Lamplight danced across canvas walls that reeked of sweat and weapon oil. Maiko stepped into the command tent, his boots silent on the worn rugs. The air hung dense with pipe smoke. Seven figures sat in their semicircle, conversations dying mid-sentence as they turned toward him.

  Commander Raido occupied the table's head, his broad frame casting long shadows. When he looked up, his austere face revealed nothing, but his fingers drummed once against the wooden surface.

  Maiko pressed his hand to his chest, fingers curled into claws, trembling as if to tear his heart out. “Glory, I have returned.”

  As one, the group mirrored him, their hands rising to their chests in the same claw, fingers rigid in the Hearts Vow. “Glory,” they intoned together, their voices swift and uniform, a resonant chant echoing through the chamber.

  Marsy broke the silence first, tilting her head so the lamplight caught the red in her hair. Her smile was all teeth. "Maiko, Maiko, what took you so long? I was getting worried." She drew out the last word, letting it hang.

  "Right, Marsy." Brasin leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning under the shift. His fingers traced small patterns across his nails, slow and deliberate. "He dragged his feet. Time's everything for us scouts." His pale eyes flicked up. "I was back two days ago. Try keeping up."

  Heat crawled up Maiko's neck. "Are you being serious, Brasin? I'm an attack speciality eterna. Do you really think I can cover such distances as fast as you speed eternas?"

  "Excuses." Brasin smiled. "No wonder you washed out as an assassin with useless remarks like that."

  Maiko's fists clenched so hard his nails bit into his palms. The tent fell silent except for the distant sound of wind against canvas.

  Then Sage cut in, her words sharp as breaking glass. "What nonsense are you spouting, Brasin?" She sat forward. "I got back four days ago. What's your excuse, when we're both speed eternas?" Her dark eyes burned into him with furnace intensity.

  Brasin's mouth opened, but Raido's hand rose—a subtle motion that somehow drew all sound from the tent.

  "Enough of this nonsense."

  Brasin hissed through his teeth but settled back like a chastened dog.

  "Take your seat, Maiko." Raido said. "Your timing's no issue. I want your report."

  “Yes, Commander.” Maiko sat in the empty chair beside Sage. "I completed the initial scouting. Most locations held nothing noteworthy—each town has a few eternas as expected, villages fewer still. Their defenses match their size." He paused briefly. "I've compiled a list of ideal targets for the Semlong attack—those sufficiently removed from the Astral Guard's immediate radar."

  Raido nodded, and for a moment his approval warmed Maiko more than the lamplight. "Good work. Let's hear it."

  Maiko drew a breath that tasted of smoke and old canvas. "Before that—there's something else."

  The commander’s eyes sharpened. "What is it?"

  "I sighted Astralyn's Reaper in one of the villages I scouted."

  Every head snapped toward him.

  Brasin barked a laugh. "What's this? You expect us to believe that?"

  Brute shifted in his chair, the massive man's bulk making the furniture groan. "Was he just passing through, Maiko?".

  "No. He was clearly a resident of that village."

  Marsy's grin turned razor-thin, all warmth draining from her expression. "Oh, please. What? Sagan the Reaper, playing farmer in some backwater village? Do you take us for buffoons?"

  Brasin seized the opening like a starving man grabbing bread. "Oh, I can play this game too, Maiko! Guess who I saw in some rundown village—'Killer' Azrael and 'Frenzy' Malik, yes, two of Astralyn's esteemed generals, just sitting there sharing a drink!"

  "Hilarious, Brasin." Marsy's reply dripped poison. "You know what? I saw them too!"

  Their laughter felt like needles against Maiko's skin. His jaw ached from clenching it.

  "Enough speculation," Raido said. "Maiko, even if the Reaper's there, we can just avoid that village. It's not worth the risk."

  Maiko’s fingers pressed into the armrest. "That’s not an option. I sighted him at Okorodu Village."

  Raido's eyebrows climbed his forehead. "The possible location of the special package? The one you were hunting all those years?"

  "Yes. I've confirmed that she's there, and because of her, Okorodu Village is the one and only target that cannot be avoided."

  At the table's far end, Sudion came alive like a corpse twitching back to life. His gaunt face twisted with delight, hollow cheeks stretching into a twisted, malicious smile. "Eheheheh! This is truly amazing. So we can have a real feast instead of scraps." He licked his bony fingers with deliberate slowness and smeared the saliva across his face. "Eheheheh."

  The sound of it made Marsy jerk backward as if stung, the word 'freak' forming soundlessly on her lips.

  Raido turned to his second-in-command. "What do you think, Brute?"

  "If he's truly there, then there's nothing much to discuss. We'll have to confront him," Brute said. "I don't believe he's so powerful that we can't handle him."

  "I agree." Raido's gaze shifted to Sage, who sat straight as a drawn bowstring. "You'll go to Okorodu Village and confirm this sighting, and if you can do so without Sagan's knowledge, check for any other unforeseen variables there."

  "Yes, Commander."

  Maiko leaned forward. "Commander—"

  Raido's raised hand cut him off. "It's not that I don't trust you, Maiko, but this information is too important to the mission to accept without confirmation."

  "Understood, Commander."

  "Sage, be careful." Brute's warning was grave. "You may be the fastest out of all of us, but that means nothing in front of that man."

  Sage rose, her shadow dancing across the tent walls. "Yes. I'll head out tonight."

  As she moved toward the exit, the lamplight caught the steel in her eyes.

  That same night, in Okorodu Village the air held the scent of woodsmoke and something else—something that made Ragnar's nostrils flare with unease. Sagan stood in the shadows beyond the village square, his breath misting slightly in the cool air. Marcus shifted from foot to foot beside him, the young guard's nervousness evident in every fidget and glance.

  "So, did you find out anything, Marcus?"

  "I apologize, Sir. I don't really have much for you." Marcus's tone bore disappointment, as if his failure was a personal affront.

  Sagan's response remained patient, gentle even. "It's fine. Just tell me everything that happened."

  Marcus nodded quickly, words spilling out in a rush. "Right after you left the market square, he said his goodbyes to Sam and started making his way out. I kept watching—but in the next moment, he was gone. Like smoke, sir. I'm sorry, but I can't even tell you whether he left the village."

  "I see… Thank you, Marcus. Don't beat yourself up—you did well."

  "Thank you, sir. I'm glad to be of help." Relief flooded the guard's speech. "I'll excuse myself now—I have to report for patrol duty."

  His footsteps faded into the darkness, leaving only the distant sound of night insects and the soft whisper of wind through the village streets.

  This was to be expected, Ragnar's mental communication rumbled in Sagan's mind. If Marcus could keep up, we'd have had nothing to worry about.

  "Something is amiss, Ragnar." Sagan's hand rested on his companion's massive flank, feeling the tension coiled in those powerful muscles.

  Yes. There's a foul smell in the air.

  Before either could elaborate, the sound of approaching footsteps cut through the night—purposeful, aggressive strides that announced anger before their owner came into view. Chief Janson emerged from between two houses, his face dark with fury, hands clenched at his sides.

  "Did I see right just now? Why did it look like that guard was reporting to you, Sagan?"

  "Because he was, Chief Janson." Sagan's words held no apology, no attempt to soften the truth.

  Veins bulged on Janson's forehead, pulsing in the moonlight. "Was I not clear about who's in charge? Why is it that when I'm just out taking my night stroll, I catch you mocking me once more?"

  "I'm sorry—I cannot speak to your insecurities."

  "Tch!" Spittle flew from Janson's lips. "Have you forgotten what I know?!"

  The threat had barely left his mouth when Ragnar's growl filled the night air—low, menacing, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the ground itself. The massive bear moved from Sagan's side with deliberate intent, each paw step silent despite his enormous size. He began to circle Janson, golden eyes reflecting the moonlight like coins.

  Janson stumbled backward, his earlier bravado evaporating like morning mist. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. Sagan watched him, gazing in silent disappointment, as if beholding a fortress built of brittle twigs.

  Steady, Ragnar. Leave the little man alone.

  Tell him to watch his tone, came the sharp reply, tinged with barely restrained violence.

  Catching Sagan's pitying gaze, Janson's face flushed crimson. Shame and anger warred in his expression, neither winning, both feeding the other in an ugly spiral.

  "In… in fact, it's amazing that I caught you." The words tumbled out in a desperate rush, as if sputtering could somehow reclaim his dignity from where it lay trampled in the dirt. "I was meaning to speak to you before you left. I have a job for you when you get to Reldo Town."

  His eyes darted between Sagan and Ragnar, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool night air. The important thing was that Sagan would take the job. That much, at least, he could still control. That much was still his.

  Back to the present, the morning after Osaze’s birthday brought them to the lobby of Reldo Town Hall, where polished marble floors caught early sunlight streaming through tall windows. The scent of beeswax and parchment hung in the air, mingling with the faint mustiness of old wood and formal authority. High ceilings stretched overhead like cathedral vaults, their shadows broken by refined columns that seemed to watch over the proceedings below.

  Osaze and Zen, however, remained undeterred by these dignified surroundings.

  The sound of their shoes scuffing against marble echoed through the formal space as the two boys sparred, their movements quick and playful. Osaze bounced on his toes before launching two quick punches toward Zen's midsection. The whoosh of displaced air accompanied Zen's theatrical dodge, his body twisting away with exaggerated grace.

  "Wacha!" Zen's shout rang off the polished walls as he chopped toward Osaze's neck with the flat of his hand. His grin was all mockery and mischief as Osaze stumbled to the side, arms windmilling for balance. "Is that all, hero boy!"

  Himeko sat beside Sagan on a wooden bench worn smooth by countless visitors, her hand shifting restlessly against the seat, never quite still. How can they be so rowdy? The thought flickered through her mind as she watched a group of clerks pause in their hurried passage, their faces shifting from bewilderment to scandalized disapproval. Do they not know where we are?

  One clerk whispered something urgent to another, their robes rustling like autumn leaves as they hurried away, heads shaking in unified dismay.

  Sagan appeared lost in thought, his gaze fixed on something beyond the physical world. The morning light cast sharp angles across his lined features, highlighting the tension around his eyes.

  Are you really going through with that pathetic man's request? Ragnar's mental exchange bore the rumble of distant thunder.

  If he's pathetic, what does that make me? Sagan's response held weary humor.

  I don't know—Pathetic Junior!

  A soft chuckle escaped Sagan's lips, drawing a curious glance from Himeko. He simply asked me to offer my services as a gift from him. Cocky as that may be, the issue at hand is one some might say I should have handled already. If he'd made an unreasonable request, we wouldn't be here right now.

  Nonsense! You know what he means by doing this—he wishes to present you as his lackey, Sagan!

  I know. Sagan's slight smile held the edge of anticipation. But I wonder how that will turn out for him.

  The sharp rap of knuckles against wood cut through their mental conversation. A clerk emerged from the council chamber, his posture stiff with formal protocol. "Sir Stirling, they will see you now."

  "Yes." Sagan rose in one fluid motion, the leather of his coat creaking softly. "Wait out here," he called to the children, his tone leaving no room for debate. "I agreed to let you come, but you can't enter the—"

  Before the sentence could fully leave his mouth, Osaze had sprinted past him like a bolt loosed from a crossbow. The boy's footsteps hammered against the marble as he burst through the chamber doors without breaking stride. Sagan watched him disappear and released a long breath that tasted of resignation.

  Inside the chamber, Osaze struck a dramatic pose before the assembled officials, his arms thrown wide as if embracing the entire world. "I present the world's great OSAZE ADEOTI and his henchmen!" His announcement rang with shameless bravado. He raised his hands high in triumph, basking in what he clearly expected to be universal adoration.

  Zen looked at his father with an expression that mixed exasperation and secondhand embarrassment, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his friend's spectacular social blindness. Himeko simply shook her head, her face a mask of long-suffering patience.

  "Well, I guess you all can come in now. Come on." Sagan sounded like a shepherd whose flock had already scattered.

  The chamber itself breathed authority—dark wood panels polished to a mirror sheen, heavy curtains that muffled sound, and the lingering scent of mahogany polish and sealing wax. Zen and Himeko stepped across the threshold behind Sagan, their footsteps suddenly muted by thick carpeting, every thread kept pristine through steady, deliberate upkeep.

  Sagan approached Osaze with the measured pace of a parent retrieving an errant child from a merchant's stall. His hand settled on top of Osaze's head, fingers applying just enough pressure to force the boy into a proper bow. "Tch, sor-sorry," Osaze mumbled, his earlier bravado deflating like a punctured wineskin under Sagan's firm grip.

  What followed transformed the chamber's atmosphere, like sunrise banishing shadows.

  Mayor Venile Martor, head of the middle-class Martor house, rose from his seat as if pulled by invisible strings, the sudden movement causing a soft rustle in the heavy silence. The man's aged hands trembled slightly as he placed them flat on the table's surface. Every member of the council followed his lead, their movements steeped in profound reverence that made the air itself feel heavier.

  "It's quite all right. We welcome you to Reldo, Sir Sagan Stirling." Their statements merged into a unified chorus of respect as they bowed in perfect unison, the rustle of their robes like wind through wheat fields.

  Councilwoman Piara Atibul, head of the lower-class Atibul house, straightened first, her words carefully measured as if each syllable might shatter something precious. "We apologize for keeping you waiting so long. We were in disbelief when we heard of your visit to the town hall, but now that you are before us, there can be no doubt." A quaver undermined her efforts to keep her tone steady.

  Councilman Somjn Greyry, head of the lower-class Greyry house, offered his addition with genuine awe. "It is our utmost pleasure to welcome someone of your stature to our humble town." He spoke each word as if it were a prayer, his eyes never quite meeting Sagan's directly.

  Sagan settled into the offered chair like a man accustomed to such deference, his movements unhurried and graceful. The leather whispered under his weight, the only sound in a chamber suddenly thick with anticipation. "Oh, don't worry about that—it was a comfortable wait."

  Only after Sagan had fully seated himself did the council members dare to reclaim their own chairs, the protocol as clear and unquestioned as sunrise following night.

  The children watched the entire exchange from their position near the door, their eyes wide with the realization that Zen's father, the man they are all so fond of, commanded respect far beyond anything they'd ever witnessed. The formal chamber seemed to shrink around Sagan's presence, making him the undisputed center of everything that mattered.

  Heh, way to flex, old man. Zen's thought held proud amusement as he watched his father navigate the political currents with ease.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  So this is Sir Stirling. Himeko's mental observation held wonder as she saw him through entirely new eyes, understanding for the first time why guards stepped aside and merchants offered their best wares without being asked.

  Osaze's teeth clenched behind his forced grin, his hands balling into fists at his sides. This is it. This is what my presence should mean—no, even more than this. The realization burned through him like forge fire, equal parts inspiration and bitter envy.

  "I expect each of you is wondering why I've requested this meeting today." Sagan's declaration cut through the thick silence like a blade through silk.

  "Forgive us, we are." Mayor Venile's response came quickly, as if he'd been holding his breath waiting for permission to speak.

  Piara leaned forward in her chair, her eagerness making her forget protocol for a dangerous moment. "Perhaps there's an issue at hand that you need our help with?"

  Somjn's withering look could have wilted flowers as it fixed on her presumption. "How full of yourself could you be, Piara? Have you lost your sense of reality? How could he be in need of our help?" His words dripped with the acid of political rivalry barely contained.

  "Hmph." Piara crossed her arms, her cheeks flushing with indignation and wounded pride.

  "Actually, the chief of the village where I currently reside brought to my notice the bandit issue around these parts—how they've been harassing people coming to and leaving your town. So I've come to offer my help."

  The impact struck the room like a physical blow. Somjn straightened as if someone had rammed a steel rod down his spine, his face cycling through disbelief, gratitude, and shame in rapid succession. "We could never ask you to do such a thing, Sir. It's our incompetence that has caused this situation."

  "But you have not asked. I am offering my help."

  "Which village was that, may I ask?" Venile's question came carefully, though his expression had grown troubled.

  "Okorodu Village."

  The name hung in the air, heavy with implication. All three council members shared the same thought with the clarity of a bell tolling: Miager? Since when did he have the ear of such an influential figure? The realization brought with it a shifting of mental landscapes, a recalculation of power and influence.

  That conniving scum, Somjn thought bitterly, no doubt he plans to leverage Sir's influence for his own house's advancement. If any lower class house deserves such elevation, it's us Greyrys.

  In town at the local tavern, the air hung dense with the scent of roasted meat and spilled ale, underlaid by the musk of working men and the sweet smoke of cheap tobacco. Three men sat around a worn wooden table scarred by countless knife points and tankard rings, their conversation flowing as freely as the drink in their hands. The establishment hummed with comfortable noise: pottery clinked, chair legs scraped, and a low murmur carried the cadence of voices eased by honest labor and earned rest.

  “Things are really getting heated at the border.” Garrett rattled his nails against the tin edge of the tankard.

  "Really? I hope it hasn't gotten too bad." His companion Aldric leaned forward, ale foam clinging to his graying beard like morning frost.

  Tobias, the other man with them, waved dismissively, his gesture sloshing amber liquid over the table's edge. "It's nothing—don't listen to him."

  "Nothing? Did you not hear of the capture of Lamint Village?" Garrett's reply rose above the tavern's din, drawing glances from nearby tables.

  "Yes, I did, and last month the news was about how we took three of their villages. It's all the regular back and forth," Tobias replied.

  "I mean, yeah, except when war is declared, us deep in the region have nothing to worry about. But we must still feel for those closer to the border," Garrett continued.

  "As the region bordering Ignaria, these things are bound to happen. No one asked them to live that far out," Tobias said with a shrug.

  "It's not everyone that can afford not to do so," Garrett shot back.

  "And such is life," Tobias replied with finality.

  "Tch!" The sound from Garrett pierced the air like a needle.

  Before the brewing argument could boil over into something uglier, the tavern door burst open with such force that it struck the wall with a bang that silenced half the room. A man stumbled inside, his chest heaving and eyes wide with excitement that bordered on panic. "The Blood Vein Guild is here!"

  Lily, the tavern keeper, looked up from polishing a tankard, her lined face lighting with the anticipation of good business. "Thanks, Tino!" She turned to her staff. "You heard that! They've probably come to take up their usual contract to deal with those vile bandits. We must prepare for their feast after they meet with the mayor."

  Garrett stroked his chin thoughtfully, his mind still on the border troubles. "I wonder why they don't just go help out at the frontlines. It pays more, doesn't it?"

  “Who knows? Maybe they’re cowards,” Tobias said.

  Aldric barked a laugh. “Those guys? You must be far too drunk today, Tobias, with all these outlandish comments!”

  Outside the tavern, five figures carved through Reldo’s cobblestone streets with the swagger of wolves stalking familiar ground. Their boots struck the stones in a sharp, unified rhythm, each step bold and domineering, as if the town existed to bow before them. On their left shoulders, armored pads gleamed in the morning sun, etched with red rivers and branching streams— Their brutal sigil. The Blood Vein Guild approached the town hall like conquerors returning to claim tribute from grateful subjects.

  Carlos, their leader, let a smile crease his battle-scarred features as he breathed in the familiar scents of the town—woodsmoke, horse dung, and the faint metallic tang that seemed to follow their profession wherever they went. "It's been a while. I wonder how he's been."

  Pamela kept pace beside him, her scarred face a map of battles fought and won. Fresh wind caught her hair, revealing the careful way she moved her left arm—an old injury that never quite healed right. "Remember, boss, we're just here to get the contract and safeguard our bandit recruits, not to play chummy. We have a busy schedule."

  Bennet's massive frame cast a shadow that seemed to swallow the sunlight as he grinned with anticipation of simpler pleasures. The man's laugh rumbled up from his chest like distant thunder. "No rush. It's not like we won't hit the tavern after. I'm sure Lily is already waiting for my arrival." He paused, placing one hand over his heart while extending the other in a grand gesture. "Oh, how I ache for her! My dear Lily, I can't wait to see you, for my eyes to rest on your beauty!"

  Racy's face twisted with disgust that went bone deep. "Urgh, you make me want to barf."

  Their approach announced itself through more than just footsteps—the subtle way other townspeople moved aside without being asked, the manner in which conversations died as they passed, the unconscious deference paid to those who lived by violence and thrived in its shadow.

  Back in the council chamber, sweat beaded on Mayor Venile’s forehead, and his hands left damp prints on the polished table where they rested.

  "We are really flattered and grateful for your offer, Sir Stirling, but we really couldn't trouble you with something so trivial. You need not worry—we have already called for a competent group to take care of the issue."

  Sagan's eyebrow arched. "More competent than myself?"

  The statement struck the chamber like a physical blow. All three council members felt their hearts drop into their stomachs. "Of course not!" The denial rang from their mouths in unison.

  Outside the chamber, the sound of approaching footsteps could be heard—confident strides that ignored protocol and trampled courtesy underfoot. A clerk's protest rose: "No, don't go in there—he's having a meeting."

  The protest might as well have been whispered into a hurricane.

  Bennet burst through the door, crashing it against the wall behind him. His massive frame filled the doorway—shoulders nearly touching both sides. He strode into the chamber, floorboards creaking under his weight. His eyes swept the room, dismissing everything they found. "But what could be more important than our glorious Blood Vein Guild!" His declaration boomed off the walls, rattling the windows in their frames. He turned to face Venile. "Velin, sorry to intrude, but we've come for our contract. Let's make this snappy—my lady's waiting." His gaze fell on the children, and his expression changed to something uglier. "Hmm, why are there children here?"

  Carlos entered in Bennet's wake, his movements measured and controlled in sharp contrast to his subordinate's aggressive posturing. His hand hung loose near his weapon. "Good to see you, Venile. I hope we haven't ruined any discussion you were having." He approached Sagan with grace, extending his hand. "My name is Carlos Vein, leader of the Blood Vein Mercenary Guild. And who might you be?"

  "Before all that, someone answer me—why are there children here?" Bennet said.

  Osaze glared at the intruders. Who are these guys to just barge in here while Uncle Sagan is having a meeting?

  "And why is one of the little punks glaring at me?" Bennet's hand moved toward his weapon, the leather of his sword belt creaking ominously. "Want me to cut out your—"

  "Shut up, Bennet!” Pamela’s command cut through. “Just shut up and get back!"

  "And if I don't want to?" His glare fixed on her with open defiance, the air between them suddenly electric.

  The council members stiffened. Venile's knuckles went white where they gripped his chair arms, while Piara and Somjn seemed to shrink into themselves like flowers wilting under frost.

  Sagan extended his hand to Carlos. "My name is Sagan Stirling. Nice to meet you."

  The name hit the room like a thunderclap.

  "Did you just remain seated to greet our leader?" Bennet snarled, starting toward Sagan.

  Before he could take a full step, Carlos's sword materialized at his throat with the whisper of steel on leather. The blade's edge caught the chamber's lamplight, throwing sharp reflections across the walls like scattered diamonds. "One more step, brother, and it will be your last. Do you know that I have just saved your life?"

  Pamela stepped forward. "That man is Sagan the Reaper—the decorated retired army commander whose speed is said to rival General Azrael."

  The children sat frozen as wave after wave of genuine killing intent washed over them—the first time they’d felt anything like this. The air itself seemed to thicken with menace, making each breath a conscious effort. The council members sat rigid in their seats, none willing to be the first to move.

  "You flatter me. I presume these are the competent lot you spoke of, Mayor Venile?"

  "Yes, they are, Sir." Venile's voice cracked.

  "Carlos, surely you won't mind going without the contract this time around, right?" Sagan said.

  Carlos kept his blade steady at Bennet's throat. "Though I would like not to get on your bad side, Sir, business is business, and this is our contract."

  "Ah, then I leave it up to the council. Either pay a mountain for their service, or get mine free of charge."

  Carlos's eyes widened. Free? His services— free? How have they managed that?

  "A-a-a..." Venile stammered.

  "Ah, Sir Stirling is doing this out of the kindness of his heart. Then we couldn't possibly stop you. What a generous man death turns out to be." Carlos said.

  "Since that's settled, we shall take our leave.” He sheathed his sword in one fluid motion and stepped back from Bennet. “What a wasted trip. Till next time, Goodman Martor."

  Venile flinched at the formal address.

  The Blood Vein Guild departed as suddenly as they had arrived, but the tension remained.

  Osaze remained fixed in place. Is that what's called bloodlust? Why did it seem to be oozing out of every single one of them? He knew he'd never forget the feeling.

  Sagan rose smoothly. "I guess that settles things. I will begin after I return to Okorodu. It was nice to meet you all.” He turned to the kids. “Time to go, kids."

  As they filed out of the chamber, Sagan’s mental voice held a hint of amusement. See, how can I Sagan be considered someone’s lackey

  Hmph, came Ragnar's rumbling reply, you've still elevated his standing.

  Sagan chuckled softly. That’s none of my business, he risked his life for this, let him have a win.

  In their wake, the council members were left to process what had just transpired.

  Somjn’s face was still pale. "I never want to be in that position again."

  "For once, I agree." Piara's words held a tremor she couldn't quite suppress.

  Venile remained silent, staring at the door.

  The shared thought passed between all three of them without a word being spoken: That's the kind of power Miager has backing him?

  The Blood Vein Guild pushed through the tavern doors with considerably less swagger than they'd possessed an hour before. The tavern's familiar bustle—which should have felt welcoming after their business with the mayor—now seemed to mock their failed expectations.

  Bennet's massive frame filled the doorway as he surveyed the room with deflated bravado. His statement held forced cheer that fooled no one, least of all himself. "Sorry my love, no feast this time—just a couple of beers!"

  Lily looked up from polishing a tankard,her lined face immediately hardening into something cold and unwelcoming. The cloth in her hands twisted with increasing violence, wringing tight as a rope. "What? What happened, and what have I told you about calling me that? Isn't it enough you look at me with those disgusting eyes?"

  Bennet's grin widened with the persistence of a man immune to rejection—or simply oblivious to it—his hand moving to his chest in a gesture of wounded romance. "Oh my love, your words dance around my heart as encouragement to keep it beating." He began to lower himself toward one knee, his speech taking on the theatrical tone of a bard reciting epic poetry. "Would you not consider running off with me?"

  "Run off to where?" Racy's words tore across his performance like a knife. Her palm connected with his cheek in a crack that silenced half the tavern, the sound bouncing off the wooden walls like a whip snap. "Is there really no brain in there? She doesn't want you!"

  Bennet straightened with infuriating nonchalance, his hand rising to touch the red mark blooming across his cheek. "How could you say such bullshit! Your jealousy is far too ugly, Racy. Yes, I don't want you—just accept it."

  "Argh!" The cry ripped from Racy's throat as she drew her daggers, metal ringing bright in the air. She lunged at Bennet with lethal intent, the twin knives slashing for his torso.

  Bennet's sword came up just in time, the clash of steel on steel echoing through the tavern. "You've done it now, Racy!" he growled, parrying her strikes as she pressed her attack.

  "Stop it! Both of you, stop!" Lily’s voice cracked against the uproar, shrill with panic as she backed away from the deadly dance before her.

  The tavern patrons scrambled for cover, overturning chairs and spilling ale as the two bandits fought in earnest, their weapons carving deadly arcs through the smoky air.

  Davy, seated across from Carlos, pinched his nose. "This is a thorough mess, boss. What now?"

  Carlos stood apart from the chaos, his mind already working through the implications of their encounter at the town hall. The taste of missed opportunity lingered bitter in his mouth, but survival demanded adaptation. He slipped a folded piece of parchment to Pamela with movements so subtle they barely disturbed the air around them. "Pamela, send a message to Wilco. Tell him to round up all the bandit crews he has managed to recruit in this district and take them to this location. We can't have our new recruits dying early deaths."

  Pamela’s calloused fingers closed around the paper in a motion honed by habit. "Yes, sir."

  Davy’s question had the clipped edge of a man used to waiting on orders. "And what of us? Where next?"

  Carlos's smile held the cold edge of a blade being drawn from its sheath. "I guess it's time to go further south and meet that drunkard who calls himself number one."

  The tavern's atmosphere seemed to thicken around his words, as if the building itself sensed the weight of the path set before them. In the background, Racy continued her assault on Bennet while Lily muttered curses about mercenaries and the trouble they brought to honest establishments.

  At Mary's Place Inn, the afternoon sun slanted through dusty windows, casting long shadows across worn wooden floors that creaked with every footstep. The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread drifted from the kitchen, mingling with the smell of horse leather and road dust that seemed to follow all travelers.

  Outside on the street, the children sat on a wooden bench long used by countless previous occupants. Osaze attempted to recreate the dramatic confrontation they'd witnessed, using Zen as his increasingly reluctant partner.

  He pressed his palm against Zen's neck with theatrical intensity, his words dropping to what he imagined was a menacing tone. "One more step and it'll be your last!"

  Zen slapped his hand away, the motion heavy with exasperation. "I’m not playing this game."

  "Why?!" Osaze's frustration bubbled over like an overheated pot. "Didn't it give you goosebumps the way your dad had all of them squirming?"

  "No." Zen’s response had the flat finality of a door slamming shut.

  Himeko chuckled, the sound bearing genuine amusement despite her attempt to hide it. "You always get so dull when he's fawning over your father."

  "Because it's tiring," Zen muttered the statement like a mantra, his expression suggesting he'd rather be anywhere else in the world.

  Inside the inn, Sagan and Osunde sat at a table near the front window, where they could watch the street while they spoke. The wood bore the wear and stains of a thousand meals and conversations, each mark telling its own small story. Their words slid smoothly between them, each sentence carrying the comfort of years, though an undercurrent of tension ran beneath the words like a river beneath ice.

  "Seems like you did something incredible." Osunde's tone held dry amusement mixed with something that might have been concern.

  "No, no, I didn’t do anything." Sagan's denial came too quickly, his palm landing in a light pat on the table’s worn surface.

  "When will you stop showing off in front of my son? I'm sure you're part of the reason he can't let go of the army."

  "I reject the accusation. I won't apologize if being myself gets him fired up. Maybe military admiration just runs in the blood." Sagan's smile held the sharp edge of someone who knew exactly what buttons he was pushing.

  "Tch, why did you even take them along?"

  "Because they wouldn't have stopped nagging me if I didn't. You know how they are."

  “Ugh, whatever. So, what was that meeting about? Why did you need to meet the mayor?”

  "Just to help them deal with the bandit problem in the area. That's all." He spoke evenly, as if discussing the price of grain rather than matters of life and death.

  "How kind of you." Osunde's dry tone suggested he wasn't entirely convinced by his friend's altruistic explanation.

  The sound of footsteps on wooden stairs announced another presence. Iyabo descended with Hanni in tow, her practical dress rustling softly as she moved. "All right, I'm sure everyone has had fun here, but it's time to get going. Isn't that right, Sagan?"

  "Ah, yes. Boe has already gone to the stables to get the horses ready. We'll meet him there." Sagan rose from his chair, the movement fluid and graceful.

  The departure from Reldo Town fell into step naturally, the group moving as if they’d done it countless times before. The morning air held the scent of woodsmoke from cottage chimneys and the earthy smell of horses and leather. The children's conversation drifted on the breeze as they chatted about the day from their perch on Ragnar's broad back, their words mixing with the steady clip-clop of hooves on packed earth and the gentle creak of leather and wood.

  The man that’s been following us since we got to Reldo seems to be off our tail, Ragnar’s mental voice had measured certainty.

  Hmm, Sagan's response held thoughtful interest. Like he was waiting for us to leave. How fun.

  The adults maintained their traveling formation —alert but relaxed, eyes scanning the horizon while their bodies swayed with the familiar rhythm of the road. The sun climbed steadily toward its zenith, its rays filtering through a thin veil of clouds that softened the light into something almost ethereal. The gentle warmth enveloped them as they walked, creating perfect traveling weather that made the journey feel effortless.

  Some distance away, hidden between Okorodu Village and Reldo Town where the forest pressed close to the roadway, a group of bandits waited in carefully chosen ambush positions. The smell of unwashed bodies hung heavy in the shadows, mixed with the nervous sweat of men about to risk everything on a single throw of the dice.

  A messenger bird's harsh cry announced the arrival of intelligence they'd been waiting for.

  "Boss, we just got word—the man and his party have left Reldo." The bandit's statement held tight excitement.

  “Good, good.” Their leader, Peto, let the grunt rumble out of him, thick with the thrill of newfound gain. Yet even as he spoke, his hands betrayed him—fingers worrying at the hilt of his sword, tracing the grooves worn smooth by long, nervous habit.

  The third bandit shifted uncomfortably in his hiding place, dried leaves crunching under his boots as doubt gnawed at his resolve. "Boss, should we really be doing this? It said that man was a big boss in the army."

  "So what? We were given a job and we'll do it. Did you see how much money that man—what was his name? Yes, Landon—offered? We're going to be rolling in coins by the end of the day." Peto’s declaration held a fervored certainty; he had already convinced himself that greed could sweep aside any obstacle.

  "But Wilco and his guys won't like this. They said to keep a low profile."

  Peto’s eyes blazed with dangerous light. "Who cares about them?! I want my money!"

  The second bandit nodded with enthusiastic agreement, his own greed overriding any sense of caution. "Don't you trust the boss? That guy is just a has-been army man. Our boss is a level one attack paragon eterna! This will be over before you know it, and boom—just like that, we enter Wilco’s group as rich fellas!"

  "Hahahaha!" Their laughter rang through the forest with the hollow sound of men whistling past their own graves, confidence building as avarice overcame the last vestiges of common sense.

  In the distance, the peaceful caravan continued its journey home, unaware of what waited among the trees ahead. The morning sun climbed higher, painting the landscape in deceptively cheerful light that transformed even the shadows into something beautiful.