Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

A week had passed since the court had given its answer—a firm, unyielding refusal. The moment the envoy rode from the capital, the lines were drawn, and civil war was no longer a distant specter but an undeniable reality. The nobles had received their reply, and with it, the sword had been unsheathed. There would be no more negotiations, no more veiled threats. The time for words had ended.

Now, only blood and steel would decide the victor.

Alpheo, ever the pragmatist, had not wasted a single moment. The enemy would not wait, and neither would he.

He moved swiftly, calling his forces to assemble before the capital’s gates. By the end of the week, his standing army had arrived, swelling with two hundred eager recruits—young men from the city streets, driven by duty, desperation, or the simple thrill of battle.

What mattered however was the fire in their eyes.

More importantly, though, many of these men were no strangers to war. They had fought in last year’s Herculian campaign,carving their way to victory.

Meanwhile, Asag had already begun his march south, leading a disciplined column toward Aracina. With him traveled his corpse of two hundred halberdiers.

Of course, Alpheo knew that two hundred would not be enough, so he had given him a royal decree allowing him to gather more men—another two hundred fresh recruits from the Crownlands, swelling his ranks with every village passed.

His orders were simple: hold Aracina at all costs. The city was their shield, their bulwark against the Oizen prince’s ambitions. If it fell, the road to the capital would lie wide open. But if it held? The enemy would be forced to hurl itself against its walls, bleeding itself dry before even daring to look beyond them.

The war had begun in earnest, and there was no turning back. Every piece was in motion, every decision a step closer to victory—or ruin.

Now, it was only a matter of who would shatter first.

The night before Asag’s departure, Alpheo and his closest companions gathered for one final feast—a tradition of sorts, a last moment of camaraderie before duty tore them apart once more. The great hall was alive with the warmth of firelight, the scent of spiced meats thick in the air.

The long table groaned under the weight of a lavish spread—roasted venison glazed with honey, fresh loaves still warm from the ovens . Dark, spiced wine along with cider flowed freely, staining lips and loosening tongues. Laughter rang against the stone walls, loud and boisterous, but beneath the revelry lurked the unspoken truth: this was a farewell, and none could say who among them would return to sit at this table again.

At the height of the feast, Asag stood abruptly, raising his cup high. The flickering candlelight cast jagged shadows across his weathered face, but his eyes burned bright with conviction.

”I swear before you all,” he declared, his deep voice cutting through the merriment, ”the Oizenian banner will never fly atop Aracina so long as I draw breath!”

A resounding cheer followed, fists slamming against the table, cups clashing together in a symphony of iron and wine. For a moment, fire and certainty filled the hall, a shared belief in their strength, in their defiance.

But Alpheo did not lift his cup so quickly.

He wanted to believe it—to take Asag’s oath as ironclad—but the weight of the task he had given his old companion pressed heavy on his mind. Holding Aracina was not impossible, but it was damn close.

The prince of Oizen was not a man to be easily deterred. His army would be larger, and he would have the patience to grind Aracina down, to bleed it dry.

And yet, that was why Alpheo had chosen Asag.

Jasmine had suggested knights for the role—seasoned commanders, men of noble birth—but Alpheo had dismissed them outright. A nobleman would hold the city, yes, but only until the walls began to crack, until the first breach sent cold fear slithering down his spine. Then he would sue for terms. Seek mercy.

Asag would not.

He would fight until the streets ran red. Until the last stone fell. Until there was nothing left but corpses and ruin.

That was the kind of man Aracina needed.

And that was the kind of man Alpheo was sending into the fire.

There was a weight to the air, thick with wine and unspoken fears. The war was no longer something distant—it had arrived, and this was their last moment of peace before it swallowed them whole.

Tomorrow, Asag would ride south.

And the game would truly begin.

While Alpheo had little things to celebrate , he could not deny the satisfaction that came with hearing the first results of his efforts to integrate the Voghondai into the realm. Reports had arrived from his men that aided in such integration that showed a very positive picture .

Six hundred and fifty warriors had been raised—fierce, battle-ready men, their morale high and thirst for blood high, if the words that came from his men were to be taken ture.

These were not soldiers conscripted out of duty or mercenaries bound by coin; they were men fighting for their own land, their own right to remain on the land they were given,so they were dirty cheap to mantain.

They understood better than anyone that they were the reason for this war—the reason for which the nobles had raised their banners in the first place. And they would be damned before they let those bastards take from them what was theirs.

Torghan, ever the clever tactician, had ensured that this sentiment took deep root. The young warrior had spoken to his people in their own tongue, reminding them that Alpheo was the ruler who would fight to protect their claims, the only one who had defied noble pressures and temple condemnations on their behalf.

The Voghondai were not fools and knew very well what was the event that delivered such a situation

That message spread like wildfire, and with it, so did his name.

The irony was not lost on him. While the nobles of Yarzat whispered behind his back, while priests cursed his name in sermons, here, among the so-called savages, his name had become a banner of pride.

And when the time came, they would fight with the fury of men who had everything to lose.

Regarding the troops promised by the other nobles, Alpheo had given them a strict deadline—two weeks—to assemble at the city of Florioum. Once the Voghondai warriors reached the capital and reinforced his standing forces, he would personally lead his army there, bringing the full might of his gathered host to bear.

While the main force consolidated, one among the nobility had been given a different set of orders. Lord Xanthios of Bracum had not been instructed to send troops to the war effort. Instead, he was tasked with a more insidious role—ensuring that no enemy force crossed the border unopposed.

It was not a task of glorious battles or pitched warfare. No, Xanthios’ job was to harass, delay, and frustrate. He would not meet the enemy in open field; rather, he would use his riders and light infantry to strike at supply lines and ambush foragers. Every delay he inflicted, every headache he caused, was another precious hour for Alpheo’s forces to consolidate.

A minimum resistance had to be present on every front—just enough to slow the enemy without wasting forces that could be better used elsewhere.

For now, Alpheo had no choice but to wait.

War, for all its moments of decisive action, was a game of preparation, of patience, of ensuring that when the sword was drawn, it was done so at the right time and with the right force. His new recruits from the capital required training, driving them through formations, ensuring their spears did not shake in their hands, that their shields did not dip when braced against a charge.

Yet, drilling recruits was not the only matter demanding his attention. There were other decisions to be made, and among them was one that many in the court whispered about—the fate of Captain Haldrak.

Some called the man a failure. Others an unfortunate scapegoat. And some, those with bitter tongues and resentful eyes, called him the very reason they now stood on the brink of war.

Haldrak, the commander of the garrison at Voghondai, the settlement at the heart of this crisis. It was under his watch that the riot had spiraled out of control turning into a bloodbath. The priest had died not by his hand, but because he had failed to act quickly enough to stop the chaos before it reached its breaking point.

His men had fought, yes, but by the time they did, it was too late. The damage had been done.

And now, his judgment loomed like a storm cloud, a decision that could not be ignored.

Alpheo sat in thought, fingers tapping against the armrest of his chair. What was to be done with him?

Captain Haldrak kept his head low, his hands clenched into fists against his knees. He did not tremble, nor did he speak out of turn. He simply waited—for punishment, probably death.

Standing to the side was Jarza, the veteran general had been the one to recommend Haldrak for the position at Voghondai, and now that very recommendation had turned into a burden that he too had to bear. Responsibility did not rest on Haldrak’s shoulders alone—Jarza had chosen him, and Alpheo had agreed. That made this judgment trickier after all he also had to take into account the two familiarities, as after all there were only six sub-centurii serving under the general.

Alpheo let the silence stretch

The truth was, Haldrak was not entirely to blame. A single commander with one hundred men could not have possibly hoped to contain a riot of nearly a thousand furious tribesmen. Events had unfolded too quickly—a spark that became a blaze before anyone could douse it.

To say that Haldrak had failed in his duty was not untrue, but it was not the whole truth either.

Still, Alpheo could not let this pass without consequence. No ruler could afford to set the precedent that failure—even one borne from impossible circumstances—came without cost. Discipline had to be upheld.

He leaned forward, his voice firm but calm as he spoke.

”Sub-Centurio Haldrak,” he began, his tone leaving no room for interpretation, ”for your failure to suppress the riot in time , you shall have your pay frozen for the next four months. Furthermore, for the remainder of this war, you shall serve on the front lines.”

Alpheo’s gaze did not waver as he continued. ”I will not be the one to decide the extent of your fault. The gods shall do that. If you survive every battle, you will be reinstated to your position. If you do not...” He let the words hang in the air, the meaning clear.

”Then the gods will have made their judgment.”

For a moment, there was only silence.

This this was an incredibly light sentence. A man in Haldrak’s position—a garrison commander whose failure had contributed to the war’s ignition—could have easily lost his head. At the very least, exile was expected. But this? This was mercy.

And Haldrak knew it.

Slowly, he lifted his head. His eyes, wide and almost fanatical, locked onto Alpheo’s with something that resembled devotion. He had walked into this tent expecting a blade against his throat, expecting his name to be struck from the records of honor of the first corpse—but instead, he had been given a chance.

A trial by battle.

”Thank you, your grace” Haldrak said, his voice thick with emotion. ”Thank you for your mercy.”

Alpheo held his gaze for a moment longer before exhaling sharply and waving a hand.

”Go,” he said simply. ”And do not make me regret this decision.”

Haldrak bowed deeply—a bow lower than one of simple respect, almost of worship—before he rose to his feet and strode out of the tent.

The silence lingered even after he was gone.

Alpheo leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking toward Jarza, who had said nothing through it all.

The veteran general met his gaze but merely nodded. There was no need for words, he was thanking him for the mercy.