Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Keval sat in his father’s chamber, his eyes flicking across the modest yet refined spread laid out before them. He couldn’t help but notice that Mesha, the young emperor, was absent from the dinner table. That meant only one thing—this was to be a private and serious discussion.

His father was never one for idle meals; if he called Keval alone, it was because something needed to be said.

Over the past year, the two had worked closely to hold the reins of the empire, and Keval liked to think they had done so admirably. With his father’s strength and experience guiding them and his own aptitude for administration, they had managed to steady the ship of state.

As for Tyros, his elder brother had been sent to oversee their family’s holdings, a position he was destined to inherit. It was a decision that worked well for all involved. Marthio was no fool—he had placed each of his sons exactly where he wanted them. No one could deny Tyros’ charm and battlefield prowess, but when it came to matters of governance, it was Keval who had the keener mind.

That much had been made clear during his time as regent. The empire had been teetering on the edge of financial ruin when he had stepped in, negotiating a lucrative trading deal with the princess of Yarzat had saved the royal coffers. Without that, the treasury might well have collapsed. It was one of the rare moments Keval allowed himself a sense of pride—he had saved Romelia from a disaster that could have shattered its foundations, something that his father clearly recognised.

Amid the silent and akward dinner Keval glanced up from his plate as he noticed his father’s gaze settle on him. There was something different in Marthio’s eyes—something heavy, something old. Then, with a long sigh, his father leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face as if the weight of the years had finally caught up with him.

”I have lived a blessed and long life,” Marthio said, his voice quieter than Keval was used to.

Keval instinctively set his knife down, his appetite vanishing. He didn’t like that tone. It didn’t sound like the voice of lord Marthio Achea, the man who had bent lords to his will, crushed conspiracies before they could take root, and carried the empire on his back while a boy wore the crown. No, this voice sounded... old. Tired. Not like the unshakable force of power his father had always been.

Marthio exhaled slowly, his lips pressing together before continuing, ”The greatest blessings I could have asked for were my children.” He paused, then let out a short chuckle, though it lacked humor. ”Well, most of them. Each one’s a genius in his own right—” His gaze flicked to Keval with something like pride before he scoffed and waved a hand. ”Except for Valeria, of course. It seems the gods took whatever sharpness was meant for her and gifted it to you and Tyros instead.”

Keval remained silent, but his father’s blunt words made his lips twitch.

”She always had dreams of grandeur, that girl,” Marthio went on, shaking his head. ”Dreams far too big for the hands she was dealt.I tried to make her settle down and understand her limits,but we all saw it, didn’t we? She was never quite as clever as she thought herself to be. The ambition was there, certainly, but the skill to match? Lacking.”

Marthio went quiet for a moment, staring down at the table, lost in thought. Then, as if making peace with something within himself, he lifted his head again and sighed. ”It is best to be said plainly. I do not think I have much longer in this world.”

Keval stiffened.

”I can feel it,no use denying it” Marthio continued. ”This will likely be my last summer among the living.”

Keval opened his mouth—only to close it again.

What was he supposed to say to that? To a man who had spent his entire life shaping the empire and now sat before him, certain of his own approaching death? He had argued with his father before, challenged his decisions, questioned his words. But this? What argument was there to be made?

For once, nothing came to his mind.

Marthio’s jaw clenched as his gaze shifted to his right, his eyes narrowing in barely contained frustration at the cane resting beside him. His fingers twitched, as if fighting the urge to knock the damned thing over, to toss it into the fire and be rid of it entirely, every time his eyes landed on it he felt weak and old .

Ever since the incident, he had been forced to rely on the damn thing to walk—an indignity that weighed heavier on him than all the burdens of the empire.

It had been mere months ago when he had still made plans for a military campaign to reclaim the Fingers, a campaign that should have restored the borders with the rebelling regions to what they were before last winter.

But before those plans could take shape—perhaps even luckily, he begrudgingly admitted, for it had happened in a private setting instead of out in the open before his men—his body had betrayed him. A minor stroke, the physicist called it. Yet despite what his physicians assured him, he knew he had not fully recovered from it.

The court remained oblivious. They had kept it that way, as they must. His appearances had grown rare, each carefully managed to ensure that no one saw the truth. When he did appear, he was made to arrive early, already seated upon the throne or a chair before the first of the lords entered the hall. The cane—his shame—was always tucked out of sight, hidden away as if it did not exist.

But Marthio knew the truth. He was close to the end.

That was why time pressed upon him like never before. Everything had to be settled before he passed. There was no room for mistakes. No room for hesitation. No room for weakness.

Least of all his own.

He exhaled, straightening his posture despite the ever-present weight of age pressing upon him. ”It is very important that all dealings are settled before I am gone,” he said, his tone firm, unwavering. ”There can be no loose ends, no uncertainties. Everything must be in place.”

His fingers drummed once against the table before he continued. ”Tyros will inherit my lands and my armies. He is a warrior first and foremost—that is where he belongs, and that is where he will serve best. You, however, will inherit something far heavier, Keval. My position as regent of the empire.”

Keval’s expression remained composed, but the weight of those words settled on him like a stone.

”You have done the work before, and you will do it again,” Marthio continued. ”Until Mesha comes of age to rule on his own. And even then, he will still rely on you.” His eyes locked onto Keval’s, his meaning clear—Mesha may be emperor, but you will be the one ensuring the empire still stands.

he leaned back slightly as he continued ”Tyros is a sharp man,” he said after a moment. ”If you need someone to lead the armies, rely on him. He’s more than capable, even more than me.

But you—you must never leave the capital unless it is for something of the utmost urgency. The moment you step away, the snakes will come slithering back, whispering, scheming, plotting. Keep your feet planted where they belong, Keval.

They had their taste with your sister and they will crave to taste the freedom they had with her.

Make sure to let them know how things stands, or you may return to find a throne poisoned against you.”

Keval merely nodded. He already understood that much.

His father’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment before he exhaled. ”You will have the hardest of tasks, harder than leading men into battle, harder than holding land. You will have to keep the empire afloat.”

Then, for the first time that night, a rare glimmer of something softened Marthio’s expression—not quite warmth, but something close to it. ”It will not be easy. But if there is anyone fit for the task, it is you.....Of course,” he said, ”I will have some suggestions. One of the few things I am able to aid you with ”

Keval smirked slightly despite the situation. ”I would have been worried if you didn’t.”

Marthio ignored the remark and pressed on. ”Above all else, our alliance with the prince of Yarzat must be maintained. I don’t care what it takes. That man is the reason our treasury isn’t drier than a bone in the desert. Without their coin filling our coffers, we are one bad harvest away from ruin.”

Keval nodded, already making mental notes.

”Second,” Marthio continued, raising a hand, ”you must put an end to any ideas of a military campaign outside our borders. No invasions, no conquests, nothing.”

Keval frowned slightly. ”You always pushed for the reunification of the empire.”

”I could afford to,” Marthio shot back, voice firm. ”When I rode out, my name was heavy enough to make sure the capital stayed clean. No one dared to play their little games while I was away, except for that foolish woman. But you?” He pointed a finger at Keval. ”You do not have that luxury.”

Keval bristled slightly, but Marthio wasn’t done.

”Until things are stable, our priority is our own borders. The only war we fight is the one Mavius brings to us.” He leaned back in his chair. ”So for now, we hold, we watch, we strengthen. Then, when the time is right...” He let the words trail off, but the meaning was clear.

Keval exhaled through his nose, glancing down at his untouched meal. ”So, in short,” he said dryly, ”sit still and keep the ship from sinking.”

Marthio let out a low chuckle. ”For now? Yes. Do that well, and maybe one day you’ll be the one making the plans.”

Keval placed his cup down carefully, fingers lingering on the rim. ”And what of Valeria?”

The air in the room seemed to grow heavier at the mention of her name. Marthio’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he simply stared at the table as if debating whether to waste his breath on the subject.

After her ploy was stopped, she had been sentenced to a life of seclusion as a nun. However, on the journey to the temple where she was to spend the rest of her days, her carriage was attacked by bandits.

From that moment on, any trace of her vanished.

”She’s alive and well—of that, I have no doubt,” Marthio said, his voice like iron. ”That attack wasn’t some chance misfortune. She planned it herself.”

Keval’s lips pressed into a thin line. ”You think she’s still out there scheming?”

Marthio exhaled, rubbing his temple. ”I don’t think, I know. That woman was born reaching for a crown that was never meant for her head. Wherever she is, she’s plotting her way back to power.” He looked Keval in the eye. ”And whatever it takes, this has to stop.”

Keval felt a chill crawl up his spine at the way his father said those words. ”And if she is found?”

Marthio met his gaze without hesitation. ”You do not bother with our blood attachment. You do not let her weave another web. You have her killed. Quietly. In some back room, where no one will ever know or care.”

Keval felt his stomach turn slightly. ”That’s kinslaying.”

Marthio leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. The weight of his years, his exhaustion, and his resolve bore down on Keval like an unshakable wall. ”If it is you,” he said, voice heavy with certainty, ”I know that you will be capable of it. It is for the well-being of our family after all....”