Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 470

Chapter 470: Throwing the dice(2) Chapter 470: Throwing the dice(2) Gregor shot up from his seat so forcefully that his chair nearly toppled over.

His face twisted into a mask of rage, his eyes burning with barely restrained fury.

“You can go to ruin yourself!” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the tent like a thunderclap.

“We have no reason to listen to a single wretched word that spills from your damned mouth!

You think you can waltz in here, puffing yourself up like the beggar Prince did, and dictate terms to us?” He scoffed, his lip curling in disgust.

“You are nothing more than a landless vagabond we decided to humor.

A mongrel dressed in robes, barking like he belongs at the table of lords.” Gregor slammed a fist onto the table, rattling the goblets and ink pots.

“We will fight when we choose to fight!

Not because some self-important zealot decided it for us!” His voice grew sharper, colder.

“And no one-not a single miserable soul-can say otherwise.

Least of all you.” Niketas, who had been watching with cold scrutiny, now leaned forward, his expression one of controlled contempt.

“He is right,” he said, his tone lacking the fire of Gregor’s outburst but carrying just as much weight.

“You stand here because we allowed it.

Because we deemed it useful to let you have some land in exchange for military support.

Do not make the mistake of thinking that places you on our level.” His eyes narrowed, his voice turning razor-sharp.

“We are not the same, priest.

We are barely even on the same side.” Lord Lysandros, who had remained silent through the exchange, now spoke, his voice cool and measured but carrying an undeniable edge.

“And let us remind you, priest,” he said, fingers tapping idly on the table, “that the land we gave you can just as easily be taken back.

A gift can become a burden, and burdens are swiftly cast aside.” His eyes flicked toward Elyos, unblinking.

“Keep that in mind before you grow too comfortable in your borrowed authority.” Elyos stood unmoving, his gaze shifting between the lords as they hurled their insults, their rage directed at him as though he were nothing more than a dog that had overstayed its welcome.  And still, Elyos said nothing.

He simply watched.

He watched their faces contort with anger.

He watched their hands grip the table, their knuckles white with fury.

He watched their voices rise and fall, their words weaving together in a discordant symphony of arrogance, fear, and self-interest.

He watched-and he felt nothing but disgust.

Are these the men chosen by the gods to rule over the flock?

The thought crawled into his mind like a whisper of revelation, and the more he looked at them, the more the question gnawed at him.

These men, these lords who prided themselves on their noble blood and divine right, were nothing but children bickering over their toys.

They thought only of themselves-their lands, their gold, their fleeting pleasures.

Not once did they speak of duty, of righteousness, of the higher calling that should have been the foundation of their rule.

They did not see the suffering of the people beneath them, nor did they care to.

They ruled not as shepherds guiding their flock, but as gluttonous beasts feasting upon it.

They were not the blessed ones.

Perhaps, once, long ago, their ancestors had been touched by the divine, chosen to stand as protectors and leaders.

But if there had ever been a light within them, it had long since dimmed.

What remained now was a mere flicker, a dying flame barely clinging to its wick, too feeble to illuminate the darkness, too weak to warm those left shivering in the cold.

And if that light had truly died out, then perhaps it was time for a new flame to rise.

Elyos exhaled slowly, a sigh slipping from his lips as he cast his gaze downward.

It was supposed to be easy.

The path had seemed so clear, so ordained.

The Crown was to be condemned, its sins laid bare before the gods and men alike.

The temples would rise in righteous fury, a tide of faith crashing against the corrupt order.

The lords, ever eager to safeguard their own power, would take up arms, not for him, not for justice, but for their own survival.

And beyond the borders of the princedom, the enemies of the Crown would not hesitate to strike, seizing the moment to carve away at its flesh like carrion birds descending upon a wounded beast.

From there, all would have fallen into place.

With the old order shattered, he could have shaped something new, something pure.

A land not ruled by greed, nor ambition, nor the whims of men who called themselves noble.

A land where only the priests, the true servants of the divine, held dominion.

A land where faith was not just preached, but enforced, woven into the very bones of the state itself.

But the world had proven itself unwilling to yield to his vision.

The Crown had not been condemned.

The High Priest had balked at the decisive moment, leaving justice half-spoken, its weight dulled by hesitation.

The temples, though sympathetic, were forced into the shadows, whispering their support but unable to act openly.

The lords, these men who had once spoken of rebellion with bold tongues, now cowered before the specter of failure, fearful of what they would lose rather than emboldened by what they could gain.

And beyond their lands, the foreign princes who had once seemed eager for war now clamored impatiently, demanding action, urging them forward without care for the dangers they faced.

It was supposed to be easy.

Instead, it had become a tangled mess of hesitation, doubt, and divided wills.

And as he stood among these so-called rulers, feeling the weight of their cowardice pressing down on him, a bitter thought took root in his mind- If they will not move, then perhaps they do not deserve to decide at all.

Elyos let his gaze sweep across the gathered lords, his eyes heavy with something that was neither anger nor contempt, but something deeper-something resolved.

He exhaled slowly before speaking, his voice steady, almost regretful.

“I had hoped it would not come to this.” The lords quieted, shifting uneasily at the sudden weight in his tone.

“Truly,” Elyos continued, “I am disheartened by the hostility you bear toward me.

After all, I owe you a debt of gratitude.

Without you, I would never have been able to take the first step toward realizing my dream.” His expression was solemn, his hands spread ever so slightly as if in an open gesture of peace.

“And yet, here we stand.

You speak to me as though I were a leper, as though I had no place at this table.

As though my words-my presence-were an offense to you.

It is a shame, truly.

But more than that, it is disappointing.” The room was silent, the only sound the faint rustling of the wind against the tent.

He sighed, shaking his head, the weight of the moment settling onto his shoulders.

“But my greatest sorrow is this: If we cannot all agree to move forward together, then I fear I will have no choice but to pull you forward myself.” His words lingered in the air, heavy and sharp.

Gregor’s brow furrowed in confusion before twisting into something uglier-rage.

His fist slammed against the table as he stepped forward, his voice thundering with fury.

“And just how do you think you’ll do that, priest?” he spat, his tone laced with scorn.

“ You sit here and speak as if we are equals, but let me remind you-you are not.

So tell me, Elyos, what exactly do you think gives you the authority to threaten us?” Elyos met Gregor’s glare with an eerie calm.

He tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into the faintest hint of a knowing smile.

“I?” he mused, as if the answer were obvious.

“I have no power to do that.” He paused, letting the silence stretch before finishing, his voice smooth as silk but sharp as a dagger.

“But as it turns out… entering into negotiations with the enemies of the Crown is not a good look for a noble.” Niketas scoffed, his lips curling into a sneer as he crossed his arms.

His gaze was sharp as a blade, his voice edged with disdain.

“No one would believe you,” he said, his tone firm, resolute.

“A priest speaking of high politics?

Of negotiations and war?

You think the Crown would take the word of a cleric over that of its noble lords?” Elyos blinked, tilting his head as if genuinely confused.

Then, with an exaggerated air of realization, his expression brightened.

“Oh, my dear lord Niketas,” he said, his voice thick with irony, “what a terrible misunderstanding.

Did you truly think I would be the one to say anything?” His smirk widened ever so slightly, his tone turning mockingly gentle.

“No, no.

I wouldn’t dare accuse such honorable men of treason.” He let the words sink in before continuing, his voice smooth as silk.

“But they will.” Silence.

Elyos clasped his hands together, stepping forward with the slow, deliberate pace of a man who knew he was holding the dagger at someone’s throat.

“You see,” he continued, “Herculia and Oizen are both at war with Yarzat.

And what better way to weaken the Crown than by fanning the flames of rebellion here?

Now, imagine if your noble selves refuse to play your part.

Do you think they’ll simply accept your cowardice?” His eyes glinted in the dim light.

“Of course not.

They will force your hand.” The weight of his words settled over the lords like a thick fog.

“They will reveal your dealings.

Your talks.

Your promises.

And when the Crown learns that its own vassals have entertained treasonous discussions with its enemies-well, I don’t think I need to explain what comes next.” Elyos turned his gaze to Gregor, watching the storm of rage and unease flicker across his face.

“You were right about one thing, Lord Gregor,” Elyos said, his voice quiet but cutting.

“I have no power for such decision.” His eyes darkened, and his smirk faded into something colder.

“But neither do any of you.”