Mercenary's Fate

Fate.

Something many described to be the invisible force that drives a world and its inhabitants onwards. As fate dictates the end of the common fly to be in three days' time, so too does fate dictate the rise and fall of the mightiest kingdoms and empires. Whether through the machinations of others, their own hubris, war, greed, religion, love, or countless other worldly things.

Gods and men alike have struggled to fully escape its influence. Yet only a few have ever truly found what lies beyond its control. But what is fate? To the gods, fate could be seen as a construct of their own design or as a force even they must contend with. For not all gods are equal and not all of them have influence over fate.

To the academically-inclined, fate is a convergence of the alive, the divine, and the deceased. It's the tapestry of what was supposed to happen, what's happening now, and what will never occur, all woven and sewn together into a glowing fabric of possible, parallel outcomes and realities.

To the common folk however, fate is merely the inevitable. A normal peasant man's life is to be born into a simple family, learn the simple trades, live out a simple life, and die on a simple bed. But that's only if fate is kind to this man.

At any point in that man's life his entire world can be snapped away with the random wrath of a god, a natural disaster, a band of bandits, a wandering dragon feeling hungry, or some other manner of danger.

"Fate truly is just a bitch."

A young man's voice speaks out.

"Yeah she is."

"Aye!"

"Right on!"

A few other voices agree in unison.

Draped in a tattered cloak, with a pauldron beaten beyond repair, and a set of clothes rugged from use covering a strong but lean frame, one would imagine a bandit or exile had snuck into town. The lone sword sheathed at his back and dagger strapped to his boots only added to that impression. But the striking yellow eyes, charcoal-dark hair, and face that sported a handsome mediocrity marked him as something more than a common cutthroat. A man that goes by the name of Cael.

"The only thing fate's done to me is give me the shortest end of the short stick that was used to poke at a dead nargrull. I mean, how else do you think I wound up here as a sword-for-hire in this backwater town?"

An old man clears his throat and replies.

"Well sometimes fate just has other plans. Maybe you're still waiting in line."

Cael lets out what can be described as a laugh, but one that contains more bitterness than someone his age should reasonably possess.

"Waiting in line? Old Gareth, I think fate took one look at me and decided to skip right over to the next poor bastard."

He takes another gulp from his mug, the ale warm and watery like everything else in this forgotten corner of the world. Being twenty-six winters of age, Cael feels older than he should, like the past few years have aged him beyond his time. The town of Millbrook is exactly what one would expect from a place with such a name. A cluster of buildings that have seen better days, centered around a mill that grinds grain when the wheel isn't broken, populated by folk whose biggest concern is whether the harvest will be good enough to make it through winter.

For someone like Cael, who's walked roads that stretch across kingdoms and seen cities that touch the clouds, this place feels like being buried alive before his time.

"You know what your problem is, boy?"

Old Gareth speaks up again, his voice carrying the wisdom that comes from having lived three times as long as the young mercenary sitting across from him.

"You think about things too much for someone who ain't even seen thirty summers yet. Sometimes a man's just got to focus on what's in front of him instead of what might be."

"What's in front of me is another day of hunting wolves for farmers who pay in turnips and promises,"

Cael says, staring into his mug like it might reveal some great truth about how his life went so wrong so quickly.

"Hell, sometimes I wonder if I should just let the wolves have the sheep. At least then something interesting would happen around here."

The other men chuckle at that, though there's a note of concern in their laughter. Most of them remember when Cael first showed up in Millbrook six months ago, looking like he'd been through something that had stripped the easy confidence from his young face and replaced it with the kind of wariness that usually takes decades to develop.

"Speaking of work though…"

Marcus the tavern keeper interrupts while cleaning mugs with a rag that's seen better days,

"Word's going around that Lord Aldwin's looking for someone with your particular talents."

Now that gets Cael's attention. Lord Aldwin Frod is the regional lord who governs this stretch of nowhere, and he's known for two things: paying fair coin and not asking too many questions about why a young man with obvious education ends up working as a sellsword in the middle of nowhere.

"What kind of work?"

"The kind that involves old ruins and things that probably should stay buried,"

Says Marcus with a look that suggests he knows more than what he lets on.

"His lordship's been asking around for someone experienced with dangerous places. Someone young and expendable enough that it won't be a major loss if things go wrong, if you catch my meaning."

The words hit harder than Marcus probably intended, but Cael learned to swallow his pride when coin is on the table. At his age, pride is a luxury he can't afford, not when he's got nothing else to fall back on.

"Where would I find him?"

"The old manor house up on the hill. But boy…"

Old Gareth grabs his arm as he stands up, his grip surprisingly strong,

"Ruins ain't nothing to fool around with. You may think you've seen danger in your few years on the road, but the old places... there's a reason they're old and empty."

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Cael nods his thanks and sips from his mug once more.

Footsteps walking on cobblestone and idle chatter amongst the grown men sitting by barrels alongside the road continue as the day drones on.

After a while Cael makes his way through the narrow streets of Millbrook. The cobblestones are uneven and cracked, and more than a few buildings lean at angles that suggest they're held up more by habit than by any sound construction. The manor house sits on a small hill overlooking the town, it's stone walls weathered but still solid, speaking of a time when this region mattered more than it does now.

The guards at the gate know who he is - in a place this small, everyone knows the young mercenary who showed up one day looking like he was running from something.

They wave him through without question, though their eyes linger on his sword. It's the kind of blade that doesn't end up on a young man's hip by accident.

A servant clothed in an old butler’s garb greets him at the door of the manor and bows.

“Good day sir Cael. What brings you to the abode of Lord Aldwin Frod?”

“Spare me the formalities Pete. I heard your lord was offering work.”

The servant’s eyebrow raises for a second then lowers as he nods and gestures for Cael to enter the manor.

“Very well, this way. Follow me to Lord Aldwin’s study.”

Cael and the servant Pete makes their way through the mansion passing mediocre displays of art and sombre old rooms worn down by the passage of time and disrepair.

At the end of the corridor the servant opens a door to the left revealing a room and Lord Aldwin Frod inside.

Aldwin Frod is the sort of man who looks like he's earned every gray hair through hard decisions and harder years. His bearing speaks of education gained through necessity rather than privilege, and eyes that have learned to miss very little in a region where oversight can mean the difference between prosperity and disaster.

The study is lined with practical texts, regional maps, and various artifacts that suggest a man who balances scholarly curiosity with the real concerns of keeping a frontier territory stable  When the door is opened, the lord looks up from a collection of old texts spread across his desk.

“What is it now?”

“My lord this man came here looking for work.”

"Ah, the young mercenary of our quaint town. Cael, isn't it?"

The lord's voice carries the educated accent of nobility, but there's something almost paternal in his tone, like he's looking at someone's wayward son.

"Please, enter. We have things to discuss."

Cael enters the room and makes his way to the front of the desk where Aldwin sat.

“I shall take my leave my lord.”

Pete the servant closes the door behind them and footsteps of him leaving break the silence of the room.

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Cael remains standing, a habit he's developed over the past few years of not knowing when he might need to move quickly.

"Heard you were offering work. Something about ruins."

"Direct. I appreciate that in a young man."

Lord Aldwin sets down his quill and leans back in his chair, studying Cael with the calculating gaze of someone who's learned to read people quickly in a job where misjudging character can cost lives.

"Tell me, what education did you receive before you took to the sellsword life?"

It's not the question Cael was expecting, and it hits closer to home than he'd like.

"Enough to know that the Sundering Wars ended when the gods withdrew from mortal affairs. Most of the old battlefields are forbidden ground now."

"Interesting. Most mercenaries your age wouldn't know that much detail."

Lord Aldwin stands and moves to a large map mounted on the wall, his finger tracing locations marked in red ink.

"Two days' ride north of here lie the ruins of Vaelthas Hold. It was a fortress of considerable importance during the wars, built where several ley lines converge."

Cael's eyes narrow. Even with his limited experience, he knows that ley lines are conduits of magical energy that crisscross the world. Where they meet, the concentration of power can be significant. And dangerous.

"What's your interest in it?"

"My scholars believe there may be artifacts or knowledge within the ruins that could benefit our understanding of the old magic. Knowledge that could help protect this region from the various threats that seem to multiply each year."

Lord Aldwin's finger traces a path on the map.

"However, recent expeditions have encountered complications."

"What kind of complications?"

"The kind where expeditions don't come back."

The lord's tone remains even, but there's gravity beneath it.

"I need someone to enter the ruins, assess what's there, and retrieve anything of value. Someone young and quick enough to get out if things go wrong, but experienced enough to recognize real danger when they see it."

Cael can read between the lines. Someone expendable, but not completely useless. Someone whose disappearance wouldn't cause political problems.

"Payment?"

"Ten gold pieces. Half now, half when you return with results."

Cael's breath catches. Five hundred gold is more money than he's seen since he left his old life behind - enough to disappear completely and start fresh somewhere far from here.

"There's always a catch."

"There is."

Lord Aldwin moves to a strongbox and begins counting out coins.

"My researchers believe the site may contain information about bloodline magic, the old hereditary powers that ran through certain families during the wars."

Something cold settles in Cael's gut. Bloodline magic is the kind of topic that gets people killed, especially young people who might not know how to keep their mouths shut about such things.

"Why would that matter to someone like me?"

"Because I suspect you're not quite the simple mercenary you pretend to be."

Lord Aldwin's eyes meet Cael's with sharp intelligence.

"Your education, your bearing, the way you carry that sword - you're nobility, aren't you? Minor house, perhaps, but nobility nonetheless. Which means you might understand the value of such knowledge better than most."

The observation is uncomfortably accurate, but Cael's learned to deflect such questions.

"When do I leave?"

"Tomorrow at dawn. My scholars will provide you with maps and what information we have about the site."

Lord Aldwin counts out the gold and slides it across the desk.

"A word of advice, young man… whatever sent you running from your old life, remember that some secrets are more dangerous than others."

Cael pockets the advance payment, feeling the weight of the coins against his chest.

"Understood."

Morning comes with an overcast sky that hangs low and oppressive, the sort of weather that makes everything feel more serious than it should, like the world itself is holding its breath. Cael spent the night at the local inn, using some of his advance to enjoy a proper meal and a real bed for the first time in weeks. Simple pleasures that remind him of what he gave up when he left his old life behind.

In the room he rented out, Cael takes inventory of what he has. His gear is simple but well-maintained for a mercenary. The sword at his back that's been there at his side for years, the dagger in his boot for when things get close, a leather pack with basic supplies, and armor that's seen enough use to look experienced without being completely falling apart. An amulet made of Sabyte he wears but keeps hidden under his shirt that is the only memorabilia of his family left.

The scholars provided him with a detailed map of the ruins and a journal full of their previous findings, but in his few years on the road, Cael's learned to trust his instincts over academics and paper maps when it comes to staying alive in this brutal world.

After a while he exits the room with all his belongings, greets the innkeeper on his way out and heads over to the post where he tied his horse “Moxx.” The horse he found one day by the roadside with his previous owner dead on the saddle from arrows to the back.

“Morning Moxx, how was it out here?”

The horse neighs in response as if it really understood what Cael said.

“Yeah I know buddy, shit was cold and damp.”

Moxx neighs back again and trods at the ground before leaning down to eat from the patch of grass at it’s feet. Cael unties the leash from it’s post before mounting Moxx and riding off.

Before leaving town, he makes a detour to the market and buys rations to eat on his journey. He stops by a stall selling jerky and dried fruits. Cael eyes the options present and then makes eye contact with the owner of the stall sitting idly as if he had all the time in the world and didn’t need to make a profit to even keep living.

“How much for this, this, and that?”

Cael points to pieces of rabbit, mutton jerky, and a handful of dried khopps. The man stands up from his display of inactivity and eyes Cael up and down before replying.

“One silver piece for all three o’ them.”

“That price is rather steep for a few pieces of jerky and khopps…”

Cael replies in turn with a neutral look on his face. He knows its not overpriced but money is hard to come by these days.

“Pay it or go bother someone else cheap enough for you.”

The owner scoffs and sits back down on his chair once more paying no heed to the customer  in front of him whatsoever.

“Fine how does one silver and five copper pieces sound and you throw in two extra pieces of jerky as a sign of goodwill?”

The owner squints at the man while making a decision. But his eyes suddenly dart to the left before returning to Cael.

“Deal.”

Cael is puzzled as the owner replied so fast and immediately packed the food for him. He reaches for his coin pouch to takes a the coins out and does the transaction.

“Pleasure doin business with ya.”

The owner grins at him and sits back down to continue lazing around.

“Yeah…thanks.”

Confused and wondering if he got scammed or not, he takes Moxx and leaves town.

The owner of the stall keeping watch of the man as he leaves, a figure appears behind them like a ghost.

“That’s your mark. Get to it.”

Says the owner without even acknowledging the figure behind them.

Suddenly the figure disappears once again as if a passing wind simply blew through.

The journey north takes him through country that gets wilder with each mile. The maintained roads around Millbrook give way to old trading paths, then to game trails that wind through forests that seem older than kingdoms.

By the second day, the game trails have faded into little more than suggestions carved by deer and wild boar through increasingly dense woodland. Cael leashes Moxx to the branches of a tree nearby and makes camp in a small clearing beside a stream that runs clear and cold, the kind of water that tastes like it's never seen civilization.

He's just setting up camp when he hears growls and thumps coming from the forest. A low, rumbling growl that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, like the forest itself has decided to express displeasure.

Moxx is visibly heard getting unsettled and starts neighing adding onto the gravity of the situation unfolding before Cael.

The creature that emerges from the treeline is something between a bear and a wolf, but larger than either and wrong in ways that hurt to look at directly. Its fur shifts color

in the firelight, and its eyes reflect not yellow but a deep crimson that suggests it's seen things no natural animal should witness.

"Well, shit."

Cael reaches for his sword, knowing instinctively that this is one of the things that happens when you get too close to places where the old magic still runs strong. The

creature's presence makes the air itself feel heavier.

What follows is a deadly dance that tests every skill Cael's learned in his years on the road. The creature moves like liquid darkness, but Cael moves like water, flowing around its strikes with the kind of footwork that comes from too many fights where standing still meant dying.

The beast lunges with claws extended, and Cael sidesteps at the last moment, his sword leaving a shallow cut along its flank.

"What's wrong, you mangy bastard? Miss your afternoon nap?"

The creature spins with unnatural speed, but Cael's already moving, using his momentum to circle around a tree and come at the beast from its blind side.

For several minutes they trade advantages. The creature has size and supernatural strength, but Cael has reach with his sword and the kind of tactical thinking that keeps humans alive in a world full of things that should be able to kill them easily. When the beast charges, he gives ground. When it tries to circle, he controls the distance with precise sword work that keeps those deadly claws just out of range.

The creature feints left and strikes right, a move that would have gutted most opponents. But Cael reads the tell in its shoulders and meets the attack with a perfect parry that sends the beast stumbling past him. His counterattack opens a deep gash across its hindquarters, drawing that strange steaming blood.

"I've seen three-legged dogs with better moves than that."

Growing frustrated, the creature abandons strategy for raw aggression, launching itself in a desperate leap that would pin any normal fighter against the trees. Instead,

Cael drops to one knee and brings his sword up in a two-handed thrust.

He uses the beast's own momentum to drive the blade deep into its chest. The creature crashes to the ground behind him, twitches once, then lies still. Steam rises from its blood where it pools on the forest floor, and after a moment the entire corpse begins to dissolve into shadow and mist.

Cael stands in the ruins of his campsite, breathing hard but uninjured, sword still in hand.

He rebuilds his fire and lies down on his pack, but sleep doesn't come easily. Every sound in the forest seems magnified, and more than once he catches glimpses of eyes reflecting the firelight from between the trees. Whatever that creature was, it apparently wasn't the only unnatural thing prowling these woods.

The third morning brings relief in the form of clearer skies and the sight of Vaelthas Hold rising in the distance.

The entire structure was built on a hill that commands the surrounding valleys, a strategic position that explains why it was important during the wars. Even in ruins, the place maintains an imposing presence. Broken towers reaching toward the sky like accusing fingers, walls that have withstood centuries but couldn't withstand whatever ended the keep's usefulness.

He ties Moxx to a tree well away from the ruins and approaches on foot. On his way there he can’t shake the feeling of this unease setting upon him but he shrugs it off nonetheless.

The scholars' map shows several possible entry points, but his limited experience has taught him to trust his eyes over paperwork when his life might depend on it. The main gate is partially collapsed but passable, offering the most direct route to where anything valuable might be found.

The moment he crosses the gate, everything changes. The sensation he'd felt from a distance intensifies, like walking into a storm made of invisible pressure that presses against him from all sides.

The courtyard beyond the gate is overgrown with vines and flowers that seem to glow with their own light. The stonework is cracked and broken in places, but the underlying structure remains sound. Doorways and corridors lead deeper into the keep, each one promising secrets that someone his age probably has no business investigating.

Cael consults the map and chooses a path that lead to what the scholars believe was the main hall of the structure.

High above in the broken tower that overlooks the courtyard, a figure in dark leather watches the young mercenary disappear into the depths of the ancient keep. Silver hair catches the morning light as ice-cold eyes track his movement with the patience of a predator that has learned to wait for exactly the right moment to strike.

The hunt has begun.