Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Ten ships cut through the waves, their sails taut with the wind as they crossed the very sea where, just weeks ago, the Romelians and the Confederation of the Free Isle had waged their fateful battle.

The waters once churned with fire and blood, now bore silent witness to the rise of a new order. The Confederation had emerged victorious, and with the Imperial fleet sent to the depths, there was no disputing it—these waters had a new master.

The fleet followed a carefully charted course, the sailing road between Yarzat’s foreign outpost on the distant continent and the open seas just above Harmway. Along the way, pirate ships—lesser ones, the kind that lurked in wait for easy prey—spotted the passing fleet. Yet none dared approach.

Their captains knew better than to test the strength of such a force.Against a fleet of warships of this caliber, they were but gnats against a storm.

And so, the pirate vessels kept their distance, content to watch as the ten great ships sailed unhindered, carving their way toward their destination, carrying with them both men and great changes.

Of course, this did not mean there were no forces capable of posing a threat. There were captains who commanded fleets of equal size, men who could, in theory, muster the strength to challenge them. But even if they did, the cost of bringing down such a force—if they even succeeded—would far outweigh any potential gains.

The risk simply wasn’t worth it.

And so, ten ships were all that was needed for a quiet sail across the pirate-infested sea. A fortunate circumstance, especially for the guests being transported within—the outsiders—who, unused to the relentless sway of the waves, were busy puking their guts out over the rails.

Torghan heaved over the side of the ship once again, his body convulsing violently as another wave sent his stomach twisting in protest. His arms trembled as he clutched the wooden railing, knuckles white from the effort of keeping himself upright.

As the salty wind did little to soothe his nausea, and the endless motion of the ship beneath his feet made him feel as though the entire world had become unstable.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he muttered through gritted teeth, ”The spirits of the water must have been angered by our intrusion.” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it carried enough weight for the others slumped beside him to nod weakly in agreement.

”They do not welcome us,” one groaned, pressing his forehead against the wooden planks of the ship, his face sickly pale.

Another warrior, barely able to lift his head, croaked, ”We should have never set foot on water, we are made to run on land not on water” His fingers dug into the deck as if trying to anchor himself to something solid, though the relentless sway of the sea made such a thing impossible.

”Why in the hells haven’t the outsiders been cursed like us?” another rasped, his voice raw from retching. ”They walk the deck as if the sea were solid ground, not a single one of them sick. Are the spirits blind to them?”

Torghan, still gripping the railing tightly, took a deep breath before answering, though the effort of speaking made his stomach twist again. ”They must venerate water spirits,” he muttered between clenched teeth. ”This is their domain, after all. Perhaps the spirits welcome them, while they see us as intruders.” He spat into the waves below, as if to rid himself of the thought.

Far behind them, Aron stood near the mast, his sharp eyes catching sight of the sick warriors doubled over in their misery. He could hear the low murmurs of their conversation, the occasional curse or groan reaching his ears, but their language was a mystery to him.

He considered asking what they were talking about, but as his gaze drifted to their translator, slumped on the deck with his face buried in his hands, looking no better than the warriors he was supposed to interpret for, Aron sighed and let it go. Whatever discussion they were having, it wasn’t worth the trouble of trying to piece it together now.

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As the ships finally reached the towering harbor of Aracina, the tribesmen who had spent the journey hunched over the rails in sickness now stood, their nausea momentarily forgotten. Eyes wide, they took in the sprawling city before them.

”Spirits above...” one of them whispered, gripping the wooden railing tightly. ”This... this cannot be made from people.”

Torghan, still pale from the voyage, swallowed hard as he stared at the massive stone buildings rising beyond the docks, their tops reaching toward the sky like the peaks of mountains. ”It isn’t,” he muttered. ”This must be... something else.”

One of the older warriors, his face lined with years of hardship, squinted at the massive walls carved into the side of the mountain itself. ”They have tamed the land itself,” he said in awe. ”The mountain serves them, bends to their will. Look—it’s shaped like a wall, like a great barrier.”

Another pointed toward the sea of people moving about the docks, carts rolling over stone paths, and men unloading goods from massive ships. ”How many live here?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer. ”Nearly half of our kin combined? ”

Torghan’s stomach churned—not from seasickness this time, but from something else. Unease. This place, with its stone roads, great walls, and towering buildings, was beyond anything they had ever known. They were no longer in the lands of their ancestors. They were in the domain of the outsiders now.

Torghan turned to Rhazan, his voice still hoarse from the sickness of the journey. ”Ask him if this is where their leader resides,” he said, eyes still locked onto the towering city before them.

Rhazan gave a brief nod and spoke to Aron, who had been watching their reactions with mild amusement. The foreigner listened, then shook his head. ”The princess and her husband lives in the capital,” Aron explained. ”This is simply a city under her domain.”

Torghan blinked, struggling to comprehend. He gestured at the sprawling streets, the stone walls, and the endless flood of people moving like ants below them. ”There are more?” he asked, unable to keep the bewilderment from his voice.

Aron chuckled, nodding. ”Oh yes. This is merely a minor settlement. The royal capital is seven times the size of this.”

Torghan inhaled sharply, his mind reeling. He turned back to Rhazan, barely able to get his next question out. ”Ask him... how many people are in their tribes?”

Rhazan relayed the question, and Aron let out a small, thoughtful hum. ”That is actually a nice question,” he said with a smirk. ”There are far too many to count. But the capital alone? It holds 30,000 people.”

Torghan’s throat went dry. 30,000. Just in one city. More than he had ever thought possible. He looked back at his men, their faces mirroring his own disbelief.

Aron saw their stunned expressions and couldn’t help but smirk. He decided to press on

”And mind you,” he continued casually, ”there must be at least twenty or so cities like this under our control.”

Torghan’s jaw clenched as soon as the words came in his language , his fingers tightening around the leather of his belt. He turned to his men, seeing the same mix of awe and unease on their faces. Even Rhazan, usually composed, seemed shaken.

”So many?” one of the warriors muttered under his breath.

Torghan swallowed hard. Their entire world had been made up of vast open plains and hills scattered villages, and the occasional fortified camp with wood . The idea that these outsiders controlled not just one, but dozens of cities like this—each teeming with more people than he had ever thought possible—made his stomach twist.

He had known they were walking into the unknown. But he was starting to wonder if they had any idea just how small their world had been.

The fleet anchored smoothly at the port, the great ships creaking as they settled into place. Ropes were thrown, sails furled, and gangplanks lowered as the crew disembarked. The salty sea breeze mixed with the scent of fish, tar, and damp wood, a familiar smell to the sailors but foreign to the newcomers.

Torghan and his men stepped onto the firm ground with a deep sigh of relief. Some even muttered quiet thanks to the spirits, grateful to finally be free from the sea’s torment. Their legs still wobbled slightly, unused to standing still after days of being rocked by the waves.

But their relief quickly gave way to curiosity. They took in the city before them—a place unlike anything they had ever seen.

Aracina, though small by the standards of the locals, was still a sight to behold for the tribesmen. Stone buildings stood firm, their tiled roofs sloping gently downward. Narrow streets bustled with movement as merchants arranged goods on wooden stalls, fishmongers shouted their wares, and children ran barefoot through the alleyways.

The townsfolk had already begun to gather, eyes locked on the strange newcomers who looked so out of place among them. Their clothes, made from tanned animal hides, stood in stark contrast to the woven tunics and layered garments of the city-dwellers. Their sandals, simple and worn, scuffed loudly against the stone streets. Some of the warriors, draped in furs or wools, carried long spears that seemed crude compared to the polished swords hanging from the waists of the city guards and the spearheads of the garrison.

Low murmurs spread through the crowd, curious whispers and occasional laughter. A few children pointed, tugging at their mothers’ skirts, while the braver ones stood on their toes, eager to get a better look at the wild-looking men who had just stepped off the ships.

Torghan rolled his shoulders, feeling the weight of their stares.

The murmurs and whispers of the gathered crowd were suddenly interrupted by the rhythmic clanking of armored boots against the stone streets. From the main road leading into the port, forty men in gleaming mail and polished helms and breastplates descended upon the scene, their presence an immediate and commanding force.

Each of them bore the same white surcoat, emblazoned with two bold diagonal black stripes—an unmistakable mark of the Crown’s Standing Army.

”Move along! There is nothing to see here!”one of them barked, his voice carrying over the hum of the port. His comrades joined him, motioning firmly with their gauntleted hands, stepping between the tribesmen and the onlookers.

The people hesitated for only a moment. The sight of the stripes on their surcoats was enough to sober even the most curious among them. Unlike mercenaries or city watchmen, the White Army answered directly to the ruling crown, and disobedience to them was a far riskier affair.

One by one, the townsfolk stepped back, a few still stealing glances before turning away entirely.

Torghan watched all of this unfold with keen eyes taking the scene in front of him, with all the curiosity of a boy in front of a new world.