Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Aron exhaled through his nose, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he leaned back in his carriage. Apparently, what His Grace had told him before he departed for his last diplomatic mission had been true—he was to spend more time among foreign dignitaries than among his own countrymen. Less than three months had passed since his return, and already, he had been sent forth once more.

This time, the task before him was even more delicate. He, like everyone else of importance, knew what had happened with the Voghondai. The priest’s death, the riots, and the soon to be religious conflict —none of it had escaped his notice. And now, he was to meet with the High Ecclesiastic Priest of the entire eastern continent, the one man whose word could mean salvation or ruin.

The preparations had been painstaking. Every letter, every gesture, every minute detail of protocol had been arranged with obsessive care. There could be no room for misinterpretation, no misstep that might give the High Ecclesiastic Priest reason to harden his stance.

Fortunately, they did not approach the meeting as mere supplicants. Lord Marthio’s intercession had smoothed the way, easing what would have otherwise been an impossible task. Without him, Aron knew, they would have never secured this audience so swiftly. Even so, he could not afford to be complacent.

Aron ascended the grand stone steps of the High Cathedral, his boots pressing against the polished marble with steady purpose. The towering structure loomed above him, its spires piercing the sky like the fingers of the divine reaching toward the heavens. Ornate windows cast colored light upon the entrance, shifting hues dancing across the floor as the midday sun streamed through.

He kept his gaze forward, his expression composed, though inwardly, he understood the gravity of where he stood. This was not just a house of worship—it was the seat of the most powerful religious figure in the eastern continent.

It was fortunate, then, that the High Ecclesiastic Priest was currently under the yoke of the Imperial ruling house.

Had this meeting taken place during the age of the Religious Dilemmas—when the priesthood stood as an untamed beast, unchecked by the empire—Aron knew he would be stepping into the jaws of something far more perilous. But times had changed. Now, the High Ecclesiastic Priest was little more than a fat dog, content to feast on the scraps that fell from the Imperial family’s table, his authority a shadow of what it once was.

Almost instinctively, Aron’s mind wandered back to the days when the High Priest had been a wolf, a figure who clashed relentlessly with the Imperator of Romelia, defying the empire with a zeal that could shake thrones.

The Religious Dilemmas had not been a singular conflict but a brutal series of civil wars that tore through the Romelian Empire, all stemming from one question—who had the right to choose the priests? The High Priest had demanded full control over the appointment of clerics, especially those presiding over land-bound temples, while the Emperor sought to keep his own hand firmly on the scale, unwilling to relinquish the power that came with those appointments.

And it was no small matter. Temples did not pay taxes. Their wealth, hoarded over decades—gold, grain, and treasures hidden behind sacred walls—was beyond measure. To an Emperor waging war, struggling to fill his coffers, the sight of that untouched fortune was enough to make his mouth water.

Control over these temple appointments meant control over vast reservoirs of riches. The Emperor had wanted his own kin seated upon those golden thrones, ensuring that when war came knocking, those sacred vaults would open at his command. But the Ecclesiastic High Priest had sought the opposite, placing only those loyal to the cloth, those who would resist the empire’s greed and answer only to the divine, which of course meant backing up their boss during a clash against the Emperor.

In the end, the struggle between throne and altar had resulted in a fragile draw—though one that leaned slightly in the Emperor’s favor. The High Priest retained the sacred right to choose the clergy, ensuring that the priesthood would not become an outright extension of the imperial court. However, this power was curbed by a crucial concession: all appointments required the Emperor’s approval. No priest assigned to a temple with more than a thousand acre of land, no matter how devout or well-regarded, could rise to power without the blessing of the crown.

The Emperor, too, had secured another vital advantage. He gained the legal right to demand long-term loans from the temple’s vast coffers—though these loans were limited to no more than 80,000 silverii at a time. It was a sum large enough to fund a war, yet not so large as to completely strip the priesthood of its wealth. It was a compromise—one that allowed both sides to claim victory, but neither to reign supreme.

But power is rarely left to stagnate, and over the years, through a slow and careful erosion, the Emperor had tipped the balance further in his favor. Fraudulent elections, quiet assassinations, and well-placed bribes had ensured that, time and time again, the High Priests chosen were not men of fire and faith, but men of gold and indulgence. These were no wolves, ready to bare their fangs against the empire. They were fattened hogs, more concerned with maintaining their riches than waging ideological wars.

And so, the once-defiant institution of the priesthood had been reduced to an echo of its former self.

Aron came to a halt before the towering wooden gates of the High Cathedral, their sheer size and weight a testament to the power that lay within. The doors were always shut, sealed like the vault of a king’s treasury, only ever opened for grand religious festivities or for meetings of undeniable importance. This was one of those rare moments.

He knew he would have to wait. Protocol demanded it. No one simply walked into the presence of the High Priest, no matter their rank or purpose, except of course for the Emperor . He folded his hands behind his back, keeping his expression composed as the moments stretched on.

Minutes passed in silence, save for the faint sounds of the city beyond the steps. Then, at last, the heavy groan of shifting wood and iron filled the air. The gates creaked open, revealing the dimly lit interior, and with it, the looming figures of the High Priest’s personal guards.

They were tall, clad in ceremonial armor more ornate than practical, their helms adorned with golden filigree that gleamed even in the low light of the vestibule. One of them, a man whose deep-set eyes barely peeked through his visor, stepped forward. His voice was a low rumble, steady and commanding.

”His Holiness grants you permission to enter.”

Aron gave a single, respectful nod.

Without hesitation,he stepped forward, the grand doors widening to allow him passage. His servants and slaves followed in silent obedience, their footsteps swallowed by the cavernous entrance hall beyond. As the gates began to close behind them, sealing them within, Aron steeled himself for the meeting ahead.

The interior of the High Cathedral was a world unto itself, a place where the wealth of the faithful had been poured for centuries. Vast columns of marble, not stone but marble, stretched toward a ceiling so high it seemed to vanish into the heavens, its surface adorned with intricate frescoes depicting the divine mysteries of the faith. Stained-glass windows, towering and majestic, cast beams of colored light across the polished floor, illuminating scenes of martyrs,and the gods themselves.

At the far end of the great hall, beneath an arched alcove, sat the High Priest upon a throne of solid gold. The throne itself was raised atop a dais, forcing all who approached to look up at the man who sat upon it, a deliberate display of divine authority.

The High Priest was a short, rotund man, his body overflowing in layers of rich, soft flesh. His fingers, adorned with rings thick with jewels, rested lazily on the armrests of his gilded seat. He was dressed in flowing white robes, their silk so fine that they seemed to ripple with his every slight movement. Upon his head sat a tall, cylindrical white hat, its surface adorned with golden braids that coiled like vines up to the very peak. His small, piggish eyes peered down at Aron with an expression of bemused curiosity, his lips curled in the ghost of a knowing smile.

He did not speak immediately. He merely watched, as if waiting for Aron to absorb the full weight of the grandeur before him. The silence stretched, thick and oppressive, as the echoes of footsteps faded into nothingness.

The High Priest said nothing. He merely extended his plump, bejeweled hand forward, his fingers slightly curled, as if expecting something that was his by divine right.

Aron knew what was required of him.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward, the sound of his boots against the polished marble floor echoing through the vast cathedral. As he reached the dais, he lowered himself down, first onto one knee, then onto the other. The golden throne loomed above him, the High Priest perched atop it like a bloated idol, unmoving, expectant.

Aron bowed his head, took the man’s soft, ring-laden hand in his own, and pressed his lips against it. The faint scent of scented oils clung to the skin, mixed with the metallic tang of gold.

It was a gesture older than empires, one meant to signify devotion—but for Aron, it was as empty as the fervor within the fat man whose hand he was made to kiss .