Private Tales The Winter Fang and the Dragonsbane

[Theric Norran]

Outskirts of Vel Anir

Theric rode silently atop his steely gray horse, his gaze fixed on the countryside that stretched out before him. The soft rhythm of the hooves against the dirt was the only sound breaking the stillness, yet his attention never wavered. Every hill, every shadow was scrutinized as if an ambush might spring from the unlikeliest of places. The thought of someone attacking so close to Vel Anir was almost laughable, but times were changing.

The traitor Gilram had made sure of that. His actions had grown bolder, more theatrical, as if mocking the strength of the city-state and the Dreadlords who served it. A "better Vel Anir," he claimed to offer, but Theric had heard such promises before. To him, it was nothing more than a veil for chaos. Gilram was dangerous, but not because he sought reform. Theric believed power was the only thing the man truly cared about.

Adjusting his grip on the reins, Theric broke the silence, his tone calm but measured. “Do you think the traitor would be so bold as to orchestrate an ambush?”

His question was directed at the woman riding beside him, a strikingly tall and commanding figure whose reputation preceded her. This was the first time they had been paired together, and while he had no intention of underestimating her, the dynamic of working alongside a new partner, even one of her stature, always carried its own uncertainties.

They had been tasked with escorting a prisoner back to Vel Anir, a mission that would typically not warrant two Dreadlords, but this was no ordinary captive. The man they were retrieving was tied directly to Gilram, one of the traitor’s henchmen. His capture represented an opportunity for the city to uncover more of Gilram’s web of influence, and failure was not an option.

Theric’s eyes scanned the horizon once more as the faint outline of the mercenary camp came into view. He kept his magic close, an icy presence just beneath his skin, ready to surface at the first sign of trouble.

He glanced briefly at Sam, her imposing presence a constant reminder of who she was and the weight she carried within the Anirian Guard. How she would approach this mission, he didn’t yet know, but her reputation left little doubt about her capabilities.

The silence between them lingered, open for her response. For now, Theric waited, the cold wind brushing past him as they pressed on toward the meeting point.

Samantha Black

 

[Samantha Black]

Said prisoner being a woman by the name of Moira Mirmont. First Level Dreadlord and one with a whole history of misdeeds under her boots and skeletons in her closet(s). She'd previously been thought KIA during the Revolution, but turns out she'd spirited away to join Gilram and the rest of his ilk. Now she'd been feeding him highly sensitive information for two years and despite the fact that much of it may have been outdated due in no large part to the Revolution itself, it had still made a difference to him.

Namely in knowing where to find certain things and certain people of dubious natures and value.

Mirmont was powerful, as testament to her granted Dreadlord level, and now faced condemnation for the deaths of countless many. This type of prisoner was exactly why Lieutenant Black and her Squadron was called into service - Dragonsbane had already a dozen of Gilram's ilk on their sheet. Sam knew how these criminals worked and had come more than amply prepared.

Ten of her Squadron rode with them, four attending the cell cart directly. Though much to her lament, the three other Dreadlords of Dragonsbane were presently indisposed on their own missions, so she'd put in a request for one more.

They'd sent her Theric Norran.

He'd been quiet for most of the journey thus far and for this Sam had no complaints. She could ride in silence or in banter, though for their current ward the silence was somewhat preferred. To the point of Theric's first words in what must have been two hours:

“Do you think the traitor would be so bold as to orchestrate an ambush?”

The Lieutenant narrowed her eyes in thought, twisting the sprig of wheat she'd been idly gnawing at through her lips and off to he corner of her mouth, "Depends," she replied, "on how valuable she is to Gilram."

A gaze of sharp glacier shifted back over her shoulder toward the prison wagon, "Admittedly we don't know much about what she'd been up to for the last two years. The Republic had all but written her off as dead. That she was alive enough to decimate the entire holdfast of Beamfleot caught everyone unawares."

 

[Theric Norran]

Theric’s icy gaze followed the Lieutenant’s glance toward the prison wagon, his expression remaining impassive. He didn’t need to know the specifics of Moira Mirmont’s crimes to understand her importance; the sheer scale of the resources dedicated to this escort spoke volumes. Sam’s response, level-headed and to the point, only solidified his earlier suspicions.

"She doesn’t need to be valuable to Gilram," Theric replied after a moment, his voice calm and deliberate. "An ambush here, this close to the city, isn’t about rescuing her. It’s about sending a message. Showing us he can reach where he’s not supposed to."

The thought irritated him, the faintest trace of frost seeping into his tone. After years of having order and stability drilled into his mind, he struggled to fathom how anyone could betray the Dreadlords. What more could they ask for? The nobles’ occasional scorn or the whispers behind closed doors were a small price to pay for the privileges and power granted to their station. He had been raised to view loyalty as the foundation of Vel Anir’s strength. To shatter that foundation was to invite chaos.

His thoughts flicked to Mirmont herself. A First Level Dreadlord with undeniable power. Her betrayal wasn’t born of desperation; it was calculated treachery. Perhaps that’s what infuriated him the most, not the act itself, but the deliberate disregard for the system that had elevated her.

Theric’s attention shifted to Sam’s men, his gaze lingering on the disciplined formation they maintained around the cart. Their movements were precise, their focus unwavering. They carried themselves with an air of confidence that came only from experience, a stark contrast to the loose cohesion he had seen in other squads. The Dragonsbane had a reputation for excellence, and now, seeing them firsthand, he could understand why.

"Your men," he said, his voice cutting through the steady rhythm of hooves on dirt. He kept his tone measured, choosing his words carefully. "They are well-trained and formidable. I admire the trust they have in you."

It wasn’t flattery, not entirely. Theric had been observing them since they’d departed, noting their efficiency and the respect they afforded their leader. The Dragonsbane represented something more than just skill; they were a symbol of camaraderie and purpose. It was something he hadn’t quite experienced himself.

Small talk wasn’t his strength, but there was intent behind his words. He had been eyeing the Dragonsbane ever since his appointment as Lieutenant, watching their exploits from afar. A place within their ranks wasn’t just a matter of prestige—it was a mark of respect and belonging, something he quietly craved but wouldn’t admit openly.

He shifted his gaze back to Sam, studying her for a moment. She was the embodiment of what the Dragonsbane stood for: unyielding strength, sharp intellect, and the ability to inspire unwavering loyalty. If he wanted to rise further, if he wanted to leave his own mark on Vel Anir, then he needed to understand what it meant to truly earn a place among their ranks.

Theric let the silence stretch, allowing his words to settle. He wasn’t expecting a response. Instead, he foused on the horizen. There would be time enough for ambition later. For now, the mission demanded his full attention.

Samantha Black

 

[Samantha Black]

"She doesn’t need to be valuable to Gilram," Theric replied after a moment, his voice calm and deliberate. "An ambush here, this close to the city, isn’t about rescuing her. It’s about sending a message. Showing us he can reach where he’s not supposed to."

"Aye," Sam replied, concurring with the point made. There was no argument to be had, what the man said was fact and truth. It wouldn't be the first time Gilram had struck close to home. Fuck, he'd struck at the very heart of Vel Anir when he'd sprung Edric from his prison cell on the day the turncoat had been slated to die for his crimes.

Her feelings on the entire situation with Edric were still strongly mixed.

Her feelings about her Squadron, however, were rather well realized.

"And women!" said one of the Knights from the rear. Sam recognized the voice as belonging to Fern. She smirked and glanced back, hearing the cackle of the other woman in attendance, Mess, chiming in.

Sam chuckled and turned her gaze back to the road ahead and the encampment on the horizon, "They are my family," she said over an easy smile, "proven warriors and good people, all. We'll get you more formal introductions when we make camp. But for now," heels pressed into her stirrups, pushing her ass out of the saddle for momentary reprieve from sitting in it all day, "we await an ambush."

"Two for the price of one," the large man driving the prison wagon remarked out with a bark of laughter.

Assenting murmurs and laughs joined. No one ever said discipline didn't have a sense of humor.

 

[Theric Norran]

Theric glanced back at the female who had spoken earlier, her remark still lingering in the air. A brief sense of disappointment touched his expression, though he quickly masked it. He nodded along with the laughter, his voice joining the rest in a muted chuckle, more to blend in than from genuine amusement.

The word “family” struck a deeper chord within him. It was not a foreign concept, but one that carried a weight he often tried to ignore. The Dreadlords were his family—by necessity, by shared trials—but it wasn’t the same. The thought of his parents, the ones who had given him up so easily, gnawed at the edges of his mind. He understood why they did it, of course. Survival. A better future. But had they known what they were giving him up to? Would he have done the same if their roles had been reversed? He pushed the thoughts aside, unwilling to linger on questions without answers.

His gaze shifted to the prison wagon, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered the formidable presence inside. Moira Mirmont. A First Level Dreadlord, her power eclipsing his own by far. The thought was both humbling and frustrating. How would he fare against her if she escaped? It wasn’t a question of confidence—he knew his own capabilities—but of comparison. She was leagues above him, and he couldn’t deny it. He wondered, for a fleeting moment, what sort of escort would be required for someone like him, should the roles ever be reversed.

Breaking the silence, Theric raised a gloved hand and pointed to a clearing up ahead. “We could make camp here,” he said, his tone calm and assured. “This spot will do, and we can set up a solid perimeter. I'll take the first watch.” The offer wasn’t just about duty—it was about proving himself, not only to Sam but to all of the Dragonsbane.

Sliding off his horse, Theric adjusted the reins and cast a side glance at Sam before speaking again. “Should we question the prisoner? See what she knows? Get a feel for her?”

His words carried a deliberate weight, though his intentions were more personal than tactical. He didn’t expect Moira to divulge anything truly useful, but he wanted to hear her speak, to measure her presence firsthand. There was something about her story, her betrayal, that fascinated him—something he couldn’t yet put into words. For now, he masked his curiosity under the guise of preparation, awaiting Sam’s response with a neutral expression that betrayed none of the thoughts swirling in his mind.

Samantha Black

 

[Samantha Black]

She'd focused in on the encampment ahead, eyes narrowed as the sounds of the laughter from behind drowned out to he voice of the newcomer and his eagerness to do ... what exactly?

The Lieutenant settled back into her saddle, leaning forward to allow her elbows to rest upon the bridge of the pommel and held her weight there in momentary leisure. A brow arched faintly at the man as she took her time in getting the lay of his actions and words.

"No," she said at length and slowly inhaled as she pushed herself to sit up without addressing the want for camp or the desire to interrogate.

"Fern."

The woman in question rode up beside her. The pair did not even exchange words, but the Lieutenant looked to the encampment and nodded her head toward it.

"On it," said Fern.

"Take Dreadlord Norran with you," Sam said after her with a look to Theric before she turned her horse round and moseyed back to the prison cart to offer their prisoner a skin of water and bread.

Fern reined her horse to hold back and looked over her shoulder at the Dreadlord in question, "Sorry lad, you're not a Knight and there's only one Lieutenant that gives orders here." Knights outranked normal Guard, even those of higher rank, so Theric held no authority here while traveling with Dragonsbane.

For a warrior her face was softer than most, though still bore the scars and streaks of grey hair that stood as a testament to her many years in service. She smiled to him kindly enough and motioned for him to hop back up on his horse, "Come, we will go assess the camp and see what's what."

 

[Theric Norran]

heric’s expression remained neutral as Sam’s firm “no” cut through the lingering laughter. He hadn’t expected her to agree, but the casual dismissal still stung, a reminder that he was an outsider among the Dragonsbane. His eyes flicked to the prison wagon as Sam turned her focus elsewhere, leaving him with no further acknowledgment beyond her orders to Fern.

He shifted slightly in his saddle as Fern addressed him. Her tone was kind but firm, her smile disarming despite the authority she wielded. The reminder of his place was a bitter pill, though he knew better than to argue. In her squadron, he wasn’t a Lieutenant—he was simply a Dreadlord filling a role assigned to him.

“Understood,” Theric replied evenly, his tone polite but measured. His ice-blue eyes studied her briefly, noting the scars and streaks of grey in her hair. She carried herself with a quiet confidence that spoke of experience, a stark contrast to the more abrasive personalities he had encountered among Dreadlords.

Without hesitation, he swung back onto his horse, reins in hand as he prepared to follow her lead. “Lead the way,” he said, gesturing toward the encampment ahead. There was no resentment in his words, only an underlying curiosity.

As they began their approach, Theric couldn’t help but let his mind wander. He hadn’t expected to play second fiddle on this mission, but perhaps there was something to learn here—about the Dragonsbane, about their dynamics, and about what it truly meant to earn respect beyond the weight of one’s magic. For now, though, he pushed those thoughts aside, his focus shifting to the task at hand as he fell in step beside Fern.

"I was out of line," Theric replied plainly, his voice even and composed as he met Fern’s gaze. Her kind demeanor didn’t offend him, but it didn’t ease the sting of being reminded of his place, either. Still, he had no intention of letting it sour his focus. If anything, he decided to let that sting sharpen his resolve. He would earn their respect—not by title or magic, but through action.

"The chain of command should not be challenged, even on accident. It's a mistake I won't make again," he continued, his tone resolute. There was no bitterness in his words, only an acknowledgment of the lesson.

As they neared the encampment, Theric shifted his grip on the reins, his ice-blue eyes narrowing as he took in the layout ahead. "I'll follow your lead," he said, nodding to Fern. This was her domain, her expertise, and he wasn’t about to overstep again. He was here to observe and support, not to command.

This was his chance to study the Dragonsbane, to understand what made them more than just a squadron. Their cohesion, their trust—it was unlike anything he’d experienced. For now, Theric kept his thoughts to himself, falling in step beside Fern as they approached the encampment, ready to learn and ready to prove himself, one step at a time.

Samantha Black

 

[Samantha Black]

"Eager one, that," said the large man driving the prison cart.

"No more than most," Sam said in response as she shifted in her saddle to run a hand under the saddle blanket and check her horse for sweat. "Nag's going to have a sore back in the morning."

"She'd getting to old for these long treks, Black," said the other woman who had laughed with Fern at her earlier comment, "time to retire her to a pasture."

"Mmm," Sam grumbled in response, her brow flattening over her eyes, "you're probably right. Hammer, check the cart while we wait. Make sure it's good and secure."

"Got a few more chains and locks I can throw on, it'll keep a dragon out-" the man twisted a hairy eye at their prisoner, "and a bitch in."

Moira spat a wad of chewed bread at him.

"Enough," Sam scowled at them both, eyeing the woman in her cage, "don't waste good bread or you won't get any more of it."

~~~~

"No harm, no foul," Fern replied easily enough to his words, giving him an understanding glance, "at least for the first offense." Another smile as they neared the encampment and he offered to follow as bid, Fern nudged her horse into a steady trot, "It's good you've learned. You'll last longer."

"Hold!" said an armored man settled at the outskirts of the camp. He and others nearby wore the telltale motley plating of a mercenary band. None of them bore a sigil or crest of Vel Anir, which was the first clue that they were well and truly lodged into the expanse of lands between Anirian cities. Their territories were far-spanning, but there was a lot of places in between that were governed by nameless lords or ladies that ruled as they saw fit.

Or roving mercenary bands, as the case may be.

"What's your business?"

"I came to ask you the very same," Fern replied.

One of the other Patrols was pointing at Theric and then pointing at Fern, yammering to their companion. The first of the men looked back at him, "What's yer keening?"

"That there's a fucking Dreadlord," said the other, wagging a finger at Theric and looking like he'd just pointed at an oncoming avalanche.

Fern turned her pleasant expression back to the first man, "Yes?"

"Lady-"

"Sergeant," corrected Fern, firmly but without raising her voice, "there's no Ladies here today."

"Right-" the man cleared his throat, scowled, looked between Fern and Theric and considered his next words, "this ain't Anirian lands, Sergeant. We're here at the behest of Lord Aelfwic."

"Who is we?" Fern asked lightly, like a mother asking a child who his friends were.

"The Brothers of Stonewall," he said, standing a bit straighter,

"I have heard of you," Fern nodded, though she did not know their sigil until just now as it flew on a banner: a gray mountain with a sword and a hammer crossing it on a black background. "And what is it the Brothers are doing for Lord Aelfwic?"

"Yer not looking to interfere?" the man eyed her.

"On the contrary," Fern looked to Theric with a bright expectancy before looking back, "perhaps we can assist?"

"Eh..." the man itched at his chin and then nodded, "fine, I'll take ye to the Captain. Keep your swords sheathed," and he looked to Theric as well but with distrust, "and none of your fucking magic foppery, eh?"

Fern smiled. Pleasantly. "As you say." Then dismounted her horse.

He waved them on to follow.

Fern walked alongside Theric, turning her gaze to look up at the much taller man. She was, at best, an entire head shorter than him. "The Brotherhood has worked alongside the Anirian Guard before some years ago against an incursion of orc hoards" she informed him quietly as they followed, "there is no bad blood, but they have no trust for Dreadlords."

The Knight raised her brows at him, "Try smiling, it's less intimidating."

 

[Theric Norran]

Theric observed the exchange between Fern and the mercenaries with a silent, measured gaze. The tension in the air was palpable, as was the distrust radiating from the mercenaries’ eyes whenever they looked at him. It wasn’t new; he had long grown accustomed to the wariness and fear that Dreadlords elicited. Yet, standing amidst soldiers who didn’t bear Vel Anir’s crest, the hostility felt sharper.

When Fern turned her gaze up at him, her remark about smiling caught him slightly off guard. He blinked once, letting her words settle before a faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“I doubt a smile would do much to ease their nerves,” Theric replied quietly, his tone dry but not unkind. “It might make them think I’m plotting something worse.”

Still, he allowed the smirk to linger, softening his typically cold expression. Fern’s suggestion wasn’t entirely without merit; there was no need to add unnecessary tension to an already delicate situation.

As they walked, Theric’s mind lingered on the mercenary’s warning: “None of your magic foppery.” He had heard worse, of course, but the phrase still grated. Restraint had been hammered into him at the Academy, and he wouldn’t jeopardize the mission with unnecessary displays of power. Yet the thought of being viewed as a threat simply for existing was a frustrating reminder of how the world saw Dreadlords.

“I’ll keep my magic in check,” he added softly, glancing down at Fern. “But if things turn sour, I hope you’ll forgive me for ignoring their request.”

Theric’s gaze shifted forward again, his ice-blue eyes narrowing as he studied the camp ahead. The Brotherhood of Stonewall. He had heard of them in passing but had never encountered their kind directly. Their banner—a mountain crossed with a sword and hammer—was stark and functional, much like the men who wore their colors.

“I’ve never understood their mistrust,” he said after a moment, his voice low enough for only Fern to hear. “Dreadlords have bled for Vel Anir as much as any soldier. More, in some cases. Yet, it’s never enough.”

The bitterness in his words was subtle but present. He wasn’t trying to complain—just stating a fact. One that he had grown to accept, even if it still rankled at times.

As they neared the Captain’s tent, Theric straightened his posture, the faint smirk fading into his usual calm and composed demeanor. He glanced at Fern again, nodding slightly. “I’ll leave the diplomacy to you, Sergeant. I’ll be… less intimidating.”

And with that, he relaxed his expression just enough to soften the edges of his gaze. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was a start.

Samantha Black

 

[Samantha Black]

"Mmm," Fern agreed with Theric on the account of Dreadlords putting their lives on the line, "you may be too young to have witnessed it, but before the Revolution, Dreadlords treated the soldiers and warriors of the Guard as canon fodder. Many did not care if an Anirian stood in their path of destruction. It is true that Dreadlords bleed for the same cause, but countless soldiers have died at the careless command and hand of Dreadlords in years past."

She frowned, "This is not a history that is easily forgotten by those who still live with the consequences of their actions. Even Dreadlord Black, who is perhaps the kindest and most honorable one I know, lives with the ire of those who blame your kind for the past simply because of your title."

They were drawing nearer the Captain's tent, so Fern opted to give him and his concerns one last mote of advice: "The best thing you can do is remember that it's not about you and it's rarely ever personal. Live the change you wish to see." The Sergeant paused behind their guide as he dipped inside the tent to speak with the Captain, and she turned to look up at Theric with a pleasant smile when he deferred to her lead once again.

"Good."

The tent flap swung in and the Guard poked his head back out, "Yeh can come in but yer weapons stay with me."

"Very well," Fern acquiesced and proceeded to remove several weapons from her person, many of which were not immediately visible. The Guard blinked at the collection as it was placed into his hands, "Gods woman, where did ye put them all?"

A chuckle sounded from the Knight while she stepped inside, pausing as she waited for Theric.

"Sergeant?" said a man from within the tent.

"Fern, yes."

"Hm," the Captain eyed her over a flagon of what Fern hoped to be water, "which division?"

"The Anirian Knights, Captain."

"Eleven Hells," the man grumbled and threw a scowling hand toward his Guard, "you didn't tell me she was from the Knights!"

"I didn't know!"

"You think to be under threat?" Fern asked.

"I've got an Anirian Knight and a Dreadlord in my camp. What the fuck am I supposed to think!?"

"Perhaps that we might be of some use to you, Captain," Fern's smile maintained without a flicker, "if you see fit."

"Use to me-" the Captain snorted, "in taking my commission? Running my men off? You've not need for it."

"You're right," Fern replied brightly and gave the Captain a moment to think what he wanted as she moved forward toward an empty chair that sat before his desk, "may I sit?"

"You think I'll tell you no with that thing at your back?" his eyes looked to Theric.

Fern sat and slowly began to remove her gloves, "He's here to observe and learn, nothing more."

"Codswallop," the Captain barked, "everywhere your damned magic dogs go they leave wailing and misery in their wake. Mark me."

"Is it your commission or your pride you favor more, Captain?" Fern settled her gloves neatly on her right thigh, "there is a lucrative bargain to be struck if your pride can take a seat and listen."

 

[Theric Norran]

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice low enough that only she could hear. His ice-blue eyes held hers for a moment, his tone sincere. “For what you said. I’ll keep it in mind.”

He wasn’t blind to the history of his order, nor to the resentment that history bred. The Revolution had come with promises of change, but for those who had suffered under the old ways, promises did little to heal the scars. Theric could understand why trust came hard, but it didn’t make the weight of their disdain any easier to bear.

Pausing just before the tent’s entrance, he glanced down at Fern. She was smaller than him, by nearly a head, yet carried herself with a presence that far exceeded her stature. He respected her calm, her diplomacy—a trait he had yet to master.

Fern’s words from earlier lingered in Theric’s mind as they walked toward the Captain’s tent.

Theric had listened, his expression impassive, but the truth of her words gnawed at him. He hadn’t lived through the old regime, hadn’t seen the careless cruelty she described. Yet the shadow of that history loomed over him, shaping how others saw him before they even learned his name.

As the guard at the entrance barked for their weapons, Theric unbuckled the sword at his side without hesitation. He held it out for inspection, watching as the man scrutinized the steel like it might come alive in his hands.

“There,” Theric said evenly, stepping back after relinquishing the blade. Yet as he moved to follow Fern into the tent, his mind drifted to the practicality of their request. The sword they’d taken wasn’t his real weapon. The magic he wielded, the ice he could conjure at a moment’s notice—that was where his true power lay. Stripping him of a blade did little to disarm him, though he kept that knowledge to himself.

If they think this is enough to render me harmless, let them. The thought was calm, not smug, as he filed away the moment as another example of the misunderstanding that surrounded his kind.

Live the change you wish to see. Her advice had been simple, but the practicality of it felt monumental. Could he, a single Dreadlord, change how an entire generation viewed his kind? Did his own ambition to rise within the ranks conflict with that ideal?

The thoughts weighed on him as they reached the tent. He remained quiet as the Captain greeted them with scorn, his words dripping with disdain for both Dreadlords and Anirian Knights alike. Theric’s expression didn’t falter as the man referred to him as a “magic dog,” but inwardly, Fern’s earlier words echoed again. It’s rarely ever personal.

Standing tall behind Fern, he folded his hands behind his back, keeping his posture neutral but composed. He let the tension roll off his shoulders, choosing to focus on the mission and the opportunity to learn from Fern’s approach.

Her calm rebuttals and the quiet authority in her voice caught his attention. Where he might have used force or cold logic, she employed tact and subtle persuasion. It was a lesson in restraint, one that Theric found himself appreciating more with every passing moment.

When the Captain’s eyes flicked to him, Theric simply met the gaze with the same calm, unflinching look he always carried. He would not react. He would not escalate. Instead, he focused on observing Fern, her diplomacy, and the way she navigated the delicate balance between distrust and necessity.

Live the change you wish to see, he reminded himself, keeping his silence as Fern expertly continued to steer the conversation.

 

[Samantha Black]

The Captain dithered and he did not come across as one who did so willingly or regularly. After a moment of it, of switching attention between the Sergeant and the Dreadlord, he slammed his flagon down on the desk and dropped into his chair behind it. The contents of his drink sloshed across the papers there and Fern caught the smell of ale.

That explained some things.

"Alright," he said, smearing a hand over his face with a sharp inhale, "talk."

Fern shifted in her seat a little, less out of discomfort and more out of assessing the situation the way a cat did before deciding which way to strike at a target. The ale made her path clear.

"I will triple your commission," she offered, straight back moving to lean into her chair, chin elevated, eyes calm.

"You'll what," said the Captain and his heavy brow furrowed more than should have been physically capable, "you don't even know what we're getting paid!"

The Sergeant smiled, "It comes with the caveat of triple the risk."

"Hm," the Captain grunted in reply, looking briefly amused, "doesn't it always. But what-" he shook his head, slapped his hand at his desk and then gestured at her, "what are you on about woman? You march in here and drive us off good work. Why?"

"Because my need is greater than Lord...Aelfwic, was it?"

"And what am I to tell him then, hm? Tell him I'm walking away? You want me to spoil the good name of the Brothers for you?"

"Not at all," Fern shook her head, "we will tend to the Lord's needs in your place. You will remain here and wait for my commander to arrive with your new orders."

"You... you want to take this dog," he gestured at Theric, "and do the work of my thirty men?"

"Yes, that's right," Fern smiled, "and we'll do it in your name so as not to besmirch its good standing with the Lord. He need not be any the wiser."


Another fifteen minutes of this type of back and forth went on before an accord was struck. Fern stepped out of the Captain's tent with her weapons in order and a look of quiet accomplishment on her face.

"Now, take the news back to Lieutenant Black and inform her she has a camp for the night and an escort for the remainder of the journey home. Then you and I will tend to Lord Aelfwic."

 

[Theric Norran]

Theric kept his stance rigid, arms folded behind him as he listened to the exchange unfold. Every jab from the Captain landed on Theric’s ears with the same sour note: “this dog,” “magic,” “your damned Dreadlords.” None of it was new, but it still nettled him. He’d learned to keep his anger under lock and key, ironic, considering the sword he’d surrendered was the least of his weapons.

From his vantage, Theric noted the Captain’s uneven speech and the stale reek of ale; the man was struggling to focus. A half-empty flagon on the desk told Theric all he needed to know about the nature of these negotiations. The Captain was a brute of a man, face flushed, knuckles whitening around the pewter handle. Yet despite his dismissive sneers, he clearly understood the value of coin. Fern’s mention of “tripling your commission” had him at the edge of his seat, torn between greed and pride.

Throughout the back-and-forth, Theric stood statue-still, letting the Sergeant press her advantage. Even in silence, he felt the Captain’s glare sear into him as if expecting sudden treachery or an explosion of magic. Theric offered none of that—he simply remained calm, forcing his features into a practiced neutrality. He was no diplomat, but he knew the power of restraint. Every time the Captain’s gaze flicked over, Theric met it head-on, silently demonstrating that he did not fear this man’s bluster. He also made sure not to flinch at the word “dog.”

Eventually, the Captain’s stubbornness wavered. His demands rattled off one by one, always circling back to why the Anirian Guard needed his mercenaries so badly. Fern fielded each query with careful, collected replies; the man’s confusion and ale-fueled temper swirled in tandem. At one point, he smacked the desk so hard that a fresh wave of froth sloshed out of his cup—Theric almost felt pity for the parchment beneath it.

When an agreement was finally struck, Theric kept his outward reaction to a slight incline of the head. He turned on his heel and stepped back from the table, retrieving his sword from the guard at the entrance. He spared only a curt nod to the men who watched him like a wolf prowling near their flock. If they expected an arrogant exit, they’d be disappointed. Theric gripped the sheathed weapon at his side and eased out into the open air without a word.

Outside, he took in a slow breath, releasing the tension that coiled at his shoulders. Much as he resented being labeled with every ugly name under the sun, the moment had done its work: the contract was sealed, and the Captain’s men would stand aside. Theric exhaled again, letting the crisp breeze clear the lingering scent of spilt ale from his senses.

Seeing Fern’s calm, satisfied expression, he understood at once: the path was set, and he had his own instructions to follow. With his sword now back at his hip, he turned to her and spoke in a low, composed voice, trying to keep any hint of frustration or triumph from creeping in:

“Sergeant,” he began, inclining his head as a small gesture of respect, “when I deliver the news, I’ll be sure Lieutenant Black knows you expertly navigated the deal.”

A brief silence lingered, carried on the chill wind. Theric’s gaze flicked to the mercenary camp, then back to Fern.

“You negotiated better than most I’ve seen. Perhaps when we’re done here, you might show me how to keep a level head in conversations like this… without relying on magic or force.”

He stood still for a moment, waiting for her acknowledgment, then dipped his head once more.
“I’ll meet you back at camp once I’ve spoken to the Lieutenant.”

---

He turned away and made quick time returning to Sam’s position, weaving through the camp until he spotted her. In the fading light, the glint of her armor stood out among the moving shapes of Dragonsbane soldiers.

“Lieutenant Black.” Theric came to a halt, dropping his voice so only she could hear. “We’ve secured a deal with the mercenaries. They’ll stand down and let us use the camp for the night. In exchange, we are to handle Lord Aelfwic’s contract personally.”

He paused, glancing at the prison cart and then back to Sam. “She wanted you to know that your squadron will have everything they need here—the Brothers of Stonewall will provide safe passage and, if necessary, an escort on our route home.”

Theric shifted his stance, still keeping his composure. “I believe the Captain was… reluctant,” he allowed, “but coin speaks louder than pride in this instance. The Sergeant handled the negotiation with precision. I’m to return and ride out with her shortly.” A short nod, more formal than friendly. “Will that be all, Lieutenant?”