The days had grown colder in Phyca, and with the chill came the shadow of dread. As the village elder, it was my duty to ensure the safety of my people. Yet, as the harvest ended and the Embers of Flame prepared for their brutal collection, I felt helpless. Their last raid had left deep scars—houses burned, children stolen, and lives shattered. We barely recovered, and now, they would come again, demanding more than we could ever give.

I stood at the edge of the village, the fields stretching out like a barren shield. The wind carried the faint scent of ash, or perhaps it was my imagination. Ysmara, I thought to myself, you must do something. But what? The nobles had already turned their backs on us, and we had nothing left to offer as payment for protection.

The journey to Danustica was gruelling, the path littered with fallen leaves. I was accompanied by three young men from the village who knew well that if we were attacked by the looters we wouldn’t stand any chance. By the time I reached the city, my joints ached, and my resolve was as thin as the threadbare cloak on my shoulders. Yet, I pushed on, knowing that the lives of my people depended on it.

Danustica was a world away from Phyca. Its bustling streets and crowded markets felt overwhelming. Here, the worries of a small village seemed insignificant. The people laughed, bartered, and argued over spices and silk as no bandit had ever darkened their doors. I envied their ignorance.

My first stop was the governor’s office. Lady Ira’s name carried weight, and though I harboured no illusions about her kindness, I hoped the gravity of our plight might stir her heart. The guards at the gate barely glanced at me before allowing me inside.

In the great hall, Ira sat with a group of advisors, her posture as rigid as the spear she leaned upon. Her reputation preceded her—a fearsome warrior, a saviour on the battlefield. Yet, as I approached and knelt, I saw none of the compassion I had hoped for.

"Speak," she commanded, her voice as sharp as her gaze.

"My lady," I began, my voice trembling despite my effort to stay strong. "Phyca is in grave danger. The Embers of Flame—"

"—have been a problem for years," she interrupted, leaning back in her chair. "What makes your plight any different now?"

"They’ve grown bolder," I said quickly. "We cannot meet their demands. They’ll take everything."

She studied me for a long moment before shaking her head. "We’re stretched too thin. My forces are needed elsewhere. The Southern Empire is on the brink, and your village is not the only one suffering."

"Please, my lady," I begged. "We’ll do anything—"

"Unless you can muster the denars to pay for mercenaries, there is nothing I can do." Her words were final, and the dismissal in her tone stung more than any blade.

Desperate, I turned to the streets. Phyca could not afford mercenaries—our crops weren’t sold yet, and even if they were, the Embers of Flame would take the profits. Still, I wandered through the taverns and markets, hoping against hope that someone might listen.

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That was when I first heard the name: Nova. A new mercenary group, they said. Fierce but untested. They had recently arrived in Danustica, their name spreading among the city’s underbelly. Perhaps they hadn’t yet learned to demand exorbitant fees. Possibly they might listen to an old woman’s plea.

It was evening by the time I found them in The Rusted Flagon, a dimly lit establishment filled with smoke and the murmur of voices. My hands trembled as I approached their table. They looked like warriors—weathered armour, sharp eyes, and an air of quiet confidence. I approached a man with a scar running down his cheek.

"What is it?" the scarred man asked, his voice rough but not devoid of warmth.

"I… I need protection," I began, my voice wavering. "My village—Phyca—is threatened by the Embers of Flame."

The group exchanged glances, their expressions guarded. The scarred man gestured toward a chair, and I sat, gripping the edge as though it might anchor me.

"Why come to us?" a fiery-haired woman with sharp eyes asked, her tone sceptical. "Why not approach the nobles or the guards?"

"I have," I admitted, the weight of rejection still heavy in my chest. "Lady Ira turned us away. As for others… we have no coin to offer. Our crops are unsold, and the Embers will take whatever profits we might make."

Her eyes narrowed. "So, what makes you think we’ll take your job without reward? We’re mercenaries, not saints. Profit binds us."

That man glanced at the medallion he held in his sturdy hands. His eyes lingered on it, assessing it. "That’s a fine piece," he said, his voice low. "Gold and craftsmanship. It could fetch five hundred denars, perhaps more. Still, how do we deal with the Embers of Flame? That’s a costly venture. We’d be looking at no less than two thousand denars."

The words hit me like a blow, and I hesitated before speaking. "This medallion," I said softly, "was a gift from my late husband. A symbol of the life we built together before the war tore it apart. But if it means saving my village, I will part with it."

His gaze softened momentarily before turning calculating again. "Even with the medallion, you’re still short by fifteen hundred denars. Can you muster that?"

I swallowed hard, my desperation threatening to spill over. "If I sell my land and my workshop in Epicrotea … perhaps I can gather the rest. But I’ll need time."

The silence stretched unbearably, the mercenaries exchanging unreadable glances. My heart sank. Had I waited too long? Should I have sold everything before coming here? The lives of my people weighed on my shoulders, and I had no answer left to give.

A hand landed gently on my shoulder. I looked up into the face of a man I hadn’t noticed before. His calm demeanour contrasted with the intensity of the others. "You mentioned a smithy in Epicrotea," he said, his tone conversational. "Let’s say I’m interested in buying it."

The scarred man laughed, a rare sound that cut through the tension. "Boss," he said with a smirk, "are you retiring now?"

The realization hit me like a jolt. The man before me wasn’t just another mercenary—he was the leader of The Nova. His easy smile softened the weight in my chest.

"Nah," he said, a glint of humour in his eye. "Just consider it an investment. Could be quite profitable in the future."

The negotiations were swift but thorough. In the end, we reached an agreement: he would purchase my smithy, and the golden medallion would serve as an advance payment. The rest of the denars would be covered by the value of the workshop, ensuring The Nova would take up the fight against the Embers of Flame.

As I walked the road back to Phyca, the golden light of dawn broke over the horizon, and a fragile hope bloomed within me. The Nova had agreed to help. They weren’t just mercenaries; they were a chance—perhaps the only chance—to save my village from ruin.