Visitor From The North
The news of the victory at Roake spread like wildfire on dry grass. It traveled through taverns, whispered in market stalls, and was shouted by town criers.
The Castalia Mercenary Company has broken the siege.
The Cult of the Eclipse has been bloodied.
For a continent starved of hope, it was a feast.
Loriana, once a quiet trade town known for its lumber and textiles, was transforming. It had become a beacon. By the day, the town became not only a place for the weary and the displaced, but also a gathering place for the bold, the desperate, and the opportunistic who sought to reshape their fate in the fires of revolution.
They came in droves. Mercenaries looking for contract work that paid in something more stable than promises. Idealistic youths carrying swords and dreaming of being heroes like the knights in the ballads. Displaced craftsmen, healers, and laborers who had heard that in Loriana, a man could earn his keep with honest sweat rather than fear.
The town square was a permanent chaotic bazaar of recruitment. The *Gilded Tankard* overflowed nightly, its air full with boastful tales from faraway lands. The forges of Master Darian rang ceaselessly, crafting plowshares and poleaxes in equal measure.
But amidst the clamor of a town reborn, the shadow of the looming winter and the war it would bring stretched long.
______
-Loriana - R&D Workshop (The Abandoned Bakery)-
"It's loud," Treste muttered, adjusting a pair of heavy brass goggles over her eyes. "Why is progress always so loud?"
Outside the workshop's thin walls, the town bustled. Inside, however, the noise was different. It was the rhythmic *hiss-clank-hiss* of something entirely new.
On the central workbench sat the culmination of three weeks of sleepless nights, caffeine overdose, and Asep's dangerously vague descriptions.
The "MKI Pulse-Combustion Engine."
It looked like a brass lung attached to a nightmare of pipes and crystals. At its heart was a chamber made of reinforced glass, inside of which a tiny shard of Fire Lumite pulsed rhythmically.
The piston, driven by the expanding mana-steam, drove a small flywheel. It wasn't powerful—maybe enough to turn a spit roast, but it was working. Without a Mage to channel it. Without a prayer. Just mechanical conversion of arcane energy into kinetic force.
Asep leaned against a support beam, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He watched the flywheel spin with a look of paternal pride mixed with mild concern.
"It hasn't exploded yet. That's a new record. It could maintain 4 hp of power output for five hours consistently. Maybe this is quite equal to Ford's Quadricycle engine."
"Who's 'Ford'?" Treste asked, not looking up from her clipboard. She was furiously scribbling runic equations. "Is he a Grand Archmage of Mechanism?"
"Something like that," Asep replied, exhaled a plume of smoke. "A man who put the world on wheels. But honestly? This is better. No gasoline. Just a glowing rock and some water."
"The thermal efficiency is... acceptable," Treste critiqued, tapping her quill against her chin. "But the mana-dissipation rate is too high. The rune sequence on the exhaust valve is leaking potential energy. If we swap the *Ignis-Minor* array for a *Ventus-Cyclic* one, we could scavenge the waste heat to pre-pressurize the water intake."
"Huh? Turbocharger?" Asep blinked. "You invented turbocharging before we even put wheels on this thing? You're scary, Witch-let."
"I am a genius, smoke-stack," Treste corrected smugly, puffing out her chest. "Now, hand me the 14mm wrench. The intake manifold is rattling."
Asep handed her the wrench. "Here. I think you're gonna be fine by yourself. I'm going to take my free time to smoke in peace. Don't explode."
"Hmph! I don't need your babysitting anyway! I can run this lab by myself!"
"Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say."
Leaving the mad scientist to her device, Asep strolled outside. The chill of late autumn bit at his nose. Snow would fall soon, probably in less than two months.
____
-The Gilded Tankard-
If the Water Lilies' Embrace was a gentle stream, the Gilded Tankard was a raging torrent crashing against jagged rocks.
The tavern roared.
It was a wall of sound composed of clattering tankards, roaring laughter, the thump of fists on tables, and the discordant singing of three different drinking songs happening simultaneously. The air was blue with pipe smoke, much of it the newly returned tobacco that Rashid's caravan had brought in and the scent of roasted boar and spilled beer.
In the center of this hurricane sat a calm eye.
A single table near the hearth was occupied, yet strangely isolated. The rowdy mercenaries, flushed with victory and booze, gave it a respectful berth. Even the drunken Nords of Erik's company, usually prone to challenging furniture to wrestling matches, walked softly when passing by.
Seated there was a woman who wore authority like a second skin.
She nursed a mug of dark stout, her posture relaxed but perfectly poised. A heavy cloak of black fur, likely from a northern gloom-wolf, draped over her shoulders, framing a face of striking icy beauty. Her hair was a cascade of liquid silver, tied back loosely to reveal sharp green eyes that missed nothing. Her armor was a masterwork of dark leather and polished steel plates, practical and lethal.
Hilda, Commander of the Silver Wolf Mercenaries.
Standing behind her, arms crossed and looking like a statue carved from glacial ice, was a young warrior. He shared her silver hair and pale complexion, though his was braided in the traditional Varyag style. He wore heavy fur-lined armor and carried a twin-headed axe on his back that looked heavy enough to split a boulder.
Zachary navigated the crowded room, nodding to men he recognized before stopping at her table.
"Commander Hilda," Zachary greeted, his voice pitched perfectly to carry over the din without shouting. "I didn't expect the Alpha of the Silver Wolves to grace my humble establishment."
Hilda looked up. A small, polite smile touched her lips, though it didn't quite thaw the ice in her gaze.
"Commander Valente," she replied, her voice smooth and cool, carrying the calmness aminds the rowdy tavern. "Humble is hardly the word I would use for the man who broke the Siege of Roake with a handful of misfits and a grand bluff."
She gestured to the empty chair opposite her.
"Sit. The drink is surprisingly decent for southern swill."
Zachary took the seat. "We make do."
"I was hoping to find Sylvanne," Hilda continued, taking a slow sip. "Vsevolod tells me she's been frightening the new recruits. I haven't seen that maniac since the Border skirmishes three years ago. I owe her a rematch in arm wrestling."
"She's currently occupied. recruitment numbers have tripled since the victory. Sylvanne is at the registry office, separating the wheat from the chaff. Mostly by yelling at them until they either cry or sign up."
Hilda chuckled softly. "That sounds like her. Efficient through terror."
The table fell into a brief silence, filled only by the ambient roar of the tavern. Zachary studied her. The Silver Wolves were legendary in the North. Highly disciplined, politically connected, and terrifyingly effective. Vsevolod's Iron Cross unit was just a single branch—a fingertip of the hand. Having the main body here was significant.
"We have plenty of 'chaff' lining up," Zachary said, leaning forward slightly. "But we are short on wheat. Especially against what's coming. The Cult isn't broken, Hilda. Just bloodied."
He held her gaze.
"The Silver Wolves are known for hunting monsters. Would you be interested in a contract? We could use your steel on the front lines."
Hilda placed her tankard down slowly. The smile remained, but her eyes hardened.
"A tempting offer," she admitted. "And under different circumstances, my blade would be yours. We Varyags have little patience for zealots who twist the minds of the weak."
Tapping the table, she continued.
"But my contract is with the Crown Prince. We are tasked with drilling the Royal Army and securing the northern trade routes for the coming winter. Finlay pays in gold, not promises, and his coin has already been accepted. To break contract now... it would stain the honor of my company."
Zachary nodded while hiding his disappointment. He expected as much. The Silver Wolves didn't get their reputation by flaking on contracts.
"I understand," he said diplomatically. "Honor is a rare currency these days."
"However," Hilda interjected, raising a finger. "The Silver Wolves cannot simply sit idle while Vsevolod reaps all the glory. It makes the rest of the pack restless."
She turned her head slightly, glancing up at the young warrior standing behind her.
"Alexei."
The young man snapped to attention. "Yes, commander!"
"Alexei here is a fine warrior," Hilda said, her tone sounding almost maternal, though in a distinctly warrior way. "Strong arm. Good instincts. But he is still green. He has killed bandits and beasts, but he has never fought a war of ideology. He has never seen what true desperation looks like."
She turned back at Zachary.
"I cannot commit the company. But I can lend you a fang. Take Alexei. Let him fight alongside your... colorful coalition. Let him bleed a little. Consider it a personal favor and an investment in his education."
Zachary looked at the young warrior. Alexei stared back with burning eyes full of eagerness. He looked like a hound straining against a leash, desperate to prove himself.
"He looks ready to tear a Thrall in half," Zachary observed.
"I will not disappoint you, Commander Valente!" Alexei boomed, slamming a fist against his chestplate. "My axe thirsts for the blood of the wicked! I will bring honor to the Silver Wolf name!"
Hilda sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "He is also loud. Try not to let him get killed, Zachary. His mother—my sister, she would be quite cross with me."
Zachary stood up and extending his hand to her. "We'll keep him busy. Welcome to Castalia, Alexei."
Hilda shook his hand firmly.
"Give them hell, Zachary. If the situation changes... perhaps the rest of the pack will join the hunt."
"I'll hold you to that."
As Zachary walked away, leading the beaming Alexei toward the chaos of the recruitment office, he allowed himself a small smile.
*One wolf is better than none,* he thought. *Especially when winter is coming.*
-Loriana - Recruitment Office, Same Evening-
Sylvanne slouched behind a battered wooden desk, her chin propped on her palm, staring at the line of hopefuls with the enthusiasm of a cat watching paint dry. The "recruitment office" was a commandeered warehouse on the edge of town, hastily furnished with mismatched tables and chairs. The smell of nervous sweat and desperation clung to the rafters.
By the Radiant's blinding light, why did I agree to this? Sylvanne thought bitterly. I could be drinking. I could be sparring. Instead, I'm stuck doing clerical work like some quill-pushing bureaucrat.
"Next!" she barked, not bothering to look up from the form she was pretending to read.
The current applicant, a scrawny farmboy whose hands were calloused from nothing more dangerous than milking goats shuffled forward nervously. He reeked of turnips.
"Uh... M-my name is Garin, ma'am. I wanna join the Coalition because... because I wanna change Ardenia! Make it a better place for my sisters and—"
"Uh-huh." Sylvanne interrupted, flipping through a stack of parchments without reading them. "And you think swinging a pitchfork at a bandit is gonna accomplish that?"
"Well... I—"
"Do you know which end of a sword is pointy?"
"The... sharp end?"
"Wrong. Both ends are pointy if you're desperate enough," Sylvanne said with a sigh. She stamped his form with a massive, ink-smeared seal. "Militia Corps. Second Line. You'll carry supplies, dig latrines, and maybe, maybe, stab someone if we're desperate. Pay is two coppers a week plus gruel. Sign here."
Garin scribbled his mark, grabbed his papers, and scurried away, looking both relieved and terrified.
"Next!"
A grizzled man with prison tattoos stepped up, grinning with too few teeth. "Name's Kolgrim, luv. Used to run with the Red Thorn bandits. Killed me share of folks. But now I seen the light, yeah? Wanna do right by the kingdom, help the poor folk—"
"You want coppers for drink," Sylvanne cut in, not even looking up.
Kolgrim's grin faltered. "Well... I mean, ain't nothin' wrong with a man likin' his ale—"
"You're hired. Vanguard Corps. Front line. Contact Corgan the bandit leader at the Tankard. You'll fit right in. He also likes ale, murder, and disappointing his mother. Sign here."
"Corgan's 'ere?! That bastard... No wonder The Wood Hounds suddenly went MIA..." Kolgrim muttered, signing enthusiastically. "Cheers, luv!"
He shuffled off, still muttering about reuniting with old crewmates.
Sylvanne sighed and rubbing her temples. The parade of mediocrity continued. Farmers who thought "revolution" meant better crop prices. Brawlers who couldn't spell their own names. Beggars who just wanted a free meal.
This is hell! I'm being punished for something. Maybe that time I punched a Radiant Priest. Or set fire to that orphanage. Wait, that was justified. The orphans were fine and the ghosts were sent back to the afterlife.
"Next!" she yelled, more for form than hope.
There was a moment of mundane shuffling—boots scuffing on wood and papers rustling, before the next applicant stepped up. The rhythm of Sylvanne's paperwork trance broke not because of a loud noise, but because of a sudden silence.
"Greetings, fair maiden of the blade."
The voice was smooth, cultured, and coated in a layer of charm so thick it was practically tangible.
Sylvanne finally looked up.
Standing before her was a young man who looked like he had walked straight out of an illustrated fairytale book titled The Gallant Hero's Journey: Volume 1. He couldn't have been older than twenty. He possessed a head of perfectly tousled blonde hair that caught the lantern light just so, and his eyes were a startling, earnest blue. His gear was impeccable; polished leather armor, a pristine green cloak, a bastard sword with a hilt wrapped in fine wire. It screamed "Adventurer," but the kind of adventurer who hadn't slept in a ditch yet.
He leaned slightly against the desk, flashing a smile that probably worked wonders on barmaids across the continent.
"My name is Matthew," he declared while placing a hand over his heart. "An aspiring adventurer seeking glory, purpose, and perhaps... the favor of a renowned warrior such as yourself. I have heard the call of justice, and I stand ready to lend my blade to your noble cause against the darkness."
He paused for effect, letting the "noble cause" bit linger in the air like perfume.
Sylvanne stared at him. She blinked once, slowly. Then, she let out a yawn so massive her jaw emitted a pop sound.
"Monster Extermination Division is down the hall, second door on the left," she droned, already dipping her quill back into the inkwell. "They handle the rats in the cellar and the occasional goblin. Take a ticket."
The young man's smile froze. His perfect posture faltered. It was like watching a stage actor forget his lines mid-monologue.
"I— I beg your pardon?" his smooth charm cracking instantly. "Monster Extermination? No, no! I am here to join the Liberation Front! To fight the Cult! To stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the heroes of Roake!"
He leaned in closer, trying to salvage the dramatic tension. "My sword thirsts for—"
"Kid," Sylvanne interrupted, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. The boredom in her eyes vanished, replaced by a razor-sharp, predatory gleam. "Drop the act. The 'Matthew' persona is cute, but your accent is slipping. You sound like you learned Ardenian Common from a Royal Tutor in the High Quartz District."
The young man paled instantly. "I... I'm simply well-traveled! My diction is merely a result of—"
Sylvanne snorted. "Your diction is 'Imperial Snob.' And that signet ring you're trying so hard to hide inside your glove? I saw the flash of the crest when you leaned on the desk. A rampant lion on a field of azure lozenges."
She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that carried across the desk like a knife.
"So, tell me, Lord Ludwig von Wittelsberg... what in the name of the Seven Hells is the third son of the Duke of Brimmonn doing playing dress-up in a backwater warzone?"
The effect was instantaneous. The 'Matthew' facade shattered into a thousand pieces. The confident adventurer dissolved, replaced by a terrified nobleman who realized he had just walked into the lion's den.
"Shhh! Shhhhh!" Ludwig hissed frantically, practically vaulting over the desk to cover her mouth, then thinking better of it and settling for flapping his hands wildly. He looked around the crowded warehouse with wild eyes. "Keep your voice down, woman! Are you trying to get me ransomed?!"
"If the price was right, maybe," Sylvanne grinned, enjoying his panic immensely. "But seriously. You're a Wittelsberg. One of the Elector Houses. Shouldn't you be at some fancy masquerade ball, sipping wine that costs more than this entire building, and politicking for the next Emperor?"
Ludwig slumped in defeat. He pulled up a rickety chair and collapsed into it, the gallant hero posture gone. He ran a hand through his perfect hair, messing it up for real this time.
"It's... not for me," he groaned, sounding for the first time like an actual twenty-year-old. "The balls, the politics, the endless waiting for the Pope to read some goat entrails and pick a new Emperor... it's kind of suffocating for me at least. My brothers are already doing the favor for the Elector-Prince and heir of the Duchy, so House Wittelsberg is secured. As the third son, I'm... well, you know. Not much for me, maybe marry some noble house with a large plot of land and be a boring old man."
"So you ran away to become an adventurer." Sylvanne said with a snort. "Classic. How original."
"I graduated top of my class at the Imperial Academy of Swordsmanship!" Ludwig defended himself, puffing out his chest slightly. "I'm not just some dandy! I've been adventuring for three years! I've cleared dungeons in the border Kingdoms! I've slain a Wyvern! Well... a juvenile one. But it still breathed fire!"
"Uh-huh." Sylvanne looked him up and down, appraising him with a critical eye. His gear was expensive, but it showed legitimate wear. The scabbard was scuffed. The boots were broken in. His hands had calluses in the right places for a swordsman.
"So why here?" she asked, genuinely curious now.
"I want to make my name remembered in the annals of history. I want to write my own legend!" Ludwig's eyes shone with that earnest light again. "The rumors of the battle at Roake reached all the way to the border inn. A mercenary company defying an empire, a princess fighting for her people, a grassroots coalition... it sounded like history in the making. I want to be involved in this historical event."
His expression turned serious as he looked at her. "I don't care about a title. I want to earn my own legacy."
Sylvanne stared at him for a long moment, then sighed. She had seen this before, back during her time as a member of the Security Bureau. Kids from noble houses who thought being a law enforcer was romantic. Most of them quit after they smelled their first three-days-old corpse. But some... some had steel in their spines.
And Castalia was desperate for steel. Even the shiny, expensive kind.
"Fine," Sylvanne said with a grunt, then grabbing a fresh form. "But here's the deal, 'Matthew'. You sign up as a regular mercenary. No special treatment. No private tent. No whining when the rations are moldy bread and mystery stew."
"Of course!" Ludwig said, relieved and excited at the same time.
"And," she pointed the quill at him menacingly, "if anyone asks, you're Matthew from... I don't know, some village in the North. If the Holy Empire finds out we're employing a Wittelsberg scion, the diplomats will have a field day and Zachary will kill me. Then he'll kill you. Then he'll kill me again."
"Understood! My lips are sealed!" He mimed locking a key and throwing it away.
"Sign here," Sylvanne pushed the paper toward him. "Welcome to the mud, Your Grace."
Ludwig grinned, grabbing the quill with a flourish. "Just Matthew, please. Miss Sylvanne."
Sylvanne watched him sign with a surprisingly legible hand. Great. Now I have a runaway noble. Next, I'll probably get a depressive elf or a dwarf with a drinking problem.
"NEXT!"
This time Zachary came, followed by a young man with silver hair and a large frame.
"Hard at work I see? Hilda is in the tavern. She asked for you for an arm wrestling match. I'll take over from here."
Sylvanne's eyes lit up like fireworks. She practically launched herself out of the chair.
"Finally! Freedom! You're a lifesaver, Boss! I'm gonna go crush the Wolf Queen's hand and then drink until I forget the smell of turnip farmers!"
She paused, looking at the silver-haired giant behind Zachary.
"Who's this big boy?"
"This is Alexei," Zachary introduced. "Hilda's nephew. He's on loan. Put him in a squad that needs muscle."
Sylvanne grinned, a terrifying expression that made Alexei take a half-step back despite his size.
"Perfect. Stark needs a new frontliner since he's taking a day off to see Lisa after she gave birth. Take him to the barracks."
With that, she turned to the stunned Ludwig... or Matthew.
"Hey, Blondie! You're with the bear-boy here. Go find Karl. Tell him I sent you fresh meat."
And with a whistle, she strode out of the warehouse, leaving behind a stack of unfinished paperwork, a relieved Commander, and two very confused young warriors who were about to learn that war was significantly less romantic than the storybooks claimed.