Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

He moved with quiet care, each step soft against the stone as he approached the bed where his newborn daughter lay swaddled in delicate linen, her tiny chest rising and falling in the rhythm of a peaceful sleep.

His gaze flicked briefly to his wife.

She, too, had succumbed to the exhaustion of childbirth, her face newly cleaned of the sweat and strain that had marked the long hours past. Her raven-black hair fanned out across the pillow like spilled ink on parchment.

Even in sleep, her lips carried the faintest curl of a smile, serene, content, utterly radiant in her stillness.

For a moment, Alpheo paused. Just stood there, watching her. Letting the softness of the moment settle in his chest like warm balm after a storm.

Then, quietly, he turned, and stepped closer to little Rosalind.

She was so small. So impossibly small.

Her face scrunched softly with sleep, her tiny fists curled near her chin. The blanket swaddling her was embroidered with the symbol of his wife's house, but her fragility dwarfed even those grand sigils.

They were alone now. His closest companions, recognizing the sanctity of this moment, had offered their congratulations, cast brief smiles toward the crying child, and quietly excused themselves, leaving the royal family to their privacy.

Only those who truly mattered remained within the four walls of this chamber.

All that was left of the royal blood or extended family, gathered here… except for Shahab's son, who even now tended to his father's estate, dutiful and distant.

"She is beautiful," Jasmine's mother said gently, stepping closer to the bed, her silken sleeves swaying like drifting leaves with each graceful movement.

Alpheo smiled without looking up, his gaze fixed on the small miracle bundled in white. "I'm sure you say that, Mother, because she carries your name."

" I thank you for it," she replied, her voice respectful.

She had always kept a certain distance from the prince, not cold, not hostile, simply reserved. Their interactions had been courteous but few, never more than necessary.

Unlike Shahab, who would spar with Alpheo in jest and argument alike, she preferred to observe from afar.

Not because she disapproved, no, she had seen the joy her daughter found at his side. And though she had never said it aloud, she quietly cherished the man who had helped her daughter bloom.

She didn't speak of it either, but she loved the child who was half him.

"Gramma! Gramma!" a soft, excited voice piped up, the sound of tiny feet pattering across the floor like raindrops.

Basil appeared, breathless, eyes wide with anticipation as he reached up to tug at her sleeve. "I wanna see her!"

"Here, here," she cooed, stooping to scoop him up, planting a warm kiss on his forehead. She lifted him gently, his small arms clinging to her shoulder as he stretched his neck, trying to peek over the folds of linen at the sleeping infant.

It was plain to see that the boy was adored by all,how could he not be? With his ever-present smile, wide eyes full of wonder, and the boundless curiosity that pulled him toward every corner of the world, Basil had a charm that seemed to soften even the sternest hearts.

But of all those who doted on him, none did so with more visible affection than his great-grandfather. Shahab seemed to melt entirely in the boy's presence.

He lavished Basil with attention, never arriving without a small gift tucked into his cloak, wooden toys hand-carved by palace craftsmen, sweets wrapped in cloth, even rare storybooks with drawings in it.

Basil gasped softly as he was heaved in the air , eyes sparkling. "She's so tiny," he whispered, in awe. "Like a bunny!"

"She is, isn't she?" Rosalind said with a smile, brushing a lock of hair from his brow. "That's your little sister, Basil. Her name is Rosalind, like me."

Basil blinked, taking that in as if it were the most serious thing in the world. "Can I hold her when she wakes up?"

"Of course," she said, her voice warm and full of affection. "But you have to be very gentle. She's small now"

"I'll be careful," Basil promised with the quiet sincerity only a child could give, nodding solemnly.

Alpheo finally looked away from his daughter to his son, his heir and now her brother, and smiled. The moment felt impossibly full. Whole. One child in his arms, one watching over the other.

Little Rosalind, swaddled in pale silk and wool, let out a tiny breath as Shahab gently brushed away a nonexistent strand of air from her brow, his calloused finger grazing her cheek with a tenderness that rarely made itself known in war councils or state meetings.

"At this rate," Shahab mused with a crooked smile, "you'll have five of them before you hit your thirties."

Alpheo, standing beside him, let out a quiet chuckle. "Don't tempt me. If they all come out as lovely as her, I might take that as a challenge."

Shahab snorted, his eyes never leaving the infant. "Lovely? Most certainly not from your side. This one's all Jasmine."

"Now hold on," Alpheo replied, grinning. "Isn't it a bit early to say that? And wouldn't it be a crime if she didn't inherit my good looks? Look at Basil, he's got the best of both worlds. Dashing like his father, sweet like his mother."

Shahab turned to give the boy, who was quietly peeking into the cradle from behind his grandmother's arm, a sideways look. "It's unfortunate he took your little nose. A tragedy, truly. But at least the gods were merciful enough to grant him his mother's eyes. That boy is going to break hearts."

Alpheo laughed, throwing an arm over Shahab's shoulder. "Your granddaughter seems quite pleased with the way I turned out.''

Shahab rolled his eyes as he threw the arms away. "I just pray the gods don't curse her with your temperament ''

"We both know you don't mean that.Admit it, it would be a divine gift to see the royal family all blessed with charm and good looks. We're sorely lacking in number for that, aren't we?"

"Gods," Shahab muttered. "You played a part in that, didn't you? You could've at least spared the boys."

As soon as the words left his mouth, regret flickered across his face like a passing shadow. The jest had slipped out too quickly, too close to a truth better left unspoken.

An awkward silence briefly filled the air.

But Alpheo let it pass without reaction. His smile remained, soft and fixed on the cradle, as if he hadn't heard,or had chosen not to. That choice alone spared the moment from spiraling into politics.

Across the room, Shahab's daughter narrowed her eyes, giving her father a sharp, warning look. It said all that needed to be said—not now, not here.

Shahab cleared his throat and quickly turned his gaze back to the baby, bending down slightly and murmuring, "You've got your whole life ahead of you, little one. Try not to end up like us."

Alpheo gave a quiet sigh beside him, watching as Basil, still nestled in his grandmother's arms, tried to crane his neck over her shoulder to get a better look at the bundle in the crib. His small hands reached out with uncertain, clumsy affection.

"She's your sister, Basil," Alpheo said gently. "Be kind to her, always."

"I will," Basil whispered, wide-eyed. "She's really small." he repeated once again

''We know.'' He said, caressing his son's small face as he realised there would be nothing he wouldn't do for him and now for her.

He had known what needed to be done.

Jasmine's uncles. Her cousins. All of them had to be cut from the tree, root and stem. Not out of malice, he didn't know them, they were simply his enemies .

He could not allow a single branch to remain from the old line, not when it threatened the very future he was building with blood and fire.

For no matter how much Alpheo might achieve in his lifetime, how many cities bent the knee, how many banners bore his crest, his son would always carry the foul mark. The whisper behind court hands, the curled lips of the old nobility: lowblood, half-blood, upstart's son.

Mercy may soothe a man's conscience in the quiet of a single night, but it is his sons who pay the price when that mercy is remembered by enemies with longer memories and sharper knives.

No. It had been simple. Ormund's boys had to die. Their noble names silenced, their futures strangled in the cradle. Only then could he sleep. Only then could he know, without doubt or shadow, that his son's path to the throne would be clear, unchallenged by a past he had not authored.

Now, there was only Basil, with royal blood in his veins and no rival to contest it. And Alpheo, barely burdened by the choices no man should have to make, could rest easier.

Of course,he knew this fragile stillness would not last.

There were more wars to fight. More borders to erase. Kingdoms to make and other to break. Peace was a passing guest in a home built on ambition. But if—when—it was all over, and his name carved its place in history, lauded in song by strangers and cursed in whispers by those who lived through his rise… it would not matter.

Because if, at the end of it all, his son sat upon a throne made of victories, inheriting the garden that had bloomed from the sins of his father...

Then Alpheo knew, without doubt, that his final breath would taste sweet upon his lips.

For that was the duty of a father.