Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Valen's armored boots pressed into the soft green grass of Salthold's northern fields, each step sending a low clink through the air, his breastplate chiming against the chainmail beneath ,like two silver spoons meeting on stone.

The spring breeze carried the scent of rain and distant smoke, and the flags above the city's watchtowers stirred lazily, unaware of the storm soon to come.

Just days prior, Vashen, firstborn of Varaku, had arrived on horseback, a gift from his prince in honor of the alliance. He had came to deliver the news, the Duskwindai had declared war.

Valen had received him not only as a guest but also as a brother-in-arms. His reply had been swift and resolute, as their oath would be fulfilled.

He remembered how Vashen's shoulders had seemed to ease at those words, the faintest smile touching his lips, that he had never seen move into anything other than brooding whenever he watched him.

Perhaps knowing they would not face the wrath of the giant of the mountain tribes alone gave him some measure of comfort.

Since then, Vashen had remained an honored guest under Valen's roof, while the city below was set into motion for the war preparation.

The Yarzat Relief Host stood assembled. Six hundred footmen clad in padded gambesons , chainmail, and steel-capped helms, spears in hand and purpose in their eyes.

Two hundred of them the prince had even managed to equip with breastplates; it was most certainly a welcome gift as they needed every ounce of help to face what was coming.

A mere hundred men were left behind to hold Salthold's walls, as even the archers were put on the field.

Valen exhaled, the weight of what lay ahead pressing against his chest, but so too the pride of a commander who had shaped the city and could now see it go to war.

Steel would sing. Blood would fall. But when the mountain thunder came crashing down from the Duskwindai peaks, they would not face it kneeling.

They would face it marching.

The sun had risen up just past the walls of Salthold, bathing the sky in bands of rose and deepening indigo. The campfires were lit in orderly rows across the training field, their orange glow flickering against helmets and cheekplates, reflecting in the eyes of men who laughed too loudly and chewed too quickly, as if trying to bury nerves beneath food and firelight.

For many of them , this would be their first war.

Valen walked among them, his hands clasped behind his back, helmet tucked beneath one arm. The clinking of his armor was softer now, drowned beneath the hum of voices, the occasional burst of laughter, and the steady rhythm of wooden spoons scraping the insides of iron bowls.

Tonight was their last meal in Salthold, a farewell before they marched at dawn. And it was a good one.

Steam rose from bowls of thick sheep meat sauce, rich and more iimportantly,spiced, poured generously over coiled pasta, made from Yarzat's very own wheat, pale gold and slippery with oil.

It wasn't much by the standards of the White Army, who dined on such things in their fortified keeps and palatial camps, but for the men of Salthold's garrison, who lived on lentils, salted roots, and tough barley bread, along with of course, goat's milk, it might as well have been flesh from the gods themselves.

Valen allowed himself the hint of a smile.

He saw scarred hands, veterans from the war of three years ago who had accepted the paid offer to become a garrison for the city of Salthold, now licking sauce from their fingers like boys at a village fair. He saw green recruits with wide eyes and still-sore shoulders, boasting of their first march into war as if they would return with golden crowns.

He paused beside one small cluster, five soldiers crouched near a low-burning fire, bowls in lap, heads bent.

"Eat well," Valen said to them, voice steady, eyes sweeping over them as he wondered how many of them would come back.

They looked up, startled for a moment, then straightened, nodding fast.

They were not the great legions of the Yarzat hheartlands. They were not the Prince's own men, nor the feared Black Stripes.

They carried no halberds forged in royal forges, no heavy axes or ornate maces that saw more blood than any man alive.

Their arms were simpler, spears paired with round shields, short swords or wood-handled axes slung at their belts. They did not march like granite carved into men, nor roar like lions across the battlefield.

They were not the White Army.

They were farmers. Shepherds.Some served as soldiers , most did not.Men who had traded plough and sickle for a coin's promise and a rough tunic bearing the Prince's emblem.

Not for glory. Not for honor. For pay. And for survival.

But these were the men Valen had been given.And these were the men he would lead.

He took some solace in one thing: they were his. Not in blood or name, but in blade and shield. They had trained under his eye, drilled under his voice, bled and cursed and sweated on the same fields for two long years.

They might not have been heroes,but they were hardened in their own way. That had to count for something; they must have.

They would not face a small fight. Of that he was certain.

Varaku's warning echoed in his memory:"They will outnumber us. By more than we'd ever like."

The enemy would bring the storm, a wave of fury with numbers to spare.

But Valen's men had shields, steel, and the training of a soldier's hand even if not the heart of one.

That would have to suffice.

Still, even with the storm ahead, even with the shadows of uncertainty creeping entered the governor's mind, Valen found his greatest comfort not in prayer, nor in gratitude, but in his trust for his prince.

The man who ruled him was no blind fool lost in bloodlust or pride. He was more than reasonable, and merciless in equal turn.

To those who pleased him, he gave coin, honor, and power. In return, he demanded only one thing: to fight like devils unleashed.And fight they did.

From his nobles, he expected unwavering loyalty or they met the edge of his sword.And many had. Valen respected that. A fair exchange. Clear rules.

From him, the prince had asked for only one thing:To pursue his interests in this foreign land.And that Valen had done, faithfully, methodically, and with zeal.

He had turned the neglected SaltHold into a proper outpost.He expanded the garrison, trained the men as best the terrain and coin allowed, and turned that patch of rock and cold into something like a settlement.

He opened trade with the Chorsi, kept their doors just wide enough to invite friendship, from them they brought steel and wine, and in exchange they received pelts, and goats.

He called settlers from the mainland, farmers to tame the soil with potatoes and onions, fishermen to draw life from the nearby sea, and craftsmen to patch the bones of the frontier together.

Freshwater had been found nearby too, a gift from the land itself. It still needed to be diverted and tamed, but for now, it was enough to sustain them.

But none of it would have worked without the one thing Valen was most grateful for: the prince's support.

Every request he sent to the capital was answered, sometimes not just fulfilled, but exceeded.The prince anticipated needs before they became desperate. He sent grain, arms and most of all, he sent men.

Free weapons. Free armor.Enough steel to silence centuries of tribal pride.

Always to them he sent officers from the White Army, to whip what had been centuries of tribal warfare into something resembling an army.

Surprisingly, Varaku had accepted the latter and allowed the foreign men to train his troops.

Despite knowing they would march to face an enemy that outnumbered them, perhaps twofold, perhaps more, Valen felt a quiet thrill rising in his chest.

Excitement.

It pulsed beneath his ribs like a second heartbeat, unwelcome and familiar all at once.

For three long years, he had buried the warrior he once was beneath the robes of a governor, managing fields and fisheries, overseeing irrigation canals and tax ledgers, pretending that diplomacy and duty were enough to satisfy the blood in his veins.

Well it was not, the truth was this: Valen was a creature of war.It had always been his truest home, there it was that he found his freedom, there it was that he found meaning.

Not the governor's hall with its scrolls and wax stamps. Not the quiet chambers of SaltHold.But war—war with its chaos, its certainty, its brutal honesty and fairless of all.

There, a man did not lie.A man fought. A man earned.

And now, at last, he would return.

He would ride at the head of his men, spear in hand, the old rhythm of combat pounding through his limbs like a long-lost song.He would smell blood again.He would give orders that echoed across a battlefield, not in a closed room.

He would see death and deliver it.

Yes, they were ooutnumbered. es, it was dangerous.Yes, he might die.

But gods, wasn't that the point?

To fight again. To matter again. To go back to the house he had abandoned.

The house of war and die in the name of the only man he believed in.