Fading Warriors, Defeated and Desperate, Need a Trade in the Worst Way

The storm had passed, but the devastation lingered. The Fading Warriors, once the most feared mercenary band in the realm, now stood at the edge of ruin. Their once-glorious banner, a tattered cloth emblazoned with a black sword on a crimson field, fluttered weakly in the wind. The faces of its members, once full of pride and strength, were now drawn with exhaustion and defeat. For years, they had battled enemies across kingdoms, earning coin and renown. But now, they found themselves cornered by an enemy more dangerous than any sword or arrow: poverty.

Their storied leader, Kaelen the Unbroken, sat on a rotting log in the remnants of their camp, staring into the dying embers of their fire. His once-chiseled features were now weary, the edges of his battle-scarred face softening under the weight of failure. His armor, which had once gleamed like polished steel in the sun, now bore the dull marks of countless skirmishes and neglect. He clenched his fist around a battered leather pouch, inside of which was the last of their gold.

“Kaelen, what now?” came a voice from behind. It was Riven, his second-in-command, her voice quieter than usual, almost defeated. She stood by the remains of the campfire, arms crossed, staring out into the thick woods that bordered their camp.

“We find a way out,” Kaelen muttered, but his words lacked the confidence they once carried. There was no easy way out. The last raid had been a disaster. Their enemies had set a trap, and what was supposed to be a lucrative job turned into a blood-soaked nightmare. They had barely escaped with their lives, and most of their men had been wounded. Even worse, their reputation had taken a blow. Fading Warriors no longer struck fear into the hearts of their enemies—they were seen as a group of over-the-hill mercenaries, easy pickings for anyone with a knife and a plan.

“We’re running out of options,” Riven continued. “We’ve lost most of our men, the supplies are dwindling, and the gold’s almost gone. What happens when the last of our coin is spent?”

Kaelen’s eyes narrowed. “We trade,” he said grimly.

“Trade?” she asked, confused. “With what? We’ve got nothing left to offer. The last of the horses were sold to pay off the mercenaries we owed. We can barely afford food for the next few days, let alone barter for anything substantial.”

Kaelen stood, shaking the dirt from his hands. “There’s always something to trade. And we’re mercenaries—there’s always someone who needs muscle. We just have to find them.”

Riven’s expression softened, a flicker of hope igniting in her tired eyes. “You think someone will take us on?”

“I don’t think we have a choice,” Kaelen replied. “We either find work, or we starve.”

The journey to find work took them deep into the heart of the kingdom, to the city of Shaledon. It was a bustling metropolis, where the rich and powerful mingled with the desperate and destitute. Shaledon was a city that never slept, its markets teeming with traders from every corner of the continent. But for the Fading Warriors, the heart of the city felt more like a looming monster than a place of opportunity.

Kaelen and Riven walked the crowded streets, their worn armor clanking softly as they moved through the throngs of people. They passed inns and taverns, offering their services to anyone who would listen. But no one seemed interested. The city was filled with younger, faster, stronger mercenaries—warriors with fresh faces and sharper blades. No one needed a band of veterans who had seen better days.

They finally stopped at a tavern called The Golden Rooster, an establishment known for its seedy clientele and cheap ale. Inside, the air was thick with smoke and the clatter of dice and cards. A few dozen men and women, all wearing the same defeated look as the Fading Warriors, sat at the tables, gambling away their last coins. In one corner, a man with a hood over his head spoke in hushed tones to a group of shady-looking individuals. It was clear that nothing legitimate ever happened in The Golden Rooster.

Kaelen and Riven approached the bar. The bartender, a thick-necked man with a scar that ran down the side of his face, looked them over without much interest.

“You looking for work?” the bartender asked, his voice gruff.

“We need a trade,” Kaelen said, his voice low.

“A trade?” The bartender raised an eyebrow. “Ain’t many trades to be had ‘round here, unless you want to take a knife to someone’s back.”

“We need more than a knife,” Riven said. “We need honest work. Something we can trade for food, for supplies.”

The bartender leaned in, lowering his voice. “You might want to try the backroom. There’s a man there—calls himself ‘The Broker.’ He deals with people like you.”

Kaelen exchanged a look with Riven. The Broker? It was a name that stirred a mix of curiosity and dread. The Broker was rumored to be a shadowy figure who had his fingers in all manner of dealings, from smuggling to illegal mercenary work. His reputation was as murky as the waters of the river that ran through Shaledon.

Still, they had no other options.

The backroom was tucked behind a heavy wooden door. Kaelen pushed it open, and the two warriors stepped inside. The room was dimly lit, with a single lantern hanging from the ceiling. At a table in the center of the room sat a man, his face obscured by the shadows, though his posture was that of someone accustomed to power. He wore a long cloak of deep purple, and his fingers played idly with a gold ring on his hand.

“You’re the Fading Warriors, aren’t you?” the Broker said, his voice smooth and calculating.

Kaelen nodded. “We’ve come to make a deal.”

The Broker smiled, though there was no warmth in it. “You’ve come to the right place. I’ve been waiting for you.”

The Broker leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers together as he studied the two mercenaries.

“I’ve heard of your troubles,” he said, his voice dripping with a false sympathy. “The Fading Warriors have lost their edge. But that doesn’t mean you’re worthless.”

Kaelen bristled at the implication but held his tongue. Desperation had pushed them this far—he wasn’t about to let pride get in the way now.

“I can offer you work,” the Broker continued. “But it’s not the kind of job you’re used to. I deal with people who need… specific skills. Discretion is important. If you’re up for it, I can guarantee you’ll find enough work to keep your bellies full.”

Riven exchanged a glance with Kaelen, a silent conversation passing between them. They had little choice. The Broker’s terms were shady at best, but it was the only option they had left.

“We’ll do it,” Kaelen said, his voice hardening with resolve.

The Broker nodded. “Excellent. I’ll send you details soon enough. In the meantime, enjoy your stay here. You’ll need to rest before the real work begins.”

The next few weeks passed in a blur of secrecy, tension, and labor that left the Fading Warriors questioning everything they had once believed about their mercenary code. They were forced to take on jobs that blurred the lines between right and wrong—espionage, sabotage, and even assassination. Every task they completed brought them a step closer to regaining their former power. But with each coin earned, they felt their souls slipping further away.

They had traded honor for survival, and though the gold they earned lined their pockets, it never quite filled the emptiness inside. They were no longer warriors of glory—they were mere tools in a much larger game.

Kaelen stood alone on a rooftop one night, watching the city below. The wind tugged at his cloak, and for the first time in weeks, he felt the weight of his choices. What had they become? Was this the price of survival? He glanced at the coin in his hand—the last remnant of their once-proud mercenary band.

The Fading Warriors were no longer a force of reckoning. They were a shadow of their former selves, but in that shadow, they had found something they hadn’t had in a long time: survival.

And sometimes, survival was all that mattered.