As dawn unfurled its delicate fingers over Whitedge Village, the sleepy hamlet came to life in muted hues. The first light cast a gentle glow on the thatched roofs, their straw tops catching the early rays like whispers of gold. The cobblestone paths, worn by the footsteps of generations, meandered through the village, winding past quaint cottages with wooden shutters and flower boxes adorned with blossoms that nodded in acknowledgment of the new day. The air was tinged with the earthy fragrance of dew-laden grass, and a soft, hazy mist lingered, adding an enchanting touch to the scene.

At the heart of Whitedge, a modest square hosted a weathered well and a few benches, where villagers gathered to exchange pleasantries and share gossip. The village inn, its timeworn sign creaking slightly in the breeze, promised warmth and camaraderie within its walls. The distant sounds of livestock and the occasional cawing of crows punctuated a stillness, creating a serene melody that echoed through the valleys.

Whitedge Village, though remote and nestled in the outskirts of Mundar Kingdom, bustled with activity. The Gray Wolf Mercenaries, led by Lanor of Keening, approached Whitedge Village with a wagon laden with pilfered supplies and gleaming treasures. The mercenaries, a diverse band of warriors, took turns pulling the wagon through the cobblestone paths, their footsteps resounding.

Kael barked orders, ensuring the efficient rotation of the makeshift pulling of the wagon, clearly annoyed as they could have done better. He hated every minute of not having a livestock pull the wagon. Gon, a formidable strongman, heaved the wagon forward with his great axe strapped to his back, muscles rippling beneath his weathered armor. From time to time, the others would help him pull to ease the burden. Tye surveyed the surroundings with a keen eye, her bow ready for any unforeseen problems. Perry cracked jokes as he contributed his strength to the labor, keeping the mood light despite the gravity of their situation. Marek, the tribal slingshot expert, and Dendeng, the dual-sword-wielding swordswoman, moved in tandem, ensuring the precious cargo remained secure. Joruk, the savage from the south, balanced an imposing axe and a sturdy shield, a silent sentinel against potential threats.

As the Gray Wolf Mercenaries rolled into Whitedge Village, people gathered watching them silently and warily. It was not every day the village would see mercenaries like this. The mercenaries came to the only inn/tavern in Whitedge – a modest establishment with no name of renown. Lanor pushed open the creaking door, and the mercenaries filed in, their presence drawing curious glances from the few villagers already within. Kael, ever vigilant, scanned the dimly lit room as the mercenaries found a table large enough to accommodate their diverse group. The innkeeper, a stout man with graying hair and a peg leg, eyed them warily but didn't voice any objections.

As the mercenaries settled into their seats, Perry the spearman couldn't resist a jest, "This place needs a name. How about 'The Silent Tankard'? Seems fitting." Laughter rippled through the group, but their mirth was tempered by the weight of their impending return to the service of Mundar.

Lanor, the leader, furrowed his brow, his gaze fixed on the map spread before them on the worn wooden table.

Gon, the strongman, grunted. "Word is, Mundar is losing badly... What do we do if the war was already lost?"

Marek drew a crescent moon to the air, made a superstitious sign to avoid bad luck, and then chimed in, "Where did you even hear that? Gon, you are with all of us, ain't ya? We should be hailed as heroes after what we did."

Gon huffed, "Heard it from them," He looked at the people gathered from one corner, merchants, they looked like. "I am just saying, I'd be happy enough with what we have..." Despite being a brute with muscles for brains, Gon appeared to have a sharp hearing... and apparently, common sense.

Tye, the archer, nodded in agreement. "We've got enough loot from that old man's stash. Rejoining the state's not going to be a simple affair."

Dendeng added with a wry smile, "We're carrying a fortune in treasures. Mundar won't be pleased if they find out." Joruk grunted in acknowledgment, his eyes fixed on the door.

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The inn's patrons conversed in hushed tones, unaware of the mercenaries' internal deliberations.

Lanor, folding the map, spoke with determination, "Our contract with Mundar stands. We march back, war or not. We'll deal with the consequences when they come." The mercenaries exchanged knowing glances as they prepared to rejoin the unfolding conflict, Lanor leaving to conduct business and buy horses, a lot of them, and Kael in his own way began gathering information.

Lanor stepped out of the nameless inn, the dawn's light casting a subtle glow on the village's cobblestone streets. Following the winding path, he approached the modest stable on the outskirts of Whitedge Village. The air was laced with the familiar scent of hay and horses, a comforting aroma that spoke of simpler times amidst the chaos of their mercenary life. The stable's wooden door swung open with a gentle creak, revealing a space filled with soft nickers and rustling straw. Lanor's gaze swept over the stalls, each occupied by sturdy horses, their coats gleaming with health. The stable master, a weathered man with calloused hands, looked up from his chores and nodded in acknowledgment.

As Lanor inspected the horse, he overheard snippets of conversation from the stable master and a villager nearby. The words "Mundar" and "Fandral" reached his ears, a reminder of the looming conflict and the obligations that awaited the Gray Wolf Mercenaries. Lanor approached the weathered stable master, his gaze meeting the experienced eyes of the man who tended to the village's horses. "We're in need of reliable mounts," Lanor stated, his tone firm yet respectful. "I'll take all three horses and the mule as well." He added.

The stable master, his hands rough and weathered from years of caring for the animals, appraised Lanor and his band of mercenaries. "Aye, the creatures are strong and well-trained. But in times like these, every steed is a precious asset. What can you offer in return?"

Lanor was nothing but forthright, and honest, which usually was paid in kind with the same attitude of those he negotiated with.

Aware of the delicate balance between necessity and negotiation, he replied, "We've treasures aplenty, stolen from those who won't miss them. Gold, gems, and artifacts. Name your price, and we'll ensure your village receives its fair share."

The stable master's eyes flickered with interest, his mind undoubtedly calculating the value of the offered spoils. "Gold and gems had their allure, but we also needed practical supplies – food, medicine, and assurances that Whitedge wouldn't be drawn into the turmoil you mercenaries carry with you."

Lanor nodded, understanding the other's concerns. "You have my word. We would provide what was needed for the well-being of Whitedge, gold. Gold is gold. Our quarrel was with the battles beyond, not with the homes we passed through. The village will have its peace."

After a thoughtful pause, the stable master extended a calloused hand. "Agreed, then. The horses and the mule are yours, and may they serve you well in whatever path you tread."

Lanor clasped the stable master's hand in a solemn handshake, agreeing on the given terms without any trickery.

With the horses and mule now under their command, the Gray Wolf Mercenaries swiftly departed from Whitedge Village. The cobblestone paths echoed with the rhythmic beat of hooves and the creaking of the laden wagon. Villagers watched in silent curiosity, their faces a mix of apprehension and relief as the mercenaries rolled out of their quaint haven. Lanor rode at the forefront, his steed moving with a grace that belied the weight of the burdens it carried. Behind him, Kael and the others followed in a disciplined formation, the wagon trundling along with the spoils of their latest exploits.

The air carried a sense of urgency as the mercenaries, spurred by Lanor's rejuvenation magic, maintained a relentless pace. The village they left behind gradually faded into the distance. The occasional rustle of leaves and the steady clip-clop of hooves were the only sounds accompanying their departure. Lanor's white magic, though unpracticed, had been proven effective, infusing the group with renewed energy. Every time their marching slowed down, a mercenary would alternate from riding the wagon from time to time.

In the saddle, Lanor's grip on the reins relaxed, and a smile, uncharacteristic but genuine, curved his lips. The memory of Enevar Lifer, the old man who had been both the architect of the downfall and the murderer of his family, fueled the flames of vindication within him. The air of pettiness that had once characterized Lanor's sparing of the frail Enevar now seemed more like a deliberate choice, a strategic move to ensure prolonged suffering for the one who had brought ruin to his life.

As the wind tousled his hair, Lanor's gaze drifted to the horizon, and a deep-seated satisfaction filled his eyes. The notion of Enevar Lifer dying slowly, bereft of his ill-gotten treasures and gold, appeared to be a source of profound happiness for Lanor. The rhythmic sound of hooves on the path became a rhythmic backdrop to Lanor's silent reflection. The landscape unfolded before him, but his thoughts were anchored in the past.

The mercenaries rode on, unaware of the internal triumph Lanor harbored. His comrades, accustomed to his stoic leadership, glimpsed a rare sight – their leader, once burdened by the weight of a vendetta, now riding with a lighter heart... smiled. He smiled. Lanor smiled. Lanor of Keening smiled.