The Exiled Duke's Lottery system

Day One

The first morning of the industrial holiday arrived over Iron Junction with a silence so profound it felt unnatural to those who lived beneath its chimneys.

For three continuous days, Durn had lived by the pulse of Foundry Bay Four—the deafening, rhythmic crash of hammers, the white-hot roar of the blast furnaces, and the acrid smell of ozone and molten ore that burned the back of his throat. Now, as he stood at the corner of Foundry Street, the gigantic iron complex sat silent and dead. The tall brick stacks exhaled only thin wisps of grey smoke, cooling down for forty-eight hours of scheduled maintenance. The overhead cranes rested above empty casting pits like giant, rusted iron skeletons.

For an undercover operative, the silence was far more dangerous than the noise. In the thunder of the foundry, a man could watch, observe, and blend into the chaos. In the quiet of a holiday morning, every lingering glance carried weight.

Yet the holiday brought a different kind of cover: crowds.

Tens of thousands of off-shift laborers, foundry hands, boiler techs, and railway workers flooded into the streets. Markets bulged with pushcarts; public houses unlatched their heavy wooden shutters hours before noon; and families strolled along the soot-stained stone bridges, children darting beneath the glass globes of unlit mana lamps.

It was an environment where a single voice was lost in a sea of babble—and loose lips, lubricated by cheap malt ale, invariably spilled what they should have kept secret.

The Broken Piston tavern

Durn adjusted the collar of his coarse, grease-stained canvas tunic. He looked entirely like a tired furnace laborer off for his day of rest. A few paces behind him walked Thorne, dressed in a faded brown coat, and Ghara, her long dark hair tucked loosely beneath a woolen scarf.

"Keep your distance," Durn muttered over his shoulder without turning his head. "We enter separately. Watch the room."

"I know how a tavern works, Durn," Thorne grunted softly, eyes scanning the street. "Just try not to look like you’re attending a funeral."

They turned down a narrow, cobbled alleyway lined with coal chutes and entered The Broken Piston, a low-ceilinged drinking den that smelled of stale ale, pipe tobacco, and roasted barley.

The tavern was already half-full by mid-morning. Sawdust covered the sticky floorboards, and low timber beams groaned under the weight of the floors above.

Durn walked up to the bartender, dropped two copper bits onto the worn wood, and received a heavy mug of dark, bitter stout. He carried it to a corner bench near a row of glass windows, sitting with his back against the timber wall. Thorne took a stool near the doorway, casually shuffling a deck of worn playing cards, while Ghara slid into a booth near the kitchen, pulling a small loaf of dark bread from her basket.

To Durn’s left, a table of five foundry hands from Bay Six were drowsy, shouting over one another, arguing with the loud, slurred passion.

Durn rested his elbows on the wooden table, staring down into his dark ale, letting his ears tune into their conversation.

"—telling you, it had wings!" a broad-shouldered smith slammed his mug onto the table, splashing stout over his knuckles. "I was on the midnight scrap haul! High up on the gantry crane, right near Furnace Three!"

"You were blind drunk on ale, Marcus," another worker snorted, waving a dismissive, grease-blackened hand. "There aren’t any dragons in the lower foundries."

"It wasn’t a dragon! It was a mechanical beast! Had a lifting arm long as an oak tree and teeth like iron spikes!"

"It was a heavy demolition crane, you idiot," a third worker barked, triggering a chorus of booming laughter across the table. "They brought it in from Titanworks to tear out the old brick lining in Bay Three!"

Durn hid a faint smirk behind his mug. Urban legends. The common workers saw Elarion’s industrial machinery and turned it into monster tales. Half of what circulated in the lower sectors was complete nonsense—exaggerations born of soot, exhaustion, and liquor.

He waited patiently. Filtering intelligence was like panning for gold in a muddy river; you had to wash away tons of silt before finding a single grain of metal.

Twenty minutes passed. The drunkenness at the adjacent table deepened, and the topic shifted from mythical crane-monsters to the mundane misery of shift work.

"I hate the western sidings," a rail mechanic complained, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. "Two nights ago, my shift got held over four hours. FOUR hours! No extra brass, no hot broth, just standing in the rain while the watch cleared Platform Four."

Durn’s gaze remained fixed on his mug, but his mind instantly sharpened.

"What were they moving?" another asked casually. "More ore from Ironheart?"

"Didn’t look like ore," the mechanic muttered, leaning closer to his companions. "Covered freight cars. Dark iron plating on the sides. Had a full squad of high-tier guards standing around with those guns. Wouldn’t let us within fifty yards of the switch track."

"Military logistics," the smith grunted, taking a deep drink. "Always moving iron around before a holiday. Probably Warhound parts bound for the border."

The mechanic shook his head. "Didn’t see any chassis. Too small for a Warhound haul. Looked like a secure transport vault."

A supervisor shouted from the doorway, calling several of the men toward another round, and the conversation fractured into chaotic babble once more.

Smelter’s Rest tavern

Durn took a slow,sip of his ale. A covered vault car on Siding Four. Guarded by military forces.

He caught Thorne’s eye across the room. A subtle flick of Durn’s wrist signaled it was time to move.

The Smelter’s Rest was the undisputed turf of railway workers, steam-switch operators, and yard clerks. The constant shudder of heavy freight trains passing overhead vibrated through the stone walls, rattling the mugs hanging from the ceiling hooks.

Durn entered alone this time. He surveyed the room through the thick cloud of pipe smoke.

Near the iron hearth sat a group of three men wearing the heavy leather aprons and brass-buttoned vests of senior line mechanics. They looked exhausted, their faces streaked with dust and machine grease .On the table between them lay a folded stack of train routing schedules.

Durn bought a mug of dark brown ale and three clean mugs. He walked directly toward their table.

"Mind if I sit, brothers?" Durn asked, his voice rough and low, perfectly imitating a tired laborer. "The bar is packed solid."

The oldest of the three—a burly man with a grey-streaked beard and a missing index finger—looked up, squinted at Durn’s grease-stained tunic, and gestured toward an empty wooden stool. "Take a seat. Long as you aren’t a shift supervisor."

"If I were a supervisor, I’d be drinking wine in the upper ward," Durn said, setting the mug down and filling their mugs without asking. "Foundry Bay Four went cold this morning. My back feels like it was hit by a steam hammer."

The old mechanic chuckled, greedily pulling the free mug toward himself. "Ah, Bay Four. Spent two years there before I transferred to the yard switches. I’m Jarek."

"Durn."

"Well, Durn, drink up. The holiday only lasts forty-eight hours, and then we’re back to hauling cargol for Lord Lucien’s endless machine."

They drank together. Durn played his role seamlessly—complaining about long shifts, bad food, and the brutal quotas demanded. Within half an hour, he had established himself as just another overworked gear in Elarion’s grand clockwork.

Durn refilled Jarek’s mug for the third time. "Heard a rumor over at The Piston that the western yards were locked down two nights ago. Some lads said a military shipment came through."

Jarek snorted into his mug. "A rumor? Hell, I was the poor bastard who had to inspect the coupling pins on that engine!"

Durn leaned in slightly, resting his elbows on the rough table, making sure his curiosity appeared casual and unhurried. "Real military haul, then? Warhounds?"

"Hell No," Jarek leaned closer,"Not the machines themselves. An armored train. Just one engine, two guard cars, and a single locked vault car in the middle."

"A vault car?" Durn frowned, playing skeptical. "What’s in a vault car on a holiday weekend? Gold?"

"Gold?" Jarek laughed aloud, waving a hand dismissively. "Elarion doesn’t ship gold in vault cars, mate. Gold is useless compared to what was inside that steel box."

The mechanic sitting beside Jarek—a younger man with thin features and greasy hands—looked around nervously before speaking in a hushed tone. "Careful, Jarek. Those were classified manifests."

"Ah, mind your own business, Gort," Jarek snapped, though he lowered his voice. He looked back at Durn. "My brother-in-law works dispatch in the central yard office. He saw the transfer order stamped by the High Command. It wasn’t gold, Durn. It was paper."

Durn’s heart started beating hard, but his face remained a mask of dull indifference. "Paper? They put armored guards around paper?"

"Not just paper," Jarek whispered, his eyes glinting. "Master technical archives. Original blueprints. They’re transferring a set of primary production schematics out of the central vault down to Titanworks for safe storage before the holidays ends."

"Blueprints for what?" Durn asked softly.

Jarek grinned, leaning back and taking a long swig of ale. "The Warhound. The original chassis and mana-core schematics. The very designs that built this dukedom’s army."

Durn stared at him for a beat, letting a quiet, scoffing laugh escape his lips. "Warhound blueprints on a train that too on holiday? You’ve had too much stout, Jarek. Why would they move those now?"

"Because nobody’s looking at the rails on a holiday!" Jarek insisted, tapping his finger hard against the table. "The civilian lines are dead! The main switches are clear! They can run the train through Platform Four tomorrow morning under quiet escort, stash it in the Titanworks vault, and nobody is the wiser!"

Durn looked at the old mechanic for a long moment, then slowly nodded, as if finally convinced by the man’s absolute conviction.

"Well," Durn murmured, lifting his mug. "Glad I’m just a foundry hand. Sounds like too much trouble for my blood."

"Too much trouble for anyone’s blood," Jarek agreed heartily, clinking his mug against Durn’s.

An hour later, Durn quietly slipped out of The Smelter’s Rest, disappearing into the winding alleys of the lower district.

While Durn gathered rumors in the smoke of the taverns, Pib and Aldis were conducting a far quieter, far more precise investigation at the Central Railway Terminus.

The main passenger concourse was sprawling and majestic—a cavernous hall of black iron arches and stained glass through which shafts of golden sunlight cut through the rising steam. Holiday travelers milled about by the hundreds, but Pib’s eyes were fixed on the restricted boards near the stationmaster’s office.

Pib stood near a marble pillar, holding an opened newspaper in front of his face. Ten paces away, Aldis sat slumped on a heavy wooden bench, his head tilted back against the wall, eyes closed as if fast asleep.

"You look ridiculous," Pib muttered beneath the edge of his paper, not moving his lips.

Aldis didn’t open his eyes. "I am practicing the art of invisible surveillance."

"You look like a corpse that fell off a luggage cart."

"I am observing the reflection in the brass clock casing across the hall," Aldis replied smoothly. "The military courier just left the stationmaster’s inner door. He’s carrying a crimson-sealed dispatch pouch."

Pib adjusted his newspaper slightly, tracking the uniformed courier as the man moved briskly through the civilian crowd toward the restricted western platform gates.

"He’s heading toward Platform Four," Pib noted silently. "The guards at the gate didn’t even check his papers. They recognized his unit crest."

A railway clerk emerged from the office moments later, carrying a wooden ladder and a paste bucket. He climbed up to the restricted scheduling board—a black iron frame reserved purely for internal rail operations—and pasted a fresh slip of yellow paper into the corner slot.

Pib waited until a group of loud, laughing holiday travelers blocked the view of the platform guards. Then, moving with smooth, unhurried grace, he drifted closer to the board.

The notice was brief, crisp, and coded:

TRANS-SECTOR PRIORITY MOVEMENT // PLATFORM 04 UNIT ID: ARMORED-VAULT 09 DEPARTURE WINDOW: 08:00-09:30 (HOLIDAY DAY TWO) ROUTING: WESTERN SPUR -> SPUR TERMINUS TITANWORKS SECURITY LEVEL: RED // ARMED ESCORT ATTACHED

Pib memorized every character, every digit, every letter. He turned slowly, returning to the bench where Aldis still lay motionless.

"Get up," Pib murmured, walking past. "We have what we need."

Aldis opened his eyes, rising fluidly to his feet. "Departure tomorrow morning?"

"0800 sharp," Pib confirmed as they merged into the outgoing crowd. "Platform Four."

Across the city, along the perimeter wall surrounding the western railway gates, Elenwe and Renna were tracking the physical security layout.

They sat at a small outdoor tea stall overlooking the rail junction. Elenwe had a small sketchpad on her knee, pretending to draw the architectural arches of the city gate, while Renna quietly logged guard rotations.

"Look at the guard house," Renna whispered, leaning over her cup. "Yesterday there were four watchmen in standard green tunics. Today there are eight. Four of them are wearing heavy steel breastplates and carrying those sticks."

"I see them," Elenwe said, her pencil moving across the paper in rapid, precise strokes. "They’ve also erected two temporary checkpoint posts along the access road. Look at the stones near the gate—

"They are locking down the perimeter around Platform Four," Renna murmured, her brow furrowing slightly. "Whatever is sitting on that track, they don’t want anyone getting within two hundred yards of it."

Elenwe finished a sketch of the guard tower, closing her book with a soft snap. "Or they want to make sure that anyone who does approach has to use a very specific entrance."

Renna looked at her. "You think it’s a trap?"

"I think Elarion’s military does not leave technical documents sitting on an open train car by accident," Elenwe said quietly. "Let’s return to the cellar. Vale needs to see this."

Night fell over Iron Junction, painting the cold smokestacks against a dark canopy of stars. The city’s mana lamps flared to life, casting brilliant blue and amber halos across the quiet streets.

One by one, utilizing different routes and checking for tails, the eight slipped into the dark alley behind the ruined grain warehouse,descending the narrow, crumbling brick steps into the damp cellar beneath the foundation.

A single oil lamp burned low on a wooden shipping crate, illuminating the pale, tired faces of the group.

Vale stood at the head of the crate, a detailed map of Iron Junction’s rail network spread out before him.

Durn spoke first, recounting every word of his conversation with Jarek at The Smelter’s Rest, supported by Thorne and Ghara’s observations from the other taverns.

When Durn finished, Pib laid his scribbled notes onto the map directly over Siding Four. "Departure is set for 08:00 tomorrow. Armored vault car. Single engine. Routing directly down the western rails toward Titanworks."

Elenwe placed her sketches beside Pib’s notes. "Security has doubled along the western gate. Checkpoints, armed patrols. They have turned Platform Four into a fortress."

The cellar was deathly silent for several long seconds, save for the faint hum of the city’s distant mana grid.

Aldis leaned against a support beam, rubbing his chin. "So it all matches. The loose talk in the taverns, the restricted schedules at the station, the sudden security surge at the gate. Everything points to one thing: they are moving Warhound master blueprints out of the city during the holiday window."

"It matches too well," Ghara said, her eyes dark with suspicion. "We spent three days hitting brick walls, asking questions, getting nowhere. Now, suddenly, the exact blueprints we came across an impossible distance to find are being hauled right past our noses on a train?"

"It’s convenient," Durn admitted, staring at the map. "Extremely convenient. It smells like a trap."

"If it’s a trap, why wrap it in layered security?" Aldis countered sharply. "Why hide the schedule on a restricted board? Why double the guard detail at the gate? If Lord of this territory wanted us to take a fake prize, he’d make it easy for us!"

"Unless he knows who we are," Elenwe pointed out quietly. "Unless he knows that if he made it easy, we would never take the bait. A cautious operative only trusts a prize that looks difficult, dangerous, and hard-won."

All eyes turned to Vale.

The leader had remained silent throughout the entire discussion, his dark eyes fixed on the red line marking the western railway spur.

"A trap leaves marks," Vale said, his voice low and steady, carrying an absolute authority. "A genuine military transport also leaves marks. In our profession, the two look almost identical until the moment the cage closes."

He looked up, meeting the eyes of each of the seven in turn.

"We do not strike blindly," Vale declared. "And we do not break into Platform Four tonight while the guards are fully entrenched."

"Then what is the plan?" Thorne asked.

"Tomorrow morning at 08:00, the train will move," Vale said, pointing his finger along the western track line on the map. "When a train is stationary, the security is absolute. Once it is in motion, its security becomes fluid. It must pass through open region, through narrow tunnels, and over isolated bridges before it reaches Titanworks."

Vale’s eyes hardened. "We will follow the train from a distance. We will observe its speed, its guard placement, and how they handle the vault car. If the shipment is real and an opportunity presents itself... we take the blueprints."

"And if it is a trap?" Durn asked softly.

Vale offered a dark, faint smile. "Then we force them to reveal who is holding the leash."

Vale reached down and pinched the wick of the oil lamp.

The flame vanished, plunging the subterranean cellar into total, pitch-black darkness.

Above them, three miles away across the quiet, starlit tracks of Sector Four, an armored locomotive rested on platform Four. Its heavy hull glinted under the harsh glare of mana-floodlights. Inside the dark, reinforced vault car coupled behind the tender, a wooden chest sat locked and sealed with red wax.

Inside the chest lay thick, crisp sheets of parchment covered in stunning, meticulously drawn master schematics for the Warhound armored transport—complete with intricate engine tolerances that were engineered to fail, and alloy formulas that would turn molten steel into useless slag.

And in the high towers of Elarion, Lord of elarion sat by his window, watching the stars above the silent foundries, waiting patiently for the morning sun to rise.

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