Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 246

Chapter 246: Crimson stump Chapter 246: Crimson stump The air in the dungeon was damp and stale, carrying the faint stench of mildew and despair.

The faint torchlight flickered against the rough stone walls, casting long, distorted shadows that danced around the three men standing in grim silence.

Alpheo stood at the center, his expression composed but sharp, his eyes scanning the dimly lit room with an air of dispassion.

Beside him stood Jarza and Asag.

Egil was notably absent, having indulged too deeply the night before in the spoils of their conquest mostly wine and maids that caught his eyes.

The servants, for their part, relished in being chosen , knowing that the alternative was far worse.

Many had surrendered themselves to the likes of Egil and others willingly, if only to avoid being prey to the unrestrained desires of the dozens of soldiers.

Egil had taken full advantage, earning himself a debauched night and, by morning, a splitting hangover.

Returning to the dugeon before Alpheo, chained to the wall, knelt the man who had once called himself lord of the city-Vroghios.

He was a pathetic sight now, half his former height and robbed of his defiance.

His once-proud armor had been stripped, leaving him in a white tunic.

His hollow eyes, devoid of fire or hope, stared at Alpheo with the numb detachment of a man who had lost everything.

Alpheo, tall and commanding, gazed down at the former lord with an almost clinical detachment.

The silence stretched for a long moment, broken only by the faint drip of water echoing from somewhere deep in the dungeon.

Alpheo shifted his weight slightly, his leather boots scraping against the cold stone floor as the defeated lord stared at him .

Vroghios shifted weakly, his wrists not bound by any chain as his voice broke the heavy silence.

“Is it time?” he asked, his tone flat, as if resignation had long replaced any hope or fear.

Alpheo, standing tall and composed, regarded him with the faintest trace of amusement tinged with coldness.

“For your execution?

Not yet,” he replied”In a few hours, it will commence.

I trust you’ve already given your goodbyes?” Under the ever-watchful eyes of Alpheo’s guards, Vroghios had been permitted a last dinner with his family.

It was a bittersweet affair, attended by his wife, two daughters, and youngest son.

His two eldest absent sons , were still being held by Lechlian as hostages, which meant that the only thing they would receive would be the news of fall of the city and the information about its aftermath.

In that evening, the fallen lord gave his goodbyes, recommendations and last whishes, mostly directed to his youngest son, who was far too young to understand the situation that he had now become the head of their house.

His wife, her tears falling silently at first, broke down as she realized this would be her last night to nurture her son.

She wept openly, knowing she would soon be sent to a temple to live out the rest of her days, her role in his life reduced to a memory. While his two daughters were mostly anxious about what would become of them, not being reasurred by the fact that their marriages would be decided by the killer of their father.

After finishing remembering what would be his last night Vroghios finally broke the silence, his voice low and hoarse but edged with bitterness.

“Why are you here?

Have you come to taunt me in my final hours?”  At his side, Jarza and Asag exchanged glances.

The same question lingered in their minds.

Alpheo, leaning slightly against the cold stone wall of the dungeon, gave a faint shake of his head.

His voice, calm but tinged with a subtle sharpness, filled the damp air.

“No, my lord, I’m not here to taunt you.

I have no need to twist the knife-it’s already been done.” He paused, letting his words settle before continuing.

“If I were in your position, with only hours left to live, I’d likely spend them thinking of two things.” He straightened, folding his arms across his chest.

“I’d think about my family-what will become of them once I’m gone.

And I’d think of the final words I’d say before the end.

Perhaps, even, what I’d say to the man who took everything from me.” The fallen lord’s expression hardened slightly at that, though he remained silent.

“So, I suppose,” Alpheo went on, his tone conversational but underpinned with a trace of gravity, “I came down here to see if you had any for me.

Any last accusation or speech to deliver to me personally?I have always had the curiosity of knowing what would a man say to his killer before his death” Vroghios exhaled slowly, his voice subdued but still carrying a sharp edge.

“I have no speech.

Only a question.” His gaze lifted to meet the prince’s, the hollowness in his eyes laced with a faint, stubborn glimmer.

“No matter how much I think about it , it doesn’t make any sense.

Why did you accept my surrender when I held up in the keep for a last stand?

Why not finish it there?” Alpheo regarded him in silence for a moment, then slowly leaned forward, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.

“Well, if you want to know my campaign isn’t over with you” he said, his tone cold but devoid of cruelty.

“I had no trouble stepping over what you called a ‘last stand’, as it was barely a bug on the ground.

But it would’ve cost me soldier and time.

Frankly, it would’ve been more bothersome than it was worth, it was also much more prestigious for me to have you surrender to me rather than die fighting.” Vroghios’s shoulders sagged slightly at the answer, and he turned his head away, a bitter sigh escaping his lips.

His silence was heavy, the resignation in his posture unmistakable.

Alpheo straightened, realizing the conversation had reached its end.

He took a step back, his boots scraping against the damp stone floor.

“In a few hours, your execution will take place,” he said, his voice as firm as stone.

“I will send a priest down if you wish.” “I have no need for them,” Vroghios murmured, his gaze fixed on the far wall of the dungeon” the gods have forsaken me” Arrogant till the last even to his gods Alpheo inclined his head slightly, as though granting the man his final defiance.

Without another word, he turned and strode out of the dungeon, his dark cloak trailing behind him.

The heavy door groaned shut behind him, leaving Vroghios alone in the dim, flickering light for what would be his last hours alive .

————– The royal army stood in disciplined formation, flanking the cobbled road leading from the keep to the square.

Rows of soldiers, three deep, their polished armor reflecting the pale sunlight, created an imposing corridor of steel.

Spears and banners bearing the sigil of House Veloni-Isha swayed gently in the faint breeze, the only sound aside from the quiet shuffle of boots and the low hum of murmured prayers.

Down the road, a bound man in battered armor trudged forward, his steps heavy and labored.

His wrists were shackled before him, chains clinking softly with each movement.

Five soldiers flanked him, their expressions stoic as they kept their swords close and eyes watchful.

Behind the group, two priests dressed in somber robes walked with measured steps, each holding a small handbell.

The soft chime of the bells rang out as they prayed.

The procession moved through the city, past streets that bore the raw scars of the sack.

The buildings stood intact, as no fire was commenced, but eerily hollow, their inhabitants either gone or huddled within.

A few brave souls peered from the safety of shuttered windows, their gazes fixed on the condemned man, that by fate was also their lords.

The square ahead loomed vast and cold, its open space .

Vroghios, walked on, his head held neither high in defiance nor low in shame At the center of the square, a small wooden platform had been hastily constructed, its rough planks hammered together with little regard for aesthetics.

The platform rose only a few feet from the ground, but it was high enough to ensure all gathered could witness the execution.

Around the base of the platform, the lords of Alpheo’s court sat astride their mounts, their armored forms gleaming in the pale sunlight.

Even Caelor, who was wounded just half a week ago, made the effort to appear on the day his uncle would be avenged, knowing that he had to be present for this day.

As among the lords gathered, one stood on the platform itself, his presence dominating the whole stage.

Xanthios, gripped the haft of a massive axe as he awaited Vroghios.

His sharp features were carved with restrained fury, his dark eyes locked on the stairs leading to the platform.Most lords were bewildered by the sight of a lord serving as the executioner, but they knew very well of Xanthios’ obsession against Vroghios, so mosts made the wise choice of keeping silence.

 It was a promise made by Alpheo himself: when the time came, it would be Xanthios who ended Vroghios’s life.

Years earlier, during a rebellion, Vroghios had slain Xanthios’s brother in battle , and that bitter wound had festered ever since.

Now, at long last, justice-or vengeance-would be his.

The wooden stairs creaked under Vroghios’s weight as the fallen lord climbed them slowly, his steps deliberate, heavy with resignation.

Xanthios watched him with a predator’s focus, his knuckles whitening as they tightened around the axe.

A faint, cold smile tugged at his lips, though it failed to reach his eyes.  Xanthios and Vroghios locked eyes, the tension between them as palpable as the gathered silence of the crowd.

Vroghios sneered, his lips curling in disdain.

“So, the mighty Xanthios has lowered himself to the work of a common executioner,always knew you didn’t have the paste of nobility” he spat, his voice filled with scorn.

Xanthios’s grip on the axe tightened, his voice a low growl.

“I’ve waited twelve years for this moment.

I’ll see your head roll for it.You can shout, scream , bawl anything that you will do, shall be a delight for me” The guards, impassive and unmoved, pushed Vroghios forward.

He stumbled slightly but kept his dignity intact as he stepped up to the stump, lowering himself to his knees.

With one last glance at Xanthios, he placed his neck upon the rough, stained wood, the sneer never quite leaving his face.

Nearby, a man in a dark tabard stepped forward, holding a rolled parchment.

He unfurled it with a snap, the document catching the faint breeze, and began to read aloud in a clear, steady voice: “By order of His Grace Alpheo of House Veloni-Isha, commander of the Royal Army, through the authority vested in him by Her Grace Jasmine of House Veloni-Isha, First of Her Name, Lord Vroghios Agonaris is hereby declared guilty of the crimes of oath-breaking, rebellion, betrayal, dishonorable conduct, corruption, and laesae maiestatis.

For these grievous offenses against crown and realm, he is hereby sentenced to death.

May the gods have mercy on his soul” As the word-bearer finished Xanthios leaned forward slightly, his eyes cold and filled with a quiet fury that had simmered for years.

His voice was calm, but with an edge that could cut through the air.

“Do you have any last words?” he asked, his grip tightening around the axe.

Vroghios’s eyes flickered, his lips curling into a mocking smile.

“Move it up” he sneered, his voice dripping with defiance, as if he had nothing left to lose.

Xanthios didn’t flinch.

Instead, he reached up and unclipped a heavy silver collar from around his neck.

He opened the chest at the end of it and showed it to the soon to be dead man.  “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Xanthios said, his voice low but carrying, as he leaned closer.

“Part of Xorse is here right now, I am the only one that can see him .

And he’s clamoring for your head.”  “I always knew you were mad,you crazy bastard ” he spat, shaking his head as if Xanthios’s revelation was beneath him.

Xanthios didn’t respond.

With a swift motion, he swung his axe high, muscles taut from years of training and hate.

-Thud The blade came down in one clean arc, and with a sickening thud, it struck Vroghios’s neck.

The head of the man rolled from the stump, a steady stream of blood splattering across the wooden ground.

The severed head came to a rest just a few feet from where it had fallen, eyes still open, staring vacantly into the crowd that just witnessed his death and that of his house .