Kaelen's gaze sharpened on Jory, whose calm eyes held the weight of battlefield wisdom. The War Room, thick with tension, fell utterly silent, every face turning to the man who had broken the deadlock.

  “Continue,” Kaelen commanded, his voice a low rumble that brooked no delay.

  Jory nodded, rising slowly and addressing the circle—Haldor's scowl, Elian's furrowed brow, Zarn's feral intensity, Tormund's stoic bulk, Hareth's grizzled skepticism, and Victor's relaxed poise. He tapped the map's southern roads, where trade lines snaked toward Clasta.

  “We hire a mercenary group,” Jory said, his tone measured and confident. “They're professionals—experienced, disciplined, willing to fight anyone for the right coin. No peasant levies fumbling spears. No divided loyalties. We pay upfront, they march to the Fortress and hold the line. Urgent need, deep pockets—we get quality.”

  A ripple of reactions swept the room. Haldor snorted like an angry bull, crossing his arms. Tormund grunted thoughtfully. Zarn tilted his head, intrigued.

  Elian, the steward, leaned forward, already mentally tallying ledgers, his fingers drumming the table. “I agree,” he said decisively after a beat. “We have the funds now—the auction brought five hundred gold marks, plus Stackson's advance. Mercenaries are expensive—two, sometimes three times the cost of raising our own recruits over a season, what with signing bonuses, hazard pay, and transport. But time is our enemy. Vorak won't wait for farmboys to learn pike drills. A hardened company of two hundred could be boots on the ground in days, not weeks. Urgency demands it.”

  Hareth, the old Ser standing sentinel by the door, shook his head gravely, his voice gravelly with decades of scars. “Cost be damned, it's the trust that's poison. Mercenaries are wolves in steel—loyal only to gold. The moment they sniff our Star-Silver veins or hear whispers of tribal pacts, they'll turn feral. Extort protection rackets. Sell maps to Vancefort or Greywalt lords for a bigger purse."

  Zarn bared his teeth. “Better faithless dogs than no fangs at all. Tribes bleed while you squabble!”

  Tormund rumbled low. “Some companies have codes. But father is Hareth's right—greed rots honor.”

  Kaelen listened, his mind a whirlwind of probabilities, the System silently crunching odds in his periphery. He let the debate simmer a moment, then turned to his cousin Victor—the handsome young Bronze warrior lounging casually against the wall, his chiseled features relaxed, a friendly smile playing on his lips despite the grim topic.

  Victor exuded charisma, the kind that made tavern wenches blush and soldiers follow without question. Years in Clasta's underbelly had honed his easy confidence.

  “Victor,” Kaelen said, leaning forward. “You lived in Clasta—. What do you think of this idea? Viable, or viper's nest?”

  Victor's smile widened charmingly as he straightened with fluid grace, his voice smooth and engaging, like a storyteller captivating a fireside crowd.

  “Ah, cousin, mercenaries?” he said. “Love 'em or loathe 'em, they're the spice of war. Lived among 'em in Clasta for years—Viscounty of Clasta and its neighbor Rellanor are crawling with companies. You've got your cheap gutter trash like the Bloody Axes—bruisers good for tavern brawls or shaking down peddlers, but they shatter against knightly lances.”

  “Then the Shadowcloaks,” he continued, “sneaky bastards specializing in night raids and scouting—handy for ambushes, worthless in a pitched siege like Vorak's hammerfest.”

  He paused for effect, gesturing animatedly, drawing everyone in with his relaxed charisma. Haldor even uncrossed his arms, listening despite himself.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “The Steel Talons out of Rellanor are solid mid-tier—reliable for border skirmishes, but pricey for their rep. Fought in a dozen noble feuds, never broke contract. But if we're talking the group for this mess?” Victor's grin sharpened. “Laughing Reavers. Led by the legend himself: the ‘Laughing Blade.’”

  Zarn’s ears perked. “Laughing Blade? Heard tales around campfires.”

  Victor chuckled warmly, eyes twinkling. “Tales don't do him justice, friend. Two hundred strong—pikemen, crossbowmen, a core of shock cavalry. Nomads at heart, rolling with their families in those massive painted wagons like a gypsy army. Most fighters are blood kin—brothers, uncles, cousins wed to cousins. Betray the contract? Means your own blood pays the butcher's bill. Keeps 'em honest.”

  Elian scribbled eagerly. “Nomads? Contract reliability?”

  “Flawless,” Victor assured, flashing a disarming grin. “They headlined for House Caelor of Rellanor in the bloodbath against the Goldskar Barony alliance. Goldskar alliance had knights, levies, outnumbered the Reavers three-to-one on that muddy river plain.”

  “Laughing Blade anchored the center ford solo for half a day,” Victor went on, “dual blades whirling, laughing like a madman as he carved through destriers and plate. His Reavers held formation until Viscount Caelor reinforcements arrived. Never yielded an inch. House Caelor paid them a tribute and penned a commendation still sung in Rellanor halls.”

  Jory whistled. “Never leave the field? Myth?”

  “Code,” Victor said, leaning in conspiratorially, his friendly tone infectious. “Die laughing, standing tall. They've bled for Vancefort too—smashed mountain tribes raiding his eastern marches last harvest. Greywalts called them against orc warbands spilling from the crags.”

  Victor paused dramatically, letting the revelation sink in, his charismatic grin never fading as he savored the council's rapt attention. Haldor's scowl had softened to grudging curiosity, Zarn's feral eyes gleamed with respect, and even Hareth leaned forward, hooked despite his doubts.

  “But they made a fatal mistake,” Victor continued, his voice dropping to a storyteller's cadence, rich and compelling. “When they were in Vancefort service, crushing those mountain tribes on the eastern marches, Laughing Blade's eldest son— a rising Bronze hothead—got into a heated argument with a Vancefort knight's during a victory feast. Words turned to blows. The boy drew steel first, but he was was faster. Accidental thrust through the throat. Dead on the spot. The Knight was a distant nephew of Marquis Vancefort and a member of House Vancefort."

  Elian gasped softly, ink pausing mid-scribble. “Vancefort blood? They'd be hunted!”

  Victor nodded, his friendly demeanor underscoring the gravity. “Exactly. Marquis Vancefort demanded the son's head on a pike. Blade refused—family first. They vanished overnight, wagons rolling south to Clasta under cover of storm. Rellanor stopped recruiting them after that; House Caelor couldn't risk Vancefort's wrath.”

  “Now they lay low in Clasta's outskirts,” Victor went on, “taking discreet jobs—caravan guards, border patrols. No banners, low profiles. Perfect for us.”

  Jory leaned in. “Battle record still holds?”

  “Oh, legendary,” Victor enthused, charisma flowing like wine. “Beyond Goldskar, they turned the tide at Blackridge Pass for Greywalt against five hundred orc berserkers. Outnumbered, low on arrows, Blade led a counter-charge up sheer cliffs—laughing the whole climb, blades flashing. Slew the orc chieftain himself, green blood painting his grin. Greywalts still toast him in halls.”

  Zarn growled appreciatively. “Good hunters.”

  “More,” Victor pressed, gesturing vividly. “In the Whispering Woods skirmish for the Viscount Clasta, they ambushed a bandit coalition twice their size—three hundred cutthroats with mage support. The Reavers feigned retreat, drew them into boggy ground, then encircled. Blade danced through the mud, wind blades shredding spells. Zero losses. The Viscount gave them a captured keep for a month—partied like kings.”

  Tormund rumbled. “Discipline?”

  “Iron,” Victor assured. “Nomad life tempers it. Families in wagons mean no desertions—run, and wives, kids suffer. They've held against ogre migrations in Rellanor wilds."

  “Blade's Silver-peak aura?” Victor continued. “Storm-wind infusion—blades extend like tempests, slice plate at range. Fought a duel with a Gold-Rank challenger once, laughed off a shattered arm, beheaded him at dawn.”

  Hareth grunted. “Reputation holds post-feud?”

  “Stronger,” Victor said warmly. “Vancefort hunts them quiet-like, but Blade's too slippery. Clasta lords hire discreetly—know the risk, pay premium. For us? Gold solves it. Tribes? Call ’em ‘local levies’ in the contract.”

  Kaelen absorbed it, System odds glowing green [82% Success]. Victor's tale had sold the room.

  “Jory,” Kaelen ordered. “Ride to Clasta. Take gold, my seal. Hire the Laughing Reavers. Bring their leader here—I want to meet the Laughing Blade myself.”

  Jory nodded sharply "Yes , brother."

  As Jory departed, hope flickered amid the embers.