Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

The cold rain of winter hammered the earth, turning fields into mud and stripping the last clinging leaves from skeletal trees.

Some years earlier, the city of Rose's Rise, temporary capital of what few still called the rightful Romelian Empire, but what most across the continent had come to nickname the Eastern Empire , had burst into celebration. Their Imperator had returned victorious, hailed for repelling what was said to be a savage invasion from the tribes that settled on their east.

For a time after, an uneasy, almost unnatural peace had settled over the whole land that once was part of the Romelian Empire. It was as though the great war engine forged by the three sons of Gratios had run out of fuel, stalled, winded, too exhausted to continue its grim purpose.

But the truth, as always, was more complex.

The eldest son, crowned by his followers as the Northern King, had all but buried his head in the snows of the highlands. Content with what he'd carved out for himself during the empire's collapse, he turned a deaf ear to the wider world, ignoring the fate of the rest of Romelia so long as his own borders remained secure.

In the heartlands, the empire's Core, it was the youngest son who held sway. The regency used the lull in conflict shoring up his holdings, consolidating power, and carefully smoothing the transition of rule from the dying hand of Marthio the Old Lion, whose once-feared grip on the empire had grown frail with illness and age.

As for the third brother—the middle son—his truce with the world was not a matter of strategy, mercy, or foresight. He too kept the peace, but not by will. Simply put, because he could not lead the war he longed for.

For Mavius, Second Son of Imperator Gratios, once hailed as the Conqueror of the Gods' Fingers, the Defeater of the Northern Tribes, the Eastern Rose, was now dying.

The man who had once ridden at the head of ten thousand men, who had seen smoke rise over the Great Fortress in triumph, was now shackled not by steel, but by breath, his own breath, which came slow and ragged like the bellows of a dying forge without feed.

Tuberculosis had made its home in his lungs. The disease had carved hollow caverns in his chest, stealing his voice and strength day by day.

His once-commanding baritone had turned to a wet rasp, and when he tried to speak, blood sometimes spattered on the linen.

Each cough tore through him like a blade, racking his fragile body with tremors that left him trembling and soaked in sweat.

His face, once sun-bronzed and sharp, was now pale and bloated with illness. Thick cords of snot clung to the corners of his mouth, forcing him to breathe heavily through parted lips as his nose remained stuffed and inflamed. His eyes, sunken and rimmed in dark circles, stared blankly at the ceiling.

He coughed again and the chamber echoed with the sick sound of a man being eaten from within.

Physicians hovered nearby like nervous carrion, whispering amongst themselves, their voices uncertain. They took his pulse, changed his soaked bandages, and administered thick herbal concoctions that smelled of bile and ash.

None dared speak aloud the truth that loomed over the room like a death shroud: Imperator Mavius was dying, and there was nothing they could do to stop it.

This was the man upon that the eastern nobles had hailed as their ruler. Now, he was reduced to skin, bone, and labored breath, his empire suspended in time, directionless, waiting on the final cough that would shake its foundations loose.

Outside, the rain fell with quiet rhythm on the stone roof of the palace. Inside, the conqueror of savages lay dying, not with a sword in his hand, not with banners raised in triumph, but alone, breathless, drowning in his own lungs with just his breathing.

Whatever family remained was gathered there, only meters away from what was no longer a man but a husk.

The scent of fever, herbs, and death clung to the chamber like a miasma.

But no one moved, save for the twitching hands of the man on the bed and the nervous flick of eyes too afraid to meet.

"He's not going to recover, is he?" Lord Landoff asked, his voice , as if uttering it aloud would somehow hasten the end. His perfumed handkerchief hovered near his face, though whether to guard against the stench or to hide the tightness in his jaw was unclear.

The head physician, a gaunt man with sunken cheeks and trembling hands, lowered his gaze. "I… I'm afraid not, my lord. We do not know how long he has left. A week, maybe. Days, more likely."

Landoff did not respond at once. His eyes remained locked on the ruined figure of his son-in-law, the man who had once made empires tremble and savages kneel. And now… now he could barely breathe.

It had begun months ago. A persistent cough, nothing more, at first—picked up as he planned the next southern campaign. A strike that would have brought the fractured Romelian Empire to its knees. Then the fevers came. Then the blood. Then silence.

Mavius had never raised a sword again.

A wet gurgle came from the bed, the sound of lungs failing their master. One of the attending women turned away, stifling a sob, probably one of his whore. The once-great warlord now wheezed through bloodied lips, his hands twitching against the linen like the legs of a dying spider.

"My lord," the physician ventured again, hesitant. "I am deeply sorry… but it would be wise if His Grace prepared for his passing. The will must be set down in writing… while he still draws breath."

Still, Landoff said nothing. Not at first.

The room had gone stone-cold. Everyone inside knew what was coming. And yet, not a soul could say what came after.

Would the lords of the Eastern Empire accept a child, a prince barely two years of age, as Imperator? Would they rally to a crib, or would they cast their lot with the younger son of Gratios, the boy-emperor in the Romelian heartlands? Would bloodshed follow Mavius' final breath?

Landoff's hands clenched around his handkerchief. He bit down a curse so hard his jaw almost popped. Damn it all.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. They were so close. His daughter had married into the bloodline of emperors. His grandson had Romelian fire in his veins and Eastern conquest at his feet. The Fingers were theirs. The savages were broken. The campaign south had been drawn, ready, only one decisive battle stood between them and unification.

One battle. One single victory. That was all they had needed.

And now?

Now the eastern throne would be vacant. Their armies without a head. Their enemies watching like wolves at the treeline.

We were on the cusp of everything, Landoff thought bitterly. And now we stand to lose it all.

He turned, his eyes hard and shining with cold fury. The Eastern Empire may yet outlive its Imperator, but not unless someone was ready to seize the reins before the body went cold.

And if no one else had the strength to act… then perhaps it was time he did.

He would have to become the regent.

That much was certain.

The boy, barely out of swaddling clothes, could not rule.

And the Eastern Empire would not survive on sentiment . No, Landoff would have to wield the crown like a sword, until the child could hold it himself. If he ever could.

He would need to gather the lords. Weigh their loyalties. Discover who would bend the knee and who would bend the dagger. Some would need convincing. Others—removal.

It would be butchery. He knew that, but it was the only thing he could.

And just as he was beginning to chart, in his mind's eye, the slow bleeding of traitors and doubters from his domain, he heard it.

A sound like the last breath of a dying furnace.

"Land… cough... Landoff…" another fit of phlegm and coughing wracked the broken body on the bed, "…come… here…"

The lord froze.

The voice, if it could still be called that, came from the deathbed of the Imperator himself.

Landoff winced. He had no love for the man, even if he had been good breeding stock for his daughter, and they had shared some women and men together when he was younger. But duty was duty.

He stepped forward slowly, the air thicker near the bed, thick with sweat, fever, and something worse. He leaned down, close enough that he could see the spit and blood flecking Mavius' lips, smell the rot behind his wheezes.

"What is it, your Grace?" he asked softly, carefully, as one would speak to a wounded animal or a madman.

Mavius blinked slowly, his bloodshot eyes struggling to focus. Then, in a voice barely more than a breeze:"Call… the savage…"

Landoff went very still.

There could be no doubt whom he meant.

After the battle against the Eastern tribes, when the hills ran red and the bodies of their savage warriors had been piled high, one had been spared. A shaman. An old, haggard man with dead eyes who he had kept for his magic.

Mavius had insisted the shaman not be killed when he had seen him. "For later," he'd said cryptically.

Landoff had obeyed and quietly, without the court's knowledge, had the man hidden away in the dungeons beneath the old south tower.

Now that decision returned, sharp as a dagger's kiss.

"…Why?" Landoff asked, frowning. "Why call him now? What purpose could—"

Mavius coughed violently, blood splashing the inside of his mouth. His hand trembled, grasping Landoff's sleeve like a drowning man clinging to driftwood.

"Tell… the savage…" he whispered, each word a dagger drawn from his failing lungs, "…I accept…"

Landoff's brow furrowed, heart suddenly pounding. Accept what?

But Mavius wasn't finished. He gripped tighter, forced one more whisper from his lips:

"Tell him… to prepare… everything…"

Then the hand went limp. The Imperator's eyes stared, still open, half-seeing some faraway place.

But his chest still rose. Barely.

For now he was still alive.

And as Lord Landoff stood there, haunted by the riddle of what Mavius had accepted with his final breath, the storm outside raged on. Rain pounded against the stone walls like the drumbeat of fate, relentless and cold. Thunder cracked above Rose's Rise, as if the heavens themselves had overheard the dying man's words—and now stirred in restless reply.