Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Alpheo rode in silence.

The prince did not trail far behind Asag—only a few paces—but he might as well have been a ghost to the crowd. Their cheers, deafening and relentless, were not for him today, actually they kinda were, but the crowd did not know that the man in front of him wasn’t the prince that they cheered.

And he made no move to claim them.

His white steed trotted steadily, regal and composed, yet its rider did not raise a hand, did not nod, did not smile. He watched.

Watched as the people of Florium erupted like a tide meeting land, shouting their joy, their relief, their gratitude. Faces red from weeping, others wild with jubilation. Children hoisted upon shoulders. Flowers tossed. And at the heart of this chorus of praise was the man who had no idea how much he was loved by those close to him.

Asag.

Even from behind, the awe was visible. His back, straight as iron, trembled with the weight of emotion rather than fear. He looked not like a commander, but a man caught between disbelief and wonder—as if every voice that screamed struck him like a foreign language he was only now beginning to understand.

His helmet, crested with bold red plumes, was pulled low, masking the worst of the burns that still marred the left side of his face. But even glory could not hide the price he’d paid: his arm, freshly broken, was wrapped in a simple white sling that hung over his chest like a medal. Bandages stitched and stained marked his waist, a testament to wounds earned at Aracina—wounds he never bragged about, never offered in exchange for praise.

And behind him rode Alpheo, eyes fixed not on the city, but on him.

There was no jealousy in the prince’s gaze. No resentment. Only a deep, unspoken fondness. Something warm that burned at the core of his iron soul. Because Alpheo knew—truly knew—what few others did: Asag, for all his deeds, saw himself as little more than a tool, a blade meant to cut, not to be crowned.

The man could crush his enemies with one hand and yet faltered when faced with kindness. He’d walk into fire for the realm but step away from applause like it scalded his skin, and that hurt the prince more than rougher whips he ever suffered.

Alpheo loved him , few knew how much. Admired him with the kind of fierce loyalty he reserved for only a few. Because in a world of puffed chests and scheming tongues, Asag bled and asked for no songs.

So the prince said nothing.

He let the cheers fall like rain upon a man too noble to ask for a drop—and vowed, silently, that no matter how high his own star would rise, he would never let the world forget the burned, broken warrior who once stood against the tide alone and did not yield.

The people, wrapped in the fever-dream of their local peace returned, would shout his name like it alone had felled the Oizenians, like his mere presence had turned the tide of war. They would sing of Alpheo the War-Prince, the great mind behind the victory.

But few would know—truly know—the cost paid in blood and pain for their triumph. Few would speak the name of the man who fought like a lion, battered and burning, holding the line not for glory, but because it was what needed to be done.

The name that should’ve been carved beside his own in the memory of this war, instead sank beneath the weight of parade drums and banner-waving joy.

Alpheo did not begrudge the praise—but his heart carried a heaviness that no cheer could drown. He was not blind. He’d seen it. The quiet glances, the fondness in Asag’s eyes that the gruff warrior never dared voice. That simple, wordless devotion made Alpheo’s soul ache—because he knew.

He knew the mission he’d handed him was near suicidal. And while Alpheo chased the scattered butterflies of rebellion ,failing to catch anything worth sharing, Asag had danced with death, bleeding in the shadows to make this day possible.

It should not have been asked of him.

And yet, Asag had done it. Not for duty. Not for command. But for him.

Alpheo’s hand clenched softly on the reins. No, he would not let that sacrifice fade into silence. He would make it worth it. He would shape a life for Asag that made the struggle mean something. A life with joy, with peace, with someone to wake beside on quiet mornings, and no sword within reach.

He had done it once already—with Egil, another soul who bled for him, now on the cusp of fatherhood, his marriage a celebration that lit up the princedom like a new dawn. And Asag deserved the same, more than any of them. Alpheo had already begun the plans—grand halls, golden wine, flowers strung like stars, a wedding bound to the same celebration that would mark the end of this long war.

And what a celebration it would be. For the war had given him more than victory—it had given him hostages, powerful ones, foreign born invaders’ kin that would buy peace like coin at market.

Yes. The war was ending.

Alpheo’s gaze drifted from Asag—his faithful lion, basking unknowingly in the sun of borrowed glory—to the right, where a far more towering figure rode beside him.

Jarza, the black giant of Herculia, clad in heavy steel that shimmered in the light like a walking fortress, looked as though he’d stepped out of a fable.

His armor added yet more bulk to his already monstrous size, so much so that he could’ve been mistaken for Goliath reborn, if not for the unmistakable grin splitting his face.

Beside him, Alpheo—with his lean frame and understated armor—seemed like a miniature David, though with a crucial flaw.

He had no sling , and even if he did, he’d doubt it would get through all that steel.

Jarza chuckled, his voice rising above the thunder of the people’s cheers like a drumbeat wrapped in velvet. ”You know,” he boomed, ”I don’t think there’s ever been a prince who marched behind in a parade made in his honor.”

Alpheo raised an eyebrow and gave a small, knowing smile. ”Well, I did promise our dear friend I’d reward his sacrifices. And my word still holds weight—even when I walk in someone else’s shadow for once.”

Jarza scoffed lightly. ”He probably thinks he doesn’t deserve it.”

Alpheo let out a small laugh. ”Of course he does. That man would probably apologize to the battlefield for bleeding on it.”

Both men laughed, a moment of genuine mirth between steel titans and murmuring crowds.

”Still,” Jarza said, his voice dropping to something closer to conversation, ”you’ll have a few lords barking over this. You know how they are—pride, arrogance... those are virtues to them. But humbleness?” He shook his head. ”A black... what’s it? A smudge, that’s the word. A black smudge on a prince’s name.”

Alpheo didn’t miss a beat. ”Then let them scrub at my record all they like. I plan to cover it in so many victories they’ll forget what color it was to begin with.”

Jarza grinned. ”Bold words.”

”And profitable ones,” Alpheo replied, eyes gleaming. ”Once I strip the rebels of their silver, their gold, their lands—well, I wager even the loudest doubters will be too busy counting their new holdings to remember who walked behind whom in a parade.”

Jarza threw his head back with laughter. ”Aye, there’s nothing quite so sweet as the spoils of your enemy. You’ll be the most beloved ’humble prince’ in all of history.”

Alpheo smiled, quiet.

As even amidst the thunder of drums and the chorus of cheers that rolled through the streets of Florium like waves upon a shore, Alpheo’s thoughts drifted elsewhere—to a small, sun-warmed chamber far from this city of stone and steel, where the only sound that truly mattered came not from horns or fanfare, but from the gentle gurgle of a child and the soft laughter of a woman.

Basil. His son. A name far too grand for such a tiny thing, and yet so fitting.

There was something terrifying and humbling in the thought that his blood now beat in another heart, that his legacy no longer rode upon swords and victories, but in tiny fingers and midnight cries.

And Jasmine, who was from a marriage of convenience, grew on her with a liking that he had never thought possible

He missed them more than he allowed himself to admit, still he believed that bringing them victory in this war, would be a gift that would excuse his absence more than a thousand word.

And so, under the sun, behind a general basking in stolen glory, the true architect of the war’s turning point rode on, already plotting the next steps—not just to end the war, but toward peace as after all he had many things to do when he could finally rest his sword on his hip.