Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

November had always been a bittersweet month for the common folk—a final burst of activity and joy before the long, unrelenting grip of winter. It was the last chance to gather the late harvests, with fields yielding turnips, pumpkins, and beets, the hardy crops that could withstand the year’s waning days. This was also the season when peasants worked tirelessly to stockpile wood, knowing full well that by December,the grounds would be picked clean, and the bitter cold would bite at their doorsteps.

For those fortunate enough to live near dense forests, the task was easier, as fallen branches and dry sticks were plentiful. But even then, there were strict boundaries. The towering trees themselves belonged to their feudal lords, and felling one without permission was a grave offense. To be caught chopping down a tree was to be branded a poacher, and such a crime often ended at the gallows, swinging for all to see.

So, most peasants, well aware of the dangers, avoided the axe altogether. Instead, they scoured the forest floor, collecting whatever the winds or storms had shaken loose. Some, bolder or more desperate, might snap off lower branches, keeping a wary eye out for the foresters who patrolled their lord’s lands.

For those dwelling in the bustling cities, the arrival of winter brought a different kind of preparation. As the days grew shorter and colder, lumberjacks would trundle into town with wagons laden with freshly cut logs, calling out their wares in hopes of finding eager buyers. And find buyers they did—though only among the well-to-do. Merchants, master artisans, and other medium-prosperous folk could afford the luxury of a steady fire to keep the winter chill at bay.

For the less fortunate, however, the prospect of warmth was a far more daunting challenge. Coins were scarce in their purses, and the cost of even a meager bundle of wood was often beyond reach. Some families scraped together enough to buy what little they could, rationing it carefully through the season. Others turned to more desperate measures, sending their children to the outskirts of the city with makeshift carts to scavenge for fallen branches or abandoned sticks.

But even this wasn’t an option for many. Lacking carts, time, or the extra hands to spare, countless families simply had to endure the cold, wrapping themselves in threadbare blankets . For the urban poor, winter wasn’t just a season—it was the time of death.

Fortunately for those living in the southern reaches, the winters were far gentler than the unforgiving cold experienced in the north. Summers blazed hot, and winters, while chilly, rarely dipped into the realm of true danger. Frosted mornings and brisk evenings were the extent of the season’s bite, and snow, when it did fall, was more of a fleeting spectacle than a persistent menace, in those rare times it came .

As a result, the cases of people succumbing to the cold in regions like Yarzat were exceptionally rare. The temperate climate offered a small mercy, allowing families to endure the season without the constant specter of freezing to death. It was an hard season true, but not an insurmountable one, a test of patience rather than life or death.

It was in this bittersweet month of November, as the last harvests were gathered and the chill of winter began to creep into the air, that the heir to the throne of Yarzat was born. Basil Veloni-Isha, the firstborn of Princess Jasmine and her consort Alpheo, entered a stage. His birth was not just an occasion of joy within the gilded halls of the royal palace but a moment that rippled outward, touching the hearts of the countless subjects toiling below the royal family’s rule.

If one were to assume that such moments of happiness were reserved solely for those living within the splendor of the court, they would be sorely mistaken. Across the city, in modest homes and bustling markets, in the smoky warmth of taverns and the open spaces of busy squares, people shared in the excitement. Joyous murmurs spread like wildfire, and though the people of Yarzat had no direct connection to the velvet cradle or silk-draped nursery, their spirits were lifted all the same.

For the common folk, whose daily lives were often filled with toil but they were still met, there was nothing as satisfying as a juicy piece of news, a fresh tale to liven the monotonous rhythm of survival. And what better source of such intrigue than the royal family? Stories of their lives, whispered and speculated upon, had long been a favorite pastime.

The royal family, aware of their people’s appetite for news, wasted no time in announcing the joyous event. By the very next day, heralds took to the streets, their voices echoing off stone walls and wooden eaves as they proclaimed the arrival of Prince Basil. Word spread swiftly, carried by eager tongues and attentive ears.

Throughout the city, the speakers —those usually paid by the crown to spread news to the masses, the ancient equivalent of a newspaper—were dispatched to announce the joyous occasion. Of course not always they were made to tell the truth, but simply to spread whatever information they wanted.

These speakers, clad in the long simply tunics , made their way to every square, marketplace, and street corner, gathering crowds eager to hear the latest decree.

Clearing their throats, the heralds unfurled their scrolls and spoke in loud, clear voices so even the humblest listener could understand:

”Good people of Yarzat! Rejoice, for a blessed event has come to pass! Her Grace, Princess Jasmine Veloni-Isha, and His Lordship, Prince Alpheo, are delighted to announce the birth of their firstborn son, the heir to the throne of Yarzat! Basil Veloni-Isha has entered this world hale and strong, a beacon of hope and prosperity for our great city and princedom!”

Pausing to allow the murmurs of excitement and cheers to settle, they continued:

”To mark this momentous occasion and to share this joy with all her subjects, Her Grace, Princess Jasmine, has declared a full week of celebration! Starting tomorrow, there will be public meals offered throughout the city to all who wish to partake. Let us come together in gratitude and happiness for the blessing of this new life, our future prince and protector!It is recommended to all people to go to the temples and pray to the goddess in gratitude for their blessing!”

With that, the heralds rolled up their scrolls, offering bows to the clapping crowds before moving on to the next corner of the city to repeat their joyful proclamation.

As the herald finished his proclamation, a ripple of excitement coursed through the gathered crowd. A few voices rose above the murmuring, offering heartfelt gratitude and praise:

”Bless Her Grace for her generosity!” shouted a burly cobbler, his voice loud and clear.

”Long live the royal family!” added a woman clutching a toddler to her hip, her face beaming with joy.

”May the Princess live a thousand years!” cried an elderly man, his hands clasped together in reverence.

The energy in the square shifted to unrestrained elation as the news sank in. A week of free meals for the entire city! For many, this was as rare and joyful as a rainstorm during a drought. Mothers grinned at the thought of not worryng about food , while laborers who barely made enough for a loaf of bread imagined sitting down and eating without worrying about affording it.

For those whose daily meals were sparse and often plain, this was a miracle. Faces lit up like a dog catching sight of a juicy bone.

It was no exaggeration to say that the crown’s reputation among the people of Yarzat had never soared as high as it did now. The streets buzzed with life, the city’s veins pulsing with the vitality of prosperity. Public works projects flourished. Jobs were plentiful, and the clang of hammers and the hum of trade filled the air. The coins changing hands in bustling markets sparkled brighter, their abundance undeniable, even if few understood the reasons behind this sudden surge of fortune.

The initial murmurs of doubt about a woman ascending the throne, were silenced by the steady stream of good news. Reports of military victories spread through the city like wildfire, each tale more triumphant than the last. The proof of these victories wasn’t merely in the proclamations but in the sight of soldiers returning home. Their satchels overflowed with spoils, their coin purses bulging, and their holes in their hands bigger than ever.

The people swelled with pride at the victories of their state. It wasn’t just about the glories of conquest—though that certainly played its part—it was the tangible benefits that made the difference. No enemy raided their lands, no fields burned under foreign banners. Grain prices remained steady, ensuring bread on every table. The soldiers’ riches, flowing back into the city’s shops and taverns, trickled down through every stratum of society. Merchants thrived, artisans were busy, and even the humblest laborer found more work on hand than usual.

The result was a city alive with optimism, its people more in touch to the throne than they had been in generations.

The army, perhaps more than any other group, celebrated the joyous news with unparalleled enthusiasm. Having marched countless miles beside Alpheo, they felt a unique connection to the monarch, one forged by shared hardships and triumphs on the battlefield. To them, his happiness was their happiness, and the birth of his son felt like a victory they could all claim as their own.

The announcement that the soldiers would be granted a week without training added fuel to the fire of their celebrations. For seven glorious days, they were free to wander the city, reveling without the shadow of the usual curfews or the rigid schedules of the military camp. The prospect of unrestrained freedom was enough to send cheers echoing through the barracks.

”Seven days!” one soldier exclaimed, slapping his comrade on the back. ”Seven days without drills or that damned sergeant barking in my ear. By the gods, I’ll finally sleep past sunrise!”

Another grinned as he polished off a mug of ale. ”Sleep? I’m heading straight to the tavern district! It’s been too long since I’ve seen a pretty face that wasn’t scowling at me from across a battlefield.”

”I’m buying myself a proper feast,” a gruff older soldier added, cracking a rare smile. ”Meat, wine. It’s about time we celebrated like the prince we fight for.”

Laughter and cheers filled the air as the soldiers began to plan their week of freedom. The barracks, usually a place of rigid discipline, had transformed into a hub of unbridled excitement.

For these men, who had faced death and hardship time and again, the chance to enjoy life, if only for a week, was as precious as any treasure taken from the spoils of war.