Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 524

Chapter 524: Celebrations(1)
Night draped itself over Aracina like a velvet mantle, but for the first time in weeks, it was not the harbinger of fear. No, this night was not one of restless watchmen gripping spears atop the walls, nor of anxious whispers behind barred doors. This night, the city roared with life.

The streets, which had once been eerily quiet under curfew, were now rivers of laughter and music, flowing from every tavern, every square, every open window. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and wine, a fragrance far sweeter now that it did not carry the tang of smoke and blood.

Fires blazed in great iron braziers, their golden tongues licking at the dark, banishing the shadows that had haunted the city for too long. Beneath their flickering light, men and women danced—some to the frantic rhythm of drums, others locked in slow, swaying embraces, drinking in the relief of survival.

At the heart of it all, the soldiers of the Royal Host walked among the people like giants of old, their armor gleaming, their spirits soaring. Children clung to their hands, gazing up at them with wide, awestruck eyes. Women and men alike pressed cups of ale and plates piled high into their hands, eager to feed the warriors who had held the line, who had stood between them and the ruin that had loomed just beyond the gates.

And the soldiers, hardened by war, could not help but swell with pride. To fight and win was one thing—but to return victorious and be hailed as heroes? That was a glory few men ever tasted, and tonight, they drank deep of it.

A grand feast stretched through the city, tables laid end to end in the great squares, draped in linen, piled high with the bounty of both survival and conquest. The food came from the city’s own stores, yes—but much of it had once belonged to the Oizenian army, now repurposed to celebrate their failure. The enemy had marched with enough provisions to feed a siege; now, it fed the very people they had sought to starve.

Wine flowed like rivers, laughter rang like bells, and the people of Aracina did what those who survive calamity do best: they lived.

Of course the commoners weren’t the only ones celebrating, as within the grand halls of Aracina’s administrative mansion, where once quills scratched against parchment in endless toil, now resounded the clamor of feasting nobles.

Goblets brimmed with coder, light and rich as spilled blood, passed from hand to hand in endless toasts. Platters of roasted game, venison glazed in honey, and spiced fowl filled the tables, the scent of the feast mingling with the music.

Laughter rang out, loud and unrestrained, as tales of the battle were retold—some truthfully, others embellished for greater effect.

Seated among them, conspicuous by their silence, were the defeated lords of Oizen. Their presence was both a spectacle and a statement. Custom dictated that noble prisoners of war be granted a seat at their captor’s table, sharing in the feast—though the meal often tasted bitter in their mouths. But beyond custom, their attendance served another purpose: they were trophies on display, to show everybody Alpheo’s triumph.

They dined upon the same rich food as their conquerors, their goblets were filled from the same pitchers, yet none could mistake their position. Their armor had been stripped, their fine garments now bore the creases of a campaign gone sour, and their gazes flickered between defiance and quiet resignation. They were not bound in chains, but the weight of their failure shackled them all the same.

Some bore the humiliation with dignity, stiff-backed and silent, swallowing both their food and their wounded pride.

. A few, the younger and more reckless, scowled openly, fingers tightening around the stems of their goblets as if they wished they were hilts instead, though their bandages and wounds would prevent from doing anything even if armed .

Alpheo sat at the head of it all, his expression unreadable as he idly swirled his drink. He made no great speeches, no loud proclamations—there was no need. The very sight of his enemies seated at his table was victory enough.

The nobles of Aracina, lords and knights who had thrown their lot in with Alpheo, basked in their success.

To the victors went the spoils. And tonight, the spoils were sweet indeed.

Despite the roaring celebration that seemed to shake the very foundations of the city, Alpheo found himself less pleased than he should have been.

The entire night was, in many ways, a tribute to him. His name was on every tongue, toasted in every cup, and sung in the streets by the joyous masses. The people of Aracina, who had once trembled at the thought of their walls crumbling beneath the Oizenian onslaught, now hailed him as their savior.

More than that, they praised him for keeping a promise—one that Asag had made in his name, but that Alpheo had honored all the same. Every soldier who had bled for the city would receive their due, a sum of 25 silverii each. A fortune to a common man.

The payment would be issued monthy for five months , enough time for the war chest to recover, though for now, the knowledge alone was enough to send the city into revelry.

And yet, as wine flowed and feasts were laid out, Alpheo could not bring himself to revel in the same carefree indulgence.

Victory had come at a price—one that was not counted only in blood, but in silver. Though the spoils of war were vast, he had been made to part with nearly 48% of it, a fact that soured his mood more than he cared to admit. By all rights, the crown was typically entitled to only 30% of the plunder, with another 20% set aside for the troops, and the remaining wealth divided among the noble lords and commanders who had taken part in the battle. Had tradition been followed, the nobles would have walked away with 50% of the loot,of course dividing it between themselves .

But Alpheo was not a man who followed tradition blindly.

Of the 2,300-strong army that had fought beneath his banner, 1,450 men belonged to his standing forces alone.

Another 300 had been left in Florium to hold the line against the rebels. He, and he alone, bore the weight of feeding and paying more than half the entire force. I

t was a reality that no amount of noble grumbling could ignore. And so, when the time came to divide the spoils, not a single lord could argue against his claim to the lion’s share. His 52% was set in stone, and no amount of protest could change it.

Of course, the nobles thought it was a slight—an insult, even. They believed he had been too greedy, that he had denied them their rightful share. But in the end, what they thought hardly mattered. The fact remained that the loot had been split exactly as he willed it, and that alone was enough to show who had truly won.

With nothing much to do Alpheo’s gaze drifted lazily across the banquet hall, scanning the clusters of nobles engaged in feasting and conversation. His eyes caught Asag, seated a few places down, speaking with Lord Damaris—a man Alpheo found to be, if not entirely reliable, at least an acceptable ally.

Damaris was no fool, nor was he a man prone to reckless ambition.

Asag’s conversation with him was a welcome sight; if nothing else, it meant that at least his fellows were being slowly accepting by the higher society

But Alpheo’s attention did not linger long there.

Instead, his gaze slid to the man seated beside him, a figure whose very presence at this table had turned heads and drawn whispers.

Lord Robert.

A man who had turned cloak when the rebellion started.

A man who had abandoned his oaths, seeking safety at the feet of what he had believed to be the winning side. A man whose hands, by all accounts, should have been bound in chains, not idly resting on the table beside a goblet of wine.

The choice to seat him here—at the prince’s own table, no less—had confused many. As he was not known as a man of mercy.

Robert himself, however, was no fool. He knew well enough that his seat at this table was not a gesture of kindness, as he knew very well that the two did not have any goodwill between them .

Which meant only one thing , the prince wanted something from him.

He ate little, barely touching the grand feast laid out before him. He drank even less, as the less of little is nothing, while instead those around him drowned themselves in wine. His eyes remained cast downward, his posture stiff, as if he were a guest at his own funeral.

And perhaps, in some ways, he was.

Alpheo studied Robert with the same cold intensity a hunter might reserve for wounded prey.

He leaned back in his chair, rolling the silver rim of his own cup between his fingers, watching Robert the way a man watches a set of dice tumbling in his palm.

Lucky man, Alpheo thought.

Not for his past choices, certainly. Those had been disastrous. He had wagered on a lost cause.

A coward’s bet, and one that had nearly cost him everything.

No, Robert’s luck lay in something far simpler.

He still had some use.

If he hadn’t, if there was no purpose left in him beyond being an example, his corpse would already be rotting beneath the soil outside the city walls, he after all had no value as his land was few and was currently held by his son, who stayed loyal to the crown.

He was still worth something.

For now.