Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 443

Chapter 443: Falling into the abyss(1) Chapter 443: Falling into the abyss(1) In the stillness of a moonless night, a lone figure stumbled through the great green plains outside the city of Yarzat.

Out here, in the quiet embrace of the open land, there was only the sound of shuffling boots, the occasional snap of a twig underfoot, and the gentle slosh of golden liquid against lips Sir Robert-no, Lord Robert now-clutched the bottle of court-issued cider with a white-knuckled grip.

The finest vintage, they had called it, gifted in honor of his elevation.

A castle of his own, sprawling lands, villages teeming with peasants to tax and rule-a dream for most knights, especially for one who had once held only a poor village as his fief.

By all accounts, he should have been elated.

Instead, each step felt heavier than the last, as if the weight of his new title had shackled him, dragging him deeper into a mire of doubt.

He paused, bracing himself against a low stone wall, the rough edges biting into his palm.

With his other hand, he raked through his disheveled hair, breathing hard.

He had sold everything that once defined him-his honor, his loyalty, his very soul-not for wealth or ambition, but for something far more fragile.

Family.

The word sat like a shard of glass in his chest, its edges twisting with every shallow breath.

He lifted the bottle to his lips again, hoping to drown the taste of regret.

The cider burned sweetly down his throat, but the bitterness in his heart remained.

From the city, laughter drifted through the air, mingled with honeyed words that praised the princess and her consort.

The people called them saviors now-Princess Jasmine, the jewel of the realm, and Alpheo, Yarzat’s Fox.

Their names were spoken with reverence, their rule lauded as just and strong.

It churned his stomach.

What was there to praise?

He clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the bottle’s neck.

A cur who betrayed and butchered his own employer?

A whore who warmed the bed of her father’s murderer, while his blood had barely dried on the blade?

He spat to the side, as if the very thought had soured the cider on his tongue.

What honor lies in that?

What generosity?

What glory?

He raised the bottle again, but this time, the burn of the drink wasn’t enough to suppress the bile rising in his throat.

He turned abruptly and retched, the cider splattering onto the damp grass below.

His breaths came ragged, his chest heaving with more than just nausea.

But even as disgust filled him, a deeper, uglier thought slithered in.

Who am I to judge them?

The question festered, gnawing at the edges of his mind.

Had he not been the first to betray his prince?

Had it not been his hands that gripped the blade in service of the usurper?

His voice that swore fealty to a stolen crown?

His silence that permitted a daughter to forsake her father’s memory in the arms of the very man who had slit his throat?

He had told himself, time and again, that it was survival.

That it was the natural course of things-the strong prevailed, the weak perished.

But that was a lie, wasn’t it?

He knew it in his bones.

He should have stood beside Lord Ormund the moment Jasmine swore herself to Alpheo.

He should have refused, even if it cost him everything.

But he hadn’t.

Because he couldn’t.

Because they had his son.

The thought struck like a hammer, knocking the breath from his lungs.

His vision blurred for a moment, and he wasn’t in the fields anymore-he was back in the cold stone halls of the palace, where his boy’s wide, terrified eyes met his across the chamber.  Just a precaution, Lord Robert.

Just to ensure your cooperation.

The words had been spoken with a smile, wrapped in velvet and deceit, he could have killed that boy if he did not fear the consequences.

That was the price of his silence.

That was the weight of his betrayal.

Not gold, not land, not even his own life.

His son.

And so he had knelt.

He had spoken the words of fealty.

He had raised a cup to the new regime, watched them toast in return, and let them call him lord.

Now, here he was, alone in the fields with only his shame and a bottle of fine cider to keep him company.

He let out a bitter laugh, empty and hollow.

A knight of the crown, a traitor to his prince, a lord by decree-what was he, truly?

He didn’t know anymore.

The night stretched endlessly before him, offering no answers.

Only silence.

And the weight of what he had done.

All the hells of the gods wouldn’t be enough for my sins.

The thought clawed at Robert’s mind as he stared at the three figures before him-phantoms of memory, ghosts of his failures.

He wasn’t blind.

He saw exactly what he had become: a man forever with a drink in hand, poisoning himself one swallow at a time.

His gaze dropped to the bottle, the amber liquid swirling in the dim light.

A poor man’s solace, a coward’s crutch.

How many nights had he drowned himself in it, hoping to quiet the voices, to soften the jagged edges of regret?

And yet, every morning, he woke with the same gnawing ache in his gut, the same weight on his chest, heavier than any armor he had ever worn.

His grip on the bottle tightened.

Ahead of him stood a gnarled old tree, its branches stretching toward the sky like skeletal fingers.

He stared at it, unblinking.

Then, his eyes lowered to his other hand.

The rope lay coiled in his palm like a serpent.

Wouldn’t it be easier to just disappear?

The thought crept in unbidden, whispering its cruel logic.

It had been there before, lingering in the corners of his mind during sleepless nights, lurking in the bottom of every empty bottle.

But this time, it didn’t slink away.

This time, it held fast.

No one would miss me.

His breath hitched at the thought.

My own son- the words caught in his throat, bitter as bile, -licks the feet of those who once used him as a leash around my neck.

He almost laughed.

Almost.

What good was a family like that?

What good was a man like him, still walking the earth, dragging his shame behind him like an anchor?

After everything he had done, everything he had betrayed, what right did he have to still breathe, to still exist in the dirt and dust?

Robert exhaled slowly, setting the bottle down with a dull clink against the earth.

His hands shook slightly, whether from drink or from something deeper, he couldn’t say.

Slowly, methodically, he began to tie a knot.

The fraying fibers scraped against his calloused palms, rough and unyielding, much like the life he had led.

He stood, the rope coiled in his grip like fate itself.

His legs felt sluggish, leaden, as if each step forward carried him deeper into some dark, inevitable abyss.

With a slow exhale, he began to climb.

The trunk was rough beneath his fingers, his boots scraping against the bark as he pulled himself up.

He ascended carefully, deliberately, each movement measured.

When he reached a sturdy branch, thick and unyielding, he swung himself onto it, straddling it like a rider atop a mount.

He gazed down.

The ground swam in shadow, the world below lost in darkness.

A fitting end.

He tied one end of the rope around the branch, pulling it tight, testing its strength.

The fibers groaned beneath the strain, but they held firm.

He stared at his work for a long moment, breath shallow, heart steady.

Then, slowly, he fashioned the other end into a noose.

And as he slipped it over his head, tightening the loop, the night around him was silent.

Waiting.

Robert sat perched on the branch, the rough rope dangling in his grasp like a serpent coiled to strike.

His gaze drifted toward the horizon, the wind whispered through the great green plains, carrying the scent of earth and distant fires, but it did nothing to still the storm within him.

A soft sigh escaped his lips, his breath shuddering as the knot rested heavily in his palm.

He looped the noose around his neck, tightening it with trembling fingers.

The coarse fibers bit into his skin, a cruel reminder of what was to come.

His heart pounded against his ribs, each beat a drum of finality, urging him forward-yet his hands hesitated.

Not out of fear, but something else.

A lingering whisper in the depths of his mind.

“If I have any words left in me,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible over the rustling of the evening breeze, “this would be the time.” His throat tightened.

He had always been a man of action, a man of steel and duty, not of words.

But if there was ever a moment to speak, it was now.

“This is it, then,” he muttered, his voice cracking like brittle glass.

The weight of his sins bore down upon him, heavier than armor, heavier than steel.

His vision blurred as unshed tears welled in his eyes.

“Forgive me, my prince,” he begged, his voice shaking as he bowed his head.

“For what I’ve done.

For betraying your trust.

For selling your honor for my own selfish needs.” A tear slipped down his cheek, lost to the wind.

“There were… there were so many things I wanted to say,” he murmured, his voice raw with grief.

“So many truths I should have spoken, and now I’ll never have the chance.

I’ll carry them into silence.” He looked up, searching the heavens for something-anything.

But the stars had not yet appeared, and the sky above him was an endless expanse of nothing.

“I don’t know if I’m going where you are,” he continued, his voice thick with sorrow.

“But if I’m not… if I’m to wander some darker place, I beg for your understanding.

I… I did what I thought I had to.” The rope grew heavier around his neck as his shoulders sagged under the weight of his words.

The sun dipped below the horizon, and the world around him faded into twilight.

Robert closed his eyes, his final plea carried away on the wind.

Then- A flicker of light.

Robert squinted as a sudden glow pierced the encroaching darkness.

He winced, raising a hand to shield his eyes as he peered down at the source.

Below, a lone figure held a torch aloft, its flickering glow casting long shadows against the gnarled trunk of the tree.

The light caught Robert’s face, illuminating his haggard features-the unshaven stubble, the sunken eyes, the noose taut around his throat.

The man below tilted his head, his expression unreadable in the wavering firelight.

“If you’re a looter,” Robert rasped, his voice laced with bitterness, “you can wait until I jump.

My coin’s easier to take off a corpse.” The stranger chuckled softly.

It was not a cruel laugh, nor mocking-just a warm, knowing sound.

“A looter?

No,” he said.

His voice was calm, steady.

“I’m a man of the gods.” Robert let out a dry, humorless scoff.

“If you’re after a donation, you can wait too.

The contents of my pockets will be yours soon enough.” The priest did not move.

He simply watched Robert, his torchlight dancing across the twisted branches.

“I’m not here for coin, my son,” he said, his tone measured but insistent.

“But my old neck isn’t what it used to be.

Can we have this conversation with you on the ground?” “I wish to be alone,” Robert muttered, his voice hardening as he turned his face away.

The priest didn’t flinch.

“And I’ll grant you that,” he said evenly.

“But only if you step down first.

These old bones don’t take kindly to craning upward.

I would like to speak with you face to face.” A pause.

Then, softer: “I swear, after that, I will leave you to your own fate.

I only ask that you hear me out.” Robert hesitated.

He glanced down at the priest, now clearer in the fire’s glow-a man past his prime but not yet frail, with weary eyes that held neither judgment nor pity, only patience.

The priest met his gaze.

Then, in a voice quieter but no less firm, he added pointedly: “Without the rope.”