Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

In the end, he had done it.

Out of 97 captains, 39 had chosen Blake. It wasn’t a resounding majority—far from it—but it didn’t need to be. The rules were clear: the candidate with the most votes won. And by the slimmest of margins, Blake had seized victory.

Captain of the High Fleet. It had a nice ring to it

Of course, it hadn’t been a clean triumph—far from it.

Strings had been pulled so tight they nearly snapped. Blake had tugged at every single one of them. Favors were called in, alliances forged in the shadows, palms greased with whispered promises of future rewards.

And in the end, it paid off.

As the final vote was announced, a ripple of murmurs swept through the assembly. The title was his. He had climbed the ladder, rung by rung, and now stood at the top—a position so coveted, so powerful.

He still remembered when he entered the Call as a criminal for his raid over Romelian ships, he could have died there.And now he was above them all.

He would be the one to lead the charge, to avenge Rock Bottom.

Yes, it had been messy. Yes, the deals left a bitter aftertaste. But the world didn’t care how you won—only that you did.

And Blake had won.

---------------

Currently he was laying in his bed, staring up at the dark ceiling of his quarters. Beside him, curled up on the edge of the mattress, his bed slave slept soundly, her breathing soft and steady.

By all accounts, he should have lost.

Blake rubbed his temples, his thoughts churning like a stormy sea. How? he asked himself, over and over.

He wasn’t the only one who had played dirty; far from it. Blackmail, favors, whispered threats, and promises of glory had flowed freely from his rivals as well. In fact, some of them had resources and connections that dwarfed his own. Yet, against all odds, he had emerged victorious. The numbers didn’t lie: he was now Captain of the High Fleet.

He was a man who liked to understand every angle, every piece of the puzzle, and yet he could not see the mistery behind it.

His thoughts turned to the old hag—the soothsayer who had been so infuriatingly certain of his success. He could still see her face, weathered like old parchment, her dark eyes glinting.

She had declared to him before they arrived to the call that he was to win.

He’d laughed in her face at first, mocking her cryptic proclamations. She started laughing too , not at the situation however, but at him.The same way a man would laugh seeing a child afraid of an insect.

He hated being laughed at, there he snapped and threatened her life—promising to cut off her head if her visions proved false—she hadn’t even flinched.

Instead, she’d merely tilted her head and asked for a bull.

At the time, he’d assumed it was for some elaborate ritual. His men had chuckled nervously, but he had been too intrigued to stop her.

Her answer had come in the form of another cackling laugh, followed by a string of rapid, unintelligible words. It was his bed slave who had finally translated-

”She says the victory is already written in the fire. The bull is not for the ritual... it is for gratitude. She is thanking the Almighty Flame for what has already been set in motion.”

Blake remembered the chill that had run down his spine at those words. The cold that had swept through Blake’s body had been unlike anything he’d ever felt, and it settled like ice in his bones.

He shook his head, trying to dispel the thought, but it clung to him like a shadow. He glanced over at his companion , still sleeping peacefully, and envied her. He wished he could silence his mind long enough to rest. But instead, he lay there, eyes wide open, trying to untangle the threads of his unlikely triumph while the night stretched on around him.

Blake reached out, his hand gripping the bare shoulder of his sleeping slave. His touch was not gentle; it was rough and impatient, shaking her awake. She stirred with a startled gasp, her eyes blinking rapidly as she tried to comprehend the sudden jolt from her rest.

”Get up,” he growled, his voice low but sharp enough to pierce through her grogginess. ”Fetch the old hag. Now.”

Without a word of protest, she nodded,and moved quickly to obey. Rising from the bed, she reached for the simple cloak draped over the nearby chair, pulling it around her nude form to cover herself against the cool night air. The cabin door creaked softly as she slipped out into the darkness, leaving Blake alone with his restless thoughts.

He exhaled heavily, running a hand through his disheveled hair before crossing the room to a wooden bucket filled with water. He dipped his hands into the cold liquid, scooping it up and splashing it onto his face. The shock of it jolted his senses. Droplets clung to his skin, glistening in the dim light as he leaned on the edge of the basin, his knuckles white against the wood.

Minutes stretched out, each one feeling heavier than the last, but finally, the sound of footsteps broke the silence. The door creaked open, and the slave stepped back inside, her cloak dampened .

Behind her shuffled the old hag, her hunched figure illuminated by the lantern Blake had left burning.

Her face, lined with years and secrets, bore the same infuriating calm that had unnerved him earlier. She stepped into the cabin without hesitation, her dark eyes flicking toward him as if she already knew why she had been summoned.

Blake stood by the bed , his posture rigid, eyes locked onto the old hag’s weathered face with an intensity that could have burned through stone.

”Did you do something to make me win?”

The slave stepped forward, her nervous gaze flicking between Blake and the hag as she prepared to translate. The old woman didn’t flinch.

Slowly, she shook her head, the movement deliberate, almost as though Blake’s question was beneath her.

”She says she did nothing,” the slave hesitated, her voice faltering as she relayed the old woman’s words. ”Even if she wanted to, it was not she who brought change. She only saw the result.She has no power in herself.”

Blake’s jaw tightened. His right hand clenched around the fingers of his left, an unconscious reflex as his mind grappled with the ambiguity of the answer. There was no smug satisfaction in the hag’s demeanor, just the cold certainty of someone who had glimpsed something far beyond what Blake could comprehend.

For the first time in years—maybe since his youth, when he had stood on the deck of a ship facing down a storm—Blake felt a strange, unsettling sensation. It was awe. He didn’t recognize it at first, but there it was, gnawing at the edges of his pride, a reminder of just how small his efforts seemed in the face of something larger.

His voice softened, almost to a whisper, as he asked, ”What else can your god do?”

The old woman’s eyes gleamed with an unsettling calm, her lips curling into a knowing smile that sent a ripple of unease through Blake’s chest. She spoke, the words flowing effortlessly in a tongue foreign to him, but the slave had already begun to translate, her voice quivering slightly as if she, too, felt the weight of the old woman’s words.

”Everything,” the slave said, her voice trembling, though her eyes never left Blake’s. ”But he only does what he wishes to do.”

Blake’s mind reeled, as if the very air around him had thickened with the gravity of the statement. He leaned in, his face drawn with tension. ”Can he give power?” he asked, his voice low, barely audible.

The hag nodded, her expression serene, almost detached as she spoke once more in her native tongue.

The slave hesitated for only a moment

”He can give power over men.He can make kings,” the slave translated, ”He can point the path forward, create empires, undo them, destroy nations, raise them from the ashes... and create victory for those who earn his favor.”

The hag’s gaze never wavered from his. It was as if she were daring him to challenge the divine power she spoke of.

The slave translated again, her voice faint, almost hesitant. ”She asks if you want to earn his favor,” she said, her eyes flicking nervously to Blake, gauging his reaction. ”She says all you need to do is praise him, make others do the same, spread the truth that there is only one power above men.”

Blake’s brows furrowed. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to play the pawn in some divine game. Yet he could become king if he wished, or at least he chose to believe so.

The old woman continued, her tone rising with a sharp edge of conviction.

”She says that the giants of Azania, those who once ruled with blood and arrogance, forgot this truth. They dared to claim divinity through their own flesh, believing they were gods, and now they are no more.They are falling to their doom, the Almightly as already seen himself to it”

The hag’s voice gained strength as she continued, her eyes burning with a fire that mirrored the words she spoke. ”Their arrogance was their undoing,” the slave translated, her voice trembling as the words fell from her lips. ”The Almighty punished them for it. And now he seeks someone worthy to carry his flame. Someone who will carry his will... and mandate. She asks if you want to be that carrier.”

The slave’s voice softened, almost to a whisper. ”You became captain of a fleet. Imagine what it would be like to be king of the seas.”

Blake’s pulse quickened. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he locked gazes with the old hag. ”How will he make me king?” His voice was firm, challenging. He needed answers. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—be swayed by vague promises. ”How will the Almighty, help me when I’ll be surrounded by the domain of his enemy?” His voice dropped lower, intense with the weight of his question. ”How will he bring me victory?”

The hag chuckled, a dry, rasping sound that sent a chill through the room, like the sound of dead leaves skittering across a forgotten battlefield. She raised one gnarled hand and pointed directly at Blake, her crooked finger trembling with purpose as she spoke her first words in the Eastern tongue.

”Fire.”