Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Keval stood by the basin, his expression tight as he reached for a small, yellow-white cube of soap resting on the edge. The rough texture scraped against his palm as he picked it up, feeling its sharp corners and the faint grain of its surface. His fingers curled around it, absently rubbing the cube between his hands for a moment before he submerged it in the urn of cool water beside him.

The soap lathered quickly, frothing in his hands as he passed it over his skin. Keval’s movements were methodical, but his brow remained furrowed in thought.

This was something new.

The cool water ran down his wrists, the sensation barely registering as his mind churned with worries that refused to settle.

The empire’s finances the soon to come recession—it all swirled in his head, as tangible and slippery as the soap in his hands and yet in his hands he was holding the solution for it .

Standing just inside the doorway was Vrator, the head of the garrison and Keval’s nephew. Tall and imposing, Vrator was a soldier through and through, his sharp blue eyes taking in the scene silently

Keval finished with the soap, rinsing the last of the lather off his hands before reaching for a cloth to dry them. As he glanced toward the table, his eyes lingered on the urn that rested there. It was a simple thing, but Keval’s gaze sharpened with a flicker of thought.

Vrator moved toward the table, intent on serving the urn to his uncle, but Keval stepped forward, his movements swift and deliberate. Before Vrator could act, Keval’s hand reached out and grasped the urn. His fingers curled around the cool surface, lifting it with a controlled, steady motion.

He paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he inspected the urn carefully. Pulling back the cloth that draped over it, Keval brought the opening to his face, inhaling deeply as the faint scent reached his nose.

His brow furrowed slightly, not in displeasure but in contemplation.

Keval, still holding the urn with one hand, glanced over his shoulder toward Vrator. His brow was furrowed with quiet suspicion as he spoke, his voice low and steady. ”Did all of this come from the south?”

Vrator gave a sharp nod, his expression as serious as ever. ”Yes cousin . It comes from the Princedom of Yarzat.”

Keval’s eyebrows rose in surprise, and a faint trace of skepticism crept into his tone. ”Yarzat? From that ear-missing beggar? Has he managed to climb out of the filth?”

Vrator shook his head slowly.”No,

Arkawatt is dead. A new ruler has risen in his place—a princess, I have heard”

Keval paused for a moment, setting the urn down on the table with a controlled motion. He let out a breath, absorbing the news. ”A princess, you say?” His voice was still calm, though the weight of his thoughts was evident in his sharp gaze.

”How reliable is this information?” Keval asked, his eyes narrowing slightly, wondering what other implications this shift in power might hold for the empire’s current precarious state.

Vrator stood firm, his blue eyes meeting Keval’s. ”As reliable as it gets from a merchant ’’

Keval, still holding the urn, tapped it lightly, his fingers tracing its smooth surface, his mind focused. ”Did we manage to find the procedure for making any of this?” he asked sharply, his tone more urgent now.

Vrator shifted on his feet, hesitating. ”No, I just got these things; I know nothing else.”

Keval frowned, not pleased by the answer, but he remained composed. ”How far has this product entered our market?”

Vrator cleared his throat, glancing away briefly as if unsure how to present the situation. ”Not much, yet. I, uh, managed to get this from a merchant, he’s under the princess’ direct sponsorship. She’s keeping a tight grip on distribution for now.”

Keval raised an eyebrow. ’’Is she married?”

Vrator hesitated again, scratching his chin as if the details were still fuzzy. ”Uh… yes, I believe so. The merchant said she’s married. To a mercenary, actually.”

Keval’s brow arched even higher. ”A mercenary?” He leaned forward slightly, intrigued. ”And you’re sure about this?”

Vrator fumbled a bit. ”Well… that’s what he said , at least. He mentioned the princess—uh, Jasmine, I think—and said she married some mercenary captain, Alpheo, I believe his name was. But I can’t be completely sure. It all sounded... strange, really.”

Keval narrowed his eyes. ”Alpheo, you say?”

Vrator nodded quickly but then hesitated again. ”Yes… well, that’s what the merchant called him. Said this Alpheo’s been helping her stabilize the princedom after Arkawatt’s death. He commands a decent-sized force of mercenaries which he used to clean up a rebellion fast , and with his backing, she’s consolidated power faster than anyone expected. It’s... a bit hard to believe”

Keval took a deep breath, lifted the cup of apple cider, and brought it to his lips. The sharp, sweet scent filled his nose. As the liquid touched his tongue, his eyes widened slightly in surprise. The flavor was rich, crisp, and refreshing—far beyond the quality of anything he had expected.

He set the cup down, staring at the amber liquid for a moment, then looked over at Vrator. ”This… this is remarkable,” he said, his tone measured but impressed. ”If this is what they’re producing in Yarzat now, there’s no question the nobles will be falling over themselves to buy it.”

He took another small sip, savoring the taste

Keval set the cup down and turned toward Vrator, his brows furrowed in thought. ”And how much did the merchant sell these for?”

Vrator hesitated for a moment, then replied, ”The soap went for 8 silverii apiece, and the urns of cider were sold at 12 silverii each.”

Keval’s eyes widened, his expression caught between disbelief and grudging admiration. ”Twelve silverii for an urn of this?” He gestured toward the cider. ”That small princess is sitting on a damn gold mine.” He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. ”With prices like that, if she plays this right, she could hold half the empire by the purse strings.”

Vrator’s face tightened with determination as he spoke, his voice low but insistent. ”We should invade Yarzat immediately, take control of the production methods for these goods. With what they’re charging, we’d be able to fund anything we need—three campaigns over if we wanted.”

Keval, taken aback by the suggestion, let out a short, incredulous laugh. ”Invade Yarzat? And with what army, Vrator? We barely have enough men to keep the city secure as it is. And the money?” He shook his head, his tone tinged with disbelief. ”Where would we even get the coin to start another campaign?”

Vrator, undeterred, leaned forward. ”If we could control this—these soaps, this cider—we could afford three of those campaigns, Keval. We’d be swimming in gold before long.”

Keval regarded Vrator with a blend of amusement and curiosity, his brow slightly furrowed as he pondered the gravity of the suggestion.

”That’s a mighty big ’if,’ you know, Vrator. Even if we could somehow get our hands on this cider and soap production, we’re still mired in a civil war. That presumes we’d be able to finish off our enemies quickly, but our best troops are currently marching against Mavius.”

He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, and continued, his voice steady. ”And you would have us completely disregard that and march an army onto foreign soil? Let’s not forget that every time a foreign army has attempted to invade the South, all the principalities have united against us. It’s a proven fact. Even when we’ve managed to conquer a castle or two, they always regroup and come back with even more ferocity.”

Keval shook his head, disbelief mingling with a sense of reality. ”We’d be walking into a hornet’s nest, and with what? Second-rate troops? Do you really think we can afford to distract ourselves with a campaign against Yarzat when our home front is so vulnerable? We’d be leaving the city open to attack, and we know how quickly rumors can spread among the lords. They’re already watching us closely, waiting for any sign of weakness.Unfortunately, we can’t afford to make any bold moves right now,” he admitted, his tone a mix of frustration and acceptance.

”You’re right—the princess truly has a gold mine at her fingertips. While we can’t take control of that treasure trove just yet, we can at least explore the possibility of sharing in its bounty.”

He leaned forward, a spark of strategic thinking igniting in his eyes. ”After all, a small principality like Yarzat would surely appreciate the backing of a strong empire. A partnership could allow us to negotiate a substantial monthly supply of cider and soap, which could prove immensely profitable for both sides. They’d get the security of our influence, and we’d gain access to a lucrative market without the risks of military intervention.”

Keval paused, gauging Vrator’s reaction before continuing, ”And if things go south, well, the option for military intervention is always on the table. We can keep our eyes on the situation while establishing a foothold. That way, we’ll be in a better position to respond if the need arises. Let’s tread carefully but strategically. It’s time to play the long game.”

Vrator shrugged, a glimmer of exasperation crossing his face. ”If uncle were in our position, he’d march straight into Yarzat without a second thought. He wouldn’t waste time with negotiations or subtlety.”

Keval let out a hearty laugh, shaking his head. ”You clearly don’t know my father as well as you think you do. He may be quick to action, but he’d show the carrot before he reaches for the stick. A display of strength, yes, but tempered with the promise of partnership. That’s how you build lasting alliances, not by charging in with swords drawn.”

With a wave of his hand, Keval shifted the conversation back to the task at hand. ”Now, call for Dorian—let’s bring him in here, it’s time we make use of him.”

Vrator nodded, after sighing ”Understood. I’ll fetch him right away.” With that, he turned on his heel and left the chamber, ready to summon the dignitary to discuss their next steps.