Lanor with a weathered cloak billowing behind him, strode at the forefront of the Gray Wolf Mercenaries. Their ranks, now replenished and resolute, stretched across the open roads as they marched northeast of Mundar. The sun cast long shadows on the path ahead, and the air buzzed with the quiet determination of over a hundred warriors.

The clink of armor and the rhythmic thud of boots resonated through the air as the mercenaries pressed forward, a unified force bound by loyalty and the promise of coin. Lanor's eyes scanned the horizon, imagining the war-torn lands, which awaited his return. Every step brought them closer to rejoining the tumultuous fray.

The open roads bore witness to the diverse assembly of soldiers – his hardened lieutenants and fresh recruits, their banners fluttering in the breeze. Lanor, his hand gripping the hilt of his trusty blade, exchanged nods with his lieutenants, each of them remainders of the former Gray wolf mercenaries who survived the retreat to the Whispering Woods.

After the retreat in the Whispering Woods, Lanor of Keening stood amidst the surviving remnants of the Gray Wolf Mercenaries, his one blind eye reflecting the harsh reality of their losses. It was a terrible loss. His caster and half-mentor Grima, dead, and together with a dozen battle-tested mercenaries more under his command.

As they traversed the landscape, Lanor moved among his men, ensuring morale remained high with the promise of coin.

Days turned into nights, and the campfires of the Gray Wolf Mercenaries flickered along the roadside. Lanor, by the warmth of the fire, studied maps and charts, plotting the most strategic course for their return to the war-torn front.

As the Gray Wolf Mercenaries approached the war camps, a palpable tension hung in the air. Lanor felt a knot tightening in his stomach. The once bustling campgrounds now appeared desolate with little personnel, a stark contrast to the lively hub of military activity that he remembered from almost a month ago.

The distant echoes of clanging swords and the muted hum of distant conversations had been replaced by an eerie silence. Lanor's keen instincts heightened, and a flicker of suspicion danced in his blind eye, the white sclera reflecting a sense of foreboding.

Lanor exchanged wary glances with his lieutenants. The absence of any sentinels, not a single soldier keeping watch for unexpected arrivals like theirs, deepened the sense of unease.

The Gray Wolf Mercenaries moved cautiously through the camp. Lanor's mind raced, considering the possibilities of what could have transpired during their absence.

Packing soldiers congregated, hastily recovering items of value, left more questions than answers. The warfront, once a hive of strategic planning and martial vigor, now lay dormant and almost abandoned.

Lanor's voice cut through the desolate war camp, demanding answers, "Where is your commanding officer!?"

A soldier, clearly irritated by the intrusion, approached, replying with annoyance, "What is it?"

Lanor's piercing gaze bore into the soldier, his concern evident, "What happened to the war effort?"

The soldier's response carried the weight of grim news, "Haven't you heard? The war has ended. The Fandralese... sent their Sword Saint at the enemy heart territory. Got inspired by the mercenaries our side sent to their supply lines..."

Lanor's anger flared, "Those mercenaries were mine."

The soldier, showing a hint of prejudice, scoffed, "Oh, so you are their stupid leader who disobeyed the orders, eh? This is why you cannot trust mercenaries to do their job. If the commander says hold the line, you hold it! Tsk, mercenaries trying to take a shot at being a hero. See where did that lead us?"

Lanor, suppressing his anger, questioned further, "The Sword Saint? Zaren Dantwuch?"

The soldier affirmed, "Yeah, that guy, what a monster... He cut through our rank and file like butter... He went for our general and beheaded him..."

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Lanor's voice, carrying a mix of sorrow and frustration, revealed a personal connection, "I know, he was the one who killed my heroic mercenaries who took a bite at the Fandral supply lines, remember?"

A heavy silence hung between them, the soldier realizing the gravity of the situation.

Lanor concluded with a tone of disappointment, "This is disappointing."

As Lanor stood amidst the remnants of the war camp, his mind involuntarily rewound to a fateful day in the Whispering Woods. The memories, like haunting echoes, reverberated through his thoughts.

The dense foliage of the forest had concealed the Gray Wolf Mercenaries as they executed a bold strike against the Fandralese supply lines. Lanor's strategic acumen had guided them with precision, and victory seemed within grasp. They succeeded greatly in their endeavor to hit Fandral's supply line. Unfortunately, Fandralese retribution came swiftly as the Sword Saint, Zaren Dantwuch, emerged with ferocity.

Powerless against the overwhelming might of the legendary warrior, Lanor's mercenaries found themselves caught in a deadly dance of blades. The once-confident warriors were reduced to mere children in the presence of this unstoppable force. The air hummed with the clash of steel, and screams of the fallen, and... then there was the almost playful way the Sword Saint cornered Lanor's dwindling forces.

Lanor's gaze fell upon his Caster, a vital ally and wielder of arcane forces, lying lifeless on the forest floor. The loss of magical support rendered the Gray Wolf Mercenaries vulnerable, their collective strength dwindling as the Sword Saint carved through their ranks.

In the midst of chaos, Lanor fought with a fervor born from desperation. His blind eye, the result of his magical gambit for an unpracticed spell, served as a reminder to him of those he lost that day.

The memory of that day lingered, etched into Lanor's consciousness as a painful reminder of the cost of challenging forces beyond their reckoning.

In the dim light of a makeshift command tent within the abandoned war camp, Lanor of Keening gathered his closest lieutenants—Kael, Gon, Tye, Perry, Marek, Dendeng, and Joruk. The air hung heavy with the weight of recent revelations, and Lanor's blind eye seemed to reflect that of uncertainty.

Lanor, his voice steady, addressed the somber assembly, "We stand amidst the remnants of a failed endeavor, and the Sword Saint's impact echoes in the desolation around us. Our losses are undeniable."

Kael, the hound, spoke up with a hint of frustration, "What do we do now, Lanor?"

Lanor's gaze shifted among his lieutenants, each one having thoughts of their own. "We need to reassess our position. The war has ended, and our original objective has crumbled. Our efforts in the Whispering Woods were valiant, but the cost was too steep."

Gon, the strongman, interjected with a resolute tone, "Are we retreating, then? Abandoning what's left of the war effort?"

Lanor nodded, "We are not abandoning, but acknowledging the reality. The war has concluded, and there's little purpose in clinging to a battleground that no longer exists. We must cut our losses."

Tye, the woman archer, voiced her concern, "And what of vengeance for our fallen comrades, Lanor? Are we to let the Sword Saint go unchallenged?"

Perry, the spearman, chimed in with a somber tone, "As much as it pains me, Tye, challenging the Sword Saint now would be a futile endeavor. Our priority is survival, not revenge. We are mercenaries. Not noble knights."

Marek, the tribal slingshot expert, spoke quietly, "Survival means living to fight another day. We must choose our battles wisely."

Dendeng, the swordswoman, added, "Retreat doesn't mean defeat. It means strategic withdrawal. We regroup and live to fight in a war that may come."

Joruk, the savage from the south, grunted in agreement, "Cutting losses is a hard choice, but sometimes the wisest one."

Lanor, his voice carrying the weight of command, concluded, "We are not defeated, but we must be pragmatic. The war has shifted, and our path lies in cutting our losses early. We regroup, rebuild, and prepare for the battles that lie ahead."

The lieutenants exchanged solemn glances, acknowledging the harsh truth of their leader's words.

Lanor, with a thoughtful expression, decided, "But first, I will try to squeeze as much benefit as I can... I will now go and find someone... say, an immediate commanding officer to request our due."

Joruk responded with a hearty laugh, "My good man, more coin is better than less!"

Kael chimed in, "Hey, we are already plenty rich as it is..."

Dendeng rolled her eyes and remarked, "Oh please, have some tact, our dear vice leader..."

Tye added with a mischievous grin, "Yeah, we cannot have others hearing we have hidden wealth."

Gon nodded in agreement, "Yeah, all thanks to the old man we recently robbed." He rubbed his chin, reflecting, "Still cannot believe at this moment how rich that old man is."

Perry felt compelled to join the conversation, adding a quip of his own. "Honestly, this wealth isn't so hidden anymore. After all, we did put it at the Royal Bank of Mundar!"

Lanor, standing up without leaving a word, allowed his comrades to continue their conversation. His mind was set on squeezing as many benefits as possible.

Marek took out a set of cards, breaking the tension, "Anyone here wants to play cards?"