Alto, Capital of Harmonia

  In the heart of Harmonia, cradled by silver-leafed trees and winds that carried the faintest hum of music, rose the capital city of Alto—a place where history lingered in stone and destiny often walked unseen.

  On the edge of the Crotchet District, where tavern smoke mingled with the clang of steel, lived Themis Valeheart—a swordsman of calm gaze and quiet resolve. Clad always in worn leathers and the scent of iron, he trained daily, living simply, yet carrying a burden he could not name.

  At his side was Heathcliff Ashvane, brother-in-arms if not by blood—charming, sly, with a spear across his back and laughter tucked behind every grin.

  Now the two stood before the towering gates of Alto’s castle, summoned without warning.

  Themis tilted his head back, studying the colossal doors.

  “You think it was Brauer who called us?”

  Heathcliff smirked.

  “If not, then we’re either about to be knighted… or executed. Only kings and fools summon mercenaries to a castle.”

  Themis chuckled dryly.

  “Let’s hope for the former.”

  The gates groaned open, spilling them into vast marble halls where stained glass cast rivers of colored light. Every step echoed like a drumbeat of fate.

  From the shadows emerged a cloaked figure—tall, broad, eyes as sharp as whetted steel. His voice carried the weight of mountains.

  “Welcome, gentlemen. I am Brauer Vornstahl, Commander of the Order of Mezzo Forte. I'm glad I finally meet the two mercenaries who make noise in the tavern lately.”

  Themis bowed his head. Heathcliff only raised an eyebrow.

  “We’ve heard the name,” Heathcliff said. “Didn’t expect the man behind it to look like a fortress given legs.”

  Brauer’s expression did not shift.

  “Flattery won’t lessen the weight of what I ask.”

  He turned his gaze on Heathcliff.

  “Your reputation precedes you—especially from the Southern Campaign.”

  The grin faltered from Heathcliff’s lips. For a moment, something darker passed his eyes.

  “Let’s not dig up graves, Commander.”

  Themis glanced at him but stayed silent.

  Brauer’s gaze swept across them both.

  “The Rhapsodia Empire has broken the treaty. Our spies confirm it—they march for Lar Sonata and the Tower of Wind. Harmonia’s forces are stretched thin guarding the ancient city. The Tower stands exposed.”

  He stepped closer, lowering his tone.

  “The king himself has ordered a strike team. I prefer to choose you. Unbound by court and crown, you are free of politics—and that is what we need.”

  A silence fell, heavy as stone.

  Themis inclined his head.

  “If the king calls, I answer.”

  Heathcliff exhaled through his nose.

  “And where he goes, I go. But if we’re climbing ancient towers, I expect hazard pay.”

  For the first time, Brauer’s lips twitched, almost a smile.

  “You’ll have it. Gold enough to make it worth your steel.”

  He turned, his cape sweeping the polished floor.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Come. It’s time you met the others.”

  Meeting of the Crew

  The chamber was modest by Alto’s standards—stone walls etched with reliefs of wars past, music woven into the very carvings. Pale light filtered through arched windows, falling across a long table scattered with maps and briefs. The air smelled of parchment, oiled steel, and cold stone.

  Themis stood by the far window, hands resting on the hilt of his sword, gaze steady. Heathcliff leaned against the wall beside him, arms folded, more sentinel than soldier.

  The door opened.

  Trieni Faewind entered first. Tall and athletic, her movements carried the ease of a predator. A mane of curly auburn hair framed her strong face, and her vibrant green eyes scanned the room like a hawk measuring prey. A bow rested across her back, her stance radiating confidence and challenge alike.

  She stopped before Themis, lips twitching.

  “So. You’re the one who fought off five Rhapsodian scouts?”

  Themis tilted his head. “Only three. The other two ran.”

  A coin flashed in the air. He caught it without blinking.

  “Not bad,” she snorted.

  Next came Trish Glacenwell. Petite and agile, she moved with a quiet grace, short spiky black hair catching faint glimmers of torchlight. Her ice-blue eyes were striking—sharp, yet distant, like frozen lakes that revealed little of what lay beneath. Frost clung faintly to her fingers, shimmering with a soft, unnatural glow.

  She bowed gently.

  “Trish. Ice mage… and healer, if you need one.”

  Her voice was soft, but her calm, distant eyes made Heathcliff narrow his own. This girl was no simple mountain stray.

  The last to arrive was Tristan Ardyn Cero. Lean and deliberate in every step, his black coat swayed as he entered the chamber. Shaggy brown hair partly shadowed his face, but the faint cross-shaped scar that ran across his cheek drew the eye. His earthy-brown gaze was steady, composed, and watchful, revealing nothing more than he allowed. Even the candlelight seemed to hesitate around him.

  A thin, gleaming blade hung at his hip.

  “Tristan,” he said smoothly. “Strategist. Swordsman, if the plan goes wrong.”

  A faint smile. “It usually does.”

  Themis studied them all— Each formidable. Each stranger.

  He stepped forward.

  “Themis Valeheart. Swordsman, from Crotchet. I didn’t ask for command… but I’ll stand at the front, if you’ll follow.”

  Heathcliff placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “And I’m Heathcliff Ashvane. Call me his brother, though blood says otherwise. If he trusts you, so do I.”

  Trieni raised a brow. “Big words for a group that’s never bled together.”

  Tristan’s reply was silk over steel. “Then let’s fix that. The Strategists called us here for a reason. If we’re to survive, we must learn how each of us fights.”

  Trish gave a faint nod. “And trust… takes time. But we can try.”

  Before another word could be spoken, Brauer, the royal envoy spoke.

  “King Musica extends his support,” Brauer said, voice steady as stone. From his satchel he withdrew a sealed parchment, the royal crest pressed in silver wax, and laid it upon the table. “This is a castle pass. It grants you access to Harmonia’s halls and resources when your mission requires it.”

  His gaze swept over the group, firm but not unkind.

  “If you find yourselves short-handed or your strength is not enough, go to Alto’s Tavern. Speak to the keeper there—he knows which blades and talents can be trusted. Recruit who you must. The mission’s success outweighs the cost.”

  He turned toward Themis. “Form your band well, Valeheart. The road ahead will not be kind.”

  Themis met his gaze, the weight of responsibility pressing heavier than his sword. He inclined his head. “Understood.”

  Brauer gave a single nod and departed, the echo of his boots fading into the hall.

  Silence lingered. Then Themis drew a slow breath. His gaze swept over them—predator archer, frost-born healer, calculating blade, loyal brother. Not yet a team. But perhaps something close.

  “Then we start now. Together. Mercenaries, maybe. But not for coin alone. We fight for each other.”

  Silence, heavy and uncertain.

  Then Trieni’s smirk widened.

  “Alright, captain. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  The wind stirred the windows. Outside, war gathered. Inside, something new was beginning.