Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

”No plan survives contact with the enemy.”

It was a saying attributed to the famed Prussian commander, Moltke. And it was a truth that Alpheo had learned not in books, but on battlefields soaked in mud, sweat, and failure.

He had once placed blind faith in his own strategy at the first battle against the Lechlians, imagining a swift, elegant breakthrough on the enemy’s right flank using his elite footmen. Reality had offered him no such grace. The plan faltered, the enemy held firm, and it was only the sudden, thunderous return of Egil’s cavalry that kept the day from ending in a rout.

Another bitter lesson had come during the First Coalition War, when Alpheo had ignored two fronts entirely, a probel that was held on Asag’s shoudler, to set a trap for the rebel core. He had succeeded in smashing their vanguard... but the true prize, the heart of the rebellion, slipped away thanks to Lord Robert’s interference. What was meant to be a masterstroke had become, at best, an incomplete victory.

So yes—plans fail. Often. But Alpheo was not a man who shattered like glass at the first crack in the mirror. Problems didn’t rattle him anymore. They were just the rhythm of war. And as Pontus entered his tent, face creased like a poorly-folded map, Alpheo already knew what song was about to play.

The prince didn’t look up at first. Instead, he spoke as one would to a physician arriving with bad news—a mix of dry humor and resigned expectation.

”From your face, I take it the world has found a new way to disappoint us,” he muttered.

Pontus stood stiffly a few paces from the table, clearly uncomfortable. He cleared his throat with all the ceremony of a man swallowing a confession.

”I wouldn’t disturb your work without cause, Your Grace. But I thought it best to speak now—before a small problem becomes a lasting one.”

Alpheo set his pen down, steepled his fingers, and leaned back in his chair with a quiet sigh.

”Better early than late,” he said, gesturing with one hand. ”Out with it, Pontus. Let’s hear what beast is gnawing at our timetable this time.”

”As you know, Your Grace,” Pontus began, voice measured and laced with the faintest tremor of reluctance, ”it’s been a week and several days since construction began. And unfortunately... I must report that we are likely to encounter some slight delays in meeting the deadline you set.”

Alpheo’s brows rose slowly, the way a cloud might rise before casting a storm.

”How slight?” he asked, tone calm—but only just.

Pontus shifted on his feet, cleared his throat, then lowered his gaze. ”More or less... two weeks, give or take.”

How is that slight? Alpheo’s mind snapped, eyes widening with disbelief. That’s more than half the damn timeline!

”You’d previously reassured me, many times, that a month was a safe estimate,” Alpheo said, his voice devoid of ire—but firm, precise, like the edge of a well-honed blade. He was not a man given to shouting when a scalpel would suffice.

Faced with his own past confidence now thrown back at him, Pontus grimaced. For a brief second, the cool-headed engineer looked very much like a man chewing thorns.

”I apologize, Your Grace,” he said stiffly, his hands clasping behind his back. ”My projections were... optimistic. But I must remind you—this is my first time overseeing a construction project of such length and complexity, especially one relying so heavily on... untrained laborers.”

Not my fault, was what he was really saying. No one has ever done this before. Certainly not with a peasant rabble!

Even a man as proud as Pontus knew better than to speak it outright, especially to his employer. So he wrapped his protest in careful words and deferential tones.

Alpheo exhaled slowly through his nose, resisting the urge to pace. He did not blame Pontus—truth be told, he wasn’t sure he could’ve done better in the man’s place. Still, disappointment was a heavy coat to wear, especially for one that did not feel the cold.

”Is there no way to bring the works back within the original deadline?” he asked, more curious than accusatory.

Pontus hesitated. Then his eyes lit with the flicker of a compromise.

”We might be able to finish one of the two walls within the timeframe, though the other would likely require additional days. However... if we simplified the build—cut back on some of the details and refinements—and added those touches later, we could produce a rudimentary, yet still functional result. Cruder, but solid.”

Alpheo’s brow furrowed as he considered this.

”And what,” he asked carefully, ”would these simplifications entail, exactly?”

”Ah... we’ll need to temporarily suspend construction of the catapult platforms atop the inner walls.” Pontus said as admitting him was like a sword in the gut.

That earned a slow, drawn-out hum from Alpheo.

A key pillar of his siege strategy involved precisely those platforms—large, solid constructions upon which heavy torsion catapults would be mounted. From their elevated position, they were meant to launch stones and burning pitch directly into the city. Not at the walls—past them. Over them. To crush roofs, to shatter morale, to turn the very heart of Herculia into a furnace.

And most importantly, those platforms were to be protected by the first wall—creating a shell from which to batter the city while shielding his men from enemy sorties.

Still, a delay was no minor matter.

”I understand,” Alpheo said at last, the words coming slow and heavy, like stones laid into a grave. ”If delaying the platforms means the rest can be finished before the month’s end, then proceed.”

But as soon as the words left his mouth, he caught the shift in Pontus’s face—a flicker of discomfort, barely perceptible, yet unmistakable. The man’s calm expression darkened, like bronze exposed to rot and rain.

”Actually... Your Grace,” Pontus said, rubbing the back of his neck, ”that would only allow us to finish the outer wall. The inner wall would still be under construction. The groundwork should be done, yes—the trenches dug, the palisades planted, the earth packed in—but the final structure will likely require more than a month to complete.”

Fucking hell, Alpheo cursed in his mind.

Of course the reason for this annoyance wasn’t just the delay. It was the possibility—no, the likelihood—that the enemy’s relief army would arrive before both walls stood tall. And if that happened... well, they would have to bid goodbye to ever conquering the city.

They would be trapped. Hammered from the front and crushed from the rear. His army, stretched thin over too wide a circle, would become a vice clamped on itself. Every defensive advantage would turn to liability. A siege would turn into a slaughter of his men.

”Very well,” Alpheo muttered after a moment, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. ”Then we have to make do with what we have.”

He spoke faster now, the precision of a man adjusting blueprints in his head as he spoke them.

”Prioritize the outer wall. For the inner defenses, finish the trenches first. Line them with palisades and pile the excavated dirt behind them to shape the foundation. Once the outer wall is complete, seal the inner palisades with timber, then build the platforms. That way we at least have some cover before the month runs out.”

He fixed Pontus with a look, sharp and direct.

”Can you give me your word the first wall will be done before the deadline? Now, I don’t want you to do lip service to make me happy; I want you, with your whole heart on the line, to say that you can, in fact, finish the first wall.”

Pontus straightened as if being knighted.

”Yes, Your Grace. That, I can guarantee with my soul in tow.”

”Good.” Alpheo leaned back, allowing himself—however briefly—a sliver of satisfaction. It wasn’t ideal, but he could at least be sure his men wouldn’t be exposed on both fronts, as that would deny the very reason he had entertained such a way to wage warfare.

But Pontus didn’t move to leave. Instead, he lingered, hesitating like a man weighing the worth of his own breath.

”Actually, Your Grace... there is one last matter,” he said, almost bashful now, a far cry from his earlier certainty. ”A minor thing, really—but something that needs your attention.”

Alpheo gave a tired nod, hoping to be finished as soon as possible. ”Go on.”

Pontus winced slightly. ”It concerns... the noble contingents that are serving your great cause. Some of their men have been—ah—harassing the female laborers you assigned to the worksites. Interfering during their tasks.

Usually when they’re fetching water, or carrying rubble away from the working grounds. I’ve received... several complaints in form of screams that were mistaken by the soldiers as the enemy attackers.It caused quite the trou-”

His tone remained calm, but as his words trailed off, he suddenly faltered. His eyes landed on Alpheo’s expression—and all composure drained from his face.

For the prince was not simply annoyed, as Pontus was .

His expression could only be described with two words.

Utterly furious.