The air was tense as the captains of all mercenary groups gathered in the grandmaster's hall. Heavy wooden beams crossed the ceiling, the timber darkened by the passage of time and the smoke from countless hearths. Tapestries depicting long-forgotten victories and revered ancestors hung from the stone walls, though many were faded and threadbare. The room was sparsely decorated, save for the imposing wooden table at its center, where maps and strategic documents lay strewn about. Torches flickered along the walls, their light casting a somber glow over the faces of the mercenary captains. It was a rare sight to see this many captains of these battle-hardened soldiers of fortune in one place, their armor polished and weapons sheathed, yet an undercurrent of unease flowed through the room.

Seated around the long, oak table were the noble lords of the realm, each adorned in the colors and insignia of their houses. Their faces, lined with the weight of responsibility and the weariness of war, were grim. At the head of the table sat Grandmaster Claude, his piercing eyes scanning the room with a mixture of frustration and resignation.

The scent of burning herbs meant to ward off the pervasive plague also had gripped the entire hall. The monks, clad in their ominous crow-like masks and dark robes, stood in a line before the gathered soldiers, their presence was both unsettling and disturbing.

“Thank you for coming captains. We have something that is needed to be done first before any operations.”

The grandmaster stood at the front, flanked by monks in their somber black robes and crow-like masks.

“First, I must introduce these heroes in our time in gratitude to the great sacrifices and efforts they had made to combat the plague that is currently ravaging our people. These are the monks of Saint Catherine. They were not just healers but also scholars, their knowledge a mix of ancient practices and innovation under the guidance of the Great Eye.” The grandmaster began, his voice steady and authoritative.

"And today marks a historic moment," He continued. "For the first time, we will use what the monks have termed 'inoculation' to bolster our defenses not against an enemy we can see, but against the unseen pestilence that ravages our people."

The mercenaries listened, their expressions a mix of skepticism and curiosity. Vulkrun and Tresmer exchanged a glance, but never said anything. The monks stepped forward, each carrying small vials and slender needles, instruments that seemed almost out of place in a world of swords and shields.

“This new treatment that we have discovered will have us inject a cured tissue beneath your skin. You will likely experience a slight fever for a few days," one of the monks explained, his voice muffled by the mask. "During this time, you must drink only wine or strong alcohol. Water is strictly forbidden, as we have discovered that the city’s water supply is contaminated by sewage. And-"

“What is this nonsense?” one of the mercenaries complained. “Aren’t we here to discuss on where you will send us to kill people? Why in the fuck should we care about this plague?

“Yeah. We passed many abandoned villages on our way here, that had been afflicted and we never caught any of this plague.” Another chimed in. “Seems like you and your people are either weak for getting this plague or just retarded to drink your own piss.”

“Yeah, why should I know about the disease that’s killing your people. Point us where to kill your enemies and we’ll go. Then you can discuss however you want about where your people should drink and shit.”

“Couldn’t we just drink… you know, quicksilver or bleed the infect blood out if we get afflicted?”

“The only disease I cared about is that one you will get when fucking too much! Gahahahahahaha!”

“Agreed!” another mercenary said. “If you don’t have cures for rotting cocks and poxes then begone.”

These complaints were not received well by the monks who saw their words as insults for their great sacrifice but they were stopped by the grandmaster.

“Even so, you must comply if you wish to continue your employment with us.” Claude gestured to the monks. “They will give you a treatment where you will be strengthened from the plague. This is not just for you but also to avoid the spread of the disease. Thus making this an essential part of our contract in projecting the will of the duke which you will deliver as you had signed.”

“I’ve seen many snake oils, herbal concoctions and strange potions in remote villages and cities that would only harm those who drink it instead of the opposite because the real purpose of these fraud medicines was to profit. Why should we obey you in drinking that concoction. We are hired to bring you victory in the battlefield.” This mercenary saw the strange mixtures in the glass bottles carried by the monks. “Why don’t you try it first?”

Other captains nodded, agreeing with this statement.

“I already did.” The grandmaster showed his right arm and there was a bandage on his shoulders, a revelation that surprised the mercenaries and even some of the aristocracy.

“The grandmaster had already volunteered to become our very first success and proof of our work.” The monk chimed in and tried to explain it in simple terms that the doubtful mercenaries and even aristocrats would understand. “And this is necessary for our war not with fellow humans but against this invisible enemy. Like how you scorched the earth for resources to deny your enemy of provisions and supply, we are about to do the same to your body. This dosage will enter your body and burn you up. Denying the plague from taking over your body which will also burn inside you. That is why you may likely to get high fever at worst in the following days.”

Although the monk knew he was not entirely explaining their treatment correctly, it was the only way for them to make these people understand.

“Even if we allow that… treatment of yours. Why do you also need to do the same to us? You can just put that on your people or among you.” Another mercenary asked.

“Like what I have mentioned earlier, this is similar to scorching everything that can be consumed. But this must also be applied to every single person in the city because like an army of scourge who will just go to the next village or farm that had not been burned yet, the plague can just infect another person that had no protection of our treatment. Do you see now?”

The captains and mercenaries exchanged glances once again.

“And if we don’t?” a captain asked.

“Then this will be considered a breach of contract in which you will pay for the early termination fine as what we had agreed and signed with the full return of the initial payment that you had received.”

“Y-you! Y-you set us up!”

“No, we never did. This is part of the contract if you had read correctly the clauses that you had signed.”

The mercenaries muttered and discussed with each other but at the end, they decided to yield as no one wanted to cut off their employment this early. Even if they did terminate their contract, the reputational damage they will get from failing a previous employer of this rank would be catastrophic for their livelihood.

No one will ever trust or hire them again.

“Brother Anselm, you may now continue.” Grandmaster Claude nodded to the monk.

"Okay, thank you grandmaster. It is not the air, but the food and water you consume." The monk insisted. "You must adhere to a strict diet to avoid death and disease. Freshly baked bread, smoked meats, and fruits preserved with salt are safe. Avoid anything that may have come into contact with the tainted water."

This revelation caused a stir among the knights and nobles present. Many had believed that the disease was caused by miasma, or bad air, a common belief that had persisted through the ages. The grandmaster stepped forward again, reinforcing the monks' words.

"Furthermore, the cleanliness of our city and homes is paramount. The monks will inspect every house and building every three days. Any found in disrepair or filth will be vacated immediately, and the residents replaced with refugees who are waiting outside our walls for a chance to live within these safer confines."

Then he gazed at the mercenary captains and the knights alike. He unveiled a scroll that he had kept hidden in his robes.

“That includes all of you. None is an exception here. Not even myself. For anyone who will question this, I carry the duke’s letter that gives me full authority of this matter. Your camps, your chambers, your tents, everything will be and must be inspected by the monks. And no one is to forbid their entry or inspection. Anyone who does will answer to me.”

The mercenaries, hardened by countless battles but wary of this new practice, shifted uneasily. One of them scoffed at this and asked.

“Do we even get paid with this nonsense?”

The knights and nobles were suddenly stirred,

“Y-you ingra-”

The grandmaster however had no time in arguing and raised his hand to silence them.

“You mercenaries will get paid with 2 silver coins for every man that you had inoculated in your company. Of course, you will still be required to have your entire company to undergo this treatment and you will be punished if you were found that you had other people in your company intentionally avoid this treatment. This is non-negotiable.”

The captains just clicked their tongues but never spoke again.

“Any questions?”

“Let’s just get this over with.” Vulkrun stepped forward to be inoculated first.

“Good. Let us start brothers.” The grandmaster nodded at the monks to begin the inoculation.

Vulkrun felt the prick of the needle on his right shoulder, a small pain compared to the wounds he had endured in battle. Tresmer followed, and then the rest of the mercenaries. As they lined up for their inoculations, the mercenaries joked and jeered, trying to mask their fear with bravado. Vulkrun felt the fever take hold almost immediately, a burning sensation spreading through his veins. The monks handed out goblets of wine, and the mercenaries drank deeply, their throats parched and their bodies craving relief.

The grandmaster watched, his eyes reflecting both hope and worry. This inoculation was a gamble, but it was one they had to take. The disease had already claimed too many lives, and their unseen enemy grew stronger with each passing day.

Then when the entire people in the hall had received the treatment, the grandmaster addressed them again.

“There will be monks, escorted by my knights to visit your camps. They will apply this same treatment to your mercenaries. Now go, take a rest. I am sure all of you were feeling a slight fever already. It will be over quickly. Five days from now, we will meet again on this same hall to start our military campaign.”

“What? F-five days of doing nothing?”

“You are still paid per day as what was written in your contracts. And provision, supplies and if necessary, further medical treatment will also be provided from our side in the duration of these five days.” The grandmaster replied. “Any more confusions? None? Well then, we shall end this meeting.”

The mercenaries, knights, and nobles left the hall, returning to their camps and quarters to rest and recover. In the following days, the city was alive with activity, the sounds of cleaning and repair echoing through the streets. And the fever did indeed strike the inoculated. The people of course at first was not keen with this new and strange lifestyle. But hearing how every household and building must be cleaned, inspected daily by the monks and if any filth was found would result in immediate eviction, they became obedient. Especially when there are refugees waiting at the city's gates who were very interested in taking the places of those cast out.

Even those soldiers who helped with the renovations and changes in the structure of the sewers of the streets had grumbled but knew the dire necessity. The city's narrow, winding streets, typical of the southern kingdom’s architectural designs, were notorious for trapping filth. Houses were tightly packed, often sharing walls, with upper stories jutting out over the street below, casting the alleys into perpetual shadow. Open gutters ran down the center of the streets, carrying waste away—sometimes.

The daily air was filled with the sounds of scrubbing and the sharp smell of vinegar and lye soap. Streets that had been neglected for years were now being cleaned, buckets of water being thrown over cobblestones, walls being whitewashed, and refuse carts hauling away piles of waste into a faraway deep pit that the monks also had finished digging up for this very occasion. It was deep enough that they wished it would reach hell itself and infect the very devils that had helped spread this disease.

On the third day of inactivity, the morning sun was slowly rising over the encampment that carried the banner of a flayed man being burned by the golden sun, casting long shadows across the muddy ground. The distant clanking of armor and the hum of conversation filled the camp as the mercenaries of the Goldbrand Company lounged around their tents. The occasional crackle of the dying fires and the distant sound of horses shifting in their sleep.

In the center of the camp, Captain Vulkrun was reclined on a makeshift cot in his tent, his golden armor stripped off and stacked neatly beside him. A strong, dark-haired woman kneaded his broad shoulders, her hands skilled from years of tending to weary soldiers. Vulkrun let out a low sigh of relief as her fingers worked through the knots in his muscles, easing the tension that had built up over days. But even as he relaxed, Vulkrun's mind was elsewhere, already planning the next move.

Just as Vulkrun began to immerse in his own thoughts, the heavy flap of his tent was pushed aside, and Freya entered. Her once-serene face was now etched with frustration. She marched over to him, her heavy golden armor that was held by chains made a rasping sound that only the religious would find it comforting to hear. She had once been a nun, or so the stories went, before the harsh realities of war had turned her into one of the fiercest warriors in the company. Freya's faith had not left her, though it had become something far more personal and fiercer.

"Captain." She began with her voice clipped. "We're still short on salt, sugar, and most of the preservatives that we needed. We’ve scoured every possible source in the nearby settlements, farms, villages and towns, but it’s not enough. The markets are drying up. The grandmaster’s recent restriction over the local trade has made it nearly impossible to procure the amount of what we need. The food supply that we had bought won't last long at this rate."

Vulkrun opened one eye and looked at her, the calm of his massage momentarily disrupted, absorbing her words with a nod.

"Is that so?" he murmured, his eyes narrowing. He sat up, dismissing the camp follower with a slight wave of his hand. "Call Torus, Tresmer, and Nimea. We'll hold a council here."

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Within minutes, the other captains gathered in Vulkrun's tent, a simple structure adorned with little more than maps, a sturdy table, and a few chairs.

"The situation's dire. Even with the coin we've got, it’s not doing us any good. The grandmaster's gone and started rationing everything in the markets. He’s squeezing the supply lines tighter than a noose around a thief’s neck. We can’t get what we need, even if we had double the coin." Freya repeated what she reported earlier.

"Not enough salt and sugar? You mean to tell me we can't even get them at a double price?" Tresmer asked.

"Exactly. And even if we pay at five times and they accept, they have nothing to give.” Freya nodded with a grim expression. “…or rather, they refuse to give anything."

"So the problem isn’t just the food. Without enough salt or spices to preserve what we get, most of it will spoil before we can even use it." Tresmer nodded in agreement.

“It seems that they are preparing for the worse, huh.” Nimea mused.

"Captain, I’ve been keeping an eye also on the market. Like what Freya had said, even with the coin we have, the grandmaster's restriction has very bad consequences. Everyone's hoarding what little they can get." Torus, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke up. "And it’s not just the Grandmaster’s rationing, either. Word is spreading that the surrounding lands are on the brink of famine. Farmers are reluctant to sell their grain and livestock, fearing they won’t be able to feed themselves through the winter. And with the plague still spreading in some counties, many are burning their crops to stop the disease from spreading further."

“Well, I even heard that they were burning their own harvest to appease their pagan gods.”

“What?”

“Yep, it seems that due to desperation some of the remote villages and towns and returned to their pagan gods after the Great Eye never answered their prayers. It’s only a matter of time till they sacrifice their own.” Tresmer shrugged.

Nimea leaned forward.

"We need those provisions if we’re to keep this company fed and ready. But if the grandmaster's hoarding or rationing, we might be better off looking elsewhere. Maybe we raid a few villages, scare the local lords into giving us what we need."

"Raiding might get us what we need in the short term, but it’ll draw too much unwanted attention.” Torus shook his head. “We are not facing a hostile country, these farmlands were their own lands and if we make a mistake, we’ll have more than just starving men to worry about. We need another solution."

The room was then filled with exchanges of ideas. Every suggestion they could think of carried risks—sending foragers out into dangerous territory, raiding nearby farms and risking retribution, or paying exorbitant prices in markets that might not even have what they needed. Vulkrun’s brow furrowed in thought, and then he looked up at his lieutenants.

Vulkrun listened to their suggestions in silence, his fingers tracing the edge of the map on the table. Each suggestion was weighed carefully in his mind, the risks and rewards considered with the cold calculation. Then a spark of a solution lit up in his mind.

"I’ll handle it," he said, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

His lieutenants exchanged skeptical glances, unsure of what Vulkrun had in mind. Even though he had led them through worse than this, they had questioning faces that wanted answered before trusting his judgment.

“Something tells me that you have thought of something?” Tresmer asked as she knew Vulkrun was not a man who made promises lightly.

Vulkrun stood up, his muscles protesting the sudden movement, and walked to the entrance of his tent.

"I’ll have to visit the grandmaster's keep again," he said over his shoulder.

"Oh! There has to be a way to secure what we need. If that means getting a map of the local allegiances and raiding some farms ourselves, so be it." Torus tried to guess Vulkrun’s plans and agreed with it.

"And you think the Grandmaster will just hand over such information? He's already rationing the markets—he’s not likely to help us raid his own lands." Freya raised an eyebrow.

Vulkrun turned and grinned at her, his sharp teeth flashing in the dim light.

"Oh, he’ll help, whether he knows it or not. After all, he truly wanted to make his point after I rejected his offer previously about the provisions. I just didn’t expect for him to restrict the market this much that it made Ricortia effectively the sole life giver of this region. They could give out sentence on who lives and who dies of hunger."

“Wont this… backfire and cause other minor lords and nobles to switch to Count Reimblitz?”

“He was hoping for them to do that.”

All of them suddenly got the idea and nodded in realization.

“I see…”

“Well, that is one way to clean up the house from pests, gather all of them in one place and take them all out.”

“True.”

“Well then, I will leave for now. Just stay put here and keep trying. I’ll hopefully return with the solution.”

The journey to the grandmaster's keep was uneventful, though Vulkrun's mind raced with ideas as he rode through the twilight. The sprawling stone fortress loomed ahead, its high walls casting long shadows across the fields. The keep was a symbol of the Grandmaster’s authority—a place where decisions were made that affected the lives of thousands. He was greeted with the usual formality, the guards recognizing his identity but keeping a wary eye on him all the same.

Inside, the atmosphere was tense. The air smelled of incense and smoke, and the corridors echoed with the quiet murmurs of monks who scurried about their tasks. The grandmaster’s war council was deep in discussion when Vulkrun arrived, but he was ushered in with little fanfare.

Grandmaster Claude sat at the head of a long wooden table, his face drawn and tired. In his short time in the city, Vulkrun was able to find more of his background as a man who had risen to power through both martial skill and political acumen, but the strain of the ongoing conflict was starting to show. His eyes flicked up as Vulkrun entered, and he waved a hand to dismiss the other lords and advisors.

"Captain Vulkrun," Claude greeted him with a nod. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Vulkrun didn't waste time on pleasantries.

"I need a map, and information on any nearby farms or villages.”

“For what?” The grandmaster gave him a sharp gaze with great suspicion. “And why should I provide it to you? These lands are under my jurisdiction, and I cannot have mercenaries wandering about as they please."

“I heard about the bandits that are severely affecting the market that is causing strain in the local supply due to the fear of losing their livelihood during transport. It is not uncommon for peasantry or desperate people to turn to banditry during a civil war, such as this.”

“So, you have heard?”

“My men have sharp ears.”

“With sharp eyes with glistening drooling fangs. I know the real reason that you’re here. I heard that you aren’t getting enough supply. Something that shouldn’t have been a problem if you took my offer of converting your payment to provisions. And now you’re feeling the effects of ignoring my offer by asking for a map. I am not blind to foraging supplies through force, Captain Vulkrun.”

“And you really are a cunning fox to make me eat my words.”

“So, are you here also to rewrite our contract?” the grandmaster then took out a scroll as if he was already prepared to redo their contract.

“Nope, I just need the map.” Vulkrun shook his head.

The grandmaster's eyes narrowed.

"You think I’ll just give you a map to raid our own lands? We’re rationing for a reason, captain. The situation is delicate. If we take too much from the farmers now, we’ll have nothing left when winter truly sets in."

Vulkrun crossed his arms over his chest, his posture relaxed but his gaze intense.

“That is why I am also here to give you an offer.”

“Which is?”

“We will hunt these bandits and raiders in return for a compensation.”

“Why should I? Although it does affect the trade and safety of our supply routes, I could just increase the patrols and the escorts then that would be a good deterrent for these bandits. And I don’t have to pay any of you mercenaries for that.” The grandmaster continued. “And the peasants turning to banditry is always one of the expected consequences of war. These are already taken into consideration by me and the duke.”

“True but I am not referring to your lands.”

Claude went silent which was a good sign for Vulkrun that he continued.

“These bandits would never have the guts to attack supply caravans, traders or even just peddlers near a city that was garrisoned by an army that is preparing for an attack.”

“I don’t know, a city like Ricortia needs a lot of provision to maintain its upkeep so its expected to have more supplies going to the city which would be a very good target for bandits.” Claude tried to take apart Vulkrun’s argument. “Even rats would not hesitate to swarm and make their nests around a larder or dining rooms.”

“Yes, but why are you not sending cats to hunt these rats?”

“Why do you think then?” Claude asked, testing what he knows.

“Because you’re trying to know first on where these rats are coming from.” Vulkrun shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "And I only seek to purchase supplies, nothing more. My men need food, and I prefer to avoid any unnecessary conflict. Surely, Grandmaster, it is in your interest that my company remains well-fed and disciplined. Starving men are unpredictable, and we wouldn’t want that, would we?"

The Grandmaster leaned back in his chair, studying Vulkrun with calculating eyes.

“Thirty-two silver coins.”

“Forty.”

“Thirty-two.” The grandmaster repeated.

Vulkrun contemplated for a moment, weighing the risk and cost, then he nodded.

“Thirty-two it is then.”

After a long moment, Grandmaster Claude sighed and waved to one of the monks who was standing nearby.

"Give him what he needs. Show him the map." Then he pointed at another monk. “Brother Bell, could you write me two copies of a contract of twenty-two gold coins for the extermination of the bandits in the vicinity of Ricortia.”

The monks scurried off to their errands. The first one returned a few minutes later with a detailed map of the surrounding regions, marked with the allegiances of various lords and the locations of farms and villages. While the second was busy writing a contract under the light of a wall torch.

But before Vulkrun could lean and get closer to see the map, a sword block his way. Claude had unsheathed his great sword.

“Before that, I want you to fulfill what I wanted.”

Vulkrun flicked the point of the sword playfully and answered.

“Well, you’re paying so you can assure yourself that you will get what you hired us for.”

“Hm. I hope, you are truly expensive for a reason.” Claude withdrew his sword and allowed Vulkrun to inspect the map.

Vulkrun studied the map closely, tracing the lines with a finger. Then he was given his own copy of the contract and reviewed the grandmaster’s. Both nodded and pledged in front of the monks as the religious body present sanctified their oaths.

"This will do," he said finally. "Thank you, Grandmaster."

Claude nodded, though there was a note of warning in his voice as he spoke.

"Be careful, Captain. The situation is fragile. One wrong move, and we could have more enemies than we can handle."

Vulkrun grinned as he rolled up the map.

"Don’t worry. I’ll tread lightly."

---

As he arrived back at his camp, Vulkrun called for Tresmer and issued commands.

"Gather a hundred men," he ordered. "Light armor, small but fast horses. We’re heading out at first light."

“What? What did you find?” Tresmer inquired which Vulkrun answered with a toss of a rolled-up scroll. A large map that the monks had given to him. Tresmer raised an eyebrow as she studied the map. Nimea joined her as both surveyed the large piece of scroll that drawn in great detail, the landscapes and the settlements of the nearby counties.

"Planning a hunt? Or perhaps a scouting mission?" Nimea asked, her tone curious.

"Something like that." Vulkrun only smirked at both of them.

"You found us a new contract? Scout work? Hunting?" Tresmer asked.

"No contract. Just information. We’re going to visit some places and make a deal.” Vulkrun shook his head.

"Always a man with a plan. I’ll have the men ready." Tresmer smirked.

Vulkrun turned to Freya, who was standing nearby, her arms crossed.

"Freya, I want you to prepare large wagons and meet us at this point four days from now," he said, pointing to a spot on the map. "We’ll bring back what we need. You’ll be there to load it up."

"As you command, Captain," Freya said, giving a short nod before leaving to prepare.

"I hope you know what you’re doing, Vulkrun." Nimea frowned, but nodded.

Vulkrun flashed her a confident grin.

"You’re the second person to tell me that. Just trust me.”

As Freya and Tresmer set about their tasks, Vulkrun turned his gaze toward the horizon, being shined by the noon sun.

Vulkrun’s plan was in motion, though only he knew the full extent of it. The hundred men he had chosen were among the fastest and most agile in the company, well-suited for the task ahead. They moved like shadows, their light armor making them quick and silent as they prepared for the ride.

Vulkrun himself was the last to leave the camp. He mounted his mounted his light but swift horse, a sleek black stallion that matched his own commanding presence, then he turned, gesturing for Tresmer and the rest of the company to follow. With a final glance back at the camp, he spurred his horse forward, leading his men into the morning light.

As they rode towards the city gates, they passed scenes of desperation and decay: starving peasants begging for scraps, freshly displaced beggars huddled in corners, and an increasing number of mercenaries scouring the streets. Mercenary captains called out for advertisements and promotional announcements for recruitments, offering promises of riches in exchange for their employment. Traders lined the streets with carts laden with goods, while the number of prostitutes had noticeably increased. Vulkrun chuckled as they rode past a pair of mercenaries already having intercourse with some women on the open street, their armor clanking as they shamelessly engaged in public, unheeding of the stares around them. Such sights had become common enough that the people barely glanced at the grunting men and gasping women, treating it as just another part of the city’s degradation. The filth, the noise, the depravity—it had become a spectacle to them.

Tresmer laughed, her voice carrying over the sounds of the city.

"I swear, I’ll never get tired of this place!" With a sharp kick to her horse's flanks, she sped up, following the lead horse of Vulkrun ahead of their column out of the main streets and toward the less crowded roads beyond the city walls.

The ride was long and grueling, the cold morning early air brushed against their faces as they rode hard towards their destination. The terrain was rough, the path winding through dense forests and narrow valleys. But Vulkrun knew these lands well, having studied and remembered the map with a keen eye. But Tresmer had been quieter than usual, her dark eyes troubled as she watched the city recede into the distance.

As they galloped down the open road, the sound of hooves pounding against the dirt was all that could be heard for miles. It stretched out in a long, winding path, framed by fields that once bloomed with golden grain but now lay fallow and forgotten. The sky was a muted gray, the sun struggling to pierce through the clouds, casting a somber light over the land. Vulkrun rode at the front of his company, his light but swift horse moving effortlessly across the rough terrain. Beside him, Tresmer matched his pace, her eyes constantly scanning the horizon as if searching for threats or salvation. Behind them, hundred men of the Goldbrand Company followed in a single column.

The rhythmic thud of hooves against the dirt road filled the air, but it did little to drown out the cacophony they had left behind.

As they rode on, the landscape began to change. The fields grew lusher, the signs of cultivation more evident. This was fertile land, the kind that could sustain a small army for months. Now, as they sped along the country road, she finally spoke, her voice firm but laced with unease. Tresmer, riding close to Vulkrun, finally broke the silence.

"What exactly are we here for?" she asked, her tone serious. Even she, not particularly skilled in strategy, knew that what they were about to do carried great risk. "If the grandmaster finds out about us attacking a village that isn't hostile or an ally, we'll be in deep trouble."

Vulkrun said nothing, his focus entirely on the road ahead that led them away from Ricortia. They reached a crossroad, and without hesitation, he turned sharply to the west, pushing his horse to a breakneck speed. Tresmer pressed on, her voice more insistent now.

"Vulkrun, answer me! Why are we heading to this distant town? What's the plan?"

Vulkrun glanced at her, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Oh, Tresmer, I thought you'd catch on by now." he replied, his tone a mix of amusement and disbelief. "We need supplies, right? Spices, food, things to keep the men going. And where better to procure them than a grain hub and salt center? Simple economics."

Tresmer’s eyes widened as she noticed the wooden boards strapped to the sides of each rider’s saddle—except hers. The realization dawned on her, and she turned to Vulkrun, her voice low but urgent.

Vulkrun's smirk widened. She shot him a glare and, with a quick motion, kicked his knee from her saddle. Vulkrun winced, letting out an exaggerated complaint, but his amusement didn’t fade.

"Ouch! Really, Tresmer? No need to get violent," he said with mock indignation.

"You didn’t even tell me the plan!" she snapped, her anger simmering.

Vulkrun waved off her concerns as though they were trivial.

"Only I needed to know the details. The men? I just told them to bring these boards along. We’ll procure what we need under the Church's blessing—or at least, we’ll make it look that way."

Tresmer's frustration boiled over.

"And what happens when someone sees us? If word gets out that we attacked neutral towns—"

Vulkrun's eyes darkened, and his voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.

"No one will see us if there’s no one left alive to tell the tale."

Without another word, they pressed forward, Vulkrun leading the way toward the unsuspecting town. Behind them, the rest of the company rode in silence, each wooden board they carried bore a single word, crudely painted in large letters:

Heretics