Akel woke before the sun.
The sky above Alfra still held the last layer of deep blue night when he stepped out of the tent Bjorn had pointed out the previous evening. The cold, dry air of dawn descended from the hills, carrying the scent of hay, cold ashes, and dew settled over the canvas of the tents. The camp's first fires had yet to be lit, and a thin mist crept between the stakes and wagons, slowly dissolving whenever it touched the packed earth.
Akel stood still for a moment, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, his breathing slow and controlled. The silence was not absolute—there was the distant ringing of a bell from some tower in the city, the muffled rumble of wagons on the main road, and the neigh of a horse from a nearby enclosure—but within the camp, the world still seemed suspended, as though the entire company were holding its breath before awakening.
He walked toward the forge, which remained dark.
Beside the anvil, Thornin's leather stool stood exactly where the dwarf left it every night: leaning against the wooden post, with his worn-handled tools hanging from a board secured by iron hooks. A set of new hinges rested on a piece of burlap, clean and greased, ready to be installed on the wagons. The forge was not entirely cold; Akel ran his palm along the stone side and felt the lingering warmth, the last remnant of the dwarf's work from the previous night.
"Always the first one awake."
The voice came from behind him, low and hoarse.
Akel turned his head.
Perta stood beside the supply tent, still barefoot, a coarse woolen shawl draped over her broad shoulders. Her curly gray hair escaped from the cloth she used to tie it back, and there were traces of sleep across her dark face. She held an earthenware mug with both hands, steam rising from it in lazy spirals through the cold air.
"Sleep well?" Perta asked bluntly.
"Better than I have in the last few weeks."
"And already on your feet before the chickens. You remind me of Almir." She took a sip from her mug, her eyes narrowing as she gave him a quick appraisal. "Only you're thinner. And quieter, if that's even possible."
Akel inclined his head slightly.
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment. It was an observation."
"I'll accept it anyway."
Perta let out a sound that could have been either a laugh or a disapproving grunt. She moved away from the tent and went to the woodpile, crouching down to separate the driest kindling. Her arms had the firmness of someone who had spent a lifetime carrying heavy loads, and her thick hands moved precisely among the pieces of wood, selecting each one without haste.
"Since you're there, you can fetch some water from the stream. The kitchen barrel is half empty."
Akel did not argue. He picked up the wooden bucket resting against the side of the wagon and followed the gravel path toward the stream.
The water ran cold and dark between smooth stones. He crouched at the bank, filled the bucket, and remained there for a moment, watching his reflection tremble on the surface. The towers of Alfra appeared in the distance, silhouetted against the sky that was beginning to brighten. A rooster crowed somewhere in a distant courtyard. Then another. And the city, as though answering some invisible signal, began to wake.
When Akel returned, the camp was already moving.
Thornin had lit the forge and was hammering a strip of iron with steady blows, his face stern and focused, his sleeves rolled up to reveal thick forearms marked by old scars. He did not greet Akel beyond a brief nod of his chin and continued working without interruption. Beside him, Rurik emerged from the tent he shared with the other dwarves, still disheveled, his red beard's braids partially undone and a blanket crease stamped across his cheek.
"Already awake and fighting with iron," Rurik muttered, stopping a few steps from the forge. "See? Didn't I tell you this man doesn't know how to rest?"
Thornin did not look up.
"And you don't know how to wake up before noon."
"I was awake. I just saw no reason to get up."
"There is a reason. The cargo wagon needs those hinges by the end of the morning. Borges has been asking me about them since yesterday."
"Let Borges wait. He won't die if the wagon makes an extra creak on the road."
Thornin set down the hammer and gave his brother a hard look.
"You spent three weeks in Mirior drinking and gambling, and you still have the nerve to lecture me about my work?"
"I was inspecting cargo!" Rurik raised a finger. "And I won't take a lecture on ethics from a dwarf who sleeps hugging a file."
"I'd rather hug a file than bet my war axe on a round of dice."
"That was a strategic moment of psychological pressure!"
"You lost the axe. Bjorn had to pay to get it back."
"And since then I've won three rounds of knife game. Doesn't that count for anything?"
"It counts for three copper coins and the respect of no one."
Akel watched the exchange without interfering. There was an old familiarity in the argument, a predictable rhythm of accusations and replies that sought no real harm, only to fill the silence. It was the same pattern he remembered from the campfires in the north, when the firelight cast shadows across the mercenaries' faces and Rurik's arguments served as a distraction from the dangers of the road.
A short while later, other voices joined the noise.
Perk and Pirk emerged from the recruits' tent at the same time, still without their boots, their brown hair disheveled and their tunics open. They were identical enough to confuse even the veterans, but Akel had never had trouble telling them apart: Perk's gaze was slightly more distracted, as though he were always trying to remember where he had left something; Pirk walked with his chin raised and the faint smile of someone who believed he knew more than he actually did.
"Fire training today?" Pirk asked, yawning.
"Today there's coffee and dry bread," Perta answered, appearing with an iron pot. "And if you don't fetch fresh firewood before the third bell, you won't even have that."
"But there's still wood there," Pirk argued, pointing toward the pile.
"It's running out."
"There's enough for coffee."
"Enough for coffee, but not enough for lunch stew. You want lunch?"
Perk scratched the back of his neck.
"I think so?"
"Then stop thinking and go fetch wood."
The twins exchanged a look, sighed in unison, and headed toward the low woods beyond the stream, carrying ropes and a short-handled axe. Rurik watched them leave and let out a loud laugh.
"Those two are going to cut down the wrong tree and break the axe blade."
"At least they'll try," Thornin said.
"Trying wrong is worse than not trying."
"Depends on the result."
"Depends on who's paying for the repairs."
Thornin resumed hammering and, without looking up, replied:
"Then pray they come back with the blade intact. Because if they return with the steel bent, the loss comes out of your wages."
"My wages?! And since when am I responsible for the twins?"
"Since you bet them you could climb onto the barn roof without breaking a tile. And won."
"That doesn't make me their guardian!"
"It makes you an accomplice. And accomplices share the losses."
Rurik opened his mouth, closed it, and then turned toward Akel.
"You see this? This is why I left Karnazad. Dwarves are an unbearable people."
Akel looked at him.
"You're a dwarf too."
"And I'm unbearable. But in moderation."
Akel felt the corner of his mouth rise.
The sun had climbed high enough to warm the treetops beyond the camp. The mist had completely dissolved, and the morning light revealed the faded blue of the sky above the tents. The smell of bread began to spread when Perta opened the stone oven and removed the loaves with a wooden peel. The warm, sweet scent mingled with the metallic smell of the forge and the dry fragrance of trampled earth.
Akel sat on a bench near the wagon and drew his sword. The runed blade gleamed faintly beneath the light, the marks carved into the steel dormant like empty veins. He took a cloth and a bottle of oil and began cleaning it with slow movements, feeling the cold texture of the metal beneath his fingers. There was no hurry. The mercenaries' training had not yet begun, and he preferred that productive silence to scattered conversations.
That was when Atreus appeared.
The man stepped out of the veterans' tent bare-chested, his muscles still swollen from sleep. He was enormous, the kind of size that seemed less human and more constructed, like an oak trunk that had somehow learned to walk. There was a crude tattoo on his left shoulder, and his broad face wore an expression of perpetual hunger.
He sniffed the air.
"Bread," he said, as though announcing the discovery of treasure.
Perta raised the wooden peel.
"Don't even think about it."
"I'm just smelling it."
"Smell it from there."
Atreus took a step.
"It smells better up close."
"Atreus, I swear by the gods, if you touch that baking tray before breakfast, this peel is coming down on your head."
"The peel won't knock me down."
"Want to bet?"
Atreus considered it for a moment, his eyes fixed on the golden loaves. There was something almost childish in the way he stared at the food, a simple and unquestioning devotion.
"Just one," he tried.
"None."
"Half?"
"Not even a crumb."
"Perta..."
"Atreus."
She pointed the peel toward the other side of the camp.
"Go wash your face. Then come back. If Borges gets here before you sit down, the first loaf is his."
The giant released a deep and sorrowful sigh that contrasted comically with his size and walked away muttering toward the stream.
Akel continued cleaning the blade.
"He's still like that?" he asked.
Perta raised an eyebrow.
"Always was. He only got worse after you left. Without anyone around to scare him with that hawk's stare of yours, the beast started thinking the kitchen was free territory."
"I scared him?"
"He said you looked like you were calculating the distance between his neck and your blade."
"Was he right?"
Perta let out a short laugh.
"Sometimes."
Akel ran the cloth along the blade one last time and sheathed the sword.
Training began in the clearing beside the horse enclosure.
Bjorn led the exercises with the patience of an experienced instructor. Six fighters stood in the ring, including Perk and Pirk, who had returned with the firewood and now held wooden swords with an almost painful lack of attention. The others were mercenaries whose names Akel had not yet memorized—new faces, hired after his departure.
"Two by two," Bjorn ordered, walking among them. "Slow pace at first. Left foot forward. Knees bent. You're not here to hurt each other; you're here to repeat the movement until the body remembers."
Perk and Pirk stood facing each other. Their first strikes were clumsy, lacking shoulder alignment and leaving their guards open. Bjorn stopped behind Pirk and firmly adjusted his elbow.
"Keep raising your arm like that and your flank is exposed with every attack."
"But then I turn and hit the shoulder," Pirk argued.
"If you turn, you fall."
"Not always."
"Trust me. You fall. And when you do, the enemy has already opened your throat."
Pirk pressed his lips together, dissatisfied.
Across the ring, Perk watched his brother with an expression of superiority that lasted exactly three seconds—the amount of time it took for an older mercenary to land a sharp blow against his ribs.
"Focus," the veteran said without slowing down.
Perk staggered backward, coughing.
"That hurt."
"It was supposed to. Raise your guard."
Akel watched everything from a short distance away, sitting atop a pile of empty sacks, his elbows resting on his knees. The scene was familiar and strange at the same time. He had stood in that same ring years before, with callused hands and bare feet, listening to Almir shout corrections amid challenges. The old master was not there now, but his method survived in Bjorn's movements, in the rigid training, in the insistence on fundamentals.
Rurik approached and stopped beside Akel, his arms crossed over his stomach.
"I'll bet two copper coins Pirk knocks his brother down before noon."
"I'm not betting."
"Of course you're not. That's why you never have any fun."
"I have fun in other ways."
"Sitting around staring at nothing isn't fun, hunter."
"It is for me."
Rurik rolled his eyes and waved a hand dismissively, giving up.
The sun continued to climb. Training went on with sequences of strikes, footwork, and endurance exercises. The smell of bread gave way to sweat and dust, and the mercenaries' voices rose above the sound of the forge. Akel remained in the same position, motionless, absorbing the rhythm of the camp as though relearning the sounds of a language that had once been his.
A little later, Selena appeared.
She wore worn leather boots, dark riding trousers, and a short sleeveless tunic, with a wide belt from which hung a serrated dagger. Her hair was tied into a tight bun, exposing a strong face and firm lines around her eyes. There was nothing fragile about her posture. Every step she took across the packed earth carried the confidence of someone who had crossed more than one battlefield and returned whole.
"If Borges starts crying about grain prices, I'm using the dagger myself," she said, passing Rurik without slowing.
"Borges cries about anything that costs more than three coins," Rurik replied.
"Exactly. That's why someone needs to stand beside him while he negotiates."
Selena went to the supply wagon and pulled out a board covered in notes, held in place by a nail. Her dark eyes quickly scanned the lines, and her mouth curved into a dry half-smile.
"The price of barley went up again. And the Alfra merchant swears it's because of the rains in the north."
"Rain," Rurik repeated skeptically.
"Rain, pests, curses, whatever happens to be convenient. The only thing that doesn't rise is the honesty of the tax collectors."
Borges stepped out of the main tent at that moment, notebook beneath his arm and a thin pencil tucked behind his ear. He was a middle-aged man, bald, narrow-shouldered, and tired-looking, with a jaw that was always tense as though he were chewing numbers.
"Have you seen the west granary fees?" he asked without greeting.
"I have," Selena replied.
"And the cost of the harnesses?"
"That too."
"And the blacksmith's invoice?"
"Thornin's? That's up to date."
"The Alfra blacksmith's, not Thornin's."
Selena raised an eyebrow.
"That one was inflated. The man charged twice what we agreed for the draft horses' horseshoes."
"Exactly what I said."
"And I refused payment until he provided a corrected breakdown."
Borges blinked, surprised.
"You refused?"
"I did. No one doubles the price of a service without giving formal notice first. If he wants to take the dispute to the blacksmiths' guild, let him. We have the receipts."
Borges opened his notebook, flipped through several pages, and made a quick note.
"That changes the quarterly accounts."
"Changes them for the better."
"For less bad, you mean."
"In our line of work, less bad is already a victory."
Rurik let out a low laugh.
"You two are the only pair capable of turning lunch into an accounting meeting."
Selena gave him an amused look.
"And you're the only creature capable of turning an accounting meeting into a tavern bet."
"It's a natural talent."
"It's a burden for everyone else."
"I never said the burden was mine."
Akel remained seated on the sacks, watching the conversation from a distance. Selena passed him on her way to the tent and stopped for a moment, her eyes traveling over the sheathed blade resting beside him.
"Planning to sit there all day like a guard dog?"
"Maybe."
"Good. Someone needs to keep the twins away from the roof."
"Already climbed it?"
"They tried. Pirk nearly broke his arm, and Perk lost a boot in the gap between the barn and the wall."
Akel glanced toward the twins, who were now fighting with wooden swords in the center of the ring.
"And the boot?"
"Pirk went down to get it. Perk spent half the morning barefoot like an idiot."
"One of them is always more of an idiot than the other."
"And yet they survive. There must be some divine force protecting fools."
"Or the Pardas have very low standards."
Selena laughed, a short and genuine sound.
"If it were up to the Pardas' standards, the twins would be officers within a week."
She headed toward the tent, and the sound of her laughter still lingered when the canvas closed behind her.
Akel was alone again.
The morning passed between training and work. Elbi appeared shortly afterward, carrying a wooden box filled with documents. The elf wore simple clothes without adornment and moved with an economy of gestures that drew attention. She set up a small table beneath an awning and began organizing papers, separating contracts, receipts, and supply lists. She seemed unbothered by the heat or the noise. Twice she raised her eyes to observe the training, as though mentally recording the usefulness of each fighter, before returning to her work.
Akel approached.
"Need any help?"
Elbi raised her clear eyes.
"No."
"I could carry a box."
"I already carried them."
"Organize the papers?"
"That requires legible handwriting and patience."
"I have patience."
"But your handwriting is terrible. I remember."
Akel fell silent.
Elbi lowered her eyes to the next document, and the faintest smile—small, almost invisible—passed across her lips.
"If you want to help, sit down and don't ask questions. That helps me plenty."
Akel sat on a nearby bench and watched the camp.
That was when Carina returned from the stream.
She carried a bucket in each hand, her arms firm despite the weight. She wore worn boots, canvas trousers, and a simple linen shirt, her brown hair tied back carelessly. There were splashes of water along the hem of her trousers and a smear of dirt on one knee. She passed the forge, stepped around Rurik without looking at him, and set the buckets beside the kitchen. Only then did she raise her eyes and see Akel.
She stopped.
The morning sun fell across her face, highlighting the fine lines at the corners of her eyes and the bronze tone of her arms. There was no surprise in her expression, nor any exaggerated emotion. Only the recognition of someone who already knew he was there since the previous night.
"I knew it wouldn't take long before I found you standing there like a post," she said.
Akel inclined his head.
"I was watching the training."
"Watching isn't training."
"Depends on what you're watching."
Carina picked up a cloth and dried her hands.
"Almir used to say that people who watch too much eventually forget how to move."
"Almir also used to say that people who move without thinking end up dead."
"And he was right again."
"He usually is."
Carina let out a quiet laugh and sat on a nearby stone, stretching out her legs.
"Did you miss him?"
Akel hesitated.
"The old man? Maybe."
"He's on a contract in the west. Took Ian and Alpe with him."
"I heard."
"Ian wanted to wait until you arrived. But the contract was urgent."
"They always are."
"This time it really was. Two mercenary groups had already given up. Rodric didn't want to lose the chance to keep the company's name circulating along the western routes."
Akel nodded without saying anything.
For a moment, they remained silent, listening to the wooden swords striking in the training ring.
"Are you all right?" she asked without looking at him.
Akel took several seconds to answer.
"I am."
"I wasn't asking out of politeness."
"I know."
"Then answer honestly."
Akel met her eyes and held her gaze for a long moment. There was a frankness there that had always disarmed him, as though she could see through the surface calm and recognize the cracks beneath it.
"I'm whole," he said. "The rest takes time."
She nodded, satisfied.
"If you need someone to hold a training sword, call me."
"Going to make me sweat?"
"I'm going to try to hit you."
"You always try."
"And sometimes I succeed."
Akel almost smiled.
"Once."
"Once was enough."
"For you."
"For Almir too. He spent three days telling anyone who would listen."
"The old man's daughter hit the red-eyed hunter."
"Exactly. And he never let you forget it."
"I haven't."
Carina stood, stretched her arms, and tossed the cloth over her shoulder.
"I'm taking a new rope to Pirk. He's using the old one as a belt."
"Better give him a belt too."
"Then he'll lose the boot again."
"He loses everything anyway."
Carina laughed and walked away, passing Bjorn without interrupting the training.
Akel remained seated.
The morning passed without haste, dissolving into a succession of small events that filled the camp like the slow current of a river. The wooden strikes continued echoing across the training ground, rhythmic and steady, punctuated by Bjorn's corrections and Perk's exaggerated groans whenever he took a blow to the ribs. The smell of stew began to overpower that of the forge as Perta stirred the cauldron, and Atreus, already washed and dressed, began circling the kitchen at a carefully calculated distance, pretending to inspect the wagon ropes.
Akel watched everything with a distant attention. It was neither the tense vigilance of the roads nor the cold scrutiny of the hunts. It was simply presence. Little by little, the names settled into the faces, and the faces into gestures.
Shortly before noon, Rurik dragged a bench beside Thornin and began sharpening his war axe with a whetstone. The two brothers did not exchange a word for a long time; only the sound of steel against stone and the hammering of the forge filled the space between them. Suddenly, Rurik raised the axe and examined the blade against the light.
"Think it still cuts?"
Thornin did not raise his eyes from the glowing iron.
"It does. If you don't put too much force on the handle."
"I always use too much force."
"That's why the blade is full of dents."
"Battle scars."
"Stubbornness scars."
Rurik ran his thumb along the blade and grimaced.
"You going to charge me to fix it?"
"Double."
"I'm your brother."
"That's why it's double."
Rurik grunted but did not return the provocation. Instead, he resumed running the stone along the steel, with more careful movements.
The sun crossed its zenith and began to decline. The stew was served in wooden bowls, and the mercenaries gathered around the fire in small groups. Akel accepted his portion and ate sitting on the same bench, the hot broth warming his chest and awakening a hunger he had not realized he possessed. Perta passed by him and, without saying a word, dropped an extra piece of bread into his bowl.
The afternoon brought wind and thin clouds. Elbi folded the documents and stored the box in the supply wagon. Selena and Borges spent more than an hour bent over the account books, exchanging quiet observations. At one point, Borges' voice rose, but Selena cut him off with a curt sentence, and silence returned.
Akel rose from the bench and walked toward the horse enclosure. His mount recognized him from a distance and approached the fence, stretching out its muzzle. He ran a hand along the animal's neck, feeling the warm muscles beneath the coat. He remained there for a while, listening to the wind and the distant sound of the city that never stopped.
Then he heard it.
First, a distant noise, almost lost among the rustling leaves. Then came the unmistakable sound of hooves on the gravel road. It was not the heavy trot of a wagon, nor the irregular gait of a peasant returning from the fields. It was a riding horse, steady and disciplined, approaching the camp at a constant pace.
Akel raised his head.
Bjorn stopped the training, the wooden sword lowering beside his body. Rurik rose from the bench, the whetstone forgotten in his hand. Even Thornin stopped hammering, and the sudden silence of the forge made the camp seem suspended for a moment.
The rider appeared around the bend in the road.
He wore a tabard bearing the colors of Umbria, blue and silver, and carried a wax seal hanging from a leather cord at chest level. The horse was tall and dark-coated, its horseshoes gleaming in the sunlight as though they had been polished that very morning. The man rode with the rigid posture of someone who served a powerful lord and was not accustomed to waiting.
He stopped at the entrance to the camp.
"Rodric Levis," he called, his voice formal. "I carry official correspondence from the government of Umbria for the leader of the Levis Company."
Silence fell over the camp.
Rodric stepped out of the main tent, wiping his hands with a cloth. Selena was right behind him, her expression serious, her eyes already fixed on the seal hanging from the messenger's chest. Borges stopped counting grain and stood. The twins exchanged a look and took a step backward, as though the mere presence of an official messenger carried a weight they preferred to keep at a distance.
Rodric walked toward the rider with firm steps.
"I am Rodric Levis."
The messenger dismounted and extended a sealed document.
"The government of Umbria summons the Levis Company to an official hearing in the capital. The purpose will be disclosed before the Records Chamber, but it concerns your request for recognition as a Spear of Umbria."
Rodric accepted the document without haste, breaking the seal with his thumb.
"When?"
"In twenty-two days. The company is to appear with its representatives."
Selena stepped forward.
"All representatives?"
"Whichever ones your leadership deems necessary."
The messenger gave a slight nod and mounted again in a single fluid motion.
"The hearing will take place at the Records Chamber of Alfra. Arrive early."
He left without waiting for a reply.
Rodric remained still, the document open in his hands. Selena approached, her eyes scanning the written lines. The two exchanged a long look, and Akel saw Rodric's jaw tighten slightly, as though the weight of the summons had arrived before the relief.
Akel remained beside the enclosure, his hand still resting on the horse's neck.
The hearing was scheduled.
And now, every step the Levis took mattered.