Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 485

Chapter 485: Branch of opportunities(1) Chapter 485: Branch of opportunities(1) Lord Lysandros’ fist slammed against the wooden table, his face twisted in frustration.

“How much longer,” he growled, his voice thick with anger, “will I have to sit here and bear the knowledge that while we linger, our lands are plundered and put to the torch?

That our people are being butchered like cattle?

That our fields-our lifeblood-are being stolen by the very men we swore to defeat?” His eyes burned as he turned toward the others in the dimly lit tent, searching for someone to give him an answer that could dull the rage coiling in his chest.

“Aye,” Lord Gregor said, his arms crossed, his expression equally grim.

“How long before the promised aid arrives?

We were told we only needed to hold, that we would not stand alone.

But as the days stretch into weeks, all I see is our strength withering while the enemy grows bolder.” His gaze settled on the one man who had yet to speak-the priest.

Elios did not shift under their scrutiny.

If anything, he seemed almost amused, his lips curling into the ghost of a smile.

He folded his hands together, his rings gleaming under the flickering candlelight.

“If such knowledge weighs so heavily on your noble hearts,” he said smoothly, “then why not rid yourselves of it?

Move your soldiers forward.

Engage the enemy in the field.

Burn away your sorrows in battle instead of sitting here, sunbathing and whining like impatient children.” The two lords stiffened at his words, but Elios pressed on before they could interrupt.

“I have always advocated for action,” he reminded them, his voice now carrying a sharper edge.

“I have always said we should take the fight to the heretical prince, strike and be done with it .

And yet, I was refused.

Cautious minds,” he said, glancing toward the absent figures who had urged patience, “prevailed over righteous fury.

So tell me, my lords, why do your complaints fall upon me, when it is not I who keeps your swords sheathed?” Lord Eurenis exhaled, leaning forward with his hands spread in a placating gesture.

“Enough,” he said firmly, his voice cutting through the tense silence.

“This bickering will not mend burned fields or unmake what has been taken.

Lord Lysandros, Lord Gregor-your grievances are understood, and they are not without merit.

But I assure you, when this war is won, it is you who shall be remunerated most for the suffering you now endure.” He let his gaze sweep over them, his tone smooth but commanding.

“We have already sworn that once Alpheo is cast down, your lands will not be left in ruin.

We will aid you in rebuilding what was lost, and you will be the first among us to receive compensation for your sacrifice.” Lord Lysandros, though slightly appeased, shook his head, his jaw clenched with lingering frustration.

“I am not one to wail over my own losses,” he said.

“If it were only myself, I would bear the harm alone.

But my vassals…” His voice tightened as he spoke.

“They are the ones who suffer most.

They see their lands ravaged, their people scattered, and their liege standing idle while his enemies feast upon his labor.

And must I remind you all?” He leveled his gaze at them, voice firm.

“A good portion of the forces we have raised are not our own -they are men sworn by vassals.

If they lose faith in us, what happens to those forces?I am sure the low-prince south of us will be more than happy to accept them back in the flock” Lord Eurenis nodded, his expression unreadable, but his words were measured.

“Then reassure them,” he said simply.

“Tell them again what we have already sworn: that they will be repaid, that they will be restored.

There is no need for doubt.” He gestured broadly, his rings catching the candlelight.

“Have we not seen the silver the holy temples have gifted us for this righteous war?

Their loyalty must not waver now, when the struggle is not yet decided.” With that, his gaze slid toward Elios.

“That said, perhaps there is something else we should be discussing,” he said smoothly.

“You have spoken of patience , priest.

But tell us, when will the princes finally join this war?” Elios met his stare without hesitation, his expression calm but unreadable.

“I know as much as you,” he admitted.

“But rest assured, they will not tarry much longer.

In a matter of days, they will enter Yarzat’s borders-perhaps they already have.

But we have no knowledge of it.” He leaned back slightly, folding his arms.

“And do not forget, with the royal host lingering south of us, any messengers sent our way would not have an easy journey.

We may already have word from them, but that word might be lying in a ditch with an arrow in its ba-” Interrupting the priest from his answer was the sudden entrance of a man,a guard more exactly, who as he entered with his armor clinking faintly immediately dropped to one knee.

The interruption was abrupt, and all eyes turned toward him, a flicker of annoyance crossing the faces of the gathered lords.

“My lords,” the guard began quickly, bowing his head in apology, “forgive my intrusion, but this matter could not wait.” Lord Niketas, whose house colors were stitched into the man’s surcoat, straightened in his seat, his gaze sharpening.

The guard turned slightly, as if seeking his lord’s approval before continuing, and at Niketas’ slight nod, he did so.

“We have apprehended a man near the gates,” the guard said, his voice steady despite the many powerful eyes upon him.

“He claims to have come from the royal army’s camp.” The lords exchanged glances, their brows raising in mild interest.

A spy?

That was always a fine catch, but hardly something worth bursting into their council over.

Lord Gregor exhaled through his nose, waving a hand dismissively.

“If he is a spy, break his fingers, take out their teeth and peel the skin from his back, see if he sings anything useful,” he said, his voice thick with irritation.

“Then come back when you have something worth reporting.

We are busy.” The guard, still kneeling, did not rise.

Instead, he lowered his head further in deference.

“My lord,” he said carefully, “I apologize for interjecting, but the man is no spy.

He made no effort to hide.

In fact…” He hesitated a beat before continuing.

“He let himself be captured and apprehanded by our guards.” That caused a murmur to ripple through the tent.

A man willingly allowing himself to be seized?Was he a traitor?

The guard lifted his head slightly, his next words slow and deliberate.

“He claims to be a noble, my lords.” He let that hang for a moment before adding, “An envoy.” Silence.

The lords, once merely indifferent, now truly raised their brows, exchanging glances that held far more weight than before.

An envoy from the royal army?  Lord Niketas leaned forward slightly, his fingers drumming once against the armrest of his chair before he gave a sharp nod.

“Bring him inside,” he ordered, his voice steady but laced with intrigue.

The guard did not hesitate.

He bowed his head in acknowledgment, rose to his feet, and swiftly exited the tent.

Less than two minutes later, the flaps of the tent were thrown open again, and a young man was forced inside.

His steps were unsteady as the guards behind him giving a calm yet firm shove forward.

The gathered lords watched him in silence, their expressions unreadable, their eyes bearing down upon him like the weight of an anvil.

He was young-barely in his early twenties-with a cleanly shaven face and sharp but unweathered features.

He carried himself with an attempt at nobility, his back stiff and shoulders squared, as though he wished to meet their gaze with confidence.

But despite his efforts, the reality of where he stood had clearly sunk in.

His breath was steady, yet too controlled, forced into an even rhythm to mask the unease creeping through his body.

His gaze flickered ever so slightly from one lord to the next, unable to settle, unable to hold firm beneath the combined weight of their scrutiny.

He was trying to remain composed.

Trying to be a man worthy of the title of envoy.

But the slight stiffness in his stance, the way his fingers twitched at his side, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed-all betrayed him.

He was daunted.

The young man took a breath, as if steadying himself, before bowing slightly-just enough to show respect, but not enough to grovel.

When he straightened, his voice was measured, though there was a faint edge of uncertainty beneath his carefully crafted words.

“I am Sir Lorren Derathio,” he announced, his tone carrying an air of practiced authority, though it wavered slightly under the heavy gaze of the gathered lords.

“Fourth son of Lord Vrasio of House Derathio.” Silence settled in the tent for a moment.

He squared his shoulders, as if trying to ward off the creeping feeling that he was prey standing before a circle of predators.

“My lords….I am a noble,and yet I find myself treated as a commoner with no reason to be owed such a thing,” he continued, his voice firming with each word, as if reminding himself of his own status.

” I demand the treatment given to a guest asking for home , given the horrible hospitality that has been shown to me since my arrival.” With that, he lifted his bound hands, shaking them slightly for emphasis, presenting them to the entirety of the tent.