Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 565

Chapter 565: Holder of the star(2)
Elyos’s eyes darkened, his gaze sharpening into a dagger’s point as he locked onto Alpheo, unblinking. The air between them hung heavy with disdain and something colder—disgust, perhaps, or the dying embers of what once was idealism.

His lips parted with a quiet venom.

“Is there truly know no limit to your treachery?”

Alpheo tilted his head, brows arching with an almost boyish confusion, as if Elyos had just accused him of stealing sweetcakes. “Treachery?” he echoed, blinking once, slowly. “You’ll have to clarify, priest. Because if you’re talking about evil, I do wonder what precisely you’re accusing me of.”

He raised a hand casually, gesturing around them as if the very earth outside the tent bore witness to his innocence. “I captured rebels, Elyos. Men who spat on their oaths and beckoned foreign swords into our soil. I defeated them, as any prince ought.

And now I offer them—not execution, not fire and wheel—but a chance to save their lives, of course not to them but to you. Surely that’s not treachery. If anything,” he said with a thoughtful expression, “I’m being downright charitable, you should be praising me for my mercy.”

Elyos didn’t waver, he had lost, so now all he could do was cut his losses. He leaned forward slightly, the chains clinking like distant funeral bells. “Before we go ahead with this performance,” he said, voice quiet but clear, “I have questions that I want answered.”

Alpheo’s brow lifted again. He sat back, folding his hands on his knee like a man settling into a story. “Why not?” he said with a soft chuckle. “Go on, then. Ask.”

Elyos didn’t look away, didn’t blink. “Is it true,” he said, voice heavy, “that Robert betrayed us?”

The question floated in the silence, cutting through it like a blade through silk.

Alpheo nodded slowly, as if humoring a heavy truth that had long since stopped weighing on him. He rested his elbow on the arm of the stool, fingers tapping idly at his chin.

“Yes,” he said. “Robert betrayed you.” He tilted his head, voice almost absent-minded. “Though I wouldn’t call it a choice, not really. It was either that, or watch his son get the noose.” A beat passed. “And, well—he picked his son.”

Elyos’s lips tightened. “Is that part of your charity too?” he asked, the bitterness coating every syllable.”Threatening a father with the death of his son?”

Alpheo gave a little shrug, a flick of the wrist like he was swatting a fly. “I didn’t think it’d come to that,” he said. “He seemed the type to care. Most fathers, not all but most, are at the end of it loving of their progeny. Soft hearts and stubborn pride.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I merely set the stage.”

Elyos lowered his head slightly, shadows gathering under his brow. “I want to meet him.”

Alpheo blinked. “Meet him?”

“I want to look in his eyes,” Elyos said. “To see if what you said is true. If his choice was forced. If I must hate him for it, or if I may forgive him .”

A silence, thick as smoke, settled between them. Alpheo’s lips parted, as if to speak—but no words came. His face, usually carved with amused disdain or calculated charm, went still for a moment. Finally, he inhaled, and when he exhaled, it came with a strange sourness.

“That won’t be possible,” he said.

Elyos narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Because he’s dead.”

The words slammed into Elyos like a battering ram.

He looked away, eyes glazing over with something far too complex for simple grief. He had saved that man once—from a cliff, no less, a child trembling between death and life. He remembered the pale face, the small voice, the silent gratitude when he understood life was worth experiencing. And now…

“He’s dead,” Elyos whispered, mostly to himself. “And I don’t even know how to feel about him.”

Alpheo watched him in silence for a moment, then stood slowly and poured himself another cup of wine. “There’s no use in feeling anything,” he said, taking a long sip. “He’s dead. No hate will revive him, and no love will comfort him. The time for both is past.”

He turned his gaze back to Elyos, cold and clear. “All that’s left is what you choose to do with the living.”

Alpheo watched the silence settle over Elyos like fresh ash over embers, the former priest’s gaze sinking once more to the packed dirt floor as if it held answers he’d forgotten to ask. There was something almost childlike in that downcast stare—someone who had played too bold a hand, and was now left counting the scattered chips of a lost game.

With a low hum and a raised brow, Alpheo crossed one leg over the other and leaned back on the stool like a man watching rain fall on someone else’s funeral.

“Mhm,” he muttered with a breath, swirling the wine in his cup. “Funny thing—when we asked him why he joined your rebellion, he didn’t say anything about glory or revenge or grand visions.He said he’d found peace in that little settlement of yours. Said he wanted to defend it.”

Elyos didn’t lift his head, but his fingers curled slightly in his lap.

Alpheo shrugged, setting the cup aside. “So there you have it. The man may have betrayed your cause in the end, but he didn’t betray you. Not at first. Not where it mattered. If that counts for anything.” He raised an eyebrow. “Something to be proud of, perhaps. Not many rebels can say their dream was enough to make someone stay.”

He gave a slight smile—not mocking, not cruel. Just mildly amused at how messy meaning could be when blood dried on both sides of the sword.

“Still,” he added, rising to his feet and dusting off his coat, “if you’re looking for clarity, I suggest the gods would be your directive, wouldn’t they be?”

Breaking the somber mood, Alpheo clapped his hands together once, brisk and businesslike, as if dusting off the last threads of sentiment. He turned to Jarza with a lilt in his voice, casual and almost cheerful.

“Well, now that the tears are wiped and the ghosts are named,” he said, “shall we get to the part where history is written?”

Jarza narrowed his eyes as Alpheo gestured to Elyos’ bound hands.

“Would you be so kind,” Alpheo said, “as to cut his rope?”

Jarza didn’t move. His eyes flicked from Alpheo to the withered priest, dirt-smudged and hollow, then back. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice flat, the edge of a soldier asking if he should really hand a snake a stick.

Alpheo gave a half-laugh, throwing his arms wide. “Before me stands an unarmed, half-starved old man who’s had more prayers than meals this week. Yes, I think I’ll risk it.”

Jarza shrugged, drew his knife, and with a swift motion sliced the ropes binding Elyos’ wrists. The priest flexed his fingers slowly, like a man waking from a long sleep, but said nothing.

”Don’t try anything funny, old man” Jarza muttered as he went back to the prince’s side

Alpheo, meanwhile, had already risen, moving with his usual flair across the tent to one of the standing candles whose flame still danced merrily from the breeze of the tent’s flap. He plucked it up and returned, holding it with the reverence of a priest offering a sacrament.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “perhaps I undersold this deal of ours. There is something in it for you too.” He stopped before Elyos, holding the candle between them like a strange oracle. “A gift, if you will. A mercy.”

Elyos looked at him, wary. “What are you playing at?”

Alpheo grinned. “Put your hand over the flame.”

The priest blinked. “Why in all the gods’ names would I do that?”

“To make a point,” Alpheo replied smoothly. “To show you what I’ll spare you from.”

Elyos didn’t move. His jaw tightened.

Alpheo sighed. “Very well. Every five seconds you hesitate…” He made a lazy circling gesture with the candle. “I’ll have …twenty of your captured comrades executed.I will make sure to choose the youngest too and bring them your heads.”

Elyos hissed something under his breath—likely a curse not fit for scripture—and reached forward with reluctant resolve. His hand hovered, trembled, then finally descended over the flame. The heat licked at his palm immediately, the fire like a hungry tongue tasting salt and guilt.

He lasted three, four maybe five seconds—and then yanked his hand back with a sharp wince, cradling it to his chest. His face twisted, not in tears or groans, but in cold fury.

Alpheo tilted his head. “There. That,” he said, lowering the candle, “is just a taste. Imagine the rest, and ask yourself whether playing martyr still feels so noble. Because that is what you will be sentenced to”

He gave a theatrical pause, letting the silence stretch, the pain settle, and the horror of his promise hang like the scent of blood in the air.

Then he smiled. “Now. Shall we begin?”

He lowered the candle with a casual flick of the wrist, as though the little theater of flame and flesh had merely been a warm-up, a prologue to the real act. He leaned in slightly, his tone mellowing into something darker, smoother—like silk laid over a blade.

“You do realize, I trust,” he began, voice calm as still water, “that there is more than enough evidence to have you declared a heretic.”

Elyos didn’t respond, his burned hand still pressed against his chest, his breathing steady but tight. Alpheo continued, his words flowing like poisoned honey.

“You instigated war. Preached rebellion. Led men into slaughter under banners never meant to be yours. And worst of all—” he gestured vaguely toward the entrance of the tent, “you stood on the battlefield, sword by sword against common believers. That alone… that alone is enough to brand you damned in the eyes of your own clergy.”

He gave a little smile, almost wistful. “And of course, you’ll suffer the same end you so zealously demanded for the crown’s loyal servants. A fine bit of irony, wouldn’t you say?”

Elyos met his gaze, finally. His eyes weren’t pleading, or afraid, or even defiant. They were simply locked—silent, focused, burning with a furious clarity. Alpheo nodded, as if satisfied with what he saw.

“But,” he said with a slow step back, his voice shifting again, now thoughtful, like a man weighing coins, “as much as I would find that ending poetic—cleansing, even—I do understand one thing.” He raised a single finger. “Deals, to work, must benefit both sides.”

He turned, casually strolling to the edge of the tent, pushing open the flap just enough to let a shaft of morning light cut through the gloom. Dust motes danced in the golden air like spirits summoned to hear the bargain.

“I want a list,” he said, without turning. “Every temple. Every chapterhouse. Every sanctuary that gave you gold , that fed your lies and bought your swords. I want their names, every last one carved into your memory.”

Then he did turn, sharp now, voice like a hammer striking steel.

“In exchange? I won’t burn you at the stake. Nor will I touch a single hair on the heads of your captured band. They’ll live by my mercy. ”

He paused, letting the promise hang in the air like incense before a sacred altar.

“Think carefully, priest. This is your gospel now.”

And with that, the silence returned, heavy and waiting.

Elyos narrowed his eyes, the pain in his hand momentarily forgotten, replaced now by the deeper sting of what he knew was coming.

“You’ve said nothing,” he rasped, voice low but firm, “about the settlement.”

Alpheo tilted his head, as if amused that Elyos had taken so long to mention it.

“The settlement?” he echoed, as if tasting the word. “My soldiers will burn it. Loot it. Strip it down to its bones. It’s their due, after all. Spoils of rebellion—earned in blood.”

Elyos clenched his jaw, but Alpheo lifted a hand gently, like a bard calming a restless crowd.

“Of course,” he added, “such… mercy could be extended to the settlers too. I may promise to spare their lives. If that’s what you want.”

Elyos stared at him for a moment, his lips pressed into a thin line before asking, “And how am I to believe you’ll keep your side, once I’ve kept mine?”

Alpheo gave a small chuckle, that maddening chuckle that always came just before a cruel truth.

“You can’t,” he said plainly. “There’s nothing that will make it sure. No parchment, no seal, no priest’s oath. Just my word.”

He leaned forward, eyes locking with the priest’s like a hunter sizing up a dying beast.

“And in times like these, the word of a man may be worth believing in, especially if it is a last hope.”

Elyos looked at him, unimpressed, unshaken. “Not yours.”

Alpheo’s smile faded into something colder, sharper. “Then am I to consider the deal void?Am I to leave you to burn?Am I to have each rebel gutted ahead of you?Am I to do the same to the people that followed you, in what was to be their new home?”

The air stilled. No answer came.

Alpheo watched Elyos with something that almost passed for sympathy—almost. He stepped closer, voice lowering into a tone that was far too casual for the gravity of what was being said.

“Let me reassure you of something,” he said, brushing a speck of dust from his sleeve as if discussing the weather. “I don’t intend harm upon those temples. No gallows. No fire. Just a fine. Coin, nothing more.After all, it wouldn’t be any good for me to harm them, which to be made possible would have to be interceded by the High Priest, who will swallow all of the treasure inside and leave me only the crumbs. ”

He glanced sideways at Elyos, his words now a slow, deliberate prod.

“In many of your sermons, you loathed greed, did you not? Called it a disease of the soul. So tell me, is it worth sacrificing hundreds of your people… just to protect the purses of men who wear white robes and silver rings?”

Elyos sat still, but his eyes shifted—troubled, stormed by the weight of the question. The silence dragged, bitter and brittle, until finally he let out a slow breath, eyes narrowing.

“…I accept.”

Alpheo clapped his hands, a crisp sound that cut through the tent like a blade of cheer. “Wise choice.” He smiled—not with kindness, but with the satisfaction of a merchant closing a profitable deal.

“I will keep my part,” he said to the priest in a somber tone before turning to Jarza. “Have someone bring ink and paper. He will write the names—every temple that aided him with funds. Every one.”

As he walked away, having accomplished what he wanted , he paused by the entrance, his back now to Elyos, voice carrying with deceptive warmth. “You can at least sleep well tonight, knowing that you saved the lives that could be saved, and I can assure you that your treatment will be much more welcoming now that we shook hands.”

And with that, he left—cloak swaying, boots soft against the earth , quickly followed by his friend.

Elyos meanwhile remained where he sat, his burned hand cradled against his chest, staring at the dirt floor with the taste of ash on his tongue.

Brought by the defeat and worsened by the hands he shook.

And alone again, he wondered… had he just made a deal with evil? Or worse—had evil simply made a deal with him?