The night on the steppe borderlands was cold, like the stare of an ex-wife you left without alimony. The campfire crackled, devouring the remains of a broken spear shaft.

  Around the fire sat the elite and those who hoped to become it—or at least survive until payday.

  Bodo "The Butcher" was wiping down his new trophy with an oily rag—a heavy two-handed sword stripped from the deserter leader. The steel gleamed dully in the firelight. Bodo was pleased: finally, he held a weapon worthy of a professional.

  Gunther had settled on a sack of gold (the most valuable spot in the camp), unwilling to risk kidney damage on the damp ground. He was summarizing the week's results by the light of a single ember. His quill scratched, recording expenses for bandages.

  Jem lazily plucked the strings of his cracked lute, trying to find a rhyme for "bankruptcy" (other than "idiocy").

  "Tell them," Otto, our shepherd-turned-thrower, suddenly asked. He sat hugging his knees, staring into the darkness. Skeleton, the dog, dozed beside him. "Please."

  "About what?" Jem yawned.

  "About the Hero. About Siegfried Golden-Hair. The one who killed a Lindwurm single-handedly."

  The recruits pricked up their ears.

  [EMPLOYEE DOSSIER: HARAD]

  Background: Indebted.

  History: A Southerner sold into servitude for debts. We bought him out for a sack of rotten grain. Silent, hardy, accustomed to the fact that his life does not belong to him.

  [EMPLOYEE DOSSIER: GIL]

  Background: Poacher.

  Characteristics: Shoots straight but believes in every omen at once. Wears a rabbit's foot, a dried toad, and a rusty nail around his neck — all against the "evil eye".

  Harad even stopped chewing his rusk. Gil nervously fingered his amulet. They wanted a fairy tale. They wanted to believe that there was something in this world besides mud, lice, and Gunther’s spreadsheets.

  Jem sighed and struck the strings. The chord came out sour, like a recruiter's promise.

  "Fine. Once upon a time, there lived Siegfried. He was handsome as new-minted gold and dumb as a sack of hammers. He had a sword that shone like the sun, and full plate armor with gold inlay worth a small castle..."

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  "Amortization," Gunther inserted without raising his head. "Polishing full plate in steppe dust runs fifteen crowns a week. Plus oil. Terrible cost-benefit ratio."

  "...And so," Jem continued, raising his voice to drown out the Accountant, "he went out against a Lindwurm. The monster roared, spewing acid!"

  "Acid destroys armor durability," Bodo noted quietly, checking the edge of his blade. "Going against an acid-spitter in expensive plate without protection? Idiot."

  "Siegfried wasn't thinking about protection!" Jem was indignant. "He was thinking of Glory! He rushed forward, shouting his lady's name! The Lindwurm struck with its tail, but Siegfried dodged! He plunged his sword into the beast's belly!"

  Gil spat fearfully over his left shoulder.

  "You don't poke dragons. Bad luck."

  "And then what?" Otto asked with hope.

  "Then..." Jem paused, letting the silence hang. "Then the Lindwurm died. And its blood sprayed Siegfried from head to toe. Caustic, acidic blood."

  "Did the armor melt right off him?" asked Alf in horror, rummaging through his sack of junk to check if his favorite door handle was safe.

  "Worse," Jem said grimly. "Siegfried won. He returned to the city as a Hero. Bards sang, ladies threw flowers. But..."

  Jem leaned closer to the fire, making a scary face.

  "He treated the chemical burns. He repaired the acid-pitted family sword. He tried to restore the melted cuirass. By the time he was done, the entire reward for the wyrm's head was gone. And he still owed the Temple for salves."

  Gunther nodded with satisfaction and put a bold dot in his notebook.

  "Cash gap. Classic. Heroism is a liability. It generates glory but devours cash. The ROI of fighting a Lindwurm is negative if you engage in melee."

  "So how did it end?" Otto persisted.

  "He passed away," Jem shrugged. "Of starvation. Under a fence. Because he could slay dragons but couldn't read a contract or balance a ledger."

  Silence hung in the camp. Only the fire crackled, and somewhere in the darkness a lone steppe wolf howled. Talah, our Golden Chicken, had long since fallen asleep in the wagon, wrapped in a rug to prevent rust. He didn't deign to speak with the help.

  "Bullshit story," Adler grunted, finishing his portion of porridge. "Not believable."

  "And what is believable?" asked Jem.

  Adler wiped his mouth with his gambeson sleeve.

  "Believable is ours. Remember the cemetery? We killed a whole pack of Ghouls. Lots of them. We didn't yell about ladies. We backed up, poked with pitchforks, hid behind each other, and stole boots off corpses. But we didn't ruin a single item. We didn't waste extra bandages. And, fuck it, we ate them afterwards."

  Adler belched.

  "Now that is a heroic story. Happy ending: we're full."

  Bodo chuckled approvingly.

  "True. A hero leaves with a full purse, not a pretty scar."

  Gunther stood up, brushing sand from his robe.

  "Time is money, gentlemen shareholders. Fables don't pay bills. Get some sleep. Tomorrow is an early rise. We are entering an active combat zone. And if I see anyone acting heroic at the expense of inventory — I will fine you posthumously."

  The fire was dying down. Above, the stars shone — cold, distant, and completely free.

  And beneath them slept squad "The Bums".

  The poorest, most cynical, and most alive heroes of this world.