Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 664: A new - (1)

"It hurts. It hurts. Fuck—it hurts."

Thalien would have screamed if not for his wrist jammed between his teeth, muffling the sounds of agony that surged from the pit of his stomach like a curse. Blood welled where his teeth broke skin, but he didn’t care.

Pain was pain—it was just that, it could pass if the mind was strong enough.

He knelt hunched over like a broken thing, fingers trembling as they clutched the rim of a stained bucket that stank of bile and ruin. The contents within were a grotesque swirl of yellow froth and half-digested scraps—the last meal he would ever romanticize. Bread, meat, maybe a bit of carrot—it all swam in the acid froth like flotsam from a wrecked ship.

"Too slow," he muttered hoarsely, "Too fucking slow in rejecting it, I shouldn’t have wasted that much time ..."

Desperate, he jabbed his fingers down his throat again, clawing past his tongue, trying to summon anything left. His uvula danced with irritation, but nothing came now—only choking, spit, and the sour tang of helplessness. His body had given all it could. It would not be cleansed.

Once again punished by his inadequacy, he laughed at that.

It came low, then rose, shaky at first like a stringed instrument stretched too far... then louder, higher, shriller, until it rattled the small, dark chamber around him like a dying bell.

He laughed at the chunks of bread floating in vomit.He laughed at the stench clinging to his sleeves.He laughed as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing bile upon it.

He laughed at the gods—those bastard sky-dwellers he’d cursed his whole life and mocked with every step.

He laughed at them and dared them to strike him down.

The man who would make fool of all their sacred laws.

He laughed at his father. The noble prince. The shining coward. The man who’d sired him with that whore he had for a mother, both of whom in the same breath abandoned him. He laughed at his brothers—the perfect one, the ambition ones, the ones who had names worth remembering. What were they now?

They had mocked him for years—the drunk, the fool, the broken branch on the family tree.

And now—now—he was to die a martyr. Or a madman.

Wasn’t that a joke worth laughing at?

The pain still bloomed in his gut, a dull fire spreading outward, but it was secondary—background noise to the carnival spinning in his skull.

They thought they had broken him.They thought he would crawl.They thought he would kneel and sing hymns before the blade came down on his cock, where he would sing songs for the Gods he spat upon.

He would rather rip his own throat out with his nails.

He would rather choke on his own tongue than die in the name of the man who’d left him behind.He would rather burn the world then die before living it.

He leaned back from the bucket, still cackling, his chest heaving like bellows.

Knock-knock.

The sound came sharp and sudden, cutting through the stone silence of the chamber like a blade.

"Your Grace! Your Grace, please, open the door!Are you all right"

A man’s voice—urgent, unsure, and laced with the kind of worry only death brings.

Thalien blinked, the sweat on his brow cooling quickly as he staggered upright, pain still curling faintly in his gut like an ember refusing to die out. He took hold of the bucket, now heavy with the remnants of bile and deceit, and staggered to the garderobe at the far end of the room. With one quick heave, he dumped its contents into the dark chute that dropped down toward the moat below, the stench swirling behind like a ghost.

He wiped his mouth, teeth clenched as he grabbed the basin and splashed cold water over his face, rinsing the sourness from his lips, scrubbing away the mask of sickness. His breath was heavy, eyes bloodshot, but the madness had receded—buried for now beneath a fresh coat of composure.

"One moment," he called out, voice hoarse but steady.

When he opened the door, the corridor beyond was dimly lit by torchlight. A man stood there in plate armor, helm tucked beneath his arm—one of Lord Cretio’s knights, his tabard still stained from the patrols. The look on his face said everything before a word passed his lips.

"Ser Varric, isn’t it?" Thalien asked, letting concern trickle naturally into his voice.

The knight bowed quickly. "Yes, Your Grace. Forgive the intrusion, but... we feared for your safety."

"My safety?" Thalien blinked with theatrical confusion, casting a glance back over his shoulder into the room as if expecting an assassin to lurch from the shadows. He stepped fully into the hallway. "Why? What’s happened?"

The knight hesitated. His eyes drifted toward the doorway, perhaps scanning the room for some sign of disturbance. Was that suspicion in his glance? No... Thalien’s room was clean. The bucket was gone, the basin rinsed. The scent of bile was masked beneath the burning incense by the doorframe.

Still, a tremor of unease crawled down Thalien’s spine. He shouldn’t suspect anything. I made sure... The poison was clean. Silent. The old apothecary promised me—it paralyzes the lungs before the scream ever leaves the throat.

"I am sorry to inform you," Ser Varric said finally, "that Lord Cretio is dead."

Thalien froze, eyes widening just enough to seem sincere. "Dead?" he whispered, voice barely above the wind. "But how? Was it the enemy? "

"No, Your Grace," Varric replied, shaking his head. "At least... we don’t believe so. The physicians are still examining the body. There was no blood, no wound—he simply collapsed. Some say he was in his study moments before. We suspect illness. Perhaps poison, though... we’ve no evidence of that."

And you won’t find any, Thalien thought, the corner of his mouth twitching in something that might have become a grin—had he not forced it into a frown.

"Gods..." he murmured aloud instead, placing a hand to his chest. "This is ill news indeed. He was—he was like a second father to my brother." He paused, casting his eyes down solemnly. "The city will feel this loss bitterly. But now is not the time for grief—we must ensure it does not spiral into chaos."

Without waiting for permission, he stepped past the knight, heading briskly down the corridor with purposeful strides. Ser Varric fell into step beside him.

"Has there been any movement from the enemy lines?" Thalien asked.

"None that we’ve seen. No flares, no drums. Scouts say the Peasant Prince’s banners are still in place. There’s been no change."

"That’s precisely why we should be concerned," Thalien said quickly, voice gaining weight. "The death of the city’s commander could very well be their opening move—meant to leave us leaderless. Double the guards on the wall. Wake the reserves. I want bows strung and tar boiling before the next hour passes. I cannot think of a better moment to attack."

Varric gave a small, hesitant nod at being commanded. "Of course, Your Grace," he then relented.

They came to a halt outside the late lord’s chamber, the heavy door already unlatched, slightly ajar as if left that way in mourning. Thalien glanced toward it, then turned to the knight.

"The military must not be left rudderless," he said firmly. "Until a proper council can be formed, I will assume command of the city in Lord Cretio’s name. That is what he would have wanted. I have no desire for personal gain—only to hold the walls until my brother and father returns."

The knight’s eyes softened a touch at that.

"For his sake," Thalien continued, voice cracking at just the right moment, "we must not let this city fall. Tell Sir Emoth I wish to speak with him immediately. He was Lord Cretio’s advisor—I’ll need every detail he can give me about our defenses. And if you would be so kind, Ser Varric... escort me into Lord Cretio’s study. Perhaps there is something within his papers—orders, plans—that might guide us now.I apologise if it may looks crude, but right now thousands depend upon us. It is a tragedy but the world is forced to go on."

Varric nodded slowly, clearly weighing the urgency of the moment against the weight of tradition. But in the absence of better leadership, the knight bowed.

"As you command, Your Grace."

And so Thalien stepped over the threshold of the dead man’s chambers, cloak sweeping behind him like a curtain on a stage—and not for the first time, he smiled.

---------------

The heavy door creaked open further as Thalien stepped inside, the stale scent of the chamber still clinging to the air—burned tallow, dust, and just the faintest trace of wine.

Ser Varric turned to Thalien. "Would you like me to remain, Your Grace?"

Thalien shook his head with calm assurance, his face the perfect portrait of dignified mourning.

"No. I would prefer to be alone for a moment."

There was a pause—perhaps a second too long—but then Varric gave a nod, his armor clinking softly as he bowed and backed away.

"As you wish, Your Grace."

The door closed behind him with a muffled thud.

Thalien let the silence stretch for a few heartbeats. Then, with a deep breath, he stepped forward into the room—toward the wide oak desk still scattered with papers, sealing wax, a quill left crooked in its inkwell... and the urn.

Half-empty now.

He reached for it, feeling the residual warmth where Cretio’s hand must have rested.

He must’ve liked the vintage, Thalien thought to himself with a dry smirk. Drank half the bloody thing.

He chuckled, and they call me the drunkyard

He held the urn up, inspecting the color of what remained as the red sloshed gently against the rim. Still pungent. Still potent. Poison diluted in indulgence. He gave it a little swirl, like a connoisseur admiring his craft, then turned toward the narrow wooden window at the side of the room.

He unlatched it with a click and pushed it open.

Outside, the wind rolled in, bringing with it the faint scent of burnt smoke from the city’s hearths. Without ceremony, Thalien tipped the urn and poured the remaining wine out into the night. It splashed down into the dark below, vanishing as if it had never been there.

And there goes the last trace, he thought, returning the empty urn to its place atop the desk with a soft clunk. It stood there now as nothing more than pottery, emptied of secrets, just another relic among the clutter of Cretio’s life.

He imagined Cretio’s dead face, the stillness. Peaceful. Like a man falling asleep , too old to bother waking up again.

"Hope your last shit was as bitter as your wine, you stubborn piss-caked relic."

A humorless chuckle escaped him.

He rolled his shoulders, cracking the tension from his neck. His gaze swept across the papers, the ledgers, the maps, the wax seals.

"And thus a nation falls with sweet red’’ he murmured, smoothing his sleeves as he stepped behind the desk of the man he had just killed.