Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

The Royal Host’s occupation of Aracina was drawing to a close, but its impact would linger on like a good dream —in both the rutted roads trampled by countless boots and the heavier purses of merchants and shop owners who had profited handsomely from their stay.

The city had welcomed them not just with relief, but with the desperate, wine-soaked gratitude of people who had stared annihilation in the face and been spared.

When Alpheo’s banners had first appeared on the horizon, the citizens had poured into the streets, offering their thanks, kissing the hands of soldiers, and as for their daughters attracting their attentions.

The alternative—a sacked city, its streets running red, its women dragged away in chains—had been too terrible to contemplate. Aracina had been saved, and salvation, as it turned out, was excellent for business.

The city had become a living beast of noise and commerce, its streets pulsing with the rhythm of celebration. Taverns overflowed with laughter and the clatter of tankards, ale spilling across tabletops like spring floods. The brothels, never ones to miss an opportunity, had thrown their doors open wide, their workers laboring well past dawn, fingers growing plump with coin. Blacksmiths’ hammers rang ceaselessly, repairing dented armor, honing notched blades, forging fresh weapons for men who suddenly found themselves with silver to spare.

A portion of the spoils—hard-won, blood-purchased—had been distributed among the ranks, just enough to keep morale high and tongues loose. But not all of it.

Alpheo was no green commander, no starry-eyed lordling who believed in the inherent nobility of his men. He knew the hearts of soldiers. Pay them too much, too soon, and they would begin to imagine the war already won, the spoils already theirs.

Give a man a full purse while the scent of battle still clung to his clothes, and you would find him drunk in a ditch by morning—or worse, vanished entirely, lured away by dreams of home and hearth. Worse still, they might start to question whether the next fight was worth the risk when their pockets already jingled with coin.

Mutiny, Alpheo knew, did not always spring from deprivation. Sometimes it grew from the illusion of satisfaction.

So he had doled out the silver like a physician administering a tonic—just enough to dull the pain, not enough to cure the disease.

Yet even with his men content and his coffers carefully managed, one final duty remained before the Royal Host could march to its next battlefield.

Now, the army waited beyond the city gates, formations drawn up, banners snapping in the wind, the restless energy of thousands of armed men humming through the ranks like the tension before a storm.

They were ready to move.

But they would not.

Not yet.

Because their prince had not yet taken his place among them.

At the eastern gates of Aracina, an ornate carriage stood waiting—an absurdly elegant thing amidst the grit of war, like finding a virgin in a brothel. Gilded in bronze filigree, draped in the dark velvet banners of House Oizen, it was a vessel no longer fit for nobility, but for death.

Within its velvet-lined interior, laid carefully upon silks that had once been meant for celebrations, rested the corpse of Prince Haldrien of Oizen. Cold. Still. The thin veil of honor and ceremony did little to disguise the truth—this was not a prince being sent home, but a trophy being returned.

Alpheo observed the proceedings with the detached air of a man fulfilling an obligation. He had no love for the dead prince, no sympathy for the house that had sought to break his own. If it were up to him, the body would have been left to rot where it fell, food for crows and worms alike.

But war was a game played by noble rules, and the death of a prince demanded theatrics.

So he stood, straight-backed and solemn, granting his royal permission for the carriage to depart. A token escort of the Oizenian royal guard —those who had surrendered—trailed behind it, their heads bowed in forced reverence.

The coachman flicked the reins. The wheels groaned against the cobbles. Slowly, the black-draped carriage began its journey home, a macabre procession rolling toward a kingdom in mourning.

If Alpheo had indulged his truest instincts, he might have strung bells along the carriage’s edges, let them chime all the way to the Oizenian border—not in honor, but in mockery. A celebration. A crown had fallen.

A threat had been erased. Another shadow now lay cold beneath foreign silks, and he hadn’t even needed to raise his sword to make it so.

But such a display would have been foolish.

So Alpheo kept his satisfaction to himself, allowing only the faintest flicker of amusement to cross his mind as he watched the carriage shrink into the distance.

Whatever schemes you wove, Shamleik, he thought, they rot with you in that box.

With the spectacle concluded, Alpheo turned without ceremony and mounted his horse in one fluid motion. The leather of his saddle creaked beneath him, his cloak stirring in the warm breeze that swept through the city like a sigh of finality.

Behind him, Asag waited atop his own steed, silent as a shadow carved from stone. No words passed between them. None were needed. The weight of what had been done—and what still lay ahead—settled in the space between them, heavier than any mourning.

Together, flanked by thirty of their most trusted knights, they rode through Aracina’s streets. The city, once braced for annihilation, now hummed with the fragile energy of survival. Shopkeepers counted coin. Blacksmiths hammered at fresh steel. Children darted through the crowds, their laughter a stark contrast to the memory of siege bells.

They passed through the gates without fanfare. No cheers followed them, as they not know the prince was still in the city. No banners waved them off. Only the steady rhythm of hooves on dirt.

As soon as they crested the rise where the royal host sprawled like a sea of steel and canvas, Alpheo let his eyes drift to the man riding beside him. Asag’s gaze, however, lingered behind—drawn not to the army, but to the city walls shrinking in the distance.

Alpheo tilted his head slightly. ”Is everything all right?”

For a long moment, Asag didn’t answer. The wind carried the scent of trampled grass and smoldering cookfires between them as the silence stretched. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, but edged with something distant—like a man recounting a dream.

”It is. Just... strange.” He exhaled slowly, his gaze never leaving the city. ”For months, I thought those walls would be my grave. Now, seeing them like this...” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. ”It feels like that fear belonged to someone else entirely.”

Alpheo followed his gaze, his own expression unreadable. The weight of those words settled between them—the unspoken truth of how close it had been, how thin the line between survival and slaughter.

”I should’ve come sooner,” the prince said at last, his voice lower than usual, stripped of its usual certainty. ”I let you all bleed longer than you should have.” His grip tightened on the reins. ”I’ll make it even.”

Asag shook his head before the words could take root. ”You came, Alpheo. You came and pulled us out.” He turned then, meeting the prince’s gaze squarely. ”That’s more than most ever get. That’s enough.”

The prince let out a slow breath, the sound catching just slightly—something between guilt and gratitude caught in his throat. Then, with visible effort, he straightened in the saddle, the mantle of command settling back onto his shoulders.

”Well,” he said, his voice regaining its usual measured tone, ”in a year’s time, your betrothed will be of age, won’t she?” A faint smile touched his lips. ”You’ll have a wedding to look forward to. I’ll make sure there’s something to celebrate.

You’ve done what was asked. More than that.” He gestured toward the distant horizon. ”I’ll carve out a nice piece of land for you. Something fitting, with strong walls and a title to match.”

Asag exhaled through his nose—the closest he ever came to a laugh. He already had a castle. Already had scars. And most importantly—he was alive.

What more could a man ask for?

He glanced at Alpheo, a rare glint of quiet humor in his eye. ”Just make sure it’s not another city about to fall.”

The tension broke. The two men laughed—a brief, rough sound that carried over the wind like the echo of shared survival.

Behind them, Aracina grew smaller, its walls no longer a cage but a memory. Ahead, the army waited, and beyond that—more battles, more blood, more choices that would weigh heavy in the years to come.

But for now, there was this: the sun on their backs, the solid earth beneath their horses’ hooves, and the unspoken understanding that some debts could never truly be repaid—only honored in the keeping of promises yet unfulfilled.

They rode toward the camp without looking back.

--------

As the two reached the army, they separated like two rivers breaking from the same lake.

Asag turned his mount and led what remained of his third corps southward. They were a skeleton of their former selves, both in flesh and in spirit.

Of the two hundred that had held the walls months ago, only 110 now marched unassisted, alive or with wounds still shallow enough to close. Thirty-two more were maimed—some missing hands, others eyes, one man with a piece of chin missing . The rest... lay beneath Aracina, in shallow graves dug by exhausted hands, or still within the city, wrapped in cloth and prayers.

As Alpheo’s eyes swept over them, his stomach twisted. There was no pride in the line Asag led—only the bitter pang of guilt that weighed heavier with every step of his own steed.

He knew how much these corps meant to his commanders.

Alpheo had watched these commanders build their men, mold them, live among them.

And Alpheo, despite all his victories, knew that their blood had still poured for his delay.

He didn’t speak. He just turned his horse and joined the center column of the White Army.

There, at the very heart of the great formation, the royal standard fluttered gold and white above his head, catching the morning sun. Behind him rode the Golden Steed, the crown personal cohort—one hundred knights clad in radiant plate and white cloaks edged . Unofficially, they were the bodyguard of the crown, chosen by the prince himself and tasked with protecting the person of the consort.

As he took his position, a familiar presence awaited.

Jarza sat mounted, a length behind.

And around them, the White Army watched.

Wherever Alpheo rode, eyes followed. Soldiers lining the column’s flanks stole glances, quieting their conversations. Their prince consort rode in shining armor, a black clock draped across his shoulders, his helm tucked beneath one arm.

They didn’t cheer. They didn’t need to.

His presence was enough.

Many of them were supposed to retire and in any other army, it would have been more than reasonable to see some desertions.

But not in this one.

Alpheo’s name had held the line.

He wasn’t just a prince consort. To them, he was their prince. He had led beside them, buried friends with his own hands. His charisma wasn’t honeyed words or noble airs, but the amount of silver and tales of glory he brought

So when he passed, they straightened their backs.

Some touched their fists to their chests.

And none spoke of leaving.

Alpheo leaned slightly in the saddle, his voice low as he muttered when he came close to his second in command, ”I’ll have to find a proper gift for Asag. By the end of the year he’ll be wed.”

Jarza snorted, glancing sideways without turning his head. ”You don’t need to overthink it , you could give him a pebble and he’d mount it on his wall like it was a royal relic.”

Alpheo gave him a long, dry look. Jarza didn’t flinch—he only raised a single highbrow, his face the picture of bemused indifference.

”What?” he asked, as if genuinely curious.

Alpheo shook his head, lips twitching into a half-smile. ”You do realize soon, you’ll be the only one left unwed.”

Jarza rolled his eyes skyward, as if asking the heavens why they had cursed him with this company.

”Don’t worry,” Alpheo continued with mock solemnity. ”After the war, I’ll find you a wife. Egil’s got his coming baby, Asag will be married soon enough, and we can’t have you be the only one without children. Gods, you’re already quite old.How much more year you got in ya?”

”Old?” Jarza scoffed. ”I’m in my prime, thank you.”

Alpheo grinned. ”Yes, and that prime is speeding toward dusk, old friend.”

Alpheo chuckled softly, the sound light, almost boyish, as his gaze wandered toward the city gates fading behind them—stone walls, worn but proud, slowly shrinking in the distance. A place once damned, now saved. He smiled to himself, but the warmth in his eyes dimmed as he caught the sigh from his side.

Jarza exhaled, not loudly, but long and heavy, like a man releasing the last breath of a confession he never meant to say. He stared forward for a beat, then turned slightly, casting a sidelong look at the prince beside him.

”You know,” he said, voice dry, a little rough. ”I actually have a brat of my own .”