Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Dorian let his gaze drift slowly around the spacious chamber, the late afternoon light casting long golden beams across the newly polished stone floors. It was almost strange, surreal even, to think how much this once-forgotten corner of the world had changed in just three short years. Yarzat—this dusty, crumbling backwater once whispered about in courtly halls as Romelia’s overgrown garden.

It was tempting to focus on the obvious: the cobbled streets that no longer turned to rivers of mud with the first rain, the sturdy aqueducts that sang water through the fountains of every square, and the ancient walls that had been scrubbed clean and crowned with new battlements. Yet Dorian knew the real transformation ran deeper than stone and mortar. It was political. It was the spirit of the place that had changed.

Yarzad had risen alongside its unlikely master—the so-called Peasant Prince. What a joke that name had once seemed, but no one was laughing now.

In the span of those few hard-fought years, the prince had bent the great will of his lords closer to the crown , making it look more and more like the early frame of a possible rising kingdom.

Where once pirates had feasted on these shores, now a fledgling but tenacious fleet patrolled the coast, turning back the sea-scum who once prowled unchecked. And then there was the war, that bloody, grinding affair from which the prince emerged battered but standing tall, holding his land with scarcely a token of Romelian aid.

Dorian breathed deep, the air itself seeming richer than it had when he first arrived. Yarzat was no longer just a patch of green to be trampled or admired by the mighty; it was a power now—small still, but growing, and like a young oak in a neglected field, it would cast a long shadow if left to its own devices.

He understood better than most what the signs heralded: the slow but steady rise of a new small power. In a different time, in the days of stronger emperors and hungrier ambitions, such a thing would have never been allowed to take root. Yarzat’s transformation would have been stunted early.

After all, for generations the Romelian emperors had treated the southern princedoms not as equals, not even as vassals in the true sense, but more like a garden of coin to be plundered whenever needed. The gold and silver of the south flowed northward through Romelian caravans, who monopolized the trade routes with a mercantile chokehold, setting the prices and reaping the profits while the southern lords watched in sullen resignation.

When disputes inevitably erupted among the squabbling princes—over borders, water rights, a stolen bride, or bruised pride—it was often a Romelian envoy who arrived, not with an army but with the emperor’s seal, to dictate the terms and settle matters in favor of continued Romelian dominance.

There had been a time when some in Romelia had contemplated the full subjugation of the southern lands by military conquest. Yet cooler heads had prevailed. The southern patchwork was far easier—and far more profitable—to manage divided.

Better to let the petty princes gnaw at each other under Romelian oversight than to bind them together through the forge of shared oppression. It was a policy of quiet exploitation, one that allowed the Empire to turn its gaze northward, beyond the looming God’s Hands mountains. And indeed, in a single century, Romelia had expanded its reach into the vast, wild lands beyond, swelling its empire with new provinces, new tributes, and new glory.

But times were changing. Dorian could feel it like a shifting wind on his skin. The south, once content to be a nest of squabbling lords, was beginning to stir—and the man in Yarzat, was proof that some dreams, once thought buried under the Empire’s gold and greed, still lived.

If the Romelians could not stunt the southern princedoms’ growth with sword and fire, then they could at least hold their hands—and their purses. Dependence was often a chain stronger than steel, and in that the Empire had excelled.

After all a conflict between the two wasn’t beneficial for no-one but their enemies.

Dorian’s thoughts were pulled violently from their spiraling depths by a knock at the heavy oak door. He blinked, sitting up straighter, quickly smoothing the folds of his deep burgundy tunic. ”Who is it?” he called, voice sharpening with a practiced edge of authority.

The door creaked open just slightly, and one of the guards he had posted outside the chamber—an older man with the dull eyes of someone used to standing still for hours—stepped in and bowed. ”Sir” the guard said, voice flat but respectful, ”His Grace requests permission to enter.”

Dorian’s heart gave a small, involuntary jump. His Grace. Straightening further, he nodded sharply. ”Allow him in immediately, we are guests in his house.”

The guard bowed again and disappeared as quietly as he had come. A moment later, the heavy doors opened wider—and in stepped the boy he had seen three years ago, though calling him a boy now felt almost wrong. In truth, Alpheo had changed little in appearance—he still carried that deceptively youthful look, with sharp, clear eyes and a bearing more suited to kings of old than to any mere provincial prince.

Dorian rose instantly from his seat, bowing low at the waist, the gesture almost instinctive. ”Your Grace,” he said,

Alpheo smiled warmly, a genuine thing, and waved a hand as he stepped into the room. ”No need for such formality , Dorian. I must apologize for the sudden intrusion; the day has been heavier than I anticipated, I would have wished to meet with you before.”

”Never,” Dorian replied at once, standing tall again and gesturing broadly. ”My chambers—and my time—are always at your disposal.”

With a nod of gratitude, Alpheo crossed the room with easy, fluid steps and took a seat in one of the high-backed chairs set around the central table, leaving the chair opposite him clearly meant for Dorian. The steward hesitated only a moment before slipping back into his own chair, facing his prince across the polished wood.

As Dorian’s hands rested lightly on his knees, his sharp gaze flickered briefly to the table—and inwardly he cursed himself. It was bare. No wine, no fruits, not even a pitcher of water. A grievous sin when hosting a guest, even more so when the guest was a reigning prince. Without missing a beat, Dorian clapped his hands sharply, summoning the attending servants who hovered just beyond the doorway like shades.

”Wine! And be quick about it,” he barked, his voice snapping like a whip. The servants bowed deeply and rushed to obey, the swish of their tunics and the soft patter of their sandals echoing in the suddenly lively room.

As the servants scurried, Dorian offered an apologetic smile, though his posture remained impeccable. ”Forgive the delay, Your Grace. I had not expected the honor so soon.”

Alpheo chuckled, a low, disarming sound. ”You treat me like an old lord with a thirst for ceremony, Dorian. I came here without notice , I would be a fool to expect everything to be prepared already”

As the servants laid down a silver tray bearing a fine decanter and two goblets, Dorian leaned forward slightly, a smile curving his lips. ”Before we go further, Your Grace,” he began, lifting one goblet and passing it respectfully to Alpheo, ”allow me to offer my most sincere congratulations for your victories. All of Yarzat sings of them—and rightly so.”

Alpheo accepted the goblet with a nod, the silver catching the sunlight that slanted through the high windows. He smiled

”Thank you. It was... an ugly, hard war,” he said, swirling the wine gently in his goblet. ”Luck, some would say, played a hand. But if luck it was, it rode beside the loyalty and strength of my men. Without them, I’d have no songs sung, only dirges.”

Dorian raised his own goblet in a silent toast to that and took a small sip before setting it down again. ”Then your men must be of finer stock than most,” he said with an approving chuckle. ”Though I would argue luck often visits those who prepare well.”

Alpheo’s grin widened, and he inclined his head. ”I will not deny that either. And speaking of gratitude,” he added, his tone growing more formal but still warm, ”I must ask you to pass my thanks to His Imperial Majesty. The loan of grain, small as it might seem now, filled many empty stomachs in those first harsh months. It was a gift not forgotten.”

Dorian waved his hand lightly, as though brushing off a triviality. ”Think nothing of it. It was a small favor, a pebble’s toss in the great river of our long friendship. Romelia has always looked kindly on Yarzat—especially when the hands that govern it are steady.”

Alpheo chuckled, raising his goblet slightly in mock salute. ”Well, know that Yarzat is no less eager to maintain that kindness. Friendship between our realms has been profitable and peaceful... both rare things these days.”

There was a brief pause, filled only by the faint clink of goblets and the distant murmur of life outside the chamber, before Dorian leaned in slightly, his eyes sharpening just a touch with purpose. ”In truth, Your Grace,” he said, his voice lowering into something almost conspiratorial, ”it was with hopes of deepening that cooperation that I requested your time today.”

Alpheo set down his goblet carefully, the soft thunk of silver on wood carrying a surprising weight. He met Dorian’s eyes directly, the boyish glint in them fading slightly into the hard edge of a ruler. ”And I,” he said, his voice smooth as oiled steel, ”am eager to hear it.”

Dorian leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other in a leisurely fashion. He let a moment stretch out before speaking again, voice smooth and pleasant like silk sliding over steel.

”It has come to our attention,” Dorian began, ”that your armies have greatly benefited from certain... remarkable advancements in medicine. Treatments that greatly increased a wounded soldier’s survival ” He tilted his head slightly, smiling as if he spoke of a merchant’s clever trick rather than matters of life and death. ”It would be a great honor,” he continued, ”if your Grace would consider sharing such knowledge with our own physicians, that more might bite the fruit of those great discoveries which have so wonderfully sprung from your land.”

At those words, Alpheo lifted his goblet once more, buying himself a moment with a slow sip of the dark, rich wine. As he set the cup back down, he allowed his mind a brief flash of reflection.

So... the secret has finally slipped from the lockbox, he mused, a half-smile ghosting over his lips as his eyes landed on the man in front of him.