The Versailles Outcasts

Dakota's hand paused mid-air, his mug of ale inches from his lips. The door to the tavern creaked open. Three men walked in. Cloaks billowing behind them, they walked with a sense of purpose, heavy boots impacting the worn floorboards. A hush fell over the patrons, tankards set down quieter, conversations tapering into whispers.

"Mr. Dakota," one of the figures called in a low unmistakable British accent.

Dakota set down his drink, eyes narrowing as he studied the men. Shadows clung to their features, but their posture spoke of the secret military.

"We've been looking for you," another said, stepping closer. His face emerged from the darkness, older, weathered, and stamped with the hard lines of command.

"Have you, now?" Dakota returned, his voice flat. His eyes scanned the trio, instinctively taking in exits and weighing the odds. His hand relaxed toward the knife at his belt.

"Your reputation precedes you." The leader gestured to an empty table in the corner, away from prying ears. "A man of your...talents will prove very useful."

"Useful?" Dakota echoed, the word laced with skepticism. "For your war?"

"Indeed," the third man, a younger officer whose eyes shone bright with an eager light said. "We have your mission orders."

We assure you," the older man continued, "this is an opportunity—"

Opportunities can be wolves in sheepskin," Dakota cut in, eyes flickering to each man in turn

"Versailles," the senior officer said, eyes glinting in the low light. "You'll be our eyes, Dakota. A spy inside the palace walls."

A blade of silence cut through the room. Dakota felt a chill creep along his spine-Versailles was a lion's den, opulent and deadly.

"Uncover their plans," the younger one added, an edge of fervor to his words. "The intelligence you acquire will help determine the fate of the war."

And in his mind's eye, Dakota pictured high-ceilinged halls and furtive, whispering courtiers. To spy at the very core of enemy lands was not a reconnaissance trip. It was the dive into the viper's nest, where even the slightest misstep could become fatal.

His hand closed on his drink, the knuckles whitening. Could he play this dangerous game? Was he prepared to manage this sort of power?

Dakota looked up, his gaze hard and resolute.

"Ok, I'm ready," said Dakota with finality.

"Then we start straight away," said the younger British officer; every word was tinged with urgency. Thus, he reached into his coat to produce a bundle of documents with that care that is born of necessity. "Your new identity. You are now Henri Duval, a nobleman from the province of Burgundy, educated in Paris and recently returned from extensive travels."

Dakota took the papers between his fingers, running them over the elaborate seal. The parchment felt peculiar, yet heavy in his hand—a mantle of deception he was to wear. "Henri Duval," he said softly, trying the name in his mouth.

"Remember," said the older officer, his eyes keen as flint, "Your cover is your lifeline. One slip, and it is ruin."

"Understood, but what about the obvious? My outward appearance?" Dakota folded the documents, tucking them inside his jerkin with painstaking precision.

"Ah, yes. That's why we chose Duval. Your mother is of Persian heritage, with the…dark features," The older officer chimed in.

"Your accent, your mannerisms—they must all be impeccable," the younger one added, his eyes pinning onto Dakota's. "You must become him."

"Duval," Dakota agreed, his jaw set with nodularity. "I shall wear this identity as my armor."

"Good." Satisfaction was stitched in the elder's tone. "Keep your wits about you. Trust no one."

"Trust is a luxury I cannot afford," Dakota replied.

Silence. A few looks back and forth.

"Welcome to the service of His Majesty, Henri Duval."

The creaking of the tavern door swung it open, and a gust of night air seemed to clear the remnants of smoke and doubt from the room.

Versailles awaits, his mind whispered as his silhouette merged with the darkness beyond. The promise of dawn still clung to the horizon, a herald of the dangerous dance to come.

"Study this," the older officer said, pressing a sheaf of papers into Dakota's hands. Though they had left the tavern, the smell of damp wood and burning candlewax clung to the air of their secluded chamber. Dakota's fingers moved over the parchment, tracing the intricate layout of Versailles. "The King's quarters, here. The Hall of Mirrors, there."

"And the key figures?" Dakota asked, his eyes not leaving the map.

"Ministers, generals, courtesans." A list was thrust under his nose. "Learn their faces. Know their secrets."

"Discretion?"

"Dead drops. Encoded missives." The junior officer tapped his finger against innocuous locations scattered across the blueprint. "Never the same place twice."

"Training starts tomorrow," the older one said shortly, as if time was in short supply.

They ran him through drills, relentless and exacting.

"Again," the younger snarled as Dakota negotiated an obstacle course designed to sharpen his senses. He ducked and dodged, sliding into darkness with a budding confidence.

"Deceit," the elder intoned, presenting scenarios fraught with danger. Dakota spun lies that wove into truths, his stories painting pictures so vivid his trainers doubted their memories.

"Good," they would say, but Dakota heard only 'better.'

"Focus on details-trivialities can betray you." They peppered him with questions on culture, customs, and the delicate intricacies of nobility. He absorbed it all, a sponge thirsting for knowledge promising survival.

"Blend in, yet be apart," the elder said during one of his many subtlety and observation lessons. Dakota hovered at the fringes, his presence forgotten, yet he missed nothing-invisible sentinel among the hordes of imagined courtiers.

"Adapt," the younger urged when throwing Dakota into ever-changing situations. He twisted, adapted, overcame.

"Your mind has to be a fortress," they hammered home, tempting his will with temptations as much as with threats. The temptations and threats alike remained ineffective before the unbeaten walls of Dakota's mind, wherein his purpose shone as a beacon across the unending psychological onslaught.

"Enough," Dakota declared one evening, his voice firm and his stance unyielding. The officers shared a glance-a silent concession to his readiness.

"Then it is time," said the elder, handing him a ring with a hidden compartment and a thin stiletto strapped to his forearm-appliances of the trade for a man about to dance with death.

"Versailles won't know what hit it," Dakota promised, his pulse steady, his will as sharp as a blade whetted to kill.

No longer was he simply Dakota, but he had become Henri Duval, a wraith off to haunt the sparkling halls of a palace mired in secrets.

Dakota emerged into the pre-dawn gloom, Boston's silhouette a jagged edge against the sky. The cobblestones whispered beneath his boots as he made his way down to the docks.

A ship awaited them, its sails ghostly apparitions in the half-light, its rigging groaning with the eager wind. Men scurried over the deck, their figures fleeting and bent to preparation. Dakota was just another among many such travelers.

"Le Renard," the captain greeted, gruff, nodding as Dakota ascended the gangplank.

"Ready?" The captain's voice cut through the morning hush, an anchor to the present.

"Let us set sail." Dakota kept his reply terse.

The wooden planks creaked beneath his feet as he moved to the bow, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Lurching forward, surrendering to the sea's embrace, with that vessel went Dakota, leaving behind colonial soil.

He reached into his pocket and touched the coin hidden there, pressed against his chest. The tools of his trade—the quill, the sealed instructions—lay secure in his inner coat, near the pulse of his resolve.

Beneath, the water churned, waves frothing white as they cut their way toward destiny. The salt-laden wind whipped through Dakota's hair, pulling at the edges of his focus and tugging him toward the beckoning future with its promise of peril.

"Versailles," he whispered to the sea.

With each crest they rode, with each trough they endured, France drew closer.

He was the hunter, poised at the edge of a world draped in silk and secrets, the honed weapon aimed at the heart of deception. The game was set, the players oblivious to the wildcard in their company.

With the first light of dawn as his witness, Dakota set off toward France, to the heart of Versailles.