Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 619: The crown blessed union(3)

Alpheo said nothing. He didn’t dare to.

Instead, he sat still, silent as stone, trying to leave all the space in the world for his friend to breathe—because he knew all too well the weight of words like the ones Asag was gathering.

Some memories clung like rusted chains, and pulling them into the light was not a thing done lightly.

Asag didn’t look at him as he spoke. He poured himself a fresh cup of cider, amber froth spilling slightly over the rim, and stared down into it as though trying to read his past in the reflection.

"All of you," he began quietly, his voice a low murmur beneath the merriment around them, "Jarza, Egil, Clio, Laedio... you were born freemen.Life managed in due time to find a way to shackle each one of you, in one form or another. But at least you had the memory of freedom to hold onto."

He swirled the cider in his cup, then downed half of it in one pull before continuing. "Me? I didn’t even know what freedom tasted like... not until the day I met you.I can say my life truly started when I saved yours"

Alpheo’s gaze didn’t waver, though his chest tightened with a quiet ache. He’d fought beside this man in over half a dozen battles, had trusted him to guard his back when he advanced against the enemy at his front.

"I was born in chains," Asag said, a bitter smile flitting across his lips. "My parents were slaves. My first breath was taken in the back corner of a stable, wrapped in horse-blankets and straw. My first word was to a goat. That was my cradle—mud and hoofprints."

He gave a dry chuckle and drank again. "But I had it easy, in a way. My parents were the horse-keepers of a minor noble house—not powerful, not wealthy, but well enough. My father knew every stallion by name, and my mother could calm a charging mare with just her hands. The lord respected them, in his own way. I was raised around animals, not men—and I liked it better that way.Animals are much less cruel and callous, and whenever they hurt you, they usually do with a proper reason."

Alpheo could almost see it in his mind’s eye: a younger Asag, lean and bright-eyed, running barefoot through haystacks, grinning with a foal nipping at his sleeve.

"I was a good-looking lad, too," Asag said, tapping the scarred side of his face with a wry look. "Hard to believe now, I know, but I used to catch stares. Especially from her."

He didn’t name her.

"She was the lord’s daughter. Younger than me by a year, but already promised to some high-born brat from the coast. Still, she’d come by the stables, with the excuse of petting a mare , and once or twice, she’d smile at me . We never spoke, not really.

Never even touched hands. But you know how it is, when the world is shit and someone gives you even a shred of kindness—it feels like sunlight after a life underground."

Alpheo’s jaw tightened.

"Sweet things rot quickest," Asag went on, his voice growing harder now, the smile gone. "Word reached the noble brat she was promised to. Maybe he saw her smile at me, maybe someone whispered poison in his ear. Didn’t matter. A slave boy casting eyes at his betrothed? That was too much for him to bear."

Asag leaned forward, eyes glinting like old coals. "So he came with his men, not in daylight, not when there were witnesses—but in the dead of night. Dragged me from the stable, accused me of spoiling her with my gaze, corrupting her with my presence. I was fifteen. I didn’t even know what fucking lust was. I was too busy cleaning shit from saddles."

’’Goons of his had me brought to him’’ His hand hovered again near the side of his face, fingers gently brushing the edge of the long bang that usually concealed it. This time, he didn’t just touch—it fell away, revealing the scar in full.

It ran from his temple down to his ear, angry and uneven, like the earth split by lightning.

"They didn’t light me up like a torch," Asag said, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "Would’ve been too quick for them, too clean. No, they were more creative than that. They dragged me to a fire that had just burned down. Still smoldering. Still hot enough to make your teeth melt."

His jaw clenched as the memory resurfaced. "They held me there. Pressed my face into the ashes and embers like I was some iron to be marked. The coals weren’t hot enough to kill me, but they bit deep, slow and vicious. I can still smell the wood smoke sometimes... and the stench of my own flesh burning."

Around them, the feast carried on—music, laughter, clinking cups—but it all seemed distant now, like echoes from another world.

"I was a slave," Asag continued, his voice low, almost reverent in its bitterness. "So no physician for me. No balm, no salve, no careful hands to ease the burn. Just time. And pain. "

He exhaled hard, not out of relief but as if trying to push the memory from his lungs.

"But I survived. One way or another, I did. And when the master of the house saw what had happened—when he saw the scar, saw what I’d been turned into—he did what all lords do when something ugly mars their view."

Asag looked at the fire across the hall, its flames dancing in a way that mocked the coals that had once licked his face.

"He simply decided I should be kept out of sight. Didn’t want me ruining the brat’s breakfast with my face, I suppose. So off to the slave market I went. Like spoiled fruit too bruised to serve."

He paused and poured himself another drink—something stronger this time—and raised it without looking before downing half of it.

"My parents... ’’ his eyes wandered with tears ’’ they couldn’t do a thing. They were slaves too. They watched me go, watched their only son sold off like cattle, and all they could do was bow lower so no one noticed their tears."

His voice broke a little, but he pushed through it with a laugh, cold and bitter.

"Changed hands a few times after that. Don’t even remember all the faces. Eventually, I ended up as a carrier for the Imperial Army. You know the kind—hauling crates of salted pork, digging trenches with a stick if no shovel was left. No name, no rest, no hope. Just breath and labor."

He leaned forward, cupping his hands around the mug as if it were the only warmth left in the world.

"I was a coward by then. That whole thing, the fire—it did something to me. I stopped looking people in the eye. Stopped speaking unless ordered. I flinched at shadows. Would’ve jumped into a pit if someone told me to."

He looked at Alpheo now, for once holding his gaze without faltering.

"And then I saw you."

Alpheo blinked, brows rising.

"You don’t remember it like I do, of course. But I’ll never forget.

You weren’t a prince then, just a slave like the rest of us. But there you stood, on that mud-slick night—shirt torn, blood on your face, and a godsdamned kitchen knife in your hand. A kitchen knife!While everyone else had swords," he said with a laugh, shaking his head. "And with that, you told the rest of us—’Take the camp.’ Just like that. Like you were asking us to hand out bread."

Asag’s hands gripped the mug tighter, his knuckles whitening.

"I don’t know what possessed me. I should’ve run, hid like I always did. But something about your voice... or your eyes—I don’t know. I followed you, almost instinctively, like a moth to a flame . Like I’d been waiting my whole life for someone to say it was okay to fight back."

He swallowed hard.

"And then I saw you fall. A guard had you down, boot in your chest, sword drawn. I should’ve turned away. But my legs moved before my fear could stop them. I grabbed a rock, or maybe it was a dagger, I don’t know, and I split his skull or pierced his side before he could drive the blade through your throat.I don’t remember much of that moment "

He finally emptied his cup, slower this time, letting the burn travel all the way down before he spoke again.

"That was the best day of my life," he said quietly. "Not because I killed a man. Not even because we won. But because for the first time... I wasn’t a slave. I wasn’t a coward. I was a man."

Asag placed the cup on the table with quiet reverence.

Alpheo didn’t speak. Instead, he reached forward and pulled Asag into a firm embrace with one of his , wrapping his arm tightly around his friend’s shoulders. The clamor of the feast, the laughter, the music—it all faded into the background as he leaned in, pressing their foreheads together.

"A coward wouldn’t have saved my life," Alpheo said softly "A coward doesn’t run into danger. You were never that, Asag. Not for a moment."

Asag laughed weakly, more a choke than anything else. He blinked hard, but his eyes shimmered wet under the firelight. The tears were there—close, pressing—but he sniffed hard, trying to force them back down.

"I..." Asag began, then stopped. His voice cracked slightly, his lips trembling before he steadied them with another deep breath.

Alpheo pulled back slightly, just enough to look into his friend’s face, still holding him close. "Tell me what you want. If there’s anything I can do. Should I search for your parents? Should I take revenge for you?"

Asag looked down into his empty cup. His jaw tightened.

"I already sent someone," he admitted, voice hollow now, like the echo of a confession he never wanted to make. "To look for them. Just... just in case."

He drew in a shuddering breath—and the tears he had fought so hard to hold back broke loose, silent at first, just two thin trails cutting through his soot-scarred cheeks.

"My mother..." he started, then closed his eyes as if that might stop the memory. "My mother hanged herself. After I was sold off. She couldn’t bear it."

Alpheo’s heart clenched. He said nothing. There were no words that could soften something like that.

Asag continued, barely above a whisper now, his hands gripping the table edge as though it were the only thing keeping him upright.

"My father tried to burn the manor down. When the brat was inside for a dinner with his master. I think he wanted revenge... or maybe just to join her." His breath hitched. "They caught him before the fire could spread. Tortured him. Killed him. Made an example out of him."

The silence that followed was thick, unbearable in weight.

Alpheo stared, still, he said nothing. Not out of apathy—but out of reverence. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t cheapen the moment.

Asag sniffed, wiping his face roughly with his sleeve. His eyes were red, and his voice cracked again as he added:

"I think the brat is still alive. Probably somewhere in the city. As for the old lord... I don’t know. Maybe dead. Maybe still clinging to his rot like a snake in its den."

He finally looked up at Alpheo. Really looked. His voice steadied, though his eyes shimmered with a grief that would never fully leave him.

"I want them alive"

Alpheo reached forward again without hesitation. He kissed the top of Asag’s head—a soft, paternal gesture.

Asag looked down again, shoulders shaking slightly. He didn’t cry aloud. He just let the tears fall.

And in that moment, there was no prince and no soldier. Only two brothers in arms, one embracing the other from his pain.

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