Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

The command tent was ablaze with joy.

Six hours had passed since the shattered remnants of the Herculeian army had limped away, their backs open to the blades and spears of the Yarzat host. And for six hours now, the tent had echoed with the sounds of celebration , laughter, toasts, and the warm clinking of cups filled and refilled with heady red wine.

It was the sort of victory that commanders dream of, clean, decisive, and, most of all, easy.

Lords clasped each other's shoulders and shouted praise loud enough to shake the canvas walls. Servants weaved through them with platters of roasted meat and spiced fruits, their hands barely keeping up with the demands. Men who had never spoken before the campaign now shared flasks like old friends, bonded by the sweet intoxication of triumph.

To them, the war was already won. The Herculeian host had not merely been defeated—it had been broken. Routed. Humiliated. The Yarzat army now had the freedom to move as it pleased, to tear apart the Herculeian heartlands like wolves among blind cattle. They had tasted blood, and it had whetted the appetite for more.

But Alpheo did not drink. He did not laugh.

He leaned silently against one of the polished wooden support poles of the tent, a bit anxious about the increasing cold.

There was a reason after all why army did not make war during winter.

He decided to distract himself looking at the others.

Jarza was in the center of the tent , recounting the oblique maneuver with theatrical flair to an unusually relaxed Shahab. The latter was grinning from ear to ear, uncharacteristically animated, nodding along like a young officer hearing his first tale of glory. He had shed the frost of his usual stern demeanor, perhaps because he had led the Voghondai on the left flank, men whose battle songs were written not with words, but with screams and torn flesh.

Reports had since filtered back describing the Voghondai charge as something pulled from a fever dream. Not a battle, but a ritual.

They cleaved their enemies like butchers dressing livestock, never hesitating, never slowing, painting the field with blood and bone.

The worst, and perhaps most awe-inspiring, came not from the front lines, but from the warriors standing behind, waiting their turn. They had descended upon the already-dead with disturbing enthusiasm, hacking off heads, hands, ears—any trophy that could be lifted.

Some danced with their grisly prizes skewered on the ends of their spears, lifting them high as though raising tribal standards letting the enemy see what would be of their deads. Others hurled severed limbs like javelins into the enemy's crumbling formations, as if to mock their disarray.

Even Alpheo, hardened as he was, remembered the shiver that had crawled down his spine when the first account had reached him.

He was glad they were fighting for him and not against him.

But he had made no order to stop it.

He had no intention of curbing their ferocity. On the contrary, he intended to refine it. Direct it. That raw violence, that primal spectacle, could be shaped into something more than fearsome. It could become a weapon of awe, a psychological cudgel that broke enemies before steel even touched skin.

Alpheo watched as Shahab threw back his head in laughter, clapping Jarza's shoulder hard enough to nearly spill the man's wine. How strange, he thought, to see the court's stiffest noble loosened by bloodshed. Victory had a way of transforming men, some into legends, others into fools.

Fame got into a man's head faster than wine ever could, burning hotter, lingering longer, and corroding deeper. It made men speak louder, stand taller, laugh like gods, and fall like children.

The bones of a wild Corsican being the firmest of examples, a man who once tried to squeeze the world into the shape of his will. He had danced with the stars and drowned in exile.

Lords clustered in small circles, their fine coats still crusted with the dust of battle, gripping goblets of wine as if toasting a century's peace.

Victory was a whore, and every man here wanted his turn with her.

Alpheo's sharp eyes drifted to the cake at the center of the long wooden table.

They all saw Herculia as that cake now, ripe, golden, warm from the oven. A thing to be sliced and shared.

But Alpheo was not here to eat in morsels.He was not here to nibble like a courtier at a banquet.

He was a devourer.And he meant to consume.

He would not take slices. He would swallow the whole thing, choke down the sweetness and bones in one ruthless bite and let the rest starve on the crumbs.

He was just beginning to feel the shape of the future, tracing its edges in his mind, when—

"HAVE I MISSED THE FEAST?!"

The flaps of the tent burst open as if kicked by a storm, a voice booming through it like war drums on a mountain pass. Heads turned, startled. Wine nearly spilled.

But Alpheo didn't need to turn.He knew that bark. That irreverent growl.His hound had returned.

The bastard moved through the tent like he owned it. Dust clung to his shoulders and boots like trophies, and blood still caked the edge of his vambrace. He was grinning, always grinning, as if the world's worst tragedy would still amuse him so long as it ended with something on fire.

Without asking or offering, Egil snatched a silver goblet, drained it in one gulp, slammed it on the table, then grabbed another from a nearby servant's tray. The nobles parted for him like a tide before a ship's prow, slapped on the back by some, sneered at by others. He laughed at both.

Alpheo studied him as he came, his movements sharp, shoulders relaxed but not careless. There were no limps, no fresh wounds, no bandage; he felt relief at that. Few were as capable as the loud man in front of him.

Their eyes met, and Egil's grin widened as he leaned closer while whispering in a small voice.

"Well? No howl of recognition from Herculia's famed fox?"

"Foxes don't howl, dumbass," Alpheo said, voice dry but welcoming. He clasped Egil's forearm with a soldier's grip, hard enough to crack bones. "They yip. And you've taken your godsdamned time."

"The plan was to drag their cavalry out of the field," Egil said "And that's exactly what I did. Rode them so far off course they'll be lucky to find their way back before next winter. My ass is stone from the saddle."

He stretched, popping his back with a grunt, then leaned in with the grin of a boy caught mid-crime.

"Some of the lads went full madman. One idiot got it in his head to throw a lasso at a Herculeian knight. Snagged his mount, tangled him with another's steed . They looked like two drunks in a three-legged race before they hit the dirt. You should've seen it—gods, it was beautiful."

Alpheo couldn't help the chuckle that slid past his lips. "You're lucky they didn't string you up for riding them like cattle."

"I'd welcome it. Finally something new."

At that Alpheo gestured to the table, the wine, the meat cooling on silver trays. "Drink. Rest. Enjoy the spoils. You've earned it."

Egil raised an eyebrow. "Rest? I got no use to rest while there is such fun around me" He laughed again. "I'll rest when their capital, their new one I mean, is ash. You're not about to let the bastards off easy, are you?"

Alpheo gave a rare, wolfish smile. "You think I'd drag them out into the open just to send them back limping?"

"I think you're going to put the fox's teeth right to their throat," Egil said with a grin that cut sharper than his blade. "And this time, you won't let go. So, without wasting further time, when are we going to run them down?"

There was no mistaking the hunger in his voice. The eagerness. The thirst for the chase that hadn't dulled, even after a full day's ride and a battle.

Alpheo didn't answer immediately. He sipped from his cup, eyes fixed not on Egil, but on the flickering flame of the torch above them.

"Very late, actually."

Egil blinked. He raised an eyebrow, as if waiting for the punchline. "You're joking."

"No." Alpheo's voice was cool, measured. "We'll wait."

"That's rich." Egil scoffed, tossing back the remnants of his wine. "I know better than to ask why. You'll explain, whether I want you to or not."

Alpheo gave a crooked smile. "And you'll thank me for it."

Another servant passed by with a fresh tray. Egil plucked a fourth goblet from it without breaking eye contact.

"We already know where they're going." The prince continued

Egil nodded slowly. "So you've got rats feeding you breadcrumbs."

"More than breadcrumbs," Alpheo replied. "they are getting me the whole piece.''

"Alright," Egil said, swirling his wine, "so what's the delay?"

"Because I'm about to get the key to their house," he said with a smile . "And once I have it, I'll walk right through the front gate… then burn the whole godsdamned thing down with them inside if they don't allow me in."

Egil's grin returned. This time wider, fuller

"A cheer, then?"

"A cheer, it is."

Steel met steel as they clinked their cups, the echo ringing louder than it should've, like that of swords meeting each other in a hot embrace.