Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

"Four men at each gate, three at each tower. Two gates, eight towers."

A young man muttered these words as he struggled under the weight of a heavy sack slung over his frail body. The sack made a faint hissing sound as the grain shifted inside, rising and falling with every weary step he took.

The worst part wasn't the whipping itself—it was what came after.

The lashings lasted mere seconds, but the pain lingered for days.

With every step, he trembled. The wounds on his back burned, each slap of the sack reopening the scars hidden beneath his thin, tattered shirt. He was no king, no prince, not even a free man—just a shadow to those who held power over him.

To them, he was nothing more than a tool, easily discarded when broken.

As he neared the large tent where the kitchen was housed, the clamor of clashing steel and angry voices filled the air. Despite his exhaustion, he took a deep breath, pushing aside the heavy flap to enter cautiously. Normally, a slave setting foot inside the kitchen tent would earn a brutal punishment—whippings, most likely. The cooks and camp followers shot him looks of pure disdain, their eyes dripping with contempt. But no one moved to throw him out.

'A second time, and I'll be six feet under,' he thought bitterly as their stares bore into him. 'Actually, scratch that. They won't even bother burying me. The dogs will feast on my flesh.'

Suddenly, a raspy, high-pitched voice rang out from the depths of the tent. It belonged to a large, menacing woman whose cruel eyes seemed to pierce the very soul of the young slave. Her hair was greasy and unkempt, much like her demeanor toward him. This was Virvana, and at that moment, there wasn't a single person in the world he despised more.

"Break another sack, and not even hell will compare to what I'll do to you," she snarled, her voice dripping with malice as her eyes locked onto him , as she never forgot about that incident in which he was no way at fault.

'Kind as a lion and as beautiful as a cockroach,' Alpheo thought bitterly, bowing his head.

As he lowered the sack to the ground, he gave one fleeting look at the fat woman

ìI wonder if she'd be gentler after a good fuck,' he mused darkly. 'Bet the only thing she doesn't eat are dicks.' But he swallowed the words, knowing he wouldn't survive another whipping if they escaped his lips.

Under Virvana's cold, watchful gaze, he turned and made his way out of the tent.

The intense rays of the sun relentlessly beat down upon his face, forcing him to squint his eyes against the blinding light. He slowly lowered his head, his gaze falling upon his hands. They were calloused and rough, bearing the marks of hard labor with ragged fingernails and dirty skin. Blisters and untreated cuts adorned his fingers, evidence of the grueling work he had endured for years.

He couldn't help but let out a humorless laugh at his current situation, though he quickly stifled it, not wanting to attract unwanted attention. As he forced himself to look at the sun once more, he couldn't help but think about the irony of it all. "Five years," he thought bitterly, "For five years I have known peace, even if I treated it as hell. And now that I am in hell, I realize the heaven I was in."

But even as he cursed his current state, the rays continued to beam down upon him, their heat intensifying and causing him to wince in pain. His back ached from the long hours of physical labor, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his heart for the life he once had.

He had known luxury , he slept on a warm and comfy bed, he had loving parents . He was a student, and a good one at that, and history was his subject. He had loved it so much , story of conquerors and kings, wars and betrayals, there was just something about hearing the story of people better than you.

They always sing about the heroes, the kings and emperors, none sing about soldiers, so who is to weep upon the slave's pain?Who shall remember his name after he die? He had once lived in a city where food would never lack, nor entertainment nor friends.

He met his end and was reborn in a foreign land, filled with customs and language unknown to him. He lived on as a simple farmer, the son of two humble people whose names he couldn't recall. Poverty was his constant companion, hunger an ever-present ache in his belly. Yet, amid all this hardship, he was never whipped , beaten or victim of human's bestiality.

He could not discern which king or lord they served, but it mattered little as they swept through the village on horseback, dragging bound and helpless people behind them as they rode. These were not invaders, but slavers . Instead of pillaging their homes, they came with silver coins in hand, offering to buy slaves. And just like that, he was sold for a single coin made of silver – the fifth son with four others still needing to be fed. He must have been ten or nine years old at the time; it was hard to remember after six long years of torture and misery that followed. He was sold for a silver coin ,that was his worth.

His name was Alpheo , it was a mythical name, albeit the context was missed on him , it was a strange name and the fate of the one he belonged to was even stranger.

If Alpheo had to choose a word to summarize his second existence, it would be that of a pet, after all, throughout his life just like a mere animal , was bought and sold at the whims of his masters.

He had lived in many homes, his first master was of a noble , his son liked his stories and the father bought him , his sister instead liked his body. Despite his cute appearance with warm brown eyes and an endearing puppy-like face, Alpheo was not that cute to make her be defiled by a slave. And the sister was the type of person, to like specific plays.

The only thing she did not hit was the face, she liked it too much to ruin it. Everything else was free game.

Each morning, Alpheo would entertain the boy with his stories, only to be tortured in the evening for her pleasure before being sent off to sleep. This routine continued on until the sister was married off and he was sold once again.

The boy stopped liking his stories after six months, he took a liking to other things instead, and he was sold again and again until he reached the age of twelve when he was purchased by a soldier as a camp follower for the army.

This time, he was relegated to working in the kitchen as a carrier and cleaner.

The boy learned to act weak and meek, punches, slaps and whips were his master, yet he never forgot who he was , nor what his desire was , freedom. So simple and yet so unattainable

Yes he wanted to be free… to bring steel and fire to this world.