The wind gnawed at Caspian's face as he stood atop the high stone wall, his gloved fingers digging into the icy parapet. Below him, the Blackroot Forest sprawled in a sea of shadow, its ancient trees murmuring in the wind like old men sharing secrets. Behind him, Eldermere the city he was sworn to protect glowed under the midday sun, its rooftops a patchwork of slate and timber, the people below scurrying like ants through the streets.
He shifted, the unfamiliar weight of his armor pressing into his shoulders. The steel was still stiff, still unyielding, just like the Order itself. Three days. Three days since he'd taken his oaths, three days of fumbled drills and stifled laughter from the veterans. Three days of wondering if he had made a terrible mistake.
A voice sliced through his thoughts like a blade.
"Where's your dagger, recruit?"
Caspian turned to face Captain Veldris, a mountain of a man with a scar cleaving his cheek like a crack in stone. His gaze alone was enough to knot Caspian's stomach.
"I—I was told it was just extra weight, sir," Caspian stammered. "The others said we never use them on watch."
Veldris's jaw hardened. "And if a raider scales this wall right now? If your sword gets knocked from your grip? You'll punch through his helm with your bare hands?" He stepped closer, his breath curling in the frigid air. "A knight is always prepared. Even for the things that 'never happen.'"
Caspian's throat tightened. The veterans had mocked him that morning when he'd fastened the dagger to his belt. "Planning to skin a rabbit up here?" one had sneered. Now, under Veldris's withering stare, their laughter tasted like ash.
The captain drew his own dagger, a wicked, well-worn thing and thrust it into Caspian's palm. "Tomorrow, you bring yours. And every day after. Understood?"
Caspian nodded, fingers tightening around the hilt. "Yes, sir."
Veldris studied him for a long moment before turning away. "Eyes on the forest, recruit. The days are full of surprises."
As the captain's footsteps faded, Caspian let out a slow breath, watching it mist in the cold. The trees whispered again, and for the first time, he wondered what truly waited beyond the wall.
He adjusted his grip on the dagger and didn't move until dawn.
The next evening, Caspian took his post on the wall once more, the dagger now a deliberate weight at his hip. The veterans had noticed before he'd even climbed the steps, smirks cutting through the torchlight, voices pitched low but barbed.
"Look who's ready to skin a whole pack of wolves," rumbled Roran, his beard a frayed nest of salt and iron.
"Maybe the pup's scared of shadows" another muttered, laughter trailing like smoke.
Caspian kept his jaw clenched and his gaze fixed on the forest's edge, where the trees swayed like restless sentinels. But as the night stretched thin and the wind carved its fingers through the stone gaps, an older knight named Garrel settled beside him, his armor creaking like an old door.
"Don't mind them," Garrel said, his voice gravel-dry. "And don't take the captain's temper personal."
Caspian flexed his stiff fingers around his sword hilt. "He's just doing his job."
Garrel exhaled, rubbing his hands, knuckles scarred, palms mapped with decades of sword work. "Aye. But jobs have roots." A pause. Then, quieter: "Two years back, raiders poured out of the Blackroot like poison from a wound. Veldris was stationed south. By the time the Order rallied… his wife and girl were already gone"
The cold in Caspian's bones had nothing to do with the wind.
"He wasn't there when it mattered," Garrel said. "Now? He'll flay a man raw over a loose strap if it means no one else gets that lesson in blood."
Down the wall, a shout fractured the night, routine, meaningless. But Caspian felt the truth of it now, sharp as the dagger against his thigh.
When Veldris passed by on his rounds, Caspian didn't fumble. Didn't shrink. He stood anchored, steel at his side and shoulders squared. The captain halted, just for a heartbeat. Then came the barest tilt of his chin, approval or acknowledgment, maybe both, before he moved on, boots scraping against stone.
No words. None were needed.
Dawn bled over the Blackroot Forest, gilding the mist in pale fire. Caspian rolled his stiff shoulders, his armor still holding the night's chill like a second skin. Below, the iron gates of Eldermere groaned open, their ancient hinges screaming across the courtyard a sound that always made his teeth ache.
Merchant carts clattered in, wheels thick with the mud of distant roads. Caspian had often wondered how the guards knew what approached before it crested the horizon.
Now he saw.
By the gatehouse, a mage in blue robes the color of a midnight sea stood before a mirror not glass, but liquid silver pooled in a frame. His fingers traced the air, and the surface shivered, rippling like a pond struck by a stone. The reflection dissolved, reshaped, and suddenly showed a stretch of road miles distant: ox-drawn wagons lumbering toward the city, their drivers hunched against the morning cold.
"Zooming magic," grunted Roran, catching Caspian's stare. The veteran's breath smelled of last night's ale. "Mages scout the roads before anyone's close enough to spit at us. Lets 'em spot bandits hiding in flour barrels, or some lordling's second cousin sneaking in untaxed silks."
The mirror's image flickered again—now a cluster of riders in eastern cloaks, their horses kicking up dust. The mage murmured to the gate captain, who nodded and bellowed orders to his men.
"Handy trick," Caspian admitted.
Roran's smirk was a crooked thing. "Aye, until the mages grow weary and start 'accidentally' showing you tavern wenches instead of trade caravans."
Caspian barked a laugh before he could stifle it. His gaze snapped back to the mirror, where the riders' faces now loomed large.
The mage's voice cut through the morning air like a knife. "Captain—you need to see this."
Veldris crossed the courtyard in quick strides, his sword hand tense. From his perch on the wall, Caspian watched as the captain leaned over the shimmering mirror, his shadow falling across its glowing surface.
The image showed a merchant caravan winding along the eastern road, the usual assortment of creaking wagons and dusty travelers, plus a handful of ragged figures walking with the slumped shoulders of those who'd forgotten what freedom felt like. Slaves, though unshackled. But that wasn't what had drawn the mage's alarm.
Atop the lead carriage lounged a man in form-fitting black armor that seemed to drink in the sunlight. No plate. No chainmail. Just smooth, unnatural curves that moved like a second skin. In his hands rested a bizarre device dark metal fused with polished wood, one end tipped with a glass eye. He raised it casually to his face and-
looked right at them.
Caspian's breath caught. "What fresh hell is that?"
The stranger lowered the device. Then, impossibly, he waved. A slow, deliberate gesture that said I see you watching.
Three others moved through the caravan like shadows, their matching black gear making them nearly indistinguishable from one another. Their weapons were wrong, no blades, no recognizable hilts, just angular metal contraptions gripped in black-gloved hands.
The mage's fingers trembled slightly above the mirror's surface. "They're not even trying to conceal themselves."
Veldris's knuckles whitened around his sword hilt. "Worse," he murmured. "They want us to know they're coming."
The caravan continued its agonizing crawl toward the city. The man on the carriage sat up straighter now, never breaking his unnatural vigil through that cursed looking-glass. The distance between them felt suddenly fragile, like a pane of glass about to shatter.
The horn's triple blast shattered the morning calm—a sound that set Caspian's teeth on edge even before the answering roars shook the courtyard stones. Dragons. Six of them, each larger than a merchant's house, their armored scales scraping against flagstones as they answered the call. Caspian watched riders vault into high-backed saddles, their lances catching the dawn light like slivers of fire.
Veldris appeared at his side, his usual scowl deepened by the morning shadows. "Gates are sealing," he growled, pointing to where the massive iron jaws were grinding shut. "You're airborne with me."
Caspian's gut twisted. He'd only ever trained on docile courtyard drakes—never a battle-ready Stormcrest, certainly never at altitude. The protest died on his lips as Veldris dragged him toward a bronze-scaled monster whose claws were scoring deep grooves in the stone.
The dragon smelled of lightning and hot metal as Caspian scrambled after the captain, his fingers slipping twice on the harness before he managed to haul himself up. Beneath him, he could feel the creature's muscles coiling like drawn bowstrings.
"Try not to vomit on its neck," Veldris muttered, digging his heels in. The world dropped away as if someone had cut Caspian's stomach rope.
Wind tore at his face as they banked sharply, the sudden g-force pressing him hard against the saddle. Below, the caravan had become a child's toy arrangement—and the black-clad figures stood out like ink stains on parchment. The lead stranger was on his feet now, that unnatural looking-glass device hanging casually at his side. He wasn't raising it. Wasn't fleeing. Just... watching.
To their left, Rider Kaelos brought his emerald-scaled drake into a low pass, his voice carrying over the wind: "By order of Eldermere's Sky Guard, halt!"
The Stormcrest's talons carved furrows in the dirt as they landed, sending up clouds of dust that swirled around the strangers' boots. Caspian dismounted with less grace, his legs still trembling from the flight. The dragon's hot breath gusted against his back as they approached the caravan, every muscle in his body coiled tight.
The lead stranger a broad man with a greying mutton chop mustache, stepped forward slowly, hands raised in a clear gesture of peace. His smile didn't reach his eyes as he offered a crumpled parchment. The writing was clumsy, the ink smudged, clearly transcribed by someone unfamiliar with the language:
*They don't speak our tongue, but they freed us. The slavers now wear their own chains.*
A murmur rippled through the knights. Caspian's hand drifted to his sword hilt as his eyes darted to the carriage. The freed slaves looked up with hollow eyes that slowly kindled with hope at the sight of the knights' sigils. Behind them, several figures slumped in the dirt, burlap sacks obscuring their faces, their wrists bound by the very manacles they'd used on others.
Veldris moved like a man walking through deep water. His armored boots sank slightly into the soft earth with each step as he approached the carriage. Then—
Caspian saw his captain freeze. The usually unshakable warrior stood motionless, his breath coming in visible puffs despite the morning's growing warmth. His gaze locked onto a woman clutching a small girl to her chest, both their faces gaunt but unmistakable.
"Iris?" The name tore from Veldris's throat like something jagged. His armored hand reached out, then faltered midair as if afraid the vision might dissolve. "Sarah?"
The woman's sunken eyes widened. A sound escaped her part sob, part disbelieving laugh as she reached back with trembling fingers. The child peeked out from her mother's embrace, her dirty face breaking into a hesitant smile. "Papa?"
Veldris's knees hit the earth with a muffled clang of armor. The mighty captain of the guard collapsed into the dirt like a felled tree, his arms wrapping around his family with the desperate strength of a drowning man clutching driftwood.
Around them, the black-clad strangers exchanged glances. The one with the strange device made a subtle gesture, and as one, they stepped back, giving the reunited family space, their alien faces unreadable.
Caspian stood rooted to the spot, his throat tight. The morning sun glinted off Veldris's pauldrons where they shook with silent sobs, the steel now cradling his daughter's small head as gently as if it were made of glass.
Veldris stood frozen for a heartbeat too long, just long enough for Caspian to see the cracks in his captain's armor. Then, like a portcullis slamming down, the professional mask returned. He pulled Sarah and Iris closer, his grip tight enough to bruise, but his voice when it came was steel wrapped in silk.
"The Guild," he said. "Now."
The black-armored figures watched with unsettling stillness as Sarah explained between shuddering breaths. "Their weapons, they spit fire without magic. Cut through slaver mages before they could—" Her hands trembled as she mimicked the motion. "They're trained. Precise. They saved us."
One of the strangers tilted his head, the glass-eyed weapon slung across his back catching the sunlight. Friendly. That was the worst part, they stood like men waiting for old comrades, not invaders in a foreign land.
Caspian's fingers twitched toward his sword. "Captain, if they can kill mages before—"
"I said the Guild." Veldris didn't look at him, his eyes locked on the road ahead where the spires of the Mage's Quarter pierced the sky. "They want translation magic? Fine. Then everyone hears what they have to say." His arm tightened around his wife's shoulders. "Including us."
The lead stranger nodded as if he understood, falling into step beside them. His boots made no sound on the cobblestones.
A charged silence hung between them until the mustached leader broke it with deliberate slowness. He thumped a gloved hand against his chestplate, the sound hollow, metallic.
"Peter."
The name hung in the air like smoke from one of their strange weapons. Then he turned, pointing directly at Veldris with two fingers, not threatening, but precise. A question.
"Veldris," the captain ground out, his arms still wrapped protectively around Sarah and Iris.
Peter nodded, as if filing this information away. Then, to everyone's surprise, he stripped off his right glove, revealing scarred but surprisingly human hands, and extended it toward the captain.
The gesture was unmistakable, an offer of trust, weapon-hand bared.
Caspian held his breath. The road seemed to shrink around them, every guard and dragonrider frozen in anticipation. Veldris stared at that outstretched hand like it might transform into a blade. Sarah's quiet gasp broke the spell.
"They have been...kind to us," she whispered. "When no one else was."
Slow as a winter sunrise, Veldris disentangled one arm from his family and grasped the stranger's hand. The two leaders stood locked in that moment one armored in steel, the other in mystery while dawn's light painted them both gold.
The procession moved through the city like a knife through parchment, every guard's hand resting on their weapon, every set of eyes tracking the black-armored strangers. Veldris noted how Peter's team moved with practiced precision, their formation covering every angle of approach.
Soldiers
Verdis thought.
From somewhere that breeds warriors like we breed dragons.
The Guild Hall loomed ahead, its ancient stone facade carved with warding runes that shimmered faintly in the morning light. The captured slavers were dragged inside like sacks of grain, their muffled curses barely audible through the burlap. Meanwhile, healers descended upon the freed slaves with gentle hands and murmured reassurances, though many flinched at sudden movements, their bodies still remembering cruelty.
Inside, chaos reigned. Apprentices darted between clusters of arguing mages like startled mice. A clerk overturned an inkpot while scrambling away from a weeping woman being examined by a priest. The air smelled of sweat, herbs, and the metallic tang of recently-cast magic.
Veldris planted both hands on the secretary's desk hard enough to make her quill jump. "Translation mage. Guild Overseer. Now."
The secretary, a pinch-faced woman with ink-stained fingers, opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it when she saw the look in his eyes. She scurried off, nearly colliding with a stack of grimoires.
Peter watched it all with calm detachment, his strange weapon slung across his back. His men stood like statues amidst the bedlam, their black armor drinking in the torchlight.
*****
The chamber doors shut behind them with an ominous thud. Peter's eyes locked onto the two figures waiting inside—a severe-looking woman in black-and-gold armor seated like a judge, and behind her, a mage whose fingers already danced with gathering magic.
The moment the chanting began, Peter's body moved before his mind could catch up. His hand snapped to the sleek weapon at his hip—a motion so practiced it was near instinct. The other black-clad operatives mirrored him in perfect unison, their formation tightening like a coiled spring.
"Peter."
Veldris's voice cut through the tension, his callused hand hovering near but not touching Peter's weapon arm. The foreign words meant nothing, until the mage's spell hit them like a warm tide.
A heartbeat of disorientation. Then understanding blossomed like a bruise.
"Peter," Veldris repeated, now in suddenly comprehensible speech, "there's no need for violence." His gaze flicked to the still-chanting mage. "She's just giving you our tongue."
Peter didn't relax. His fingers remained curled around his weapon as he tested the new words in his mouth: "Prove it." The syllables felt strange, but the meaning held. Behind him, his team exchanged glances, their hands still on their firearms, their stances ready to pivot into combat.
The armored woman leaned forward, her Guild insignia glinting, a golden eagle "Now that we can speak plainly," she said, her voice like forged steel, "perhaps you'll explain who you are, and why you've brought armed strangers into our city."
Peter's grip didn't waver from his weapon as he spoke, his voice low and measured. "No offense intended." The translated words carried a strange cadence, his accent roughening the polished Guild hall's atmosphere. "We don't know where we are. This land... it's not ours." His free hand gestured to the window where unfamiliar constellations would soon appear in the darkening sky. "We saw people in chains and acted. That's all."
The Guild Overseer studied him for a long moment, her armored fingers steepled before her. Then her gaze drifted past Peter's shoulder to where Veldris stood with his arms around Sarah and Iris, the captain's knuckles white where they gripped his wife's shoulder, his daughter's hair still matted with weeks of road dust.
When the Overseer finally spoke, her voice had lost its edge. "You did well." The words weren't for Peter. They were for the little girl peering over her father's arm, for the way Veldris's entire body trembled now that the battle-focus had faded.
Peter followed her gaze and something in his stance shifted. He didn't holster his weapon, but his fingers relaxed their death-grip. "Where we're from," he said slowly, choosing each newly-magical word with care, "children in chains means the whole world's gone wrong."
The mage behind the Overseer inhaled sharply. The translation spell carried more than just meanings—it carried the weight of memory, the ghosts of battles in Peter's tone.
The Overseer's gauntleted fingers tapped the armrest of her chair. "Slavery is illegal in this world. The men you captured will face the pyre by week's end."
Peter's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Good." He leaned forward, his strange armor creaking softly. "You're clearly in charge. We need information, maps, customs, anything you can give."
She exhaled through her nose, considering. "Normally, I'd refuse outright. Information is currency here." A pause, deliberate. "But if you form a company with us, I'll hand over everything you need."
Peter's brow furrowed. "A company?"
The guild leader's lips curled. "The Guild operates on a company system. Groups band together, register under a name, and when clients come with problems, we match them to the right team." She gestured to the bustling hall around them. "Monster slayers, artifact retrievers, caravan guards, all of them work under a company banner."
Peter exchanged glances with his men. "We just got here. Why trust us?"
A merchant's smile. "I recognize professional killers when I see them."
The black-clad leader sighed. "What's required?"
Her smile widened—like a merchant closing a deal. "Answer a few questions." She pulled a ledger forward, quill poised. "First—how many in your company?"
"Four. Plus the dog."
She scribbled it down. "Good. Next—how dirty are you willing to get?"
Peter didn't hesitate. "Any kind of dirt."
She glanced up, intrigued. "And what kind of problems do you want to solve?"
This time, he paused. "Human problems. Lost people. Rescues. Targets." His voice hardened. "But we don't do magical monster bullshit."
The guild leader blinked, then let out a surprised chuckle. "Huh. Interesting."
Peter frowned. "Why? What's wrong?"
"Most companies chase monsters. Bigger payouts, simpler contracts." She tapped the quill against the ledger. "People? They're messy. Unpredictable. And frankly—" She met his gaze. "—a cash loss."
Peter's jaw tightened, but he didn't back down.
After a moment, she nodded. "Alright. Normally, you'd need three missions, a portfolio, and Guild approval." She flipped a page. "But the people you saved already had bounties posted. The scum you dealt with? Wanted. Technically, you weren't contracted for it… but I'll overlook that." She smirked. "Consider it a portfolio of 46 successful jobs."
Peter's men shifted, murmuring. This was better than they'd expected.
"Last question." She dipped the quill. "What's your company's name?"
The soldiers exchanged glances. Then Peter straightened, thinking for a while before looking at mają
"Cerberus Combat Group"