Garrik pretended to stamp something important on the “villagers” manifest before waving the convoy through with exaggerated authority. The whole performance was pretty comical and unnecessary, but then again, having the guard captain make a show out of being approved may help in the Imperials overlooking them.

  "You guys bring what I asked for?" Elijah looked between Ian and the two obvious spooks, keeping his voice casual but relatively low.

  "Yeah, mate. Though I'm curious why you need so many furs and blankets." Ian fell into step beside the cart, his casual tone belying his interest. "Cleaned out the village and got enough winter furs to outfit a small army. Cost your boys some big bikkies, though."

  Elijah made a complicated face at the strange Australian slang but more or less got the idea. “Leathers too?”

  Still lingering by the desk, Garrik pretended to sort through papers while straining to hear their conversation. The strange way they spoke caught his attention — it definitely wasn't Imperial Common, nor was it any regional dialect he'd heard either. Something about the way they formed their words made him all the more certain that these people weren’t peasants. They sounded far too professional and concise to be Freelancers, even though Garrik couldn't understand a word.

  "Which cart?" Elijah asked, with his eyes floating to each of the carts and noticed that the majority of them were full to the brim.

  Ian jerked his chin toward the second cart. "That one, " the Australian operator replied as he marched over to it.

  Falling into step with Ian, Elijah noticed that the vehicle in question looked identical to the others—weathered wood and canvas covers designed to be forgettable. Two women sat in the driver's seat while their attempts to appear common failed to hide their alert postures. Their team leader stood beside the first cart, casually conversing with the obvious Company men while maintaining subtle awareness of his surroundings.

  "Hey, Garrik!" Elijah called out in Imperial Common, waving for the guard captain to follow.

  In that instant, Garrik's face twisted into an indignant scowl from behind his inspection desk — who was this upstart to summon him like some low-brow servant? Granted, Garrik admitted he was rather low-brow in comparison to these uppity merchants, but he was no servant.

  Seeing Garrik still hadn't moved from his desk, Elijah fixed him with a withering look. "Do you want to get paid or not?" he asked, letting irritation seep into his voice.

  Garrik's face went through several interesting expressions—indignation, greed, and spiteful annoyance before settling on reluctant compliance. He straightened his armor with exaggerated dignity before making his way over, trying to maintain what little authority he had left while navigating between the carts and their suspiciously alert drivers.

  But that soon started to crumble under the withering looks he received and the subtle shift in the convoy's positions. It was nothing obvious, just the way they adjusted their stances and sight lines. Now, Garrik wasn’t very smart, but he was observant and paranoid to a fault. When he watched these strangers, he couldn’t help but notice their carefully maintained facade of an indifferent peasant. It wasn’t particularly unbelievable, but it was just so… perfect.

  It was to the point that it seemed more like a choreographed act than anything else. Especially when they made sure to position themselves to take advantage of clear fields of fire to let loose a crossbow bolt before retreating.

  When Garrik finally joined them at the second cart, Elijah glanced at one of the women holding the reins. She met his gaze evenly as he switched back to Imperial Common. "May I?"

  The two women exchanged an awkward glance before looking toward their team leader at the head of the convoy. He was a gruff-looking man with a long orange beard that was basically half-white, signifying he was well past his prime. However, he exuded an aura that warned one to always beware of an old man in a profession where men die young.

  Responding with his own subtle nod of consent, the team leader motioned to the obvious CIA Paramilitary Officers to follow before they all made their way over to where Elijah and the town guard. Each of them kept a keen eye on Garrik as they approached, but the Company man with the slight paunch watched Elijah in particular.

  "Sweet," Elijah muttered, grabbing the canvas and throwing it back halfway.

  After seeing what was underneath, Garrik's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Laying in the bed were piles upon piles of processed warg pelts and strider leathers that had been thoroughly cleaned, stretched, and tanned to a butter-soft finish. He even managed to spot something that should have been completely impossible for any village to have—Wyvern hide, bones, and teeth. Even someone with an untrained eye like Garrik could see that these weren't just random kills from village hunters but their absolute best materials.

  "Alright, so…" Elijah said pointedly in Imperial Common, his tone making Garrik's spine stiffen. "I know you have got contacts inside the Imperial garrison. Nobody extorts this openly without kicking something upstairs." He gave Garrik a knowing look. "Especially not at gates surrounded by Imperial officers."

  Garrik's face went slack with shock before he caught himself. His mouth opened and closed several times like a fish suddenly finding itself on land as he tried to deny it. “I don’t know what yer—”

  "No, no, no. Don't bother." Elijah interrupted the town guard, holding up his hand to signal him to stop. "This cart is going to be your 'entry fee.' Consider it... an investment in our future relationship." He patted the side of the cart. "You're going to take these furs to your Imperial contacts. Give them to your contacts, sell them at a discount; I don’t care.” Elijah continued, not giving Garrik any room to argue. “I need you to make yourself look really good. Do you understand?"

  With his mind racing, Garrik's eyes darted between Elijah and the cargo as he tried to find any excuse, any excuse. However, it was evident he wasn’t going to be able to shake this outsider.

  "And if I refuse?" Garrik asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer. His eyes then flickered to the convoy members who had so carefully positioned themselves around them.

  "Come on," Elijah said with a hint of amusement. "You're smarter than that. Look at what's in front of you — premium goods that are ready to move, with the promise of more." He gestured at the cart. "You've got ambitious Imperial officers looking to pad their own coffers. We've got products they want and you already got a man on the inside, so you might as well profit from a better class of merchandise."

  Off to the side, that one peasant with the orange and grey beard shifted his weight slightly, drawing Garrik's attention. The older man’s face remained neutral, but something in his eyes made the guard captain's mouth go dry. Everything about him screams that he is a killer in sheep's clothing. He didn’t give off the feeling he was a well-trained fighter but a butcher.

  Garrik licked his lips nervously before turning back to the furs. He shoved his hand into the pile and grabbed a felt to figure out just what kind of quality he was working with and found himself surprised. While not quite up to the standard of luxury merchant goods, these were far beyond typical village fare. These weren't scraps from some deer or a lucky kill on a juvenile warg — these were full adult pelts that were decently processed.

  His hands moved to the wyvern hides and ran his fingers fingers over the incredibly thick, scaled leather. The texture alone spoke of the beast's size — this wasn't from some runt or adolescent. His mouth opened to ask how in the infinite hells they'd managed to get this, especially as his fingers brushed against massive claws, but he caught himself. Garrik knew damn well no villagers had killed a gods damned wyvern and that some questions were better left unasked.

  Recognizing the dangerous territory he was treading into, Garrik closed his mouth and withdrew his hand. In his head, he knew he was waddling into something far bigger and far more dangerous than he’d ever hoped to be involved with. But he was already neck deep and the less he knew about certain details, the better his chances of survival probably were.

  Plus, Garrik had always been a gambling man, and this hand looked too good to fold.

  "I suppose," he said carefully, adjusting his sword belt as he glanced around at the morning traffic still streaming through the gate, "you'll be wanting to know who I'm working with. How I've been... managing things."

  Elijah's smile turned predatory, reminding Garrik uncomfortably of a wolf spotting wounded prey. "I knew you were a smart one."

  Garrik turned away from that unsettling grin and bellowed across the gate, making his voice overpower the rumble of wagon wheels and complaining merchants being extored. "Mira! Get over here!" He called out, already slipping back into his usual bombastic self. "Bring the boys too! We've got ourselves a proper haul!"

  The wolf-woman's pointed ears swiveled toward his voice before her head followed. Trotting over, Mira’s tail swished with curiosity as boots clicked against the impeccable roads that were maintained by earth mages. When she caught up to Garrik and saw what was behind the canvas, her yellow eyes widened and glistened with greedy glee.

  Even she could tell this wasn't your typical village goods and knew to keep her mouth as tight as a Cieperic Priestess. It was evident that her boss had made some kind of arrangement beforehand. Why else would he inspect some random peasant cart himself? This must have been payment for some kind of job. The quality alone spoke of serious coin and was far beyond what most villages could provide.

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  "Managed to negotiate a favorable tax rate with our friends here," Garrik announced with exaggerated satisfaction, seamlessly falling into his role of the corrupt but effective captain. His hands moved with practiced showmanship as he displayed the goods. Mira's eyes peeled away from the goods as they narrowed slightly. Now that she was up close and personal with these well-postured ‘peasants,’ she couldn’t help but grow suspicious as her ear twitched and swiveled around.

  But her suspicions only lasted a second. Mira could care less about whatever arrangements her boss had made with these obvious freelancers, and she had a penchant for keeping her nose out of where it didn’t belong. Sure, they may not have been normal villagers, but she just went on and assumed they must be one of Garrik's merchant contacts, subtly sliding him some merchandise for some favor.

  It didn't take much longer until the rest of Garrik's crew descended like vultures, with their boots clanking against stone as they rushed over. Their hoots and hollers were genuine — the prospect of getting a cut of such a substantial haul had them practically salivating. But while his crew celebrated, Garrik's own enthusiasm was clearly forced. His eyes kept flicking between these alleged peasants, wondering if he had made the right choice.

  With the cart being virtually pillaged, Elijah noticed one of the CIA officers groan before pinching the bridge of his nose and digging into his pocket. Not a moment later, what Elijah could have sworn was a poker chip, was placed roughly into the hand of the CIA officer smugger, beer-bellied partner.

  Elijah lifted an eyebrow of bewilderment at the exchange and looked at the orange-bearded team leader as if asking, ‘What the hell is this?’ while his hand shifted between the two offenders. The team leader offered a simple shrug, his own expression conveying the message, ‘Don’t ask me.’ He had better things to worry about than random nonsense between two Company men. Instead, the old veteran seemed more interested in keeping watch over the guard captain and his crew as they swarmed the cart with his recce girls in it.

  Pocketing his winnings, the pudgy officer flashed a self-satisfied smirk and looked at Elijah. "Read your dossier —everyone thought you were just some two-bit street kid riding on your team leader's coat tail, but I knew better." He explained with a chuckle while wagging a finger at Elijah. “Rat-fuck street kids like you though? They know how to hustle better than any West Pointer could ever hope to."

  His partner scoffed quietly. "Still think he's just a thug with good instincts."

  "Maybe he is, but you really think a boy scout’s running an op like this?" The pudgy officer gestured at the scene before them - Garrik's performance, the carefully orchestrated chaos, the layers of deception. "You're out of your goddamn mind if you think some frat boy pussy is going come with this kind of shit. This isn’t taught at Robin Sage."

  The other Company man rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh. He hated to admit it, but his partner was correct. This was especially the case with modern Special Forces these days — they leaned way too heavily on the 'hearts and minds' bullshit and forgot what real unconventional warfare actually looked like.

  He watched Elijah work with renewed interest. This wasn't the clean, politically correct Special Forces that went all in on Foreign Internal Defense they were used to dealing with. This was old school. Something darker, more reminiscent of the past when rules were more... flexible. “So what now? You gonna give him the whole cart?"

  "Might as well," Elijah shrugged, watching Garrik's crew continue their inspection.

  "Hold up," the officer scrutinizing Elijah cut in as he narrowed his eyes. We dump that much product at once; it'll raise flags.” He looked at the town guards scrambling all over the cart, unloading furs. It's better to portion it out—maybe dish out a quarter now and establish a pattern. It makes it look more like regular village shipments."

  This time, the orange-haired team leader spoke up as he stepped in a little closer. "I agree; it’ll be too obvious otherwise, " the Delta operator said before looking at the CIA officers. “The kid's smart, but he’s still rough around the edges."

  "Kid?" Elijah turned, clearly offended.

  "Yeah, kid," the pudgy officer smirked, gesturing at Elijah's face. "What are you, an ass crack into your late twenties? Christ, you look younger every time I look at you." He said before turning back to the cart. "Listen — have them split this three ways. Enough of the first batch should go to this corrupt fucks imperial contact to make him look good but not suspicious. The second batch should get moved through legitimate channels and establish a paper trail. The third one we hold back, it’ll give us leverage in the future."

  His partner started to nod now, and his previous skepticism was seemingly blown away by the wind. "It creates a sustainable pipeline and doesn't draw too much attention."

  Elijah looked around, completely bewildered. Their assessment was so far off the mark that it was absurd. With one hand running through his dark hair, Elijah contemplated what he had been observing over time. He was well past his mid-thirties, but the grey patches in both his beard and hair had faded. Not only that, but his skin had regained the firmness and glow he remembered from over a decade ago, leaving his face looking notably younger.

  Something was definitely happening to him.

  His hand brushed against his pocket absently, earning an angry flail and muffled curse from Yana as she squirmed away from the pressure. The tiny fairy's outrage had even assaulted his own mind, eliciting a very uncomfortable blacklash. Whatever link Elijah had with his ‘patron’ was definitely behind whatever the fuck was happening to him.

  "Hey, you listening?" The question snapped Elijah back to reality to realize that the Company men were looking at him expectantly with crossed arms and raised eyebrows.

  "Sorry," Elijah shook his head, trying to refocus. "Been a while since I caught any real sleep. Getting the safe house actually secure, establishing contacts, setting up comms... it's been a hell of a week."

  This wasn’t technically a lie — Elijah and his team had been working themselves to exhaustion doing exactly that. But lack of sleep wasn't why he was distracted. If anything, he felt more alert, more vitalized than he had in over a decade. His body hummed with the kind of energy he remembered from his early twenties, maybe even his late teens. And that was exactly what was bothering him.

  The 'kid' comment was just the sraw that broke the camels back and had hit closer to home than they realized. He'd had suspicions about what was happening to him, but hearing it from someone who didn't know him, didn't interact with him regularly... it confirmed what he'd been already suspecting.

  "Alright, so..." Elijah said, deliberately shifting the conversation away from his apparent youth. That crisis could wait for later. "Who are you guys? I don't even know who the fuck any of you are."

  The two Company men exchanged looks, shaking their heads like disappointed teachers watching a promising student miss an obvious answer. "Come on man," the pudgy one chuckled, though there was an edge to his voice that suggested this wasn't entirely a joke. "I'm throwing my weight behind you here. Don't make me look bad in front of the D-Boys."

  "Mike," the pudgy one said simply, adjusting the carefully weathered peasant vest that probably cost more than a real peasant's yearly wages. "This is Dave." Short, casual - the kind of introduction that told you everything and nothing at the same time. Classic Company tradecraft.

  Dave gave his partner a mock-irritated look, the kind that only came from years of working together. "What, you're not worried about what I think of you? Just care about the Delta guys, huh?"

  Mike shot Dave a quick side-eye and huffed in amusement. "Shut the hell up, Dave; no one gives a rat's ass what you think." He started chuckling with a shake of his head and finished, "So, no. I’m not worried."

  Elijah stood there in exasperation with his eyes closed before a heavy sigh left his lips. "No, I get you're a bunch of CIA goons, but..." He trailed off, pinching the bridge of his nose before waving his hand dismissively. "You know what? Never mind… whatever."

  He fixed them both with a look that spoke volumes about his growing frustration with their cryptic bullshit. "I guess you probably know who I am already."

  "More or less," Mike replied with that carefree, casual air that seemed to be his trademark. His smile and shrug carried the unspoken message that they probably already knew what Elijah had for breakfast yesterday. The pudgy officer's entire demeanor screamed that they had read your file front to back without having to say a word.

  "But, you should probably tell your guy to hold off on taking all the goods," Mike continued, gesturing toward Garrik and his crew.

  The town guards were practically climbing over each other to get at the premium goods, their grubby hands reaching for the choicest pieces like vultures descending on a fresh carcass. One particularly brazen guard tried stuffing a smaller cut of wyvern leather down his jerkin, only to receive a swift hand to the back of his head from Mira. The wolf-woman's yellow eyes flashed with warning as she yanked the strip free while her tail bristled with irritation.

  Another guard yelped as Garrik's boot connected solidly with his backside, sending him stumbling off the cart with a pile of wyvern bones he'd been eyeing. However, it didn’t stop there, the captain turned around and caught yet another one of his subordinates trying to haul away an armful of premium furs.

  "No, no, NO! Ya fuckin’ Idjits!" Garrik bellowed, snatching the back of the woman's collar and yanking her backwards. "Didn’t I tell ya not to take too much?! I ain't trying to get too many questions thrown my way!" His voice carried the sharp edge of someone who'd learned the hard way about scrutiny.

  Mike and Dave exchanged surprised glances. They'd pegged Garrik as just another corrupt buffoon drunk on his own minor authority, but this display of discretion suggested otherwise. The guard captain actually had a head on his shoulder and a nose to maintain some semblance of appearance.

  "Never mind then," Mike said with an appreciative shrug toward Elijah. "Your boy's sharper than he looks." He pulled closer to the group, lowering his voice as he laid out the collection schedule. "We'll set up weekly rotations, different days, different times, and different locations. Keep it random, keep it small. Have your man coordinate with suppliers or merchants who have already been cleared for transit. Fewer questions that way."

  Dave nodded along, adding his own touches to the plan. "We'll need multiple dropoff points scattered through different districts. Some warehouse near the docks on Mondays, a tannery in the craft district or whatever on Wednesdays, maybe a tavern in some hole for Fridays." His eyes took on a calculating gleam. "Each batch should be small enough to look like normal business but regular enough to maintain a steady flow."

  Elijah stared at the two Company men with mounting exasperation. Every word screamed that they were annoyingly pretentious, but he still had to admit they were far from incompetent. Every one of them seemed dangerous, from Mike's manufactured joviality to Dave's calculated aloofness. Each gesture was so perfectly calibrated it bordered on parody. But before he could respond, Mike strode over and delivered a hearty slap to his back that sent him stumbling forward, his head bobbling like a puppet with loose strings.

  "Don't worry, kid," Mike's voice carried that particular mix of condescension and camaraderie that seemed ingrained into Company men the moment they sign up. "We'll teach you the ropes." He chuckled, basically pushing Elijah towards Garrik’s desk.

  “I’m not a fuckin’ kid!” Elijah protested with a growl as he looked over to Garrik and waved him over.