Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Four days had passed since the blood had soaked the earth outside Aracina, and the army of Yarzat now marched toward Bracum—slow, steady, but with the kind of vigor that only victory could bring.

There was no fear in their steps. No trembling hands clutching weapons in the cold of uncertainty. Instead, the air around them seemed to pulse with something more vibrant, more dangerous: elation. The men marched with the confidence of gods walking among mortals, as if the gods themselves had finally decided to favor Yarzat.

And why not? They had just crushed the Prince of Oizen’s army in a night raid so brutal that even the shadows had run from the bloodshed.

To say the victory had lifted their spirits would be an understatement—it had sent their spirits soaring. Every soldier had been richly rewarded.

The city of Aracina had been a banquet, a celebration disguised as relief. Soldiers roamed the streets like conquering lords, fattened with plunder and flush with pride.

The whores had never worked so hard. And why should they? They were the lucky ones—seizing their chance, knowing that gold in a soldier’s pocket meant good business, at least until they could drink, fuck, and sleep off their winnings.

But not all of it went to the taverns, nor to the fleshy arms of Aracina’s ladies. Alpheo had made sure of that. A good portion of the loot, actualy most of it —particularly that from the royal tents of the perished Oizenian prince —was already on its way back to the capital.

No one in the army doubted that their prince knew the value of a crown’s worth of treasures, but he also knew the dangers of carrying that kind of wealth around in a war zone.

So the wagons had rolled out, making their way back to the capital, where they would be stored until the war was over.

Despite the joy in the air, Alpheo’s thoughts drifted elsewhere when they came close to the capital . He couldn’t help but wonder how Basial and Jasmine were faring. That concern soon gave way to a nagging suspicion that gnawed at the back of his mind. The army was drawing closer to the capital, and as night fell, his worst fears were realized.

It started with whispers in the darkness—footsteps too quiet, movements too furtive. Then, a shout. A soldier had spotted them.

A group of deserters, mostly some levies from the capital, attempting to slip away in the cover of night, their bags heavy with loot from the battle and of course something more.

It seemed that the night they had made their escape, they had raided the tents of their comrades. It was theft, plain and simple. And in an army there was no greater sin that to let down one’s comrades

The deserters were caught before they could get far, their stolen treasures still clutched in their hands. They were dragged to the front of the camp, eyes wide with panic as the soldiers gathered around, murmuring angrily.

Without a word, the soldiers went to work, applying the usual punishment for desertion. The captives were dragged to nearby trees, their hands nailed to the rough bark, forced into agonizing positions, where they would stand until death would claim then.

A death that would come much later.

When the camp broke and the army marched forward, Alpheo gave them no heed, no pity for them,as no man would feel gave any to the dead ants he found on the road.

On a more positive note instead, for the next three days, there were no more deserters.

Not a single man tried to flee.

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

They were currently three days away from Bracum , and of course the necessary preparation were needed to be made, which Alpheo was currently in whilst of doing.

He sat at the head of a small, dimly lit table.

This was his preferred setting—intimate, private, with only the most trusted members of his retinue around him. The noise of the larger war councils, filled with noble bickering and naive ideas, was a thing of the past.

It had taken him some time to realize that such gatherings, with all their pomp and decorum, were often more about status than strategy. Noblemen, especially those who had never got their boot in shit, loved to pontificate.

They bickered over matters of pride, while Alpheo’s mind was focused solely on the war at hand.

The larger council meetings had been a mess—he had learned that quickly. A gathering of nobles would often devolve into squabbling over trivial matters. As much as the nobles tried to assert their importance, their opinions were frequently uninformed, naive, and impractical.

They didn’t speak of the logistics of supply lines, the exhaustion of their troops, or how to move to get the best out of the situation.

To Alpheo, those were the things that mattered.

The things that made him different from other.

So now, he chose a different path. A war meeting, not with pomp and circumstance, but with those whose judgment he trusted. His commanders, his closest advisors—men who had proven their mettle in battle, men who didn’t just speak of war but understood it in the marrow of their bones. This was how he would contribute to the war effort. This was how he would lead.

A sharp crack echoed in the chamber as Alpheo’s rod snapped down on the map, the tip tapping twice against the ink-ringed shape of Bracum. Dust danced from the parchment as the stick traced a deliberate circle around the besieged city, drawing all eyes inward. The room went still.

”With the Oizenians trampled into the dirt,” Alpheo began, his voice calm but iron-laced, ”all that remains are two thorns. One to the north—our dear rebels—and the other, curled up here...” he rapped the rod once more, ”the Herculeians choking Lord Xanthios’ fief.”

He glanced around the table, watching for any flicker of dissent. ”I trust,” he said slowly, ”no one here finds that choice... unproductive?”

Silence answered him. Not a twitch, not a murmur. Just the soft creak of armor as men leaned in over the map. Of course no one disagreed.

The Herculeians were the softer fruit—scouts had put their numbers just shy of two thousand. Half-starved, tired, and with their backs on a victory they had achieved through just threachers . The Oizenians were a different breed—better supplied, dug in, but of course complacent in their position, hence how they winded up smashed against Alpheo’s heels. But these Herculeians? They were a winded dog waiting to be kicked.

Still, Alpheo didn’t smile. He didn’t believe in easy fights.

”I know what some of you are thinking,” he said, eyes narrowing. ”That this’ll be a stomp. A march, a clash, a feast. Maybe you’re right. But let me make something perfectly clear—” he leaned forward, his knuckles pressing into the table, ”—we are not about to sit on our laurels like a gaggle of fat noblemen farting in their bathwater.”

A few stifled laughs.

”When a man stops getting better,” Alpheo went on, tapping his temple with the rod, ”he stops being good.Remember that.”

He let the weight of it settle.

”We got here—here—not because our enemies were weak, but because they were lazy. Because they thought they could do less and still win. That is not a mistake I will make. Nor any of you, if you value your place in this army.”

He stepped back from the table, leaving the map trembling slightly under the imprint of his words. ”So we hit them hard, we hit them smart, and we hit them with everything we have. No glory-chasing. No mercy. And no gods-damned surprises.”

Jarza looked up from the map, his weather-worn face poised ahead , and met Alpheo’s gaze with a glint of dry amusement in his eyes.

”You don’t have to tell us,” he said, his voice rough and steady. ”We know the mistakes that handed us the day.”

No edge, no challenge—just the kind of hard truth only men who’d bled together could share. Around the tent, a few heads dipped in silent agreement.

Alpheo gave a slow nod. ”I know. But it doesn’t hurt to say it out loud.” He let his hand drift over the map between them. ”Half the army’s backbone is sitting in this tent. And pride...” He gave a faint, crooked smile. ”Pride’s got a way of whispering when no one’s listening.”

Before the weight of it could settle, Egil leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his broad chest, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.”Aye? If we’re handing out blame for pride, you can start—and end—with that bastard over there.”He jerked a thumb toward Alpheo, laughing. ”Save the rest of us the guilt.Pride can only come through achievments after all.....”

A ripple of chuckles broke the tension, but Alpheo didn’t laugh. Not right away. His brow furrowed slightly, not from offense—but something deeper. Something heavier.

”If that were true,” Alpheo said, voice quieter now, ”then three years ago we’d have crushed the Oizenians under Arkawatt... even without Asag holding their knights off with nothing but grit and pikes.”

The laughter faded, leaving behind something sharper.

”If that were true,” he went on, turning to Egil, ”then we wouldn’t have needed you riding back through the fire at the Bleeding Plains to break the Herculeians before they rolled up our flank.”

Egil’s smile faded, a hand coming up to scratch at his jaw, suddenly very interested in the floor.

”And if it were true...” Alpheo placed both palms flat on the table, voice low and steady, ”I’d still be here, fighting every season—without the lot of you carving the fat off my plans before I bled for them.”

His eyes flicked to Jarza.

”And without Jarza filling in the parts I was too damned blind to see.”

Jarza said nothing, but his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. That was answer enough.The air shifted. Heavier now. Not with fear or duty—but with something better.

Trust.

The kind of trust that only comes from shared scars and nights when death had seemed so close you could hear it breathing.

Alpheo broke the silence with a faint smirk, tapping the map with two fingers.”Careful,” he said, voice light again, ”pride’s starting to slither back in.”

A low rumble of laughter followed, warmer this time—easier.

”Best we get back to it,” Alpheo added, straightening. ”Before we start carving statues of ourselves and arguing about who gets the biggest sword.I want your thoughts,” he said, serious again. ”We’re three days out. How do we press this? I know what I think—but I want to hear from you first.”

The tent fell into a thoughtful silence as all eyes dropped to the map. The markings were clear enough—Bracum to the north, the Herculeian forces dug outside of it, between the approaching army and the city itself. Simple... perhaps too simple.

Brows furrowed. Fingers hovered above the parchment. No one spoke, not out of uncertainty in their competence, but because the problem looked almost insultingly easy—and that was often where the knife was hidden.

It was Asag who finally gave voice to it, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

”It’s not that we don’t know what to do,” he said slowly. ”It’s that we’re struggling to believe it’s that straightforward.”

He jabbed a thick finger toward the inked outline of Bracum. ”They’re penned between us and the city. If we time it right, the garrison pushes from the inside while we strike from the other side . Classic pincer. They’re stuck.”

The others exchanged glances.The all thought of that but was it really that simple?

Alpheo clicked his tongue and gave them a look that was half amusement, half exasperation. ”Look again,” he said, tapping the map with his rod. ”They’ve offered themselves up like a roast on a silver platter. You just need to open your eyes and broaden your horizon to the whole map and not just at where the enemy is.”

The room grew quiet again as every head bent forward, eyes narrowing, fingers tracing lines in the dirt of strategy that they were apparently missing.