Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

He had walked upon the crimson mud of the Ford, where swords and war-hammers whistled and thundered toward his skull; his face twitched and his ear burned as he now instead navigated a sea of delicate blossoms at the head of a victorious army, with tens of thousands of frantic throats shouting for his name.

It rained white and red , the petals were thrown by eager children and cheering women across the thoroughfare, framing the precise road upon which the army that had laid five southern princes low now marched.

The victory that had finally cemented Yarzat’s position as a kingdom , a victory made possible because when beget by thousands his hundreds did not falter nor break.

Massive bolts of cloth hung draped from the windows of the tall wooden and stone buildings that rose like cliffs against the road. Black and white. The uncompromising colors of his legions. It would have been more apt, perhaps, to display the falcon, but it was far easier for low-born citizens to weave simple wool and paint it black, for those that could afford such fanfare. It would be entirely too much to expect artistic grandiosity out of common tradesmen, after all.

In the sky, the winter sun sat at its absolute peak. Despite the biting cold of December, its rays spread a rare, genuine warmth throughout the sprawling city, as if the heavens themselves had cleared the storm clouds specifically to celebrate the triumph. Waves of human flesh lapped violently against the iron-shod shields of the city garrison, who struggled to keep the roaring crowd at bay as the iron-clad legions cut their way through the central artery of the capital.

Eating the cheers with smiles and waves.

Alpheo’s hazel eyes moved methodically across the cheering crowd.

”All hail the King!”

”Long live the King!”

The common folk had taken the news of his official ascension far more eagerly than he had ever anticipated. Such a spectacular sight would have once filled a younger Alpheo with intoxicating pride, back when he was merely a bitter youth with so much to force upon a cruel world that had spurned his very existence.

Now, he only felt a profound, bone-deep weariness. A sharp, mocking doubt shrieked at his guts with every single metallic clank that rose from the hooves of his white stallion striking the cobblestones.

He still recalled the terrifying dream that had plagued his mind ever since he rose once again, seemingly baptized in the blood and mud of his greatest battle. In the vision, he could still feel the hot, blistering kiss of fire shrieking against a freezing wind of ice. Yet their passage left the aftermath inverted: a suffocating cold was left behind by the raging fire, while nothing but scorched ashes remained where the ice had crawled. What was the sense of that?

Would that be the ultimate end of his reign?Ashes and cold?Was he destined for defeat then?

He was not so craven a man as to fear a change in the weather or the trickery of a dream, but what he truly feared was the man who stood against it all in the dark. Gods, those eyes. He still shivered in his saddle at the memory of that unblinking gaze.There was hate in them, of that Alpheo was sure.

The winter wind picked up, fluttering a stray handful of petals until they brushed against the side of the King’s face, passing inches to the right of the scarred, ruined gristle where death had chewed away his earlobe.

He sat tall in the saddle strongest and more tired than he had ever been, surrounded by the rising weed of political intrigue and the deafening jubilation of the masses. Despite the exhausting ruckus and the literal sea of suffocating flesh... it was an undeniably lovely sight.

He would have had it framed in silver if it were a painting. But he knew the truth: this triumph was merely an echo, the beautiful byproduct of a grand political motion that he had not originally started, but one that he was absolutely going to end.

Once, in his naivety, Alpheo had genuinely believed a lasting peace could be forged across his lands. He had fondly hoped to grow old in a quiet garden, war reduced to nothing more than a long-forgotten thought. He could no longer afford to believe in such childish dreams. Not while his rivals still stood preparing their next move.

War was all that he would have in his time.

And he would wage it the only way he knew.

Now that he became aware the exact cloth his enemies were cut from, he would indeed lead the vanguard into the breach. And perhaps, just perhaps, his boy would not inherit the devastating flame currently burning at his father’s side.

He would not want his son to weep tears of liquid fire like the phantom man who plagued his midnight thoughts. Hopefully, Alpheo would live entirely in war so that a true, unbroken peace might finally be brought to his heir.

The King’s gaze fell to the side, landing on his boy’s face.

The youth was beautifully framed in the soft lines of his jaw, and a look of profound, paralyzed awe consumed his features. The boy had never faced the raw, terrifying jubilation of the masses from so close. Word that the Prince, and it was a deeply strange, heavy thing to realize his boy was now a prince.

If one perked their ears above the din of the silver trumpets, they could hear distinct shouts cheering specifically for the young prince alongside the roars for the monarch.

Basil’s eyes widened with a magnificent stupor that actually belonged to his tender age. He looked up at the towering buildings and the weeping crowds, finding the world filled with just as much wonder and ancient magic as he had always hoped.

But it was a total falsity. A beautiful lie.

Tradition would demand the boy be raised on fairy tales and noble duties, but in the last few bloody years, tradition had been the very first thing Alpheo had gutted. Why else would a lowborn soldier be wearing a crown right now?

”Memento mori,” Alpheo whispered, leaning down slightly from his saddle toward his son’s ear.

The boy’s posture instantly perked to attention at his father’s rough voice.

”Do not ever let yourself be seduced by the fervor of the masses” the King murmured, his eyes locking onto a group of merchants waving banners. ”They would cheer just as loud if it were you and I walking up the steps to the hangman’s noose tomorrow.”

His hazel eyes moved back to the swirling petals. It was, after all, the solemn job of the old to remind the young of the absolute vanity of life.

The boy swallowed hard, his green eyes peering up into the hardened, scarred face of his father. ”So... what are we to do then, Father?” he asked in a soft, hesitant voice.

”Smile and wave, lad,” Alpheo said, a flawless, benevolent grin instantly breaking across his face as he raised a gauntleted hand to the crowd.’’They may be false, but they are still cheer’’

He led the act with masterly precision, and the desperate crowd lapped it up as if it were pure summer honey.

Basil let out a small, nervous breath, but he adjusted his hand, his green eyes darting sideways to watch how the King effortlessly held the gaze of thousands.

”They really are loud, aren’t they? It feels like the ground is shaking.”

”It’s just air, Basil. Loud air,” Alpheo said, his tone carrying that dry, grounded warmth he only ever used when the two of them were completely alone, or, in this case, hidden in plain sight amidst a sea of thirty thousand screaming citizens. ”They’ve had a miserable winter, war was in the air, and twelve thousands waging war against them. They need a spectacle now that we won. Better have them cheering than throwing rocks at my guards. Today, we are that spectacle. Enjoy the banners, but never forget the price of the cloth they wave.”

A particularly enthusiastic woman in the front row blessed them with something. The soldiers lapped it up like honey and cheered.

Basil’s cheeks instead instantly flushed a bright, burning crimson. He tucked his chin deeply into the rich fur collar of his cloak, suddenly fascinated by his horse’s mane.

He was still entirely new to the terrifying wonders of the fairer sex. In time, he would come to learn and master those treacherous waters too; after all, a sovereign’s true dangers were not merely restricted to the bite of steel or the bitter taste of poison. Unwanted and uncontrolled desire could bring a king low just as effectively as any lost war.

Still, looking at him now, his father hardly recognized this blushing boy as the very same youth who had bravely pulled the man from the deep of the wine bottle , nor the one who had defiantly hidden himself in the back of a supply cart just to march south with the army.

But the harshest, most unyielding things are often hidden beneath the prettiest of shells.

Sometimes, a quiet dread crept into his mind, a fear that to survive the crown, he would eventually have to murder the boy inside of him. He fiercely loved and cherished that inner softness, yet he dreaded it would be ripped apart, piece by bloody piece, the more the weight of the world pressed down upon his young and untested shoulders.

He forced himself to breathe through the anxiety, pressing down hard on the monster of doubt rising in his belly. Today is a day of celebration, he reminded himself. It was a day for the war-weary masses to forget their fears, and a day of triumph for a father who had led them all through the fire.

So, the King smiled. He smiled and he waved, consciously letting that beautiful lie wash over him as the wide boulevard finally began to narrow, the grand ceremonial roads opening up at last to the ancient, true heart of his warm home.

Behind them, the columns of the vanguard marched back toward their barracks, letting themselves be the undisputed stars of the day, diving headfirst into the roaring affection of the masses. Come tomorrow, most of those men would be hopelessly drunk and thoroughly bedded in the city’s taverns. That was always a soldier’s favorite part of the wars they managed to win. Such beautifully simple creatures at heart.

They bled for a handful of silver and cheered for a scrap of glory, entirely unaware that while they slept off the wine, the peace they had just bought with their lives was already being bartered away in the quiet halls above.

War indeed was to be their eternal bride.