Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 518

Chapter 518: Victory(2)
Alpheo stood motionless, his hands resting on the rough wooden edge of the table, staring down at the body laid before him. The candlelight flickered, its glow casting deep shadows along the chamber walls, making the dead seem as if he might yet stir. But there was no breath left in the prince, no ember of life. Only the hollowed-out remains of a man who had once been the most dangerous threat to his princedom .

Shemleik’s corpse was still fresh, his flesh yet to turn to the sickly gray of the long-dead. His features remained eerily untouched, his lips parted slightly, as if about to speak some final command that had never left his mouth.

His armor had been stripped from him, and he lay bare from the waist up, the remnants of his tunic torn away. Yet Alpheo’s eyes were drawn past the face—past the illusion of something human—and onto the jagged ruin where once there had been an arm.

The limb had been torn open above the elbow, the white of bone protruding grotesquely from the ragged, pulped flesh, glistening wet in the dim torchlight.

The tendons, half-severed, curled like broken strings, while the sinew hung loosely around the wound, betraying the violence with which it had been inflicted. It almost looked as though the bone itself was reaching—a mocking, unnatural greeting to the world, as if in its final moments, even his own body had sought to escape his fate.

Shit, can’t say I pity him, Alpheo thought as his gaze trailed along the corpse, lingering upon the deep, bruised stain covering the right side of Shemleik’s neck. The flesh was darkened, mottled in shades of purple and black, a clear sign of a concussion.

Of course the irony of it all did not escape Alpheo.

For years, Shemleik had coveted this city. Aracina. The only maritime city within the crown’s fiefdom. He had dreamt of standing at its gates, of seeing its walls break before him, of being the one to take its streets as his own. It had been the fire that burned within him, the ambition that had driven his every move. And now? Now he lay upon its slabs, his blood seeping into its very stones, his corpse a gift to the city he had sought to claim,and most importantly a prize to the man that he hated most.

Alpheo let out a slow breath, his fingers tapping idly against the wooden table. This was the first time he had ever seen the prince of Oizen in the flesh, and the first time he did—he was already dead.

There was a poetic justice in that.

Alpheo reached out, his fingers hovering above the ruined arm. He did not touch it. There was no need. The wound spoke plainly enough of the prince’s final moments—the crushing weight of his own mount, the scream of bone giving way, the desperate, clawing struggle against the earth that had risen up to claim him.

How like a prince, Alpheo mused, to reach for glory and find only the dirt.

He straightened, folding his arms across his chest. The candlelight danced across Shamleik’s face, casting shifting shadows that almost—almost—gave the illusion of life. But the prince was gone. His ambitions, his pride, his carefully laid plans—all reduced to this broken thing upon a table.

“Fitting,” Alpheo murmured, his voice low. “To spend your life coveting a city, only to feed its earth with your bones.”

Alpheo exhaled softly, his fingers drumming a slow, thoughtful rhythm against the wooden table.

“Tell me, Agalosios,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “doesn’t this strike you as… poetic?”

The healer, who had been standing rigidly by the doorway like a man awaiting sentencing, swallowed hard. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, his knuckles whitening before he finally lowered his head.

“Your grace, I…” His voice was rough, as though the words were being dragged from him. “I failed. The damage was too severe. By the time they brought him to me, he had already bled out. There was nothing—”

Alpheo waved a hand, cutting him off. “Peace, Agalosios. I don’t blame you for the inevitable. If I wanted to cast stones over this man’s death, I’d aim them elsewhere.”

As he spoke, his gaze slid deliberately from the healer to Egil, who stood near the far wall with his arms crossed. The usually sharp-tongued rider was uncharacteristically still, his jaw set tight, his fingers tapping restlessly against his biceps. There was no outright guilt in his expression—Egil was too proud for that—but there was a tension in him, the quiet understanding that he had, perhaps, overstepped.

A beat of silence passed before Egil sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Oh, come on, Alph,” he muttered, throwing up a hand. “Don’t give me that look. The man was riding in the middle of the formation like some green recruit trying to hide. What fault do I have if one of my javelins or that of my men hit him?”

Alpheo arched a brow, his smirk deepening. “Ah, so who’s fault is it?” He asked as he took hold of Shamleik’s broken arm to make it point at the cadeveur ”Is it his?”

Egil scowled. “I’m just saying—it wasn’t exactly a clear shot. The second I saw a cluster of unarmored nobles, I figured someone important was in there. And when you’re chasing down fleeing enemies, you don’t exactly stop to ask for names before you loose.”

Alpheo leaned back, folding his arms. “Let’s consider this rationally, Egil. The man was on a single horse, with a hundred and thirty kilometers of open country between him and the nearest ally. No food. No water. No army. And you decided that the only two options were to throw javelins immediately… or let him somehow outrun our cavalry?”

Egil’s eye twitched. “When you put it like that, it sounds stupid.”

“Because it was stupid.”

Egil groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Look, in the moment, I didn’t have time to sit there and weigh the political ramifications. The idiots had him tucked in the middle like a damned treasure. My job was to thin the herd so we could close in. How was I supposed to know that was the shot that would turn him into a corpse instead of a prisoner?”

Alpheo exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Next time, you could perhaps be a little bit patient and wait before pouncing; now our valuable hostage is in a butcher’s slab.”

Egil threw up his hands. “Fine! Next time I see a prince fleeing for his life, I’ll politely request he identify himself before putting a javelin through his horse. Happy?”

Alpheo’s lips quirked. “Ecstatic.”

A heavy silence settled over the tent, broken only by the faint crackle of torchlight. Egil shifted on his feet, his usual swagger dimmed. He exhaled through his nose, then finally lowered his head—just a fraction—in concession.

“Alright, fine,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe I should’ve… been more careful”

Alpheo studied him for a beat, then shrugged, his stern façade softening. “And perhaps I exaggerated. The man was trying to flee like a thief in the night. Hard to blame you for treating him like one.”

Egil glanced up, brow furrowed. “So… did I just hand you a steaming pile of trouble and shit , or what?”

Alpheo tilted his hand in a so-so gesture. “Prisoner would’ve been better. Alive, he could’ve been paraded, bargained with, maybe even broken to our side in time.” He paused, then reached out, gripping the dead prince’s jaw with idle curiosity, giving it a playful shake. “But dead? Dead still works. He’s a symbol now. A message.”

Egil snorted. “A message that says… don’t run from Egil?”

Alpheo smirked. “More like don’t play with us….” He released the prince’s face with a dismissive tap. “Let’s be honest—enemy or not, I’m not entirely heartbroken. The man rallied lords against me. Sent good men to their graves for his ambition. If anything, I’m just… mildly inconvenienced by his early departure.”

Egil chuckled, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “So what now?”

Alpheo gave a lazy wave. “It is what it is.” He clapped Egil on the shoulder. “Besides, you did bag me a few live ones. Nobles scream just as prettily as princes when you squeeze them for ransom.”

As he said that he turned smoothly on his heels, his cape swaying with the motion, and clapped a firm hand against Agalosios’ back. The physician barely budged under the gesture, though the exhaustion was plain in his face.

“You’re in for a nice bonus, my friend,” Alpheo said, his voice lighter now, almost teasing. “This must have been a tiring month.”

Agalosios let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “More than you think.”

Alpheo tilted his head slightly, studying the man’s worn features. He supposed it was true—Agalosios had been buried in the thankless, endless task of patching up the wounded, fighting off infections, and trying to keep the city’s defenders alive long enough to see the dawn. A grim, exhausting duty.

Alpheo smirked. “Then perhaps,” he said, “it’s time to visit our other guests.”

The captured lords and commanders of the Oizenian host were waiting. The thought of facing them—of seeing the realization in their eyes that their grand campaign had ended in utter ruin—filled him with an elation that he had not felt since the day he had made Arduronaven’s lord kneel before him in defeat.

He straightened his shoulders, already stepping forward, his voice casual as he added, “I imagine they’re dying to see us.”

Egil grinned, his usual bravado creeping back. “Am I forgiven then?”

“Don’t push it.”