Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Sir Aron tugged his coat tighter around his chest. In one hand he held a stack of neatly bound papers, weeks of negotiation, calculation, and endless drafting condensed into a crisp summary of success or failure.

The room before him was the one that held the linchpins of the power he served.

He had walked these halls before, but every time he stood in front of the true architects of the realm, men who steered the fate of provinces with a flick of the quill.

Even as a member of the court now, a man with some voice and standing, the old tremor still crept in.

He swallowed it down.

"Your Grace," he began, bowing deeply. "My lords."

He kept his head low for a heartbeat longer than was necessary before continuing, "As per the directive of His Grace the Prince, I have conducted a series of engagements with both foreign and local merchants, all concerning the newly instituted land-leasing policy, which your wisdom has seen fit to enact."

He straightened and glanced down to his report. "In the span of the last month, I have met with twenty-nine merchants. Twelve withdrew upon realizing they lacked the capital to commit. Thirteen proceeded, electing to sign with the inclusion of the crown's financial support. Four signed outright, funding the leases entirely with their own resources."

He lifted his eyes to gauge the reaction.

The Prince, seated at the head of the table, offered a pleased smile, modest, yet unmistakably approving. It was all the reassurance Aron needed. His muscles eased, and with his nerves finally uncoiling, he found himself studying the Prince more closely.

Prince Alpheo's attire was strikingly elegant , a tunic of deep indigo silk, adorned with subtle embroidery of gilded thread that caught the light with every motion he made. His cloak, trimmed with the fur of a white fox, an animal he had never seen, hung just so from his shoulders.

Aron's eyes lingered for a second too long, apparently.

The Prince noticed.

With a grin that was half amusement and half mischief, Alpheo raised an eyebrow. "You're admiring the stitching, Sir Aron?"

Aron flushed, eyes widening as he immediately bowed again. "Forgive me, Your Grace, I meant no disrespect."

But the Prince only laughed, his voice warm and unbothered. "No offense taken. These were taken from Herculia's palace, spoils from the last war. If we must bleed, we might as well dress for it, don't you agree?"

The room gave a polite chuckle, and Aron allowed himself a breath of relief.

Alpheo waved a hand, still smiling. "Go on, Sir Aron. I'd like to hear the rest."

Aron nodded gratefully, lifting the next page in his stack. Confidence now tucked into the corners of his voice, he continued his report.

"In total," Aron continued, consulting his parchment with swift, practiced fingers, "nine merchants signed leases for land intended for grain cultivation. Five chose to invest in vineyards, two in olive groves, and one has committed funds to dye production."

"How much land has been allocated in each case?" The prince asked, brushing a lock of dark hair away from his brow, his gaze distant with thought.

"Yes, Your Grace." Aron flipped through the stack. "The grain-leased land totals one hundred and thirty-five acres. Vineyards make up seventy-two acres, olive groves twenty, and the dyeworks nine."

"Seems each merchant secured as much land as they were permitted for their chosen enterprise," observed Shahab, as he raised a cup of cider lazily to his lips.

Alpheo nodded in agreement. "Naturally. The cost of preparing the land is negligible compared to the return at harvest. Once the seeds are bought, their greatest expense is labor, and even that has fixed wages. It only makes sense they'd want to maximize their claim."

Of course, there was a limit, one not up for negotiation. That limit was Alpheo's own clause, inserted to make sure that no single merchant, especially a foreign one, could become a great landholder within Yarzat's borders.

It wasn't only about preventing the consolidation of too much economic power in foreign hands. It was also a matter of land use. Left unchecked, landowners often let fertile fields sit fallow to control supply and inflate prices, or because they simply lacked the manpower to tend every acre. Alpheo's policy was crafted not to generate a mere trickle of leasing income, it was a lever to transform Yarzat itself.

To make it not just a crossroads of trade but a producer of trade goods.

If a merchant rode to Yarzat to buy casks of wine, there was a high chance he'd take with him more than wine, maybe Yarzati oil, maybe Yarzati-dyed silks, maybe a new contract to purchase Yarzati grain. The economic ripple would spread far beyon their immediate need.

And beyond the taxes imposed on those goods, many of these new industries were structured so that a share, for those that accepted the initial investment, remained in the hands of the crown. The treasury would grow, not just from levies, but from the very lifeblood of Yarzat's industrial success.

It was a layered strategy, simple at first glance, but loaded beneath.

And it was timed well.

The once-mighty Romelian Empire had fractured into three bickering successor states, none of whom permitted foreign merchants to pass through the old Finger Roads. That left only the southern routes.

Through Yarzat.

Of course such a road would have many hundreds of kilometers, making the travel both expensive and dangerous.

Wine and oil, as such were both scarce, expensive and sorely needed in Romelia, and soon it would flow out of Yarzat like blood through a reopened vein. And every drop of it would be taxed, tallied, and used to reinforce the young prince's state from within.

Alpheo leaned back in his chair, the corner of his mouth twitching in a near-smile, not smug, but satisfied as he prepared to ask for his next question

"How much has been invested so far," Alpheo asked, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, "and what are the projected returns?"

Aron was ready. "Yes, Your Grace. The crown has disbursed a total of 16,000 silverii. Twelve thousand went toward aiding three wineries, and the remaining four thousand supported one of the two oileries. In exchange, the crown holds a ten percent share in each of those four enterprises."

There were nods around the chamber, though muted, the lords were clearly waiting for the real numbers.

"I must preface this, of course," Aron added quickly, "by stating that these are projected estimates only. Actual profits will fluctuate depending on harvest yield and the prevailing market prices for wine, oil, and dyes."

Jarza, who had been lounging with a disinterested look, suddenly leaned forward, his voice tinged with impatience. "Yes, yes, we understand risk. Tell us the damn numbers."

"Of course, my lord." Aron cleared his throat and scanned the parchment again. "Based on current rates, we expect an annual return, beginning realistically three to five years from now, of approximately 5,660 silverii from the wine and oil industries. An additional 890 may come from the grain leases, though as expected, grain margins are far narrower."

There was a visible shift in the room, an undercurrent of disappointment flickering across the faces of the gathered nobles. Aron caught it instantly and pressed on, his tone more animated now.

"I would urge Your Grace and this council not to focus on the modesty of these early figures. This is only the outcome of our first month. Already we've established the framework, and Yarzat will be gaining a reputation as an open and investable ground."

He lifted the parchment a little higher for emphasis. "The merchants will come. They are coming. And if the current pace holds, or accelerates, as I expect, these projects will easily triple by the end of the year. A fivefold increase is not only possible, it is likely. And more than that—this is just the foundation."

"In time," he said, looking toward his prince's advisors, "these industries, wine, oil, dyes, processed grain, will make up at least fifteen to twenty percent of our annual revenue. That is not counting taxes on trade, tariffs on foreign caravans, or our own indirect holdings."

He leaned forward, his gaze steady. "What we're building is not just another income stream, it's a spine.I believe that in du-''

As Aron was still speaking, the chamber door burst open with a loud crack, interrupting him.

Everyone turned.

Alpheo spun around, irritation flashing across his face like lightning. His eyes narrowed

"What is it?We are in the middle of a session!" he barked.

At the threshold stood a servant, pale as ash and panting, one hand pressed to the doorframe for balance, the other clutched tightly to the side of his tunic. He exhaled sharply, as though he had run through half the palace.

"The Princess," he said, breath heaving. "Her water has broken."

There was a stillness in the room that seemed to suck the air from the stone walls.

And then, like flint striking steel, the chamber exploded into motion.

The screech of chairs scraping back against the marble floor tore through the silence, wooden legs dragging like weapons being drawn. Robes rustled. Cushions tumbled.

By the time the first second came to an end, Alpheo was already halfway to the door even before his mind had fully caught up with his feet.