The room went dead silent at the mention of that name. Resentment, regret and guilt could be seen in the eyes of many.
Rodrick Hawl was a name that had been willingly forgotten by many people from the town of Millware. Because they couldn't justify the injustice done to him, and many were reluctant to remember cause of their own cowardice.
Millware was a town of labor, and jobs were always available. When the war against the Baron took place, his subjects were given two choices: Either stay and die for their lord, or leave the place to settle elsewhere. And most of the people who made the second choice, opted for Millware as their new home.
Five years ago, Millware had seen its largest immigration in history, with more than half of Baron Rodrick's people migrating there. At first, it was odd living in a new environment, but gradually new factories and mills opened, facilitating jobs for the immigrants.
And after five years, atleast from outsider perspective, everything seems settled.
After mentioning the name, the storyteller continued.. but this time, he stripped away even a little bit of imagination and spoke only facts.
"Baron Rodrick Hawl was truly a kind lord. Not just in my story, but in your lives as well. He was someone worthy of our respect, submission and allegiance. And the day we fled without fighting for him was the moment our souls were branded with the mark of cowardice.. and guilt.
"A guilt so strong, that it will eat us alive till our death."
"Baron Rodrick was a man of principles. He never did anything so wrong, that his sufferings can be justified. His only mistake or misfortune, was that he had unearthed a fortune. A treasure so pleasing to the eyes, that the fat viscount Garoth couldn't come to reason, with the army provided by Marquis Vance, he destroyed everything dear to Sir Rodrick and took the treasure, which was the reason for all this blood."
While everyone was dispirited by such harsh truth. Azrael was inwardly amazed, as he was finally beginning to understand the political landscape. Having lived in noble circles, he knew that a mere Viscount would never be able to command a Marquis's army under normal circumstances. There was more to this story than what was known.
As for feeling sympathy, he felt nothing. Before this story he didn't even know the existence of such a Baron. Besides, who said that this story is the truth? Every story or opinion shared by people has a bias. And clearly the storyteller has a very strong bias towards the baron. He presented Rodrick Hawl as a saint. Maybe it was true or maybe not.. who cares... Azrael doesn't.
The storyteller eventually lifted the somber mood which had settled for quite a while now.
"Now... Pay up for everything you heard from the greatest teller in all of Terralon! Haha! "
Seeing his attitude, everyone found an anchor to pull themselves up. And they started reciprocating his energy.
Azrael stood up to leave. He already got all the information needed. No use staying here anymore. in the background, the banter continued:
"And you, bastard.. interrupting right at the end of the story to scam me.. you pay double! Dickhead!"
"Haaan— now why would—"
Azrael left the inn, found a different place to stay, and settled into one of the rooms.
Master White materialized, after listening to the storyteller he was very quiet. Usually in the shared mental space, they would exchange ideas and opinions and decide many things on the spot without having to delay much.
"So, what are you thinking?" Azrael asked.
"Nothing. Its just the story had many loopholes, and why would a baron be targeted by a Marquis?"
Azrael shrugged, "We don't need to worry about the cause White. Because we just found out first chain in Sylvanus politics."
Viscount Garoth » Marquis Vance » to whom ??
"We got a viscount and a Marquis. Now we just need to ask about, where Marquis Vance bows his head. Don't we?!" Azrael was excited. Unlike Master White who needs information for planning, he was simply interested by the rotten politics of any Kingdom. He sees it as a drama unfolding with many twists and turns. And honestly, it was very fun to watch things like these from an outsider perspective.
"Yeah." Master White agreed with Azrael.
"How long till we reach TradeHaven?" He questioned.
"If we travel without rest, then we could reach TradeHaven in one week." Azrael replied.
"Switch with me. You've had the body for a week straight now." Master White suggested. Azrael didn't particularly felt tired but he still switched.
The next day,
The silhouette of the World's Spine continued to loom over the horizon now much closer, a needle of stone stitching the earth to the heavens. Master White had left the industrial town of Millware behind, trading the clanging of hammers for the deep wild.
"One more stop," Azrael's voice echoed in the shared consciousness. "The tribe of Glowingbark. They sit on the crossroads of the trade route. If we want to understand the true flow of 'black' goods items not sanctioned by the Four Kingdom, they are our best source of intel."
Master White nodded, his boots crunching on bioluminescent moss that had begun to carpet the forest floor. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the forest didn't surrender to darkness. Instead, it woke up in shades of neon cyan and ghostly violet.
Glowingbark was not a town or village. It was a tribe in the old forest, also known as "The Living Light."
They reached the perimeter of the Glowingbark settlement by midnight. It wasn't a village of stone or wood, but a living structure. Massive, ancient trees with bark that shimmered like polished silver served as the foundations for dwellings woven from glowing vines.
But the most striking feature was the insects.
Thousands of fist-sized beetles, their abdomens glowing with a steady, amber light, were tethered to poles and doorways like living lanterns. They hummed a low frequency that seemed to vibrate in people's very marrow.
The people of the Glowingbark tribe were lean and they moved with a liquid grace. Their eyes were oversized, adapted to the light of their canopy home. As Master White approached, several warriors descended from the branches, their spears tipped with steel that hummed with a faint elemental energy.
"Switch," Azrael whispered. "I'll handle the diplomacy, White. You're better at the 'serious' stuff."
"Information gathering is a logical process," Master White replied confidently. "I will handle it."
Master White in control of the body. His posture straightened, his gaze became icy, and the "Aura of Death" that sat perpetually around him suddenly felt like a physical weight in the humid forest air.
The head of the greeting party was an elder woman, her skin painted with glowing nectar. She stepped forward, offering a bowl of fermented sap, a traditional gesture of peace.
"Welcome, Traveler of the Surface," she said, her voice sounded dry . "What brings a bearer of such heavy shadows to the Light-Trees?"
Master White stared at her. He didn't take the bowl. He didn't bow. He simply stood there like a statue.
"I require a manuscript of all Tier-4 and Tier-5 goods that have passed through this forest in the last thirty days," Master White said, his voice flat and devoid of any social warmth. "Specifically, those originating from the Sylvanus border. Provide the data, and I shall refrain from disturbing your peace further."
The silence that followed was agonizing. The tribal warriors tightened their grip on their spears. The elder's welcoming smile curdled. To them, this wasn't just "cold and unreasonable" it was an insult. He had rejected their gift and issued a demand.
"The sap is the life of the tree," the elder said, her voice now cold. "To reject the sap is to reject the people. We do not trade words with those who have no blood in their veins."
"Blood is a biological necessity, not a social currency," Master White countered, his logic-circuit completely ignoring the cultural nuance. "The sap is high in sugar and would likely interfere with my current metabolic state. Now, the manuscript. I am losing daylight or in your case, insect-light."
Azrael, watching from the mind-space, put his face in his hands. "White... stop. You're making it worse. You're literally acting like a robot."
"I am being efficient," Master White replied internally. "Politeness is a useless layer of communication."
"Leave," the elder commanded, pointing a gnarled finger toward the forest path. "Before the insects turn from amber to red. You will find no answers here."
Master White turned on his heel and marched away, his cloak billowing. He walked for exactly ten minutes before Azrael switched bodies.
Azrael immediately clutched his stomach as peals of laughter escaped him. "Efficiency? 'The sap would interfere with my metabolic state'?! White, you're a disaster!
"The logic was sound," Master White's voice sounded genuinely confused, a rare hint of irritation breaking his monotone. "She offered a substance; I declined based on nutritional irrelevance. Why did the tension escalate?"
"Because you have the social grace of a brick!" Azrael wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. "You don't just ask a hidden tribe for their trade secrets while looking like you're about to conduct their funerals. You have to... you know... talk! Like a human!"
"I am a human. I am seventeen," Master White stated.
"On paper, maybe. In practice, you're an ancient tombstone that learned how to walk," Azrael teased. "Next time, let me handle the talking if there's a lady involved. Or anyone with a heartbeat, really."
"The talk was a failure," Master White admitted, though his voice remained stiff. "However, I did manage to observe the markings on their spears. They are Sylvanus military grade. The tribe isn't just trading, they are being supplied. My 'metabolic' comment may have failed, but my eyes did not."
Azrael stopped laughing, shaking his head. "You're unbelievable. Even when you fail, you win."
They walked through the night, the glow of the insects fading as the trees began to thin. The air changed, it became sharper, filled with the scent of a thousand different spices, expensive oils, and the hum of massive amounts of Enos energy.
As the sun began to peek over the World's Spine, the forest ended abruptly.
Stretching out before them was a city that seemed to defy the laws of architecture. TradeHaven.
The city was built on tiers. Vast, circular platforms of white stone and gold trim climbed the lower slopes of the World's Spine. And even from this distance, Azrael could see the "Caravans" ..massive wagons pulled by beasts the size of houses, moving in a stream towards the city gates.
This was the heart of Terralon. The neutral zone where a King could sit next to a beggar, and a Duke's son could lose everything in a single bad trade.
"We're here," Azrael whispered.
"Yes," Master White added, his presence sharpening within their mind.
Azrael adjusted the Bracelet of Restraint on his wrist, hiding his power once more. He stepped forward, leaving the wilderness behind and walking toward the golden gates of the world's greatest market.