Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Keval strode through the garden, his face twisted with barely concealed fury. Each step he took was firm, his posture rigid, as he advanced toward the secluded section of the palace grounds—a five-meter square hidden among tall hedges and delicate stone sculptures. In the center lay a body clad in the unmistakable armor of the royal guard, a crimson pool seeping onto the ground below.

He stopped abruptly, staring down at the fallen figure, a cold rage darkening his eyes. Slowly, he turned, his gaze snapping onto Vrator, his nephew and head of the palace garrison. Vrator stood a few paces back, tense and silent, as if bracing himself against the oncoming storm of Keval’s anger.

”Explain this,” Keval demanded, his voice low but seething, making Vrator think that his cousin looked more like his uncle than he let on.

Vrator met Keval’s fiery gaze and swallowed, his voice steady but somber. ’’While the young emperor was at leisure in the garden, he was set upon by a group of guards under his mother’s orders.”

Keval’s expression darkened further, a tempest of emotions raging behind his eyes as Vrator continued. ”One of the emperor’s men rushed inside to raise the alarm, while the other remained at his side, buying what time he could in a desperate bid to protect him. But when the palace guards finally arrived, they found the garden in utter disarray. The Empress and her guards had vanished, along with the emperor himself. Lying on the ground was one of her men, dead, and the emperor’s remaining guard, Alaric, left unconscious.”

Keval’s voice cut through the air like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. ”Why did you not close the palace gates the moment the attack was known?”

Vrator shifted uncomfortably, the tension between them palpable. ”The Empress Mother exited through the main avenue immediately after the assault. She left in a carriage,” he explained, keeping his tone calm despite the gravity of the situation.

”A carriage, after abducting the emperor?” Keval’s eyes widened in disbelief, rage mixing with a sense of urgency. ”How is that even possible?Did she buy the guards?”

Vrator shook his head grimly, his expression reflecting the seriousness of the matter. ”No my lord, the entrance guards reported they saw the Empress Mother accompanied by a young temple servant. They had no reason to suspect anything unusual; they said nothing seemed amiss and allowed them to pass without question.”

It was not uncommon in the realm for children to enter temple service before they even reached two digits in age. Many were offered up by families who could no longer bear the burden of another mouth to feed. These temples, devoted usually to one of the gods, were often a sanctuary for newborns left in woven baskets on the temple steps.

Such children, without names or family bonds, were taken in and used as temple-helpers and raised within temple walls, learning the rituals and rites of their chosen deity. However many times especially in the countryside, temples were also organizers of hired child ’services’ for rich clients, such as merchants, stewards, and many times nobles.

For this reason, for many common-born guards, it was normal for children to get in and out of castles, especially if in temple cloth, something that was an open secret for the high hierarchy of society.

At this revelation, Keval’s face hardened, the implications of the situation hitting him with the force of a storm.

He had lost the emperor.

Vrator, sensing the mounting fury in his cousin, pressed on, eager to assuage the growing tension. ”I ordered men after them the moment we learned of this, Your Grace. They’ll be in pursuit shortly.”

But Keval clenched his jaw, his gaze darkening as reality set in. ”Too late,” he muttered, his tone cold and filled with disdain. ”By now, they’ll be well beyond the palace walls.”

Keval’s gaze hardened as he made his point known ”Send more men after them immediately,” he ordered, his tone low but fierce. ”Stop and inspect every carriage on the roads, every single one with a child inside. I want no stone left unturned.”

Vrator nodded,”It will be done, my lord ” he replied, already motioning to one of his lieutenants to start dispatching soldiers to the gates and beyond.

Keval didn’t waste a second, his expression darkening further as he glanced back at the fallen figure sprawled in the grass. ”And one more thing,” he said, voice dropping into a dangerous calm as he kicked the dead body . ”Run a full identity check on this bastard. I want to know who he really was—and whether he was truly one of our own, or if my sister had outside help for this.”

What in the name of the gods is she thinking? he wondered, his mind racing. What could she possibly hope to achieve by snatching her own son right here in the heart of the palace? Did she genuinely believe that their father, a man who’d crushed rebellions and who had currently defeated them in battle, would let this go?

Keval clenched his jaw, pushing back against his thinking about his father.

This isn’t his battle to fight, he chided himself bitterly. It’s mine..

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Alaric’s eyes flickered open, and he was immediately greeted by a sharp, pounding ache radiating from the back of his head. He tried to sit up, only to feel the pull of bandages wrapped tightly around his brow. He blinked, taking in the dim room, its stone walls and sparse furnishings, before memory came rushing back—the clash of steel, the Empress’s guards, the emperor...

”Easy now, Alaric,” came a steady voice nearby. Darius was seated beside him, leaning forward with a hand extended, urging calm. ”You need to rest; that blow was no small one.”

But Alaric’s mind raced, ignoring the pain. ”The emperor... where is he?” he shouted, the urgency in his voice sharp, almost desperate.

Darius leaned closer, his face grim but trying to soften his words as he spoke at his bed-lying companion. ”He’s still with his mother, Alaric. The Regent’s sent nearly three-quarters of his forces to track them down; they’re combing the city and beyond.”

Alaric slumped back against the bed, a look of defeat in his eyes. ”Then I’ve failed him,” he whispered, the words heavy with regret.

”No,” Darius insisted, gripping his shoulder. ”You stayed, you fought—you even killed one of them, while you were sorrounded. I was the one who ran to call for help. I left you there alone, you did your duty , I didn’t.... ”

Alaric shook his head, ready to reassure his companion that he’d done what was best under the circumstances. But then, a sudden realization lit up his face, cutting through the despair.

”I killed one of them,” he muttered, ”and wounded another—struck him deep in the leg.”

Darius’s eyes widened as Alaric pushed himself upright, urgency replacing exhaustion. ”They’ll have taken him to a physicist,” Alaric said, the hint of a plan forming in his voice. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the throbbing pain in his skull.

”Where are you going?” Darius asked, rising as well.

Alaric, unsteady but resolute, stood. ”I have to tell the Regent. If we find that wounded man, we might just find the boy.”

Darius stepped forward swiftly, pressing a firm hand on Alaric’s shoulder, pushing him gently but firmly back down onto the bed. ”You’re in no state to move, let alone march into the Regent’s hall with a head wound,” he said, his tone insistent.

Alaric tried to protest, but Darius held his ground. ”Rest. I’ll go. You’ve done more than anyone could’ve asked.” He met Alaric’s fierce gaze, nodding. ”I’ll tell the Regent everything’’

Reluctantly, Alaric sank back onto the bed, breathing hard but nodding. He watched as Darius turned and left the room in a hurry.

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In the dimly lit back room of a barber’s quarters, the smell of herbs and drying linens mingled with the sharper scent of oil . The barber-physicist worked carefully, his hands practiced and calm as he wrapped a clean bandage around a man’s bleeding leg. The gash ran deep along the thigh, still oozing despite the compress and stitches, but the barber’s hands moved methodically, tightening each wrap with the care of a practiced healer.

Behind him, another figure stood, watching in silence—a man with a tense expression, his arms crossed and eyes never leaving the barber’s hands. The barber assumed he was a friend, waiting patiently for his companion to be treated and sent home, and thought little of his stern gaze.

Both of them had already thrown away their armor, making them seem normal , and yet armed , passerby .

As the barber tied off the last knot on the bandage, he gave the patient a reassuring nod. He was still oblivious to the man behind, whose expression had only darkened, his patience drawing to a close. The barber, fully engrossed in his work, didn’t realize that his role in this man’s life would end with the final knot and that once his task was done, there would be no reason for his silence to remain intact.

The barber reached for a small clay pot filled with crushed herbs, holding it out as he spoke. ”Every evening before you sleep, soak the bandage in a paste made from these,” he instructed, his voice calm and steady. ”Change the dressing each time, and keep it clean. Infection sets in fast with wounds this deep.”

As he placed the vase down on the table, he became aware of the silent man behind him moving closer, his shadow stretching across the floor, darkening the small pool of lamplight over the patient. The barber turned slightly, feeling a faint prickle of unease but brushing it aside as he reached for a cloth to wipe his hands, thinking that the man was going to pay him.

Just then, the door to the room burst open with a thunderous bang, the wooden frame shuddering from the force. Four palace guards stormed in,their alert eyes scanning the room. They took one look at the bandaged man sitting on the treatment table, his leg bound with fresh linens, and without hesitation, shouted, ”Freeze! Don’t move, any of you!”

The barber instinctively raised his hands, palms open in a gesture of surrender, his eyes wide with shock. But the other man didn’t wait—he darted his gaze around the room, calculating his escape, and without a second’s hesitation, lunged toward the nearest window.

With a single, brutal motion, he hurled himself against the wood slats that covered the window, splintering them on impact, shards and dust scattering into the air. He almost cleared the frame, but just as he made his desperate attempt, a guard let out a sharp curse.

”Don’t let him get away! Around the other side!” he shouted to the others, while one guard lunged forward, catching up to other wounded man. The guard tackled him, swinging the hilt of his heavy mace and slamming it down hard onto the man’s shoulder .

Swiftly, the guard bound his arms with coarse rope, tying the knots tight. ”You’re not going anywhere,” he growled, tightening the rope as the man lay there, panting and defeated.

Seconds after the fugitive bolted for the window, the other three guards immediately dashed out the barbershop’s door, circling around the building to cut off any potential escape. The fugitive had leaped from the first-story window, but his desperate jump came at a painful cost: he landed awkwardly on his waist, and a sickening crack echoed as his body crumpled to the ground, pain visibly seizing him.

The guard who’d rushed outside was on him in seconds. With the injured man barely able to crawl, let alone flee, he bound him swiftly, his grip firm despite the fugitive’s weak struggles. The captured man gritted his teeth, the agony shooting up from his waist, adding insult to his failed escape as he was brought back to the place , where only death after torture would be his only mercy.