“Son, do you know the most important thing in a man’s life?”

  The question came out of nowhere, slicing through Dion’s wandering thoughts, pulling him away from the noise of the city.

  Merchant stalls crowded the streets, their canvas awnings flapping in the wind. Hawkers shouted themselves hoarse, the smell of spices and sweat thick in the air.

  Wheels creaked over cobblestones, horses snorted and stomped, and somewhere in the distance a lute strummed a restless tune.

  Dion glanced up, squinting at the towering figure seated beside him in the carriage.

  His father the king looked as if none of the chaos existed, his presence cutting through it all like a blade through cloth.

  It wasn’t the first time. His father was fond of these sudden riddles, always dropping them during their long excursions through the provinces.

  Still, he took the question seriously. His brow furrowed, lips pressed tight as he sifted through the answers his tutors would have praised.

  At last, he spoke.

  “Discipline.”

  The word left his mouth with a weight he hoped would please his father.

  The king gave a low hum in response, neither praise nor rebuke. His eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead, unreadable.

  To Dion, it was acknowledgment though not entirely convincing, causing him to raise an eye.

  After a long stretch of silence, the king finally spoke again, his voice steady as stone.

  “Discipline is good. But it is not the root. Discipline bends a man’s will, shapes him. Yet without purpose, discipline is just a chain. A man must know why he endures, or the world will eventually break him.”

  —

  CRACK.

  Dion felt the lifting up and slowly moving, causing him to turn in the cage. The carriage jerked over another bump, making the rough journey even more brutal.

  The jolt had just forced the contents of his last meal out of him.

  They were on the move again. Dion summarized.

  The words of his father in the carriage that day resurfaced.

  He nodded back then, pretending to understand. He was only a boy, eager to please, eager to prove he was listening.

  As a prince, it had been drills in the yard, holding a sword until his arms shook, reciting lineages until his throat burned.

  Discipline had meant order, honor, the weight of a crown he ought to inherit.

  Now, in the cage, it was different. He wasn't fighting for any kingdom.

  He was fighting for a better meal, performing like an animal for foreigners from distant lands.

  This feeling of helplessness, he hated it.

  His hand reached down as his fingers closed around the last of the chewed, moldy bread he had just thrown up.

  Sitting in the stink of his cage, he felt the words of his father that day gnaw at him.

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  Discipline and Purpose.

  In this cage he was quickly understanding bits and pieces of it.

  Discipline was the vehicle, the how. It was the daily practice, the consistent effort, the ability to choose the necessary action over the easy one, especially on days when motivation waned, and then there was later.

  Purpose.

  It was the destination, the why. It was the goal, the cause, the reason for an action.

  He could only think of one.

  Revenge.

  But what use would revenge serve in a distant land?

  Dion closed his eyes, a single tear staining his cheek.

  —

  A long line of caravans crawled like a fresh scar across the Westland plains. They were iron-bound wagons, pulled by tired horses. Their wheels and hooves stirred up a thick, slow dust that hung in the air

  Around them rode their captors, a hundred and fifty men armored in scarred leather, a far cry from the civilized steel of Lavos or the heraldic plate of Bathorr.

  Their banners were black cloth torn ragged, stitched with the mark of the raven pierced by an arrow.

  Carrion Host.

  A blunt, accurate name. They were scavengers, a sobered company of slavers who followed armies and disasters, culling the weakened and the lost.

  At the helm rode the commanders, the first a lean figure wrapped in leather dyed dark with old stains.

  When he spoke, it felt like a steel whistle at his throat that turned every word into a rasping hiss.

  His name was whispered as Veynar the Hollow, a man said to have carved his own tongue out so secrets of the New world would never be forced from him.

  To his left rode a figure Dion knew too well. Seris. She wore her lazy grin like a weapon. Her form was voluptuous, a trap for men too foolish to look past it to the predator beneath.

  To his right stood the last commander. The man spat into the dust. “The quicker we finish this,” he grumbled, his voice like grinding stones,

  “...the quicker I can leave this forsaken place. Even the air tastes like shit and piss.”

  His gaze traced Seris, the latter not sparing a glance, her thought seemed occupied.

  "Heh, if I didn't know better I think you're daydreaming about prince charming" his gaze moved to a particular carriage, obviously more special than the rest.

  It wasn't a secret how much she frequented the prince's cage. The whispers followed her, carried through the ranks.

  The grunts, the sellswords, the whole grumbling underbelly of the host. They all talked.

  "Of course I am." The dangerous smile flashed again. "And what if I was, Grash?"

  The man just grunted, a rough, conceding sound, and looked away. His earlier tease was swallowed by the dusty air between them.

  Seris the vulture.

  Despite her unknown origin, she quickly rose through the ranks attaining the position of commander in less than ten years.

  “Easy, Vulture. Just saying he might be worth more in chains than in your bed.”

  Her grin widened. She didn't mind correcting them.

  She tilted her head, voice a low purr. “Oh, love… a bed can be as binding as any chain.”

  Her eyes drifted toward Dion’s cage.

  “and royalty” the word rolled off her tongue, “…they all break the same. But they make such lovely sounds when they do.”

  The rest of the host fell silent. None dared push further.

  Even amongst the commanders, her reputation was fearsome despite her origin.

  Everyone in the Host knew she didn’t just kill those she found special, she stripped the pride, their self worth from their bones, piece by piece, until nothing remained.

  Although her newest catch was proving far too difficult to break but he wasn't worried, if anything she found it interesting.

  She licked her lips, as if savouring the challenge. The gesture sent chills down the spine of simple men.

  Veynar’s rasp cut through the murmurs. “Enough.” His whistle-voice carried by the wind. “i don't need to tell you what happens if ‘They’ find the goods unfit”

  His words drew a sharp intake of breath from the crew. From his words, it was clear he knew about the unsanctioned games Seris hosted.

  His gaze landing on her, the latter chuckled

  He continued not minding her reaction “The prisoners are not for games. Their weight is measured in Solvins...you would all do well to remember that”

  Everyone knew this truth. Still it did nothing to contain the greed burning in their eyes.

  In the New world, gold and silver meant nothing. Deals there were struck in solvins, hardly ever changed hands lightly, only the ‘They’ were willing to part with it.

  His words struck the crew like a spark in dry tinder.

  For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then the air thickened with mutters.

  The word hung between them.

  Heavier than gold, brighter than jewels, more intoxicating than any promise of flesh or freedom.

  “Solvins,” one man finally spat, the word too rich for his tongue. It was the reason they’d risked their lives crossing the cursed sea to this savage continent.

  “Enough to buy ten ships…”

  “To live like a king.”

  A rough laugh cut through. “Why not drown in it?”

  The air in the hold changed instantly. Scarred faces turned greedy, eyes gone fever-bright with calculation. The murmurs of the men swelled to a low, hungry roar.

  All the while, the commanders watched.

  Seris wore her ever-lazy grin. Grash let out a booming, brash laugh.

  “How much d’you think the devils from the Central Lands would bid for him?” His gaze glittered, already counting a fortune in his head.

  “You can ask the captain,” Veynar replied,

  his eyes fixed ahead. The others followed his look, and they saw it.

  The Brine sea.

  Thanks for reading The Grand Alkahest.

  I’m still a novice writer, and this story is very much a learning journey for me so feedback, critiques, and thoughts are genuinely appreciated. I’m aiming to improve with every chapter.

  Updates are planned 3–4 times a week, and I’m committed to keeping things consistent.

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  Thanks for giving my work a chance and welcome to the journey.

  Scribestro