Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

He probably looked like hell.

That was his first self-assessment as his boots pressed into the damp green grass. The wind was gentle, the sun forgiving, but his body felt like it had been dragged through a week of sleepless nights and it had.

He wanted nothing more than to collapse into a bed and soak in a steaming bath. But both luxuries were out of reach. Sleep would have to wait there was work to be done, and a bath? Impossible. It wouldn't do for the prince to be seen having warm water hauled across the camp like some pampered noble. Not here. Not now.

He had built an image: the prince of soldiers.And he protected it fiercely.

Though he had never fought in a pitched battle, and privately hoped to keep it that way, he had compensated in every other way he could.

He refused to indulge in opulence while on campaign. He ate publicly whenever he could the same rations as the men, and while he never admitted it, the food was surprisingly good, thanks to the generous coin he had poured into the supply chain to ensure his army was fed well and consistently.

They probably even ate better than most merchants.

No one could accuse him of vanity. Not here, not among soldiers who bled on his orders.

And at least now, he had managed to pry himself away from Edric, who had doggedly tried to convince him to allow the Fourth Legion to spearhead the cliffside assault. Alpheo had no intention of assigning legions wholesale to such a perilous task. His solution had been to promise Edric that volunteers for the operation would be requested from his legion first, satisfying both the young commander's pride and Alpheo's wish not to be known to the newly formed legion as their butcher, as he did not know how much of Edric's words about his troops desire to fight were true.

The entire camp had grown weary of the daily assaults. Each charge thrown at the city walls had chipped away not just at their numbers, but at morale, and Alpheo most of all had felt the weight. He had always believed in finding the elegant solution, the path of least blood. But here, standing before impregnable walls and pressed for time, there was no clean solution. No easy victory.

It was to be a grinder of meat.

And it had soured him.

He had grown sharp, short-tempered. His days were a haze of reports and calculations; his nights offered little sleep and less comfort.

But now, finally, he had a thread.A plan. A chance.

It wasn't perfect, but it was something.And for the first time in days, he felt a flicker of peace return to his mind.

So now, he stood before the soldiers who had borne the brunt of this brutal campaign, the men of the Fourth Legion.

He had made a promise to their newly appointed Legate, and now it was time to fulfill it.

They were the youngest branch of Yarzat's military machine, yet there was nothing novice about the way they carried themselves. Their armor was polished and formidable, their shields broad and thick, each of them clad as if daring death to try its hand. To kill even one of them was no small feat, it would take a tale-worthy blow, and a good deal of luck considering the many layer of defence they had.

Despite being the hardest-hit of any legion in the siege, they stood proud, like eagles mid-ascent, wings outstretched, chests forward, defiance in their posture. Each face was set unweathered by fear , and above all fierce.

Alpheo walked toward them not as a commander breaking their space, but as though it was his space to begin with.

He made a point to lock eyes with several in the front ranks. He knew those brief moments would ripple back through the lines,whether the men talked about it or not, the message would spread.

It was incredible how meaningless words and actions from those believed to be at the top could mean for those below.

He drifted off in thought for a few seconds before waking himself from it.

Then he spoke.

He had a figure to maintain, after all.

"I believe it's only right that I begin by commending you. For your courage. For your resilience in the face of the enemy's steel. Though you are the newest legion in the crown's service, you have fought like veterans. You've earned your banner in blood and fire, and it flies higher for it."

There was a shift in the crowd, subtle,but clear. A tightening of shoulders, a few proud smiles breaking through their stern discipline, chests swelling slightly beneath cuirasses.

"And because of the respect I hold for you, it is only right that you are the first I turn to. I am in need of volunteers. For a mission."

At that, heads tilted slightly forward. Ears sharpened.

"A dangerous mission," he added clearly, deliberately. "One that, if successful, could win us this siege."

That brought silence.

"I won't hide the risk. I will offer one hundred silverii to any man who finds in himself the courage to take it on. But more than coin, this mission could be the key to placing our banner atop that cursed wall. If it succeeds, your names will be remembered as those who cracked the gate no ram could break."

He let the final words settle before delivering the call.

"Anyone among you who is willing to face such danger in the name of his legion, step forward."

He expected a few dozen, maybe, a strong show of spirit, but nothing reckless. After all, they were brave, not foolish.

But what happened next struck him silent.

All of them, every last man,stepped forward.

All 195 active personnel, including the bandaged, the limping, even one man with his arm in a sling. They did not hesitate. As one, they moved.

It was a moment that startled Alpheo. For all his careful speeches, for all the manipulation of morale and martial pride, he had not expected this.

And in that moment, he realized that whatever he thought of this legion before, he had still underestimated them.

Perhaps sensing the flicker of surprise in Alpheo's expression, Edric stepped forward, leaned in slightly, and whispered just above the rustle of armor and grass:

"Your Grace! '' He saluted bringing his closed fist to his chest ''When I told you they were clamoring to lead the next assault to avenge their comrades, I wasn't exaggerating. Not in the slightest.The sight of their brothers dying, fighting to the last breath alone atop those walls before they were cut down,it carved something into them.

A part of them believes this mission isn't just a task. It's a duty passed to them by the dead. I promise you, many of them volunteered not for silver but to feed the task they believe their dead comrades passed onto them."

Alpheo stood still, lips slightly parted.

What words could he offer that might rise to meet that kind of resilience? That depth of purpose?There were none.

All he could do, all he should do, was give them what recognition he could.

And yet, beneath the awe, something else stirred.

This... this was what he had long dreamed of.

He had once obsessed over the power of ancient nations, of the Roman identity, one that linked people that came from different regions, that persisted even when ruled by foreign powers.

That dream had often felt impossible within the fragmented, patronage-bound society he ruled. But now?Wasn't what he had witnessed proof that it was possible?

As he looked into the faces of 195 men whose conviction had transcended fear, gold, and even command, he saw the first glimmer of that dream made flesh.

It was his legions, after all, that would carry him toward that future of a common national pride and identity, born once again from the very pillar of that would sustain Yarzat's rise.

He stepped forward, voice steady, chest high.

"I would like to begin by apologizing."

A murmur of confusion rippled through the ranks.

"I had underestimated you, your resilience, your will, your pride. And I can tell you now, nothing has ever tasted so sweet as being proven wrong in this very moment.

I have said that although you were the youngest of my legions, you fought with the fire of the oldest.

I stand by that. But now, I say something more: you have shown yourselves worthy of a name."

There it was, the spark. The moment. The legion held its breath.

They were finally worthy enough to be named.

"From this day forth, the Fourth shall no longer go nameless.

In recognition of the fierce heart that beats within you, you will be known as Ardita. That shall be your epiteth guard it with your lives."

A beat of stunned silence followed and then the explosion.

A roar broke out from the men like thunder splitting the sky. Some let loose war cries, others simply raised fists or weapons, and a few even banged the butts of their javelins against the ground, the sharp thud-thud-thud ringing like a drumbeat of pride.

It was Edric who gave voice to it first.

He thrust his arm up, fist clenched, and shouted:

"Fourth Ardita!Here now it rises!"

And like a wave crashing in perfect rhythm, every man , simple gears of one big war-machine, answered:

"FOURTH ARDITA!"