Bird's Call
The sky wept, a relentless grey drizzle that had persisted since dawn, turning the freshly dug earth of the cemetery into dark, slick mud. The funeral for Bob and the other three fallen mercenaries had been a somber affair, devoid of the usual rowdy toasts and boasts that accompanied a soldier's send-off. The words spoken were respectful but brief, the weight of the loss pressing too heavily on everyone's chests for flowery eulogies.
One by one, the mourners had drifted away, heading back to the deceptive warmth of the barracks or the numbing embrace of the taverns. The crowd thinned until only four figures remained standing by the fresh mounds.
Asep stared at the wooden marker at the head of Bob's grave. It was simple, just a name and the company emblem carved into the grain. It looked pathetic. Bob deserved more than a piece of scrap wood. He deserved a neon sign. A towering monolith. Something loud and punk, just like that stupid mohawk he was so proud of.
It's just like that day, Asep thought, the memory flashing unwanted and vivid behind his eyes. The screech of tires. The dull thud of bodies hitting pavement. The scream of sirens too late to matter. Jaya's face, pale and surprised under the streetlights. Rendy, clutching his stomach, asking why it was so cold. School uniforms stained dark, just like Bob's leather armor.
Different world. Same shit. Kids dying because they were in the wrong place for the "right" cause.
"It's heavy." Karl was the first to break the silence. His voice was rough, like gravel grinding together. He wasn't wearing his green bandana; it was tied around the cross on Bob's grave, hanging limp and wet in the rain. "Quieter than usual, isn't it? Even the wind's got nothing to say."
Stark stood rigid, water dripping from the brim of his sallet helmet, which he still wore out of habit or perhaps to hide his eyes. His fists were clenched at his sides, knuckles white against the grey steel of his gauntlets. He hadn't said a word since the first shovelful of dirt hit the casket. The stoic commander, the rock of the squad, looked like he was barely holding himself together.
Hank, the ranger, leaned against a nearby tree, his hood pulled low. He was Bob's relative, but he didn't cry, he didn't even mourn. He just looked… empty and hollowed out.
"He was twenty-two," Hank said. "Just turned twenty-two last month. He wanted to buy a farm. Said he was sick of shooting people. Wanted to shoot rabbits instead."
"We've known each other since he was a kid. 12 years ago during the Civil War... I've met him when we joined Castalia." Karl chuckled with a bitter sound. "Little shit barely taller than a sword."
"Back then, we're desperately trying to live." Stark added with a somber tone. "We survived Civil War, we survived famine, we survived banditry... And now he died in the hand of a fanatic."
"That's a soldier's death. Nobody sees it coming." Hank sighed. "Doesn't make it any easier though, fuck's sake."
"I saw it," Asep said quietly. "Back home. My… friends. Same thing. One minute we're laughing, talking about girls or food. The next, they're gone. Just meat on the ground." He took a drag, exhaling smoke into the rain. "You think you get used to it. You think because you're 'hard' or 'tough' it won't sting. But it's always the same. Just a big, empty hole where a person used to be."
Stark finally moved, turning his head slightly towards Asep. Through the visor, his eyes were shadowed, unreadable. "You fought well, Asep. You stopped that assassin. You saved Kirsche. Don't... don't put this on yourself."
"I guess that's the only thing I'm good at. Punching people to death."
"Hah, don't sell yourself short, boy. That's exactly what we need." Hank let out a dry laugh. "We need someone to punch those fanatics to death."
For a moment, only the sound of rain pattering on the graves filled the silence. Then, Stark took a breath, a deep, shuddering inhale that seemed to rattle in his chest. He reached up and slowly unbuckled his helmet, pulling it off. His face was haggard, lines of exhaustion etched deep around his eyes, which were red-rimmed and bloodshot.
"Let's go back. Zachary wants to see us." Stark said, his voice regaining a fraction of its command, though the edge was brittle. "We can grieve later. Right now... there's work to be done. The kind of work that involves making sure no more of us end up in holes like these."
____
"This isn't working!"
Sylvanne's voice, usually a boisterous roar that could rally a disheartened shield wall, was now edged with a desperate frustration. She paced the length of the war room like a caged tiger, her heavy boots thudding rhythmically against the floorboards.
"We're stuck!" she growled, throwing a hand towards the large map spread across the central table. "Greenpasteur. Oakhill. Even the hamlets near the river. Every time we squash one of their raiding parties, two more pop up. They're like roaches breeding in the dark."
Zachary sat at the head of the table, his posture rigid. The dim light from the chandelier cast deep shadows under his eyes, emphasizing the exhaustion etched into his features. He didn't look at Sylvanne; his gaze was fixed on the map, specifically on the large, darkened blotch in the southeast labeled Roake.
"They have numbers on their side," Zachary said quietly, his voice dangerously calm. "And fanaticism. A dangerous combination. Raiding parties are symptoms, Sylvanne. The disease lies deeper."
"Exactly!" Sylvanne slammed her fist onto the table, making the scattered wooden markers jump. "We know where the rot is coming from! Roake! It's their nest. Their breeding ground. We need to cut the head off the snake. mobilize the full company. March in there and burn the corruption out."
"With what army?" Kirsche muttered from his corner. His eyes were still red from crying, but his voice was cold. "Roake is a fortress of terrain. Narrow passes, steep cliffs. And it's filled with thousands of these lunatics. We send the company in there, it'll be a meat grinder. We'll be fighting uphill against an enemy that welcomes death."
"So, we just let them take more people?" Clara asked, her voice trembling slightly. She stood near the window, her usual brightness dimmed by the grief of losing Bob and the horror of the raids. "We let them drag families away to be... *sacrificed*? Or worse?"
"Brenda and Adeline are already there," Princess Adreana interjected softly. She stood beside Zachary, her face pale but composed. "They've managed to establish contact. They're organizing a resistance among the refugees who haven't been turned, but they are besieged. They need aid, Zachary."
"We need allies," Clara said suddenly, stepping forward, her eyes wide with a desperate hope. "The Avalon Knights! Their creed is justice, isn't it? Lady Orwella helped us before. Surely, they wouldn't stand by while innocents are slaughtered by a cult!"
"Or the Royal Army!" she continued, gaining momentum. "Roake is still Ardenian soil! Prince Finlay has a duty to protect his subjects. If we petition him..."
"Or even the Holy Empire!" Her desperation was making her grasp at straws. "The Radiant Faith hates heretics more than anything. 'Love thy neighbor,' 'purge the darkness'... if we tell them about this 'Eclipse,' they'd have to send Templars, right?"
"Risky," Kirsche cut her off. "Too risky. Albion just tried to invade us. You think inviting their knights back into our territory is a good idea? Orwella might be honorable, but her superiors? They'd see it as another excuse to occupy our land."
He paused, "And Royal Armies?" Kirsche scoffed. "They are still recovering from Silvercreek incident. Moving them south would leave the capital exposed. We know Finlay, he won't send us shit if it's not of his interest. As for the Holy Empire... inviting the Church in is like inviting a vampire into your house to kill a rat. Sure, the rat dies, but then you have a vampire. You do remember why most of Ardenians hates the Pope, right?"
The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Every option felt like a trap. Every path seemed to lead to either defeat or a cure worse than the disease.
Asep, leaning against the back wall with his arms crossed, was bored. Not bored in the sense that he didn't care—the image of the dead village was still burned into his retinas—but bored of the circular logic. Military men thought in terms of armies and banners. Royals thought in terms of treaties and borders. They were all missing the obvious point.
He cleared his throat, the sound unusually loud in the quiet room.
"Why you guys gotta make it so complicated?" Asep drawled, scratching the back of his neck.
All eyes turned to him. Zachary raised an eyebrow. "You have a suggestion, Asep?"
"Yeah. Stop acting like generals for a second and think like... people." Asep pushed off the wall and walked towards the table. He pointed a scarred finger at the map, sweeping it across the lands surrounding Roake. "This place is a shithole, right? Lawless. Full of criminals, mercenaries, deserters, and people who just want to be left alone."
"Accurate," Stark grunted.
"So," Asep continued, struggling to find the right Rodinian words to convey a concept from his world. "You got a bully problem. A big, religious bully pushing everyone around. The government... *Kingdom*... can't stop them. The other big gangs... *Empires*... are too busy staring at each other."
He looked around the room. "These Cult guys, they aren't just hurting your people. They're bad for business. They're disturbing the peace. They're annoying everyone. The guy selling beer, the guy digging for rocks, the mercenary looking for a quick job. Nobody likes a fanatic who tells you you can't drink or smoke or fuck because the 'Eclipse' says so."
"What are you getting at?" Sylvanne asked, frowning.
"Banner of peace," Asep said, translating the term Peaceful Demonstration or perhaps United Front clumsily. "You don't need an army of soldiers. You need a mob. A bigger, angrier mob."
He mimed holding a sign. "Call the 'Freebirds'. The mercenaries who aren't Castalia. The bandit gangs who hate the competition. The miners who just want to dig, or. Or anyone who don't like the Eclipse. Tell them: 'Hey, these Eclipse dipshits are ruining it for everyone. Let's go kick their teeth in together.' Make it a... gotong royong."
Most of the room blinked in confusion.
"A... what?" Clara tilted her head.
Asep sighed. "A... community effort? Like when a barn burns down and everyone helps build a new one. But instead of a barn, we're building a pile of dead cultists."
"He means a coalition," Princess Adreana said slowly, her eyes widening as the pieces clicked into place. "Not a formal military alliance between nations, but a grassroots movement. Uniting the disparate factions of the region under a single, temporary banner of survival."
She looked at Zachary, excitement kindling in her gaze. "The independent mercenary companies. The miner's guilds. Even the local crime syndicates in neighboring towns. None of them want the Eclipse to rule Roake. They threaten their profits, their freedom, their very way of life."
"If Castalia leads," Adreana continued, her voice gaining strength, "not as conquerors, but as the spearhead of a 'Liberation Front'... we could raise an army from the very people the Eclipse is trying to subjugate. We bypass international politics entirely. It becomes a matter of internal security, handled by the people of the region themselves."
Zachary stared at the map, his mind racing. It was unconventional. It was messy. It involved allying with unsavory characters.
But that's also kind of makes sense, in a strange way.
"A 'Coalition of the Unwilling'," Zachary mused, a faint smile touching his lips for the first time in days. "We leverage their self-interest against the Cult's fanaticism. We frame it not as a religious war or a royal decree, but as a fight for their freedom to live as they please."
"Hold on, this is getting ridiculous! How could you even trust those unsavory people?!" Kirsche interjected. "Besides, who's gonna answer our call anyway?"
Naraya, who's just standing there while observing the situation, finally chimed in. Her distinctive fox-like ears twitched.
"I represent the Renjiran Dancing Troupe... I answer to your call." She said. "We Renjiran tribes have been oppressed by various factions for so long, marginalized and enslaved... we will not surrender our freedom again. Even to this 'Eclipse'."
Naraya's declaration hung in the air, a simple, weighty promise that seemed to tip the scales. A beastkin representative offering aid was significant; the Renjiran tribes were notoriously insular and fiercely independent.
"See?" Asep gestured to Naraya with an open palm. "First customer. We can do it, Leader. We have the Princess here. Let her talk to the people, let her rally the masses. I guarantee you, as long as we promise them 3 things: Freedom, Safety... and maybe some coins... they'll follow."
Zachary stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. The indecision was gone.
"Very well," he declared. "Sylvanne, draft messages to every mercenary captain, guild master, and gang leader within three days march. Tell them Castalia is moving on Roake, and we are paying in gold and blood for anyone who stands with us. Adreana, prepare a proclamation. Not from the Crown, but from the 'Daughter of Ardenia'. Appeal to their pride, their anger, their survival instinct."
He turned to Asep.
"And you," Zachary said. "You're going to help convince them. You seem to speak their language."
Asep shrugged, pulling a fresh packet of cheap, local weed from his pocket. "Heh. Show me who I need to punch or who I need to drink with. I'm just here for the smoke."
"Haha! This is getting interesting!" Sylvanne seems to be back to her usual self. "Alright everyone, drinks on me tonight!"
"Wait, isn't that my lines?!" Karl protested.
As the room erupted into a flurry of activity, planning and shouting orders, Asep stepped back into the shadows. He watched them, a small, grim smile on his face. He didn't know if this 'Gotong Royong' of cutthroats and miners would actually work.
But it sure as hell beat waiting around to die.
___
Days turned into a whirlwind of chaos and cacophony for the once-sleepy trading town of Loriana. Princess Adreana's call had gone out on the wings of fast messenger pigeons and the breathless words of riders, echoing in taverns, guild halls, and shadowy backrooms across the region. And the region had answered.
It wasn't an army in the traditional sense. It was a carnival of violence.
The streets of Loriana were choked with humanity—and inhumanity. There were no neat rows of uniformed soldiers marching in step. Instead, it was a riotous collision of cultures, creeds, and colorful swear words. Groups of stern-faced militias from nearby villages rubbed shoulders with notoriously sticky-fingered bandits who had decided, for once, that fighting cultists paid better than robbing turnips. A contingent of Avalon Knights, resplendent in polished plate and looking distinctly uncomfortable among the rabble, tried to maintain a dignified perimeter around their encampment. Merchants from the mercantile republics of Sycillia set up stalls selling overpriced "Hero's rations," arguing loudly with stoic traders from the Undying Empire about tariff rates on whetstones.
They came here for various reasons. Some were drawn by the Princess's fiery words of liberty and justice. Others were drawn by Zachary's promise of gold. And a fair few just really, really hated the idea of a sober, sexless eclipse cult telling them what to do.
But the loudest, strangest mix was usually found in *The Gilded Tankard*, a tavern that had become the unofficial melting pot for the mercenaries.
In a corner booth that smelled of stale beer, roasted garlic, and unwashed leather, three men sat around a table that looked like it was buckling under the weight of mugs and weapons.
"This Lotus Wine... it lacks... spirit," the man on the left said, meticulously wiping the rim of his cup with a silk cloth. He was a striking figure, clad in layers of loose, intricately patterned silk robes that were currently stained with road dust. A wide, conical straw hat rested on the bench beside him, next to a curved blade—a katana—sheathed in lacquered wood. Yamada, a Ronin from the war-torn islands of Higashi in the distant Far East, looked out of place among the rough-hewn western furniture. His face was sharp, his eyes like dark obsidian, holding a quiet, melancholic intensity.
"Bah! Spirit?" The man across from him laughed, a booming sound that startled a passing waitress. He was a mountain of a man, his chest like a barrel and his arms thick as tree trunks. His beard was a cascading waterfall of red braids, woven with small metal rings that clinked when he moved. Erik, a Nord mercenary leader, slammed his massive tankard onto the table, sloshing ale everywhere. "You want spirit, little sword-man? You drink Mead! Fermented honey and anger! That is spirit! This... 'wine'... is fruit juice for children!"
"It is not juice," Yamada corrected calmly, taking a delicate sip. "It is refined. Like the art of the blade. It requires patience to appreciate."
"Patience is for fishing," Erik said, tearing a chunk of meat off a roasted turkey leg with his teeth. "War is for action! We smash! We drink! We smash again! Simple!"
The third man, sitting between them and looking like he was regretting his seating choice, sighed audibly. Rashid was lean and wiry, dressed in the practical, flowing desert garb of the Undying Empire's region—loose trousers, a light tunic, and a turban of indigo cloth. A scimitar with a jeweled hilt hung at his hip. He swirled the dark, coffee-like liquid in his small cup, ignoring the ale and wine.
"Must you two debate beverage superiority every single time we rest?" Rashid asked, his voice smooth and accented with the lilt of the southern sands. "We are about to march into a valley filled with lunatics who want to sacrifice us to a black sun. Perhaps we should discuss strategy? Or at least, who pays for the next round?"
"Strategy is easy," Erik bellowed, spraying crumbs. "We charge. They die. We get paid. Then... we find women!"
"And what if they charge back?" Yamada asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Then we hit them harder!" Erik declared, as if that solved everything.
Rashid rolled his eyes. "My master, May the Sands guide his fortune, says that war is 90% waiting and 10% terror. I feel like this campaign will be 90% herding cats and 10% regretting I left the desert."
"You complain too much, sand-walker," Erik grinned, nudging Rashid roughly with an elbow. "You came here for gold, yes? The Princess pays well. And the Undying Empire loves its gold."
"We prefer trade," Rashid corrected. ""We can make golds with Alchemy if we want, but protecting the caravan is my duty. The caravan master says, 'Help the Ardenians, gain favorable trade routes.' So here I am. Trading my sword arm for tax exemptions."
"Honorable," Yamada murmured. "To serve one's master's wish. That is the way of the warrior."
"Is it?" Rashid asked dryly. "My master's wish also involved me not dying in a muddy pit. I'm trying to balance the two."
Yamada looked down at his reflection in the wine. "My master... wished for me to see the world. To walk the path beyond the cherry blossoms of our home. He said the world is vast, filled with strange people and stranger gods." He looked up at Erik, then at Rashid. "He was right. I have met a man who wears his beard like jewelry and a man who drinks mud water and calls it a delicacy."
"Hey! This is Qahwa!" Rashid defended his coffee indignantly. "It sharpens the mind! Unlike that swill you're drinking."
"Ha! See? You fit right in!" Erik roared with laughter, slapping the table again. "We are all strange here! Look around!"
He gestured with his turkey leg towards the rest of the tavern. At the bar, a group of Varyag mercenaries—tall, imposing men in chainmail and furs, armed with Dane axes were engaged in a thumb-wrestling contest with a squad of local militia boys who looked terrified but determined. Near the hearth, a pair of traveling priests in tattered grey robes were loudly debating theology with a merchant from Sycillia who was trying to sell them "Holy Relics" that looked suspiciously like painted chicken bones. And in the corner, a group of bandits who were definitely wanted in three different counties were playing cards with two off-duty Avalon Knights, cheating blatantly while the knights remained oblivious.
"A circus," Rashid muttered. "Truly."
"A storm," Yamada corrected softly. "Many winds blowing together. Chaotic and powerful."
Meanwhile, at the other corner, Asep was observing the whole situation with grin. He leaned against a support beam, nursing a warm beer and watching the trio.
"Look at them," Sylvanne said, walking up beside him and following his gaze. She had a mug in one hand and a plate of grilled sausages in the other. "A Nord, a Samurai, and a Saracen walk into a bar... sounds like the start of a bad joke."
"Or a really interesting party," Asep chuckled. "That's the 'Power of Friendship' right there. Or at least, the power of mutual hatred for creepy cults."
"You think they'll fight together?" Sylvanne asked, taking a bite of sausage. "When the metal meets the meat?"
"Who knows." Asep shoved his hands in his pockets. "They argue about drinks now. But wait until they're surrounded by assholes trying to stab them. Nothing bonds men faster than shared trauma and the fear of death."
"Heh... You're weirdly wise for a guy who just wants to smoke and punch things," Sylvanne noted, nudging him.
"Hah! O-of course I am!" Asep said quickly, feeling prideful.
"Don't praise him too much." Karl chimed, "Look, his head is getting as big as a melon now. Oh, by the way... Stark is looking for you."
"Tsk. Buzzkill." Asep frowned. "What now? Another speech?"
"Nah. Just some assignment. And I think you're gonna like it." Karl winked, pointing towards the stairs. "Go on. Boss's room."
Asep groaned, downing the rest of his beer in one gulp. He pushed off the beam and wove through the crowded tavern, dodging spilled drinks and drunken embraces, heading upstairs to see what fresh chaos awaited him.
The upper hallway was dimly lit by sputtering oil lamps. He found Stark leaning against the railing at the far end, arms crossed over his chest, his un-helmeted face illuminated by the flickering light. He looked tired, the lines around his eyes etched deeper by the recent days' stress, but his posture was as rigid as ever.
"Took you long enough," Stark said without turning, his gaze fixed on a knothole in the opposite wall. "Getting lost in your own fan club downstairs?"
"Hardly," Asep snorted, stepping up beside him. "Just admiring the circus. Never seen so many different ways to kill a man in one room before. It's educational."
Stark finally turned, offering a grim smile. "It's a powder keg, Asep. And we're about to light the fuse. But that's not why I called you up here." He straightened, his voice dropping to a serious, low tone. "Zachary wants to see you. There's a job. A specific one."
Asep raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the railing. "Another speech to the masses? Or do I need to punch a bear this time for morale?"
"Neither. It's about Roake," Stark said, and Asep felt a sudden cold jolt in his stomach at the name. "We can't just march an army to the front gates and hope they open up. You know that, right?"
"Yeah? Wait, don't tell me this is an infiltration mission?"
Stark nodded. "We need eyes on the inside before the main force arrives. We need to secure logistics, map out safe houses, establish supply lines for the resistance cells trapped in the city... and most importantly, make contact with their leadership."
"W-wait. Why me?" Asep pointed to himself, incredulous. "I'm the guy who punches first and asks questions never. Shouldn't this be a job for... I don't know, Hank? Or someone stealthy? I stick out like a sore thumb."
"That's because I want you hurry up and talk with Adeline, you dense idiot!"
"W-what are you talking about?! I-I... Uh…"
"Just talk to her, will ya? Besides, this could be your chance to redeem yourself." Stark smirked, "I mean, don't you have something to tell her?"
Asep opened his mouth to protest, to come up with some sarcastic deflection, but the words died in his throat. Instead, he sighed.
"... Alright, I'll do it."
____