The sun barely broke over the horizon, casting pale gold across the jagged ridges of the Scorched Plains. Alaric had already been awake for hours, surveying the small valley below. The mercenary band — men hardened by years of survival — moved with more discipline now, their weapons cleaned and positions set.
Today's objective was simple but critical: test their cohesion under pressure. Alaric had observed their tendencies, studied their weaknesses, and prepared a small "opponent" — a group of rogue bandits that frequented the outskirts of the valley.
He gathered his men quietly. "Stick to the plan," he said, voice calm but unyielding. "The goal is not to kill, but to coordinate. Survival depends on discipline."
The band nodded, some still hesitant, but the fear that had once held them in check was now tinged with respect. Alaric's calm confidence radiated, and though they did not fully understand him yet, they trusted him.
At midday, the bandits arrived — seven men, rough, agile, and armed with mismatched weapons. Their leader sneered, unaware of the trap awaiting them.
Alaric stepped forward. His hand flicked subtly, and the air shivered with spatial distortion. "Begin."
The mercenaries moved like clockwork, flanking and pressuring the bandits, forcing them toward Alaric's controlled zones. The youngest of the mercenaries faltered, and Alaric's voice cut across the field:
"Faster. Predict, anticipate, move as one. You are not alone."
The man corrected his stance immediately, nodding, and the small group's coordination began to shine. Alaric's control was invisible, guiding them without direct interference.
When the first bandit lunged, Alaric's ice blade flickered into existence, cutting a thin line in the dirt to trip him, forcing him into the path of a mercenary waiting in ambush. The fight became a symphony of precision — every strike, parry, and movement reinforcing teamwork over brute strength.
By nightfall, the bandits were disarmed and incapacitated, no lives lost, but every lesson burned into the mercenaries' minds.
Around the campfire that evening, Alaric observed them quietly. "Strength alone is meaningless," he said softly. "Coordination, trust, and anticipation — that is what keeps men alive in this land."
The leader, still catching his breath, nodded. "I… understand. You're not like anyone I've met."
Alaric allowed himself a faint smile. "Good. Then remember this — the moment you hesitate, the moment you doubt, you will die. That is the reality here. And I will not fail."
The firelight reflected in his eyes, sharp and calculating. Already, he could see which men would be valuable in the long term, and which might become liabilities.
As the night deepened, he gazed toward the distant mountains — Ashenfall lay beyond, a city still untouched, still oblivious to the storm that would one day descend upon it. But for now, patience was essential. The first seeds of influence, discipline, and respect had been planted.
> "One step at a time," he whispered to himself. "Every battle, every lesson, every victory… they build the foundation. Ashenfall will fall, but not today."
The Scorched Plains whispered back in the wind, carrying the echoes of a new power awakening. Alaric Vardar was no longer a wanderer; he was a commander, a strategist, and a storm gathering strength in the shadows.