Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 249

Chapter 249: From the sands (1) Chapter 249: From the sands (1) A woman walked gracefully through the towering arches of the Eternal Palace of Khairo, her footsteps echoing softly against the polished marble floors.

The palace was a marvel of grandeur, its golden domes glinting in the sunlight that filtered through windows.

Pillars of alabaster and jade lined the expansive hallways, and the air was thick with the scent of rare incense burning in ornate braziers.

This was the kind of wealth of a nation blessed by a dynasty that stood for half a millenia , blessed by their god.

Her hair, blacker than the deepest night, cascaded down her back like a silken veil, accentuating the regal poise she carried.

She was Shuaa, the High Ecclesiastic, a vessel of divine authority and wisdom, and now a mother-to-be.

Her hand instinctively rested on her rounded stomach, her skin glowing with the vitality of pregnancy-a gift she cherished as the blessed carrier of her beloved god’s son.

Her thoughts, however, were not with herself.

What are you thinking, my love?

she wondered, her mind turning to the one whose absence had left a void in her heart.

She walked slowly, the weight of both her unborn child and her contemplations bearing on her steps.

His father blessed him with a good omen, she mused, her heart swelling with both pride and unease.

He will be the eagle that cuts down the four pigs, that fed themselves out of their father’s carcass.He is the chosen one…

The omens had promised triumph, foretold that her beloved would finally bring to heel those arrogant upstarts who dared to rival their might.

For generations, these challengers had defied the Sultanate’s divine right to dominion-a defiance that her beloved, the Sultan, would at last extinguish.

All winter, his vassals have trained their soldiers, preparing them for the invasion.

Each day spent in drill and discipline, every spear sharpened and sabers polished, had been dedicated to the sacred task.

But now, just as the time to strike had come, he had changed course.

Shuaa’s brow furrowed, her steps pausing as she stood before a towering mosaic of their god’s avatar bestowing victory upon a kneeling general.

Why, my love?

she wondered silently.

Why alter your path when destiny itself was on your side?

The uncertainty gnawed at her, yet she forced herself to trust in him.

He would not act without reason, not with the blessings of the heavens guiding him.

The heavy doors of the throne hall groaned open as Shuaa barged in the guards outside not even daring to stop the sultan’s favorite.

The hall fell silent, save for the murmurs of courtiers that hushed one by one as her presence became undeniable.

The nobles turned toward her, their gazes narrowing when she entered their sight.  Bayezid, the Sultan of Azania, paused mid-sentence.

His sharp, amber eyes shifted from the lesser lord standing before him to Shuaa’s face, and then, inevitably, lowered to the curve of her round stomach.

His gaze lingered there for a heartbeat longer.

The Sultan, forty years old and every bit the ruler destined to sit on Azania’s grand throne, exuded authority effortlessly.

His short beard was neatly trimmed, his tanned skin glowing faintly in the golden light of the hall’s high chandeliers.

A regal white turban adorned his head, hiding the length of his brown hair that fell to his shoulders in private.

He was fair of face, his features finely chiseled, the kind that inspired both admiration and fear in equal measure.

His robes shimmered with opulence, the finest silks embroidered with intricate patterns in gold thread.

Gems gleamed along the edges of his collar, and the royal sash across his chest boasted the vibrant emerald-green hue of the Sultanate’s banner.

Golden bangles adorned his wrists, each one subtly clinking as he shifted in his throne, a display of wealth and power that no one could miss.

“Shuaa,” Bayezid spoke again, his voice steady but with a slight edge of curiosity, “Did you finally receive another omen?” It had been months since the offerings made after what the romelians calls The Catastrophy of Arlania, when the Sultan’s proxy forces in the stead of the prince of Arlania, had secured a decisive victory, killing Gratios and plunging the Romelians into civil war.

Shuaa, the High Ecclesiastic, had been revered for interpreting a divine sign from the Father of Light himself, one that foretold glory for the Sultanate.

But since that fateful day, the heavens had remained silent-a point not lost on the court, and that her enemies made use of many times.

Shuaa shook her head, lowering her gaze briefly in deference before meeting Bayezid’s eyes once more.

“No, my beloved Sultan,” she said, her voice smooth and deliberate, each word wrapped in humility and poise.

“I have not been graced with another omen.

The Father has been quiet since the offerings were made months ago.” Her hands, resting lightly over the curve of her stomach, tightened for a moment before she spoke again.

“But I have come not to speak of divine signs,” she continued, her tone respectful but firm.

“I have come to understand whether the rumors that have reached my ears are baseless insinuations…

or the truth.” Bayezid leaned back slightly, his fingers brushing over the gilded armrests of his throne.

His expression remained unreadable, but the tension in the room was palpable.

Shuaa drew a breath, then spoke with the eloquence befitting her station.

“My Sultan,” she began, “you were destined to walk the path paved by your high father, a road of iron and ambition, built to lead you to triumph over the arrogant Romelians once and for all.

To humble them as they so richly deserve.Is it true that you ar-?” Before Bayezid could respond, Pasha Mamud stepped forward, his richly embroidered kaftan swaying with the motion.

His face was stern, his tone sharp as a blade.

“How dare an ecclesiarch presume to interject in the matters of the holy Sultan?

Is it not enough to interpret omens and serve the divine?

Must you now believe yourself fit to guide his hand as well?” Shuaa turned her gaze slowly toward Mamud, her expression calm yet steely.

Among her opponents in court, Mamud had always been the most vocal, using every opportunity to undermine her authority.

Though she held the favor of the Sultan, Mamud seemed determined to remind her, and everyone else, of the limits of her station.

“My place,” Shuaa began smoothly, her voice steady but with an unmistakable edge, “is to serve the will of the Father .

And it was the Father who prophesied victory for my beloved Sultan against the arrogant foes in the east.” Mamud smirked, tilting his head.

“Ah yes,” he replied, his voice dripping with condescension.

“You speak of the omen-four pigs choking on their mother’s bone, was it not?” Shuaa’s eyes narrowed slightly, sensing the trap he was laying.

She kept her composure, though the weight of the court’s gaze pressed heavily upon her.

“Indeed, I speak of that omen,” she said, her voice calm but firm.

“And soon after, Romelia shattered, breaking into civil war.

” Mamud nodded, his smirk widening.

“Three factions, three leaders-each son vying for control, as the Father foretold, yes,” he said, taking a small step forward.

“But the prophecy spoke of four pigs, did it not?

So I ask you, High Ecclesiarch-where is the fourth?I believe we have all seen three , yet one is missing” A murmur ran through the nobles, their curiosity and unease growing.

Shuaa held Mamud’s gaze, her fingers pressing lightly against her stomach as she silently measured her response, for that question she could not find one .

Shuaa ignored Mamud’s taunts entirely, turning her full attention to the Sultan.

Her expression softened as she addressed him directly, her voice resonant and filled with conviction.

“My beloved Sultan,” she began, her tone reverent yet firm, “the Father of Light has foretold your triumph.

It is you who will bring an end to Romelian dominance over the East.

You shall rise as the Sultan who begins Azania’s ascendancy over the entire continent-a legacy foretold, a destiny only you can claim.” Bayezid’s eyes locked onto hers, his expression impassive but his brow furrowed slightly as if weighing her words.

Before he could respond, Mamud stepped forward again, turning toward the Sultan with an air of practiced deference.

“Your Radiance,” he interjected, his voice measured and persuasive, “if this omen is indeed as the High Ecclesiarch interprets, then it will hold true a year from now as well.

Let the heretics continue to bleed each other dry, as they surely will.

Meanwhile, our strength is better spent securing the southern borders and ensuring our other enemies do not seize this moment to strike.” Mamud spread his hands as if to present a logical alternative.

“Patience, my Sultan, is also a virtue.

Why risk the uncertain when time is already on our side?” The room fell silent, all eyes turning to Bayezid, awaiting his decision.

Shuaa, standing tall, met the Sultan’s gaze unwaveringly, her faith in him as unshakable as her belief in the prophecy.

Mamud, meanwhile, watched the Sultan closely, his expression cool and composed, masking the satisfaction of his well-timed argument.