Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Lord Niketas narrowed his eyes as he studied the young man before him, his mind already sifting through the names and allegiances of the lesser houses. Derathio. A small house, sworn to Megioduroli. Not particularly powerful, nor particularly influential, yet still noble by all rights.

Recognition flickered across his face, and he turned slightly, beckoning one of his servants closer. Leaning in, he murmured a few quiet words, his voice too low for the others to hear. The servant bowed in understanding and swiftly exited the tent, disappearing into the night.

Satisfied, Niketas turned his attention back to the bound envoy, his expression softening just enough to feign cordiality. He motioned to the guards.

”Cut his bonds.”

The guards hesitated only for a moment before obeying, drawing a short blade and slicing cleanly through the rough bindings around Lorren’s wrists. The young noble exhaled, flexing his hands, his fingers still stiff from the tight restraints.

Niketas offered him a small nod. ”Apologies for the poor hospitality, Sir Lorren,” he said, his tone smooth, though with an undercurrent of measured politeness rather than warmth. ”But I am sure you understand—it is not every day a man arrives at our gates, unannounced and alone, claiming to be a noble while willingly allowing himself to be captured, without of course a banner to attest to it. Under such circumstances, caution is required.”

Before Lorren could respond, a scoff came from the side.

Lord Gregor leaned forward in his seat, his thick fingers drumming against the armrest of his chair.

”Tell me, young Derathio,” he drawled, voice thick with sarcasm, ”is your prince so arrogant that he does not even bother to send his envoys under the banner of his royal house?” He gestured vaguely in the air, as if waving away the very idea. ”No standard. No colors. No herald to announce you properly. What sort of prince sends an emissary into an enemy camp with nothing but his word to shield him?”

Gregor’s lip curled into something between a smirk and a sneer.

”If our guards had been a little less patient,” he continued, ”if instead of apprehending you, they had cut you down where you stood, mistaking you for a common spy, we would have unknowingly committed a great sacrilege.” He shook his head, feigning dismay. ”Surely, a prince who truly wished for diplomacy would not be so careless with the lives of his messengers?”

The young man shook his head.

He rubbed at his wrists where the rope had chafed his skin raw, then lifted his gaze to meet the eyes of the gathered lords.

”I fear,” Lorren began, his voice steady despite the weight of so many powerful men scrutinizing him, ”that there has been a misunderstanding.”

A murmur rippled through the tent as Lorren took a measured breath before continuing.

”I do indeed come from the royal host,” he said, pausing briefly to let his words settle, ”but I was not sent by the prince consort.”

The murmur grew louder. Lord Gregor’s brow furrowed, and Lord Lysandros exchanged a brief glance with Niketas. Only Lord Eurenis remained impassive, his fingers steepled together as if already piecing something together.

”Then who sent you?” Niketas asked, his tone sharp with suspicion.

Lorren squared his shoulders. ”I was tasked by my father to act as messanger on behalf of my father’s liege lord—Lord Damaris.”

That sent a jolt through the tent.

Damaris was one of the more prominent lords in the prince’s host. For him to send an envoy in secret, without the prince’s knowledge, suggested that something far greater was stirring beneath the surface of the royal camp.

”You’re telling us,” Lord Gregor said, his voice laced with skepticism, ”that a lord, one who willingly marches beneath the banners of the prince, has sent you to treat with us in secret? And we are to believe this?”

Lorren nodded. ”This meeting was arranged with the understanding that the prince would never know of it.”

Lord Lysandros ran a hand through his beard, glancing at his fellow lords with a raised brow. ”Well,” he muttered, ”it seems the royal host is not as united as we were led to believe.”

Lord Eurenis, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. ”For what reason,” he asked, his voice calm but pointed, ”would a lord marching beneath the prince’s banners send an envoy to us?”

Lorren’s expression darkened slightly, his hands clasping together in front of him. ”Before we discuss that,” he said carefully, ”perhaps it would be best if we first talked about the prince.”

Lorren’s expression grew tense as he glanced around the dimly lit tent, his fingers twitching slightly as if weighing his next words. ”Before I speak further,” he said, voice low but firm, ”I would prefer that what is said within these walls does not leave them.”

The lords and the priest exchanged looks, their eyes flickering with curiosity and suspicion alike. Secrets had power, and for a man in Lorren’s position to request secrecy, it meant what he was about to reveal was of great importance.

Niketas, ever the composed one, leaned forward slightly and nodded. ”You have my word,” he said, his tone carrying the weight of authority. ”What is spoken here will remain among us.”

The other lords gave their reluctant nods, though a few still eyed the young noble with quiet scrutiny.

Lorren exhaled, seemingly satisfied, and straightened his posture. ”A few days ago,” he began, carefully choosing his words, ”word reached our camp that the Prince of Oizen has raised his armies and crossed the border into Yarzat.”

A brief silence filled the air before the weight of his words truly sank in.

Then the tent erupted.

Lords surged forward in their seats, their voices rising in a cacophony of shock, disbelief, and growing excitement. Even the priest Elios, who had remained composed thus far, tilted his head with a look of intrigued amusement.

”Asetocende,” Lorren continued over the noise, ”was the first city to fall. The Oizen prince’s forces laid siege to it, and in only a few days, the walls were breached.”

Lord Gregor let out a sharp laugh, a broad grin splitting his face. ”Ha! So they finally made true on their promise!” He clapped a hand on the table, the sound loud and triumphant. ”I was beginning to think those princes were all bluster and no blade, but it seems they’ve finally bared their fangs.”

The mood in the tent shifted swiftly, the tension of before giving way to murmurs of satisfaction.

”This is excellent news,” Lord Lysandros said, stroking his beard, his earlier frustration now melting into something closer to enthusiasm. No one needed to be told that with Asetocende fallen, the way ahead was open, with only Aracina standing between them and the capital itself.

Of course, such a shift in the war brought consequences of its own.

On one hand, the mounting pressure on the prince to end the rebellion swiftly could now push him to the negotiating table, forcing him to accept terms favorable to the rebels in order to unify his forces against the foreign invaders.

On the other, they now faced the reality of a two-front war.

Before this, the royal host held the advantage—its movements unburdened by uncertainty, its strategy dictated by the knowledge that the enemy lay before them. But now, with another force advancing from the north, the balance had been upended. If the prince turned his army toward Oizen’s invading host, the rebels would have free reign to push deeper into Yarzat’s heartland. If he chose instead to crush the rebellion, then Oizen’s armies would march unchecked.

It was a game of pressure, and the prince was now caught in its vice. This was the kind of squeeze that could break a ruler’s will—or force him into a desperate, unfavorable bargain.

Lord Gregor smirked, leaning back with satisfaction. ”And here I thought this would be another dull evening.”

Laughter rippled through the tent, the lords exchanging pleased glances. The tension that had plagued them since the moment they raised their banners in defiance now seemed to melt away, replaced with renewed confidence.

Yet amidst the satisfaction, Lorren remained standing, his expression unreadable. He had delivered the news they wanted to hear—but he was not finished. What came next would demand their attention far more than anything he had said thus far.

Amidst the laughter and the triumphant murmurs of the lords, Lorren’s gaze sharpened. He turned his attention toward a man clad in finely wrought armor, the sigil of House Palladion embroidered proudly upon his chest. The young envoy squared his shoulders, his voice measured but firm.

”Do I have the honor of addressing the Lord of Agripisio?”

The man in question, still caught in the glow of victory that the news had brought, let out a small chuckle, flashing a confident smile. ”That you do.”

But the laughter in the tent began to wane. It was subtle at first—a few voices trailing off, a handful of glances exchanged—but then it fell into silence entirely. They had noticed the shift in Lorren’s face, the way his expression went serious and worried

Lord Lysandros furrowed his brow, leaning forward. ”What is it?”

Lorren inhaled sharply, his hands clenching at his sides before he finally spoke.

”Lord Damaris would like to express his utmost apologies and his worries for you, my lord.”