POV: Narūn
Slowly but surely, we began to realize it had to be a trap.
The area was too quiet. Too still. No merchant voices, no signs of other travelers. And the route itself? Perfect for an ambush: a narrow path through rocky terrain, with dense trees on one side and a steep cliff on the other.
I rode beside Khar, my gaze flicking constantly toward the ridges above. The rocks up there were like teeth—perfect for archers. Perfect for a sudden death.
"You feel that too?" I asked quietly.
Khar nodded. "Too quiet. No wind. No birds. Nothing."
I tightened my grip on my sword. "Get the men ready. If something happens, we hold the line, fall back to the choke point, and let them come to us."
He vanished into the ranks. I looked over the caravan: three wagons, five merchants, ten armed guards. And us—a team of twenty mercenaries, not all seasoned, but ready.
Then, just as the sun slipped behind the ridge, it happened.
An arrow struck the lead horse.
Chaos.
Screams. Splintering wood. The front guards fell before they even knew what hit them.
I roared, "Cover! Pull the wagons in!"
Khar had already loosed two arrows before I saw the first attacker—hooded figures with curved blades and cold eyes. Bandits? No. Too precise. Too coordinated.
Mercenaries. Like us.
Only hired for the opposite purpose.
They came from three directions, trying to encircle us. But I already had the plan in mind. I shouted for the retreat to the narrow pass—a tight gap between two rocks where their numbers would be worthless.
We fought our way back. Inch by bloody inch.
I lost three men. Khar took an arrow to the arm but kept fighting. I myself took a slash across the ribs that tore my armor open.
But we reached the pass. And there, their numbers meant nothing.
Khar took the high ground, firing from the rocks. I held the front, my blade soaked in blood and rage.
They came in waves. And they fell in waves.
In the end… there was silence.
The ground was red. The dust tasted like iron. And we were still standing.
Of the twenty, only twelve had returned. The caravan was destroyed. The client? Dead.
But we had survived.
More than that—
We endured.
The Black Company had weathered its first ambush.
And Vallegrad would hear of it.
Not because we won. But because we did not fall.
And that was the first step toward fear. Toward legend. Toward Ogodai.
---
POV: Narūn
The plan for vengeance had to be made. Because if we didn't show our strength now, we would never rise to greatness—never become legends.
They wanted to test us.
Now they would learn what happens when you test the Black Company.
With Khar at my side and the blood of our fallen carved into our memory, we began to plan.
We would strike back.
Not blindly. Not in rage. But with precision. Strategy. Brutality.
Just as Ogodai demanded.
And we would do it publicly.
Not in secret. Not in whispers.
All of Vallegrad would see what we were capable of.
Because when the world is watching, betrayal becomes a harder choice.
If you attack us— You better be ready for what comes next.
But before we could strike, we had to rebuild our strength.
Twelve remained. Brave warriors all—but not enough.
Vallegrad was filled with dreamers, fallen men, and wanderers.
We would recruit.
New men. New women. New blood for Ogodai.
Recruitment began the next morning. In the forge district, on the training grounds, in the taverns. We searched for strength. For resolve. For rage.
Because only those who knew fire—could carry it forward.
The Black Company would grow.
And when we were ready— The city would witness our vengeance.
---
POV: Narūn
The message arrived without a sender. No seal. No signature. Just a neatly folded piece of parchment, slipped under the door of our command post.
> "If you want to know who betrayed you – come alone. Dusk. Golden Thorn Inn. Basement room."
I stared at the words for a long time. Simple lines—but the meaning was clear. Someone knew. And someone wanted to talk.
Khar was immediately against it. "It's a trap," he said. "If they kill you there, it's over."
"If I don't go," I replied calmly, "we show weakness. And weakness does not build legends."
I packed my sword, wrapped it in cloth, and went alone. No colors. No crest.
---
The inn sat in the old harbor district—run-down, dirty, full of sailors and men with more secrets than teeth. The "Golden Thorn" was a place for quiet deals, lost coins, and broken promises.
No one paid attention as I moved through the smoky tavern. Just another shadow.
The innkeeper—an old woman with glassy eyes—nodded at me and silently pointed to the stairs leading down.
The wooden steps creaked beneath my boots. The cellar smelled of old wine, damp stone, and blood—not fresh, but not old enough to forget.
I stepped into the room. A single lantern burned, casting long shadows on the walls.
A man sat at the table. Mid-forties. Well-dressed. No mercenary. No simple trader. No—this was someone used to pulling strings from the dark.
His gaze was calm, calculating. His posture relaxed—too relaxed.
"You came," he said, without rising.
"Of course I came," I replied coldly. "When someone stabs you in the back, you want to see who held the handle."
He smiled. It wasn't friendly.
"You survived. That… wasn't expected. But impressive."
I stepped closer, my hand on the hilt of my sword, still wrapped in cloth.
"You know why I'm here."
"Of course," he said. "You want justice."
I leaned in slightly, eyes locked on his.
"No. I want to send a message."
A beat of silence. Only the faint dripping of water behind the stone walls.
"Very well," he finally said. "You want to know who paid us. Who sold you out. Who wanted the Black Company erased."
"I want names," I said. "And I want reasons."
He sighed. "You moved too fast. Got too visible. You impressed the wrong people—and challenged the wrong ones. Some in Vallegrad… don't like new powers. Especially ones they can't control."
"So it was the Trade Guild?"
A short laugh. "Not officially. And not all of them. But a few influential members? Maybe. Maybe not."
I stepped closer. "Give me a name. One name. And you walk out of here with your bones intact."
He hesitated. Then spoke quietly:
"Lorim Vasken. Councilman. One of the elders. He made the contact with the other mercs. He wanted to see if you had what it takes—or if you were just another name to bury in the shadows."
I nodded slowly.
Then drew my sword.
Not fast. Not in rage. Just… deliberate.
The man didn't flinch. "So this is the last thing I'll see?"
I looked at him. "No. But it's the last thing you'll understand."
I didn't kill him. I didn't need a corpse. I needed a scar.
A memory.
I cut him—deep, but not fatal. Then leaned down.
"Tell them. All of them. The Black Company lives. And we know how the game is played now."
I wiped my blade and walked toward the door.
"Oh—and one more thing," I said over my shoulder.
"Tell Lorim… we're coming."