Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Large iron pots simmered over roaring fires, their contents bubbling in a mixture of grain, water, and a small portion of milk. The thick scent of the cooking porridge wafted through the cold air, carried on the tendrils of smoke that drifted above the camp. The smell was a lifeline for the starving refugees—simple and plain, yet to their empty stomachs, it was the scent of survival.

From all corners of the camp, men, women, and children emerged from their tents and ragged shelters, drawn by the promise of food. Their eyes were hollow with hunger, their cheeks gaunt. Slowly, they gathered into a large, disorganized crowd, circling the place where the fires burned and the pots boiled. Murmurs filled the air, mingling with the sound of crackling wood, as the refugees edged closer, desperate to get a portion of the meal.

Around the cooking stations, a line of 400 guards stood firm, separating the growing mass of people from the iron pots. Their faces were grim, their shields held high to maintain order. Each one of them had seen the chaos that hunger could cause, the way desperation could drive people to madness. Shouts echoed from the guards, demanding order.

”Form a line!” one of them bellowed, his voice hoarse from repeating the command over and over. ”No pushing! Everyone will get their share!”

But the crowd was restless. Children, their tiny bodies weak from starvation, clung to their parents’ legs, eyes wide and fixated on the food. Some of the bolder ones dared to dart forward, trying to get closer, while the men, lean and hardened by months of suffering, began to press in.

The guards responded swiftly. Shields crashed against the bodies of those who pushed too far forward. ”Back!” a guard snarled, bashing his shield into the chest of a man who had tried to shove his way through. The man staggered back, coughing, but there was no anger in his eyes—just desperation.

Children who crept too close received harsh scoldings or light a push from a shield to send them scurrying back. ”Wait your turn!” the guards growled, even though many knew that order here was a fragile thing.

Despite the chaos, the fires continued to roar, the pots still bubbling with the precious mixture inside. It was a thin porridge, watery and lacking much substance, but to these people, it was life itself.

One by one, the refugees moved forward, each family or individual inching toward the makeshift kitchen where a large iron ladle scooped up portions of steaming porridge. The porridge was watery and thin, but each bowl held a small, precious piece of meat—hardly more than a scrap, but to those who hadn’t seen meat in months, it was a treasure.

”Next!” barked one of the guards as the first person, a haggard man with sunken cheeks, reached the front of the line. A bowl was thrust into his hands, the hot porridge steaming in the chilly air. Without a word, he stepped aside, immediately dipping his dirty fingers into the bowl and scooping the mixture into his mouth with trembling hands. The look of relief and hunger on his face was mirrored by many behind him.

Some gulped the food down the moment it touched their fingers, the porridge burning their mouths as they devoured it. They couldn’t afford to wait—the hunger gnawed at them too deeply. The small piece of meat was chewed carefully, as though it were sacred, savored for the brief moment it lasted before disappearing.

A woman, holding a small child by her side, did the same. She barely moved from the serving point before tearing into her bowl with bare hands, lifting the watery meal to her lips with haste, offering her child the piece of meat before taking any for herself. Her eyes were wild with hunger, but she showed restraint for the sake of her child.

Once finished, those who had eaten were led by more guards to a separate area on the far side of the camp, away from the serving lines. The guards ensured there was no way back into the line—no second servings allowed. ”Move along!” one of the guards snapped, waving them forward with his spear. ”You’ve eaten! Make room for the others!”

There, the fed refugees huddled together, still licking their hands and fingers clean, their stomachs no longer empty but far from full. Some stared back at the line, a faint glimmer of envy in their eyes as they watched others receive their portions. But they were kept away, guided further into the side of the camp where fires burned to warm them after their meal.

Asag stood at a distance, his cold, pitiless gaze fixed on the scene before him. Refugees, men and women of all ages, their faces hollowed by starvation, tore into their bowls of porridge with desperate hunger. The guards barked orders, keeping them in line, ensuring they didn’t return for seconds, but Asag felt no sympathy for the masses. The sight was too familiar, too close to the memories that haunted him.

His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword as flashes of his past broke through the cold barrier he tried so hard to maintain. He remembered the days when he had been in their place—hungry, worn down by hard labor, barely surviving each day. The work had been relentless, and the food, scarce, if he was given any at all.

He had watched so many others fall—those who couldn’t endure, who lacked the will to fight. In those days, he had been nothing but a shadow of what he was now, a man on the brink of collapse. The difference between him and those who had died wasn’t strength, nor skill, nor wit. It was the man who had lifted him up when he could barely stand, the young leader whose vision had given Asag something to live for.

Alpheo. The name alone brought warmth to Asag’s heart, a rare feeling for the hardened warrior. That young man—barely more than a boy when they first met—had saved him, not just physically, but in spirit. When others might have abandoned him to rot, Alpheo had seen something in Asag worth saving. He had given him a purpose when Asag had none.Now he ate meat and grain every day, and yet the taste of those small and hard pieces of bread he shared with Alpheo and his friends were something he would never forget.

He was ashamed of it , because he knew that if positions were swapped, he wouldn’t find the strength to share those small foods he would every night risk his life to bring to them. He was disgusted by his own weakness.

Alpheo was the reason Asag had survived those terrible days, the reason he had risen from the dirt when others fell. He had sworn to serve him for life, to ensure his vision came to pass, no matter the cost, no matter what Alpheo would do , no matter how low he would go , he would make sure to always be behind him.

For Alpheo, he would endure anything. Because in that young man, Asag had found not just a leader but a cause worth dying for.

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Alpheo pushed aside the flap of the tent and stepped into the dimly lit space where the courtiers of the late Lord of Confluendi were crowded together. The air was thick with unease. The once-proud courtiers, dressed in frayed and faded finery, shifted uncomfortably as they noticed Alpheo’s entrance. Nervous whispers died down as his presence dominated the room, tension rising with every step he took.

Some glanced at each other, their faces pale, others looked toward the floor, fingers fidgeting with their cloaks. They were well aware of the chaos their previous lord’s downfall had caused, and the rumors of their complicity in Elyra’s mad rule hung over them like a sword

Alpheo sat down, his gaze steady as he looked over the group of nervous courtiers huddled before him. His voice, when he spoke, was calm but carried the weight of authority.

”You have all served Lord Ormund and his family for many years,” he began, his tone as cold as the wind outside. ”I do not know how loyally you did that . Frankly, it makes no difference to me.”

The courtiers exchanged uneasy glances, but none dared speak. Alpheo leaned forward slightly, letting his words sink in.

”What I do care about,” he continued, ”is the mess left behind by the woman you served until two weeks ago—Lady Elyra. That chaos must now be undone, and it is your responsibility to help me fix it.”

He paused, watching their reactions as the gravity of his words settled over them like a heavy shroud. Some swallowed hard, others stood motionless, too fearful to even blink.

”I need people who can read write and count ,” Alpheo said, his tone hardening. ”People who understand the workings of this lordship. This is not a request, but an order. You will work under me to restore Confluendi to order, and you will do so without hesitation.”

He straightened in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly as his voice took on a more dangerous edge. ”And let me be clear: I have the power to declare every one of you rebels and have you executed where you stand.You know of what I did to Thalys, and he was a knight, none would bat an eye if I were to do the same to you who are not even nobles. Some men even questioned why I showed any mercy to the lot of you when the city fell.”

The tent was silent. No one moved, no one even dared to breathe loudly, some trembled some looked like they were about to throw up.

”Your lives,” Alpheo said with finality, ”now belong to me, they are your debts to me . Understand that well.”

”I will need people to count the grain and people residing here ” he stated, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. ”Every sack, every measure. And let me make this clear—there will be no corruption under my watch.”

He paused, letting the words settle over the crowd. They were all seasoned men and women of administration, yet the fear of the unknown was etched into their faces.

”If even a single sack of grain disappears,” Alpheo continued, his voice growing sharper, ”you die. If one grain is found unaccounted for, fallen on the ground without explanation or cause , you die.”

He leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable but menacing. ”I don’t need evidence. I don’t need to investigate. All I need is a word—one whisper—and you would all perish.If that is clear you may start to work , I will send word of your tasks , you are dismissed...’’