Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 466

Chapter 466: The higher authority(2) Chapter 466: The higher authority(2) Aron rose from his kneeling position, moving with measured grace as he straightened his back.

His gaze met the High Priest’s without hesitation.

The man’s expression remained unreadable for a moment, his heavy-lidded eyes scrutinizing him with the laziness of a well-fed predator.

Then, with a slow, deliberate nod, the High Priest granted him permission to sit.

Behind Aron, a small wooden chair awaited-plain and unadorned, which appeared even more miniscule if compared to the golden throne before him. Aron stepped back and lowered himself onto it, adjusting his posture to maintain the dignity of his station despite the humble seat, finding the chair even uncomfortable to sit in.

I wonder if this is the standard procedure or if he simply vexed being forced to meet the envoy of a simple prince.

Aron thought as he stared straight at the fat man, wondering if he was that prideful.

He began with the expected pleasantries, his tone smooth and respectful.

“Your Holiness, I must first extend my gratitude for your generosity in accepting this meeting.

It is a great honor to be granted your time.” The High Priest let out a short, hearty laugh, his stomach shaking beneath the heavy white robes.

“Generosity?” he echoed, amusement coloring his voice.

“It is my duty to listen to the problems of my flock, dear envoy.

What kind of shepherd would I be if I turned away those in need?” His smile was wide, but Aron felt it was empty.

The High Priest leaned back, fingers tapping idly against the gilded armrest of his throne.

“But I must admit,” he continued, his tone turning sly, “I was quite surprised when I received the request for this audience-especially after learning that it came with the personal intercession of Lord Marthio himself.” His eyes gleamed with something unreadable as he added, “One wonders what it is about your prince that has earned such…

a soft spot from the Lord Regent.” Aron offered a measured smile, his voice smooth as silk.

“His Regency and His Grace share quite an amiable relationship, Your Holiness.

One forged not in empty courtesies but in the fires of mutual interest.

The prosperity of our lands and the strength of our trade have tied them together, and from that, a partnership of trust has emerged.” The High Priest nodded slowly, the golden braids of his tall white hat swaying slightly with the motion.

His thick fingers drummed against the armrest of his throne as he regarded Aron with a knowing smirk.

“When the Shield of the Star intercedes,” he said, voice thick with amusement, “one must at least make the effort.” His laughter was a deep, rolling sound, like a man indulging in a private joke.

“It would not do to ignore a voice that carries such weight.” He shifted in his throne, his rings catching the candlelight as he gestured vaguely.

“Your lands may be humble in size, dear envoy, but I must say-some great wonders have been making their way from there.” His eyes twinkled with genuine pleasure.

“I recently had the opportunity to partake in a drink most delightful.

A certain cider that, I daresay, rivals even the vintages of the eastern valleys, that unfortunately made their wine lacking following their rebellion.” Aron dipped his head in a graceful bow, his lips curving in polite satisfaction.

“Then I shall ensure that Her Grace sends a chest of our finest as a token of gratitude for your time, Your Holiness.” The High Priest let out a pleased hum, leaning back into his golden throne, fingers steepled before him.

“I shall await it with great expectation.” The High Priest shifted on his golden throne, his plump fingers tapping idly against the polished armrests.

The lighthearted mirth from before faded slightly, replaced by something more calculating.

“Well then,” he mused, tilting his head just so.

“I believe you should lay out the problem that has even troubled the Lord Regent himself.

It is not every day that such a man finds himself concerned enough to personally intervene.” Aron gave a solemn nod, his demeanor sharpening like a blade being drawn from its sheath.

He straightened his back, his face a mask of regret and reverence.

“A tragic event has cast its shadow upon the lands of Her Grace,” he began, his voice steady, deliberate.

“A sorrowful thing.

One that has moved even the royal family to tears in its grief.” The High Priest’s thick brow arched, curiosity flashing in his small, keen eyes.

“Oh?” Aron exhaled softly, as if pained by the very words he had to speak.

“I regret to report that a priest-one of your devoted servants-has met an untimely and most unfortunate end.” He paused, letting the weight of the words settle.

“Though he was found in the midst of a most heinous crime… his death remains a loss.

A tragedy nonetheless.” The amusement drained completely from the High Priest’s face.

His fingers stopped their lazy tapping, now gripping the golden arms of his throne with a quiet intensity.

No priest’s death, least of all one by unnatural means, was ever taken lightly.

His expression darkened, the weight of his authority pressing down on the chamber like a gathering storm.

“The death of one of the faith is not something to laugh at,” he said, his voice now stripped of all warmth.

“I assume that the perpetrators have been punished?” Aron bowed deeply, his hands resting upon his knees in a display of reverence.

“Of course, Your Holiness,” he intoned smoothly.

“Punishments have already been administered to those responsible.” A half-truth.

A necessary lie.

The reality of it was far more complicated.

How, after all, could one pinpoint the exact hand that had snuffed out the life of the priest?

When a riot erupts in the streets, when fury grips the hearts of the masses like a fever, blame becomes as fluid as spilled wine.

The crowd had been a beast of many limbs, many voices, many fists.

If they were to seek justice in its truest form, they would have to execute all of them.

Every man, woman, and child who had raised their voices in defiance.

Every soul that had been present in the chaos.

But such a thing was not feasible.

Nor was it politically wise.

So, instead, they had done what was necessary.

A few criminals, already sentenced for their own misdeeds, were chosen.

Their lives were offered as penance, their bodies hung from the gallows as a statement.

A demonstration of justice-however hollow it might have been.

Aron kept his expression unreadable, his voice unwavering.

“The matter has been handled.” The High Priest stroked his thick, jeweled fingers over the embroidered gold braids of his ceremonial robes, his small eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he studied Aron.

He gave a slow nod, though skepticism still lingered in the way his lips pressed into a thin line.

“That is good,” he said at last, his voice measured, each word weighed carefully.

“Justice has been done, and the matter has been addressed.

But… I confess, I do not quite understand the purpose of all this.” He gestured vaguely around the grand hall, the flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold-leafed walls.

“As sorrowful as this loss is, I fail to see why such a meeting was necessary.

Surely, you did not journey all this way simply to tell me such a sad new.I suppose there is more to it.” Aron, ever the diplomat, let a small, knowing smile touch his lips-just enough to seem sincere, but not so much as to appear insolent.

He folded his hands neatly before him and inclined his head.

“Before all else, Your Holiness, Her Grace wishes to express her deepest sorrow for what has transpired.

A crime of this nature, against a man of faith, is a stain upon the lands, and she is moved by grief over such a deed.” His voice was smooth, like well-aged wine, seeping into the ears of those who listened with just the right amount of weight.

“As such, she wishes to show her respect for those who labor in the noble mission of the gods… by offering a small token.

A gift, if you will.

One that shall be used to ease the burdens of the faithful and aid the suffering masses as you see fit the most.” At that, Aron clapped his hands together, the sharp sound echoing through the vast cathedral.

From the side of the chamber, the servants moved as one, each step measured, each motion rehearsed with precision.

Their heads remained bowed in reverence, their bodies low as they placed the offering before the High Priest’s throne.

The great wooden chest, its brass fittings polished to a mirror sheen, now sat before the man who held the spiritual fate of an entire continent in his hands.

The servants, still kneeling in reverence, moved with practiced grace as their hands lifted, unlatching the ornate brass fittings of the chest.

With a soft creak, the heavy lid was pushed open, revealing the treasures within.

At the sight of it , the High Priest’s small, beady eyes widened-first in surprise, then in something far more familiar.

Greed.

And mirth.

His fingers twitched, as if resisting the urge to reach out and touch the shimmering offering.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, his expression smoothing into something more dignified, more measured.

But Aron had already seen it-the flicker of hunger in the holy man’s gaze as he apparently, as they were told by the lord regent, loved bribes with all his souls, as a sheep does with grass.