Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

A heavy silence followed the question, thick and unmoving like a stagnant pool of water. The gathered warriors exchanged glances, some gripping their weapons tighter, others waiting with barely restrained anticipation. The wind carried only the distant cries of seabirds and the rustling of the trees.

Aron inhaled deeply, steadying himself. His fingers twitched slightly, but he forced them still. Slowly, deliberately, he rebuilt his smile, the same friendly one he had used earlier

”You are free to do so,” he said at last, his voice breaking the silence with an eerie calm. ”Slit my throat, storm the camp, take everything you find and claim it for yourselves.”

A few of the tribesmen blinked in confusion at the way he so easily invited his own death, but Aron only chuckled softly before continuing.

”In fact,” he added, gesturing loosely toward the wooden palisade behind him, ”I encourage you to do it now. Don’t wait. Go ahead, take the camp right now.”

He saw the flicker of doubt in their eyes, the shift in their stances, the slight hesitation that cracked through their certainty. Aron raised a hand and pointed past the camp, toward the sea, where their ships floated upon the calm waves.

”As a matter of fact there won’t be a single sword raised against your attempt.” His voice dropped slightly, carrying a knowing edge. ”There is no one inside. Not a single soul.

Every man who disembarked has already returned to the ships,”Aron continued smoothly. ”Along with all of our belongings. If you storm the camp now, you’ll find no plunder, no food, no weapons—nothing. Not even a tent worth carrying away.”

He spread his arms wide, as if presenting an empty prize.

”So tell me, mighty warriors, what meaning does your threat hold now?” His smile turned into something more pointed, almost mocking. ”What value is there in killing us if it gains you nothing?”

The silence that followed was far heavier than the one before.

Aron let the silence linger, allowing the weight of his words to settle over the gathered warriors like a thick fog. Then, with a small, knowing chuckle, he tilted his head and spoke again.

”Truth be told,” he admitted, his voice as calm as ever, ”the camp has been empty since the moment we spotted you marching toward our position. We had no intention of making a stand against you.We hold no reason to have men die to maintain our position here.”

Some of the tribesmen narrowed their eyes, while others exchanged uncertain glances.

”The initial plan,” he continued, gesturing toward the sea once more, ”was to simply leave. We would have boarded our ships and sought another land—another tribe—one more willing to listen, more open to business.”

He let out a soft breath, shaking his head. ”In fact, that would have been the safest choice. The logical one.”

His sharp gaze flickered between them, lingering on the man clad in chainmail, before he offered a wry smile. ”But it was I who convinced them otherwise. I alone asked to remain, to see if reason could prevail over the blade. If I was wrong, then so be it—my life holds no meaning in the grand scheme of things.”

He exhaled, his expression turning cold, his voice dropping ever so slightly. ”I am merely a dog, one that can be replaced the moment I outlive my usefulness. You could cut me down where I stand, and another would simply take my place with another tribe . It would change nothing for us ,while for you everything.”

He paused, then took a step forward, his eyes gleaming with quiet confidence.

”But before you go ahead with your choice, before you decide whether to kill me or listen, ask yourselves this—” he let the question hang in the air for a moment, drawing them in before delivering the final blow, ”how many tribes like yours exist, ones we can offer trade, ones we can bring the same luxuries you have just tasted mere moments ago?”

He saw the uncertainty flicker through their ranks.

Then he smiled.

”And now tell me—how many are there who are willing to trade with you?I believe you are pretty away from the mountains, and I don’t see many ships coming here.Even if there were how many would be willing to offer what I now presented you?”

The translator relayed Aron’s words in the guttural, rolling cadence of the tribe’s tongue, his voice carrying across the assembled warriors. Some listened intently, their expressions unreadable, while others exchanged wary glances, shifting uneasily as they weighed the foreigner’s words.

Varaku let out a slow, measured sigh. He didn’t like what he was hearing—everything in him recoiled at the idea of dealing with these outsiders, of relying on them for anything—but he couldn’t deny the truth in the man’s words.

Back in the hills, traders would occasionally risk the treacherous journey to bypass the mountains between and barter with them, offering salt, in exchange for furs, wool, or silver. But here? In this foreign land? That possibility was gone. They had no network, no established paths of trade—only the weapons in their hands.

And the outsiders knew it.

What Aron did not know, however, was that the situation of those he was to trade with, was even worse than he could have imagined. The tribe was on the verge of famine. Their journey had been long, and while they had herds, they could not slaughter too many without crippling their future. The land here was unfamiliar, and their hunters had struggled to bring in enough game. The thought of a hard winter without enough food loomed over them like a specter.

Varaku exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers flexing at his sides. He hated this. He hated the idea of needing anything from these foreigners. But survival came first.

He leveled a hard gaze at Aron.

”And what is it that you can trade?” he asked, his voice flat, revealing nothing of the storm of thoughts raging inside him.

Inside, Aron nearly collapsed with relief. He kept his face composed, his practiced smile still in place, but in his mind, he was cheering, exalting, and thanking every god that might be listening.

I live.

The weight that had been pressing on his chest since the moment he stepped forward lifted ever so slightly. He had gambled everything—his life, his future, his very existence—on the slimmest chance that reason would prevail, that these warriors would see the value in what he was offering rather than simply cutting him down like a stray dog.

And he had won.

He could almost feel his knees trembling, but he kept his posture straight, willing himself to appear as if he had expected this outcome all along.

He would live to see another day.

He would not die in this forsaken land, bleeding out in the dirt at the hands of savages that do not even know the word civilized

Aron’s smile widened ever so slightly, though his heart was still hammering in his chest. He gestured subtly to the gifts that had already been presented.

”Everything you have seen today can be yours. Silk, wine, cider,salt....”

Varaku’s ears seemed to twitch at the mention of that last word. His expression, carefully guarded until now, shifted ever so slightly as his sharp eyes focused intently on Aron.

Salt.

There were only a few salt mines within reach of the tribes , and the precious grains or sacks of salt that traders brought were costly—too costly to be wasted except on the most necessary occasions. The meat they hunted had to be eaten quickly before it spoiled, and during the colder seasons, when hunting became difficult, preserving enough food was always a struggle.

With salt, they could store their kills for much longer, ensuring that no beast went to waste. More than that, salt was a valuable commodity among the other mountain tribes. If they had a steady supply, they could trade it for food. The possibilities were endless.

Varaku’s fingers flexed at his sides, his mind already racing through the implications. Aron, watching him closely, could see it—the hesitation, the shift from hostility to reluctant interest.

Aron kept his voice calm and measured, though inside, he was nearly giddy with triumph. He had to press his advantage while the iron was hot—quite literally.

”Of course, if your tribe is willing to trade, then it is in our interest that you have the means to defend yourselves.”

As he spoke, he reached behind his back, carefully unfastening a scabbard that had been strapped to him. With a slow, deliberate motion, he unsheathed a small but exquisitely crafted blade and held it out to Varaku, handle first.

The tribal leader eyed him warily before stepping forward and grasping the weapon. He pulled it from its scabbard in one smooth motion, tilting it to let the metal catch the light. The steel gleamed, sharp and clean, a stark contrast to the crude iron and bronze tools his people wielded.

With a flick of his wrist, Varaku tested the weight of the blade, letting it slice through the air in a smooth arc. Then, without hesitation, he pressed the edge lightly against his finger. A thin line of red appeared instantly, and he watched the bead of blood form with silent approval.

Aron smiled.

”If you are willing, we may be able to trade iron weapons as well.”

He didn’t need to be a mind-reader to see it—the interest flashing in Varaku’s eyes, the subtle shift in his stance.

Aron knew at that moment: he had won.

And with the victory came the favor of the prince.

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