The makeshift triage tents smelled like smoke and iron and the kind of sweat that comes from running for your life. Lanterns swung on ropes, casting everyone in a jittery light. Men moaned on stretchers, cloth tied around arms and torsos, while others sat slumped against crates, staring at nothing. I moved between them, hands steady, fingers finding a torn sleeve or a fevered forehead. Small things—cleaning a wound, wrapping a splint—felt like the only honest magic left after the fire.
Gregor stood just behind me, a shadow folded into the captain's armor. He had that look he always wore when he expected trouble: ready blade, restrained patience. I liked that look. It meant he'd have my back.
Footsteps approached—confident, measured. A Red head woman walked in like she owned a dozen battlefields and all the taverns that served the spoils. Her hair was the color of a fresh wound; her face freckled and fierce. A leather coat hung off her shoulders, and three broad-shouldered men flanked her, each carrying the sort of scars you don't get from bar fights.
Gregor stepped forward, sword at a formal angle. "Your Majesty—this is Sophie and her company. They led the mercenaries who pushed the demons back."
She didn't bow. She inclined her chin a fraction, eyes direct and unapologetic. "We did what we had to do," she said. Her voice had salt and steel in it. "We also lost men."
I gestured toward the low table and pushed a stool forward. "Sit. Let me thank you properly."
She sat, boots planted, gaze sweeping the tent as if pricing everything in sight. "Save the speeches," she snapped. "We work for coin. This? This was humanity. Fine. We have it in us. But we lost men. Who pays for that?"
Gregor's hand twitched toward his sword. "Watch your tone—"
"Stand down," I said, and his hand froze in the air. A light, almost casual gesture—my fingers barely moved—but the message landed. Gregor stepped back, expression taut, obedient.
Sophie tilted her head and smiled without warmth. "Good. Then who pays?"
I could hear the ledger in my head, the way the treasury had shrunk under the weight of tools, buffs, and sudden massacres. The renovations had chewed through gold like wildfire through dry grass. I had points in the system, coin in coffers, and a stubborn belief that the city was worth fighting for.
"We'll be paid," I said. "Full recompense for losses and—" I paused, buying a second to frame it. "—and a bonus for those who held the line. Tell me the costs."
Sophie named a number with the blunt efficiency of someone who's figured loss into profit a long time ago. It was high—too high for comfort. I felt Gregor's eyes on me, waiting for me to flinch. I didn't. Calculation slid behind my ribs like a second heartbeat; I ran the figures in my head faster than anyone could count coin in a treasury.
One of her men, a younger merc with a fresh scar along his jaw, snorted under his breath and muttered something to the others—half-laugh, half-complaint. "King can't even keep his house in order," he said, low enough for only those near to hear. "Nobles pocket the taxes; city's burning; this throne's paper."
Gregor's hand jerked—anger like lightning—ready to teach the kid manners with steel. He moved before I could stop him.
I didn't have to say anything. The air shifted. My gaze cut to the merc, narrow and flat as a blade. The tent seemed to shrink. The lights dimmed by a degree. I let the silence thicken; let it sit heavy on everyone's chests.
The kid's words died half-formed on his tongue. His bravado curdled into a muttered curse; his cheek went hard and red. He looked away, jaw grinding, the kind of silence that comes when someone remembers their place.
Sophie watched me with an expression that was equal parts amusement and calculation. When the kid finally met her eyes, she sneered—not at him, but at the scene—and shot back, loud enough for everyone to hear. "He's right anyway. Kingdom's on its knees. Nobles eat while the city rots. You know it, King—maybe you know it better than any of us." Her eyes flicked to Gregor and then back to me, sharp as a thrown knife. "This is the truth."
Gregor bristled. "How dare you—"
"Enough." My voice cut clean, not loud, but with a weight that made them tidy their arguments. Sophie leaned in, fearless. "Look—I can state it plain. We want pay. And more. Buyer's market or not, we won't bleed for free. But I'm not a monster. I'll make you a deal."
The tent hushed, even the groans and coughs seemed to listen.
"If you want my company's blade again," she said slowly, "you fight me. Win—my men and I are yours. Follow any orders you give. Lose—" She let the grin spread, rough and unapologetic, "—and I take you. As I see fit."
There it was: the blunt, mercenary stakes of a war-smoothed life. Not noble, not pretty. Honest. The chuckles around the seam of the tent were edged with disbelief. Gregor's face went crimson; his fingers tightened on the hilt like he might split leather.
I let that cold smile slide across my face—the one that belonged to someone who has been judged by knives and numbers and learned to answer in kind. "A duel," I said. "One-on-one?"
"You'll fight me in the ring," Sophie replied. "No reinforcements. Just steel. If you beat me, you command my company. If you lose—" Her eyes glittered, and for a heartbeat the tent filled with a very human, very dangerous promise. "You belong to me."
Gregor drew breath long enough to explode, but I raised a hand. The motion was small. It put him in place and the men down a notch of fury. Gregor's jaw worked; he took a breath and calmed.
"Agreed," I said. The words were softer than the challenge but held iron. "When?"
Sophie's laugh was a short, bright sound. "Tomorrow at dawn. Outside the western tent. Bring what you need. I'll bring my honor—and a sharp sword."
She rose, boots scraping. Her men followed, leaving a trail of quiet and the faint scent of sweat. The kid who'd mouthed off kept his head bent; the others cast looks that were equal parts warning and approval.
Gregor exhaled the smallest breath and looked at me—anger, worry, loyalty all stacked in one unreadable face. "You can't—" he started.
"I know," I said, and allowed myself the small, cold smile again. "But right now, I need allies who'll stand when coin is on the line. If I beat her, I'll have them. If I lose…" I let the sentence hang, but no one needed the end for its meaning.
In the flicker of the tentlight, I felt the weight of every choice: the city, the treasury, the men who'd bled for one night of safety. I thought of repair crews, of roofs I wanted replaced, of streets I wanted paved. I thought of being king and also being Alaric—two titles pulling my hands in different directions.
"Tomorrow," Sophie said, as if reading the knot in my chest. "Dawn."
"Dawn," I repeated.
When she left, the tent seemed to breathe out. Gregor stepped close, voice low. "You don't have to—"
"I know," I answered. "But sometimes even kings have to fight for what they want." My hand found Velzithar's hilt without looking—comfort in metal and companionship in a blade that also judged me. "Prepare the ring," I told Gregor. "Light enough shade, no tricks. This is a debt I'll pay with steel, if I must."
He stared, something like relief—sharp and brittle—crossing his features. "As you command."
I turned to the stretchers, to the men with bandaged arms who had already given more than the kingdom paid them. Their faces were set, stubborn as nails. For their sake, for the city's, I would stand and fight at dawn.
When the night settled in, the smoke still hung heavy, but somewhere under all that ash, a small ember of resolve glowed.