Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 487

Chapter 487: Branch of opportunities(3) Chapter 487: Branch of opportunities(3) All eyes turned toward Lord Lysandros, the man who had only moments ago been basking in the triumph of their long-awaited ally’s arrival.

But now, the weight of the envoy’s unfinished words hung over him like a sword suspended by a single thread.

Lysandros’ fingers curled into the wood of the table before him, his voice sharp and impatient.

“Apologies?

Apologies for what?

What could he possibly have done to me?

Speak clearly, boy.” Lorren swallowed.

His stance, once composed, now wavered.

He had prepared himself for this moment, but under the piercing gazes of the rebel lords, he found the words struggling to form.

He shifted where he stood, his fingers twitching slightly, before he finally forced himself to go on.

“When the news of Asetocende’s fall reached the prince…” Lorren hesitated, his gaze flickering downward for a brief moment before meeting theirs once more.

“Lord Damaris was in the command tent, alongside several other lords.

When the messenger delivered the news, the prince…” He paused again.

“Go on,” Lord Eurenis urged, his tone measured, but the flicker of unease in his expression betrayed him.

Lorren exhaled.

“The prince… went mad with anger.

He raged against the treachery of Oizen and that of his lords.

And then-” He stopped himself, as though saying the next words aloud would solidify them, would make them too real to ignore.

Lysandros’ patience snapped.

He slammed his fist against the table.

“Then what?” Lorren’s throat felt dry.

He pressed forward, his voice lower now, but each word struck like the blow of a hammer.

“In his fury, the prince ordered the army to march for Agripisio.” A sharp intake of breath rippled through the lords, but Lorren was not finished.

“He declared that your lands were home to traitors and criminals,” he continued, his voice heavy with the weight of the words he had been forced to carry.

“And as such, if he couldn’t take hold of you, he would with your families… declaring they were to hang until death claimed them.” The words fell like stones into the pit of Lysandros’ stomach.

His mouth parted slightly, but no words came.

Around him, the lords stiffened, their initial shock quickly morphing into something else-dread, disbelief, and for some, cold, simmering fury.

The men in the tent did not need to speak to know what was running through each other’s minds.

They all knew Alpheo-knew the man who raised Jasmine to the throne.

He was a butcher.

A man who had clawed his way to power not with diplomacy or lineage, but with blood and steel.

Every lord who had dared oppose him was now dust along with his family.  And if Alpheo had truly given the order to march on Agripisio, then there was no hope for clemency especially after they went hand in hand with foreign forces.

It was Lord Niketas who moved first, grasping hold of the situation before it could spiral into madness.

He straightened, his sharp eyes locking onto the young envoy.

“How do we know this isn’t a lie?” Niketas asked, his voice steady, cutting through the silence like a blade.

“A desperate attempt to shake us, to make us panic?

What proof do you bring, beyond mere words?” All eyes shifted toward Lysandros, the man at the heart of this storm.

But he said nothing.

His gaze, cold and piercing, remained fixed on Lorren, as if searching him for weakness, for any sign that his words were false.

Lorren, despite the scrutiny, did not shrink.

He had come prepared for this.

He inhaled deeply, then spoke.

“Lord Damaris feared that you would not believe my words,” he admitted.

“So he gave me proof-his herald’s ring.” A murmur rippled through the tent.

A herald’s ring was no minor trinket.

It was the seal of a lord’s word, the only thing that gave true credibility to letters bearing their name.

It was the mark of identity, of authority.

To give it away, even for a mission such as this, was an extreme measure.

Niketas studied him carefully before turning to one of the guards stationed at the entrance of the tent.

“Bring it to me.” Lorren reached into his tunic, producing a small velvet pouch.

He held it out, his fingers trembling ever so slightly.

The guard stepped forward, his armor clinking faintly as he took the pouch from Lorren’s hand and brought it to Niketas.

The lord took it with practiced ease, untying the string and letting the heavy ring slide into his palm.

He turned it over, inspecting the crest engraved upon it-the sigil of House Damaris, unmistakable in its design.

Silence stretched for a long moment.

Then Niketas raised his head, his gaze dark with certainty.

“He speaks the truth.” Hearing the statement Lysandros’ breaths came in sharp, ragged bursts, his chest rising and falling with the weight of barely contained fury.

His fingers curled into fists, knuckles whitening as his entire body trembled with the effort to keep himself from outright shaking.

“I will march,” he hissed, his voice low and seething with anger.

“I will take my men and ride south immediately.

I do not care if the rest of you follow or cower here like frightened dogs.” He turned as if to storm out of the tent, but before he could take a step, Niketas spoke, his voice firm.

“Lysandros, wait a moment.” The lord of Agripisio whirled around, his face twisted in fury.

“Wait?

Wait while that fucking lowborn bastard points his army at my family?

While my people are dragged from their homes and hanged like criminals?” He spat on the ground.

“Every second we waste here is a second they die.” Niketas, ever the strategist, remained calm.

His gaze slid back to Lorren, assessing.

“Tell me, sir.

Was this the only reason for your journey here?

Did Lord Damaris send you only to warn Lord Lysandros of his family’s peril?” Lorren hesitated, but only for a moment.

Then, straightening, he took a breath and continued.

“No.

There is more my lords.” The lords leaned in, their attention once again locked on him.

“After the prince’s fit of rage, after he gave the order to march on Agripisio, word quickly spread through the camp,” Lorren said.

“But that is not all-rumors of the Oizen army’s advance reached us at nearly the same time.

Aracina won’t last long against the full might of the Oizen’s army.

The capital itself may be in danger.” A quiet tension rippled through the tent.

“Lord Damaris believes that the only way to preserve the princedom is to make peace with you,” Lorren continued.

“To end this war quickly and unite against the true enemy.

But the prince-” his lips curled bitterly “-will never do that so long as he has an army behind him.” He looked around the room, his voice dropping, but his words carrying the weight of something far greater than a mere envoy’s plea.

“And so, my lords, I tell you this: there are many within the royal host-far more than just my father’s liege-who have begun to believe that if the prince will not make peace, then perhaps peace must be made for him.” A pause.

“There are those who would raise their men and defect to your side, if it meant bringing a swift end to this civil war and concentrate forces on the foreigners .Many of the lords marching under the prince’s banners do not take kindly to fighting for the sake of savages and heretics.” “They were sworn to the prince,” Lorren continued, “but they swore their oaths under the belief that they were defending the sanctity of our lands, not spilling their men’s blood in service of heretics who spit upon our traditions.” His voice grew sharper, eyes flicking between the assembled figures.

“They will not march to their deaths for a ruler who does not see the gods’ will as absolute.” A heavy silence followed as the young lord expressed the justification for their defections.

And then, finally, another voice spoke.

One that had, until now, remained quiet.

Elios.

The priest sat forward he had listened, observed, gauging the room as the conversation unfolded, but now-now was the time to act.

“You speak truth, young sir,” Elios said, his tone smooth as silk, yet carrying the weight of conviction.

“Even those who once stood beneath the prince’s banners must realize there is still time-still a chance-to fight on the righteous side.” His gaze swept over the gathered lords, his presence magnetic, commanding.

“The gods do not abandon their chosen,” he continued.

“Your arrival here, bearing this news, is no mere circumstance.

It is proof-proof that the divine favor our cause.” Elios pressed on, his voice steady, unwavering.

“But I cannot-will not-remain passive in the face of such blasphemy.” His eyes found Lord Lysandros, still burning with rage, his fingers clenched so tightly around his sword hilt that his knuckles had gone white.

“I cannot sit idly by, knowing that the innocent family of a man who took up his sword against those who protect heretics will be slaughtered like animals.” Elios rose to his feet, his robes flowing as he did so.

“I will march with you.” The words rang through the tent, settling like a hammer’s strike.

And with that, the tide shifted.

One by one, the hesitant lords gave their solemn nods, their gazes shifting from one another before finally settling on Lysandros.

It was clear now-if Agripisio fell, it would not end there.

Alpheo was not the kind of man to simply stop after crushing one so-called traitor.

If he was willing to march upon the lands of a high lord in a blind fury, what was to stop him from turning his wrath upon the rest of them?

If they stood by and did nothing, it was only a matter of time before their own homes were put to the torch, their banners trampled beneath the boots of the royal host.

So, one by one, they rose from their seats.

The rest, namely Niketas and Eurenis, had no choice but to follow.

The decision was made.

The march south would begin.