Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Robert stared down at the priest, whose torch was now lowered, the warm light casting a soft glow over the man’s features. His hair was white, cut short, a stark contrast to his amiable face—one lined with age yet absent of weariness. A quiet understanding lingered in the mirthful curve of his lips, in the steady gaze of his brown eyes.

There was no judgment there. No pity. Only patience.

Something about that patience made Robert’s shoulders sag under its weight.

With a deep sigh, he reached up, fingers fumbling briefly before he loosened the knot at his throat. The rope slithered away, the coarse fibers scraping against his skin one last time before it hung limp around his shoulders. ”Fine,” he muttered, more to himself than to the priest. ”But make it quick. I’ve no patience for sermons.”

His descent was slow, boots scraping against the bark as he made his way down. The noose still dangled from the branch above, swaying idly in the wind as Robert stepped onto the earth once more. His feet felt heavier than before.

The priest stood motionless, his expression unchanged as the torchlight flickered between them.

Robert’s patience, already stretched thin, snapped.

”Well?” he barked, throwing out a hand. ”Talk, damn you! Say whatever wisdom you’ve come here to share and let me get back to my business.”

The priest tilted his head slightly, his calm demeanor unshaken. ”You said you didn’t want a sermon,” he said evenly, ”and honestly, I’ve got nothing prepared. I’m no great speaker, just a man who walks the path the gods laid for me. I am but a simple man.”

Robert’s scowl deepened, but the priest continued as if he hadn’t noticed.

”Truth is, it just didn’t sit right to turn my back after seeing a man on the end of a rope. Men spend their whole lives searching for signs, asking the gods for guidance. Who’s to say this isn’t one? Maybe for you. Maybe for me. Only the gods know.”

He adjusted his grip on the torch, its warm glow illuminating the lines of his face. ”If I’m being honest,” he admitted, ”perhaps this is my first test. The gods might be asking me if I am worthy of their path, or if I’ve lost my way and should not proceed. And maybe—just maybe—this moment is a sign for you too.”

He nodded toward the tree, his expression unreadable. ”Either way, I couldn’t just walk away.”

”A sign for me?” Robert scoffed, folding his arms across his chest. ”The gods have nothing to say to me, priest. If they did once, they no longer do.”

He gestured at himself with a bitter, humorless laugh. ”A drunk. A traitor. A fool. What use would the gods have for a man like that?”

The priest studied him for a long moment, then smiled—small, knowing.

”Funny thing about the gods,” he said quietly. ”They don’t tend to choose the righteous.”

The priest tilted his head, his expression calm and unreadable. ”Do you think the gods only speak to those that are already one the high road?”

Robert let out a sharp, humorless laugh. ”In the stories, they do. Not men like me.” His voice turned bitter. ”If the gods had anything to say, they’re too late. I doubt they even listen anymore.”

The priest raised his torch slightly, its flickering light casting long shadows across Robert’s face, accentuating the weariness etched into his features. ”Oh, they listen,” he said, his voice steady. ”They are always here. Not to rewrite the past, but to see what you do next.”

Robert barked out another laugh, this one tinged with hysteria. ”Next?” He gestured wildly at the noose, still dangling from the branch. ”There is no ’next’ for me! Every breath I take is borrowed from a debt I can never repay.”

The priest watched him for a long moment, then let the torch dip slightly. The flames danced in Robert’s hollow eyes. ”A debt,” he murmured. ”To whom?”

Robert’s jaw tightened. His fists clenched at his sides, then relaxed, as if the strength had drained from him entirely. The words came unbidden, rasping and raw. ”To a benefactor. To someone who deserved better than what I gave.”

The priest’s expression softened, though his gaze never wavered. ”Are they still alive?”

Robert let out a bitter, broken laugh. ”No. He’s gone. Taken by the same man I couldn’t stop... The same man I couldn’t fight then, and can’t fight now.”

The priest studied him, tilting his head slightly. ”And do you believe you betrayed him?”

Robert swallowed hard, staring at the ground. ”I don’t know,” he whispered. ”Not with a blade in the back, but with my cowardice.Not by action but from lack of it.

I should have avenged him. I should have done something. But I let his killer walk free.” His voice cracked. ”I failed him when it mattered most, and now I have no power to make it right.”

The priest stepped closer, his voice quiet but firm. ”I’m no saint. I have no miracles, no sacred words that will erase your guilt. I’m just a man, like you. And I can tell you this—no god, no priest, no stranger can carry the weight of your soul. That burden is yours alone.”

He lifted the torch slightly, its warm glow washing over them both. ”The only thing I can offer you is a choice. The past is set in stone, but what happens next? That belongs to you. Maybe the gods brought me here, or maybe they didn’t. Maybe this moment is nothing more than chance. But if there’s even the smallest chance that there’s more for you to do, wouldn’t it be a shame to walk away from it?”

Robert scowled faintly, his lip curling. ”Another sermon?”

The priest chuckled, a dry, knowing sound. ”Not a sermon. Just this moment.” He stepped back, raising the torch higher. ”I’ll come back in the morning. If you’re still here, well... perhaps you’ve found a reason to stay. If not...” He glanced at the tree, his expression solemn. ”I’ll see to it that you get a proper burial.That much i think you deserve”

He turned, his simple robes swaying as he strode into the night, the glow of his torch fading with each step.

Robert stood beneath the darkened sky, the silence pressing in. The noose hung loosely in his grip, its weight different now—not heavier, not lighter. Just... changed.

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Robert ran.

The forest was endless, a maze of twisted trees that loomed over him like silent sentinels, their gnarled branches clawing at the sky. The darkness was thick, pressing against him from all sides, broken only by the pale slivers of moonlight that flickered through the canopy. His breath came ragged, his legs burned, but he could not stop—not with the howling behind him.

It wasn’t the cry of wolves. No, this was something else. Something worse. The sound slithered through the trees, echoing in unnatural ways, as if the forest itself whispered his doom.

Run.

His boots pounded against the damp earth, kicking up dead leaves and tangled roots. The air was thick with the scent of rot, of damp wood and something foul, something wrong. His heart slammed against his ribs, urging him forward, faster, always faster.

Then the ground vanished.

Robert pitched forward, his body bracing for the hard impact of dirt and stone—but it never came.

Instead, he fell into grasping hands.

Thousands of them.

They burst from the earth, pale and writhing, their fingers cold as they latched onto his limbs, his chest, his throat. They pulled, dragging him down into the shifting mass of flesh and bone. He thrashed, twisted, kicked, but the hands did not loosen. They climbed his body, nails scraping against his skin, twisting into his hair, covering his mouth—

Robert screamed—or tried to. The sound was muffled as fingers forced their way past his lips, pressing against his tongue, choking him with the taste of dirt and decay. He bucked violently, his mind roaring in panic, but it was useless. The more he fought, the deeper he sank.

The howling grew louder. Closer.

Through the mass of writhing limbs, he saw shapes moving in the darkness. Tall, hunched figures, their glowing eyes burning like embers in the void. They were coming.

And the hands kept pulling.

The hands gave way.

For the briefest moment, Robert felt weightless, his body no longer being pulled downward, no longer suffocating in the sea of grasping limbs. But relief was fleeting. The darkness peeled away, and in its place, fire erupted.

It was not the flickering warmth of a hearth, nor the controlled blaze of a torch. This was fire unchained, wild and ravenous, a monstrous inferno that stretched endlessly before him. The air boiled, thick with the stench of burning flesh. People screamed—a chorus of agony so raw, so wretched, that it carved into Robert’s very bones.

They burned.

Skin blistered and cracked, splitting apart like overripe fruit. Flesh sloughed off in bubbling sheets, exposing sinew and blackened bone beneath. Eyes swelled, melted, ran down their faces like wax. They clawed at themselves, at each other, at the fire that would not relent.

Among them, Robert saw him.

Arkawatt.

The prince he had once sworn to serve stood amidst the flames, his regal robes reduced to smoldering rags, his golden crown half-melted into his charred scalp. His mouth hung open in a silent scream, his lips burned away, his teeth exposed like the grinning maw of a corpse.

And yet, the hands were not done with him.

They rose again, stretching out from the inferno, latching onto Arkawatt’s arms, his legs, his shoulders. They pulled, lifting him higher, higher—yet they did nothing to stop the fire. The flames clung to him, consuming, devouring, but they would not let him die.

His eyes—hollow, melted pits—turned toward Robert.

And he spoke.

Or perhaps he screamed.

”Forgive me!” he begged, his hands trembling as he reached toward the burning prince. ”I had no choice! They had my son—my only son!”

But Arkawatt did not hear him. Or if he did, he gave no sign.

He only screamed.

A soundless wail, an endless cry of agony that did not cease, did not falter. The hands held him aloft, the fire devoured him whole, but his suffering did not end. His melted eyes did not blink, his ruined mouth did not close.

Robert gasped, a sharp breath of horror cutting through him as true fear—pure, soul-deep terror—wrapped around his chest. He scrambled backward, his hands flying to his neck, searching, grasping—

The star.

The holy symbol, the one thing that could protect him, the one thing that could save him. His fingers found the chain, yanking desperately—

But it slipped away.

Like mist between his fingers, the star slithered from his grasp. He grabbed again—nothing. His hands clawed at his own throat, shaking, frantic, but the image would not stay in his hands.

And then—

The hands came for him.

Wrapped around his wrists, his ankles, his waist. Cold, pitiless, unyielding, they pulled, dragged, yanked him downward.

Toward the fire.

Robert thrashed, his screams swallowed by the heat, by the never-ending cries of the damned. He felt the heat licking at his boots, the hands tightening, pulling—

”Gods, please!” he sobbed. ”Spare me! Save me! Have mercy—!”

The fire surged—

And he woke up.

Gasping, drenched in sweat, Robert’s eyes flew open. His chest heaved, his breath came in ragged bursts, his hands trembling where they clutched at the damp earth beneath him.

A soft breeze rustled the leaves above. The golden glow of morning filtered through the branches, dappling his skin with warm, shifting light. Birds chirped in the distance, the gentle hum of life filling the air.

He was beneath a tree. A great, beautiful tree, its branches stretching high into the heavens, its roots deep in the cool, forgiving soil.

The fire was gone. The screams had faded.

But Robert could still feel them.

They were not done with him.