Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 579

Chapter 579: Sovereign(2)
The murmuring of the gathered lords began almost at once — soft ripples of whispering voices passing like a restless wind through the great tent.Heads leaned together, hands half-covered mouths, eyes darting between Lord Eurenis and where Alpheo sat.

A common thought passed through their minds,Was he gonna kill him before they could get guest’s rights?

Eurenis himself stood frozen, confusion clouding his worn features. He looked as though he scarcely understood what offense he had committed, blinking once, twice, under the pressure of a hundred staring eyes.

Alpheo, calm as a man at a chessboard, simply studied him for a long breath before speaking, his voice carrying a lightness that barely concealed the iron beneath.

“It is,” said Alpheo with a slow, almost instructive tone, “the custom, Lord Eurenis, for a man receiving the grace of the crown to kneel… not merely bow… when kissing the royal ring.Do you believe yourself above it?”

The words were soft — and yet in the charged air of the tent, they cracked like a whip.

Eurenis swallowed, visibly at a loss for a moment, before forcing himself to bow his head even lower.”My apologies, Your Grace,” he said hoarsely. “I—I meant no slight. My leg, it was wounded in the fighting, and—”

Before he could stammer further, Alpheo’s hand rose, cutting through the air as sharply as a drawn sword. His finger extended behind him, pointing straight at Lord Asag, who sat with all the silent solidity of a mountain despite his broken arm.

“And shall that be your justification?” Alpheo said, the softness vanished from his voice, replaced by something steely and undeniable.”That you, who took up arms against your lawful sovereign , who spilled blood in rebellion, find your wounded leg excuse enough not to kneel in the presence of the very crown you sought to oppose?”

The tent went silent once again, as though the very fabric of it strained to hear every word.

“Look there,” Alpheo continued “Look upon Lord Asag.When I arrived at Aracina — after twenty-eight days of siege and slaughter — it was he who stood between ruin and salvation of the entire city.It was he who, with a body battered and torn, still held the walls until the banners of the Crown unfurled upon the horizon.”

He let the words hang, cold and heavy.

“And yet, despite wounds that would have sent lesser men to their graves, the first act that Lord Asag performed after all the great deeds he did for the crown upon my arrival, was to throw both knees to the bloodied earth — not out of compulsion, but out of honor, and thanks.”

“So tell me, Lord Eurenis…”

Alpheo’s gaze pinned him to the spot like a dagger through a parchment.

“If a hero of this war, wounded beyond your reckoning, found it fit to kneel in gratitude before his sovereign —Is it proper that a rebel, who seeks not to celebrate loyalty but to beg pardon for treason, considers himself exempt for a scratch received while fighting against that very Crown?”

Alpheo let the silence stretch until it was taut and trembling.

Lord Eurenis, after a tense moment where silence pressed down upon the tent like a physical weight, lowered his head and said, his voice strained but earnest, understanding that the prince was attempting anything to discredit the lords among their fellows , believed it wiser to relent rather than oppose it , even if doing that brought him pain.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace.” Then, with a grimace twisting his features, he slowly, painfully bent his knees, until he knelt properly before Alpheo. A visible tremor ran through him as he leaned forward and kissed the royal ring with reverence, the sound of it soft but clear in the heavy hush.

Still kneeling, his forehead nearly brushing the back of Alpheo’s hand, he spoke the ancient oath with a shaking voice, “I, Eurenis of House Velgran, 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. 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.”

Alpheo, his face a picture of regal solemnity, answered without hesitation, his voice carrying over the gathered lords, “By the power vested in me by the Crown and by the blood of our ancestors, I accept your oath, Lord Eurenis. May your loyalty be steadfast, and your service true, from this day until the end of your line.”

With a grunt of effort, Eurenis pushed himself upright, the pain of his wound evident despite his attempts to mask it, and made his way to the end of the tent, where Lord Niketas awaited him in silence, offering no words, only a small nod as Eurenis joined him.

After that, the ceremony flowed without further blemish.Lord Lysandros approached next, his steps measured and proud, but with no sign of rebellion left in his bearing. He knelt without prompting, kissed the ring, and swore his oath clearly and firmly.

Lord Gregor followed who, despite the lingering tension around him for Lord Robert’s death, made a strong and formal declaration of loyalty, kneeling with an almost exaggerated show of submission that drew a few murmurs from the watching nobles.

One by one, the minor lords followed, each kneeling, each kissing the ring, each repeating the sacred words that bound them once more to the Crown they had dared to defy.

The ceremony moved like a river now — steady, inevitable — until all had been accounted for, and a deep exhale seemed to pass through the gathered crowd as the last of them took his place among the forgiven.

Alpheo, watching with the satisfaction of a weaver admiring a completed tapestry, finally stood from his elevated seat. The gathered lords rose as one at his movement, their chairs scraping against the floor.

In a voice that rang clear and strong through the great tent, Alpheo proclaimed, “Now that oaths have been spoken and forgiveness given, let the bitterness of war be washed away! Let the feast begin!”

Cheers erupted in the tent, a wave of noise and relief as servants rushed in bearing trays laden with roasted meats, golden loaves, heavy jugs of wine, and gleaming platters piled high with fruits and sweets.

The long, grim ceremony was behind them.Now came the part everyone had secretly longed for: the night of wine, laughter, and carefully watched conversations — where victory would be drunk and defeat would be swallowed with it

The dinner had scarcely begun when the strains of music filled the great tent — a lively but elegant tune plucked from lyres and lutes, the soft thrum of a tambourine keeping the rhythm. Servants wove between the tables like well-trained dancers, setting down steaming platters of roasted meats and baskets overflowing with rich, buttered bread.

Yet for all the noise — the clinking of goblets, the low murmur of nobles exchanging guarded words, the rustle of silken sleeves — a great many eyes kept darting, again and again, toward a figure seated only a few places away from Prince Alpheo himself.

The man stuck out like a dark oak amidst a field of white lilies. His skin was a dusky bronze, kissed deep by a harsher sun than these lands ever knew, and his black hair was braided with small bands of copper. His strong, hawkish features bore the proud, sharp lines of the Azanian peoples, though any who knew better would recognize he was no true Azanian — but a Voghondai chief, born of the same vast continent.

It was Torghan, the very man Alpheo had seen fit to elevate by granting him a seat among the highest of the royal host.Before the war, such a move would have been political folly. Alpheo, ever the cunning player, would have thought twice — thrice even — before seating a foreigner so close to him, wary of inflaming the prideful, hawk-eyed lords who already fretted about the favor the Crown might show outsiders over their “noble blood.”

But now?Now was different.

Now the banners of victory fluttered in the winds outside, stitched with the blood and triumph of a campaign fought in the name of the Crown’s right to shield and raise whoever it damn well pleased. Alpheo had no more interest in tiptoeing around their delicate feelings than he had in entertaining the whinings of a child denied a second sweet.

It was instead much better to set the pace, and after a great victory to cement that the victors needed to show arrogance and strength of bearing.

The Voghondai had fought with a fury that shamed even the most seasoned knights of the realm.

If celebrating their chief sent a few noble stomachs curdling into their goblets of wine , Alpheo believed it a unworrying problem.

Torghan himself, to his credit, seemed aware of the weight of the glances upon him but bore it with the easy, impervious calm of a man used to being stared at. He said little, ate little, merely inclining his head politely when addressed.

Alpheo, meanwhile, lounged back in his chair, goblet in hand, savoring both the wine and the seething discomfort of his highborn company.The nobles might simmer, they might murmur behind their sleeves and whisper behind closed doors, but Alpheo knew —and how he knew — that after this war, after this roaring triumph, none among them had the stomach to challenge the might of the Crown over such a petty grievance.

The Crown had soared; its light, blinding.And those who dared squint too long against it would find themselves burned.

Of course, none of this meant the Crown could act with limitless impunity. Victory was a mighty cloak, but even the finest weave had its tears if stretched too far. Alpheo, for all his cold confidence, was no fool.

He knew that there would always be, a limit.A line drawn not by laws or charters, but by the reality of power itself — the unspoken understanding that a ruler could push and prod and parade, but only so far before the lords, jealously guarding their ancient rights and swollen fortunes, would see fit to sharpen their swords once more.

That line, at present, was far off, blurred by the haze of a glorious campaign and the exhaustion of the rebel lords who now supped humbly beneath the Crown’s gaze. Yet Alpheo knew it remained, lurking beyond the revelry like a wolf in the trees.

This little play of dominance — seating Torghan at the high table, letting the nobles stew in their poisoned pride — this was acceptable. A flex of muscle, a reminder that it was by the grace of the Crown they ate and drank at all. It cost them nothing of real worth, only a few ounces of dignity.

But if Alpheo ever dared to reach deeper — if he sought to reform the laws to siphon their wealth, to crush their autonomy, to replace their ancient privileges with the cold machinery of centralized rule — then he would find not murmurs, but blades.

But for now, though, he could enjoy these small victories, these subtle games of power.

As in the meantime he would start by building the foundations for what could be the golden age of the south, dominated by a single power or better yet a single ruler.