Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

The banner of the falcon of Yarzat billowed high, its wings caught in the warm summer wind as if mimicking the animal’s soaring.

Beneath it stretched a great ocean of green, the plains rolling wide and unbroken until they touched the far horizon.

The midday sun burned at its height, its golden light drenching the grass in a deep green, broken here and there by the scatter of wildflowers. It was this place of beauty, the land of course soon to be defiled, its emerald green peace would be stained with crimson and trampled under the iron heel of war that sees no beauty nor peace.

Never before had the falcon flown over these lands. Today it soared, not in the lonely pride of a hunter, but borne and brought by the will of thousands.

Since the long quarrel between Yarzat and Oizen had first erupted into open war, the roles had always been reversed: Yarzat defending, Oizen striking. Again and again, the men of Yarzat had stood upon their own soil, facing the spears of the invader, enduring the insult of raiding hooves and burning farms.

For years the Oizenians had cast their shadow across Yarzat’s borders.

That shadow had deepened years ago, when Shamleik Oizen himself laid siege to Aracina for the second time, dreaming of seeing the capital of Yarzat broken, its walls torn down stone by stone.

Yet his great ambition had ended not with a feast of triumph, but with his body lying still beneath the earth, given over to worms rather than glory.

Now, for the first time in living memory, the wind blew the other way against the son of the prince, who, instead of triumph, was only given the black soil.

This time, the war was carried into Oizenian soil itself, not by a timid raiding force, but by the full measure of Yarzat’s strength. At the head of it marched the man whose name had become a weight on the tongue of every prince, the little Fox, who in the space of six years had wrought more change than a century of princes before him.

Some loved him, some feared him, but none could deny that his hand would leave its mark.

Around him, thousands of men advanced , their boots beating a steady drum upon the earth as they approached the field that would decide their fate.

Here it would be proved whether the gains of the campaign would stand as a fortress of stone, or crumble like a castle of sand before the returning tide. The stakes were simple: endure and hold, or be swept away back into the seas.

They came with victories behind them, and the smell of triumph was still fresh in the air.

There was no wavering among them, only an unshakable resolve and a fierce trust in the prince who had never known defeat.

That trust was not confined only to Yarzat’s own hardened legions, but it had surprisingly spread to the levies of distant lords, men who had never fought under his direct command but had heard the stories .

Tales of his cunning, his daring, and his blood, said by some to be touched by the divine.

And so they marched, hearts armored in iron, eyes fixed on the man who had led them thus far and would, they believed, lead them to victory once again.

The armor of the Fox was as unmistakable as a raven amid a flight of white doves, its black feathers dirtying what should have been a pure made of dazzling clouds.

Where other royals draped themselves in gold filigree and silver plate to dazzle the eye, Alpheo clad himself in the unbroken darkness of polished black steel, relieved only by the faint glint of silver thread tracing its edges.

It was not the armor of a peacock prince, where other prince flaunted their presence , Alpheo just let it be felt.

Those who looked upon it did not speak of its beauty, but of the deeds and victories of he who wore it.

High in the saddle, his gaze swept across the field to the enemy ranks he meant to shatter, he squinted his eyes against the sun’s rays.

There was a strange tautness in his chest, a certainty of victory so absolute it rang false.

He knew this feeling was dangerous.

Of course he did, he had studied enough history to know the fate of men undone by their own hubris, had read of princes and generals who, drunk on triumph, dug their own graves with their bare hands overlooking simple things that would become their doom.

When he had read those histories, he had always thought himself to be above it, that he would never be so blind, never fall to the same ruin.

Yet here he was, holding the reins of power, hearing the soft, insidious whisper of glory as clearly as a lover’s breath upon his ear. Every laurel he had taken had been plucked from the burning tree of war, and now he found himself as guilty as any of the men he had once judged, as he believed himself to be the owner of that tree.

The only question was not if he would fall into that same trap, but when.

Not today, the voice in his head insisted. Not this battle. You have it on your hands...give the order and let the ring of steel be your voice.

It was a dark, intoxicating voice, heavy with the thrill he had come to know too well: the exultation of watching enemy lines buckle under his will, the cold ecstasy of destruction wrought by his word alone.

He could say how much he wanted it, that he did not like war and the risk it brought, but he certainly felt all the pleasure a man could from something so vile and bottomless in his hunger.

He was guilty of it all.

It fed something deep within him, something that pulsed stronger with every heartbeat, urging him to give in to the one thing he knew he was truly made for.

Even now, his eyes lingered on the shining sea of lances that bristled in the enemy flanks, the very flank he meant to crush. Beneath the discipline of command, there stirred a deep, restless hunger. It trembled within him, seductive and inexorable, urging him toward the same act that had defined his life and his legend.

To bring them doom.

”Your Grace?”

The voice cut through the dangerous pull of his thoughts.

Alpheo turned, grateful for the interruption, and found the captain of his guard standing before him. Beyond the man, a thousand eyes burned into his back, expectant, hungry, waiting for the words only he could give.

He had prepared a speech for this moment, something cold, precise, carefully crafted to stir resolve. But as he looked upon them, row after row of faces bronzed by sun and war, the glint of spearpoints swaying like a restless tide, he knew the words he’d written were not enough.

They could not be.

His heart thundered in his chest.

The usual calm that wrapped him like a cloak was gone, stripped away by the same dangerous thrill that had whispered to him moments ago. So he cast aside the prepared words and let that fire speak for him, he let him be the muse that crafted his words

”Seven years ago,” he began, his horse stepping slowly down the line, ”I came to you and found not the proud people of Yarzat, but weathered husks.

I saw backs bent beneath the weight of crushing taxes. I saw the fruits and grains you coaxed from your soil stolen, first by our own collectors, then by Oizenian hands. And when they had taken all they wanted, they left you your homes... only so they could burn them to ash.”

Murmurs passed through the ranks. Most here were from the crownlands, and all remembered those days too well.

”But that,” Alpheo said, his voice rising, ”is not what I see before me now. I do not see broken men. I do not see faces stripped of hope. I see fire.

I see the hunger to return every wound tenfold.

I found you in houses of mud, and I raised you to the sky. You no longer starve. You are honored wherever you tread. Children look at you with shining eyes. People speak your names with awe.

You are their heroes!

You are no longer sheep waiting for the slaughter, just look around you! Seven years ago, it was the Oizenians who burned your land. Today, it is your boots trampling theirs!”

He wheeled his horse toward the enemy, sunlight flashing on the black steel of his armor. With a sharp ring, his sword leapt free of its scabbard, and he pointed the blade at the distant lines.

”Look at them! They came to answer for the cities we have taken, for the victories we have carved into their soil. Look at them,so enraged, so desperate, so great is their hypocrisy that it shines!

Because for the first time in their lives, they are the ones defending. And what words could we speak to them? What plea? None. We have no words to give them. We have only steel.

Do you not hear them? The cries of the hungry you once were? The wailing of children left without home or kin? The last shouts of those whose throats were cut under Oizenian blades? They are calling you now! Calling for vengeance, calling for you to do your duty!

Kill them!Avenge us!

Don’t you hear their shout?

Turn your ears to the wind and you will hear them marching beside you. Let them burn in your hearts. Let them steady your hands. Today you fight not for me, not for glory, not even for yourselves, you fight for all those who cannot lift a sword!

So raise them high!Raise your swords for them! Let your battle cries be their voices! Let the deaths of our enemies be the eulogy of thousands who no longer have any voice left to shout!

Make so that all of them may speak in the chorus you shall soon bring to the gods!

Forward now! Forward, and avenge them!Be the angel of death they have waited for so long!

Be their heroes once more!”