Under the Bridge of Draegnar

The rain pounded hard on the stone bridge of Draegnar, a fitting backdrop for the sour mood of Korran, the sellsword. He stood there, arms crossed, boots sinking into the mud, waiting impatiently for his informant. He was a man of few words, a blade for hire with little time for pleasantries. He only cared about coin, but recent events had set his temper on edge.

“I didn’t hire you to get wet,” he muttered under his breath, annoyed at his own predicament.

Then came the sound of soft footsteps approaching—delicate, too light for a soldier. A girl in a simple robe hurried toward him, holding a makeshift umbrella. She was young, maybe sixteen, and looked out of place in the world of battle and bloodshed. She clutched a satchel to her chest, her wide eyes glistening with nervousness.

“You’re late,” Korran grumbled, his tone sharp.

“I-I’m sorry,” she stammered, bowing slightly. “I got lost in the streets of Valtra. My name is Elira. I… I was sent with a message.”

“A message from who?” Korran raised an eyebrow. She didn’t seem like the type to run in dangerous circles.

“Master Arcanis. He said you’d want to know—King Malric has died. The throne is being passed to Prince Draythen,” Elira said in a rush, as though the words might slip from her if she didn’t get them out fast enough.

Korran scoffed. “And? What’s a sellsword like me got to do with royal games?”

Elira shifted uneasily, her fingers fiddling with the strap of her satchel. “Well… Master Arcanis said you’d be interested because… of the rumors. There are those who say Draythen is unfit to rule. That his reputation—”

Korran cut her off with a low growl. “Draythen doesn’t need my help. He’s already got half the kingdom in his pocket.”

“But not all,” Elira said, more firmly this time, surprising herself with her own boldness. “There’s one who challenges him—Lady Marelle, the court mage. People say she seeks the throne herself.”

Korran’s eyes narrowed. Lady Marelle. That name carried weight. She was a rival, but also someone whose reputation had been under siege after a failed coup attempt years ago. Salvaging her honor was a dangerous game to play.

“Let me guess, your ‘Master’ wants me to help Marelle take the throne?” Korran asked.

“No, not Marelle,” Elira corrected. “There’s someone else… someone closer to Draythen than you might think.”

Before Korran could question her further, the sound of steel being drawn echoed under the bridge. Shadows moved in the dim light. They were surrounded.

“Looks like we have company,” Korran muttered, drawing his sword. “Stay behind me.”

Elira stepped back, watching with wide eyes as a group of armed men emerged from the gloom. At their head was a man Korran recognized—Vorrik, a fellow sellsword. A rival, one he had faced on the battlefield more than once.

“Korran,” Vorrik greeted, his voice smooth but laced with threat. “Still brooding under bridges, I see. How fitting.”

“I don’t have time for your theatrics, Vorrik,” Korran growled. “You here to fight, or talk?”

“Neither,” Vorrik said, surprising him. “I’m here to deliver a message of my own. You’ve been played, Korran. Draythen doesn’t need his throne challenged. He’s the one who sent me here… to help you.”

Korran frowned, sword still raised. “Help? Why would Draythen send a sellsword to help another sellsword?”

“Because Lady Marelle’s not the enemy, Korran. She’s been protecting Draythen all along. Everything you’ve heard is a lie, and Draythen’s reputation is in danger. If Marelle falls, so does he,” Vorrik explained.

Korran blinked, taken aback. He glanced at Elira, who was equally stunned. The pieces began to fall into place. Marelle’s supposed bid for power had been nothing more than smoke, and the real enemy was elsewhere, hiding in the shadows.

Vorrik sheathed his sword. “You’ve been chasing ghosts. We’re on the same side this time, Korran. Draythen needs us both.”

The twist hit Korran hard, but he wasn’t one for sentiment. “Fine,” he grunted. “But if this goes sideways, Vorrik, your head is mine.”

Elira, still clutching her satchel, smiled faintly. Perhaps there was more to this world than just magic and bloodshed. Even a brusque sellsword like Korran could find an ally in the most unlikely places.

Together, under the bridge of Draegnar, an unlikely friendship was forged.