The Sun Had Risen Over a Battlefield Won
The battlefield stretched before them, littered with the dead and dying. The cool autumn breeze carried the scent of blood, burnt wood, and churned earth, mixing with the distant crackling of dying fires from the mercenary encampment. Crows circled overhead, their harsh cries echoing across the field as they waited to feast.
Emberhold's warriors moved methodically through the aftermath, securing weapons, stripping usable armor from the fallen, and salvaging whatever supplies remained. The ground was slick with blood, the iron stench thick in the air. Some of the wounded groaned weakly, clinging to life—but Emberhold's warriors showed no mercy to those who had refused to surrender.
This wasn't just a victory—it was a message.
The mercenary threat had been eliminated, but the war for Emberhold's survival was far from over.
Handling the Prisoners
Elias stood with his arms crossed, surveying the group of surviving mercenaries who had been gathered at the center of the battlefield, their hands bound with coarse rope. The defeated men sat on their knees, some staring blankly ahead, others casting fearful glances at the Emberhold warriors who surrounded them, weapons drawn.
"Thirty-four prisoners," Elias muttered, his voice thick with contempt. He shook his head. "Some of them threw down their weapons the moment their leader fell. Others had to be beaten into submission."
Among the captives, some were visibly hardened killers—scarred men with cold eyes, men who had spilled blood for coin too many times to care who they served. But many looked younger, less certain. Hired blades who had fought not out of loyalty, but out of necessity.
Alexander approached, his black-metal sword still hanging loosely at his side, its dark edge glinting under the morning sun. The mere sight of him sent a ripple of tension through the prisoners. Some flinched outright, others lowered their gazes.
He had slaughtered their commander with his own hands. And they had seen it.
Silas, standing beside him, let out a low chuckle. "They look terrified."
"They should be," Elias said darkly.
Alexander let the silence linger, letting the weight of their situation press down on them before finally speaking. His voice was cold, measured.
"Offer them a choice," he said. "Swear loyalty to Emberhold, work to earn your place here, or be exiled. But if any of them cause trouble—execute them."
Some of the prisoners tensed. A few exchanged uncertain glances. Others remained still, their expressions unreadable.
Elias smirked, running a hand through his bloodstained hair. "Harsh, but fair."
Silas raised an eyebrow. "You think any of them will actually stay?"
Alexander studied the faces before him. There were always men who followed the highest bidder, but there were also those who fought simply because they had nowhere else to go.
"Some will," he said at last. "Not all mercenaries are loyal to the highest bidder—some just want a place to belong."
He knew that well enough.
The Battlefield Loot
Beyond the prisoners, the fallen mercenaries had left behind a wealth of supplies, scattered across the battlefield and their now-emptied camp.
Weapons & Armor – Most of it was iron and steel, well-crafted but nothing special. Still, every blade was valuable, and Emberhold's warriors would make use of them.
Food & Rations – Enough provisions to sustain the mercenary force for weeks—which meant it would now feed Emberhold's people instead.
Gold & Silver Coins – Payment, proof that these men had been well-funded. Someone had spent a fortune to send them here.
Maps & Letters – Intelligence. The most valuable loot of all.
Tyrell emerged from the wreckage of the mercenary command tent, carrying a sealed letter he had found among the enemy commander's belongings. The wax seal was still intact, bearing the insignia of an unfamiliar noble house.
He handed it to Alexander.
Silas took one glance at it and frowned. "This wasn't from the Baron."
Alexander broke the seal, his eyes scanning the contents. The writing was precise, calculated—a noble's hand, not some mercenary captain's crude orders.
His jaw tightened.
"The mercenaries were sent to weaken us," he said slowly. "But not by Baron Valtor. Someone else wanted us crushed before we could rise any further."
Silas let out a slow breath, rubbing his temples. "That means we have a new enemy."
Emberhold's Reputation Grows
By midday, the surrounding villages had already heard of the battle.
Messengers, traders, and even refugees began arriving at Emberhold's gates, some bearing gifts, others seeking shelter and protection.
Word of Emberhold's victory had spread like wildfire.
Owen approached, his sleeves rolled up from reinforcing the settlement's outer defenses. He looked equal parts exhausted and exhilarated.
"Word is spreading fast," he reported. "The villages that feared us before are now looking to us for protection. Some of them are even asking if they can trade with us openly."
Alexander smirked. "Let them."
Silas crossed his arms. "This is how it begins. We're no longer just a settlement—we're becoming a force in the region."
A reputation was a dangerous thing. It brought respect, but also more enemies.
The Next Steps
As the sun began to set, Alexander stood atop the newly fortified walls of Emberhold, watching as his people moved with purpose below. The day's battle had been won, but the war was only beginning.
The mercenaries were defeated.
Their supplies had strengthened Emberhold.
New warriors were being trained, preparing for what lay ahead.
Trade was expanding, drawing more people to their cause.
And somewhere, in the shadows, a noble enemy plotted against them.
And winter was still months away.
Alexander exhaled, gripping the stone railing as he gazed toward the darkening horizon.
This was only the beginning.