Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 845

Chapter 845: Loss of a Lion

A frail hand, more bone than flesh, brushed against the cheek of the twenty-eighth Emperor of Romelia. The boy’s skin was smooth, the crown he wore during ceremonies still too large for his brow. While he was a symbol of youth and future, the the hand that touched him was opposite of both, cracked and trembling, its veins like raised cords, the nails dark and broken, the flesh on the hands mottled with bruises.

Mesha clenched his jaw at the gesture, willing himself not to flinch. At fifteen, he was still more child than man, yet he bore himself with all the stiffness of someone trying to counterfeit strength. He had no choice. To falter before this man,this giant who had carried the Empire upon his shoulders for nearly a decade, would be to betray the current peace the old lion tried to maintain.

The Regent was almost unrecognizable now. Once called the Great Lion of Romelia, his very presence had filled courts and battlefields alike, his voice the roar that bound armies together.

Now his frame, though still tall, seemed shrunken, bent beneath a weight invisible to all but him.

The great hands that had signed decrees and led armies to victory ,now shook like dry leaves in the wind.

Even in death the Lion had not yet lost his fangs as he was still lucid of mind and able to make his last decisions, but the roar had withered to a rasp. It was this wreck of a man who sat as the shield between Mesha and the vultures circling around it. And though the Emperor hated to admit it, a flicker of fear crossed his heart at the thought of what would happen now that they were undefended.

No one in Romelia could deny the truth: the Empire’s heart would have rotted and collapsed had it not been for Marthio and his family. Where others squandered or faltered, he salvaged a ship taking water from every seam,his youngest son raising a treasury that had been a breath away from drowning in debt.

He forced the state to float not with words, but with the blunt strength of victories, dragging rebels away from the laurel of victory.

By his hand alone, the great vessel of Romelia did not yet sink.

The worst storm was not yet weathered, of course. The coffers were only half-filled, the lords restless and hungry as wolves, and the borders strained thin with men.

To the east, the Whore-Prince after all still clutched his stolen province, his banners fluttering defiantly, growing strength while they were only getting weaker and weaker.

The peace was fragile, a thread stretched to his maximum. But it was peace, and in such times even a fragile calm was gold.

At the bed where the Lion withered lay those closest to him, his nephew, young and untested, and his youngest son, Keval. It was Keval who bore the burden today, for the eldest, absent on duty, could not be present to receive the words their father had meant to speak to him.

Marthio’s hand, trembling passed from the young Emperor’s cheek to Keval’s, lingering there with a tenderness he had rarely allowed himself to show. A lifetime of stern command had left little room for softness, and he knew these gestures could not erase forty years of discipline sharper than any lash. Yet he clung to them, to the simple act of touch, as if to brand his pride onto his son’s flesh before the last of his strength fled.

“Half a man’s legacy,” he rasped, voice quivering, “comes not from the wars he wins nor the crowns he upholds, but from the sons he leaves behind. And in that… I am content. I could not have asked for two finer heirs to my name.”

Tears slipped from the old lion’s hollow eyes, carving wet lines through his weathered face. The sight shattered Keval’s stoic mask. He dropped to his knees beside the bed and pressed his brow against his father’s hand, guiding it to his cheek as if afraid the trembling fingers might vanish before he could feel their weight.

“They speak of me as the savior of the Empire,” Marthio wheezed, his body wracked by a violent cough. His chest heaved, and for a few long moments the words seemed torn away from him. When breath returned, it came in ragged gasps. “But you and your brother, you know the truth. Whatever I achieved… it was only because you left me something worth saving.”

Keval’s throat closed around words that refused to come. He could only clutch at his father’s hand, lips moving in broken murmurs of thanks.

“I know the Empire will rest in steady hands,” Marthio whispered, weak yet strong. “With you and your brother beside your nephew, Romelia will not fall yet. Tell my eldest that I loved him. That I was proud. I had wished for one more moment, one more embrace… but I will allow myself to let his memory remain as it was, that last dinner together. Let that be my farewell to him.”

A faint smile cracked through the tears, both in equal parts sorrow at what he was leaving behind and satisfaction at the legacy that would follow him. Then, turning his head with effort, his gaze settled on the young Emperor.

“You are a sharp one, Mesha. Sharper and kinder than I dared hope. How such sweetness and steel could come from her loins…” He stopped himself, bile catching in his throat at the thought of his own daughter, whom he still could not name. Hatred there, where love should have lived. “It is well I seized you when I did. You have potential,more than most rulers twice your years. But potential must be tempered. Rely on those who know more than you. It is no shame to lend your ear to wisdom. There is strength in knowing when you are ignorant.”

His lips quivered as a coughing fit tore through him, the effort of his words scraping his chest raw. Still, he fought through it, stubborn as ever, and when his voice came again it carried the faintest glimmer of pride.

“You did well with Yarzat. Your first mission, and already you brought us what many would have failed to secure: an ally worth his weight. That alliance will feed us, shield us, and buy us years we otherwise would not have. You showed your strength, too, when you stood firm at their conference. The house of Veloni-isha now owes us. You’ve taken your first step into rule, Mesha… and it was a sure one.”

The old lion paused, the words seeming to drain the last scraps of air from his lungs. He smiled faintly, satisfied that he had spoken before the breath was stolen from him entirely. Then, with visible effort, he raised his hand weakly toward his nephew.

“One last piece of counsel, if you will bear it.” His eyes softened, but his voice hardened with urgency. “Leave coin to Keval, and steel to Tyros. They are masters of their craft. Do not meddle too much where their hands are surer. You are young, and that is your greatest advantage. Time, boy. Time is your weapon, not the sword. Let others fight the battles for you until you are ready to wage your own.”

He drew a rattling breath. He did not have much time

“The Empire is brittle. A shell of itself. Your goal should not be to reclaim lost provinces, not yet. Your aim must be to hold what little remains. Guard it, strengthen it, let it root again. Only when your house is steady should you ever think of war. And when you do, think not of conquests first, but of the Fingers. Take them back. Secure them. For only that will keep your brother in the East and North. Without them, they will come south and will come for you.”

“Wait until years have hardened your throne, until the people call you Emperor not for the blood in your veins but for the weight of your deeds. Only then should you press. Until then,stability. Always stability. Let Yarzat be your shield. Their trade is the breath that keeps our lungs from drowning.

Guard it well. And their Prince” Marthio’s mouth twisted into something like respect. “He is a man of war, seasoned as we are weary. Should your brother march, call him to our side. It will be in his interest as much as ours to see Romelia endure. Do not make an enemy of him, Mesha. He is far too valuable, far too dangerous to spurn.”

His voice faltered into silence, but his gaze did not waver, fierce even as the rest of him waned.

“Know that I love each of you,” Marthio croaked, voice thin as a reed. The words trembled but did not break. He stared at them, each face a map of futures he would not be able to see.

“I am grieved I cannot lead you longer,” he said, a brittle smile trying to hold. “But my time has grown short. The pain steals more of me with every hour. I would rather take what is left while my wits still sit with me, while my hands remember how to hold a thing.”

His fingers fumbled at the cloth over his chest. For a moment the old regent looked like a child, awkward and careful as he dug through the linen. He drew out a small glass bottle wrapped in cloth,brown glass, the stopper stained dark. He turned it between fingers that had once signed edicts and unmade battle plans and now instead holding his death; the tremor in them was no stranger now than the tremor in his lungs.

He unwrapped the seal with an old man’s deliberation and raised the neck to his lips.

For an instant his eyes found Keval’s and then Mesha’s; in them he tried to pour a life’s worth of counsel that would not fit his failing voice.

“I wish you luck in your future,” he said, and something like a laugh escaped him. “My beautiful boys I hope only the best for you.”

He tilted his head back and swallowed. The liquid flashed down his throat.

He sat very still once the deed was done, and his death signed.

He drew one last breath that lingered too long in the open air.

“Is this what men feared most?” The question came soft, as if surprise had crept in with the medicine. “It’s…not so bad.”

A cough seized him.

When he breathed out for the last time it was almost a sigh, nothing grand, no trumpet of fate, only the quiet end of a long, loud life.

The old Lion of Romelia was no more.