Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

The morning air hung heavy with the scent of smoke and damp earth as Asag stood motionless atop the battlements, his fingers tracing the rough edges of stone pitted by the harm of a siege. Below him, the city stirred like a wounded beast—the clang of armor being adjusted, the murmur of exhausted soldiers exchanging quiet words. His gaze swept across the enemy encampment, noting the purposeful movements that signaled fresh preparations for assault.

Then he saw it—the siege tower. A hulking monstrosity of dark timber, its surface slick with freshly treated ox hides that would resist fire and arrows alike. It stood motionless for now,like a giant that would not be bothered by ants, but its very presence sent a ripple of unease through the defenders lining the walls. Even the veterans, who had faced countless assaults without flinching, gripped their weapons tighter at the sight.

The first week had been brutal but survivable. The thunderous impacts of battering rams had shaken the gates, yet the ancient timbers, hardened by decades of sun and wind, had held. Each assault had ended the same—with cauldrons of boiling sand poured onto the attackers, with arrows finding chinks in armor, with the enemy breaking against their defenses like waves against unyielding cliffs.

The walls themselves bore witness to their stubborn defiance. Every stone seemed stained with blood, every parapet painted read . When the enemy had managed to gain footholds—when their banners had momentarily fluttered atop the battlements—Asag had led the countercharges. His elite troops moved with terrifying precision, their halberds rising and falling in deadly rhythm until the invaders were swept away like autumn leaves before a storm.

They had turned even death into a weapon. Fallen Oizenian soldiers were stripped of anything useful—armor patched and repurposed, weapons redistributed, bodies unceremoniously dumped back over the walls. It was grim, necessary work that left no room for dignity or ceremony.

Asag’s jaw tightened as he considered their dwindling resources. A city of 5,500 souls sounded substantial until you needed every able body to hold a wall. The young men had been the first to answer the call—boys who should have been learning trades now stood with spears in hands that still remembered toys. When they proved insufficient, he had turned to the old veterans—men who had last held weapons decades ago, their joints protesting every movement, their eyes still sharp but their reflexes slowed by time.

Now even that wasn’t enough and they found themselves taking even older people.

If things continued at that pace, they were soon to visit graveyards

Yet against all odds, the city stood. Against rams, against ladders, against the endless tide of soldiers—Aracina endured.

A cold wind stirred Asag’s cloak as he exhaled slowly. The siege tower would come today—he could feel it in his bones. When it did, they would face their greatest test yet. Somewhere below, a child’s laughter rang out—a bright, incongruous sound amidst the preparations for war.

It had been days since he had heard any....and it felt as if seeing a flower bloom from the snowy peak of a mountain, impervious to the wind and nature, beautiful in its brave nonchalance.

Asag’s gaze lingered on the siege tower for one final, calculating moment before turning sharply toward the engineer. The man stood rigid, his posture betraying the tension coiling through him like an overwound spring. His fingers twitched where they were clasped behind his back, nails digging into his own palms.

”Report,” Asag commanded, the single word cracking through the air like a whip.

The engineer’s throat worked as he swallowed. ”All preparations are complete, my lord,” he said, choosing each word with the care of a man walking through a minefield. ”Though...” His voice faltered for just an instant. ”The exact positioning remains uncertain. Only the gods can say if our calculations—”

”Gods?” Asag interrupted. He stepped closer, close enough to see the sweat beading along the engineer’s hairline. ”Tell me, when has divine providence ever stopped an arrow? Stayed a blade? Or perhaps...” His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, ”you’re counting on the gods to dig your trenches for you?Isn’t it your job to make sure everything goes well?”

The engineer’s jaw clenched, but to his credit, he didn’t shrink back. ”The work is done to the best of our ability, my lord. The men have been digging since—”

”I don’t care about their blisters,” Asag snapped. ”I care about results.” His hand came up, gesturing toward the approaching siege tower. ”That will be here within the hour. If your men have failed...” He let the implication hang in the air between them.

A muscle jumped in the engineer’s cheek. He knew the unspoken truth as well as any - if their preparations failed, there would be no glorious last stand. Just slaughter. And men like him, men who knew the art of siegecraft, would find themselves with particularly unpleasant choices when the walls fell. The Oizenians might value his skills, but Asag’s loyalists would ensure he never lived to share them.

The distant bellow of a warhorn cut through the morning air, its deep-throated cry rolling across the battlefield like thunder. Every man on the walls stiffened. Below them, the massive siege tower lurched forward, its iron-shod wheels crushing the churned earth as it began its inexorable advance.

Asag didn’t flinch at the sound. His attention remained fixed on the engineer for one more heartbeat before turning back to survey the approaching doom. ”Cut the support pillars,” he ordered, his voice devoid of inflection. ”And pray that you won’t need the gods”

The engineer opened his mouth then thought better of it. With a sharp nod, he turned and began bellowing orders to the sappers waiting below. The time for calculations was over. Now they would see whose preparations had been more thorough - the attackers who had spent weeks building their engines of war, or the defenders who had spent their nights digging in desperate secrecy.

Asag’s hand rested on his sword hilt as he watched the tower advance. Around him, archers nocked arrows, oil pots were positioned along the battlements, and the city’s last reserves took their positions. The moment of truth was coming.

And when it arrived, there would be no gods to save them - only steel, and fire, and the will to survive.

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Shawona stood like a statue at the siege tower’s forefront, his blackened plate armor drinking in the pale morning light. Around him, the last of Oizen’s elite - one hundred and fifty men who still wore the royal crest with pride - stood motionless as the war machine lurched forward. Their polished armor whispered with each creaking movement of the massive siege engine, the sound like a death knell counting down their approach.

This was no ceremonial command for some pampered noble. When the Prince had ordered him to lead the assault, there’d been no mistaking his meaning. Not from some safe vantage point behind the lines. Not even from the tower’s base.

First man up. First blade over the wall. First blood spilled - or first corpse to tumble back down.

The thought made Shawona’s gauntleted hands clench into fists. Two years. Two long years of humiliation since that cursed night when these very walls had swallowed him whole. The memory still burned - the surprise attack in darkness, the shame of capture, watching his prized Royal Footmen slaughtered or scattered while he languished in chains.

Now barely half his original three hundred remained, their finest armor stripped away to outfit the enemy’s White Army. Every clank of ill-fitting replacement plate was a fresh insult.

But today... today the reckoning would come.

The siege tower groaned like a living thing as it inched forward, its massive wheels crushing stone and bone alike beneath its weight. Shawona rode the shuddering platform with the balance of a seasoned warrior, his gaze never leaving the battlements ahead. Somewhere up there, he knew Asag would be waiting. The thought sent a fresh wave of fury through his veins.

Around him, even the most hardened veterans couldn’t completely hide their tension. A man to his left kept adjusting his grip on his sword. Another muttered prayers to gods Shawona had long since stop trusting

The siege tower groaned forward, its massive wheels crushing stone and earth beneath its relentless advance. Shawona stood immovable at its forefront, his armored boots planted firmly on the trembling wooden platform. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels, the creak of stressed timber, the muffled curses of men shifting their weight - all faded beneath the pounding of his own pulse in his ears. His gaze remained locked on the battlements ahead, those cursed stones that had witnessed his humiliation two years past.

Then - a shudder. Different this time.

”Steady!” he barked, though something primal in his gut tightened in warning.

The tower righted itself momentarily, continuing its advance. Then came the second jolt - more violent than the first. The entire structure tilted at a sickening angle, timbers screaming in protest. Shawona’s stomach dropped as the floor beneath him shifted unnaturally. Men crashed into each other, armor clanging like discordant bells.

’’WH-’’

The words died in his throat as the world turned upside down.

One moment he was standing firm, the next he was weightless. The platform beneath his feet simply vanished, swallowed by a thunderous roar of splintering wood. The air filled with the shrieks of twisting metal and the terrified cries of men suddenly finding nothing but empty space where solid footing had been.

Shawona’s body reacted before his mind could comprehend - arms flailing, legs kicking at nothing. His vision became a chaotic blur of sky and earth trading places, of armored figures tumbling through space like discarded dolls. Someone’s gauntleted hand brushed against his, fingers grasping desperately before being torn away by the merciless pull of gravity.

Time stretched thin in that endless moment of falling.

Then the ground rushed up to meet him with terrible finality. The last thing Shawona saw before impact was the distant battlements - still standing, still defiant - before darkness swallowed his vision whole.

The impact never came. Or if it did, he didn’t feel it. There was only the endless fall, the crushing weight of failure, and the bitter realization that the wall would never be his. Not today. Not ever.

And then - nothing.