Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 1036: New life
It is perhaps the most defiant aspect of humanity that, even when the world prepares for the encroaching dark, the soul can still find a spark of blinding light.
At the head of a carriage that had to jump over a canyon, with horses half dead and the roads beneath being all muddy, its guests, even despite such circumstances, could not dampen the joy and light of a new life.
The heavy frame of Jarza, Legate of the First, emerged from the door. His hands that had seen so much blood shed first for nameless masters, and then for one he loved, now cradled a small, trembling bundle of linen against his massive chest. He held it with a terrifyingly gentle precision, his muscles locked in a desperate effort to be soft, as if he feared the mere strength of his pulse might extinguish so fragile a flame.
The light moaning of the boy rose for all to be heard.
"My boy..." he whispered, his voice a gravelly rumble that broke on the second word.
Behind him, the eldest of the wetnurses appeared in the doorway, her apron stained red and her face etched with exhaustion. She looked toward the small circle of waiting men and offered the barest, most tired of nods.
In that moment, the simultaneous exhale of ten battle-hardened men cut through the air, a singular sound of profound relief. None was louder or more desperate than that of Torghan, whose own sister had been the one screaming inside there. The tension that had held his shoulders like iron bands snapped, and he leaned against a wall, his head bowed in a silent prayer of thanks to the spirits.
Asag meanwhile stepped forward, offering Torghan a firm, grounding pat on the shoulder before approaching the man who had just become a father for the second time. He could not contain himself as he rose onto his toes to steal a glimpse of the child.
Jarza stood motionless through it all, slightly lowering the baby so his brother in arm could see.
His eyes never left the bundle, fixed with a predatory focus, not of a hunter, but of a guardian who feared that if he blinked, the miracle would vanish back into the ether.
This was the same man who had ventured into dozens of killing fields, who had stood unflinching while arrows rained like sleet and the screams of the dying filled his ears. He had never once feared for his own life; he had looked into the eyes of death and found them wanting, never faltering whatever the road or the trouble.
But now, as he stared at the red, wrinkled face of his son, the giant began to tremble.
A single, hot tear carved a path through his cheek, followed quickly by another. His broad shoulders soon shook.
"A boy. A boy... my boy."
The hands of his friends, the men who had bled beside him from Oizen to Romelia and Arlania, reached out, settling on his back and shoulders. They leaned in, their rough, calloused faces softening as they took a glimpse of the tiny thing that had caused the most feared man in the First to weep.
The other made a path as the Prince moved forward.
The Legate offered him a weary, radiant smile as he shifted the bundle. With the practiced care of a man who had been father twice, Alpheo took the child into his arms.
The baby continued to wail.
Alpheo looked down, seeing the same rugged hue of the father in the child’s skin, a tiny mirror of the giant who had pioneered a legacy from nothing from that cursed red sand of Arlania. They all felt the weight of that cry.
It wasn’t just the voice of a child; it was the defiant roar of a House that would now extend far beyond their own mortal calendars. This boy was the bridge to a future none of the men in that room were guaranteed to see. And perhaps that must have meant something for men that did not know whetever they would see tomorrow.
"What’s his name?" he then asked softly, his thumb tracing the bridge of a nose that was already as puffy and stubborn as the father’s.
The Legate of the First waited a long, contemplative moment, his gaze lingering on the Prince holding his legacy, before he reached out to reclaim the bundle.
"Jarza," the father whispered. "He shall be Jarza the Younger."
"I suppose that is only fair," Laedio muttered, leaning in to steal one more glimpse of the boy’s wrinkled face. He wiped a stray bit of grit from his eye as he gave a stinky smile "Bit ugly.’’ He admitted before coughing when more than one hundred kilos of muscle turned ot him in anger. ’’So... who will it be? Who among these debauched ones shall be his godsfather?"
At the mention of the title, the room, filled with men who had made a vocation of butchery and bloodshed, went deathly still. To be a godfather was not a mere ceremonial gesture or a reason to drink; it was a sacred bond. It meant becoming the boy’s living shield, the shadow at his back, and the father who would step into the breach should the biological one fall. It was a debt of guardianship that ended only at the grave.
Jarza looked around the circle of his brothers-in-arms, all men he would trust with his life, but now he had to chose someone he would trust with another.
Then, his eyes settled on him of course. He saw the Fox, the man who had led them through the fire, the man whose mind was the only thing keeping the wolves from their doors.
"My Prince," Jarza said, his voice steadying. "I have served you since the day you gave me reason to lift iron once more. I have bled for your sake and killed for your peace. There is no man I trust more to see my son become a man of honor." He paused, his eyes searching Alpheo’s. "Will you take the vow? Will you be the one to stand for him?"
Alpheo felt the weight of the request settle on him, heavier than any crown he had ever worn, but more joyous than any cape he was given. He looked at the tiny, wailing life in Jarza’s arms, the innocent spark in the middle of a gathering storm.
"It would be my highest honor, Jarza," he replied his voice ringing with a rare, crystalline sincerity.Eyes slightly wet from the honor "If the worst should come, I swear to you: your son shall never walk without a father, and your house shall never lack a guardian. He is mine as much as he is yours. His enemy will be my enemy, his sorrows will be my own. Till the day my blood shall not flow, to the day I shall take breath no more, I will be his, as he will be mine."
The scarred giant let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for a lifetime. Jarza’s smile was wide and beautiful, as if the gods themselves had leaned down from the heavens to validate his struggle. For a man who had spent thirteen years as a wandering blade, Yarzat had finally, irrevocably, become his home.
The tender warmth of the moment didn’t so much fade as it was filed away, tucked into the same hardened corners of their souls where they kept memories of home and the faces of the dead. Duty, cold and familiar, took its place.
Asag stepped into the center of the circle, his shadow long against the floor. When his hand went to his belt and drew a dagger, the air didn’t catch, these were men who knew the sound of steel better than the sound of laughter, but a few eyebrows climbed nonetheless.
They expected a new oath, perhaps a blood-binding for the babe?But Asag simply held the blade flat across his palm like a silver tongue.
"Brothers," Asag began, his gaze traveling from face to face. "I don’t think I would have it any other way.There is no honor greater that any of us could have had in the family we made together.
Let us use this day to recall why we breathe and why we fight.
Let us not lose sight of what truly matters in the fog of politics and the clatter of coin. It is not for the expansion of borders or the filling of coffers that we shall soon spill our blood. It is to remind ourselves of where we began, of the nothingness we clawed our way out of, and the sanctuary we now possess."
He held the blade flat across his palm. "We all have home int his land now.
Let us leave the pursuit of glory and hollow honor to lesser men. We know the truth of the world. We fought through the scorched ruins of Arlania, froze in the jagged peaks of Romelia, marched across the endless plains of Herculia, and bled away from the salt-road of Oizen."
The men understood. He wasn’t asking for a new promise; he was resurrecting the old one, desperate, cold-blooded vow they had sworn in the shifting sands of Arlania when they were nothing but ghosts in the desert.
Thirteen years too late, he believed it needed to be re-sworn.
"I hate to shatter the peace of this hour," Asag continued, his voice rising, "but there is no better day to remember. For the last few years, we have been at sea. We drifted. Each with his own turmoil and his own way to fight against it, as healthy or not, that would have been.
We lost our way in the dark tidings of life. We lost one of our own who, even now, I believe look upon us from the other side with a smile. But we are not the men we were then.
We are no longer prisoners waiting for the snap of the chains to bring us back.
The world is coming to take what we have built. They want to burn the harvest we planted with our own sweat. I hereby swear, before gods and men, that I shall not forsake what truly matters at the sight of death or the touch of personal pain. I shall see us through to the end of this road, or I shall pave it with my bones. I do not know if it will be I that shall make true of these words or any of you...but let this new life, this boy, witness our words once more."
And then as if moved by a single, invisible thread, every soldier in the room drew their steel. Without hesitation, each man drew the edge across his palm.
Each, muttering the same words with the same fervours.
’’Let this new life, this boy, witness our words once more."
Deep, dark crimson began to spill, dripping steadily from their closed fists onto the polished palace floor. To the old soldiers, it was a cleansing, a return to the only truth they trusted among themselves.
It was only for Shahab and Jasmine, who watched them shed their blood onto the ground that assumed puzzled, and quite a bit horrified expressions.
Then there was he, the last one, who looked upon the scene as an outsider without fire.
Fruit of the peace they had built, the heir to the comfort they had bled to secure. He knew, with a pang of sadness, that he could never truly be part of that, no matter how much he was loved and cared for.
Will I ever find something like this for myself?
That was all that came at mind.
