Chapter 35: The Infiltration

　　Dawn in Calldyr arrived with a cold, grey drizzle that slicked the cobblestones and muted the city’s usual clamor. The weather was a blessing, cloaking their movements in a veil of mist and gloom. In the attic of The Drowsy Wyvern, they made their final preparations. They dirtied their newly-cleaned clothes, rubbed soot into their hands and faces, and adopted the slouched, weary posture of day laborers. They were no longer fugitives or cadets; they were ghosts, ready to haunt the halls of power.

　　They left the inn separately, melting into the early morning crowds of workers heading towards the city’s center. Caden’s heart thudded a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a counterpoint to the steady patter of rain. Every step towards the Citadel felt like walking towards a precipice. He kept his head down, his shoulders hunched, his gaze fixed on the wet stones beneath his feet.

　　The delivery gate was just as they had observed: a smaller, utilitarian entrance tucked away from the grand, public facades. A line of carts and wagons waited in the rain, their drivers huddled under cloaks. A single guard, looking miserable and bored under a dripping awning, waved them through with a cursory glance at the drivers’ manifests. The security was lax, designed to process goods quickly, not to scrutinize faces.

　　Violet, Xaden, Garrick, and Rhiannon had already infiltrated the line, blending seamlessly with the other workers. Caden joined them, his stomach a tight knot of anxiety. He saw Xaden exchange a few gruff words with a carter, offering a hand with a heavy crate in exchange for a place on his wagon. It was a simple, effective ruse. They were in.

　　The wagon lurched forward, passing under the massive stone archway. The transition was instantaneous. The noise of the city faded, replaced by the echoing clatter of hooves and wheels on a wide, cobbled courtyard. They were inside the Citadel.

　　The scale of the complex was staggering. White marble buildings rose on all sides, connected by covered walkways and grand staircases. Guards patrolled in disciplined pairs, their armor gleaming even in the dull light. It was a city within a city, a monument to order and control. And they were insects scurrying at its feet.

　　They slipped from the wagon as it stopped near a bustling kitchen entrance, where servants were already unloading crates of vegetables and sides of meat. The air was thick with the smells of baking bread and roasting meat, a stark contrast to their gnawing hunger. But they couldn't afford to linger. They had to disappear.

　　“This way,” Caden murmured, his archivist’s mind superimposing the ancient plans over the reality before him. He led them away from the main thoroughfares, into a narrow service alley that ran between a barracks and a granary. The air grew colder, the light dimmer. They were moving towards the older, functional parts of the Citadel, the bones upon which the marble finery was built.

　　Their destination was a nondescript, iron-bound door set into the base of a massive retaining wall. According to the oldest schematics Caden had ever studied, this was the entrance to the original scriptorium’s undercroft—a network of storage cellars and, crucially, maintenance passages that ran like veins throughout the Citadel’s foundation. It was locked, but the lock was ancient and rusted.

　　Xaden stepped forward. He didn't use force. Instead, he produced a set of thin, metal picks from a hidden pouch—a tool of his former, shadowy life. He worked with a quiet, intense focus, his senses attuned to the slightest sound. After a tense minute, there was a soft, satisfying click. He pushed the door open, revealing a yawning darkness that smelled of damp stone and centuries of dust.

　　They slipped inside, pulling the door shut behind them. The silence was absolute, broken only by the sound of their own breathing and the distant, muffled drip of water. Caden struck a small, hooded lantern he had procured, casting a weak, golden beam into the gloom. They were in a low, vaulted passageway, its walls lined with empty, rotting shelves. They had entered the bloodstream of the Citadel.

　　“Which way?” Violet whispered, her voice echoing softly in the confined space.

　　Caden closed his eyes, visualizing the maps. “The Archives are to the east. The passages should run parallel to the main corridors, but below them.” He pointed down the tunnel. “This way.”

　　They moved in single file, their footsteps echoing ominously. The passage was a maze, branching off into darkness, filled with the detritus of forgotten centuries: broken furniture, piles of crumbled parchment, and the skeletal remains of rats. It was a graveyard of secrets. Caden’s heart ached with a scholar’s longing to explore every niche, but their mission allowed no diversions.

　　After what felt like an eternity of twisting and turning, Caden held up a hand. He pointed to a rusty iron ladder bolted to the wall, leading up to a circular hatch. “This should be it,” he breathed. “This should come up in a disused storage closet adjacent to the main archival reading room.”

　　This was the moment of truth. Beyond this hatch was the inner sanctum, the repository of all the knowledge in Navarre. And the truth they had crossed a continent to find.

　　Xaden went first, climbing the ladder with silent grace. He pressed his ear against the hatch, listening for a long moment. He gave a sharp nod. All clear.

　　He pushed. The hatch didn't budge. It was sealed from the other side. Panic flickered in Caden’s chest. Had they come all this way for nothing?

　　Xaden pushed again, harder, his muscles straining. With a groan of protesting metal and a shower of rust, the hatch gave way, swinging upward. A sliver of dim, dusty light filtered down.

　　Xaden peered through the opening, then slipped through. One by one, they followed, emerging into a small, windowless closet filled with broken chairs and rolled-up maps. A sliver of light shone from under a door.

　　Caden’s hand trembled as he reached for the doorknob. He turned it slowly, praying it wasn't locked.

　　It opened.

　　They stepped out into the Royal Archives of Calldyr.

　　The sight stole the breath from Caden’s lungs. It was a cathedral of knowledge. Endless rows of shelves soared towards a vaulted, painted ceiling. Ladders on rails reached for the highest volumes. The air was still and cool, smelling of old leather, ink, and profound, reverent silence. It was everything the Basgiath Archives aspired to be, but on a scale that was humbling, awe-inspiring.

　　But they had no time for awe. Somewhere in this vastness was the evidence that would bring down a General.

　　They had infiltrated the lion's den. Now, they had to find its heart.

　　Chapter 35 - End