Lucan leaned back against the worn, wooden bench outside the barracks, the sound of the tavern spilling out into the cool night air. He held a mug of beer loosely in his hand, eyes on the stars overhead. The sky was unusually clear, offering a brief respite from the growing storm between Drakovia and the Vorgath Dominion.
Beside him, Talia sat with her own drink, the amber liquid swirling lazily in her cup. The flickering light of the tavern’s hearth cast a warm glow on her face. She looked peaceful, yet Lucan noticed a tightness in her expression, something he hadn’t seen before. But it wasn’t the kind of thing you’d bring up—not on a night like this.
“You know,” Talia broke the silence, a nostalgic note slipping into her voice, “it wasn’t too long ago we were out here, swinging wooden swords, acting like we were invincible.”
Lucan chuckled, taking a swig from his mug. “Back when the worst we had to worry about was who’d buy the next round after training.”
Talia smirked, raising her glass. “And it was always you.”
“Because you’d always throw the matches,” Lucan shot back with a grin.
Talia gave him a playful shove. “I never threw a match in my life. I let you win out of pity.”
Lucan raised an eyebrow. “Right, pity. That explains all the bruises you gave me.”
She snorted, leaning back and taking a long sip of her beer. The banter between them came easy, like slipping into a well-worn routine. It was moments like this—when the rest of the world faded into the background—that Lucan cherished most. There was a kind of comfort in it, a sense of grounding amid the chaos that surrounded them.
“You ever think about those days?” Talia asked, her tone lighter now. “Before all this... before the Crimson Talon?”
Lucan nodded. “Sometimes. It feels like a different lifetime.”
Talia hummed in agreement. “It was simpler, wasn’t it? Just us, some wooden swords, and no idea what we were getting into.”
Lucan smiled, though there was something faintly melancholic in it. “We were just kids. We didn’t know any better.”
“And now look at us.” Talia waved a hand, gesturing vaguely toward the barracks. “Leaders in Drakovia’s most dangerous squad. Funny how things turn out.”
Lucan’s gaze drifted back to the stars. “Yeah, funny.”
A comfortable silence settled between them again. Talia’s thoughts seemed far away, her expression softened by the beer and memories. Lucan found himself watching her, the way the firelight played across her face, the subtle shifts in her demeanor. He couldn’t remember the last time they had a moment like this—just the two of them, no battles or missions looming over their heads.
“It’s strange,” Talia said suddenly, her voice quieter now. “Thinking about the future.”
Lucan glanced at her. “What do you mean?”
“I mean... I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like everything’s moving so fast.” She swirled her drink absently, eyes fixed on the liquid. “Like we’re always looking ahead, but never really stopping to think about what’s next.”
Lucan shrugged, trying to keep his tone light. “That’s because what’s next is usually another fight. We don’t get much time to stop and think.”
Talia smiled faintly. “True.”
There was something different in her voice, something just below the surface, but Lucan couldn’t quite place it. It wasn’t unusual for Talia to get reflective after a few drinks, but this felt... heavier. Not that he’d ever accuse her of being sentimental.
“Well, whatever’s coming,” Lucan said, aiming to shift the mood, “we’ll handle it. Like we always do.”
Talia’s smile lingered, but there was a subtle edge to it, almost imperceptible. She clinked her mug against his. “Here’s hoping.”
They drank, the clink of their mugs breaking the quiet. The conversation drifted back to lighter topics—old memories, old jokes, stories from their years training together. Talia teased Lucan about his terrible aim with a bow; Lucan reminded her of the time she’d fallen off a horse trying to show off. Their laughter filled the space around them, easing the tension neither had wanted to acknowledge.
As the night wore on, the camaraderie between them deepened, the kind that only years of shared battles could forge. Talia leaned back against the bench, her eyes drifting closed for a moment, as if savoring the stillness.
“You think we’ll ever get a break?” she asked, half-laughing but with a note of seriousness.
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Lucan smirked. “From what? Fighting or you giving me grief?”
Talia chuckled softly. “Both, maybe.”
Lucan took another drink, letting the weight of her question settle. “Not likely. But that’s never stopped us before, has it?”
Talia didn’t answer right away, her eyes focused on something distant, something only she could see. Then, with a quiet sigh, she tilted her head toward him, her tone teasing but soft. “Don’t go getting soft on me, Lucan.”
He laughed, though there was a part of him that wanted to ask what she was really thinking. But this wasn’t the time for heavy questions. Not now.
“I wouldn’t dare,” he replied, raising his mug. “To whatever comes next.”
Talia hesitated just a second before lifting her own mug to meet his. “To whatever comes next.”
The words hung between them, light but with an unspoken weight. They both knew the road ahead was uncertain. Battles would be fought, lives would change—maybe even end. But for now, all they had was the moment. And Lucan, for all his bravado, found himself clinging to it just a little tighter than usual.
As the night deepened, they continued their banter, the past and future blurring together in their conversation. Neither of them spoke directly about what the next battle might bring, but the unspoken was there, lingering like a shadow. Lucan didn’t let himself dwell on it. Not yet. There would be time for that later.
For now, the stars still shone, the beer still flowed, and Talia—his closest friend—was still here, sitting beside him, laughing at some joke he’d forgotten the punchline to.
And that was enough.
~~
Sid paced outside the tavern, the cool evening breeze brushing against his skin as the noise from the inside buzzed faintly behind him. His coin purse hung lighter than it should, and the reality of his situation gnawed at the back of his mind.
“I’m running out of options,” Sid muttered under his breath. His hand instinctively went to his side, touching the hilt of his blade. It wasn’t a bad weapon, but it wouldn’t bring in any coin on its own. Fighting in tournaments was one thing, but his mind drifted to something more dangerous. Something with higher stakes—and greater rewards.
Crimson Talon.
He had been aware of their existence for a while. Mercenaries, yes—but not just any mercenaries. They were renowned for their structure, their discipline, and their ruthlessness. If he were to join them, the pay would be substantial. But it wasn’t just about the money; something in him itched for the challenge, for the adrenaline rush that came with working alongside those who fought on the edge of life and death.
But first, he needed information. What was their internal system like? How did they operate?
His eyes scanned the street until they landed on a familiar figure sitting at one of the outdoor tables of the tavern—Cian. If anyone knew the inner workings of the Crimson Talon, it would be him.
Sid strode over with purpose. “Cian.”
Cian looked up from his drink, eyebrow raised as he spotted Sid. “Thought you’d be hiding away somewhere, not looking to chat.” He took a swig of ale, then leaned back in his chair. “What’s on your mind?”
Sid hesitated for a beat before sitting down across from him. “I’m thinking of joining the Crimson Talon.”
Cian chuckled. “You and every other desperate fool in town. What’s your angle?”
“I need to know how they’re structured—internally,” Sid said, his tone measured. “If I’m going to make a move, I need to understand the hierarchy.”
Cian’s expression shifted, his amusement giving way to something more thoughtful. He set his drink down with a soft clink. “Alright. But you’d better be serious about this, Sid. They’re not some local rabble looking for hired hands. Crimson Talon’s got rules—strict ones.”
“I know. That’s why I’m asking.”
Cian exhaled, tapping his fingers against the table before leaning in slightly. “There are four ranks. You start at the bottom, and if you survive, you climb.”
Sid stayed quiet, letting Cian continue.
“The entry rank’s called Talonblade. That’s where you’d be if you joined—grunts, essentially. You take the dirty jobs, run errands, follow orders, and prove you’re worth keeping around.”
Sid nodded. So far, it sounded exactly as he’d expected.
“Above them are the Iron Talons. These guys have earned their place. They lead smaller teams, handle more delicate missions, but they’re still in the trenches, fighting alongside the Talonblades.”
“And the higher ranks?”
Cian smirked. “Now, we get to the real power. The Bloodclaws—elite generals and lieutenants. They don’t just fight; they command. They lead the major missions, train the lower ranks, and maintain order. If you’re dealing with a Bloodclaw, you’d better watch your back. They didn’t earn that rank by playing nice.”
Sid’s mind was already turning, processing each detail. “And at the top?”
“The Talon Sovereign,” Cian said, his voice dropping slightly. “The leader. The one who makes all the major decisions—battle strategies, alliances, political moves. The Sovereign commands respect from everyone, even the Bloodclaws.”
“And this Sovereign? Who are they?”
Cian leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing. “That’s something you’ll have to find out on your own. The Talon Sovereign’s a mystery, even to most of their own men. They keep their identity close to the chest, and not many have the privilege of knowing who they are.”
Sid absorbed the information, his mind racing through the possibilities. The structure was tight, disciplined—exactly what he had expected. But there was an air of danger in Cian’s voice, a subtle warning that this was a path few could walk without consequences.
Before Sid could ask more, Cian stood, finishing his drink in one quick gulp. “That’s all I’m giving you for now. If you want to join, you’ll have to find their base and ask for an audience. Just don’t expect them to roll out a welcome mat.”
---
Sid walked through the city, his thoughts drifting back to the conversation. The idea of joining Crimson Talon had felt distant until now. But with the details in hand, the path ahead seemed more tangible, even if it was riddled with risk. His eyes wandered through the streets until he found himself near the training grounds of the mercenary group.
Through the gate, he spotted a figure sitting on a bench. Mira Voss, the stoic commander of the Iron Talons, was calmly reading a book. Sid hesitated for a moment. Something about the way she read reminded him of Thorne, his old master—quiet, focused, always immersed in something beyond the immediate world.
Deciding it was now or never, Sid approached her, feeling a knot of tension coil in his chest.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “I was hoping to speak with someone about joining the new recruits.”
Mira’s gaze lifted slowly from her book, her expression unreadable. She blinked once, as if processing his request, before closing the tome with a soft thud. But she remained silent.
The silence stretched, and Sid’s discomfort grew. Maybe he’d come at the wrong time, or maybe—
“We’re not accepting new recruits.”
Sid turned at the sound of a gruff voice behind him. Darron ‘Ironclaw’ Bane, with his imposing stature and the scar that split across his face, stood a few steps away, arms crossed over his chest.
“Not until the Talon Sovereign returns,” Darron added, his voice a low rumble. He shot a glance toward Mira, who merely inclined her head slightly, as though confirming his words.
Sid’s mind raced. He hadn’t expected an immediate rejection, but he wasn’t about to give up so easily.
Before he could respond, a familiar voice broke through the tension.
“Sid?” Lucan’s voice carried a note of surprise as he walked up to the small gathering. His eyes darted between Sid and the others. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see if I could join the Crimson Talon,” Sid explained, his tone calm but determined. “I need the work, and... the challenge.”
Lucan raised an eyebrow, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Well, you picked one hell of a challenge. But Darron’s right—the Sovereign’s the one who handles new recruits, and until they get back, there’s not much you can do.”
Sid nodded, though a part of him simmered with frustration. His plans were on hold for now, but that didn’t mean he was backing down.
Before the conversation could shift, a new voice joined the mix—far more enthusiastic than the others.
“Sid!” Talia’s voice rang out as she bounded over, a wide grin spreading across her face. “I didn’t expect to see you here! Come on, we should spar—show me the quickness that you did in the duel!”
Sid chuckled, the tension easing as Talia’s energy shifted the mood. “You sure you’re ready for that?”
“Oh, please,” Talia teased, flexing her arm. “I’ve been training non-stop. I could use a warm-up.”
Despite the day’s complications, Sid couldn’t help but feel a sense of ease. The path ahead might be uncertain, but there was no going back now.