Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 541

Chapter 541: Accepting the city in the fold
Beneath a pale morning sun and a sky smeared with the soft haze of fading dawn, a modest force stood gathered outside the walls of Arduronaven. A few hundred strong—and a few dozen cavalry, their polished helms catching glints of gold, like fireflies blinking in a sea of iron. Above them, fluttering proud and alone, the banner of House Xanthios snapped in the wind pointing ever forward, unyielding.

At the head of the column, Lord Xanthios himself sat astride his horse, its mane black as midnight rain. He was a man of calm dignity, etched in sun and scar, whose eyes now rose to the high towers of the city before him.

He searched for the flags of allegiance—one of the turncloak lord’s son, or even better, the falcon sigil of the crown’s house. Yet none flew. The battlements were bare, as if the city itself held its breath, uncertain of its own heart.

The silence from the ramparts wasn’t hostile—no arrows loosed, no war horns braying. It was simply… waiting.

This small host had come not with fire and sword,as for that their numbers were few. Their purpose was not conquest, but reclamation.

Arduronaven, once lost to treachery and grief, was to be returned. They had come to accept surrender—or better yet, transfer, as after all a surrender would deem those inside the walls as enemies .

Yet Lord Xanthios could not help the coil of unease still curled within his chest. He had been reported helpless, that the house of the that turncloak’s banner flew once again on the city, with the Herculeian army now marching against his domain. And then, just as suddenly, the cloud scattered. Gone.

He had feared that the war would be long.

Instead, he received whispers of stunning victory—of Alpheo cutting through his enemies like a blade through snow, and of sieges lifted not by force but by fear. And he, Lord Xanthios, had not even lifted his sword for his prince. The shame of that curdled like old wine in his gut.

But now he had his chance.

Florium awaited him, free once more. The rebels who had dared lay siege to it had turned tail and vanished, like thieves before the light., much like for the Herculean.

And it was there, amid its blood-washed stones and broken gates, that he would finally join Alpheo and march beneath his banner.

Strangely, as Lord Xanthios gazed upon the quiet silhouette of Arduronaven, a wave of nostalgia crept upon him—soft and uninvited.

This had once been the cradle of his oldest rival.

And yet… it was here that his most satisfying memory had bloomed like a flower in ash. He could still see it clearly: the breach, smoke curling through the gates, soldiers flooding in like a tide of retribution, and at the heart of it, the traitor lord dragged through the rubble-strewn streets.

Oh, the joy of that moment. The traitor had walked—no, staggered—to the chopping block with the weight of his sins pressing down on his shoulders like a yoke of stone. And there, before the cries of a city watching its shame come undone, Lord Xanthios had taken up the sword himself. One stroke. One roar of steel through flesh. His brother’s ghost, at last, avenged.

And none of it—none—would have been possible without the prince

He allowed himself a rare smile, worn and slow, but true. To serve under a man like that… it was a gift long denied. Alpheo did not wait. He did not wheedle and warble like Jasmine’s father had for fifteen long, wasted years. That bald, one-eared coward—more mouth than monarch—had spent over a decade delivering nothing but promises and pomp, dressing impotence in eloquence.

But Alpheo? Alpheo had done more in a single year than that dolt had in his entire reign. And not with empty speeches, but with steel, cunning, and fire.

The dream was sweet, almost enough to dull the ache of old regrets. Almost.

And then the reverie cracked.

With a groan of ancient hinges and the thunderous clunk of drawn bolts, the gates of Arduronaven began to open.

Xanthios straightened in the saddle, the wind tugging at his cloak. There was no alarm in his chest, no frantic call for formation. His heart did not quicken with fear of a sortie—no, for he had received the prince’s message.

This city was no longer his enemy. It had bent the knee, pledged itself once more to the crown. The gates were not opening for blood, but for return.

Out from the yawning gates of Arduronaven came a lone rider, a solitary figure drifting across the quiet plain like a brushstroke of gold against the canvas of a waking dawn.

The small army tensed only for a moment—spears lowered ever so slightly, shields flexed in silent readiness—but Lord Xanthios raised a hand, stilling them. This wasn’t a sortie. There was no thunder of hooves, no clatter of iron fury. Only one man, alone, and unhurried.

He was young—perhaps in his twenties—with a lean frame and a calm, measured gait. His armor was modest, more practical than proud: chainmail kissed with dust, a simple breastplate dulled by honest use. But what struck Xanthios most was the youth’s hair—blonde and curled, cascading across his forehead like tangled sunbeams, as if the lad had come from a painter’s dream rather than a war-scarred city.

The young man rode at a dignified pace, his mount slow and sure beneath him. When he reached an appropriate distance from the gathered force, he dismounted with a practiced grace and bowed low from the waist—precise, but not obsequious.

“My lord,” the man spoke clearly, his voice carrying through the still air, “I am Lucius, servant of His Grace, Alpheo of House Veloni-Isha.”

A few murmurs rippled through the assembled soldiers at the name, but Xanthios showed no surprise. He merely narrowed his eyes, studying the boy a moment longer before nodding once, stern and proud.

“I am Lord Xanthios of Bracum,” he answered, his voice rough like gravel underfoot, but ringing with purpose. “I have come to accept the surrender of this city and return it to the royal fold, where it belongs.”

Lucius smiled faintly—not with smugness, but with the quiet satisfaction of a plan fulfilled.

“As you can see, my lord,” he gestured subtly over his shoulder, where the great gates of Arduronaven stood open like arms awaiting an embrace, “the city welcomes its rightful shield once more.It is ready to be reincorporated under His Grace’s protection.”

Lord Xanthios turned his eyes once more to the young man.

“You are the one,” he said, “the man His Grace mentioned in his letter. The one who would deliver the city into royal hands.”

Lucius, standing tall despite his youth, gave a single, respectful nod. “I am, my lord. The task was entrusted to me—and now fulfilled.”

Xanthios grunted in approval, his eyes flicking toward the open gate, then back to Lucius. “Then follow me. Let us see what you’ve brought back into the fold.”

Without another word, he turned his steed toward the city, and Lucius fell into step beside him, calm as a man walking into his own home. Behind them, the small army surged forward, steel flashing in the morning light as they passed through the gates of Arduronaven, boots thudding on cobblestone like a drumbeat of conquest.

There was no resistance.

Men once posted upon the walls—guards, militia, and a handful of tired mercenaries—stepped aside without protest. They left their posts with quiet nods or vacant stares, not a sword drawn, not a word spoken. It was not surrender. It was transition.

Within minutes, Xanthios’ men held the gates, manned the towers, and patrolled the curtain wall as if they’d always belonged there.

As they moved through the gatehouse, Xanthios leaned toward Lucius and said, “His Grace has given me full authority over you until we are reunited with him.”

Lucius, without hesitation, bowed his head slightly. “Then use me as you wish, my lord. My sword and service are yours until His Grace commands otherwise.”

“Mm.” Xanthios stroked his beard, eyes narrowing. “What happened here, truly? I know Arduronaven—stubborn walls, deep store. It should not have fallen so swiftly, not without fire or blood. Yet as soon as the enemy came the city had its gate opened to them.”

Lucius gave a slight smirk, though it did not reach his eyes. “Because the knight who held it forgot his duty. He traded his post, his men, his honor—for a title promised by unworthy mouths. A lordship bought with betrayal.”

“And now?” Xanthios asked, voice cold as frost.

Lucius turned his gaze ahead, toward the inner keep, where silence still hung like a shroud. “Now, he will lord over nothing. Unless the worms that shall chew through his coffin will grant him homage.”

A low chuckle rumbled in Xanthios’ throat, though there was no joy in it—only a grim, bitter amusement.

“Perhaps it is this place itself,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Something in its stone… seems to breed treachery.”

Lucius said nothing. But the faintest smile touched his lips again, vanishing almost as soon as it appeared.

As they passed beneath the arch of the inner gate, the sun casting long spears of golden light through the dust-laced air, Lord Xanthios turned his eyes again to Lucius. His tone now bore the weight of unfinished business.

“And what of the turncloak’s spawn?” he asked, voice cutting through the quiet like a drawn blade. “The boy they left behind to guard this place with borrowed titles and a traitor’s name?”

Lucius’s expression shifted. The faint glimmer of dry wit that often played on his face drained away like color from a dying flame. “He died,” Lucius said plainly. “In battle. During the assault on the keep. He chose the sword over surrender.”

Xanthios studied him, a pause lingering like a held breath. Then, with a scoff and a tilt of his head, he muttered, “So the son managed what the father never could—dying with some sliver of honor. Pity it was wasted on a house so utterly devoid of anything worth remembering.”

The words hung there, heavy and unapologetic, like the toll of a bell marking the end of a cursed lineage.

Lucius nodded once, as if to accept the judgment, then glanced around at the settling city—now his no more than it was the dead knight’s. “May I ask, my lord,” he said, “what are we to do now?”

Xanthios grinned beneath his salt-and-pepper beard, his voice suddenly laced with satisfaction. “I imagine His Grace will know what to do with what you’ve achieved here. A city taken from within—without a proper siege, and with barely a drop of our own blood spent? He’ll have plenty to say, I’m sure. And you’ll hear it from his own lips soon enough.”

Lucius’s eyes flicked upward, a rare flash of surprise breaking through his otherwise measured demeanor. “We are to meet him?” he asked, as if needing the words confirmed by a second breath.

Xanthios nodded firmly, eyes already scanning the city square as if plotting the next step before it had even begun. “Aye. Once the city is secured and made to remember who its true lord is, we ride for Florium. That’s where His Grace awaits us. And there—”

He paused for effect, letting the moment stretch.

“—we’ll put an end to this war once and for all, as the final battle is soon to come.”