Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

It had been an age of upheaval in what had once been the unified Sultanate of Azania, the only realm that could stand as an equal to the great giant of the East.

How ironic that barely four years after the colossus of Romelia had stumbled and cracked beneath its own weight, the empire of sand now mirrored its fate, wavering, faltering, swaying on its last legs.

In both cases, ruin had begun with the deaths of their mighty. Gratios, struck down by the King of Arlania. Bayazid, consumed by the blade of the Great Khan. Two pillars, toppled. And with their fall, the storms came.

Shuaa still felt the sting, as though the cords that bound her spirit to her beloved Sultan had been severed and snapped. The grief was not simply that of a widow, or whatever pale reflection of one she was allowed to be, as the great priestess was not allowed to mourn as a normal woman.

As far as it hurt to know, she was well aware of the the reason for his demise.

He had been punished.

For Bayazid , the 18th sultan of Azania, had turned from the path set before him, strayed from the road the Great Sun had blazed, and in his straying, he had been claimed.

And yet... Azania had not fallen. Their son still breathed, still carried the favor of the Great One. That, she told herself, was proof enough.

”Busha Pasha has reported another victory against the traitorous forces of Mamud. He now proceeds to lay siege to the city of Azad.”

The voice came from Arkath, head of the Imperial eunuchs, as he walked at her side through the gilded halls of the Palace of Khairo.

Arkath had been Bayazid’s most trusted companion, bound by decades of friendship. The Sultan’s death had broken something in him, too, though his grief had hardened into duty.

He bore now the burden of guardianship, tasked with delivering Bayazid’s son safely to the throne and shielding him from the wolves already circling around.

”That is good,” Shuaa murmured, her tone weary, hollowed. ”We are making progress against the traitor forces.”

Her voice did not match her face. Arkath studied her sidelong, and what he saw made his chest tighten.

Dark crescents had taken root beneath her eyes, deepening each year since Bayazid’s death. Her skin, once radiant, was sallow, stretched thin over bones too sharp.

She appeared not to have had a good sleep in a long time.

Even the jewels and silks she now adorned herself with as regent felt dim, as though dulled by the exhaustion of the woman beneath them.

She loved him. Of that Arkath had no doubt. But love was not equal in measure, and the scales had never balanced.

The love Shuaa bore Bayazid was true, consuming, unshaken even now, two years after his death. But Bayazid... no, he had not loved her, not truly. He had loved what she embodied. He had loved her powers, not the person who beheld them.

Through that love, he had stood on the very cusp of greatness, Arkath could still taste the bitterness of it like gall on his tongue.

Their son would have been a Sultan who would have been more than a sovereign, who might have taken both the worldly throne and the divine mantle, and by fusing them, raised himself above all.

He would have been the Sun crowned in flesh once more.

But fate, cruel and relentless, had stolen that chance. Now, all that remained was a boy-sultan not yet grown to his crown, and a weary regent mother whose shoulders bent lower each season beneath the weight she carried.

And yet, all was not ruin. Not yet.

Things had begun to turn, at least on the fields of war. Their armies pressed the traitor Mamud, striking him in fortress and towns alike, while far to the south the Great Khan’s riders, those same riders who had slain Bayazid and unmade the old order, now burned and plundered Mamud’s lands with merciless fury. Town after town fell to the endless tide of horsemen, and Mamud bled.

Twice already, the rebel had tried to sue for truce. Twice, he had pleaded that they must stand together against the Khan. Twice, Shuaa had refused when Mamud refused to recognise her son as the true Sultan.

And Arkath believed that was the right decision.

Why should they grant him respite? Why allow him to gather strength when the Khan’s scourge could be turned to their gain?

They decided to let Mamud be ground down by war on two fronts. So that his levies may grow weary and his allies falter. And when the moment was ripe, when Azania was whole again, then would they march as one to break the steppe horde and avenge the late Sultan.

That was wisdom. Yet, Arkath saw little comfort in the Regent’s eyes.

”Have you had any more prophecies, my lady? Any dreams?” he asked at last, his voice lowered almost to a whisper, this was after all a secret few knew. He had hoped, foolishly perhaps, for a sign from the Great Sun, something to banish the silence that had haunted them since Bayazid’s fall.

He expected the quiet shake of her head. What he did not expect was the way she stopped suddenly in her stride, her steps faltering, her gaze darting about the empty colonnade as though to ensure no ears lingered in the shadows.

Alarmed, Arkath mirrored her glance about the chamber. ”My lady? Are you unwell?”

”I lost my powers.”

The words fell like a stone in his chest. For a moment, he could only stare, fighting to master the sharp pang of fear that surged within him. He dared not let the gap in his heart show, lest she see how shaken he was.

”Are you certain?” he asked at last, his voice taut with a thread of hope. Perhaps it was grief speaking. Perhaps the exhaustion. Perhaps—

But her eyes told him otherwise. There was no doubt in them, only resignation.

”I knew it from the moment I gave birth to Bayiddi,” she said, and her tone was calm, calmer than she had any right to be.

Does she not understand what this means? Arkath thought, a chill working its way down his spine. Does she not see what is at stake?

Her powers had been the pillar upon which their legitimacy rested. It was her flame-touched hands, her visions, her aura of sanctity that had bound the lords in obedience and kept doubters silent. Without that divine mantle, half their grip would slip. Without it, their enemies would scent weakness.

At least, he reminded himself grimly, there was still the boy. The boy’s gift was real. That was something. A blade they could still wiel...

He now understood.

She met his gaze, and he knew she could see it.

”That was why you made a public display of the young Sultan’s gift, as soon as he was born” he declared slowly, recalling the scene: the boy carried before the gathered court, Shuaa’s legs still bleeding as fire curled about her son’s body, yet leaving him untouched.

The display had come so fast, and now Arkath saw why. It had been necessity, not ceremony.

It had been survival.

”It was the only way,” Shuaa admitted, her face unflinching, though her hands trembled faintly at her sides.

Arkath swallowed, still unwilling to accept the depth of this loss. ”Are you certain you have lost it all, my lady? Truly all?”

For a heartbeat, silence. Then, without a word, Shuaa stepped toward a golden candlestick mounted against the wall. The flame wavered as her hand hovered above it, then she closed her fingers around the fire.

A sharp hiss of flesh. The scent of seared skin. She pulled her hand back and turned her palm toward him. Angry red welts blistered across her skin.

No miracle.

She had truly lost it, the very gift Bayazid had coveted, the very thing that had made her his chosen. And perhaps, Arkath thought bitterly as he looked into her calm, resigned face, she had always known.

’’Keep that as a secret for as long as you can,” Arkath urged, his voice firm though his chest felt hollow. ”They cannot be allowed to know you’ve lost them.”

Shuaa inclined her head, though she was quick to correct him. ”Lost is the wrong word,” she said softly, almost chastising. ”They were not lost—they were passed down to my blood and flesh. It was destined. Do not look so grim, my friend. We may at least take comfort in knowing we are fighting for the very dream my beloved gave his life for.”

”That is a small comfort,” Arkath replied with a weary sigh, ”and we both know it.”

She did not deny it. A faint nod answered him, but her eyes betrayed her,there was a shadow in them, a ripple of unease that no outward calm could mask.

Arkath narrowed his gaze. ”What troubles you?”

At first she said nothing, her lips pressing tight as though the words might undo her if spoken aloud. But at last, she yielded.

”I have fears,” she confessed, her voice low, hushed as though afraid the stones themselves might overhear. ”Fears of a great danger coming toward us, toward Bayiddi.”

Arkath blinked. ”Who? Mamud is pressed and bleeding strength by the day. The Romelian princes are too busy carving their father’s corpse to pieces. And Bayazid’s killer....he is still far away from threatening us directly. Did you have a dre—” He stopped himself, realizing too late the futility of the question, habit were hard to kill.

Shuaa thought for a second and then shook her head. ”No dream. Not a vision. But a mother’s sense. Something foul lurks beneath the surface, something rotten at its core, and it comes for us. I cannot see it, but I can feel it.”

A chill threaded down Arkath’s spine. He drew closer, ”What do you need me to do?”

”Nothing,” she answered. ”Not yet. Only promise me this: when the time comes, you will know what must be done. No matter how long it takes, no matter the cost, I want you to promise me that you will see it through.”

”You are frightening me, my lady,” Arkath admitted, trying to mask the unease curling in his gut.

”I am sorry,” she whispered, ”but it is necessary. Swear to me you will protect Bayiddi, even when all seems lost.”

Arkath straightened, placing his hand over his heart. ”I have no need of oaths. My life is for the boy’s well-being, and for his father’s dream. But if it will give you peace, then I swear it, here and now on my soul.”

Suddenly, as swift and fierce as a storm breaking upon the shore, she embraced him. Arkath stiffened at first, surprised, before her arms tightened. He felt her trembling, he thought it weakness, but it was not.

She wanted to thank him. He knew it. But no words came. Guilt, heavy as chains, bound her tongue. For she could not bring herself to confess the truth of the last vision she had borne, before Bayazid’s death and Bayiddi’s birth.

She could not say of the Great Fire , devouring towers and temples alike, a sea of flame that would engulf all she loved. And from that inferno, only a single spark would endure.

She could not say it. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. But as she clung to Arkath, she knew the spark’s name.

Bayiddi.

Or at least she hoped it would be.

Foul things were to come, and she feared she would not be strong enough to fight them.