Dawn crept slow and soft, the kind of morning that felt clean. Mist curled through the trees, clinging to the branches like ghosts reluctant to leave. The stream ran cold and clear, cutting through the earth with quiet certainty. Birds called to one another, their songs crisp and bright against the hush of the waking woods. The scent of damp earth and pine filled the air, and the world felt untouched, a moment caught between sleep and waking.

Brun loved mornings. Not just because they marked another day lived, but because they carried a sense of possibility. The world had not yet settled into its patterns. He liked that. The first rays of sun stretched over the horizon, lighting the mist in golden threads. The sound of running water always calmed him, reminded him of things beyond the weight of steel and coin. He had learned long ago that moments like these were fleeting, fragile things in a world that often cared little for peace.

Ulrich did not share his appreciation.

Brun smirked as he knelt by the water, filling their skins, rolling his shoulders against the morning chill. Behind him, Ulrich sat slumped against a tree, arms crossed, scowl set, cloak pulled tight around himself like a fortress against the dawn.

"Mornin' sunshine."

Ulrich grunted. Shifted. Tugged the cloak tighter.

Brun chuckled, shaking his head. They had spent the last week on the road, moving from job to job, never lingering long enough for roots to take hold. Their last work had gone sour—a duel fought fast and clean, Ulrich’s blade striking true, but the client had been a cheat. Payment should have come, but the merchant had hesitated, then backpedaled.

“Too much blood,” the man had said, voice tight with disgust. “More of a mess than I expected.”

Brun had felt the urge to settle that complaint with his fists, but Ulrich had held him back. It hadn’t been worth the trouble. They had walked away empty-handed, stomachs empty, patience worn thin.

Now, they were heading back to the city. A mercenary company was gathering fighters, promising contracts that would take them far from here. Ulrich liked the structure of it—clear agreements, clear payment. Brun wasn’t fond of cities, but the promise of steady work, of something tangible, held some appeal. He had no love for the smell of packed streets, of sweat and too many voices crammed into narrow alleys, but it was necessary.

Still, standing by the stream, letting the hush of the morning settle into his bones, he found himself reluctant to leave this quiet behind. A part of him had always known the day would come when a job would lead them too far, when the road would be a one-way path to something neither of them could turn from. He wondered, not for the first time, if this was that moment.

Then he saw it.

A small shape.

Half in, half out of the stream. Face down in the reeds.

Brun moved without thinking. The water bit deep, but he barely noticed. The child—a boy, maybe eight or nine—was too light in his hands. Skin cold. Breath shallow but there.

Alive.

Brun exhaled, a slow, steadying breath.

"Ulrich! Get up!"

A long, slow groan. "I hate you."

"Uh-huh. S’gonna get worse. Get the blankets."

A pause. A long one. Then the sound of movement, slow and begrudging. Ulrich stepped into view, hair a mess, boots half-laced, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He looked at Brun. Looked at the kid.

Sighed.

"You’re not gonna leave it, are you?"

Brun tucked the boy close. "Nope."

Ulrich pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something sharp in Elvish. "This is baggage."

Brun grinned. "Yeah. But now it’s our baggage."

Ulrich exhaled, slow and resigned, then reached for a blanket. "One of these days, you’re gonna pick up something that kills us."

Brun laid the boy by the fire, already reaching for his own cloak to wrap him up. "Probably. But today ain’t that day."

---

The road stretched ahead, a ribbon of dirt winding through fields and sparse woods. Brun and Ulrich rode beside the wagon, their own mounts tied behind it to take the load off. The boy lay in the back, swaddled in blankets, his breathing even but still weak. The drover sat high on his bench, snapping the reins idly as he let his tongue wander.

“So where’s your work takin’ you?” he asked, glancing at them.

Brun wiped sweat from his brow. “Prince of Hawks.”

The drover let out a dry chuckle. “That fool? Thought he was just some noble brat playin’ at war.”

Ulrich smirked. “He is. But noble brats have gold, and gold buys men with swords.”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Brun shrugged. “He wants his own little kingdom. Reckons he’s got a right to carve one out.”

The drover spat to the side. “seems a lot of plans made by some former legionnaires on holiday.”

Ulrich came up short in saddle, lifting a brow. 

“Mercenaries don’t care much for plans. Just pay. How did you know we spent time in the Legion?”

The Legion was a fool's playground in much of the Empire. The foolish sons of the mobility were sent to feast and ‘learn courtly manners’ in far beyond reaches where a by-blow caused by carousing could be forgotten or paid off easily enough. The true conflict was always made by the Auxiliary, men picked from hard rural life like Brun or a life of idle urban squalor, like Ulrich, to fight against the real threats beyond the walls.

The drover hummed, looking off into the trees. 

“The packs tell your tale as much as your tending. A sellsword, well, he learns to keep himself from some mentor, maybe a few of his fellow thieves. 

the old man spat, turning back to the road. “They're sloppy, which makes not a single difference when the knife is at your throat.” 

“Well, that is quite the blow to our reputation sir. I had hoped to show hidden depths, perhaps make a bit more coin in the meanwhile with the Hawk.” Ulrich dusted his shoulders comically, giving a downcast smirk. “But we had a grand time in service didn't we Schild?”

Miserable cold. No women, fires no bigger than two outstretched hands with the wind whipping of the Horned Sea, waiting for the next attempt to defend a settlement they always arrived hours to late to save.

“It was a wonder I ever left.” Brun busied himself as Ulrich began telling tales of his times before they met as a wagon keeper and glad hand at the ancient Legion tradition of lucky procurement. Ulrich’s luck got him plenty of silver, some gold, and a cushy post keeping lordlings from the pox in the pleasure houses of the warm city of Navar. 

“The trick, you see, is knowing which houses watered down their spirits. If a man was in need of a bit of courage you could take him to the more beady houses. One too far in his cups would never notice being fleeced a few silver by water flavored with bitterstongue to taste like the rotgut he had just drank so greedily hours before.”

The drover chuckled, calling the impromptu caravan to a halt to make water. All told they had made good time, and the drover whistled even more tunelessly with his flute in hand.

“Navar… the City of Roses.” The old man sighed wistfully. “Worked me a small bit of business outside Kav, tried to make any excuse to summer there.”

“Aye, a waste. The warmth of hospitality in Navar would have kept you warm all winter.” Ulrich pointed out, stretching his back and idly nibbling a piece of that hard buttery cheese Brun loved to pack on journeys.

“Or left me burning, ay?” the drover laughed and then coughed out half a lung due to this bit of humor, though his two companions didn't have much use for it. “I loved the houses, but nothing was sweeter than the shadeboats. Oh, on those little boats anything could go. There were boys, women, even little ones if that was your—-”

Brun was off his mount with fists before Ulrich saw the play. Fists weren't a preferred method in the streets or on a battlefield, but Brun’s conscience seemed to have prevented a lethal attack. Quick hands and feet led to bloodying up their last length of cordage, and a whimpering heap collecting road dust in the back of the wagon.

“You were right. I should have kept in my cloak.

The whimpering faded in and out: the child made no sounds, but the old man fought a battle between mewing grumble and angry shouting. The gag prevented much much than a rumbling mixed with the occasion loose epithet, so the ride altogether wasn't as bad as it could have been.

Bedding down for the night led the men to putting the drover still tied in the most comfortable spot they could find and setting camp far off the road.

“It would seem, again, that you brought us a bit of ill fortune.” Ulrich mused, cutting a bit of barely edible road sausage and some potatoes into a lot for stew. 

“It always looks bad if you're looking for bad, Ul. The kid would have—

“Died? He still could Brun. We don't know what's wrong with him. Is he simpleminded? If so we just dragged him a day's ride from whatever farm or small claim lay out there. Slave? No, too fit, a bit lean but that could be traveler's sickness.” Ulrich set the pot on the spot he had carved into a convenient branch to hang above the main fire, standing up with a sign of contentment. “If I trusted another man with my back I'd have left you years ago.”

“And be dead a month later from some foolishness. Like Arte.”

“I had never used a spear to duel? Who chooses spears?”

“Or Laconi.”

“That was a setup from the Djarni triplets we made twins in Fulrim. None on m—

“Santchem? Pollet? Godseye?”

“Oh, fuck you kindly Brun. Godseye was partly your fault, and the worst that happened was having that tavern girl almost slice me belly to tits. How was I supposed to know she was an assassin?’

“Her shoes.”

Ulrich paused, scratching at the scar that ran a hands space above his navel. 

“Shoes?” 

“She was wearing very pretty boots. Silver thread and those little hummingbirds. What tavern girl wears boots that would cost her a year's wages?”

“One who could earn them in a month. Which, all things considered, seemed likely considering the activities we were up to before you—

“Saved your life, yes.” Brun checked the soup, tossing a few pinches of salt into the pot. “She had no hand to hand, her. Went quickly, and then it was off to the next city, and the next…”

“But you must admit it was an adventure.” Ulrich said, high cheeks warm in the firelight. They both missed the banter, as days on the road in defeat made them both surly. This little bump in the road at least brought a modicum of fun to the outing.

The kid, who had gone from unconscious to sleeping during the wagon ride ripped into a trencher of stew like a wild dog. It was here that the two mercenaries finally saw more of the child. A handsome if soft face, with a light dash of Aria's seeds across cheeks and nose. Brun noticed that the kid had obviously not missed many meals, and if so those missed were well settled the next day. Ulrich noticed the lack of scars or scrapes, though a gnarly little scar showed itself peeking from a collarbone covered by the makeshift canvas cloak and blessedly dry clothes they shoved the poor soul into.

“Cease! There's no beasts in these fields that is tougher than Brun.” Ulrich confided, rustling the stiffly dried hair of the child. “And we'll be back to the city by midday tomorrow and all the food you could want will be yours!”

The child looked on dumbly at his thin savior before turning to the bearlike one. The contrast between the men was like the tale of the fat wife and her thin but fed husband. Brun’s size would be massive anywhere outside of the deepest farmlands, where sometimes children seemed to grow to fit the mountains that surrounded them. 

Ulrich was a stock standard, if cut small, man of his empire. He had been handsome before life turned him hard, but he would need a step stool to reach the lips of any fair lady who wasn't herself dainty as a mouse.

The drover was given half rations after he learned to calm down, and swallowed the strained broth with the grimace of a man with broken teeth. After that it was all but to turn to sleep, with Brun taking watch.

Ulrich knew he had slept deeply. So deep he awoke to the end of the discussion, with Brun hulking over top of the bound man and their little piece of baggage wordlessly hollering in windy whoops.

They were barely separated, and the old man was worse for it. What had been perhaps a few loose molars was now a mouth full of shattered teeth, and Ulrich used a trick learned in travels amongst the learned, making a simple tincture to pour and rinse the bits out and numb the mouth a bit.  

The pain abated but the numbness would not still the old man’s tongue. Knowing that he would only end up regretting it the short mercenary drew up and walked the drover away from the group.

“It wasn't my fault! He just lost it while I was trying to talk to your little companion.” the old man looked ready to weep, but his eyes shown only cold fire when he looked back to Brun. “We can forget all of this happened, perhaps a half piece?” 

50 silver. Enough to buy a fine set of silver thread bolts, or a good season for a short hauling layabout. Ulrich paused to mull over the offer, taking sips from his waterskin before offering it to the injured man.

“Seems to me there’s easier ways to earn a livin’. Puttin’ a sword in your hand and hopin’ you live long enough to spend your coin? That’s a poor man’s gamble.”

Ulrich said nothing. He’d heard it before. He had no answer for men who had never deigned to see the horror of Navar. The open markets where men and boys were sold. The dark rooms where discerning eyes could see the women and girls without breaking the taboos of the land. There was no explaining the things he had seen to a mind this foolish.

They walked in silence for a time. Then the drover sniffed, the walk helping him unkink his back. “Boy’s dead weight,” he muttered. “Bet he’s got no people. Nobody looking for him.”

Ulrich’s fingers tightened around the skin.

The drover went on, voice casual. “Could sell him. Young ones fetch good coin. Especially the quiet ones.”

The air between them turned sharp.

The swordsman acted first. It was a quick maneuver, disabling the knee. It sending the old man sprawling into the dust. The scum let out a yelp as he hit the ground, scrambling back on his hands.

Ulrich sighed, rubbing his temple. “I was gonna let you talk a little longer, then offer ten for the wagon. Could've even kept the horses.”

It was simple enough to pull his short workman's blade. “A mistake.”

The drover’s mouth flapped, eyes darting between them. “Now, now, no need for—”

Once, twice. It was hours of life cut to minutes, the blood slowly pouring down the front of his shirt. A quick step behind and a upward thrust and the old man collapsed in the dirt.

Ulrich checked his clothes and relieved himself on the warm dirt that had once been someone worth killing.

By the time he did a rough enough job of covering the body he found Brun inspecting the wagon. “Not much in here worth keeping.” He sighed, moving to hitch the horses. “Guess we’re driving now.”

Ulrich rolled his shoulders, breathing out slow. “Better him in some field than the kid in chains.”

They left the man where he lay, getting the kid into the back of the wagon with little complaint. They pulled themsel

ves into the driver’s bench, flicking the reins and getting the world into motion.

The road stretched ahead, and a companionable silence stretched over the rest of the morning.