In the city(1)

The walk, much like the feast, proceeded miraculously without a single drop of blood being spilled—something Alpheo considered a small miracle, given the company involved.

When he returned to the grand hall with Jasmine in tow, her laughter still echoing softly behind him like a string of silver bells, his eyes instinctively sought the prince—the girl's father.

The man sat reclined on a couch of silk and furs, wine in one hand, the other lazily resting on his chin. Their gazes met for the briefest moment, and the prince, upon seeing Jasmine beside Alpheo, offered a small, self-satisfied smile. The kind of smile a gambler gives when the dice land exactly as he'd hoped.

Alpheo stared back, too stunned to offer his usual biting sarcasm. A family of fucking madmen, he thought grimly, before politely excusing himself from Jasmine's side. She only smiled and let him go without protest, her expression unreadable but her eyes dancing with something far too dangerous for his liking.

The feast carried on well into the later hours of the night—filled with music, overflowing goblets, and the indulgent murmur of nobles pretending to be generous hosts. For Alpheo, the evening dragged like a whetstone over a dull blade. His business was concluded; their contract negotiated, terms signed, the gold as good as in his hand. There was no point in lingering any longer—especially not just to be paraded around like some exotic beast brought in from the wilderness.

When he finally made the decision to call it a night, his company reacted exactly as he expected—grumbling like spoiled children being dragged from a festival. And among them, of course, was Egil—the loudest of the bunch and, by far, the drunkest and of course the horniest.

The man had started the night with a tankard in hand and had never once allowed it to leave. Now, as they stumbled their way back to the guest quarters, Egil's voice boomed across the corridor like a war drum.

"I should have done something tonight," he groused, eyes glassy, his tone a mix of irritation and alcohol-fueled yearning. "I haven't seen any proper action in years."

Clio, walking two paces ahead and trying to ignore the increasingly aggressive scent of wine, wrinkled his nose. "You did do something. Or did you forget the poor servant girl this morning?"

Egil scoffed so loudly it echoed. "That? She practically climbed into my lap. There was no thrill. No chase. No challenge. Tonight was a sorry excuse for a feast—no fight, no virgin blood, no bedmate. In my tribe, if there weren't at least three deaths by the end of a feast, we'd call it a failure."

"We're not in your tribe," Clio replied dryly. "We're in a civilized place now. Death at a feast would be considered poor etiquette. Not entertainment."

"Quiet back there!" Alpheo snapped, his patience finally fraying. He turned sharply, casting a glare over his shoulder at the bickering mercenaries. "I thought I told you to keep him from drinking," he added, his tone turning pointed as he addressed Jarza.

Jarza lifted his hands in a defensive shrug, a half-eaten fig still in one. "Every time I turned to take a bite, he was downing another goblet. What did you expect me to do? Chain him to the table?"

"Maybe," Alpheo growled.

"Then he'd be puking wine and yesterday's stew all over the floor. I'm not his babysitter, and he's not a child."

"Someone seems aware of that," Egil slurred helpfully from the back, grinning like a man who'd missed the point but was still happy to be involved.

Alpheo slowed his pace and fell in step with Jarza, lowering his voice as he leaned in. "When you put him to bed," he said through gritted teeth, "douse him with a bucket of water. Cold, if possible. Can you manage that without turning it a scenery for the whole court?"

Jarza's grin widened, sensing the genuine annoyance buried under his commander's controlled tone. "Aye," he murmured, glancing at Egil with a mixture of amusement and impending retribution. "Consider it done."

"Good," Alpheo said. Then he turned to the group as they reached the guest chambers—ornate doors set into stone walls, each lined with silver torches and golden emblems. The palace's hospitality remained impeccable… and slightly suffocating.

"Alright, boys," he called out, raising his voice. "Enough revelry. Bed. Tomorrow morning, I want every single one of you in front of the main gate. We've business in the city—and I want it done sober."

There was a ragged chorus of mumbled agreement, and the mercenaries began peeling off into their respective rooms—some still laughing, others grumbling under their breath. Jarza lingered, giving Alpheo a two-fingered salute before following the weaving form of Egil down the corridor.

Alpheo remained behind for a moment, rubbing his temple. He felt a strange weariness settle over him, not just from the feast or the drink-scented air, but from the whole evening. It wasn't the kind of tired that came from riding or fighting—it was the tired that came from smiling too much while sitting beside people you knew would gladly stab you for a purse of coin or the promise of favor.

He exhaled, long and quiet, then turned and disappeared into the hallway's shadows.

Somewhere down the corridor, Egil's voice echoed again—off-key and triumphant.

"I regret nothing!"

The splash of water that followed was far more satisfying than it should have been.

------------------------

"Ughh…" Egil grunted as he staggered out of the palace, dragging his boots across the stone like a man freshly risen from the grave. Rubbing his eyes with one hand and scratching through his wild tangle of hair with the other, he collapsed with theatrical exhaustion on the steps just outside the gate.

"Why so early?" he groaned, leaning his back against the sun-warmed stone and scowling up at the light. The morning sun wasn't even at its peak yet, but for Egil, any hour before noon was barbarism.

A pair of passing palace guards cast him a brief, disdainful glance before continuing on their route, clearly unimpressed by the sight of the groggy mercenary.

"You're the only one complaining," Clio replied flatly, stifling a yawn himself as he pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. Though he wouldn't say it aloud, he too thought it was unnecessarily early—but unlike Egil, he had the dignity not to whine about it.

"Still," Egil pressed, squinting into the sunlight, "couldn't we have had just another hour? Half an hour? Hell, ten minutes to die in peace?"

Everyone in the company had long accepted that Egil was the worst kind of morning person—the kind that made his misery everyone else's problem. Every campaign march, without fail, Alpheo had to send Jarza to physically pry him out of bed or pour water on his face. Sometimes both.

"Alpheo said we've got work," Asag murmured, his voice so quiet it nearly blended into the rustle of the morning breeze. He hadn't said much else since they woke, but that was Asag's way. They had all grown used to his soft-spoken presence—like a shadow that simply moved with them.

"Yeah, yeah," Egil grumbled, "and the world will end if we don't do it before breakfast, right?"

"No," came Alpheo's voice, sharp and clear as the morning air. He stepped out from the palace doors, one hand shielding his eyes from the sunlight, the other resting near the hilt of his sword. He squinted down at the group and added dryly, "But if we start late, we finish late. And I'd rather not be chasing drunk recruits in the dark."

Egil let out a dramatic sigh. "You think people are going to disappear in three hours?"

Alpheo gave no answer, only lowered the hand shielding his brow and turned his gaze toward Asag. "Have you prepared everything I asked?"

Asag nodded once. "The square's been cleared for two hours. Space is marked, tables and fencing in place."

"Good. Are the men already working?"

"Yes. Fifty of them, following your orders."

Alpheo grunted in approval. "Then let's not waste their effort. On your feet."

The group stirred and followed, their boots clapping against the palace stones as they made their way out through the front gates. The guards stationed at the entrance barely acknowledged them—just a quick glance, a nod, then back to duty. It was a practiced ritual; mercenaries moving about with grim purpose didn't raise too many eyebrows anymore.

As they walked, a silence settled over them, thick and lingering. The streets near the noble district were nearly deserted this early—wide stone roads lined with pristine white columns and carefully groomed hedges. The quiet was almost eerie.

There was good reason for that silence.

Between the estates of the highborn and the quarters of the common folk lay a deliberately empty stretch—security buffer, they called it. A patch of land watched from all angles, designed to prevent assassins, thieves, or spies from slipping too easily between the classes. A man running across this space had nowhere to hide—only guards waiting to pounce from every shadow.

"So where exactly are we headed?" Clio's voice finally broke the silence. His sword bumped rhythmically against his thigh as he adjusted his pace beside Alpheo.

"Town square," Alpheo replied, his eyes fixed ahead. "We've reserved space for recruitment trials. We need a hundred new blades."

"Footmen?" he asked, arching an eyebrow. "We're already knee-deep in those."

"Correct," Alpheo nodded. "But we're not looking for swords today. I want bowmen. We've got bows and arrows gathering dust in the armory of this shit-hole. No one to use them so I asked them as part of the payment ."

"About time," Clio muttered. "Not having archers is like having a kitchen without knives."

"And riders," Egil chimed in from behind, suddenly perked up at the mention. "Don't forget about riders. We've got horses back at camp. All dressed and nowhere to gallop."

"I haven't forgotten," Alpheo assured him. "That's your domain. I trust you can whip some raw recruits into something resembling cavalry."

Egil puffed his chest with mock pride. "I've spent half my life on horseback. The day I forget how to ride or teach others is the day I stop being Skurish."

Alpheo tilted his head, intrigued. "Skurish? That your tribe?"

Egil's steps slowed slightly, and for once, the easy grin slipped from his face. "No," he said after a pause. "Skurish-ai is the tribe. Skurish is just what outsiders called us."

Alpheo studied him for a moment, then asked softly, "Ever thought of going back? To your homeland, I mean."

Egil stopped walking altogether. His jaw tensed, lips pressed into a thin, bitter line. He turned slowly, eyes hard.

"There is no going back," he said, voice low and flat. "My tribe was defeated in battle. Wiped out. You think Romlians show mercy to tribes? We were an 'experiment.'" The last word was spat with venom. "They wanted our bows. Our horses. Thought they could turn raiders into border guards. It failed. And when it failed, they made sure we wouldn't be a problem again."

Clio slowed behind him, sensing the weight in his voice. Even Asag looked up, his expression unreadable.

"My people starved," Egil continued, his voice trembling with restrained rage. "Our land was taken. The elders tried to bargain, and the Empire took that as a sign of weakness. We died slow. Then fast. My tribe… Skurish-ai… we were just the last to fall. All because they reached too far."

His hand clenched around the hilt of his sword, knuckles white, jaw grinding. Then, without warning, he spat violently onto the stone road and marched forward again, eyes locked straight ahead.

No one spoke for a long moment. The silence returned, heavier than before.

Alpheo watched his back, thoughtful.

Everyone carried demons. Some just carried theirs louder than others.