As Denor faded into the night, a group of latecomers finally stumbled upon the wreckage of the camp, led by the thoroughly irritated mercenaries and their even-more-irritated leader, Artos. The fires, screams, and general chaos suggested that things had gone spectacularly wrong.

“Someone been throwing a party without us?” grumbled one of the Trunian soldiers, trying to keep up with the pace of the Temrit heading toward the carnage.

“By Thormos’ beard, someone’s going to lose their head over this,” growled Artos, surveying the mess. “Half the planet will be down here by morning, wondering what in the gods’ names happened.”

“Safest place in the wasteland now,” muttered one of the warriors. “All the Andronians are up on their sacred mountain swearing vengeance.”

Artos shot him a look that suggested silence was the best survival strategy. “Shut up and get back there. Keep an eye on the boy. Last thing we need is him being trampled by a mad Aurox or shot by one of our own sentries. Speaking of which, where in the divine Thormos’ name are the sentries? I’ll have heads on spikes by dawn if I have to!”

The sentry posts creaked ominously, weighed down by dead Aurox, some still mooing pitifully as if unaware they were supposed to be dead.

Moments later, Sohrka came running back, looking like he’d seen a ghost. “Endir… Endir’s gone! I found his sword, but he’s vanished. Looks like someone knocked it out of his hands—”

“And?” Artos’s voice was so cold, it could’ve frozen the fires still burning around them. The fate of Endir clearly didn’t keep him awake at night.

“And…” the man fell into silence, struggling to decide whether continuing would prolong his life or shorten it in front of the angered Temrit warrior.

“We’ll deal with this mess first, and when dawn comes, we’ll hunt whoever’s responsible.”

With that, Artos began tearing through the camp like a man possessed, which, to be fair, wasn’t much of an exaggeration. He prowled the wreckage like an enraged leopard that had just discovered someone had not only stolen its dinner but also redecorated its den in a particularly offensive shade of ‘on fire’. His eyes gleamed a dangerous red, glowing with the kind of fury that made you wonder if perhaps he’d accidentally transformed into some horrible avenging demon.

His sword, hanging at his side, slapped against his leg as if it too was considering biting something—or someone. All around him, soldiers scattered, guilty and innocent alike, because when Artos was in a mood like this, guilt was optional, and blame was a group activity.

And really, there was no shortage of reasons to be angry. The raid had gone about as well as one might expect when you mix large, angry animals with decidedly squishy foes. Fifty fighters trampled into the mud, another fifty maimed and mangled in creative ways only a sadist could dream up. Even worse, the injured couldn’t be left behind to heal—because, in the Andronian wastes, “healing” often meant “becoming lunch.” Transporting them back home was the only option, but entering into New Titania with a trail of wounded? That was out of the question, unless you were particularly fond of your failure being paraded for all to see.

The real kicker wasn’t the shattered bodies. No, it was the stories—the kind of stories that spread like wildfire on a particularly windy day. He could already hear the murmurings. The legends of this merciless planet were creeping back, slipping through the cracks like a persistent draft that whispered of doom. Tamet, master of death, was apparently paying visits, and the Wild Hunter was supposedly frolicking across the battlefield, as if this whole debacle were his idea of a good weekend. And of course, there was the will of Thormos, which, if you asked anyone had apparently decided to use the squad as target practice for Aurox.

To the more rational these were fairy tales—quaint, but hardly worth the fuss. But for the Temrit mercenaries? These tales were the backbone of their very souls. They breathed myths, dreamed in battle poetics, and woke up to find themselves living in the middle of one.

On the battlefield, a leader like Artos was expected to embody Thormos himself, striding across the field with all the grace and subtlety of a giant on a rampage. The Temrit, wise in some ways and utterly daft in others, couldn’t imagine life outside their vast web of legends.

Artos himself was cynical, and it came from seeing one too many legends fail to block a sword, but he usually kept such thoughts to himself. For when reality got a bit too much, myth had a habit of becoming real—if only for a little while.

No matter how carefully laid, no matter how much thought went into them, some battle plans seemed to shatter on the hard, unyielding reality of the world.

And above them all, Thormos sat in his frosty palace, watching like a bored god flicking snowflakes off his sleeve. Artos could practically feel the Monarch’s icy gaze following him, colder than a midwinter’s breath down the back of your neck. This planet and its cursed lord Tamet seemed to have decided that playing by the old rules wasn’t in fashion any more.

Artos could swing a sword as well as any man, perhaps better. But when it came to fighting ghosts, legends, and whatever nonsense the bards sang about, he was about as useful as a snowshoe in the desert.

After all, it wasn’t every day that four lone figures—two boys, a warrior, and a woman, no less—charged an entire army. Flanked by those damn Aurox that decided to join the party, tearing through the camp like a blizzard with claws. To top it all off, a wounded child managed to kidnap one of his key people right from under his nose! The whole situation reeked of myth and madness.

In short, it was becoming harder and harder to convince his warriors that this particular disaster had Thormos’ stamp of approval.

Tannis Ararch, sidled up to him, gesturing at the sleds. "Artos, how many warriors are you taking to New Titania in one piece? You’ve already brought fewer than you promised, and now..."

Artos cut him off with a glare. "I promised to save your city, and I will. Even if I have to do it alone." He wasn’t much interested in New Titania, and was beginning to question if the pay was worth the effort.

Tannis wasn’t impressed. He spat in the snow, his voice sharp. "If four Andronian dogs riding reindeer followed by a herd of cows were enough to take down a hundred of your warriors, what use are you going to be on your own?"

Artos just grunted and clutched at his sword. Thormos’ blessing or not, it was starting to feel like saving the world was a job for someone with a bit more luck and a lot less mythology hanging over their head.

Tannis remained as calm and distant, staring right at the spot between Artos’s bushy brows with all the indifference of a man who’s seen too many battles to be impressed by a mere sword hilt.

“Care to test that theory, general?” Artos growled, the title spat out like it tasted of something unpleasant.

He gave a sharp whistle, the kind that suggested something was about to go terribly wrong for someone. The wolfhound, previously dreaming doggy dreams by the fire, jolted awake and sprang to its feet, growling and scanning for a target. Within moments, it bounded toward the two men like a furry missile of teeth and bad intentions.

“You may burn hot, Artos, but I am cold,” Tannis said, as unruffled as a glacier, “and my hair was turning gray while you were still learning not to poke your own eye out with a training sword.” He knelt down, calmly patting the dog on its withers.

The wolfhound’s murderous growl morphed into a joyful wagging of its tail, which promptly swept half a snowdrift off Tannis’s boots. A few of Artos’s seasoned warriors had gathered around, watching with the kind of stoic disinterest only the truly battle-hardened can muster. These were men who had seen enough bloodshed to know better than to get involved in the petty squabbles of leaders, and Artos knew better than to shout at them for something so trivial. These were men you gave orders to quietly—scarred, silent, and old enough to make Artos himself feel young.

Suppressing a growl of his own, Artos removed his hand from the sword. But before he could stop himself, he gave the dog a swift kick as it began to sniff around his leg. The wolfhound yelped, more in surprise than pain, and scampered back to Tannis, licking its side furiously as though trying to wash away the insult.

“I’ll send my wounded,” Artos said through clenched teeth. “The timid, the talkative.”

Tannis raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “And how many does that leave you with?” His gaze flicked to the silver clasp fastening Artos’s cloak, gleaming conspicuously at the throat.

“Ten hundred northern wolves,” Artos replied, his eyes fixed on the mountains in the distance.

Tannis’s eyes widened. “A thousand? The holiest of holiest, the blessed Martos save us! You promised more than twice that!”

Artos sighed, rubbing a hand over his face like a man with a long list of problems and too few solutions. “My people fought in the Arkal Sector. We suffered losses—” he began, but Tannis was already working up to a full boil.

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“And I’ve got four thousand in my Legion at New Titania! Five hundred, six hundred more recruits—green, but they’ll die well enough on the walls, at least! So tell me, Artos, why in the name of Thormos’ am I paying you this amount of credits for half the force you promised?”

“The Legion isn’t yours anymore, Tannis. You may be treated like a king on the Outer Rim, but only in these distant regions. There are others now...” Artos watched as Tannis’s jaw clenched. “For every soldier you’ve got in your Legion, there’s a dozen creatures in these mountains ready to swarm them like. I’d like to see what they do when they hit the mountains of Andron VII. There are more beasts than you can kill there, waiting to strip those fine soldiers down to their bones. I’d pay good money to see what your men would do in deep snow and hills. Probably fare no better than Stantych and his idiotic outpost.” Artos stood silent after this, baring his teeth in a grim smile.

Tannis let the Temrit’s boasts wash over him like a cold wind—unpleasant, but hardly worth getting worked up about. His mind was elsewhere, picking through the tangled threads of political strategy like an old weaver sorting out a particularly tricky knot.

“Besides, general,” he said, and this time the word sounded less like a title and more like the punchline to a joke, “it’s not as though you’re running the entire show here. Picture it, will you? A blowhard like Kouvis, strutting in with his shiny armor—the pride and joy of the Trunian Crown—only to have them scattered to the winds by a bunch of creatures armed with little more than claws and sticks. And then you, trailing behind like a dog booted out of New Titania in disgrace, turn up with your last handful of savings and a ragtag bunch of mercenaries to save the day. Quite the tale, eh?”

Tannis adopted a mask of lofty disdain. But behind the veneer of aristocratic sneer, there was a glimmer of confusion. Just for a moment. Artos had hit a nerve, and anyone paying close attention—say, someone with a knack for intrigue—would’ve noticed it.

Fortunately this was a military camp, and nobody intelligent was nearby.

Artos, for all his rough edges and Temrit ways, was no ordinary mercenary. He was far too sharp, far too prepared. This little speech of his had the feel of something rehearsed—like a trap laid for some poor fox. And the fox, in this case, was Tannis. But if there was one thing he prided himself on, it was his ability to wriggle out of any snare, whether on the battlefield or at a diplomatic table.

So he quickly regrouped, a grin lurking beneath his otherwise serious face. “We seem to be shouting at each other too much, Artos,” he said, smoothly shifting gears. “Like two hungry snow leopards squabbling over a particularly unappetizing carcass.”

Artos’s eyebrows shot up, and his pupils widened slightly. Clearly, he hadn’t quite mastered the art of keeping his face as still as a statue—a skill the more ‘civilized’ sorts had perfected. Tannis noticed the flicker of surprise and grinned inwardly. He had him.

Leaning in, his voice now soft, almost conspiratorial, Tannis pressed his advantage. “You see, I know a little something about a certain project going on in Tarmantium. The one ordered by a young, ambitious lord of a mercenary band.” His smile widened just a fraction as Artos stiffened. “And I know about this warrior’s plans. Of course, since these plans don’t threaten the Trunian Star Empire, my interest is purely academic. You know, the idle curiosity of a civilized sort.”

He paused, letting the words sink in before delivering the clincher. “However, if certain details—say, the involvement of a few... notable Temrit elders and military leaders who aren’t exactly your biggest fans—were to come to the attention of the Empire... well, let’s just say things might not go as smoothly as you’d like.”

Artos opened his mouth to speak, but Tannis shut him down with a swift, almost regal, wave of the hand. “In short, Artos,” he said, his tone now as smooth and cold as a winter river, “I know exactly how much you stand to gain from saving New Titania. And you know exactly how much I need this victory.”

The two warriors stared at each other with the kind of simmering animosity usually reserved for people who’ve just realised they’ve been dealt a bad hand at cards and suspect the other of cheating. The tension between them was thick enough to cut with a sword, but instead of steel, they'd been duelling with words—sharper, in many cases, and far more likely to leave a lasting scar. After a moment of silence that felt like it could tip into actual violence at any second, Tannis summed things up.

“So you’ll lead your thousand warriors. I’ll pay you the same credits I promised for a larger force—generous, I know. But there’s a catch.” He let the words hang in the air, like the punchline of a particularly cruel joke. “An Andronian boy has gone and kidnapped a relative of the soon-to-be-late Kouvis. It’s vital that he’s brought back to us. He’s the only one among the highers up in the Empire involved in this whole messy affair who understands both your role and mine in this war. And you might ask, ‘What’s a boy’s word worth when grizzled veterans are making decisions?’ Well, that’s the way barbarians think. In Trunia, nobility sticks, no matter how young the noble is.”

It wasn’t that Artos was shocked by the prospect of killing—oh no, that was practically a pastime in his part of the galaxy. It was the calm, bureaucratic way Tannis talked about it, like discussing a change in the weather. Artos had always believed that if someone needed killing, you did it yourself, preferably face-to-face, with a blade in your hand. These Trunians, it seemed, preferred to kill from behind datapads and intrigue.

Tannis pressed on. “After Kouvis—well, let’s say he meets his untimely demise—his nephew will take over, and he’ll report straight to the higher ups. Now, they may or may not approve him, but that’s a problem for later. What matters is that after we eradicate the Andronian hordes, it’ll be this boy who sings the praises of the Outer Rim Legion and its Temrit allies. You’ll get your credits, I’ll get my promotion, and we’ll both walk away with the Trunian Star Empire in our debt.”

Artos, his jaw slightly slack, tried to take it all in. He’d always known that Core World nobles were as slippery as an eel in a rainstorm, but the sheer depth of cunning and backstabbing here was enough to make his head spin.

Still, Artos wasn’t stupid. He knew when to nod along. Tannis wasn’t the kind of man you argued with when he was this far down the road. So, he muttered, “I understand, general,” though the title tasted like iron on his tongue.

Tannis decided to push a little further. “The boy needs to be found and brought back in one piece. I want a hundred of your warriors to track him down, stay in the foothills until the campaign’s end, and return him to New Titania. A hundred warriors, no less.”

Artos nodded again, the corners of his mouth twitching with annoyance. “I’ll send them.”

Tannis’s gaze narrowed. “Oh no, Artos. You’ll lead them. I don’t trust your commanders to do the job. This is too important to leave to anyone else.”

Artos suppressed a growl. Leading a hundred men to chase after a boy? This wasn’t the sort of glorious battle Thormos had in mind when he crafted warriors like him. But, looking at Tannis, he knew there was no point in arguing. “Very well,” he said, voice clipped.

And so, the Temrit warrior and the Trunian general stood in a snow-covered field, having negotiated something that felt less like a strategy and more like a deal made in some back alley. And all the while, Artos couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just agreed to something far more treacherous than any battlefield he’d ever faced.

***

As his men prepared to march, a small puff of smoke erupted a few feet in front of him, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of something between a sneeze and a kazoo. Artos blinked once—this was the stoic way of expressing confusion—and found himself face-to-face with a man whose appearance could only be described as an explosion in a second-hand clothes market. A bizarre hat, slightly scorched at the edges, perched precariously on his head, and he wore a waistcoat festooned with enough pockets to hide a small militia.

"Ah, splendid!" said the newcomer with alarming cheerfulness. "Just in time! Though, between you and me, time is a bit of an abstract concept, isn't it? Too stretchy. Too… elastic." He snapped his fingers, as if agreeing with himself. "I’m Foggle, by the way. Not that you asked."

Artos, as a rule, didn't ask many questions. His men would have told you that this was because he already knew the answers. Mostly, though, it was because he found questions encouraged conversation. Foggle, however, didn't seem the sort who needed encouragement.

"Can I help you?" Artos said flatly, half-tempted to let his blade answer the question for him.

"Oh, you certainly can," said Foggle, hopping from foot to foot like someone whose shoes were made of bees. "But you shouldn’t. Terrible idea. Really very bad. Because, you see, you're about to embark on a quest that is, for lack of a better word, doomed. In fact, it’s such a bad idea, Tamet, the trickster god, has taken a personal interest in it. Which, let me tell you, is never good news."

Artos frowned, which was more or less his default expression. "Tamet," he rumbled, more to himself than to Foggle. "The Andronian lord of mischief, lies, and... inconvenience."

"Exactly!" Foggle said, grinning in a way that suggested he found all three of those things delightful. "You see, Artos—and may I call you Artos? I feel like we're on first-name terms already—you’ve blundered into a bit of divine territory. Endir? Oh, he’s not just a lost noble boy. He’s a pawn. A delicious, irresistible pawn in one of Tamet’s little games. You’re playing checkers, dear fellow, while Tamet’s got a chessboard and at least four other boards you’ve never even heard of!"

Artos tightened his grip on his spear, feeling the weight of his responsibility settle more heavily on his shoulders. “How do you know Endir’s name? Are you some sort of spy?”

Foggle waggled his eyebrows. “Wrong question!”

"What does Tamet want?" Artos growled, drawing his sword

"Oh, you know," Foggle said, waving a hand airily and completely ignoring the weapon. "Chaos, confusion, some light property damage. The usual. Also, possibly turning you into a chicken at some point, but I’m sure that’s just for a laugh."

Artos gave him a look that suggested he didn't find chickens particularly funny.

"Not to worry, though!" Foggle said, clapping his hands together. "I’ve got a solution! It’s simple, foolproof, and only mildly illegal in certain dimensions."

Artos raised an eyebrow. It was the closest he came to an invitation to explain.

"Leave," Foggle said, as if revealing a grand secret. "Walk away! Turn back, go home, you Temrit are not wanted here. This is not your fight. You don’t need to get mixed up in this nonsense. Endir will be fine. Probably. And if he isn’t, well, these things have a way of sorting themselves out eventually. Mostly through fire, but still!"

The Temrit warrior considered this, and for a long, silent moment, it seemed as though he might actually take Foggle's advice. But then he looked at his men—each one battle-hardened, loyal, and resolutely expecting him to lead them into certain death with his usual silent dignity.

"No," Artos said, his voice like the grinding of stones. "We march."

Foggle’s face fell. "Oh, dear," he sighed. "I had a feeling you’d say that. Well, in that case, I should give you this." He fished into one of his many pockets and produced what appeared to be a single feather. "For when Tamet inevitably turns you into a chicken. You’ll need it to turn back."

Artos stared at the feather, then back at Foggle. He didn't take it. Instead, he turned to his men, gave a curt nod, and began to walk, leading them into the shadow of the mountains. The hundred warriors followed in silence, the air thick with the promise of danger—and possibly poultry.

Foggle, watching them go, sighed again and tucked the feather back into his pocket. “I do love a man with conviction,” he muttered to himself, “even if it does make him tragically predictable.”

And shortly after saying this, he disappeared, or rather a goat trotted off into the mountains.