Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

The army moved steadily across the countryside, a winding river of steel and leather snaking through the lush, rolling fields. The land was bathed in the warm light of early morning, the grass still damp with dew, and the soft hum of distant birdsong was muffled by the steady clinking of armor and rhythmic march of hundreds of boots.

At the front marched 150 archers, light and quick, their quivers kept at the sides and their bows hung on the side. Behind them, 150 light cavalry in chainmail kept pace, each soldier bearing a mace and lance

Following was the bulk of the force: 500 heavy infantry, clad in chainmail and reinforced with breastplates , guisse and greave, their shields raised as they marched with an ironclad determination that seemed to echo with each step. Nearby, 200 soldiers armed with the new court-issued weapon moved in formation, their polearms held ready, glinting in the morning light, as this was to be their first campaign.

At the center rode the Golden Steeds—100 elite cavalry in gilded armor, their polished breastplates and horsehair crests marking them as the crown’s finest.They were not part of the White army , but under Jasmine’s persistent request, Alpheo had doubled their number from fifty to one hundred.

At the head of the Golden Steeds rode Ser Merth, an aging knight whose weathered face bore the marks of countless campaigns. His armor, though polished to a brilliant sheen, showed small signs of wear—scratches along the edges, dents that told stories of battles he had fought in .

Ser Merth had earned his position not by royal decree but by the respect of his fellow knights, each of whom had cast their vote to place him as their commander, a tradition long honored by the Golden Steeds.

For years, the princes of Yarzat had respected this tradition, valuing the choice of the knights themselves. It was rare for a prince to intervene, though in certain times of political need or uncertainty, they had appointed a commander directly.

Bringing up the rear, were 200 newly recruited light infantry from the royal fiefs marched with less precision but a dogged determination, their mismatched gear reflecting their fresh loyalty to the royal cause.Usually for offensive campaigns, enlisters would find many more recruits that they otherwise would on a defensive war, as after all campaigning in foreign land gave them the opportunity to raid and make money.

At the head of the marching army, Alpheo rode alongside his closest companions, Asag and Egil. Their horses trod a steady rhythm against the ground, each man relaxed as they observed the surrounding countryside. Lord Shahab, who usually marched with them , had departed weeks earlier to his own lands to gather troops, with the plan of joining them in Bracum for the full assembly of forces.

Asag’s gaze lifted to the sky, where a flock of ravens circled, dark specks against the dull, overcast horizon. ”Look at them,” he murmured, his voice carrying a note of unease. ”More of them appear every day,them cursed animals..’’

Egil followed his gaze, a faint smile touching his lips. ”Where I come from, we call the ravens messengers of the gods,” he said, his tone almost reverent. ”They come to battles to feast, yes—but also to bear witness. If they gather in great numbers, it means the gods approve. To us, it is a good sign.”

Alpheo listened in silence, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, yet he seemed to carry their words with him, letting them drift between his thoughts. They marched toward Bracum, and with every step, the ravens kept their silent watch overhead.

Egil’s eyes remained fixed on the ravens circling above, a gleam of fervor in his gaze. ”They know a glorious battle is coming,” he murmured, almost as if speaking to himself.

Asag turned, raising an eyebrow at Egil. ”How can beasts that feed on the dead be seen as anything but omens of misfortune?Much less as benevolent beings” he asked, skepticism lacing his tone.

Egil chuckled softly, his expression unwavering. ”I never said they were benevolent. They are merely signs that the gods themselves have taken notice of the battle,” he explained, his voice low and steady. ”For my people, it’s considered an honor to deliver them a feast. A battlefield heavy with ravens means the gods are watching, and in a way, it’s a blessing to serve as proof of their attention.”

Asag considered this, his face drawn and thoughtful, as Egil continued to watch the ravens with an almost reverent pride.

Alpheo glanced over at Egil. ”Weren’t the tribes meant to convert when they settled on imperial land?” he asked, a slight curiosity in his voice.

Egil’s eyes darkened, and without a word, he turned his head and spat on the ground. ”Aye, they did,” he replied bitterly. ”My people bowed to that wretched faith. But behind closed doors, they kept the old ways alive, passing down the rites and beliefs in whispers.” A shadow of sadness crossed his face, a flicker of memories he kept close yet rarely shared.

Alpheo watched him quietly, recalling the famine that had gripped Egil’s homeland and the harsh treatment from the imperial governor. When the tribe rose in rebellion, the empire crushed them swiftly, leaving villages burned and fields barren. Not once, Alpheo realized, had Egil ever complained about the empire’s relations with them , though he’d done his best to keep his distance from imperial envoys, skirting around officials as if he knew too well that nothing good would come from being seen or heard by them.

Asag shook his head, his gaze still on the horizon. ”It’s a crude way to honor anything, isn’t it?’’

Egil snorted, unable to hide a smirk. ”And yet you rather dress it up than treat it like a child’s game?” He turned to face Alpheo and Asag ”All those rules, the drummers, the declarations, the pompous envoys spewing words like they’re worth a damn. They build a mountain of ceremonies around something as simple as killing to survive.” He laughed. ”In my homeland, you killed to protect or to eat, and that was that. No mess of politics to go with it.”

Alpheo smirked as Egil went on, and Egil’s grin only widened. ”Tell me, Alpheo,” he asked, his tone half-mocking, ”do you enjoy announcing yourself at every turn? Even when you take a piss, you like to shout your intentions to the enemy?”

Alpheo chuckled, a glint of humor in his eyes. ”If it were up to me, I’d march straight into their cities, claim their throne without a word, without a single missive sent. But, alas...” He shrugged, still amused. ”We play this game because we’re bound to it, Egil, and we have to follow its rules’’

In fact, Alpheo had already planned to send an envoy with a formal declaration of war a week before his forces would depart from Bracum, as custom dictated. It was a tradition that carried significant weight—not because skipping it would provoke retaliation from every neighboring ruler, but because it set the foundation for the authority of his and Jasmine’s words in the realm and outside of it . Without adhering to this custom, any treaties or alliances they might forge in the future could be viewed as fickle, lacking in honor or trustworthiness.The casus belli that was chosen were two, first delivering justice to the criminal-lord of Arduronaven, and then as retaliation for fomenting rebellion in Jasmine’s lands y Echlian land, providing as proof the letter of correspondance between Lechlian and lady Elyra.

Alpheo knew well that respect in war, however tenuous, was essential to ruling. For a monarch, the perception of fair play, of adherence to the ancient laws of conflict, was something required if they did not want to be isolated diplomatically.Of course with enough gains , Alpheo wouldn’t hesitate to cast tradition aside in favor of dishonorable actions. Yet there was no reason to invite long-term disadvantages, no need to erode their position in the eyes of nobles and allies over a slight that could be repaid with patience.

As the army crested the final rise, the sprawling city of Bracum came into view, its stone walls rising proudly against the open countryside. The sight of their honorary guards brought a slow whistle from Asag. ”Seems Jarza hasn’t been slacking off.”

Egil shot him a wry glance, spurring his horse forward with a sharp nudge. ”The equipment came from us, you fool. Even vagabonds in that gear would look like elite soldiers.” He said as he nudged his head at the 400 soldiers waiting for them in formation.

As they moved forward, they passed straight through Bracum’s foot soldiers, as Jarza had their ranks stretched evenly along both sides of the road, probably to allow Alpheo a quick glance at the force he would fight beside. Alpheo took the favor at his stem as he observed the forces he had sponsored : chainmail glinting under the sun, spears held firmly upright, each soldier steady and alert. It was reassuring knowing that his silver was not wasted.

As they neared the gate, Alpheo’s gaze was drawn to the banner of House Bracum—its deep green and silver colors fluttering boldly against the sky. Standing in front of it was a familiar figure he hadn’t seen in months, one he’d longed to see again since their last parting: Jarza.