Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Lucius watched the ship retreat into the horizon, its sails catching the sea breeze until it was no more than a pale shape between waves and sky. With it went his last real tether to the outside world.

What remained was the wilderness he loathed: the damp forest, the clinging insects, the constant tension of being hunted or discovered.

Back again, to the thing he hated most.

He turned his eyes to the small satchel still held in his hand. The leather was worn but well-kept, the seal unbroken. His thumb absently traced over the edges. It felt heavier than it was, because of what it contained.

"Ebran. Vallah," he called without raising his voice.

The two men looked up from their idle chatter and straightened.

"Get the supplies in the carriage.''

They nodded, moving quickly to the cargo. The crates were unmarked but heavy; Lucius could tell by the sound of wood on wood what each held. Armor always thudded, medicine rattled softly, and food shifted with the dry rustle of sacks. As they worked, he turned to the other two men standing near their horses, waiting for orders.

"Mount up. Scout ahead. If you see patrols, count them. If they're soldiers, do not be seen, just turn back and report. Do not engage and if you are discovered, lose their tracks."

They gave him short salutes before mounting and riding out in a spray of forest dust, disappearing down the narrow dirt path carved between the trees.

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. His shoulders were always tight in this cursed place. It wasn't fear; he didn't have much of that left after facing death one too many times ,but a kind of fatigue, like the forest itself was a weight pressing down on him.

Any other time, encountering a patrol of royal soldiers would mean little to him. His force numbered around three hundred, more than enough to wipe out the usual roving ten-man group. But strength wasn't the concern here, discretion instead was. He was supposed to be a ghost. Bandits don't receive shipments from naval vessels. Bandits don't have hidden camps with supply lines.

And above all, usually bandits did not serve foreign powers...

The lesson had been burned into him early. The peasant uprising in Herculeia, his first major assignment under the prince, had been more than a mission. It was a trial by fire.

What was the name of the rebel leader again? He fished through his memory, but the name danced just beyond reach. Strange how time blurred the details, even of things that once burned so brightly.

Whoever the man was, he'd been a headache. Clever, stubborn. He and Marcus had learned the hard way how quickly rebels adapted when cornered. The Herculeian upstart had forced them to rethink everything..

Lucius almost laughed. In a twisted way, he owed that long-dead peasant leader a debt.

He paused, letting his eyes drift eastward as the wind shifted, carrying a whisper of salt and pine.

Would that rebel, wherever his bones now lay, have smiled to know what had become of the royal family he'd fought against?

Well, perhaps not, considering they were the ones who killed him and his son.

A voice called him out.

Lucius blinked, realizing how long he'd been lost in thought. The wind had shifted, cooler now, brushing through the pines as the last cry of gulls faded with the distant ship. He turned back toward the camp and was surprised to find Ebran and Vallah standing beside the carriage, the job already done. The crates had been packed securely into the wagon, and their horses had been tied to the poles nearby, munching lazily on feed.

He hadn't even noticed them finish.

Ebran raised an eyebrow and gave him a half-grin. "So? What's in there?"

Lucius blinked again, refocusing, then looked down at the satchel in his hand. "Orders from the prince," he said curtly, walking toward the carriage and climbing up onto the driver's bench.

Ebran followed and took the reins, settling beside him with a grunt. Vallah, younger and more energetic, had already clambered inside, making himself comfortable on a crate of salted pork.

"You gonna read it now?" Ebran asked, adjusting the strap of his shoulder guard as he gave the road ahead a quick glance.

Lucius settled into his seat and leaned back. "No. I'll read it when we get back to camp."

From inside, Vallah leaned out the coach window, hanging half over the edge. "Come on, boss," he called, his voice teasing but with a curious edge. "We're stuck here waiting for the others anyway. If we're gonna have to run and ditch everything, we might as well know what orders we're losing."

Lucius gave him a sharp look. "Don't jinx it," he muttered, the muscles in his jaw tightening. But as much as he hated to admit it, the boy had a point, they weren't moving until the scouts returned, and they had little else to do in the meantime.

Perhaps it would do well to read it now, if not to satisfy his curiosity too.

He relented as he undid the buckle slowly and pulled out a single folded sheet sealed with wax. Lucius stared at it for a moment longer than necessary before cracking it open.

The paper whispered as it unfolded in his hands.

Beside him, Ebran had fallen quiet, eyes drifting from the road to Lucius's face. He said nothing more, but the slight crease in his brow said he was watching closely, not the letter, but Lucius's expression.

Lucius's eyes scanned the page in silence. Whatever was written there brought a subtle change to his expression.

Neither Ebran nor Vallah dared speak again.

Lucius's fingers held the parchment a bit tighter, and his eyes didn't leave it.

Once it was over, Lucius exhaled a long breath through his nose as he folded the letter with careful precision, the creases sharp, the motion slow.

"It appears," he said at last, voice calm, "that the prince has reached a decision."

Ebran tilted his head slightly, the reins slackening in his hands as he glanced sidelong. Vallah, from inside the carriage, leaned closer to the window, his brows rising.

Lucius continued, tone low but steady. "And in doing so, he's given us new orders."

His eyes flicked to Vallah, sharp and unreadable. "This run's supplies, more weapons than usual. We're to arm and recruit another hundred."

Vallah frowned, blinking. "Doesn't look like that much from the crates," he muttered, glancing down at the cargo beneath his boots. "Food and armor, sure, but that much gear?"

Lucius nodded once, slowly. "It's enough. Enough to raise another hundred bastards, at least. Spears, axes, shields"

Ebran leaned back slightly on the bench, one boot braced against the wheel hub. "That alone wouldn't twist your face like that, though."

"No," Lucius agreed, voice tightening at the edges. "It wouldn't."

He paused, letting the wind fill the space, carrying the scent of damp pine and iron-salted wood from the crates. Then, his voice lowered. "The prince has decided to move again. He's planning a campaign against the Oizenians next spring."

That caught their attention.

Vallah straightened, eyes wide. "Wait—war? Real war?That good? the prince coming here, I mean."

Lucius didn't answer at first. Instead, he looked past them, gaze sliding through the trees as leaves shimmered under the sun like flickering gold.

"To most," he finally said, tone thoughtful, almost distant, "this might seem good. We've been waiting, quietly. Just a few hits and raids here and now, escaping and evading patrols and reprisals. But now…"

His voice trailed off, and he let silence finish the thought.

"Still, for me," he said at last, his voice colder now, lips drawn in a faint smile that didn't reach his eyes, "it's good. Because it means this cursed corner of the world, this forgotten stretch of rotting trees and biting flies… it might finally be behind us. Our mission changes. Our exile ends soon."

Vallah scratched the back of his head. "Still don't get what we're meant to do with an army out here."

Since their arrival, their operations had been little more than glorified banditry, raiding isolated villages, ambushing merchant caravans, and threatening outposts. To Ebran and Vallah, and likely many of the men under Lucius's command, it had often felt like they were being wasted, hiding in woods like feral dogs.

It was no surprise they sometimes muttered doubts among themselves. Weren't they just playing at being outlaws?

But Lucius knew better.

The prince had not spent two years placing him here, deep behind enemy lines, merely to terrorize peasants and steal barley. No, this was always about the long game. The goal was to carve out an invisible dagger buried in the Oizenian heartland, to build something that could strike with precision and vanish before the enemy knew what bled them.

And now, at last, the dagger was ready to twist.

Lucius gave a humorless smile as he broke the heavy silence. "The real matter in the letter isn't just the supplies or the recruits," he said, tone calm but loaded with weight. "It's the role we are to play. And from the way it's written… it seems the success of the entire invasion may rest on our shoulders"

That drew a sharp breath from Vallah. Ebran didn't speak, but his hands stiffened slightly on the reins.

Lucius let the words hang there for a bit, "I suppose," he added with cool satisfaction, "that's good news for those of you who thought we were wasting our time in this swamp. For those who muttered about being stuck with fleas and peasant wine while the real war passed us by."

Both Ebran and Vallah dropped their gazes, the sting of the reprimand clear. Lucius's voice hadn't risen, but the precision of his words cut deep, because he had, as always, been listening to what his troops blabbered on during the evenings.

"We didn't mean it like that," Vallah muttered, voice barely above the rustling wind. He avoided Lucius's gaze, looking instead at the trees as though they might offer an escape.

Lucius let the silence stretch another moment, then shook his head. "It doesn't matter," he said finally. "You wanted a purpose? You'll have it. Next year, we become more than shadows. It appears that soon your pricks for secrecy will finally be yanked, at last."

A flicker of something passed between the two younger men, relief, perhaps, but also excitement. For all their shame, they couldn't fully hide it. After so long playing ghosts, they would finally be set loose.

Lucius didn't smile, but he saw the change in their posture, the subtle fire in their eyes. And he knew that fire would be needed.

Because when the campaign began, there would be no more pretending, as they were to be this time at the very centre of danger.