Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 463

Chapter 463: Religious fervor Chapter 463: Religious fervor A cart creaked along the uneven road of the settlement, its worn wooden frame groaning with each small stone that met its wheels.

The single horse pulling it plodded forward at an unhurried pace, indifferent to the burden it carried.

But there were no sacks of grain or crates of goods bound for the temple’s square-only the cold weight of a lifeless body, laid bare in the open air.

Robert felt his stomach tighten the moment his eyes settled on the corpse.

The breath he hadn’t realized he was holding left him in a slow, uneasy exhale.

He knew that face Just under two weeks ago, that man had walked out of the temple’s doors, alive and whole, clothed in the garb of the devoted, ready to preach the good faith to the new peoples that entered the princedom.

And now, here he was, sprawled like a discarded thing.

His skin had lost all trace of warmth, turned the pale, lifeless grey of old stone, mottled with patches of purple and sickly blue where the blood had settled.

His lips were slightly parted, frozen in an expression that might have been surprise, pain, or perhaps even a final, unheard plead.

The paleness drained whatever remained of his humanity, as if death had carved him into something unnatural, something wrong.

The body lay stiff atop the bare wooden cart, bouncing slightly with each rut and stone along the uneven road.

Its arms, once devoted in prayer, were sprawled awkwardly, fingers half-curled as if reaching for something it would never grasp.

The rich colors had dulled, the fine stitching frayed.

 A thin trail of dried blood had crusted beneath his nose, stark against the ashen pallor of his face.

A gash, deep and jagged, split the side of his skull near the temple, exposing dark congealed blood and fragments of shattered bone.

Flies buzzed hungrily around the wound, drawn to the sickly scent of rot that even the cool morning air could not mask.

Whoever had done this had not been content with a simple killing-they had beaten him, mangled him, as if they had wanted to erase every trace of the man he once was.

One eye socket was sunken, caved in from some brutal strike, while the other was barely visible beneath the swelling and the deep, jagged gashes that ran across his cheek and brow.

His nose had been broken in more places than one, twisted unnaturally, and his lips were split and swollen, caked with dried blood.

Thick, uneven stitches crisscrossed his face, pulling the flaps of skin together in a poor imitation of what had once been a man, the only mercy given by whoever tended to the corpse.

Robert’s hands clenched at his sides.

This wasn’t just a death; it was a declaration.

And if that was the case, they were undone.

The moment the cart rolled to a stop, a murmur of horror rippled through the gathered peasants.

Some gasped, others recoiled, shielding their eyes as if the mere sight of the mutilated corpse might stain their souls.

A woman clutched her child’s head to her chest, turning him away, while an old man made the sign of warding, his lips moving in hurried, silent prayer.

The stench of death clung to the air, thick and putrid, and for every person that stayed to gawk, twice as many turned away, faces pale with disgust.

Robert watched them carefully, his lips pressed into a thin line.

He understood why they had done this-why they had left the body bare, exposed for all to see.

A simple cloak draped over the corpse would have spared the villagers from this horror, would have softened the blow.

But that was precisely the point.

Whoever arranged this wanted revulsion.

Wanted anger.

Wanted the sight of the priest’s broken body to burn into the minds of these people, to turn disgust into fury.  His hands trembled slightly as he exhaled, turning away from the crowd and toward the temple.

He did not know why he walked there-perhaps it was instinct, perhaps it was fear, or perhaps it was some foolish part of him that thought he could still stop what would come .

But he did know what would come next.  This was a spark, and he feared very well that the man who had once taken everything from him would do so again.

Because if this led to war-if this truly became the firestorm he feared-it would not be the crown that would be defeated.

As he walked, his eyes drifted over the familiar homes that lined the road-homes he had passed countless times.

But in his mind’s eye, he saw them as they had once been-engulfed in flames, their roofs collapsing under the weight of fire and smoke.

He could hear the screams again, the same desperate wails that had once echoed through the streets.

The people-those who had once gathered in the temple to hear the sermons of Father Elios, those who had prayed with clasped hands and whispered faith-were now running in blind panic, sobbing, pleading, scattering like frightened cattle.

And among them, riding with cruel laughter and lances gleaming in the firelight, were the rider of the Crown’s hound.

He could see them in his mind as clearly as if they were there before him-their armor glinting, their spears piercing flesh, each strike made with casual, reckless amusement.

They had turned slaughter into a game, competing with one another to see who could land the cleanest kill.

Robert swallowed hard, his throat dry as the memory tightened around him like a noose.

He had seen it all before.

He had lived through it.

And now, here, in this place that he had finally dared to call home, he feared it would all happen again.

It had been a long, punishing road to get here.

A road paved with grief, anger, and a numbing emptiness that once threatened to swallow him whole.

But after all of it, he had found something-something precious, something fragile.

Peace.

For the first time in years, he had woken without the sting of drink clouding his mind, without the dull ache of last night’s poor choices weighing on his body.

His hands, which once shook from withdrawal and sorrow, now felt steady.

Every morning, he had risen not with regret, but with clarity.

With purpose.

He had been happy.

And he would be damned if he let it all slip through his fingers again.

Robert strode toward the temple, his steps purposeful, his mind racing.

The thick scent of burning incense mixed with the faint, lingering stench of the corpse that had been paraded through the streets.

As he approached, his sharp eyes landed on Father Elios, who stood at the entrance of the temple, his robes pristine despite the turmoil that had settled over the settlement.

Elios met his gaze with an unsettling calm, his expression composed yet weighted by something deep and unreadable.

Could it be?  Robert thought, a flicker of suspicion tightening his jaw.

Elios exhaled softly, his voice gentle yet heavy with sorrow.

“This is a sad day, my friend,” he said.

“Brother Vrostinio lies dead, a martyr, slain by the hands of unbelievers.” His words were measured, but his grief seemed genuine-his eyes clouded with mourning, his hands clasped in quiet reverence.

He stepped forward, closing the distance between them, his tone edged with something far less patient.

“How long have you known?” he asked, his gaze piercing.

Elios didn’t hesitate.

“As did everyone else-when the body entered the settlement.” A lie.

Robert studied the priest’s face, searching for any crack in the mask of sorrow, any twitch that betrayed him.

 “I don’t believe you.” Elios blinked, his face still unreadable.

He took another step closer, lowering his voice, though each word cut like a blade.

“The dead’s coaches would have covered the body, hidden it from the eyes of the people.

Instead, it was put on display, paraded through the streets like a spectacle.” His dark eyes narrowed.

“It was meant to be seen.

Meant to stoke fury” The silence between them thickened, the weight of unspoken truths settling in the air like a storm on the horizon.

Robert’s voice was quieter this time, but there was no mistaking the steel behind it.

“I have been lied many times.

Yet I would never have thought that I would be belittled by you in such a way.  I will ask only once more.

How long have you known?” Elios sighed, the weight of Robert’s accusation settling upon his shoulders like a yoke.

His fingers brushed the silver pendant of his faith, and for the first time, his calm wavered-not in guilt, but in sorrow.

“This is what Vrostinio would have wanted,” he said at last, his voice heavy with conviction.

“He died in agony, suffering at the hands of heathens, and the world should see it.

They should know the pain he endured in his last moments-as a martyr.” The sadness in his face was undeniable.

It was not the sorrow of a man caught in deceit, but of one who believed he had done what was necessary, no matter the cost.

Robert’s lips curled in a bitter smile, his chest tightening with fury and disappointment.

“Whatever it is you wanted the people to feel,” he said, his voice low and taut, “you have succeeded.” His fingers clenched into fists at his sides.

“I came here looking for peace,” he continued, stepping closer, his breath sharp with anger.

“And yet, you-you-have willingly brought war upon us.” He searched Elios’s face, desperate for an answer, for some justification that would make sense of the ruin he had unleashed.

“Why?” he demanded.

“For what reason did you do this?” Elios held his gaze, but did not answer.

Robert shook his head, his anger giving way to something worse-betrayal.

“I trusted you,” he said, his voice cracking with the weight of it.

“I trusted you to show me a new path-to teach me a way forward.” His eyes darkened.

“Was that a lie, too?” He gestured toward the square, toward the whispers of the crowd and the smoldering embers of outrage catching fire in their hearts.

His voice trembled, not with fear, but with disbelief.

“You preach of goodness in the morning, only to send your flock to the slaughter by evening.

Why, Elios?” His voice dropped to a whisper, pleading and furious all at once.

“Why would you want them dead?I have seen what war brought and I thought that you did too, apparently I was wrong in thinking that.”