Sonnst was all stone and iron, populated by people who had long since misplaced their sense of humor. We walked in with four hundred crowns clinking in our pockets, like drunken sailors on shore leave, hurrying to blow their earnings before waking up in a ditch.

  "Objective: Rebranding," Gunther announced, scanning the shop signs. "We need a visual ID. We aren't a gang of vagrants anymore — we are a legal entity with a license to utilize violence."

  In the tailor’s shop, we haggled not for fabric, but for the very essence of our company.

  "We need a Standard," Gunther said. "Cost-effective, but imposing. Visible from a distance, but it shouldn't cost more than a pair of boots."

  "I can embroider a lion with gold thread," the tailor suggested, eyeing our purse appraisingly. "One thousand crowns."

  "We have the budget for a mangy cat, not a lion," Gunther cut him off. "We need Serpents. Three of them. White on green."

  "Why serpents?"

  "Because the serpent is the most economical beast. It keeps a low profile, eats rarely (saving supplies), and bites venomously, dealing high damage with minimal effort. That is our corporate philosophy."

  The tailor sewed the banner for two hundred and fifty. The serpents turned out looking like worms suffering from arthritis, and the green fabric matched the color of mold on forgotten bread.

  "Perfection," Jem summarized, examining the result. "Coat of Arms: 'Do Not Touch — Will Kill and Infect'. The art direction is 'my mom says I’m a designer', but at least the textures loaded."

  On the way out, at a junk dealer’s stall, Jem froze. His gaze was fixed on an object lying between a rusty bucket and a broken chair.

  It was a Lute. Or rather, what was left of it after meeting someone’s heavy boot. The neck was wrapped in twine, and the soundboard had a crack glued over with resin.

  "Gunther," Jem whispered. "Buy it."

  "No."

  "It’s the call of the Muses!"

  "Muses are not on the payroll," Gunther’s voice was harder than steel. "We are broke. The remaining funds are an emergency reserve for food and repairs. You cannot smash a skull with a lute."

  Jem narrowed his eyes slyly. He reached deep into the pocket of his oversized trousers.

  "What about a barter?"

  "We have nothing to trade," Gunther dismissed. "Everything is accounted for in the ledger."

  "Not everything," the Jester whispered.

  A gold chain glinted in his palm. Thin, elegant. The same one worn by one of the raiders we killed. Gunther was sure the body had been searched and nothing found.

  The Accountant choked on air.

  "You... You concealed an asset?! That is a violation of contract clause 4.1! Embezzlement of corporate property!"

  "It’s a hazard bonus," Jem shot back. "I can hand it over to the general fund, and we’ll eat through it in two days. Or I can convert it into a Fatigue Management Tool."

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  Gunther froze. His greed battled with his logic.

  "Explain."

  "Mechanics," Jem began improvising quickly, waving the gold in front of the junk dealer’s nose. "Music accelerates stamina regeneration. When Dieter gets tired of swinging his shield, my chord will give him the strength for an extra block. It’s a buff, Gunther. Acoustic doping. +5 to Fatigue Recovery per turn."

  Gunther frowned. Accelerating stamina recovery... It sounded like nonsense, but mathematically it was profitable.

  "Swap it," he hissed. "But if I see you holding back even a copper again, I will deduct it from your hide."

  The deal was done. The junk dealer greedily grabbed the chain, and Jem clutched the "firewood" to his chest with the look of a happy maniac.

  "Now our circus has an orchestra. I shall name her 'The Skryll of Fate'."

  The main question remained: who would carry the Serpents?

  The Sergeant formed up the squad. Everyone was in line: the veterans of the first days and the newbies hired in the chaos of recent times.

  "The Banner is the Soul of the Squad!" the Sergeant barked. "Who is ready to become a Beacon for the rest?"

  Eyes turned to Adler. Our veteran had changed. Regular (albeit strange) meals had borne fruit. Adler had noticeably rounded out. His belly hung over his belt, his cheeks were pink.

  "I can't, Sergeant," Adler patted his gut philosophically. "First time in my life I'm too fat for a job. Feels... good, actually. Center of gravity shifted. I am now... a massive element of defense. The wind won't blow me away, but running with a rag — no thanks."

  "Logged," Gunther nodded. "Adler transferred to the 'Heavy Infantry' weight category thanks to successful caloric investment."

  A tall, stooped man took a half-step forward from the line.

  [EMPLOYEE DOSSIER #8: GISEL]

  Background: Mason.

  Legend: Claims to be an Architect with a diploma from the Imperial University.

  Reality: Hands calloused from laying bricks, but an ego higher than a cathedral spire.

  "I would be glad to," Gisel began floridly. "But as a man with higher architectural education, I must note that vertical load on my spine is contraindicated. The back, you know... professional deformation from the drafting board."

  "Your back hurts from hauling bricks, 'architect'," the Sergeant snorted. "Get back in line."

  Otwin stepped forward. A simple man with calloused hands, straight as a sledgehammer strike.

  [EMPLOYEE DOSSIER #9: OTWIN]

  Background: Daytaler.

  Characteristics: Used to working from dawn to dusk for pennies. Fatigue — infinite. Ambition — absent.

  "I'll carry it," Otwin said simply. "It's no heavier than a sack of grain. Does it pay the same?"

  "It pays in honor," said the Sergeant. "Take it."

  The Sergeant handed the banner to Otwin. Otwin took the banner with both hands, like a man receiving a title he never asked for. For a second, his face held something close to pride.

  And then History happened. Or rather, a tactical error that became History.

  "Stand here," the Sergeant pointed to a spot in the front row, on the edge.

  "Sergeant?" Jem tentatively touched a string, producing the sound of a snapping gut. "Maybe hide the Standard-Bearer behind the backs? It’s safer there. He has no armor, only a shirt."

  "If the flag's not seen, what's the point?!" the Sergeant barked. "What good is a banner if it’s blocked by Dieter’s wide back or Adler’s belly? The enemy must see that we are not afraid! Otwin, you are the Face of the Company!"

  Jem looked at Otwin. Then at the invisible tag above his head: [PRIORITY TARGET].

  "You didn't just expose the face of the company," the Jester said quietly. "You exposed a bullseye. Enemy archers love bright things. It’s scripted in their AI."

  "Don't get smart, Jester. Play a march."

  We marched out of Sonnst. The picture was epic.

  In front walked the Sergeant, proud of his HR policy. Next to him strode Dieter in his wolf skin. Adler carried his new belly with the dignity of a veteran. And to the side shone Otwin the Daytaler, waving the Serpent Banner so that every sniper within a kilometer could see him.

  And bringing up the rear was Jem, who struck the strings. The lute emitted a sound — BRR-RNG-KHH — like the death rattle of a majestic cat with a cold. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howled in sympathetic agony.

  "Excellent," Gunther nodded from the cart. "It sounds disgusting. The enemy will be demoralized. We are ready for war."

  We marched toward our fate.

  We had a Flag. We had a Lute bought with stolen gold. And we had Otwin, who was living his final days because the Sergeant believed in Pathos more than in Ballistics.

  (END OF VOLUME 1)