Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

You are going to die.

It was a whisper that lived in the marrow of his bones, more persistent than the wind, more honest than any treaty. It sat behind the maps, behind the grand stratagems, behind the pride and the carefully groomed arrogance.

It was the absolute, crushing certainty that one is merely a speck of dust caught in the gears of a machine built by other, equally desperate men.

To stop and listen to that voice was to invite the void; to be swallowed by the staggering realization of how small a man truly is when the tide of something made by men begins to turn.

Yet, as the cold, sharp kiss of autumn air swept across the courtyard, it could not chill the heat of the hand currently clasped in his.

”I bid you farewell, Fox,” Merelao announced , his voice a rich, resonant baritone that seemed to vibrate through Alpheo’s very arm. ”I harbor a sincere hope that the next time our paths cross, it is with steel in hand and blood on the grass. You possess sharp mind and a sense of theater that almost rivals my own, but you lack the gall to stand center stage. You prefer the prompter’s box. A shame, truly. You have the face for a tragedy, but the soul of a clerk.”

Alpheo raised his eyes, meeting the icy, sapphire depths of his new ally.

He loathed the man. Merelao was everything Alpheo had spent a lifetime fighting against: a creature of such high-born breeding that, in any other life, Alpheo wouldn’t have been fit to scrub the mud from his boots.

His face was a masterpiece of aristocratic grace, a blooming smile that would make any artist weep with joy, the perfect mask of the ”Noble Knight.” Even now, with both of them teetering on the precipice of total oblivion, Merelao appeared entirely unbothered.

He stood like the unimpressed footman of a bored god, looking down from a pedestal of gold and finding the world beneath his feet to be a trifle, beneath the sole of his boots and his own persona.

Merelao might have found a spark of admiration for the ”Fox,” but to Alpheo, the Mad Bull was nothing more than a magnificent butcher. A man who hunted for entertainment, with no vision for the future, no law but the ancient, primal code of domination. His existence was a chaos of pleasure and violence, making every feat of arms fundamentally meaningless.

But he was the ally Yarzat benefited from. Alpheo had spent two weeks playing the groveling waiter to this man’s delusions of grandeur, catering to his whims like a servant. They were brothers-in-arms now, though Alpheo knew the kinship was a hollow thing. Every alliance was merely a race to see who could thrust the dagger into the other’s back first.

”I bid you a safe journey, Bull,” Alpheo replied, his voice a dry rasp. ”I hope to see your shoulder beside mine when our enemies arrive to claim the heads they’ve been promised.”

”Oh, they will most certainly try,” Merelao said, his eyes drifting away from the Prince to survey the courtyard one last time, as if committing his temporary conquest to memory. ”And they will most certainly fail.”

Alpheo respected the man’s martial prowess, that much he could not deny. In a world of chaff, Merelao was iron. As they shook hands, Alpheo leaned in, rising onto the balls of his feet to reach the taller man’s ear.

”I have left a gift for you in your carriage. I hope you find it to your liking,” Alpheo whispered, his breath ghosting against the golden-haired lord’s ear. ”A wise man once told me that fame, be it a crown of roses or a cloak of infamy, is like a dagger. It will only cut you if you are softer than the steel. Take the things they mock you for, the madness they fear in you, and forge them into your armor. If you wear your scars as a coat of mail, they can never use them to wound you.”

Alpheo pulled back and gave Merelao’s shoulder a few firm, friendly pats, watching the flicker of genuine surprise cross the lord’s face.

”We shall see each other again in less auspicious times,” Alpheo added, his smirk returning. ”I hope you have the constitution to stand for it.”

”I could say the same of you, Fox,” Merelao replied, recovering his poise with a grin.

He turned with a sweep of his cloak. Behind him, Lord Varo gave a stiff, hurried bow to the Prince, his expression a complicated knot of relief and lingering dread as he scrambled to follow his ”monster.”

Alpheo stood still as the carriage door clicked shut and the horses began to stir. He let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief as the wheels began to grind against the grave of the road.

He was finally alone.

----------------

A long, melodic sigh filled the interior of the carriage as the rhythmic clatter of hooves replaced the tense silence of the palace.

He was now alone.

Alone once more with his thoughts, watching the grey towers of Yarzat recede into the autumn mist. ”How utterly dreadful,” he murmured, his gaze lingering on the fortress where he had spent the most intellectually stimulating fourteen days of his life. ”I have committed the cardinal sin of actually enjoying the company I kept. I find myself hoping that something truly magnificent, or truly terrible, blooms from this little tryst of ours. Still one to get something interesting has to shake the pot...I wonder what it will come to?”

He turned his head toward the window, watching a lone robin perched upon the skeletal branch of an oak. ”What do you make of the man, Varo?’’

No response came.

He turned to the man ’’Varo?”

”I wish to offer my formal apologies, my Lord.”

Merelao looked up, his sapphire eyes widening in genuine surprise at the hollow, broken tone in the elder man’s voice. ”For what? For being the only sober soul in a house full of drunkards?Well I do admit you could have at lea-”

”For fourteen years of catastrophic guidance,” Varo interrupted quickly , his eyes fixed on his own clasped hands. ”I led you down a path of shadows and compromise. I believed, in my foolishness, that a bridge could be built between your heart and your uncle’s malice. I allowed fear for your life to cloud my judgment, and in doing so, I have led you into a corner. I have wasted the precious years of your youth on the altar of a peace that was always a lie. I am no longer worthy of your trust”

”It is quite alright, old friend,” Merelao replied, his voice softening. ”I too lacked the imagination to believe that fat, gluttonous serpent could be so brazen. Had the Fox not laid his cards upon the table, I would have walked into the trap like a blind foal.

It is treachery. If you were misled, then I was equally blinded by the arrogance of underestimating my own blood.”

”I am not worthy of your—”

”Varo,” Merelao’s voice rose, vibrating with a commanding yet affectionate authority. ”Look at me. You have stood by my side for fourteen years. It was your hand that pulled me from the jaws of my uncle’s ’hospitality’ when I was a boy of eight. You did not care for the ire of Vinnacovi then, and you have not wavered since. How many men have the gall to do what you have done? I would have been for the worm a decade ago without you.”

He leaned forward, placing a hand on Varo’s knee. ”We were both misled by a dream of order. Very well. The dream is dead.

We shall now resolve the situation with the tools we have left. We know our mistakes, and we have an ally whose cunning can broaden the very horizon of our war. You wish to make amends? Then strive to be better. I have no use for your self-loathing; it is a tedious companion. If you crave punishment, take a whip and lash your own back in the stables when I cannot see. In the meantime, I shall busy myself preparing for the struggle of my life.You can do that, or you can be at my side when I shall sharpen my intent.”

Varo looked up, his eyes glassy with a devotion that transcended the bond of lord and servant to that of a father. ”I was the lucky one,” he whispered. ”To be entrusted with your life gave me an aim. Without you, I would have perished long ago under the shame of the failures I have incurred. You are the only light I have ever served.”

Varo cleared his throat, nodding toward a neatly wrapped bundle resting on the velvet seat beside Merelao. ”Are you not going to satisfy the Fox’s curiosity and open it, my Lord? He seemed quite insistent on his ’gift.’”

Merelao took a deep breath, his fingers tracing the coarse fabric of the wrapping before he pulled the cord. He exhaled slowly as the contents were revealed.

A slow, radiant smile then spread across his face.

He looked up at Varo, his eyes dancing with the fire of the coming war.

”The next time he lays eyes upon me, Varo,” Merelao whispered, his words more fervous than a promise to the gods, ”I will be all red. I believe I am going to paint the South in a hue he will never forget.”