Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Alpheo and Jarza walked through the royal camp beneath the rising morning sun, its warm light gilding the canvas tents and casting long shadows across the soft churned dirt. The scent of ash still lingered faintly in the air, but it was overpowered now by the aromas of roasting meat, spiced wine, and the sweat of contented men basking in victory.

The camp was alive with a rare energy—a heavy, radiant sort of joy that came not from celebration alone, but from relief, from survival, and from the knowledge that the war was, for all intents and purposes, over.

Men moved with a spring in their step, voices light with laughter, and smiles played easily across faces that only days before had been hardened by fatigue. Morale soared as high as the birds circling lazily overhead, coasting with the same effortless grace that the soldiers now moved with through the camp.

Soldiers straightened as Alpheo passed, some nodding with deep respect, others giving brief salutes, their eyes gleaming not only with admiration, but satisfaction. Some of them were wounded , arms bandaged, many faces bruised or marked by soot, yet they looked utterly victorious—men who had passed through hell only to find the gates of paradise ajar on the other side.

They had fought hard, and now they would be paid well for it. Anticipation rippled through the camp like a warm breeze. Coin and plunder awaited, the spoils of a clean, decisive victory. For many, especially within the ranks of the Black Stripes, this would mark the end of their campaign—retirement awaited, and with it, rest, land, and the quiet pride of having served well.

As the prince and his right hand moved , they witnessed knots of resting warriors, men lounged against logs, dice rattling on boards, cups raised in unison, some singing old songs too poorly to recognize, others humming softly to themselves.

Three days of rest had been declared, and it showed in the rhythm of the camp. No one moved in haste—what was the rush now? The enemy was shattered. The fires of battle were extinguished. Now there was only loot to be divided, wounds to be treated, tales to be told.

They made their way toward the reinforced center of the camp, where a cluster of canvas pavilions and guarded carts held not coin or supply, but something far rarer: prisoners of note. And one in particular whom Alpheo was interested in meeting again.

Jarza’s voice broke the comfortable silence, low and deliberate. “There’s talk in the ranks,” he said, eyes forward. “A great many believe quartering would be too kind an end for the priest. They want to see him pulled apart slowly, limb by blessed limb. They are really angry over who started this war.”

Alpheo said nothing at first. His jaw moved faintly, as if tasting the words. He didn’t respond with jest, or disdain, just let the statement simmer in the air between them.

Perhaps he’d overestimated the soldiers’ fear of divine wrath. He had imagined the black robes and golden glyphs would afford the priest a veil of dread, if not respect. But instead, it seemed the holy man’s betrayal had cut so deep in his men that even the gods themselves might be deemed complicit.

Eventually, Alpheo exhaled slowly and spoke, voice steady. “Unfortunately,” he said, “this isn’t our decision. No matter how foul his deeds, no matter how thick the stench of hypocrisy—he remains a priest. And priests, for better or worse, live under a different set of laws.”

Jarza scoffed. “Then perhaps they shouldn’t lead armies.”

“Nor cause wars,” Alpheo added smoothly, glancing over with a shadow of a smirk. “Don’t mistake me, Jarza. He will pay. He’ll meet his end. But the manner of it? That lies elsewhere.”

He reached up and swept back a loose strand of hair “This war of ours… it stopped being just our war the moment foreign lords raised their banners in defiance and crossed our borders. It stopped being local the moment priests threw in their gold, their men, and their damned blessings.”

They passed a row of tethered horses, their heads low and steaming gently. Alpheo continued, “Now? Now the whole thing’s a spectacle. A parable in the making.”

Alpheo stopped just short of the prisoner’s tent, the thick canvas wall flapping gently in the breeze like the last veil before judgment. He turned to Jarza, his expression composed but laced with that glint of cunning that always danced in his eyes when politics, not swords, took the lead.

“I’ve just danced my way out of a condemnation,” he said with a low scoff, as if the very memory of that narrow escape tasted bitter on his tongue. “Just managed to keep the right to harbor tribes that pray to other gods and burn incense in directions that make the Pontifex twitch.”

He gestured with one hand, vague but expressive, as if he were clearing smoke from the air. “There is absolutely no chance I’ll give that wrinkled old fat fuck in the capital even the faintest excuse to snare me. We have got the best win out of the worst hand of the game, and there is no way I am going to bet it over for the satisfaction of a few men.”

Jarza raised a brow but said nothing, letting the prince speak himself clean.

“So,” Alpheo continued, walking again, his voice lilting like a man weaving through a dance of daggers, “my hands? Publicly washed of the affair. I’ll let the Circle of Priests convene and pass judgment. ”

He made a mock-blessing gesture with two hands “The delegation that fat fuck will sends, will witness a tribunal so just, so pious, so by-the-letter of the heavenly edicts, they’ll write songs about it ”

He leaned in toward Jarza now, dropping his voice just enough to let the mischief in it simmer. “And of course… behind closed doors, in discreet whispers with the right ears, the verdict will be handed down long before the gavel strikes. I am no betting man, but I don’t mind keeping cards under the table”

Jarza’s lip curled faintly. “And the verdict?”

Alpheo spread his hands like a man offering the inevitable. “Death, naturally. By rope, by blade, by holy fire that depend on our prisoner alone. We have a pile of evidence so high it could cast a shadow on the sun. ”

“How do you plan to get the names of the temples that backed him?” Jarza then asked, his brow furrowed just slightly. “I assume torturing a priest before a tribunal of his peers wouldn’t exactly cast us in the best light. Wouldn’t be a good look, even by our generous standards.”

Alpheo, who had been adjusting the chained glove on his right hand, paused mid-tug. His fingers flexed once, then dropped to his side. He turned slowly, a half-smile playing on his lips—not the amused kind, but the kind that knew the game two moves ahead.

“No,” he said with a soft exhale. “No, it would not. We can’t bloody his face before he steps into the holy court. The show must remain clean.”

He took a few steps forward, speaking more to himself now, though his words were meant for Jarza. “Which is why I’ll be paying our friend a little visit before the tribunal convenes. ”

He looked up, eyes sharp now, glinting like glass catching sunrise.

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“I have ways. And I have promises to make. I don’t need his suffering. I just need the list. The temples, the abbots. I want their names. Every last one of them.”

As he said so Alpheo finally stepped into the tent . The flaps behind him rustled as the light filtered through, soft and golden from the late morning sun.

The man who had sparked this great fire of a war, who bewitched men with sermons sharper than swords, and led them into dreams now turned to ash. But now—he was just a figure slouched in chains, slathered in filth. His once-pristine robes were little more than rags soaked in sweat and clotted blood. Dirt painted his cheeks and neck in thick strokes, and there were bruises blooming like old violets along his jaw and temple.

His hands were bound in front of him, limp and idle, but his head was raised—barely. His eyes, however, lifted. They met Alpheo’s.

No rage. No spit. No fire. No hissed prayers or broken-voiced condemnations. Just… silence. A hollow, heavy silence, like that of a church long since emptied of both flock and faith.

Alpheo stared at him for a long moment, studying the man who once stirred thousands, who’d sent nobles into rebellion and dragged peasants into death marches. Now, he sat there with the quiet of a beaten dog. There wasn’t even fear—just resignation.

Half-broken, Alpheo thought. They left me a man already halfway through the gates.

The prince moved with the grace of someone who didn’t need to rush, whose power filled the room whether he was speaking or not. Two guards followed from outside, brisk and efficient, placing down a simple wooden stool across from the prisoner. It creaked as it hit the floor, sending up a puff of dust.

Alpheo didn’t sit right away. He simply looked at Elyos, brushing back a stray hair that had drifted across his brow from the tent’s breeze.

“Well,” he said, his voice mild, even warm, like a host welcoming a weary traveler. “It seems we finally meet without swords or sermons between us.”

Then he sat, while leaning forward, elbows on his knees, the edge of a smirk curling at his lips like a cat toying with a half-dead mouse.

“Must be said,” he said, voice smooth as polished wine glass, “you truly know how to make an impression. I mean, it’s not every day a priest raises war against a prince. ” He chuckled lightly, the kind of laugh that never quite reached the eyes. “One way or another, Elyos, your name will end up in the pages of history. Of course… it won’t be in the chapter you were hoping for.”

Elyos raised his head again, slower this time, weariness clinging to the motion like rust. “Is it habit?” he asked, voice dry and cracked like old parchment.

Alpheo’s brow arched. “Habit?”

The priest met his gaze. “Torturing those you defeat.”

Alpheo let out a full, amused laugh this time, throwing his head back just a touch. “Oh, no, no, no,” he said, waving a hand as though dismissing the idea like a foul smell. “If I wanted to torture you, Elyos, you’d be screaming already. And believe me, it would be heard all the way to Romelia.”

He leaned in, his voice turning quieter, silkier. “Most things I do have purpose. I’m not here to hear a confession or a sermon. I’m here to take something. Call it a transaction. A trade. A deal that is in your interest to take .”

Elyos blinked, the weight of his chains dragging his posture ever down. “Your Grace,” he said flatly, spitting the words out “you have nothing that I may desire.”

Alpheo gave a slow, theatrical shake of his head, clicking his tongue as if disappointed in a child’s poor arithmetic. “Oh, ” he said, spreading his arms in mock lament, “you wound me. There are hundreds of things you want. Or better yet—hundreds of things you’ll want away from my callous hand. You will find that I have no qualms about getting dirty if my coins fall in the mud”

He leaned closer now, eyes sharp like razors wrapped in velvet. “After all you weren’t alone in this little folly of yours, and all of their fates depend only on you and you alone.

I am sure that by now you must have realised the game I play.

Certain men cannot be moved by pain alone, so it is more efficient to have them unharmed and forced to watch that pain be given to those that they care about.

Now you are a priest, and I presume, or at least hope, that you have no daughters or sons. So, given our situation all that I can think about is of all those dear soldiers that are now in our, I mean my custody.”