The chamber walls pressed close, paneled in dark wood warped by years of damp, the smell of old parchment and mildew hanging heavy in the air. A single iron lantern swayed faintly on its chain overhead, casting restless shadows that wavered across the scarred table dominating the center of the room.
They did not have to wait long before the first candidates were ushered in, a trio of lean men who smelled strongly of ale and overconfidence. Their mismatched gear rattled as they strutted forward, each trying too hard to look dangerous.
Callum questioned them sharply, asking about their experience in mountain terrain, their ability to work alongside disciplined soldiers. The answers were sloppy—boasts of tavern brawls and back-alley skirmishes. Not one mention of logistics, scouting, or discipline.
“Dismissed,” Callum said flatly, leaning back in his chair before the men had even finished.
The second group fared no better. Two eager youths and an older woman whose hands trembled as she adjusted her bowstring. Callum’s questions about supply lines and endurance left them stammering. Lucien tilted his head faintly, doubt written in the smallest gesture. Jerimiah caught it.
“Unsuitable. Send them away.”
A third party followed, this one better equipped, at least, but their leader bristled at the idea of taking orders from “mere guards.”
“We fight our own way,” he said coolly. “If that’s a problem, find someone else.”
“It is,” Callum replied, voice clipped as steel. They were dismissed in turn.
One after another, adventurers filed through: a hunter who claimed to be “between parties,” a sellsword with more scars than teeth, a duo who could not stop bickering long enough to answer a question.
Lucien stood silently at Jerimiah’s shoulder through it all, playing his role as attendant. Yet inwardly he chafed at the waste of time. Every failed interview only underscored the gulf between the adventurers’ bravado and knightly discipline.
At last, the clerk returned with an announcement.
“A rank-B party has arrived, just in from contract—the Iron Fangs.”
Apparently, the sum had been enough to intrigue rank-B parties, which was probably Callum’s plan anyway.
Jerimiah was pouring water into their cups in the corner with Lucien as the door opened to reveal two figures. The first was a giant in a suit of armor; inside that armor, Lucien, Callum, and Jerimiah could easily fit together. The only part of the mass of steel that was visible were his blue eyes—just glowing points in the visor—and his long white beard. The armor itself was well maintained.
The second figure was a red-headed woman, broad-shouldered and muscled through years of work. Her stride was steady, her gaze level. If not for her stature, shorter than Lucien by a head, she would have passed for any seasoned mercenary.
Jerimiah’s brow arched at her size, and he muttered under his breath, “A dwarf?”
Callum’s eyes flicked toward him. “Dwarves have no women. She’s just small,” he said, reprimanding from his seated position.
“No women? Wouldn’t we run out of dwarves if they didn’t have women?” Lucien asked as he placed the water pitcher on the table, keeping the façade of attendant in front of the strangers.
Doran answered, his voice surprisingly high for a man of his stature. “It’s like them tree-fuckers.”
“Dwarves don’t live in forests!” Jerimiah countered, leaning against the wall his sudden yell causing Lucien to spill a glass.
The woman spoke up, a wild grin on her face. “I’ve heard that dwarves pop out of rocks fully formed.”
“They mine their young!” Lucien exclaimed with a laugh.
The short woman who was definitely not a dwarf waited while Lucien used a glass to clean the spilled water before she crossed an arm across her chest. Her voice was steady, authoritative.
“I am Ingrid. This is my husband, Doran. We are the captains of the Iron Fangs.”
Callum leaned forward, gesturing to the pair to take their seats. “You’ll be under my command. His safety” he gestured toward Jerimiah “will be your highest priority.”
Ingrid’s gaze shifted to Jerimiah, the careful study of a professional weighing her charge. Doran’s eyes did the same, taking in their looks as if committing them to memory. They gave no bow, but neither did they flinch.
Jerimiah asked, “What are your men’s specialties?”
Ingrid folded her arms. “Shock and awe. We hit fast, we hit hard. I specialize with earth magic, so we burrow underneath the enemy, break their line, scatter their morale, and get out before they know what happened.”
Doran added, “But we aren’t fools. We can hold formation when needed.”
Ingrid continued, “We don’t waste lives. Every strike counts. We’ve pulled nobles out of worse places than mountains.”
Doran leaned forward, meeting Callum’s eyes. “We struggle, cry, and fail in missions, but we’ve never lost a soul.”
Lucien watched them carefully. Unlike the others, there was no boasting, no bravado, only clean, precise answers. When Callum glanced his way, Lucien gave the faintest nod.
The silence that followed hung heavy. Callum closed his eyes, then inclined his head slowly. “Then you’ll do.”
***
When the formalities were complete, they were escorted to a second chamber, larger, meant for negotiations that required breathing space. Here the walls were set wider apart, banners of old mercenary companies hanging between sconces. A long table of polished oak dominated the center, its surface marred by countless nicks and stains from contracts sealed in less careful hands. The air was cooler, fresher, carrying faint traces of pine smoke from the hearth at the far end.
Chairs lined the table in uneven numbers. Fenric groaned as he lowered himself into one, the wood creaking under his bulk until Rowena shot him a sidelong glance, as if to remind him of subtlety. Matthias sat with deliberate poise, plucking idly at the leaf of a potted plant that stood forgotten in the corner, the gesture both casual and dismissive.
Doran refused to sit at all, he claimed the corner instead, where the light couldn’t quite reach, his eyes fixed on the room’s every exit.
Aldric was enthusiastically talking to Kipp, a member of the Iron Fangs, a little kid with bright red hair but deep blue eyes like his father’s.
Lucien followed Jerimiah’s lead, settling where an attendant might, close enough to overhear, distant enough to seem invisible. The table between them seemed too long at first, but as introductions began, the space filled with voices, gestures, and the muted weight of weapons resting against wood.
Callum spoke first, his voice firm and precise. He remained standing, one hand on the hilt of his longsword.
“Callum. Captain of the Guard. Sword and shield. Along with”—he gestured to a group of guards in the corner—“we all specialize in enhancement magic.”
Aldric gave Kipp a hearty pat on the shoulder that nearly knocked the boy forward. “Aldric, houndmaster.” He whistled, and from outside the chamber came the muffled yip of his hounds. “My beasts track what men cannot. My spear finds what they corner.” His weapon, a long ash shaft tipped with steel, leaned casually against his chair.
Matthias stopped tormenting the potted plant long enough to incline his head. He had unstrung his bow but rested it across his knees, his hand moving absently to test the string as he spoke.
“Matthias. Archer.” His sharp gaze cut across the mercenaries, as if measuring which of them might one day stand in his line of sight.
Rowena lifted her wand from her lap, its darkwood shaft polished smooth, and tapped it once against the table as she spoke.
“Rowena. Mage. Sound.”
Fenric snorted at that, shifting in his chair until it creaked in protest. His own wand was longer, tipped with a faintly glowing crystal. He spun it once in his thick fingers before planting it against the stone floor.
“Fenric. Mage. Elements.” His deep voice carried easily.
“Lucien. Attendant.”
Jerimiah spread his arm in invitation. “Please, go ahead.”
Ingrid was the first among the mercenaries to speak. She rested her arms on the table, her forearms corded with muscle and set a heavy-headed hammer across the wood with a thunk.
“Ingrid. Earth mage.”
Doran stepped forward from the corner, the massive armor groaning faintly as he moved. He planted both his great-swords point-first into the floorboards, the wood splintering under the weight.
“Doran,” he said, his high-pitched voice ruining the effect. “Dual-wielder. Weapon manipulation.”
Kipp straightened in his chair, puffing his chest in imitation of Aldric. He drew the dagger at his belt and laid it reverently on the table.
“Kipp,” he said. “Runner. You need something, I’ll get it for you.” His bright red hair caught the lantern light, though his deep blue eyes were solemn, older than his years. Aldric gave a proud nod, as though he had already claimed the boy as a second squire.
The room went quiet then. Jerimiah glanced at the list in his hands, frowning. “There should be one more.”
A voice spoke from the shadows.
“I am Vessir. Assassin.”
The words came from Lucien’s left, though a moment earlier there had been only the stone wall and the banners hanging limp against it. The figure stepped into the light, and only then did Lucien see him, thin, scaled, his skin shifting color as though the torchlight itself clung to him. A Reptan, but not like the heavy-jawed swamp-raiders of rumor. This one moved like liquid shadow. At his belt hung paired short swords, their edges blackened, and a bandolier of knives crossed his chest.
The knights stiffened. Matthias exclaimed, “Fuck, you should have warned me!”
Callum narrowed his eyes. “He wasn’t in the interview.”
Doran chuckled, the sound odd and high coming from his armored bulk. “He was. You just didn’t see him.”
Vessir’s mouth curved in a thin smile, his pupils narrowing to slits as his skin shimmered faintly to match the oak paneling behind him. “You will not see me again unless I wish it.”
The silence that followed was taut as a drawn bowstring.
The introductions were done.
Tomorrow, the real journey would begin.