Chapter 4: Strangers on the Road

The dawn crept over the horizon, casting a pale light across the forest. Dew clung to the leaves, and the air carried the crisp chill of early morning. A faint mist hovered low to the ground, curling around the trees like ghostly fingers.

Dikun stirred beneath the tattered cloak. His eyes opened to the soft, muted glow of the sun filtering through the branches. The weight of exhaustion still clung to his body, but the restless night had offered him what little strength it could. Every muscle ached — a lingering reminder of the battle that had hardened him.

He sat up slowly, wincing as his ribs protested. The bruises from the bandit's blows had begun to bloom beneath his armor, each movement sending sharp pulses of pain through his side. But there was no luxury for comfort. He was alive. And that meant he had to move.

"No time to waste."

The cracked leather of his boots crunched softly against the damp earth as he stood. His saber, still stained from the fight, remained firmly at his side. The rusted axe strapped to his back was a weight he had grown accustomed to. But as the morning sun rose, another weight bore down on him.

Survival was no longer the only concern.

"They'll come looking."

The words of the bandit leader echoed once more. Bandits rarely operated alone. A warband, a raider chief — someone higher on the chain of command would eventually notice the absence of their men. And when they did, the trail of blood Dikun left behind would be easy to follow.

"I need to find a village. Fast."

Food, water, supplies — the meager scraps he looted from the bodies wouldn't last long. He needed shelter, information, and above all, a plan.

---

The Road Ahead

The dirt path from the previous day stretched onward, winding between fields of tall grass and scattered trees. The forest began to thin, and the distant outline of low hills emerged. Dikun's eyes scanned the horizon, searching for any sign of civilization.

The banners of Calradia had always marked the cities and castles in the game — tall, fluttering standards bearing the colors of the noble houses. But now, there were no glowing quest markers. No map interface. Only the vast, open world before him.

"Northwest," Dikun murmured, recalling the layout from memory. "The villages were always near the river. Follow the path, find water, and there will be people."

It was a gamble, but it was the best he had.

The rhythmic crunch of his footsteps echoed in the morning quiet. Birds stirred in the trees, their songs a stark contrast to the weight that pressed upon his chest. Every step carried him further from the battlefield — but the shadows of the dead lingered in his mind.

He forced the thoughts away.

"One step at a time."

Hours passed. The sun climbed higher, burning away the mist. Sweat gathered beneath Dikun's armor, the leather chafing against his skin. The road remained empty, save for the occasional rustle of a rabbit darting into the brush.

But then, in the distance — movement.

Dikun's eyes narrowed. A faint plume of dust rose along the path ahead. Hoofbeats. Slow and deliberate. Not the reckless charge of raiders. A caravan, perhaps. Or a patrol.

He stepped off the road, lowering himself behind the tall grass. His heartbeat quickened, the memory of the bandits still fresh. The saber's hilt was cool beneath his palm as he prepared for the worst.

Moments later, the riders emerged.

Three men on horseback, clad in simple, rugged attire. They were not armored like soldiers, nor did they bear the disheveled appearance of brigands. The lead rider was older, his graying beard framing a face lined with years of toil. A long hunting bow rested across his saddle, and the quiver at his side was half full. The others followed in silence, their wary eyes scanning the horizon.

Villagers? No. Their composure was too steady, their weapons too well-maintained.

"Mercenaries."

Dikun recognized the look. Men who fought for coin, not banners. In Bannerlord, mercenaries were a constant presence, wandering the lands and selling their blades to the highest bidder. Some were little better than raiders, while others held strict codes of conduct.

But there was no telling which type these men were.

Still, an opportunity was an opportunity.

"No risk, no reward."

Taking a steady breath, Dikun rose from the grass. The mercenaries reacted instantly — the older man's bow was drawn in a flash, his arrow notched and ready. The others reached for their weapons, their expressions hardening.

"Stay where you are!" the leader barked, his voice rough with command. "State your name and purpose, or the next word you speak will be your last."

Dikun kept his hands visible, though the weight of the saber at his side was a comfort. His eyes met the older man's — steady, unwavering.

"I'm no bandit," Dikun said firmly. "I fought off a raiding party not far from here. They won't be bothering anyone again."

The mercenaries exchanged glances. The younger of the three, a wiry man with a jagged scar across his cheek, scoffed.

"You're saying you took on a bandit crew alone? Without a scratch?"

Dikun felt the ache in his ribs and the stiffness in his limbs. He certainly didn't feel unscathed. But the proof of his words clung to his armor — dried blood, both his and theirs.

"I survived," he replied simply. "That's all that matters."

The older man lowered his bow slightly, though his sharp gaze remained fixed. "And what's your name, survivor?"

"Dikun Silver."

A flicker of recognition passed through the leader's eyes. Not because of his name, Dikun realized, but because of what he represented — a lone, armored figure in the middle of nowhere. It was a story too rare to ignore.

"And where are you headed, Dikun Silver?"

"North," Dikun answered. "I need food, water, and a place to rest. If there's a village nearby, I'll pay for what I need."

The older man considered this for a moment, his weathered face unreadable. Then, with a curt nod, he gestured to the others.

"Lower your weapons," he ordered. "If he wanted us dead, he wouldn't have shown himself."

The tension eased, though the scarred mercenary still regarded Dikun with suspicion.

"There's a village a few miles ahead," the leader continued. "You'll find what you need there. But mark my words, stranger — trouble follows those who leave bodies behind. If the wrong men hear of what you did, they won't ask questions."

Dikun met his gaze. "Then I'll be ready."

The leader gave a gruff chuckle, though there was no amusement in his eyes. "We'll see."

With that, the mercenaries urged their horses forward, the thud of hooves fading into the distance. Dikun remained still, watching until they disappeared from view.

The encounter had been brief, but it left an undeniable truth in its wake.

Calradia was no longer a playground of strategy and conquest. It was a world of uncertainty, danger, and fragile alliances.

But Dikun Silver had survived once.

And he would do so again.

"North it is."

With renewed determination, he adjusted the strap of his saber and resumed his path. The village awaited. And with it, the next chapter of his story.