Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 542

Chapter 542: News of victory
The chamber was warm, lit softly by the amber glow of the hearth, the fire crackling with gentle comfort. The princess of Yarzat sat on a cushioned bench beside the window, the velvet curtains drawn back just enough to let in a sliver of starlight. In her arms wriggled a bundle of silk and joy—Basil, her five-month-old son, cheeks like ripe peaches and eyes wide with boundless curiosity.

She bounced him gently on her knee, one hand steadying his little back as he squealed with delight, his pudgy legs kicking in excited rebellion against the soft linen of her gown.

Before her on a low desk sat a single letter, folded with care, its crimson wax seal stamped with the sun-and-crescent emblem of House Veloni-isha.

The seal was hers, and yet it belonged equally to another now—her husband, Alpheo, who had taken her house name when they wed.

With Basil nestled on one arm, she reached out with the other and took the letter delicately. Instantly, Basil’s eyes locked onto it like a hawk spotting a shimmering coin. His tiny hands reached out , fingers opening and closing with the kind of desperate ambition only a baby could muster.

Jasmine laughed, her voice like the chime of silver bells. “Do you miss your father, little star?” she asked, lowering the letter just slightly as Basil made a heroic, wobbly attempt to grab it.

He hummed, a little bubble of sound, half a giggle, half a command, and lunged again with full baby determination, cheeks puffed with effort. Jasmine held it just out of reach and pressed a kiss to his brow.

“This isn’t for you,” she said softly, trying to settle him back against her. “This one’s for me.”

But Basil was not so easily swayed. He squirmed in her arms with all the fury of a thwarted general, arms flailing, lips puckering in protest, and Jasmine sighed in half-exasperation, half-adoration.

“Willful,” she muttered, brushing back a lock of his fine black hair, “just like your father.”

Though calling Alpheo willful is generous, really. The man would rather smash his head through a wall than walk around it. Gods help me if you take after him too much.

Jasmine adjusted Basil on her hip, balancing him with the seasoned grace of a mother who had done it a thousand times in the last five months, even if her spine disagreed.

With a gentle motion, she brought the letter closer, only for Basil to let out a sharp mrrrgh!—the unmistakable protest of a royal infant recently denied a prize.

“Oh, hush, you little lion,” Jasmine murmured with a smirk, brushing her nose against his round cheek. “Your father is out there fighting a war, and this—” she held the letter up dramatically, “—is the only thing I’ve gotten from him in a month. So, if you don’t mind I’m going to read it.”

The boy blinked at her, wide-eyed and momentarily still, as though considering whether this was, in fact, a reasonable argument.

After a pause—a long, suspicious silence from someone who had very recently tried to eat a curtain tie—Basil seemed to accept the terms and leaned his head against her shoulder with the exaggerated drama of a prince born for audiences.

Jasmine smiled faintly, pressing the letter to her chest for a breath before slipping a nail under the wax and snapping the seal with a soft crack.

The paper unfurled smoothly, crisp but worn by the journey. Her eyes danced across the script—tight, angular, unmistakably Alpheo’s.

To my dearest Jasmine, Warden of our Squirming Little Storm

If the gods were just, I’d be writing this letter from your lap rather than some wretched saddle that has, by now, declared war upon my spine. And yet, here I am—miles away, ink-stained, sunburnt, and smelling faintly of iron and horses, fighting a war that was brought to us

Forgive me for the silence these past weeks.

The war I fight is not one of glory, nor ambition, nor pride—but of necessity. It is fought so that you may sleep without fear, so that Basil may grow without ever learning the sound of swords clashing too close to home, unless he was to wish for it.

If this letter brings worry to your heart—cast it away immediately, for I come not as a messenger of grim tidings but a herald of triumph.

As I write this, my army marches beneath banners heavy with victory. The Oizenian threat—the great beast that cast its shadow toward our lands—has been broken.

Shattered , by steel, fire, will, and of course a night attack led by yoursss.

Their banners are trampled into the mud, their lords scattered like leaves before the wind, dead or sleeping and dining at our leisure. What remains of their force is no army, but frightened men wishing they’d never set foot past our borders.

You need not fear for the capital. With Oizen’s spine snapped, the other two flailing limbs should prove little more than a morning’s effort.

Do me one favor: when our little lion claws at your letters or gurgles at the firelight, remind him—gently, of course—that his father is away fighting . One day, the mantle of our house will pass to him, and I expect he’ll wear it proudly—once he stops trying to eat it.

Should you find a spare moment between feeding our ravenous Basil , I beg you to pass along a small—no, grand—bit of news to your mother.

Please inform her that the loathsome, pustule-hearted, fork-tongued, rat-breathed, goat-kissing, silver-painted disgrace of a man known as Prince Shamleik of Oizen now lies very dead beneath my feet. I believe it poetic justice that his final view of this world was the heel of my boot.

I imagine your mother might crack a smile—just a small one—knowing that the man who, not once but thrice, dared to call her a whore who destroyed his royal marriage with your father, now feeds the worms of our soil. I can only hope she enjoys the thought as much as I enjoyed the thunk of his crown hitting the mud.

There are some heads that simply beg to be separated from their necks, wouldn’t you say?Some of which are still to the north of us

As I seal this letter, we are turning our gaze toward the last foreign infestation skulking within our borders. The next confrontation—if one could call it that—should be little more than a clean-up, a formality.

And yet—despite this coming task being as simple as herding blind sheep—I hope, selfishly, that your heart still worries for me. Just a little. Enough to miss me. Enough to keep a place warm beside your fire.

Until then, wait for more joyous news

Alpheo

Soon-to-Be Collector of Another Foreign Crown, and Always Yours

———————–

Jasmine let the letter fall gently onto the desk, a much bigger smile present now on her lips .

She exhaled, soft and slow, as though she’d been holding her breath since the day rumors of the Oizenian army had first reached Aracina, fearing the worse of cause which would be a siege of the royal capital.

Besieged, they had said. And Jasmine, who’d never trembled with fear since she took the throne , had felt ice in her veins at the thought of Basil living his first year beneath enemy banners outside the gate.

But now, it seemed, they might need to rename Aracina altogether—perhaps Oizenian Graveyard would be more fitting. After all, it was the second time their armies had bled themselves dry on its stones. And both times, the same smiling madman had been waiting for them at the gates.

Her mind drifted, as it always did, back to Alpheo.

Even now, a small smirk tugged at her lips despite herself.

It was maddening, really. That man—no, her man—could barely sit through a formal dinner without finding some excuse to escape, leaving her to deal with the guests that did not rouse interest in him.

He held a wine goblet like a dagger and had never once remembered which fork to use, many times preferring his hands.

And yet… somehow, he always had a full table, and no shortage of men ready to bleed for him.

She had to admit it—perhaps with a touch of envy—that there was very little Alpheo couldn’t do better than her, save for matters of protocol and refinement. And frankly? She would have gladly traded her grace and poise for even half of the skill he possessed when it came to winning hearts.

Because that, that was the real sorcery.

Alpheo had this maddening, miraculous ability to draw people in—to make them believe in him, fight for him, die for him. It wasn’t just command, or courage, or even charisma. It was something else. Some invisible string he plucked in the souls of men. And Jasmine, for all her wit and sharp mind, knew she’d never had that kind of pull.

She had been drawn in herself, after all.

She smiled down at Basil, who had now taken to chewing on the corner of a cushion, his tiny brow furrowed in deep concentration. She leaned closer and whispered, “You’re going to be just like him, aren’t you?”

The boy blinked, looked up at her, and made a strange triumphant squeal as if agreeing.

She smiled, brushing a curl from his forehead. Everything, she thought—the wild smile, the crooked little nose—all from his father.

Well… almost everything.

At least he’d gotten her eyes—clear, vivid emeralds that caught the light just so. A small victory, she mused with a smirk, over Alpheo’s tragically plain brown ones.

She scooped Basil up into her arms with a soft laugh, lifting him high above her head until his tiny legs kicked with delight. “You,” she said, her voice playful but proud, “are going to break many maidens’ hearts, little prince.”

Basil looked down at her with wide eyes, then flashed a gummy, gleeful smile as if he understood every word and agreed wholeheartedly. His small hands patted the air, and a gurgle of contentment escaped his lips, sealing the promise like a royal decree.

Jasmine chuckled, holding him close. “Just try not to shatter them all at once.”