In the city(3)

As the sun crested the horizon, its golden rays spilled across the cobblestone streets like a herald's fanfare. The city stirred to life with the thunder of heavy boots and the metallic clatter of weapons. Mercenaries, clad in mismatched armor and frayed cloaks, stalked the alleys with purpose, their voices booming through the morning air.

"The Freelance Fellowship is hiring!" they shouted, drawing curious glances from shopkeepers and sleepy-eyed bystanders.

"Craving a thrill? Want some coin—and a few scars to impress the ladies?" roared a grizzled brute, his beard more tangled than a bird's nest and his grin wild enough to match. "Join the ranks of The Freelance Fellowship! Two silverii upfront, and three more each month. Fight with us—earn your keep in gold!"

Beside him stood a younger mercenary, wrapped in boiled leather and glinting chainmail. He flashed a cocky smirk. "We might not look like your princely honor guard, but we get things done. And trust me—there's always a story to bring back. The kind that earns free drinks and wide-eyed listeners." He slung a thumb toward the city square. "If it's gold, glory, or legend you're after, head to the marketplace and sign up. The Freelance Fellowship awaits."

Across the city, more mercenaries echoed the rallying cry, their voices rising above the bustling chatter of the streets. Passersby slowed, drawn in by the promises of coin, excitement, and royal favor. Rumors of upcoming campaigns—bloody, bountiful, and backed by the prince himself—added fire to their curiosity. The two silverii offered just to enlist didn't hurt, either.

And so, drawn by the clang of ambition and the glitter of opportunity, more and more people drifted toward the marketplace—some eager, others merely curious, many ready to watch and judge for themselves.

At the heart of the commotion sat Alpheo, the mastermind of this theatrical recruitment drive. He lounged in a solid wooden chair, one leg slung lazily over the other, a half-eaten apple in hand. Around him stood his trusted lieutenants—Jarza, Clio, Egil, and the ever-silent Asag—quietly vigilant as their eyes swept the crowd for signs of unrest.

To the casual observer, Alpheo looked like a man idly enjoying the show. A few even chuckled at the sight of him playing some lighthearted game with a street urchin nearby. But in truth, this was no game. Alpheo was gauging his men—measuring their readiness, their awareness, and their ability to keep him safe should danger ever come knocking.

The marketplace thickened with bodies by the minute, and the air buzzed with murmurs, laughter, and the occasional argument. Still, Alpheo remained unbothered, calmly surveying the scene with the detachment of a general watching the pieces of his strategy fall into place.

He took another bite of his apple—crisp and sweet—only for a bit of pulp to wedge annoyingly between his teeth. With a flick of his tongue and a swipe of his finger, he dislodged the intruder and casually flicked it aside.

From the shadows, a wiry rat darted forward, snatched the morsel, and vanished into the crowd like a ghost.

Alpheo watched it go with a raised brow and a smirk. Even the vermin, it seemed, were quick to seize opportunity today.

He ose from his chair with unhurried grace, brushing dust from his coat as he surveyed the scene unfolding before him. The once orderly crowd had swollen into a tide of shouting men, jostling elbows and raised voices, all pressing toward the Fellowship's makeshift camp. 

More and more... they keep coming, he thought, eyes narrowing. Across the line, the fifty men assigned to crowd control were straining, red-faced and sweating. A few had taken to shoving back the more aggressive with wooden rods—one even lashed out at a particularly eager brute who refused to stop pushing forward.

"Shit… didn't expect this many," Jarza muttered, striding up beside Alpheo. His brow was furrowed, eyes squinting against the rising sun.

Alpheo nodded slowly, the corner of his mouth quirking into a dry smile. "Most of them are here for a quick raid. A short campaign, a fat purse, and then back to their muddy villages with a story and some loot," he said. "They think we need them for a few weeks. The fools."

Jarza crossed his arms. "Too bad we can't take more. With a hundred more swords, we could carve out something worth remembering."

"We can afford no more than a hundred bowmen," Alpheo replied, running a hand through his dark hair, frustration flickering behind his calm exterior. "If we had more coin, we'd take more men. But we must work with the coffers we've got."

Jarza scoffed. "Then why fight for a beggar? What's the point of shedding blood for someone who can barely afford our boots?As you said we are short on coin and it doesn't seem like we will find much of it here"

Alpheo placed a hand on his shoulder—not heavy, but firm. "I am well aware of that, but I still decided to offer our sword for one simple reason, not all payments come in gold. Influence, land, secrets… favors owed by the right people. That's what keeps a company alive long after the purse runs dry.

It seems to me that you are simply looking at our situation as mercenaries; I am searching to upgrade our company to something more noble than simple wandering swords for hire."

Jarza scratched at the back of his neck, clearly unconvinced. "Still feels like we're the ones being played."

Alpheo smiled faintly. "Just because you can't see the game board doesn't mean you're not on it. Trust me—we're playing the long game here ."

As he said so he turned his gaze back to the swelling crowd. "Time to begin," he said, gesturing toward the others. "Let's find our new brothers."

With purpose in his step, Alpheo weaved through the ranks of his guards and made his way toward the gate where the crowd pressed hardest. Laedio, flushed and panting, greeted him with clear relief.

"Boss—men are barely holding them back. We've already had to knock a few senseless. Should we begin the selection before things turn uglier?"

Alpheo nodded, surveying the mob with a veteran's wariness. "Start letting them in. Fifty at a time. Use the rods—keep your swords sheathed unless you absolutely must draw blood. No fatalities unless they earn it, I don't want to report to that fucker in court of casualties in the city."

Laedio gave a curt nod and strode off, barking orders. The guards moved quickly, forming a corridor with their bodies and rods. Amidst curses, shoves, and a few bleeding noses, the first wave of fifty was corralled into a fenced-off clearing beside the market square.

Each recruit was handed a bow, the wood freshly strung and taut with resistance. The men looked from the bows to each other, uncertain, some flexing their arms in preparation, others already regretting their enthusiasm.

Alpheo stepped forward, cracking his neck with a sharp pop. His boots echoed over the packed dirt as he approached the line of recruits. He picked up a bow, inspected it briefly, then turned to face them.

"We are not looking for the fastest, nor the cleverest," he began, voice sharp as a blade and loud enough to cut through the crowd's mutterings. "We want strength. Control. Endurance."

He held the bow aloft and demonstrated, extending his arm, pulling the string back smoothly to his chest.

"Pull the string to your nipples—nothing less," he instructed. "And you will hold that position until I say otherwise. No shaking. No flinching. You drop early, you're done."

Some of the men glanced at each other. A few adjusted their grips, already trying to mimic his stance.

Alpheo continued, tone as hard as steel. "If you succeed, you'll earn three silverii a month and a two-silverii bonus upon signing. But this is no raid and run, if you are looking for a chance for a quick buck, this is not the place. The contract lasts three years. Break it, and you'll swing from a rope—your body displayed as an example to every other deserter with soft feet and empty promises."

He paused to let the words settle like a cold wind in their bones. "You want coin? You'll earn it. You want glory? Fight long enough, you'll find it. But if you want an easy life, turn around now and let someone braver take your place."

He gestured toward the rows of hopefuls with the finality of a judge delivering sentence.

"You have ten seconds to leave if you don't accept the terms."

Not a man moved.

Alpheo allowed himself the barest smile. "Then let's begin."

Good, Alpheo thought, a small nod confirming his approval. With a flick of his hand, he signaled the men stationed at the side. They stepped forward immediately, taking command of the selection process with smooth, drilled precision.

Following their captain's earlier demonstration, the instructors moved like a well-oiled machine—calm, confident, and intimidating. Each man drew his bow with practiced ease, the creak of taut strings adding a tense undertone to the charged silence. Then came the instructions again, barked with crisp clarity: extend the arm, pull the string to the chest—specifically, to the nipples—and hold.

The recruits, now tightly wound bundles of nerves and ambition, did as commanded. Bows creaked under strain. Arms trembled. Faces tightened. The task was deceptively simple—no targets to hit, no arrows to loose—just raw endurance, a test of whether a man could hold his weapon steady long enough to rain death in the chaos of battle.

Alpheo stood back, arms crossed as he observed. His eyes flicked from one candidate to the next, not missing a twitch, a sagging shoulder, or a clenched jaw. For all their swagger and bravado, many of the men had underestimated the sheer physical demand. They'd imagined glory. Instead, they found lactic acid and burning forearms.

By the twelfth round—twelve drawn holds, twelve tests of grit—the line had thinned. Men dropped out one by one: some with grunts of frustration, others with shame in their eyes, and a few simply collapsing to their knees, bow slipping from their fingers.

Alpheo didn't flinch. He hadn't expected more. War didn't favor the eager—it favored the stubborn.

When the final round ended, only eighteen remained. Of those, two had barely made it through, arms quivering like reeds in the wind. They were quietly removed, no shame given but no second chances offered. Sixteen remained—hard-eyed, silent, and sweat-slicked.

Good enough.

Alpheo stepped forward as the survivors were ushered to a rough wooden bench. One of the officers carried a thick ledger bound in cracked leather. There was no reading, no ceremonial oath—just a dish of ink, a square of paper, and the press of a thumb. One by one, the men signed their mark, binding themselves to three years of war, pay, and the possibility of death.

They didn't hesitate. Not one.

"Next fifty," Alpheo called out, his voice rising above the din of the crowd beyond the gates. Soon the guards barked and jostled the next wave into the clearing.

Another set of men stepped forward, their eyes hungry, some already flexing their arms as they saw the bows laid out. To them, this was a doorway to gold, fame, or escape from the dull rot of daily life. To Alpheo, they were another pile of clay to be shaped—or discarded.

He turned to watch again, unreadable as a statue.

The war hadn't even started, and already it was selecting its survivors.