Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Agalasios snapped into motion before his mind could even fully register the sight before him. The tent was already a storm of noise and movement, but his voice cut through it like a whip.

”Tavros! Prepare a table and a bed —NOW!” he bellowed, his words sharp enough to send the young medic sprinting toward an empty cot, flipping aside bloodied linens and clearing space.

”Lerna, cleanse the instruments! I want them spotless!” His hand shot toward a girl barely older than the wounded boy he had just treated. She nodded and dashed toward the boiling cauldrons, steam rising as she began scrubbing the iron tools with feverish speed.

”Varnes, get me fresh bandages and alcohol!”

Every order was barked like a command on the battlefield, and every person who heard it obeyed.

Then he turned to the two men who had carried Asag in.

”Put him down!”

They hesitated for only a heartbeat before obeying, hauling their commander onto the prepared bed- The wooden frame groaned under the weight of Asag’s armor, his limp form sprawling against it.

And gods, what a sorry state he was in.

Blood soaked through the once-proud steel of his cuirass, the right side of his body a glistening, red ruin. His left arm hung at an awkward angle, the limb completely soaked, fingers twitching with spasms of pain. His chest rose and fell in shallow, unsteady breaths, each one carrying a low, rattling sound. He was still conscious—barely—but his gaze was unfocused, his face drained of color. His lips moved as if to speak, but only the faintest of murmurs escaped.

”Get that armor OFF!” Agalasios roared, stepping closer as the two men scrambled to remove the plates and buckles binding Asag’s broken body.

Meanwhile, he spun on his heel, moving toward one of the large buckets of clean water. His hands, still stained with the blood of the last patient, plunged into the cool liquid. He scrubbed furiously, fingers scraping against the soap beside it, rubbing until the crimson stains ran in swirling rivers down his wrists and into the murky depths.

There was no time for hesitation. No time for uncertainty.

Outside the tent, the roar of victory shook the very air. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of voices merged into one deafening cheer, the sound rolling through the city like a tidal wave. The walls had held. The enemy had been thrown back. Aracina still stood.

But inside the tent, there was no celebration.

Agalasios ignored the cheers, his focus razor-sharp on the man dying beneath his hands. The blood pooling beneath Asag didn’t care for victory. The torn flesh, the broken armor, the gasping breath—it all told a different story.

And perhaps, so did his own fate.

He swallowed hard, his hands steady as he grabbed a scalpel. It wasn’t just Asag’s life that hung in the balance tonight. His did, too.

It wasn’t rare to hear stories of surgeons who had failed to save a noble, only to find themselves facing the executioner’s blade instead of a grieving family. Negligence, they would call it. Failure. Even if it was an impossible case, even if the patient was beyond saving the moment they were carried into the tent—someone always had to answer for it.

And this wasn’t just any noble. This was Asag, the commander of the city’s defense, the man Alpheo himself had entrusted with this siege. And if Alpheo favored Asag as much as he had always suspected, if the Supreme commander of the White Army thought, even for a second, that the failure had been Agalasios’ fault...

He didn’t want to think about it.

Of course, Alpheo was not a fool. He wasn’t the kind of man to execute a surgeon over a simple failure—not unless he had undeniable proof of incompetence. But the fear lingered, the same fear that clung to every surgeon who had ever held a noble’s life in their hands.

Agalasios wiped his wet hands on his apron, his fingers still slick from the water. The cheers outside still rang in the distance, but in here, all he could hear was the shallow, uneven breathing of the man on the table.

”Lord Asag,” he called, but there was no response.

He turned sharply. ”You—keep him awake. Talk to him and slap him, don’t you fucking dare to let him sleep.”

A young nurse nodded and stepped closer, her voice soft as she murmured to Asag, trying to keep his consciousness tethered.

Agalasios, meanwhile, grabbed a towel and shoved it toward another nurse. ”Clean the blood. Now.”

The nurse obeyed, pressing the cloth against Asag’s side, soaking up the crimson that had pooled around the wound. The fabric turned dark in seconds, and as she wiped away the excess, Agalasios finally got a clear look at the injury.

Not as deep as he had feared.

His sharp eyes traced the wound. No organs punctured. No exposed bones. The bleeding had been heavy, but the true threat wasn’t the depth—it was how much he had already lost.

Agalasios wasted no time. He reached for a bottle of alcohol before pouring it liberally around the wound. The sting must have been unbearable, but Asag only gave the faintest of shudders. His body was too weak to properly react.

”Stay with me,my lord ” the nurse urged, squeezing Asag’s hand,while shaking him a bit.

Agalasios wiped the area dry, tossing the towel aside. ”We’re closing this up now. You two. Sew it up.”

Two more surgeons stepped forward, each gripping their own needle and thread.

Agalasios took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders before stepping toward Asag’s left arm. The side wound was closed now, the stitches holding the flesh together, but his work was far from over.

The gash on the arm was just as vicious, though luck had been on Asag’s side. His armor had taken the worst of the strike, leaving him only with torn flesh and bruised bone rather than a complete break. Still, Agalasios knew better than to assume.

He placed his fingers carefully around the wound, pressing gently along the length of the arm, searching for the telltale shifting of broken bone. Asag gave a low groan, his body twitching beneath the examination, but no sharp edges moved beneath the skin—no grinding, no unnatural shifting.

”Not broken,” Agalasios muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

A relief.

But relief did not mean rest.

He reached for another needle, threading it quickly before lowering it to the gash. The wound was deep but not fatal—if treated properly. He pushed the needle through flesh, pulling the thread tight as he worked to close the wound. The skin resisted at first, stiff with drying blood, but soon the edges came together, sealed under the careful movements of his hands.

Asag shifted slightly, a weak breath escaping his lips. The nurse still held his hand, but his consciousness was slipping. Agalasios worked faster.

The last stitch was tied off, and he cut the excess thread with a sharp blade. That part was done. Now came the second issue—bruised bone.

Without a proper splint, Asag risked worsening the injury with the slightest wrong movement. Agalasios turned sharply.

”Get me a board and bandages—quickly,” he barked, and a young assistant rushed to fetch them.

As he waited, he pressed his hands against the arm again, this time more firmly. He needed to ensure the bone remained straight. Any misalignment now would mean trouble later, but it would not be life threatening.

The assistant returned, placing a sturdy wooden board beside him. Agalasios took it without a word, carefully positioning it along Asag’s arm. With practiced efficiency, he began wrapping the bandages, securing the splint in place, ensuring the arm would remain stable.

As Agalasios worked, his hands steady despite the tension gnawing at his insides, he turned sharply to the two soldiers standing nearby—Asag’s guards, the fools who had brought him in half-dead.

”You idiots,” he snapped, his voice like a whip crack. ”What the hell were you doing while he was bleeding out? His wounds are not deep but he’s lost too much blood! If you had dragged him here sooner, I wouldn’t be sewing him together like a butcher stitching up a slaughtered pig!”

One of the guards stiffened but did not meet his gaze. The other, older and bearing a fresh cut on his forehead, clenched his jaw before answering.

”The Lord refused,” he said, his tone carrying respect for the wounded commander. ”He wouldn’t leave the fight until the bridge was secured. We tried, but he ordered us to hold the line before we could get him out.The defense would have failed if the lords wasn’t there.”

Agalasios sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers tightening around the bandage he was wrapping around Asag’s splinted arm. ”That stubborn bastard,” he hissed, shifting his ire from the soldiers to the unconscious man on the table.

”Fool,” he muttered under his breath, finishing the last knot with a rough tug. ”Stubborn, reckless fool.What good will you be dead?”

The soldiers remained silent, shame flickering in their expressions, but they knew there was no point in arguing.

The battle was won, but Asag had paid a price for his refusal to fall back.

One of the guards, shifting uneasily on his feet, finally spoke. ”Will the commander live?”

Agalasios exhaled, wiping his bloodstained hands on a cloth. He glanced down at Asag—pale from blood loss, his breath shallow but steady. The worst was done, but the battle for his life wasn’t over yet.

”That,” Agalasios said, his voice grim, ”depends on the gods, it is theirs the hands that shall weave his thread, it is out of our control.”

And with his they will decided mine too, Agalosios lampooned while throwing one last look at the sorry condition of the commander.