The assembly of hardened faces before Elias Thorne was a tableau he’d anticipated with grim precision. He saw the glint of desperation in their eyes, the weariness etched into their weathered visages, the silent challenge in their stances. These were the city’s discarded, the unchained dogs of Veridia, selling their honed skills for coin amidst the grinding gears of industrial innovation and the volatile hum of Aetherium. Their lives were a constant gamble against arcane dangers and the city's predatory underbelly. They craved power and stability, an instinct as fundamental as breath. Elias knew this. His own past failures, etched into his mind with the searing clarity of a temporal echo, had taught him that survival twisted even the noblest souls. He understood the mercenary heart because a part of him, too, fought for survival against a coming catastrophe. He felt the familiar surge of raw Aetherium in his veins, a silent promise of potent, unstable energy at his command. He would use it to forge them, to bend their wills to his singular, desperate purpose. “An Arcanist-Healer will tend to him,” Elias’s voice, low and resonant, cut through the tense silence of the improvised training ground. He nudged the fallen mercenary with the toe of his reinforced boot, a precise, measured jab that carried the subtle, searing heat of channeled Aetherium. The man twitched, a ragged breath escaping his lips. “A few days abed, dosed with restorative serums, and he’ll be good as new. Charges of Patrician insolence rarely warrant more than a few days’ confinement, do they?” No one dared to challenge him, to point out the nuance of a noble’s *son* not holding formal Patrician rank, or the usual, paltry punishment for such a transgression. The truth was irrelevant. Elias’s control of the moment was absolute. Murmurs rippled through the ranks, hushed and astonished. Those who had sneered, who had mocked his youth and ambition, now averted their gazes, their faces slack with a dawning awe. A searing, brilliant golden radiance had erupted from Elias’s open palm moments before, enveloping the insolent mercenary in a crackling field of pure Aetherium. It had immobilized him, shocked him, and left him gasping on the ground without a single visible mark. The raw power had silenced them all. Even Korr, the imposing A-rank mercenary Elias had already secured, let out a slow, controlled sigh. He was a veteran, a man of few words and precise movements, but the display had clearly affected him. Still, he stepped forward, his voice a low growl. “Was this extreme necessary, Master Thorne?” Elias met Korr’s gaze, a flicker of grim resolve in his own eyes. “These aren’t A-rank specialists like you, Korr. Their loyalty is to the highest bidder, their commitment to the easiest payout. They won’t breach a contract outright, but they’ll fulfill it with half a heart, their minds elsewhere.” He heard the echoes of past failures in his own voice, the spectral whispers of a tragedy he still strove to outrun. Korr frowned, a crease forming between his heavy brows. “What does that have to do with it? If I manage them correctly—” Elias cut him off, a sharp, almost imperceptible surge of Aetherium tingling beneath his skin. He didn’t need to convince Korr, not fully. This raw display was a necessary precursor, an iron brand upon their collective memory, especially given the volatile, Aetherium-infused armaments he intended to issue them. “I will eventually lead these men into situations where hesitation means disaster. Where failure means the end of everything. If I impress upon them my authority now, with undeniable force, they will not question my commands in the future. It makes your task of forging them into a cohesive unit immeasurably easier, does it not?” Korr’s initial confusion morphed into a stark understanding. The formidable mercenary regarded Elias with new eyes. *This isn't merely a game of soldiers,* Korr’s thoughts seemed to echo in the heavy air. Then the absurd term, “Cogwheel Cavalry,” had been whispered among Elias’s inner circle, a concept so audacious it bordered on madness. Now, as the implications of Elias’s raw power settled, a fresh tension gripped Korr. Elias felt a grim satisfaction bloom within him. This was the second effect, precisely what he had engineered with his brutal display. “I am Elias Thorne. I am the one who has assembled you.” Only once the last ripples of shock had faded did Elias offer a formal introduction. He ascended the makeshift stage, cobbled together from discarded crates and a reinforced plating, the silence of the training ground a tangible shroud. The air thrummed with the faint, rhythmic pulse of the city’s distant Aetherium conduits, a constant reminder of Veridia’s perilous power source. Elias relished the profound quiet before he continued. “Many of you are no doubt curious why I summoned you, why I offered such a substantial advance.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over the expectant, hungry faces of the mercenaries. His lips curved into a faint, humorless smirk. “For the record, the time you’ve spent waiting will be remunerated. Do not mistake me for some charlatan peddling vaporware, attempting to ensnare you with hollow promises.” A few nervous snickers broke the oppressive silence. Elias let them hang in the air for a moment, then drove straight to the point. “My intent is to train you as cavalry. This will necessitate a long-term commitment, a contract spanning at least a full cycle, a year.” For mercenaries accustomed to gambling their lives for fleeting coin, a long-term contract was an unheard-of boon. Clients rarely offered such stability when conflict loomed. Every skirmish chipped away at a mercenary’s life expectancy, making extended agreements illogical before a deployment. Thus, a long-term contract implied an absence of immediate, deadly battles, promising instead a steady flow of Veridian Sovereigns into their worn leather pouches. The hope in their eyes sparked brighter. “However,” Elias continued, his voice devoid of warmth, “every one of you will undergo rigorous training under Korr. The period of this mandatory indoctrination will be no less than three months.” The initial surge of excitement dimmed, a low hum of discontent replacing it. Training was hardship, a forced regimen that tested body and spirit. Their expressions hardened, some already weighing the cost against the benefit. “Even with that, consider the compensation.” “This is… vexing,” a gruff voice grumbled from the back. The mercenaries erupted into a low clamor of murmurs, their reasons varied, their complaints simmering. Elias waited until the noise reached a peak, then spoke his next words, silencing them instantly. “The contract stipulates a single year. Your monthly salary will be four hundred Veridian Sovereigns. And the Ironhoof chargers provided to you for this period will be yours upon the contract’s conclusion.” They stared, dumbstruck. Then, slowly, comprehension dawned. Their eyes widened, their mouths gaped. Four hundred Sovereigns? The horses, too? It was an unprecedented, almost insane offer. “I’m in!” a voice roared, then another, and another. The training ground erupted in cheers, a sudden, jubilant cacophony. It was an irresistible proposition. A C-rank mercenary might earn four hundred Sovereigns during wartime, but their rates plummeted dramatically in peacetime, barely enough to keep them fed and sheltered. To guarantee such an income, unabated, was akin to bestowing a three-month bonus before a single training drill. No mercenary in their right mind could refuse. “However,” Elias interjected, his voice cutting through the rising tide of enthusiasm, “I intend to train you as Cogwheel Cavalry. I have no use for those who cannot adapt to the rigors of this specialized unit.” At this, the faces of some mercenaries darkened once more. The concept of Cogwheel Cavalry was audacious, almost nonsensical. Beyond the inherent challenge of handling a charger, channeling raw Aetherium while mounted, maneuvering through volatile Aether-fog, and maintaining tactical formation demanded an agility and flexibility that far exceeded mere horsemanship. It was a skill set for the elite, not the common foot soldier. “We’ll begin with a straightforward qualifying test.” Murmurs swelled again, but no one voiced an objection. The stakes were too high, the reward too great. By the day’s end, Elias had signed contracts with three hundred and twelve mercenaries, rejecting thirty-eight – thirteen had balked at the mandatory training, and twenty-five had failed the initial qualifying test. The grueling training, overseen by Korr and a few of Elias’s most trusted lieutenants, commenced the very next day. *** Talon had been prepared for anything. Hardship. Scrutiny. Brutal, unforgiving drills designed to break the weak. Yet, on his first day within Elias Thorne’s burgeoning domain, the orders were baffling. “First, eat well and sleep well.” “That is all you must do.” Despite his confusion, the master had vanished, leaving Talon and his younger sister, Lyra, in the hands of Elias’s aides. And from that day, the meals and lodging provided were a luxury Talon had never known – nutrient-rich stews, synthesized proteins, soft, warm bread, and a bed that cradled him in comfort instead of digging into his bruised ribs. He, who had braced himself for relentless torment, felt disoriented. It was almost three days before Talon’s curiosity found its answer. “Out here, Talon. Training begins.” The day broke early, just as the first grey light bled over Veridia’s smog-choked skyline. Elias Thorne stood, a stark silhouette against the industrial haze, ready to begin Talon’s personalized regimen. He observed the boy, taking in his slightly fuller cheeks, the subtle glow of returning vitality in his eyes. “You recover quickly for your age. A few days of proper sustenance and rest, and look at you.” A bad premonition, a cold coil of dread, tightened in Talon’s gut. He braced himself, instinctively tensing. His premonition soon solidified into reality. “If you falter again, push harder! You can do more, run!” Elias’s barked commands, sharp as cracking whips, echoed across the sprawling training field. Talon gritted his teeth, a metallic taste blooming on his tongue, and forced his exhausted body onward. He might not possess the raw Aetherium mastery of Elias Thorne, but he possessed an iron will forged in Veridia’s unforgiving streets. Elias, channeling a whisper of Aetherium into his own senses, registered the boy’s every strained breath, every trembling muscle. He was impressed already. *Just a bit of good food, and he possesses…* Elias watched Talon closely, demonstrating a specific Veridian bladecraft stance while ensuring he never pushed the boy beyond his absolute limits. He saw the spectral outlines of a tragic future, a young man consumed by rage, and knew he had to shape this boy differently. Talon practically collapsed the moment Elias gave the word, gasping for air, muscles screaming in protest. Lyra, Talon’s anxious sister, rushed forward, her small frame surprisingly swift. Her pitiful eyes darted between her brother and Elias. Elias offered a grim nod, a silent assurance that he would not break the boy, only temper him. Lyra, clutching a water skin and a rough towel, rushed to Talon, her touch gentle. Elias watched their interaction, a knot in his chest tightening. He saw his own past reflected, the echoes of his failures haunting the periphery of his vision. *Indeed, he has talent. And…* At only fourteen cycles, Talon was small for his age, a result of chronic malnutrition, yet he had endured nearly twenty kilometers of relentless running before nearing his limit. It was an undeniable indication of a potential far exceeding that of ordinary humans. More than that, Elias admired the boy’s sheer tenacity, his stubborn refusal to yield even when his body threatened to betray him. Talon’s fierce perseverance slowly, painstakingly, began to dispel one of Elias’s most profound concerns. *At least he is not naturally predisposed to the madness. Not yet.* In the temporal echoes Elias carried, the Talon of the tragic future had symbolized brutal, almost inhuman violence, a tool of destruction. But what Elias observed now was not an innate bloodlust, but a desperation, a raw will to survive for himself and his sister. *There must have been a reason he became that way before. Likely…* Elias’s eyes drifted to Lyra, who was now fanning her brother with the towel. He watched the siblings for a moment longer, a fierce protectiveness rising within him, then hardened his resolve. There was no time for sentiment. “Enough! Up! Next training.” Barely fifteen minutes had passed since Talon’s collapse. Elias began the next phase, demonstrating a fundamental Veridian bladecraft sequence. “The position of the feet is crucial,” he explained, his voice low and precise, “when transitioning from this defensive stance to the after-movement, a rapid counter-thrust…” Though Talon’s body still trembled, and he struggled to catch his breath, his eyes did not waver. They were fixed, almost unnervingly, on Elias’s every movement, every subtle shift of weight, every arc of the practice blade. *Concentrate. Focus!* Talon fought against the overwhelming desire to simply collapse, to surrender to the blissful oblivion of sleep. Doubt gnawed at him, whispering that he could not possibly rise again, let alone learn. Yet one fact kept him standing, kept his gaze locked on Elias. *If good food and comfortable lodgings are the price for all this, it’s worth it…* He bit down hard on his lower lip until he tasted blood, the sharp, metallic tang momentarily clearing the fog from his mind. His eyes, now sharper, focused intently on Elias’s demonstration. Elias had to actively suppress a gasp of astonishment. *He follows along after just one demonstration?* Even the most basic bladecraft technique was not something a novice could mimic perfectly after a single demonstration, especially after an exhaustive workout that pushed him to the very brink of his limits. Yet Talon, despite his raw, physical exhaustion, executed the movements with an unnerving precision, his body recalling what his mind, perhaps, could not fully process. Elias felt a cold certainty settle in his chest. This boy was extraordinary, a vital cog in the machine he was building, a potential he *had* to protect from the echoes of his own bitter future.

The Iron Bargain