Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Lucius stood at the threshold of the chamber, the heavy oaken door towering before him like a final challenge. The banners of Arduoronaven had once hung proudly above it—red and gold, he had been there when it was torn down. Replaced with nothing. Now, however, that Orymus was back into ruling the city it was put back on.

Still the image of the banner being torn down and burnt remained still in his head..

What was a lion without its teeth? Without its pride?

This was the room of the new false lord of Arduoronaven. Orymus. The son of a butchered house, now draped in stolen silk and illusions of authority. Lucius had been summoned here, but it was not he who would be on trial.

No, the gods had turned their faces toward him. And they were smiling.

He adjusted the crimson sash across his chest, tightened the gloves over his hands, and allowed himself a small, wolfish grin. There were moments in war when all fell into place, like the clatter of dice in a lucky gambler’s cup—and this was one such moment. The stars had not merely aligned for Lucius; they had knelt before him.

The Herculeans—those arrogant, bloated wolves in polished armor—had retreated. Just like that. Like a beaten dog slinking back to its kennel, tail tucked, ears low, eyes darting in shame. Prince Lechlian, had tasted blood and bile on the same day, and had chosen to flee rather than fight the coming storm,perhaps learning from the mistake of his fellow in the south.

And as if that divine turn of fate were not enough, the gods—kind, cruel, brilliant bastards that they were—had not just opened the door. They had gift-wrapped it.

Two apples dangled before him, ripe and ready for the picking.

The first: Orymus. The heir of Lord Vroghios. The bloodline of a defeated traitor. The very banner under which the Herculeans had launched their war.

”We fight to restore the rightful son,” they had claimed. ”We fight to correct injustice.” And now that very son had been handed to him, trembling and alone, like a lamb left at the edge of a wolf’s den.

Lucius would take him—not just as a prisoner, but as a symbol. With Orymus in chains, every word the Herculeans had shouted would fall to ash. Their war, their justification, their righteous cause—undone in an instant. Lechlian prestige would sour even more while that of his grace would soar.

The second: Sir Agolonthios.

A knight of Yarzat. A traitor. A snake who had once dined with the Prince and had now slithered into enemy halls, wearing false banners, offering false loyalty.

Lucius’s jaw tightened at the thought.

But now he, too, was in the city. Trapped. Cornered.

Lucius would see him dragged before Alpheo himself. Not in chains—no, that was too kind. Bound in the same white silks worn at Yarzat banquets, bloodied, torn, disgraced. A living lesson.

He would deliver both of them. Orymus, the false lord. Agolonthios, the traitor. And when he knelt before his prince, he would do so with their heads lowered in shame behind him.

And if it was the last thing Lucius ever did, it would be enough.

He took a breath, deep and sharp, letting the air bite into his lungs like frost. Then he raised his hand and knocked twice on the door—not as a guest, not as a subject, but as a man ready to reclaim what had been lost.

The gods had given him this moment. Now, it was time to collect.

The heavy door creaked open under Lucius’s hand, revealing the dim chamber beyond.

The air smelled faintly of ink, old wood, and the subtle bitterness of desperation poorly masked by pride.

Lord Orymus stood with his back half-turned, gazing out a narrow window slit that looked over the rooftops of Arduoronaven. He was young—just twenty-three—but tried to wear the weight of command like a cloak too large for his shoulders.

”You may sit,” he said, gesturing to a chair on the other side of a narrow table piled high with rolled maps and half-finished letters.

Lucius—going by his mercenary alias Marrec , bowed his head slightly and obeyed, his movements practiced and unassuming. He lowered himself into the creaking chair.

”I assume you’ve heard,” Orymus began, voice measured, ”the Herculian main host has retreated. Prince Lechlian and his lords have returned to their own lands.” He said the words with the forced calm of someone pretending the city he now ruled wasn’t a ripe fruit hanging alone on a tree in a storm.

”I have, my lord,” Lucius said, folding his hands before him like a good captain. His face betrayed no emotion. ”And what are your orders for the remainder of the contract?”

”You and the other companies,” Orymus said, turning to face him fully now, ”will remain to garrison Arduoronaven until the end of your term—another two weeks, if I’m not mistaken.”

Lucius nodded with perfect poise. ”And... are we to expect payment from your lordship directly, or should we send a rider to the capital?”

Orymus shifted in place, perhaps slightly embarrassed. ”When the contract concludes, you may proceed to the court of His Grace. Payment will be waiting for you there.”

”Of course,” Lucius replied smoothly, giving a shallow nod. ”His Grace is generous.”

But inside his head, behind those calm eyes and soldier’s posture, Lucius sneered.

If I were a real mercenary, he mused, a proper blade-for-hire and not a hound in my prince’s service, I’d be drawing up plans to storm this city right now. Half the troops will vanish the second they hear there’s no coin here. The other half’ll turn their swords for anyone who dangles gold and a warm bed. And if I wanted to, I could march straight to Yarzat with this city wrapped in ribbon and gifted like a feast-day pig.

It was laughable. Amateurish. The young lord had inherited a crown of thorns and was wearing it like a hat of laurels.

But, Lucius thought, this can be played.

’’If there isn’t anything more , I would like to take my leave’’

He stood, bowed again, and strode toward the door.

Lucius had nearly reached the door when Orymus’s voice halted him.

”Captain Marrec—wait a moment.”

He turned slowly, a flicker of curiosity painted across his face like a man humoring a noble child playing lord. ”Yes, my lord?”

Orymus cleared his throat, stepping forward with a kind of tentative conviction, like a man about to leap into a river without knowing the depth.

”I... was hoping to broach the subject of extending your contract.”

Lucius tilted his head slightly, like a cat observing a mouse that had just started negotiating for its life. ”I see,” he said with his usual calm, brushing a fleck of dust off one of his leather vambraces. ”Well, I have no objection in principle, provided the terms are as generous as those of His Grace.” He let the word generous hang in the air with a hint of irony, just enough for a keen ear to catch it.

Orymus gave an awkward smile, one that tried to carry the weight of authority and almost crumbled under it.

”Yes, yes, of course. But I was thinking of something... more lasting than mere coin.”

Lucius blinked once. ”More lasting?”

The young lord’s expression brightened with the fragile enthusiasm of a gambler who believed—wrongly—that the next card would turn the game. ”Yes. What if you weren’t just a captain? What if you were a lord?”

Lucius raised a brow. ”A noble?”

Orymus nodded eagerly. ”Indeed. You’ve proven yourself capable. Intelligent. Disciplined. The kind of man this realm desperately needs. I’ve recently come into possession of several holdings—castles, lands that were reclaimed during our campaign . Scattered, yes, but rich in potential.”

He stepped toward the table and unfurled a map, jabbing a finger at a spot near the foothills. ”This one, Dunmer’s Hollow, sits astride a trade road and has its own keep. Or here—Stonebrook, a river fortress with fertile fields. You’d have your choice, Captain. Choose your seat, swear fealty to me, and you’ll be more than a sword for hire. You’ll be a lord .”

Lucius studied him for a long moment.

There was silence, save for the distant howl of wind against shuttered windows and the popping of firewood in the hearth.

”Tempting,” he said at last. ”And generous.”

If he were truly a mercenary—if gold and blood were the only languages he spoke—he might’ve accepted that offer already.

A castle. A title. A name etched in stone instead of mud.

But Lucius wasn’t just a sword-for-hire, and this game was far too rich to play blind.

He folded his hands neatly on the table and offered a smile—cordial, polite, and ever so slightly sharp. ”It’s a generous offer, my lord. No doubt. Though I imagine the task ahead is just as demanding.”

Orymus reclined in his chair, arms crossed. ”They’re fair terms.”

”Oh, they are,” Lucius agreed smoothly. ”Which is why I find them... curious. Because a man doesn’t offer his only bread unless he’s in a picky situation , Am I right?”

There was a slight pause. Orymus exhaled, a quiet snort through the nose, half-amused, half-irritated.

Lucius didn’t flinch. He simply raised one hand in a calming gesture, eyes glinting. ”Not a criticism. An opportunity. For both of us.”

He leaned forward now, the mask of formality thinning just enough to show the wolf’s teeth behind. ”Apology for the guessing I am doing here. You’ve been left to hold a city that isn’t yours, with troops that aren’t loyal, and mercenaries who are only two weeks from forgetting your name altogether. And the enemy, I suspect, won’t be as kind as the last one. They’ll come, and they’ll want Arduonaven back.”

Lucius sat back again, folding one leg over the other. ”And when they come, you’ll need men. Men who know how to kill, and more importantly, how not to die screaming. Right now? I am those men.”

Orymus’s jaw flexed. He said nothing, his silence the kind of stillness that could go either toward agreement or the drawing of a sword.

Lucius broke it first, his voice returning to that calm, courtly tone. ”I’m willing to sign that contract. I’ll swear my loyalty, wear your colors, and help you hold this city.”

He paused for effect, then added, ”Provided I’m given certain leeways to ensure we both survive long enough to enjoy it.”

The young lord cocked a brow. ”What leeways?”

Lucius offered an apologetic smile, the kind that says ’no offense’ right before offense is delivered. ”With all due respect, my lord, you don’t seem to have much of a retinue. Not one that’s properly trained. And I mean no slight—every bird must fly before it fights—but your garrison looks more suited to farming grain than spilling blood.”

Orymus’s jaw clenched a little tighter, but he said, ”Go on.”

Lucius bowed his head slightly in thanks. ”This castle will need the best it can get if it’s to stand a siege. And so I would ask, in addition to the terms you’ve offered, that I be granted authority to recruit and train the men of the city. Blacksmiths, cobblers, bakers—if they can hold a spear, I’ll turn them into soldiers.”

He raised his eyes, smile returning like a dagger half-sheathed. ”I’ll make them as close to my own troops as they can be. Capable and Ready.”

-----------------------------

A beat passed.

For a long moment, Orymus said nothing.

He just stared at the mercenary across from him—no, not mercenary anymore, he supposed. Captain. Commander. Soon, perhaps, a lord.

And yet... damn him. Damn him, because he was right.

Orymus let his gaze fall to the edge of the table, where his fingers drummed once, twice, three times. Each tap like a nail driven into the coffin of pride.

The retainers of his father? Dead in the gutters when Arduonaven fell, bled out on broken cobbles or buried in mass pits. The few that lived had either sold their swords or their honor—some to the conquering Host and some given to the lord that killed his father. And the vassals? Ha. Bent knees like stalks in the wind—first to the Mud Prince when he’d walked through their gates, then again to the Herculean Prince when he did. They’d become so flexible they probably didn’t even notice anymore which crown they were bowing to.

So yes. Orymus had little more than a title and the walls of a city he didn’t capture himself. His human resources, if they could be called that, amounted to a traitorous knight with a face so smug it could curdle milk and a small parade of opportunists praying not to be the last rat off the sinking ship.

He had thought to give the training of the city’s men—those strong enough to hold a spear and dumb enough not to know how to use it—to Agolonthios, the knight who had opened Arduonaven’s gates to the Herculeans.

Knowing full well that even if the Mud Prince did come, there was nowhere left for the man to run. His name would be known in every court from the Isles to the Sand of Arlania . His betrayal had bought him no future. Only a window or the noose hanging just outside it.

But now... faced with this captain and his cool, measured tone... Orymus wasn’t so sure.

Agolonthios was a risk. A pawn. But Lucius? Lucius had leverage. Soldiers. Authority. Half the force holding this city’s crumbling walls. Refusing him wouldn’t have been wise

Orymus clicked his tongue. ”Very well.”

Lucius straightened ever so slightly in his seat, eyes narrowing.

”You’ll have your leeway,” Orymus said. ”Recruit and train who you will. Turn the baker into a butcher and the cobbler into a killer, for all I care. Just make sure they’re ready.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. ”Because if the Mud Prince comes, I’ll have to count on them not to run at the first trumpet.”

His gaze hardened. ”And I’ll count on you not to run either.”

Lucius smiled—not the full grin of a man who was pleased, but that half-smile a knife gives when it’s just been sharpened. ”I never run, my lord, I only strive forward.”

Orymus nodded, though part of him wondered if he’d just shaken hands with the very devil.

But what choice did he have?

He’d been given a crown of ash and asked to breathe life into it. If the fire came again—and it would—then better to face it with a devil by his side than to die alone in the cold.