Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 512

Chapter 512: Light of a new day(2)
Asag stood motionless upon the battlements, his hands braced against the cold stone, his gaze fixed on the distant lights dancing across the black expanse of the sea. They shimmered like fallen stars, like the gods themselves had cast a net of fire upon the waves to guide salvation home. Time had ceased to matter—the ache in his bones, the wound pulsing at his side, the exhaustion that had settled into his marrow like a second skin—all of it faded before that glowing horizon.

A soldier approached, his boots scuffing against the worn stone. He hesitated when he saw his commander—the rigid set of Asag’s shoulders, the hollow intensity in his eyes.

“My lord?” the man ventured, his voice rough from smoke and shouting.

Asag did not turn. His answer came slow, distant, as if spoken from the depths of a dream.

“Keep patrolling, soldier.”

The words were barely more than a breath, carried away by the salt-tinged wind. The soldier lingered a moment longer, then bowed his head and retreated into the night.

Asag moved like a man caught between waking and dreaming. His boots found the worn steps by memory alone, each footfall a measured beat against the silence. Normally, his nights were sad and dutiful inspecting barricades, ensuring the pyres were ready to turn his city to ash rather than let it fall whole into enemy hands.

But not tonight.

Tonight, the weight of command slipped from his shoulders like a discarded cloak. The specter of defeat, the ever-present dread that had lived in his chest since the first enemy banners crested the horizon—it all dissolved before the undeniable truth burning in the distance.

The prince was coming.

His brother was coming.

A shudder ran through him—not from the cold, not from pain, but from something deeper, something he had buried beneath duty , steel and war.

Hope.

It was a fragile thing, that hope. Like the first green shoot breaking through winter-hardened earth. Like the faintest ember still glowing in a bed of ash.

And for the first time in eighteen days, Asag allowed himself to breathe.

He closed his eyes.

A gust of wind tugged at his hair, carrying with it the distant sound of the waves.

———————

The ships drew closer as time passed , their hulls cutting through the dark waters like silent phantoms. The banners of the royal house fluttered in the night wind, their silken forms catching the moonlight, glimmering with the weight of everything they represented—power, duty, salvation.

Asag stood at the shore of the port, watching, barely breathing. Around him, the murmurs spread like wildfire. Soldiers stirred from their sleep, rubbing weary eyes, shaking off the exhaustion that had shackled them for weeks. Citizens crept forward drawn by the whispers of something that felt almost too impossible to believe.

A ship reached the shallows, the first of many, and figures began disembarking, armored men stepping onto the land with the surety of those who had come to claim what was theirs. Step by step, they emerged—rows of disciplined warriors, the same one that had allowed this city to stand for nearly a month

But then, amidst the steel and banners, one figure stood apart.

The prince.

He stepped down onto the shore with all the presence of a man who had never doubted he would be here. The light of the torches from the men sorrounding him caught the silver embroidery of his cloak, the faint sheen of his armor. His face, so painfully familiar, was set in quiet determination. His eyes, sharp as a whetted blade, scanned the shore, searching, knowing exactly who he would find waiting.

And then—there.

Their eyes met.

Asag felt something inside him shatter.

For all the fire, for all the strength he had clung to these past weeks, for all the blood spilled and the nights spent wondering if he would see another dawn—none of it had broken him. But now, standing there, watching his brother approach, he felt the weight of everything crash into him.

The nights spent doubting.The days spent bleeding.The quiet moments where he had accepted death.The certainty that he would never see him again.

It was not relief, not exactly. Relief was too small a word for what churned inside him. It was something deeper, something raw, something that made his throat close and his breath hitch.

He had held on for so long, and now—

Now, he did not have to hold on alone.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails pressing into his palms. His chest ached, his wounds throbbed, but none of it mattered.

Alpheo had come.

He walked toward him, and the world seemed to slow. The banners of his house fluttered wildly in the night air.

For weeks, he had imagined this moment—had dreamed of it in those rare moments of rest, had whispered it to himself in the darkest hours when the enemy was at the gate and death felt like a breath away. But now, with Alpheo before him, real and alive, the weight of it all came crashing down.

The exhaustion, the battle wounds, the nights without sleep, the wounds that should have killed him—all of it pressed onto his shoulders at once. His knees buckled, and without even meaning to, he collapsed onto them.

His palms hit the stone . He gasped, as though the mere act of breathing had become too much to bear.

It was over.

For the first time since the siege began, Asag let his body give in. Let the weariness take him, let himself sink into the relief that coursed through his veins like a long-awaited blessing.

He had held.

And now, at last, he could rest.

But before he could even process the moment, hands were on him. Strong, unwavering hands.

“Get up.”

The voice was sharp, firm—pulling him from the abyss, refusing to let him collapse. The grip tightened, not unkind but insistent.

“I will not have one of my most loyal men—my brother—demean himself like this.”

The words struck him harder than any blade had. Asag looked up, his vision swimming with exhaustion, and found Alpheo staring down at him, his face a mixture of relief and sorrow.

His heart clenched.

“You came,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, barely more than breath.

Alpheo did not answer right away. Instead, his hands found Asag’s face, grasping his jaw, lifting it so that their eyes met.

It was then that Asag saw it—the grief buried beneath Alpheo’s gaze, the unspoken apology, the unbearable weight of knowing that he had arrived too late to spare his friend the suffering he had endured.

“You have fought long and hard,” Alpheo murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You are the hero that we needed.”

The words felt like a cruel thing. A hero. He had not felt like one when he watched men die around him, when he felt his blood leaving his body, when he had stared at the night sky and believed he would never leave this city alive.

“I have no words to undo the time it took,” Alpheo continued, his grip tightening, his own voice threatening to break. “No reward will ever be enough to repay what you have given me. The only thing I can offer you is this—”

He turned slightly, gesturing to the sea of banners behind him, to the army that had answered his call, to the storm of vengeance that had followed in his wake.

“I will show you the banner of Oizen trampled beneath our feet.” His voice was steel now, the promise of war woven into every syllable. “I will make them pay for the pain they have caused you tenfold. And I will ensure that all who live know your name—Asag, the Mountain of Aracina.”

Asag’s breath shuddered from his chest. His body trembled with exhaustion, with pain, with the flood of emotions that he had buried for so long just to survive.

He had not wept once during the siege.

Not when he had nearly died.

Not when he had thought himself abandoned.

But now, as he stood before his prince, before his brother, before the one man who had finally come to end this nightmare, he felt the tears prick at the edges of his vision.

The walls he had built—stronger than the city’s stones, stronger than the armor he wore—cracked at last.

He had not been forgotten.

He had not bled in vain.

He had held.

And now, at last, he was not alone.

——————–

Alpheo strode along the city wall, his cloak billowing behind him, his every step purposeful. The torches lining the battlements cast flickering shadows over his face, making his sharp features appear all the more severe. At his side, Jarza walked in silence, his old, battle-worn eyes scanning the night as if expecting an enemy arrow to come flying at any moment.

Behind them, the city still murmured with life. Soldiers moved about, tightening armor straps, sharpening blades, murmuring in low voices as they readied themselves for whatever came next. The wounded lay resting in the mansion that had been converted into a command center, among them Asag—finally, after weeks of battle, given a place to rest.

“What are the troops doing now?” Alpheo asked, his voice as steady as the stone beneath his boots.

Jarza didn’t need to ask what he meant. He knew.

“They’re nearly finished eating,” he answered. “As soon as the last bite is swallowed, they’ll be ready to march.”

Alpheo gave a slow, thoughtful nod, his gaze shifting beyond the city walls. He rested his hands on the cold stone, staring out into the darkness where the enemy camp sprawled in the distance.

Fires dotted the land, glowing embers against the night. The siege camp was still—quiet, unsuspecting.

“They’ve grown fat,” Alpheo muttered, his voice tinged with something dangerously close to amusement. “Lazy, complacent. Always deciding where to strike, when to attack.”

He turned slightly, glancing at Jarza with a smirk that did not quite reach his eyes.

“Perhaps it’s time to shed some of that fat.”

“A sortie?”

“A feast,” Alpheo corrected, his voice low and edged with sharp intent. “And tonight, we will be the ones doing the feasting.” He turned back to the camp, his eyes narrowing as if already picturing the chaos they would unleash. “We wait until the moon is high. Then we bleed them.”

Jarza exhaled, shaking his head. “You do love your dramatics, don’t you?”

Alpheo chuckled, but there was no humor in it. Only steel. Only the promise of retribution for a brother that was made to weep.

“Everything is prepared. The only thing left is to get the troops behind the gate, so we can deliver our gifts to Shemleik.” His lips curled into something between a grin and a snarl. “We hit fast, we hit hard, and most importantly—we turn their camp into a pit of chaos.”

Jarza gave a slow nod, his expression grim but approving. “That part shouldn’t be difficult. You throw enough bodies into the fire, and it will burn bright enough for the whole princedom to see.”

Alpheo’s gaze darkened, his mind already past the walls, inside the enemy camp, seeing it as it would be in mere hours—flames licking at the tents, men screaming, tripping over each other in the dark, cutting down their own in the confusion.

“What about the noble levies?” he asked, his voice carrying a tinge of expectation, as if he already knew the answer.

Jarza scoffed, rolling his eyes. “They’ll be more of a burden than a boon. They’ll slow us more than anything.”

Alpheo let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “That is the standard of infantry across the South now. When you eat nothing but cake, everything else tastes like shit.” He folded his arms across his chest. “But they will still add to our numbers, and numbers are good when our goal is chaos. Let them stumble, let them panic—if it spreads to the enemy, all the better.”

Jarza tilted his head, considering the words before letting out a low, dry chuckle. “I suppose if nothing else, they’ll make for excellent bait.”

Alpheo smirked, his expression as sharp as a drawn blade. “Let’s get them moving. I want to at least end one of our opponents before the week ends….”