The fortress of Vigil emerged through the mist like the flayed carcass of a giant. Where sentries once watched the valleys, now only moss and creepers reclaimed the grey stone. The group halted at the edge of the thicket, where the smell of damp earth mingled with the distant scent of woodsmoke and poorly cooked meat.
– There are two paths to death or glory – Silvio murmured, leaning over the pommel of his saddle, his voice as low as the scrape of a dagger on leather. The silver fist on his shield glinted under the dull morning light. – We can crawl through the cracks in the walls like assassins who fear the light, or we can go in like fire, with the fury of a bull that refuses its chains. What's your poison, mercenary?
Alistair felt the weight of his greatsword on his back, and a spark of dangerous, intoxicating confidence – perhaps the last vestige of adrenaline left in him after these past few days – ignited in his eyes.
– Subtlety is for those with patience, and mine stayed back at that tavern along with my coins – Alistair declared, unsheathing his steel with a sound that sliced through the forest's silence. – We go through the central arch. Five men in an open field are a pack; five men in a stone funnel are just a queue for the butcher.
The plan was executed with the crudeness that war demands. Lucius, his face pale but his hands steady, stayed at the rear, sheltered behind a centuries-old oak, wielding Silvio's crossbow – a piece of yew and black steel that spat bolts with a sharp, deadly snap. Every time a bandit tried to flank the entrance, one of Lucius's bolts whizzed through the air, keeping them pinned and funnelled.
In the narrow archway of the entrance, the world shrank to the sound of metal on metal and the panting of straining lungs. The numerical advantage of the ruffians – rough men dressed in wolf pelts and boiled leather – became their own curse. Crowded into the passage, they hampered one another, their long spears clattering against the stone walls before ever finding a target.
Alistair fought with a ferocity bordering on despair, his sword describing short, brutal arcs, each blow sending splinters of wood and sparks of steel flying. But it was Silvio who caught the mercenary's eye for a moment. The fallen noble moved with the mechanical, graceful precision of a man who had been carved for steel since the day he learned to walk. His worn-painted shield took the hits with the sound of a war drum, while his sword found the gaps in the bandits' defences with the exactness of a sewing needle.
The last of the ruffians fell with a wet gurgle, his blood bubbling through the fingers that clutched uselessly at his torn throat. The silence that followed was not one of peace, but the heavy, expectant silence that lingers in a slaughterhouse when the work is done. The smell of iron and urine hung in Vigil's courtyard, mixing with the sweet scent of crushed briars.
Alistair leaned on the hilt of his sword, his chest heaving like a blacksmith's bellows. He wiped the blade on a corpse's tunic, leaving a crimson trail on the filthy fabric.
– By everything wrong with the Underworld – he wheezed, wiping the sweat that stung his eyes. – Against all odds and despite all your bloody quirks, we make a functional team. You with the steel, me with the fury, and the lad with the aim of a hawk. If we survive another week, the bards will have to invent new rhymes for us.
Silvio didn't answer, for his eyes were not on the victory, but on a rotting canvas tent that sheltered the only thing left of his lineage. He moved forward with his shield raised, the heavy clatter of his metal plates echoing against the loose stones of the yard.
Inside the tent, shrouded in the smell of cheap wine and mould, Gabriel Cardo was lashed to a wooden post, a gag of filthy rags stifling his protests. His eyes were wide with terror, which turned to relief at the sight of his brother's silver fist.
Silvio unsheathed a dagger and cut the ropes with a sharp movement. As soon as he slumped forward, free from the bindings, Alistair prepared himself for a reunion scene worthy of a royal tapestry – tears, embraces, and promises of vengeance.
Instead, the moment Gabriel found his feet, Silvio dropped his shield and delivered a resounding slap across his face. The crack of hand against skin echoed through the fortress like a crossbow shot.
– If you ever get so pissed again that you're carried off by scum like this while you sleep, I swear by all the gods I'll leave you here to rot! – Silvio roared, his voice vibrating with a fury that seemed to come from years of built-up frustration.
Gabriel put a hand to his reddened cheek, his eyes watering.
– I am a Cardo... – Gabriel began, his voice trembling with indignation.
– No one gives a toss about the Cardo name anymore! – Silvio hissed, leaning his face into his brother's until their breaths mingled. – The world owes us nothing. Our gold is gone, our lands are dust, and our ancestors are dead. We can't afford to be careless lords, Gabriel. If you want to live like a lord, you have to learn to fight like a dog, otherwise, you'll just be another corpse with a pretty name.
Alistair, watching from the tent entrance, exchanged a look with Lucius. He sheathed his sword and let out a low whistle.
– And I thought Hector was the mad dog of the pack – Alistair whispered. – Turns out blue blood, when it turns sour, cuts deeper than steel.
The air in the tent still vibrated with the echo of Silvio's slap when the noble turned to Alistair, his face regaining the rigidity of an iron mask.
– This is Alistair – Silvio said with a curt gesture. – A mercenary who talks too much but who, by some miracle of the gods, knows how to handle a greatsword. And the lad is Lucius. You owe your life to both. Hector Duvall is gathering the pack, Gabriel. The Mad Dog wants his army back and we're going to answer the call.
Gabriel massaged his red cheek, his eyes still damp, but a crooked, resilient smile began to form on his lips. He had the same jawline as the Cardo lineage, but there was a lightness in him that the older brother had lost somewhere at the bottom of a bottle.
– Splendid! – Gabriel exclaimed, his voice still a bit thick. – I was already following a mindless drunk like Silvio along these forgotten roads, so I don't see any problem in following another like Hector. At least Hector has the decency to shout orders before leading us to the slaughterhouse – he said, as he stood up with difficulty due to his trembling legs. – But if I'm going to die for a lost cause, I'd rather do it dressed as a man-at-arms and not a peasant on his way to the fair. The ruffians kept my gear in a loot chest over there.
Alistair and Lucius helped him drag the heavy wooden chest, reinforced with iron, to the centre of the tent. When the lid was opened, the groan of the hinges sounded like a ghost's moan. Gabriel immediately began pulling out his armour plates – pieces of functional steel that, though worn, still bore his house's blacksmith mark.
However, when Alistair rummaged through the bottom of the chest, among fetid wolf pelts and oxidised copper coins, something made his heart skip a beat. He pulled out a set that looked to have been forged not from embers and hammer, but from moonlight itself, captured in a silver mirror.
It was a bastard sword of perfect balance, its hilt wrapped in the leather of some unknown creature, and a shield of an incredibly polished and unnaturally light metal. Under the dull light filtering through the tent canvas, the set emitted a pale, cold glow, like the reflection of ice on a deep lake.
Alistair ran his fingers over the metal, feeling a smoothness that ordinary steel could never possess. There wasn't a single spot of rust, nor a scratch to mar that lunar surface.
– By the gods – Alistair whispered, his eyes reflecting the silver glow. – This isn't Aurelian iron, nor Solterran steel. I've never seen a blacksmith capable of giving such light to metal.
Gabriel observed the glint in the mercenary's eyes and let out a sigh that carried the weight of one who has seen the value of things measured in blood.
– It's Ferralian steel – the young Cardo said, while adjusting his own leather straps. – A rare metal, born in forges that the men of the south have already forgotten. Those ruffians slit the throat of some unwary lord travelling without escort just to get their hands on that treasure. They didn't know what they had; they thought it was just pretty silver – Gabriel continued, making a vague gesture toward the chest and the corpses lying in the courtyard. – If you want them, Alistair, they're yours. Keep the weapons and anything useful the gang has hoarded. It's a small price for my neck. Ferralian steel deserves to be wielded by someone who knows how blood feels on metal, instead of staying here to rot in oblivion.
Alistair didn't need to hear the invitation twice. A mercenary who hesitates before loot is a dead mercenary, and he didn't intend to die that day. With a greed that bordered on reverence, he began to strip off his tanned leather and the pieces of old metal, scratched and dented by years of misery and inglorious skirmishes.
In their place, he began to assemble an armour set that was a patchwork of distinct styles and origins – a fallen captain's bracer, a polished steel gorget from an infantryman, and a sergeant's robust greaves. The final result lacked the elegance of courtly knights, but the protection was incomparable; he felt encased in an iron shell that the world would struggle to break.
Finally, Alistair gripped the bastard sword and raised the Ferralian shield. The metal was so clean and pure that he could see his own reflection in the curved surface: a face marked by soot, with dark circles from sleepless nights, but with a spark of purpose that had never been there before. The weight was perfect, a natural extension of his arm, vibrating with a promise of elegant violence.
The group departed from the fortress of Vigil as the shadows of the walls lengthened over the earth. Alistair rode at the front, the Ferralian steel reflecting the sun's last rays as if he carried a piece of the moon itself. For the first time in his life of lies, betrayals, and debts, he didn't need to try to look like a warrior of legend. In that moment, under the weight of the precious metal and Lucius's respectful gaze, Alistair felt, at last, like the knight he had always pretended to be.