Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

A lone old man ambled along the dusty road of Yarzat, accompanied by five scruffy boys who trailed obediently behind him. Their clothes were simple—worn tunics and patched trousers that bore the marks of hard work—but there was a dignity in the way they carried themselves. In his gnarled hand, the old man held a sturdy pole, at the top of which sat a finely carved effigy of the star of the gods, its surface catching the sunlight and glinting like a sacred token.

He walked slowly, each step measured and deliberate, as if guided by some divine purpose. The boys frequently offered to help—one would try to steady his load, another would rush forward to clear a path—but the old man merely smiled and shook his head, continuing on his steady course without a hint of hesitation.

Along the road, the people of the city instinctively made way. Shopkeepers paused their trade, travelers stepped aside, and even children playing in the streets fell silent

And so he continued onward, the five young boys at his heels, as the city’s inhabitants parted like the sea before a mighty tide.

Ahead of the great gates that led to the royal court, Brother Elios came to a halt. The entrance was, as expected, heavily guarded—men in polished armor standing firm, their hands resting upon the hilts of their swords. Their eyes, quickly fell upon the old man and his young followers.

One of the guards, a broad-shouldered man with a gruff voice, stepped forward, raising a hand to halt their advance. ”Turn around,” he ordered. ”Beyond this point is royal ground. No common folk past these gates.”

Brother Elios did not waver. He lifted his chin slightly, his grip tightening around the wooden pole bearing the effigy of the star. ”I am no common folk,” he said in a calm, unwavering tone. ”I am a priest. My name is Brother Elios.”

The guard looked him over, skepticism plain on his face. His gaze flicked from the old man’s threadbare robes to the carved star atop his staff. ”A priest, you say?” he asked, eyes narrowing. ”And what temple claims you?”

Brother Elios met his gaze without flinching. ”Ordained not by a temple, but by the gods themselves,” he said. ”I have walked their path for longer than you’ve drawn breath, and today, I humbly request a chance to present my case to the princess.”

”And why would a priest abandon his temple to come here?

The old man smiled faintly, though there was a weight to it—a burden carried for far too long. ”Because the gods have called me to do a higher work,” he said simply. ”And when the gods call, even nobles must listen.”

Priests occupied a peculiar space within the hierarchy of society. They were neither common folk nor nobility, existing outside the rigid structure that governed the lives of others. Untouched by taxation, bound by their own laws, and judged solely by their fellow priests, they answered to no prince or magistrate in matters of justice. In certain regions, their influence extended beyond the spiritual, as some rulers entrusted them with minor civil duties—tasks deemed too insignificant for the attention of the nobility.

Yarzat, however, was not one of those regions.

Since Alpheo’s reforms, all matters of administration and law had been placed firmly in the hands of men appointed by the court. No priest held an official role in governance, nor did they serve as mediators in civil disputes. Their influence was limited to the privileges granted by tradition—chief among them the exemption from taxes, the right to be tried by their own, and the rare entitlement to petition the nobility.

It was an old custom, one often granted out of politeness rather than obligation. Most of the time, when a priest sought an audience, it was to report the presence of bandits or other disturbances that threatened the peace. And so, while the nobility was under no strict requirement to grant such requests, they usually did—if only because there was rarely another reason for a priest to come knocking at the palace gates.

The guard crossed his arms, eyeing the old man and the five youths behind him before exhaling through his nose. ”I’ll report your request,” he said gruffly. ”But you may have to wait. These things take time.”

His gaze flickered to the pole Elios carried—the effigy of the Star of the Gods glinting faintly in the morning light. A moment of hesitation passed before his hardened expression softened just a bit. ”That thing looks heavy,” he admitted. ”If you don’t know how long you’ll be waiting, do you want some help with it?”

Elios smiled, a warm, knowing thing. ”You are kind to ask, young man. But tell me—if I cannot hold onto this measly thing, then how could I call myself a man of the gods?”

The guard blinked, then gave a short nod of respect. ”Fair enough,” he muttered. ”I’ll go now.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode toward the palace gates, leaving Elios and his young followers to wait under the open sky.

----------------

Jasmine sat on her throne, her expression composed as she listened to yet another petitioner lay out their grievances. The grand hall was filled with murmurs, the air thick with the scent of burning incense, wax, and the faint mustiness of old stone. She had already sat through half a dozen complaints—land disputes, trade grievances, minor squabbles between merchants—and while her patience had not yet frayed, the repetition was beginning to wear on her.

For the most part, the number of petitioners coming to court had dwindled compared to previous years. With Alpheo’s reforms firmly in place, most regional matters no longer required the direct intervention of the royal court. Each region now had the authority to judge local disputes, save for those involving the nobility, which remained the jurisdiction of the palace. Additionally, the military restructuring had granted regional governors the necessary power to handle banditry and maintain order without needing to constantly appeal to the capital.

Not that there was much banditry left to deal with.

The White Army had proven remarkably efficient in rooting out and eliminating criminal elements throughout the place. Reports from the field spoke of entire camps being discovered and wiped out before they could grow into real threats. The survivors, if any, were dragged before the courts and sentenced accordingly.

Word had spread quickly—there was no longer mercy for brigands.

As a result, the roads were safer than they had been in generations. Merchants and travelers could now walk from Yarzat all the way to Confluendi without fearing an ambush in the night or a blade to their back.Especially given that in times of peace the light riders of Egil aways patrolled the road , a further dagger deep into the back of any outlaws group that may have wanted to prey on merchants or passerby.

From the far side of the throne room, the measured rhythm of boots against marble broke through the steady murmur of voices. Jasmine caught the sound immediately, her sharp gaze flicking toward the approaching palace guard. He moved with purpose, his expression composed, though the weight of his message was evident in his stride.

As he reached the appropriate distance before the throne, he pressed his fist to his chest in salute, then bowed deeply.

”Your Grace, may I speak?”

Jasmine lifted a hand, silencing the petitioner mid-sentence. She did not look at the man who had been pleading his case mere moments ago; her attention now rested solely on the guard before her.

”What is it?” she asked, her voice even, but expectant.

The guard straightened. ”A priest has arrived at the palace gates. He calls himself Brother Elios and requests an audience with you.”

Jasmine’s expression remained composed, but inwardly, she searched her memory. Elios... Elios... The name tugged at something distant yet familiar, something she had read or heard in passing.

Then, the realization struck her.

Shahab’s informers had reported a priest by that name—the very one who had received a land donation from the northern nobles. The same man whom Alpheo thinks may be our enemy

Her fingers tapped lightly against the carved armrest of her throne as she considered the implications.

What in the gods’ name does he want from us?

She allowed no outward sign of her thoughts to show, maintaining the poised, unreadable air expected of her. Finally, she exhaled softly and gave her decision.

”Make him wait,” she ordered, her voice measured and deliberate. Then, without shifting her gaze from the guard, she turned slightly and addressed one of her attendants. Her voice dipped just slightly in volume, quiet enough that only those closest to the throne would hear.

”Fetch my consort. I may want his counsel on this matter.”

The attendant bowed swiftly before hurrying off, leaving Jasmine to recline against the high back of her throne, her mind already turning over possibilities on why someone like him would walk across the princedom for an audience with them.