Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 567

Chapter 567: A happy meal(1)
The scent of roasted meats, spiced wine and cider drifted lazily through the warm air of Alpheo’s command tent, the heavy canvas fluttering now and then in the evening breeze like a silken veil at the entrance of a king’s palace.

Inside, a small feast was underway with enough food for both dinner and breakfast , and enough wine to drown the memories of a thousand battles. The war was over in all but name, and the mood among the prince’s inner circle was unmistakably festive.

But above all others, it was Alpheo himself who radiated satisfaction.

He leaned back in his chair with the air of a man who had not only eaten well but had dined on victory itself.

Inside his private tent , under his bed lay the prize that had brought such delight—two simple scrolls.

One contained a list. The other, a signed confession.

It was more than mere parchment. It was leverage. Control. Power hidden behind wax and paper.

Alpheo’s eyes had lingered on the names for half an hour —temples great and small, from his princedom , all revealed by Elyos in the desperate hope of sparing lives. It had taken less pressure than expected. Alpheo had half-feared the priest would die with clenched teeth, but in the end, even the most fanatical could be made to fold when others’ blood weighed on the scale.

These temples… greedy little dens of gold and incense. They fed the rebellion with coin and prayer, thinking themselves untouchable behind holy walls. But holiness doesn’t shield you from scandal. Especially not when I hold your sins in ink and seal.

And yet, despite the power he now wielded, he had no intention of launching a holy purge. That would have been the amateur’s move, a foolish gambit. No, Alpheo understood far better than most that open justice had a cost—particularly when the law dictated that priests be judged by their own kind, and any major inquest required approval from none other than the High Priest himself.

He was after all a follower of byzantine deals…

And also the moment the High Priest was involved, so too was the division of spoils.

Alpheo was a man of big appetite so why divide when you can eat it all alone?

Seize their temples, and the High Priest takes his tithe—likely most of it. Let him call a tribunal, and I lose the narrative, the tempo. And worse, the gold.

His plan was far simpler. Letters would be written. Quiet, respectful, and firm. Reminders of names tied to rebellion. Opportunities to repent—discreetly. Through generous donations. Silver, not blood. It was a game the temples would play willingly. After all, no priest would risk his position for a gaggle of ambitious underlings, and no shrine could survive the stink of scandal.

He picked up his goblet, swirling the dark wine within as he considered the genius of it all. No swords. No fires. Just quills, wax, and whispers. And coin. Enough coin to satisfy the crown.

Alpheo reclined further, the murmured laughter and clinking of cups filling the tent around him. The war had given him land and loyalty. But this… this was something far rarer.

Enough money to see all of his reforms become reality, and above all to finally build a sewer for his city, as no true capital can be regarded as such without a sewer and an aqueduct.

The laughter around the tent crackled like the fire in the brazier, warm and sharp with the afterglow of conquest. The wine flowed, the dishes clattered, and the tension that had coiled in the spines of every man there for months finally began to melt. But it was Jarza, ever watchful, ever grounded, who leaned closer to his prince with a flicker of curiosity behind his scarred brow.

“You look happy,” he remarked, eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to read more than just joy in Alpheo’s expression.

Alpheo didn’t even hesitate.

“How could I not?” he said, spreading his arms with theatrical grandeur as if embracing the very air. “Ahead of us lies peace—peace carved in blood and fire, true, but peace all the same.This is peace in our time” he said as a private joke only he could understand ” The war is dying, Jarza, sputtering out like a spent torch. And in our time—my time—there will be calm, at least for us, and for how long I decide the peace to last.”

He leaned forward, fingers laced under his chin, voice like honey glazed over steel.

“With the oizenians, with the prince dead, and half their lords rotting in our cages or bleeding in their beds, the next heir—whoever they crown—, be it the eldest of any younger one, will be a babe on stilts. He’ll need years to sew a name worth fearing. Meanwhile, our dear nobles are as dangerous as a drowned spider, and their army are nothing but a memory. All that remains of the rebellion now is its echo.”

“And then,” he said, almost in a whisper, “there’s Heculia. Oh, Heculia… fat and golden, like a rabbit too slow to see the knife. I’ve not forgotten her, Jarza. Do you remember the plans we made before this firestorm began? The quiet talks of how to take its head?”

Jarza nodded, slowly, as if plucking those old memories from beneath dust and steel.

“They’re still on the table,” Alpheo said, tapping a finger lightly on the wood. “Not this year. No. The fields are bare, our granaries echo, and the next harvest must repay our debt to the Romelians—the fine lenders that they are. Without their wheat, our grand host would never have been fed, armed, or paid for the last weeks of the war.”

He smiled, but it was not warm.

“But after? When the grain returns, when the coffers swell once more?”

He paused, raising his goblet as if toasting a ghost yet to come.

“Then we strike.”

And with that, he drank, letting the wine wash down the taste of war and replace it with the tang of ambition yet unrealized.

“There is also the matter of retirement,”Asag said, including himself in the conversation

Alpheo nodded slowly, as if he’d been expecting the topic to rise sooner or later.

“Yes,” he murmured, swirling the dregs of his wine, “another good reason to wait until next year. We’ll need time to train the new blood. Our soldiers, weathered as they are, cannot march forever—many deserve to hang up their blades before they fall on them.The Gods only know why they haven’t complained.”

His gaze swept the table, resting for a moment on each of the men who had marched through the fire at his side—Jarza, Asag, Egil, Shahab , Xanthios even Torghan, who was halfway through gnawing on a marrowbone, understanding only half of what was being told. as the level of the dialogue was too high for his bare understanding of the southern tongue.

Alpheo’s voice softened, but it lost none of its command.

“Perhaps it’s a touch early,” he said, swirling the dark wine in his goblet, “but there’s no harm in preparing. I want to know what you would ask for—each of you. You’ve earned that right. A wish. One apiece. For your service in this… glorious war that shall be sung for decades.”

The words dropped like stones into a still pond, sending ripples across the banquet table and halting conversation mid-breath. Forks hovered in the air. The fire cracked in the hearth behind them, the only sound left in the wake of his declaration.

Jarza tilted his head, the way a hunting hawk might. Asag blinked once, slowly, and Torghan, halfway through tearing into a spiced root, paused with a grunt of confusion. His translators leaned in with a flurry of whispers in his native tongue.

When they finished, the Voghondai’s eyes went wide.

Alpheo, basking in the light of wine and well-earned triumph, let his eyes drift lazily along the long wooden table, savoring the tension like a vintner admiring a fine cask. At last, he came to rest on Lord Xanthios. He tilted his head ever so slightly, a single brow rising—half invitation, half challenge.

“Well then,” Alpheo murmured, raising his goblet in salute, “what is it that you desire, Lord Xanthios?”

Xanthios, ever the quiet one, adjusted the folds of his cloak and straightened his back, but did not quite meet Alpheo’s gaze.

“My prince,” he said in his careful, monk-like tone, “I am unworthy of reward. I sat in my keep for most of the war. I only rode out for the final battle. My contribution was… marginal.”

Alpheo sighed—a long, theatrical exhale filled with the exhaustion of nobles too modest for their own good.

“Then I’ll choose for you when the time comes,” he said, waving a dismissive hand like brushing away dust .

Xanthios gave a sheepish smile, the kind one wears when hoping not to be noticed further, and wisely fell back into silence.

Alpheo, already halfway into his next goblet, turned to the still figure of Asag. The warrior sat like a statue chiseled from storm-black granite, unmoved by wine or mirth, or even the firelight that danced across his weathered features.

“And you, Asag?” Alpheo leaned forward, his voice tinged with something warmer—respect, perhaps, or nostalgia. “Surely now is the time to ask. Among us, you’ve earned your place a hundredfold. Aracina still sings your name.”

Asag did not so much as blink.

“I’ve said it before,” he replied, his voice like dry earth. “I wish for nothing. The salvation you brought us at Aracina is the only reward I sought.”

Alpheo held his gaze for a moment, and for the briefest second, something flickered behind his wine-hazed eyes.

Except it was per my command that you were stuck there in the first place, he thought, lowering his gaze. But the moment passed, and the prince returned to his favored tone—half indulgent monarch, half disappointed schoolmaster.

“Was my company always this infested with philosophers and ambitionless men?I would barely recognise you as the man who brought three armies to their knees in three short months.”

He turned suddenly and pointed a stern finger down the table, voice rising in mock frustration.

“The next one will wish for something—or I’ll drag it out of him with a ladle!”

Laughter broke across the table, and the finger found its mark—Egil, who had been avoiding eye contact with all the subtlety of a child caught sneaking sweets. He stabbed half-heartedly at his food as if it were the source of all his troubles.

“Egil,” Alpheo said, slowly, as though invoking an ancient ritual.

The tall warrior looked up.

“Well, Alph,” he said with a sheepish grin, glancing toward Alpheo’s own plate, “Ain’t much that I want right now. I have got good lads riding with me, and I had my fill with killing and raiding. Still, if I must choose for something , I must point out that your food looks better than mine.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Alpheo blinked once.

He laughed—a deep, rolling bellow that filled the tent like thunder in a valley. His goblet nearly spilled from the force of it.

“Stuff yourself with it,” he said, still chuckling.

Egil didn’t wait to be told twice. He swept aside his own half-eaten meal like it had personally insulted him and lunged at Alpheo’s roasted leg of lamb with a hunger that bordered on the theatrical. The way he tore into it, one could almost believe he feared the meat might leap from the table and escape into the night.

The table erupted with laughter. Even Asag’s lips twitched. Torghanmlet out a booming laugh that startled the servants. It was the kind of laugh that rolled out of his chest like an avalanche—honest, loud, and just a little terrifying.

Alpheo leaned back, satisfied. He raised his cup to the ceiling, grinning like a man surrounded by the strangest, most cherished fools the gods could give him.

“Well,” he said, eyes gleaming, “at least someone at this table still has earthly desires.”

The mirth began to settle.

Then Alpheo’s gaze swept once more across the table, until it came to rest at the far end—on the Voghondai chieftain seated down and looking at the prince.

“Torghan,” Alpheo called, drawing out the name like silk pulled through a ring. “You look as though your tongue is heavy with something. I suppose you’ve got something to ask? You’ve served me well… and earned your place among us.”

The great man did not respond at once, not with words.

He’d only caught parts of the prince’s speech. But he understood. The question had weight, and the weight had reached him.

He nodded. Once. Slow. Measured.

Then, with all the gravity of an ancient tree deciding at last to move, he pushed himself to his feet. The wooden bench groaned beneath him, and the table quieted as eyes turned toward him.

Alpheo’s brow lifted, pleasantly intrigued.

It appears someone still knows what they want, he thought. And more than that—someone who might be very useful for his future.