Building a Modern Nation in a Fantasy World

"It's been over three damn weeks," the first man hissed, his voice a blade drawn low. He paced back and forth across the shadowed chamber, boots scraping against rough stone. "Why the hell hasn't that bastard Kai reported back?"

Cloaked in dark fabric with a hood drawn low over his face, the man looked like a shade pulled from the underbelly of the city. The flickering candlelight cast long, restless shadows on the cracked walls, reflecting the simmering frustration etched into every movement he made.

"I don't know," the second man replied coolly, seated at a worn oak table littered with old ledgers and half-burned maps. He was dressed in similar dark garb, the fabric rough, well-used. "But losing your temper won't bring him back."

The pacing man stopped. Without a word, he slammed his gloved fist against the stone wall. Dust shook loose from the cracks. His jaw tightened under the hood, teeth clenched.

"Maybe the idiot got himself caught," he muttered. "Or worse—maybe he talked."

"Keep your damn voice down," the second snapped, looking up sharply. "We don't know anything yet. And don't forget—he was trained, conditioned. We spent a good chunk of coin getting him ready. And the contract we had him sign wasn't for show."

"A death clause," the first man said, quieter now. "Right. The moment he starts spilling names, his heart stops."

"Exactly. So stop panicking," the second man said, leaning back in his chair. "He talks, he dies. Clean and simple. Even if they caught him, there's nothing they can pull out of him without killing him first."

There was a beat of silence before the first man grumbled, "Still, this delay's costing me. Ever since Count Delric returned, he ordered us to stop collecting from the vendors—or at least only once or twice a week. My pockets are running dry."

The second man scoffed, half-amused. "No surprise there. You spend more coin in brothels than the entire gang spends on weapons. I've seen you call in five girls at once. Who the hell are you, a crown prince?"

"I've got stress, alright?" the first man retorted. "Second-in-command isn't easy. I've got orders coming down from every direction. We're not even at the top of the chain, just stuck between Delric's leash and Kaelen Virell's expectations."

He ran a hand through his hood, sighing. "Speaking of which… you're in the same damn position as me. You got any coin to spare?"

The second man snorted. "Even if I did, I wouldn't hand it over to a guy who burns silver faster than a bonfire. Save what you have. We have more backers other than Delric, but he still controls this region. If he says 'less collection,' then it's less. That cuts into everyone's purse."

"Damn it," the first man muttered, starting to pace again. "Why do we even take orders from him? We're Iron Shield, not Delric's personal errand boys. We've got outside support. We should act like it."

"You're an idiot," the second man said, voice low and dangerous. "Delric is the reason we can collect anything at all without the city watch breathing down our necks. You think just because we've got other sponsors we can ignore him? No. Delric runs Iron Hearth in the shadow. His banner keeps the soldiers off our backs. That's worth more than coin."

The first man fell quiet, grumbling to himself before finally muttering, "Whatever. Kaelen wants a report, anyway."

He turned toward the rear of the room, where a black envelope sat waiting on the table.

"I'll tell him what we know. That Kai's either dead, captured, or too deep to crawl back. Either way, that dog is not coming back. Let's just hope our dear leader doesn't take it out on us."

The second man gave a hollow chuckle.

"Who knows?"

…

In a hidden chamber beneath Iron Hearth—so secret that even most within the Iron Shield gang didn't know it existed—Kaelen Virell stood in silence, a flickering lantern casting sharp shadows across the stone walls.

He held a sealed letter in one gloved hand, the crimson wax still warm. With the other, he sipped slowly from a heavy iron goblet filled with dark wine, the liquid nearly black in the dim light. His cloak trailed behind him like a shadow, his leather coat reinforced with faintly glowing runes—proof not only of wealth, but of magical discipline.

Two rings adorned his fingers: one plain steel, the other an ominous blood-red gem that pulsed faintly with dormant power.

"So… he's either dead or captured?" Kaelen said without looking up, his voice calm—dangerously calm.

The man who had delivered the message flinched but replied, "Y-yes, boss. We haven't received any word from Kai in over three weeks. No coded notes, no relayed signals. Either he is captured… or he's dead."

Kaelen's expression didn't shift, but his eyes narrowed.

Then, in one sudden movement, he hurled the report across the room. It slammed against the stone wall with a sharp crack, landing just inches from the messenger's face.

The man standing before Kaelen stiffened, his breath catching for just a moment. He was the vice-commander of Iron Shield, a man used to wielding authority and commanding others without question. But now, in the presence of him, even a seasoned thug like him looked like a child caught stealing from a noble's table.

Kaelen Virell wasn't just their gang leader—he was a B-rank mage.

In Keldoria, magic was common but power was not. Spells existed, yes—used by washerwomen to keep laundry clean, by farmers to keep their soil moist. But combat magic? Real destructive force? That was a different beast entirely.

Of every hundred who called themselves a "mage," perhaps ten could cast anything more than a spark to be called rankers. And among that tiny rankers, only a rare handful ever ascended to the feared and respected ranks of B-rank or above.

Kaelen Virell was one of them.

"You're sorry?" Kaelen repeated coldly, his voice low and slicing like a sharpened blade. "You think sorry is going to fix this?"

The vice-commander swallowed, his throat dry as sand. "W-we can send another, my lord. A better spy. We'll refine the plan, train him thoroughly. And don't worry—Arthur won't know it's from us. We will plant the Elysian ring, just like before. He'll think it's them."

Kaelen's eyes narrowed, and the air in the room seemed to tighten.

"So?" he snapped, stepping forward, his boots echoing across the chamber. "Do you honestly believe the royal castle hasn't changed their protocols by now? You think we can waltz in the same way twice and no one will notice?"

He waved a gloved hand dismissively. "That breach took three months of scouting. Three months of coin, bribes, and quiet hands to find the flaw in the security. It could be gone by now."

Kaelen's voice dropped to a low growl. "Do you think the nobles who hired us care about excuses? They didn't pay us to try. They paid us to succeed."

He took another long sip from his iron goblet, setting it down with a heavy clink.

"And the one who paid us this time…" His gaze turned icy. "He isn't just some merchant lord or border knight. He's a High Council noble from Elysia. The kind who has his own network of spies—real ones—and enough pull to have us all hunted down if he thinks we failed him."

The man face turned pale as wax.

Kaelen continued, quieter now, but far more dangerous.

"We've got no report. No fallback. No results. Just silence. Which means someone in this room is going to bleed for this if it goes any further."

He leaned closer, his voice like a whispered curse.

"And if he thinks we lied? That we took his gold and gave him nothing but excuses? It won't just be your head on the chopping block. It'll be mine. And believe me—I will not be standing next to you when the blade falls."

The man breath hitched. "I-I understand, boss. I'll make it right. I'll send another spy. Disguised, of course. Different route, different cover. We'll act before security tightens further."

Kaelen folded his arms, considering. "Good. And start pulling more coins from the streets. Vendors, transport routes, minor noble caravans—I don't care. Also not too much so it won't provoke Delric too much, but we're not freezing our income stream for him."

The man hesitated. "I am happy to but... what about Delric words?"

"Delric isn't the king nor the only sponsor we have," Kaelen said bluntly. "We wear his leash so we could move freely through Iron Hearth and to keep us not exposed too much. If he chokes, we pull back. If he turns his head, we bite. Keep things quiet. Smooth. But don't stop."

The man nodded quickly. "Understood."

Kaelen turned back to the table and exhaled slowly, the tension never truly leaving his shoulders.

"Go," he said at last. "We'll give our 'client' a report soon. One way or another."

....

Read the Author note:]