The aftermath of the fierce battle left a heavy pall over the group. The cavern was silent save for the distant echoes of dripping water, the air thick with the acrid smell of blood and sweat. After pressing forward through the narrow tunnels, the expedition finally stumbled upon an open space—an expansive chamber that seemed to offer a rare reprieve from the unrelenting tension.
The mages and clerics moved quickly, casting protective wards and barriers at the chamber's entrances to secure the area. Within the glowing confines of these protective spells, a temporary camp was established. The soldiers and mercenaries worked efficiently, setting up rudimentary tents, rekindling dwindling torches, and taking stock of their battered supplies.
Though far from comforting, the dim chamber offered the semblance of safety. The party began preparing what little food they had left, sharing rations that consisted mainly of hardened bread and dried meat. To the weary fighters, even this bland fare felt like a luxury after the brutal ordeal they had endured. Yet, despite the relative calm, the atmosphere was tense.
Some silver knights and imperial knights had sported bruises and cuts, though most of their injuries had already been tended to with potions and healing magic.
However, the divide between the mercenaries and the rest of the party was stark. While the knights sat together, exchanging quiet words of encouragement, the mercenaries huddled apart, their expressions wary and subdued. Most of them bore visible signs of their ordeal. Their armor, mismatched and patched from years of service, was now battered beyond repair. Deep gashes and dents marred their chest plates and pauldrons, while their cloaks were torn, reduced to little more than grimy rags. Many of their weapons, already secondhand to begin with, were chipped and dulled, struggling to hold together under the strain of constant combat.
The mercenaries' wounds told a grimmer story. Fresh blood seeped through makeshift bandages fashioned from torn strips of cloth. One man clutched his side, his breaths labored and shallow, a dark stain spreading across his tunic where an arrow had pierced him earlier. Another sat with his arm in a crude sling, his face pale and slick with sweat as he grimaced against the pain of a shattered shoulder. A younger mercenary, barely out of his teenage years, shivered uncontrollably, his cracked lips muttering incoherently as fever from an infected wound took hold.
Most sat hunched, their faces drawn and hollow, eyes sunken from exhaustion and hunger. The smell of unwashed bodies, blood, and untreated injuries clung to them like a miasma. Their supplies had long since dwindled—no spare salves or clean linens remained among them, and many were forced to rely on each other's limited survival skills to stitch wounds or set broken bones. Their only source of relief, flasks of cheap alcohol, had been drained in a futile attempt to numb the pain or disinfect wounds.
Despite their battered state, there was a quiet resilience among them, a determination forged by years of hardship. Yet, beneath the surface, anger simmered. They had fought valiantly in the battle, standing their ground against overwhelming odds, only to be ignored when the fighting was done. It was not uncommon for mercenaries to be treated as expendable tools, but this blatant neglect by the clerics was a humiliation they could not ignore. The mages and knights, protected by their wealth and status, received care without hesitation, while the mercenaries, who had borne the brunt of the enemy's assault, were left to suffer.
Among them, whispers of discontent grew louder, their anger laced with despair. "We're just fodder to them," one muttered bitterly, his voice hoarse. "Good enough to die in their place, but not worth a single healing spell."
"Did you see how they looked at us?" another said, his hands trembling as he tried to adjust a bandage. "Like we're filth. Like we don't even belong here."
Johnas a seasoned mercenary whose broad frame and rugged face gave him a fearsome presence, who sat in silence until now, observed his comrades with a clenched jaw. The frustration in their voices mirrored the fury boiling within him. He looked at the clerics across the camp, their pristine robes glowing softly under the magical barrier. They sat unbothered, sharing bread and speaking in low voices, while the mercenaries continued to bleed and suffer in silence.
Finally, unable to bear it any longer, Johnas rose from his place, his imposing form casting a shadow over the dim firelight. The pain of his comrades, the injustice of their treatment, and the sheer arrogance of the clerics were too much to endure. It was this charged atmosphere that led to the confrontation with the clerics.
"We've got men dying over here," Johnas growled, his voice carrying across the camp. "We need your help."
The head cleric, a haughty man draped in pristine white robes adorned with the emblem of Goddess Altia, glanced at Johnas with thinly veiled disdain. "I am under no obligation to waste divine blessings on those who serve coin rather than honor," he said coldly. His words carried an edge of contempt, and a few of the clerics behind him snickered.
Johnas's fists clenched, his voice rising. "They fought just as hard as your knights, maybe harder! And now you won't even spare a healing spell? What kind of devotion is that?"
The head cleric's expression twisted with indignation. "Watch your tongue, mercenary. Blasphemy against the servants of Altia is an insult to the goddess herself!"
Johnas snapped, grabbing the cleric by the collar and lifting him off his feet. "You call it blasphemy? I call it hypocrisy! You're supposed to heal the wounded, not pick and choose who's worthy!"
The scene erupted into chaos. Several silver knights and imperial knights nearby leapt to the cleric's defense, drawing their swords and surrounding Johnas. The mercenary glared at them, still holding the cleric aloft, his muscles taut and his face twisted in rage.
"Put him down!" one of the knights barked, stepping forward.
Before the situation could escalate further, a commanding voice rang out, cutting through the noise like a blade. "What is going on here?"
Alicia Roman approached the scene, her silver cloak trailing behind her and her sword resting at her side. Her presence immediately drew the attention of everyone nearby. Her sharp eyes scanned the group, taking in the raised weapons, the indignant cleric, and the defiant Johnas.
The head cleric, still caught in Johnas's grip, pointed a trembling finger at the mercenary. "This brute attacked me! He hurled vile curses, insulted the goddess, and threatened my life!"
Johnas let the cleric go, but his voice remained firm as he addressed Alicia. "I only demanded that they treat our wounded. They refused. These men fought and bled for this mission, but because we're mercenaries, they're letting us suffer."
The tension in the air was palpable as all eyes turned to Alicia. The clerics looked to her for validation, the knights awaited her command, and the mercenaries watched with wary anticipation, their fates hanging on her decision.
Alicia's expression hardened. "Is this true?" she asked, her gaze fixed on the head cleric.
The cleric hesitated, then straightened his robes indignantly. "Captain Roman, these are mercenaries. Their loyalty is to coin, not to the goddess or the crown. They—"
"Enough." Alicia's voice was cold, her tone brooking no argument. She turned to Johnas. "Your name?"
"Johnas, Captain," he replied, his voice steady despite the scrutiny.
"Why did you resort to violence?"
Johnas squared his shoulders. "Because words weren't enough. They ignored our wounded, mocked us, and treated us like we were nothing. I couldn't stand by and let my comrades suffer."
Alicia nodded slowly, her gaze thoughtful. Then, to everyone's astonishment, she bowed her head slightly toward Johnas. "I owe you an apology, Johnas. This is my failure as a leader. I was entrusted with this mission, and it's my responsibility to ensure that all members of this expedition are treated fairly."
Her words sent a ripple of shock through the crowd. The clerics exchanged uneasy glances, the knights shifted uncomfortably, and the mercenaries stared at her in disbelief.
Alicia straightened, her voice firm as she addressed the group. "We are all here for a common purpose. Whether knight, mage, cleric, or mercenary, we are bound by this mission and by our shared survival. Discrimination has no place among us."
She turned to the head cleric, her eyes narrowing. "You are here to heal the wounded, not to pass judgment. I command you to tend to the injured mercenaries immediately."
The head cleric bristled, his face reddening. "Captain Roman, this is—"
"This is not up for debate," Alicia interrupted, her tone sharp. "As the leader of this expedition and the future Countess of this domain, I am ordering you to fulfill your duty. Or would you prefer to explain your refusal to the crown?"
The cleric's defiance wavered under her piercing gaze. Reluctantly, he nodded and barked orders to his junior clerics, who hurried toward the mercenaries with healing spells and potions in hand.
Alicia then turned to her knights. "Distribute the healing potions among the wounded mercenaries. Ensure they receive proper care."
The knights moved to obey, their initial hesitation giving way to respect for Alicia's authority.
Johnas stepped forward, his stern expression softening. "Thank you, Captain," he said quietly.
Alicia met his gaze and nodded. "Your actions were born of loyalty to your comrades. But next time, come to me before raising a hand."
"Yes, Captain," Johnas replied, his voice tinged with newfound respect. He turned and guided the clerics toward the injured mercenaries, his presence now a symbol of hope rather than division.