Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

In the shadowed expanse of the audience chamber, a single figure reclined upon a chair that could barely be called such — it was a throne in all but name, towering with carved lions and heavy velvet cushions, symbols of old victories and older ambitions.

Near his elbow, upon a low table of black oak, rested a golden laurel wreath, gleaming faintly in the thin light that filtered through the slitted windows.

Upon that throne sat Nabad, Third of His Name, Prince of Ushandaia — a man whose hair had long since retreated from the crown of his head, leaving a balding pate that glistened like a worn helm under the chamber’s dim glow.

He was the one who, just a year prior, had shattered the might of the Prince of Habai in both open field and beleaguered sieges, who had ground his rival’s banners into the dust and cleaved half of his lands away with brutal finality.

By all measures, Nabad should have been gorging himself on triumph, bathing in the sweet fruits of conquest. Yet instead he sat there, dour and sour, the corners of his mouth pulled down in a permanent frown as he played distractedly with a letter between his fingers, rolling and unrolling it, the paper crackling softly in the silence.

To his right, another man stood stiffly — hands clasped neatly behind his back, posture rigid, eyes steady and apologetic.

Still toying with the letter, without so much as sparing the man glance, Nabad spoke into the heavy air, his voice low, threaded with a dangerous patience.

“Tell me, Ragat,” he said, “are you still of the same mind you held before? That this… peasant prince was no threat. That he was less than a worm, unworthy even of the boot.”

The silence stretched a moment longer than was comfortable before Ragat bowed low, his cloak whispering against the stone floor.

“My mind has changed, Your Grace,” he admitted with careful weight. “As always, your vision outstrips mine. You were right, he was more dangerous than I gave him credit.”

A small, mirthless chuckle escaped Nabad’s throat as he leaned back, the letter momentarily forgotten in his hand.

“I suppose ” he said, his voice as cold as the night sea, “Thought being right this time brings me no pleasure.”

Nabad ran a finger along the edge of the letter, feeling the strange texture beneath his skin — smoother than parchment, yet more flexible, almost unnaturally durable. His dark eyes, hooded beneath his heavy brow, lingered on the paper like it was some cursed relic.

“It seems,” Nabad said slowly, almost with wonder, “that the peasant conjures one miracle after another.”

He lifted the letter slightly, letting it catch the light.

“This,” he continued, voice turning almost mocking, “is his latest work. Paper, he calls it. A fool’s toy at first glance, yet sturdier, lighter, cheaper than parchment. Imagine the things it could mean… if it were just that alone.”

He let the letter fall back onto the table with a soft flutter.

“But no, ” he said, voice dropping lower, weightier, “It seems the only miracle wasn’t this paper, but what’s written on it. Three against one. Two princelings and a league of lords and their polished armies, against his handful of brigands.

He gave a sharp, humorless laugh.

“And he wiped the floor with each of them. Crushed them. Ground them down to dust. Save one, of course,” he added with a sneer, “that fat rabbit Lechlian, who scampered off before the peasant could gut him properly.And to say I wasted nearly twelve thousands silverii on that trash….”

He turned his head slightly, finally gracing Ragat with a narrow-eyed glance, one corner of his mouth curled into something like a smirk.

“Tell me” he asked, almost lazily, “do you believe I could have done the same?Was I in that peasant position?”

Ragat bowed his head low, voice smooth and deferential. “Yes, Your Highness.”

A dry chuckle escaped Nabad’s throat.

“Of course I could,” he said, tapping the table once, sharply, with the back of his hand. “I can raise five thousand men with the flicker of my hand, summon gold, arms, horses from every corner of my domain. I could crush such petty coalitions without troubling my sleep.”

He leaned forward, fingers steepled.

“But he?” Nabad said, voice sharpening to a fine edge, “He could not. No great name behind him, no endless farms to levy, no ancient blood in him. And yet he achieved it all the same.”

He sat back again, shoulders sinking deeper into the massive throne, his expression unreadable.

“When I first told you,” Nabad said, the shadow of a grin playing on his lips, “that this upstart peasant was the most dangerous opponent I might ever face in my dreams of Unification, you almost laughed in my hall. You smiled, Ragat. I remember.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and barbed.

“I do not think,” Nabad said, voice quiet and dark, “I hear any chuckles now.”

Ragat bowed his head again, more deeply this time, a flicker of genuine fear crossing his features.

“I was wrong, Your Highness,” he said, voice no louder than a whisper like a child caught on his lie.

“He has ,” he began, his voice smooth but iron underneath, “a powerful army at his back. Loyal men, trained and blooded. Behind them, silver flows from the caravans and galleys out of his cities like ants across the continent from his capital.”

He paused, a dark glint flashing in his eye.

“The only thing he is missing… is land.”

For a moment, there was something almost wistful in his tone, but it was quickly buried under the returning steel of calculation.

“And yet,” Nabad continued, tone sharpening, “I fear… that even that will change, and not in my favor.”

Ragat, standing stiff and uneasy by his side, spoke up, cautious but curious. “Shall I prepare the carts, Your Highness? For… a new offering to the Herculeian prince?”

Nabad’s lips curled into a sly, humorless smile. He tilted his head thoughtfully, weighing the idea for a heartbeat longer than necessary, before giving a slow, deliberate shake of his head.

“No,” he said, almost chuckling. “We gave him support once. Sent him coin, arms, grain enough to fatten ten armies. And what did he do with it?”

He flicked the letter disdainfully across the table.

“He ran. Ran with his tail tucked between his legs like a beaten cur. Let him stew in his own worthlessness for a while.”

He leaned back in his chair thinking about what to do next.

“The peasant,” Nabad continued, voice low and certain, “is no doubt preparing for a counterstrike. A clever man always strikes back. So let him do it. Let him flail and bleed and scrape. The carrot,” he said, a thin, cruel smile tugging at his lips, “is only sweeter when it comes after the stick.”

He laced his fingers together, regarding Ragat now with the weight of a cat toying with a trapped bird.

“We will support him against the peasant,” Nabad said, “but only once he truly understands who his true enemy is and that running away will only delay the inevitable.”

Ragat shifted, swallowing visibly before finding the courage to speak. “Is… is that truly wise, Your Grace?What if the helps come too late?”

Nabad’s smile evaporated. His eyes hardened to chips of black stone as he turned his full gaze on Ragat, a silence louder than any shout filling the chamber.

Ragat paled, immediately lowering his head.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” he muttered hastily” I overstepped” .

For a long moment, Nabad said nothing, only watching the man with cold patience. It wasn’t enough that he had derided him when he had held in his regard the prince of Yarzat, now he also dared to find faults in his plans.

Then, with a dismissive flick of his fingers, he waved Ragat back to his position, his focus already shifting back to the future.

He let out a long, tired sigh, the sound rustling the papers before him more than the breeze sneaking through the heavy curtains. He leaned back in his grand chair — throne, really — and drummed his fingers once against the gilded armrest, eyes distant.

“Let Lechlian stew on his own for a while,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Let him stagger and blunder and taste the loneliness of failure… Only then will he realize how much he needs us. How much he depends on us.”

He tapped the letter with a pointed nail, the smirk returning to his lips like an old companion.

“And if, by some fortune, the damage proves too heavy, if the wound bleeds too wide…” he shrugged, as though the prospect mattered little, “then that too may serve our purpose”

He straightened in his seat, his voice growing with a soft but dangerous passion, speaking more now to the room itself than to Ragat, who remained frozen like a statue nearby.

“Perhaps,” Nabad said, his tone silky, “that will be the spark needed to rally more princes under my banner, that of course, only if that Peasant prove a threat big enough…..perhapse I should take that into consideration for the future. Who knows, this may be what I’ll need for that dream of mine…”

His eyes gleamed as he stared at the map, as if already seeing the banners of the South raised high over palace walls and fortress towers.

“Maybe it is time,” he continued, “that we stop being the lesser brothers. The garden from which every fool harvests before winter comes. It has been too long that the South bends the knee to every whim from the Romelian Court, all the while its coasts are tormented by pirate.”

A pause — then he chuckled, the sound low and sharp as a blade sliding from a scabbard.

“A pack of pirates stitched together a confederation of their own… Why can’t we?”

The question lingered in the air, heavy and intoxicating.

“Why not,” he said, leaning forward now, his smile widening into something almost predatory, “forge a new power while Romelia rots and crumbles under its own weight?”

The words tasted sweet on his tongue — a promise whispered for now to the room, but in the future to the world beyond it.

A new South, a united South, a strong South, led by one man only; He