The Palace of Bentram, the grand hall that has
once welcomed kings and
queens before.
It had entertained princes, bishops, scholars, merchants, and
victorious generals.
Yet there was a different weight in the air whenever mercenaries
crossed its gates.
Kings marched beneath banners. Mercenaries marched beneath
reputation.
One survived on bloodline, the other on just survival.
The great bronze doors groaned open.
One company after another entered the Hall of Sovereigns.
Unlike the polished nobles of Bentram's court, these men carried
scars instead of jewels.
Some still wore dried blood upon their boots; others had missing
fingers.
Broken noses, clouded eyes. Old wounds that no healer could
erase.
Nineteen mercenary companies had answered Bentram's invitation.
Some numbered barely fifteen swords, one nearly eighty.
Only one stood above the rest. The Bone Collectors. A hundred
hardened veterans.
Their captain walked first.
