As far as weather goes, the day couldn’t have been better. The sun bright and shiny high up in the sky, with nary a cloud in sight. It’s as if the gods themselves have blessed this day to see justice being dispensed.

  As is tradition.

  Well, the weird bastard’s right after all. Petryaev thought to himself as he, and the massive crowd around him, watched the drawn out execution of the latest hero turned traitor of the kingdom. Who, in a shocking twist, had planned on betraying the kingdom before being caught in the knick of time by the king’s guards.

  Which is a complete crock of shit to anyone who had known Rostov: nevermind any question on his moral character, he wasn’t even the actual hero who had defeated the demonic hordes…

  … but then, that sly bastard had foreseen all of that. He had to have. There’s no other reason for him to have dismissed the entire company at the peak of their victories, paying them each a pretty handsome sum of coins. Everyone thought at the time that he was just paying them off so that he himself could reap the entirety of the king’s reward, but the money at hand was good enough that they were mostly satisfied.

  And now as he remembered, all the while tuning out the screams of the soon to be dead, he realized that Alex was trying to save them all from death and disgrace.

  Speaking of that man, no one had any idea where he had gone, it was as if he had simply walked off the pages of the world…

  A sudden shout snapped Petryaev out of his melancholy musing. He looked around, not really seeing anything past the crowds immediately next to him, but even they looked rather agitated, or distressed, or something else entirely.

  Then he heard it. More shouts. “Lies!”, “Injustice!” and a lot of other less than polite words & phrases thrown about. Some of those voices were even familiar- With a start he realized that they were his battle comrades. The same men who were there, who had seen the unvarnished truth.

  And then he started moving forward, driven by a force he could not put a finger on. The people around him are also moving, as if driven by the same force. Belatedly he realized that said force is rage: rage at the revealing of the truth. The truth they had always known, but until now blinded by the suffocating bind of how things should be as told by those above.

  For when the reward for the highest of moral virtues is death and disgrace, then there’s nothing more to lose by being evil. And the mob, seemingly motivated by a newly found instinct, surged forth towards the execution platform.

  Countless were promptly cut down by the guards present, but the weight of the enraged mob still spewed forth like a torrent, soon drowning the hapless guards, whose armor and arms overwhelmed by the mass of bodies. More guards and city watch poured out from all directions, and soon they were joined by the royal knights on their mighty steeds.

  The last of which was decisive: trampling all those in their way like mud under their hooves. Blood & guts sprayed wherever they went, bones and souls broken by the might of those whose strength has only ever been used on the defenseless and in the back.

  The spontaneous rage of the mob quickly dissipated, replaced by fear. Fear that quickly manifested into reality as their bodies were crushed and their souls condemned into the next world.

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  All the while as the sun smiles on, seemingly obliviously… or perhaps sadistically. For what gods are they, who forsake only the defenseless and the downtrodden?

  Petryaev knew when to run, and the sight before him was more than enough reason. Whatever drive that had propelled him before was long gone. It was a somewhat difficult task, as he was far from the only one with that idea. But as time went on and more died the crowds began to thin out, the going got easier for those who remained.

  As he ducked into a narrow alleyway he saw that he was far from the first one to have that particular idea, for there were already a half a dozen others in various states of injury. A couple of faces he recognized, the rest he presumed also from the company. Ironic that the very people who have incited the mob that led to the death of many (and even more in the coming days: Petryaev knew as well as anyone that the royal court is in no mood for leniency after such a display of revolt) are the ones who have mostly escape the carnage.

  But they have little time to dwell on their latest mistakes, for the sounds of rage still thundered forth, even above the sounds of pain and death. Not a word needed to be spoken between them, for the common task is simple enough: get out of there.

  ------

  It has been a rough few days since then. The day when the veil dropped and the blood flowed, and as it turned out that the truth was far worse than any lie. A wagon lurched on a muddy road, alone, yet unmolested. A stench of barely restrained violence emanating from it deterring all the nearby would be bandits.

  The men inside, hardened as they are, pondered on their next steps. They have escaped, yes, and probably not even being chased after. Yet life is no longer the same, they can all feel it. It’s as if the very essence of the world has changed, and there’s no going back to what once was.

  But what is the forward? That they knew not.

  As they passed the crest of yet another hill they saw it: the walls of Vorkuta-on-Kek, a nominally unremarkable city on the border regions, which in happier times being festered with excitable would be adventurers, heroes to be, and the merchants who fleece them for all they’re worth.

  This time however, there is something different. A different flag flies proudly on its battlements. Moreover, a flag that they’re very familiar with, having fought under it… was it that a long time ago?

  Sprawled on that flag is the image of a crudely drawn image of a cock and balls, painted in a hideous green, underneath it scrawled the words: bend over, none shall be spared. Once a simple joke of their status, now a cruel commentary on the lives of all. Yet for all that the sight of which brought the thinnest of smiles on their faces, for it could only mean one thing.

  And that thing was confirmed as they neared the main gate of the city walls, as a single man, simply dressed, sitting on a wicker chair, and snacking on a bag of candies probably worth the life wages of a dozen farmers.

  “Well fancy that.” Alex said as the wagon stopped and the men within got out.

  “Are you-?” Petryaev asked, daring to hope for the first time in a while.

  “Reforming the Free Company of the Green Weenie?” Alex smiled as he got up from the chair. “Of course. Welcome back.” He said as he gave Petryaev a hug. “It’s gonna be rough going forward though.”

  “We’re ready to die for you.” Petryaev declared. Alex waved him off.

  “Dying? I need y’all to be living. Those guys, the guys we’re fighting against. They can do the dying.” He smirked, though they can all see the determination, tempered with more than a tinge of hatred, in his eyes. He paused for a moment to compose himself before speaking again. “Y’all do know the costs right? What we’re doing here is treason.”

  “Rostov was loyal, and he was rewarded with death.” Petryaev replied. “What’s the difference?”

  “Well, since you guys don’t see a difference, then neither do I.” Alex said smoothly, letting out a sigh that he didn’t know he was holding. “Well then, come on in. We have a war to win.”