Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

It was, Alpheo had to admit, a truly beautiful day. The sun was high, casting warm, lazy light across the landscape, and a breeze gentle enough to stir the grass without troubling the trees swayed through the air. For once, the wind didn't carry the scent of fire or iron, the only air that the world seemed to adopt whenever he was around, but instead the crisp clarity of running water, damp moss, and distant pine.

He dismounted with a slow exhale, letting his boots meet the earth with a crunch of dry grass. The ride had been long— two hours, in fact—but not unpleasant. Egil had spent most of it alternating between bad jokes, crude songs, and constant attempts to provoke someone—anyone—into a race.

But since he alone seemed to know their destination, his challenges had gone unanswered.

Now, as the four men stood by a large, winding creek that spilled gently into a mirror-bright lake nestled in a hollow of green, Egil spread his arms wide with a theatrical flourish.

"My dearest comrades," he declared with a grin that almost split his face, "welcome to my humble gift to you all!"

Alpheo stepped forward, letting the cool breath of water reach his skin. He knelt at the bank, dipped a hand into the stream, and let the chill soak into his fingers as the current slipped through his palm like silk.

"This," Alpheo said, glancing up, "is what we rode hours for?"

"Don't be so quick to judge," Egil replied, grinning as he led his horse toward a patch of shade and began tying the reins to a bent tree. "It's a damn fine spot. Found it during a raid—some poor bastards had hidden out here, thought they'd found paradise. We rounded them up, of course but the place stuck with me."

He gestured grandly to the shimmering water. "Seemed too peaceful to be wasted on corpses."

"It's a fine place," Alpheo admitted, rising to his feet and brushing the dirt from his knees. "But if you meant for us to swim, you might've mentioned something to dry us with."

"Swimming?" Jarza scoffed, walking toward the group while unfastening a leather satchel from his saddle. "No, we did not bring you here for that."

He crouched beside a flat rock and pulled out two slender objects wrapped in linen. With a flick of his wrist, he removed the cloth and revealed two modest fishing rods—simple, almost rustic, made of carved wood and capped ends. He popped the caps and extended the rods to nearly a meter in length, their thin hemp ropes coiled and hooks glinting dully in the light.

"They're handmade," Jarza explained, holding one out to Alpheo. "Nothing extravagant, but solid work from one of the artisans quartered near camp. I thought we could use it back in Yarzat in the Savarmium—so I had these commissioned. Thought I'd give you one after the war, your birthday was a month ago, it would have made a fine gift for you 20th, but Egil talked me into using this little outing as the moment."

He tossed the second rod to Alpheo, who caught it with one hand, examining it with a faint smile.

The handle was wrapped in coarse cloth for grip, and though the reel was absent as it was designed for creek fishing , the craftsmanship was evident in the smooth curve of the rod, the neat binding of the line, and the balanced weight in his palm.

Alpheo turned it in his hands, thumb grazing the edge of the hook.

It was clearly rudimentary, as one would have to yank the line out himself instead of spinning it in.

Alpheo chuckled, surprising even himself.

"It's perfect," he said, quietly.

For a long moment, Alpheo didn't move. He simply stood with the rod in his hand, gazing across the lake that the river finished into , his reflection dancing in the ripples. The water whispered past his boots, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, the only sound around him was laughter, rustling leaves, and the wind stirring the grass.

Jarza reached into his satchel once more and, with a casual toss, flung a small linen pouch toward Alpheo. It landed in the prince's hands with a soft thud. The fabric was tied with a bit of string, dampened slightly by the condensation inside. Alpheo pulled the knot loose and peeled the pouch open.

Inside were several small, neatly cut pieces of meat—probably liver or heart, still fresh enough to have a faint iron scent.

"Had this prepared from servants," Jarza said, settling beside him with his own rod resting across his knees.

Alpheo stared at the bait a moment, then gave a faint laugh under his breath. "I usually used worms."

Jarza tilted his head in surprise. "Wait—used to? You've done this before?"

Alpheo nodded, a shadow of a memory flitting across his features.

The confusion of Jarza's expression was clear, after all, most of the time fishing was made with a net, as the cost alone to make a fishing rod were too great, and usually with small rivers, using a net would have been much better, hence fishing like that was more of a recreation than anything.

"Yeah. My grandfather—he was passionate about it. Used to say it was the only time he could sit still without going mad. He bought me my first rod when I was... what? Six? Seven Summers?" His voice trailed off slightly, the rhythm slowing.

Of course, it wasn't this world's grandfather he remembered. The man in his memory had worn suspenders and always smelled faintly of tobacco , wine, and lake water, his laughter echoing from a wooden dock in a quiet countryside far removed from the city.

Alpheo shook the thought away before it could nest too deep.

He took one piece of meat and hooked it onto the line with a practiced touch, the motion automatic, like muscle memory .

"Doesn't Egil have a rod?" he asked, glancing over toward the blond warrior now waist-deep in the creek, splashing water like a child in spring.

Jarza snorted. "He said fishing's too delicate for him. Claims he'd rather wrestle a bear than wait for a trout."

Alpheo gave a dry chuckle. "Figures."

He stood up, gave the rod a light test flex, and then with a clean, practiced motion, cast the line into the water. The hook arced briefly through the sunlight before vanishing into the glinting stream with a soft plunk.

He sat back, eyes on the gentle pull of the current, as he plopped down into the ground.

''You did not lie'' Asag noted the ease in Alpheo's movements

''Do I ever?'' He shot back as he went silent to enjoy the moment.

A breeze ruffled the surface of the lake, and the trees whispered quietly overhead. For the first time in weeks, the weight on Alpheo's shoulders eased—not gone, but shifted. Temporarily passed to the water.

And for the first time in a long time, he let himself simply be.

For hours, the group remained there the air filled with the gentle hush of flowing water, the occasional laugh, and the rhythmic flicks of cast lines.

The fishing had been modest, but steady—slender river trout pulled from the current one by one, each catch followed by a short and a quick, clean blow to the head against a smooth stone, ending the struggle, then placement into a bundle of cloth resting near Jarza's pack.

Alpheo had been the most consistent of the group, though his catches were all on the smaller side. Still, there was a practiced ease in the way he cast, hooked, reeled, and handled each one.

Egil, meanwhile, had long since abandoned the idea of stillness. After a bout of splashing around on the far side of the creek , he'd finally grown bored of swimming. Now he lay stretched across the bank, damp tunic drying against the grass, one leg propped up lazily as he munched on a thick stick of blood sausage. Grease slicked his fingers, and bits of casing clung to the corner of his mouth.

"You know," he called out between bites, watching the others from under half-lidded eyes, "I think I would rather be good at this fishing thing."

Alpheo glanced over, his tone dry. "Is that so?" He eyed the end of his rod, then looked back at Egil. "Want to have a go at it?"

Egil grinned and pushed himself up with a grunt, tossing the last bit of sausage into his mouth and chewing noisily. "Why not?" he said, walking over as he swallowed.

Without hesitation, he reached for the rod—by the reins, as if grabbing a horse's bridle.

Alpheo narrowed his eyes and shot him a dirty look. "That's not—" he began, but stopped as Egil, unfazed but recognising the issue , wiped his greasy hands casually on the front of his tunic.

Alpheo recoiled slightly, nose wrinkled. "That's revolting," he muttered, passing the rod over with visible reluctance.

Egil took the rod and held it awkwardly, staring at the line in the water. For a few minutes, he stood still, the breeze tousling his damp hair as he occasionally flicked his eyes from the rod tip to the lake. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, he shifted his weight and frowned.

"Where's the fun in this?" he said.

Alpheo gave him a sidelong look. "Not everything's supposed to be fun. Sometimes you just have to take things calmly. Let them happen."

Egil considered that for a moment. "Well... you do look calmer."

"I am," Alpheo admitted, his voice quiet. He looked out at the lake, where the sun glittered across the surface like scattered gold. "I needed it." He glanced back toward the others, a small smile playing at his lips. "Thank you. All of you."

"No worries."

"You clearly needed it,"

Jarza and Asag's voices carried over the water, light and easy, as they tended to their fishing rods with quiet focus.

Alpheo remained still for a moment, sinking down onto the warm earth. He let his back rest against the smooth ground , his eyes drifting upward to the vast blue sky, the sunlight filtering softly through the leaves behind. The gentle sounds of water lapping against the shore, the rustling grass, and the distant calls of birds filled the space around him. For once, the world felt still.

"Hey, Alph... can I ask you something?" Egil's voice broke through the calm, uncertain and rough around the edges as he awkwardly shifted the fishing rod in his hand, trying to find balance.

Alpheo turned his head slowly, surprised by the sudden quietness in Egil's tone. Curious and unaccustomed to such softness from the usually brash man, he gave a small, encouraging nod.

Egil ran a hand through his blond hair, his gaze dropping to the ground for a brief second. The words came haltingly, hesitant and weighed down by something deeper than fishing or idle talk.

"I don't want you to take this the wrong way... but—are you actually happy? Right now?"

It was no jest or challenge, just a question—raw, sincere, and fragile —laid bare between two men who had been through far too much, with one appearing reluctant about something, as if perhaps the question wasn't just directed at the other but at himself, too, to see if he had done well.