The next morning came too soon.
Mikhail sat alone in the command tent, reviewing reports with mechanical efficiency. An Imperial Knight stood at attention before him, reciting logistics.
"—and my Lord, we will be ready to depart for the Empire within the next few hours. All wounded have been stabilized for travel, supplies secured, and—"
"You may leave."
The knight bowed and departed without another word.
Silence.
Mikhail stared at the parchment in front of him without really seeing it. Numbers. Names of the dead. Supply tallies. All of it felt distant, hollow.
Footsteps approached the tent.
Heavy. Deliberate.
The tent flap opened.
Maximus stepped inside.
Behind him, barely visible in the shadows, a figure moved like smoke.
Mikhail looked up slowly, his expression cold, empty. He let out a humorless scoff.
"Mercenary Leader Maximus." His voice was flat, drained. "What do you want? Your payment?"
He picked up a heavy pouch of gold from the table and threw it at Maximus's feet. It hit the ground with a dull thud, coins spilling across the dirt.
"Pick that up. Get out of my sight." Mikhail's eyes were dead. "I have no patience for this today!"
Maximus didn't move. Didn't even glance at the gold.
"I'm not here for payment."
Mikhail's gaze sharpened slightly. He leaned back in his chair, studying the mercenary.
"Then what do you want?"
Maximus's jaw tightened. His voice was rough, strained.
"I've decided to stop working as a mercenary. I lost... almost all of my brothers in that battle." He paused, swallowing hard. "I can't do this anymore."
Mikhail watched him in silence for a long moment.
"I see." His tone was measured, careful. "Then tell me, Maximus—what is your end goal now?"
Maximus's expression darkened. His hands clenched into fists.
"First, I'm going to destroy the Church. Burn it from the inside. And then..." His voice dropped to something almost tender. "I'm going to bring peace to my fallen brothers. For everything they suffered. Everything the Church did to us."
Mikhail nodded slowly.
"Ohh I see. That's... noble of you." He tilted his head. "That would be Justice."
He paused.
Then his eyes went cold.
"However" He leaned forward. "What about the other people? The ones who suffered by your hands? How is it fair that only you get to preach about peace and justice?"
Maximus froze.
Mikhail's voice dropped, razor-sharp.
"Do you think I don't know? That your mercenaries committed treason on multiple occasions during this battle?"
He rose to his feet, circling the table slowly.
"When the wall was breached, you retreated. You left soldiers to die while you preserved your own skin." His voice was quiet, deadly. "And during the final charge—when Hilowat led the cavalry straight into hell—you hesitated. Your brothers were dying, and you stopped."
Maximus staggered back a step, his face pale.
"How... how did you—"
Mikhail smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
"You might have been assassins for the Church once, trained in stealth and shadow." He gestured behind Maximus. "But I own a shadow."
Maximus felt it then—cold steel against his throat.
He went rigid.
Maria stood behind him, silent as death itself, her dagger pressed to his jugular. He hadn't heard her move. Hadn't felt her approach. Hadn't even sensed her presence until the blade was already there.
She'd been in the tent the entire time.
Watching.
Mikhail sighed, settling back into his chair.
"You see, Maximus, I don't believe in revenge." His voice was almost conversational now. "Because if I did, what would be at your feet right now wouldn't be a pouch of gold."
He met Maximus's eyes.
"It would be your head."
The silence stretched.
Then Mikhail leaned back, steepling his fingers.
"But you said you're giving up the mercenary life. So I have an offer for you."
Maximus said nothing. The blade at his throat prevented much movement.
"Work for me. As a hidden blade. An instrument in the shadows." Mikhail's smile was thin, calculating. "I don't particularly like how the Church operates either. So perhaps... you could have your little revenge along the way."
He paused.
"Think carefully, Maximus. This is more a demand than an offer."
Maria pressed the blade slightly harder. A bead of blood appeared on Maximus's throat.
Maximus's breath came shallow, controlled. His mind raced—fight, flee, negotiate—
No.
There was no negotiating this.
He met Mikhail's eyes and saw no mercy there. No compassion.
Only cold, practical calculation.
Join or die.
"I accept," he said quietly. "Your offer... Prince."
Mikhail's smile widened—genuine this time, almost pleased.
"See? That was easy."
He waved a hand dismissively.
Maria withdrew the blade in one smooth motion, stepping back into the shadows as if she'd never been there at all.
Maximus exhaled shakily, his hand rising instinctively to his throat. His fingers came away wet with blood.
Mikhail leaned forward, his voice dropping to something almost friendly.
"Welcome to the team, Maximus. I think we're going to do great things together."
He gestured toward the tent flap.
"Now get out. We leave for the Empire in two hours. Be ready."
Maximus bowed, reluctantly—and left.
The tent was quiet again.
Maria materialized beside Mikhail's chair, silent as ever.
"Do you trust him, my Lord?"
Mikhail let out a short laugh, picking up the scattered gold coins and returning them to the pouch.
"Trust him? No." He glanced at her, a dark smile playing at his lips. "But I own him now. And that's better than trust."
Maria's expression didn't change, but there was something like approval in her eyes.
"Understood, my Lord."