Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

It had been two wrenching, soul-crushing days for the Herculeians, two days that felt less like a retreat and more like a slow death stretched across a punishing landscape.

Their defeat on the field hadn't just broken their lines. It had broken something deeper. Every shred of hope they once clung to, the illusion that they could hold, resist, turn the tide, had been dashed in less than an hour of brutal, one-sided slaughter.

What was left was not an army. It was a trail of hollow-eyed men limping behind tattered banners that no longer commanded fear or pride.

The ranks had thinned catastrophically. Of the 2,100 who had taken the field, less than 1,400 now followed the battered column as it staggered inland, away from the carnage. Hundreds had perished in the rout, trampled beneath panicked hooves or run down by the Yarzat blades. But the greater share vanished in silence, deserters peeling off one by one under cover of night, never to return.

The sound of footsteps in the darkness, bare feet and battered boots slipping through wet grass, breath held, weapons discarded, that was the only rhythm that accompanied the night.

There was no time for justice. No search parties were sent after the deserters. No tribunal. No rope. No ceremony. The truth was simple: no one had the strength, or the stomach, for that kind of job anymore, they just trudged forward as corpses.

Even the wounded were left behind. They were a weight the retreat could not afford. You saw them slumped by the roadside or curled in shallow ditches, men with bandaged limbs, torn torsos, cracked skulls. They called for help at first. Then they begged. Then they stopped calling at all. Their comrades gave what they could, rags, canteens, last words, until there was nothing left to give.

Eventually, they moved on.

And even among the able-bodied, there was rot. The rear of the column dragged worst. There, every few hours, some soldier would simply collapse. Legs buckled. Eyes rolled. He wouldn't scream, wouldn't cry. Just... fell.

His body too empty to even resist gravity. Those closest to him would pause, kneel, try to lift him. Then, seeing the futility, they'd stand again. Some cursed. Some said prayers. Most just walked on, choosing not to see.

For those still moving, each day blurred into the next. They marched until the light died behind the hills, then collapsed into shallow camps, too exhausted to properly fortify, too haunted to sleep. They ate what they could scavenge as what they could bring with them during the rout had already rotted or been eaten, bitter roots, stale bread, half-rotted meat, and they slept like men expecting to die before morning.

If the Yarzat forces had attacked during the night, there would've been no defense. No formation. No rally. Just more bodies in the mud.

But the attack never came. Not yet. And that, perhaps, was worse.

Because it gave them time to feel the weight of it. The shame. The helplessness. The cold creeping into their bones.

They weren't in the worst possible state, not yet.

But that mattered little.

Because none of them believed a comeback was possible.

They weren't marching toward redemption.

They were just trying to stay ahead of their own burial.

Arnold trudged like one of that many soldiers, through what passed for a camp on the second night of their retreat.

Calling it a "camp" was generous , delusional, even. It was little more than a patch of trampled dirt, strewn with hunched figures clinging to whatever scrap of warmth they could find. No palisades. No watchtowers. No sentries. No discipline.

If a dozen Yarzat scouts crept in during the night with knives in hand and silence in their steps, they could slit every throat before a single man stirred.

That thought clung to him like a rash, and almost instinctively he raised a hand to his neck, rubbing at the vulnerable spot just above his collarbone. His fingers met chilled skin, clammy with the frost that hadn't yet melted even under the weak evening firelight.

There were tents, yes, but only a few. Most of those had been lost or abandoned in the chaos of the rout. What was saved had been packed in blind haste by whichever quartermasters hadn't already been trampled, cut down, or run off. Food and water had been prioritized. Shelter was a luxury left behind with the dead.

The result was this: a mass of men huddled in the open, curled up like dogs in the wind, their cloaks threadbare, armor still strapped tight over bruised and aching flesh. The cold bit through steel just as easily as it did linen. It was December, and the breath of winter kissed every inch of exposed skin with cruelty.

Arnold passed a line of soldiers lying motionless under the stars, their forms barely distinguishable from the uneven ground. Some had scavenged cloth from fallen comrades, tugged cloaks from the dying without meeting their eyes. Others had nothing, just bare arms wrapped across chests, trembling in sleep that wasn't really sleep at all.

A few murmured in their dreams. One was sobbing quietly.

Further down, he passed a fire that had been reduced to embers. Around it, men sat in silence.

Just the creak of metal, the occasional cough, and the hollow clatter of someone's teeth chattering behind a clenched jaw.

It would have been comical, if it wasn't so bleak, to compare them to the nobles still holed up in their tents on the small rise at the edge of the camp. Those tents still stood, firm and taut against the wind, draped in the faded colors of old houses that once meant something. Inside them, soft fur blankets and warm mulled wine. Those men, knights, high and minor lords, weren't sleeping on the frozen earth like peasants. Not yet.

But Arnold wondered how long that would last.

He knew their kind. They were only still here because they feared being caught alone, exposed, captured by the oncoming tide of Yarzat blades. They feared ransom. They feared shame.

But the moment they reached safe ground, any fortress, any walled town, even a sympathetic monastery, they'd vanish. Slither back to their fiefs , licking their wounds and get a night sleep.

And what then?

They would probably decide whetever to throw their lot with the invader or not

Arnold exhaled slowly, watching his breath curl upward into the night. It faded quickly, disappearing like everything else.

When Arnold had seen enough of the disgrace his army had become, when the sight of frostbitten men wrapped in stolen cloth, and when thinking about the nobles whispering among themselves grew too sour to stomach, he turned away and made his way toward his tent.

Even here, among the remnants of the once-proud Royal Guard, the rot of despair had begun to seep in. Their shoulders were slouched, their faces gaunt.

As he approached, Arnold immediately noticed something off. The two guards posted outside his tent weren't his regular men.

These were unfamiliar faces, drawn and stiff, eyes flickering nervously in the torchlight.

Did they not make it out of the battle? He wondered before shrugging it off, as he bore no love or care for his father's men.

The one on the left straightened and gave a brittle bow. "Your Grace," he said, voice tight. "Your guest is waiting inside."

Arnold stopped in his tracks.

"…My guest?" he asked, brows furrowing. The confusion on his face spread instantly to the other guard, who fumbled for clarity.

"Yes, Your Grace. The one you were… expecting?" the second guard added, more hesitantly now.

Arnold said nothing at first. Just stared at them. Then, in one smooth, instinctive motion, he unsheathed his sword.

Both guards recoiled slightly, their hands twitching toward their hilts—but not drawing yet. "I wasn't waiting for anyone. Who did you let inside, fool?" Arnold said coolly, though his blood had started to thrum louder in his ears.

And with that, he stepped forward and yanked open the flap of the tent.

For a moment, he froze.

The air inside was warm from the brazier's low flame. The familiar furnishings, the thick carpet, the weatherworn table, the gloves....were all there. But so was a figure. Seated casually on the only chair in the tent, as if he had every right to be there. Cloaked in shadows and familiarity.

Smiling toward the entrance.

Arnold's hand gripped the hilt tighter.

Behind him, he heard the sound of armor shifting, one of the guards moving to follow.

"No," Arnold said sharply, turning his head just enough for them to see the edge of his glare. "I had a lapse. I remember now....I was expecting someone.It was my mistake. Carry on, soldiers."

The lie tasted strange in his mouth, but he sold it with a prince's poise.

They did not obey.

"You are dismissed. '' He repeated with a stronger tone ''Stand guard outside. Let no one in."

The guards exchanged a look, but this time they obeyed, begrudgingly. "Yes, Your Grace," they murmured, stepping back into position outside.

Arnold stepped in, letting the tent flap fall behind him with a quiet thump, severing the outside from the inside . He reached out and pulled the tie shut, closing the tent completely.

He exhaled.

A long, slow breath meant to steady nerves and heart alike.

The figure inside the tent leaned forward, letting the firelight of a candle catch his face.

Still the same smile. Still the same crooked edge to his mouth. Still that maddening calm he had when they left.

"Hello, brother."