Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

A thousand and three hundred men roared toward the heavens, the sound of their voices crashing like thunder across the sandstone walls of the arena.

Javelins struck against breastplates and shields in a rhythmic clamor.

Spittle flew as their howls split the air, beards soaked, eyes alight with fire, boots stomping in unison, pressing the dry sand deeper beneath their heels with every pounding step.

This was the full might of the Royal Army, assembled not for war, but for something almost as sacred. They stood, row after row, shoulder to shoulder, a living sea of discipline. Their armor gleamed under the soft autumn sun, burnished gold and dull iron catching the light in shifting waves.

They had gathered not for conquest, but for legacy.

Each legion had its task, until now.

The First had remained in the capital, keeping order and parading its strength to the citizens alongside the city garrison.

The Third and the Crown's Hounds were off in the northeast, cleaning up the ruin left by the glorious campaign they participated in.

All had carried out their orders, handed down by the prince himself, after being granted a rare month of paid rest.

Some had returned home to quiet villages, giving coin to family and retelling tales over meal and firelight. Others had spent their leave in revelry, wine, flesh, and celebration in every city alley and tavern hall. But whatever pleasures they'd tasted, they had returned, as they always did. Duty had called, and it was never ignored.

But today, there was no patrol, no ambush, no border raid. Today was ceremony.

Today was legacy.

For on that bright, crisp morning of early autumn, the Fourth Legion was to be born.

A fresh roar erupted from the crowd, not from the veterans, but from the two hundred and fifty newest recruits. The youngest voices rang loudest, their howls cracking with joy and nerves alike. They screamed not just for pride, but because they stood at the edge of something vast, their future.

The Fourth Legion would rise beneath their boots, with their names etched into its earliest rolls.

Around them, the other legions raised their voices too, not in rivalry, but in solidarity. Every man in that arena knew the gravity of this day. Each had once stood as the green soldier, trembling with excitement and fear, waiting to be shaped by fire and purpose. Now they returned the honor by bearing witness to the rise of a new brotherhood.

Each legion had its fames, its scars, its banners, and its legends.

Now the Fourth would begin to forge its own.

The birth of a new legion was no ordinary sight. It was a rare event, ceremonial, historic, and costly. The last time such a moment had occurred was with the raising of the Third Legion, three years ago.

And since then, the army had grown in glory, but not in number. It wasn't like Alpheo did not desire to raise more

The reason was simple: legions were expensive.

Each legion consisted of 250 trained soldiers and 50 support personnel, non-combatants responsible for logistics, maintenance, and supply.

Every soldier received a monthly wage of five silverii, in addition to government-funded arms, armor, and provisions. Their only personal duty was to keep their gear polished and ready, always prepared to march or fight at a moment's notice.

All told, a single legion cost the crown nearly 1,600 silverii per month, accounting for food, pay, and the upkeep of their camp followers. Annually, the bill climbed to over 19,000 silverii. That was a steep sum, especially when set against the average yearly income of a prince, which hovered around 45,000.

Were it not for the fresh streams of revenue, tributes from newly-subjugated vassals, and the steady rise in taxes collected from annexed Herculeian lands, Alpheo might have found it hard to justify the new expense. As it stood, even with all the windfalls of conquest, the kingdom's balance sheet barely floated in the green.

And the Fourth Legion would test the limits of that fragile surplus.

But still, this was a moment worth every coin.

A new legion was not just an investment in steel and rations.

It was a statement. A signal to loyal vassals, disloyal lords, and enemies that the crown was growing in strength.

The ceremony would be unforgettable; it had to be. Because in a princedom like Yarzat, where martial glory was being carved into its very soul, there was no higher celebration than the birth of a legion.

And there he finally was, approaching through the roar of the assembled legions, the new commander of the Fourth.

Alpheo watched in silence, his thoughts not on the man's footsteps but on the long, twisted path it had taken to place him there.

Appointing a new legion commander was no easy task. The pool of trustworthy talent was shallow,really shallow, and the stakes were ocean-deep.

This wasn't some ceremonial post. The commander of a legion sat near the pinnacle of the military hierarchy, a keystone position in the very arch upon which the crown rested.

Elevate the wrong man, and you didn't just risk failure on the battlefield; you risked the creeping rot of ambition within the army itself.

That's why most lords, as a rule, were unsuitable.

Too many ties. Too many secret deals. Too many of them saw the legion not as a sword for the realm but as a stepping stone to power. The moment a commander started playing politics was the moment the prince would be forced to cut out a cancer, before it spread. And so Alpheo had grown cautious, even picky, with the nobility he allowed into his war machine.

His latest appointment, Talek, had already stretched that selectiveness to its limits. Talek was a noble, yes, but also a known loyalist with some battlefield experience, and more importantly, a man without much land or ambitions outside the military.

The First had remained stationed in the capital precisely for this reason.

As with Talek, now part of the first, he had to be educated in military strategies for the demands to come.

But for the newly formed Fourth, Alpheo had turned to someone else entirely.

Edric.

Jarza's former second-in-command, vouched for by the famed commander himself, he was a young officer in his mid-twenties, humble in title, but tested in both command and courage. He had none of the political weight of the nobility, nor the baggage that came with it. His loyalty was proven, his record clean, and his hunger was directed where it ought to be, toward military excellence.

It was a practical choice, even if it underscored a growing problem Alpheo could not ignore: the shortage of reliable men for high office. The gears of his machine were turning faster with each conquest, and sooner or later, he'd have to build a new generation of officers to match the ambitions of his state.

But that was a concern for the future.

Now, the present commanded attention.

Edric, draped in nothing but discipline and resolve, marched barefoot toward the dais in the traditional rite, nude before the crown, before the legion, before the gods.

Not as a noble or a soldier, but as a man who would now carry the weight of a legion upon his shoulders.

It wasn't that Alpheo took any pleasure in watching a man march forward in the nude, far from it. The ritual held deeper meaning, one etched in tradition and ceremony. To stand bare before the crown and before one's soldiers was to declare oneself without pretense or concealment. It was a pledge of transparency: no secrets from the legion, none from the prince.

Every five paces, a soldier stationed along the path struck Edric's back with a laurel branch, firm, rhythmic lashes that left faint red streaks along his spine. Not meant to injure, but to remind. Glory and command were twin-edged things, just as much burden as they were blessing.

Each lash whispered a warning: fame was a crown of thorns when worn without humility.

He passed between rows of armored men, soon to be his own, their eyes fixed upon him, not judging, but measuring. And through it all, Edric's gaze never faltered. He did not lower his eyes. He stared forward, locked on the prince who stood waiting at the head of the arena.

By the time he reached the dais, a full minute had passed, but he had not wavered once. He dropped to his knees upon the sand, now clinging damply to his skin with sweat. His posture was steady, respectful, unwavering. Slowly, his head tilted upward, eyes meeting Alpheo's with a quiet mix of reverence and defiance.

This was the man Alpheo had chosen.

Edric was small by most military standards, his frame lean rather than imposing. Yet there was a density to him, like coiled cat ready to pounce up. His face was square-cut and stern, features made sharper by the harsh midday sun. His brown hair was cropped short, swept forward in a style that only loosely resembled bangs, giving him a rugged, no-nonsense appearance. There was something almost blunt about his presence,an honesty that fit the ritual he had just endured.

No pomp. No polish. Just a man shaped by command, ready to shoulder more.

The kind of man Alpheo liked to have around...