The tavern in Skalitz was a dim, smoky place. Wooden beams lined the low ceiling, and the scent of stale ale mingled with the burning tallow of candlelight. Conversations buzzed from the surrounding tables — miners boasting of their day's labor, merchants haggling over silver prices, and travelers nursing their drinks in quiet solitude.
Dikun Silver sat alone, his back to the wall. The warmth of the hearth offered little comfort. He still bore the aches from his fight with Krems, though the bruises on his ribs were a small price for the satisfaction of standing his ground.
A mug of watered-down ale rested in his hands. He hadn't come to drink. He came to listen.
Opportunities always whispered before they shouted.
---
A Dangerous Proposition
"Five carts raided this month," a gruff voice growled from a nearby table. "Bastards strike near the forests, then vanish before the guards can find them."
"Bandits," another spat, shaking his head. "They're bold, but the bailiff's patience is wearing thin. Word is he's hiring anyone with a sword."
Dikun's interest sharpened. Bailiff Marek.
He'd heard the name often enough. Marek oversaw the town's defense — a practical man, known for solving problems swiftly. If he needed swords, it meant trouble. And trouble often paid well.
Dikun finished his ale, the bitter taste lingering as he rose from his seat. The tavern-goers paid him little mind. A boy barely into manhood, dressed in patched leather and a cloak too thin for the night's chill — he was no one of consequence.
Not yet.
---
The Bailiff's Office
The bailiff's office stood at the heart of Skalitz. A modest stone building, its walls lined with crude wooden beams and an iron-bound door that bore the sigil of the local lord. Guards loitered nearby, their eyes watchful.
Dikun entered without hesitation. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of parchment and burning wax. Shelves of documents cluttered the walls, and a heavy wooden desk stood at the center, covered in scattered maps and reports.
Behind it, Bailiff Marek leaned over a piece of parchment, his dark brows furrowed. The man was well into his forties, his frame thick with muscle from years of soldiering. A jagged scar ran from his jaw to his ear, a permanent reminder of past battles.
"You're not from around here," Marek said without looking up. His voice was rough, but not unkind.
"No," Dikun replied simply. "But I heard you're hiring swords."
The bailiff's gaze lifted, studying him with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. "You don't look like much. I've seen stable boys with broader shoulders."
"I'm no stable boy," Dikun said, his voice calm. "And I've already proven I can handle a fight."
Marek grunted. "The fight with Krems. Word spreads fast."
The bailiff's sharp eyes lingered, as if weighing the truth of the rumors. Finally, he set the parchment aside and stood, his imposing frame casting a long shadow.
"Bandits have been plaguing the roads," Marek began. "Merchants are losing goods, and the villagers are frightened. The lord sends few soldiers to protect us. We make do with what we have."
He stepped closer, his gaze hard. "You want work? Fine. I'll offer you a contract — ride with a caravan heading to Sasau. Guards are stretched thin, and they need extra blades. If the bandits come, you'll earn your pay."
"And if they don't?" Dikun asked.
Marek smirked. "Then you'll earn a dull ride through the countryside. Either way, ten silver coins upon your return."
It wasn't much. But it was a start.
"I accept," Dikun said firmly.
"Good. The caravan leaves at dawn. Be ready, or I'll find someone else."
---
Preparation
Dikun spent the remainder of the day in the town square, using what little coin he had to gather supplies. A loaf of black bread, a wedge of dried cheese, and a waterskin. He traded a silver piece for a small whetstone, ensuring his blade would not fail him.
But it wasn't only the sword he needed to sharpen.
At the edge of the village, the training yard stood vacant. The crude dummies of straw and wood bore the scars of countless strikes. Dikun drew his sword, the familiar weight steady in his hands.
Remember the lessons.
He began with slow, deliberate swings — striking at the dummy's center, then shifting to its sides. His footwork followed instinctively, adjusting to each imagined counterattack. Parry. Step. Strike.
Sweat gathered on his brow, but he did not stop. Each motion was a memory, etched into him by countless days under Orlen's watchful eye. His arms ached, but he welcomed the pain. It was the cost of strength.
By the time the sun dipped below the hills, Dikun sheathed his sword. The dummy stood in tatters, its straw guts scattered across the dirt.
"Good enough," he muttered to himself.
But good enough would never be his goal.
---
Onward to Sasau
Dawn broke in hues of gold and crimson. The caravan awaited at the village gates — three carts laden with barrels and crates, drawn by sturdy oxen. A handful of guards stood by, their chainmail glinting in the morning light.
Dikun approached, greeted by a grizzled man with a missing ear. Garon, the caravan master.
"You're the new sword, then?" Garon grunted.
"I am," Dikun replied.
"Keep your eyes open. Bandits aren't fools. They'll strike when we least expect it."
Dikun nodded. He tightened the straps of his leather armor and checked his blade once more.
With a shout, the caravan lurched forward. The road to Sasau awaited, winding through forests and open fields. Every creak of the wheels and distant rustle of leaves set Dikun on edge.
But beneath the lingering fear, there was resolve.
This was his first contract. His first step on the path to something greater.
He would learn. He would grow. And one day, they would call him king.