No Honour Amongst The Living

Someone was following Isha Sava.

She could feel the presence trailing behind her, steady and deliberate. The streets of Enreth were quiet at this hour, the market long closed, and only the occasional clink of distant bells broke the stillness. It wasn't just anyone following her—this was someone who knew her habits and knew where she liked to disappear.

Isha had spent too long surviving to ignore such signs. She slipped through the narrow alleys with ease, her dark cloak blending with the shadows. The city had not changed since she left the military, but she had. She carried her past the way soldiers carried old scars: quietly and with purpose. Tonight, however, it seemed the past had come looking for her.

She stopped at the corner of an alley, listening to the faint scrape of boots over cobblestones. Whoever it was, they were too close now. Isha pressed herself against the rough wall of a tavern, waiting.

When her pursuer rounded the corner, she moved. In a single, fluid motion, she seized the man by his collar, slammed him into the wall, and pressed a knife to his throat.

Darren Kel coughed, though a grin tugged at the corner of his lips. "Easy, Sava. It’s me."

She narrowed her eyes but didn’t lower the blade. "You’ve got three breaths to explain yourself, Darren. Then I start taking parts."

Darren gave a mock sigh, though his hands stayed carefully by his sides. "Still as warm and friendly as ever, I see."

Isha’s hand twitched. "You’ve got two breaths now."

"Vareth’s looking for you," Darren said quickly. "The old bastard’s still sore about what happened out east."

At the mention of Vareth, a slow burn began in Isha’s chest. Darren was the last person she expected to drag that name back into her life. Vareth had been their commanding officer—a shrewd, ambitious man who had left Isha’s unit to die in enemy territory, all so he could retreat without dirtying his hands. Most of their comrades hadn’t made it back. Isha and Darren were among the few.

"You’re a fool for coming here," she muttered. "Vareth thinks I’m a loose thread. Why would you help me?"

Darren rolled his shoulders, the grin slipping into something quieter. "Because we both know Vareth doesn’t forgive or forget. And whatever I owe him, I owe you more."

Isha stared at him momentarily, her mind working through the angles. Darren Kel had been part of her unit—back when she still wore a soldier's uniform and followed orders that didn't sit right in her gut. He wasn't much of a fighter but stayed with her when everything fell apart. That counted for something, even if trust was in short supply.

Finally, she stepped back, sheathing her knife. "If Vareth wants me dead, he’s welcome to try. But he won’t be the one walking away."

"You’ll need more than just that knife," Darren said, rubbing his neck.

"I'll need men," Isha replied, glancing toward the city's edge. "And I know just the ones."

The mercenary camp sat nestled at the edge of the forest, hidden from prying eyes and out of reach of the law. Smoke curled from scattered fires, and the air was thick with the smell of leather, rusted steel, and damp earth. Men sharpened their blades and mended armor, speaking in low voices—mercenaries who’d learned not to trust anyone, even the ones at their backs.

Isha knew the camp's leader, Garran, well enough. He'd been a soldier in another life, just like her, though he left long before the disillusionment set in. Garran's face was a mess of old scars, his beard grey from age and hardship. He ran his band with a loose hand—enough discipline to keep them alive but never enough to feel like an army again.

Isha found him sitting by a low fire, puffing on his pipe and watching his men with an expression that might have passed for amusement.

"You’ve got a way of showing up when things get interesting," Garran muttered, not bothering to look up as she approached.

Isha sat across from him, letting the fire’s warmth soak into her bones. "Interesting or dangerous?"

Garran chuckled, smoke curling from his mouth. "With you, there’s never much of a difference."

They'd fought together once, years ago, back when the borders were still in dispute. Garran had been there when Vareth abandoned her unit. He had warned Isha to leave the army while she still had the chance, but she'd stayed—out of pride or maybe sheer stubbornness. Now, it seemed Garran's advice had finally caught up to her at last.

"You didn’t come just for the fire," Garran said after a moment, his sharp eyes flickering toward her. "What do you want, Sava?"

"Vareth," Isha answered plainly. "I need to finish what he started."

Garran gave a low hum at that, tapping ash from his pipe. "You know the cost of that, don't you? Men like him don't die easy."

"He won’t die at all if I wait," Isha replied. "And I’ve waited long enough."

Garran studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t the kind of man to hand out favors lightly, but Isha knew he respected one thing above all else—resolve. And she had plenty of it.

"You’ve got men for this?" Garran asked, arching a scarred brow.

"Not yet," she admitted. "But I’ve got you."

The old mercenary gave a slow grin, showing more teeth than necessary. "That you do, Sava. That you do."

The convoy came into view just before dawn, winding through the forest pass like a thread pulled too tight. Garran’s men crouched in the undergrowth, their weapons gleaming faintly under the pale moonlight. Isha knelt beside Garran, her gaze fixed on the lead wagon.

“When we hit them, don’t give them room to breathe,” she whispered. “We finish this fast.”

Garran nodded, the firelight reflecting off the scars across his face. “Just like old times.”

At her signal, arrows whistled through the air, striking the lead guards with a sickening thud. Isha was the first to move—sword drawn, boots silent on the damp forest floor. She flowed between the enemy ranks, every strike deliberate, every movement smooth and deadly.

The convoy erupted into chaos, men shouting as they tried to regroup. Isha cut through them like a blade through silk—slashing, parrying, twisting her sword in tight arcs that left no room for retaliation. Blood sprayed across the leaves, and the weight of her strikes staggered those unlucky enough to face her.

In the midst of it all, she found him—Vareth. His sword gleamed in the firelight, his expression twisted with fury.

“You always were a stubborn fool, Sava,” he snarled, raising his weapon.

“Learned from the best,” she shot back, swinging her blade in a tight arc.

Their swords clashed, the impact jolting through her arms. Vareth fought with the brute strength of a man desperate to survive, but Isha danced around him, using his weight against him. Every time he lunged, she sidestepped, slashing at his exposed side.

Vareth gritted his teeth and threw a wild swing, aiming for her head. Isha ducked beneath it, spinning on her heel to slam the pommel of her sword into his ribs. He stumbled, gasping for breath, but managed to recover, slashing at her with renewed fury.

The fight became a storm of steel and blood. Isha moved like a shadow—quick, relentless—her sword a seamless extension of her will. She parried one of Vareth’s strikes and, with a fluid twist, caught his sword between hers. With a sharp wrench, she disarmed him, sending his blade clattering to the ground.

Before Vareth could react, she drove him back into a tree, her blade pressed to his throat. His breath came in ragged bursts, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

“You left us to die,” she whispered, her voice low and cold. “This is where it ends.”

Vareth’s laugh was bitter, tinged with fear. “You think they’ll follow you after this? They’ll turn on you, Sava.”

“Victory isn’t clean, and loyalty isn’t earned with promises. We fight, we bleed, and if we’re lucky, we live long enough to regret it. They want honor? They can find a priest. I’ll give them survival,” she replied, and with one final thrust, she ended him.

She drove the blade home, and the forest fell silent.

When the dust settled, Garran approached her, grinning around his pipe. "Well, Captain," he said, amusement thick in his voice. "What now?"

Isha stood still for a moment, the weight of her sword heavy in her hand. The men around her—some wounded, some still catching their breath—watched with quiet reverence, waiting to see what kind of leader she would be. They had fought for her tonight, bled for her, and now she owed them more than words.

She glanced at the battlefield—Vareth's lifeless form crumpled against the roots of the old tree, his sword lying useless in the mud. For years, the shadow of his betrayal had followed her, haunting her every step. Now, at last, that shadow was gone. But victory was a fickle thing, and she knew better than to believe this was the end of the road.

She sheathed her sword with a quiet hiss, turning her gaze toward the men—her men now.

“Now,” she said, her voice steady, “we build something that lasts.”

Garran chuckled through the pipe clamped between his teeth. “Not much of a plan, Captain.”

Isha gave a slight, tired grin. "We'll make it up as we go."

The survivors gathered closer, leaning on their weapons and exchanging weary glances. They were a ragtag group—ex-soldiers, outlaws, deserters. Men who had learned the hard way that loyalty wasn't free and trust had to be earned one battle at a time.

But there was something different in the way they looked at Isha now. She hadn't just given them a reason to fight—she had proven that she was willing to lead from the front, to bleed with them, to take the same risks they did in a world where betrayal was common, and promises meant little, that counted for everything.

Garran knocked the ashes from his pipe and gave her a look somewhere between respect and curiosity. “Aye, well. I’ve followed worse fools.”

"And better ones," she shot back with a grin.

He barked a laugh and nudged her with his elbow. “You might even make a half-decent captain, Sava.”

She rolled her shoulders, easing the tension from muscles that had been wound tight for far too long. The forest felt quieter now, the night softer, as if the world itself had shifted slightly in her favor. The fire crackled behind them, and the scent of burning wood mingled with the iron tang of blood.

It wasn’t much—a handful of men, a stretch of forest, and the memory of victory still fresh in their minds. But it was enough. Enough to start something new. Something dangerous.

"You fought well tonight," Garran muttered, glancing at the others. “They’ll follow you now, I reckon.”\

Isha gave a slow nod. "They’ll follow until I give them a reason not to."

"And then?"

She shrugged, her gaze drifting toward the horizon where the first light of dawn bled into the sky. "Then they can try their luck elsewhere." Her voice carried a quiet confidence, not arrogance—just the hard truth of someone who knew that survival was earned, never given.

The men began to gather the spoils of the battle—piling weapons, armor, and anything of value from Vareth’s convoy. They moved with the efficiency of soldiers who had been on both sides of the blade. Isha stood among them, not as an outsider anymore, but as something new. Something more.

Garran slapped her on the back, his grin sharp as ever. "Here’s to the Iron Hand, then," he said, raising an imaginary cup. "May we never run out of fights or fools."

Isha allowed herself a rare smile. "We won’t," she said quietly. "There’s always someone who needs reminding."

She looked at the men—her men—knowing full well that loyalty in this line of work was a fleeting thing. But for now, they were hers, and that was enough.

Together, they would carve their name into the bones of this world. One battle at a time.

And so, the Iron Hand was born.

They would fight for coin, glory, and sometimes just to see who stood tallest at the end of the day. But beneath it all, they would follow Isha Sava—because she gave them something worth following. No promises, no dreams—just the cold, unyielding truth that only the strong survive in this life.

And Isha Sava intended to survive for a long, long time.