Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

The polished marble floors gleamed beneath his boots as the mercenary captain made his way through the grand halls of the Herculian palace.

Chandeliers and brass hung overhead, casting shifting patterns across frescoed ceilings that depicted the victories of princes long dead. Statues of gods lined the path ahead, their cold, lifeless gazes looking down upon him as though they were judging his presence.

Opulence. A grand display of wealth, meant to awe and inspire. But he wasn’t fooled. Beneath the surface, beneath all the excess, he could see the cracks forming. The wealth of Herculia was an illusion, a fine cloak draped over a dying body.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. They were truly on their last legs.

His short walk from the gates to the palace had been more than enough to confirm his suspicions.

The streets of Herculia, once bustling with merchants and citizens, had an air of quiet desperation about them. Beggars lined the avenues, their hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes betraying the true state of the princedom.

That of a scheletric man trying to hold a mountain on his bare back, while barely standing on his own.

Even the soldiers, those sworn to protect this so-called jewel of the princedom, looked haggard,tired and dissatisfied. They stood at their posts with dull eyes, shifting uneasily at the sight of mercenaries marching past.

They probably haven’t seen a silverii since only gods know when, and yet their prince keep on pushing them on.

And still here they were, preparing for war.

He snorted.

Fools.

This city could barely feed its own people, let alone an army. And still, they persisted, grasping at war as though it were the last branch before drowning. What did they hope to accomplish? Did they truly believe they could hold back the tide?

They were trying to hold a river with their bare hands.

He shook his head, the weight of his new armor feeling heavier than the one he usually wore.

War was coming, and these men were too desperate or too blind to see they had already lost.

Of course, for him, it didn’t matter.

The contract was signed. His men would fight as long as he gave the order.

And when the city burned, they would probably walk on the ashes and dance on them.

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Lord Arnold stood among his courtiers in the grand throne hall of the Herculian palace, his gaze sweeping over the gathered nobility with quiet satisfaction. The hall, adorned with towering banners bearing the princely sigil, echoed with murmurs of conversation. Tall braziers burned brightly upon the marble floors and the high-domed ceiling .

Arnold breathed out through his nose, his lips curling into the barest of smirks.

It was good to be back.

His campaign to crush the peasants’ revolt had gone moderately well—well enough, at least, to secure his standing among the nobility. A few burnt villages, a couple thousand dead rebels, and suddenly, he was the savior of the realm.

Nothing pleased the lords more than seeing their rightful order restored, their lands freed from the rabble who thought starvation was cause enough to challenge their betters. Arnold had delivered that order with fire and steel, and his reward had come swiftly. His name was now spoken with approval at feasts, his presence sought after in council of his father.

Meanwhile, his younger brother had returned to find the floor cut from beneath him.

Arnold wasted no time putting the whelp back in his place. The little snake had grown bold in his absence, whispering in ears, gathering men around him, posturing like a future ruler. It was laughable.

With careful precision, Arnold dismantled every shred of support his brother had managed to gather. His would-be allies found themselves reassigned, dismissed, or otherwise reminded of where true power lay, as many immediately understood which one would be the winning side. His servants and retainers were scattered, his confidants turned cold. One by one, Arnold cut the threads until his dear brother stood alone, isolated, with no one left to whisper his foolish ambitions to.

Now, he was nothing more than an afterthought.

Arnold’s fingers tapped idly against the hilt of his sword as he watched the courtiers move around him, their laughter and empty pleasantries filling the room like the hum of insects.

The nobility of Herculia had chosen their champion.

And it was not his brother.

The court was currently in wait.

Despite the usual murmur of noble chatter an air of restless anticipation hung over the grand throne hall. The reason was clear—soon, the mercenary company his father had hired for their next campaign against Yarzat would arrive. Their presence would mark the beginning of yet another war, a war that the lords of Herculia could ill afford yet had no choice but to fight.

Lord Arnold stood at the center of it all, posture relaxed yet mind sharp, his keen eyes reading the expressions of those around him. He knew well that there were many in this room who shared his initial opposition to hiring sellswords. After all, had they not just emerged from the fires of a peasant rebellion? Their coffers were empty, their warehouses nearly the same, and the people of Herculia—those still left alive—had barely begun licking their wounds from the last catastrophe.

Under normal circumstances, he would have fought tooth and nail against such a reckless expenditure. Mercenaries were a fickle tool—useful, yes, but dangerous. They fought for gold, not loyalty, and gold was something Herculia was fast running out of.

And yet, despite all of this, Arnold had relented

Because no matter how dire their situation, he could not deny that there was no better moment to strike.

Contact had already been made with several rebellious lords of Yarzat’s ”Little Fox,” those who chafed under the rule of their own prince and would eagerly rise against him given the right push. More importantly, the Prince of Oizen—fresh from two years of peace—was sharpening his sword for another round of war.

Two years might have been a short time, but it was long enough for Oizen to rebuild, to replenish his ranks, and to thirst for vengeance. He was ready, waiting, eager.

Then there was the Prince of Habadia, whose monetary and supply support had kept Herculia from completely crumbling. But such generosity came with strings attached—strings that would snap the moment Herculia showed weakness. Habadia had no interest in throwing gold and grain into a pawn not willing to advance. If Herculia did not clash with Yarzat’s Little Fox soon, their lifeline would be severed, and their fate would be sealed.

So, of course, there was no choice but to fight.

The great doors of the court groaned open, and in an instant, the idle murmur of the gathered nobles died. A hush fell over the hall as the mercenary captain strode forward, his boots striking the polished marble floor with steady, deliberate steps. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows over his form, the worn leather of his armor creaking as he moved. He walked with the unmistakable confidence of a man who knew his worth—and perhaps even more dangerously, knew that the men in this hall needed him.

Arnold’s sharp gaze landed on him, studying him with a cold, assessing stare.

So, this is the man my father is bringing into our war.

Something about the way the captain carried himself, the easy, unshaken way he met the weight of so many noble eyes, made Arnold uneasy. There was something familiar in it.

Yarzat’s Little Fox had started in the same way, I recall.

That man had clawed his way to power through sheer will and ruthlessness, rising above his supposed betters. And now, he sat upon the throne of Yarzat, waging war as if he had been born for it.

Arnold exhaled through his nose, pushing the thought aside. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered now was war.

Even with the Habadian prince’s support, their available forces were far from ideal. His father, at least, could rely on foreign coin and supplies, but the rest of the nobility—the ones who should have been filling the ranks of their armies—were still reeling from last year’s war. The devastation had not spared them. Their lands had been raided, their men killed, their coffers bled dry. Unlike his father, they did not have the financial backing of Habadia, and as a result, many of them were reluctant to commit their troops.

Arnold doubted that, even if they scraped together every able-bodied man, they would reach 2,000 soldiers for this campaign.

That was why these sellswords were necessary. Without them, they had no army to speak of.

His grip tightened on the pommel of his sword as the mercenary captain approached the dais.

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The mercenary came to a halt before the throne, his movements controlled, practiced—deferential, but not servile. With a fluid motion, he dropped to one knee, lowering his head in the customary gesture of respect. The polished marble beneath him was cold, but he barely noticed. His posture was steady, his expression unreadable, betraying nothing of his thoughts.

A herald, standing beside the prince’s throne, took a deep breath before speaking, his voice ringing through the chamber with well-practiced clarity.

”You stand before His Grace, the Most High and Mighty Lord, Prince Lechlein of Herculia, Defender of the Realm, Shield of the Faith and Sovereign of the Great City of Herculia!

The mercenary listened, keeping his gaze low as the litany of titles continued, one after another. He had heard a hundred such proclamations before, each one dripping with grandeur, each one meant to impress. All of them just words, he thought idly, waiting for the formalities to end.

At last, the herald fell silent, stepping aside. The true business could begin.

The contract had already been signed—his company would fight for Herculia, for as long as the agreed-upon coin flowed. But a contract was not enough. Not for nobility.

Now came the oath.

A scribe stepped forward, unrolling a parchment as he prepared to dictate the words of fealty. The mercenary captain did not interrupt.

When the time came, he lifted his head at last.

His piercing blue eyes swept across the court, taking in the assembled nobility with a sharp, assessing gaze.

He exhaled softly, raising a hand to push back a few stray curls of golden hair from his forehead.

The court was watching, waiting for his words.

He shifted slightly, feeling the weight of their scrutiny, yet unmoved by it. His gaze flickered back to the throne, where the prince sat impassive, observing him in turn.

A second later, another loose strand of blonde hair fell over his eyes. He brushed it aside once more, his lips curving into the faintest of smirks.

He was now in the enemy’s camp.