Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Aron adjusted the folds of his silk tunic, the garment slightly disheveled. With casual precision he straightened it, then reached for a sheet of parchment. He slid it across the polished oak desk until it lay squarely between himself and his guest.

”That,” he said, voice clipped and formal, ”is the latest packet of benefits the Crown has seen fit to extend to merchants willing to bind themselves to it.”

Ivaylo’s smile, bright and ingratiating only a moment ago, faded like mist burned away by the sun. The soft edges of his merchant’s charm hardened into the sharp lines of business. This was no longer a game of pleasantries , this was about coin, and coin, as always, was the only true patron a merchant could serve.

”Would you prefer to read them yourself,” Aron asked, fingers closing the lid of an inkwell with a soft click, ”or shall I give you the summary?”

Ivaylo allowed himself the briefest flicker of amusement, though it never reached his eyes. ”Same as last time,” he said smoothly. ”Your voice, my reading.”

The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. His eyes dropped to the parchment, scanning lines with the predatory focus of a man measuring profit and loss at every word. Aron noted the stillness of his face, the way no twitch of lip or brow betrayed his thoughts. It was something he admired about Ivaylo, even as he distrusted it.

Drawing in a breath, Aron began to recite. His tone was steady, professional, almost liturgical, as though reading from scripture rather than the Crown’s latest decree.

”By the will of his Grace, and under the authority of the Royal Seal, the Bureau of Trade has been established to administer and oversee the privileges offered to those merchants who pledge themselves to the service of the Crown. Those who so bind themselves will render unto the Bureau ten percent of their yearly income. In exchange, they will be granted the Corona Vexilloi”

He paused, watching Ivaylo’s eyes flicker briefly to that name before settling back on the text. Aron continued, his voice sharpening:

”Merchants bearing this banner shall fall under the direct protection of the Crown. Any strike made against their holdings, their convoys, or their persons, will be considered an attack not upon an individual, but upon the Crown itself. Such an affront will invite retaliation measured not merely to punish, but to crush, with the full and necessary weight of royal justice.”

Ivaylo’s face remained carved from stone. No smirk, no sneer, he said nothing nor gave out anything. His eyes moved with mechanical precision across the parchment, even as his ears caught every syllable Aron spoke.

How does he do this? Aron wondered. He did not understand how he was skilled enough to hear and read simultaneously, without muddying his brain. That thought unsettled him.

”Along with this privilege,” Aron continued, his voice steady and measured, ”any merchant bearing the Crown’s banner shall be exempt from tolls and market taxes within every town and port sworn either to the throne of Yarzat or to the throne of Oizen. No levy, no petty fee, no tithe demanded at a gate or a bridge shall touch those under the Corona Vexilloi.”

Ivaylo’s eyes moved quickly across the parchment now, his jaw tightening as if bracing himself against the weight of each line.

Aron pressed on, letting the rhythm of his words fall like strokes of a hammer. ”In addition, such merchants shall hold the right to call upon the immediate protection of the nearest lord if assailed on the road. Any who refuse such call shall be judged guilty of dereliction of fealty. And lastly—” here Aron leaned back in his chair, watching for the reaction he knew was coming—”in the event of dispute with local law, whether in Yarzat or Oizen, a royal representative may be petitioned to intervene. Said representative shall see to it that the trial is conducted with fairness, and no prejudice of jurisdiction may outweigh the merchant’s rights under the Crown.”

The stoic mask Ivaylo had worn so tightly cracked in an instant. His composure faltered as the last words left Aron’s mouth. His eyes widened; for the first time since entering the chamber, true emotion slipped through his well-trained merchant’s calm.

Clearly, he had not read quickly enough to reach that portion of the decree.

”Is this... true?” he asked, the words spilling out before he could check them. At once, he realized how foolish the question sounded

Aron didn’t even dignify it with a nod. He simply waited, letting silence gnaw at the moment until Ivaylo forced himself to speak again.

”Praise to the Crown,” the merchant said, regathering his composure.

”Praise it,” Aron replied evenly.

A long pause followed. Ivaylo’s mind was working furiously; Aron could see it in the way the man’s lips pressed thin and his eyes flickered back to the parchment. He was already counting savings, weighing the worth of tolls avoided, the power of royal protection, the leverage such privileges would give him over rivals less daring or less wealthy.

At last, Ivaylo broke the silence. His voice was controlled again, but there was a new note in it—hungry, eager, yet cautious. ”What may be the cost to acquire such privilege?”

The question was almost unnecessary. Both men knew he was already leaning toward it, but formality had to be observed.

”Not much,” Aron said, his tone deliberately mild. ”The first year requires a token sum, one hundred silverii. After that, ten percent of your yearly income will be rendered to the Bureau.”

Ivaylo’s brows lifted, though he masked the rest of his reaction behind a studied calm. He leaned back slowly in his chair, one hand stroking the neatly trimmed beard along his jaw. ”That is... surprisingly generous, sir.”

Aron did not rise to the bait, but inwardly he smiled.

Ivaylo was no fool. The privileges Aron had just listed were not only unprecedented, they were dangerous.

He could smell it. He knew exactly how much coin and influence the Crown had been forced to spend pushing such a decree past its own nobility. The land-bound lords would have railed against it, snarling like dogs as they watched privileges long theirs handed to mere merchants. The resistance must have been considerable.

And that was just in Yarzat, where the Prince’s power now stood pretty much unchallenged. How much harder, then, must it have been to wrest the same concessions from Oizen?

Ivaylo had of course known of the war; in truth, he had profited handsomely from it. Grain contracts to the Crown’s armies had lined his coffers while soldiers bled. But war was simple: swords, fire, and coin changing hands, as for this term....not very much.

It was a time bomb.

The Oizenians would not swallow this forever. Too much revenue would bleed from their tollhouses, too much coin stripped from their lords’ pockets. They would bide their time, grind their teeth, and sooner or later, they would find a pretext to claw it back.

Which meant only one thing: Ivaylo had little time. Little time to exploit this river of gold before the tide turned.

”Well, sir,” he said at last, bowing his head with practiced humility, ”I would very much like to request the Crown’s protection for my humble endeavors.”

It wasn’t a hard choice. Not really. A man who hesitated at such fortune was no man at all.

Aron clapped his hands together lightly, the gesture precise, controlled. ”We are glad to welcome you among the privileged again, Master Ivaylo.” With a flick of the wrist, another parchment slid across the desk. Its wax seal gleamed scarlet under the oil lamp. ”This is the royal contract. Read it carefully, these are the terms you must bind yourself to.”

Ivaylo’s fingers closed around the parchment. His expression did not shift, but in his chest he felt the faint thrill of a gambler pulling a card he knew would change the game.

Aron continued without waiting for questions. His tone was steady, almost ceremonial. ”First, you must be free of any political association. No guild membership, no sworn trade compact under rival authorities. And more, once you sign, you must vow never to bind yourself to one in the future.”

Ivaylo’s lips twitched upward. Not a problem. He had kept himself carefully apart from the guilds for years. They stifled enterprise, shackled gains, taxed ventures into the grave. Better to make one’s own arrangements with suppliers and artisans, as he had.

But still... it was an interesting clause. Very interesting. The Crown was striking directly at the guilds’ influence, and merchants like him, unethered, would be the instrument. It could be turned to advantage later.

Aron cleared his throat, drawing Ivaylo back to the present. ”Next, you must understand the limits of the Corona Vexillii. It is not a blanket. Each time you depart Yarzat on business, you must formally request it anew. Your caravan will be entered into the Bureau’s ledger, your manifest declared in full, every product, every crate, every barrel, every destination. Upon return, those records will be checked against your cargo in the sade-house before entry is granted.”

Ivaylo inclined his head, though inwardly he frowned. It was clever. Not only protection, but surveillance. They would know everything. Every journey, every load, every route. A leash wrapped in gold.

Aron’s voice hardened. ”Pay close attention to this last point, Master Ivaylo: the Vexillio itself. It will be a marked standard issued from the Bureau and carried with your caravan or ship. Should you lose it, the fine shall be no less than five hundred silverii, and revocation of the privilege for one year. Misplacing it twice shall see you banned for life.”

Still, he gave nothing away. Only a smile returned to his lips, smooth as poured wine. ”I understand perfectly, sir. I will see that my standard never leaves my sight.”

Aron leaned back in his chair, hands folding neatly over the silk of his robe. His tone softened, official business concluded.

”That is all, Master Ivaylo. The terms have been laid plain. The choice, as ever, is yours.”

There was no hesitation. Ivaylo set the parchment flat upon the desk, dipped the quill into ink, and signed his name in a bold hand. The scratch of the nib was sharp in the quiet chamber, the sound of commitment, of chains forged in paper and law.

When it was done, he set the quill aside, rose from his chair, and bowed low to the knight. ”May the Crown prosper, sir. And may we prosper beneath its shade.”

Aron gave the smallest of nods, already moving to place the document into the bureau’s growing archive. ”Safe travels, Master Ivaylo.”

Ivaylo turned, his slave gathering the urn and cups as they departed. The heavy doors of the chamber closed behind him with a resonant thud, sealing the pact within.

Walking down the corridor, Ivaylo’s smile returned. The ink was still wet on the page, yet the truth of it was already clear to him.

The Crown had just declared war on the guilds.

And where war began, ruin for some always meant opportunity for others. Great leeway now opened for any man clever enough to slip through the cracks, bold enough to seize what others would fear to touch.

For where men fall, others are always bound to rise...