Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 429

Chapter 429: Dining(2) Chapter 429: Dining(2) Alpheo leaned back in his chair, the flickering candlelight painting his face in soft, shifting shadows.

He looked every bit the seasoned storyteller, his voice smooth and deliberate, each word honed to perfection.

If his sword arm was unremarkable, his tongue was a blade of its own-razor-sharp and impossible to ignore.

“The Battle of the Bleeding Plains,” he began, his tone low and measured, “was a day the gods themselves might have wept to witness.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.

“The enemy outnumbered us two to one.

Their banners stretched across the horizon like a storm cloud, their spears glinting like teeth.

” Torghan sat across from him, his food forgotten, his eyes wide and unblinking.

Alpheo’s voice grew quieter, drawing Torghan in like a moth to flame.

“I spent weeks preparing. But when the battle began, none of it mattered.

They came like a flood, and we were the dam.

For hours, the field ran red.

Men fell like wheat before the scythe, and the air was thick with the stench of blood and sweat.” He leaned forward, his eyes glinting in the candlelight.

“And then, just when it seemed all was lost, Egil arrived.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You should have seen it.

His cavalry thundered across the plains like a force of nature, their lances gleaming, their war cries shaking the earth.

The army broke.

They ran.

And the day was ours.” Torghan’s breath caught.

He could almost see it-the clash of steel, the roar of men, the ground churned to mud underfoot.

His heart raced as if he were there himself, standing shoulder to shoulder with Alpheo’s warriors.

But as the story unfolded, something shifted in Torghan’s chest.

Admiration curdled into envy, sharp and bitter.

Here was Alpheo, a man who had started with nothing, now dining with god:s food and carving his name into history.

And here was Torghan, the son of a tribal leader, a warrior-in-training who had yet to see his first real battle.

His hands, calloused from endless drills, felt useless now.

What had he done?

What had he achieved?

Alpheo’s voice faded into the background as Torghan’s thoughts churned.

He stared at his own reflection in the polished surface of his cup-a young man with fire in his heart but nothing to show for it.

The sting of self-disgust was sudden and unrelenting.

He had trained, yes.

He had learned the ways of the spear and the bow.

But what good was training without deeds to match?

Alpheo leaned in slightly, his curiosity piqued by the silence that followed his tales.

With a soft smile, he asked, “And you, Torghan?

Do you have stories of your own to share?” As the translator’s words echoed through the room, Torghan’s face immediately flushed crimson.

His gaze dropped to the table, his fingers tightening around his cup, as if gripping it could somehow steady the torrent of embarrassment that threatened to overtake him.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, acutely aware of the eyes upon him, especially those of Alpheo, who had lived through so much more.

“No…

no stories,” Torghan muttered, the words hanging heavily in the air.

His voice was soft, almost apologetic, as if he was ashamed of his lack of worthy experiences.

“Not yet.” The silence stretched for a moment before Torghan’s expression hardened, determination flickering in his eyes.

He lifted his head, a newfound resolve slowly pushing aside the shame.

“But… next season,” he continued, his voice gaining strength, “we will march to retake the hills-our land that was lost.

The steel we’ve traded will arm us.

I’ll be there… fighting.

I will take back what’s ours.” He straightened, though the edge of his voice betrayed a quiet, burning pride-he may have no stories now, but soon, that would change.

He would carve his own tale in blood, just as Alpheo had.

Alpheo sat back in his chair, his gaze steady as he studied Torghan.

His voice, when it came, was laced with both intrigue and something akin to challenge.

“It is noble,” Alpheo said slowly, his eyes gleaming with quiet thought, “to fight for one’s tribe, to defend what is yours.

But…

is that enough, Torghan?

To be one among the thousands?

Will you be satisfied to be another name lost in the tide of warriors who fought and died?

Who will sing of you, in the end, when you are just another face in the crowd, fighting alongside the many?You will probably die in the mud with only a few knowing your name, something that will disappear in a few decades” Torghan remained silent.

Alpheo’s lips curled slightly, as if he were amused by the young tribesman’s uncertainty.

He leaned forward, his voice carrying a note of wisdom honed through countless battles.

“You see, one must have something-something to distinguish themselves.

Something that sets them apart from the rest, something that makes their story worth telling.Are you compelled to speak to your friend about many crows onto a tree?Or will you speak about the one with the shining feathers?” A moment passed before Alpheo clapped his hands once, sharply, and the sound echoed through the room.

Almost immediately, a group of servants entered, carrying bundles wrapped in fine cloth.

They moved with quiet precision, laying the bundles before Alpheo as he gestured for them to stop.

“This,” Alpheo said, his voice soft yet firm, “is my gift to you.

As the first guest from your tribe, I will give you something to distinguish you-to make your name remembered, even beyond the battle.

Something to ensure that your tale will be more than just one of many.” The servants bowed respectfully as Alpheo gestured for them to unwrap the cloths.

Slowly, with a flourish, they revealed a beautifully decorated breastplate.

The bronze trimmings gleamed in the light, intricate patterns etched into the metal, a work of both artistry and function.

Torghan’s breath caught in his throat.

His hand instinctively reached for the breastplate, his fingers grazing the cool metal.

His eyes widened in awe as he gently knocked on it, the sound echoing like a promise of something greater.

He held the breastplate in his hands, marveling at its weight, its craftsmanship, its significance.

For a moment, Torghan couldn’t speak, his heart thumping loudly in his chest.

He had never seen something so finely made, so powerful in its presence.

This would be his-his mark, his distinction.

The tool that would set him apart from the thousands.

The thing that would make his name echo across the land.

Alpheo’s smile grew, though it held a certain edge, as he watched Torghan run his hands over the fine armor.

He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if weighing his next words carefully.

“This armor,” he began, his voice low and deliberate, “is what will set you apart from the rest.

But let me be clear,this is not the kind of thing a simple warrior should wear.

No.

A piece like this… it demands more than just battle scars.

It demands the right kind of man to wear it.” He paused, letting the weight of his words hang in the air for a moment.

“A warrior who holds such armor and doesn’t lead his men into battle…

Well, that is a waste.

A waste of skill.

A waste of potential.

You see, this armor-this piece, it’s only worth looking at from behind, as your warriors raise their weapons to follow your command.

It is the banner of a leader, not just a fighter.” Alpheo’s gaze sharpened, and he leaned just a little closer to Torghan.

“Would you like to be that man, Torghan?

The one whose name is shouted by those who follow you into war?

The one they look to for guidance, for strength?” The moment the translator spoke those words to Torghan, a flicker of something passed through the young man’s eyes.

He nodded slowly, but then his face shifted with a slight grimace of hesitation.

“My father…” he began, voice careful.

“My father, Varaku, is the leader of our tribe.

It is he who will lead us, not me.

I am still young-unblooded in the ways of true leadership.” Alpheo, however, did not seem discouraged.

He simply nodded, as if he had expected that answer.

“Of course,” he said, voice rich with understanding, “your father will lead, as all leaders should.But that it only comes to those that he can lead.

When it comes to those taking the ships to settle on our lands…

he will have no power there.

That will be a new beginning, and there will be space for a new leader.

” ”My father will choose that leader” The translator’s words were still ringing in the air, but before they could fully be conveyed, Alpheo leaned forward with a soft but firm chuckle.

His eyes sparkled with that peculiar glint, like a predator sizing up its prey.

“Ah,” Alpheo interrupted, his tone casual but charged with meaning, “Your father will decide who leads… But you see, Torghan,he has no power here, we hold that ” His voice deepened slightly as he leaned back, letting the weight of his words settle.

“We decide who commands, who leads, who rules.

Perhaps,” he continued, looking around at the table, a sly smile creeping onto his lips, “someone who is dining with me right now might be the one who commands in the future.” Torghan’s heart skipped a beat.

Alpheo’s voice dropped low, deliberate, as he leaned in closer to Torghan, the weight of his words like a heavy mantle.

“Will you be the one, Torghan, to fight among the thousands, to bleed into the mud just as they do, or will you be the one who leads them into battle, the one who commands their fates?” The question hung in the air, thick with challenge and possibility.

Torghan’s mind raced, his heart pounding in his chest.

He could hear the clatter of the battlefield, the cries of warriors, the clang of steel, and then, just as quickly, silence.

His thoughts drifted back to his homeland, to the simple life of herding sheep and the endless cycles of mundane existence.

He had nothing there, no grand purpose, no true distinction.

But here…

here he was being offered something different.

Something he had never even dreamed of.

Wealth.

Power.

Influence.

This land, with all its offerings, was a far cry from the hardships of his people.

And Alpheo…

He was offering him the chance to step into something far grander than he’d ever known.

Torghan felt the heavy pull of fate, as though it was calling him forward, daring him to take what was being laid before him.

Without thinking, driven by the vision of what could be, Torghan stood from the table, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.

He took a step forward, his heart racing as he knelt on both knees before Alpheo.

His gaze fixed firmly on the prince, his voice steady but filled with a deep, newfound resolve.

“I will serve you,” Torghan declared, his words cutting through the silence of the room, resonating with the weight of commitment that he thought had been born at the moment, instead of having been cultivated since his arrival there.