The Far East

  Here, the king’s authority does not disappear abruptly. It thins.

  On maps, this is still royal territory. In reports, a “stable region.” On paper — taxes, coats of arms, appointed stewards. In reality, everything is different.

  This is a land where orders arrive late — or do not arrive at all. Where royal laws are known, but followed only when convenient.

  Before you lies an open field — wide, windy, silent. It begins with a sharp rise, a hill, as if the land itself decided to draw a line.

  Behind it: familiar roads, patrols, checkpoints. Ahead: a space where every meter must be earned.

  The hill is not high, but it stands firm and absolute. From here, the change is visible. The grass grows coarser, the paths less worn, the signs of royal authority sparse — as if someone were erasing them on purpose.

  Beyond the hill, the field spreads wide, and somewhere on the horizon, no one asks, “What will the capital say?” They ask, “Who is stronger here?”

  This is the land of local leaders. Chieftains. Clan elders. People without crowns, but with memory, followers, and weapons.

  The king still exists here. But he no longer rules.

  Anyone who crosses this hill understands: from here on, the rules will be different — even if, on the surface, everything looks the same.

  A panorama of a great city built into the slope of a hill.

  Behind it lies a lake — dark, deep, almost motionless. To the left rise mountains, from which an aqueduct stretches toward the city: a white stone line cutting through the landscape.

  Near the lake, on elevated ground, stands a castle — heavy, ancient, thick-walled. Around it runs the first line of defense. Beyond the castle lies the old city, compact and densely populated, with a large square situated before the gates. It too ends in walls, crowned by three massive towers with trebuchets. Between the buildings, dozens of other siege engines are visible — ballistae, catapults, ammunition stores.

  Beyond the second ring of walls, the new city extends outward: workshops, factories, residential districts, and transportation arteries. Another wall — and beyond it, farmland: fields, storehouses, livestock enclosures.

  The city descends in a cascade — walls, moats, dense construction, layer upon layer — as if designed specifically to break any assault. To the right lies the port. Roads lead to the city from three sides, but the largest and most important runs toward the capital of the kingdom.

  This is Hariv. The city of mercenaries.

  In recent years, Hariv has grown extraordinarily wealthy. The mercenaries built roads, organized patrols, secured the borders, and introduced documents for their citizens. Merchants began visiting regularly, trading even with the Rejected who lived nearby.

  Once, this was wild land. It was here that the uprising of the Rejected began. The king handed these territories to Atrion with a single purpose: to control the wild tribes.

  They rebuilt the castle. Cleared the land. Their greatest achievement was restoring the water supply and sewer system.

  The city had no stench. No disease. No chaos.

  That was what drew the wealthy here.

  Inside the castle, at a massive table, sat a stocky, short man with curly hair, holding a letter. This was Vantsyl, the mayor of Hariv.

  A capable administrator and a jack of all trades, he was one of the first who, many years ago, supported Rian’s idea to take the city back from scavengers and turn it into a fortress. It was Vantsyl who brought the first farmers, builders, and blacksmiths here — the foundation of the future city. For this, Atrion made him mayor.

  Although Atrion was the head of the mercenaries, in matters of the city and the surrounding lands, the true authority was Vantsyl.

  To his right sat Atrion — tall, imposing, charismatic. A massive jaw, a cold gaze, carefully kept hair. He spoke little, but every word landed exactly where it should. In any company, he would look like the one in charge. Disciplined, strong, and exceptionally cunning.

  After the earthquake that split the continent, he was the strongest warrior in its southern half — but politics and strategy were his real battlefield. He built his reputation on rigid hierarchy, order, and absolute obedience, introducing dozens of military rules, traditions, and regulations into The Compact.

  In this, he differed radically from Rianes.

  Rianes disliked military formalism. He could take in people with dubious reputations, strange origins, and dangerous connections.

  For the Rejected, entering Black Directive was almost impossible. In Red Breach, they made up around ten percent. In Blue Cohort, every fifth. But in Atrion’s clan, there was only one path: complete several standard, brutal assignments. No exceptions. For anyone.

  Many wanted in — money, privileges, respect.

  And this, despite The Compact’s bad reputation. Despite Hariv’s remoteness. Even though to even get a chance, one first had to make it here.

  Vantsyl studied the letter in his hands carefully, slowly, as if weighing every word.

  When the doors of the hall opened, he did not look up.

  A woman entered.

  At her belt hung a glass mace — clean, cold, without ornament. Not displayed deliberately, but placed so it would be seen.

  It was Katerina.

  A fourth-stage suggestor. Atrion’s personal suggestor.

  Once, she had been the chief suggestor of King Viscol.

  Her defection to The Compact had been a public slap in the face:

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  It slightly damaged Viscol’s relations with Ceredan and seriously strained those with the Compact itself.

  Katerina came from a noble family.

  Excellent education. Strong connections. A face people remembered.

  A mind that did not require proof.

  And, as a mandatory addition, confidence, maximalism, and a light, almost refined narcissism.

  Being one of the suggestors in the wealthiest kingdom meant stability.

  But joining mercenaries in wild territory, in a city where for forty years scavengers, the Rejected, and various kinds of the Crossed had ruled — that meant fame.

  Katerina always chose the latter.

  She kept a narrow circle around herself.

  And in it, for reasons no one fully understood, there was room for Naelis — the only person Katerina considered her equal.

  That alone often made it possible to find compromises where Rianes and Atrion locked horns.

  She stopped by the table.

  “Atrion, what’s so urgent this early in the morning?”

  Atrion nodded toward the letter.

  “We need to discuss what Vantsyl is holding.”

  Katerina shifted her gaze.

  “Vantsyl. Read.”

  Vantsyl slowly unfolded the letter and began:

  “This is from Rian.”

  He cleared his throat and read aloud, flatly, without intonation.

  “Greetings, brother.

  The garden has yielded exactly as we expected.

  There are far too many moles this year, digging as if they had conspired.

  I bought an excellent shovel and was expecting a worker to come and use it, but he disappeared somewhere.

  They say he has some kind of black illness. I will look for him, because without him, the moles may destroy the entire harvest.

  The fence is strange as well. I think the previous owner did not build it that way without a reason.

  I believe the moles will multiply if we start plowing the land.

  But first, we need to understand where the worker became infected.

  Please do not start repairing the roof. I may need your help here.

  I don’t know who released these moles on us, but I think Father went south to the city in vain.

  Whoever did this does not live there. We need to look in our forest.

  I will also send a letter to our brother. I will keep you informed.”

  Silence settled over the hall.

  Katerina smiled first — briefly, without warmth. “Rian has a fine garden,” she said. “And very talkative moles.”

  Atrion did not answer immediately. He wasn’t looking at the letter. He was looking at Vantsyl.

  Katerina tilted her head slightly. “Atrion, decode it. I don’t always understand the way you two talk.”

  Vantsyl answered first, almost with relief. “It’s all pretty transparent. There are more scavengers than expected. Besides the mine, the wild forest needs to be cleared and reconnoitered. Rian has found some kind of technology — or traces of it. And the one person who could explain it has vanished. And Rianes isn’t the only one looking for him. He’s asking us to be ready for the worst-case scenario. We may need help from other clans.”

  He paused. “But this ‘black illness’… I don’t recall anything like that.”

  Atrion didn’t raise his voice. “Yorung.”

  Katerina and Vantsyl repeated it at the same time — not from confusion, but because a chill ran down their spines.

  Atrion nodded. “Yes. And that’s the most interesting part. This worker knows something too valuable. Valuable enough that someone wanted to kill him, and spared no expense. And they tried to do it quietly.”

  He paused. “You and I need to go there. Find out the details. And help with the neutral forest.”

  Katerina crossed her arms. “The neutral, dark forest… anyone could be there. Reconnaissance and clearing are expensive decisions. And even if successful, they guarantee no reward.”

  “Yes,” Atrion replied calmly. “But if the war drags on, we’ll be able to reach the Palmers’ rear through the forest.”

  Katerina held his gaze. “Or provoke all the scavengers sitting there. Especially if they’ve already started it. If it was the Palmers.”

  Atrion nodded slowly. “The king wrote about the same thing. An attack on the mine that was far too ‘timely.’ And far too large-scale.” He tapped the letter. “We can’t rule out that the Palmers set the wild forest ablaze from their side. So that all the filth would surge toward Korosten.”

  The hall fell silent.

  “In any case,” Atrion continued, “we must be ready. Either to defend the mines. Or to strike into the enemy’s rear.”

  He turned to Vantsyl. “Prepare the orders. Have the clan assemble in the city in three days.”

  Vantsyl nodded silently.

  Katerina studied Atrion more closely than usual. “So, Rian is digging. And we’re getting ready to go where someone is digging back.”

  Atrion smiled faintly. “Exactly.”

  Korosten. An underground shelter. A low ceiling, heavy air, candles, and bottles on the table. Six people sit in a circle. No one is relaxed.

  A gray-haired man with a broken nose breaks the silence. “The mercenaries have gone mad. They’re turning the whole city upside down. Taverns, inns, brothels — sweeping everything.”

  A dark-haired man with narrow eyes grins crookedly. “They’re not looking for us. They’re hunting Yorungs.”

  Another man, older, with a harsh voice, adds, “Yes. But they’re moving with the city guard. And they’re not letting us work.” He turns to Ravon. “You were the one who urged us to give them free rein. Even though you’re losing the most from the mine shutdowns. We listened to you. So what now?”

  The dark-haired man leans forward. “Yeah, Ravon. What do you suggest? Hand everything over to them?”

  The others join in. Questions overlap. Voices rise.

  Ruvan slams his palm on the table. “Quiet!” The noise dies down.

  “I’ll handle it myself.”

  The dark-haired man doesn’t back off. “And how exactly will you handle it? Have you heard what Skeld did to Olaf’s son?”

  Ravon slowly rises to his feet. “I said it. I’ll handle it.”

  He doesn’t look at anyone and leaves.

  Unlike the others at the table, Ravon’s business had suffered the most. He was a smuggler, and he had counted heavily on the mercenaries solving the mine problem quickly.

  It was Ravon who pushed the others to pressure Olaf. It was Ravon who convinced them to ask the king for help instead of dealing with it locally. Now he had become a hostage to his own plan.

  Outside, Kesh was already waiting, standing in the shadows as always.

  “We need to calm the mercenaries,” Ravon said quietly. “We need to figure out how.”

  Kesh didn’t hesitate. “I think we should tell them everything.”

  Ravon stopped. “Been sitting in dungeons too long?”

  “They don’t need to know about the Glass,” Kesh replied calmly. “We can tell them about the engineer.”

  Ravon spun around sharply. “Absolutely not. Kidnapping is a direct road to the gallows.”

  Kesh didn’t look away. “We’ll all end up on the gallows if the mercenaries don’t finish their job. We saved the engineer’s life. For Rian, that will matter more than anything else.”

  Ravon clenched his teeth. “And what if we saved him for a fate worse than death?”

  Kesh shrugged. “Our partners haven’t failed us yet. So I think we saved him.”

  A few seconds of silence.

  Ravon exhaled. “All right. All right… Let’s go then. I’ll arrange a meeting.”

  They disappeared into the darkness of the street.

  Evening. The Compact camp.

  Inside Rianes’s tent, he was bent over the table, studying a map, when the flap was pulled aside, and a mercenary stepped in.

  — Ri. You have visitors.

  Rianes didn’t lift his head.

  — What kind of visitors?

  — They didn’t give names.

  They say they have information about the engineer.

  And… — the mercenary hesitated slightly, — they’re armed.

  Rianes froze for a moment. Then he slowly straightened.

  — …I see.

  Fine. Let’s go talk.

  They stepped outside.

  At the edge of the torchlight stood Ravon and Kesh.

  Both were dressed in black. No insignia. No unnecessary movement.

  Rianes approached, raised the torch, and carefully studied their faces.

  — What a welcoming evening, — he said. — Come in.

  Inside the tent, Lenar and Yahim were already there.

  When Ravon and Kesh crossed the threshold, something happened that is unavoidable in a cramped space where everyone knows something about everyone else.

  Lenar recognized them instantly.

  Yahim — half a second later.

  Hands moved toward weapons almost at the same time.

  Metal rang softly.

  The air in the tent tightened.

  — Don’t even think about it, — Rianes said calmly, without raising his voice.

  No one moved.

  The torch crackled. Shadows jumped across the canvas walls.

  Rianes slowly shifted his gaze from one to another.

  — We have our own rules here.

  What you do outside this camp is none of my concern.

  But anyone who draws a weapon here—

  will finish their life in this tent.

  A brief pause.

  — Understood?

  Lenar lowered his hand first.

  Yahim followed.

  Ravon and Kesh didn’t move at all. They weren’t in a hurry.

  Rianes nodded toward the table.

  — Sit.

  If you came armed, it means your information isn’t pleasant.

  He looked straight at Ravon.

  — You can speak.

  What is said here will not be used against you.

  The silence in the tent grew even heavier.

  — Go on. Speak.