Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 305

Chapter 305: Hearing an old story Chapter 305: Hearing an old story Blake sat in his cabin, his axe balanced across his lap.

The grindstone in his hand moved slowly, dragging along the edge of the blade with a measured rhythm.

Scrrrk, scrrrk.

Each stroke sent sparks dancing briefly in the dim light of the swaying lantern above.

The air smelled of salt and steel, heavy with the faint dampness of the sea.

Beside him, Halima knelt on the wooden planks, her head lowered as was her habit.

She was quiet and still, her dark hair framing her face like a shadow.

Her almond-shaped eyes flicked upward for a moment, catching the gleam of the sharpened axe before darting back down to the floor In the corner of the room sat the old witch, her hunched form draped in layers of frayed cloth.

Her hair was a tangled mess of gray and black, her face lined with deep creases that made her seem carved from ancient wood.

She muttered to herself in her foreign tongue, her voice raspy and uneven, as though speaking to ghosts only she could hear.

Blake’s eyes flicked toward her for a moment, his hands never stopping their work.

He still wasn’t sure why he had kept her alive.

A fire-worshiper, someone who claimed the flames as her god, had no place on a ship dedicated to the God of Sea and Storm.

She was an oddity, a contradiction, and yet he had ordered her spared.

Maybe it was her defiance, or perhaps her cryptic gaze that seemed to cut through his own doubts.

“She speaks again,” Halima said softly, her voice careful, her eyes not daring to meet his.

“What’s she saying?” Blake asked, his tone gruff, his attention fixed on his axe.

Halima hesitated for a moment, listening to the witch’s murmurs.

“She says…

fire and water are not enemies.

She says they need each other.

Like breath needs a body.” Blake paused , he had not spoke of that , the thought gave him pause, his grindstone hovering over the blade.

“The old fool doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

Fire scorches the land.

Water swallows it whole.

There’s no needing between the two.” Halima turned her head slightly, relaying his words back to the witch.

The old woman chuckled, a dry and rasping sound, shaking her head as she replied in her strange tongue.

“She says…

you’ll see, in time.

That the storm will teach you what words cannot.” Blake narrowed his eyes, his lips curling in irritation.

He held up his axe, the edge gleaming wickedly in the lantern light.

“Tell her the only thing I need to learn is how to cleave a man in two before he can draw his sword.” Halima hesitated again but did as he commanded, her voice trembling slightly as she translated.

The witch laughed again, louder this time, the sound making Blake’s jaw tighten.

After staying silent for a bit , he paused in his sharpening, holding the axe still as he looked toward the old woman.

There was somethign that bothered him and made no sense.

 “With your…

talents, I’d think you’d be serving kings.

Gold, land, a life of ease-all of it would be yours.

Why don’t your kind take what’s offered and serve them?

Or are you just too proud?” Halima lifted her gaze briefly, gauging the old woman’s expression before translating.

The witch listened, her head cocked slightly, her lined face unreadable.

When Halima finished speaking, the old woman let out a dry, rasping laugh, her voice a crackle in the air like fire devouring kindling.

She replied slowly, her tone deliberate, and Halima repeated her words for Blake.

“Glory and gold are worthless in the face of time,” Halima translated.

“You could pile mountains of it at your feet, yet it would all turn to dust given time .

They serve only one thing, and it is not gold.” Blake frowned, leaning forward slightly.

“And what is it?” The witch’s eyes gleamed, her lips curling into a faint, enigmatic smile.

She spoke again, her words unfurling like smoke.

Halima hesitated before translating.

“She says you would not understand, but suffice to say it is something greater than kings, greater than you, or me.” Blake’s scowl deepened, though he said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

The witch did, her voice gaining a sharper edge as she spoke.

Halima’s voice softened as she relayed the next part.

“There is no trust between the Arkushka and the blessed, even if that was not the case.

There is a long history of persecution from the first to the latter, and so they keep away from kings or inter case sultans” Blake raised an eyebrow at that.

“Persecution, eh?

What’d you do to earn it?” he asked gruffly.

The witch answered almost immediately, her tone laced with both amusement and disdain.

Halima translated again.

“She says…

the ones above men fear what they cannot control.

And what they cannot control, they destroy and taint , trying to take it.” Blake tilted his head, taking that in.

“So, you hide.

Live in hovels, away from the world.

That’s it?Your kind leave secluded from civilization?” The witch shook her head slowly, her gaze steady on him as she spoke more, her words deliberate, biting.

Halima’s voice dropped even lower.

“From time to time, apostates among us do offer their services.

They betray their own, thinking to gain favor or riches, or sometime yearning for love.

Yet in the end, they all find ashes in their mouths.

Every time.

It has happened countless times before.

It will happen again.” Blake’s lips pressed into a thin line, his mind chewing on her words.

He wasn’t sure if he believed half of it, but something about her conviction made it hard to dismiss.

“So you’re saying your kind are cursed to stay away from power?” The witch responded again, her tone dry and almost mocking.

Halima translated without looking at him.

“She says…

power comes with a price.

Most are too blind or foolish to see it until it’s far too late.” The witch leaned back slightly, her thin, withered frame casting sharp angles in the dim light.

Her lips curled into a wry smile, and then she laughed-a dry, hollow sound, like brittle leaves scattering in the wind.

After a moment, she spoke, her voice slow  Halima, sitting nervously nearby, translated the words.

“She says…

sometimes, what people receive are only blessings, when instead they should be seen as curses.” Halima glanced uneasily at Blake before continuing, her tone uncertain.

“She finds this amusing.” Blake frowned, setting his axe down with a dull thud.

“What’s so damn funny about that ?” he growled.

The witch’s laughter softened into a knowing chuckle, and she muttered something more, her eyes fixed on him like she could see straight through to his soul.

Halima hesitated, her face tense, before translating.

“She says…

she knows very well why you kept her alive.” Blake’s gaze hardened.

He leaned forward, his large hands resting on his knees.

“Oh?

And why’s that?” The old woman’s smile didn’t falter.

She spoke again, her tone almost playful, but laced with an edge sharp enough to draw blood.

Halima’s voice wavered slightly as she repeated the words.

“She says…

because you want to become king.” The words hung in the air like a thunderclap.

Blake’s expression didn’t change immediately, but a storm brewed behind his eyes.

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, the room felt smaller, the air heavier.

“Is that so?” he asked, his voice low, dangerous ”Isn’t the wish of every man to become a king?” “She says…

her God will provide the opportunity for you to become king.

Soon, all you have to do is take it when it comes” Blake’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on the axe handle.

He didn’t trust riddles, least of all from someone like her.

“That so?” he muttered, voice edged with skepticism.

“And why would your God care about a man like me?” The old woman tilted her head, her laughter now a quiet, chilling chuckle, almost as if Blake’s question amused her.

She said something short and sharp, gesturing vaguely toward him with her gnarled hand, her gaze still locked onto his with unnerving intensity.

Halima swallowed before relaying her words.

“She says…

it is not about care.

It is about opportunity.

Her God works through moments, through cracks in the world where ambition and fate collide.

She says…

you may want to watch carefully for it when it comes, and maybe you will finally see the truth.As for what he wants from you, not even her knows it.” Blake leaned back slightly, his lips pressing into a grim line.  A sharp knock echoed against the thick wooden door of Blake’s quarters.

He didn’t look up from his axe, still running the whetstone along its edge with deliberate care.

“What is it?” he called out, his voice a mix of irritation and curiosity.

“It’s Darron, captain,” came the muffled reply.

“A ship’s approaching us…

flying a white flag.It is only one, Do we stop?” Blake’s hand stilled for a moment, the axe resting against his knee.

His eyes flicked toward the old witch.

She met his gaze with a faint, knowing smile, her wrinkled face lit with that same unsettling amusement she always carried.

Blake scowled.

“Figures,” he muttered under his breath, then spoke louder.

“Tell the fleet to stop.

Surround the damn ship, nice and tight.” There was a brief pause on the other side of the door before Darron answered.

“Aye, Captain.” As the sound of hurried footsteps faded down the hall, Blake leaned back in his chair and turned to the witch.

“You know something about this?” The old woman said nothing, her smile widening just a touch.

It wasn’t a yes or a no-it was something maddeningly in between, as if she knew it would happen and yet did not.

Blake’s eyes narrowed.

“Keep that smugness to yourself if you don’t want to be thrown at sea again,” he muttered, pushing himself up from the chair.

Halima cast him a worried glance, but he ignored her, grabbing his cloak and sliding the axe into the loop at his belt.