Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king
Chapter 595: Goodbyes(3)

Chapter 595: Goodbyes(3)

The tears continued to fall, silent and unashamed, streaking across weather-beaten faces that once would have snarled at the very notion of weeping.

Men who had cut down foes without blinking, men who had slept under the naked stars with blood still on their hands, now sobbed freely, clutching each other’s shoulders or simply standing there with their heads bowed under the weight of the moment.

And Alpheo too — he did not turn his face away, nor wipe hastily at his tears as if to deny them. No, he turned fully to his men, baring the rawness of his heart before them. No shame could exist between brothers who had fought and bled together.

His tears glistened in the open sunlight, visible to all, and he let them fall, just as he had let his words fall, honestly, without armor.

From somewhere nearby, a familiar rough voice broke through the thick, heavy air.

“Hells,” Jarza muttered, crossing his arms and tilting his head “the bastard’s actually crying.”

Alpheo gave a wet, shaky chuckle, his voice still hoarse with emotion. “I noticed,” he said, sniffling slightly and running a hand through his hair with a rueful gesture. “I suppose seeing so many leaving to walk their own roads… well, it finally moved this stone heart of mine.”

Egil, never one to miss a moment for a jab laced with affection, patted Alpheo’s back with a heavy thump that nearly made him stumble. “It’s not a bad thing,” Egil said, his grin boyish despite the lines of age and battle on his face.

Alpheo wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve and gave him a skeptical glance. “What good is there in a grown man blubbering in front of hundreds of soldiers?” he asked dryly, though his tone held no real venom, only the weary humor of someone caught in a moment too large to control.

Egil, with the slow and deliberate thoughtfulness of a man pretending to think deeply, said, “Nothing really. It’s embarrassing as hell.”

Before Alpheo could scowl properly, Jarza punched Egil in the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger a step.

“Idiot,” Jarza grunted, though there was more fondness than anger in his voice.

Egil laughed, rubbing his shoulder dramatically before continuing with a grin. “What I meant to say is… at least it shows you’re human, Alpheo. You might not know this, but there are a lot of folks — maybe more than you realize — who think of you like a statue. Cold. Unmoving. Untouchable.”

He gave a half-shrug, his smile more genuine now.

“It’s good to see that somewhere in there,” Egil said, tapping a finger against Alpheo’s chest, right over his heart, “there’s a man who bleeds, and laughs, and cries, just like the rest of us.”

Alpheo barked a short, incredulous laugh and shook his head, but he said nothing — because, deep down, he knew they were right. He had built walls around himself so high and so thick that sometimes he had nearly forgotten there was anything behind them at all, only few held the keys to its gate.

And now, at the end of the long road, those walls had finally cracked — not in shame, but in pride, in mourning, and in love for the men who had followed him into the fire and now walked free into the dawn.

“Their loss will be felt,” Asag said simply, arms folded over his chest, his one good eye narrowed against the sunlight.

Alpheo glanced at him and gave a small, almost mischievous smile, the glint of the old fighter flickering back into his eyes. “It won’t be that big of a loss,” he said, waving a hand as if to shoo away the thought. “Most of our commanding ranks have chosen to stay. That means the new units will lack some experience, sure, but not discipline. With enough drill and enough barked orders, they’ll hammer into shape soon enough.As long as the bone is there, the meat will be made anew”

He cracked his knuckles thoughtfully. “Experience can be earned. Discipline can only be learned ,” he gestured broadly to the men below the pavilion.

His commanders nodded, each weighing the truth of his words with the slow, sober nods of men who had seen plenty of raw recruits turned into seasoned veterans — and had buried just as many along the way.

They were deep in talk now, voices low, heads leaned together like the old war council meetings of distant campaigns, when suddenly a voice rose clear from the assembled ranks.

“Your Grace!” someone called out.

Alpheo blinked, startled, and instinctively turned toward the voice.

From the mass of soldiers, a figure stepped forward with a confident, almost bold stride. The man’s armor was well-worn but polished with care; his trimmed cloak swayed smartly at his back. From the distinct markings on his chestplate and the elegant, bone whistle hanging from his neck, Alpheo immediately recognized him as a Decurio — a commander of ten squads, a man of actually small weight among the lower officers.

The Decurio stood straight as a spear, his gaze firm but respectful as he looked up at the pavilion, awaiting permission to speak further. His armor caught the afternoon sun, throwing back a gleam like a signal flare.

He stepped toward the edge of the pavilion, his voice carrying easily over the soft breeze. “Decurio,” Alpheo said, his tone curious but not unkind, “you have my ear. Speak.”

For a heartbeat, the crowd hushed, all eyes drawn to the unexpected encounter. Even Jarza, Egil, and Asag leaned slightly forward, the easy air of brotherly ribbing slipping away as the moment shifted toward something new, something yet unwritten.

The Decurio, standing firm before the gathered assembly, raised his voice again, his tone now carrying a reverent, almost ceremonial weight.

“We have been blessed,” he said, his chest swelling with pride, “blessed beyond measure to have had you as our prince. You have taken care of us — not only with words, but with deeds. You brought us only victories, and when we paid the price for those victories in blood and bone, you did not turn your gaze away. You gave limbs to those who lost them, hope to those who had none, and now — for those of us who retire — you grant land and silver to begin a new life under the sun we fought to see rise.”

The Decurio paused, his throat tightening slightly. He lifted his chin, his voice steady despite the emotion thickening around the words.

“I do not know of any prince who has honored his soldiers as you have honored us. Others may sing of glory while their men starve in the mud, but you, Your Grace…” His eyes gleamed. “You fed us, clothed us, armed us, and saw us not as expendable, but as brothers.”

He turned, and from behind his back, he drew forth a simple laurel wreath — woven from the living boughs of the keep’s gardens, yet made with a craftsman’s care.

The green leaves shimmered in the sunlight, catching the breath of the moment.

“And so,” the Decurio continued, his voice lifting for all to hear, “as we have been pampered and honored by you, it is only fair that, as simple men, we honor you in the best way we know upon the end of our roads.”

He bowed his head slightly, holding the wreath before him with both hands like an offering to a living legend. “We ask — all of us — that you will accept this small gift, this wreath, as a token of our gratitude. That you may wear it proudly, for none are more worthy than you.”

For a long moment, silence held the pavilion like a spell. Alpheo said nothing, the words catching somewhere between his mind and his chest. He blinked once, and for a terrifying second, wondered if his heart had skipped a beat.

But then something warmer — deeper — rose in him, melting the last of his hesitations. It spread through his chest like a fire built in the cold of a long winter. He found himself smiling, not the restrained smile of a prince at ceremony, but something true and full.

“It will be my honor,” Alpheo said finally, his voice thick but proud, “to be praised by such worthiness.”

Without another word, he stepped back — then leapt boldly from the pavilion, his boots landing with a heavy thud on the grass below. The gathered soldiers gasped, some stepping instinctively backward, and immediately the royal guards stationed around the perimeter surged toward him, hands on sword hilts, alarm flashing across their faces, fearing for an assassin in the midst.

But Alpheo raised a hand sharply, a grin tugging at his lips. “Stand down,” he barked with a laugh, sweeping his hand as if swatting away a buzzing fly. “Let a man receive his due from his brothers without iron and pomp getting in the way.

For I have no safer guard than here”

The guards hesitated, then obeyed, falling back to their posts, though their wary eyes never quite left him.

The soldiers, meanwhile, surged forward with cautious awe, parting to let the Decurio step closer. Holding the laurel wreath aloft, he approached, and for a heartbeat the whole world seemed to breathe in, holding itself still for this singular moment.

Alpheo, standing tall before the sea of faces that had carried him through storms and into the sun, lowered his head with a solemn grace. There was no arrogance in the gesture, no pretension — only a simple, heartfelt acceptance of the honor his brothers-in-arms offered him.

The Decurio stepped forward with measured reverence, lifting the wreath higher still. With hands that trembled just slightly — not from fear, but from the immensity of the moment — he gently brought the laurel down, settling it atop Alpheo’s brow. The green leaves kissed his dark hair, the crown of a man not made by bloodline , but through deeds

For a heartbeat, silence hung heavy, thick with meaning.

Then the first voice cried out — a raw, heartfelt cheer that ripped through the stillness — and like a spark to dry fields, it spread. Cheers erupted from the ranks, a thunderous roar of pride and brotherhood. Helmets were thrown in the air, fists were raised, and men — many who had gutted enemies in cold blood without blinking — now shouted themselves hoarse for their prince.

Long live his grace.

May he never know defeats.

Such shouts soon filled the air as the roar of lions.

Tears ran freely, unashamed, down weathered faces. It was not the mourning cry of an army for a lost leader — it was the victorious howl of a legion that had seen its own dream made real.

No one standing there that day knew — not even Alpheo himself — that from this simple gesture, a new tradition would be born.

Henceforth, in the White Army, at the end of each campaign, the soldiers would have the sacred right to choose whether to honor their commander with a laurel wreath. It would be a choice — never a demand, never an obligation — given freely, as freely as the loyalty they had once offered beneath barren skies and before dying fires.

And so it was, that through the long seasons of Alpheo’s reign, he would lead sixteen campaigns across plains and mountains, through cities crumbling into dust and kingdoms clawing to be reborn. Of those sixteen, thirteen times would his soldiers weave the laurel crown anew, and thirteen times would they press it onto his brow.

Each wreath would tell a story — of rivers crossed, of battles won, of comrades buried beneath foreign suns. They would not be trophies; but living words of a man who had never ruled alone, but with the hearts and hands of his brothers carrying him ever onward.

And on that day, as the cheers shook the very walls of the keep, Alpheo lifted his head, the laurel glinting in the sun, and smiled a smile that was not just his own — but the smile of every soul who had ever dared to dream of freedom, and fought to carve it from the unwilling world.

For he was their savior, their brother and their hero.