The banquet hall in Lysaro Rogare's mansion glowed under a hundred oil lamps. Silver platters heaped with roasted pheasant, spiced river eel, and honey-glazed figs crowded the long tables. Lysaro sat at the head like a young conqueror, cheeks flushed with wine and triumph, his ornate sword still belted at his side even though the blood had long been wiped clean.
"To the Lightning Company!" he roared, raising his goblet. "To the men who turned three hundred former slaves into the terror of Lys!"
The hall erupted. Mercenary captains, merchant lords, and minor nobles who had once sneered at Lysaro now clapped and shouted his name. Even a few of Mario Ferrero's former hangers-on had shown up—faces pale, eyes downcast—offering awkward toasts and "congratulations."
Tiberius sat two seats down from Lysaro, nursing a cup of watered wine. He wore the same plain leather armor he'd fought in, only now it carried fresh nicks and the faint smell of blood and smoke that no scrubbing could remove. His expression was calm, almost bored, but inside his mind raced.
They cheer now, he thought. Tomorrow they'll remember I'm the one who actually won the fight. Fame is a double-edged sword. Useful… but dangerous when you're still twelve.
Vito leaned over, elbowing him with a grin that showed every yellow tooth. "Kid, you're famous. The 'Lightning Kid'—they're already singing ballads in the taverns. One bard even claimed you summoned lightning from the sky to strike Mario's banner. Want me to commission a better version?"
"Tell them I used a crossbow and good timing," Tiberius muttered. "No need to turn me into a wizard. Uncle Jules already has enough swamp witchcraft rumors."
At the far end of the table, Jules Mord sat beside Lady Johanna Swann. The captain's usual stone face had softened into something almost gentle as he listened to her quiet laugh. Johanna's golden hair was neatly braided now, her dress simple but elegant—courtesy of the White Company's new funds. She caught Tiberius's eye and gave him a small, knowing nod of thanks.
At least one good thing came out of all this, Tiberius thought. Uncle finally has someone who sees the man, not just the swords.
Lysaro suddenly stood, swaying slightly, and clapped Tiberius on the shoulder hard enough to slosh wine from his cup.
"My brother Tiberius!" he announced to the hall. "The true architect of our victory! Without him, I would have charged like a fool and died like a hero—no one would remember my name except as a cautionary tale!"
The room laughed. Tiberius forced a modest smile and stood, bowing slightly.
"Young Master Lysaro is too kind," he said, voice carrying clearly. "I only did what any loyal officer would do. The Lightning Company fought for House Rogare—and for Lys."
More cheers. Gold coins and silver rings clinked onto the table in front of him—gifts from impressed nobles. Tiberius accepted them with gracious nods, already calculating their value.
Good. More coin for equipment. More fame means more recruits when the real war comes.
Later, when the feast had thinned and only the inner circle remained, Lysaro pulled Tiberius aside into a side chamber. His eyes were bright, almost feverish.
"Tiberius… my father is already hearing stories. He's proud. He wants to reward you personally. Land. Gold. Maybe even a title once the war is over."
Tiberius's smile didn't reach his eyes.
War, he thought. So the rumors have already reached the Rogare palace.
Out loud he said, "I only want to keep serving House Rogare, Young Master. But… if war does come to the Disputed Lands, the Lightning Company will need proper gear. Crossbows, pavises, good horses for scouts. I don't want my men dying because we skimped on iron."
Lysaro waved a hand grandly. "Done. Whatever you need. You've earned it."
As Tiberius left the mansion that night, the streets of Lys were alive with torchlight and drunken singing. Somewhere a bard was already turning the blood combat into legend:
"The Lightning Kid, twelve years old,
With three hundred slaves he turned to gold.
Spears like thunder, bolts like rain,
Mario's pride washed down the drain!"
Tiberius pulled his cloak tighter and walked faster toward the White Company barracks.
Let them sing, he thought. Songs don't stop Volantene elephants or Tiger Cloaks.
But deep down, a small, dangerous spark of satisfaction burned.
The Lightning Company was no longer a joke.
It was a name people feared.
And Tiberius Mord was no longer just a deserter's nephew.
He was becoming the storm.
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