Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king
Chapter 651: Other side(1)

Chapter 651: Other side(1)

As the sun climbed lazily into the sky, casting long amber beams over the hills and rooftops, it marked the beginning of the eighteenth day in the siege of the capital—the beating heart of the Princedom.

To the weary men lining the ramparts, the number seemed surreal. Eighteen days, and yet not a single assault had been launched. No ladders scraping against stone, no desperate shouts echoing up the walls, no storm of arrows shrieking through the air. Not even the sound of a war horn in the dead of night.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

Down below, the enemy army remained at a maddening distance, content—so it seemed—to lurk in their growing forest of tents and timber contraptions.

They worked in slow, deliberate motions, constructing strange things and trenchworks, always under the watchful eye of sentries perched atop the walls. Every now and then, a scout would gallop across the far side of the field, or a group of soldiers would march in drill formation, but beyond that—nothing.

The defenders, in turn, stared back, arms resting idly on stone battlements. Eyes squinted against the sun. Conversations dulled by repetition. Meals eaten not in hunger, but routine. And above all, the dull weight of boredom pressing upon them like the stillness before a summer storm.

Still, for the rank and file—especially the younger ones—boredom was a sweet alternative to the chaos of battle. Better to sit and grumble about sore backs and stale bread than to hold their own guts in their hands, ears ringing with the screams of dying comrades. For these men, boredom was a blessing. A boring siege was a living one.

But for the officers, captains, and strategists—the higher echelons of the city’s defenders—boredom was a curse.

The capital, after all, was a fortress carved for war. Not one wall, but two, each built with staggering foresight: murder holes, overlapping fields of fire, arrow slits, boiling cauldrons and reinforced gates, . The city was stocked with bows and bolts aplenty, and they had the manpower to cycle fresh archers to the walls every hour if needed. If the enemy dared to test the outer wall, they’d be shredded before they even touched stone.

Yet despite this ironclad confidence, the enemy prince had chosen not to shatter himself against the walls in a grand, tragic charge. No. He had chosen something worse.

He had chosen patience.

The enemy wasn’t here to fight. He was here to starve the city into submission.

A clash of steel had been expected. The thrill and terror of close combat, of blood spilled for honor or vengeance—that was what the city’s generals saw the city perfect for . That was what they wanted.

But this? This slow, suffocating siege of attrition? It was torture by another name. A war of numbers, not valor. A war decided in pantries, not on battlefields.

And one they were set to lose.

From atop the walls, the enemy looked almost serene in their disinterest, like gardeners tending to a crop, not warriors preparing for slaughter.

The defenders, meanwhile, were left to stew in their anticipation—waiting for an attack that may never come. And with each day that passed, they burned through their rations just a little more. Bread grew thinner. Salted meats rarer. Spirits lower.

The defenders still held their heads high. But behind the pride, behind the bravado, a question loomed in every officer’s mind:

How long can we hold out ?

For now, the city remained strong. But all knew: walls could not stop starvation. And boredom, when mixed with fear, could become its own kind of poison.

Still, for now, the granaries held firm.

Barrels of grain, crates of salted pork, and amphorae of preserved fruits lined the darkened storage halls of the capital. Though the siege loomed heavy, the city’s belly had not yet begun to grumble in earnest. And as long as stomachs were full and the enemy remained content to wait, morale among the defenders remained surprisingly high, especially since they did not have to outlast the enemy, but just wait long enough for the relief army to arrive.

In part, this was due to the fact that the last member of the royal family had chosen to remain within the city walls.

It was not uncommon for soldiers patrolling the ramparts to suddenly come upon the youngest prince’s son walking among them.

Not in gold-threaded robes or riding horses bred for war, but in plain armor, worn with dignity.

—————————

I don’t think I’ve ever been this popular in my life, Thalien mused as he leaned against one of the great stone merlons.

A gust of wind toyed with his pale cloak, fluttering it out behind him like a banner.

It was a strange turn of fate.

He had always been the forgotten son.

His older brother Arnold was a household name—celebrated as the hero who personally crushed the great peasant rebellion.

Caedric, though less accomplished, still bore the status of being Arnold’s brother, a second son with enough charisma to charm.

Thalien, however? He had been the third son. The quiet one. The spare to the spare.

In most noble homes, his name might spark vague recognition: “Ah, yes, there were three, weren’t there? What was the last one called again?You know the drunk one”

And in the capital among the commoners it was far worse.

But here—now—everything had changed.

With his brothers away and the capital encircled by enemies, it was Thalien who remained. It was Thalien who walked the walls, visited the barracks, spoke with captains, and stood beside the men .

He bore no crown, but his presence meant something. The soldiers bowed when he passed.

A pair of Royal Guard flanked him wherever he went well armored , sharp-eyed, and absolutely not his idea.

His father had “gifted” them to him with all the subtlety of a jailer handing a man his ankle irons. A leash, cloaked in courtesy. Yet Thalien didn’t mind.

There was so much after all that they could do.

Some might have taken joy in this newfound popularity. Thalien might have, too, in another life.

But as he stood there, gazing over the vast enemy encampment beyond the city, his expression remained unreadable. The longer he watched the slow rise of men and the patient spread of enemy tents like mold across the field, the more a grim certainty settled in his chest.

With a weary sigh, Thalien leaned forward against the tooth of the wall, resting his arms on the cool stone. Below him, the city stretched in layers of rooftops and alleyways, the sound of distant hammers and hawkers echoing upward in the quiet of the morning.

“I see you’re as early as ever,” came the familiar voice from behind—calm, heavy with gravel, and always tinged with the weariness of too many campaigns.

Thalien didn’t need to turn to recognize Cletio, but he did nonetheless, out of respect more than necessity. He straightened up from the wall’s tooth and gave a polite nod, brushing a wind-blown strand of hair from his face.

“My lord,” Thalien said, his tone light but earnest, “I’ve always been a morning person. And I figure it can only help the city’s morale to see a familiar royal face up here, walking among them, sharing the cold air and the silence.”

Cletio let out a low chuckle, the kind that sounded more like a grunt coated in dust. The chainmail beneath his steel’s plate clinked gently with every step he took as he moved beside Thalien, joining him in overlooking the enemy’s silent sprawl beyond.

“That’s a good thing. For the men. And for me too, if I’m honest,” the old lord said, folding his arms over his chest. “Gods know we need all the good we can get.”

Thalien offered a small smile but said nothing for a moment. The wind tugged at his cloak again. Far ahead, across the slowly rising sun-bathed fields, the enemy continued their quiet labor—building, digging, reinforcing, never rushing.

“I never imagined a siege could be so… dull,” Thalien admitted after a pause, trying to make something resembling small talk. Truthfully, he was going mad with the monotony. If not for the occasional company of the maids at night, he’d have lost his mind entirely.

Cletio snorted, eyes narrowing as he leaned forward onto the stone.

“Some sieges are hellfire and steel,” he muttered, “others are a long, slow bleed. This one’s the latter. And strange, isn’t it? When a man begins to miss the screams and the chaos. Misses them enough to prefer them to birdsong and silence. What a place we’ve reached…”

He gestured toward the open land beyond the moat, where a slow line of workers continued their bizarre trenching.

“You know what they’re doing out there?”

Thalien nodded slowly, his fingers idly tapping against the stone.

“Had you asked me a week ago, I’d have told you I thought they were mad. Why dig ditches when we already have some? But now…” he chuckled, humorless, “I suppose two sets of walls weren’t enough. Our enemy was kind enough to give us two more.”

His smile stayed, even though the words should’ve tasted bitter.

“I don’t know much of war, but I know enough to say letting them finish can’t be a good thing.”

Cletio grunted again, though this time with less amusement. His gloved hand pressed down on the wall, fingers curling over the edge with a slow, frustrated grip.

“It’s only slightly worse than trying to stop them,” he said. “All my captains keep whispering about a sortie. About disrupting the works. About doing something. Anything.If the enemy finished the fortifications they can easily be on the defensive when the royal army arrive or when we sortied out to join them in a pincer manuever.”

Thalien gave a sidelong glance. “And so why not act on it? Surely a sortie could buy us time?”

“If you look around,” Cletio said, gesturing outwards without lifting his hand, “you’ll notice something missing. Horses. We’ve got footmen,and them alone can’t outrun what’s out there. If we sally out, we’d need to hit them while they’re scattered, disorganized. And even then, we’d lose too many to justify it.”

He paused, his jaw tightening beneath the short grizzled beard.

“Besides… the moment their riders catch wind, they’ll collapse on us like a goddamned trap. We’ll lose the men, and possibly even the gate. The prince took the cavalry… and left us holding the walls with the peasants.”

Both men stood in silence, letting the weight of that truth settle between them. The enemy knew it. Everyone inside the city knew it. They were trapped and the only thing they could do was wait

Thalien exhaled slowly, watching a pair of birds flutter down onto a cracked tower some distance away. Then, deciding to prod at another long-dormant conversation, he allowed himself a small, knowing grin.

“So… should I take your silence as a polite rebuttal to our earlier discussion?”

He should have been bothered by the expression on the lord’s face, yet he was not , for if looks could kill he would have been dead years ago.