Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 526

Chapter 526: Celebrations(3)

Robert’s breath came fast and uneven, each inhale sharp as a dagger’s edge, his chest rising and falling like a trapped animal’s. His fingers clawed into the table’s edge, knuckles bleaching to bone-white, as if the solid oak could anchor him against the tide of dread rising in his throat.

Alpheo watched him.

Not just looked—studied. The way Robert’s pupils dilated, black swallowing blue. The sweat beading along his temple, tracing the same path it had two years ago, when he’d last knelt before him, begging for a mercy for someone that was not him.

The same trembling. The same silent pleading hidden behind forced composure.

If he’d done it once, he would do it again.

“My son—” Robert’s voice shattered like dry parchment, hoarse with the weight of a father’s terror. “He had no part in this. He was loyal. He did not condone my actions. He serves under your banner—his troops march at your command.”

Alpheo let the silence fester.

Then, with the lazy grace of a man who knew the axe would fall regardless he continued “I know,” he admitted, voice smooth as a whetstone dragging along steel. “But you also know, as well as I do… betrayal without pardon is answered with the execution of first and second-line relations.” He let the words sink in, each one a nail in a coffin. “Blood for blood. Lineage for lineage. That is the law.”

Robert swallowed, the muscles in his jaw twitching like a hanged man’s spasms.

Alpheo wasn’t finished.

“Do you think I care for the stain of blood?” he mused, swirling his wine again. “A prince died yesterday. Foreign nobles with him—men whose names whose ransoms would have fed my armies. And now?” He glanced at his palm, flexing his fingers as if still feeling the phantom warmth of their lifeblood. “My hands are already drenched. My name already cursed as a Noble Slayer. What’s one more name in the tally?”

Robert’s breath hitched—a wet, broken sound. His eyes widened, not with shock, but with the grotesque understanding of a man realizing he’s already dead.

Alpheo leaned back, the picture of ease, his throne cradling him like a lover.

“What is a small noble,” he mused, tapping a single finger against the table—a slow, metronomic beat, like a drum counting down to an execution, “compared to a prince?”

Robert’s fingers trembled. His gaze dropped, not in submission, but in defeat. He knew. They both did.

There was no morality here. No honor to appeal to. No last-minute reprieve whispered in the shadows.

Alpheo had always been a mercenary before a prince. And if there was one lesson mercenaries learned young, it was this:

Fear was currency. Ruthlessness, a language.

And history only remembered those who spoke both fluently.

Robert knew better than most.

Alpheo had written entire chapters in blood.

He let the silence stretch between them. He watched, rapt, as Robert’s mind raced through every terrible possibility each more horrifying than the last. The flicker of his eyelids, the minute twitch of his fingers—Alpheo read them all like a scholar parsing scripture.

“So tell me, Lord Robert…” A pause, just long enough to make Robert’s breath hitch. “Shall we speak as old acquaintances?” The words curled in the air, warm as a lover’s whisper, cold as a blade pressed to the ribs. “Or as enemies?”

Robert’s throat worked around a hard swallow. His gaze flickered again to his son—still trapped in that gilded cage of laughter, smiling emptily at some noble’s joke, his eyes hollow.

“As acquaintances,” he rasped, the words raw, scraped from the depths of his pride. “I beg you.”

“But we are not that anymore, are we?”

Robert closed his eyes—just for a heartbeat, just long enough to betray his despair. When they opened again, the fight had drained from them. “What is it that you want from me?”

Alpheo chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering over stone. He reached out, his hand settling on Robert’s shoulder—a mockery of camaraderie, a parody of comfort. To an outsider, it might have looked like an old friend offering solace.

To Robert, it felt like the first twist of the knife.

“Now we understand each other.” Alpheo’s grip was light, but it carried the weight of a manacle. “What I want is simple, Robert. The same thing I asked of you two years ago. The same thing that is expected of a vassal.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a murmur, as if sharing a secret between confidants. “A simple act of submission. Of… service.You were so loyal to Arkawatt, can’t you be the same to me?Am I not worthy of more loyalty?”

Robert tensed beneath his touch, every muscle locked in silent rebellion. But he didn’t pull away. His breathing was measured, controlled—but Alpheo could feel the tremor beneath his fingers, the way his body braced as if for a killing stroke.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” Alpheo continued, his tone light, almost conversational, as if discussing the weather. “I don’t need you. My victory is already assured.”

A pause. Then, a laugh—soft, amused, utterly devoid of mercy.

“But I like you, Robert.”

A lie.

Like was too generous a word.

What Alpheo enjoyed was the slow unraveling of a proud man. The way Robert’s jaw clenched, the way his breath came just a fraction too quick. The way he had to force himself to stand there, to endure the humiliation, to kneel without kneeling.

That was the truth of it.

Still, Alpheo sighed, tilting his head as if genuinely troubled. “It would pain me to see you die like this,” he admitted, his voice laced with false regret. “So I am extending this… small branch. This one, singular, final chance.”

Robert stared at him, his eyes dull with exhaustion, sharp with calculation. There was no victory here. No honorable escape. Only survival—and the cost of it.

“And what,” Robert asked, his voice a whisper, a plea, a surrender, “would you have me do?”

Alpheo patted his shoulder, his grin widening into something terrible and delighted.

“Oh, I’ll find something for you.” His thumb brushed the tense line of Robert’s shoulder, a mockery of reassurance. “After all you need to do something to earn that pardon.”

Alpheo rose from his seat with the same unhurried grace he had when he had first approached, as if the entire exchange had been nothing more than idle conversation over a casual dinner. At once, Sir Edric, who had been sitting on his seat, immediately straightened and stepped aside, vacating the prince’s seat without hesitation.

Alpheo turned back to Robert, his smile returning—light, easy, entirely at odds with the blade he had just pressed against the man’s throat in the guise of words. “Please, Lord Robert,” he said smoothly, as if offering a kindness, “enjoy the feast. And do try to smile. You are, after all, once again on the winning side.”

Robert didn’t move, didn’t even lift his head.

Sir Edric bowed his head as Alpheo approached, stepping back to make way for his prince. With the same ease, Alpheo reclaimed his seat, sinking into it with the air of a man entirely at ease, as if he had not just threatened a man’s family with the same casual grace one might discuss the weather.

The moment he settled, he felt eyes on him.

Jarza, seated comfortably on his right , was watching him with the sharp gaze of a man who missed little.

His lips curled slightly in amusement

“Quite the talk you had,” he mused,

Alpheo smiled, lifting his own cup to his lips. “Just straightening out some matters with an old friend.”

Jarza hummed in response, his eyes drifting past Alpheo, toward the man in question.

Robert was still seated where Alpheo had left him, but now, his head was down, his gaze locked on his plate, as if the food before him had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the room. His shoulders had slumped just slightly, the weight of unspoken defeat pressing down on them.

Jarza set his goblet down with deliberate care, the silver ringing softly against polished oak. He studied the fat on his venison, pushing a slice of carrot with one finger. “You’ve ruined supper,” he observed, voice flat. “The food gone cold.”

“Edric could have eaten in my absence,” he mused. ”I had quite the long talk”

“Don’t.” Jarza’s knuckles whitened around his knife. “The lad was sweating through his doublet the whole time. Every lord at this table was measuring him the moment you walked away.” He finally looked up, eyes hard. “He’s a good one, you should be a bit more understanding sometimes.”

”That’s quite strange…I believe the opposite to be true”

“This isn’t about Edric.” His thumb rubbed absently at a nick in the table’s edge. “You had your fun, didn’t you?”

Alpheo’s silence was answer enough.

Jarza barked a laugh, though there was no humor in it, and drained his cup in one long swallow.

“Do you know what they whisper about you in the barracks?”

Alpheo tilted his head slightly, pouring himself another drink. “I’d be disappointed if they weren’t whispering something.”

“They’re starting to believe you have a god’s blood in you.” Jarza’s gaze flicked toward Robert’s hunched form across the hall. “Though, if I recall correctly, it was the Protectors of Warriors who said—there’s no art in breaking what offers no resistance.”

Alpheo smirked, swirling the wine in his cup. “It seems victory has made them bold enough to voice such thoughts. Good to know they trust me so much. Warms my heart, really…”

Jarza met his prince’s gaze without flinching. The years had carved lines around his eyes, but his hand remained steady as he watched Alpheo reach for the wine.

“A man sometimes needs reminding of which lines not to cross,” Alpheo mused, pouring slowly, the deep red liquid catching the firelight like molten gold as it filled Jarza’s cup. “Before he forgets why they were drawn in the first place and abuse them .” He set the bottle down, leaning back. “And tell me, is it really so wrong to take pleasure in the act?”