Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

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

The young man muttered the words under his breath, his voice barely audible over the faint hiss of grain shifting in the heavy sack slung across his frail shoulders. Each step sent waves of agony through his body, reopening the wounds that crisscrossed his back, their sting amplified by the coarse, sweat-soaked fabric of his tattered shirt.

The lashings were not the worst part. The searing pain of the whip lasted only moments; it was the lingering ache, the slow healing, and the humiliation that truly broke him.

He wasn't a king, nor a prince, nor even a free man. To those who commanded him, he was no more than a tool—a fragile, disposable thing that they could use until it breaks.

As he trudged toward the kitchen tent, the clamor of clashing steel and raised voices filled the air, the sounds of soldiers sharpening their blades and bickering over rations. His knees threatened to buckle, but he pressed on. A single misstep, a sack torn open, and he wouldn't survive the punishment, not again at least.

With a trembling hand, he pushed aside the tent's heavy flap. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of boiling meat and stale bread. The cooks and camp followers shot him scornful looks as he entered, their eyes full of disdain. But none moved to stop him, not with the weight of the sack behind him.

He knew their hatred well.

"A second mistake, and they'll toss my corpse to the dogs ,they won't even bother burying me" he thought bitterly, their glares burning into his back.

A raspy, high-pitched voice soon cut through the din.

''Make sure not to break a second one, or I'll swear on the gods you won't ever make another mistake. "

The voice belonged to Virvana, the head cook, a towering woman with a scowl that could curdle milk. Her greasy, unkempt hair clung to her damp forehead, and her eyes glinted with cruelty as she referred to the sack he broke that morning, which earned him the lashes that were burning his back at the moment.

Alpheo bowed his head, biting back the retort that danced on his tongue.

Kind as a lion and as beautiful as a cockroach, he thought darkly, his lips curling in a bitter smile.

Lowering the sack to the ground with aching arms, he glanced at her once—just once—before turning to leave.

I wonder if she'd be gentler after a good fuck. Or does she eat everything but cock?

The thought made him laugh bitterly as he stepped back into the sun, but he quickly stifled the sound. Laughter drew attention. Attention brought punishment.

The sun beat down relentlessly, its rays blinding him as he squinted against the light. He stared at his hands—rough, calloused, scarred, with nails jagged and dirty. Blisters and untreated cuts marred his fingers, evidence of years of unending toil.

For a fleeting moment, he let himself remember.

Five years. Five years since peace had slipped through his fingers. He laughed humorlessly at the irony of it. Back then, I thought it was hell. Now I know better. That was heaven compared to this.

His back throbbed with each labored breath, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his heart. He had once known luxury: a warm bed, a loving family, a life of learning. He had been a student—history his passion. Stories of kings, conquerors, and wars had fascinated him. There was something magnetic about tales of men who rose above their station, of heroes and villains etched into eternity.

But no one sang songs for slaves. No one wrote stories for the nameless who suffered and died in silence.

Alpheo clenched his fists. He had once lived in a city that never knew hunger, where friends and entertainment were plentiful. Now, those days felt like a distant dream, stolen by cruel fate.

When death finally claimed him—and it surely would—no one would mourn.

They sold me for three silver coin, he thought, his mind spiraling back to that day. He had been a farmer's son then, born into poverty but still not despair. His parents were humble. He had never known the whip, never tasted the cruelty of man's worst instincts.

That peace had ended when the slavers came.

They weren't invaders, not in the traditional sense. They came with silver coins in hand, not swords. They bought lives as casually as one might purchase livestock.

For the fifth son of a poor family, the price of freedom was a single silver coin.

He was nine—perhaps ten—when they took him, a thin boy with too many brothers and not enough food to go around. The three coins sealed his fate, and with it, his world collapsed.

Five years of toil had followed. Five years of pain, degradation, and hopelessness. All that remained were the scars—on his back, his hands, and his soul.

As the sun continued to bear down, he lifted his head, his gaze unfocused. He had loved history once. Now, he wondered: Who weeps for the forgotten? Who remembers the soldier who dies nameless? The slave who suffers unseen?

Alpheo shook his head, forcing himself to move. His musings wouldn't fill his stomach or ease the lash's bite.

If I ever escape this hell, he vowed silently, I'll make sure the world remembers.

But for now, the world didn't care. 

His name was Alpheo—a mythical name, though its significance was lost on him. It was a strange name, and the fate of the one who bore it was stranger still. If he had to choose one word to summarize his second life, it would be "pet." Like a mere animal, his existence had been defined by the whims of those who bought and sold him.

He had lived in many homes, passed from one master to the next, each a new chapter of misery. His first master had been a nobleman, a man who saw value in him not as a person but as an object of entertainment for his young son. The boy had adored Alpheo's stories—tales woven with wit and imagination, his voice a balm to the child's boredom.

For a brief moment in his life , Alpheo thought the worst was over. But the boy soon grew bored of his stories, too. He found new distractions, and Alpheo's purpose in that household ended. He was sold again, a transaction as simple and thoughtless as the trade of a loaf of bread.

By the time he was twelve, he had been sold to a soldier, his new role that of a camp follower. This life, too, was merciless. He cleaned, carried, fetched,starved—always the lowest of the low. When the soldier who owned him died in battle, Alpheo became the property of the military camp his master served in.

In this endless cycle of servitude, Alpheo learned to survive. He mastered the art of appearing weak and submissive. Meekness became his armor, and pain his constant companion. He knew the sting of whips, the crack of fists, the bruises that never fully healed.

Yet, through it all, he never forgot who he was. He clung to the fragments of his identity, his dreams, his desires.

He wanted freedom.

It was such a simple thing—a life where his will was his own, where he could walk unchained, where no one's hand would rise against him unless he raised his first. Yet, it seemed so impossibly distant.

But the fire in his heart refused to die.

He didn't just want freedom for the sake of peace. No, Alpheo dreamed of bringing steel and fire to this world. He wanted to be the storm, the force that others feared, the master of his own fate.

They saw him as weak, as a tool to be used and discarded. But one day, they would see him as he truly was: a tempest waiting to be unleashed.