The port city of Svartik bustled with its usual fervor, a blend of commerce and clandestine dealings. Ships of all sizes came and went from the docks, unloading cargo from every corner of the Darklands and beyond. The Velvet Syndicate's grip on the city was firm, controlling the ebb and flow of wealth that passed through its coffers. But in the shadow of their towering administrative building, another force moved—unseen and unnoticed.
The building itself was large, classy but firm, and imposing—a testament to the Syndicate’s power. It was constructed in vakwerk style, its blackened wooden beams intersecting at sharp angles to create a dignified framework. Dark, diamond-shaped windows dotted its surface, offering fleeting glimpses of the bureaucrats inside, scurrying like insects in the lamplight. The timber structure loomed over the cobblestone streets, casting a long shadow as the sun began its descent.
In that shadow, Shade moved with ease. His form, barely distinguishable from the darkness, shifted through narrow alleys and past oblivious guards. As a shadow demon, blending with the darkness of dusk that evening was second nature to him, but his skill as an Infiltrator made him more than just a spectral figure. Years with the Fixers' Guild had honed his talent for impersonation, deception, and gathering information.
His target: the administrative building’s records vault. There, nestled deep in the building’s halls, were documents that held the key to destabilizing the Velvet Syndicate’s power. Shade had no need to kill or cause alarm; stealth and precision were his weapons.
Upon reaching the building’s entrance, Shade paused briefly, letting his form solidify to morph. His shadowy corpus shifted, taking on the appearance of the Schepen—Svartik’s trade governor. The man’s features materialized with exact precision: silver-streaked hair, a fur-lined black cloak, and the grim expression of someone long accustomed to overseeing the Syndicate’s affairs.
He strode through the doors of the administrative building, guards stepping aside without hesitation, saluting as he passed. "Sir," they muttered, unaware of the deception. Shade gave a curt nod, his voice flawlessly mimicking the real Schepen’s. “Carry on.”
Inside, clerks hunched over desks, shuffling through scrolls and parchment. The scent of ink and musty paper filled the air, the dim glow of lanterns illuminating the bureaucratic heart of the Syndicate. Shade’s presence was immediately noticed as he walked in. A group of clerks looked up from their work, startled by the sudden appearance of their superior.
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“Sir Barthold! We weren’t expecting you,” one of the clerks stammered, rising awkwardly from his seat.
Shade waved his hand dismissively, keeping his tone disinterested but commanding. “At ease. Return to your work. I’m here on personal business.”
The clerks hesitated for only a second before nodding and bowing their heads, returning to their ledgers. The tension in the room eased, and Shade continued walking to the vault.
Reaching the door to the records vault, Shade’s eyes flicked to the two guards stationed nearby. They stood at attention as he approached, saluting him again. “Sir,” one said, stepping aside to unlock the door.
Shade didn’t speak this time. A simple nod was enough. As the door swung open, Shade entered the cool, dimly lit vault. Scrolls and ledgers lined the walls, detailing every trade agreement, every shipment, and every transaction the Syndicate conducted, ordered neatly by type and region. Shade moved quickly to one of the sections detailing larger orders to be sent over long distances with caravans—the so-called caravan deliveries. His gloved hands flipped through the records until he found the document he sought.
A record detailing a large order of supplies: specific munitions, raw crafting materials such as steel and copper ingots, rare minerals, and tools. All bound for a place far on the western side of the Darklands. The Velvet Syndicate was funneling resources far beyond the range of a normal trade contract here. Anyone could deduce this was an outpost or dungeon, and due to the nature of the munitions, Shade was certain this was it.
Just as Shade rolled the documents into his cloak, the door creaked open behind him. He stiffened for a moment but remained composed. An assistant entered, her arms full of freshly signed orders. She looked up and froze, her eyes widening as she realized who—or rather, who she thought—was standing before her.
“Sir? I wasn’t aware you’d be here,” the assistant said, her voice quivering slightly.
Shade turned, his expression a perfect mask of the Schepen’s usual stoic indifference. “I'm just checking in on a shipment. The boat seemed rather small to me at the docks, so I decided to check if this was indeed correct. It’s all fine, however. Carry on with your work.”
The assistant hesitated, visibly unsure, but Shade’s commanding tone silenced any further questions. She nodded quickly and continued her work of sorting the records. Shade walked out of the vault, closing the door behind him. He let out a quiet breath. The disguise had held, but time was running short.
With the documents secured, Shade walked past the guards once again and exited the building safely. The city’s noise slowly returned to his senses, feeling almost like a celebration. As he walked through the street and took a turn into a dark alley, his form began shifting back into the shadow demon he truly was.