Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 578

Chapter 578: Sovereign (1)
The great tent, vast as a cathedral, rose like a mountain of silk and gold against the fading light of the evening. It was the same tent where the terms of peace had been hammered out, word by word, blow by blow—and now it stood ready to host the feast that would mark the end of the war. Yet, for all its splendor, the air inside was tense, heavy with expectation.

The lords of the royal host sat within, their finest garments gleaming in the lamplight—velvets and furs, brocades stitched with tiny golden threads, swords at their belts and signet rings flashing on their fingers. Men who had bled and killed for the Crown, now gathering to celebrate the victory that would be sung for a hundred years.

But though the tables were laid out grandly, with great silver platters and goblets carved with eagles and roses, no food had yet been served, and the jugs of wine and cider remained tightly sealed. The servants, standing at attention along the edges, were motionless, their hands empty, their faces blank.

For before bread could be broken and toasts could ring into the rafters, there was still one last thing to do.

An old truth held firm here, older than the blood that stained the soil outside: you do not dine with your enemies—not until they are no longer your enemies. Not until they have bent the knee, in spirit and in form.

And Alpheo, seated high on a great chair atop a dais of red cloth, had no intention of letting this pass in silence.

No, tonight was not just a feast.

Tonight was theater.

Tonight was spectacle.Tonight, he would make sure that every man there—and every man who heard of it afterward—knew exactly who had broken whose back.

He lounged with a king’s easy grace, clad in dark silks edged in silver thread, a simple circlet resting upon his brow. He wanted them to see him. The man who had led armies, crushed rebellion, and now held his enemies like a hawk with broken prey beneath its talons.

Alpheo’s sharp eyes scanned the rows of rebel lords standing stiffly in front of him—fine coats rumpled from travel, boots dusty, faces pale and drawn. They wore the look of men called to the scaffold rather than the banquet hall.

Good. Let them feel it.

In a moment, he would rise, and one by one they would come forward, kneel, and swear their oaths anew—this time not merely to the crown, but to him, the hand that had dealt their defeat.

Alpheo’s sharp gaze shifted subtly to his right, falling upon the figure of young Lord Talek, newly minted in title but already bearing the heavy, rusted weight of sorrow. The young lord now stood amongst the gathering of the loyalist like a phantom, his body here in the great tent, but his soul lost somewhere between rage, grief, and regret. His clothes hung loose on his frame, his eyes dull, as if the world around him passed by at a distance, half-seen and half-cared for.

Since the news had reached him—the death of his father, Lord Robert, and the appalling state in which his body had been found—Talek had been but a hollow shade of himself, neither speaking nor listening much. Merely existing, and even that poorly.

Alpheo, sitting with the casual dignity of a ruler, let his fingers drum once on the polished wood of his chair as he recalled their earlier exchange.

He had summoned Talek before the feast, not to gloat, not to scorn, but to offer a mercy that cost him little but bought him much.He had told him, in a voice neither cold nor warm, that Lord Robert would receive a state funeral—a ceremony fit for a hero, not a traitor. For whatever Robert had been in life—a rebel, a usurper in heart—he had been no coward.

And in his own grim, bloody way, it was thanks to Robert’s stubbornness that allowed for Alpheo to carve out such a decisive and memorable victory.

Talek had accepted the news with a hollow nod, the kind a man gives when words have lost meaning. Still, Alpheo had noticed—something in the set of Talek’s shoulders, a softening in the line of his jaw. As much as he could, the young lord was grateful.

It fascinated Alpheo, in an idle, detached sort of way.He found it curious, almost morbidly so, how deeply Talek cared for a father whose presence had been a ghost at best during the last two years. Lord Robert had, by all accounts, abandoned his household matters to chase whatever he searched for , leaving his son to shoulder burdens alone, to grow hard and silent without guidance.And yet here he was—grieving not like a bitter son, but a loyal one.

Perhaps, Alpheo thought, before politics and ambition swallowed the man whole, he had been a good father. Or good enough for the boy to remember him that way.He sighed quietly, the sound lost amidst the low murmurs in the tent.

Damn the tragedy of it all.

And he could not help but remember—bitterly, vividly—the night Talek had come to him.The young man , stripped of everything save his tunic, his boots cast aside, dirt smeared across his knees and palms. No guards had needed to drag him.

He had come himself, outside the prince’s tent in the dark, the cold air biting at his bare arms, tears staining his cheeks, trembling as he prostrated himself before the man who had bested the rebels.

He had begged.Begged, as few noblemen would ever dare.

Begged for the life of honor to be repaid in blood.

Begged for Lord Gregor—Robert’s killer—to be executed in the name of justice.His voice had broken like a reed underfoot as he pleaded: a son’s grief laid bare, raw and shameful to witness.

And Alpheo, with the cold patience of a man who had already measured the weight of consequences, had denied him.

Not because he doubted that Gregor deserved death, he was a rebel, and he cared not whether he lived or died and —indeed, the brute’s desecration of the body had been a foul stain on the whole affair—but because politics, not justice, ruled the day.

If Gregor were executed, every other rebel lord still clinging to some scrap of pride would believe the Crown’s promise of peace a lie.They would scatter like foxes before the hounds, and the war would drag on for months, perhaps years, with blood spilled endlessly to satisfy the thirst of vengeance.No, better to keep the butcher alive and force peace down their throats than to indulge in a moment’s satisfaction.

Still, watching Talek now—standing like a boy lost in a storm—Alpheo felt a flicker of something he did not often grant himself: a sliver of pity.Not enough to change the course of his decisions. Never that.But enough to remember that even in victory, some things were broken that could never be mended.

He tapped his fingers once more, a signal to his heralds.The oaths would begin soon.There would be kneeling, and swearing, and then, finally, a celebration loud enough to drive the ghosts away for one night.

But Talek’s ghost would walk with him a while longer yet

—————

As soon as the time was right Alpheo gave the signal, and immediately the trumpet’s high, clear call rang out across the tent like the cry of a hawk descending upon its prey, silencing the murmured conversations in an instant. All turned as a royal herald stepped forward, his gilded staff striking the ground three times with ceremonial weight. His voice, trained to carry across battlefields and ballrooms alike, rang loud and proud:

“His Grace, Alpheo, lord of Arduronaven , lord of Confluendi and Prince consort of her grace Jasmine Veloni-isha, shall now receive the oaths of the Lords!”

No music played, no laughter stirred. Only the soft shuffling of heavy boots against the rich carpet spread for the ceremony broke the solemnity.

First among the defeated to step forward was Lord Niketas, his face carved from stone, unreadable and grim. He moved with the slow, deliberate steps of a man condemned but not yet buried, every inch of his stature battered by defeat yet upheld by pride he could not fully shed. His cloak dragged behind him like a shroud, the colors of his house muted under the canvas light.

Before Alpheo’s seat of state—a grand chair adorned with banners of gold and crimson—Niketas halted. Without hesitation but without joy, he bent his knee, the joints creaking almost audibly. His head bowed low, and with ceremony heavy and slow, he took Alpheo’s hand in both of his own, pressing the royal ring to his brow in submission.

His voice, though hoarse, rang clear enough for all to hear:

“I, Niketas of House Ormedes, do swear by my blood, my honor, and the bones of my ancestors, that I shall henceforth be faithful and true to Her Grace and her consort , Alpheo, and through him to the Crown. I renounce all false alliances, repent my rebellion, and pledge sword, shield, and soul to the service of the realm, until the end of my days or the end of my line.”

A silence fell, heavy and expectant.

Alpheo, his face a mask of stately mercy, lifted his free hand in a gesture of absolution. His voice was firm, carrying over the gathered host with kingly finality:

“By the power vested in me by the Crown, I forgive your crimes, Lord Niketas. I welcome you back into the fold of loyal service. Rise, and be restored.”

Niketas lifted his head slowly, the motion revealing eyes that were hollow—lifeless not from fear, but from the utter shattering of pride.He muttered the formal reply, voice drained of any warmth:

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Without waiting for dismissal, he rose stiffly and made his way to the rear of the tent, where a seat had been prepared for him among the other lords who had already pledged or were about to. His steps were measured, but heavy with a shame he could barely contain, each stride a visible act of will.

Behind him, the herald was already calling the next name, and the ritual of defeat and forgiveness rolled onward, just as Alpheo had designed.

The herald’s voice rang out again, sharp and solemn:

“Lord Eurenis of House Valden, approach and offer your oath.”

The tent stirred as Eurenis stepped forward, his movements stiff and slow. He limped, favoring his left leg, the wound from the last clash of the war still raw beneath the polished armor he wore out of pride, or perhaps stubbornness. His face was drawn tight against the pain, but he held his head high, the last ember of his dignity refusing to gutter out.

Alpheo watched him come, his expression unreadable, carved from marble and shadow. As with Niketas before him, when Eurenis halted before the throne, Alpheo extended his hand — the royal ring catching the lamplight like a star clutched between his fingers.

Eurenis bowed, heavy and deliberate. His fingers closed around the offered hand, and he bent lower still, bringing the royal ring toward his lips.

Then, just as the lips brushed the metal —

The entire tent seemed to gasp in unison.

In a flash of motion swift as a hawk striking from the sky, Alpheo withdrew his hand from Eurenis’s reach and lifted it high into the air, the royal ring glittering above them all

The lords and knights seated in the tent stiffened as if struck; even the herald faltered, half a syllable dying in his throat. The very air seemed to pulse with the shock of it.

Eurenis, still bent forward, remained frozen for an instant, his mouth hanging open in astonishment, before slowly straightening, his confusion plain for all to see.

As the prince’s hands remained unkissed so the lord had not been pardoned