Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Lechlian remained on all fours long after his lips left Alpheo's ring, his breath rattling through clenched teeth as the cold stone beneath him seemed to drink the last of his dignity. Sweat glistened on his brow, not from heat or effort, but from the searing shame that radiated from every corner of the room.

The nobles looked on, their expressions frozen in horror. Some stared at their prince as if they no longer recognized him. Others, lips pressed thin, tried not to look at all.

To see a sovereign prostrate himself, not in ritual or ceremony, but in true, desperate submission, struck something primal in all of them.

As any ounce of respect they could have had for their liege opened the door and made itself out.

Alpheo meanwhile slowly withdrew his hand, wiping it without ceremony on the velvet cloth of his tunic as if ridding it of filth, though his smile betrayed how thoroughly he had savored every second.

He took a step back from Lechlian, to admire the full breadth of the ruin at his feet , like an artist finally laying eyes on his life's work.

"So," Alpheo said at last, his voice smooth, indulgent, filled with the ease of absolute power, "we've finally found your true station. Tell me how is the view from down there?"

He did not wait for an answer as he turned slightly, sweeping his gaze across the long table and its stunned occupants. "Look well, my lords and ladies," he continued, his tone rising like a theater master unveiling the final act. "This is your prince. This is the man who led you to ruin, the man who raised his voice against me, who dared sully my name. Behold him now, where his arrogance has taken him."

A few nobles dropped their gaze, unable to meet his eye. Others exchanged silent glances, as if truly realizing how low they had fallen.

Lechlian finally moved, barely. He shifted one trembling hand beneath him, then collapsed onto his back, too weak or too humiliated to lift himself back up. His lip trembled, though he said nothing, not even in defense.

He had none left.

Alpheo tilted his head, watching him like one might watch a dying bird twitch on the ground, curious, a little amused, but mostly unmoved. He then turned back to the assembled nobility gave them a short stare and resumed watching his once hated enemy.

"You've been a good dog," Alpheo said at last, his voice thick with mockery, smooth as oil and as soft as a pillow. "And good dogs deserve good food, don't they?"

With that, he reached casually to a nearby plate, plucked a half-eaten quail still slick with grease, and tossed it without ceremony.

It struck Lechlian squarely in the cheek with a wet thud, smearing his face with juices and fragments of roasted skin. The prince didn't flinch. He didn't wipe it away. He merely sat there, smeared, sullied, and silent like a worm.

There was a quiet thrill in Alpheo's smile as he turned from him. For all the cruelty on display, there was more than spite in his theater.

The prince of Yarzat was many things. He was a paranoid man, a greedy one by most accounts. He could be vicious, and few would deny that he was capable of cruelty with terrifying ease. But above all, Alpheo was rational.

Coldly, calculatingly rational.

This display, to some, may have looked like petty vengeance, an elaborate punishment meant to sate the wounds to his pride. But in truth, it was far more than that.

It was political annihilation.

For when a hunter returns to the village dragging behind him the corpse of a mighty bear, the people feel awe, both for the man who killed the beast and for the beast itself, who must have fought with ferocity before falling.

But no one feels awe at the sight of a circus bear, muzzled and tamed, clumsily juggling balls for the amusement of children.

That creature, though of the same blood, is no longer something to fear. Its majesty is gone, its wildness stripped away. It does not inspire loyalty, only pity, or worse, laughter.

And today, Lechlian was that bear and Alpheo the tamer.

In his design, it was not enough to win a war or take a crown.

No, he needed to sever the myth of Lechlian, the idea that might someday still gather men to his name, kindle old loyalties, birth another revolt. He needed not just to defeat him, but to break the belief that he was ever a prince at all.

And who was the best man for the job if not the one with the best sense of theater?

Gods only knew that he had to do a good job.

When, for example Charles of Anjou tore Sicily from the Hohenstaufen dynasty, the nobles had not surrendered and bent their knee. They took it north, swearing their swords to the last heir, Conradin. Even in exile, the boy became a beacon around which rebellion gathered.

Alpheo could not afford that.

But who would take up arms for this?For this quail-stained, trembling wretch, groveling on the cold stone beneath his enemy's boot?

Who would die for him now?

None. Not a soul.

And yet....it was not over.

Alpheo's gaze drifted across the silent hall once more, until it found its mark.

There, seated stiffly among the lords, was the prince's son.

Arnold.

Young, pale, and statuesque in his tension, the boy flinched as the warlord's eyes met his. Alpheo did not speak. He did not have to, , as the little lord knew what role he had to play .

And so he stood.

The room shifted around him like a sea parting for judgment. All eyes turned, noble and soldier alike, to the prince's son as he began to walk.

His steps were hesitant, but steady. The weight of the moment crushed down upon his shoulders, and yet he moved, each stride pulling the attention of the entire court like the sun with his planets

He stepped forward through the ruins of a feast now turned funeral, past toppled chairs, shattered goblets still bleeding wine across stone, past wilted herbs and plates of meat gone cold in their grease. The scent of roasted fowl and spilled cider clung to the air, but it was overpowered now by something colder: the metallic bite of fear, the dry stench of shame.

And there he stood between two ruins: the man who had fathered him, and the man who had shattered him.

To Lechlian, he offered nothing. No whisper of solace, no hand to lift him, no mercy in his expression. He looked upon the wreckage of his bloodline with cold revulsion, as if disgusted by the weakness he once called lineage.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he raised a hand to his brow and tore the laurel from his head, the princely wreath, once the proud emblem of Herculia's sovereignty.

Gasps would have rippled through the hall as Arnold turned, if not for the fact that most were too scared to utter a sound.

He walked with heavy steps toward Alpheo, and dropped to one knee.

There was no speech. No plea. No poetry.

He simply extended the laurel upward, not as an offering, but as a surrender.

A dynasty, bowed into the dust.

Alpheo took it with the ease of a man plucking an apple from a low-hanging branch. He turned it in his fingers, a delicate thing of green and gold, still glistening faintly in the torchlight.

Then, holding it high for all to see, lords and knights, servants and traitors, he placed it upon his own head.

A hush fell over the chamber.

And then he spoke.

"From this moment forth," he declared, his voice rising like the banners of a storming host, "the age of the Herculia's royal family is over."

He stepped off the table with measured grace, boots thudding against the stone like a war drum.

"Today, your line bows to mine. Not with steel, but with silence. Not in defiance, but in submission. I did not take this land with whispers and lies. I took it with iron. With fire. With blood earned and blood spilled."

He let the silence swell, then pressed forward, eyes sweeping the room like a blade.

"You have seen your prince crawl. You have seen his son kneel. You have seen who rules now, by the will of the gods, by the will of the sword, and the right of triumph."

The laurel glinted upon his brow as he raised both arms.

"Hear me, lords of Herculia: I am not a passing storm. I am not a passing war. I am the dawn of a new order. I am your ruler, not by lineage, but by fate. By conquest.

By strength I took this, by strength alone shall I lose it.If any man among you believes he is owed more,if any thinks himself braver, worthier, greater..."

He paused, letting the silence stretch, his eyes sweeping across the stunned faces of nobles and lords like a predator surveying prey.

"Then rise. Draw steel. Claim it from my hands as I claimed it from yours."

His gauntleted hand rested lightly on the hilt at his side, not in threat, but in invitation.

An open door to death.

None moved.

Not a single blade rang out.

Those whose eyes met his held them only for a breath before turning downward, wilted and ashamed, men who once claimed to rule armies now stared like children beneath a thunderstorm, as if the very shadow of Alpheo might shatter them.

"But if you do not contest my right..."His voice grew colder, like the wind before snowfall."Then you shall uphold it.

Kneel.

Kneel before your new prince."

There was a heartbeat of stillness.

And then, like wheat bowing to the wind , they bent.

First it was Arnold, then as if taking the cue, one by one, lord after lord, their pride breaking upon the stones of the hall. Some knelt stiffly, with trembling lips and clenched jaws. Others lowered themselves quickly, heads bowed deep in silent surrender.

But kneel all they did.

Before the Fox.

Before their Conqueror.