Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

The ship that carried Torghan and his group back home did not return empty. Its hull was filled with the goods meant for exchange with the outsiders—barrels of wine and cider, sacks of salt, steel weapons, and pieces of armor gleaming under the afternoon sun. The sheer amount of wealth being unloaded onto the shore was enough for the tribesmen to propser and take back their hills, as long as they were willing to pay the price.

For the first few hours after disembarking, Torghan found himself lingering at the outskirts of the outsider camp, watching as the soldiers and laborers meticulously organized the shipment. Even though he was home, something about the camp’s structured order felt oddly familiar now. Perhaps it was the memory of his time spent in Alpheo’s court, the days of riding, observing drills, and sharing meals with men who were utterly different yet strangely welcoming.

The sickness of the sea still clung to him, a dull unease in his stomach, so he chose to rest a while. The rocking of the waves had ceased, but his body had not yet caught up, making solid ground feel unsteady beneath his feet. He waited, letting the discomfort pass before finally rising to his feet.

With the sun starting its slow descent, Torghan knew it was time to return to the village. He adjusted the fine armor that still felt slightly foreign on his shoulders and began his journey back. However, Aron remained behind in the camp saying that he had some matters to tend to, and that he would follow them either later into the evening or the next day.

And with that, Torghan and his tribesmen departed without him, heading toward the heart of their homeland to report all they had seen.

After hours of marching, their feet carrying them over hills and through forests they had once thought they would never see again, the group finally found themselves walking the familiar path back to their village. The scent of the land, the rustling of the trees, and the distant sound of animals grazing brought a strange mixture of nostalgia and realization—this was home, yet something about them had changed.

As soon as they emerged onto the village outskirts, the response was immediate. Tribesmen swarmed around them, faces alight with curiosity, relief, and confusion. Questions came at them from all sides.

”Where have you been?”

”Why did you leave?”

”What happened across the sea?”

The bronze trimmings along the edges of his breastplate caught every glint, making him appear almost otherworldly—like an outsider rather than the son of their leader. The craftsmanship was unlike anything his people had ever seen, its surface polished and strong, each piece fitting together seamlessly.

He had chosen not to wear the helmet, letting his people see his face. He wanted them to know it was still him beneath the foreign steel, that he had not been replaced by some ghost from beyond the sea. And yet, the way they looked at him told him they weren’t so sure.

Murmurs filled the air as hands reached out to touch the metal. Curious fingers ran along the edges of the armor, knuckles rapped against the breastplate, testing its strength. Some marveled at its make, whispering among themselves about how such a thing could be forged, while others eyed it with suspicion, as though the armor itself carried some unseen curse.

”Where did you get this?” someone asked.

”Is this what they wear in their wars?” another voice chimed in.

Torghan remained silent, standing firm as more hands pressed against the foreign steel.

Before the crowd could overwhelm them with their inquiries, a group of warriors stepped forward, their presence alone enough to command silence. They parted the gathered villagers with firm hands, creating a clear path toward the great tent at the village’s center.

”Enough,” one of them barked shoving away at a kid who was touching the cuisse of his armor.

Yet even the warriors, for all their discipline, could not hide their own fascination. Their eyes lingered on the armor, studying the metal with quiet awe.

For the first time in his life, they were looking at him as something more than just the chief’s son. They were looking at him as something greater.

”The leader wishes to speak with his son,” one of the warriors declared. ”Make way.”

Torghan straightened his posture, inhaling deeply. The moment he had been preparing for had finally arrived.

Torghan walked in silence as the warriors led him through the village, his armored boots pressing into the dirt paths he had walked since childhood. But now, those familiar paths felt smaller—less than what they had once been.

His eyes drifted over the huts of his people, the same rough structures of wood, straw, and clay that had housed them for generations. Smoke curled from small openings in their roofs, the scent of burning wood and roasting meat thick in the air. Children ran barefoot between the homes, their laughter light and carefree, while women pounded grain into flour outside their doorways. It was the same as it had always been.

And yet, it felt so different now.

Torghan couldn’t help but compare what he saw to the towering homes of Yarzat, with their strong foundations, tall wooden beams, and tiled roofs that did not leak when it rained. He thought of the great halls where the lords and captains sat in luxury, of the vast markets filled with goods from every corner of the land, of the paved roads that did not turn to mud after a storm.

The difference was staggering. The outsiders lived better. That much was undeniable.

For the first time, he felt something strange in his chest. Not quite shame—but something close to it. A realization that his people had been left behind in a world that was moving forward.

The warriors led him to the largest hut in the village, his father’s home. It was larger than the rest, built sturdier, with wooden posts reinforcing its sides. But to Torghan, it now felt small—less than it should have been.

One of the warriors pushed aside the thick hide that covered the entrance.

”Go,” he said.

Torghan hesitated for only a moment before stepping inside.

The dim glow of the fire cast flickering shadows across the inside of the hut, the scent of burning wood thick in the enclosed space. Torghan’s father sat on the opposite side of the flames, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he turned his gaze toward the entrance. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—dark and piercing—watched intently as his son stepped inside.

”Torghan,” his father called, his voice deep and firm, carrying the weight of expectation.

Torghan inclined his head in greeting. ”Father,” he said, his tone steady. ”I have returned.”

He stepped forward, the armor he wore glinting in the firelight. He could feel his father’s eyes lingering on it, but no words were spoken of it yet.

Torghan lowered himself onto a stool near the fire, stretching his hands toward the warmth. The long journey across the sea had drained him, and even now, his body still felt sluggish from the voyage.

His father studied him for a moment before speaking. ”Word reached me that you returned hours ago,” he said, his tone edged with quiet reproach. ”And yet, you only appear before me now.”

Torghan exhaled, leaning forward slightly. ”Traveling through the salt lake leaves a man unsteady,” he replied. ”I needed some time to recover before making my way here.”

He met his father’s gaze and then added, ”I am here now, am I not?”

Silence hung between them. The fire crackled, filling the space where words had momentarily ceased.

His father’s expression hardened, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. His gaze, sharp as a blade, locked onto his son.

He did not appreciate the tone.

His fingers drummed against his knee, a habit that only surfaced when he was deep in thought.

”I see you received a gift from them,” he finally said, his voice even but carrying a weight that was difficult to decipher.

Torghan shifted slightly, feeling the weight of the armor against his shoulders. It fit him well—almost too well, as though it had been made just for him. He nodded, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the embossed patterns along the chest. ”I did.”

Varaku exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression unreadable. ”It looks nicer than mine.” His tone was gruff, but there was something beneath it—curiosity, perhaps.

Torghan allowed himself a small, knowing smirk. ”It was given to me by their leader,” he said, rapping his knuckles lightly against the chestplate. The metal responded with a deep, satisfying ring, far different from the dull thud of the iron and leather armor their warriors wore.

His father’s lips pressed into a thin line as he studied him more closely. ”Personally given?”

Torghan met his gaze and nodded. ”Yes. Alongside other things.” His voice carried a quiet confidence, one that had not been there before he left.

Varaku leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, the firelight casting deep shadows across his lined face. His eyes flickered with thought, something working behind them that Torghan could not yet read.

”And what, exactly, did you do to earn such generosity?” his father asked, his tone deceptively calm.

’’I swore eternal fealty to him’’