Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 582

Chapter 582: A dead man legacy(1)
Elyos’s settlement had been a place of prayer,and calming peace — but now, the smoke rising was the dust of shattered doors and the cries of the conquered.

The settlement boiled with chaos as soldiers in worn white and black surcoats stormed through the winding alleys, kicking down doors with iron-shod boots. Some men, wide-eyed with terror, tried to bar their homes from the inside, but the flimsy wood was no match for seasoned soldiers who laughed and battered it down with hilts and shield edges.

Inside, they tore apart cupboards and chests, looting anything of value — silver goblets, old coins hoarded under mattresses. Out in the streets, others dragged women by their hair, their screams slicing the thick air like blades. Mothers clutched their children and were beaten aside; old men were kicked into the dirt when they tried to protest.

The pure, sanctimonious calm that had ruled the settlement for the few months they had been there under the heavy hand of its priesthood had been shattered in an instant — now it was a marketplace of pain and panic, the white-clad soldiers of the Crown claiming their grim harvest with whooping laughter and jeers.

Above all, the men serving the crown worked with the energy of those who knew they were allowed — no, invited — to take what they pleased. Prince Alpheo had given them a writ of free plunder: they could do anything short of setting fire to the town or killing its inhabitants.

And oh, how they were making the most of it.

A soldier laughed as he yanked a gold chain from the neck of a shrieking merchant who had gone there to make a donation , tossing the man into the mud for his trouble. Another checked the pockets of a whimpering elder, ignoring the prayers and curses spilling from the old man’s cracked lips.

Cries of pain and rage echoed from the side streets, answered only by raucous, drunken singing from some soldiers who had found barrels of wine in a storehouse. One man swung a silver censer above his head like a flail, chasing a cluster of terrified villagers as if it were a great game.

The streets of Elyos, once a place of sermons and solemnity, now belonged to the brutal arithmetic of conquest: the victors taking their due, the vanquished choking on the bitter dust of defeat.

And hanging over it all, like a ghost none dared speak of, was the understanding:This was mercy.It could have been far, far worse.

Through the torn chaos of Elyos, a small figure pushed forward — a little girl no older than twelve weaving through the forest of crashing boots and screaming villagers. Her linen dress was torn at the hem, her dark hair matted to her forehead from tears and dust. On either side of her, two soldiers in the white surcoats of the Crown marched grimly, hands resting on the pommels of their swords as they kept the mad revelry of their comrades at bay.

One of them, a wiry man with a crooked nose, cast an envious look toward a group of soldiers wrestling a protesting merchant to the ground. “Look at that,” he grumbled under his breath. “We’re stuck guarding a snot-nosed brat while everyone else is having their fun. This is horseshit.”

The other soldier, broader and with a scar running down his cheek, didn’t even glance at him. He simply lifted a heavy fist and thumped it into his companion’s shoulder, making the man grunt.”Use your head for once,” the scarred one muttered. “The prince gave an order. You want to be the next one flogged for disobedience? You know how he gets when you disappoint him and how generous he is to those that please him.”

The crooked-nosed man snorted, rubbing his arm and throwing a bitter glance down at the child. The girl, wide-eyed and trembling, tried to look anywhere but straight ahead — but her gaze was inevitably drawn toward two soldiers who, amidst a collapsed stall, were dragging a shrieking woman by her arms.

“Hey!” barked the crooked-nosed soldier, snapping his fingers in front of the girl’s face. “Don’t look there, you hear me?” He crouched low, getting his face to her level, scowling at the way she flinched back from him like a kicked dog. “Better yet—start talking. Who the hell are you anyway, that you get two babysitters?”

The girl only whimpered, fat tears spilling down her grimy cheeks, but said nothing.

“Great,” he muttered, spitting into the dust. “We can’t even ask questions now. Can’t have fun, can’t even ask questions.”

“Shut your damn mouth,” growled the other , grabbing his companion by the arm and pulling him upright. “Whoever she is, the prince wants her. That’s all you need to know. You want to go against that?”

The crooked-nosed soldier cursed under his breath but fell silent, giving the girl a final scowl before they both nudged her forward, away from the wreckage of Elyos. Step after hesitant step, the child was marched out of the screams and crashing wood, the madness of the plunder fading behind her.

————-

Alpheo stood in the middle of his tent, a cup of cider turning slowly in his hand, his gaze set not on the flapping banners outside, nor the glint of his armor resting nearby, but simply on the grass beneath his boots. A prince in thought — not of battles, nor treaties, but of a far quieter and far more delicate matter.

Jarza stood beside Alpheo with the quiet, looming presence of a statue cast in iron—still, unshaking, and impossible to ignore. He said nothing, but the weight of his gaze was felt just as much as his hand resting lightly on the hilt of the sword strapped at his side.

At last, the flap of the tent shifted. The entrance opened with a faint whistle of wind, and in stepped the small figure he had been waiting for.

The girl was little more than a wisp — a thin, fragile thing in a torn dress, with bare feet stained by the muddy grass of Elyos. Her eyes, wide as saucers, darted about the great expanse of the tent, taking in the sorroundings, until they landed on him.

Alpheo offered her the least threatening smile he could summon, softening the angles of his face. He crouched slightly, setting aside his cup on a nearby table.

“You are Aina, are you not?” he asked gently.

The girl, her hands twisting the hem of her dress, nodded fearfully.

“Good,” Alpheo murmured, reaching behind him and producing a small silver plate. Upon it rested a neatly cut slice of honey-cake, still glistening with honey. He extended the plate toward her, keeping his movements slow, deliberate. “You must be hungry,” he said, his voice low and even. “Would you like something sweet?”

For a moment, the child simply stared — first at the plate, then at him — her mouth slightly open, uncertain. Her eyes, which moments before had only known terror, now flickered with something that might have been awe… or perhaps simple disbelief.

Alpheo gave a small nod of encouragement.

Hesitantly, like a fawn approaching an open hand, the girl shuffled forward and took the plate. She glanced up at him one more time, as if seeking permission, and when she found no anger or command there, she bit into the cake.

The first taste made her freeze — and then she devoured the rest in small, ravenous bites, crumbs clinging to her lips.

Alpheo sat himself back on the low stool beside the table. His eyes studied the girl — no longer trembling as before, but cautious, her shoulders still hunched like a mouse waiting for the cat’s next move.

He leaned slightly forward, resting his elbows on his knees.”Tell me, Aina… how did you meet Robert?”

The girl licked some honey from her fingers, hesitant again. But when she finally spoke, her voice came in a whisper, barely louder than the breeze outside.”He saved me,” she said. “I… He found me. Gave me food. A place to sleep.” Her hands gripped the edge of the plate. “He didn’t… hurt me.”

Alpheo said nothing at first. He only reached for his cup and drank, the taste of cider somehow bitterer than before.

Aina’s voice broke the silence. “Are you… are you his friend?”

Alpheo glanced at her over the rim of his cup. A lie formed quickly and smoothly, like water filling a bowl.”Yes,” he said. “I was.”

That seemed to calm her—at first. Until he added, “My name is Alpheo.”

The change was instant. Her shoulders tensed. Her eyes dropped.

Alpheo caught it, and he laughed — not mockingly, but with a dry, knowing edge.”So,” he said, “it seems Robert wasn’t as reserved as I thought.” He swirled his cup lazily. “He must’ve spoken about me.”

Aina didn’t answer. Her small hands folded in her lap as he looked at the man that her caretaker loathed with all of himself.

They were not in fact friends.