Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

The castle of Stilum was, by any generous measure, a modest place, unfitting for the company it now held. There were no golden chandeliers to dazzle the eye, no marble floors to reflect the light of highborn vanity, nor towering tapestries depicting great deeds of ancestors long dead. Its walls were stone, grey and pitted by years of rain, its corridors narrow enough that four armored men might pass only by turning sideways.

It had not been built for pageantry, but for defense.

Yet tonight, seven high lords with their vassals, the fractured remnants of a royal court, and the weary bones of a battered royal family all found themselves crowded within its confines like nobles stuffed into a farmer's barn.

The only thing keeping them from scattering to their own corners of the realm this very night was the promise of hot food, that might, just might, drive out the taste of dry rations, smoke, and mud that had clung to their mouths since the retreat began.

Tomorrow they would leave, return to their fiefs, their squabbling, their paranoia.

But for one night, they feasted.

The great hall was dressed for the occasion as best as could be managed. Reed mats had been thrown over the flagstones. Rushes soaked in pine oil burned from iron sconces, giving off a flickering light and the faint scent of forest sap.

Some long wooden tables, scarred by time and use, groaned under the weight of the meal: platters of roasted lamb basted in honey and rosemary; bowls of thick stew made with grains, and what little game the surrounding woods could provide; skewers of pigeon and duck glazed in wine and garnished with wild apples.

Even now, a small boar roasted over the hearth, spitting fat into the flame while its skin crisped to a golden crackle.

Wine flowed more freely than sense. Red, spiced, and strong, it stained the teeth and loosened the tongues. Goblets clanged, laughter , despite the heavy mood, echoed too loudly in the cramped space, and the occasional bark of an argument flared up before being muffled under laughter or another toast to past glories, as if they had forgotten the humiliation and shame of the previous days.

Outside the crumbling walls of Stilum's inner keep, the rest of the army stretched like a tattered shroud across the castle grounds and surrounding fields. They had poured in earlier that day, a slow-moving mass of mud-streaked soldiers, limping horses, bent carts, and the stink of sweat, iron, and fatigue.

They filled the outer yard first, those lucky enough to find space in the barracks or stables quickly claimed it. The rest found shelter wherever there was a patch of dry ground: in grain stores, beneath old awnings, along the walls, and when nowhere else was left, under hastily pitched tents or under nothing at all but the overcast sky.

Yet despite the cramped quarters and the cold air of the late season, the men did not grumble, not tonight at the very least. The aroma of cooking fires drifted through the evening air, and the clatter of mess kits and wooden bowls could be heard above the steady murmuring of tired conversation. Lord Stratio, the lord of Stilum, had done what few others might: he had spared no expense, digging deep into his reserves to feed not only his honored guests within the hall, but also the soldiers.

Boiled meat and cabbage stew bubbled in iron cauldrons. Bread, still warm, was passed around in great baskets, and there were even rare treats: strips of dried sausage, apples from last season's store, and watered wine handed out in dented tin cups. Some men toasted quietly, others huddled in circles to trade stories or sit in silence, their bodies too tired to speak as their mouths made all the movements.

A few fires crackled across the field, not for warmth, Stratio had forbidden large flames near the wooden buildings, but small ones for boiling water or roasting what little game had been caught along the road. And somewhere near the south wall, a cluster of soldiers sang a low, off-key marching song.

It wasn't joyous, but it wasn't depressing.

Back inside the dim hall of Stilum, Arnold sat near the center of the long, crowded table, a seat of honor in name only.

To his right and left were two high lords, both thick-necked and silent, picking at their food as though the very act of chewing bored them. They offered no words to the royal blood beside them, not even out of courtesy.

But Arnold scarcely noticed. His attention was elsewhere, on the way cups passed with too much frequency between certain hands, on how eyes lingered too long when glancing across the room, on the silent exchanges between men who had once been comrades, now measuring each other like pieces on a gameboard.

Each whispered word, each slight lean of the head, was a sign of something. Who would remain loyal? Who was waiting for the right wind to shift their banner?

His gaze drifted across the table to where his father slouched in his chair, half-submerged in his ninth ,perhaps tenth, cup of the evening. His cheeks were flushed with wine, his lips slack, the glazed look in his eyes barely disguised the dull fury still smoldering behind them.

Arnold could barely stand to look at him. A prince in name, a drunk in truth. A man who had traded all sense for fleeting comfort at the bottom of a goblet.

Just beyond his father's chair, in a shadowed recess of the room, Arnold almost imagined another figure. A pale shape with slicked-back hair and a voice like oil, his brother Caedric, always whispering from behind, always coiling himself around power like ivy choking a stone.

That one had truly inherited their father's worst: ambition unmoored by skill, hunger without strength.

He wondered where his brother was.

Thalien had insisted he hadn't been captured by the the enemy .

Of course, Arnold didn't know whether he believed him, and it hardly mattered. He had already decided to trust Thalien, and trust, once given in such a dire hour, had to be followed through to the end.

Despite what was to happen

Still… he wondered.

Had Caedric been killed in the rout? Had the Fox's mad hound finally caught him in the open and ended the farce with a blade, gutting him like a fish?

That would've made Arnold's day. Gods, it would have lifted the rot from his soul to hear that news.

But no—he knew his brother too well. Caedric was a snake, and snakes don't burn with the house. They slip between cracks, coil in dark corners, wait for the smoke to clear.

Where had he gone then? Not back home, he would've smelled the ash on the wind and known there'd be no house left to return to.

No, he had slithered somewhere else. But where? What new host was he bleeding now?

And damn it all… Arnold almost wished he were here. Disgusting though he was, at least he'd know where the bastard stood. Better a viper in sight than one loose in the dark.

The music swelled to a pitch that grated against Arnold's nerves, loud, boastful, and wholly without grace. Minstrels lined the far wall of the hall, plucking at lyres with exaggerated flair, harps shrieking in competition with the blaring trumpets. What should have been a background melody for dignified conversation had turned into a cacophony, a jubilant racket entirely divorced from the grim state of things outside these crumbling walls. It was as if the musicians had been ordered not to play, but to drown out thought itself.

Arnold winced slightly at a particularly violent clash of brass.

"Would you like a drink, Your Grace?" came a smooth voice, barely audible over the din.

A servant, face passive, held out a polished tray lined with goblets that caught the torchlight in glinting flashes. Wine, thick and dark as blood, sloshed softly in each cup.

Arnold stared at them for a beat. He was tempted, gods, if he was. Anything to dull the tension .

But reason, ever cold and grim, anchored him.

He gave a curt shake of his head.

The servant bowed and continued down the hall, weaving through nobles who laughed too loudly and drank too deeply, eager to let the illusion of festivity veil the truth for one more night. Arnold watched him go, the tray bobbing like a small ship in a sea of collapsing dignity.

The music carried on, garish and shrill. The feast had descended into a muddle of drunken laughter, half-hearted toasts, and sharp-eyed silences between men who barely trusted their own kin.

Arnold sat still, his goblet untouched, his fingers pressed lightly to the table's edge. The warmth of the hall, began to feel stifling, wrong somehow.

Too loud. Too warm. As if the castle itself were trying to hide a fever.

Then came the first sound.

A faint thud—so distant it could have been a fallen plate or a kicked shield outside. A moment later, another. Sharper. Like wood breaking that barely went over the sound of music.

Arnold's eyes flicked toward the great oaken doors of the hall, his breath caught without him realizing. At the edge of his vision, he saw one of the lords, an older man with silver-threaded hair and a crooked nose, pause mid-sentence, head tilting ever so slightly toward the sound.

Then came the shouts.

Not inside. Outside.

Muffled through thick walls, but clear in their panic, cries that carried a note of finality. Fear. Not the shouts of men in drunken cheer, or even a tavern brawl. These were death-shouts. Metal striking metal. Steel burying itself in flesh.

Arnold slowly rose from his chair.

He already knew what and who was coming.

The music faltered as if the minstrels themselves had finally heard it, strings stuttered, a trumpet croaked halfway through its blast. Conversations died, one by one, and the feasting lords turned their heads to the entrance like hounds catching a scent. Even Arnold's father looked up from his wine, bleary-eyed and blinking like a man waking to a nightmare already in progress.

Then....the sound of a bolt being unlatched. A scraping hinge. The great doors creaked open.

A silhouette staggered in. One of their soldiers, no, a guard. Bloodied, breath ragged, a smear of red coating his cheek and pooling in the crook of his elbow. His eyes scanned the crowd with wild urgency.

He opened his mouth to speak but he never finished the sentence he started

It burst through his skull from behind, its tip erupting from his open mouth like the tongue of death itself. He jerked once, grotesquely, then crumpled to the floor in a wet, boneless heap, the javelins hanging from the back of his head making it look like a tree sprouting from the dirt.

Still, the message came across the same.

The Fox was among them