Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 473

Chapter 473: Drop of an hat Chapter 473: Drop of an hat Alpheo had seen the storm coming long before the first clouds darkened the horizon.

While lesser men relied on scouts, diplomats, or spies, he understood the oldest truth of war: an army moves on its stomach. Grain, steel, and flesh were the gears of conquest, and no veil of secrecy could fully hide their grinding.

So it had been laughably easy to trace the shape of his doom before the first blade was drawn.

The contact both in Oizen and Herculia had pointed out what he suspected: there had been a great effort into preparing grain and gears for a campaign.  The pattern unfolded before him like some tired play he’d sat through too many times.

Herculia would come from the west with their remnants of armies, all gleaming spears , arrogant nobility and a weakness that seeped from their very bones.

Oizen would be a harder challenge, they came out of two years of peace, their swords would swarm up from the south like locusts, burning everything too small to garrison while cheeping away at the border towns Alpheo had defended and even expanded from the war of two years ago.

And then there were the northern lords.

Those starving jackals would descend such war onto his domain with their swords, the catalyst of such a storm.

Alpheo would make sure they choked on their desperation.

But knowing the enemy was only the first move. The true art of war was fought in ledgers, in whispers, in the slow, methodical theft of every advantage before the first sword ever left its sheath.

His greatest victory had come without a single drop of blood spilled-the High Priest’s silence.

It had taken every ounce of persuasion and coin to sway the fat one , every carefully placed argument to cool the fires of holy wrath.

But in the end, reason and shiny coins had triumphed over zeal.

No condemnation meant no righteous war, no divine legitimacy .

No righteous war meant the temples stayed neutral-and without the gods’ favor, his enemies were just ambitious men with very poor judgment.

He had hoped-foolishly, perhaps-that this would be enough.

That the conspirators would see the scales tipping, that their pet priest would lose his nerve, that they might finally realize they were digging their own graves.

Yet they marched anyway.

Maybe they had other allies.

Maybe desperation had made them reckless.

Or maybe they were simply too stupid to understand what they were carelessly bringing to the table, for even if they won, they would thoroughly be hated by each noble house , as theirs was the horn that called the armies that would burn their fields to ashes.  Any last flicker of hope that war might still be avoided died the moment Alpheo laid eyes on the envoy striding through the grand doors of the throne hall.

The chamber fell into silence-thick, stifling, the kind that pressed against eardrums and stilled even the most restless of courtiers. They all knew. This was no ordinary audience.

This was the prelude to ruin.

At the far end of the hall, seated upon her throne, Princess Jasmine remained as poised as if carved from marble.

The silver laurel resting against her dark hair caught the torchlight, a delicate crown above the golden embroidery of her royal attire.

Her face revealed nothing-no tension, no fear, not even curiosity. A ruler’s mask, perfected.

Alpheo, standing beside her in his own high-backed throne, did not share her stillness.

His fingers tightened imperceptibly around the armrests, his gaze locked onto the approaching figure like a hawk sighting prey.

The envoy moved with measured steps, each footfall ringing against the polished marble in a deliberate rhythm.

He was a man past his prime, his face lined with the wear of years and the strain of countless sleepless nights bent over dispatches and ultimatums.

The shadows beneath his eyes spoke of a man who understood the precariousness of his position-as no one liked to be the envoy of a declaration of war.  In the south, harming an envoy was sacrilege.

In the north?

Merely a matter of patience.

Still the two were close enough for one to mistake one for the other.

Yet the man carried himself with the unshakable bearing of a man sent by House Niketas, one of the most powerful names among the opposition.  He reached the steps leading up to the thrones and halted, bowing deeply, the motion practiced and precise.

“Your Highness.” His voice was smooth, but beneath the polished tone lay something heavier-the weight of inevitability. “I come as an envoy of Lord Niketas, sent to deliver a petition to the noble Princess of Yarzat.” A petition.

The word alone nearly drew a derisive scoff from Alpheo.

They all knew what this was.

No lord sent a formal envoy with a mere petition unless the words written there were a final, veiled warning.

The last courteous gesture before the gates of war swung open and the troops marched in.

Jasmine did not respond immediately.

Her fingers rested lightly on the arms of her throne, her expression as unreadable as still water.

She let the silence stretch, let the weight of the moment settle over the hall like a suffocating cloak.

As for Alpheo , he was already measuring the matter of how to strike.

The envoy straightened with the slow precision of a duelist taking his mark, his chin lifting not in arrogance but with the grave certainty of a man bearing words that could set the princedom ablaze.  “I bear a petition,” he announced, the parchment trembling slightly in his grip – not from fear, but from the tension thrumming through his body.

The wax seal caught the torchlight, its crimson hue like a fresh wound against the vellum. “Signed by lords who serve justice before peace, and men of the cloth who would see heresy cleansed rather than coddled.

They beseech Your Grace, Princess of Yarzat, to excise the corruption poisoning your lands before it claims more pious souls.” His gaze swept across the assembled nobility like a scythe through wheat, lingering just long enough on certain faces to suggest their silent complicity. “This corruption,” he continued, his voice dropping into the register of a graveside eulogy, “showed its true nature when it struck down an anointed servant of the stars – not merely a murder, but a dagger plunged into the very heart of the faithful.” The envoy paused, allowing the weight of his accusation to settle over the assembly like a burial shroud.

When he spoke again, his tone softened into something almost pastoral, the cadence of a priest offering final rites. “Yet redemption’s door remains ajar.

These good men ask only for justice: that Your Grace withdraw protection from those who dwell in darkness.

Grant them one final chance to kneel before truth’s light.

As for those who spurn salvation…” His fingers whitened around the parchment. “They must be torn out root and stem, lest their venom spread beyond curing.” The ensuing silence was so absolute that the rustle of a courtier’s sleeve sounded like thunder.

Every eye in the chamber turned toward the throne, where shadows pooled like spilled ink around the princess’s feet.

Jasmine sat as motionless as the marble effigies lining the hall, her silver laurel glinting with each subtle breath.

When she spoke, her voice held the sound of a sword being drawn from its scabbard.

“The Ecclesiast High Priest has rendered his verdict.” Each word fell with the finality of a headsman’s axe. “The condemned stood convicted of arson, murder, and the destruction of Crown property.

His execution was lawful – his premature death at vigilante hands was not.” Her fingers flexed almost imperceptibly against the throne’s arms. “You decry murder while defending those who usurped the Crown’s justice.

This matter is settled , as it had been long before your arrival .” For the first time, the envoy’s composure flickered.

A muscle jumped in his jaw as he recalibrated, his cloak swirling about him like storm clouds as he shifted stance. “Then consider the greater malady,” he pressed, his voice regaining its steel. “Your leal vassals urges her grace to immediately consider that the savages she harbor-” “‘Urges’ me?” Jasmine interrupted, the slightest arch of her brow transforming the single word into a challenge that seemed to reverberate off the stone walls.

At her side, Alpheo felt the ghost of a smile tug at his lips despite himself.

As in the end, it appeared she was her father’s daughter in some parts.  ”I apologize, your grace , a slip of the tongue,” the envoy said with a small bow in apology.

Jasmine inclined her head ever so slightly, her expression never betraying more than measured politeness as she made no move to say whetever it was accepted or not.

“The Crown shall take this petition into account and carefully review it before rendering a decision,” she declared, her voice smooth, deliberate.

“As soon as a judgment is reached, you will be informed.” The envoy gave a slow nod, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes, perhapse relief at keeping the head on his shoulder, but instead, it was probably recognition of a game being played.

Yet, with the formalities upheld, he had no grounds to press further.

Alpheo, standing at her side, knew full well that the decision had already been made.

There was nothing to consider, no debate to be had.

But in war, time was as valuable as steel, and wasting it-dragging on negotiations, delaying responses, ensuring the enemy was left waiting-was the most viable tool they had to finish their final preparations.  And so, he watched in quiet approval as Jasmine played her part flawlessly, granting nothing, yielding nothing, and yet offering just enough to keep their enemies waiting for the fire that he would bring them.