The central street of Korosten had been closed since morning.

  People lined the perimeter in chaotic clusters, pressing themselves against walls, benches, and fences. Everyone was looking in the same direction — toward the east gate.

  A rumor had spread through the city: today, an entire mercenary clan was arriving. Not a unit. Not a company. A clan.

  Most people knew them only from stories.

  Everyone wanted to see what they looked like. What kind of armor did they wear? How many were rejected among them?

  And whether they were really the way people said they were.

  On the main square, at the end of the street, Olaf, Ruvan, and Lenar were waiting.

  A little farther back stood the local nobility. Pillum was among them.

  Everyone appeared relaxed. Some sat in the shade of a tree. Some smoked off to the side. No one was in a hurry.

  Everyone understood: mercenaries never arrive on schedule. The guard would spot them first — and only then would the signal be given.

  That was exactly what happened.

  A sentry on the wall raised his hand.

  Movement on the square snapped to a halt. People straightened abruptly and took their places. Some stepped back. Others leaned forward instead.

  Pillum moved closer to Olaf and Ruvan.

  “When they walk down the street,” he said quietly, “I’ll tell you who’s who.

  After that, I’ll step away. I don’t want conflicts tied to my… background.”

  Ruvan nodded. Olaf said nothing, watching the gates.

  At first, only footsteps could be heard.

  Then — the sound of hooves.

  The townsfolk had expected something else.

  Graceful, orderly columns. Shining blue and gold cloaks. Clean armor over fashionable clothing. Calm. Confidence. A parade.

  Reality was the opposite.

  The Compact moved at a fast pace, two abreast, but without any visible formation. The horses were dusty. Clothes and boots were dirty. Instead of bright cloaks — gray-green garb, with chainmail or plate showing through in places.

  They did not stop. They did not accept honors. They did not react to the crowd.

  Escorted by the city guard, they moved straight toward the square.

  Lenar gestured for the guard to spread out, giving them more space.

  This was not the entire clan.

  Instead of the three thousand spoken of in legends, roughly two hundred had arrived. All mounted.

  Behind them rolled two wagons.

  Inside sat several prisoners with their hands bound. Blood had seeped through the bandages.

  Pillum leaned closer.

  “The first two,” he said quietly. “Rianes on the left. Beside him — his student, Feren.

  They say Feren is exceptionally gifted. Already surpassed his mentor in combat skill and resistance to Suggestion.”

  “And after them?” Olaf muttered.

  “Skeld… and Velm.”

  Olaf studied them closely.

  “That’s exactly how I imagined them,” he said coldly.

  “Skeld is a typical enforcer. Short hair, gray beard, heavy armor, a lot of muscle — and a warhorse just as thick-necked.

  Velm looks exactly the way his reputation sounds.”

  Velm truly looked like someone you would not want to be alone with.

  A clean but pallid face. Blonde hair slicked back. Dark circles beneath his eyes. A hood concealed half his features, leaving only his gaze.

  “His mace…” Lenar said quietly.

  “I noticed too,” Pillum nodded.

  Velm’s glass mace was not transparent.

  It had a pale greenish tint.

  “That means,” Pillum added, “he’s used Suggestion recently. And focused it directly through the weapon.”

  Their gazes shifted back to Rianes.

  He looked… ordinary.

  Too ordinary for a man with such a reputation.

  Intelligence in his eyes. Principle in his movements.

  And nothing else.

  Of all the commanders of the Blue Cohort, he was the least memorable.

  And that was precisely what made him unsettling.

  “Look,” Pillum whispered again. “Behind them — Syra.”

  Despite the dust, her clothing was neat.

  Syra did not appear to be a woman constantly surrounded by admirers.

  But her presence made up for everything. Even the kingdom’s nobility knew that.

  Everyone also noticed her bow.

  Its design was completely unfamiliar.

  Multiple pulleys.

  Unusual angles in the string’s tension.

  A guiding rail for the arrow.

  It was not a decoration.

  And not for show.

  It was a weapon.

  The Blue Cohort stopped on the square.

  The city held its breath.

  As they approached the square, Rianes raised his hand.

  The column of The Compact stopped instantly. No commands. No shouting. Just—halt.

  Two city guards hurried forward to help them dismount. Rianes gave them a brief look and raised his palm. No need. He swung down from the saddle himself, smoothly, without excess motion, and only then handed the reins to one of them.

  Beside him, Feren dismounted as well.

  They approached Olaf and Ruvan.

  “We welcome the king’s envoys,” Ruvan began. “I am Ruvan, mayor of the city of Korosten.

  This is Olaf, lord of the mines that brought you here.

  And this is Lenar, commander of the local guard…” He paused. “…what remains of it in the city.”

  “My name is Feren,” the young man said. “And this is Rianes, commander of the Blue Cohort.”

  Rianes only nodded.

  “First,” Feren continued, “we need to determine a place for the camp. So we’re not standing here in the middle of the main street.”

  “Of course,” Ruvan nodded. “Prince Cael conveyed your preferences.

  Please, I’ll show you a place where you can station your people.”

  Rianes and Feren exchanged a glance.

  The surprise was brief, almost imperceptible.

  Rianes gave a quiet huff and allowed Ruvan to lead.

  They climbed the steps into the upper city.

  A wide square opened before them. Fountains. Artisans’ stalls. Inns. Beyond a tall fence lay a well-kept garden, at whose center stretched a flat lawn of trimmed grass.

  “Here,” Ruvan said. “You’ll have access to everything you need.

  Taverns nearby. Bathhouses.

  The fence and the garden will keep you away from unwanted eyes.”

  Rianes walked through the garden in silence.

  He looked at the walls.

  At the direction of the arrow slits.

  At the towers.

  Feren stood beside Ruvan. He clearly liked the place.

  He waited for only one thing—the commander’s word.

  Rianes stopped.

  “The place is indeed good,” he said evenly. “And it has everything required.

  But it doesn’t suit us. For several reasons.”

  He raised a finger.

  “First. The walls face away from the mines.

  Second. Anyone standing on those walls has full control over those in the garden, which means us. Third. There isn’t enough space for training.”

  He looked around once more.

  “And I don’t want to ruin such a fine garden. Or interfere with craftsmen living their lives.”

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  Rianes turned back to Ruvan.

  “I saw another location. At the crossroads. The street leading to the western part of the city.

  At the end—an open area. Low buildings. A drainage system. That will suit us.”

  Ruvan grimaced.

  “That’s the Ferentari quarter. Reconstruction hasn’t reached it yet.

  It’s dirty. And there are many people there who aren’t keen on being near people of your… status.”

  “I understand,” Rianes replied. “We’ll handle that issue ourselves.

  All we need is an escort.

  And a few locals to guide our groups through the city.”

  “Of course,” Ruvan answered quickly. “Lenar will assign men.”

  Rianes turned to Lenar.

  “I would also appreciate it if our people could join your patrols in that district.”

  “It would be an honor for us, Sir Rianes,” Lenar replied without hesitation.

  They returned to the square.

  Lenar quietly gave an order to the guard holding Rianes’s horse. The man nodded and moved ahead.

  Rianes whistled — short, sharp. The senior officers of the Blue Cohort, who had been standing behind Syra, reacted at once and followed the guard.

  “Ri,” one of them called out. “What about the passengers?”

  Rianes stopped.

  “Oh. Right,” he said. “Almost forgot.

  Bring them here.”

  He turned back to Olaf, Ruvan, and Lenar.

  Members of The Compact led the bound prisoners. Behind them, several barrels were carried in.

  “On the way through the forest,” Rianes said, “our scouts were attacked by these idiots.

  We took them prisoner. They were quick to explain where their camp was. We cleared it.”

  He nudged one of the prisoners with his boot.

  “The leader and those who survived were brought along.

  Our people reported that you were looking for them. With a bounty. And a share of the loot.”

  Rianes opened the lid of one barrel. Without looking, he reached inside and pulled out silver tableware and a golden statuette. He glanced at them and tossed everything back.

  “We’ve already compensated ourselves.

  This is what’s left.”

  Another barrel was brought forward.

  In total:

  three barrels,

  two baskets,

  weapons of various kinds,

  armor bearing the kingdom’s crest,

  horse trappings,

  icons.

  “Lenar,” Rianes continued, “tomorrow morning, I want you to give us a tour of the city and its defenses.

  After that, interrogations of the witnesses to the mine attack.”

  He nodded once.

  “And now, excuse me. We need to set up the camp.

  The other cohorts will arrive this evening. They’ll make camp near the western gate.”

  Rianes bowed and stepped back.

  The others bowed as well.

  Rianes and Feren headed toward the horses, already being led forward by the guards.

  Olaf and Ruvan turned back to Pillum.

  The city did not know it yet.

  But from this moment on, The Compact were no longer guests.

  “Just a reminder,” Olaf said without raising his voice, “it would be wise to pass all available information to Rianes.

  The sooner he starts working, the better the chances that he’ll also help us resolve some… urban problems.

  The kind we can’t involve our own people in.”

  Olaf shifted his gaze to Ruvan and Lenar.

  “Yes,” Ruvan agreed. “Lenar, provide whatever assistance Rianes requires.”

  Lenar nodded without hesitation and, after a brief farewell, left them.

  Ruvan, Olaf, and Pillum returned to the garden where Rianes had been walking only moments ago.

  “He started acting like he’s in charge very quickly,” Ruvan said quietly.

  “Because he is,” Olaf replied. “As long as he’s here, he’s the one in charge.

  Our task isn’t to argue with that, but to make sure he finishes his work quickly.

  And returns to the king with news about the mines only.”

  Ruvan stopped.

  “I’d like him to remind Serain that Friedrich Veytur is still respected here.

  And that many believe he should have been king.”

  Pillum didn’t answer right away.

  “Serain already knows that,” he said at last. “That’s exactly why he sent Rianes here instead of Atrion.”

  Olaf let out a heavy breath.

  “Ruvan, we all loved Friedrich. But you don’t know what kind of king he would have been.

  Serain made us fed. And wealthy.”

  He gestured toward the city.

  “Twenty years ago, you couldn’t step outside at night without guards.

  Now we argue about who’s richer and stronger — us or the Viscol folk.”

  Olaf looked at him.

  “And that’s after a civil war.”

  Ruvan said nothing.

  Facts were hard to argue with.

  They looked out from the garden toward the upper city.

  Townsfolk drifted lazily through the market. Stalls were overflowing with goods and buyers.

  Two guards were escorting a female unit of the Blue Cohort toward the bathhouses.

  Among them were Syra and the beautiful doctor and Rianes' lover, Naelis — laughing, openly teasing one of the guards until he blushed.

  “Explain something to me,” Olaf said.

  “They all wear similar clothing and equipment.

  But there’s a group of soldiers who look completely different.”

  Pillum nodded.

  “You’re probably talking about the Fifth Cohort.

  Blue Cohort consists of five cohorts. Five hundred people in each.

  Plus headquarters and logistics — another five hundred.”

  “But the fifth?” Olaf pressed.

  “The fifth isn’t from the autonomies,” Pillum replied. “They’re Kuturi.

  Their country was conquered by the Compact nearly ten years ago.

  A subjugated people.”

  Olaf slowly turned toward him.

  “Kuturi… meaning your people?”

  “Once,” Pillum answered.

  “And the Compact isn’t afraid that one day the Kuturi will slaughter them?”

  “No,” Pillum said calmly.

  “Their cohorts are present in every clan. They’ve long since become part of the mercenaries.

  Their rights and duties are the same as everyone else’s.”

  He paused.

  “Besides, Atrion invested heavily in their cities, villages, and roads.

  The granddaughter of their king was left to rule, with special privileges.”

  Pillum allowed himself a faint smile.

  “And they say Atrion shares more than just a political bed with her.”

  Olaf snorted.

  “Autonomy within autonomy.”

  “Politics,” Pillum replied.

  He glanced at the tattoo on his wrist.

  Then shifted his gaze back to the city square, where The Compact was already becoming part of everyday life.

  Dusk settled in. The townsfolk drifted back to their homes.

  The Compact’s camp was alive.

  People moved in waves, pitching tents, clearing ground, hauling gear, snapping short phrases at one another, and immediately returning to work. Everything was fast, coordinated, and without excess commands.

  Movement and noise filled the air.

  Locals, beggars, and courtesans crowded the edge of the camp, showering the mercenaries with questions, offers, and hints. They were waved off curtly, sometimes roughly, but without malice. Not now.

  In the shadows, away from the torchlight, stood two figures with partially concealed faces.

  One of them was Kesh. The same rider. A witness to the mine attack.

  The other was Ravon.

  “Looks like,” Kesh said quietly, “we’re all in for lean times while they’re here.”

  “And after they’re gone too,” Ravon replied calmly, “if they don’t complete their task.”

  “If they don’t…” Kesh shook his head. “I don’t know who would.”

  Ravon didn’t answer at once.

  “Do this,” he said finally. “Make sure no one interferes with them.

  Lower than grass. Quieter than water. Understood?”

  “Understood,” Kesh nodded. “And if they start asking too many questions?

  He might call me in for questioning. Ask how it all happened. Refusing would be a bad idea.”

  “That would be a terrible idea,” Ravon said flatly.

  “I’m hoping they’ll be interested only in the king’s task. Not the city’s affairs.”

  “And if Lenar or Olaf gives them extra work in their spare time?”

  Ravon let out a faint sigh.

  “Then we’ll see.

  The main thing is not to interfere. For now.”

  They dissolved into the shadows.

  At the entrance to the camp stood Rianes.

  He was looking toward the city — at the dark silhouettes of buildings and the line of the walls.

  Velm approached him.

  “Yeees,” Velm drawled. “You could be strolling through gardens right now, admiring exotic trees.”

  “And watching,” Rianes replied, “the guards on the walls peering into every tent.”

  “Cael didn’t think that through.”

  “The little bastard,” Rianes smiled. “A good joke.

  Probably even ordered servants sent my way.

  And the mayor prepared everything. A master of flattery.”

  “Knowing Cael,” Velm snorted, “not servant girls. Servants.”

  “Then it’s good I turned down the garden.”

  They laughed — loud, brief.

  A city guard archer approached them, limping slightly.

  His comrades stood off to the side, frozen. They had tried to stop him at first — unsuccessfully.

  “Sir Rianes. Sir Velm,” he said. “Apologies for disturbing you.”

  “No problem,” Rianes nodded. “Go on.”

  “Do we know each other?” Velm narrowed his eyes. “Not many recognize us without armor.”

  “Yes,” the archer replied. “We met during the siege of Katzar.

  I was assigned to the assault, covering the infantry with a bow from the high walls.

  That night, I was certain I would die by morning. But the enemy opened the gates themselves.”

  “Yes,” Rianes said. “That siege would have been bloody.

  Good that the defenders made a humane decision.”

  “Or,” the archer added quietly, “good that this decision suddenly appeared in their minds.”

  An uncomfortable silence hung for a few seconds.

  “Some speakers,” the archer continued, “who call themselves agents of higher powers, consider it inhumane to impose Suggestion on those who have already left this world.

  But of course, none of them were among the defenders. Or in the assault ranks.”

  He gathered himself.

  “I have a request.

  Please tell me — did Syra arrive with you?”

  “Of course,” Rianes answered. “She’s always with us… and so are her admirers,” he added with a smile.

  “Then…” the archer swallowed. “She once trained us in archery.

  Because of her, I became the chief archer here. I’d like her to spare a few hours for our defenders. To pass on her knowledge.

  Could you pass along my request?”

  “I think,” Rianes said, “she’d appreciate it more if you told her yourself.

  She’s at the upper city baths right now with the others.

  You can wait for her there. Tell her this story — you’ll get your answer immediately.”

  “Thank you,” the archer said. “Then I’ll go to her.”

  “Good to see a brother from the old days,” Rianes nodded.

  “Yes,” Velm added. “Very unexpected.”

  “We’ll meet again.”

  The archer limped back to his unit. They moved off toward the upper city.

  “See?” Rianes said. “And you claimed there are no fans at the third stage.”

  “He would’ve died back then,” Velm replied. “This isn’t about the stage.”

  “That’s exactly the point,” Rianes nodded. “Not about the stage.”

  He exhaled.

  “All right. I’m going to sleep.”

  Rianes disappeared into the darkness between the tents.

  Velm remained standing.

  Watching as the silhouette of Lucius and his men faded into the night city.

  And he wasn’t thinking about the past.

  He was thinking about how many more brothers like that he would meet before the job was done.