Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Alpheo sank back into his chair, fingers drumming idly against the worn armrest, his mind already leagues away, across the salt-bitten waves, to lands not yet carved properly into the map.

This war — this reckless, bloody festival of betrayal and broken swords — had taught him many things, but perhaps none as valuable as this: the power of auxiliary communities.

The Voghondai had proven it beyond doubt; with their strange tongues, they had shown themselves worth ten times their number in native levies, not that it was that hard considering also the fact that their equipment was far better than their counterparts.

Still , their performance had been nothing short of splendid, proving that an alien arm, one whose fate was tied to your fortune alone, was even better.

Of course, their performance did not rely on discipline and cohesion like it was the case for the Black Stripes, but instead on fast and quick brutality and ferocity, that would break the fighting will of their enemies.

And so, while the ink of the treaty was still wet and the fires of rebellion still smoldered, Alpheo’s thoughts marched forward. The other continent — that wild, broken sprawl of tribes and ambition — would be the forge of his future.

He knew the truth as plainly as he knew his own pulse: this would not be the last war.Today he had been outnumbered three to one and triumphed. But what about tomorrow? What about a day when he might face odds five or ten times as grim?No, he could not trust luck or even mere skill to see him through such a storm.

Strength must be multiplied, not merely gathered. It must be bred, trained, and set loose.

His gaze sharpened as if boring through the tent’s heavy canvas and out across the world itself.

It was of utmost importance that Torghan’s tribe did not merely survive — they must thrive, swell, fatten on victory and blood, gathering men like a river gathers silt.

In the short term, it was simple: more men.More shields, more spears, more loyal hands to grip them.

If Torghan’s old tribe could conquer their rivals, then so too could Alpheo conquer the invisible battles that loomed ahead — not just by force of arms, but by reshaping the very bones of the world around him.

He smiled slightly, the kind of smile that men once claimed cracked mountains and split kingdoms.

“First we grow the roots, then we strangle the tree,” he murmured to himself as he leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight as he steepled his fingers before his mouth, thoughtful.

He had no foolish dreams of directly ruling the lands beyond the sea. No, the cost of such an enterprise would be monstrous—armies garrisoned year-round, fleets crossing treacherous waters, coin spent faster than it could ever be earned. For what? A few scattered mines of silver buried deep in hostile mountains? Mines that had already lured Azania to a bitter and bloody end, defeated by the same sharp peaks and sharper spears?

What Alpheo desired was far more clever—and far less costly.

It was not their rocks and hills he wanted. It was their trade.He would have his merchants weave the web, not his soldiers wield the sword. He would see Yarzat’s coin flood their markets, Yarzat’s steel in their hands, Yarzat’s salt in their kitchens.

He would turn them into partners by necessity, not subjects by force.He would draw them in, one by one, until the tribes themselves would come to him, silver in hand, goods in tow, asking for exchange—and then, once his influence was too deeply rooted to be undone, perhaps, perhaps, the mines would come willingly too.

But that was for later.Now, they had but one urgent need: to widen the net.To find more tribes. To make more bonds. To build a network as intricate as a spider’s web—and twice as deadly for those who wandered into it unaware.

Alpheo glanced toward Aron, whose patient gaze was still upon him. “Soon,” Alpheo said, his voice calm but cutting with purpose, “you shall give lessons to a group of men of my choosing. Lessons in the ways of their speech, their customs, their temperaments. I want them ready to step onto those shores and charm every damned savage they meet.”

Aron straightened at once. “Your Grace,” he said, “should we seek to mimic what we have with Torghan’s father?”

Alpheo nodded, a small, sharp smile tugging at his lips. “Yes. Exactly that. Make more Torghans for me.”

Gods only know how much I am in need of them, he noted

Aron bowed his head slightly but hesitated for a brief moment before adding carefully, “I will obey, Your Grace. But it is my duty to inform you… some, perhaps many, of these missions may fail. I believe our current success with Torghan’s people may be a case of fortune, not the norm.”

Alpheo hummed, the kind of one a man did when forced to eat something he did not like

“I will keep that in mind,” he said, his tone kind despite his displeasure .He respected a man who spoke uncomfortable truths more than one who lied with sweet honey.

As the prince was busy regarding his plan , the royal diplomat walked forward, summoning all the courage he had by gaining the attention of the prince.

After a brief moment of hesitation, he cleared his throat and asked, “Your Grace, if I may be so brazen… might I make a suggestion?”

Alpheo, glancing up from the table, lifted an eyebrow in slight surprise

“Of the two of us, you are the one who passed the most time among them. I’d be a fool to swat away your opinion, arrogant and outrightly foolish. Speak.”

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Aron bowed his head slightly in thanks, composing his thoughts before stepping forward, careful, measured. “If the plan is to introduce more people to our lands, then perhaps instead of urging them to settle directly, it would be wiser to first employ them—the men, I mean—as mercenaries. Promise them salt and steel for their families in exchange for two years of service under arms. Let them come with a clear task and a clear reward, rather than the uncertain promise of a new life.”

Alpheo leaned back, folding his arms over his chest, drumming his fingers against the wood of the chair, his sharp mind already turning the idea over like a blade in his hand. “Hmm. A fine plan for filling our ranks, certainly. But how, pray, does that solve the problem of settlement? We might end up with hired swords who leave when their time is up, scattering back to their homelands with our silver and steel.”

Aron nodded, prepared for this, his eyes gleaming slightly as he stepped closer, daring now to meet the prince’s gaze. “Many among Torghan’s folk have already spoken about the richness of our lands—their eyes wide with awe at the bounty of food, the lushness of the fields, the ease of life compared to their barren coasts and windswept plains. They see rivers where once they had only known cracked soil, they see granaries filled with grain heavier than any they’ve ever known.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice steady but low, the tone of a man spinning a careful web. “They all feared abandoning everything they knew. But those who have crossed already now speak of it as a blessing. They have drunk our wines, eaten bread so soft it collapses in the mouth, slept under roofs that do not leak when it rains.”

Aron straightened, gaining confidence as he spoke. “The main thing keeping their kin across the sea from coming is fear. Fear of abandoning their memories, their homes, their fathers’ graves—for the unseen promise of better things. But if they were to arrive here under the pretext of fighting, under the illusion that it is only for a little while, then they would see the truth with their own eyes. The food. The wealth. The safety.”

He raised a hand slightly, palm up, as if weighing the very idea. “Once they have lived here even briefly, once they have sent word back of the plenty they found—or once we offer a little more reward at the end of their service—many will choose to stay. To bring their wives and their sons and daughters across the sea. To set down roots, and to call these lands home.”

He lowered his hand slowly and fell silent, letting the words echo gently in the still air of the tent.For a long moment, the only sounds were the faint stirring of the wind against the heavy canvas walls, as if the very world itself was holding its breath, waiting for Alpheo’s verdict.

Listening to Aron proposal, in his mind, Alpheo couldn’t help but think: fuck, that’s good, why didn’t I think of that?

He hadn’t considered that angle at all—how fear of the unknown could chain even the boldest men to their crumbling homes. What Aron said made perfect sense. If he were in their place, asked to abandon everything he’d ever known on the vague promise of a better life, would he not hesitate too? Would he not cling to the scraps of the familiar, no matter how threadbare they were?

Alpheo leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking under him as he mulled it over. It was true—right now, with only Torghan’s old tribe , the results might be modest. But once their influence spread, once other tribes were reached and word of fertile fields and overflowing granaries crossed the seas, then the floodgates would open.

And there was more: those tribes didn’t use silver; they bartered goods like animals, hides, and tools. Once they arrived here and realized everything was bought and sold with coin, even a pittance of silver would seem a king’s ransom.

They could be paid little, and still feel rich—and when the time came to return home, many might prefer to stay, bringing their families to settle and work the land, strengthening the princedom from within.

Alpheo gave a low chuckle, sharp and pleased. He turned his keen gaze to Aron and said aloud, “It is a fine plan. A very fine plan. You have my blessing—go ahead with it.”

Aron bowed deeply, a flicker of pride lighting his young face. “Being useful to your grace is honor enough.”

Alpheo smirked, giving him a pointed look, his voice dropping into that rough, sardonic tone he used when pleased. “Being useful,” he said, “is reason to be rewarded. Remember that.”

With a gesture of dismissal, he told him, “You may go.”

Aron bowed again, this time slower, his mind racing even as he backed out of the tent. Alpheo watched him go, the tent flap rustling shut behind him, leaving the prince alone once more—smiling faintly to himself, already spinning the future out of the few sharp, glittering words that had just changed the course of his plans.