Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 438

Chapter 438: Last Goodbyes Chapter 438: Last Goodbyes Inside the tent, the air was thick with unspoken words.

The only sounds were the distant crackling of torches outside and the faint rustling of the fabric walls as the wind brushed against them.

Varaku sat cross-legged near the fire pit, his calloused hands resting on his knees.

His face, worn by years of hardship and battle, was unreadable, though his jaw was set tight.

Across from him, Torghan sat in silence, his posture rigid, his fingers idly tracing the embroidery on his sleeve.

The flickering firelight cast shifting shadows across their faces, highlighting the sharp lines of father and son-so alike, yet now standing on opposite paths.

Neither of them spoke.

There was nothing to say that the other did not already know.

Yet something they would have to say.

Varaku’s fingers tightened into a fist on his knee, his knuckles whitening.

He inhaled deeply through his nose, holding the breath for a long moment before releasing it in a slow exhale.

The tent was dimly lit, the flickering light of the fire casting long, wavering shadows against the fabric walls.

Outside, the sounds of the camp-voices murmuring, the clatter of metal, the occasional distant laughter-felt distant, insignificant compared to the silence that stretched between father and son.

“So you’re really going to leave,” Varaku finally said, his voice low, measured.

But there was something else beneath it-something restrained, something close to resentment.

“You would abandon the land where our tribe has lived for half a century.

The same land we were exiled from, the same land where your mother’s spirit waits, where we will soon bleed to take it back.” Torghan met his father’s gaze steadily.

There was no hesitation in his posture, no doubt in his voice when he answered.

“You already know the answer to that.” Varaku let out a sharp breath, shaking his head.

“And for what?” His voice was edged with something bitter now, something close to anger.

“For the promise of a life you may never live?

For a place that is not your home, among people who are not your kin?” Torghan sat still, his hands resting lightly on his knees, his fingers relaxed.

He did not waver.

“For a life I will never be able to achieve again.

I will make my new home and I will make more kin.” Varaku’s gaze hardened, the muscles in his jaw flexing.

He was searching, watching, waiting for some flicker of hesitation, some glimmer of regret in his son’s eyes.

But there was none.

“And is it worth it?” Varaku asked, his voice quieter now, though no less sharp.

“Everything you have ever known, everything you have ever been-will you throw it all away for this?” Torghan leaned forward slightly, his expression unwavering.

The light of the fire caught the edges of his face, highlighting the sharp planes of his features, the determination in his eyes.

“It is worth that,” he said, voice steady, firm.

“And much more.” Varaku sat back, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

He looked at his son, truly looked at him-not as the boy he had raised, but as the man he had become.

And he realized, perhaps too late, that there was no bringing him back.

Varaku exhaled sharply, nodding once, slow and deliberate.

His shoulders, broad and worn by years of battle, lifted slightly before settling as if releasing a weight he had long carried.

He studied Torghan for a long moment, his expression unreadable, then spoke.

“Well,” he said, his voice rough yet steady, “it was high time you did something worthwhile of your life.” Torghan scoffed, shaking his head as he leaned back slightly, arms crossing over his chest.

His eyes, once filled with the restless fire of youth, now burned with something colder, something hardened by the path he had chosen.

“Why would you care about that ?” he asked, his tone edged with something sharp, something unsaid.

“You didn’t seem to for half my life.

And you already have offsprings to pass your blood to.

What does it matter what I do?” Varaku’s gaze darkened, his features tightening, though not in anger-no, this was something else.

Something deeper.

His fingers flexed briefly before he set them on his knees, steadying himself.

When he spoke, his voice was quieter, but no less firm.

“I had to care,” he said.

“For your mother.” Torghan’s jaw tensed.

“I would not have dared to look her in the face and tell her that I didn’t even try.” Varaku’s voice did not waver, but there was something in it, something raw beneath the words.

“That I let our son walk away to a place where his spirit would never meet with hers.” The words lingered between them, heavy like a stone dropped into deep water.

The flickering fire cast shadows across their faces, shifting with the silence that followed.

Varaku leaned forward slightly, his gaze locking onto Torghan’s with the intensity of a man who had lived through war, through exile, through loss.

“Are you really ready for that?” he asked.

Torghan remained silent, his gaze dropping to the dirt floor of the tent as his thoughts drifted to his mother.

He could barely remember the sound of her voice now, only the warmth of her hands when he was a child, the way she used to hum old songs while tending the fire.

She had died too soon, and he had been too young to understand what it meant to lose something forever.

But now, as he stood on the edge of abandoning everything he had ever known, the weight of that loss pressed against him like a boulder.

Slowly, he lifted his head and met his father’s eyes.

There was no hesitation when he finally spoke.

“I already said that it was worth more.” His voice was steady, but not without feeling.

There was conviction in it, the kind that only came from knowing there was no turning back.

“I will create a new place,” Torghan continued, “where my son will meet with mine and my mother’s spirit.

Perhaps… one day, we will all be reunited.” Varaku’s face remained impassive, but his jaw tightened ever so slightly.

His fingers curled against his knee, and for a moment, the old chief simply stared at his son- Then, barely more than a whisper, Varaku muttered, “Not if you are across the Great Lake.” The words were like a knife slipped between the ribs.

Torghan inhaled sharply but said nothing.

He had already made his choice.

Whether or not his father could accept it was no longer his concern.

Varaku let out a long, weary sigh, rubbing a hand over his face as if trying to wipe away the weight pressing down on him.

His voice, when he spoke, was quieter now-resigned.

“I still have my duty to the tribe,” he said.

“So I will do all I can to make your settlement as stable as possible.” Torghan remained silent, watching his father as he continued.

“Vasha will come too,” Varaku added, his tone measured, watching for any reaction.

“It will be a good thing to have someone of your blood marry someone else’s leader.

A bond of blood is stronger than a bond of trade.” Torghan’s eyes flicked toward his father, but his expression was unreadable.

He made no move to answer, no sign of agreement or rejection.

His hands rested on his knees, fingers still, his breathing slow and even.

Varaku studied him for a long moment before exhaling again, shaking his head.

His voice was rougher when he spoke next, laced with something almost bitter.

“Your mother would not speak to me if I did not even try to help.” The words lingered between them, heavier than before.

For a moment, there was only silence, save for the distant sounds of the camp outside-the crackling of fires, the occasional murmur of voices.

Torghan rose to his feet, the movement slow, deliberate.

He stood there for a moment, looking down at his father, who remained seated, his fingers idly tracing the rim of the wooden cup he had set down earlier.

“I suppose this is goodbye, then,” Torghan said, his voice steady.

Varaku didn’t look up at first, only nodding slightly before finally meeting his son’s gaze.

There was something distant in his eyes, as if he were looking at something far beyond him, beyond this moment.

Then, with a quiet breath, he spoke.

“Good luck.” With that, he picked up the cup of wine from the ground, tilting it slightly before taking a slow sip, as if that single motion could wash down everything that had been left unsaid between them.

Torghan lingered for a heartbeat longer, then turned and stepped out of the tent.

The cold air greeted him as he emerged, the scent of salt and damp earth filling his lungs.

He walked a few paces forward, his boots pressing into the dirt, before finally lifting his gaze.

There, in the distance, past the wooden palisades of the camp, the great ships waited.

Their tall masts stretched toward the sky, dark silhouettes against the early morning light.

Ropes swayed with the wind, sails furled and ready.

And below them, his people gathered-waiting, preparing, murmuring among themselves as they stood on the cusp of a journey that would change everything.

A new home.

A new beginning.

Where he would be the one in power