Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

The southern princedoms, much like the city-states of old Hellas, were never truly at peace. While full-scale wars were rare, there was always at least one border burning, one feud reignited, one castle exchanging hands in the smoke of conflict. Warfare in the South had become more a tradition than an exception, an endless game of shifting alliances and brief campaigns, waged not to destroy, but to negotiate from a stronger position when profit no longer favored the sword.

It was precisely this climate of fractured ambition that made the region so unpredictable, and Alpheo knew it well. The chessboard of the South was crowded with self-interested players, and in a land where war was routine, his conquest would not go unnoticed.

He expected reaction. In fact, he expected many, and none of them favorable.

No prince would look kindly on what he had done. The total annexation of Herculia was not merely a military victory; it was a rupture in the unspoken rules of their endless game. It shattered the precedent, and where once war had meant gains measured in villages or vassals, Alpheo had claimed an entire realm. That made him dangerous.

Still, he knew they would not unite, not yet. The South had never been good at unity. Pride and rivalry would keep them from forming a true coalition until at least he became dangerous enough.

But Yarzat, would now be an unwelcome presence in every southern court, a shadow lurking behind every throne. The other princes would see it as a warning or as a provocation.

In the long term, Alpheo had not just inherited Herculia.He had inherited a region of enemies watching him with wary eyes and sharpening their knives.

Much like France in the 19th century, Alpheo will have to face a political climate hostile to his state.

Where the shadow of a coalition will always loom above him.

He knew the danger that it could have on his state, one just needed to ask Napoleon IV.

But that was a concern for the future. For now, across the conqueror princedom, the only prevailing mood was one of unrestrained elation.

The message from the frontlines had traveled fast, galloping from outposts to cities, from cities to hamlets, carried by heralds whose voices were hoarse from proclaiming it: the Herculeian royal family had fallen. The ancient line had been broken, and with it the rise of the Veloni-isha upon the lands of Herculia.

In the capital, the streets were alive with cheer. Bells rang out from every tower, and children danced between the stalls.

A public largesse of grain, ordered by the princess herself, had turned the central square into a sea of grateful citizens, hands outstretched and hearts lifted.

For Jasmine, heavy with child, the victory brought a serenity she had not felt in months. The worry that had once shadowed her steps seemed now to recede like a storm behind the mountains. She stood on the square pavilion, hand resting over her swelling belly, smiling down at the people, radiant with the quiet joy of a mother and a princess, basking in their cheers.

The army, meanwhile, did not rush. With no more battles to fight and no urgent threat at their backs, the legions advanced toward the capital with the slow confidence of victors. Their banners swayed in the wind, their armor gleamed beneath the sun and their pace was unhurried.

They had earned the right to march slowly, and of course throw banquets each time they could.

Today was the first day of peace, and Alpheo had sworn it would be remembered.

He had promised his men a triumph worthy of their deeds and he delivered. No coin was spared, no comfort denied. The camp, usually a sprawl of dirt and order, had been transformed into a festival ground. Bright banners fluttered from poles driven into the soil, and the air rang with music and laughter.

Troupes of troubadours strummed lively tunes on lutes and lyres, their verses recounting the glory of battle and the downfall of proud Herculia.

Jugglers tossed knives and flaming torches in dizzying arcs, while mummers reenacted scenes from the campaign with mock seriousness and bawdy humor. There were even fire-breathers who sent plumes of flame into the dusk, to the roaring approval of the gathered soldiers.

And, of course, the whores had arrived by cartload, some local, others from the nearby cities, all generously paid and well-guarded. For a night, the war was behind them. Tonight was for indulgence.

Tables groaned under the weight of food hastily yet lovingly prepared from the surrounding stores. Massive pots of pasta with potatoes and sausage steamed beside platters of grilled venison, roasted on open fires and seasoned with wild rosemary.

There were pork loins soaked in wine and herbs, flatbreads dripping with melted cheese and garlic oil, and bowls of olives, figs, and nuts passed down along the long rows of benches. Local wine flowed like rivers from barrel taps, and the laughter grew louder with each cup drained.

And if that was how the soldiers ate, one could only imagine the noble's feast.

It was at the heart of the camp where a grand tent stood ,that they feasted and dined.

There, the air was thick with roasted spices and the perfume of overindulgence. Platters of honey-glazed quail, rich stews of lamb and lentils, and even exotic fruits brought up from the coasts of the Giant of the desert were passed around.

Goblets clinked endlessly. Toasts were raised. Voices slurred into song or dissolved into arguments. Some of the lords had already slipped into a drunken stupor, their fine tunics stained with grease and wine, their faces red with heat and laughter.

The prince watched it all from the head of the table with calm satisfaction. His men were fed, their thirst quenched, their spirits lifted. They had followed him through the campaign and now, they were allowed to taste the sweetness of victory.

Tomorrow, plans would resume. But tonight, the princedom sang his name.

"Drink in the prince's name!" came a booming voice in a thick, rough accent.

The call belonged to Torghan, the Voghondai chieftain who had made himself an important piece in Alpheo's war machine.

Tonight, he was deep into his cups, guffawing and exchanging stories with none other than Alpheo's grandfather, much to the surprise of more than a few within the tent.

The old man, who had barely spoken a word since the blood-soaked horrors the Voghondai had done at the Battle of Stiltum, now laughed hoarsely between sips of wine, as if the Voghondai's presence had rattled something loose inside him that was not fear.

Whispers still clung to the Voghondai like the stench of blood. Rumors of the "entertainments" they had devised during the battle, ritual dismemberments, displays of severed heads, had raced through the army.

To many, they weren't warriors but heathens, and a race of people who bathed too eagerly in the chaos of war. Still, they held Alpheo's favor—and that made any criticism unspoken and wisely swallowed with wine.

From his seat beneath the torch-lit canopy of the royal tent, Alpheo allowed his gaze to sweep across the gathering. He saw merriment, indulgence, and above all, relief.

Yarzat's lords, their finery loosened and goblets overflowing, drank deeply and toasted each other with the camaraderie of men who believed the worst was behind them. A few even approached the prince to strike up conversation, emboldened by wine and the glow of victory.

But their cheerful offerings were met with only measured politeness, a nod, a faint smile, a clipped word or two. It was clear Alpheo had little interest in joining their revelry.

Yet not all within the grand pavilion were of Yarzat.

The Herculeian nobles, dragged in the wake of their defeat, stood, or more often sat, in silent clumps along the tent's outer edge.

Their silks were clean, their heads held high in form, but their spirits hung low. These were the men who had once dined in palaces, who had ridden with the arrogance of old blood. Now, they sat estranged and humiliated amid the conqueror's feast, like honored prisoners at their own funeral.

This night was less a celebration for them than a prolonged display a their expense.

Officially, their presence was required. Following the dramatic submission at Stiltum, every surviving noble of Herculia was ordered to the capital to swear fresh fealty, first to Alpheo, and now to his wife. But the real purpose was as transparent as the wine in their untouched goblets: they were trophies, paraded before court like the carcass of a once-proud beast after a successful hunt.

Among them sat Lechlian's eldest.

He looked every bit as out of place as the rest of the nobility, his posture rigid, his eyes cast downward, his plate nearly untouched. He might have remained that way the entire evening, locked in his silent reverie of shame and confusion, had it not been for his younger brother seated beside him.

The boy, brimming with energy and the eager tongue of one who hadn't spoken to his sibling in nearly four months, chattered incessantly. Arnold nodded occasionally, forced a smile once or twice, but for the most part, sat adrift.

Alpheo noticed. He noticed everything.

And though he said nothing, the conqueror leaned back slightly in his chair, watching both the revelers and the ruined alike.

He had broken Herculia in body.

Now, he would break it in soul and assimilate them in a single state.

After all, only a fool would wage war to gain a crown and then leave its foundation to rot in peacetime. Alpheo understood this as well as he understood the sword: conquest was merely the beginning. The true challenge, the enduring legacy, lay in unifying what had been taken. If he failed to weld the old and new together, then the day he died would be the day his son faced a kingdom already tearing at the seams.

He, after all had a Greek name, but he surely did not want to end like Alexander.

The most pressing matter was integration, not of roads or coin, but of people, of blood. The Herculeian nobility, had to be folded into Yarzat's aristocracy like iron into steel. And Alpheo had every intention of doing just that. Already, plans were being drafted to bind the conquered lords to the throne not only with oaths, but with marriage contracts with other lords.

But the road to unity would be steep, and tonight's feast proved it beyond doubt.

Despite sharing the same tables, the same wine, and the same music, the nobility of Yarzat and Herculia might as well have been seated in two separate worlds. They did not speak. They did not laugh together. The Yarzati reveled, sang, and boasted as victors do, while the Herculeians kept to themselves, stiff-necked and silent, enduring their presence like condemned men at a festival thrown in their own graves.

That none dared to bridge the divide was clear.

That one man that tried anyway was... less expected.

Across the pavilion, swaying in place with a goblet clutched lazily in one hand and his tunic stained from whatever stew he'd clumsily devoured, was Egil.

Who was enthusiastically, and almost entirely uninvitedly and unwanted, chatting away with one of Herculia's more prominent lords.

Alpheo noticed it with a faint curl at the corner of his mouth. Foolish as Egil often was, at least he was trying.

A bridge, even if drunken and crooked, was still a bridge. For a fleeting moment, the prince allowed himself to think maybe—just maybe—there was a sliver of hope in the social thaw.

Then Egil, seemingly in mid-laugh, sucker-punched the Herculeian lord square in the jaw.... before finishing what remained in his cup before throwing it at the lord.

So long for that sliver of hope.