Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 477

Chapter 477: War planning Chapter 477: War planning Inside the dimly lit war tent, the air was thick with unease.

The gathered lords sat around a heavy wooden table, their faces lined with tension, their hands either clenched into fists or drumming anxiously against their scabbards.

None of them had ever imagined that their actions would bring them here-that what had begun as political maneuvering, backroom dealings, and whispered grievances would spiral into full-fledged civil war.

But it had.

And now, they had no choice but to see it through.

At the far end of the tent, standing with an unsettling calmness, was the priest.

The very man whose presence had ignited the flames of conflict.

Draped in simple but pristine robes, his expression was composed, his hands clasped together in what might have seemed like reverence to an outsider.

But the men around the table knew better.

He was not here to pray-he was here to ensure that the war he had helped start would reach its inevitable conclusion.

The lords glared at him, resentment clear in their eyes.

He had been the match that set off the fire, the whispering voice that turned discontent into outright defiance.

And yet, he stood among them without a single sign of guilt.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, until Niketas, seated at the center of the table, exhaled sharply.

He ran a hand through his dark hair, eyes narrowing as he realized that this stalemate was getting them nowhere.

“It seems,” Niketas finally said, his tone clipped, “that you have been in many discussions with foreign envoys.

Much of it to our back.

A faint, unreadable smile touched Elyos’ lips, but he said nothing.

Across the table, one of the lords shifted, exhaling sharply through his nose.

The silence stretched long enough that Niketas had to fight down his irritation.

His fingers tapped once against the table before he spoke again.

“Did they give you a date?” His voice was measured, but his eyes were sharp as he studied Elyos.

“A date for when they will march against the prince with their armies?” None of them had been so foolish as to believe this war would be easy.

But standing in open defiance against the war prince?

That was suicide if they were to move alone They were not naïve men.

They had spent years maneuvering, scheming, and playing the great game of power, yet none of them could claim the sheer experience that Alpheo had in matters of war.

While they had spent their years hosting feasts and settling disputes over land and titles, he had been wading through battlefields, turning wars into his trade.

In two years, he had seen more battles than most lords would in generations.

And now they had made themselves his enemies.

It was no wonder that a heavy, suffocating unease hung over the war council.

Elyos, of course, remained unbothered, as he did not have the same knowledge about the prince as his allies had.

His serene gaze moved between them as if he were above such mortal concerns, untouched by the fear gnawing at the lords’ minds.

He stood with his hands clasped in front of him, ever the picture of patience.

“The Prince of Herculia has given his word that he will march in three weeks,” Elyos finally said, his voice smooth and unhurried.

“The Prince of Oizen, two.” For a brief, collective moment, the tension in the room was released.

It wasn’t much-only a few breaths let out, only a few shoulders no longer quite so tight-but it was something.

At least they wouldn’t be left alone to face the full might of the royal army for too long.

The fear would remain, of course.

None of them were foolish enough to underestimate the boy.

But for now, they had been given a flicker of reassurance, however small it might be.

The lords knew what needed to be done.

Their hands had been forced, and now, with no turning back, all that remained was to plan their strategy for the coming month.

The weight of that reality settled over them like an iron shroud.

It was Lysandros who finally broke the silence “I believe we all understand how much of a blunder it would be to meet the Mud Prince in battle.” He paused, letting his words sink in.

“We have no reason to give it to him.

The longer this war drags on, the better it is for us.

The more time passes, the deeper the crown’s strain will become.” Niketas nodded, his expression grim.

“If we were to suffer a major loss now, even with the two princes marching south, we would have already lost most of our leverage.

The war would not be over, but we would be nothing more than a nuisance rather than a true threat.What we should do is instead evade battle and retreat whenever he advances, he will be forced to move either south or east, at which point we will spring and march south straight toward the capital after, of course, burning the savages lands and homes, which will inevitably create a crack between the crown and them ” No one needed convincing, as it was a sound plan: retreat if the crown moved to them and advance once it did not.  They all remembered, after all the achievements of their opponent.

Above all, the Battle of the Bleeding Plains.

It had been a massacre, nothing short of that.

Alpheo had taken to the field with an army barely half the size of the force he faced, and yet by the time the sun had set, the prince of Herculia’s forces had been shattered.

It wasn’t just a defeat-it was utter destruction.

His army had been crushed, and the war prince had taken vast swaths of Herculia’s land as spoils.

The memory of that battle haunted many of them.

Not because they had fought in it,as they had not but because it had been the perfect demonstration of why facing Alpheo in open battle was a fool’s gamble.

That was the kind of enemy they faced now.

And so, the unspoken agreement in the tent was clear.

They would not give him the fight he wanted.

They would play for time, bleed him out, and let the war grind the crown down until the burden became too much to bear.

It was their best-perhaps only-chance at survival.

The lords had no delusions of grandeur, after all.

Conquering the capital was never their aim, nor did they have the strength for such a feat.

They had taken up arms not to seize the throne but to force the war prince to the negotiating table, to make him yield to their demands.

Chief among them was the disbandment of the White Army, the very force that had been the foundation of his relentless victories.

Without it, his strength would be crippled.

Then, there was the demand for the production secrets of cider and soap-wealth beyond measure, something that would shift power from the crown to the nobility.

And finally, of course, the banishment of the Voghondai, the excuse they had clung to when this revolt had begun.

Among the gathered nobles, there was a silent understanding.

They would not throw themselves into a reckless war.

The battlefield was the boy’s domain.

The negotiating table-that was where they would force him to break.

All agreed.

All except for one.

Elyos.

The priest scoffed, shaking his head with a quiet, disapproving chuckle.

“Cowards, the lot of you,” he muttered, before his voice rose in strength and conviction.

“Tell me, why do you need such concessions?

The silver flowing from the temples will be enough to hire the strongest mercenaries in the land!

And with the blessing of the gods, we shall prevail over this faithless man.

He is weak, for he stands against the will of the divine!” A tense silence settled over the tent.

Gregor’s fingers twitched near the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white as he clenched his fist.

He could barely restrain himself.

His whole being itched to strike the man down where he stood, but he forced himself to breathe, forced himself to wait.

Instead, he fixed Elyos with a glare as sharp as a drawn blade.

“You are the reason this war even started,” Gregor growled.

His voice was low, simmering with restrained fury.

“And the greatest achievement to your name is hunting down some famished bandits who barely had the strength to lift a blade.” Elyos stiffened, but Gregor did not relent.

“You speak as if you know what the prince consort is capable of,” Gregor continued.

“As if you understand war.

But you do not.

And you will not throw your opinion on matters you have no knowledge of.” Elyos opened his mouth to argue, but Gregor was done humoring him.

“If you wish to march, then march.

March alone and perish alone.

But do not expect us to throw everything away-to gamble every ounce of leverage we have-because some priest, who should be praying, thinks himself a commander.

After we receive news of your death, we will carry on with our plan.

And when the crown finally comes begging for peace, we will advance our interests” Elyos bristled.

“The Princes of Oizen and-” “-Will not give a damn about a priest’s death,” Gregor interrupted coldly.

“So long as we remain, so long as the rebellion persists as a thorn in the crown’s side, they will march.

You should know this.

They don’t give a shit about your holy war.

They care only for one thing-defeating the man who stands in their way.

You should know this the most among us , given that they tried to use you to force our hands…” For once, Elyos had no response.

He could not march alone, and he knew it.  He would not only lose the war-he would lose the only thing keeping the other lords from turning on him.

For all his righteous fury, he was not indispensable.

The moment his grand ambitions collapsed into dust, the noblemen around this table would strip him of everything.

The temples’ silver, his influence, his lands-he would be picked apart like a carcass surrounded by starving wolves.

For the first time that night, the gathered lords allowed themselves to breathe.

They had won against the eunuch.

Not a battle of swords, but one of wills-a victory, however small, over the ever-grating arrogance of the priest.