Althea guided Roland down a narrow side street where the early market hadn't yet set up its stalls. The timbered buildings here were closer together, their upper stories overhanging like watchful sentries. Only a few lanterns burned, and the usual morning clamor was replaced by hushed footsteps and distant calls of vendors preparing their wares.
"First," Althea whispered, "we learn to move unseen." She slipped behind a barrel stack, crouching low. Roland mirrored her, knees bent, hands hovering at his belt. She drew a deep breath. "Notice how the guards and townsfolk walk in predictable lines—along the center of the street. If you hug the shadows by the walls, you blend with the environment."
Roland squinted down the alley. "So stay close to walls, avoid open spaces…" he murmured, testing the new tactic by sidling along the stone. He found his steps softer, less conspicuous.
"Good," Althea said, rising and brushing dust from her skirt. "Next: disguise and props." She reached into her satchel and pulled out a faded hooded cloak—one that looked like it belonged to a traveling peddler rather than royalty. She draped it over Roland's shoulders.
Roland looked down at the simple gray fabric, then at Althea's own tunic and trousers. "I look like an apprentice bard," he said, surprised.
She smiled. "Exactly. No one will presume a minstrel's apprentice can stop a blade." She plucked a battered lute case from a nearby ledge and handed it to Roland. "Carry this. Even if you're not a bard, the prop distracts."
Roland slung the case over his back, testing the weight. "Feels awkward—like carrying a shield."
Althea chuckled. "Use it as one, if need be. But mostly, it tells people, 'I'm harmless.'"
They walked back toward the main street—Roland now low-profile under his bard's guise. They passed two merchants; one glanced at Roland's lute case, then at Althea, and offered a curt nod. No suspicion flickered across his face.
"See?" Althea whispered. "You're just another face in the crowd."
Roland nodded, heart pounding with the thrill of anonymity.
Next, she led him to the central plaza where a few late vendors were laying out rolls of cloth. "Conceal your valuables where no one will look," she advised. She pointed to his belt pouches. "Move them inside your cloak, against your chest. If someone tries to pick you, they'll only find empty fabric."
He adjusted his pouches accordingly. "Feels safer already."
Althea's eyes twinkled. "Now for feigned weakness." She raised an eyebrow. "Never show full strength. Make people underestimate you."
Roland frowned. "But that feels… dishonest."
She placed a hand on his arm. "It's self-preservation. If they see you as harmless, they won't target you."
Moments later, a burly coachman trundled by, reins in hand and a scowl on his face. Althea let the hood slip forward, shadowing her face, and slumped her shoulders. Roland mimicked her posture, clutching the lute case. The coachman passed within feet of them without a glance.
They shared a satisfied grin.
Althea guided Roland back into a quieter alley, where she produced two small vials from her satchel: one of pale yellow powder, one of fine black ash. "Ward dust," she murmured. "Sprinkle the black ash at your feet when you enter a building. It dulls footprints. The yellow powder is a mild sedative—if you need a quick escape, toss it into torches to create a sleep-inducing smoke."
Roland's eyes widened. "You carry this routinely?"
She nodded. "Better to be prepared for more than swords."
Roland tucked the vials into hidden pockets. He felt the weight of each, both a comfort and a reminder of unseen threats.
They exited the alley near the keep's walls and paused beneath a sculpted archway. Althea lowered her voice. "The final lesson: mental readiness. You must remain calm when danger strikes."
She pointed to a group of children playing tag by the fountain. "See how they ignore the guards? They live without fear because they trust the world around them. We adults… we carry fear like armor. To survive, we must unlearn some of it."
Roland watched as a child stumbled and laughed, her friends racing away without hesitation. He breathed deeply, letting the morning's tension slip away.
Althea placed a hand on his shoulder. "Fear keeps you alive—but too much makes you a prisoner. Trust in your skills, in preparation, and in your allies."
Roland absorbed her words. He felt a shift—a clarity born of training, disguise, and mental fortitude.
They walked through the keep gates and into the courtyard where the rest of the scouts were assembling. Talia glanced at Roland's bard's cloak and lute case, then at Althea's unadorned attire, and arched an eyebrow.
Althea stepped forward. "Roland will lead today's undercover mission: infiltrating the bazaar in disguise to gather intelligence on bandit sympathizers."
Talia's eyes lit. "Sounds perfect." She clapped Roland on the shoulder. "Show them your performance."
Roland swallowed, adjusting his lute case. "Yes, sergeant."
As the scouts dispersed, Roland turned to Althea. "Thank you—for everything. I feel… safer already."
She smiled, removing the hood. "You're welcome, Roland. Remember—do not let anyone see the real you. Stay hidden in plain sight."
Roland nodded. In that moment, he knew he carried more than sword or medallion: he carried lessons of self-preservation that could mean the difference between life and death.
And as he adjusted his cloak and stepped toward the bustling bazaar, he felt himself becoming exactly what he needed to be: a ghost in the crowd, watching, listening, and ready for whatever secrets the day might reveal.