Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 576

Chapter 576: Playing the long game(1)
Alpheo sat back in his chair, the afternoon light filtering into the great private tent, spilling over the plain wooden table where the tools of history lay assembled before him. The air was rich with the scent of oiled leather, old paper, and the faint sharpness of sealing wax warming near.

He could have delegated this task to any number of clerks, scribes, or commanders — but he had made sure it was Aron who delivered the documents personally. There were other matters he would soon discuss with the man, but for now, it was time to put an official end to the bloodshed.

In his hands he held the thick, heavy stack of papers: not common parchment, mind you, but paper — his paper, the proud product of his industry.

He leafed slowly through the treaty, each page weighted with clauses and stipulations that would bind the rebellious lords in chains far tighter than any forge could make. At the bottom of the final page lay a neat collection of signatures — Lord Niketas’ sharp and precise, Lord Eurenis’ almost trembling in its penmanship, and Lord Lysandros’ . Their house sigils were pressed beside each name in orderly, humiliated fashion, the wax impressions standing out like tombstones.

Only one sigil was missing: the Crown.

Alpheo allowed himself a small smile, a quiet satisfaction that hummed in his chest.

He had won once again against terrible odds.

He, of course, had never wavered in that belief, but still, it had been a long and bloody war.

Now he could finally rest…

Rejoicing from that notion, he dipped the quill, sharp and fine, into the inkpot with a practiced flick of his wrist. For a moment, he simply stared at the blank line, savoring it, as if a general would savor the moment before giving a final triumphant order. Then, with a steady hand, he wrote:

Alpheo Veloni-isha, Bearer of the Crown’s Will.

The ink dried quickly on the fine paper, dark and permanent as a scar.

With a languid grace, he reached for a small bar of crimson wax, warming it gently over the flame until it was supple enough to drip thick and steady onto the blank space beside the house seals. The wax pooled in a rich red circle, the color of blood yet also of royal majesty.

From a small case he drew his personal seal and pressed it down into the hot wax, feeling the satisfying resistance as it yielded to his authority. When he pulled the stamp away, the mark was perfect: regal, immutable, and above all final.

He leaned back again, tossing the now-empty quill onto the table.

His eyes danced across the document one final time. Every word was his; every line a snare. Besides the towering terms he’d hammered upon the rebels’ heads—seizures, oaths, hostages—there sat in clean, crisp script the communal fine: forty-five thousand silverii, to be paid over three years.

He allowed himself a slow, indulgent breath, savoring the moment.

He recalled with a faint smirk how the rebels had clamored with the desperation of drowning men.

Oh, how they had begged for clemency, their voices sweetened with false humility, claiming that the war had bled them dry, that no such wealth remained in their coffers.

Alpheo tapped the edge of the treaty against the table, a knowing gleam in his eye.

Liars. All of them.

He knew exactly how much silver each of these lords had hidden. Every chest buried, every shrine built larger than reason demanded—it was all a map to their greed. And while he could not say so openly, he had it from the lips of a snake: Elyos, the fallen priest, had sung like a canary once cornered, revealing any coin he had received and given away.

But to expose that now would be foolish. If he admitted he knew, tradition and law would tie his hands, forcing him to share the wealth equally with the other lords, be if that silver came from the defeated lords or from the treasury hidden in Elioth.

He, after all, hated sharing what he considered his.

Instead, now he could simply wait for the war to end , before recovering that mountain of silver, and use for the well-being of the state.

Alpheo’s tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth in quiet, delighted hunger, a sensation almost like salivation, as he imagined it—chests upon chests of untouched coin flowing into his coffers, to be used to expand his armies, improve the infrastructure, or, more importantly, to fund his retaliations against his enemies.

What a lucky day this is, Alpheo noted with a smile as delightful as the sun.

Then, with a final, almost affectionate look at the document, Alpheo pressed it against the table with a palm full of strength, as though sealing the fate of an entire generation beneath it.

And indeed, he was.

As aside from the staggering fine, the rebel lords now found themselves yoked with an even more delightful burden.

Henceforth, whenever summoned to war, each would be required to furnish a fixed levy: one hundred footmen and twenty-five archers, all armored, clothed, and fed at their own expense. No more, no less.

It was a subtle noose, tightening by degrees.

Before, the number of levied troops had been a matter of pride, discretion, or grudging obligation. A lord could march to war with a retinue of three hundred if he sought the king’s favor—or with a paltry fifty if he wished to voice silent dissent. The old ways had allowed the nobility to flex their influence, to bargain with steel and loyalty. More men meant greater prestige; fewer meant a calculated snub.

But Alpheo had long despised that prerogative.

From the moment he rose, he had envisioned a realm where the crown’s word was law—unyielding, unchallenged. He could not simply announce such a reform outright, of course. The nobility would have balked, perhaps even rebelled in unison. Instead, he had to weave his will into the fabric of power, thread by thread.

The rebel lords were merely the first strand.

Of course, for the defeated lord, that wasn’t all that was forced upon them, as from now on no one among them could raise additional taxes without the express permission of the Crown, like a father overseeing a spendthrift child.

Worse yet—the true sting—they could no longer exact tolls or tariffs from any caravan bearing the royal sigil.

Alpheo allowed himself a thin smile.That, more than anything, had been his own special addition.

It was no whim. It was the first brick in a castle no one else could yet see.The Crown would not itself raise caravans—no, that was the merchants’ task.But Alpheo intended to gather them, bind them, and harness them into something altogether new: a Federation of Trade, a body loyal not to guilds but to the throne itself. In exchange for the use of royal-protected roads and immunity from local tariffs, these merchants would pay a yearly tribute—fixed, reliable, and immune to the tantrums of petty lords.

Today a charter. Tomorrow, a tide.

One day, Alpheo mused, this federation could spread its veins across other princedoms, seeping into foreign courts, breaking the backs of overmighty trade guilds like that fattened snake, the Trade Guild of Yarzat.

I want to unseat them, Alpheo thought. Supplant them. Control the very blood of commerce itself.

Of course, he knew such a future was far off, hazy as a mirage at the desert’s edge. It would take cunning, patience, and years of tedious groundwork, wrangling merchants, pruning the unruly, and building new roads.

But he had time.And now, thanks to this treaty, he had the silver to begin.

Alpheo turned his keen gaze toward Aron, who stood nearby still clutching the ledger, ever the dutiful diplomat even now. Though he had been relieved from his duties across the sea, where he had deftly coaxed Torghan and his tribe into new lands, Aron was not truly free; he had been tasked with overseeing the missives and reports sent by the man who had replaced him.

The prince tapped a finger against the treaty resting on his knee and asked, “Has Torghan’s father started his campaign yet?What was his name V-Vakaku?”

Aron, quick as ever, straightened slightly.”From the last missive he is still gathering strength and tending to preparations. The campaign has not yet begun. Also his name would be Varaku, your Grace.”

Alpheo allowed himself a slow nod. Just in time, he thought. The prince leaned forward, steepling his fingers before his favorite diplomat.

“Good. I suppose it is in our interest to see him win. After all, it would do us much good to have a strong force backing us up in that virgin and wild land where only power counts”.

He rose to his feet with the easy, fluid grace of a man who just came victorious out of a war and paced toward the small map table cluttered with reports and half-drunk goblets of wine.”After this little dance with the rebel lords,” he said, motioning loosely to the treaty, “we’ve quite the bounty—more weapons than we have hands to hold them. Chainmail, spears, axes, swords…I’ve got no use for them”

He turned, a glint in his eye.

“Organize some ships. Select five hundred sets of chainmail, six hundred spears, and four hundred axes or swords. Send them across the sea to our allies there .”He smirked as he added, “Consider it an investment… to ensure their victory. After the campaign ends, they can pay us with the prisoners they take.”

Aron, to his credit, only blinked once before nodding.Alpheo grinned wider, like a cat stretching in the sun.

“Oh—and throw in some salt. I suppose that is the highest demand from our market outside the steel”He chuckled “They can season their meat or their wounds—makes no difference to me.As long as they can give me more subjects, they can salt the seas with it and ask for more…”

“As you wish, my prince.”

Aron said without missing a beat, graced in the joy of finally having something to do after months of inactivity.

As men like him found idleness to be a plague, worthy only of being fended off.