Will of the Battlefield

The Palace of Bentram, the grand hall that has

once welcomed kings and

queens before.

It had entertained princes, bishops, scholars, merchants, and

victorious generals.

Yet there was a different weight in the air whenever mercenaries

crossed its gates.

Kings marched beneath banners. Mercenaries marched beneath

reputation.

One survived on bloodline, the other on just survival.

The great bronze doors groaned open.

One company after another entered the Hall of Sovereigns.

Unlike the polished nobles of Bentram’s court, these men carried

scars instead of jewels.

Some still wore dried blood upon their boots; others had missing

fingers.

Broken noses, clouded eyes. Old wounds that no healer could

erase.

Nineteen mercenary companies had answered Bentram’s invitation.

Some numbered barely fifteen swords, one nearly eighty.

Only one stood above the rest. The Bone Collectors. A hundred

hardened veterans.

Their captain walked first.

His beard reached his chest, braided with tiny bones carved from

beasts and enemies alike. Four blessed lines marked his weathered face.

Conversations softened as he entered.

No one wished to insult a man whose company had survived three

decades without ever breaking a contract.

Farther behind came the Iron Jackals.

Their black cloaks brushed against polished marble.

They walked without swagger.

Without ceremony.

Veterans no longer needed to announce themselves.

Their existence did it for them.

Golden chandeliers illuminated the enormous chamber.

Bentram had spared no expense.

Massive crystal lamps hung from vaulted ceilings.

Silver pillars reflected warm candlelight.

Long tables stretched almost the entire length of the hall.

Roasted deer, river fish, mountain boars, fresh bread, foreign

fruits, and imported wines.

Everything had been prepared with almost insulting generosity.

One mercenary whistled. "I’ve eaten in royal courts."

He laughed. "Never one this generous."

Another answered, "There’s always a price."

At the center of the preparations bustled a round man whose

robes strained against every button.

Interior Minister Rufrey Voxx.

His cheeks were permanently red from years of fine wine and rich

meals.

Servants hurried around him like frightened birds.

"No, no!"

"The silver cups belong on the western table."

"You!"

"The Bone Collectors receive the larger roast."

"And where is the cheese from Soland?"

He clapped twice.

"If that cheese isn’t here in one minute, I’ll personally

feed the cook to the palace geese!"

A terrified servant vanished.

Rufrey sighed dramatically. "No standards."

Across the hall moved his complete opposite.

Tall, elegant, and sharp-eyed.

Exterior Minister Harrison Cox.

Where Rufrey conquered kitchens, Harrison conquered

conversations.

He greeted every company by name. Remembered battles fought

decades earlier.

Asked after old captains. Mentioned dead comrades with sincere

respect.

Within minutes, laughter echoed wherever he walked.

Even suspicious sellswords relaxed.

Harrison raised a goblet. "To those who earn their bread

with courage."

Several mercenaries answered by lifting their cups.

"To surviving another year!"

Laughter followed.

The minister smiled warmly. "You’ll find Bentram values

honest swords."

One veteran snorted. "Honest? We’re mercenaries."

Harrison chuckled. "I said honest swords, not honest

men."

That earned genuine laughter.

As servants refilled cups, Harrison slowly guided conversations

where he wished.

"So..." he asked casually. "How are the roads

through Drevlorn these days?"

A captain shrugged. "Worse than ever."

"And Krynova?"

"They’re marching."

"Hm."

"Toward Tharun’kai?"

The mercenary frowned. "...How’d you know?"

Harrison merely smiled. "It’s no secret anymore."

Nothing more.

Another company mentioned broken bridges.

Someone else complained about flooded valleys.

Others discussed rising grain prices.

Every sentence was another piece of intelligence.

The minister never asked directly.

He simply listened.

Bentram had perfected diplomacy centuries before.

Information given willingly was always more valuable than

information stolen.

Meanwhile, Interior Minister Rufrey loudly directed servants

carrying steaming platters.

"No!"

"The lamb goes before the wine."

"Presentation matters!"

A young page nervously bowed.

"My apologies, Minister."

Rufrey fumed. "Apologies don’t season meat."

Several mercenary captains exchanged amused looks.

One whispered, "I like the fat one."

"The loud one?"

"He reminds me of my grandmother."

Rufrey overheard.

Without missing a beat, he replied, "Then your grandmother

clearly possessed excellent taste."

The hall erupted in laughter.

Even hardened sellswords appreciated wit.

The feast truly began.

Wooden mugs struck tables; knives carved through roasted meat.

Stories replaced silence. One company described surviving a

siege by eating horses.

Another argued over whose commander had once punched a bear.

The Bone Collectors insisted it was true; nobody believed them.

Harrison wandered effortlessly from table to table.

Each conversation revealed something.

Where armies marched, which nobles quarreled, which mines had

collapsed.

What roads remained usable; even rumors carried value.

Mercenaries traveled farther than diplomats ever could.

Their tongues often reached kingdoms long before official

messengers.

That was precisely why Bentram welcomed them.

Not merely generosity, but investment.

Every mercenary leaving the capital would remember Bentram’s

wealth.

Bentram’s fairness.

Bentram’s unmatched inventions.

And wherever they next found employment...

They would speak.

Kings trusted ambassadors, but soldiers trusted mercenaries.

Near one corner of the hall rested several remarkable creations.

Compact repeating crossbows, spring-loaded shield braces,

improved stirrups.

Waterproof camp lanterns powered by beast hearts.

Mercenaries examined them with open fascination.

One grizzled captain turned a lantern over repeatedly. "No

oil?"

A Bentram engineer smiled proudly. "No oil."

"What powers it?"

"A refined beast heart."

The captain whistled. "Every company in Aurethia will want

these."

The engineer only smiled.

As conversations flowed, Harrison suddenly paused.

He slowly surveyed the hall.

Then frowned. "...Strange."

He counted faces again.

The Bone Collectors, present.

Ash Ravens, present.

Grey Banner Company, present.

Iron Jackals... His smile faltered.

One face was missing.

He approached their table. "Gentlemen."

The Iron Jackals looked up from their meals. Harrison politely

inclined his head. "A pleasure to host you."

"Our pleasure to eat," one veteran answered dryly.

That earned several chuckles.

The minister glanced around. "...Forgive my

curiosity."

"Where is Captain Arathorn?"

Silence briefly settled over the table. Several Jackals

exchanged uncertain looks.

One scratched his beard. "I thought he was with you."

Another shook his head. "Haven’t seen him since

morning."

A third frowned. "Didn’t he leave before sunrise?"

Confused murmurs followed.

Finally, a broad-shouldered bald man calmly wiped grease from

his beard.

Unlike the others, he looked entirely unconcerned.

He carried three blessed lines across his scalp instead of his

face, a rare sight that made him instantly recognizable.

Vice-Captain Borik.

Second-in-command of the Iron Jackals.

He calmly drank from his mug before speaking. "He isn’t

lost."

Harrison raised an eyebrow. "No?"

Borik chuckled. "Captain said palace walls make him

itch."

Several Jackals laughed knowingly.

"So?"

The vice-captain shrugged. "He went walking."

"Walking?"

"Aye."

"Around the capital."

Harrison blinked. "...Alone?"

Borik nodded as though discussing the weather. "He likes

seeing new cities."

One mercenary from another company barked a laugh. "Your

captain wandered off during a royal banquet?"

Borik smiled. "He wandered off before the banquet."

"And none of you stopped him?"

Borik’s grin widened. "Have you ever tried stopping

Arathorn?"

The hall fell strangely quiet.

Even captains from rival companies slowly shook their heads.

One old sellsword muttered, "I’d sooner stop an

avalanche."

Laughter rolled through the chamber.

Harrison smiled politely... but inwardly, his thoughts sharpened.

’A captain of the Iron Jackals does nothing without purpose.’

If Arathorn was wandering Bentram’s capital alone...

He wasn’t merely sightseeing. He was observing, measuring,

learning.

Just as Bentram studied mercenaries...

The greatest mercenary captains studied kingdoms.

The game was being played from both sides.

Harrison lifted his wine with an amused smile.

"So be it. Let the wolf roam."

Outside the palace, unaware that ministers had already begun

wondering about his intentions, a lone cloaked man disappeared into the crowded

streets of Bentram’s capital.

His pace was unhurried, his eyes missed nothing, and somewhere

far ahead...

Destiny had already begun walking toward him.