Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Prince Lechlian’s gaze lingered on the battered skyline of Arduoronaven, the city he had dreamt of reclaiming with fire in his heart and steel in his hand. Now, as its gates stood open before him and its walls bore the scars of recent conquest, he felt... nothing.

No joy.No triumph.Only a quiet, creeping unease curling in his gut like smoke from a dying fire.

He rode slowly, almost absently, through the churned mud outside the walls, the hooves of his horse squelching in the thawing earth.

He had dreamed of this moment, of reclaiming what was stolen, of erasing the shame left by the defeat of last year . And yet now that the city was his again, now that he had marched through its gates and raised his banner over its keep, he felt only the weight of inevitability pressing down on his shoulders like a wet cloak.

He had won it back... but for how long?

That question gnawed at him with every step his horse took on the road. He looked over his shoulder at the blackened stone,as the city was still licking its wounds from the siege of last year.

Would the Mud Prince come for it and have the city under siege for the third time in two years? Would he take it back as easily as Lechlian had reclaimed it?

The prince’s jaw clenched.

Not if the gods showed him favor.

His best chance—perhaps his only chance , except for the eventuality that he lost against the rebels, which at that point was less like hope and more like praying to the gods for a miracle as the prince appeared invincible, an of course with it then he wouldn’t have the strength left for a siege.

The man was clever, yes, brutal even, but not divine. Winter had just passed, and the land was still shaking off the frost. The spring harvest was two, perhaps three months away, and no matter how ruthless Alpheo was, he couldn’t conjure grain from stone, so perhaps if the rebels couldn’t make a proper stand, the royal warehouses would prevent the prince from doing the same.

After all what force could wage war on an empty stomach?

Lechlian took a breath, deep and cold.

Yes. There was still a chance.A narrow, blood-slicked thread of hope.

And for now, Arduoronaven was his.

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Prince Lechlian’s horse trotted with measured grace down the sloping path toward the eastern gate of Arduoronaven, where the remnants of his Herculian army stood in wait read to depart. Though the wind was still chill despite the late spring , the air in the camp felt light—filled with a soldier’s simple joy: they were going home.

Laughter trickled between ranks. Packs were slung and blades sheathed. The campaign was over, and for most of the men, that meant survival—a precious prize bought with too much blood. But not all shared the cheer.

The common-born may have rejoiced at the notion of returning home, with their spoils in tow, while their betters feared the thought of doing that, knowing that they were spitting on a fire hoping for it to extinguish itself.

Just behind the prince, another rider kept pace—Lord Orymus of House Vathilorn, the newly restored heir of Arduoronaven. His fine armor shone beneath a crisp new cloak, , but his face betrayed his unease.

This was not how he had imagined his homecoming would end.

”My prince,” Orymus urged, spurring forward to ride beside Lechlian. ”Must you depart so soon? The city still trembles from its wounds. Your presence here, your army—it gives us strength, deterrence. If you stay just a few weeks longer perhap—”

”The decision has already been made,” Lechlian said, not turning his head. His voice was firm, clipped. ”We came, we conquered, and we’ve reclaimed what was taken from us. The city is now yours, isn’t that enough? ” He said depicting a campaign that, though successful, did not achieve the hoped results that were put behind it

”But—”

”Orymus,” Lechlian cut in, finally meeting the young lord’s eyes. ”We’ve made gains. You have got your city and vassals. I believe that you got it better than most would were they in your bridle, you had no army and no coin, you had nothing except your blood and my support. Don’t look a horse gift in the mouth’’

Still, Orymus pressed. ”The Yarzat , however Your Grace, are still marching, alive and kicking. Alone we may not have the ranks to fight them, but we are not. What of the rebels? If we joined forces—if you marched east and met them near Florium, together you could—”

”Enough.” The word lashed out like a whip.

Lechlian reined in his horse, his armor rattling as he turned fully toward the lord. His eyes were sharp, blazing with frustration long simmering beneath the surface.

”Have you even smelled a battlefield, my lord? You did not , so trust your betters when they say that the campaign is over.”

He spared the young noble a longer explanation. On a map, linking up with the rebels looked clever enough unite their forces and oppose the Royal Army, but in the dirt and blood it was suicide: they would have to march past enemy‑held forts, stretch a supply line thin as spider‑silk, and live off grain the rebels might—or might not—deliver. One slip, one burnt granary and his whole host would be stranded out in the open, gift‑wrapped for Alpheo’s blade.

Better to end the dream now than die chasing it.

With that in mind prince Lechlian halted his horse just before the open gate, the columns of his waiting army glinting in the morning light beyond. His cloak billowed slightly as the wind came down from the high walls of Arduoronaven, now firmly back under Herculian control. For now. He turned his head, not with warmth, but with the chilly finality of a man who had already made up his mind.

”You have your city, Orymus,” he said, his voice low but ironclad. ”You wanted your birthright restored. Now it’s yours. And with it, the duty that comes with holding ground.”

Orymus straightened on his saddle, uncertain but trying not to show it. ”I only mean to ask—”

Lechlian raised a hand to silence him. ”Your duty as lord is not simply to inherit stone and banner. It’s to defend them. You think Bracum or Yarzat will look kindly upon your weakness? No. They will come for your walls with blood and fire. So arm your men, raise a proper garrison. You’ve enough weapons from the city’s stockpiles to field a small host.”

The young lord swallowed his pride and tried again. ”Then... perhaps you could spare some men? A detachment. Just until I find my footing.”

Lechlian’s gaze flicked toward him with a spark of irritation. ”I’m leaving you the mercenary company. They’re yours for the remainder of their contract.”

Orymus’s mouth went tight, teeth grinding. ”That contract ends in two weeks.”

The prince smiled without mirth. ”Then you’ve got two weeks to prove you can manage your affairs.”

”And when they come for their pay?” Orymus pressed, his voice rising in a rare show of desperation. ”What shall I tell them?”

Lechlian leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so that only Orymus could hear. ”Tell them that once the siege on Bracum has ended they may come to the capital and collect what they’re owed and of course a bonus for the amount of time they fought at the end of the contract . If you wish to keep them further , renegotiate. Extend the contract.”

The desperation cracked further in Orymus’s voice. ”I have no coin. The city’s coffers were plundered before you ever arrived. My city was stripped down to the bones.”

Lechlian tilted his head, an expression of mock curiosity crossing his face. ”Well, you’ve got land now, don’t you? Perhaps offer a piece to their captain. Mercenaries love silver, but land? That sticks. I’m sure a clever man like you can find a few village, you also now have some vassals; ask them for troops and coins.

Orymus looked as if he might protest again, but Lechlian had already turned away. The prince’s horse clacked forward, his royal guards following in seamless formation. He raised a hand once more—not to speak, but to signal the final end of the conversation.

”Do what you must, Lord Vathilorn. I have already done what I came to do.”

And with that, he passed beneath the archway of Arduoronaven, the city’s shadow falling behind him. Orymus remained on the road, eyes fixed on the prince’s retreating figure, the echo of hoofbeats fading into the road north where banners billowed and boots marched in a steady beat toward home.

Behind him, all that remained was stone, silence, and the heavy crown of a lord left to hold what others had won.

He sat stiffly in his saddle, watching the back of Prince Lechlian vanish into the rising dust of a departing army. The clink of hooves, the jingle of banners, the proud sound of marching—all of it faded as the Herculian host began its long road back to the capital. And he, the newly reinstated Lord of Arduronaven, remained rooted in place, like a man sentenced to watch over a crumbling tomb.

Bastard.

Orymus thought as he just realized that was handed a castle of sand and was told to shield it from stones.

Lechlian had dressed it all up like a gift—noble title restored, walls returned, the right to rule in his own name once more—but the young lord knew better. He’d been dumped here. Left holding a city without support, without coin, without any true means of defense. The prince might as well have said, ”Here, try not to die before the week is out.”

And worse than that?

He’d been saddled with mercenaries.

Mercenaries who, the moment they learned their coin wasn’t flowing, would turn on him like a pack of dogs sniffing a wounded deer. At best, they’d leave—vanish through the woods with whatever they could carry. At worst... gods help him... they’d take the city, sell it to the Mud Prince himself, and send his head as proof of delivery.

He ground his teeth, one hand curling into a fist on the reins.

Yet even in the depths of his anger, Orymus couldn’t deny one thing: the land idea had teeth.

”Land... yes... perhaps even a title, he thought. These men fight for silver, but they are commonborn their leader will jump at the chance of becoming a noble .I have plenty of land now , I am sure I can find a small castle to offer to retain their services....

It was a dangerous gamble. But then again, did he have any other choice?

He was finally given back his birthright, his name rang from the ramparts, his banners flew above the towers, and his blood ruled these streets once more.

But now came the hardest part—not taking it, not surviving the war.

Now he had to hold it.

Alone.