Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

With a plop and a long, weary sigh, the old lord and Jasmine's last tie to anything resembling family , sank into the velvet cushions of the sitting room's worn sofa.

A bundle of papers lay scattered on the low table before him.

He reached silently for the cup of wine resting nearby, lifting it with slow familiarity as if it was a long companion of that day. The deep red liquid tilted, swirled, and slipped down his throat, warm and bitter like the month they had just lived through.

Alpheo said nothing. He sat across from him, hands clasped, waiting.

He let the old man settle and do it at his own time. Shahab had earned his silence, just as much as any general on the battlefield.

They had all thought they would rest. After four months of grueling campaign, it had seemed a reasonable hope. But reality, sharp as a dagger, reminded them that war never truly ended with the last clash of steel.

There was always an order to shape from the ruins of conquest.

Each of them had been sent their separate way.

Asag was now stationed in the former capital of Lechlian. an ash-stained city being pieced back together. His corps had been tasked with protecting the reconstruction effort, which was a polite way of saying keep the peace, and don't let anyone burn it down again.

The actual administration. budgets, crop quotas, building permits, was being handled by the bureaucratic machine Alpheo had brought with him, greased and polished to operate without a noble's direct hand.

Egil, on the other hand, had been sent to the same region, but with a different mandate entirely.

Where Asag guarded against trouble, Egil hunted it. Against the bandits in thier holdout, the Crown's Hound was unleashed once more.

The nickname had never been just about how his cavalry fought like rabid beasts in the field. In peacetime, he was Alpheo's blade for callous work , the one sent to sniff out any undesirable element, just like a hunting hound.

And Egil wore the title like armor. He loved it.

Jarza was the only one left in the capital, his presence a quiet deterrent. Alpheo preferred it that way, at least one corps within reach wherever he went. Just in case.

Now, the burden of command had circled back to them, coiled like a rope around their necks. The campaign might be over, but the princedom they had won was still raw, still bleeding.

And tonight, the prince had other numbers to report. Plans to share. And a future to weigh.

He waited, wine in his own hand, as Shahab leaned back and exhaled, the old man's eyes finally meeting his.

"I've finally completed the task you gave me," he said, leaning forward to set the last bundle of documents onto the table with a dull thump. "The newly conquered lands, with their markets and roads, have been carved up like a wedding cake. And the lords we approached? They devoured it with the hunger of men who've been starved for years."

He reached again for the wine, his tone laced with dry amusement.

"All the fear they once had of regime change seemed to melt the moment I mentioned what we intended to offer. Turns out suspicion has a short memory when gold walks in the door."

Alpheo reclined slightly, the flicker of candlelight dancing in his dark eyes as he watched the old man. He turned his cup in his hand, the wine inside glinting like blood.

"Men see what they wish to see," he said quietly, "and profit blinds most like a thick veil, just enough to dim what lies beneath, without hiding it entirely."

Shahab snorted and raised an eyebrow, lips curling into the faintest smirk.

"Oh? And does that make you better sighted than the rest of us? Because you gave away a piece of your purse with what?Grace? Nobility?" His tone was teasing, but there was something behind the words.

"No," Alpheo said before expanding it "Not better. Just further-sighted. When I give something, it is not out of charity. I simply know what comes back is greater. Behind the veil of the market we've offered up… lies security. Security that will remain ours for decades.

Gold flows, and with it, so does allegiance. Soft power is the quieter blade, my dear granddad. One that cuts deeper than the sharpest sword and lasts longer than the sturdiest of shields."

He held Shahab's gaze for a moment longer, before setting his cup down gently on the table.

"Now," he said, "what of the customs and levies?"

The older man shrugged and reached for a parchment,ignoring the way he was called, flipping the document open with a swoosh as he took the paper in the middle of the bundle.

"The lords who received our invitation and accepted our terms have agreed to supply ninety footmen, forty archers, and ten heavy knights each time we call them to war. In addition, they'll pay a yearly tribute of 3,500 silverii."

Alpheo nodded once, satisfied. "And the others?"

"The ones who were… less favored," Shahab said, "are to provide seventy footmen, thirty archers, and ten knights. Their yearly tribute stands at 1,500 silverii."

Alpheo tapped a finger against the table, thoughtful. "That's good there is no better thing than to standardise war itself..."

"Better than Lechlian ever managed," Shahab added, taking a sip of his wine. "Tell me how much were they paying him, again?"

Alpheo looked up, eyes narrowing slightly, lips curling into something between amusement and disdain.

"Nothing," he said. "Not since I came around. The nobles have benefited from five years of autonomy since I entered into Lechlian's life"

A flicker of pride danced across his face, subtle but unmistakable.

Shahab chuckled, slow and raspy. "And yet they call him the tyrant; he was a saint compared to you."

"History is never written by the generous," Alpheo replied calmly. "Only by the victors."

He sat back again, more relaxed now, the weight of months of planning finally beginning to ease from his shoulders.

"So," Alpheo said, swirling the last of the red in his cup, "we've bought loyalty. We've secured the coffers. The levy numbers are in our favor. And they pay more now than they ever did to their last liege ."

He gave a short, quiet laugh. "Tell me, then do you still think we gave too much away? How much coin was to be made in that forgotten little market anyway? I would have gladly paid twice that price if it meant never seeing another war flare up in my backyard. One taste was more than enough for me to have enough of it."

Shahab didn't answer right away. He simply lifted his cup in a silent toast, a knowing half-smile playing on his weathered face.

He drank.

That was answer enough.

Alpheo mirrored the gesture, their silence one of mutual understanding.

After a moment, Shahab set his cup down and leaned forward, jaw tightening as he finally gave voice to the thought that had clearly gnawed at him for some time.

"I still can't understand," he said slowly, "why you had me handle the division and negotiations. Wouldn't it have been more effective if the conqueror himself had laid down the terms? With me, they haggled and postured like proud merchants of Romelia. But you?" He gave a dry laugh. "With you, they'd have drunk piss from a goblet if you'd told them it was wine."

Alpheo chuckled as his gaze drifted to his now empty cup.

"As you said yourself," he murmured, "I am the conqueror. I'm the man who broke down their gates, hung their banners from my ramparts, slept in their prince's bed, and made myself at home in his halls. Tell me, does that sound like someone who comes down from his throne to softly ask what others would like for dinner?"

There was a pause.

"When a man sees the beast that mauled his kin, blood still on its claws and foam on its mouth , sit down quietly and perform tricks for a sliver of meat… does he still fear the beast?" Alpheo leaned forward, voice low, intimate. "Or does he convince himself the danger was never real?"

He shifting in his back again, exhaling slowly.

"I needed them to see me as the wolf pacing the edges of the firelight. Not the man putting the leash on them''

Shahab scratched at his beard, lips quirking despite himself. "So I was the leash?"

"No," Alpheo said with a faint smirk. "You were the meat."

The old lord let out a rasping laugh, almost choking on it.

"Bastard."

Alpheo smiled. "You've said worse."

They both let the laughter trail off, replaced by a moment of quiet where only the popping of the logs in the fire could be heard.

Their laughter faded again, like ripples settling on still water. For a while, neither spoke, content to sit in the warm silence that only old comrades could share.

Finally Alpheo leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze fixed not on Shahab now but on the dancing flames. Thoughtful. Measured.

"There is something I've been meaning to ask," he said at last, his voice softer now, contemplative. "When I announced who would sit beside us at the council table… you winced."

He turned his head, watching Shahab's face with quiet curiosity.

"Tell me, did you disapprove?"

Shahab snorted, swirling the last of his wine in the cup before setting it down with a quiet clink.

"When that bald bastard first walked into my granddaughter's court, he was a gift—if we can call it that—from the old Regent.

Even then, I didn't like how still he stood, how carefully he listened."

He leaned forward now, arms resting heavily on his knees.

"And when you told me he was still in contact with his old masters, I thought : 'Figures. Once a Romelian, always one.' I'd have bet a year's grain harvest that he was sending more than just kind regards."

His tone lowered, more pointed now.

"And now, you mean to sit him beside us, hand him a key to our coffers, and call him Minister?

All while knowing full well he's been penning little notes every month about our every move."

Shahab met Alpheo's gaze squarely.

In the end it seemed he did indeed disapprove.

"Shouldn't that be a source of disapproval, you ask? What in the hells do you think it is?"

Alpheo's response came without hesitation. Calm and assured.

"I think it's the clearest reason why he belongs there," he said, reclining slightly in his seat. '' He has already cut all his strings.

In Romelia, he had nothing. No land. No name. No legacy. Here? He now has a fief. A position. And soon, a wife and children. Roots. A future. A reason to hold his loyalty where it matters."

Alpheo's fingers drummed once on the armrest, then stilled.

"And more importantly, he knows that we know. Which means we decide what the Romelian court hears. We feed them what we choose, what benefits us. It's not like he will have contact with information that may damage us"

He glanced toward Shahab, a half-smile playing at the edge of his lips.

"It's always good to have a mouth whispering in the ears of our dear old friends across the border. We never know what thoughts drift through the imperial court, but now, at least, we know one of the voices echoing in their halls will be ours."

At that, Shahab snorted with a derisive smile , as if he were right in expressing his dislike.

''Once a rat, always one.''