Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Ivaylo settled into the cushioned chair, its once-plump stuffing now worn thin from too many bodies with the same ambition as his. The wooden walls of the administrative building creaked softly around him, beams soaked in the heat of the southern sun.

The rising star of the South, they called it, this half-built city of promise.

I know they are building a sewer; that would be very nice for the smell...

He thought as he remembered the bad smells that invaded his nostrils as his carriage roled on the street.

He glanced around, irritation tightening his jaw. The room was packed. Men in fine robes, others in dusty travel clothes, all fidgeting with ledgers, preparing to make their bid.

Ivaylo loathed crowds, especially those like this.

There was something that took the breath out of his mouth, whenever that tangling of limbs and heads swarmed around him.

Of course in this case, it wasn’t just because of the noise or the sweat, but because each of these men was here for the same reason he was. Land.

Or more precisely, the lease of land.

A merchant’s dream: fields of his own, grain, olive, grapes or dye grown by hands he didn’t need to pay directly, goods he didn’t have to buy from another’s stockpile. A chance to become more than a middleman. A chance to produce.

And it wasn’t just any land. This was the Crown’s land, which meant that they only had the prince to answer to, with promises backed by royal charter and defended by the new laws of the Alpheus Corpus.

From what he knew, the prince was a reasonable man, which meant that law for him had come to mean so, and the risk of him arbitrarily going against them would be less probable.

He shifted in his seat, forcing himself to remain still. This was the opportunity of a lifetime, the kind of chance that could turn a merchant into a magnate.

Everyone in that room could taste it.He just intended to bite first.

Ivaylo was no upstart. He didn’t come from one of those scrabbling merchant families that sold sacks of grain to city garrisons or followed armies for coin like vultures chasing corpses. His blood ran thicker with coin than most noble lines ran with titles.

His family name stretched back generations, carved into the ledgers of old trade houses across Romelia and beyond. They had touched every market worth touching: pelts and timber from the Northern Expanse, rich oils and fine wines from the Eastern reaches, and golden grain from the fertile belly of the South, shipped north and sold back at tenfold the price.

They had paid dearly, in silver, in blood, and in favors, for the privilege of trading across borders, especially into the North. But then came the War of the Three Eagles, and it hadn’t just struck the state; it struck him.

Trade routes once paved with gold now lay severed. The Fingers had fallen into the hands of the Whoring Prince, who made it his personal mission to choke out all Southern trade in a bid to deter support for his younger brother, and it would probably have worked if not for the rising star in the South.

For Ivaylo, the doors to the North slammed shut, sealed behind petty embargos and bribes he would not pay.

Trade with the East? Now illegal. A foolish man might have tried to go around the ban, but Ivaylo had too much at stake. One misstep, one hint of illegal dealings, and the Emperor, or more likely the new Regent, would have the pretext to seize everything.

Gods only he thanked that he hadn’t done so already.

Of course, the gods and also the fact that the reinstated Wise Council had spared him that fate. With more than a few dozens nobles fat on his bribes, he had ears in every chamber. If a motion to seize assets ever crept into discussion, he’d know before the ink touched the page.

Still, the war had wounded him.

With his traditional routes cut off, Ivaylo was forced to look elsewhere for spices, pepper, and wines, sailing the treacherous Azanian sea routes at great cost. He lost ships, lost men, but made just enough profit thanks to the desperate hunger of the upper class. When supply dwindles, even mediocre wine sells like a vintage.

He had once dared to probe the market of Yarzat—the famed City of Wonders—but trying to skim profits from there was like trying to snatch meat from a hound’s jaws.

He was clever, not suicidal. Even with protections over his own estate, he knew better than to threaten the coffers of the Imperator himself.

He sent minor merchants into the Southern princedoms, of course, threading silver through forgotten courts and squabbling cities, but the returns were thin. Too many merchants, too few opportunities. Like worms fighting over a dog’s rotting carcass.

No one could’ve guessed his next fortune would come from Yarzat.

Where land leases were being handed out like blessings, and where a merchant could become more than a merchant.

It was strange to think of that, especially since he had spent the lot of his life swimming around the criteria and egos of nobles.

He was the patriarch of his house, not just in title, but in will, vision, and weight.

It was he who would take such an imporant step, It couldn’t be one of his nephews, and certainly not one of the groveling subordinates who called him ”Master” while fumbling ledgers.

No. This was too valuable a chance to trust to anyone else’s hands.

This wasn’t just a business trip, it was a pivot point. A ladder. A stone stair that, if climbed with care, could bring his name to the higher echelons of Romelian society. Lords were made by war. He would be made by land and coin.

It was unfortunate, of course, that Yarzat had no council—no group of power-hungry nobles to manipulate with gifts and favors. Here, all power flowed to one man and down from him like water from a single mountain spring. That made things more difficult.

But not impossible.

Not when one had coin and time.

Yarzat was still a raw stone, waiting to be carved. And Ivaylo intended to be the chisel to built his seat.

The low murmur of the waiting room dulled as a crisp female voice called out a name from behind a large wooden desk. A heartbeat later, a stout man in a silk vest stood, grinning wide as he marched toward a nearby door.

He emerged not long after, still smiling, a rolled parchment clutched proudly in one hand, his eyes gleaming with triumph.

Ivaylo watched him for a moment. Then, without a word, he rose as the name being called was his. His two attendants immediately followed, stepping in sync like a pair of well-trained hounds. Their soft linen garb rustled as they moved behind him.

He approached the desk where the voice had come from.

The woman behind it looked up. Young, with almond-shaped eyes, a clear complexion touched by the sun as it was in the South, and the kind of sharp-featured beauty that knew its effect. Her brows arched with polite professionalism.

”Sorry for the wait,” Ivaylo said smoothly, adjusting the cuffs of his long velvet coat, his rings catching the light.

She offered a practiced smile. ”No need, sir. I regret to inform you that, however only one of your attendants may accompany you inside.”

Ivaylo gave a small, understanding nod. He turned to the thinner of the two men, the one who had carried the writing box.

”Wait for me outside. Understood?”

The man bowed low and stepped aside without a word after lending the box to the other slave.

The woman gestured behind her. ”It’s just through that door. We’re ready for you.”

Ivaylo inclined his head in thanks and moved toward the door, the remaining servant falling into step behind him, his boot heels striking the wooden floor like the measured tick of a clock, counting down to something far greater than just a signature on paper.

He stepped through the heavy wooden door, and the scent of ink, paper, and aged wood greeted him like the breath of a library long forgotten.

The room was modest in size but crowded, not in people, but in presence. Wooden furniture occupied every corner and inch of wall space: low cabinets stacked with rolled parchment, tall shelves sagging under ledgers, and a squat chest whose lock had seen better days.

A narrow side table held a clay pot with fresh quills and an open ink well, its dark contents glistening faintly in the filtered light from a single high window.

It was a simple office, yet stuffed full, functional, utilitarian. Of course Ivaylo was taken back a bit, as he had expected a bit more....opulence.

After all, showing that you had coins was as important as effectively having them.

At the center of the room sat a man behind a long desk, which itself was covered in sheaves of paper, an iron seal press, and a half-drained cup of something dark, maybe some herbal concoction.

He was young. Lean. No more than his mid-twenties, if Ivaylo guessed right.

His skin was pale, as if he had spent more time with paper than with the sun. Short black hair fell loosely over his brow, damp with sweat or carelessness. There was a line of weariness in the way his shoulders slumped and how his eyes, grey, intelligent, but tired, flicked upward at Ivaylo’s approach, then returned to the document in front of him as if reluctant to be pulled from it.

Ivaylo was the first to speak, offering a courteous greeting and introducing himself with the practiced polish of his. This was a new land, after all, one where his name held no weight—yet. Every word had to count.

The man behind the desk remained silent, his eyes fixed on the parchment before him. For a few uncomfortable seconds, Ivaylo wondered if he hadn’t been heard, making him wonder if he should repeat himself.

Then, without lifting his gaze, the man finally spoke, his voice flat and practiced, as though he had said the same words a hundred times that morning alone.

”I am Sir Aron Velari, in honorable and humble service of His Grace and Her Grace, may their reign last forever. You may take a seat.”

A knight, then. Ivaylo took note of the title, filing it away. That was useful to know, though clearly strange, as he had never thought of seeing a noble working with paper and merchants.

He took the offered seat as he prepared to make his bid for power.