Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 547

Chapter 547: How to deal with a turtle? (1)
The sun had dipped just enough for the light to be golden, painting every polished edge and taut canvas of the camp in honey and fire. Around them, the life of an army unfurled in quiet, victorious rhythm: the clatter of dice, the low hum of a hundred songs half-sung.

Prince Alpheo and Lord Xanthios walked at a measured pace along the perimeter of the camp. It wasn’t ceremony. It wasn’t patrol. It was something older than either—two men sharing the aftertaste of vengeance, like old wine on the tongue.

Lord Xanthios’ eyes lingered on the soldiers—his soldiers, now resting, laughing, polishing blades. It had taken him years to crawl back from disgrace of faling to avenge his brother . And here they were now, his men returned to the field under the prince who had given him his sword again.

“I must say,” Alpheo murmured as he walked, hands clasped behind his back, “my heart longed to turn eastward first. To deliver Lechlian the due he’s so artfully earned and lend aid to you. But the Oizenians…” He let the name hang in the air like a bad smell. “They barked louder, bit deeper. And well, sometimes the snarling dog needs the boot before the schemer gets the blade.”

Xanthios gave a solemn nod, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You chose wisely, your grace and you will no rue in me for your choice. The Oizenians were always the sharper edge of the two. Lechlian’s pride is louder, but he never knew how to wield his weapon properly”

Xanthios let out a quiet breath, gaze still cast across the sea of tents. “And yet you cut off the serpent’s head. Just like that.”

Alpheo didn’t respond immediately. They passed a group of soldiers playing cards over a crate, and for a brief second, he watched one of them laugh. Then he looked to Xanthios.

“I’ll not deny,” he said, voice lower now, “I took no joy in marching past Herculia. My fingers itched to strangle Lechlian’s dreams where they grew. But he’ll get his share. First, I wanted to deal with the thorn buried deepest in our side.”

He stopped, his boot crunching softly against gravel as he turned to face Alpheo. “Your Grace… forgive the bluntness, but I must ask—what of the Oizenian prince? The son of Kaelith. Rumors say—”

Alpheo raised an eyebrow, his lips curling faintly, like the question amused him. “You mean Prince Shamleik?” He chuckled, voice like silk gliding across glass. “By now, he should already be resting beneath his home soil, courtesy of his newly crowned son. I suppose he should be quite happy for the promotion.”

Xanthios blinked. He stared at the prince like he was staring at a legend carved in flesh. “He’s dead?”

Alpheo tilted his head. “I simply opened the gate. And fate shoved him through it.”

Xanthios could do little but exhale—slow, reverent. His eyes swept across the camp again, suddenly realizing the full gravity of where he stood, beside whom he stood.

As the two men reached the heart of the camp, where the largest pavilions rose like sails above a sea of smaller tents, Alpheo gave a brief glance toward the richly adorned command tent just ahead. The royal crest flapped lazily in the warm breeze at the entrance, and a pair of guards stepped aside wordlessly at their approach.

“I was in the middle of a council when you arrived,” Alpheo remarked casually, as though discussing the weather. “My commanders are inside, waiting.I suppose it wasn’t due for them to wait

Lord Xanthios halted, his brow furrowing with contrition. “Your Grace, forgive me. I had no intention of disturbing such important matters—I should have waited for a more appropriate moment.”

Alpheo chuckled softly, lifting his hand with a gentle, dismissive swoop. “Nonsense. You’ve marched far, bled deeper than most, and returned with honor—and a gift besides,” he added with a dry grin, no doubt recalling Agolonthios. “If anything, your timing is impeccable. You’ll join us, of course.”

Xanthios bowed his head deeply, his voice warm. “Then I thank Your Grace for the honor. It is my highest privilege.”

“Come, then,” Alpheo said, his tone shifting into command with the ease of slipping on a glove. He turned toward the tent, his cloak trailing behind him like a streak of dusk, and Lord Xanthios followed without hesitation.

The canvas of the tent parted with a practiced flick of Alpheo’s hand. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wax, parchment, and steel—a war room born of dust and fire. A table stood at the center, strewn with maps, stones for markers, and a few scattered goblets of wine and cider. Around it stood only a handful of men, among them of course the commanders of the White Army alongside Lord Shahab and his son Jared.

Lord Xanthios entered with measured steps, the dirt of the road still clinging to his boots. His gaze swept the chamber and with a respectful incline of the head, he greeted, “My lords.”

Those inside turned and greeted him back with nods and murmurs of acknowledgment. It was Jarza who spoke first, the towering black-armored giant grinning wide, his voice like rolling thunder. “It’s been a while since we marched under the same banner, Lord Xanthios. I am quite relieved to see you here”

Xanthios gave a soft chuckle and a nod, his eyes flicking across the gathered company. Only a few men stood in the circle—trusted ones, sharp as blades. It was a small group. A private group. And that realization made the honor of standing among them all the greater.

But his gaze didn’t linger on the powerful or the pristine.After giving a respectful nod to Jarza , his eyes were drawn almost instantly to the battered form near the edge of the table—Asag.

The general stood with one arm in a sling, his side bound tightly in fresh bandages that peeked from beneath his coat. His helmet rested on the table beside him, revealing a face crisscrossed with new scars to add to the ones fire had already carved in his skin.

Asag noticed the stare and smiled, wry and crooked. “These,” he said, lifting his good arm slightly as if to show off his collection of wounds, “are the little gifts the Oizenians gave me—right before we returned the favor, wrapped in steel and screams.I suppose a dead Prince for a broken army is a just exchange for a ruined face…”

Xanthios gave a low, appreciative nod, though his eyes betrayed his slight awe.

Alpheo, leaning a hand on the edge of the map-strewn table, let out a small laugh. “It’s nice for old friends to catch up,” he said, tone sharpening as easily as a blade being drawn. “But let’s not forget—there’s still a war to finish, and I’d hate to keep the enemy waiting for their funeral.”

Alpheo leaned over the war table, the canvas map beneath his fingers rippling faintly in the breeze that slipped through the seams of the command tent. The dusky light of the sinking sun filtered in through the canvas, casting his silhouette like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.

“With the Herculeians retreating—finally retreating—to their motherland, licking their wounds and dragging their pride behind them,” he began, “we stand now with only one front open. One enemy still waving their little banners and calling it courage, though desperation would be much more appropriate.”

His fingers moved with surgical precision across the map, landing on a mark north of Florium, some thirty leagues away. He tapped the point with his knuckle. “Here. This is where they’ve decided to make their final stand. A modest hill. But it will be the place where we crush the last ember of rebellion.”

He looked up, his gaze flicking to each of the men gathered around him.

“They’ve seen the world around them collapse,” he said, voice rising. “The Oizenians, once our most dangerous enemy, scattered and bled dry in the fields of Aracina. Their prince—” he paused for dramatic weight “—buried. And the Herculeians, too, have finally understood that the fires we lit were not sparks, but infernos. They have retreated behind whatever stone was near them”

He straightened and placed both hands behind his back. “And now, after all of that, our brave little rebels have decided it’s time to grow cautious.” His voice dipped with mocking gravity. “They’ve watched two giants fall and thought, ‘Now is the time to dig in our heels.'”

He turned to Lord Xanthios, lifting a brow. “Apparently, seeing a nation’s strength razed and another turned back made the rebel lords… reconsider their manhood.”

The tent chuckled, low and knowing.

“Yes,” Alpheo said, pace picking up, energy building. “They’ve shrunk their balls and turtled themselves up on a hill, hoping the great storm will pass them by. They believe that if they hunker down like cowards, we’ll lose our taste for blood.”

He stepped around the table, letting his eyes land on each face like an anvil. “So of course the trouble come now, as after all we’ll have to take their hill. We’ll have to break their backs on it.”

He stopped beside Asag, glancing at the bandaged arm and the stitched wounds hidden beneath cloth. “Too many have bled for this. Too many like him have carried our standard through hell, all for the greed of few. And now, while our swords are still warm and our fury still fresh, we end this.”

There was silence in the tent—thick, weighty, full of shared understanding.