Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

He hated it here.

No matter how many times he reminded himself that he was following his prince's orders, Alpheo's orders, it did nothing to ease the bile rising in his throat. Duty was no balm for misery, and every part of this cursed posting stank of it.

He hated how deep behind enemy lines they were, hated the constant knot in his gut that warned him an Oizen patrol could stumble upon their camp at any moment. He hated the vermin he commanded, half-bandits, half-scum, none with discipline, and above all, he hated how far he was from his wife and child.

Five months.Five months without hearing his daughter's laugh.Five months without his wife's hand in his.Were they safe? Were they well?

Well obviously they were,  the prince would have made sure of that, but still that did not justify his absence!

His brooding was broken by shouting, sharp, panicked voices outside, and the unmistakable sound of a heavy body hitting the dirt like a sack of meat.

Lucius didn't flinch.

Instead, he reached for the sword resting across the maps he had personally drew on his desk.

He had of course sent copies back homes, but that was another matter.

His fingers closed around the worn hilt of the sword with the ease of long habit. He knew before even stepping outside that he was about to hate what he saw even more than he hated thinking of it.

More voices, sharper now as they were getting them ready

He slid the blade free from its scabbard with a hiss, the steel whispering like a promise.

"Fucking bandits," he muttered, stepping out.

And of course, the first damned thing that met his eyes were the trees.

He hated the trees.

Hated the gnarl of roots that made the ground uneven, the insects that never slept and never let him sleep, the thick canopies that blocked out stars and made the night feel like a blindfold. He hated this filthy little forest, hated this pitiful excuse for a camp, and above all, he hated the cretins he was forced to call "men."

Lucius's lips curled into a snarl as he took in the chaos.

Ahead of him, seven of the filthy fools knelt in the dirt, wrists bound tightly behind their backs with coarse rope, faces swollen and bloodied. A few of them couldn't even lift their heads under the weight of bruises and guilt, or perhaps just bruises. Lucius doubted they were smart enough to feel shame.

He had given orders. Explicit ones. But deserters and scum couldn't be trusted not to fuck pigs, let alone follow basic commands to keep their pants on when taking food from villages.

The nearby village, the very one that sustained this hidden camp with food and silence, had been raided. Not by strangers. Not by enemies. But by his own men.

These seven imbeciles had taken it upon themselves to sneak into the village under cover of night, drag off women like sacks of grain, and hide them in a secluded hollow near the southern edge of the camp.

Lucius only learned of it when his men rode in for the monthly tribute and the village elder, red-faced and desperate, had quietly asked about their missing wives and daughters.

A little questioning. A little violence. And the culprits had been found, beaten and dragged before him to kneel in the cold dirt like dogs waiting to be put down.

One of the seven, his nose clearly broken and one eye swollen shut, dared raise his head. His good eye burned with defiance as it locked onto Lucius.

"Shen,'' he said calling the anonym that Lucius now used '' you fucker," he spat, voice raspy and thick with blood. "What's the meaning of this?! This ain't—"

Lucius's attention slipped away before the man could finish. His mind fluttered off like a bored butterfly, utterly uninterested in the whimpering of dead men.

He had to admit, for all the things he hated about this forest, the thick canopy and uneven terrain made it a near-perfect hiding place. Trees swallowed whole battalions if you knew how to nest them properly, and Lucius knew.

The local lords had begun to suspect something, of course. A few caravans stopped arriving. Some villages missed taxes. Eventually, a letter had even been sent to the prince himself. But whoever came searching didn't find much. Lucius had made sure of that.

Bandits were animals, they shat where they ate, hunted too close to home. That was why they got caught. Lucius wasn't a bandit. He was a tactician. He staged his attacks far from camp, careful to hit distant roads and merchant trails. It made moving the loot back difficult, but it kept the noose off their necks.

As for food? That came from "tribute", polite for extortion. Villages nearby were spared, though not out of mercy. They were simply more useful, compliant and afraid. Lucius had men stationed quietly in each of them. And to ensure cooperation, he had taken children as insurance.

When city garrisons came asking questions, no one spoke. Mothers glanced at locked sheds. Fathers gripped empty cradles. And they all lied beautifully.

It had worked like clockwork. Until these cretins decided they wanted "fun."

Lucius stepped forward, boots sinking slightly into the soft loam. One of the prisoners—the same loudmouth from earlier—coughed a gob of blood, then sneered up at him.

"We're bandits," he growled, trying for bravado. "Who gives a fuck abou—"

A gurgle.

A line of crimson traced across his throat as Lucius's blade passed through flesh with silent precision. The man clutched his neck and toppled sideways, eyes wide with shock as he bled into the earth.

Lucius didn't blink.

He turned his gaze to the others.

No speeches. He would let their whimper impart the lesson.

One by one, his true subordinates stepped forward and slit the rest of their throats with practiced ease. There was no panic in the camp. No ceremony. Just silence, broken only by the quiet thud of bodies collapsing like sacks of grain.

By the time the last of the blood had soaked into the dirt, Lucius had already turned away, his boots crunching softly over twigs and soil. The problem was solved, the message clear.And hopefully this was a lesson he wouldn't have to teach again.

As he reached the entrance of his tent, he paused, one hand on the flap, then turned back toward the gathered men, his gaze as cold and sharp as the blade he'd just used.

Perhaps a small speech would have been fine....

"Far as I care, you have your orders," he said, voice flat. "I decide when you get to enjoy yourselves, and where. If any of you feel the itch for a night's fun, I suggest you take a long look at your friends over there."

He gestured toward the writhing bodies still gasping out their last breaths, their limbs twitching in the dirt. The blood pooled thick beneath them, dark and sticky, and their hands still strained feebly against their bonds, clumsy attempts to cover the wounds at their necks. Their chins tucked instinctively toward their throats as though they could hide the gaping slashes, but it was a futile motion. They looked less like men and more like dying worms.

He held their gaze just long enough to see a few eyes avert, jaws tighten in unease.

Under normal circumstances, this might've sparked a mutiny. After all, he was leading more cutthroats than soldiers. But Lucius wasn't worried. Not with how many loyal blades he had in plain sight, and how many more in the shadows. He knew his camp, every whisper and every breath. If anyone even thought about conspiracy, he'd hear it before they finished the sentence.

Without another word, he ducked into the tent, the flap falling shut behind him.

The silence inside was a small mercy. Outside, the forest was always alive with insect and rustling leaves, but here he had carved out a pocket of control. A desk littered with maps, reports, and coded letters stood near one corner. A water barrel sat near the back wall. His cot was Spartan, no more comfort than necessary, but clean. He hated filth in the place he slept.

Only moments later, the flap stirred again and his second-in-command entered.

Lucius glanced up, his sharp eyes narrowing as he caught sight of blood smeared across Ebran's chest.

"Seriously?" he muttered, nose wrinkling.

"Oh, shit. Sorry," Ebran said quickly, realizing his mistake. He moved immediately to the barrel of water, stripping off the soiled tunic and scrubbing the blood from his chest and arms. He was careful not to splash onto the floor.

At least he's learning, Lucius thought, watching him out of the corner of his eye. He had been unsure of the man's discipline back in Arduronaven, and at the time, he'd feared he was more fire than steel, too eager, too loud. But a few months in this hellhole under his command had tempered him. Lucius had begun to believe Ebran might actually be ready to handle an operation on his own one day. A rare thought.

Ebran finished cleaning and turned toward him, still towel-drying his arms.

"Sir?"

Lucius blinked, realizing his thoughts had wandered. "What?"

"The supply run's today."

"Shit—already?" Lucius rubbed his temples. He had completely forgotten about it .

"I can take care of it again if you'd like." He offered

Lucius shook his head, waving a hand. "No, I should take care of that. You've done well lately, though. Get me the letters from our other agents, if any are going out today, then take your time. Eat. Sleep. Enjoy not dealing with imbeciles for a day as you accompany me. It would do you well to take some sunlight along with a stroll"

Ebran allowed himself a rare smile and gave a nod. "Yes, sir."

As the younger man stepped back through the tent's flap, Lucius let out a slow breath and sat down at his desk.

The day's brutality was handled. The camp, for now, was under control. But something gnawed at him, beneath the surface of these thoughts. Two years now, he'd been in hiding, carving order from chaos on the edges of war-torn provinces, leading bandits to attack caravans and patrols.

Five months since he'd seen the capital.Five months since he'd heard a true whisper of his homeland.

I should ask. He scratched his chin.It wouldn't hurt to get word. To know what the princedom looks like now, I wonder how the prince is doing; he should have had his second child by now....Wonder if it is a girl or a boy