Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

I just never get used to it, the young chieftain of the Voghondai tribe thought as he made his way toward the royal tent, where the war prince awaited.

Two days of marching had brought him and his warriors to the heart of the Royal Army’s encampment, sprawled just outside the capital’s walls.

As his feet pressed against the dirt, his sharp eyes swept across the camp, taking in the disciplined figures clad in the white and black wool of the White Army. These soldiers—Alpheo’s chosen elite, his shields , his steel—were the only force permitted in the inner sanctum of the encampment, where their commander and his generals resided.

It was not the first time the chieftain had witnessed the might of the army that had secured Alpheo’s rule, nor the men who wielded it.

Cold, impassive eyes peered out from behind steel helmets as the warriors of the White Army moved with quiet purpose. Their gazes flicked toward him, then drifted to the mass of Voghondai warriors marching at his back before returning to their duties. There was no curiosity, no hesitation—only unwavering focus.

Despite the camp being on the verge of mobilization, the soldiers found ways to occupy the brief moments of respite before the march began. Some meticulously inspected their armor, running whetstones along the edges of their weapons. Others tended to the more mundane aspects of soldiering—adjusting the straps on their leather canteens, tightening the bindings of their boots, or ensuring their packs were properly secured.

A handful sat on crates and makeshift stools, finishing their meals with practiced efficiency. The chieftain’s gaze lingered as he observed one soldier methodically using a slender stiletto as a crude fork for a piece of meat he must have bought with his money as a side snack.

The soldier stabbed a thick strip of roasted meat, holding it steady as he cut a smaller piece with his dagger, before bringing it to his lips with a practiced ease. A small, subtle movement ensured the tip of the blade never nicked the inside of his cheek.

It was a skill that most of them had mastered through trial and error. While the medics of the White Army had remedies for infection, a careless slip of the knife would still leave a man nursing a sore wound for days.

As Torghan advanced toward the royal tent, the murmurs of the White Army soldiers filled the air, hushed yet sharp enough to carry. The young chieftain did not need to understand their language to recognize the tone—disdain, frustration, and a simmering resentment that lingered just beneath the surface.

The warriors at his back, the men of the Voghondai, were no longer the scattered, lightly armed horsemen they had once been.

Now, they moved like a proper force each man clad in chainmail that clinked softly with each step. They carried spears, axes, and round shields reinforced with iron rims, a force no longer resembling savages living in mountains but warriors ready to fight under the prince’s banner. And yet, it was clear from the stares of the White Army that their presence was far from welcome.

”All of this because some priest got himself killed in a riot. Hope it was fucking funny you bastards!” one soldier muttered bitterly to his companion, tightening the strap of his bracer.

”Bloody fucking hell, If I am going to die for some fucking heretics ....I swear- ” another scoffed.

A third, older soldier spat onto the ground. ”I was supposed to be done with this in July. Retired. Out. ” He exhaled through his nose sharply. ”Now? Now I’m marching into gods-know-how-long of a fucking war, because some backwater savages and a priest decided they didn’t like the other.”

”Should’ve been dealt with quicker,” another grumbled. ”We should’ve hung the bastards all of them or better yet burnt them. Would’ve saved us all the trouble.”

The voices blended together, a chorus of resentment spoken in a tongue the Voghondai did not understand—but Torghan did not need to. He caught the sharp glances, the dismissive looks, the way some of the soldiers shook their heads or sneered in their direction. They were not being welcomed.

And yet, neither he nor his warriors spoke back. They knew why this war was happening. They understood, perhaps better than anyone, that this massive force was gathering to fight for them.

The crown was risking everything, marching thousands of men to war, because the Voghondai had been granted land—and allowed to mantain their religion. And while the prince had declared them part of his realm, while Alpheo had given them a place under his rule, his soldiers had not been given the same choice. They fought for their prince, not for the tribesmen.

Torghan’s grip on his axe tightened, but he said nothing. The murmurs continued, but they would pass.

At a certain point, a group of officers arrived, clad in the distinct black-and-white wool of the White Army and their red feathers atop their helmet , their steel-plated boots crunching against the dirt as they approached. Without a word at first, they motioned toward the Voghondai warriors, directing them toward a designated section of the sprawling camp.

Torghan turned slightly, meeting the eyes of his men. They hesitated only briefly before following the instructions, their chainmail shifting with each step as they moved through the rows of foreign soldiers who continued to watch them like an unwelcome storm on the horizon. The murmurs had not ceased, but the tribesmen neither responded nor faltered.

Torghan himself did not follow. Instead, two officers gestured for him to remain before they turned toward a separate path leading to the heart of the royal encampment. He would be taken to see the prince.

At his side stood two translators—one to translate from his Voghondai tongue to the Azanian speech , and another to carry those words into the softer cadences of the southern tongue spoken by these people. It was an imperfect chain of communication, but it would serve.

Of course Torghan had made progress into learning this princedom’s language, but obvioulsy it was no way near enough to even have a proper communication with a local.

Soon Torghan was led to the prince without ceremony, the heavy fabric of the tent flaps falling shut behind him, muting the sounds of the camp outside.

It had been nearly two months since he had last laid eyes on the prince or any of his close companions. Two months since that fateful meeting where words and promises had been exchanged—promises that had now brought him here, standing before the man he regarded as a friend

Without hesitation, the chieftain bent his knee, bowing his head low in the traditional gesture of respect. His thick, calloused fingers pressed against the ground as he spoke in his heavily accented voice, rough yet firm.

”I answer call,” he said in a broken tone.

A chuckle, quiet yet unmistakable, came from above him. A moment later, small but strong hands grasped his forearms, pulling him gently back to his feet.

”You have made progress in learning our tongue,” Alpheo remarked, his southern drawl softened by amusement.

Torghan straightened, looking the prince in the eye. ”Bit,” he answered simply.

Alpheo nodded in approval before clapping the chieftain on the back, the weight of it solid but not unkind. ”Good. Then you will finally fight at my side and draw blood for the first time.”

The words were swiftly translated down the chain, passing from one tongue to the next until they reached Torghan’s ears. His expression did not change, but his eyes glinted with something sharp, something fierce. He gave a firm nod, his rough voice carrying only two words.

”Blood for prince.”

Alpheo’s smile widened.

Satisfied, he turned toward a tall figure standing silently by the entrance. ”Vrosk, please accompany our friend to his tent.It’s been nice to see you again, I hope you will find the next battles to your tastes”

The head of the guards, clad in his polished armor, nodded in understanding before gesturing for the chieftain to follow. Torghan obeyed without question, though his gaze flickered briefly to the translator who remained behind.

As he stepped out, the man began speaking in the southern tongue, saying things Torghan did not understand.

As the tent flaps swayed in Torghan’s wake, Alpheo’s easy smile, the one he had worn when greeting the young chieftain faded as a quiet, thoughtful sound came out of his mouth.

The words the court-appointed envoy had just spoken lingered in his mind—how the soldiers had murmured, whispered, and spat their distaste toward the tribesmen. How they resented this war, and those who caused it

Alpheo exhaled sharply through his nose, pushing aside his irritation as he refocused. He glanced up at the man standing before him. ”Thank you,” he said simply, dismissing the envoy with a nod of appreciation.

Then his gaze shifted toward Jarza, his ever-reliable general standing at attention.

”Please make sure the tribesmen are kept as far away as possible from the rest of the army,” Alpheo ordered. ”I don’t want unnecessary fights breaking out especially between armed-men.”

Jarza inclined his head, a knowing glint in his eye. ”I will make sure of it.”

”Good.”

Alpheo leaned back in his chair as the general took his leave, the tent flaps rustling once more as Jarza stepped out to carry out his orders.

For a long moment he sat in silence as his fingers drummed against the wood of his chair, his gaze distant.

The last thing he needed was his men fighting each other instead of the enemy. He had enough problems without dealing with some petty infighting.

A sigh escaped his lips, low and heavy with irritation.

All of this. All of this because of some fucking polytheistic religion.