum could see that the sewer emerged just beyond the fortress walls, winding through a cluster of nearby trees before disappearing underground.
From the vantage point of the nearest guard tower, he noted a critical flaw. The path from the sewerline to the fortress skirted along the edge of the eastern guard post, but it was partially obstructed by the angle of the fortress walls and the dense undergrowth of the surrounding forest. This created a natural blind spot—a sliver of shadow where even the most vigilant sentry would struggle to see.
To confirm his suspicion, Callum waited until the patrolling guards rotated shifts. Timing their movements, he crept into the undergrowth near the sewer grate, carefully keeping to the shadows. He moved silently, his boots barely disturbing the damp earth beneath him.
From this position, he glanced back toward the fortress walls. Sure enough, the guard above was focused on the main road leading to the gate. The angle of the wall and the tower completely blocked the sentry's view of the path by the sewerline.
Satisfied, Callum backed away, his mind already piecing together the details of his plan. The blindspot wasn't perfect—it required precise timing and absolute stealth—but with the right distractions and a team skilled enough to exploit the opening, it could be the key to infiltrating the fortress.
Callum returned to his quarters before dawn, his thoughts racing. In the privacy of his rented room, he sketched a rough map of the fortress on a piece of parchment, marking the sewerline and blindspot. The path was risky, but it was the rebellion's best chance of success.
The trick, of course, was to ensure that success came at a cost—enough to keep the rebellion from gaining too much momentum. He needed to subtly sabotage their efforts, ensuring the raid damaged the crown's forces just enough to keep suspicion off him while weakening the rebels' position in the long run.
Over the next three days, Callum worked tirelessly in both of his roles. As Claude, he gathered a small team of rebels, selecting those who had proven themselves loyal but lacked the leadership to challenge his authority. He painted the plan as a daring maneuver, emphasizing the need for precision and trust in his command.
"We'll use the sewerline to bypass their defenses," Claude explained during a quiet meeting in the rebellion's hideout. "The path has a blindspot that their sentries can't see. Once inside, we'll neutralize the guards and secure the armory. Speed and silence will be our greatest allies."
The rebels nodded, their eyes alight with determination. None of them questioned the intricacies of the plan—Claude's growing reputation had made him untouchable in their eyes.
As Callum, he subtly planted the seeds of distraction within the royal guard. During casual conversations, he hinted at the possibility of rebel activity near the western district, diverting attention away from the eastern side of the fortress. He also made a point of mentioning the need for an inventory check in the armory to his superiors, ensuring the guards inside would be preoccupied on the night of the raid.
By the fourth evening, everything was in place. The rebels were prepared, their morale high as they followed Claude's lead. The royal guards, meanwhile, were oblivious to the blindspot in their defenses, their attention focused elsewhere.
As Claude donned his rebel garb and led his team toward the sewerline, he couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. Every step of the plan had been meticulously crafted, every piece of the puzzle arranged to serve his dual purposes.
If the raid succeeded, the rebels would see Claude as a hero, their trust in him cemented further. If it failed, the crown would tighten its grip on the city, making it easier for Callum to manipulate both sides.
Either way, Callum would remain in control, his web of lies tightening around both the rebellion and the throne. As he led the rebels into the shadow of the limestone fortress, the blindspot waiting ahead, he couldn't help but smile.
The game was his to win.