The gates of Sasau loomed ahead, weathered and sturdy. Guards in patched mail leaned lazily against the wooden walls, their spears more for show than for use. The rising sun bathed the town in gold, but to Dikun and his warband, the gleam of silver was the only light that mattered.
"Keep your heads high," Dikun said as they approached. "We didn't crawl out of those woods for nothing."
The flag bearing the black wolf's head was lashed to a spear, the stained crimson banner fluttering in the breeze. A symbol of their victory. It would serve as proof to the bailiff — and a warning to any others who dared to underestimate the Silver Company.
---
The Eyes of the Town
The town's folk stirred as the warband entered the muddy streets. Merchants hawked their wares under faded canvas awnings, while children peeked curiously from behind their mothers' skirts. The sight of Dikun's band — dirtied, bloodied, yet victorious — drew murmurs.
"Mercenaries," one man spat, pulling his wife away.
"No," Elira corrected coldly. "Warriors."
Dikun ignored the whispers. They would talk. Let them. Soon, those whispers would turn into respect.
"To the bailiff," he ordered. "We'll claim what we've earned."
---
A Price in Silver
The town's keep stood at the heart of Sasau, a squat stone structure that had seen better days. Guards flanked the entrance, though they quickly stepped aside upon recognizing the stained banner.
The bailiff awaited them in a dimly lit chamber. He was a stocky man, his thinning hair clinging to a scalp that gleamed with sweat. The sour scent of stale wine clung to him, but the sight of the flag in Dikun's hands sobered him quickly.
"Done, then?" the bailiff rasped, his eyes narrowing.
"Every last one," Dikun answered, tossing the torn banner to the floor. "Your roads are clear. The caravans will pass without fear."
The bailiff scratched his chin, his gaze lingering on the stained fabric. "Good work. Though I half-expected you'd never return."
"Then you misjudged us," Elira cut in sharply.
The bailiff scowled but said nothing. Instead, he reached for a small chest on the table and flipped it open. Inside, gleaming silver coins spilled from their pouch. Fifty silver. The promised reward.
Dikun's hands closed over the pouch. The weight of the coins was satisfying, but he knew it was not the silver itself that mattered. It was what came next.
"You've proven your worth," the bailiff admitted begrudgingly. "Word will spread. More contracts will come. The lords are always in need of sharp swords."
"We're not just swords," Dikun said firmly. "We're the Silver Company. Remember the name."
The bailiff sneered but said no more.
---
Dividing the Spoils
Back at the Boar's Head Inn, the atmosphere was lighter. Mugs clashed, laughter rang out, and the air was thick with the smell of roasted meat. The Silver Company, though still few in number, carried themselves with pride.
Dikun stood at the head of the table, the pouch of silver before him.
"Fifty silver," he announced. "But it wasn't just my blade that earned it. It was all of ours."
He pulled free the coins, dividing them into neat piles. Each member received their fair share, though it was clear that silver alone could not mend the wounds inflicted by battle.
"To the Silver Company!" Rudric bellowed, raising his tankard.
"To the Silver Company!" the others echoed, slamming their mugs in unison.
Dikun smiled, but his mind was already elsewhere.
This was only the beginning. The road ahead would demand more than courage — it would demand growth, alliances, and victories far greater than a bandit's camp.
And Dikun Silver would rise to meet it.