Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

The administrative mansion of the city had lain dormant for nearly a month, its halls once filled with the hum of bureaucratic routine now echoing only with the ghosts of unfinished work.

The ledgers had gathered dust. The tax scrolls, meant to be unfurled and reviewed, had instead remained untouched, curling at their ends like dying leaves. The grand wooden desks—once seats of power where the city’s fate was dictated in ink—had been abandoned in favor of more urgent matters.

For the past weeks, governance had not been measured in quill strokes but in iron and blood. There had been no collections of moetary levies, no merchant inspections, no council meetings to bicker about budget. Instead, there had been siege lines, barricades, rationing, and curfews enforced with an iron grip. The laws of trade and commerce had been replaced by the laws of survival.

No merchants had come in—not with the Oizenians breathing down their necks. The streets had been emptied by curfew, the only movement that of sentries patrolling with torches, ready to throw any suspicious soul into the dungeons without question.

But now, with the battle won and the enemy obliterated, the gears of governance had to turn once more.

To the disappointment of many, there would be no further leave of absence.

Their offices had not even been their own for the past weeks. Asag had taken over much of the administrative space, using the mansion as a war council hall and makeshift command center. Clerks had been replaced with soldiers, accountants with messengers relaying war reports, and tax collectors with men preparing to die for the city’s walls.

Some of the scribes had hoped, foolishly, that with the arrival of the prince, their forced holiday might continue, as they were in fact getting still paid while not working

They were sorely mistaken.

Alpheo had ensured otherwise.

By the very next morning, the clerks were called back, the ledgers reopened, the inkpots refilled.

The prince himself had not seized control of the mansion, despite many expecting him to. He had taken only a single room, one simple space to go through post-battle affairs. The rest of the mansion?

That belonged to the clerks once more.

And so, reluctantly, the bureaucrats of the city returned to their true battlefield. Not with swords and shields, but with parchment and ink.

Alpheo currently sat at the large wooden table, his fingers idly tapping against the surface as his eyes skimmed over the seemingly endless stacks of parchment before him. The aftermath of a battle was never just blood and steel—it was ink and numbers, ledgers and logistics, ransoms and reparations.

The battle was won, the enemy scattered, but now came the second conquest—the conquest of the numbers.

Across from him, Jarza leaned lazily against the wall, his expression one of mild disinterest. The man had never been one for paperwork, preferring the thrill of battle over the drudgery of records, but as Alpheo’s effective second-in-command, he had little choice but to endure it.

To the side, Asag sat more upright, focused yet relaxed. He still bore the weight of weeks spent in unrelenting vigilance, but his face had lost that terrible, hollow exhaustion from the night before.

Alpheo studied him for a moment before speaking.

”You look much better than you did yesterday.”

Asag let out a short, weary chuckle. ”That’s because I actually slept.” He exhaled deeply, his eyes briefly glazing over as if recalling the torment of the past month. ”No more waiting for the Oizenians to strike the gates in the dead of night. No more bolting awake at every strange sound, thinking it’s the beginning of the end.” He then offered a smirk. ”And the torch you kindly placed inside the city gave a nice light to sleep under.”

Alpheo raised a brow. ”Torch?”

Asag gestured vaguely toward the wall. ”You know, the one you had set ablaze atop the city gate.”

For a moment, Alpheo was confused. Then, realization dawned upon him, and he let out a soft chuckle.

The royal banner of Oizen, burned for all to see.

”Ah, that. You remembered my promise, then?”

Asag gave a small nod. ”Hard to forget when it was the first thing I saw when I stepped outside.”

Alpheo allowed himself a smirk before shifting his attention back to the paperwork. He flipped through another set of documents, tallying the damage done, the soldiers lost, the payments required. His gaze flickered back up to Asag.

”Did the military governor give you any trouble?”

Asag shook his head. ”As well-behaved as I could have hoped. No unnecessary disputes, no pointless defiance. He did his job, kept the order.”

Alpheo hummed in approval, leaning back in his chair. ”Perhaps he should be rewarded, then.”

Asag hesitated, and for a brief moment, something flickered in his eyes—something that made Alpheo pause.

”What?”

Asag exhaled, resting his elbows on the table. ”He’s dead.

Died on the 13th day of the siege. Arrow to the throat.”

Jarza, ever one to break uncomfortable moments, let out a small huff and muttered, ”Might be best to send some kind of respect for the loss.”

Alpheo nodded slowly, absorbing the thought.

”Perhaps the reward should go to his family instead.”

And with that, the conversation moved forward

Jarza reached across the table and placed a thick, folded parchment in front of Alpheo. The paper was smudged in places, ink hastily scrawled yet still meticulous in detail, listing some names, numbers, and the grim reality of war.

”Casualty report,” Jarza announced, his voice as casual as if he were discussing the weather.

’’I kindly took the effort of encompassing everything in a single page.’’

Alpheo took it and unfolded the document, his eyes skimming over the tally.

”Not too bad,” Jarza continued. ”Sixty-five dead, forty wounded on our side during the battle. As for Asag, his men took seventy dead and forty wounded.”

Alpheo nodded slightly, absorbing the numbers.

”That makes it one hundred and thirty-five dead, eighty wounded between our ranks,” he murmured. His fingers tapped idly against the table as his mind processed the cost.

Jarza nodded. ”The others—troops from the noble lords, the tribesmen—took heavier losses. A hundred and ninety-eight dead, seventy-two wounded.”

Alpheo exhaled through his nose, setting the report down. The numbers were very light .

Three hundred and thirty-three men lost in total.

It was a bitter thing, but in war, bitterness was often a lesser poison compared to the alternative.

”And how many did we kill?” Alpheo asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear it.

Jarza smirked. ”Who knows” He said with a shrug. ”All I know is that the entire army has been gutted, be it in the field or during their rout.There is literally no more of an army, as those that survived will most surely become deserters at best and bandits at worst.’’

That was the difference.

They had lost a few hundred, but in return, they had broken an army.

Alpheo leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair as he let the numbers settle in his mind. It was easy to see battle as a glorious charge, a clash of steel and will—but this? This was war in its truest form.

Ink on parchment. Lives reduced to numbers.

Still, the numbers favored him.

”A fair trade,” Alpheo finally said, his voice carrying no sorrow, only the cool acceptance of a commander who understood the price of victory.

Jarza tilted his head slightly, rolling his shoulders as if loosening an unseen weight. His eyes flicked to Alpheo with that characteristic glint of mischief, though there was a serious note beneath it.

”About that...” he said, drawing out the words. ”Perhaps we were a little bit too successful.”

Alpheo’s brow arched. Too successful? That was not a phrase he often heard.

”Explain,” he said, his fingers drumming idly against the wooden table.

Jarza exhaled through his nose, half amusement, half incredulity. ”While we don’t have exact numbers on the dead yet, we sure as hells know how many we took alive.” He leaned forward, placing both palms on the table. ”Seven hundred and sixty.”

A beat of silence.

From across the room, Asag, who had been sipping from a cup of watered wine, paused mid-drink. He blinked. ”Quite a lot.”

”An understatement,” Jarza replied dryly. He crossed his arms. ”Seven hundred and sixty mouths to feed, wounds to tend, and hands that might yet grip a weapon. That’s not just a handful of prisoners—it’s a damn headache.”

Alpheo leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly through his nose. The issue wasn’t that they had taken too many prisoners—after all, having hundreds of enemy soldiers at their mercy was a testament to their victory. No, the real problem was far more mundane and infinitely more pressing:

Feeding them.

Even before the battle, his army of 2,600 men was already a heavy burden to maintain. Rations had to be accounted for, water supplies secured, and let’s not forget the animals. Horses, mules, donkeys—they all needed their share of grain and fodder. The logistics of keeping a fighting force fed and ready were already a strain on their stores. Now, add 760 extra mouths to that tally.

It wasn’t just a matter of food, either. More men meant more waste, more sickness, more potential for unrest and more manpower required to guard them.

Alpheo drummed his fingers against the table, his sharp mind already racing for a solution. They could not afford to bleed their supplies dry.

So of course, they had to get rid of them quickly.