Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 292

Chapter 292: Friend’s marriage Chapter 292: Friend’s marriage Alpheo’s lips curved faintly into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes as he nodded at yet another lord who excused himself after a brief exchange with him .

Another one, he mused.

This was far removed from the cold detachment they had displayed during his first year, right after Jasmine’s coronation.

Back then, the nobles had treated the crown like a glass bauble-fragile, decorative, and utterly powerless.

Now, their tone had changed.

Alpheo turned away from the departing noble, his practiced smile vanishing the moment the man was out of sight.

His expression grew neutral as he leaned slightly toward Laedio, who stood at his side.

“What are we at now?” Alpheo asked quietly Laedio adjusted his stance, his tone equally subdued.

“twelve.” Alpheo’s eyes scanned the hall, his thoughts flickering between the lords who had approached.

Twelve so far, each one offering hollow congratulations to the groom while spending considerably more time conversing with him, the prince.  The pattern was clear.

Their presence was less about celebrating the union and more about currying favor with him.

Not that he was dissatisfied about it , totally the opposite, as it allowed him to at least gouge the results of his hard work.

He had been right to take the offensive.

The military victories, just as he had predicted, proved to be the essential boost to legitimacy he could never claim through his blood .

The truth of it became undeniable.

The feast had turned into a subtle parade of allegiance.

Many nobles, previously lukewarm or outright cold toward the crown, approached him under the guise of exchanging pleasantries.

Beneath their polite smiles and courteous words, their intentions gleamed.

At least a few of the larger noble houses, and by extension, the smaller ones sworn to them, had made their stance clear-not in direct words, but in the nuanced language of politics.

They spoke of future conversations, of opportunities to “better align interests,” of upcoming visits to the court, each phrase a dignified olive branch, extended however short enough to make the opposite party grab it, something that Alpheo threw himself toward as after the last campaign he realized just how he needed the noble’s support.

Victories, Alpheo thought, Real, undeniable victories.

It was the perfect icebreaker for factional stalls, a currency more valuable than gold in the realm of power.

Two major households had made their interest clear in warming up to the crow tonight, and where the great houses went, their vassals would inevitably follow.

Politically speaking the war had been a success, and now he could leasurily harvest the fruit of his work, in what was to be a jovial celebration.

Still that did not excuse the behaviour of his friend…

Almost instictevely his gaze drifted to the far side of the hall, landing on Egil.

The blonde rider was seated few chairs from him, his head swaying unsteadily, his face slack with a vacant, dead-fish expression.

His cheeks were flushed, and his once-proud posture now slouched pitifully as he struggled to remain upright.

One could hardly think that the hero of the bleeding plains was that drunkard who barely held himself upright Alpheo’s lips tightened into a thin line.

Could he not hold himself together for one night?

While Egil had never been the most formal of his companions, Alpheo had hoped-perhaps naively-that he would muster at least a semblance of decorum for this event.

It wasn’t even the midpoint of the night, and already Egil was drowning in drink, utterly oblivious to the eyes upon him.

Still, Alpheo could not bring himself to blame him entirely.

He understood Egil’s frustrations, his need to escape in his own way.

But that didn’t make the sight of him any easier to bear.

Alpheo had already taken measures.

Earlier in the evening, he’d discreetly instructed the servants to serve Egil only water.

Not that it seemed to matter.

Egil, in his current state, didn’t even notice the difference, drinking it down with the same enthusiasm as wine.

Clio leaned back in his chair, swirling the contents of his goblet lazily before glancing toward the slumped figure of Egil at the table.

“Is it even a proper wedding if the groom isn’t drunk?” he asked, a sly smile playing on his lips as he tried to defend the drunk friend.

Jarza, seated nearby, raised an eyebrow.

“Drunk is fine,” he replied dryly.

“But he shouldn’t be so inebriated that he can’t…

perform.” He gestured vaguely, earning a chuckle from the others.

Clio smirked, leaning forward.

“Oh, I don’t think that will be an issue for him.

If anything, that’s the one thing he’ll manage, no matter the state he’s in he is always up for drinking and fucking.” Alpheo, who had been quietly observing the exchange, chuckled softly for a moment detaching himself from politics .

“Was I this drunk at my wedding?” he asked, his tone light with humor.

Jarza turned to him with a wry grin.

“Not quite.” He turned to Egil ” Surely not enough that you couldn’t hold a conversation for three minutes without repeating the same sentence at least twice.” His smile widened as Alpheo laughed, shaking his head.

The conversation was briefly interrupted as they heard a thud, before glancing toward Egil, whose face was now plastered against the table.

His eyes were closed, and an occasional incoherent mumble escaped him.  Asag, who had been silent until now, shrugged.

“Does it even matter?

It’s obvious they’re more interested in Alpheo than they are in congratulating Egil.

Most of them didn’t even bother pretending otherwise.” Jarza sighed, his gaze returning to Egil.

“He doesn’t make it easy for them though,” he said, a note of exasperation in his voice.

“Not like this.” Alpheo raised a discreet hand, signaling one of the nearby servants.

The man approached swiftly and bowed his head.

Leaning slightly, Alpheo whispered into his ear, his tone calm but firm.

The servant straightened immediately after receiving the instruction, bowing once more before hurrying off.

The group’s conversation trailed off as they turned their attention to the commotion unfolding at the far end of the hall.

A cluster of servants had surrounded Egil, gently but firmly urging him to his feet.

His head swayed as he blinked blearily, confusion etched across his face.

“Wha-?

Wait!

Where are we going?” he slurred, his voice a mix of protest and bewilderment as they began to escort him away.  Clio raised an eyebrow and glanced at Alpheo.

“What’s going on?” Alpheo’s expression was composed, a faint, apologetic smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“I’ve sent him to sober up a bit,” he explained, his voice measured.

“A cold bath and a few remedies should help.” He gestured slightly toward the retreating figure of Egil, now halfway out of the hall and still mumbling incoherent protests.

“You had him dragged away?” Jarza asked, half-amused and half-incredulous.

With a slight shrug, Alpheo responded, “I’d have preferred not to.

But at this point, if I hadn’t intervened, he’d be snoring on the table before the bride even makes it to bed.” —————— Egil’s bride sat quietly at the long feast table, her gaze fixed on her plate as though it held the answers to her unease.

The young woman seemed small, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as she sat beside the Princess of Yarzat.

Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, betraying her fear in the presence of the woman whose husband had ended her father’s life.

Jasmine, ever perceptive, turned her sharp eyes toward the bride.

She extended a slender hand adorned with rings, reaching toward the bride.

The girl flinched, her shoulders tightening as Jasmine’s fingers brushed against the necklace draped around her neck making her feels as if he was about to be strangled , it was certainly a striking piece, fashioned from boar’s tusks carved into the shape of a half-moon.

“This is lovely,” Jasmine remarked, her tone smooth and deliberate as she toyed with one of the tusks.

Her words hung in the air, carrying an almost predatory curiosity.

The bride hesitated, her voice small and barely audible when she responded, “Th-thank you, Your Highness.

It was my husband’s gift…from the hunt.” Jasmine’s eyes lingered on the necklace for a moment longer before her smile faded.

With a subtle shrug, she withdrew her hand and turned her attention elsewhere, clearly bored now that the trinket’s novelty had worn off.

The bride returned her gaze to her plate, her silence heavier than before.

 Her mother had refused to attend, unable to set foot in the court of the man who had killed her husband, while her sister was still to young and would enter the court in two years to marry another one of the prince’s close lord, one who like Egil too had been given recently a castle with lands.

Left to navigate the evening without family or allies, Vaeloria’s hands rested uneasily on her lap.

After a moment of hesitation, she glanced toward the Princess of Yarzat seated beside her.

Summoning her courage, Vaeloria asked softly, “Your Highness, if I may what…

what is my soon-to-be husband like?” Jasmine turned her head, her sharp eyes meeting Vaeloria’s uncertain gaze.

For a moment, she seemed to consider the question before answering in a calm, almost detached tone.

“He is one of my husband’s men.

I don’t know him well, but I do know this: he is fiercely loyal to Alpheo, savage in battle, and, as you’ve likely noticed, rather heavy with the bottle when he’s not out riding.” Vaeloria bit her lip, unsure how to respond to such a blunt description.

Jasmine continued, her voice as steady and unflinching as ever.

“He follows Alpheo wherever he goes.

That means you will probably be left behind to manage his lands in his absence.” “I see,” Vaeloria murmured, her eyes dropping to the polished surface of her plate.

After a brief silence, Jasmine surprised her by offering advice.

“If you want my counsel, give him space for his traditions.

From what I’ve observed, he holds them in high regard.

Don’t try to force those away from him.” Vaeloria hesitated, curiosity flickering in her expression.

“Did you…

have such challenges with His Grace?” Jasmine smirked faintly, shaking her head.

“No.

My husband is not like his men.He has a noble temperament, he is calme and yet fierce when the situation demands. He adjusted to our customs with little trouble.

But then,” her tone turned dry, “you are marrying a lord, at least.

Considering your father’s actions, things could be far worse.” Vaeloria’s fingers tensed in her lap as the sting of Jasmine’s words settled in.

She managed a small nod, acknowledging the truth in them.

Jasmine, clearly losing interest, turned her gaze back to the festivities, leaving Vaeloria to sit once again in silence alone and without friends to turn to .