Between Two Rivers
Loriana lay cradled in a lush green valley, perched at the confluence of two great rivers: the River Arden and its tributary, the Elyn. From the peak of Lorian Hill, where an ancient oak stood like a sentinel, the town spread out below like a painted map. Stretches of green and golden fields, neatly parceled by low stone walls and hedgerows, extended along the riverbanks. The current of the River Arden hugged the southern side of the town like a protective arm, its waters wide and calm, while the smaller, swifter Elyn cut directly through the heart of the settlement, spanned by a series of sturdy stone bridges.
Clusters of houses with terracotta tile roofs and whitewashed limestone walls gathered around the central market square. The warm hues of the buildings contrasted with the dominant green of the surrounding landscape. On a gentle slope at the town's northernmost point, overlooking the confluence of the rivers, stood a manor—a grand red-brick edifice with a soaring tower. Its presence hinted at local importance, perhaps serving as the residence of the regional lord or the main guildhall. The scene depicted rural tranquility, a pocket of civilization thriving amidst the untouched wilds of the Ardenian countryside.
It took nearly the entire afternoon for the group to journey from the still-smoldering ruins of the old man's cottage in Erja to the bustling streets of Loriana. The journey had been quiet, almost somber. Stark, still carrying the damp canvas sack—now wrapped in an extra layer of oilcloth to contain the stench and walked sluggishly at the front with a solemn expression. Karl and Bob followed a few paces behind, while Asep brought up the rear, both hands shoved deep into his pockets as his gaze swept over the rolling hills and dense forests they passed.
"Loriana... looks nice," Asep finally said, breaking the long silence as the town came into view. "Much bigger than Erja. At least it's livelier."
"It's a trade hub," Stark said without turning back. "Strategically located. The rivers make it a prime spot for commerce. It's also home to the Registered Bounty Hunters' Guild and the headquarters of the Castalia Mercenary Company." He pointed toward the red-brick manor with its distinctive tower. "That's our destination. Zachary will probably welcome us with a grin."
"Zachary?" Asep raised an eyebrow.
"Our old boss. Though calling him 'old' isn't quite right, since he's our age. He runs the Guild and his private military company now," Stark added.
"I see... So he's kind of the town's protector?"
"You could say that. Zachary's a pragmatist; he'll do whatever it takes to ensure the town's safety. As for bounties... he's our handler, though we only take jobs related to local security. Dealing with rogue sorcerers is one of them," Karl chimed in. "We go way back with him, to the Ardenian Civil War a decade ago."
"The Civil War?" Asep's interest was piqued. That sounded like a heavy piece of local history, and likely a source of lingering trouble. "What happened?"
"A long, bloody story, friend," Bob grumbled, adjusting the crossbow on his shoulder. "Though I was just a kid when it broke out, I still remember..." His voice trailed off, a shadow crossing his face. "It's best not to bring it up."
As they descended the hill, Loriana's rustic charm gave way to the tangible details of daily life. Refugees from Merlesia crowded the streets; some were merely passing through in search of shelter, while others hoped to build a new life here. The murmur of the market grew louder—a mix of merchants hawking wares, smiths hammering in their workshops, and the general hubbub of a town in motion. They stopped at the town square, where a fountain stood at the center, spraying a refreshing mist.
"Well, since we're here, I'm off to the tavern. See you later, Stark," Karl said, walking away. "Don't forget my share!"
"Fool..." Bob sighed.
"I think I'll join him. My stomach needs filling, and my throat is parched," Asep said. "Find me at the tavern if you need me."
"Suit yourself. Loriana has some of the best breweries in the region, but don't go looking for trouble, Asep. This town isn't like Erja," Stark warned solemnly. "Zachary doesn't tolerate troublemakers."
"Yeah, yeah, I get it. No trouble." Asep waved his hand dismissively and sauntered off toward Karl.
Stark and Bob continued on their way. Asep caught up with Karl, observing the busy streets as they walked. The town seemed calm, but the sheer volume of refugees was unsettling. It felt as if Loriana was on the verge of a major change. He couldn't quite put it into words, but the sensation was strangely nostalgic—the same feeling he'd had back in his school days before chaos erupted. He brushed the thought aside.
***
Asep found the tavern Karl had slipped into without much trouble. It was a cozy, two-story building named the "Water Lilies' Embrace"—a name that sounded far too poetic for an establishment primarily serving hard liquor. The structure featured a classic timber-frame design with sturdy oak beams and a solid stone foundation, topped by a carved wooden sign depicting a stylized water lily.
Pushing through the swinging doors, he was greeted by a wave of warmth and the low hum of conversation. The interior was spacious, with large wooden beams spanning a high ceiling decorated with various banners. Flickering candles cast a warm glow over the polished floor and sturdy tables. Karl was already seated at a central table, nursing a half-empty mug while chatting amiably with a busty, red-haired barmaid who laughed heartily at his words.
On a small stage, a beastfolk dancer with fox-like features moved to the music, her attire revealing. She swayed her hips in a hypnotic rhythm, her pale pink, fennec-like ears twitching to the beat of a drum played by a man in the corner. Her green outfit, adorned with tiny bells and shimmering beads, jingled with every movement, catching the candlelight. Several patrons, a mix of rough locals and weary travelers clapped along, their faces flushed with liquor.
Asep walked toward the bar, ignoring Karl's attempts to flag him down. The bartender, a broad-shouldered man with a thick, well-groomed beard and surprisingly gentle eyes, gave him a brief nod. "What'll it be, stranger?"
"Whatever's cheapest," Asep replied, climbing onto a stool. "And a plate of whatever's hot. I've been walking all day."
"Coming right up," the bartender said, turning to fill a mug from a large wooden cask. "We've got a hearty venison stew today."
"Sounds good. Venison stew, then," Asep nodded, sliding a few copper coins across the counter.
While he waited, his eyes scanned the tavern. He wasn't looking for trouble, but old habits died hard. He quietly noted the exits and marked the patrons who looked like they could handle themselves in a fight. Most of the crowd, however, consisted of Castalia mercenaries or refugees enjoying the afternoon performance.
This place is lively enough, he thought as he look around. Maybe I could stay here for a while. Then again, I don't really have a purpose. I haven't even thought about what comes next.
He sighed. He had never really had much of a purpose, had he? He only knew how to live in the moment and go with the flow. Like water.
"One venison stew and a mug of Lotus Wine." The bartender set the meal before him, breaking his thought.
The stew was richly aromatic and savory, thick with chunks of meat, carrots, turnips, and other root vegetables he didn't recognize. Asep took a spoonful; the rich flavor immediately chased away the hunger gnawing at his stomach. The wine was sweet and surprisingly strong, warming him from the inside. He ate in comfortable silence, listening to the background chatter, the music, and the jingling of the dancer's bells.
***
Meanwhile, Stark had arrived at the Guild headquarters, having parted ways with Bob, who had headed to the training grounds.
"I'm here to collect the bounty for Borwe," Stark said, placing the heavy canvas sack on the receptionist's desk. The woman behind the counter remained unperturbed, as if dealing with such things was a daily occurrence.
"Understood. Stark, correct? We'll need to verify the contents. Please wait a moment," the receptionist said, carrying the sack into a back room.
Stark sighed and walked toward the small saloon in the building's left wing. The moment he pushed open the door, a loud voice rang out.
"Hah, you actually made it back alive, Starky boy! And Bob's here too! Oi, Bob!"
But Bob only quickened his pace toward the training fields, ignoring the shout. It was clear he wanted no part of whatever was coming next.
The voice was loud, boisterous, and unmistakably female. Stark winced slightly out of habit as he pushed the swinging door open. Leaning against the bar, with one booted leg resting on an empty beer keg, was a woman with wild, silver-white hair tied in a high, messy ponytail. Her sharp red eyes scanned Stark from head to toe before her face stretched into a wide, predatory grin.
She wore a practical yet striking mix of gear: a tight leather corset over a loose ivory blouse, dark trousers, and mismatched armor pieces that looked salvaged from a dozen different sets. A massive sword, resembling an oversized butcher's cleaver, was strapped to her back, its hilt protruding over her shoulder. She raised a comically large wooden mug in a mocking toast.
"Sylvanne," Stark grumbled, his voice flat. "Still trying to drink the guild's cellars dry? Don't you ever actually work? I'm surprised you're not watching the kids."
"Zachary gave me the day off," Sylvanne said, taking a long gulp that left foam clinging to her upper lip. "Besides, watching those brats is more exhausting than hunting feral gnolls. They never stop asking questions." She mimicked a high-pitched voice, rolling her eyes. "'Sis Sylvie, what's this? Sis Sylvie, why is your sword bigger than my body?' It's enough to drive a woman to drink, I tell you. So, what did you bring in? A goblin king's crown, or did you finally catch that legendary horned rabbit wrecking the fields?"
"Rogue sorcerer. Borwe," Stark said, sitting on a stool. "The receptionist is verifying it now."
Sylvanne's grin faltered for a fraction of a second, her red eyes narrowing. "Borwe? The Face Stealer? Damn, Starky. I didn't think you had it in you. That bastard's been on the board for months. I heard he turned a squad of Radiant Inquisitors into ash last year."
"That's just a myth. He wasn't that strong—just an ordinary fire mage." Stark signaled the bartender to pour him a drink. "But we had some... outside help."
"Outside help?" Sylvanne's curiosity was piqued. "Don't tell me you finally convinced that uptight elf to join your circus troupe."
"No, not Lisa. She's heavily pregnant and about to give birth anyday soon," Stark said, sighing as he took his mug and downed a third of it. "It's a bit complicated. We ran into a stranger in Erja. We actually mistook him for Borwe at first, and it ended in a fight."
Sylvanne burst out laughing, slapping her thigh. "You picked a fight with the wrong person again? Oh, gods, Starky, you never learn, do you? What happened? Did he beat you and your cheer squad to a pulp?"
"He turned out to be incredibly skilled, though we held back to not kill him once we realized he was not Borwe, but I doubt he'd easily killed with the three of us." Stark admitted, a reluctant glint of respect in his eyes. "No weapons, just his bare hands. He took down Karl and Bob before I could blink, then forced me to yield. Afterward, he offered to help us hunt Borwe in exchange for a share of the reward."
Sylvanne's interest was fully captured. She took her foot off the keg and leaned forward. "No weapons? Barehanded? Took down your whole team? Now that's a story. Where is this mysterious tough guy now? Don't tell me you let him wander off. I want to see the man who could shut you up with his bare hands, Stark-boy. Maybe I'll buy him a drink."
"He's probably at the Water Lilies' Embrace with Karl. And stop calling me Stark-boy—I'm a married man with kids!" Stark grumbled, draining his drink and setting the mug down. "I need to report to Zachary. Try not to cause any trouble while I'm gone, Sylvanne. The last thing we need is you starting another brawl."
"No promises!" she chirped.
Her red eyes glittered with interest as Stark headed for the stairs at the back of the room. An unarmed fighter who could handle Stark's crew alone? This sounded far more interesting than babysitting or drinking by herself. She drained her mug, tossed a few coins on the counter, and adjusted the strap of her massive sword.
"I think I'll pay our new friend a visit," she murmured, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. "This is going to be fun."
***
Stark climbed the narrow, winding stairs, his footsteps echoing softly on the worn stone. The air grew cooler and quieter as he left the noisy saloon behind. The staircase opened into a spacious, circular office at the top of the tower, which served as Zachary's command center. The room was simple and functional. A large circular table dominated the center, its surface covered by a sprawling map of Ardenia and the surrounding territories, dotted with carved wooden pieces representing troop movements, resources, and strategic points.
Bookshelves crammed with leather-bound volumes and parchment scrolls lined the curved walls, their spines bearing titles on military strategy, history, and economics. Tall, arched windows offered a panoramic view of Loriana and the valley beyond where the afternoon sun cast long shadows. Standing by one of the windows with his back to the door was a man in form-fitting armor of dark blue and gold. A pristine white cloak, fastened with an ornate, wing-shaped clasp draped over his shoulders. He was observing the town below with quiet, focused intensity, lost in his own thought.
"Zachary," Stark said to announce his arrival, his voice relaxed. Their bond had been forged in the fires of the civil war a decade ago, transcending mere military rank.
The man by the window turned. Zachary was still young, likely no older than Stark himself, yet he carried himself with an authority that seemed ingrained in his soul. His black hair was short and neat, and his sharp, intelligent eyes held a weight that belied his years. There were no scars on his handsome face, yet his gaze conveyed a history of hard-won victories and bitter defeats. He offered Stark a wry smile that didn't reach his eyes. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of an elegant longsword at his hip—a weapon that looked more ceremonial than practical, though Stark knew how deadly it was.
"Stark. I hear you're back," Zachary said, his calm was calm and cultured. "I trust the hunt was successful? The receptionist tells me you brought back a package. Come, report."
Stark walked to the table, his armored boots clicking on the stone floor. "Borwe is dead. We engaged him in Erja, where he was disguised as a preacher for a doomsday cult, preying on the elders." Stark picked up a small black-painted pawn representing the sorcerer and flicked it off the map. "It's done."
"Good. One less troublemaker to worry about," Zachary said, his gaze fixed on the map as his finger traced the course of the River Arden. "But 'we'? As I recall, only you, Karl, and Bob were assigned to this bounty. Did you require backup?" The question was casual, but the underlying sharpness was unmistakable. Zachary never missed a detail.
Stark hesitated for a moment. "We ran into a slight complication—and an opportunity. A fourth party got involved. A stranger. We mistook him for the target at first," he said, choosing to be forthright. "He subdued the three of us without weapons. He knocked out Karl and Bob, disarmed me, and then offered to help us track the real Borwe for a share of the reward. His unconventional tactics were instrumental in cornering the sorcerer."
Zachary's posture remained unchanged, but Stark saw a glimmer of genuine interest in his eyes. "Without weapons? Against three trained, armed mercenaries? That is unusual. What is his name? Where is he from?"
"He calls himself Asep. As for where he's from, I don't know," Stark admitted. "He's a strange man. He speaks with an accent I've never heard before, but he's physically incredibly strong. I've never seen anyone move like him. He's in town now, over at the Water Lilies' Embrace."
Zachary fell silent, his gaze returning to the window to observe the refugees flowing through the streets. Loriana was a sanctuary, a bastion of stability in a kingdom on the brink of chaos, and he was its self-appointed guardian. Every new piece on the board was a potential threat or a potential asset.
"This Eclipse Cult..." Zachary said, his voice dropping. "That's the third cell we've uncovered in this region. They are growing bolder, likely taking advantage of the growing instability."
"Should we move to dismantle them before they establish another cell?" Stark asked, his fists clenching.
Zachary sighed and shook his head. "For now, I'm afraid we can't," he said, turning to Stark. "We are preoccupied with other matters. The princess... she is alive. She was here just a few days ago, blending in among the refugees to escape the riots."
"What?! Princess Adreana? But... wasn't there a state funeral for her a few weeks ago?"
"A decoy. Her older brother, Finlay, is using her rumored death to stir up Ardenian nationalism against the Albion invaders, hoping to reclaim the port city."
"Which means we're on the verge of a full-blown war," Stark said, his voice rising. "Zachary, we have to do something. If Albion declares war on us, we'll be crushed!"
"I know, Stark. I know." Zachary closed his eyes, a rare crack appearing in his composure. "I'm waiting for her to return with a plan, and I can only hope Lord Finlay is willing to cooperate with us." He placed a firm hand on Stark's shoulder. "Your bounty reward has been approved; the funds will be transferred tomorrow. But there is one thing I must ask of you... will you stand with me again?"
"Again? What do you mean?"
"We need more people to support the princess. These events are pushing us toward another conflict—perhaps even another civil war. Finlay may not cooperate with the royalist faction. This isn't just a mercenary contract anymore, Stark. It's our duty to protect this kingdom."
Stark looked into his friend's weary eyes. Zachary was exhausted. Having known him since the darkest days of the civil war, Stark knew how deeply Zachary cared about the future of this land. As his long-time companion, Stark had no reason to refuse.
"I'll think about it," Stark said. "But what about the stranger, Asep? What do you want me to do with him?"
"I trust your judgment. If you think he's reliable, recruit him. We need all the capable hands we can get."
"Alright, I'll talk to him. For now, I'm heading back to the tavern to relax. I need a break."
"Go on, then. Just make sure you're rested and ready for whatever comes next."
Stark nodded, though they both knew a mercenary's rest was rarely guaranteed. He turned and left, leaving Zachary alone once more with his maps, his plans, and the heavy burden of the town's future.
***
Meanwhile, the tavern grew livelier as afternoon turned to evening. Candles were lit, and more patrons arrived. Asep sat with Karl, nursing his third mug of Lotus Wine and feeling a pleasant, warm buzz. The venison stew had been excellent, and for the first time in a while, he felt genuinely relaxed. The fox-eared dancer had finished her performance, replaced by a gaunt bard singing a melancholy ballad. Karl was thoroughly drunk, his slurred words weaving a convoluted story about a past contract involving a grumpy troll and a stolen shipment of cheese.
"...and then I told him, 'Listen here, you green bastard, that cheese is the property of the Loriana Dairy Guild!' but he just snorted and swung his club!" Karl gestured wildly, spilling the wine onto the table. "Good thing Bob is a crack shot with that crossbow, otherwise I'd be flatter than one of Sylvie's jokes!" He laughed loudly, thoroughly amused by his own story.
Asep nodded along, sipping his wine and only half-listening. He was more interested in observing the tavern. As an outsider, he expected trouble, but no one bothered him. He caught a few curious glances, but they lacked the hostility he usually encountered on the road. Here, people were simply focused on their own drinks. It was a pleasant change of pace.
His quiet moment was abruptly shattered when the tavern door swung open with enough force to bang against the wall. The chatter died down as heads turned toward the entrance. Framed in the doorway was a figure who seemed to instantly fill the room with raw, untamed energy.
"Good evening, everyone! Barkeep, bring me your finest drink!"
It was Sylvanne. Her red eyes scanned the room like a predator marking prey, finally landing on her target. Grinning, she sauntered over, her massive sword shifting on her back as she walked straight toward their table.
Karl seemed to sober up instantly at the sight of her. He straightened his posture nervously. "S-Sylvie! What are you doing here?"
"What do you think, idiot? I'm here to drink," Sylvanne said, completely ignoring his discomfort. Her gaze was locked onto Asep. She pulled a chair from a neighboring table, spun it around, and sat backward with her arms resting on the backrest. Her movements were confident and entirely relaxed. "So," she began, her voice carrying easily over the background noise, "you're the one. The bare-knuckle brawler who thrashed Stark and his crew. Honestly, you look pretty ordinary."
"You think so?" Asep met her intense stare with a lazy smile, taking a slow sip of his wine before answering. "Looks can be deceiving. You, for example, look like you could snap me in half with one hand—but maybe you're just good at acting tough. Who knows?" He shrugged, his tone playful but carrying a clear undercurrent of challenge.
Sylvanne's grin widened. "Oh, I like this one," she said, leaning forward. "He has some spine. Most guys stammer or try to puff out their chests when I talk to them. You're different." She rapped her knuckles on the table. "Sylvanne. My friends call me Sylvie."
"Sylvanne..." Asep repeated the name. He extended his hand across the table. "Asep. And I think 'partners' is a better word for those guys. We only met this morning—after they tried to kill me, of course. Funny story."
Sylvanne laughed heartily, attracting several looks from nearby tables. She gripped his hand with surprising strength. "'Trying to kill you' is just Stark's version of a friendly greeting. Don't take it personally."
"I don't. It just turns out they can't read a wanted poster correctly," Asep replied, glancing at Karl. The spearman winced and stared intently into his mug.
"That sounds like them," Sylvanne chuckled, releasing his hand. She leaned back, appraising him. "So, Stark said you wanted a cut of the reward. That means you need work, right? Join us. We need capable fighters in Castalia, especially with a war on the horizon."
"Hold on, what do you mean?" Asep asked, caught off guard.
"Don't tell me you haven't heard the news. The riots in Merlesia are spreading, and war is coming. You're in this town now, which means you're under Castalia's jurisdiction anyway."
"Right, that. I read the papers. A 'regime change' backed by Albion, wasn't it?" Asep said, scratching his head.
"Wait, you can read?" Sylvanne grinned, pointing a thumb at Karl. "That already makes you more literate than Karl here. He can barely read basic signage."
"Hey, I can read!" Karl protested, though he kept his eyes averted from Sylvanne. "Just... not the fancy stuff."
"Whatever," Sylvanne waved her hand dismissively. "So, are you in? The pay is good, and you get to work with people like me."
Asep leaned back, swirling the remaining wine in his cup. He had wanted to lay low, earn some coin, and figure out his next steps in this strange new life. Joining a mercenary company with a war brewing was the exact opposite of staying under the radar. But what were his alternatives? Drifting from village to village as a laborer? Waiting for the next group of incompetent hunters to mistake his identity?
War, huh? A familiar bitterness rose in his chest. I've had my fill of fighting. But wandering alone out there is just as dangerous, if not worse. With a group, he would at least have backup—and a steady income meant a reliable supply of tobacco. That alone was a strong incentive.
"I'll think about it," Asep said, setting down his cup. "But right now, I'm more interested in finding some tobacco."
"There's a shop near the apothecary, but..." She sighed. "Since the trouble in Merlesia, Albion has halted most exports to Ardenia, including tobacco from their colonies."
Asep's relaxed smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of genuine concern. "Are you serious?!"
"Entirely," Sylvanne confirmed, watching his reaction with amusement. "Tobacco is scarce now. Prices have nearly tripled, and soon it'll be treated like currency."
This is an actual crisis, Asep thought, running a hand through his hair. He could ignore the politics, the civil unrest, and the looming war—but a shortage of tobacco was a direct threat to his sanity.
"If... if we resolve this conflict and restore the trade routes, will the supply go back to normal?" Asep asked, his voice dead serious.
Sylvanne's eyes sparkled. She saw he had taken the bait. "Of course. The fastest way to get Albion back to the negotiating table is to secure our borders—and Zachary says the princess has a plan to do just that."
Of course it comes down to this. He slumped slightly in mock despair. "Fine, you win. I'm in. I'll join your mercenary company and fight in your war. Just promise me we get the trade routes back open."
Sylvanne threw her head back and laughed, a sound of pure victory. She slammed her mug onto the table.
"Welcome to Castalia, Asep!" she declared with a wide grin. "We're going to get along just fine. Barkeep! Another round for my new comrade!"