Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

What Alpheo meant, though cloaked in the silk of contempt and delivered like a man swatting flies from his wine, was that while certainly possible to put an end to the war completely through military means, it wasn’t in his immediaty interest, as it was simply too bothersome.

Yes, it was bothersome , but only in the way cleaning up after a feast is bothersome.

The heavy lifting had already been done—the armies crushed, the rebellion’s back snapped like a dry twig beneath a boot—but a few pieces remained on the board: stubborn, proud pieces holed up in high towers and stone keeps. If he truly wished to erase the last embers of resistance, all it would take was time, patience, and blood.

Three castles. That was the count. Three lordly fortresses still fluttering traitor banners like a drunk waving a knife in a tavern brawl long since lost. And yes—on paper, they could be taken. The art of siege was as old as war itself, and the White Army knew its lines well.

But sieges were hungry, miserable things. Dull when they dragged and deadly when they didn’t. They demanded time and food and laborers with strong backs and stronger stomachs—and more than anything, it swallowed morale, something that would grow dangerously thin with every passing day of a war not over.

Alpheo knew this intimately.

His army had been bloodied and forged in the fire of this campaign, but it had not come without cost. The granaries they’d marched with were thinning like hair on an old man’s head. For now, his men marched and cheered, fat with loot and thick with glory, but once the silver cooled and the joy turned to blisters, they’d begin to grumble like any good soldier worth his salt.

And soon—too soon—the harvest would call them home. Plowshares waited to be lifted from barns. Sons, fathers, brothers all wanted their piece of the reward not just in gold, but in grain, in their own fields, their own beds. To keep them from that, to force them into more war, into dragging siege towers and rotting in trenches while arrows rained from parapets… well, even loyalty had a shelf life.

Then there was the White Army.

Veterans, most of them. Some had already begun the ceremonies of retirement , preparing to leave the prince’s banner behind with honor. They would not rebel—no, not in this moment of glory—but they would not smile, either, if called back to mud and starvation and another half-year of tedium and attrition. And dissatisfied old lions were not good to keep in one’s tent too long.

So Alpheo, with all his ruthless pragmatism, understood the moment’s weight.

Strike now, when fear still lingered in the rebels’ bones. Strike now, while the memory of their rout was fresh and the drums of victory still beat in the hearts of his men. Peace signed today meant a legacy polished and sealed. A war dragged out meant paperwork, casualties, and a growing pile of corpses that no longer served any purpose, plus it wasn’t his desire to see many of his old pals die in such meaningless way when retirement was on the way.

But let no one mistake that for mercy.

If peace failed—if the traitors grew too bold or too deluded to grasp the rope offered them—then Alpheo would not hesitate to strangle them with it. He would throw the levies of the noble houses, green and eager for plunder, against those castle walls like waves against a crumbling cliff. He would break sieges the old way: by hurling bodies until gates cracked and towers toppled.

Because whether through ink or iron, this war was ending.

It was simply a question of whether the rebel lords wished to leave the tent walking—or be carried out nailed to their ramparts.

Niketas sat with a diplomat’s face but a storm behind his eyes. The words Alpheo had thrown like daggers danced still in his head—sharp, cruel, and, damnably, plausible.

He didn’t know if the prince’s reasons were truth or theater, but he knew that everything Alpheo said aligned with the cold, bitter facts: their armies were broken, their castles isolated, their allies scattered like birds in a storm. And now the war’s architect sat lounging across from them, sipping at his own power as if it were wine.

Before he could drift deeper into those uneasy calculations, a voice spoke, Jasmine’s grandfather, and by far the most composed among the prince’s inner circle.

“I believe we’ve enjoyed enough of this small talk,” Shahab said with a wry, dignified tone that still managed to crack the air like a whip. “Let us get to business before the sun sets and we’re forced to dine together.”

Alpheo exhaled through his nose and straightened his back like a man easing out of a long recline. “As always, Lord Shahab, you are right ,” he said as he planted both hands on the table and leaned forward slightly. “I’d prefer to settle matters today. I have no interest in dragging this farce longer than necessary.”

The room tensed, just slightly. “The first term,” he said, “is simple: the lords seated here, and those they represent, must accept full responsibility for the conflict. No evasions. No mutual blame. This rebellion was your choice, your cause, and now—your shame.”

Niketas felt that sting in his stomach, and he saw Eurenis shift uncomfortably beside him, adjusting his wounded leg.

“To atone,” Alpheo continued, “you will travel to the capital, as guests of the Crown, and publicly renew your oaths of loyalty.”

A pause.

“To the Crown,” he repeated slowly, ” and of course me.”

That landed. Like a stone into still water, rippling unease across the lords’ faces.

The demand was not unusual—public repentance and renewed vows were a common theatre of post-rebellion submission—but the recipient of that oath was. The prince was not born to crown and coronet. He was not a highborn heir kissed by the temples or anointed in marble halls. He was a commoner, an upstart—one who had climbed his way to power not by birthright, but by blade and brilliance.

And now they were being asked to bow their heads to him.

Niketas caught the glance shared between Eurenis and Lysander. He knew what they were all thinking. But they also knew better than to speak those thoughts aloud.

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The man sitting across from them had defeated everything they could throw at him. He had walked through fire and come out unscathed. He was no longer just Alpheo the prince-consort, or the Peasant Prince, the Mud Prince, the Low Prince. —he now stood there as the victor.

Alpheo watched the lords closely as his first demand hung in the tent like the scent of oil before fire. No protest rose. No sharp breath of outrage or subtle clench of fists. They were beaten men, that much was clear, and they knew when to show their throats.

Good, he thought.

He gave a single, sharp nod and leaned back slightly, eyes glinting. “Since you seem content to reaffirm your oaths,” he said, “let me ensure you’ll have cause to remember them.”

“To guarantee your renewed loyalty, the two eldest sons of each of you will be sent to the capital. If they are grown, they will come as guests. If not—” he paused for effect, “—then they shall come as wards, where they will be tutored at court.”

There was a stillness in the tent, like men holding their breath in winter. Alpheo pressed on.

“In the event that you have no sons,” he added with crisp finality, “then the eldest daughter shall be sent instead—alongside your eldest male nephew.

These will be the terms for you three, and for Lord Gregor as well,” he said. “The lesser lords will offer a son apiece—or a daughter, if no son lives. ”

Lord Niketas cleared his throat softly, his voice carefully measured, the tone of a man kneeling in a room full of knives. “We… understand and accept these terms, Your Highness,” he said. “Though I would ask, if I may, a kindness—”

Alpheo arched a brow, intrigued. “Go on.”

Niketas continued, “That our sons be allowed to remain home for the festivities each year”

Alpheo considered him, tapping a finger against the edge of the table as if testing the grain of the wood.

He did not really found anything wrong with it

“That,” he said, “can be allowed. Two week , each child will come for a different festivity that I will decide on . No more. And the youngest child will remain. If anyone fails to meet this grace with proper obedience, your sons will be carried in chains, and if the men I send are turned away, they will come back with armies and raze your keeps to the ground.”

There was a quiet release of breath—one lord’s knuckles unfurling from the edge of the table, another’s shoulders slumping just enough to betray relief.

“We are grateful,” Niketas said with another slow bow of the head.

The prince made no move to answer the thanking, instead he leaned forward fingers interlocked on the table like a merchant about to tally the price.

“Now,” he said, voice smooth and firm, “we move to matters more… material. Blood has been spilled. Oaths have been broken. And so—land will change hands.”

The tent seemed to contract with the weight of those words.

They expected that , but losing land was always a price hard to bear.

“As punishment for your crimes against the Crown,” Alpheo continued, his tone untouched by pity, “you will be subject to requisition of land by the Crown. The exact details—what holdings, what castles, —shall be determined at a later date. Lord Shahab will oversee the redistribution personally, and will report directly to me.”

A flicker of discomfort passed over the lords’ faces, blooming like bruises.

Alpheo did not wait for them to recover. “Furthermore,” he said, “half the suzerainty you once held over your vassals will be stripped from you. Those houses shall now answer directly to the Crown, its laws, and its demanded levies .”

Lord Eurenis could no longer bite his tongue. “Your Highness,” he said, voice tight but not yet defiant, “many of those houses have sworn allegiance to our banners for generations. Their loyalty—”

Alpheo’s hand rose, halting the words midair like a sword catching a blow. His smile was faint, more razor than warmth.

“Is certainly worth commending, considering they followed you into this folly.

They will now swear them to the Crown,” he said. “And I hope they tend to that oath more loyally than their leiges did.”

Eurenis lowered his eyes.

Alpheo pressed on. “Besides,” he added, “since half of your land will now feed the coffers and granaries of the Crown, it is only right that the number of houses who bow to you be reduced as well. We wouldn’t want rebellious lords to get ambitious just because their suzerains suddenly find themselves… hollowed and gutted.”

The blow landed, heavy and sure. Niketas’s lips tightened. Eurenis looked down at the grain of the table as if searching for something lost. Lord Lysander sat very still, hands folded in his lap like a scholar preparing for a beating.

They had been lords of the land—masters of great stone walls, rolling fields, and long lines of armored men. Now? Now they were feudal husks waiting to be carved apart, fed back into the machine they had once conspired to break.

And yet… what could they do?

Refuse?

They would ride back to their keeps only to watch the royal banners rise on the horizon like the dawn of a storm, and the very same army that had crushed their rebellion would descend upon their walls. If they were lucky, they’d be given a chance to surrender again—on worse terms. If not, the stones of their castles would be mortared with blood.

They could shout. They could scream. They could curse the prince, the gods, their own cowardly vassals.

But they were weak.

Too weak to threaten. Too weak to resist. Too weak to do anything but endure the lash of this royal settlement and thank the stars they still had their heads.

And in the silence that followed, Alpheo sat back, as if satisfied, like a butcher watching the final twitch of a freshly-gutted beast.