The recruiter led Nathanos and me deeper into the palace, down long, dimly lit corridors lined with guards in ornate armor. The atmosphere grew heavier with each step, and I sensed we were heading somewhere important. Finally, we reached a heavy wooden door flanked by two guards with a different, almost ceremonial look to their armor. One of them raised his spear slightly, signaling us to stop.
“Leave your weapons here,” the guard said in a low, firm voice.
I glanced at Nathanos, who nodded slightly and began unbuckling his sword belt. Reluctantly, I did the same, placing my weapons on a low stone table nearby. Feeling strangely vulnerable without them, I looked back at Nathanos, who seemed similarly uneasy. The guard opened the door and gestured for us to step inside.
As we entered the room, the first thing that struck me was the lack of windows. There was no natural light, only the faint flickering of oil lamps casting shadows on the walls. The air was heavy with the scent of incense, which did little to mask the closeness of the space. Around us were more guards, but their uniforms were different from those we had seen at the palace gates—more intricate, decorated with silver and gold embellishments. They stood silently, watching us with stern, expressionless faces.
At the center of the room was a low, round wooden table, surrounded by high-backed chairs. Some of them were already occupied by figures draped in the traditional Aserai robes, their faces shadowed under the folds of their hoods. My gaze was drawn to the man sitting at the head of the table. He wore a richly adorned robe and a turban encrusted with jewels, and his presence commanded attention. His eyes were piercing, sharp like a hawk's, and his thick, dark beard showed streaks of silver that hinted at his age. There was no mistaking it—this was Sultan Unqid himself.
The recruiter, who had followed us inside, stepped forward, lowering himself into a deep bow before the Sultan. I followed his lead, bowing respectfully as the recruiter announced, “Sultan, I have brought you someone who can help resolve some of the troubles you face. An Imperial mercenary, fluent in both Aserai and Valandian languages.”
The Sultan’s eyes shifted toward me, and a small, shrewd smile played on his lips. He gestured for us to stand up, his voice smooth but commanding. “Rise,” he said, studying me closely. “What is your name, and… your family name?”
There was a pause as he looked me over, his gaze probing, as though he were assessing not only my capabilities but also my lineage. I felt the weight of his question—he was trying to discern if I was nobility, someone with a family history of renown, or merely another wandering soldier of fortune. From my travels over the past few months, I had come to realize that in these lands, family names were the marks of nobility or honor; only they were remembered beyond a single generation.
I cleared my throat and replied steadily, “I am Augustus, Sultan. I have no family name. I am not a noble.”
A hint of laughter escaped his lips, as though he had been amused by my answer. “Good,” he replied with a chuckle. “Good. I generally hate their kind, always thinking of profit and their own pockets before the needs of the people. They’re not much different from mercenaries, save that they believe themselves entitled to rule.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his expression darkening. “The war looms over us, Augustus. The Valandians are stirring, and I see no noblemen riding to my aid. They send treasures, empty riches, but no men. The fate of this empire, it seems, lies in the hands of men like you—mercenaries who have a cause, even if it is a cause for coin.”
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His gaze lingered on me, weighing my reaction, and I held his stare, neither defiant nor submissive. This was a man who valued strength and loyalty, and who had no patience for pretense.
The Sultan continued, “Your skills are rare. Few in these lands speak the Valandian tongue fluently, let alone the Imperial tongue, Aserai, and Valandian altogether. And those who do are mostly merchants—not warriors.” His eyes narrowed, considering. “This makes you… invaluable.”
After a brief silence, he made his offer. “I would enlist you in my service as a mercenary on a six-month contract. How many men do you have with you?”
“I have around twenty-five soldiers in my company, Sultan,” I replied, choosing my words carefully. “Though I also travel with children and a few wounded who will not fight in battles.”
He nodded, understanding. “For you and your men, I will pay thirty thousand denars per month. It’s a generous amount, but one I believe is fitting for the services I need. This war demands men who are not only skilled but who can communicate across borders, deliver orders, and understand my enemies.” He paused, leaning back in his chair. “There is one condition: you will stay here in the palace. I’ll give you a room—bring your wife and children with you. But no weapons are allowed inside. Do you accept these terms?”
The way he casually mentioned “wife” caught me off guard, and I chuckled, correcting him, “I agree to your terms, Sultan, but I do not have a wife.”
The Sultan laughed heartily, his laughter filling the room. “That can be arranged, mercenary. Many women in Aserai would be honored to wed a warrior in my service.”
The room fell silent after his laugh, and I felt the gravity of the arrangement settling over me. I then ventured, “Sultan, one more request, if I may. I would like permission to house the wounded and children in the palace as well, in the room you’ve allocated for me.”
The Sultan considered this for a moment, his expression thoughtful, before nodding. “Granted. But remember Augustus, though I’ve agreed to this, my trust comes at a price. I need you to be prepared to defend our lands and, when required, to launch an offensive. The peace of Aserai rests on a delicate edge, and the fires of war could spread at any moment.”
With a final nod, the Sultan dismissed us.
Just as I stepped out of the Sultan's chamber, a familiar, feminine robotic voice sounded in my mind: "Charm leveled up to level 5. Please select a skill." Before me, two options appeared, floating like ethereal words in the air.
Option A: Self Promoter
Increased renown gained after winning a tournament, and increased morale while defending a seized settlement.
Option B: Virile
More likely to have children. Gain loyalty, morale, and relationships when spending time with troops and companions.
I studied the options carefully, weighing their merits. The "Self Promoter" skill would certainly be useful for building renown and morale in specific situations, but I wasn’t entirely sure how "renown" would impact my path forward. It seemed like a secondary reward, something that might take time to materialize in any tangible way.
On the other hand, “Virile” was more straightforward. It promised immediate and lasting benefits to my troops—loyalty, morale, and stronger bonds with those who followed me. In the world I was carving my way through, those were the things that mattered. Building loyalty and trust within my ranks was critical; it could be the difference between victory and a mutiny in the future.
So, with a deep breath, I chose "Virile." It felt like the safe bet, something that would fortify the foundation of the group I was leading.