Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

He breathed out, the new warm air misting faintly in the cool and silent air of the temple.

Because he was a warrior, his knees had naturally found the stone before the altar of the Warrior of Wrath. But because he was also a man, frail, flawed, and fundamentally tethered to the earth, he had turned his prayers next to the Father Protector of Laws, and finally, to the gentle Weaver, the Bringer of Mercy. Honor, strength, and above all mercy. Those were the three pillars upon which a true knight was meant to build his life, the armor and the sword was to fight in defence of those.

His father had been entirely wrong. A knight was not made by the high-born crest painted on his shield, nor by the polished, expensive steel of his armor. A knight was forged in the quiet fire of his own actions and the unyielding iron of his will.

Vilon had seen that undeniable truth written in the mud. He had seen it when that young lord had firmly pressed the reins of a fine destrier into his rough bastard hands.

For no reason more of honor.

He had seen it when the Lord of Epietoli had traded a heavy bag of silver pieces for the scarred, battered suit of mail that had subsequently saved his life twice on the bloody field. Those high-born men had seen something hidden beneath his common skin. They must have. And because they had gambled their faith on him, Vilon now carried a staggering debt of honor, one that would require a lifetime of brutal labor to repay. It was a sentence he was more than happy to concede to.

Strength was a cheap commodity in the world, any man with an axe had strength, but honor and mercy? Those were the rare things that made good men. And if a man fought fiercely for what was right and was raised by a knight, then by the laws of the five gods, he was a knight in all the ways that truly mattered.

It did not matter if his father never knighted him. The gods would see it true.

”Ride forth, and be a good knight.”

Those were the words he chose to heed now. Those were the words that would guide his lance, not the bitter, narrow preachings of his father. The bitter old man had been his father, yes, and Viron would forever thank the man for taking him in and teaching him how to wield iron, but he could not thank him for much else. His father had been a wicked, small-minded, angry man who died with nothing but soot in his lungs and spite in his heart. Vilon was going to be different. He was going to be a good knight.

That was his final, unshakeable thought as he rose from the hard wooden bench. He cast one last, lingering look up at the stone statue of the Weaver, studying the intricately carved veil that draped blindly around her divine eyes.

The sight of the veil made his mind wander back to that strange, shivering night with the old crone. He had thought about that encounter more times than he cared to admit, his memories colored with far more apprehension than curiosity. The blind woman had spoken many words into the smoky air, strange, terrifying, riddling things, and yet they had stuck to his ribs like wet burs.

He had needed time to recall them, but he did.

He shook his head, clearing the superstitious fog from his brain. He was just a landless knight with a single squire and a horse that he discovered liked to bite. Whatever grand, world-shaking destiny that blind woman had whispered about was a peg far too high for the likes of him to hang his cloak on.

Vilon traced the five-pointed star of the faith across his armored chest with a heavy thumb, turned on his heel, and strode toward the heavy oak exit. As he passed the threshold, his hand dipped into his small leather pouch, dropping a scattering of copper coins into the wrinkled, outstretched palm of the temple priest.

”Alms for the poor,” He muttered

The old priest’s eyes lit up at the sound of clinking metal. He probably did not receive many alms. It was a small village.

”The five gods bless you, Ser,” he croaked, bowing his bald head.

They already did, priest, Vilon thought silently.

The heavy, spiritual weight of the temple seemed to lift from his shoulders the moment he stepped out into the crisp afternoon air. A smile touched his lips when he spotted a certain boy waiting precisely where he had left him, leaning lazily against the trunk of an ancient, sprawling oak tree planted just beside the temple wall.

Owen was big and stocky, built like a timber-wagon, though he still had a few inches to grow , which was unlikely he would, before he could match Vilon’s own height. The young man’s brown hair was cut aggressively short, shorn all the way down to the pink scalp to ensure that lice and camp-fleas had absolutely no quarter to hold onto. It was a brutal haircut, but it framed a remarkably honest, square face.

Vilon regarded the lad with a critical, appreciative eye. A few more months of consistent meals, a lot more meat on his plate, and some proper, agonizing training with the broadsword, and the big oaf would be an absolute beast in battle.

Owen noticed his master approaching and straightened up from the oak tree, a massive, block-headed grin splitting his face. He puffed out his chest, mimicking the grand posture of the royal guards they had seen in the city.

”Ser,” Big Owen spoke, his voice deep enough to rattle a windowpane.

”Squire,” Vilon replied, nodding with an exaggerated, courtly gravity.

A heartbeat passed before the ridiculous formality broke, and they both chuckled, the rough, easy sound echoing off the walls of the temple.

It was a damn good thing to have friends.

”Are we going to meet my mama now?” Owen asked, his stride quickening with an eager, bounding energy that made his heavy boots kick up puffs of dry dirt.

That was exactly why they had ridden all the way out to these forgotten, rolling valleys. Viron wouldn’t dream of taking the boy into permanent service without his mother’s explicit permission, and besides, the big oaf had insisted that every single piece of silver he had earned during the brutal southern campaign be delivered directly into his family’s hands.

Vilon looked at him, a soft, unspoken pride settling in his chest. He knew the lad would grow up to be a phenomenal knight with a remarkably kind heart. Owen was simple, perhaps but he was fundamentally a good man inside. In so many ways, he was terrifyingly similar to Viron himself.

”I am eager to meet her,” he replied, adjusting the heavy leather strap of his shield across his shoulder.The white shrilling roast of his father’s house painted on it. ”And the rest of your family, too.”

”Oh! You are going to love them, Ser!” Owen said happily ”Harl is always out with the sheep, but sometimes he brings us little statues of wood when he comes down from the hills. He knows how to carve goats remarkably well, Ser. He promised he would make me a proper wooden horse when I came back from the wars!Of course, Marila will be happy too. They prepared a whole sack of mutton for my way down and hugged me so strong my ribs cracked. I truly can’t wait to hug them back!Mama cried tears of joy too!”

His smile still hung on his lips entirely unaware that his family had likely spent the last four months assuming he would perish in the southern mud.

He truly was a boy of Summer.

Many boys from these exact valleys had probably perished under the thundering hooves of the southern principalities’ cavalry. But they had been luckier than most.

Owen was a happy boy from a happy family, bubbling with a joyful innocence that the horrors of the Ford hadn’t managed to extinguish. Vilon found himself looking at his own squire with a sudden, sharp pang of envy. What a profoundly strange and bitter thing that was, for a knight to covet the life of his squire.

As they crested the final hill, the village of Owen’s birth finally opened up beneath them, nestled peacefully in the cradle of the valley. It was a beautiful, tranquil sight. Wisps of pale, gray smoke drifted lazily from the stone chimneys of small, thatched-roof cottages, painting the crisp winter air with the comforting scent of burning peat and baking bread.

A slow-moving creek, clear as melted glass, wound its way past fences woven from thick willow branches.Goats and sheep drank from it with lazy abandon.

In the distance, the faint, melodic clinking of bells echoed off the hillsides, a peaceful rhythm that had likely never changed for a hundred years.This place knew little of war no doubt, so close to the capital of a strong and just king.

Vilon swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat, a heavy, familiar jealousy tightening in his chest as he took in the serene scene. He had never known a place like this. He only knew the endless, unforgiving gravel of the road, the transient damp of the earth, and the suffocating scold, spiteful father who only spoke to him in curses.

To the knight , a home was just a place where you slept before the sun rose to bring another day of labor. He had never known what it felt like to have a mother waiting by a hearth, or siblings who carved wooden toys just to see him smile.

”There it is, Ser!” Owen shouted, his heavy face lighting up like the summer sun as he pointed toward a small cottage . ”That’s my roof! Come on, I’ll show you the way!”

Vilon forced a quiet, supportive smile onto his face, letting his squire sprint ahead into the peace of a life he would never truly understand. He followed at a slower, dignified pace, gazing at the life he never had.

And then the doubt settled in.

Was this truly right?