The Verdegrande castle rose over the hill like a grey stone fist clenched over the landscape, its towers defying the sky with the arrogance of lineages that had never known hunger. Roderick led the group through the oak and iron doors, keeping his spine straight and his hand away from his sword hilt – a gesture of calculated discipline.
They presented themselves to the garrison guards with the curtness of men who sell steel, but who carry something more valuable in their pouches – something that must not be shown to just anyone, for one never knows when a Brigade informant might pick up the scent.
– We bear news that cannot wait for the conveniences of an audience – Roderick declared, his voice echoing in the courtyard. – Verdejante's security is being gnawed at from the edges, and Viscount Lorenzo needs to know who's holding the knife.
Despite the urgency and the captain's polished persistence, the doors to the audience hall remained shut. They were informed by a sergeant with an impenetrable face that the Viscount was occupied with matters of state that did not include mercenaries covered in road dust. Instead, they were led through cold corridors to a low-ceilinged antechamber, where the smell of beeswax and parchment was nauseating.
It was in this antechamber that Orlan Campius awaited them, sat behind a desk of black walnut. He was a figure of geometric precision in a world of chaos, wearing dark velvet of an impeccable cut, though without the golden ornaments a lord would flaunt. He wore no crest on his chest, nor rings of lineage on his thin fingers. His surname, Campius, floated in the air like a dissonant note; it was the name given to the children of the flowers and the fields – those born in the wrong bedsheets but who inherited the intelligence of their noble fathers. Orlan occupied a middle ground: too competent to be ignored, but too nameless to ever sit at the head of the table.
– Viscount Lorenzo has delegated to me the task of hearing your… concerns – Orlan said, with a voice like the rub of silk over steel. His manners were irreproachable, but his eyes, cold and observing, measured the value of every man in the room.
Roderick took a step forward and began to lay out the facts with the meticulousness of a war report. He spoke of the exact location of the fortress hidden in the woods, the number of spears Lucius had counted on the walls, and the level of discipline that suggested deserters and masterless officers. He described the trade routes being strangled and the imminent risk the Mad Dog Brigade posed to the Verdegrande peace.
Alistair, standing at the rear, watched the castellan. Orlan didn't interrupt once, his quill remaining still over the paper, but a small crease appeared between his eyebrows when Roderick mentioned the bandits' military organisation.
– They are building a kingdom of shadows under your nose, Master Campius – Roderick concluded gravely. – And if it isn't purged now, the fire they're stoking will eventually reach the gates of this castle.
– That isn't a bandit camp – Marcus stated, eyes locked on Orlan's. – It's a garrison waiting for an order from someone to decimate the province.
– What my friend Marcus is trying to say, with his usual subtlety of a warhammer, is that you've got a shadow army growing in your backyard – Alistair added, with a smile that was half-mockery and half-warning. – It's a very unusual courtesy, don't you think? Usually, unwanted guests bring flowers, but these ones bring sealed barrels and a ravenous appetite for your trade routes. The threat is as serious as a gangrenous wound, Master Campius. One can pretend it doesn't hurt, but eventually, the leg is going to fall off.
Lucius, almost invisible in the gloom of the room, confirmed the geographical details. He spoke of the hidden trails that snaked between Verdejante and Boschetto, the brooks that served as invisible borders, and the way the Brigade dominated every shortcut and vantage point as if the forest belonged to them by right of conquest.
Orlan Campius listened to it all with the stillness of a night owl. He didn't interrupt, nor did the expression on his pale face change. His questions were pointed, precise, and icy: march times, types of armour observed, frequency of patrols. Every answer was weighed and measured by his quill upon the parchment.
– Your diligence is… noteworthy – Orlan concluded, tidying the papers with obsessive symmetry. – I shall pass every word to my lord, Viscount Lorenzo. Information of this nature requires careful reflection and, quite possibly, a response of steel.
The castellan stood, his posture revealing the authority that the name Campius denied him.
– Until the Viscount pronounces his judgment, the castle offers you shelter. You may remain as temporary guests in the guards' wing. You shall have food and a roof that doesn't leak, which I assume is an improvement over your recent lodgings.
He paused, and the glint in his eyes suddenly grew sharper.
– However – he continued, his voice dropping to a tone of dangerous silk –, I must remind you that the castle is a place of traditions and secrets. There are wings and corridors that are strictly restricted, and anyone found in forbidden areas without express authorisation… well, let's just say the Viscount's hospitality has very clear limits. The warning is given as a courtesy, but its execution is irrevocable.
The warning hung in the air, wrapped in impeccable court etiquette, but as lethal as a dagger hidden in a bouquet.
Moments later, as the group dispersed, Alistair and Lucius – feeling like rats in a labyrinth of marble and granite – wandered through the inner courtyards, where the smell of roasted meat mingled with the metallic scent of sweat and weapon oil.
It was a particular sound that guided them: the rhythmic chorus of steel against steel and the dry roar of military orders. Beside the inner wall, in a training area beaten down by thousands of boots, a dozen soldiers of the garrison moved in unison. They were Lorenzo's men, in green and grey overcoats, executing thrusts and parries with the coldness of those who have turned death into choreography.
Alistair leaned against a wall, watching the drills with an arched eyebrow and a smile playing at the corners of his lips.
– Look at them, Lucius – he murmured, sarcasm being his only defence against his own insecurity. – Slicing the air with such admirable precision. It looks as simple as slicing a goat's cheese… until the cheese decides to hit back, I suppose.
One of the soldiers, a man with a thick neck and pockmark scars on his face, stopped his drill and fixed his gaze on the pair of strangers. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm and flashed a smile that didn't reach his eyes – defiant and rough.
– The mercenary finds it funny, does he? – the soldier enquired, his voice thick as gravel. – Or perhaps your talent lies more in your tongue than your arm? Come here, lad, let's see if you know how to hold something other than a mug of ale.
Alistair felt the weight of Lucius's gaze upon him. Bravado was a dangerous armour, but pride, at times, was the only fire that warmed a man with nothing.
– Well, if the invitation is made with such lordly delicacy, who am I to refuse? – Alistair replied, hopping from his spot with an exaggerated bow.
The soldier tossed him a training sword – a heavy piece of ash reinforced with iron strips. Alistair caught it in mid-air, but the impact nearly dislocated his wrist. The weight was blunt, clumsy – a mass of dead matter that refused to obey him. It wasn't like his rusted blade, which was light from all the metal time had already taken; this was a real tool of the trade, made for breaking bones.
– By the gods – Alistair muttered, trying to balance the object while his arm began to shake under the sudden strain. – I said it looked simple, Lucius… but I forgot to mention that gravity seems to hold a personal grudge against this piece of wood.
The soldier stepped forward, his own training weapon describing a slow arc loaded with promises of pain, and Alistair realised, in a frigid instant, that the distance between commenting on war and living it was measured by the edge of a blade.
Time dilated for Alistair, turning mere seconds into an eternity of wood against wood and short breath. Every blow from the garrison soldier made his arm vibrate right up to the shoulder, a dry shock that ground his teeth. He moved with the desperation of a man trying to swat away wasps, until a broader shadow projected itself over the beaten earth.
– You're holding that thing like it's your first woman, lad: terrified of breaking her and not a clue where to put your hands – the voice was deep, seasoned by decades of screaming on the battlefield.
The captain of the garrison stepped forward. He was a man made of scars and duty, with hands that looked like bear claws. Without waiting for leave, he grabbed Alistair's wrists, forcing them down, and shoved his hips with a boot to correct his balance.
– The weight comes from the earth, not the shoulders. If you don't feel the ground beneath your boots, an enemy's steel will be the last thing you ever feel.
Alistair tried to follow the instructions, but his body betrayed him. The training sword seemed to gain weight with every heartbeat, and he failed repeatedly; his parries were slow, his thrusts hesitant. Sweat stung his eyes and his lungs begged for air, and there, under the severe gaze of the soldiers, Alistair understood the brutal truth that the troubadours omitted: fighting wasn't a matter of sudden courage or a war cry; it was a science of angles, of hardened muscles, and an endurance that bordered on torture.
However, every time the tip of the wooden weapon kissed the ground, Alistair raised it again. His face, once masked by an insolent smirk, was now a mask of effort and a grim stubbornness that surprised even the captain.
– Enough – the veteran ordered, when Alistair could barely close his fingers around the hilt.
The captain observed the mercenary for a moment, wiping his palm on his leather tunic.
– You're not a lost cause, lad. You've got your bones in the right place, and your head didn't drop at the first blow – the man paused, and his gaze became as sharp as the steel he guarded. – But make no mistake: you're no swordsman. Not even close. If you ever want to be something more than carrion for the crows, you'll have to train every day, without exception, until the weight of that ash feels as natural as your own tongue. Steel doesn't forgive laziness.
The training ended with the sun hiding behind the battlements. Alistair let himself fall onto a stone bench, his hands throbbing and covered in blisters bursting beneath the filthy skin. The silence of the night began to envelop the courtyard.
Lucius approached, remaining at a respectful distance. The boy didn't say a word, but his shrewd eyes fixed on the way Alistair looked at his own hands – hands that now knew the weight of responsibility and the pain of true effort. Alistair's sarcasm was still there, somewhere, but Lucius realised that, on that afternoon, the man who only wanted to survive had left something of himself on the arena floor, and something new, hard and dangerous, was beginning to take its place.