Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 543

Chapter 543: A close gift from a friend (1)
Riders galloped through the central road of Florium, hooves drumming against cobbled stone like a herald’s war drum, their voices cutting through the morning hum of the city.

“The Royal Army is here!” they cried, eyes wild with triumph. “His Grace, Prince Alpheo, has come to bless Florium with his presence!”

The shouts flew like sparks in dry grass, igniting the streets with sudden life as the various citizens of Florium went to witness the latest novelty.

And then—like a thundercloud cresting the hills—the Royal Army arrived in all its glory.

They marched in rhythmic perfection, the entire force rolling into the city like a tide of steel and discipline, banners high, glinting beneath the midday sun. Florium’s breath caught in its throat as the people beheld the might of their prince. The boots of two thousand men beat in unison, their movements practiced, almost ceremonial, as they entered the city not as invaders, but as the hand of justice made manifest.

At the head of it all came the White Army, the prince’s own chosen vanguard, their appearance unmistakable—each soldier clad in polished breastplates , the metal catching the sunlight like burning stars. Over their shoulders and wrapped around their waists flowed their iconic woolen coats of black and white, swaying with every step .

They marched like statues given motion, faces stoic beneath their steel helms. Their uniforms bore not the gaudy excess of peacetime dress but the clean, austere dignity of warriors who had bled for their banners.

Among them strode their officers, easily marked by the single plumed red feather rising from the side of their helms—a subtle, noble distinction of rank. The feathers bent and danced slightly with each movement, contrasting with the cock-like crests worn only by the few of higher command, those rare men who stood but a step below the prince himself—men who carried the full burden of command with the same pride as their swords.

The crowd obviously erupted into cheers as few days before their arrival the city heralds had announced the latest news from the war, namely the defeat of the Oizenian army along with that of the Herculeians, whose retreat was embellished as a military victory.

The city, once suffocating under siege and the weight of dread, now opened its gates to a storm dressed in royal colors—a storm that brought hope rather than ruin, as below their happiness was the relief of the knowledge that the siege had been repelled just by the name of his grace.

—————

For a week and a half, Shahab of House Filastin had stood atop the walls of Florium like a statue carved by the gods of war themselves—unmoving, unblinking, unchallenged.

And every gods-damned day, he had been presented with the same dismal painting stretched before the city walls.

A canvas of cowards.

There they were, the rebel lords and their miserable excuse for a siege—campfires glowing like lazy stars in a field of mud and mediocrity. Their banners hung limp in the breeze, as though even the wind refused to waste its breath on such dreariness. Tents pitched in neat, nervous rows, as if they hoped symmetry would win the city, not steel.

They didn’t charge. They didn’t test the gates. They didn’t even scream insults to make the long hours pass quicker. Just watched, and waited, as if a city like Florium would surrender because they were bored into submission.

It was enough to make Shahab want to throw a spear down just to remind them what war was.

It was really a very dull affair, and for a man of his age it proved to be more unbearable than if there were ten armies besieging the city.

And without the prince to turn to , in order to express how things were done some decades ago, he had no choice but to turn to the lord of the city.

“In my day,” he had proclaimed more than once , “men who clamored for war earned it in blood. Not waiting around like nervous virgins at their own wedding feast.”

Each day, the same view. The same dull horizon. He began to believe even the pigeons flying from tower to tower were more courageous than the men camped beyond the walls.

But today…

Ah, today was a gift. A kind one. A prince’s gift.

The sun had barely risen when he first heard the sound—not drums, not horns, but thunder, the kind made by boots and hooves and righteous purpose. Then the riders, bursting down the central roads like messengers of divine reckoning, shouting names that still stirred fire in the bones of old lords like him.

“The Royal Army is here!” – “Prince Alpheo himself has arrived!”

And then the curtain was pulled back on the world outside the walls.

The dull fields where the rebel dogs had camped were no more. Fire and steel had come to cleanse it. A sea of banners marched in from the west, and at their heart flew the colors that once conquered mountains and seared a path through desert and snow alike. The sight hit Shahab’s heart like the first song of a long-awaited lover.

Hope, yes—but more than that: war, as it was meant to be, as they could finally march forward and put an end to all of this farces.

The rebels were gone, like smoke after a storm, running instead of putting resistances. The fields now belonged to the prince, and the air itself smelled richer, like it had been starved of glory and now drank deep from its return.

And yet even in a man like Shahab, who had lived long enough to see two generations turn into adulthood , he could not help but feel that pang of something dangerously close to envy.

Because though his wish had been granted—his granddaughter, Jasmine, placed upon a throne not by diplomacy nor inheritance but by the blazing tip of Alpheo’s sword—though he should have felt the quiet satisfaction of a lifetime of planning ripening into legacy… there it was.

Envy.

The envy of a man watching a miracle march down his streets.

Alpheo had not just arrived. He had unveiled himself, like a god stepping down from a storybook.

And at the very front, as if leading a dance rather than a warband, came the White Army.

Their black-and-white woolen garb flowed behind them in practiced symmetry, not a stitch out of place. They marched not like men but like fate itself, and each step of their boots struck like a drumbeat on the city’s very soul.

And at least with the great view , came great music.

From within their numbers, bands of soldiers-turned-musicians filled the air with life. These were not hired minstrels or soft-handed court pipers. No, these were warriors who had drilled in sword and shield, and then had been handed a trumpet or a drum. And somehow, some impossible how, they’d been taught music.

Each rhythmic stomp, each bellowing call of the trumpet, each sharp crack of the drum had been woven together like a battle hymn rewritten for pageantry.

It was the sound of war dressed as art. The sound of thunder trained to march in tempo.

And of course—of course—it was said that the prince himself had composed the piece. Not just approved it. Written it. Scrawled the rhythms and marked the beats and arranged the horns to climb in such a way that even stone hearts would leap in their chests.

Such vanity! Shahab thought, Only my grandson-in-law would see war as an opportunity to flaunt music around.

So not only a prince and a victorious general , he was now even a composer, and the world was learning—city by city, and army by army —that when he lifted his hand, it wasn’t just soldiers that followed.

It was music. And mayhem. And miracles.

And yet ahead of the great spectacles a furrow of confusion crept in his visage

Not from age. Not from awe. From something off.

His eyes, sharp still despite their years, drifted to the rider at the parade’s head—the supposed Little Fox

He was dressed just as he should be.

The posture was there too: straight, daring, regal. But the steed—

Black.

The steed was black.

Alpheo’s was white. Always white. A creature as proud and arrogant as its master, gifted by his wife.

His gaze sharpened like a blade being honed.

Then, up—to the plume on the rider’s helm. It waved with every trot, feathered and striking.

Red.

Alpheo’s was purple.

As while he may have been a commoner, he had the vanity of those of higher blood.

A color of royalty, he had demanded for himself. A signature.

Shahab straightened. His breath stalled mid-draw.

The music continued. The soldiers marched. The people cheered.

But for him, the parade had stopped.

Because the man leading it wasn’t him.

And he was right , as his eyes, though old, had not dulled with age , had seen true.

For the man basking in the glory of the masses was not Alpheo.

No, not the young firebrand who had turned a crumbling war effort into a storm of victories. Not the prince who had outfoxed princes and shattered armies with cunning and steel.

Not the man who could march into hell and make devils kneel. Not the man who could speak jests with the same mouth he ordered executions from.

It was Asag.

Drinking deep from the roaring cheers like wine poured just for him. The first face the citizens of Florium laid eyes upon, the tip of the royal spear returned in triumph.

And so the city cheered on, none the wiser.