"I am... surprised," Lencar admitted quietly as they fell into step beside each other, moving away from the loud tavern and merging into the flow of the market crowd. "I expected a hooded cloak and shadows. This is an entirely different persona."
Mariella—or rather, the brown-haired boy—chuckled, a harsh, grating sound. "A hooded cloak in a place like this screams that you have something valuable to hide, or that you are terrified of being seen. Both of those things make you a prime target for a mugging. Looking like a bored, broke street rat makes you invisible."
"And the choice of gender?" Lencar asked, his curiosity genuinely piqued as they navigated the winding, muddy paths. "You could have easily disguised yourself as a peasant woman or a poor merchant's daughter. It would have required less physical alteration of your posture."
Mariella didn't look at him, keeping her eyes fixed on the path ahead, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her oversized jacket.
"It is a matter of simple, brutal economics," Mariella answered, her raspy, fabricated voice tinged with a cold, hard pragmatism. "This is the Black Market. It is a place built on exploitation and predatory behavior. Swindlers, slavers, and information brokers are always looking for easy marks. In an environment like this, it is incredibly common for people to attempt to swindle, intimidate, or assault a woman far more readily than a man."
She casually sidestepped a drunk mercenary who stumbled into their path, not even breaking her stride.
"A young woman walking alone down here, no matter how poorly she is dressed, attracts the worst kind of attention," Mariella continued clinically. "Men will try to corner you, vendors will double their prices assuming you are naive, and the local gangs will view you as potential merchandise. I could kill them, of course. But leaving a trail of dead thugs in my wake defeats the purpose of remaining covert."
She glanced up at him, the lopsided grin returning. "As a scruffy, dirty young man with a bad attitude? Nobody looks twice. I can stand on a street corner for hours gathering intelligence, and the worst I'll get is a shove from a passing guard. It is the path of least resistance."
Lencar nodded thoughtfully, processing the cold logic of her explanation. It made perfect sense. In a lawless, subterranean slum, perceived vulnerability was a death sentence. By projecting the aggressive, worthless aura of a street rat, she removed herself from the food chain entirely.
"It is a highly pragmatic approach," Lencar agreed softly. "The disguise is flawless. I wouldn't have looked twice if not for your stance."
"Thank you, Leader. We are heading toward the eastern quadrant of the market," Mariella informed him, seamlessly guiding them down a darker, narrower tunnel that branched off from the main cavern. "I have secured the services of a highly reliable Black Market merchant. He specializes in discreet, unlogged surface transportation. He knows the blind spots in the Magic Knights' sensory net above us. He will lead us to a safehouse near the perimeter wall where we can set up the observation post for tomorrow's festival."
As they walked in silence, surrounded by the dripping walls and the faint, glowing moss of the underground, Lencar glanced sideways at the young woman walking beside him.
Her explanation regarding the dangers of being a woman in the Black Market was entirely logical, and undeniably true. But Lencar possessed a deeply analytical mind, and he had spent enough time observing human behavior to recognize the underlying currents of habit.
He watched the way she moved. The swagger in her step, the careless way she carried her shoulders, the perfectly executed, raspy pitch of her voice. It didn't look like a performance she had hastily thrown together for this specific mission. It looked lived-in. It looked comfortable.
She's right about the predators down here, Lencar thought to himself, his eyes tracking the shadows ahead. But that level of comfort... she didn't just invent this persona today.
He recalled her history. She was a defector from the Diamond Kingdom's elite assassination department. A young girl who had been forged into a living weapon in an environment completely devoid of mercy, empathy, or warmth. In a place like the Diamond Kingdom's military, showing weakness was lethal.
It isn't just about the Black Market, Lencar realized with a quiet, solemn understanding. She's used to disguising herself as a man. It's muscle memory. In her past life, hiding her true self beneath a rough, untouchable exterior was likely the only way she survived.
Lencar didn't voice his observation. It wasn't his place to dissect the traumas of her past, nor did it change the incredible value of her skills in the present. She was a flawless operative, a loyal asset, and currently, the best guide he could ask for in this wretched, subterranean maze.
"The merchant is just ahead, Leader," Mariella murmured, gesturing slightly with her chin toward a heavy iron door at the end of the damp tunnel. Two massive, heavily armed guards stood flanking the entrance.
"Lead the way," Lencar replied, adjusting the collar of his cloak.
The Star Awards Festival was mere hours away. The capital above them was sleeping, completely unaware of the storm gathering on its borders. Lencar Abarame followed his silver-haired assassin deeper into the dark, ready to secure his vantage point and wait for the kingdom to burn.
The heavy iron door swung outward with a grinding screech of rusted hinges, revealing a small, poorly lit antechamber carved directly into the bedrock of the underground market.
Mariella, still perfectly embodying the slouching, careless persona of a street rat, stepped through the threshold first. Lencar followed close behind, his own posture maintaining the hunched, unassuming guise of a tired commoner. His brass camouflage artifact and the synthetic face mask hummed silently against his skin, utterly dampened by his concealment magic.
Sitting behind a battered wooden desk in the center of the room was a man who looked entirely too large for the chair beneath him. He was incredibly wide, with a bald head that shined with sweat despite the damp chill of the cavern. Rings made of varying precious metals adorned almost every one of his thick, sausage-like fingers, and a heavy ledger sat open before him.
"Well, well. If it isn't little Ren," the large man wheezed, his voice sounding like two stones grinding together. He slammed the ledger shut and leaned back, the wooden chair groaning in protest. "I haven't seen your scruffy face down in the mud for months. Thought you finally got yourself gutted in a back alley over a bad dice game."
"Not yet, Brog," Mariella shot back, her raspy, fabricated boyish voice dripping with practiced arrogance. She strolled right up to the desk, kicking her muddy boots against the base of it. "It takes a lot more than a few sore losers to put me in the ground. Besides, I know you'd miss the coin I bring in."
Brog let out a booming, wet laugh that turned into a hacking cough. "You always did have a mouth on you, kid. What do you need today? If you're looking to fence stolen noble jewelry, the heat is too high right now. The Magic Knights are crawling all over the upper crust because of the festival."
"I don't need a fence. I need a walk," Mariella corrected, jerking her thumb over her shoulder toward Lencar. "Me and my uncle here need to get into the capital. We need to be inside the walls, past the checkpoints, and we don't have the patience to let some shiny royal guard search our bags for three hours."