Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Tiberius sat in a small, dimly lit room. This was was clean , well lighted everything that he could have desired in the dungeon that had been his prison for what felt like an eternity , was now there .

He wore clean, simple clothes now—a tunic of soft wool that felt like a luxury against his skin. He could still feel the stiffness in his bones, but for the first time in what he felt were years, he was warm, fed, and no longer bound by the cold, stone walls of a cell.

Days after the rescue he came to know that what seemed like years from him, were just two months.

The remnants of a meal sat before him on the wooden table—roast meat, bread, and a cup of watered wine. He had eaten ravenously, almost mechanically the first days , his hunger overriding any thoughts of savoring the food. Now, with his stomach full and his hands no longer trembling, he sat quietly, staring at the pages scattered across the table.

Each one was crumpled, filled with only a few jagged scribbles—fragments of thoughts, aborted ideas.

He remembered when his father was still alive, he could have written pages and pages of poetry by simply looking at the rising sun. She remembered when Clara came to his room bringing him food, he always tried to make her sit and eat with him .

He missed her, not one day passed since he was detained in a cell where he wondered where she was

He leaned back in his chair, turning to look over his shoulder at the desk behind him.

The food had soothed his body, but his mind was still in turmoil. He glanced at the crumpled pages once more, knowing that they held no answers. They were just the ramblings of a man who had been caged too long, trying desperately to find meaning in the madness.

Tiberius had spent hours, perhaps days, trying to piece together who had rescued him from that foul, suffocating cell.

Each time the door opened to bring him food, it was the same boy who stepped in. The servant, no more than a year or two younger than Tiberius, was slight of build with unremarkable features—pale skin, a mop of brown hair, and a nervous demeanor. He never made eye contact, always kept his head down, and moved with quick, silent efficiency.

The boy came and went like a ghost. He would place the tray of food on the table, collect the empty dishes from the previous meal, and leave without uttering a word.

The boy didn’t even acknowledge any of the questions he asked . His hands moved quickly as he cleared the remnants of the meal, his silence infuriating in its persistence.

Frustration gnawed at Tiberius. It was as though he was still trapped in the dungeon, but now, instead of darkness, he was locked in a maddening silence. He wanted to ask so much—who had orchestrated his escape, what their motives were, and most importantly, where she was.

In the solitude of his room, Tiberius had too much time to think. It was one of the few things he could do, as he tried to make sense of everything that had happened.

He’s certainly rich, Tiberius thought, his eyes drifting toward the small window overlooking a well-manicured garden. The meals he received were good—too good—and the room, while modest, was a world apart from the cell he had been dragged from. He must have wealth. But more than that...he’s got political power too. How else would he know who I was? Where I was kept?

He leaned back in his chair, mind racing. No one gets that kind of information without connections—without pulling strings that go deep. He has to be a noble, someone high enough to get a detailed map of the prison, someone who can outwit the empress’s spy-work.

Tiberius’s thoughts turned toward the rumors he had heard before his imprisonment—about the reinstatement of the Wise Council. Could it be one of them? he wondered. Someone wanting to undermine the Empress Mother, maybe?

He let out a soft chuckle, bitter and knowing. It sure as hell wasn’t pity. No one does something like this out of the goodness of their heart. This was planned, deliberate...

His gaze drifted to the corners of the room, his thoughts growing darker. And smart, he thought grimly. Smart enough not to let me see his face. Smart enough to keep himself hidden, just in case...

A chill ran down Tiberius’s spine as he considered the possibility. If this man’s plans fall through...I’m dead. He’ll burn every bridge, erase every trace. And me? I’ll be the first thing he gets rid of.

Tiberius shifted in his chair, balancing on its back legs as his thoughts solidified. I’m as good as gone if this goes south. He’ll make sure of it.

The door creaked open, the quiet sound pulling Tiberius from his spiraling thoughts. The boy slipped into the room, his small frame blending into the shadows as he closed the door softly behind him. His eyes darted around, scanning for the empty tray from the last meal.

Tiberius leaned back, lifting his hand lazily and pointing toward the window. ”It’s over there,” he said, his voice low and casual.

The boy nodded without a word, his bare feet making soft padding sounds on the stone floor as he made his way across the room. He moved with the quiet efficiency of someone who had done this task many times, his head barely coming up to Tiberius’s shoulder when he stood beside him.

Setting the fresh tray of food on the bed, the boy stretched on his toes, reaching for the old tray perched on the windowsill. But just as his fingers brushed the edge, he felt a sudden pressure against his mouth—a hand, strong and unyielding, silencing him before he could react.

The boy’s eyes widened in shock as he felt something cold and sharp press against the skin of his neck. The small eating knife, meant for cutting bread, now hovered just beneath his chin. His breath hitched, and he tried to pull away, but the hand holding him firm didn’t budge.

”Stay calm,” a voice hissed in his ear, low and urgent. The voice was that of a young boy, not much older than the servant himself.

It was Tiberius—the boy he had been bringing food to for weeks.

Tiberius pressed the blade a little closer to the boy’s neck, his voice dropping to a whisper. ”Stay silent,” he warned, his breath warm against the boy’s ear. ”If you scream, I’ll have no choice but to plunge this into your neck.”

His grip was firm but not brutal, and there was a tremor in his voice that hinted at how much he didn’t want to follow through with the threat. ”I don’t want to do that,” Tiberius whispered again, his tone almost pleading. ”But I need answers. And you’re going to give them to me.”

Slowly, cautiously, he removed his hand from the boy’s mouth. The servant boy immediately gasped, eyes wide, and his first words were a rush of panic.

”You can’t escape from here! There are guards—” he started, his voice high-pitched with fear.

”I know,” Tiberius cut him off sharply, keeping the knife steady but easing back just a fraction. ”I am aware that there are guards. I’m not stupid.”

Silence settled between them for a moment. The boy’s chest heaved with quick breaths, but he didn’t try to pull away. He just stood there, waiting.

Tiberius leaned in close, voice low but intense. ”I need one simple thing from you,” he said, the threat of the knife punctuating every word. ”You’re going to report something to your superiors for me. Tell them that their ’guest’ has only one question—where is Clara?”

The boy’s eyes darted sideways, panicked, but he didn’t move, frozen in Tiberius’s grip.

”And make sure they understand,” Tiberius continued, his tone growing darker, ”just how... invested I am in getting an answer.”

To make his point clear, he pressed the blade just a little harder against the boy’s neck, watching the flash of fear in his eyes. Then, with one quick motion, he released the boy, stepping back and sheathing the small eating knife in his pocket. Tiberius took the empty tray and shoved it into the boy’s hands.

”I’ll be eagerly awaiting your reply,” he said, voice flat. ”Don’t keep me waiting”

The boy stumbled back, his face pale but his expression fearful. Tiberius watched him closely, giving a final nod toward the door.

The boy’s face was still pale as he backed toward the door, tray held in trembling hands before turning and slipping out. The door closed with a soft click, leaving Tiberius alone once more.

He let out a slow breath, the tension lingering in the room, then placed the knife back on his desk, its dull glint reflecting the faint light filtering through the small window. With a steadying exhale, he sat down, shifting a fresh piece of parchment in front of him.He knew this time —he wouldn’t tear this one up. His hand moved over the paper, leaving dark, steady marks as he wrote, each word becoming less hesitant, each line sure to stay.