The bustling streets of Rattay were alive with the clang of blacksmiths' hammers, the calls of merchants peddling their wares, and the occasional bark of a city guard reprimanding a beggar. Dust kicked up from the uneven cobblestones as carts rolled by, and the distant chatter of the marketplace painted a scene of chaotic normalcy.
But for Dikun, it was just another day of surviving.
The boy weaved through the crowded alleys, clutching a small, half-eaten loaf of stale bread. His thin frame bore the marks of hardship — patched-up clothes, dirt-streaked skin, and hollow eyes that held the weariness of years far beyond his sixteen.
The orphaned son of a nameless father and a mother claimed by fever, Dikun knew nothing of warmth or comfort. The streets were his teacher, and hunger was his constant companion. He'd learned to survive by watching, listening — absorbing everything. If someone barked orders, he remembered the tone. When guards moved in formation, he memorized their steps. Every little detail, every whispered conversation, became a lesson.
But even the cleverest orphan could not outrun fate forever.
---
A Debt Unpaid
"Oi, Silver!"
Dikun froze at the nickname — a cruel mockery of his pale hair that shone like tarnished silver under the sun. The voice belonged to Grath, a broad-shouldered thug who worked for one of Rattay's lesser moneylenders. The man's face was twisted with a grin, yellowed teeth peeking through cracked lips.
"You thought you could run from your debts, eh?" Grath sneered, his boots crunching the dirt. Two others flanked him, smaller but just as mean.
"I don't owe your master anything," Dikun shot back, though the trembling in his voice betrayed his fear.
Grath's grin widened. "Your mother did. And debts don't die with the dead."
A fist lashed out, and Dikun barely ducked in time. Pain blossomed as Grath's knee drove into his stomach, knocking the wind from him. He crumpled to the ground, gasping.
"Think you're clever, do you?" Grath spat. "Running around like a little rat. But rats get crushed."
The blows came harder. Kicks to the ribs. A fist to the face. Dikun tasted blood. The world spun.
But even as the pain consumed him, something burned beneath it — a spark.
---
The Road to Strength
Dikun awoke in a dim corner of the alley, the stink of rot and filth thick in the air. His bruised body ached, but he forced himself to move. The city didn't pause for the broken.
As he stumbled toward the marketplace, the words of Grath still echoed in his mind. "Rats get crushed."
But Dikun wasn't a rat.
He was tired of cowering. Tired of surviving by scraps.
If strength ruled the world, then strength he would seek.
His feet carried him to the edge of the city, past the bustling inns and trader stalls, to a courtyard that rang with the rhythmic clang of steel.
The training yard of Rattay.
Young squires practiced with dulled swords, their faces twisted with effort. Veterans barked orders, their scarred hands tightening over worn hilts. Dikun watched, wide-eyed.
A man towered above the rest — Captain Orlen, the master-at-arms. His presence alone commanded respect. Weathered by countless battles, his thick arms bore the marks of war. His sharp eyes caught Dikun lingering at the gate.
"You're no squire," Orlen growled, his voice like gravel. "And no noble's son. What do you want here, boy?"
Dikun swallowed the fear that threatened to choke him. "To learn."
Orlen snorted. "And why should I waste my time on a street rat?"
"Because I learn fast." Dikun met his gaze, defiant. "Faster than any squire here. I'll do whatever it takes."
The captain studied him for a moment, then barked a laugh. "We'll see about that."
---
Lessons of Steel
The days that followed were grueling.
Orlen made no effort to hide his disdain. Dikun was given no sword, only a wooden practice stick. While squires trained in the yard, Dikun hauled barrels, shoveled manure, and scrubbed the filth from the stone floors. His muscles ached. His hands blistered.
But he endured.
Each night, he watched the others spar, memorizing their movements — the arcs of their blades, the subtle shifts in their footing. He mimicked their drills in the shadows, correcting himself with every misstep.
And when Orlen finally tossed him a dulled sword, Dikun moved with purpose.
"Come," Orlen commanded, raising his own practice blade. "Let's see if your stubbornness is worth anything."
The first clash sent a shock through Dikun's arms. His grip faltered. Orlen's strikes were relentless, forcing him back. Pain burned through his muscles, but he refused to yield.
"Keep your guard up!" Orlen barked.
Dikun did. Each strike taught him. Every failure was a lesson. His feet adjusted, his parries sharpened. For the first time, the weight of steel in his hands no longer felt foreign.
Hours passed. By the end, Dikun stood drenched in sweat, his arms trembling. Orlen lowered his weapon, a glint of approval in his eyes.
"Not bad," the captain grunted. "You might just survive."
But Dikun wasn't content with survival.
He would thrive.
---
A Mercenary's Path
Months turned to years. Dikun's body hardened. His once frail frame grew lean with muscle. Every bruise, every fall, carved him into something sharper.
Yet even as his skill with the sword grew, he knew that strength alone was not enough. He studied the merchants who bartered in the square, the guards who patrolled the walls, the nobles who whispered in shaded corners. Every conversation, every choice — it was all a game.
And Dikun was learning to play.
But no amount of training could change one simple truth. He was still a commoner. Still without name, land, or title.
To rise, he would need gold. He would need men. He would need a reputation.
And so, on the day of his eighteenth year, Dikun left the walls of Rattay behind. With little more than a worn blade and a tattered cloak, he set forth on a path that would shape his fate.
The path of a mercenary.
The path to the Silver King.