The Palace of Bentram had welcomed kings before.
It had entertained princes, bishops, scholars, merchants, and victorious generals.
Yet there was a different weight in the air whenever mercenaries crossed its gates.
Kings marched beneath banners. Mercenaries marched beneath reputation.
One survived on bloodline, the other on just survival.
***
The great bronze doors groaned open.
One company after another entered the Hall of Sovereigns.
Unlike the polished nobles of Bentram's court, these men carried scars instead of jewels.
Some still wore dried blood upon their boots, others had missing fingers.
Broken noses, clouded eyes. Old wounds that no healer could erase.
Nineteen mercenary companies had answered Bentram's invitation.
Some numbered barely fifteen swords, one nearly eighty.
Only one stood above the rest. The Bone Collectors. A hundred hardened veterans.
Their captain walked first.
