Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

”I always thought crows resembled you, you know, Alph?” Egil had said once, shading his eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun. A flock of them circled lazily above the camp, their cries rasping and harsh, like laughter from the throats of the damned.

It had been just after the Bleeding Plains , their first true victory against a foreign foe.

The field was still raw with the scent of blood and trampled grass, but for that one afternoon, they had allowed themselves to feel immortal. They were young then, with hands unscarred by command and hearts still convinced that history bent to their will.

Alpheo remembered the moment vividly.

He had been sprawled in the grass beside Egil, leaning lazily on his left elbow, his head half turned toward the man who, even then, seemed carved from confidence itself.

”Are you calling me a herald of death?” he’d asked with mock indignation. ”Or merely the bringer of bad luck? Should I take offense?”

Egil had laughed,a deep, careless sound that seemed to chase away the heaviness so many a time.

”You always overthink it. Don’t you?”

He pointed with his chin, and Alpheo followed his gaze downward. His armor, black as a crow’s wing, glinted under the sun.

That laugh. That damned laugh that made even a battlefield feel small and harmless. Alpheo had joined in then, rolling his eyes, letting the warmth of victory and friendship soften the edges of his thoughts. The memory felt so alive in him now that for a brief, cruel second, he thought he could still hear it echo through the tent.

But there was no sound, only the silence.

He stared at the empty cup in his hand. It was his third , or his fourth; it didn’t matter. He refilled it with shaking fingers and emptied it.

Egil had been right all along.

He was an ambitious fool.

He turned his hands upward, studying them as if seeing them for the first time. The calloused fingers, the small scars from years of battle, and ink stains, all those hands had ever done was take.

They had taken Egil’s life, even if he hadn’t meant to. He had sent all of them into a field were they were to lose, it was only by the power of one that the worst was stopped.

Egil could have lived.

Alpheo pressed his palms together and shut his eyes, as if he could crush the thought into silence.

But the more he tried to imagine another path, one that would have not deemed to take the field that day, the colder he felt.

Because deep down, in that quiet pit of honesty he had always tried to bury, he knew the truth: he would have chosen this outcome again.

The realization hollowed him and made him want to puke.

And that, more than anything, made him recoil from himself.

He poured again. The wine splashed high, dark streaks staining the inside of the cup like blood on marble. He drank until the burn numbed his throat, until the heaviness in his chest softened just enough for him to breathe.

And he would have poured again , would have drunk himself into silence , if not for the sound of footsteps crunching on the dirt outside.

For a heartbeat, he almost forgot he still had business. No matter how grieving, he was still in campaign.

The tent flap shifted, letting in a spill of dim afternoon light. The figure that entered was tall, narrow-faced, normally he would come in with a long braid that swung past his shoulder like a tether to the past, now it was no longer there. Egil’s second in command.

”Your Grace,” Rykio said, bowing deeply, his voice rasped and tired. The movement would have normally made his braid slip forward, brushing against the dirt as if bowing alongside him, how strange was it not to see it?How much had he drank?

His face bore the look of a man who hadn’t slept ,eyes rimmed with red and puffy.

He’s been crying too, Alpheo thought.

Egil was beloved by many.

”Please,” Alpheo said, motioning to the stool across from him. ”Take a seat.”His voice came out rough, coarse. It startled him a little. When had he last spoken aloud?

Rykio hesitated before sitting looking at the cup and the wine. ”I hope this isn’t a bad time, Your Grace.”

”It could never be,” Alpheo muttered. ”You came when called.” He caught Rykio’s eyes darting toward the near-empty carafe and the stained cup at his elbow. ”Would you approve a cup?”

Rykio blinked, clearly uncomfortable. ”No, Your Grace. I only hope I haven’t disturbed your... thoughts.”

Alpheo’s mouth twisted , but not in a smile. ”You’re too polite. You really don’t care for a cup?” He gestured with the wine, already knowing the answer.

Rykio shook his head. ”Not today. Thank you.”

For a moment, neither spoke.

”You were among his most trusted,” Alpheo finally said, the words dragging out of him like stones. ”Egil spoke well of you. Whenever there was a chance, he made it known to me, and all the other.”

Rykio bowed his head slightly. ”He was too kind than he should have been, Your Grace.”

”Too kind,” Alpheo echoed, a faint, humorless laugh escaping him. ”I don’t think anyone would really define him like that. But when he spoke of you... that kindness wasn’t misplaced.”

For a heartbeat, he thought he saw Rykio’s composure falter before the man forced himself still again, like a soldier on parade.

Alpheo studied him a moment longer. He was young, barely some years older than Alpheo was,he was there when they had risen to their freedom, he was among the one who had followed Egil in his seizure of the horses back into the Romelian camp.

He was among the first Egil had taught on how to ride and how to kill on steed.

He found it pleasant that Rykio shared the quiet fire Egil had once carried, which now seemed to flicker faintly behind his eyes.

”I know this is a hard time,” Alpheo began, straightening. ”For you, for the men, for all of us. So I’ll speak plainly.” He set down his cup and leaned forward ”The Hounds need a commander. They need someone who can keep them together, someone they’ll follow without question.”

Rykio’s gaze rose, steady now, though his fingers tightened on his knees.

”I want you to take Egil’s mantle,” Alpheo said. ”You’ve fought beside him, bled beside him. You know what the Hounds need better than anyone alive.”

The words hung heavy between them, filling the tent like smoke after a fire.

Rykio’s eyes widened just slightly. There was no smile, no gratitude; only grief and duty, stitched together like the scars on his knuckles.

That pleased him more than anything of that day.The fact he did not gloat.

”I...” He bowed his head. ”I thank you, Your Grace.”

”You may call me Alpheo,” the prince said, forcing a small, weary smile. ”In private, at least. That’s what the other legates call me.”

Rykio lifted his gaze again ”Then it would be my honor, Alpheo.”

The prince nodded, though the title felt strange now.

Alpheo reached for the carafe again, then stopped halfway as if deciding better.

”If you would allow me,” Alpheo began, his voice soft but firm, ”I have a few questions about your comrades.”

Rykio straightened slightly on his seat. ”Of course. Please, ask.”

”The braid,” Alpheo said, gesturing toward the long, knotted strand that would have normally fell over Rykio’s shoulder. ”When I once asked Egil about it, he told me it was simply a... fashionable hairstyle.” He gave a faint, wistful smile. ”But after the funeral, I find it hard to believe that.Am I right?”

He didn’t need to wait long for the truth. Rykio shook his head slowly.

”Egil... had a way of making soldiers into brothers,” he said, his voice low, steady, reverent. ”During the years he led us, he tried to rebuild what his tribe once had. The braids came from them , a sign of deeds done in honor. A battle survived. A worthy foe slain. A comrade saved.Each was a new turn for the braid”

Alpheo listened in silence, not daring to interrupt the moment.

”I suppose you saw,” Rykio continued, ”at the pyre. Those who hadn’t taken a head in his name, who hadn’t earned that mark of valor , they offered their braid instead. Their honor. Some of us did it nonetheless the gifts we brought” He paused, and for a moment his voice thinned to a whisper. ”We respected him more than anyone I’ve ever known. Even now, I believe... he’d make us laugh again, if he walked through here.”

He tried to smile and failed. His jaw tensed, his eyes glistened in the dim light. Alpheo could see the effort it took him not to weep.

The prince leaned back, staring at the empty cup in his hand. ”I thank you for it,” he said quietly making sign he could leave.

Rykio nodded once, bowed deeply, and stood to leave.

As he reached the tent flap, Alpheo’s hand moved forward instinctively. ”Wait,” he said , though even as Rykio turned, he wasn’t sure what he meant to say.

For a long heartbeat, the two men stood there .

Alpheo opened his mouth, then stopped. His fingers twitched in the air, before falling limp to his side. He waved him off instead, a faint, weary gesture.

Rykio bowed once more, eyes shining faintly, then slipped out into the dusk.

The tent grew still again. Only the wind moved, whispering through the seams of the canvas like a ghost too gentle to be heard.

Alpheo sat there, his gaze lingering on the spot where Rykio had stood.

He had wanted to ask, if he had the couragefor it ,why had Egil never braided his own hair?

But he believed he already knew the answer.

He went to fill another cup.