Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

”Lost to us?” Tiberius echoed back, the words tasting strange on his tongue.

He could not think of a single moment in the last century where the South had ever truly been theirs to lose. To his recollection, it had always been a fractured landscape of petty, bickering principalities, stubborn and wild.As bloodthirsty for each other blood as for those of outsiders.

Still, if this development had caused such profound dismay in the old Ghost of Arlania... well, a man was only ever powerless when he deliberately decided not to grasp at the iron tools he was given.

”I would rather think we might finally get our time’s worth by dealing strictly with our own internal matters,” Tiberius reasoned, his voice gaining a fraction of confidence. ”The South hasn’t been ours for quite some time, my lord. Emperor Aenor the Misfooted was the last who attempted to tame it, and if you wish to know how that went, you would need to ask the sheer rocks of the southern cliffs only to hear their reasons.”

”Spare me your historic jests,you are not one of your wife’s creatures” Lord Julian said flatly, waving a piece of parchment flippantly in the air to dismiss the boy’s wit. ”Our entire strategy was based on Yarzat being fundamentally incapable of rendering any swift aid to the Acheian spawn up north. We simply do not have the resources, nor do we possess the battlefield commanders, to deal with that singular monster those southern lords saw fit to give power.Say what you will about the man, but he has a mind for warfare.

I would have sent a dozen skilled killers after his throat a long time ago, but whatever clever mice I send into that domain are always invariably found by that damn man’s cat.” He let out a dark, breathless chuckle. ”Or better yet, his Raven.”

That prickled Tiberius’s interest.

It wasn’t every day that the legendary Ghost of Arlania openly admitted to having finally found his match in the game of shadows.

”We have known of the Yarzat prince’s victory for weeks now,” Tiberius noted, his eyes drifting across the cluttered tactical map on the table. ”What of it? Did you genuinely realize only this morning what that victory meant for us”

”King,” Julian simply sighed, leaning his head back against the leather of his chair.

Tiberius blinked, thoroughly confused. ”What?”

”It is King, Tiberius. No longer prince.”

The young Emperor’s expression must have been funnier than any written joke he could have ever spoken, for Julian actually spluttered with a brief, sudden burst of genuine laughter.

”The Yarzat lords have crowned the Fox as king?” As the words poured out of Tiberius’ mouth, they made even less practical sense than before. How could the South possibly have a king? It was a land universally known to have no kings, only princes!

He shook his head.

”The southern lords can give a literal mountain of gold to a common bug if they please, but it means nothing. High lords may unmake kings, but they do not possess the ancient right to make one.”

”The Achean spawn in the capital gave his imperial consent already, and that fat fuck in the white garb sent a holy Archon south with a chest of oil just to put a crown on the Fox’s head,” Julian replied at long last. He seemed to take a twisted, momentary pleasure in watching the absolute, unvarnished bewilderment wash over the face of his Empero—no, his servant.

”They really have allowed a sovereign king to sit in the South?” Tiberius wondered aloud, his mind racing through the terrifying political ramifications. ”Are they utterly mad?”

”On the contrary. They are perfectly sane. The Acheans completely depend on Yarzat now for both their trade routes and their military protection.” The sheer absurdity of the words seemingly made the old general laugh again. ”An Emperor begging for the protection of a southern princedom... now isn’t that a godsdamn fine joke, Imperial Majesty?”

”Apologies if I don’t find myself joining in the laughter,” Tiberius muttered.

”Not that there is much to actually laugh about,” the old lord replied, his mocking demeanor slipping away as instantly as it had arrived, replaced by the familiar, freezing mask of the master strategist. ”So, my boy... what do you suggest we do?”

Tiberius stared at the older man, a white curl of hair dropping down across his face. He felt the weight of the trap. ”Are you testing me, my lord?”

”No, I am actually interested in what you might say. You routinely do yourself a great disservice, Tiberius,” Julian replied, his voice visibly calmer and more measured than it had been since the inkpot shattered. ”Were you a simpleton or a fool, I would have gladly kept you as a pampered pet to wave around for the smallfolk, a pretty mask behind which I may comfortably rule the Empire.But you are not a fool, and of that fact, I am immensely pleased. You are virtuous, and you are smart.”

Julian reached for a fresh sheet of parchment, smoothly dipping a new quill into what little ink remained in his well as he began composing another letter. ”And besides... you got your father’s striking looks.”

Somehow, Tiberius found a wave of profound disgust rising in his throat at the man’s last words. He would have gladly traded his father’s praised features for even a fraction of his mother’s memory. In truth, he had been thinking of her less and less as the months passed in this gilded prison. Once, during his lonely childhood, she had been absolutely all that he could think of.

He used to wonder about her nature constantly. Was she a celebrated courtisan of the high city? A beautifully tragic whore? A gifted poetess whose words had captured a sovereign’s heart?Did she have a kind heart?Was she vile?

But with the cold passage of time and his forced education in the harsh realities of power, Tiberius had finally realized the ugly, unvarnished truth. She had been none of those romantic things. She was just a piece of convenient, fuckable meat that had briefly met the late Emperor’s wandering eye, likely earning the Empress’ fatal displeasure all in one careless turn. She had been used, seeded upon, discarded, and forgotten by the very man he now claimed inheritance over his trueborn sons.

Some man would see it as revenge. Tiberius could not share the sight, himself. He cared nothing for them.

And as he stood before the Ghost of Arlania, feeling the cold marble beneath his boots, Tiberius realized that if he wasn’t careful, the crown on his head would ensure he met the exact same disposable end.

”What? Cat got your tongue?” Julian asked, not looking up from his parchment as the quill scratched a steady, rhythmic rhythm against the paper.

”What is our ultimate objective?” Tiberius countered, choosing to ignore the jab about his mother entirely.

”What do you think it is?”

”To bring Yarzat down” Tiberius said, stepping closer to the desk. ”To ensure they are forever incapable of lending their heavy legions to aid the Acheian spawn up north.”

Julian waved his hand flippantly, a thin smear of fresh ink staining his knuckle. ”There you already have it, then. You were always a remarkably smart boy, Tiberius, if only you weren’t baseborn. Now speak. Give me an actual strategy, not just a textbook definition.”

”You say that the new King is too well protected, and that your killers cannot reach his throat?”

”Killers?” Julian let out a dry, mocking snort. ”I couldn’t put a common field mouse near the man for the love of me. So yes, my killers cannot reach him to give him the long sleep. His local lords are far too fearful to even dare stare him in the eye; all they can do now is eagerly eat his excrement and loudly praise the sweetness of the taste. Oizen is entirely out of the grand game; their Prince, Sorza, has suffered one too many catastrophic defeats and will not hunker out of his shell anytime soon. All we have left on the southern board is Habadia, and Kakunia, which is currently tearing itself apart in a brutal civil war.”

An old, anxious instinct made Tiberius reach up, his fingers nervously tracing the base of his neck. But beneath the fear, his mind was finally working, pieces of the southern puzzle clicking into a sharp, logical alignment.

”Kakunia,” Tiberius said clearly.

Julian stopped his writing, raising a single, sharp white eyebrow in silent invitation.

”For now, we should strictly focus on damage control,” Tiberius explained, his voice growing steadier. ”I am entirely certain we can do something to ruin the Mad Bull, Alpheo’s ally. Merelao, isn’t it? If something fatal happens to him, their civil war ends instantly, and Yarzat is permanently deprived of its only true ally that isn’t a puppet of Romelia. If one looks past this sudden aura of invincibility surrounding the Fox, Yarzat is still just a newborn kingdom. They will lose in a proper, prolonged war against multiple opponents. The only reason they won the last campaign so handily was because Habadia and Oizen got greedy and tried to take a foolish shortcut through the Bastion, in the end that became their graveyeard.’’

Julian let out a slow, appreciative sigh, leaning back to let the ink on his letter dry. ”The shortest road is rarely the best one,” the old lord agreed.

”Do we actually possess the power to do something to aid the rebels against Merelao?” Tiberius asked, leaning his hands on the edge of the desk.

”It will not be easy, certainly, but it is a thousand times more manageable than trying to get one over Yarzat directly,” Julian murmured, tapping his chin with the feather of his quill. He looked at Tiberius for a long moment before offering a slow, genuine nod.

He pointed at the door ’’You may go, I’ll make sure to call you next as soon as chance arise.I would be a fool not to make use of you against the Fox. For now we shall do damage control then....hopefully a chance will arise.’’

Tiberius nodded as he walked toward the door, Julian wouldn’t find him opposed, he had after all his own interest to pursue with the King of Yarzat.