Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Two days had passed since blood had baptized the hard-packed sand of the Crown’s fighting ground.

The trial by combat had been the sort that poets begged for in their dreams: steel glinting beneath a scorching sun, gasping nobility pressing hands to their mouths, and the steady rhythm of death marching to its conclusion.

Alpheo still remembered the look on the boy’s face—Lord Talek, barely grown, drenched in crimson, standing over the ruin of a man who had once murdered his father. The corpse had been reduced to little more than a butchered shadow—limbs separated from the body, a head tossed like a toy.

A grotesque echo of the crime it sought to avenge.

And poetic it was: justice served in the same coin.

Except for the ending. There was no burial. No incense. No rites. By decree of law, a murderer—regardless of his lineage—was to be denied earth and kin, his remains committed to the river like a stray animal, to be carried away by water and shame alike.

It was glorious. And it was horrific.

The bards wasted no time. Within a night, verses began to bloom like weeds in the taverns—The Honored son they called him.

Now, that very boy sat in a high-backed chair carved with lions and laurels, too ornate for comfort, his eyes dull and fixated on the intricate black lines dividing the marble floor tiles. He didn’t seem to blink. He hadn’t moved in some time.

That old freckled bastard.Did more to make me lose this fight than you ever did.

The words looped in his mind like a plague, outpacing the sonnets. They weren’t the cries of agony. Not the cursing. Not the begging when his own axe cut through his meat. No—just that one damned phrase Gregor had said before Talek began his work. Before the slicing. Before the cracking of joints and the sawing at tendons.

He had thought there would be satisfaction. Relief. Triumph.There was only a hollowed-out place where something should have lived.

That old freckled bastard.Did more to make me lose this fight than you ever did.

And then—thud.

The sound was small but sharp: a silver goblet meeting the polished surface of the table before him. It shattered the trance. Talek’s eyes flicked upward, slowly, almost unwillingly.

And there he was.

Prince Alpheo himself stood in front of him, a golden carafe in hand, tilting it with practiced grace. Amber wine, thick and gleaming, filled the cup.

”Y-Your Grace...” Talek stammered, his body tensing with the etiquette of a thousand drilled lessons. A prince does not pour for others. A prince does not serve. A prince—

Alpheo waved a hand casually, as if brushing away an insect.

”Don’t think much of it,” he said with a faint smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a warmth that always managed to feel vaguely unsettling, as if in the wrong place. He poured a second cup for himself and, with a smooth movement, extended it toward Talek.

”Cheers.”

Talek hesitated for a moment before instinct snapped into place. He raised his cup, touching its rim to the prince’s with a muted clink.

”Cheers,” he echoed, voice quieter than intended.

Alpheo took a sip, watching him over the rim of his cup. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t awkward—it was weighted, deliberate.

”You’ve become quite the folk hero, you know,” Alpheo said at last, swirling the liquid gently. ”There’s already a dozen versions of how you won. Not to speak about the songs” A pause. ”I think I have heard different versions of the same song too..’’

Talek said nothing.

Alpheo’s gaze sharpened, but his tone remained disarmingly light. ”And yet here you are. Looking like the only thing that died was you.”

Talek finally met his eyes. ”I thought I’d feel something.”

”Don’t we all,” Alpheo murmured, sitting down beside him.

”You avenged your father,” Alpheo continued , setting his cup down with care. ”That was no small deed.You should take solace in that.I am sure your father would be proud of you’’

A small silence came from that declaration

”Your Grace,” Talek finally said, breaking it ”May I ask something... that might not be appropriate?”

Alpheo didn’t look away from his wine ”Go ahead,”

Talek drew in a breath, his fingers tightening around the stem of his own cup.

”Before I... before I butchered that old bastard,” he said, the venom still not entirely drained from his voice, ”he said something. He was rambling—maybe delirious. He said he believed he’d been poisoned. First, he thought it was me... then he said it was you, Your Grace.”

The words hung in the air like smoke. Talek seemed to realize what he’d said only after it had left his mouth. His lips parted, perhaps to retract it, to apologize for even suggesting such a thing.

But Alpheo didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

”Yes,” the prince said calmly, as though he were admitting to putting extra salt in his soup. ”It was me.”

The simplicity of the confession struck Talek like a slap.

All thoughts came to an end as

He stared at Alpheo, unable to hide his shock, his mouth slightly ajar, his eyes wide. For a full moment, no words would come—his thoughts a tangle of confusion, betrayal, disbelief.

And yet... Alpheo looked entirely at peace. Serene, even.

”Though,” the prince continued smoothly, ”I think calling it ’poisoning’ is rather dramatic. Lord Robert was old. Stubborn. Angry. He was also in constant pain—his joints, his back. He’d gotten quite used to drinking chamomile brewed with opium. It calmed the pain and his nerves. All I did...” He lifted his hand and pinched his fingers together delicately, ”...was increase the dosage. Just a little. Enough to slow his hand. Cloud his thoughts.”

Talek found his voice again, though it came out hoarse. ”You cheated. At a sacred duel. Your Grace, that fight was sanctioned by the gods—the judgment of the gods—”

Alpheo cut him off with a laugh, dry and sharp. ”Yes I did that and more,must I remind all that I married the daughter of the man I killed in cold blood. Where, exactly, do you think that sits in the sacred rules of this world?” He leaned forward now, the mirth gone from his eyes.

”If Robert had truly been innocent, do you think the gods would have let me live? Do you think they would have allowed me to rise as I did?” He tilted his head slightly. ”His body now floats out to sea, unmourned and unburied, cursed by law and by memory. And you—” he gestured with his goblet, ”—you sit here, alive and bathed in song, sharing a drink with me. Do you disapprove, Talek?”

The question stung. It wasn’t a challenge. It wasn’t angry. It was worse—genuinely curious. Talek’s jaw tensed.

”I don’t know,” he admitted at last. ”I thought... I thought this was about justice. About righting a wrong. But if it was already decided before the duel even began, then what was the point of it?’’

Alpheo leaned back in his chair, the weight of his posture suddenly far heavier than his frame. His eyes studied the young lord not like a prince gazing at a subject—but like a craftsman inspecting a piece of stone yet to be shaped.

”That,” he said softly, ”is the right question.”

Talek frowned. ”Then why? Why did you do it?”

Alpheo looked into his wine, then slowly tipped it back, savoring the final sip as if it carried the weight of something long-buried. When he set the goblet down, it touched the table with the delicate sound of inevitability—soft, but final. Like a bell at the end of a funeral mass.

”Justice is a performance,” he said, voice steady. ”You made yourself a big stage and I promised for you to be well—not butchered by an old man who never knew when to die.”

His eyes lingered on Talek, gaze unreadable but intense, as though he were gauging whether the young lord could bear the truth still hidden behind the next door.

Then, with a long sigh drawn from his nose, Alpheo rose.

”I suppose it’s time,” he murmured, almost to himself. ”That you were made aware of something more.”

He walked across the chamber, the soft echo of his boots on marble the only sound. Talek sat rigid in his seat, hands curled tight around the arms of his chair as the prince knelt before an old mahogany cabinet. He opened a drawer with quiet care, the wood groaning softly as if reluctant to reveal what it had kept hidden.

Alpheo pulled out a small white envelope—thick parchment, sealed in red wax . He turned it over in his hand once before walking back. Then, without ceremony, he let it fall onto the table between them with a dull thump.

Talek’s eyes narrowed at it, confusion deepening as he looked up at the prince.

”What is this?” he asked, though his voice already wavered as some part of him knew.

Alpheo didn’t sit. He remained standing, arms loosely crossed, gaze locked on the envelope like it might shift or vanish. ”Those are the last words your father wrote. A letter. Maybe a will. Maybe advice. Maybe... an apology.” He shrugged faintly, his tone less royal now, more human. ”I never read it. Whatever’s inside, it’s for you. Do with it as you wish.

It is from a to a son”

Talek stared at the envelope as though it might burst into flame. For a long moment, he didn’t move.

Then, slowly, his hand reached out—hesitating just inches above it. His fingers trembled, a subtle quiver betraying all the emotion he was trying desperately to suppress. And when he finally touched it, it felt heavier than it should have been. Like the paper was soaked in lead... or grief.

His thumb brushed across the broken wax seal, and for a brief second, the young lord looked as if he might shatter.

He didn’t open it—not yet.

Instead, he held it in both hands, his eyes locked on its plain white surface, as if he could divine its contents through sheer will.

As if the words within might either damn or save him.