《Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king》 The ploy of Arlania Chapter -1: The ploy of Arlania The sun beat down upon the land of Arlania, its rays blazing with an intense heat that seemed to curse the earth. It was rumored that only those who lived in this forsaken place could truly understand what hell feels like. It was either for the hot climate or the fact that this land has known more war than any other nation on this planet. Every couple of years or so , without fail, the emperor of Rolman would declare a campaign against the Arlanian princedom. And each time , the same events would unfold: villages would be raided, soldiers given the opportunity to release pent-up stress at the expense of the natives, and battles fought against armies sent by the prince,albeit that was as rare as a virgin girl in a brothel, most time the prince would instead prefer to flee if they failed to rally the support of foreign powers. Eventually, the imperial army would reach the capital and accept its surrender. In years past, the capital may have put up a fight. But now, it was a different story, too many princes with too many short reignes succeeded each other , and made it so that the nobles forgot what ''loyalty'' meant , as such most time they ignored letters or requests for help from their rulers, sometimes they even helped the invader to prevent their lands from being pillaged, sometimes instead of lending men , they gave gift usually in gold and silver, i?a small bribe'' they liked to say. As it had been the case for the last twenty years, the current emperor, Romulia IV, made an announcement that a new campaign toward that sand princedom was about to begin. Letters were sent to nobles, levies were raised, and provisions were gathered from the farms and brought to the city. And as always, slaves were tasked with carrying these supplies and weapons. The preparations were the same of the previous years, the proceedings the same, even the people leading it were. The empire of Rolman, so strong and impossible to fight on ''his'' side of the continent , was so valorous and rich that the only thing that could bring it down, was Rolman itself. And as things would show, it would be by its hand that soon many dynasties would crumble, new nations rise, and copious blood be spilled on the ground. This was to be the year of the three emperors.This chapter is updated by Chapter 1: Small men have great shadows(1) Chapter 1: Small men have great shadows(1) ''''Four men each gate, three men each tower . Two gates , eight towers'''' A young man muttered as he carried a heavy sack on his frail body. The sack made a hissing sound , as the grain inside hit his back, up and down each time he made a step. And without fail at each step, the young man would tremble, the wounds on his back stinging at him as the heavy sack, slapped at whipped wounds hidden by a small and light shirt. He was a slave, the lowest of the lowest on each society. Step after step, tremble after tremble, and curse after curse, the young slave trudged forward his step aimed at a big tent. As he approached it t, the clanging of steel on steel could be heard from outside , mixed with angry shouts. Despite the pain and exhaustion, the young slave took a deep breath and entered the tent. In a normal occasion, the presence of a slave in the kitchen tent would warrant a brutal punishment - most likely a whipping. The cooks and camp followers glared at him with disdain and disgust as he cautiously entered the tent. ''A second time and I will be three meters underground'' he thought as those gaze fell on him ''Actually cut that, the bastards will not dare to even bury me , as they will throw me to the dogs''. Suddendly , a raspy and high-pitched voice echoed from the depths of the tent. It belonged to a large and intimidating woman, her cruel eyes boring into the slave''s very soul. Her hair was greasy and unkempt, just like her attitude towards him.She was Virvana , and right now there was not a person in the whole world that he would have desired to kill more. "I''ll have you know that if you dare break another sack, even hell itself will not match the horrors I will unleash upon you," she bellowed in warning He met his end and was reborn in a foreign land, filled with customs and language unknown to him. He lived on as a simple farmer, the son of two humble people whose names he couldn''t recall. Poverty was his constant companion, hunger an ever-present ache in his belly. Yet, amid all this hardship, he found peace. Until even that peace was brought away. He could not discern which king or lord they served, but it mattered little as they swept through the village on horseback, dragging bound and helpless people behind them as they rode. These were not invaders, but slavers . Instead of pillaging their homes, they came with silver coins in hand, offering to buy slaves. And just like that, he was sold for a single coin ¨C the fifth son with four others still needing to be fed. He must have been ten or nine years old at the time; it was hard to remember amidst the six long years of torture and misery that followed. He was sold for a silver coin , that was his worth- His name was Alpheo , it was a mythical name, albeit the context was missed on him , it was a strange name and the fate of the one he belonged to was even stranger. If Alpheo had to choose a word to summarize his existence, it would be that of a pet, after all, throughout his life just like a mere pet , he was bought and sold at the whims of his masters. He had lived in many homes, his First master was a noble , his son liked his stories and the father bought me , his sister instead liked his body . Despite his cute appearance with warm brown eyes and an endearing puppy-like face, Alpheo was not that cute to defile a noblewoman. And the sister was ''that'' type of person. The only thing she did not hit was the face, she liked it too much to ruin it. Each morning, Alpheo would entertain the boy with his stories, only to be tortured in the evening for her pleasure before being sent off to sleep. This routine continued on until the sister was married off and he was sold once again.He smiled when he sas her being shipped to a fat man. The boy stopped liking his stories after six month and he was sold again and again until he reached the age of twelve when he was purchased by a soldier. The soldier died during a campaign, leaving Romio to be kept by the army. This time, he was relegated to working in the kitchen as a carrier and cleaner. The boy learned to act weak and meek,punches, slap and whips were his master, yet he never forgot who he was , nor what his desire was , freedom , that was what his desire , to be free. Yes free...free to bring steel and fire to this nation. Chapter 2: Small men have great shadows(2) Chapter 2: Small men have great shadows(2) Under the blistering sun, two soldiers sat at a small wooden table, their bodies slick with sweat as they sipped on glasses of wine. Strands of their hair clung to their foreheads, glistening in the heat. "I swear, we''ll turn as dark as coal if this heat keeps up!" His jet-black hair was bushy and unkempt, like a wild animal''s mane framing his face. His lean and toned physique spoke of his years serving in the army, but his smile remained ever-present, especially when among friends. The other soldier, older and more weathered than his companion, chuckled and quipped back, "Well, we will certainly look like them, that''s for sure . Perhaps that''s the secret to the savages'' tanned skin! Endless roasting under the unforgiving sun." They both shared a deep laugh, finding amusement in the exotic appearance of the natives in this foreign land. "I hope we can at least score 20 silverii this time. That would make it worth enduring this heat." "Twenty silverii? Knowing you, they''ll be gone in less than a week." The other remarked with a smirk, his gaze lingering on the wine. Typically such behavior would be heavily punished by officers, but these soldiers were not just simple footmen. They were clibanarii - the elite warriors of the empire who rode into battle on their fierce steeds and decimated entire infantry squads with their sheer force of charge alone. This was why they drank with such nonchalance and disregard for regulations - they were borderline nobility themselves. Many were second or third sons of low-ranking nobles who had joined the ranks of the clibanarii to prove their worth and earn glory for their families. As such, officers turned a blind eye to their indulgences. After all which low- ranking officer would want to make an enemy out of them? Together they laughed and drank under the scorching sun, enjoying a moment of respite from their duties as the elite fighters of the empire. The younger soldier grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he leaned in towards his older comrade. "Oh yes, and why is that?They are quite a big sum don''t you think?" "We both know why," he replied, a hint of teasing in his voice. "You could walk into any brothel back in Romelia and find a portrait of you hanging on the wall. You''re practically a patron saint for them. If you were to find wife, I am sure all whores would go begging from Romelia to Salikka'''' "Well good thing I am not , then!" He laughed " But what about you?" He asked as he drained his cup down his throat. In their eyes he was an object, and one was not to waste time with a pen or a sword more than he had to. Alpheo moved with meekness and submission, knowing that any sign of disobedience or hesitation would result in harsh punishment. As he worked to clean up the mess, he slyly tucked a small piece of pottery into his mouth.And luckily for him , the two were too tipsy to notice it . ''Drunk Bastards'' He thought as he rose from the ground. Once the task was complete, Alpheo hurried away towards the supply carriage. It was his duty to fetch items and carry them from one place to another in the army camp, usually he would carry sack of grains or potatoes . Though he despised being treated like this, it was still a better fate than what could have been reserved for him. If only he was stronger, he would have been assigned as a carrier - forced to work like a mule until his body gave out. Every time he walked through the camp on these errands, his eyes involuntarily fell upon the unfortunate souls who had met that fate. Their bodies were once strong and toned, but now they appeared emaciated and weak due to their master''s cruelty and starvation . Another difference between the two was also in the eyes . While the others had lost all hope, Alpheo''s gaze burned with determination. He refused to break under the pressure of their oppressors; he would sooner shatter than bend, he would act meek and weak but deep down he just awaited his chance . As a resident of Earth in the 21st century, the idea of submitting to slavery was unthinkable to him, much less than that of dying as a slave . Having known and experienced freedom for so long, he could never give up on his dream of reclaiming it. Even in the midst of suffering and starvation, he never stopped clinging to it . And as things would stand he was close to reach it . ''As if I would just be satisfied with it '' he sneered as he gazed at the sky , unbound and unlimited , he knew he was destined to greater things and no man nor nation would stop him . But he was not someone that awaited fate to lend his hand towards him. No, he was that man in a thousand that would grab the hand and yank it, disregarding if It belonged to a king or a god . He was someone that would build his fortune and the world would soon come to know his name, in one way or the other. For as things would soon show, it seemed that fate for once in Alpheo''s life would extend his hand towards him , giving him the opportunity to deliver the destiny he always thought himself worthy of, as that piece of pottery in his mouth would be his key to reaching greatness. Chapter 3: Small men have great shadow(3) Chapter 3: Small men have great shadow(3) ''At this hour, mom would have finished preparing dinner and I would already be down preparing the table'' Alpheo thought as he watched the sun slowly approaching his resting place. Memories flooded his mind, each one a precious fragment of a life he left behind 17 years ago. But there was one memory that haunted him above all else, one that he couldn''t shake no matter how hard he tried. He was sitting at the dinner table, surrounded by his family. He sat between his brothers. Across from him sat his parents, smiling and happy as they always were. And at the head of the table stood his beloved grandfather, a kind and gentle man whose face had become a blur in Alpheo''s mind. The large, wooden table was adorned with an abundance of delicacies , succulent cuts of meat, freshly baked bread , steaming plates of pasta, and creamy mashed potatoes dripping with melted butter. It must have been a special occasion, but Alpheo couldn''t recall which one. In fact, he struggled to remember any details about that night. The faces around him were familiar yet unrecognizable, like ghosts from a past life that he could never fully grasp again. Their expressions were blurred and their voices muffled, as if they were speaking through a thick fog. But one thing he would always remember was the food served on that table. Did that make him a bad son? Was it wrong for him to only remember the food and not the faces or voices of those who brought him into this world? His first parents had showered him with love, and his second ones had shown nothing but hate. How could any parent worth being called such sell their own child into slavery? As he drifted into sleep, battered and hungered from a long day of labor under his cruel master, he would dream of revenge. He imagined breaking free from his bonds, escaping into the night and finding his way back to his villages. In his dreams, he set fire to his old house, letting the flames consume the memories of his past life. But as dawn approached and the pain of his wounds jolted him awake, he faced the harsh reality that vengeance was not an option for someone like him. Suddendly he jolted as he heard the usual shout accompaning dawn ''''SPEED UP!EACH TO HIS CELL!'''' It was always the same voice that shouted that , it was that old bastard of Menicus , he was the overseer of the slave and it seemed like he took pleasure in that , as there was nothing he loved more than to search for an excuse to beat them with a stick. "Was today a successful catch?" A deep and gruff voice asked, cutting through the stillness of the room. The owner of that voice was Jarza, the oldest among them. Time had etched lines into his face, but he carried himself with a proud posture that belied his age. It was said that Arlanians were masters at hiding their years, and Jarza was no exception . As an Arlanian himself, it could be said that he had returned to his homeland, albeit in a much different position . But none of the three men in the room dared make such a joke. After all, why would they mock someone''s shit , when they were rolling in it? Like most low-born Arlanians, Jarza had dark-brown skin that glistened in the dim light of the room. He was completely bald, save for a patch of scruffy hair growing on one side of his face. It gave him the appearance of a dirty egg, or perhaps more fittingly, a chocolate truffle left out in the sun too long. He always claimed to have lost count of his age, but he knew deep down that he was well over forty. Despite his many years and countless battles fought, he remained a resilient bastard, refusing to go down without a fight. In his youth, he had been a formidable mercenary, Alpheo was certain that if he was to fight against him in battle, he would certainly piss his pants, he was no coward though , it was just Farza that was so scary to be around. Four years ago, his luck had taken a turn for the worse when he fell into slavery. The ironic twist was that it wasn''t an enemy''s capture that landed him in this dire situation. Instead, it was his own mounting debt that sealed his fate. No matter how hard he tried to escape the cities and find new companies to serve before his creditors came knocking, they always managed to catch up with him. And on one fateful day, luck seemed to have abandoned him completely. As he was caught and hauled away to be sold as a slave, as his pockets were as empty as his sense of humor. His strong and muscular physique fetched a decent price at the auction - eight silverii, to be exact. Despite his current state, traces of his past strength and constitution could still be seen beneath the layer of exhaustion and defeat. Chapter 4: Small men have great shadows(4) Chapter 4: Small men have great shadows(4) The other two companions were Clio and Egil, both were younger than Jarza , but still older than Alpheo .Egil, a young man in his late twenties, possessed a rugged appearance. His blonde hair, once vibrant, was now dulled by dirt and neglect, cropped short to avoid becoming tangled during his daily work. His frame, was lean and small , a minor gift to the physical demands placed upon him as a slave. Scars crisscrossed his skin, souvenirs of past beatings and skirmishes endured in the name of survival. His eyes, a piercing shade of blue, held a depth of wisdom beyond his years as pain teached him the way of life as amidst the darkness, there was a glimmer of resilience, a spark of defiance that refused to be snuffed out. His presence was like a ray of sunshine, always radiating warmth and bringing smile to the group .Despite their growing friendship, Alpheo knew very little about his past. Egil rarely spoke about himself, only revealing bits and pieces here and there. From what they could gather, he hailed from a small kingdom in the east, more of a tribe than a kingdom . He served as a rider for his tribe for some years. However, his life took a drastic turn when he was captured during a skirmish against the Empire . For the past two years, he had endured the harsh realities of slavery, enduring countless beatings . And no matter how much he suffered, his pride remained intact as he often boasted to his companions about his exceptional horsemanship skills. Among the group, Clio stood out as the most unassuming figure. His short hair, a dull shade of brown, blended in with the rest of his companions. Yet it was his long, unruly beard that captured the most attention, cascading down his chest in a tangle of wild brown and silver strands that seemed to have a life of their own. Before being forced into slavery, Clio had been a fisherman by trade. Like Jarva, he too had fallen into financial ruin and was sold into slavery for his inability to pay his debts. His small vessel was taken away from him, leaving him unable to make payments and ultimately leading to his enslavement. As he now stood among his fellow slaves, his once free spirit felt crushed and confined by chains and servitude. '''' So did you catch anything?'''' Egil asked Alpheo , his fingers scraping against his stomach, Jarva too looked intently at the youngest of their group , Clio instead looked outside towards the stars, albeit the rumbling of his stomach made it easy to read that he too was interested in the answer. This chapter is updated by With a loud snap, the bread splintered into countless small pieces, scattering across the rough and grainy ground. Egil let out a low mutter of satisfaction as he extended his hand to grab a piece, only to have it quickly slapped away by someone else. "Well, that was a good meal," Egil muttered under his breath as he caressed his aching hand , still eyeing the scattered pieces of bread on the ground. Clio turned to him with a stern expression. "Alpheo was the one who stole it and brought it here, so he should be the first to enjoy it," he stated firmly, his gaze fixed on Egil. In response, Egil raised his hand in defeat, acknowledging Clio''s words. And like that Alpheo gingerly took the small piece of the hard bread, his fingers trembling slightly as he brought it to his lips. With a deep breath, he tentatively placed the dry morsel in his mouth, feeling the rough texture scrape against his tongue. Instantly, his jaw clenched in discomfort. He could never get over that On the first day, the sensation had been unbearable, the bread feeling like gravel against his teeth, threatening to break them with each bite. He had wanted to scream in frustration, to throw the bread away. As it would seem , hunger was a harsh teacher though, and Alpheo learned to suffer it in silence. The other two followed suit, slowly and cautiously bringing small pieces of hard bread to their mouths. Alpheo stood alongside them, watching in silence as they savored each bite. He could see the hunger in their trembling hands and grateful expressions. After a few moments, Alpheo broke the silence. "I suppose it is time to reveal the other thing," he muttered as he swallowed. With a flick of his wrist, he opened his hand and revealed the small, and careful prize he had stolen early that day. Chapter 5: Small men have great shadows(5) Chapter 5: Small men have great shadows(5) With a careful motion, Alpheo he opened his palm, allowing them to glimpse at it . Jarza, the oldest among them, was the first to speak "How did you manage to get your hands on this?" he asked, his eyes shining with interest. Alpheo merely shrugged in response, a playful smirk playing on his lips. "Let''s just say I have my ways," he replied cryptically, his eyes twinkling with mischief, seeing the other pressing him for answer with their eyes he relente '''' I porposelly broke an urn , or whatever you call that thing holding the wine, I received a slap for it , but in return I gained this'''' He said as he flickered it within his finger. The eyes of the group following the hand-trick ''''You are one of a kind Alph'''' Egil muttered as he scratched his head in amazement ''''While the rest of us are struggling to survive , you have the strenght to work towards our escape , I swear if we make it alive out of here, I will make a statue out of you''''. As the praise round continued, Clio and Jarza joined in with enthusiasm, their voices blending together . Alpheo watched them with pride, taking each word of praise as a personal triumph. "With this, we now have four " Clio murmured, casting an admiring gaze at Alpheo, who stood tall and strong like a leader among them. "But who will hold onto it?" Egil interjected, breaking the momentary silence. "Each of us already has one, and obviously Alpheo is out of the question. So...any volunteers?" There was a brief pause before Clio confidently spoke up. "I will keep it." But before anyone could protest, Jarza''s voice rang out. "No, I will be the one. I am the strongest and also a carrier. I will keep it in my mouth along with the others during the day, as I never have to speak, only to carry the sacks during the march ." All eyes turned to Jarza. Everyone''s gaze then went to Alpheo , after all he was the facto-leader of the group, as most decision went through him . Clio''s voice was laced with disbelief as she asked, "Is there any reason for you to say that?" Alpheo tilted his head back and sighed heavily before responding. "The original plan was to cut our bindings during the night when everyone was asleep, using those sharp pieces of pottery we found. Then, under the cover of darkness, we were going to make our escape. The defenses back home are usually lax at night since they don''t expect any attacks on their own land." He paused, his last words coming out like thorns that pricked at his skin. "But now, with us being held captive in these cells, that plan is no longer possible." A pained expression crossed his face as he continued, "There are too many guards watching at night now. They would surely notice if we tried to escape. And I value my legs too much to risk losing them in a failed attempt. Give up that plan is no longer feasible...'''' All of them kept silence as if their voices were carved out from thier throat. Jarva raised his head and opened his mouth to try something , but no word came out . ''''Are you asking us to forget about it?And to simply toil around until death claim us?'''' Egil then asked , the silence becoming unbearable for him. His dirty blonde hair fall on his face, but he would not bother to flick them away ''''Why don''t you stop attacking him Eg-'''' Clio started to defend Alpheo but he was interrupted by the man itself "Egil," Alpheo began, his voice low and intense, "don''t you ever dare to say that again. I will burn this world down myself before I let these mongrels bury me in the earth as a slave." His words echoed through the heavy silence, slicing through the tense atmosphere like a sharp knife. Jarza and Clio shifted uneasily, feeling unsettled by Alpheo''s tone. Even Egil, who had been seething with anger, was suddenly calmed by the intense yet composed gaze of Alpheo. "Do you have a plan?" Jarza finally spoke up. "Of course I do," Alpheo replied confidently, his eyes scanning the surroundings for good measure ''But first, I need to calm down. Nothing good will come from antagonizing them. I need all of them'' He breathed in a bit of air before starting '''' if a silent escape is no longer an option, then we will go to plan B'''' ''''Which is?'''' Clio asked The words fell from Alpheo''s lips , his voice carrying a hint of excitement at the daring plan. "It''s simple, really," he declared. "We break out violently and take control of the camp. And in the meantime, we''ll seize all belonging in it, while killing all soldiers inside ." His tone was calm and casual, as if they were discussing a leisurely stroll instead of a suicide mission that involved cutting through the army of the strongest empire in existence. As it was the simplest thing in the entire world. Chapter 6: Small men have great shadows(end) Chapter 6: Small men have great shadows(end) The soft glow of moonlight filtered through the cracks in their cell, shining a bit of light on the face of Alpheo. Alpheo''s words lingered in the air like a heavy fog, his mad proposal still in the air. ''''Hey Java, did he go crazy? I am sure he did '''' Clio muttered to his companion as he leaned toward him. Java said nothing he just stared, yeah he stare pityly at Alpheo, as if he was looking at a mad-man, yet Alpheo seemed unbothered by the stares his companions were giving him. This chapter is updated by eanwhile Egil scoffed "Take control of the camp? Are you out of your mind, Alpheo? '''' ''''I have never been saner, my friends'''' Alpheo muttered as he put another one of that piece of hard stones, the people of that world called ''bread'' inside his mouth. "Hunger must''ve addled your brains Alph, take another piece'''' It seemed though that he did not like the joke one bit . ''''Are you trying to make a speech?Rallying our hearts towards a sure death?I trust you Alph, but I am not going to burn in hell without a proper ''why''. So give me a reason and a good one at that'''' He said nothing and then with a heavy sigh, he continued , unbothered by Egil''s word "I''ve been a slave for twelve years, and six of those years have been spent marching alongside these bastards." His words dripped with bitterness. "And even though I would give anything to slice off their cocks and shove them down their throats while they sleep at night, you learn not to act on such desires when you march with soldiers for half your life.On the contrary, you learn their ways" As he spoke, Alpheo''s jaw clenched with anger though his lips smiled '''' I have observed how they marched and acted during campaign and there is a great flaw that I have observed time and time again.I am quite surprised of it, but still.... better for us. '''' He stopped making sure the others were listening, when he saw that he had the other complete attention, he raised a finger and pointed it at his hands. "Before every battle, they do the same thing - stuff the slaves in cages and bind their hands before leaving for war." Alpheo continued, frustration evident in his voice. "And usually, they leave some men behind on the wall , you know to look out for enemies . That''s where it gets tricky. We''ll have to deal with these guards first before we can take the camp and make our move. If they run to inform the emperor or whatever lord of our rebellion,that will be the end ." He stopped as he moved his hand around him. '''' After all it is here, that they hold the food and gold , and if we were to burn all the food, they would literally starve. So we would have to deal with them fast and make sure that they don''t get access to the horses. '''' Each word that fell from his lips was like a gauntlet thrown down, infused with an air of determination and challenge. "We do that ," Alpheo declared, "and freedom will be within our grasp." As he spoke, he fixed each member of the group with a direct gaze, making sure to convey the depth of his conviction. After all, he needed their help if they were to have any chance of success. The others swallowed nervously, feeling their throats tighten with dryness. What he said made perfect sense - with a bit of luck , maybe they could truly do it and achieve freedom. ''''There is a problem,'''' the black companion of theirs said, his voice heavy with worry. ''''We are currently on a campaign against Arlania, but our ''betters'' are as brave as rabbits and as honest as swindlers. If you hope for battle, you should first expect the sky to fall on our heads.'''' Alpheo furrowed his brow , Jarza took it as a sign to continue "It has been decades since a proper resistance was given to either the empire of Rolmia or the sultanate of Azania. They will never engage in a battle in an hundred years." Alpheo stood still, then shook his head with a knowing smile, as if the answer was right in front of them and they had failed to see it. "That''s where you are wrong, my friend," Alpheo interjected confidently. "Soon there will be a battle, and a fucking big one at that." He leaned in closer, his gaze intense and determined. "We just have to be ready for it and be sure to jump on the ship before it sail , we do that and we''ll win". Chapter 7: Blood feud(1) Chapter 7: Blood feud(1) Thousands of tents sprawled across the earth like a vast sea of fabric. There was no mistaking it was a camp...the city of Baarsha, capital of the principality of Arlania, loomed just a few kilometers ahead, but it seemed worlds away from this bustling military encampment. Flanking each tents were obviously also torches , at least three to each one. The thick smoke from these countless fires seemed to build a grey bridge towards the sky , as if they were trying to reach the gods "Arlania''s is like a brothel, at the first sign of coin or sword, you will find their doors more open than a flower in the morning sun." This was a popular saying among the common soldiers, who saw themselves as lucky to be chosen by their lords to march in such campaigns. After all, there was minimal risk of dying and ample opportunity for financial gain. The emperor himself often rewarded his soldiers with monetary gifts after receiving the new prince''s gift But in reality, these campaigns were often nothing more than grand displays of power and most importantly to boost prestige for one leading the army, since they were always sure to succeed. Battles were rare, if they happened at all. And so when the Rolmian scouts spotted this moderate-sized military camp ahead of the capital, they couldn''t help but scratch their heads in confusion and wonder what game their enemies were playing. "Well, this is quite a surprise, isn''t it? Who knew they had it in them?" One of the scouts commented, his voice tinged with surprise as he surveyed the camp below. "How many are there?" inquired another, his curiosity piqued by the unexpected sight. "Considering the tents, there should be at most 8,000," the second scout replied after finishing his count. "Quite a surprise, really, but hardly a danger. I bet they are nothing more than peasants given some spears and told to fight." He chuckled confidently. "They are no match for our army." "How many are we, by the way?" Visit for the best novel reading experience "14,000 or something like that," the second scout replied dismissively. "I didn''t bother to count our numbers really...." "Still, do you think the nobles went behind the emperor''s backs and supported the prince?Woe to them if they did " "Hardly a possibility. When was the last time they actually went to battle?" "Then how do you explain their numbers?" "Well, I am sure that the prince went all out and-" the second scout began, but he was abruptly cut off by the older of the three scouts, who had remained silent until now. The scout quickly scrambled to his feet and ran from the room, fearing that one moment or the other he may have his head sent flying . The nobles inside the tent stood silent their eyes not daring to meet the emperor''s they knew too well that it was nor the moment nor the time to discuss about what to do next, after all the appearance of an army completely disrupted their previous war-plans . ''''HOW? HOW THE FUCK DID THEY GET THERE JULIAN!'''' The king shouted as he moved towards one of the nobles, he was old , his once blonde hair turned gray , one of his eye was covered by a black patch, a small farewell gift given by Zazanians at the battle of the shifting sand. He was among those that were captured, by custom he should have been treated and honourbaly , still that did not stop them from taking one of his eyes and send it to his family asking for ransom. Someday during the cold it would hurt , yet when it was hot it would tremble.... he still remembers the hot knife cutting through his eyeball. And the memories never left him as sometime during the night he would awake screaming and swinging his arms around like a madman, until his guards called by his wife would come in and restrain him. ''''CAN YOU FUCKING ANSWER ME!ARE YOU DEAF? ARE THOSE EARS FOR DECORATIONS?'''' The emperor continued shouting as he approached closer to his spy-master. That was not how he usually behaved, normally he was as stoic and calm as a lake , deigning of small smile for delight , and a simple frown when angered, yet none of them was unaware of the reason. Ugly and past memories probably surged within the emperor''s mind . ''''I apologise your grace, my spy -'''' ''''YOUR ?'''' ''''OUR, our spy did not report anything like that as a matter of fact we did not even know they had assembled such force, I can not exp-'''' ''''I DON''T PAY THEM AN EYE, FOR YOU TO SAY YOU CANNOT. YOU ARE OUR EYES AND EARS , YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE MY INFORMANTS, NOT A BABBLING FOOL. OUT OF HERE , NOW!'''' Julian lowered his head, and left , he rarely saw the emperor so angered and he knew better than to disobey him. ''''What''s the problem?'''' The uncomfortable silence , immediately became still.All eyes drawn to the figure of a young man. He looked around in confusion sensing his eyes on him. He had posed such question to the man in his side, yet the silence was there when he spoke, failing to mask his words. The various nobles did not know if they should pity him or be awed by his ignorance. Not even the time to understand the situation and the boy flew to the ground, his lips broken and few teeth flying out. The Steel-hand of the emperor , raised to the sky, few drops of blood on it . ''''THIS IS THE FUCKING PROBLEM!'''' He shouted as he moved his prostethyc towards the boy face. ''''SEE THIS FUCKING MISSING HAND , AND DO YOU SEE THIS CROWN I WEAR?HARD TO MISS ARE THEY ? THEY WERE BOTH GIFTS OF THOSE BASTARDS! THAT''S THE FUCKING PROBLEM'''' Chapter 8: Blood feud(2) Chapter 8: Blood feud(2) Silence passedon through the tent, some wanted to speak, but one look at the boy at the ground and one look to the emperor, certainly made many mouths shut close. Some stared at the boy in pity, other instead simply ignored it , yet above all one common thought was shared ''Damn fool did you live under a rock?'' It was common knowledge that the mere mention of the mercenary company''s name in front of the emperor was strictly forbidden. Just thirty years ago, at the battle of the falling eagle, the entire empire trembled as the ground shook beneath their feet. The previous sultan of Azania had thrown his support behind a rebel against the powerful Empire of Rolmia, causing the empire to fall in a state of civil unrest due to a succession crisis within one of its most influential houses - the ''Kantazoukones''. Two twins both vied for the title of ''Authorite Pater'' and control over their noble family. Arlion the late-comer, was forced to flee into Azania with his life in danger from assassins hired by his own brother. After three long years, he returned with an army of hired swords, recruited and funded by the previous Sultan Farfah II. Who however saw it as an opportunity to sow chaos and discord within the empire - it didn''t matter who emerged victorious as long as there were heavy casualties on both sides. The two armies stood at attention, facing each other like opposing forces of nature. Arlion, the leader of the hired companies, knew that his smaller and less disciplined army would crumble under the full might of the imperial army. But he had a plan, one that was daring and dangerous. He would use their enemy''s own pride and rashness against them. He placed his most elite unit in the center, making it seem vulnerable with exposed flanks. The soldiers marched forward, carrying a banner depicting an eagle with its head cut off. It was a blatant insult to the emperor, known for his courage and hot temper. And it worked like a charm. The enraged emperor took the bait and charged forward with his fellow hot-headed nobleman and their fierce clibanarii cavalry. The ground shook under the thundering hooves of hundreds of horses as they galloped towards their doom. Only 120 out of 800 soldiers emerged from the reckless charge alive. The incident was later dubbed "the charge of fools", as the emperor failed to see through Arlion''s trap.During the battle Aerlion army purposefully gave ground and distanced the emperor from his allies , hidden troops sprang out from bushes and surrounded the emperor''s group which failed to detect the trap. They fought valiantly but were ultimately defeated. The first to fall was the emperor himself, a spear piercing his chest before he could even realize what had happened. The tense silence was broken by Gratios, his voice booming with fury and determination as he rose from his throne-like chair. With purposeful strides, he approached the group of nobles before him, his eyes blazing with hatred. "Thirty years ago, we suffered a humiliating defeat at the hands of lowly commoners who would sell their own wives for a handful of coins," he snarled, his hand clenching into a tight fist. "But now, the God-Warrior has granted us the opportunity for revenge, and I will gladly take it with my own hands." His words were met with eager nods from the other nobles, knowing exactly what the next part meant for them. "It is time to pay those bastards back for their insult," Gratios declared, his grip tightening on his sword. "I will personally purge their company of every soldier fighting under that despicable banner they still display." The plan had initially been simple - amass gold and flee the principality. But now, with their honor trampled upon by the Arlanian prince there was no coming back "Arlania shall become true Imperial land once again," Gratios roared, his sword unsheathed as the other nobles followed suit. "And it is time for new nobles to rise in this forsaken land - true Nobles of the Empire of Rolmia!" Their battle cries echoed throughout the halls as they prepared to go to war. "For Rolmia! For the Emperor! For the Empire!" They shouted in unison, their voices filled with bloodlust and vengeance. It was no longer about gold or power - it was about reclaiming their dignity and restoring their rightful place in the world. This was not just a battle - it was a declaration of war¡ªfinally, a proper war. Chapter 9: Escape (1) Chapter 9: Escape (1) ''''Come on , speed up!'''' One of the soldiers shouted as he smashed his cane on the ground. The slaves flinched and scrambled to move faster, thier feet sinking in the sand. As the sun rose higher in the sky, movement erupted throughout the camp. Soldiers rushed to their private tents, hastily grabbing weapons and donning their armor. For many of the infantrymen, this meant slipping on a single piece of chainmail and a battered helmet. It wasn''t much, but it was better than going into battle unprotected and naked . Amidst the chaos and anxiety among the slaves, one slave couldn''t hide his elation. He had been right about the signs he had read, and now all that remained was to keep a cool head and execute his plan. Following the orders of the soldiers, the slaves'' hands were bound with rough ropes as they were herded toward the cells where they slept. Once inside, they were locked in together with simple knots securing pieces of wood across the entrance. It was standard procedure before every battle - ensuring that all slaves were secured to minimize any threat or interference. From his vantage point, Alpheo eagerly watched the army moving around with fervor, his blood boiling with anticipation for when he could put his plan into action. He always wondered why an army made use of so many slaves, after all many of them were used as carriers but why not use mules or horses?True they needed more money to be maintained, yet they could pull much more weight. As the hour drew to a close, the soldiers completed their preparations and marched out of the camp. Unfortunately for Alpheo, he was unable to witness the grand procession, as his view was obstructed by the thick canvas walls of the camp. He had no indication of when the battle would begin, leaving him unaware of what was happening outside of it . If things were to go awry and the army retreated back into the safety of their camp, their plan would fail and their fates would be sealed, with their pretty heads adorning the pointy end of a pike . What felt like two hour to him may have only been half that time in reality. But with the promise of taking control of his own fate looming in front of him, he could not help but feel restless and on edge. He was in a cell with seven other men, his hand drummed down on the sand as he struggled to maintain his patience. ''Fuck it,we will start the plan.'' With a swift movement, he opened his mouth and retrieved the small piece of pottery he had hidden there. It was sharp , as he made sure of that by using a rock during the night. Alpheo looked around and smiled . He was confident in its success, especially with how close their cells were placed together. A simple signal could easily be conveyed between them. And so, with one decisive cough followed by two strong inhales from the nose and another cough, Alpheo gave the signal. It didn''t take long for three distinct coughs to echo back in response. ''FUCK IS THERE ANYTHING THAT GOES MY WAY?''Alpheo cursed under his breath, his mind racing as he assessed the situation. "Arm yourselves! Be quick and efficent !" he bellowed in a low tone, commanding authority over the chaos. Usually men were not inclined to follow orders, yet when chaos was all around and fear took control of their heart, it was then that they would search for someone to tell them what to do. After all, men are fearful by nature and they are inclined to search for someone to lead them in time of panic , and that someone was Alpheo. He did not stay to witness the outcome though; as soon as he gave the order, Alpheo grabbed a knife for himself and stepped out of the tent, his senses on high alert as he surveyed the area. Suddenly, from other nearby tents emerged more women, watching in shock at what was unfolding before them. "The slaves have escaped!" one woman shouted in disbelief. "Where are the soldiers?" another cried out. Alpheo knew that any hope of an easy escape had vanished; they were now to fight . More and more slaves emerged from various tents where the women cooked, grabbing whatever makeshift weapons they could find - small pots, pieces of pottery, even hardened bread . Alpheo spun around, looking for a familiar face among the chaos. He spotted Egil and quickly called out to him. "Egil! Take 40 men and secure control of the horses! Make sure no one gets to them!" Alpheo commanded urgently, he needed to make sure that no soldier rode towards the army . Egil nodded and immediately led a group of slaves towards the horses. There were slightly more than 40 men, but there was no time to waste. "Alpheo," Jarva''s voice cut through his thoughts as he approached him. "We need to deal with the guards." Alpheo nodded, biting his nails in anxiousness. "Take half of the men and clear out the guards on your side. I''ll do the same on my side," he instructed. "Remember, there must be no more than 100 soldiers in total - that means 50 against each of us. We must overwhelm them with our numbers. Try to offer them a chance to surrender in the midst of battle; they will realize they are outnumbered and hopefully lay down their weapons. Then slit their throats and loot their bodies. Once you''re done, send one of your men to me and we''ll quickly loot the rest of the camp and make our escape. Good luck, Jarva. Make sure you make it out alive." Jarva gave him a determined nod before joining his group of slaves to engage with the soldiers. All that was left for them to do now was fight their way out and hope for a successful escape. Chaos was all around them,and yet Alpheo had always been someone who thrived in it. He was all in all , a sneaky little rat. Chapter 10: Blood feud(3) Chapter 10: Blood feud(3) The soldiers could hardly believe it - they were about to engage in a pitched battle against the prince of Arlania. Who would have thought that they had the balls to fight? Despite their initial doubts, they were excited for it , as after the battle the soldiers would have certainly been allowed to loot and rape in the city at their liking. After all, as the Romlians say ''If they bend the knee help them rise, if they fight make sure to give them steel and blood'' And seeing the army , someone would receive their steel today. "Forward men!" The officers spoke with fierce shouts and encouraging words. "They are cowards! One push and they will all fall!" The soldiers formed a line and marched forward,the battle had already started. "All in a line," came the command, "Don''t break formation. Keep your shields up and march slowly." "Come on men! Since when are you scared of these pieces of coals?" The general plan was easy to grasp , even the officers , though low-level in rank, understood it. They knew that the Arlanian army lacked a strong cavalry , which meant , that the enemy would struggle to defend against their clibanarii riders.So the plan was for the infantry to charge , and when the time was ripe, to send the clibanarii to finish the job. As the infantry marched steadily towards the enemy forces, shouts of defiance and threats echoed through the air. "Come and die you bastards!" yelled one soldier, fueled by adrenaline "I shall have fun with your daughters and wives while you watch me from hell!" jeered another. Among them all, many were spurred forward by greed be it for gold or women "Your gold will all be mine!" another one cackled maniacally Their war cries echoed through the battlefield as they marched straight towards their enemy. Usually a battle would not begin with a straightforward charge, but rather with an exchange of arrows and projectiles between the two sides, with the winner proceeding forward to soften the enemy lines , before retreating after they either finish up their stacks of arrows, or the enemy start moving toward them . It was a common tactic, but today was different. Today, at the forefront of the Arlanian formation stood the arch-nemesis of the emperor . Just the sight of them made Gratios grit his teeth in frustration as he ordered his infantry to march forward. "This time,", he had thought fiercely as he sent the army foward , "I will make sure to annihilate every last one of you." However, this meant that while battle would be brought to them faster, it certainly allowed the Arlanians to have clear passage and to unleash their entire arsenal upon the oncoming armies. Arrows whizzed through the air,like snakes hissing in the grasss - all aimed at the enemies who advanced towards them. The imperial infantry had no choice but to advance , dodging and weaving through a barrage of lethal projectiles as they fought to reach their opponents. Amidst the chaos, arrows found their mark, piercing limbs and shoulders with their sharp points. ''''My leg!My leg!'''' One of the soldiers shouted as he bled from the leg , a small piece of stick being the gift left by an archer. With caramel-like skin that seemed to glow under the sun''s rays, he cut a striking figure against the backdrop of sand and dust. His long blonde hair cascaded down to his neck, flowing like strands of gold in the desert breeze. With a visage that boasted handsome features, devoid of any blemish or scar,the prince pleased the eyes of both men and women. His chiseled jawline framed a determined expression, his piercing eyes ablaze with determination and resolve as he led his men into battle for the first time. ''''May the sun bless his sons and blaze on our enemies.'''' he muttered as he raised his eyes towards the sky, before immediately dropping the gaze when the sun became too unbearable. Though still in his early twenties, the prince carried himself with the confidence and authority of a seasoned leader, one of the many reason he acquired the loyalty of some nobles.Which considering the kingdom he was ruling, was certainly a great feat. One of these noble Yamier (Earl) Marza, a loyal supporter of the prince , approached his liege . His armor glistened in the sunlight, adorned with the sigil of his noble house, two ravens on a red field, a symbol representing the fact that the richness of his house was built through battles alone and not deception or intrigue . Something that was greatly appreciated by the prince. I need blades , he thought , not snakes with poison. "My prince, the '' betrayed '' are being pushed back," he began, his voice filled with concern. "Should we go ahead with the plan? I fear they may break if this continues." Prince Arzalat''s gaze remained steadfast as he met Marza''s eyes, he muttered few words, yet they still shook the man from his core "Will you uphold your oath once again, my good man ?" he asked solemnly With a deep bow, Marza knelt before his prince, his commitment evident in every fiber of his being. "Always my prince , in this life and the other," he vowed, his words resonating with solemn reverence. Satisfied with Marza''s response, he raised his hand "Very well," he declared. "Take control of the two Azabs and flank the enemy from the right." After that he immediately turned left, giving his attention to another loyal retainer,Sheri (baron) Nasaah. Nasaah, like Marza,was a man in his late forties , unlike Nasaah though he was bald,though the lack of hairs was compensated by his long beard. His skin like that of his prince was caramel, as while most of the common populace was black in hue, the nobility instead had a light brown color , as most of them were not of Arlanian blood as much as they were cousins of their neighbors in the sultanate of Azania. "Sheri Nasaah," he called out, his eyes fixed on his trusted commander. "Take control of one Azab and provide support to the Betrayed. Ensure that they do not break." Without hesitation, Sheri Nasaah bowed deeply before swiftly moving forward to carry out his orders. Meanwhile, the last remaining Azabs in reserve were given their final instructions by the prince himself - another noble was tasked with charging from the left flank, effectively sandwiching their enemies between two fierce attacks. Everybody in that camp knew, that what they were doing was a bet. If they won, than they could finally ascend on a golden age, where the Arlanian could finally decide on how to live on their own, while if they failed than nothing would change. All the nobles that followed Arzalat, came to see him as the man that could change the fate of their country. He was seen as the one who could break their shackles and free them from the tight grip of the empire that held them captive. But even with this liberation, a new power would rise in its place: the mighty Azania. Despite this, many were willing to trade one for the other , for they felt a stronger sense of connection and belonging to the sultanate rather than being mere pawns in the hands of foreign oil-drinkers. After all, it was thanks to their gold and support that they now had the chance to meet the emperor in battle, a dream that would have never come true without that help. Chapter 11: Escape (2) Chapter 11: Escape (2) ''''The slaves are revolting!'''' ''''Soldiers , where are you?'''' The source of this content nov(el)bi((n)) ''''They will kill us all, Gods have mercy!'''' The panicked cries echoed through the camp, mingling with the frantic shouts of soldiers scrambling to respond to the unexpected uprising. Alpheo stood amidst the chaos, his gaze sweeping over the scene before him. Everywhere he looked, he saw women running in fear, their voices raised in desperate pleas for help. Yet he paid them no mind. They were hardly a threat compared to the soldiers left behind to guard the camp. The real obstacle lay in overcoming these remaining defenders, scattered as they were throughout the perimeter. They had to be fast , as scattered soldiers also worked to their advantage, as it meant they could be overwhelmed through sheer numbers. Initially, he had worried that the slaves, would have pursued the women to rape them and take revenge for the years of contempt , luckily they still had enough brains to understand that danger was still ahead of them. "With me, men!" Alpheo''s commanding voice echoed through the camp as he led some hundreds slaves forward. The thump of their feet on the dirt path reverberated through the air, as they ran foward . Along the way, they encountered scattered groups of soldiers, usually either alone or in group of two and three.These men were no match for their overwhelming numbers, though . As at the sight of the frenzied mob charging towards them, the soldiers dropped their weapons and fled in terror. Desperate cries and shouts filled the air as they ran, but most were not fast enough as one of the slaves, probably sprinting through rage alone usually tackled these men down. As multiple slaves held their limbs down, others armed with knives aimed at their exposed flesh killind them . In this brutal manner, twelve soldiers fell to the ground, their swords , lances and daggers taken by thier killers, as some even took their chainmail and helmet as they followed Alpheo. The young slave simply shook his head "No need to thank me," he replied, his voice tinged with bitterness. "You helped me escape . Now it''s my turn to repay the debt." He recognized him, he was a slave sitting in the same cell as him during the escape. ''Good thing then that he was with me '' He thought as he rose from the wooden floor.He had no time to ask for his name, though he memorised his face. Alpheo was someone who always believed in paying back favors tenfold, and he would certainly not forget him. Almost immediately , more and more slaves poured into the watchtowers, thier skins washed in sweat as they runned toward the walls . With a collective roar, the rebels launched themselves at the soldiers who made their last stand atop the wooden wall. The clash of weapons and bodies echoed through the air, mingling with the shouts and screams of the combatants. In the confined space of the watchtower, there was nowhere to hide, no room for retreat. It was a fight to the death, a desperate struggle for freedom against overwhelming odds. With each passing minute, the onslaught of the slaves claimed more and more soldiers. Their bodies, now laying broken and lifeless on the sandy ground below. Each death was marked by a spray of blood, splattering across the sand like a twisted painting. One by one, the soldiers met their end in a variety of gruesome ways. Some had their chests pierced by sharp blades, others were opened up at the throat, their blood spilling out onto the ground. Some were struck with crushing blows to the head from heavy urns or pots, their skulls cracking under the force before being pushed out of the way, and while the fall was not high enough to kill them, it was certainly high enough to break their legs. As the battle raged on and bodies continued to pile up, it seemed as though there would be no end in sight. But finally, after what felt like an eternity, the last of the soldiers fell to the ground. The watchtower stood silent and still, its once mighty defenders vanquished. .And then breaking the silence was one single cheer, followed by another and then another , until each man erupted in shouts of glee as they realized that they had won, they were alive and breathing. The hard part was over; it was time to loot the camp and escape. Chapter 12: Blood feud (4) Chapter 12: Blood feud (4) The sand shifted and rose up into dust with every thunderous beat of a thousand hooves. But these were not of horses; they were the mighty camels, the tanks of the deserts. Their massive forms moved with a surprising grace, their long legs carrying them swiftly across the sandy terrain. The riders were armed to the teeth with gleaming lances, two javelins each, and an axe at their sides. Colorful feathers sprouted from their helmets, adding a touch of vibrancy to the otherwise intimidating armor that covered their bodies. Each one wore a steel mask, giving them an air of danger and making them seem less human and more monsters . They sat tall and proud atop their desert steeds, their feet secure in the stirrups as they raised their lances high in the air. They were the juggernauts of the sultan, none in the world would dare say he does not know who they were. Nightmares of the cavalry and monsters of the desert, they were ''the riding bane'' and the world would witness their charge once again. With a thunderous cry of ''''ALALALAI'''' - ''''ALALALAI,'''' the riders charged forward as was tradition before battle. This custom had been passed down for generations in the sultanate of Azan, dating back centuries to when these fierce warriors were known as the sand riders. For two hundred years, they had roamed the desert, raiding caravans and farms and setting up camps near oases where cities would eventually flourish, at that time that old desert was known as the shifting gold sea . But all that changed 150 years ago when Afarah The Tall subdued all the tribes residing in the Qarzla Desert. It took him 25 long years, but his life''s work was to bring peace to the land. He slaughtered dozens of tribes , took the sons of each chieftain as hostages, and then settled them elsewhere. Yet some could say he caused even more damage instead , as after the passing of each sultan the tribes would revolt and use their camels to strike in different places and then retreat before they would encounter resistance, they did not know how to sow only on how to rob. However, things took an unexpected turn when Mursma The Fair ascended to the throne. Instead of massacring the population, raiding their camps near the oasis and subsequently causing the survivors to form bands of bandits like his predecessors, he chose a different approach. He allowed the sand riders to settle down in exchange for their loyalty and military prowess. This arrangement proved beneficial for both parties. The sultan had powerful allies on his eastern border who could easily handle his western foes'' heavy cavalry, and the sand riders were given free rein to pillage and plunder any unclaimed land that did not bear the sultan''s banners, which on the eastern borders they were stelled were many . Over time, this alliance grew stronger, and after 90 years, the sultan even formed an elite force known as the Riding Bane, consisting of only the strongest and most skilled riders among them.Which would then become their most loyal forces. For now, however, these camel riders were not fighting for the sultan, but under orders from the prince of Arlania. Just as the prince had hoped, the emperor had taken the bait and charged with his reserve forces at the flanking unit. This meant that the only remaining forces in battle were his archers and cavalry, both of which were just meat to be slaughtered by the "riding bane." With the emperor''s forces committed to the flanking maneuver, the prince knew that his plan was unfolding perfectly. The archers and cavalry were now exposed and vulnerable, with no reinforcements to come to their aid. It was the perfect opportunity for the camel riders to strike and deliver the decisive blow that would secure victory for Arlania. The camel riders rode forward , their mounts moving swiftly and gracefully across the shifting sands of the battlefield.500 lances rose in the sky , as the shouts of the riders of the desert was heard by everyone. As they advanced, the archers of the enemy forces hurriedly knocked their arrows, drawing their bows and releasing their shafts in rapid succession. The arrows flew through the air, cutting through the space between the archers and their targets with accuracy. But to their dismay, they found their mark with little effect. The arrows bounced harmlessly off the sturdy armor of both the riders and their camels, their metal plates and thick hides providing ample protection against the feeble projectiles. ''One has to have big balls to try something as dangerous as this , so either he was a brave madman or he trusted his infantry to keep fighting even when flanked by two sides .'' he mused "To think he would join hands with the sultan... I''ve been made a fool of." Despite his frustrations and regrets, the emperor knew he had to make a decision - and quickly. Should he retreat and save himself, riding south towards the safety of the camp? It was a tempting option, but fraught with risks. If the arlanian nobles during their march home, caught wind of his retreat, they might seize the opportunity to to gain the goodwill of their ruler .Nothing spell loyalty more than presenting the head of thier biggest of enemy But another voice within him urged him to stand firm and fight. "You can do it," it whispered, pushing him to consider the possibility of victory. "The camels are focused on the archers below. If you charge with your clibanarii, you can turn the tide of battle in your favor.Luck favor the bold Gratios, raise your lance and charge " Torn between the urge to flee and the desire to seize victory from the jaws of defeat, the emperor hesitated, weighing his options carefully. "Your grace," the noble''s voice pierced through the chaos of battle, "we must act swiftly. The enemy will soon come to us '''' The emperor''s response was immediate as he unsheathed his sword, its steel glinting in the sunlight. "I refuse to flee," he declared boldly to his followers. "Look, my lords, those bastards are occupied with the archers. They will not be able to mount a successful charge against us. We have the advantage here, we can break through their lines and be the first to shatter the sultan''s riding bane in all of history . Glory awaits us, my brothers, let us seize it like lions." With a determined roar, the emperor spurred his horse forward, followed by his clibanarii and loyal nobles. For if they were to turn and run now, they would surely face ostracization or even arrest for cowardice, so for many, death was much more preferable than to flee. Though they all knew that they were riding after their death, after all there was a reason for which Camels were never defeated by horse in the desert. Horses were spooked by those beast, making a charge a futile attempt. However, they did not dare speak up or question their leader''s decision. Instead, they held their tongues and raised their lances, preparing to ride forward into battle, determined to protect their emperor at all costs and to welcome death with a brave face, that was the true duty of a noble ''''GLORY TO THE EMPIRE'''' Chapter 13: Escape (3) Chapter 13: Escape (3) He has done it , the camp was his , all the soldiers defending it were killed , their armors were looted . And their dead bodies left to welcome the army once they are back , one small gift in exchange for all the things they were to take . Updated from Alpheo stood there , the sword of one of the soldiers in hand , all the slaves around observed him in awe, during the fight talks went around and they all discovered that it was the boy in front of them the mastermind behind it all. As he glanced over his shoulder, a smile spread across Alpheo''s face at the sight of Egil returning to his side, the two of them sharing a moment of silent acknowledgment. ''They have succeeded.... very well,the camp is ours'' Alpheo thought , as his mind raced to understand on what to do . Yet, despite the apparent success of their rebellion, Alpheo knew that they were not yet out of danger. The taste of victory was sweet, yet it was tempered by the fact, that their freedom was a fragile flame, that could be easily extinguished by the winds .The army could return at any moment and if they were not out of there by then. All they had done would have been for naught. He couldn''t shake the feeling of unease that was growing in him. As Alpheo walked, he couldn''t help but recognize a few faces in the crowd. None of them brought back fond memories, only reminders of past grievances and conflicts. His eyes landed on a particularly rotund figure, sprawled on the ground before him. "Well, if it isn''t madam Virzian," he muttered under his breath as he knelt down to get a closer look. It was clear that she was already dead, her eyes glassy and her body still. Alpheo had always prided himself on not holding grudges against the dead, but he couldn''t deny feeling a sense of satisfaction at her demise. With a sly smile, he raised his leg and gave her a swift kick to the stomach. A small laugh escaped his lips as he watched the rolls of fat jiggle with the impact. "I once heard of a Chinese emperor whose body burned for three days on the street, or maybe it was a general . I wonder if we could set a new record here," he mused aloud, entertained by the thought of giving madam Virzian such an extravagant send-off. But upon further reflection, Alpheo dismissed the idea. He knew that burning her body would bring him no real joy or fulfillment. Instead, he turned away from the lifeless form and continued on his way, leaving behind any thoughts of revenge or retribution. Revenge may be sweet, but in this case, it held no appeal for him. As Alpheo made his way through the bustling camp, he observed the show with a smile . Slaves dashed to and fro, their voices ringing out in excitement as they shouted to their companions upon discovering something of value. "Hey, over here! I found some food !" one slave exclaimed, waving a loaf of bread triumphantly. "Here there are some weapons !" another shouted, pointing at a tent before entering it and coming out with chainmail and an helmet . The camp was filled with hope as the slaves rummaged through the tents, their smiles wide and infectious, after all all these things they were stealing would be theirs . It was not all smiles however as despair was all around "Help! Someone, please help me!" a woman cried out, her desperate plea piercing the air before being abruptly stopped by a blade. It was a good thing they heeded his order, as he feared that after finally gaining freedom, they would have went around raping the cooks instead of stacking up supplies.But apparently the notion that danger was coming , made all lower parts go limp and extinguish any desire to unleash their dragons. He had no guilt about what he was seeing. The disgusted looks from those who passed by him were still fresh in his mind, reminding him of a lifetime of rejection and scorn. So why should he trouble himself with things like mercy or guilt? Had anyone ever extended a helping hand to him? No, they had not. And now, as his hand tightly gripped the cold steel of a knife, he felt no qualms in using it. Taking lives had become second nature to him long ago - a necessary means of survival in a harsh world. He had not lived so long only by acting meek, he sometimes had to take lives to make sure that his would continue . And so as his blade sliced through the air and into the soft flesh of the neck of a man moaning in pain with the bone sticking out of his leg, he felt nothing - no pain, no guilt, no pleasure - just emptiness. All that mattered was surviving another day, by any means necessary. Chapter 14: Escape(4) Chapter 14: Escape(4) Finally freed from the shackles of their oppressors, the birds took to the sky with reckless abandon. The wind whipped through their feathers, a sweet kiss of freedom. But one man remained grounded, his hand reaching desperately towards the heavens. A king in his own right, unchained and unbound. ''We have been marching for hours'', Alpheo mused as his foot sank on the hot sand , ''still the sun is high in the sky we can still go , I want to at least reach a source of water to fill our canteens.'' He could feel the tension rising behind him. Hundreds of men followed his every step, loyal for now but ultimately just waiting for their chance to leave him , while taking their share of the gold they had taken. He couldn''t let that happen. He needed every able body he could get if he wanted what he desired . They left a trail of destruction in their wake - a camp full of dead bodies and stolen loot. His friend Clio had urged him to take more, but he knew better. "The fast pig is the first to be slaughtered ," he explained.'''' We take everything and they will ride to us with everything they have. Take some bit and they will do an half-ass job '''' And so they rode on, taking only what they needed and leaving behind a tempting trail for those foolish enough to pursue them.He knew that they would still send some riders after them , after all the shame of some slaves slapping them was too ugly to be forgiven . Though they now had the weapon for that. ''If they come I will show them my favorite trick'', Alpheo mused as he wondered how much a man can live buried in the hot sand with his head sticking out Alpheo back then, even considered the idea of burning the rest of the food inside the camp . Their last fare-well gift . In the end, he did not, the last thing he needed was for the army to come back after seeing the smoke . The army took one month, to reach the place, by they were many and slow.And so Alpheo remained confident that within two or three weeks, they would catch sight of the lush, green lands of the Empire. "Do you have a plan?" Jarza finally broke the silence, looking up at Alpheo. "I do," Alpheo replied confidently. "I believe our best option is to become mercenaries. We''re armed and we have horses - people will easily believe us. Plus, it''s a way for us to make a living. My plan is to march south towards the principalities of Sharzah. There, we can build a life for ourselves. But I want more '''' A sly smile appeared on Alpheo''s face as he turned to his friends. "I have a plan in mind. I''ve thought about it for a long time, and I believe there''s a good chance for it to work. But I can''t do it alone. I need people I can trust. I need all of you." He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before continuing, "Follow me, and you will live in opulence and power. Stick with me, and you will find those things rather easily. You will live like nobles because I will make you one of them; all you have to do is support me now." Egil''s skepticism was evident in his furrowed brow and skeptical gaze. "If anyone else had proposed such a ludicrous idea, I''d have given them a good beating for their foolishness," he remarked with a hint of disbelief. "But coming from you, Alpheo... I''ll trust your judgment. I''m in." Jarza chuckled at Egil''s words, his laughter carrying a sense of camaraderie. "Well, I''ve got nothing to lose and only my sword to wield," he quipped, his eyes gleaming with determination. "Count me in." Clio''s contemplative expression softened as he glanced at his companions. "If you''re all in it , then I''m too," he declared. "Together, we''ll make it work." A smile spread across Alpheo''s face, a rare display of genuine warmth .Without a word, he drew his companions into a tight embrace, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that had formed between them over the past two years. And then with the same voice he had used to entertain the idea of freedom he continued '''' If you are with me then now it is time to show it ''''. And so that night the fate of the entire continent waved beneath the fingers of one small young man. Chapter 15: Captain of the slave(1) Chapter 15: Captain of the slave(1) A fourth figure approached cautiously, his eyes wide with wonder as he gazed upon the flickering flames. "Can I sit by the fire?" he asked tentatively "The wood is not ours, so neither is the fire. Why would we deny that? Come here and sit with us, brother," one of the former slaves spoke with a warm smile, patting the sand next to him. They had made camp near the oasis, breaking bread here and sharing stories under the starry sky. "Tell me your name, brother?" The eldest of the group, his beard grizzled with age, inquired as Tibius warmed his hands by the fire, his blistered palms mirroring theirs. "Tibius. My name is Tibius," he replied softly, "Any idea what you''ll do now, Tibius?" the elder asked, his voice filled with genuine curiosity. The source of this content nov(el)bi((n)) "I hadn''t thought that far. I suppose I''ll try to live. What about you?" Tibius responded, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames. "I reckon I''ll find me a fine wife and a nice piece of land to settle down on," one of the former slaves chuckled, his words tinged with optimism. "Always the romantic, Darius. Meanwhile, I plan on enjoying every moment of this freedom. No more chains, no more masters! I will drink and sleep around," another chimed in, his laughter echoing through the night. As they bantered, Tibius continued to gaze at the fire, his thoughts drifting to the one who had orchestrated their escape. "I still can''t believe we''re alive and free, all thanks to Alpheo," he murmured, his voice filled with awe . "Who''s that?" the third former slave asked, furrowing his brow in confusion. "He is the one who orchestrated the revolt, the one who led us against the soldiers. It''s thanks to him that we now breathe the air of freedom," Tibius explained, his voice tinged with reverence. "Well then, we would toast to his name if we had something to toast with," one of the former slaves jested, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. His gaze swept over the faces of the men gathered around the fire, each one bearing the scars of their shared struggles. "I was just a boy when I was sold into slavery," Alpheo continued, his voice tinged with bitterness. "I watched as my own parents shook hands with the slaver, exchanging me for a handful of silver coins, they were smiling as they did . It was then that I learned the true value of a human life, measured in grams of silver with the face of a man I''d never met, maybe it was the current emperor or maybe it was the previous or the one before that , it matters not." Alpheo looked at the stars in the sky before resuming "For twelve long years, I endured the indignities of slavery, never once losing sight of my dream of freedom," he recounted, his words carrying the weight of his past suffering. "I remember one night in particular, I was serving a noble family , still I was little more than a plaything to be whipped and abused in the night , rather than a servant . I found myself hiding in the kitchen, driven by hunger to steal a piece of bread." "As I turned to leave, I caught sight of a young girl watching me with wide eyes," Alpheo recalled, his voice softening with the memory. "She couldn''t have been more than thirteen or fourteen, yet the look she gave me was one of disgust and fear, as though I were nothing more than a bug crawling over her clothes. I''m sure you all know the look I''m talking about." His gaze lingered on the faces of his companions,they knew. Alpheo''s voice wavered slightly as he recounted the chilling memory, his words laced with a mixture of remorse and determination. "I could see it in her eyes, the fear and the disgust, she would certainly have ratted me out " he confessed, his hands clenching into fists as if reliving the moment. "I approached her, my hands closing around her neck as I squeezed the life out of her. She fought back, clawing at my arms with desperate strength, but she was no match for me. In her final moments, she looked at me not with contempt, but with the same fear a girl might have when faced with a rabid dog." Pausing for a moment, Alpheo''s gaze dropped to the ground, his expression pained. "I still remember the taste of that bread," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "It seemed to sour in my mouth, tainted by guilt and regret. But I was never discovered, never punished, I took a life and yet I was not even pinched for it . From that night on, I learned a valuable lesson: if you want something, you take it with your own hands. Just like we did today, when we fought for our freedom with steel and blood." His eyes met those of the slaves seated before him, his gaze unwavering. "It''s a strange feeling, isn''t it?" he mused, his voice tinged with bitterness. "Having the freedom to choose your own path, to eat what you want and go where you please. We should cherish it while we can, because I fear that soon we may find ourselves back in chains." The slaves gasped in horror, their eyes widening as they exchanged panicked whispers. ''''THEY ARE COMING?'''' One of the slaves shouted as he grasped his head with both hands ''''I WOULD RATHER DIE'''' Another one shouted grabbing the hilt of his sword almost as if he feared that it would run away. But Alpheo silenced them with a stern look, raising a hand to command their attention. "I walked through the camp and saw many of you behaving as if the danger had passed," he admonished, his tone sharp. "But can''t you hear the hooves of the riders approaching? They will send men to kill and enslave us once again if we do not stand together. Alone, we will fall. But united, we can defy our fate and fight for our freedom once more.We need to be united for that, we need a leader , someone to lead all of us" Suddenly, a voice rose from the back of the crowd, "And you think that a boy like you will be the one to lead us?" the slave scoffed, his voice dripping with contempt. "You''re half my age, and I could blow you over with a single breath.I am much more stronger than you why should I obey your commands?" he sneered as he delivered his words on that dark and chilly night Chapter 16: Captain of the slaves(2) Chapter 16: Captain of the slaves(2) The slaves exchanged uncertain glances as the man words spread though the chilly airs , their eyes darting between him and Alpheo. Some nodded in silent agreement as they tended to understimate the young man for his age, while others remained silent, watching the exchange with curiosity, for everyone loved a bit of drama. Meanwhile, Jarva couldn''t help but feel a bit insulted by the stereotype he was expected to fulfill ¨C that of the big, strong black man. ''Alpheo, you bastard,'' he thought to himself, brewing with indignation. ''You''ll hear from me after this.'' "I believe you''re all misunderstanding me," Alpheo interjected, his tone calm as that of a mother singing a lullaby "I''m not here to declare myself your ruler. We need to choose our leader collectively.A ship constructed without nails is sent only to sink in the sea, what good would it be to lead this group if my own men mistrust me?Is it not stupid for an brothers-in-arms to kill each other while the enemy is outside their camp?" Updated from With a confident gesture, he beckoned the Jarva forward. "Please, brother, come here. I assume you wish to nominate yourself?" Jarva stepped forward, his voice booming. "Of course, I''m the strongest among us. I should be the one to lead. Now what we need is strenght " he declared, though internally seething with resentment toward Alpheo, as his cheeks reddened in embarassement at shouting like a fool . Alpheo continued, addressing the pressing issues at hand. "We likely have riders headed our way, sent by the emperor himself. Our food supply will last us three days, maybe five if we ration it. And water... well, we can''t stay here, as this will be the first place our pursuers check. So, brother, what do we do?" Jarva raised a finger, forming a dumbstruck expression that belied his true emotions. With a forced, loud hum, he attempted to contribute, feeling Alpheo''s supposed attempt to humiliate him. ''''Let me give you a small suggestion , there must be farms filled with food near us'''' "That''s the spirit, brother," Alpheo praised, patting the man''s back reassuringly as he approached him . Turning to address the rest of the slaves, Alpheo spoke with conviction. "Brothers, many of us have suffered for years, enduring whippings and starvation. But that''s all behind us now. I was the one who orchestrated our escape, who led us to freedom. Do any of you think you could have done the same? If so, come forward, show me the scars you''ve earned from this life. Come on, I''ll show you mine. I earned them in pursuit of this opportunity, I shared with all of you . I''ve been whipped countless times for actions taken months ago, all to pave the way for our freedom. If any of you think you''re better suited to lead, then speak up now.Who among you think he has worked harder for me , than I have for you?" He paused, allowing the silence to hang in the air for a moment. When no one stepped forward, he continued, "My name is Alpheo. I''ve spent twelve years as a slave, and I offer myself as your leader. Who will it be, brothers? Who will lead us to freedom or death?" As Alpheo''s impassioned speech concluded, a hushed silence settled over the gathered slaves. Egil and Clio, two of Alpheo''s most trusted comrades, exchanged determined glances before simultaneously raising their hands to the sky. Their voices rang out in unison, breaking the silence with a resounding declaration: "Alpheo, the breaker of chains!We want Alpheo " Their words echoed across the camp, stirring something deep within the hearts of their fellow slaves. Slowly at first, then with increasing fervor, others began to raise their fists to the sky, joining in the chant. "Alpheo, the breaker of chains!We want him to lead us" Their voices swelled in a cacophony of unity, each repetition growing louder and more defiant. Soon, the entire camp was alive with the sound of their chant, a powerful symphony of hope and defiance. Not a single soul remained untouched by the fervor of the moment, as every man raised their fist in solidarity with their chosen leader. Alpheo stood amidst them, his chest swelling with pride and determination as he beheld the sight before him.That was it , the first small stone he will throw to build his mountain of boulders . ALpheo the breaker of chains was his name . ''''Be it , I accept your request with an oath, as I promise to never betray you and to spill my own blood for your well-being , as that is the role of a true leader'''' The fists in the airs was his response, he had become the man he always thought himself to be, and this 530 men were the first army he would lead. Chapter 17: The ears of the emperor Chapter 17: The ears of the emperor ''Fuck, fuck ,all is lost'' Julian thought, as he spurred his horse foward, his iron heel hitting the sides of the beast as he forced it to beat his hooves on the hot sand . As the leader of the reserve, Julian had been overseeing the clash he was leading when everything went to shit. Just moments ago, victory seemed within reach as the enemy''s center began to falter. But in a matter of minutes, defeat reared its head like a venomous snake ready to strike. First he saw camel-rider dancing through the battlefield and marching towards their rear. He saw them hitting the archers and causing them to rout ,before the emperor charged forward . The banner of the empire flew high in the air , fluttering in the winds, its purple eagle rallying the clibanarri as they charged toward their enemy. Then it happened the banner of the emperor fell , some men in the back of the formation saw it happened.That was the end ''''The banner fell, the emperor is in danger'''' one shouted and from then everything went downhill. Julian tried everything to calm the troops but it was too late, soon the voices changed, some started talking about the emperor fighting , the emperor being overwhelmed and the emperor being killed. ''''The emperor is dead, the enemy took his head'''' As half of his guards turned their steeds to face the oncoming threat, their faces set with grim determination, Julian spurred his horse onward before giving a nod of thanks to the guards.Not much but understandable considering that was their job. The air was thick with the thunder of hooves and the clash of steel as the valiant guards rode to meet their fate, their sacrifice buying precious moments for their lord to create distance between them and the relentless camel riders.The camel''s pursuit was blocked by the 15 guards, who without care for their life threw themselves on harm way, trying everything to gain any time they could. With a thunderous charge, the guards spurred their horses forward, lances leveled at the ready. But as they closed in on the camel riders, their steeds balked and reared in terror, their nerves shattered by the imposing presence of the beasts. Julian''s guards fought to maintain control, but the fear in their mounts'' eyes was unmistakable. Undeterred by their horses'' panic, the guards swiftly adapted, seizing their lances and hurling them like javelins at their oncoming foes. The deadly projectiles sliced through the air with ugly accuracy , caused by the movements of the horse, causing most of the lances to miss the targets . The sun beat down mercilessly on the sandy battlefield as the guards drew their swords with practiced ease. The metal glinted in the bright desert sunlight,while fighting to make thier steeds advance . With each swift swing, they sought to disrupt the enemy''s advance, creating a flurry of movement and chaos in an attempt to delay their progress. Their ultimate goal was not to kill, but to protect their leader and buy him time to escape. As the battle raged on, some of the guards sacrificed themselves by throwing their bodies at the enemy, causing them to fall from their mounts and onto the scorching sand. Others focused their attacks on the camels, desperately trying to disable the beasts by striking at the vulnerable sides not covered by the armor . Despite their valiant efforts, the guards were outnumbered and outmatched. One by one, they fell under the brutal blows of lances and swords. But even in death, they achieved their mission ¨C allowing Julian to effectively escape from this ordeal alive. And so Lord Julian, the spymaster of the empire, fled the battlefield leaving behind himself the event that will cause his beloved empire to fall on itself, with him being at the centre of it all, unable to stop what was soon to come. Chapter 18: Getting supplies(1) Chapter 18: Getting supplies(1) ''So this is how it feels'' Alpheo mused ''To lead men forward, your back showed to them as you hear the small jingling of stell pinching on steel. Knowing that they will draw it under your order.What a beautiful sound'' Updated from He turned around as he saw the half of a thousand of men following him . Most of them were clad in simple chainmail armor and helmets, while a lucky few had managed to procure sturdy plate armor from one of the sacked tents. Each man carried a sword and shield or a lance, ready to fight for their life. You could see it in their eyes, they acquired freedom and they would never desert it .Like a unruly dog who sees the hand of his owner approaching his plate of food , snarling his teeth at it, regardless of the consequences. Despite their ragtag appearance, they almost looked like a proper army as they marched forward. ''Give some kids some stick and they will think themselves soldiers'' he mused . Some were small in stature, likely due to years of hunger, but this could easily be remedied with a few good meals. He needed warriors who were strong and ready to fight, not frail skeletons who would blow away at the slightest winds, so the last thing Alpheo would do was ration the food. The horses were positioned in the center of the formation, surrounding the precious treasure they had obtained. Counting it yesterday, he had tallied up 50 aureii and 120 silverii ¨C enough to arm his army properly and provide them with food for their journey south. Speaking of food, their supplies were running low and would only last them another day or two. Fortunately, they were nearing some villages where they could replenish their provisions. One of them was right before them, it must house no more than 500 people , there was no palisade , no defence, no guards, just families working the field not worrying about bandits or raiding armies. "In my days," Egil remarked, turning to me with a hint of nostalgia in his voice, "we would have raided at least four of these every week. '''' His eyes closed remembering the feeling of the wind carassing his face as he rode to slaughter . He then turned to his friend ''''Alph, are you sure you don''t want to raid this one? They look pretty well-off." His gaze bore into Alpheoi?s, seeking an answer that he would not give. Instead, he met his inquiry with a silent stare, allowing the weight of his words to linger between them. Egil seemed to grasp the unspoken response, his demeanor softening as he took a step back. "Just asking," he muttered, retreating from the conversation with a hint of resignation. Jarva nodded, relaying Alpheo''s words to the old man. The elderly villager listened intently, his expression skeptical yet curious. After a moment, he responded in a harsh tone, prompting Jarva to translate once more. "He contine to asks who we are," Jarva relayed. Alpheo chuckled softly "Tell him not to ask stupid questions and to fetch the food while we''re asking nicely and offering payment. Assure him that we mean no harm and won''t cheat them , once again . Let''s make this transaction smooth and beneficial for both parties." After the old man''s response, Jarva turned to Alpheo, relaying the villager''s question. "He asks us how much food and water we need," Jarva explained. Alpheo reached into his pocket, withdrawing a small pouch containing thirty silverii. With a confident smirk, he tossed the pouch toward the old man, indicating for him to take it. "Tell him to bring us as much food and water as this can buy, along with some urns for the water," Alpheo instructed Jarva. The old man squabbled something in response, his tone uncertain. Jarva translated his words, not before giving out a sigh "He demands to know who we are." Alpheo let out a weary sigh, as he approached the old man while holding his sword by the hilt. "Maybe we don''t want to answer that " he replied firmly. The old man quivered slightly, clearly intimidated by Alpheo''s presence. Despite the language barrier, Alpheo''s tone conveyed his message clearly, they were not good people . If there was someone that not so good people hated, was curious one, and right now Alpheo was understanding the reason . ---------------- Map of the continent: Chapter 19: Getting supplies(2) Chapter 19: Getting supplies(2) The old man turned abruptly and hobbled back toward the village, his steps always aided by that cane of his. -Thud- thud- it continued to make as Alpheo followed closely behind, flanked by Jarva and the thirty men under his command. The farms they passed appeared deserted, the fields devoid of grain. Alpheo noted the absence with a calculating gaze. If the fields were empty, it meant that the villagers had likely already harvested their crops and stored them away. He understood that their village warehouse must be filled to the brim with food, a comforting thought as they continued down the road. ''Very well, I think we would have no trouble finding food on the rest of the road .One problem is solved apparently....yYet better not lose caution, especially with pursuers on our heels.''Alpheo thought as his head turned towards his men, he could see them scratching their loin. They must have had hoped for an opportunity to release something they held for years inside their pants.He too had such desire, he was a man and he never felt so alive as now, but he knew better than to act on them. Man''s life is like a dog on a leash, it will struggle and run around but in the end, it will always be the hand of fate to decide where they go. And the smartest thing man can do is to know when to satiate his primal thirst when he should not , else he will fall prey of his own strenght. His power of reason. Alpheo was thankful he hadn''t brought everyone inside the village walls, as one unruly individual could cause chaos and potentially lead to a mass raid of the farmland and its unsuspecting inhabitants. But Alpheo wasn''t too concerned about that; after years of living as nothing more than a tool for others, any feelings of kindness had been stripped away, his reluctance in raiding was in hope of not angering the local lords. As Voltaire said ''Now it''s not the time to make more enemies'', it was always a fun little story for him, a great man on the death bed not denying his last chance to impress the world of his great mind. In his previous life, he was known as a good neighbor who always lent a helping hand. But those traits had dwindled in his second life, replaced by survival instincts and a hardened exterior.Too many beatings and lashes were the best of teachers for that. Suddenly, the old man turned to Jarva , who listened before translating "He says we are to wait here," Jarva relayed before Alpheo nodded and turned around to watch the green area near the village. His gaze shifted to Jarva, his head tilting back to meet the towering man''s eyes. "I was wasted there as a slave," he admitted with a sigh. "Just as I would be wasted on a farm. No, I am destined for more¡ªI can feel it. It''s in my blood, in my head, in every fiber of my being. Like a predator that knows he has to feed on other''s flesh, so I know since birth that I was destined for more.My mind doesn''t work like the rest; I have ideas, Jarva! Ideas that could revolutionize this world... It''s hard to explain, easier to show, and yet hard even then . But for that, I need all of you to trust me. What I said that day, when you supported me, wasn''t devoid of truth," Alpheo continued earnestly. "I wholeheartedly believe in what I said. I know I can accomplish it. I want to sit on a throne and move armies with the wave of my hand. I want to bring fire to my enemies and establish a dynasty that will endure long after this planet turns to sand. I want all of that, Jarva.That and even more, I want every person in this world to know my name and tremble at the thought of this . I want people to pray when they see me , like a man does when encountering a devil . I want people to fear me when they catch sigh of my banner. This world has shunned me for so long and so it is time that I shun it " He paused ''''That is what I want , mad and crazy in itself like a worm dreaming of reaching the blue sky.You asked and I answered, yet what is that you desire?'''' Jarva''s expression shifted, caught off guard by the question. Years of being treated like a mule had conditioned him to accept his fate without contemplating his desires. Who would ask what a mule desires apart from food and water? No one. "I don''t know," Jarva admitted, his voice quivering . "What was that?" "I don''t know what to do with my life," Jarva confessed. "I expected to die there, one day, a whipping being the dagger to send me off. I never thought that we would reach this, I saw our escape only as a way to reach our neck closer to the blade. I was tired of it all , and now I am a bit lost by the magnitude of the possibilities I can choose , and yet above all, I am curious." Alpheo chuckled "Curious about me? That I''m not just spouting bullshit, and maybe I actually have the means to accomplish my dreams ?That the fly dreaming of being a butterfly will not be swallowed by the frog in his mad journey ?" Alpheo queried, his tone almost teasing. "Seems like you already know... how come?" "That''s me," he laughed as he returned his gaze to the sky "I toil around, observe, and know things.Every person is a book, you just need to pry it open a bit and you will see their stories unfold . Jarva..... Stick with me, and I will show you the masterpiece that my life will become. Life is a tale and I am the bard that shall sing " ''''You are mad Alpheo'''' ''''The entire world is mad and yet I am the sole one that see beyond it'' Chapter 20: Getting supplies (3) Chapter 20: Getting supplies (3) The air was crispy and hot, after all they had the desert on their back. And even though now the land was much more greener this did not meant that the climate changed a lot, crispy and hot it was and still is . Soon the old limping man came back with many young men in tow, carrying sacks of grains and oats, some also carrying urns filled with water. They looked heavy, and the young men struggled a bit as they brought them closer to the group . Alpheo could see the eyes of the men gazing at his, they knew they were many and armed, if they wanted the entire village on flame, they would do it. As they neared, the villagers carefully set down their heavy loads on the ground. Alpheo observed them repeating this motion several times until there were four sacks of grain, twelve urns filled with water, and a sack of oats neatly arranged before them. Alpheo meticulously counted the barter, his mind calculating the value of the goods exchanged for the twenty silveriis. "This is the extent of their offering," he thought, noting that while he could potentially coerce a few more sacks from them using their weapons , it wasn''t worth the trouble.There were other villages along the way after all He nodded to his men, signaling their departure, and motioned for Jarva to accompany him as they approached the old man once more. The tension in the air was palpable as Alpheo turned to Jarva, who translated the old man''s words. "He says he''s done his part and asks us to leave as soon as possible," Jarva relayed. Alpheo offered a small smile. "Tell him we''ll be on our way immediately," he instructed. As Jarva conveyed the message, Alpheo reached for his belt, causing the old man to flinch thinking he was taking his steel . However, insted , Alpheo retrieved another pouch of coins and tossed it to the old man. Clio furrowed his brow in concern. "You feel trouble arising?" Alpheo sighed, adjusting the straps of his backpack. "No, but I don''t want to risk it. It''s better if we don''t stay in one place for too long," he commented as he feared for pursuers that would never come "I agree," Clio nodded "Let''s get a move on then by tomorrow ." Soon the night arrived, the rays of the sun giving way to the darkness of the moon.Around the camps many fire were burning , men in circles letting the flames warm their flesh, while on top of it big pots , filled with grains and water, simmering over open flames were left to boil. The slaves stirred the contents of the pots with wooden spoons, ensuring that the grains cooked evenly and didn''t stick to the bottom. The mixture slowly thickened, transforming into a hearty porridge-like substance. Meanwhile, others tore pieces of bread they had bought from the village, arranging them on makeshift plates. To the modern man, such a meal may seem lackluster, but to the ex-slaves who were only given hard bread at their master''s whim, the soft bread and porridge spread before them seemed like a banquet fit for the gods. Alpheo, with his small frame and wild hair, tore into his food with the voracity of four men, as if he didn''t know when he would get to eat again. His companions followed suit, devouring the meal with gusto while also keeping their sharp claws at the ready in case someone tried to steal it from them. But even in this moment of indulgence, they couldn''t let their guard down, always on edge for fear of losing what little they had. For they did not know when fate would pull her hand from them. Chapter 21: Sultan鈥檚 will Chapter 21: Sultan''s will Under the high noon sun, its golden rays cascading down upon the mortal realm, the world below lay divided in its sight. In the green and fertile lands-seas of the Empire of Romelia, the sun was revered as a gift from the gods . But in the desolate sands of the Ush, the sun was a malevolent deity demanding appeasement through fire and blood of the heretics. In the heart of a vast plaza, torches flickered in a circular formation around a towering pyre, its flames licking the sky with a fierce intensity that resembled that of their god . Arrayed around the pyre, a group of priests of the Fire god traced intricate symbols in black coal upon the ground,silent and dutiful upon their act. ''The boars shall charge the viper, the hot sand shall have his due and spit the bones back,'' Bound and gagged, twenty men stood before the pyre, their desperate cries muffled by the cloth stuffed into their mouths. Their skin, pale and candid, seemed to recoil from the touch of the sun, as if even its rays shunned their presence, which contrasted greatly to the skin of the people livign under the sultan. Long braids cascaded from their heads, swaying like whips as they thrashed against their restraints, their muffled screams piercing the air as the heat of the fire seared their flesh, burning thier skin and roasting the meat.They were the last tribute of the beduins living deep into the sultanate. ''Vermins and flies will come out of the mouth of the hunter, where the tender meat of the boar lies in'' . That was said to the sultan before, and just like the sun after night, it arose from the ashes of the night. "FIERY AND RED THY SKIN IS, TO THY MAGNIFICENCE, THUS GIFTS YOUR SON SHALL PRESENT THEE!" The woman''s voice sung , her dark hair swirling around her face . Her eyes, blackened by the sacred chalk, three lines from each eye lid falling to her chin. With each word of her chant, she raised a cane high above her head, the rhythmic beating echoing through the plaza. The source of this content nov(el)bi((n)) High above, an eagle soared through the red sky . With talons stained crimson with the blood of its prey, it let forth a piercing cry that echoed through the air, a primal call to the gods themselves before diving down. Than the dream stopped and the fire showed her no more.But that was enough, the gods has shown her the way once again. The sultan would rejoice!The flame told of his success once again as he would dive down like the eagel on his enemies.She knew that the sultan trusted her .Since the day where she gave him her first sight , the sultan had eyes only on her. ''The boars shall charge the viper, the hot sand shall have his due and spit the bones back,vermins and flies will come out of the mouth of the hunter , where the tender meat of the boar lies in'' That was said to the sultan before, the words coming out of her moouth . The nobles laughed, the priests scowled at her arrogance, but the sultan smiled. He could feel it in his blood, he understood her link with the god and immediately bestowed upon her the title of high-priest. It was a title that lasted till death and it was already occupied.....but this did not stop the sultan, one wave of his hand was all it took, to bestow title and claim lives . The awe he felt towards her, soon turned into desire. SHe desired him, the son of her god, wanted to unite with her and she threw himself at him. She felt it in her stomach, the result of their union, the god''s spawn was in her , blessed would be their lineage. And now she had another revelation to offer to her beloved, she could feel her desire to shout it at him before laying with her god''s son . His rod blessing her once again as his grey eyes dived into her. She wanted him , and she would have him. And in her wake she brought her two gifts , a son and the sight of his love''s enemy falling under his claws. Truly a blessed day it was for her. Chapter 22: Son鈥檚 wail(1) Chapter 22: Son''s wail(1) The sky was beautiful as ever, serene and calm as the mirror of a lake.The sun shone with all of his radiance almost as an attempt to cradle the baby of his heart, so that he could dream as he once did in his mother''s arms. He never knew her name , nor how she looked like, yet many times a she went to sleep he would dream of long arms stretching over his curled up body, he did not know if they were of his mother, but he liked to think they were. He always liked to mutter one or two poetic words whenever he felt like.He liked to think that her mother was a poetress and her blood was in him. The blood of emperors and of poetry flowed in his veins . ''''Daytime arrives as poetry and fades as as the last words of a lullaby.Yet I sleep and sleep and yet never dream, is that a curse or a jest made by the dread-'''' he immediately stopped as he heard the door opened, he knew there was only one person that would deign the enter his door. Claria had the brownest eyes he had ever seen. Whenever he smiled at her, her eyes seemed to light up;when he was with her it was like nothing else mattered. He believed that she always saw him as her son, yet did he look at her like his mother?That he did not kow. Her lips were thin, small, and the top one came together to make a perfect M. Sometimes when he caught him playing gloomy she would always tried to copy him. A stupid game it was ,and yet he loved as she always played along. Her fingers were slender, nails cut short. Her skin was tanned and yet in her shoulder there were some points of the palest hue he had ever saw. Like salt falling on a plate of brown mushroom. His eyes traveled along the path of her long black hair back up to her eyes. Her eyes was what he liked best about her, she could gaze at them for a full day and never get tired. She bowed gracefully, her ebony hair cascading down her back before she straightened, her piercing black eyes fixing on him. "Tibianus, I suppose you know why I am here?" she queried, her tone tinged with a hint of disappointment. He feigned ignorance, attempting to lighten the mood with a jest. "I would like to say it was to gaze at the beautiful weather alongside me," he replied with a wry smile. He hated his mother''s blood, yet when he had such thought he always thought back to her hands ,on those dreams. He always felt pain after that. ''''Want to walk with me?'''' She asked not knowing any other way to calm the boy. He nodded , she walked and he followed. The halls of the palace stretched out before Tibianus as he walked. Marble floors gleamed under the soft glow of chandeliers. Portraits of past emperors and empress adorned the walls, their watchful eyes seeming to follow his every step almost as if mocking him to think they share the same blood. Servants bustled about, their movements purposeful and efficient. Some glanced at Tibianus as he passed, their expressions briefly registering recognition before returning to their tasks. It was a familiar sight, one he had grown accustomed to over the years. As a bastard son , he was often met with indifference or disdain from those around him. Though as long as he had her, it mattered not. At the end of the hallway, sounds of voiced echoed through the grand corridors of the palace. The sounds were not the usual echoes of conversation or the bustle of servants; instead, they were cries of pain, sharp and piercing. Tibianus halted in his tracks, his heart pounding in his chest as he exchanged a concerned glance with Claria. The shouts emanated from the hall throne chambers, where the consort empress must have been sitting.She after all was the regent working alongside the a small council of nobles. The shouts echoed off the marble walls, carrying a weight of anguish that could smash mountains . Despite the distance, the cries were unmistakable, resonating with a rawness that sent a shiver down Tibianus''s spine. He could feel Claria''s grip tighten on his arm, her expression mirroring his concern. Whatever was happening behind those closed doors,he knew something horrifying must have happened. Chapter 23: Son鈥檚 wail(2) Chapter 23: Son''s wail(2) The ruler of the empire once stood tall, but now he was laid down on a bed , his complexion pale and his skin cold. Once, he had led armies, issued edicts, and steered the crumbling empire back from the brink of total collapse . Three years of civil war had brought the empire to its knees, but then came a three-decade span of prosperity under his father, Gratios, the only one who could claim such an achievement. When he ascended to the throne, the treasury was empty and two rival armies threatened the capital. Despite being the weakest of the three factions, he managed to prevail, not solely through skill but also due to fortunate circumstances. Positioned within the capital, he knew his brothers, the strongest contenders, would hesitate to besiege the city before dealing with the other. And so, a decisive battle unfolded outside Romelia, where Cracchus emerged victorious against his elder brother, Eauron. Yet, victory was short-lived. The nobles who had served Eauron swiftly pledged allegiance to Gratios as their lands were promised to the nobles serving Cracchus , and when he laid siege to the capital, he found himself surrounded by an army of mercenaries raised by the rival''s nobles and the city''s garrison. Realizing the danger of being encircled, Cracchus retreated, but his nobles misinterpreted this as a sign of weakness and betrayed him, most of them after all went into debt to assist Cracchus in his fight. And so in less than a month more than a quarter serving Cracchus betrayed him and brought his head to Gratios. After all their treasury was empty and their leader was retreating back to their cities, leaving their fiefs free to be raided by Gratios'' army. That was not what they signed for . Gratios accepted their surrender and their offerings , only to swiftly execute them, seizing their treasuries and delivering their heads to the sons left to inherit their fiefs. Most of these sons were second-born, as the firstborn were fighting alongside their fathers. To ensure their loyalty, the emperor imprisoned the firstborns, holding them as hostages to prevent rebellion among the newly appointed nobles. The threat of replacement by an older brother compelled many to kneel and offer bribes, appeasing the emperor''s wrath. He stood there now , staring at the lifeless form of his father, the once mighty ruler of the empire. Gratios had been a strong leader, possessing both strength and intelligence, navigating the complexities of politics with shrewdness while upholding honor when it was necessary. And now, he was gone. ''Should I be crying?'' After all, Gratios was his father, even if their interactions had been minimal. The young man had never truly understood why he, a bastard, had been permitted within the palace walls. He had never made an effort to seek his son out, to connect with him, so certainly father love was out of the equation It wasn''t that Tibianus harbored any animosity towards Gratios. In fact, he held an idealized image of him as a powerful and just ruler. But now, faced with his father''s death, Tibianus found himself unable to summon any tears. He lingered a few paces away, observing the scene unfolding before him. Mesha , his younger brother, knelt beside the lifeless body of his father, tears streaming down his small face in a torrent of grief. The room was hushed, empty save for the immediate family, as the nobles had respectfully left the royal household to mourn in solitude. But amid the sorrow, Tibianus couldn''t help but notice the empress standing a short distance away. Her countenance remained composed, a subtle sadness etched upon her features, yet there was no outward display of emotion. It struck Tibianus as peculiar. Petrinus nodded in confirmation Without hesitation, the empress issued her command, her voice firm and unwavering. "Cut off their heads and put them on pikes," she ordered, her words cutting through the air with a sense of finality. ''''Bastards should not be allowed here'''' The cool voice of the empress spoke. Her eyes not deigning to look at his , giving him the same repulsion one had when finding a bug on the ground. ''Seems like she recovered quickly'', Tibianus mused as he bowed before nudging the sleeve of Clara to bring him inside his room. He preferred to be alone right now as he felt uncomfortable with the eyes of his step-brother and of the empress looking down at him.He wanted to go to his room and gaze at the sky, it was such a nice day and yet it was supposed to be so gloomy. ''Fuck them, fuck the emperor that never bored himself to meet his spawn, fuck his wife and sons and fuck the church . I did not choose to be born, it was the protector chosen by the gods who spilled his seed on my mother''s womb, so why am I to get the shit?'' He knew the answer, though, he was a bastard, and his father was the emperor.And emperor were supposed to have concubines, his mother was probably one. He was the emperor true and now he was dead , a new one was to rise. And the head of that such small bastard , would probably end on a pike or bowed on a monastery. Bastards were cursed by birth that was known plainly . A bastard brought ill-luck that was known too.Bastards were shady and disloyal, that too was aknowledged And yet a bastard liked to gaze at the sky and that was not known. Chapter 24: Matter鈥檚 of succession(1) Chapter 24: Matter''s of succession(1) The room was modest in size, especially when compared to the grandeur of others within the palace. Its walls, devoid of any lavish adornments, bore only the proud banner of the eagle, symbolizing the enduring strength of the realm. Unlike the opulent chambers meant for indulgence, this space served a more solemn purpose¡ªa place of duty rather than pleasure. ''''If they want pretty things , they may go to a whorehouse'''' Were the words of Emperor Lakianos I the ''Austere'' who built this room. For over a century, it had remained unchanged, its austere simplicity on par only to its solemnity. Only the banners of the reigning house, the Kazontous, added any hint of color or symbolism to the otherwise stark environment. 80 years ago they were hung on the wall and were never taken off, they were not the founder of the throne, nor did they gained it through civil war, they instead just married to it . Funny enough the family with the highest count of War-emperors gained power through peaceful means. Despite its modesty, the room was not lacking in significance. It served as the gathering place for the highest council of the realm¡ªthe five leading men of the empire, each a formidable magnate in their own right. Their lineage traced back through the annals of history, intertwined with the very fabric of Romelian society, their influence stretching across the core hearthland of the empire which consisted of the southern part. Updated from Within the chamber, they sat, their expressions grave and purposeful, their hands resting upon the sturdy tables before them. Their seats were hereditary, but more than a bloom it was a curse, as the emperor demanded the seat always to be occupied by either the patriarch or the first-born son , this was nothing but a clever plot to have hostages. They were in fact lacking in any power, as their duty was just that of counseling the king nothing more and nothing less. Though on second thought having the strongest families of the southern part of the empire, sitting side by side with the royal family maybe was not the brightest idea. That though was another matter, for now they had business to tend to . As the council convened, a woman with striking red hair rose to address the assembly. Her regal bearing and the glint of precious jewels in her hair marked her as none other than the empress herself. Her hair, woven into an intricate bun atop her head, sparkled with the adornments bestowed upon her by the emperor. Each pin, carefully arranged, seemed to mirror the brilliance of the sun, she was the empress of the Empire. ''''My lords , I suppose that it is time to speak of what convened in recent days.'''' She spoke as her gaze flew to the men in the room, if she was to succeed, she needed to present her case well. ''''We should start talking about what comes ...., i believe it is time to discuss issue concerning the inheritance.'''' ''''Your grace, I presume you wish to call upon Maesinius to take the throne, he is the eldest and-'''' lord Vratinius started before being cut off by Isidor '''' And also 150 leagues from here and deep in the snow of the north, a bit away don''t you think my lords?'''' She responded with a small smile ''''Aye the last thing we need is for the prince to bring the snow to us, it''s rather warm here I fear and I think he may not find it suitable for him . '''' ''''Comes spring , the snow melts'''' The queen muttered ''''That is true , it appears that Maesinius prefer the hard and brute company of the north instead of the elegant ways of the south'''' ''''Well there would be the second prince your grace'''' Croxiatus spoke, his double chin jingling as he opened his mouth ''''We offer the crown to Vitellio and instead of snow we will be covered in whores, we will have them serving our wines , tidying our beds and the palace will soon be swarmed by bastards'''' The queen spoke , her face almost scowling ''''Such depravity cannot be allowed your grace'''' Isidor spoke, nodding like a dog ''''Nor the brutality or inelegance of the north'''' Marcellus quipped ''''It is the duty of old to teach to the young , perhapse we should move our eyes closer to us instead of farther'''' She muttered as she threw the possibility of choosing instead her young and clay-like son.Which of the three prince was the only one who shared her blood. Chapter 25: Reaching the city Chapter 25: Reaching the city As the fiery sun dipped below the horizon, two guards stationed outside the imposing gates of Bratanium found themselves trying to kill time The first guard, a burly man with a jovial demeanor, nudged his companion with a grin. "Hey, how about we grab some drinks later? My treat this time!" His companion, a lean and wiry figure, arched an eyebrow in amusement. "Oh, feeling generous, are we? What''s the occasion?" With a hearty laugh, the first man shrugged. "Just because I appreciate your company. And, hey, I heard there''s a new spot in town that I''ve been dying to check out." "Oh, really? What kind of place is it?" "A day at the whorehouse, my friend," the first guard replied with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "I hear they''ve got quite the selection. They even have some Arlanians." His companion recoiled, a look of disbelief crossing his features. "Are you dumb? Don''t you have any shame?" The first guard chuckled, undeterred by his friend''s disapproval. "Why is that? I believe that the most loyal thing we can do for our monarch is to avenge his father with our cocks if we can''t use our swords." Before the conversation could continue, their banter was abruptly interrupted by the sight of a group of twenty men approaching them, all armed . The first guard''s jovial expression shifted to one of alertness as he raised a hand in warning. "STOP RIGHT THERE, CITIZENS!" As the group of twenty men approached, their presence was marked by the clinking of armor and the weighty tread of boots on the cobblestones of the road linking the city with the others. They were armed and armored, their weapons glinting in the fading light of dusk. It was never a good thing to have many armed man inside the city At the forefront of the group stood a young man his black hair cascading in unruly waves down the nape of his neck. His jawline was sharp and defined, accentuating the symmetry of his face, while a fair forehead spoke of youth and vigor. He wore a suit of chainmail, the links glistening in the dying light, and a sword rested snugly in its sheath at his hip. "Alright, boys, let''s get down to business," Alpheo declared, addressing his men with a commanding tone. "Egil, take five of our brothers and go buy some lances and shields. Get the price for 120 of them," he instructed "Very well, Alph. You heard the leader, boys! Come on, let''s get it over with," Egil responded, rallying his group as they departed in search of a blacksmith. Turning to Clio, Alpheo issued another directive. "Clio, go and buy some grains and oats for the group. Our supplies aren''t low, but having a bit more won''t hurt." "I''ll be back before sunfall," Clio assured him, setting off with a handful of companions to complete the task. "Now, as for us," Alpheo muttered, eyeing the remaining group of nine. "We will walk in search of a tavern." "Are we getting some drinks?" Laedio, one of the slaves Alpheo had brefiended, inquired eagerly. "Just one. We''re not going there to drink," Alpheo clarified, leading the way with purpose as the others followed. "For what, then?" Laedio pressed, curiosity evident in his tone. "To gather information. I need to know what''s going on around us," Alpheo explained, his gaze fixed ahead as they traversed the streets of Bratanium. "And the best way for that is to ask some drunkard about the latest news?" Laedio questioned skeptically. "If you have any better options, I''m all ears," Alpheo retorted, casting a glance at Laedio, who simply shook his head. "If no one has any genius way to acquire that, then I suggest we start searching for a tavern," Alpheo concluded decisively, determined to gather the intel they needed.Sometimes he missed newpaper, in the end asking some drunkies about rumors was not really the best way to get reliable informations, but that was the best road they had , so they had to make it work. Chapter 26: Getting information Chapter 26: Getting information As Alpheo and the group walked throughout the city , and while his men asked around for direction to the nearest taver, Alpheo was busier looking around and gazing at the infrastructure of the city.He passed most of his life closed in a house or in a camp, he had no opportunity to thoroughly observe cities in this world. And honestly he was rather impressed, the roads were made of stones and were wide, while buildings were at least three meters farther from the road. And while the roads were unclean by the waste of both humans and animals, at least the citizens did not need to look down on their feet as they walked on the road. As for the houses , they were all made of wood and three floors high, they were usually rented to other peoples . In some of the houses, like a hen among her chickens, from some chimneys came black smoke.Which greatly surprised Alpheo as he did not think that even commoner to get access to a fireplace that would directly bring the smoke outside the house ''Still considering the current technology and knowledge , I would say that the city is well-structured, the only downside is the bad smell, it seems like there is no sewer here '', he mused as he walked ahead. After five minutes of walking around , the group of nine stood ahead a small tavern. The men looked at Alpheo expectantly,already knowing what they wanted Alpheo let out a sigh. "You can each have one drink," Alpheo announced, distributing a silverii to each of his companions. "Now, that coin I gave you is enough to pay for one drink each and many more. I want you to go around and offer drinks to whoever can tell you news regarding the capital. Any questions?" Silence greeted his inquiry as the group eagerly rushed into the tavern, their excitement palpable as they sought out potential sources of information. However, one member of the group remained outside, flicking the silver coin in his hand with a troubled expression. Asag, , seemed hesitant.Some small hairs started growing in his head as apparently he was making an effort in trying to cover the scar using his hair. "Something the matter, Asag?" Alpheo inquired, noticing his reluctance. "I''m not comfortable in these places with so much alcohol," Asag admitted softly, tossing the coin back to Alpheo. "Are you sure?" Alpheo asked, concern evident in his voice. Since their escape from camp, Alpheo had made a point to keep Asag close, as he was the one that saved his life .He had observed Asag''s aversion to alcohol during their time together, but he didn''t pry further,knowing it had something to do with his scar. "Yes, I''ll just walk beside you," Asag murmured, falling into step behind Alpheo as they entered the tavern together. Alpheo took a sip of the ale, finding it disappointingly weak. "Tastes like water," he remarked, shaking his head in mild frustration. Meanwhile, the bartender downed his own drink in a single gulp, displaying impressive prowess. Then leaned forward "So, what are you curious about?" he asked, turning the conversation back to the matter at hand. Alpheo leaned in closer to the bartender, his eyes intent. "I''m curious about the latest news around here. Anything interesting happening in the capital?" he inquired casually. The bartender paused, a hint of surprise flickering across his face. "You don''t know?" he asked incredulously. "The emperor is dead." Alpheo''s eyebrow shot up in surprise. "Dead? No, I hadn''t heard," he replied, genuinely taken aback by the news.He has been on the road most of the time and this was a genuine surprise. ''This explain though why we have not been pursued, not only the army was defeated but the emperor kicked the bucket too'' he mused with a chuckle The bartender nodded solemnly. "Yes, it happened about a week ago. Someone from the capital came through here, spreading the word. The emperor passed away, and now the youngest of the three princes has ascended to the throne, with his mother acting holding down the fort as regent. We are diving in shit if you ask me " he explained, his voice tinged with a bit of fear, he knew the reason ,everybody knew it . Alpheo raised a quizzical eyebrow at the bartender''s revelation. "The youngest, huh? What about the eldest?Did he really accept that?'''' The bartender shrugged nonchalantly, his tone casual as he continued polishing a glass. "Well, the eldest is up north, tending to matters there. As for the other, he is off in the east, handling their own affairs," he explained. Alpheo leaned in, curiosity piqued. "And why exactly are they scattered all over the place?" he inquired, his interest evident. The bartender shrugged once more'''' The fuck I know? Well, next time they swing by for a drink, I will ask them " he quipped. "Interesting," he murmured thoughtfully. "Thank you for the update you can keep the coin , just bring me whatever plate you are bringing my friend here and you can keep the rest." The bartender nodded with a smile ''''Thanks for your patronage my goodman'''' before leaving to tend to others guests. Meanwhile, Alpheo smiled as he gazed at the ground ''Seems like the empire will soon fall in civil war...three brothers, one throne, and the youngest sitting on it with the mother as regent.Ah , what ripe times to be alive!So many great men shall arise and so many more shall become dust'' . And such information cost him so little while bringing him so much. Chapter 27: Debts are to be repayed Chapter 27: Debts are to be repayed ''''I hope I have not made you wait too long'''' A lively, red-haired girl with a sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks bustled over to their table, balancing two plates in her arms. Alpheo couldn''t help but notice the resemblance between her and the tavern''s owner, most likely her father. The size of the building indicated that this was a family-owned business, he did not care much, it was one of his habit , to look around and observe when bored. Asag and Alpheo gracefully pulled their hands back to make room for the girl to set down their meals. In his peripheral vision, Alpheo caught a glimpse of Asag stealing glances at the girl before quickly looking away when their eyes met.Meanwhile the girl eyes rested on Alpheo . It was strange for him to think that this awkward young man had saved his life back in Arlania.But it was him of that he was sure. He did not know if he would have been able to wrestle back the dagger, or if the soldiers would have been stronger and pierced his neck with the blade. He did not like to think about it, it made him feel ....weak. Looking down at his plate, Alpheo realized that this would be the first time in his second life that he would taste meat. He had never had the opportunity before, not as a slave or even as a simple farmer''s son. The sight of two perfectly roasted pieces of meat accompanied by fresh vegetables made Alpheo''s stomach growl in anticipation. Without hesitation, he dug into his meal. Decades had passed since Alpheo last tasted meat, and despite its less than impressive flavor, there was something satisfying about it. For once, he felt like a proper man instead of a lowly slave or beast.He was no tool, no animal to be whipped when tired out, he was a man , or at least he believed himself so. Glancing over at Asag, Alpheo saw him delicately savoring each bite of meat. It was clear from the expression on his face that he too was thoroughly enjoying the meal . The two ate in silence, piece by piece the meal shrank in dimension , until the plate was completely empty. He and Asag had their belly filled by the meal, and while Alpheo had his thirst satiated by the ale, Asag simply accepted water as a drink. Visit for the best novel reading experience The girl soon came back and took the plate back, and as she did so her eyes met Alpheo''s giving him a small smile. He did not reciprocate. Soon she got the hint and with a sigh left the table , leaving him and Asag alone. She was a pretty girl, just like that one was ....and thinking about it made him remember things he did not want to. Asag remained silent, his eyes locked on Alpheo''s trembling hands. '''' My own blood and family betrayed me for a silver coin, the family I was given by the gods has denied me . There I understood that what mattered was the family I instead made. Once I became a slave , I befriended some of my comrades.The nights alone were the worse. Many died and yet with those that survived I organized the escape. '''' Alpheo stopped looking at his hands and moved to Asag ''''You saved my life back then , you are among those of the family I have chosen. You are my brother Asag, I care for you like a brother should. Like they should have had '''' The silent boy shook a bit as he gave one deep breath , did hearing that someone cared for him caused this ?Or was it just Alpheo''s story? Noticing his look, Alpheo knew it was the first. He rose from his seat as he patted Asag''s shoulder. ''''I am going to take one more drink and then I am going for a piss, wait me here.'''' As he approached the counter he made sure to attract the red-hair girl attention , he then took five silveriis from his pouch and moved them towards the girl . Her eyes widened a bit , before she smiled seductively at Alpheo as he exted her hand to caress his. ''''Not me , go to my friend. Make sure to make him believe you like him , seduce him for a bit ,stroke his cock a bit and then bed him.'''' ''''You sure these are for your friend?Won''t you rather have me?'''' She said with a smile as she gazed At Alpheo''s eyes. He gave her an icy stare ''''Don''t make me repeat myself , I can easily find another one that catch his eyes'''' ''''Well you won''t need to'''' She said with a sigh , dropping the act as she rose from the counter and walked towards Asag. He watched as she approached him and put his hands on his shoulder while whispering something in his ears. Asag shook a bit and then smiled. He watched a bit and then turned, he was always someone that paid back any favor he received , and yet he also never forgot a slight , not even from his own blood. ''''Debts are due for everyone'''' he muttered as he left the tavern to piss the ale away. Chapter 28: Matters of Succession(2) Chapter 28: Matters of Succession(2) A heavy silence hung in the air, punctuated only by the soft rustle of silk and the occasional clearing of throats. The empress sat at the head of the table, her gaze sweeping over the assembled magnates . She knew her position was tenuous, and her power derived solely from her proximity to the late emperor. Yet she also understood the game of politics well enough to know that perception often held more sway than reality. Give a carrot to an horse and they will plow your field Updated from arcellus, with his sleek black hair cascading down his neck, was the first to break the silence. His voice was firm and uncompromising as he voiced the sentiments shared by many in the room. "Your grace," he began, his words cutting through the tension like a knife, "we desire neither snow nor whores in our court. We seek strength, stability, and, above all, loyalty." Lisidor, his lips curled in a sardonic smile, added his own perspective. "Maesinius may be as harsh as the northern winds, but at least he is brave, and many of the warlike nobles will support him .Many of us seek revenge for the demise of the last emperor. Mavius , on the other hand, is like a reed in the wind, bending to the whims of whoever holds power, who knows what he will do when he is the one holding it . I certainly do not want to return to the times of Vitellio the despicable." Croxiatus, his double chin wobbling slightly as he spoke, nodded in agreement. "Indeed, there is only so many bastards a king should make '''' The empress grunted a bit , but the fat lord continued ''''it seems the best course of action is to look to the young prince for leadership. He is like fresh clay, waiting to be molded into the image of a true emperor." The empress listened intently to their words, her irritation at the word spoken immediately crumbling. She knew that their support was crucial if she hoped to maintain her hold on power. "I am grateful that we are all in agreement," she said, her voice steady despite the tumultuous emotions swirling within her. "Together, we can shape Livius into the leader our empire deserves." Lisidor nodded, his expression one of calculated approval. "Indeed, your grace. The best option is always the one we can mold to the better , like clay in the hands of a skilled sculptor." ''Except the hands will be mine'' Valeria thought ''''New men , make new choices, your grace, Our ancestors were foolish in their ambitions, We just wish to aid the emperor in making his choice, collaborating with the empress as regent to lead the empire out of these times of crisis'''' Lord Croxiatus spoke, his bald head sweating a bit as he took a piece of cut apple from the table and brought it into his mouth. She made no asnwer , just kept staring. ''''Your grace, this is the best choice to gain the loyalty of the core of the empire; why else would they go against tradition?The only road that will legitimize this takeover of power is to break the tradition of the eldest and bring an older one back to life. In these way, the lords will not see Livius as a usurper but as the restorer of tradition.'''' Lord Vritinius suggested ''''You break a mule , to bring the horse'''' The empress considered their words carefully, her mind racing with possibilities and potential pitfalls. "So, you propose to resurrect a relic of the past in the hopes of securing the empire''s future?" she mused, her voice tinged with skepticism ''''Is that bad poetry, my lord?'''' ''''As you can see poetry is not in my blood your grace'''' He bowed, but his eyes kept staring without pause ''These bastards just want the power they once had back; they already knew what I was going to propose, and they came together. They want the tradition very well, and they will have it for now. Who know what the future holds?'' The empress mused as she smiled at the man. ''''Very well then, your proposal is sound of mind, we shall crown the young prince and his first edict will be the reinstitution of the council'''' The empress spoke with a dangerous glint in her eyes, as she knew this was what she had to do to let her son assume power. ''''Then we shall pledge our allegiance to the new emperor'''' Marcellus bowed , followed by the other four, who knew that today they had managed to restore a power that had been dead for more than a century. And this time they would make sure that it remained as such, as from the ashes of the empire, tradition would arise again. Chapter 29: Among the snow(1) Chapter 29: Among the snow(1) The snow was as cold as ever , white and pure, yet so cold and deadly.He paused for a moment, scooping up a handful of the snow and molding it into a ball . With a flick of his wrist, he sent the snowball sailing through the air, its trajectory halted only by the solid stone wall of the fortress that loomed before him. North''s Bane, as they called it, was a bastion against what came after civilization, savagery and barbarity. Maesinius regarded the towering walls with awe. Three long years had passed since he first set foot within these icy confines, yet the sense of awe had never truly faded. His gaze moved up , where the flickering flames of the torches danced in the frigid breeze. For a fleeting moment, he entertained the idea of scaling the walls and warming himself, but ultimately he dismissed the notion and continued on his walk. Three years had etched their mark on Maesinius since his reluctant arrival at North''s Bane. A mere boy of fifteen summers then, he had cursed his father''s name for casting him into this frozen hell . Yet, in hindsight, he pondered the true intent behind all this, just like the reason of the exile. Was it to purge him of the spoiled behaviour he had ?Or was it to teach him the way of war? Nonetheless, he learned both. The bitter cold of the northern climate had proven to be the most merciless of tutors, stripping away the entitlement that had clung to him like a second skin. No longer did his manhood remain untested, for the rugged landscape and rugged people of the north demanded resilience and fortitude in equal measure, and he now had it. Updated from In those early days, the harshness of his new surroundings felt like a punishment, his body rebelling against the biting chill with each passing day. His fingers and toes had grown numb from the relentless cold, while his throat burned with each breath. But time and the cold had tempered his flesh and hardened his resolve. Gradually, the northern lords, initially wary of harboring a pampered youth, even if that child was the heir to the empire , had come to accept him as one of their own. They shared ale beneath the same roof and fought battles together.For the northerners, that meant they were brothers, and Maesinius certainly liked that. Maesinius vividly recalled the baptism of blood that marked his rite of passage into manhood¡ªthe moment when he faced down one of these northern warriors upon the wall. With a sword in hand and his heart pounding in his chest, he braced himself as the barbarian charged towards him. His first blow glanced harmlessly off the iron-clad foe, and Maesinius responded in kind . In a flash of steel, he struck back, his blade finding its mark on the savage neck . In the aftermath of the battle, as he emerged from the fray, his face streaked with the blood of his foes, the northern lords regarded him with newfound respect.They made him sit, poured him ale, and patted his back.They had never done that to him , and bestowed on the young lord a title earned through steel and sweat, not blood; by the standards of the north, he had proven himself a man. Despite the myriad tales spun by southerners about the harshness and hostility of the north, one undeniable truth persisted: They were one. Unlike the southern lords, who were often likened to serpents with their subtle schemes and hidden agendas, the northerners embodied the spirit of the wolf¡ªfierce, loyal, and bound together by the unbreakable bonds of brotherhood. In the north, strength lay not in the acquisition of land or wealth but in the solidarity of the pack. These hardy folk lived in close-knit communities, where survival depended not on the size of one''s territory but on the strength of the ties that bound them together. They were no strangers to hardship, for their lands were barren and unforgiving, yet they knew that in times of need, their brothers would stand by their side, ready to defend and support one another.If they were to fight like the southerners they would go extict either by famine or by the savages. In winter the lone wold dies while the pack survives . Unlike the southerners, who often sought to expand their domains at the expense of their neighbors, the northerners harbored no such ambitions. Land was plentiful, yet cultivation was a struggle against the elements, and few saw the wisdom in claiming more territory that would remain untamed and uninhabited. To Maesinius, a son of the south thrust into the heart of the northern wilderness, this sense of unity was both foreign and familiar. At first, he had been regarded with suspicion and mistrust as an outsider trespassing on sacred ground. Yet over time, he had proven himself worthy of their trust and respect, earning his place among them through deeds of valor and acts of solidarity. He had become one with the north, and the north had become a part of him.And behind him, thousands of others got his back. Snow passed through his blood, and his blood passed through the snow , they were one. Chapter 30: Among the snow(2) Chapter 30: Among the snow(2) The snow continued to fall on the north and gave no sign of stopping anytime close. "It''s not so bad," he remarked to himself, his breath forming wisps of vapor in the frigid air. Compared to the bitter cold that had greeted him upon his arrival, this gentle flurry was little more than a mere dusting of snow. The wolf''s pet nonetheless kept him warm; when he got here, the cold was unbearable,as he had never faced it, he did not even weany any animal pelt as by northern custom only men could wear these and no matter how much he screamed and demanded, naught was given to him . He still remembered the smile he received when he returned from one of the scouting expedition beyond the Bane wearing the wolf pelt , but among all, he remembered the smile he was given by his daughter Elenoir. Updated from Harold saw that and merely chuckled, giving no sign of being bothered by his daughter being in his company. Maesinius knew it was not for his position; the northern lord did not give half a ball about that; they only cared about who he really was , though being a prince was a small bloom still . Even though it was just a dusting of snow, he had enough as he walked towards the inner fort. His steps sank on the soft snow as he opened the big wooden door , where the great hall resided. As he stepped in , he no longer felt the cold wind hissing through his ears. He shook himself a bit , releasing all the snow he had accumulated during his walk. A hearty cheer greeted him as he entered, accompanied by the clinking of tankards and the laughter of men. Svenn, the seasoned master at arms of Grash, raised his ale in salute, his grizzled face creased in a weathered grin. He was over fifty, and the soldiers liked to call him ''Grandpa snow''. "The high prince has blessed us with his presence!" Svenn boomed, his voice echoing through the hall.He still cringed hearing that nick-name. He recalled the day when he had earned the moniker during his first training session in the snow. Gripping a wooden blade tightly in his hand, he squared off against Svenn, his breath forming clouds of steam in the frigid air. The first blow had caught him off guard, striking him squarely in the stomach and knocking the wind from his lungs. It was a humbling experience, one that no training master in the South would have dared to subject him to. "How dare you hit me!" He had protested, his pride hurting more than the blow. But Svenn had merely chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "In the south, perhaps no one would have dared," he had replied, his voice gruff with the accent of the north. "But this is no south, m''prince. Here, we have snow aplenty, and the first lesson you must learn is to shed your pride." Strange world this was; seeing savages always brought a headache, yet seeing none always caused fear. ''What caused them to move?'' The prince wondered, ''Did prizes disappear in the area?Maybe they united with a bigger tribe?'' Whatever it was, he knew it was nothing good. "We should scout even further then," Maesinius muttered, his brow furrowing with concern. Svenn nodded in agreement, his expression grave. "Aye, we should bring that up to the Lord, though," he said, relenting as he finished his ale, his thoughts already turning to the implications of what lay beyond their borders. As Maesinius settled back into his seat, preparing to discuss their next course of action, the heavy wooden door swung open with a creak. A man bearing the emblem of North''s Bane, a sword on a brown field, entered the hall. "Rosk, close the bloody door!" Svenn barked, irritation evident in his voice as he reached for his empty cup. Rosk, Svenn''s son, obeyed his father''s command without hesitation, swiftly shutting the door before approaching the prince. He dropped to one knee, extending a sealed letter towards Maesinius. "News from the south, my prince," Rosk announced solemnly, his gaze fixed on Maesinius. Maesinius accepted the letter, noting the familiar emblem of his house emblazoned on the seal. He cracked the seal and unfolded the parchment, his eyes scanning the contents. ''''Seems like your father finally wants his son by his side'''' Svenn shouted, causing the prince to smirk ''That old fucker would have me rot here first'', he said, opening the letter, breaking the vax as he started reading it. But as he read further, the smile faded from his face, replaced by a look of surprise and bewilderment. Svenn''s smile vanished too as he observed the change in Maesinius''s demeanor. Before anyone could know it, war had come to the North''s doorstep. Chapter 31: Coronation Chapter 31: Coronation The cathedral was as big as she remembered, the ceiling reaching as high as the sky as it was filled with paintings of the gods alongside the mythical story of the birth of Romelia.Apparently, the emperors , like most autocratic figures, liked to tell everyone that they had divine origins. According to legend, the first ruler of Romelia was revered as the spawn of the Warrior, the deity whom soldiers prayed to before battle. The myth went that the warrior had lain with a humble sheepherder, and from their union, Romlio was born. He was said to be the warrior''s firstborn son, bestowed with divine gifts by the gods as a tribute to their brother. The mother granted him fertility, ensuring that each union with a woman would result in the conception of a child. The Father gifted him an unbreakable sword, symbolizing his strength and prowess. The scholar bestowed upon him wisdom and knowledge, making him a ruler of great intellect. The sea god caused a river to spring forth from the hills at his birth, resembling his connection to the gods. And finally, the warrior himself blessed his son with his own blood, marking him as a chosen heir. With these gifts, Romlio went on to conquer the surrounding tribes, establishing the great city of Romelia atop the three hills where he was born. This marked the second occasion she had stepped foot inside the grand cathedral, a place typically kept under lock and key by the vigilant priests. Its imposing doors swung open only during momentous events such as weddings or coronations. The first time she had beheld its magnificence was upon her arrival in the capital, where she was destined to marry the emperor. She recalled the moment vividly, her heart filled with glee as she laid eyes on the emperor for the first time. He was a figure of power and strength, his tall, commanding presence exuding an air of authority. Despite his advancing age, he retained a rugged handsomeness that drew her gaze. Yet, even as they exchanged vows, she sensed a lingering sadness in his eyes. Their union was one of duty rather than love, she soon realized. He was already married in his hearth to another woman, a woman who had borne him two sons and a daughter before meeting her untimely demise. ''The whore''s beauty was that strong apparently'' . And try as she might, Empress Valeria could never fully escape its reach. Over time, love soured into jealousy and resentment, until a deep-seated spite began to fester within her. Though it had not yet blossomed into outright hatred,. The birth of their two sons, Mesha and Livius, did little to bridge the divide. But it was the loss of their youngest, Livius , a tender boy of five, that dealt the final blow to their fractured relationship. As she watched the priests offer prayers for her dear departed son, Empress Valeria couldn''t help but feel hate toward the emperor. He had been absent in her hour of need, too consumed by the hunt he had organised.Killing beasts was apparently more important than attending to the death of their son.From that moment she swore that she would get her revenge, in the end though she didn''t. Even that was stolen from her. As he spoke, each invocation was a fervent prayer, a plea for divine favor. "May the warrior grant him power and bless his armies. May the mother grant him fertility. May the Father bless his lineage. May the sea god bless his navies. May the scholar bless him with knowledge." With each blessing, the atmosphere in the chamber seemed to hum with the gods''s power. And as the final words echoed through the hall, the old man lowered the crown onto the young emperor''s head. The crown did not fall. And she was proud . In that moment, all the nobles present bowed in deference to their rightful ruler. Yet, for a fleeting instant, Valeria felt a surge of emotion , as if they were kneeling not to the child before them but to her¡ªthe guiding force behind the throne. She knew she had won. Her blood was sitting on the throne.Ignoring the copious amount that would be soon spilled Chapter 32: Looking for employment(1) Chapter 32: Looking for employment(1) As Alpheo knelt down amidst the lush greenery, his companions watched on with varying degrees of perplexity. Egil, Clio, and Jarva exchanged bemused glances, while Asag remained absorbed in observing the activity without saying anything With a deliberate motion, Alpheo scooped up a handful of soil, feeling its gritty texture slip through his fingers. "The land is fertile," he murmured, his gaze fixed on the rich blackness of the earth. "Aye, too bad we''re not farmers, but warriors," Egil quipped, his tone tinged with humor as he raised an eyebrow at Alpheo. ''''Unless you wanna pick up a hoe?'''' "Half of our men are farmers, remember? Only a quarter of them were ''warriors'', putting importance on the ''were'' " Clio interjected Visit for the best novel reading experience "And thanks to this one all of them are now soldiers " Jarva added, nodding toward Alpheo, "we trained them in formation and tactics, just like he requested. All they need is a bit of motivation, and they''ll be warriors in their own right. They just need to pop the cherry.And you know give them a bit of motivation to rouse their warrior''s spirit. We have them trained for few months, they are certainly better than most peasants taken from the field and given a spear, to fight some lord''s war . " Alpheo remained absorbed in his examination of the soil, watching as insects scurried amidst the grains. This land was truly fertile...However, Egil''s sharp tone broke the reverie. "Stop fooling around, Alpheo. Do you want them to think you''re just a child playing in the dirt?" Startled, Alpheo stood up hastily, brushing the dirt from his hands with a sheepish grin. "All of us are children within ourselves, we just hide it from the rest fearing their judgment. I am only brave enough not to give half a fuck about other''s people opinion . You shouldn''t either " he murmured, his demeanor shifting to one of readiness as he prepared to resume their work. Clio nervously scratched his hair, leaning in towards Alpheo with a troubled expression. "Listen, most of our soldiers are greenhorns. They''re not warriors; many of them were farmers before being made slaves, we certainly cannot take such risky job " Alpheo met Clio''s gaze with a confident grin. "Don''t worry, Clio. I''ve trained them well. They might not have battle scars, but they''ll surprise you. Trust me, they''ll function just perfectly." Skeptical, Clio raised an eyebrow. "Half of them have never even held a spear before! And the other half has never set foot on a battlefield. This is serious business, Alpheo! This is supposed to be a war, not some tavern brawl!" Alpheo placed a reassuring hand on Clio''s shoulder. "You''re overthinking it. Our opponents won''t be the standardized and disciplined like the ''elite'' imperial army," he explained, reminding himself that the forces they encountered in Arlania were hardly formidable foes; most of them were levies, not the disciplined army the Empire usually employed. "I''ve done my research here, and most armies that these princes employ are nothing more than a ragtag collection of levies and farmers sent into battle with barely any equipment." As the riders approached, Alpheo assessed them with a discerning eye. They were clad in chainmail and breastplates, their demeanor stern and expectant. Alpheo felt their gaze linger on him, sizing him up as he did them. It was a silent standoff, with each party waiting for the other to make the first move in the negotiation. Alpheo, disdainful of such formalities, decided to take the initiative. "May I know with whom I have the honor of conducting our business negotiations?" Alpheo inquired, offering a friendly smile. "You treat with me, mercenary," a man declared as he dismounted from his horse. Unlike the others, he left his helmet off, allowing his white hair to billow in the wind. His gaze bore into Alpheo with an air of scrutiny, his expression tinged with a hint of disapproval. "Are you the leader of this company?" he questioned further clearly surprised by the latter age. ''he is not even a man'', he thought as he stared at Alpheo "I am the one who holds such honor. My name is Alpheo. It''s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.?" Alpheo replied, extending a courteous hand. "Sir Robert. I serve as the accountant of my prince, Arkawatt of House Aveloni-isha " the man introduced himself tersely. "Well, good, sir Robert. As you can see, I have prepared a table for our discussion." Alpheo gestured toward the spread of refreshments laid out before them. "May I offer you some refreshment?" he continued, motioning to the cheese, bread, smoked meat, and wine waiting to be served. Robert said nothing as he took his seat at the table, visibly irked by Alpheo''s presumption of seating himself first. Alpheo, however, paid little heed to the perceived breach of protocol. After all, Arkawatt''s need for troops was dire, and Alpheo needed to pinpoint his standing from the start.It was not him that came to them , but the opposite. Over the past three years, the prince of Yarzat has found himself at war with the neighboring ruler of Qulyat. Yarzat had suffered significant setbacks, steadily losing ground to their adversary. Now, facing the prospect of a decisive engagement, the prince sought to turn the tides of war in his favor. Preparations were underway for a campaign that would see Yarzat''s forces confront their Qulyati foes on the battlefield . The prince''s objective was clear: to deal a crippling blow to his adversary, buying precious time to reclaim lost territories and consolidate his holdings. In these conflicts, waged between petty rulers, the armies marshaled were modest in size. Typically, each prince could muster no more than 2,000 soldiers, a meager force by any standard. However, the current circumstances were dire for Yarzat, as their available manpower numbered a mere 700. Traditionally, the nobles would rally to their liege''s cause, bolstering the ranks with levied troops. Yet, in this instance, the relationship between the prince and his vassals was strained, the exact cause of which remained unknown to Alpheo . Regardless of the underlying tensions, one thing was certain: Arkawatt, was in dire need of reinforcements, and Alpheo came just at the right time.Albeit not with a ''good'' price. Chapter 33: Looking for employment(2) Chapter 33: Looking for employment(2) The wind whispered through the plains, tugging at the fluttering herald of House Yarzat as it trailed behind the fifteen men. As the hearld fluttered , Sir Robert and Alpheo engaged in a silent duel of scrutiny, each assessing the other''s intentions. Alpheo, nonchalantly munching on cheese and bread, seemed unperturbed by the weight of the negotiations. Behind him, Jarza, Clio, Egil, and Asag stood as a silent but vigilant guard, though they doubted the need for drawn steel. "Robert is an uncommon name in these parts," Alpheo remarked, his curiosity piqued. "Are you perhaps from the north?"He asked with a smile as he drummed his index on his nose, as if he could smell the foreign out of him . Sir Robert met his gaze with a measured expression, the suggestion of his northern origins seeming to sting his pride. "My father hailed from the north. He brought me south in me'' youth, and I entered into service under Yarzat''s father. But enough about me. It is time we discuss matters of importance ," he declared, producing blank parchment and ink, ready to commence the negotiations. "Let us start with the basics," Robert began. "How many men do you command?" "512 in total, 540 if we include the cooks and other support personnel," Alpheo responded casually, revealing a subtle hint of pride. During their journey south, they had recruited women to serve as both cooks and whores for the soldiers. A brief silence followed as Sir Robert absorbed this revelation, his surprise evident. Alpheo couldn''t help but relish in his reaction, a smirk playing across his lips. "Are they all armed?" Sir Robert inquired after a moment, his demeanor betraying his underlying unease. "Indeed, the men are armed. The women, not so much," Alpheo quipped, attempting to lighten the mood, though Sir Robert remained unamused. "But yes, they are all equipped with chainmail, with 125 possessing breastplates. Each one has a helmet and is prepared to fight for your liege, pending the successful conclusion of our negotiations." Robert nodded, as he started calmly writing something down , all the while though his head was in uproar!''500 armed forces?How the hell did he manage to mantain such company, I never heard of their band which means they are rather new.Moreover how come such a young boy is the leader!'' Robert thought as his eyes drifted to the man in question.''We need to employ them , whatever the cost my liege will need them'' Alpheo leaned forward, his demeanor commanding respect. "If you wish to secure our allegiance, you must offer a fair wage, worthy of our capabilities. Anything less will be met with scorn and rejection. Your prince may be losing this war, but with us at his side, victory is within his grasp. The question is, will he be wise enough to recognize the value we bring?" "What do you offer then?" Robert asked, a hint of frustration creeping into his tone as he grappled with the mercenary leader''s bold demands.He hated being insulted by nothing more than a boy , yet he could not afford to make an enemy out of him. "Twenty silver coins per month for each soldier, alongside the promise that whatever spoils we acquire will be rightfully ours," Alpheo stated firmly, leaning forward with an air of confidence. Robert hesitated, his brow furrowing in contemplation. "Twenty silver coins? That is a considerable sum, a bit too much to spend on mercenaries" "But consider the value we bring," Alpheo interjected, his voice unwavering. "With our skilled warriors at your prince''s disposal, victory is all but assured. And with the promise of rightful loot, we offer an incentive unmatched by any other mercenaries.They will probably run if things go south, we won''t. After all this is our first employment, it would not do us good to have a ''bad'' reputation. " Robert sighed, realizing the gravity of the situation. "That is too much we offer you ten silverii., it is more than double what we pay our soldiers." ''''Please they are not ''soldiers'' , they are levy, if we take into account ''real soldiers'' than we should consider how much is the wage for each of your heavy cavalry. I am sure you don''t want that right?'''' He asked with a small smirk "There is no room for compromise," Alpheo continued firmly "Although I would be willing to lower it to fifteen silverii per month, while the right to claim our spoils are non-negotiable. However, to ease your prince''s burden, we can include a clause in the contract stipulating that in the event of defeat, he will only be obligated to pay half of what is owed." And that was a clause too good to pass up. History was filled with stories , of mercenaries rebelling after a lost war , when their employer were unable to pay their wages while suing for peace.The biggest example of it being Cartaghe, whic i?h after the first punic war, was unable to pay the reparations to the roman while affording to pay all the wages they owed to their mercenaries, causing them to rebel in one of the bloodiest civil wars led by mercenaries. Chapter 34: Looking for employment(3) Chapter 34: Looking for employment(3) "He speaks and acts like a nobleman," Asag thought quietly to himself as he observed Alpheo, the only person who had ever called him brother in all his life. To most people, Asag appeared simple-minded, and they tended to avoid conversing with him any more than necessary. He was often overlooked and underestimated, but he had learned to observe, to read between the lines, and learn people like a book. After Asag saved Alpheo''s life , he had introduced his savior to his close circle of friends, who had been kind to him. But even among them, Asag felt like an outsider, like a rat hiding in his hole, observing from the shadows. He watched them closely, studying their mannerisms and behaviors. Jarza, for example, was stoic and reserved, rarely showing emotion except for the fierce loyalty that burned in his eyes whenever he looked at Alpheo. Alpheo had a knack for raising loyalty in others, perhaps a gift from the gods, they were supposed to bless men, yet Asag always felt more cursed than blessed in any way. As the wind whipped around him, Asag felt a twinge of pain from the burn scar on his face. It stung like a cat''s scratch.He tried to distract himself Then there was Egil, a mystery to Asag. At times, he appeared jovial and lighthearted, but there was a darkness lurking beneath the surface, a readiness to wield his sword at a moment''s notice. Asag couldn''t help but realise that the life of a mercenary suited Egil the best. Clio, the final member of their group, was absent at the moment. Asag couldn''t quite see how Alpheo could make use of him, aside from being a loyal follower who obeyed orders without question. Unlike Jarva, who possessed great strength, or Egil, who was skilled with horses, Clio didn''t seem to have any remarkable qualities. He did not know how to read, nor to count and was not even a great warrior. Yet, despite his lack of obvious talents, Asag knew that Clio was fiercely loyal, so at least there was a silver lining. Alpheo remained a mystery to Asag, a complex mix of kindness and cruelty. He seemed to take pleasure in the suffering of others, particularly when it came to watching the soldiers and cooks deaths . Though he never participated directly, Alpheo would watch with a sense of satisfaction, as if reveling in the chaos he had orchestrated.He was like a man dancing in humankind''s shadow, weaving strings and observing the results from afar. If Asag had to choose a word to describe him, it would be charismatic. Alpheo had a way with words, able to charm and manipulate those around him effortlessly. Despite leading 530 people out of the camp, only 20 left after reaching imperial land , while taking their share of the loot. If that was not proof of silver tongue, than Asag was at a loss. Even now, as he observed Alpheo engaging in negotiations with Robert, he couldn''t help but feel a sense of awe. Despite his reservations and doubts, there was something undeniably captivating about the way Alpheo acted , talked and behaved, as if everything was just a dice waiting to be thrown by him.As if men, wars, plots were nothing more than a plaything for him to fight off boredom. It was scary , yet also enticing and Asag could not help but listen to another one of Alpheo tricks. Robert reluctantly gestured for his guards to retreat, his apprehension palpable. "I suppose you''re concerned about us absconding with the payment," he acknowledged. Alpheo nodded knowingly. "Indeed, just as you fear us fleeing with the money, I fear that your prince may be unable to fulfill his end of the bargain. Consider things from our perspective, Sir Robert. We are newcomers to these lands, and I''m hesitant to embark on a risky venture without some assurance of payment," he explained, his smile faint but confident. "Therefore, it seems only fair that we receive some upfront compensation to ensure that we fulfill our obligations." Robert''s growl tapered off into a heavy sigh as he brought his hands to his chest, a solemn oath escaping his lips. "I swear by the gods that my prince shall pay his due. May hell take my soul if I lie," he declared, almost satisfied at his own intelligence. For a brief moment, Alpheo fell silent, his mind drifting away ''I should have anticipated this,'' he mused inwardly, ''I should have known that for these mongrels that swearing to the gods means absolute truths .For them it may be good enough but for me it is not'' Returning his focus to the present, Alpheo mirrored Robert''s gesture, placing his hand over his chest in a solemn gesture of reciprocity. "Well, in that case," he began, his tone measured and deliberate, "I swear by the gods that I shall not renege on our agreement nor abscond with the prepayment," he pledged, his words infused with a mocking tone As he concluded his oath, Alpheo turned his gaze towards Robert, his expression expectant. "Now that we have both sworn our allegiance, I see no reason why a partial payment cannot be arranged," he proposed, a hint of satisfaction tugging at the corners of his lips. Robert looked uneasy as he shifted in his seat, he pursued his lips but said nothing. Alpheo observed his movement and understood he had hit the nail ''The bastards do not have the coin to pay us!They don''t have coins nor men , how do they think they are going to win their wars?Or are they thinking that we will fight their losing battle and then kindly await their leisure to pay us our due?'' Chapter 35: Looking for empoyment(4) Chapter 35: Looking for empoyment(4) As Robert appeared uncomfortable over the fact that Alpheo was not budging on receiving the payment at the end of the campaign, Alpheo was instead racking his, brain over what to do. ''This spells trouble, a prince in a losing war, without coin and without men.I certainly do not work on promises'' he thought, yet as he pondered some more he realised not all was not lost, he could still make use of that. Clearing his throat to command attention, Alpheo interjected into the tense exchange. "If your prince finds himself short on silver, perhaps there are other assets of value he can offer as prepayment," he suggested, his tone measured yet resolute. Intrigued by the prospect, Robert leaned forward, prompting Alpheo to elaborate on his proposition. "What other form of payment would you be willing to accept?" Robert inquired cautiously, sensing a potential breakthrough in the negotiation. Alpheo''s gaze flickered towards the stables, his interest piqued by the sight of the prized warhorses housed within. "Warhorses," he declared firmly, his voice carrying a hint of determination. Robert recoiled visibly at the audacity of the request. Warhorses were cherished assets in any feudal society, coveted for their strength and agility on the battlefield, and not to be parted with lightly. "Warhorses? Surely you jest," Robert protested, his disbelief evident in the furrow of his brows. Alpheo''s expression hardened at the dismissive response, a flash of indignation flashing across his features. "I do not jest," he retorted firmly, his tone unwavering. "And I have patience for many things, but your obstinance is proving difficult to tolerate.No coins, no horses will you pay with kind words?" He grunted With a steely resolve, Alpheo pressed on, underscoring the high stakes of their negotiation. "I have requested prepayment because your prince''s precarious position leaves me no choice. Not only is he losing the war, but he lacks the means to secure our services with coin," he explained, his words carrying a weighty implication. "I am taking a considerable risk by considering his offer, and it is only fair that we negotiate terms that reflect the magnitude of that risk.This is certainly no hike in the mountain " "This is not what I meant," Robert protested, his frustration palpable as he struggled to deal with the youngster. Alpheo met his gaze with a steady stare, his expression a mixture of scrutiny and impatience. "This is not what you meant, but it is undeniably the truth," Alpheo countered, his tone tinged with a hint of exasperation. "Are you aware that we are aligning ourselves with the losing side in this conflict? And yet, you refuse to make any concessions. What am I to make of that?Should I go to my men and tell them that they will give their lives for the losing side, while the prince they will fight for , promised to pay with coins he does not have?" Robert grunted in response, his reluctance evident as he contemplated his next move. "I will have to bring this to my liege," he conceded begrudgingly, a sense of resignation settling over him. Robreto rose from his seat, Alpheo did so too and bid him goodbye. Once again alone , Jarva approached Alpheo with a stern expression. "I thought I had told you to mind your behavior?" Alpheo flashed a sly smirk. "Was I not at my best?" he quipped, his tone laced with amusement. "He didn''t even reach for his sword. I consider that a success.Not even the mother herself would have been more considerate " "I''m inclined to agree with Alph," Egil chimed in, nodding in approval. "You saw it too, Jarva. He dominated the meeting, and Alph just made sure they knew who was in charge." Jarva sighed, shaking his head. "He could have chosen his words more carefully.We are outsider here, we can''t afford to behave like that" "Shit is shit, no matter how much honey you smear on it," Egil retorted bluntly''''We have the sword, and they must have the coin for it , that is all.You don''t go to a whorehouse and pay with rocks....'''' Alpheo chuckled at Egil''s analogy. "You speak the truth, my friend.Remember who you are , wear it like a shield and no one can use it against you.We are mercenaries, we fight for gold, we do not care about justice or law , only on how heavy is our purse after a war. " "Just remember not to make a habit of it," Jarva warned, his tone serious. "Of course, of course," Alpheo replied dismissively, his smile unwavering. Deep down, he knew that the first part of his plan was unfolding seamlessly.Now it was time to get on with it, their next step was to actually make a name for themselves , not hard considering this place knows war much more than peace, which means that there will be many opportunities to rise in the ladder. ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª Chapter 36: The second prince Chapter 36: The second prince ''''What are you talking about?'''' A man lying on a sofa-chair, asked as he raised his hand, signalling for the two girls to stop feeding him grapes ''''I fear you have heard me correctly your grace'''' Duke Landoff spoke as he lightly bowed ''''My deepest condolences over your father''s demise, he was a strong and pious leader.The empire shall never see a ruler like him''''. ''''Yes that is unfortunate may he be rewarded by the gods, but are you sure about the latter part?'''' Mavius asked as he rose from his seat and approached his host. For two years he had been welcomed by the duke as guest , and he found the lavish and elegant way of the eastern part of the empire to his great taste. But now that same duke that shared with him wines, and sometimes girls, brought news of his father''s demise, and his younger brother ascending to the throne. The prince was everything but his father, while Gratios Koutozokenes was a strong , martial and lavish-hater emperor. His son was instead the opposite, while his father was a warrior, he was a slacker. Not to say he was a fool, on the contrary he was extremely intelligent , yet he was also lazy. Preferring to sleep, dine and fuck rather than study, battle or rule. Follow current novels at novelhall.com) And while his older brother was fostered in the snow, he was instead welcomed by olive trees and camps of grains.As he heard of his father''s death, Mavius waited a few instants but did not feel anything. The emperor was many things, but a loving father?Certainly not. He believed to be talking for all of his brothers, when he says that no love was between father and sons . "What the hell is that red bitch thinking?" he muttered to himself, referring to his stepmother, the Empress. He couldn''t decide which was more shocking: his younger brother''s usurpation of the throne or the reinstatement of the Council of the 200. "She surely has a knack for screwing things up. The moment she shows weakness, she''ll be devoured. She should have stopped at opening her legs for father," he thought bitterly as he draped a towel over his naked body. The duke turned his head, catching Mavius''s smirk. The prince chuckled in his mind , ''Nothing you haven''t seen before my dear duke ''. He covered himself. "Your Grace, may I ask what you wish to do now?" the duke inquired, his fingers absentmindedly twirling his black moustache. Mavius considered the question, his mind already formulating plans. "First, I need to gather information," he replied calmly. "Find out who supported my brother''s claim in the south and who opposes it. Then, we''ll see where our alliances lie." "If my brother decides to venture south, I''ll meet him in battle myself," Mavius declared boldly, his eyes alight with determination. "Last I checked, the east is the most populous and prosperous region in the empire. Or should I be concerned about their loyalty?" "Never, Your Grace," the duke assured him, his loyalty unwavering. "With your command, we shall raise a formidable army to accompany you on your journey through the south.Indeed, a military campaign, Your Grace that is what the empire need ," the duke concurred, his tone solemn. "The southern lands are said to be defended by the very hand of the gods, and I fear the usurper has likely fortified all the mountain passes, so it will not be easy." Mavius nodded thoughtfully, his mind already strategizing. "But that also means those beyond the mountains will be eager to rally for our cause. Why would the brat risk his neck defending their lands when he can wait comfortably for my arrival?" He leaned back in his chair, contemplating their next move. "Bypassing the mountains won''t be easy, but there are other ways to secure victory without needlessly sacrificing our soldiers.I hardly believe that all the lords within the fingers are loyal to the bone.Starve them a little, throw a bone and they will run to it like starving dogs " "Of course, Your Grace, but we must also consider the time needed to muster our forces," the duke interjected cautiously. "How much time?" Mavius inquired tersely, his expression expectant. "If it were up to me, no more than a few weeks. However, I cannot speak for the other nobles, as some may find war rather unpalatable," the duke admitted. Mavius frowned, considering their options. "So, you have a solution to expedite the process?" he probed, a hint of impatience in his voice, as he passed his hand through his long black hair . "Indeed, Your Grace," the duke replied with a respectful bow. "I believe the most effective way to rally your loyal followers is to let them know that eastern blood flows alongside yours, your grace." Mavius arched an eyebrow, recognizing the suggestion for what it was. ''It seems he wishes to betroth his daughter to me,'' he mused silently, his gaze meeting the duke''s. ''He is a powerful magnate and currently my strongest supporter. Only a fool would dismiss his offer and play the prude , especially now.'' "Well, my father always used to say that the best marriages are made young," Mavius remarked with a wry smile ''''And maybe it''s high time I find lawful wife, I have many bastards but no sons... '''' Chapter 37: First session(1) Chapter 37: First session(1) For a century and a half, the abandoned building lay dormant, shrouded in layers of dust, cobwebs, and the occasional scurry of insects. When its doors were finally pried open, a musty cloud of dust billowed out, filling the lungs of those tasked with cleaning its neglected chambers. "It felt like we were breathing dust and insects ," had remarked one of the maids when she was asked about her experience. Despite the fact that it was never used , Vrivius the Red deemed it necessary to cleanse the walls and floors from bones and dried blood. Some may have been thinking that after dissolving a body that existed for centuries , there would be great repercussions, while in reality, it had none. Vrivius was adored by his people, hailed as a hero for his victories in the wars against the Latvians and also for the fact that many public work were started during his reign, kindly funded by the foes he had defeated. He was a rare breed among emperors, leading from the frontlines and earning the unwavering loyalty of his soldiers. Only the nobles harbored resentment toward him, but a brief civil war swiftly quelled any notions of opposition.The fact that the strongest and martial-like nobles, fought with the emperor with decades made it so , that the imperial army made up by lions was led by lions , while the nobles could hardly decide on who to give command. Follow current novels at novelhall.com) Following the civil unrest, Vrivius reigned for another decade, his leadership marked by prosperity and relative peace. However, his mysterious demise, occurring the day after a grand banquet, cast a shadow of suspicion over his reign''s end. Some attributed his death to illness, while others whispered that the hand of a maid was to blame. After investigations , no culprit , if it ever existed was found. The once-forgotten building had been meticulously cleaned, from floor to ceiling, in preparation to host the gathering of 200 nobles tasked with reinstating the political body. Its unique semi-circular shape was designed to amplify voices, ensuring that every word spoken echoed through the halls.A design also used for theathers, to make sure that even the last rows could hear the voices of the actors. Rows of marble seats stretched from the back of the chamber to the front, providing ample seating for the assembled nobility. The air, once stale and musty, now carried a pleasant fragrance thanks to the burning of numerous herbs inside the building in the days prior. For a week, the only thing emerging from the building were wisps of smoke. At the center of the chamber stood a throne that had remained unoccupied for a century and a half. Finally, it was claimed by the new emperor, Mesha Kantaouzokenes, first of his name. Though the throne was oversized for his stature, its minimalist design¡ªcrafted from white marble with a simple red cushion¡ªlacked the opulent decorations often seen on royal thrones. After all the preparations for the first meeting of the council was prepared in haste. ''The tears were most troublesome '' she thought ''But a necessary pain nonetheless''''she then presented him with a dog. "This one will be able to defend himself," she had assured him. "Cats are weak and disloyal.Dogs strong and loyal to the bone " Yet, despite the abrupt change, Mesha had adapted and grown to love the dog just as deeply. "Perhaps it''s time to commence the session," Valeria murmured, her arms gracefully linked with Marcellus''s as they descended the staircase. She noticed his lingering gaze, and lust-filled eyes. She did not dislike it , after all Marcellus remained a captivating figure, his sharp gaze and impeccable attire a testament to his influence. Valeria recognized the allure of his presence and knew how to wield it to her advantage, he was after all a strong man. "No matter the title, all men think with their cocks," she mused inwardly, leveraging her feminine charm to maintain his favor. Long caresses, lingering gazes and smiles, that were a woman''s weapons. With each step down the marble stairs, Valeria exuded confidence, her crimson shoes echoing against the polished surface, as her long legs moved forward. As they reached the floor, she released Marcellus''s arm and approached her son, Mesha. The council fell silent in her presence. She relished in it , that feeling of shying away from the expectations placed upon her as a woman in a patriarchal society.She was no mere consort or figurehead; she was the Vrivius without cock and balls . She would shape the destiny of the empire, guiding it through the turbulent waters of politics and intrigue.Strong and powerful like her husband was. And though she stood as regent until her son reached adulthood, Valeria knew that she held the true power¡ªthe power to inspire loyalty and command obedience. ''if I was born with balls, I would have been playing with sword not dolls, and maybe father would have had the son he always wanted'' Soon,all the empire would kneel not just to her son, but to her as well¡ªthe true force behind the throne, the architect of the state''s future.Such were her thoughts as she pressed down the stairs , arms in arms with the lord and her hands caressing his chest. Chapter 38: First session(2) Chapter 38: First session(2) All eyes in the grand chamber were fixed upon her, their collective gaze following her every move with attention. Each step she took reverberated through the silence of the hall, echoing off the polished marble floors and ascending to the ears of those seated in the front rows. Accompanying Valeria were the stoic figures of the imperial guards, standing both at her side and that the young emperor. As Valeria approached her son, she paused,and with grace, she took her seat upon the smaller throne positioned slightly behind and to the side of the emperor''s, an acknowledgment of her temporary role as regent. Mesha, the young emperor, cast a nervous glance in her direction,anxiousness was in his gaze as he felt the stare of hundreds of people on him alone For a fleeting moment, mother and son shared a silent exchange,before Valeria stared ahead. Updated from He must learn on his own, was the thought that came to her head , no one likes an indecesive ruler,and there would be no way that his son would be one. As the smell of the herbs burnt the previous week lingered towards her nose,she decided to commence the first session. She raised her hand, with the same gravitas one would have when declaring a charge towards the eneme and finally brought it down. Immediately after she did so , someone stood up from the back rows ,and walked out of his seat down the stairs.He was old, his head was bald, his face filled with wrinkles and he shivered so much that the empress feared that a small wind would blow his ones away like dust. The man walked down using a cane, as two slaves stood at his side. His cane thundered on the stony ground with each step. After the fourth, he stopped a bit to breath and then started walking again. A somber silence enveloped the chamber as her words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of responsibility and the gravity of the moment. "My heart aches at the prospect of discord among us. However, in the spirit of mercy and reconciliation, my dear son, our reigning emperor, has extended a gracious invitation to his elder brothers,prince Mavius and prince Maesinius to reach the capitle , promising that no harm will come to them.." Her voice softened, infused with a glimmer of hope. "They are called forth to Romelia, where they may pledge their allegiance to the rightful emperor and mend the fractures that threaten to divide our noble house. In return for their loyalty, they shall be granted pardon for past transgressions and bestowed with lands as a testament to the unity and strength of our empire." As she finished so she sat once again, and the nobles saw it their moment to express their opinions.Which obvioulsy were all of agreement, who would be as so dumb as to deny that in front of the emperor and his regent? ''''The emperor''s mercy know no bound'''' ''''Long live the emperor, may the Gods bless him '''' ''''Shame on Prince Mesha and Maesinius , may the gods direct them to justice'''' As the assembled nobles erupted into applause at her proclamation, she watched Mesha intently, her eyes tracing the contours of his face as he absorbed the adulation of the crowd. There was a subtle softening in her features, a fleeting smile tugging at the corners of her lips, as she observed the scene .He liked the cheers, that was not good, an emperor should never be influenced by the opinion of rabbits.Eagles devour them, not lean their ears to them. Meanwhile, Mesha stood at the center of attention, his young eyes wide with wonder and awe. His gaze swept across the sea of faces, as he just had his first proper taste of the power that men use over other men. And so under the jubilant cheer made by the nobles, the first session of the council of the two hundred finally started. Which had as its only outcome , the choice of the messenger to send to the two princes. Chapter 39: Insecurities Chapter 39: Insecurities Maenius and Rosk ventured out for a stroll, the crisp autumn air biting at their cheeks despite the season''s reluctance to fully embrace winter''s icy grip. Maesinius, having endured the bone-chilling cold of true northern winters, couldn''t help but find the current weather almost comically mild. In those frigid lands, even the hardiest of beasts with fur as long as his cock, sought refuge in the shelter of their dens rather than face the relentless cold. Though it also meant that there was less prize to hunt and feed oneself with . Maesinius cast a glance over his shoulder, his eyes meeting Rosk''s . Among the rugged inhabitants of the north, Rosk was a rare gem, possessing a demeanor that befitted the attitude toward royalty. He bowed with deference, his demeanor meek and respectful. He was the only one really.He was no fool though, as no prince would search for counsel from a jester. "I extend my deepest condolences for your loss, your grace. Your father was a formidable warrior," Rosk spoke with a slight bow, his words intended to convey warmth, but to Maesinius, they stung like hot coals. At nineteen summers, the mere mention of his father still sent a shiver down his spine, he hated him but now he was dead, and what use was keeping grudge now? "Aye, he was indeed a great warrior, a skilled swordsman, and a masterful tactician," Maesinius replied solemnly "Gratios of House Kontazounes commanded respect on the battlefield and led our armies to countless victories. But now, he lies in the cold embrace of death,and his sons will quarrel to cut the flesh out of the empire he rebuilt.He was also hardly a loving father you know?'''' Rosk made no answer and kept staring Maesinius stood in the cold embrace of the northern winds, his thoughts swirling like the snowflakes around him. He watched over the desolate landscape, it was his, just like it was of the north "There was never a case," Rosk continued, his voice steady despite the bitter chill in the air. "You are the first. The people witnessed the prince fighting over Bane''s stone, they saw how you struck deals for grain with southern lords, many of them found themselves eating grain only because you decided to owe some favor to some nobles for when you became emperor . They love you for both, my prince." As Rosk spoke, flecks of spittle danced in his brown beard, . Though Maesinius found it a tad repulsive, he chose to remain silent, unwilling to dampen the moment "No royalty has done as much for the north in the hundred years since we entered the empire as a small, ''fucked-up'' prince has done in three years. They have taken men and taxes, in exchange?They gave us nothing!" Rosk declared, his words carrying the weight of truth. "The choice is not yours anymore.Whetever you want it or not the north will fight. Winter is coming my prince, soon all the land will be filled with even more snow, lands will be barren and there will be no animal to hunt .Children and old men will die of cold and hunger, their tears becoming ice on their face, with their mothers , fathers and sons watching helplessly.It has been so for many winters and it shall continue to be like this. Honestly I would prefer dying with steel in hands, and with southern''s blood splattered in my face, rather than die of cold.That is an ugly death aye. The people will fight , just like the nobles. You think this ''hut'' has been called on , to decide of what to do?'''' He laughed , steam coming out from his mouth ''''This is to decide on how to fight not whether we should. The war had started the moment your younger brother usurped the throne.The north''s honor call for such war to be made '''' The prince''s gaze met Rosk''s stare. "But I don''t want to,thousands will die " he murmured. Rosk''s expression remained stoic, his resolve unyielding. "Nonetheless, you will," he stated firmly, his tone brooking no argument. With a decisive nod, he turned away, his breath forming frosty clouds in the chilly air. ''''It''s either a swift death in the midst of glory, or a slow death by hunger, fear and cold.You would them a favor to give them the first'''' "It''s getting colder," Rosk observed, his breath misting as he spoke. "And the nobles are awaiting us. It has been five years since a hut was called, and they sense it in the air. War is coming, and their blood is boiling." And so like this ,the prince followed Rosk as they made their way back, with the walk being a little less cold than it was before. Winter was coming to the south. Chapter 40: Bread and ale(1) Chapter 40: Bread and ale(1) Before the imperial subjugation, the north was a land of scattered duchies, each ruling its own domain. However, in times of dire peril, such as threats from imperial armies or tribes gathering behind the Bane, these duchies would unite. This unity was symbolized by the calling of a "hut," a traditional assembly where all the dukes set aside their differences , put down their axes, shared ale and bread , and convened under one roof to address the common threat. Historically, huts were most often called at North''s Bane, the heart of the northern lands. These gatherings were prompted by various dangers, whether it was to confront marauding chieftains of savage tribes or to face the sometimes even congregation of giants,when those could still be sighted behind Bane. Visit for the best novel reading experience And just like before , this hut was to be organised onto the stronghold of the north.Maesinius was sitting at the right of the owner of the house , Harold Helklund.He was also the man who has hosted the prince for the last three years,and in this time Maesinius both gained the respect of Harold, and of the north. In the flickering firelight of the great hall, Harold Helklund was an imposing figure, his frame sturdy and robust despite the passage of years. At the age of late fifties, he bore the weight of his age with a quiet dignity, he knew war and war knew him. His beard, a wild cascade of white, flowed like a snowy river down his chest, covering a face marked by the ravages of battle His hair, too, shared the same luscious hue, reminiscent of the majestic mane of a lion, cascading in waves around his broad shoulders. A jagged line traced across the bridge of his nose, he always used to laugh when people asked about it and he always responded that it was his lady wife that gave it to him when she first bedded her.She always used to say that she would come home to a lioness Despite his age, Harold kept his muscle . His shoulders, broad and powerful, bore the weight of countless responsibilities, while his hands, calloused and weathered, spoke of a lifetime passed in war "I would if the chair didn''t bloody well break!" Uther Carlsson retorted, holding up the shattered remains of his seat for all to see. The sound that had echoed through the room was not of a chair shifting, but of one collapsing under Uther''s weight. "These chairs are as sturdy as your arse, Harold. Fetch me a proper one before I sit on you!" Uther joked, drawing laughter from the other lords and a smirk from Harold. It became evident to Maesinius that the two were old friends, and the tension in the room dissipated. With a wave of his hand, Harold summoned a servant who promptly arrived with a larger, sturdier chair. "Try not to break this one with your fat arse," Harold jested, eliciting more laughter from the crowd, including Uther himself.''''If there is no other shit-head, I will continue'''' As the joviality settled, Harold cleared his throat and raised his rugged hand in the hair before clapping . Two rows of servants emerged from behind him, carrying trays laden with ales and bread for the guests. "As is tradition, we now share bread and ale under the watchful gaze of the gods," Harold proclaimed solemnly. "May they bear witness to our unity and guard against treachery within these walls." With that, he tore off a piece of bread, chewed thoughtfully, and washed it down with a hearty gulp of ale, ensuring his cup was emptied to the last drop. All the other lord followed suit , they took the bread ,ate it and then drank the ale. ''''From now on you are my guest, no harm shall come to you till you reside under my roof'''' As he said so he sat down, his gaze moving to Maesinius, who gave a deep breath before rising from his seat, ready to present his case to the rest of the northern lord. As he walked though the words Rosk told him kept playing in his head ''''It will happen, whetever you wish or not.'''' He knew he was right, this however did not mean that he had to allow that to happen. The lords wanted war?Very well they would have one. Chapter 41: Bread and ale(2) Chapter 41: Bread and ale(2) The hall was quiet as Maesinius rose from his seat, his steps thundering on the wooden floor. A wolf pelt draped across his shoulders, its gaze seemed to mirror the intensity of the stares fixed upon him. Undeterred, Maesinius met the scrutiny head-on, chest thrust forward with pride as he exchanged glances with a few of the assembled nobles.Show weakness and the pack will devour you , show confidence and they will think twice before jumping. ong the norther lord , Carl Karlsson, lord of Threefall, stood out like a towering oak in a forest of lesser trees. His emblem, a crimson tree against a backdrop of snowy white, alluded at their ancient rites long forbidden under imperial rule. It was said that before the empire''s dominion, the northerners offered sacrifices to the tree, human sacrifices, now thankfully abolished. At the opposite end of the table sat Murth Grennor, lord of Greenplains, his domain ironically devoid of its namesake hue, instead blanketed in the icy embrace of winter.As apparently that was the sense of humor of northerners.Yet his was the land with most prizes, and from which the north got the biggest source of pelt , to sell to the southern merchants. Other figures filled the hall, each bearing their own tales and epithets. Mjorn Baker, known as ''Break Shield,'' who in his youth fought twenty duels, always refusing to wield shield. Han Abelsson, mysteriously dubbed ''The Three Fucker,'' who Maesinius preferred not to ask about . Lastly, there was Cregan Falkar, known simply as ''Pale Face,'' his pallid countenance explaining the nickname. As Maesinius stepped forward, the crisp scent of the cold air enveloped him, its weighty presence mingling with a delicate lightness. He paused for a moment, allowing himself to sink in the sensation, the faint crackling of torches igniting his senses before he addressed the gathered lords. "My esteemed lords, it has been five years since the last hut was convened, a time when Swutheld ''Flat Nose'' dared to challenge the might of the North with his few tribes of 80 hundred. He hoped for pebbles , yet you proved yourselves to be boulders , and his defeat is still sung in taverns ," Maesinius began His gaze shifted to the wolf perched upon the prince''s shoulder, his scrutiny piercing. "And what of your pet?" Uther inquired, his voice dripping with disdain. "Did you slay it with your own hands, or did you purchase it with your jewels and gold?" ''''I did not kill the wolf, if that is what you are asking , it was already dead when I got my hand on it.It was during my maiden raid, a baptism of fire admist the snow . I was Leading a scouting party of one hundred strong, we chanced upon a savage village nestled amidst the wilderness," he recounted. "We descended upon the village like a tempest unleashed, our steeds thundering beneath us as we set the world ablaze.The savage did not know what it was happening until it was too late " As the flames licked the sky and screams pierced the air, Uther''s eyes gleamed as he watched the prince . "The women were taken captive, destined for a fate beyond the Bane to bear our children ," he continued, his voice tinged with the weight of sorrow. "While the rest , met the same fate as their fathers who certainly tried to bypass the Bane ¡ªswift and merciless." The prince gave a small smile "Among the fallen, I beheld a man adorned with the pelt I now wear. That is how came to it.That day 5 armed men fell under my hands , nothing worth talking and boasting about , I knew men that reached 20 that day.'''' The response amused Uther , who said nothing just smiled and sit down. For the rest of the hut he would keep silent, just observing the boy.It was then that the prince understood , ''the nobles were seizing me up. And this was the first test'' if he had made an excuse, or turned toward Harold he would have been shunned, instead he had spoke directly to the giant himself and did not back down, not many could do that, Uther after all was that scary . Yet the prince''s response was well liked, as it could be seen by Uther''s smile directed toward him . No northerner will follow a boy, so he has to show himself has one of them.Not too hard, he just had to do what he always did, be himself. ''''Now if no one else has anything else to add'''' Harold said as he finally interjected ''''let us hear my guest words, I am sure we will not be left unsatisfied.'''' Chapter 42: Bread and ale(3) Chapter 42: Bread and ale(3) The atmosphere in the hall grew tense as Harold''s words settled among the gathered nobles. Sensing the attention upon him, Maesinius drew a steadying breath, summoning every ounce of resolve he possessed as he prepared to address the assembly. "It may come as new to many of you," he began, his voice steady despite the roiling turmoil within him, "but my father met his end upon the battlefield in Arlania." His announcement rippled through the assembly like a pebble cast into a still pond, igniting a murmured flurry of whispers and exclamations. For most, this revelation was a shock.The northern lord did not have spies in the south. As such their sources of information were being limited to the occasional grain merchant who traversed the northern lands as the sold thier products. "In the wake of my father''s passing," Maesinius continued, his tone resolute, "my stepmother wasted no time in seizing power, crowning my younger brother , the third prince as emperor and reinstating the council of the 200, with herself as regent.She demand the lords to travel to the capital and swear an oath of loyalt-" Even before he could finish, the hall erupted into chaos, each noble clamoring to make their voice heard above the tumultuous din. "Despicable!" cried one, his words echoing off the walls like a battle cry. "Cowards and snakes!" bellowed another, his anger palpable in the air. "To swear fealty to a child? I would sooner cleave my own cock and balls !" Fury and indignation coursed through the assembled nobles, their voices blending together in dissent. Like a ship tossed upon a storm , fighting against the waves before being overwhelmed by the sea. Suddenly, amidst the fervent voices of dissent, a figure rose from among the assembly. It was Murth Grennor, lord of Greenplains. With a commanding presence that passed over his relatively young age, he stood tall, his brown beard cascading over his chest and his long hair flowing down his back like a river of shadows. Though he possessed a stature befitting a nobleman, standing beside the towering figure of Uther, he appeared as a mere sapling beside an ancient oak. "We beseeched them for aid against Swutheld," Murth declared, his voice resounding through the hall like a clarion call to arms. "We warned them of the thousands of warriors marching upon our lands. And how did they respond? With disdain and contempt, spitting upon our very beards!" His words ignited a chorus of agreement from his fellow nobles, their voices rising in righteous indignation. "And now," Murth continued, his tone brimming with righteous fury, "that crimson-hued whore dares to demand our fealty. She expects us to abandon our fiefs, to kneel upon their polished marble floors and grovel at their feet. But what has she or her spawn ever done for us?" His voice swelled with impassioned fervor, each word a dagger aimed at the heart of southern tyranny. "Should we bow our heads to those who care naught for our plight?" Murth''s voice thundered, his gaze sweeping across the assembly "No! I say we stand firm, united in our loyalty to one who has stood beside us, who has shared in our struggles and triumphs. Two winters past, when famine gripped our lands, it was he who ensured that grain reached our people, while his father turned a blind eye to our pleas." ''''The numbers of soldiers the north can muster is too low'''' Maesinius then shouted ''''The second prince will certainly raise his banner and will be supported by the east, who can easily field more than 15,000 men to march south. The third prince itself will be able to rise a similar number, except he will even be in a better position, as all he need to do is to hold the pass between the mountains .Inside of it there are vast amount of grain that will sustain them they will have a sea route for trade . '''' As he said so the prince''s gaze swept over the nobles. ''''In comparison the north can at most muster no more than 9,000. What do you expect to achieve with that?You speak of the fact that the empire ignore the plight of your people, and now you wish to bring death to our people to fight for a lost cause?'''' The nobles fell into a heavy silence, their eyes fixed on Maesinius as he spoke. With each word, his resolve seemed to strengthen, and a flicker of determination ignited within him. "To place me on the throne, we would need to defeat both my brothers," he declared, his voice ringing with conviction. "But such a victory would come at a cost, a cost that the North cannot afford to bear. Why would I willingly sacrifice more of my people for my own ambitions?" As he spoke, Maesinius gestured emphatically, his hands extending outward. "All I hold dear is the well-being of the people who have welcomed me, who smile when I ride through their villages. This sense of belonging, this connection¡ªI cannot find it in the South. Why would I abandon this place for the sake of a throne sorrounded by snakes?" His words echoed through the hall, penetrating the hearts of those assembled. "All you speak of is of how the South neglects us, how they would sooner see us starve than offer aid. And yet, here you are, discussing talking about putting a man onto the very throne that abused the lots you. Do you truly believe things will change? No, they will only worsen!It is but a lost cause and we shall find our fields red with our blood " With each repetition, Maesinius''s voice grew stronger. "From here we have few choices. You could be bending the knee to the red bitch in the South," following these words he spat. "Then there is bending the knee to Mavius who will be too busy shoving his prick onto the first whore he will find ," he spat again. "I will not allow my people to bleed for my ambition, but I would gladly shed my blood to see them prosper.I refuse to partecipate in a war that would cause them to suffer needlessly. It is time for the North to break free from the Empire, to forge its own path as an independent kingdom. Winter may be coming,with it famine will follow. The only way the North will survive is to go on a road never taken since 180 years ago!It''s time for the North to go forward alone and stop bending the knee to the South.No more shall it be bled dry by merchants, nor shall it send his sons to fight a war that will bring them nothing.From now on every decision , shall be taken BY us and not FOR us .'''' Chapter 43: Call for independence Chapter 43: Call for independence Not a single whisper dared to escape, not a sigh or murmur dared to disturb the stillness. The assembled nobles regarded Maesinius with narrowed eyes, their expressions a mixture of skepticism and disbelief. Was he a fool to propose such a bold notion of northern independence? Could he truly be ignorant of the realities they had just spoken of¡ªthe North''s reliance on Southern food production? Amidst the silent scrutiny, some shifted their gaze toward Lord Harold, as if seeking answers in the depths of his startled countenance. Yet, even fleeting suspicions of his influence dissolved upon seeing his genuine surprise, he was not the one who gave such ideas on the prince''s head. No, the audacious notion had sprung forth from his own mind , like a wild seed taking root in fertile soil. Was it madness or genius to consider breaking free from the Empire''s grasp? Could the North truly stand on its own against the might of the imperial army, like a lone wolf challenging a pack of hungry lions? "Maesinius!" Harold''s voice boomed through the hall, cutting through the tension like a thunderclap. He rose from his seat, his bald pate catching the flickering light of the torches "Have you forgotten our discussions? We rely on southern food supplies to stave off famine. Are you willing to risk our people''s lives for a fool dream?" The young prince met Harold''s icy gaze with a newfound resolve, his stature seeming to swell with determination. In that moment, he appeared taller, his brown hair framing his face like a lion''s mane. "You speak of not sacrificing northern blood in vain, yet you would have them march toward an impossible dream?Have you lost your head?" Harold''s words pierced the air like arrows. For a fleeting moment, bewilderment flickered across Maesinius''s face, as if he were searching for an answer in the depths of his own thoughts. Then, with a defiant smirk, he raised his hand to his head, almost as if to assure himself of its presence. "Seems like I still have it, Lord Harold," Harold continued to stare but gave no retort , just like a child would when staring at something new, saying nothing but just observing . "Under my stepmother''s rule, all grain produced will be hoarded and coerced to prepare for the long conflict she plans to have. Meanwhile, the second prince will ravage the lands he traverses on his march southward. We must prepare for the inevitable famine that will follow .No one will share grain with us " His words hung heavy in the air as he elucidated his vision. "My call for independence was caused by this very crisis. To procure additional grain, we must engage in diplomacy with foreign nations.An option not doable if we are still under imperial land . I have identified one or two potential allies who may possess surplus grain to alleviate our scarcity. Furthermore, we must seize fertile lands to mitigate our dependence on external sources. The territories adjacent to our borders, neglected by my brothers, present ripe opportunities for expansion,they are easy land to grab and at least good enough to produce some food. Nor the bitch in the south nor my other brother will raise a finger to stop us , which means we are to act fast and strongly , and when the civil war will have ended, we shall be strong enough to mantain our borders " He paused, allowing his words to sink in before concluding, "If we are fortunate, we may even persuade one of my brothers to recognize our independence in exchange for our pledge to abstain from the civil war. It is a gamble , to be sure, but one worth considering in our pursuit of a prosperous future for the north." ''''And in all of this , we will have to kneel to you?You want us to declare you our king?'''' From the deep end of the hall , Mjorn break-shield spoke ,his mouth barely moving , the words more than spoken spat The prince calmly watched the northern lord ''''Since I came here I have not once ushered the proposition of being your king , I have considered it obvious that the title of king shall be chosen by the northern lord , that however can wait for after, for now we have a war to start and a famine to stop. Other things may come for later.I have no interest in getting a crown , from here on out each action that I will take will be for the well of the North alone'''' ''''What about the grain?'''' Karl then asked ''''What person did you have in mind to contact?'''' And there Maesinius stopped a bit , almost reconsidering it as if he still was not sure of it . Then he opened his mouth ''''The Arlanian prince was the one I had in mind , along with some other '''' The various lords widened their eyes, they never thought that the prince himself would consider joining hands with the killer of his father, be it that they did not really care about him , still it was his father nonetheless. The prince saw this and gave a sigh ''''Personal reasons come second to the interest of the state . If we can get our grain than it does not matter .And I believe that the prince will be more than happy to entertain such relations with the one that will soon border its princedom'''' As apparently the expansion Maesinius had in mind was a great one if he counted on sharing a border with the Arlanian prince.Updated from Chapter 44: Small council(1) Chapter 44: Small council(1) Just like it has been for the last 150 years, the small council room kept being deprived of any sort of decoration, empty like the souls of those sitting within . ''Quite boring'' Valeria thought as she looked at the small waves of wine in her cup. She tilted it and brought it to her rosy lips. One week had passed since the first meeting in the senate , the oath-swearing ceremony ended yesterday.All the nobles of the behind Gods'' Finger had pledged fealty to her son,something that should have heartened her. Yet, the missive from the noble houses beyond the mountains broke that satisfaction . Their profuse praises and hollow declarations of loyalty were hollow and empty , their true intentions veiled behind diplomatic niceties. "They bide their time," she mused, a tinge of annoyance creeping into her thoughts. "Waiting to see how the winds of fortune blow before revealing their true allegiances." ''''That would be the accountant report for this month , your grace'''' Lord Isidor spoke as he brought down the parchment he was holding.He has been serving as the ministers of economy for the fifth year by now . Before that, the role was of his father, but when his father unfortunately died it passed on to him . After dealing with some ''internal business'' , allegedly kinslaying , he was then called by the emperor to fullfill the role , something that he did not refuse. And sure enough he had made the best choice, gaining many privileges from the crown as bribes by the empress to declare for her son. ''The patient one are always better rewarded'' He had thought when she had received a royal decree exempting any taxation from his trade.Somethiing that would soon swell up his coffers with gold. Valeria understood the importance of securing the loyalty of the nobles, especially those within the Gods'' Finger, the key to maintaining stability and order within her realm. Yet, the cost of their allegiance was not low , a burden she bore in exchange for the crown. With each concession made, each promise extracted, she felt the feeling of control slipping away , binding her fate to the whims of those she sought to control. The treasury, once brimming instead was now lay depleted and barren. "A gift from that bastard," she thought bitterly, her resentment simmering beneath her regal composure. War after all were not cheap, and the emperor loved waging them to pass his time.Each two years there was to be a war, it was said. And each time he delivered it . With a resigned sigh, Valeria set aside her empty cup, her thoughts turning to the task at hand. There were matters of state that demanded her attention, negotiations to be conducted, oath to be forged. "Soon Father shall come here and help with the treasury," she mused, her mind already thinking about the next move. She knew her father would have no choice but to recognise his daughter and her work. She alone had managed to oust the two elder brother, to put their blood on the throne. He had done so much for the family, he had to recognise that at least, wouldn''t he? ''''I thank you for your work, lord Isidor'''' The empress-mother spoke as she gave the blonde lord a small smile ''''Though I trust you enough not to report every small thing to us , I would prefer if you next time would read a small summary of the most important things, while leaving the full report to the servant that I will send to collect. Be certain that I shall read them in private. After all there are much more important things to do than count coins right now.'''' Lord Isidor bowed ''''Certainly your grace'''' though the last comment irked him a bit. ''Count coins'' was too demeaning for the job of minister of economy, though in actuality he was more of a loaner. "Well?" she prompted sharply, her tone conveying her annoyance as she turned her attention to the intruder, her confusion mirrored by Lord Vritinius beside her. "We were in the middle of an important meeting. I hope you have urgent business to share if you did not even bother to wait, Cleotonius?" Lord Vritinius interjected, his voice tinged with a hint of reproach as he regarded the kneeling man. Cleotonius lowered his head in deference before extending an open letter to his lord. "I apologize for the interruption, my lord, but we have received important reports from the east," he explained, his voice respectful despite the urgency of his message. Lord Vritinius snatched the letter from Cleotonius''s hand, his movements brisk and urgent as he scanned the contents. His expression darkened, the lines of his jaw tightening with concern. Raising his head, Lord Vritinius scanned the room . His gaze held a solemn intensity, as if he bore the the news of lady death itself . Clearing his throat, he addressed the assembled nobles and empress "The eastern nobles have pledged their support to Prince Mavius," he announced, his words hanging heavy in the air like a looming storm cloud. "They are currently mustering their troops to march south." The empress watched Vritinius closely, noting the calculated precision of his movements and the deliberate manner in which he delivered the news. ''He already knew'' Valeria thought as she watched the lord. She recognised an act when she was seeing one , and this was hardly more than a clear way to display the lord''s connection.She knew that a small private war was being fought between the lords, to decide on who would become spymaster, and right now Vritinius was flenching his spy-base in front of everybody and the empress. ''The fool are fighting against each other, while we are in the middle of a civil war'' she thought though it was better than to fight against her that was to be sure. Yet, amid the tumult of her thoughts, she recognized the urgency of the situation. The east was marching down towards them , the nobles were divided and his father still had not arrived. She knew what this meant: This was her moment to prove that she could be the ruler the empire needed. Chapter 45: Small council(2) Chapter 45: Small council(2) The empress''s voice cut through the tense silence that filled the throne room, her gaze fixed on Lord Vritinius as she spoke. "When was this letter written and sent?" she inquired, her tone betraying her curiosity. The lord turned the letter over in his hands, studying its every crease and fold before answering with a respectful bow. "Three days ago, your grace," he replied, his eyes never leaving the empress''s piercing stare. A thoughtful pause followed before the empress shifted her focus to the assembled nobles, her voice now commanding the attention of the entire room. "And how long until they amass sufficient numbers to march south?" she questioned, her eyes scanning each face for an answer. Marcellus, ever the pragmatic one, was quick to offer a response. "It would take at least half a month to gather the necessary forces, followed by another week and a half to reach the southern territories," he estimated, his words punctuated by the rhythmic tapping of the empress''s fingers against the table.She was nervous , the consequences were reaching to her. "Not more than a month then," she mused aloud, her mind already racing with thoughts of strategy and potential outcomes. But then, a sudden thought crossed her mind. "Any news of Prince Maesinius?" she directed her question towards Lord Vritinius once again. His response was solemn as he shook his head. "None, your grace. But it is likely that preparations are already underway in the north as well. The northern lords have shown a clear preference for the eldest prince," he informed, his words underscoring the brewing tensions within the realm. Lord Croxiatus interjected with a gruff remark, his jowls wobbling with each word. "A disloyal bunch, those northern lords," he muttered bitterly, his disdain evident in both his words and expression. Amidst murmurs of agreement, Lord Isidor offered a strategic perspective, he knew better than to please the red woman , they had a war to win , not a whore to bed "If we fortify the mountain passes, it may force the two princes into conflict. Mavius will be reluctant to leave hostile forces at his rear as he seeks to bypass our defenses. After all, the last thing he would want is to have his rear attacked while besieging our fortresses,maybe the two brothers will bleed each other before they come to us, if the gods allow for that. " he reasoned, injecting a glimmer of hope into the tense atmosphere of the throne room. "You flatter me, Lord Marcellus"he replied modestly, though a flicker of pride danced in his eyes. "But your loyalty to the empress is equally admirable." "I''ve noticed you''ve made considerable investments to enhance your services to the empire as of late, just like a good servant should, you truly are a model for all of us. " ''''A loyal servant should always strive for more, especially when fate extends his hands to help him .The Isidors may give their gold to the coffers, the Thalassoses warriors, so shouldn''t the Baxs try to thrive in their own way? There were so many loyal servants of the empire searching for a tree to hug during the storm as of late , and luckily for them, a great oak was already waiting for them.Poor they were as their old tree disappeared in the storm. '''' ''''I see, then we should be thanking you .Who knew when we could have got such information?How fortunate is the emperor to have a servant like you .Though I do wonder where the tree went , such pity we do not know. '''' "Knowledge is indeed power," Marcellus agreed, his gaze shifting to the window, where the gathering clouds hinted at the approaching storm. "But I wonder how effective it will be against the swords poised to breach our defenses. After all, is knowledge not most potent when shared among wise minds?" Vritinius gave no answer just kept his smile, then he tilted his head , studying the man in front of him ''''I suppose that would be true, I would appreciate having somebody to share long discussions with.I find myself alone by the late time '''' ''''That I do too, my lord.Perhaps such people are closer than one would think. We should be good and open our eyes a bit, of course to be of better service to the emperor. '''' Chapter 46: Marriage Chapter 46: Marriage The music roared through the grand hall, a thunderous blend of shouts and laughters . Prince Mavius surveyed the scene, his gaze falling upon the lively crowd gathered before him. Musicians and singers swayed to the beat of their own tune, while their patrons laughed and tossed coins onto the ground for the peasants to scramble after. In a corner of the hall, a group of mummers entertained the guests with their tricks and antics. Some even drank from mysterious bottles before spitting fire onto lit torches, causing flames to dance and flicker in the air. The audience clapped and cheered in awe, but for Prince Mavius, there was something else that caught his eye. Amidst the chaos and revelry, he noticed a man in the crowd who had an entire sword lodged in his throat. Now that was a display of skill that piqued his interest. He couldn''t help but wonder if his bride possessed such talents as well - the last thing he needed was a prudish wife. As he watched on, entranced by the chaos around him, people danced in every direction casting wild shadows on the walls illuminated by the torchlight. Prince Mavius had never been one for battle or chaos, but he imagined this feast must be what it felt like - a whirlwind of energy and excitement swirling around him. After all, it was held in his honor - a celebration of his marriage to the beautiful daughter of Duke Landoff. Her family''s sigil, a shield on a field of yellow, adorned everything from her clothes to the cups they drank from. Even when he glanced at his pillow, he half-expected to see a shield emblazoned on it. This feast was meant to honor not only him, but also his new bride. And as he gazed at her across the room, she truly did bloom like a delicate flower in the midst of this chaotic celebration. Her name was Silena, she was a pretty little flower, she had long luscious brown hair, a petite nose and a small mouth. Her lips were rosy, albeit small, the face all in all was pleasant to watch , giving off an air of purity and cuteness. He wondered how her face would change when she bedded her. Right now though all the things he wanted to ravage was the drinks and the food. Hhe took a piece of chicken and cleaved the meat from the bone using his teeth, before washing it down with wine. Silena took small bite and small sip , as if she was embarrassed to be there. He watched as she ate and drank, than he got bored and resumed his feasting and drinking . Prince Mavius was more than a little tipsy, his golden goblet swaying in his hand.The wine was always his second blood. Suddendly a man rose from his seat ,a full smile in his face and a filled goblet rose to the sky. For the men, it was a different story altogether. They stumbled and shouted, rising from their seats to hoist the drunken prince onto his feet. Goblets of wine spilled in their hands as they carried their liege towards the bed. Mavius''s face was flushed from the wine as he looked around with a foolish grin, joining in on the chants of "The husband to the bed!" as if he were just another guest and not the one being thrown into bed with his new bride. Servants scurried ahead to prepare the bedroom, placing burning bricks on the mattress and leaving wine and water within arm''s reach. The duke followed behind at a leisurely pace, a small smile playing on his lips as his gaze lingered a bit too long on the drunk prince. "TO THE BEDS! TO THE BEDS!" They all cried, running through the halls until they reached their destination. With wild excitement, they threw both Mavius and Selina onto the bed. The men helped the prince remove his clothes while the women covered their queen and assisted her onto the bed with grace and care. Landoff reached out for his guest''s hand, a sly smile spreading across his face. "Come, my dear guests," he said, "let us leave our king and queen to have their fun...alone." The various nobles booed and jeered, eager to witness the act themselves, but they obediently closed the door behind them as Landoff and his guest exited. The noise from the room still echoed through the halls as they returned to their seats. The new king, formerly prince, trudged forward with heavy steps. His hand gripped the edge of the mattress tightly as he removed his undergarments and climbed onto the bed where his wife was waiting for him, already naked. She stood there trembling like a small bird, her hands covering her small breasts. "Don''t cover up, let me see," Mavius whispered in her ear as he gently pried her hands away, exposing her vulnerable body to his eyes. She was clearly scared and he could see it. It was his duty as king to provide an heir, a task that could not be done alone. Their eyes met and they both knew what was expected of them. Without hesitation, they engaged in the act. The prince''s head swayed slightly from the wine as he aimed his rod towards her entrance. He missed three times before finally succeeding, causing a pained frown to form on his wife''s face and small drops of blood to fall on his cock. But he paid no mind to her discomfort as he leaned close to her ear and whispered, that A mighty sword is better bloodied.She forced a smile through the pain and forming tears,she knew it was supposed to be a jest, and he was too drunk himself to notice her discomfort . "From tonight on, you are my queen,as king I shall take my right, may the mother bless you with son " he spoke the ceremonial wordsand mixing it with a prayer . His head throbbed from the wine as he continued to sway and thrust wildly inside of her, like a man armed with spear does when scared for his life . Ten times he pumped before finally releasing inside of her and collapsing onto the bed with a drunken smile, too drunk to comfort her bride , who was alone, trembling and with tears in her eyes. That was what was expected of her, and she had delivered.She was to be queen , of that she was happy , yet that was only if they won.If they did not she would be the wife of the pretender, and maybe her head would roll with his. Yet that was not the moment to be worried she had a task and a duty to accomplish. ''''May the mother bless me '''' She muttered as he struggled to cover herself , failing as the passed out body of his husband pinned the cover still. She slept in the cold that night. Chapter 47: Entering the city(1) Chapter 47: Entering the city(1) Alpheo gazed down at the swaying mane of his horse, its rich brown fur glistening in the sunlight as they trotted along the stone road. He had never owned a horse before, and he couldn''t help but feel a sense of pride and wonder at this magnificent creature by his side. As they continued on their journey, Alpheo watched with adoration as his horse nibbled on the grass, its playful nature shining through.His eyes were shining as that of a child with a new toy. He had heard tales of mischievous horses from medieval documents, and now he understood why. His own steed was no exception, as one morning as he went away for a piss , carelessly not roping it to a tree , thinking it would be all right, he found his steed to have disappeared . After a few minutes of searching, Alpheo found his horse leisurely eating oats from a sack it had opened with its teeth. It took three men to finally stop the beast. But for now, during their ride, the horse seemed tame and obedient, responding to Alpheo''s commands without giving any trouble. It was a strong and sturdy warhorse, one of 59 others that they received for their army''s cavalry.The other 40 he would receive later on.He still remembered how thrilled he was when they arrived, he had many plans regarding them . New novel chapters are published on Just as it had been in his past life, battles were often determined by the charging of heavy cavalry. The bulky and powerful horses, trained for combat from birth, were the ultimate weapon on the battlefield. Yet, amidst the sea of armored beasts, the lighter cavalry was often overlooked and disregarded. Used mainly for scouting missions, their potential as skilled skirmishers was often underestimated. But history had shown that even a well-trained light cavalry could turn the tide of a battle. Hannibal had proven this with his elite group of Numidian riders, expertly weaving in and out of enemy lines and wreaking havoc, with their javelins as they skirmished, as they mantained their speed and distance from enemy . Alpheo longed to replicate this success, with his own modifications and strategy, but he knew that with his current numbers, it would be impossible. As they rode towards Quarzat, 70 other riders followed behind them - 60 from their own army and 10 guards lent by his employer . The rhythmic clattering of hooves echoed like a drumbeat on the stony pathway beneath them.Their eyes soon moved to the city ahead of them. They would be living in there for few weeks at best ,and some months at worst as their employer prepared for his expedition. It was a good thing they were the invader , his men lusted for the opportunity to raid and pillage. And luckily there would be many chances to do so. "I expected something bigger," Egil muttered, leaning casually on his knee as his horse trotted along. His elbow rested casually, a picture of nonchalance. He had once boasted to Alpheo about the prowess of his hometown''s horse riders, claiming they could even fuck atop a horse,. At the time, Alpheo had dismissed it as mere bravado, but now, observing Egil''s easy grace in the saddle, he couldn''t help but wonder if there was some truth to the tales. Alpheo shot Egil a sideways glance, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Make sure not to mention it in front of our new boss," he advised. Egil shrugged, a mischievous grin playing on his lips. "So, it''s okay for you to disrespect people, but not for me?" he retorted. "I am the leader of the company. I can allow myself that," Alpheo replied, his tone growing more serious. "Make sure not to cause trouble. I don''t want to see your head on a pike because you disrespected someone you shouldn''t have.I am certain my heart would drop in pain" He brought his hand on his chest and made a pained expression "Oizen," Sir Robert supplied tersely. "What reason do brutes have to raise their swords against more civilized people?" he responded with thinly veiled disdain. "Mh, of course," Alpheo muttered under his breath, ''But there''s what?Sixty kilometers between you and them . Yet they are savages? Don''t give me that bullshit,'' he mused His smile remained fixed as he pressed for an answer. "Yet I believe there should be at least a pretext that the enemy is using to justify their lack of manners" "That there is," Sir Robert confirmed, his voice growing more animated. "Those bastards continue to insist that the cities of Hervia and Aratale are theirs. They claim that these were the bride-price they paid to the previous prince, the father of Arkawalatt," he spat on the ground in disgust. "The bastard gave us a barren womb and demanded the cities back after my previous liege made the obvious act of divorcing the useless woman and marrying another." "I see, I see," Alpheo nodded in feigned agreement"What a bunch of uncultured savages," he agreed aloud, though secretly, he sympathized with the prince of Oizen. ''I mean, I too would do the same if my daughter was humiliated in such a way, while they kept the city I had given as a dowry''. The convoy continued to ride ahead , Alpheo slowly falling back to his previous company, finding it much more pleasurable to have , than to share a ride with that old oaf.The city of Quarzat finally came to their eyes much closer, as they stopped in front of the gates. He watched back at the 500 men following behind, wondering if they would actually behave. One month of marching certainly raised their nerves up, he hoped that they at least had the decency to go to a whorehouse, instead of giving trouble to normal citizens. ''Perhapse I should give them coin to pass the night whoring'' He mused ''After all an emptied man is a much happier one ''. The city in question was stonewalled, it was nothing great.The wall must have been no more than six meters tall. ''I could easily take it '' , he reasoned as he observed the defenses ''The bastards did not even bother to dig some trenches ahead of the city. It was their capital , which was yet close to the enemies, as with no more than a four days march , the prince of Oizen could easily reach it. ''Maybe there is something I don''t know'' He reasoned after all , he has been here for less than two weeks, and he was unaware of the bordering territories of the geography. Maybe there were some fortresses that the enemy had to take if they wanted to besiege the city, or maybe they were just that much confident about their defenses. Whatever the case , it was also his business, as his road to glory would start in this shitty princedom he was hired to fight for. Chapter 48: Entering the city(2) Chapter 48: Entering the city(2) A chorus of steel-on-steel echoed from the gates as the men roared, their voices blending with the eerie metallic sound. Slowly, the gate began to open, revealing Robert standing at the front of the march. His chest puffed out with pride, he resembled a triumphant Roman general marching through the city. No doubt his success in recruiting enough men to double the prince''s army was a great feat on his own. As the gate fully opened, 60 riders emerged followed by 460 footmen marching in perfect formation behind them. The guards accompanying the procession pulled out their trumpets and blew into them with such force that it sounded like the roar of an elephant. Follow current novels at novelhall.com) ''This is no mere parade, this is a grand spectacle,'' Alpheo thought to himself as he watched the Yarzat banner fluttering in the wind. He spurred his horse forward, his iron heel lightly striking its side to push it ahead. The horse trotted gracefully, its hooves rhythmically hitting the stony ground. He took in his surroundings, observing the state of the city. It was a complete mess - a clear indication that the war was not going well for their side. He had seen similar scenes during sieges before, where even those who did not defend the walls were left with eyes filled with terror.And the mood of the city was similar to that of a city on his way to be sacked ''Looks like our esteemed leader conveniently left out some crucial information about the state of the ongoing war,'' Alpheo thought bitterly as he caught sight of a small, mesmerized boy watching him pass by on his horse. Alpheo, with his flowing mane of hair and proud stance, was the epitome of confidence as he led the march. His eyes scanned the scene before him, taking in every detail with a keen awareness. But it was the sight of the small boy, dirty and ragged, that caught his attention the most. As their eyes met,there was something about the way he looked at him, with a mixture of awe and curiosity, that intrigued Alpheo. Despite his dirty appearance, the boy''s gaze remained still, and Alpheo couldn''t help but be amused by his boldness. ''He''s probably never seen anything like this before,'' He thought to himself, a small smile playing on his lips as he returned the boy''s gaze. It was clear that the sight of him and his well-equipped army had left a lasting impression on the young boy. When he was a boy he dreamt of leading armies to victory, leading charges from the front and feel the blood his enemies splatter on his face. And now that he was leading army , he was dreaming of sitting on a golden throne .Who knew what he would desire when he accomplished that too? "Your tongue will be your death''s sentece one day," Jarza replied with a shake of his head. Alpheo grinned, opening his mouth wide. "It''s still here, isn''t it?" he teased, waggling his tongue playfully. "Incredibly it is. I wonder for how long though if you keep your behaviour like this?" Jarza quipped back, a hint of exasperation in his tone. ''''Until the gods saw fit to leave my arrogance unpunished. '''' He pointed up and spurred the horse forward. Suddendly the big crowd, started shortening in numbers as they reached closer to the palace of the prince .It was stone structure, albeit it was more of a keep redecorated to seems like a palace. Alpheo did not dislike that, he was not someone for big decoration, it''s usefulness was much more important for the young man. The windows of the palace were narrow and fortified, even though they were made of colorful glasses . He wondered if the keep was ever sieged, as it appeared that it was built for that reason alone As they approached the main entrance, Alpheo noted the lack of ostentatious embellishments. Instead, the focus was on the sturdy gates and the guards standing watch, their weapons gleaming in the sunlight. It was a palace built for defense, not pleasure, something that he could actually respect, though he wondered how comfortable it would be to live inside. As Alpheo''s horse slowed to a stop alongside his army, he turned in the saddle to watch his men. They had been riding and marching from out of the city for at least an hour and now, with a momentary pause, they took the opportunity to stretch their tired muscles. Some of the soldiers dismounted, their boots crunching on the gravel as they stretched their backs, arms reaching up towards the sky . Others remained mounted, rolling their shoulders and flexing their fingers around the reins. A few soldiers cracked their necks, the sound echoing faintly in the quiet courtyard. One man let out a long, exaggerated yawn, his jaw stretching wide before he shook himself awake. Robert noticed that and stared at Alpheo , who just shrugged, was his the fault that his men were tired?He was instead to be content, that they were yawning instead of looting , as Alpheo noticed that apparently the defence of the city were rather lacking. As the only army stopping them from looting the city were just few hundred men on the walls as garrison, and even those were lightly armed. Quite the sight for the capital of the princedom. Chapter 49: Entering the city(3) Chapter 49: Entering the city(3) As the group dismounted from their horses, they gathered at the entrance to the hall, greeted by servants who approached to take the reins of the beasts and assure their guests of proper care. Alpheo stood, gazing at the stone structure before him, feeling a presence at his side. Turning, he found Asag watching intently, the same expression mirrored on his face. "How is it?" Alpheo inquired, his voice breaking the silence. Asag replied in a faint voice, "I expected something more... grand? Lavish? This is nothing more than a few rocks put together." "Well, let''s hope the inside exceeds our expectations, as this will be our home for a few months," Alpheo whispered, moving towards the head of the group. "So, when are we going to meet his grace? I would like to pay my respects and seal our agreement," Alpheo asked Robert, as he eyed the palace . Robert''s hair whipped as he turned to face Alpheo. "When the servants give us the signal to go, we will go, not a second before or later." "Anything I should be aware of?" Alpheo inquired further. "No, his grace is a generous man. Just make sure not to mistake his generosity for weakness. Also, remind your men to behave inside. We don''t want to hear about any incidents with the maids," Robert cautioned as he gave the boy a long stare . "You shall not. The small congregation you see here is made up of the finest and noblest men in the whole empire. You shall not hear a peep from us, sir. My word of honor," Alpheo declared, crossing his heart. "Is there anything of less value than the honor of a mercenary, that can be bought with simple coins?" ''Yes receiving a dagger to your back, you senile bastard'' Alpheo thought though he dared not say it , ''''Well then let''s hope my price will not be matched by your grace''s enemy'''' Before Robert could respond, the door swung open, cutting off any further conversation. The guests were led forward, and Alpheo caught one last gaze from Robert. He couldn''t discern if it was a look of hate or a threat. Either way, he didn''t care. The day he feared a stare from an old fart was the day he would become a slave once again. Suddendly Robert stopped .Ahead of him two guards stood, their lances held upright, as their breastplate shined through the light of the rising sun. ''''Sir Robert has come bringing guests and men to his grace, inform him of our presence''''he spoke at the two men on duty.Some protocols they had to follow, he already hated it. One of the guards then entered, and just as quick came back. ''''His grace is thankful of your service , you and your guest may enter'''' As he said so he opened the door allowing Alpheo and his group to step forward inside the hall. Unlike the outside of the structure the hall was decorated enough.Some chandelier hung from the top, casting some light inside the hall.Though the lighting within the hall was adequate, it paled in comparison to the natural sunlight streaming in through the narrow windows, creating a stark contrast between the illuminated and shadowed areas. ''Let''s hope that when night comes, they have enough coins to lighten some candle'' The thought was queer enough to make him chuckle, though he quickly suppressed it.The last thing he wanted was for the prince to think he was laughing at him, when instead he was laughing at how poor he was. As they entered the hall, the first thing that caught their attention was the figure seated upon a modest throne crafted from rich red velvet. In his forty years, the prince stood there , his appearance weathered by the passage of years or maybe by the war. His once-lustrous hair had long since receded, leaving his scalp barren like that of an egg. In its place, a polished dome gleamed under the dim light of the hall. His nose, long and pointed like the beak of a bird , resembled that of a prey, its prominent shape dominating his face. He was missing a ear, probably cut off in battle. In its place, a golden ear gleamed in the dim light. ''Probably just gilded in yellow'' Alpheo thought as his eyes moved to that ear. At his side, on a smaller throne was a woman.She was like the prince in her forties, her hair was black as the night.Her face was a bit wrinkled , and the air of superiority she had certainly was enhanced by her age. She was probably the prince''s consort.Alpheo gave her a watch and then nothing more Standing all around the hall, many courtiers dressed in velvet stood. Their eyes moved to Alpheo''s figure, as many furrowed their brow , wondering why a small boy was standing behind Robert, while older men stood behind It was to be said that Alpheo looked everything except like a leader of a mercenary band . ''''This servant honor his grace'''' Rober spoke aloud as he knelt to the floor.Alpheo mimicked him saying nothing but kneeling .Yet as his eyes rose they moved to the right of Alpheo were two girls stood near their father and mother . ''Seems like my talks with Jarva , may come to reality '' He mused as he gave a little smile at the eldest of the girls.And she seemingly did not mind it as she gave one of her own. Chapter 50: Entering the city(4) Chapter 50: Entering the city(4) Her features were delicately sculpted, with a symmetrical visage . Framing her face was a cascade of long, ebony-black hair that were falling in soft waves around her shoulders. Her eyes, were ''covered'' by a transparent veil. They were the color of dark emeralds, green like the seas of the Empire ,deep and enchanting. Her lips, painted with a subtle rosy hue, curved into a gentle smile in response to Alpheo''s own smile . Drifting down from her shoulders, the girl wore a simple yet elegant brown silk dress that draped gracefully around her slender frame. She was still young, no more than seventeen , her curves were light as they were hidden by her dress.The other girl was no more than eight, she too had black hair, a veil covering her eyes and a silk dress.She looked around with curiosity probably wondering who their guest were. Alpheo looked around but saw no man standing near the prince.''Does he have no son? Maybe he has only daughters''Alpheo wondered before putting the tought on the back of his head,deciding instead to snoop around later on Now if Prince Arzalatt saw the smile between the two , he acted as he did not . ''''I have been told that you have in your service 510 fighting men, all armored and equipped, was I informed wrong?''''The prince spoke his hand resting on the side of his face, holding his real ear. Folloow current novE?ls on nov3lb((in).(com) Alpheo met the prince''s gaze with a steady one of his own . "You have been informed correctly, your grace. A quarter of them are equipped with breastplates, while the rest use simple chainmail. They are well-trained and ready for battle, should you require their service under your name.I can assure you , they will make short work of all your enemies" The prince''s lips curled into a faint smile at Alpheo''s acknowledgment. "I hope that your men are worth the price I am paying, mercenary.Talks are cheap" he remarked casually, his tone betraying no hint of warmth. ''My name is Alpheo you bloody cunt'' Alpheo''s facade slipped for a moment as he bit back the retort, but quickly regained his composure. "Of course, your grace," he replied with a respectful nod, though his thoughts were far from reverent. "Preparations are being made. No more than a month before we shall take our steel to those bastards of Oizen," he informed Alpheo, his voice tinged with anticipation. "I can''t wait to repay them with the same coin." His eyes then met with the mercenary captain once again ''''And of course to you will go the other coin'''' ''''Well your grace, if I were to betray you , who by the way is my first employer, my life as a mercenary captain would be short-lived, without a doubt.After all who would employ a free-company that betrayed his previous master?Let me assure you , that I shall respect my side of the contract as long your grace, respect his.With the gods as my witness I swear'''' Suddenly, a voice pierced through the crowd, its source obscured by the sea of bodies. "What are oaths for sell-swords?" the voice challenged, its tone dripping with skepticism. Alpheo''s gaze swept across the assembly, searching for the speaker.He did not find him, but it was better like that , insults worked better when the other could not respond "Who is that spoke?" he inquired, his voice calm and steady as the water of a lake . When no one stepped forward, he chuckled softly. "Ah, a craven. Seems like wherever I go I find them pointing fingers to their betters while hiding in shadows " he remarked with a wry smile. "If you had the courage to face me, I would gladly oblige your curiosity. But I suspect I would find more cowardice than conviction within your gut.I have half a mind to open the stomach and see if I find it.'''' He smiled '''' And I think that my companions would gladly bet that I would have an easier time finding a virgin in a brothel " A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd, save for one man whose stern expression betrayed his disapproval. "As for your inquiry, craven, am I not man?" he challenged, his eyes narrowing. "When my time comes to pass into the next realm, shall I not be judged by the same gods as any other? Whether my deeds merit punishment or reward, they will be judged by the same divine hand that has guided the fates of countless others before and after me.Just like me also you shall face the gods, and it will also be far sooner than you expect, if you don''t get your mouth checked. You may have a sharp tongue, but my sword is sharper and I have no qualm in using it " The crowd tensed at the threat this time , yet the prince laughed,and soon all the courtier followed like sheep, though Alpheo could see it was a forced one "Well spoken," he declared, casting a pointed glance at the silent dissenter, almost as if an admonition . "Let us hope your skill with a sword matches your eloquence. No more insults to my guests,bring ale and bread for them " he commanded, his tone firm as he searched to put an end to the meeting before swords were drawn . He knew they were close to that. As he spoke some servants entered the room , bringing the offerings . Alpheo was the first to take the bread , break it and then pass it to the others. Then he took the ale and sipped from it , as it too like the other passed hand to hand.Reaching then to Asag that seemed in deep thought for a bit. The prince raised an highbrow, Asag saw that and forced himself to drink it .He emptied the cup and gagged. Men laughed, the prince chuckled . Alpheo''s group tensed, but did nothing, it would have not been wise to raise protest directly to their employer, especially when they were sorrounded by his soldiers. Chapter 51: Northern ambition(1) Chapter 51: Northern ambition(1) Perched atop the ancient stone wall, Maesinius stood as a lone sentinel, his gaze piercing the distance , deep into the snow or maybe it was the horizon, Maesinius could not tell. He tried to deny it, but it was futile, Maesinius knew himself better than anyone. He was scared. Who would not be?He soon would be leading an army , if he made a mistake thousands of soldiers would die, and after that tens of thousands will follow.Their blood and death will be on his hands.The mere thought sent shivers down his spine, this time not for the cold. ''The north shall face the greatest famine it has ever seen since bending the knee'' he had exclaimed at the hut .He knew it was the truth . This time the north would receive no merchant from the south.Those fooling enough to try will be robbed point black by his younger brother . ''May the fool bleed for his crown, I have no wish for it'',he hoped Mavius would let him be , yet he knew him. When he was not drunk , he was a fool , and when he was not a fool he was arrogant. He had hoped for a solution but deep down, he knew the truth¡ªthe North would receive no respite from the merciless grip of winter, and no solace from the ravages of war. Updated from With a gentle yet firm grasp, Maesinius scooped up a handful of snow, feeling its icy touch seep into his skin as he held it . He watched as the delicate flakes danced upon his fingertips. With a playful gesture, he allowed the snow to slip through his fingers. Turning away from the ancient stone wall, Maesinius shifted his gaze towards the sound of approaching footsteps. There, emerging from the shadows, was Elenoir. Her long, sun-kissed hair cascaded down her back in a single braid, its golden strands glinting in the pale light of the northern sun. Her eyes, a deep and piercing blue,were as cold as the now . Her nose, perhaps a touch longer than convention dictated, and her brow, lighter than the southern standard, only served to accentuate her unique allure. To some, she may not have fit the mold of traditional beauty, but to Maesinius, she possessed a charm that was unmistakable. It was in the curve of her smile, the sparkle in her eyes, that he found himself drawn to her in a way that defied logic or reason. By southern standards she would not be described as beautiful, yet just the sight of her made somethign harden down his pants. The first time he came here, he was looking around for anything to lay with.There were many goats, but Mesinius had then still not fall that low.He was close , but still not there. The womenin the fortress , were ugly and old , so when his eyes moved to the daughter of his host, he tried his move.It was breakfast, and Elenoir was eating some bread with goat milk. She was cutting her bread , when he approached to shoot his shot. That was a terrible mistake on his part. She looked at him as one would with a cockroach.Then she took the knife and smashed it in his hand. He was wearing fur gloves, and the knife was not sharp, so the only thing that the prince felt was the pain from the finger being smashed . After that she grasped his cock and pointed the knife to his balls. She said nothing but her eyes moved to his. He had never felt such embarrassment when his cock hardened, in her still cupped by her fingers. At that moment he would have wanted to bury himself in the snow. "The snow will soften up the fall, don''t worry," he added with a chuckle. A sucker punch was the answer. He fell to the ground his nose bleeding as she saw Elenoir''s back returning deeper into the fort. His eyes followed lower. ''''Seems like jests are funny only when she does this'''' he muttered as he snorted the red out of his nose.It hurt, maybe it was broken.Apparently many people decided to walk between the walls for the day, as for the prince kneeling on the ground solitude lasted little. ''''Got ya a bit of blood, little prince. '''' A voice spoke with a chuckle ''''Northern women are harder of spirit, just like in bed.In the south you bed one and you fucked everyone .In the north you gotta sleep with dagger in hand , and hope that you did not displeased your wife in some way.Got my nose bloodened many times, by my love'''' The voice was deep and yet familiar, and as he turned on his back, he saw the maw of a bear. As he fell on his butt again , he watched closely as the bear laughed , and saw it was no beast.It was Uther Fallstaff. The giant of the north . ''''Piss yourself a little, prince?'''' He asked as he laughed, thundering like the roar of a beast. The prince rose from the ground, patting the snow from his buttocks.And as he locked eyes, he felt like a child once again. And a bit of fear creeped in. As right now , the giant-man was standing in his full might ahead of him.And this was supposed to be one of the nobles that should bend the knee to him. He feared that even with his knee down, he would be no match for his height. The winds rose and the prince cowered in his own inadequacy. Chapter 52: Northern ambition(2) Chapter 52: Northern ambition(2) As Maesinius gazed at the imposing figure before him, he couldn''t shake the thought that perhaps there was truth to the rumors about the Falstaff lineage. Uther appeared more like a giant than a man of their own race, prompting Maesinius to wonder if there was indeed giant blood coursing through his veins. "The wolf got your tongue, little prince?" Uther''s deep voice rumbled through the air, breaking the silence. Maesinius snapped out of his reverie, replying absentmindedly, "No, I still have it." Then, his curiosity getting the better of him, he ventured, "My turn now. Did your father fucked a she-giant?" There was a pregnant pause as Uther fixed Maesinius with a steady gaze. Before the prince could retract his question or apologize for the jest, the giant burst into laughter, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "People snicker behind my back," Uther began, a hint of bitterness lacing his words. "They call my house one of abominations. It''s nice to see someone have the actual balls to ask about it directly to my face. Most would be scared that I would kill them, and rightly so." Maesinius felt a pang of apprehension at Uther''s words. "Do I have reason to fear for my life?" he inquired cautiously. Uther''s response was surprisingly jovial. "Are you skilled with your sword?" he asked, gesturing towards the hilt at Maesinius''s hip. "Not skilled enough to challenge someone like you," Maesinius admitted, his hand instinctively resting on the pommel of his sword. "Then you have nothing to fear. I don''t bully small men like you," Uther reassured him, his tone carrying a hint of amusement. Returning to the topic at hand, Maesinius pressed, "Regarding the question?" Uther''s expression softened as he reminisced, "Nay, my mother was no giantess, though she possessed the strength of one. Whenever my brothers and I made too much noise, she would grab our heads and thump them onto the table. Every week, my father would bring a new one, harder than the last. But in the end, they always broke.Maybe one of my ancestor was a giant who knows." Maesinius listened intently, his curiosity piqued by Uther''s tales. "Quite a harsh upbringing," he remarked sympathetically. Maesinius listened intently, captivated by Uther''s storytelling. "My brother continued to call out to me as he calmly walked to the other side of the lake," Uther continued. "Each step he took carried him farther away. And though I was terrified of the ice breaking beneath me, the fear of being alone was even greater." A bittersweet smile tugged at Uther''s lips. "I forced myself to move, slowly and hesitantly, until I finally reached him. When I did, he enveloped me in the biggest hug, his smile reaching from ear to ear." The prince said nothing just listened "If a man does not hold fear, how could found the courage to go ahead?" Uther''s words echoed in the crisp winter air, carrying a weight of truth. "Only when a man is scared can he truly become brave." The prince did not know how to respond to that . "What was his name?" He then asked Uther''s smile softened as he answered, his gaze distant with memories. "Arduth. He was taller and stronger than me, and yet he had a heart as big as the north." There was a hint of sorrow in his tone as he continued, "Winter was harsh that year. He did not make it." "He would probably be proud of what you have become."The prince found himself saying Uther''s smile widened at the prince''s words,he reached out to pat the prince''s back ''''How can other have faith in you, if you lack it yourself?Trust yourself,a leader should never second-guess himself or that will be his end...'''' With that Uther turned and retreated deeper into the fortress, leaving the prince alone in the blanket of snow. ''''Putting the soul of a philosopher inside a giant body, the gods truly like to jest with their creations'''' He murmured as he gazed at the distand snow.His eyes drawn to it, while his heart still warmed at the giant''s words. Chapter 53: Northern ambition(3) Chapter 53: Northern ambition(3) Maesinius put his hand on the dark-oak door and pushed it open.The warm and hot air coming from inside the keep clashed with the cold one of the air outside. And as he hollowed in pleasure at feeling the warmth, the people inside were instead shouting obscenities at the prince. "Close that bloody damn door!" Elenoir''s voice cut through the din, punctuated by the sharp thud of her fist hitting the table. "It''s freezing cold outside, you fool!" Elenoir''s stister Edmund chimed in, his words laced with irritation. Meanwhile, their father, seated at the head of the table, remained silent, his attention fixed on his meal as he methodically spooned pea-soup into his mouth. "Little Prince, sit and break fast with me!" Uther''s booming voice called out, his massive frame nearly filling the room as he gestured enthusiastically to the empty seat beside him.Waving his hand almost as if he feared not to be seen Maesinius complied, closing the door behind him before making his way over to the giant''s side. Uther had already pulled out the chair for him. "The food is shit, but at least the company is good!" Uther bellowed with a hearty laugh, slapping the prince on the back in a friendly manner. "If the food is not to your liking, then why the fuck don''t you go home?" Harold''s voice cut through the jovial atmosphere, his tone low and gruff. Another thud reverberated through the room as the giant''s fist collided with the table, sending soup sloshing over the edges of bowls and cups tumbling to the floor. "Is that the way to talk to an old friend?" he demanded. "Did you throw your hospitality to the wolves? Have you not offered bread and ale to your guest?" As Maesinius settled into his seat, he reached for the wooden spoon laid out nearby and dipped it into the unappetizing soup. With a grimace, he brought a spoonful to his lips, finding the taste as shitty as he remembered "It was a legitimate question, you giant fucker," Harold shot back, his voice tinged with frustration. "I offered bread and ale to everybody in my hall, and after the hut they all left to raise their forces for the war. Instead, the great Uther keeps pestering my halls, consuming my food. If I did not know better, I would think it was a rat and not Uther break-bones." "That is a good question, actually, uncle," Edmund piped up. Uther had long been considered an honorary member of the family, and so they had grown accustomed to addressing him as such from a young age. Uther merely grunted in response, spitting to the ground in a gesture that caused Harold to chuckle silently. "What would I do there? Here I am with friends. Is that not right, little prince?" he directed the question to Maesinius, who nodded in agreement as he tilted the bowl to his mouth, finishing the unappetizing soup. "Indeed, the truest of friends, Uther," the prince affirmed, setting the empty bowl aside. "Isn''t that right?" Uther glanced around the table, seeking confirmation. "Still, uncle, if I didn''t know any better, I''d say you didn''t want to go to war," Elenoir interjected, using her nails to clean her teeth. This chapter is updated by Arlania has been a princedom ravaged by war since its inception, sandwiched between two great empires. Their prince has just killed the ruler of one; he fears that they will come knocking for blood. So, when a kingdom rises and secedes from the empire, covering the border that has been occupied by the empire whose ruler they killed, will they not weep in happiness? Knowing that one of their borders is covered by the people which will have to face the brunt of the empire''s campaigns?" "Not to mention our need for grain," he continued. "When we speak of that, the prince himself will kneel and praise the gods. Arlania has always been a great producer of grain, yet to whom have they sold it? The Azania Sultanate has no need for it; they produce their own.Only some merchants are given the privilege to come and sell to us. So, when he gets to know that a new kingdom is searching for someone to sell them grain, and that it will prevent their land from being invaded by the empire, he will be more than happy to join hands with us.I would be surprised if he were to refuse. Maybe they could even be convinced to form an alliance." None said anything for a few moments, then Elenoir was the first to speak ''''How do you do that?'''' ''''Do what?'''' She gestured ''''that'''' , he did not understood ''''You act as if you already know what other''s people will be doing. '''' The prince pursued his lips , what he did was nothing great.One just had to see things from another perspective and hope that the person the are dealing with is not a fool or a madman. He shrugged ''''I just can. Politics are all the same , it''s not hard to predict one action if we knows thier current situation and needs'''' ''''More importantly are you alright with it?'''' Edmund asked as he eyed the prince ''''With what?'''' He retorted ''''Joining hands with your father''s killer'''' The prince resumed the cutting as if he was not bothered by it ''''Family interest should comes after politcal ones. The blame falls more under the previous emperor then with the Arlanians'''' ''''Your father'''' Uther pointed out The prince hummed in confusion as he raised his gaze ''''Not the previous emperor '''' Uhter corrected, ''''your father'''' He looked at Uther with a neutral expression than spat on the ground , after that he turned his head and resumed breaking the bread.The answer on that was clear enough. Gratios was no father of his. Chapter 54: A message(1) Chapter 54: A message(1) The very act of consuming one''s own kind was condemned by every religion across the lands. The followers of the Five Gods decreed that cannibals be burnt at the stake, their punishment a fiery retribution for their heinous act. The red god of the Sultanate of Azania prescribed burial alive in sand, a slow and suffocating demise. Meanwhile, the Sun-God of Arlania demanded that cannibals be chained in the middle of the desert to be picked apart by scavenging vultures. Alpheo had the misfortune of witnessing such atrocities firsthand. It must have been his second year as a slave in the army when he found himself in the midst of a siege. The emperor''s forces were laying siege to a fortress in the east. Reluctant to waste his men in a direct assault, and being in a good position logistically , the emperor opted to starve out the defenders. Months passed, and the city held on stubbornly. By the fifth month, the population had dwindled from 100,000 citizens to 75,000, and the garrison from 4,500 to 2,300.Once the city fell the garrison was questioned on how they managed to endure for so long, the besieged soldiers could only lower their eyes in shame. They had resorted to consuming the flesh of the dead. The accompanying priest, horrified by the revelation, urged the emperor to burn them at the stake as punishment. However, with 75,000 citizens sharing the same sin, the logistics of such a mass execution were daunting. Moreover, the emperor desired a city intact, to pay taxes and supply men for his wars.What good would be a city without people? In the end, he decided to punish only the garrison, as it was their actions that had led their fellow citizens to such desperate measures, or so he had said. The priest grumbled at the decision, but the next day, he obediently lit the torches that consumed the stakes. Alas, it seemed that his pockets kept jingling as he walked from stake to stake. And yet even cowards faced punishment. And even such crime was to be witnessed by the young man in question. The recent war with the Prince of Oizen had ended just the month prior, resulting in a defeat for their employer near the border. "Guilt of the cowards," were the words the Prince of Yarzat had said as he commanded the officers forward. The battle had initially gone well, until the center of their formation collapsed, leading to a rout. Eight hundred soldiers found themselves imprisoned and relegated to the dungeons while the prince deliberated their fate. Ultimately, they were sentenced to slavery in the mines. However, it seemed that for the officers Arkawatt had other plans. "I can finally see some blood," Egil muttered as he draped his arms around Alpheo''s shoulder, yet his deameanor remained sober "Why the long face, Alph?" Egil questioned, noting Alpheo''s stoic expression. "Don''t you understand?" Alpheo replied, his gaze shifting to the lines of prisoners being led toward the soft green ground. "Understand what?" Egil pressed. "This is more than just a punishment," Alpheo explained. "It''s a message." "Aye, and the sky is brown, while my shit is gold," Egil retorted sarcastically. "To whom would the message be? The worms, to tell them to wiggle a bit less?That will certainly do.And I suppose the birds are waiting eagerly for their copy too ?" " The mercenary leader bowed ''''May I have a word with your grace?'''' He asked The prince''s demeanor suggested annoyance, but he turned to Sir Robert, who stepped forward to address Alpheo. "You treat with me, mercenary," Robert declared. Alpheo watched the prince , who just nodded as he walked forward "Very well. I seek permission to recruit additional men within the city," he stated plainly, anticipating Robert''s response. "So that we may pay you more, you think us fools?" Robert retorted "The terms we agreed upon previously will remain unchanged," Alpheo countered. "Fifteen silverii for each soldier of my 500 in the company. Any recruits beyond that will be outside of our contract and funded solely by me. Your coffers will not be burdened by their payment." Robert grumbled,not seeing the catch "You should be paying us for such a right," he insisted a bit of greed in his eyes . "These soldiers will fight for your prince," Alpheo reminded him calmly. "If you do not wish to grant us permission to recruit, then you shall simply have fewer free soldiers fighting for you. Hardly a loss for me.Can you affor that though?" After a moment of consideration, Robert relented. "Very well, you may proceed with recruiting them. But do not come to us later asking for additional coins" he warned. "I will not. Please convey my gratitude to your liege," Alpheo replied with another respectful bow. With that, he turned and rejoined his companions, leaving Robert to return to the royal entourage with a snort of disapproval. ''Seems like our bows will soon have arms to hold them'' He thought as he turned back to his group motioning them to follow. And as they passed their eyes moved to those of the man on the ground.Their head still sticking out from the dirt, a small shiver went through their back as they walked forward. They will one day be what they are now. It may be in a silvery bed with their stomach full, or in the mud with a lance through their neck ,yet the end will be the same.Off to death everyone will go... Chapter 55: Feast(1) Chapter 55: Feast(1) Alpheo looked at himself , he was as charming as a model.Most of the time , he wore chainmail, and breastplates, yet now he was dressed as elegant as a peacock. Updated from Wrapped around his broad shoulders was a crimson silk cloak, its folds cascading gracefully down his back like a river of molten ruby. The fabric caught the light in such a way that it seemed to shimmer with a life of its own, it was beautiful . Beneath the cloak, he wore a doublet of midnight blue velvet, its plush texture making it soft to the touch . His trousers were crafted from the finest black leather. Leather boots adorned his feet, their soles sturdy and worn out from countless hours of marching. As unfortunately among the gifts from the prince there were no new boots, so he used his usual ones. Egil put two fingers in his mouth and whistled in jest "Is that a lord that blesses my eyes?" he quipped, smoothing the silk of his jacket with a satisfied grin. "Nay, lords are supposed to be graceful; this one is as clumsy as a duck," Laedio added with a smirk, he too wearing silk for the first time in his life.And he found it rather comfortable Meanwhile, Jarza struggled to find comfort in his silk jacket, the fabric straining against his muscular frame. Despite his imposing stature, the largest garment they could find still seemed too small for the black giant. ''''Mine is as tight as iron'''' "Curse your god that made you giant," Egil joked, flashing a cheeky smile. "Still sure you want to stay behind, Asag? There''s bound to be good food and drink at the feast." Asag, ever stoic, remained seated on Alpheo''s bed, his response barely above a whisper. ''''Someone gotta watch the men'''' His companions knew better than to try to convince him otherwise, so they dropped the topic allowing the silent guy to do what he wanted. "Want us to bring you something?" Egil offered. "Not me," Clio chimed in, sharing in the sentiment. "Now, there are a few simple things you need to understand," Alpheo continued, his voice taking on a tone of authority. "High society is like a priest; by day, they condemn the whorehouse, and by night, they wander with night in search of whores for the night. They may mingle among themselves, but with us?" He paused, spitting on the ground for emphasis. "Their saliva is worth more than a few dirty mercenaries." "Now, here''s what you''re going to do," he instructed, pointing his finger to each of them in turn. "You''ll close your mouth and eat, but no alcohol," he directed, fixing his gaze on Egil. "Why?" Egil questioned, his curiosity evident. A finger was pointed at the blonde man "At the second cup of wine, you''ll find a goat to fuck if no women are available and no man will stop you from finding one ," Alpheo retorted. He then shifted his attention to Jarza. "You, on the other hand, will glare at anyone who breathes," he instructed firmly. Next, Alpheo turned to Laedio. "You will be as unpleasant as a cock in the arse," he declared. "And you," he concluded, turning to Clio, "you are all right..." he added , prompting the man to smirk . "These ones are members of high society," Alpheo began, his tone grave, "and the moment you so much as breathe wrong, they''ll gladly toss you back into the streets. I want you all to stick close to me, like a virgin with his first cherry-popper. If you stray more than three meters away from me, I swear to the gods, I''ll smack you in the head. And Egil, if I catch you so much as talking to a female, I''ll gild you myself." "Do it in the morning," Egil quipped nonchalantly, prompting a resigned sigh from Alpheo. He sighed "I like all of you, and I see you as my brothers," Alpheo continued, his tone softening slightly. "If you won''t do it for your own sake, then do it for mine. My poor heart would break if something were to happen to you.I want this feast to go as clean as possible, go ahead and stuff yourself with food but don''t go bothering anyone . " His plea was met with a mixture of reluctance and resignation from his companions. Despite their protests, Alpheo had to resort to more pleading and the promise of a night in the warehouse, paid for by their boss, before they finally relented. It was a concession Alpheo was more than willing to make if it meant they would all leave the feast with all parts attached. Chapter 56: Feast(2) Chapter 56: Feast(2) ''''Must we really wait for the prick to call us?''''Laedio asked as he pursued his lips in a sneer. His eyes moved to the decorations in the halls. ''''Yes it is custom for these people for the host to call upon guest'''' Jarza answered as he tried to stand as still as possible. He did not know for how long the jacket would hold his frame . ''''Yes but they are not OUR custom.Me must have been waiting ten minutes ... I say we just enter without a care '''' Laedio proposed as he sighed ''''For these people appearances are everything, else how can they say that they are better than us if they don''t have a way to distinguish them from the common rabbles they rule over?Man must always hold something to justify an action, else it would go crazy'''' Suddendly as Laedio was to give his point to Jarza, the door opened, the guards on the other side giving way for the group to enter .Ahead of them a new world appeared.Wherever they looked at they were either staring at food, or on beautiful decorations.The people inside were all silent as they observed the men at the door . They were silent , but the singers kept doing their job.While the mummers and jugglers, continued to exhibit their works upon a crowd that was ignoring their life''s work. A man as upright as a wooden pole in an arse, stood at the right of the king.He could see that white mane from twenty kilometers away and he would still recognize , it as that of Robert. At the left was instead the prince consort, who instead just looked bored as her eyes moved to that of the jugglers. While the youngest was there the eldes daughter was nowhere on sight . ''''The guest of his grace is entering the feast.They may now walk forward and express their gratitude to their host'''' Robert shouted as if he was reading from a script ''Just like Jarza said '' customs are everything'' '' Alpheo thought, as he walked forward approaching the king , his wife and their two daughters.When he was at an adequate distance he dropped on one knee. ''''This man thanks his grace for his generosity, may he live to be one hundred'''' The prince looked down at Alpheo, and then with a graceful smile waved his hand for them to rise ''''Your gratitude is accepted, you may eat my food and share warmth within the fire. From now on you are my guest, and as per sacred laws , you shall not me harmed, you shall not be deprived of your possession and no slight will come to you from me. May the gods witness my words'''' And just like that the room went from chaos to silence, one again after the words of the prince the guests resumed on their activities. Ladies went back at laughing, man once again between themselves boasting of their achievements. While others instead marveled at the play of the mummers and jugglers, whose mastery of tricks let the guest at a loss of words. Alpheo walked amidst a sea of opulence, surrounded by people who had known nothing but luxury their entire lives. While he had toiled as a slave, they had slept in comfortable beds and dined on fine foods. Yet, even the supposedly exquisite fare of this society tasted like shit to Alpheo. As he brought a piece of meat to his mouth, the overpowering pepper assaulted his tongue, he never liked hot food. And it seemed that there was more condiment than actual food on the table. Alpheo glanced around at his companions, hoping to share some bad words about the cuisine . But they were too busy stuffing their mouths with food to notice. Even Jarza, typically reserved, was enthusiastically tearing flesh from bones with his teeth.Apparently such strange taste, was seen as delicious by them. Disappointed, Alpheo scanned the table in search of potatoes, his favorite dish. Surely, they couldn''t mess up potatoes, was it even possible to do that? Yet, to his dismay, they were nowhere to be found as potatoes were seens as the food for pigs . "Oi, come here," Alpheo called out to a passing servant carrying trays of wine. As the servant approached, Alpheo snatched a cup ''''Point me where the potatoes are ''''.The question caused the servant to give small smirk.After all no-one would dare to think of finding such low food on the tables of the nobles. That smile took Alpheo by surprise, which then quickly morphed in anger. He could let the princes and nobles pass off few comments directed at him, they were at an higher position than him , but there was no way he would allow a servant to make fun of him. He restrained himself from lashing out physically but leaned in close, his voice low and dangerous. "You have exactly three seconds to point me in the direction of what I requested," Alpheo whispered, his grip tightening on the servant''s arm. "Remember, I could just as easily disembowel you after this feast, and your prince wouldn''t bat an eye. The next time I catch you smirking at me, I''ll cut your mouth ear to ear so you''ll never be able to stop smiling. Understand?" Realizing something was wrong , the servant lowered his head in submission. He tried to inform him of their absence , trying to explain the reason as less humiliating as possible. He failed. She chuckled, finding his reaction amusing. "Wanna know how it is done?" Alpheo raised a curious eyebrow, glancing between the princess and the jugglers. The princess smiled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "That one has no tongue." Alpheo''s expression shifted to one of disbelief. "What?" "You heard me. He has no tongue; it was cut off from him. And the one you see him displaying is a pig''s tongue sewed to the uncut part." Alpheo blinked, trying to process the information. "Your grace, if that is a jest, I must say it is a bad one." "It is no such thing," she insisted, her tone serious. "If you don''t believe me, you can observe it yourself. It''s not hard to notice once you know it.See how he only shows a small portion of it? He is hiding the sewing." He felt a shiver run down his spine, uncertain whether to feel repulsed or simply disturbed by the show . The princess''s laughter, however, drew his attention, her amusement at his reaction evident. "The interest disappears once you know, right?By nature, we find what we do not know to be exotic... " she remarked, her eyes fixed on him, perhaps mistaking his reaction for disinterest rather than disgust. Alpheo tore his gaze away from the juggler to meet her eyes. "I have never presented myself, did I?" she asked ''''My name is Jasmine '''' ''''This one''s name is Alpheo, your grace'''' "Yes, I know. Robert talked a lot about you," she said with a hint of mischief. "I suppose nothing good came out of him ," Alpheo remarked dryly. "Certainly not things that are to be said in public," "Good to know, then, that our first meeting left an impression on both of us," Alpheo quipped, his lips curling into a small smile.He too hardly had good thinks to share about the old bastard. Her laughter filled the air, and Alpheo found himself momentarily captivated by the musical sound of it . "How are you finding the feast?" she inquired, her tone shifting to a more casual one. "Quite a spec¡ª" Alpheo began, but she interrupted him before he could finish. "Boring, right?" she interjected, her expression reflecting her own disinterest . "I''m actually fighting off my yawns." Alpheo remained silent, unsure how to respond to her candid remark. Was it not an insult to his father, the host of the feast? "Wanna do something fun?" she suddenly proposed, her smile taking on a mischievous edge that Alpheo found strangely charming.After all the thorns in a rose could be considered to enhance its beauty Chapter 57: Feast(3) Chapter 57: Feast(3) Jarza---------------------------- The Great Hall of Yarzat was hazy with smoke and heavy with the smell of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread. Its grey stone walls were draped with the banner of the prince. A singer was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad, but down at this end of the hall his voice could scarcely be heard above the roar of the fire, the clangor of pewter plates and cups, and the low mutter of drunken people. If the truth was to be said Jarza enjoyed his position,he was not high enough to take decisions, but still not low enough for his words to have no weight. It has been years since he had a proper meal , the supper made after a long march, barely counted as one . He was happy where he was , with the tail of his eye he observed Alpheo. He stood there alone looking at the plates.He did not understand why he did not partake in the meal.Was he not hungry? He seemed to skip the meals and instead go for the wine, it was the third cup he had taken, Jarza had counted. And yet they barely had an effect on him.That surprised him a lot, he had never seen him drink, not even bring a whore in the bed, if he was to say the truth.Maybe he swung the other way? He was the leader of the group, the one to take the decisions that would decide where the company would go, nonetheless he never saw him wash himself over riches, women or good foods.He was a strange man.He knew he was one in a thousand and the gods had delivered Jarza to him for a reason , or at least he thought so . Jarza was happy he was not the leader, he had no taste to manage things.It was enough that he had the opportunity to fuck, eat and drink. And he was finding that he had two- men''s thirst, to the raucous delight of the people around him, who urged him on every time he drained a glass. They were fine company, and Jarza relished the reactions to the stories he was telling them , tales of battle and bedding and the hunt.He knew Alpheo had ordered them not to drink, but the wine was so close, and his mouth opened on his own.Was it his fault?Surely not. Whenever he drained a cup he turned around and watched out, for Alpheo. Then after the fourth cup he noticed him, thanks to the gods , , Alpheo did not see him as he was too busy talking to someone.Jarza squinted his eyes to observe better "Lucky bastard," Jarza muttered under his breath, a wry smile curling his lips as he nudged Laedio, who sat nearby, his mouth filled to the brim with food. Laedio''s eyes widened in surprise as he turned to follow Jarza''s gaze, his cheeks bulging with the remnants of his meal. With a knowing look he gave too a smile, the food coming out in pieces towards the ground "For him, it''s acceptable to seek out a bedmate and one of royal blood no less, yet for me, it''s forbidden?" Egil asked his forehead furrowed as he too saw the show Hearing his words Jarza''s patience waned, but he refrained from resorting to physical reprimand. "Alpheo is no fool," he retorted firmly. "He understands the boundaries of his station. He wouldn''t jeopardize his future for a fleeting moment of pleasure. That would be utter folly." "Seems like you''re enjoying yourself," Clio remarked casually, taking a bite of oiled bread. "Not as much as you. I can''t bring myself to stomach the slop they''re devouring," Jarza replied with a grimace, casting a disdainful glance at the lavish spread laid out before the noble guests, though he too took a piece of bread . "It''s not all bad, you just have to find the right one," Clio countered optimistically. "Maybe you can do that," Alpheo interjected, his gaze fixed on Jarza, "Listen up, I''m temporarily leaving the feast. In my absence, Jarza, you''re in charge. Keep an eye on Laedio and Egil, particularly the latter." ''''What am I, a child?"The latter in question asked "Worse, you''re a liability. If you''re left to your own devices, you''ll get us all killed," Alpheo shot back, his tone firm and unwavering. Egil''s response was a dismissive snort, but Jarza nodded in understanding. "Very well, I''ll keep a close watch on him," he assured Alpheo. ''''Just make sure to keep your pants up , the same talk you have Egil is standing also for you ''''He quipped with a joke ''''I am aware.Don''t worry I know my standing '''' ''''I knew you did.Well then have fun'''' Jarza bid him goodbye with a pat on his shoulder as he walked back to the feast. With that Alpheo nodded and left them on their own .As by now he had to accompany a princess on a walk. Chapter 58: Feast(4) Chapter 58: Feast(4) The moon hung in the sky like a luminescent pearl, casting its glow over the darkened landscape below. Alpheo stood beneath its radiant light, his gaze fixed upon its serene beauty. As a child,when he was sold into slavery to a noble family where his days were filled with toil and his nights with hardship, he always liked to look at the moon. His sleeping quarter was a small dark room , cold , dump and humid , his pillow was an hard rock, and the stony ground his bed.Yet the gods, always if they existed , blessed him with one small window. Too high to be used to escape, but not too low to dream of it. Alpheo would steal moments in the dead of night, stealing away to his window to gaze upon the moon''s luminous form. It was a ritual born out of necessity, a way to escape the relentless grind of his daily existence. With his back bloodied by the plays of his master''s daughter , he always loved to gaze at the moon, that was his escape. Jasmine''s voice pierced through Alpheo''s reverie, snapping him back to the present, though his eyes remained distant, hardened like stone. Memories, both bitter and sweet, danced in the recesses of his mind. "You must really like the moon," Jasmine remarked, her tone tinged with a hint of irritation. Clearly, she wasn''t accustomed to being ignored. "Who doesn''t?" Alpheo replied absently. "None that I know of gaze upon it for so long," she pressed further. "I''m guilty of that, at least," Alpheo conceded with a sigh, tearing his gaze away from the celestial body above. Surveying their surroundings, he realized they had left the confines of the feast and now strolled through the garden. It wasn''t expansive, yet not cramped either. In its heart, one could lose themselves amidst the foliage,yet it was not like they could find the exit by walking for a few minutes. Sensing her perplexity, Alpheo took a moment to compose himself, drawing in a few deep breaths to steady his racing thoughts. "Apologies, your grace," he began, his laughter fading into a wry smile. "I just find it amusing how people tend to underestimate a young person in a position of power. They see a young man leading a force of five hundred soldiers, all clad in steel, and their first instinct is to mock and belittle him." He paused, his expression growing more serious as he continued. "They fail to consider on how such youth managed to earn the loyalty and respect of five hundred men double his age. Instead, they send their delicate flower, expecting this young leader to falter at the first sign of attention.Like a dog with a bitch in heat " His voice took on a bitter edge as he spoke, his gaze piercing through the darkness to meet Jasmine''s eyes. "Is your father so desperate for coin that he would send his own daughter to attempt to sway me into lowering our pay in hopes of bedding her ?" Before he could register her reaction, Jasmine''s hand shot out, her palm connecting with his cheek in a resounding slap. Alpheo''s laughter subsided into a low chuckle, the sting of her slap quickly fading as he met her gaze with a mixture of amusement . "Apologies for that, your grace," he began, his tone more conciliatory now. "Perhaps I am still too rash with my tongue. Young men may be inexperienced, but old men are often blinded by their prejudices." Jasmine''s smile faded, her arms no longer interlocked with his as she stepped back slightly. "Still, you were not wrong," she conceded "My father sent me here to seduce you. The charade is over, then. Did I play my part wrong?" Alpheo shook his head, his fingers lightly brushing over his reddened cheek where her slap had landed. "No, you were flawless," he assured her. "But I am naturally paranoid. One does not rise to lead a band of blood-thirsty mercenaries without being cautious.Quite a strong arm your grace, my compliments ..." That made her chuckle "Still, do I have to assume that our walk is done?" she asked, tilting her head to the side as she extended her hand towards him once more. "My father''s business may have concluded, but mine has not. May I be blessed with your attention again?You may find this conversation more to your liking this time..." And once again her smile returned, beautiful and yet as unsettling as a dagger over the throat, her arm hanging in the air like a sword only waiting to be wielded . Chapter 59: In the city(1) Chapter 59: In the city(1) The walk , just like the feast proceeded without anyone dying. Later on when Alpheo returned to the feast, with the smiling Jasmine behind him, he rose his eyes to meet that of the prince, only to see that when her father saw her and Alpheo walking together he gave a small smile, thinking that his play paid off. Alpheo gave no sarcastic reply , he was too shook for that . ''A family of fucking madmen'' he thought as he started walking to his group , after bidding goodbye to a smiling Jasmine . The feast continued till the late evening , with Alpheo deciding to call the end of the night when he started to get sleepy.His business was completed so there was not use to linger there and be made fun of. When he made his decision known to his companion they raised a small ruckus, yet in the end they complied. To Alpheo''s dismay, he noticed that many of his friends were quite tipsy, particularly Egil, whose joviality had escalated as the night progressed. Alpheo said nothing, but made a mental note of their behavior. It seemed that Jarza, who he had hoped would keep a watchful eye on his comrades, had not been as vigilant as he had anticipated. Yet, in hindsight, expecting them not to indulge in a few drinks at a feast was perhaps overly optimistic.Though it looked like someone had more the one. Still the night finally ended, without anyone in his group losing his head or lower member.Something that he was proud of, as they walked back into their rooms. ''''I should have done something tonight," Egil grumbled, his frustration palpable. "I haven''t seen any action in years." Clio, wincing at the scent of alcohol wafting from Egil''s breath "You''ve done enough. Besides, didn''t I find you with a servant this morning?" Egil spat in disdain. "You count that as action? She practically fell into my arms, there was no thrill in it. And tonight, I haven''t even bedded anyone. That was a sorry excuse for a feast¡ªno action, no violence. In my tribe, if there weren''t at least three deaths, this pitiful affair would be deemed dull." "We''re not in your tribe," Clio retorted dryly. "We''re are currently in a civilized place . Having someone die at a feast would make a poor excuse of an host ." ''''Quite back there !'''' Alpheo shouted , growing vexed by Egil''s complaints,"I thought I had told you to keep him from drinking," he directed towards Jarza. Jarza defended himself "Every time I turned around to eat something, he grabbed a cup of wine and downed it in a heartbeat. What was I supposed to do, force him to vomit everything back up?" "Maybe," Alpheo replied tersely. "Then he would have been revisiting his meal from last week," Jarza retorted. "I''m not his babysitter, and he''s not a child." ''''Seems like someone is aware of that '''' The star of the conversation muttered with a drunken smile. As Egil stumbled along with a drunken grin, Alpheo''s scowl deepened with frustration. Approaching Jarza with a measured stride, he leaned in close and spoke in a low, tense whisper. "When you put him to bed, make sure to douse him with a bucket of water. Think you can manage that without botching it?" They walked out of the gate and started walking towards the street.The first minutes was made in total silence, both between them than out.After all there must be a space of empty roads between the living quarters of the commoners and that of the high-borns.Also for a security reason, as hiding between the commoners would be harder as it required them to cover this space, which by the way is manned on all side. Making it easy for the guards to spot a suspicious man running. "So where are we supposed to be going?" Clio''s question reverberated as his sword clattered against his thigh. Alpheo shot him a fleeting glance before fixing his gaze ahead. "To the town square," he answered tersely. "We''ve reserved a small space for the recruitment examination. From there, we''ll enlist 100 men for the upcoming campaign." "More footmen?" Clio arched an eyebrow inquisitively at his leader. "Don''t we have enough of those?" "On that, you''re correct," Alpheo acknowledged. "But no, I wish to recruit some bowmen. We have bows and arrows in camp, and none to wield them. It wouldn''t be a proper company without archers." "Don''t forget about the riders," Egil chimed in, reminding Alpheo of their need for mounted warriors. "No, I haven''t forgotten," Alpheo assured him. "We have the horses; we just need to train some men. I trust you''ll be adept enough for the task." "I''ve lived half my life with horses," Egil boasted, striding ahead of Alpheo. "The day I forget how to ride or teach others to ride is the day I''m no longer a Skurish." That took Alpheo by surprise, and he took the opportunity to ask more "Is that the name of your tribe? Skurish?" Alpheo''s curiosity piqued, considering the name didn''t sound imperial. "No, Skurish-ai is the tribe''s name," Egil clarified, walking on ahead. "Skurish is just what we''re called." "Ever thought to go back, to your hometown, I mean?" Alpheo ventured, his tone gentle but probing. Each of them had a home before becoming slaves, but Alpheo had lost his the moment his father sold him. Egil turned back sharply, his expression contorted into a scowl as if Alpheo''s words were daggers tracing from belly to chin. "My tribe was defeated in battle," he responded tersely, his voice laced with bitterness. "Why would you suppose my tribe would still be alive? The Romlians would never grace us with such mercy." It was the first time Egil had spoken about his past, and Alpheo could feel the raw hatred emanating from him. "I never heard of tribesmen residing in imperial lands," Alpheo admitted, his gaze drawn to Egil''s intense stare. "Of course you didn''t," Egil retorted, his eyes fixated on the sky above. "Thirteen years ago, they ceased to exist. My tribe was one of the last. The empire tried an experiment, it failed, and with it, my tribe. They hoped to use our bows and horses, yet they didn''t bother to plan it out properly. They caused us to starve and waited for the first opportunity to wipe us out. And eventually, it came. My tribe was simply one of the last casualties, all the fault of the elders. We were fine in the Green-Sea, we raided and pillage just fine, yet they tried reaching for something that wasn''t due to us. And in the end, the next generation paid the price," he concluded bitterly, his hand trembling as it gripped the hilt of his sword, his teeth grinding against each other in anger. Then, after a deep breath, he spat on the ground, signaling his reluctance to divulge further. Everyone had its demons to fight with Chapter 60: In the city(2) Chapter 60: In the city(2) As Alpheo finally entered the city''s street, the stink of the city invaded his nose , his grey and brown cloak streamed from his shoulders. Everywhere he went he saw eyes. He was going paranoid, a bit more than usual.Since that walk with the princess, he made sure to always look twice behind himself when he was at court and out of it .He momentarly forgot but he was deep in a foreign country with no ally. At the end of the walk , the princess asked him some queer questions. Like what he wished to do after his contract with her father expired?If he had an aim to achieve as he wandered around the south.Or how he felt about being hired against a previous employer. He answered each of them, yet the more questions she asked, the less they looked like questions meant for the prince. That night he said many things , yet meant so little of them.Always responding in a far-fetched way or outright lying. As he walked forward, his group followed even more closely.Alpheo continued to watch his sorroundings, he and his men stood out from the rest of the citizens, they were well dressed and armed,and each time they passed to a street , people gave way to them.He strangely felt safer there among thieves and destitute, rather than the elegant and well mannered courtiers present in the keep.He felt himself in place here, wherever he looked there was something interesting happening. In one of the street a mummer on stilts was striding through the crowd like some great insect, with a horde of barefoot children trailing behind him, hooting and looking in awe. Alpheo too was gazing at him, he put an hand on his pouch, two fingers in his mouth and whistled. The mummer turned around, only to see a silver coin thrown towards him, he grabbed it with the ease a child would grab a ball, then bowed towards Alpheo and continued with the spectacle. Elsewhere, two ragged boys no older than 12 were dueling with sticks, to the loud encouragement of some and the furious curses of others. An old woman ended the contest by leaning out of her window and emptying a bucket of water, or at least he hoped so, on the heads of the combatants.''Old hag'' they shouted as they scurried away like rats, wet and cursing . As they ventured deeper into the city, the streets grew increasingly crowded, the crowds of people pressing in on them from all sides. The noxious odors of the city assaulted their senses, prompting Laedio to cover his nose in disgust. "What a shit-hole of a city,the stink is unbearable how can anyone stand it?" he muttered, his voice muffled by his hand. "Most populated cities are like this," Alpheo replied calmly, forging ahead through the bustling crowd. "You should see one of these cities after a raid," Egil interjected, his expression twisted in disgust. "The stench of decay becomes so overpowering after a week that lords have to employ vagabonds to clean up the dead bodies. Soldiers won''t even go near it..the decay of bodies is for war like the perfume of whores. Wherever you find one the other follows'''' "Romelia is triple this city and six times cleaner," Laedio chimed in, continuing his complaints''''You can bury your head in a shithouse and it still stink less than this house of rats''''. Then they all paused as Clio''s voice erupted behind them in a sudden shout. "YOU LITTLE SHIT!" Clio bellowed, grabbing a child by the shirt and lifting him into the air, his legs kicking wildly. "What''s the matter?" Egil asked, striding over to join him. "People don''t want trouble with the guards especially when they are far away from the garrison ," the boy replied matter-of-factly. "Once they reclaim their coins, they lose interest. They might give me a few slaps or punches, but then they move on.Most take it easy as I am small. They all have their own business to attend to and won''t waste more time than they have to . And once they''re gone, I retrieve the coin and keep it for myself." Alpheo smiled as he told Clio to let the boy down. He looked at Alpheo with confusion then obeyed. "How long have you been doing this?" Alpheo inquired, his curiosity piqued by the boy''s audacious thievery. "Since I could run," the child replied, his voice tinged with a hint of defiance. Alpheo pondered for a moment, then glanced at his companions before turning his gaze back to the small thief. An idea began to form in his mind. "Do you want to play a game, boy?" Alpheo proposed, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "What game?" the boy asked, his interest piqued. Alpheo gestured to his belt where his coins were kept. "You have until the end of the day to take my coins. If you manage to grab them, you can keep them. But my friends here will try to stop you. So you''ll have to be quick and clever. If you succeed, you walk away with the coins. But if my friends catch you before you do, they''ll divide the spoils among themselves. What do you say?" The child hesitated, eyeing Alpheo warily. "Will you really let me keep them? Won''t you go back on your word?You are mercenaries why would you let go of your coins " Alpheo shook his head solemnly. "I give you my word. If you manage to take them, they''re yours to keep." The child narrowed his eyes, considering Alpheo''s proposition carefully. "You better not lie," he warned, his voice tinged with suspicion. "And you better get ready," Alpheo responded with a grin. "You have until the sun sets to make your move. Good luck, boy. You''re going to need it." His companions looked on in surprise at Alpheo''s unexpected offer, but the promise of a potential share of the spoils had them intrigued and ready to play along. Though they wondered what had got through Alpheo''s head, he was after all not one that liked to play games. Chapter 61: In the city(3) Chapter 61: In the city(3) As the sun rose above the horizon, sending its rays across the cobblestone streets, the sound of heavy boots and clanking weapons reverberated through the city. Mercenaries, adorned in mismatched armor and weathered cloaks, roamed the alleys, shouting at the top of their lungs that The Freelance Fellowship was hiring . "Looking for a thrill, some coin, and a few battle scars to brag about?" bellowed a grizzledman , a grin peeking through his wild beard. "Join the ranks of The Freelance Fellowship and earn your keep in gold! Two silverii upfront and three more each month. Fight alongside us and reap the rewards!" A younger mercenary, clad in sleek black leather overlaid with chainmail, chimed in with a cocky smirk. "We may not be the most polished lot, but we get the job done. And we always return with a tale worth telling the ladies." With a confident swagger, he added, "For those who seek true adventure and pockets lined with gold, make your way to the marketplace and enlist with The Freelance Fellowship." Throughout the city, other mercenaries echoed similar calls, their voices carrying across the bustling streets, beckoning any who would listen. Many passersby paused, considering the allure of joining a company hired by their prince. The promise of imminent military campaigns, ripe with opportunities for plunder and glory, coupled with the upfront payment of two silverii, proved enticing to those hungry for adventure and wealth. As such many soon found themselves walking towards the marketplace, deciding to give a watch over the recruiter and decide then on what to do. And so more and more people went towards the marketplace.Alpheo, the mastermind behind the recruitment efforts, sat leisurely on a sturdy wooden chair, a half-eaten apple in hand. Around him, his loyal comrades¡ª Jarza, Clio, Egil, and even Asag¡ªstood guard, their eyes scanning the throng for any signs of trouble. To them, it seemed Alpheo was merely passing the time, engaging in a playful game to stave off boredom with that kid. Little did they know, his true intention was to assess their readiness and vigilance should they ever be tasked with his protection. With each passing moment, the marketplace grew increasingly congested,with more and more people coming too see what was happening . Alpheo, nonchalant as ever, observed the scene with a keen eye, noting the effectiveness of his men''s efforts to maintain order amidst the chaos. Yet, as he bit into the crisp apple, a small piece lodged uncomfortably between his teeth, momentarily distracting him from the spectacle before him. With a deft flick of his finger, he dislodged the offending morsel and flicked it away, only to watch as a scavenging rat darted forth to claim its prize before scurrying off into the crowd. He rose from the chair and looked around.''More and more people are coming'' he thought as he looked at the crowd amassing towards them.The fifty men they put were struggling to push them back, some of them had to even hit the people with a rod to make step back. ''''Shit did not expect to see so many...'''' Jarza muttered as he approached Alpheo , his brows furrowed . With a nod of understanding, Laedio hurried off to execute the orders. Fortunately, the rods proved sufficient, and soon fifty men of various ages were ushered into the designated area. After that they were given bows for the selection. Alpheo cracked his neck as he stepped forward, the fifty hopeful recruits watching intently as he made his way toward them. Selecting a bow from one of the men, Alpheo halted "We are recruiting men capable of wielding the bow," he announced firmly, his voice cutting through the din of the crowd. "The only qualification we seek is strength." With a deft motion, he grasped the string and pulled it taut, demonstrating the required form. "Extend your arm as much as you can, then pull the string to your nipples," he instructed, his tone unwavering. "You will hold the position for as long as I decide is necessary. Those who cannot maintain it to my standard will be rejected." Gazing over the assembled recruits, Alpheo continued, outlining the terms of their potential employment. "If you pass, you will receive a salary of three silverii a month, with a two silverii bonus. The contract will last three years, and failure to fulfill it will result in punishment by hanging." He paused, allowing his words to sink in before concluding, "If any of you do not agree to these terms, you may leave your post for the next candidate." No one moved.''Good '' Alpheo thought as he nodded towards the men at the side who quickly took over the exam. They stepped forward, seizing control of the process with practiced efficiency. Following Alpheo''s example, the chosen men demonstrated the test, executing each step . Observing their movements closely, they demanded that the recruits mimic their actions. With deep breaths, the candidates complied, grasping the bowstring and pulling it toward their chests while extending their arms. The task was simple yet demanding: maintain the position for as long as instructed before releasing the tension. Alpheo''s gaze remained fixed on the proceedings, his interest piqued by the display of endurance. As the repetitions continued, he noted the gradual thinning of the ranks. By the twelfth iteration, many had faltered, their efforts proving insufficient to meet the standard. Yet amidst the dwindling numbers, a resilient few persisted. When the trial reached its conclusion, only a fraction of the initial candidates remained standing¡ªeighteen in total, with sixteen successfully enduring to the end. For Alpheo, precision held little significance in this context; what mattered above all was stamina. In the crucible of battle, his bowmen would be tasked with unleashing volleys of arrows upon hordes of enemies, their endurance proving far more critical than any marksmanship prowess akin to that of Robin Hood.And so the sixteen were then led to a bench where they were given contract to sign, in their case simply putting their thumb on the ink and pressing it on the paper. And then other 50 took their place to take their chances to hit gold through war . Chapter 62: In the city(4) Chapter 62: In the city(4) One hour passed and the recruitment selection was done through and true. Most of it went without trouble, except for one of the recruits, who in a fit of anger for not having passed , threw the bow to the ground and broke it by stomping on it . Obviously after that he was beaten to a pulp and thrown in the street all bloodied .For the rest however things went smoothly, and Alpheo gave Laedio the task to bring the recruits back into the camp, where soon they would start their training with the bow.After all the selection exam measured only stamina, so they now had to teach them how to knock their arrows and shoot them . Still Alpheo and his group found themselves at a loss on what to do since it was still daytime.And so with boredom at their heel, they decided to walk through the city to pass the time. The streets were as crowded as ever , each with their own life and task , seemlingly disappearing into a sea . Along the streets some tall building sprawled from the ground.Whenever he passed Alpheo rose an eye to the sky, always watching out for any dirty waste thrown by the people above.Luckily he found none and walked on forward. Along the way there were some mummers dancing and playing tricks , with those that wanted to spectate the show making circles around them.Alpheo stood in of those circles many times, and when he found something he liked he threw a coin at the artist before walking ahead The more he walk the more crowded the streets began.Clio who had his pouch almost taken from him was in particularly walking with one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other covering his pouch. It was funny to look at , and Alpheo struggled not to let a laugh out, he knew it better than to make fun of one of his friend.Still of that boy there was not even the slightest trace.D Maybe he had given up, Alpheo thought as he walked forward , the people ahead making way for the armed group.They knew better than to give a reason for them to take out their sword.Many of them found out at their own peril, as these people tended to get power over their head. Give a children a stick and tell him he is to maintain order , and soon enough he will act as if he owned the street. Most people often go crazy for the slightest amount of power, and give a man a sword and he will find any opportunity to use it. Alpheo''s eyes widened in surprise at the sheer number of mummers and street performers that filled the streets. Everywhere he looked, a new circle of people had gathered around an act. The crowd was a mix of eager spectators and sly thieves, always ready to take advantage of the distractions and who knew they were maybe even working for the mummer exhibiting in the street. As Alpheo observed the old man,he find himself being disgusted by it , as if his very own existence was an insult to everything he stoof for . There was something uncanny about him, something that defied explanation. He watched behind him, and noticed that his companions too were feeling uncomfortable.He peered around and the faces of the people struck at him.They were not happy or relaxed, they too observed the old man some gulping in nervousness, other breathing deeply and fast as if they feared the oxygen being taken from them too. The old man cackled with joy and danced as he spoke "Step forward, dear worms , come near and see, The mysteries of past and future, revealed for a fee.'''' His eyes gleamed as he extended a gnarled hand, fingers trembling with age, and yet he moved so cleanly and pure as if he was a child . ''''A silver coin, a token fair,for a glimpes beyond human sense''''He cackled with his broken teeth showing No one dared to step forward or speak up. They simply watched each other, waiting for someone to take the risk and see if the old man was truly a madman or just another scammer. And still the old man danced on, his emaciated limbs flailing like those of a deranged ballerina, his face contorted in pure ecstasy as he continued to breathe in ragged gasps.There was something about him, something that intrigued people and yet made them fear it , Alpheo in particular felt his heart thumping for as the old man danced, he kept gazing at him, and as he locked eyes with the old man , he was met with a smile . Chapter 63: In the city(5) Chapter 63: In the city(5) When a man is in front of a mad beast , he feels fear caused by the terror of having his life slips away and having no power to stop that. As he hears the paws of the animal thundering closer, the heart mimicks the beast''s. And as the maws close on your head at that moment you feel an utter despair.Yet when you are not the one being mauled, but instead you are honored to witness the event happen to somebody else, the fear become interest, albeit tinged with terror and guilt at the sensations felt.The sight of seeing somebody close to death is an art in his own. As Alpheo moved closer, the bustling street seemed to fade into a distant murmur, leaving only him and the strange old man locked in a silent dance of anticipation. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing the thundering paws of a mad beast closing in. Fear crept through his veins, but it was a twisted fascination that held him captive, like a moth drawn to a flame. New novel chapters are published on The old man''s eyes glinted with an unsettling gleam as he watched Alpheo''s approach. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, he clapped his hands together, the sound resonating like a distant storm rolling in. His voice, cracked and gravelly, rose in a haunting melody that seemed to pierce through the air like a dagger. "Here steps forward the man, witness his daring might. Twice he laid with the lady black hue, And once he found his soul anew.The third shall night soon shall , and his ambitions to nothing and dust will morph " After that he laughed ,a dry and brief luaghter . He no longer danced , there was no coordination his foot and arms moving and swinging like snakes.Like that of a man on fire, who feels his skin burning and slipping away . Alpheo''s gaze flicked to the old man, studying him with disbelief. He had never believed in magic or religion, but here stood a being that could only be described as such.He was no fool , and understood what the old men meant.He had died twice, the first one the time his heart stopped during an operation as a young boy, and then his second one before being unexplainable brought back to life. Was he blessed? Or Cursed for it ? "Tell me about my future," Alpheo managed to say, his words coming out like parched gasps in the desert. The old man extended his hand, revealing a silver coin. "A silver for a glimpse into your fate," he said, his voice hollow yet all-knowing. Alpheo handed over the coin and watched as the old man bit into it, a loud crack echoing in the air.Was it his teeth or the coin? ¡ª¡ª- The wind rustled through the leaves of the towering trees, their branches swaying in a gentle dance. The green pasture lay beaten and trampled by the heavy hooves of the beast that rode through it. Fear gnawed at his core, his heart pounding in his chest as he urged his horse forward. But he knew he couldn''t turn back, not after the council had chosen Lord Andrux for this mission. His mind raced with thoughts of what was to come, knowing he must choose his words carefully and act humble before his betters. He prayed to the gods for guidance, but the serene sky gave no answer, offering him no hope. The rhythmic thud of hooves on the ground echoed in his ears, the beast''s brown mane bobbing up and down with each stride. His own eyes were unfocused, resigned to whatever fate awaited him. It was such a beautiful day, and yet here he was, facing possible death at the hands of some spoiled queen''s son. He thought of all the things he still wanted to do and say, now wasted because some bitch wanted her offspring on the throne. And here he was, sent to deliver a pointless message to a second prince who refused to bend the knee to a child or worse yet, a woman. To what end? To call him out and make demands on behalf of some delusional queen? He knew it was all for show, a futile attempt at avoiding war. And yet she would still find a way to shift blame onto them when they inevitably came for her head. If he was to die today, then he at least hoped that the gods would have mercy and send her and her son to join him in the afterlife. Sooner rather than later, he hoped. As the sight came into focus, his jaw dropped in awe. He had never seen a camp so vast and bustling before. The thick plumes of smoke from countless fires filled the sky, almost as dark as the fumes coming from the capital''s notorious brothels. The walls surrounding the camp stretched for miles, unlike any city''s boundaries he''d ever seen. There must have been over 15,000 soldiers within those walls, a display of power and allegiance by the nobles who funded such a massive operation. And to think, there was still another prince who could enter the fray. In that moment, he knew peace was not an option; this was to be a total war. Nobles wouldn''t just fight each other for land or wealth, they would capture and ransom one another before gathering around at night to drink and laugh about it all. Instead, they, the people, the poor , the low bastards would kill each other, families torn apart and raped , enslaved in the crossfire. And by the end of it all, their corpses would be unceremoniously thrown into a communal pit with their faces pointed towards the moon , as the men in power would toast at the victory or drink in sorrow for the loss. Such was the way of civil war, where brother would put cruelty into act against brother. Chapter 64: Blood of brothers Chapter 64: Blood of brothers The man rode forward, he struggled to breath even though it was coming in such rapid flow.He breathed in and breathed in but no air came in, only terror. He knew little about the second prince,though he heard rumors and he knew that many times those held little truth. It was always said that the second was prince was arrogant, lazy, and also of great libirdo .The first prince took the head of the father, while the second took the balls.The young prince was known to throw great feasts each time he had the occasion.Enormous orgies, that would unravel into a sea of moving flesh and moans. It was said that a whore in those parties would receive so much seed that the only thing that would match it ,would be the silver in her hands at the end of the feast. The libido of the second prince knew no bounds, and worse of all it was only second to his ego. A man once laid with one of his favorite whore , and the only thing he did not cut off was his head.The rest was gone in little pieces. The priests that cursed him during the day, the night became silent, the day forward too, they would be of little words.As a matter of fact they would not talk again ever. The horse trotted ahead, his long face snorting the heavy breath coming from hours of riding. He should have deserted when he had the chance, he had no family to care for , so he could have easily went to a village and made a life there with the little silver he had .The horse stopped and the man looked forward.He had not noticed that he was already ahead of the camp.Bows pointed at him , as angry looking eyes observed him and his horse. He took a deeb breath ''''I come in peace'''' He shouted as he raised his hand '''' I am a messanger from the capital. I request a meeting with his grace'''' He continued omitting to call their liege prince or emperor.The soldiers on the top continued observing him.Then wordless and soundless the wooden gate opened towards the outside.The embassador dismounted and started walking.It was a rule that no man could go riding inside a camp, for riding on horse meant that they had conquered it.Only the emperor and his close guard could ride inside a military camp.Not even nobles dared break their rules, no matter rank and strenght. Not even the high marshal of the imperial provinces were given such honors. The man and soon enough three man walked up to him.He knew what they wanted, so he wordlessly disarmed himself. Sword and dagger went to the guards, he felt naked without them , but he knew that with or without them ,nothing would change.If the prince wanted his head a piece of iron would not change that After they searched for any hidden weapons, they let him go on with his mission, while obviously escorting him out to their liege. The man felt like a prisoner going to the gallows, with the only difference being that he did nothing to deserve it.He was just a messanger , and he hoped the excuse would hold ahead of the second prince. The tent he was going towards, was the biggest in the entire camp, eight wooden stakes were impaled on the ground as they held the cord supporting the massive tent.They entered,and the prince was already expected him . The prince was handsome to the eye, that had to be said, neck-length brown hair fell down his cape.His face was delicate, lacking any sort of virile strength that his father had. He looked a bit like a woman, it was not a man handsomeness as much as a delicate one.He had no scar, nor the demeanor of a man that saw war and knew it for that.His father was aware of war, the prince not so much,as he probably treated war like a game, a bit like the younger generation of nobility does. Though the older one too, seems to view it more like a dangerous play to pass their days . The prince was sitting on a chair, the biggest in the room.The various eastern noble stood at the right and left as they stared at the man. The grip the guards had on him was released, and the man immediately went to bend the knee ''''Your grace'''' he saluted as he his head hung low. Lord Corbray, his white mustache twitching, interjected, "Your grace, I recall your father dealt with a similar message from his brother. The gods favored him then, just as they do now. The emperor had the messenger quartered before his camp, to raise morale or mayhapse just for his amusement . Perhaps we should follow suit." The messenger paled, his fear palpable. "Y-Your grace, I was but the messenger. I bore no responsibility for the contents of the letter. How am I guilty?" "Of course," the prince responded, granting the messenger a reprieve. "Lord Corbray, you speak true. Yet should we not show mercy when we can? This man is no traitor; he merely delivered the message. A minor punishment will suffice." Turning to Lord Landoff, he requested, "My lord, would you lend me one of your knights?" "Your knights are as much mine as yours, your grace," Lord Landoff, the father in law of the prince and also the newest High Marshal of Red rose by the second prince''s decree, affirmed. ''''Very well please nail the letter on the envoy''s hand and send him home.Let him go and scuffle like a rats to my dear little brother. '''' After that he turned to the envoy '''' When you go to him , tell him to go back play with his toy for this is now adult''s business'''' "Excellent. Ser Varthia, please do the honors," Lord Landoff instructed his knight, who nodded in agreement and drew his sword. The messenger''s cries grew louder as he was escorted from the tent, pleading for mercy, though it fell to deaf years . The sound of steel meeting flesh soon followed, quickly drowned out by the voices of men discussing weightier matters. "Your grace, the letter demands a response," Lord Corbray reminded, seeking the approval of the other lords. "Indeed. Lord Corbray, I entrust you with drafting the response, to be signed in my name. I have faith that your words will reflect my own," the prince declared. "Of course, your grace," Lord Corbray bowed as the screams of the messenger echoed outside as the first blood shed by this war finally fell on man''s land. Chapter 65: End of a bet Chapter 65: End of a bet Alpheo turned around only to see a small boy, no olden than 10, shivering as his barefoot stood on the stony road. His hands were wrapped around his pouch, shivering , he did not dare to pull. Everyone around them either already fled not wanting to witness the spectacle, or were still from the shock of how much happened in so little time .Fathers called their children, grabbing their hand and bringing them away as they understood what was about to happen. The boy''s eyes met Alpheo''s, but they held none of the youthful mirth they had possessed earlier that day. Instead, they were icy and steel, reflecting the coldness of the world around them. The pool of blood seeping from the half-cut neck of the old man spread slowly between the cracks of the stones, inching closer to Alpheo''s feet like a creeping shadow. Visit for the best novel reading experience Alpheo made no move to step away, as if resigned to the inevitable. Death, in that moment, was not a grand revelation or a profound experience. It was simply the abrupt end of life, an unceremonious snap that extinguished all light.For all that it was, that humans liked to poeticize , it was just that , a simple -SNAP-. The boy felt its icy grip reaching for him, a chill creeping up his spine . He had won the bet and yet it felt like he would be losing something more important Why had he attempted such a foolish act? Hunger gnawed at his belly, but not enough to warrant risking his life. Fear coursed through his veins, his hands trembling with uncertainty. In the face of death, he found himself at a loss for words or actions, his gaze fixed blankly on the man before him "You p-promised you would heed your words," the boy stammered, unable to bear the weight of the silence any longer. Alpheo''s head turned towards his group, they were few meters behind, and they have been clearly taken by surprise by Alpheo sudden attack of madness toward the old man, as they still did not understand what caused him to snap . Even they did not dare to step forward and yet a damn child not even reaching the two digits , attempted to steal from him. Alpheo''s hand descended towards the boy''s, his touch cold as ice as he grasped the trembling palm. Without a word, he turned to gaze upon the lifeless corpse of his recent victim. The anger had dissipated from his eyes, replaced by an eerie indifference. "I suppose I did," he finally spoke, retrieving the pouch from his own belt and depositing it unceremoniously into the boy''s hand. The boy''s eyes widened with a mixture of awe and fear as Alpheo''s words washed over him like a spell. "Those who dare to defy fate, who rise above their circumstances, they are the ones destined for greatness. They are the cursed, the blessed, the heroes, the devils and the monsters. And you, a small rat, had in you much more than they had in them " "You were but a tool, boy, just as I once was," Alpheo began "I saw it reflected in you in that moment, as your hands grasped your prize, your eyes betraying the tremors of emotion within. That, my dear boy, is a beautiful thing to watch, and much more to possess" He gestured towards the pouch of coins, his fingers tightening around it. "Do you desire these coins? Take them, they are rightfully yours. You have earned them by showing me something far greater. If satisfying your hunger is all you seek, then go ahead, for you have earned your prize. Is that enough for you?" Alpheo shook his head slowly, his gaze piercing yet compassionate. "No, you are not satisfied with mere coins. You, like me, crave more. We desire, we yearn, and we are worthy of more than what this world offers. The world will give us nothing; we must seize it for ourselves, as if we were gods." Cupping the boy''s face gently in his hands, Alpheo continued, his voice resonating with a prophetic certainty. "They do not understand the toil, nor could they bear it. And so, they will never taste the sweet reward of overcoming it. We are the spark that will set the world ablaze, and from the ashes, we shall claim our rightful place.The pyre shall be our doing" Drawing his bloodied sword, Alpheo held it aloft, its gleaming blade reflecting the fire burning within his soul. "In my right hand, I hold war; in my left, I hold peace. Both are separate yet intertwined, for one cannot exist without the other. Greatness shall be coupled with greatness, just as the meek shall find solace among their own." He extended his hand towards the boy, offering him a choice, a chance to seize his destiny. "Now, you have a choice, a choice that belongs to you alone, no one can take it from you . Will you rise up to the stars, or will you wallow in the dirt like a worm?" The boy looked from Alpheo to the sword in his hand, then back again, his gaze steady and resolute. With a determined grip, he reached out and grasped the sword, he tried to hold it in the air and failed as the sword danced swinging around "I see" his voice tinged with pride and anticipation. "you have made your choise'''' He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the boy''s dirty blonde hair, the mud still sticking to his hair, there he did not saw a small child, but himself . Chapter 66: Variables Chapter 66: Variables The room was quiet as Alpheo munched on dried fruits , walnuts and various other fruits .A chalice of wine was at his right. One day passed since he carried Ratto in the palace.The various guards and courtiers raised highbrows at the sight of a child walking beside him . Some thought it was his little brother or some relatives.Other instead thought that little children were of his preference.The issue went down as it went up.And no one raised more than an highbrow at the information,deciding instead to let the mercenary do as he want as long as he does not concern them.After all many nobles had such disgusting tastes Jarza, mirrored Alpheo''s actions, partaking in the bounty of nuts and wine with equal gusto. His eyes, however, betrayed a silent exchange with the others in the room, a wordless acknowledgment of the unspoken question hanging in the air. Finally, it was Clio who dared to voice the query that had been lingering on everyone''s minds. Clearing his throat delicately, he spoke, his tone tinged with curiosity and a hint of accusation . "So, why exactly did we bring a petty thief into the palace?Do you like to take in small boys now?" he demanded, his tone sharp as he punctuated each word with a bite of his apple. The source of this content nov(el)bi((n)) Alpheomerely shrugged in response, his demeanor calm and collected despite the brewing storm of questions. "I gave a beautiful speech ,have you not heard it?" he replied nonchalantly, his fingers idly toying with the last remnants of a dried grape. "But if you''d like, I can deliver another one . It was rather good, if I do say so myself, I think I have a knack for them " Clio scoffed, unimpressed by Alpheo''s flippant response. "I''m not buying your poetic nonsense," he retorted, his voice laced with skepticism. "There has to be more to it than just a sudden whim." Alpheo''s lips curled into a sly smile, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Ah, but you underestimate its power," he countered, his tone light yet tinged with underlying seriousness. "Sometimes, it''s the heart that leads us, not the mind." "But you were gone for quite some time," Egil persisted, his laughter subsiding as he leaned forward with curiosity gesturing vulgarly with his hand . "It''s hard to believe that nothing occurred during your absence.You must have done this or that..." Alpheo took a sip of his wine, contemplating his response before speaking again. "True, she was sent by her father to tempt me with her beauty and perhaps distract me with matters of our contract. Needless to say, it didn''t work. However, she proved to be more than just a pretty face. She asked questions that a maiden should have little concern about, and instead piqued my interest as something more , maybe an employer " he admitted, acknowledging the need for outside perspectives on the matter. "And what exactly would she want from us? To guard while she admires the flowers?" Clio interjected, skepticism evident in his tone. "She''s been rather elusive about her intentions," Alpheo replied, his gaze distant as he considered the implications. "But it doesn''t sit right with me. Why would a princess take such a keen interest in recruiting a mercenary band?" Egil''s laughter continued, though Jarza appeared deep in thought. "Do you think she''s planning something?After all we have a strong presence near the city, one pouch of gold and any other mercenary would give the city to the highest bidder . " he affirmed, setting down his wine glass with a contemplative expression. Alpheo hesitated for a moment before responding, swirling the wine in his cup as he spoke. "It''s possible," he admitted. "But I''m not convinced it''s worth pursuing to stay more than we have . The current prince is losing favor with the nobles, except for a few die-hard loyalists. If something were to happen to him, I doubt many would rally behind a female ruler.Always if that is what she wants... And given the current political turmoil, the aftermath would be nothing short of chaotic," he explained, his mind already calculating the potential outcomes. "Chaos may offer opportunities, but it also presents risks that I''m not entirely comfortable with. Too many variables beyond our control, and the payoff may not be worth the gamble." He fell silent, lost in his thoughts as he weighed the current situation , useless to say he was reluctant to bet on the losing side of an already falling state. Egil, ever the optimist, chimed in with a grin. "Perhaps we should entertain the princess''s inquiries,just to know more obviously " he suggested, his eyes alight with excitement. "After all, opportunity often presents itself in unexpected ways. Who knows what doors might open if we play our cards right?" Alpheo considered their varying perspectives, weighing the risks against the potential rewards. "We can''t afford to act rashly," he cautioned, his tone serious.''''We are new-comers in this land, one wrong move and we fall in the abyss.We still not ready for whatever thought she has.Albeit I believe I already know what she wants.The paybacks is outweighed by the risk, is too bad of an investment, end of the story?'''' While there were stories of female rulers taking the throne, most of those stories rarely ended with a good story for them.Much less for a simple mercenary supporting a far-fetched claim to the throne.Always if she was aiming for that. Chapter 67: First mission Chapter 67: First mission ''''Something happened, it must have ''''Jarza muttered as he nervously watched Alpheo ''''Why else would they call us ?'''' ''''Why are you looking at me?''''Alpheo asked ''''You sure you have not tried anything with her?'''' Jarza asked in an accusatory tone ''''We have done nothing wrong, ''''Clio said as he patted the sturdy back at the man before pulling his hand back in surprise. ''''Bloody fuck , are you a boulder?'''' He asked as he looked at the muscular frame of the black man and then at his hand He grunted in response. "Come now, stop it , no need to worry," he said with a forced grin. "We''ve faced worse than a summons before, remembers the whips?"Clio jeered trying to lighten the mood But Jarza was not so easily swayed. "It''s not just any summons," he countered, his tone grave. "There''s something about this that feels different,can''t you feel it in the air?" ''''Unless the gods blessed me with such powers, no Jarza we cannot.Only you have been blessed with such '''' ''''And I am telling you to get serious '''' ''''Stop worrying '''' Alpheo finally interjected ''''We have done nothing wrong, there must be something that we must be informed of, cannot think of any other reasons for which they would call us, if not related to war.'''' Egil, always one to speak his mind, broached a sensitive topic. "What about the incident on the street?" he asked, his tone casual but probing. Alpheo''s demeanor shifted, his gaze hardening as he fixed Egil with a steely stare. "They wouldn''t care if we''d killed all the old men," he retorted, his voice low and clipped. "And that''s not a topic I care to discuss further." Though it was not surprising information, it still disappointed him. Fighting in a defensive war was not what he had hoped for when he signed the contract . The prospect of leading a military campaign against an enemy land had always been much more appealing.After all hired swords were expected not to pillage the lands of their employers. ''''Do we have any idea where he will first move?'''' Alpheo asked as he eyed the crude map laid out on the table in front of him. ''''He must be preparing to move towards Aracina,'''' Prince Arkawatt spoke brusquely, with a hint of disdain in his voice. The rivalry between the two princes was an old one. 12 years ago, an attempted marriage between the two had only deepened their animosity towards each other. ''''May I ask if you have already called upon the vassals to come to the defense of His Grace?'''' Alpheo inquired, wondering how many nobles would actually answer the call. That seemed to hit deep, as Robert had done so but most of the answer went uncalled ''''We have already done so. But even if we hadn''t, it is none of your concern, mercenary. Keep your nose out of our affairs,'''' Sir Robert snapped, making it clear that he still held a grudge against Alpheo for his blunt words earlier. Shahab observed the tense exchange between Robert and Alpheo before returning his attention to studying the map laid out before them. ''''Sir Robert, I have been employed by His Grace to fight in his name. I could not think of any matter more related to my business than what I just asked. And may I also suggest that you watch your tongue, sir? As you may find the hands of my companions much quicker than that sharp tongue of yours.And sooner that you think you may find yourself in unpleasant business '''' Alpheo retorted with a sly smile, casually stroking his chin as if Sir Robert''s words were not worth his attention. Before Sir Robert could reply with a heated retort, Prince Arkawatt stepped in. ''''Stop it, Robert,'''' he ordered sternly. ''''He has every right to know. Did our conversation from earlier fall on deaf ears?'''' The prince''s eyes flashed with anger as he directed his question at Robert. Slightly taken aback, Robert quickly bowed his head in apology. ''''I apologize, Your Grace.'''' ''''As for you, Alpheo,'''' Prince Arkawatt continued as he turned to face him. ''''I have summoned you for a task not to argue with my men . Your area of expertise will be needed sooner than expected.'''' ''''Well, Your Grace, my contract forces me to obey. May I know how I can be of use to the crown?'''' Alpheo asked with a slight bow, locking eyes with the prince. As they gazed at each other, Alpheo couldn''t help but think that Jarza was right to be worried. There was definitely something troubling going on within the kingdom''s borders, and they were to be the dogs sent to clean after it . Chapter 68: First mission(2) Chapter 68: First mission(2) The hall lay shrouded in a heavy silence, akin to the stillness of a crypt, as Prince Arkawatt entrusted the first mission to Alpheo. Observing the trio of men before him¡ªRobert, Shahab, and the prince himself, Alpheo understood something.... he was given a lot of bullshit from them. As he approached the map, Alpheo''s keen eyes darted between the faces of his companions. No one is surprised nor did their eyes blinked, he thought as stepped on forward. Apparently he was not called to give his lot on the war-meeting, hell it probably already ended!He was called only to be given his task. "Look here at the city of Aracina," Prince Arkawatt began, drawing Alpheo''s attention to a specific point on the map. Fixing his gaze upon the designated location, Alpheo took note of the city''s layout and position . Situated along the coast, Aracina possessed the advantage of access to naval supply routes¡ªa potential lifeline in times of conflict.During siege one could bring supply and men , provided they had the ship. Yet, despite its coastal position, Aracina appeared to be a modest settlement at least from the map , lacking the bustling trade activity characteristic of major ports. He immediately recognised his primary role though.It was the shield protecting the capital from the prince of Oizen. The source of this content nov(el)bi((n)) "I see it in your eyes that you''ve already grasped the essence of your mission," Prince Arkawatt declared, his voice carrying a note of urgency as he fixed his gaze on Alpheo. "As you can discern from the map, Aracina is the linchpin in Shamsa''s strategy. If he aims to besiege Yarzat, he''ll undoubtedly target this city to secure a vital supply route." Alpheo nodded thoughtfully, as he looked down at Arkawatt''s hands that were gripping the wooden table''s edges hard. "And your mission, Captain, is to ensure that Aracina remains firmly under our control. It is the only thing protecting the capital'''' Alpheo''s mind whirred with tactical considerations as he surveyed the map once more. "So, Your Grace, you want me to safeguard Aracina against any attempts to wrest control from us,and wait for your arrival to relieve the city.In short I will need to buy enough time for you to arrive in full force?" he summarized, his voice tinged with resolve. "That is precisely the task at hand," the prince confirmed, his tone firm and resolute. ''''How many men are currently in your control?'''' ''''600 men, Your Grace,'''' Alpheo responded, his voice steady and assured. "400 infantry, 100 bowmen, and 100 light cavalry, all ready to serve you."Initially he wanted to make them heavy cavalry unfortunately he lacked the armor for the horses , so he would have to be content with armorless horses, and chain-mail wearing riders. Shahab''s eyes widened imperceptibly at the sizable force Alpheo commanded. It was more than double the troops he had brought to support his liege. However, he quickly masked any surprise, maintaining his composure. "Well, I suppose your numbers will be sufficient to garrison the city," Prince Arkawatt mused, considering the implications of the formidable force at Alpheo''s disposal. "If you have no further questions, you may proceed to begin your preparations." Alpheo inclined his head in acknowledgment, his gaze unwavering. "Actually, Your Grace, I do have a few inquiries regarding my mission," he interjected politely, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Go ahead," the prince encouraged, gesturing for Alpheo to continue. "Firstly, I would like to inquire about the current garrison strength of the city and the identity of the individual entrusted with its defense," Alpheo stated, his tone measured and composed. The prince appeared momentarily flustered, evidently unaware of such details. However, his second-in-command stepped in to provide the necessary information. "The city is currently garrisoned by 80 men, Your Grace," Sir Robert offered, his tone clipped and businesslike. "With the potential to recruit up to 200 more from among the citizens. The man in charge of its defense, as designated by royal decree, is a captain named Fahil." ''''Laedio'''' Alpheo said as he turned ''''Please go inform Asag that in three days we will be marching .Tell him to prepare supplies and stock up on what we miss.'''' As he finished he sighed as he plopped down on the chair. Laedio did not move and stood still, joining the other in wordlessly staring at their leader. ''''If you have something to say now it is the time '''' Jarza was the first to speak ''''This was not why we were hired to fight.We were to partecipate in an invasion where we could raid at our liking, now instead we are to fight in land we cannot pillage.'''' ''''Jarza is right''''Egil quipped in , as he too was looking forward to putting some villages on fire '''' The contract was signed under the thought that most of our gains were to be made through raiding .'''' Alpheo said nothing and turned his head toward the window , as if the answer was outside ''''How will that beggar get the coin to pay us?We could have stood calm and content if coin was to be made during the campaign, that is no longer doable.Will we raise our steel for free?'''' The other two Clio and Laedio, did not say anything but their were completely agreeing with Egil.In the end Alpheo opened his mouth and finally spoke ''''So I see you are all very good in complaining'''' He snorted through his nose '''' any of you has any suggestion then?We signed a contract and received our horses as pre-payment, surely you would not have us betray our first contract after the prince has been so forthcoming? Who would hire us after that?I certainly would not'''' The group said nothing , then Egil spoke up ''''We could refuse to march to the city citing that was not what the contract entailed'''' ''''Which would still break the contract , seems like you did not read it '''' Alpheo spoke which in reality he did not either, as they were all illiterate '''' The contract says that we are to fight for the prince, it says nothing about offensive and defensive war. Remember for us mercenaries , as strange as it sounds, respecting our word is very important. If people are sure we will be bound by them, then they will have an easier time opening their pouch.'''' ''''Yet our first employer''s is pretty empty''''Egil muttered in a low voice ''''We will be paid nonetheless, if not by coin I will certainly find a way to get us our due .In one way or another'''' he said as he sat down on a chair ''''Sti-'''' ''''IN ONE WAY OR ANOTHER'''' Alpheo shouted as he bashed his closed fist on the arm of the chair '''' This is our first war, and yet you are already bickering before we take any step.Did you think that the road would have been smooth and straight.Well welcome to the real world. Life''s full of shit , deal with it!'''' His gaze moved through the group, they rarely heard him shout, most of the time he was all smile and jokes, so looking at him be angry was quite a sight . ''''This is our first throw of the dice, and yet you are complaining even before the numbers are shown.I am tired all of your chirping, you thought it would be easy?Well it''s not!Let me tell this once again, we are foforeignersere, we are distrusted from the first moment they see us, so the best thing we can do is actually not give them another reason to add to that .'''' His fingers moved to his forehead, as he massaged the ache away "If anyone has any truly helpful suggestions, speak up now," he urged, his voice tinged with exhaustion. "Otherwise, I''d appreciate some peace and quiet. My head is pounding, and your complaints certainly aren''t helping." Chapter 69: Northern feast(1) Chapter 69: Northern feast(1) The bane in the southern region was often described as an impenetrable fortress, with walls that reached towering heights and were as strong as steel. But despite its reputation, few ventured to the city and even fewer knew of its existence in the south . Bane was not just a fort - it was one of the few remaining cities in the northern lands. Divided into two distinct parts, the first was a formidable fortress, built between the rugged mountains. Behind its walls stood hardened men who had defended against countless attacks and raids throughout the years. And beyond the fortress lay the city itself. As the prince sat atop the southern wall, he couldn''t help but marvel at how alive the city seemed. Down below, miniature figures bustled through the streets, their movements accompanied by a deafening cacophony of music and revelry. The north was celebrating - feasting and drinking in anticipation of their upcoming march south. But amidst the festivities, there were also darker pleasures to be found. Prostitutes roamed from house to house, flaunting their bodies to eager soldiers looking for a final romp before heading off to war. "It''s time to return," he thought, tearing his eyes away from the bustling city below. Most of the lords had brought their sons along for this feast, knowing it could be their last before heading off to battle. The last time they had been able to go to a war that was not fought behind a wall, was before they bent their knee.So many thought of it as a way to honor their ancestors , who raided and pillaged all the way south, back when the north was feared by the south as a land of mighty warriors. New novel chapters are published on Leaving the heat of the feast behind him, the prince stepped outside for some fresh air. But even outside, he could hear the rumblings of violence within. Some guests had grown restless and started a brawl, while others simply made bets on the outcome and cheered on from the sidelines.War made their blood boil and they needed something to fight the steam off. The prince had had enough of the chaos outside. The sight of yet another brawl erupting, and the ale soaking his clothes as a result, was the final straw. With a heavy sigh, he pushed open the door and retreated back into the keep. Descending the stairs, he entered the warmth of the feast once more. The contrast between the cold, calm air of the keep and the bustling energy of the celebration below was stark. Servants hurried about, weaving through the throngs of guests, their cheeks flushed with the heat of the crowded hall. It was as if the very atmosphere crackled with excitement, fueled by the intoxicating mix of ale, music, and anticipation of battle. "Well, they''re in luck then," the prince replied with a wry smile. "There will certainly be stubborn bastards that won''t open their keeps for us. Their lands they can raid freely." Mjorn raised an eyebrow, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Not worried about the people?" The prince chuckled softly. "Aye, but not so much about getting in the way of northern soldiers with their groins full and hands empty. I like my life very much, thank you." Mjorn''s laughter echoed through the hall, louder than before. "Well, get yourself acquainted with this bunch of beasts," he declared, slapping the prince on the back before walking away. "I''ll get myself something to drink and eat!" With that, he tossed his empty cup to the ground, leaving the servants to clean up the mess. In the end the prince decided that the violence and shouting was not for him and went to sit back on his table. Harold''s eyes moved to him as he entered the scene and sat on the seat reserved for him. His old meal was still there, it had grown cold and he did not felt like eating it.So he pushed it away.Normally he would have retired to his room , yet this was the feast before the war his absence would be noticed . His eyes moved among the lords, taking in the raucous scene of drinking, feasting, and fighting. He had seen it all before, and his gaze drifted with boredom until he caught sight of Elenoir looking at him. With a raised eyebrow, he awaited her next move. She beckoned him over with a wave of her hand, and with a resigned sigh, the prince rose from his seat and made his way towards her. As he drew closer, her figure became clearer in the dimly lit hall. Her blonde hair was intricately braided and cascaded down her back like a waterfall into a lake. She was bundled up in layers of beasts'' pelts, a precaution against the cold night air. But it seemed that alcohol was also providing warmth, as she had clearly indulged in several drinks. Her face was flushed and her eyes glassy as she lazily looked down at the table in front of her. Her mouth hung open slightly, revealing slightly crooked teeth, and her unfocused eyes slowly came into focus as she noticed his approach. A broad smile spread across her face, more pronounced than usual due to the influence of alcohol. And apparently it also made her more handsy, or better yet punchy , as she immediately greeted him with a punch to the stomach. He doubled over, feeling the breath leave his body, and then felt a hand grab onto his hair and pull him closer.The drinks apparently made her violent side shine a bit more. Their faces were now only centimeters apart, and he could see the color rising in her cheeks. Despite himself, he couldn''t help but feel the heat spreading to his own face as their proximity increased.As if drawing him to a kiss. Chapter 70: Northern鈥檚 feast(2) Chapter 70: Northern''s feast(2) The prince''s anguish echoed through the halls as he knelt, his hands pressed firmly against his throbbing forehead. It felt as though his skull was being crushed beneath a rock , each pulse sending waves of agony coursing through his skull. The pain was so intense that it clouded his senses, leaving him momentarily disoriented. Then, like a shadow emerging from the darkness, Elenoir appeared before him. There was a primal ferocity in her face that sent a shiver down his spine, her demeanor sharp and intense. "What in the seven hells was that for?" he demanded, his voice strained with pain and frustration as he struggled to maintain his composure. Elenoir''s response was swift and cutting, her words laced with a fiery intensity that matched her fierce grip on his neck. "Where the hell were you?" she snapped, her eyes ablaze with anger and confusion. "I was... out," he managed to gasp, his breath catching in his throat as he attempted to push her hands away. But his feeble efforts were met with only a tightening of her grip, the pressure around his neck intensifying with each passing moment. "And you left me here alone," she continued, her voice rising with each word, "you know how bored I was?'''' The prince winced, his head swimming with pain as he struggled to maintain his footing. "Fuck it hurts" he pleaded, his voice barely a whisper as he reached out to grasp her hands, desperately trying to ease the pressure on his neck. Surprisingly, Elenoir''s demeanor softened, her fierce gaze giving way to a look of genuine concern. "Does it hurt that much?" she asked, her voice now gentle and soothing as she released her grip on him. ''What''s with her?'' The prince blinked in surprise, his confusion momentarily overshadowing his pain. He tentatively touched his forehead, feeling the persistent throbbing beneath his fingertips. Though there was no blood, the pain was all too real, pulsating with each beat of his heart. He did not answer ,he just kept caressing his forehead. Most of the guests carried on with their revelry, oblivious to his discomfort, while a few keen observers cast furtive glances in his direction, their curiosity piqued by the sudden disturbance. Among them was Elenoir''s father, his sharp eyes scanning the scene with a discerning gaze. His attention shifted from the back of the prince''s head to his daughter''s worried expression, a subtle furrow forming between his brows. "Prince Maesinius," he addressed the prince with a measured tone, prompting Maesinius to turn around with a start. "It seems my daughter has indulged a bit too much this evening. Would you be so kind as to escort her out?" The prince hesitated, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. "But sir, it would hardly be proper for a man to accompany a tipsy maiden-" ''''If you have nothing to said , it would be better if you were to sleep ''''The prince suggested as he started walking towards the door ''''Do you dislike me?'''' She sked with a small and weak voice, the prince turned around in confusion ''''What?'''' ''''I asked you if you dislike me'''' He scractched his head, he was at a loss'''' Why would you think that?'''' As he settled onto the edge of the bed, the prince''s brow furrowed with concern. "I don''t dislike you, Elenoir," he reassured her, his voice softening with sincerity. "It''s just that... there''s much on my mind lately." She studied him with tired eyes, her gaze searching his face for any sign of deception. "You''ve been distant," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper in the quiet room. He sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "I know, and I''m sorry for that," he admitted, his tone heavy with regret. "It''s just... everything that''s been happening is a lot to handle." "Nobody asked you," she interjected sharply He met her gaze, his eyes filled with a mixture of apology and determination. "Yet I feel like it is something I have to do," he responded earnestly. Her expression softened slightly as she continued in a bashful tone , "You know father has been pestering me lately, saying it was time to think of the future. Have you ever thought about it?" "Every day," the prince replied wearily, as if a mountain was on his back . "These next months will be the most important for us. They will decide the fate of tens of thousands." Elenoir regarded him silently for a few moments before sighing and turning away. "Whatever, close the door when you leave," she muttered, her tone dismissive and cold. The prince''s confusion lingered for a moment, but then he offered her a small, understanding smile. "Rest well, Elenoir," he said softly before rising from the bed and exiting the room. As he returned to the bustling feast, the ache in his head began to diminish, yet his heart was heavy for he knew what was to come Chapter 71: Reaching the city(1) Chapter 71: Reaching the city(1) The sun hung high in the sky, its radiant warmth spreading across the land beneath the expansive azure expanse. Not a single cloud dared to dirty the pristine sky above, granting an uninterrupted view of the golden orb that marked the passage of time. If they were still within the confines of the palace, it would have been the hour for supper. But yesterday they had departed from the court that had hosted them for the last moon Alpheo''s gaze wandered to the majestic beast beneath him, he patted it and stroke his head, he always loved animals in general ,dogs , cats, horses each animal had its appeal to him. He had never experienced the thrill of battle on horseback, but the mere thought of charging forward with lance in hand ignited a fervent excitement within him. Riding into the chaos of combat had always been a dream, a distant aspiration fueled by tales of valor and glory. Yet, despite his yearning for such glory, he harbored no illusions about his own martial prowess. He had spent the past half-month diligently training with Egil, honing his skills with sword and shield alongside riding . However, despite his efforts, the result were not promising As the group continued their journey, Egil''s impatience seemed to grow with each passing moment. He leaned back on his horse, his eyes narrowing with frustration as he addressed Anzalos, the guide. "Are we close?" he asked, his voice laced with irritation. Anzalos merely bowed his head, offering the same vague response he had given for the past few hours: "They were close." Egil''s impatience boiled over, his frustration evident in his tone. "Do we even know if he speaks our language? He''s been parroting the same words since he joined us," he grumbled, shooting a pointed glance at Anzalos. Jarza, ever the voice of reason, interjected with a sigh. "And you''ve been asking the same questions and complaining incessantly. ''How long until we reach there? Why did we have to depart from court?'' There''s only so much a man can take, Egil.And you have been poking at our limits for a long time " Egil''s retort was swift, his words dripping with sarcasm. "You say this because there wasn''t anyone to warm your bed during our stay.In the palace or out it''s the same for you. Did you see the maids as we left? Some of them were crying as their legs were shaking. When a lady comes riding with me, she aches in the leg for a whole month. Anyone that comes to me knows it''s a one-way road. Did anyone cry for you?" Jarza''s jaw tightened as he fought to keep his temper in check. "No," he replied through clenched teeth. ''''About time'''' Laedio commented as he stretched his back ''''Thought we would reach it by evening , if we continued like this'''' He stopped to gaze at the city wall ''''Pretty small, aren''t they?'''' He said referring to the stone wall, that could have been not higher than 6 meters. ''''We will have to make do'''' Clio interjected as he opened his canteen and took a sip of water, before turning to ''''Excited for your first mission on command boss?'''' ''''Not really...'''' Alpheo commented as he gazed at the city ''''This will be the first of many,no use getting all riled up for something so small.Though I certainly will not take pleasure to break the news to the commander'''' A small chuckle came out from Laedio''s mouth as he cleared his throat ''''By the decree of prince Arkawattm of House Heroin , you are hereby called to step down from your positions and lick down on the dirt that the great captain Alpheo will shit and piss into''''He said in an overly serious tone , that caused the group to laugh, even Jarza gave a small smirk at the spectacle. ''''All right guys, take out your serious faces, and also try not to laugh by what you''ll see.'''' Alpheo warned as he rode ahead towards the city. The city wall rose finally before them, its imposing form stretching along the horizon. Made of sturdy stone, the wall stood approximately eight meters in height, its surface weathered by the passage of time and countless seasons. Moss and ivy clung to its surface, adding a touch of green to the otherwise gray expanse. ''Bloody hell it looks like its'' ready to fall by the slightest of breeze'' Alpheo thought as he rode forward Upon the wall, men of the garrison patrolled diligently, their figures silhouetted against the sky. Clad in chainmail, at least most of them, and armed with spears they kept watch over the city. One of them, positioned atop the wall, scanned the horizon with a practiced eye. As the figures of six hundred men drew nearer, the sentinel''s initial tension eased upon catching sight of a familiar banner fluttering in the breeze. High atop the weathered stone wall, the sentinel''s voice rang out with authority, echoing across the barren landscape as he peered down at the approaching figure. "Who are you?" he bellowed With a determined expression, Alpheo cleared his throat before addressing the sentinel . ''Alright, let''s do this,'' he then declared, his voice carrying with it a sense of authority built by the ruler of these lands . "We are reinforcements sent by his grace to garrison the city of Aracina," he announced, holding aloft a parchment adorned with the royal seal. "This is a royal decree, written and signed by his grace''s own hand. I call for the captain of the city to descend and be informed of the decree bestowed upon us by his grace." As the words hung in the air, the sentinel on the wall furrowed his brow, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features before he shouted a command for the men below to wait as he went to call for the commander himself. Chapter 72: Reaching the city(2) Chapter 72: Reaching the city(2) As the moments stretched into minutes, tension began to mount among the small group gathered at the city gates. "He is taking quite the long time," Asag muttered, his voice barely audible, almost like a whisper carried on the wind. Egil, seemingly disinterested in the proceedings, absentmindedly shifted his attention to his horse, his thoughts wandering away from the conversation at hand. "Maybe we''ve caught him at a bad time. Should we return later?" he suggested idly, his tone lacking conviction. "Do you think it will come to a siege?" Asag inquired to Alpheo , his voice betraying a hint of concern, the walls hardly seemed to lessen the fright . Alpheo nodded in response, his expression serious "Yes, I do. This is the only obstacle preventing the prince of Oizen from laying siege to Yarzat. It''s almost certain that they will come.We will probably face hell in the upcoming weeks " Pondering the situation further, Asag voiced his thoughts aloud. "Still...what took them to start a campaign two months before winter. They''ll find little food to forage, and will be completely reliant on supplies from home..." "It''s hardly a concern for them," Alpheo replied with a knowing smile, his eyes scanning the horizon beyond the city walls. "Beyond the city lies land controlled by the principality of Oizen. They won''t have to worry about interference with their supply routes, they will find their food untouched each time they open each cart." "But why?" His smile widened "Take a guess. We have some time to spare before the guard''s commander blesses us with his presence.This is for all of you, small question: why do you think the prince decided to start a campaign so early?" Egil scratched his head in contemplation, his brow furrowed with thought. "Maybe he has an informer inside," he suggested, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "Someone reassuring him that the gate will open during the night, or that a tower will turn a blind eye as the ladders come forth?" Alpheo nodded, acknowledging the possibility. "That could be a reason," he agreed, his tone thoughtful. "Many great cities have fallen from within, manipulated by traitors and spies. But it''s not quite convincing as the sole explanation." Shrugging, Egil admitted defeat. "I''m out of ideas." Alpheo turned to the others, inviting their input. "Anyone else?" From within the city walls emerged a lone figure on horseback, his silhouette outlined against the fading light. Behind him, three men followed closely, their expressions stern and watchful. The leader rode with purpose, his posture erect and his gaze fixed ahead. His neck-long black hair hung loose around his shoulders, tousled by the wind that swept through the open passage. His visage was rough, weathered by years spent under the sun and wind, with lines etched around his eyes and mouth that spoke of a life lived hard and earnestly. Bushy eyebrows arched over sharp eyes, giving him a perpetually quizzical expression, as if he were forever pondering some unseen puzzle. His full beard, much like his hair, was untamed and unruly, adding to his rugged countenance. "About time," Alpheo remarked as he urged his horse forward, holding the royal decree aloft. "With whom do I have the honor of speaking?" The man, his rough visage weathered by the sun and wind, scrutinized Alpheo from head to toe before responding, "I am Captain Fahil, head of the city''s defense in Aracina." Not anymore, Alpheo thought as he stretched his neck, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "My name is Captain Alpheo, leader of the mercenary company before you, and by royal decree, the new head of defense for the city of Aracina. Pleased to make your acquaintance today." Captain Fahil''s eyes widened momentarily before he reached out to snatch the parchment from Alpheo''s outstretched hand. "It''s all yours," Alpheo quipped with a smirk. The men surrounding Fahil began to murmur, their expressions shifting from curiosity to confusion, then to disbelief and, for some, anger. "Giving my position to a lowly mercenary and a youngster?" Fahil spat out each word like venom''''This is madness at its greatest extent !'''' Alpheo met Fahil''s gaze with a steady stare, unfazed by the captain''s hostility. "Yes, you''ve got the gist of it. But you forgot to mention that I lead 600 men, while you barely command 100. So, yes, from now on, you shall step down, if not by the words of your price, by might alone . Don''t worry; it won''t last long. At the end of the war, you''ll regain your comfortable position. For now, follow me. We have much to discuss about the city''s defense and its current state.Most of them are critics by the way "He said with a cheeky smile With that, Alpheo spurred his horse forward, not bothering to wait for Fahil''s response. Chapter 73: Preparations (1) Chapter 73: Preparations (1) It was a small and cozy room illuminated only by a small window on a wall, and few half-consumned candles atop the wooden desk. ''My new work-room'' Alpheo mused as he made himself comfortable on the chair. He leaned back as he put his boots on top of the desk, he was currently waiting for somebody to arrive, there was much work to do and little time to waste. As he waited for Captain Fahil , Alpheo found himself trying to kill time so he in the meantime decided to take better care of himself.Taking out the dagger , he started cleansing his nails, perching off the piece of dirts inside.It was not very effective, but at least he gave him something to do as he waited. As time went on and on , Alpheo went looking around the room , there were few parchments inside the desk with some writings. ''I will have to pay someone to tutor me and the rest, we need to learn how to read and write as soon as possible'' he put his hand on his forehead as the fact that he could not read bothered him deeply . His throat became dry, he rose as he walked towards one of the furnitures in the room.There were some cups and bottles of what seemed like wine.He took the bottle opened it and smelled it. ''Yep wine'' he thought as he went to tilt the liquid inside the cup, before sipping from it . ''Maybe I will make that boy be my cup bearer, I have to find something for him to do''. It must have been less than a week since he took the boy in , yet he quickly grew on him.He was clumsy and funny to look at and most improtantly he was eager to learn, somethign that he very much appreciated. If there was something he noticed , was that the company lacked actual commanders and administrators. And Alpheo had half a thought to teach the boy how to do moltiplications and simple algebra, and make him account for the expense of the band alongside the miscelleanous works. The people he had given the jobs to, proved to be clumsy at best, horrible at worst, so he had to find a solution to it.Which was easier said than done, as mathematics and writings were usually only teached , for the low-class, either by rich artisans or merchants, and most preferred not to have their sons lowered to work in mercenary bands as accountants. The door creaked open, breaking the silence of Alpheo''s temporary workspace. His eyes narrowed slightly as he observed the man who entered, clearly displeased by the interruption. "Is it not customary to knock before entering?" he questioned, his tone firm. "Not when entering one''s own room," Fahil retorted, his voice carrying a deep, rumbling growl. Alpheo''s gaze remained steady, unfazed by Fahil''s imposing presence. "This room shall temporarily be mine, so please, next time knock before entering," he replied calmly, though his words carried a hint of steel. Alpheo chuckled, shaking his head. "No, I will ensure that this small town is able to repel whatever is thrown at it and hold steady until your prince comes to help. There is much to be done. If you have no more questions, I would like to be left alone to start my work," he replied, dismissing Fahil with a wave of his hand. Fahil grunted in response, turning on his heel and exiting the room without another word.As soon as he left the other, that were waiting outside as per order of Alpheo, entered the room. "Pretty small," Egil remarked quietly, his eyes lingering on the cup in Alpheo''s hand. Alpheo shrugged nonchalantly. "I''m not a big man. This will do," he replied absentmindedly as he settled back into his chair. "I have a job for each of you." "Well, it''s time we get to work. I don''t want this to be my grave," Laedio remarked, scratching the back of his neck with a hint of nervous energy. "Truer words were never spoken," Alpheo mused, his gaze shifting to meet Egil''s. "Alright, first job is yours. I want you to take every rider we have. Your job will be to travel through the countryside and gather as many people as you can within these walls. Tell them that enemies will be coming and to seek refuge here. We will be in need of as many arms as we can muster. The state of this city is abysmal,there are many works to be done and most of the refugees will be made to be either workers or guards" he explained, taking a sip of wine before continuing. "If you don''t have any questions, please proceed with your mission." ''''Will the food be enough?'''' Egil asked at the thought of bringing thousands inside the walls Alpheo gave a chuckle ''''The last thing we need to worry about is the food.If we die it will be for the steel of the enemy not for a lack of bread, supplies may dwindle but this will be a problem that the prince will face after the war.'''' "Alright you do you Alph, at least I get to ride. I don''t like sitting around too much, this beautiful butt here was made for the saddle" Egil replied with a grin as he slapped his ass before exiting the room to carry out his assignment. ''''He could have omitted the last part'''' He sighed as he sipped his wine before turning to the other as there were many jobs they needed to do, if they wanted to give the city an actual shot at standing against a siege. Chapter 74: Preparations(2) Chapter 74: Preparations(2) "I''ve been thinking about the range of jobs we need to finish before the enemy arrives. We have much to do, so let''s get down to it," Alpheo declared, finishing the cup of wine and fixing his gaze on the group. "Now, the first thing we have to change is the layout of the city. Tell me, what''s the easiest and most effective way to prepare for a siege?" "Hoarding food and manning the walls?" Laedio offered promptly. "Exactly, but there''s more to it," Alpheo acknowledged. "You build them in front of a city. They''re easier to construct and bothersome to deal with. What is it?" The group exchanged glances, silently deliberating. It was Jarza, among them, who had the most experience with warfare and sieges, who spoke up. "Moats." "Exactly. I see someone''s dealt with one or two sieges before," Alpheo remarked with a nod.''''THose would certainly be stories I hope you will share with us. Now returning to the topic Moats are easy to dig. You can hoard as many as you want, and if the enemy wants to have a chance at assaulting the city, he first needs to fill up a path with dirt or wood." Turning to Clio, he continued, "You are in luck, this job is yours. Take as many men as you need and have them build moats around the city. Now, if you see the men finishing the moat, I want you to build another, and on top of it, another. If you see the laborers stopping to take a breath, you whip them and tell them to dig moats. And if by the end, you fill the whole country with moats, you know what you have to do?" "Build another moat?" Clio ventured, sounding somewhat perplexed. "Exactly. You build another moat, yes. You can never have enough of them," Alpheo affirmed, sipping from his refilled cup. "You can start working from now. Remember, the more you build, the better it is.As for the workers promise them three full meal per working day " With a nod and a smile , Clio exited the room, prepared to undertake the task . "Now, I have three other great jobs for three great men," Alpheo announced, taking another sip of wine. He glanced around the room before addressing Laedio, a tall and bald man. "Laedio, I want you to gather some men and go around the city demolishing whatever you can dismantle. We need debris to throw down the walls. Also, send some men to the nearby forest to chop trees into throwable pieces." Laedio''s grin widened at the task. "You''re not worried about the damage?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice ''''I believe the forest is property of the king '''' "You sure about that?" Asag questioned, his brow furrowing in thought. "It''s a possibility," Alpheo affirmed. "He was demoted, albeit temporarily, and denied further advancements. For some men, climbing the ranks is everything... Honestly, I don''t want to have our backs exposed to someone who could stab us in the back. Men have betrayed for far less, and if the enemy prince offers a noble title and a fief to whoever opens the gate, I fear our city will be swarming with traitors." "And where do I come in all of this?" Asag asked, taking a seat and leaning in attentively. "I need someone discreet and patient for this task," Alpheo explained, taking another sip from his cup. "And honestly, among the group, you''re the only one I can think of who could handle it." "Just tell me what I need to do," Asag replied, his resolve evident in his tone. "I want you to observe him," Alpheo instructed, his gaze unwavering. "Keep an eye on Fahil, note who enters his room, and position men around the walls to inform you of his movements. If he leaves the city, don''t have them follow him¡ªjust report to me the time and frequency of his departures. We don''t want him to suspect anything. Clio''s mention of a possible informant has resonated with me deeply." Asag observed Alpheo silently, his expression betraying a bit of fear . "I will do my best, but I won''t promise anything," he finally stated. "It''s alright," Alpheo reassured him with a nod. "I cannot expect you to do a perfect job.Just make sure to have the men be loyal to us and have them report to you daily. If he goes out of the city, I want to be the first to know it," Alpheo instructed, his tone serious as he emphasized the importance of the task. "If there''s nothing else, I''ll go then," Asag said, preparing to depart. Alpheo remained silent, offering only a nod in response as he watched Asag leave the room. Once alone, he reclined in his chair, his thoughts lingering on what to do for the impending siege. With a sigh, he took another sip of his wine, thinking about the fact that the wine of others always taste better.Get the latest novels at novelhall.com Chapter 75: Preparation(3) Chapter 75: Preparation(3) ''''As you can see everything is proceeding smoothly'''' Jarza spoke to Alpheo as he walked on top of the wall and surveyed the outlay of the city.The scene below was one of chaos , albeit a controlled one . Men, women, and even children worked together. For as Alpheo said ''If it got arms and it breath, then give it a shovel and make him dig'' . And sure enough they dug without pause , their muscles straining against the weight of the soil as they excavated the trench. With each scoop, dirt cascaded down into the growing mound beside them, gradually forming a barrier around the city.Honestly moat were the perfect instrument to make the enemy waste time and men to fill them.They were easy to make and important to have, after all if an enemy wanted to get over the moat , they had to fill a path with dirt, else siege engines won''t get pass them . Alpheo observed the scene with satisfaction . The work was progressing smoothly, just as Jarza had said. Alpheo listened intently to Jarza''s report, his gaze drifting across the city as he absorbed the information. "What about your task?" Alpheo inquired, his tone measured as he turned to his companion. "I did what I could do.Just as I had said before we encountered problems," Jarza replied, "The slingers have no problem launching projectiles if given enough distance and space around , but as the enemy approaches, their effectiveness diminishes.The walls get on the way of their sling and they get trouble to give their stones enough force" Alpheo nodded thoughtfully, acknowledging the limitations of their defenses. "Still, the more men we have atop the walls, the better our chances," he remarked "How are our men faring?" he then asked, shifting his focus to the state of their forces. "Most of them are content," Jarza reported, his expression stoic. "They''ve been provided with enough coin to pass the night whoring, though some still grumble about not being able to raid. Albeit the civilians are starting to dislike them , many of our men forcefully get discount from their tabs in taverns, always if they pay at all'''' Alpheo''s lips curled into a dismissive smirk at the mention of their people''s discontent. "Let them grumble," he said nonchalantly. "Soon enough, they''ll be fighting for the sake of this city, and this is the least they can do to repay us." Jarza nodded in agreement, echoing Alpheo''s sentiment. ''They''re subjects of Arkwatt, not mine,'' he mused ''Why should we lose sleep over them?'' The prince had knowingly condemned the people of Aracina to their fate when he sent them here, and Alpheo saw no reason to dwell on the consequences. They had a city to defend, and sacrifices would need to be made to ensure its survival. Alpheo intervened before the tension could escalate further. "What''s the issue, Agalasios? Speak your piece." Agalasios straightened up, his face reddening with embarrassment. "We''re in dire need of more bandages," he confessed, his tone pleading. "And the manpower we have is insufficient to handle the influx of wounded we''ll likely face during the siege." Alpheo considered the request for a moment before responding. "Tell the women who assist with the wounded that they''ll receive an extra half-portion of rations during the siege," he instructed Jarza. "As for bandages, make do with what we have. If necessary, tear up old clothing and boil them to sterilize. Do we have enough pots for boiling water?" "Yes, captain, we do," Agalosios replied, his fat chin jiggling as he nodded in affirmation. He wasn''t originally a member of the band; instead, he hailed from Retoriel, a small city nestled between the princedom of Yarzat and the empire. Once a butcher by trade, circumstances had forced him into the role of a medic. Not that the medics of this world were any different from butchers in Agalosios''s eyes. He had been destitute and unemployed when Alpheo recruited him, recognizing the need for someone to tend to the wounded. ''''Is it any good to waste so much water though?'''' Agalosios asked in a unsure tone ''''When the wounded start to come , and you see that applying my methods before closing the wounds , then you will see how the rate of deaths will go down greatly''''As he said so his eyes moved to Agalosios and inquired in a brusque tone "Is there anything else?" "Yes, well, captain, you see," Agalosios began, his expression tense with concern. "Apparently, during our stay, some of the refugees you brought in attempted to enter the tents to steal medical supplies, thinking they could make a fortune. If this happened during the siege, it could be a disaster. What if instead of a thief, it was an arsonist?" Agalosios words were true, as in this time medicines costed a lot , and if one stole a case of them , they could make a pretty good fortune , always if they were able to find a customer to sell them to. Alpheo cut him off before he could finish. "You need more guards?" "If it could be possible," Agalosios confirmed. "Very well," Alpheo conceded with a sigh. "Jarza, assign twenty more men to patrol the perimeter. If Agalosios needs more, give it to him." "That would be everything, captain," Agalosios said gratefully. "Thank you for your time." "Make sure to do a good job," Alpheo reminded him, his tone firm. "Train the nurses well with what I''ve taught you. You are as important as any soldier under my command. Make sure not to slack off." With those words, Alpheo departed from the tent, leaving Agalosios to carry out his duties . Chapter 76: arrival of the enemy(1) Chapter 76: arrival of the enemy(1) ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª "So, what do you have to report?" Alpheo inquired, his nostrils flaring as he sniffed the drink before taking a sip. The warm sensation spread through his throat and stomach, but it lacked the strength of the spirits from his past life. "I need to make spirits as soon as possible," he grimaced, longing for the potent drinks he once enjoyed. Seated across the room, Asag shifted nervously. This was his first assignment, and despite the diminishing anxiety, a sense of unease lingered. In his faint voice, Asag replied to Alpheo''s question, "I have watched him until now, and there is nothing significant to report. He spends most of his time in his room when he''s not training his men. He rarely leaves the room except to grab a drink or two, sometimes with company, prostitutes." "Hardly compromising," Alpheo mused, swirling the liquid in his cup. "Death is blind and will come to all. It''s normal for him to seek pleasure. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? What about when he leaves the room? Has he ever left the city?" "Not once," Asag confirmed. "As I said, the times he leaves, he gets a drink and a meal before retiring to his room.Hardly suspicious.... The individuals who entered his room mostly wore capes, but my observers noted they were different women each time. When they left, they returned to..." Asag gestured with his hand in a circular motion, "...their place of work." "So, from what you''ve seen, there''s nothing to feed our suspicions about him?" Alpheo probed, his gaze fixed on Asag. "None at all..." Asag replied, his voice trailing off. He teached Clio, Laedio and Asag about tactics, on how to lead men , on the formation to they were to make their men form. Yet he knew that what they needed was experience.Most of his men were green, they needed to bloody themselves.After all seeing hundredds of people clashing if scary as hell,so he treated this siege as an opportunity to get them desensitized of blood. After all fighting while being on top of the wall is a great boost in confidence. Jarza turned to Clio, his gaze neutral yet perceptive. "This isn''t my first rodeo," he remarked with a hint of amusement. "I''ve seen my fair share of battles and sieges. And let me tell you, our position is rather favorable. We have ample food and manpower to defend these walls." He then turned his attention to Alpheo, a rare smile gracing his lips. "You''ve handled the situation admirably," he admitted. "I would hardly believe this is your first time defending a city under siege You are as young as a pup, yet you possess the knowledge and skills of a seasoned warrior," Jarza remarked, his tone laced with curiosity. "Are you a noble? You seem to have been educated." The question stirred something within the group, each member exchanging glances as they awaited Alpheo''s response. His origins had always been a subject of speculation among them, his actions often contradicting the humble beginnings he claimed. Alpheo met their gaze with a calm demeanor, his expression unreadable. "You always overthink things, Jarza," he replied evenly. "What I''ve said about my origins is the truth. If I were a noble, would I not know how to read and write? And above all, would I be a slave?If I was liability I would be killed not shipped off as an object " His words struck a chord with the group, prompting a moment of contemplation. Egil voiced his uncertainty, acknowledging the possibility of overthinking the matter. Jarza, too, conceded to the logic in Alpheo''s explanation, his doubts fading slightly. "As for my skills," Alpheo continued, his tone casual yet confident, "perhaps they are a gift from the gods. Some men are born to lead, regardless of their origins." With a shrug, he redirected their focus. "Now, if we''ve concluded our interrogation, we have a city to protect." With a deep breath, Alpheo''s carefree expression melted away, replaced by one of seriousness, as this was to be his first contact with leading people in an actual war. The wind blew , the air was heavy with the exhale of hundreds men , and soon the rumble of war would come to them,and fate would decide if they were to dance on their tune , or to make a song of their own . Chapter 77: Arrival of the enemy(2) Chapter 77: Arrival of the enemy(2) The wind rose through Alpheo''s fingers, a chilling sensation spreading through them like icy tendrils. He raised his gaze, feeling the cool breeze ruffle his hair and tug at the folds of his clothing. The air was crisp and biting, carrying with it the feeling of death. As he lowered his eyes, he noticed his fingers beginning to tremble involuntarily. With a firm resolve, he clenched his fists, willing the tremors to cease. The last thing a leader needed to do was to show fear, especially now, with the fate of the city being unknown. Before him, beyond the stone walls that encircled the city, lay the enemy. The army of the Prince of Oizen stretched out in disciplined ranks. Alpheo''s eyes traced the movements of their heralds, fluttering defiantly in the wind,the biggest and tallest of which carried the colors and symbols of House Oizen. The flag of House Oizen, proudly displayed atop a towering standard, caught the sunlight and billowed majestically against the backdrop of the azure sky. Its design was simple yet commanding: a white shield adorned with vertically striped black bands. Alpheo spared it just a brief gaze before moving on. Each soldier stood tall and resolute, their armor glinting in the sunlight as they marched in perfect formation. The rhythmic beat of their boots echoed across the plain, a steady drumming that resonated with unwavering determination. The soldiers themselves comprised a motley assembly, drawn from the diverse regions and backgrounds of their princedom. Clad in a mishmash of armor and wielding an assortment of weapons, they presented a ragtag image of a hastily assembled force. Most were armed with little more than a simple lance and shield, their defenses augmented by makeshift breastplates fashioned from strips of wood. Chainmail was a luxury afforded to only a fraction of their number, leaving the majority vulnerable to the rigors of battle. Clio, a fisherman thrust into the role of a defender, swallowed hard at the sight of the enemy host. Alpheo understood the man''s trepidation and knew he needed to project an image of control and confidence. Gesturing ahead, he directed Clio''s attention to the trenches that had consumed days of labor. "See those ditches I made you waste days digging?" he asked, his voice firm. "Those are what will separate us from leisurely waiting for them to come and facing them head-on as they throw lives at our walls. If they even want to entertain the idea of assaulting the walls, they''ll first have to clear a path or use ladders.'''' He chuckled ''''And if they dare use the latter- Gods help the fools , for they''ll find themselves dropping dead before they even reach us." Clio remained silent, though Alpheo noted a subtle shift in his demeanor. The transformation was slight, but significant. Alpheo recognized the need to bolster the man''s courage, to ensure that he would not falter when the time came, he was short of men already, he did not need cravens in his ranks . With a determined gleam in his eye, Alpheo resolved to provide Clio with a baptism of fire and blead , placing him on the front lines of the defense where he would learn to stand firm when sorrounded by blood and death. Alpheo surveyed the enemy army sprawled out before the city, his gaze sharp and calculating. "From what I can see, the enemy has no siege engines, no catapults, and no ballistae," he remarked to his men. "That means we won''t be hearing stones smashing against our walls day and night. Although it would have been nice if we could have seized one," he added in a lower tone, a hint of regret tainting his words. Turning his attention back to his men, Alpheo issued his orders with authority. "Each of you has been assigned a specific task. Get into position and ensure that our archers never run out of arrows, our slingers always have stones, and our men never lack projectiles to hurl at the enemy''s head. If we''re lucky, sickness may spread among their ranks and cripple them." Egil, ever the skeptic, voiced his concerns. "Couldn''t the same thing happen to us?" Alpheo considered the question carefully before responding. "Unlikely, if you all follow the instructions I''ve given regarding hygiene. You''ve seen the results firsthand¡ªnone of us have fallen ill, thanks to regular washing and proper care during our long march out of slavery . But I understand the risk posed by those inside the city who may not adhere to our instructions." With a thoughtful nod, Alpheo formulated a solution. "When distributing the daily rations, ensure that everyone washes their hands before eating. It''s a small measure, but it could make a difference. Now, everyone to their posts. The enemy will attempt to fill the moats, so I want our slingers raining down stones on them. Use the stones but conserve the arrows; we''ll need them." With that, he turned away, his mind already racing with plans to defend the city to the best of their abilities. Chapter 78: Parlay Chapter 78: Parlay The air was heavy , not because of the smoke from the enemy camp or because the cool winds from autumn were about to leave their last caress before winter took over.It was the tense nerves of both sides that caused the air to be still. All understood all too well that a bloodbath was inevitable. Alpheo harbored no illusions about the significance of the forthcoming parlay; he entertained no hope that any meaningful resolution would be reached. His decision to participate had been born of curiosity rather than expectation¡ªa desire to ascertain what, if anything, might transpire. Alpheo was no fool; he understood the stakes all too well. He had no intention of allowing the emissaries sent by the enemy prince entry into the city, where they might spread falsehoods about the generous rewards awaiting those who would betray their own. And so for this reason the meeting was convened in front of the gate, where archers stood vigilant atop the walls, arrows already nocked and ready in case they tried anything shady. The Empire of Rolmia and the principalities in the south shared many commonalities: language, religion, and trade routes. Geographically close, such cultural exchanges were to be expected. However, despite these similarities, there were notable differences. Before Rolmia ascended to the status of empire, its culture bore striking resemblance to that of the princedoms. Yet, as the empire expanded through conquest, elements of the conquered territories began to permeate the conqueror''s culture. In the past, messengers were revered as sacred, protected by both divine and secular law from harm. However, as the empire grew in strength and the civil war grew more brutal, messengers became associated with one faction or another. When they delivered unwelcome news to their foes, they risked facing retribution. Unlike the Rolmians, the princes clung steadfastly to their ancestral customs, revering messengers as sacrosanct and untouchable. To harm them was to invite the wrath of both gods and men. Still Alpheo was not of the south, so he had no interest in leaving his well-being over the shield of custom . ''''Good morning ''''Alpheo declared with a smile as behind him, rows of archers raised their bows and aimed at the man on horseback. The envoy held up a hand, a gesture of peace, and called out, his voice carrying over the distance between them. "I come as an envoy, seeking parlay.I am not man seeking to give harm , but tasked as emissary" he declared, his words echoing against the stone walls. Alpheo''s mocking smile widened at the envoy''s words, "Your safety is assured as long as you don''t try anything funny" he replied, his tone calm yet resolute. "Know this: the reason you still draw breath is because I allow it, so I suggest for you to go on quickly about your business before I give the order for my men to make a hedgehog out of you." "It''s that of the free company I lead," Alpheo explained. "I have been employed by his grace Arkawatt of house Heroine to defend the city, a task which I am very much obliged to accomplish. Perhaps after your grace''s men fall beneath these walls, and my contract ends, more opportunities will flourish between us. But until then, we are enemies. We will not yield the city. If your liege desires it, he shall earn it by conquest." The messenger sighed, his resolve faltering. "I see we have nothing more to talk about then," he conceded. Alpheo remained silent, his expression impassive as he nodded in acknowledgment. "I bid you farewell then, mercenary," the messenger said "This city shall be your tomb." "Or maybe it will be yours," Alpheo replied, his tone defiant. "I look forward to seeing your men fall. Farewell, emissary," he concluded, turning his horse and trotting back into the city with a smile on his lips. As soon as Alpheo passed through the gate, his smile faded, replaced by a stern expression. He turned to Jarza with a sense of urgency in his voice. "Double the slingers on the front gate," he commanded, his tone firm. "They will try to fill the moat as soon as possible, and I want stones to rain down on their heads. Do not worry about conserving stones. We have plenty in stores, and if even one more man falls during the works, it will be an advantage for us." Jarza nodded in understanding, his gaze shifting toward the gate they had just passed through before turning back to Alpheo. "Still, won''t the enemy simply forcefully recruit peasants to do the work?" he queried, his brow furrowing in concern. "It''s precisely why Alph sent me to collect those wastes " Egil interjected. "Even if they try to force peasants to work, they''ll find barren fields and no peasants to coerce into doing their dirty work. If they want the moats filled, they''ll have to use their own men." Jarza''s hand met his palm with a resounding slap of realization. "Ah, that explains why you''ve allowed so much dead weight to waste our food stores!" he exclaimed. "You thought I did it out of pity?" Alpheo retorted with a sardonic smile. "They are not my people, and I couldn''t care less if they were to starve or be hanged. As long as the enemy dies, I would gladly impale the lot of them," he declared in a neutral tone. "Come on now! Everyone has a task," Alpheo continued, rallying his companions. "We shall reconvene this evening for supper in my room. It has been too long since we shared a meal together," he added with a hint of nostalgia in his voice, as he wondered when would be the next time they would feel such peace... Chapter 79: Good news Chapter 79: Good news The tent was as big as an entire house,its fabric fluttering from the wind. Inside, rows of makeshift beds crafted from hay and covered with threadbare blankets lined the space, . Physicists and nurses after dealing with the low numbers of wounded , found themselves with time to waste. It had been four days since the enemy army arrived, and the cunning gift Alpheo had left for them which deprived them of any cannon fodder , had surely raised the ire of their leadership. The progress on filling the moat to breach the city''s defenses had been slow, hindered by the relentless barrage of stones hurled by the defenders. Every attempt by the enemy workers to approach the moat with sacks of dirt on their backs was met with a rain of projectiles, causing casualties to mount and forcing the enemy prince to reconsider his tactics.In the end he decided to build wooden fence to protect the workers from stones . Alpheo, ever vigilant, seized every opportunity to disrupt the enemy''s plans. Regular sorties were launched from the safety of the city gates, with small bands of two hundred men venturing out to engage the workers. Armed with little more than shovels and hammers, the enemy laborers stood little chance against the trained fighters of the city,out they went and in the return. And each time the enemy''s efforts to fill the moat were continually thwarted. As a result, despite the looming threat of siege, the defenders found themselves enjoying a relative peace within the city walls. With the enemy''s progress stymied and their own defenses holding strong, even the officers and higher-ranking men had found themselves with idle hands. ''''How are my men?'''' Alpheo asked in a loud voice as he walked inside the medical tent , causing the wounded men inside to cheer at their captain. He was not one to idly stand by when there was work to be done, and so he made it a point to visit the injured soldiers, seeking to bolster their spirits and raise morale among the troops, since there was nothing else to do. Despite the grim circumstances, the atmosphere in the tent was surprisingly upbeat, with the wounded soldiers engaged in conversation and occasional attempts at flirtation with the attending nurses. Fortunately, the number of casualties was relatively low, no more than thirty, all sustained during the recent sortie. For every one of their own men injured, at least three of the enemy lay dead. The more they attacked however the more the prince increased the number of troops standing on guards , which caused Alpheo to reduce the frequency of sorties , opting instead to focus on hurling stones and arrows from the safety of the city walls. The wounded soldiers received attentive care from the physicians and nurses, their injuries tended to with meticulous care. Bandages were washed and boiled, wounds disinfected with a mixture of boiled wine and vinegar. While these measures significantly reduced the risk of infection, there remained a lingering possibility, albeit minimized, due to the limitations of available resources. Alpheo had considered the use of honey for its antibacterial properties, but its cost proved impossible to mantain leaving them to rely on more economical alternatives such as vinegar, wine, and boiled water. ''''We are doing fine Captain!'''' One of the men shouted back with a bandage in his shoulder As he scanned the streets below, he noticed that there were few people out and about. The usually bustling thoroughfares were eerily quiet, the only sound being the occasional whisper of the wind as it swept through the deserted alleyways. Suddenly, movement caught his eye¡ªa flash of blonde hair darting through the shadows. Alpheo furrowed his brows, curious as to why he was running - As the figure drew closer, Alpheo recognized the child running towards him. It was Ratto, his cupbearer who apparently he also made him be his message bearer, as as he run he kept swinging a piece of parchment into his hand Without hesitation, Alpheo began to walk towards him, his footsteps echoing softly against the cobblestones. As Ratto handed Alpheo the letter, the boy''s breath came in short gasps, his anxiety palpable in the air. Alpheo took the missive, his fingers tracing the rough texture of the parchment it was already broken, as he always had missive read by the assistant of the previous captain, a young man called Shahil . ''''What it says?'''' He asked to Ratto as he believed that he should have already been told of his content. After all Alpheo still did not know how to read. A smile slowly spread across the boy''s face ''''News from the capital, the prince is moving with his army and he is coming here'''' With a gentle pat on Ratto''s head,yhe smile on Alpheo''s face widened, the weight of the siege lifting from his shoulders ever so slightly. "It was time he got on the move....still it is a good new, the end of the siege is in sight. We just need to hold out for a few more days, and then we''ll be able to march out of this city.Perhaps I should be sharing the news with the troops they will certainly be happy.''''As he said so he turned to the boy ''''since you are here follow me there are few things I want to show you. ''''As he said so he started moving towards the gate , the air seemed to became lighter as the end of the siege was finally on sight. Chapter 80: See what they are doing? Chapter 80: See what they are doing? The sun hung high in the sky, casting its golden rays down upon the bustling scene below. Despite the morning hour, the work on both sides of the conflict continued unabated, with neither side showing any sign of respite. Upon the city walls, guards stood watch with spears in hand, their eyes trained on the enemy''s efforts to fill the moats below. Meanwhile, slingers stood poised, their projectiles aimed at the workers below, ready to rain down stones upon them with jeers of triumph whenever their aim proved true. idst this scene of activity, Alpheo ascended the stairs of the main gate, emerging onto the wall with purpose in his stride. His gaze swept over the enemy forces below before turning to search for Jarza, his second-in-command. Spotting him leaning against the wall, Alpheo made his way over, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Mind your step," Alpheo advised with a hint of humor as he approached ''''We don''t want one of our commanders to fall down'''' Jarza''s eyes widened momentarily at the sight of Alpheo, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before he composed himself. "I''ll keep that in mind," he replied casually, though there was a subtle note of respect in his tone. "Decided to grace us with your presence, Captain?" he quipped. Alpheo chuckled softly. "You could say that," he replied cryptically, his expression thoughtful as he surveyed the scene before them. Jarza''s gaze shifted to Ratto, who stood nearby, his presence drawing attention. "What''s he doing here?" he inquired, his tone indicating both surprise and curiosity. "He brought me good news," Alpheo explained, a faint smile touching his lips. "And I was getting bored, so I decided to keep him with me." He glanced at Ratto, who shifted uncomfortably under Jarza''s scrutiny. Alpheo reached for the letter in his pocket and handed it to Jarza. "Take a look at this," he said, gesturing toward the parchment. "It''s from a pigeon." Jarza took the letter, his eyes scanning the contents briefly before he looked back at Alpheo with a quizzical expression. "Wow these words really do looks nice" he remarked with a joke. Alpheo snorted a laugh , "It says that the prince is moving toward us with his army," he reported, his voice tinged with a hint of excitement. "And in a few days, he should be arriving here. It seems the siege will be short-lived." "But do you notice something off about their tactics?" Alpheo asked, gesturing towards the men below. Ratto''s brow furrowed as he looked down at the enemy army and then back at Alpheo. "They may be doing something wrong," he admitted with a shake of his head, "but I don''t know what it i'''' "The advantage of being on the defensive is great," Alpheo explained, "you have time to fortify your position, lay traps for the enemy, and prepare the terrain for battle. The attacker, on the other hand, is at a disadvantage. They must march towards the enemy in a position that has been chosen for them. They can try to avoid battle, but that only wastes more supplies so there will be a time when they cannot retreat and they can only go forward. Eventually, they will be forced to make their way forward, regardless of their fighting condition. The only advantage they hold is maneuverability - they get to choose how to fight. And as such, they can plan and anticipate the enemy''s response to their tactics." Ratto remained silent, his eyes fixed on the scene below as Alpheo continued to enlighten him. "Right now, the enemy is focusing their efforts on one section of the moat," Alpheo explained, gesturing towards the workers laboring below. "While this approach may speed up the process of filling the moat, it also limits their flexibility and exposes them to our defenses. By concentrating their forces in one area, they''re essentially making themselves vulnerable , as we can amass all our troops on one point ." Ratto nodded slowly, processing Alpheo''s words. "But why would they take such a risk?'''' Alpheo''s gaze remained fixed on the enemy lines as he pondered the question. "They''re driven by desperation knowing they have wasted a lot of time ," he responded after a moment. "The prince is determined to capture this city, as its fall would greatly enhance his strategic position in the war. However, he''s racing against time, knowing that if he doesn''t succeed before reinforcements arrive, his chances of victory diminish significantly." He then paused, a furrow forming between his brows as he continued, "They likely didn''t anticipate the strength of our defenses, which has disrupted their original plan. Now, they''re doubling down on their efforts to breach the city before it''s too late." Ratto looked at Alpheo then nodded ''''Still, why do you think they thought it would be easy to conquer the city?'''' ''''Well the garrison had low numbers before our arrival.So that''s one reason ''''He answered keeping the other one to himself. Or maybe they had an insider in the city, he thought as he looked back, wondering what were the chances of that and if he were to strike first without proof. Chapter 81: Assault(1) Chapter 81: Assault(1) "MOVE! MOVE! MOVE! ON THE WALL NOW!" Jarza''s voice echoed across the city walls, a command that sent a ripple of urgency through the defenders. Alpheo gazed the scene before him, his eyes taking in the chaos. Men armed with spears and shields rushed to their positions atop the walls, their gazes fixed on the distant enemy forces gathering for the impending assault, some were gulping nervously other were fidgeting in fear. Meanwhile, children and women darted through the city, ferrying arrows and small stones to bolster the defenders'' supplies.The first to be shot and the latter to be thrown. ''This one is to be a brutal day'' , he thought as he eyes the enemey''s formation.The prince of Oizen had constructed battering rams and assembled ladders, clear indications of their intent to breach the city''s defenses. "They will try to assault the walls using the ladders, while battering the gate with their ram," Alpheo mused, his gaze fixed on the enemy formations taking shape in the distance. "And once the gate falls, the city goes with it." Two tense days had passed since they received the letter confirming the enemy''s advance. Now, as the enemy completed their preparations, Alpheo knew they would concentrate their forces on the gate, their primary entry point into the city. Despite this, he remained vigilant, ensuring that all sections of the wall were adequately defended in case of any unexpected maneuvers.The last thing he wanted was for everhting to be a rouse and before they realize the attack was one of the other gate. While most of the defenders manned the walls, Alpheo had allocated two hundred of their forces to serve as reserves, ready to reinforce any weak points as needed and also exchange position with the men on the front once they get tired. Supplies of arrows, stones, and chopped wood were meticulously stocked, ensuring that the defenders had everything they needed to repel the enemy onslaught. With the city bracing for the impending assault, Alpheo knew that every ounce of preparation could make the difference between victory and defeat.Everything had been done and the fate of the city was in the hands of the god.Or at least so most people thought, Alpheo was the exception he didnot know if something existed in the sky or deep in the dirt, but he did not think that the numerous gods of this lands actually existed. "At least it''s not going to rain," Alpheo muttered to himself, his gaze drifting upwards with a hint of relief. He despised the discomfort that rain brought, especially during a tense situation like this. His attention shifted to the other gates, where each of his trusted companions was tasked with a command. Jarza would oversee the defense of the front gate, while Egil and Laedio were stationed at the eastern and western walls, respectively. Asag was in charge of the reinforcement units, ready to move wherever needed. Meanwhile, Clio was given authority over the infantry positioned on a wall adjacent to the gate¡ªa position that offered action without excessive risk, as the enemy would likely use ladders for their assault. ''''SLINGERS'''' Jarza shouted as he raised his hand, and one hundred , man put the stones on their slings and started building the cinetic energy for the throw . There was no order given by the commander, as soon as they thought they were on range, they started to rain down stones. Dozens of stones hurled in the skies, cutting the air with their body. Soon some men fell to the ground, the stones hitting the head of some and the shoulders of others. Confusion rippled through the ranks of the enemy before they realized what was happening. ''''RAISE SHIELDS'''' Officers shouted as they made the motion, copied by their men.The shields given to the man were a cumbersome thing , rectangular shaped and big enough to cover their torso.The men raised them diagonally to their heads, as that was the part of the body they had to protect. The shields, bulky and cumbersome, offered protection against the hail of stones. Officers barked orders, urging their men to advance while shielding themselves from the incoming projectiles. The air filled with the sound of stones colliding with wood -Smash-Smash-Smash- The relentless barrage of stones rained down upon the enemy lines, most deflected by hastily raised shields, but a few finding their mark, inflicting painful wounds upon the unfortunate few who were struck. The cries of the injured pierced the air, their agony serving as a grim reminder of the brutality of war. Yet, despite their suffering, the wounded remained a small minority, their injuries unable to deter the resolve of the advancing army. Alpheo''s gaze remained fixed upon the enemy''s progress, his expression unreadable as he assessed the situation with a cool detachment. While the mass of men moving forward held little interest for him, his attention was drawn to the battering ram steadily advancing towards the city''s defenses. It was this looming threat that occupied his thoughts, the potential breach of their walls a far greater concern than the mere foot soldiers approaching. As the enemy forces closed in on the second moat, Alpheo knew it was time for the archers to shine. With the enemy now within range, both sides unleashed a storm of arrows upon each other. The defenders, positioned high upon the walls, had the advantage of elevation and cover, while the attackers, lacking such protection apart from few wooden shuffles , were sitting ducks and were left vulnerable to the deadly rain of projectiles. Jarza''s archers targeted the advancing infantry, aiming to thin their ranks and disrupt their formation. The narrow path created by the enemy''s makeshift bridge provided a prime opportunity for the defenders to concentrate their fire, picking off their foes with deadly accuracy, as they could not march all at once, . With each volley of arrows, the defenders exacted a toll upon the enemy''s forces that succeded in raising the nerves of the enemy''s army. Chapter 82: Assault(2) Chapter 82: Assault(2) "Eat this, bastards!" A triumphant cry echoed across the wall as an archer''s arrow found its mark, piercing through an enemy''s neck with deadly precision. The satisfaction in the archer''s voice fell in the air as he watched his foe succumb, with the piece of wood sticking out of his throat , drowning in the very essence that gave him life. "More arrows!" Another archer''s urgent plea resonated through the chaos as their dwindling supply threatened to leave them vulnerable. A young boy hurriedly scurried to replenish their stock, but for now, they made do with what they had. Each arrow loosed from their bows found a target, adding to the mounting toll of the enemy''s casualties. Below the walls, the enemy drew ever closer, their advance marked by advanicng presence of ladders held aloft by determined soldiers. Arrows whistled through the air, finding their marks amidst the chaos, while stones crashed against shields and skulls alike. A sudden thud silenced the air as a stone struck an enemy soldier squarely on the temple, felling him without a sound. His vacant eyes stared skyward, an eerie stillness settling over his lifeless form. Yet, in the face of death, his comrades pressed on, another quickly taking his place as they held the laddery as they surged forward with unwavering resolve.He came and went as he never existed, as he never lived, his remains standing on a foreign flee away from loved''s tears. After dozens of such stories, the enemy''s ladders finally reached the walls, dozens ascending in a desperate bid to breach the defenses. But they were met with fierce resistance as defenders armed with maces and lances awaited their ascent. With each step closer to the ramparts, the enemy became ensnared in a deadly trap, where lethal projectiles replaced the rain of arrows, raining down upon them with unrelenting force even before they could see the face of their enemy, and that was even before they reached the top. "Cease your throwing!" bellowed an officer of the Yarlaat mercenary company, his voice slicing through the chaos like a blade. With a pointed gesture, he directed his men''s attention to the ladders ascending the walls. "Aim for those on the ladders!Forget those on the grounds " With a coordinated effort, the defenders adjusted their aim, targeting the precarious footholds of the enemy scaling the walls. Debris, boulders, and chunks of wood hurtled through the air, finding their marks as they came down . The impact sent shockwaves through the ranks of the invaders, toppling those on the front lines and those below, their bodies crashing to the earth below with sickening thuds. Bones shattered, and lives were snuffed out in an instant, as an insect toppled by an heel. For the besieging soldiers, there was no respite, no sanctuary from the relentless onslaught. Forced forward by the menacing blades of their own officers, they teetered on the precipice of death with every step. These were not seasoned warriors hardened by years of combat but ordinary men thrust into the crucible of war, their hands calloused from tending fields now gripping wooden staffs as they tried to make their steps on the wall in a desperate bid for survival. Alpheo, observing the scene with a calculating gaze, sensed that the time for his plan had come. With a grin, he turned to his men and issued a macabre command. "Get hold of the pottery! Let''s roast some meat, boys!" The cheers that erupted from his men echoed across the walls as they eagerly retrieved jars containing fat and oil, their eyes alight with anticipation. "Throw them!" Alpheo''s command rang out, and his men wasted no time in obeying. The jars shattered upon impact, spilling their contents onto the ground below. Confusion flickered across the faces of the enemy soldiers as they beheld the strange substance, their bewilderment cut short as flaming arrows from below ignited the spilled liquid. In an instant, fire erupted from the mix of oil and pig''s fat, amidst the ranks of the enemy, engulfing them in a searing blaze of agony and terror. Men screamed in agony as flames consumed their flesh,other screamed in fear of the same happening to them , panic spreading like wildfire as chaos seized hold of the assault. The meticulously crafted formations of the enemy dissolved into disarray, their discipline crumbling in the face of the inferno unleashed upon them.The discipline that the officer built through their blades shattered as men ran everywhere. With a triumphant smile curling his lips, Alpheo seized his horn and blew a single resounding note that pierced through the clamor of battle. At his signal, the massive gate of the city began to creak open, revealing a small group of ten men waiting only to act . In a swift and coordinated movement, the men dashed forward, their footsteps echoing across the courtyard as they raced towards the burning ram. No man was there to stop them, nor to to protect the ram. With practiced efficiency, they spread the jars of flammable oil and fat across the surface of the siege weapon , coating it in oil and fat . Then, they threw the torches on it , the flames licking hungrily at the soaked wood. As the intense heat radiated from the blazing ram, , the men swiftly retreatedn before the enemy could realise what was happenign , their mission accomplished. Behind them, the heavy gates of the city swung shut with a thunderous clang, sealing off the burning ram within the confines of the outer defenses. Alpheo watched with satisfaction as the flames engulfed the ram, the city would remain in his hand , as he knew that the siege would end as quick as it started. Chapter 83: Rat(1) Chapter 83: Rat(1) "Hey, lad, fill my cup, can''t you see how light it is? Or perhaps your only skill is stealing?" Egil chuckled, lifting his cup and signaling Ratto to refill it. It had been a while since they all enjoyed such a lively dinner together. The tension of battle had dissipated, leaving behind a pleasant weariness, as all the adrenaline gave place to an uneasy sense of peace "Take it easy, now. We don''t know if the enemy decides to have a try during the evening " Jarza cautioned between mouthfuls of meat. He was usually a man of few words, but when he spoke he was always heard "Chaning topic " Clio leaned in, his eyes gleaming with curiosity as he turned toward Egil , "how''s your foot holding up?" With a mischievous glint, he lifted his bandaged foot onto the table. "Good as new," he quipped, earning a collective groan of disgust and a demand from Alpheo to keep it down and avoid disturbing their meal. "You were lucky..." Clio remarked, a note of seriousness in his voice. "If those arrows had been a bit off-target, it might not have been your foot but your neck or shoulder." "Thank the gods for small favors, thank yourself for the big ones " Egil replied with a grin, taking a sip from his cup. "What a day, eh?" he declared, raising his cup in a toast. Nne?w n0vel chapters are published at novelhall.com The others echoed his sentiment, though Alpheo''s was evidently less jumpy . Seeing this , Jarza prodded him, and after some reluctance, Alpheo admitted his concerns. "Their side has been too quiet," he explained. "It''s troubling." "Maybe they''ve realized further assaults would be futile," Egil suggested optimistically, though it was clear he couldn''t shake off his friend''s worries. "They know reinforcements are on the way," Alpheo reasoned. "They wouldn''t risk losing more troops with another failed attempt.From what I know our enemy has been throwing rings around our employer for long enough..." "Then why are you so worried?You''ll get wrinkles if you keep this up'''' Alpheo paused, his expression tense as he considered his response. "Something changed," he finally replied, his voice laced with apprehension. "They are planning something. I can feel it, but I don''t know what it is." He punctuated his words with a loud crunch as he took a bite of bread, his jaw working furiously as he chewed, though it sounded more mechanical than anything . "You''re overthinking it," Clio interjected, attempting to assuage his friend''s concerns. "Maybe I am, maybe I''m not... It''s just a feeling, after all," Alpheo conceded, though the worry still lingered in his eyes. Ratto approached quietly, refilling Alpheo''s cup before unexpectedly addressing him. "What about you?" he asked. "Do you have anything to add or ask? Sometimes the mind of a boy discovers something that old men can''t see." He shook his head in denial Alpheo''s brow furrowed as he considered the implications. "Are you sure it wasn''t just some encounter with a whore?" Asag''s response was firm. "It was a male figure, and unless he''s a sword-swallower, then yes, I''m sure." The others looked in confusion at the exchange , though they kept silent. Alpheo took a moment to collect his thoughts, closing his eyes briefly before addressing the group. "Ratto, please fetch another chair. We''ll have a guest joining us shortly." Without hesitation, Ratto hurried from the room to fulfill Alpheo''s request. Meanwhile, Alpheo turned his attention back to Asag. "Tell Fahil to join us for a meal. Tell him I need his counsel on certain matters. Bring some men with you, but keep them outside. If he refuses to comply, have them enter and rough him up on the edges ." "As you wish," Asag nodded, rising from his seat to carry out Alpheo''s instructions. However, before he could leave, Alpheo halted him with a raised hand. "But before that, there''s something I need you to prepare," Alpheo added. The room fell silent for two long hours before the heavy wooden door swung open once more, breaking the tense stillness with a loud creak. Asag strode into the room, his dark expression unreadable as he led their guest, Fahil, through the doorway. The newcomer''s posture was rigid as he surveyed each man sitting at the table, guided by Asag to his designated seat. "I have been told we would be discussing matters about the city," Fahil said in a low voice "You have been told correctly," Alpheo replied smoothly, taking a sip from his cup before continuing. "In a few days, your prince will be arriving to relieve the city and we can all go our separate ways. Normally, I would be more than happy for that... if it weren''t for something that has just come to my attention." "What is it?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady and posture upright . "Well, it appears , but take this with a pinch of salt.... that our enemy is planning an attack on the city tomorrow," Alpheo revealed calmly as if discussing nothing more significant than the weather. ''''You appear sure of that, why''s that?'''' Alpheo''s enigmatic smile remained in place as he leaned back in his chair, seemingly unperturbed by Fahil''s reaction. "Rats are always easy to catch " he added cryptically, his gaze drifting up towards the roof as if searching for bats. Suddenly, he put two fingers in his mouth and let out a whistle, shattering the heavy silence in an instant. Two figures appeared from the kitchen door, dragging a bloodied man between them. Fahil''s eyes narrowed as he wondered who he was. Chapter 84: Rat(2) Chapter 84: Rat(2) Fahil''s gaze remained fixed on the bloodied man, his mind racing with a flurry of thoughts and suspicions. Yet as he looked closer he realised this wasn''t the individual he''d had contact with, he gave out a breath of relief. Perhaps, he dared to hope, his covert actions had gone unnoticed. Suppressing his inner turmoil, Fahil played the role of the curious observer, "Who is he?" he inquired, his tone carefully neutral. "Ah, now that," he replied cryptically, "is a tale best told by our newfound friends here." Moving forward, Alpheo advanced toward the bloodied man, seizing him by the hair to force his head upright, forcing him to look up to the man. --PFFT-- A spit landed on Alpheo, as if nothing happened Alpheo cleaned the spit out of his cheek before backslapping the man, letting go of his hair. Fahil winced as the blow landed, and the man went limp.As Alpheo ordered the spy''s return to his cell and instructed for him to be given a thorough beating, Fahil''s mind raced with a torrent of questions and concerns.He was never good at scheming , if he was , he would surely have understood what his position was, yet the commander was currently surviving on the feeble hope, that he was just called to be informed of the spy. "Do we know where they will be attacking?" he asked "Not yet," he admitted, a flicker of irritation dancing in his eyes. "The bastard does not know it , but," he continued, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper as he gave Fahil a smile, "we did manage to extract something else from him" "Apparently, he was not alone," he continued , his tone matter-of-fact. Fahil''s breath caught in his throat, his mind reeling at his words. "I presume you captured them all?" he ventured, his voice strained. Fahil''s desperation was palpable as he ranted on ignoring the question , his voice tinged with madness as he clung to the remnants of his shattered ambitions. "Arkawatt will lose. He''s barely clinging to power with your men by his side. Desert him, and Prince Sulayth will reward you handsomely. Why die for a losing cause when you can bask in opulence?" Alpheo regarded Fahil with a mixture of pity and contempt, his gaze unwavering as he contemplated their next move. " I have more important issues to check now. There is also still the thing about your fate..." he mentioned , his voice tinged with a hint of irony. Fahil''s response was immediate, his tone desperate as he pleaded for clemency. "Haven''t you heard me? Join his grace, and you''ll be granted wealth beyond your wildest dreams." "You''re a terrible liar, you know?" Alpheo''s words cut through the tension, accompanied by a smile that bordered on mockery as he tapped Fahil''s forehead lightly. Fahil''s response was resigned, his sigh heavy with the weight of impending doom. "Very well, go on with it," he acquiesced, his gaze dropping to the floor in defeat. "Your head will soon lie with mine, the prince will surely breach the city, be it before or after the prince arrive. " As Alpheo approached, Fahil braced himself for what was to come, his body tense with anticipation. Alpheo''s hand reached out, hovering inches from Fahil''s neck before descending to his shoulder in a reassuring pat. "Why so pessimistic?" Alpheo said his smile warm and inviting. "There''s still a way out. Death may be the end of everything, but fortunately for you, the end of the road is not yet in sight. You can still choose to take a detour if you wish to live." Fahil''s gaze narrowed at Alpheo''s words, a mixture of skepticism and defiance etched across his features. "If you don''t take my head, Arkawatt will. Do me a favor and be quick with it," he retorted, his tone laced with bitterness. Alpheo''s response was calm and collected, his confidence unwavering in the face of Fahil''s disdain. "Now, now, that''s what would happen if I weren''t here," he replied with a faint smirk. "Fortunately for you, you may have got someone covering your ass." Fahil''s skepticism only deepened, his expression morphing into one of incredulity. "And that would be you?" he scoffed, his disbelief evident in the curl of his lip. "I assume you would need something from me?If it is silver this city is awfully empty of it.." Alpheo''s smile remained unfaltering, his demeanor exuding an air of calculated charm. "I want no gold nor silver. Well what I am searching for , it''s more of an exchange, a favor for a favor," he explained, his tone smooth and persuasive. "You do a small little thing for me, and I''ll make sure that not only will you avoid execution for changing sides, but you''ll even be rewarded handsomely.You scratch my back, I scratch yours... Care to listen?" Chapter 85: Night鈥檚 cloak(1) Chapter 85: Night''s cloak(1) As night draped its cloak over the city, the guards atop the walls moved across the walls , their footsteps echoing softly on the stony ground. Each one held a torch aloft, its flickering flame casting dancing shadows along the battlements. With keen eyes, they scanned the darkness beyond, sweeping their torches forward and down in search of any sign of movement or intrusion. The moon, a silent spectator in the sky, offered little assistance to the vigilant scouts below, covered by the clouds, Its pale light struggled to penetrate the thick veil of night, leaving vast stretches of the city''s perimeter shrouded in shadow. . In the cloak of darkness, hundreds of men stood poised and alert, their figures obscured by the blackness of night. No torches illuminated their presence, for stealth was their ally in this operation. With eyes narrowed against the gloom, they maintained close proximity to their comrades,shoulder to shoulder, ensuring that their formation remained intact in the shadowy expanse. These were no ordinary foot soldiers; they were the elite infantry of the prince of Oizen , distinguished by their impeccable training and formidable equipment. Clad in the finest chainmail, breastplates, and helmets, they were the vanguard of the prince''s forces, entrusted with the most critical of missions. Armed with sturdy shields and gleaming lances, they had earned a reputation for unyielding resolve on the battlefield, never faltering in the face of adversity unless commanded to do so, they were always the last one to enter the battle and the first one to be pull out of . Reserved for pivotal moments in battle, they were accustomed to being held in reserve until their expertise was required to turn the tide. Their numbers were cherished by the prince, who recognized their irreplaceable value and took care not to squander their lives needlessly.Each soldier always trained in time of peace, and many of them were even literate. Now, as the city lay besieged by enemy forces, their skills were indispensable in reclaiming what rightfully belonged to their liege. In the silent anticipation of the night, they remained hunkered down, their senses finely attuned to the slightest sound or movement. Each man awaited the command of their officers, ready to spring into action at a moment''s notice and execute their duty with precision and unwavering determination. The officers stood in a tight circle, their gaze fixed ahead toward their captains. Among them stood Shamliak, the nephew of the prince of Oizen and commander of the prince''s elite? force.His father died in battle after saving the prince life, and in return he was always the favorite nephew of the ruler, who treated him akin to a son. Ge?t latest novel chapters on nov(e)lbj/n(.)c/om He raised his head to see where the men they saw on top of the gate were,perhaps the captiain would be among them. It was dark though and Shamliak failed to see farther than the faces of the man that stood few meters from him.No one had torches so he couldn''t send anyone to make light, he did not even know if they were there . Yet they were now inside and he had order to give to his squads, as there was no time to waste. ''''Sir the gate is ours!Permission to go forth and take control of the rest of the walls?'''' An officer came to report as he approched the relative of the prince waiting for instruction.The army could certainly not wait for him to wash away his doubts , he was the commander and he had orders to give. ''''Send a message to the rest of the men out of the city to sally inside ,then take the rest and sweep any resistance you find along the way. I want this city to be ours by the end of the night.I want o looting , Have I been clear?'''' ''''Yes my lord !Men come with me.'''' The officer shouted as he took command of the men and march forward. With 100 men he started moving on the base of the wall, and whenever they reached a watched tower , they charged ,killed the few men insides and took control of it and went forward unopposed. As the soldiers charged inside the city walls, their footsteps echoing through the empty streets, their spirits were high with the thought of victory on the horizon. The lack of opposition only fueled their confidence as they discussed the spoils awaiting them. "I can''t believe how easy this is," one soldier remarked, a smirk playing on his face. "We''re practically strolling in and claiming this city as our own." His companion nodded in agreement, scanning the surrounding buildings for potential loot. "I can already see the riches we''ll be taking back with us. This city won''t know what hit them." One of these soldier perhapse out of curiosity , as he charged out of a watchtower, turned his head to watch on one of the many dark streets they passed . Perhaps by the gods'' cruel sense of mirth or by chance, the soldier high with victory and greed was the first to see that this city would not be their triumph but their tomb. As in front of them , a lone ray from the moon , where hundreds failed to reach, had illuminated enough to see dozens of blade shining in the night,and the face of the man holding them poised to pay steel for steel and blood by blood. Chapter 86: Night cloak(2) Chapter 86: Night cloak(2) The warning cry rang out like a clarion call, jolting the Oizen soldiers from their momentary stupor. A shallow cry cutting through the silence and the dark. "IT''S AN AMBUSH!" The soldier''s shouted as he sprinted back to his comrades, repeating the ominous refrain. Yet, before the full gravity of his words could sink in, the darkness erupted with violence, almost like a shadow rebelling to his master. Blades materialized from the dark like specters of death, catching the Oizen soldiers off guard. From every crevice and alley, men clad in chainmail and helmets emerged, their presence turning the once deserted streets into a battlefield. The element of surprise favored the attackers, and before the Oizen soldiers could react, they found themselves encircled, flanked on almost any sides , cut off from any reinforcement and outnumbered, their backs on the wall as the enemy charged forth. As the attackers closed in, the Oizen soldiers felt the noose tightening around them. "WITH ME, MEN!" The officer''s voice cut through the chaos,trying to rally his men , a beacon of defiance as he tried to revert an impossible situation . With grim determination, he rallied a group of soldiers to make a desperate stand against the encircling enemy.But it was like stopping a river with bare hands . With a resounding battle cry, the officer and his makeshift vanguard charged into the fray, their weapons clashing against the onslaught of foes. Despite their valor, the odds were stacked against them, and the melee devolved into a brutal struggle for survival. Men fell on both sides, their screams lost in the cacophony of combat. With a swift motion, the officer deflected the thrust of an enemy lance with his shield, the impact reverberating through his arm. Seizing the moment, he countered with a powerful blow, the edge of his shield connecting with the face of the enemy. The force of the strike knocked the assailant off balance, sending him crashing to the ground with a pained grunt. As the officer dispatched his foe with a swift coup de grace, he spared no time for hesitation. With grim determination, he pressed forward, driving toward the weak point in the enemy''s formation. His blade became a blur of motion as he carved a path through the encircling foes, f they were to survive they had to inform the rest of the army of the ambush Amidst the chaos of battle, the officer''s leadership proved crucial. "Don''t get isolated!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the clamor of combat. "Go forward! Fall back, and you are dead!" His words were a rallying cry, urging his comrades to keep pace as they fought tooth and nail to break free from the enemy''s grasp, some managed to do so most however failed and were left behind . Before they could fully comprehend the gravity of the situation, arrows began to rain down upon them. The air was filled with the deadly whistle of projectiles. The officer and his comrades too late to raise their shield as the night covered the arrows, got pierced by dozens of them . Despite their best efforts, they were just a fraction of the defenders destined to fall in the face of overwhelming odds, as the man who planned such slaughter was leasurely stretching his back as dozens of men fell at his feet. Trapped within the tightening circle of enemy forces, the encircled men fought desperately to break free, but their efforts were met with fierce resistance at every turn. With each charge forward, they faced a barrage of arrows, stones, and weapons wielded by their adversaries. As they surged toward the enemy lines, shields held high and swords flashing in the dim light, they were met with a rain of projectiles. Arrows streaked through the air like deadly darts, finding their marks with lethal precision. Stones hurled from slings or thrown over from the walls into the ranks, breaking bones and shattering armor. Despite their bravery and determination, most of the encircled men were quickly cut down by the relentless assault. Those who managed to close the distance with the enemy found themselves outnumbered and outmatched, surrounded on all sides by foes with shields locked together in a solid wall of defense. With each failed attempt to break free, their ranks dwindled further, and desperation began to set in. It all happened at once ,they were easily marching through the city, the gate was theirs , yet the lack of torches was deliberately made from the enemy to not let them see what was over their head.The men entering the tower of the gate, never left as they were cut down from men hiding in closet and in other spot covered by darkness. And then it happened , all of a suddentheir escape route was swiftly cut off as a net filled with heavy boulders was dropped behind them, sealing their fate.Normally that could have been easy to fix, just simply using the men to cut the rope and take the boulders away , however panic set on as some of the men frantically attempted to climb over the obstruction, only to be met with a barrage of enemy attacks. The moment the boulders fell , they were shot down by arrows, and the clanking of armor could have be heard coming from the darkness , as numerous teams of men charged the main army that entered the city, straight towards the commander, the nephew of the prince. With their retreat blocked and no path forward, the men found themselves trapped in a deadly trap. The enemy closed in from all sides, their movements swift and coordinated, as they unleashed a relentless onslaught upon the helpless defenders. Any hope of mobility or escape was swiftly extinguished as the enemy''s projectiles found their marks, rendering the men immobile and vulnerable. Surrounded and outnumbered, the encircled soldiers fought valiantly against overwhelming odds, but it was a battle they could not win. Cut off from any avenue of escape and facing a relentless onslaught, their fate seemed all but sealed. It was nothing short of a tactical decapitation. Chapter 87: Night cloak(3) Chapter 87: Night cloak(3) As the hours dragged on, the ambush continued unabated, the enemy showing no signs of relenting. Rather than launching a direct assault, they methodically whittled down the defenders with a relentless barrage of rocks and arrows.After all why waste men when you can let arrows do the job? Follow the latest novels on Gaps began to appear in the formation as casualties mounted, each breach exposing those behind to even greater danger. Among the beleaguered defenders stood Shamliak, the nephew of the prince, his muscles aching and his arms burning with the effort of holding his shield aloft for hours on end. Thirst gnawed at his throat, but there was no respite or time to satisfy that need. "This is it," he thought grimly, his gaze drifting upward to the sky. His original hope had been that maintaining their position would signal to his uncle that something had gone awry, prompting an assault on the walls to provide relief. Yet, as the moments stretched into agonizing hours and no commotion arose from the enemy lines, Shamliak''s heart sank. It became increasingly apparent that their plight had been overlooked or misunderstood, and that their fate was already decided the moment they entered, no aid would come . Arrows stones and javelin ran down on them, and every five minutes the barrage would end as the defenders wouold shout at the invader theusual words ''''THE MAIN ARMY WON''T COME, YOU ARE ALONE ,DROP YOUR WEAPONS , LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS FOR THERE IS NO HOPE FOR YOU.'''' Then they would wait for a few seconds before resuming the barrage once no answer was given ''That bastard sent us to our death, the insider doubleplayed us and we fell wholeheartedly for it'' he thought as he bit his inner cheek from the pain coming out of his shoulder, where a lone arrows had embedded itself on it . With each agonizing throb from the embedded arrow, Shamliak''s fury intensified, directed not only at their unseen enemy but also at the one who planned all of this . His thoughts seethed with indignation as he grappled with the harsh reality of their situation. As Shamliak''s gaze drifted upward to the expanse of the night sky, a sense of hopelessness settled over him like a suffocating shroud. The stars twinkled above, indifferent to the plight of men caught in the throes of conflict. In that moment of despair, he found himself grappling with a question that weighed heavily on his mind: should they surrender? The thought lingered, its implications stark and sobering. Surrender meant admitting defeat, relinquishing their pride and honor to the enemy who had ensnared them in this deadly trap, as if giving meat to the same dog that bit his hand . It meant accepting captivity and have his honor sullied. He knew that the commander was not one of them but a mercenary, he may be kept alive but his men?He was worth a lot , but not his men. Alpheo''s pov As he approached Alpheo and his companions, the man''s gaze remained fixed ahead, his expression resolute despite the circumstances. The weight of defeat hung heavy upon him, yet he carried himself with a sense of dignity and honor befitting a warrior facing his final moments on the battlefield. When he few meters from Alpheo he dropped on both his knee and laid the sword down ''''My name is Shakmail of house Oizen, nephew of the current prince Shamsa Oizen. I hereby surrender unconditionally to you , if you swear on keeping my men alive for ransom and to treat me as rank demand you do'''' Alpheo''s eyes moved down to the man , then he descended from horseback and approached him , taking the sword from his hand, which meant accepting his surrender ''''I have no reason to refuse your request, your men shall be disarmed, fed , watered and given medical attention from my doctors.Speaking of which, I am sure you will need a visit from yourself'''' He said pointing at the arrow and causing the man to grunt in agreement. After that Alpheo led his horse to the man allowing him to ride on horseback in sign of respect , as he was to part way however the prisoner turned towardthe mercenary captain as he asked one question ''''Can I be allowed to know the insider?Always if he is still alive.'''' ''''Of course he is right there'''' he said pointing at Fahil,who was looking meekly at the man. And before he could even realise a spit landed on his face, running down on his cheek , he said nothing and just cleaned himself. The commander after doing so did nothing but let himself be accompanied by Alpheo''s guards as he brought him towards the medical tent .''This was to be his night of glory'' Shamkeil thought ''not mine''. As shamkeil was getting treated by the defenders doctors , Alpheo gave one look at the sword, the sheath was beatifully made and embledded with some jem, giving the sword a luxurious undertone. . ''''That could be sold for an hefty sum '''' Clio commented as he whistled ''''You are probably right'''' Alpheo muttered before turning to Asag and extended the sword ''''It''s yours you can keep it'''' Asag went eye wide as he received the sword ''''I-I can''t'''' He stuttered as he held the sword ''''You can and you will, you basically saved the city and our lives, if there is anyone that deserve such fine sword it is you.Had you not discovered the plot we would have our cut from our necks, It is my gift to you, make sure to learn on how to use it.I will need you on the frontline in the future after all '''' ''''He is right Asag'''' Jarza agreed ''''Though if you don''t want it , I can take it for you'''' He said as he tried to grab the pommel, but failing as Asag moved it closer to his chest. ''''Thank you '''' Asag said in a faint voice as he tried the blade making some swoosh sounds from cutting the air ,prompting Alpheo to pat his shoulder as he started to command his man to disarm the surrendered soldiers but not to harm them. Chapter 88: Northern鈥檚 war Chapter 88: Northern''s war Maesinius pov: The city finally fell , 8,000 men had been assaulting it for a week and in the end the invevitable happened. Every night, the prince,as usual made his somber rounds through the encampments.He found himself drawn to the medical tents, where the cries of the wounded pierced the silence of the night like mournful wails. The sight of broken bodies and anguished faces were the cost of his ambition, each groan and whimper carving a deep, searing ache in his soul. ''I must see the result of my choices '' he had told Uther the giant as he made his way there .It was horrible to say the least, but he needed to see it . And so, when news of the city''s fall finally reached his ears, it was met with a bittersweet mixture of relief and sorrow. As the gates crumbled beneath the relentless onslaught of the northern invaders, sending splinters of wood scattering across the ground, the prince could feel the weight of history shifting beneath his feet. Thelogontia, the coveted jewel of the campaign , laid within reach, a prize won through bloodshed and sacrifice. The rest of the province could now be taken much more easily, and if they managed to give one or two defeat to the major lords , the rest would easily bend the knee. For every inch of ground gained though , there lay a sea of graves, each one leaving a story no one will hear. As the surrounding lands fell under the relentless advance of the northern army, the once fertile fields lay barren and pillaged, their bountiful harvests plundered and stockpiled in the warehouses of the conquerors. The gains for which the prince had marshaled his forces and rallied his lords now lay within grasp, yet they knew all too well that the true prize lay behind the walls of Thelogontia. With each conquered city and sacked village, the prince had dispatched envoys to the lord of Thelogontia, hoping to broker a peaceful surrender and avoid further bloodshed. Yet time and again, the messengers returned empty-handed, their pleas for reason falling on deaf ears. It seemed Lord Carxio remained steadfast in his defiance, perhaps clinging to the hope that his liege lord would rally the forces of the realm to his aid. And indeed, High Marshal Conte had mustered his fief''s armies, intent on breaking the siege and relieving the beleaguered city. But the wheels of war turned slowly, and the relief force moved at a pace too measured to stave off the inevitable. As the city walls crumbled and the garrison fell, the conquerors surged forth, their victory heralding a wave of pillage and plunder. Prince Maesinius rode at the head of his army, a formidable force of 600 Huscarls flanking him on either side. These elite infantrymen were the pride of the north, their strength legendary, adept to cold and hunger, their axes said to cleave through boulders with ease. Arrayed in the pelts of beasts they had personally hunted and slain, the Huscarls presented a fearsome sight as they marched in disciplined formation. Each warrior bore the trophy of their conquest proudly atop their heads, the pelts of wolves, bears, and elks adorning their shoulders. For those less fortunate, the spoils of their hunts included sheep and foxes, yet even these trophies were worn with a fierce sense of pride. Under the banner of their prince, the Huscarls rode forth, their war cries echoing off the surrounding hills as they swept through the streets of the conquered city. U//ppTodated fr/o/m "Like what?" the prince inquired, turning his attention to her as she gestured expansively. "What happens after all of this?" she replied, her arms extended to encompass the uncertainty of their future. The weight of her question hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over the prince''s thoughts. "We will face Conte and his army," he declared, his voice firm with resolve, though uncertainty lingered in his heart. Elenoir''s words hung in the air, laden with implications that the prince struggled to fully comprehend. He listened intently, his brow furrowing in confusion as he grappled with the weight of her proposal. "I mean, after all of that, I am not the one who studied history like you," she began, her tone measured yet urgent. "But I think that one of the reasons the north fell was because we were many and at the same time no one. We were divided, making it easier for the south to subdue us. And unless we want the same thing to happen again, I think you should think about that." The prince regarded her with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. "Are you suggesting something?" he inquired, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "Maybe I am," Elenoir replied cryptically, her eyes alight with determination. "The lords are riled up. They love what you brought them, and apparently they are enjoying the weather of the south , much warmer than the snow in the north." The prince remained silent, his thoughts churning as he attempted to decipher her intentions. "By the gods!" Elenoir whispered fervently, her frustration palpable. "When will you make your move? You''ve got to ride the wave when it comes, not after it passes." The prince made no haste to respond. "I am talking about becoming king of the north," Elenoir declared boldly, her words ringing with conviction. "We need someone to lead us, and apparently, you are the best choice around here. If your plan regarding the Arlanians works, then you will have enough to show to claim the crown.Plus you have the legitimacy to manage to calm the vanquished nobles after we conquer them . Don''t you want that? To rule over a kingdom of your own?" "If I did, we would be marching south of here toward the capital," the prince countered, his tone firm yet tinged with uncertainty. "I have no reason to aim for that, especially given our situation. And what''s with it for you anyway? Why are you so interested?" Elenoir''s jaw tightened imperceptibly as she tilted her head back, offering the prince a small, enigmatic smile. "It seems to me you lack both ambition and interest in it, so let me clue you in and give you a reason to care," she explained, her voice soft yet resolute. "If I am to be married¡ªgods know how much I don''t want that¡ªI can at least aim as high as I can. And I think that marrying a king and becoming queen would sweeten the deal enough for me. So tell me, do you have a reason to care about it now?" The prince''s expression softened and by the gods if he now had a reason to care. Chapter 89: Northern鈥檚 war (2) Chapter 89: Northern''s war (2) The prince''s footsteps reverberated through the silent hallways of the keep. Like the city before it, the keep had fallen to their relentless advance. The guards, loyal to the lord of the city, had been swiftly dispatched, their resistance futile against the overwhelming might of the invading forces. As the prince made his way deeper into the heart of the keep, his thoughts turned to the lord who had stubbornly refused peace even as his grip on the city slipped away. Now that the keep had fallen, what fate awaited its ruler? Unlike the rest of the city, the keep had remained relatively untouched until now. The disciplined huscarls had followed the prince''s orders to spare the servants as they just kept them locked in a room , at least for the time being they were unharmed however they needed someone to gather information if the search went badly. With caution guiding his every step, the prince ensured that his troops remained closely knit, their unity a shield against any potential threats lurking in the shadows. Despite the temptation to indulge in the spoils of victory, the prince knew that their conquest was not yet complete. There would be time for celebration later, once the lord of the keep had been dealt with and their hold on the city secured. Maesinius cast a glance over his shoulder at Uther, the giant whose ferocity in battle was unmatched. Throughout the fight for the keep, Uther had carved a path of destruction with his axe, his relentless assault leaving a trail of blood splattered across his face and armor which he had not even bothered to clean himself . He appeared more akin to a fearsome demon from folklore than a mortal warrior. "It seems we''ve reached the end," Uther remarked, his powerful frame straining against the locked door before him. " locked from the inside..." "Well, there''s nothing an axe can''t solve," Mjorn quipped, tightening his grip on his weapon before delivering a resounding blow to the door, with the same strenght that he gained his nickname from ''The shieldbreaker''. Uther joined in, each strike resonating with the force of their combined strength. The huscarls followed suit, their axes descending upon the door with relentless fury, sending wood splintering in all directions. With each strike, the door groaned under the onslaught until finally, a section of the plank gave way. One of the soldiers seized the opportunity, reaching through the gap to manipulate the mechanism holding the door shut, which meant to throw the piece of wood holding the door away. With a collective effort, they pushed against the weakened barrier until it yielded, granting them entry into the hall. The men advanced cautiously, their axes at the ready, prepared to face any defenders who might still be lurking within the empty halls of the keep. However, as they entered, their aggressive stance softened as they disaptched some armored guards inside the room , when suddendly the target they were searching for appeared before them. N/ne?w n0vel chap/ers are published o/n The fallen lord''s lips curled into a scornful sneer. "Hostages, not guests," he interjected, his tone dripping with disdain. Maesinius''s eyes narrowed as he countered, his voice tinged with reproach. "They would have been treated well and fairly," he insisted. "Yet you chose to spill their blood. Look at them¡ªbarely ten winters old, innocent and unaware of that their fathers extinguished their lives." His eyes moved to the lord face, where sign of scrapping could be seen. ''''And it seems that their mother fought for their lives'''' "Their blood is on your hands, not mine, you traitor," he spat, his voice quivering a bit . "My family has served this empire for generations, and may the gods curse me if I surrender to a band of savages and traitors. Pro imperio vita et sanguis, id est officium nobile," he declared, clinging to the ideals of duty and loyalty that had defined his lineage for centuries. The prince''s voice, cold and resolute, cut through the tense air of the chamber. "You have already cursed yourself, " he pronounced, his words heavy with condemnation. "I will grant you the mercy to meet your family in the afterlife, even though I think you will be going in different places.....Uther, would you do the honors?" Uther''s response was swift and unequivocal. "It would be my pleasure," he declared, as he advanced toward the fallen lord, his massive form casting a looming shadow over the scene. ''''Not even bothering to unsheath your sword?'''' Caxio asked as he spared a look to the young prince , who however gave no asnwer as he simply turned around and walked away , leaving his order unchanged . The lord, for his part, met Uther''s approach with a steely gaze, his expression a mix of defiance and resignation. He cast one last sorrowful glance toward his family, cradling their lifeless forms in his arms, before turning his attention back to the giant As Uther raised his axe high, the weight of impending doom hung heavy in the air. The lord closed his eyes, steeling himself for the inevitable, as the blade bore down toward his exposed neck. The prince whispered something heard only by himself as in that final, fateful moment, the legacy of a family that had ruled over Thegolontia for over a century came to a brutal and decisive end with the swift stroke of an axe. Proclaiming the start instead of a new owner in its place. Chapter 90: Mercenary interest(1) Chapter 90: Mercenary interest(1) The midday sun blazed down on the sprawling camp that had sprung up a few kilometers outside the city of Aracina. The prince of Oizen, Alpheo''s employer, had finally arrived, bringing with him the full force of his army. Vi?Sit no(v)3lb/!n(.)com for new novels Soldiers moved in every direction, tending to the prince''s few horses, sharpening weapons, and preparing meals over open fires. The air was thick with the mingled scents of sweat and roasting meat. Alpheo and his group navigated through the bustling camp, weaving between clusters of soldiers and supply wagons. "I don''t see much left for us," Clio muttered. "Do you think they''ve forgotten about us? I don''t see a piece of free space for us " Alpheo''s eyes scanned the camp, taking in the scene before turning to his group. "From what I can see, the prince has no more than 2,000 men¡ªmaybe fewer if we''re counting our own. They''d be fools to anger a quarter of their forces." "You think they''re going to start trouble?" Clio asked, kicking a pebble as he walked. Alpheo just shrugged and kept moving forward Banner poles bearing the prince''s crest flapped in the breeze, their vibrant colors a sharp contrast to the camp''s utilitarian surroundings. As they walked, Alpheo noted the different flags representing various nobles. "Has he managed to settle things with his vassals?" he wondered aloud, his eyes drifting over the scene. Most of the troops were infantry, armed with lances and barely any armor, if they had any at all. The cavalry, though better equipped, was few in number. It was clear that the men Alpheo had brought with him could be regarded as elite¡ªthey would easily hold their own in battle and even some more . Finally, the group approached the center of the camp, where the prince''s tent loomed large and tall Alpheo could hear the murmur of voices from within, a low hum of conversation. He glanced at his companions and went forth. Jarza walked beside him, his face set with determination, while Egil, buoyed and happy by the recent formation of the light cavalry, brought up the rear. "Indeed, Your Grace," Alpheo responded, his voice steady and measured, sensing where the conversation was heading. The prince''s demeanor hardened, his voice acquiring a sharpness that had not been there before. "I''m sure they have been a considerable burden on you, so I have come to relieve you of them," he declared, his tone laced with subtle condescension. "Feeding so many prisoners must have been an arduous task." Alpheo inwardly smirked at the prince''s thinly veiled attempt to seize control of the situation. ''Too late, you scheming bastard,'' he thought, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. Aloud, he maintained a respectful tone. "Your Grace is generous to be concerned about our welfare," he said smoothly. "However, I am pleased to inform you that the matter has already been resolved. There is no need for you to trouble yourself with the prisoners." A ripple of surprise coursed through the assembled nobles, their attention now fully captured. The prince''s expression tightened, a barely perceptible shift that revealed his displeasure. "May I know how you have resolved this... issue?" His voice was cold, the words clipped as he sought to maintain control of the situation. "Of course, Your Grace," Alpheo replied, his voice laced with a confidence that bordered on defiance. A slight smile played at his lips as he continued, "The prisoners were ransomed days before you blessed the city with your presence." A wave of astonishment swept through the tent, the nobles exchanging incredulous glances as Alpheo''s words sank in. Whispers erupted among them, their hushed voices filled with disbelief and outrage, some murmuring, "Mercenary," "Dare," and "Arrogance." It was clear that many of them viewed Alpheo''s actions as not only bold but as a direct challenge to their authority. The prince''s eyes bore into Alpheo''s, the irritation in his gaze barely concealed. "You have already ransomed them?" he repeated, his voice chillingly measured as he struggled to maintain his composure. "Yes, Your Grace," Alpheo affirmed, meeting the prince''s piercing gaze without flinching. "The terms were negotiated swiftly, and the prisoners were exchanged for a substantial sum. Those funds have been reinvested into our forces, ensuring our continued strength and readiness¡ªsomething that will undoubtedly benefit your campaign in the battles to come." The prince''s jaw clenched visibly, a muscle in his cheek twitching as he fought to suppress his growing anger. Around him, the nobles'' whispers grew louder, a persistent murmur that filled the tent like the rising tide of a storm. Alpheo could catch snippets of their conversation¡ªwords like "impudent," "overstepped," and "dangerous" floating to his ears. ''''Next time I would prefer if you would not be so hasty in your treatment of ''our'' prisoners'''' The prince finally said after spending a few seconds trying to find the right words Alpheo maintained his composed demeanor and bowed a bit , his face a mask of respectful neutrality. He was acutely aware of the fine line he walked¡ªbalancing between what their deal required and asserting his own agency.After all he had to make money in some way, but luckily for him, he was too great of value to be dismissed or punished, so he knew the prince in the end would suck it up. What good was being in a good position if one did not exploit it? Chapter 91: Mercenary interest(2) Chapter 91: Mercenary interest(2) ''Well, oh boy, oh boy... here we go,'' Alpheo thought, as the prince''s gaze darkened, a murderous gleam in his eyes. The air in the tent felt heavier, as if charged with the storm of unspoken fury building behind the prince''s calm fa?ade. Alpheo could feel the heat of that fury, but beneath the tension, he understood something crucial: despite the prince''s rage, there was little he could do to reprimand or punish him without risking severe consequences. Alpheo''s mind worked quickly and managed a response in his mind . The prince''s forces relied heavily on his seasoned fighters, men whose loyalty was secured not by oaths or honor, but by the clink of gold in their pockets. Undermining their captain, or worse, seeking retribution, could have disastrous effects. ''At worst,'' Alpheo mused, ''I''ll get a slap on the wrist for this.'' N/ne?w n0vel chap/ers are published o/n "When you ransomed the men....were you aware that what you had done was nothing short of sabotaging us?" The prince''s eyes narrowed, the muscles in his jaw tightening, but he said nothing, waiting for Alpheo to continue. "I would not be so foolish as to ransom them and allow them to return fully armed and prepared to face us again," Alpheo explained. "Before they were sent back, all of their equipment was confiscated¡ªtheir weapons, their armor, their horses. Everything of value was taken and redistributed among my men." A ripple of whispers ran through the tent as the nobles absorbed Alpheo''s words. Alpheo pressed on, his voice steady, projecting confidence. "During the siege, I observed the enemy''s forces closely. Most of their troops were ill-equipped, lacking proper armor and weapons. Their resources are stretched thin, Your Grace. Most of the prisoners we captured were poorly supplied. This tells me one thing: the prince of Oizen does not have the means to rearm those men anytime soon." The prince''s face remained impassive, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of interest. Alpheo could tell he was listening, weighing the information. "By ransoming those soldiers," Alpheo continued, "I deprived the enemy of their best men for weeks. Even if they make it back to their ranks, they will return as little more than naked bodies on the battlefield, unarmed, vulnerable. Meanwhile, the coin I gained from their ransom has been put to good use. My men are better equipped, better prepared, and stronger than before. Every sword, every piece of armor taken from them has strengthened our own forces." The prince''s eyes narrowed as he processed Alpheo''s words. The logic in Alpheo''s explanation was hard to refute. Thinking it over, the prince realized that continuing to push the matter would be counterproductive. The deed was already done, and contesting it further would only undermine his own position and potentially sow discord among his troops. Reluctantly, he had to acknowledge that he was powerless. "What has happened cannot be undone," the prince began, his voice heavy with restrained anger. He paused, searching for the right words, seeking a way to frame his next statement as a punishment. The nobles in the tent watched intently, their whispers momentarily stilled by the prince''s commanding presence. "They can think what they like," Alpheo replied, his tone dismissive. "We''ve earned our place here. Without us, the prince''s campaign would be hanging by a thread. It''s not arrogance if it''s true." Jarza gave a reluctant nod. "Just keep your eyes open," he cautioned. "The nobles might not say anything now, but they don''t forget slights. They''ll be looking for a chance to bring us down a notch." Alpheo didn''t need the reminder; he knew full well the delicate balance they were walking. The prince might tolerate their independence and skill for now, but there would come a time when he would no longer need them. And when that day came, the prince wouldn''t hesitate to cut them loose¡ªor worse. Still, today wasn''t that day. Today, they still held the upper hand. "Let them watch and wait," Alpheo said with a faint smile. "By the time they find an opening, the war will be over, and we''ll be long gone with our purses full." Egil grinned, pushing off from his casual lean. "Then I say we drink to that, eh?" Alpheo''s smile widened. "You read my mind." As the group began to move away from the prince''s tent, the weight of their conversation fading, Alpheo cast one last glance over his shoulder. "Enjoy tonight," Alpheo continued, his tone light but carrying a note of seriousness. "Tomorrow, we''ll probably be leaving for battle , and who knows when we''ll get another chance to unwind." Asag,, looked at Alpheo and asked, "And what about you, Captain? What will you be doing?" Alpheo sighed, a hint of weariness creeping into his voice. "I''m going to catch up on some sleep," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Haven''t had much of that lately, and we''re going to need all our strength for what''s coming." Jarza and the others nodded in understanding, appreciating their leader''s honesty. The group began to disperse, each man heading off to enjoy the brief respite in their own way. Some sought out the nearest tavern, others made their way to the market to spend their hard-earned coin, and a few simply found a quiet spot to rest.Whatever they chose however soon they would all find themselves fighting for their lives, as the commander they have decided to rely on would soon overturn their lives. Chapter 92: Secret weapon Chapter 92: Secret weapon It was a bright and radiant day, the golden sunlight pouring over the green pastures of the plain like molten gold. The air was crisp and refreshing, filled with the soft whisper of a breeze that stirred the tall grass and carried the delicate fragrance of blooming wildflowers. Above, the sky stretched wide and cloudless, a serene ocean of blue with only a few puffs of white drifting lazily across the horizon. Yet, amidst this tranquil beauty, two military camps marred the landscape like scars on untouched skin. To the north, perched on a strategic rise, stood the camp of the prince of Yarkat. Neatly arranged tents and fortified positions spread across the hill, the prince''s banner snapping defiantly in the breeze. A few kilometers to the south, on the opposite end of the vast plain, the camp of the prince of Oizen loomed in contrast. Though more rugged, it exuded a similar air of readiness, soldiers sharpening blades and donning armor, their own banner fluttering against the clear sky. Between the two camps, the open plain lay silent and untouched, a stretch of no-man''s-land where the tall grass swayed gently, unaware of the blood that would soon soak its roots. The serene beauty of the landscape seemed almost dreamlike, as though nature itself stood in quiet opposition to the violence that was about to unfold. The sun, indifferent to human conflict, continued to rise higher, casting its warm light over the earth as if unaware of the impending clash that would soon break the peaceful spell of the day. Inside the camp of the prince of Yarkat, a tense gathering of nobles, those who had been convinced to join the campaign, were amassed in a large, ornately decorated tent, as the nobles argued over the strategy for the impending battle. One noble, a burly man with a booming voice, stood up, his face flushed with excitement. "We should engage the enemy immediately!" he shouted, trying to rally his fellows. "Repel the invaders and drive them from our lands!" His fervor was infectious, and many of the nobles echoed his cries, their thirst for battle evident. The recent humbling of the enemy elite had filled them with confidence, and they saw this as a prime opportunity to deliver a powerful blow to their adversaries. However, not all shared this eagerness for a direct confrontation. A significant number of nobles preached caution, their voices rising above the clamor. Were they cowards?No they just knew the difference in strenght between the two sides. They were acutely aware that the enemy''s cavalry outnumbered their own and that abandoning the high ground to fight on the plain below could be disastrous. Chee?ck out latest novels on "We should maintain our position and force them to come to us!" one of the cautious nobles argued, his voice steady but firm. "The high ground gives us the advantage. Let them exhaust themselves trying to dislodge us." The tent erupted into a cacophony of voices, with nobles on both sides of the argument trying to make themselves heard. The tension was palpable, each faction deeply entrenched in their views. "Are you empty only in the head or between the legs too ?" One taunted, his voice dripping with disdain as he addressed one of the men advocating for a defensive stance. He let his words hang in the air, the gravity of the situation clear. The prince of Yarkat''s jaw tightened, one of the nobles from the faction advocating for an immediate attack, stepped forward, his face red with indignation. "You insult our strength, mercenary," he growled, his voice loud and defiant. "We are not cowards to hide behind walls. We will smash through the enemy lines like an axe through wood." Alpheo couldn''t help but smirk , after all he never talked about hiding behinds walls "With all due respect, my lord," he replied, his tone laced with irony, "that axe of yours would fall apart before it even had the opportunity to strike. The enemy would see to that." The nobleman''s face turned an even deeper shade of red, his fury barely contained. "How dare you!" he shouted, taking a step towards Alpheo, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword. "You dare question our courage and strength?" Before the situation could escalate further, the prince of Yarkat raised his hand, his voice commanding and authoritative. "Enough!" he barked, his eyes flashing with anger as he looked between the two men. ''''Alpheo don''t you have anything useful to say?'''' "Well, Your Grace, I actually do have a solution," Alpheo said, a confident gleam in his eye. "If you would allow me, I could explain how we might overcome this problem and even the odds with the enemy." The prince of Yarkat, intrigued but cautious, nodded. "Go on, Captain Alpheo. You have my permission to speak." Alpheo bowed slightly. "I would also request your permission to have my men bring something inside that could illustrate my point." The prince''s brows furrowed in confusion, but he gestured for Alpheo to proceed. "Very well. Bring it in." At the prince''s command, the tent flaps were pulled open, and two of Alpheo''s men entered. They were carrying a long object, carefully wrapped in blankets. The nobles inside the tent exchanged puzzled glances, whispering among themselves as they tried to guess what Alpheo had up his sleeve. The two men approached the center of the tent, setting the covered object down with great care. Alpheo stepped forward, his expression serious. "Thank you, gentlemen. Now, Your Grace, allow me to reveal what I believe will be the key to our success." And as he said so the men finally revealed what was covered up through the sheets. Chapter 93: First battle(1) Chapter 93: First battle(1) The day dawned bright and sunny, though the air carried a crisp chill, reminding all that winter was on its way. Frost tipped the blades of grass, sparkling like tiny jewels in the morning light. Everywhere, men moved with aim in mind . Soldiers and laborers alike hurried to and fro, their breath visible in the cold air. The clang of hammers and the creak of wooden beams filled the air . Horses whinnied in their enclosures, sensing the heightened tension and excitement around them, as the squires brought them out of there . The camp, spread across the gentle slope of the hill, was a hive of activity. Tents flapped in the breeze, their colors muted by a layer of frost. Smoke rose from numerous campfires, where cooks prepared hearty meals to sustain the troops.The battle was finally imminent, and a light meal was being prepared for the soldiers. As they readied themselves for the fight, those with armor began to don their protective gear, while those without prayed fervently to the Mother for mercy and the Warrior for strength. "Please raise your arm, sir," a small voice belonging to a boy spoke as he laced the arm brace to Alpheo''s arm. "Did you ready the breakfast?" Alpheo asked, stretching his neck and rolling his shoulders. "I have informed the cooks," ratto replied, bringing his face up to stare at the mercenary captain, who was barely older than him. "Are you anxious, sir?" "Am I that easy to read?" Alpheo responded with a smile and a deep breath. "I would be a fool not to be. Anything could happen at any moment. A man''s fortune or fall can come without a second''s notice, as swords are blind in the midst of bloodlust and madness" Seeing his trusted lieutenants, Alpheo nodded silently, acknowledging their presence . "Take your posts and organize the men to take their positions," he instructed, his voice calm but authoritative. Jarza gave a sharp nod, his face set with resolve as he turned on his heel and headed towards his assigned area. Clio, his long hair, which he let grew after gaining back his freedom, tied back and his armor gleaming in the sunlight, shot Alpheo a quick smile before striding off to rally the troops. Asag, gave a groan of acknowledgment before marching off to his own command. As they separated, each going to fulfill their duties, Alpheo watched them for a moment, feeling a surge of pride for the people he had come to rely on so heavily. "Good luck," he called after them, his voice carrying a note of genuine sincerity. The banners fluttered in the breeze, displaying the colors of their faction with pride. Alpheo''s gaze swept over the scene, taking in the disciplined ranks and the determined faces of his soldiers. He could hear the distant sound of commands being issued, the creak of leather and metal, and the muted murmur of prayers. "This is my lot," Alpheo thought to himself. He felt a mixture of pride and responsibility. The path he had chosen was fraught with danger and uncertainty, but it was also filled with the chance to land higher in that ladder , striving for a future beyond the battlefield¡ªthis was his destiny. The horse whinnied softly as he approached, recognizing its master. Alpheo patted its neck, feeling the powerful muscles beneath the smooth coat, and murmured a few calming words. With practiced ease, Alpheo placed his foot in the stirrup and swung himself up into the saddle. He settled comfortably, adjusting his sword at his side and taking the reins in his hands,it was time to go. Chapter 94: First battle (2) Chapter 94: First battle (2) It certainly was a good day . The sun hung high in the sky, casting its golden rays over the verdant field. The surrounding woods casted their shadows along the edges of the battlefield,while the middle was nothing short of a sunlit expanse. Soon, however these green pastures would be dyed crimson with the blood of fallen soldiers. Jarza stood on the field, lost in his thoughts. He remembered his first battle vividly, though it had been over twenty years ago¡ªa simple skirmish when he served in a sellsword company for an imperial lord, tasked with cleansing his domains of bandits . That company , he vaguely remembered had disbanded a few years later, but Jarza as always found another band to join. Twenty winters and twenty summers had passed in the blink of an eye, each season blending into the next. The four years he had spent as a slave were the longest of his life, dragging on with relentless cruelty. Starved and beaten in a foreign land, Jarza had often believed he would die in those chains. Yet, against all odds, he had survived. The gods, it seemed or yet he believed , had other intentions for him. Each scar and each battle had brought him to this moment, standing on this field, ready to face whatever came next. He could never fully understand that boy , he was like a book open to everyone to be read and yet written in a language never seen.Easy to read and impossible to understand. His ideas were usually either nothing short of genial, or outright dumb.He still remembered the first batch of a plan he had made to escape , if they had followed on those they would have certainly have been caught. He surveyed the field, his eyes scanning the nearly 600 warriors surrounding him. Among them, 200 were under his direct command. He had always dreamt of leading men into battle, a vision that seemed distant during his early days in the various sellsword companies. Most leadership positions in those bands were occupied by exiled minor lords or members of distant branches of noble families¡ªindividuals less powerful and less wealthy than their mainline kin. Yet now, against all odds, Jarza had men under his command, ready to follow him into the fray. Most of these soldiers lacked proper armor, wearing only the barest protection of tattered leather or simple cloth. They carried basic shields and spears, tools of war given to them in haste. Their march was anything but disciplined; the lines wavered, and many struggled to maintain their formation. It was clear they had received only rudimentary training, enough to form a shield wall and little more. These were not seasoned warriors but common folk thrust into the chaos of battle, armed with the basics and left to fend for themselves. Jarza observed their approach with a critical eye, noting the uneven pace and the nervous glances exchanged among the ranks. The enemy prince''s forces might have the advantage in numbers, but the quality and discipline of their troops left much to be desired Jarza turned to his men, watching as they waited in silent anticipation. The front lines were composed of his brother in servitude , each man equipped with chainmail and helmets that gleamed dully in the sunlight. Their faces, though weathered, were set forward. Behind them, the new recruits provided by the prince stood ready. It was a common tactic: placing the elite soldiers with the best equipment at the front and the less experienced recruits at the back. Each soldier in the company held a lance, but Alpheo had ensured they were also armed for close combat. Maces and swords hung at their sides, weapons chosen for their effectiveness against lightly armored foes. Alpheo had emphasized the importance of these weapons, knowing that when facing an army equipped primarily with spears, good armor and close-quarter weapons would allow his men to cleave through the enemy like a hot knife through butter. Jarza observed the calm, focused expressions of his comrades. They were ready, their minds and bodies steeled for the coming battle, as they knew that by the end of the war their pouches would be filled with silver. Feeling the imminent approach of battle, Jarza took a deep breath and donned his helmet, which he had temporarily removed. His armor was not just chainmail; it was reinforced with steel plates that covered his stomach and lower chest, providing additional protection. Braces and shoulder covers added to his defense, while not impeding his movement . Currently, he sat on horseback, a position that afforded him a better view of the enemy lines slowly advancing towards them. As he adjusted the fit of his helmet, Jarza couldn''t help but feel a twinge of anxiety. The weight of the armor was familiar, this was not his first battles and still that familiar sense of fear was there. His horse shifted beneath him, sensing his unease, but Jarza steadied the animal with a firm hand on the reins. It was still a good day to die. Chapter 95: Secret weapon Chapter 95: Secret weapon "We look like one big hedgehog," Asag muttered as he led the men forward, his eyes scanning the dense rows of spears and lances that bristled around him. Unlike Jarza, Asag wasn''t on horseback. The strategy they had devised was meant to counter cavalry, and if the enemy spotted a man on a horse shouting orders, he''d quickly become the primary target. The old saying, "Kill the head and the body will fall," held too much truth to be ignored. For this reason, Asag walked on foot, embedded deep within the formation, surrounded by his men. To maintain visibility and command, a soldier walked beside him, holding the band''s herald high in the sky , fluttering in the cool breeze. The formation around him was tight, a living, breathing entity made up of hardened warriors and fresh recruits. The front lines were a wall of steel and muscle, each man gripping his four meters long lance with practiced ease, ready to thrust it forward at the first sign of an enemy charge. Behind them, the newer recruits held their positions, their eyes darting nervously, but their resolve firm. They looked to the veteran mercenary for cues, mimicking their calm and steady demeanor as best as they could. Asag couldn''t help but feel a grim satisfaction at how the formation looked from within¡ªa veritable forest of pointed weapons, each one poised to impale the first horse or soldier that dared to approach. He did not know how Alpheo had in thought of such style of fighting , but the training showed how the captain''s boasts were actually truthful .This was the ultimate weapon against cavalry.... Alpheo knew the value of discipline in battle, especially among troops who had never tasted real combat. A good portion of his men were green, fresh recruits who had only recently taken up arms. These men, untested and anxious, as such Alpheo gave them a job that did not involve close combat. For this reason, Alpheo had placed them inside the formation, protected on all sides by the more seasoned warriors. Their job was simple yet crucial and it would shine during the fight. As Asag looked out across the battlefield, his gaze was drawn to the far left, where enemy banners flapped in the cold breeze. -------------- The banner-holder waved the flag high, its vibrant colors snapping in the brisk wind, while the trumpeter''s horn echoed across the battlefield, signaling the advance of the cavalry. The knights and their steeds surged forward, spurred not only by the thirst for glory and riches but also by a burning desire to avenge the insult they perceived from the enemy. From their vantage point, they could see that what awaited them was not an opposing cavalry but a formation of mere foot soldiers. "This insult shall be answered with blood¡ªtheirs!" shouted a young man of barely twenty winters, his voice cutting through the din as he stood tall in the stirrups, making himself appear even more imposing. This young man was none other than Sorza, the heir to the throne of Oizen , leading the charge with a fervor fueled by his ambition and the weight of expectations placed upon him. Sorza had been given command of the cavalry by his father, the reigning prince, who saw this battle as an opportunity to elevate his son''s standing among the lords and knights of the realm. In a world where leadership was earned through bloodshed and valor, no man would willingly follow a leader who had never tasted the dust of the battlefield or wielded a sword in earnest combat. The prince knew that his son''s future depended on this moment, on proving himself worthy of command. The task had been deemed ''safe'' enough by the prince, based on the reports from spies who had noted the enemy''s low numbers of mounted troops. Sorza, despite his youth and inexperience, was flanked by a cadre of seasoned guards, their sole purpose to ensure that the young heir emerged from the battle unscathed. These were not just any guards, but handpicked veterans, hardened by countless battles, each sworn to protect the prince''s bloodline with their lives. As the cavalry closed the distance, the pounding of hooves drowned out all other sounds, a thunderous drumbeat that resonated in the hearts of the men. The lords and knights riding alongside Sorza shared in his determination, their eyes fixed on the enemy ahead. To them, the sight of footmen daring to stand against their mounted might was nothing short of a grievous affront. They were determined to teach these ''lowly'' soldiers the true power of cavalry, to trample them underfoot and send a clear message to any who would dare oppose them. Sorza''s heart raced with excitement and fear. This was his moment to prove himself, to show his father and the realm that he was more than just a prince by birth, but a leader by right. As they neared the enemy lines, he tightened his grip on his sword, ready to carve his name into the annals of history , not knowing that the formation they were going to fight was that of a modified Reisl?ufer created exactly to counter cavalry charges. Chapter 96: First battle(3) Chapter 96: First battle(3) The cavalry thundered across the field, a tidal wave of men and horses, their sheer force raising cloud of dusts .The pounding of hooves on the earth reverberated through the air, each beat echoing the pulse of the riders'' hearts. The horses, sensing the impending clash, were in a frenzy, their eyes wide with the thrill of the charge. Nostrils flared as they snorted and breathed in the dust-filled air, their powerful muscles rippling beneath gleaming coats. They had been at war many times and the smell of blood was not something they were not familiar with. Above this surging mass of cavalry, the banners of the noble houses fluttered wildly in the wind, each one a vivid splash of color against the dull brown of the dust and the deep green of the distant woods. These banners bore the crests of powerful families, their sigils¡ªa lion rampant, a soaring eagle, crossed swords¡ªmaking the air above the dust seems like the work of a artist. The banners whipped and snapped in the air, symbols of the lords'' honor and the ferocity of the charge. Th.e? most uptod/ate novels a/re published on n(0)velbj)n(.)c/o/m ---UZZAH--- They shouted albeit the roar was more to be heard by their companions,as the pitiful infantry would certainly not hear such shout covered by the thundering of hooves. Sorza, the young prince, shouted above the din, his voice cracking with the fervor of youth and the desire for glory. "Cut through them! Smash them and claim victory, men!" he bellowed, his words directed more at himself than the soldiers, who were already committed to the headlong rush. Positioned safely in the middle of the line, Sorza was spared the danger of the first clash, his presence more symbolic than strategic. His father had insisted he be kept from the most dangerous positions¡ªafter all, the heir to the princedom could not be risked so easily. Just few dozen of steps away now, the soldiers could see something strange about the infantry awaiting them. Hundreds of spears, long and wickedly sharp, jutted out from the formation. These were no ordinary spears; they were longer, heftier, held firmly with both hands by the men in the front line. Sorza squinted in confusion. The sight was unlike anything he had ever seen. The spears seemed almost impossibly long, creating a wall of steel points that shimmered in the sunlight. The soldiers behind them braced themselves, forming a compact and disciplined line, as if daring the cavalry to continue their charge. "STEADY!" Asag roared once more, his voice raw with the effort. The spears were set, angled forward like a wall of thorns, ready to pierce any horse that dared to charge. The cavalry were coming in , they were so close that he could distinguish the colour of each horses mane and face. Even from inside the formation he couldn''t help but feel scared of such beast, and from that he knew that the men on the first line must be shitting themselves, even the brothers that he had marched with for months must be feeling their knees giving in . As the enemy cavalry thundered closer, the ground beneath Asag''s feet trembled with the force of their approach. He could feel the intensity of the moment, the air thick with anticipation. The horses were now only two dozen steps away, their riders'' armor glinting in the sunlight as they prepared to smash into the infantry formation. Asag''s eyes narrowed as he gauged the distance. The moment was upon them. "JAVELINS!" he bellowed, his voice a command that cut through the noise of the battlefield. In an instant, the recruits¡ªgreen but eager¡ªsnapped into action. They had been drilled for this for a few hours , and despite their inexperience, they moved as ordered. Arms shot upward, each soldier hefting a javelin and taking aim at the oncoming cavalry. The tension in the air was palpable as the recruits focused, their breaths held for the briefest of moments. Then, as if by a single breath, the javelins were released. A swarm of projectiles arced through the sky, their deadly tips glinting as they descended upon the enemy. The air was filled with the sound of the javelins whistling through the air before finding their marks. The first line of knights took the brunt of the volley. Some javelins struck true, piercing through chainmail and into flesh. Knights cried out as the sharpened points drove deep, some falling from their saddles with a pained grunt. Horses screamed as they were struck, their powerful bodies faltering under the sudden pain, collapsing to the ground and throwing their riders violently. For those armored in heavier steel plate beneath their mail, the javelins might not have penetrated as deeply, but the sheer force of the impact was enough to unseat several of them. The knights found themselves tossed from their saddles, landing heavily on the ground, the wind knocked out of them. Some struggled to rise, only to be trampled by the hooves of their own charging comrades. The effect was immediate and chaotic. The front lines of the cavalry were disrupted, their advance faltering as the wounded and the dead littered the field. Yet the charge was not over as the lines behind avoided their fallen companion as they advanced to give the footmen a taste of the cavalry''s steel. (MAP IN THE COMMENT) Chapter 97: First battle(4) Chapter 97: First battle(4) Men moaned in agony where they had fallen, clutching at their wounds, their cries of pain rising into the cool morning air. Horses whinnied in fear and distress, their screams cutting through the clamor as they lay dying or struggled to rise, their legs shattered by the fall. The stench of blood and sweat began to mix with the cold breeze, causing many of the men to breath from their mouth as not smell the foul odors. Among the chaos, the remainder of the enemy cavalry, undeterred by the broken line ahead, pressed on. Dust swirled as the surviving knights reformed their ranks, their steeds snorting and pawing the ground, eager to charge. The ground trembled once more, the pounding of hooves a rhythmic drumbeat of death as they galloped forward with renewed ferocity, as if they casualties they had just suffered did not exist. Asag could see his formation tightening, the men gripping their spears as they braced for impact. The recruits behind the veterans clutched their weapons, eyes wide with fear, some murmuring desperate prayers to the gods for protection. "BRACE FOR IMPACT!" Asag bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos as he hurled another javelin into the approaching mass of knights, the only thing he could do to help in the fight. The clash, long anticipated, finally came. The cavalry charged, fully expecting the sight of their gleaming armor and sheer momentum to send the infantry scattering. It was a tactic that had worked countless times before¡ªpeasant levies would break at the first sight of a cavalry charge, their fear overpowering any courage they could have . But this time, against all odds, the infantry held. The knights surged forward, lances leveled for a devastating blow, but something unexpected happened. The infantry didn''t waver. They stood firm, their formation tight, their spears poised as they faced down the enemy . The horses, creatures of instinct and survival, hesitated. They saw the deadly points of the spears aimed directly at them and began to slow, their eyes wide with fear. No amount of spurring or shouting from their riders could convince the beasts to charge headlong into a wall of sharp, unyielding steel. Panic rippled through the cavalry as their mounts resisted, trying to veer off or rear up to avoid impalement. The horses, confused and unwilling to march to their deaths, slowed to a near halt before the lances could reach the infantry . In the chaos of their refusal, they exposed their underbellies and chests to the infantry below. The men on the front lines, , seized the opportunity with deadly precision. They thrust their long spears upward, driving them into the vulnerable horses and unseating their riders. The scene was chaos¡ªhorses reared in terror, throwing men from their saddles, while the infantry pressed the advantage,those behind the three lines of spearment quickly advanced bearing hammers or daggers, stabbing and smashing at the knights now on foot or struggling to regain control. The call echoed across the battlefield as one knight after another relayed the order. Slowly, the cavalry began to retreat. The riders tugged at their reins, forcing their steeds to turn and gallop back. As the cavalry regrouped, pulling back a safe distance from the enemy, Sorza called out, "Ready yourselves! We will charge again. This time, we will break them." His voice was firm, but there was a sliver of doubt creeping into his tone that he hoped the men would not hear. ------------- The clash between the infantry forces was no less intense than that of the cavalry. On the left flank, while the cavalry struggled to break through, the infantry battle unfolded with brutal ferocity. The two forces could not have been more different. The Oizen infantry, largely composed of peasants, was a ragtag group hastily armed with spears and shields. Their shields were simple, wooden, and not even covered with tattered leather. Most wore little more than cloth and leather tunics, and their spears were of uneven length and craftsmanship. They stood shoulder to shoulder, gripping their spears with shaking hands, their faces pale as they awaited the inevitable charge. These were farmers, vagabonds, and laborers¡ªmen who had never seen battle before this day, and it showed. They were here only because their prince had called upon them, and also for the oppurtunity to plunder during war. On the other side stood the mercenary infantry led by Alpheo, who was standing on the back directing the battle, men who were fighting for coin rather than any sense of duty toward a master or lord. Alpheo''s soldiers were better equipped, each man wearing chainmail that glinted under the sun and helmets that covered their heads. Their shields were thicker, stronger, and better maintained than the Oizen peasants''. But most importantly, they carried with them not spears, but close-combat weapons¡ªswords, hammers, and maces. Alpheo knew that the battle would be won not in long engagements, but in brutal, close-quarters combat, making use of shock and awe. The Oizen peasants were armed with spears, and spears were only effective while keeping distance. His men, wearing chainmail and wielding blunt weapons, would close that distance and render the spears useless. The goal was to get in close, deny the Oizen troops the space they needed to thrust their weapons effectively, and then use their superior armor and heavier weapons to crush them. The two forces clashed, and immediately, the difference in experience and equipment became apparent. The Oizen peasants, trying desperately to maintain a shield wall, jabbed their spears forward, but Alpheo''s soldiers moved in too quickly. The chainmail-clad infantry pressed forward relentlessly, shields locked together as they pushed through the thin line of peasants. The blunt weapons came into play, with hammers and maces smashing down onto shields, arms, and legs. The swords cut through flesh when the opportunity arose, but it was the hammers and maces that made the biggest difference. Each blow from the mercenaries'' hammers rang out with a sickening crack, breaking through wooden shields and shattering bones. Even the spears that managed to hit home glanced off chainmail or were deflected by shields. The Oizen infantry, already untrained and nervous, quickly found themselves overwhelmed by the sheer brutality of the assault. Their spears, meant for keeping the enemy at a distance, were useless in such close quarters, making the infantry feel like mouses in a cage. Chapter 98: First battle(5) Chapter 98: First battle(5) The Black-winged scavengers birds flew in lazy arcs, drawn to the feast of flesh that would soon litter the fields below. Their caws echoed over the battle as they spectated it from above. Jarza stood near the center on the back of formation, his face set in a stony expression as he commanded the fighting. His eyes flickered from one side of the battlefield to the other, watching his men with the sharp attention that only a seasoned warrior could have. He had spent decades in the thick of battle, and this was no different¡ªexcept now, he was the one giving orders not obeying them. "Rotate the lines!" he barked over the noise using his whistle and signaling with his hand a circle . His voice cut through the chaos like a blade, as every 50-man serjeant obeyed the command and relayed the order to the soldiers. Every ten to fifteen minutes, the frontline troops¡ªthose in the thick of the brutal, close-quarters fighting¡ªwere pulled back, replaced by fresher soldiers from the second and third ranks. Normally, such a maneuver would have been risky¡ªshifting troops in the heat of battle could leave gaps in the line, openings the enemy might exploit. But the Oizen infantry, green and untrained as they were, did not press the advantage. They were too exhausted, too battered by the continuous pounding they had taken from Alpheo''s seasoned soldiers. The Oizen forces were more concerned with catching their breath, their initial aggression having drained them. Their spearmen, already struggling to maintain a coherent line, faltered under the attacks . Jarza, took full advantage of their hesitation of the peasants . He watched as the tired Oizen soldiers hesitated, their spear thrusts growing sluggish. Some had dropped their weapons entirely, clutching their shields tightly as if they could ward off the enemy. These men were not warriors¡ªthey were simple men hastily called to arms and given the barest of training. They had no sense of timing, no instinct for when to strike or when to press forward. "Hold steady, lads. Don''t let up," one of the officers commanded, his eyes scanning the lines. The troops now fresh took the front once more. The fresh line advanced , shields locking together as they pressed forward, step by methodical step. Behind them, the spent soldiers who had been on the front took a moment to breathe, wiping sweat from their brows and catching their breath, knowing they''d be called forward again soon. The Oizen troops, sensing the renewed assault, wavered. Their spears trembled in their hands as they tried to form some semblance of a defense, but it was futile. Every few minutes, the pressure was renewed, and the mercenaries pressed forward with hammers crashing down on shields, swords slicing through gaps in the shields, and maces smashing limbs. Jarza, his helmet tipped back for a moment , allowed his eyes to wander across the chaotic battlefield. He couldn''t help but wonder how Clio was faring with his detachment of men. His command was smaller than Jarza''s and this was also his first battle. Clio''s troops were a mix of veteran mercenaries and fresh-faced recruits, much like his own, and they had been ordered to hold firm at all costs. Normally mixing veterans with recruits was never a good idea, unfortunately, they were running low in men and Alpheo worried that entire units made up of recruits would rout at the slightest obstacle. Before he could dwell longer on Clio''s situation, movement on the horizon caught his attention. Jarza''s eyes narrowed as he saw figures emerging from the distant line. More infantry, , moving in formation toward the already beleaguered Oizen troops on the front line. The dust cloud they kicked up gave them away long before their banners were visible. "Reinforcements," Jarza spat bitterly, watching as the new enemy forces marched to bolster their crumbling front. The Oizen peasants had been buckling under the pressure of Alpheo''s disciplined soldiers, barely holding the line, but these fresh troops stopped the front line from routing But Jarza wasn''t about to let the enemy regroup and rally. He turned to his officers, a cold determination settling over his features. "Prepare the men for another push," he ordered, his voice sharp. "We need to crush them before those reinforcements arrive. If they join the fight, this will drag out longer than it needs to." "What in the gods'' name...?" he muttered under his breath, gripping the reins of his horse tightly. Still, Sorza''s instincts as a cavalry commander took over. The sight of infantrymen moving out of formation, exposed and vulnerable, was an opportunity. "They''re out of position!" Sorza shouted, standing tall in his stirrups, his voice ringing out over the thundering hooves. "Prepare for another charge! Let''s smash them now, while they''re scattered!" His knights, already battered from four failed charges, hesitated only for a moment before obeying. As the cavalry bore down upon the infantry, Sorza''s mind raced with thoughts of glory. This time, the footmen would break¡ªhe was certain of it. With so many out of formation, victory seemed inevitable.The infantry tried to retreat back into formation but they would not make it , the distance betweent them was becoming shorter and shorter. But then, something unexpected happened. The horses, which had charged so fiercely before, began to slow down. It was subtle at first¡ªa slight hesitation, a momentary resistance against their riders'' commands. Sorza frowned, spurring his own horse harder. "Faster!" he shouted, but instead of speeding up, his mount slowed even more. Sorza looked around, confusion spreading across his face. All around him, knights were struggling to urge their steeds forward, but the horses were resisting, their eyes wide and wild, their hooves faltering as if some invisible wall had risen up before them. "What are you doing?!" Sorza barked at his horse, kicking its flanks harder. "Move, damn you!" But the animal refused. It neighed in distress, its powerful legs stumbling as it shook its head violently, resisting every command to charge further. "They won''t go forward," Sorza whispered , realization flooding his mind. "They are spooked by the deads'''' In that instant, the young prince''s dreams of a swift victory crumbled. For a few seconds, he simply stood there, gripped by disbelief, anger, and frustration. The dust swirled around him, and all he could hear was the frantic neighing of his horse and the hollow sound of failure settling into his bones. "Curse this wretched day!" Sorza spat under his breath, before giving one last, desperate order, his voice louder and sharper than ever. "DISMOUNT!" he roared, "DISMOUNT AND FIGHT ON FOOT, MEN!" His words cut through the chaos like a blade, reaching the ears of his knights who, though battered and confused, obeyed immediately. The sound of armored men hitting the ground rang out as the cavalry abandoned their steeds, clambering to their feet with swords, axes, and maces in hand using the same warfare they so hated and spat upon. Chapter 99: First Battle(6) Chapter 99: First Battle(6) The battlefield turned chaotic as the riders now on foot clashed against the enemy. Clad in heavy armor, they rushed forward with swords, axes, and maces in hand, determined to break through the enemy lines. The spearmen , held their ground or at least tried to . Rows of long spears pointed menacingly forward, bracing against the weight of the approaching knights. As the knight crashed into them, the spearmen shoved the points of their weapons into the gaps between plates, aiming for weak spots in the armor, like face and armpit, while men with hammers waited their brave knight to break through the spears to give them a good welcome. "Push!" one of the infantrymen shouted, sweat pouring down his face as he strained against the weight of a knight pressing forward with his shield. The enemy proved too strong, some managed to grab the spears with their gauntleted hands, yanking them away from the soldiers before smashing them to the ground with their axes or maces. Wood splintered and cracked, sending broken spears tumbling to the dirt. With their spears destroyed, the men were forced to rely on their swords, hammers, and maces. The close-quarters combat became brutal, as the knights swung their heavy weapons, aiming for heads and chests. A knight, swinging his mace, crushed the helmet of an unfortunate soldier, the impact sending him crashing to the ground, lifeless. Another knight thrust his sword into the gap between a soldier''s chainmail , the blade sinking deep into flesh with a sickening squelch. While on horses , Asag''s men may have managed to stand their ground, what was happening now could only be described as a one-sided carnage.As deprived of their advantage, the formation Alpheo had so hardily managed to form , was getting smashed left and right. -------- Alpheo sat atop his horse, as a slight tremor of nerves betrayed him. His mount shifted beneath him, sensing his unease as he surveyed the battlefield below. It wasn''t unfolding the way he had imagined. He had been so confident that his well-trained infantry would swiftly rout the enemy''s peasant forces¡ªhe''d even boasted about it before the battle. Yet here they were, locked in fierce combat for over an hour nearly two, and the enemy lines still held. Reinforcements kept streaming into their ranks, keeping them bolstered, refusing to break under pressure. He clenched his teeth, his jaw tightening painfully as he struggled to suppress his frustration. His plan had been flawless¡ªhe had thought. ''What''s keeping them? Why haven''t they broken?'' He asked himself, trying to make sense of it all. He had prepared for everything¡ªor so he had thought. ''If we keep this up, they''ll wear us down. The men can''t hold this forever. I need to act¡ªneed to shift the momentum before it''s too late.'' Just when despair began to settle like a weight in his chest, a rider appeared at the edge of his vision, galloping towards him at full speed. Alpheo barely noticed at first, lost in his thoughts of impending defeat. But then, as the rider drew closer, something about the urgency in his approach caught Alpheo''s attention. Things were looking grim; however, it seems fate had other plans for Alpheo , for when everything seemed going badly, he received the good news he was certainly not expecting. His breathing was heavy, his arms aching from the weight of his blade, but he pressed on, ignoring the exhaustion creeping into his limbs.They were finally having the better..... In one corner, he saw a knight felling two enemy footmen with a single powerful swing,killing the first and knocking the second to the ground before finishing him off, and in another, his own guards struggling to push forward against the unyielding wall of spears. Then, a shout cut through his concentration like a blade. "Your Grace! Look ahead!" one of his guards yelled frantically, pointing past the melee while grabbing the heir back from his shoulder. Sorza snapped out of his battle trance, blinking in confusion. His eyes followed the direction of the guard''s outstretched hand, and what he saw drained the blood from his face. A massive plume of dust was rising on the horizon, growing larger by the second. "Cavalry..." he whispered, his voice barely audible over the din of battle. The realization hit him like a hammer. The enemy had held back cavalry. That bastard of Arkawatt had hidden part of his forces, biding their time until now. Fear gripped Sorza''s chest as he stared at the dust cloud, knowing what it meant. "They''re coming for us," he muttered, panic rising in his throat. He had expected to break the infantry with his own cavalry charge, but now he was caught off guard, vulnerable , this time victim of the style of combat he worshipped. ''''PULL BACK!'''' he shouted as he frantically went towards one of the many horses laying back ''''ON YOUR HORSES GET BACK! RETREAT!'''' The prince tried everything in order to regain control, but the unease had already spread through his ranks at the sight of the dust . They had been lured into a trap, and now the trap was closing in. Egil''s cavalry thundered onto the battle , a hundred horsemen surging forward in a well-timed charge. The ground trembled beneath them as hooves pounded the earth. With a fierce shout, Egil lowered his lance, and his men followed suit. The long, gleaming weapons leveled like deadly spears aimed straight at the exposed backs and sides of the enemy knights, most of whom had dismounted to fight on foot and that did not manage to find a horse. The impact was devastating. The knights, clad only in chainmail, were no match for the force of the cavalry charge. Egil''s lance plunged into the torso of an enemy knight, piercing through the chainmail with ease. The knight let out a guttural scream as the lance skewered him, lifting him off his feet before the lance snapped from the sheer force of the charge. For those in heavier plate armor, the outcome was only marginally better. While the lances failed to fully penetrate the thick steel, the blunt force was enough to cause devastating internal damage. Knights in full plate staggered under the impact, their ribs shattered, lungs punctured as they collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath. The cavalry pushed through, horses crashing into the dismounted knights, trampling the fallen underfoot as they charged deeper into the enemy lines. Some of Sorza''s men, caught off guard, tried to flee, but the suddenness and violence of the charge left them no chance. Egil''s men tore through the battlefield, their swords flashing as they cut down the disoriented enemies. The once proud formation of Sorza''s knights was now in complete disarray, bodies and armor strewn across the field. The prince''s plan, his bold charge that had seemed to work , had been utterly shattered in an instant. Chapter 100: First battle(7) Chapter 100: First battle(7) "BREAK THEM!" Clio roared as his axe swung down, biting deep into the collarbone of an Oizen soldier. The man let out a choked gasp, his eyes wide with pain, but the axe had lodged itself into bone. Clio grunted, trying to yank the weapon free, but the effort was fruitless. Without hesitation, he slammed his boot into the dying man''s chest, kicking him and taking the axe buried in his flesh away as the soldier crumpled to the ground, motionless. All around him, the battlefield was a chaotic mess of steel, blood, and cries of agony. Men screamed as they fell, their bodies torn apart by swords, axes, and maces. It was carnage¡ªbut mostly in their favor. The Oizen infantry, under-equipped and under-trained, were crumbling beneath the pressure of Alpheo''s more experienced and equipped men. The advantage of better weapons and armor was painfully clear. The ground was littered with Oizen dead, while Alpheo''s soldiers pressed forward, bloodied but still standing strong. Yet despite their overwhelming strength, the easy rout they had expected never came. It had been nearly two hours of brutal, relentless combat, and still the enemy clung to their positions. The Oizens were giving way, slowly and steadily, but they hadn''t broken in the way Clio had anticipated. "Is their greed of loot really this strong?" Clio muttered under his breath, cleaving through another enemy soldie. The man''s spear thrust came too slowly, and Clio easily batted it aside with his shield before driving his axe into the man''s chest. The blade sank deep, and the soldier crumpled to the ground with a final, wheezing breath. Clio''s frustration mounted as he glanced across the field. The Oizens were faltering, yet they still refused to collapse entirely. The battle dragged on, longer than it should have, longer than any of them had wanted. "REFORM THE LINE AND PUSH!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the noise of the battlefield, blood and saliva staining his beard. His men responded immediately. They regrouped, shields locking together in a solid wall as they reformed their lines with practiced precision as Alpheo had teached them . Clio moved among them, watching as they steadied themselves. "On my mark !" he shouted, hefting his shield and pulling his axe in the air . The men stood ready, grim-faced and blood-soaked, waiting for his signal. "NOW!" Clio roared, and like a tide crashing against the shore, the line surged forward again. Steel met flesh as they charged in unison, breaking into the wavering ranks of the Oizens with sheer, unrelenting force. Clio could feel the bloodlust rising in his men as they pushed forward with renewed vigor. Their faces were smeared with blood and dirt, their eyes wild with the adrenaline of battle. They shouted taunts at the enemy, trying to break their spirits as much as their bodies. "You will die here, bastards!" one soldier spat, his voice hoarse The line collapsed entirely. What started as a few men fleeing soon spread like wildfire. Soldiers trampled over one another in their haste to escape the slaughter, the once-organized force now nothing more than a panicked mob. "Run!" someone screamed from the back ranks, and with that, the Oizen forces broke. Asag''s men, spears still at the ready, advanced relentlessly, their formation holding strong as they cut down any who lagged behind. The army was now in full retreat, their banners falling as they scattered across the battlefield, leaving behind the dead and dying while the lords that were leading them immediately used their horses to retreat as soon as they saw the battle turning around . It was a sight Clio had longed to see¡ªthe moment of victory. A fierce grin spread across his blood-smeared face, and without hesitation, he let out a primal scream that echoed across the battlefield. "PURSUE THEM!" he roared, his voice hoarse from the hours of shouting. "But don''t go too far! Keep the formation tight!" His men, exhilarated by the sight of the fleeing enemy, responded with a deafening cheer. Some of the veterans grinned knowingly, while the newer recruits simply quickly formed up to follow Clio''s lead. He himself wasted no time, surging forward with long, powerful strides, his axe at the ready. He moved like a man possessed, determined to capitalize on the enemy''s retreat. This was Clio''s first real taste of battle, and he had performed far better than he ever imagined. His initial nerves had long since evaporated, replaced by bloodlust. With each swing of his axe, he had felt more at ease, the rhythm of battle coming to him naturally. As they pursued the fleeing Oizen soldiers, Clio kept his pace controlled, just as he had ordered. He knew the dangers of letting his men get too carried away¡ªleast they fall into a trap. The enemy was in disarray, but they could regroup or have reinforcements waiting. He swung his axe into the back of a fleeing soldier, the blade sinking deep into the man''s spine before he kicked the body aside, barely breaking his stride. Around him, his men were cutting down the stragglers, their war cries mingling with the desperate screams of the retreating enemy. The battle was won Chapter 101: The day is won! Chapter 101: The day is won! Yarkawatt, Prince of Yarzat, stood atop his steed overlooking the battlefield, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of triumph and disbelief. For the first time in years, the bitter taste of defeat was absent from his lips, replaced by the sweet sensation of victory. The enemy was in full retreat, their soldiers scattering like leaves before the wind. And now, the sight of the fleeing Oizen forces was almost too much to contain. He threw his head back and laughed¡ªa deep, booming sound that reverberated through the ranks of his men standing nearby. It was a rare, joyous sound, one that echoed the sheer relief and exhilaration he felt. The long years of near-defeats, political setbacks, and skirmishes that had brought nothing but shame were finally washed away by this glorious moment.Many of his lords after this victory may even decided to reapproach the prince. "By the gods! Look at them run!" Yarkawatt cried, a wide grin splitting his face as he turned to Rober who shared the same smile. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword as if he could barely restrain himself from joining the chase. "They''re nothing but cowards!" His eyes sparkled with delight as he looked down at his commanders. There was a fire in his gaze, a youthful energy that hadn''t been there in years. The years of waiting, of watching as other lords ignored his authority while he sat idle, had all been wiped clean by this moment. "Tell the men to pursue them!" he barked at his commanders, his voice full of glee. "Chase them down and give no quarter!" The couriers rushed off to relay the orders, and the army sprang into action. Yarkawatt watched them eagerly as his forces surged forward, hunting down the fleeing remnants of the enemy. His hands trembled with excitement, and he could feel the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins.For too long, he had been the one retreating, licking his wounds while others gained glory. But not today. Today, the enemy fled before him, and the land would sing of his victory. "We''ll break them here," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, his grin widening. "And once we do, the rest of their lands will be ripe for the taking." Yarkawatt savored the moment, nearly oblivious to the heavy toll the battle had taken on his own forces. The stench of blood, sweat, and death lingered in the air, but he was far more focused on the sweetness of victory that now coated his thoughts. Yet, his triumph was cut short when a rider galloped toward him, kicking up a cloud of dust, who had came to explain what had happened "Your Grace, it seems the plan has worked," the rider said, breathless but eager to deliver the good news. "The enemy cavalry was routed by the mercenaries'' charge. They pushed through the left flank and later reinforced the infantry, which caused the entire left wing of the Oizen forces to collapse. The prince of Oizen had no choice but to call for a retreat." Yarkawatt''s grin widened as he listened. He turned to Robert, his trusted advisor, with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. "I knew those mercenaries were worth every coin," he said with a smirk. Robert offered a measured bow in response, his face betraying little emotion, but the prince could sense the unspoken approval beneath the man''s stoic exterior. Everything had gone according to plan. But the rider wasn''t finished. "Your Grace," the man continued, his tone shifting slightly, "I have further news. Captain Alpheo has been spotted returning to camp with some of his men. It seems they are escorting prisoners... potentially important ones." Yarkawatt''s victorious swagger faltered for the briefest of moments. The mention of prisoners immediately transported him back to the disaster at Aracina¡ªa debacle that still haunted him. It had been a stark lesson in how fragile control could be when taken for granted. He could not afford to let those prisoners remain under the mercenaries'' control for too long. Alpheo was a good paid sword, but Yarkawatt knew better than to trust anyone with things above them . He needed to seize control of the situation before it slipped through his fingers like before. "I understand," Yarkawatt said, his voice tightening with resolve. "You''re dismissed." The rider gave a swift bow and retreated. Yarkawatt''s eyes narrowed as he turned back to his men, his earlier elation now tempered by the need for action. The victory was not complete until the prisoners were securely in his grasp. Alpheo''s gaze finally shifted toward the long line of prisoners being led on foot, their hands bound in front of them . Their heads hung low in shame and defeat as they trudged across the field, a stark contrast to the proud knights they had been just hours before. Behind them, a cluster of riderless horses followed, the leather reins held by Egil''s men. The animals, once fierce in battle, now appeared docile, plodding along with a calmness that belied the chaos they had just endured. Alpheo''s eyes narrowed as he counted. There were dozens of them¡ªhorses without riders, captured by his men. He threw a sidelong glance at Egil, his expression full of silent questions. Egil, catching the look, grinned knowingly. "A good haul, eh?" he said, his voice light but proud. "These," he gestured to the line of horses, "are the spoils of today''s work. We''ve captured 28 knights, 43 horses, and¡ª" he paused, turning his attention toward the only mounted prisoner in the group, a man bound to his saddle. Egil added, his voice quiet with triumph, "the heir of Oizen. He was fighting in the frontline whe suddendly he was dismounted to the ground by some footmen, before they could kill them, however, he yelded, and apparently the men took him prisoner after observing how decorated the armor was. Gotta give it to the youngster though he never once retreated...." Alpheo said nothing for a long moment, his eyes fixed on Sorza. The weight of what this meant slowly settled in his mind. He had expected a hard-fought battle and perhaps a minor victory if luck favored them¡ªbut this? This was beyond even his wildest hopes. Then, without warning, he burst into laughter, a deep, genuine sound. He reached out and slapped Egil''s back with a hearty thud. "By the gods, Egil, you''ve outdone yourself! The day couldn''t have gone better if we''d written it ourselves." Egil grinned back, clearly pleased with his friend''s reaction. "Luck was with us, Alpheo. That''s for sure." Alpheo''s laughter faded, but the smile remained on his face. "Luck, yes," he said, his eyes flicking once more to Sorza. "But skill too'''' Alpheo''s smile faltered for a moment, darkening as a shadow of concern crossed his face. His tone shifted, becoming more serious almost as if he remembered somethign as he asked, "How many men do you have with you, Egil?" Egil frowned slightly at the abrupt question, sensing the tension behind it. "Fifty," he answered, his voice cautious. "The rest are on their way back as you ordered. They didn''t pursue beyond the battlefield." Alpheo nodded thoughtfully, his mind racing. ''Fifty... with mine, that makes about sixty,'' he calculated. After a pause, he said, "Send one of your men to hurry them up. Tell them to make haste, and make sure the infantry knows as well. If there are wounded, leave some behind to tend to them, but the bulk of our forces needs to be marching toward the camp. Now." Egil''s brows furrowed, his unspoken question clear in his eyes: ''Why?'' Alpheo met his gaze and sighed softly, though his voice remained steady. "If my suspicions are correct¡ªand I pray they aren''t¡ªwe might be walking into more trouble. We may need all the strength we can gather." Egil''s expression shifted from curiosity to understanding, though it was clear he still didn''t have the full picture. But he didn''t ask further; instead, he gave a curt nod and turned to issue the orders. Alpheo watched him go before casting a glance at Sorza, the captured heir of Oizen, bound on horseback who since came here said nothing and just observed the ground. "We''ll return to camp and secure our... guest," Alpheo added, his eyes lingering on the prince, whose defeat now felt heavier even to the victors with each passing moment. "Whatever happens next, we need to be ready." As he said so he turned towards the prisoner as he bowed ''''Your grace I hope you will find our accommodations to your liking, I apologise for the simplicity of it through.After all we are no rich men'''' Chapter 102: Confrontation (1) Chapter 102: Confrontation (1) Keeping a watchful eye on the prisoners, Alpheo led his men toward the camp at a steady pace. The captured walked in sullen silence, their hands bound tightly, heads lowered in defeat. Every now and then, one of them would glance around nervously, as if waiting for a moment to escape. As they marched, Alpheo looked up at the sky and noticed the absence of ravens. They must have already started their feast, he imagined the ghastly sight of them, tearing at the eyes of the dead as their first choice before going towards the nose and whatever part was easy to strip from the bones. As they neared the camp, Alpheo glanced back at Egil, who had fallen in beside him. "Any word from the men we sent ahead?" "Not yet," Egil replied, his brow furrowing. "But they should catch up soon enough." "Good. We''ll need every sword we can get if this situation turns sour." Alpheo''s voice was grim, I hope though I am still just overthinking it... As Alpheo''s party reached the camp, the sight of his banner rippling in the wind signaled their arrival. The guards at the gate, recognizing the familiar colors, hurriedly opened the wooden doors, allowing the small company to enter. The creak of the gate echoed through the quiet encampment, and Alpheo immediately noticed the sparse presence of men. There couldn''t have been more than a dozen soldiers left, most likely left behind to guard the camp while the bulk of their forces were still scattered after the battle. Alpheo, without wasting time, dismounted and gave a sharp wave to his men. "Get them inside, lock them away," he ordered, pointing toward the small makeshift holding area at the far end of the camp. The captured knights were ushered forward, their steps slow and heavy with the weight of defeat. "But not him," Alpheo added, pointing to the firstborn son of the King of Oizen, who stood among the bound men. Sorza had been unbound shortly before they entered the camp. Alpheo knew the importance of treating such a high-ranking captive with a measure of dignity. The young prince, despite his capture, carried himself with the quiet defiance that only a prince could muster. "Take him to one of the empty tents," Alpheo continued, signaling to a pair of his men. "Treat him well. He''s not to be harmed, make sure he is not injured " The guards nodded and guided Sorza toward a larger tent on the edge of the camp. The rest of the prisoners were led away, their armors clinking softly as they were taken toward a small wooden structure serving as a holding cell, where they were first deprived of armor and made to sit on the ground. Alpheo watched them disappear remembering how it felt to pass the night there, before turning to Egil, who had dismounted and was waiting by his side. "Only a dozen men here," Alpheo muttered under his breath, his sharp eyes darting around, scanning the camp. He turned to Egil, his expression serious. "Send 10 men over to the gate," he ordered, his voice low but firm. "I want it secured, and make sure they don''t do anything rash. If something''s to happen, I want us to control the gate ¡ªno chaos, no panic." Egil nodded immediately. He gestured to a group of nearby soldiers, relaying Alpheo''s orders with a quick hand signal. Ten men broke away from the main group, marching toward the gate. Dozens of minutes passed in tense silence. Alpheo paced near the camp''s entrance, his mind racing with thoughts of what might come next. Suddenly, the heavy wooden gate creaked open with a loud groan. Alpheo turned sharply, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword. Through the entrance rode a group of 100 soldiers, all bearing the banner of Arkawatt. Their armor gleamed in the fading light, and the banner snapped in the wind, its colors vibrant and unmistakable. The riders poured in, filling the space within the camp,. They halted in formation, their horses snorting and stamping the ground. Alpheo''s refusal was as calm as it was final. "I must decline, Your Grace." That was enough. Arkawatt''s guards, already on edge, drew their swords in unison, the metallic ring cutting through the air. Alpheo''s men responded immediately, their own blades flashing in the sunlight, stepping protectively in front of their captain. Both sides stood ready for violence. The camp suddenly became a standoff between mercenaries and royal guards.Neither the prince nor Alpheo made sign to defuse the situation. Alpheo remained steady, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, eyes fixed on Arkawatt. "We fought for this victory, Your Grace. We bled for it, and we gave it to you .We will not relinquish what is rightfully ours." His voice cut through the silence, daring the prince to act. Arkawatt''s face darkened, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of drawn blades and defiant mercenaries. He stepped forward, his gaze locking onto Alpheo''s with a piercing intensity. The moment stretched, filled with an electric tension as if the entire camp held its breath. "Are you truly ready for this, Captain?" Arkawatt asked, his voice low and menacing. "Do you understand what you''re risking here? A few coins and a contract against the wrath of a prince? Would you die for it?" His words were a challenge, a thinly veiled threat wrapped in princely authority. Arkawatt''s fingers twitched at his side, his sword still sheathed, but the implication of violence hung heavy between them. His guards stood at attention, their swords gleaming, waiting for a command. Alpheo''s men bristled, but the captain himself remained unmoved. He met Arkawatt''s gaze without flinching, his jaw set with calm resolve. "I understand perfectly, Your Grace," Alpheo said, his voice steady as stone. "The question is¡ªdo you?" The tension snapped like a coiled spring, sending everyone into a frenzy. One of Arkawatt''s guards, eyes blazing with fury, was the first to act. He lunged forward with a savage swing of his sword, aiming directly for Alpheo. The speed and ferocity of the attack caught many off guard, included the captain himself. Just before the blade could reach him, a heavy shield slammed into place. Vroth, one of Alpheo''s trusted guards, had leaped into action. His large round shield intercepted the strike with a deafening clang, saving Alpheo from the swing. The moment the sword struck, all hell broke loose. Alpheo''s men, already on edge, drew their swords and axes in an instant, roaring in anger as they hacked the guards ahead of them. Arkawatt''s guards responded just as quickly, their blades gleaming as they clashed with the mercenaries. Chaos erupted in the camp as steel met steel, the ringing sound of swords clashing reverberating through the air. Men grappled and swung wildly at each other. Dust kicked up from the ground as bodies collided, and the once orderly camp turned into a chaotic battlefield. Shouts of anger and confusion mixed with the sharp cries of pain, as blood spilled on both sides. Alpheo ducked beneath a swing from another of Arkawatt''s men, his reflexes sharp. He turned, catching a glimpse of Arkawatt himself, now surrounded by his own guards as the prince barked furious orders, his face twisted in rage. "Protect the prince!" someone screamed, as both sides became locked in a desperate struggle, neither willing to back down. Vroth, still shielding Alpheo, bashed the attacker away with a forceful shove, sending the guard stumbling back as he smashed the man''s chest with his mace. The battle Alpheo had feared, in the end, had arrived. Chapter 103: Confrontation (2) Chapter 103: Confrontation (2) One of Arkawatt''s guards, a tall man with a battle-worn face, swung his sword at one of Alpheo''s mercenaries. The mercenary, a younger soldier with a dented helmet, parried just in time with his shield, but the impact forced him backward. Before the guard could strike again, the mercenary sidestepped and drove his hammer into the man''s side, causing the men to bend in pain . Blood spurted out down as the mercenary than drove his mace to the head''s casuing him to collapse to the ground. Nearby, two of Arkawatt''s soldiers had cornered one of Alpheo''s men against a supply cart. They swung with deadly intent, trying to cut him down, which in the end they managed to do. Blood and dirt splattered the ground as more bodies fell. The sounds of battle¡ªthe ringing of steel, the grunts of effort, and the screams of the wounded¡ªfilled the air, mixing with the smell of sweat and iron. One of Alpheo''s men, a burly fighter with a thick beard, grabbed one of Arkawatt''s soldiers by the neck and headbutted him savagely, cracking the man''s nose. Blood poured from the guard''s face as he stumbled, dazed, only to be met by the bearded mercenary''s fist, which knocked him unconscious. Alpheo glanced around, seeing his men holding their own, but barely. The fight was brutal, and no quarter was given on either side. "Hold the line!" Alpheo shouted, his voice barely cutting through the din. His mercenaries regrouped, fighting with ferocity, knowing that any sign of weakness could mean death. The fight was everywhere, whenever Alpheo turned someone was fighting .The smell of blood entered his nose as he took deep breath from the hot air let out by the men.Suddendly the hair on Alpheo''s neck stood erect, and he turned around just to see a man with a sword raised high ready to let it down on him . Alpheo barely had time to react. The sword gleamed in the sunlight, already descending toward him with lethal intent. Instinctively, he raised his own blade to parry, but he knew it wouldn''t be fast enough. Just as the sword was about to come down on him, a shield slammed into the attacker''s side with bone-crunching force. Vroth , ever vigilant, had come to his aid once again. The attacker stumbled sideways, thrown off balance , fell to the ground , and Alpheo took his chance. With a fierce shout, he thrust his sword forward, catching the man in the side where his armor was weakest.Still only few centimeters managed to get in,as the chainmail stopped it from getting deeper Without wasting a second Alpheo put his leg over the man''s chest before thrusting his sword into the guard''eye causing him to die , with the blade piercing what Alpheo felt was the brain "Stay focused!" Vroth barked, pulling Alpheo back toward the center of his close guards leaving the man to die alone on the ground Just as the tide seemed to turn in favor of Arkawatt''s guards, Alpheo''s forces, though bloodied and battered, were being steadily pushed back. The prince''s men fought with renewed fury, their swords and axes cutting through the mercenaries'' defenses. Alpheo''s line was breaking under the weight of their relentless assault, certainly made easier by the fact that most of Alpheo''s men had been fighting for hours. His men, now outnumbered, struggled to hold their ground. The sharp ring of steel filled the air as shields were splintered and swords clanged against armor. Alpheo could feel the pressure mounting¡ªhis guards, though fierce, were tiring. Vroth, still at his side, grunted as he blocked another powerful swing from one of the prince''s elite. Suddenly, just when it seemed the prince''s forces would prevail, a loud crack echoed through the camp. The heavy wooden gates burst open with a resounding thud. Heads snapped around to see a fresh wave of men¡ªdozens of them¡ªpouring into the camp. Mounted on horses and armed with swords, spears, and axes, they surged forward like a roaring tide. The sound of hooves pounding against the ground filled the air, the riders charging straight at Arkawatt''s men. "Reinforcements!" one of Alpheo''s mercenaries cried as he had witnessed salvation. Egil''s remaining men had finally arrived¡ªmore cavalry, and a contingent of foot soldiers following close behind , with a tall black men riding on the front . Before he could understand what was happening ,the formation of Arkawatt''s guards began to falter, men looking around in panic, unsure of what was happening. The once-disciplined line of soldiers began to fall apart as more and more guards repeated the ominous news while turning around almost as if wanting to see for themselves. Some of them hesitated, while others outright began stopping fighting Alpheo, still in the thick of the fight, felt the shift but didn''t understand "What the hell is going on?" he muttered under his breath hoping that it was a false alarm. His men were pushing forward, pressing the advantage as the enemy''s morale crumbled, but something was wrong¡ªthis wasn''t how a battle should have ended. Then, amidst the confusion, Alpheo spotted a figure that made him stop dead in his tracks. His heart froze for a moment as he recognized Robert, one of Arkawatt''s trusted men, standing in the middle of the battle, holding the lifeless body of the prince. Robert''s arms were wrapped around Arkawatt''s chest, his face contorted in grief and shock. The prince''s body slumped in Robert''s embrace, a javelin protruding grotesquely from his chest, blood pouring down his once-proud armor. Alpheo stared in disbelief. What the fuck happened?, he thought, his mind racing to comprehend the scene before him. Just moments ago, Arkawatt was leading his men¡ªand now he lay dead, killed by a javelin.His confusion quickly turned to action. Alpheo''s eyes flashed with determination as he raised his voice, his words cutting through the chaos. "Guards! Surrender!" he shouted at Arkawatt''s men, his voice commanding and fierce. "Your prince is dead! Lay down your arms!I swear you will be well treated..." His words, coupled with the sight of their fallen leader, were enough to break the remaining will of Arkawatt''s guards. Slowly, one by one, swords and shields began to drop to the ground, their owners stepping back in defeat, their faces drained of hope. His gaze fell once again on Robert, still cradling the body of Prince Arkawatt. But then, something changed. Robert''s eyes snapped up, locking onto Alpheo''s. Hatred blazed in his expression, a raw, primal rage that needed no words. With a roar, Robert threw the lifeless body of the prince aside and grabbed a blade from a nearby fallen soldier. He charged toward Alpheo, his face twisted with fury. Alpheo barely had time to react before Robert closed the distance. The glint of steel flashed as Robert raised his sword, ready to strike. But before the blow could fall, one of Alpheo''s soldiers¡ªa tall man with a round shield¡ªstepped forward with a practiced motion. With a brutal shove, the soldier bashed Robert in the chest with the edge of his shield, sending him crashing to the ground. Robert groaned, winded from the blow, struggling to rise, his hands scrambling to find his weapon. The soldier raised his sword, poised to deliver the killing strike. "Stop!" Alpheo barked, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. The soldier hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at his commander, unsure. "Disarm him," Alpheo commanded, his tone calm but firm. "He may still be to use" The soldier nodded and swiftly kicked the sword out of Robert''s reach before yanking him up by the collar and wrenching his arms behind his back. With a few quick movements, the soldier stripped Robert of his remaining weapons, leaving him defenseless. Alpheo spared him a quick sight, before turning around making sense of what just happened . His shoulders sagged slightly as he took it all in. What had started as a triumph was now spiraling into the worst possible outcome. The prince was dead, worse it was one of his men that killed him and if that was not enough they were still deep into his territory with the rest of the army soon coming back. If they were to run they were to be quick with it,as he did not want to be found there with the body of thier ruler in tow. Chapter 53: A message(1) Chapter 53: A message(1) The very act of consuming one''s own kind was condemned by every religion across the lands. The followers of the Five Gods decreed that cannibals be burnt at the stake, their punishment a fiery retribution for their heinous act. The red god of the Sultanate of Azania prescribed burial alive in sand, a slow and suffocating demise. Meanwhile, the Sun-God of Arlania demanded that cannibals be chained in the middle of the desert to be picked apart by scavenging vultures. Alpheo had the misfortune of witnessing such atrocities firsthand. It must have been his second year as a slave in the army when he found himself in the midst of a siege. The emperor''s forces were laying siege to a fortress in the east. Reluctant to waste his men in a direct assault, and being in a good position logistically , the emperor opted to starve out the defenders. Months passed, and the city held on stubbornly. By the fifth month, the population had dwindled from 100,000 citizens to 75,000, and the garrison from 4,500 to 2,300.Once the city fell the garrison was questioned on how they managed to endure for so long, the besieged soldiers could only lower their eyes in shame. They had resorted to consuming the flesh of the dead. The accompanying priest, horrified by the revelation, urged the emperor to burn them at the stake as punishment. However, with 75,000 citizens sharing the same sin, the logistics of such a mass execution were daunting. Moreover, the emperor desired a city intact, to pay taxes and supply men for his wars.What good would be a city without people? In the end, he decided to punish only the garrison, as it was their actions that had led their fellow citizens to such desperate measures, or so he had said. The priest grumbled at the decision, but the next day, he obediently lit the torches that consumed the stakes. Alas, it seemed that his pockets kept jingling as he walked from stake to stake. And yet even cowards faced punishment. And even such crime was to be witnessed by the young man in question. The recent war with the Prince of Oizen had ended just the month prior, resulting in a defeat for their employer near the border. "Guilt of the cowards," were the words the Prince of Yarzat had said as he commanded the officers forward. The battle had initially gone well, until the center of their formation collapsed, leading to a rout. Eight hundred soldiers found themselves imprisoned and relegated to the dungeons while the prince deliberated their fate. Ultimately, they were sentenced to slavery in the mines. However, it seemed that for the officers Arkawatt had other plans. "I can finally see some blood," Egil muttered as he draped his arms around Alpheo''s shoulder, yet his deameanor remained sober "Why the long face, Alph?" Egil questioned, noting Alpheo''s stoic expression. "Don''t you understand?" Alpheo replied, his gaze shifting to the lines of prisoners being led toward the soft green ground. "Understand what?" Egil pressed. "This is more than just a punishment," Alpheo explained. "It''s a message." "Aye, and the sky is brown, while my shit is gold," Egil retorted sarcastically. "To whom would the message be? The worms, to tell them to wiggle a bit less?That will certainly do.And I suppose the birds are waiting eagerly for their copy too ?" " The mercenary leader bowed ''''May I have a word with your grace?'''' He asked The prince''s demeanor suggested annoyance, but he turned to Sir Robert, who stepped forward to address Alpheo. "You treat with me, mercenary," Robert declared. Alpheo watched the prince , who just nodded as he walked forward "Very well. I seek permission to recruit additional men within the city," he stated plainly, anticipating Robert''s response. "So that we may pay you more, you think us fools?" Robert retorted "The terms we agreed upon previously will remain unchanged," Alpheo countered. "Fifteen silverii for each soldier of my 500 in the company. Any recruits beyond that will be outside of our contract and funded solely by me. Your coffers will not be burdened by their payment." Robert grumbled,not seeing the catch "You should be paying us for such a right," he insisted a bit of greed in his eyes . "These soldiers will fight for your prince," Alpheo reminded him calmly. "If you do not wish to grant us permission to recruit, then you shall simply have fewer free soldiers fighting for you. Hardly a loss for me.Can you affor that though?" After a moment of consideration, Robert relented. "Very well, you may proceed with recruiting them. But do not come to us later asking for additional coins" he warned. "I will not. Please convey my gratitude to your liege," Alpheo replied with another respectful bow. With that, he turned and rejoined his companions, leaving Robert to return to the royal entourage with a snort of disapproval. ''Seems like our bows will soon have arms to hold them'' He thought as he turned back to his group motioning them to follow. And as they passed their eyes moved to those of the man on the ground.Their head still sticking out from the dirt, a small shiver went through their back as they walked forward. They will one day be what they are now. It may be in a silvery bed with their stomach full, or in the mud with a lance through their neck ,yet the end will be the same.Off to death everyone will go... Chapter 54: Feast(1) Chapter 54: Feast(1) Alpheo looked at himself , he was as charming as a model.Most of the time , he wore chainmail, and breastplates, yet now he was dressed as elegant as a peacock. Wrapped around his broad shoulders was a crimson silk cloak, its folds cascading gracefully down his back like a river of molten ruby. The fabric caught the light in such a way that it seemed to shimmer with a life of its own, it was beautiful . Beneath the cloak, he wore a doublet of midnight blue velvet, its plush texture making it soft to the touch . His trousers were crafted from the finest black leather. Leather boots adorned his feet, their soles sturdy and worn out from countless hours of marching. As unfortunately among the gifts from the prince there were no new boots, so he used his usual ones. Egil put two fingers in his mouth and whistled in jest "Is that a lord that blesses my eyes?" he quipped, smoothing the silk of his jacket with a satisfied grin. "Nay, lords are supposed to be graceful; this one is as clumsy as a duck," Laedio added with a smirk, he too wearing silk for the first time in his life.And he found it rather comfortable Meanwhile, Jarza struggled to find comfort in his silk jacket, the fabric straining against his muscular frame. Despite his imposing stature, the largest garment they could find still seemed too small for the black giant. ''''Mine is as tight as iron'''' "Curse your god that made you giant," Egil joked, flashing a cheeky smile. "Still sure you want to stay behind, Asag? There''s bound to be good food and drink at the feast." Asag, ever stoic, remained seated on Alpheo''s bed, his response barely above a whisper. ''''Someone gotta watch the men'''' His companions knew better than to try to convince him otherwise, so they dropped the topic allowing the silent guy to do what he wanted. "Want us to bring you something?" Egil offered. "Not me," Clio chimed in, sharing in the sentiment. "Now, there are a few simple things you need to understand," Alpheo continued, his voice taking on a tone of authority. "High society is like a priest; by day, they condemn the whorehouse, and by night, they wander with night in search of whores for the night. They may mingle among themselves, but with us?" He paused, spitting on the ground for emphasis. "Their saliva is worth more than a few dirty mercenaries." "Now, here''s what you''re going to do," he instructed, pointing his finger to each of them in turn. "You''ll close your mouth and eat, but no alcohol," he directed, fixing his gaze on Egil. "Why?" Egil questioned, his curiosity evident. A finger was pointed at the blonde man "At the second cup of wine, you''ll find a goat to fuck if no women are available and no man will stop you from finding one ," Alpheo retorted. He then shifted his attention to Jarza. "You, on the other hand, will glare at anyone who breathes," he instructed firmly. Next, Alpheo turned to Laedio. "You will be as unpleasant as a cock in the arse," he declared. "And you," he concluded, turning to Clio, "you are all right..." he added , prompting the man to smirk . "These ones are members of high society," Alpheo began, his tone grave, "and the moment you so much as breathe wrong, they''ll gladly toss you back into the streets. I want you all to stick close to me, like a virgin with his first cherry-popper. If you stray more than three meters away from me, I swear to the gods, I''ll smack you in the head. And Egil, if I catch you so much as talking to a female, I''ll gild you myself." "Do it in the morning," Egil quipped nonchalantly, prompting a resigned sigh from Alpheo. He sighed "I like all of you, and I see you as my brothers," Alpheo continued, his tone softening slightly. "If you won''t do it for your own sake, then do it for mine. My poor heart would break if something were to happen to you.I want this feast to go as clean as possible, go ahead and stuff yourself with food but don''t go bothering anyone . " His plea was met with a mixture of reluctance and resignation from his companions. Despite their protests, Alpheo had to resort to more pleading and the promise of a night in the warehouse, paid for by their boss, before they finally relented. It was a concession Alpheo was more than willing to make if it meant they would all leave the feast with all parts attached. Chapter 55: Feast(2) Chapter 55: Feast(2) ''''Must we really wait for the prick to call us?''''Laedio asked as he pursued his lips in a sneer. His eyes moved to the decorations in the halls. ''''Yes it is custom for these people for the host to call upon guest'''' Jarza answered as he tried to stand as still as possible. He did not know for how long the jacket would hold his frame . ''''Yes but they are not OUR custom.Me must have been waiting ten minutes ... I say we just enter without a care '''' Laedio proposed as he sighed ''''For these people appearances are everything, else how can they say that they are better than us if they don''t have a way to distinguish them from the common rabbles they rule over?Man must always hold something to justify an action, else it would go crazy'''' Suddendly as Laedio was to give his point to Jarza, the door opened, the guards on the other side giving way for the group to enter .Ahead of them a new world appeared.Wherever they looked at they were either staring at food, or on beautiful decorations.The people inside were all silent as they observed the men at the door . They were silent , but the singers kept doing their job.While the mummers and jugglers, continued to exhibit their works upon a crowd that was ignoring their life''s work. A man as upright as a wooden pole in an arse, stood at the right of the king.He could see that white mane from twenty kilometers away and he would still recognize , it as that of Robert. At the left was instead the prince consort, who instead just looked bored as her eyes moved to that of the jugglers. While the youngest was there the eldes daughter was nowhere on sight . ''''The guest of his grace is entering the feast.They may now walk forward and express their gratitude to their host'''' Robert shouted as if he was reading from a script ''Just like Jarza said '' customs are everything'' '' Alpheo thought, as he walked forward approaching the king , his wife and their two daughters.When he was at an adequate distance he dropped on one knee. ''''This man thanks his grace for his generosity, may he live to be one hundred'''' The prince looked down at Alpheo, and then with a graceful smile waved his hand for them to rise ''''Your gratitude is accepted, you may eat my food and share warmth within the fire. From now on you are my guest, and as per sacred laws , you shall not me harmed, you shall not be deprived of your possession and no slight will come to you from me. May the gods witness my words'''' And just like that the room went from chaos to silence, one again after the words of the prince the guests resumed on their activities. Ladies went back at laughing, man once again between themselves boasting of their achievements. While others instead marveled at the play of the mummers and jugglers, whose mastery of tricks let the guest at a loss of words. Alpheo walked amidst a sea of opulence, surrounded by people who had known nothing but luxury their entire lives. While he had toiled as a slave, they had slept in comfortable beds and dined on fine foods. Yet, even the supposedly exquisite fare of this society tasted like shit to Alpheo. As he brought a piece of meat to his mouth, the overpowering pepper assaulted his tongue, he never liked hot food. And it seemed that there was more condiment than actual food on the table. Alpheo glanced around at his companions, hoping to share some bad words about the cuisine . But they were too busy stuffing their mouths with food to notice. Even Jarza, typically reserved, was enthusiastically tearing flesh from bones with his teeth.Apparently such strange taste, was seen as delicious by them. Disappointed, Alpheo scanned the table in search of potatoes, his favorite dish. Surely, they couldn''t mess up potatoes, was it even possible to do that? Yet, to his dismay, they were nowhere to be found as potatoes were seens as the food for pigs . "Oi, come here," Alpheo called out to a passing servant carrying trays of wine. As the servant approached, Alpheo snatched a cup ''''Point me where the potatoes are ''''.The question caused the servant to give small smirk.After all no-one would dare to think of finding such low food on the tables of the nobles. That smile took Alpheo by surprise, which then quickly morphed in anger. He could let the princes and nobles pass off few comments directed at him, they were at an higher position than him , but there was no way he would allow a servant to make fun of him. He restrained himself from lashing out physically but leaned in close, his voice low and dangerous. "You have exactly three seconds to point me in the direction of what I requested," Alpheo whispered, his grip tightening on the servant''s arm. "Remember, I could just as easily disembowel you after this feast, and your prince wouldn''t bat an eye. The next time I catch you smirking at me, I''ll cut your mouth ear to ear so you''ll never be able to stop smiling. Understand?" Realizing something was wrong , the servant lowered his head in submission. He tried to inform him of their absence , trying to explain the reason as less humiliating as possible. He failed. She chuckled, finding his reaction amusing. "Wanna know how it is done?" Alpheo raised a curious eyebrow, glancing between the princess and the jugglers. The princess smiled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "That one has no tongue." Alpheo''s expression shifted to one of disbelief. "What?" "You heard me. He has no tongue; it was cut off from him. And the one you see him displaying is a pig''s tongue sewed to the uncut part." Alpheo blinked, trying to process the information. "Your grace, if that is a jest, I must say it is a bad one." "It is no such thing," she insisted, her tone serious. "If you don''t believe me, you can observe it yourself. It''s not hard to notice once you know it.See how he only shows a small portion of it? He is hiding the sewing." He felt a shiver run down his spine, uncertain whether to feel repulsed or simply disturbed by the show . The princess''s laughter, however, drew his attention, her amusement at his reaction evident. "The interest disappears once you know, right?By nature, we find what we do not know to be exotic... " she remarked, her eyes fixed on him, perhaps mistaking his reaction for disinterest rather than disgust. Alpheo tore his gaze away from the juggler to meet her eyes. "I have never presented myself, did I?" she asked ''''My name is Jasmine '''' ''''This one''s name is Alpheo, your grace'''' "Yes, I know. Robert talked a lot about you," she said with a hint of mischief. "I suppose nothing good came out of him ," Alpheo remarked dryly. "Certainly not things that are to be said in public," "Good to know, then, that our first meeting left an impression on both of us," Alpheo quipped, his lips curling into a small smile.He too hardly had good thinks to share about the old bastard. Her laughter filled the air, and Alpheo found himself momentarily captivated by the musical sound of it . "How are you finding the feast?" she inquired, her tone shifting to a more casual one. "Quite a spec¡ª" Alpheo began, but she interrupted him before he could finish. "Boring, right?" she interjected, her expression reflecting her own disinterest . "I''m actually fighting off my yawns." Alpheo remained silent, unsure how to respond to her candid remark. Was it not an insult to his father, the host of the feast? "Wanna do something fun?" she suddenly proposed, her smile taking on a mischievous edge that Alpheo found strangely charming.After all the thorns in a rose could be considered to enhance its beauty@@@@ Chapter 56: Feast(3) Chapter 56: Feast(3) Jarza---------------------------- The Great Hall of Yarzat was hazy with smoke and heavy with the smell of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread. Its grey stone walls were draped with the banner of the prince. A singer was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad, but down at this end of the hall his voice could scarcely be heard above the roar of the fire, the clangor of pewter plates and cups, and the low mutter of drunken people. If the truth was to be said Jarza enjoyed his position,he was not high enough to take decisions, but still not low enough for his words to have no weight. It has been years since he had a proper meal , the supper made after a long march, barely counted as one . He was happy where he was , with the tail of his eye he observed Alpheo. He stood there alone looking at the plates.He did not understand why he did not partake in the meal.Was he not hungry? He seemed to skip the meals and instead go for the wine, it was the third cup he had taken, Jarza had counted. And yet they barely had an effect on him.That surprised him a lot, he had never seen him drink, not even bring a whore in the bed, if he was to say the truth.Maybe he swung the other way? He was the leader of the group, the one to take the decisions that would decide where the company would go, nonetheless he never saw him wash himself over riches, women or good foods.He was a strange man.He knew he was one in a thousand and the gods had delivered Jarza to him for a reason , or at least he thought so . Jarza was happy he was not the leader, he had no taste to manage things.It was enough that he had the opportunity to fuck, eat and drink. And he was finding that he had two- men''s thirst, to the raucous delight of the people around him, who urged him on every time he drained a glass. They were fine company, and Jarza relished the reactions to the stories he was telling them , tales of battle and bedding and the hunt.He knew Alpheo had ordered them not to drink, but the wine was so close, and his mouth opened on his own.Was it his fault?Surely not. Whenever he drained a cup he turned around and watched out, for Alpheo. Then after the fourth cup he noticed him, thanks to the gods , , Alpheo did not see him as he was too busy talking to someone.Jarza squinted his eyes to observe better "Lucky bastard," Jarza muttered under his breath, a wry smile curling his lips as he nudged Laedio, who sat nearby, his mouth filled to the brim with food. Laedio''s eyes widened in surprise as he turned to follow Jarza''s gaze, his cheeks bulging with the remnants of his meal. With a knowing look he gave too a smile, the food coming out in pieces towards the ground "For him, it''s acceptable to seek out a bedmate and one of royal blood no less, yet for me, it''s forbidden?" Egil asked his forehead furrowed as he too saw the show Hearing his words Jarza''s patience waned, but he refrained from resorting to physical reprimand. "Alpheo is no fool," he retorted firmly. "He understands the boundaries of his station. He wouldn''t jeopardize his future for a fleeting moment of pleasure. That would be utter folly." "Seems like you''re enjoying yourself," Clio remarked casually, taking a bite of oiled bread. "Not as much as you. I can''t bring myself to stomach the slop they''re devouring," Jarza replied with a grimace, casting a disdainful glance at the lavish spread laid out before the noble guests, though he too took a piece of bread . "It''s not all bad, you just have to find the right one," Clio countered optimistically. "Maybe you can do that," Alpheo interjected, his gaze fixed on Jarza, "Listen up, I''m temporarily leaving the feast. In my absence, Jarza, you''re in charge. Keep an eye on Laedio and Egil, particularly the latter." ''''What am I, a child?"The latter in question asked "Worse, you''re a liability. If you''re left to your own devices, you''ll get us all killed," Alpheo shot back, his tone firm and unwavering. Egil''s response was a dismissive snort, but Jarza nodded in understanding. "Very well, I''ll keep a close watch on him," he assured Alpheo. ''''Just make sure to keep your pants up , the same talk you have Egil is standing also for you ''''He quipped with a joke ''''I am aware.Don''t worry I know my standing '''' ''''I knew you did.Well then have fun'''' Jarza bid him goodbye with a pat on his shoulder as he walked back to the feast. With that Alpheo nodded and left them on their own .As by now he had to accompany a princess on a walk. Chapter 57: Feast(4) Chapter 57: Feast(4) The moon hung in the sky like a luminescent pearl, casting its glow over the darkened landscape below. Alpheo stood beneath its radiant light, his gaze fixed upon its serene beauty. As a child,when he was sold into slavery to a noble family where his days were filled with toil and his nights with hardship, he always liked to look at the moon. His sleeping quarter was a small dark room , cold , dump and humid , his pillow was an hard rock, and the stony ground his bed.Yet the gods, always if they existed , blessed him with one small window. Too high to be used to escape, but not too low to dream of it. Alpheo would steal moments in the dead of night, stealing away to his window to gaze upon the moon''s luminous form. It was a ritual born out of necessity, a way to escape the relentless grind of his daily existence. With his back bloodied by the plays of his master''s daughter , he always loved to gaze at the moon, that was his escape. Jasmine''s voice pierced through Alpheo''s reverie, snapping him back to the present, though his eyes remained distant, hardened like stone. Memories, both bitter and sweet, danced in the recesses of his mind. "You must really like the moon," Jasmine remarked, her tone tinged with a hint of irritation. Clearly, she wasn''t accustomed to being ignored. "Who doesn''t?" Alpheo replied absently. "None that I know of gaze upon it for so long," she pressed further. "I''m guilty of that, at least," Alpheo conceded with a sigh, tearing his gaze away from the celestial body above. Surveying their surroundings, he realized they had left the confines of the feast and now strolled through the garden. It wasn''t expansive, yet not cramped either. In its heart, one could lose themselves amidst the foliage,yet it was not like they could find the exit by walking for a few minutes. Sensing her perplexity, Alpheo took a moment to compose himself, drawing in a few deep breaths to steady his racing thoughts. "Apologies, your grace," he began, his laughter fading into a wry smile. "I just find it amusing how people tend to underestimate a young person in a position of power. They see a young man leading a force of five hundred soldiers, all clad in steel, and their first instinct is to mock and belittle him." He paused, his expression growing more serious as he continued. "They fail to consider on how such youth managed to earn the loyalty and respect of five hundred men double his age. Instead, they send their delicate flower, expecting this young leader to falter at the first sign of attention.Like a dog with a bitch in heat " His voice took on a bitter edge as he spoke, his gaze piercing through the darkness to meet Jasmine''s eyes. "Is your father so desperate for coin that he would send his own daughter to attempt to sway me into lowering our pay in hopes of bedding her ?" Before he could register her reaction, Jasmine''s hand shot out, her palm connecting with his cheek in a resounding slap. Alpheo''s laughter subsided into a low chuckle, the sting of her slap quickly fading as he met her gaze with a mixture of amusement . "Apologies for that, your grace," he began, his tone more conciliatory now. "Perhaps I am still too rash with my tongue. Young men may be inexperienced, but old men are often blinded by their prejudices." Jasmine''s smile faded, her arms no longer interlocked with his as she stepped back slightly. "Still, you were not wrong," she conceded "My father sent me here to seduce you. The charade is over, then. Did I play my part wrong?" Alpheo shook his head, his fingers lightly brushing over his reddened cheek where her slap had landed. "No, you were flawless," he assured her. "But I am naturally paranoid. One does not rise to lead a band of blood-thirsty mercenaries without being cautious.Quite a strong arm your grace, my compliments ..." That made her chuckle "Still, do I have to assume that our walk is done?" she asked, tilting her head to the side as she extended her hand towards him once more. "My father''s business may have concluded, but mine has not. May I be blessed with your attention again?You may find this conversation more to your liking this time..." And once again her smile returned, beautiful and yet as unsettling as a dagger over the throat, her arm hanging in the air like a sword only waiting to be wielded . Chapter 58: In the city(1) Chapter 58: In the city(1) The walk , just like the feast proceeded without anyone dying. Later on when Alpheo returned to the feast, with the smiling Jasmine behind him, he rose his eyes to meet that of the prince, only to see that when her father saw her and Alpheo walking together he gave a small smile, thinking that his play paid off. Alpheo gave no sarcastic reply , he was too shook for that . ''A family of fucking madmen'' he thought as he started walking to his group , after bidding goodbye to a smiling Jasmine . The feast continued till the late evening , with Alpheo deciding to call the end of the night when he started to get sleepy.His business was completed so there was not use to linger there and be made fun of. When he made his decision known to his companion they raised a small ruckus, yet in the end they complied. To Alpheo''s dismay, he noticed that many of his friends were quite tipsy, particularly Egil, whose joviality had escalated as the night progressed. Alpheo said nothing, but made a mental note of their behavior. It seemed that Jarza, who he had hoped would keep a watchful eye on his comrades, had not been as vigilant as he had anticipated. Yet, in hindsight, expecting them not to indulge in a few drinks at a feast was perhaps overly optimistic.Though it looked like someone had more the one. Still the night finally ended, without anyone in his group losing his head or lower member.Something that he was proud of, as they walked back into their rooms. ''''I should have done something tonight," Egil grumbled, his frustration palpable. "I haven''t seen any action in years." Clio, wincing at the scent of alcohol wafting from Egil''s breath "You''ve done enough. Besides, didn''t I find you with a servant this morning?" Egil spat in disdain. "You count that as action? She practically fell into my arms, there was no thrill in it. And tonight, I haven''t even bedded anyone. That was a sorry excuse for a feast¡ªno action, no violence. In my tribe, if there weren''t at least three deaths, this pitiful affair would be deemed dull." "We''re not in your tribe," Clio retorted dryly. "We''re are currently in a civilized place . Having someone die at a feast would make a poor excuse of an host ." ''''Quite back there !'''' Alpheo shouted , growing vexed by Egil''s complaints,"I thought I had told you to keep him from drinking," he directed towards Jarza. @@@@ Jarza defended himself "Every time I turned around to eat something, he grabbed a cup of wine and downed it in a heartbeat. What was I supposed to do, force him to vomit everything back up?" "Maybe," Alpheo replied tersely. "Then he would have been revisiting his meal from last week," Jarza retorted. "I''m not his babysitter, and he''s not a child." ''''Seems like someone is aware of that '''' The star of the conversation muttered with a drunken smile. As Egil stumbled along with a drunken grin, Alpheo''s scowl deepened with frustration. Approaching Jarza with a measured stride, he leaned in close and spoke in a low, tense whisper. "When you put him to bed, make sure to douse him with a bucket of water. Think you can manage that without botching it?" They walked out of the gate and started walking towards the street.The first minutes was made in total silence, both between them than out.After all there must be a space of empty roads between the living quarters of the commoners and that of the high-borns.Also for a security reason, as hiding between the commoners would be harder as it required them to cover this space, which by the way is manned on all side. Making it easy for the guards to spot a suspicious man running. "So where are we supposed to be going?" Clio''s question reverberated as his sword clattered against his thigh. Alpheo shot him a fleeting glance before fixing his gaze ahead. "To the town square," he answered tersely. "We''ve reserved a small space for the recruitment examination. From there, we''ll enlist 100 men for the upcoming campaign." "More footmen?" Clio arched an eyebrow inquisitively at his leader. "Don''t we have enough of those?" "On that, you''re correct," Alpheo acknowledged. "But no, I wish to recruit some bowmen. We have bows and arrows in camp, and none to wield them. It wouldn''t be a proper company without archers." "Don''t forget about the riders," Egil chimed in, reminding Alpheo of their need for mounted warriors. "No, I haven''t forgotten," Alpheo assured him. "We have the horses; we just need to train some men. I trust you''ll be adept enough for the task." "I''ve lived half my life with horses," Egil boasted, striding ahead of Alpheo. "The day I forget how to ride or teach others to ride is the day I''m no longer a Skurish." That took Alpheo by surprise, and he took the opportunity to ask more "Is that the name of your tribe? Skurish?" Alpheo''s curiosity piqued, considering the name didn''t sound imperial. "No, Skurish-ai is the tribe''s name," Egil clarified, walking on ahead. "Skurish is just what we''re called." "Ever thought to go back, to your hometown, I mean?" Alpheo ventured, his tone gentle but probing. Each of them had a home before becoming slaves, but Alpheo had lost his the moment his father sold him. Egil turned back sharply, his expression contorted into a scowl as if Alpheo''s words were daggers tracing from belly to chin. "My tribe was defeated in battle," he responded tersely, his voice laced with bitterness. "Why would you suppose my tribe would still be alive? The Romlians would never grace us with such mercy." It was the first time Egil had spoken about his past, and Alpheo could feel the raw hatred emanating from him. "I never heard of tribesmen residing in imperial lands," Alpheo admitted, his gaze drawn to Egil''s intense stare. "Of course you didn''t," Egil retorted, his eyes fixated on the sky above. "Thirteen years ago, they ceased to exist. My tribe was one of the last. The empire tried an experiment, it failed, and with it, my tribe. They hoped to use our bows and horses, yet they didn''t bother to plan it out properly. They caused us to starve and waited for the first opportunity to wipe us out. And eventually, it came. My tribe was simply one of the last casualties, all the fault of the elders. We were fine in the Green-Sea, we raided and pillage just fine, yet they tried reaching for something that wasn''t due to us. And in the end, the next generation paid the price," he concluded bitterly, his hand trembling as it gripped the hilt of his sword, his teeth grinding against each other in anger. Then, after a deep breath, he spat on the ground, signaling his reluctance to divulge further. Everyone had its demons to fight with Chapter 59: In the city(2) Chapter 59: In the city(2) As Alpheo finally entered the city''s street, the stink of the city invaded his nose , his grey and brown cloak streamed from his shoulders. Everywhere he went he saw eyes. He was going paranoid, a bit more than usual.Since that walk with the princess, he made sure to always look twice behind himself when he was at court and out of it .He momentarly forgot but he was deep in a foreign country with no ally. At the end of the walk , the princess asked him some queer questions. Like what he wished to do after his contract with her father expired?If he had an aim to achieve as he wandered around the south.Or how he felt about being hired against a previous employer. He answered each of them, yet the more questions she asked, the less they looked like questions meant for the prince. That night he said many things , yet meant so little of them.Always responding in a far-fetched way or outright lying. As he walked forward, his group followed even more closely.Alpheo continued to watch his sorroundings, he and his men stood out from the rest of the citizens, they were well dressed and armed,and each time they passed to a street , people gave way to them.He strangely felt safer there among thieves and destitute, rather than the elegant and well mannered courtiers present in the keep.He felt himself in place here, wherever he looked there was something interesting happening. In one of the street a mummer on stilts was striding through the crowd like some great insect, with a horde of barefoot children trailing behind him, hooting and looking in awe. Alpheo too was gazing at him, he put an hand on his pouch, two fingers in his mouth and whistled. The mummer turned around, only to see a silver coin thrown towards him, he grabbed it with the ease a child would grab a ball, then bowed towards Alpheo and continued with the spectacle. Elsewhere, two ragged boys no older than 12 were dueling with sticks, to the loud encouragement of some and the furious curses of others. An old woman ended the contest by leaning out of her window and emptying a bucket of water, or at least he hoped so, on the heads of the combatants.''Old hag'' they shouted as they scurried away like rats, wet and cursing . As they ventured deeper into the city, the streets grew increasingly crowded, the crowds of people pressing in on them from all sides. The noxious odors of the city assaulted their senses, prompting Laedio to cover his nose in disgust. "What a shit-hole of a city,the stink is unbearable how can anyone stand it?" he muttered, his voice muffled by his hand. "Most populated cities are like this," Alpheo replied calmly, forging ahead through the bustling crowd. "You should see one of these cities after a raid," Egil interjected, his expression twisted in disgust. "The stench of decay becomes so overpowering after a week that lords have to employ vagabonds to clean up the dead bodies. Soldiers won''t even go near it..the decay of bodies is for war like the perfume of whores. Wherever you find one the other follows'''' "Romelia is triple this city and six times cleaner," Laedio chimed in, continuing his complaints''''You can bury your head in a shithouse and it still stink less than this house of rats''''. Then they all paused as Clio''s voice erupted behind them in a sudden shout. @@@@ "YOU LITTLE SHIT!" Clio bellowed, grabbing a child by the shirt and lifting him into the air, his legs kicking wildly. "What''s the matter?" Egil asked, striding over to join him. "People don''t want trouble with the guards especially when they are far away from the garrison ," the boy replied matter-of-factly. "Once they reclaim their coins, they lose interest. They might give me a few slaps or punches, but then they move on.Most take it easy as I am small. They all have their own business to attend to and won''t waste more time than they have to . And once they''re gone, I retrieve the coin and keep it for myself." Alpheo smiled as he told Clio to let the boy down. He looked at Alpheo with confusion then obeyed. "How long have you been doing this?" Alpheo inquired, his curiosity piqued by the boy''s audacious thievery. "Since I could run," the child replied, his voice tinged with a hint of defiance. Alpheo pondered for a moment, then glanced at his companions before turning his gaze back to the small thief. An idea began to form in his mind. "Do you want to play a game, boy?" Alpheo proposed, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "What game?" the boy asked, his interest piqued. Alpheo gestured to his belt where his coins were kept. "You have until the end of the day to take my coins. If you manage to grab them, you can keep them. But my friends here will try to stop you. So you''ll have to be quick and clever. If you succeed, you walk away with the coins. But if my friends catch you before you do, they''ll divide the spoils among themselves. What do you say?" The child hesitated, eyeing Alpheo warily. "Will you really let me keep them? Won''t you go back on your word?You are mercenaries why would you let go of your coins " Alpheo shook his head solemnly. "I give you my word. If you manage to take them, they''re yours to keep." The child narrowed his eyes, considering Alpheo''s proposition carefully. "You better not lie," he warned, his voice tinged with suspicion. "And you better get ready," Alpheo responded with a grin. "You have until the sun sets to make your move. Good luck, boy. You''re going to need it." His companions looked on in surprise at Alpheo''s unexpected offer, but the promise of a potential share of the spoils had them intrigued and ready to play along. Though they wondered what had got through Alpheo''s head, he was after all not one that liked to play games. Chapter 60: In the city(3) Chapter 60: In the city(3) As the sun rose above the horizon, sending its rays across the cobblestone streets, the sound of heavy boots and clanking weapons reverberated through the city. Mercenaries, adorned in mismatched armor and weathered cloaks, roamed the alleys, shouting at the top of their lungs that The Freelance Fellowship was hiring . "Looking for a thrill, some coin, and a few battle scars to brag about?" bellowed a grizzledman , a grin peeking through his wild beard. "Join the ranks of The Freelance Fellowship and earn your keep in gold! Two silverii upfront and three more each month. Fight alongside us and reap the rewards!" A younger mercenary, clad in sleek black leather overlaid with chainmail, chimed in with a cocky smirk. "We may not be the most polished lot, but we get the job done. And we always return with a tale worth telling the ladies." With a confident swagger, he added, "For those who seek true adventure and pockets lined with gold, make your way to the marketplace and enlist with The Freelance Fellowship." Throughout the city, other mercenaries echoed similar calls, their voices carrying across the bustling streets, beckoning any who would listen. Many passersby paused, considering the allure of joining a company hired by their prince. The promise of imminent military campaigns, ripe with opportunities for plunder and glory, coupled with the upfront payment of two silverii, proved enticing to those hungry for adventure and wealth. As such many soon found themselves walking towards the marketplace, deciding to give a watch over the recruiter and decide then on what to do. And so more and more people went towards the marketplace.Alpheo, the mastermind behind the recruitment efforts, sat leisurely on a sturdy wooden chair, a half-eaten apple in hand. Around him, his loyal comrades¡ª Jarza, Clio, Egil, and even Asag¡ªstood guard, their eyes scanning the throng for any signs of trouble. To them, it seemed Alpheo was merely passing the time, engaging in a playful game to stave off boredom with that kid. Little did they know, his true intention was to assess their readiness and vigilance should they ever be tasked with his protection. With each passing moment, the marketplace grew increasingly congested,with more and more people coming too see what was happening . Alpheo, nonchalant as ever, observed the scene with a keen eye, noting the effectiveness of his men''s efforts to maintain order amidst the chaos. Yet, as he bit into the crisp apple, a small piece lodged uncomfortably between his teeth, momentarily distracting him from the spectacle before him. With a deft flick of his finger, he dislodged the offending morsel and flicked it away, only to watch as a scavenging rat darted forth to claim its prize before scurrying off into the crowd. He rose from the chair and looked around.''More and more people are coming'' he thought as he looked at the crowd amassing towards them.The fifty men they put were struggling to push them back, some of them had to even hit the people with a rod to make step back. ''''Shit did not expect to see so many...'''' Jarza muttered as he approached Alpheo , his brows furrowed . With a nod of understanding, Laedio hurried off to execute the orders. Fortunately, the rods proved sufficient, and soon fifty men of various ages were ushered into the designated area. After that they were given bows for the selection. Alpheo cracked his neck as he stepped forward, the fifty hopeful recruits watching intently as he made his way toward them. Selecting a bow from one of the men, Alpheo halted "We are recruiting men capable of wielding the bow," he announced firmly, his voice cutting through the din of the crowd. "The only qualification we seek is strength." With a deft motion, he grasped the string and pulled it taut, demonstrating the required form. "Extend your arm as much as you can, then pull the string to your nipples," he instructed, his tone unwavering. "You will hold the position for as long as I decide is necessary. Those who cannot maintain it to my standard will be rejected." Gazing over the assembled recruits, Alpheo continued, outlining the terms of their potential employment. "If you pass, you will receive a salary of three silverii a month, with a two silverii bonus. The contract will last three years, and failure to fulfill it will result in punishment by hanging." He paused, allowing his words to sink in before concluding, "If any of you do not agree to these terms, you may leave your post for the next candidate." No one moved.''Good '' Alpheo thought as he nodded towards the men at the side who quickly took over the exam. They stepped forward, seizing control of the process with practiced efficiency. Following Alpheo''s example, the chosen men demonstrated the test, executing each step . Observing their movements closely, they demanded that the recruits mimic their actions. With deep breaths, the candidates complied, grasping the bowstring and pulling it toward their chests while extending their arms. The task was simple yet demanding: maintain the position for as long as instructed before releasing the tension. Alpheo''s gaze remained fixed on the proceedings, his interest piqued by the display of endurance. As the repetitions continued, he noted the gradual thinning of the ranks. By the twelfth iteration, many had faltered, their efforts proving insufficient to meet the standard. Yet amidst the dwindling numbers, a resilient few persisted. When the trial reached its conclusion, only a fraction of the initial candidates remained standing¡ªeighteen in total, with sixteen successfully enduring to the end. For Alpheo, precision held little significance in this context; what mattered above all was stamina. In the crucible of battle, his bowmen would be tasked with unleashing volleys of arrows upon hordes of enemies, their endurance proving far more critical than any marksmanship prowess akin to that of Robin Hood.And so the sixteen were then led to a bench where they were given contract to sign, in their case simply putting their thumb on the ink and pressing it on the paper. And then other 50 took their place to take their chances to hit gold through war . Chapter 61: In the city(4) Chapter 61: In the city(4) One hour passed and the recruitment selection was done through and true. Most of it went without trouble, except for one of the recruits, who in a fit of anger for not having passed , threw the bow to the ground and broke it by stomping on it . Obviously after that he was beaten to a pulp and thrown in the street all bloodied .For the rest however things went smoothly, and Alpheo gave Laedio the task to bring the recruits back into the camp, where soon they would start their training with the bow.After all the selection exam measured only stamina, so they now had to teach them how to knock their arrows and shoot them . Still Alpheo and his group found themselves at a loss on what to do since it was still daytime.And so with boredom at their heel, they decided to walk through the city to pass the time. @@@@ The streets were as crowded as ever , each with their own life and task , seemlingly disappearing into a sea . Along the streets some tall building sprawled from the ground.Whenever he passed Alpheo rose an eye to the sky, always watching out for any dirty waste thrown by the people above.Luckily he found none and walked on forward. Along the way there were some mummers dancing and playing tricks , with those that wanted to spectate the show making circles around them.Alpheo stood in of those circles many times, and when he found something he liked he threw a coin at the artist before walking ahead The more he walk the more crowded the streets began.Clio who had his pouch almost taken from him was in particularly walking with one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other covering his pouch. It was funny to look at , and Alpheo struggled not to let a laugh out, he knew it better than to make fun of one of his friend.Still of that boy there was not even the slightest trace.D Maybe he had given up, Alpheo thought as he walked forward , the people ahead making way for the armed group.They knew better than to give a reason for them to take out their sword.Many of them found out at their own peril, as these people tended to get power over their head. Give a children a stick and tell him he is to maintain order , and soon enough he will act as if he owned the street. Most people often go crazy for the slightest amount of power, and give a man a sword and he will find any opportunity to use it. Alpheo''s eyes widened in surprise at the sheer number of mummers and street performers that filled the streets. Everywhere he looked, a new circle of people had gathered around an act. The crowd was a mix of eager spectators and sly thieves, always ready to take advantage of the distractions and who knew they were maybe even working for the mummer exhibiting in the street. As Alpheo observed the old man,he find himself being disgusted by it , as if his very own existence was an insult to everything he stoof for . There was something uncanny about him, something that defied explanation. He watched behind him, and noticed that his companions too were feeling uncomfortable.He peered around and the faces of the people struck at him.They were not happy or relaxed, they too observed the old man some gulping in nervousness, other breathing deeply and fast as if they feared the oxygen being taken from them too. The old man cackled with joy and danced as he spoke "Step forward, dear worms , come near and see, The mysteries of past and future, revealed for a fee.'''' His eyes gleamed as he extended a gnarled hand, fingers trembling with age, and yet he moved so cleanly and pure as if he was a child . ''''A silver coin, a token fair,for a glimpes beyond human sense''''He cackled with his broken teeth showing No one dared to step forward or speak up. They simply watched each other, waiting for someone to take the risk and see if the old man was truly a madman or just another scammer. And still the old man danced on, his emaciated limbs flailing like those of a deranged ballerina, his face contorted in pure ecstasy as he continued to breathe in ragged gasps.There was something about him, something that intrigued people and yet made them fear it , Alpheo in particular felt his heart thumping for as the old man danced, he kept gazing at him, and as he locked eyes with the old man , he was met with a smile . Chapter 62: In the city(5) Chapter 62: In the city(5) When a man is in front of a mad beast , he feels fear caused by the terror of having his life slips away and having no power to stop that. As he hears the paws of the animal thundering closer, the heart mimicks the beast''s. And as the maws close on your head at that moment you feel an utter despair.Yet when you are not the one being mauled, but instead you are honored to witness the event happen to somebody else, the fear become interest, albeit tinged with terror and guilt at the sensations felt.The sight of seeing somebody close to death is an art in his own. As Alpheo moved closer, the bustling street seemed to fade into a distant murmur, leaving only him and the strange old man locked in a silent dance of anticipation. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing the thundering paws of a mad beast closing in. Fear crept through his veins, but it was a twisted fascination that held him captive, like a moth drawn to a flame. The old man''s eyes glinted with an unsettling gleam as he watched Alpheo''s approach. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, he clapped his hands together, the sound resonating like a distant storm rolling in. His voice, cracked and gravelly, rose in a haunting melody that seemed to pierce through the air like a dagger. "Here steps forward the man, witness his daring might. Twice he laid with the lady black hue, And once he found his soul anew.The third shall night soon shall , and his ambitions to nothing and dust will morph " After that he laughed ,a dry and brief luaghter . He no longer danced , there was no coordination his foot and arms moving and swinging like snakes.Like that of a man on fire, who feels his skin burning and slipping away . Alpheo''s gaze flicked to the old man, studying him with disbelief. He had never believed in magic or religion, but here stood a being that could only be described as such.He was no fool , and understood what the old men meant.He had died twice, the first one the time his heart stopped during an operation as a young boy, and then his second one before being unexplainable brought back to life. Was he blessed? Or Cursed for it ? @@@@ "Tell me about my future," Alpheo managed to say, his words coming out like parched gasps in the desert. The old man extended his hand, revealing a silver coin. "A silver for a glimpse into your fate," he said, his voice hollow yet all-knowing. Alpheo handed over the coin and watched as the old man bit into it, a loud crack echoing in the air.Was it his teeth or the coin? ¡ª¡ª- The wind rustled through the leaves of the towering trees, their branches swaying in a gentle dance. The green pasture lay beaten and trampled by the heavy hooves of the beast that rode through it. Fear gnawed at his core, his heart pounding in his chest as he urged his horse forward. But he knew he couldn''t turn back, not after the council had chosen Lord Andrux for this mission. His mind raced with thoughts of what was to come, knowing he must choose his words carefully and act humble before his betters. He prayed to the gods for guidance, but the serene sky gave no answer, offering him no hope. The rhythmic thud of hooves on the ground echoed in his ears, the beast''s brown mane bobbing up and down with each stride. His own eyes were unfocused, resigned to whatever fate awaited him. It was such a beautiful day, and yet here he was, facing possible death at the hands of some spoiled queen''s son. He thought of all the things he still wanted to do and say, now wasted because some bitch wanted her offspring on the throne. And here he was, sent to deliver a pointless message to a second prince who refused to bend the knee to a child or worse yet, a woman. To what end? To call him out and make demands on behalf of some delusional queen? He knew it was all for show, a futile attempt at avoiding war. And yet she would still find a way to shift blame onto them when they inevitably came for her head. If he was to die today, then he at least hoped that the gods would have mercy and send her and her son to join him in the afterlife. Sooner rather than later, he hoped. As the sight came into focus, his jaw dropped in awe. He had never seen a camp so vast and bustling before. The thick plumes of smoke from countless fires filled the sky, almost as dark as the fumes coming from the capital''s notorious brothels. The walls surrounding the camp stretched for miles, unlike any city''s boundaries he''d ever seen. There must have been over 15,000 soldiers within those walls, a display of power and allegiance by the nobles who funded such a massive operation. And to think, there was still another prince who could enter the fray. In that moment, he knew peace was not an option; this was to be a total war. Nobles wouldn''t just fight each other for land or wealth, they would capture and ransom one another before gathering around at night to drink and laugh about it all. Instead, they, the people, the poor , the low bastards would kill each other, families torn apart and raped , enslaved in the crossfire. And by the end of it all, their corpses would be unceremoniously thrown into a communal pit with their faces pointed towards the moon , as the men in power would toast at the victory or drink in sorrow for the loss. Such was the way of civil war, where brother would put cruelty into act against brother. Chapter 63: Blood of brothers Chapter 63: Blood of brothers The man rode forward, he struggled to breath even though it was coming in such rapid flow.He breathed in and breathed in but no air came in, only terror. He knew little about the second prince,though he heard rumors and he knew that many times those held little truth. It was always said that the second was prince was arrogant, lazy, and also of great libirdo .The first prince took the head of the father, while the second took the balls.The young prince was known to throw great feasts each time he had the occasion.Enormous orgies, that would unravel into a sea of moving flesh and moans. It was said that a whore in those parties would receive so much seed that the only thing that would match it ,would be the silver in her hands at the end of the feast. The libido of the second prince knew no bounds, and worse of all it was only second to his ego. A man once laid with one of his favorite whore , and the only thing he did not cut off was his head.The rest was gone in little pieces. The priests that cursed him during the day, the night became silent, the day forward too, they would be of little words.As a matter of fact they would not talk again ever. The horse trotted ahead, his long face snorting the heavy breath coming from hours of riding. He should have deserted when he had the chance, he had no family to care for , so he could have easily went to a village and made a life there with the little silver he had .The horse stopped and the man looked forward.He had not noticed that he was already ahead of the camp.Bows pointed at him , as angry looking eyes observed him and his horse. He took a deeb breath ''''I come in peace'''' He shouted as he raised his hand '''' I am a messanger from the capital. I request a meeting with his grace'''' He continued omitting to call their liege prince or emperor.The soldiers on the top continued observing him.Then wordless and soundless the wooden gate opened towards the outside.The embassador dismounted and started walking.It was a rule that no man could go riding inside a camp, for riding on horse meant that they had conquered it.Only the emperor and his close guard could ride inside a military camp.Not even nobles dared break their rules, no matter rank and strenght. Not even the high marshal of the imperial provinces were given such honors. The man and soon enough three man walked up to him.He knew what they wanted, so he wordlessly disarmed himself. Sword and dagger went to the guards, he felt naked without them , but he knew that with or without them ,nothing would change.If the prince wanted his head a piece of iron would not change that After they searched for any hidden weapons, they let him go on with his mission, while obviously escorting him out to their liege. The man felt like a prisoner going to the gallows, with the only difference being that he did nothing to deserve it.He was just a messanger , and he hoped the excuse would hold ahead of the second prince. The tent he was going towards, was the biggest in the entire camp, eight wooden stakes were impaled on the ground as they held the cord supporting the massive tent.They entered,and the prince was already expected him . The prince was handsome to the eye, that had to be said, neck-length brown hair fell down his cape.His face was delicate, lacking any sort of virile strength that his father had. He looked a bit like a woman, it was not a man handsomeness as much as a delicate one.He had no scar, nor the demeanor of a man that saw war and knew it for that.His father was aware of war, the prince not so much,as he probably treated war like a game, a bit like the younger generation of nobility does. Though the older one too, seems to view it more like a dangerous play to pass their days . @@@@ The prince was sitting on a chair, the biggest in the room.The various eastern noble stood at the right and left as they stared at the man. The grip the guards had on him was released, and the man immediately went to bend the knee ''''Your grace'''' he saluted as he his head hung low. Lord Corbray, his white mustache twitching, interjected, "Your grace, I recall your father dealt with a similar message from his brother. The gods favored him then, just as they do now. The emperor had the messenger quartered before his camp, to raise morale or mayhapse just for his amusement . Perhaps we should follow suit." The messenger paled, his fear palpable. "Y-Your grace, I was but the messenger. I bore no responsibility for the contents of the letter. How am I guilty?" "Of course," the prince responded, granting the messenger a reprieve. "Lord Corbray, you speak true. Yet should we not show mercy when we can? This man is no traitor; he merely delivered the message. A minor punishment will suffice." Turning to Lord Landoff, he requested, "My lord, would you lend me one of your knights?" "Your knights are as much mine as yours, your grace," Lord Landoff, the father in law of the prince and also the newest High Marshal of Red rose by the second prince''s decree, affirmed. ''''Very well please nail the letter on the envoy''s hand and send him home.Let him go and scuffle like a rats to my dear little brother. '''' After that he turned to the envoy '''' When you go to him , tell him to go back play with his toy for this is now adult''s business'''' "Excellent. Ser Varthia, please do the honors," Lord Landoff instructed his knight, who nodded in agreement and drew his sword. The messenger''s cries grew louder as he was escorted from the tent, pleading for mercy, though it fell to deaf years . The sound of steel meeting flesh soon followed, quickly drowned out by the voices of men discussing weightier matters. "Your grace, the letter demands a response," Lord Corbray reminded, seeking the approval of the other lords. "Indeed. Lord Corbray, I entrust you with drafting the response, to be signed in my name. I have faith that your words will reflect my own," the prince declared. "Of course, your grace," Lord Corbray bowed as the screams of the messenger echoed outside as the first blood shed by this war finally fell on man''s land. Chapter 64: End of a bet Chapter 64: End of a bet Alpheo turned around only to see a small boy, no olden than 10, shivering as his barefoot stood on the stony road. His hands were wrapped around his pouch, shivering , he did not dare to pull. Everyone around them either already fled not wanting to witness the spectacle, or were still from the shock of how much happened in so little time .Fathers called their children, grabbing their hand and bringing them away as they understood what was about to happen. The boy''s eyes met Alpheo''s, but they held none of the youthful mirth they had possessed earlier that day. Instead, they were icy and steel, reflecting the coldness of the world around them. The pool of blood seeping from the half-cut neck of the old man spread slowly between the cracks of the stones, inching closer to Alpheo''s feet like a creeping shadow. Alpheo made no move to step away, as if resigned to the inevitable. Death, in that moment, was not a grand revelation or a profound experience. It was simply the abrupt end of life, an unceremonious snap that extinguished all light.For all that it was, that humans liked to poeticize , it was just that , a simple -SNAP-. The boy felt its icy grip reaching for him, a chill creeping up his spine . He had won the bet and yet it felt like he would be losing something more important Why had he attempted such a foolish act? Hunger gnawed at his belly, but not enough to warrant risking his life. Fear coursed through his veins, his hands trembling with uncertainty. In the face of death, he found himself at a loss for words or actions, his gaze fixed blankly on the man before him "You p-promised you would heed your words," the boy stammered, unable to bear the weight of the silence any longer. Alpheo''s head turned towards his group, they were few meters behind, and they have been clearly taken by surprise by Alpheo sudden attack of madness toward the old man, as they still did not understand what caused him to snap . Even they did not dare to step forward and yet a damn child not even reaching the two digits , attempted to steal from him. Alpheo''s hand descended towards the boy''s, his touch cold as ice as he grasped the trembling palm. Without a word, he turned to gaze upon the lifeless corpse of his recent victim. The anger had dissipated from his eyes, replaced by an eerie indifference. "I suppose I did," he finally spoke, retrieving the pouch from his own belt and depositing it unceremoniously into the boy''s hand. The boy''s eyes widened with a mixture of awe and fear as Alpheo''s words washed over him like a spell. "Those who dare to defy fate, who rise above their circumstances, they are the ones destined for greatness. They are the cursed, the blessed, the heroes, the devils and the monsters. And you, a small rat, had in you much more than they had in them " "You were but a tool, boy, just as I once was," Alpheo began "I saw it reflected in you in that moment, as your hands grasped your prize, your eyes betraying the tremors of emotion within. That, my dear boy, is a beautiful thing to watch, and much more to possess" He gestured towards the pouch of coins, his fingers tightening around it. "Do you desire these coins? Take them, they are rightfully yours. You have earned them by showing me something far greater. If satisfying your hunger is all you seek, then go ahead, for you have earned your prize. Is that enough for you?" Alpheo shook his head slowly, his gaze piercing yet compassionate. "No, you are not satisfied with mere coins. You, like me, crave more. We desire, we yearn, and we are worthy of more than what this world offers. The world will give us nothing; we must seize it for ourselves, as if we were gods." Cupping the boy''s face gently in his hands, Alpheo continued, his voice resonating with a prophetic certainty. "They do not understand the toil, nor could they bear it. And so, they will never taste the sweet reward of overcoming it. We are the spark that will set the world ablaze, and from the ashes, we shall claim our rightful place.The pyre shall be our doing" Drawing his bloodied sword, Alpheo held it aloft, its gleaming blade reflecting the fire burning within his soul. "In my right hand, I hold war; in my left, I hold peace. Both are separate yet intertwined, for one cannot exist without the other. Greatness shall be coupled with greatness, just as the meek shall find solace among their own." He extended his hand towards the boy, offering him a choice, a chance to seize his destiny. "Now, you have a choice, a choice that belongs to you alone, no one can take it from you . Will you rise up to the stars, or will you wallow in the dirt like a worm?" The boy looked from Alpheo to the sword in his hand, then back again, his gaze steady and resolute. With a determined grip, he reached out and grasped the sword, he tried to hold it in the air and failed as the sword danced swinging around "I see" his voice tinged with pride and anticipation. "you have made your choise'''' He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the boy''s dirty blonde hair, the mud still sticking to his hair, there he did not saw a small child, but himself . Chapter 65: Variables Chapter 65: Variables The room was quiet as Alpheo munched on dried fruits , walnuts and various other fruits .A chalice of wine was at his right. One day passed since he carried Ratto in the palace.The various guards and courtiers raised highbrows at the sight of a child walking beside him . Some thought it was his little brother or some relatives.Other instead thought that little children were of his preference.The issue went down as it went up.And no one raised more than an highbrow at the information,deciding instead to let the mercenary do as he want as long as he does not concern them.After all many nobles had such disgusting tastes Jarza, mirrored Alpheo''s actions, partaking in the bounty of nuts and wine with equal gusto. His eyes, however, betrayed a silent exchange with the others in the room, a wordless acknowledgment of the unspoken question hanging in the air. Finally, it was Clio who dared to voice the query that had been lingering on everyone''s minds. Clearing his throat delicately, he spoke, his tone tinged with curiosity and a hint of accusation . "So, why exactly did we bring a petty thief into the palace?Do you like to take in small boys now?" he demanded, his tone sharp as he punctuated each word with a bite of his apple. Alpheomerely shrugged in response, his demeanor calm and collected despite the brewing storm of questions. "I gave a beautiful speech ,have you not heard it?" he replied nonchalantly, his fingers idly toying with the last remnants of a dried grape. "But if you''d like, I can deliver another one . It was rather good, if I do say so myself, I think I have a knack for them " Clio scoffed, unimpressed by Alpheo''s flippant response. "I''m not buying your poetic nonsense," he retorted, his voice laced with skepticism. "There has to be more to it than just a sudden whim." Alpheo''s lips curled into a sly smile, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Ah, but you underestimate its power," he countered, his tone light yet tinged with underlying seriousness. "Sometimes, it''s the heart that leads us, not the mind." "But you were gone for quite some time," Egil persisted, his laughter subsiding as he leaned forward with curiosity gesturing vulgarly with his hand . "It''s hard to believe that nothing occurred during your absence.You must have done this or that..." Alpheo took a sip of his wine, contemplating his response before speaking again. "True, she was sent by her father to tempt me with her beauty and perhaps distract me with matters of our contract. Needless to say, it didn''t work. However, she proved to be more than just a pretty face. She asked questions that a maiden should have little concern about, and instead piqued my interest as something more , maybe an employer " he admitted, acknowledging the need for outside perspectives on the matter. "And what exactly would she want from us? To guard while she admires the flowers?" Clio interjected, skepticism evident in his tone. "She''s been rather elusive about her intentions," Alpheo replied, his gaze distant as he considered the implications. "But it doesn''t sit right with me. Why would a princess take such a keen interest in recruiting a mercenary band?" Egil''s laughter continued, though Jarza appeared deep in thought. "Do you think she''s planning something?After all we have a strong presence near the city, one pouch of gold and any other mercenary would give the city to the highest bidder . " he affirmed, setting down his wine glass with a contemplative expression. Alpheo hesitated for a moment before responding, swirling the wine in his cup as he spoke. "It''s possible," he admitted. "But I''m not convinced it''s worth pursuing to stay more than we have . The current prince is losing favor with the nobles, except for a few die-hard loyalists. If something were to happen to him, I doubt many would rally behind a female ruler.Always if that is what she wants... And given the current political turmoil, the aftermath would be nothing short of chaotic," he explained, his mind already calculating the potential outcomes. "Chaos may offer opportunities, but it also presents risks that I''m not entirely comfortable with. Too many variables beyond our control, and the payoff may not be worth the gamble." He fell silent, lost in his thoughts as he weighed the current situation , useless to say he was reluctant to bet on the losing side of an already falling state. Egil, ever the optimist, chimed in with a grin. "Perhaps we should entertain the princess''s inquiries,just to know more obviously " he suggested, his eyes alight with excitement. "After all, opportunity often presents itself in unexpected ways. Who knows what doors might open if we play our cards right?" Alpheo considered their varying perspectives, weighing the risks against the potential rewards. "We can''t afford to act rashly," he cautioned, his tone serious.''''We are new-comers in this land, one wrong move and we fall in the abyss.We still not ready for whatever thought she has.Albeit I believe I already know what she wants.The paybacks is outweighed by the risk, is too bad of an investment, end of the story?'''' While there were stories of female rulers taking the throne, most of those stories rarely ended with a good story for them.Much less for a simple mercenary supporting a far-fetched claim to the throne.Always if she was aiming for that. Chapter 66: First mission Chapter 66: First mission ''''Something happened, it must have ''''Jarza muttered as he nervously watched Alpheo ''''Why else would they call us ?'''' ''''Why are you looking at me?''''Alpheo asked ''''You sure you have not tried anything with her?'''' Jarza asked in an accusatory tone ''''We have done nothing wrong, ''''Clio said as he patted the sturdy back at the man before pulling his hand back in surprise. ''''Bloody fuck , are you a boulder?'''' He asked as he looked at the muscular frame of the black man and then at his hand He grunted in response. "Come now, stop it , no need to worry," he said with a forced grin. "We''ve faced worse than a summons before, remembers the whips?"Clio jeered trying to lighten the mood But Jarza was not so easily swayed. "It''s not just any summons," he countered, his tone grave. "There''s something about this that feels different,can''t you feel it in the air?" ''''Unless the gods blessed me with such powers, no Jarza we cannot.Only you have been blessed with such '''' ''''And I am telling you to get serious '''' ''''Stop worrying '''' Alpheo finally interjected ''''We have done nothing wrong, there must be something that we must be informed of, cannot think of any other reasons for which they would call us, if not related to war.'''' Egil, always one to speak his mind, broached a sensitive topic. "What about the incident on the street?" he asked, his tone casual but probing. Alpheo''s demeanor shifted, his gaze hardening as he fixed Egil with a steely stare. "They wouldn''t care if we''d killed all the old men," he retorted, his voice low and clipped. "And that''s not a topic I care to discuss further." @@@@ Though it was not surprising information, it still disappointed him. Fighting in a defensive war was not what he had hoped for when he signed the contract . The prospect of leading a military campaign against an enemy land had always been much more appealing.After all hired swords were expected not to pillage the lands of their employers. ''''Do we have any idea where he will first move?'''' Alpheo asked as he eyed the crude map laid out on the table in front of him. ''''He must be preparing to move towards Aracina,'''' Prince Arkawatt spoke brusquely, with a hint of disdain in his voice. The rivalry between the two princes was an old one. 12 years ago, an attempted marriage between the two had only deepened their animosity towards each other. ''''May I ask if you have already called upon the vassals to come to the defense of His Grace?'''' Alpheo inquired, wondering how many nobles would actually answer the call. That seemed to hit deep, as Robert had done so but most of the answer went uncalled ''''We have already done so. But even if we hadn''t, it is none of your concern, mercenary. Keep your nose out of our affairs,'''' Sir Robert snapped, making it clear that he still held a grudge against Alpheo for his blunt words earlier. Shahab observed the tense exchange between Robert and Alpheo before returning his attention to studying the map laid out before them. ''''Sir Robert, I have been employed by His Grace to fight in his name. I could not think of any matter more related to my business than what I just asked. And may I also suggest that you watch your tongue, sir? As you may find the hands of my companions much quicker than that sharp tongue of yours.And sooner that you think you may find yourself in unpleasant business '''' Alpheo retorted with a sly smile, casually stroking his chin as if Sir Robert''s words were not worth his attention. Before Sir Robert could reply with a heated retort, Prince Arkawatt stepped in. ''''Stop it, Robert,'''' he ordered sternly. ''''He has every right to know. Did our conversation from earlier fall on deaf ears?'''' The prince''s eyes flashed with anger as he directed his question at Robert. Slightly taken aback, Robert quickly bowed his head in apology. ''''I apologize, Your Grace.'''' ''''As for you, Alpheo,'''' Prince Arkawatt continued as he turned to face him. ''''I have summoned you for a task not to argue with my men . Your area of expertise will be needed sooner than expected.'''' ''''Well, Your Grace, my contract forces me to obey. May I know how I can be of use to the crown?'''' Alpheo asked with a slight bow, locking eyes with the prince. As they gazed at each other, Alpheo couldn''t help but think that Jarza was right to be worried. There was definitely something troubling going on within the kingdom''s borders, and they were to be the dogs sent to clean after it . Chapter 67: First mission(2) Chapter 67: First mission(2) The hall lay shrouded in a heavy silence, akin to the stillness of a crypt, as Prince Arkawatt entrusted the first mission to Alpheo. Observing the trio of men before him¡ªRobert, Shahab, and the prince himself, Alpheo understood something.... he was given a lot of bullshit from them. As he approached the map, Alpheo''s keen eyes darted between the faces of his companions. No one is surprised nor did their eyes blinked, he thought as stepped on forward. Apparently he was not called to give his lot on the war-meeting, hell it probably already ended!He was called only to be given his task. "Look here at the city of Aracina," Prince Arkawatt began, drawing Alpheo''s attention to a specific point on the map. Fixing his gaze upon the designated location, Alpheo took note of the city''s layout and position . Situated along the coast, Aracina possessed the advantage of access to naval supply routes¡ªa potential lifeline in times of conflict.During siege one could bring supply and men , provided they had the ship. Yet, despite its coastal position, Aracina appeared to be a modest settlement at least from the map , lacking the bustling trade activity characteristic of major ports. He immediately recognised his primary role though.It was the shield protecting the capital from the prince of Oizen. "I see it in your eyes that you''ve already grasped the essence of your mission," Prince Arkawatt declared, his voice carrying a note of urgency as he fixed his gaze on Alpheo. "As you can discern from the map, Aracina is the linchpin in Shamsa''s strategy. If he aims to besiege Yarzat, he''ll undoubtedly target this city to secure a vital supply route." Alpheo nodded thoughtfully, as he looked down at Arkawatt''s hands that were gripping the wooden table''s edges hard. "And your mission, Captain, is to ensure that Aracina remains firmly under our control. It is the only thing protecting the capital'''' Alpheo''s mind whirred with tactical considerations as he surveyed the map once more. "So, Your Grace, you want me to safeguard Aracina against any attempts to wrest control from us,and wait for your arrival to relieve the city.In short I will need to buy enough time for you to arrive in full force?" he summarized, his voice tinged with resolve. "That is precisely the task at hand," the prince confirmed, his tone firm and resolute. ''''How many men are currently in your control?'''' ''''600 men, Your Grace,'''' Alpheo responded, his voice steady and assured. "400 infantry, 100 bowmen, and 100 light cavalry, all ready to serve you."Initially he wanted to make them heavy cavalry unfortunately he lacked the armor for the horses , so he would have to be content with armorless horses, and chain-mail wearing riders. Shahab''s eyes widened imperceptibly at the sizable force Alpheo commanded. It was more than double the troops he had brought to support his liege. However, he quickly masked any surprise, maintaining his composure. "Well, I suppose your numbers will be sufficient to garrison the city," Prince Arkawatt mused, considering the implications of the formidable force at Alpheo''s disposal. "If you have no further questions, you may proceed to begin your preparations." Alpheo inclined his head in acknowledgment, his gaze unwavering. "Actually, Your Grace, I do have a few inquiries regarding my mission," he interjected politely, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Go ahead," the prince encouraged, gesturing for Alpheo to continue. "Firstly, I would like to inquire about the current garrison strength of the city and the identity of the individual entrusted with its defense," Alpheo stated, his tone measured and composed. The prince appeared momentarily flustered, evidently unaware of such details. However, his second-in-command stepped in to provide the necessary information. "The city is currently garrisoned by 80 men, Your Grace," Sir Robert offered, his tone clipped and businesslike. "With the potential to recruit up to 200 more from among the citizens. The man in charge of its defense, as designated by royal decree, is a captain named Fahil." ''''Laedio'''' Alpheo said as he turned ''''Please go inform Asag that in three days we will be marching .Tell him to prepare supplies and stock up on what we miss.'''' As he finished he sighed as he plopped down on the chair. Laedio did not move and stood still, joining the other in wordlessly staring at their leader. ''''If you have something to say now it is the time '''' Jarza was the first to speak ''''This was not why we were hired to fight.We were to partecipate in an invasion where we could raid at our liking, now instead we are to fight in land we cannot pillage.'''' ''''Jarza is right''''Egil quipped in , as he too was looking forward to putting some villages on fire '''' The contract was signed under the thought that most of our gains were to be made through raiding .'''' Alpheo said nothing and turned his head toward the window , as if the answer was outside ''''How will that beggar get the coin to pay us?We could have stood calm and content if coin was to be made during the campaign, that is no longer doable.Will we raise our steel for free?'''' The other two Clio and Laedio, did not say anything but their were completely agreeing with Egil.In the end Alpheo opened his mouth and finally spoke ''''So I see you are all very good in complaining'''' He snorted through his nose '''' any of you has any suggestion then?We signed a contract and received our horses as pre-payment, surely you would not have us betray our first contract after the prince has been so forthcoming? Who would hire us after that?I certainly would not'''' The group said nothing , then Egil spoke up ''''We could refuse to march to the city citing that was not what the contract entailed'''' ''''Which would still break the contract , seems like you did not read it '''' Alpheo spoke which in reality he did not either, as they were all illiterate '''' The contract says that we are to fight for the prince, it says nothing about offensive and defensive war. Remember for us mercenaries , as strange as it sounds, respecting our word is very important. If people are sure we will be bound by them, then they will have an easier time opening their pouch.'''' ''''Yet our first employer''s is pretty empty''''Egil muttered in a low voice ''''We will be paid nonetheless, if not by coin I will certainly find a way to get us our due .In one way or another'''' he said as he sat down on a chair ''''Sti-'''' ''''IN ONE WAY OR ANOTHER'''' Alpheo shouted as he bashed his closed fist on the arm of the chair '''' This is our first war, and yet you are already bickering before we take any step.Did you think that the road would have been smooth and straight.Well welcome to the real world. Life''s full of shit , deal with it!'''' His gaze moved through the group, they rarely heard him shout, most of the time he was all smile and jokes, so looking at him be angry was quite a sight . ''''This is our first throw of the dice, and yet you are complaining even before the numbers are shown.I am tired all of your chirping, you thought it would be easy?Well it''s not!Let me tell this once again, we are foforeignersere, we are distrusted from the first moment they see us, so the best thing we can do is actually not give them another reason to add to that .'''' His fingers moved to his forehead, as he massaged the ache away "If anyone has any truly helpful suggestions, speak up now," he urged, his voice tinged with exhaustion. "Otherwise, I''d appreciate some peace and quiet. My head is pounding, and your complaints certainly aren''t helping."@@@@ Chapter 68: Northern feast(1) Chapter 68: Northern feast(1) The bane in the southern region was often described as an impenetrable fortress, with walls that reached towering heights and were as strong as steel. But despite its reputation, few ventured to the city and even fewer knew of its existence in the south . Bane was not just a fort - it was one of the few remaining cities in the northern lands. Divided into two distinct parts, the first was a formidable fortress, built between the rugged mountains. Behind its walls stood hardened men who had defended against countless attacks and raids throughout the years. And beyond the fortress lay the city itself. As the prince sat atop the southern wall, he couldn''t help but marvel at how alive the city seemed. Down below, miniature figures bustled through the streets, their movements accompanied by a deafening cacophony of music and revelry. The north was celebrating - feasting and drinking in anticipation of their upcoming march south. But amidst the festivities, there were also darker pleasures to be found. Prostitutes roamed from house to house, flaunting their bodies to eager soldiers looking for a final romp before heading off to war. "It''s time to return," he thought, tearing his eyes away from the bustling city below. Most of the lords had brought their sons along for this feast, knowing it could be their last before heading off to battle. The last time they had been able to go to a war that was not fought behind a wall, was before they bent their knee.So many thought of it as a way to honor their ancestors , who raided and pillaged all the way south, back when the north was feared by the south as a land of mighty warriors. Leaving the heat of the feast behind him, the prince stepped outside for some fresh air. But even outside, he could hear the rumblings of violence within. Some guests had grown restless and started a brawl, while others simply made bets on the outcome and cheered on from the sidelines.War made their blood boil and they needed something to fight the steam off. The prince had had enough of the chaos outside. The sight of yet another brawl erupting, and the ale soaking his clothes as a result, was the final straw. With a heavy sigh, he pushed open the door and retreated back into the keep. Descending the stairs, he entered the warmth of the feast once more. The contrast between the cold, calm air of the keep and the bustling energy of the celebration below was stark. Servants hurried about, weaving through the throngs of guests, their cheeks flushed with the heat of the crowded hall. It was as if the very atmosphere crackled with excitement, fueled by the intoxicating mix of ale, music, and anticipation of battle. "Well, they''re in luck then," the prince replied with a wry smile. "There will certainly be stubborn bastards that won''t open their keeps for us. Their lands they can raid freely." Mjorn raised an eyebrow, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Not worried about the people?" The prince chuckled softly. "Aye, but not so much about getting in the way of northern soldiers with their groins full and hands empty. I like my life very much, thank you." Mjorn''s laughter echoed through the hall, louder than before. "Well, get yourself acquainted with this bunch of beasts," he declared, slapping the prince on the back before walking away. "I''ll get myself something to drink and eat!" With that, he tossed his empty cup to the ground, leaving the servants to clean up the mess. In the end the prince decided that the violence and shouting was not for him and went to sit back on his table. Harold''s eyes moved to him as he entered the scene and sat on the seat reserved for him. His old meal was still there, it had grown cold and he did not felt like eating it.So he pushed it away.Normally he would have retired to his room , yet this was the feast before the war his absence would be noticed . His eyes moved among the lords, taking in the raucous scene of drinking, feasting, and fighting. He had seen it all before, and his gaze drifted with boredom until he caught sight of Elenoir looking at him. With a raised eyebrow, he awaited her next move. She beckoned him over with a wave of her hand, and with a resigned sigh, the prince rose from his seat and made his way towards her. As he drew closer, her figure became clearer in the dimly lit hall. Her blonde hair was intricately braided and cascaded down her back like a waterfall into a lake. She was bundled up in layers of beasts'' pelts, a precaution against the cold night air. But it seemed that alcohol was also providing warmth, as she had clearly indulged in several drinks. Her face was flushed and her eyes glassy as she lazily looked down at the table in front of her. Her mouth hung open slightly, revealing slightly crooked teeth, and her unfocused eyes slowly came into focus as she noticed his approach. A broad smile spread across her face, more pronounced than usual due to the influence of alcohol. And apparently it also made her more handsy, or better yet punchy , as she immediately greeted him with a punch to the stomach. He doubled over, feeling the breath leave his body, and then felt a hand grab onto his hair and pull him closer.The drinks apparently made her violent side shine a bit more. Their faces were now only centimeters apart, and he could see the color rising in her cheeks. Despite himself, he couldn''t help but feel the heat spreading to his own face as their proximity increased.As if drawing him to a kiss. Chapter 69: Northern鈥檚 feast(2) Chapter 70: Northern''s feast(2) The prince''s anguish echoed through the halls as he knelt, his hands pressed firmly against his throbbing forehead. It felt as though his skull was being crushed beneath a rock , each pulse sending waves of agony coursing through his skull. The pain was so intense that it clouded his senses, leaving him momentarily disoriented. Then, like a shadow emerging from the darkness, Elenoir appeared before him. There was a primal ferocity in her face that sent a shiver down his spine, her demeanor sharp and intense. "What in the seven hells was that for?" he demanded, his voice strained with pain and frustration as he struggled to maintain his composure. Elenoir''s response was swift and cutting, her words laced with a fiery intensity that matched her fierce grip on his neck. "Where the hell were you?" she snapped, her eyes ablaze with anger and confusion. "I was... out," he managed to gasp, his breath catching in his throat as he attempted to push her hands away. But his feeble efforts were met with only a tightening of her grip, the pressure around his neck intensifying with each passing moment. "And you left me here alone," she continued, her voice rising with each word, "you know how bored I was?'''' The prince winced, his head swimming with pain as he struggled to maintain his footing. "Fuck it hurts" he pleaded, his voice barely a whisper as he reached out to grasp her hands, desperately trying to ease the pressure on his neck. Surprisingly, Elenoir''s demeanor softened, her fierce gaze giving way to a look of genuine concern. "Does it hurt that much?" she asked, her voice now gentle and soothing as she released her grip on him. ''What''s with her?'' The prince blinked in surprise, his confusion momentarily overshadowing his pain. He tentatively touched his forehead, feeling the persistent throbbing beneath his fingertips. Though there was no blood, the pain was all too real, pulsating with each beat of his heart. He did not answer ,he just kept caressing his forehead. Most of the guests carried on with their revelry, oblivious to his discomfort, while a few keen observers cast furtive glances in his direction, their curiosity piqued by the sudden disturbance. Among them was Elenoir''s father, his sharp eyes scanning the scene with a discerning gaze. His attention shifted from the back of the prince''s head to his daughter''s worried expression, a subtle furrow forming between his brows. "Prince Maesinius," he addressed the prince with a measured tone, prompting Maesinius to turn around with a start. "It seems my daughter has indulged a bit too much this evening. Would you be so kind as to escort her out?" @@@@ The prince hesitated, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. "But sir, it would hardly be proper for a man to accompany a tipsy maiden-" ''''If you have nothing to said , it would be better if you were to sleep ''''The prince suggested as he started walking towards the door ''''Do you dislike me?'''' She sked with a small and weak voice, the prince turned around in confusion ''''What?'''' ''''I asked you if you dislike me'''' He scractched his head, he was at a loss'''' Why would you think that?'''' As he settled onto the edge of the bed, the prince''s brow furrowed with concern. "I don''t dislike you, Elenoir," he reassured her, his voice softening with sincerity. "It''s just that... there''s much on my mind lately." She studied him with tired eyes, her gaze searching his face for any sign of deception. "You''ve been distant," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper in the quiet room. He sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "I know, and I''m sorry for that," he admitted, his tone heavy with regret. "It''s just... everything that''s been happening is a lot to handle." "Nobody asked you," she interjected sharply He met her gaze, his eyes filled with a mixture of apology and determination. "Yet I feel like it is something I have to do," he responded earnestly. Her expression softened slightly as she continued in a bashful tone , "You know father has been pestering me lately, saying it was time to think of the future. Have you ever thought about it?" "Every day," the prince replied wearily, as if a mountain was on his back . "These next months will be the most important for us. They will decide the fate of tens of thousands." Elenoir regarded him silently for a few moments before sighing and turning away. "Whatever, close the door when you leave," she muttered, her tone dismissive and cold. The prince''s confusion lingered for a moment, but then he offered her a small, understanding smile. "Rest well, Elenoir," he said softly before rising from the bed and exiting the room. As he returned to the bustling feast, the ache in his head began to diminish, yet his heart was heavy for he knew what was to come Chapter 70: Reaching the city(1) Chapter 70: Reaching the city(1) The sun hung high in the sky, its radiant warmth spreading across the land beneath the expansive azure expanse. Not a single cloud dared to dirty the pristine sky above, granting an uninterrupted view of the golden orb that marked the passage of time. If they were still within the confines of the palace, it would have been the hour for supper. But yesterday they had departed from the court that had hosted them for the last moon Alpheo''s gaze wandered to the majestic beast beneath him, he patted it and stroke his head, he always loved animals in general ,dogs , cats, horses each animal had its appeal to him. He had never experienced the thrill of battle on horseback, but the mere thought of charging forward with lance in hand ignited a fervent excitement within him. Riding into the chaos of combat had always been a dream, a distant aspiration fueled by tales of valor and glory. Yet, despite his yearning for such glory, he harbored no illusions about his own martial prowess. He had spent the past half-month diligently training with Egil, honing his skills with sword and shield alongside riding . However, despite his efforts, the result were not promising As the group continued their journey, Egil''s impatience seemed to grow with each passing moment. He leaned back on his horse, his eyes narrowing with frustration as he addressed Anzalos, the guide. "Are we close?" he asked, his voice laced with irritation. Anzalos merely bowed his head, offering the same vague response he had given for the past few hours: "They were close." Egil''s impatience boiled over, his frustration evident in his tone. "Do we even know if he speaks our language? He''s been parroting the same words since he joined us," he grumbled, shooting a pointed glance at Anzalos. Jarza, ever the voice of reason, interjected with a sigh. "And you''ve been asking the same questions and complaining incessantly. ''How long until we reach there? Why did we have to depart from court?'' There''s only so much a man can take, Egil.And you have been poking at our limits for a long time " Egil''s retort was swift, his words dripping with sarcasm. "You say this because there wasn''t anyone to warm your bed during our stay.In the palace or out it''s the same for you. Did you see the maids as we left? Some of them were crying as their legs were shaking. When a lady comes riding with me, she aches in the leg for a whole month. Anyone that comes to me knows it''s a one-way road. Did anyone cry for you?" Jarza''s jaw tightened as he fought to keep his temper in check. "No," he replied through clenched teeth. ''''About time'''' Laedio commented as he stretched his back ''''Thought we would reach it by evening , if we continued like this'''' He stopped to gaze at the city wall ''''Pretty small, aren''t they?'''' He said referring to the stone wall, that could have been not higher than 6 meters. ''''We will have to make do'''' Clio interjected as he opened his canteen and took a sip of water, before turning to ''''Excited for your first mission on command boss?'''' ''''Not really...'''' Alpheo commented as he gazed at the city ''''This will be the first of many,no use getting all riled up for something so small.Though I certainly will not take pleasure to break the news to the commander'''' A small chuckle came out from Laedio''s mouth as he cleared his throat ''''By the decree of prince Arkawattm of House Heroin , you are hereby called to step down from your positions and lick down on the dirt that the great captain Alpheo will shit and piss into''''He said in an overly serious tone , that caused the group to laugh, even Jarza gave a small smirk at the spectacle. ''''All right guys, take out your serious faces, and also try not to laugh by what you''ll see.'''' Alpheo warned as he rode ahead towards the city. The city wall rose finally before them, its imposing form stretching along the horizon. Made of sturdy stone, the wall stood approximately eight meters in height, its surface weathered by the passage of time and countless seasons. Moss and ivy clung to its surface, adding a touch of green to the otherwise gray expanse. ''Bloody hell it looks like its'' ready to fall by the slightest of breeze'' Alpheo thought as he rode forward Upon the wall, men of the garrison patrolled diligently, their figures silhouetted against the sky. Clad in chainmail, at least most of them, and armed with spears they kept watch over the city. One of them, positioned atop the wall, scanned the horizon with a practiced eye. As the figures of six hundred men drew nearer, the sentinel''s initial tension eased upon catching sight of a familiar banner fluttering in the breeze. High atop the weathered stone wall, the sentinel''s voice rang out with authority, echoing across the barren landscape as he peered down at the approaching figure. "Who are you?" he bellowed With a determined expression, Alpheo cleared his throat before addressing the sentinel . ''Alright, let''s do this,'' he then declared, his voice carrying with it a sense of authority built by the ruler of these lands . "We are reinforcements sent by his grace to garrison the city of Aracina," he announced, holding aloft a parchment adorned with the royal seal. "This is a royal decree, written and signed by his grace''s own hand. I call for the captain of the city to descend and be informed of the decree bestowed upon us by his grace." As the words hung in the air, the sentinel on the wall furrowed his brow, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features before he shouted a command for the men below to wait as he went to call for the commander himself. Chapter 71: Reaching the city(2) Chapter 71: Reaching the city(2) As the moments stretched into minutes, tension began to mount among the small group gathered at the city gates. "He is taking quite the long time," Asag muttered, his voice barely audible, almost like a whisper carried on the wind. Egil, seemingly disinterested in the proceedings, absentmindedly shifted his attention to his horse, his thoughts wandering away from the conversation at hand. "Maybe we''ve caught him at a bad time. Should we return later?" he suggested idly, his tone lacking conviction. "Do you think it will come to a siege?" Asag inquired to Alpheo , his voice betraying a hint of concern, the walls hardly seemed to lessen the fright . Alpheo nodded in response, his expression serious "Yes, I do. This is the only obstacle preventing the prince of Oizen from laying siege to Yarzat. It''s almost certain that they will come.We will probably face hell in the upcoming weeks " Pondering the situation further, Asag voiced his thoughts aloud. "Still...what took them to start a campaign two months before winter. They''ll find little food to forage, and will be completely reliant on supplies from home..." "It''s hardly a concern for them," Alpheo replied with a knowing smile, his eyes scanning the horizon beyond the city walls. "Beyond the city lies land controlled by the principality of Oizen. They won''t have to worry about interference with their supply routes, they will find their food untouched each time they open each cart." "But why?" His smile widened "Take a guess. We have some time to spare before the guard''s commander blesses us with his presence.This is for all of you, small question: why do you think the prince decided to start a campaign so early?" Egil scratched his head in contemplation, his brow furrowed with thought. "Maybe he has an informer inside," he suggested, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "Someone reassuring him that the gate will open during the night, or that a tower will turn a blind eye as the ladders come forth?" Alpheo nodded, acknowledging the possibility. "That could be a reason," he agreed, his tone thoughtful. "Many great cities have fallen from within, manipulated by traitors and spies. But it''s not quite convincing as the sole explanation." Shrugging, Egil admitted defeat. "I''m out of ideas." Alpheo turned to the others, inviting their input. "Anyone else?" From within the city walls emerged a lone figure on horseback, his silhouette outlined against the fading light. Behind him, three men followed closely, their expressions stern and watchful. The leader rode with purpose, his posture erect and his gaze fixed ahead. His neck-long black hair hung loose around his shoulders, tousled by the wind that swept through the open passage. His visage was rough, weathered by years spent under the sun and wind, with lines etched around his eyes and mouth that spoke of a life lived hard and earnestly. Bushy eyebrows arched over sharp eyes, giving him a perpetually quizzical expression, as if he were forever pondering some unseen puzzle. His full beard, much like his hair, was untamed and unruly, adding to his rugged countenance. "About time," Alpheo remarked as he urged his horse forward, holding the royal decree aloft. "With whom do I have the honor of speaking?" The man, his rough visage weathered by the sun and wind, scrutinized Alpheo from head to toe before responding, "I am Captain Fahil, head of the city''s defense in Aracina." Not anymore, Alpheo thought as he stretched his neck, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "My name is Captain Alpheo, leader of the mercenary company before you, and by royal decree, the new head of defense for the city of Aracina. Pleased to make your acquaintance today." Captain Fahil''s eyes widened momentarily before he reached out to snatch the parchment from Alpheo''s outstretched hand. "It''s all yours," Alpheo quipped with a smirk. The men surrounding Fahil began to murmur, their expressions shifting from curiosity to confusion, then to disbelief and, for some, anger. "Giving my position to a lowly mercenary and a youngster?" Fahil spat out each word like venom''''This is madness at its greatest extent !'''' Alpheo met Fahil''s gaze with a steady stare, unfazed by the captain''s hostility. "Yes, you''ve got the gist of it. But you forgot to mention that I lead 600 men, while you barely command 100. So, yes, from now on, you shall step down, if not by the words of your price, by might alone . Don''t worry; it won''t last long. At the end of the war, you''ll regain your comfortable position. For now, follow me. We have much to discuss about the city''s defense and its current state.Most of them are critics by the way "He said with a cheeky smile With that, Alpheo spurred his horse forward, not bothering to wait for Fahil''s response. Chapter 72: Preparations (1) Chapter 72: Preparations (1) It was a small and cozy room illuminated only by a small window on a wall, and few half-consumned candles atop the wooden desk. ''My new work-room'' Alpheo mused as he made himself comfortable on the chair. He leaned back as he put his boots on top of the desk, he was currently waiting for somebody to arrive, there was much work to do and little time to waste. As he waited for Captain Fahil , Alpheo found himself trying to kill time so he in the meantime decided to take better care of himself.Taking out the dagger , he started cleansing his nails, perching off the piece of dirts inside.It was not very effective, but at least he gave him something to do as he waited. As time went on and on , Alpheo went looking around the room , there were few parchments inside the desk with some writings. ''I will have to pay someone to tutor me and the rest, we need to learn how to read and write as soon as possible'' he put his hand on his forehead as the fact that he could not read bothered him deeply . His throat became dry, he rose as he walked towards one of the furnitures in the room.There were some cups and bottles of what seemed like wine.He took the bottle opened it and smelled it. ''Yep wine'' he thought as he went to tilt the liquid inside the cup, before sipping from it . ''Maybe I will make that boy be my cup bearer, I have to find something for him to do''. It must have been less than a week since he took the boy in , yet he quickly grew on him.He was clumsy and funny to look at and most improtantly he was eager to learn, somethign that he very much appreciated. If there was something he noticed , was that the company lacked actual commanders and administrators. And Alpheo had half a thought to teach the boy how to do moltiplications and simple algebra, and make him account for the expense of the band alongside the miscelleanous works. The people he had given the jobs to, proved to be clumsy at best, horrible at worst, so he had to find a solution to it.Which was easier said than done, as mathematics and writings were usually only teached , for the low-class, either by rich artisans or merchants, and most preferred not to have their sons lowered to work in mercenary bands as accountants. The door creaked open, breaking the silence of Alpheo''s temporary workspace. His eyes narrowed slightly as he observed the man who entered, clearly displeased by the interruption. "Is it not customary to knock before entering?" he questioned, his tone firm. "Not when entering one''s own room," Fahil retorted, his voice carrying a deep, rumbling growl. Alpheo''s gaze remained steady, unfazed by Fahil''s imposing presence. "This room shall temporarily be mine, so please, next time knock before entering," he replied calmly, though his words carried a hint of steel. Alpheo chuckled, shaking his head. "No, I will ensure that this small town is able to repel whatever is thrown at it and hold steady until your prince comes to help. There is much to be done. If you have no more questions, I would like to be left alone to start my work," he replied, dismissing Fahil with a wave of his hand. Fahil grunted in response, turning on his heel and exiting the room without another word.As soon as he left the other, that were waiting outside as per order of Alpheo, entered the room. "Pretty small," Egil remarked quietly, his eyes lingering on the cup in Alpheo''s hand. Alpheo shrugged nonchalantly. "I''m not a big man. This will do," he replied absentmindedly as he settled back into his chair. "I have a job for each of you." "Well, it''s time we get to work. I don''t want this to be my grave," Laedio remarked, scratching the back of his neck with a hint of nervous energy. "Truer words were never spoken," Alpheo mused, his gaze shifting to meet Egil''s. "Alright, first job is yours. I want you to take every rider we have. Your job will be to travel through the countryside and gather as many people as you can within these walls. Tell them that enemies will be coming and to seek refuge here. We will be in need of as many arms as we can muster. The state of this city is abysmal,there are many works to be done and most of the refugees will be made to be either workers or guards" he explained, taking a sip of wine before continuing. "If you don''t have any questions, please proceed with your mission." ''''Will the food be enough?'''' Egil asked at the thought of bringing thousands inside the walls Alpheo gave a chuckle ''''The last thing we need to worry about is the food.If we die it will be for the steel of the enemy not for a lack of bread, supplies may dwindle but this will be a problem that the prince will face after the war.'''' "Alright you do you Alph, at least I get to ride. I don''t like sitting around too much, this beautiful butt here was made for the saddle" Egil replied with a grin as he slapped his ass before exiting the room to carry out his assignment. ''''He could have omitted the last part'''' He sighed as he sipped his wine before turning to the other as there were many jobs they needed to do, if they wanted to give the city an actual shot at standing against a siege. Chapter 73: Preparations(2) Chapter 73: Preparations(2) "I''ve been thinking about the range of jobs we need to finish before the enemy arrives. We have much to do, so let''s get down to it," Alpheo declared, finishing the cup of wine and fixing his gaze on the group. "Now, the first thing we have to change is the layout of the city. Tell me, what''s the easiest and most effective way to prepare for a siege?" "Hoarding food and manning the walls?" Laedio offered promptly. "Exactly, but there''s more to it," Alpheo acknowledged. "You build them in front of a city. They''re easier to construct and bothersome to deal with. What is it?" The group exchanged glances, silently deliberating. It was Jarza, among them, who had the most experience with warfare and sieges, who spoke up. "Moats." "Exactly. I see someone''s dealt with one or two sieges before," Alpheo remarked with a nod.''''THose would certainly be stories I hope you will share with us. Now returning to the topic Moats are easy to dig. You can hoard as many as you want, and if the enemy wants to have a chance at assaulting the city, he first needs to fill up a path with dirt or wood." Turning to Clio, he continued, "You are in luck, this job is yours. Take as many men as you need and have them build moats around the city. Now, if you see the men finishing the moat, I want you to build another, and on top of it, another. If you see the laborers stopping to take a breath, you whip them and tell them to dig moats. And if by the end, you fill the whole country with moats, you know what you have to do?" "Build another moat?" Clio ventured, sounding somewhat perplexed. "Exactly. You build another moat, yes. You can never have enough of them," Alpheo affirmed, sipping from his refilled cup. "You can start working from now. Remember, the more you build, the better it is.As for the workers promise them three full meal per working day " With a nod and a smile , Clio exited the room, prepared to undertake the task . "Now, I have three other great jobs for three great men," Alpheo announced, taking another sip of wine. He glanced around the room before addressing Laedio, a tall and bald man. "Laedio, I want you to gather some men and go around the city demolishing whatever you can dismantle. We need debris to throw down the walls. Also, send some men to the nearby forest to chop trees into throwable pieces." Laedio''s grin widened at the task. "You''re not worried about the damage?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice ''''I believe the forest is property of the king '''' "You sure about that?" Asag questioned, his brow furrowing in thought. "It''s a possibility," Alpheo affirmed. "He was demoted, albeit temporarily, and denied further advancements. For some men, climbing the ranks is everything... Honestly, I don''t want to have our backs exposed to someone who could stab us in the back. Men have betrayed for far less, and if the enemy prince offers a noble title and a fief to whoever opens the gate, I fear our city will be swarming with traitors." "And where do I come in all of this?" Asag asked, taking a seat and leaning in attentively. "I need someone discreet and patient for this task," Alpheo explained, taking another sip from his cup. "And honestly, among the group, you''re the only one I can think of who could handle it." "Just tell me what I need to do," Asag replied, his resolve evident in his tone. "I want you to observe him," Alpheo instructed, his gaze unwavering. "Keep an eye on Fahil, note who enters his room, and position men around the walls to inform you of his movements. If he leaves the city, don''t have them follow him¡ªjust report to me the time and frequency of his departures. We don''t want him to suspect anything. Clio''s mention of a possible informant has resonated with me deeply." Asag observed Alpheo silently, his expression betraying a bit of fear . "I will do my best, but I won''t promise anything," he finally stated. "It''s alright," Alpheo reassured him with a nod. "I cannot expect you to do a perfect job.Just make sure to have the men be loyal to us and have them report to you daily. If he goes out of the city, I want to be the first to know it," Alpheo instructed, his tone serious as he emphasized the importance of the task. "If there''s nothing else, I''ll go then," Asag said, preparing to depart. Alpheo remained silent, offering only a nod in response as he watched Asag leave the room. Once alone, he reclined in his chair, his thoughts lingering on what to do for the impending siege. With a sigh, he took another sip of his wine, thinking about the fact that the wine of others always taste better.@@@@ Chapter 74: Preparation(3) Chapter 74: Preparation(3) ''''As you can see everything is proceeding smoothly'''' Jarza spoke to Alpheo as he walked on top of the wall and surveyed the outlay of the city.The scene below was one of chaos , albeit a controlled one . Men, women, and even children worked together. For as Alpheo said ''If it got arms and it breath, then give it a shovel and make him dig'' . And sure enough they dug without pause , their muscles straining against the weight of the soil as they excavated the trench. With each scoop, dirt cascaded down into the growing mound beside them, gradually forming a barrier around the city.Honestly moat were the perfect instrument to make the enemy waste time and men to fill them.They were easy to make and important to have, after all if an enemy wanted to get over the moat , they had to fill a path with dirt, else siege engines won''t get pass them . Alpheo observed the scene with satisfaction . The work was progressing smoothly, just as Jarza had said. Alpheo listened intently to Jarza''s report, his gaze drifting across the city as he absorbed the information. "What about your task?" Alpheo inquired, his tone measured as he turned to his companion. "I did what I could do.Just as I had said before we encountered problems," Jarza replied, "The slingers have no problem launching projectiles if given enough distance and space around , but as the enemy approaches, their effectiveness diminishes.The walls get on the way of their sling and they get trouble to give their stones enough force" Alpheo nodded thoughtfully, acknowledging the limitations of their defenses. "Still, the more men we have atop the walls, the better our chances," he remarked "How are our men faring?" he then asked, shifting his focus to the state of their forces. "Most of them are content," Jarza reported, his expression stoic. "They''ve been provided with enough coin to pass the night whoring, though some still grumble about not being able to raid. Albeit the civilians are starting to dislike them , many of our men forcefully get discount from their tabs in taverns, always if they pay at all'''' Alpheo''s lips curled into a dismissive smirk at the mention of their people''s discontent. "Let them grumble," he said nonchalantly. "Soon enough, they''ll be fighting for the sake of this city, and this is the least they can do to repay us." Jarza nodded in agreement, echoing Alpheo''s sentiment. ''They''re subjects of Arkwatt, not mine,'' he mused ''Why should we lose sleep over them?'' The prince had knowingly condemned the people of Aracina to their fate when he sent them here, and Alpheo saw no reason to dwell on the consequences. They had a city to defend, and sacrifices would need to be made to ensure its survival. Alpheo intervened before the tension could escalate further. "What''s the issue, Agalasios? Speak your piece." Agalasios straightened up, his face reddening with embarrassment. "We''re in dire need of more bandages," he confessed, his tone pleading. "And the manpower we have is insufficient to handle the influx of wounded we''ll likely face during the siege." Alpheo considered the request for a moment before responding. "Tell the women who assist with the wounded that they''ll receive an extra half-portion of rations during the siege," he instructed Jarza. "As for bandages, make do with what we have. If necessary, tear up old clothing and boil them to sterilize. Do we have enough pots for boiling water?" "Yes, captain, we do," Agalosios replied, his fat chin jiggling as he nodded in affirmation. He wasn''t originally a member of the band; instead, he hailed from Retoriel, a small city nestled between the princedom of Yarzat and the empire. Once a butcher by trade, circumstances had forced him into the role of a medic. Not that the medics of this world were any different from butchers in Agalosios''s eyes. He had been destitute and unemployed when Alpheo recruited him, recognizing the need for someone to tend to the wounded. ''''Is it any good to waste so much water though?'''' Agalosios asked in a unsure tone ''''When the wounded start to come , and you see that applying my methods before closing the wounds , then you will see how the rate of deaths will go down greatly''''As he said so his eyes moved to Agalosios and inquired in a brusque tone "Is there anything else?" "Yes, well, captain, you see," Agalosios began, his expression tense with concern. "Apparently, during our stay, some of the refugees you brought in attempted to enter the tents to steal medical supplies, thinking they could make a fortune. If this happened during the siege, it could be a disaster. What if instead of a thief, it was an arsonist?" Agalosios words were true, as in this time medicines costed a lot , and if one stole a case of them , they could make a pretty good fortune , always if they were able to find a customer to sell them to. Alpheo cut him off before he could finish. "You need more guards?" "If it could be possible," Agalosios confirmed. "Very well," Alpheo conceded with a sigh. "Jarza, assign twenty more men to patrol the perimeter. If Agalosios needs more, give it to him." "That would be everything, captain," Agalosios said gratefully. "Thank you for your time." "Make sure to do a good job," Alpheo reminded him, his tone firm. "Train the nurses well with what I''ve taught you. You are as important as any soldier under my command. Make sure not to slack off." With those words, Alpheo departed from the tent, leaving Agalosios to carry out his duties . Chapter 75: arrival of the enemy(1) Chapter 75: arrival of the enemy(1) ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª "So, what do you have to report?" Alpheo inquired, his nostrils flaring as he sniffed the drink before taking a sip. The warm sensation spread through his throat and stomach, but it lacked the strength of the spirits from his past life. "I need to make spirits as soon as possible," he grimaced, longing for the potent drinks he once enjoyed. Seated across the room, Asag shifted nervously. This was his first assignment, and despite the diminishing anxiety, a sense of unease lingered. In his faint voice, Asag replied to Alpheo''s question, "I have watched him until now, and there is nothing significant to report. He spends most of his time in his room when he''s not training his men. He rarely leaves the room except to grab a drink or two, sometimes with company, prostitutes." "Hardly compromising," Alpheo mused, swirling the liquid in his cup. "Death is blind and will come to all. It''s normal for him to seek pleasure. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? What about when he leaves the room? Has he ever left the city?" "Not once," Asag confirmed. "As I said, the times he leaves, he gets a drink and a meal before retiring to his room.Hardly suspicious.... The individuals who entered his room mostly wore capes, but my observers noted they were different women each time. When they left, they returned to..." Asag gestured with his hand in a circular motion, "...their place of work." "So, from what you''ve seen, there''s nothing to feed our suspicions about him?" Alpheo probed, his gaze fixed on Asag. "None at all..." Asag replied, his voice trailing off. He teached Clio, Laedio and Asag about tactics, on how to lead men , on the formation to they were to make their men form. Yet he knew that what they needed was experience.Most of his men were green, they needed to bloody themselves.After all seeing hundredds of people clashing if scary as hell,so he treated this siege as an opportunity to get them desensitized of blood. After all fighting while being on top of the wall is a great boost in confidence. Jarza turned to Clio, his gaze neutral yet perceptive. "This isn''t my first rodeo," he remarked with a hint of amusement. "I''ve seen my fair share of battles and sieges. And let me tell you, our position is rather favorable. We have ample food and manpower to defend these walls." He then turned his attention to Alpheo, a rare smile gracing his lips. "You''ve handled the situation admirably," he admitted. "I would hardly believe this is your first time defending a city under siege You are as young as a pup, yet you possess the knowledge and skills of a seasoned warrior," Jarza remarked, his tone laced with curiosity. "Are you a noble? You seem to have been educated." The question stirred something within the group, each member exchanging glances as they awaited Alpheo''s response. His origins had always been a subject of speculation among them, his actions often contradicting the humble beginnings he claimed. Alpheo met their gaze with a calm demeanor, his expression unreadable. "You always overthink things, Jarza," he replied evenly. "What I''ve said about my origins is the truth. If I were a noble, would I not know how to read and write? And above all, would I be a slave?If I was liability I would be killed not shipped off as an object " His words struck a chord with the group, prompting a moment of contemplation. Egil voiced his uncertainty, acknowledging the possibility of overthinking the matter. Jarza, too, conceded to the logic in Alpheo''s explanation, his doubts fading slightly. "As for my skills," Alpheo continued, his tone casual yet confident, "perhaps they are a gift from the gods. Some men are born to lead, regardless of their origins." With a shrug, he redirected their focus. "Now, if we''ve concluded our interrogation, we have a city to protect." With a deep breath, Alpheo''s carefree expression melted away, replaced by one of seriousness, as this was to be his first contact with leading people in an actual war. The wind blew , the air was heavy with the exhale of hundreds men , and soon the rumble of war would come to them,and fate would decide if they were to dance on their tune , or to make a song of their own . Chapter 76: Arrival of the enemy(2) Chapter 76: Arrival of the enemy(2) The wind rose through Alpheo''s fingers, a chilling sensation spreading through them like icy tendrils. He raised his gaze, feeling the cool breeze ruffle his hair and tug at the folds of his clothing. The air was crisp and biting, carrying with it the feeling of death. @@@@ As he lowered his eyes, he noticed his fingers beginning to tremble involuntarily. With a firm resolve, he clenched his fists, willing the tremors to cease. The last thing a leader needed to do was to show fear, especially now, with the fate of the city being unknown. Before him, beyond the stone walls that encircled the city, lay the enemy. The army of the Prince of Oizen stretched out in disciplined ranks. Alpheo''s eyes traced the movements of their heralds, fluttering defiantly in the wind,the biggest and tallest of which carried the colors and symbols of House Oizen. The flag of House Oizen, proudly displayed atop a towering standard, caught the sunlight and billowed majestically against the backdrop of the azure sky. Its design was simple yet commanding: a white shield adorned with vertically striped black bands. Alpheo spared it just a brief gaze before moving on. Each soldier stood tall and resolute, their armor glinting in the sunlight as they marched in perfect formation. The rhythmic beat of their boots echoed across the plain, a steady drumming that resonated with unwavering determination. The soldiers themselves comprised a motley assembly, drawn from the diverse regions and backgrounds of their princedom. Clad in a mishmash of armor and wielding an assortment of weapons, they presented a ragtag image of a hastily assembled force. Most were armed with little more than a simple lance and shield, their defenses augmented by makeshift breastplates fashioned from strips of wood. Chainmail was a luxury afforded to only a fraction of their number, leaving the majority vulnerable to the rigors of battle. Clio, a fisherman thrust into the role of a defender, swallowed hard at the sight of the enemy host. Alpheo understood the man''s trepidation and knew he needed to project an image of control and confidence. Gesturing ahead, he directed Clio''s attention to the trenches that had consumed days of labor. "See those ditches I made you waste days digging?" he asked, his voice firm. "Those are what will separate us from leisurely waiting for them to come and facing them head-on as they throw lives at our walls. If they even want to entertain the idea of assaulting the walls, they''ll first have to clear a path or use ladders.'''' He chuckled ''''And if they dare use the latter- Gods help the fools , for they''ll find themselves dropping dead before they even reach us." Clio remained silent, though Alpheo noted a subtle shift in his demeanor. The transformation was slight, but significant. Alpheo recognized the need to bolster the man''s courage, to ensure that he would not falter when the time came, he was short of men already, he did not need cravens in his ranks . With a determined gleam in his eye, Alpheo resolved to provide Clio with a baptism of fire and blead , placing him on the front lines of the defense where he would learn to stand firm when sorrounded by blood and death. Alpheo surveyed the enemy army sprawled out before the city, his gaze sharp and calculating. "From what I can see, the enemy has no siege engines, no catapults, and no ballistae," he remarked to his men. "That means we won''t be hearing stones smashing against our walls day and night. Although it would have been nice if we could have seized one," he added in a lower tone, a hint of regret tainting his words. Turning his attention back to his men, Alpheo issued his orders with authority. "Each of you has been assigned a specific task. Get into position and ensure that our archers never run out of arrows, our slingers always have stones, and our men never lack projectiles to hurl at the enemy''s head. If we''re lucky, sickness may spread among their ranks and cripple them." Egil, ever the skeptic, voiced his concerns. "Couldn''t the same thing happen to us?" Alpheo considered the question carefully before responding. "Unlikely, if you all follow the instructions I''ve given regarding hygiene. You''ve seen the results firsthand¡ªnone of us have fallen ill, thanks to regular washing and proper care during our long march out of slavery . But I understand the risk posed by those inside the city who may not adhere to our instructions." With a thoughtful nod, Alpheo formulated a solution. "When distributing the daily rations, ensure that everyone washes their hands before eating. It''s a small measure, but it could make a difference. Now, everyone to their posts. The enemy will attempt to fill the moats, so I want our slingers raining down stones on them. Use the stones but conserve the arrows; we''ll need them." With that, he turned away, his mind already racing with plans to defend the city to the best of their abilities. Chapter 77: Parlay Chapter 77: Parlay The air was heavy , not because of the smoke from the enemy camp or because the cool winds from autumn were about to leave their last caress before winter took over.It was the tense nerves of both sides that caused the air to be still. All understood all too well that a bloodbath was inevitable. Alpheo harbored no illusions about the significance of the forthcoming parlay; he entertained no hope that any meaningful resolution would be reached. His decision to participate had been born of curiosity rather than expectation¡ªa desire to ascertain what, if anything, might transpire. Alpheo was no fool; he understood the stakes all too well. He had no intention of allowing the emissaries sent by the enemy prince entry into the city, where they might spread falsehoods about the generous rewards awaiting those who would betray their own. And so for this reason the meeting was convened in front of the gate, where archers stood vigilant atop the walls, arrows already nocked and ready in case they tried anything shady. The Empire of Rolmia and the principalities in the south shared many commonalities: language, religion, and trade routes. Geographically close, such cultural exchanges were to be expected. However, despite these similarities, there were notable differences. Before Rolmia ascended to the status of empire, its culture bore striking resemblance to that of the princedoms. Yet, as the empire expanded through conquest, elements of the conquered territories began to permeate the conqueror''s culture. In the past, messengers were revered as sacred, protected by both divine and secular law from harm. However, as the empire grew in strength and the civil war grew more brutal, messengers became associated with one faction or another. When they delivered unwelcome news to their foes, they risked facing retribution. Unlike the Rolmians, the princes clung steadfastly to their ancestral customs, revering messengers as sacrosanct and untouchable. To harm them was to invite the wrath of both gods and men. Still Alpheo was not of the south, so he had no interest in leaving his well-being over the shield of custom . ''''Good morning ''''Alpheo declared with a smile as behind him, rows of archers raised their bows and aimed at the man on horseback. The envoy held up a hand, a gesture of peace, and called out, his voice carrying over the distance between them. "I come as an envoy, seeking parlay.I am not man seeking to give harm , but tasked as emissary" he declared, his words echoing against the stone walls. @@@@ Alpheo''s mocking smile widened at the envoy''s words, "Your safety is assured as long as you don''t try anything funny" he replied, his tone calm yet resolute. "Know this: the reason you still draw breath is because I allow it, so I suggest for you to go on quickly about your business before I give the order for my men to make a hedgehog out of you." "It''s that of the free company I lead," Alpheo explained. "I have been employed by his grace Arkawatt of house Heroine to defend the city, a task which I am very much obliged to accomplish. Perhaps after your grace''s men fall beneath these walls, and my contract ends, more opportunities will flourish between us. But until then, we are enemies. We will not yield the city. If your liege desires it, he shall earn it by conquest." The messenger sighed, his resolve faltering. "I see we have nothing more to talk about then," he conceded. Alpheo remained silent, his expression impassive as he nodded in acknowledgment. "I bid you farewell then, mercenary," the messenger said "This city shall be your tomb." "Or maybe it will be yours," Alpheo replied, his tone defiant. "I look forward to seeing your men fall. Farewell, emissary," he concluded, turning his horse and trotting back into the city with a smile on his lips. As soon as Alpheo passed through the gate, his smile faded, replaced by a stern expression. He turned to Jarza with a sense of urgency in his voice. "Double the slingers on the front gate," he commanded, his tone firm. "They will try to fill the moat as soon as possible, and I want stones to rain down on their heads. Do not worry about conserving stones. We have plenty in stores, and if even one more man falls during the works, it will be an advantage for us." Jarza nodded in understanding, his gaze shifting toward the gate they had just passed through before turning back to Alpheo. "Still, won''t the enemy simply forcefully recruit peasants to do the work?" he queried, his brow furrowing in concern. "It''s precisely why Alph sent me to collect those wastes " Egil interjected. "Even if they try to force peasants to work, they''ll find barren fields and no peasants to coerce into doing their dirty work. If they want the moats filled, they''ll have to use their own men." Jarza''s hand met his palm with a resounding slap of realization. "Ah, that explains why you''ve allowed so much dead weight to waste our food stores!" he exclaimed. "You thought I did it out of pity?" Alpheo retorted with a sardonic smile. "They are not my people, and I couldn''t care less if they were to starve or be hanged. As long as the enemy dies, I would gladly impale the lot of them," he declared in a neutral tone. "Come on now! Everyone has a task," Alpheo continued, rallying his companions. "We shall reconvene this evening for supper in my room. It has been too long since we shared a meal together," he added with a hint of nostalgia in his voice, as he wondered when would be the next time they would feel such peace... Chapter 78: Good news Chapter 78: Good news The tent was as big as an entire house,its fabric fluttering from the wind. Inside, rows of makeshift beds crafted from hay and covered with threadbare blankets lined the space, . Physicists and nurses after dealing with the low numbers of wounded , found themselves with time to waste. It had been four days since the enemy army arrived, and the cunning gift Alpheo had left for them which deprived them of any cannon fodder , had surely raised the ire of their leadership. The progress on filling the moat to breach the city''s defenses had been slow, hindered by the relentless barrage of stones hurled by the defenders. Every attempt by the enemy workers to approach the moat with sacks of dirt on their backs was met with a rain of projectiles, causing casualties to mount and forcing the enemy prince to reconsider his tactics.In the end he decided to build wooden fence to protect the workers from stones . Alpheo, ever vigilant, seized every opportunity to disrupt the enemy''s plans. Regular sorties were launched from the safety of the city gates, with small bands of two hundred men venturing out to engage the workers. Armed with little more than shovels and hammers, the enemy laborers stood little chance against the trained fighters of the city,out they went and in the return. And each time the enemy''s efforts to fill the moat were continually thwarted. @@@@ As a result, despite the looming threat of siege, the defenders found themselves enjoying a relative peace within the city walls. With the enemy''s progress stymied and their own defenses holding strong, even the officers and higher-ranking men had found themselves with idle hands. ''''How are my men?'''' Alpheo asked in a loud voice as he walked inside the medical tent , causing the wounded men inside to cheer at their captain. He was not one to idly stand by when there was work to be done, and so he made it a point to visit the injured soldiers, seeking to bolster their spirits and raise morale among the troops, since there was nothing else to do. Despite the grim circumstances, the atmosphere in the tent was surprisingly upbeat, with the wounded soldiers engaged in conversation and occasional attempts at flirtation with the attending nurses. Fortunately, the number of casualties was relatively low, no more than thirty, all sustained during the recent sortie. For every one of their own men injured, at least three of the enemy lay dead. The more they attacked however the more the prince increased the number of troops standing on guards , which caused Alpheo to reduce the frequency of sorties , opting instead to focus on hurling stones and arrows from the safety of the city walls. The wounded soldiers received attentive care from the physicians and nurses, their injuries tended to with meticulous care. Bandages were washed and boiled, wounds disinfected with a mixture of boiled wine and vinegar. While these measures significantly reduced the risk of infection, there remained a lingering possibility, albeit minimized, due to the limitations of available resources. Alpheo had considered the use of honey for its antibacterial properties, but its cost proved impossible to mantain leaving them to rely on more economical alternatives such as vinegar, wine, and boiled water. ''''We are doing fine Captain!'''' One of the men shouted back with a bandage in his shoulder As he scanned the streets below, he noticed that there were few people out and about. The usually bustling thoroughfares were eerily quiet, the only sound being the occasional whisper of the wind as it swept through the deserted alleyways. Suddenly, movement caught his eye¡ªa flash of blonde hair darting through the shadows. Alpheo furrowed his brows, curious as to why he was running - As the figure drew closer, Alpheo recognized the child running towards him. It was Ratto, his cupbearer who apparently he also made him be his message bearer, as as he run he kept swinging a piece of parchment into his hand Without hesitation, Alpheo began to walk towards him, his footsteps echoing softly against the cobblestones. As Ratto handed Alpheo the letter, the boy''s breath came in short gasps, his anxiety palpable in the air. Alpheo took the missive, his fingers tracing the rough texture of the parchment it was already broken, as he always had missive read by the assistant of the previous captain, a young man called Shahil . ''''What it says?'''' He asked to Ratto as he believed that he should have already been told of his content. After all Alpheo still did not know how to read. A smile slowly spread across the boy''s face ''''News from the capital, the prince is moving with his army and he is coming here'''' With a gentle pat on Ratto''s head,yhe smile on Alpheo''s face widened, the weight of the siege lifting from his shoulders ever so slightly. "It was time he got on the move....still it is a good new, the end of the siege is in sight. We just need to hold out for a few more days, and then we''ll be able to march out of this city.Perhaps I should be sharing the news with the troops they will certainly be happy.''''As he said so he turned to the boy ''''since you are here follow me there are few things I want to show you. ''''As he said so he started moving towards the gate , the air seemed to became lighter as the end of the siege was finally on sight. Chapter 79: See what they are doing? Chapter 79: See what they are doing? The sun hung high in the sky, casting its golden rays down upon the bustling scene below. Despite the morning hour, the work on both sides of the conflict continued unabated, with neither side showing any sign of respite. Upon the city walls, guards stood watch with spears in hand, their eyes trained on the enemy''s efforts to fill the moats below. Meanwhile, slingers stood poised, their projectiles aimed at the workers below, ready to rain down stones upon them with jeers of triumph whenever their aim proved true. Amidst this scene of activity, Alpheo ascended the stairs of the main gate, emerging onto the wall with purpose in his stride. His gaze swept over the enemy forces below before turning to search for Jarza, his second-in-command. Spotting him leaning against the wall, Alpheo made his way over, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Mind your step," Alpheo advised with a hint of humor as he approached ''''We don''t want one of our commanders to fall down'''' Jarza''s eyes widened momentarily at the sight of Alpheo, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before he composed himself. "I''ll keep that in mind," he replied casually, though there was a subtle note of respect in his tone. "Decided to grace us with your presence, Captain?" he quipped. Alpheo chuckled softly. "You could say that," he replied cryptically, his expression thoughtful as he surveyed the scene before them. Jarza''s gaze shifted to Ratto, who stood nearby, his presence drawing attention. "What''s he doing here?" he inquired, his tone indicating both surprise and curiosity. "He brought me good news," Alpheo explained, a faint smile touching his lips. "And I was getting bored, so I decided to keep him with me." He glanced at Ratto, who shifted uncomfortably under Jarza''s scrutiny. Alpheo reached for the letter in his pocket and handed it to Jarza. "Take a look at this," he said, gesturing toward the parchment. "It''s from a pigeon." Jarza took the letter, his eyes scanning the contents briefly before he looked back at Alpheo with a quizzical expression. "Wow these words really do looks nice" he remarked with a joke. @@@@ Alpheo snorted a laugh , "It says that the prince is moving toward us with his army," he reported, his voice tinged with a hint of excitement. "And in a few days, he should be arriving here. It seems the siege will be short-lived." "But do you notice something off about their tactics?" Alpheo asked, gesturing towards the men below. Ratto''s brow furrowed as he looked down at the enemy army and then back at Alpheo. "They may be doing something wrong," he admitted with a shake of his head, "but I don''t know what it i'''' "The advantage of being on the defensive is great," Alpheo explained, "you have time to fortify your position, lay traps for the enemy, and prepare the terrain for battle. The attacker, on the other hand, is at a disadvantage. They must march towards the enemy in a position that has been chosen for them. They can try to avoid battle, but that only wastes more supplies so there will be a time when they cannot retreat and they can only go forward. Eventually, they will be forced to make their way forward, regardless of their fighting condition. The only advantage they hold is maneuverability - they get to choose how to fight. And as such, they can plan and anticipate the enemy''s response to their tactics." Ratto remained silent, his eyes fixed on the scene below as Alpheo continued to enlighten him. "Right now, the enemy is focusing their efforts on one section of the moat," Alpheo explained, gesturing towards the workers laboring below. "While this approach may speed up the process of filling the moat, it also limits their flexibility and exposes them to our defenses. By concentrating their forces in one area, they''re essentially making themselves vulnerable , as we can amass all our troops on one point ." Ratto nodded slowly, processing Alpheo''s words. "But why would they take such a risk?'''' Alpheo''s gaze remained fixed on the enemy lines as he pondered the question. "They''re driven by desperation knowing they have wasted a lot of time ," he responded after a moment. "The prince is determined to capture this city, as its fall would greatly enhance his strategic position in the war. However, he''s racing against time, knowing that if he doesn''t succeed before reinforcements arrive, his chances of victory diminish significantly." He then paused, a furrow forming between his brows as he continued, "They likely didn''t anticipate the strength of our defenses, which has disrupted their original plan. Now, they''re doubling down on their efforts to breach the city before it''s too late." Ratto looked at Alpheo then nodded ''''Still, why do you think they thought it would be easy to conquer the city?'''' ''''Well the garrison had low numbers before our arrival.So that''s one reason ''''He answered keeping the other one to himself. Or maybe they had an insider in the city, he thought as he looked back, wondering what were the chances of that and if he were to strike first without proof. Chapter 80: Assault(1) Chapter 80: Assault(1) "MOVE! MOVE! MOVE! ON THE WALL NOW!" Jarza''s voice echoed across the city walls, a command that sent a ripple of urgency through the defenders. Alpheo gazed the scene before him, his eyes taking in the chaos. Men armed with spears and shields rushed to their positions atop the walls, their gazes fixed on the distant enemy forces gathering for the impending assault, some were gulping nervously other were fidgeting in fear. Meanwhile, children and women darted through the city, ferrying arrows and small stones to bolster the defenders'' supplies.The first to be shot and the latter to be thrown. @@@@ ''This one is to be a brutal day'' , he thought as he eyes the enemey''s formation.The prince of Oizen had constructed battering rams and assembled ladders, clear indications of their intent to breach the city''s defenses. "They will try to assault the walls using the ladders, while battering the gate with their ram," Alpheo mused, his gaze fixed on the enemy formations taking shape in the distance. "And once the gate falls, the city goes with it." Two tense days had passed since they received the letter confirming the enemy''s advance. Now, as the enemy completed their preparations, Alpheo knew they would concentrate their forces on the gate, their primary entry point into the city. Despite this, he remained vigilant, ensuring that all sections of the wall were adequately defended in case of any unexpected maneuvers.The last thing he wanted was for everhting to be a rouse and before they realize the attack was one of the other gate. While most of the defenders manned the walls, Alpheo had allocated two hundred of their forces to serve as reserves, ready to reinforce any weak points as needed and also exchange position with the men on the front once they get tired. Supplies of arrows, stones, and chopped wood were meticulously stocked, ensuring that the defenders had everything they needed to repel the enemy onslaught. With the city bracing for the impending assault, Alpheo knew that every ounce of preparation could make the difference between victory and defeat.Everything had been done and the fate of the city was in the hands of the god.Or at least so most people thought, Alpheo was the exception he didnot know if something existed in the sky or deep in the dirt, but he did not think that the numerous gods of this lands actually existed. "At least it''s not going to rain," Alpheo muttered to himself, his gaze drifting upwards with a hint of relief. He despised the discomfort that rain brought, especially during a tense situation like this. His attention shifted to the other gates, where each of his trusted companions was tasked with a command. Jarza would oversee the defense of the front gate, while Egil and Laedio were stationed at the eastern and western walls, respectively. Asag was in charge of the reinforcement units, ready to move wherever needed. Meanwhile, Clio was given authority over the infantry positioned on a wall adjacent to the gate¡ªa position that offered action without excessive risk, as the enemy would likely use ladders for their assault. ''''SLINGERS'''' Jarza shouted as he raised his hand, and one hundred , man put the stones on their slings and started building the cinetic energy for the throw . There was no order given by the commander, as soon as they thought they were on range, they started to rain down stones. Dozens of stones hurled in the skies, cutting the air with their body. Soon some men fell to the ground, the stones hitting the head of some and the shoulders of others. Confusion rippled through the ranks of the enemy before they realized what was happening. ''''RAISE SHIELDS'''' Officers shouted as they made the motion, copied by their men.The shields given to the man were a cumbersome thing , rectangular shaped and big enough to cover their torso.The men raised them diagonally to their heads, as that was the part of the body they had to protect. The shields, bulky and cumbersome, offered protection against the hail of stones. Officers barked orders, urging their men to advance while shielding themselves from the incoming projectiles. The air filled with the sound of stones colliding with wood -Smash-Smash-Smash- The relentless barrage of stones rained down upon the enemy lines, most deflected by hastily raised shields, but a few finding their mark, inflicting painful wounds upon the unfortunate few who were struck. The cries of the injured pierced the air, their agony serving as a grim reminder of the brutality of war. Yet, despite their suffering, the wounded remained a small minority, their injuries unable to deter the resolve of the advancing army. Alpheo''s gaze remained fixed upon the enemy''s progress, his expression unreadable as he assessed the situation with a cool detachment. While the mass of men moving forward held little interest for him, his attention was drawn to the battering ram steadily advancing towards the city''s defenses. It was this looming threat that occupied his thoughts, the potential breach of their walls a far greater concern than the mere foot soldiers approaching. As the enemy forces closed in on the second moat, Alpheo knew it was time for the archers to shine. With the enemy now within range, both sides unleashed a storm of arrows upon each other. The defenders, positioned high upon the walls, had the advantage of elevation and cover, while the attackers, lacking such protection apart from few wooden shuffles , were sitting ducks and were left vulnerable to the deadly rain of projectiles. Jarza''s archers targeted the advancing infantry, aiming to thin their ranks and disrupt their formation. The narrow path created by the enemy''s makeshift bridge provided a prime opportunity for the defenders to concentrate their fire, picking off their foes with deadly accuracy, as they could not march all at once, . With each volley of arrows, the defenders exacted a toll upon the enemy''s forces that succeded in raising the nerves of the enemy''s army. Chapter 81: Assault(2) Chapter 81: Assault(2) "Eat this, bastards!" A triumphant cry echoed across the wall as an archer''s arrow found its mark, piercing through an enemy''s neck with deadly precision. The satisfaction in the archer''s voice fell in the air as he watched his foe succumb, with the piece of wood sticking out of his throat , drowning in the very essence that gave him life. "More arrows!" Another archer''s urgent plea resonated through the chaos as their dwindling supply threatened to leave them vulnerable. A young boy hurriedly scurried to replenish their stock, but for now, they made do with what they had. Each arrow loosed from their bows found a target, adding to the mounting toll of the enemy''s casualties. Below the walls, the enemy drew ever closer, their advance marked by advanicng presence of ladders held aloft by determined soldiers. Arrows whistled through the air, finding their marks amidst the chaos, while stones crashed against shields and skulls alike. A sudden thud silenced the air as a stone struck an enemy soldier squarely on the temple, felling him without a sound. His vacant eyes stared skyward, an eerie stillness settling over his lifeless form. Yet, in the face of death, his comrades pressed on, another quickly taking his place as they held the laddery as they surged forward with unwavering resolve.He came and went as he never existed, as he never lived, his remains standing on a foreign flee away from loved''s tears. After dozens of such stories, the enemy''s ladders finally reached the walls, dozens ascending in a desperate bid to breach the defenses. But they were met with fierce resistance as defenders armed with maces and lances awaited their ascent. With each step closer to the ramparts, the enemy became ensnared in a deadly trap, where lethal projectiles replaced the rain of arrows, raining down upon them with unrelenting force even before they could see the face of their enemy, and that was even before they reached the top. "Cease your throwing!" bellowed an officer of the Yarlaat mercenary company, his voice slicing through the chaos like a blade. With a pointed gesture, he directed his men''s attention to the ladders ascending the walls. "Aim for those on the ladders!Forget those on the grounds " With a coordinated effort, the defenders adjusted their aim, targeting the precarious footholds of the enemy scaling the walls. Debris, boulders, and chunks of wood hurtled through the air, finding their marks as they came down . The impact sent shockwaves through the ranks of the invaders, toppling those on the front lines and those below, their bodies crashing to the earth below with sickening thuds. Bones shattered, and lives were snuffed out in an instant, as an insect toppled by an heel. For the besieging soldiers, there was no respite, no sanctuary from the relentless onslaught. Forced forward by the menacing blades of their own officers, they teetered on the precipice of death with every step. These were not seasoned warriors hardened by years of combat but ordinary men thrust into the crucible of war, their hands calloused from tending fields now gripping wooden staffs as they tried to make their steps on the wall in a desperate bid for survival. @@@@ Alpheo, observing the scene with a calculating gaze, sensed that the time for his plan had come. With a grin, he turned to his men and issued a macabre command. "Get hold of the pottery! Let''s roast some meat, boys!" The cheers that erupted from his men echoed across the walls as they eagerly retrieved jars containing fat and oil, their eyes alight with anticipation. "Throw them!" Alpheo''s command rang out, and his men wasted no time in obeying. The jars shattered upon impact, spilling their contents onto the ground below. Confusion flickered across the faces of the enemy soldiers as they beheld the strange substance, their bewilderment cut short as flaming arrows from below ignited the spilled liquid. In an instant, fire erupted from the mix of oil and pig''s fat, amidst the ranks of the enemy, engulfing them in a searing blaze of agony and terror. Men screamed in agony as flames consumed their flesh,other screamed in fear of the same happening to them , panic spreading like wildfire as chaos seized hold of the assault. The meticulously crafted formations of the enemy dissolved into disarray, their discipline crumbling in the face of the inferno unleashed upon them.The discipline that the officer built through their blades shattered as men ran everywhere. With a triumphant smile curling his lips, Alpheo seized his horn and blew a single resounding note that pierced through the clamor of battle. At his signal, the massive gate of the city began to creak open, revealing a small group of ten men waiting only to act . In a swift and coordinated movement, the men dashed forward, their footsteps echoing across the courtyard as they raced towards the burning ram. No man was there to stop them, nor to to protect the ram. With practiced efficiency, they spread the jars of flammable oil and fat across the surface of the siege weapon , coating it in oil and fat . Then, they threw the torches on it , the flames licking hungrily at the soaked wood. As the intense heat radiated from the blazing ram, , the men swiftly retreatedn before the enemy could realise what was happenign , their mission accomplished. Behind them, the heavy gates of the city swung shut with a thunderous clang, sealing off the burning ram within the confines of the outer defenses. Alpheo watched with satisfaction as the flames engulfed the ram, the city would remain in his hand , as he knew that the siege would end as quick as it started. Chapter 82: Rat(1) Chapter 82: Rat(1) "Hey, lad, fill my cup, can''t you see how light it is? Or perhaps your only skill is stealing?" Egil chuckled, lifting his cup and signaling Ratto to refill it. It had been a while since they all enjoyed such a lively dinner together. The tension of battle had dissipated, leaving behind a pleasant weariness, as all the adrenaline gave place to an uneasy sense of peace "Take it easy, now. We don''t know if the enemy decides to have a try during the evening " Jarza cautioned between mouthfuls of meat. He was usually a man of few words, but when he spoke he was always heard "Chaning topic " Clio leaned in, his eyes gleaming with curiosity as he turned toward Egil , "how''s your foot holding up?" With a mischievous glint, he lifted his bandaged foot onto the table. "Good as new," he quipped, earning a collective groan of disgust and a demand from Alpheo to keep it down and avoid disturbing their meal. "You were lucky..." Clio remarked, a note of seriousness in his voice. "If those arrows had been a bit off-target, it might not have been your foot but your neck or shoulder." "Thank the gods for small favors, thank yourself for the big ones " Egil replied with a grin, taking a sip from his cup. "What a day, eh?" he declared, raising his cup in a toast. The others echoed his sentiment, though Alpheo''s was evidently less jumpy . Seeing this , Jarza prodded him, and after some reluctance, Alpheo admitted his concerns. "Their side has been too quiet," he explained. "It''s troubling." "Maybe they''ve realized further assaults would be futile," Egil suggested optimistically, though it was clear he couldn''t shake off his friend''s worries. "They know reinforcements are on the way," Alpheo reasoned. "They wouldn''t risk losing more troops with another failed attempt.From what I know our enemy has been throwing rings around our employer for long enough..." "Then why are you so worried?You''ll get wrinkles if you keep this up'''' Alpheo paused, his expression tense as he considered his response. "Something changed," he finally replied, his voice laced with apprehension. "They are planning something. I can feel it, but I don''t know what it is." He punctuated his words with a loud crunch as he took a bite of bread, his jaw working furiously as he chewed, though it sounded more mechanical than anything . "You''re overthinking it," Clio interjected, attempting to assuage his friend''s concerns. "Maybe I am, maybe I''m not... It''s just a feeling, after all," Alpheo conceded, though the worry still lingered in his eyes. Ratto approached quietly, refilling Alpheo''s cup before unexpectedly addressing him. "What about you?" he asked. "Do you have anything to add or ask? Sometimes the mind of a boy discovers something that old men can''t see." He shook his head in denial Alpheo''s brow furrowed as he considered the implications. "Are you sure it wasn''t just some encounter with a whore?" Asag''s response was firm. "It was a male figure, and unless he''s a sword-swallower, then yes, I''m sure." The others looked in confusion at the exchange , though they kept silent. Alpheo took a moment to collect his thoughts, closing his eyes briefly before addressing the group. "Ratto, please fetch another chair. We''ll have a guest joining us shortly." Without hesitation, Ratto hurried from the room to fulfill Alpheo''s request. Meanwhile, Alpheo turned his attention back to Asag. "Tell Fahil to join us for a meal. Tell him I need his counsel on certain matters. Bring some men with you, but keep them outside. If he refuses to comply, have them enter and rough him up on the edges ." "As you wish," Asag nodded, rising from his seat to carry out Alpheo''s instructions. However, before he could leave, Alpheo halted him with a raised hand. "But before that, there''s something I need you to prepare," Alpheo added. The room fell silent for two long hours before the heavy wooden door swung open once more, breaking the tense stillness with a loud creak. Asag strode into the room, his dark expression unreadable as he led their guest, Fahil, through the doorway. The newcomer''s posture was rigid as he surveyed each man sitting at the table, guided by Asag to his designated seat. "I have been told we would be discussing matters about the city," Fahil said in a low voice "You have been told correctly," Alpheo replied smoothly, taking a sip from his cup before continuing. "In a few days, your prince will be arriving to relieve the city and we can all go our separate ways. Normally, I would be more than happy for that... if it weren''t for something that has just come to my attention." "What is it?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady and posture upright . "Well, it appears , but take this with a pinch of salt.... that our enemy is planning an attack on the city tomorrow," Alpheo revealed calmly as if discussing nothing more significant than the weather. ''''You appear sure of that, why''s that?'''' Alpheo''s enigmatic smile remained in place as he leaned back in his chair, seemingly unperturbed by Fahil''s reaction. "Rats are always easy to catch " he added cryptically, his gaze drifting up towards the roof as if searching for bats. Suddenly, he put two fingers in his mouth and let out a whistle, shattering the heavy silence in an instant. Two figures appeared from the kitchen door, dragging a bloodied man between them. Fahil''s eyes narrowed as he wondered who he was. Chapter 83: Rat(2) Chapter 83: Rat(2) Fahil''s gaze remained fixed on the bloodied man, his mind racing with a flurry of thoughts and suspicions. Yet as he looked closer he realised this wasn''t the individual he''d had contact with, he gave out a breath of relief. Perhaps, he dared to hope, his covert actions had gone unnoticed. Suppressing his inner turmoil, Fahil played the role of the curious observer, "Who is he?" he inquired, his tone carefully neutral. "Ah, now that," he replied cryptically, "is a tale best told by our newfound friends here." Moving forward, Alpheo advanced toward the bloodied man, seizing him by the hair to force his head upright, forcing him to look up to the man. --PFFT-- A spit landed on Alpheo, as if nothing happened Alpheo cleaned the spit out of his cheek before backslapping the man, letting go of his hair. Fahil winced as the blow landed, and the man went limp.As Alpheo ordered the spy''s return to his cell and instructed for him to be given a thorough beating, Fahil''s mind raced with a torrent of questions and concerns.He was never good at scheming , if he was , he would surely have understood what his position was, yet the commander was currently surviving on the feeble hope, that he was just called to be informed of the spy. "Do we know where they will be attacking?" he asked @@@@ "Not yet," he admitted, a flicker of irritation dancing in his eyes. "The bastard does not know it , but," he continued, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper as he gave Fahil a smile, "we did manage to extract something else from him" "Apparently, he was not alone," he continued , his tone matter-of-fact. Fahil''s breath caught in his throat, his mind reeling at his words. "I presume you captured them all?" he ventured, his voice strained. Fahil''s desperation was palpable as he ranted on ignoring the question , his voice tinged with madness as he clung to the remnants of his shattered ambitions. "Arkawatt will lose. He''s barely clinging to power with your men by his side. Desert him, and Prince Sulayth will reward you handsomely. Why die for a losing cause when you can bask in opulence?" Alpheo regarded Fahil with a mixture of pity and contempt, his gaze unwavering as he contemplated their next move. " I have more important issues to check now. There is also still the thing about your fate..." he mentioned , his voice tinged with a hint of irony. Fahil''s response was immediate, his tone desperate as he pleaded for clemency. "Haven''t you heard me? Join his grace, and you''ll be granted wealth beyond your wildest dreams." "You''re a terrible liar, you know?" Alpheo''s words cut through the tension, accompanied by a smile that bordered on mockery as he tapped Fahil''s forehead lightly. Fahil''s response was resigned, his sigh heavy with the weight of impending doom. "Very well, go on with it," he acquiesced, his gaze dropping to the floor in defeat. "Your head will soon lie with mine, the prince will surely breach the city, be it before or after the prince arrive. " As Alpheo approached, Fahil braced himself for what was to come, his body tense with anticipation. Alpheo''s hand reached out, hovering inches from Fahil''s neck before descending to his shoulder in a reassuring pat. "Why so pessimistic?" Alpheo said his smile warm and inviting. "There''s still a way out. Death may be the end of everything, but fortunately for you, the end of the road is not yet in sight. You can still choose to take a detour if you wish to live." Fahil''s gaze narrowed at Alpheo''s words, a mixture of skepticism and defiance etched across his features. "If you don''t take my head, Arkawatt will. Do me a favor and be quick with it," he retorted, his tone laced with bitterness. Alpheo''s response was calm and collected, his confidence unwavering in the face of Fahil''s disdain. "Now, now, that''s what would happen if I weren''t here," he replied with a faint smirk. "Fortunately for you, you may have got someone covering your ass." Fahil''s skepticism only deepened, his expression morphing into one of incredulity. "And that would be you?" he scoffed, his disbelief evident in the curl of his lip. "I assume you would need something from me?If it is silver this city is awfully empty of it.." Alpheo''s smile remained unfaltering, his demeanor exuding an air of calculated charm. "I want no gold nor silver. Well what I am searching for , it''s more of an exchange, a favor for a favor," he explained, his tone smooth and persuasive. "You do a small little thing for me, and I''ll make sure that not only will you avoid execution for changing sides, but you''ll even be rewarded handsomely.You scratch my back, I scratch yours... Care to listen?" Chapter 84: Night鈥檚 cloak(1) Chapter 85: Night''s cloak(1) As night draped its cloak over the city, the guards atop the walls moved across the walls , their footsteps echoing softly on the stony ground. Each one held a torch aloft, its flickering flame casting dancing shadows along the battlements. With keen eyes, they scanned the darkness beyond, sweeping their torches forward and down in search of any sign of movement or intrusion. The moon, a silent spectator in the sky, offered little assistance to the vigilant scouts below, covered by the clouds, Its pale light struggled to penetrate the thick veil of night, leaving vast stretches of the city''s perimeter shrouded in shadow. . In the cloak of darkness, hundreds of men stood poised and alert, their figures obscured by the blackness of night. No torches illuminated their presence, for stealth was their ally in this operation. With eyes narrowed against the gloom, they maintained close proximity to their comrades,shoulder to shoulder, ensuring that their formation remained intact in the shadowy expanse. These were no ordinary foot soldiers; they were the elite infantry of the prince of Oizen , distinguished by their impeccable training and formidable equipment. Clad in the finest chainmail, breastplates, and helmets, they were the vanguard of the prince''s forces, entrusted with the most critical of missions. Armed with sturdy shields and gleaming lances, they had earned a reputation for unyielding resolve on the battlefield, never faltering in the face of adversity unless commanded to do so, they were always the last one to enter the battle and the first one to be pull out of . Reserved for pivotal moments in battle, they were accustomed to being held in reserve until their expertise was required to turn the tide. Their numbers were cherished by the prince, who recognized their irreplaceable value and took care not to squander their lives needlessly.Each soldier always trained in time of peace, and many of them were even literate. Now, as the city lay besieged by enemy forces, their skills were indispensable in reclaiming what rightfully belonged to their liege. In the silent anticipation of the night, they remained hunkered down, their senses finely attuned to the slightest sound or movement. Each man awaited the command of their officers, ready to spring into action at a moment''s notice and execute their duty with precision and unwavering determination. The officers stood in a tight circle, their gaze fixed ahead toward their captains. Among them stood Shamliak, the nephew of the prince of Oizen and commander of the prince''s elite? force.His father died in battle after saving the prince life, and in return he was always the favorite nephew of the ruler, who treated him akin to a son. @@@@ He raised his head to see where the men they saw on top of the gate were,perhaps the captiain would be among them. It was dark though and Shamliak failed to see farther than the faces of the man that stood few meters from him.No one had torches so he couldn''t send anyone to make light, he did not even know if they were there . Yet they were now inside and he had order to give to his squads, as there was no time to waste. ''''Sir the gate is ours!Permission to go forth and take control of the rest of the walls?'''' An officer came to report as he approched the relative of the prince waiting for instruction.The army could certainly not wait for him to wash away his doubts , he was the commander and he had orders to give. ''''Send a message to the rest of the men out of the city to sally inside ,then take the rest and sweep any resistance you find along the way. I want this city to be ours by the end of the night.I want o looting , Have I been clear?'''' ''''Yes my lord !Men come with me.'''' The officer shouted as he took command of the men and march forward. With 100 men he started moving on the base of the wall, and whenever they reached a watched tower , they charged ,killed the few men insides and took control of it and went forward unopposed. As the soldiers charged inside the city walls, their footsteps echoing through the empty streets, their spirits were high with the thought of victory on the horizon. The lack of opposition only fueled their confidence as they discussed the spoils awaiting them. "I can''t believe how easy this is," one soldier remarked, a smirk playing on his face. "We''re practically strolling in and claiming this city as our own." His companion nodded in agreement, scanning the surrounding buildings for potential loot. "I can already see the riches we''ll be taking back with us. This city won''t know what hit them." One of these soldier perhapse out of curiosity , as he charged out of a watchtower, turned his head to watch on one of the many dark streets they passed . Perhaps by the gods'' cruel sense of mirth or by chance, the soldier high with victory and greed was the first to see that this city would not be their triumph but their tomb. As in front of them , a lone ray from the moon , where hundreds failed to reach, had illuminated enough to see dozens of blade shining in the night,and the face of the man holding them poised to pay steel for steel and blood by blood. Chapter 85: Night cloak(2) Chapter 85: Night cloak(2) The warning cry rang out like a clarion call, jolting the Oizen soldiers from their momentary stupor. A shallow cry cutting through the silence and the dark. "IT''S AN AMBUSH!" The soldier''s shouted as he sprinted back to his comrades, repeating the ominous refrain. Yet, before the full gravity of his words could sink in, the darkness erupted with violence, almost like a shadow rebelling to his master. Blades materialized from the dark like specters of death, catching the Oizen soldiers off guard. From every crevice and alley, men clad in chainmail and helmets emerged, their presence turning the once deserted streets into a battlefield. The element of surprise favored the attackers, and before the Oizen soldiers could react, they found themselves encircled, flanked on almost any sides , cut off from any reinforcement and outnumbered, their backs on the wall as the enemy charged forth. As the attackers closed in, the Oizen soldiers felt the noose tightening around them. "WITH ME, MEN!" The officer''s voice cut through the chaos,trying to rally his men , a beacon of defiance as he tried to revert an impossible situation . With grim determination, he rallied a group of soldiers to make a desperate stand against the encircling enemy.But it was like stopping a river with bare hands . With a resounding battle cry, the officer and his makeshift vanguard charged into the fray, their weapons clashing against the onslaught of foes. Despite their valor, the odds were stacked against them, and the melee devolved into a brutal struggle for survival. Men fell on both sides, their screams lost in the cacophony of combat. With a swift motion, the officer deflected the thrust of an enemy lance with his shield, the impact reverberating through his arm. Seizing the moment, he countered with a powerful blow, the edge of his shield connecting with the face of the enemy. The force of the strike knocked the assailant off balance, sending him crashing to the ground with a pained grunt. As the officer dispatched his foe with a swift coup de grace, he spared no time for hesitation. With grim determination, he pressed forward, driving toward the weak point in the enemy''s formation. His blade became a blur of motion as he carved a path through the encircling foes, f they were to survive they had to inform the rest of the army of the ambush Amidst the chaos of battle, the officer''s leadership proved crucial. "Don''t get isolated!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the clamor of combat. "Go forward! Fall back, and you are dead!" His words were a rallying cry, urging his comrades to keep pace as they fought tooth and nail to break free from the enemy''s grasp, some managed to do so most however failed and were left behind . Before they could fully comprehend the gravity of the situation, arrows began to rain down upon them. The air was filled with the deadly whistle of projectiles. The officer and his comrades too late to raise their shield as the night covered the arrows, got pierced by dozens of them . Despite their best efforts, they were just a fraction of the defenders destined to fall in the face of overwhelming odds, as the man who planned such slaughter was leasurely stretching his back as dozens of men fell at his feet. Trapped within the tightening circle of enemy forces, the encircled men fought desperately to break free, but their efforts were met with fierce resistance at every turn. With each charge forward, they faced a barrage of arrows, stones, and weapons wielded by their adversaries. As they surged toward the enemy lines, shields held high and swords flashing in the dim light, they were met with a rain of projectiles. Arrows streaked through the air like deadly darts, finding their marks with lethal precision. Stones hurled from slings or thrown over from the walls into the ranks, breaking bones and shattering armor. Despite their bravery and determination, most of the encircled men were quickly cut down by the relentless assault. Those who managed to close the distance with the enemy found themselves outnumbered and outmatched, surrounded on all sides by foes with shields locked together in a solid wall of defense. With each failed attempt to break free, their ranks dwindled further, and desperation began to set in. It all happened at once ,they were easily marching through the city, the gate was theirs , yet the lack of torches was deliberately made from the enemy to not let them see what was over their head.The men entering the tower of the gate, never left as they were cut down from men hiding in closet and in other spot covered by darkness. And then it happened , all of a suddentheir escape route was swiftly cut off as a net filled with heavy boulders was dropped behind them, sealing their fate.Normally that could have been easy to fix, just simply using the men to cut the rope and take the boulders away , however panic set on as some of the men frantically attempted to climb over the obstruction, only to be met with a barrage of enemy attacks. The moment the boulders fell , they were shot down by arrows, and the clanking of armor could have be heard coming from the darkness , as numerous teams of men charged the main army that entered the city, straight towards the commander, the nephew of the prince. With their retreat blocked and no path forward, the men found themselves trapped in a deadly trap. The enemy closed in from all sides, their movements swift and coordinated, as they unleashed a relentless onslaught upon the helpless defenders. Any hope of mobility or escape was swiftly extinguished as the enemy''s projectiles found their marks, rendering the men immobile and vulnerable. Surrounded and outnumbered, the encircled soldiers fought valiantly against overwhelming odds, but it was a battle they could not win. Cut off from any avenue of escape and facing a relentless onslaught, their fate seemed all but sealed. It was nothing short of a tactical decapitation. Chapter 86: Night cloak(3) Chapter 86: Night cloak(3) As the hours dragged on, the ambush continued unabated, the enemy showing no signs of relenting. Rather than launching a direct assault, they methodically whittled down the defenders with a relentless barrage of rocks and arrows.After all why waste men when you can let arrows do the job? Gaps began to appear in the formation as casualties mounted, each breach exposing those behind to even greater danger. Among the beleaguered defenders stood Shamliak, the nephew of the prince, his muscles aching and his arms burning with the effort of holding his shield aloft for hours on end. Thirst gnawed at his throat, but there was no respite or time to satisfy that need. "This is it," he thought grimly, his gaze drifting upward to the sky. His original hope had been that maintaining their position would signal to his uncle that something had gone awry, prompting an assault on the walls to provide relief. Yet, as the moments stretched into agonizing hours and no commotion arose from the enemy lines, Shamliak''s heart sank. It became increasingly apparent that their plight had been overlooked or misunderstood, and that their fate was already decided the moment they entered, no aid would come . Arrows stones and javelin ran down on them, and every five minutes the barrage would end as the defenders wouold shout at the invader theusual words ''''THE MAIN ARMY WON''T COME, YOU ARE ALONE ,DROP YOUR WEAPONS , LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS FOR THERE IS NO HOPE FOR YOU.'''' Then they would wait for a few seconds before resuming the barrage once no answer was given ''That bastard sent us to our death, the insider doubleplayed us and we fell wholeheartedly for it'' he thought as he bit his inner cheek from the pain coming out of his shoulder, where a lone arrows had embedded itself on it . With each agonizing throb from the embedded arrow, Shamliak''s fury intensified, directed not only at their unseen enemy but also at the one who planned all of this . His thoughts seethed with indignation as he grappled with the harsh reality of their situation. As Shamliak''s gaze drifted upward to the expanse of the night sky, a sense of hopelessness settled over him like a suffocating shroud. The stars twinkled above, indifferent to the plight of men caught in the throes of conflict. In that moment of despair, he found himself grappling with a question that weighed heavily on his mind: should they surrender? The thought lingered, its implications stark and sobering. Surrender meant admitting defeat, relinquishing their pride and honor to the enemy who had ensnared them in this deadly trap, as if giving meat to the same dog that bit his hand . It meant accepting captivity and have his honor sullied. He knew that the commander was not one of them but a mercenary, he may be kept alive but his men?He was worth a lot , but not his men. Alpheo''s pov As he approached Alpheo and his companions, the man''s gaze remained fixed ahead, his expression resolute despite the circumstances. The weight of defeat hung heavy upon him, yet he carried himself with a sense of dignity and honor befitting a warrior facing his final moments on the battlefield. When he few meters from Alpheo he dropped on both his knee and laid the sword down ''''My name is Shakmail of house Oizen, nephew of the current prince Shamsa Oizen. I hereby surrender unconditionally to you , if you swear on keeping my men alive for ransom and to treat me as rank demand you do'''' Alpheo''s eyes moved down to the man , then he descended from horseback and approached him , taking the sword from his hand, which meant accepting his surrender ''''I have no reason to refuse your request, your men shall be disarmed, fed , watered and given medical attention from my doctors.Speaking of which, I am sure you will need a visit from yourself'''' He said pointing at the arrow and causing the man to grunt in agreement. After that Alpheo led his horse to the man allowing him to ride on horseback in sign of respect , as he was to part way however the prisoner turned towardthe mercenary captain as he asked one question ''''Can I be allowed to know the insider?Always if he is still alive.'''' ''''Of course he is right there'''' he said pointing at Fahil,who was looking meekly at the man. And before he could even realise a spit landed on his face, running down on his cheek , he said nothing and just cleaned himself. The commander after doing so did nothing but let himself be accompanied by Alpheo''s guards as he brought him towards the medical tent .''This was to be his night of glory'' Shamkeil thought ''not mine''. As shamkeil was getting treated by the defenders doctors , Alpheo gave one look at the sword, the sheath was beatifully made and embledded with some jem, giving the sword a luxurious undertone. . ''''That could be sold for an hefty sum '''' Clio commented as he whistled ''''You are probably right'''' Alpheo muttered before turning to Asag and extended the sword ''''It''s yours you can keep it'''' Asag went eye wide as he received the sword ''''I-I can''t'''' He stuttered as he held the sword ''''You can and you will, you basically saved the city and our lives, if there is anyone that deserve such fine sword it is you.Had you not discovered the plot we would have our cut from our necks, It is my gift to you, make sure to learn on how to use it.I will need you on the frontline in the future after all '''' ''''He is right Asag'''' Jarza agreed ''''Though if you don''t want it , I can take it for you'''' He said as he tried to grab the pommel, but failing as Asag moved it closer to his chest. ''''Thank you '''' Asag said in a faint voice as he tried the blade making some swoosh sounds from cutting the air ,prompting Alpheo to pat his shoulder as he started to command his man to disarm the surrendered soldiers but not to harm them. Chapter 87: Northern鈥檚 war Chapter 88: Northern''s war Maesinius pov: The city finally fell , 8,000 men had been assaulting it for a week and in the end the invevitable happened. Every night, the prince,as usual made his somber rounds through the encampments.He found himself drawn to the medical tents, where the cries of the wounded pierced the silence of the night like mournful wails. The sight of broken bodies and anguished faces were the cost of his ambition, each groan and whimper carving a deep, searing ache in his soul. ''I must see the result of my choices '' he had told Uther the giant as he made his way there .It was horrible to say the least, but he needed to see it . And so, when news of the city''s fall finally reached his ears, it was met with a bittersweet mixture of relief and sorrow. As the gates crumbled beneath the relentless onslaught of the northern invaders, sending splinters of wood scattering across the ground, the prince could feel the weight of history shifting beneath his feet. Thelogontia, the coveted jewel of the campaign , laid within reach, a prize won through bloodshed and sacrifice. The rest of the province could now be taken much more easily, and if they managed to give one or two defeat to the major lords , the rest would easily bend the knee. For every inch of ground gained though , there lay a sea of graves, each one leaving a story no one will hear. As the surrounding lands fell under the relentless advance of the northern army, the once fertile fields lay barren and pillaged, their bountiful harvests plundered and stockpiled in the warehouses of the conquerors. The gains for which the prince had marshaled his forces and rallied his lords now lay within grasp, yet they knew all too well that the true prize lay behind the walls of Thelogontia. With each conquered city and sacked village, the prince had dispatched envoys to the lord of Thelogontia, hoping to broker a peaceful surrender and avoid further bloodshed. Yet time and again, the messengers returned empty-handed, their pleas for reason falling on deaf ears. It seemed Lord Carxio remained steadfast in his defiance, perhaps clinging to the hope that his liege lord would rally the forces of the realm to his aid. And indeed, High Marshal Conte had mustered his fief''s armies, intent on breaking the siege and relieving the beleaguered city. But the wheels of war turned slowly, and the relief force moved at a pace too measured to stave off the inevitable. As the city walls crumbled and the garrison fell, the conquerors surged forth, their victory heralding a wave of pillage and plunder. Prince Maesinius rode at the head of his army, a formidable force of 600 Huscarls flanking him on either side. These elite infantrymen were the pride of the north, their strength legendary, adept to cold and hunger, their axes said to cleave through boulders with ease. Arrayed in the pelts of beasts they had personally hunted and slain, the Huscarls presented a fearsome sight as they marched in disciplined formation. Each warrior bore the trophy of their conquest proudly atop their heads, the pelts of wolves, bears, and elks adorning their shoulders. For those less fortunate, the spoils of their hunts included sheep and foxes, yet even these trophies were worn with a fierce sense of pride. Under the banner of their prince, the Huscarls rode forth, their war cries echoing off the surrounding hills as they swept through the streets of the conquered city. "Like what?" the prince inquired, turning his attention to her as she gestured expansively. "What happens after all of this?" she replied, her arms extended to encompass the uncertainty of their future. The weight of her question hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over the prince''s thoughts. "We will face Conte and his army," he declared, his voice firm with resolve, though uncertainty lingered in his heart. Elenoir''s words hung in the air, laden with implications that the prince struggled to fully comprehend. He listened intently, his brow furrowing in confusion as he grappled with the weight of her proposal. "I mean, after all of that, I am not the one who studied history like you," she began, her tone measured yet urgent. "But I think that one of the reasons the north fell was because we were many and at the same time no one. We were divided, making it easier for the south to subdue us. And unless we want the same thing to happen again, I think you should think about that." The prince regarded her with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. "Are you suggesting something?" he inquired, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "Maybe I am," Elenoir replied cryptically, her eyes alight with determination. "The lords are riled up. They love what you brought them, and apparently they are enjoying the weather of the south , much warmer than the snow in the north." The prince remained silent, his thoughts churning as he attempted to decipher her intentions. "By the gods!" Elenoir whispered fervently, her frustration palpable. "When will you make your move? You''ve got to ride the wave when it comes, not after it passes." The prince made no haste to respond. "I am talking about becoming king of the north," Elenoir declared boldly, her words ringing with conviction. "We need someone to lead us, and apparently, you are the best choice around here. If your plan regarding the Arlanians works, then you will have enough to show to claim the crown.Plus you have the legitimacy to manage to calm the vanquished nobles after we conquer them . Don''t you want that? To rule over a kingdom of your own?" "If I did, we would be marching south of here toward the capital," the prince countered, his tone firm yet tinged with uncertainty. "I have no reason to aim for that, especially given our situation. And what''s with it for you anyway? Why are you so interested?" Elenoir''s jaw tightened imperceptibly as she tilted her head back, offering the prince a small, enigmatic smile. "It seems to me you lack both ambition and interest in it, so let me clue you in and give you a reason to care," she explained, her voice soft yet resolute. "If I am to be married¡ªgods know how much I don''t want that¡ªI can at least aim as high as I can. And I think that marrying a king and becoming queen would sweeten the deal enough for me. So tell me, do you have a reason to care about it now?" The prince''s expression softened and by the gods if he now had a reason to care. Chapter 88: Northern鈥檚 war (2) Chapter 89: Northern''s war (2) The prince''s footsteps reverberated through the silent hallways of the keep. Like the city before it, the keep had fallen to their relentless advance. The guards, loyal to the lord of the city, had been swiftly dispatched, their resistance futile against the overwhelming might of the invading forces. As the prince made his way deeper into the heart of the keep, his thoughts turned to the lord who had stubbornly refused peace even as his grip on the city slipped away. Now that the keep had fallen, what fate awaited its ruler? Unlike the rest of the city, the keep had remained relatively untouched until now. The disciplined huscarls had followed the prince''s orders to spare the servants as they just kept them locked in a room , at least for the time being they were unharmed however they needed someone to gather information if the search went badly. With caution guiding his every step, the prince ensured that his troops remained closely knit, their unity a shield against any potential threats lurking in the shadows. Despite the temptation to indulge in the spoils of victory, the prince knew that their conquest was not yet complete. There would be time for celebration later, once the lord of the keep had been dealt with and their hold on the city secured. Maesinius cast a glance over his shoulder at Uther, the giant whose ferocity in battle was unmatched. Throughout the fight for the keep, Uther had carved a path of destruction with his axe, his relentless assault leaving a trail of blood splattered across his face and armor which he had not even bothered to clean himself . He appeared more akin to a fearsome demon from folklore than a mortal warrior. "It seems we''ve reached the end," Uther remarked, his powerful frame straining against the locked door before him. " locked from the inside..." "Well, there''s nothing an axe can''t solve," Mjorn quipped, tightening his grip on his weapon before delivering a resounding blow to the door, with the same strenght that he gained his nickname from ''The shieldbreaker''. Uther joined in, each strike resonating with the force of their combined strength. The huscarls followed suit, their axes descending upon the door with relentless fury, sending wood splintering in all directions. With each strike, the door groaned under the onslaught until finally, a section of the plank gave way. One of the soldiers seized the opportunity, reaching through the gap to manipulate the mechanism holding the door shut, which meant to throw the piece of wood holding the door away. With a collective effort, they pushed against the weakened barrier until it yielded, granting them entry into the hall. The men advanced cautiously, their axes at the ready, prepared to face any defenders who might still be lurking within the empty halls of the keep. However, as they entered, their aggressive stance softened as they disaptched some armored guards inside the room , when suddendly the target they were searching for appeared before them. The fallen lord''s lips curled into a scornful sneer. "Hostages, not guests," he interjected, his tone dripping with disdain. Maesinius''s eyes narrowed as he countered, his voice tinged with reproach. "They would have been treated well and fairly," he insisted. "Yet you chose to spill their blood. Look at them¡ªbarely ten winters old, innocent and unaware of that their fathers extinguished their lives." His eyes moved to the lord face, where sign of scrapping could be seen. ''''And it seems that their mother fought for their lives'''' "Their blood is on your hands, not mine, you traitor," he spat, his voice quivering a bit . "My family has served this empire for generations, and may the gods curse me if I surrender to a band of savages and traitors. Pro imperio vita et sanguis, id est officium nobile," he declared, clinging to the ideals of duty and loyalty that had defined his lineage for centuries. The prince''s voice, cold and resolute, cut through the tense air of the chamber. "You have already cursed yourself, " he pronounced, his words heavy with condemnation. "I will grant you the mercy to meet your family in the afterlife, even though I think you will be going in different places.....Uther, would you do the honors?" Uther''s response was swift and unequivocal. "It would be my pleasure," he declared, as he advanced toward the fallen lord, his massive form casting a looming shadow over the scene. ''''Not even bothering to unsheath your sword?'''' Caxio asked as he spared a look to the young prince , who however gave no asnwer as he simply turned around and walked away , leaving his order unchanged . The lord, for his part, met Uther''s approach with a steely gaze, his expression a mix of defiance and resignation. He cast one last sorrowful glance toward his family, cradling their lifeless forms in his arms, before turning his attention back to the giant As Uther raised his axe high, the weight of impending doom hung heavy in the air. The lord closed his eyes, steeling himself for the inevitable, as the blade bore down toward his exposed neck. The prince whispered something heard only by himself as in that final, fateful moment, the legacy of a family that had ruled over Thegolontia for over a century came to a brutal and decisive end with the swift stroke of an axe. Proclaiming the start instead of a new owner in its place.@@@@ Chapter 89: Mercenary interest(1) Chapter 89: Mercenary interest(1) The midday sun blazed down on the sprawling camp that had sprung up a few kilometers outside the city of Aracina. The prince of Oizen, Alpheo''s employer, had finally arrived, bringing with him the full force of his army. Soldiers moved in every direction, tending to the prince''s few horses, sharpening weapons, and preparing meals over open fires. The air was thick with the mingled scents of sweat and roasting meat. Alpheo and his group navigated through the bustling camp, weaving between clusters of soldiers and supply wagons. "I don''t see much left for us," Clio muttered. "Do you think they''ve forgotten about us? I don''t see a piece of free space for us " Alpheo''s eyes scanned the camp, taking in the scene before turning to his group. "From what I can see, the prince has no more than 2,000 men¡ªmaybe fewer if we''re counting our own. They''d be fools to anger a quarter of their forces." "You think they''re going to start trouble?" Clio asked, kicking a pebble as he walked. Alpheo just shrugged and kept moving forward Banner poles bearing the prince''s crest flapped in the breeze, their vibrant colors a sharp contrast to the camp''s utilitarian surroundings. As they walked, Alpheo noted the different flags representing various nobles. @@@@ "Has he managed to settle things with his vassals?" he wondered aloud, his eyes drifting over the scene. Most of the troops were infantry, armed with lances and barely any armor, if they had any at all. The cavalry, though better equipped, was few in number. It was clear that the men Alpheo had brought with him could be regarded as elite¡ªthey would easily hold their own in battle and even some more . Finally, the group approached the center of the camp, where the prince''s tent loomed large and tall Alpheo could hear the murmur of voices from within, a low hum of conversation. He glanced at his companions and went forth. Jarza walked beside him, his face set with determination, while Egil, buoyed and happy by the recent formation of the light cavalry, brought up the rear. "Indeed, Your Grace," Alpheo responded, his voice steady and measured, sensing where the conversation was heading. The prince''s demeanor hardened, his voice acquiring a sharpness that had not been there before. "I''m sure they have been a considerable burden on you, so I have come to relieve you of them," he declared, his tone laced with subtle condescension. "Feeding so many prisoners must have been an arduous task." Alpheo inwardly smirked at the prince''s thinly veiled attempt to seize control of the situation. ''Too late, you scheming bastard,'' he thought, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. Aloud, he maintained a respectful tone. "Your Grace is generous to be concerned about our welfare," he said smoothly. "However, I am pleased to inform you that the matter has already been resolved. There is no need for you to trouble yourself with the prisoners." A ripple of surprise coursed through the assembled nobles, their attention now fully captured. The prince''s expression tightened, a barely perceptible shift that revealed his displeasure. "May I know how you have resolved this... issue?" His voice was cold, the words clipped as he sought to maintain control of the situation. "Of course, Your Grace," Alpheo replied, his voice laced with a confidence that bordered on defiance. A slight smile played at his lips as he continued, "The prisoners were ransomed days before you blessed the city with your presence." A wave of astonishment swept through the tent, the nobles exchanging incredulous glances as Alpheo''s words sank in. Whispers erupted among them, their hushed voices filled with disbelief and outrage, some murmuring, "Mercenary," "Dare," and "Arrogance." It was clear that many of them viewed Alpheo''s actions as not only bold but as a direct challenge to their authority. The prince''s eyes bore into Alpheo''s, the irritation in his gaze barely concealed. "You have already ransomed them?" he repeated, his voice chillingly measured as he struggled to maintain his composure. "Yes, Your Grace," Alpheo affirmed, meeting the prince''s piercing gaze without flinching. "The terms were negotiated swiftly, and the prisoners were exchanged for a substantial sum. Those funds have been reinvested into our forces, ensuring our continued strength and readiness¡ªsomething that will undoubtedly benefit your campaign in the battles to come." The prince''s jaw clenched visibly, a muscle in his cheek twitching as he fought to suppress his growing anger. Around him, the nobles'' whispers grew louder, a persistent murmur that filled the tent like the rising tide of a storm. Alpheo could catch snippets of their conversation¡ªwords like "impudent," "overstepped," and "dangerous" floating to his ears. ''''Next time I would prefer if you would not be so hasty in your treatment of ''our'' prisoners'''' The prince finally said after spending a few seconds trying to find the right words Alpheo maintained his composed demeanor and bowed a bit , his face a mask of respectful neutrality. He was acutely aware of the fine line he walked¡ªbalancing between what their deal required and asserting his own agency.After all he had to make money in some way, but luckily for him, he was too great of value to be dismissed or punished, so he knew the prince in the end would suck it up. What good was being in a good position if one did not exploit it? Chapter 90: Mercenary interest(2) Chapter 90: Mercenary interest(2) ''Well, oh boy, oh boy... here we go,'' Alpheo thought, as the prince''s gaze darkened, a murderous gleam in his eyes. The air in the tent felt heavier, as if charged with the storm of unspoken fury building behind the prince''s calm fa?ade. Alpheo could feel the heat of that fury, but beneath the tension, he understood something crucial: despite the prince''s rage, there was little he could do to reprimand or punish him without risking severe consequences. Alpheo''s mind worked quickly and managed a response in his mind . The prince''s forces relied heavily on his seasoned fighters, men whose loyalty was secured not by oaths or honor, but by the clink of gold in their pockets. Undermining their captain, or worse, seeking retribution, could have disastrous effects. ''At worst,'' Alpheo mused, ''I''ll get a slap on the wrist for this.'' "When you ransomed the men....were you aware that what you had done was nothing short of sabotaging us?" The prince''s eyes narrowed, the muscles in his jaw tightening, but he said nothing, waiting for Alpheo to continue. "I would not be so foolish as to ransom them and allow them to return fully armed and prepared to face us again," Alpheo explained. "Before they were sent back, all of their equipment was confiscated¡ªtheir weapons, their armor, their horses. Everything of value was taken and redistributed among my men." A ripple of whispers ran through the tent as the nobles absorbed Alpheo''s words. Alpheo pressed on, his voice steady, projecting confidence. "During the siege, I observed the enemy''s forces closely. Most of their troops were ill-equipped, lacking proper armor and weapons. Their resources are stretched thin, Your Grace. Most of the prisoners we captured were poorly supplied. This tells me one thing: the prince of Oizen does not have the means to rearm those men anytime soon." The prince''s face remained impassive, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of interest. Alpheo could tell he was listening, weighing the information. "By ransoming those soldiers," Alpheo continued, "I deprived the enemy of their best men for weeks. Even if they make it back to their ranks, they will return as little more than naked bodies on the battlefield, unarmed, vulnerable. Meanwhile, the coin I gained from their ransom has been put to good use. My men are better equipped, better prepared, and stronger than before. Every sword, every piece of armor taken from them has strengthened our own forces." The prince''s eyes narrowed as he processed Alpheo''s words. The logic in Alpheo''s explanation was hard to refute. Thinking it over, the prince realized that continuing to push the matter would be counterproductive. The deed was already done, and contesting it further would only undermine his own position and potentially sow discord among his troops. Reluctantly, he had to acknowledge that he was powerless. "What has happened cannot be undone," the prince began, his voice heavy with restrained anger. He paused, searching for the right words, seeking a way to frame his next statement as a punishment. The nobles in the tent watched intently, their whispers momentarily stilled by the prince''s commanding presence. "They can think what they like," Alpheo replied, his tone dismissive. "We''ve earned our place here. Without us, the prince''s campaign would be hanging by a thread. It''s not arrogance if it''s true." Jarza gave a reluctant nod. "Just keep your eyes open," he cautioned. "The nobles might not say anything now, but they don''t forget slights. They''ll be looking for a chance to bring us down a notch." Alpheo didn''t need the reminder; he knew full well the delicate balance they were walking. The prince might tolerate their independence and skill for now, but there would come a time when he would no longer need them. And when that day came, the prince wouldn''t hesitate to cut them loose¡ªor worse. Still, today wasn''t that day. Today, they still held the upper hand. "Let them watch and wait," Alpheo said with a faint smile. "By the time they find an opening, the war will be over, and we''ll be long gone with our purses full." Egil grinned, pushing off from his casual lean. "Then I say we drink to that, eh?" Alpheo''s smile widened. "You read my mind." As the group began to move away from the prince''s tent, the weight of their conversation fading, Alpheo cast one last glance over his shoulder. "Enjoy tonight," Alpheo continued, his tone light but carrying a note of seriousness. "Tomorrow, we''ll probably be leaving for battle , and who knows when we''ll get another chance to unwind." Asag,, looked at Alpheo and asked, "And what about you, Captain? What will you be doing?" Alpheo sighed, a hint of weariness creeping into his voice. "I''m going to catch up on some sleep," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Haven''t had much of that lately, and we''re going to need all our strength for what''s coming." Jarza and the others nodded in understanding, appreciating their leader''s honesty. The group began to disperse, each man heading off to enjoy the brief respite in their own way. Some sought out the nearest tavern, others made their way to the market to spend their hard-earned coin, and a few simply found a quiet spot to rest.Whatever they chose however soon they would all find themselves fighting for their lives, as the commander they have decided to rely on would soon overturn their lives. Chapter 91: Secret weapon Chapter 91: Secret weapon It was a bright and radiant day, the golden sunlight pouring over the green pastures of the plain like molten gold. The air was crisp and refreshing, filled with the soft whisper of a breeze that stirred the tall grass and carried the delicate fragrance of blooming wildflowers. Above, the sky stretched wide and cloudless, a serene ocean of blue with only a few puffs of white drifting lazily across the horizon. @@@@ Yet, amidst this tranquil beauty, two military camps marred the landscape like scars on untouched skin. To the north, perched on a strategic rise, stood the camp of the prince of Yarkat. Neatly arranged tents and fortified positions spread across the hill, the prince''s banner snapping defiantly in the breeze. A few kilometers to the south, on the opposite end of the vast plain, the camp of the prince of Oizen loomed in contrast. Though more rugged, it exuded a similar air of readiness, soldiers sharpening blades and donning armor, their own banner fluttering against the clear sky. Between the two camps, the open plain lay silent and untouched, a stretch of no-man''s-land where the tall grass swayed gently, unaware of the blood that would soon soak its roots. The serene beauty of the landscape seemed almost dreamlike, as though nature itself stood in quiet opposition to the violence that was about to unfold. The sun, indifferent to human conflict, continued to rise higher, casting its warm light over the earth as if unaware of the impending clash that would soon break the peaceful spell of the day. Inside the camp of the prince of Yarkat, a tense gathering of nobles, those who had been convinced to join the campaign, were amassed in a large, ornately decorated tent, as the nobles argued over the strategy for the impending battle. One noble, a burly man with a booming voice, stood up, his face flushed with excitement. "We should engage the enemy immediately!" he shouted, trying to rally his fellows. "Repel the invaders and drive them from our lands!" His fervor was infectious, and many of the nobles echoed his cries, their thirst for battle evident. The recent humbling of the enemy elite had filled them with confidence, and they saw this as a prime opportunity to deliver a powerful blow to their adversaries. However, not all shared this eagerness for a direct confrontation. A significant number of nobles preached caution, their voices rising above the clamor. Were they cowards?No they just knew the difference in strenght between the two sides. They were acutely aware that the enemy''s cavalry outnumbered their own and that abandoning the high ground to fight on the plain below could be disastrous. "We should maintain our position and force them to come to us!" one of the cautious nobles argued, his voice steady but firm. "The high ground gives us the advantage. Let them exhaust themselves trying to dislodge us." The tent erupted into a cacophony of voices, with nobles on both sides of the argument trying to make themselves heard. The tension was palpable, each faction deeply entrenched in their views. "Are you empty only in the head or between the legs too ?" One taunted, his voice dripping with disdain as he addressed one of the men advocating for a defensive stance. He let his words hang in the air, the gravity of the situation clear. The prince of Yarkat''s jaw tightened, one of the nobles from the faction advocating for an immediate attack, stepped forward, his face red with indignation. "You insult our strength, mercenary," he growled, his voice loud and defiant. "We are not cowards to hide behind walls. We will smash through the enemy lines like an axe through wood." Alpheo couldn''t help but smirk , after all he never talked about hiding behinds walls "With all due respect, my lord," he replied, his tone laced with irony, "that axe of yours would fall apart before it even had the opportunity to strike. The enemy would see to that." The nobleman''s face turned an even deeper shade of red, his fury barely contained. "How dare you!" he shouted, taking a step towards Alpheo, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword. "You dare question our courage and strength?" Before the situation could escalate further, the prince of Yarkat raised his hand, his voice commanding and authoritative. "Enough!" he barked, his eyes flashing with anger as he looked between the two men. ''''Alpheo don''t you have anything useful to say?'''' "Well, Your Grace, I actually do have a solution," Alpheo said, a confident gleam in his eye. "If you would allow me, I could explain how we might overcome this problem and even the odds with the enemy." The prince of Yarkat, intrigued but cautious, nodded. "Go on, Captain Alpheo. You have my permission to speak." Alpheo bowed slightly. "I would also request your permission to have my men bring something inside that could illustrate my point." The prince''s brows furrowed in confusion, but he gestured for Alpheo to proceed. "Very well. Bring it in." At the prince''s command, the tent flaps were pulled open, and two of Alpheo''s men entered. They were carrying a long object, carefully wrapped in blankets. The nobles inside the tent exchanged puzzled glances, whispering among themselves as they tried to guess what Alpheo had up his sleeve. The two men approached the center of the tent, setting the covered object down with great care. Alpheo stepped forward, his expression serious. "Thank you, gentlemen. Now, Your Grace, allow me to reveal what I believe will be the key to our success." And as he said so the men finally revealed what was covered up through the sheets. Chapter 92: First battle(1) Chapter 92: First battle(1) The day dawned bright and sunny, though the air carried a crisp chill, reminding all that winter was on its way. Frost tipped the blades of grass, sparkling like tiny jewels in the morning light. Everywhere, men moved with aim in mind . Soldiers and laborers alike hurried to and fro, their breath visible in the cold air. The clang of hammers and the creak of wooden beams filled the air . Horses whinnied in their enclosures, sensing the heightened tension and excitement around them, as the squires brought them out of there . The camp, spread across the gentle slope of the hill, was a hive of activity. Tents flapped in the breeze, their colors muted by a layer of frost. Smoke rose from numerous campfires, where cooks prepared hearty meals to sustain the troops.The battle was finally imminent, and a light meal was being prepared for the soldiers. As they readied themselves for the fight, those with armor began to don their protective gear, while those without prayed fervently to the Mother for mercy and the Warrior for strength. "Please raise your arm, sir," a small voice belonging to a boy spoke as he laced the arm brace to Alpheo''s arm. "Did you ready the breakfast?" Alpheo asked, stretching his neck and rolling his shoulders. "I have informed the cooks," ratto replied, bringing his face up to stare at the mercenary captain, who was barely older than him. "Are you anxious, sir?" "Am I that easy to read?" Alpheo responded with a smile and a deep breath. "I would be a fool not to be. Anything could happen at any moment. A man''s fortune or fall can come without a second''s notice, as swords are blind in the midst of bloodlust and madness" Seeing his trusted lieutenants, Alpheo nodded silently, acknowledging their presence . "Take your posts and organize the men to take their positions," he instructed, his voice calm but authoritative. Jarza gave a sharp nod, his face set with resolve as he turned on his heel and headed towards his assigned area. Clio, his long hair, which he let grew after gaining back his freedom, tied back and his armor gleaming in the sunlight, shot Alpheo a quick smile before striding off to rally the troops. Asag, gave a groan of acknowledgment before marching off to his own command. As they separated, each going to fulfill their duties, Alpheo watched them for a moment, feeling a surge of pride for the people he had come to rely on so heavily. "Good luck," he called after them, his voice carrying a note of genuine sincerity. The banners fluttered in the breeze, displaying the colors of their faction with pride. Alpheo''s gaze swept over the scene, taking in the disciplined ranks and the determined faces of his soldiers. He could hear the distant sound of commands being issued, the creak of leather and metal, and the muted murmur of prayers. "This is my lot," Alpheo thought to himself. He felt a mixture of pride and responsibility. The path he had chosen was fraught with danger and uncertainty, but it was also filled with the chance to land higher in that ladder , striving for a future beyond the battlefield¡ªthis was his destiny. The horse whinnied softly as he approached, recognizing its master. Alpheo patted its neck, feeling the powerful muscles beneath the smooth coat, and murmured a few calming words. With practiced ease, Alpheo placed his foot in the stirrup and swung himself up into the saddle. He settled comfortably, adjusting his sword at his side and taking the reins in his hands,it was time to go. Chapter 93: First battle (2) Chapter 93: First battle (2) It certainly was a good day . The sun hung high in the sky, casting its golden rays over the verdant field. The surrounding woods casted their shadows along the edges of the battlefield,while the middle was nothing short of a sunlit expanse. Soon, however these green pastures would be dyed crimson with the blood of fallen soldiers. Jarza stood on the field, lost in his thoughts. He remembered his first battle vividly, though it had been over twenty years ago¡ªa simple skirmish when he served in a sellsword company for an imperial lord, tasked with cleansing his domains of bandits . That company , he vaguely remembered had disbanded a few years later, but Jarza as always found another band to join. Twenty winters and twenty summers had passed in the blink of an eye, each season blending into the next. The four years he had spent as a slave were the longest of his life, dragging on with relentless cruelty. Starved and beaten in a foreign land, Jarza had often believed he would die in those chains. Yet, against all odds, he had survived. The gods, it seemed or yet he believed , had other intentions for him. Each scar and each battle had brought him to this moment, standing on this field, ready to face whatever came next. He could never fully understand that boy , he was like a book open to everyone to be read and yet written in a language never seen.Easy to read and impossible to understand. His ideas were usually either nothing short of genial, or outright dumb.He still remembered the first batch of a plan he had made to escape , if they had followed on those they would have certainly have been caught. He surveyed the field, his eyes scanning the nearly 600 warriors surrounding him. Among them, 200 were under his direct command. He had always dreamt of leading men into battle, a vision that seemed distant during his early days in the various sellsword companies. Most leadership positions in those bands were occupied by exiled minor lords or members of distant branches of noble families¡ªindividuals less powerful and less wealthy than their mainline kin. Yet now, against all odds, Jarza had men under his command, ready to follow him into the fray. Most of these soldiers lacked proper armor, wearing only the barest protection of tattered leather or simple cloth. They carried basic shields and spears, tools of war given to them in haste. Their march was anything but disciplined; the lines wavered, and many struggled to maintain their formation. It was clear they had received only rudimentary training, enough to form a shield wall and little more. These were not seasoned warriors but common folk thrust into the chaos of battle, armed with the basics and left to fend for themselves. Jarza observed their approach with a critical eye, noting the uneven pace and the nervous glances exchanged among the ranks. The enemy prince''s forces might have the advantage in numbers, but the quality and discipline of their troops left much to be desired Jarza turned to his men, watching as they waited in silent anticipation. The front lines were composed of his brother in servitude , each man equipped with chainmail and helmets that gleamed dully in the sunlight. Their faces, though weathered, were set forward. Behind them, the new recruits provided by the prince stood ready. It was a common tactic: placing the elite soldiers with the best equipment at the front and the less experienced recruits at the back. Each soldier in the company held a lance, but Alpheo had ensured they were also armed for close combat. Maces and swords hung at their sides, weapons chosen for their effectiveness against lightly armored foes. Alpheo had emphasized the importance of these weapons, knowing that when facing an army equipped primarily with spears, good armor and close-quarter weapons would allow his men to cleave through the enemy like a hot knife through butter. Jarza observed the calm, focused expressions of his comrades. They were ready, their minds and bodies steeled for the coming battle, as they knew that by the end of the war their pouches would be filled with silver. Feeling the imminent approach of battle, Jarza took a deep breath and donned his helmet, which he had temporarily removed. His armor was not just chainmail; it was reinforced with steel plates that covered his stomach and lower chest, providing additional protection. Braces and shoulder covers added to his defense, while not impeding his movement . Currently, he sat on horseback, a position that afforded him a better view of the enemy lines slowly advancing towards them. As he adjusted the fit of his helmet, Jarza couldn''t help but feel a twinge of anxiety. The weight of the armor was familiar, this was not his first battles and still that familiar sense of fear was there. His horse shifted beneath him, sensing his unease, but Jarza steadied the animal with a firm hand on the reins. It was still a good day to die. Chapter 94: Secret weapon Chapter 94: Secret weapon "We look like one big hedgehog," Asag muttered as he led the men forward, his eyes scanning the dense rows of spears and lances that bristled around him. Unlike Jarza, Asag wasn''t on horseback. The strategy they had devised was meant to counter cavalry, and if the enemy spotted a man on a horse shouting orders, he''d quickly become the primary target. The old saying, "Kill the head and the body will fall," held too much truth to be ignored. For this reason, Asag walked on foot, embedded deep within the formation, surrounded by his men. To maintain visibility and command, a soldier walked beside him, holding the band''s herald high in the sky , fluttering in the cool breeze. The formation around him was tight, a living, breathing entity made up of hardened warriors and fresh recruits. The front lines were a wall of steel and muscle, each man gripping his four meters long lance with practiced ease, ready to thrust it forward at the first sign of an enemy charge. Behind them, the newer recruits held their positions, their eyes darting nervously, but their resolve firm. They looked to the veteran mercenary for cues, mimicking their calm and steady demeanor as best as they could. Asag couldn''t help but feel a grim satisfaction at how the formation looked from within¡ªa veritable forest of pointed weapons, each one poised to impale the first horse or soldier that dared to approach. He did not know how Alpheo had in thought of such style of fighting , but the training showed how the captain''s boasts were actually truthful .This was the ultimate weapon against cavalry.... Alpheo knew the value of discipline in battle, especially among troops who had never tasted real combat. A good portion of his men were green, fresh recruits who had only recently taken up arms. These men, untested and anxious, as such Alpheo gave them a job that did not involve close combat. For this reason, Alpheo had placed them inside the formation, protected on all sides by the more seasoned warriors. Their job was simple yet crucial and it would shine during the fight. As Asag looked out across the battlefield, his gaze was drawn to the far left, where enemy banners flapped in the cold breeze. -------------- The banner-holder waved the flag high, its vibrant colors snapping in the brisk wind, while the trumpeter''s horn echoed across the battlefield, signaling the advance of the cavalry. The knights and their steeds surged forward, spurred not only by the thirst for glory and riches but also by a burning desire to avenge the insult they perceived from the enemy. From their vantage point, they could see that what awaited them was not an opposing cavalry but a formation of mere foot soldiers. "This insult shall be answered with blood¡ªtheirs!" shouted a young man of barely twenty winters, his voice cutting through the din as he stood tall in the stirrups, making himself appear even more imposing. This young man was none other than Sorza, the heir to the throne of Oizen , leading the charge with a fervor fueled by his ambition and the weight of expectations placed upon him. Sorza had been given command of the cavalry by his father, the reigning prince, who saw this battle as an opportunity to elevate his son''s standing among the lords and knights of the realm. In a world where leadership was earned through bloodshed and valor, no man would willingly follow a leader who had never tasted the dust of the battlefield or wielded a sword in earnest combat. The prince knew that his son''s future depended on this moment, on proving himself worthy of command. The task had been deemed ''safe'' enough by the prince, based on the reports from spies who had noted the enemy''s low numbers of mounted troops. Sorza, despite his youth and inexperience, was flanked by a cadre of seasoned guards, their sole purpose to ensure that the young heir emerged from the battle unscathed. These were not just any guards, but handpicked veterans, hardened by countless battles, each sworn to protect the prince''s bloodline with their lives. As the cavalry closed the distance, the pounding of hooves drowned out all other sounds, a thunderous drumbeat that resonated in the hearts of the men. The lords and knights riding alongside Sorza shared in his determination, their eyes fixed on the enemy ahead. To them, the sight of footmen daring to stand against their mounted might was nothing short of a grievous affront. They were determined to teach these ''lowly'' soldiers the true power of cavalry, to trample them underfoot and send a clear message to any who would dare oppose them. Sorza''s heart raced with excitement and fear. This was his moment to prove himself, to show his father and the realm that he was more than just a prince by birth, but a leader by right. As they neared the enemy lines, he tightened his grip on his sword, ready to carve his name into the annals of history , not knowing that the formation they were going to fight was that of a modified Reisl?ufer created exactly to counter cavalry charges. Chapter 95: First battle(3) Chapter 95: First battle(3) The cavalry thundered across the field, a tidal wave of men and horses, their sheer force raising cloud of dusts .The pounding of hooves on the earth reverberated through the air, each beat echoing the pulse of the riders'' hearts. The horses, sensing the impending clash, were in a frenzy, their eyes wide with the thrill of the charge. Nostrils flared as they snorted and breathed in the dust-filled air, their powerful muscles rippling beneath gleaming coats. They had been at war many times and the smell of blood was not something they were not familiar with. Above this surging mass of cavalry, the banners of the noble houses fluttered wildly in the wind, each one a vivid splash of color against the dull brown of the dust and the deep green of the distant woods. These banners bore the crests of powerful families, their sigils¡ªa lion rampant, a soaring eagle, crossed swords¡ªmaking the air above the dust seems like the work of a artist. The banners whipped and snapped in the air, symbols of the lords'' honor and the ferocity of the charge. ---UZZAH--- They shouted albeit the roar was more to be heard by their companions,as the pitiful infantry would certainly not hear such shout covered by the thundering of hooves. Sorza, the young prince, shouted above the din, his voice cracking with the fervor of youth and the desire for glory. "Cut through them! Smash them and claim victory, men!" he bellowed, his words directed more at himself than the soldiers, who were already committed to the headlong rush. Positioned safely in the middle of the line, Sorza was spared the danger of the first clash, his presence more symbolic than strategic. His father had insisted he be kept from the most dangerous positions¡ªafter all, the heir to the princedom could not be risked so easily. Just few dozen of steps away now, the soldiers could see something strange about the infantry awaiting them. Hundreds of spears, long and wickedly sharp, jutted out from the formation. These were no ordinary spears; they were longer, heftier, held firmly with both hands by the men in the front line. Sorza squinted in confusion. The sight was unlike anything he had ever seen. The spears seemed almost impossibly long, creating a wall of steel points that shimmered in the sunlight. The soldiers behind them braced themselves, forming a compact and disciplined line, as if daring the cavalry to continue their charge. "STEADY!" Asag roared once more, his voice raw with the effort. The spears were set, angled forward like a wall of thorns, ready to pierce any horse that dared to charge. The cavalry were coming in , they were so close that he could distinguish the colour of each horses mane and face. Even from inside the formation he couldn''t help but feel scared of such beast, and from that he knew that the men on the first line must be shitting themselves, even the brothers that he had marched with for months must be feeling their knees giving in . As the enemy cavalry thundered closer, the ground beneath Asag''s feet trembled with the force of their approach. He could feel the intensity of the moment, the air thick with anticipation. The horses were now only two dozen steps away, their riders'' armor glinting in the sunlight as they prepared to smash into the infantry formation. Asag''s eyes narrowed as he gauged the distance. The moment was upon them. "JAVELINS!" he bellowed, his voice a command that cut through the noise of the battlefield. In an instant, the recruits¡ªgreen but eager¡ªsnapped into action. They had been drilled for this for a few hours , and despite their inexperience, they moved as ordered. Arms shot upward, each soldier hefting a javelin and taking aim at the oncoming cavalry. The tension in the air was palpable as the recruits focused, their breaths held for the briefest of moments. Then, as if by a single breath, the javelins were released. A swarm of projectiles arced through the sky, their deadly tips glinting as they descended upon the enemy. The air was filled with the sound of the javelins whistling through the air before finding their marks. The first line of knights took the brunt of the volley. Some javelins struck true, piercing through chainmail and into flesh. Knights cried out as the sharpened points drove deep, some falling from their saddles with a pained grunt. Horses screamed as they were struck, their powerful bodies faltering under the sudden pain, collapsing to the ground and throwing their riders violently. For those armored in heavier steel plate beneath their mail, the javelins might not have penetrated as deeply, but the sheer force of the impact was enough to unseat several of them. The knights found themselves tossed from their saddles, landing heavily on the ground, the wind knocked out of them. Some struggled to rise, only to be trampled by the hooves of their own charging comrades. The effect was immediate and chaotic. The front lines of the cavalry were disrupted, their advance faltering as the wounded and the dead littered the field. Yet the charge was not over as the lines behind avoided their fallen companion as they advanced to give the footmen a taste of the cavalry''s steel. (MAP IN THE COMMENT)@@@@ Chapter 96: First battle(4) Chapter 96: First battle(4) Men moaned in agony where they had fallen, clutching at their wounds, their cries of pain rising into the cool morning air. Horses whinnied in fear and distress, their screams cutting through the clamor as they lay dying or struggled to rise, their legs shattered by the fall. The stench of blood and sweat began to mix with the cold breeze, causing many of the men to breath from their mouth as not smell the foul odors. Among the chaos, the remainder of the enemy cavalry, undeterred by the broken line ahead, pressed on. Dust swirled as the surviving knights reformed their ranks, their steeds snorting and pawing the ground, eager to charge. The ground trembled once more, the pounding of hooves a rhythmic drumbeat of death as they galloped forward with renewed ferocity, as if they casualties they had just suffered did not exist. Asag could see his formation tightening, the men gripping their spears as they braced for impact. The recruits behind the veterans clutched their weapons, eyes wide with fear, some murmuring desperate prayers to the gods for protection. "BRACE FOR IMPACT!" Asag bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos as he hurled another javelin into the approaching mass of knights, the only thing he could do to help in the fight. The clash, long anticipated, finally came. The cavalry charged, fully expecting the sight of their gleaming armor and sheer momentum to send the infantry scattering. It was a tactic that had worked countless times before¡ªpeasant levies would break at the first sight of a cavalry charge, their fear overpowering any courage they could have . But this time, against all odds, the infantry held. The knights surged forward, lances leveled for a devastating blow, but something unexpected happened. The infantry didn''t waver. They stood firm, their formation tight, their spears poised as they faced down the enemy . The horses, creatures of instinct and survival, hesitated. They saw the deadly points of the spears aimed directly at them and began to slow, their eyes wide with fear. No amount of spurring or shouting from their riders could convince the beasts to charge headlong into a wall of sharp, unyielding steel. Panic rippled through the cavalry as their mounts resisted, trying to veer off or rear up to avoid impalement. The horses, confused and unwilling to march to their deaths, slowed to a near halt before the lances could reach the infantry . In the chaos of their refusal, they exposed their underbellies and chests to the infantry below. The men on the front lines, , seized the opportunity with deadly precision. They thrust their long spears upward, driving them into the vulnerable horses and unseating their riders. The scene was chaos¡ªhorses reared in terror, throwing men from their saddles, while the infantry pressed the advantage,those behind the three lines of spearment quickly advanced bearing hammers or daggers, stabbing and smashing at the knights now on foot or struggling to regain control. The call echoed across the battlefield as one knight after another relayed the order. Slowly, the cavalry began to retreat. The riders tugged at their reins, forcing their steeds to turn and gallop back. As the cavalry regrouped, pulling back a safe distance from the enemy, Sorza called out, "Ready yourselves! We will charge again. This time, we will break them." His voice was firm, but there was a sliver of doubt creeping into his tone that he hoped the men would not hear. ------------- The clash between the infantry forces was no less intense than that of the cavalry. On the left flank, while the cavalry struggled to break through, the infantry battle unfolded with brutal ferocity. The two forces could not have been more different. The Oizen infantry, largely composed of peasants, was a ragtag group hastily armed with spears and shields. Their shields were simple, wooden, and not even covered with tattered leather. Most wore little more than cloth and leather tunics, and their spears were of uneven length and craftsmanship. They stood shoulder to shoulder, gripping their spears with shaking hands, their faces pale as they awaited the inevitable charge. These were farmers, vagabonds, and laborers¡ªmen who had never seen battle before this day, and it showed. They were here only because their prince had called upon them, and also for the oppurtunity to plunder during war. On the other side stood the mercenary infantry led by Alpheo, who was standing on the back directing the battle, men who were fighting for coin rather than any sense of duty toward a master or lord. Alpheo''s soldiers were better equipped, each man wearing chainmail that glinted under the sun and helmets that covered their heads. Their shields were thicker, stronger, and better maintained than the Oizen peasants''. But most importantly, they carried with them not spears, but close-combat weapons¡ªswords, hammers, and maces. Alpheo knew that the battle would be won not in long engagements, but in brutal, close-quarters combat, making use of shock and awe. The Oizen peasants were armed with spears, and spears were only effective while keeping distance. His men, wearing chainmail and wielding blunt weapons, would close that distance and render the spears useless. The goal was to get in close, deny the Oizen troops the space they needed to thrust their weapons effectively, and then use their superior armor and heavier weapons to crush them. The two forces clashed, and immediately, the difference in experience and equipment became apparent. The Oizen peasants, trying desperately to maintain a shield wall, jabbed their spears forward, but Alpheo''s soldiers moved in too quickly. The chainmail-clad infantry pressed forward relentlessly, shields locked together as they pushed through the thin line of peasants. The blunt weapons came into play, with hammers and maces smashing down onto shields, arms, and legs. The swords cut through flesh when the opportunity arose, but it was the hammers and maces that made the biggest difference. Each blow from the mercenaries'' hammers rang out with a sickening crack, breaking through wooden shields and shattering bones. Even the spears that managed to hit home glanced off chainmail or were deflected by shields. The Oizen infantry, already untrained and nervous, quickly found themselves overwhelmed by the sheer brutality of the assault. Their spears, meant for keeping the enemy at a distance, were useless in such close quarters, making the infantry feel like mouses in a cage. Chapter 97: First battle(5) Chapter 97: First battle(5) The Black-winged scavengers birds flew in lazy arcs, drawn to the feast of flesh that would soon litter the fields below. Their caws echoed over the battle as they spectated it from above. Jarza stood near the center on the back of formation, his face set in a stony expression as he commanded the fighting. His eyes flickered from one side of the battlefield to the other, watching his men with the sharp attention that only a seasoned warrior could have. He had spent decades in the thick of battle, and this was no different¡ªexcept now, he was the one giving orders not obeying them. "Rotate the lines!" he barked over the noise using his whistle and signaling with his hand a circle . His voice cut through the chaos like a blade, as every 50-man serjeant obeyed the command and relayed the order to the soldiers. Every ten to fifteen minutes, the frontline troops¡ªthose in the thick of the brutal, close-quarters fighting¡ªwere pulled back, replaced by fresher soldiers from the second and third ranks. Normally, such a maneuver would have been risky¡ªshifting troops in the heat of battle could leave gaps in the line, openings the enemy might exploit. But the Oizen infantry, green and untrained as they were, did not press the advantage. They were too exhausted, too battered by the continuous pounding they had taken from Alpheo''s seasoned soldiers. The Oizen forces were more concerned with catching their breath, their initial aggression having drained them. Their spearmen, already struggling to maintain a coherent line, faltered under the attacks . Jarza, took full advantage of their hesitation of the peasants . He watched as the tired Oizen soldiers hesitated, their spear thrusts growing sluggish. Some had dropped their weapons entirely, clutching their shields tightly as if they could ward off the enemy. These men were not warriors¡ªthey were simple men hastily called to arms and given the barest of training. They had no sense of timing, no instinct for when to strike or when to press forward. @@@@ "Hold steady, lads. Don''t let up," one of the officers commanded, his eyes scanning the lines. The troops now fresh took the front once more. The fresh line advanced , shields locking together as they pressed forward, step by methodical step. Behind them, the spent soldiers who had been on the front took a moment to breathe, wiping sweat from their brows and catching their breath, knowing they''d be called forward again soon. The Oizen troops, sensing the renewed assault, wavered. Their spears trembled in their hands as they tried to form some semblance of a defense, but it was futile. Every few minutes, the pressure was renewed, and the mercenaries pressed forward with hammers crashing down on shields, swords slicing through gaps in the shields, and maces smashing limbs. Jarza, his helmet tipped back for a moment , allowed his eyes to wander across the chaotic battlefield. He couldn''t help but wonder how Clio was faring with his detachment of men. His command was smaller than Jarza''s and this was also his first battle. Clio''s troops were a mix of veteran mercenaries and fresh-faced recruits, much like his own, and they had been ordered to hold firm at all costs. Normally mixing veterans with recruits was never a good idea, unfortunately, they were running low in men and Alpheo worried that entire units made up of recruits would rout at the slightest obstacle. Before he could dwell longer on Clio''s situation, movement on the horizon caught his attention. Jarza''s eyes narrowed as he saw figures emerging from the distant line. More infantry, , moving in formation toward the already beleaguered Oizen troops on the front line. The dust cloud they kicked up gave them away long before their banners were visible. "Reinforcements," Jarza spat bitterly, watching as the new enemy forces marched to bolster their crumbling front. The Oizen peasants had been buckling under the pressure of Alpheo''s disciplined soldiers, barely holding the line, but these fresh troops stopped the front line from routing But Jarza wasn''t about to let the enemy regroup and rally. He turned to his officers, a cold determination settling over his features. "Prepare the men for another push," he ordered, his voice sharp. "We need to crush them before those reinforcements arrive. If they join the fight, this will drag out longer than it needs to." "What in the gods'' name...?" he muttered under his breath, gripping the reins of his horse tightly. Still, Sorza''s instincts as a cavalry commander took over. The sight of infantrymen moving out of formation, exposed and vulnerable, was an opportunity. "They''re out of position!" Sorza shouted, standing tall in his stirrups, his voice ringing out over the thundering hooves. "Prepare for another charge! Let''s smash them now, while they''re scattered!" His knights, already battered from four failed charges, hesitated only for a moment before obeying. As the cavalry bore down upon the infantry, Sorza''s mind raced with thoughts of glory. This time, the footmen would break¡ªhe was certain of it. With so many out of formation, victory seemed inevitable.The infantry tried to retreat back into formation but they would not make it , the distance betweent them was becoming shorter and shorter. But then, something unexpected happened. The horses, which had charged so fiercely before, began to slow down. It was subtle at first¡ªa slight hesitation, a momentary resistance against their riders'' commands. Sorza frowned, spurring his own horse harder. "Faster!" he shouted, but instead of speeding up, his mount slowed even more. Sorza looked around, confusion spreading across his face. All around him, knights were struggling to urge their steeds forward, but the horses were resisting, their eyes wide and wild, their hooves faltering as if some invisible wall had risen up before them. "What are you doing?!" Sorza barked at his horse, kicking its flanks harder. "Move, damn you!" But the animal refused. It neighed in distress, its powerful legs stumbling as it shook its head violently, resisting every command to charge further. "They won''t go forward," Sorza whispered , realization flooding his mind. "They are spooked by the deads'''' In that instant, the young prince''s dreams of a swift victory crumbled. For a few seconds, he simply stood there, gripped by disbelief, anger, and frustration. The dust swirled around him, and all he could hear was the frantic neighing of his horse and the hollow sound of failure settling into his bones. "Curse this wretched day!" Sorza spat under his breath, before giving one last, desperate order, his voice louder and sharper than ever. "DISMOUNT!" he roared, "DISMOUNT AND FIGHT ON FOOT, MEN!" His words cut through the chaos like a blade, reaching the ears of his knights who, though battered and confused, obeyed immediately. The sound of armored men hitting the ground rang out as the cavalry abandoned their steeds, clambering to their feet with swords, axes, and maces in hand using the same warfare they so hated and spat upon. Chapter 98: First Battle(6) Chapter 98: First Battle(6) The battlefield turned chaotic as the riders now on foot clashed against the enemy. Clad in heavy armor, they rushed forward with swords, axes, and maces in hand, determined to break through the enemy lines. The spearmen , held their ground or at least tried to . Rows of long spears pointed menacingly forward, bracing against the weight of the approaching knights. As the knight crashed into them, the spearmen shoved the points of their weapons into the gaps between plates, aiming for weak spots in the armor, like face and armpit, while men with hammers waited their brave knight to break through the spears to give them a good welcome. "Push!" one of the infantrymen shouted, sweat pouring down his face as he strained against the weight of a knight pressing forward with his shield. The enemy proved too strong, some managed to grab the spears with their gauntleted hands, yanking them away from the soldiers before smashing them to the ground with their axes or maces. Wood splintered and cracked, sending broken spears tumbling to the dirt. With their spears destroyed, the men were forced to rely on their swords, hammers, and maces. The close-quarters combat became brutal, as the knights swung their heavy weapons, aiming for heads and chests. A knight, swinging his mace, crushed the helmet of an unfortunate soldier, the impact sending him crashing to the ground, lifeless. Another knight thrust his sword into the gap between a soldier''s chainmail , the blade sinking deep into flesh with a sickening squelch. While on horses , Asag''s men may have managed to stand their ground, what was happening now could only be described as a one-sided carnage.As deprived of their advantage, the formation Alpheo had so hardily managed to form , was getting smashed left and right. -------- Alpheo sat atop his horse, as a slight tremor of nerves betrayed him. His mount shifted beneath him, sensing his unease as he surveyed the battlefield below. It wasn''t unfolding the way he had imagined. He had been so confident that his well-trained infantry would swiftly rout the enemy''s peasant forces¡ªhe''d even boasted about it before the battle. Yet here they were, locked in fierce combat for over an hour nearly two, and the enemy lines still held. Reinforcements kept streaming into their ranks, keeping them bolstered, refusing to break under pressure. He clenched his teeth, his jaw tightening painfully as he struggled to suppress his frustration. His plan had been flawless¡ªhe had thought. ''What''s keeping them? Why haven''t they broken?'' He asked himself, trying to make sense of it all. He had prepared for everything¡ªor so he had thought. ''If we keep this up, they''ll wear us down. The men can''t hold this forever. I need to act¡ªneed to shift the momentum before it''s too late.'' Just when despair began to settle like a weight in his chest, a rider appeared at the edge of his vision, galloping towards him at full speed. Alpheo barely noticed at first, lost in his thoughts of impending defeat. But then, as the rider drew closer, something about the urgency in his approach caught Alpheo''s attention. Things were looking grim; however, it seems fate had other plans for Alpheo , for when everything seemed going badly, he received the good news he was certainly not expecting. His breathing was heavy, his arms aching from the weight of his blade, but he pressed on, ignoring the exhaustion creeping into his limbs.They were finally having the better..... In one corner, he saw a knight felling two enemy footmen with a single powerful swing,killing the first and knocking the second to the ground before finishing him off, and in another, his own guards struggling to push forward against the unyielding wall of spears. Then, a shout cut through his concentration like a blade. "Your Grace! Look ahead!" one of his guards yelled frantically, pointing past the melee while grabbing the heir back from his shoulder. Sorza snapped out of his battle trance, blinking in confusion. His eyes followed the direction of the guard''s outstretched hand, and what he saw drained the blood from his face. A massive plume of dust was rising on the horizon, growing larger by the second. "Cavalry..." he whispered, his voice barely audible over the din of battle. The realization hit him like a hammer. The enemy had held back cavalry. That bastard of Arkawatt had hidden part of his forces, biding their time until now. Fear gripped Sorza''s chest as he stared at the dust cloud, knowing what it meant. "They''re coming for us," he muttered, panic rising in his throat. He had expected to break the infantry with his own cavalry charge, but now he was caught off guard, vulnerable , this time victim of the style of combat he worshipped. ''''PULL BACK!'''' he shouted as he frantically went towards one of the many horses laying back ''''ON YOUR HORSES GET BACK! RETREAT!'''' The prince tried everything in order to regain control, but the unease had already spread through his ranks at the sight of the dust . They had been lured into a trap, and now the trap was closing in. Egil''s cavalry thundered onto the battle , a hundred horsemen surging forward in a well-timed charge. The ground trembled beneath them as hooves pounded the earth. With a fierce shout, Egil lowered his lance, and his men followed suit. The long, gleaming weapons leveled like deadly spears aimed straight at the exposed backs and sides of the enemy knights, most of whom had dismounted to fight on foot and that did not manage to find a horse. The impact was devastating. The knights, clad only in chainmail, were no match for the force of the cavalry charge. Egil''s lance plunged into the torso of an enemy knight, piercing through the chainmail with ease. The knight let out a guttural scream as the lance skewered him, lifting him off his feet before the lance snapped from the sheer force of the charge. For those in heavier plate armor, the outcome was only marginally better. While the lances failed to fully penetrate the thick steel, the blunt force was enough to cause devastating internal damage. Knights in full plate staggered under the impact, their ribs shattered, lungs punctured as they collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath. The cavalry pushed through, horses crashing into the dismounted knights, trampling the fallen underfoot as they charged deeper into the enemy lines. Some of Sorza''s men, caught off guard, tried to flee, but the suddenness and violence of the charge left them no chance. Egil''s men tore through the battlefield, their swords flashing as they cut down the disoriented enemies. The once proud formation of Sorza''s knights was now in complete disarray, bodies and armor strewn across the field. The prince''s plan, his bold charge that had seemed to work , had been utterly shattered in an instant. Chapter 99: First battle(7) Chapter 99: First battle(7) "BREAK THEM!" Clio roared as his axe swung down, biting deep into the collarbone of an Oizen soldier. The man let out a choked gasp, his eyes wide with pain, but the axe had lodged itself into bone. Clio grunted, trying to yank the weapon free, but the effort was fruitless. Without hesitation, he slammed his boot into the dying man''s chest, kicking him and taking the axe buried in his flesh away as the soldier crumpled to the ground, motionless. All around him, the battlefield was a chaotic mess of steel, blood, and cries of agony. Men screamed as they fell, their bodies torn apart by swords, axes, and maces. It was carnage¡ªbut mostly in their favor. The Oizen infantry, under-equipped and under-trained, were crumbling beneath the pressure of Alpheo''s more experienced and equipped men. The advantage of better weapons and armor was painfully clear. The ground was littered with Oizen dead, while Alpheo''s soldiers pressed forward, bloodied but still standing strong. Yet despite their overwhelming strength, the easy rout they had expected never came. It had been nearly two hours of brutal, relentless combat, and still the enemy clung to their positions. The Oizens were giving way, slowly and steadily, but they hadn''t broken in the way Clio had anticipated. "Is their greed of loot really this strong?" Clio muttered under his breath, cleaving through another enemy soldie. The man''s spear thrust came too slowly, and Clio easily batted it aside with his shield before driving his axe into the man''s chest. The blade sank deep, and the soldier crumpled to the ground with a final, wheezing breath. Clio''s frustration mounted as he glanced across the field. The Oizens were faltering, yet they still refused to collapse entirely. The battle dragged on, longer than it should have, longer than any of them had wanted. "REFORM THE LINE AND PUSH!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the noise of the battlefield, blood and saliva staining his beard. His men responded immediately. They regrouped, shields locking together in a solid wall as they reformed their lines with practiced precision as Alpheo had teached them . Clio moved among them, watching as they steadied themselves. "On my mark !" he shouted, hefting his shield and pulling his axe in the air . The men stood ready, grim-faced and blood-soaked, waiting for his signal. "NOW!" Clio roared, and like a tide crashing against the shore, the line surged forward again. Steel met flesh as they charged in unison, breaking into the wavering ranks of the Oizens with sheer, unrelenting force. Clio could feel the bloodlust rising in his men as they pushed forward with renewed vigor. Their faces were smeared with blood and dirt, their eyes wild with the adrenaline of battle. They shouted taunts at the enemy, trying to break their spirits as much as their bodies. "You will die here, bastards!" one soldier spat, his voice hoarse The line collapsed entirely. What started as a few men fleeing soon spread like wildfire. Soldiers trampled over one another in their haste to escape the slaughter, the once-organized force now nothing more than a panicked mob. "Run!" someone screamed from the back ranks, and with that, the Oizen forces broke. Asag''s men, spears still at the ready, advanced relentlessly, their formation holding strong as they cut down any who lagged behind. The army was now in full retreat, their banners falling as they scattered across the battlefield, leaving behind the dead and dying while the lords that were leading them immediately used their horses to retreat as soon as they saw the battle turning around . It was a sight Clio had longed to see¡ªthe moment of victory. A fierce grin spread across his blood-smeared face, and without hesitation, he let out a primal scream that echoed across the battlefield. "PURSUE THEM!" he roared, his voice hoarse from the hours of shouting. "But don''t go too far! Keep the formation tight!" His men, exhilarated by the sight of the fleeing enemy, responded with a deafening cheer. Some of the veterans grinned knowingly, while the newer recruits simply quickly formed up to follow Clio''s lead. He himself wasted no time, surging forward with long, powerful strides, his axe at the ready. He moved like a man possessed, determined to capitalize on the enemy''s retreat. This was Clio''s first real taste of battle, and he had performed far better than he ever imagined. His initial nerves had long since evaporated, replaced by bloodlust. With each swing of his axe, he had felt more at ease, the rhythm of battle coming to him naturally. As they pursued the fleeing Oizen soldiers, Clio kept his pace controlled, just as he had ordered. He knew the dangers of letting his men get too carried away¡ªleast they fall into a trap. The enemy was in disarray, but they could regroup or have reinforcements waiting. He swung his axe into the back of a fleeing soldier, the blade sinking deep into the man''s spine before he kicked the body aside, barely breaking his stride. Around him, his men were cutting down the stragglers, their war cries mingling with the desperate screams of the retreating enemy. The battle was won Chapter 100: The day is won! Chapter 100: The day is won! Yarkawatt, Prince of Yarzat, stood atop his steed overlooking the battlefield, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of triumph and disbelief. For the first time in years, the bitter taste of defeat was absent from his lips, replaced by the sweet sensation of victory. The enemy was in full retreat, their soldiers scattering like leaves before the wind. And now, the sight of the fleeing Oizen forces was almost too much to contain. He threw his head back and laughed¡ªa deep, booming sound that reverberated through the ranks of his men standing nearby. It was a rare, joyous sound, one that echoed the sheer relief and exhilaration he felt. The long years of near-defeats, political setbacks, and skirmishes that had brought nothing but shame were finally washed away by this glorious moment.Many of his lords after this victory may even decided to reapproach the prince. "By the gods! Look at them run!" Yarkawatt cried, a wide grin splitting his face as he turned to Rober who shared the same smile. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword as if he could barely restrain himself from joining the chase. "They''re nothing but cowards!" His eyes sparkled with delight as he looked down at his commanders. There was a fire in his gaze, a youthful energy that hadn''t been there in years. The years of waiting, of watching as other lords ignored his authority while he sat idle, had all been wiped clean by this moment. "Tell the men to pursue them!" he barked at his commanders, his voice full of glee. "Chase them down and give no quarter!" The couriers rushed off to relay the orders, and the army sprang into action. Yarkawatt watched them eagerly as his forces surged forward, hunting down the fleeing remnants of the enemy. @@@@ His hands trembled with excitement, and he could feel the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins.For too long, he had been the one retreating, licking his wounds while others gained glory. But not today. Today, the enemy fled before him, and the land would sing of his victory. "We''ll break them here," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, his grin widening. "And once we do, the rest of their lands will be ripe for the taking." Yarkawatt savored the moment, nearly oblivious to the heavy toll the battle had taken on his own forces. The stench of blood, sweat, and death lingered in the air, but he was far more focused on the sweetness of victory that now coated his thoughts. Yet, his triumph was cut short when a rider galloped toward him, kicking up a cloud of dust, who had came to explain what had happened "Your Grace, it seems the plan has worked," the rider said, breathless but eager to deliver the good news. "The enemy cavalry was routed by the mercenaries'' charge. They pushed through the left flank and later reinforced the infantry, which caused the entire left wing of the Oizen forces to collapse. The prince of Oizen had no choice but to call for a retreat." Yarkawatt''s grin widened as he listened. He turned to Robert, his trusted advisor, with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. "I knew those mercenaries were worth every coin," he said with a smirk. Robert offered a measured bow in response, his face betraying little emotion, but the prince could sense the unspoken approval beneath the man''s stoic exterior. Everything had gone according to plan. But the rider wasn''t finished. "Your Grace," the man continued, his tone shifting slightly, "I have further news. Captain Alpheo has been spotted returning to camp with some of his men. It seems they are escorting prisoners... potentially important ones." Yarkawatt''s victorious swagger faltered for the briefest of moments. The mention of prisoners immediately transported him back to the disaster at Aracina¡ªa debacle that still haunted him. It had been a stark lesson in how fragile control could be when taken for granted. He could not afford to let those prisoners remain under the mercenaries'' control for too long. Alpheo was a good paid sword, but Yarkawatt knew better than to trust anyone with things above them . He needed to seize control of the situation before it slipped through his fingers like before. "I understand," Yarkawatt said, his voice tightening with resolve. "You''re dismissed." The rider gave a swift bow and retreated. Yarkawatt''s eyes narrowed as he turned back to his men, his earlier elation now tempered by the need for action. The victory was not complete until the prisoners were securely in his grasp. Alpheo''s gaze finally shifted toward the long line of prisoners being led on foot, their hands bound in front of them . Their heads hung low in shame and defeat as they trudged across the field, a stark contrast to the proud knights they had been just hours before. Behind them, a cluster of riderless horses followed, the leather reins held by Egil''s men. The animals, once fierce in battle, now appeared docile, plodding along with a calmness that belied the chaos they had just endured. Alpheo''s eyes narrowed as he counted. There were dozens of them¡ªhorses without riders, captured by his men. He threw a sidelong glance at Egil, his expression full of silent questions. Egil, catching the look, grinned knowingly. "A good haul, eh?" he said, his voice light but proud. "These," he gestured to the line of horses, "are the spoils of today''s work. We''ve captured 28 knights, 43 horses, and¡ª" he paused, turning his attention toward the only mounted prisoner in the group, a man bound to his saddle. Egil added, his voice quiet with triumph, "the heir of Oizen. He was fighting in the frontline whe suddendly he was dismounted to the ground by some footmen, before they could kill them, however, he yelded, and apparently the men took him prisoner after observing how decorated the armor was. Gotta give it to the youngster though he never once retreated...." Alpheo said nothing for a long moment, his eyes fixed on Sorza. The weight of what this meant slowly settled in his mind. He had expected a hard-fought battle and perhaps a minor victory if luck favored them¡ªbut this? This was beyond even his wildest hopes. Then, without warning, he burst into laughter, a deep, genuine sound. He reached out and slapped Egil''s back with a hearty thud. "By the gods, Egil, you''ve outdone yourself! The day couldn''t have gone better if we''d written it ourselves." Egil grinned back, clearly pleased with his friend''s reaction. "Luck was with us, Alpheo. That''s for sure." Alpheo''s laughter faded, but the smile remained on his face. "Luck, yes," he said, his eyes flicking once more to Sorza. "But skill too'''' Alpheo''s smile faltered for a moment, darkening as a shadow of concern crossed his face. His tone shifted, becoming more serious almost as if he remembered somethign as he asked, "How many men do you have with you, Egil?" Egil frowned slightly at the abrupt question, sensing the tension behind it. "Fifty," he answered, his voice cautious. "The rest are on their way back as you ordered. They didn''t pursue beyond the battlefield." Alpheo nodded thoughtfully, his mind racing. ''Fifty... with mine, that makes about sixty,'' he calculated. After a pause, he said, "Send one of your men to hurry them up. Tell them to make haste, and make sure the infantry knows as well. If there are wounded, leave some behind to tend to them, but the bulk of our forces needs to be marching toward the camp. Now." Egil''s brows furrowed, his unspoken question clear in his eyes: ''Why?'' Alpheo met his gaze and sighed softly, though his voice remained steady. "If my suspicions are correct¡ªand I pray they aren''t¡ªwe might be walking into more trouble. We may need all the strength we can gather." Egil''s expression shifted from curiosity to understanding, though it was clear he still didn''t have the full picture. But he didn''t ask further; instead, he gave a curt nod and turned to issue the orders. Alpheo watched him go before casting a glance at Sorza, the captured heir of Oizen, bound on horseback who since came here said nothing and just observed the ground. "We''ll return to camp and secure our... guest," Alpheo added, his eyes lingering on the prince, whose defeat now felt heavier even to the victors with each passing moment. "Whatever happens next, we need to be ready." As he said so he turned towards the prisoner as he bowed ''''Your grace I hope you will find our accommodations to your liking, I apologise for the simplicity of it through.After all we are no rich men'''' Chapter 101: Confrontation (1) Chapter 101: Confrontation (1) Keeping a watchful eye on the prisoners, Alpheo led his men toward the camp at a steady pace. The captured walked in sullen silence, their hands bound tightly, heads lowered in defeat. Every now and then, one of them would glance around nervously, as if waiting for a moment to escape. As they marched, Alpheo looked up at the sky and noticed the absence of ravens. They must have already started their feast, he imagined the ghastly sight of them, tearing at the eyes of the dead as their first choice before going towards the nose and whatever part was easy to strip from the bones. As they neared the camp, Alpheo glanced back at Egil, who had fallen in beside him. "Any word from the men we sent ahead?" "Not yet," Egil replied, his brow furrowing. "But they should catch up soon enough." "Good. We''ll need every sword we can get if this situation turns sour." Alpheo''s voice was grim, I hope though I am still just overthinking it... As Alpheo''s party reached the camp, the sight of his banner rippling in the wind signaled their arrival. The guards at the gate, recognizing the familiar colors, hurriedly opened the wooden doors, allowing the small company to enter. The creak of the gate echoed through the quiet encampment, and Alpheo immediately noticed the sparse presence of men. There couldn''t have been more than a dozen soldiers left, most likely left behind to guard the camp while the bulk of their forces were still scattered after the battle. Alpheo, without wasting time, dismounted and gave a sharp wave to his men. "Get them inside, lock them away," he ordered, pointing toward the small makeshift holding area at the far end of the camp. The captured knights were ushered forward, their steps slow and heavy with the weight of defeat. "But not him," Alpheo added, pointing to the firstborn son of the King of Oizen, who stood among the bound men. Sorza had been unbound shortly before they entered the camp. Alpheo knew the importance of treating such a high-ranking captive with a measure of dignity. The young prince, despite his capture, carried himself with the quiet defiance that only a prince could muster. "Take him to one of the empty tents," Alpheo continued, signaling to a pair of his men. "Treat him well. He''s not to be harmed, make sure he is not injured " The guards nodded and guided Sorza toward a larger tent on the edge of the camp. The rest of the prisoners were led away, their armors clinking softly as they were taken toward a small wooden structure serving as a holding cell, where they were first deprived of armor and made to sit on the ground. Alpheo watched them disappear remembering how it felt to pass the night there, before turning to Egil, who had dismounted and was waiting by his side. "Only a dozen men here," Alpheo muttered under his breath, his sharp eyes darting around, scanning the camp. He turned to Egil, his expression serious. "Send 10 men over to the gate," he ordered, his voice low but firm. "I want it secured, and make sure they don''t do anything rash. If something''s to happen, I want us to control the gate ¡ªno chaos, no panic." Egil nodded immediately. He gestured to a group of nearby soldiers, relaying Alpheo''s orders with a quick hand signal. Ten men broke away from the main group, marching toward the gate. Dozens of minutes passed in tense silence. Alpheo paced near the camp''s entrance, his mind racing with thoughts of what might come next. Suddenly, the heavy wooden gate creaked open with a loud groan. Alpheo turned sharply, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword. Through the entrance rode a group of 100 soldiers, all bearing the banner of Arkawatt. Their armor gleamed in the fading light, and the banner snapped in the wind, its colors vibrant and unmistakable. The riders poured in, filling the space within the camp,. They halted in formation, their horses snorting and stamping the ground. Alpheo''s refusal was as calm as it was final. "I must decline, Your Grace." That was enough. Arkawatt''s guards, already on edge, drew their swords in unison, the metallic ring cutting through the air. Alpheo''s men responded immediately, their own blades flashing in the sunlight, stepping protectively in front of their captain. Both sides stood ready for violence. The camp suddenly became a standoff between mercenaries and royal guards.Neither the prince nor Alpheo made sign to defuse the situation. Alpheo remained steady, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, eyes fixed on Arkawatt. "We fought for this victory, Your Grace. We bled for it, and we gave it to you .We will not relinquish what is rightfully ours." His voice cut through the silence, daring the prince to act. Arkawatt''s face darkened, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of drawn blades and defiant mercenaries. He stepped forward, his gaze locking onto Alpheo''s with a piercing intensity. The moment stretched, filled with an electric tension as if the entire camp held its breath. "Are you truly ready for this, Captain?" Arkawatt asked, his voice low and menacing. "Do you understand what you''re risking here? A few coins and a contract against the wrath of a prince? Would you die for it?" His words were a challenge, a thinly veiled threat wrapped in princely authority. Arkawatt''s fingers twitched at his side, his sword still sheathed, but the implication of violence hung heavy between them. His guards stood at attention, their swords gleaming, waiting for a command. Alpheo''s men bristled, but the captain himself remained unmoved. He met Arkawatt''s gaze without flinching, his jaw set with calm resolve. "I understand perfectly, Your Grace," Alpheo said, his voice steady as stone. "The question is¡ªdo you?" The tension snapped like a coiled spring, sending everyone into a frenzy. One of Arkawatt''s guards, eyes blazing with fury, was the first to act. He lunged forward with a savage swing of his sword, aiming directly for Alpheo. The speed and ferocity of the attack caught many off guard, included the captain himself. Just before the blade could reach him, a heavy shield slammed into place. Vroth, one of Alpheo''s trusted guards, had leaped into action. His large round shield intercepted the strike with a deafening clang, saving Alpheo from the swing. The moment the sword struck, all hell broke loose. Alpheo''s men, already on edge, drew their swords and axes in an instant, roaring in anger as they hacked the guards ahead of them. Arkawatt''s guards responded just as quickly, their blades gleaming as they clashed with the mercenaries. Chaos erupted in the camp as steel met steel, the ringing sound of swords clashing reverberating through the air. Men grappled and swung wildly at each other. Dust kicked up from the ground as bodies collided, and the once orderly camp turned into a chaotic battlefield. Shouts of anger and confusion mixed with the sharp cries of pain, as blood spilled on both sides. Alpheo ducked beneath a swing from another of Arkawatt''s men, his reflexes sharp. He turned, catching a glimpse of Arkawatt himself, now surrounded by his own guards as the prince barked furious orders, his face twisted in rage. "Protect the prince!" someone screamed, as both sides became locked in a desperate struggle, neither willing to back down. Vroth, still shielding Alpheo, bashed the attacker away with a forceful shove, sending the guard stumbling back as he smashed the man''s chest with his mace. The battle Alpheo had feared, in the end, had arrived. Chapter 102: Confrontation (2) Chapter 102: Confrontation (2) One of Arkawatt''s guards, a tall man with a battle-worn face, swung his sword at one of Alpheo''s mercenaries. The mercenary, a younger soldier with a dented helmet, parried just in time with his shield, but the impact forced him backward. Before the guard could strike again, the mercenary sidestepped and drove his hammer into the man''s side, causing the men to bend in pain . Blood spurted out down as the mercenary than drove his mace to the head''s casuing him to collapse to the ground. Nearby, two of Arkawatt''s soldiers had cornered one of Alpheo''s men against a supply cart. They swung with deadly intent, trying to cut him down, which in the end they managed to do. Blood and dirt splattered the ground as more bodies fell. The sounds of battle¡ªthe ringing of steel, the grunts of effort, and the screams of the wounded¡ªfilled the air, mixing with the smell of sweat and iron. One of Alpheo''s men, a burly fighter with a thick beard, grabbed one of Arkawatt''s soldiers by the neck and headbutted him savagely, cracking the man''s nose. Blood poured from the guard''s face as he stumbled, dazed, only to be met by the bearded mercenary''s fist, which knocked him unconscious. Alpheo glanced around, seeing his men holding their own, but barely. The fight was brutal, and no quarter was given on either side. "Hold the line!" Alpheo shouted, his voice barely cutting through the din. His mercenaries regrouped, fighting with ferocity, knowing that any sign of weakness could mean death. The fight was everywhere, whenever Alpheo turned someone was fighting .The smell of blood entered his nose as he took deep breath from the hot air let out by the men.Suddendly the hair on Alpheo''s neck stood erect, and he turned around just to see a man with a sword raised high ready to let it down on him . Alpheo barely had time to react. The sword gleamed in the sunlight, already descending toward him with lethal intent. Instinctively, he raised his own blade to parry, but he knew it wouldn''t be fast enough. Just as the sword was about to come down on him, a shield slammed into the attacker''s side with bone-crunching force. Vroth , ever vigilant, had come to his aid once again. The attacker stumbled sideways, thrown off balance , fell to the ground , and Alpheo took his chance. With a fierce shout, he thrust his sword forward, catching the man in the side where his armor was weakest.Still only few centimeters managed to get in,as the chainmail stopped it from getting deeper Without wasting a second Alpheo put his leg over the man''s chest before thrusting his sword into the guard''eye causing him to die , with the blade piercing what Alpheo felt was the brain "Stay focused!" Vroth barked, pulling Alpheo back toward the center of his close guards leaving the man to die alone on the ground Just as the tide seemed to turn in favor of Arkawatt''s guards, Alpheo''s forces, though bloodied and battered, were being steadily pushed back. The prince''s men fought with renewed fury, their swords and axes cutting through the mercenaries'' defenses. Alpheo''s line was breaking under the weight of their relentless assault, certainly made easier by the fact that most of Alpheo''s men had been fighting for hours. His men, now outnumbered, struggled to hold their ground. The sharp ring of steel filled the air as shields were splintered and swords clanged against armor. Alpheo could feel the pressure mounting¡ªhis guards, though fierce, were tiring. Vroth, still at his side, grunted as he blocked another powerful swing from one of the prince''s elite. Suddenly, just when it seemed the prince''s forces would prevail, a loud crack echoed through the camp. The heavy wooden gates burst open with a resounding thud. Heads snapped around to see a fresh wave of men¡ªdozens of them¡ªpouring into the camp. Mounted on horses and armed with swords, spears, and axes, they surged forward like a roaring tide. The sound of hooves pounding against the ground filled the air, the riders charging straight at Arkawatt''s men. "Reinforcements!" one of Alpheo''s mercenaries cried as he had witnessed salvation. Egil''s remaining men had finally arrived¡ªmore cavalry, and a contingent of foot soldiers following close behind , with a tall black men riding on the front . Before he could understand what was happening ,the formation of Arkawatt''s guards began to falter, men looking around in panic, unsure of what was happening. The once-disciplined line of soldiers began to fall apart as more and more guards repeated the ominous news while turning around almost as if wanting to see for themselves. Some of them hesitated, while others outright began stopping fighting Alpheo, still in the thick of the fight, felt the shift but didn''t understand "What the hell is going on?" he muttered under his breath hoping that it was a false alarm. His men were pushing forward, pressing the advantage as the enemy''s morale crumbled, but something was wrong¡ªthis wasn''t how a battle should have ended. Then, amidst the confusion, Alpheo spotted a figure that made him stop dead in his tracks. His heart froze for a moment as he recognized Robert, one of Arkawatt''s trusted men, standing in the middle of the battle, holding the lifeless body of the prince. Robert''s arms were wrapped around Arkawatt''s chest, his face contorted in grief and shock. The prince''s body slumped in Robert''s embrace, a javelin protruding grotesquely from his chest, blood pouring down his once-proud armor. Alpheo stared in disbelief. What the fuck happened?, he thought, his mind racing to comprehend the scene before him. Just moments ago, Arkawatt was leading his men¡ªand now he lay dead, killed by a javelin.His confusion quickly turned to action. Alpheo''s eyes flashed with determination as he raised his voice, his words cutting through the chaos. "Guards! Surrender!" he shouted at Arkawatt''s men, his voice commanding and fierce. "Your prince is dead! Lay down your arms!I swear you will be well treated..." His words, coupled with the sight of their fallen leader, were enough to break the remaining will of Arkawatt''s guards. Slowly, one by one, swords and shields began to drop to the ground, their owners stepping back in defeat, their faces drained of hope. His gaze fell once again on Robert, still cradling the body of Prince Arkawatt. But then, something changed. Robert''s eyes snapped up, locking onto Alpheo''s. Hatred blazed in his expression, a raw, primal rage that needed no words. With a roar, Robert threw the lifeless body of the prince aside and grabbed a blade from a nearby fallen soldier. He charged toward Alpheo, his face twisted with fury. Alpheo barely had time to react before Robert closed the distance. The glint of steel flashed as Robert raised his sword, ready to strike. But before the blow could fall, one of Alpheo''s soldiers¡ªa tall man with a round shield¡ªstepped forward with a practiced motion. With a brutal shove, the soldier bashed Robert in the chest with the edge of his shield, sending him crashing to the ground. Robert groaned, winded from the blow, struggling to rise, his hands scrambling to find his weapon. The soldier raised his sword, poised to deliver the killing strike. "Stop!" Alpheo barked, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. The soldier hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at his commander, unsure. "Disarm him," Alpheo commanded, his tone calm but firm. "He may still be to use" The soldier nodded and swiftly kicked the sword out of Robert''s reach before yanking him up by the collar and wrenching his arms behind his back. With a few quick movements, the soldier stripped Robert of his remaining weapons, leaving him defenseless. Alpheo spared him a quick sight, before turning around making sense of what just happened . His shoulders sagged slightly as he took it all in. What had started as a triumph was now spiraling into the worst possible outcome. The prince was dead, worse it was one of his men that killed him and if that was not enough they were still deep into his territory with the rest of the army soon coming back. If they were to run they were to be quick with it,as he did not want to be found there with the body of thier ruler in tow. Chapter 103 Getting the hell out(1) Chapter 103 Getting the hell out(1) The battle finally ended,the air was still thick with the stench of blood, sweat, and death . Men moved like through the camp, gathering the defeated, that was still alive, and binding them in rough ropes. Alpheo watched as twenty-five of Arkawatt''s men, some still trembling from the clash, were disarmed and stripped of their weapons. Their swords, shields, and gleaming armor were tossed aside, quickly claimed by Alpheo''s own soldiers. Horses, once the pride of Arkawatt''s cavalry, were taken, their reins handed to mercenaries who now stood taller, outfitted in the spoils of war. The prisoners, their faces etched with defeat and exhaustion, stood in a silent line as their hands were bound tightly behind their backs. Some stared at the ground, others gazed out in disbelief at the sight of the man they were meant to protect, as if the body of their prince was still in front of them . The rest of the men wounded , at least those belonging to Arkawatt were killed on the spot. Alpheo stood to the side, watching the scene with a cold gaze. His eyes wandered across the field before finally resting on the body of Prince Arkawatt. The once-mighty figure, so full of life and fire, now lay still. The javelin was still embedded in his chest, his fine armor soaked through with dark, congealed blood. Alpheo seethed with anger as he stood over the lifeless body of Prince Arkawatt. "This was not how it was supposed to go," he thought, his jaw clenched in frustration, ''You ruined everything''. He placed his boot on the prince''s chest, ''you and your fucking pride...'' ,he yanked ''your greed'' he yanked again ''and your fucking shit you call brain''.... pushing down hard as he could he finally took out the javelin from the wound. The weapon slid free with a sickening sound, and Alpheo tossed it aside, its metallic clatter against the ground only deepening his sense of failure. Originally, the plan had been clear after they captured the prince''s heir: Using him for leverage for a lordship, before offering their services around as common mercenaries to raise coins. It was supposed to be simple, a clean exchange of prisoner, for titles and land. But Alpheo had underestimated the prince''s greed and arrogance. Instead of negotiating, Arkawatt had forced his hand, the choice that had now led them to this disastrous result. He stared at the prince''s body, rage burning hot in his chest. The temptation to draw his sword and butcher the man''s body in a fit of fury emerged within him. But Alpheo knew it would solve nothing. It wouldn''t bring back the deal that was now lost, and it certainly wouldn''t undo the chaos that had unfolded. So instead, he swallowed the rage and turned away, his expression hard, his thoughts cold. There was no time for reckless emotion. "What about the camp followers?" Egil then asked turning around , his voice quiet but firm. His eyes darted toward the tents scattered around the edges of the camp. Alpheo paused, for a moment, his thoughts darkened. A small part of him considered simply ordering the men to kill them all. His hand even hovered near the hilt of his sword for a brief moment as the thought crossed his mind. But then, reality hit him like a cold splash of water. They didn''t have the time for such a thing. It would take far longer than ten minutes to hunt down and slaughter everyone hiding in those tents, and in the chaos that followed, they would lose precious moments. Every second they spent here increased the risk of another army bearing down on them or reinforcements loyal to Arkawatt discovering the scene. Alpheo exhaled sharply, his decision made. He turned back to Egil. "No," he said, his voice low but decisive. "Leave them. We don''t have the time to waste on that. We can''t possibly kill all of them quickly , and we''re not risking more delays. They''ll be too scared to follow us, and even if they talk, we''ll be long gone by then." Egil nodded, though a flicker of uncertainty passed across his face. Ten minutes passed in a blur of frantic movement, as the men gathered what they could and prepared to march, with more and more of his men coming back . The once-bustling camp was now eerily quiet, save for the clinking of armor, the hurried footsteps of soldiers, and the low murmurs of conversation. Alpheo stood near the camp''s edge, watching as his men slowly trickled back from their grim work. The tally in his head wasn''t a comforting one. A total of 520 men had returned, a far cry from the force he had marched in with, which included 650 men. Among them were 80 wounded, their bodies bearing the scars of the two brutal battles they had just endured. The dead, however, were far more numerous¡ª130 men had fallen , nearly 20% of the force that had once been under Alpheo''s command. The losses weighed heavily on him, but he couldn''t let it show. Not now. Not with so many eyes looking at him for direction. He watched as his men gathered in loose formation, some with grim expressions, others with exhaustion etched deep into their faces. They had fought hard and bled for this battle, and now they were leaving it behind not being given even the opportunity to loot ¡ªvictorious, but at a cost. Many of them still clutched the weapons and armor of the fallen, taken from the dead and prisoners captured during the battle at the camp.Many of them even starting looking at Alpheo with a bad eye, something that he immediately took notice of. ''''I will have to raise morale before I get stabbed, by one of them. Probably giving them their due coins and allowing them to drink and fuck a bit will solve the matter....''''He muttered, making the choice with light heart , as the ransom from the nephew of the man, that he had now captured the son , was still unspent and ready to be used. Alpheo''s gaze drifted across the camp one final time, taking in the scene. The camp followers remained in their tents, no doubt watching from the shadows, but they were of no concern now. The time for decisions had passed. As the last of the men assembled, Asag rode up beside Alpheo, his face pale and his eyes heavy with exhaustion. The man had fought well, but the toll of the day was clearly wearing on him. He looked out at the army with a grimace before turning his attention back to Alpheo. "Where are we going now?" Asag asked, his voice thick with fatigue. Alpheo''s expression didn''t change. His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, where the road stretched ahead of them like a long, winding escape route from the chaos they were leaving behind. "Yarzat," Alpheo replied simply, the name of their employer''s capital falling from his lips with no room for debate, as after all he still had one trick up his sleeve. @@@@ Chapter 104 Getting the hell in(1) Chapter 104 Getting the hell in(1) In a sunlit room overlooking the city of Yarkat, Talek, the young head of the garrison guard, took a rare moment to pause from his diligent work. The sunlight streamed through a narrow window, casting a warm yellow glow over the stone walls of his chamber. Son of a simple knight, he had risen to the influential position at a young age ,mainly from the relation between him and the prince. Despite this, he harbored a twinge of resentment. His father, Robert, the prince''s right hand, was leading a campaign against Oizen, while Talek was left behind, commanding a city that seemed distant from the chaos of war.Would he not have been more useful on the front than here? He had wondered when his request to join the army was refused With a deep sigh, Talek turned his gaze from the window back to his desk. He dipped his quill into a bottle of ink and resumed calculating the monthly costs for maintaining the garrison, alongside the budget for the city''s fortifications, which required repairs once every five years. The quiet of the room was abruptly interrupted by the sound of the door swinging open. A guard, breathless and with a note of excitement in his voice, stepped into the room. "Sir Talek, the army has returned! The vanguard reported their victory!" Talek''s eyes lit up with a mixture of relief and anticipation. He rose swiftly from his seat, the papers and ink forgotten as a broad smile spread across his face. "Victory!" he exclaimed, barely able to contain his enthusiasm. He swiftly gathered his cloak as he followed him out of the room. Talek hurried down the winding stairs from his chamber, his heart pounding with excitement. As he emerged onto the parapets overlooking the city gate, he squinted against the bright sunlight to make out the scene unfolding below. His gaze fell upon a large, jubilant procession of soldiers bearing the banner of Prince Arkawatt, the colors fluttering proudly in the breeze. Turning to the guards stationed by the gate, Talek''s voice rang out with urgency. "Open the gate! Quickly!" he commanded, his tone firm . The guards, catching the fervor in his voice, sprang into action. With creaking chains and the groan of heavy wood, the massive gate began to retract, revealing the soldiers and the banners of the prince in full view. Talek descended the stairs two at a time, his mind racing with questions. He moved briskly through the bustling streets toward the entrance, eager to greet the returning troops and to learn the details of their victory. As he approached the front of the procession, he spotted the men leading the vanguard¡ªthose who had borne the brunt of the campaign and would have the freshest accounts of the battle. Talek''s heart sank . He glanced at the armed men now entering the city behind the stranger, grim-faced and clearly ready for blood. He knew that with the gate open there were only 100 men in the garrison to stop them , and from the looks of it , they were greatly outnumbered. Not even taking into consideration the fact they were spread throughout the city.While instead the army was right in the gate Swallowing his pride, Talek obeyed. "Alright," he said through gritted teeth. "Men, throw down your weapons " But as he complied, recognition dawned on him, the pieces finally coming together. The familiar face, the youthful edge in his voice. Talek''s eyes widened in shock. "Wait¡ªyou''re Alpheo," he spat out. ''''You damn traitor!'''' Alpheo''s lips curled into a small, humorless smile. "I suppose in your eyes, that may look like it " he said, not lowering the blade. "But my contract with Prince Arkawatt was rendered null and void at the moment . I''m no longer bound by it, but don''t worry I am not here to sack the city or anything else" Talek''s confusion deepened. "Then what are you doing here?'''' Alpheo paused, lowering the sword slightly but not taking his eyes off Talek. " I simply came looking for a new job ¡ªwith someone with more... sense than the late prince, after all I am still owed a debt " Talek blinked, still trying to piece together the strange situation. "A job...?" He felt a hand seize him by the arm, one of Alpheo''s men pulling him into custody. "Asag, take him inside the wall to order the rest of the garrison to lower their weapon, go towards the left," Alpheo ordered as he turned to a man with a part of his face burnt, who simply nodded and took the hostage inside alongside fifty men. Alpheo''s eyes then fell on Clio , "Take a hundred men and circle to the right," Alpheo ordered, his voice measured. "I want as many towers secured as possible, and do it quietly. Tell your soldiers to act like fresh recruits¡ªblend in with the city''s guards. Once you''re inside, overpower the garrison, but keep the bloodshed to a minimum." As Clio moved off with his troops, Alpheo turned his attention back to the rest of his force. "The rest of you," Alpheo called out "we''re taking a walk to the keep. Be prepared for anything¡ªwe''ll be having a conversation with some important people, and things may get vivid." Chapter 104 Getting the hell in(2) Chapter 104 Getting the hell in(2) The army marched steadily through the city streets, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls as they moved toward the keep.The windows, doors were closed, and the roads empty with no people in sight. As they passed through the final gate leading out of the city proper, the landscape opened up into an expanse of green fields. The land between the city and the keep stretched out like a soft, untouched carpet of grass, the only interruption being the dirt road they followed. For a moment, the soldiers almost forgot where they were, their eyes briefly taking in the tranquil surroundings. But the calm belied the intensity of what was to come. Once they reached the base of the keep, Alpheo signaled for his men to halt. The sound of their march faded into silence, and the soldiers gathered, their eyes fixed on the towering structure ahead. Alpheo surveyed the scene, his eyes sharp, measuring the defenses of the stronghold. "Jarza," Alpheo called, Jarza, stepped forward, his expression serious. He didn''t need to be told what was expected of him. "Encircle the keep," Alpheo ordered, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. "Make sure nothing and no one leaves without us knowing." Jarza nodded, and with a sharp wave of his hand, he began organizing the soldiers. Under his direction, the men quickly fanned out, forming a perimeter around the keep, ensuring that every exit and weak point was watched. He directed groups to cover the rear and sides. As the army spread out, taking their positions around the keep, a cold wind swept through the fields. Despite the outward calm he projected, Alpheo was deeply unsettled as he surveyed the looming walls of the keep. His eyes narrowed as he studied the stone structure, calculating the odds in his head. Gold. Time was as valuable as gold right now, and they didn''t have much of either. The idea of besieging the keep made him crawl in nervousness . He couldn''t afford to wait. They had no wood to construct battering rams, no proper siege equipment to break down the thick gates, and a direct assault on the walls would likely cost them more men than they could spare.The closes source of wood, were a forest hours away from here. And even if they got the wood for , he believed the would lose too many in the attack. Yet, he couldn''t just sit idle. He swallowed again, this time more discreetly, trying to maintain his composure. "I''d appreciate it if you would inform the princess and her daughters that I have come to discuss a matter of great importance," he continued, his voice steadying as he found his rhythm. "As you can see¡ª" he gestured grandly to the empty space around him, arms wide again¡ª"I come alone, unarmed, and with the sole intent of resolving this peacefully." Still no response. He could feel the archers'' eyes on him, waiting, watching for any hint of deception. Alpheo resisted the urge to wipe his palms on his cloak. Instead, he took a step forward, careful not to make any sudden movements. "I believe we have much to discuss," he added, his tone softening but still firm. "And I assure you, this is an opportunity to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. I''m sure the princess would prefer that, wouldn''t she?" The creaking of the heavy iron gate broke the silence, sending a ripple of tension through the ranks of Alpheo''s men stationed outside the keep. The soldiers'' eyes were wide as they watched the door finally open. For a moment, nothing happened as some even thought they had come to surrender , and then three men in rough armor stepped. Without a word, they grabbed Alpheo roughly by the arms, hauling him forward. His forced smile vanished, replaced by a quick flash of surprise as they pulled him toward the gate. The crowd outside erupted in shouts. "Hold it!" Egil barked, his voice trying to cut through the chaos as the men surged forward, seeing their captain taken by force. Clio immediately moved in, pushing soldiers back and waving his arms to keep order. "Hold your ground! Stand down!Everything is under control! " he yelled, trying to prevent the situation from spiraling into shit.When in reality there was nothing under their control. The shouting didn''t stop, however. Men gripped their weapons, eyes darting to their captains for direction. Asag, standing at the head of his unit, had to physically hold back two men from rushing toward the gate. "They''ve taken the captain!" one of them shouted, fury in his voice. "We need to go after him!" "Stay where you are!" Asag bellowed, his voice like thunder. "It''s the captain''s orders!'''' Just then, Jarza arrived at the scene, his expression darkening as he quickly sized up the situation. His face twisted in a deep scowl when he saw Alpheo being dragged toward the keep. "What the hells is going on?" he demanded, storming toward Clio. Clio winced as he saw the towering figure of Jarza riding toward him, the man''s massive frame entering his view. His expression was a storm of barely restrained fury, and Clio knew what was coming. Apparently, the sight of Alpheo being dragged into the keep by the enemy had clearly set him on edge, as he seemed ready to dismantle the fort stone by stone. Clio tried to steady his nerves, already explaining the little information he had, which apparently only managed to temporarily calm the man, stopping him from committing an action that would have certainly killed the man he wanted to rescue. Chapter 105 Getting the hell in(3) Chapter 105 Getting the hell in (3) Alpheo felt the iron grip of the guards clamp down on his arms, their hands rough and unyielding as they dragged him through the dimly lit corridor. The cold stone walls of the keep seemed to close in around him, the rhythmic clatter of boots echoing ominously in the silence. Despite the tension building in his chest, his eyes darted around, keen and calculating, taking in every detail, every weakness in the structure. The keep was far too quiet. His mind quickly noted the unsettling absence of soldiers. Thirty, perhaps forty guards inside at most. His forces, waiting just beyond the gates, would be more than enough to overwhelm them if things took a turn. A storm, he mused inwardly, could have been so easy ...fuck. The guards beside him remained silent, their faces expressionless beneath their helms. Alpheo matched their stoicism, but unease prickled at the back of his mind. He had stepped into this stronghold willingly, knowing full well the risks, but the stakes felt heavier now, the gamble steeper. They arrived at a large wooden door, worn from years of use but still sturdy. One of the guards rapped twice, the dull thud reverberating down the corridor like a death knell. After a few tense moments, the door creaked open, revealing a small chamber beyond, dimly lit by flickering torches. Without so much as a word, the guards shoved him forward, their grips releasing as they disarmed him of his dagger, and he stumbled into the room, barely catching himself before hitting the ground. Alpheo dusted off his sleeves, casting a glance at the wife of the late Prince Arkawatt,Rosalin who sat poised and regal on a velvet sofa across from him. Her expression was sharp, cold as ice, as she sipped from a cup of wine, the four guards surrounding her radiating silent hostility. "Is that any way to treat a guest, my ladies?" Alpheo began with a sly smile, offering a shallow bow, though his tone was anything but submissive. The woman''s eyes flicked toward him, unamused. "You are no guest of ours," she replied curtly, setting down her cup with a soft clink, her fingers never leaving the handle. Alpheo chuckled lightly as he made his way toward the opposite seat, brushing past the tension that lingered in the air. "Well, I suppose the circumstances don''t exactly lend themselves to hospitality, do they?" He gestured broadly to the guards and the stark room, then moved to sit. Her voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding. "I don''t recall giving you permission to sit." Alpheo paused mid-motion, his hand hovering over the back of the chair. He raised an eyebrow at Rosalind, a half-smile playing on his lips. "Oh, forgive me," he said, his tone dripping with mock politeness. "I wasn''t aware we were still playing by the rules of etiquette." He stood upright, looking at the chair as though it was a curious relic. "After all," he continued, "you invited me here without so much as a friendly welcome, disarmed me, and gave me the grand tour of your cold stone walls. So you''ll have to excuse me if I assumed we were past formalities." Rosalind''s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes narrowing. The guards shifted slightly, but she held up a hand to keep them in place. Rosalind''s lips pressed into a tight line. The room grew colder, but Alpheo could see the gears turning in her mind, weighing the risk against the potential gain. The threat of the mercenaries outside was real, and she knew it. "Very well," Rosalind said finally, her voice still cold but now carrying the weight of someone who knew brute force alone would not solve her problems. "What is it you want, then?" Alpheo allowed a small, satisfied smile to tug at the corners of his mouth, though his mind remained sharp and cautious. "To begin," he said, his tone casual but deliberate, "I''d like to speak with your daughter. Jasmine, if memory serves." At the mention of her daughter, the princess''s eyes darkened, her suspicion palpable. She took a slow sip of wine, as if to mask her unease. "You have nothing to discuss with her," Rosalind said, her voice cold and measured, like a blade freshly sharpened. Alpheo''s smile widened slightly, but his eyes remained focused, like a predator watching his prey. "On the contrary, Princess, I believe I do. I think I should have a word with the next ruler of this princedom'''' Rosalind stiffened, her fingers gripping the armrests of her chair, the tension rolling off her in waves. "What are you saying?" Her voice faltered, the steely edge cracking just enough to reveal a thread of fear. "What has happened to my husband?" Alpheo''s expression shifted from amusement to solemnity. Slowly, deliberately, he rose from his seat, his movements respectful and calm. Bowing his head, he delivered the blow. "Your husband, Prince Arkawatt, has perished in battle." A heavy silence crashed over the room like a wave. Rosalind''s face went pale, the color draining from her cheeks. She sat motionless, her body rigid as shock clouded her once imperious gaze. Her lips trembled slightly, though she said nothing, struggling to process the enormity of the news. Alpheo, sensing the moment, turned toward the guards stationed nearby. His voice cut through the thick silence. "Leave us. Now." The guards hesitated for a brief moment, glancing at their princess, but the authority in Alpheo''s voice¡ªand the silent command in Rosalind''s eyes¡ªleft no room for argument. They quickly moved toward the door, filing out of the room without a word. And so, in the quiet, dimly lit chamber, Alpheo and Princess Rosalind stood alone. The fate of the city¡ªand the entire princedom of Yarzat¡ªwas about to be decided in this small, unassuming room, a place where titles and armies suddenly felt far less significant than ever. "Now," Alpheo said softly, taking his seat once more, his tone far more serious, "let''s discuss how to move forward." Chapter 106 Making a deal Chapter 106 Making a deal A young woman, no more than seventeen years of age, strode into the room. She was pleasing to the eye, with dark hair falling past her shoulders.Her eyes, a deep shade of green, surged toward Alpheo, taking in his presence with a brief, cool assessment. She gave him a long, piercing look, her expression guarded, before crossing the room and sitting elegantly beside her mother, Princess Rosalind. Without a word, she straightened her back and folded her hands neatly in her lap.Alpheo returned her gaze with a slight nod of acknowledgment, sensing that the true negotiation had just begun. @@@@ "Before we dive into anything," Alpheo began, his voice steady and deliberate, "I would like to express my deepest condolences for your father." His gaze locked onto Jasmine, but his words, though calm, carried a heavy undercurrent of formality. Jasmine''s eyes met his, and for a moment, she held his stare, her face betraying little emotion. She breathed in deeply, letting out a long, measured sigh, her fingers resting lightly on the edge of the chair. Rosalind, seated next to her daughter, was more visibly shaken. Her body leaned forward in her seat, the lines of worry etched deep into her face. She gripped the armrests tightly, her voice trembling as she spoke. "Was the battle lost?" she asked, her words edged with anxiety. "Is there another army coming here?" Her eyes darted toward Alpheo, pleading silently for reassurance. Alpheo studied her for a moment. Seems like the bastard wasn''t even liked by his own family, he thought , doesn''t really surprise me. He shook his head, clearing the thought away. "No, the battle was won," he said, his tone firm but laced with a faint air of detachment. "The enemy was routed. As far as I know, our forces were pursuing the remnants. There''s no threat to the city." Rosalind''s brow furrowed, a look of confusion washing over her features. "But then... how did he die?" Her voice was softer now, a note of disbelief creeping in. "You said he fell in battle..." Alpheo shifted slightly in his chair, glancing between the two women. He hesitated, feeling the weight of what he was about to say. "It wasn''t the enemy that took his life," he began slowly, choosing his words with care. "Your father, Prince Arkawatt, led his men into battle . Me and my soldiers had managed to capture the heir of the Oizen throne. When your father found out, he demanded that I turn the prisoner over to him immediately." Rosalind''s face twisted into a frown, her fingers digging deeper into the armrests. Beside her, Jasmine remained still, her expression controlled, though Alpheo noticed a shadow pass over her face, the faintest flicker of tension around her eyes. "I would have been willing to negotiate," Alpheo continued, keeping his voice even. "Even to hand over the prisoner, in exchange for proper rewards and a fair share of the glory. But..." He paused, his eyes flickering briefly to Rosalind, gauging her reaction. Her expression was unreadable. He pressed on. "The prince wasn''t inclined toward diplomacy that day. Instead, he ordered my head and sent his men to carry out the task. A scuffle broke out¡ªbetween my troops and his." Rosalind''s knuckles whitened further, her face tightening with a mix of disbelief and anger. It was unclear to Alpheo whether her anger was directed at him or at the memory of her late husband. Jasmine''s posture remained rigid, her hands clasped in her lap, but her gaze had darkened, the worry that had once been a shadow now a quiet storm. "In the chaos," Alpheo said, his voice lowering "it happened so quickly. A javelin¡ªthrown in the heat of battle¡ªstruck your father in the chest. It was over before anyone could stop it." A heavy silence followed his words, pressing down on the room like a weight. Rosalind''s lips parted, her face pale as she absorbed the news. Alpheo softened his tone, sensing the depth of their grief. "I know this may sound hard to believe, but I assure you, I have witnesses¡ªmany prisoners, including Sir Robert¡ªwho can attest to what happened. It wasn''t intentional, nor was it part of some grand scheme. It was simply... chaos and unluck." Jasmine raised her eyebrows in surprise. For a moment, her nervousness was replaced by curiosity. She glanced at Alpheo, clearly intrigued by his sudden generosity. "If you''re willing to overlook the payment," she asked, her voice cautious but direct, "what is it that you want in return?" Alpheo''s smile widened ever so slightly, appreciating Jasmine''s straightforwardness. He leaned in a little, his eyes gleaming with purpose. "Before we dive into the specifics, I think it''s important to clarify our current situation. Who exactly are your main competitors for the succession?" Jasmine took a moment to collect her thoughts, her expression turning serious as she considered her response. "My uncle, Lord Ormund, is the primary contender. He''s been away from court for years¡ªhis relationship with my father was strained. He never took well to being under my father''s authority." She paused, her lips tightening. "Ormund has two sons: Darian, who is thirteen, and Cedric, who is only six." Alpheo nodded thoughtfully, absorbing the information. "So, Ormund," he murmured, his voice low, "a brother who''s been biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to strike. And a son who''s just old enough to start making waves." He leaned forward slightly, fixing Jasmine with a sharp look. "Now that I have a clearer picture of your opposition, I need to know who will be supporting you." His tone shifted, becoming more pointed. "It''s crucial that you are completely honest with me, Jasmine. I''ve already made the decision to assist you, but if I find out you''ve been less than forthcoming, it could make me reconsider that support." Jasmine''s eyes met Alpheo''s . She took a steadying breath before speaking. "My grandfather will certainly support me. He has a vested interest in seeing me on the throne due to our shared bloodline. His influence extends over many minor nobles who will align with me. As for the others, most will likely remain neutral, avoiding direct involvement in the conflict." Alpheo listened intently, his expression carefully composed. However, inwardly, he was skeptical. He knew from his own sources that the support Jasmine claimed from her grandfather was consistent with what he had heard. Yet, her portrayal of widespread neutrality in a possible civil war struck him as dubious. From what he knew, many nobles were more inclined to back the male candidate due to traditional preferences and the stability they believed a male ruler would bring. He remained silent, his mind turning over the discrepancies in her account. It was clear that Jasmine''s claim of a nearly neutral stance from the nobility was likely a partial truth, with many more nobles expected to support her rival. Alpheo nodded thoughtfully, his expression grave and resolute. "Now that we''ve discussed the pressing matters, even though I think some of us were not truthful, let me outline what I bring to the table. It''s clear that what you need most at this juncture is a substantial increase in military strength. To address this, I can provide you with 400 well-equipped infantry, 100 bowmen, and 80 mounted riders. Furthermore, I have the resources to expand these numbers even further, should the need arise, which trust me it will " He paused for a moment, letting the weight of his offer settle in the room. "In addition to an army , I also have with me the heir to the Oizen princedom. Which will certainly make for a nice diplomatic visit from the prince of Oizen.Nothing better to start one''s rule than to have a victory over a rival...'''' Jasmine''s eyes sharpened as she understood that the boy in front of her was indispensable, if she was to go forth. She glanced briefly at her mother, who remained silent, apparently the young woman was still not at ease with her new-given power as she looked at her mother for direction, maybe even permission? Alpheo couldn''t quite tell.... "What do you ask in return?" She finally asked Alpheo''s eyes locked onto Jasmine''s . He let the pause stretch, "In exchange for this support, I have but one simple request." With deliberate slowness, he extended a finger toward Jasmine. Chapter 107 Rising the ladder Chapter 107 Rising the ladder Outside the keep, the men outside were about to erumpt into violence. The army stood ready, restless hands gripping weapons and eyes fixed on the stone walls of the keep. The infantry had formed tight ranks, shields at the ready gripping axes that they would use to smash the door , while archers were preparing to nock their arrows. . Jarza stood at the forefront, his eyes narrowed as he glared at the keep''s walls. His broad frame was tense, muscles coiled as if ready to spring into action. His fingers gripped the hilt of his sword, white-knuckled with barely restrained frustration. "Damn that reckless fool," Jarza muttered under his breath, pacing back and forth as he cast another wary glance at the gate. "Alpheo''s gone and walked straight into the lion''s den without a second thought. One wrong move, and they''ll have his head on a pike." He stopped, staring hard at the closed gates of the keep as he spoke to himself. "What does he think he''s playing at? We don''t have time for his games. The whole damn thing could go sideways in an instant, and we''ll be the ones left cleaning up his mess." Jarza clenched his jaw, his worry mixing with a deep, gnawing anger. "I should''ve been the one to go in. Alpheo''s too confident¡ªalways thinking he''s got it all under control. But this... this is madness.We invaded their home..." His gaze softened for a moment, betraying the concern behind his gruff exterior. "I''d die before I let anything happen to him, but how in the gods'' names am I supposed to keep him safe from himself?" He let out a heavy sigh, his frustration bubbling to the surface again. "If he doesn''t come out of there soon, I swear I''ll tear this damn keep down brick by brick myself." He spat into the dirt, the soldiers nearby casting uneasy glances at him as they saw his commanding officers talking to himself. Many preferring to diver their gaze than to attract his attention. The tense atmosphere outside the keep suddenly shifted when the heavy wooden doors creaked open. Every soldier tensed, hands gripping weapons, thinking that the guards inside decided to make a sortie. But instead of an attack, Alpheo stepped out, flanked by several men, his expression relaxed and confident. His armor gleamed in the sunlight, and a wide smile spread across his face as he waved casually toward his companions. Jarza, standing at the head of the gathered troops, narrowed his eyes in disbelief. He blinked, momentarily stunned by the sight of Alpheo strolling out so nonchalantly after all the worry he had . His hand loosened on the hilt of his sword as a small smile erupted on his lips As soon as he saw the wave, Jarza kicked his horse into motion, galloping forward with a few others close behind him. His horse''s hooves kicked up dirt as he rode across the green stretch that separated the army from the keep. He stopped just a few feet in front of Alpheo, his face a mix of barely contained anger and relief. "Gods, Alpheo," Jarza growled as he dismounted, his heavy boots hitting the ground with a thud. "You had us ready to storm this damn place. What in the hells were you thinking?" ''''I was thinking on how to solve the pickle we were in.Which ,no need to thank me, I managed to do'''' As he said so he slightly tapped on the black giant cheeks, before waving to the other to follow him in his tent. Jarza raised an eyebrow. "Like what?" "Like the fact that her succession will almost certainly be contested by her uncle , a fight that she would certainly lose " Alpheo said, his grin growing wider. "The fact that she had no army to back her claim, and even fewer supporters among the nobles. And, let''s not forget, the angry army of mercenaries¡ªwho, by the way, were still owed their due payment¡ªhappened to be stationed right outside their walls, with torches in hand, ready to burn the city to ash and to piss on whatever remained. It''s mindblowing how people get impatient with torches in hand you know..." Egil burst out laughing, slapping his knee. "Gods above, that''s ruthless!Did not think you had that in you. I thought you were an eunuch...." Alpheo shrugged, his grin never fading as he ignored the last part of his friend''s assertion . "It''s called leverage, and I used every ounce of it." "Still" Jarza muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "A commoner marrying a princess? You''ll make an enemy out of every noble, a single lose and everybody will turn their swords toward you....." "That''s exactly the point, my legitimacy will be based on victories and victories alone" Alpheo said, his tone turning a little more serious as he knew he could not afford to lose. "And of course, soon enough, all of you will be raised to nobility as well. We''re building something here. We''re no longer mercenaries; we''ll have lands, be knights, lords , and commanders. Every one of us will have a place at court. Just to be clear, though, the rule belongs to Princess Jasmine. I''m merely... a humble consort." Egil, who had been watching Alpheo with a grin spreading across his face, suddenly stood up and crossed the room. Without warning, he threw his arms around Alpheo in a tight embrace, laughing heartily. "You mad bastard!" he exclaimed, planting a rough kiss on Alpheo''s cheek. "You''re the most beautiful madman I''ve ever known!You are the most stallion among us. " Alpheo laughed, patting Egil on the back. "I take that as a compliment. Whatever that means" As Egil released him, he shook his head in amazement. "To think I almost doubted you. But now? We are set for life...." Clio, who had been watching the exchange, folded his arms and leaned against the tent pole. "Well, We''re really doing this, aren''t we?" "We are," Alpheo replied, his voice calm but resolute as he put his foot on the table . "And this is just the beginning.'''' Jarza, still shaking his head in half-disbelief, furrowed his brow as he looked at Alpheo. "Alright, you''ve got the marriage, the army, and the title. But what about the civil war? You know this won''t be as simple as sitting pretty on a throne. Her uncle''s not going to let this go without a fight. How do you plan to deal with that?You said that the princess has few friends among the nobility, won''t this mean more and more lords will assemble under whatever-his-name-is'' banner?Won''t we be outnumbered?" Alpheo''s smile turned sly, the kind of grin that sent shivers down spines. Without a word, he reached inside his coat and pulled out a small dagger. The men watched, their eyes narrowing, as Alpheo leaned forward and, with a swift motion, stabbed the dagger deep into the wooden wall of the tent. The blade sank in with a satisfying thud, vibrating for a moment as it embedded itself. "We will simply stop that with a quick and strong blow to the stem," Alpheo said, "just like that." Chapter 108 Forgotten son(1) Chapter 108 Forgotten son(1) Tiberius pov: The straw on the floor stank of urine. There was no window, no bed, just a bucket to shit and pee in. He remembered the white floor and wall of his room , the beautiful scenery outside his window.The only thing he could now only sightsee was the shape of his feces, which was also his only entertainment . Once the door had slammed shut, he had seen no more. The dark was absolute. He had as well been blind.He begged days and nights to the men outside the dungeons for a small candle.The first hours he believed they could not hear him.Then finally they maybe took pity as he was given one . That was two days ago, or so he believed he had no way of knowing apart from when he go to sleep and then wake up , not that it was a reliable way of telling the hour. The glob he was given to eat was hard bread and a soup that was more dirty water than soup. He was the son of the emperor , illegitimate as he was , still he had eagle blood in him. Has he done anything to deserve this?He knew that mattered little , his very own existence was a slight to the empress and she lost no time immediately after she got power , to sweep that little trouble away from her sight. He could not think of any other reason The dark silence pressed down like a weight on his chest. He was isolated in every sense of the word, not just from the world, but from hope, from his own sense of worth. The candle had almost burned itself down. He watched the tiny flame eat away at the last of the wax, its flickering light barely illuminating the edges of his small world. He liked to think the candle was his life¡ªa dim spark that would go out when the wax was finally gone. He even hoped for it. When it ended, perhaps his suffering would end too. He made plans to keep himself sane, and built castles of hope in the dark, destined to fall . Tiberius was half-asleep when the footsteps came down the hall. At first he thought he dreamt them; it had been long since he had heard anything but the sound of his own voice. When the heavy wooden door creaked open, the sudden light was painful to his eyes. The jailer thrust a jug at him. He grasped it with both hands and gulped . Water ran from his mouth and dripped down through his chin. He drank until he thought he would be sick or that he would die , apart from the dirty soup this was the first drink he had . The man slid the key into the lock, the metallic click reverberating like music in Tiberius''s ears. The door creaked open, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Tiberius saw the corridor beyond his cell¡ªa narrow, dimly lit hallway that stretched into darkness. Freedom, however distant, was suddenly in reach. "Keep quiet," the man behind him whispered sharply, pressing a finger to his lips as a warning. Tiberius didn''t need to be told twice. He nodded eagerly, his fear mingled with a strange relief. They weren''t here to kill him¡ªthey were rescuing him. But why? What possible reason could anyone have to free him? He was nobody now. No allies. No powerful friends. No titles or lands. Nothing of value to offer anyone. The very act of rescuing him seemed, from his perspective, a fool''s errand. As they pulled him to his feet and ushered him quietly into the corridor, Tiberius''s mind whirled with questions. What did they stand to gain from this? What could possibly make this worth their while? He cast one last glance at the unconscious jailer, slumped by the cell door. Why me? The two men led Tiberius through the dungeon corridors, their footsteps eerily soft against the cold, damp stone floor. They moved with practiced caution, glancing around every corner before signaling him to follow. Tiberius''s bare feet padded silently behind them, his heart racing with a mix of fear and hope. They walked in near silence, save for the occasional drip of water echoing through the dungeon. Tiberius, though weak and disoriented, couldn''t help but notice how methodical the two men were. They paused at every intersection, waiting and listening, ensuring the way was clear before proceeding. It was a level of care that heightened his confusion. Who were these men? Finally, after what felt like an eternity winding through the labyrinthine halls, they reached a small wooden door. Tiberius recognized the area immediately, though it made no sense to him. The latrines? It was different from the grand, marble-lined lavatories used by the nobles. This was far simpler, meant for the guards and servants, tucked away in the lower parts of the keep¡ªfar from the eyes of anyone important. The wooden door creaked slightly as one of the men pushed it open. The smell hit Tiberius immediately, a mix of stale air, dampness, and the unmistakable stench of human waste. The stone floors were wet, though not from water alone, and the dim light from the corridor barely penetrated the room. He hesitated, unsure why they had brought him here. This wasn''t an escape route¡ªthis was a lavatory. The man in front turned back to him, a brief glance in his direction as if to signal him to enter. Tiberius followed, though confusion gnawed at him. Why here? He had imagined a break for freedom, perhaps leading to an exit or a hidden passageway, but instead, they had led him to this filthy, lowly place. The answer came to him when the two raised the wooden board where people sat to shit. This was their way out, freedom would be reached through the shit of dozens of people. Chapter 109 Forgotten son(2) Chapter 109 Forgotten son(2) "What do you mean, he disappeared?" Empress Valeria''s voice was laced with irritation as she sat at the head of the council table, her piercing eyes focused on Lord Vrator, her nephew .Normally, the fate of the little bastard wouldn''t have concerned her. He was nothing more than a stain, a reminder of a long-buried indiscretion. But the audacity¡ªthe insult¡ªof someone daring to make a mockery of her authority within her own city made her blood boil. Lord Vrator, her nephew, bowed his head slightly, visibly uncomfortable under the Empress''s withering gaze. "Your Grace," he began cautiously, "the guard was found unconscious near the entrance to the dungeons. It appears the infiltrators placed an open bottle of wine beside him after bringing him out of the cell. Those who passed assumed he had simply... drunk himself to sleep.So for some time the matter was left unreported as the discipline within the dungeon keeper is lax at best, only when the guards woke up on his own, we understood what had happened" Valeria''s lips curled into a scowl, her fair face tightening with rage. "Are the guards in this palace for show? How is it that no one saw two men and a boy leaving the grounds?" Her voice rose sharply, each word biting, her frustration unmasked. Vrator swallowed hard. "The guards reported no one passing through the main gate, Your Grace, which is the only way out. We suspect there may be a secret passage¡ªone previously unknown, perhaps one used during the castle''s construction. We are investigating now." He kept his eyes on the floor, afraid to meet her fiery gaze. "Incompetence," Valeria spat, slamming her hand down on the table with a sharp crack that echoed in the chamber. "Monkeys would do a better job than this." Her voice dripped with venom. "Do you have any idea what this means? They didn''t just take some random prisoner;they have no use for that bastard they took him only to spite me and humiliate me, to let me know I am powerless . And they did it under my nose!" Her fist clenched. "If this can happen, what''s to stop them from kidnapping someone who actually matters? When my father returns, he will hear of this, and he will think us fools." Vrator hesitated, mouth opening slightly as if to defend himself or offer a solution. But Valeria''s sharp, icy gaze cut him off before he could utter a word. ''''Organize search parties on every inch of land under my son''s rule, I want the bastard''s head at my feet as soon as possible''''she gave a look to her nephew "Leave," she commanded, her voice low and seething. "I am tired of staring at failure." The room fell into a tense silence, the only sound the soft rustle of Lord Vrator''s cloak as he quickly bowed and retreated from her sight, leaving Valeria to seethe alone in her fury. Marcellus nodded and accepted the wine, lowering himself into the chair beside her. The empress studied him for a moment, taking in the sharp lines of his face, the way his jaw tightened as he took a sip from the cup he filled. Setting his goblet down, he leaned forward slightly, his voice low and filled with concern. "Is everything all right, Your Grace?" he asked softly, his gaze searching hers. "You seem... burdened." Valeria exhaled slowly, allowing herself a rare moment of vulnerability. She swirled the wine in her cup, her eyes following the movement of the liquid. "I''m just... tired," she said, her voice quieter than usual. Marcellus nodded, understanding etched in his features. "I understand the strain of leadership, though mine is nothing compared to yours. But my dear Empress," he said, reaching across the small distance between them and gently taking her hand in his. His touch was firm yet comforting, his fingers rough from years of wielding a sword. "I am here to serve your every need. Whatever you ask, I will do. You need only give the word." He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss against her knuckles. His gaze remained locked on hers, the gesture both respectful and intimate. She smiled, allowing herself to indulge in the moment. It had been a long time since someone had shown her this kind of attention, this kind of devotion. "Marcellus," she said softly, her voice a whisper now. "You always know how to ease my troubles. I''ve been surrounded by sycophants and schemers for so long, it''s refreshing to have someone I can trust." Marcellus''s eyes darkened slightly, a hint of something more than mere loyalty in his gaze. "I am yours to command, Empress," he repeated, his voice lower, more intimate. Valeria tilted her head slightly, studying him. There was a moment, a spark of something more¡ªunspoken, but present in the air between them. She leaned closer, her lips curving into a knowing smile. "Perhaps there is something more I require from you," she said, her words hanging between them like a whispered promise. Marcellus''s breath hitched slightly, but he remained composed. He stood slowly, offering her his hand once more, his gaze never leaving hers. Valeria took it, rising to her feet with grace Without a word, she led him towards her private chambers. Marcellus followed her, like a puppy mixed with something more primal, something that neither of them could deny. As the door to her chambers closed behind them, Valeria smiled, allowing herself¡ªjust for a moment¡ªto forget the weight of her crown, as she allowed the man to take the queen. Chapter 110 Dawn of a new day Chapter 110 Dawn of a new day Two weeks had passed since the fall of Thegolontia. The city, once proud and defiant, now layd in the hands of Prince Maesinius. His banner flew high over its battered walls, and a garrison of 300 men had been left behind to secure the streets and maintain order. Yet, Maesinius knew the city itself was not the ultimate prize¡ªit was the battle yet to come that would decide the fate of the province. The prince, flanked by his commanders, led an army of 7,300 soldiers, marching steadily through the open countryside beyond Thegolontia. His men moved with a disciplined pace, their morale high by recent victory and the following loot but aware of the enemy force advancing toward them. Scouts had been sent in all directions, scouring the land for signs of the opposing army, while Maesinius himself studied the terrain. He sought not just to meet his enemies but to meet them on the ground of his own choosing. This was to be his first battle , yet it seemed that he had no qualms with it and instead behaved as if he had spent half his life there. The lands the prince had personally scouted as he had waited for his enemy to come were varied¡ªrolling hills that stretched into flat plains, thick patches of forest that could either be a boon for ambush or a hazard for retreat. Maesinius''s sharp eyes scanned the horizon as he rode ahead of a bunch of men. Finally he seemed to have arrived at the ground where the battle would be given . As Prince Maesinius dismounted from his horse, brushing the dust from his leather gauntlets, he was approached by the Lord of North''s Bane. The man was grizzled and broad-shouldered, with streaks of gray in his beard and the hard eyes of a veteran. He was also the father of the woman Maesinius intended to marry¡ªthough he still did not know that. "Well?" Harold asked, his voice gruff "Have you found it?" Maesinius smiled, a slow, confident smile, and nodded. "Yes. I believe this is the ground." The land stretched wide and open before them, mostly flat with tall, waving grass that reached up to a man''s waist. To the right, a deep river carved its way through the landscape, its waters dark and swift. Harold''s eyes swept over the tall grass, the gently undulating land, and the river, which served as a natural boundary to the right. The plain seemed endless, but Maesinius had chosen it for a reason. It wasn''t as open as it seemed. Murth, Lord of Greenplain, approached them next, his arm cast in bandages and hung to his shoulder,a kindness left by a soldier during the siege of the city. In itself , lord Murth was a cautious man,especially for a northerner who mostly had been tempered by nature to be as savages as beasts. "Why this place?" he finally asked "It looks... too exposed. We could be caught in a cavalry charge with no high ground to defend." Maesinius grinned, glancing over the open plain again before answering. "He will give us battle¡ªespecially when he hears that we lack cavalry. Conte''s pride won''t let him resist what he thinks is a golden opportunity. He''ll come charging in, thinking our weakness will make us easy prey. We just need to send an envoy to set the day of the battle , at which point Conte will be forced to accept this as our battleground unless he wants to be deemed craven by his own sworn lords.'''' Maesinius turned his gaze toward Uther, the towering figure known as "the Giant" among the men. Uther was a hulking presence, easily standing five heads taller than anyone else in the camp, with broad shoulders that seemed capable of carrying the weight of the world. A smile crept onto Maesinius''s face as he looked at Uther, and the giant noticed. Raising a brow in confusion, Uther glanced around, as if to check if something else had caught the prince''s attention. "Why are you smiling at me like that?" Uther rumbled, Maesinius chuckled softly, his eyes gleaming with a knowing look. "Because, my dear Uther," he said, his tone both playful and serious, "you''re going to have the biggest role in the battle.And trust me you will love it. You will be our axe." Uther''s lips widened, and he gave a low, approving growl. "I like the sound of that." Maesinius waved his hand dismissively at Uther''s growing excitement. "I''ll explain the details later," he said, his tone shifting back to one of seriousness "For now, we have other matters to attend to." He turned to the rest of the company, his expression sharp and focused. "We should make camp here," he ordered, his voice leaving no room for debate as he turned to his lords. "This land is where we will meet Conte, and where we will break his forces.This is where we decide whether we will come victorious or deem our people to death. Remember how far we advanced and what we have left behind.This is where everythign will be decided, in one way or another." Lord Harold and the others exchanged brief glances, nodding in agreement. They had gone too far to let doubt linger in them. Harold stood a few paces behind the prince, his eyes narrowed in deep thought as he observed Maesinius closely. There was an intensity in his stare, as if he were seeing the young man in a new light, noticing something that hadn''t been obvious before. His usually stern face softened slightly, but his expression remained unreadable to most. Elenoir, his daughter, who had been standing by his side, glanced up at him curiously. "Father?" she asked quietly, her voice carrying just a hint of concern. "What is it? You''re staring , and hard at that." Harold didn''t answer immediately. His lips curled into a small smile, and he finally tore his gaze from the prince to look at his daughter. "It seems our prince has taken more from his father than he''s let on. He is more wolf than sheep, even though he thinks himself the opposite " he said in a low voice, one filled with a mix of amusement and respect. Elenoir raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "You think so?" Harold nodded slowly, his eyes flickering back to Maesinius, who was now giving more orders to the men, his commanding presence undeniable. "There''s a cunning in him, that I did not know he possessed, and he is able to win people''s hearts quite easily.Perhaps our plans with him will be much easier than we thought it would be.'''' Chapter 111 Settling for the battle(1) Chapter 111 Settling for the battle(1) The camp of the lords of Messenia , with the High Marshall conte leading it , sprawled across the plain like a bustling, though still temporary city. Hundreds of tents dotted the landscape, arranged in neat rows and guarded by a wooden barricade that ended with spikes at the top and at the base outside of it . The camp was alive with activity: soldiers sharpening their weapons, squires feeding the horses of thier masters , and quartermasters barking orders as wagons of supplies were unloaded near the center. Cooks stoked fires, filling the air with the scent of roasting meat and boiling stew, while horses were tethered to posts near the cavalry section, snorting and pawing at the ground. A lone rider approached the camp at a swift pace, kicking up dust as his horse galloped across the plain. As the rider drew closer to the camp''s perimeter, his silhouette sharpened against the sunlight, causing the guards at the gate to notice him. Archers stationed on either side of the camp''s entrance quickly raised their bows, arrows nocked and aimed directly at the rider. "Stop where you are!" one of them barked, his voice sharp and commanding. "State your business!" The rider immediately pulled on the reins, bringing his horse to a halt a few yards away. His breathing was heavy, dust covering his cloak and armor. He raised both hands in a gesture of submission, the horse beneath him shifting restlessly. "Hold your fire!" he shouted, his voice carrying across the field. "I am a messenger¡ªsent to request a parlay with the commander of this camp!" The archers remained tense, their bows still drawn. One of them squinted at the rider suspiciously. "Who sent you?" @@@@ "I carry a message from His grace, Maesinius of house Romenia, first of his name!" the rider responded, urgency clear in his tone. "I seek an audience to discuss terms of engagement. I swear on my honor, I come unarmed!" The guards exchanged wary glances. After a moment, one of them lowered his bow slightly and nodded to his companion. "Wait here," he said, turning toward the camp to relay the message. Five tense minutes crawled by as the rider sat motionless on his horse, hands still raised in submission. The guards remained vigilant, their bows trained on him, eyes narrowing with suspicion. The wind rustled through the tall grass, the only sound in the stillness of the standoff. A low murmur rippled through the room, the tension climbing as Conte''s expression hardened. His fingers, which had been tapping lazily on the sword hilt, clenched around it, his knuckles whitening. Slowly, he stood up, his bulk looming over the messenger. "Swear fealty?" Conte''s laughter rang out, a harsh and bitter sound. "I will sooner kiss a beggar''s foot than bend my knee to that pup, or to any of his so-called lords of the snow" he spat, his voice rising with disdain. His eyes narrowed into slits, the insult hanging in the air. "I am no vassal to upstarts with dreams of thrones and crowns, much less to one that has savages as companions." ''Though you have still not swore to no one,'' the messenger noticed in his mind, though he refrained from saying it out loud .He held his gaze, undeterred by Conte''s fury. He bowed his head slightly, more out of formality than submission, and continued, his voice clear and resolute. "Then, my lord, it seems His Grace shall prove his right on the battlefield. In the spirit of chivalry and to uphold the honor of combat, he extends to you an invitation. Tomorrow, after dawn, two hours'' march from here, he proposes a battle to settle this dispute." There was a pause as the weight of the challenge settled over the room. The nobles shifted in their seats, their eyes burning with resolve as they moved towards Conte. The messenger stood tall, his gaze unwavering as it locked onto Conte. "Do you accept, my lord?" Conte''s nostrils flared as he stared back, his bloated fingers tightening around the armrests of his chair. A bitter silence hung in the air, thick as smoke, as the nobles in the room exchanged uneasy glances. Finally, Conte broke the tension, pushing his heavy frame up from the chair. But pride would not allow him to show it. Not here. Not before his men. "We accept," Conte''s voice boomed, louder than before, as if to drown out any hint of uncertainty. "Tomorrow shall be the day of our glory. The gods themselves will witness as we vanquish those who dare lay claim to what is not theirs." He paused, lowering his head for an instant, his next words dripping with reverence, "May the gods hail the rightful." The messenger''s eyes gleamed with something close to acceptance, but he kept his composure. "May the gods hail the rightful," Outside, the messenger mounted his horse. Maesinius had been right all along. Conte never had a choice, as the fall of Thegolontia had sealed his fate. With his vassals watching his every move, to hesitate now would have been to show weakness. His pride, his fear of losing control, had forced his hand. It was already decided¡ªtomorrow, on the battlefield, both men would prove the rightness in their words. Chapter 39: Bread and ale(1) Chapter 39: Bread and ale(1) Before the imperial subjugation, the north was a land of scattered duchies, each ruling its own domain. However, in times of dire peril, such as threats from imperial armies or tribes gathering behind the Bane, these duchies would unite. This unity was symbolized by the calling of a "hut," a traditional assembly where all the dukes set aside their differences , put down their axes, shared ale and bread , and convened under one roof to address the common threat. Historically, huts were most often called at North''s Bane, the heart of the northern lands. These gatherings were prompted by various dangers, whether it was to confront marauding chieftains of savage tribes or to face the sometimes even congregation of giants,when those could still be sighted behind Bane. And just like before , this hut was to be organised onto the stronghold of the north.Maesinius was sitting at the right of the owner of the house , Harold Helklund.He was also the man who has hosted the prince for the last three years,and in this time Maesinius both gained the respect of Harold, and of the north. In the flickering firelight of the great hall, Harold Helklund was an imposing figure, his frame sturdy and robust despite the passage of years. At the age of late fifties, he bore the weight of his age with a quiet dignity, he knew war and war knew him. His beard, a wild cascade of white, flowed like a snowy river down his chest, covering a face marked by the ravages of battle His hair, too, shared the same luscious hue, reminiscent of the majestic mane of a lion, cascading in waves around his broad shoulders. A jagged line traced across the bridge of his nose, he always used to laugh when people asked about it and he always responded that it was his lady wife that gave it to him when she first bedded her.She always used to say that she would come home to a lioness Despite his age, Harold kept his muscle . His shoulders, broad and powerful, bore the weight of countless responsibilities, while his hands, calloused and weathered, spoke of a lifetime passed in war Harold and Maesinius were not the only one in there, as also all the other lords as per tradition conveneed under the same roof.Maesinius turned his head around gazing at the structure , it was one of the biggest he had ever seen. The ceiling was like the wall, made of oak wood, that reached upwards like the branches of an ancient tree, disappearing into the darkness above. The floor was covered in a soft, dark carpet, well-worn and familiar to the feet of the lords who had walked it for generations.There was no decorations , no banner put on the wall,as this was not owned by Harold'' families but by the whole north, and since its creations no banner was ever put inside that wall. Verinius ''The Misguided'' had commanded 90 years ago, for the banner of the empire to be put in there, he sent a man delivering the flag, but unfortunately before reaching the hall he was met by ''bandits'' , was quartered and his banner threw down a cliff. When the emperor heard that, he threatened to raise an army and in response, the north invited him to try and put the banner there himself. Luckily before that happened Verinius was overthrown by his younger brother Earon ''The kind''. Maesinius turned around, studying the various nobles present there, while simultaneously feeling their scrutinizing gazes upon him, much like hawks observing their prey. Their icy stares pierced through him, assessing his every move. Yet, he returned their gaze without a hint of fear, a display that seemed to garner their approval. Suddenly, Harold rose from his seat, his white beard swaying as his head scanned the entire congregation. His eyes swept over every face, leaving no corner untouched. The nobles mirrored his actions, their silence enveloping the room like the chill of winter. Then, the silence shattered. "You like what you see, Harold?I got more if you would like" boomed a giant among men as he stood,hand on his crotch , the scrape of wood against the floor echoing through the chamber. All eyes turned to the towering figure, Maesinius marveling at his immense size. He recognized the emblem of the white fox of House Falstaff, lords of Snowmirth, emblazoned on the man''s chainmail and gray surcoat. Draped over his back was the skin of a bear, its gaping maw used as hood. Despite being unarmed like the other nobles, Maesinius sensed the raw power emanating from the giant. His forearm alone seemed as large as two clenched fists, capable of delivering a crushing blow and smashing through armor . In that moment, Maesinius realized that if the giant chose to, he could easily walk up toward anyone and kill him by bashing his head on the wall , with the rest of the lords would be powerless to intervene, like lambs before a lion. He wondered how strong he would be with an axe . ''''Sit the fuck down Uther!'''' Harold shouted "I would if the chair didn''t bloody well break!" Uther Carlsson retorted, holding up the shattered remains of his seat for all to see. The sound that had echoed through the room was not of a chair shifting, but of one collapsing under Uther''s weight. "These chairs are as sturdy as your arse, Harold. Fetch me a proper one before I sit on you!" Uther joked, drawing laughter from the other lords and a smirk from Harold. It became evident to Maesinius that the two were old friends, and the tension in the room dissipated. With a wave of his hand, Harold summoned a servant who promptly arrived with a larger, sturdier chair. "Try not to break this one with your fat arse," Harold jested, eliciting more laughter from the crowd, including Uther himself.''''If there is no other shit-head, I will continue'''' As the joviality settled, Harold cleared his throat and raised his rugged hand in the hair before clapping . Two rows of servants emerged from behind him, carrying trays laden with ales and bread for the guests. "As is tradition, we now share bread and ale under the watchful gaze of the gods," Harold proclaimed solemnly. "May they bear witness to our unity and guard against treachery within these walls." With that, he tore off a piece of bread, chewed thoughtfully, and washed it down with a hearty gulp of ale, ensuring his cup was emptied to the last drop. All the other lord followed suit , they took the bread ,ate it and then drank the ale. ''''From now on you are my guest, no harm shall come to you till you reside under my roof'''' As he said so he sat down, his gaze moving to Maesinius, who gave a deep breath before rising from his seat, ready to present his case to the rest of the northern lord. As he walked though the words Rosk told him kept playing in his head ''''It will happen, whetever you wish or not.'''' He knew he was right, this however did not mean that he had to allow that to happen. The lords wanted war?Very well they would have one. Chapter 40: Bread and ale(2) Chapter 40: Bread and ale(2) The hall was quiet as Maesinius rose from his seat, his steps thundering on the wooden floor. A wolf pelt draped across his shoulders, its gaze seemed to mirror the intensity of the stares fixed upon him. Undeterred, Maesinius met the scrutiny head-on, chest thrust forward with pride as he exchanged glances with a few of the assembled nobles.Show weakness and the pack will devour you , show confidence and they will think twice before jumping. Among the norther lord , Carl Karlsson, lord of Threefall, stood out like a towering oak in a forest of lesser trees. His emblem, a crimson tree against a backdrop of snowy white, alluded at their ancient rites long forbidden under imperial rule. It was said that before the empire''s dominion, the northerners offered sacrifices to the tree, human sacrifices, now thankfully abolished. At the opposite end of the table sat Murth Grennor, lord of Greenplains, his domain ironically devoid of its namesake hue, instead blanketed in the icy embrace of winter.As apparently that was the sense of humor of northerners.Yet his was the land with most prizes, and from which the north got the biggest source of pelt , to sell to the southern merchants. Other figures filled the hall, each bearing their own tales and epithets. Mjorn Baker, known as ''Break Shield,'' who in his youth fought twenty duels, always refusing to wield shield. Han Abelsson, mysteriously dubbed ''The Three Fucker,'' who Maesinius preferred not to ask about . Lastly, there was Cregan Falkar, known simply as ''Pale Face,'' his pallid countenance explaining the nickname. As Maesinius stepped forward, the crisp scent of the cold air enveloped him, its weighty presence mingling with a delicate lightness. He paused for a moment, allowing himself to sink in the sensation, the faint crackling of torches igniting his senses before he addressed the gathered lords. "My esteemed lords, it has been five years since the last hut was convened, a time when Swutheld ''Flat Nose'' dared to challenge the might of the North with his few tribes of 80 hundred. He hoped for pebbles , yet you proved yourselves to be boulders , and his defeat is still sung in taverns ," Maesinius began Regret tinged his words as he continued, "Unfortunately, I was absent during that battle , a fact that I deeply regret. I can only imagine the honor it would have been to stand alongside you, to share in the bond forged through battle and triumph." His gaze swept over the assembly "The battle raged for seven long days and nights, Swutheld''s forces relentlessly assaulting our defenses with ladders and battering rams. Yet, each onslaught was met with unwavering resolve, as your warriors repelled them time and again. The one night everything changed, with swift and decisive action, our garrison launched a daring sortie, catching Swutheld''s forces unprepared. Their camp was engulfed in flames, and amidst the chaos, Swutheld himself was captured.The snow of the falling man, it is called in taverns, they made a pretty little song about it " The lords nodded in agreement, their expressions reflecting pride in their past deeds some laughed at the name of the song. "He was then quartered and his head put the gate of Bane, adorning the piece of wood for six month, before it was thrown in the wilderness , I recall'''' Many of the nobles smiled at the memory of that battle. Suddenly, a deep voice echoed from the depths of the hall, "What a strong child we have here," the same giant of before spoke , Uther''s booming voice drawing all eyes toward him. "I have fought there myself, alongside many others," he continued"We battled through the night and day, calling out to the empire for aid, but all we received were empty promises and honeyed words ." With a disdainful snort, Uther spat on the ground, his rough hand swiping across his mouth as if to rid himself of the taste of deceit. "And now, a boy dares to commend us for a fight he did not partake in? What do you know of war?You read about battles and you style yourself as Vrivius the red?" His words were sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. Raising a trophy of his conquest, Uther brandished a bear-hide hood , he apparently liked to tell the story of it "See this beauty," he declared, his voice heavy with the weight of his triumph. "I slew her myself, with naught but a dagger and a sword.Her name is Liliana " As he spoke, he bared his chest, revealing three deep claw marks etched into his flesh. "The maiden fought valiantly, but I claimed her head and fashioned this hood from her pelt." His gaze shifted to the wolf perched upon the prince''s shoulder, his scrutiny piercing. "And what of your pet?" Uther inquired, his voice dripping with disdain. "Did you slay it with your own hands, or did you purchase it with your jewels and gold?" ''''I did not kill the wolf, if that is what you are asking , it was already dead when I got my hand on it.It was during my maiden raid, a baptism of fire admist the snow . I was Leading a scouting party of one hundred strong, we chanced upon a savage village nestled amidst the wilderness," he recounted. "We descended upon the village like a tempest unleashed, our steeds thundering beneath us as we set the world ablaze.The savage did not know what it was happening until it was too late " As the flames licked the sky and screams pierced the air, Uther''s eyes gleamed as he watched the prince . "The women were taken captive, destined for a fate beyond the Bane to bear our children ," he continued, his voice tinged with the weight of sorrow. "While the rest , met the same fate as their fathers who certainly tried to bypass the Bane ¡ªswift and merciless." The prince gave a small smile "Among the fallen, I beheld a man adorned with the pelt I now wear. That is how came to it.That day 5 armed men fell under my hands , nothing worth talking and boasting about , I knew men that reached 20 that day.'''' The response amused Uther , who said nothing just smiled and sit down. For the rest of the hut he would keep silent, just observing the boy.It was then that the prince understood , ''the nobles were seizing me up. And this was the first test'' if he had made an excuse, or turned toward Harold he would have been shunned, instead he had spoke directly to the giant himself and did not back down, not many could do that, Uther after all was that scary . Yet the prince''s response was well liked, as it could be seen by Uther''s smile directed toward him . No northerner will follow a boy, so he has to show himself has one of them.Not too hard, he just had to do what he always did, be himself. ''''Now if no one else has anything else to add'''' Harold said as he finally interjected ''''let us hear my guest words, I am sure we will not be left unsatisfied.'''' Chapter 41: Bread and ale(3) Chapter 41: Bread and ale(3) The atmosphere in the hall grew tense as Harold''s words settled among the gathered nobles. Sensing the attention upon him, Maesinius drew a steadying breath, summoning every ounce of resolve he possessed as he prepared to address the assembly. "It may come as new to many of you," he began, his voice steady despite the roiling turmoil within him, "but my father met his end upon the battlefield in Arlania." His announcement rippled through the assembly like a pebble cast into a still pond, igniting a murmured flurry of whispers and exclamations. For most, this revelation was a shock.The northern lord did not have spies in the south. As such their sources of information were being limited to the occasional grain merchant who traversed the northern lands as the sold thier products. "In the wake of my father''s passing," Maesinius continued, his tone resolute, "my stepmother wasted no time in seizing power, crowning my younger brother , the third prince as emperor and reinstating the council of the 200, with herself as regent.She demand the lords to travel to the capital and swear an oath of loyalt-" Even before he could finish, the hall erupted into chaos, each noble clamoring to make their voice heard above the tumultuous din. "Despicable!" cried one, his words echoing off the walls like a battle cry. "Cowards and snakes!" bellowed another, his anger palpable in the air. "To swear fealty to a child? I would sooner cleave my own cock and balls !" Fury and indignation coursed through the assembled nobles, their voices blending together in dissent. Like a ship tossed upon a storm , fighting against the waves before being overwhelmed by the sea. Suddenly, amidst the fervent voices of dissent, a figure rose from among the assembly. It was Murth Grennor, lord of Greenplains. With a commanding presence that passed over his relatively young age, he stood tall, his brown beard cascading over his chest and his long hair flowing down his back like a river of shadows. Though he possessed a stature befitting a nobleman, standing beside the towering figure of Uther, he appeared as a mere sapling beside an ancient oak. "We beseeched them for aid against Swutheld," Murth declared, his voice resounding through the hall like a clarion call to arms. "We warned them of the thousands of warriors marching upon our lands. And how did they respond? With disdain and contempt, spitting upon our very beards!" His words ignited a chorus of agreement from his fellow nobles, their voices rising in righteous indignation. "And now," Murth continued, his tone brimming with righteous fury, "that crimson-hued whore dares to demand our fealty. She expects us to abandon our fiefs, to kneel upon their polished marble floors and grovel at their feet. But what has she or her spawn ever done for us?" His voice swelled with impassioned fervor, each word a dagger aimed at the heart of southern tyranny. "Should we bow our heads to those who care naught for our plight?" Murth''s voice thundered, his gaze sweeping across the assembly "No! I say we stand firm, united in our loyalty to one who has stood beside us, who has shared in our struggles and triumphs. Two winters past, when famine gripped our lands, it was he who ensured that grain reached our people, while his father turned a blind eye to our pleas." As Murth''s impassioned speech reached its zenith, he dropped to one knee before Maesinius, his head bowed in a gesture of allegiance. "I will serve only one of our own as emperor," he proclaimed, his voice ringing with defiance. "May death claim that wretched woman and her child !" His words struck a chord with the assembled nobles, stirring their hearts with renewed resolve. One by one, they followed Murth''s example, dropping to their knees in a show of solidarity. Yet, just as the fervor threatened to consume them all, the prince raised his hand and stopped them Maesinius paused, casting his gaze across the assembled nobles. With a measured breath, he continued "The empire has long been a burden upon the North," he began, his tone heavy with solemnity. "Time and again, you have sought aid, only to be met with indifference and disdain. Yet, despite this mistreatment, the North has remained subservient,why is that?" Karl Carlsson, lord of Snowmirth, was the one to asnwer . "We rely on the trade of pelts for sustenance" he acknowledged, his voice tinged with resignation. "Our lands cannot produce enough to feed our people, so we are forced to turn to the merchants of the South." "Indeed," Maesinius affirmed, nodding in agreement. "But this reliance has come at a cost¡ªa cost borne by the North itself. The merchants exploit our dependency, extracting exorbitant prices knowing full well that we have no alternative.The emperor sold privileges only to certain merchant family , allowing them to have the monopoly of selling grain to us, causing them to have complete control over prices." The weight of his words hung heavy in the air as Maesinius''s gaze hardened, . "You look to me for change, for salvation from this cycle of exploitation," he continued, his voice tinged with bitterness. "But I tell you now, that hope is misplaced." With a sudden, defiant gesture, Maesinius spat upon the ground before him. The nobles recoiled in shock, their expressions a mix of astonishment and disbelief. Even Harold, his stalwart ally, regarded the prince with a gaze that bore into his very soul.This was not what anyone of them expected, as they thought that the prince would have been the first to call for war "The North''s plight runs deeper than mere neglect," Maesinius proclaimed, his voice rising with fervor. ''''The numbers of soldiers the north can muster is too low'''' Maesinius then shouted ''''The second prince will certainly raise his banner and will be supported by the east, who can easily field more than 15,000 men to march south. The third prince itself will be able to rise a similar number, except he will even be in a better position, as all he need to do is to hold the pass between the mountains .Inside of it there are vast amount of grain that will sustain them they will have a sea route for trade . '''' As he said so the prince''s gaze swept over the nobles. ''''In comparison the north can at most muster no more than 9,000. What do you expect to achieve with that?You speak of the fact that the empire ignore the plight of your people, and now you wish to bring death to our people to fight for a lost cause?'''' The nobles fell into a heavy silence, their eyes fixed on Maesinius as he spoke. With each word, his resolve seemed to strengthen, and a flicker of determination ignited within him. "To place me on the throne, we would need to defeat both my brothers," he declared, his voice ringing with conviction. "But such a victory would come at a cost, a cost that the North cannot afford to bear. Why would I willingly sacrifice more of my people for my own ambitions?" As he spoke, Maesinius gestured emphatically, his hands extending outward. "All I hold dear is the well-being of the people who have welcomed me, who smile when I ride through their villages. This sense of belonging, this connection¡ªI cannot find it in the South. Why would I abandon this place for the sake of a throne sorrounded by snakes?" His words echoed through the hall, penetrating the hearts of those assembled. "All you speak of is of how the South neglects us, how they would sooner see us starve than offer aid. And yet, here you are, discussing talking about putting a man onto the very throne that abused the lots you. Do you truly believe things will change? No, they will only worsen!It is but a lost cause and we shall find our fields red with our blood " With each repetition, Maesinius''s voice grew stronger. "From here we have few choices. You could be bending the knee to the red bitch in the South," following these words he spat. "Then there is bending the knee to Mavius who will be too busy shoving his prick onto the first whore he will find ," he spat again. "I will not allow my people to bleed for my ambition, but I would gladly shed my blood to see them prosper.I refuse to partecipate in a war that would cause them to suffer needlessly. It is time for the North to break free from the Empire, to forge its own path as an independent kingdom. Winter may be coming,with it famine will follow. The only way the North will survive is to go on a road never taken since 180 years ago!It''s time for the North to go forward alone and stop bending the knee to the South.No more shall it be bled dry by merchants, nor shall it send his sons to fight a war that will bring them nothing.From now on every decision , shall be taken BY us and not FOR us .'''' Chapter 42: Entering the city(1) Chapter 42: Entering the city(1) Alpheo gazed down at the swaying mane of his horse, its rich brown fur glistening in the sunlight as they trotted along the stone road. He had never owned a horse before, and he couldn''t help but feel a sense of pride and wonder at this magnificent creature by his side. As they continued on their journey, Alpheo watched with adoration as his horse nibbled on the grass, its playful nature shining through.His eyes were shining as that of a child with a new toy. He had heard tales of mischievous horses from medieval documents, and now he understood why. His own steed was no exception, as one morning as he went away for a piss , carelessly not roping it to a tree , thinking it would be all right, he found his steed to have disappeared . After a few minutes of searching, Alpheo found his horse leisurely eating oats from a sack it had opened with its teeth. It took three men to finally stop the beast. But for now, during their ride, the horse seemed tame and obedient, responding to Alpheo''s commands without giving any trouble. It was a strong and sturdy warhorse, one of 59 others that they received for their army''s cavalry.The other 40 he would receive later on.He still remembered how thrilled he was when they arrived, he had many plans regarding them . Just as it had been in his past life, battles were often determined by the charging of heavy cavalry. The bulky and powerful horses, trained for combat from birth, were the ultimate weapon on the battlefield. Yet, amidst the sea of armored beasts, the lighter cavalry was often overlooked and disregarded. Used mainly for scouting missions, their potential as skilled skirmishers was often underestimated. But history had shown that even a well-trained light cavalry could turn the tide of a battle. Hannibal had proven this with his elite group of Numidian riders, expertly weaving in and out of enemy lines and wreaking havoc, with their javelins as they skirmished, as they mantained their speed and distance from enemy . Alpheo longed to replicate this success, with his own modifications and strategy, but he knew that with his current numbers, it would be impossible. As they rode towards Quarzat, 70 other riders followed behind them - 60 from their own army and 10 guards lent by his employer . The rhythmic clattering of hooves echoed like a drumbeat on the stony pathway beneath them.Their eyes soon moved to the city ahead of them. They would be living in there for few weeks at best ,and some months at worst as their employer prepared for his expedition. It was a good thing they were the invader , his men lusted for the opportunity to raid and pillage. And luckily there would be many chances to do so. "I expected something bigger," Egil muttered, leaning casually on his knee as his horse trotted along. His elbow rested casually, a picture of nonchalance. He had once boasted to Alpheo about the prowess of his hometown''s horse riders, claiming they could even fuck atop a horse,. At the time, Alpheo had dismissed it as mere bravado, but now, observing Egil''s easy grace in the saddle, he couldn''t help but wonder if there was some truth to the tales. Alpheo shot Egil a sideways glance, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Make sure not to mention it in front of our new boss," he advised. Egil shrugged, a mischievous grin playing on his lips. "So, it''s okay for you to disrespect people, but not for me?" he retorted. "I am the leader of the company. I can allow myself that," Alpheo replied, his tone growing more serious. "Make sure not to cause trouble. I don''t want to see your head on a pike because you disrespected someone you shouldn''t have.I am certain my heart would drop in pain" He brought his hand on his chest and made a pained expression "Oh, come on, they need us. They wouldn''t dare," Egil scoffed, his tone light. "They need me, not a small lieutenant who think his own cock is the biggest in the whole world ," Alpheo countered, his tone firm.He wanted to make sure he knew how weak his position was "Well, you would convince them of the opposite, right?" Egil prodded, his brow furrowing when Alpheo didn''t immediately respond. He nudged closer, repeating the question. Alpheo remained silent for a moment, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he trotted ahead on his horse. "Come on, stop jesting. You would, right?" Egil pressed, a hint of urgency in his voice. The other snickered as they saw the exchange. Alpheo meanwhile continued to trottle ahead , reaching closer to the one at the head of the formation. "Sir Robert," Alpheo addressed the late aged steward with a friendly smile as he rode up alongside him. Sir Robert glanced at Alpheo, his expression guarded. "Do you need something?" he asked briefly , his attention focused on the path ahead. Alpheo''s smile widened. "Actually, I do," he replied casually, his tone tinged with curiosity. "No more than a quick question, to satisfy my curiosity. Could you enlighten me on the reason for the hostilities between your prince and the ruler of... ?" he inquired, struggling to recall the name of the other principality. "Oizen," Sir Robert supplied tersely. "What reason do brutes have to raise their swords against more civilized people?" he responded with thinly veiled disdain. "Mh, of course," Alpheo muttered under his breath, ''But there''s what?Sixty kilometers between you and them . Yet they are savages? Don''t give me that bullshit,'' he mused His smile remained fixed as he pressed for an answer. "Yet I believe there should be at least a pretext that the enemy is using to justify their lack of manners" "That there is," Sir Robert confirmed, his voice growing more animated. "Those bastards continue to insist that the cities of Hervia and Aratale are theirs. They claim that these were the bride-price they paid to the previous prince, the father of Arkawalatt," he spat on the ground in disgust. "The bastard gave us a barren womb and demanded the cities back after my previous liege made the obvious act of divorcing the useless woman and marrying another." "I see, I see," Alpheo nodded in feigned agreement"What a bunch of uncultured savages," he agreed aloud, though secretly, he sympathized with the prince of Oizen. ''I mean, I too would do the same if my daughter was humiliated in such a way, while they kept the city I had given as a dowry''. The convoy continued to ride ahead , Alpheo slowly falling back to his previous company, finding it much more pleasurable to have , than to share a ride with that old oaf.The city of Quarzat finally came to their eyes much closer, as they stopped in front of the gates. He watched back at the 500 men following behind, wondering if they would actually behave. One month of marching certainly raised their nerves up, he hoped that they at least had the decency to go to a whorehouse, instead of giving trouble to normal citizens. ''Perhapse I should give them coin to pass the night whoring'' He mused ''After all an emptied man is a much happier one ''. The city in question was stonewalled, it was nothing great.The wall must have been no more than six meters tall. ''I could easily take it '' , he reasoned as he observed the defenses ''The bastards did not even bother to dig some trenches ahead of the city. It was their capital , which was yet close to the enemies, as with no more than a four days march , the prince of Oizen could easily reach it. ''Maybe there is something I don''t know'' He reasoned after all , he has been here for less than two weeks, and he was unaware of the bordering territories of the geography. Maybe there were some fortresses that the enemy had to take if they wanted to besiege the city, or maybe they were just that much confident about their defenses. Whatever the case , it was also his business, as his road to glory would start in this shitty princedom he was hired to fight for. Chapter 43: Entering the city(2) Chapter 43: Entering the city(2) A chorus of steel-on-steel echoed from the gates as the men roared, their voices blending with the eerie metallic sound. Slowly, the gate began to open, revealing Robert standing at the front of the march. His chest puffed out with pride, he resembled a triumphant Roman general marching through the city. No doubt his success in recruiting enough men to double the prince''s army was a great feat on his own. As the gate fully opened, 60 riders emerged followed by 460 footmen marching in perfect formation behind them. The guards accompanying the procession pulled out their trumpets and blew into them with such force that it sounded like the roar of an elephant. ''This is no mere parade, this is a grand spectacle,'' Alpheo thought to himself as he watched the Yarzat banner fluttering in the wind. He spurred his horse forward, his iron heel lightly striking its side to push it ahead. The horse trotted gracefully, its hooves rhythmically hitting the stony ground. He took in his surroundings, observing the state of the city. It was a complete mess - a clear indication that the war was not going well for their side. He had seen similar scenes during sieges before, where even those who did not defend the walls were left with eyes filled with terror.And the mood of the city was similar to that of a city on his way to be sacked ''Looks like our esteemed leader conveniently left out some crucial information about the state of the ongoing war,'' Alpheo thought bitterly as he caught sight of a small, mesmerized boy watching him pass by on his horse. Alpheo, with his flowing mane of hair and proud stance, was the epitome of confidence as he led the march. His eyes scanned the scene before him, taking in every detail with a keen awareness. But it was the sight of the small boy, dirty and ragged, that caught his attention the most. As their eyes met,there was something about the way he looked at him, with a mixture of awe and curiosity, that intrigued Alpheo. Despite his dirty appearance, the boy''s gaze remained still, and Alpheo couldn''t help but be amused by his boldness. ''He''s probably never seen anything like this before,'' He thought to himself, a small smile playing on his lips as he returned the boy''s gaze. It was clear that the sight of him and his well-equipped army had left a lasting impression on the young boy. When he was a boy he dreamt of leading armies to victory, leading charges from the front and feel the blood his enemies splatter on his face. And now that he was leading army , he was dreaming of sitting on a golden throne .Who knew what he would desire when he accomplished that too? Alpheo''s army, with their gleaming armor and disciplined formation, was a new sight to be sure for the people instead of to the ragtag bands of peasants that they were likely accustomed to seeing. Each man marched with pride, their heads held high and their spirits lifted by the knowledge that they were no longer slaves, but free men fighting for golds and lands. And that Alpheo would give them . Alpheo couldn''t help but notice the admiring glances from some of the nearby maidens, their eyes lingering on his face before darting away as he returned their smiles. It amused him to see their bashfulness, and he chuckled softly to himself. "Seems like the girls here took a liking to you," Jarza remarked in his distinctive Arlanian accent, a hint of amusement in his voice. Alpheo shrugged nonchalantly. "Girls do not interest me, but princesses do. I crave to see one with my own eyes," he confessed, his smile taking on a slightly mischievous edge. Jarza''s expression turned more serious. "You shall find yourself with your eyes plucked out then'''' Alpheo''s grin widened. "It probably would be my cock to be plucked out next if that was to happen " he quipped "But don''t tell me you aren''t even a bit curious about seeing someone with blue blood?" "I have no such interest," Jarza replied firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. Alpheo raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Come on, when will you have the chance for that in your life again?" he pressed, a playful glint in his eyes. "I shall weep about it on my deathbed, which I hope will be when my hair grow silver ," Jarza retorted, unamused by Alpheo''s persistence. "Yours shall instead be as luscious as they are now and with pieces of your body falling out ," he added, eyeing Alpheo''s mane of hair, luscious as that of a woman . His instead were short and black as coal Alpheo chuckled at the comment, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "And what would cause me to have such a queer fate?" "Your tongue will be your death''s sentece one day," Jarza replied with a shake of his head. Alpheo grinned, opening his mouth wide. "It''s still here, isn''t it?" he teased, waggling his tongue playfully. "Incredibly it is. I wonder for how long though if you keep your behaviour like this?" Jarza quipped back, a hint of exasperation in his tone. ''''Until the gods saw fit to leave my arrogance unpunished. '''' He pointed up and spurred the horse forward. Suddendly the big crowd, started shortening in numbers as they reached closer to the palace of the prince .It was stone structure, albeit it was more of a keep redecorated to seems like a palace. Alpheo did not dislike that, he was not someone for big decoration, it''s usefulness was much more important for the young man. The windows of the palace were narrow and fortified, even though they were made of colorful glasses . He wondered if the keep was ever sieged, as it appeared that it was built for that reason alone As they approached the main entrance, Alpheo noted the lack of ostentatious embellishments. Instead, the focus was on the sturdy gates and the guards standing watch, their weapons gleaming in the sunlight. It was a palace built for defense, not pleasure, something that he could actually respect, though he wondered how comfortable it would be to live inside. As Alpheo''s horse slowed to a stop alongside his army, he turned in the saddle to watch his men. They had been riding and marching from out of the city for at least an hour and now, with a momentary pause, they took the opportunity to stretch their tired muscles. Some of the soldiers dismounted, their boots crunching on the gravel as they stretched their backs, arms reaching up towards the sky . Others remained mounted, rolling their shoulders and flexing their fingers around the reins. A few soldiers cracked their necks, the sound echoing faintly in the quiet courtyard. One man let out a long, exaggerated yawn, his jaw stretching wide before he shook himself awake. Robert noticed that and stared at Alpheo , who just shrugged, was his the fault that his men were tired?He was instead to be content, that they were yawning instead of looting , as Alpheo noticed that apparently the defence of the city were rather lacking. As the only army stopping them from looting the city were just few hundred men on the walls as garrison, and even those were lightly armed. Quite the sight for the capital of the princedom. Chapter 44: Entering the city(3) Chapter 44: Entering the city(3) As the group dismounted from their horses, they gathered at the entrance to the hall, greeted by servants who approached to take the reins of the beasts and assure their guests of proper care. Alpheo stood, gazing at the stone structure before him, feeling a presence at his side. Turning, he found Asag watching intently, the same expression mirrored on his face. "How is it?" Alpheo inquired, his voice breaking the silence. Asag replied in a faint voice, "I expected something more... grand? Lavish? This is nothing more than a few rocks put together." "Well, let''s hope the inside exceeds our expectations, as this will be our home for a few months," Alpheo whispered, moving towards the head of the group. "So, when are we going to meet his grace? I would like to pay my respects and seal our agreement," Alpheo asked Robert, as he eyed the palace . Robert''s hair whipped as he turned to face Alpheo. "When the servants give us the signal to go, we will go, not a second before or later." "Anything I should be aware of?" Alpheo inquired further. "No, his grace is a generous man. Just make sure not to mistake his generosity for weakness. Also, remind your men to behave inside. We don''t want to hear about any incidents with the maids," Robert cautioned as he gave the boy a long stare . "You shall not. The small congregation you see here is made up of the finest and noblest men in the whole empire. You shall not hear a peep from us, sir. My word of honor," Alpheo declared, crossing his heart. "Is there anything of less value than the honor of a mercenary, that can be bought with simple coins?" ''Yes receiving a dagger to your back, you senile bastard'' Alpheo thought though he dared not say it , ''''Well then let''s hope my price will not be matched by your grace''s enemy'''' Before Robert could respond, the door swung open, cutting off any further conversation. The guests were led forward, and Alpheo caught one last gaze from Robert. He couldn''t discern if it was a look of hate or a threat. Either way, he didn''t care. The day he feared a stare from an old fart was the day he would become a slave once again. The 500 men accompanying Alpheo stood behind, while he instead moved forward , following Robert''s trail from behind, they entered the halls of the palace.The first thing that came to the eye were the red carpet. Each step felt like sinking into a sea of velvet, the soft fibers enveloping their boots with each stride. Along the walls,the banners of Yarzat''s house hung proudly. The emblem of a sword on a brown field stood out wherever the eye moved .Some torches had the job of illuminating the hall, and they did their task good enough. As they followed Robert through the hall, Clio, Jarza, and Asag maintained their positions closely behind Alpheo. Egil lingered a bit farther back, his gaze wandering over the opulent decorations adorning the walls. Alpheo couldn''t help but notice his friend''s proximity to a gilded candle-holder, its yellow hue catching the flickering torchlight. '' The fool thinks of it as gold, for certain,'' Alpheo mused to himself with a wry smile as he subtly closed the distance between them, signaling for Egil to hurry up. "You called for me?" Egil asked as he caught up, a hint of curiosity in his voice. "The prince is short of coin and will certainly notice a missing spoon, much less a candleholder. We are guests; behave yourself," Alpheo cautioned, his tone firm but laced with a touch of amusement. "I was just observing," Egil protested, his defensive tone betraying a hint of guilt. "Thieves observe too, before stealing," Alpheo replied, his words carrying a weight of warning. "You think of me as a thief?" Egil retorted, his expression a mix of indignation and jest. "I do not think, I know," Alpheo responded, a faint smile playing on his lips as he turned his head forward once more. ''''You deny?'''' He smiled ''''You know me far too well'''' The rest of the walk passed in silence, the only sound the soft thud of their footsteps on the plush carpet beneath them. Each step seemed to sink into the rich fabric, they trudged forward, no voice coming out of them , and not even a single whisper. Suddendly Robert stopped .Ahead of him two guards stood, their lances held upright, as their breastplate shined through the light of the rising sun. ''''Sir Robert has come bringing guests and men to his grace, inform him of our presence''''he spoke at the two men on duty.Some protocols they had to follow, he already hated it. One of the guards then entered, and just as quick came back. ''''His grace is thankful of your service , you and your guest may enter'''' As he said so he opened the door allowing Alpheo and his group to step forward inside the hall. Unlike the outside of the structure the hall was decorated enough.Some chandelier hung from the top, casting some light inside the hall.Though the lighting within the hall was adequate, it paled in comparison to the natural sunlight streaming in through the narrow windows, creating a stark contrast between the illuminated and shadowed areas. ''Let''s hope that when night comes, they have enough coins to lighten some candle'' The thought was queer enough to make him chuckle, though he quickly suppressed it.The last thing he wanted was for the prince to think he was laughing at him, when instead he was laughing at how poor he was. As they entered the hall, the first thing that caught their attention was the figure seated upon a modest throne crafted from rich red velvet. In his forty years, the prince stood there , his appearance weathered by the passage of years or maybe by the war. His once-lustrous hair had long since receded, leaving his scalp barren like that of an egg. In its place, a polished dome gleamed under the dim light of the hall. His nose, long and pointed like the beak of a bird , resembled that of a prey, its prominent shape dominating his face. He was missing a ear, probably cut off in battle. In its place, a golden ear gleamed in the dim light. ''Probably just gilded in yellow'' Alpheo thought as his eyes moved to that ear. At his side, on a smaller throne was a woman.She was like the prince in her forties, her hair was black as the night.Her face was a bit wrinkled , and the air of superiority she had certainly was enhanced by her age. She was probably the prince''s consort.Alpheo gave her a watch and then nothing more Standing all around the hall, many courtiers dressed in velvet stood. Their eyes moved to Alpheo''s figure, as many furrowed their brow , wondering why a small boy was standing behind Robert, while older men stood behind It was to be said that Alpheo looked everything except like a leader of a mercenary band . ''''This servant honor his grace'''' Rober spoke aloud as he knelt to the floor.Alpheo mimicked him saying nothing but kneeling .Yet as his eyes rose they moved to the right of Alpheo were two girls stood near their father and mother . ''Seems like my talks with Jarva , may come to reality '' He mused as he gave a little smile at the eldest of the girls.And she seemingly did not mind it as she gave one of her own. Chapter 45: Entering the city(4) Chapter 45: Entering the city(4) Her features were delicately sculpted, with a symmetrical visage . Framing her face was a cascade of long, ebony-black hair that were falling in soft waves around her shoulders. Her eyes, were ''covered'' by a transparent veil. They were the color of dark emeralds, green like the seas of the Empire ,deep and enchanting. Her lips, painted with a subtle rosy hue, curved into a gentle smile in response to Alpheo''s own smile . Drifting down from her shoulders, the girl wore a simple yet elegant brown silk dress that draped gracefully around her slender frame. She was still young, no more than seventeen , her curves were light as they were hidden by her dress.The other girl was no more than eight, she too had black hair, a veil covering her eyes and a silk dress.She looked around with curiosity probably wondering who their guest were. Alpheo looked around but saw no man standing near the prince.''Does he have no son? Maybe he has only daughters''Alpheo wondered before putting the tought on the back of his head,deciding instead to snoop around later on Now if Prince Arzalatt saw the smile between the two , he acted as he did not . ''''I have been told that you have in your service 510 fighting men, all armored and equipped, was I informed wrong?''''The prince spoke his hand resting on the side of his face, holding his real ear. Alpheo met the prince''s gaze with a steady one of his own . "You have been informed correctly, your grace. A quarter of them are equipped with breastplates, while the rest use simple chainmail. They are well-trained and ready for battle, should you require their service under your name.I can assure you , they will make short work of all your enemies" The prince''s lips curled into a faint smile at Alpheo''s acknowledgment. "I hope that your men are worth the price I am paying, mercenary.Talks are cheap" he remarked casually, his tone betraying no hint of warmth. ''My name is Alpheo you bloody cunt'' Alpheo''s facade slipped for a moment as he bit back the retort, but quickly regained his composure. "Of course, your grace," he replied with a respectful nod, though his thoughts were far from reverent. "Preparations are being made. No more than a month before we shall take our steel to those bastards of Oizen," he informed Alpheo, his voice tinged with anticipation. "I can''t wait to repay them with the same coin." His eyes then met with the mercenary captain once again ''''And of course to you will go the other coin'''' Alpheo''s mind raced with skepticism at the prince''s timeline. ''Right before winter? Is he a fool?'' he mused inwardly, his expression carefully neutral. ''Either they have had a bountiful year''s harvest, or the prince is losing his wits.'' And little did he know that it was the former, as this year''s harvest has been great for the south "Your enemies shall tremble at the sight of your banners," Alpheo replied smoothly, his words dripping with flattery. Apparently the prince liked the flattery as he rolled in it like a pig in his feces . ''''Yes that they will, I eagerly await to see it with my own eyes . In the meantime , you shall stay here in my court as guest, honored and welcomed as one should'''' ''''What about my men your grace?'''' The prince went thinking a bit , his hand moving from his ear to his chin, as he pondered ''''They will be allowed to make a camp outside the walls, the food shall be covered by me. '''' ''''I understand your grace'''' Alpheo responded ''At least he is not stupid enough to have 500 men live inside his walls'' And certainly Alpheo was not so inexperience as to demand for his men to stay inside the walls ''''This evening a feast shall be commenced, as my guest, you are invited to it'''' Alpheo bowed once more ''''If it please your grace. '''' Alpheo continued, maintaining his posture of respect. "We shall eagerly anticipate the feast this evening. May it be a celebration of our future victories together." Prince Arzalatt nodded, a glimmer of satisfaction crossing his features. "Indeed, may it be so," he replied "But before we part ways for now, there is one more matter I wish to address." "I have heard whispers of dissent among my courtiers regarding your presence here," the prince stated, as he watched around the court "Some question the wisdom of enlisting mercenaries, and there are those who doubt your loyalty" Alpheo''s jaw tensed slightly, why the hell would he say that in front of the same mercenary the insults are referred to? ''''Well your grace, if I were to betray you , who by the way is my first employer, my life as a mercenary captain would be short-lived, without a doubt.After all who would employ a free-company that betrayed his previous master?Let me assure you , that I shall respect my side of the contract as long your grace, respect his.With the gods as my witness I swear'''' Suddenly, a voice pierced through the crowd, its source obscured by the sea of bodies. "What are oaths for sell-swords?" the voice challenged, its tone dripping with skepticism. Alpheo''s gaze swept across the assembly, searching for the speaker.He did not find him, but it was better like that , insults worked better when the other could not respond "Who is that spoke?" he inquired, his voice calm and steady as the water of a lake . When no one stepped forward, he chuckled softly. "Ah, a craven. Seems like wherever I go I find them pointing fingers to their betters while hiding in shadows " he remarked with a wry smile. "If you had the courage to face me, I would gladly oblige your curiosity. But I suspect I would find more cowardice than conviction within your gut.I have half a mind to open the stomach and see if I find it.'''' He smiled '''' And I think that my companions would gladly bet that I would have an easier time finding a virgin in a brothel " A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd, save for one man whose stern expression betrayed his disapproval. "As for your inquiry, craven, am I not man?" he challenged, his eyes narrowing. "When my time comes to pass into the next realm, shall I not be judged by the same gods as any other? Whether my deeds merit punishment or reward, they will be judged by the same divine hand that has guided the fates of countless others before and after me.Just like me also you shall face the gods, and it will also be far sooner than you expect, if you don''t get your mouth checked. You may have a sharp tongue, but my sword is sharper and I have no qualm in using it " The crowd tensed at the threat this time , yet the prince laughed,and soon all the courtier followed like sheep, though Alpheo could see it was a forced one "Well spoken," he declared, casting a pointed glance at the silent dissenter, almost as if an admonition . "Let us hope your skill with a sword matches your eloquence. No more insults to my guests,bring ale and bread for them " he commanded, his tone firm as he searched to put an end to the meeting before swords were drawn . He knew they were close to that. As he spoke some servants entered the room , bringing the offerings . Alpheo was the first to take the bread , break it and then pass it to the others. Then he took the ale and sipped from it , as it too like the other passed hand to hand.Reaching then to Asag that seemed in deep thought for a bit. The prince raised an highbrow, Asag saw that and forced himself to drink it .He emptied the cup and gagged. Men laughed, the prince chuckled . Alpheo''s group tensed, but did nothing, it would have not been wise to raise protest directly to their employer, especially when they were sorrounded by his soldiers. Chapter 46: A message(1) Chapter 46: A message(1) The very act of consuming one''s own kind was condemned by every religion across the lands. The followers of the Five Gods decreed that cannibals be burnt at the stake, their punishment a fiery retribution for their heinous act. The red god of the Sultanate of Azania prescribed burial alive in sand, a slow and suffocating demise. Meanwhile, the Sun-God of Arlania demanded that cannibals be chained in the middle of the desert to be picked apart by scavenging vultures. Alpheo had the misfortune of witnessing such atrocities firsthand. It must have been his second year as a slave in the army when he found himself in the midst of a siege. The emperor''s forces were laying siege to a fortress in the east. Reluctant to waste his men in a direct assault, and being in a good position logistically , the emperor opted to starve out the defenders. Months passed, and the city held on stubbornly. By the fifth month, the population had dwindled from 100,000 citizens to 75,000, and the garrison from 4,500 to 2,300.Once the city fell the garrison was questioned on how they managed to endure for so long, the besieged soldiers could only lower their eyes in shame. They had resorted to consuming the flesh of the dead. The accompanying priest, horrified by the revelation, urged the emperor to burn them at the stake as punishment. However, with 75,000 citizens sharing the same sin, the logistics of such a mass execution were daunting. Moreover, the emperor desired a city intact, to pay taxes and supply men for his wars.What good would be a city without people? In the end, he decided to punish only the garrison, as it was their actions that had led their fellow citizens to such desperate measures, or so he had said. The priest grumbled at the decision, but the next day, he obediently lit the torches that consumed the stakes. Alas, it seemed that his pockets kept jingling as he walked from stake to stake. And yet even cowards faced punishment. And even such crime was to be witnessed by the young man in question. The recent war with the Prince of Oizen had ended just the month prior, resulting in a defeat for their employer near the border. "Guilt of the cowards," were the words the Prince of Yarzat had said as he commanded the officers forward. The battle had initially gone well, until the center of their formation collapsed, leading to a rout. Eight hundred soldiers found themselves imprisoned and relegated to the dungeons while the prince deliberated their fate. Ultimately, they were sentenced to slavery in the mines. However, it seemed that for the officers Arkawatt had other plans. "I can finally see some blood," Egil muttered as he draped his arms around Alpheo''s shoulder, yet his deameanor remained sober "Why the long face, Alph?" Egil questioned, noting Alpheo''s stoic expression. "Don''t you understand?" Alpheo replied, his gaze shifting to the lines of prisoners being led toward the soft green ground. "Understand what?" Egil pressed. "This is more than just a punishment," Alpheo explained. "It''s a message." "Aye, and the sky is brown, while my shit is gold," Egil retorted sarcastically. "To whom would the message be? The worms, to tell them to wiggle a bit less?That will certainly do.And I suppose the birds are waiting eagerly for their copy too ?" " Clio cackled at Egil''s remark, while Jarza remained silent, gaze fixed on the scene unfolding before them. Finally, it was Jarza who spoke up. "No, it''s a message for us," he interjected. Jarza''s insight took aback Alpheo. It seemed that the gods had blessed the man not only with strength but also with a keen intellect. "Are we supposed to be scared?Of few men diggin'' the ground ?" Egil muttered,as he sat on the ground . "Aye, I am wetting my pants." But as the prisoners took up their shovels and began digging, Clio''s eyes narrowed with focused intensity. Dirt flew from ahead of them, tossed aside . Meanwhile, the prince stood by, his hand resting on his good ear, wearing a bored expression. Sir Robert, at his side, observed the scene with a hint of pride. ''Was this organized by that senile bastard?If they were going to kill them they could have given them to me...'' Alpheo couldn''t help but wonder. With each passing moment, the hole grew deeper. Some of the prisoners paused to catch their breath, only to be urged on by the crack of whips. Twenty minutes later, the hole reached waist depth, and the digging came to a halt. "What the hell are they doing?" Clio whispered, her voice laden with disbelief. "Are they trying to scare them? Are those holes meant to humiliate them?" "No,I saw this many times " Jarza replied, tone grave. "That is their tomb." As if on cue, words were vindicated. The guards wasted no time, thrusting their lances through the chests of the prisoners. Some fell to their knees, pleading for mercy, while others fought desperately to free themselves from the lethal grip of the weapons. Yet, regardless of their efforts, their fate remained inevitable. "If they intended to kill them, they could have spared us this spectacle and gotten on with it," Egil remarked, his voice tinged with boredom. "This spectacle is as much for us as it is for their new officers," Alpheo explained, his gaze fixed on the grim scene unfolding before them''''Show cowardy and you die''''. He watched as the guards wrested the shovels from the lifeless hands of the prisoners and began filling the holes they had dug. The court, silent and unmoving, observed the play with stony expressions. Eventually, the prince seemed to grow weary of the spectacle, rising from his seat with his guards trailing behind him. Suddendly Alpheo called his companions and went forward to the prince. As he stepped closer, the prince took notice of him , his bored eyes moved to Alpheo . The mercenary leader bowed ''''May I have a word with your grace?'''' He asked The prince''s demeanor suggested annoyance, but he turned to Sir Robert, who stepped forward to address Alpheo. "You treat with me, mercenary," Robert declared. Alpheo watched the prince , who just nodded as he walked forward "Very well. I seek permission to recruit additional men within the city," he stated plainly, anticipating Robert''s response. "So that we may pay you more, you think us fools?" Robert retorted "The terms we agreed upon previously will remain unchanged," Alpheo countered. "Fifteen silverii for each soldier of my 500 in the company. Any recruits beyond that will be outside of our contract and funded solely by me. Your coffers will not be burdened by their payment." Robert grumbled,not seeing the catch "You should be paying us for such a right," he insisted a bit of greed in his eyes . "These soldiers will fight for your prince," Alpheo reminded him calmly. "If you do not wish to grant us permission to recruit, then you shall simply have fewer free soldiers fighting for you. Hardly a loss for me.Can you affor that though?" After a moment of consideration, Robert relented. "Very well, you may proceed with recruiting them. But do not come to us later asking for additional coins" he warned. "I will not. Please convey my gratitude to your liege," Alpheo replied with another respectful bow. With that, he turned and rejoined his companions, leaving Robert to return to the royal entourage with a snort of disapproval. ''Seems like our bows will soon have arms to hold them'' He thought as he turned back to his group motioning them to follow. And as they passed their eyes moved to those of the man on the ground.Their head still sticking out from the dirt, a small shiver went through their back as they walked forward. They will one day be what they are now. It may be in a silvery bed with their stomach full, or in the mud with a lance through their neck ,yet the end will be the same.Off to death everyone will go... Chapter 47: Feast(1) Chapter 47: Feast(1) Alpheo looked at himself , he was as charming as a model.Most of the time , he wore chainmail, and breastplates, yet now he was dressed as elegant as a peacock. Wrapped around his broad shoulders was a crimson silk cloak, its folds cascading gracefully down his back like a river of molten ruby. The fabric caught the light in such a way that it seemed to shimmer with a life of its own, it was beautiful . Beneath the cloak, he wore a doublet of midnight blue velvet, its plush texture making it soft to the touch . His trousers were crafted from the finest black leather. Leather boots adorned his feet, their soles sturdy and worn out from countless hours of marching. As unfortunately among the gifts from the prince there were no new boots, so he used his usual ones. Egil put two fingers in his mouth and whistled in jest "Is that a lord that blesses my eyes?" he quipped, smoothing the silk of his jacket with a satisfied grin. "Nay, lords are supposed to be graceful; this one is as clumsy as a duck," Laedio added with a smirk, he too wearing silk for the first time in his life.And he found it rather comfortable Meanwhile, Jarza struggled to find comfort in his silk jacket, the fabric straining against his muscular frame. Despite his imposing stature, the largest garment they could find still seemed too small for the black giant. ''''Mine is as tight as iron'''' "Curse your god that made you giant," Egil joked, flashing a cheeky smile. "Still sure you want to stay behind, Asag? There''s bound to be good food and drink at the feast." Asag, ever stoic, remained seated on Alpheo''s bed, his response barely above a whisper. ''''Someone gotta watch the men'''' His companions knew better than to try to convince him otherwise, so they dropped the topic allowing the silent guy to do what he wanted. "Want us to bring you something?" Egil offered. " I am good," Asag replied quietly. "Suit yourself. As for me, my dear companion, tonight I shall find someone to warm my bed," Egil declared, a mischievous glint in his eye. "And you shall likely wake up with a knife at your throat," Jarza interjected, his tone serious. "Father and brothers will come claiming your head when they discover their daughter or sister has slept with a mercenary," he added, a hint of warning in his voice. "Can I count on my big black kind giant to save me ?" Egil teased, unfazed by the threat. Jarza spat on the ground in response. "I will be the one to sharpen the blade," Clio gently cupped the black man''s cheek, "You say that, but you would be the first to avenge him," he remarked. "Aye, but by then he''ll already be dead," the man replied bluntly. "Good enough for me," Egil replied with a nod ''''If I die make sure to avenge me , to he that does I will leave my belongings '''' Alpheo, sensing the need to redirect their focus, clapped his hands together, drawing their attention. "All right, boys, two months ago we were toiling in the dirt. Now, we eat and dine as nobles." "Who would have thought?" Laedio mused, his tone filled with disbelief. "Not me," Clio chimed in, sharing in the sentiment. "Now, there are a few simple things you need to understand," Alpheo continued, his voice taking on a tone of authority. "High society is like a priest; by day, they condemn the whorehouse, and by night, they wander with night in search of whores for the night. They may mingle among themselves, but with us?" He paused, spitting on the ground for emphasis. "Their saliva is worth more than a few dirty mercenaries." "Now, here''s what you''re going to do," he instructed, pointing his finger to each of them in turn. "You''ll close your mouth and eat, but no alcohol," he directed, fixing his gaze on Egil. "Why?" Egil questioned, his curiosity evident. A finger was pointed at the blonde man "At the second cup of wine, you''ll find a goat to fuck if no women are available and no man will stop you from finding one ," Alpheo retorted. He then shifted his attention to Jarza. "You, on the other hand, will glare at anyone who breathes," he instructed firmly. Next, Alpheo turned to Laedio. "You will be as unpleasant as a cock in the arse," he declared. "And you," he concluded, turning to Clio, "you are all right..." he added , prompting the man to smirk . "These ones are members of high society," Alpheo began, his tone grave, "and the moment you so much as breathe wrong, they''ll gladly toss you back into the streets. I want you all to stick close to me, like a virgin with his first cherry-popper. If you stray more than three meters away from me, I swear to the gods, I''ll smack you in the head. And Egil, if I catch you so much as talking to a female, I''ll gild you myself." "Do it in the morning," Egil quipped nonchalantly, prompting a resigned sigh from Alpheo. He sighed "I like all of you, and I see you as my brothers," Alpheo continued, his tone softening slightly. "If you won''t do it for your own sake, then do it for mine. My poor heart would break if something were to happen to you.I want this feast to go as clean as possible, go ahead and stuff yourself with food but don''t go bothering anyone . " His plea was met with a mixture of reluctance and resignation from his companions. Despite their protests, Alpheo had to resort to more pleading and the promise of a night in the warehouse, paid for by their boss, before they finally relented. It was a concession Alpheo was more than willing to make if it meant they would all leave the feast with all parts attached. Chapter 48: Feast(2) Chapter 48: Feast(2) ''''Must we really wait for the prick to call us?''''Laedio asked as he pursued his lips in a sneer. His eyes moved to the decorations in the halls. ''''Yes it is custom for these people for the host to call upon guest'''' Jarza answered as he tried to stand as still as possible. He did not know for how long the jacket would hold his frame . ''''Yes but they are not OUR custom.Me must have been waiting ten minutes ... I say we just enter without a care '''' Laedio proposed as he sighed ''''For these people appearances are everything, else how can they say that they are better than us if they don''t have a way to distinguish them from the common rabbles they rule over?Man must always hold something to justify an action, else it would go crazy'''' Suddendly as Laedio was to give his point to Jarza, the door opened, the guards on the other side giving way for the group to enter .Ahead of them a new world appeared.Wherever they looked at they were either staring at food, or on beautiful decorations.The people inside were all silent as they observed the men at the door . They were silent , but the singers kept doing their job.While the mummers and jugglers, continued to exhibit their works upon a crowd that was ignoring their life''s work. A man as upright as a wooden pole in an arse, stood at the right of the king.He could see that white mane from twenty kilometers away and he would still recognize , it as that of Robert. At the left was instead the prince consort, who instead just looked bored as her eyes moved to that of the jugglers. While the youngest was there the eldes daughter was nowhere on sight . ''''The guest of his grace is entering the feast.They may now walk forward and express their gratitude to their host'''' Robert shouted as if he was reading from a script ''Just like Jarza said '' customs are everything'' '' Alpheo thought, as he walked forward approaching the king , his wife and their two daughters.When he was at an adequate distance he dropped on one knee. ''''This man thanks his grace for his generosity, may he live to be one hundred'''' The prince looked down at Alpheo, and then with a graceful smile waved his hand for them to rise ''''Your gratitude is accepted, you may eat my food and share warmth within the fire. From now on you are my guest, and as per sacred laws , you shall not me harmed, you shall not be deprived of your possession and no slight will come to you from me. May the gods witness my words'''' And just like that the room went from chaos to silence, one again after the words of the prince the guests resumed on their activities. Ladies went back at laughing, man once again between themselves boasting of their achievements. While others instead marveled at the play of the mummers and jugglers, whose mastery of tricks let the guest at a loss of words. Alpheo walked amidst a sea of opulence, surrounded by people who had known nothing but luxury their entire lives. While he had toiled as a slave, they had slept in comfortable beds and dined on fine foods. Yet, even the supposedly exquisite fare of this society tasted like shit to Alpheo. As he brought a piece of meat to his mouth, the overpowering pepper assaulted his tongue, he never liked hot food. And it seemed that there was more condiment than actual food on the table. Alpheo glanced around at his companions, hoping to share some bad words about the cuisine . But they were too busy stuffing their mouths with food to notice. Even Jarza, typically reserved, was enthusiastically tearing flesh from bones with his teeth.Apparently such strange taste, was seen as delicious by them. Disappointed, Alpheo scanned the table in search of potatoes, his favorite dish. Surely, they couldn''t mess up potatoes, was it even possible to do that? Yet, to his dismay, they were nowhere to be found as potatoes were seens as the food for pigs . "Oi, come here," Alpheo called out to a passing servant carrying trays of wine. As the servant approached, Alpheo snatched a cup ''''Point me where the potatoes are ''''.The question caused the servant to give small smirk.After all no-one would dare to think of finding such low food on the tables of the nobles. That smile took Alpheo by surprise, which then quickly morphed in anger. He could let the princes and nobles pass off few comments directed at him, they were at an higher position than him , but there was no way he would allow a servant to make fun of him. He restrained himself from lashing out physically but leaned in close, his voice low and dangerous. "You have exactly three seconds to point me in the direction of what I requested," Alpheo whispered, his grip tightening on the servant''s arm. "Remember, I could just as easily disembowel you after this feast, and your prince wouldn''t bat an eye. The next time I catch you smirking at me, I''ll cut your mouth ear to ear so you''ll never be able to stop smiling. Understand?" Realizing something was wrong , the servant lowered his head in submission. He tried to inform him of their absence , trying to explain the reason as less humiliating as possible. He failed. With a swift and forceful motion, he grabbed hold of the servant''s ears and neck , pinning him in place. The servant winced in pain as Alpheo gave such a hard yank so hard that blood began to trickle down from the servant''s ears, staining his clothes . Though the servant whimpered in agony, he dared not raise his voice.He The commotion, as small as it was still caught the attention of those nearby who stared at the mercenary captain , who just returned the stares with a steely one of his own . The crowd, sensing the intensity of the situation, quickly averted their eyes, not wanting to be near a ticking bomb.They knew of the importance of the mercenary''s presence for the war-effort , so they preferred to avoid causing a scene. "On second thought, I''ve lost my appetite," Alpheo declared, his voice laced with disdain as he released his grip on the servant''s ear. The servant, now bloodied and scared , nodded frantically in response, eager to escape Alpheo''s wrath.Alpheo turned around and walked back to his companions, feeling the lingering stares from the other guests to his back . Better like this, he reasoned as he ignored the stares. He was in no mood for useless talks with these high turds and so he instead decided to come back to his dear rats. "What was that about?" Jarza asked, his mouth half-full with a morsel of bread. Alpheo glanced over at his companion "Apparently, arrogance went over the head of a small worm," he replied, his tone dripping with disdain. "So, I made sure to remind him how to wiggle in shit." Jarza chuckled, a low rumble emanating from deep within his chest. "Want us to pay the worm a visit after the feast?" he offered Alpheo considered the suggestion for a moment, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "I don''t see why not," he finally conceded, his expression firm. "Just make sure not to kill him. We don''t want the prince to feel slighted, better not give him any reason to believe that. " "You do you, boss," Egil chimed in, swallowing the last of the food in his mouth before turning his attention back to his plate. With the matter settled, they returned their focus to the banquet, devouring their food with the same voracity as a pack of hungry wolves. Alpheo couldn''t help but feel a twinge of disgust at their crude manners, but he held his tongue. As long as they didn''t cause too much of a disturbance, he supposed it was best to let them enjoy themselves. ''''I am going to watch around, you can keep eating if you want , just make sure not to give anyone trouble'''' They nodded , leaving Alpheo to play his own games. Since the food was shit , and the company even worse, he decided to divert his attention to the spectacle of the high society''s entertainment. As he wandered amidst the crowd, he observed the various performers who had been hired to entertain the guests. Jugglers skillfully tossed balls and objects in the air, never missing a beat as they dazzled the audience with their dexterity. The music, while not to Alpheo''s personal taste, was still pleasant to the ear, filling the air with melodic notes that added to the atmosphere of the event. However, it was the mummers who truly captured Alpheo''s attention. One of them, in particular, caught his eye as he held a torch in one hand and a bottle in the other. Taking a swig from the bottle, the mummer then proceeded to ignite the torch with his tongue, a feat that left Alpheo momentarily speechless. He watched in awe as the flames danced upon the mummer''s tongue, seemingly unaffected by the heat. As the mummer extinguished the flames and revealed his unscathed tongue, Alpheo couldn''t help but marvel at the spectacle before him. He had always been skeptical of magical tricks, preferring to uncover the secrets behind them, but this display left him baffled. ''Maybe the drink was special and it functioned as a bad conducent of heat'' Alpheo mused, it was a far-off explanation but it was the better that came to his head. Suddendly a voice came from behim thim "Like the spectacle?" Alpheo turned around in surprise to see the face of the prince''s eldest daughter, who was smiling in amusement. He lightly bowed. "It is to my liking. I find the fire trick the most intriguing , your grace" She chuckled, finding his reaction amusing. "Wanna know how it is done?" Alpheo raised a curious eyebrow, glancing between the princess and the jugglers. The princess smiled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "That one has no tongue." Alpheo''s expression shifted to one of disbelief. "What?" "You heard me. He has no tongue; it was cut off from him. And the one you see him displaying is a pig''s tongue sewed to the uncut part." Alpheo blinked, trying to process the information. "Your grace, if that is a jest, I must say it is a bad one." "It is no such thing," she insisted, her tone serious. "If you don''t believe me, you can observe it yourself. It''s not hard to notice once you know it.See how he only shows a small portion of it? He is hiding the sewing." He felt a shiver run down his spine, uncertain whether to feel repulsed or simply disturbed by the show . The princess''s laughter, however, drew his attention, her amusement at his reaction evident. "The interest disappears once you know, right?By nature, we find what we do not know to be exotic... " she remarked, her eyes fixed on him, perhaps mistaking his reaction for disinterest rather than disgust. Alpheo tore his gaze away from the juggler to meet her eyes. "I have never presented myself, did I?" she asked ''''My name is Jasmine '''' ''''This one''s name is Alpheo, your grace'''' "Yes, I know. Robert talked a lot about you," she said with a hint of mischief. "I suppose nothing good came out of him ," Alpheo remarked dryly. "Certainly not things that are to be said in public," "Good to know, then, that our first meeting left an impression on both of us," Alpheo quipped, his lips curling into a small smile.He too hardly had good thinks to share about the old bastard. Her laughter filled the air, and Alpheo found himself momentarily captivated by the musical sound of it . "How are you finding the feast?" she inquired, her tone shifting to a more casual one. "Quite a spec¡ª" Alpheo began, but she interrupted him before he could finish. "Boring, right?" she interjected, her expression reflecting her own disinterest . "I''m actually fighting off my yawns." Alpheo remained silent, unsure how to respond to her candid remark. Was it not an insult to his father, the host of the feast? "Wanna do something fun?" she suddenly proposed, her smile taking on a mischievous edge that Alpheo found strangely charming.After all the thorns in a rose could be considered to enhance its beauty Chapter 49: Feast(3) Chapter 49: Feast(3) Jarza---------------------------- The Great Hall of Yarzat was hazy with smoke and heavy with the smell of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread. Its grey stone walls were draped with the banner of the prince. A singer was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad, but down at this end of the hall his voice could scarcely be heard above the roar of the fire, the clangor of pewter plates and cups, and the low mutter of drunken people. If the truth was to be said Jarza enjoyed his position,he was not high enough to take decisions, but still not low enough for his words to have no weight. It has been years since he had a proper meal , the supper made after a long march, barely counted as one . He was happy where he was , with the tail of his eye he observed Alpheo. He stood there alone looking at the plates.He did not understand why he did not partake in the meal.Was he not hungry? He seemed to skip the meals and instead go for the wine, it was the third cup he had taken, Jarza had counted. And yet they barely had an effect on him.That surprised him a lot, he had never seen him drink, not even bring a whore in the bed, if he was to say the truth.Maybe he swung the other way? He was the leader of the group, the one to take the decisions that would decide where the company would go, nonetheless he never saw him wash himself over riches, women or good foods.He was a strange man.He knew he was one in a thousand and the gods had delivered Jarza to him for a reason , or at least he thought so . Jarza was happy he was not the leader, he had no taste to manage things.It was enough that he had the opportunity to fuck, eat and drink. And he was finding that he had two- men''s thirst, to the raucous delight of the people around him, who urged him on every time he drained a glass. They were fine company, and Jarza relished the reactions to the stories he was telling them , tales of battle and bedding and the hunt.He knew Alpheo had ordered them not to drink, but the wine was so close, and his mouth opened on his own.Was it his fault?Surely not. Whenever he drained a cup he turned around and watched out, for Alpheo. Then after the fourth cup he noticed him, thanks to the gods , , Alpheo did not see him as he was too busy talking to someone.Jarza squinted his eyes to observe better "Lucky bastard," Jarza muttered under his breath, a wry smile curling his lips as he nudged Laedio, who sat nearby, his mouth filled to the brim with food. Laedio''s eyes widened in surprise as he turned to follow Jarza''s gaze, his cheeks bulging with the remnants of his meal. With a knowing look he gave too a smile, the food coming out in pieces towards the ground "For him, it''s acceptable to seek out a bedmate and one of royal blood no less, yet for me, it''s forbidden?" Egil asked his forehead furrowed as he too saw the show Hearing his words Jarza''s patience waned, but he refrained from resorting to physical reprimand. "Alpheo is no fool," he retorted firmly. "He understands the boundaries of his station. He wouldn''t jeopardize his future for a fleeting moment of pleasure. That would be utter folly." Egil''s laughter echoed through the hall "I''d do it," he confessed with a smirk. "A final night of glory before facing death with empty balls and full pride." "That''s precisely why Alpheo leads and you follow," Jarza retorted, his tone laced with exasperation. Egil shrugged nonchalantly, returning his attention to his meal. "Leadership was never my aim," he muttered between mouthfuls. ''''Gods be praised for that '''' That made Egil chuckle a bit "Give me a horse and I''ll find contentment for half my life. Give me a target to raid, burn, and rape , and I''ll find fulfillment until death." "A death in one''s youth is often considered a curse," he mused. ''''Half the men that take the steel then are cursed, maybe it is true for you land-hoarders.But not in my tribe," Egil countered, his tone defiant as he patted hic chest . "For us, it''s an honor. My father always said that any man who lived to see his forties was a good for nothing." ''''What was he when he died ?'''' '''' 37.He stayed true to his words'''' That he did at least, Egil thought as he resumed his supper. Jarza meanwhile moved his eyes to where he had last seen his boss, only to see Alpheo walking towards them.He stopped as he observed the group "Seems like you''re enjoying yourself," Clio remarked casually, taking a bite of oiled bread. "Not as much as you. I can''t bring myself to stomach the slop they''re devouring," Jarza replied with a grimace, casting a disdainful glance at the lavish spread laid out before the noble guests, though he too took a piece of bread . "It''s not all bad, you just have to find the right one," Clio countered optimistically. "Maybe you can do that," Alpheo interjected, his gaze fixed on Jarza, "Listen up, I''m temporarily leaving the feast. In my absence, Jarza, you''re in charge. Keep an eye on Laedio and Egil, particularly the latter." ''''What am I, a child?"The latter in question asked "Worse, you''re a liability. If you''re left to your own devices, you''ll get us all killed," Alpheo shot back, his tone firm and unwavering. Egil''s response was a dismissive snort, but Jarza nodded in understanding. "Very well, I''ll keep a close watch on him," he assured Alpheo. ''''Just make sure to keep your pants up , the same talk you have Egil is standing also for you ''''He quipped with a joke ''''I am aware.Don''t worry I know my standing '''' ''''I knew you did.Well then have fun'''' Jarza bid him goodbye with a pat on his shoulder as he walked back to the feast. With that Alpheo nodded and left them on their own .As by now he had to accompany a princess on a walk. Chapter 50: Feast(4) Chapter 50: Feast(4) The moon hung in the sky like a luminescent pearl, casting its glow over the darkened landscape below. Alpheo stood beneath its radiant light, his gaze fixed upon its serene beauty. As a child,when he was sold into slavery to a noble family where his days were filled with toil and his nights with hardship, he always liked to look at the moon. His sleeping quarter was a small dark room , cold , dump and humid , his pillow was an hard rock, and the stony ground his bed.Yet the gods, always if they existed , blessed him with one small window. Too high to be used to escape, but not too low to dream of it. Alpheo would steal moments in the dead of night, stealing away to his window to gaze upon the moon''s luminous form. It was a ritual born out of necessity, a way to escape the relentless grind of his daily existence. With his back bloodied by the plays of his master''s daughter , he always loved to gaze at the moon, that was his escape. Jasmine''s voice pierced through Alpheo''s reverie, snapping him back to the present, though his eyes remained distant, hardened like stone. Memories, both bitter and sweet, danced in the recesses of his mind. "You must really like the moon," Jasmine remarked, her tone tinged with a hint of irritation. Clearly, she wasn''t accustomed to being ignored. "Who doesn''t?" Alpheo replied absently. "None that I know of gaze upon it for so long," she pressed further. "I''m guilty of that, at least," Alpheo conceded with a sigh, tearing his gaze away from the celestial body above. Surveying their surroundings, he realized they had left the confines of the feast and now strolled through the garden. It wasn''t expansive, yet not cramped either. In its heart, one could lose themselves amidst the foliage,yet it was not like they could find the exit by walking for a few minutes. "Is this proper, Your Grace? Walking alone with a man at night? Most people enjoy conversation with each other , and I assume the Yarzats are no different?" Alpheo inquired cautiously. "On that, you''re correct. They do love to chatter incessantly, it''s their favorite pastime," Jasmine agreed, extending her arm toward him."Come, let us walk a bit. I adore these nighttime strolls," she invited, her smile radiant against the moonlit backdrop, her teeth gleaming like pearls. Alpheo hesitated briefly before accepting it, allowing her to lead the way. "Wouldn''t your father be worried?" Alpheo voiced out, wary of causing any undue offense to his employer. After all, in the midst of a military campaign, he couldn''t afford to earn the enmity of those he had his back to. Alpheo''s question elicited an even brighter smile from Jasmine,he took notice of that , and it unsettled him. "Your grace, perhaps it would be better to walk back. An unmarried woman walking with a mercenary is hardly a proper thing," he suggested tentatively, his mind racing with possibilities and suspicions. But Jasmine merely chuckled in response, her laughter floating lightly on the night air as she continued to lead him through the garden, her steps purposeful and unwavering. Alpheo''s unease grew with each passing moment, his thoughts spiraling into a frenzy of paranoia. ''Could this be a trap? Would they risk angering my men by killing me? Did someone in my company promise to take the reins and get paid less?'' He thought as he looked everywhere fearing that from the shadows a dagger would appear "Since when do mercenaries worry about what is proper?" Jasmine''s voice cut through his tumultuous thoughts, her tone light yet loaded with meaning. Alpheo''s expression hardened as he struggled to maintain his composure. "Since when are they hosted as guests, and they do not want to anger the one they is being hired by," he countered firmly, his gaze locked on hers. But Jasmine''s gaze held an intensity that gave him pause, and she tightened her grip on his arm. "He will hardly take ill of that. I can assure you of that," she asserted, her eyes boring into his with a confidence that left no room for doubt. "After all, he was the one who told me to accompany you on this walk." He tensed, his muscles coiling with tension as he abruptly stopped in his tracks. A chuckle bubbled up from deep within him, escaping his lips and morphing into a full-fledged laugh that echoed through the quiet of the garden. Jasmine furrowed her brows in confusion. Sensing her perplexity, Alpheo took a moment to compose himself, drawing in a few deep breaths to steady his racing thoughts. "Apologies, your grace," he began, his laughter fading into a wry smile. "I just find it amusing how people tend to underestimate a young person in a position of power. They see a young man leading a force of five hundred soldiers, all clad in steel, and their first instinct is to mock and belittle him." He paused, his expression growing more serious as he continued. "They fail to consider on how such youth managed to earn the loyalty and respect of five hundred men double his age. Instead, they send their delicate flower, expecting this young leader to falter at the first sign of attention.Like a dog with a bitch in heat " His voice took on a bitter edge as he spoke, his gaze piercing through the darkness to meet Jasmine''s eyes. "Is your father so desperate for coin that he would send his own daughter to attempt to sway me into lowering our pay in hopes of bedding her ?" Before he could register her reaction, Jasmine''s hand shot out, her palm connecting with his cheek in a resounding slap. Alpheo''s laughter subsided into a low chuckle, the sting of her slap quickly fading as he met her gaze with a mixture of amusement . "Apologies for that, your grace," he began, his tone more conciliatory now. "Perhaps I am still too rash with my tongue. Young men may be inexperienced, but old men are often blinded by their prejudices." Jasmine''s smile faded, her arms no longer interlocked with his as she stepped back slightly. "Still, you were not wrong," she conceded "My father sent me here to seduce you. The charade is over, then. Did I play my part wrong?" Alpheo shook his head, his fingers lightly brushing over his reddened cheek where her slap had landed. "No, you were flawless," he assured her. "But I am naturally paranoid. One does not rise to lead a band of blood-thirsty mercenaries without being cautious.Quite a strong arm your grace, my compliments ..." That made her chuckle "Still, do I have to assume that our walk is done?" she asked, tilting her head to the side as she extended her hand towards him once more. "My father''s business may have concluded, but mine has not. May I be blessed with your attention again?You may find this conversation more to your liking this time..." And once again her smile returned, beautiful and yet as unsettling as a dagger over the throat, her arm hanging in the air like a sword only waiting to be wielded . Chapter 51: In the city(1) Chapter 51: In the city(1) The walk , just like the feast proceeded without anyone dying. Later on when Alpheo returned to the feast, with the smiling Jasmine behind him, he rose his eyes to meet that of the prince, only to see that when her father saw her and Alpheo walking together he gave a small smile, thinking that his play paid off. Alpheo gave no sarcastic reply , he was too shook for that . ''A family of fucking madmen'' he thought as he started walking to his group , after bidding goodbye to a smiling Jasmine . The feast continued till the late evening , with Alpheo deciding to call the end of the night when he started to get sleepy.His business was completed so there was not use to linger there and be made fun of. When he made his decision known to his companion they raised a small ruckus, yet in the end they complied. To Alpheo''s dismay, he noticed that many of his friends were quite tipsy, particularly Egil, whose joviality had escalated as the night progressed. Alpheo said nothing, but made a mental note of their behavior. It seemed that Jarza, who he had hoped would keep a watchful eye on his comrades, had not been as vigilant as he had anticipated. Yet, in hindsight, expecting them not to indulge in a few drinks at a feast was perhaps overly optimistic.Though it looked like someone had more the one. Still the night finally ended, without anyone in his group losing his head or lower member.Something that he was proud of, as they walked back into their rooms. ''''I should have done something tonight," Egil grumbled, his frustration palpable. "I haven''t seen any action in years." Clio, wincing at the scent of alcohol wafting from Egil''s breath "You''ve done enough. Besides, didn''t I find you with a servant this morning?" Egil spat in disdain. "You count that as action? She practically fell into my arms, there was no thrill in it. And tonight, I haven''t even bedded anyone. That was a sorry excuse for a feast¡ªno action, no violence. In my tribe, if there weren''t at least three deaths, this pitiful affair would be deemed dull." "We''re not in your tribe," Clio retorted dryly. "We''re are currently in a civilized place . Having someone die at a feast would make a poor excuse of an host ." ''''Quite back there !'''' Alpheo shouted , growing vexed by Egil''s complaints,"I thought I had told you to keep him from drinking," he directed towards Jarza. Jarza defended himself "Every time I turned around to eat something, he grabbed a cup of wine and downed it in a heartbeat. What was I supposed to do, force him to vomit everything back up?" "Maybe," Alpheo replied tersely. "Then he would have been revisiting his meal from last week," Jarza retorted. "I''m not his babysitter, and he''s not a child." ''''Seems like someone is aware of that '''' The star of the conversation muttered with a drunken smile. As Egil stumbled along with a drunken grin, Alpheo''s scowl deepened with frustration. Approaching Jarza with a measured stride, he leaned in close and spoke in a low, tense whisper. "When you put him to bed, make sure to douse him with a bucket of water. Think you can manage that without botching it?" Jarza returned the smile, understanding the seriousness behind Alpheo''s words. He then shot a glance at the oblivious blonde rider before nodding subtly in affirmation. "Alright, boys," Alpheo addressed the group, his tone firm. "Time for bed. Tomorrow morning, I want everyone in front of the gate. We have business to attend to in town." A chorus of agreement echoed through the group, each member retreating to their respective rooms. Only Jarza lingered, his smile still present as he followed Egil with a knowing look ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª "Uhh," Egil grunted, rubbing his eyes before bringing his hand down to scratch his unruly hair. "Why so early in the morning?" he groaned, settling on the stairs outside the palace. The passing guards shot him a quick glance before continuing on their patrol. "You''re the only one complaining," Clio replied with a weary yawn. "Still, couldn''t we have slept a bit longer?" Egil persisted, squinting against the morning sunlight.He was never an early morning person, each day when the march was to start , Alpheo had to use Jarva to put the man back to his feet "Alpheo said we have work to do," Asag interjected softly, his voice barely audible before he fell back into silence.That was his custom and they learnt to live with it "Yeah, yeah," Egil muttered, still grumbling. "But couldn''t he have delayed it a bit? What''s so urgent that it couldn''t wait?" "Recruiting," Alpheo''s voice cut through the air as he emerged from the palace, hand shielding his eyes from the sun and the other resting on his hip, near the hilt of his sword.He had to admit that it was a bit too early, but better start early than late. "You scared people are gonna disappear three hours from now ?" Egil quipped. Alpheo ignored the comment, brought down the hand conversing his foreheand and then turned instead to Asag. "Have you prepared everything I asked?" Asag nodded. "The spot has been reserved for us for two hours now." "Ample time to get everything ready. Have they started working?" Alpheo inquired. "Yes" Asag confirmed. "Fifty of our men are preparing everything according to your instructions." ''''Very well '''' Alpheo responded before motioning for the other to rise.They all did and followed Alpheo behind. His hand clenched and uncleshed as he walked outside the gate, the guards standing there gave them a small and brief gaze before returning in their duty. They walked out of the gate and started walking towards the street.The first minutes was made in total silence, both between them than out.After all there must be a space of empty roads between the living quarters of the commoners and that of the high-borns.Also for a security reason, as hiding between the commoners would be harder as it required them to cover this space, which by the way is manned on all side. Making it easy for the guards to spot a suspicious man running. "So where are we supposed to be going?" Clio''s question reverberated as his sword clattered against his thigh. Alpheo shot him a fleeting glance before fixing his gaze ahead. "To the town square," he answered tersely. "We''ve reserved a small space for the recruitment examination. From there, we''ll enlist 100 men for the upcoming campaign." "More footmen?" Clio arched an eyebrow inquisitively at his leader. "Don''t we have enough of those?" "On that, you''re correct," Alpheo acknowledged. "But no, I wish to recruit some bowmen. We have bows and arrows in camp, and none to wield them. It wouldn''t be a proper company without archers." "Don''t forget about the riders," Egil chimed in, reminding Alpheo of their need for mounted warriors. "No, I haven''t forgotten," Alpheo assured him. "We have the horses; we just need to train some men. I trust you''ll be adept enough for the task." "I''ve lived half my life with horses," Egil boasted, striding ahead of Alpheo. "The day I forget how to ride or teach others to ride is the day I''m no longer a Skurish." That took Alpheo by surprise, and he took the opportunity to ask more "Is that the name of your tribe? Skurish?" Alpheo''s curiosity piqued, considering the name didn''t sound imperial. "No, Skurish-ai is the tribe''s name," Egil clarified, walking on ahead. "Skurish is just what we''re called." "Ever thought to go back, to your hometown, I mean?" Alpheo ventured, his tone gentle but probing. Each of them had a home before becoming slaves, but Alpheo had lost his the moment his father sold him. Egil turned back sharply, his expression contorted into a scowl as if Alpheo''s words were daggers tracing from belly to chin. "My tribe was defeated in battle," he responded tersely, his voice laced with bitterness. "Why would you suppose my tribe would still be alive? The Romlians would never grace us with such mercy." It was the first time Egil had spoken about his past, and Alpheo could feel the raw hatred emanating from him. "I never heard of tribesmen residing in imperial lands," Alpheo admitted, his gaze drawn to Egil''s intense stare. "Of course you didn''t," Egil retorted, his eyes fixated on the sky above. "Thirteen years ago, they ceased to exist. My tribe was one of the last. The empire tried an experiment, it failed, and with it, my tribe. They hoped to use our bows and horses, yet they didn''t bother to plan it out properly. They caused us to starve and waited for the first opportunity to wipe us out. And eventually, it came. My tribe was simply one of the last casualties, all the fault of the elders. We were fine in the Green-Sea, we raided and pillage just fine, yet they tried reaching for something that wasn''t due to us. And in the end, the next generation paid the price," he concluded bitterly, his hand trembling as it gripped the hilt of his sword, his teeth grinding against each other in anger. Then, after a deep breath, he spat on the ground, signaling his reluctance to divulge further. Everyone had its demons to fight with Chapter 52: In the city(2) Chapter 52: In the city(2) As Alpheo finally entered the city''s street, the stink of the city invaded his nose , his grey and brown cloak streamed from his shoulders. Everywhere he went he saw eyes. He was going paranoid, a bit more than usual.Since that walk with the princess, he made sure to always look twice behind himself when he was at court and out of it .He momentarly forgot but he was deep in a foreign country with no ally. At the end of the walk , the princess asked him some queer questions. Like what he wished to do after his contract with her father expired?If he had an aim to achieve as he wandered around the south.Or how he felt about being hired against a previous employer. He answered each of them, yet the more questions she asked, the less they looked like questions meant for the prince. That night he said many things , yet meant so little of them.Always responding in a far-fetched way or outright lying. As he walked forward, his group followed even more closely.Alpheo continued to watch his sorroundings, he and his men stood out from the rest of the citizens, they were well dressed and armed,and each time they passed to a street , people gave way to them.He strangely felt safer there among thieves and destitute, rather than the elegant and well mannered courtiers present in the keep.He felt himself in place here, wherever he looked there was something interesting happening. In one of the street a mummer on stilts was striding through the crowd like some great insect, with a horde of barefoot children trailing behind him, hooting and looking in awe. Alpheo too was gazing at him, he put an hand on his pouch, two fingers in his mouth and whistled. The mummer turned around, only to see a silver coin thrown towards him, he grabbed it with the ease a child would grab a ball, then bowed towards Alpheo and continued with the spectacle. Elsewhere, two ragged boys no older than 12 were dueling with sticks, to the loud encouragement of some and the furious curses of others. An old woman ended the contest by leaning out of her window and emptying a bucket of water, or at least he hoped so, on the heads of the combatants.''Old hag'' they shouted as they scurried away like rats, wet and cursing . As they ventured deeper into the city, the streets grew increasingly crowded, the crowds of people pressing in on them from all sides. The noxious odors of the city assaulted their senses, prompting Laedio to cover his nose in disgust. "What a shit-hole of a city,the stink is unbearable how can anyone stand it?" he muttered, his voice muffled by his hand. "Most populated cities are like this," Alpheo replied calmly, forging ahead through the bustling crowd. "You should see one of these cities after a raid," Egil interjected, his expression twisted in disgust. "The stench of decay becomes so overpowering after a week that lords have to employ vagabonds to clean up the dead bodies. Soldiers won''t even go near it..the decay of bodies is for war like the perfume of whores. Wherever you find one the other follows'''' "Romelia is triple this city and six times cleaner," Laedio chimed in, continuing his complaints''''You can bury your head in a shithouse and it still stink less than this house of rats''''. Then they all paused as Clio''s voice erupted behind them in a sudden shout. "YOU LITTLE SHIT!" Clio bellowed, grabbing a child by the shirt and lifting him into the air, his legs kicking wildly. "What''s the matter?" Egil asked, striding over to join him. Clio didn''t answer Egil, his attention focused solely on the boy in his grip. "You small fucking thief, where did you put it?" he demanded, searching the child''s pockets and clothing frantically. The onlookers observed the scene with detached curiosity, but no one intervened. "Did the boy take your coins?" Egil inquired, trying to make sense of the situation. "I turned around to find this boy walking near me, and the next thing I know, my whole pouch is missing," Clio explained, his frustration palpable. Suddenly, his face lit up as he spotted the missing pouch lying on the ground beneath the child. "Here it is!" Clio exclaimed triumphantly, retrieving the pouch and securing it back onto his belt. In a swift motion, he delivered a stinging slap to the boy''s face, causing his cheeks to flush red as tears welled in his eyes. ''''Did you steal it?'''' "Wait, " Alpheo interjected, raising his hands to halt Clio''s aggression. The boy stared at him in fear, his eyes wide with apprehension. Alpheo recognized him as the same child he had locked eyes with during their march through the city. "You''ve been awfully quiet, child. Are you mute?" Alpheo inquired gently, his tone softer than before. The boy remained silent for a moment as if thinking , then nodded slowly. Alpheo''s curiosity piqued. "Would you mind opening your mouth?" he requested with a warm smile as he approached the boy. But instead of complying, the boy''s expression shifted, as though he''d been caught red-handed. "Do as he says, boy, or the next time it will be a dagger asking," Clio threatened, his voice low and rough. The boy, on the verge of tears, hesitated before reluctantly complying. With a trembling hand, he reached into his mouth and retrieved a small silver coin, which he held out to Alpheo. For a brief moment, the group was rendered speechless. Then, Alpheo burst into laughter as if he''d just heard the most hilarious joke. "Why did you go to all the trouble of putting a coin in your mouth when you could have made off with the entire pouch?" Alpheo chuckled, genuinely amused by the boy''s audacity. The boy, with his tousled blonde hair and dirt-streaked face, met Alpheo''s gaze earnestly. "My friend Marth always aimed for the whole pouch," he explained solemnly. "But one day, when he went to pay, a guard accused him of theft, he took the pouch and then the boy . They cut off his right hand, and two months later, he starved to death ." ''''Wht go to such lengths for a single coin? Why risk getting caught?" "People don''t want trouble with the guards especially when they are far away from the garrison ," the boy replied matter-of-factly. "Once they reclaim their coins, they lose interest. They might give me a few slaps or punches, but then they move on.Most take it easy as I am small. They all have their own business to attend to and won''t waste more time than they have to . And once they''re gone, I retrieve the coin and keep it for myself." Alpheo smiled as he told Clio to let the boy down. He looked at Alpheo with confusion then obeyed. "How long have you been doing this?" Alpheo inquired, his curiosity piqued by the boy''s audacious thievery. "Since I could run," the child replied, his voice tinged with a hint of defiance. Alpheo pondered for a moment, then glanced at his companions before turning his gaze back to the small thief. An idea began to form in his mind. "Do you want to play a game, boy?" Alpheo proposed, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "What game?" the boy asked, his interest piqued. Alpheo gestured to his belt where his coins were kept. "You have until the end of the day to take my coins. If you manage to grab them, you can keep them. But my friends here will try to stop you. So you''ll have to be quick and clever. If you succeed, you walk away with the coins. But if my friends catch you before you do, they''ll divide the spoils among themselves. What do you say?" The child hesitated, eyeing Alpheo warily. "Will you really let me keep them? Won''t you go back on your word?You are mercenaries why would you let go of your coins " Alpheo shook his head solemnly. "I give you my word. If you manage to take them, they''re yours to keep." The child narrowed his eyes, considering Alpheo''s proposition carefully. "You better not lie," he warned, his voice tinged with suspicion. "And you better get ready," Alpheo responded with a grin. "You have until the sun sets to make your move. Good luck, boy. You''re going to need it." His companions looked on in surprise at Alpheo''s unexpected offer, but the promise of a potential share of the spoils had them intrigued and ready to play along. Though they wondered what had got through Alpheo''s head, he was after all not one that liked to play games. Chapter 53: In the city(3) Chapter 53: In the city(3) As the sun rose above the horizon, sending its rays across the cobblestone streets, the sound of heavy boots and clanking weapons reverberated through the city. Mercenaries, adorned in mismatched armor and weathered cloaks, roamed the alleys, shouting at the top of their lungs that The Freelance Fellowship was hiring . "Looking for a thrill, some coin, and a few battle scars to brag about?" bellowed a grizzledman , a grin peeking through his wild beard. "Join the ranks of The Freelance Fellowship and earn your keep in gold! Two silverii upfront and three more each month. Fight alongside us and reap the rewards!" A younger mercenary, clad in sleek black leather overlaid with chainmail, chimed in with a cocky smirk. "We may not be the most polished lot, but we get the job done. And we always return with a tale worth telling the ladies." With a confident swagger, he added, "For those who seek true adventure and pockets lined with gold, make your way to the marketplace and enlist with The Freelance Fellowship." Throughout the city, other mercenaries echoed similar calls, their voices carrying across the bustling streets, beckoning any who would listen. Many passersby paused, considering the allure of joining a company hired by their prince. The promise of imminent military campaigns, ripe with opportunities for plunder and glory, coupled with the upfront payment of two silverii, proved enticing to those hungry for adventure and wealth. As such many soon found themselves walking towards the marketplace, deciding to give a watch over the recruiter and decide then on what to do. And so more and more people went towards the marketplace.Alpheo, the mastermind behind the recruitment efforts, sat leisurely on a sturdy wooden chair, a half-eaten apple in hand. Around him, his loyal comrades¡ª Jarza, Clio, Egil, and even Asag¡ªstood guard, their eyes scanning the throng for any signs of trouble. To them, it seemed Alpheo was merely passing the time, engaging in a playful game to stave off boredom with that kid. Little did they know, his true intention was to assess their readiness and vigilance should they ever be tasked with his protection. With each passing moment, the marketplace grew increasingly congested,with more and more people coming too see what was happening . Alpheo, nonchalant as ever, observed the scene with a keen eye, noting the effectiveness of his men''s efforts to maintain order amidst the chaos. Yet, as he bit into the crisp apple, a small piece lodged uncomfortably between his teeth, momentarily distracting him from the spectacle before him. With a deft flick of his finger, he dislodged the offending morsel and flicked it away, only to watch as a scavenging rat darted forth to claim its prize before scurrying off into the crowd. He rose from the chair and looked around.''More and more people are coming'' he thought as he looked at the crowd amassing towards them.The fifty men they put were struggling to push them back, some of them had to even hit the people with a rod to make step back. ''''Shit did not expect to see so many...'''' Jarza muttered as he approached Alpheo , his brows furrowed . Alpheo nodded in agreement, acknowledging the challenge before them. "Most are seeking a short campaign to seize plunder during a raid," he explained, a wry smile playing at the corners of his lips. "They see our company as an opportunity to strike gold before returning home, the fools think we want few months of their service only'''' Jarza sighed, his gaze lingering on the mass of hopeful recruits. "Too bad we cannot employ more. More swords could make a significant difference, you know." Alpheo''s smile remained steadfast, though tempered by the mass of people coming in . "We can only afford to hire no more than a hundred bowmen," he admitted, running a hand through his hair in thought. "We must make do with what we can afford and make the best of it.If we had more coins we would have got more men " "But if we''re short on coin, why fight for a beggar?" Jarza spat, his frustration evident in his tone. Alpheo placed a reassuring hand on Jarza''s shoulder, his gaze steady and resolute. "There are other forms of payment besides gold, my friend," he explained patiently. "Gold is not everything, even for us mercenaries." Jarza scratched his neck, mulling over Alpheo''s words. "Still can''t see anything worthwhile in the trouble," he grumbled. "Only because you cannot see them does not mean they do not exist," Alpheo countered gently, his tone firm yet understanding. With a nod towards the bustling marketplace, he gestured for the others to follow. "It''s high time we start selecting our newest brothers." As he strode forward, Alpheo''s keen eyes surveyed the chaos, noting the struggles of the men tasked with maintaining order. Approaching Laedio, who bore the burden of keeping the recruits in line, Alpheo was met with a look of relief from his comrade. "Boss, the men are struggling to contain the bastards. Shouldn''t we start with the selection?" Laedio''s voice betrayed the strain of the task at hand, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his neck. Alpheo pondered for a moment before nodding decisively. "Have fifty men enter at a time," he directed, casting a brief glance at the unruly crowd. "Use your swords to maintain order if need be, but try not to cause any fatalities. Start with rods, and resort to blades only if the situation does not improve." With a nod of understanding, Laedio hurried off to execute the orders. Fortunately, the rods proved sufficient, and soon fifty men of various ages were ushered into the designated area. After that they were given bows for the selection. Alpheo cracked his neck as he stepped forward, the fifty hopeful recruits watching intently as he made his way toward them. Selecting a bow from one of the men, Alpheo halted "We are recruiting men capable of wielding the bow," he announced firmly, his voice cutting through the din of the crowd. "The only qualification we seek is strength." With a deft motion, he grasped the string and pulled it taut, demonstrating the required form. "Extend your arm as much as you can, then pull the string to your nipples," he instructed, his tone unwavering. "You will hold the position for as long as I decide is necessary. Those who cannot maintain it to my standard will be rejected." Gazing over the assembled recruits, Alpheo continued, outlining the terms of their potential employment. "If you pass, you will receive a salary of three silverii a month, with a two silverii bonus. The contract will last three years, and failure to fulfill it will result in punishment by hanging." He paused, allowing his words to sink in before concluding, "If any of you do not agree to these terms, you may leave your post for the next candidate." No one moved.''Good '' Alpheo thought as he nodded towards the men at the side who quickly took over the exam. They stepped forward, seizing control of the process with practiced efficiency. Following Alpheo''s example, the chosen men demonstrated the test, executing each step . Observing their movements closely, they demanded that the recruits mimic their actions. With deep breaths, the candidates complied, grasping the bowstring and pulling it toward their chests while extending their arms. The task was simple yet demanding: maintain the position for as long as instructed before releasing the tension. Alpheo''s gaze remained fixed on the proceedings, his interest piqued by the display of endurance. As the repetitions continued, he noted the gradual thinning of the ranks. By the twelfth iteration, many had faltered, their efforts proving insufficient to meet the standard. Yet amidst the dwindling numbers, a resilient few persisted. When the trial reached its conclusion, only a fraction of the initial candidates remained standing¡ªeighteen in total, with sixteen successfully enduring to the end. For Alpheo, precision held little significance in this context; what mattered above all was stamina. In the crucible of battle, his bowmen would be tasked with unleashing volleys of arrows upon hordes of enemies, their endurance proving far more critical than any marksmanship prowess akin to that of Robin Hood.And so the sixteen were then led to a bench where they were given contract to sign, in their case simply putting their thumb on the ink and pressing it on the paper. And then other 50 took their place to take their chances to hit gold through war . Chapter 54: In the city(4) Chapter 54: In the city(4) One hour passed and the recruitment selection was done through and true. Most of it went without trouble, except for one of the recruits, who in a fit of anger for not having passed , threw the bow to the ground and broke it by stomping on it . Obviously after that he was beaten to a pulp and thrown in the street all bloodied .For the rest however things went smoothly, and Alpheo gave Laedio the task to bring the recruits back into the camp, where soon they would start their training with the bow.After all the selection exam measured only stamina, so they now had to teach them how to knock their arrows and shoot them . Still Alpheo and his group found themselves at a loss on what to do since it was still daytime.And so with boredom at their heel, they decided to walk through the city to pass the time. The streets were as crowded as ever , each with their own life and task , seemlingly disappearing into a sea . Along the streets some tall building sprawled from the ground.Whenever he passed Alpheo rose an eye to the sky, always watching out for any dirty waste thrown by the people above.Luckily he found none and walked on forward. Along the way there were some mummers dancing and playing tricks , with those that wanted to spectate the show making circles around them.Alpheo stood in of those circles many times, and when he found something he liked he threw a coin at the artist before walking ahead The more he walk the more crowded the streets began.Clio who had his pouch almost taken from him was in particularly walking with one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other covering his pouch. It was funny to look at , and Alpheo struggled not to let a laugh out, he knew it better than to make fun of one of his friend.Still of that boy there was not even the slightest trace.D Maybe he had given up, Alpheo thought as he walked forward , the people ahead making way for the armed group.They knew better than to give a reason for them to take out their sword.Many of them found out at their own peril, as these people tended to get power over their head. Give a children a stick and tell him he is to maintain order , and soon enough he will act as if he owned the street. Most people often go crazy for the slightest amount of power, and give a man a sword and he will find any opportunity to use it. Alpheo''s eyes widened in surprise at the sheer number of mummers and street performers that filled the streets. Everywhere he looked, a new circle of people had gathered around an act. The crowd was a mix of eager spectators and sly thieves, always ready to take advantage of the distractions and who knew they were maybe even working for the mummer exhibiting in the street. But one circle caught Alpheo''s attention above all others. It was the largest in the entire city, drawing in curious onlookers from all directions. "Seems like something exciting is happening over there," Egil remarked, placing a hand on Alpheo''s shoulder. "Shall we check it out?" Alpheo asked with a grin. "Well, we don''t have anything else to do," Egil replied with a shrug. They made their way through the dense sea of people, easily parting the way with Alpheo''s sheathed sword catching the light. The smell of sweat and grime surrounded them as they pushed forward, but the commoners quickly moved aside for the two men. Finally, they reached the front row of spectators and saw what everyone was clamoring to see. The sight presented to Alpheo was a strange one, he was neither a juggler nor mummer.He was no singer, as he had no instruments in hand. He was old though, for the smallest kids he even looked like older than the city. The old man hunched over on his back as if carrying a heavy burden . His baldness was not just limited to his head, but extended throughout his entire body, with wrinkles pestering every bit of skin he had . He lacked a beard and any trace of hair except for light eyebrows that could only be seen with a squint. His appearance was unattractive, so repulsive that anyone who caught a glimpse of him had to turn away in disgust.He looked like an egg that was left under the boiling sun for too much. The old man''s complexion bore the pallor of sickness, a sickly yellow hue that seemed to cling to his skin like a shadow. Yet, despite his physical decrepitude, his eyes sparkled with an inner light, and a mischievous grin played upon his lips, albeit it gave it no innocence to the old man only making him look mad. He seemed to find amusement in the world around him, as if privy to a joke that only he understood, and just waiting to boast about it to everyone that catched his eye. It was evident that he was a fortuneteller, for he gestured animatedly with his hands, his voice carrying above the din of the crowd as he proclaimed his abilities. His laughter rang out like the tinkling of bells, drawing curious onlookers closer with each melodious peal. As Alpheo observed the old man,he find himself being disgusted by it , as if his very own existence was an insult to everything he stoof for . There was something uncanny about him, something that defied explanation. He watched behind him, and noticed that his companions too were feeling uncomfortable.He peered around and the faces of the people struck at him.They were not happy or relaxed, they too observed the old man some gulping in nervousness, other breathing deeply and fast as if they feared the oxygen being taken from them too. The old man cackled with joy and danced as he spoke "Step forward, dear worms , come near and see, The mysteries of past and future, revealed for a fee.'''' His eyes gleamed as he extended a gnarled hand, fingers trembling with age, and yet he moved so cleanly and pure as if he was a child . ''''A silver coin, a token fair,for a glimpes beyond human sense''''He cackled with his broken teeth showing No one dared to step forward or speak up. They simply watched each other, waiting for someone to take the risk and see if the old man was truly a madman or just another scammer. And still the old man danced on, his emaciated limbs flailing like those of a deranged ballerina, his face contorted in pure ecstasy as he continued to breathe in ragged gasps.There was something about him, something that intrigued people and yet made them fear it , Alpheo in particular felt his heart thumping for as the old man danced, he kept gazing at him, and as he locked eyes with the old man , he was met with a smile . Chapter 55: In the city(5) Chapter 55: In the city(5) When a man is in front of a mad beast , he feels fear caused by the terror of having his life slips away and having no power to stop that. As he hears the paws of the animal thundering closer, the heart mimicks the beast''s. And as the maws close on your head at that moment you feel an utter despair.Yet when you are not the one being mauled, but instead you are honored to witness the event happen to somebody else, the fear become interest, albeit tinged with terror and guilt at the sensations felt.The sight of seeing somebody close to death is an art in his own. As Alpheo moved closer, the bustling street seemed to fade into a distant murmur, leaving only him and the strange old man locked in a silent dance of anticipation. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing the thundering paws of a mad beast closing in. Fear crept through his veins, but it was a twisted fascination that held him captive, like a moth drawn to a flame. The old man''s eyes glinted with an unsettling gleam as he watched Alpheo''s approach. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, he clapped his hands together, the sound resonating like a distant storm rolling in. His voice, cracked and gravelly, rose in a haunting melody that seemed to pierce through the air like a dagger. "Here steps forward the man, witness his daring might. Twice he laid with the lady black hue, And once he found his soul anew.The third shall night soon shall , and his ambitions to nothing and dust will morph " After that he laughed ,a dry and brief luaghter . He no longer danced , there was no coordination his foot and arms moving and swinging like snakes.Like that of a man on fire, who feels his skin burning and slipping away . Alpheo''s gaze flicked to the old man, studying him with disbelief. He had never believed in magic or religion, but here stood a being that could only be described as such.He was no fool , and understood what the old men meant.He had died twice, the first one the time his heart stopped during an operation as a young boy, and then his second one before being unexplainable brought back to life. Was he blessed? Or Cursed for it ? "Tell me about my future," Alpheo managed to say, his words coming out like parched gasps in the desert. The old man extended his hand, revealing a silver coin. "A silver for a glimpse into your fate," he said, his voice hollow yet all-knowing. Alpheo handed over the coin and watched as the old man bit into it, a loud crack echoing in the air.Was it his teeth or the coin? "Fate''s not carved in stone, for this man you see, For greatness lies between you and me. Desperation and madness, they may dwell, But triumph shall be our tale to tell." Then he stopped, the laughter ceased , the horrible singing , the dances, all stopped, he just looked in amazement . "A diamond for a silver coin?" he exclaimed , his voice thought stoic and neutral . "Snakes slither and fight in the dark, but for this man, fate has left its mark.''''He stood silent squinting his eyes. Then he resumed laughing, it was not the merry cackle from before as much as it was a mocking laughter .Alpheo face moved inches closer to the old man , it came natural. ''''Between rocks and hills the snakes move, blood and tears pass through their comings.What are you all fighting for ? 50 rameii the price for the tol-'''' Before he could end the sentence , a blade moved in the air. The sword struck onto his neck,severing meat as it came crushing , stopping just in the middle of it. The laughter of the old man did not cease, even when his mouth filled with blood, coming down between his teeth he continued laughing as he pointed at Alpheo.He was mocking him.Alpheo felt that and as he took out the sword , he just looked at the dying old men. The crowd of before was nowhere to be seen.Even Alpheo''s companions took a step back as their gaze fell on his back. No one said nothing, nor moved to stop their leader.They knew something the old man said made him snap . ''''You should have kept that to yourself '''' He whispered to his ears , so that it could be heard by nobody, as the old man fell to the ground.His laughter no more, though his smile remained there. A mocking and vane smile it was. The wind rose through Alpheo''s finger just like the sound of running echoed in the street, and then he felt something pushing him from behind ¡ª¡ª- The wind rustled through the leaves of the towering trees, their branches swaying in a gentle dance. The green pasture lay beaten and trampled by the heavy hooves of the beast that rode through it. Fear gnawed at his core, his heart pounding in his chest as he urged his horse forward. But he knew he couldn''t turn back, not after the council had chosen Lord Andrux for this mission. His mind raced with thoughts of what was to come, knowing he must choose his words carefully and act humble before his betters. He prayed to the gods for guidance, but the serene sky gave no answer, offering him no hope. The rhythmic thud of hooves on the ground echoed in his ears, the beast''s brown mane bobbing up and down with each stride. His own eyes were unfocused, resigned to whatever fate awaited him. It was such a beautiful day, and yet here he was, facing possible death at the hands of some spoiled queen''s son. He thought of all the things he still wanted to do and say, now wasted because some bitch wanted her offspring on the throne. And here he was, sent to deliver a pointless message to a second prince who refused to bend the knee to a child or worse yet, a woman. To what end? To call him out and make demands on behalf of some delusional queen? He knew it was all for show, a futile attempt at avoiding war. And yet she would still find a way to shift blame onto them when they inevitably came for her head. If he was to die today, then he at least hoped that the gods would have mercy and send her and her son to join him in the afterlife. Sooner rather than later, he hoped. As the sight came into focus, his jaw dropped in awe. He had never seen a camp so vast and bustling before. The thick plumes of smoke from countless fires filled the sky, almost as dark as the fumes coming from the capital''s notorious brothels. The walls surrounding the camp stretched for miles, unlike any city''s boundaries he''d ever seen. There must have been over 15,000 soldiers within those walls, a display of power and allegiance by the nobles who funded such a massive operation. And to think, there was still another prince who could enter the fray. In that moment, he knew peace was not an option; this was to be a total war. Nobles wouldn''t just fight each other for land or wealth, they would capture and ransom one another before gathering around at night to drink and laugh about it all. Instead, they, the people, the poor , the low bastards would kill each other, families torn apart and raped , enslaved in the crossfire. And by the end of it all, their corpses would be unceremoniously thrown into a communal pit with their faces pointed towards the moon , as the men in power would toast at the victory or drink in sorrow for the loss. Such was the way of civil war, where brother would put cruelty into act against brother. Chapter 56: Blood of brothers Chapter 56: Blood of brothers The man rode forward, he struggled to breath even though it was coming in such rapid flow.He breathed in and breathed in but no air came in, only terror. He knew little about the second prince,though he heard rumors and he knew that many times those held little truth. It was always said that the second was prince was arrogant, lazy, and also of great libirdo .The first prince took the head of the father, while the second took the balls.The young prince was known to throw great feasts each time he had the occasion.Enormous orgies, that would unravel into a sea of moving flesh and moans. It was said that a whore in those parties would receive so much seed that the only thing that would match it ,would be the silver in her hands at the end of the feast. The libido of the second prince knew no bounds, and worse of all it was only second to his ego. A man once laid with one of his favorite whore , and the only thing he did not cut off was his head.The rest was gone in little pieces. The priests that cursed him during the day, the night became silent, the day forward too, they would be of little words.As a matter of fact they would not talk again ever. The horse trotted ahead, his long face snorting the heavy breath coming from hours of riding. He should have deserted when he had the chance, he had no family to care for , so he could have easily went to a village and made a life there with the little silver he had .The horse stopped and the man looked forward.He had not noticed that he was already ahead of the camp.Bows pointed at him , as angry looking eyes observed him and his horse. He took a deeb breath ''''I come in peace'''' He shouted as he raised his hand '''' I am a messanger from the capital. I request a meeting with his grace'''' He continued omitting to call their liege prince or emperor.The soldiers on the top continued observing him.Then wordless and soundless the wooden gate opened towards the outside.The embassador dismounted and started walking.It was a rule that no man could go riding inside a camp, for riding on horse meant that they had conquered it.Only the emperor and his close guard could ride inside a military camp.Not even nobles dared break their rules, no matter rank and strenght. Not even the high marshal of the imperial provinces were given such honors. The man and soon enough three man walked up to him.He knew what they wanted, so he wordlessly disarmed himself. Sword and dagger went to the guards, he felt naked without them , but he knew that with or without them ,nothing would change.If the prince wanted his head a piece of iron would not change that After they searched for any hidden weapons, they let him go on with his mission, while obviously escorting him out to their liege. The man felt like a prisoner going to the gallows, with the only difference being that he did nothing to deserve it.He was just a messanger , and he hoped the excuse would hold ahead of the second prince. The tent he was going towards, was the biggest in the entire camp, eight wooden stakes were impaled on the ground as they held the cord supporting the massive tent.They entered,and the prince was already expected him . The prince was handsome to the eye, that had to be said, neck-length brown hair fell down his cape.His face was delicate, lacking any sort of virile strength that his father had. He looked a bit like a woman, it was not a man handsomeness as much as a delicate one.He had no scar, nor the demeanor of a man that saw war and knew it for that.His father was aware of war, the prince not so much,as he probably treated war like a game, a bit like the younger generation of nobility does. Though the older one too, seems to view it more like a dangerous play to pass their days . The prince was sitting on a chair, the biggest in the room.The various eastern noble stood at the right and left as they stared at the man. The grip the guards had on him was released, and the man immediately went to bend the knee ''''Your grace'''' he saluted as he his head hung low. "You may rise," Prince Mavius''s words dripped with grace, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "I notice you wear my sigil, and you come from my capital. Shall I take it as the southern lords have finally come to swear allegiance and invite me to claim my throne?" His smile was playful, tinged with the arrogance of one accustomed to power. The ambassador stifled a grimace, struggling to maintain his composure. "I am sorry to disappoint you, your grace..." His voice faltered, betraying the turmoil within ''Take hold of yourself, you fool!'' "The queen regent has sent a missive to your grace," he finally managed, opting to present the letter rather than stumble through his words. Prince Mavius turned to Lord Aron, standing at his right. "Lord Aron, would you be so kind as to take the letter?" "At once, your grace," Lord Aron replied, bowing before swiftly retrieving the parchment and presenting it to the prince. The prince opened the letter with the same disdain one might unwrap a gift they already knew they would dislike. His expression darkened as he read, but then a chuckle escaped him, transforming into a wild laugh. "By the rights of man and power by the gods," he began, reading from the letter in an exaggeratedly serious tone. "His highness Mavius Katazoukenes is hereby called to swear allegiance to the rightful emperor of Rolmia, Mesha first of his name." His laughter grew louder. "Any man following the second prince is extended the same offer. In the unwise choice that they would not repent and correct their wrong way, they will be declared an enemy of the state, their land confiscated, and their titles revoked." He paused, struggling to contain his mirth. "Let it be known that justice stands on Emperor Mesha''s side, and the unlawful pretenders shall be smi-'''' He snorted from his mouth '''' smitten down by the rightful sword of the rightful emperor and his loyal servant." With a dismissive gesture, he tossed the parchment aside. "What a waste of good ink, seems like my father''s wife is only good to open her legs to whoever comes knocking. " he declared causing the other lords to laugh ,then his eyes fixed on the kneeling man before him as if only just noticing his presence. ''''What have you to tell me ?'''' The prince asked "Nothing beyond what you have already heard, your grace. I was merely tasked with delivering the message," the messenger replied with a tremor in his voice, his eyes darting nervously. "A displeasing letter indeed," Prince Mavius remarked, his brow furrowing in contemplation. "Were you aware of its contents?" The messenger swallowed hard, his throat dry. "I-I had my suspicions, your grace," he stammered as the air went cold . Lord Corbray, his white mustache twitching, interjected, "Your grace, I recall your father dealt with a similar message from his brother. The gods favored him then, just as they do now. The emperor had the messenger quartered before his camp, to raise morale or mayhapse just for his amusement . Perhaps we should follow suit." The messenger paled, his fear palpable. "Y-Your grace, I was but the messenger. I bore no responsibility for the contents of the letter. How am I guilty?" "Of course," the prince responded, granting the messenger a reprieve. "Lord Corbray, you speak true. Yet should we not show mercy when we can? This man is no traitor; he merely delivered the message. A minor punishment will suffice." Turning to Lord Landoff, he requested, "My lord, would you lend me one of your knights?" "Your knights are as much mine as yours, your grace," Lord Landoff, the father in law of the prince and also the newest High Marshal of Red rose by the second prince''s decree, affirmed. ''''Very well please nail the letter on the envoy''s hand and send him home.Let him go and scuffle like a rats to my dear little brother. '''' After that he turned to the envoy '''' When you go to him , tell him to go back play with his toy for this is now adult''s business'''' "Excellent. Ser Varthia, please do the honors," Lord Landoff instructed his knight, who nodded in agreement and drew his sword. The messenger''s cries grew louder as he was escorted from the tent, pleading for mercy, though it fell to deaf years . The sound of steel meeting flesh soon followed, quickly drowned out by the voices of men discussing weightier matters. "Your grace, the letter demands a response," Lord Corbray reminded, seeking the approval of the other lords. "Indeed. Lord Corbray, I entrust you with drafting the response, to be signed in my name. I have faith that your words will reflect my own," the prince declared. "Of course, your grace," Lord Corbray bowed as the screams of the messenger echoed outside as the first blood shed by this war finally fell on man''s land. Chapter 57: End of a bet Chapter 57: End of a bet Alpheo turned around only to see a small boy, no olden than 10, shivering as his barefoot stood on the stony road. His hands were wrapped around his pouch, shivering , he did not dare to pull. Everyone around them either already fled not wanting to witness the spectacle, or were still from the shock of how much happened in so little time .Fathers called their children, grabbing their hand and bringing them away as they understood what was about to happen. The boy''s eyes met Alpheo''s, but they held none of the youthful mirth they had possessed earlier that day. Instead, they were icy and steel, reflecting the coldness of the world around them. The pool of blood seeping from the half-cut neck of the old man spread slowly between the cracks of the stones, inching closer to Alpheo''s feet like a creeping shadow. Alpheo made no move to step away, as if resigned to the inevitable. Death, in that moment, was not a grand revelation or a profound experience. It was simply the abrupt end of life, an unceremonious snap that extinguished all light.For all that it was, that humans liked to poeticize , it was just that , a simple -SNAP-. The boy felt its icy grip reaching for him, a chill creeping up his spine . He had won the bet and yet it felt like he would be losing something more important Why had he attempted such a foolish act? Hunger gnawed at his belly, but not enough to warrant risking his life. Fear coursed through his veins, his hands trembling with uncertainty. In the face of death, he found himself at a loss for words or actions, his gaze fixed blankly on the man before him "You p-promised you would heed your words," the boy stammered, unable to bear the weight of the silence any longer. Alpheo''s head turned towards his group, they were few meters behind, and they have been clearly taken by surprise by Alpheo sudden attack of madness toward the old man, as they still did not understand what caused him to snap . Even they did not dare to step forward and yet a damn child not even reaching the two digits , attempted to steal from him. Alpheo''s hand descended towards the boy''s, his touch cold as ice as he grasped the trembling palm. Without a word, he turned to gaze upon the lifeless corpse of his recent victim. The anger had dissipated from his eyes, replaced by an eerie indifference. "I suppose I did," he finally spoke, retrieving the pouch from his own belt and depositing it unceremoniously into the boy''s hand. The weight of the pouch felt heavier than stone upon the boy''s palm. Alpheo instead of anger, felt a mixture of surprise and amusement wash over him. Alpheo''s piercing gaze then shifted to the boy. "You got a name?" "The children call me Rat''s Teeth," the child replied, his voice barely a whisper under Alpheo''s scrutiny. "Why is that?" Alpheo inquired, his curiosity piqued. Wordlessly, the boy parted his lips, revealing two front teeth clipped in half, as if chipped away by stone. "Very well, I''ll call you ''Ratto,'' then. Are you okay with it?" Alpheo asked, his tone gentle as he smiled . The boy nodded in acquiescence not knowing that word.Alpeho looked up to the sky and then at the boy "Tell me, Ratto, do you believe men to be equals?" Alpheo''s voice took on a philosophical edge as he continued, his lips curling into a sardonic smile. "Take a king and a peasant. Are they not both men? Both will die if they do not eat and drink, both will grow fat if they indulge too much. Both are mortal, even though they would not want you to believe that." He paused, waiting for a response, but the boy remained silent, his gaze fixed on Alpheo with confusion. "You cannot measure greatness," Alpheo continued, his voice resonating with a poetic rhythm. "You can only feel it in a man. A king was not always a king; it was an ancestor who was so great or so evil that blessed his lineage to be royalty. Only a man who dares can be truly great¡ªa man who rises above his station, defying gods and fate alike, to rise above men alike " He tightened his grip on the boy''s shoulder, his voice looming to a conspiratorial whisper. "Today, you were just a tool to me. I wanted to see how my companions would react if someone threatened you in the street. When I killed the old man, they were too shocked to act. But you, you moved to grab what you wanted. Do you know how beautiful that is? To watch a small boy defy something that even the mightiest warriors could not fathom to face?Those men all knew war and pain and yet stumble back in fear to what you bravely run onto " The boy''s eyes widened with a mixture of awe and fear as Alpheo''s words washed over him like a spell. "Those who dare to defy fate, who rise above their circumstances, they are the ones destined for greatness. They are the cursed, the blessed, the heroes, the devils and the monsters. And you, a small rat, had in you much more than they had in them " "You were but a tool, boy, just as I once was," Alpheo began "I saw it reflected in you in that moment, as your hands grasped your prize, your eyes betraying the tremors of emotion within. That, my dear boy, is a beautiful thing to watch, and much more to possess" He gestured towards the pouch of coins, his fingers tightening around it. "Do you desire these coins? Take them, they are rightfully yours. You have earned them by showing me something far greater. If satisfying your hunger is all you seek, then go ahead, for you have earned your prize. Is that enough for you?" Alpheo shook his head slowly, his gaze piercing yet compassionate. "No, you are not satisfied with mere coins. You, like me, crave more. We desire, we yearn, and we are worthy of more than what this world offers. The world will give us nothing; we must seize it for ourselves, as if we were gods." Cupping the boy''s face gently in his hands, Alpheo continued, his voice resonating with a prophetic certainty. "They do not understand the toil, nor could they bear it. And so, they will never taste the sweet reward of overcoming it. We are the spark that will set the world ablaze, and from the ashes, we shall claim our rightful place.The pyre shall be our doing" Drawing his bloodied sword, Alpheo held it aloft, its gleaming blade reflecting the fire burning within his soul. "In my right hand, I hold war; in my left, I hold peace. Both are separate yet intertwined, for one cannot exist without the other. Greatness shall be coupled with greatness, just as the meek shall find solace among their own." He extended his hand towards the boy, offering him a choice, a chance to seize his destiny. "Now, you have a choice, a choice that belongs to you alone, no one can take it from you . Will you rise up to the stars, or will you wallow in the dirt like a worm?" The boy looked from Alpheo to the sword in his hand, then back again, his gaze steady and resolute. With a determined grip, he reached out and grasped the sword, he tried to hold it in the air and failed as the sword danced swinging around "I see" his voice tinged with pride and anticipation. "you have made your choise'''' He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the boy''s dirty blonde hair, the mud still sticking to his hair, there he did not saw a small child, but himself . Chapter 58: Variables Chapter 58: Variables The room was quiet as Alpheo munched on dried fruits , walnuts and various other fruits .A chalice of wine was at his right. One day passed since he carried Ratto in the palace.The various guards and courtiers raised highbrows at the sight of a child walking beside him . Some thought it was his little brother or some relatives.Other instead thought that little children were of his preference.The issue went down as it went up.And no one raised more than an highbrow at the information,deciding instead to let the mercenary do as he want as long as he does not concern them.After all many nobles had such disgusting tastes Jarza, mirrored Alpheo''s actions, partaking in the bounty of nuts and wine with equal gusto. His eyes, however, betrayed a silent exchange with the others in the room, a wordless acknowledgment of the unspoken question hanging in the air. Finally, it was Clio who dared to voice the query that had been lingering on everyone''s minds. Clearing his throat delicately, he spoke, his tone tinged with curiosity and a hint of accusation . "So, why exactly did we bring a petty thief into the palace?Do you like to take in small boys now?" he demanded, his tone sharp as he punctuated each word with a bite of his apple. Alpheomerely shrugged in response, his demeanor calm and collected despite the brewing storm of questions. "I gave a beautiful speech ,have you not heard it?" he replied nonchalantly, his fingers idly toying with the last remnants of a dried grape. "But if you''d like, I can deliver another one . It was rather good, if I do say so myself, I think I have a knack for them " Clio scoffed, unimpressed by Alpheo''s flippant response. "I''m not buying your poetic nonsense," he retorted, his voice laced with skepticism. "There has to be more to it than just a sudden whim." Alpheo''s lips curled into a sly smile, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Ah, but you underestimate its power," he countered, his tone light yet tinged with underlying seriousness. "Sometimes, it''s the heart that leads us, not the mind." ''''Those are the bullshit of a poet.You are not one'''' ''''I am no poet, but I am a philosopher'''' The tension in the room mounted as Clio bristled, clearly unsatisfied with Alpheo''s vague explanation. But before he could press further, Jarza interjected, his voice a calming presence amid the escalating conflict. "Trying to decipher Alpheo''s motives is like trying to tame a wild beast," Jarza remarked, his tone tinged with resignation. "It''s a futile endeavor. Better to accept it and move on.You gain nothing by holding the horns of the bull " Clio sighed, conceding defeat as he leaned back in his chair, his frustration giving way to resignation. "Fine, he is mad though, that has to be said .One moment he is sane and logical, and the next it as if voices in the sky tell him what to do" he muttered, his gaze flitting to Egil, who had remained uncharacteristically quiet throughout the exchange.Quite a rare thing from him But Egil,rarely the voice of reason, suddenly burst into laughter, his booming voice filling the room with its infectious energy. "You two just don''t get it, do you?" he exclaimed, his laughter bubbling forth like a wellspring of mirth. "Alpheo is as daring as an eagle and as dangerous as a wolf. Calling him mad would be a disservice to the greatness within him.Isn''t his madness the very reason for how we are living now?Every man has a bit of madness, and Alpheo has the amount of one hundred men in him " Alpheo raised an eyebrow at Egil''s proclamation, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "How many drinks have you had, Egil?" he quipped, a smirk playing on his lips. But before Egil could respond, he leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. "Speaking of daring," he continued, his voice low and secretive, "did something happen between you and that royal bitch?I wonder who is playing whom?" Alpheo furrowed his brows momentarily at the probing questions, but the expression vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared. "Nothing happened between her and us," he stated firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "But you were gone for quite some time," Egil persisted, his laughter subsiding as he leaned forward with curiosity gesturing vulgarly with his hand . "It''s hard to believe that nothing occurred during your absence.You must have done this or that..." Alpheo took a sip of his wine, contemplating his response before speaking again. "True, she was sent by her father to tempt me with her beauty and perhaps distract me with matters of our contract. Needless to say, it didn''t work. However, she proved to be more than just a pretty face. She asked questions that a maiden should have little concern about, and instead piqued my interest as something more , maybe an employer " he admitted, acknowledging the need for outside perspectives on the matter. "And what exactly would she want from us? To guard while she admires the flowers?" Clio interjected, skepticism evident in his tone. "She''s been rather elusive about her intentions," Alpheo replied, his gaze distant as he considered the implications. "But it doesn''t sit right with me. Why would a princess take such a keen interest in recruiting a mercenary band?" Egil''s laughter continued, though Jarza appeared deep in thought. "Do you think she''s planning something?After all we have a strong presence near the city, one pouch of gold and any other mercenary would give the city to the highest bidder . " he affirmed, setting down his wine glass with a contemplative expression. Alpheo hesitated for a moment before responding, swirling the wine in his cup as he spoke. "It''s possible," he admitted. "But I''m not convinced it''s worth pursuing to stay more than we have . The current prince is losing favor with the nobles, except for a few die-hard loyalists. If something were to happen to him, I doubt many would rally behind a female ruler.Always if that is what she wants... And given the current political turmoil, the aftermath would be nothing short of chaotic," he explained, his mind already calculating the potential outcomes. "Chaos may offer opportunities, but it also presents risks that I''m not entirely comfortable with. Too many variables beyond our control, and the payoff may not be worth the gamble." He fell silent, lost in his thoughts as he weighed the current situation , useless to say he was reluctant to bet on the losing side of an already falling state. Egil, ever the optimist, chimed in with a grin. "Perhaps we should entertain the princess''s inquiries,just to know more obviously " he suggested, his eyes alight with excitement. "After all, opportunity often presents itself in unexpected ways. Who knows what doors might open if we play our cards right?" Alpheo considered their varying perspectives, weighing the risks against the potential rewards. "We can''t afford to act rashly," he cautioned, his tone serious.''''We are new-comers in this land, one wrong move and we fall in the abyss.We still not ready for whatever thought she has.Albeit I believe I already know what she wants.The paybacks is outweighed by the risk, is too bad of an investment, end of the story?'''' While there were stories of female rulers taking the throne, most of those stories rarely ended with a good story for them.Much less for a simple mercenary supporting a far-fetched claim to the throne.Always if she was aiming for that. Chapter 59: First mission Chapter 59: First mission ''''Something happened, it must have ''''Jarza muttered as he nervously watched Alpheo ''''Why else would they call us ?'''' ''''Why are you looking at me?''''Alpheo asked ''''You sure you have not tried anything with her?'''' Jarza asked in an accusatory tone ''''We have done nothing wrong, ''''Clio said as he patted the sturdy back at the man before pulling his hand back in surprise. ''''Bloody fuck , are you a boulder?'''' He asked as he looked at the muscular frame of the black man and then at his hand He grunted in response. "Come now, stop it , no need to worry," he said with a forced grin. "We''ve faced worse than a summons before, remembers the whips?"Clio jeered trying to lighten the mood But Jarza was not so easily swayed. "It''s not just any summons," he countered, his tone grave. "There''s something about this that feels different,can''t you feel it in the air?" ''''Unless the gods blessed me with such powers, no Jarza we cannot.Only you have been blessed with such '''' ''''And I am telling you to get serious '''' ''''Stop worrying '''' Alpheo finally interjected ''''We have done nothing wrong, there must be something that we must be informed of, cannot think of any other reasons for which they would call us, if not related to war.'''' Egil, always one to speak his mind, broached a sensitive topic. "What about the incident on the street?" he asked, his tone casual but probing. Alpheo''s demeanor shifted, his gaze hardening as he fixed Egil with a steely stare. "They wouldn''t care if we''d killed all the old men," he retorted, his voice low and clipped. "And that''s not a topic I care to discuss further." Egil wisely chose to drop the subject, but Jarza persisted, scratching his ear in thought. "It''s only a few months before winter," he mused aloud. "Do you think they would risk marching to war now?" Alpheo shrugged, his expression unreadable. "Who knows what''s going on in their minds," he replied cryptically. "Perhaps they have assurances of victory. Regardless, we''ll find out soon enough." As they reached the door to the chamber where they were to be received, the tension hung heavy in the air. With a nod of acknowledgement, the guards allowed them entry, and the mercenaries stepped inside, ready to face whatever awaited them . As Alpheo and his companions entered the chamber, their eyes were immediately drawn to the figure of the prince, engrossed in studying a map spread out before him. Standing at his side was Sir Robert, the commanding captain of the city''s garrison, and an unfamiliar elderly man whose presence intrigued Alpheo. With a respectful nod, Alpheo bent the knee before the prince. "The captain of the Freelance Fellowship, answering your call, Your Grace," he announced, his tone deferential yet firm. The prince spared him only a fleeting glance before returning his focus to the map, his brow furrowed in concentration. Alpheo noted the absence of the prince-consort, realizing that military matters were likely beyond the consort''s purview. Unfazed by the lack of acknowledgment, Alpheo turned his attention to the unfamiliar figure beside Sir Robert. "I suppose introductions are in order," he began, his tone polite yet authoritative. "I am Alpheo, captain of the mercenary company hired by His Grace. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I must admit, I was not aware of your arrival." The elderly man, who introduced himself as Shahab of House Filastin, responded in a stoic tone, his piercing gaze still as he studied Alpheo. "I arrived to offer my support to His Grace a few days ago," he explained curtly. "I sought no fanfare for my arrival." Alpheo nodded in acknowledgment, sensing the gravity of the situation, and not knowing that the old man was also the father of the prince''s consort, and one of the few nobles supporting the prince. With a subtle motion, he signaled for his companions to rise and follow him up the grand stairs towards the three figures awaiting them. As they approached, Alpheo couldn''t help but feel a sense of unease wash over him. The tension in the air was palpable. ''''May I ask the reason for which we have been summoned?'''' He asked respectfully, keeping his eyes trained on the three men before him. ''''His grace, in his great wisdom and generosity, saw fit to call you to sit on the war council. Quite an honor for a mercenary.'''' Rober admitted with a slight sneer in his voice. ''''I suppose something has happened that requires my presence?'''' Alpheo replied calmly ''''We have received news from our spies that the prince of Oizen is rallying troops and likely preparing to march against us,'''' Rober continued with a grim expression. Though it was not surprising information, it still disappointed him. Fighting in a defensive war was not what he had hoped for when he signed the contract . The prospect of leading a military campaign against an enemy land had always been much more appealing.After all hired swords were expected not to pillage the lands of their employers. ''''Do we have any idea where he will first move?'''' Alpheo asked as he eyed the crude map laid out on the table in front of him. ''''He must be preparing to move towards Aracina,'''' Prince Arkawatt spoke brusquely, with a hint of disdain in his voice. The rivalry between the two princes was an old one. 12 years ago, an attempted marriage between the two had only deepened their animosity towards each other. ''''May I ask if you have already called upon the vassals to come to the defense of His Grace?'''' Alpheo inquired, wondering how many nobles would actually answer the call. That seemed to hit deep, as Robert had done so but most of the answer went uncalled ''''We have already done so. But even if we hadn''t, it is none of your concern, mercenary. Keep your nose out of our affairs,'''' Sir Robert snapped, making it clear that he still held a grudge against Alpheo for his blunt words earlier. Shahab observed the tense exchange between Robert and Alpheo before returning his attention to studying the map laid out before them. ''''Sir Robert, I have been employed by His Grace to fight in his name. I could not think of any matter more related to my business than what I just asked. And may I also suggest that you watch your tongue, sir? As you may find the hands of my companions much quicker than that sharp tongue of yours.And sooner that you think you may find yourself in unpleasant business '''' Alpheo retorted with a sly smile, casually stroking his chin as if Sir Robert''s words were not worth his attention. Before Sir Robert could reply with a heated retort, Prince Arkawatt stepped in. ''''Stop it, Robert,'''' he ordered sternly. ''''He has every right to know. Did our conversation from earlier fall on deaf ears?'''' The prince''s eyes flashed with anger as he directed his question at Robert. Slightly taken aback, Robert quickly bowed his head in apology. ''''I apologize, Your Grace.'''' ''''As for you, Alpheo,'''' Prince Arkawatt continued as he turned to face him. ''''I have summoned you for a task not to argue with my men . Your area of expertise will be needed sooner than expected.'''' ''''Well, Your Grace, my contract forces me to obey. May I know how I can be of use to the crown?'''' Alpheo asked with a slight bow, locking eyes with the prince. As they gazed at each other, Alpheo couldn''t help but think that Jarza was right to be worried. There was definitely something troubling going on within the kingdom''s borders, and they were to be the dogs sent to clean after it . Chapter 60: First mission(2) Chapter 60: First mission(2) The hall lay shrouded in a heavy silence, akin to the stillness of a crypt, as Prince Arkawatt entrusted the first mission to Alpheo. Observing the trio of men before him¡ªRobert, Shahab, and the prince himself, Alpheo understood something.... he was given a lot of bullshit from them. As he approached the map, Alpheo''s keen eyes darted between the faces of his companions. No one is surprised nor did their eyes blinked, he thought as stepped on forward. Apparently he was not called to give his lot on the war-meeting, hell it probably already ended!He was called only to be given his task. "Look here at the city of Aracina," Prince Arkawatt began, drawing Alpheo''s attention to a specific point on the map. Fixing his gaze upon the designated location, Alpheo took note of the city''s layout and position . Situated along the coast, Aracina possessed the advantage of access to naval supply routes¡ªa potential lifeline in times of conflict.During siege one could bring supply and men , provided they had the ship. Yet, despite its coastal position, Aracina appeared to be a modest settlement at least from the map , lacking the bustling trade activity characteristic of major ports. He immediately recognised his primary role though.It was the shield protecting the capital from the prince of Oizen. "I see it in your eyes that you''ve already grasped the essence of your mission," Prince Arkawatt declared, his voice carrying a note of urgency as he fixed his gaze on Alpheo. "As you can discern from the map, Aracina is the linchpin in Shamsa''s strategy. If he aims to besiege Yarzat, he''ll undoubtedly target this city to secure a vital supply route." Alpheo nodded thoughtfully, as he looked down at Arkawatt''s hands that were gripping the wooden table''s edges hard. "And your mission, Captain, is to ensure that Aracina remains firmly under our control. It is the only thing protecting the capital'''' Alpheo''s mind whirred with tactical considerations as he surveyed the map once more. "So, Your Grace, you want me to safeguard Aracina against any attempts to wrest control from us,and wait for your arrival to relieve the city.In short I will need to buy enough time for you to arrive in full force?" he summarized, his voice tinged with resolve. "That is precisely the task at hand," the prince confirmed, his tone firm and resolute. ''''How many men are currently in your control?'''' ''''600 men, Your Grace,'''' Alpheo responded, his voice steady and assured. "400 infantry, 100 bowmen, and 100 light cavalry, all ready to serve you."Initially he wanted to make them heavy cavalry unfortunately he lacked the armor for the horses , so he would have to be content with armorless horses, and chain-mail wearing riders. Shahab''s eyes widened imperceptibly at the sizable force Alpheo commanded. It was more than double the troops he had brought to support his liege. However, he quickly masked any surprise, maintaining his composure. "Well, I suppose your numbers will be sufficient to garrison the city," Prince Arkawatt mused, considering the implications of the formidable force at Alpheo''s disposal. "If you have no further questions, you may proceed to begin your preparations." Alpheo inclined his head in acknowledgment, his gaze unwavering. "Actually, Your Grace, I do have a few inquiries regarding my mission," he interjected politely, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Go ahead," the prince encouraged, gesturing for Alpheo to continue. "Firstly, I would like to inquire about the current garrison strength of the city and the identity of the individual entrusted with its defense," Alpheo stated, his tone measured and composed. The prince appeared momentarily flustered, evidently unaware of such details. However, his second-in-command stepped in to provide the necessary information. "The city is currently garrisoned by 80 men, Your Grace," Sir Robert offered, his tone clipped and businesslike. "With the potential to recruit up to 200 more from among the citizens. The man in charge of its defense, as designated by royal decree, is a captain named Fahil." Alpheo absorbed this information thoughtfully before proposing a course of action. "In that case, Your Grace, I propose temporarily relieving Captain Fahil of his duties and assuming command of the city''s defenses," he suggested, his voice laced with diplomacy. However, Sir Robert was quick to object, insisting on Fahil''s authority. "He is the one tasked with command, not you," he interjected sharply. Alpheo countered, his tone firm but respectful. "But considering the size of my forces compared to his, it would be impractical for him to hold authority over me," he argued, appealing to the prince''s sense of pragmatism. After a brief deliberation, the prince reached a decision. "Very well, I shall draft a decree granting you the necessary powers," he declared, signaling his approval of Alpheo''s proposal. Alpheo regarded the prince with a steady gaze, his expression thoughtful as he posed his next question. "Your Grace, how long do you estimate it will be before you can muster your forces and march toward Aracina in full force?" Prince Arkawatt''s brow furrowed slightly as he considered the inquiry, his mind already calculating some estimates. He glanced at the map once more. After a moment of contemplation, the prince finally responded, "I would estimate approximately four weeks, at best," he declared, his tone firm despite the underlying uncertainty. ''Quite a time'' Alpheo thought wondering how many would also come to aid their liege. However, he knew better than to voice his concerns further; the prince had made his decision, and it was not his place to question it. "Your grace, if you allow me, I have one last request," Alpheo ventured, his tone respectful yet determined. "Go ahead," the prince replied, his attention fully focused on Alpheo. "May I be allowed to be given some arrows?" Alpheo asked, his voice carrying a note of urgency. "I fear that if I am to hold the city, I will be in need of as many arrows as I can." The prince considered the request for a moment before nodding in agreement. "Very well, I have no reason to be parsimonious on them, especially considering the importance of your task," he conceded, his tone decisive. "Please inform the fletchers to provide sufficient arrows, and assure them that they will be duly compensated at the end of the campaign," he instructed Sir Robert, who promptly acknowledged the order with a bow. "And when do you think you will be able to march?" the prince inquired, turning his attention back to Alpheo. "I would say three days, your grace," Alpheo replied promptly, his gaze steady as he met the prince''s eyes. The prince''s expression betrayed a hint of disappointment at the delay, but he saw no immediate issue with the timeline. "Very well, I expect much from you," he remarked, his tone firm yet encouraging. "You are dismissed," he added with a wave of his hand, signaling the end of the audience. Alpheo bowed respectfully before turning to leave the room. As they walked out of the room, the tension was filling the air , thick with unspoken words and hesitant glances. Even as they passed through the hall, no one dared to break the silence. Servants bustled about, their presence a subtle reminder to keep quiet and not cause a scene. Only when the heavy wooden door of Alpheo''s room closed did a hushed voice finally rise, breaking the oppressive stillness . ''''Laedio'''' Alpheo said as he turned ''''Please go inform Asag that in three days we will be marching .Tell him to prepare supplies and stock up on what we miss.'''' As he finished he sighed as he plopped down on the chair. Laedio did not move and stood still, joining the other in wordlessly staring at their leader. ''''If you have something to say now it is the time '''' Jarza was the first to speak ''''This was not why we were hired to fight.We were to partecipate in an invasion where we could raid at our liking, now instead we are to fight in land we cannot pillage.'''' ''''Jarza is right''''Egil quipped in , as he too was looking forward to putting some villages on fire '''' The contract was signed under the thought that most of our gains were to be made through raiding .'''' Alpheo said nothing and turned his head toward the window , as if the answer was outside ''''How will that beggar get the coin to pay us?We could have stood calm and content if coin was to be made during the campaign, that is no longer doable.Will we raise our steel for free?'''' The other two Clio and Laedio, did not say anything but their were completely agreeing with Egil.In the end Alpheo opened his mouth and finally spoke ''''So I see you are all very good in complaining'''' He snorted through his nose '''' any of you has any suggestion then?We signed a contract and received our horses as pre-payment, surely you would not have us betray our first contract after the prince has been so forthcoming? Who would hire us after that?I certainly would not'''' The group said nothing , then Egil spoke up ''''We could refuse to march to the city citing that was not what the contract entailed'''' ''''Which would still break the contract , seems like you did not read it '''' Alpheo spoke which in reality he did not either, as they were all illiterate '''' The contract says that we are to fight for the prince, it says nothing about offensive and defensive war. Remember for us mercenaries , as strange as it sounds, respecting our word is very important. If people are sure we will be bound by them, then they will have an easier time opening their pouch.'''' ''''Yet our first employer''s is pretty empty''''Egil muttered in a low voice ''''We will be paid nonetheless, if not by coin I will certainly find a way to get us our due .In one way or another'''' he said as he sat down on a chair ''''Sti-'''' ''''IN ONE WAY OR ANOTHER'''' Alpheo shouted as he bashed his closed fist on the arm of the chair '''' This is our first war, and yet you are already bickering before we take any step.Did you think that the road would have been smooth and straight.Well welcome to the real world. Life''s full of shit , deal with it!'''' His gaze moved through the group, they rarely heard him shout, most of the time he was all smile and jokes, so looking at him be angry was quite a sight . ''''This is our first throw of the dice, and yet you are complaining even before the numbers are shown.I am tired all of your chirping, you thought it would be easy?Well it''s not!Let me tell this once again, we are foforeignersere, we are distrusted from the first moment they see us, so the best thing we can do is actually not give them another reason to add to that .'''' His fingers moved to his forehead, as he massaged the ache away "If anyone has any truly helpful suggestions, speak up now," he urged, his voice tinged with exhaustion. "Otherwise, I''d appreciate some peace and quiet. My head is pounding, and your complaints certainly aren''t helping." Chapter 61: Northern feast(1) Chapter 61: Northern feast(1) The bane in the southern region was often described as an impenetrable fortress, with walls that reached towering heights and were as strong as steel. But despite its reputation, few ventured to the city and even fewer knew of its existence in the south . Bane was not just a fort - it was one of the few remaining cities in the northern lands. Divided into two distinct parts, the first was a formidable fortress, built between the rugged mountains. Behind its walls stood hardened men who had defended against countless attacks and raids throughout the years. And beyond the fortress lay the city itself. As the prince sat atop the southern wall, he couldn''t help but marvel at how alive the city seemed. Down below, miniature figures bustled through the streets, their movements accompanied by a deafening cacophony of music and revelry. The north was celebrating - feasting and drinking in anticipation of their upcoming march south. But amidst the festivities, there were also darker pleasures to be found. Prostitutes roamed from house to house, flaunting their bodies to eager soldiers looking for a final romp before heading off to war. "It''s time to return," he thought, tearing his eyes away from the bustling city below. Most of the lords had brought their sons along for this feast, knowing it could be their last before heading off to battle. The last time they had been able to go to a war that was not fought behind a wall, was before they bent their knee.So many thought of it as a way to honor their ancestors , who raided and pillaged all the way south, back when the north was feared by the south as a land of mighty warriors. Leaving the heat of the feast behind him, the prince stepped outside for some fresh air. But even outside, he could hear the rumblings of violence within. Some guests had grown restless and started a brawl, while others simply made bets on the outcome and cheered on from the sidelines.War made their blood boil and they needed something to fight the steam off. The prince had had enough of the chaos outside. The sight of yet another brawl erupting, and the ale soaking his clothes as a result, was the final straw. With a heavy sigh, he pushed open the door and retreated back into the keep. Descending the stairs, he entered the warmth of the feast once more. The contrast between the cold, calm air of the keep and the bustling energy of the celebration below was stark. Servants hurried about, weaving through the throngs of guests, their cheeks flushed with the heat of the crowded hall. It was as if the very atmosphere crackled with excitement, fueled by the intoxicating mix of ale, music, and anticipation of battle. The prince''s gaze wandered over the assembled guests, pausing on the host''s family. Edmund, the jovial young lord, was surrounded by a group of maidens. He liked the attention , he was smiling and blushing .All happy and gleeful. If Edmund was the water , however his sister was fire.At the start of the feast as soon as the first drunken young lord approached her, she threw him to the ground and spilled a cup of whaterver she had on his face to wake him up. From there no one approached her.And even then she was sitting , drinking and eating , with a bored expression. The host of the feast Harold was instead sitting in his seat, looking at the congregation with the eye of an hawk. Before the prince could fully immerse himself in the revelry, he felt a firm grip on his shoulders. Turning, he found himself face to face a man with a crooked nose, a result of having it broken many times , scarred face, and a long braid trailing down his back.He was Mjorn Breakshield His rough voice cut through the clamor of the feast , thrusting a cup of ale into his hands before downing his own with gusto. "I had wondered where the prince went," he began, his words slightly slurred from drink. "Haven''t seen you at the feast. Where were you hiding?" The prince raised an eyebrow, amused by Mjorn''s blunt manner. "Gone out to feel some wind," he replied casually, taking a sip of the ale. Mjorn scoffed, burping loudly as he spoke. "Bullshit," he exclaimed, the scent of ale wafting toward the prince. "Not even us northerners like the winter and snow. One can get fucked in the arse only so much before he hates it." Chuckling, the prince nodded in agreement. "Gone out to watch the city," he admitted. "It seems like tens of thousands entered it, not just eight." "You know how long it''s been since we went to war?" Mjorn asked, releasing the prince from his grip. "The people clamor for it, they want to raid the south like they raid their purses right before every winter." "Well, they''re in luck then," the prince replied with a wry smile. "There will certainly be stubborn bastards that won''t open their keeps for us. Their lands they can raid freely." Mjorn raised an eyebrow, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Not worried about the people?" The prince chuckled softly. "Aye, but not so much about getting in the way of northern soldiers with their groins full and hands empty. I like my life very much, thank you." Mjorn''s laughter echoed through the hall, louder than before. "Well, get yourself acquainted with this bunch of beasts," he declared, slapping the prince on the back before walking away. "I''ll get myself something to drink and eat!" With that, he tossed his empty cup to the ground, leaving the servants to clean up the mess. In the end the prince decided that the violence and shouting was not for him and went to sit back on his table. Harold''s eyes moved to him as he entered the scene and sat on the seat reserved for him. His old meal was still there, it had grown cold and he did not felt like eating it.So he pushed it away.Normally he would have retired to his room , yet this was the feast before the war his absence would be noticed . His eyes moved among the lords, taking in the raucous scene of drinking, feasting, and fighting. He had seen it all before, and his gaze drifted with boredom until he caught sight of Elenoir looking at him. With a raised eyebrow, he awaited her next move. She beckoned him over with a wave of her hand, and with a resigned sigh, the prince rose from his seat and made his way towards her. As he drew closer, her figure became clearer in the dimly lit hall. Her blonde hair was intricately braided and cascaded down her back like a waterfall into a lake. She was bundled up in layers of beasts'' pelts, a precaution against the cold night air. But it seemed that alcohol was also providing warmth, as she had clearly indulged in several drinks. Her face was flushed and her eyes glassy as she lazily looked down at the table in front of her. Her mouth hung open slightly, revealing slightly crooked teeth, and her unfocused eyes slowly came into focus as she noticed his approach. A broad smile spread across her face, more pronounced than usual due to the influence of alcohol. And apparently it also made her more handsy, or better yet punchy , as she immediately greeted him with a punch to the stomach. He doubled over, feeling the breath leave his body, and then felt a hand grab onto his hair and pull him closer.The drinks apparently made her violent side shine a bit more. Their faces were now only centimeters apart, and he could see the color rising in her cheeks. Despite himself, he couldn''t help but feel the heat spreading to his own face as their proximity increased.As if drawing him to a kiss. Chapter 62: Northern鈥檚 feast(2) Chapter 70: Northern''s feast(2) The prince''s anguish echoed through the halls as he knelt, his hands pressed firmly against his throbbing forehead. It felt as though his skull was being crushed beneath a rock , each pulse sending waves of agony coursing through his skull. The pain was so intense that it clouded his senses, leaving him momentarily disoriented. Then, like a shadow emerging from the darkness, Elenoir appeared before him. There was a primal ferocity in her face that sent a shiver down his spine, her demeanor sharp and intense. "What in the seven hells was that for?" he demanded, his voice strained with pain and frustration as he struggled to maintain his composure. Elenoir''s response was swift and cutting, her words laced with a fiery intensity that matched her fierce grip on his neck. "Where the hell were you?" she snapped, her eyes ablaze with anger and confusion. "I was... out," he managed to gasp, his breath catching in his throat as he attempted to push her hands away. But his feeble efforts were met with only a tightening of her grip, the pressure around his neck intensifying with each passing moment. "And you left me here alone," she continued, her voice rising with each word, "you know how bored I was?'''' The prince winced, his head swimming with pain as he struggled to maintain his footing. "Fuck it hurts" he pleaded, his voice barely a whisper as he reached out to grasp her hands, desperately trying to ease the pressure on his neck. Surprisingly, Elenoir''s demeanor softened, her fierce gaze giving way to a look of genuine concern. "Does it hurt that much?" she asked, her voice now gentle and soothing as she released her grip on him. ''What''s with her?'' The prince blinked in surprise, his confusion momentarily overshadowing his pain. He tentatively touched his forehead, feeling the persistent throbbing beneath his fingertips. Though there was no blood, the pain was all too real, pulsating with each beat of his heart. He did not answer ,he just kept caressing his forehead. Most of the guests carried on with their revelry, oblivious to his discomfort, while a few keen observers cast furtive glances in his direction, their curiosity piqued by the sudden disturbance. Among them was Elenoir''s father, his sharp eyes scanning the scene with a discerning gaze. His attention shifted from the back of the prince''s head to his daughter''s worried expression, a subtle furrow forming between his brows. "Prince Maesinius," he addressed the prince with a measured tone, prompting Maesinius to turn around with a start. "It seems my daughter has indulged a bit too much this evening. Would you be so kind as to escort her out?" The prince hesitated, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. "But sir, it would hardly be proper for a man to accompany a tipsy maiden-" "Just do it," Elenoir''s father interrupted, his tone firm yet tinged with a hint of resignation as he lifted his cup to his lips. He knew her daughter and his ward, the first needed no protection and for the second there was no need for it . As he watched Maesinius assist Elenoir to her feet, a small smile played at the corners of his lips. Despite his reservations, he couldn''t help but acknowledge the prince''s sincerity , he liked the boy and he did not mind if they were to be family. Perhaps he wouldn''t be such a bad match for his daughter after all. With a resigned sigh, the prince guided Elenoir through the bustling hall, their footsteps echoing in the quiet corridor beyond. Elenoir, her words slurred with intoxication, looked up at him with bleary eyes. "Where are we going?" she asked, her voice tinged with confusion as they disappeared into the dimly lit hallway. As they made their way down the dimly lit corridor, the prince guided Elenoir with gentle but firm hands, his senses alert to her stumbling movements. Her eyes drooped with weariness, and she yawned softly. Before long, a servant approached them, offering to relieve the prince of the burden . With a nod , the prince stepped back, allowing the servant to take Elenoir''s weight and guide her forward. As they reached her chamber door, Elenoir turned to the prince "You come with me, I have things to tell you," she declared, her voice tinged with urgency. The servant hesitated, "My lady, that would be improper," she protested weakly, casting a worried glance at the prince. "Shut your trap," she snapped, her tone brooking no argument as she locked eyes with the prince. Sensing that it was better to comply , he acquiesced, deciding to follow them into the room. The servant gently guided Elenoir towards the bed, helping her to sit down with tender care. She sank onto the soft mattress with a contented sigh, her eyelids fluttering closed as exhaustion claimed her. The servant tucked a blanket around her, ensuring she was comfortable before turning to the prince with a grateful smile. ''''You can leave'''' she said with a tired voice . THe prince and the servant started leaving ''''Not you, come here.'''' She waved her hands slowly. The prince looked at the servant who just bowed and left the room, closing the door. The prince waited for her to speak, her eyes were open yet tired.She locked eyes many times with him, and opened her mouth to speak yet no voice came out. ''''If you have nothing to said , it would be better if you were to sleep ''''The prince suggested as he started walking towards the door ''''Do you dislike me?'''' She sked with a small and weak voice, the prince turned around in confusion ''''What?'''' ''''I asked you if you dislike me'''' He scractched his head, he was at a loss'''' Why would you think that?'''' As he settled onto the edge of the bed, the prince''s brow furrowed with concern. "I don''t dislike you, Elenoir," he reassured her, his voice softening with sincerity. "It''s just that... there''s much on my mind lately." She studied him with tired eyes, her gaze searching his face for any sign of deception. "You''ve been distant," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper in the quiet room. He sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "I know, and I''m sorry for that," he admitted, his tone heavy with regret. "It''s just... everything that''s been happening is a lot to handle." "Nobody asked you," she interjected sharply He met her gaze, his eyes filled with a mixture of apology and determination. "Yet I feel like it is something I have to do," he responded earnestly. Her expression softened slightly as she continued in a bashful tone , "You know father has been pestering me lately, saying it was time to think of the future. Have you ever thought about it?" "Every day," the prince replied wearily, as if a mountain was on his back . "These next months will be the most important for us. They will decide the fate of tens of thousands." Elenoir regarded him silently for a few moments before sighing and turning away. "Whatever, close the door when you leave," she muttered, her tone dismissive and cold. The prince''s confusion lingered for a moment, but then he offered her a small, understanding smile. "Rest well, Elenoir," he said softly before rising from the bed and exiting the room. As he returned to the bustling feast, the ache in his head began to diminish, yet his heart was heavy for he knew what was to come Chapter 63: Reaching the city(1) Chapter 63: Reaching the city(1) The sun hung high in the sky, its radiant warmth spreading across the land beneath the expansive azure expanse. Not a single cloud dared to dirty the pristine sky above, granting an uninterrupted view of the golden orb that marked the passage of time. If they were still within the confines of the palace, it would have been the hour for supper. But yesterday they had departed from the court that had hosted them for the last moon Alpheo''s gaze wandered to the majestic beast beneath him, he patted it and stroke his head, he always loved animals in general ,dogs , cats, horses each animal had its appeal to him. He had never experienced the thrill of battle on horseback, but the mere thought of charging forward with lance in hand ignited a fervent excitement within him. Riding into the chaos of combat had always been a dream, a distant aspiration fueled by tales of valor and glory. Yet, despite his yearning for such glory, he harbored no illusions about his own martial prowess. He had spent the past half-month diligently training with Egil, honing his skills with sword and shield alongside riding . However, despite his efforts, the result were not promising As the group continued their journey, Egil''s impatience seemed to grow with each passing moment. He leaned back on his horse, his eyes narrowing with frustration as he addressed Anzalos, the guide. "Are we close?" he asked, his voice laced with irritation. Anzalos merely bowed his head, offering the same vague response he had given for the past few hours: "They were close." Egil''s impatience boiled over, his frustration evident in his tone. "Do we even know if he speaks our language? He''s been parroting the same words since he joined us," he grumbled, shooting a pointed glance at Anzalos. Jarza, ever the voice of reason, interjected with a sigh. "And you''ve been asking the same questions and complaining incessantly. ''How long until we reach there? Why did we have to depart from court?'' There''s only so much a man can take, Egil.And you have been poking at our limits for a long time " Egil''s retort was swift, his words dripping with sarcasm. "You say this because there wasn''t anyone to warm your bed during our stay.In the palace or out it''s the same for you. Did you see the maids as we left? Some of them were crying as their legs were shaking. When a lady comes riding with me, she aches in the leg for a whole month. Anyone that comes to me knows it''s a one-way road. Did anyone cry for you?" Jarza''s jaw tightened as he fought to keep his temper in check. "No," he replied through clenched teeth. Turning his attention to Alpheo, Egil continued his relentless teasing. "What about you, boss?" he prodded, a mischievous glint in his eye. Alpheo considered the question for a moment before shaking his head. ''''Seriously?THe princess did not even give you a little h-'''' A punch was sent to his shoulder. ''''What was that for?'''' He asked Jarza as he caressed the pained shoulder ''''We are not alone, mind your fucking tongue'''' He said as he moved his chin toward the guide ''''For as much as we know he is an informer of the prince .And I am sure he would not be happy to hear daughter ''s name is being uttered by foul mouths like yours'''' ''''I am sure fouler mouth have been on her c- FUCK , CUT IT OUT'''' he shouted as the same thing happened again ''''Boss tell Jarza to stop it, he is hurting me '''' Alpheo sighed as he spoke in a monotone voice ''''Deal with it yourself I am going ahead'''' and as he finished he trotted away "Seriously, must you always resort to violence?" Egil grumbled, rubbing his sore shoulder where Jarza''s punch had landed. "You ought to learn when to hold your tongue, Egil.Especially when a man stronger than you kindly ask to " Egil rolled his eyes. "Oh, spare me your lectures. You act as though you are a statue yourself " "I know when to jest and when to hold my tongue," Jarza shot back. "Unlike you, I have some sense of propriety." As Egil was about to mount up a response , Alpheo caught with his eyes the wall of the city on the horizon and informed the rest of the group about it. ''''About time'''' Laedio commented as he stretched his back ''''Thought we would reach it by evening , if we continued like this'''' He stopped to gaze at the city wall ''''Pretty small, aren''t they?'''' He said referring to the stone wall, that could have been not higher than 6 meters. ''''We will have to make do'''' Clio interjected as he opened his canteen and took a sip of water, before turning to ''''Excited for your first mission on command boss?'''' ''''Not really...'''' Alpheo commented as he gazed at the city ''''This will be the first of many,no use getting all riled up for something so small.Though I certainly will not take pleasure to break the news to the commander'''' A small chuckle came out from Laedio''s mouth as he cleared his throat ''''By the decree of prince Arkawattm of House Heroin , you are hereby called to step down from your positions and lick down on the dirt that the great captain Alpheo will shit and piss into''''He said in an overly serious tone , that caused the group to laugh, even Jarza gave a small smirk at the spectacle. ''''All right guys, take out your serious faces, and also try not to laugh by what you''ll see.'''' Alpheo warned as he rode ahead towards the city. The city wall rose finally before them, its imposing form stretching along the horizon. Made of sturdy stone, the wall stood approximately eight meters in height, its surface weathered by the passage of time and countless seasons. Moss and ivy clung to its surface, adding a touch of green to the otherwise gray expanse. ''Bloody hell it looks like its'' ready to fall by the slightest of breeze'' Alpheo thought as he rode forward Upon the wall, men of the garrison patrolled diligently, their figures silhouetted against the sky. Clad in chainmail, at least most of them, and armed with spears they kept watch over the city. One of them, positioned atop the wall, scanned the horizon with a practiced eye. As the figures of six hundred men drew nearer, the sentinel''s initial tension eased upon catching sight of a familiar banner fluttering in the breeze. High atop the weathered stone wall, the sentinel''s voice rang out with authority, echoing across the barren landscape as he peered down at the approaching figure. "Who are you?" he bellowed With a determined expression, Alpheo cleared his throat before addressing the sentinel . ''Alright, let''s do this,'' he then declared, his voice carrying with it a sense of authority built by the ruler of these lands . "We are reinforcements sent by his grace to garrison the city of Aracina," he announced, holding aloft a parchment adorned with the royal seal. "This is a royal decree, written and signed by his grace''s own hand. I call for the captain of the city to descend and be informed of the decree bestowed upon us by his grace." As the words hung in the air, the sentinel on the wall furrowed his brow, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features before he shouted a command for the men below to wait as he went to call for the commander himself. Chapter 64: Reaching the city(2) Chapter 64: Reaching the city(2) As the moments stretched into minutes, tension began to mount among the small group gathered at the city gates. "He is taking quite the long time," Asag muttered, his voice barely audible, almost like a whisper carried on the wind. Egil, seemingly disinterested in the proceedings, absentmindedly shifted his attention to his horse, his thoughts wandering away from the conversation at hand. "Maybe we''ve caught him at a bad time. Should we return later?" he suggested idly, his tone lacking conviction. "Do you think it will come to a siege?" Asag inquired to Alpheo , his voice betraying a hint of concern, the walls hardly seemed to lessen the fright . Alpheo nodded in response, his expression serious "Yes, I do. This is the only obstacle preventing the prince of Oizen from laying siege to Yarzat. It''s almost certain that they will come.We will probably face hell in the upcoming weeks " Pondering the situation further, Asag voiced his thoughts aloud. "Still...what took them to start a campaign two months before winter. They''ll find little food to forage, and will be completely reliant on supplies from home..." "It''s hardly a concern for them," Alpheo replied with a knowing smile, his eyes scanning the horizon beyond the city walls. "Beyond the city lies land controlled by the principality of Oizen. They won''t have to worry about interference with their supply routes, they will find their food untouched each time they open each cart." "But why?" His smile widened "Take a guess. We have some time to spare before the guard''s commander blesses us with his presence.This is for all of you, small question: why do you think the prince decided to start a campaign so early?" Egil scratched his head in contemplation, his brow furrowed with thought. "Maybe he has an informer inside," he suggested, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "Someone reassuring him that the gate will open during the night, or that a tower will turn a blind eye as the ladders come forth?" Alpheo nodded, acknowledging the possibility. "That could be a reason," he agreed, his tone thoughtful. "Many great cities have fallen from within, manipulated by traitors and spies. But it''s not quite convincing as the sole explanation." Shrugging, Egil admitted defeat. "I''m out of ideas." Alpheo turned to the others, inviting their input. "Anyone else?" Jarza, ever the pragmatist, offered his perspective. "Maybe he hopes to seize the city while the prince has fewer forces to contest him," he suggested, his tone speculative. Alpheo considered the possibility, his smile widening as he encouraged further discussion. "It could be... Come on, anyone else?" Laedio, never one to shy away from voicing his thoughts, chimed in. "He wants to take advantage of Arkwalatt''s weakness," he proposed. "Hit the nail! This spring, our employer suffered a devastating defeat, and some cities surrendered to the enemy upon learning of the loss. The prince is at odds with the nobles, save for a select few, and his private cavalry is likely ill-trained and ill-equipped, given the losses suffered on the battlefield. In short, he''s in a precarious situation. The prince of Oizen sees an opportunity to press the blade while his prey is already bleeding. Who knows what the future holds as winter passes? Perhaps he aims to secure alliances through marriage, or fears that delaying the attack will allow the nobles to rally their forces against him. Why give them time to recover when he can strike while they''re vulnerable, cutting down as much resistance as possible?A butchery starts only when the prey has bled enough" Alpheo said with a smile "There is something that does not align with this idea of yours," Jarza remarked, his tone contemplative. Alpheo listened intently, acknowledging Jarza''s point with a slight tilt of his head. "If the prince was truly in such a dire situation," Jarza continued, "wouldn''t it be in his best interest to buy time? Why then plan a campaign?" Alpheo''s smile broadened as he recognized Jarza''s line of thinking, his smile was like that of a parents amused by the fact that his child finally learnt something . He gestured Jarza to come closer. "Let me share a little secret with you." Intrigued, Jarza and the others approached, eager to hear Alpheo''s insight. "The prince never intended for it to be an offensive campaign," Alpheo revealed, his voice tinged with amusement. "He already knew he would be attacked, so he sent out waves of recruitment. His people would flock to join the army at the mere notion of having the opportunity to pillage. And in the same way they recruited us with the promise of raiding enemy lands.Quite clever isn''t it " Alpheo chuckled at the cunning deception. "They waved the carrot and gave us the stick. We were made fools of," he admitted, a mixture of amusement and admiration coloring his tone. It surprised him that he had fallen for such a scheme, but he was equally impressed by the prince''s cunning. Finally the heavy gates of the city finally creaked open. With a groan of strained hinges, they yielded to the steady pressure of the pulleys and chains, revealing a narrow passage leading into the heart of Aracina. From within the city walls emerged a lone figure on horseback, his silhouette outlined against the fading light. Behind him, three men followed closely, their expressions stern and watchful. The leader rode with purpose, his posture erect and his gaze fixed ahead. His neck-long black hair hung loose around his shoulders, tousled by the wind that swept through the open passage. His visage was rough, weathered by years spent under the sun and wind, with lines etched around his eyes and mouth that spoke of a life lived hard and earnestly. Bushy eyebrows arched over sharp eyes, giving him a perpetually quizzical expression, as if he were forever pondering some unseen puzzle. His full beard, much like his hair, was untamed and unruly, adding to his rugged countenance. "About time," Alpheo remarked as he urged his horse forward, holding the royal decree aloft. "With whom do I have the honor of speaking?" The man, his rough visage weathered by the sun and wind, scrutinized Alpheo from head to toe before responding, "I am Captain Fahil, head of the city''s defense in Aracina." Not anymore, Alpheo thought as he stretched his neck, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "My name is Captain Alpheo, leader of the mercenary company before you, and by royal decree, the new head of defense for the city of Aracina. Pleased to make your acquaintance today." Captain Fahil''s eyes widened momentarily before he reached out to snatch the parchment from Alpheo''s outstretched hand. "It''s all yours," Alpheo quipped with a smirk. The men surrounding Fahil began to murmur, their expressions shifting from curiosity to confusion, then to disbelief and, for some, anger. "Giving my position to a lowly mercenary and a youngster?" Fahil spat out each word like venom''''This is madness at its greatest extent !'''' Alpheo met Fahil''s gaze with a steady stare, unfazed by the captain''s hostility. "Yes, you''ve got the gist of it. But you forgot to mention that I lead 600 men, while you barely command 100. So, yes, from now on, you shall step down, if not by the words of your price, by might alone . Don''t worry; it won''t last long. At the end of the war, you''ll regain your comfortable position. For now, follow me. We have much to discuss about the city''s defense and its current state.Most of them are critics by the way "He said with a cheeky smile With that, Alpheo spurred his horse forward, not bothering to wait for Fahil''s response. Chapter 65: Preparations (1) Chapter 65: Preparations (1) It was a small and cozy room illuminated only by a small window on a wall, and few half-consumned candles atop the wooden desk. ''My new work-room'' Alpheo mused as he made himself comfortable on the chair. He leaned back as he put his boots on top of the desk, he was currently waiting for somebody to arrive, there was much work to do and little time to waste. As he waited for Captain Fahil , Alpheo found himself trying to kill time so he in the meantime decided to take better care of himself.Taking out the dagger , he started cleansing his nails, perching off the piece of dirts inside.It was not very effective, but at least he gave him something to do as he waited. As time went on and on , Alpheo went looking around the room , there were few parchments inside the desk with some writings. ''I will have to pay someone to tutor me and the rest, we need to learn how to read and write as soon as possible'' he put his hand on his forehead as the fact that he could not read bothered him deeply . His throat became dry, he rose as he walked towards one of the furnitures in the room.There were some cups and bottles of what seemed like wine.He took the bottle opened it and smelled it. ''Yep wine'' he thought as he went to tilt the liquid inside the cup, before sipping from it . ''Maybe I will make that boy be my cup bearer, I have to find something for him to do''. It must have been less than a week since he took the boy in , yet he quickly grew on him.He was clumsy and funny to look at and most improtantly he was eager to learn, somethign that he very much appreciated. If there was something he noticed , was that the company lacked actual commanders and administrators. And Alpheo had half a thought to teach the boy how to do moltiplications and simple algebra, and make him account for the expense of the band alongside the miscelleanous works. The people he had given the jobs to, proved to be clumsy at best, horrible at worst, so he had to find a solution to it.Which was easier said than done, as mathematics and writings were usually only teached , for the low-class, either by rich artisans or merchants, and most preferred not to have their sons lowered to work in mercenary bands as accountants. The door creaked open, breaking the silence of Alpheo''s temporary workspace. His eyes narrowed slightly as he observed the man who entered, clearly displeased by the interruption. "Is it not customary to knock before entering?" he questioned, his tone firm. "Not when entering one''s own room," Fahil retorted, his voice carrying a deep, rumbling growl. Alpheo''s gaze remained steady, unfazed by Fahil''s imposing presence. "This room shall temporarily be mine, so please, next time knock before entering," he replied calmly, though his words carried a hint of steel. Fahil''s expression darkened, but he refrained from further confrontation. "No need for meaningless hostility, Captain Fahil," Alpheo continued, attempting to diffuse the tension. "In less than two weeks, I will be away from here. You shall take back your post and your job , and we will depart, hopefully, on good terms. So please, let''s spend these two weeks efficiently, no need to bark at each other like dogs in heat . Have you done what I asked?" "Yes, there is enough food for the town to last the whole winter. As for the armaments, we have enough to equip another hundred people, with only twenty having chainmail though.As you can see this is but a a small city " Fahil reported gruffly. Alpheo nodded thoughtfully, though inwardly, he wished they had more armaments , then his eyes moved to his cup . "Oh, how discourteous of me. Would you like to share a cup with me?" he offered, extending a gesture of hospitality.Offering a drink that was not his Fahil''s response was a tired sigh. "Let''s just pass this time working. No need for false kindness. You do your job, I''ll do mine," he replied, his tone curt. "Fair enough," Alpheo conceded, taking a sip from his cup. "I have a job for you then," he continued, rising from his seat and crossing the room to gaze out the window. "What is it?" Fahil inquired, following Alpheo''s movements with a watchful eye. "Right now, the garrison is pretty empty. I want you to recruit as many as possible and train them as best as you can. Think you can handle it?" Alpheo asked, turning to face Fahil once more. "Of course I can, I have been doing this job my whole life " Fahil replied, his confidence evident despite his gruff demeanor. ''And doing a shitty one '' he mused as he cleared his throat "Very well then. Please make sure they are as prepared as they can be," Alpheo instructed. "And what will you do?" he asked, his tone laced with skepticism. Alpheo chuckled, shaking his head. "No, I will ensure that this small town is able to repel whatever is thrown at it and hold steady until your prince comes to help. There is much to be done. If you have no more questions, I would like to be left alone to start my work," he replied, dismissing Fahil with a wave of his hand. Fahil grunted in response, turning on his heel and exiting the room without another word.As soon as he left the other, that were waiting outside as per order of Alpheo, entered the room. "Pretty small," Egil remarked quietly, his eyes lingering on the cup in Alpheo''s hand. Alpheo shrugged nonchalantly. "I''m not a big man. This will do," he replied absentmindedly as he settled back into his chair. "I have a job for each of you." "Well, it''s time we get to work. I don''t want this to be my grave," Laedio remarked, scratching the back of his neck with a hint of nervous energy. "Truer words were never spoken," Alpheo mused, his gaze shifting to meet Egil''s. "Alright, first job is yours. I want you to take every rider we have. Your job will be to travel through the countryside and gather as many people as you can within these walls. Tell them that enemies will be coming and to seek refuge here. We will be in need of as many arms as we can muster. The state of this city is abysmal,there are many works to be done and most of the refugees will be made to be either workers or guards" he explained, taking a sip of wine before continuing. "If you don''t have any questions, please proceed with your mission." ''''Will the food be enough?'''' Egil asked at the thought of bringing thousands inside the walls Alpheo gave a chuckle ''''The last thing we need to worry about is the food.If we die it will be for the steel of the enemy not for a lack of bread, supplies may dwindle but this will be a problem that the prince will face after the war.'''' "Alright you do you Alph, at least I get to ride. I don''t like sitting around too much, this beautiful butt here was made for the saddle" Egil replied with a grin as he slapped his ass before exiting the room to carry out his assignment. ''''He could have omitted the last part'''' He sighed as he sipped his wine before turning to the other as there were many jobs they needed to do, if they wanted to give the city an actual shot at standing against a siege. Chapter 66: Preparations(2) Chapter 66: Preparations(2) "I''ve been thinking about the range of jobs we need to finish before the enemy arrives. We have much to do, so let''s get down to it," Alpheo declared, finishing the cup of wine and fixing his gaze on the group. "Now, the first thing we have to change is the layout of the city. Tell me, what''s the easiest and most effective way to prepare for a siege?" "Hoarding food and manning the walls?" Laedio offered promptly. "Exactly, but there''s more to it," Alpheo acknowledged. "You build them in front of a city. They''re easier to construct and bothersome to deal with. What is it?" The group exchanged glances, silently deliberating. It was Jarza, among them, who had the most experience with warfare and sieges, who spoke up. "Moats." "Exactly. I see someone''s dealt with one or two sieges before," Alpheo remarked with a nod.''''THose would certainly be stories I hope you will share with us. Now returning to the topic Moats are easy to dig. You can hoard as many as you want, and if the enemy wants to have a chance at assaulting the city, he first needs to fill up a path with dirt or wood." Turning to Clio, he continued, "You are in luck, this job is yours. Take as many men as you need and have them build moats around the city. Now, if you see the men finishing the moat, I want you to build another, and on top of it, another. If you see the laborers stopping to take a breath, you whip them and tell them to dig moats. And if by the end, you fill the whole country with moats, you know what you have to do?" "Build another moat?" Clio ventured, sounding somewhat perplexed. "Exactly. You build another moat, yes. You can never have enough of them," Alpheo affirmed, sipping from his refilled cup. "You can start working from now. Remember, the more you build, the better it is.As for the workers promise them three full meal per working day " With a nod and a smile , Clio exited the room, prepared to undertake the task . "Now, I have three other great jobs for three great men," Alpheo announced, taking another sip of wine. He glanced around the room before addressing Laedio, a tall and bald man. "Laedio, I want you to gather some men and go around the city demolishing whatever you can dismantle. We need debris to throw down the walls. Also, send some men to the nearby forest to chop trees into throwable pieces." Laedio''s grin widened at the task. "You''re not worried about the damage?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice ''''I believe the forest is property of the king '''' ''''Just like the city'''' Egil added Alpheo shrugged nonchalantly. "Is the city mine? I couldn''t care less if the prince received a ghost or a shell of it As long as it stands, the condition doesn''t matter," he admitted, his lazy smile mirrored by the group. After all, the prince had fucked them hard, so would they be in the wrong if they attempted to pay him back.As long as they city remained in their hand , he did not care the state in which he returned them to his employer. "Now, onto our tall, big, and kind giant," Alpheo continued with a small smile turning his gaze to Jarza. "Among us, you have the most experience in these matters. Organize our men to patrol the wall at all times. Additionally, recruit fifty men from the city and teach them how to use slings. While the stones may be too small to kill, they''ll still be perfect ammunition for them." Jarza met Alpheo''s gaze with a thoughtful expression. "I think I should tell you something. Slingers aren''t very useful in a siege. They can''t shoot people close to the walls, and they need space to rack up the force to throw the stones." Alpheo''s brows furrowed in consideration. "I see," he acknowledged. "But they''ll still be of some use to shoot down some enemies. The orders still stand: teach them how to use it." With a resigned sigh, Jarza nodded. "Very well." He then turned and left the room with Laedio, leaving Alpheo and Asag alone . "Now, I have a job for you too, my friend," Alpheo''s tone turned serious, the jovial attitude from before nowhere to be seen. There was a weight to his words that caught Asag''s attention, prompting a sense of alarm. "What is it?" Asag inquired, his concern evident as he noted the change in Alpheo''s demeanor. Alpheo remained silent for a moment, refilling his cup before fixing his gaze on Asag, who met his stare with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. "I don''t trust Fahil," Alpheo finally spoke, his voice tinged with caution. "Soon, we will be besieged, and many will be worried about saving their own skins. Honestly, I think our dear captain wouldn''t hesitate to jump ship." "You sure about that?" Asag questioned, his brow furrowing in thought. "It''s a possibility," Alpheo affirmed. "He was demoted, albeit temporarily, and denied further advancements. For some men, climbing the ranks is everything... Honestly, I don''t want to have our backs exposed to someone who could stab us in the back. Men have betrayed for far less, and if the enemy prince offers a noble title and a fief to whoever opens the gate, I fear our city will be swarming with traitors." "And where do I come in all of this?" Asag asked, taking a seat and leaning in attentively. "I need someone discreet and patient for this task," Alpheo explained, taking another sip from his cup. "And honestly, among the group, you''re the only one I can think of who could handle it." "Just tell me what I need to do," Asag replied, his resolve evident in his tone. "I want you to observe him," Alpheo instructed, his gaze unwavering. "Keep an eye on Fahil, note who enters his room, and position men around the walls to inform you of his movements. If he leaves the city, don''t have them follow him¡ªjust report to me the time and frequency of his departures. We don''t want him to suspect anything. Clio''s mention of a possible informant has resonated with me deeply." Asag observed Alpheo silently, his expression betraying a bit of fear . "I will do my best, but I won''t promise anything," he finally stated. "It''s alright," Alpheo reassured him with a nod. "I cannot expect you to do a perfect job.Just make sure to have the men be loyal to us and have them report to you daily. If he goes out of the city, I want to be the first to know it," Alpheo instructed, his tone serious as he emphasized the importance of the task. "If there''s nothing else, I''ll go then," Asag said, preparing to depart. Alpheo remained silent, offering only a nod in response as he watched Asag leave the room. Once alone, he reclined in his chair, his thoughts lingering on what to do for the impending siege. With a sigh, he took another sip of his wine, thinking about the fact that the wine of others always taste better. Chapter 67: Preparation(3) Chapter 67: Preparation(3) ''''As you can see everything is proceeding smoothly'''' Jarza spoke to Alpheo as he walked on top of the wall and surveyed the outlay of the city.The scene below was one of chaos , albeit a controlled one . Men, women, and even children worked together. For as Alpheo said ''If it got arms and it breath, then give it a shovel and make him dig'' . And sure enough they dug without pause , their muscles straining against the weight of the soil as they excavated the trench. With each scoop, dirt cascaded down into the growing mound beside them, gradually forming a barrier around the city.Honestly moat were the perfect instrument to make the enemy waste time and men to fill them.They were easy to make and important to have, after all if an enemy wanted to get over the moat , they had to fill a path with dirt, else siege engines won''t get pass them . Alpheo observed the scene with satisfaction . The work was progressing smoothly, just as Jarza had said. Alpheo listened intently to Jarza''s report, his gaze drifting across the city as he absorbed the information. "What about your task?" Alpheo inquired, his tone measured as he turned to his companion. "I did what I could do.Just as I had said before we encountered problems," Jarza replied, "The slingers have no problem launching projectiles if given enough distance and space around , but as the enemy approaches, their effectiveness diminishes.The walls get on the way of their sling and they get trouble to give their stones enough force" Alpheo nodded thoughtfully, acknowledging the limitations of their defenses. "Still, the more men we have atop the walls, the better our chances," he remarked "How are our men faring?" he then asked, shifting his focus to the state of their forces. "Most of them are content," Jarza reported, his expression stoic. "They''ve been provided with enough coin to pass the night whoring, though some still grumble about not being able to raid. Albeit the civilians are starting to dislike them , many of our men forcefully get discount from their tabs in taverns, always if they pay at all'''' Alpheo''s lips curled into a dismissive smirk at the mention of their people''s discontent. "Let them grumble," he said nonchalantly. "Soon enough, they''ll be fighting for the sake of this city, and this is the least they can do to repay us." Jarza nodded in agreement, echoing Alpheo''s sentiment. ''They''re subjects of Arkwatt, not mine,'' he mused ''Why should we lose sleep over them?'' The prince had knowingly condemned the people of Aracina to their fate when he sent them here, and Alpheo saw no reason to dwell on the consequences. They had a city to defend, and sacrifices would need to be made to ensure its survival. "What about our new recruits?" Alpheo inquired, recalling the recent addition of bowmen to their ranks. "No issues there," Jarza replied with a hint of reassurance. "Their skill with the bow may be lacking, but they possess enough strength. With the sheer number of soldiers we have, they''re bound to hit something. Even a half-blind man would find his mark amidst such chaos." Alpheo nodded thoughtfully, considering the practicalities of their ammunition supply. "Do we have enough arrows?" he queried, his gaze drifting towards the horizon. "We''ve stocked carts filled with them," Jarza confirmed. "I believe we''ll have enough to ensure our bows are not left empty in the heat of battle." Alpheo mulled over this information for a moment before another concern surfaced. "What about the medical tents?" he asked, shifting his focus to the welfare of their healers. Jarza''s expression soured slightly at the mention of Agalasios. "There have been some issues," he admitted begrudgingly. "He''s been badgering me incessantly, complaining about the shortage of bandages and manpower. It''s like he has a sixth sense for whenever I''m within earshot." Alpheo let out a quiet chuckle at the description of Agalasios''s persistent complaints. "Well, why don''t you accompany me for a visit?" he suggested, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Let''s see how our medics are faring and perhaps offer some assistance." With a nod from Jarza the two came down from the walls. As Alpheo and Jarza strolled through the bustling streets of Aracina, the sounds of their footsteps mingled with the hum of activity that surrounded them. Alpheo''s keen eyes scanned the scene, taking note of the progress being made in the city''s preparations for the looming siege. Amidst the cobblestone pathways, Alpheo observed several houses being dismantled, their wooden beams and stone bricks carefully torn down and stacked in neat piles. It was a sight that pleased him, knowing that these materials would soon serve as ammunition to be hurled from the city''s walls in defense against their enemies. Workers labored tirelessly, sweat glistening on their brows as they carried out their tasks with determination. As they ventured deeper into the heart of the city, finally they came to the part of the city where dozens tents erected in orderly rows stood there for everyone to watch. Guards stood watch at the perimeter, their vigilant gaze ensuring that only those authorized were allowed entry. They finally reached the medical perimeted built by Alpheo. As Alpheo and Jarza entered the tent, their eyes were immediately drawn to the sight of Agalasios slumbering in his chair, surrounded by remnants of food and buzzing flies. Jarza wasted no time in delivering a swift kick to Agalasios''s protruding belly, sending him tumbling to the ground with a startled cry. "W-who is it?" Agalasios stammered, panic evident in his voice as he struggled to extricate himself from the fallen chair. His expression turned sheepish as he recognized the disappointed gaze of Alpheo. "It''s Captain Alpheo," Alpheo stated coolly, his tone tinged with disapproval. "Jarza tells me you''ve been complaining of a shortage of hands, yet here you are, caught napping on the job." Agalasios attempted to offer an excuse, but Jarza cut him off with a scowl of irritation. "There''s no excuse for laziness when lives are at stake," he retorted sharply. Alpheo intervened before the tension could escalate further. "What''s the issue, Agalasios? Speak your piece." Agalasios straightened up, his face reddening with embarrassment. "We''re in dire need of more bandages," he confessed, his tone pleading. "And the manpower we have is insufficient to handle the influx of wounded we''ll likely face during the siege." Alpheo considered the request for a moment before responding. "Tell the women who assist with the wounded that they''ll receive an extra half-portion of rations during the siege," he instructed Jarza. "As for bandages, make do with what we have. If necessary, tear up old clothing and boil them to sterilize. Do we have enough pots for boiling water?" "Yes, captain, we do," Agalosios replied, his fat chin jiggling as he nodded in affirmation. He wasn''t originally a member of the band; instead, he hailed from Retoriel, a small city nestled between the princedom of Yarzat and the empire. Once a butcher by trade, circumstances had forced him into the role of a medic. Not that the medics of this world were any different from butchers in Agalosios''s eyes. He had been destitute and unemployed when Alpheo recruited him, recognizing the need for someone to tend to the wounded. ''''Is it any good to waste so much water though?'''' Agalosios asked in a unsure tone ''''When the wounded start to come , and you see that applying my methods before closing the wounds , then you will see how the rate of deaths will go down greatly''''As he said so his eyes moved to Agalosios and inquired in a brusque tone "Is there anything else?" "Yes, well, captain, you see," Agalosios began, his expression tense with concern. "Apparently, during our stay, some of the refugees you brought in attempted to enter the tents to steal medical supplies, thinking they could make a fortune. If this happened during the siege, it could be a disaster. What if instead of a thief, it was an arsonist?" Agalosios words were true, as in this time medicines costed a lot , and if one stole a case of them , they could make a pretty good fortune , always if they were able to find a customer to sell them to. Alpheo cut him off before he could finish. "You need more guards?" "If it could be possible," Agalosios confirmed. "Very well," Alpheo conceded with a sigh. "Jarza, assign twenty more men to patrol the perimeter. If Agalosios needs more, give it to him." "That would be everything, captain," Agalosios said gratefully. "Thank you for your time." "Make sure to do a good job," Alpheo reminded him, his tone firm. "Train the nurses well with what I''ve taught you. You are as important as any soldier under my command. Make sure not to slack off." With those words, Alpheo departed from the tent, leaving Agalosios to carry out his duties . Chapter 68: arrival of the enemy(1) Chapter 68: arrival of the enemy(1) ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª "So, what do you have to report?" Alpheo inquired, his nostrils flaring as he sniffed the drink before taking a sip. The warm sensation spread through his throat and stomach, but it lacked the strength of the spirits from his past life. "I need to make spirits as soon as possible," he grimaced, longing for the potent drinks he once enjoyed. Seated across the room, Asag shifted nervously. This was his first assignment, and despite the diminishing anxiety, a sense of unease lingered. In his faint voice, Asag replied to Alpheo''s question, "I have watched him until now, and there is nothing significant to report. He spends most of his time in his room when he''s not training his men. He rarely leaves the room except to grab a drink or two, sometimes with company, prostitutes." "Hardly compromising," Alpheo mused, swirling the liquid in his cup. "Death is blind and will come to all. It''s normal for him to seek pleasure. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? What about when he leaves the room? Has he ever left the city?" "Not once," Asag confirmed. "As I said, the times he leaves, he gets a drink and a meal before retiring to his room.Hardly suspicious.... The individuals who entered his room mostly wore capes, but my observers noted they were different women each time. When they left, they returned to..." Asag gestured with his hand in a circular motion, "...their place of work." "So, from what you''ve seen, there''s nothing to feed our suspicions about him?" Alpheo probed, his gaze fixed on Asag. "None at all..." Asag replied, his voice trailing off. "And what about your judgment? Do you think he''s clean?" Alpheo pressed further. Asag pondered for a moment, allowing the question to linger. "From what I''ve observed and what''s been reported to me, I see no reason to distrust him. However, the day is still young, and our wall is rather peaceful. Who knows if he might entertain any funny ideas later on? I suggest we maintain our watch over him, but for now, he seems as clean as a baby." "Hmm," Alpheo hummed, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. "Have it your way. Report back to me if y¡ª" Before Alpheo could finish his sentence, the door shook open, and all eyes turned toward it. Egil strode in, his expression dark and grim. Alpheo sighed grimly, already anticipating the news, and Egil''s next words only confirmed his fears. The enemy had finally come. ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª- Alpheo stood tall upon the battlements, his gaze scanning the distant horizon. The air was crisp, tinged with the anticipation of impending conflict. "Breathe this air, boys," he began, his voice carrying over the quiet murmur of the men. "This is going to be the last moments of peace we''ll have for a long time." His words hung heavy in the air, each man absorbing the weight of their impending battle. They took deep breaths, their expressions a mix of resolve and apprehension. Only Jarza remained outwardly calm, his demeanor steady despite the looming threat. ''''You seem rather calm''''Clio spoke as he tried to hide his axiousness, he failed. He was no warrior, no soldier, this was basically his first fight. When Alpheo thought of the lack of human resources he did not lie.He had to teach what he could on being an officer to people that before being slaves were fisherman or peasants.Above all Alpheo valued loyalty, so he made sure to at least try to morph his close group of aider the best he could. He teached Clio, Laedio and Asag about tactics, on how to lead men , on the formation to they were to make their men form. Yet he knew that what they needed was experience.Most of his men were green, they needed to bloody themselves.After all seeing hundredds of people clashing if scary as hell,so he treated this siege as an opportunity to get them desensitized of blood. After all fighting while being on top of the wall is a great boost in confidence. Jarza turned to Clio, his gaze neutral yet perceptive. "This isn''t my first rodeo," he remarked with a hint of amusement. "I''ve seen my fair share of battles and sieges. And let me tell you, our position is rather favorable. We have ample food and manpower to defend these walls." He then turned his attention to Alpheo, a rare smile gracing his lips. "You''ve handled the situation admirably," he admitted. "I would hardly believe this is your first time defending a city under siege You are as young as a pup, yet you possess the knowledge and skills of a seasoned warrior," Jarza remarked, his tone laced with curiosity. "Are you a noble? You seem to have been educated." The question stirred something within the group, each member exchanging glances as they awaited Alpheo''s response. His origins had always been a subject of speculation among them, his actions often contradicting the humble beginnings he claimed. Alpheo met their gaze with a calm demeanor, his expression unreadable. "You always overthink things, Jarza," he replied evenly. "What I''ve said about my origins is the truth. If I were a noble, would I not know how to read and write? And above all, would I be a slave?If I was liability I would be killed not shipped off as an object " His words struck a chord with the group, prompting a moment of contemplation. Egil voiced his uncertainty, acknowledging the possibility of overthinking the matter. Jarza, too, conceded to the logic in Alpheo''s explanation, his doubts fading slightly. "As for my skills," Alpheo continued, his tone casual yet confident, "perhaps they are a gift from the gods. Some men are born to lead, regardless of their origins." With a shrug, he redirected their focus. "Now, if we''ve concluded our interrogation, we have a city to protect." With a deep breath, Alpheo''s carefree expression melted away, replaced by one of seriousness, as this was to be his first contact with leading people in an actual war. The wind blew , the air was heavy with the exhale of hundreds men , and soon the rumble of war would come to them,and fate would decide if they were to dance on their tune , or to make a song of their own . Chapter 69: Arrival of the enemy(2) Chapter 69: Arrival of the enemy(2) The wind rose through Alpheo''s fingers, a chilling sensation spreading through them like icy tendrils. He raised his gaze, feeling the cool breeze ruffle his hair and tug at the folds of his clothing. The air was crisp and biting, carrying with it the feeling of death. As he lowered his eyes, he noticed his fingers beginning to tremble involuntarily. With a firm resolve, he clenched his fists, willing the tremors to cease. The last thing a leader needed to do was to show fear, especially now, with the fate of the city being unknown. Before him, beyond the stone walls that encircled the city, lay the enemy. The army of the Prince of Oizen stretched out in disciplined ranks. Alpheo''s eyes traced the movements of their heralds, fluttering defiantly in the wind,the biggest and tallest of which carried the colors and symbols of House Oizen. The flag of House Oizen, proudly displayed atop a towering standard, caught the sunlight and billowed majestically against the backdrop of the azure sky. Its design was simple yet commanding: a white shield adorned with vertically striped black bands. Alpheo spared it just a brief gaze before moving on. Each soldier stood tall and resolute, their armor glinting in the sunlight as they marched in perfect formation. The rhythmic beat of their boots echoed across the plain, a steady drumming that resonated with unwavering determination. The soldiers themselves comprised a motley assembly, drawn from the diverse regions and backgrounds of their princedom. Clad in a mishmash of armor and wielding an assortment of weapons, they presented a ragtag image of a hastily assembled force. Most were armed with little more than a simple lance and shield, their defenses augmented by makeshift breastplates fashioned from strips of wood. Chainmail was a luxury afforded to only a fraction of their number, leaving the majority vulnerable to the rigors of battle. Alpheo observed with a critical eye, noting the signs of hurried mobilization evident in their ranks. It was clear that this force had been hastily raised, likely with the intention of launching a swift assault to seize Aracina before laying siege to its walls. The infantry made up the bulk of their numbers, a sea of determined faces marching in disciplined formation. Among them, Alpheo spotted a contingent of around four hundred archers. Yet the heavy cavalry commanded Alpheo''s attention, the true elite of the prince''s army. Clad from head to toe in gleaming steel, these formidable warriors cut imposing figures atop their armored steeds. Each knight was encased in a suit of armor so thick and unyielding that it seemed to transform them into living fortresses. Their faces obscured behind visored helmets, they exuded an aura of indomitable strength and unwavering resolve. Alpheo''s gaze lingered on the heavily armored destriers, their powerful frames harnessed in protective barding. Even the horses were not spared the weight of battle, their bodies encased in armor to shield them from harm. For what good would it be to don armor from head to toe if their mounts were felled by a stray arrow, sending both rider and steed crashing to the ground in a tangle of steel and flesh? Luckily for Alpheo and his men they were on the defense, if the gods were on their side , the enemy army would be blasted by epidemics and sickness.He was an historian after all in his previous life and he knew that in a siege most of the casualty came from sickness.It was for this reason that he made sure that each of his man washed their hands in water before eating , and that each day they would wash thier face and hands.Unfortunately he did not have a soap, still at least bathing in water was something. There was no worry about wasting water, since the city was built around a river that flew in the middle of it , and thankfully the enemy would have no time to block the river with a dam to make them surrender for a lack of water, always if they had the engineer''s ability for such an endovouer . Alpheo noticed the anxious expression etched on Clio''s face as they surveyed the approaching enemy army from atop the city walls. "Well, there seems to be quite a lot of them," Clio remarked, his voice tinged with worry. Alpheo''s response was measured, his tone steady despite the weight of the situation. "More bodies to fertilize the ground then," he commented, his gaze unwavering as it swept over the advancing ranks below. "We have the walls separating them from us. If the enemy prince is foolish enough to send his men forward without proper preparations, then he will find himself short of an army." Clio, a fisherman thrust into the role of a defender, swallowed hard at the sight of the enemy host. Alpheo understood the man''s trepidation and knew he needed to project an image of control and confidence. Gesturing ahead, he directed Clio''s attention to the trenches that had consumed days of labor. "See those ditches I made you waste days digging?" he asked, his voice firm. "Those are what will separate us from leisurely waiting for them to come and facing them head-on as they throw lives at our walls. If they even want to entertain the idea of assaulting the walls, they''ll first have to clear a path or use ladders.'''' He chuckled ''''And if they dare use the latter- Gods help the fools , for they''ll find themselves dropping dead before they even reach us." Clio remained silent, though Alpheo noted a subtle shift in his demeanor. The transformation was slight, but significant. Alpheo recognized the need to bolster the man''s courage, to ensure that he would not falter when the time came, he was short of men already, he did not need cravens in his ranks . With a determined gleam in his eye, Alpheo resolved to provide Clio with a baptism of fire and blead , placing him on the front lines of the defense where he would learn to stand firm when sorrounded by blood and death. Alpheo surveyed the enemy army sprawled out before the city, his gaze sharp and calculating. "From what I can see, the enemy has no siege engines, no catapults, and no ballistae," he remarked to his men. "That means we won''t be hearing stones smashing against our walls day and night. Although it would have been nice if we could have seized one," he added in a lower tone, a hint of regret tainting his words. Turning his attention back to his men, Alpheo issued his orders with authority. "Each of you has been assigned a specific task. Get into position and ensure that our archers never run out of arrows, our slingers always have stones, and our men never lack projectiles to hurl at the enemy''s head. If we''re lucky, sickness may spread among their ranks and cripple them." Egil, ever the skeptic, voiced his concerns. "Couldn''t the same thing happen to us?" Alpheo considered the question carefully before responding. "Unlikely, if you all follow the instructions I''ve given regarding hygiene. You''ve seen the results firsthand¡ªnone of us have fallen ill, thanks to regular washing and proper care during our long march out of slavery . But I understand the risk posed by those inside the city who may not adhere to our instructions." With a thoughtful nod, Alpheo formulated a solution. "When distributing the daily rations, ensure that everyone washes their hands before eating. It''s a small measure, but it could make a difference. Now, everyone to their posts. The enemy will attempt to fill the moats, so I want our slingers raining down stones on them. Use the stones but conserve the arrows; we''ll need them." With that, he turned away, his mind already racing with plans to defend the city to the best of their abilities. Chapter 70: Parlay Chapter 70: Parlay The air was heavy , not because of the smoke from the enemy camp or because the cool winds from autumn were about to leave their last caress before winter took over.It was the tense nerves of both sides that caused the air to be still. All understood all too well that a bloodbath was inevitable. Alpheo harbored no illusions about the significance of the forthcoming parlay; he entertained no hope that any meaningful resolution would be reached. His decision to participate had been born of curiosity rather than expectation¡ªa desire to ascertain what, if anything, might transpire. Alpheo was no fool; he understood the stakes all too well. He had no intention of allowing the emissaries sent by the enemy prince entry into the city, where they might spread falsehoods about the generous rewards awaiting those who would betray their own. And so for this reason the meeting was convened in front of the gate, where archers stood vigilant atop the walls, arrows already nocked and ready in case they tried anything shady. The Empire of Rolmia and the principalities in the south shared many commonalities: language, religion, and trade routes. Geographically close, such cultural exchanges were to be expected. However, despite these similarities, there were notable differences. Before Rolmia ascended to the status of empire, its culture bore striking resemblance to that of the princedoms. Yet, as the empire expanded through conquest, elements of the conquered territories began to permeate the conqueror''s culture. In the past, messengers were revered as sacred, protected by both divine and secular law from harm. However, as the empire grew in strength and the civil war grew more brutal, messengers became associated with one faction or another. When they delivered unwelcome news to their foes, they risked facing retribution. Unlike the Rolmians, the princes clung steadfastly to their ancestral customs, revering messengers as sacrosanct and untouchable. To harm them was to invite the wrath of both gods and men. Still Alpheo was not of the south, so he had no interest in leaving his well-being over the shield of custom . ''''Good morning ''''Alpheo declared with a smile as behind him, rows of archers raised their bows and aimed at the man on horseback. The envoy held up a hand, a gesture of peace, and called out, his voice carrying over the distance between them. "I come as an envoy, seeking parlay.I am not man seeking to give harm , but tasked as emissary" he declared, his words echoing against the stone walls. Alpheo''s mocking smile widened at the envoy''s words, "Your safety is assured as long as you don''t try anything funny" he replied, his tone calm yet resolute. "Know this: the reason you still draw breath is because I allow it, so I suggest for you to go on quickly about your business before I give the order for my men to make a hedgehog out of you." The messenger''s posture stiffened at Alpheo''s words, his grip on the reins tightening as he took a deep breath to steady himself as he muttered some low breath insult about Alpheo''s barbarity. Clearing his throat, he began speaking, "My liege seeks no bloodshed," he stated firmly, "He is interested in the city, not the lives of the men within." Alpheo''s gaze narrowed at the messenger''s words, his skepticism evident in his expression. "If he is not seeking bloodshed, then he is marching in the wrong direction, my friend, is he perhapse lost?" he retorted, a wry smile playing at the corners of his lips. Undeterred by Alpheo''s sarcasm, the messenger continued this time in a higher voice "He will allow free passage to the garrison out of the city and will spare the people from a sack, provided the gate is opened before an assault is made." "And what if we were to refuse?" Alpheo questioned, his tone laced with defiance. "Then the gate shall be opened by force of arms, and soon it will be baptized in the blood of its citizens," the messenger replied solemnly. Alpheo chuckled at the messenger''s words, his laughter carrying a hint of defiance. "It seems to me like the only thing that will be splattered shall be your men''s blood," he remarked boldly. "I suggest your prince turns back now, while he still has an army with him. This will not be the tale of his glory, but his graveyard , if he is so stubborn to keep the siege ." The messenger''s gaze remained fixed on Alpheo''s face, his expression unreadable. "I have not asked before, but are you the city commander?" he inquired. "Aye, honored to meet you " Alpheo confirmed. "I don''t recognize your banner," the messenger observed. "It''s that of the free company I lead," Alpheo explained. "I have been employed by his grace Arkawatt of house Heroine to defend the city, a task which I am very much obliged to accomplish. Perhaps after your grace''s men fall beneath these walls, and my contract ends, more opportunities will flourish between us. But until then, we are enemies. We will not yield the city. If your liege desires it, he shall earn it by conquest." The messenger sighed, his resolve faltering. "I see we have nothing more to talk about then," he conceded. Alpheo remained silent, his expression impassive as he nodded in acknowledgment. "I bid you farewell then, mercenary," the messenger said "This city shall be your tomb." "Or maybe it will be yours," Alpheo replied, his tone defiant. "I look forward to seeing your men fall. Farewell, emissary," he concluded, turning his horse and trotting back into the city with a smile on his lips. As soon as Alpheo passed through the gate, his smile faded, replaced by a stern expression. He turned to Jarza with a sense of urgency in his voice. "Double the slingers on the front gate," he commanded, his tone firm. "They will try to fill the moat as soon as possible, and I want stones to rain down on their heads. Do not worry about conserving stones. We have plenty in stores, and if even one more man falls during the works, it will be an advantage for us." Jarza nodded in understanding, his gaze shifting toward the gate they had just passed through before turning back to Alpheo. "Still, won''t the enemy simply forcefully recruit peasants to do the work?" he queried, his brow furrowing in concern. "It''s precisely why Alph sent me to collect those wastes " Egil interjected. "Even if they try to force peasants to work, they''ll find barren fields and no peasants to coerce into doing their dirty work. If they want the moats filled, they''ll have to use their own men." Jarza''s hand met his palm with a resounding slap of realization. "Ah, that explains why you''ve allowed so much dead weight to waste our food stores!" he exclaimed. "You thought I did it out of pity?" Alpheo retorted with a sardonic smile. "They are not my people, and I couldn''t care less if they were to starve or be hanged. As long as the enemy dies, I would gladly impale the lot of them," he declared in a neutral tone. "Come on now! Everyone has a task," Alpheo continued, rallying his companions. "We shall reconvene this evening for supper in my room. It has been too long since we shared a meal together," he added with a hint of nostalgia in his voice, as he wondered when would be the next time they would feel such peace... Chapter 71: Good news Chapter 71: Good news The tent was as big as an entire house,its fabric fluttering from the wind. Inside, rows of makeshift beds crafted from hay and covered with threadbare blankets lined the space, . Physicists and nurses after dealing with the low numbers of wounded , found themselves with time to waste. It had been four days since the enemy army arrived, and the cunning gift Alpheo had left for them which deprived them of any cannon fodder , had surely raised the ire of their leadership. The progress on filling the moat to breach the city''s defenses had been slow, hindered by the relentless barrage of stones hurled by the defenders. Every attempt by the enemy workers to approach the moat with sacks of dirt on their backs was met with a rain of projectiles, causing casualties to mount and forcing the enemy prince to reconsider his tactics.In the end he decided to build wooden fence to protect the workers from stones . Alpheo, ever vigilant, seized every opportunity to disrupt the enemy''s plans. Regular sorties were launched from the safety of the city gates, with small bands of two hundred men venturing out to engage the workers. Armed with little more than shovels and hammers, the enemy laborers stood little chance against the trained fighters of the city,out they went and in the return. And each time the enemy''s efforts to fill the moat were continually thwarted. As a result, despite the looming threat of siege, the defenders found themselves enjoying a relative peace within the city walls. With the enemy''s progress stymied and their own defenses holding strong, even the officers and higher-ranking men had found themselves with idle hands. ''''How are my men?'''' Alpheo asked in a loud voice as he walked inside the medical tent , causing the wounded men inside to cheer at their captain. He was not one to idly stand by when there was work to be done, and so he made it a point to visit the injured soldiers, seeking to bolster their spirits and raise morale among the troops, since there was nothing else to do. Despite the grim circumstances, the atmosphere in the tent was surprisingly upbeat, with the wounded soldiers engaged in conversation and occasional attempts at flirtation with the attending nurses. Fortunately, the number of casualties was relatively low, no more than thirty, all sustained during the recent sortie. For every one of their own men injured, at least three of the enemy lay dead. The more they attacked however the more the prince increased the number of troops standing on guards , which caused Alpheo to reduce the frequency of sorties , opting instead to focus on hurling stones and arrows from the safety of the city walls. The wounded soldiers received attentive care from the physicians and nurses, their injuries tended to with meticulous care. Bandages were washed and boiled, wounds disinfected with a mixture of boiled wine and vinegar. While these measures significantly reduced the risk of infection, there remained a lingering possibility, albeit minimized, due to the limitations of available resources. Alpheo had considered the use of honey for its antibacterial properties, but its cost proved impossible to mantain leaving them to rely on more economical alternatives such as vinegar, wine, and boiled water. ''''We are doing fine Captain!'''' One of the men shouted back with a bandage in his shoulder ''''How is the wound?'''' Alpheo asked as he eyed the bandage to make sure it was properly done ''''It''s just a scratch, it takes more to take down a bull'''' They both laughed. ''''Can''t wait to have you among us again soldier'''' He patted his shoulder before going to the next.And so like this each of the wounded received a pat on the shoulder from their captain, allowing them to amke short talk before finally leaving . On the way out however, Alpheo approached the fat butcher-doctor. He too for now had nothing to do and after having treated the soldier he allowed himself to rest. ''''Should I be notifed of anything?'''' Alpheo asked as he eyed the man He shook his head ''''No captain,everything is fine , we are still high on supply and the guards you sent me did a good job at keeping away unwanted guests out . All in all , I have no reason to complain '''' Alpheo nodded, pleased to hear the positive report. "Good to hear, Agalasios. Keep up the good work with the wounded. And if you need anything, don''t hesitate to let me know." The butcher-doctor returned the nod, his expression grateful. "Of course, Captain. I''ll be sure to inform you if anything comes up." With that, Alpheo turned to leave the tent, his mind already shifting to the tasks that lay ahead.The flap rustling softly behind him as he stepped out into the cool night air. His gaze instinctively turned towards the city walls, where hundreds of peple stood there, some just gazing other knocking arrows and stones to the front line . As he scanned the streets below, he noticed that there were few people out and about. The usually bustling thoroughfares were eerily quiet, the only sound being the occasional whisper of the wind as it swept through the deserted alleyways. Suddenly, movement caught his eye¡ªa flash of blonde hair darting through the shadows. Alpheo furrowed his brows, curious as to why he was running - As the figure drew closer, Alpheo recognized the child running towards him. It was Ratto, his cupbearer who apparently he also made him be his message bearer, as as he run he kept swinging a piece of parchment into his hand Without hesitation, Alpheo began to walk towards him, his footsteps echoing softly against the cobblestones. As Ratto handed Alpheo the letter, the boy''s breath came in short gasps, his anxiety palpable in the air. Alpheo took the missive, his fingers tracing the rough texture of the parchment it was already broken, as he always had missive read by the assistant of the previous captain, a young man called Shahil . ''''What it says?'''' He asked to Ratto as he believed that he should have already been told of his content. After all Alpheo still did not know how to read. A smile slowly spread across the boy''s face ''''News from the capital, the prince is moving with his army and he is coming here'''' With a gentle pat on Ratto''s head,yhe smile on Alpheo''s face widened, the weight of the siege lifting from his shoulders ever so slightly. "It was time he got on the move....still it is a good new, the end of the siege is in sight. We just need to hold out for a few more days, and then we''ll be able to march out of this city.Perhaps I should be sharing the news with the troops they will certainly be happy.''''As he said so he turned to the boy ''''since you are here follow me there are few things I want to show you. ''''As he said so he started moving towards the gate , the air seemed to became lighter as the end of the siege was finally on sight. Chapter 72: See what they are doing? Chapter 72: See what they are doing? The sun hung high in the sky, casting its golden rays down upon the bustling scene below. Despite the morning hour, the work on both sides of the conflict continued unabated, with neither side showing any sign of respite. Upon the city walls, guards stood watch with spears in hand, their eyes trained on the enemy''s efforts to fill the moats below. Meanwhile, slingers stood poised, their projectiles aimed at the workers below, ready to rain down stones upon them with jeers of triumph whenever their aim proved true. Amidst this scene of activity, Alpheo ascended the stairs of the main gate, emerging onto the wall with purpose in his stride. His gaze swept over the enemy forces below before turning to search for Jarza, his second-in-command. Spotting him leaning against the wall, Alpheo made his way over, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Mind your step," Alpheo advised with a hint of humor as he approached ''''We don''t want one of our commanders to fall down'''' Jarza''s eyes widened momentarily at the sight of Alpheo, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before he composed himself. "I''ll keep that in mind," he replied casually, though there was a subtle note of respect in his tone. "Decided to grace us with your presence, Captain?" he quipped. Alpheo chuckled softly. "You could say that," he replied cryptically, his expression thoughtful as he surveyed the scene before them. Jarza''s gaze shifted to Ratto, who stood nearby, his presence drawing attention. "What''s he doing here?" he inquired, his tone indicating both surprise and curiosity. "He brought me good news," Alpheo explained, a faint smile touching his lips. "And I was getting bored, so I decided to keep him with me." He glanced at Ratto, who shifted uncomfortably under Jarza''s scrutiny. Alpheo reached for the letter in his pocket and handed it to Jarza. "Take a look at this," he said, gesturing toward the parchment. "It''s from a pigeon." Jarza took the letter, his eyes scanning the contents briefly before he looked back at Alpheo with a quizzical expression. "Wow these words really do looks nice" he remarked with a joke. Alpheo snorted a laugh , "It says that the prince is moving toward us with his army," he reported, his voice tinged with a hint of excitement. "And in a few days, he should be arriving here. It seems the siege will be short-lived." Jarza''s eyes widened slightly, a spark of excitement flashing in them as a smile spread across his face. "That''s great news, Captain!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with optimism. Alpheo returned the smile, pleased to see Jarza''s reaction. "Indeed it is," he agreed, a sense of relief washing over him. "We should share this news with the troops. It will do wonders for morale." Jarza nodded in agreement, his enthusiasm evident as he turned to walk along the wall, heading toward the various groups of men stationed there. With purposeful strides, he began to share the news, his voice carrying across the bustling activity of the camp. As Jarza moved from group to group, spreading the word of the impending relief from the siege, Alpheo watched with satisfaction. He knew that news of the prince''s approach would lift the spirits of the men and instill renewed determination in their hearts. The guards atop the walls erupted into cheers, their voices ringing out in a mighty cry that echoed across the camp and into the surrounding countryside. The unexpected outburst caught the workers below off guard, causing them to pause in their labor and glance up in confusion. Confusion rippled through the ranks of the workers as they exchanged puzzled glances, searching for an explanation among their fellow laborers. Finding none, they shrugged off the interruption and returned to their tasks, albeit with a lingering sense of curiosity. With heads bowed and backs bent, the workers continued their laborious efforts, moving alongside the wooden walls erected between the various steps leading to the moat. Some reached their designated covers without incident, their progress unhindered by the commotion above. Others, however, were not so fortunate. Amidst the rhythmic thud of pickaxes striking earth and the scrape of shovels against soil, the air was punctuated by the sickening sound of stones striking flesh. Lone projectiles found their mark, striking workers in the head or smashing through their chests with brutal force. Bones shattered, ribs splintered, and internal organs were punctured, inflicting agonizing pain and ensuring a slow, torturous demise. Meanwhile, the archers of the enemy army attempted to retaliate, their arrows slicing through the air in volleys aimed at the defenders atop the walls. Yet their efforts were often in vain, as the slingers swiftly sought cover behind the sturdy stone walls before reemerging to launch their own projectiles in return. Alpheo rose the young boy up to look over the walls, where they could see the enemy army filling the moat in preparation for an attack on the city.'''' Can you tell me what they are doing?'''' Ratto''s voice held a sure tone as he answered "Yes, they are filling the moat ," he stated before turning his gaze towards Alpheo, who was holding him tightly. "But do you notice something off about their tactics?" Alpheo asked, gesturing towards the men below. Ratto''s brow furrowed as he looked down at the enemy army and then back at Alpheo. "They may be doing something wrong," he admitted with a shake of his head, "but I don''t know what it i'''' "The advantage of being on the defensive is great," Alpheo explained, "you have time to fortify your position, lay traps for the enemy, and prepare the terrain for battle. The attacker, on the other hand, is at a disadvantage. They must march towards the enemy in a position that has been chosen for them. They can try to avoid battle, but that only wastes more supplies so there will be a time when they cannot retreat and they can only go forward. Eventually, they will be forced to make their way forward, regardless of their fighting condition. The only advantage they hold is maneuverability - they get to choose how to fight. And as such, they can plan and anticipate the enemy''s response to their tactics." Ratto remained silent, his eyes fixed on the scene below as Alpheo continued to enlighten him. "Right now, the enemy is focusing their efforts on one section of the moat," Alpheo explained, gesturing towards the workers laboring below. "While this approach may speed up the process of filling the moat, it also limits their flexibility and exposes them to our defenses. By concentrating their forces in one area, they''re essentially making themselves vulnerable , as we can amass all our troops on one point ." Ratto nodded slowly, processing Alpheo''s words. "But why would they take such a risk?'''' Alpheo''s gaze remained fixed on the enemy lines as he pondered the question. "They''re driven by desperation knowing they have wasted a lot of time ," he responded after a moment. "The prince is determined to capture this city, as its fall would greatly enhance his strategic position in the war. However, he''s racing against time, knowing that if he doesn''t succeed before reinforcements arrive, his chances of victory diminish significantly." He then paused, a furrow forming between his brows as he continued, "They likely didn''t anticipate the strength of our defenses, which has disrupted their original plan. Now, they''re doubling down on their efforts to breach the city before it''s too late." Ratto looked at Alpheo then nodded ''''Still, why do you think they thought it would be easy to conquer the city?'''' ''''Well the garrison had low numbers before our arrival.So that''s one reason ''''He answered keeping the other one to himself. Or maybe they had an insider in the city, he thought as he looked back, wondering what were the chances of that and if he were to strike first without proof. Chapter 73: Assault(1) Chapter 73: Assault(1) "MOVE! MOVE! MOVE! ON THE WALL NOW!" Jarza''s voice echoed across the city walls, a command that sent a ripple of urgency through the defenders. Alpheo gazed the scene before him, his eyes taking in the chaos. Men armed with spears and shields rushed to their positions atop the walls, their gazes fixed on the distant enemy forces gathering for the impending assault, some were gulping nervously other were fidgeting in fear. Meanwhile, children and women darted through the city, ferrying arrows and small stones to bolster the defenders'' supplies.The first to be shot and the latter to be thrown. ''This one is to be a brutal day'' , he thought as he eyes the enemey''s formation.The prince of Oizen had constructed battering rams and assembled ladders, clear indications of their intent to breach the city''s defenses. "They will try to assault the walls using the ladders, while battering the gate with their ram," Alpheo mused, his gaze fixed on the enemy formations taking shape in the distance. "And once the gate falls, the city goes with it." Two tense days had passed since they received the letter confirming the enemy''s advance. Now, as the enemy completed their preparations, Alpheo knew they would concentrate their forces on the gate, their primary entry point into the city. Despite this, he remained vigilant, ensuring that all sections of the wall were adequately defended in case of any unexpected maneuvers.The last thing he wanted was for everhting to be a rouse and before they realize the attack was one of the other gate. While most of the defenders manned the walls, Alpheo had allocated two hundred of their forces to serve as reserves, ready to reinforce any weak points as needed and also exchange position with the men on the front once they get tired. Supplies of arrows, stones, and chopped wood were meticulously stocked, ensuring that the defenders had everything they needed to repel the enemy onslaught. With the city bracing for the impending assault, Alpheo knew that every ounce of preparation could make the difference between victory and defeat.Everything had been done and the fate of the city was in the hands of the god.Or at least so most people thought, Alpheo was the exception he didnot know if something existed in the sky or deep in the dirt, but he did not think that the numerous gods of this lands actually existed. "At least it''s not going to rain," Alpheo muttered to himself, his gaze drifting upwards with a hint of relief. He despised the discomfort that rain brought, especially during a tense situation like this. His attention shifted to the other gates, where each of his trusted companions was tasked with a command. Jarza would oversee the defense of the front gate, while Egil and Laedio were stationed at the eastern and western walls, respectively. Asag was in charge of the reinforcement units, ready to move wherever needed. Meanwhile, Clio was given authority over the infantry positioned on a wall adjacent to the gate¡ªa position that offered action without excessive risk, as the enemy would likely use ladders for their assault. Approaching Jarza, Alpheo conveyed his instructions with clarity. "Make sure to let the ram enter in action before proceeding. We want it to be thoroughly destroyed. If we destroy it, the enemy will lose any chance of gaining the city." Jarza nodded in understanding, his gaze shifting to the imposing gate and its strategically positioned towers. "Understood," he replied, his attention fully focused on the task at hand. As Alpheo began to walk away, Jarza called out to him, a note of concern in his voice. "Hey, Alpheo, make sure to stay out of harm''s way." Alpheo smiled reassuringly, raising a hand in a dismissive gesture. "Don''t worry about me," he replied confidently. Despite holding one of the most important roles in the defense, he knew it was also one of the safest. Positioned within the towers guarding the gate, he would be shielded from the initial enemy assault. To reach him, the enemy would have to breach the gate itself¡ªan obstacle that would prove daunting, to say the least. For the moment ,however Alpheo choose not to not stay inside any of the two towers, he preferred to stay on top of the wall and gaze onward, and there it finally arrived. Dozens of men holding horns, gave the signal ¡ªWUNNNN- The men started moving ,Alpheo could not see their face, but he knew that if his men were getting nervous , then the enemy peasants must have been shitting themselves. That was what they were, peasants . The prince had no time to drill his men, which meant that apart from the hundreds of elite of the nobles and the prince, the entire army was made of undisciplined levies . If there was one thing that Alpheo desired was to meet the prince.He wanted to know the face of the crazy son of a bitch, but unfortunately he would never have such opportunity. His gaze fell on the enemy''s banner, as many as the clouds in the sky, fluttering in the win they danced in the breeze, liked leaves in the winds . ''''SLINGERS'''' Jarza shouted as he raised his hand, and one hundred , man put the stones on their slings and started building the cinetic energy for the throw . There was no order given by the commander, as soon as they thought they were on range, they started to rain down stones. Dozens of stones hurled in the skies, cutting the air with their body. Soon some men fell to the ground, the stones hitting the head of some and the shoulders of others. Confusion rippled through the ranks of the enemy before they realized what was happening. ''''RAISE SHIELDS'''' Officers shouted as they made the motion, copied by their men.The shields given to the man were a cumbersome thing , rectangular shaped and big enough to cover their torso.The men raised them diagonally to their heads, as that was the part of the body they had to protect. The shields, bulky and cumbersome, offered protection against the hail of stones. Officers barked orders, urging their men to advance while shielding themselves from the incoming projectiles. The air filled with the sound of stones colliding with wood -Smash-Smash-Smash- The relentless barrage of stones rained down upon the enemy lines, most deflected by hastily raised shields, but a few finding their mark, inflicting painful wounds upon the unfortunate few who were struck. The cries of the injured pierced the air, their agony serving as a grim reminder of the brutality of war. Yet, despite their suffering, the wounded remained a small minority, their injuries unable to deter the resolve of the advancing army. Alpheo''s gaze remained fixed upon the enemy''s progress, his expression unreadable as he assessed the situation with a cool detachment. While the mass of men moving forward held little interest for him, his attention was drawn to the battering ram steadily advancing towards the city''s defenses. It was this looming threat that occupied his thoughts, the potential breach of their walls a far greater concern than the mere foot soldiers approaching. As the enemy forces closed in on the second moat, Alpheo knew it was time for the archers to shine. With the enemy now within range, both sides unleashed a storm of arrows upon each other. The defenders, positioned high upon the walls, had the advantage of elevation and cover, while the attackers, lacking such protection apart from few wooden shuffles , were sitting ducks and were left vulnerable to the deadly rain of projectiles. Jarza''s archers targeted the advancing infantry, aiming to thin their ranks and disrupt their formation. The narrow path created by the enemy''s makeshift bridge provided a prime opportunity for the defenders to concentrate their fire, picking off their foes with deadly accuracy, as they could not march all at once, . With each volley of arrows, the defenders exacted a toll upon the enemy''s forces that succeded in raising the nerves of the enemy''s army. Chapter 74: Assault(2) Chapter 74: Assault(2) "Eat this, bastards!" A triumphant cry echoed across the wall as an archer''s arrow found its mark, piercing through an enemy''s neck with deadly precision. The satisfaction in the archer''s voice fell in the air as he watched his foe succumb, with the piece of wood sticking out of his throat , drowning in the very essence that gave him life. "More arrows!" Another archer''s urgent plea resonated through the chaos as their dwindling supply threatened to leave them vulnerable. A young boy hurriedly scurried to replenish their stock, but for now, they made do with what they had. Each arrow loosed from their bows found a target, adding to the mounting toll of the enemy''s casualties. Below the walls, the enemy drew ever closer, their advance marked by advanicng presence of ladders held aloft by determined soldiers. Arrows whistled through the air, finding their marks amidst the chaos, while stones crashed against shields and skulls alike. A sudden thud silenced the air as a stone struck an enemy soldier squarely on the temple, felling him without a sound. His vacant eyes stared skyward, an eerie stillness settling over his lifeless form. Yet, in the face of death, his comrades pressed on, another quickly taking his place as they held the laddery as they surged forward with unwavering resolve.He came and went as he never existed, as he never lived, his remains standing on a foreign flee away from loved''s tears. After dozens of such stories, the enemy''s ladders finally reached the walls, dozens ascending in a desperate bid to breach the defenses. But they were met with fierce resistance as defenders armed with maces and lances awaited their ascent. With each step closer to the ramparts, the enemy became ensnared in a deadly trap, where lethal projectiles replaced the rain of arrows, raining down upon them with unrelenting force even before they could see the face of their enemy, and that was even before they reached the top. "Cease your throwing!" bellowed an officer of the Yarlaat mercenary company, his voice slicing through the chaos like a blade. With a pointed gesture, he directed his men''s attention to the ladders ascending the walls. "Aim for those on the ladders!Forget those on the grounds " With a coordinated effort, the defenders adjusted their aim, targeting the precarious footholds of the enemy scaling the walls. Debris, boulders, and chunks of wood hurtled through the air, finding their marks as they came down . The impact sent shockwaves through the ranks of the invaders, toppling those on the front lines and those below, their bodies crashing to the earth below with sickening thuds. Bones shattered, and lives were snuffed out in an instant, as an insect toppled by an heel. For the besieging soldiers, there was no respite, no sanctuary from the relentless onslaught. Forced forward by the menacing blades of their own officers, they teetered on the precipice of death with every step. These were not seasoned warriors hardened by years of combat but ordinary men thrust into the crucible of war, their hands calloused from tending fields now gripping wooden staffs as they tried to make their steps on the wall in a desperate bid for survival. Yet, survival was a fleeting hope as they faced a barrage of lethal projectiles from above, raining down upon them with unrelenting fury. In the span of a heartbeat, a farmer turned soldier could find himself crushed beneath the weight of a falling boulder or impaled by a lance before he even had a chance to set foot upon the walls. As Alpheo surveyed the chaos of battle unfolding before him, a satisfaction settled in his chest. Arrows streaked through the air like vengeful spirits, finding their marks amidst the ranks of the enemy. Yet, even as their own projectiles struck true, the invaders'' arrows either shattered against the stone walls or found their way into the heart of the city. He took pleasure in that. As long as those dying weren''t his comrades or those under his command, he felt little remorse in witnessing their demise. In fact, there was a certain poetry to the spectacle, a cruel beauty in the inevitability of death . Though part of him yearned to join the fray and personally dispatch a foe or two, Alpheo knew his place as the commander. His duty lay not in the act of killing but in orchestrating the defense of the city. His gaze shifted to the battering ram steadily advancing toward his position, prompting him to issue a command to the archers stationed behind him. "Aim at the men holding the ram!" Alpheo''s voice cut through the din of battle, a sharp directive that spurred the thirty archers into action. With practiced precision, they unleashed a volley of arrows upon the enemy, most finding their mark on the roof of the ram, while others struck the soldiers beneath, eliciting anguished cries of pain. As he watched the assault, Alpheo couldn''t help but grimace at the shortcomings of the city''s defenses. There were no underground features beneath the walls to provide additional avenues of defense, forcing the archers to rely solely on shooting from above. In his experience, fortresses with strategically placed openings along the walls could allow archers to target the men operating the ram more effectively. Yet, despite these deficiencies, Alpheo knew that it wouldn''t be the arrows that ultimately decided the fate of the ram.This was after all but a small city As the battering ram finally reached the gate, the men surrounding it endured a relentless barrage of arrows and heavy boulders raining down upon them. Each impact tore through flesh and bone with brutal efficiency, leaving behind a trail of broken bodies. Amidst the chaos of battle, the officer leading the assault couldn''t help but emit a twisted sense of satisfaction as the steel point of the ram relentlessly pounded against the wooden frame of the gate. With each strike, they edged closer to breaching the city''s defenses and laying waste to its streets. Alpheo, observing the scene with a calculating gaze, sensed that the time for his plan had come. With a grin, he turned to his men and issued a macabre command. "Get hold of the pottery! Let''s roast some meat, boys!" The cheers that erupted from his men echoed across the walls as they eagerly retrieved jars containing fat and oil, their eyes alight with anticipation. "Throw them!" Alpheo''s command rang out, and his men wasted no time in obeying. The jars shattered upon impact, spilling their contents onto the ground below. Confusion flickered across the faces of the enemy soldiers as they beheld the strange substance, their bewilderment cut short as flaming arrows from below ignited the spilled liquid. In an instant, fire erupted from the mix of oil and pig''s fat, amidst the ranks of the enemy, engulfing them in a searing blaze of agony and terror. Men screamed in agony as flames consumed their flesh,other screamed in fear of the same happening to them , panic spreading like wildfire as chaos seized hold of the assault. The meticulously crafted formations of the enemy dissolved into disarray, their discipline crumbling in the face of the inferno unleashed upon them.The discipline that the officer built through their blades shattered as men ran everywhere. With a triumphant smile curling his lips, Alpheo seized his horn and blew a single resounding note that pierced through the clamor of battle. At his signal, the massive gate of the city began to creak open, revealing a small group of ten men waiting only to act . In a swift and coordinated movement, the men dashed forward, their footsteps echoing across the courtyard as they raced towards the burning ram. No man was there to stop them, nor to to protect the ram. With practiced efficiency, they spread the jars of flammable oil and fat across the surface of the siege weapon , coating it in oil and fat . Then, they threw the torches on it , the flames licking hungrily at the soaked wood. As the intense heat radiated from the blazing ram, , the men swiftly retreatedn before the enemy could realise what was happenign , their mission accomplished. Behind them, the heavy gates of the city swung shut with a thunderous clang, sealing off the burning ram within the confines of the outer defenses. Alpheo watched with satisfaction as the flames engulfed the ram, the city would remain in his hand , as he knew that the siege would end as quick as it started. Chapter 75: Rat(1) Chapter 75: Rat(1) "Hey, lad, fill my cup, can''t you see how light it is? Or perhaps your only skill is stealing?" Egil chuckled, lifting his cup and signaling Ratto to refill it. It had been a while since they all enjoyed such a lively dinner together. The tension of battle had dissipated, leaving behind a pleasant weariness, as all the adrenaline gave place to an uneasy sense of peace "Take it easy, now. We don''t know if the enemy decides to have a try during the evening " Jarza cautioned between mouthfuls of meat. He was usually a man of few words, but when he spoke he was always heard "Chaning topic " Clio leaned in, his eyes gleaming with curiosity as he turned toward Egil , "how''s your foot holding up?" With a mischievous glint, he lifted his bandaged foot onto the table. "Good as new," he quipped, earning a collective groan of disgust and a demand from Alpheo to keep it down and avoid disturbing their meal. "You were lucky..." Clio remarked, a note of seriousness in his voice. "If those arrows had been a bit off-target, it might not have been your foot but your neck or shoulder." "Thank the gods for small favors, thank yourself for the big ones " Egil replied with a grin, taking a sip from his cup. "What a day, eh?" he declared, raising his cup in a toast. The others echoed his sentiment, though Alpheo''s was evidently less jumpy . Seeing this , Jarza prodded him, and after some reluctance, Alpheo admitted his concerns. "Their side has been too quiet," he explained. "It''s troubling." "Maybe they''ve realized further assaults would be futile," Egil suggested optimistically, though it was clear he couldn''t shake off his friend''s worries. "They know reinforcements are on the way," Alpheo reasoned. "They wouldn''t risk losing more troops with another failed attempt.From what I know our enemy has been throwing rings around our employer for long enough..." "Then why are you so worried?You''ll get wrinkles if you keep this up'''' Alpheo paused, his expression tense as he considered his response. "Something changed," he finally replied, his voice laced with apprehension. "They are planning something. I can feel it, but I don''t know what it is." He punctuated his words with a loud crunch as he took a bite of bread, his jaw working furiously as he chewed, though it sounded more mechanical than anything . "You''re overthinking it," Clio interjected, attempting to assuage his friend''s concerns. "Maybe I am, maybe I''m not... It''s just a feeling, after all," Alpheo conceded, though the worry still lingered in his eyes. Ratto approached quietly, refilling Alpheo''s cup before unexpectedly addressing him. "What about you?" he asked. "Do you have anything to add or ask? Sometimes the mind of a boy discovers something that old men can''t see." He shook his head in denial The question drew a chuckle from Egil though . "You''ve not even seen twenty winters yet. What old man are you supposed to be?" he quipped. "I feel like I''m past fifty already. Being wise does that, apparently "Alpheo replied with a wry smile, shrugging off the jest. Egil snorted, then turned his attention elsewhere. "Where is Asag?" he inquired. "He should be arriving soon. I''ve already sent for him," "What about Captain...Shahil?'''' Egil asked '''' Fahil" Jarza interjected, correcting the slip of the tongue. "He hasn''t been invited, and I doubt he''d entertain sharing food and drinks with some lowly mercenaries," Alpheo remarked, taking a sip of his drink. He remembered assigning Fahil command over twenty archers during the siege, a decision that likely didn''t sit well with the captain. He wanted more but that was what he was going to get. "Well, who cares?" Alpheo mused as the door finally swung open, signaling the arrival of their missing companion. Asag entered the feast hall with a confident stride . His eyes lacked any mirth as they locked with Alpheo''s. Egil''s face lit up with a warm smile as he spotted Asag entering. "Ah, there he is! Come and join us," he beckoned, gesturing to an empty seat at the table. He made no sign to move, he instead turned to Alpheo his gaze intense and focused. "We may have a problem " he stated matter-of-factly, his voice carrying a weight of concern. Alpheo''s sigh echoed through the room, his demeanor shifting as his gaze turned cold. "When did it happen?" The room fell into a heavy silence, tension palpable as the others exchanged uneasy glances, sensing that something was amiss. "A few hours ago," Asag replied, his voice steady but tinged with concern. Alpheo''s brow furrowed as he considered the implications. "Are you sure it wasn''t just some encounter with a whore?" Asag''s response was firm. "It was a male figure, and unless he''s a sword-swallower, then yes, I''m sure." The others looked in confusion at the exchange , though they kept silent. Alpheo took a moment to collect his thoughts, closing his eyes briefly before addressing the group. "Ratto, please fetch another chair. We''ll have a guest joining us shortly." Without hesitation, Ratto hurried from the room to fulfill Alpheo''s request. Meanwhile, Alpheo turned his attention back to Asag. "Tell Fahil to join us for a meal. Tell him I need his counsel on certain matters. Bring some men with you, but keep them outside. If he refuses to comply, have them enter and rough him up on the edges ." "As you wish," Asag nodded, rising from his seat to carry out Alpheo''s instructions. However, before he could leave, Alpheo halted him with a raised hand. "But before that, there''s something I need you to prepare," Alpheo added. The room fell silent for two long hours before the heavy wooden door swung open once more, breaking the tense stillness with a loud creak. Asag strode into the room, his dark expression unreadable as he led their guest, Fahil, through the doorway. The newcomer''s posture was rigid as he surveyed each man sitting at the table, guided by Asag to his designated seat. "I have been told we would be discussing matters about the city," Fahil said in a low voice "You have been told correctly," Alpheo replied smoothly, taking a sip from his cup before continuing. "In a few days, your prince will be arriving to relieve the city and we can all go our separate ways. Normally, I would be more than happy for that... if it weren''t for something that has just come to my attention." "What is it?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady and posture upright . "Well, it appears , but take this with a pinch of salt.... that our enemy is planning an attack on the city tomorrow," Alpheo revealed calmly as if discussing nothing more significant than the weather. ''''You appear sure of that, why''s that?'''' Alpheo''s enigmatic smile remained in place as he leaned back in his chair, seemingly unperturbed by Fahil''s reaction. "Rats are always easy to catch " he added cryptically, his gaze drifting up towards the roof as if searching for bats. Suddenly, he put two fingers in his mouth and let out a whistle, shattering the heavy silence in an instant. Two figures appeared from the kitchen door, dragging a bloodied man between them. Fahil''s eyes narrowed as he wondered who he was. Chapter 76: Rat(2) Chapter 76: Rat(2) Fahil''s gaze remained fixed on the bloodied man, his mind racing with a flurry of thoughts and suspicions. Yet as he looked closer he realised this wasn''t the individual he''d had contact with, he gave out a breath of relief. Perhaps, he dared to hope, his covert actions had gone unnoticed. Suppressing his inner turmoil, Fahil played the role of the curious observer, "Who is he?" he inquired, his tone carefully neutral. "Ah, now that," he replied cryptically, "is a tale best told by our newfound friends here." Moving forward, Alpheo advanced toward the bloodied man, seizing him by the hair to force his head upright, forcing him to look up to the man. --PFFT-- A spit landed on Alpheo, as if nothing happened Alpheo cleaned the spit out of his cheek before backslapping the man, letting go of his hair. Fahil winced as the blow landed, and the man went limp.As Alpheo ordered the spy''s return to his cell and instructed for him to be given a thorough beating, Fahil''s mind raced with a torrent of questions and concerns.He was never good at scheming , if he was , he would surely have understood what his position was, yet the commander was currently surviving on the feeble hope, that he was just called to be informed of the spy. "Do we know where they will be attacking?" he asked "Not yet," he admitted, a flicker of irritation dancing in his eyes. "The bastard does not know it , but," he continued, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper as he gave Fahil a smile, "we did manage to extract something else from him" "Apparently, he was not alone," he continued , his tone matter-of-fact. Fahil''s breath caught in his throat, his mind reeling at his words. "I presume you captured them all?" he ventured, his voice strained. Alpheo''s response was curt yet affirmative. "Indeed," he confirmed, his gaze steady. "But," he added with a note of caution, "there may still be one or two that I did not catch" Fahil''s pulse quickened "If you will allow me,I will send my men to lead a watch party inside the city " Alpheo made no answer he just watched him with a neutral stare. Fahil ''s gaze darted to his sides, where Jarza and Egil appeared closer than before . But when he turned his attention forward, his heart skipped a beat, the young man on the front was smiling¡ªa chilling, predatory grin that sent a shiver down Fahil''s spine. He was caught. Without hesitation, Fahil lunged towards Alpheo, his hand reaching for his dagger. But before he could even draw the blade, agony exploded in his left hand, followed by a sharp tug that pulled him back with a forceful jolt. He cried out in pain, his breath catching in his throat as he realized he had been thwarted, with a dagger nailing his palm to the table. "Lay your palms flat " Egil''s voice cut through Fahil''s anguish, the casual flick of his dagger sending a wave of fresh torment coursing through Fahil''s wounded hand. "You fucking bastard," Fahil growled through gritted teeth, his voice laced with venom as he struggled to endure the agony coursing through his hand. He raised his gaze to meet Alpheo''s, the intensity of his hatred burning brightly in his eyes. ''''Well I am sure you will be happy to know, that the ''spy'' which we have caught was one of my men. Quite the actor,isn''t he?'''' Fahil made no answer, he just gave a deep sigh and lowered his eyes .Seeing this Alpheo gave a deep breath as he continued ''''Initially I thought about using torture , however that is a rather unsure method,after all I have no way to know if what you are saying is the truth or not'''' Alpheo''s response was measured, his tone calm and composed despite the chaos swirling around them. "Things rarely unfold as planned.Truth be told, if you had kept ignorant a bit more I would have thought I had erred" he remarked, his voice carrying an air of detached curiosity. "I''m curious, Fahil. What did he promise you?" "To be made baron of Aracina," Fahil spat out the words with bitter resentment, his voice thick with defiance. "A tempting offer, indeed," Alpheo mused, his expression unreadable. "In exchange I think you had to open one of the gate to him?During the night perhaps...'''' Fahil''s desperation was palpable as he ranted on ignoring the question , his voice tinged with madness as he clung to the remnants of his shattered ambitions. "Arkawatt will lose. He''s barely clinging to power with your men by his side. Desert him, and Prince Sulayth will reward you handsomely. Why die for a losing cause when you can bask in opulence?" Alpheo regarded Fahil with a mixture of pity and contempt, his gaze unwavering as he contemplated their next move. " I have more important issues to check now. There is also still the thing about your fate..." he mentioned , his voice tinged with a hint of irony. Fahil''s response was immediate, his tone desperate as he pleaded for clemency. "Haven''t you heard me? Join his grace, and you''ll be granted wealth beyond your wildest dreams." "You''re a terrible liar, you know?" Alpheo''s words cut through the tension, accompanied by a smile that bordered on mockery as he tapped Fahil''s forehead lightly. Fahil''s response was resigned, his sigh heavy with the weight of impending doom. "Very well, go on with it," he acquiesced, his gaze dropping to the floor in defeat. "Your head will soon lie with mine, the prince will surely breach the city, be it before or after the prince arrive. " As Alpheo approached, Fahil braced himself for what was to come, his body tense with anticipation. Alpheo''s hand reached out, hovering inches from Fahil''s neck before descending to his shoulder in a reassuring pat. "Why so pessimistic?" Alpheo said his smile warm and inviting. "There''s still a way out. Death may be the end of everything, but fortunately for you, the end of the road is not yet in sight. You can still choose to take a detour if you wish to live." Fahil''s gaze narrowed at Alpheo''s words, a mixture of skepticism and defiance etched across his features. "If you don''t take my head, Arkawatt will. Do me a favor and be quick with it," he retorted, his tone laced with bitterness. Alpheo''s response was calm and collected, his confidence unwavering in the face of Fahil''s disdain. "Now, now, that''s what would happen if I weren''t here," he replied with a faint smirk. "Fortunately for you, you may have got someone covering your ass." Fahil''s skepticism only deepened, his expression morphing into one of incredulity. "And that would be you?" he scoffed, his disbelief evident in the curl of his lip. "I assume you would need something from me?If it is silver this city is awfully empty of it.." Alpheo''s smile remained unfaltering, his demeanor exuding an air of calculated charm. "I want no gold nor silver. Well what I am searching for , it''s more of an exchange, a favor for a favor," he explained, his tone smooth and persuasive. "You do a small little thing for me, and I''ll make sure that not only will you avoid execution for changing sides, but you''ll even be rewarded handsomely.You scratch my back, I scratch yours... Care to listen?" Chapter 77: Night鈥檚 cloak(1) Chapter 85: Night''s cloak(1) As night draped its cloak over the city, the guards atop the walls moved across the walls , their footsteps echoing softly on the stony ground. Each one held a torch aloft, its flickering flame casting dancing shadows along the battlements. With keen eyes, they scanned the darkness beyond, sweeping their torches forward and down in search of any sign of movement or intrusion. The moon, a silent spectator in the sky, offered little assistance to the vigilant scouts below, covered by the clouds, Its pale light struggled to penetrate the thick veil of night, leaving vast stretches of the city''s perimeter shrouded in shadow. . In the cloak of darkness, hundreds of men stood poised and alert, their figures obscured by the blackness of night. No torches illuminated their presence, for stealth was their ally in this operation. With eyes narrowed against the gloom, they maintained close proximity to their comrades,shoulder to shoulder, ensuring that their formation remained intact in the shadowy expanse. These were no ordinary foot soldiers; they were the elite infantry of the prince of Oizen , distinguished by their impeccable training and formidable equipment. Clad in the finest chainmail, breastplates, and helmets, they were the vanguard of the prince''s forces, entrusted with the most critical of missions. Armed with sturdy shields and gleaming lances, they had earned a reputation for unyielding resolve on the battlefield, never faltering in the face of adversity unless commanded to do so, they were always the last one to enter the battle and the first one to be pull out of . Reserved for pivotal moments in battle, they were accustomed to being held in reserve until their expertise was required to turn the tide. Their numbers were cherished by the prince, who recognized their irreplaceable value and took care not to squander their lives needlessly.Each soldier always trained in time of peace, and many of them were even literate. Now, as the city lay besieged by enemy forces, their skills were indispensable in reclaiming what rightfully belonged to their liege. In the silent anticipation of the night, they remained hunkered down, their senses finely attuned to the slightest sound or movement. Each man awaited the command of their officers, ready to spring into action at a moment''s notice and execute their duty with precision and unwavering determination. The officers stood in a tight circle, their gaze fixed ahead toward their captains. Among them stood Shamliak, the nephew of the prince of Oizen and commander of the prince''s elite? force.His father died in battle after saving the prince life, and in return he was always the favorite nephew of the ruler, who treated him akin to a son. As the tense moments passed, Shamliak''s heart pounded in his chest. Would their insider succeed in his clandestine task, or would their carefully laid plans crumble before their eyes? Despite his reservations, he kept his focus trained on the gate, unwilling to succumb to pessimism. Then, as if a beacon of hope in the darkness, torchlight flickered atop the city walls,going forth and back four times signaling the beginning of their operation. Shamliak''s breath caught in his throat as he watched the gate begin to creak open, a sense of disbelief washing over him. ''''Man go forth!Take the city for your prince '''' He spoke as he struck his horse forward.His words carried the weight of authority as the three hundred soldiers, entrusted to them by the prince, began to advance toward the gate. Each step was deliberate, purposeful, as they formed the vanguard of their army. Their movements were synchronized, their armor gleaming faintly in the dim light of the moon. Shields held aloft, lances at the ready, they pressed forward . The fate of their mission rested on their shoulders, and they bore the responsibility with stoic resolve. Behind them, the levy peasants of the army waited anxiously, their eyes trained on the advancing vanguard. They stood ready to follow suit, prepared to lend their strength to the cause should the road ahead be deemed safe. Finally they passed through the gate,the road ahead was empty and they easily took control of the gate from the same men that opened it for them .The silence that enveloped the city was unsettling, especially considering the clamor their entry must have caused. His keen eyes scanned the darkness beyond, searching for any sign of movement or opposition. With a furrowed brow, he turned his attention back to his men as they streamed through the gate behind him. Their figures were illuminated only by the faint glow of their own torches, casting long shadows against the stone walls of the city. Despite the eerie quiet, the urgency of their mission pressed on. ''Something is strange'' he mused as he turn his head back , where he saw his men pass through the gate.It was dark , the few torches that were held on top of the gate were no more.''Where is that captain?'' The commander wondered as he watched everywhere for him to appear ''Did he stood back?Where are those guards?'' He raised his head to see where the men they saw on top of the gate were,perhaps the captiain would be among them. It was dark though and Shamliak failed to see farther than the faces of the man that stood few meters from him.No one had torches so he couldn''t send anyone to make light, he did not even know if they were there . Yet they were now inside and he had order to give to his squads, as there was no time to waste. ''''Sir the gate is ours!Permission to go forth and take control of the rest of the walls?'''' An officer came to report as he approched the relative of the prince waiting for instruction.The army could certainly not wait for him to wash away his doubts , he was the commander and he had orders to give. ''''Send a message to the rest of the men out of the city to sally inside ,then take the rest and sweep any resistance you find along the way. I want this city to be ours by the end of the night.I want o looting , Have I been clear?'''' ''''Yes my lord !Men come with me.'''' The officer shouted as he took command of the men and march forward. With 100 men he started moving on the base of the wall, and whenever they reached a watched tower , they charged ,killed the few men insides and took control of it and went forward unopposed. As the soldiers charged inside the city walls, their footsteps echoing through the empty streets, their spirits were high with the thought of victory on the horizon. The lack of opposition only fueled their confidence as they discussed the spoils awaiting them. "I can''t believe how easy this is," one soldier remarked, a smirk playing on his face. "We''re practically strolling in and claiming this city as our own." His companion nodded in agreement, scanning the surrounding buildings for potential loot. "I can already see the riches we''ll be taking back with us. This city won''t know what hit them." One of these soldier perhapse out of curiosity , as he charged out of a watchtower, turned his head to watch on one of the many dark streets they passed . Perhaps by the gods'' cruel sense of mirth or by chance, the soldier high with victory and greed was the first to see that this city would not be their triumph but their tomb. As in front of them , a lone ray from the moon , where hundreds failed to reach, had illuminated enough to see dozens of blade shining in the night,and the face of the man holding them poised to pay steel for steel and blood by blood. Chapter 78: Night cloak(2) Chapter 78: Night cloak(2) The warning cry rang out like a clarion call, jolting the Oizen soldiers from their momentary stupor. A shallow cry cutting through the silence and the dark. "IT''S AN AMBUSH!" The soldier''s shouted as he sprinted back to his comrades, repeating the ominous refrain. Yet, before the full gravity of his words could sink in, the darkness erupted with violence, almost like a shadow rebelling to his master. Blades materialized from the dark like specters of death, catching the Oizen soldiers off guard. From every crevice and alley, men clad in chainmail and helmets emerged, their presence turning the once deserted streets into a battlefield. The element of surprise favored the attackers, and before the Oizen soldiers could react, they found themselves encircled, flanked on almost any sides , cut off from any reinforcement and outnumbered, their backs on the wall as the enemy charged forth. As the attackers closed in, the Oizen soldiers felt the noose tightening around them. "WITH ME, MEN!" The officer''s voice cut through the chaos,trying to rally his men , a beacon of defiance as he tried to revert an impossible situation . With grim determination, he rallied a group of soldiers to make a desperate stand against the encircling enemy.But it was like stopping a river with bare hands . With a resounding battle cry, the officer and his makeshift vanguard charged into the fray, their weapons clashing against the onslaught of foes. Despite their valor, the odds were stacked against them, and the melee devolved into a brutal struggle for survival. Men fell on both sides, their screams lost in the cacophony of combat. With a swift motion, the officer deflected the thrust of an enemy lance with his shield, the impact reverberating through his arm. Seizing the moment, he countered with a powerful blow, the edge of his shield connecting with the face of the enemy. The force of the strike knocked the assailant off balance, sending him crashing to the ground with a pained grunt. As the officer dispatched his foe with a swift coup de grace, he spared no time for hesitation. With grim determination, he pressed forward, driving toward the weak point in the enemy''s formation. His blade became a blur of motion as he carved a path through the encircling foes, f they were to survive they had to inform the rest of the army of the ambush Amidst the chaos of battle, the officer''s leadership proved crucial. "Don''t get isolated!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the clamor of combat. "Go forward! Fall back, and you are dead!" His words were a rallying cry, urging his comrades to keep pace as they fought tooth and nail to break free from the enemy''s grasp, some managed to do so most however failed and were left behind . With steely determination, the officer fought his way to the edge of the encirclement, his comrades close at his heels. Sensing an opportunity, he seized upon it with relentless ferocity,through a charge that created a small opening in the enemy''s ranks. With a decisive push, he led his men through the breach, their boots pounding against the cobblestones as they fled from the heart of the melee. As they ran, the sounds of battle faded into the distance behind them, replaced by the rhythmic thud of their footsteps and the pounding of their hearts. With every passing moment, the officer could feel the weight of their narrow escape bearing down upon him, the hole they had opened was closed and apparently the enemy thought it would be too bothersome to pursue them Finally, they emerged from the chaos of the streets, their breath ragged and their bodies battered but alive. ''The commander'' he thought as he continued to ran , his throat hurting from the cold air sucked in through the mouth ''He needs to know'' and so avoiding death he set forth , as from the 80 men he led inside the city less than fifteen were following him, the rest were instead being gradually cut down behind them. ''''Where are we going sir?'''' A man asked as he held his bloodied shoulder ''''We link up with the rest of the army '''' He answered briefly before increasing the pace, leaving those that could not keep up behind. As the officer and his surviving comrades finally reached the safety of the main army at the gate, their relief was short-lived. A grim realization washed over him as he surveyed the scene before him. The rest of his comrades, pressed on all sides, were being overwhelmed by a relentless onslaught, what had happened to them was happening to the rest of the army right now. From the walls and the buildings, arrows and stones rained down upon the defenders, turning their moment of triumph into a desperate fight for survival. It was dark as no torches were present except from the attacking army, meaning that while their position was easy to spot , those of the archers was not ''''Why are they not reinforcing us?'''' The officer murmured as he could not comprehend why they were not overwhelming the defenders with their numbers, after all the army was not outside the city? Some of the defenders caught sight of the officer and his group, and as they gestured to their comrades , death came knocking at their door . Before they could fully comprehend the gravity of the situation, arrows began to rain down upon them. The air was filled with the deadly whistle of projectiles. The officer and his comrades too late to raise their shield as the night covered the arrows, got pierced by dozens of them . Despite their best efforts, they were just a fraction of the defenders destined to fall in the face of overwhelming odds, as the man who planned such slaughter was leasurely stretching his back as dozens of men fell at his feet. Trapped within the tightening circle of enemy forces, the encircled men fought desperately to break free, but their efforts were met with fierce resistance at every turn. With each charge forward, they faced a barrage of arrows, stones, and weapons wielded by their adversaries. As they surged toward the enemy lines, shields held high and swords flashing in the dim light, they were met with a rain of projectiles. Arrows streaked through the air like deadly darts, finding their marks with lethal precision. Stones hurled from slings or thrown over from the walls into the ranks, breaking bones and shattering armor. Despite their bravery and determination, most of the encircled men were quickly cut down by the relentless assault. Those who managed to close the distance with the enemy found themselves outnumbered and outmatched, surrounded on all sides by foes with shields locked together in a solid wall of defense. With each failed attempt to break free, their ranks dwindled further, and desperation began to set in. It all happened at once ,they were easily marching through the city, the gate was theirs , yet the lack of torches was deliberately made from the enemy to not let them see what was over their head.The men entering the tower of the gate, never left as they were cut down from men hiding in closet and in other spot covered by darkness. And then it happened , all of a suddentheir escape route was swiftly cut off as a net filled with heavy boulders was dropped behind them, sealing their fate.Normally that could have been easy to fix, just simply using the men to cut the rope and take the boulders away , however panic set on as some of the men frantically attempted to climb over the obstruction, only to be met with a barrage of enemy attacks. The moment the boulders fell , they were shot down by arrows, and the clanking of armor could have be heard coming from the darkness , as numerous teams of men charged the main army that entered the city, straight towards the commander, the nephew of the prince. With their retreat blocked and no path forward, the men found themselves trapped in a deadly trap. The enemy closed in from all sides, their movements swift and coordinated, as they unleashed a relentless onslaught upon the helpless defenders. Any hope of mobility or escape was swiftly extinguished as the enemy''s projectiles found their marks, rendering the men immobile and vulnerable. Surrounded and outnumbered, the encircled soldiers fought valiantly against overwhelming odds, but it was a battle they could not win. Cut off from any avenue of escape and facing a relentless onslaught, their fate seemed all but sealed. It was nothing short of a tactical decapitation. Chapter 79: Night cloak(3) Chapter 79: Night cloak(3) As the hours dragged on, the ambush continued unabated, the enemy showing no signs of relenting. Rather than launching a direct assault, they methodically whittled down the defenders with a relentless barrage of rocks and arrows.After all why waste men when you can let arrows do the job? Gaps began to appear in the formation as casualties mounted, each breach exposing those behind to even greater danger. Among the beleaguered defenders stood Shamliak, the nephew of the prince, his muscles aching and his arms burning with the effort of holding his shield aloft for hours on end. Thirst gnawed at his throat, but there was no respite or time to satisfy that need. "This is it," he thought grimly, his gaze drifting upward to the sky. His original hope had been that maintaining their position would signal to his uncle that something had gone awry, prompting an assault on the walls to provide relief. Yet, as the moments stretched into agonizing hours and no commotion arose from the enemy lines, Shamliak''s heart sank. It became increasingly apparent that their plight had been overlooked or misunderstood, and that their fate was already decided the moment they entered, no aid would come . Arrows stones and javelin ran down on them, and every five minutes the barrage would end as the defenders wouold shout at the invader theusual words ''''THE MAIN ARMY WON''T COME, YOU ARE ALONE ,DROP YOUR WEAPONS , LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS FOR THERE IS NO HOPE FOR YOU.'''' Then they would wait for a few seconds before resuming the barrage once no answer was given ''That bastard sent us to our death, the insider doubleplayed us and we fell wholeheartedly for it'' he thought as he bit his inner cheek from the pain coming out of his shoulder, where a lone arrows had embedded itself on it . With each agonizing throb from the embedded arrow, Shamliak''s fury intensified, directed not only at their unseen enemy but also at the one who planned all of this . His thoughts seethed with indignation as he grappled with the harsh reality of their situation. As Shamliak''s gaze drifted upward to the expanse of the night sky, a sense of hopelessness settled over him like a suffocating shroud. The stars twinkled above, indifferent to the plight of men caught in the throes of conflict. In that moment of despair, he found himself grappling with a question that weighed heavily on his mind: should they surrender? The thought lingered, its implications stark and sobering. Surrender meant admitting defeat, relinquishing their pride and honor to the enemy who had ensnared them in this deadly trap, as if giving meat to the same dog that bit his hand . It meant accepting captivity and have his honor sullied. He knew that the commander was not one of them but a mercenary, he may be kept alive but his men?He was worth a lot , but not his men. Alpheo''s pov It was still dark outside, Alpheo had ordered to lighten the area with torches, so that they could properly see the state of his enemies. In the dim light cast by the flickering torches, Alpheo sat atop his horse, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips. His eyes, gleaming with satisfaction, surveyed the scene before him - the remnants of the enemy army now shattered and broken by their own hubris. Beside him, Egil couldn''t resist a jibe. "Never saw you with such a smug face," he remarked, his rough fingers scratching at the patchy growth on his chin that he affectionately called a beard. Alpheo chuckled, his amusement evident in the curve of his lips. "I am happy, what is wrong with it?" he replied, his tone laced with amusement. "Apparently, nothing gives me more pleasure than seeing men of higher standing lowered to my level. And soon, someone of royal blood will do just that. Isn''t that right, Fahil?" The mention of his name drew Fahil''s attention, and he looked up from the ground, his expression a mix of apprehension and resignation. "I mean, if the tables were turned, my head would likely be displayed on a pike for all to see. I am being kind by allowing him an honorable surrender. Am I wrong?" "N-No, you are right, just and kind " Fahil conceded, his voice barely above a whisper. Gathering his courage, he extended a trembling hand, pointing ahead of him. "I have helped you, right? I have completed my part of the deal. Will you do the same?" ''They are eating him inside'' Alpheo thought as he took the cup extended by Ratto, who since the fight started could not take his eyes out of the battle ''''Like what you see boy?'''' Alpheo asked ignoring the captain The question broke the boy from the reverie, who just nodded meekly causing the mercenary captain to chuckle before turning to the turncloak. ''''Listen , as far as I care our lives will go on different directions , I will go looking for other employments and you will keep serving that prince of yourse.I have no care if you are a rotten apple who will betray anyone for some empty promises...'''' The captain started to sweat ''''You do not serve me , so I have no care for what happens to you . As such you don''t have a thing to worry about, I don''t like going against my word after all .Moreover the enemy commander is coming to surrender so let''s just not spoil the moment alright?'''' Alpheo asked as he nudged the man''s shoulder with his feet. As the tension hung thick in the air, a figure clad in armor emerged from the ranks of the defeated army. The soldiers parted before him, creating a path as he strode forward with deliberate steps. His armor, once gleaming, now bore the scars of battle, dented and tarnished by the hardships of war. With an arrow protruding from his shoulder, the man pressed on, his movements steady despite the pain. He held a sword, its blade sheathed but held horizontally before him in a gesture of surrender. As he approached Alpheo and his companions, the man''s gaze remained fixed ahead, his expression resolute despite the circumstances. The weight of defeat hung heavy upon him, yet he carried himself with a sense of dignity and honor befitting a warrior facing his final moments on the battlefield. When he few meters from Alpheo he dropped on both his knee and laid the sword down ''''My name is Shakmail of house Oizen, nephew of the current prince Shamsa Oizen. I hereby surrender unconditionally to you , if you swear on keeping my men alive for ransom and to treat me as rank demand you do'''' Alpheo''s eyes moved down to the man , then he descended from horseback and approached him , taking the sword from his hand, which meant accepting his surrender ''''I have no reason to refuse your request, your men shall be disarmed, fed , watered and given medical attention from my doctors.Speaking of which, I am sure you will need a visit from yourself'''' He said pointing at the arrow and causing the man to grunt in agreement. After that Alpheo led his horse to the man allowing him to ride on horseback in sign of respect , as he was to part way however the prisoner turned towardthe mercenary captain as he asked one question ''''Can I be allowed to know the insider?Always if he is still alive.'''' ''''Of course he is right there'''' he said pointing at Fahil,who was looking meekly at the man. And before he could even realise a spit landed on his face, running down on his cheek , he said nothing and just cleaned himself. The commander after doing so did nothing but let himself be accompanied by Alpheo''s guards as he brought him towards the medical tent .''This was to be his night of glory'' Shamkeil thought ''not mine''. As shamkeil was getting treated by the defenders doctors , Alpheo gave one look at the sword, the sheath was beatifully made and embledded with some jem, giving the sword a luxurious undertone. . ''''That could be sold for an hefty sum '''' Clio commented as he whistled ''''You are probably right'''' Alpheo muttered before turning to Asag and extended the sword ''''It''s yours you can keep it'''' Asag went eye wide as he received the sword ''''I-I can''t'''' He stuttered as he held the sword ''''You can and you will, you basically saved the city and our lives, if there is anyone that deserve such fine sword it is you.Had you not discovered the plot we would have our cut from our necks, It is my gift to you, make sure to learn on how to use it.I will need you on the frontline in the future after all '''' ''''He is right Asag'''' Jarza agreed ''''Though if you don''t want it , I can take it for you'''' He said as he tried to grab the pommel, but failing as Asag moved it closer to his chest. ''''Thank you '''' Asag said in a faint voice as he tried the blade making some swoosh sounds from cutting the air ,prompting Alpheo to pat his shoulder as he started to command his man to disarm the surrendered soldiers but not to harm them. Chapter 80: Northern鈥檚 war Chapter 88: Northern''s war Maesinius pov: The city finally fell , 8,000 men had been assaulting it for a week and in the end the invevitable happened. Every night, the prince,as usual made his somber rounds through the encampments.He found himself drawn to the medical tents, where the cries of the wounded pierced the silence of the night like mournful wails. The sight of broken bodies and anguished faces were the cost of his ambition, each groan and whimper carving a deep, searing ache in his soul. ''I must see the result of my choices '' he had told Uther the giant as he made his way there .It was horrible to say the least, but he needed to see it . And so, when news of the city''s fall finally reached his ears, it was met with a bittersweet mixture of relief and sorrow. As the gates crumbled beneath the relentless onslaught of the northern invaders, sending splinters of wood scattering across the ground, the prince could feel the weight of history shifting beneath his feet. Thelogontia, the coveted jewel of the campaign , laid within reach, a prize won through bloodshed and sacrifice. The rest of the province could now be taken much more easily, and if they managed to give one or two defeat to the major lords , the rest would easily bend the knee. For every inch of ground gained though , there lay a sea of graves, each one leaving a story no one will hear. As the surrounding lands fell under the relentless advance of the northern army, the once fertile fields lay barren and pillaged, their bountiful harvests plundered and stockpiled in the warehouses of the conquerors. The gains for which the prince had marshaled his forces and rallied his lords now lay within grasp, yet they knew all too well that the true prize lay behind the walls of Thelogontia. With each conquered city and sacked village, the prince had dispatched envoys to the lord of Thelogontia, hoping to broker a peaceful surrender and avoid further bloodshed. Yet time and again, the messengers returned empty-handed, their pleas for reason falling on deaf ears. It seemed Lord Carxio remained steadfast in his defiance, perhaps clinging to the hope that his liege lord would rally the forces of the realm to his aid. And indeed, High Marshal Conte had mustered his fief''s armies, intent on breaking the siege and relieving the beleaguered city. But the wheels of war turned slowly, and the relief force moved at a pace too measured to stave off the inevitable. As the city walls crumbled and the garrison fell, the conquerors surged forth, their victory heralding a wave of pillage and plunder. Prince Maesinius rode at the head of his army, a formidable force of 600 Huscarls flanking him on either side. These elite infantrymen were the pride of the north, their strength legendary, adept to cold and hunger, their axes said to cleave through boulders with ease. Arrayed in the pelts of beasts they had personally hunted and slain, the Huscarls presented a fearsome sight as they marched in disciplined formation. Each warrior bore the trophy of their conquest proudly atop their heads, the pelts of wolves, bears, and elks adorning their shoulders. For those less fortunate, the spoils of their hunts included sheep and foxes, yet even these trophies were worn with a fierce sense of pride. Under the banner of their prince, the Huscarls rode forth, their war cries echoing off the surrounding hills as they swept through the streets of the conquered city. Wherever the prince''s gaze fell, scenes of chaos and cruelty unfolded. Women cried out in terror as they fled from his soldiers, their pleas for mercy drowned out by the clamor of the conquering army. Amidst the chaos, soldiers indulged in sickening games, hunting down the vulnerable and defenseless like wild animals. Meanwhile, other soldiers poured into houses like ravenous wolves, looting everything of value and leaving destruction in their wake. The cries of the innocent mingled with the sounds of breaking doors and splintering wood as homes were ransacked and plundered. Those who dared to resist were met with brutal violence, the sharp crack of an axe splitting skull echoing through the streets as the city descended into madness. Amidst the turmoil, women were subjected to unspeakable horrors, their cries of anguish falling on deaf ears as they became prey to the soldiers'' darkest desires. Their pleas for mercy went unanswered as they were taken hold of , their dignity stripped away amidst the chaos of war. Despite the brutality unleashed upon the city, one decree remained unbroken: the prince''s command to spare the city from flames. While his soldiers had free rein to indulge their basest instincts, the city itself was to remain intact, the prince wanted to keep the city so no fires were allowed. ''''Look ahead prince'''' Svenn told him as he rode forth with the prince , during the siege he had been given command of the huscarls and right now he was doing his duty as he led the soldiers towards the keep. ''''You have given them ample opportunities to surrenders, they did not and now the pay the price'''' The prince eyes moved to his ''''I know that , this are supposed to be my people too . Nonetheless let''s put an end to this now'''' ''''Gladly your grace'''' Sven said as he moved forward with a dozens of men to scout the road and the defenses of the keep. ''What now?'' The prince thought as he moved his eyes away fromt the dead body of a child . At least on one of the many standing there across the street ''Conte is raising up an army ... among the province the east is among the lowest in term of population, obviously not counting the north . Most of the fortresses have been built to keep the Azanians out , which means that all that separate the province to the north is that one army. We defeat that and the north may have a chance of surviving, we lose and that is it. We fail and tens of thousands will die , and worse it will be on me .For once, I wish I was more like him," the prince mused, his thoughts drifting to a figure from his past. Despite their fraught relationship, he couldn''t help but admire the man''s prowess on the battlefield. "He may have been a shitty father, but at least he knew his own in battle." Interrupting his reverie, Elenoir''s voice broke through the silence, her blonde hair whipping against her back as she approached. "For the love of gods, I can hear you thinking from here," she remarked "What is it?" The prince hesitated for a moment before responding, "Nothing much, just thinking," he replied, though the weight of his words belied his attempt to brush off the gravity of the situation. Elenoir moved closer "You''re still dwelling on them?" she queried, her gaze searching his face for signs of distress. "They''ll soon be our people too; of course, it bothers me," the prince admitted, his voice heavy with remorse for the suffering inflicted upon the city. "You knew what you were getting into when we planned this," She said with a snort "And there are bigger things for you to worry about, surely you can''t be crying everytime you see a dead bird." "Like what?" the prince inquired, turning his attention to her as she gestured expansively. "What happens after all of this?" she replied, her arms extended to encompass the uncertainty of their future. The weight of her question hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over the prince''s thoughts. "We will face Conte and his army," he declared, his voice firm with resolve, though uncertainty lingered in his heart. Elenoir''s words hung in the air, laden with implications that the prince struggled to fully comprehend. He listened intently, his brow furrowing in confusion as he grappled with the weight of her proposal. "I mean, after all of that, I am not the one who studied history like you," she began, her tone measured yet urgent. "But I think that one of the reasons the north fell was because we were many and at the same time no one. We were divided, making it easier for the south to subdue us. And unless we want the same thing to happen again, I think you should think about that." The prince regarded her with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. "Are you suggesting something?" he inquired, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "Maybe I am," Elenoir replied cryptically, her eyes alight with determination. "The lords are riled up. They love what you brought them, and apparently they are enjoying the weather of the south , much warmer than the snow in the north." The prince remained silent, his thoughts churning as he attempted to decipher her intentions. "By the gods!" Elenoir whispered fervently, her frustration palpable. "When will you make your move? You''ve got to ride the wave when it comes, not after it passes." The prince made no haste to respond. "I am talking about becoming king of the north," Elenoir declared boldly, her words ringing with conviction. "We need someone to lead us, and apparently, you are the best choice around here. If your plan regarding the Arlanians works, then you will have enough to show to claim the crown.Plus you have the legitimacy to manage to calm the vanquished nobles after we conquer them . Don''t you want that? To rule over a kingdom of your own?" "If I did, we would be marching south of here toward the capital," the prince countered, his tone firm yet tinged with uncertainty. "I have no reason to aim for that, especially given our situation. And what''s with it for you anyway? Why are you so interested?" Elenoir''s jaw tightened imperceptibly as she tilted her head back, offering the prince a small, enigmatic smile. "It seems to me you lack both ambition and interest in it, so let me clue you in and give you a reason to care," she explained, her voice soft yet resolute. "If I am to be married¡ªgods know how much I don''t want that¡ªI can at least aim as high as I can. And I think that marrying a king and becoming queen would sweeten the deal enough for me. So tell me, do you have a reason to care about it now?" The prince''s expression softened and by the gods if he now had a reason to care. Chapter 81: Northern鈥檚 war (2) Chapter 89: Northern''s war (2) The prince''s footsteps reverberated through the silent hallways of the keep. Like the city before it, the keep had fallen to their relentless advance. The guards, loyal to the lord of the city, had been swiftly dispatched, their resistance futile against the overwhelming might of the invading forces. As the prince made his way deeper into the heart of the keep, his thoughts turned to the lord who had stubbornly refused peace even as his grip on the city slipped away. Now that the keep had fallen, what fate awaited its ruler? Unlike the rest of the city, the keep had remained relatively untouched until now. The disciplined huscarls had followed the prince''s orders to spare the servants as they just kept them locked in a room , at least for the time being they were unharmed however they needed someone to gather information if the search went badly. With caution guiding his every step, the prince ensured that his troops remained closely knit, their unity a shield against any potential threats lurking in the shadows. Despite the temptation to indulge in the spoils of victory, the prince knew that their conquest was not yet complete. There would be time for celebration later, once the lord of the keep had been dealt with and their hold on the city secured. Maesinius cast a glance over his shoulder at Uther, the giant whose ferocity in battle was unmatched. Throughout the fight for the keep, Uther had carved a path of destruction with his axe, his relentless assault leaving a trail of blood splattered across his face and armor which he had not even bothered to clean himself . He appeared more akin to a fearsome demon from folklore than a mortal warrior. "It seems we''ve reached the end," Uther remarked, his powerful frame straining against the locked door before him. " locked from the inside..." "Well, there''s nothing an axe can''t solve," Mjorn quipped, tightening his grip on his weapon before delivering a resounding blow to the door, with the same strenght that he gained his nickname from ''The shieldbreaker''. Uther joined in, each strike resonating with the force of their combined strength. The huscarls followed suit, their axes descending upon the door with relentless fury, sending wood splintering in all directions. With each strike, the door groaned under the onslaught until finally, a section of the plank gave way. One of the soldiers seized the opportunity, reaching through the gap to manipulate the mechanism holding the door shut, which meant to throw the piece of wood holding the door away. With a collective effort, they pushed against the weakened barrier until it yielded, granting them entry into the hall. The men advanced cautiously, their axes at the ready, prepared to face any defenders who might still be lurking within the empty halls of the keep. However, as they entered, their aggressive stance softened as they disaptched some armored guards inside the room , when suddendly the target they were searching for appeared before them. In the center of the hall stood a lone figure, cradling the sleeping forms of two children in his arms, while a woman layng motionless in his lap. The man''s gaze was fixed upon his family, his eyes betraying a mix of sorrow and resignation. Maesinius observed the scene with a stoic expression, his hearth did not move in the slightest as the sight of the man and his family stirred no pity within him; after all, he had seen the bodies of countless children strewn across the streets, their innocent lives snuffed out by the brutality of war.What was he to care if the family responsible for it suffered the same fate? Taking a few measured steps forward, Maesinius approached the man, who showed no sign of acknowledging the conquerors in his midst. Instead, he remained lost in his own world, his attention focused solely on his loved ones. Maesinius''s voice carried a mixture of disappointment and condemnation as he addressed Caxio, the lord of the city, who had resorted to a desperate act of kinslaying rather than face surrender. With a grim expression, the prince knelt beside an empty vial , he brought it close to his nose and gave it a sniff, allowing its acrid scent to assault his nostril "It seems you preferred poison over mercy," Maesinius remarked, his tone heavy with disapproval. He eyed the vial with a mixture of revulsion and curiosity, before letting it fall down Finally, Caxio raised his head, revealing hollow eyes devoid of life and spirit. The prince''s words seemed to pierce the silence of the hall as he addressed the fallen lord. "I offered you ample opportunities to surrender," Maesinius continued "Yet you chose to cling to your pride, even when your fate was sealed and all that remained was this keep. Did you truly believe that ending the lives of your own blood, your own family, was a preferable alternative to submitting to me? I can think of no greater crime than kinslaying, especially a useless one such as this ." The man''s voice, hoarse with despair and defiance, broke the heavy silence that hung in the air. "I see it more as a mercy that I gave them," he uttered, his words dripping with bitter resignation. "Better to die on your feet than to grovel at your knees." Maesinius''s gaze hardened at the man''s retort, his brow furrowing with a mixture of frustration and disbelief. "Grovel at my knees?" he responded, his voice laced with incredulity. "You think I would have made them slaves? They were of noble blood; you would have been allowed to retain your position, albeit with certain concessions.The children...I would have treated them as my guests." The fallen lord''s lips curled into a scornful sneer. "Hostages, not guests," he interjected, his tone dripping with disdain. Maesinius''s eyes narrowed as he countered, his voice tinged with reproach. "They would have been treated well and fairly," he insisted. "Yet you chose to spill their blood. Look at them¡ªbarely ten winters old, innocent and unaware of that their fathers extinguished their lives." His eyes moved to the lord face, where sign of scrapping could be seen. ''''And it seems that their mother fought for their lives'''' "Their blood is on your hands, not mine, you traitor," he spat, his voice quivering a bit . "My family has served this empire for generations, and may the gods curse me if I surrender to a band of savages and traitors. Pro imperio vita et sanguis, id est officium nobile," he declared, clinging to the ideals of duty and loyalty that had defined his lineage for centuries. The prince''s voice, cold and resolute, cut through the tense air of the chamber. "You have already cursed yourself, " he pronounced, his words heavy with condemnation. "I will grant you the mercy to meet your family in the afterlife, even though I think you will be going in different places.....Uther, would you do the honors?" Uther''s response was swift and unequivocal. "It would be my pleasure," he declared, as he advanced toward the fallen lord, his massive form casting a looming shadow over the scene. ''''Not even bothering to unsheath your sword?'''' Caxio asked as he spared a look to the young prince , who however gave no asnwer as he simply turned around and walked away , leaving his order unchanged . The lord, for his part, met Uther''s approach with a steely gaze, his expression a mix of defiance and resignation. He cast one last sorrowful glance toward his family, cradling their lifeless forms in his arms, before turning his attention back to the giant As Uther raised his axe high, the weight of impending doom hung heavy in the air. The lord closed his eyes, steeling himself for the inevitable, as the blade bore down toward his exposed neck. The prince whispered something heard only by himself as in that final, fateful moment, the legacy of a family that had ruled over Thegolontia for over a century came to a brutal and decisive end with the swift stroke of an axe. Proclaiming the start instead of a new owner in its place. Chapter 82: Mercenary interest(1) Chapter 82: Mercenary interest(1) The midday sun blazed down on the sprawling camp that had sprung up a few kilometers outside the city of Aracina. The prince of Oizen, Alpheo''s employer, had finally arrived, bringing with him the full force of his army. Soldiers moved in every direction, tending to the prince''s few horses, sharpening weapons, and preparing meals over open fires. The air was thick with the mingled scents of sweat and roasting meat. Alpheo and his group navigated through the bustling camp, weaving between clusters of soldiers and supply wagons. "I don''t see much left for us," Clio muttered. "Do you think they''ve forgotten about us? I don''t see a piece of free space for us " Alpheo''s eyes scanned the camp, taking in the scene before turning to his group. "From what I can see, the prince has no more than 2,000 men¡ªmaybe fewer if we''re counting our own. They''d be fools to anger a quarter of their forces." "You think they''re going to start trouble?" Clio asked, kicking a pebble as he walked. Alpheo just shrugged and kept moving forward Banner poles bearing the prince''s crest flapped in the breeze, their vibrant colors a sharp contrast to the camp''s utilitarian surroundings. As they walked, Alpheo noted the different flags representing various nobles. "Has he managed to settle things with his vassals?" he wondered aloud, his eyes drifting over the scene. Most of the troops were infantry, armed with lances and barely any armor, if they had any at all. The cavalry, though better equipped, was few in number. It was clear that the men Alpheo had brought with him could be regarded as elite¡ªthey would easily hold their own in battle and even some more . Finally, the group approached the center of the camp, where the prince''s tent loomed large and tall Alpheo could hear the murmur of voices from within, a low hum of conversation. He glanced at his companions and went forth. Jarza walked beside him, his face set with determination, while Egil, buoyed and happy by the recent formation of the light cavalry, brought up the rear. The guards at the entrance snapped to attention as they neared. One of them murmured something to his comrades before disappearing into the tent, returning a few seconds later. With a nod, the guards parted the heavy tent flaps, allowing them to enter. Inside, the prince''s tent was spacious, filled with the scent of leather and polished steel. Numerous people crowded the space, most of them nobles whose finely crafted armor gleamed in the filtered light seeping through the tent''s fabric. Their crests and insignias marked them as men of importance within the princedom As Alpheo and his group entered, the nobles turned their attention toward them, their stares ranging from neutral to openly disdainful. At the far side of the tent, the prince of Yarkat stood behind a large wooden table, a rough map of the region spread out before him. The prince, sensing the arrival of new company, raised his eyes from the map. His gaze was sharp and assessing as it met Alpheo''s. The silence stretched for a moment before Alpheo and his group dropped to one knee in unison, a gesture of respect that filled the tent with a hushed reverence. They quickly rose, their movements fluid and practiced. "Your Highness," Alpheo began, his voice steady and confident. "It is a pleasure to see you and your army marching to our aid . The sight of your banner was a welcome one, especially after the enemy retreated deeper into the territory." He offered an amiable smile, his eyes briefly scanning the prince''s entourage. Among the prince''s closest advisors stood Shahab, the prince''s father-in-law, and Robert,the prince right hand . To Alpheo''s surprise, Fahil had been summoned before him and was now standing behind the prince, his expression nervous and uneasy. This sight caused Alpheo to chuckle silently, finding humor in Fahil''s discomfort. The prince''s eyes, sharp and calculating, settled on the mercenary captain. "It is a pleasure to see you in full health, Alpheo," he began, though the brief pause hinted at an expectation, perhaps, that the captain might not have fared so well. "Fahil has informed me of your... remarkable defense of the city. He also mentioned how you cunningly set a trap that led to significant enemy casualties, including the capture of many prisoners¡ªsome of whom, I understand, are of considerable rank." "You honor me, Your Grace," Alpheo replied, his tone a careful blend of respect and pride. "But the credit is as much Fahil''s as it is mine. Without his support, the plan would not have succeeded. I''m sure he also mentioned how we managed to neutralize the enemy''s elite infantry in a single night." Alpheo''s smile broadened slightly, his pride evident as he recalled the operation. The prince''s gaze flickered with interest as he absorbed Alpheo''s words. "Indeed, he did," the prince acknowledged, his voice betraying a trace of admiration. "Your ingenuity has proven invaluable. Such actions have not only strengthened our position but have also dealt a significant blow to our enemy''s morale." Alpheo inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Thank you, Your Highness. It was a collective effort, and I am fortunate to have such capable men by my side who enabled us to inflict such heavy casualties." The prince''s expression shifted subtly, his eyes narrowing as he continued, "Many of whom you took as prisoners," he said, his tone even but laden with hidden meaning "Indeed, Your Grace," Alpheo responded, his voice steady and measured, sensing where the conversation was heading. The prince''s demeanor hardened, his voice acquiring a sharpness that had not been there before. "I''m sure they have been a considerable burden on you, so I have come to relieve you of them," he declared, his tone laced with subtle condescension. "Feeding so many prisoners must have been an arduous task." Alpheo inwardly smirked at the prince''s thinly veiled attempt to seize control of the situation. ''Too late, you scheming bastard,'' he thought, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. Aloud, he maintained a respectful tone. "Your Grace is generous to be concerned about our welfare," he said smoothly. "However, I am pleased to inform you that the matter has already been resolved. There is no need for you to trouble yourself with the prisoners." A ripple of surprise coursed through the assembled nobles, their attention now fully captured. The prince''s expression tightened, a barely perceptible shift that revealed his displeasure. "May I know how you have resolved this... issue?" His voice was cold, the words clipped as he sought to maintain control of the situation. "Of course, Your Grace," Alpheo replied, his voice laced with a confidence that bordered on defiance. A slight smile played at his lips as he continued, "The prisoners were ransomed days before you blessed the city with your presence." A wave of astonishment swept through the tent, the nobles exchanging incredulous glances as Alpheo''s words sank in. Whispers erupted among them, their hushed voices filled with disbelief and outrage, some murmuring, "Mercenary," "Dare," and "Arrogance." It was clear that many of them viewed Alpheo''s actions as not only bold but as a direct challenge to their authority. The prince''s eyes bore into Alpheo''s, the irritation in his gaze barely concealed. "You have already ransomed them?" he repeated, his voice chillingly measured as he struggled to maintain his composure. "Yes, Your Grace," Alpheo affirmed, meeting the prince''s piercing gaze without flinching. "The terms were negotiated swiftly, and the prisoners were exchanged for a substantial sum. Those funds have been reinvested into our forces, ensuring our continued strength and readiness¡ªsomething that will undoubtedly benefit your campaign in the battles to come." The prince''s jaw clenched visibly, a muscle in his cheek twitching as he fought to suppress his growing anger. Around him, the nobles'' whispers grew louder, a persistent murmur that filled the tent like the rising tide of a storm. Alpheo could catch snippets of their conversation¡ªwords like "impudent," "overstepped," and "dangerous" floating to his ears. ''''Next time I would prefer if you would not be so hasty in your treatment of ''our'' prisoners'''' The prince finally said after spending a few seconds trying to find the right words Alpheo maintained his composed demeanor and bowed a bit , his face a mask of respectful neutrality. He was acutely aware of the fine line he walked¡ªbalancing between what their deal required and asserting his own agency.After all he had to make money in some way, but luckily for him, he was too great of value to be dismissed or punished, so he knew the prince in the end would suck it up. What good was being in a good position if one did not exploit it? Chapter 83: Mercenary interest(2) Chapter 83: Mercenary interest(2) ''Well, oh boy, oh boy... here we go,'' Alpheo thought, as the prince''s gaze darkened, a murderous gleam in his eyes. The air in the tent felt heavier, as if charged with the storm of unspoken fury building behind the prince''s calm fa?ade. Alpheo could feel the heat of that fury, but beneath the tension, he understood something crucial: despite the prince''s rage, there was little he could do to reprimand or punish him without risking severe consequences. Alpheo''s mind worked quickly and managed a response in his mind . The prince''s forces relied heavily on his seasoned fighters, men whose loyalty was secured not by oaths or honor, but by the clink of gold in their pockets. Undermining their captain, or worse, seeking retribution, could have disastrous effects. ''At worst,'' Alpheo mused, ''I''ll get a slap on the wrist for this.'' "When you ransomed the men....were you aware that what you had done was nothing short of sabotaging us?" The prince''s eyes narrowed, the muscles in his jaw tightening, but he said nothing, waiting for Alpheo to continue. "I would not be so foolish as to ransom them and allow them to return fully armed and prepared to face us again," Alpheo explained. "Before they were sent back, all of their equipment was confiscated¡ªtheir weapons, their armor, their horses. Everything of value was taken and redistributed among my men." A ripple of whispers ran through the tent as the nobles absorbed Alpheo''s words. Alpheo pressed on, his voice steady, projecting confidence. "During the siege, I observed the enemy''s forces closely. Most of their troops were ill-equipped, lacking proper armor and weapons. Their resources are stretched thin, Your Grace. Most of the prisoners we captured were poorly supplied. This tells me one thing: the prince of Oizen does not have the means to rearm those men anytime soon." The prince''s face remained impassive, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of interest. Alpheo could tell he was listening, weighing the information. "By ransoming those soldiers," Alpheo continued, "I deprived the enemy of their best men for weeks. Even if they make it back to their ranks, they will return as little more than naked bodies on the battlefield, unarmed, vulnerable. Meanwhile, the coin I gained from their ransom has been put to good use. My men are better equipped, better prepared, and stronger than before. Every sword, every piece of armor taken from them has strengthened our own forces." The prince''s eyes narrowed as he processed Alpheo''s words. The logic in Alpheo''s explanation was hard to refute. Thinking it over, the prince realized that continuing to push the matter would be counterproductive. The deed was already done, and contesting it further would only undermine his own position and potentially sow discord among his troops. Reluctantly, he had to acknowledge that he was powerless. "What has happened cannot be undone," the prince began, his voice heavy with restrained anger. He paused, searching for the right words, seeking a way to frame his next statement as a punishment. The nobles in the tent watched intently, their whispers momentarily stilled by the prince''s commanding presence. "You have knowingly went behind my back " the prince continued, his tone hardening. "The only way you can repay such a debt is by spilling my enemy''s blood on the battlefield. Your troops shall be put on the front line, where we will see if your words about their capabilities were mere boasting or if they contain truth." The prince''s gaze bore into Alpheo, the weight of his decree hanging in the air. Alpheo, ever composed, bowed deeply in acknowledgment. "As you command, Your Grace," he said, his voice steady and respectful. "My men and I will prove our worth on the battlefield. We shall obey and honor your directive." With that, Alpheo straightened, his eyes meeting the prince''s for a brief moment of silent understanding. He then turned and walked out of the tent, his steps measured and purposeful. The nobles'' whispers resumed, a mix of speculation and judgment following in his wake. As Alpheo left the tent, Robert observed him leaving, barely holding himself from lunging forwards and throttling the hell out of the boy. Instead he just leaned to the prince and whispered ''''Was it wise your grace?He is becoming too arrogant...'''' Arkawatt could do nothing but put his hand on his face ''''We will soon be battling the bastard of Oizen, we are in need of him.Also it is undeniable now that they have skill, and honestly I prefer not giving them any reason to change sides right now. With time everything will be paid with due'''' And yet even the prince in the back of his mind started wondering if what he was doing was truly wise. His men, clustered nearby, watched him closely, their eyes betraying the curiosity and concern they had kept in check while waiting outside. Jarza, ever the stoic, offered Alpheo a questioning glance, while Egil''s sharp eyes scanned the tent behind them, as if half-expecting trouble to come charging after. "Everything went just as we expected," Alpheo muttered under his breath, his tone carrying an edge of amusement. His words brought a noticeable relaxation among his companions. Shoulders eased, hands loosened on sword hilts, and the subtle tension that had gripped them dissipated. Egil, with his ever-present smirk, was the first to break the silence. "As long as my purse is full, I''m happy." His voice carried a playful drawl as he leaned casually against a nearby post. "The prince can fume all he wants, but he knows damn well he can''t pay us what we''re worth. And he has no right to protest when he can''t afford to." Alpheo chuckled, his amusement reflecting in the corners of his eyes. Egil''s pragmatism was always a steadying force, reminding him that at the end of the day, they fought for coin, not crowns or causes. "True enough," Alpheo agreed, his voice quiet but firm. "The prince commands his nobles and his regular troops, but he knows we''re the ones that can tip the scales in his favor. He needs us¡ªbadly. " Jarza, the more measured of the group, crossed his arms over his chest. "Maybe so," he said, his voice low, "but the nobles aren''t happy. I saw their faces in that tent. They think we''re overstepping." "They can think what they like," Alpheo replied, his tone dismissive. "We''ve earned our place here. Without us, the prince''s campaign would be hanging by a thread. It''s not arrogance if it''s true." Jarza gave a reluctant nod. "Just keep your eyes open," he cautioned. "The nobles might not say anything now, but they don''t forget slights. They''ll be looking for a chance to bring us down a notch." Alpheo didn''t need the reminder; he knew full well the delicate balance they were walking. The prince might tolerate their independence and skill for now, but there would come a time when he would no longer need them. And when that day came, the prince wouldn''t hesitate to cut them loose¡ªor worse. Still, today wasn''t that day. Today, they still held the upper hand. "Let them watch and wait," Alpheo said with a faint smile. "By the time they find an opening, the war will be over, and we''ll be long gone with our purses full." Egil grinned, pushing off from his casual lean. "Then I say we drink to that, eh?" Alpheo''s smile widened. "You read my mind." As the group began to move away from the prince''s tent, the weight of their conversation fading, Alpheo cast one last glance over his shoulder. "Enjoy tonight," Alpheo continued, his tone light but carrying a note of seriousness. "Tomorrow, we''ll probably be leaving for battle , and who knows when we''ll get another chance to unwind." Asag,, looked at Alpheo and asked, "And what about you, Captain? What will you be doing?" Alpheo sighed, a hint of weariness creeping into his voice. "I''m going to catch up on some sleep," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Haven''t had much of that lately, and we''re going to need all our strength for what''s coming." Jarza and the others nodded in understanding, appreciating their leader''s honesty. The group began to disperse, each man heading off to enjoy the brief respite in their own way. Some sought out the nearest tavern, others made their way to the market to spend their hard-earned coin, and a few simply found a quiet spot to rest.Whatever they chose however soon they would all find themselves fighting for their lives, as the commander they have decided to rely on would soon overturn their lives. Chapter 84: Secret weapon Chapter 84: Secret weapon It was a bright and radiant day, the golden sunlight pouring over the green pastures of the plain like molten gold. The air was crisp and refreshing, filled with the soft whisper of a breeze that stirred the tall grass and carried the delicate fragrance of blooming wildflowers. Above, the sky stretched wide and cloudless, a serene ocean of blue with only a few puffs of white drifting lazily across the horizon. Yet, amidst this tranquil beauty, two military camps marred the landscape like scars on untouched skin. To the north, perched on a strategic rise, stood the camp of the prince of Yarkat. Neatly arranged tents and fortified positions spread across the hill, the prince''s banner snapping defiantly in the breeze. A few kilometers to the south, on the opposite end of the vast plain, the camp of the prince of Oizen loomed in contrast. Though more rugged, it exuded a similar air of readiness, soldiers sharpening blades and donning armor, their own banner fluttering against the clear sky. Between the two camps, the open plain lay silent and untouched, a stretch of no-man''s-land where the tall grass swayed gently, unaware of the blood that would soon soak its roots. The serene beauty of the landscape seemed almost dreamlike, as though nature itself stood in quiet opposition to the violence that was about to unfold. The sun, indifferent to human conflict, continued to rise higher, casting its warm light over the earth as if unaware of the impending clash that would soon break the peaceful spell of the day. Inside the camp of the prince of Yarkat, a tense gathering of nobles, those who had been convinced to join the campaign, were amassed in a large, ornately decorated tent, as the nobles argued over the strategy for the impending battle. One noble, a burly man with a booming voice, stood up, his face flushed with excitement. "We should engage the enemy immediately!" he shouted, trying to rally his fellows. "Repel the invaders and drive them from our lands!" His fervor was infectious, and many of the nobles echoed his cries, their thirst for battle evident. The recent humbling of the enemy elite had filled them with confidence, and they saw this as a prime opportunity to deliver a powerful blow to their adversaries. However, not all shared this eagerness for a direct confrontation. A significant number of nobles preached caution, their voices rising above the clamor. Were they cowards?No they just knew the difference in strenght between the two sides. They were acutely aware that the enemy''s cavalry outnumbered their own and that abandoning the high ground to fight on the plain below could be disastrous. "We should maintain our position and force them to come to us!" one of the cautious nobles argued, his voice steady but firm. "The high ground gives us the advantage. Let them exhaust themselves trying to dislodge us." The tent erupted into a cacophony of voices, with nobles on both sides of the argument trying to make themselves heard. The tension was palpable, each faction deeply entrenched in their views. "Are you empty only in the head or between the legs too ?" One taunted, his voice dripping with disdain as he addressed one of the men advocating for a defensive stance. The insult hung in the air like a gauntlet thrown down in challenge. The targeted noble, a man of considerable stature , bristled at the remark. "What did you say?" he demanded, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword. The atmosphere in the tent grew even more charged, the prospect of an internal clash looming. Before tempers could flare further, a commanding voice cut through the din. "Enough!" The prince of Yarkat stepped forward, his presence commanding immediate attention. "We are here to discuss our strategy, not to fight among ourselves. Among the people that spoke Alpheo did not recognise any of them, so he simply stayed silent and observed the shuffle As the room fell silent, the prince of Yarkat looked around at the assembled nobles, his gaze sharp and assessing. His eyes scanned the room, passing over the familiar faces of his advisors and generals, before finally settling on a figure standing near the back of the tent. The prince raised a hand, calling for Alpheo''s attention. "Captain Alpheo," he began, his voice cutting through the tension. "You have fought with them . Anything worthwhile to add?" All eyes turned to Alpheo, the nobles'' expressions ranging from curiosity to skepticism. Alpheo stepped forward, his posture relaxed yet confident. He took a moment to gather his thoughts before speaking, aware of the weight his words would carry. Truth be told, Alpheo actually had something significant to say. He had been observing and analyzing the situation carefully, waiting for the opportune moment to present his idea. Now that he was called upon, he had no reason to hold back. "Well, Your Grace," Alpheo began, his voice calm but commanding attention. "During the siege, while I did not have the chance to engage the enemy on even ground, I made it a point to observe their equipment and numbers closely. Through these observations, I''ve managed to get a fairly accurate understanding of their army''s composition." He paused for a moment, ensuring that he had the full attention of the prince and the gathered nobles. "Their infantry is largely comprised of peasants, poorly equipped with nothing more than shields and lances. In our encounters, my men had little difficulty cutting through them like cattle. However, this is a double-edged sword, as the infantry brought by his grace is not much better equipped than theirs. We would face the same limitations in terms of manpower and armament." Alpheo could see the nobles exchanging glances. He continued, his tone growing more serious. "Where the real problem lies is with their cavalry. The prince of Oizen''s cavalry forces outnumber our own significantly at least two to one . In any open-field engagement, this gives them a substantial advantage. We would be at a considerable disadvantage, unable to match their mobility and striking power." He let his words hang in the air, the gravity of the situation clear. The prince of Yarkat''s jaw tightened, one of the nobles from the faction advocating for an immediate attack, stepped forward, his face red with indignation. "You insult our strength, mercenary," he growled, his voice loud and defiant. "We are not cowards to hide behind walls. We will smash through the enemy lines like an axe through wood." Alpheo couldn''t help but smirk , after all he never talked about hiding behinds walls "With all due respect, my lord," he replied, his tone laced with irony, "that axe of yours would fall apart before it even had the opportunity to strike. The enemy would see to that." The nobleman''s face turned an even deeper shade of red, his fury barely contained. "How dare you!" he shouted, taking a step towards Alpheo, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword. "You dare question our courage and strength?" Before the situation could escalate further, the prince of Yarkat raised his hand, his voice commanding and authoritative. "Enough!" he barked, his eyes flashing with anger as he looked between the two men. ''''Alpheo don''t you have anything useful to say?'''' "Well, Your Grace, I actually do have a solution," Alpheo said, a confident gleam in his eye. "If you would allow me, I could explain how we might overcome this problem and even the odds with the enemy." The prince of Yarkat, intrigued but cautious, nodded. "Go on, Captain Alpheo. You have my permission to speak." Alpheo bowed slightly. "I would also request your permission to have my men bring something inside that could illustrate my point." The prince''s brows furrowed in confusion, but he gestured for Alpheo to proceed. "Very well. Bring it in." At the prince''s command, the tent flaps were pulled open, and two of Alpheo''s men entered. They were carrying a long object, carefully wrapped in blankets. The nobles inside the tent exchanged puzzled glances, whispering among themselves as they tried to guess what Alpheo had up his sleeve. The two men approached the center of the tent, setting the covered object down with great care. Alpheo stepped forward, his expression serious. "Thank you, gentlemen. Now, Your Grace, allow me to reveal what I believe will be the key to our success." And as he said so the men finally revealed what was covered up through the sheets. Chapter 85: First battle(1) Chapter 85: First battle(1) The day dawned bright and sunny, though the air carried a crisp chill, reminding all that winter was on its way. Frost tipped the blades of grass, sparkling like tiny jewels in the morning light. Everywhere, men moved with aim in mind . Soldiers and laborers alike hurried to and fro, their breath visible in the cold air. The clang of hammers and the creak of wooden beams filled the air . Horses whinnied in their enclosures, sensing the heightened tension and excitement around them, as the squires brought them out of there . The camp, spread across the gentle slope of the hill, was a hive of activity. Tents flapped in the breeze, their colors muted by a layer of frost. Smoke rose from numerous campfires, where cooks prepared hearty meals to sustain the troops.The battle was finally imminent, and a light meal was being prepared for the soldiers. As they readied themselves for the fight, those with armor began to don their protective gear, while those without prayed fervently to the Mother for mercy and the Warrior for strength. "Please raise your arm, sir," a small voice belonging to a boy spoke as he laced the arm brace to Alpheo''s arm. "Did you ready the breakfast?" Alpheo asked, stretching his neck and rolling his shoulders. "I have informed the cooks," ratto replied, bringing his face up to stare at the mercenary captain, who was barely older than him. "Are you anxious, sir?" "Am I that easy to read?" Alpheo responded with a smile and a deep breath. "I would be a fool not to be. Anything could happen at any moment. A man''s fortune or fall can come without a second''s notice, as swords are blind in the midst of bloodlust and madness" Ratto said nothing, just observing the older warrior intently. After a moment, he asked quietly, "Why are you doing this, sir? Entering battle, I mean.It sounds scary, why not leave all of this behind and live in peace?You have got the gold for it , of that I am sure" Alpheo raised his eyes in surprise, meeting Ratto''s earnest gaze. A smile played on his lips as he considered the question. "I am owed more than this," he began, his voice steady and thoughtful. "It''s not my lot to simply walk away. Peace is a noble goal, but it''s not in my interest. There are things I need to see through, debts that must be repaid, and a boat of gold that I desire" Ratto looked puzzled, prompting Alpheo to elaborate. "You see, life has given me more than just the ability to fight. It has given me a purpose. I lead these men because I believe in what we are doing. It''s not just about the battle, it''s about what comes after. We fight for more than just survival. We fight for a future, something that I may call a home." The young boy nodded slowly "Aren''t you afraid?" "Of course I am," Alpheo admitted. "Fear is a constant companion in war.Those who say aren''t afraid are either liars or men that already know on how to die. But it''s how we handle that fear that defines us. We can let it paralyze us, or we can use it to sharpen our resolve, to remind us of what we''re fighting for. I choose the latter, though I am still searching for that thing." Ratto continued to lace the arm brace, his movements more deliberate now, as if understanding the gravity of the situation. "I hope to be as brave as you someday, sir." Alpheo chuckled softly, placing a reassuring hand on the boy''s shoulder. "Bravery isn''t the absence of fear, Ratto. It''s the determination to move forward despite it. And you have that within you. Just remember, every warrior starts as a boy with dreams. It''s the choices we make that turn those dreams into reality." Alpheo left the tent with Ratto in tow, the flaps of the canvas rustling as they stepped into the cool morning air. Outside, Jarza, Clio, and Asag were waiting for him, their expressions a mix of determination and anticipation. The sun cast long shadows on the ground, hinting at the approaching winter but still providing a clear, bright start to the day. Seeing his trusted lieutenants, Alpheo nodded silently, acknowledging their presence . "Take your posts and organize the men to take their positions," he instructed, his voice calm but authoritative. Jarza gave a sharp nod, his face set with resolve as he turned on his heel and headed towards his assigned area. Clio, his long hair, which he let grew after gaining back his freedom, tied back and his armor gleaming in the sunlight, shot Alpheo a quick smile before striding off to rally the troops. Asag, gave a groan of acknowledgment before marching off to his own command. As they separated, each going to fulfill their duties, Alpheo watched them for a moment, feeling a surge of pride for the people he had come to rely on so heavily. "Good luck," he called after them, his voice carrying a note of genuine sincerity. The banners fluttered in the breeze, displaying the colors of their faction with pride. Alpheo''s gaze swept over the scene, taking in the disciplined ranks and the determined faces of his soldiers. He could hear the distant sound of commands being issued, the creak of leather and metal, and the muted murmur of prayers. "This is my lot," Alpheo thought to himself. He felt a mixture of pride and responsibility. The path he had chosen was fraught with danger and uncertainty, but it was also filled with the chance to land higher in that ladder , striving for a future beyond the battlefield¡ªthis was his destiny. The horse whinnied softly as he approached, recognizing its master. Alpheo patted its neck, feeling the powerful muscles beneath the smooth coat, and murmured a few calming words. With practiced ease, Alpheo placed his foot in the stirrup and swung himself up into the saddle. He settled comfortably, adjusting his sword at his side and taking the reins in his hands,it was time to go. Chapter 86: First battle (2) Chapter 86: First battle (2) It certainly was a good day . The sun hung high in the sky, casting its golden rays over the verdant field. The surrounding woods casted their shadows along the edges of the battlefield,while the middle was nothing short of a sunlit expanse. Soon, however these green pastures would be dyed crimson with the blood of fallen soldiers. Jarza stood on the field, lost in his thoughts. He remembered his first battle vividly, though it had been over twenty years ago¡ªa simple skirmish when he served in a sellsword company for an imperial lord, tasked with cleansing his domains of bandits . That company , he vaguely remembered had disbanded a few years later, but Jarza as always found another band to join. Twenty winters and twenty summers had passed in the blink of an eye, each season blending into the next. The four years he had spent as a slave were the longest of his life, dragging on with relentless cruelty. Starved and beaten in a foreign land, Jarza had often believed he would die in those chains. Yet, against all odds, he had survived. The gods, it seemed or yet he believed , had other intentions for him. Each scar and each battle had brought him to this moment, standing on this field, ready to face whatever came next. He could never fully understand that boy , he was like a book open to everyone to be read and yet written in a language never seen.Easy to read and impossible to understand. His ideas were usually either nothing short of genial, or outright dumb.He still remembered the first batch of a plan he had made to escape , if they had followed on those they would have certainly have been caught. He surveyed the field, his eyes scanning the nearly 600 warriors surrounding him. Among them, 200 were under his direct command. He had always dreamt of leading men into battle, a vision that seemed distant during his early days in the various sellsword companies. Most leadership positions in those bands were occupied by exiled minor lords or members of distant branches of noble families¡ªindividuals less powerful and less wealthy than their mainline kin. Yet now, against all odds, Jarza had men under his command, ready to follow him into the fray. His gaze shifted, catching the vague shadow of the man he called a friend, Alpheo. Jarza smirked, recalling the incredulous faces of the nobles when they realized the plan: fighting cavalry with infantry. Who would have thought of doing something so stupid like that? And yet when they made a few tests it proved them wrong. This campaign had turned out to be remarkably fruitful. Not only had they managed to assemble a cavalry corps, but they had also replenished their nearly empty coffers. The ransom for the prince''s nephew and the captured elite infantry had brought in a substantial sum, securing their financial stability for the foreseeable future. Jarza''s thoughts wandered back to his long journey. He had always been a soldier, a warrior for hire, drifting from one battlefield to another. He had fought for lords who barely acknowledged his existence,he always believed that would be all that he would reach. Yet there was something in Alpheo''s eyes that made Jarza think that he was awaiting something else , more than sim- -OMMMMM- Before Jarza could finish his thoughts, the distant sound of enemy horns echoed across the battlefield, pulling him back to the present moment. He looked up, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the horizon. There, like a dark wave cresting over the green fields, the enemy lines began to advance. Hundreds of enemy soldiers advanced, their lances glinting under the midday sun. Banners fluttered in the breeze, displaying the sigils and colors of the enemy prince and the various lords allied with him. As they drew nearer, Jarza could see the truth in Alpheo''s words. Despite their superior numbers¡ªbetween 700 and 1,000 by his rough estimate¡ªtheir ranks were filled with peasants. Jarza turned and looked back at their own banner, a white field with two black stripes going diagonally. Strangely enough, Alpheo was adamant on taking such a banner ,Jarza would have preferred something more elaborate and yet his captain had refused to even listen to his suggestions, something that rarely happened. He wondered the reason for this stubborness for a few minutes before reluctantly forgetting about it .Moving from the banner , Jarza lowered his eyes to the enemy troops. Most of these soldiers lacked proper armor, wearing only the barest protection of tattered leather or simple cloth. They carried basic shields and spears, tools of war given to them in haste. Their march was anything but disciplined; the lines wavered, and many struggled to maintain their formation. It was clear they had received only rudimentary training, enough to form a shield wall and little more. These were not seasoned warriors but common folk thrust into the chaos of battle, armed with the basics and left to fend for themselves. Jarza observed their approach with a critical eye, noting the uneven pace and the nervous glances exchanged among the ranks. The enemy prince''s forces might have the advantage in numbers, but the quality and discipline of their troops left much to be desired Jarza turned to his men, watching as they waited in silent anticipation. The front lines were composed of his brother in servitude , each man equipped with chainmail and helmets that gleamed dully in the sunlight. Their faces, though weathered, were set forward. Behind them, the new recruits provided by the prince stood ready. It was a common tactic: placing the elite soldiers with the best equipment at the front and the less experienced recruits at the back. Each soldier in the company held a lance, but Alpheo had ensured they were also armed for close combat. Maces and swords hung at their sides, weapons chosen for their effectiveness against lightly armored foes. Alpheo had emphasized the importance of these weapons, knowing that when facing an army equipped primarily with spears, good armor and close-quarter weapons would allow his men to cleave through the enemy like a hot knife through butter. Jarza observed the calm, focused expressions of his comrades. They were ready, their minds and bodies steeled for the coming battle, as they knew that by the end of the war their pouches would be filled with silver. Feeling the imminent approach of battle, Jarza took a deep breath and donned his helmet, which he had temporarily removed. His armor was not just chainmail; it was reinforced with steel plates that covered his stomach and lower chest, providing additional protection. Braces and shoulder covers added to his defense, while not impeding his movement . Currently, he sat on horseback, a position that afforded him a better view of the enemy lines slowly advancing towards them. As he adjusted the fit of his helmet, Jarza couldn''t help but feel a twinge of anxiety. The weight of the armor was familiar, this was not his first battles and still that familiar sense of fear was there. His horse shifted beneath him, sensing his unease, but Jarza steadied the animal with a firm hand on the reins. It was still a good day to die. Chapter 87: Secret weapon Chapter 87: Secret weapon "We look like one big hedgehog," Asag muttered as he led the men forward, his eyes scanning the dense rows of spears and lances that bristled around him. Unlike Jarza, Asag wasn''t on horseback. The strategy they had devised was meant to counter cavalry, and if the enemy spotted a man on a horse shouting orders, he''d quickly become the primary target. The old saying, "Kill the head and the body will fall," held too much truth to be ignored. For this reason, Asag walked on foot, embedded deep within the formation, surrounded by his men. To maintain visibility and command, a soldier walked beside him, holding the band''s herald high in the sky , fluttering in the cool breeze. The formation around him was tight, a living, breathing entity made up of hardened warriors and fresh recruits. The front lines were a wall of steel and muscle, each man gripping his four meters long lance with practiced ease, ready to thrust it forward at the first sign of an enemy charge. Behind them, the newer recruits held their positions, their eyes darting nervously, but their resolve firm. They looked to the veteran mercenary for cues, mimicking their calm and steady demeanor as best as they could. Asag couldn''t help but feel a grim satisfaction at how the formation looked from within¡ªa veritable forest of pointed weapons, each one poised to impale the first horse or soldier that dared to approach. He did not know how Alpheo had in thought of such style of fighting , but the training showed how the captain''s boasts were actually truthful .This was the ultimate weapon against cavalry.... Alpheo knew the value of discipline in battle, especially among troops who had never tasted real combat. A good portion of his men were green, fresh recruits who had only recently taken up arms. These men, untested and anxious, as such Alpheo gave them a job that did not involve close combat. For this reason, Alpheo had placed them inside the formation, protected on all sides by the more seasoned warriors. Their job was simple yet crucial and it would shine during the fight. As Asag looked out across the battlefield, his gaze was drawn to the far left, where enemy banners flapped in the cold breeze. But what truly caught Asag''s attention was not the banners, but the rising cloud of dust directly in front of them. It billowed into the sky, a vast, churning mass that obscured the horizon. Asag didn''t need to see the soldiers within that dust to know what was coming. His experience told him everything he needed to know¡ªthe enemy cavalry had finally arrived. The sight of the dust cloud sent a ripple of tension through the ranks. The tension hung thick in the air as Asag sensed the rising anxiety among the recruits. He knew that fear could be as deadly as any enemy on the battlefield. He needed to rally them, to remind them of their training and the strength they held as a united front. "Soldiers!" Asag''s voice cut through the murmurs, drawing the attention of every man within earshot. "We have trained long and hard for this fight. You''ve seen firsthand the power of these weapons and the effectiveness of this formation. " His words seemed to steady them, and many soldiers exhaled deeply, their nervous expressions slowly transforming into something more resolute. "I''m not one for long speeches," Asag continued, his tone blunt and to the point, "but let me remind you of one thing. Your greatest chance of survival is to hold the square and trust the men beside you. If any of you think you''ll survive by running, then you''ve got shit for brains. Fear won''t make you outrun a horse." His words were harsh but necessary, meant to cut through the panic and focus their minds on the reality of their situation. "So, brace your asses and stand your ground!" "USSAH!" The roar of agreement came from the veterans first, their voices strong and unwavering. It was quickly followed by the recruits, their initial hesitation giving way to a growing resolve. The collective shout echoed across the formation, a powerful affirmation that Asag had managed to steady the morale just in time. Asag took a moment to survey the faces around him. The fear was still there, but it was tempered now by determination. They were ready¡ªor as ready as they could be. -------------- The banner-holder waved the flag high, its vibrant colors snapping in the brisk wind, while the trumpeter''s horn echoed across the battlefield, signaling the advance of the cavalry. The knights and their steeds surged forward, spurred not only by the thirst for glory and riches but also by a burning desire to avenge the insult they perceived from the enemy. From their vantage point, they could see that what awaited them was not an opposing cavalry but a formation of mere foot soldiers. "This insult shall be answered with blood¡ªtheirs!" shouted a young man of barely twenty winters, his voice cutting through the din as he stood tall in the stirrups, making himself appear even more imposing. This young man was none other than Sorza, the heir to the throne of Oizen , leading the charge with a fervor fueled by his ambition and the weight of expectations placed upon him. Sorza had been given command of the cavalry by his father, the reigning prince, who saw this battle as an opportunity to elevate his son''s standing among the lords and knights of the realm. In a world where leadership was earned through bloodshed and valor, no man would willingly follow a leader who had never tasted the dust of the battlefield or wielded a sword in earnest combat. The prince knew that his son''s future depended on this moment, on proving himself worthy of command. The task had been deemed ''safe'' enough by the prince, based on the reports from spies who had noted the enemy''s low numbers of mounted troops. Sorza, despite his youth and inexperience, was flanked by a cadre of seasoned guards, their sole purpose to ensure that the young heir emerged from the battle unscathed. These were not just any guards, but handpicked veterans, hardened by countless battles, each sworn to protect the prince''s bloodline with their lives. As the cavalry closed the distance, the pounding of hooves drowned out all other sounds, a thunderous drumbeat that resonated in the hearts of the men. The lords and knights riding alongside Sorza shared in his determination, their eyes fixed on the enemy ahead. To them, the sight of footmen daring to stand against their mounted might was nothing short of a grievous affront. They were determined to teach these ''lowly'' soldiers the true power of cavalry, to trample them underfoot and send a clear message to any who would dare oppose them. Sorza''s heart raced with excitement and fear. This was his moment to prove himself, to show his father and the realm that he was more than just a prince by birth, but a leader by right. As they neared the enemy lines, he tightened his grip on his sword, ready to carve his name into the annals of history , not knowing that the formation they were going to fight was that of a modified Reisl?ufer created exactly to counter cavalry charges. Chapter 88: First battle(3) Chapter 88: First battle(3) The cavalry thundered across the field, a tidal wave of men and horses, their sheer force raising cloud of dusts .The pounding of hooves on the earth reverberated through the air, each beat echoing the pulse of the riders'' hearts. The horses, sensing the impending clash, were in a frenzy, their eyes wide with the thrill of the charge. Nostrils flared as they snorted and breathed in the dust-filled air, their powerful muscles rippling beneath gleaming coats. They had been at war many times and the smell of blood was not something they were not familiar with. Above this surging mass of cavalry, the banners of the noble houses fluttered wildly in the wind, each one a vivid splash of color against the dull brown of the dust and the deep green of the distant woods. These banners bore the crests of powerful families, their sigils¡ªa lion rampant, a soaring eagle, crossed swords¡ªmaking the air above the dust seems like the work of a artist. The banners whipped and snapped in the air, symbols of the lords'' honor and the ferocity of the charge. ---UZZAH--- They shouted albeit the roar was more to be heard by their companions,as the pitiful infantry would certainly not hear such shout covered by the thundering of hooves. Sorza, the young prince, shouted above the din, his voice cracking with the fervor of youth and the desire for glory. "Cut through them! Smash them and claim victory, men!" he bellowed, his words directed more at himself than the soldiers, who were already committed to the headlong rush. Positioned safely in the middle of the line, Sorza was spared the danger of the first clash, his presence more symbolic than strategic. His father had insisted he be kept from the most dangerous positions¡ªafter all, the heir to the princedom could not be risked so easily. Just few dozen of steps away now, the soldiers could see something strange about the infantry awaiting them. Hundreds of spears, long and wickedly sharp, jutted out from the formation. These were no ordinary spears; they were longer, heftier, held firmly with both hands by the men in the front line. Sorza squinted in confusion. The sight was unlike anything he had ever seen. The spears seemed almost impossibly long, creating a wall of steel points that shimmered in the sunlight. The soldiers behind them braced themselves, forming a compact and disciplined line, as if daring the cavalry to continue their charge. As Sorza observed the enemy formation, the unsettling realization that a frontal charge would be disastrous came at him. '''' If the horses were to charge the front, their momentum would be stopped cold'''' he thought, his mind racing with the implications. ''''Seems the men at the front have no shields... If only I had archers, I could skewer them from a distance and break them without even charging, he lamented silently, cursing his lack of bows. He shook himself from the daze. He was on a battlefield, and his hesitation could spell disaster. He needed to lead. "FLOWERS OPENING!" he shouted, his voice carrying over the thundering hooves and clinking armor. The command was quickly relayed through the ranks, knight after knight repeating it until the entire cavalry force began to shift. The massive formation, which had seemed ready to crash headlong into the enemy, suddenly began to split. Like petals opening of a blooming flower , the cavalry divided into two wings. One group veered sharply to the right, the other to the left, in a well-practiced maneuver. Sorza watched as his knights executed the tactic flawlessly, fanning out to encircle the enemy infantry. If I can hit them from both sides, they''ll crumble'''' Sorza thought, his mind racing. ''''Once the flanks are broken, the path will be open to send the heavy cavalry crashing into the rest of their forces. They''ll rout, and victory will be ours.'''' ------- Asag pov: Asag squinted through the haze of dust rising from the battlefield, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of the enemy cavalry''s maneuver. The mass of horsemen that had been barreling straight toward them suddenly began to split, the swirling dust clouds dividing into two distinct trails as the cavalry veered off toward both flanks. His heart pounded in his chest as he realized what was happening. ''They''re trying to flank us!'' The enemy''s intent was clear¡ªencircle the infantry and crush them from both sides. This was Asag''s first time commanding on a battlefield , in normal occasions Alpheo would have never given command to an inexperienced men , unfortunately he was lacking , humanly speaking, everything that could be used to lead men into battle.Luckily Alpheo had explained him well the strenght and weakness of what he called ''''Reisl?ufer'''' and had even explained to him all the things that could happen and on how to respond.And by that he knew exactly on how to respond "STEADY, MEN! HOLD THE LINE!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos. The urgency in his tone resonated with the soldiers, who gripped their spears and weapons tighter, their knuckles white with tension. "STEADY!" Asag roared once more, his voice raw with the effort. The spears were set, angled forward like a wall of thorns, ready to pierce any horse that dared to charge. The cavalry were coming in , they were so close that he could distinguish the colour of each horses mane and face. Even from inside the formation he couldn''t help but feel scared of such beast, and from that he knew that the men on the first line must be shitting themselves, even the brothers that he had marched with for months must be feeling their knees giving in . As the enemy cavalry thundered closer, the ground beneath Asag''s feet trembled with the force of their approach. He could feel the intensity of the moment, the air thick with anticipation. The horses were now only two dozen steps away, their riders'' armor glinting in the sunlight as they prepared to smash into the infantry formation. Asag''s eyes narrowed as he gauged the distance. The moment was upon them. "JAVELINS!" he bellowed, his voice a command that cut through the noise of the battlefield. In an instant, the recruits¡ªgreen but eager¡ªsnapped into action. They had been drilled for this for a few hours , and despite their inexperience, they moved as ordered. Arms shot upward, each soldier hefting a javelin and taking aim at the oncoming cavalry. The tension in the air was palpable as the recruits focused, their breaths held for the briefest of moments. Then, as if by a single breath, the javelins were released. A swarm of projectiles arced through the sky, their deadly tips glinting as they descended upon the enemy. The air was filled with the sound of the javelins whistling through the air before finding their marks. The first line of knights took the brunt of the volley. Some javelins struck true, piercing through chainmail and into flesh. Knights cried out as the sharpened points drove deep, some falling from their saddles with a pained grunt. Horses screamed as they were struck, their powerful bodies faltering under the sudden pain, collapsing to the ground and throwing their riders violently. For those armored in heavier steel plate beneath their mail, the javelins might not have penetrated as deeply, but the sheer force of the impact was enough to unseat several of them. The knights found themselves tossed from their saddles, landing heavily on the ground, the wind knocked out of them. Some struggled to rise, only to be trampled by the hooves of their own charging comrades. The effect was immediate and chaotic. The front lines of the cavalry were disrupted, their advance faltering as the wounded and the dead littered the field. Yet the charge was not over as the lines behind avoided their fallen companion as they advanced to give the footmen a taste of the cavalry''s steel. (MAP IN THE COMMENT) Chapter 89: First battle(4) Chapter 89: First battle(4) Men moaned in agony where they had fallen, clutching at their wounds, their cries of pain rising into the cool morning air. Horses whinnied in fear and distress, their screams cutting through the clamor as they lay dying or struggled to rise, their legs shattered by the fall. The stench of blood and sweat began to mix with the cold breeze, causing many of the men to breath from their mouth as not smell the foul odors. Among the chaos, the remainder of the enemy cavalry, undeterred by the broken line ahead, pressed on. Dust swirled as the surviving knights reformed their ranks, their steeds snorting and pawing the ground, eager to charge. The ground trembled once more, the pounding of hooves a rhythmic drumbeat of death as they galloped forward with renewed ferocity, as if they casualties they had just suffered did not exist. Asag could see his formation tightening, the men gripping their spears as they braced for impact. The recruits behind the veterans clutched their weapons, eyes wide with fear, some murmuring desperate prayers to the gods for protection. "BRACE FOR IMPACT!" Asag bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos as he hurled another javelin into the approaching mass of knights, the only thing he could do to help in the fight. The clash, long anticipated, finally came. The cavalry charged, fully expecting the sight of their gleaming armor and sheer momentum to send the infantry scattering. It was a tactic that had worked countless times before¡ªpeasant levies would break at the first sight of a cavalry charge, their fear overpowering any courage they could have . But this time, against all odds, the infantry held. The knights surged forward, lances leveled for a devastating blow, but something unexpected happened. The infantry didn''t waver. They stood firm, their formation tight, their spears poised as they faced down the enemy . The horses, creatures of instinct and survival, hesitated. They saw the deadly points of the spears aimed directly at them and began to slow, their eyes wide with fear. No amount of spurring or shouting from their riders could convince the beasts to charge headlong into a wall of sharp, unyielding steel. Panic rippled through the cavalry as their mounts resisted, trying to veer off or rear up to avoid impalement. The horses, confused and unwilling to march to their deaths, slowed to a near halt before the lances could reach the infantry . In the chaos of their refusal, they exposed their underbellies and chests to the infantry below. The men on the front lines, , seized the opportunity with deadly precision. They thrust their long spears upward, driving them into the vulnerable horses and unseating their riders. The scene was chaos¡ªhorses reared in terror, throwing men from their saddles, while the infantry pressed the advantage,those behind the three lines of spearment quickly advanced bearing hammers or daggers, stabbing and smashing at the knights now on foot or struggling to regain control. With powerful swings, the soldiers aimed low, smashing the knees of both horses and riders. The impact sent knights crumpling to the ground, their armor offering little protection against the sheer force of the blows. Horses screamed in agony as their legs buckled, collapsing under their own weight and trapping their riders beneath them. For any man watching this fight, it would undoutably be labelled as unchivalrous, as injuring horses was frowned upon . The mercenaries however did not have any problem fighting like this , since those were a set of values that did not belong to them, who lived and died in the mud. For those knights still in the saddle, the infantry struck high, driving their maces into the stomach plates, hoping to knock the wind out of the armored warriors. Some blows connected with a hollow clang, forcing knights to gasp for breath as they doubled over in pain. The men with hammers were swift, retreating behind the spears as soon as their strike landed, allowing the spearmen to thrust forward once more. Yet not all the knights were thrown off. Some regained control of their panicking steeds, managing to hold on despite the chaos. These knights lashed out in desperation, hacking down at the infantry with their swords and maces , cleaving through anything on foot . One knight, his horse rearing up, smashed his sword into a soldier''s helmet, sending him crumpling to the ground. The knight then drove his spurs into his steed, forcing the animal to barrel through a small group of infantry, scattering them like leaves in a storm. But the infantry regrouped quickly, pushing behind the lines of spears. As the chaotic melee raged, more javelins soared through the air. The infantry behind the spearmen kept a steady rhythm, launching their projectiles into the air. The cries of men and the high-pitched whinnies of panicked horses filled the battlefield. At a distance, Sorza watched in disbelief. His brow furrowed as he took in the strange, almost mechanical way the enemy infantry fought. It was nothing like he had expected. These weren''t peasants who would break at the first sight of a cavalry charge. They were disciplined,the spearmen held their line unwaveringly, while the men behind them moved in perfect synchronization, throwing javelins, then stepping back into formation. "This isn''t working..." he muttered to himself, gripping the reins of his horse tighter. His initial confidence had withered, replaced by a growing sense of unease. With a swift decision, Sorza raised his sword high into the air, signaling to his riders. "Pull back!" he shouted. "Pull back and regroup!" The call echoed across the battlefield as one knight after another relayed the order. Slowly, the cavalry began to retreat. The riders tugged at their reins, forcing their steeds to turn and gallop back. As the cavalry regrouped, pulling back a safe distance from the enemy, Sorza called out, "Ready yourselves! We will charge again. This time, we will break them." His voice was firm, but there was a sliver of doubt creeping into his tone that he hoped the men would not hear. ------------- The clash between the infantry forces was no less intense than that of the cavalry. On the left flank, while the cavalry struggled to break through, the infantry battle unfolded with brutal ferocity. The two forces could not have been more different. The Oizen infantry, largely composed of peasants, was a ragtag group hastily armed with spears and shields. Their shields were simple, wooden, and not even covered with tattered leather. Most wore little more than cloth and leather tunics, and their spears were of uneven length and craftsmanship. They stood shoulder to shoulder, gripping their spears with shaking hands, their faces pale as they awaited the inevitable charge. These were farmers, vagabonds, and laborers¡ªmen who had never seen battle before this day, and it showed. They were here only because their prince had called upon them, and also for the oppurtunity to plunder during war. On the other side stood the mercenary infantry led by Alpheo, who was standing on the back directing the battle, men who were fighting for coin rather than any sense of duty toward a master or lord. Alpheo''s soldiers were better equipped, each man wearing chainmail that glinted under the sun and helmets that covered their heads. Their shields were thicker, stronger, and better maintained than the Oizen peasants''. But most importantly, they carried with them not spears, but close-combat weapons¡ªswords, hammers, and maces. Alpheo knew that the battle would be won not in long engagements, but in brutal, close-quarters combat, making use of shock and awe. The Oizen peasants were armed with spears, and spears were only effective while keeping distance. His men, wearing chainmail and wielding blunt weapons, would close that distance and render the spears useless. The goal was to get in close, deny the Oizen troops the space they needed to thrust their weapons effectively, and then use their superior armor and heavier weapons to crush them. The two forces clashed, and immediately, the difference in experience and equipment became apparent. The Oizen peasants, trying desperately to maintain a shield wall, jabbed their spears forward, but Alpheo''s soldiers moved in too quickly. The chainmail-clad infantry pressed forward relentlessly, shields locked together as they pushed through the thin line of peasants. The blunt weapons came into play, with hammers and maces smashing down onto shields, arms, and legs. The swords cut through flesh when the opportunity arose, but it was the hammers and maces that made the biggest difference. Each blow from the mercenaries'' hammers rang out with a sickening crack, breaking through wooden shields and shattering bones. Even the spears that managed to hit home glanced off chainmail or were deflected by shields. The Oizen infantry, already untrained and nervous, quickly found themselves overwhelmed by the sheer brutality of the assault. Their spears, meant for keeping the enemy at a distance, were useless in such close quarters, making the infantry feel like mouses in a cage. Chapter 90: First battle(5) Chapter 90: First battle(5) The Black-winged scavengers birds flew in lazy arcs, drawn to the feast of flesh that would soon litter the fields below. Their caws echoed over the battle as they spectated it from above. Jarza stood near the center on the back of formation, his face set in a stony expression as he commanded the fighting. His eyes flickered from one side of the battlefield to the other, watching his men with the sharp attention that only a seasoned warrior could have. He had spent decades in the thick of battle, and this was no different¡ªexcept now, he was the one giving orders not obeying them. "Rotate the lines!" he barked over the noise using his whistle and signaling with his hand a circle . His voice cut through the chaos like a blade, as every 50-man serjeant obeyed the command and relayed the order to the soldiers. Every ten to fifteen minutes, the frontline troops¡ªthose in the thick of the brutal, close-quarters fighting¡ªwere pulled back, replaced by fresher soldiers from the second and third ranks. Normally, such a maneuver would have been risky¡ªshifting troops in the heat of battle could leave gaps in the line, openings the enemy might exploit. But the Oizen infantry, green and untrained as they were, did not press the advantage. They were too exhausted, too battered by the continuous pounding they had taken from Alpheo''s seasoned soldiers. The Oizen forces were more concerned with catching their breath, their initial aggression having drained them. Their spearmen, already struggling to maintain a coherent line, faltered under the attacks . Jarza, took full advantage of their hesitation of the peasants . He watched as the tired Oizen soldiers hesitated, their spear thrusts growing sluggish. Some had dropped their weapons entirely, clutching their shields tightly as if they could ward off the enemy. These men were not warriors¡ªthey were simple men hastily called to arms and given the barest of training. They had no sense of timing, no instinct for when to strike or when to press forward. "Hold steady, lads. Don''t let up," one of the officers commanded, his eyes scanning the lines. The troops now fresh took the front once more. The fresh line advanced , shields locking together as they pressed forward, step by methodical step. Behind them, the spent soldiers who had been on the front took a moment to breathe, wiping sweat from their brows and catching their breath, knowing they''d be called forward again soon. The Oizen troops, sensing the renewed assault, wavered. Their spears trembled in their hands as they tried to form some semblance of a defense, but it was futile. Every few minutes, the pressure was renewed, and the mercenaries pressed forward with hammers crashing down on shields, swords slicing through gaps in the shields, and maces smashing limbs. Jarza, his helmet tipped back for a moment , allowed his eyes to wander across the chaotic battlefield. He couldn''t help but wonder how Clio was faring with his detachment of men. His command was smaller than Jarza''s and this was also his first battle. Clio''s troops were a mix of veteran mercenaries and fresh-faced recruits, much like his own, and they had been ordered to hold firm at all costs. Normally mixing veterans with recruits was never a good idea, unfortunately, they were running low in men and Alpheo worried that entire units made up of recruits would rout at the slightest obstacle. Before he could dwell longer on Clio''s situation, movement on the horizon caught his attention. Jarza''s eyes narrowed as he saw figures emerging from the distant line. More infantry, , moving in formation toward the already beleaguered Oizen troops on the front line. The dust cloud they kicked up gave them away long before their banners were visible. "Reinforcements," Jarza spat bitterly, watching as the new enemy forces marched to bolster their crumbling front. The Oizen peasants had been buckling under the pressure of Alpheo''s disciplined soldiers, barely holding the line, but these fresh troops stopped the front line from routing But Jarza wasn''t about to let the enemy regroup and rally. He turned to his officers, a cold determination settling over his features. "Prepare the men for another push," he ordered, his voice sharp. "We need to crush them before those reinforcements arrive. If they join the fight, this will drag out longer than it needs to." The officers nodded and quickly moved to relay the command. Jarza knew they had to act fast, strike before the enemy could coordinate their efforts. He knew that the enemy troops, green as they were, if they saw any of their comrades escaping the fight they would be affected by it too , making it so that the enemy reinforcement could buckle before even reaching the fighting. ----------- Asag stood amidst the chaos of the battlefield, his brow damp with sweat as he wiped it away with the back of his gloved hand. The ground before him was littered with the remains of fallen horses and men, a grotesque graveyard of twisted bodies and shattered armor. The cavalry had charged four times already, each attempt crashing like a wave against the unyielding spears of his infantry. Yet, despite their successes in repelling the attacks, the toll was starting to show on his men. The javelins, their most effective defense against the mounted knights, were growing scarce. With each charge, fewer and fewer of the deadly projectiles flew through the air. His soldiers, who had once launched the javelins with vigor and precision, now threw them with heavier arms, their movements slower, their breathing more labored. Asag could see the exhaustion settling into the ranks like an unwelcome fog, worst of all his burns started getting hot all of a sudden, probably from all the sweat coming from his forehead. The javelins were nearly gone. Each man had perhaps two left , or three if they were lucky. Asag knew they could repel another two charges at most with such limited ammunition, but he had to keep morale steady. He raised his voice, shouting over the noise of the battlefield. "Hold steady! They''re tired, just like us. We break them here, or we die here!" The veterans grunted in response, the recruits nodding anxiously, clutching their remaining javelins as if they were their last hope of survival. Asag knew they would need more than just weapons to survive this next wave¡ªthey needed iron will and above all some help. He glanced over at the bodies that lay strewn across the battlefield. There was no room left for retreat, no option to fall back. The sheer mass of corpses¡ªhorses and men alike¡ª laid on the ground . It was an ugly idea that Asag thought, but an idea nonetheless. "Use the deads!'''' Asag shouted to his men, who relayed the order down the lines. "Move the carcass to the front!" Confusion flickered in their eyes as they glanced between each other, unsure at first what to make of the command. Yet, they moved , stepping out from behind the protective wall of spears to approach the fallen horses. Each group of 10 hesitated as they reached the corpses, the massive bodies of the animals sprawled across the ground, some still twitching in their death throes. They bent low, grabbing the hooves and legs of the dead horses, their faces twisted in a mix of revulsion and exhaustion. These were animals bred for war, powerful and once full of life¡ªnow reduced to flesh and bone in the mud.Luckily they were close to the lines, as moving hundreds of kilos was an hard job. "Is this supposed to help?" one of the men asked, his voice tight with confusion as they dropped the horse''s body in front of the first rank. "How''s this gonna stop the next charge?" "Better than standing there waiting to die," the veteran snapped back, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Let''s go get another one before they decide for another charge." The frontline soldiers, already exhausted from the constant threat of the cavalry, stared at the makeshift barricades with wide eyes. They shifted nervously, gripping their spears tighter as they watched their comrades repeat the process, hauling more horse corpses ahead of the line. --------- From atop his mount, Sorza squinted through the dust and chaos, watching in disbelief as groups of infantry soldiers, began breaking formation. At first, he couldn''t quite understand what they were doing, but the sight of them dragging dead horses toward the frontlines puzzled him. "What in the gods'' name...?" he muttered under his breath, gripping the reins of his horse tightly. Still, Sorza''s instincts as a cavalry commander took over. The sight of infantrymen moving out of formation, exposed and vulnerable, was an opportunity. "They''re out of position!" Sorza shouted, standing tall in his stirrups, his voice ringing out over the thundering hooves. "Prepare for another charge! Let''s smash them now, while they''re scattered!" His knights, already battered from four failed charges, hesitated only for a moment before obeying. As the cavalry bore down upon the infantry, Sorza''s mind raced with thoughts of glory. This time, the footmen would break¡ªhe was certain of it. With so many out of formation, victory seemed inevitable.The infantry tried to retreat back into formation but they would not make it , the distance betweent them was becoming shorter and shorter. But then, something unexpected happened. The horses, which had charged so fiercely before, began to slow down. It was subtle at first¡ªa slight hesitation, a momentary resistance against their riders'' commands. Sorza frowned, spurring his own horse harder. "Faster!" he shouted, but instead of speeding up, his mount slowed even more. Sorza looked around, confusion spreading across his face. All around him, knights were struggling to urge their steeds forward, but the horses were resisting, their eyes wide and wild, their hooves faltering as if some invisible wall had risen up before them. "What are you doing?!" Sorza barked at his horse, kicking its flanks harder. "Move, damn you!" But the animal refused. It neighed in distress, its powerful legs stumbling as it shook its head violently, resisting every command to charge further. "They won''t go forward," Sorza whispered , realization flooding his mind. "They are spooked by the deads'''' In that instant, the young prince''s dreams of a swift victory crumbled. For a few seconds, he simply stood there, gripped by disbelief, anger, and frustration. The dust swirled around him, and all he could hear was the frantic neighing of his horse and the hollow sound of failure settling into his bones. "Curse this wretched day!" Sorza spat under his breath, before giving one last, desperate order, his voice louder and sharper than ever. "DISMOUNT!" he roared, "DISMOUNT AND FIGHT ON FOOT, MEN!" His words cut through the chaos like a blade, reaching the ears of his knights who, though battered and confused, obeyed immediately. The sound of armored men hitting the ground rang out as the cavalry abandoned their steeds, clambering to their feet with swords, axes, and maces in hand using the same warfare they so hated and spat upon. Chapter 91: First Battle(6) Chapter 91: First Battle(6) The battlefield turned chaotic as the riders now on foot clashed against the enemy. Clad in heavy armor, they rushed forward with swords, axes, and maces in hand, determined to break through the enemy lines. The spearmen , held their ground or at least tried to . Rows of long spears pointed menacingly forward, bracing against the weight of the approaching knights. As the knight crashed into them, the spearmen shoved the points of their weapons into the gaps between plates, aiming for weak spots in the armor, like face and armpit, while men with hammers waited their brave knight to break through the spears to give them a good welcome. "Push!" one of the infantrymen shouted, sweat pouring down his face as he strained against the weight of a knight pressing forward with his shield. The enemy proved too strong, some managed to grab the spears with their gauntleted hands, yanking them away from the soldiers before smashing them to the ground with their axes or maces. Wood splintered and cracked, sending broken spears tumbling to the dirt. With their spears destroyed, the men were forced to rely on their swords, hammers, and maces. The close-quarters combat became brutal, as the knights swung their heavy weapons, aiming for heads and chests. A knight, swinging his mace, crushed the helmet of an unfortunate soldier, the impact sending him crashing to the ground, lifeless. Another knight thrust his sword into the gap between a soldier''s chainmail , the blade sinking deep into flesh with a sickening squelch. While on horses , Asag''s men may have managed to stand their ground, what was happening now could only be described as a one-sided carnage.As deprived of their advantage, the formation Alpheo had so hardily managed to form , was getting smashed left and right. -------- Alpheo sat atop his horse, as a slight tremor of nerves betrayed him. His mount shifted beneath him, sensing his unease as he surveyed the battlefield below. It wasn''t unfolding the way he had imagined. He had been so confident that his well-trained infantry would swiftly rout the enemy''s peasant forces¡ªhe''d even boasted about it before the battle. Yet here they were, locked in fierce combat for over an hour nearly two, and the enemy lines still held. Reinforcements kept streaming into their ranks, keeping them bolstered, refusing to break under pressure. He clenched his teeth, his jaw tightening painfully as he struggled to suppress his frustration. His plan had been flawless¡ªhe had thought. ''What''s keeping them? Why haven''t they broken?'' He asked himself, trying to make sense of it all. He had prepared for everything¡ªor so he had thought. ''If we keep this up, they''ll wear us down. The men can''t hold this forever. I need to act¡ªneed to shift the momentum before it''s too late.'' Just when despair began to settle like a weight in his chest, a rider appeared at the edge of his vision, galloping towards him at full speed. Alpheo barely noticed at first, lost in his thoughts of impending defeat. But then, as the rider drew closer, something about the urgency in his approach caught Alpheo''s attention. Things were looking grim; however, it seems fate had other plans for Alpheo , for when everything seemed going badly, he received the good news he was certainly not expecting. ----------- Egil sat on his horse, lazily chewing a piece of stale bread as his eyes scanned the treeline in front of him. The sun filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor, but the sight did nothing to stir his excitement. He leaned back in his saddle, bored, feeling like he''d been waiting there forever. A hundred men, all on horseback, sat with him in silence, hidden among the thick trees. They were meant to be a surprise¡ªa force waiting to strike at just the right moment. But that moment hadn''t come yet, and to Egil, it seemed like it never would. ''How long are we supposed to wait?'' he thought, taking another bite of bread and tearing it slowly with his teeth. The bread was tough, tasteless, but it gave his restless hands something to do. He glanced down at his left foot, feeling the familiar throb of pain. ''Damn thing'' he muttered to himself, casting a grim look at the limb, which less than a week ago was slightly pierced by an arrow.The wound had healed enough for him to ride again, but every time his foot brushed against the stirrup, a sharp jolt of pain shot up his leg. From there he could see the battle going on , unfortunately he was too far away to even understand what was going on. ''I will let Alph worry about that , I only have to stick on what I know'' he thought as he threw the remaining bread on the ground. Straightening himself up with a sudden burst of energy, a smile spread across his face as the man rode up, dust kicking up from his horse''s hooves. The rider, breathless and wild-eyed, pulled his reins, stopping just before Egil.It was Laedio... "The captain''s given the order," he gasped, pointing toward the battlefield. "It''s time. We charge." Egil''s smile widened, his weariness instantly replaced by excitement. He had been waiting for this moment. Finally, the monotony of sitting in the woods was over. With a quick glance at the line of men behind him, Egil''s voice rang out with newfound eagerness. "About damn time! You heard him, lads!" he shouted, his voice carrying through the trees. "We''re done waiting¡ªfollow me!" A collective murmur of excitement rippled through the ranks as the men straightened in their saddles, hands gripping weapons in anticipation. Egil spurred his horse forward, the pain in his foot momentarily forgotten as adrenaline surged through him. His steed shot out from the tree line, galloping toward the battlefield, with a hundred riders thundering after him. The ground shook beneath the weight of hooves, and the dull roar of the charge echoed out of the forest and toward the battle. --------- Sorza''s pov: Sorza swung his sword with relentless focus, parrying strikes and thrusting back at the enemy infantry with the desperation of a man trying to carve a name for himself on the battlefield. Every moment, every clang of steel, was met with a grim determination. His eyes darted across the fight, studying weak points in the enemy''s formation. He watched as some of his men tried to overpower the stubborn infantry, while others struggled against the long spears that kept them at bay. His breathing was heavy, his arms aching from the weight of his blade, but he pressed on, ignoring the exhaustion creeping into his limbs.They were finally having the better..... In one corner, he saw a knight felling two enemy footmen with a single powerful swing,killing the first and knocking the second to the ground before finishing him off, and in another, his own guards struggling to push forward against the unyielding wall of spears. Then, a shout cut through his concentration like a blade. "Your Grace! Look ahead!" one of his guards yelled frantically, pointing past the melee while grabbing the heir back from his shoulder. Sorza snapped out of his battle trance, blinking in confusion. His eyes followed the direction of the guard''s outstretched hand, and what he saw drained the blood from his face. A massive plume of dust was rising on the horizon, growing larger by the second. "Cavalry..." he whispered, his voice barely audible over the din of battle. The realization hit him like a hammer. The enemy had held back cavalry. That bastard of Arkawatt had hidden part of his forces, biding their time until now. Fear gripped Sorza''s chest as he stared at the dust cloud, knowing what it meant. "They''re coming for us," he muttered, panic rising in his throat. He had expected to break the infantry with his own cavalry charge, but now he was caught off guard, vulnerable , this time victim of the style of combat he worshipped. ''''PULL BACK!'''' he shouted as he frantically went towards one of the many horses laying back ''''ON YOUR HORSES GET BACK! RETREAT!'''' The prince tried everything in order to regain control, but the unease had already spread through his ranks at the sight of the dust . They had been lured into a trap, and now the trap was closing in. Egil''s cavalry thundered onto the battle , a hundred horsemen surging forward in a well-timed charge. The ground trembled beneath them as hooves pounded the earth. With a fierce shout, Egil lowered his lance, and his men followed suit. The long, gleaming weapons leveled like deadly spears aimed straight at the exposed backs and sides of the enemy knights, most of whom had dismounted to fight on foot and that did not manage to find a horse. The impact was devastating. The knights, clad only in chainmail, were no match for the force of the cavalry charge. Egil''s lance plunged into the torso of an enemy knight, piercing through the chainmail with ease. The knight let out a guttural scream as the lance skewered him, lifting him off his feet before the lance snapped from the sheer force of the charge. For those in heavier plate armor, the outcome was only marginally better. While the lances failed to fully penetrate the thick steel, the blunt force was enough to cause devastating internal damage. Knights in full plate staggered under the impact, their ribs shattered, lungs punctured as they collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath. The cavalry pushed through, horses crashing into the dismounted knights, trampling the fallen underfoot as they charged deeper into the enemy lines. Some of Sorza''s men, caught off guard, tried to flee, but the suddenness and violence of the charge left them no chance. Egil''s men tore through the battlefield, their swords flashing as they cut down the disoriented enemies. The once proud formation of Sorza''s knights was now in complete disarray, bodies and armor strewn across the field. The prince''s plan, his bold charge that had seemed to work , had been utterly shattered in an instant. Chapter 92: First battle(7) Chapter 92: First battle(7) "BREAK THEM!" Clio roared as his axe swung down, biting deep into the collarbone of an Oizen soldier. The man let out a choked gasp, his eyes wide with pain, but the axe had lodged itself into bone. Clio grunted, trying to yank the weapon free, but the effort was fruitless. Without hesitation, he slammed his boot into the dying man''s chest, kicking him and taking the axe buried in his flesh away as the soldier crumpled to the ground, motionless. All around him, the battlefield was a chaotic mess of steel, blood, and cries of agony. Men screamed as they fell, their bodies torn apart by swords, axes, and maces. It was carnage¡ªbut mostly in their favor. The Oizen infantry, under-equipped and under-trained, were crumbling beneath the pressure of Alpheo''s more experienced and equipped men. The advantage of better weapons and armor was painfully clear. The ground was littered with Oizen dead, while Alpheo''s soldiers pressed forward, bloodied but still standing strong. Yet despite their overwhelming strength, the easy rout they had expected never came. It had been nearly two hours of brutal, relentless combat, and still the enemy clung to their positions. The Oizens were giving way, slowly and steadily, but they hadn''t broken in the way Clio had anticipated. "Is their greed of loot really this strong?" Clio muttered under his breath, cleaving through another enemy soldie. The man''s spear thrust came too slowly, and Clio easily batted it aside with his shield before driving his axe into the man''s chest. The blade sank deep, and the soldier crumpled to the ground with a final, wheezing breath. Clio''s frustration mounted as he glanced across the field. The Oizens were faltering, yet they still refused to collapse entirely. The battle dragged on, longer than it should have, longer than any of them had wanted. "REFORM THE LINE AND PUSH!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the noise of the battlefield, blood and saliva staining his beard. His men responded immediately. They regrouped, shields locking together in a solid wall as they reformed their lines with practiced precision as Alpheo had teached them . Clio moved among them, watching as they steadied themselves. "On my mark !" he shouted, hefting his shield and pulling his axe in the air . The men stood ready, grim-faced and blood-soaked, waiting for his signal. "NOW!" Clio roared, and like a tide crashing against the shore, the line surged forward again. Steel met flesh as they charged in unison, breaking into the wavering ranks of the Oizens with sheer, unrelenting force. Clio could feel the bloodlust rising in his men as they pushed forward with renewed vigor. Their faces were smeared with blood and dirt, their eyes wild with the adrenaline of battle. They shouted taunts at the enemy, trying to break their spirits as much as their bodies. "You will die here, bastards!" one soldier spat, his voice hoarse "Leave your head to me!" another roared, grinning through blood-soaked teeth as he cut down an Oizen soldier, his weapon dripping crimson. The sight of Alpheo''s battle-hardened soldiers, covered in the blood of their foes, was a terrifying one. Some of the men were practically unrecognizable beneath their armor, their faces streaked with gore and dirt. They looked like demons, not men, as they advanced. Some of them, in their frenzy, simply let out primal screams, spittle flying as they charged, their weapons raised high. The psychological toll on the Oizen infantry was immediate. Many of the green soldiers took unconscious steps back, their fear palpable as they saw the ferocity before them. Then, from the corner of his eye, Clio saw one of his comrades turn around suddenly, a wide grin breaking out across his face. "Reinforcements!" the man shouted, waving his arm wildly. "They''re coming! Help is on the way!" Clio''s heart leapt at the words. He spun around, his bloodied sword still raised, and saw it for himself: a line of long spears glinting in the sunlight, their polished heads reflecting the chaos of the battlefield. The reinforcements were charging towards them, the dust from their advance rising like a cloud behind them. His chest swelled with relief. "Help has arrived!" Clio bellowed, his voice filled with raw excitement. He turned back to the enemy, swinging his axe in a wide arc and slicing through another Oizen soldier. The man dropped with a groan, his blood mixing with the already-soaked ground. "Push them back!" Clio roared. "We''ve got them now!" The Oizen soldiers, desperate to stop the incoming reinforcements, scrambled to intercept Asag''s men. Their lines were thin, worn down by the hours of fighting, but still, they rushed forward, shields raised and spears ready, trying to form a line . Their commanders shouted at them to hold firm, to stop the enemy''s advance, but their voices wavered as the tide of battle seemed to turn against them. As they charged, the air suddenly whistled with the deadly sound of javelins flying through the sky, as the men that still held on their last javelins threw them . A full volley, sharp and accurate, cut through the Oizen lines with brutal precision. Men cried out as the projectiles pierced through leather, some falling instantly as the javelins found throats, chests, and exposed limbs. Shields did little to stop the force of the throw, many made useless under the impact as javelins stuck onto them . The once somewhat orderly ranks of Oizen soldiers broke, bodies collapsing to the ground, their comrades stumbling over them in shock. Before they could even regroup, Asag''s men were upon them. Long spears, polished and deadly, thrust forward in perfect coordination. The Oizen, ill-equipped and out of formation, struggled to match the precision of the attack. The spears cut through the ragged lines, finding flesh and armor with devastating efficiency. The enemy''s disjointed defense stood no chance. Some tried to push back, but the long reach of the spears denied them any chance of a counterattack. Those that did not have spears went towards the flanks with hammers or swords doing their own job at killing the enemy. The Oizen soldiers, pressed from both the front and flanked on the sides, found themselves overwhelmed. Panic set in, their desperation mounting as they realized they were losing control. Those in the front line were skewered on the points of Asag''s spears, while those in the middle found themselves trapped between two waves of death. The weight of the battle crushed them. It was in the back ranks, however, where the breaking point came. As the Oizen soldiers saw their comrades fall and the relentless pressure of the flanks closing in, fear overwhelmed them. One man, eyes wide with terror, threw his shield to the ground and ran. That was all it took. The sight of someone fleeing sparked chaos, and within moments, others followed. Shields were cast aside, spears dropped as men turned and began to rout, their fear contagious. The line collapsed entirely. What started as a few men fleeing soon spread like wildfire. Soldiers trampled over one another in their haste to escape the slaughter, the once-organized force now nothing more than a panicked mob. "Run!" someone screamed from the back ranks, and with that, the Oizen forces broke. Asag''s men, spears still at the ready, advanced relentlessly, their formation holding strong as they cut down any who lagged behind. The army was now in full retreat, their banners falling as they scattered across the battlefield, leaving behind the dead and dying while the lords that were leading them immediately used their horses to retreat as soon as they saw the battle turning around . It was a sight Clio had longed to see¡ªthe moment of victory. A fierce grin spread across his blood-smeared face, and without hesitation, he let out a primal scream that echoed across the battlefield. "PURSUE THEM!" he roared, his voice hoarse from the hours of shouting. "But don''t go too far! Keep the formation tight!" His men, exhilarated by the sight of the fleeing enemy, responded with a deafening cheer. Some of the veterans grinned knowingly, while the newer recruits simply quickly formed up to follow Clio''s lead. He himself wasted no time, surging forward with long, powerful strides, his axe at the ready. He moved like a man possessed, determined to capitalize on the enemy''s retreat. This was Clio''s first real taste of battle, and he had performed far better than he ever imagined. His initial nerves had long since evaporated, replaced by bloodlust. With each swing of his axe, he had felt more at ease, the rhythm of battle coming to him naturally. As they pursued the fleeing Oizen soldiers, Clio kept his pace controlled, just as he had ordered. He knew the dangers of letting his men get too carried away¡ªleast they fall into a trap. The enemy was in disarray, but they could regroup or have reinforcements waiting. He swung his axe into the back of a fleeing soldier, the blade sinking deep into the man''s spine before he kicked the body aside, barely breaking his stride. Around him, his men were cutting down the stragglers, their war cries mingling with the desperate screams of the retreating enemy. The battle was won Chapter 93: The day is won! Chapter 93: The day is won! Yarkawatt, Prince of Yarzat, stood atop his steed overlooking the battlefield, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of triumph and disbelief. For the first time in years, the bitter taste of defeat was absent from his lips, replaced by the sweet sensation of victory. The enemy was in full retreat, their soldiers scattering like leaves before the wind. And now, the sight of the fleeing Oizen forces was almost too much to contain. He threw his head back and laughed¡ªa deep, booming sound that reverberated through the ranks of his men standing nearby. It was a rare, joyous sound, one that echoed the sheer relief and exhilaration he felt. The long years of near-defeats, political setbacks, and skirmishes that had brought nothing but shame were finally washed away by this glorious moment.Many of his lords after this victory may even decided to reapproach the prince. "By the gods! Look at them run!" Yarkawatt cried, a wide grin splitting his face as he turned to Rober who shared the same smile. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword as if he could barely restrain himself from joining the chase. "They''re nothing but cowards!" His eyes sparkled with delight as he looked down at his commanders. There was a fire in his gaze, a youthful energy that hadn''t been there in years. The years of waiting, of watching as other lords ignored his authority while he sat idle, had all been wiped clean by this moment. "Tell the men to pursue them!" he barked at his commanders, his voice full of glee. "Chase them down and give no quarter!" The couriers rushed off to relay the orders, and the army sprang into action. Yarkawatt watched them eagerly as his forces surged forward, hunting down the fleeing remnants of the enemy. His hands trembled with excitement, and he could feel the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins.For too long, he had been the one retreating, licking his wounds while others gained glory. But not today. Today, the enemy fled before him, and the land would sing of his victory. "We''ll break them here," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, his grin widening. "And once we do, the rest of their lands will be ripe for the taking." Yarkawatt savored the moment, nearly oblivious to the heavy toll the battle had taken on his own forces. The stench of blood, sweat, and death lingered in the air, but he was far more focused on the sweetness of victory that now coated his thoughts. Yet, his triumph was cut short when a rider galloped toward him, kicking up a cloud of dust, who had came to explain what had happened "Your Grace, it seems the plan has worked," the rider said, breathless but eager to deliver the good news. "The enemy cavalry was routed by the mercenaries'' charge. They pushed through the left flank and later reinforced the infantry, which caused the entire left wing of the Oizen forces to collapse. The prince of Oizen had no choice but to call for a retreat." Yarkawatt''s grin widened as he listened. He turned to Robert, his trusted advisor, with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. "I knew those mercenaries were worth every coin," he said with a smirk. Robert offered a measured bow in response, his face betraying little emotion, but the prince could sense the unspoken approval beneath the man''s stoic exterior. Everything had gone according to plan. But the rider wasn''t finished. "Your Grace," the man continued, his tone shifting slightly, "I have further news. Captain Alpheo has been spotted returning to camp with some of his men. It seems they are escorting prisoners... potentially important ones." Yarkawatt''s victorious swagger faltered for the briefest of moments. The mention of prisoners immediately transported him back to the disaster at Aracina¡ªa debacle that still haunted him. It had been a stark lesson in how fragile control could be when taken for granted. He could not afford to let those prisoners remain under the mercenaries'' control for too long. Alpheo was a good paid sword, but Yarkawatt knew better than to trust anyone with things above them . He needed to seize control of the situation before it slipped through his fingers like before. "I understand," Yarkawatt said, his voice tightening with resolve. "You''re dismissed." The rider gave a swift bow and retreated. Yarkawatt''s eyes narrowed as he turned back to his men, his earlier elation now tempered by the need for action. The victory was not complete until the prisoners were securely in his grasp. ''There are about 100 men with me,'' he thought, scanning his small detachment. It wasn''t a large force, but it would be enough to assert his authority over whatever captives Alpheo had brought back. He couldn''t delay any longer¡ªevery moment was an opportunity for something to go wrong. Without hesitation, he gave the order. "Mount up! We return to camp at once." His men moved quickly, their horses stirring in the dust as they prepared to ride. Yarkawatt spurred his horse forward, his eyes now fixed on the horizon where the camp lay. Victory had been sweet, but the real work was just beginning. He would not allow anyone¡ªmercenary or enemy prince¡ªto steal the fruits of his triumph. ----------- The day is ours," Alpheo mused, a rare smile creeping onto his face as he rode forward with his personal guard flanking him. Victory was sweet, but as much as he wanted to claim it had been expected, he couldn''t lie to himself. The truth was far less certain. Despite all his preparations, despite the tricks and strategies he''d employed, they had been outnumbered¡ªboth in cavalry and infantry. The odds had been stacked against them. Had his infantry not been as well-equipped, or if Asag had failed to steel his men''s courage during the crucial cavalry charge, the entire battle would have ended in disaster. But luck, it seemed, had not abandoned him. The disciplined ranks of his infantry had held firm, and Asag''s men had weathered the relentless cavalry onslaught. They had turned the tide when all seemed lost, and the man who had spearheaded the ambush that ultimately won the day was riding toward him. He watched as Egil drew closer, both men locking eyes in silent recognition of their shared triumph. Without a word, they spurred their horses forward, gripping each other''s arms in the way only comrades who had faced death more than once could. "It seems the gods favored us once again," Egil said with a grin, his voice warm with the exhilaration of battle. Alpheo nearly scoffed, biting back the retort that sat on the tip of his tongue. ''The gods had nothing to do with it,'' he thought, though he let the comment slide. "It was the ambush that won us the day," he said instead, his tone matter-of-fact. "How does it feel to be back in the saddle after all this time?" Egil''s face softened, his grin widening as he took a deep breath, closing his eyes as if savoring the moment. "Liberating, to say the least," he replied, his voice carrying an unexpected weight of emotion. He tilted his head back, letting the wind brush against his face. "Feeling the wind crashing into me as I cut through the enemy''s lines¡ªthere''s nothing like it. I never realized how much I missed it until I was back in the thick of it, sword in hand. It''s strange, isn''t it? The things you crave when you''ve been away from it for so long and expected to never have ever again ." Alpheo nodded, understanding more than he let on. He studied Egil for a moment, noticing the change in his friend since their last encounter. The weariness that had clung to him after his injury had been replaced with something brighter, a vitality that only battle seemed to rekindle in men like them. "You fought well," Alpheo said after a moment, glancing over the battlefield once again. "It was your charge that broke the cavalry''s spine. They never recovered after that." Egil chuckled, a glint of pride in his eyes. "It was good to finally ride again, to have the wind at my back and enemies at my front. That moment when the lance shatters against their armor, when their line buckles¡ªthat''s the kind of feeling that makes the pain worth it." Alpheo couldn''t help but smile at that. "And how''s the leg?" he asked, motioning toward Egil''s wounded foot. Egil''s face darkened slightly, but the smile never left his lips. "Still sore. Hurts like hell whenever it hits the stirrup, but I can manage. Nothing''s going to keep me from the fight now that I''m back on my feet." Alpheo nodded again, casting a quick glance at the horizon where the enemy had once stood strong. Now, their lines were broken, their forces scattered. The day was indeed theirs. But there was still work to be done. Alpheo''s gaze finally shifted toward the long line of prisoners being led on foot, their hands bound in front of them . Their heads hung low in shame and defeat as they trudged across the field, a stark contrast to the proud knights they had been just hours before. Behind them, a cluster of riderless horses followed, the leather reins held by Egil''s men. The animals, once fierce in battle, now appeared docile, plodding along with a calmness that belied the chaos they had just endured. Alpheo''s eyes narrowed as he counted. There were dozens of them¡ªhorses without riders, captured by his men. He threw a sidelong glance at Egil, his expression full of silent questions. Egil, catching the look, grinned knowingly. "A good haul, eh?" he said, his voice light but proud. "These," he gestured to the line of horses, "are the spoils of today''s work. We''ve captured 28 knights, 43 horses, and¡ª" he paused, turning his attention toward the only mounted prisoner in the group, a man bound to his saddle. Egil added, his voice quiet with triumph, "the heir of Oizen. He was fighting in the frontline whe suddendly he was dismounted to the ground by some footmen, before they could kill them, however, he yelded, and apparently the men took him prisoner after observing how decorated the armor was. Gotta give it to the youngster though he never once retreated...." Alpheo said nothing for a long moment, his eyes fixed on Sorza. The weight of what this meant slowly settled in his mind. He had expected a hard-fought battle and perhaps a minor victory if luck favored them¡ªbut this? This was beyond even his wildest hopes. Then, without warning, he burst into laughter, a deep, genuine sound. He reached out and slapped Egil''s back with a hearty thud. "By the gods, Egil, you''ve outdone yourself! The day couldn''t have gone better if we''d written it ourselves." Egil grinned back, clearly pleased with his friend''s reaction. "Luck was with us, Alpheo. That''s for sure." Alpheo''s laughter faded, but the smile remained on his face. "Luck, yes," he said, his eyes flicking once more to Sorza. "But skill too'''' Alpheo''s smile faltered for a moment, darkening as a shadow of concern crossed his face. His tone shifted, becoming more serious almost as if he remembered somethign as he asked, "How many men do you have with you, Egil?" Egil frowned slightly at the abrupt question, sensing the tension behind it. "Fifty," he answered, his voice cautious. "The rest are on their way back as you ordered. They didn''t pursue beyond the battlefield." Alpheo nodded thoughtfully, his mind racing. ''Fifty... with mine, that makes about sixty,'' he calculated. After a pause, he said, "Send one of your men to hurry them up. Tell them to make haste, and make sure the infantry knows as well. If there are wounded, leave some behind to tend to them, but the bulk of our forces needs to be marching toward the camp. Now." Egil''s brows furrowed, his unspoken question clear in his eyes: ''Why?'' Alpheo met his gaze and sighed softly, though his voice remained steady. "If my suspicions are correct¡ªand I pray they aren''t¡ªwe might be walking into more trouble. We may need all the strength we can gather." Egil''s expression shifted from curiosity to understanding, though it was clear he still didn''t have the full picture. But he didn''t ask further; instead, he gave a curt nod and turned to issue the orders. Alpheo watched him go before casting a glance at Sorza, the captured heir of Oizen, bound on horseback who since came here said nothing and just observed the ground. "We''ll return to camp and secure our... guest," Alpheo added, his eyes lingering on the prince, whose defeat now felt heavier even to the victors with each passing moment. "Whatever happens next, we need to be ready." As he said so he turned towards the prisoner as he bowed ''''Your grace I hope you will find our accommodations to your liking, I apologise for the simplicity of it through.After all we are no rich men'''' Chapter 94: Confrontation (1) Chapter 94: Confrontation (1) Keeping a watchful eye on the prisoners, Alpheo led his men toward the camp at a steady pace. The captured walked in sullen silence, their hands bound tightly, heads lowered in defeat. Every now and then, one of them would glance around nervously, as if waiting for a moment to escape. As they marched, Alpheo looked up at the sky and noticed the absence of ravens. They must have already started their feast, he imagined the ghastly sight of them, tearing at the eyes of the dead as their first choice before going towards the nose and whatever part was easy to strip from the bones. As they neared the camp, Alpheo glanced back at Egil, who had fallen in beside him. "Any word from the men we sent ahead?" "Not yet," Egil replied, his brow furrowing. "But they should catch up soon enough." "Good. We''ll need every sword we can get if this situation turns sour." Alpheo''s voice was grim, I hope though I am still just overthinking it... As Alpheo''s party reached the camp, the sight of his banner rippling in the wind signaled their arrival. The guards at the gate, recognizing the familiar colors, hurriedly opened the wooden doors, allowing the small company to enter. The creak of the gate echoed through the quiet encampment, and Alpheo immediately noticed the sparse presence of men. There couldn''t have been more than a dozen soldiers left, most likely left behind to guard the camp while the bulk of their forces were still scattered after the battle. Alpheo, without wasting time, dismounted and gave a sharp wave to his men. "Get them inside, lock them away," he ordered, pointing toward the small makeshift holding area at the far end of the camp. The captured knights were ushered forward, their steps slow and heavy with the weight of defeat. "But not him," Alpheo added, pointing to the firstborn son of the King of Oizen, who stood among the bound men. Sorza had been unbound shortly before they entered the camp. Alpheo knew the importance of treating such a high-ranking captive with a measure of dignity. The young prince, despite his capture, carried himself with the quiet defiance that only a prince could muster. "Take him to one of the empty tents," Alpheo continued, signaling to a pair of his men. "Treat him well. He''s not to be harmed, make sure he is not injured " The guards nodded and guided Sorza toward a larger tent on the edge of the camp. The rest of the prisoners were led away, their armors clinking softly as they were taken toward a small wooden structure serving as a holding cell, where they were first deprived of armor and made to sit on the ground. Alpheo watched them disappear remembering how it felt to pass the night there, before turning to Egil, who had dismounted and was waiting by his side. "Only a dozen men here," Alpheo muttered under his breath, his sharp eyes darting around, scanning the camp. He turned to Egil, his expression serious. "Send 10 men over to the gate," he ordered, his voice low but firm. "I want it secured, and make sure they don''t do anything rash. If something''s to happen, I want us to control the gate ¡ªno chaos, no panic." Egil nodded immediately. He gestured to a group of nearby soldiers, relaying Alpheo''s orders with a quick hand signal. Ten men broke away from the main group, marching toward the gate. Dozens of minutes passed in tense silence. Alpheo paced near the camp''s entrance, his mind racing with thoughts of what might come next. Suddenly, the heavy wooden gate creaked open with a loud groan. Alpheo turned sharply, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword. Through the entrance rode a group of 100 soldiers, all bearing the banner of Arkawatt. Their armor gleamed in the fading light, and the banner snapped in the wind, its colors vibrant and unmistakable. The riders poured in, filling the space within the camp,. They halted in formation, their horses snorting and stamping the ground. Alpheo, standing with his remaining fifty men, looked on, his expression unreadable. His soldiers subtly tightened their grip on their weapons. Fifty men against one hundred. Arkawatt''s soldiers dismounted, their eyes sweeping over the camp before focusing on Alpheo and his small group. Arkawatt dismounted from his horse with regal grace, his eyes scanning the camp as Alpheo stood before him. The prince approached with an air of triumph, his rich cloak swirling slightly as he walked. Alpheo bowed once more, offering a respectful nod as they exchanged pleasantries. "The battle went better than expected," Arkawatt said, his voice rich with satisfaction. "You''ve done well, Alpheo. A victory well earned." Alpheo returned the compliment, offering a polite smile. "It''s only through your guidance, Your Grace. Your strategies led us to victory." Arkawatt chuckled, waving off the praise. "Still, the execution was yours. Tell me, how fares the spoils of this victory?" At that question, Alpheo''s smile faltered ever so slightly. He knew this moment would come, but there was no hiding it now. He drew in a breath, steadying himself. "Your Grace," he began carefully, "we captured thirty knights from the field, all accounted for and bound." Arkawatt''s brow lifted slightly as he awaited more. "And... among them," Alpheo continued, hesitating for a moment, "is Sorza. The firstborn son of the Prince of Oizen." For a split second, there was a pause between them. Alpheo knew there was no point in hiding the truth¡ªArkawatt would discover it soon enough. The prince''s eyes gleamed with interest, though his face remained unreadable. Alpheo felt a slight tension in the air, wondering how Arkawatt would react to holding such a valuable hostage. Alpheo stood tall as he rose to his feet, his voice steady yet firm. "I would like to remind His Grace of the clauses in our contract," he said, meeting Arkawatt''s gaze without faltering. "Every spoil taken during the war is the property of the band¡ªbe it gold, silver, or prisoners." The words hung heavy in the air. Arkawatt''s guards immediately reacted, their hands drifting to the hilts of their swords, sensing the tension that had arisen. The prince remained silent for a moment, his face a careful mask. When he finally spoke, his voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it. "That man is no ordinary spoil, Alpheo," Arkawatt said, his tone laced with authority. "The son of the Prince of Oizen is too high in position to be left in the care of common mercenaries. His value is far beyond coin or ransom. I cannot allow him to remain in your hands." Alpheo''s expression remained flat and unreadable, though his heart beat faster. He had expected this, but he wasn''t about to give in. "I appreciate Your Grace''s concern," he said coolly, "but the terms of our agreement are clear. Sorza is a spoil of this battle, and by that right, he belongs to the band. His fate will be decided by us. Of course, I would be more than happy to hand him over for the right price," he concluded. Arkawatt''s smile tightened. "We may speak of this later. For now, the prisoner will be under my treatment." "I fear that may not be possible until we reach an agreement, Your Grace," Alpheo answered. Tension rose in the air. "You overstep, Captain," he said sharply. "This is not a mere matter of loot. I request¡ªno, I demand¡ªthat the Oizen''s heir be placed under my authority." Alpheo''s refusal was as calm as it was final. "I must decline, Your Grace." That was enough. Arkawatt''s guards, already on edge, drew their swords in unison, the metallic ring cutting through the air. Alpheo''s men responded immediately, their own blades flashing in the sunlight, stepping protectively in front of their captain. Both sides stood ready for violence. The camp suddenly became a standoff between mercenaries and royal guards.Neither the prince nor Alpheo made sign to defuse the situation. Alpheo remained steady, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, eyes fixed on Arkawatt. "We fought for this victory, Your Grace. We bled for it, and we gave it to you .We will not relinquish what is rightfully ours." His voice cut through the silence, daring the prince to act. Arkawatt''s face darkened, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of drawn blades and defiant mercenaries. He stepped forward, his gaze locking onto Alpheo''s with a piercing intensity. The moment stretched, filled with an electric tension as if the entire camp held its breath. "Are you truly ready for this, Captain?" Arkawatt asked, his voice low and menacing. "Do you understand what you''re risking here? A few coins and a contract against the wrath of a prince? Would you die for it?" His words were a challenge, a thinly veiled threat wrapped in princely authority. Arkawatt''s fingers twitched at his side, his sword still sheathed, but the implication of violence hung heavy between them. His guards stood at attention, their swords gleaming, waiting for a command. Alpheo''s men bristled, but the captain himself remained unmoved. He met Arkawatt''s gaze without flinching, his jaw set with calm resolve. "I understand perfectly, Your Grace," Alpheo said, his voice steady as stone. "The question is¡ªdo you?" The tension snapped like a coiled spring, sending everyone into a frenzy. One of Arkawatt''s guards, eyes blazing with fury, was the first to act. He lunged forward with a savage swing of his sword, aiming directly for Alpheo. The speed and ferocity of the attack caught many off guard, included the captain himself. Just before the blade could reach him, a heavy shield slammed into place. Vroth, one of Alpheo''s trusted guards, had leaped into action. His large round shield intercepted the strike with a deafening clang, saving Alpheo from the swing. The moment the sword struck, all hell broke loose. Alpheo''s men, already on edge, drew their swords and axes in an instant, roaring in anger as they hacked the guards ahead of them. Arkawatt''s guards responded just as quickly, their blades gleaming as they clashed with the mercenaries. Chaos erupted in the camp as steel met steel, the ringing sound of swords clashing reverberating through the air. Men grappled and swung wildly at each other. Dust kicked up from the ground as bodies collided, and the once orderly camp turned into a chaotic battlefield. Shouts of anger and confusion mixed with the sharp cries of pain, as blood spilled on both sides. Alpheo ducked beneath a swing from another of Arkawatt''s men, his reflexes sharp. He turned, catching a glimpse of Arkawatt himself, now surrounded by his own guards as the prince barked furious orders, his face twisted in rage. "Protect the prince!" someone screamed, as both sides became locked in a desperate struggle, neither willing to back down. Vroth, still shielding Alpheo, bashed the attacker away with a forceful shove, sending the guard stumbling back as he smashed the man''s chest with his mace. The battle Alpheo had feared, in the end, had arrived. Chapter 95: Confrontation (2) Chapter 95: Confrontation (2) One of Arkawatt''s guards, a tall man with a battle-worn face, swung his sword at one of Alpheo''s mercenaries. The mercenary, a younger soldier with a dented helmet, parried just in time with his shield, but the impact forced him backward. Before the guard could strike again, the mercenary sidestepped and drove his hammer into the man''s side, causing the men to bend in pain . Blood spurted out down as the mercenary than drove his mace to the head''s casuing him to collapse to the ground. Nearby, two of Arkawatt''s soldiers had cornered one of Alpheo''s men against a supply cart. They swung with deadly intent, trying to cut him down, which in the end they managed to do. Blood and dirt splattered the ground as more bodies fell. The sounds of battle¡ªthe ringing of steel, the grunts of effort, and the screams of the wounded¡ªfilled the air, mixing with the smell of sweat and iron. One of Alpheo''s men, a burly fighter with a thick beard, grabbed one of Arkawatt''s soldiers by the neck and headbutted him savagely, cracking the man''s nose. Blood poured from the guard''s face as he stumbled, dazed, only to be met by the bearded mercenary''s fist, which knocked him unconscious. Alpheo glanced around, seeing his men holding their own, but barely. The fight was brutal, and no quarter was given on either side. "Hold the line!" Alpheo shouted, his voice barely cutting through the din. His mercenaries regrouped, fighting with ferocity, knowing that any sign of weakness could mean death. The fight was everywhere, whenever Alpheo turned someone was fighting .The smell of blood entered his nose as he took deep breath from the hot air let out by the men.Suddendly the hair on Alpheo''s neck stood erect, and he turned around just to see a man with a sword raised high ready to let it down on him . Alpheo barely had time to react. The sword gleamed in the sunlight, already descending toward him with lethal intent. Instinctively, he raised his own blade to parry, but he knew it wouldn''t be fast enough. Just as the sword was about to come down on him, a shield slammed into the attacker''s side with bone-crunching force. Vroth , ever vigilant, had come to his aid once again. The attacker stumbled sideways, thrown off balance , fell to the ground , and Alpheo took his chance. With a fierce shout, he thrust his sword forward, catching the man in the side where his armor was weakest.Still only few centimeters managed to get in,as the chainmail stopped it from getting deeper Without wasting a second Alpheo put his leg over the man''s chest before thrusting his sword into the guard''eye causing him to die , with the blade piercing what Alpheo felt was the brain "Stay focused!" Vroth barked, pulling Alpheo back toward the center of his close guards leaving the man to die alone on the ground Just as the tide seemed to turn in favor of Arkawatt''s guards, Alpheo''s forces, though bloodied and battered, were being steadily pushed back. The prince''s men fought with renewed fury, their swords and axes cutting through the mercenaries'' defenses. Alpheo''s line was breaking under the weight of their relentless assault, certainly made easier by the fact that most of Alpheo''s men had been fighting for hours. His men, now outnumbered, struggled to hold their ground. The sharp ring of steel filled the air as shields were splintered and swords clanged against armor. Alpheo could feel the pressure mounting¡ªhis guards, though fierce, were tiring. Vroth, still at his side, grunted as he blocked another powerful swing from one of the prince''s elite. Suddenly, just when it seemed the prince''s forces would prevail, a loud crack echoed through the camp. The heavy wooden gates burst open with a resounding thud. Heads snapped around to see a fresh wave of men¡ªdozens of them¡ªpouring into the camp. Mounted on horses and armed with swords, spears, and axes, they surged forward like a roaring tide. The sound of hooves pounding against the ground filled the air, the riders charging straight at Arkawatt''s men. "Reinforcements!" one of Alpheo''s mercenaries cried as he had witnessed salvation. Egil''s remaining men had finally arrived¡ªmore cavalry, and a contingent of foot soldiers following close behind , with a tall black men riding on the front . ''''SMASH THEM'''' Jarza shouted as he charged forth leading his axe through the neck of a man.Under Alpheo''s eyes in that moment Jarza looked like an angel who had come to save the day, which, by the way he did..... The sight was overwhelming. Horsemen, clad in leather and chainmail, bore down on Arkawatt''s guards like a hammer against an anvil. The first impact was devastating. Riders crashed into the prince''s men with the full force of their speed, lances shattering on shields and bodies alike. One knight was knocked clean off his feet, his armor crumpling under the weight of the charging horse. Another was impaled by a spear, his body lifted off the ground before being tossed aside like a rag doll. The prince''s men, stunned by the sudden assault, wavered. Those on foot were thrown into disarray, trying to fend off the incoming cavalry while maintaining their defense. But it was too late¡ªthe formation had been broken. Alpheo, seizing the opportunity, raised his sword high. "Press them! Now!" he shouted. The camp was a whirlwind of chaos, with dust kicked up by the galloping horses, the clash of steel, and the screams of dying men. Javelins flew across the battlefield, whistling through the air before finding their mark in both horse and man. Every few seconds, the thud of a projectile hitting flesh or armor could be heard, followed by cries of pain. Alpheo pushed forward with his men, his sword cleaving through the enemy as they desperately tried to hold their ground. --------------- Prince Arkawatt stood in the heart of his formation, surrounded by his personal guards, barking orders with a commanding voice. His once jubilant expression had hardened as the chaos unfolded around him, though his presence still inspired those nearby. The clang of steel and the shouts of men were deafening, but his voice cut through the noise. He started the fight thinking he had the better number , now however they were the one outnumbered and getting encircled "Where are the rest of our men?!" he demanded, turning sharply to Robert, his most trusted knight, as the battle grew fiercer. His brow furrowed with frustration, expecting immediate answers. Robert, breathing heavily and streaked with blood from his own wounds, struggled to speak. He raised a hand, pointing toward the forest in the distance, words forming on his lips. Before he could utter a sound, the air whistled¡ªa lone javelin shot out from the chaos, flying with deadly precision. Thwack!- ----------------------------------------------------------- The battlefield was a sea of chaos. Bodies clashed, weapons rang out, and the ground was slick with blood. The air was thick with dust, sweat, and the acrid smell of metal. Everywhere Alpheo looked, men were locked in desperate combat, each one fighting for their life, their side, their survival. To his left, a young mercenary with a bloodied sword was engaged in a vicious fight with one of Arkawatt''s knights. The knight, in moved his broadsword swinging in controlled arcs. But the mercenary, quicker on his feet, ducked and weaved, jabbing with his lighter sword, probing for weak spots in the knight''s armor. Javelins soared overhead, some finding their marks, others clattering uselessly against shields and armor. A mounted man charged through the chaos, lance aimed low. He skewered an enemy soldier through the stomach, lifting him off the ground before the lance splintered, the broken shaft ripping free as the man galloped on. Then came a roar. "The prince is dead!" someone shouted. The cry echoed across the battlefield, followed by another voice, then another, spreading panic through Arkawatt''s men. Alpheo, still hacking away at the enemy, glanced around in confusion. "What?!" he thought, his brow furrowed as he thought he heard wrong. Before he could understand what was happening ,the formation of Arkawatt''s guards began to falter, men looking around in panic, unsure of what was happening. The once-disciplined line of soldiers began to fall apart as more and more guards repeated the ominous news while turning around almost as if wanting to see for themselves. Some of them hesitated, while others outright began stopping fighting Alpheo, still in the thick of the fight, felt the shift but didn''t understand "What the hell is going on?" he muttered under his breath hoping that it was a false alarm. His men were pushing forward, pressing the advantage as the enemy''s morale crumbled, but something was wrong¡ªthis wasn''t how a battle should have ended. Then, amidst the confusion, Alpheo spotted a figure that made him stop dead in his tracks. His heart froze for a moment as he recognized Robert, one of Arkawatt''s trusted men, standing in the middle of the battle, holding the lifeless body of the prince. Robert''s arms were wrapped around Arkawatt''s chest, his face contorted in grief and shock. The prince''s body slumped in Robert''s embrace, a javelin protruding grotesquely from his chest, blood pouring down his once-proud armor. Alpheo stared in disbelief. What the fuck happened?, he thought, his mind racing to comprehend the scene before him. Just moments ago, Arkawatt was leading his men¡ªand now he lay dead, killed by a javelin.His confusion quickly turned to action. Alpheo''s eyes flashed with determination as he raised his voice, his words cutting through the chaos. "Guards! Surrender!" he shouted at Arkawatt''s men, his voice commanding and fierce. "Your prince is dead! Lay down your arms!I swear you will be well treated..." His words, coupled with the sight of their fallen leader, were enough to break the remaining will of Arkawatt''s guards. Slowly, one by one, swords and shields began to drop to the ground, their owners stepping back in defeat, their faces drained of hope. His gaze fell once again on Robert, still cradling the body of Prince Arkawatt. But then, something changed. Robert''s eyes snapped up, locking onto Alpheo''s. Hatred blazed in his expression, a raw, primal rage that needed no words. With a roar, Robert threw the lifeless body of the prince aside and grabbed a blade from a nearby fallen soldier. He charged toward Alpheo, his face twisted with fury. Alpheo barely had time to react before Robert closed the distance. The glint of steel flashed as Robert raised his sword, ready to strike. But before the blow could fall, one of Alpheo''s soldiers¡ªa tall man with a round shield¡ªstepped forward with a practiced motion. With a brutal shove, the soldier bashed Robert in the chest with the edge of his shield, sending him crashing to the ground. Robert groaned, winded from the blow, struggling to rise, his hands scrambling to find his weapon. The soldier raised his sword, poised to deliver the killing strike. "Stop!" Alpheo barked, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. The soldier hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at his commander, unsure. "Disarm him," Alpheo commanded, his tone calm but firm. "He may still be to use" The soldier nodded and swiftly kicked the sword out of Robert''s reach before yanking him up by the collar and wrenching his arms behind his back. With a few quick movements, the soldier stripped Robert of his remaining weapons, leaving him defenseless. Alpheo spared him a quick sight, before turning around making sense of what just happened . His shoulders sagged slightly as he took it all in. What had started as a triumph was now spiraling into the worst possible outcome. The prince was dead, worse it was one of his men that killed him and if that was not enough they were still deep into his territory with the rest of the army soon coming back. If they were to run they were to be quick with it,as he did not want to be found there with the body of thier ruler in tow. Chapter 96 Getting the hell out(1) 96 Getting the hell out(1) The battle finally ended,the air was still thick with the stench of blood, sweat, and death . Men moved like through the camp, gathering the defeated, that was still alive, and binding them in rough ropes. Alpheo watched as twenty-five of Arkawatt''s men, some still trembling from the clash, were disarmed and stripped of their weapons. Their swords, shields, and gleaming armor were tossed aside, quickly claimed by Alpheo''s own soldiers. Horses, once the pride of Arkawatt''s cavalry, were taken, their reins handed to mercenaries who now stood taller, outfitted in the spoils of war. The prisoners, their faces etched with defeat and exhaustion, stood in a silent line as their hands were bound tightly behind their backs. Some stared at the ground, others gazed out in disbelief at the sight of the man they were meant to protect, as if the body of their prince was still in front of them . The rest of the men wounded , at least those belonging to Arkawatt were killed on the spot. Alpheo stood to the side, watching the scene with a cold gaze. His eyes wandered across the field before finally resting on the body of Prince Arkawatt. The once-mighty figure, so full of life and fire, now lay still. The javelin was still embedded in his chest, his fine armor soaked through with dark, congealed blood. Alpheo seethed with anger as he stood over the lifeless body of Prince Arkawatt. "This was not how it was supposed to go," he thought, his jaw clenched in frustration, ''You ruined everything''. He placed his boot on the prince''s chest, ''you and your fucking pride...'' ,he yanked ''your greed'' he yanked again ''and your fucking shit you call brain''.... pushing down hard as he could he finally took out the javelin from the wound. The weapon slid free with a sickening sound, and Alpheo tossed it aside, its metallic clatter against the ground only deepening his sense of failure. Originally, the plan had been clear after they captured the prince''s heir: Using him for leverage for a lordship, before offering their services around as common mercenaries to raise coins. It was supposed to be simple, a clean exchange of prisoner, for titles and land. But Alpheo had underestimated the prince''s greed and arrogance. Instead of negotiating, Arkawatt had forced his hand, the choice that had now led them to this disastrous result. He stared at the prince''s body, rage burning hot in his chest. The temptation to draw his sword and butcher the man''s body in a fit of fury emerged within him. But Alpheo knew it would solve nothing. It wouldn''t bring back the deal that was now lost, and it certainly wouldn''t undo the chaos that had unfolded. So instead, he swallowed the rage and turned away, his expression hard, his thoughts cold. There was no time for reckless emotion. Egil and Jarza approached Alpheo cautiously, their eyes flicking between each other, both sensing the storm brewing inside their commander. The battlefield around them had begun to quiet, but the tension in the air lingered thick, like a cloud that refused to clear. Alpheo stood over the prince''s body, his face set in a grim mask, the fire in his eyes barely concealed. Egil''s usual easy demeanor had slipped; his smile was gone, replaced with a silent wariness. Jarza, more perceptive, exchanged a quick glance with Egil, the two men silently acknowledging that Alpheo needed some time alone.Yet now was not the time for inactivity. Jarza finally stepped forward, his voice low, almost cautious as if to test the temperature of the moment. "What should we do next?" Alpheo didn''t respond right away. His gaze lingered on Arkawatt''s , sprawled in the dirt, the prince''s eyes still open in a final, silent question. Finally, Alpheo exhaled, turning his eyes toward Egil and Jarza. His voice was calm, but underneath, his mind was in chaos. "Getting the hell out of here is our first step," he said, his tone clipped, each word precise. He paused, then began speaking again, this time with more detail. "You have ten minutes¡ªno more. Take what food and supplies we need for the march back. Don''t overburden yourselves. Just enough for the journey. Send riders to the men who haven''t arrived yet. Tell them to bypass this camp and take a detour through the forest. We''re heading to the capital, but we''re not sticking around here. No one''s to burn anything; we can''t afford to draw attention. Take only what we need, and make sure everything is done quickly. Every second counts." Egil, normally steady in battle, cast a quick glance at the battlefield, his brow furrowing at the sight of their men giving the mercy stroke to the wounded. The pitiful groans of dying men were hard to ignore, not that he felt sorry for them, just annoyed by the sounds. "What about our wounded?" Egil asked, his voice quieter than usual. He turned his gaze back to Alpheo. "Those who cannot march?" Alpheo didn''t hesitate. His answer was firm, as he would not desert his comrades. "Have Agalasios look at them. Anyone who can still march will march. Those who can''t..., throw them in the carriages and have horses draw them forward. We''re not leaving anyone behind, but we can''t waste time anymore." His eyes shifted toward Jarza, then back to Egil. "Move fast, and be silent. Every second matters'''' Both men nodded and turned to leave, their faces serious as the gravity of their predictment settled over them. Alpheo watched them go for a brief moment, then turned back to the dead prince at his feet, bile rising in his throat. Everything had gone to shit¡ªand the worst part was, it wasn''t over yet. "What about the camp followers?" Egil then asked turning around , his voice quiet but firm. His eyes darted toward the tents scattered around the edges of the camp. Alpheo paused, for a moment, his thoughts darkened. A small part of him considered simply ordering the men to kill them all. His hand even hovered near the hilt of his sword for a brief moment as the thought crossed his mind. But then, reality hit him like a cold splash of water. They didn''t have the time for such a thing. It would take far longer than ten minutes to hunt down and slaughter everyone hiding in those tents, and in the chaos that followed, they would lose precious moments. Every second they spent here increased the risk of another army bearing down on them or reinforcements loyal to Arkawatt discovering the scene. Alpheo exhaled sharply, his decision made. He turned back to Egil. "No," he said, his voice low but decisive. "Leave them. We don''t have the time to waste on that. We can''t possibly kill all of them quickly , and we''re not risking more delays. They''ll be too scared to follow us, and even if they talk, we''ll be long gone by then." Egil nodded, though a flicker of uncertainty passed across his face. Ten minutes passed in a blur of frantic movement, as the men gathered what they could and prepared to march, with more and more of his men coming back . The once-bustling camp was now eerily quiet, save for the clinking of armor, the hurried footsteps of soldiers, and the low murmurs of conversation. Alpheo stood near the camp''s edge, watching as his men slowly trickled back from their grim work. The tally in his head wasn''t a comforting one. A total of 520 men had returned, a far cry from the force he had marched in with, which included 650 men. Among them were 80 wounded, their bodies bearing the scars of the two brutal battles they had just endured. The dead, however, were far more numerous¡ª130 men had fallen , nearly 20% of the force that had once been under Alpheo''s command. The losses weighed heavily on him, but he couldn''t let it show. Not now. Not with so many eyes looking at him for direction. He watched as his men gathered in loose formation, some with grim expressions, others with exhaustion etched deep into their faces. They had fought hard and bled for this battle, and now they were leaving it behind not being given even the opportunity to loot ¡ªvictorious, but at a cost. Many of them still clutched the weapons and armor of the fallen, taken from the dead and prisoners captured during the battle at the camp.Many of them even starting looking at Alpheo with a bad eye, something that he immediately took notice of. ''''I will have to raise morale before I get stabbed, by one of them. Probably giving them their due coins and allowing them to drink and fuck a bit will solve the matter....''''He muttered, making the choice with light heart , as the ransom from the nephew of the man, that he had now captured the son , was still unspent and ready to be used. Alpheo''s gaze drifted across the camp one final time, taking in the scene. The camp followers remained in their tents, no doubt watching from the shadows, but they were of no concern now. The time for decisions had passed. As the last of the men assembled, Asag rode up beside Alpheo, his face pale and his eyes heavy with exhaustion. The man had fought well, but the toll of the day was clearly wearing on him. He looked out at the army with a grimace before turning his attention back to Alpheo. "Where are we going now?" Asag asked, his voice thick with fatigue. Alpheo''s expression didn''t change. His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, where the road stretched ahead of them like a long, winding escape route from the chaos they were leaving behind. "Yarzat," Alpheo replied simply, the name of their employer''s capital falling from his lips with no room for debate, as after all he still had one trick up his sleeve. Have some idea about my story? Comment it and let me know. Allevatore_dicapre Chapter 97 Getting the hell in(1) Chapter 104 Getting the hell in(1) In a sunlit room overlooking the city of Yarkat, Talek, the young head of the garrison guard, took a rare moment to pause from his diligent work. The sunlight streamed through a narrow window, casting a warm yellow glow over the stone walls of his chamber. Son of a simple knight, he had risen to the influential position at a young age ,mainly from the relation between him and the prince. Despite this, he harbored a twinge of resentment. His father, Robert, the prince''s right hand, was leading a campaign against Oizen, while Talek was left behind, commanding a city that seemed distant from the chaos of war.Would he not have been more useful on the front than here? He had wondered when his request to join the army was refused With a deep sigh, Talek turned his gaze from the window back to his desk. He dipped his quill into a bottle of ink and resumed calculating the monthly costs for maintaining the garrison, alongside the budget for the city''s fortifications, which required repairs once every five years. The quiet of the room was abruptly interrupted by the sound of the door swinging open. A guard, breathless and with a note of excitement in his voice, stepped into the room. "Sir Talek, the army has returned! The vanguard reported their victory!" Talek''s eyes lit up with a mixture of relief and anticipation. He rose swiftly from his seat, the papers and ink forgotten as a broad smile spread across his face. "Victory!" he exclaimed, barely able to contain his enthusiasm. He swiftly gathered his cloak as he followed him out of the room. Talek hurried down the winding stairs from his chamber, his heart pounding with excitement. As he emerged onto the parapets overlooking the city gate, he squinted against the bright sunlight to make out the scene unfolding below. His gaze fell upon a large, jubilant procession of soldiers bearing the banner of Prince Arkawatt, the colors fluttering proudly in the breeze. Turning to the guards stationed by the gate, Talek''s voice rang out with urgency. "Open the gate! Quickly!" he commanded, his tone firm . The guards, catching the fervor in his voice, sprang into action. With creaking chains and the groan of heavy wood, the massive gate began to retract, revealing the soldiers and the banners of the prince in full view. Talek descended the stairs two at a time, his mind racing with questions. He moved briskly through the bustling streets toward the entrance, eager to greet the returning troops and to learn the details of their victory. As he approached the front of the procession, he spotted the men leading the vanguard¡ªthose who had borne the brunt of the campaign and would have the freshest accounts of the battle. Talek stepped through the gate and into the open air, his eyes fixed on the vanguard entering slowly into the city of Yarkat. The cavalry led the way, followed by the footmen the soldiers'' armor catching the midday sun. At the head of the procession, a rider guided his horse into the city with a deliberate, steady pace. Once inside the gate, the man swung off his mount with practiced ease, landing softly on the cobblestones. As he scanned his surroundings, his gaze quickly locked onto Talek. Talek, too, observed the man. There was something vaguely familiar about him¡ªhis build, the set of his shoulders, even the way he carried himself. But try as he might, Talek couldn''t place him. The soldier''s helmet covered his face, making it harder to discern his features. Before Talek could ask any questions, the man spoke first, his voice clear but with a youthful edge that caught Talek off guard. "Are you the head of the garrison?" the man asked, his tone neither harsh nor polite but businesslike as if this was a simple chore. Talek blinked, slightly caught off balance by the directness of the question. He hesitated for a heartbeat, then quickly gathered himself. "I am,may I know who you are?" he replied, his voice firm though curiosity bubbled beneath the surface. "Good," the man said, a thin smile playing on his lips. "That makes things much easier." With a casual but deliberate motion, the soldier reached up and removed his helmet, revealing his face to Talek. And then, without warning, the man unsheathed his sword in one swift motion. The gleaming steel caught the sunlight, and before Talek could fully react, the cold edge of the blade hovered mere centimeters from his throat. Talek''s breath hitched, his heart pounding in his chest. The once quiet entrance of the city now seemed suffocating, and a tense silence fell over the few nearby guards, who had barely begun to comprehend what was happening as the surrounding men took out their weapons and copied their captain. "Tell your men to throw down their weapons," the man said softly but firmly, the tip of the sword so close to Talek''s skin that he could feel the cool steel radiating against his neck. "Before any unnecessary blood is spilled." Moments ago, the streets had been bustling with onlookers, curious townsfolk who had come to witness the return of the army. Now, they were retreating, disappearing behind doors and shuttered windows. He turned his attention back to the man holding the sword to his throat, the weight of the situation settling deeper in his chest, like a spike passing through his stomach. "Who are you?" Talek demanded, his voice wavering with frustration and fear. For a moment, the man didn''t answer. The silence between them stretched uncomfortably, the blade at Talek''s neck pressing just a fraction closer, causing his pulse to quicken. When the man finally spoke, his voice was low, almost too calm. "I don''t have time for this," he said, his tone filled with quiet menace. "If you don''t cooperate, I''ll have my men take this city by force. And if that happens," he added, his eyes narrowing slightly, "You will defend a city that by the end will be burnt and looted, with you being the first casualty'''' Talek''s heart sank . He glanced at the armed men now entering the city behind the stranger, grim-faced and clearly ready for blood. He knew that with the gate open there were only 100 men in the garrison to stop them , and from the looks of it , they were greatly outnumbered. Not even taking into consideration the fact they were spread throughout the city.While instead the army was right in the gate Swallowing his pride, Talek obeyed. "Alright," he said through gritted teeth. "Men, throw down your weapons " But as he complied, recognition dawned on him, the pieces finally coming together. The familiar face, the youthful edge in his voice. Talek''s eyes widened in shock. "Wait¡ªyou''re Alpheo," he spat out. ''''You damn traitor!'''' Alpheo''s lips curled into a small, humorless smile. "I suppose in your eyes, that may look like it " he said, not lowering the blade. "But my contract with Prince Arkawatt was rendered null and void at the moment . I''m no longer bound by it, but don''t worry I am not here to sack the city or anything else" Talek''s confusion deepened. "Then what are you doing here?'''' Alpheo paused, lowering the sword slightly but not taking his eyes off Talek. " I simply came looking for a new job ¡ªwith someone with more... sense than the late prince, after all I am still owed a debt " Talek blinked, still trying to piece together the strange situation. "A job...?" He felt a hand seize him by the arm, one of Alpheo''s men pulling him into custody. "Asag, take him inside the wall to order the rest of the garrison to lower their weapon, go towards the left," Alpheo ordered as he turned to a man with a part of his face burnt, who simply nodded and took the hostage inside alongside fifty men. Alpheo''s eyes then fell on Clio , "Take a hundred men and circle to the right," Alpheo ordered, his voice measured. "I want as many towers secured as possible, and do it quietly. Tell your soldiers to act like fresh recruits¡ªblend in with the city''s guards. Once you''re inside, overpower the garrison, but keep the bloodshed to a minimum." As Clio moved off with his troops, Alpheo turned his attention back to the rest of his force. "The rest of you," Alpheo called out "we''re taking a walk to the keep. Be prepared for anything¡ªwe''ll be having a conversation with some important people, and things may get vivid." Chapter 98 Getting the hell in(2) Chapter 104 Getting the hell in(2) The army marched steadily through the city streets, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls as they moved toward the keep.The windows, doors were closed, and the roads empty with no people in sight. As they passed through the final gate leading out of the city proper, the landscape opened up into an expanse of green fields. The land between the city and the keep stretched out like a soft, untouched carpet of grass, the only interruption being the dirt road they followed. For a moment, the soldiers almost forgot where they were, their eyes briefly taking in the tranquil surroundings. But the calm belied the intensity of what was to come. Once they reached the base of the keep, Alpheo signaled for his men to halt. The sound of their march faded into silence, and the soldiers gathered, their eyes fixed on the towering structure ahead. Alpheo surveyed the scene, his eyes sharp, measuring the defenses of the stronghold. "Jarza," Alpheo called, Jarza, stepped forward, his expression serious. He didn''t need to be told what was expected of him. "Encircle the keep," Alpheo ordered, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. "Make sure nothing and no one leaves without us knowing." Jarza nodded, and with a sharp wave of his hand, he began organizing the soldiers. Under his direction, the men quickly fanned out, forming a perimeter around the keep, ensuring that every exit and weak point was watched. He directed groups to cover the rear and sides. As the army spread out, taking their positions around the keep, a cold wind swept through the fields. Despite the outward calm he projected, Alpheo was deeply unsettled as he surveyed the looming walls of the keep. His eyes narrowed as he studied the stone structure, calculating the odds in his head. Gold. Time was as valuable as gold right now, and they didn''t have much of either. The idea of besieging the keep made him crawl in nervousness . He couldn''t afford to wait. They had no wood to construct battering rams, no proper siege equipment to break down the thick gates, and a direct assault on the walls would likely cost them more men than they could spare.The closes source of wood, were a forest hours away from here. And even if they got the wood for , he believed the would lose too many in the attack. Yet, he couldn''t just sit idle. ''Siege or storm?'' he kept thinking As he wrestled with his thoughts, he saw familiar figures approaching . Each of them bore the weariness of battle but remained resolute, their eyes fixed on Alpheo as they stopped a few paces away. "What''s the plan, then?" Asag asked, his voice low but firm. He crossed his arms over his chest, a faint frown of concern on his scarred face. Egil glanced toward the keep, his jaw clenched. "If we''re going to do something, we need to act quickly. " Alpheo stood silent for a moment, his hands tightening on the reins of his horse. His mind raced. He could feel their eyes on him, waiting for a decision. For the first time he did not know what to do , he swallowed hard, betraying his inner turmoil. "I..." He stopped himself, taking a slow breath, trying to push aside the uncertainty and to steel his nerve. "Stay put '''' he finally ordered '''' If I am not out in 30 minutes, burn and loot the city. " his voice a little quieter and less sure than usual. Without waiting for their reactions, he pulled on the reins and spurred his horse forward, riding alone toward the closed gates of the keep. His heart pounded as he neared the massive wooden door, a growing weight settling on his chest. He needed a way inside. Diplomacy, perhaps? Bluffing? He wasn''t sure, but he knew one thing¡ªtime was running out, and he had to act. From atop the gate, two small windows framed the silhouettes of archers, their bows drawn, arrows notched and pointed directly at Alpheo as he approached.For a moment he feared they would shoot, he could feel their gaze locked on him, sharp and wary, and the tension in the air was almost palpable. His heart pounded in his chest, but he forced himself to stay calm. ''All right, Alpheo,'' he thought, swallowing the lump in his throat. ''It''s all or nothing now.'' Taking a deep breath, he summoned a smile¡ªa little too forced for his liking, but it would have to do. He got out of his horse and stood ahead of the massive wooden door. He spread his arms wide in a gesture of peace, showing he had no weapons as his voice rang out toward the gate. "Good afternoon!" he called, his voice louder than necessary, betraying his unease. The fake cheerfulness echoed off the stone walls, but there was no response from the windows above. The archers remained still, bows drawn, ready to loose their arrows at the slightest provocation.Luckily Alpheo had good armor, so he believed the arrows would simply bounce against the steel plates. He hesitated for just a moment, feeling the weight of their silence, but he pressed on. "I am the captain of this fine band of men outside your equally fine keep!" he declared, hoping his tone sounded confident. ''Get a grip, Alpheo,'' he scolded himself silently as his nerves threatened to fray. He could feel the sweat beginning to bead on the back of his neck, despite the cold wind. His eyes darted to the gate, scanning for any sign of movement, but none came. Only the quiet creak of the wind through the battlements answered him. He swallowed again, this time more discreetly, trying to maintain his composure. "I''d appreciate it if you would inform the princess and her daughters that I have come to discuss a matter of great importance," he continued, his voice steadying as he found his rhythm. "As you can see¡ª" he gestured grandly to the empty space around him, arms wide again¡ª"I come alone, unarmed, and with the sole intent of resolving this peacefully." Still no response. He could feel the archers'' eyes on him, waiting, watching for any hint of deception. Alpheo resisted the urge to wipe his palms on his cloak. Instead, he took a step forward, careful not to make any sudden movements. "I believe we have much to discuss," he added, his tone softening but still firm. "And I assure you, this is an opportunity to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. I''m sure the princess would prefer that, wouldn''t she?" The creaking of the heavy iron gate broke the silence, sending a ripple of tension through the ranks of Alpheo''s men stationed outside the keep. The soldiers'' eyes were wide as they watched the door finally open. For a moment, nothing happened as some even thought they had come to surrender , and then three men in rough armor stepped. Without a word, they grabbed Alpheo roughly by the arms, hauling him forward. His forced smile vanished, replaced by a quick flash of surprise as they pulled him toward the gate. The crowd outside erupted in shouts. "Hold it!" Egil barked, his voice trying to cut through the chaos as the men surged forward, seeing their captain taken by force. Clio immediately moved in, pushing soldiers back and waving his arms to keep order. "Hold your ground! Stand down!Everything is under control! " he yelled, trying to prevent the situation from spiraling into shit.When in reality there was nothing under their control. The shouting didn''t stop, however. Men gripped their weapons, eyes darting to their captains for direction. Asag, standing at the head of his unit, had to physically hold back two men from rushing toward the gate. "They''ve taken the captain!" one of them shouted, fury in his voice. "We need to go after him!" "Stay where you are!" Asag bellowed, his voice like thunder. "It''s the captain''s orders!'''' Just then, Jarza arrived at the scene, his expression darkening as he quickly sized up the situation. His face twisted in a deep scowl when he saw Alpheo being dragged toward the keep. "What the hells is going on?" he demanded, storming toward Clio. Clio winced as he saw the towering figure of Jarza riding toward him, the man''s massive frame entering his view. His expression was a storm of barely restrained fury, and Clio knew what was coming. Apparently, the sight of Alpheo being dragged into the keep by the enemy had clearly set him on edge, as he seemed ready to dismantle the fort stone by stone. Clio tried to steady his nerves, already explaining the little information he had, which apparently only managed to temporarily calm the man, stopping him from committing an action that would have certainly killed the man he wanted to rescue. Chapter 99 Getting the hell in(3) Chapter 105 Getting the hell in (3) Alpheo felt the iron grip of the guards clamp down on his arms, their hands rough and unyielding as they dragged him through the dimly lit corridor. The cold stone walls of the keep seemed to close in around him, the rhythmic clatter of boots echoing ominously in the silence. Despite the tension building in his chest, his eyes darted around, keen and calculating, taking in every detail, every weakness in the structure. The keep was far too quiet. His mind quickly noted the unsettling absence of soldiers. Thirty, perhaps forty guards inside at most. His forces, waiting just beyond the gates, would be more than enough to overwhelm them if things took a turn. A storm, he mused inwardly, could have been so easy ...fuck. The guards beside him remained silent, their faces expressionless beneath their helms. Alpheo matched their stoicism, but unease prickled at the back of his mind. He had stepped into this stronghold willingly, knowing full well the risks, but the stakes felt heavier now, the gamble steeper. They arrived at a large wooden door, worn from years of use but still sturdy. One of the guards rapped twice, the dull thud reverberating down the corridor like a death knell. After a few tense moments, the door creaked open, revealing a small chamber beyond, dimly lit by flickering torches. Without so much as a word, the guards shoved him forward, their grips releasing as they disarmed him of his dagger, and he stumbled into the room, barely catching himself before hitting the ground. Alpheo dusted off his sleeves, casting a glance at the wife of the late Prince Arkawatt,Rosalin who sat poised and regal on a velvet sofa across from him. Her expression was sharp, cold as ice, as she sipped from a cup of wine, the four guards surrounding her radiating silent hostility. "Is that any way to treat a guest, my ladies?" Alpheo began with a sly smile, offering a shallow bow, though his tone was anything but submissive. The woman''s eyes flicked toward him, unamused. "You are no guest of ours," she replied curtly, setting down her cup with a soft clink, her fingers never leaving the handle. Alpheo chuckled lightly as he made his way toward the opposite seat, brushing past the tension that lingered in the air. "Well, I suppose the circumstances don''t exactly lend themselves to hospitality, do they?" He gestured broadly to the guards and the stark room, then moved to sit. Her voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding. "I don''t recall giving you permission to sit." Alpheo paused mid-motion, his hand hovering over the back of the chair. He raised an eyebrow at Rosalind, a half-smile playing on his lips. "Oh, forgive me," he said, his tone dripping with mock politeness. "I wasn''t aware we were still playing by the rules of etiquette." He stood upright, looking at the chair as though it was a curious relic. "After all," he continued, "you invited me here without so much as a friendly welcome, disarmed me, and gave me the grand tour of your cold stone walls. So you''ll have to excuse me if I assumed we were past formalities." Rosalind''s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes narrowing. The guards shifted slightly, but she held up a hand to keep them in place. "You assume much, Alpheo," she said coldly. "A dangerous habit." Alpheo paused, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. "I''ll sit anyway," he said, letting out an exaggerated sigh as he lowered himself into the chair across from her, ignoring the quick, defensive shift from the guards at his sides. "Quite the rough treatment out there, you know. I came here to¡ª" "¡ªTo what?" she interrupted, her voice steely. She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "What stops me from having your throat slit right now, right where you sit?" For a moment, the room felt heavier, the walls closing in. The tension swelled like a wave, but Alpheo didn''t flinch. Instead, he leaned back in his chair with exaggerated ease, crossing one leg over the other, his face the picture of calm indifference. Her threat seemed more amusing than concerning. "The 500 men waiting outside your walls," he said softly, his tone steady but unyielding. "In about thirty minutes, if I''m not walking out of here... they''ll assume I''ve been killed or taken hostage. And then, my dear lady, they''ll storm this keep, tear it down stone by stone." He let the words sink in before his smile widened just a fraction, his eyes gleaming with a hint of danger. "Believe me, they won''t be as gentle as I am. So if you plan to spill my blood, you might want to prepare for your own to follow." Rosalind''s gaze didn''t waver, but Alpheo noticed a flicker of uncertainty beneath the ice. He got her. One of the guards shifted uneasily, stealing a glance toward the door, perhaps already envisioning the carnage that could follow. Alpheo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice dropping to a low, almost charming murmur. "Let''s avoid that, shall we? There''s a way out of this mess¡ªone that saves both of us from having our heads cut off" Rosalind''s eyes narrowed further, her fingers drumming lightly on the armrest. "I could still take you hostage," she said slowly, her words like venom, laced with menace. Alpheo chuckled, though the sound was dry and humorless. "Ah, yes, you could," he replied, his tone cool and measured. "But here''s the thing¡ªyou''d be making a grave mistake. You see, my dear lady, this band of mine is not a group of noble knights bound by loyalty and honor." He let the words hang in the air before continuing. "They''re mercenaries. Hardened men who follow strength, not titles. And if you bring me out and threaten them to kill me if they don''t back, it won''t stop them¡ªit will only ignite their greed, I am sure some men will be happy to take my place. They''ll storm this place with even more fury." He let the weight of his words settle, watching Rosalind closely. Her expression remained guarded, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of hesitation. "Now, before you get any ideas," Alpheo continued, his voice softening with a feigned politeness, "you might think you can buy their loyalty. Offer them gold, power... But here''s the reality¡ªnothing''s stopping them from taking it themselves after they''ve burned this city to the ground. And once they''ve looted every last ounce of silver and gold, do you think they''ll leave anything¡ªor anyone¡ªbehind?" Rosalind''s lips pressed into a tight line. The room grew colder, but Alpheo could see the gears turning in her mind, weighing the risk against the potential gain. The threat of the mercenaries outside was real, and she knew it. "Very well," Rosalind said finally, her voice still cold but now carrying the weight of someone who knew brute force alone would not solve her problems. "What is it you want, then?" Alpheo allowed a small, satisfied smile to tug at the corners of his mouth, though his mind remained sharp and cautious. "To begin," he said, his tone casual but deliberate, "I''d like to speak with your daughter. Jasmine, if memory serves." At the mention of her daughter, the princess''s eyes darkened, her suspicion palpable. She took a slow sip of wine, as if to mask her unease. "You have nothing to discuss with her," Rosalind said, her voice cold and measured, like a blade freshly sharpened. Alpheo''s smile widened slightly, but his eyes remained focused, like a predator watching his prey. "On the contrary, Princess, I believe I do. I think I should have a word with the next ruler of this princedom'''' Rosalind stiffened, her fingers gripping the armrests of her chair, the tension rolling off her in waves. "What are you saying?" Her voice faltered, the steely edge cracking just enough to reveal a thread of fear. "What has happened to my husband?" Alpheo''s expression shifted from amusement to solemnity. Slowly, deliberately, he rose from his seat, his movements respectful and calm. Bowing his head, he delivered the blow. "Your husband, Prince Arkawatt, has perished in battle." A heavy silence crashed over the room like a wave. Rosalind''s face went pale, the color draining from her cheeks. She sat motionless, her body rigid as shock clouded her once imperious gaze. Her lips trembled slightly, though she said nothing, struggling to process the enormity of the news. Alpheo, sensing the moment, turned toward the guards stationed nearby. His voice cut through the thick silence. "Leave us. Now." The guards hesitated for a brief moment, glancing at their princess, but the authority in Alpheo''s voice¡ªand the silent command in Rosalind''s eyes¡ªleft no room for argument. They quickly moved toward the door, filing out of the room without a word. And so, in the quiet, dimly lit chamber, Alpheo and Princess Rosalind stood alone. The fate of the city¡ªand the entire princedom of Yarzat¡ªwas about to be decided in this small, unassuming room, a place where titles and armies suddenly felt far less significant than ever. "Now," Alpheo said softly, taking his seat once more, his tone far more serious, "let''s discuss how to move forward." Chapter 100 Making a deal Chapter 106 Making a deal A young woman, no more than seventeen years of age, strode into the room. She was pleasing to the eye, with dark hair falling past her shoulders.Her eyes, a deep shade of green, surged toward Alpheo, taking in his presence with a brief, cool assessment. She gave him a long, piercing look, her expression guarded, before crossing the room and sitting elegantly beside her mother, Princess Rosalind. Without a word, she straightened her back and folded her hands neatly in her lap.Alpheo returned her gaze with a slight nod of acknowledgment, sensing that the true negotiation had just begun. "Before we dive into anything," Alpheo began, his voice steady and deliberate, "I would like to express my deepest condolences for your father." His gaze locked onto Jasmine, but his words, though calm, carried a heavy undercurrent of formality. Jasmine''s eyes met his, and for a moment, she held his stare, her face betraying little emotion. She breathed in deeply, letting out a long, measured sigh, her fingers resting lightly on the edge of the chair. Rosalind, seated next to her daughter, was more visibly shaken. Her body leaned forward in her seat, the lines of worry etched deep into her face. She gripped the armrests tightly, her voice trembling as she spoke. "Was the battle lost?" she asked, her words edged with anxiety. "Is there another army coming here?" Her eyes darted toward Alpheo, pleading silently for reassurance. Alpheo studied her for a moment. Seems like the bastard wasn''t even liked by his own family, he thought , doesn''t really surprise me. He shook his head, clearing the thought away. "No, the battle was won," he said, his tone firm but laced with a faint air of detachment. "The enemy was routed. As far as I know, our forces were pursuing the remnants. There''s no threat to the city." Rosalind''s brow furrowed, a look of confusion washing over her features. "But then... how did he die?" Her voice was softer now, a note of disbelief creeping in. "You said he fell in battle..." Alpheo shifted slightly in his chair, glancing between the two women. He hesitated, feeling the weight of what he was about to say. "It wasn''t the enemy that took his life," he began slowly, choosing his words with care. "Your father, Prince Arkawatt, led his men into battle . Me and my soldiers had managed to capture the heir of the Oizen throne. When your father found out, he demanded that I turn the prisoner over to him immediately." Rosalind''s face twisted into a frown, her fingers digging deeper into the armrests. Beside her, Jasmine remained still, her expression controlled, though Alpheo noticed a shadow pass over her face, the faintest flicker of tension around her eyes. "I would have been willing to negotiate," Alpheo continued, keeping his voice even. "Even to hand over the prisoner, in exchange for proper rewards and a fair share of the glory. But..." He paused, his eyes flickering briefly to Rosalind, gauging her reaction. Her expression was unreadable. He pressed on. "The prince wasn''t inclined toward diplomacy that day. Instead, he ordered my head and sent his men to carry out the task. A scuffle broke out¡ªbetween my troops and his." Rosalind''s knuckles whitened further, her face tightening with a mix of disbelief and anger. It was unclear to Alpheo whether her anger was directed at him or at the memory of her late husband. Jasmine''s posture remained rigid, her hands clasped in her lap, but her gaze had darkened, the worry that had once been a shadow now a quiet storm. "In the chaos," Alpheo said, his voice lowering "it happened so quickly. A javelin¡ªthrown in the heat of battle¡ªstruck your father in the chest. It was over before anyone could stop it." A heavy silence followed his words, pressing down on the room like a weight. Rosalind''s lips parted, her face pale as she absorbed the news. Alpheo softened his tone, sensing the depth of their grief. "I know this may sound hard to believe, but I assure you, I have witnesses¡ªmany prisoners, including Sir Robert¡ªwho can attest to what happened. It wasn''t intentional, nor was it part of some grand scheme. It was simply... chaos and unluck." Rosalind''s hand fidgeted restlessly, her eyes distant as she spoke. "A useless death." Her voice was almost a whisper, lacking though in sadness Alpheo nodded solemnly. "Yes," he said, his voice echoing the sentiment. "A senseless death in the midst of a victory. His pride and greed... they cost him his life." For a moment, the room was swallowed by a thick, suffocating silence. Alpheo cleared his throat softly, breaking the quiet. "There''s no threat to the city," he repeated, though this time his tone was gentler. "Your father''s army is scattered, and his enemies lie defeated. But the battle left more than just casualties... it left a vacuum." Silence dominated the room once again. Alpheo allowed the silence to linger for a moment, letting the weight of the conversation settle before he spoke again. His tone was soft yet deliberate, with a slight smile that hinted at the careful balance he sought to maintain. "I think now would be a good time to discuss the matter of succession." His words seemed to catch both Rosalind and Jasmine''s attention. Alpheo leaned back slightly, choosing his words carefully. "From what I understand, though I am not intimately familiar with your kingdom''s history," he began, his voice steady, "there have been precedents of female rulers in your line." He paused, his gaze shifting between mother and daughter, measuring their reactions. "However, it''s also true that there have been far more instances where brothers or male relatives claimed precedence over daughters. Succession," he added, "is often more prone to regular interpretation than what''s not...'''' Jasmine''s eyes narrowed slightly as Alpheo''s words piqued her interest. Her fingers gripped the armrest, and she leaned forward, a subtle but telling shift in her posture. Alpheo continued, his tone remaining compassionate but firm. "It''s crucial to understand that while your father''s death has indeed created a power vacuum, the path for you to fill that void¡ªif that is your desire¡ªwill likely be fraught with challenges, perhaps even impossible.Luckily, I am the one that can make it happen" Jasmine''s expression flickered, shifting from contemplation to a small, almost imperceptible smile. She observed Alpheo with sharp eyes, her mind clearly working through the implications of his words. Her father''s death seemed to weigh little on her compared to the potential power she could seize. She leaned forward, locking her gaze with Alpheo, much like she had attempted in the garden at the feast. "So," Jasmine said, her voice calm but carrying anticipation, "does this mean you accept the proposition I made before?" Alpheo''s lips curved into a knowing smile. He gave her a slight nod, acknowledging her question without fully committing. "I had hoped we could revisit that discussion," he said smoothly. "Our positions have shifted considerably since then, and the stakes are much higher now." Rosalind glanced between her daughter and Alpheo, her confusion clear as she tried to piece together the unspoken conversation happening before her. It was evident she hadn''t been privy to the private negotiations her daughter had been conducting with the mercenary. The realization seemed to unsettle her, though she said nothing. Alpheo leaned back into his chair, his posture casual, though every movement was calculated. "Before we move forward, there''s still the matter of my previously owed payment for services rendered." His gaze slid between Jasmine and Rosalind, the tension between them almost palpable as they waited for him to continue. He let a small, reassuring smile touch his lips. "However, given the circumstances¡ªand as a gesture of goodwill¡ªI''m willing to overlook the remaining balance. Consider it a token of our potential cooperation." Jasmine raised her eyebrows in surprise. For a moment, her nervousness was replaced by curiosity. She glanced at Alpheo, clearly intrigued by his sudden generosity. "If you''re willing to overlook the payment," she asked, her voice cautious but direct, "what is it that you want in return?" Alpheo''s smile widened ever so slightly, appreciating Jasmine''s straightforwardness. He leaned in a little, his eyes gleaming with purpose. "Before we dive into the specifics, I think it''s important to clarify our current situation. Who exactly are your main competitors for the succession?" Jasmine took a moment to collect her thoughts, her expression turning serious as she considered her response. "My uncle, Lord Ormund, is the primary contender. He''s been away from court for years¡ªhis relationship with my father was strained. He never took well to being under my father''s authority." She paused, her lips tightening. "Ormund has two sons: Darian, who is thirteen, and Cedric, who is only six." Alpheo nodded thoughtfully, absorbing the information. "So, Ormund," he murmured, his voice low, "a brother who''s been biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to strike. And a son who''s just old enough to start making waves." He leaned forward slightly, fixing Jasmine with a sharp look. "Now that I have a clearer picture of your opposition, I need to know who will be supporting you." His tone shifted, becoming more pointed. "It''s crucial that you are completely honest with me, Jasmine. I''ve already made the decision to assist you, but if I find out you''ve been less than forthcoming, it could make me reconsider that support." Jasmine''s eyes met Alpheo''s . She took a steadying breath before speaking. "My grandfather will certainly support me. He has a vested interest in seeing me on the throne due to our shared bloodline. His influence extends over many minor nobles who will align with me. As for the others, most will likely remain neutral, avoiding direct involvement in the conflict." Alpheo listened intently, his expression carefully composed. However, inwardly, he was skeptical. He knew from his own sources that the support Jasmine claimed from her grandfather was consistent with what he had heard. Yet, her portrayal of widespread neutrality in a possible civil war struck him as dubious. From what he knew, many nobles were more inclined to back the male candidate due to traditional preferences and the stability they believed a male ruler would bring. He remained silent, his mind turning over the discrepancies in her account. It was clear that Jasmine''s claim of a nearly neutral stance from the nobility was likely a partial truth, with many more nobles expected to support her rival. Alpheo nodded thoughtfully, his expression grave and resolute. "Now that we''ve discussed the pressing matters, even though I think some of us were not truthful, let me outline what I bring to the table. It''s clear that what you need most at this juncture is a substantial increase in military strength. To address this, I can provide you with 400 well-equipped infantry, 100 bowmen, and 80 mounted riders. Furthermore, I have the resources to expand these numbers even further, should the need arise, which trust me it will " He paused for a moment, letting the weight of his offer settle in the room. "In addition to an army , I also have with me the heir to the Oizen princedom. Which will certainly make for a nice diplomatic visit from the prince of Oizen.Nothing better to start one''s rule than to have a victory over a rival...'''' Jasmine''s eyes sharpened as she understood that the boy in front of her was indispensable, if she was to go forth. She glanced briefly at her mother, who remained silent, apparently the young woman was still not at ease with her new-given power as she looked at her mother for direction, maybe even permission? Alpheo couldn''t quite tell.... "What do you ask in return?" She finally asked Alpheo''s eyes locked onto Jasmine''s . He let the pause stretch, "In exchange for this support, I have but one simple request." With deliberate slowness, he extended a finger toward Jasmine. Chapter 101 Rising the ladder Chapter 107 Rising the ladder Outside the keep, the men outside were about to erumpt into violence. The army stood ready, restless hands gripping weapons and eyes fixed on the stone walls of the keep. The infantry had formed tight ranks, shields at the ready gripping axes that they would use to smash the door , while archers were preparing to nock their arrows. . Jarza stood at the forefront, his eyes narrowed as he glared at the keep''s walls. His broad frame was tense, muscles coiled as if ready to spring into action. His fingers gripped the hilt of his sword, white-knuckled with barely restrained frustration. "Damn that reckless fool," Jarza muttered under his breath, pacing back and forth as he cast another wary glance at the gate. "Alpheo''s gone and walked straight into the lion''s den without a second thought. One wrong move, and they''ll have his head on a pike." He stopped, staring hard at the closed gates of the keep as he spoke to himself. "What does he think he''s playing at? We don''t have time for his games. The whole damn thing could go sideways in an instant, and we''ll be the ones left cleaning up his mess." Jarza clenched his jaw, his worry mixing with a deep, gnawing anger. "I should''ve been the one to go in. Alpheo''s too confident¡ªalways thinking he''s got it all under control. But this... this is madness.We invaded their home..." His gaze softened for a moment, betraying the concern behind his gruff exterior. "I''d die before I let anything happen to him, but how in the gods'' names am I supposed to keep him safe from himself?" He let out a heavy sigh, his frustration bubbling to the surface again. "If he doesn''t come out of there soon, I swear I''ll tear this damn keep down brick by brick myself." He spat into the dirt, the soldiers nearby casting uneasy glances at him as they saw his commanding officers talking to himself. Many preferring to diver their gaze than to attract his attention. The tense atmosphere outside the keep suddenly shifted when the heavy wooden doors creaked open. Every soldier tensed, hands gripping weapons, thinking that the guards inside decided to make a sortie. But instead of an attack, Alpheo stepped out, flanked by several men, his expression relaxed and confident. His armor gleamed in the sunlight, and a wide smile spread across his face as he waved casually toward his companions. Jarza, standing at the head of the gathered troops, narrowed his eyes in disbelief. He blinked, momentarily stunned by the sight of Alpheo strolling out so nonchalantly after all the worry he had . His hand loosened on the hilt of his sword as a small smile erupted on his lips As soon as he saw the wave, Jarza kicked his horse into motion, galloping forward with a few others close behind him. His horse''s hooves kicked up dirt as he rode across the green stretch that separated the army from the keep. He stopped just a few feet in front of Alpheo, his face a mix of barely contained anger and relief. "Gods, Alpheo," Jarza growled as he dismounted, his heavy boots hitting the ground with a thud. "You had us ready to storm this damn place. What in the hells were you thinking?" ''''I was thinking on how to solve the pickle we were in.Which ,no need to thank me, I managed to do'''' As he said so he slightly tapped on the black giant cheeks, before waving to the other to follow him in his tent. ----------- As the others gathered inside the tent, Jarza, Egil, Clio, and Asag exchanged curious glances, their expressions ranging from confusion to curiosity. They looked at Alpheo, who sat casually in a chair at the head of the tent, a smug smile playing on his lips. Egil was the first to break the silence, scratching the back of his neck. "So... what was all of that about?" he asked, his brow furrowed. "Are we taking the city or what? What''s going on?" The others nodded in agreement, eyes narrowing in confusion as they waited for Alpheo''s explanation. Alpheo leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands together as if he were enjoying this moment far more than he should. "Nothing of the sort, my friends," he said, his voice calm yet full of certainty. "There won''t be any need for a siege or looting. The battle is already won¡ªwithout a single drop of blood shed here. Although..." He paused for dramatic effect, glancing around the room. "Our swords are still required." Alpheo''s smile widened. "From now on, we are no longer mercenaries. We are subjects¡ªsubjects of Princess Jasmine, first of her name of House Aveloni-isha. Soon, there will be a formal ceremony where we will all swear fealty to her, the rightful ruler of this land." Clio raised an eyebrow. "Wait... what? Swear fealty? To her?" He exchanged a look with Egil, who simply shook his head, baffled''''What the hell have you done now?'''' Alpheo replied smoothly, his eyes glinting with ambition. "We are no longer mere sell-swords. As of today, we are the standing army of Princess Jasmine. And also dutiful servants for her soon to be husband..." He paused, locking eyes with each man in the room before grinning. "Which would be me." The tent went into chaos. "Her husband?" Egil scoffed, leaning forward with disbelief. "You married her?" Alpheo leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a smug grin plastered on his face. "Yep, married into royalty. Who would''ve thought?" Jarza, still looking dumbfounded, passed his hand over his bald head as if trying to smooth out the confusion. "How in the hell did you manage to convince a highborn to marry a commoner like you? I mean... looks can only carry you so much..." Alpheo chuckled, clearly enjoying the moment. He glanced around the tent, letting the suspense hang in the air. "Well," he began slowly, "I pointed out some rather... obvious facts that she may or may not have missed ." Jarza raised an eyebrow. "Like what?" "Like the fact that her succession will almost certainly be contested by her uncle , a fight that she would certainly lose " Alpheo said, his grin growing wider. "The fact that she had no army to back her claim, and even fewer supporters among the nobles. And, let''s not forget, the angry army of mercenaries¡ªwho, by the way, were still owed their due payment¡ªhappened to be stationed right outside their walls, with torches in hand, ready to burn the city to ash and to piss on whatever remained. It''s mindblowing how people get impatient with torches in hand you know..." Egil burst out laughing, slapping his knee. "Gods above, that''s ruthless!Did not think you had that in you. I thought you were an eunuch...." Alpheo shrugged, his grin never fading as he ignored the last part of his friend''s assertion . "It''s called leverage, and I used every ounce of it." "Still" Jarza muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "A commoner marrying a princess? You''ll make an enemy out of every noble, a single lose and everybody will turn their swords toward you....." "That''s exactly the point, my legitimacy will be based on victories and victories alone" Alpheo said, his tone turning a little more serious as he knew he could not afford to lose. "And of course, soon enough, all of you will be raised to nobility as well. We''re building something here. We''re no longer mercenaries; we''ll have lands, be knights, lords , and commanders. Every one of us will have a place at court. Just to be clear, though, the rule belongs to Princess Jasmine. I''m merely... a humble consort." Egil, who had been watching Alpheo with a grin spreading across his face, suddenly stood up and crossed the room. Without warning, he threw his arms around Alpheo in a tight embrace, laughing heartily. "You mad bastard!" he exclaimed, planting a rough kiss on Alpheo''s cheek. "You''re the most beautiful madman I''ve ever known!You are the most stallion among us. " Alpheo laughed, patting Egil on the back. "I take that as a compliment. Whatever that means" As Egil released him, he shook his head in amazement. "To think I almost doubted you. But now? We are set for life...." Clio, who had been watching the exchange, folded his arms and leaned against the tent pole. "Well, We''re really doing this, aren''t we?" "We are," Alpheo replied, his voice calm but resolute as he put his foot on the table . "And this is just the beginning.'''' Jarza, still shaking his head in half-disbelief, furrowed his brow as he looked at Alpheo. "Alright, you''ve got the marriage, the army, and the title. But what about the civil war? You know this won''t be as simple as sitting pretty on a throne. Her uncle''s not going to let this go without a fight. How do you plan to deal with that?You said that the princess has few friends among the nobility, won''t this mean more and more lords will assemble under whatever-his-name-is'' banner?Won''t we be outnumbered?" Alpheo''s smile turned sly, the kind of grin that sent shivers down spines. Without a word, he reached inside his coat and pulled out a small dagger. The men watched, their eyes narrowing, as Alpheo leaned forward and, with a swift motion, stabbed the dagger deep into the wooden wall of the tent. The blade sank in with a satisfying thud, vibrating for a moment as it embedded itself. "We will simply stop that with a quick and strong blow to the stem," Alpheo said, "just like that." Chapter 102 Forgotten son(1) Chapter 108 Forgotten son(1) Tiberius pov: The straw on the floor stank of urine. There was no window, no bed, just a bucket to shit and pee in. He remembered the white floor and wall of his room , the beautiful scenery outside his window.The only thing he could now only sightsee was the shape of his feces, which was also his only entertainment . Once the door had slammed shut, he had seen no more. The dark was absolute. He had as well been blind.He begged days and nights to the men outside the dungeons for a small candle.The first hours he believed they could not hear him.Then finally they maybe took pity as he was given one . That was two days ago, or so he believed he had no way of knowing apart from when he go to sleep and then wake up , not that it was a reliable way of telling the hour. The glob he was given to eat was hard bread and a soup that was more dirty water than soup. He was the son of the emperor , illegitimate as he was , still he had eagle blood in him. Has he done anything to deserve this?He knew that mattered little , his very own existence was a slight to the empress and she lost no time immediately after she got power , to sweep that little trouble away from her sight. He could not think of any other reason The dark silence pressed down like a weight on his chest. He was isolated in every sense of the word, not just from the world, but from hope, from his own sense of worth. The candle had almost burned itself down. He watched the tiny flame eat away at the last of the wax, its flickering light barely illuminating the edges of his small world. He liked to think the candle was his life¡ªa dim spark that would go out when the wax was finally gone. He even hoped for it. When it ended, perhaps his suffering would end too. He made plans to keep himself sane, and built castles of hope in the dark, destined to fall . Tiberius was half-asleep when the footsteps came down the hall. At first he thought he dreamt them; it had been long since he had heard anything but the sound of his own voice. When the heavy wooden door creaked open, the sudden light was painful to his eyes. The jailer thrust a jug at him. He grasped it with both hands and gulped . Water ran from his mouth and dripped down through his chin. He drank until he thought he would be sick or that he would die , apart from the dirty soup this was the first drink he had . "Can I . . . ?" he asked weakly when he could drink no more. The man was a scarecrow of a man with a rat''s face and frayed beard, clad in a mail shirt and a leather half cape. "No talking," he said as he wrenched the jug from Tiberius''s hands. ''And there goes my talking companion'' he thought meekly, smiling not to cry Tiberius barely registered the door swinging shut, the familiar heavy thud reverberating through the cold, stone walls of his prison. But just before the door fully sealed him in again, another sound caught his ear¡ªa softer, unexpected noise. The dull thud of something falling to the ground. He raised his head slowly, eyes adjusting to the dim light still flickering from the dying candle. His breath hitched in his throat as two figures slipped through the doorway, moving quickly and quietly. They weren''t jailers, that much was clear, as usually they tended to walk making a lot of sound.Those two instead seemed to be walking on pillows as not a soud was heard. Tiberius froze, heart pounding as the figures entered, closing the door behind them with a muted creak. One of them crouched down beside the fallen jailer. For a moment, Tiberius thought they might be there to finish him off. But instead, the figure gently set a bottle of some kind beside the unconscious man. The jailer was still breathing¡ªhis chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. He was alive, just...not awake. The second figure''s glance lingered briefly on Tiberius before returning to the task at hand. In the dim light, Tiberius''s mind raced, flooded with possibilities. Were they here to kill him? Did the Empress Mother send them to finish the job? But even as the thought crossed his mind, he dismissed it. If the Empress Mother wanted him dead, she wouldn''t resort to such secrecy. No, her style would be far more direct¡ªa public execution, swift and final. A single decree, and his head would roll. All this effort to sneak into his cell and drug the guard¡ªit didn''t fit. Tiberius watched the two figures carefully, his breath shallow. His heart thudded heavily in his chest, but his instincts told him they weren''t here to kill him. "W-who are you?" he managed to ask, his voice dry and cracked from days of neglect. The words felt useless the moment they left his lips, as neither of the figures so much as glanced his way. His voice was small, swallowed up by the cold stone walls of the cell. Without warning, the first figure turned to the other, his voice low but firm. "Get the bastard out." Tiberius flinched at the harshness of the words, but before he could react, the other man moved quickly, his hand disappearing into the unconscious jailer''s pouch. There was the sound of metal jingling, and then the man held up a pair of keys. For a moment, the quiet clink of metal against metal filled the room, and Tiberius realized just how starved he was for any sound other than his own desperate whispers. Such a small sound, he thought, and yet, so sweet. The man slid the key into the lock, the metallic click reverberating like music in Tiberius''s ears. The door creaked open, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Tiberius saw the corridor beyond his cell¡ªa narrow, dimly lit hallway that stretched into darkness. Freedom, however distant, was suddenly in reach. "Keep quiet," the man behind him whispered sharply, pressing a finger to his lips as a warning. Tiberius didn''t need to be told twice. He nodded eagerly, his fear mingled with a strange relief. They weren''t here to kill him¡ªthey were rescuing him. But why? What possible reason could anyone have to free him? He was nobody now. No allies. No powerful friends. No titles or lands. Nothing of value to offer anyone. The very act of rescuing him seemed, from his perspective, a fool''s errand. As they pulled him to his feet and ushered him quietly into the corridor, Tiberius''s mind whirled with questions. What did they stand to gain from this? What could possibly make this worth their while? He cast one last glance at the unconscious jailer, slumped by the cell door. Why me? The two men led Tiberius through the dungeon corridors, their footsteps eerily soft against the cold, damp stone floor. They moved with practiced caution, glancing around every corner before signaling him to follow. Tiberius''s bare feet padded silently behind them, his heart racing with a mix of fear and hope. They walked in near silence, save for the occasional drip of water echoing through the dungeon. Tiberius, though weak and disoriented, couldn''t help but notice how methodical the two men were. They paused at every intersection, waiting and listening, ensuring the way was clear before proceeding. It was a level of care that heightened his confusion. Who were these men? Finally, after what felt like an eternity winding through the labyrinthine halls, they reached a small wooden door. Tiberius recognized the area immediately, though it made no sense to him. The latrines? It was different from the grand, marble-lined lavatories used by the nobles. This was far simpler, meant for the guards and servants, tucked away in the lower parts of the keep¡ªfar from the eyes of anyone important. The wooden door creaked slightly as one of the men pushed it open. The smell hit Tiberius immediately, a mix of stale air, dampness, and the unmistakable stench of human waste. The stone floors were wet, though not from water alone, and the dim light from the corridor barely penetrated the room. He hesitated, unsure why they had brought him here. This wasn''t an escape route¡ªthis was a lavatory. The man in front turned back to him, a brief glance in his direction as if to signal him to enter. Tiberius followed, though confusion gnawed at him. Why here? He had imagined a break for freedom, perhaps leading to an exit or a hidden passageway, but instead, they had led him to this filthy, lowly place. The answer came to him when the two raised the wooden board where people sat to shit. This was their way out, freedom would be reached through the shit of dozens of people. Chapter 103 Forgotten son(2) Chapter 109 Forgotten son(2) "What do you mean, he disappeared?" Empress Valeria''s voice was laced with irritation as she sat at the head of the council table, her piercing eyes focused on Lord Vrator, her nephew .Normally, the fate of the little bastard wouldn''t have concerned her. He was nothing more than a stain, a reminder of a long-buried indiscretion. But the audacity¡ªthe insult¡ªof someone daring to make a mockery of her authority within her own city made her blood boil. Lord Vrator, her nephew, bowed his head slightly, visibly uncomfortable under the Empress''s withering gaze. "Your Grace," he began cautiously, "the guard was found unconscious near the entrance to the dungeons. It appears the infiltrators placed an open bottle of wine beside him after bringing him out of the cell. Those who passed assumed he had simply... drunk himself to sleep.So for some time the matter was left unreported as the discipline within the dungeon keeper is lax at best, only when the guards woke up on his own, we understood what had happened" Valeria''s lips curled into a scowl, her fair face tightening with rage. "Are the guards in this palace for show? How is it that no one saw two men and a boy leaving the grounds?" Her voice rose sharply, each word biting, her frustration unmasked. Vrator swallowed hard. "The guards reported no one passing through the main gate, Your Grace, which is the only way out. We suspect there may be a secret passage¡ªone previously unknown, perhaps one used during the castle''s construction. We are investigating now." He kept his eyes on the floor, afraid to meet her fiery gaze. "Incompetence," Valeria spat, slamming her hand down on the table with a sharp crack that echoed in the chamber. "Monkeys would do a better job than this." Her voice dripped with venom. "Do you have any idea what this means? They didn''t just take some random prisoner;they have no use for that bastard they took him only to spite me and humiliate me, to let me know I am powerless . And they did it under my nose!" Her fist clenched. "If this can happen, what''s to stop them from kidnapping someone who actually matters? When my father returns, he will hear of this, and he will think us fools." Vrator hesitated, mouth opening slightly as if to defend himself or offer a solution. But Valeria''s sharp, icy gaze cut him off before he could utter a word. ''''Organize search parties on every inch of land under my son''s rule, I want the bastard''s head at my feet as soon as possible''''she gave a look to her nephew "Leave," she commanded, her voice low and seething. "I am tired of staring at failure." The room fell into a tense silence, the only sound the soft rustle of Lord Vrator''s cloak as he quickly bowed and retreated from her sight, leaving Valeria to seethe alone in her fury. As the heavy doors of the council chamber slammed shut behind her departing nephew, Empress Valeria remained seated at the head of the long table. Her hands were still clenched into fists, her knuckles white from the force. Slowly, she released her grip, taking in a long, deep breath. Her chest heaved with the effort, but the tension in her muscles didn''t dissipate. She reached up and touched her temple, massaging it lightly as she tried to steady herself. ''Breathe, Valeria. Control yourself.'' But even in her own thoughts, the words felt hollow. It wasn''t just the disappearance of that illegitimate wretch gnawing at her¡ªit was the knowledge that her father, was soon to arrive. She could already see him, standing tall and stern in the entrance hall, his eyes cold and unforgiving as they swept over her. He had that way of making everyone¡ªeven her¡ªfeel small. It wasn''t fear exactly, but something worse. The constant pressure to prove herself worthy of the blood that coursed through her veins, though it seemed to never be enough And now this. Tiberius, that little blot , had vanished, and she knew her father would not overlook it. He never overlooked anything. A small mistake, a minor failure, and it would be as though the entire foundation of her authority had crumbled, he hated mistakes. Especially when they came from her. Even after ascending to the title of Empress, that feeling¡ªthe one she had always felt under her father''s gaze¡ªnever disappeared. In fact, it had grown worse with time. As a child, all that was required of her was to study under her tutors, to be a diligent and obedient daughter. Back then, her father''s cold, watchful eyes were an ever-present weight, but then the stakes had been low. A missed lesson or a wrong answer would earn her a scolding, nothing more. But now, as empress, that same gaze carried a far more oppressive weight. It wasn''t just about pleasing him anymore. Now, it meant maintaining control over an entire empire¡ªkeeping her grip tight on the pulse of the city, its people, its nobles, and its politics. And with every passing day, she felt herself struggling to hold on. Back then, failure meant disappointment. Now, it meant the crumbling of her authority, the collapse of everything she had worked for. And even as she wore the crown, she couldn''t shake the feeling that she was still that small girl, trembling under her father''s unforgiving gaze, forever trying to prove herself. A sharp knock interrupted her thoughts, snapping Empress Valeria out of her brooding. She took a deep breath, straightened her posture, and forced a calm expression onto her face. "Enter," she called, her voice steady despite the turmoil in her chest. The door creaked open, and she immediately recognized the figure standing in the doorway. Lord Marcellus. His square face, with its strong chin and short black hair, was unmistakable. He carried himself with the quiet confidence of a man who had seen much and feared little. Valeria allowed a smile to touch her lips, one of the rare genuine expressions she could muster in these troubled times. "Lord Marcellus," she said, her tone warming as she gestured for him to enter. "It is always a pleasure. Come, sit with me." Marcellus bowed his head slightly and stepped into the room, his dark eyes taking in the scene with a quick, assessing glance. He moved with the grace of a seasoned warrior but bore the composure of a statesman. As he approached, Valeria reached for a silver decanter of wine on the table beside her and poured the rich red liquid into two goblets. "Join me for a drink, my lord?" she asked, offering him one of the cups. Marcellus nodded and accepted the wine, lowering himself into the chair beside her. The empress studied him for a moment, taking in the sharp lines of his face, the way his jaw tightened as he took a sip from the cup he filled. Setting his goblet down, he leaned forward slightly, his voice low and filled with concern. "Is everything all right, Your Grace?" he asked softly, his gaze searching hers. "You seem... burdened." Valeria exhaled slowly, allowing herself a rare moment of vulnerability. She swirled the wine in her cup, her eyes following the movement of the liquid. "I''m just... tired," she said, her voice quieter than usual. Marcellus nodded, understanding etched in his features. "I understand the strain of leadership, though mine is nothing compared to yours. But my dear Empress," he said, reaching across the small distance between them and gently taking her hand in his. His touch was firm yet comforting, his fingers rough from years of wielding a sword. "I am here to serve your every need. Whatever you ask, I will do. You need only give the word." He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss against her knuckles. His gaze remained locked on hers, the gesture both respectful and intimate. She smiled, allowing herself to indulge in the moment. It had been a long time since someone had shown her this kind of attention, this kind of devotion. "Marcellus," she said softly, her voice a whisper now. "You always know how to ease my troubles. I''ve been surrounded by sycophants and schemers for so long, it''s refreshing to have someone I can trust." Marcellus''s eyes darkened slightly, a hint of something more than mere loyalty in his gaze. "I am yours to command, Empress," he repeated, his voice lower, more intimate. Valeria tilted her head slightly, studying him. There was a moment, a spark of something more¡ªunspoken, but present in the air between them. She leaned closer, her lips curving into a knowing smile. "Perhaps there is something more I require from you," she said, her words hanging between them like a whispered promise. Marcellus''s breath hitched slightly, but he remained composed. He stood slowly, offering her his hand once more, his gaze never leaving hers. Valeria took it, rising to her feet with grace Without a word, she led him towards her private chambers. Marcellus followed her, like a puppy mixed with something more primal, something that neither of them could deny. As the door to her chambers closed behind them, Valeria smiled, allowing herself¡ªjust for a moment¡ªto forget the weight of her crown, as she allowed the man to take the queen. Chapter 104 Dawn of a new day Chapter 110 Dawn of a new day Two weeks had passed since the fall of Thegolontia. The city, once proud and defiant, now layd in the hands of Prince Maesinius. His banner flew high over its battered walls, and a garrison of 300 men had been left behind to secure the streets and maintain order. Yet, Maesinius knew the city itself was not the ultimate prize¡ªit was the battle yet to come that would decide the fate of the province. The prince, flanked by his commanders, led an army of 7,300 soldiers, marching steadily through the open countryside beyond Thegolontia. His men moved with a disciplined pace, their morale high by recent victory and the following loot but aware of the enemy force advancing toward them. Scouts had been sent in all directions, scouring the land for signs of the opposing army, while Maesinius himself studied the terrain. He sought not just to meet his enemies but to meet them on the ground of his own choosing. This was to be his first battle , yet it seemed that he had no qualms with it and instead behaved as if he had spent half his life there. The lands the prince had personally scouted as he had waited for his enemy to come were varied¡ªrolling hills that stretched into flat plains, thick patches of forest that could either be a boon for ambush or a hazard for retreat. Maesinius''s sharp eyes scanned the horizon as he rode ahead of a bunch of men. Finally he seemed to have arrived at the ground where the battle would be given . As Prince Maesinius dismounted from his horse, brushing the dust from his leather gauntlets, he was approached by the Lord of North''s Bane. The man was grizzled and broad-shouldered, with streaks of gray in his beard and the hard eyes of a veteran. He was also the father of the woman Maesinius intended to marry¡ªthough he still did not know that. "Well?" Harold asked, his voice gruff "Have you found it?" Maesinius smiled, a slow, confident smile, and nodded. "Yes. I believe this is the ground." The land stretched wide and open before them, mostly flat with tall, waving grass that reached up to a man''s waist. To the right, a deep river carved its way through the landscape, its waters dark and swift. Harold''s eyes swept over the tall grass, the gently undulating land, and the river, which served as a natural boundary to the right. The plain seemed endless, but Maesinius had chosen it for a reason. It wasn''t as open as it seemed. Murth, Lord of Greenplain, approached them next, his arm cast in bandages and hung to his shoulder,a kindness left by a soldier during the siege of the city. In itself , lord Murth was a cautious man,especially for a northerner who mostly had been tempered by nature to be as savages as beasts. "Why this place?" he finally asked "It looks... too exposed. We could be caught in a cavalry charge with no high ground to defend." Maesinius mounted his horse again, his movements steady. He glanced at the man. "Tell me, Lord Murth," Maesinius began, "what do you think we lack most in this battle?" Murth did not hesitate a moment before he answered, "Cavalry. We''re short on riders that''s plain for everyone to see.To me , to you even to the goats" Maesinius gave an approving nod. "Exactly. Which is why this terrain works in our favor." He pointed toward the deep river on the right. " First of all there''s the river. It cuts off their flanking maneuvers to one flank. They''ll be forced to come at us from the front, every commander knows that charging directly into a infatry formation, is a nice way to decimate your horses. And since they will have no way to hit our flanks , the only reasonable choice is one ...concentrating all the cavalry on the left. If we manage to make our preparation for that , then we can even the odds. " Harold grunted in approval, eyeing the river and the grassy plains. "Aye, that''s clever.Except even then we have nothing to stop them...." Elenoir,meanwhile rode up alongside Maesinius. Her brow was furrowed in thought, and with a voice calm but questioning she poke. "What happens if High Marshal Conte decides not to give battle here?" Maesinius turned toward Elenoir, and for a moment, he laughed¡ªheartily, as if it were a joke. His deep voice echoed across the plain, surprising some of the men nearby. After a few seconds, he quieted, fixing Elenoir with a confident smile. "Conte has no choice," Maesinius said with certainty. "The fall of Thelogontia has already shattered his reputation. His vassals see him as weak, some may even point their finger at him, accusing their lord of deliberately slowing the army to allow the enemy take care of one of his strongest vassal for him. His once unshakeable authority is probably already starting to crumble. If they sense even a moment of hesitation, they''ll begin questioning him even further , maybe even consider breaking off." Elenoir nodded slowly, processing the prince''s words, though there was still a trace of doubt on his face. "You''re certain he''ll commit to battle here, though? What makes you think he won''t try to outmaneuver us?" He paused for effect, making sure Elenoir and the others understood the reasoning "Conte knows this better than anyone. He can''t afford to seem indecisive. His only option is to fight¡ªand soon. His prestige is hanging by a thread. If he runs now, his own lords will turn against him." Elenoir nodded slowly, processing the prince''s words, though there was still a trace of doubt on his face. "You''re certain he''ll commit to battle here, though? What makes you think he won''t try to outmaneuver us?" Maesinius grinned, glancing over the open plain again before answering. "He will give us battle¡ªespecially when he hears that we lack cavalry. Conte''s pride won''t let him resist what he thinks is a golden opportunity. He''ll come charging in, thinking our weakness will make us easy prey. We just need to send an envoy to set the day of the battle , at which point Conte will be forced to accept this as our battleground unless he wants to be deemed craven by his own sworn lords.'''' Maesinius turned his gaze toward Uther, the towering figure known as "the Giant" among the men. Uther was a hulking presence, easily standing five heads taller than anyone else in the camp, with broad shoulders that seemed capable of carrying the weight of the world. A smile crept onto Maesinius''s face as he looked at Uther, and the giant noticed. Raising a brow in confusion, Uther glanced around, as if to check if something else had caught the prince''s attention. "Why are you smiling at me like that?" Uther rumbled, Maesinius chuckled softly, his eyes gleaming with a knowing look. "Because, my dear Uther," he said, his tone both playful and serious, "you''re going to have the biggest role in the battle.And trust me you will love it. You will be our axe." Uther''s lips widened, and he gave a low, approving growl. "I like the sound of that." Maesinius waved his hand dismissively at Uther''s growing excitement. "I''ll explain the details later," he said, his tone shifting back to one of seriousness "For now, we have other matters to attend to." He turned to the rest of the company, his expression sharp and focused. "We should make camp here," he ordered, his voice leaving no room for debate as he turned to his lords. "This land is where we will meet Conte, and where we will break his forces.This is where we decide whether we will come victorious or deem our people to death. Remember how far we advanced and what we have left behind.This is where everythign will be decided, in one way or another." Lord Harold and the others exchanged brief glances, nodding in agreement. They had gone too far to let doubt linger in them. Harold stood a few paces behind the prince, his eyes narrowed in deep thought as he observed Maesinius closely. There was an intensity in his stare, as if he were seeing the young man in a new light, noticing something that hadn''t been obvious before. His usually stern face softened slightly, but his expression remained unreadable to most. Elenoir, his daughter, who had been standing by his side, glanced up at him curiously. "Father?" she asked quietly, her voice carrying just a hint of concern. "What is it? You''re staring , and hard at that." Harold didn''t answer immediately. His lips curled into a small smile, and he finally tore his gaze from the prince to look at his daughter. "It seems our prince has taken more from his father than he''s let on. He is more wolf than sheep, even though he thinks himself the opposite " he said in a low voice, one filled with a mix of amusement and respect. Elenoir raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "You think so?" Harold nodded slowly, his eyes flickering back to Maesinius, who was now giving more orders to the men, his commanding presence undeniable. "There''s a cunning in him, that I did not know he possessed, and he is able to win people''s hearts quite easily.Perhaps our plans with him will be much easier than we thought it would be.'''' Chapter 105 Settling for the battle(1) Chapter 111 Settling for the battle(1) The camp of the lords of Messenia , with the High Marshall conte leading it , sprawled across the plain like a bustling, though still temporary city. Hundreds of tents dotted the landscape, arranged in neat rows and guarded by a wooden barricade that ended with spikes at the top and at the base outside of it . The camp was alive with activity: soldiers sharpening their weapons, squires feeding the horses of thier masters , and quartermasters barking orders as wagons of supplies were unloaded near the center. Cooks stoked fires, filling the air with the scent of roasting meat and boiling stew, while horses were tethered to posts near the cavalry section, snorting and pawing at the ground. A lone rider approached the camp at a swift pace, kicking up dust as his horse galloped across the plain. As the rider drew closer to the camp''s perimeter, his silhouette sharpened against the sunlight, causing the guards at the gate to notice him. Archers stationed on either side of the camp''s entrance quickly raised their bows, arrows nocked and aimed directly at the rider. "Stop where you are!" one of them barked, his voice sharp and commanding. "State your business!" The rider immediately pulled on the reins, bringing his horse to a halt a few yards away. His breathing was heavy, dust covering his cloak and armor. He raised both hands in a gesture of submission, the horse beneath him shifting restlessly. "Hold your fire!" he shouted, his voice carrying across the field. "I am a messenger¡ªsent to request a parlay with the commander of this camp!" The archers remained tense, their bows still drawn. One of them squinted at the rider suspiciously. "Who sent you?" "I carry a message from His grace, Maesinius of house Romenia, first of his name!" the rider responded, urgency clear in his tone. "I seek an audience to discuss terms of engagement. I swear on my honor, I come unarmed!" The guards exchanged wary glances. After a moment, one of them lowered his bow slightly and nodded to his companion. "Wait here," he said, turning toward the camp to relay the message. Five tense minutes crawled by as the rider sat motionless on his horse, hands still raised in submission. The guards remained vigilant, their bows trained on him, eyes narrowing with suspicion. The wind rustled through the tall grass, the only sound in the stillness of the standoff. Finally, the wooden gates of the camp creaked open. Two soldiers, clad in chainmail and bearing the sigil of Messenia on their tabards, emerged, signaling the rider to enter. One of them, a burly man with a scar running down his cheek, gestured with his spear. "Follow us. Move slowly, with hands in full view" he instructed, his tone curt. The rider gave a brief nod, lowering his hands and urging his horse forward with a light nudge. The gate groaned shut behind him as he was led into the heart of the camp. The soldiers flanked him on either side, their eyes never leaving him as they guided him through the camp''s maze of tents and fortifications. As he rode through, the rider caught glimpses of Conte''s army at work. Blacksmiths hammered at anvils, mending armor and weapons. Groups of soldiers sat around fires, their conversations dying down as they turned to watch the unfamiliar face pass by. War horses, muscular and restless, were being groomed and prepared for the coming battle. Eventually, they approached the largest tent in the camp.The flap was pulled back by one of the guards, and the rider dismounted, his legs slightly stiff from the journey. He patted his horse before turning to face the command tent. "High Marshall Conte and the lords are waiting," the scarred soldier said, nodding for him to enter The messenger straightened as he stepped inside the tent, the flaps falling closed behind him with a soft rustle. The air inside was thick with the presence of power¡ªdozens of nobles, commanders, and advisors filled the room, all seated around a grand wooden table strewn with maps and plans. Eyes turned towards him, scrutinizing every movement, but the messenger met their stares unflinchingly. His gaze traveled across the room until it settled on High Marshall Conte, who sat at the head of the table. Conte was an imposing figure, though not for his physical prowess. His bald head gleamed under the dim light of the lanterns, only a thin fringe of gray hair remaining on the sides and back of his skull. His face, plump and flushed, was framed by a thick, neatly trimmed beard. His belly strained against the fine velvet tunic he wore, a stark contrast to the lean and hardened men surrounding him.Apparently a life as one of the most powerful man in the empire left his trace on the man. He leaned back in his chair, studying the messenger with an amused look The messenger dropped to one knee, bowing his head respectfully. "My lords," he greeted, his voice firm and unwavering. Conte let out a snort, shifting his weight slightly in his chair. "So, you''re the messenger from that rabble," he said, his tone dripping with condescension. "I''ve heard your master is quite the thorn in our side, pillaging and besieging our cities like a wild pack of dogs." He waved a dismissive hand. "I trust he found the hospitality of Thegolontia to his liking? Soon enough, he and his men will be sent scurrying back to the snow where they belong, tails between their legs." There was a ripple of chuckles around the room as Conte''s words settled, but the messenger remained unshaken. Conte''s lips curled into a sneer, and the tension in the room thickened as he leaned forward, his fingers drumming idly on the hilt of his sword. "What have you come to say, then?" he asked, his voice laced with mockery. "I hope it is to deliver the terms of your surrender. Or is your master finally ready to battle like a true man, even though he still is a green boy?" The messenger held his ground, rising slowly from his kneeling position. "My lord," he replied, his tone even, though there was a subtle edge beneath it. "His Grace, Prince Maesinius, offers you one final opportunity to swear fealty to him, as he did before this campaign began. It was your refusal to recognize the legitimate heir of the late Emperor that set this conflict in motion. His Grace believes you made an enemy of him the day you defied the rightful bloodline." A low murmur rippled through the room, the tension climbing as Conte''s expression hardened. His fingers, which had been tapping lazily on the sword hilt, clenched around it, his knuckles whitening. Slowly, he stood up, his bulk looming over the messenger. "Swear fealty?" Conte''s laughter rang out, a harsh and bitter sound. "I will sooner kiss a beggar''s foot than bend my knee to that pup, or to any of his so-called lords of the snow" he spat, his voice rising with disdain. His eyes narrowed into slits, the insult hanging in the air. "I am no vassal to upstarts with dreams of thrones and crowns, much less to one that has savages as companions." ''Though you have still not swore to no one,'' the messenger noticed in his mind, though he refrained from saying it out loud .He held his gaze, undeterred by Conte''s fury. He bowed his head slightly, more out of formality than submission, and continued, his voice clear and resolute. "Then, my lord, it seems His Grace shall prove his right on the battlefield. In the spirit of chivalry and to uphold the honor of combat, he extends to you an invitation. Tomorrow, after dawn, two hours'' march from here, he proposes a battle to settle this dispute." There was a pause as the weight of the challenge settled over the room. The nobles shifted in their seats, their eyes burning with resolve as they moved towards Conte. The messenger stood tall, his gaze unwavering as it locked onto Conte. "Do you accept, my lord?" Conte''s nostrils flared as he stared back, his bloated fingers tightening around the armrests of his chair. A bitter silence hung in the air, thick as smoke, as the nobles in the room exchanged uneasy glances. Finally, Conte broke the tension, pushing his heavy frame up from the chair. But pride would not allow him to show it. Not here. Not before his men. "We accept," Conte''s voice boomed, louder than before, as if to drown out any hint of uncertainty. "Tomorrow shall be the day of our glory. The gods themselves will witness as we vanquish those who dare lay claim to what is not theirs." He paused, lowering his head for an instant, his next words dripping with reverence, "May the gods hail the rightful." The messenger''s eyes gleamed with something close to acceptance, but he kept his composure. "May the gods hail the rightful," Outside, the messenger mounted his horse. Maesinius had been right all along. Conte never had a choice, as the fall of Thegolontia had sealed his fate. With his vassals watching his every move, to hesitate now would have been to show weakness. His pride, his fear of losing control, had forced his hand. It was already decided¡ªtomorrow, on the battlefield, both men would prove the rightness in their words. Chapter 106 Settling for the battle(2) Chapter 106 Settling for the battle(2) The ground trembled under the march of thousands of Northmen, clad in fur and steel, their breath misting in the cold morning air. Their faces set forward, even sharper than their axes and swords that gleamed under light . Though they had a slight advantage in number, the truth weighed heavy on Maesinius''s mind. His army was mostly composed of infantry¡ªtough, seasoned men from the north who had been accustomed to hunger and cold. Unfortunately good infantry rarely evened the field against cavalry. Barely 150 horsemen rode with them, half hastily assembled after looting Thegolontia''s stables, and none were truly battle-hardened, with some of the steeds being even only pack animals . Most of the horses in the north were used as scouts in the north''s bane or as pack horses to open up the land. In contrast, across the open plains of tall grass, the army of Messenia Province awaited, some 6,400 strong. Though slightly outnumbered, they had a critical advantage: a far superior cavalry force. Maesinius did not know exactly how many mounted warriors the enemy had, but he had heard reports of at least 700, many of them hired swords¡ªmercenaries skilled in the art of war. Had he possessed more gold, he might have tried to bribe them to his side, but his coffers were drained since the start of the campaign, slightly made fuller during the loot of the city . Maesinius had divided his forces into three. On the left flank, Lord Harold of the North''s Bane commanded the infantry, amogst the norther lord he was the one that regularly faced in battle the savages of the cold north . His forces were a wall of shields ,axes spears meant to hold the enemy line. In the center stood Cregan, Lord of Falkar, a pale and unsettling figure nicknamed Paleface. His men were disciplined, their shields locked in tight formation. He did not know the ability of the men , truthfully he knew little of him , however Harold has suggested him as one of the commander as such he listened. The right flank, however, was led by Maesinius himself. Here, the prince had gathered his remaining cavalry and a force of infantry. His horsemen were few, the prince had racked up his brain trying to think of anything to even the field , at the end he botched up something that could be called a plan , though he was not sure if it would work. The rest of the lord commanded the men coming from their fiefdom working as a sort of junior officers.... As he rode along the front of his formation, Maesinius surveyed the battlefield. The land was mostly flat, but to the right ran a deep river, cutting off any chance of flanking . The tall grass swayed in the wind. It was an ideal battlefield for the enemy, who would no doubt send their cavalry to sweep through the grasslands like wolves. The sun rose higher in the sky, and the distant dust cloud of the enemy''s advance became visible. Soon, the clash of steel and the cries of battle would fill the air, but for now, there was only the cold wind, the distant roar of the river, and the silent preparation for war. The battle was set, and both sides knew that here kingdoms were to be made. ------------------ Edmund''s pov: Edmund sat atop his horse, gripping the reins tightly as he tried to steady his trembling hands. His heart pounded in his chest, and cold sweat dampened the collar of his armor. He had commanded men in scouting mission before, but never anything like this. He was leading the cavalry... He still couldn''t believe how easily his father, Lord Harold of the North''s Bane, had offered him up for this role. There had been no second thoughts, no hesitation. The lords of the council tent had all fallen silent when the suggestion was made, as though they were witnessing an execution being carried out. Edmund had heard stories of other campaigns, how men fought tooth and nail for the honor of commanding the cavalry. But not this time. Not for this battle. This was an attempted suicide, and everyone in that tent knew it. The Messenians had the superior mounted force¡ª most being well-trained , but more importantantly more numerous. ''Damn those fuckers....''he thought as he looked at his own men. Edmund''s cavalry, on the other hand, had been cobbled together in haste, many of them looters from Thegolontia, riding horses barely fit for war. He knew he had no chance of victory if the battle did not go according to plan. Did my father really think this through? Edmund thought bitterly. Did he send me here to die?Did he really dislike me this much? He pushed the thought aside as the sound of horns echoed across the plains, signaling the start of the battle. His stomach twisted with fear as he was given the order to forward. Dust rose into the air as both armies began to march. He glanced to his left, where his riders waited. The men looked nervous and perhapse even insulted by being led by a boy of 13 winters. They knew what was coming. Edmund swallowed hard, his mouth dry, and took a deep breath. He had to lead them¡ªthere was no other choice. ''Damn you Maesinius'' "Forward!" he shouted, raising his sword. His voice cracked slightly, but he forced himself to sound confident. The cavalry began to move, the horses trotting at first, then picking up speed as they advanced across the plain. Edmund''s heart raced faster with each passing moment. His mind screamed for him to stop, to turn back, to flee from this madness, but he couldn''t. He couldn''t be the coward that ran. Not here. Not now .He could run later , but not now. As they neared the enemy''s mounted force, he gave a silent prayer to the gods, whispering under his breath, "May you guide my hand... and let me die with honor if that is my fate." And so, with the spirit of a man walking to the executioner''s block, Edmund rode forth. The dust swirled into a cloud, kicked up by the relentless pounding of hooves against the earth. Each beat felt like the ticking of a death clock. They were an egg thrown at a boulder, fragile and insignificant, and they knew it. The only question was whether the enemy knew it too. Edmund lifted his face toward the sun, squinting as his eyes began to water. He wondered, with a sudden pang of fear, if this would be the last time he would see it. Gods, I hope not... I''m still too young to die. They rode for what felt like a small eternity, the distance passing slowly, each breath weighing heavier in his chest. But then, finally, after what might have been an hour but felt like a lifetime, they saw them¡ªthe enemy cavalry. Edmund''s stomach tightened into a knot. Seeing the numbers had been bad enough; facing the reality of 150 men against 700 was like sleeping and finishing inside madness herself. The enemy was a wall of steel and flesh, a mass of mounted knights and mercenaries formed into a single, unyielding fist of iron. They sat waiting for him, their armor gleaming in the sunlight, banners flying high. And yet, in that grim mass of men, he found a small comfort¡ªthey were all gathered in one place , hired men and knights alike....one men rides and the other will certainly follow. Good, he thought, this will make things easier... or at least quicker. The ground beneath them rolled unevenly, soft but not treacherous, spotted with a few trees scattered across the hillside. The land was beautiful and who know maybe by the end of the day, it was to be theirs. His heart hammered in his chest, echoing the rhythm of the drums. Sweat trickled down his face beneath his layers of leather and steel, cold against his skin. Edmund''s gaze narrowed as he spotted a rider among the enemy ranks, weaving through the lines, shouting and gesturing to his men. He couldn''t make out who it was, but it didn''t matter¡ªjust another lord desperate for glory, eager to prove himself. "Perfect. We''re here for you. Come on, give the order you bastard...." Edmund murmured under his breath, his voice low and strained, barely audible over the thundering of hooves. For a fleeting moment, it almost felt like the enemy commander had heard him from across the field, as though their wills were locked together in a strange, silent conversation. Then it happened¡ªthe order was given. The enemy cavalry surged forward, an ocean of horses and steel rushing toward them in a devastating wave.A mass of dusts rising from the ground, as thousands of hooves moved it around. Edmund''s mouth went dry as he saw the charge coming, a storm of men and beasts barreling down on them with terrifying speed and force. His heart leaped into his throat. Gods, it''s even more frightening than I imagined. Chapter 107: Throwing a egg to a rock Chapter 107: Throwing a egg to a rock Edmund watched the enemy cavalry intently, his heart still pounding in his chest, but this time, a smile began to creep onto his face. It was a small, tight smile¡ªthe kind worn by those who have stared into the abyss, accepted their fate, and now find every moment after to be a curious gift. At first, just one rider moved, breaking from the ranks as if drawn by some irresistible force. Edmund couldn''t tell if it was a proud nobleman looking for glory, or perhaps a mercenary hungry for loot, already eager to claim his share. Does it matter? Edmund thought, his smile widening slightly. One fool is all it takes. The knight galloped ahead, armor flashing in the sunlight as his horse kicked up dust. For a moment, he seemed like a lone predator, eager to snatch an early prize. But then, as if his impulse was contagious, another rider followed. Then another, and another, until the whole formation began to move like a rolling tide, sweeping forward to maintain their tight order. Edmund''s smile remained, though his pulse quickened. There it is, he thought. They''re coming. Whether for glory or greed, they''re coming. Drawn like moths to the flame, blind to the fire that awaits. The enemy cavalry surged forward as one. The ground trembled beneath them, and the rumble of their approach grew louder with each passing second. The horses thundered toward Edmund and his men, their polished armor and weapons glinting like fire in the midday sun. Edmund gripped the reins tighter, feeling the weight of the moment bear down on him. This is it. The smile didn''t leave his face, but his eyes betrayed the storm of emotions surging beneath it, the biggest of all fear. He rode hard for a few seconds, feeling the wind whipping past his face, his heart hammering as the ground blurred beneath him. His riders galloped beside him, hooves pounding like a rolling drumbeat. Every instinct screamed at him to keep going, to ride straight into the enemy and meet them head-on, but his mind was clear. "Roundabout!" he shouted, his voice barely carrying over the thunder of hooves. Without a flicker of doubt, his men obeyed. Their horses wheeled sharply as if moving with one will, dust rising in great clouds that swirled like phantoms around them. The charge melted into a sudden turn, a retreat¡ªbut to the enemy, it would seem as if they were fleeing in desperation, unaware that the real battle had only just begun. Behind him, the sound of steel on steel rang through the air as swords and lances were raised high, the enemy riders screaming in triumph as they gave chase. Edmund didn''t have to look back to know what they were thinking: that his small, outnumbered force had panicked and fled at the sight of their superior numbers. He could almost hear their thoughts. They''re routing! They''re breaking!Charge them! Keep following us... he thought, gritting his teeth and urging his horse forward. Come on, keep thinking that. Keep chasing. He watched as the enemy cavalry followed after them, their formation breaking apart in their eagerness to run him down. The disciplined ranks of knights and mercenaries stretched out, some of the more reckless riders charging ahead, eager to claim the glory of striking down fleeing foes. Edmund felt the surge of tension in his chest. Come on... just a little farther... They rode hard for several minutes, the landscape blurring around them as they cut through the tall, swaying grass. Edmund''s heart raced in his chest, pounding with every beat of his horse''s hooves. The sound of pursuit echoed behind him¡ªenemy riders, their cries growing louder with each passing moment, eager to run them down.Were they close?Did they reach them? He kept thinking as he rode on, overthinking every little thing he was coming across . Maybe our horses are slowing down. Will we get caught in the middle? And then he saw it: four wooden poles driven into the earth, barely visible above the grass but unmistakable to him. He grinned despite the tension, knowing they had reached the turning point. Edmund and his men passed the poles, riding through the invisible line that marked safety. He turned in his saddle, looking back just in time to see the enemy cavalry¡ªstill a solid wave of horsemen¡ªcharging blindly after them.They were awfully close... Edmund wasted no time. He yanked the horn from his belt, raised it to his lips, and blew with all the air he could muster. The deep, resonant sound echoed across the battlefield, loud and sharp, cutting through the roar of hooves and shouts. Now, he thought, his heart steadying as he watched. Now we turn the tide. ----------- From the tall grass, they emerged like phantoms¡ªwarriors concealed until the last moment. Edmund''s horn blast was their signal, and the ambush sprang to life with ruthless precision. Hundreds of men, burly and clad in chainmail, erupted from their hiding places. Their hands, calloused and strong, gripped axes and javelins, ready for the strike. The enemy riders barely had time to react. With a unified, guttural shout, the warriors hurled their weapons into the air, their voices blending into a singular roar of fury. The sharp whistling of javelins cut through the rhythm of pounding hooves, slicing the air with deadly precision, followed by the heavy, ominous thud of axes spinning through the sky like cruel, iron meteors. The riders barely knew what hit them. Horses neighed in panic, their eyes wild with terror as javelins slammed into their sides, piercing flesh with a sickening crunch. The beasts reared up, throwing their riders into disarray, some tumbling helplessly to the ground. Several of the riders were knocked from their saddles as axes cleaved through armor, the metal bending and shattering under the force, cutting deep into limbs and torsos. Blood sprayed in arcs, painting the ground in crimson as men screamed, their voices swallowed by the chaos. Some fell, their last breath frozen in shock, while others simply dropped dead¡ªlifeless, the impact of the weapons cutting their charge short in an instant. The sudden ambush was met with chaos. The once-proud formation of cavalry crumbled as the enemy horses bucked and skidded to a halt, their riders shouting in surprise and fear. The tall men of the North¡ªhulking figures of muscle and chainmail¡ªlet out war cries as they surged forward, throwing more axes and javelins, their eyes fierce with the thrill of the kill. Edmund watched it all, the grin of satisfaction creeping across his face. The trap had worked to perfection. Edmund''s eyes meanwhile locked onto a figure rising above the chaos, a monstrous presence that seemed to tower over the battlefield. It was Uther, the giant, and even amidst the swirling chaos of battle, he was unmistakable. His muscles bulged from every inch of his body, veins pulsing with a raw, savage strength. A thick, wild beard framed his face, and his head was crowned with the skull of a bear¡ªa hood that only added to the terrifying image he presented. Blood splattered across his chest and arms, staining his fur and chainmail as he waded into the fray like a beast unleashed. In each hand, Uther wielded a massive axe, one of them gifted by the prince himself, Maesinius. And it seemed Uther was intent on reminding everyone of that fact. Every swing of his axes, every cleaving blow that hacked through men and horses alike, was followed by a thunderous bellow: "MAESINIUSSS!" Another soldier fell beneath his ferocious onslaught, his torso split open by the brutal swing of Uther''s weapon. "MAESINIUSSS!" he roared again, his voice booming across the battlefield, spit flying from his mouth as he drove forward, his eyes wild with bloodlust. His every movement was like a force of nature¡ªirresistible, unstoppable, the twin axes cutting down everything in his path. A horseman tried to charge him, but Uther''s height , which reached the rider''s belly, made him a match for even mounted foes. With one powerful strike, his axe cleaved through the rider''s thigh, sending him tumbling from his saddle with a scream.He then grabbed the poor bastard from the neck and smashed him into his head, with such a powerful strike that he stopped moving , Uther hardly paused. "MAESINIUSSS!" he bellowed again, his voice thick with spit and fury, his face twisted in a savage grin as he chopped another limb , his axe cutting through bone and meat alike , of the rider. Edmund couldn''t help but be thankful that Uther was on their side. Watching the giant work was like witnessing a bear tearing through a pack of wolves¡ªthere was a primal, almost terrifying joy in his every action, a hunger for the kill that seemed to drive him forward. Every soldier that fell before him was met with that same battle cry, some may be even thinking that the giant was shouting his name. And with every strike, with every blood-soaked step, Edmund knew that the enemy''s morale was crumbling under the sheer force of this one unstoppable man. Chapter 108: Fight for survival Chapter 108: Fight for survival Edmund, still atop his horse, watched the chaos unfold as the northern infantry wreaked havoc on the enemy cavalry.It was true that the enemy riders far surpassed them, yet right now the infantry was the one outnumbering the riders. They divided themselves two, three man fighting against men on horses. While some enemy riders might have been able to fend off one man, facing two or three was another matter entirely. One soldier would distract, parrying the blows or forcing the rider to retreat, while the others seized the moment to strike¡ªeither the rider or the horse. The riders made for harder targets, but the horses were prized for the spoils they would bring, so most time they aimed for the rider Edmund''s heart pounded in his chest as adrenaline surged through him. He raised his sword high into the air, the blade gleaming in the sunlight. "CHARGE!" he bellowed, his voice cracking with urgency, desperate to capitalize on the confusion spreading through the enemy ranks. "FOR THE PRINCE! FOR MAESINIUS!" At Edmund''s command, his men sprang into action, energized by the sight of their comrades gaining the upper hand. The ground beneath them quaked as the cavalry surged forward, their war cries mingling with the clash of steel and the final, anguished screams of their enemies. Horses charged across the battlefield, their riders wielding swords, maces, and spears as they hurled themselves with relentless fury into the thick of the battle. Edmund rode at the forefront, leading his men, his sword raised high and aimed directly at the heart of the enemy''s lines. The wind whipped against his face, and the ground beneath his horse blurred into a whirlwind of motion, the long grass flattened in their wake. The impact was ferocious. Edmund''s cavalry crashed into the enemy with a savage force, steel biting into flesh, and the air filled with the piercing screams of horses and men alike. Edmund swung his sword with brutal precision, cleaving into a mercenary''s shoulder and sending him tumbling from the saddle. Without hesitation, his horse''s hooves came down, crushing the fallen soldier beneath them. All around him, his men tore through the enemy ranks with relentless momentum, cutting down their opponents like a scythe cutting through a field of wheat.The footmen were not the normal peasants taken from thefield, they were the huscarls of the various northern lord put together to increase the shock and awe''s effect. The enemy, already thrown into confusion by Uther''s wild rampage, faltered further as the Northmen''s cavalry joined the fray. Edmund, adrenaline surging, slashed again and again, each strike driving the enemy back. "FOR THE NORTH!" he shouted, the words spilling from his lips with raw emotion as he fought, his sword cutting through the chaos, leading his men into battle with everything he had. Edmund scanned the battlefield, his eyes falling on a grizzled Northman locked in combat with an enemy knight clad in full armor. The Northman, on foot, swung his axe low, targeting the legs of the mounted knight''s horse. The knight tried to parry the blow, but the axe found its mark, sinking deep into the horse''s side. The beast let out a piercing scream and collapsed, throwing its rider to the ground with a heavy thud. Before the knight could recover, the Northman''s axe came down with a sickening crunch, smashing through the knight''s helmet like a cracked egg. Blood sprayed into the air as the knight''s skull split open, and the Northman roared in triumph. Not far ahead, Edmund spotted Uther. He carved through the enemy ranks with terrifying precision, cutting riders down with brutal efficiency. One rider, not a mercenary but a knight charged at Uther, lance aimed squarely at his chest. With a swift motion, Uther knocked the lance aside with one axe and brought the other crashing down with bone-shattering force. The blade struck the rider across the chest, tearing through his plate armor and flesh as if the metal was made of paper. The man toppled from his saddle, his torso laid open by a gruesome gash at least twenty centimeters wide. "MAESINIUSSS!" Uther bellowed, his voice booming across the battlefield as he barreled toward his next target, a force of nature wrapped in human form. Meanwhile, Edmund found himself locked in a fierce fight. An enemy horseman swung at him, and though Edmund managed to parry the strike, the force nearly knocked him from his saddle. Pain shot through his arm from the impact, but he gritted his teeth and twisted his blade, swinging at the rider''s exposed side. The sword didn''t cut through the chainmail, but the force of the blow made the rider grunt in pain. Sensing his advantage, Edmund didn''t hesitate¡ªhe rammed his shield into the side of the rider''s helmet by turnign his torso around , the impact jarring the man, before swiftly following up with a backslash from his sword. This time, the blade found its mark, slicing cleanly across the rider''s unprotected neck. Blood poured from the wound, and the man crumpled from his horse, lifeless. Around him, the battle raged on, the cries of men and beasts mingling in the air. The Northmen fought like wolves, taking down the disorganized enemy cavalry piece by piece. Edmund''s strategy had worked¡ªthe enemy''s overconfidence had led them straight into the ambush, and now they were paying for it. As the chaos of battle unfolded around him, Edmund raised his sword high, glancing around at the carnage. Northmen warriors, with their wild eyes and bloodied axes, cut down enemy riders left and right. The sound of clashing steel and the cries of men filled the air, mingled with the terrified neighs of horses as they buckled and fell. Edmund''s heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins. For a moment, it seemed as though nothing could stop them. But then, through the haze of combat, Edmund saw something he never thought he would witness¡ªa rider, one of the enemy cavalry, had turned his horse around. The man, likely a mercenary, seemed to have had enough, not having any use for the gold promised if he was dead, he took his stead and with eyes wide with panic kicked his horse into a gallop, desperately trying to escape the slaughter. He weaved through the chaos, avoiding the Northmen''s blows, and sprinted away from the battlefield. Moments later, more riders followed. Another horseman broke away, then another, and another. Edmund watched in amazement as what had started as a trickle became a flood. The enemy cavalry, the supposed hammer of Conte''s army, was breaking. They were fleeing the battlefield. It was as if a wave of fear had washed over them all at once, causing them to abandon their comrades and their fight. ''''THEY ARE ROUTING!" Edmund shouted, almost in disbelief. Within moments, the entire enemy cavalry force was in disarray, turning their horses to flee. The mercenaries and knights who had charged with such confidence now raced to save their own lives, trampling over each other in their desperation. The once-organized mounted unit was reduced to a panicked stampede, horses kicking up dust as they fled across the field, retreating back toward the hills from where they had come. "After them!" Edmund roared to his men, raising his sword once more. "Don''t let them escape!" As the enemy cavalry routed, chaos spread through the battlefield like wildfire. Those enemy riders caught too deep in the fight, surrounded by Northmen warriors, had no chance of escape. The infantry, took full advantage. Men closed in from every direction, their movements quick and efficient. One rider, desperately trying to swing his sword to defend himself, was dragged off his horse by a Northman''s hooked spear. He hit the ground hard, his armor clattering, only to be finished off by the swift strike of a waiting axe. Another rider, cornered by two infantrymen, tried to raise his lance, but it was too late. A spear pierced his side, and he collapsed from his saddle, blood staining the earth beneath him. The Northmen, sensing the collapse of the cavalry, showed no mercy except for those who threw their weapons down in surrender. The field was a swirl of slashing steel and panicked cries as the enemy riders found themselves trapped, outnumbered, and overwhelmed. Edmund watched as the last few riders still tangled in the melee were cut down one by one. The infantry moved through the battlefield like wolves hunting a wounded deer, taking their kills quickly and ruthlessly. Blood splattered on the tall grass as swords slashed and spears thrust, ending the lives of those who hadn''t fled fast enough. Bodies, both of men and horses, littered the ground in gruesome heaps. Above the din of battle, Edmund could hear the thundering hooves of his own cavalry now in pursuit. The remaining enemy riders, those lucky enough to break free of the slaughter, raced across the field in a desperate bid to escape. But Edmund''s men followed closely behind, their horses snorting as they chased down the fleeing enemy with relentless speed, while their commanders wrapped things up in the middle. The sound of steel slicing through flesh, the desperate cries of men begging for mercy, and the victorious roars of the Northmen filled the air. This is what victory tastes like, the boy thought as he now charged forth following his men. Chapter 109: Dead field Chapter 109: Dead field The once lush, rolling plains were now littered with the bodies of fallen men and horses, a landscape seemingly pictured by lady death herself. The tall grass, once swaying in the breeze, was trampled and stained red, flattened beneath the weight of the dead and dying. Here and there, shattered weapons and broken shields lay scattered like remnants of a violent storm. The sea however were finally calm, and the victorious sailor could finally cheer at the end of the storm. Northmen moved among the corpses, their faces hard and unflinching as they kicked at the bodies, checking for any signs of life. A groan or twitch was quickly silenced with the cold steel of an axe or sword, ending whatever pain remained. This was the only mercy that one side would give the other. Maesinius rode through the aftermath, his steed moving carefully between the fallen. The prince''s eyes scanned the battlefield, his expression calm and unreadable. His armor was stained with the dirt of battle, but his posture was as regal as ever. Soldiers around him, battered and bloodied from the fight, turned as he passed. Some knelt in respect, others raised their weapons high in salute, shouting his name. ''''Your grace!" a grizzled warrior called, bowing his head as the prince approached. "Glory to the prince!" another voice shouted from across the field, followed by a chorus of cheers as more men turned to acknowledge their leader. Wherever Maesinius rode, men bowed and cheered, their voices rising above the stillness of death that hung over the battlefield. To them, he was not just a commander but a symbol of victory, a figure who had led them through the storm and made them feel triumph for the first time in their lives. Even the wounded, those who could barely stand, lifted their hands in salute, their faces filled with pride. Maesinius gave a small nod to each man he passed. The victory was theirs, but the cost was evident in every lifeless body that surrounded him. His eyes flickered over the scene, noting the faces of both subjects and foes alike, lying motionless in the dirt. The battle had been won, though not without struggle. After the Messinian cavalry broke and routed, the northern forces seized their moment. Edmund and his riders, alongside the infantry used in the ambush, wheeled around to flank the remaining forces of Lord Conte and his vassals. The Messinian foot soldiers, now without the protection of their cavalry, found themselves caught between two advancing lines. Panic spread like wildfire among their ranks. Swords clashed, and the air filled with the cries of men fighting for their lives, but the outcome was already decided. The northern cavalry, though small in number, struck with precision, cutting down Messinians as they fled. Infantrymen followed closely, axes and spears tearing into the backs of those who dared turn and run. The flanking had worked; Conte''s forces crumbled under the pressure and victory was delivered to Maesinius''s feet. Yet, despite the northern momentum, there simply wasn''t enough cavalry to finish the job. Most of the enemy army, once it realized defeat was inevitable, scattered into the distance, disappearing across the horizon before the Northerners could fully encircle them. Maesinius knew well the value of cavalry in a battle such as this. The northern forces had fought hard and outmaneuvered their foe, but with more horsemen, the victory could have been absolute, almost all of the army would have been either killed or made prisoner. As it stood instead , the bulk of Conte''s infantry escaped into the wilderness, their numbers diminished but still significant enough to regroup.Though he was satisfied enough that he had crippled the enemy cavalry, denying them their biggest advantage, he still felt a sour taste at the thought that total victory could have been achieved. As Maesinius rode through the battlefield, the ground littered with bodies, he spotted Edmund nearby, his face still dirty from the intensity of the battle. The young man was guiding his horse toward the prince''s, his expression a mix of disbelief and lingering adrenaline.Maesinius reined in his horse, slowing down beside Edmund, who looked up, at him. "Well done, Edmund," Maesinius said, his voice steady but warm. "You handled the cavalry better than I could have hoped for. That ambush saved us, no question about it." Edmund blinked, as if unsure whether the prince was truly speaking to him. His lips twitched into an uncertain smile. "Thank you, Your Grace," he said, shaking his head slightly, his voice edged with disbelief. "I still can''t believe we pulled this off. I mean... 150 riders against 700? It''s madness. I thought we were done for." Maesinius chuckled, his eyes scanning the battlefield, then meeting Edmund''s again. "Madness, maybe. But it worked. And you led them well. That takes courage." Edmund let out a short laugh, though it was tinged with frustration. "Courage or stupidity, I''m not sure which, still the plan was yours... I still can''t believe my father volunteered me for such a dangerous role. Not a single word of protest from me changed his mind '''' He shook his head, his thoughts clearly still spinning. "It felt like he was sending me to my death." Maesinius raised an eyebrow, sensing the young man''s unease. "Your father knows your worth. And he trusted you to come through. He was right.You are also one of the few he believed would had the sane mind to actually fake a retreat instead of headbutting a mountain, if the role was given to Uther do you think he would have reined back? Your father must have had conflict within himself I am sure" "Maybe," he said quietly, his gaze dropping back to the battlefield. "Maybe..." Maesinius gave Edmund a firm pat on the back, his grin widening. "Still not bad for your first time leading" he said with a hint of admiration. "You''ve earned your place today." Before Edmund could respond, the prince spurred his horse forward, riding on through the field, leaving the young man confused with his recent events. ------- After a short ride through the field , the prince returned back to camp.As Maesinius dismounted, he barely had a moment to catch his breath before he saw Uther the Giant striding toward him, his body covered in blood¡ªmost of it not his own. Uther''s face was smeared with the red of his enemies, his long beard drenched, and his chest heaving with the adrenaline of the battle, that just ended a few hours ago . Without warning, the giant of a man grabbed Maesinius by the waist, lifting him clean off the ground as though he were no more than a child while bringing him in a tent where the lords were waiting "Ha! We did it!" Uther bellowed, his voice deep and booming like thunder. The prince gave a small laugh, feeling the raw power of Uther as he was hoisted up. "Put me down, Uther, before you break my spine!" he chuckled, patting the giant on his broad, bloodied shoulder. With a playful grin, Maesinius gave Uther a firm shove,though for the giant it was more like a pat. From the crowd of cheering lords and soldiers, Mjorn Breakshield, with a new scar running from his temple to his jawline¡ªstepped forward, raising his mug of ale high. "To the prince!" he shouted, his voice gruff but full of admiration. "Victory is ours! Glory to the North!" The men cheered even louder, the name of their prince on their lips as they raised their mugs in salute. Maesinius, though exhausted, smiled at his men, his heart swelling with pride. He had led them through the storm of battle and emerged victorious. The road ahead would be long, but for tonight, they could celebrate. Maesinius scanned the faces of those around him¡ªlords and warriors who had risked everything to fight by his side. The victory was theirs, but he knew that most of the enemy arm had escaped, still he would not tamper his lords'' moreale. He nodded to Mjorn, acknowledging the man''s words. "To all of us," Maesinius said as he grabbed a horn filled with ale , his voice rising above the noise, "and to the battles yet to come." Maesinius drained the last of his drink, savoring the bitter taste of victory mixed with the ale, before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He set the mug down with a heavy thud, the noise barely audible over the ongoing celebrations. His attention was soon caught by Lord Cregan¡ªpale-faced as always, but sharp-eyed and steady, his mind already working past the glory of the day. "What will we do now, Your Grace?" Cregan asked, his voice cutting through the cheers. Though the battle was over, the war was far from finished. Maesinius stood tall, his eyes scanning the tent as he considered the question. The lords gathered around quieted slightly, sensing that the prince was weighing the next move. He glanced from face to face, looking for insight, for counsel. His eyes finally rested on Lord Harold of North''s Bane, a grizzled veteran whose wisdom came from decades of leading men into battle. Harold, leaning casually against a nearby post, straightened. "We should use today and tomorrow to rest and recover," he said, his deep voice carrying across the tent. "The men are exhausted, and we''ve wounded to tend. After that, we''ll hunt down the remnants of the fleeing army. They''ll be scattered and demoralized, easy prey for us." A murmur of agreement rippled through the lords. Most nodded, the weight of the day''s battle starting to catch up to them. Even in victory, the men were tired, their bodies aching from the hard-fought combat. Harold''s words made sense. Maesinius stood in silent thought for a few moments, his gaze shifting toward the entrance of the tent as if he could already see the path ahead. The fleeing army was still a threat, but Harold was right. His men needed rest. The last thing he wanted was to push them too hard and weaken their strength for the next encounter. Finally, the prince nodded, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Harold speaks wisely," he said, his voice firm. "We''ve won a great victory today, but we need to regain our strength. Tomorrow and the day after, we rest. Then we pursue the enemy and finish what we''ve started." The lords gave a collective nod of approval, satisfied with the decision. But Maesinius wasn''t done. He raised his hand to command their attention once more. "Tomorrow," he said, his voice rising, "we shall have a feast. A celebration for the army. They fought with honor today, and they deserve to know that their prince values their actions." A cheer erupted in the tent, men clapping one another on the back, their spirits lifted by the prospect of a feast. Chapter 110: Negotiating a surrender Chapter 110: Negotiating a surrender Two days had passed since the battle, and the fears Maesinius harbored in the aftermath of victory began to feel misplaced and greatly exagerated . His concerns about the enemy regrouping or launching a counterattack had proven unnecessary. In fact, the prince had underestimated the strength of his own position and overestimated the resilience of his adversaries. While Maesinius and his lords prepared to pursue the remnants of the enemy, an envoy coming from the camp had arrived. The once proud camp of the Messenians was now fractured, its lords divided, and morale broken. Their cavalry had been decimated, their infantry scattered, and their leadership wavering under the pressure of defeat.It seemed that of the 6,400 men that marched less than 4,000 came back, with many deserters preferring during the rout to try their luck away from the battlefield and either trying banditry or simply going back home . The Messenians had sent an envoy under the pretense of negotiating a ransom for the prisoners that the northern army had captured during the battle, in order to to gauge the invader''s attitude regarding a diplomatic solution. The prince, Maesinius, was more than happy to comply with the idea of negotiating a ransom. Though the recent victory had been decisive, his mind was already turning toward consolidating the new territories gained and beginning the arduous work of reconstruction. Prolonging the war was not in his interest¡ªhe had won what he needed, and he wanted peace to solidify his position. If a diplomatic end could be reached, all the better. And so, Maesinius granted access to the Messenian envoy the day after speaking about the ransom of the prisoners, keen to appear as imposing and authoritative as possible. He knew the power of perception; the enemy had to see him not as a conqueror, but as an emperor in waiting. Every detail of the meeting was carefully crafted to convey dominance¡ªthe gleaming banners of the north rippling in the wind, the prince seated atop a raised platform with his lords surrounding him, their armor polished to a mirror sheen. Yet, despite his efforts to appear commanding, Maesinius was unaware of the true state of his enemies. He entered the negotiation believing that the Messenians still possessed enough strength to challenge him again, should talks break down. In his mind, they were weakened, but not broken. His thoughts were filled with contingencies, careful plans of what he would need to do if the war reignited¡ªhow to deal with the remaining forces of the Messenians, how to rally his own troops for another campaign, and how to prepare for the drawn-out siege he feared would come next. All plans that could be thrown out the window In reality, the Messenians were far weaker than he realized. Their morale was shattered, their leadership fragmented, and their forces in tatters. But Maesinius, still cautious from years of dealing with such noble houses, overestimated their resolve and underestimated the extent of his own success. The envoy entered the camp with a cautious, measured stride. His eyes darted from side to side as he passed through rows of silent, stone-faced northerners. They stood like statues, their hard stares fixed on him, some gripping their axes or swords with barely contained hostility. The northerners, tall and broad-shouldered, watched the Messenian envoy as though they were appraising prey. The envoy was a wiry man in his middle years, his once-dark hair now streaked with grey. His face bore the signs of a life spent in negotiation rather than battle, with deep lines etched around his mouth and eyes . His clothes were finely cut but travel-worn, a dark green cloak draped over his shoulders, clasped with a silver brooch bearing the sigil of the minor house he belonged to. As he approached the prince, the envoy''s eyes caught sight of Uther, the giant standing beside Maesinius. For a moment, the envoy faltered, his gaze lingering on the towering figure. His imposing form, all muscle and menace, was hard to ignore. After those few seconds of hesitation, the envoy finally turned his attention to Maesinius. The prince sat on a wooden throne, his posture confident but not overly regal. His dark hair was pulled back, his eyes sharp with intelligence and ambition. He wore a fur-lined cloak over his armor, from the wolf''s fur he had taken from one of his kill''s dead body. There was something about Maesinius that radiated authority, even more than his lords surrounding him. The envoy swallowed and lowered his head in respect, his words measured when he finally spoke. "Your grace," the envoy began, his voice calm and measured despite the tension in the air. "I come as an emissary from the lords of Messenia to seek terms. We wish to bring an end to this senseless bloodshed and restore peace to the land." Maesinius leaned back in his seat, a slow smile spreading across his face. His dark eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he recalled the defiance, now cut short, of Lord Marshall Conte, the man who had rallied the lords against him. "If I remember correctly," the prince began, his tone light but edged with amusement, "your Lord Marshall Conte said that I should prove my birthright through war. I suppose, by your presence here, I''ve succeeded, haven''t I?" The envoy hesitated, his mouth briefly opening as if to speak, then closing again. Silence hung in the air like a thick fog. The prince''s words were a trap, and the envoy knew it. If he agreed that Maesinius had succeeded, it would mean acknowledging the prince''s legitimacy as the rightful ruler, an admission the lords had been trying to avoid as it would mean they were in all fact rebels. But if he disagreed, it could be taken as an insult, and the last thing a man wanting to surreder wanted was to anger his victors. The envoy was caught between a sword and a noose. Finally, he chose his words with extreme care. "Your grace," he said, bowing his head slightly, "we seek to resolve this conflict through diplomacy. The lords of Messenia recognize the strength you''ve demonstrated in battle, and many among them offer their congratulations on your victories, especially the geniality of your strategy. The bloodshed has already proven much; there is no need for further suffering. Surely, you have made your point." Maesinius studied the envoy for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before letting out a soft sigh. "Very well," he said, his voice taking on a formal tone as he prepared to lay out his terms. "You came seeking terms, and terms you shall have." He rose from his seat, his cloak of fur and dark fabric rustling as he moved. "Here is what I will demand. All the lords now sitting in their camp will ride here, to this very field, and bend the knee before me. They will swear fealty to me, acknowledging me as their legitimate ruler, just as they should have done before this ill-conceived rebellion. They will pay the proper customs and taxes, and they will aid me in war whenever called upon." The envoy shifted uncomfortably, sensing that the terms were only beginning. "As for this... ''little'' act of rebellion," Maesinius continued, his voice turning harder, "I shall be magnanimous. For the most part, their lands will remain untouched. Their only punishment shall be a fine of forty thousand silverii, which they must pay over two years alongside each one of them sending one son to me , to be treatead as guest under my hall. Failure to do so, of course, will be dealt with accordingly." The envoy said nothing until now the terms were rather generous. "Their titles will not be stripped from them," he said, before a dark gleam returned to his eyes, "with one exception. Lord Conte, the man who so boldly defied me, shall no longer hold the title of High Marshall. He forfeited that honor the moment he rallied the lords in open rebellion against me. His ancestral land will obviously not be touched ." The envoy bowed deeply once more, his expression a mask of professionalism despite the tension in the air. "Your grace," he said, his voice steady, "I will deliver these terms to my lords and return with their response." Maesinius nodded, his eyes reflecting the cold satisfaction of a ruler who had achieved his aim. Without a word, he made a dismissive gesture with the back of his hand, a subtle yet clear signal for the envoy to take his leave. The envoy bowed once more, then turned on his heel and strode out of the tent with a measured pace. As he passed through the rows of silent Northerners, their eyes followed him with disdain. Once the envoy went out , the northern lords turned toward the prince. Mjorn Breakshield, stepped forward, his brow furrowed with concern. "Your grace," he began, his voice rumbling like distant thunder, "why such generous terms ? Surely we could push our advantage further and demand more?We are the victor , why are we so lenient?" Maesinius leaned back slightly, contemplating Mjorn''s question with an air of calm. "We''ve just won a battle,not a crushing one Mjorn," he replied, his tone measured yet firm, though his words were wrong. "If we continue this war, the lords will only dig in their heels, raising more taxes to muster new armies. They may be weakened now, but desperation breeds tenacity. If we force them to fight again, they will not be so easily dispatched, especially after the tactics we employed against their cavalry. Not to talk about my other two brothers in the south, every month we pass at war is a month they have to finish their little quarrel and turn their attention to me. Then they will come prepared, and we may not have the element of surprise on our side." Mjorn''s expression softened slightly, the weight of the prince''s words sinking in. Maesinius continued, "The longer this war drags on, the worse our situation will become. We cannot afford to bleed our resources dry for a glory that may come at a grave cost, we will not be able to call back for reinforcement .Are you aware of our losses in this single battle?'''' Mjorn shook his head ''''No your grace'''' ''''Well we lost between dead and wounded more than 700 men. Sure they may not sound as many as my tone may give. But after two more battles?Who will say if we still have an army? A swift resolution now will allow us to consolidate our gains and stabilize the newly acquired territories. It''s in our best interest to turn our swords into plowshares, the winter season is coming and we need everything to mitigate the famine that will come, the lands we have conquered will be our new barn for our people...." The lords nodded in agreement, their concerns successfully shifted from the immediate victory to the practicalities of the future. After all, none forgot what they were in fact fighting for a north that could stand on its own feet. Chapter 111: Life in the palace(1) Chapter 111: Life in the palace(1) Alpheo''s days in the palace were the dream life of every man . Each morning, he woke to the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and exotic fruits spread lavishly across long tables at the grand banquets held in his honor. Servants moved in hushed efficiency, ensuring that his every need was met before he could even voice it During these meals the princess'' mother always stared at him , as probably the thought of marrying her daughter to a no-good mercenary ate her from the inside. Alpheo could see however , they were both surprised by the manner in which Alpheo spoke and acted, as they expected something a little more vulgar from someone so beneath them.Of course he did many mistakes, though most of them were minor , but for the most part, Alpheo behaved as a good-mannered guest. He ate heartily at every meal, indulging in the rich fare, but his mind never lingered long on food. His thoughts were consumed by the endless work ahead of him. When he wasn''t feasting, Alpheo worked tirelessly on the reform of his military band, transforming them , especially the new recruits into soldiers. He spent countless hours in the training yards, personally overseeing drills, restructuring ranks, and evaluating the men under his command, while replacing the officers he had lost at Saracena . These soldiers, who had once fought for nothing more than coin, were now being offered something far more valuable¡ªland. Alpheo had vowed to reward them with plots of land after the end of the third year of service.An offer that was obviously given only to his oldest band of soldiers and not to the new recruits. Apart from building loyalty, Alpheo also sought to increase his army''s strength, and he did so with the ransom he had recently secured from the nephew of the Prince of Oizen. That bounty, along with future dealings with Sorza, gave him a solid foundation. Currently, he had 23,000 silverii in his coffers, a sum that eased his efforts but also reminded him of the precarious state of the palace''s finances, which he was displeased from founding empty. Despite the financial strain, Alpheo had managed to increase his numbers significantly. The bowmen now stood at 100, the footmen at 400 men, and thanks to the horses he had claimed during the last battle, he had outfitted 150 light cavalry, with still 30 horses to spare. While the bulk of the equipment¡ªarmor and weapons¡ªhad been scavenged from the battlefield, he still needed to procure bows and javelins for his men, though the cost in overall was less than a few hundred coins. The effectiveness of the javelins during the last engagement had left a lasting impression on him, making the sum of money appear quite cheap considering the advantages bought by them. He made it a point to himself in ensuring they would play a larger role in his future tactics, knowing the devastating impact they could have in breaking enemy ranks. Despite his focus on military matters, Alpheo also knew the importance of solidifying his political position. In the evenings, after the wear of the day, he would often find himself seated across from Princess Jasmine, sharing quiet moments over cups of fine wine. Their conversations were surprisingly engaging, far removed from the formalities that often marked royal discourse. Alpheo had quickly realized his initial evaluation of the princess had been correct: Jasmine was more than a pretty face and a royal title. Her sharp mind and quick wit surfaced in every conversation, and she effortlessly matched him word for word, and he could see she was also pleasantly surprise by his. But while Alpheo admired her intellect, it also unsettled him. A woman with a mind as sharp as Jasmine''s was more bad than good regarding the circumstances. He knew their betrothal was still on uncertain ground. The alliance between them had been forged more out of necessity than political advantage. Jasmine was astute, perhaps too much so, and Alpheo feared she could see through the cracks in their shaky foundation. As he conversed with her, he often found himself wondering if she suspected his unease, his awareness that the trust between them was still fragile, and whether she was merely biding her time, waiting for him to make a mistake. Still, he continued to play his part, knowing that their alliance was as important to his survival as his reformed army. Every word, every gesture had to be carefully measured, even as they shared wine and words together. "So, Alpheo," Jasmine began, her voice as smooth as the wine they had been sipping, "when do you plan to march and deal with our... problems?" He set the cup down, taking a brief pause before answering. "In a few days," Alpheo finally said, his tone measured. "My preparations are still ongoing, and if I move too soon, they could unravel. I have to be certain everything is set in place." Jasmine''s brow arched slightly, her fingers trailing along the stem of her glass. "You''re being careful, I see. Caution is wise, but waiting too long could send everything to the wrong path " Alpheo''s eyes narrowed slightly, though his expression remained neutral. Was she testing him? Prodding to see how he behaved if pushed to action? He couldn''t tell if she was offering genuine advice or trying to push him into acting prematurely. She could easily try to seize power the moment I step out of the city, he thought , then if I were as so stupid as to besiege the city after my return, any lord with the desire to be the prince consort will be more than happy to raise troops in her defence. He had thought about consuming the marriage before, however, he went against the idea in the end . If his marriage was to be accepted, it had to be grand and witnessed by many lords, not in a secret room in the keep with guards, courtiers and rats attending. "Rest assured, your grace" Alpheo replied smoothly, "the timing is calculated. Every delay serves a purpose. Marching too soon would only weaken my position. When I leave, I want to make sure that no one¡ª" his eyes briefly flicked to hers, "¡ªdisrupts what I''ve started.After all I have to give time for our man to do his work. " She smiled, a slow, almost feline smile. "Of course. I have trust regarding your mind on warfare.I unfortunately lack in such ability" Jasmine leaned forward slightly, her gaze locking with his. "Still, I''d hate to see you carry the full weight of this campaign on your shoulders, and I know the more men one has the better it is . I can send men to support you in this short campaign you foresee" Despite his wariness, the offer was tempting. More soldiers meant a better chance of success, and for the moment, he needed that advantage. "Your offer is generous," Alpheo said, keeping his voice calm though his thoughts churned. "The more men I have, the better, just as you said. May I be given your permission to recruit more men then?" ''I could also use that to leave more loyal men inside the city...'' he thought as he sipped from his cup Jasmine''s smile widened ''''I''m glad you see it that way, of course you may. Together, we''ll handle these issues swiftly and pacify the situation." Alpheo nodded, but inside, he remained on guard.She needed him right now, but who would say in the future, after he dealt with all her enemies? He needed to strengthen his position, that was for sure... He lifted his glass once more, raising it slightly in her direction. "To a swift resolution, then." "To victory," Jasmine replied, her gaze unwavering. As the conversation between Alpheo and Jasmine lingered in a charged silence, a soft knock echoed from the door. Jasmine, her eyes never leaving Alpheo''s, called out, "Enter." The door creaked open, revealing a young servant, his head bowed in respect. "Your highness," he began, voice quiet but clear, "Lord Shahab Filastin requests permission to enter the gates." ''Here comes my soon to be granfather...'' Before Jasmine could respond, Alpheo leaned forward, his eyes sharp. "Should we go and welcome him together?" he suggested, his voice smooth but with an edge of caution. Jasmine hesitated for a moment, considering him , then she quickly understood he wanted to make sure that his army stayed outside,she nodded, rising gracefully from her seat. "Very well," she said, smoothing her gown as she stood. She knew she was in his hands, there was no need to plunge the dagger deeper. ''''I would like for us to wait for my mother '''' ''''Of course'''' Alpheo said as Jasmine exited the room. Alpheo followed suit, his thoughts racing. Shahab Filastin... he should be an ally ...for now. He couldn''t afford to take chances, not with anyone until he was given proper reason to lower his guard. ''I''d like to ensure that my men are the only ones posted on the walls'', he thought glancing sideways at Jasmine. ''It would be the most prudent thing...'' ''''I would prefer that most of the men following your granfather remain outside, I would not want any trouble to arise between us two, given also our past events...'''' Alpheo murmured to Jasmine Jasmine''s lips curled into a faint smile, but she gave no indication of disagreement. "Of course," she replied. "We wouldn''t want any misunderstandings....." Chapter 112: Life in the palace(2) Chapter 112: Life in the palace(2) The great wooden gates of the castle groaned as they slowly swung open, the heavy chains rattling with each turn. Outside, waiting with anticipation, stood Rosalind, Jasmine, Alpheo, and his trusted companions, their eyes fixed on the figure approaching. Shahab Filastin rode forward, his grey hair blowing wildly in the wind, his weathered face set in a scowl of clear displeasure. His sharp eyes flicked toward the walls, taking in the sight of Alpheo''s men holding the posts, and the anger in his expression deepened. No doubt, he was incensed that his army of 200 had been denied entry into the castle, clearly worried also for his own security Despite his irritation, as Shahab spotted his daughter and granddaughter, his demeanor softened. Without hesitation, he dismounted, his boots hitting the ground with a solid thud. His steps quickened as he approached Rosalind and Jasmine, his outstretched arms beckoning them toward him. "My dear girls," he said, his voice warm, though the anger still simmered beneath the surface. He embraced both of them tightly, his grey hair falling into disarray as he leaned in. "I was so worried," he continued, pulling back to study their faces, relief evident despite his earlier frustration. Alpheo watched the scene unfold, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "At least the old man''s heart is in the right place," he thought, his smile lingering. "That might make things... easier." As the embrace finally ended, Lord Shahab''s piercing eyes locked onto the young man standing a few paces away, barely out of his teenage years.His voice, gruff and tinged with bitterness, cut through the moment. "Why is that man standing here, instead of having his head removed from his shoulders?" Shahab growled, his eyes narrowing as they fixed on Alpheo with an intensity that could cut diamonds. Alpheo, unfazed, offered a slow, deliberate bow, the faintest trace of a smile curling his lips. "A real pleasure to see you again, my lord. I assume you''ve heard of the... unfortunate incident involving your son-in-law." Shahab''s gaze hardened, his jaw set like stone. "Which is why I ask again¡ªwhy is this thing still drawing breath? That murderer," he spat, "killed your husband." His eyes flicked from Alpheo to his daughter, Rosalind, the sorrow and outrage clear in his expression. Alpheo let the words hang in the air for a moment, the tension palpable, before stepping forward calmly, his voice level but unyielding. "My lord, it''s rather ungracious of you to make such accusations. I only acted in self-defense, a matter that has already been discussed at length with Lady Rosalind and Princess Jasmine, and that many such as Sir Robert may testify." His tone remained measured, but there was a firmness behind his words, a reminder that this was no longer an unresolved dispute, but a settled matter. He continued, "It was determined that I was innocent of any wrongdoing. After the battle, I merely sought repayment for a debt, a sum agreed upon between myself and the late Prince Arkawatt, your son-in-law. It was not a crime,but simply an accident " Shahab''s face darkened, but Alpheo pressed on, his gaze shifting to Jasmine. "That debt led to my service under his rightful heir, her grace Princess Jasmine of House Veloni-isha, who, as you may know now, has also become my betrothed." Shahab''s face turned red with fury, veins bulging at his temple as he glared at Alpheo, his chest rising and falling rapidly as if he was on the verge of exploding. His hand trembled slightly as it moved toward the hilt of his sword, fingers curling around the grip. For a moment, it seemed as though the old lord would act on his rage and strike. Alpheo''s companions, standing a few paces behind him, stiffened immediately. In a flash, each of them placed their hands on the hilts of their weapons, their eyes fixed on Shahab and his retainers. The tension was so thick it was nearly suffocating. Up on the walls, Alpheo''s hundreds of men responded just as swiftly. Arrows were nocked, swords drawn, and the gates behind Shahab''s entourage slammed shut with a thunderous clank, cutting off any chance of escape. The silence was deafening as Shahab glanced around, his gaze flicking between the armed men surrounding him and his daughter and granddaughter, his breath catching in his throat.Both women stood still , and without saying a word, Jasmine gave him a subtle nod of reassurance. The standoff lasted for what felt like an eternity, before, at last, Shahab exhaled sharply through his nose. With a slow, deliberate motion, he released the hilt of his sword, letting his hand fall to his side. His jaw tightened, and his voice was low and gravelly as he barked the order, "Stand down." His men, who had been ready to draw their weapons in response, hesitated only for a moment before obeying, lowering their swords and spears. The soldiers on the walls, seeing the tension diffuse, slowly lowered their bows and relaxed their grips on their blades. The courtyard was still, although the air was charged with tension Shahab glanced at Alpheo one last time, his eyes filled with disgust, before turning away to face his daughter and granddaughter. There was an akward silence between everybody , broken only by the voice of Princess mother who suggested for everybody to enter the keep, away from prying eyes and to have a good talk.Something that everybody agreed on. Once the tension in the courtyard finally broke, Shahab and his entourage, accompanied by Alpheo and his companions, were escorted inside the keep. The group soon reached a large, windowless room, tucked far from the main halls of the keep. The thick wooden doors creaked open, and they all filed in, their footfalls muted by the cold stone floor. A heavy table sat in the center, surrounded by simple chairs. Rosalind and Jasmine entered first, their expressions unreadable as they took seats at one end of the table. Shahab followed behind them, his face still set in a grim mask, though the rage that had overtaken him in the courtyard was now tempered with restraint. He took a seat across from his daughter and granddaughter, his eyes narrowing as he glanced toward Alpheo. As they all settled into the tense stillness of the room, Alpheo leaned forward slightly, breaking the silence with a calm but firm voice. "I assume much has happened since the battle, Lord Shahab. I''d like to hear it from you. What became of the army after our... separation?" He kept his tone measured, though there was an underlying current of suspicion that everyone in the room could sense. Shahab''s weathered face tightened slightly, his gray eyes flicking toward his daughter and granddaughter before he responded. His voice was low, almost weary, as if the weight of recent events still bore heavily on him. "After the battle was won, we pursued the fleeing soldiers for an entire day. We had hoped to cut them down as they ran, but most managed to slip away into the woods or scatter to their homes. Nevertheless, we looted the enemy camp, taking whatever spoils we could find, and returned to our own camp to regroup." He paused, his hand unconsciously gripping the arm of his chair as he spoke. "When we arrived back at our camp, we found signs of battle¡ªblood, wreckage, chaos. It didn''t take long to question the camp followers, those who remained behind. They told us what happened... how your men had been struck, " Shahab''s voice hardened, " and of how you killed Arkawatt." Alpheo remained silent, his gaze steady but unreadable. Shahab continued, his voice taking on a more deliberate tone. "In the days that followed, we rested our troops, licking our wounds and wondering where you had gone, Alpheo. The camp was full of rumors¡ªsome said you had fled, taking your mercenaries and disappearing into the hills. Others believed you had been cut down in some skirmish. We didn''t know what to believe." Shahab''s jaw clenched for a moment before he went on. "Then word came from the prince of Oizen, inquiring about the fate of his son. We had no answer for him, of course, as we had no idea what had happened in the capital. Our scouts reported that the enemy had fully retreated back into their lands, withdrawing after their defeat." He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as he finished his account. "As for our army, most of it broke apart. Each lord was eager to return to his own lands with whatever spoils he had gathered, caring little for anything beyond his own borders, now that the threat was deakt with . The only reason I didn''t leave with them was because of my worry for my daughter and granddaughter." He glanced toward Rosalind and Jasmine. "So, I came here, to find out what had become of them¡ªand of you." ''''I suppose that it was a big surprise for you''''Alpheo said with a cheeky smile as he leaned back on the sofa. ''''More than you would imagine...'''' Shahab retorted back, still having half a mind to take out his sword right then. Chapter 113: Life in the palace(3) Chapter 113: Life in the palace(3) Shahab remained silent for a long moment after Alpheo finished, his hand resting on the tablet. Shahab finally leaned forward, his face a mixture of anger and contemplation. "You speak as if you had no choice, but my son-in-law lies dead, a civil war may also be coming to our doorstep. Your ''necessary'' actions have made more chaos than you coule even believe" Alpheo didn''t flinch, keeping his voice calm and even. "It was not my intention to cause harm to your family, my lord. I deeply regret how things unfolded. But we all know what type of man Arkawatt was . If I hadn''t acted, I would have been dead, and between him and me , I chose me .'''' Shahab exhaled slowly, clearly grappling with the situation. "And what of the lords? The other families that once pledged their loyalty to him?" "They''ll fall in line," Alpheo replied confidently. "After we deal with the ''pretenders'' they will have no choice but to bend the knee to princess Jasmine ,especially if a strong army is backing her up.It''s not like Arkawatt expired that much loyalty in his lords'''' For now, the balance of power was firmly in his favor. Alpheo could sense that any immediate challenge to his position was unlikely. His quick action after Arkawatt''s death, along with the troops he had , had put him in a commanding position. Maybe in the future, someone might make a play, but for the moment, he was the pillar propping up Jasmine''s claim to the throne. Shahab, on the other hand, had reluctantly accepted the situation. The old lord''s disdain was palpable¡ªhis cold stare and stiff demeanor had not gone unnoticed¡ªbut Alpheo understood why. Shahab may hate him but even he knew that they needed Alpheo. He was the only men with any significant military force and influence backing Jasmine''s claim. Without Alpheo''s army they would be lost. As much as Shahab did not want to admit it, they were at a crossroads. Most of the other lords, particularly those with ambitions of their own, would likely support Arkawatt''s brother, seeing him as the more legitimate successor to the throne. Jasmine''s position, though she had some claim, was fragile at best. She needed strong allies, and right now, Alpheo was the only one worth anything. He knew that. As much as he bristled at Alpheo''s presence, he recognized that they couldn''t afford to alienate him. Enraging Alpheo and his army would be disastrous¡ªthere was no question that they stood between Jasmine''s success and certain failure. Alpheo''s meanwhile knew this tenuous alliance wouldn''t last forever, but for now, it was enough to solidify his position. He would have to keep a careful watch on Shahab and even the princess , but he was, for now the one holding the strongest hand in this game. Alpheo turned his gaze toward Shahab, his tone even but direct. "How many troops do you have at your command, Lord Shahab?" The older man straightened, still bristling from the conversation, but answered without hesitation. "Two hundred. One hundred and thirty infantry, forty bowmen, and thirty heavy mounted troops." Alpheo''s brow furrowed slightly, the numbers smaller than he had hoped. He then asked, "And the infantry? Are they at least equipped with armor?" Shahab shook his head, his gruff voice filled with irony . "No. The heavy cavalry is what truly decides the outcome of battle. The infantry is expendable; it''s the mounted troops that matter when it comes to breaking an enemy line." Alpheo couldn''t suppress a smile, his lips curling as he leaned forward in his seat. "Is that so? Then, tell me, how did my cavalry manage to rout an enemy force three times our size? Less than a third of their number, yet we sent them running. Heavy cavalry didn''t help them much in the end, did it?" Shahab''s eyes narrowed, and his face tightened in displeasure. He ignored the question altogether, deflecting as if he hadn''t heard it. "I''ll send word to my sons. They can raise more troops, bolster our numbers. The rebellion will be crushed once we have enough men." Alpheo shook his head slowly, the smile fading into a look of calm determination. "No need. That will take too much time, and the longer we wait, the more chances we give the pretender to bolster more lords under his banner . We march in two days, as planned." Shahab opened his mouth to protest, but Alpheo cut him off, his tone firm. "We cleave this rebellion from the stem now, before it grows too large. The men we have are enough. Speed is our advantage. We''ll strike hard, fast, and end this before it spirals out of control." Alpheo paused for a moment, his brow furrowing as a thought crossed his mind. "I apologize, but what is the name of Arkawatt''s brother?I am tired of calling him pretender " he asked, turning his gaze toward Jasmine, his voice calm but pointed. Jasmine, who had been silent throughout most of the conversation, raised her head slightly, meeting his eyes. "Ormund," she replied, her tone cool but carrying the weight of the name. "Lord Ormund Veloni-isha." Alpheo nodded slowly, letting the name settle in his mind as he continued his internal calculations. "If I''m correct, Lord Ormund will quick march toward the capital," he began, his voice measured. "That''s where we will strike. We''ll cut off the core of his army and, with some luck, take something more...'''' Shahab raised an eyebrow, his skepticism clear. "You seem quite certain that Ormund will march alone," he said, crossing his arms. "What makes you so sure?" A slow smile crept onto Alpheo''s face, a gleam of confidence in his eyes. "I left the perfect bait for the man," he said, the smile widening. "He won''t be able to resist." ---------------- Ormund sat upon a grand, though worn, throne draped in crimson cloth. His grizzled face, marked with age and bitterness, glowered over the hall. The stone chamber echoed with the sound of Robert''s armor as the knight knelt before him, his head bowed in submission. Ormund''s voice was heavy with suspicion as he leaned forward, gripping the arms of the throne tightly. "Speak, Sir.What reason brings you before me?" The knight raised his head slightly, his face pale from the burden of the news he carried. "My lord," Robert began, his voice trembling with the weight of his message, "I come bearing grave tidings. Your brother, Prince Arkawatt... is dead." Ormund''s eyes widened, though he remained silent, probably more excited than sad of the news "It was not in battle that he fell, my lord, but by treachery killed by his own hired man . A mercenary... a man named Alpheo, took control of the city. He and his men disguised themselves as the prince''s loyal soldiers and infiltrated the gates. Before anyone realized what had happened, they struck. The city was looted and burnt and..." Robert hesitated, his eyes darting toward the stone floor before continuing, "the royal family was taken hostage." For a moment, Ormund sat frozen on his throne, his face contorted in shock. Then, suddenly, rage ignited in his eyes. He slammed his fist down on the arm of the throne with a loud thud, the sound reverberating throughout the hall. "Curse Arkawatt!" Ormund spat, his voice thick with fury. "That fool of a brother! He was always too weak to rule. This... this is his legacy....weakness and ineptitude " His eyes blazed with a venomous intensity, as if his brother''s failure to keep the city secure had personally insulted him. He rose slowly, his knuckles white from gripping the throne''s edge. Ormund''s eyes narrowed as he stared down at the knight, his mind racing with questions. "How did you escape?" he demanded, his voice sharp. Robert kept his gaze low, choosing his words carefully. "Princess Jasmine, my lord," he began. "She managed to get me out of the city under the cover of night, slipping me through one of the less guarded gates. She knew someone had to deliver a message to you¡ªthe rightful heir. She wanted you to know the truth of what happened.She feared that more people wouls have caughy the mercenaries'' eyes, so She optend to ask for help through me " Ormund''s lips curled slightly at the mention of his niece, but he remained silent, urging Robert to continue with a wave of his hand. "The mercenaries still control the city, my lord," Robert explained, his voice growing more urgent. "They number around 300, and they show no mercy to the people. Alpheo, the mercenary leader, and his men are abusing the population¡ªlooting, demanding tribute, tormenting anyone who dares to oppose them. The people are desperate " Ormund leaned back, his expression darkening, though his eyes betrayed a growing interest. "You say the people will no longer tolerate it?" Robert nodded quickly. "The people are at their breaking point, my lord. With your order, they will rise up against these invaders. They only wait for you to lead the charge. The princess begs you to raise your army and deliver the city to safety. The moment you march upon the gates, the citizens will open them for you. They will rebel as soon as they see your banners on the horizon.She begs you to be swift as she fears that the mercenary may decide to sell the city to the prince of Oizen or another bidder, when they discover they took every coin they could" Ormund''s fingers drummed against the armrest of the throne as he listened, a slow smile creeping across his face. The opportunity was perfect¡ªa city ripe for the taking, already weakened by internal strife and if he saved the city that none could dispute his right to the throne. If the people rose up, Alpheo and his men would be trapped between the city''s walls and his forces outside. Victory seemed certain. Ormund sat back on his throne, his fingers tapping thoughtfully against the armrest. He turned to his aide, a wiry man who had served him for years. "Send word to my knights. Every able-bodied man is to be summoned. And raise the levies from the surrounding villages. We will need as many men as possible for this campaign.Make sure to be fast with it " The aide nodded and quickly left to carry out the orders, the soft clink of armor and hurried footsteps echoing through the hall. Robert, still kneeling, raised his head slightly. "My lord, there is one more request from the princess. She seeks to strengthen her alliance with you, to ensure the stability of the royal line . She proposes a marriage... between your eldest son and herself." Ormund waved a dismissive hand as if the decision were a trivial matter. "Inform the princess that her proposal is accepted. We will solidify our alliance through this marriage." Robert bowed deeply, his heart racing. "Yes, my lord. The princess will be pleased to hear of your decision." Ormund nodded, his mind already moving on to the next step of his plan. "Now go. Make sure my forces are ready to march within the next few days. We must strike swiftly, while the city is ripe for the taking." Seeing the face upon Ormund , Robert felt shame as he never done , renouncing his honor and aiding that bastard that took his lord away from him.Unfortunately they still had his son in custody and if he had not obeyed than , all his line would have been wiped out... Chapter 114: Departing for war Chapter 114: Departing for war Alpheo strode through the gates of the city, the rough cobblestones under his boots giving way to the dusty expanse of the training yard just outside the walls. The clang of steel and the grunts of men filled the air, as soldiers drilled relentlessly under the midday sun. His eyes scanned the field, lingering on the formations of infantry and mounted men. At the far end, Alpheo spotted Jarza, overseeing a group of officers instructing the recruits. Jarza stood with his arms crossed, his expression stern as he observed the men clumsily trying to mimic the precise movements of the more seasoned fighters. As Alpheo approached, Jarza shifted his stance slightly but didn''t look up until Alpheo was beside him. "How do things look?" Alpheo asked, his tone low but curious, eyeing the chaos of the yard as weapons swung in poorly coordinated arcs. Jarza let out a slow breath, shaking his head in mild frustration. "A mess," he muttered, scratching his beard. "I''m at a loss with these greens. Most of them are farmhands , never held a proper weapon before, and now they''re expected to fight with hammers and maces." He gestured toward a group of men awkwardly swinging heavy hammers, their footwork clumsy and their strikes too wide to be effective. "These weapons require more technique than they think," Jarza continued, his voice betraying a hint of irritation. "They assume it''s just about strength, but with hammers and maces, you need precision and control. Right now, they''re just flailing." Alpheo watched a few recruits misstep, nearly colliding with one another. He frowned, thinking of the time he had. "How long do you think it''ll take them to become half-decent with those?" Jarza turned to Alpheo, meeting his gaze for the first time. "Weeks, if we''re lucky.'''' Alpheo nodded slowly, his mind working through the challenge ahead. "We don''t have weeks,not even days , in a few hours we will march but we''ll have to make do. Keep drilling them. All they have to do is watch the wall after all.They can be drilled as second-rate soldiers for now... '''' Jarza wiped a bit of sweat from his brow, his eyes narrowing as he looked back at Alpheo. "Are you sure it''s safe to leave the city?" he asked, his voice tinged with concern. "The people here... who knows about their plans'''' Alpheo crossed his arms, watching the recruits struggle with their training for a moment before responding. "I''ll be leaving a garrison of 200 men," he said confidently. "150 of my own¡ªthose I trust. The other 50 will come from the population itself, people we''ve recruited over the past weeks. They''ll be equipped with the second-hand weapons we''ve scavenged from the battlefield and looted from the prince''s armories. They may not be seasoned warriors, but they''ll hold the walls if need be. Laedio shall be the one to command the garrison, I left him some instructions to follow, I trust him to deliver a good job" Jarza raised an eyebrow, doubt flickering across his face. "Recruits from the population? You trust them with the defense of the city?" Alpheo gave a small shrug. "As long as we are the one getting them their due coins, they will be loyal to us. And besides, they''ll have enough veterans with them to keep them in line. I''ve made sure that those veterans will know what to do if anyone gets any ideas about rebellion while we''re gone." Jarza nodded slowly, though his concern didn''t entirely fade. "And with how many are we going to march?" Alpheo turned his gaze back toward the training yard, his mind quickly calculating. "We''ll take the bulk of the force. Around 500 men alongside 200 from my dear grandfather-in-law.'''' Jarza frowned. "That''s cutting it close, Alpheo. If anything goes wrong, we''ll be stretched thin." Alpheo met his lieutenant''s gaze, his expression unwavering. "All the things we did to reach this place was nothing short of a bet, what is the use of getting cold feet right now?We have nothing to lose and everything to gain, it is just one more bet.'''' ------ Hours had passed since the army had gathered just outside the city walls. The sun hung high on the horizon,. Men stood ready in their ranks, armored and prepared for the march. Alpheo, dressed in his freshly polished armor, stood near the front of the formation, his trusted squire, Ratto, by his side. Jasmine approached him, her gown trailing behind her as she walked with an air of quiet grace. The soldiers cheered as she drew closer, Alpheo glanced up, already feeling the tension of the moment. He wasn''t one for sentimental farewells, but something about this one felt different. She stopped before him, her gaze steady as she reached into the folds of her sleeve and pulled out a single red rose. Without a word, she extended it toward him. Alpheo blinked, surprised, his gloved hand hovering awkwardly in the air for a moment before he took the delicate flower. The cheers went higher "Good luck, Alpheo," she said softly, her voice carrying just enough warmth to make the moment feel more personal than he expected. "May this bring you back victorious." He stared at the rose for a moment, unsure how to respond. It was an odd gesture, one that left him feeling slightly off-balance. Roses were not typically his thing, he was more accustomed to the weight of steel in his hand than the softness of petals. "I... uh, thanks," he mumbled, fumbling with the flower before carefully tucking it into his belt. The awkwardness of it made Ratto snort quietly beside him, though the squire was wise enough not to say anything. As Alpheo rode toward the front of his army, the steady rhythm of his horse''s hooves echoed in the air, mingling with the clatter of armor and murmured conversations among the soldiers. The weight of the rose tucked into his belt still felt oddly out of place, a small reminder of the farewell he''d just had, toward the one he still did not understand if he had to regard as friend or foe. Ahead, the banners of Shahab Filastin fluttered in the breeze, his contingent of men already lined up and prepared for the march. Alpheo spotted the lord himself, donned in gleaming armor, the metal polished to perfection. Shahab''s weathered face, stern and battle-hardened, softened into a rare smile as Alpheo approached. "Ah, there you are..." Shahab called out, his voice carrying over the sound of the troops. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, his armor catching the fading sunlight. "We shall see what paste you''re made of. All your talk¡ªlet''s see if it holds up in the heat of battle." Alpheo raised an eyebrow, his expression remaining relaxed as he slowed his horse beside Shahab. "Paste? Well, I hope I''m not made of the same stuff that held this princedom''s army together, else the battle will be quite short, quite the sorry state indeed...'''' Shahab groaned a deep, throaty sound, though his eyes remained sharp. "Confidence is one thing, boy. Skill is another.Most of your age are more brave than wise " Alpheo leaned forward slightly in his saddle, his voice dropping just enough for only Shahab to hear. "We both know it''s not confidence or skill that''ll win this day, my lord. It''s having the right men in the right place. And fortunately for us," he added, flashing a quick grin, "that''s my specialty..." Alpheo rode deeper into the column, weaving through the thick mass of soldiers as they formed into marching order. The rhythmic clinking of chainmail, the thudding of boots, and the occasional snort of a horse filled the air. The men, some seasoned veterans, others fresh recruits, looked up as he passed. The smell of the earth, damp from the night''s dew, mingled with the scent of leather, sweat, and steel. Ahead, Jarza stood with Clio , Asag and Egil, directing the final movements of the column, his face a mask of focus. Alpheo caught his eye and gave a slight nod. His horse moved at a steady pace, its powerful legs crunching the ground beneath, and the men parted for him, creating a narrow path through the tightly packed ranks. Every face he passed seemed to be waiting for his word, the order that would set their march in motion. Finally, Alpheo reached the front of the column, his position now centered among the cavalry and officers. The field ahead stretched out toward the horizon, where the distant hills marked the edge of their path. He straightened in his saddle, turning to face his army, his voice cutting through the noise of the morning. "Men," he called out, his voice clear and commanding. "The time has come. We''ve rested long enough. Ahead lies our path, and soon, our victory. Stay sharp and stand together. '''' A murmur spread through the ranks, some soldiers exchanging glances, others adjusting their armor or gripping their weapons tighter. Alpheo raised his hand, holding it high for a brief moment before dropping it in a swift, decisive motion. "March!" he ordered. The command rippled through the column, officers echoing his word. The sound of boots hitting the ground became a unified beat as the army began its forward movement. Horses snorted, hooves clattered and banners waved proudly in the morning breeze. Alpheo stayed near the front, his mind already on the battle to come and his lucky star always watching over him. Chapter 115: An ambush for a crown(1) Chapter 115: An ambush for a crown(1) Two days had passed, and the army finally ground to a halt. The men set up their makeshift camp near the edge of a sparse forest. Alpheo stood at the edge of the road, his gaze sweeping over the landscape, his lips pressed into a thin line. His face looked as though he had just bitten into a sour lemon, his usual confident demeanor clouded with dissatisfaction. Clio, ever perceptive, approached him from the side, brow furrowed slightly in concern. "What''s the matter?" he asked, tilting his head, his voice calm yet curious. Alpheo exhaled through his nose, his eyes narrowing at the thin forest line. "I was hoping for the forest to be a bit higher from the road. And... well, more filled with trees," he said, his tone carrying a hint of frustration as he gestured toward the scattered trees barely providing cover or strategic advantage. Never trust a map given to you...,he thought as he exhaled The forest was thin, far too open for his liking, they would have to be deeper in it and the road ran a bit too far to it, making any ambush plans feel half-baked.It would still work just not as effective as he had hoped. Shahab, who had been nearby, overheard the exchange. He walked up to them, his armor clinking softly. "And I suppose you also wanted Ormund to kneel and bend his neck for you while you''re at it?" he quipped, his voice carrying sarcasm as he stopped beside Alpheo, his arms crossed. Alpheo turned his head toward Shahab, regarding him with a momentary glance before shrugging nonchalantly. "It would certainly make my job easier," he said dryly, his tone flat but carrying a smirk beneath it. "But... it will have to do." He turned his attention back to the forest, mentally adjusting his plan. The terrain wasn''t perfect, but it wasn''t like he''d ever been dealt perfect cards before. Alpheo turned sharply to Jarza, who was standing a few paces behind, ready for orders. "Spread four hundred of the men , make it so they are six deep in rank" he instructed, his tone firm and decisive. "Make sure they''re well-hidden along the forest line¡ªlittle noise, little movement as we wait'''' Jarza nodded, his weathered face showing no emotion as he began barking orders to the nearby officers, who quickly moved to relay the command. Alpheo then turned his gaze to Shahab, the older lord standing stoically in his shining armor. "And you, my lord" Alpheo said, gesturing to the opposite side of the road. "How about you take the other side of the forest, on the far bank of the road? You shall attack from the other side ." Shahab said nothing at first. He simply raised his hand, signaling his men to follow him, and began marching toward the designated position without a word. His soldiers fell in behind him, heavy footsteps crunching over the dry leaves and dirt. Alpheo watched Shahab go, snorting through his nose. "Always so chatty, that one," he muttered under his breath before turning to Clio, who had been watching Alpheo waiting for his turn . "Take a hundred men and follow Shahab," Alpheo ordered, his eyes locking with Clio''s. "Keep an eye on him.When he attacks you follow'''' Clio gave a curt nod, his expression serious. "On it," he said, before turning on his heel and heading off to gather her troops. Alpheo observed as his orders were executed with precision. Jarza''s men moved swiftly into their assigned positions, disappearing into the underbrush with practiced ease. Shahab and his troops marched to the far side of the forest, their armor glinting in the waning light. Clio and his hundred men followed closely behind, ensuring that Shahab''s movements were monitored. The sight of his subordinates working efficiently, carrying out his commands without hesitation, gave Alpheo a sense of satisfaction.With the positions secured, he turned his attention to Egil, who had been standing nearby, waiting for a signal. "Egil," Alpheo began, his tone brooking no argument, "send out scouts immediately. I want them to cover anything shiny¡ªany reflective surfaces or armor. They need to blend into the environment as much as possible, don''t want their armor or weapons reflecting the light and giving them away . Their primary task is to watch for the enemy. The road leading to the city is the only viable route for them. I need to know every movement they make." Egil nodded, his face a mask of concentration. "Understood, sir. I''ll make sure the scouts are briefed and deployed immediately." "Good," Alpheo replied, his gaze firm. "And once they''re out, take your position at the far back of our formation. When the ambush is triggered, I want you to maneuver around and strike at their vanguard. I want the vanguard surrounded by all sides ." Egil gave a sharp nod, acknowledging the plan. "I''ll be ready." Alpheo watched as Egil moved off to carry out the order before allowing himself to finally settle down. Now, all that was left was to wait. The uncertainty gnawed at him. He didn''t know if Ormund''s army was close or if they had even departed at all. u? Jasmine had no spies embedded in the enemy''s camp, leaving Alpheo with nothing but speculation. His entire strategy hinged on predicting the moves of an opponent he had never met, based on battlefield logic alone and the words of men describing someone he did not know. To prepare for the long wait, he had made sure his men carried provisions sufficient for a week. Every soldier had been given strict instructions¡ªno fires during the day, as even the faintest wisp of smoke could betray their position from miles away. He wasn''t even convinced it was safe to light fires at night. With caution being paramount, Alpheo personally selected the rations: smoked meats, hard bread, dried fruits and vegetables¡ªanything that could last without spoiling for several days of tension-filled waiting. The plan was self-contained. If they ran low on supplies, there were a few scattered villages nearby. In the worst case, they could send riders to purchase more food, but Alpheo was wary of drawing attention. He preferred not to make any hasty moves that might reveal their position. Every decision had to be deliberate, calculated, and silent. For now, they would wait¡ªand hope that the enemy moved according to his expectations. Alpheo let out a heavy sigh as he wandered deeper into the forest, eventually finding a sturdy tree to lean against. Now came the part he hated most¡ªwaiting. Patience had never been his strong suit. The stillness, the inactivity, gnawed at him. He wasn''t built for idleness, and boredom had always been his enemy. With nothing to occupy his mind, his thoughts began to drift, so he turned his gaze toward his young squire, Ratto. Misunderstanding the look from his master, Ratto quickly reached for the flask of wine and poured a cup, offering it with the kind of speed that only came from being eager to please. Alpheo accepted the drink but took the moment to redirect the conversation. "Have you been keeping up with your studies, boy?" Alpheo asked, taking a slow sip of wine. Since solidifying his deal with Princess Jasmine, he had taken an unusual interest in the boy''s education, making sure the squire had proper instruction, not just in arms, but in letters and numbers too. Ratto looked surprised at the sudden question, but answered quickly, "Yes, sir." "For how long each day?" Alpheo inquired, raising a brow. "Two hours every day," the young squire replied Alpheo couldn''t help but chuckle. A damn child is more diligent than a grown man, he mused, the image of Egil flashing in his mind¡ªalways clever and witty but sometimes too carefree in his duties. "Mayhaps the others could learn from your diligence," Alpheo said aloud with a smirk. The compliment caused Ratto to blush, his cheeks tinged with red as he glanced at the ground. Once the flush faded from his face, he hesitated a moment before staring up at Alpheo with curious eyes. "When you marry Princess Jasmine... will you become a prince?" Alpheo paused for a moment, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He swirled the wine in his cup before answering, "Prince consort," he corrected, emphasizing the distinction. "A princess has no power without her prince, and so it is with the prince consort¡ªat least, lawfully it would be so." Ratto tilted his head, confusion clear on his youthful face. "Lawfully, sir?" Alpheo''s smile widened as he gazed down at the boy. "Yes, lawfully. But power doesn''t always follow the law. It''s a game, and it depends on many factors... Titles, laws¡ªthey mean little if you don''t know how to wield the power behind them or how to maintain them. Tell me, Ratto, is a man king only because of the crown he wears on his head?" Ratto, still innocent in his understanding of the world, nodded eagerly. "Yes, sir. The crown makes him king." Alpheo shook his head slowly, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "No, lad. It''s not the crown that makes him king. It''s the men under him¡ªthe ones who wear swords and shields¡ªthat make him king. A crown without an army behind it? That man won''t be king for long. But a man without a crown, yet with an army? He may very well become one.Power in an astract thing, and yet it can move mountains and dry rivers.Isn''t that a funny thing?" Ratto blinked, taken aback. "But... isn''t it blood that decides who should be king?" Alpheo chuckled, sipping from his cup before continuing. "Blood, laws, titles¡ªthey''re all things kings invented to make the path to power seem clearer, less contested. But it''s just an illusion. These rules, these traditions, they make people think twice before challenging authority. They give a sense of legitimacy. But in truth, it''s all just a pretty cloak to cover the steel underneath. The moment a man loses his army, he loses his power, no matter what crown sits on his head. And a man with an army, well... he can carve out his own crown, no matter what blood runs in his veins.Laws are made by men, and can be changed by them.Titles are created and handed to men, they may be destroyed or taken away .Life is chaos, it is everything and nothing at the same time. Some men shy away from it; others try to make use of that for their own agenda. But at the end of the day every man fears what he cannot see nor comprehend.'''' Ratto looked down, processing the weight of Alpheo''s words. His young mind struggling to reconcile with the mind of a man shaped by two worlds. Chapter 116: An ambush for a crown(2) Chapter 116: An ambush for a crown(2) Two riders trotted along a narrow trail, their eyes constantly flicking toward the horizon. Truth be told they were happy with their role as scouts, as it allowed them as much freedom as they could have got while remaining soldiers. As they rode, the conversation naturally drifted toward their captain. "You know what?" one of them began, his voice carrying over the gentle clopping of hooves, "I''ll just say it we are lucky to have him as our captain. He always seems so... carefree. Drinks when he wants, laughs with the men, but never seems to actually do anything except riding drills." The other rider, a bit older, shrugged. "Aye, I''ve noticed. They say the commanders of the other units are strict as nails. Keen on discipline.The black giant? More fierce than a bull. But Egil? He''s always got a smile on his face, barely gives orders outside of training. Strange for a captain, eh?" The first rider chuckled, shifting in his saddle. "You know what I heard? That he''s from one of those migratory tribes out east. His people were allowed to settle on imperial land some years back.Something happened though and they were enslaved and massacred" "That so?" The other raised an eyebrow. "They say his tribe worships horses as sacred animals," the younger man continued, "They treat them like gods. Apparently, that''s why he''s so... relaxed about most things, but dead serious when it comes to his mount and riding." The older rider scratched his chin, thinking back to something he''d seen a while ago. "Well, that explains a lot. I remember a time in the city when Egil caught some fool mistreating his pack horse. He was so furious, he whipped the man in front of everyone, took the horse for himself. Didn''t even blink, best thing was that the fool was not even a soldier, just a casual poor bastard." The younger rider snorted. "Sounds about right. Guess we ought to be careful how we handle our horses around him, eh? Man''s got more love for his steed than most of us have for our women." The two shared a quiet laugh, the sound fading into the evening air as they continued their patrol, glancing again toward the horizon. The older rider''s laughter trailed off , this time his expression shifting from casual to sharp. His gaze fixed on a faint, glimmering light far in the distance¡ªsomething reflecting in the setting sun. "Hold on," he said, his voice low and tense. He pointed ahead, drawing his companion''s attention. "You see that? Something''s shining out there." The younger rider squinted, scanning the distant landscape until he spotted it too. His face paled slightly, and he nodded, his hand instinctively tightening on the reins. "I see it. Could be metal...armor, maybe?'''' The more time they stared the more the number of things shining increased Without another word, both men wheeled their horses around, spurring them into a swift gallop. The peaceful quiet of the woods was replaced by the pounding of hooves as they raced back toward the camp ----------------- Ormund''s pov: The army marched slowly along the winding dirt road, a column of men moving forward. At the front, Ormund Veloni-isha rode alongside his eldest son, his face lined with frustration. His hand gripped the reins tightly, knuckles white as he glanced back over his shoulder at the sluggish pace of his troops. Rows of infantry, cavalry, and supply wagons trailed behind him, their movements hindered by the uneven terrain. "At this rate, we''ll be lucky to reach Yarzat before winter," Ormund muttered under his breath, his voice tight with impatience. His son, riding beside him, cast a quick glance at his father but said nothing, knowing better than to speak when his temper flared, he did not really understand what was going on, just that they were marching to the capital , where his father would become prince, and apparently he also was to marry his cousin Jasmine. He did not remember much about her, just that he got along fine with her during the time they met .. They had been marching for a full day now, and despite Ormund''s relentless push, the army still had another day''s journey ahead of them to reach the city. The men were exhausted, the horses sluggish. But Ormund had no time for rest¡ªhe forced his troops to march for more than 12 hours every day, ignoring the grumbling and fatigue. They could only make camp when the sky grew so dark they could no longer see the road ahead. The rumors of the mercenary takeover gnawed at him, and he feared what might have happened to his nephews in the city. He cursed Arkawatt under his breath for his incompetence and prayed that his family''s bloodline remained intact, as the last thing he wanted was for his son''s wife to have been defiled. Despite the slow pace of the march and his mounting frustration, Ormund couldn''t help but feel a swell of pride as he looked back at the men he had gathered. The column stretched far behind him. His brother, the late Prince Arkawatt, had struggled to muster even a few hundred soldiers during his rule¡ªbarely 300, from what Ormund had heard. Pathetic, he thought, the memory of his brother''s ineptitude only fueling his self-satisfaction. Arkawatt, for all his titles and princely status, had failed where Ormund, a mere lord, had succeeded. And look at me now , riding high towards the crown. Ormund had gathered a force of 500 men, far outnumbering what his brother had ever been able to command. Among them were 70 mounted knights, their armor gleaming in the dimming light as they rode with disciplined precision. It wasn''t just about the numbers¡ªit was about the strength, the organization, and the clear loyalty of these men to him. He had handpicked many of them, ensuring they were hardened fighters, not some ragtag band of militia, unlike the band behind them, securing the centre and the supply carriages. As the army moved on, his mind drifted to the task ahead. He had heard from Robert that the mercenaries occupying the city numbered fewer than 300. A band of sell-swords, he scoffed to himself. Rabble more loyal to gold than any banner. Ormund felt confident, almost arrogantly so. His force was nearly double the size of the enemy, and with 70 mounted knights leading the charge, he was certain they would make quick work of the mercenaries. No matter their tricks, no matter how they had managed to seize the city, they would be no match for his army. The thought of victory filled him with a sense of ease,as he rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. This will be no hard campaign, he mused as he patted the sheath. I''ll reclaim Yarzat, avenge my brother, and finally sit on the throne, just like he was meant to be. -------------- Alpheo crouched low on the ground, his sharp eyes narrowing as he observed the column of men and horses snaking through the dirt road below. From his vantage point in the cover of the trees, the sound of hooves thudding against the packed earth and the rhythmic steps of marching boots filled the air, a steady drumbeat of movement that seemed to reverberate through the forest. His jaw tightened as he watched the line of soldiers, their armor glinting in the faint light, stretching far into the distance. The column moved sluggishly, forced into a narrow formation by the confines of the road. The path, no wider than a single carriage, allowed only four men to march side by side at any given time. It was an inefficient formation, perfect for ambush, and Alpheo silently counted the ranks as they advanced. He estimated that the tail end of the army was still well behind, hidden beyond a bend in the road. The column stretched far too long, leaving gaps of exposed flanks vulnerable to any clever opponent. Alpheo smirked slightly to himself. They''ve made this easy for me. He continued to watch, taking note of every detail. The banners swaying in the light breeze, the knights riding stiffly toward the front, and the slow, steady grind of their movement. The men looked weary¡ªunderstandable after such a long march, especially with the slow progress this narrow road allowed. Four ranks deep... he thought. They''re strung out thin. Perfect. He glanced over his shoulder at the trees surrounding them, dense enough to hide his own forces but not so thick that they couldn''t launch an attack. The situation was ideal. The enemy had little room to maneuver, and any sudden strike would throw them into chaos. His eyes narrowed as he gave a single, sharp nod to the hornblower by his side. A loud, piercing blast of the horn suddenly cut through the stillness, its echo ricocheting off the trees and startling the marching soldiers below. The sound seemed to ripple through the forest like a battle cry. In an instant, the air was alive with the whistling of arrows and the whoosh of javelins. Dozens of dark projectiles shot up from the cover of the trees, their deadly arcs raining down on the unprotected column below. The enemy soldiers barely had time to raise their shields before the first wave struck. Screams and shouts of alarm echoed through the ranks as men fell, pierced by arrows and impaled by javelins. Horses reared in panic, their riders desperately trying to control them as the first signs of chaos spread like wildfire. Before the enemy could even process what was happening, Alpheo''s infantry surged out of the forest from both sides. Like a tide crashing against the shore, hundreds of men charged down the slopes, weapons raised, their boots pounding against the earth. The ambush had been sprung. The soldiers in the road, caught between the dense forest on either side, had nowhere to escape. Swords clanged, shields clashed, and the once-ordered column of men was now a scattered, panicked mess. Alpheo''s men struck hard, taking full advantage of the confusion, cutting through the disorganized ranks with brutal efficiency. Above it all, the sounds of horns and battle cries filled the air, drowning out any attempts at order from the enemy commanders. Alpheo stood tall, a grim smile playing on his lips as the battle unfolded exactly as he had planned. Chapter 117: An ambush for a crown(3) Chapter 117: An ambush for a crown(3) The first volley of arrows and javelins rained down mercilessly upon Ormund''s army. The soldiers barely had time to react before the sky above them darkened with deadly projectiles. With a sharp hiss, arrows and javelins plunged into the unprepared ranks. The men shouted in agony as the missiles found their marks, sinking into exposed flesh, armor, and the flanks of terrified horses, whom had no armor . Some of the infantry attempted to raise their shields, but their movements were sluggish, panicked. These were levied men, hastily recruited and not even given basic training. Their shields, while offering protection on one side, left the other side vulnerable to the deadly rain of arrows from both flanks. The screams of the wounded echoed through the narrow road. Soldiers stumbled over their fallen comrades, trying to shield themselves as best as they could, but it was futile. The arrows came from every direction. A javelin struck a man in the chest, toppling him to the ground, while arrows pierced through the gaps in hastily raised defenses. The toll of casualties rose sharply with each passing moment, as bodies fell in the chaos. Ormund''s poorly trained infantry was no match for the enemy. With little coordination and no proper training, they could do nothing but huddle beneath their shields, trying to survive the relentless barrage. But their shields were too few and the arrows too many. For every man who blocked one side, another was struck on the opposite. And then came the charge. From both sides of the road, Alpheo''s infantry burst out of the cover of the trees, descending like wolves upon their prey. The enemy was already shaken, disorganized, and bloodied by the missile assault. Now, they faced a brutal charge from experienced fighters. The mercenaries came roaring down the slopes with arms raised, crashing into the stretched and fragmented column. The levy, already reeling from the constant rain of arrows, had no time to form a proper defense. Blades cut through the disorganized ranks as Alpheo''s men hacked and slashed their way through the vulnerable troops. The road had become a slaughterhouse, with Ormund''s forces utterly overwhelmed, the air thick with the sounds of death and the chaos of war. Ormund himself, riding in the van, could only watch as his soldiers, now scattered and leaderless, fell to the well-coordinated assault. His pride in the army he had gathered was quickly replaced with horror as his men were systematically cut down, caught between the deadly rain from above and the merciless infantry charge. Amidst the chaos, some minor lords¡ªeach commanding small pockets of men¡ªdesperately tried to rally their troops. Their voices, hoarse from shouting, struggled to rise above the din of the battle. They raised their swords high, trying to form semblances of order, but the panic-stricken soldiers barely registered their commands. Men were too focused on survival, ducking beneath arrows or retreating from the advancing infantry. "Hold the line! Form up!" one of the lords shouted, his voice cracking with urgency. His banner flapped wildly in the wind as he frantically gestured for his men to group together. But they were scattered, disoriented, and pinned on both sides by Alpheo''s relentless assault. One lord managed to gather a few dozen soldiers into a defensive line, their shields raised shakily. But as soon as they tried to form a barrier, the mercenary infantry smashed into them. The impact was devastating. The hastily formed line collapsed almost immediately, shields splintering under the pressure of the charge. The soldiers, many of whom had never seen real combat, broke ranks as soon as the first wave hit. Another minor lord, mounted and flanked by a small group of cavalry, attempted to charge forward, thinking he could cut through the mercenaries and turn the tide. But the narrow road, hemmed in by the thick forest on both sides, made it impossible for the horsemen to maneuver effectively. Their charge was met by a wall of spears and arrows. Horses screamed as they fell, taking their riders with them. The lord himself barely managed to turn his mount before a javelin struck him in the shoulder, toppling him from his horse , only for then be finished off by a footman with an axe through his skull. One soldier, barely more than a boy, trembled as he faced a grizzled mercenary. His spear was shaking in his hands as the mercenary, a man with cruel eyes and a scar running down his cheek, advanced slowly, swinging a bloodied axe. The boy lunged forward, his spear aimed at the man''s chest, but the mercenary sidestepped with ease. The axe swung in a wide arc, catching the boy''s leg just below the knee, and he crumpled to the ground, screaming. The mercenary raised his axe again, and the boy''s cries were silenced. Elsewhere, a mercenary armed with a mace was swinging wildly at a group of terrified levies. His brutal strikes shattered shields and sent men sprawling. One levy, desperate to defend himself, lunged at the mercenary with his spear, but the blow simply went into contact with the chainmail. The mercenary grinned savagely and brought his mace down on the man''s shoulder with a sickening crunch, splintering bone and armor alike. In another corner of the battlefield, a riderless armored knight was engaged with two infantrymen. His sword flashed in the dying light as he parried one strike and dodged another. He was skilled, moving with the fluid grace of someone who had seen many battles. One mercenary lunged forward, aiming a dagger at the knight''s exposed armpit, but the knight caught the attack on his gauntlet and drove his foot into the attacker''s chest, sending him sprawling. Before the second mercenary could react, the knight swung his sword in a brutal, downward arc, cleaving through his opponent''s shoulder and down into his chest. The man fell with a gurgling scream. Before the knight could turn around to face the other, however, he had his head smashed in by a mace coming from a third man that saw the fight and came to lend a hand. Ormund watched in horror as the battlefield descended into chaos. His once-proud army was being torn apart. Men were falling all around him, their screams drowned by the relentless sounds of arrows whistling through the air and javelins crashing into shields . The ground was littered with bodies, and the mercenary infantry, fierce and unyielding, had broken through every line of defense his minor lords tried to form. What was left of his foot soldiers were being cut down, overwhelmed by the mercenaries'' brutal efficiency. The smell of blood filled the air. Ormund''s heart pounded in his chest, his throat dry as he scanned the battlefield. The columns of his troops had been stretched too thin along the road, and now they were trapped, slaughtered like cattle. He could see men desperately trying to form up behind shields, but it was no use. The arrows and javelins continued to rain down, piercing through any gaps. The panic spread like wildfire; there was no rallying them now. "Get over here!" he barked, grabbing his son''s arm. His voice cut through the din, and his son, face pale with fear, rode up beside him. "We have to get out of here. Now." With the remnants of his mounted knights, barely more than 30 men, he wheeled his horse around and bellowed for his riders to follow him. They had no hope of winning this battle. The only chance was to make a break for it, escape the slaughter while they still could. Ormund spurred his horse forward, charging through the chaos. He cleaved his axe down through the chest of a mercenary who lunged at him, the blade cutting through flesh and bone with grim ease. His son followed closely behind, eyes wide in terror, clutching his sword as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. "Push through!" Ormund shouted, slashing at anything in his path. His knights did the same, cutting down footmen and mercenaries who tried to block their escape. The clatter of steel, the shouts of men, and the thundering of hooves surrounded them as they fought their way to the front of the battlefield. His sword flashed again, cutting down another mercenary who stood in their way. As they broke free from the melee, Ormund didn''t dare look back. Behind him, he knew his army was being wiped out, but he couldn''t risk a glance. The fate of his forces was sealed, and he would gain nothing by watching them die. All that mattered now was survival. Only 16 men managed to follow him¡ªriders who had somehow kept pace and survived the carnage. Covered in blood and dirt, they rode hard, leaving the slaughter behind. Ormund''s face was grim, his lips pressed into a tight line as he raced away from the battlefield, his son close at his side. --------- The ambush was brutally efficient. Alpheo watched from his vantage point as the chaos unfolded beneath him, his eyes cold and calculating. The mercenary forces on either side of the road had closed in so swiftly, so effectively, that at certain points along the battlefield, the two flanks of the ambush had met together. They clashed with the remnants of Ormund''s shattered army in the middle, their merciless assault folding the enemy in on itself. In some places, the bodies of Ormund''s men lay so thick that the attackers on both sides ran into each other, exchanging brief nods before turning their attention back to the work of slaughter. The sounds of battle¡ªa constant rhythm of steel meeting flesh, screams of the dying, and the crash of arrows¡ªrumbled across the field. It was a massacre. On the left terrified, many of Ormund''s peasants had broken minutes since the fighting reached them. The moment they realized the hopelessness of their situation, they threw down their weapons and fled, their fear overriding any semblance of order. Spears clattered to the ground, and shields were discarded as they ran, scrambling away from the mercenaries that pursued them. Their panicked shouts echoed across the road as they scattered into the woods, desperate to escape the death that closed in from all sides. But Alpheo''s soldiers paid the fleeing peasants no mind only pursuing enough to scare them into not looking back. They were not worth the effort; victory was certain. Instead, the mercenaries shifted their focus to more valuable targets. Without hesitation, they wheeled toward the right, charging with grim determination to aid their comrades in finishing the encirclement of Ormund''s van and the center of his army, turning around like a wheel to clash onto the enemy exposed back. It was a well-coordinated assault, the soldiers moving like a pack of wolves, tightening their grip on the remaining pockets of resistance. The core of Ormund''s forces, surrounded and pressed on all sides, had no escape. Mercenaries wielding maces, hammers, and swords crashed into them, cutting them down with ruthless efficiency. The battlefield was now a tightening noose, the soldiers from both flanks coming together, crushing the remnants of Ormund''s army between them, capturing those that surrendered while killing all those that did not. Chapter 118: End of a ill-born rebellion Chapter 118: End of a ill-born rebellion Alpheo walked slowly among the bodies, his boots squelching in the ground that had mixed with blood. The air was thick with the stench of death, and the silence was only broken by the occasional groan of a wounded man or the cawing of distant crows circling above. This would be the third , Alpheo thought as in less than a month he led 3 different battles all in victories, truth be told he felt good about that. ''Undefeated once again!'' he cheered again in his mind, as he continued to observe his work. Bodies lay scattered across the narrow road, many with shattered skulls from the brutal strikes of maces and war hammers. Some had been pierced by javelins and arrows, the shafts still sticking out of their chests, necks, or backs, like grim markers of their final moments. Limbs were twisted in unnatural positions, and the once-proud banners of Ormund''s army lay crumpled in the dirt, stained with mud and blood. Alpheo surveyed the carnage with a calm gaze. Most of the enemy infantry had broken early in the fight, throwing down their weapons and fleeing into the forest in blind panic. He hadn''t bothered to send anyone in pursuit; these were peasants and untrained conscripts, scattered and leaderless. They posed no real threat now, and he had no desire to waste resources on chasing them down. They would be of no use in the battles to come. His attention turned to the rows of prisoners being marched away under the watchful eyes of his soldiers. The captives shuffled along, heads bowed, their faces pale with fear and defeat. Among them were some notable figures¡ªminor lords and landed knights, stripped of their armor and dignity, now little more than spoils of war. A few knights still held their heads high, their pride intact even in captivity, while others looked broken, their spirits crushed as they were escorted to the rear. They had likely thrown their lot in with Ormund in the hope of rising to power or securing more lands, but now they were little more than bargaining chips. "Keep them secure," Alpheo ordered one of his officers, his voice steady as he walked past the defeated lords. "No harm is to come to them unless they give reason for it.They are nobles and must not be mistreated" he said before stopping all at once as he came face to face with an familiar men. The knight in question noticed Alpheo too, but immediately gave out a sigh of disgust, more of himself than of the young man, and then lowered his head. Look who is it,Alpheo thought as he gave out a small smile, turning towards one of the men guarding the captives. ''''Release that one, have him cleaned and fed,'''' He said before leaving as the man in response nodded and obeyed , bringing Robert away from the line of prisoners. The rest of his men continued on with their work , pulling the prisoners toward the back of the camp they had set up for holding them. As he walked through the battlefield once again , he started revising the battle. His men had performed well; the ambush had been devastating, almost surgical in its precision. The left of Ormund''s army had collapsed under the pressure, allowing for a complete encirclement of the centre and the few who had tried to rally were quickly overwhelmed. Alpheo turned toward Ratto, who had been trailing behind him, wide-eyed as he observed the grim scene of the battlefield. "Come, Ratto," Alpheo called, his voice cutting through the uneasy silence. "It''s time for another lesson." Ratto hurried closer, his eyes still darting from the fallen soldiers to Alpheo''s steady gaze. The boy had seen war before, but never from this close, never so brutal. Alpheo observed him and was pleased that he did not shy from it. A dog who is fearful of blood is of no use to the hunter... "Do you see this?" Alpheo gestured to the battlefield with a sweep of his hand. "This is more than just a slaughter. It''s controlled chaos. People and animals, boy¡ªthey have the same basic instincts. Strip away their titles, their training, their comforts,their reasons and what''s left?" Ratto looked up at him, hesitant. "I don''t know, sir." Alpheo smiled faintly. "A beast," he said, his voice calm but sharp. "We may think we''re above it, but when pushed to the edge, when stripped of order and reason, we''re no different than cornered animals.No better than the rat swimming in filths or dogs barking at what they can''t comprehend. Fight or flee¡ªthose are the choices." Ratto blinked, absorbing the words, his young face furrowing in thought. Alpheo continued, "In this ambush, I made sure to leave a gap in the back of their formation. Not by accident, mind you, but by design." He pointed toward the far end of the battlefield where the remnants of Ormund''s army had fled into the trees. "I completely encircled their right flank and their center, but left an opening at the back. Those who saw it ran. They didn''t even think¡ªthey just fled like prey sensing an escape." Ratto nodded slowly, following Alpheo''s hand toward the horizon. "But those on the right," Alpheo said, his tone darkening, "they had no such luck. They were trapped, cornered. And when you trap a beast, Ratto, what do you think it does?" "It fights," Ratto replied quietly. "Exactly," Alpheo said. "They fought like cornered animals because they saw no way out. Men without hope fight harder, more savagely, because in their minds, they have nothing to lose. They become beasts." Ratto''s eyes flicked to the bodies of those who had resisted until the bitter end, some cut down with swords, others pierced with arrows where they had stood. "Always remember this lesson," Alpheo continued. "A man, no matter how disciplined, can become as wild and desperate as any creature. But if you give him the option to flee when facing death, most will take it. That''s how you control a battlefield." He glanced down at his squire. "Do you understand?" Ratto nodded, his face pale but thoughtful. "Yes, sir." As Alpheo finished speaking to Ratto, a shadow loomed behind him. The sound of deliberate footsteps crunching through the dirt brought his attention to Shahab, who approached with his usual stern expression. His armor glinted under the fading sun, and the faintest hint of a angry scowl on his face "Finished with the lesson, boy?" Shahab asked, his tone carrying a touch of mockery. His eyes briefly flicked over Ratto before settling back on Alpheo. "While you were teaching, the primary objective of your little ''controlled chaos''¡ªLord Ormund¡ªescaped. Or did you fail to notice?" Alpheo smiled, a calm and almost dismissive smile, as if Shahab''s words hadn''t unsettled him in the slightest. He turned to face him fully, hands resting lightly on his hips. "Nothing to worry about." Shahab''s smirk vanished, his brow furrowing deeply. "Nothing to worry about?" His voice carried a sharp edge of disbelief. "Are you out of your mind? We had him¡ªyou had him. And now he''s gone, riding off with his son and what remains of his riders. Are you telling me that doesn''t matter?" Alpheo met his gaze with a cool confidence, his smile unwavering. "What I''m telling you," he said, his voice steady but with a hint of amusement, "is that their bodies will be laid down at my feet by the end of the day." ''''You are mad. I thought you had some trace of sharpness in you or something at least similar to sense , I was wrong apparently.'''' He simply answered Almost on cue, the thundering sound of hooves filled the air as Egil and his riders appeared at the edge of the battlefield. Dust kicked up in their wake, and the group rode with a sense of grim satisfaction. Among them, two bodies draped in cloaks were slung over the backs of horses, their shapes motionless and unmistakably lifeless. The riders approached Alpheo, and with a subtle nod from their captain, the two cloaked figures were unceremoniously thrown down at Alpheo''s feet. ''''Perhaps you were wrong twice, lord Shahab'''' he briefly said Alpheo glanced at the bodies , raised the linen to see their faces before turning to Shahab who nodded. When he raised the linen on the smaller body, seeing the young face with his throat slit, he felt nothing,he was not the first boy he killed. Perhapse this surprised Shahab, who gave him a brief gaze before turning his eyes away "Who swung the sword?" he asked, his voice gleeful Two of the riders dismounted, stepping forward from the group. Their faces, dirty from the ride and battle, still held a quiet pride. Alpheo reached out, patting each man on the shoulder with an approving nod. "Well done," he murmured, turning to the others. "80 silverii each for these two." The men''s eyes widened at the reward. They offered quick thanks, their voices filled with gratitude. "Thank you, captain!" one of them managed to say, his tone almost breathless. Alpheo waved off their words with a dismissive gesture, already turning his attention elsewhere. "Take them away," he ordered, his voice now cold and matter-of-fact as he motioned toward the lifeless bodies at his feet, sweeping them aways as if they were trash . Without another word, his men moved to obey, the bodies dragged off as Egil''s riders began to retreat into the ranks. Alpheo remained standing, casting a final glance toward Shahab, whose face now held a reluctant acknowledgment of his commander''s foresight. Shahab narrowed his eyes, stepping closer to Alpheo as the two stood over the fallen bodies. "How did you know?" he asked, his voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and disbelief. Alpheo let out a light chuckle, shaking his head as if the answer were obvious. "People of power," he began, his voice smooth and confident, "are easy to predict.... These men ran off with horses. These are beasts they spent years and formed a bond with, and most men would be reluctant to abandon them. When they managed to create a gap, which I did not account for, they immediately rode off with their steed, thinking they could escape, the question however, was where?" He paused, glancing at the tree line with a wry smile. "Riding on horse ,through a forest is nothing short of a death sentence. Too many trees, too little space. So, they avoided it. Naturally, that left only one choice¡ªthe road.Where they could see ahead of them, fools did not even think that the opposite was the same" He paused again, enjoying the moment as Shahab listened in silence. "The road, where my cavalry was riding ready to strike the van. When they saw riders coming toward them, they simply did their job." Alpheo''s grin widened as he finished, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. Shahab stood there, digesting the explanation.Without another word, he turned on his heel, his brows furrowed in thought as he walked away, not giving Alpheo the satisfaction to his bewildered expression. Alpheo watched Shahab''s retreating figure, the corners of his lips curling into a faint smile. With a contented sigh, he turned back toward the forest, where the promise of warmth awaited. The cold bite of the day was nothing compared to the fire he could now enjoy¡ªboth the one in the woods and the one that still burned in his chest. Chapter 119: Aftermath Chapter 119: Aftermath The morning after the ambush, Alpheo received a detailed report on the aftermath of the battle. The casualty numbers were reassuringly low: only 13 of his men had been killed, and 34 had been wounded. These relatively minor losses reflected the effectiveness of the ambush , apart from the difference in effectiveness and equipment of the two armies. The report also gave news regarding the gains from the encounter. The loot captured included 29 horses, which would be used to replace the dead horses , and a considerable amount of armor: 64 chainmails and 12 sets of plate armor. All of which Alpheo would make to better equip all his forces. While the warfare of this age mostly used plate armor for men on horses, Alpheo was aware of the great use it could have on infantry. Satisfied with the outcomes, Alpheo decided to grant his men one full day to loot the battlefield. He was aware of the toll these last weeks took on the men, as in less than half a month they had fought three battles,in which only in one were they allowed to actually loot, as in the first two Alpheo had to hand out a month pay in advance for each soldier to restore morale, as they had no time to take anything from their kills. After the day of looting, Alpheo planned to lead his forces back toward the city they had fought to protect. Alpheo sat at a small, roughly-hewn wooden table with his closest companions gathered around him. The table was set with modest fare, but given the recent victory, the mood was light and spirits were high. A seat had been left open for Shahab, whom Alpheo had sent someone to invite, though the man had yet to arrive, always if he bothered to Ratto, Alpheo''s young squire, approached the table with a platter of roasted chickens, their skin crisp and glistening. He set them down with care. The village they''d passed through had provided what they could. Those chickens, however were not the robust, plump birds that modern farming produces . These ancient chickens were lean, stringy, and barely one-sixth the size of the poultry that people now find in markets, a result of nature''s untamed selection rather than centuries of selective breeding. "Hardly a feast fit for kings," Clio joked,as he took a small bird for himself Alpheo, smiling, waved him off. "It''s enough. Besides,since when are we so greedy?We have been eating jerky meat and hard bread for half a week. I would have killed for something that didn''t shatter my teeth at every morsel'''' he laughed as he grabbed one. The group settled in, pulling apart the roasted chickens with their hands. Despite the small size of the birds, the men ate with hearty appetites, savoring each bite as they tore through the tender meat. The fire crackled nearby, and the soft clinking of cups filled with wine added a relaxed rhythm to the evening. Conversation was light at first, the men exchanging jests about the chickens and sharing stories of the battlefield. Alpheo wiped his hands on a cloth, leaning back in his chair and surveying his companions. He took a sip of his wine, eyes flicking to Jarza. Setting the cup down, Alpheo spoke, his voice casual but probing. "Let''s talk about the battle," he began, eyes scanning the room. "I want to know how our men fared. How did they handle themselves out there?" Jarza straightened slightly, wiping grease from his fingers before speaking. "Well enough, I''d say. The orders were followed without any chaos. Our oldest soldiers were disciplined as could be expected. They almost instinctively looked to their superiors for direction. No hesitation, no disorder. We kept formation, and when the time came, they encircled the enemy as planned." Alpheo nodded, listening intently. His gaze remained fixed on Jarza, but a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Good. That envelopement we pulled off, was proof that our drills are working. The way we closed in on the van and center, forcing the enemy into a corner... It worked like clockwork. And that doesn''t happen without soldiers who know how to follow orders." He looked around the table, raising an eyebrow. "Anyone else? Thoughts?" Clio leaned back in his chair, a frown on his face as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "My men were mostly recruits," he said, his voice quite frustrated "Barely any experience. I had to shout and grab some by the collar before they turned around and chased the ones fleeing to the left." He shook his head, clearly annoyed. "They broke formation too quickly, eager to chase down anyone running rather than sticking to their positions." Alpheo listened, nodding thoughtfully as Clio spoke. He had expected such problems from less-experienced soldiers, especially when the heat of battle tested their discipline. After a moment, he turned his attention to Egil, who was still calmly eating, unbothered by the discussion. Egil simply shrugged, not bothering to look up. "My men did their job," he said between bites of chicken, his voice casual. There was no hint of pride or complaint¡ªjust a simple statement of fact. Everybody there knew the lax attitude the man had on his troops. Alpheo sighed, realizing that Egil''s cavalry had been as reliable as always, though the man''s indifferent attitude was still something he found hard to get used to. Alpheo glanced at Clio again, wiping his mouth with a cloth. "And how did Shahab''s troops fare?" he asked, his tone curious, knowing that Shahab''s unit was always something of a wildcard. Clio gave a crooked smile, his mood lightening slightly as he leaned forward. "Even worse than mine," he replied with a chuckle. "Most of his men were timid, barely eager to join the fight. They kept to themselves for the most part, hesitant, you know?" He shook his head, finding the irony in it. "Didn''t help that their officers stayed back the whole time. While ours led the charge, theirs were more concerned with staying out of the thick of it." Alpheo couldn''t help but smile at that. "I suppose it''s no surprise, given how those men were gathered," he mused, glancing over at the roasted chickens still on the table. As the group continued their meal, Jarza set down his cup and looked across the table at Alpheo. "So," he said, his tone curious but cautious, "what happens now?" Alpheo paused, his fingers working at the bones of the small chicken in front of him, picking at the remaining bits of meat. He cracked a bone between his teeth, chewing thoughtfully before speaking. "Ormund and his eldest son are dead," he said plainly, as if discussing a trivial matter. "That leaves only the youngest¡ªwhat, six years old? He won''t be a problem." The others listened quietly as Alpheo continued. "The boy''s too young to hold any real power, especially without an army to back him. And now that we''ve crushed Ormund''s core forces, the nobles won''t waste their support on a child with no military standing ." Jarza nodded, following the logic, but still unsure. "So they''ll turn to Jasmine?" Alpheo gave a short nod, tossing the chicken bone onto his plate with a slight clatter. "Most likely. She''s the more viable candidate. The nobles will back her over a boy still wet behind his ears , especially since she''s owning the capital, and has the support of Lord Shahab and a strong army at her back'''' Egil, barely looking up from his food spoke in an ironic tone . "What about her betrothed? He''ll have something to say about all this, I presume." Alpheo smiled faintly, ripping another piece of meat from the chicken. "Yes, he will" He paused, glancing up with a sly grin. '''' I''ll be giving her a bit of advice on how to deal with the aftermath. She may take it, or she may not. But we''ve done our part¡ªsecured her position. Now it''s up to her to maintain it." The table grew quiet for a moment as Alpheo''s words settled over the group, each of them weighing their new position now that Ormund had been removed from the equation. "And if she doesn''t listen to your advice?" Clio asked, raising an eyebrow. "Nothing I can do, though my lord Grandfather will certainly back my suggestion to her, making it more likely for her to listen to me, she appeared to be a smart lad and knows a good advice from a bad one'''' Jarza leaned back in his chair, swirling the cup in his hand with a smirk on his face. "So... looks like you''ll be the next prince. Anything for us peasants?" His tone was light, but there was a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. The others glanced at Alpheo, waiting for his reaction. Alpheo paused mid-bite, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Jarza, I''m hurt!" he exclaimed, placing a hand over his chest dramatically. "You think I''d forget my loyal companions, the men who fought by my side and made all this possible?We have gone through hell and back together " He shook his head, clicking his tongue. "Have a little faith, my friend." The group chuckled, and Alpheo leaned forward, lowering his voice just enough to seem conspiratorial. "Rest assured, there''ll be plenty to go around. In due time, each of you will be rewarded. Land, titles¡ªyou''ll all be nobles before long. After all, this victory wouldn''t have happened without you." Jarza grinned , meanwhile Egil gave no heed to the reward as he didn''t even break his focus on the food in front of him.He was but a simple man. Clio leaned in, his voice teasing. "Land and titles, eh? You''re spoiling us." Alpheo waved him off with a grin. "Nothing less for my trusted companions. Besides, I can''t have you all causing trouble in the city whoring and drinking all day, a bit of responsibility is needed for each of you. Some more than other " he said turning to Egil. The table erupted into laughter as they continued to eat, the mood lightening even more with every joke and jab. Plates clattered, cups refilled, and the conversation flowed as easily as the wine, their spirits high in the glow of success. Chapter 120: Delivering the bodies Chapter 120: Delivering the bodies When Alpheo had been a slave, he passed through many cities, he mostly remembered the weight of the shackles in his hand and the look of disgusts of passerby. His journey had always been one of forced marches down major roads, through narrow back alleys, and across silent courtyards. Whether he was paraded through bustling markets or led along deserted paths, people scarcely offered him more than a glance. To most, he was invisible, a part of the scenery, like a stray dog or a beggar. It was only the children who stared, their wide, curious eyes following the chain-bound figure trudging barefoot behind his captors. They looked at him the way one might look at a cockroach¡ªoccasionally disgusted, but more often simply unable to tear their gaze away from the wretched spectacle of the unfortunate creature. Now, marching down the wide, sunlit streets of the capital, it was a world apart. The same people who would have once ignored him now cheered his name. The air buzzed with the sound of thousands of voices, shouting and applauding, their cries mixing with the clatter of hooves and the rhythmic beat of marching soldiers. It was surreal. The crowds were filled with life, their cheers echoing off the stone walls of the city And yet, Alpheo couldn''t help but feel he had misjudged Jasmine. When he had sent a rider back to the capital to inform her of the victory over Ormund''s forces, he had not expected her to do this. He thought she would be more disgusted by the idea of marrying him. But to his surprise, she had acted swiftly like a true politician, to make his name known in his capital. The moment the news of the battle had reached her, Jasmine had moved with startling efficiency. Rather than waiting for Alpheo''s return, she had immediately informed the city criers of the rebellion, framing the conflict in a way that painted Ormund and his supporters as traitors to the princedom. By the time two days had passed, she had already made public the news of their crushing defeat, ensuring that the citizens knew exactly who was responsible for saving the city¡ªand, more importantly, who had commanded the forces that brought the rebels to their knees. She apparently wanted to consolidate her power through the victories of his commander and future husband. On the day the criers announced the victory, she arranged for large donations of grain to be distributed to the people. The timing was perfect. The capital was buzzing with celebration, the streets filled with joyous crowds, and the grain handouts ensured that the people would not only see her as the rightful princess but as a generous ruler . Alpheo couldn''t help but admire her skills, though he also found himself wondering just where she had found the resources for such an extravagant gesture, last he remembered the coffers were empty. My savings, no doubt, he thought with a bitter smile.On one hand, it was a nice move which helped him cement her and at the same time his power , a smart one even. On the other hand, it was his money. As Alpheo finally reached the gates of the keep, the cheers of the crowd began to fade, replaced by the heavy silence that loomed over the ancient fortress. He still remembered when he was thinking about storming this keep. Alpheo pulled on the reins of his horse, the powerful beast snorting in response before coming to a halt. With practiced ease, he dismounted, his boots landing with a dull thud on the cobblestone courtyard. Ahead of him, Lord Shahab had already dismounted, his movements as graceful as ever for a man of his age . Shahab''s long, flowing robes brushed the ground as he adjusted the sword at his side, his dark eyes casting a calculating gaze over the entrance of the keep. He gave a look to Alpheo, before going forward The guards at the door, clad in polished armor, recognized the men approaching and immediately stepped aside, their faces stiff with the formality of duty. The heavy wooden doors groaned as they were pushed open, the sound echoing through the courtyard. Inside, the air was cooler, carrying with it the faint scent of aged stone and burning torches. Alpheo adjusted his cloak as he stepped into the dimly lit hallway. A servant, already waiting at the threshold, bowed deeply and gestured for them to follow. As they were led through the winding corridors of the keep, Alpheo felt the weight of the place. The memories of being in chains, passed from one master to another, surged for a brief moment. Now, he walked freely, with purpose, on equal footing with the powers inside. They approached the great chamber¡ªonce Prince Arkawatt''s court¡ªnow Jasmine''s. The murmur of voices from within reached their ears before they stepped inside, courtiers speaking in low, hurried tones, no doubt whispering about the news of battle . But as soon as the doors opened, the conversations died abruptly, replaced by a heavy silence that filled the grand chamber. All eyes turned toward the entrance. Alpheo could feel the gaze of every lord, lady, and courtier as he entered behind Shahab. There, at the far end of the room, seated upon the throne of her father, was Jasmine. She looked poised, regal, yet there was a new intensity in her gaze. Standing beside her, but on foot rather than seated, were her sister and mother. Princess Rosalind''s face was pale, her lips drawn into a tight line as she stood beside her eldest daughter, her posture stiff with unease. The younger sister, whose name Alpheo did not recall immediately, stood quietly. Meanwhile on the far left , was a man wearing long brown robes with five small fires drawn on his chest. He was a priest, of that he had no doubt. When he was a slave for the army, he saw some congregations of priests following the emperor on his campaign. He was not really knowledgeable of the particulars of their religion, after all, no priests ever preached to him when he was a farmer, even less when he was a slave. I wonder what power they have, alpheo wondered as he continued on. Without hesitation, Lord Shahab walked forward, his steps measured and respectful. He moved with the grace of someone well-acquainted with courtly customs, his figure tall and commanding even as he approached the throne. When he reached the base of the dais, Shahab paused and then, in one fluid motion, he knelt before Jasmine, lowering his head in a gesture of fealty. Alpheo soon followed and did the same. "You may rise," Princess Jasmine commanded, her voice carrying more authority than before.Now the throne was truly hers. Alpheo lifted his head slowly, and as he did, Jasmine''s eyes flicked toward him, a faint but unmistakable smile crossing her lips. As both men stood before her, Jasmine''s expression softened, though her tone remained firm. "Lord Shahab, Sir Alpheo," she began, her voice ringing through the chamber, "I congratulate you on this hard-earned victory. Your loyalty and valor in defending this city, and indeed, defending me, will not be forgotten. You have both proven your commitment to this realm in its darkest hour." The courtiers exchanged glances, the tension in the room easing as the princess spoke. She held herself with a regal composure, her gaze sweeping across the room before settling back on the two men before her. "It pains me deeply," she continued, her voice faltering slightly before regaining its strength, "that my family was torn apart by the ambition of my uncle. What should have been resolved through diplomacy and honor instead led to bloodshed. I regret that it came to such violence, but the safety of this princedom¡ªand the justice owed to my father¡ªhad to be upheld." Alpheo noticed Rosalind at her side, her features tightening at the mention of the fallen prince. The younger sister stood quietly, her hands clasped in front of her, as though absorbing the weight of her sister''s words. Jasmine''s eyes softened as she looked at them once more. "You have both done more than your duty, and I know you must be tired from the battle. I wish for you to take your rest'''' Shahab, ever formal and composed, nodded in gratitude. "Thank you, Your Grace. Your words honor us more than you know," he said, bowing once more before straightening. His voice carried both respect and exhaustion, though he masked it well. Jasmine gave a brief nod, then raised her hand in a graceful gesture of dismissal. "You are dismissed, my lords. Take your leave, and rest well." Shahab bowed deeply once more, and Alpheo followed, giving a respectful nod before turning with Shahab toward the chamber doors. The murmurs of the courtiers began to rise again as they exited, the heavy wooden doors closing softly behind them. ------------------- ''''Where are the bodies?'''' Jasmine asked as she sipped on a cup of wine leaning on a chair. He , Shahab and the princess were currently in a private chamber, as apparently she wanted the immediate details of what happened, things she could not have asked in public. ''''They are currently in a carriage outside the city, do I order my men to bring them in?'''' Alpheo asked as he made himself comfortable ''''Not yet'''' she answered as she set her cup of wine down on the table and looked at her granfather , her brows knitting together slightly in thought. "And what should we do with them by the way?Throwing them to the dogs?'''' Shahab, ever stoic, inclined his head thoughtfully before speaking. "Your Grace," he began, "I would suggest sending the bodies to Ormund''s wife and son'''' Jasmine''s lips curled slightly at the corners, but her eyes remained hard. "Why would I do that ? Ormund and his eldest are dead, his army is underground , captured or deserted. Shouldn''t I deal with the youngest, Cedric, as well?Cut the problem from the stem." Her tone was colder now, sharper, as though testing the logic of Shahab''s advice. Shahab folded his arms across his chest, his calm demeanor unchanged by the sharpness of Jasmine''s words. "The boy is but six years old, Your Grace. Killing him might bring you temporary peace, but it would earn you the reputation of a tyrant, one who murders children, especially family.No one likes kinslayers.... Right now, we can play the card of the evil uncle marching to steal your throne¡ªmany don''t yet know the reasons behind Ormund''s rebellion. The lords will question the act of kinslaying less, given the circumstances. But killing the boy... that could cause us more trouble in the future than you realize." Jasmine''s eyes flickered with frustration as she considered Shahab''s words. "I feel like leaving them alive would be a mistake... a loose end " she said, her tone laced with impatience. Alpheo, who had been quietly observing the conversation from his seat, set his cup down and leaned forward slightly. "Your Grace," he said, his voice steady, "I may have a solution." Both Jasmine and Shahab turned their attention to Alpheo, curious. Jasmine raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "What do you suggest then?" A small, confident smile tugged at the corner of Alpheo''s lips. He seemed entirely at ease, his fingers tracing the rim of his wine cup before he spoke. "I suggest we do as your lord grandfather advises: return the bodies to Ormund''s wife and son, and for now, leave the boy unharmed. But when the time for your coronation arrives, we''ll send word to all nobles to swear fealty. Among those letters, one will be sent to your aunt, informing her that her son must present himself at court to pledge his loyalty." Jasmine''s eyes narrowed as she considered the idea, but she remained silent, allowing Alpheo to continue. "If she refuses, we have our excuse. We can march an army to their lands and take what remains of their power¡ªfinishing the task with all the justification we need. If she complies, you can pardon the boy, presenting yourself as a magnanimous ruler to your subjects. And, should you choose, he could one day fall ill from an ''unknown sickness.''Meanwhile the boy will stay in court as your warden... Either way, Your Grace, you secure your throne without the stain of murdering your last nephew." The room fell silent as Alpheo finished explaining . Jasmine leaned back in her chair, her gaze thoughtful as she considered his suggestion. Slowly, she turned to her grandfather, Lord Shahab, seeking his judgment on the matter. Shahab''s stern face softened slightly as he considered Alpheo''s proposal. After a moment, he gave a slow, approving nod. "It''s a good one" he said, his voice low almost as if complimenting the boy who coerced his family to marry him. "It gives us options, Your Grace, and maintains your image as a rightful, just ruler. We can always act later if need be, but for now, this approach gives us the upper hand without too much bloodshed." Jasmine''s eyes flickered back to Alpheo, studying him. Her lips twitched into a faint smile, though her eyes remained sharp. "Very well," she said, her voice measured. "We''ll proceed with your suggestion, Alpheo. You''ve proven... quite insightful...." She said locking eyes and smiling straight through him Shahab''s gaze lingered on Alpheo for a moment longer, a complicated look in his eyes¡ªpart approval, part wariness, as if he were seeing Alpheo in a new light.Even though he would not admit it , his opinion of the boy increased greatly. Not only was he good at warfare, but apparently he was also not bad at politics, as the plan he suggested was the same general idea he had regarding going forward. As the tension in the room eased, Shahab shifted back into his usual composed posture, while Jasmine leaned further into her chair, her gaze distant but thoughtful. Alpheo took another sip of wine, his eyes scanning the room briefly before he clapped his hands together, breaking the silence with a sudden, cheerful sound. "Well," Alpheo began, a faint smirk on his lips, "there is still one more topic to address." His tone was lighter, almost playful, but carried the same authority as before. Jasmine raised an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly, intrigued by what more he had to say. Alpheo leaned forward in his seat, his gaze fixed on her, "The date of our marriage, Your Grace." Jasmine''s lips curled into a smile, both coy and knowing. She took a long sip of wine before lowering her cup, her eyes meeting his as the room grew still once more. "Ah," she said softly, "of course. That does seem like an important matter to settle." Chapter 121: Reunion(1) Chapter 121: Reunion(1) The vast imperial throne chamber was silent, save for the faint rustling of tapestries hanging from high walls. Empress Valeria sat regally on her throne, draped in royal finery that caught the flicker of the sunlight coming out through the windows.Beside her stood her son, Mesha, a boy of no more than ten winters, his young face filled with confusion. He shifted uneasily on his feet, glancing at his mother for some kind of reassurance. Valeria caught his gaze, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. The message was clear. Mesha straightened immediately, fixing his gaze forward, his confusion masked by forced composure. The air in the chamber was thick with tension as they waited for the arrival of the one person Valeria both feared and sought to emulate¡ªher father, the man who cast a long shadow over the entire empire. The heavy doors at the far end of the chamber finally creaked open, drawing the attention of every courtier lining the hall. Whispers died on the lips of those present, as the man who entered needed no introduction. Marthio, was a figure known to all, though few courtiers of low lineage had the courage to speak to him or of him. Marthio was tall, his lean frame almost deceptively thin. His eyes, cold and calculating, were the same shade of piercing green that Valeria saw every day in the faces of her siblings and hers. He remember those eyes staring at her whenever she misbehaved that seemed to knwo the truth from lie. His hair, or what remained of it, was combed forward in a futile attempt to hide his advancing baldness, though it only served to highlight the starkness of his features. His jaw was sharp, his lips thin and unsmiling. Valeria''s hand tightened on the armrest of her throne, though her face remained a perfect mask of calm. Lord Marthio of House Acheia was known far and wide as the wealthiest lord in the southern reaches of the empire. His fortune, however, was not merely a gift from the fertile lands under his control, though those lands had long produced bountiful harvests. Marthio''s true talent lay in how he leveraged his resources to accumulate wealth and power. Sharp as any blade, he understood that mere reliance on the land would never bring him to the pinnacle of influence. In the aftermath of the rebellion, where he had steadfastly supported the late Emperor Gratios, Marthio secured numerous trading privileges that made it difficult for many to distinguish between the roles of emperor and lord. His fortune grew not only from grain but also from the shrewd use of his extensive trade networks. His influence in the empire''s southern reaches stretched across borders and kingdoms, where his shipments of grain filled granaries, and his power over the north was reflected in the trade caravans that once brought riches back to his coffers, which he had almost a monopoly over. But when the civil war erupted, a substantial part of his northern profits vanished. Undeterred, Marthio shifted his focus and found new ways to keep his fortune intact. He expanded his trade into the southern principalities, offering them a constant flow of iron mined from his lands. These raw materials became the foundation for crafting the most coveted weapons and armors in the empire. Crafted with intricate designs, the ''Acheian pieces'' became a symbol of prestige among the princes and lords of the south. It was said that no true ruler could claim their title without donning an Acheian blade or armor, further cementing Marthio''s reputation as the most influential trader in the south. The court herald began to intone the emperor''s titles with practiced solemnity: "His Imperial Majesty, Lord of the Golden Throne, Protector of the Realm, Sovereign of All Peoples¡ª" Marthio, unlike the other lords who had knelt before the emperor, did not kneel. He merely gave a respectful bow, one that recognized the emperor''s station but fell short of subservience. Empress Valeria, seated beside her young son Mesha, leaned forward slightly. Her face, while composed, held the slightest trace of tension. "I trust your journey was pleasant, Lord Father?" she asked, her voice calm not even trying to be authoritative. Marthio straightened, his green eyes¡ªeyes so eerily similar to her son''s¡ªlocking with hers. "As pleasant as one can expect, Your Grace, though the roads these days are not what they once were. But I made it here without trouble," he replied smoothly. Valeria offered a tight smile. "I''m pleased to hear it." There was a brief pause before Marthio continued, his voice taking on a tone of formality. "With your permission, Your Grace, I would ask to retire for the moment. The journey, as smooth as it was, has left me quite weary." Valeria nodded, though she knew the request was more than just a plea for rest. She could sense the desire for a private conversation¡ªsomething that couldn''t take place within the ears of the court. "Of course, Lord Father. Take your rest. " Marthio bowed again, a subtle acknowledgment of the empress''s words, before turning to depart. ---------- Empress Valeria sat alone in her private chamber, a goblet of rich red wine cradled in her hand. The room was dimly lit, only the flickering flames of candles casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. She took a slow sip, letting the warmth of the wine ease the tension that had settled into her muscles. Her quiet reflection was interrupted by a soft knock on the door. "Your Grace," came the voice of one of her servants from the other side. Valeria straightened in her chair. "Enter." The door creaked open, and the servant stepped in, bowing low before speaking. "Lord Marthio sends his apologies, Your Grace. He regrets that he is too tired to accept your invitation to meet tonight." The servant hesitated, knowing the next part of his message would not be taken lightly. "However, Lord Marthio invites you to his quarters instead, at your earliest convenience." The goblet froze in mid-air as Valeria''s hand tightened around its stem. She took a slow breath, forcing herself to remain composed, though the message was clear: her father, less than a day in the capital, was already making it known who held the true authority. ''He refuses to come to me... and instead calls me to him,'' she thought bitterly. But it was not a surprise. Her father had always been a man who wielded power like a blade, sharp and precise, never one to bend to another''s will¡ªeven when that other was his daughter, the Empress of the realm. Yet, in truth, she needed him. Her influence, once strong and unquestioned, had eroded in recent months. The "Wise Council"¡ªthat ever-meddling group of advisors and nobles¡ªhad subtly siphoned away her authority, making decisions behind her back, whispering in corners, and garnering favor with the other lords. The balance of power was slipping from her fingers, it did not help the fact that the garrison loyal to her was less than a third of the total.Luckily her father had arrived with an army at his back. Without his support, she would be at the mercy of the council and the fickle loyalties of the other nobles. They were already circling like vultures, sensing weakness, and only her father''s backing could scatter them. Yet even as she recognized the need for his aid, Valeria could not ignore the gall of his behavior. He hadn''t even bothered to wait a full day before making it clear who was truly in command. You may wear the crown, but I hold the power, was what he wanted to say Setting down the goblet, she stood up, straightening her gown. Power games were part of courtly life, but she had learned from the best¡ªher father himself. And if she had to bend for now, she would find a way to rise again. Empress Valeria strode purposefully through the dimly lit corridors of the palace, her silk gown whispering against the cold stone floors. Her face was composed, regal, though beneath her calm exterior, thoughts churned. The palace was quiet, save for the distant murmurs of courtiers and the occasional clink of armor from passing guards who bowed to her , before proceeding. As she neared the wing where her father had been given quarters, she suddenly stopped, her eyes narrowing. Ahead of her, standing like sentinels at the door of her father''s chambers, were two of her son ''s personal guards¡ªthe very ones she had instructed to remain by her son''s side at all times. They were dressed in the imperial colors, their armor polished and their posture rigid. When they saw her approach, they immediately bowed low in deference. Valeria''s eyes flickered between the two men, suspicion rising. "Why are you stationed here?" she asked, her voice sharp but measured. One of the guards straightened, clearing his throat nervously before responding. "Your Grace, the young Emperor is inside, speaking with his lord grandfather." And it came down on the Empress, her father already held the emperor with him.Even her last card was lost. Chapter 122: Reunion (2) Chapter 122: Reunion (2) Valeria''s gaze sharpened, her tone firm as she addressed the guards. "His lord grandfather called for him, and you brought him here? He is the Emperor. It should be the opposite." The two guards exchanged uneasy glances, clearly unsure of how to proceed. ''''Answer damn you!'''' She spoke in a voice that could not be misunderstood One of them,finally took a deep breath before answering. "Your Grace... it wasn''t Lord Marthio who summoned him. The Emperor... he went to visit his lord grandfather on his own." Valeria froze, her thoughts momentarily scattering. Mesha went to him? Her own son, the emperor, had gone his grandfather¡ªwithout her knowledge, without her permission. For a fleeting moment, a rare sense of vulnerability washed over her. She felt like a child whose dog walked to a stranger even after she called for it. She said nothing, her face a mask of icy control as she gathered herself. Without a word of thanks or rebuke to the guards, she stepped forward and pushed open the heavy wooden door. The guards made no move to stop her, after all they were in her payroll. The door creaked open, Valeria''s eyes immediately landed on her blood and flesh. Her father, Lord Marthio, sat at a polished wooden table, his long, lean fingers resting calmly beside a plate of small, delicate cakes. Opposite him sat Mesha, her son¡ªthe boy emperor¡ªwho stared up at his grandfather with wide, curious eyes. Marthio''s cold, usually face bore an expression she had not seen in years¡ªa faint smile, soft and almost warm, the kind he had once reserved for her when she was just a girl, innocent and eager to please. Mesha''s small voice filled the room as he leaned forward, eyes bright with excitement. "...and then, when I was playing in the garden, I saw her again¡ªmy cat, she was hiding behind the flowers. She jumped so high when I tried to catch her, and... and then..." His words came quickly, tumbling out as he described his beloved pet with all the enthusiasm of a child. There was a time when she had been in that very seat, when her father would tell her stories and look at her with that same fleeting tenderness, before she had crossed him. Before she had defied him by going behind his back. He had never forgiven her for that. Mesha''s words trailed off as he saw his mother standing there, watching. Mesha''s smile faded, and his excitement melted away when he saw her mother. When did he start to fear me? She though her chest aching a bit. She was her child and yet he seemed more happy when she was not there. Lord Marthio''s smile vanished the instant the door creaked open. He turned slowly in his chair, his cold green eyes locking onto Valeria with a look that pierced through her. His voice, sharp and clipped, filled the room. "Why did you not knock before entering, Valeria?" he asked, not even bothering with titles. The warmth he had shown moments ago to Mesha was now completely gone, replaced by the stern demeanor she had grown accustomed to. Valeria hesitated, stumbling over her words as she stood frozen in the doorway. For a brief moment, she felt like a child again¡ªscolded, cornered, and struggling to find her voice under the weight of her father''s gaze. "I¡ª" she started stumbling around like a fool . She straightened herself, gathering her composure. "I had asked for you earlier." Marthio''s expression hardened further. He gave her a brief, dismissive look before replying, "I had more important guests, Valeria. I suppose it would have been rude to leave the emperor alone to meet with somebody else" He gestured toward the boy sitting across from him. ''''Are you finished, then? If so, sit down. This... actually eases things, as I have matters to discuss with you." His eyes bore into hers, leaving no room for further argument. As soon as she sat down, he spoke, his voice calm but carrying the unmistakable edge of authority. "We will need to talk about how you''ve been running things in my absence," he began, his words clipped and precise. Valeria shifted uncomfortably in her seat but said nothing, her gaze falling momentarily on her son. Mesha, sensing the gaze, rose from his seat. He glanced at his mother, confused and a little uncertain, before quietly stepping toward the door. Just as Mesha was about to leave, Marthio''s expression darkened for a brief second, a flash of fury crossing his features as he shot Valeria a sharp look. But then, just as quickly, his face softened, and he called out in a warm tone, "Mesha, please feel free to visit me whenever you like. Next time, I''ll tell you a very nice story." Mesha''s face brightened with a wide smile. "Yes, Grandfather," he said happily, before disappearing through the door. The moment the door closed behind Mesha, Lord Marthio''s calm fac?ade shattered. "What the hell have you been doing in my absence, Valeria?" His voice, though quiet, was laced with fury. His eyes, cold and sharp, bore into her as he leaned forward, the once gentle grandfatherly warmth now gone, replaced by the ruthless lord she had known all her life. "This is a damn shitshow you''re running," he spat, rising from his chair. "How are you treating my grandson?" Valeria winced, her fingers clutching the armrest of her chair, but she said nothing. "Isolating him from power?" Marthio continued, his voice rising. "He''s the Emperor now, Valeria! He should be getting his first taste of rule, learning what it means to be a leader, not wandering through the palace like some lost child!" Valeria lowered her head, unable to meet his eyes, feeling the weight of his accusations settle like a boulder on her chest. "And why the hell have you refused every suggestion of companions for him? No friends to speak of, no guidance, no one by his side to teach him or prepare him for the future. Instead, you leave him alone in his rooms with a teacher , or wandering aimlessly through the palace halls!" Valeria''s throat tightened. She wanted to say something, to defend herself, but the words wouldn''t come. "And then, the cat?" Marthio''s voice was filled with disbelief now, his anger turning into something darker. "Why the fuck did you kill his cat?" Valeria''s hands trembled ''''It was killed by a w-'''' ''''Don''t give that Shit to your father!'''' he roared in anger ''''You think that the people that surround you are under your payroll or mine?If the boy wanted a cat to play with , let him have that damn thing.Everything that happened in his walls is known to be before it is to you, so don''t try to play coy with me...Was once not enough?You wish to do that again?'''' The last sentence hurt her deep. He never forgiven her for that . Valeria finally spoke, her voice shaky but defiant. "I was trying to man him up," she said, lifting her gaze slightly. "He''s the Emperor. He needs to be strong, and I thought... I thought a cat was too fem-" "Man him up?" Marthio cut her off, his voice filled with contempt. He slammed his hand on the table, making Valeria flinch. "You''re a fool, Valeria. A damn fool with ideas of Grandieur...who thinks herself too smart for her own good" Valeria''s face tightened at the harsh words, but she didn''t respond, she did not know how "You''re not making him stronger. You''re raising him like a lost child," Marthio continued, his voice heavy with disdain. "He''s not learning anything about ruling, about leading men or making decisions. All he''s learning is how to do nothing unless his mother tells him what to do!He is becoming a goodamn joke. Behind every strong man is an equally strong woman, you are proving that on the opposite side...." Valeria felt the sting of his words, but she forced herself to meet his eyes, even as her heart sank deeper. "You''re not helping him," Marthio growled. "You''re only protecting your own damn power. A blind and greedy fool.... You''re so desperate to keep control that you''re smothering him, making sure he can''t act without you hovering over him." His eyes narrowed, voice filled with venom. "He''s the Emperor, not some puppet for you to manipulate." Valeria looked down again, her grip tightening on the chair. She could feel her father''s disgust, and she knew he was right in part, but admitting it felt like swallowing glass.She had noticed the behaviour of her son, but she did not know the source of that or maybe she did . For a moment, the room was filled with tense silence, broken only by Marthio''s sigh. He straightened, folding his arms as he paced across the room. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer but still sharp. "Things are going to change from now on," he said firmly. "Mesha is going to learn what it means to be an Emperor, not just some figurehead for you to hide behind. He will now partecipate on matters'' of state. He''ll have companions, people who can actually teach him and help him grow something like a backspine. You''re not the only one who gets to decide his future, and from now on you will have no say in that entirely. I am here now and things will change." Chapter 123: Sloppy job Chapter 123: Sloppy job Marthio reached for the silver pitcher on the table, his hand steady as he poured himself a generous cup of wine. The rich, dark liquid swirled inside the goblet as he filled it, the silence between them growing heavier. He didn''t look at Valeria as he leaned back into his chair, bringing the cup to his lips and taking a long, slow sip. The bitter taste lingered on his tongue, much like the bitterness in his heart. "I had hoped," Marthio began, his voice cold and deliberate, "that for once, you wouldn''t disappoint me. That you would put aside your petty desires and actually work for the good of our house." His green eyes flickered toward her, sharp and piercing. "But I was wrong." Valeria''s lips parted, her heart racing. "Father, I¡ª" Marthio slammed the cup down on the table with a force that silenced her immediately. "No." His tone was absolute, "I trusted you to guide Mesha and further our interest. And instead, you''ve turned it into a disaster. You''ve made a mockery of our name." Valeria opened her mouth to defend herself, her thoughts racing for something, anything that could lessen the blow. "I was only trying to¡ª" "I don''t care what you were trying to do!You''ve failed. You''ve failed as a mother, you''ve failed as a ruler, and most of all, you''ve just failed.There is no side you can watch this and think she did a good job on that or she did not fail miserably here..." The words hit her like a slap. Her eyes widened, and for a brief moment, she felt as though the floor beneath her might collapse. "You will step down from the regency," Marthio commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Immediately." Valeria''s breath caught in her throat. She wanted to protest, to cling to what little power she still had, but Marthio''s expression left no doubt in her mind. His decision was final, and she was powerless to stop it. Her father, towering above her like an immovable force, had stripped her of everything in a single stroke. Valeria stood abruptly, her hands clenching at her sides mustering the strenght she lacked when she was a child. "No," she said, her voice tight with emotion. "I will not step down." Marthio, for once, didn''t respond with immediate fury. Instead, his brows lifted in mild surprise. He leaned back further in his chair, his green eyes narrowing slightly as he regarded her, more curious than angry. "Excuse me?" His voice was soft, almost a whisper. "I did not fail!" Valeria shot back, her voice growing louder, her frustration boiling over. "I put our blood on the imperial throne! I secured our legacy. You were off in your territories, managing your trade routes and armies, but it was me¡ªI was the one here, in the capital. I made sure Mesha ascended. You talk about disappointment, but you don''t understand the pressure I was under, the decisions I had to make." Marthio said nothing, simply raising his cup and taking another slow sip of wine. His silence only spurred her on, the lack of response making her feel as though she was battling not just his judgment, but a ghost of indifference. "I made the southern nobles swear fealty to your grandson," she continued, her voice trembling as she tried to hold onto her composure. "The entire southern block, loyal to Mesha, to our house! That wasn''t you¡ªit was me! While you were mustering your armies, while you were handling trade and grain, I was here, holding everything together, organizing the defenses, ensuring that we wouldn''t lose the capital to the factions circling us like vultures." Marthio remained completely still, his cup resting against his lips, his cold green eyes fixed on her. He let her rant, let her anger pour out. It was as though every word she spoke only further deepened his quiet detachment. His silence was unnerving, but Valeria could feel the pent-up frustration pushing her forward, her voice shaking with both pride and desperation. "I''ve kept this empire together in your absence," she declared, her tone thick with bitterness. "I did what I had to, for the sake of our house. For you and Mesha. I did not fail." Marthio finally spoke, his voice low but laden with disappointment. "If that is what you truly think, Valeria, then I have failed far more than I ever imagined." He paused, taking another measured sip of wine, and let out a deep sigh. His gaze was fixed on her. "That little achievement of yours," he continued, his tone now laced with contempt, "the one you boast about as if it were some grand feat¡ªany fool could have done the same, even a damn mongrel. Mesha was the only imperial prince left in the capital, and you had control of the imperial coffers. The guards, as we both know, are loyal only to whoever holds the purse strings. In this case, it was you." Valeria flinched slightly but remained standing, her fists clenched, listening as her father''s harsh words cut through her. "You had the capital, the imperial prince, and the loyalty of the military at your command, and yet, instead of ruling with strength, you negotiated with the nobles." His voice dripped with disdain. "You could have simply bribed the strongest with land and privilages or arrested them if they refused to pay homage to Mesha. Instead, you lowered yourself, coming down from your high point and allowing that ''foolish'' council to reestablish itself. You handed them power that was once ours¡ªpower that would have belonged now to our house, Valeria." Valeria''s lips parted, but she found herself unable to immediately respond, her mind racing as she tried to keep up with the torrent of accusations. Marthio leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing further. "Do you know," he continued, "that the council you so graciously reinstated has been dealing with the city''s matters in your name? They''ve granted trade rights to numerous merchants, rights that were once monopolized by our family." At this, Valeria''s eyes flashed with disbelief. "I didn''t allow anything of the sort!" she shot back, her voice rising in frustration. "I never gave them permission¡ª" Marthio cut her off with a cold, mocking laugh. "Of course you didn''t. I''m not surprised you were unaware. That is precisely one of the powers you handed back to them when you so foolishly reformed that damned council. The emperor control the military and foreign policy, while the council deals with administration. That fell in there..." Valeria, trying to regain some footing, lifted her chin and spoke quickly, almost defensively. "But now you have the army with you, Father. You can destroy it" Marthio paused mid-drink, his eyes narrowing as he slowly turned his full attention to her. He placed the cup down carefully "Privileges, Valeria, are only ever given¡ªnever taken back. If we try to rip power from them now, the pass through the Golden Finger will magically open to Mavius. Do you not see? The moment we try to close that council, the southern nobles will turn on us." He leaned back in his chair, the frustration simmering beneath the surface, though he masked it well with a calm, collected facade. "No, I will have to negotiate. I''ll come to terms with some of the nobles¡ªbribe a few, threaten others. I need their support to secure our trading rights, or we risk losing everything we''ve built." He emptied the rest of his cup, the soft clink of the cup hitting the table punctuating his words. "And your arrest of that bastard boy...that was meaningless." Valeria, still caught in her defensive stance, scoffed. "He''s of no matter." Marthio nodded slightly but his expression was sharp. "True. He''s insignificant on his own. But you''ve made him a problem now. You had offered pardon to any rebel who switched to our side after the emperor''s fall. And now, because of you, everyone knows that you''ve imprisoned the bastard of Gratios without cause.How many will trust your words now?" Valeria''s face fell slightly, her bravado crumbling under the weight of her father''s words. "It was a pointless action, Valeria," Marthio continued, his tone dropping into the flat, brutal cadence he used when he was truly disappointed. ''''And even there the boy escaped'''' Marthio''s gaze softened as he leaned forward, his voice carrying a note that left no room for debate. "The matter is settled. You will step down, and that is the end of it. Now, leave." Valeria flinched, a flicker of anger crossing her features as she rose abruptly from her seat. Her fists clenched at her sides, and for a moment, it looked as though she might argue, but she knew that her father always got what he wanted. Without another word, she turned sharply, her robes swishing against the floor as she stormed out of the room, the door closing behind her with a sharp thud. Marthio watched her leave, his expression unchanging. Once she was gone, he let out a quiet scoff, shaking his head slightly in a mixture of disdain. "Foolish girl," he muttered under his breath. With a casual air, he reached for his cup, refilling it with wine before taking a long sip. His hand moved to the plate in front of him, picking up a piece of sweet cake. ''''Seems like the boy shares my good teeth....'''' Chapter 124: Money problem(1) Chapter 124: Money problem(1) A week had passed since the defeat of Lord Ormund and his forces. The shock of the conflict had subsided, and the city of Yarzat had returned to a tense, but quiet, state. The two bodies¡ªLord Ormund and his eldest son Darian¡ªhad been carefully prepared and sent back to their ancestral fiefdom in the city of Confluendi, to be received by his late windown and the last of his son Alpheo''s army, now occupying Yarzat, was tasked with maintaining order in the city. However, with no immediate threats or uprisings, the soldiers found themselves with little to do. The city''s streets were calm, and the citizens carried on with their daily routines, albeit with wary eyes cast toward the men in armor who patrolled the roads. Most of Alpheo''s troops spent their days idly or engaged in rigorous training sessions. The clang of swords and the thud of shields echoed across the barracks and open squares where drills were held.After that during the night many would go to brothels or taverns to spend either the money , they got from the loot or the bonus that their captain gave them following the three battles they fought in a month. Alpheo, always pragmatic, had issued clear orders to his men shortly after occupying Yarzat: no unnecessary trouble in taverns or brothels, and every mercenary was to pay their dues fairly. Yet, despite the commands, he knew well enough that mercenaries¡ªespecially victorious ones¡ªhad a tendency to push boundaries. Unsurprisingly, whispers reached him that some of his soldiers were "eloquently" convincing tavern owners to give them discounts, using their presence to subtly intimidate the proprietors. Though the soldiers avoided blatant violence, the pressure they exerted was undeniable, and it wasn''t long before the practice became more widespread than Alpheo had anticipated. Finding a solution wasn''t easy. He couldn''t police his own men all the time, and many of these instances flew under the radar. Yet, knowing that unchecked behavior could damage his reputation and the army''s discipline, he decided to take action. Alpheo placed some of his most trusted soldiers on patrol near the city''s taverns and brothels, their job to subtly dissuade their comrades from pushing their luck, and report those who tried, promising a reward for each name given.Normally soldiers wouldn''t rat companions out, so Alpheo had to use those soldiers he put into the garrison, mostly new recruits that had no attachment to veterans and that Alpheo had the intention to completely separate from the normal military, to create something akin to a police force. Within days of these reforms, Alpheo began receiving names¡ªsoldiers whose misbehavior had been noticed. Rather than dealing harsh punishments, he opted for a lighter, yet still effective, approach: docking their monthly pay. It was a measured punishment, just enough to sting but not so severe as to sow discontent among his ranks. Word spread quickly, and soon enough, the amount of "discounts" they got diminished significantly, still present but not as severe as before. Many tavern owners, once fearful of the armored men who came to drink and carouse, found themselves breathing a little easier, their businesses no longer subject to the whims of aggressive patrons. It was also decided the date for Princess Jasmine''s coronation . The ceremony was to take place exactly two weeks from now, giving time for the remaining lords and nobles to make their way to the capital. Making use of the gathered nobility, it was decided that it would be also announced that Jasmine''s marriage to Alpheo would follow immediately after the coronation. By aligning the two events, they ensured the presence of the most important figures in the realm, both for the political symbolism of her ascent to the throne and for the consolidation of power through marriage. This way, there would be no time for anyone to go against the marriage. The date for the coronation was set two weeks from now, yet Alpheo found himself confronting a new and pressing problem: they were running out of funds. The mercenary army, the lavish preparations for both the coronation and the subsequent marriage, and the maintenance of the army¡ªall these costs were quickly depleting their resources. Alpheo had thought long and hard about the issue, but instead of taking action behind his future bride''s back, he decided it was better to bring the matter directly to her. He was many things, but a fool wasn''t one of them; dealing with Jasmine openly would avoid future tensions, especially as their fates were now tied together.The marriage would go much better if his bride knew that she would retain her power and not be stolen from it. -------------- Inside a small room the two people that would soon ruler the princedom of Oizen were currently scratching their head. "Do we truly have no money?" Jasmine asked, her voice edged with disbelief, as she sat across from Alpheo at the small table cluttered with reports and financial records. Alpheo glanced up from the parchment he had been studying, his face grim. "Well," he began, carefully choosing his words, "I had one of my companions review what''s left of the funds. And if you remember, quite a bit was spent on that largesse of grain you gave out after the battle." He paused, catching her gaze. Jasmine shifted uncomfortably, offering an awkward smile, though she knew the decision had been hers. "How much do we have left, then?" she asked, her tone softening slightly, but still carrying a hint of worry. "I have less than 10,000 silverii remaining, or 1,000 aureii if you prefer to count it that way," Alpheo replied, his brow furrowing. He ran a hand through his hair, clearly troubled by the dwindling resources. Jasmine exhaled, leaning back in her chair. "That should be enough to cover the costs of the banquets and the ceremony, right?" she suggested, trying to sound optimistic. Alpheo shook his head, his eyes narrowing as he laid out the harsh reality. "Most of that money will be used to maintain the army for the next few months," he explained, "and whatever is left won''t come close to covering the expenses for the coronation, let alone the feasts, entertainment, and all the other ceremonies that follow. We''re looking at far more than just a few thousand coins for what''s ahead. Worst part is that we can''t afford to be cheap, as extravagance is the only word that should be used to describe a coronation and a royal marriage..." "How much do we currently spend on the military?" Jasmine asked, her brow furrowed as she had no way of knowing how much Alpheo''s soldiers cost him Alpheo exhaled, setting the parchment down and leaning forward on the table. "Just from my army alone, we spend nearly 4,000 silverii each month between wages, food, and weapons maintenance. That doesn''t even include the spending on the various city garrisons across the royal fiefs." Jasmine waved a hand dismissively, her expression softening. "Oh, that''s not a problem. The maintenance of the city garrisons is subtracted from the taxes paid by each city. The cities cover their own soldiers." Alpheo blinked, digesting the news. He was quiet for a moment, his thoughts racing. "So, you don''t know exactly how much you spend annually on maintaining every city garrison?" Jasmine hesitated before shaking her head. "No," she admitted. "It''s always been done this way¡ªsince my father''s rule, and his father before him. The commanders take care of it, using the taxes from their own cities to manage the soldiers stationed there.If we were to decide on each city''s budget we would take an entire month to finish that alone" Alpheo''s mind spun as he processed this. So nothing stops city commanders from withholding more than they need? He thought, realizing that the lack of a centralized system left them vulnerable to corruption . It became increasingly clear to him that the princedom didn''t have an effective bureaucracy in place, leaving much of the financial management divided and disorganized. A problem that however Alpheo knew was only inevitable for strong empire and should be uneheard for such smalle petty kingdom He leaned back, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. "You mean to say there''s no real oversight over what the city commanders take? No record of how much they need versus how much they actually spend?That what we receive by them is just the scraps that remained after they made their own costs?" Jasmine shrugged, looking a bit unsure herself from his tone. "It''s been tradition. The commanders are trusted to manage their cities and report back on what they need. It''s always worked well enough.Usually if any major discrepancy is found, a man is sent by the royal court to see whether the commander is corrupt." Alpheo raised an eyebrow, his expression a mixture of concern and disbelief. "That leaves a lot of room for... personal gifts made by commanders to themselves. In the future we may have to deal with that for now we will let it run." There is no way , I will let that exist for long, Alpheo thought as he was adamant that such a lax way to deal with with the provincial holdings could not be allowed to exist under him. "Well... if things are so tight," she ventured after a pause, "can''t we just reduce the number of soldiers? Or even dismantle the army entirely for now? It''s peacetime after all. Why not save the coin?" Alpheo''s face hardened at her suggestion, he looked at her hard for a second . He then shook his head, his tone firm. "That''s a bad idea," he said, his voice low but resolute. "Right now, the only thing keeping the more ambitious nobles from putting their foot on your neck is this army. These men are veterans, elite soldiers who fought and bled for you. Dismantling them now would be like throwing a door open for any ambitious noble to refuse any of our calls or edict. '''' Also all of my power derives from them, he thought as he faked reading from another report. Alpheo leaned forward, tapping the table lightly with his fingers as he changed the subject "Have we sent an envoy to the Prince of Oizen for the ransom of his son?" he asked, his gaze steady on Jasmine. Jasmine nodded. "I already took care of that. An envoy was sent last week. Soon, the Prince of Oizen will dispatch someone to negotiate terms. It shouldn''t take long." Her tone was confident, though there was a flicker of concern in her eyes. Alpheo nodded, pleased with her foresight. At least that ransom will cover some of the long-term financial strain, he thought, feeling a small sense of relief. The money from the ransom would buy them time, but it wasn''t the solution for their current problem. Jasmine sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Still if what you say is true , we''re bleeding money. The last yearly revenue was 55,000 silverii, and at this pace, we''ll be spending more than 48,000 just on military expenses alone." Her voice carried a tone of frustration. "It''s unsustainable." Alpheo could see her stress, and he knew they couldn''t afford to have her panicking, especially now. He raised a hand, his voice calm and steady. "Don''t worry. I have a way to increase our revenue¡ªenough to cover at least half of that military expenditure, if not more." Jasmine raised an eyebrow, skepticism creeping into her features. "You do? And how exactly do you plan to do that?" Alpheo leaned back slightly, a small, confident smile playing on his lips. "it would be much simpler to show it. Soon I will give you the first samples of those ways I am speaking of .For now we should instead find a solution for the upcoming funds needed for the court expenditure...'''' Chapter 125: Money problem(2) Chapter 125: Money problem(2) Apart from the obvious reasons Alpheo had listed when arguing against dismantling the military, there was one fundamental reason that made him see demilitarization as the absolute last option: they were on the brink of something great. In most of the battles Alpheo had commanded, victory had hinged on the discipline and training of his soldiers¡ªqualities that were meticulously drilled into them under his leadership. At Saracena, his troops would have run at the first sight of cavalry, but the trust they had in their officers made them persevere. And this was rewarded by victory. This level of efficiency could never be matched by a levied army hastily assembled from farmers and peasants. Alpheo had personally witnessed how his soldiers, with their tight formations and precise coordination, cleaved through enemy forces like a hot knife through butter. In a world where most lords relied on ragtag groups of conscripts and irregular militias, Alpheo''s standing army was a rare gem, a finely-honed weapon that gave him a decisive edge in combat. Still, he couldn''t ignore the harsh reality of the situation. The amount of money currently spent on maintaining this elite force was staggering¡ªand unsustainable in the long term. Even as much as he valued his army, he understood that they would need to find new sources of revenue to keep the kingdom afloat without resorting to slashing their military budget. Luckily, Alpheo had plans. He had begun to think of ways to introduce new products to the market, hoping that these ventures could at least help balance their finances. Truth be said, Alpheo''s knowledge in many sectors was far from comprehensive. In his previous life, he had been a historian, he was not an engineer nor a scientist. He lacked expertise in trade, economics, and the finer points of manufacturing. But there was one key aspect of his first life that would aid him in the second : his upbringing in a mountain village. In that remote village, many things were made by hand, and self-sufficiency was essential. This gave Alpheo not just theoretical knowledge but first-hand experience in producing simple yet valuable goods, such as soap, agriculatural tools and even brewing alcohol. These were items he had seen his family and neighbors make. Soap, in particular, was a luxury item for many noble houses, and with the right production methods, it could become a staple trade good that would provide a steady stream of income. Still, these products were only in the early stages of development. Alpheo had already started working on setting up production, but it would be some time before they could produce enough to introduce them to the market on a grand scale. For now, his immediate plan was to use the upcoming feasts and banquets to offer these goods in small quantities to the elite. By introducing them gradually to the high class, he hoped to create a demand that would eventually trickle down, expanding the market and increasing his revenue. This, however, was a long-term solution. In the short term, they needed money to fund the coronation and secure the loyalty of the nobles, and that required a more immediate influx of wealth. For now, Alpheo hoped that the ransom negotiations with the Prince of Oizen would buy them enough time to stabilize their finances. Still, this didn''t solve the immediate demand for funds. Even the ransom for Sorza, Alpheo believed, wouldn''t arrive soon enough to cover the costs, leaving them with two options: either raise taxes or take a loan. "I don''t think raising taxes right after taking the throne is a wise move," Jasmine remarked thoughtfully. "We should at least wait a year before that. The last thing we want is to rule over a city that resents us from the start." Alpheo nodded in agreement as he leaned back in his wooden chair, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders. "I agree with you . Raising taxes now would only stir discontent among the people and the nobles. I suppose that leaves us with the loan." Alpheo, by nature, was cautious about incurring debt .One clear example of how dangerous loans could be to king was Charles V. Who even with all the kingdoms under him, and the great amount of silver and gold coming from America, they were simply not enough against the interests coming from the numerous loans he took, to fight against France, the Ottoman Empire and the numerous rebellions he faced in Spain. There were no laws regulating usury in this world, and without any religious prohibition, interest rates could soar as high as 20% per month, forcing them to pay the entire original debt as simply interest after a year. Luckily Alpheo was not in such a situation, as they had a rare advantage in their court¡ªa man who would likely be more than willing to lend them a considerable sum at a much lower interest rate, given their current circumstances. "I''m certain Lord Shahab will be more than happy to contribute," Alpheo said with a satisfied sigh. "Especially knowing that the ransom for Sorza will come through eventually and that he will be repaid soon." Jasmine seemed to relax a little at his words, though her expression remained serious. "Well, that temporarily solves our financial problem. But I hope what you''ve told me about your plans to increase revenue is true," she warned, her voice firm. "Otherwise, we''ll have no choice but to disband your precious army." As the two of them relaxed a bit, allowing themselves some peace, Jasmine finally broached a subject that had been nagging at the back of her mind for some time. "When did you learn how to read?" she asked, her voice curious but casual. Alpheo paused, his cup halfway to his lips, raising an eyebrow at the sudden shift in conversation. He wasn''t expecting the question. "I had a tutor about a month and a half ago to help me with reading and writing," he replied, setting the cup down gently on the table. "He was quite surprised by how fast I learnt. I''ve been forcing my companions to do the same, but it seems they''re still struggling." He chuckled slightly. "Speaking of learning, I''ve yet to properly introduce you to my squire. His name is Ratto, and he''s quite the bright and cheerful boy. Sharp-minded, too." Jasmine''s brow furrowed slightly as she thought. "I''ve noticed him around. He''s always near you. But it seems like you treat him more as a student than a squire?" she remarked though it was more of a statement than a question. Alpheo smiled. "He''s a bit of both, to be honest. The boy has a real hunger for knowledge, and if he''s trained and nurtured properly, I believe he''ll become quite an asset." Jasmine took a sip of her drink, eyeing him thoughtfully. "How did you two meet? You don''t seem like the type to randomly pick a child off the street for something as important as a squire. You could''ve just asked my father, and he would''ve given you a boy from one of the noble families." Alpheo leaned back in his chair, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Ah, well, it wasn''t exactly a conventional meeting," he began. "I first encountered Ratto when he tried to pickpocket one of my men." Jasmine''s eyes widened slightly, and she blinked in surprise. "Pickpocket?" "Yes," Alpheo continued with a nod. "The boy was quick, resourceful. Could''ve gotten away with it too. But what impressed me wasn''t just his skill¡ªit was how he handled himself afterward. Calm, calculating for his age, and quick-witted. After that, I decided to keep an eye on him. He impressed me in more ways than one," Alpheo said, his tone shifting slightly as if he were recalling fond memories. "He reminded me of myself when I was younger. Hungry, both in the literal and figurative sense. I saw potential in him, so I took him in. Brought him along with me everywhere, and he''s surprised me time and again with that sharp little brain of his." Jasmine regarded him for a moment, clearly intrigued by the story. "So that''s why you took that dirty child under your wing?" "Yes," Alpheo said, nodding. "And I''ve never regretted it. He may have come from the streets, but I have no doubt he''ll grow into someone important¡ªsomeone worth keeping close." Jasmine leaned back in her chair, considering his words ''''Most people would have had cut off his hands, in your position'''' she noted. Alpheo simply responded with a shrug, he was not like most people. Jasmine swirled the drink in her cup, her gaze lingering on Alpheo for a moment before she spoke. "You know, I realize I will have to marry you, but I know so little about you," she said softly, her tone filled with curiosity . "Where you come from, your past¡ªwho you were before all of this. What was your childhood like?" Alpheo paused mid-sip, the question catching him off guard. He set the cup down slowly, his expression momentarily clouded. He stared at the table, as if weighing his response carefully. After a long silence, he sighed. "There''s nothing worth telling," he said at last, his voice low and flat, as though each word carried a weight he didn''t care to bear. "I was forced to leave my village when I was young, for the greed of some men. " Jasmine frowned, her brows knitting together "Forced to leave?" Alpheo nodded, though he didn''t elaborate. His eyes were distant, as though he were looking back at something far away, something he didn''t want to revisit. "After that, I did what I had to. Found others like me¡ªmen with nothing to lose, men who had been taken by life in one way or another. We formed a band, worked together, survived together." His tone was steady, almost mechanical, as if the story had been buried deep, rehearsed enough to dull its sharp edges. "Later on, that work turned into something else. We took up mercenary work, and, well... eventually, it led us here. To you." He glanced at her briefly before turning his gaze away again. "That''s it. Nothing more to tell." Jasmine watched him closely, sensing there was much more to his story than he was letting on, but knowing better than to probe more,she relented. Maybe in the future he will allow her to know more , but for now he did not. Chapter 126: Life of a prisoner Chapter 126: Life of a prisoner Sorza''s life as a "guest" of the princess was more like a comfortable imprisonment. He spent most of his days confined to his chambers, under what was effectively house arrest. The room was large and well-furnished, but the gilded surroundings did little to ease the burn of captivity. Occasionally, Sorza was allowed brief reprieves, where he could step outside into the palace gardens. In the serene garden, the flowers in bloom, the calming breeze, and the chirping birds contrasted sharply with the turmoil he felt inside. To be defeated and reduced to this was a humiliation that festered in his heart, made worse by the knowledge that it was a mercenary that delivered this shame to him. One of his few comforts was the ability to meet some of his captured knights, particularly those who had been part of his personal guard. These were men he trusted, and their presence brought some ease to him . All of them awaiting for the ransom coming from thier prince. The days passed uneventfully, one blending into the next. When Sorza first heard about the fate of Arkawatt, an idea had bloomed in his mind¡ªa plan that, if executed, could turn his captivity into an unexpected victory. A woman had taken the throne, and he was unmarried. He thought of the possibilities: if he could somehow convince the princess to marry him, it would mean not only his freedom but also the union of two princedoms under their future son. No ransom, no humiliating release¡ªjust power, shared and expanded. At first, it seemed as if the princess entertained his notion. She allowed him to meet her on several occasions, their conversations cordial and even friendly. Sorza, ever the strategist, began to believe he had a real chance. With her heirless and him available, it would have been a strong political match. But in recent days, the tone had shifted. At first, he didn''t notice, thinking perhaps she was simply preoccupied. Then, slowly, he realized the truth¡ªhe was not her first choice. He was her second option, a fallback if something else failed. It became clear to him that she had already set her sights elsewhere. Whispers in the palace confirmed his growing suspicions: the mercenary who had captured him, the very same man who had humiliated him in battle, had returned victorious and was now rumored to be betrothed to her. Sorza could scarcely believe it. Passed over for a common man? The idea seemed absurd, an insult beyond anything he had ever endured. The very thought that this man, without noble blood, without titles, had not only bested him on the battlefield but now stood to marry the princess was a double-edged wound, cutting into both his pride and his plans. Sorza sat by the large window of his chamber, the dim afternoon light filtering in through the glass as he lazily flipped the pages of a book. A cup of red wine sat within reach, its deep crimson hue catching the faint light. He took a slow sip, savoring the taste. It was now his 23rd day in captivity, each passing moment waiting for his freedom. The room was silent save for the crackling of the fireplace, and Sorza leaned back in his chair, his mind wandering from the words on the page. He had heard voices earlier that day¡ªhushed whispers among the servants and guards¡ªthat negotiations for his ransom were underway. That brought him a measure of relief, though the thought of being ransomed like some lowly prisoner only deepened the pit in his stomach. Still, it was better than the alternative: remaining here, a ''guest'' of the princess, while the world moved on without him. He took another sip of his wine, letting the warmth of it spread through him as he thought of the future. The heavy wooden door to Sorza''s chamber suddendly creaked open, breaking the quiet of the room. The young prisoner thought that one of the guard had come for his daily stroll around the keep garden. Instead a young maid stepped inside, her head bowed respectfully, her hands clasped nervously in front of her. "Lord Sorza," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, "the princess requests your presence. Envoys from your father have arrived, and they wish to see you." At her words, Sorza''s heart leapt in his chest. He felt a sudden surge of happiness, the dull monotony of his days as a captive briefly forgotten. Finally, after weeks of waiting, there was a glimmer of hope. He set the book aside without a second thought and rose swiftly from his chair, nearly knocking over the cup of wine as he did so. Straightening his tunic, Sorza strode towards the door, his posture more upright, his steps more eager than they had been in days. "Lead the way," he commanded, though his tone was not harsh. He was too elated to care much for formalities now. The maid nodded quickly and turned to lead him down the long corridor. Sorza followed her, his mind racing with thoughts of the meeting ahead. Sorza followed the maid down a winding series of corridors, his heart pounding in his chest. When they arrived at a large oak door, the maid stepped forward, placing her small hands on the iron handle. With a soft creak, the door swung open, revealing the chamber beyond. On one side of the chamber stood the princess, poised and regal, her hands clasped in front of her. Beside her, to his bitter displeasure, was Alpheo, the mercenary who had twice humiliated him on the battlefield. Sorza clenched his jaw, suppressing the surge of anger rising within him. Next to them was an older man, one Sorza did not recognize¡ªperhaps a noble or a close advisor, his stern face giving nothing away. On the opposite side of the room stood Sir Marwoit, one of Sorza''s most trusted knights. He was a seasoned warrior, well past his youth but still standing tall and proud. His long, graying hair was tied back, and a thick beard framed his weathered face. He wore a breastplate emblazoned with the crest of House Sorza, behind him were a few of his men, clad in armor, their eyes fixed forward, tense but composed. Sir Marwoit bowed slightly at Sorza''s entrance, his steel-gray eyes meeting Sorza''s with a flicker of hope. He had been a loyal knight to Sorza''s father and a close aid since Sorza had come of age. "How is my father, Sir Marwoit?" Sorza asked, a hint of worry hidden behind his composed demeanor. Sir Marwoit''s stern face softened ever so slightly, and a small, reassuring smile appeared beneath his graying beard. "Your father is in fine health, my lord. He waits eagerly for your return." Hearing this, Sorza felt a surge of relief. His father''s health was always a lingering concern, but the knight''s words gave him peace for the moment. "And my mother?" Sorza pressed, his voice quieter, more personal. "She must have been worried with no word from me for so long." Marwoit nodded, the smile lingering. "Indeed, my lord. Lady Sorza was greatly troubled when news of your fate was unclear. However, the letter you managed to send her was a blessing. It did much to calm her fears, and she waits for your safe return as eagerly as your father." For the first time in weeks, a genuine smile touched Sorza''s lips. As the air between Sorza and Sir Marwoit settled, Alpheo suddenly broke the silence, turning his attention to the knight with a curious look in his eye. His voice was calm, though it carried a weight beneath its polite surface. "Lord Sorza," Alpheo began, his tone almost casual, " I hope that have you found the accommodations to your liking?" Sorza''s smile faltered immediately, his expression stiffening at the audacity of the man before him. He turned to Alpheo with cold disdain, his voice sharp as he replied, "Are you unaware, mercenary, that a commoner should not speak unless spoken to by a lord?" The room seemed to tense at Sorza''s words. Alpheo''s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the faintest flicker of irritation crossing his face. But instead of rising to the insult, he offered a smile that was more cutting than warm. "My apologies, Lord Sorza," Alpheo said smoothly, his voice holding an edge of sarcasm. "You see, I had little formal education. My only teacher and tutor from a young age was war." He paused, letting his words settle. "Perhaps if the same were true for you, you wouldn''t find yourself a prisoner... captured by one ''below'' your station. Though it was not your fault, I think most men would have ended with the same outcome if that situation was presented to them...." As the tension in the room grew thick, the princess cast a sharp look at Alpheo, her eyes flashing with disapproval. Alpheo, sensing her displeasure, turned his head away with a casual shrug, offering a half-hearted apology to Sorza. "I apologize," he said, his voice smoother but with a hint of indifference. "I meant no disrespect, it''s just sometimes my words come out of their own." Princess Jasmine, her gaze still lingering on Alpheo, softened her expression as she addressed Sir Marwoit. "You have seen how my guest has been treated well, I hope?" Her tone was firm, but polite, guiding the conversation away from the brewing conflict. Sir Marwoit gave Alpheo a lingering glance, as if sizing up the man who had caused so much trouble. Alpheo, for his part, merely smiled innocently, as if the verbal jab a moment ago had been nothing more than a harmless jest. The knight turned back to Jasmine with a respectful nod. "Indeed, Your Grace," he said, his voice steady. "I can confirm that Sir Sorza has been well taken care of." He paused, then gestured slightly. "Let us proceed with the negotiations." Chapter 127: A princes ransom(1) Chapter 127: A prince''s ransom(1) As the negotiations came to finally start, Sorza was led toward the door by one of the guards. His gaze, however, never left Alpheo. The simmering resentment in Sorza''s eyes was unmistakable¡ªa deep, festering anger at the man. Alpheo, standing relaxed by Jasmine''s side, met Sorza''s stare without flinching. Rather than showing any sign of discomfort, he offered a small, infuriating smile. It was calm, almost amused, as if the whole situation was nothing more than a game to him. As Sorza stepped out of the room, the door closing softly behind him, everybody stopped as they stared at the young man in question Jasmine sighed deeply, her patience clearly thinning. "I apologize for his behavior, Sir Marwoit," she said, casting a frustrated glance at Alpheo. "He can be... blunt, but I assure you he means no disrespect." Sir Marwoit''s eyes narrowed, his voice sharp with offense. "In our court, such insolence would never be tolerated. A man who speaks out of turn to a royal would have his tongue removed for such an affront." Alpheo, lounging casually, smiled as if the comment amused him. He tilted his head slightly, his tone dripping with condescension. "Well, it''s a shame, then, that you don''t have men like me in your court. Sounds like you''d be left with a room full of quiet, obedient men... who might fail at the first real test of wit or will." Sir Marwoit stiffened, his eyes flicking to Jasmine to control who he thought was her errand boy , but Alpheo continued before anyone could respond. "You see, sometimes it''s not the tongue that''s the problem. It''s the people who don''t know how to deal with a man who can use it well. A sharper mind and a sharper tongue¡ªthose can be worth more than any sword or soldier. But I suppose that''s a little too much for some to handle." Jasmine winced slightly at his words but kept her composure. Sir Marwoit, visibly bristling, held back his temper. "A sharp tongue without respect only leads to trouble," he said coldly. Alpheo smirked, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of defiance and amusement. "Perhaps. But then again, trouble has a funny way of finding men like me. And usually, it''s those men who end up coming out on top, if it was not so, by this point our dear guest would be walking in the fine city of Saracina , with his banner on top of the castle walls." Jasmine, sensing the rising tension between Alpheo and Sir Marwoit, quickly interjected, her voice calm but firm. "Shall we focus on the negotiations? I believe we have more important matters at hand." Alpheo opened his mouth, grinning as if ready to add another quip, "Of course, I wou¡ª" But before he could continue, Lord Shahab cut in with a sharp voice of authority. "Enough. If we allow you to prattle on, Alpheo, we''d still be here by sunrise. Let''s settle what we came here for." His gaze moved to both sides of the room, his presence commanding respect. Alpheo, showing no sign of offense, simply shrugged and leaned back in his chair, making himself comfortable as Shahab turned the conversation towards the truce. "I propose a truce of five years," Shahab began, his tone measured. "The land has already seen too much bloodshed. Both sides have suffered enough, and time is needed to heal. Prolonged conflict will only serve to deepen the harm already done." Sir Marwoit frowned, his eyes narrowing. "Five years is too long," he said stiffly. "Such an extended peace favors you more than it does us. One year should suffice." The two men locked eyes, the tension returning as the weight of their positions settled heavily in the room. Lord Shahab shook his head, unyielding. "One year is hardly enough for any meaningful recovery. You would have us return to arms before the wounds have even begun to close. Two years would be more reasonable, and to consider extending the peace if both parties find it beneficial." Sir Marwoit crossed his arms, thought for a moment and then decided to not reject the idea outright. "Two years, then," he said after a pause, though his voice carried an edge of reluctance. Shahab nodded, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "Agreed. Two years for now, with the option to extend the peace when the time comes. A reasonable solution." Alpheo glanced between the two, offering no interruption. Jasmine, relieved that the discussion was finally moving in a productive direction, let out a quiet breath, keeping her focus on the larger picture. Lord Shahab, sensing the truce had been settled, leaned forward and clasped his hands together, his expression now businesslike. "Now that the matter of peace has been resolved, it is time to discuss the ransom for Lord Sorza." He paused for a moment, letting his words settle in the room before continuing. "We expect a sum of 90,000 silverii." Sir Marwoit''s eyes widened in shock, and he immediately stood, his voice indignant. "Ninety thousand silverii? That is nearly two years of our entire revenue!" His voice echoed sharply through the chamber. "Such a sum would cripple our lands and coffers beyond repair. You demand more than would be asked if you had captured the prince himself!" His face flushed with frustration, and he shot a glance toward Jasmine as if searching for some reason or intervention. But she remained still, her expression neutral, unwilling to show any sign of favor. Alpheo, who had been silently observing the conversation, leaned back . Maybe next time, he thought to himself, the idea of capturing the prince himself flickering through his mind briefly. Lord Shahab, unfazed by the knight''s outburst, merely adjusted his sleeves and spoke again in his calm, unwavering tone. " It is not an unreasonable sum considering the losses we incurred in the numerous campaign you had taken agains us." His eyes fixed on Sir Marwoit, steady and cold. Sir Marwoit, still fuming, struggled to compose himself. "The most we could offer," he began, voice lowering but still taut with anger, "is half that amount. We cannot¡ªwill not¡ªcripple our people for the sake of one man , no matter their status." Lord Shahab folded his hands calmly, his voice as smooth as ever. "Very well, Sir Marwoit, we can agree to half of the original sum. The ransom will be paid in lump sum, in silverii, of course." He spoke as though the matter was already settled. But Sir Marwoit was quick to object, his tone firm and unyielding. "No prince, especially not one in our position, keeps their yearly income in their coffers. It''s simply impossible to provide that amount in one payment." His voice was laced with irritation, clearly worn down by the negotiation. Shahab raised an eyebrow, but his composure never wavered. "Then perhaps you could take a loan for the remaining balance," he said casually, as if he were offering a cup of tea instead of a crushing financial burden. "It is not uncommon in such trying time" Sir Marwoit clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing as he stared back at Shahab. "We will not take on a loan for this," he declared, his tone final. "My lord''s lands will not be burdened with debts. This is non-negotiable." The room grew tense as both men locked eyes, the intensity of their stares filling the space. The soft crackle of a distant fireplace was the only sound as each man waited for the other to blink first. Alpheo, reclining slightly in his chair, glanced between them, amused at the tension, but said nothing, watching the power struggle unfold with silent satisfaction. Lord Shahab leaned forward slightly, an easy smile playing on his lips. "If the money is too hard to gather," he said, his tone light but sharp, "there are... other ways to settle this debt." His eyes gleamed, enjoying the leverage he held in this moment. Sir Marwoit fell silent, his expression tightening as he weighed the options. For a moment, he stared at the table, clearly struggling to find an acceptable solution. The room remained hushed, the flickering fire casting long shadows across the walls. Then, with deliberate care, the knight''s gaze shifted toward Jasmine, who sat composed, though her eyes were keenly watching the exchange. He hesitated for a breath before speaking, his voice steady but carrying a new weight. "Princess Jasmine," he began, addressing her directly now. "It has not escaped my lord''s attention that you are still unmarried. Perhaps a union between you and the heir to the princedom of Oizen could serve to settle part of this ransom." He paused to let the suggestion sink in, then added, "In exchange, we would also bear the cost of the marriage celebration, ensuring it is worthy of your house and status." A silence settled in the room, the audacity of the offer hanging in the air. Shahab remained still,Jasmine made no move as they all uncosciously threw a quick glance at Alpheo. Chapter 128: A prince ransom(2) Chapter 128: A prince ransom(2) Alpheo leaned back in his chair, his lips curling into a faint smile. "Unfortunately, Sir Marwoit," he said in a casual tone, "that arrangement may not be possible. The princess is already betrothed." The knight''s brow shot up in surprise, his shock clear. "Betrothed?" he repeated, his voice cracking a bit "My apologies, I had no knowledge of such an arrangement. Still," he continued, regaining his composure, "I believe Prince Sorza would make a far more fitting match for her¡ªbetter than any ordinary lord serving your grace , I''d say." His tone held a subtle challenge, clearly attempting to steer the conversation in his favor. Alpheo, unfazed, chuckled softly. "Ah, but you''re talking to the man right now." He gestured casually toward himself, his voice carrying a smooth confidence that immediately baffled the men The knight blinked, his expression shifting to one of utter confusion. He glanced between Jasmine and Alpheo, his mouth opening and closing as if trying to reconcile the words he had just heard. "How..." Marwoit finally sputtered, his voice thick with disbelief. "How could a royal... mingle with such common rabble?" Sir Marwoit, still clearly rattled by the revelation, leaned forward, trying to regain his composure. "Your Highness," he said, turning his focus entirely on Jasmine, "I urge you to reconsider. A union with Prince Sorza would elevate both our princedoms. You would have a royal by your side, not some¡ª" But before he could finish, Lord Shahab finally had enough. He slammed his hand down on the table, the sharp sound echoing through the room. "Enough!" Shahab''s voice boomed, cutting through the tension like a blade. His eyes, sharp and unforgiving, fixed on Sir Marwoit. "Do not dishonor the betrothed of my liege with such reckless words. This matter is settled!" The room fell into a stunned silence. Sir Marwoit, swallowed his retort, finally shutting his mouth. He glanced at Jasmine, who looked relieved that the confrontation had been diffused, and then at Alpheo, whose expression remained impassive but with a flicker of triumph behind his eyes. Alpheo turned his gaze toward Shahab, the slightest hint of surprise flickering across his face. Shahab, noticing the look, shrugged slightly. "I dislike you" he said bluntly, his tone steady. "But I respect your skills.'''' ''Also the whole city is surrounded by his soldiers, so this whole thing can only go his way'' , he reasoned as he made the choice Alpheo leaned forward slightly, a calm but firm look on his face. "Now that the marriage proposal is out of the window," he said, his voice smooth but with an edge of finality, "perhaps we should return to the matter of payment. One of the cities we conquered in a previous campaign could be brought back into the fold. It would lessen the burden of the ransom." Sir Marwoit bristled at the suggestion, his face tightening in displeasure. "We will not give up one of our cities so easily," he said, his tone cold, "But we could be able to give back the city of Saracende however. For that we expect the ransom to be set at no more than 20,000 silverii." Lord Shahab immediately raised a hand, shaking his head with a shrewd smile. "twenty thousand is far too little. For the return of Saracende, the ransom will be 35,000 silverii," he stated firmly. "And we want it in a lump sum¡ªat least half in aureii, the rest in silverii. That''s non-negotiable." Sir Marwoit clenched his jaw, clearly displeased but aware that he was losing ground. He shot a quick glance at Jasmine, who remained silent but resolute, and then to Alpheo, whose confident gaze remained fixed on him. The knight sighed, knowing they had little leverage to play with "Very well," he said reluctantly, his voice taut. Shahab leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms , his gaze shifting toward Sir Marwoit. "I think now would be the proper time to consider our other prisoners," he began, his tone more businesslike but still sharp. "We are prepared to free the forty knights we hold in our custody for a sum of 600 silverii." The room fell into a brief silence as Sir Marwoit considered the offer. His brow furrowed slightly, and he tapped his fingers thoughtfully against the armrest of his chair. After a few moments of quiet contemplation, he nodded. "Very well," Sir Marwoit finally agreed,finally liberated at having finally finished "600 silverii for the knights. It will be done." Sir Marwoit rose from his seat, his face composed but his eyes betraying a hint of bitterness. He bowed to Princess Jasmine, his movements stiff but respectful. "Your Highness," he said, "I am glad we were able to reach an agreement." Princess Jasmine smiled, inclining her head gracefully. "As am I'''' Though Marwoit returned her words with a nod, he couldn''t shake the bitterness that gnawed at him. Without another word, he turned, his cloak sweeping behind him as he moved toward the door. ------- As the door closed behind Sir Marwoit and his guards, the room fell into a brief silence. Shahab, still seated, turned slowly toward Alpheo with a heavy sigh. His eyes narrowed slightly as he regarded the mercenary. "You should learn to hold your tongue, Alpheo," Shahab said, his voice calm but carrying a subtle note of reproach. Alpheo''s ever-present smile faded, his expression hardening as he leaned forward. "And how many wars have we fought with them in the last decade?" he asked, his tone sharp, though he kept his voice low. Shahab refrained from answering, knowing full well the answer Alpheo was seeking. Instead, he clenched his jaw slightly, his silence speaking volumes. Alpheo, not letting the silence linger for long, leaned back and crossed his arms. "There''s no use sweetening the drink of the enemy while they piss in yours," he said coldly, his eyes flashing with conviction. "They''ve bled us, disrespected us, and now we''re supposed to handle them with gloves?Let your friends cheer and your enemy weep.'''' hahab''s gaze lingered on Alpheo, tension still hanging thick in the air. "This is diplomacy," he repeated, his tone measured yet firm. "Not the battlefield. There are times when restraint is more powerful than a sword." Alpheo''s eyes darkened, his voice growing harder. "Unfortunately, your sharpest sword knows only how to cut, not how to sing," he retorted, leaning slightly forward. "If you think I disrespected them once, they''ve done it thrice to me. Their sneers, their insults... Do you think they''re playing by the rules of diplomacy? Let them groan at my words, Shahab. The truce is made, but when the time comes, it will be shattered. And when it breaks, no amount of soft words will stop the storm that follows." He paused for a moment, locking eyes with Shahab, his expression unyielding. "They will come for us again," Alpheo continued, his tone lower but no less intense. "This time, we have two years to prepare. We should make the most of it '''' Alpheo let out a breath, the tension finally releasing from his posture as he turned to Jasmine. "With this," he said, a small, confident smile forming on his lips, "we''ve secured your first victory as Princess, a victory that will surely raise her standing among the nobles. Not only that, but we''ve resolved some of our most pressing financial matters." He stood straighter now, a certain pride in his voice. "The ransom will ease our coffers, and the truce¡ªhowever temporary¡ªgives us the breathing room we need to rebuild and strengthen. We should cheer to that'''' he said as he grabbed a cup soon filled by a servant, who quickly followed with the other two Princess Jasmine sipped quietly from her cup, her eyes distant in thought. Shahab, ever perceptive, broke the silence. "Have we received any word from Ormund''s wife regarding the royal order?" Jasmine shook her head, a faint frown tugging at her lips. "Not a word. It''s likely there will be war. She won''t just sit idly after her husband''s death." The weight of the unspoken tension filled the room. "We should have acted sooner," she murmured, almost to herself, a hint of frustration creeping into her voice. Alpheo, noticing her unease, stepped closer and spoke with a reassuring tone. "It''s best this way. If we had rushed, we might have won at a great cost . As it stands, we still have ways to fight¡ªways that don''t involve swords." Jasmine looked up, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "And how would that be ?'''' Alpheo smiled, his voice steady and confident. "We''ve captured many of the sworn minor lords loyal to the late Lord Ormund. With them in our grasp, isolating his widow from any potential allies will be much easier. Once she''s alone, without any noble support to rally her, our campaign against her will be far more manageable. We weaken her before we ever raise a blade." Jasmine paused for a moment, her fingers still resting on the edge of her cup. Her eyes flickered between Alpheo and Shahab, both standing before her with the weight of decisions to be made. After a deep breath, she slowly nodded, her gaze steady but distant. "I trust both of you," she said softly, her voice calm yet decisive. "I am not knowledgeable of the way of war. Do what you think is necessary. I give you a blank way to handle this as you see fit." Shahab gave her a respectful nod, his sharp eyes catching hers in acknowledgment. Alpheo, standing beside him, met Jasmine''s gaze, his expression appreciative. Chapter 129: King of Snow(1) Chapter 129: King of Snow(1) After the decisive battle with the Messenian lord, Maesinius swiftly consolidated his victory. His terms were generous, offering leniency and security to those who had opposed him. The defeated lords, recognizing the futility of further resistance and the wisdom in aligning with the first prince, bent the knee one by one. Maesinius, ever the statesman, accepted their fealty with grace, ensuring they retained their lands and status under his rule.Except for the title of High Marshall, that was obviously deprived as the prince would never allow a man to keep such a fertile and important land under his control. In just a single day, word of the prince''s victory and fair treatment spread rapidly. The entirety of the province, fell to him. By the day''s end, the Messenian province was firmly under the banner of the first prince, his authority unquestioned. The long-standing issue in the northern territories of insufficient cultivated land had been a pressing concern for years. The harsh terrain and limited arable land had constrained the region''s agricultural output, leading to chronic shortages of grain and frequent reliance on imports from the south. It seemed though that such a fundemental problem had been solved. Grain surpluses from these newly acquired provinces were expected to flow into the northern markets. With more grain flooding the markets, the supply shortages would have been alleviated, ensuring a stable source of food for the northern territories. The prince hoped that this development would not only solve the grain shortage but also spark a surge in commercial activity across the northern lands, particularly in the fur and timber trades. Typically, the high cost of transporting timber from the north to the south rendered it unprofitable for most merchants to invest in the industry. However, with the civil war disrupting traditional supply lines, Maesinius believed that many traders would now turn their attention to the vast northern forests. As the conflict reshaped trade routes, regions like the Kingdom of Sarleon, the Principality of Arlania, and even the newly acquired provinces under Maesinius'' control would increasingly rely on northern timber. This shift could open up new opportunities, making the north a vital supplier of both timber and fur, further strengthening its economy and integrating it into the broader realm''s trade network. The war had fulfilled its primary objective. Maesinius and his allies had secured the lands they sought, with key provinces now under their control and loyal lords bending the knee. The chaos of battle had subsided, and the once restless territories would now start to settle under new leadership. Now, the challenge was no longer conquest but consolidation. Their gains had to be protected, and the territories integrated into the larger realm. Ensuring stability, keeping the nobles loyal, and managing the newly expanded resources would be critical to maintaining their hold. The focus had shifted from the sword to governance and diplomacy. All that mattered now was to keep what had been won, ensuring that the hard-fought victories did not slip away in the fragile peace that would follow. Immediately after the mass surrender of the enemy forces, Prince Maesinius wasted no time in celebrating the hard-fought victory. He commanded that a grand feast be prepared, a gesture of gratitude and relief for his troops. Barrels of ale and wine were cracked open, and tables were quickly filled with roasted meats, bread, and whatever food could be found. The scent of the feast wafted through the air, invigorating the weary soldiers who had endured the trials of battle. Outside in the camp, the soldiers rejoiced. They laughed heartily, their spirits lifted by the victory and the flowing alcohol. Groups gathered around makeshift tables, throwing dice and playing games. The sounds of merriment and song echoed through the camp as men toasted to their prince, their victory, and the spoils of war. At the center of the camp, in a vast tent adorned with banners of the prince''s house, the lords and Maesinius himself sat at a more elaborate feast. Inside, the nobles indulged in fine meats, freshly baked bread, and the best wines they could find. The table was laden with dishes as the prince presided over the gathering, seated at the head with a calm but victorious air. Toasts were made in Maesinius'' honor and their victories Among the nobles feasting in the grand tent sat the lords who had recently surrendered to Prince Maesinius. They were present, drinking and toasting along with the others, though their mood was markedly different. While the loyal lords of the prince raised their goblets with genuine pride and joy, the surrendered lords participated with a more subdued air. Their toasts were less hearty, their cheers quieter¡ªa performance of loyalty rather than an expression of true joy, the biggest example of it being Conte. Who was in no way with the heart to participate the feast that declassified him to a simple lord, breaking the line of power that started with his great-grandfather. Most of them drank out of necessity, a gesture of submission to the prince who now held their fate in his hands. Their smiles were forced, the clink of their cups more of an obligation than a celebration. Every toast and cheer felt like a small surrender, a public acknowledgment of their new liege. The northern lords instead roared with laughter, cups brimming with ale and wine, as they gathered around Edmund, the young lord who had led the cavalry in bait. His face was flushed with drink, his speech slurred, but that only seemed to enhance the drama of his storytelling. "Ah, you should''ve seen it!" Edmund bellowed, swaying slightly as he stood, his tankard spilling some of its contents as he gestured wildly. "We were outnumbered seven to one, but by the gods, we broke them! Their lines... shattered like glass!" His words were punctuated by exaggerated sword swings, mimicking the battlefield chaos. The lords around him clapped and cheered, refilling their cups as Edmund continued. "And there I was, right at the front!" he shouted, grinning broadly, clearly enjoying the attention. "The cavalry was like a storm¡ªa hurricane of steel and horseflesh as they charged towards us!Then I sounded the horn and the infantry came pouring from the flanks. It was chaos , axes , lances and javelins thrown around. You should have seen them scared out of their wits!Then we turned around and joined the slaughter...'''' Lord Murth, equally drunk, shouted, "And how many did you kill, Edmund? Ten? Twenty?" Edmund paused dramatically, "Thirty! At least thirty by my count! Maybe forty if you count the ones trampled under my horse!But nothing in comparison with Uther, that tall bastard must have killed half and scared the other into running away." The lords erupted in laughter and applause, banging the table with their fists in approval. "To Edmund!" one of them cried, his tall stature and double axes distinguishing him from the other , raising his cup. "The boldest rider in the north!" "To Edmund!" the others echoed, drowning the toast in another round of ale. Edmund, clearly reveling in the moment, raised his tankard high, his voice booming above the din. "To our prince! To victory! And to many more battles yet to come!" ----- Meanwhile on the other side of the tent, the atmosphere was quieter, more subdued amidst the frenzy of celebration. Elenoir, draped in a deep green cloak, edged closer to her father, Lord Harold, who sat comfortably, watching the drunken revelry with a faint, almost paternal smile. She leaned toward him, her eyes briefly flicking to her brother, Edmund, who was still at the center of attention, boasting loudly about his heroics. "It seems Edmund is having quite a bit of fun tonight," she remarked, her tone gentle but with a hint of amusement as she watched her brother slosh ale from his tankard. Harold chuckled, the deep sound rumbling from his chest. His eyes, tired from years of battle and responsibility, twinkled briefly with pride. "He''s earned it," he said. "Led his part of the charge perfectly. The boy may have a love for drink and stories, but when it comes to battle... there''s a natural fire in him, I can see that ." Harold said with a bit of pride, not knowing that during the battle his young son was almost shitting himself . Elenoir nodded, glancing once more at her brother, who was now animatedly recounting some story "He did well," she admitted softly, though her voice carried a note of hesitation''''When you will actually start to groom him for his future role?He is almost a man already...'''' Harold sighed, his gaze turning thoughtful as he swirled the wine in his cup. "He''s young, Elenoir. The world still feels like a grand stage to him, where every battle is a chance to carve his name into legend. In time, he''ll learn that leadership is more than just swords and cheers. It''s heavy... heavier than any armor he''ll ever wear.The better teacher sometimes his life itself." Elenoir''s expression shifted, her playful demeanor fading as a more serious tone took hold. She leaned in closer to her father, her voice low and deliberate. "When will you take the next step?" she asked, her gaze steady as her eyes moved to the prince. Harold didn''t answer immediately. His eyes drifted away from his daughter and settled on Prince Maesinius, who sat near the head of the table, surrounded by a crowd of newly sworn lords. The prince was animated, drinking deeply from his cup as laughter and cheers erupted around him. He was in his element, entertaining his vassals, playing the role of a victorious ruler. For a long moment, Harold simply watched, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were calculating something far beyond the merriment of the feast. His strong, weathered hands gripped the edges of his cup, but he didn''t drink from it. He thought for a second and then decided that it was time. Chapter 130: King of Snow(2) Chapter 130: King of Snow(2) The feast roared on, the tent filled with the sounds of boisterous laughter, clinking cups, and the occasional shout from a drunken soldier outside . Servants hurried through the crowd, their trays heavy with pitchers of ale and platters piled high with roasted meats and freshly baked bread. They moved swiftly, their steps quickening as drunken men reached out, clumsy hands grazing against their backs and brushing too close to their breasts. The women skillfully dodged these advances, well-practiced in the art of avoiding unwanted touches,while letting those that caught their eyes linger on. Around the tables, men gorged themselves on the feast, tearing into slabs of pork and downing mouthfuls of bread between swigs of strong ale. The food, though plentiful, was being devoured at an alarming rate, with chunks of meat and bread disappearing into the greedy mouths of lords and their close companions. Wine spilled from overfilled goblets, drenching the tablecloths and mixing with the grease from the meat, but no one seemed to mind. As the night dragged on, the revelry began to take its toll. More and more men slumped over in their seats, their faces flushed from drink, eyes half-lidded as sleep began to claim them. Some collapsed where they sat, heads resting on the wooden tables, snoring loudly amid the chaos. Others, too drunk to hold themselves upright, slid to the floor, their legs giving way beneath them as they succumbed to exhaustion. The number of unconscious bodies scattered across the tent increased with each passing moment, leaving the few still standing to step over the fallen or drunkenly nudge them aside. Yet the feast continued, unabated by the growing pile of sleeping men. Suddenly, Harold rose from his seat with a sharp movement, grabbing a cup and smashing it against the floor. The loud crash cut through the noise of the feast like a blade, silencing the laughter and conversation instantly. Heads turned toward him, startled, as the clattering of the cup fragments echoed through the tent. Harold stood tall, his eyes scanning the room. ''''I still remember the first day the prince came into my hall, high on his beatiful brown horse, silk cloths and red velvet cloaks.A real Royal Prick...'''' People laughed as they threw their open palms at the tables, the prince himself cheering as he emptied the cup while swaying . ''''The first winter hit him hard and well , never leaving the room where his fire was burning and demanding his meals to be brought to him, as it was too cold to leave the fire'''' Harold let the laughter die down, a wry smile playing on his lips as he looked around the room. He continued, his voice louder and more serious now, cutting through the boisterous atmosphere. "But I''ll tell you something," he said, raising a hand. "That same soft princeling, who stayed wrapped in silk and never left his fire during that first brutal winter... he grew. He grew into a man.A fine one..." His words hung in the air as the men quieted, listening intently. "He faced the cold, he fought against the savage beasts and the wild men beyond our halls. And in doing so, he grew a pair." The room erupted in cheers, fists pounding the tables. Harold continued, his voice swelling with passion, "He opened his heart to the pain of our people! He saw the suffering, the hunger, and the cold that gnawed at our bones, and instead of retreating behind his velvet cloaks, he fought to help us. Not as some royal demanding service, but as a leader who stood among us. He gave what he could, when he could. And now look at him! A prince no more¡ªour ruler, forged by hardship, and tested by battle." The crowd roared again, cups raised high, as Harold''s eyes locked with the prince''s. There was pride in his gaze, but also a hint of something deeper¡ªrespect. He spoke, knowing his words carried the weight the prince needed. Harold''s voice rang out again, louder now, filled with pride and fervor. "When he saw the chance, when opportunity knocked on our frozen doors, it was he who led the North forward! He took up the sword and didn''t look back. He defeated our enemies, crushed their armies, and brought their lands under our banner." The crowd cheered wildly, the northern lords pounding their fists against the tables in approval. But amid the celebration, the defeated lords¡ªnow sworn to the prince¡ªrose their cups weakly, their faces tight with forced smiles. Harold cast a glance toward them, his eyes sharp, but continued without pause. "And now, because of him, our lands are stronger than ever. Our enemies bend the knee or fall at our feet. This is the prince who will carry the North forward, and we will follow him!" As the thunderous cheers of the northern lords filled the hall, all eyes turned expectantly toward Maesinius. The air was thick with anticipation, every lord¡ªboth northern and Messenian¡ªwaiting for the prince to rise and deliver the speech that would cement his claim as the only first king the north would see Slowly, Maesinius began to rise from his seat, swaying slightly. His hand gripped the edge of the table for support, and as the room quieted down in reverent expectation, he steadied himself. Then, without warning, he leaned forward, grabbing a nearby urn and threw what his stomach held onto it . The room fell into a stunned silence as Maesinius heaved and vomited aganed. The Messenian lords looked on in shock, their faces filled with disbelief at the unceremonious display. Their eyes darted nervously to one another, appalled by what had just unfolded. But the northern lords¡ªwho had seen their prince endure far worse¡ªreacted in the opposite manner. After a brief pause, they burst into raucous laughter, their voices booming with amusement and pride. The laughter quickly turned into roaring chants as they began shouting, "Here is our Snow King! King of the Snow!" with fervor, their voices rising to a fever pitch. The tent echoed with their wild cries, the northern lords pounding their fists on the table and stomping their feet. Maesinius, despite the spectacle, was one of their own¡ªa man forged in the harsh winters of the north, and this display of raw humanity only seemed to solidify their loyalty. Maesinius, now hailed as king by his loyal northern lords, blinked in confusion as he lifted his head from the urn. The cheers and chants of "Snow King! King of the Snow!" echoed around him, but he seemed disconnected from the moment, lost in a haze of drink and fatigue. He glanced around, his eyes unfocused, clearly not understanding the roaring celebration unfolding before him. His body, still weakened from the night''s excess, lurched forward again, and he retched once more into the urn, oblivious to the wild support from his lords. Harold, watching with a knowing smile, rose from his seat, casting a quick glance at the rowdy northerners who were completely undeterred by the prince''s state. "Enough for tonight," Harold said with a warm chuckle, turning to the nearby servants. "Take the king to his tent. Let him rest before he rules." The servants quickly moved forward, lifting Maesinius gently from his chair. He stumbled, still dazed, as they guided him toward the exit. The northern lords continued their cheers, raising their cups to the man who would now be king, while Harold watched with amusement. The next morning, the newly crowned King Maesinius would awake to a pounding headache and the vague remnants of a night blurred by excess. And as he groggily stirred from his bed, with the events of the previous evening were little more than fleeting images of raised goblets, roaring laughter, and the unmistakable sensation of nausea. It wouldn''t be long before a servant would address him with a title unfamiliar to his ears. "Your Majesty," , breaking the news to the young king. He had been made king, not through a grand proclamation, a regal ceremony, or a stirring oath ¡ª but in the chaos of a drunken feast. And to his dismay, the moment his title was bestowed had been marred by the undignified act of vomiting into an urn, in full view of his newly sworn lords. Chapter 131: The head of the pack(1) Chapter 131: The head of the pack(1) The snow stretched endlessly in every direction, a blinding, desolate white landscape where neither animal tracks nor even the faintest hint of weeds broke the monotony. It covered the earth like a great frozen blanket, its stillness only interrupted by the biting winds that howled through the frozen plains. Nothing lived out here, at least nothing for long. Among this barren expanse, thousands of tents sprawled haphazardly, dark patches against the white canvas of snow. Thin columns of smoke rose from a few lonely fires where dozens of figures huddled for warmth, their ragged furs pulled tightly around skeletal bodies. Some of the fires crackled with an eerie glow, for mixed in with the wood and kindling were the charred remains of those who hadn''t survived what the shamans proclaimed as the Great Migration. Weak, sick, or simply too old to keep up¡ªthey had become fuel for the flames. This was the camp of the northern savages, the tribes that had been denied passage beyond the Bane time and time again. Now, they had gathered under one banner, united by a single leader. A man known only as the Great Knotur, a figure who had managed to bend the many wild tribes of the north to his will. Amidst the sea of tents and snow, towering figures strode through the camp, closer to giants than men. These immense beings stood four times the size of an ordinary human, their hulking forms draped in layers of thick animal pelts. Their breath steamed heavily in the cold air, but it was not their size alone that commanded awe¡ªit was the creatures they rode. Beneath them were colossal beasts, great beasts covered in dense, matted fur, their massive nose curving outward like ancient, twisted horns. These beasts were the heart of the camp''s survival, and their presence loomed large over the huddled masses. Without them, the tribes would have perished long ago in the unforgiving cold. The mammoths, with their powerful trunks and keen senses, were the only creatures capable of finding food hidden beneath the layers of ice and snow. At times, these giants and their mammoth mounts would lead parties deep into the wasteland, where the great beasts would root through the frozen earth, using their strength to dig out what little sustenance lay buried below. Once they found a promising spot, the tribes would swarm around, shoveling furiously to uncover roots, tubers, and anything that could be scraped together to throw into the great cauldrons. These grim, steaming soups were all that stood between them and starvation. Without the mammoths, and the giants who commanded them, the Great Migration would have failed within a month. It was they who led the way, finding sustenance where none seemed possible, allowing the thousands of desperate souls to cling to life in this bleak, frozen expanse. The tribesmen often huddled together near the sparse fires, their voices low and filled with awe as they whispered about Gowulf, their Great Knotur. How had he managed to bring the giants to his side? These massive, near-mythical beings, so aloof and untamable, had never bowed to any leader before. Yet now, they marched under his banner. Rumors swirled through the camp, each more incredible than the last. Some claimed that Gowulf had bested the giants'' leader, a towering figure twice the size of a man, in a brutal contest of strength. They said he had wrestled the giant to the ground, refusing to yield until the great beastly man had no choice but to swear loyalty. Others whispered of a different contest¡ªone not of battle, but of endurance. They said Gowulf had outlasted the giant chief in a grotesque eating contest, devouring more raw flesh than even the giants could stomach, earning their respect through sheer ferocity and relentless will. Still, others claimed it was a test of drinking, with Gowulf downing enough of their bitter, fiery brews to kill a dozen men, standing tall while the giant fell to his knees in defeat. Gowulf himself never confirmed nor denied any of these tales. Whenever the stories reached his ears, he would only smile faintly, his expression unreadable, adding fuel to the growing myth that surrounded him. It was not the first time that the tribesman of the north, united together , yet while all the others aimed to break the rock separing them to the south,Gowulf had another plan, one equally dangerous. These people, who had seen their numbers dwindle from the harsh journey, now looked toward the Bane with one final hope, differently from what they thought. hower , the Great Knotur had no intention to throw his followers against the cold stone of the castle, he instead turned his eyes eastward, toward The Great Ice Flow. The Great Ice Flow stretched out before them, a vast, frozen river spanning over thirty meters in width, its depth unknown to all who gazed upon it. The surface shimmered under the pale, unforgiving northern sun, a jagged expanse of ice and treacherous waters that seemed to swallow the very light around it. For the tribes who had traveled so far, enduring endless days of snow and starvation, this river now stood as their final trial. Whispers ran through the huddled masses, voices thick with doubt and fear. To cross the Great Ice Flow was to court death itself. The flow was known for its violent currents, unseen beneath the ice but strong enough to pull whole caravans into its depths. It was suicide, many thought. But what choice did they have? Behind them lay only the brutal winter they had escaped from, and they knew that to turn back was to embrace death. Yet the Great Knotur, Gowulf, stood resolute. He had not brought them this far only to fail. His eyes, cold and unwavering, were fixed on the distant horizon beyond the river, where he claimed a paradise awaited. He had told them that across the ice, in lands no northern tribe had ever dared reach, there were fertile plains untouched by winter''s bite. Great lands of green stretched endlessly, where plants grew every season of the year, and hunger did not exist. The Great Knotur stood at the forefront, towering above his people as tens of thousands of eyes fixated on the figures gathered near the frozen expanse of the Great Ice Flow. Ahead of the masses, Gowulf''s broad, powerful back faced his people, his long beard dancing in the biting wind. Beside him stood the elite of each tribe¡ªelder shamans, keepers of ancient knowledge and magic. They circled a lone figure, a young man barely past twenty winters, standing bare-chested against the freezing wind, as if daring it to defy him. Their mouths moved rapidly, muttering ancient, unintelligible words¡ªsyllables not meant for ordinary ears. "Zhar''ka thrul. Zhar''ka thruloi vo Firen , ohna thresht,Trekka''va! Your bones, the bones of giants. Your heart, the heart of the flame. You will not break!" They chanted, their voices rising and falling like the howling winds. Their canes struck the ground with each step, creating a steady beat beneath the chorus of their cryptic incantations. One shaman, his face painted in ash and blood, raised a bowl filled with dark liquid and flung its contents onto Rolf''s chest. The young man''s bare skin sizzled as the substance met the cold, though he did not flinch. Another shaman dipped their fingers in a concoction of roots and oils, drawing spirals and jagged lines on Rolf''s forehead while chanting, "Erghan, kazhn, rothar! Let the spirits awaken in your veins!" A third shaman, the oldest of them all, leaned in close, whispering guttural phrases that seemed to come from deep within her chest. "Trekka''va! You will not break! " After long minutes of chanting, Gowulf strode forward. He embraced the young man from behind, his massive arms encircling him, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. With solemn reverence, he closed a collar made of animal claws around the young man''s neck, each claw representing a life taken in the harsh wilderness of the north, hoping that their soul would unite with his. Gowulf held his gaze, his fierce eyes locking with the youth''s, before placing into his hands the end of a long, thick rope¡ªthe product of weeks of labor by thousands of people. Their fate now rested on this single thread, tied to the only hope they had left.That was his son, but not of blood. Gowulf''s voice boomed over the frozen silence, cutting through the wind, as he addressed the masses. "Rolf, son of Ignor and Fjerta, you shall be the spear that pierces the belly of famine and drives it from our people. Offer your body and soul to the tribes¡ªto your brothers and sisters. Let the strength of our ancestors flow through you, and may they grant you victory and salvation for us all!" Rolf, the chosen one, rose from the snow, his breath steaming in the frigid air. With a primal roar that echoed across the endless white, he slammed his fists against his chest. The countless rows of tribesmen stood in awed silence as he bellowed: "Father, Mother, witness my deed! Let your souls be proud of your flesh !" Without hesitation, Rolf seized the thick rope and sprinted toward the Great Ice Flow, his feet pounding against the frozen ground. He ran with the weight of thousands of lives on his back, knowing that one way or another, the river ahead would be his grave, but maybe not that of his people. Chapter 132: The head of the pack (2) Chapter 132: The head of the pack (2) Rolf gripped the thick rope in both hands, feeling the coarse fibers bite into his palms, after that he took the second rope around his waist making sure that it stayed tight . His muscles tensed as he took a deep breath, eyes locked on the churning, icy waters of the Great Ice Flow. The river was a beast, its currents raging and roaring with an untamed fury, and yet, it was the only thing standing between his people and their new land With a final glance at the thousands behind him, he threw himself into the freezing river. The shock of the cold struck him like a hammer, the water immediately sapping the warmth from his body, but Rolf gritted his teeth and kicked with all his might. The current was stronger than anything he had ever felt, pulling him down, threatening to drag him beneath its surface, but he clung to the rope and fought against the torrent. His arms burned, muscles straining as he pulled himself forward, stroke after stroke. The water lashed at him, the cold biting deeper into his flesh with every second, but Rolf''s focus was unshaken. He kicked hard, pushing himself against the powerful current, his teeth clenched as he fought for each breath in the bitter air. From the shore, the tribes roared. Over half a hundred thousand voices rose in unison, echoing across the frozen plains, their cries filling the sky. "Rolf! Rolf! Rolf!" they chanted, the sound like thunder rolling through the air. The name of their champion carried above the wind, a chorus of desperation and hope . "Rolf! Son of Ignor! Rolf, Spear of the People!" Men, women, and children alike shouted his name, hands raised as if their voices alone could carry him across the river. The sound of their cheers filled the air, mixing with the howling wind and the roar of the river, pushing Rolf onward. His breath came in ragged gasps, steam rising from his mouth as he pulled himself forward, each stroke of his arms a battle against the river''s might. His chest ached, and his limbs felt as though they would give out, but he would not stop. Not with the hopes of an entire generation resting on his shoulders. Suddendly a chunk of ice, jagged and sharp, came hurtling down the river, carried by the furious current. Rolf barely saw it in time, the glint of its frozen surface flashing in the corner of his eye before it slammed into his side with bone-crushing force. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, pain ripping through his ribs as he was nearly folded in half, his body twisting in the freezing water. For a moment, he thought the river would claim him. The freezing cold bit deeper, and his grip on the rope slackened, his muscles screaming in agony. His body wanted to curl, to surrender to the force of the water, but deep within him, something stronger stirred¡ªsomething primal. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to straighten, legs kicking weakly at first, then with renewed strength. He couldn''t let go. He couldn''t fail. Not now. With sheer willpower, Rolf pushed against the icy grip of the river, each stroke a battle of endurance. Finally, through the pain and exhaustion, his hand found solid ground¡ªthe other end of the river. Rolf''s hand shot out from the freezing water, fingers grasping at the snow-covered earth on the riverbank. His breath was ragged, each inhalation a struggle against the biting cold. The wind whipped against his bare skin, tearing at him like an unforgiving predator, and he knew¡ªhe had little time left. The cheers of his people, tens of thousands strong, echoed across the river, a distant roar of hope and desperation. But there was no time to bask in their cries. His task was not yet complete. With trembling limbs, he forced himself to his feet, staggering forward through the snow as his soaked body quaked with exhaustion. His eyes found the tree¡ªa sturdy trunk that stood defiantly against the wind, its bark rough and ancient. He trudged toward it, each step a battle against his failing strength. Reaching the tree, Rolf threw the thick rope around the trunk, his fingers fumbling as he bound it tightly. His vision blurred from the cold and exhaustion, but his hands moved with a practiced certainty, tying the rope with all the strength he had left. He knew that if this failed, his people would perish. As the first rope was secured, he quickly unfastened the secondary rope around his waist. His body trembled uncontrollably now, but he forced his shaking hands to move, linking the secondary rope to the main one, ensuring a double layer of security. It was sturdy. It had to be. Once the final knot was tied, Rolf paused, his breath shallow, his body nearly spent. He turned back for a moment, gazing across the river at the sea of his people, their distant figures still cheering him on. He could no longer hear them clearly¡ªthe wind and the cold had numbed his senses¡ªbut their hope reached him. With one final, primal roar, he threw his head back, his voice piercing the storm.His mouth gave in before his body however, and the last he said whispered in the winds were not heard by anybody but the snow. He had lost his voice Then, knowing his duty was fulfilled,and with his last words unheard he curled himself against the base of the tree, his body finally surrendering to the cold. His breath slowed, his muscles relaxed, and he knew in his heart that the songs of Rolf Icebreaker would echo through the ages¡ªhis people would sing of his bravery, and his son would know his father''s sacrifice. The cold took him, but it did so gently, releasing him from his task. His final breath was one of peace, knowing that he had done his part. For a moment, the entire world seemed to pause. Half a hundred thousand people stood in absolute silence, their breath held as they watched the still figure of Rolf, now motionless, curled against the far bank''s tree. The wind howled, whipping snow across the great expanse, but not a soul moved. Their hero had crossed the Great Ice Flow, had secured the rope, and had given his life to the cold. The weight of his sacrifice settled over them, a collective understanding passing through the gathered tribes. Then, from the front of the crowd, a low voice broke the silence. Gowulf, the Great Knotur, his gaze fixed upon the distant shore, raised a hand. His voice, powerful and deep, carried over the wind. "Move," he commanded, the word an order and a blessing. Dozens of men, already prepared, stepped forward. They were rugged and hardened, ropes coiled around their shoulders and makeshift rafts strapped to their backs. The rafts were simple constructions¡ªwooden planks bound together, each equipped with a single mast. They moved toward the edge of the river, their eyes set on the rope Rolf had secured. One by one, they slid into the freezing water. The first man reached for the taut rope, grasping it with both hands. He held the mast of the raft between his body and the current, using it to stabilize himself as he pulled forward. The current was fierce, but the rope was secure, and the man slowly inched his way across the icy river. Others followed swiftly behind him, each holding tightly to the line as they made the treacherous journey across the rushing waters. As they reached the other side, they tied off additional ropes, linking them to the first and creating a stronger, more stable network across the river. With each crossing, the web of ropes grew thicker, and more people began the perilous journey. More rafts entered the river, each person gripping the line for dear life as they navigated the turbulent waters. The makeshift mast pressed against their chests, helping them keep their balance as they struggled forward. The current tried to sweep them away, but they pushed onward, pulling themselves through the cold, their eyes set on the far bank. The giants, towering figures nearly four times the size of a man, had no choice but to wade through the icy depths of the Great Ice Flow. Their immense legs plunged into the freezing water, their fur-clad forms sinking until the river reached their necks, yet their feet still touched the base of the riverbed. Despite the cold biting into their skin, the giants pressed forward, their massive frames undeterred by the swirling current. Behind them, their enormous furred mounts¡ªgreat mammoths with long tusks and thick coats¡ªwere far more hesitant. The beasts snorted in protest, their large dark eyes wide with fear as they eyed the treacherous water. Some stamped their feet, kicking up snow in frustration, their muscles twitching as if to turn away from the crossing. But when they saw their masters¡ªthe giants¡ªsteadily walking into the freezing river, the mammoths let out deep, rumbling groans. Reluctantly, they began to follow, stepping into the water with their long trunks raised high above the surface. Their trunks, much like the snouts of elephants, stretched toward the sky, allowing them to breathe while they trudged forward, their massive bodies half-submerged in the river. The water rushed against them, the current strong, but the creatures moved cautiously, following their masters'' lead. On the far bank, dozens of fires had been lit in preparation. As the first of the giants emerged from the river, their bodies dripping with freezing water, the tribesmen rushed to them. They brought dry clothes and blankets to cover the giants'' shivering forms, while the flames burned bright, offering warmth and relief from the bitter cold. Chapter 133: A key to the city Chapter 133: A key to the city The second prince or for some others the emperor , Mavius, sat in the dimly lit tent, his tall frame draped lazily over a finely carved wooden chair. The awfully now turning cold wind howled outside, but inside, the scent of spiced wine filled the air. His hand curled around a silver goblet, sipping slowly from it as the dark liquid swirled with each motion. His face, remained calm yet distant, as if the world outside his tent hardly touched him.For the last days he had only received bad news and his mood was consequently going down. Lord Coway stood stiffly before him, his face lined with weariness. The storms that they had attempted throughout the day had not been merciful. "We lost 240 men in today''s assaults, Your Grace," Coway said, his voice steady despite the grimness of the report. "Another 120 are wounded, of which 40 are serious. The healers are doing what they can, but..." he trailed off, knowing the prince would understand the gravity of the situation. Mavius took another sip from his goblet, the wine warm against his lips. He swirled it thoughtfully, letting Coway''s words settle. He grunted softly, his expression unchanging as he set the cup down on a nearby table. "240 dead," he repeated, his voice low, almost to himself. "And 40 unlikely to make it." He leaned back in his chair, staring into the ground, there was no outburst, no fury¡ªjust a grunt, a sound that betrayed more frustration than anything Mavius reclined back in his chair,his brow furrowed and after a moment of tense silence, he spoke. "How long have we been standing outside the God''s Nail now?" he asked, not turning to face Lord Coway. Coway straightened, his expression still stern from the earlier report. "Half a month, Your Grace," he replied. Mavius gave a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. "Half a month... and what do we have to show for it? Nothing but dead men and sickness creeping through the camp. All this time, all we''ve done is lose soldiers, lose supplies. We''ve bled at least three thousand men, haven''t we?" Coway shifted uncomfortably but nodded. "Yes, Your Grace. Between the assaults on the walls, the disease, and the weather... the losses have been substantial." Mavius clenched his jaw, but he managed to keep his temper in check, fingers gripping the stem of his goblet tighter as he took another long sip of wine. He breathed out slowly, as if trying to control the seething irritation within. "What of the southern lords?" he asked after a pause. "The talks... how did they go?" Coway hesitated, his lips tightening. "The southern lords, Your Grace, have been cordi¡ª" The tent''s flap suddenly flew open, and Landoff strode . Mavius glanced up, irritation flashing across his father in law''s face at the interruption. "My prince," Landoff began where Coway stopped "our messengers were not turned away... but they received no promises either. Most of the southern lords are waiting, watching the winds before they choose a side." Mavius remained silent for a long moment, staring into his cup as if it might offer some answer. Then he muttered, almost under his breath, "Traitors... all of them." He lifted the goblet once more, taking another slow drink of wine, his mood darkening. "Is there any good news to tell me?" His voice was low, controlled, but heavy with frustration. "What of the men we sent inside the city?" Landoff, still standing at the entrance, shifted uncomfortably but stepped forward to speak. "Some of the men inside have begun lending their ears to our offers, Your Grace. Mostly lower officers, ones who are tired of the siege themselves." Mavius finally looked up, his eyes narrowing as he studied Landoff''s face. "And? Did we buy them?" Landoff cleared his throat, measuring his words carefully. "We''re in the process. But their demands are... considerable. Some are asking for wealth beyond reason, while others¡ªmore boldly¡ªare asking for small lordships in return for their cooperation." Promising land and titles to mere officers might destabilize the hierarchy,and even make some lords pout but... desperate times demanded desperate measures. After what felt like an eternity, Mavius finally looked up, a slow smile forming on his lips, though his eyes remained cold. "If they want lordships, they will have them," he said, his voice calm yet resolute. "Promise them what they ask. As long as they open the gates to me, they can have their little plots of land and call themselves lord for it." Landoff shifted his weight, glancing briefly at the floor before meeting Mavius'' gaze again. "The castle''s doors are defended day and night by a hundred men, Your Grace. Even if we bribe the officers, breaching the gates won''t be simple." Mavius snorted dismissively, swirling the wine in his cup. "And they want land for simply offering lip service and surrender? Are they cowards who expect lordships without spilling any blood?" Landoff hesitated but quickly replied, "Some of those officers have control over their soldiers and garrison a few towers along the walls." Mavius fell into silence, tapping the side of his cup thoughtfully. After a few moments, he spoke, his voice measured. "If we can get our men inside those towers, we might have an easier time taking control of the walls from within." Coway, standing by with his arms crossed, shook his head. "The walls are watched day and night, Your Grace. They''ll be expecting an attack. We''ve thrown men at them for weeks to no avail." Mavius'' eyes glinted with sharp determination. "Which is exactly why it''s time to try something new. No more battering our heads against their defenses. We''ll make them open the gates from within." He turned to Landoff, voice steady and commanding. "Accept the deal. But make it clear to those officers¡ªthey''ll have to let our men into the towers. And once inside, their men will fight for us." Landoff nodded, ready to obey, but Mavius held up a finger, thinking. "Give them a good sum of coin, enough to bribe their underlings. I want no loose tongues. No rats to scurry to their superiors." The prince leaned back, his eyes cold with resolve. "This is how we win. Quietly, from the inside." Lord Coway''s face twisted with disdain as he spoke up. "It''s dishonorable to grant land to turncloaks, Your Grace. Rewarding treachery will only breed more of it." Mavius, still holding his wine cup, arched a brow and leaned forward, his voice sharp. "Then perhaps you have the ability to take the castle without losing half of our army, Coway?You think your chivalry will make the walls come down on their own?" His tone cut like a blade, and the room fell silent. Coway, his jaw tightening, had no reply. Satisfied with his silence, Mavius continued, his words measured but laced with frustration. "From our last reports, there are at least 3,000 defenders inside that fortress, all well-armored and prepared. And every day more lords arrive to bolster their garrison, our numbers meanwhile are just dropping down as the days pass. Meanwhile, my older brother¡ª" he spat the words, "¡ªis off in Messenia, doing gods know what. We have no idea when he''ll march toward us if they are victorious and even if they are not that bastard of Conte , refused our call to arms, who knows what is going on there?" Mavius'' gaze turned cold as he set his cup down on the table. "Winter is coming,Lord Coway. Our supplies dwindle with each passing day. The snow will trap us before long, and many of my sword lords are already having second thoughts. They want to return to their fiefs, to their families, before the cold sets in." His fingers drummed on the table as he glanced toward the fading light outside. "If we don''t act now, we''ll lose this siege to the winter or worse¡ªmy brother''s march." The prince leaned back, eyes narrowing at Coway. "So tell me, is it more dishonorable to offer land to those who would open the gates for us? Or to return home, empty-handed, defeated, and shamed?" Coway remained silent, his earlier objection drowned by the hard reality laid out before him. Mavius'' words hung in the air like a challenge no one dared to answer. Mavius''s gaze was unrelenting as he leaned forward, voice dripping with mockery. "Perhaps, Lord Coway, you''d like to prove me wrong? Lead a night assault on the walls yourself, claim the glory with your own blade? Who knows, the honor of taking the city might yet be yours." Coway''s face darkened, and he took a deep breath before responding. "There is no honor in leading a night attack, Your Grace. It''s a desperate man''s tactic." Mavius smiled coldly. "Then the castle will fall without honor, Coway. Simple as that." He let the words linger in the air, his tone heavy with finality. "But it will fall." Without waiting for a retort, Mavius turned to Landoff, dismissing Coway with a flick of his gaze. "What about you, Landoff? Do you have men capable and willing to take on this ''dishonorable'' task? Perhaps they''d welcome the chance to carve their names into history." Landoff, ever the dutiful soldier, bowed his head slightly. "Any of them will do if ordered, Your Grace. They are ready to serve." Mavius nodded, pleased with the response. "Good. I have many hopes then. Honor or not, they''ll have their chance to show their worth." He sipped his wine again, eyes scanning the room. "And we''ll see who returns with the keys to the city." Landoff bowed low, his voice steady as he spoke. "Perhaps, Your Grace, my nephew Willios would be honored to lead such an attack. He''s been eager for a chance to prove his worth." Mavius raised an eyebrow as the Willios he knew in parties did not strike him as a glory-hungry commander , but if his father in law suggested that then maybe he was wrong. Nodding slowly as he considered the proposal, he gave his answer "If your nephew succeeds," he said, his tone promising reward, "rich lands in the south will await him. He''ll find his loyalty well-compensated." Landoff straightened, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I will relay His Majesty''s wishes at once. Willios has been searching time and again for an opportunity like this to show his value to his new liege." With that, Landoff bowed once more and swiftly exited the tent, eager to bring the news to his nephew, as he would finally have his chance to prove himself to his emperor. Chapter 134: Coronation(1) Chapter 134: Coronation(1) The day of the coronation had finally arrived. In the weeks leading up to it, the realm had been thrown into chaos, its once-relatively-stable order now shattered beyond recognition. Nobles found themselves entangled in a whirlwind of events so baffling and swift, few could make sense of what was happening. First came the shock of their prince''s death. Rumors spread like wildfire¡ªkilled in an engagement with the very mercenaries he had hired. Some claimed it was a betrayal, others said that the prince was the one that ordered for the head of the commander in a fit of madness. But before the nobles could process this, news arrived of his daughter, Jasmine, seizing control of the throne. To their astonishment, she not only pardoned the mercenary captain responsible for the prince''s death but re-hired him into her service. Lord Ormund, one of the realm''s most powerful nobles, had rallied his forces, perhaps in outrage, perhaps to seize the throne for himself. Yet, he and his son were cut down in an ambush before their intentions could be fully understood. The princess declared them traitors, accusing Ormund of attempting to usurp her rightful rule, a claim met with murmurs but mostly believed as everyone knew of the bad blood between Ormund and Arkawatt. And at the top of it , an order came from the capital, summoning all nobles to swear allegiance to the new princess.So in a month the status quo built upon one decade and half of rule , came short all from the arrival of one man. Had the civil war not been swiftly cut short, many lords would have likely declared neutrality or remained on the sidelines, waiting for the most advantageous offer before choosing a side. In such times, loyalty often went to the highest bidder, and alliances were as fragile as the promises that forged them. But the war had ended as abruptly as it began, and with only one true contender for the throne left standing¡ªPrincess Jasmine¡ªthere was little incentive for the lords to continue hesitating. What many thought might drag on into a prolonged conflict had been resolved with brutal efficiency, leaving most nobles with little choice but to accept the new order. Recognizing that there was no more room for divided loyalties, they sent their messages of allegiance to the capital, knowing that defiance or neutrality would now only bring bad things for the future As the lords and ladies of the realm made their way to the capital, many harbored their own ambitions. They brought with them the hope of strengthening their positions through a royal marriage, eagerly anticipating the possibility of offering their sons as candidates for the hand of the eligible princess. For these nobles, marrying into the royal family would be a masterstroke, putting their house in the highest echelons of power and securing influence for generations to come. They came with grand designs, imagining their bloodline seated on the throne beside Jasmine. What they didn''t know, however, was that the princess had already been promised to another, her hand quietly taken while the realm had been focused on war. ------------ Alpheo walked along through the high-vaulted hall as he moved past rows of gathered nobility. It was a grand and solemn occasion, the day of coronation, and nearly every noble of consequence had come to attend the event in person. Those who hadn''t¡ªwhether due to old age, sickness, ¡ªhad sent their sons or trusted representatives in their place, eager to show their allegiance to the new ruler. Most of the nobles in the room threw curious and wary glances toward one particular group in attendance: the mercenary captain and his band, standing there with all the calmness in the world but wholly out of place in the royal court. Whispers rippled through the chamber like a low hum, nobles wondering among themselves how the slayer of the previous prince could walk so freely, as if nothing had happened. They couldn''t ignore the brutal fact that this man had played a key role in the chaos that had reshaped the entire principality. Many had already approached Sir Robert, the late prince''s loyal knight, whom many knew for his loyalty for his liege, seeking clarity on what had transpired in the last month. They asked him what was true and what was false, hoping to untangle the web of rumors surrounding the prince''s death and the princess''s swift consolidation of power. Sir Robert, whose grief still lingered beneath his stoic demeanor, had little choice but to confirm the official account. He had no desire to drag his family down with him by challenging the princess''s narrative, and though his loyalty to his late liege was unshaken, he had his son and wife to think of. His words, though clipped and cold, had given weight to the royal decrees: the late prince''s faults in instigating the conflict, the mercenary''s pardon, and the rebellious betrayal of the princess''s uncle. The nobles, while reluctant to accept this version of events, were pragmatic. They knew that to challenge the new order was to invite ruin, and so, even as they cast sidelong glances at the mercenaries and exchanged hushed speculations, they adhered to the official story. Alpheo stood amidst the nobles, his eyes scanning the room while his mind drifted into thought. As expected, most of the lords kept their distance, steering clear of him as though his presence tainted the air. He smiled faintly to himself, amused by their cautious avoidance. How will they react, he mused, when they find out that soon I''ll be standing at Jasmine''s side, not merely a hired sword but something far more permanent? The thought gave him a twisted sense of satisfaction, watching the nobles play their games of decorum and power, unaware of how the pieces were truly arranged. At his sides there were the close companions of his, that preferred to stay close to Alpheo , then to walk out in a world that was no theirs. He was lost in these thoughts when a figure approached him, breaking the reverie. A middle-aged man, elegantly dressed in fine velvets and silks, walked with the confident bearing of a noble, his dark hair touching his neck. Unlike the others, who masked their distaste when forced to interact with the mercenary, this man showed no such signs. Alpheo was the first to speak, offering a courteous bow, seeing the man looking at him " Name''s Alpheo, pleasured to make your acquaintance my lord." The man looked at Alpheo without the reluctance or disdain that many of the other nobles had shown. "Jared, son of Lord Shahab," the noble replied, his voice calm and even. His dark eyes studied the young men. "Ah, Lord Shahab," Alpheo responded, surprised at meeting his son , while realising why he had come to greet him.Apparently he was told from his father, of the mercenary role in the new hyerarchy and saw it fit to make his acquaitance Jared nodded slightly, a polite smile playing on his lips. "I know how the court can be. Rest assured, not all of us are blind to the changes taking place¡ªor to the hands that made those changes possible." He gave him a long look as he continued "Most will not give more trouble than a hard look or disdain in engaging with you, they can see that you are favored by my cousin" Jared continued, his tone matter-of-fact. "My father spoke relatively well of you, surprisingly..." Alpheo''s brow furrowed slightly, though he kept his expression neutral. "I didn''t know Lord Shahab took much interest in mercenaries," he replied, his voice calm but with a hint of curiosity ''''Most of the time when we were together he only used hard words with me....'''' Jared offered a slight, detached smile, the kind nobles often wore when trying to keep their emotions from showing too clearly. "He''s a practical man, more than most in his position. And your... methods, as unsavory as they might be to some, produced results.I suppose also the fact that it is thanks to you that the old man''s blood sit on the throne , made a positive look in his eye" Alpheo nodded slowly ''''A ugly dog start become better-lookin once he start catching rats...'''' Jared''s smile faded slightly, and he tilted his head, studying Alpheo with a detached curiosity. The murmur of quiet conversation that filled the grand hall, suddenly it was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of movement beyond the great wooden doors. The court, once filled with soft chatter and the shifting of silk and velvet, fell into an immediate hush. All eyes turned toward the entrance as the air thickened with anticipation. The heavy doors creaked open, and the rich scent of incense began to waft into the chamber, carried by a light breeze. The courtiers at the front instinctively stepped aside, parting to make way as the red carpet was rolled out. Through the opening, she emerged¡ªHer Royal Grace, Jasmine of House Veloni-isha.Alpheo''s eyes moved to her, for a brief moment they met , before she steadied her gaze forward. Her steps were measured, regal, her posture flawless as she glided forward with the poise of a sovereign born to rule. Her cloak, a rich blend of deep purple and gold, flowed behind her like, though it was made shorter, as she was much smaller than her father . Her dark hair, intricately braided, was made to circle around like a crown of thorns. Behind her, priests of the realm followed in solemn procession, their robes of white and gold billowing softly as they moved, swinging censors that released spirals of sacred incense into the air. The scent¡ªmusky and sweet¡ªfilled the chamber, mingling with the soft chanting of hymns, each word echoing with reverence. Jasmine walked with grace, her chin held high as she approached the throne that awaited her. The courtiers and the nobles bowed low as she passed. She reached the throne and turned, facing the hall, her eyes sweeping over the gathered nobles and courtiers. And then, with an elegant motion, she lowered herself onto the throne, her posture as regal and commanding as the seat she now occupied. Her presence filled the room. Jasmine of House Veloni-isha was now enthroned, and in this moment, there was no question of her sovereignty, made easier by the fact that anyone that could protest was now dead or isolated... As Alpheo scanned the assembly, he noted many lords by their emblems, though his memory struggled to recall the banners of lesser houses. His eyes wandered over the array of sigils embroidered on cloaks. Some were unfamiliar,yet, among them, the great houses stood out, their emblems as familiar as the sword at his side. At the far left of the hall, he spotted the crest of House Sistarorum, a golden tree with long branches set against a dark blue field. Lord Pyrros of Sistarorum stood beneath it, a tall man with sun-darkened skin and sharp features. Nearby stood Lord Damaris of Maduaroli. His long, silver-streaked hair framed a face lined with age and hard-fought battles.Though in recent years he had taken off from royal authority , mostly for contrasting view regarding taxation, as the lord believed he ought to pay less taxes to the crown, since his land were among the one most raided by the Oizen''s soldiers, during their numerous campaigns. To the right, the deep green standard of House Florium caught Alpheo''s attention. A white lily surrounded by curling vines was their emblem, his owner being lord Corwan, of which Alpheo had little knowledge. Closer to the throne, the silver falcon of House Lonsium gleamed on a black field. Lord Niketas Lonsium, with his cold blue eyes and austere demeanor, watched the proceedings in silence, while throwing ugly looks at Lord Corwan. ''Apparently there is still bad blood between them'', Alpheo thought as he took notice of the bad stare coming from Niketas Finally, his gaze fell on the snarling wolf of House Bracum, its silver fur bristling on a black-and-red background. Lord Xanthos Bracum, broad-shouldered and scarred from a lifetime of skirmished , mostly caused by his yearly raiding parties deep into the princedom of Herculia.Raids mostly allowed by the royal crown, as whatever relationship Arkawatt had with the prince of Herculia, could only be described as bad, mostly caused by the change of sides of the lord of Arduronaven, which defected to the prince of Herculia, after a failed rebellion against the crown, some 13 years ago or so. Useless to say from then on Arkawatt always made a point to express his hostility to his neighbor. Alpheo turned his thought back to Jasmine. In recent days Alpheo had been busy with many matters, yet now in this moment of peace he realised something, he was really lucky.... The thought struck him with a clarity that was both exhilarating and daunting: soon, she would be his wife, and with it the thing he always dreamed of since becoming a slave. Reaching the peak of the chain Chapter 135: Coronation (2) Chapter 135: Coronation (2) All eyes were fixed on the princess as she sat regally upon the red-velvet throne, as if it had always been hers by divine right. Jasmine''s emerald eyes swept over the assembly, calm yet piercing, before they turned toward the elderly priest who shuffled forward, holding the symbol of her coronation and right to rule, something craved by man and yet held by few The chorus of hymns, which had filled the room with sacred reverence, slowly faded into silence, leaving only the soft shuffling of feet and the labored breath of the priest. His voice, frail , echoed through the chamber as he approached the raised dais, carrying the crown that had once rested upon her father''s brow. With slow, deliberate movements, the priest lifted the crown high above his head, his trembling hands hanging in the air as he came to stand before Jasmine. His voice rose in strength and clarity, as he regarded the hall "In the name of the Five Gods , of the Dirt below and Heavens above," he intoned, his voice reverberating through the silent hall, "I hereby crown Jasmine, First of Her Name, of House Veloni-Isha, rightful ruler, protector, and shepherd of the Princedom of Yarzat." As he spoke, his voice took on a reverent cadence, each blessing weighed with the significance of centuries of tradition. He lowered the crown slowly, holding it just above Jasmine''s head as he called upon the gods. "May the Warrior bless her with strength and courage in battle." "May Fertility bless her lineage and her lands with abundance." "May the All-Knower grant her wisdom beyond measure." "May the Storm God protect her shores and her people from harm." "And may the One Above All shelter her under his watchful eye." With the final invocation, the priest lowered the crown onto Jasmine''s head, the ornate hairpiece sliding perfectly into place. The moment was complete, she was now the undisputed ruler Turning toward the gathered nobles, the priest raised his hands and declared, "May her rule be fair and strong." At once, a rustle swept through the hall as every noble and courtier bent the knee, their foreheads nearly touching the cold stone floor. The silence returned, heavier than before, as all eyes fell upon Jasmine, waiting for her to speak. After a few heartbeats , she rose from the throne, and her voice, clear and unshaken, carried across the room as she prepared to address her people. "The holy scriptures, the sages, and the wise tell us that the path of the just has ever been paved with the blood of the wicked. When my beloved father was called to the heavens above, the weight of this sacred crown fell to me. Yet before his noble blood had cooled, there were those who sought to defile the sanctity of his legacy, to usurp the power bestowed upon me by divine will. My own uncle, Ormund of our house, rose in treason and marched his army upon this capital. But through the favor of the gods above and the loyalty of those belows, his vile ambition was extinguished before it could consume our realm. A ruler who is just knows well when to reward, when to punish, when to offer mercy, and when to strike without hesitation. As a woman of faith, guided by the virtues set forth in the holy books, I did not allow vengeance to cloud my judgment. I extended my hand in peace to my aunt, and to my youngest cousin, offering them pardon from the sins of their fallen kin and shelter under the protection of this sacred crown. My gesture was met not with gratitude but with scorn. My forgiveness was cast aside, met only with spit and disdain. The just offer mercy once. Only a fool offers it twice. And only the mad would extend it to those who seek the destruction of the innocent. My cousin, young and untouched by the treachery of his father, remains blameless in all of this. It is his mother, the widow of my late uncle, who bears the weight of guilt upon her soul. And so, I hereby declare her an enemy of the crown, unworthy of the grace she once received. But my cousin Cendric, he shall not suffer for the sins of his mother. To him, I extend wardenship, to be placed under the care and protection of this holy throne. Her and any man aiding her is declared enemy of all that is right , worthy only being hunted by the justs and virtues Now, I turn to you, my faithful vassals," she said, her voice firm yet laden with expectation as she faced the gathered nobles. "Who among you shall uphold the sacred duty you have sworn to me? Who will ride forth and deliver my innocent kin from the clutches of those who would see him fall? Who will bring him safely to this throne, where he shall be raised in honor and peace?" As soon as Jasmine''s words hung in the air, Alpheo rose to his feet without hesitation. His voice rang clear and steady through the silence that followed, cutting through the tension like a sword "I will uphold the crown''s peace," he declared, his eyes locked on Jasmine. "I shall serve you as faithfully as I have done until now. I will bring young Cendric to your side and ensure the safety of your kin." A ripple of murmurs swept through the assembled nobles, but they were silenced at once by the smile that spread across Jasmine''s lips. "You have served the crown once already, Alpheo," she said, "and in our kingdom''s darkest hour, you were the pillar that held this city together. My uncle fell by your hand, and now you offer to aid me once more." Jasmine''s words were filled with reverence and recognition. "For such loyalty and faith, only the best rewards are fit for one as devoted as you." The room stilled. "Your Grace," he began, "I have always been mesmerized by your grace and your strength. I ask for but one thing, the greatest honor I could ever dream of¡ªI wish to sit beside you as your most faithful companion." He paused, the weight of his words sinking in before he spoke the final request. "I ask for your hand in marriage." The hall erupted into chaos. Nobles shouted in disbelief, their voices clashing in a cacophony of protests and outrage. How could a mere mercenary¡ªa man once hired by coin¡ªdare to seek the hand of the princess? The commotion only grew louder as outrage spread through the ranks of the gathered lords. Some even got up and threw insults at the boy only stopping from showing steel from the guards around. But before it could descend into further madness, a sharp, thunderous noise echoed across the chamber. The guards, stationed along the walls, slammed the butts of their spears against the stone floor in unison. Some of them even were soldiers briefly taken from Alpheo''s band to fill the numbers . The deafening sound brought immediate silence, restoring order as the nobles, wide-eyed and shaken, turned their attention back to the throne. Jasmine remained calm, her gaze unwavering. She faked some seconds of thought before answering "Many will question your worth, Alpheo," she began, her voice measured and regal. "But none can question your loyalty. You have proven it time and again¡ªwhen you defeated my uncle, when you defended this city, and now, as you stand before me, ready to serve once more. For these deeds, and for your unwavering devotion, I accept your request." Lord Shahab, ever the seasoned statesman, rose from his seat . His weathered face remained impassive as he took a step forward. "May the gods bless this union," he began, his tone smooth and measured. "Long life to our beloved Princess Jasmine, and to her consort. May their reign bring prosperity and peace to the realm." He gave a small,clap, and as he straightened, his eyes briefly met Alpheo''s narrowing a bit , before turning back to the princess. Without missing a beat, Shahab''s son rose from his place beside him. The younger lord''s voice mirrored his father''s, though tinged with youthful enthusiasm. "I too offer my heartfelt congratulations to her Grace and her new consort'''' As if on cue, several minor lords,most casually those whose fiefs bordered Shahab''s lands, stood in quick succession, each offering similar praises. They congratulated the couple, their words almost indistinguishable from one another, like a carefully orchestrated chorus. The other nobles in the hall exchanged knowing glances. The pattern was too obvious, too coordinated. Many began to piece together that this match between the princess and the once-mercenary had likely been arranged well in advance, with Lord Shahab and his allies already prepared to lend their public support. They realized that resistance or protest would be futile. Whatever personal grievances they might have had, they had to bring them in private. Slowly, a ripple of applause spread throughout the chamber, and a young man knew he had won. Chapter 136: Unsavory welcome(1) Chapter 136: Unsavory welcome(1) As evening descended upon the city, the golden light of the setting sun spilled through the high windows of the great hall The guests, who had gathered for the coronation, now found themselves drawn into the grand feast that followed. At the head of the hall, the table of honor was elevated above the others, draped in crimson and gold. Alpheo sat there, placed in a seat of prominence beside Jasmine, his eyes sweeping over the lavish display. To his left was Lord Shahab, who barely looked at him occasionally. To the right of the old lord sat Jasmine''s mother, the dowager princess, her face serene but her eyes sharp, her eyes many times looking at the young man, who now was his son in law. She exchanged quiet remarks with Shahab from time to time , who rewarded her with a small smile, that only a father could give To Shahab''s right sat a collection of minor lords, most of whom owed their allegiance to him. Who made it a point to show their support to the royal marriage by extending their congratulations once they came to bear homage. Alpheo looked around the hall, watching as nobles talked with each other and mingled together, most not bearing to share a look to him. The young man however knew that this event was not organized to introduce him to the world''s of nobles, as it was instead organized to make money and make the coffers a bit more heavy . The grand doors of the banquet hall swung open , no trays of roasted meats or goblets of wine accompanied the servants who entered. Instead, they carried small, delicate trays bearing curious little cubes, yellowish-white in color. As the servants moved through the hall, they placed one cube before each guest, along with a small urn of clear water. A murmur spread through the crowd, as the lords and ladies, accustomed to extravagance, cast confused glances at the strange offering before them. From the shadows at the edge of the room, an elderly man, draped in the deep blue robes of a royal physician, stepped forward. His hair, long and white as snow, framed a face lined with years of wisdom. He moved with deliberate slowness, allowing the anticipation in the room to build. When he reached the front of the hall, he cleared his throat and raised his voice, his tone calm but commanding enough to capture the attention of even the most disinterested noble. "Esteemed lords and ladies," he began, his voice echoing in the vast space. "What has been placed before you is not a delicacy to eat, nor a wine to drink. It is something far more precious. What you see here," he gestured to the cubes, "is called soap, something that the gods saw fit to express by gifting wisdom to an ancient wise man that came to serve the princess as well as he could" The lords exchanged puzzled glances at the mention of that , but the physician continued, undeterred by the skepticism. He lifted one of the cubes in his hand and held it aloft for all to see. "This humble object," he said, "will sweep away any foul odor, restoring you to your natural state of cleanliness. But more importantly, it has the power to ward off illness and disease, which often cling to us" With slow, deliberate movements, the physician poured water from the urn into a basin and dipped the soap into it. He demonstrated by rubbing the cube between his hands, creating a fine lather that began to foam and shine under the flickering candlelight. A subtle, clean fragrance rose from the suds, refreshing in its simplicity. "Rub it well between your hands," the physician explained, "and cleanse your skin with it. Be thorough, for the foam will carry away dirt . It will leave your skin fresh and free from the foulness that clings after long days of travel or the rigors of battle." He rinsed his hands, showing the lords how the water washed away the foam, leaving his skin clean and bright. "Do this often, and you will not only banish foul odors, but you will help prevent sickness from taking hold.'''' The physician bowed slightly, stepping back from the table. "This is a gift from the gods to your princess, who in her infinite generosity saw it fit to share with all " he said with finality. "May you all use it wisely, and may your health be safeguarded in return." The nobles, still uncertain but curious, began to tentatively follow the physician''s instructions. They dipped the small yellow-white cubes into the water, rubbing them between their hands. Soon, the rich lather formed, and a delicate, pleasant scent began to rise from their palms. One by one, they brought their hands to their noses, inhaling the unfamiliar but refreshing fragrance. Murmurs of surprise spread through the hall, the skepticism melting away as they discovered the soap''s cleansing power and the unexpected luxury of its aroma. "What is this?" a lord whispered to his neighbor, sniffing his fingers again, the clean scent lingering like a soft breeze. "I''ve never smelled anything like it." "It has a funny smell..." another commented, his brows raised as he marveled at thing As the excitement subtly spread among the nobles, Princess Jasmine turned to Alpheo, seated close to her at the table of honor. A small, knowing smile played on her lips. She knew the truth behind the surprise, and her eyes held a glint of amusement as they met his. Alpheo was the true mastermind behind this new creation, a product he had presented to her in private just days before the feast. At first, the princess had been skeptical. But he had been persuasive, explaining how this invention would lead to a substantial increase in revenue, by selling it to the various nobles Jasmine had humored him, testing the soap herself in her private chambers. To her surprise, as she lathered the fragrant cube over her skin during bathing, she had found herself enchanted by its subtle floral scent and the softness it left behind. As the initial murmur of surprise from the soap quieted down, the servants glided back into the hall, now carrying trays filled with large goblets of a golden-orange liquid.Each guest was handed a goblet, the nobles eyeing the drink with curiosity, not knowing it was apple cider. The only thing resembling alcohol that Alpheo could produce in the short time he had Lord Shahab, seated near the princess at the table of honor, was the first to take his goblet. He stood and raised the drink high above his head. The hall fell into an expectant silence. "To our gracious liege, Princess Jasmine, first of her name! May her reign be prosperous and long, and may her wisdom guide us to glory!" Shahab''s voice boomed through the hall. The nobles, feeling the weight of his words and the festive air of the evening, all raised their cups in unison. "To Princess Jasmine!" they cheered, their voices echoing off the stone walls. With that, the hall took their first sips. A ripple of surprise quickly spread across the assembly as the taste washed over them¡ªa crisp, sweet, yet slightly tart flavor danced on their tongues, unlike anything they had ever tasted. It was refreshing, balacing between the apple sweetness and a mild, earthy bitterness that made it feel both sophisticated and simple. At the head of the table, Jasmine sat with a knowing smile, exchanging a glance with her grandfather, Lord Shahab. They had both tasted the apple cider before, days prior when Alpheo had introduced the new brew to them. It had been a subtle, intriguing taste that had won them over immediately, and that immediately made them see the potential in it. Lord Shahab observed Alpheo closely. He had long wondered why the mercenary-turned-consort had taken control of several key buildings in the city, ensuring they were constantly garrisoned by his men. Now, as the scent of the soap still lingered on his hands and the taste of the crisp apple cider filled the hall, it all became clear. Shahab sipped his cider thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered the implications. Any plot against Alpheo now was not merely a challenge to the man, but a threat to the entire royal family''s interests. If they had any idea about getting rid of him, after he passed his usefulness, now those were just distant and naive thoughts. The young mercenary had embedded himself into the very fabric of the fure princedom''s wealth, leaving no room for manipulation or betrayal that wouldn''t come at a great cost to the crown itself. It was a masterstroke, one that Shahab could not help but respect. As the old lord''s gaze lingered on Alpheo, the mercenary raised his own goblet, taking a deliberate drink of the cider. His eyes locked onto Shahab''s, as if he could sense the older man''s thoughts. Yet, beneath Alpheo''s composed exterior, a simmering frustration gnawed at him. Though seated at the table of honor, surrounded by the high lords and royalty, his companions¡ªthose loyal men who had followed him through battle and bloodshed¡ªhad been relegated to a distant table at the far end of the hall. They were out of sight, positioned far from him, as if unworthy of sharing in the feast alongside the royal family Alpheo had argued with Jasmine over it, trying to convince her to allow his men to sit closer, to give them the recognition they deserved. But she had been firm, unwilling to break with the traditions of court, where station dictated placement. Despite his newfound status, even he could not sway her on this. Now, as he drank, he glanced toward the far end of the hall, a shadow of discontent in his eyes. His men laughed and spoke among themselves, their voices lost in the grandness of the feast. Yet Alpheo could not help but feel a pang of guilt. He had brought them to the highest halls of power, but tonight, they sat distant from him. As the evening carried on, Jasmine leaned slightly toward her grandfather, her emerald eyes reflecting the glow of the candlelight. "What do you think of these?" she asked in a quiet tone, her gaze lingering on the orange cider in her hand. Shahab took a sip of his drink, his expression thoughtful. "They will be on every noble''s list of luxuries soon enough," he admitted. '''' Everyone will want it." Jasmine smiled, her lips curling with satisfaction. "Perhaps marrying him wasn''t such a bad idea after all," she said, her eyes drifting toward Alpheo. He sat quietly, drinking from his cup, though his eyes were distant, locked on the far end of the hall where his companions sat, laughing and talking amongst themselves. She studied him for a moment, noting the sharpness of his jaw, the strength in his frame. He was young, skilled in war, and undeniably good-looking. For a brief moment, she thought of the future and wondered if she could one day coax him into revealing the secrets behind the soap and the cider. A wife should know everything her husband holds dear, after all. "He''s a practical man," Shahab continued, breaking her thoughts. "He knows how to wield power, not just on the battlefield but in ways that matter to the crown. Yet," he paused, glancing toward Alpheo''s distant gaze, "he''s a man of loyalty. Always keeps his friend close....'''' He turned to her ''''Make sure to make use of it, never let them out of your sight, control them and you will have the key to control him too'''' Jasmine said nothing , but her eyes showed that she understood.As now the value of that young man was simply too great to be left unchecked, as it has been until now. Chapter 137: Unsavory welcome(2) Chapter 137: Unsavory welcome(2) As the evening wore on, a steady stream of nobles came forward to pay homage to their new liege, each bowing deeply before Jasmine and offering compliments for the lavish feast and the fine drinks. Many praised the cider, marveling at its rich taste and thanking her for the hospitality. But beneath the pleasantries, their true intentions were clear. Nearly as many lords as came to praise her subtly pushed for a reconsideration of her engagement to Alpheo. They presented their sons as worthier matches, emphasizing their houses'' strength and the advantages a union could bring to the crown.Not knowing that they were offering crumbles against someone that was bringing in a cake.At a certain moment Alpheo just closed his ears and focused on the food. None of them had a disciplined and well-equiped army to back them up, and none of them had the secrets to produce , the very same things they were praising in front of their liege, so Alpheo had no worries about his position. Jasmine, however, remained poised, her expression calm as she acknowledged their compliments and suggestions without committing to anything. "I thank you for this fine feast, Your Grace..." Lord Gregor of Aratum began, his voice carrying the weight of someone accustomed to speaking with intent. He subtly pushed his son forward, as if presenting an offering. "But, if I may be so bold, might I suggest there are stronger alliances to consider than the one proposed with ....Ser Alpheo?" His words hung in the air, and he gestured to his son, who stood stiffly beside him, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. "Your Grace, my son is loyal and strong. He would make a fine husband for a ruler as glorious as yourself," Gregor continued, his tone growing more eager, almost pleading. "A union with my house would strengthen your rule in ways no mere sellsword could offer. You would have our fleet at your command whenever required¡ª" "Does this mean you would withhold your naval might unless bound by marriage, my lord?" came a sharp voice. Lord Shahab, seated near Jasmine, had finally reached the end of his patience. "Of course not, my lord," Gregor stammered, taken aback by the sudden interjection. "My loyalty is to the prin¡ª" "Speaking of loyalty," Shahab interrupted, his gaze hardening, "I do not recall seeing your banners among those called by Her Majesty''s father when the Prince of Oizen raided and besieged our lands. Where were you then?" Lord Gregor visibly faltered, his face flushed. "My lord, I was unfortunately struck by illness at the time, which prevented¡ª" "Illness, you say?" Shahab''s voice was cold, almost mocking. "Strange, how sickness seems to befall you so often. I seem to recall another bout of it three years ago when the Prince called for his sworn lords once again. You have proven your loyalty enough times, my lord¡ªno need to test it further." Gregor''s face drained of color as he fumbled for words, but before he could respond, Jasmine raised her hand, her voice steady and clear. "What has passed may be forgotten, my lord," she said, her tone carrying the weight of authority, "as long as your loyalty remains steadfast to me from this day forward." "Of course, Your Grace, of course," Lord Gregor muttered, bowing hastily. He stepped back, his son following him in awkward silence, their ambitions momentarily quelled. With a final, fumbling nod, they retreated to the far end of the hall Alpheo sighed deeply, his eyes sweeping over the gathered nobles. A sneer curled at the corner of his lips as he watched them, bowing and scraping, each of them maneuvering for advantage, their thinly veiled ambitions barely hidden behind false smiles and polished words. "Pigs. Craven pigs," he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with contempt. His hand gripped the goblet before him, knuckles white. "If it were up to me, their heads would all be on pikes for refusing their liege''s call. We have no need for bystanders, no room for cowards.And this hall is fattening them up..." Jasmine, sitting quietly beside him, said nothing, though her eyes flicked briefly in his direction. She studied him for a moment but chose to remain silent. She understood he had drunk a bit too much Shahab, noticing the tension, leaned closer and raised a brow. "Alpheo," he said dryly, "you should slow down with the drinks...'''' Alpheo smirked, his eyes dark and glinting with a kind of dangerous amusement. He lifted his goblet and took a deliberate sip, savoring the taste before setting it down. "Nothing else to do, my lord," he replied, his voice calm but edged with a quiet menace. "Besides, I need something to hold me back from cutting the neck of the next one who badmouths me.Seems like they all think they can walk over me, not knowing that I just need one word to turn this fine feast into a slaughterhouse.Their pretty blood gushing out from their chest, with just an order from me..." "We can''t very well let you do that, Alpheo, no matter how tempting it may be." Alpheo sighed, his frustration barely masked. He pushed his chair back, the sound of its legs scraping against the floor causing a few heads to turn. Jasmine, seated beside him, widened her eyes, startled by his sudden movement. "Where are you going?" she asked, her voice tinged with a mix of surprise and concern. "To my people, no to my friends..." Alpheo responded coolly, glancing toward the far end of the hall where his companions, the rough mercenaries who had fought alongside him, sat at their own table, far from the nobles'' view. ''''Seems I am not welcome here..'''' As he strode toward the far end of the room, a wave of whispers rippled through the hall. Nobles exchanged looks, murmuring in disbelief and disapproval. Alpheo''s actions were seen as a blatant show of disrespect, deserting his privileged seat beside the princess and lords to sit with common men. For many, it was unthinkable that someone in his position¡ªhaving just been honored with a proposal of marriage to royalty¡ªwould abandon the seat of power for ones so lowly. Alpheo reached the far end of the hall, where the atmosphere was far more relaxed, the air thick with camaraderie rather than the stifling etiquette of noble courts. His eyes swept over his companions¡ªmen who had shared battles and hardships with him, bound by loyalty rather than birthright. "Is there a seat for me here?" he asked, his voice steady but edged with the frustration still simmering beneath. Egil stood up at once, a broad grin breaking across his face. "Of course there is, brother," he said, grabbing Alpheo''s shoulder with a firm, brotherly grip before guiding him into his own seat . As he settled, Clio, always watchful, poured him a generous chalice of wine without needing to be asked. As Alpheo took the cup, Jarza leaned in, her voice cautious. "Perhaps you shouldn''t have done that, leaving the high table like that...seems like it is something bad to do even for me" Alpheo merely smiled, a dark, satisfied grin, and raised the chalice to his lips, taking a long drink. The tension in him seemed to ease as the wine slid down his throat, warming his chest. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he turned his gaze back toward the hall of nobles, his eyes meeting each of theirs in turn. The whispering among them hadn''t stopped, and Alpheo felt their judgment. But he cared little for their disdain. "Who cares about their opinions," Alpheo said, his voice carrying just loud enough for those near him to hear, "when my brothers are with me." Asag, seated next to him, gave a small smile at Alpheo''s words, his weathered hand coming down to pat his back in quiet support. As Alpheo sat among his companions, the whispers and murmurs from the noble tables across the hall continued to hum in the background. He caught the sideways glances, the quiet smirks of those who believed they were above him. To them, he was still an outsider, a man with no noble blood to anchor his position, a man they could mock because they assumed their lineage made them untouchable. But Alpheo, staring into the deep red of his wine, let his thoughts drift elsewhere. Laugh now, he thought, but when my army marches upon your gates, we''ll see who laughs then. His hand tightened around the chalice as he imagined the proud banners of these lords fluttering in surrender as his soldiers stood before their castles, siege engines ready to tear through stone and pride alike. They could belittle him with their glances, whisper behind their cups, but they had never faced the steel of his resolve in the field, nor had they seen the fierce loyalty his men had for him. The nobles at their high tables, with their titles and wealth, knew nothing of the strength that came from commanding respect on the battlefield. They hadn''t built alliances forged in fire and blood. Alpheo took another drink, the thought almost soothing. In their arrogance, they could not see that they were simply giving him all the more reason to prove them wrong. Alpheo turned toward his companions, the simmering disdain for the nobles evident in his gaze. He took a deep breath and muttered under his breath, loud enough for them to hear, "Every noble that''s come to greet her... every single one of them tried to break the engagement right in front of me. Like I''m invisible." His voice dripped with contempt as he recalled the endless stream of self-important lords who paraded their sons, subtly hinting that their house would make a better match.What did they have to offer, that made them so arrogant? Jarza, always the hot-blooded one, gritted his teeth, his eyes narrowing with fury. "If I''d been there," he said through clenched teeth, "I''d have caved their pretty faces into the cold stone. Let them sneer through broken jaws." Alpheo chuckled and patted Jarza''s back firmly. "I know you would," he said, amusement flickering across his face. "And who knows? Maybe one day, you''ll get the chance to do just that to one or two of them.Just to straighten the rest...." Here, with his brothers-in-arms, he could be himself¡ªdirect, unapologetic, and unconcerned with the delicate sensibilities of those who had never fought for their place in the world. Chapter 138: Looming war Chapter 138: Looming war In the city of Confluendi, a dark mood had settled like a storm cloud. Three weeks had passed since the first whispers of defeat arrived,brought by ragged and fleeing soldiers who had barely escaped the battlefield, whose fate would be that of the chopping block as ordered by their young lord''s regent. A week later, the tension deepened into despair. The body of their fallen lord was paraded through the streets by royal envoys, a cruel display meant to hammer home the power of the crown and the consequences of defiance. The sight of their once-proud leader''s lifeless form, battered and bloodied, had a profound effect on the people. Crowds gathered in silence as the procession moved, the only sounds being the clatter of horses'' hooves and the quiet murmurs of disbelief. Yet the message was lost on the streets apparently when it was whispered that their young lord''s mother had refused to send even a token envoy to congratulate her nephew on his coronation. The tension in Confluendi thickened like a palpable force, and the people knew, without a doubt, that war was coming to them. A state of martial law had been declared in Confluendi. The city''s gates, once open to trade and travelers, were now shut tight, as if bracing for an inevitable assault. The air buzzed with the urgency of preparation. All food that could be gathered, whether from surrounding farms or hidden stores, was brought within the walls. The granaries overflowed with sacks of grain, dried meats, and whatever else could be salvaged. Even the smallest scraps were collected, as if every crumb would be needed to survive the long, grim days ahead. In the armories, the clang of iron echoed as weapons were distributed to the enlisted population. Old swords, rusted but serviceable, were handed to men who had never held a blade before. Bows were strung, arrows bundled, and every able-bodied citizen was pressed into service. Blacksmiths worked around the clock, hammering out nails, shields, and makeshift weapons. The city, once filled with bustling markets and the smell of fresh bread, was now consumed by the odor of iron and sweat. Outside the city, workers toiled in desperation, digging moats to slow the enemy that the widow of their late lord believed was coming . The ground was hard, and the work grueling, but the fear of what would happen if they failed drove them forward. They carved deep trenches around the city''s perimeter, fortifying their defenses with whatever they could find¡ªspiked barricades, hastily built ramparts, anything to keep the enemy at bay for just a little longer. Inside the walls, every scrap of food became precious. Merchants who dealt in anything edible saw their wares confiscated by the city officials, their goods carted off to the central food warehouses, where they were rationed and counted meticulously. It was a cruel necessity, and though some merchants protested in the end they could do nothing. Every crumb would be needed. Other merchants, those whose goods could not be eaten or used in war, sensed the shift in the air. They packed up their belongings in haste, loading wagons with whatever stock they could salvage. With the city poised for conflict, they had no intention of staying. They knew Confluendi was a sinking ship, and only fools would remain to sink with it. In the dead of night, the caravans creaked through the side gates, the merchants slipping away before the hammer of war fell. Inside the cold, towering stone walls of the keep, the air was thick with tension. Lady Elira, widow of the late Ormund, paced the length of the grand hall like a caged lioness, her voice rising in fury. Her once regal demeanor was shattered, replaced by desperation and seething rage. She wore a black gown of mourning, though her grieving had long since been consumed by anger. "Traitors! All of them!" she shouted, her voice hoarse from days of screaming, her eyes wild with frustration. She threw a stack of crumpled letters onto the table, their seals broken and their messages clear: refusal. "I sent pleas to every one of his sworn lords¡ªevery one! And what did they do? Nothing! Not a single one of those cowards would lift a finger to defend my son!" Her voice cracked as she slammed her fist down onto the table, rattling the goblets and candlesticks upon it. Her son, the young Lord Cedric, heir to the House, had been left to face the storm alone. The promises of loyalty, once sworn by his father''s vassals, had crumbled like dust. Letters had been sent out in every direction, urging the banners to be called, begging for aid to defend Confluendi. But each response had been the same: silence or empty words of regret. "They swore oaths!" Elira spat, her eyes blazing as she looked toward the small gathering of household retainers and lesser nobles who remained with her. "Oaths on their honor! Yet now, when my son needs them most, they hide behind their walls, claiming sickness or weakness! One defeat Is all that It took! Cowards, all of them! They were quick to take our lands and titles, but when the time comes to repay that debt, they disappear!" Her attendants stood quietly, exchanging uneasy glances, unwilling or unable to calm the furious woman. They knew her words held truth, but what could be done? Ormund''s death had left their house vulnerable, and the scent of weakness had drawn the vultures. With each passing day, their allies dwindled, and the walls of the keep felt smaller, more oppressive. ''''How is the situation on the wall instead?'''' She asked to Thalys the head of the garrison of the city. "Every weapon has been distributed, Lady Elira," he said, his voice steady but grim. "We''ve managed to arm 300 men to man the walls. Bows, spears, swords¡ªall are accounted for. The storage is filled with enough food to last well into the end of winter, even with the current rationing." Elira''s face twisted with anger, her hands clenched tightly around the folds of her gown. "That''s it? 300 men? That''s all we can muster? It''s not enough! It''s nowhere near enough to protect my son! We have thousands of subjects and yet that is all?" Thalys remained calm, though the weight of the truth bore down on him. "My lady," he said, bowing his head slightly, "we''ve armed everyone we could. We have no more weapons to give, all was take by lord Ormund on his march." Elira''s voice rose sharply, her rage filling the hall like a storm. "Then give them sticks! Spears of wood, makeshift clubs¡ªwhatever they can find! I don''t care if they fight with their bare hands or with steel in it " Thalys bowed deeply, hiding any frustration he might have felt , he knew what she was going through. "As you command, my lady. I will relay the order to the men." The tension in the hall was palpable, the faces of the attendants tight with fear and uncertainty. Without another word, Elira turned away from Thalys, her face pale with frustration and a flicker of desperation. "Empty the hall," she ordered coldly. "Leave me." The retainers and soldiers filed out in silence, and soon the grand chamber was empty, save for Elira herself. She sat heavily upon the chair at the end of the hall, her hands resting on the arms of the seat as she stared out through the tall windows that overlooked the city of Confluendi. Her gaze was distant, fixed on the snow-dusted rooftops of the city below. From her vantage, she could see the hurried preparations, and the smoke from the smithies and cookfires rose into the cold, gray sky. But all she could feel was a gnawing emptiness, a growing sense of doom. -------------- Alpheo sat at the head of the long wooden table, his fingers absently tracing the grain of the wood as he spoke. The room was dimly lit by a crackling hearth, shadows dancing across the walls. To his left sat Lord Shahab, ever calm and composed, with his son by his side. Across from them, Jasmine sat quietly, her emerald eyes observing the meeting in silence. Alpheo''s closest companions, Egil and Jarza, stood behind him, their presence a reassuring constant. "We march northwest to resupply in Megioduroli," Alpheo began, his voice steady but laced with the edge of urgency. "After that, we head straight to Confluendi. The sooner we reach their walls, the better." Shahab, leaning slightly forward in his chair, nodded thoughtfully before speaking. "In a month''s time, I should be able to muster 300 men by calling on my sworn lords. They will take time to gather, but my son will lead them to you once they are ready." Shahab gestured to his son, who bowed slightly in acknowledgment "Meanwhile, I will bring my own men. One hundred fifty soldiers, to march with you." Alpheo nodded, considering the numbers. "Good. With 100 left here to guard the garrison, I''ll march with the other 550 . That brings our number to 700 before your reinforcements arrive. It''s a strong start." The room fell into a contemplative silence for a moment. Alpheo glanced at Jasmine, who met his gaze but said nothing, her thoughts unreadable. He then turned to his companions, Egil and Jarza, who exchanged subtle nods, ready for the campaign ahead. Jasmine broke the silence, her voice measured but laced with concern. "Are we enough?" Alpheo leaned forward slightly, meeting her gaze. "More men," he said with a faint smirk, "is like having more gold. You can never have enough. Unfortunately, the cost to maintain such a force grows with every sword and every ration. We''re already stretching our resources." His tone was pragmatic, acknowledging the limits of their current army ''''Winter has nearly reached us and every grain will be needed until spring...'''' "But," Jasmine pressed, "are we enough to breach the city?" Alpheo''s smile widened, a glint of confidence in his eyes. "Confluendi''s defenses are not what they were. With Ormund''s failed campaign, the city''s weapon stores must be dwindling. They''ll be poorly equipped, and their numbers will be spread thin. Add to that the fact we struck a deal with many of our captured lords¡ªreleased them without ransom on the condition they refuse to send aid to their liege" He leaned back in his chair, his smile lingering. "In short, we will deal with a sick man waiting for mercy''s blow'''' Shahab furrowed his brow, casting a cautious glance at Alpheo. "They still have the walls, and if you take this siege too lightly, it will end with your army buried beneath them." His tone was firm, carrying the weight of years of experience. Before Alpheo could respond, Jarza stepped in, his voice steady but respectful. "Apologies for the interruption, my lord, but I can assure you¡ªAlpheo never takes anything lightly, even if it seems otherwise. " Shahab gave no reply, only a deep, dissatisfied groan. Alpheo, unfazed, met the old lord''s eyes with quiet determination. "I''m well aware of the risks," he said calmly, his voice steady. "I have no intention of underestimating them, nor of wasting lives. The walls will be a challenge, but I''ve never treated a siege as anything less than life or death." Shahab studied him for a long moment, then gave a slow nod, though the tension in his jaw remained. "I hope you understand the gravity of this. Overconfidence has cost many a commander their life¡ªand their men." Alpheo smiled faintly, the edge of his usual confidence returning. "I do, Lord Shahab. Every stone those walls stand on, I intend to dismantle carefully." Shahab''s gaze narrowed, but after a moment, he spoke. "I hope you do," he said gruffly, before shifting the topic. "When do we march?" Alpheo didn''t miss a beat. "In four days. Once all the nobles have departed the city, we''ll be ready to move." Shahab nodded slowly, though the concern in his eyes didn''t quite fade, as they were once again moving to wa Chapter 139: Aiding the effort Chapter 139: Aiding the effort The army of 700 men marched in unison, their footfalls thudding against the hardened dirt as they approached the city of Megioduroli. Dust rose with every step, swirling in the cool morning air. At the head of the column, Alpheo rode alongside Lord Shahab, both of them silent as they neared the city walls. The banners of their combined forces fluttered behind them, their colors catching in the wind,as the city''s gates remained closed. The initial coldness which the lord held toward Alpheo had started to get warmer as the relationship betweent he two reached a point at least, where the old men did not groan every time he exchanged talks with the young man. Ahead, stark against the landscape, were two banners planted firmly into the ground¡ªblack stags on a blood-red field. The sigil of lord Aidon''s house with the head of it being the lord of Megioduroli, Lord Damaris. Alpheo signaled for the army to halt, his hand raised. A ripple of motion passed through the ranks as the men obeyed, their armor clanking and horses snorting in the sudden stillness. Alpheo turned to his companions. "We go forward. The rest of you hold here," he ordered. Alpheo knew that marching into another lord''s domain was considered an enfrangement over the latter''s rights; as such he wanted to make sure to let their first encounter to the lord of the city not end badly. The dozen riders accompanying them followed as Alpheo and Shahab nudged their horses forward, breaking off from the main force. As Alpheo and Shahab neared the banners of House Aidon, two men , dressed in the deep crimson and black of their lord''s colors, waited for them. Their polished armor reflected the sunlight, and they held their helmets tucked under their arms as they rode forward to meet the advancing party. One of the men, his face stern but respectful, raised a hand in greeting. "My lords," he called out, his voice steady, "Lord Damaris sends his welcome. He invites you to enter the city as honored guests. The gates of Megioduroli are open to you , although my lord would prefer if the bulk of your army stayed camped outside for safety reasons. Lord Damaris awaits your presence in his mansion" Alpheo exchanged a brief glance with Shahab, before speaking. "Please ,lead the way good sirs ." The two men dipped their heads in acknowledgment, turning their horses and falling in beside Alpheo and Shahab, their presence calm and without haste. The small party rode ahead, leaving the larger army waiting at the outskirts of the city. As they approached the gates, the massive iron doors creaked open slowly, revealing the bustling streets of Megioduroli beyond. Townspeople paused in their work, staring at the approaching nobles and their retinue with wary eyes. The party was guided through the cobbled streets, their horses'' hooves echoing against the stones, until they came upon the grand mansion of Lord Damaris. It rose like a sentinel above the surrounding buildings.The banners of the black stag fluttered proudly from its walls. As they dismounted, the two riders gestured toward the entrance. "This way, my lords," one of them said, bowing slightly. They followed closely behind as Alpheo and Shahab were led through the open doors of the mansion, the heavy scent of incense and old wood filling the air inside. At the far end of the room, Lord Damaris sat regally upon a high-backed chair that elevated him above his guests. The lord''s imposing figure was draped in fine fabrics of deep green and gold, his silver hair neatly combed back, accentuating a face lined with experience and authority. His dark eyes sparkled with a mixture of shrewdness and curiosity as he surveyed the newcomers. "Lord Shahab," Damaris greeted, rising slightly from his seat with a respectful nod. "It is good to see you again." Shahab returned the gesture, a hint of relief crossing his features at the warm welcome. "Lord Damaris, thank you for your hospitality. I trust all is well within your walls?" "Aye, well enough for now," Damaris replied, his tone shifting slightly as he turned his attention to Alpheo. "And you must be the renowned Ser Alpheo." He offered a curt nod "Welcome to Megioduroli, please take a seat." Alpheo sensed the slight formality in the lord''s greeting.He returned the nod, a subtle smile playing on his lips. "Thank you for having us, my lord.'''' Alpheo settled into his seat, his sharp eyes studying the room and its occupants. After a moment, he leaned forward, his voice smooth and confident. "I trust, my lord, that you received my gift well?" Lord Damaris gave a slow nod, a faint smile curling his lips. "Indeed, I did. Beautiful gifts, Alpheo. It seems I''ve had some difficulty acquiring the newest products from her majesty''s court. I would have liked to meet that wise old man that amde them , unfortunately I needed to return to my domain to resume my duties. Still, Your generosity was... timely." "Then I''m glad they arrived safely," Alpheo said, his smile unwavering. Lord Damaris shifted in his seat, his gaze sharpening as he looked between Alpheo and Shahab. "I assume, then, that you march to put an end to this rebellion once and for all?" Shahab nodded gravely, his hands resting on the arms of his chair. "It is high time this ill-attempted rebellion is cut down," he said, his voice heavy with the weight of the past few months. "We''ve suffered the chaos for long enough. The people are weary, and the crown''s patience is wearing thin." Damaris sighed, leaning back slightly "I see. My hopes stand with the crown, as always, though I wonder how far this rot has spread. Ormund''s widow has dug in deep, and if rumors are to be believed, she has not surrendered hope." Alpheo''s eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. "Hope is a powerful thing, my lord, but it does little good when steel is at your throat" Lord Damaris shifted in his seat, his gaze now steady on Shahab and Alpheo. His tone was measured but carried a faint hint of apology. "You speak truly, sir....still I hope you may forgive me for prying further into your campaign, but reports have reached me that Ormund''s widow has taken extreme measures in the lands surrounding Confluendi. Entire villages have been emptied of all provisions¡ªfood, livestock, anything that could sustain an army. She has left the countryside barren. It seems you may find it difficult to maintain a steady food supply for your men." Alpheo, sitting with a calm expression, tilted his head slightly. His voice was casual but held an underlying sharpness. "Are you offering to aid us in solving that particular problem, my lord?For if that was true , we would be certain to remember of this kindness" A small, knowing smile played across Lord Damaris'' lips as he leaned back in his chair. "I would be more than happy to offer assistance, of course. Her Majesty''s cause is a righteous one, and I would gladly aid it. '''' Shahab, ever the cautious diplomat, raised an eyebrow as he considered the offer. His voice was polite but edged with curiosity. "And would such generous help come with a price, my lord?" Lord Damaris'' smile deepened, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest. "In these times, one rarely gives without expecting something in return. But I''m certain we can come to a mutual understanding that will benefit all of us." Shahab''s expression remained steady, though his eyes glinted with sharp curiosity as he leaned slightly forward. "Namely what, my lord?" he asked in a voice that was both cautious and commanding. Lord Damaris did not hesitate. "Alenholm, Vernith, Jaskor, and Theonport," he replied smoothly, listing the names of four cities with precise deliberation. Shahab frowned slightly, shaking his head. "Those cities belong to lords sworn to Ormund''s house, and they have all declared neutrality since his death. It would not be wise to infringe on their lands. " Lord Damaris'' face did not betray much, but his eyes darkened slightly. "Those lords aided Ormund in his rebellion, and their owners are now under arrest in the royal capital. Seized lands should belong to those who stand loyal to the crown," he said smoothly, though his underlying ambition was clear. Shahab responded without missing a beat. "They were pardoned for their actions by her grace, and you know that well. This is not about loyalty, Damaris. You''re interested in gaining access to the river without passing through Confluendi''s fiefdoms, aren''t you?Your previous talks about that issue with Ormund did not end well , isn''t that right?" Lord Damaris paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. He said nothing, and the silence stretched for a moment. Seeing that the lord had no immediate retort, Shahab continued with a more calculating tone. "We can add some conditions to this deal. You may claim in vassalage Alenholm and Vernith, and your lords will be made to swear not to tax any convoy coming from their liege, which would be you, of course'''' Lord Damaris leaned back in his chair, eyes gleaming with an edge of skepticism. "You speak of deals and concessions, Lord Shahab, but do you have the power to back up your words? Or are we merely entertaining fantasies of what could be?" Shahab, unfazed by the challenge, met Damaris'' gaze with steady confidence. "We do," he replied firmly, "but to justify such requests to Princess Jasmine, we will need more than words. Troops will need to march in her name, and your house will need to stand in support.Also you will be asked to support 500 men worth of food for at least two months. Only with that can we can make this arrangement beneficial to all as I am sure Jasmine''s generosity will be more than ample regarding the first lords to aid her cause...." Damaris considered Shahab''s words for a moment, his calculating gaze shifting between the gathered men. Finally, with a slow nod, he spoke. "Very well. I will send 300 troops, led by my son. Their swords will march alongside yours, I will just need a week to form them" Before Shahab could respond, Alpheo interjected, his tone cool and measured. "I trust, Lord Damaris, that your son understands the command structure for this campaign. I''ve been given the position of commander by her grace, and I expect he will take orders from me as he would from any superior officer." Lord Damaris glanced at Alpheo, his expression unreadable for a moment "I will inform my son of the chain of command. He will follow your lead, Ser Alpheo." The words appeared to sound sour to the lord''s lips, as his face hardened a bit as they flew out from his mouth. Still that was a secondary matter, as deep down Lord Damaris was satisfied with the deal, since with it his long-standing dream to gain access to the Rioe?n river was reached. Finally allowing him to exempt his caravans from many of the taxes required by the lord of Confluendi to pass through it. Chapter 140: Starting the siege(1) Chapter 140: Starting the siege(1) With the promise of more reinforcement coming in a week, Alpheo departed from the city the very next day. Two days had passed as Alpheo''s army marched steadily toward Confluendi, the land around them growing eerily desolate. The fields lay barren, the homes and barns of the scattered villages they passed standing silent, as though abandoned in haste. There were no signs of life¡ªno livestock, no villagers¡ªjust emptiness. Egil, riding beside Alpheo, narrowed his eyes as they approached yet another deserted village. "No bodies," he muttered, scanning the scene. "No blood either. These places weren''t raided." Jarza, riding on the other side, grunted in agreement. "The rebels must''ve cleared everything out themselves. Took all the food they could find." He glanced toward the city looming in the distance. "The people probably either fled to Confluendi or moved to other villages, refugees by now." Alpheo remained silent for a moment, taking in the lifeless landscape. His eyes hardened as he surveyed the abandoned farms and empty roads. "Whatever happens with this siege, this land is ruined," he finally said, his voice carrying a grim weight. "Famine, refugees... it''ll be chaos for months, maybe until the next fall" He let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "The bitch would burn everything just to leave ashes behind her," he muttered under his breath, the bitterness in his tone palpable. Elira, Ormund''s widow, had made sure that even if she lost, the land she once ruled would suffer long after. "Tell the men," Alpheo began, "that no one is to drink from the wells in these villages. We don''t know if they''ve been poisoned." He spared a look to one of them before continuing "The rebels could''ve fouled the water on their way out, and I won''t risk losing men to something as simple as thirst." Egil nodded and immediately sent out riders to spread the command among the troops. Alpheo continued, his eyes fixed on the distant rivers they had passed earlier. "We''ll resupply our water near the two rivers that run outside the city''s fields. It''s safer, and we know the water''s fresh there." Egil rode up alongside Alpheo, his brow furrowed with concern. "Commander, should I take some men and scout the surrounding areas? Make sure we''re not walking into an ambush?" Alpheo glanced at him, his expression thoughtful as he considered the suggestion. After a moment, he shook his head. "No need" he said firmly '''' The land is empty, and all the cavalry that they could have mustered was defeated by us back then. No point wasting time searching for threats that aren''t there." Egil looked slightly puzzled, but Alpheo continued, his voice steady and decisive. "Instead, take the men and find the remaining villagers. I can''t believe that everyone was brought inside the walls. There must be someone hiding in the woods or trying to live off what''s left in the fields. Bring them to Confluendi.Promise them two meals a day in exchange for work," Alpheo said with a small shrug, " That should be enough to convince them." "And if they refuse?" Egil asked, his voice cautious. Alpheo''s eyes hardened. "Then take them anyway. We need bodies to dig trenches and haul supplies, not their approval. Desperation breeds compliance." Egil gave a nod, understanding the command. Without another word, he wheeled his horse around, riding off to gather the men, ready to round up whoever they could find to serve the army''s needs. Alpheo watched him go, his gaze dark as the inevitable siege of Confluendi crept closer. Alpheo''s army finally crested the last hill, and the city of Confluendi lay sprawled before them. Its walls rose about five meters high but not impenetrable. Along the battlements, archers were already manning their positions, bows drawn and arrows knocked, their grim faces visible even from a distance. Just outside the walls, two freshly dug moats ran parallel, an additional layer of defense against any would-be besiegers. Alpheo squinted up at the sky, the sun still sitting high overhead. It was barely midday, and they had made good time despite the barren villages and empty land behind them. He turned back to his men, his voice cutting through the quiet tension. "Set up camp 220 meters from the wall. Keep us well out of arrow range." Jarza, standing nearby, nodded immediately. "Understood" Without hesitation, Jarza turned and began barking orders to the officers. "You heard him! Move it, lads! Make camp, and keep the distance at as ordered. Let''s go!" The smaller officers sprang into action, repeating the commands as the army began to fan out, preparing to establish their encampment. Shahab observed the bustling activity around him, genuinely surprised by the efficiency and precision with which Alpheo''s men were setting up camp. Within minutes from the order, squads of soldiers were already digging trenches, erecting temporary wooden structures that resembled hollowed walls, and accumulating piles of dirt behind them as the one in front of them digged moats "Your men are swift and well-drilled even outside battle " Shahab remarked, his brows raised in admiration. "I''ve rarely seen a camp being prepared so efficiently." Alpheo, standing nearby, gave a slight nod as he watched the preparations unfold. "I keep them moving, always drilling. Long marches followed by camp construction. Every squad knows their role. First, dig the perimeter and raise these wooden walls¡ªthey''re hollow inside, but the dirt they dig out is piled up behind, making a solid barrier. If we''re here long enough, we''ll add stakes at the bottom, make it harder to place ladders." Shahab smiled, nodding slowly. "Sounds like you''ve taken a page from Romelian infantry practices. I''ve heard they build camps after every march." Alpheo glanced at Shahab, a brief, almost imperceptible flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes. "I did," he replied simply. "Ah," Shahab continued, "I suppose you come from there. Romelia, then?Miss your homeland?" Alpheo''s expression darkened. Without a word, he turned his head to the side ''''I suppose I would prefer to live in hell than to even have a walk there...'''' Shahab glanced around , noting the response in his mind. "When do you expect the camp to be fully ready?" Alpheo stood with arms crossed, his eyes scanning the progress "With the men we have now, I''d say half a week, maybe a little less if they push hard enough," he replied. "But if Egil returns soon with the laborers I sent him to gather, we could finish this even sooner." Shahab raised an eyebrow. "You''re banking on those laborers?" Alpheo''s gaze hardened slightly as he considered the question. "Whether they come willingly or not, they''ll work," he said matter-of-factly. "With more hands, we''ll have this camp fortified faster than they expect." His sharp eyes took in every detail¡ªthe height of the walls, the moats, and most importantly, the gaps in his army''s line. He could see clearly that their forces were too few to completely encircle the city without leaving their lines perilously thin. Beside him, Shahab followed his gaze, quickly noticing the same issue. "There are other gates," Shahab observed, pointing to the far side of the city. "If they''re left open, the enemy could still take in supplies or launch sorties from there." Alpheo nodded, his expression unchanging. "I know. To cover everything, we''ll need the reinforcements Lord Damaris promised along with yours. Right now, we don''t have the numbers." Shahab frowned. "So what''s the plan?" "For now," Alpheo said, eyes narrowing as he studied the distant walls, "we focus on finishing this camp as quickly as possible. If they decide to make a sortie, we''ll be ready. Once the reinforcements arrive, we''ll build additional camps at each of the city''s gates and divide our forces to cover all the exits." Shahab crossed his arms, thinking. "That''s assuming the enemy doesn''t try anything before then." ''''We work with what we have'''' Alpheo stood in silent contemplation, his eyes fixed on the city walls of Confluendi, before turning to Shahab. "I''ll have our cavalry patrol around the city," he said with a firm tone. "The enemy likely has minimal cavalry, if any at all. If they dare send foragers out, we''ll have the advantage." Shahab raised an eyebrow. "You''re sure their cavalry is that weak?" Alpheo gave a sharp nod. "I''m certain. After Ormund''s failed campaign, they''ll be stretched thin, especially in mounted forces. They can''t afford to lose any men, let alone horses. If they try to gather supplies outside the walls, our riders, which outnumber them will cut them down before they return." A faint smirk crossed Shahab''s face. "Sounds like you''re tightening the noose." ''''Let''s hope the rope is strong enough then to brak their neck..'''' As he said so, Alpheo turned away from the city walls, his boots spurring the horse''s side as he strode back toward the bustling camp. His mind churned with thoughts of how best to weaken Confluendi''s garrison. They were already low in numbers and isolated, but he needed to exploit every vulnerability, as he knew how fickle sieges could be for everybody. Chapter 141: Starting the siege(2) Chapter 141: Starting the siege(2) A few hours had passed since the besieging army arrived, and the defenders of Confluendi¡ªnumbering only 400¡ªwatched anxiously from the city''s battered walls. Out on the horizon, 700 soldiers toiled in disciplined silence, erecting an orderly camp as though they had all the time in the world. Even from their distant vantage point, the garrison could see that at least half of the enemy forces were not part of the labor, standing guard instead, ready to thwart any attempt at a sortie. The garrison''s own armaments were a sorry comparison¡ªill-maintained and rusted.As they had to scrap the barrel as the store-house was completely empty. Many of the defenders bore nothing but a simple sword or a crude lance, and fewer still had shields. Now, faced with the sight of a well-trained army, armed to the teeth with weapons gleaming like silver under the sunlight, they could see the stark difference between themselves and their enemy. The attackers looked more like an unstoppable war machine, where even the rank and file carried steel that seemed freshly forged. These were no ragged militia or conscripts¡ªthey were professional soldiers, drilled and battle-hardened. One of the men on the wall, a young conscript with a few strands of a dark beard clinging to his chin, held up his own sword. The blade had spots of orange rust crawling up from the hilt, and the once-sharp edge had dulled from disuse. He stared at it for a long moment, then shifted his gaze back to the soldiers outside¡ªdisciplined, prepared, and menacing. His voice came out, low and trembling. "How in the gods'' names are we supposed to kill those?" He wasn''t addressing anyone in particular, but the desperation in his voice caught the attention of those nearby. "I don''t know," the older soldier replied, shaking his head. "Just pray to the gods for help. This is what we''ve been given... and if the gods see fit to send us to our graves with rusty steel, then curse them..." There was a heavy silence as the soldiers mulled over his words. Some glanced again at the enemy camp, their hope sinking lower by the minute. They had been told they were fighting for their city, their homes, their families¡ªbut what could hope do against the cold, brutal reality staring them down from the horizon? The head of the garrison, Sir Thalys, stood atop the wall, his weathered eyes fixed on the horizon where the enemy camp was rapidly taking shape. He had heard the murmurs of his men, their whispered doubts and fearful questions, but he knew that letting those thoughts fester would only rot the heart of his already fragile defense. "Who said that?" he bellowed, his voice harsh and commanding. The soldiers stiffened under his gaze. "I will have no cowards among my ranks! The next man I hear whispering such defeatist nonsense will be treated as an enemy spy and executed without mercy!" The threat hung in the air, silencing the soldiers who had just moments before been muttering in despair. The garrison commander let his gaze sweep over them, daring anyone to defy him. When no one spoke, he continued with a sneer, his words sharp but hollow. "Do you not see the wall between them and us? If they''re foolish enough to try and storm this city, their bodies will fill the moat before they even reach the gate! And if they think to starve us out, winter will humble them before it humbles us!" He pounded his fist on the stone parapet for emphasis. "Have faith in yourselves, in your brothers beside you! By the end of this month, every man in that army will either flee back to his mother''s skirts or wait for her in the depths of hell!" His short, fiery speech did its job. The men visibly steadied themselves, their rattled nerves calming, if only for the moment. But the commander knew better than anyone that most of what he had just said was a lie, or at least a comforting exaggeration. He had seen armies like this before, well-equipped only in Romelia. Anyone of those soldier had the equipment only sub-par to that of a king''s guard, although he could see that few of them wore breastplates and steel armor above the chainmail. He knew that once a few of those enemy soldiers reached the walls, there would be little hope that his ragtag group of defenders could hold them off for long. He sighed inwardly, his thoughts drifting back to the days of his youth when he had traveled far beyond these lands. Once, in the heart of the Rolmian Empire, he had stood as an observer, watching in awe as thousands of soldiers marched in perfect unison, each one equipped with armor and weapons fit for a king''s guard. It had been a spectacle of sheer military might, a force that could break lesser men with their presence alone. And while the enemy before him now was fewer in number, they carried that same aura¡ªan army of professionals. For a fleeting moment, he entertained the idea of leading a sortie, of catching the enemy off guard while they were still entrenching themselves. But then, he glanced back at his own men¡ªthe dirty, ill-equipped soldiers who leaned on rusty spears and chipped swords, their eyes hollow with fatigue and fear. No, a sortie would be suicide, he thought as reality slapped him in the face. His men weren''t soldiers in any real sense. They were peasants hastily armed and thrown onto these walls with the flimsiest of armor and rusting weapons. To send them out against that army would be sending lambs to slaughter. The commander clenched his jaw, his fists tightening on the cold stone of the parapet. He glanced back at the towering keep. Inside, his young lord and her mother sought refuge, awaiting whatever fate would come. He clenched his jaw,he had failed. He had sworn to serve them, to protect them with his life.The only thing now was to do his duty even in defeat, If it was here on these walls, that he was meant to die, so be it. Thalys stood atop the weathered battlements, scanning the horizon when a sudden commotion drew his attention. A lone rider, clad in armor and bearing a banner of two black diagonaly stripes on a white field, gallopping toward the walls.That was the first time he saw such a banner, but he realized immediately that it was of the mercenary, mostly for the lack of any herald. The rhythmic pounding of hooves echoed through the cold air as the rider halted just beyond bow range. The rider raised his voice, sharp and clear. "A parlay! The general of the royal army, Sir Alpheo request a parlay with the young lords''s regent !" Thalys narrowed his eyes, watching the rider with a cold, calculating gaze. He hesitated, his mind racing as he weighed the situation. Turning his head slightly, he glanced back at the distant keep, where the young lord and her mother waited, helpless behind stone walls. Thalys stood tall on the battlements, eyes locked on the lone rider below, before suddenly shouting down with authority, "It will be the commander of the city who meets you! The regent will not risk her well-being by treating with kinslayers and liars!" "The meeting will take place between the walls and your camp," the rider continued, his voice firm. "You are allowed to bring only five men." After saying that the rider did not waid for a response but turned his horse and rode back toward the distant camp, the banner fluttering behind him like a shadow. Thalys inhaled deeply and turned to his close guards and choosing five. --------------- Minutes later, clad in his armor, Thalys led a small contingent through the gates. The air was thick with tension, the cold bite of impending conflict lacing every breath they took. His guards, five in total, followed closely behind him Ahead, just beyond the no-man''s land between the walls and the enemy camp, a simple wooden table had been set up, marking the meeting point. As he approached the table, Thalys pulled the reins, slowing his horse. He dismounted smoothly, the cold ground crunching under his boots. His guards followed suit, dismounting with practiced ease. Alpheo stood by the table, his armor catching the midday sun, casting sharp reflections across the field. With a faint smirk, he greeted the approaching commander. "It is a pleasure to finally meet the man defending this city. Mayhaps in any other situation we could have shared a cup of wine," he said, his voice calm, almost mocking, as if this were a casual affair rather than a life-and-death standoff. Thalys, however, did not respond. His eyes were fixed on Alpheo, the man responsible for the death of his lord and his young son. The hatred in his gaze was barely contained, but he kept his composure, hands clenched by his sides. He glanced up, his eyes catching the bright afternoon sun. For a brief, fleeting moment, he allowed himself to wonder if this would be the last time he saw the sun, the last time he breathed free air. A small sigh escaped his lips. Without warning, his hand shot to his belt, drawing his dagger in a flash of steel. In one swift, reckless motion, Thalys lunged forward. The dagger gleamed as he aimed it directly at Alpheo''s throat. If he was to die, then he would be choosing the way he would go. Chapter 142: Close call Chapter 142: Close call Alpheo was on his knees, his voice a raw shout of agony that cut through the air. His right hand was all red with blood , a dagger piercing through the flesh, the blade embedded deep enough that the tip jutted out from the back of his hand. Blood pooled beneath him, his face contorted in pain as he clutched at the wound with his free hand, eyes wide with shock and fury. Nearby, Thalys lay face-down in the dirt, his arms forcibly twisted behind his back by two of Alpheo''s men. This was the first man Alpheo was so close to death, in this life at least , yet it seemed that his luck was as big as his ambitions. Meanwhile Jarza wasted no time. With a savage roar, he swung his mace in a brutal arc, crushing the skull of one of Thalys'' guards, the sickening crack of bone echoing across the battlefield. He then turned and with a roar brought his weapon down on a second man before the guard had a chance to react. The rest of Thalys'' men immediately surrendered as they saw they rest of the guards running towards them. Shahab wasted no time in delivering a brutal kick to Thalys'' face, sending the man''s head snapping to the side. Blood dribbled from his nose and mouth as Shahab spat at him, his anger not faked as what just happened would have made the blood of any noble boil with anger. "You bastard without honor." Thalys, despite the agony in his limbs and the assault to his face, let out a ragged laugh, blood-stained teeth bared in defiance. "You would serve a cunt who spreads her legs for dogs!What does that make you?" he shouted, his voice thick with contempt and hatred. Jarza,hearing the words, with his face twisting in rage, raised his mace high, ready to bring it crashing down on Thalys'' skull. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the weapon, fury blazing in his eyes. But before the blow could land, Alpheo''s voice, still hoarse from pain but sharp cut through "Stop!" he roared, even as his face remained contorted in pain, his hand still pierced by the dagger. Jarza froze mid-swing, glancing back at his friend and leader for a brief moment, his mace trembling slightly in his hands. Reluctantly, he lowered his weapon, stepping back. Alpheo, breathing heavily, turned to one of his men standing nearby. "Go, fetch Agalosios. Tell him... tell him my condition." His voice was strained but firm, the urgency clear. As the soldier ran off to fetch the medic, Shahab turned slowly, catching sight of Alpheo''s expression¡ªan intense, simmering fury beneath the pain. The anger in his eyes was undeniable, and Shahab, recognizing the fire within him, took a step back, subtly shifting to the right, allowing Alpheo the space to handle Thalys however he saw fit. Thalys lay on the ground, bloodied and bruised, but his defiance burned just as fiercely as before. He spat on the grass, a dark glob of blood and saliva staining the earth between them. His eyes were wild with hatred as he looked up at Alpheo. "My only regret," he growled, "is not killing the murderer of my lord and his son when I had the chance." Alpheo, still kneeling and clutching his injured hand, breathed heavily, the pain from the dagger wound etched across his face. But despite the agony, a cold, mocking smile crept across his lips. Slowly, he shifted his weight and leaned closer to Thalys, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Do you want to know how they died?" Alpheo began, his grin widening as he saw the fury ignite in Thalys'' eyes. "Ormund, your precious lord, was surrounded by my riders. Hundreds of them. And his last moments?" He chuckled, his breath ragged but sharp as a blade. "Pathetic as his death . Screaming his name, as if it meant something. ''I''m a prince!'' he cried, as though that would save him.One of my men shut him up for good. A sword straight through his chest. Right through his heart." Thalys'' face contorted with rage, trembling as he fought against his restraints, his whole body shaking with the desecration of his lord''s memory. "And as for his brat," Alpheo continued, his voice thick with cruelty, "he cried like a little bitch. Begging, sobbing. Thought his bloodline, his name, would protect him. But no. He followed his father to the grave, just as quickly.They even made sure it was painless. Too kind, really." Thalys, though bound and beaten, struggled against his restraints, his fury threatening to burst out of him. "You bastard," he spat, his voice shaking with rage. "You coward,dog and whore . You¡ª" Alpheo cut him off, the smile vanishing from his face, replaced with a cold, dead look. "No," he said softly, but with a dangerous edge. "They died quickly. You, on the other hand, will die slowly. Painfully like a dog'''' He leaned even closer, his face inches from Thalys''. "By the time I''m done with you, you''ll be begging for the kind of mercy I gave your precious lord and his son." A wicked grin curled back onto Alpheo''s lips. Without warning, he swung his boot into Thalys'' face. The crack of teeth and the spray of blood echoed through the air as Thalys'' head snapped back, blood pouring from his mouth. Alpheo didn''t stop. Again and again, he stomped on the knight''s face, the dull thuds of his boot meeting flesh and bone reverberating with a brutal finality. Then, he shifted his aim, smashing down on Thalys'' hand, feeling the bones snap under his heel, the knight''s screams of agony rising with each crushing blow. After few seconds, Alpheo straightened up, wiping his good hand across his brow, and spoke with a calm that betrayed the malice beneath his words. "Gag him," he ordered, his eyes flickering coldly over the men standing around. "I don''t want to hear another word from him all that will come out will be screams.." His soldiers moved quickly, binding Thalys'' mouth with thick cloth, silencing the man''s muffled curses and growls of hatred. Alpheo watched with satisfaction, then shifted his gaze to the remaining guards who were still alive, bound and kneeling nearby, their faces pale with fear. As Alpheo''s men dragged the prisoners into custody, he felt a wave of dizziness wash over him, his vision blurring momentarily. His legs buckled, and he collapsed into the nearest chair, his hand trembling violently from the pain. Blood seeped through the makeshift bandage wrapped around his injured palm. "How do you feel?" Shahab asked, gently taking Alpheo''s wounded hand in his own, carefully examining the damage. "Not great. I''ll be honest¡ªgot real scared there for a moment," Alpheo admitted, drawing a deep breath. He winced as the pain flared again. When he raised his head, he caught the look on Jarza''s face¡ªtight-lipped and brimming with guilt. "Stop looking like that," Alpheo said, forcing a weak smile. "You''re not the one who got stabbed. I''m still breathing over here." He attempted a laugh, but the sharp pain in his hand made him grimace instead. "I should have been more alert," Jarza muttered, his expression dark with regret. "All those talks of honor and conduct made me drop my guard. I failed you." Alpheo shook his head. "I should''ve been more careful too. Even a cornered mouse will bite the cat. It''s not your fault, Jarza. It was too sudden..." "Most assassination attempts are," Shahab said, his voice firm, eyes focused on Alpheo. There was no sympathy, only hard truth. Alpheo grunted, forcing another smile through the pain. "Come on, my dear lord, I''m not about to make your granddaughter a widow just yet. I plan to hold my child before I die." "cockroaches are the hardest to kill," Shahab said dryly, the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes as he cracked a small smile. "You''re too useful to die so easily. I''m sure she''d be... upset if you were to drop dead now." Alpheo chuckled weakly, shaking his head. "Is that your way of telling me she loves me?" A few moments later, the sound of hurried footsteps approached. Agalosios, the army''s head medic, arrived with his tools slung over his shoulder. His expression was calm, but his movements were swift and efficient, giving away the urgency of the situation. Behind him trailed Asag and Clio, both looking concerned. "Alpheo," Asag called out, his voice tense. "Are you all right?" His eyes flickered to the blood-soaked hand. Agalosios knelt immediately beside Alpheo, not wasting a second. He gently took the wounded hand, revealing the ugly, jagged wound where the dagger had pierced through Alpheo''s palm. The medic''s fingers prodded carefully, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he assessed the damage. Alpheo waved a dismissive hand at Asag and Clio, trying to brush off their concern. "Let the man work," he said, his voice strained but steady, though the pain still radiated from his injured hand. Clio stayed quiet, eyes fixed on the injury, while Asag''s brows furrowed deeper with each passing second. Agalosios glanced up briefly, giving a curt nod of reassurance before returning to his task, cleaning the wound with steady, practiced hands. ''''Can you move it?'''' He asked as he looked up ''''I can , but it hurts like a bitch'''' Alpheo said as he moved his finger to touch the hilt of the blade "Not a pretty sight, but nothing fatal," Agalosios finally muttered. "You''ll keep the hand, though it''ll hurt for a while." As Agalosios continued to check the wound , Alpheo, despite the pain, managed a faint grin. He watched the medic work for a moment,before turning around "I hope you''ve learned well from me," Alpheo said, half-joking, though his eyes held a flicker of seriousness beneath the humor. Agalosios glanced up briefly, his expression neutral but respectful. "I''d like to think I have. The rate of dying in this army has decreased drastically since I started following your teachings." Alpheo chuckled, though it quickly turned into a wince as the medic put a bit of pressure around the wound "Good to hear. Keep it that way'''' Alpheo said with a wince before leaning back and letting the medic do his jo Chapter 143: Public show Chapter 143: Public show Alpheo sat quietly as Agalosios finished closing the wound, the medic''s skilled hands stitching the gash before wrapping his hand in layers of bandages. The pain had dulled somewhat after the tea of willow bark and honey had been administered onto the wound , though it still throbbed persistently beneath the wrapping. He flexed his fingers, grimacing at the tightness, but was at least thankful the worst had passed. Mounting his horse with his wounded hand hanging limp at his side, Alpheo guided the reins with his good hand. As he rode back toward the camp, the sun had begun to dip toward the horizon, casting a long shadow behind him. Clio, riding close beside him, broke the silence. "Are you alright?" he asked Alpheo gave a slow nod, glancing over at him. "As good as I could be, given the situation," he replied, his tone dry. "I''m not dead, at least, though I''ll admit I''ve been in better shape." Clio frowned, looking at his bandaged hand. "He caught you off guard," he said. "That won''t happen again, you will have to own better security from now on, you are no longer a simple mercenary." Alpheo chuckled, though it was more of a low exhale through his nose. "No, it won''t. I should''ve expected something like that. Desperate men are always dangerous, and Thalys... well, his mind was already dead the moment we arrived, did not expect the bastard to be so loyal to end some five meters underground for a dead men." Clio looked ahead at the nearing camp, the fires beginning to flicker in the distance. "What happens now?" "We finish the siege, we break them," Alpheo said, his voice firm. "But for now, I need to know about Egil." He turned his head toward her. "Has he returned?" "Yes, he returned earlier this afternoon. He brought back some hundreds of laborers, just as you ordered." Alpheo''s lips curved into a smile despite the pain. "Good. That will speed up the preparations," he said. "We''ll need them to finish fortifying the camp. The more we dig in before they get desperate enough for a sortie, the better." Clio glanced at him. "Will you rest now? You''ve taken a wound¡ªno one would expect you to oversee the men tonight." Alpheo shook his head slightly. "No the man needs to see me, else they thing something worse has happened. Once I know everything''s running smoothly, then I''ll think about it. But not a moment sooner." He gave him a wry smile, his tired eyes betraying the strain behind his words. As Alpheo rode in front of the lined ranks, the sun had already dipped low, casting long shadows across the encampment. Seven hundred soldiers stood in disciplined silence, their gazes locked onto their commander. His horse''s hooves beat a steady rhythm on the earth as he passed, each man straightening a little more, the weight of the moment heavy in the air. Alpheo''s bandaged hand rested at his side, visible to all as a reminder of the treachery earlier that day. When he reached the center, Alpheo lifted the bandaged hand in a slow, deliberate gesture, his eyes scanning the crowd. The movement brought silence to every whispered conversation, every subtle shift in the ranks. His voice, strong but edged with the pain still lingering in his body, carried across the camp. "I called the commander of the city to a parlay," he began, his tone heavy with grim purpose, "to avoid bloodshed. To see if they had any sense left in their heads before they were crushed under our boots. But what was their answer?" His voice grew sharper, eyes narrowing as he spoke. "They sent me a dagger, an act of cowardice and treachery, one that would''ve killed me if not for the gods'' mercy¡ªor their failure." The soldiers shifted, murmuring angrily amongst themselves, their faces hardening as they processed what Alpheo had endured. It was a grave insult, not just to their leader, but to all of them. "Jarza!" Alpheo barked, and his second-in-command stepped forward at once, motioning for the two prisoners to be brought forth. The two guards, who had been taken captive alongside Thalys, were dragged into the open, their faces pale but defiant, knowing their fate hung by a thread. Alpheo pointed to them with his good hand. "These two," Alpheo said, voice cold, "stood by as their commander, Thalys, attempted to murder me. But they swear they knew nothing of his plan. So let them speak." One of the prisoners, his voice trembling but steady, spoke up first. "I swear by all the gods, we had no idea what our commander planned," he said, bowing his head. "If we had known, we would''ve stopped him." The second guard, nodding vigorously, added, "We didn''t know. We thought it was just a parlay¡ªpeace, a chance to avoid the battle. We swear it on our lives." Alpheo looked down at them with cold, calculating eyes before turning back to the assembled soldiers. His voice was harsh, cutting through the tension. "These men we are fighting are godless murderers, traitors to the crown. They have no honor, no sense of duty, and they would sooner stab you in the back than face you as men. They are nothing but rabid dogs, and you know what we do to dogs that bite." The soldiers murmured in agreement, their anger building. Alpheo''s voice rose again, commanding their full attention. "We will put them down, one by one, until there''s not a single one of them left standing. And it begins now." He pointed toward Thalys, who was being dragged forward. "This man¡ªthis craven, this traitor¡ªattempted to kill me under the guise of peace. He will be executed here, as an example of what happens to those who betray the sword of justice." The men stood at full attention, awaiting the fate of the man who had dared to strike at their leader. Alpheo''s eyes, burning with fury, didn''t leave the prisoners as the sentence began. Alpheo''s voice thundered through the camp, his fury palpable. "His sentence shall be quartering! Let all who see this know that betrayal will be paid in blood!" The soldiers stood at attention and let out a cheer . Shahab, standing slightly to the side, watched in silence, his face unreadable. What Thalys had done ¡ª violating the sanctity of a parlay ¡ª was a grave taboo, an act of cowardice and dishonor. It was not Shahab''s place to intervene; by tradition, it was up to Alpheo, the wounded party, to determine the punishment. Without a word, Shahab nodded in silent acknowledgment, understanding the justice of the sentence, even as the brutality of it came closer. The red-hot dagger, glowing ominously, was plucked from the flames by a soldier, the heat warping the air around it. The blade sizzled as it was held aloft, radiating an unbearable heat. Thalys, bound to the stake, could only whimper weakly behind the gag, his swollen eyes blinking open to see his fate approaching. His body jerked against the ropes, a futile attempt to escape what was coming, but the bindings held him fast. Without hesitation, the soldier brought the glowing blade to Thalys''s exposed abdomen. The moment the red-hot metal made contact with flesh, there was a sickening hiss, the smell of burning skin filling the air. Thalys''s body convulsed violently as the searing blade tore into his stomach, carving a path through muscle and tissue. A scream ¡ª muffled by the gag ¡ª erupted from deep within him, but it was drowned out by the sound of sizzling flesh and the horrified gasps of the soldiers who bore witness. Blood and steam rose from the wound as the dagger plunged deeper. His skin blackened and peeled around the edges of the incision, the stench of charred meat unbearable. The blade was twisted, cutting deeper into his belly, and Thalys''s legs buckled beneath him, his body jerking in agony as urine flew down onto his leg. The soldier moved with cruel precision, slicing through the soft flesh of his stomach, opening him like a pig . Thalys''s eyes rolled back in his head as waves of indescribable pain tore through him. Blood and bile spilled from the gaping wound, mixing with the charred remains of his flesh. His body trembled uncontrollably, and his gagged screams grew weaker, but the horror of the moment stretched on. Alpheo, his hand still throbbing from his own injury, watched with cold satisfaction. The men around him stood still, some looking away, others transfixed by the gruesome punishment.Many of the men that followed Alpheo since Arlania, during the time they were slave saw such punishments already, still looking at it again as a freeman, was a total other experience. Shahab, ever composed, did not move, did not speak. It was Alpheo''s moment of retribution, and it was carried out without mercy. The red-hot blade had done its work, leaving Thalys a shuddering, broken shell, the gaping wound in his belly leaking blood and viscera as his life ebbed away in excruciating agony, while still letting him be alive and kicking, not extinguishing the life within him. On the walls of Confluendi, the garrison watched in horror. The distance between them and the camp did little to soften the brutal scene unfolding below. Those closest to the edge of the wall had the clearest view of Thalys''s grisly punishment, and what they saw turned their stomachs. Several soldiers looked on, their faces pale and stricken. One man gripped the stone battlements so hard his knuckles turned white, his jaw clenched in disbelief. Another soldier, younger and less hardened, gagged at the sight, bile rising in his throat as he backed away from the edge. His legs wobbled, and a moment later, he turned and stumbled to the ground, retching violently. "Gods... what are they doing to him?" one whispered, his voice barely audible over the distant cries of Thalys''s muffled agony. A few couldn''t bear to watch any longer. They turned away, some with hands covering their mouths, others moving shakily to the back of the wall. One soldier, his face haggard with dirt, leaned against the stone, sweat dripping from his brow. He wiped his face and muttered a prayer under his breath, unable to look back at the horror below. Chapter 144: Surrender or die Chapter 144: Surrender or die Thalys hung from the post, his body sagging under the ropes that bound him tightly. His face was a mask of agony, sweat pouring down his skin as he gasped for air, his muffled cries turning into pathetic whimpers. His eyes, wide and filled with terror, darted around, searching for some mercy that would never come. The red-hot blade had already done its gruesome work. The dagger sliced into his abdomen.His viscera, slick and glistening, was out, the foul smell of blood and burning flesh mixing with the air. Thalys continued to let out a guttural scream, but it was choked by the gag in his mouth. Tears streamed down his face, his body trembling violently, but he was still alive, horrifically so. His intestines, half spilling from his gaping wound, twisted in a sickening display of slow torture. Each movement, each twitch of his body, sent fresh waves of unbearable pain through him. His eyes rolled back, and for a moment, it seemed like his body might finally give in. But death was slow, too slow, and the agony kept him conscious, trapped in his body as it betrayed him. Thalys''s cries grew weaker, turning into hoarse sobs. His lips quivered, and his face contorted with sheer desperation, as if he could plead with whatever gods were listening to end his suffering Alpheo stood a few paces away, his eyes fixed on Thalys as the man writhed in excruciating pain. The sight was grotesque¡ªblood pooled at Thalys''s feet, his viscera spilled out from the gaping wound in his stomach. His muffled cries had faded into weak sobs, more animal than human. Alpheo''s face, hard and unflinching, twisted into something akin to disappointment. He let out a bitter sigh, muttering under his breath, "Even revenge is made pathetic now." For a moment, Alpheo stood in silence, watching as the once-defiant commander¡ªnow reduced to a pitiful, broken creature¡ªclung to life. There was no satisfaction in this. Only a hollow feeling. Alpheo dismounted and slowly unsheathed his sword, the steel catching the light as he approached Thalys with deliberate steps. Thalys''s eyes fluttered weakly, barely conscious, but he seemed to sense his impending end. His body convulsed one last time, a final shudder of pain. Alpheo, his face expressionless, raised his sword high. The blade gleamed for an instant before slicing through the air in a clean, swift arc. It met Thalys''s neck with a sickening crunch, severing it in a single stroke. Blood sprayed across the dirt, and the pitiful gasps ceased instantly. Thalys''s head fell down, the body now only a corpse, no longer in pain. "Mercy," Alpheo muttered, the word slipping from his lips without warmth as he wiped his blade on the dead man''s tunic ''''In the end my promise came true..'''' Alpheo then turned his horse and after mounting with a sharp pull of the reins, his back now to the trembling figures on the wall. Without looking back, he neared to his man . "Jarza," he called out, his voice sharp "Put the laborers to work immediately. I want the fortifications finished without delay. And assign an additional hundred men to guard them¡ªdouble the watch if need be." Jarza gave a firm nod, ready to act without hesitation. Alpheo''s tone left no room for question or delay. As Jarza turned to carry out his orders, Alpheo glanced back briefly toward the execution site. "And leave the body where it is," Alpheo added coldly, "but bury it at sundown, we don''t want it spread sickness to us... Let them see it until the last moment." Jarza gave a grim nod, fully understanding the message Alpheo intended to send.With that Alpheo then turned toward Ratto, his voice low but firm. "Tell Egil to meet me in my tent. I need to speak with him." Ratto quickly nodded and hurried off, while Alpheo turned his horse toward his quarters. The ride back to his tent felt longer than usual. His hand throbbed under the bandages, a constant reminder of the near moment that could have ended his life. As he reached his tent, Alpheo dismounted with a grunt, pulling off his cloak in one swift motion. He tossed it onto the ground, the heavy fabric crumpling into a heap. His mind was clouded with exhaustion, frustration, and pain. He walked over to his bed and let his body collapse onto it, sinking into the rough fabric with a sigh. Minutes ticked by, and the noise of the camp outside became a distant hum. Alpheo''s body ached, and the tea he had been given earlier had dulled the pain only slightly. He had just closed his eyes, trying to gather his strength, when the sound of footsteps approached the tent. The flap opened, and Egil stepped inside, his eyes immediately locking onto Alpheo. He hesitated for a moment, sensing the tension and weariness that hung thick in the air. "You asked for me?" Egil said, his voice measured, as he observed the general sprawled out on the bed. Alpheo sat up, his body moving slower than usual, but his gaze was sharp as he met Egil''s eyes. "Yes," he muttered. "We need to talk." "Well, go on and ask, then," Egil said, leaning against the tent post, his posture casual yet attentive. Alpheo didn''t waste time. "How far did you ride?" Egil scratched his chin, tilting his head in thought. "Hard to say exactly. Ten, maybe fifteen kilometers? Give or take." "And every village you passed, empty?" "Not all of them," Egil shrugged. "The ones closer to us were cleaned out, but the farther I went, the more I found untouched. Could''ve kept riding, but we ran into a few hundred laborers working the fields. Figured there wasn''t much point in going further after that." He narrowed his eyes. "Why so curious?" Alpheo leaned forward slightly, wincing at the dull throb in his bandaged hand. "I need to calculate the damage to the land... for after." Egil raised an eyebrow, giving Alpheo a long look. "Always thinking three steps ahead, aren''t you?." Alpheo didn''t respond directly, just gave a tight smile, his mind already working through the logistics. Egil stretched his arms behind his head, his tone shifting to something more casual. "So, what''s next for me and my men? I''m guessing it''s not charging straight into those walls on horseback." Alpheo chuckled dryly. "No, unless your horses have suddenly learned how to jump five meters straight up." Egil smirked. "Shame. Would''ve made this siege a lot more exciting." "You''ll be on patrol, mostly. Riding the perimeter, hunting down any foragers they send out¡ªif they send any. There could be hidden tunnels used for smuggling. Wouldn''t be surprised if they try using them for sorties or sneaking out food gatherers." Egil let out a dramatic sigh. "So, basically... I''m a glorified scout, chasing shadows. Exciting stuff." "Still it''s the job you''ve got," Alpheo said, smiling despite himself. "At least you''ll be out riding all day, while the rest of us dig." "Ah, yes. Fresh air, open fields, the wind in my hair while I track down starving peasants. Truly, the pinnacle of warfare," Egil quipped, his tone dry but playful. "You really know how to keep a man motivated." As Egil turned to leave, he gave Alpheo a parting nod, his playful demeanor fading as he stepped out of the tent, the flap falling closed behind him. Alpheo sat in silence for a moment, staring at the empty space Egil had just vacated. The pain in his hand pulsed, sharp and relentless, making him wince despite his best effort to ignore it. "At least it''s the left hand," he muttered to himself, flexing his fingers slightly and feeling the sting radiate up his arm. "I can still write." The thought gave him some small solace, but it didn''t erase the discomfort gnawing at him. Alpheo reached for the cup on the small wooden table beside his bed, but after a moment of hesitation, he pushed it aside. Instead, he grabbed the heavy urn of wine and tipped it directly to his lips, taking a long, unmeasured gulp. The bitter liquid slid down his throat, warm and heady, offering a temporary numbness to the pain throbbing in his hand. He set the urn down with a dull thud, leaning back on his bed, his bandaged hand resting on his thigh. He sighed deeply, staring up at the dimly lit canvas of his tent. His thoughts were heavy, circling around the attack, the siege, and the blood that would inevitably follow. He leaned back against the wooden headboard of his cot, allowing the faint warmth from the drink to spread through his body. He let out a long, tired sigh. After this siege... he mused silently, staring at the dark fabric of his tent, I''m taking a week of complete rest. No campaigns, no parlaying with traitors, no thinking of food supplies or enemy sorties... Just silence and bliss. He imagined a quiet estate somewhere far from the front, perhaps nestled in the rolling hills of the countryside. A place where the war felt distant and the only sounds were the soft rustle of leaves and the trickle of a nearby stream. A week of sleep... of doing absolutely nothing but drinking and lying in bed. Alpheo smirked faintly at the thought. He could almost picture himself in a chair, boots off, his feet propped up before a roaring fire, a glass of wine in hand. Maybe even a hot bath, he mused. Not the freezing river water we''ve been bathing in, but a real bath... The siege would be over eventually, one way or another. And when it was, Alpheo swore to himself he''d disappear for a while¡ªjust long enough to remember what peace felt like. Chapter 145: Organizing the battle plan Chapter 145: Organizing the battle plan The sun was high in the sky when Alpheo rose from the bed with a low growl, irritated by the constant dull throb in his left hand. The wound, though bandaged and treated, sent sharp twinges of pain up his arm with every movement from his hand . His temper flared briefly as he clenched his fist, the night he would drink to numb the pain only for the next day to have his head ache . "Damned hand," he muttered, groaning as he pushed himself to his feet. No sooner had he shifted than Ratto appeared in the tent, as if summoned by the sound. "Were you waiting outside for me?" Alpheo asked, his tone irritated but curious, raising an eyebrow at the speed of his entrance. Ratto nodded, his posture as stiff and alert as ever. "I was. You mentioned last night that you''d need me when you woke." Alpheo groaned in frustration. "If the sun is already high in the sky, you can wake me up yourself. Don''t stand around waiting like a damned statue." Ratto blinked knowing that Alpheo was more irritable from the pain , as such he nodded without missing a beat. "Shall I call the cooks to bring your breakfast?" Alpheo grumbled and shook his head, the idea of food making him nauseous. "No, forget breakfast for now. Call Agalasios to check on this bloody hand and then have everyone gather in my tent for a meeting. I need to get this over with." Without further question, Ratto gave a quick bow and swiftly exited the tent, his footsteps fading into the distance. Alone again, Alpheo exhaled heavily, rubbing his good hand over his face, feeling the stubble beginning to form along his jawline. He glanced around the tent, still feeling the weight of the coming day, before giving in and plopping back onto the bed with a sigh. His back sank into the mattress as he stared up at the canvas ceiling, the brief comfort of rest tempting him to close his eyes. Agalosios entered the tent with his usual calm demeanor,breaking any desire Alpheo had to keep sleeping. Alpheo immediately rose from the bed and sat at the rough wooden table, extending his wounded hand toward the physician without a word. The room began to fill as more and more of his men filed in. Agalosios knelt beside the table, carefully unwrapping the bandages around Alpheo''s hand. The tent was filled with the sound of cloth being unwound, and soon the wound was exposed. The physician leaned in closer, examining it with a practiced eye. The flesh was red, but not overly so, and the stitches held the cut together tightly. "There''s no sign of infection," Agalosios said, his voice calm but steady. "The scab is starting to form around the stitches, which is a good sign." He looked up briefly from his work and asked, "Any fever in the past day or so?" His hand moved to Alpheo''s forehead, checking for any sign of heat. Alpheo shook his head. "No fever. Just pain," he replied with a grunt, keeping his voice steady, though the pain was obvious in his expression. Agalosios nodded, a faint smile forming on his lips as he withdrew his hand. "Good, good. Everything looks like it''s healing as expected. Keep it clean, and the pain should ease in time.I will increase the amount of willow bark tea" Around the tent, the tension seemed to ease. The officers who had gathered for the meeting exchanged glances, their expressions visibly more relaxed. "See?" Alpheo muttered dryly. "Still too stubborn to die." The comment drew a few chuckles from the men. Agalosios finished rebandaging the hand, rising to his feet with a satisfied nod. "I''ll keep an eye on it, but as long as you don''t do anything foolish, you''ll be back to full strength soon enough." Alpheo turned to face the others gathered in his tent, waving his hand toward Agalosios. "You can leave, Agalosios. You''ve done well," he said, his voice clipped but appreciative. Agalosios nodded and quietly left the room, slipping past Shahab, who had just entered the tent. The room was now full, and Shahab, the last to arrive, stood near the entrance. The tent was simple but large, serving as both Alpheo''s sleeping quarters and his command center. Maps were spread across the table, various documents stacked beside them, while a rough bed lay in the corner, barely used. The air was thick with the scent of leather, sweat, and faint traces of wine from last night. ''''You seems to be drinking more ...''''Shahab noted as he saw the empty urns near the bed ''''You would too with this bloody hand'''' Alpheo answered before changing topic "News about the camp construction?" he asked, his eyes sweeping across the gathered men. Jarza, standing at the far end , stepped forward. "We managed to finish it this early morning," he reported, his voice calm but carrying a hint of pride. "The men worked through the night, and it''s all in place now." Alpheo nodded, satisfaction flickering briefly in his eyes. He had pushed his men hard, and they had delivered. Three days to complete the camp was an excellent result, even better than he had hoped. "Three days," Alpheo mused aloud, more to himself than to anyone else. "An extremely positive result." His hand, still bandaged, rested lightly on the table, and for a moment, he allowed himself to feel a small measure of relief. The camp was ready, the foundation laid for what would come next. "Well done," he added, a note of approval in his voice. Alpheo shifted his focus, leaning back slightly in his chair as he glanced at Egil. "What about our supply situation?" he asked, his voice steady but expectant. He knew that with the camp finished, sustaining the army was now the next most important issue Egil stepped forward, his expression serious. "My men have been coming back from foraging with positive results every day," he began. "We''ve managed to gather enough food and provisions to keep us going for now. But," he paused, his brow furrowing, "I estimate that in half a week or so, we won''t be able to sustain ourselves from the countryside any longer. We''ve already emptied most of the nearby villages, and the rest are either deserted or picked clean.Since you have ordered not to push the village to the point of starvation..." Before he could speak, Shahab chimed in from the side of the room, his arms crossed over his chest. "It matters not," Shahab said, his voice carrying a tone of reassurance. "The royal fiefs will be contribuiting for the supply . And Lord Damaris promised to send additional provisions. We won''t be left starving out here." Alpheo nodded, his eyes meeting Shahab''s. "Good," he said simply. Shahab uncrossed his arms and leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. "It''s time to actually plan on taking the city," he said, his voice calm but firm. "We should immediately begin constructing ladders and siege towers. The longer we wait, the more time they have to prepare. We need to press our advantage." Alpheo raised a hand, shaking his head. "Storming the city should be our last contingency," he replied. Shahab''s expression tightened. "And what? You hope the walls will open themselves?" he asked, frustration creeping into his tone. "Or worse, you plan to starve them out? Must I remind you of the state of our coffers?" Alpheo chuckled darkly and leaned back in his chair. "No," he said, "neither . But tell me, what is the thing that kills most during sieges?" Egil, who had been quietly observing, spoke up. "Hunger... or death by storming the walls, I''d say." Alpheo laughed, shaking his head again. "You''ve never participated in a long siege, have you?" he said, glancing at Egil with a knowing smile after all he was part of a mounted tribe , and they were mostly used for raiding or flanking manuevers during battles by the Emperor. "The thing that claims the most lives during a siege isn''t hunger or the swords of defenders. It''s sickness. Epidemics spread like wildfire when you trap people together with limited resources." He turned back to Shahab, his voice calm but confident. "Remember the feast where we talked about soap? That wasn''t just some sales pitch or idle conversation. I was truthful. Cleanliness is our best weapon here. Sickness will fall upon that city soon enough, while our men¡ªif they remain obedient to my directions¡ªwill be spared.I have not brought all those soaps to overexceed in baths....those are for the men.Before each meal, they will be forced to wash hands and faces.Forcing them to bath at least once a week'''' Shahab scoffed, shaking his head with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Even if all that bullshit you told were true ," he said sharply not believing all the things he had said when he present soap to them "the castle won''t fall just because some peasants start coughing up blood or die while shitting themselves. Disease weakens, sure, but it won''t bring down stone walls or open gates." Alpheo leaned back, a sly smile creeping onto his face as he let Shahab''s words hang in the air. After a moment, he nodded. "You''re right," he said, almost casually. "Disease alone won''t topple the city. That''s why the main assault won''t be from above." He raised his hand and then pointed to the ground beneath their feet, his eyes gleaming with the hint of a plan. "It will come from below." -------------- Alpheo''s camp was a reflection of his meticulous nature, a carefully planned military installation that exuded order and discipline. Every detail was deliberate, from the roads to the placement of tents. Two main roads, wide enough for wagons and soldiers alike, intersected at the center of the camp, forming a perfect cross that divided the encampment into four neat quadrants. Two of those quadrants were bustling with the activity of soldiers. Rows upon rows of tents stretched out, each aligned with precision. The soldiers lived here, their daily routines flowing like clockwork. Everything had a place¡ªwhether it was a weapons rack or a makeshift fire pit¡ªand every man knew his role in maintaining the order. The other two quadrants, however, were left vacant, waiting for the reinforcements that would soon swell their ranks. Alpheo had planned ahead, ensuring there would be no scramble for space when the new arrivals came. These areas were barren for now, but ready to host fresh tents and equipment. Beyond the boundaries of the camp, Alpheo had designated a section for more unpleasant necessities. The latrines were situated far from where the men slept or ate, a move to prevent contamination. Numerous pits had been dug there, with soldiers using them for their work and then covering them with dirt once they were filled. This rotation ensured that waste didn''t fester and no disease would take root in the camp¡ªa silent but crucial defense against the scourge of epidemics that so often followed large armies. Alpheo rode slowly down the main road of the camp, his eyes scanning the orderly lines of tents and the bustling activity around him. Beside him, Asag, kept pace on horseback, delivering his report with a steady tone. "The mining operations are progressing well" he began, glancing briefly at Alpheo before continuing. "Last night , we dag small, concealed camps to mask the work. Wide enough for the dirt to be distributed around the perimeter, and then, under the cover of darkness, we transport it far from the walls to ensure the enemy doesn''t catch wind of what''s happening. So far, there''s been no sign that they''ve realized anything. We''re keeping the activity low, discreet. No movement during the day except the laborers digging ." Alpheo nodded, satisfied. The deception was essential, and Asag''s men were handling it well. "And the siege engines?" Alpheo asked, his voice calm but curious. "The ladders and siege towers are being constructed as you ordered, my lord. '''' Asag said with in an ironic tone, which caused Alpheo to chuckle a bit.To make sure that the enemy was not suspicious of the quiet, he had ordered for their constructions.The ladders and battering rams were most for show, while instead the siege tower were something Alpheo planned to use to make his archers shoot taller than the enemy and rain arrows down on them in order to cripple their numbers. Above all however, Alpheo knew well that without the royal engineers gifted to him by Jasmine, his plans would never have progressed so smoothly. His band of men, as skilled and disciplined as they were, lacked the specialized knowledge required to build such sophisticated war machines. He thought back to the day Jasmine had sent the engineers, knowing full well they would be vital. Without them, Alpheo would''ve been forced to rely entirely on brute force and numbers¡ªa riskier strategy that could have cost him far more men, something that he ought to have kissed Jasmine for... "Without them, we''d be hacking at stone like fools," Alpheo muttered, half to himself. Alpheo turned his head slightly toward Asag, his brow furrowed in thought. "What are the men up to now that the grueling work is being handled by the laborers?" he asked. Asag shrugged, his shoulders lifting beneath his armor as he kept his gaze forward. "Better to ask Jarza for the full picture, but from what I know," Asag began, his voice carrying a tone of mild indifference, "apart from some who are cutting trees for supplies or going out on foraging runs, most are killing time. Standing on guard, training, keeping themselves sharp." Alpheo nodded, absorbing the information. There was only so much to be done in the waiting game of siege warfare. With the most exhausting tasks now delegated to the laborers and the engineers handling the technical side, most of his soldiers had little to occupy their time. Guard duty, drills, and maintaining the camp''s discipline were all that remained until the next phase of their plan. Not much else for them to do, I suppose, Alpheo mused. Asag remained silent, knowing well that their commander had considered every angle of the siege. ------- It was the seventh day since the siege had begun, and the promised supplies from Lord Damaris had finally arrived on the late morning .He had watched as carts loaded with provisions and materials rolled steadily into the camp, their arrival accompanied by the clattering of wheels and the murmur of soldiers. Along with the supplies came word of the reinforcements¡ªtroops that would bolster their numbers¡ªwho were expected to reach them by the end of the day. To ensure a proper welcome and to solidify the discipline within the camp, Alpheo decided he would personally greet the arriving soldiers, alongside Lord Shahab. With a critical phase of the siege nearing, he couldn''t afford to let any disorder creep in, especially with new blood entering the fold. ------------- As the sun began to dip lower in the sky, Alpheo stood near the camp''s entrance, Lord Shahab beside him. The air was warm, carrying the scent of the nearby woods and the dust kicked up by the arriving carts. Alpheo''s eyes scanned the horizon, watching for the first sign of the incoming reinforcements. When the soldiers finally appeared, a long column snaking its way toward the camp, Alpheo straightened his posture. Alpheo stood watch as 300 soldiers marched closer, the banner of lord Damaris fluttering wildly in the wind. Alpheo remembered that Lord Damaris had mentioned his son would be leading this contingent¡ªhis first command. Shahab had later informed him that Damaris'' son was barely fifteen, still untested in battle, and fresh to the art of war. Barely a youngster, the sixteen years old-looking Alpheo thought as the army reached closer. Ahead of the main force, a dozen riders moved forward, separating from the marching troops. Alpheo''s sharp eye quickly noticed the shortest among them riding at the front, leading the group with noticeable authority. As they closed the distance, the riders came to a halt in front of Alpheo, their armor gleaming under the fading sunlight. The youngest rider, clearly in command, dismounted with a practiced ease that belied his age. Alpheo nudged his horse forward, raising his hand in greeting. "I am Alpheo, commander of the royal army, sent by her grace, Jasmine, to put an end to this rebellion. You ride under Lord Damaris'' banner, so I assume you bring aid in his name." The youth at the front stepped forward, pulling off his helmet. A mop of short blonde hair fell around a face that was striking in its youthfulness. His cheeks were still soft, unmarked by the trials of battle, but his blue eyes carried a determination that Alpheo found surprising for someone of his age. "I am Leomar," the boy said with a steady voice, meeting Alpheo''s gaze. "Son of Lord Damaris, and I come at my father''s command to lead these men in your service, Sir.I am pleased to make your acquantaince" as he said so he turned toward Shahab'''' It is a pleasure to meet you too again, lord Shahab'''' ''''Likewise young lord'''' Shahb said briefly before staying put Leomar''s gaze shifted downward as he noticed the bandaged hand of Alpheo, the fresh linen still stained with faint traces of blood. "Your hand, Commander..." Leomar pointed, his voice cautious. "I trust everything is well?" Alpheo smirked, raising the wounded hand slightly as if to dismiss the injury. "Ah, this?" he said with a casual shrug. "During a parlay, the enemy commander thought he could end the rebellion in victory by slipping a dagger into my throat. Luckily for me, I stopped him, and he only got this " He said while waving his hand Leomar''s eyes widened further, the shock of such dishonorable behavior evident on his face. A parlay was sacred and attacking during one was a grave breach of conduct. "The coward tried to kill you during a truce?" Leomar asked, almost incredulous. Alpheo chuckled, his smile widening as if amused by the boy''s reaction. "Indeed, but he''s no longer a problem. He was quartered alive in front of his men for the offense." His voice remained calm, almost casual, but the weight of his words sent a chill through the air. Leomar swallowed, the shock still evident in his eyes. He glanced at Alpheo, taking in the young man who looked nearly his own age and yet a ruthless commander, something that made the two exude a completely different air around them. Before the conversation could deepen, Shahab interjected with a raised hand and a pointed look toward Alpheo and Leomar. His voice was calm but firm. "Perhaps such matters are best discussed in private, Commander," he said, glancing between the two young leaders. "The army can begin setting up camp in the designated area." Alpheo nodded absently, his thoughts still lingering on the exchange. He turned toward Leomar, gesturing with his good hand. "You''re right, Shahab. Please my lord, come with me." His voice was casual as if he was having a friendly walk Leomar, still processing what happened during such a short siege , nodded in silent agreement, signaling to the riders behind him. The young lord spurred his horse, following Alpheo as the rest of his men began to break off and set up camp, their tents filling the area marked for them. Chapter 146: A city falling on itself(1) Chapter 146: A city falling on itself(1) Three weeks had passed since the brutal execution of Thalys, and the city of Confluendi was a shadow of what it once was. The new garrison commander, a certain Captain Gairos, had been reluctantly thrust into leadership after Thalys'' downfall. He stood atop the battlements, his mind heavy with frustration as he surveyed the demoralized remnants of his men. The sight of Thalys being quartered alive had shattered whatever semblance of courage the defenders once had, making them look more like dead men than alive. That fool, Gairos thought to himself, his jaw clenched. If he was going to risk such an idiotic move, he could have at least made sure to kill him, instead I am made to clean after his mess. Now, Gairos was left to pick up the pieces of a broken garrison, barely holding the wall with soldiers whose minds were plagued with fear. He realised there was nothing to clean. The execution of Thalys had hit Elyra, the widow of the late Lord Odmund, especially hard. She had retreated into a fortress of her own mind, keeping her son, young Lord Cedric, locked away in her chambers. Cedric, was never let outside her room and as a consequence, the time she left too was few. Elyra''s paranoia was suffocating the city''s court. Anyone who so much as whispered about surrender, or even hinted at negotiating terms with Alpheo''s forces, was executed on the spot. Gairos had already seen several of his men drag away to their deaths. With every passing day, it became clear to Gairos that the siege was unwinnable. Supplies were high, but the man were few , with low morale and bad equipment.If the enemy army was a lion than the garrison was a starving kitten without claws.. What had started as a mostly peaceful siege¡ªalbeit one marked by tension and fear¡ªhad now become a slow, grinding torment. The enemy had begun their skirmishes, sending forth long, towering wooden siege structures, their bowmen taking the high ground and raining arrows down with lethal precision. Gairos watched helplessly from the walls as Alpheo''s archers, stationed on these towering constructs, picked off his men with the high ground . Any attempt to return fire was met with heavy losses. His archers, already demoralized and exhausted, could not match the enemy''s superior position. For every arrow they loosed, ten would come back from the enemy, and his men fell one by one. In just four days they had lost 20 men and had 32 wounded, which was nearly half of all the bowmen they had. And if the casualties from the skirmishes weren''t enough, rumors of sickness spreading through the city''s populace had reached Gairos'' ears. The plague, whatever it was, had taken root in the tightly packed quarters of Fenthir. People had begun to fall ill in waves, their homes quickly quarantined by Elyra''s decree. Whole districts were locked down, with the sick and dying trapped inside their homes. Gairos was not a loyal man, in normal situations he would not have had a second thought to leave a sinking ship.Yet when Lady Elyra gave him the position he also made sure to keep his family inside the keep, just for protection of course. So unless he wanted to risk his family''s well-being, he had no choice but to steer the sinking ship toward a safe port. Gairos grimaced, realizing that their chances of surviving this siege were slipping further. If it wasn''t the arrows from the enemy''s bowmen that killed them, it would be the sickness that now crawled through the city, unseen but ever-present. To make sure that sickness did not take hold of his men, he had ordered for no contact to be made with the common population, which also meant no more whorehouses , something that the men did not take very well. Yet a few whips on the back made most keep their issues to themselves and forced them to relieve themselves when no one was looking. His brow furrowed as he peered across the barren landscape between the walls and the enemy camp. Why haven''t they attacked? The thought gnawed at him. If the enemy had such an advantage, why didn''t he press it? Did the enemy commander fear his own losses in an all-out assault? Maybe they hope hunger will break us, he thought, casting a glance at the smoke rising from the quarantined districts of Fenthir, where bodies were certainly burning . Food supplies were far from dwindling, the villages outside the walls picked clean during the early days of the siege. The countryside was barren now, stripped of anything that could sustain them, and the cold winds that had begun to sweep through the land signaled that winter would soon arrive. With it, the bitter bite of frost and hunger would come too Yet, the enemy showed no sign of discomfort, no desperation. They simply sat in their camp, content to let time do the work for them. Gairos couldn''t fathom it. What Gairos couldn''t understand, standing atop the walls and puzzling over the enemy''s inaction, was that the attack had already begun a long time ago. ---------------- Alpheo sat in his tent, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp as he looked at the two kneeling men before him. His leather chair creaked as he leaned slightly forward, studying them. These men, their faces bruised and dirtied from the scuffle, knelt with their hands bound behind their backs, their eyes fixed on the ground. Their breaths were shallow, still recovering from the short, violent encounter that had brought them here. A few minutes earlier, one of Alpheo''s scouts had burst into the tent with news. While patrolling the countryside around the city, his men had spotted a group of five walking through the barren, wind-swept lands beyond the reach of farms and settlements. The area was lost, abandoned since the siege began¡ªno place for wanderers. The scout recounted that, as they rode toward the group, the men unsheathed their swords in a panicked defense, but the clash was brief and decisive. Three of the men were felled swiftly, cut down by the scout''s riders. These two were the survivors, dragged back to the camp for questioning, leading to the current situation. One of the kneeling men, slightly overweight and dressed in clothes that had once been fine but were now disheveled, lifted his head cautiously. His face glistened with sweat, and his voice trembled as he spoke. "I... I am a merchant, good sir," he stammered, his eyes darting nervously between Alpheo and the guards standing at attention. "Those men, the ones you killed, they were mercenaries¡ªhired to protect me and my wares." he answered when Alpheo asked about their identities. Alpheo''s eyes narrowed,they must think me stupid.... "And where were you going? You had almost nothing with you when my man caught you." The merchant swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Bandits," he said quickly. "I was set upon by bandits. They stole my goods, my entire caravan... I barely escaped with my life. These men, they followed me after we fled." Alpheo leaned back in his chair, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "So, let me get this straight," he said slowly, his tone dripping with skepticism. "You lost everything¡ªyour goods, your caravan¡ªand yet these mercenaries still followed you, unpaid, into the wilderness?'''' ''''I have my purse with me sir, I still have the means to pay them, and of course I would be more than happy to bring it as a gift for your fine officers....'''' The merchant spoke with a fat grin and a sweaty face. Alpheo continued as he had not heard ''''And more curiously, you''re walking through a warzone, near a besieged city where an army, full of greedy men are bored out of thier mind? You think me a fool?" The merchant opened his mouth, his face flushing, but no words came out. He stammered incoherently, clearly caught off guard by the question. Alpheo sighed, the sound of his exhale heavy with disappointment. He waved his hand dismissively. Two guards stepped forward, grabbing the man kneeling beside the fat merchant. He tried to struggle, but the guards pressed him down with practiced ease. One of them firmly pinned his legs to the ground, while the other produced a rough cloth, pulling it tight over the man''s face. The fat merchant''s eyes widened in horror, his voice cracking as he stammered, "W-what are you doing? What¡ªwhat is this?I am a merchant I swear on the gods" Alpheo remained silent, his lips curling into a cold smile. His eyes never left the scene unfolding before him. A guard holding a bucket of water stepped closer, tilting it slowly, letting the water trickle over the cloth covering the prisoner''s face. At first, the prisoner sputtered, his body jerking instinctively as the water soaked through the fabric. Then the trickle became a steady pour. The man beneath the cloth began to thrash wildly, bubbling sounds escaping his covered face as if he were drowning, the sensation of suffocation immediate and unbearable. His body strained against the guards holding him down, muscles twitching in desperation. The fat merchant, still kneeling beside him, watched in frozen terror. He glanced at Alpheo, but the commander remained unmoved, still smiling faintly. "We... we know nothing," he muttered, barely audible at first. "We know nothing!" He repeated the words, his voice growing louder and more frantic, the sound of his desperation filling the tent as he cowered. The tortured man was dragged upright by the guards, coughing and spitting water onto the dirt floor of the tent, his chest heaving as he gasped for air. His face was pale, drenched in water, and his body sagged with exhaustion. Alpheo leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing as he spoke, his voice calm but commanding. "Do you have the same story to tell as your companion?" The man''s eyes darted toward the fat merchant, terror etched in every line of his face. He shook his head frantically, his lips trembling. "N-no... please, no more!" he begged, his voice hoarse and broken from the ordeal. "He''s not a merchant... he''s... he''s an envoy, sent by the court! And me... I''m just a soldier¡ªnothing more!" At that moment, the fat man, still kneeling beside him, suddenly shouted, "Shut up! You fool, shut your mouth!" Alpheo''s eyes flicked toward the fat man, unimpressed by his outburst. "Gag him," he ordered, his voice smooth and unbothered. Without hesitation, the guards shoved a rag into the fat man''s mouth, muffling his protests as he struggled to speak. Turning back to the tortured man, Alpheo''s gaze was as sharp as steel. "Now," he said, his tone soft but deadly, "you''re going to tell me everything, and unless you want another round of bathing, I suggest you start talking good.." Alpheo glanced at the fat man, still gagged and struggling, his muffled protests barely audible. Without sparing him another thought, Alpheo waved his hand dismissively. "Take him out," he commanded. "Keep him under guard until I decide what to do with him." The guards immediately seized the fat merchant, dragging him out of the tent. His eyes bulged with panic as he tried to shout through the gag, but his voice was drowned by the sound of his feet scraping across the ground. As the flap of the tent closed behind them, the tension in the air shifted. Alpheo turned his attention back to the trembling man still kneeling before him. "Now," Alpheo said, "we can have a proper conversation." Chapter 147: A city falling on itself(2) Chapter 147: A city falling on itself(2) Inside the large tent situated at the intersection of the two main roads of the camp, various officers from Alpheo, Shahab, and Leomar''s forces waited inside. Alpheo''s officers stood in one corner, whispering among themselves. Their attire was simpler than the others,just a simple chainmail with plates of armor over shoulder , arms , chests and leg, reflecting their origins as soldiers of a mercenary band.There was no crest on their chest as they belonged to no house. There was Jarza, burly and stern, his hands idly resting on the pommel of his sword as he leaned against the main wooden pillar. Asag stood nearby, arms crossed, but staying to himself as always alongside Clio . None of them knew why they had been summoned, only that Alpheo had called them abruptly after his interrogation of the prisoners. Shahab''s officers, in stark contrast, were more formal, their clothes adorned with finer stitching and their mannerisms reflecting the aristocratic background of their lord. Shahab himself was there speaking with some of his officers. Leomar''s men, stood a bit more restlessly, they were the last to have come and they were still getting used to the many rules to respect inside the camp. Many of which had already gone head to head with Alpheo''s officer to enforce their rules of the other''s soldiers army. The only man who seemed completely unperturbed was Egil. Unlike the others,he had a good idea of why they had been called. He had been with Alpheo long enough to understand his methods, and the arrival of the prisoners earlier in the day had been the likely cause of this gathering. His hand rested lazily on the hilt of his sword, his eyes half-lidded as he watched the others in the room, waiting for the meeting to begin. As the officers waited, Clio, one of Alpheo''s men, decided to fill the silence with a story. His eyes gleamed with amusement as he turned to Asag "You wouldn''t believe what happened the other day," Clio began, grinning. "One of the lads, I think it was Rykor, ended up falling into one of the shit-pits. Took us a good half-hour to get him out, stinking like a pig. Had to toss him a rope¡ªhe was flailing around like a fish in muck, cursing the whole while. Nearly pulled three of us in with him!" Asag chuckled, shaking his head. The two shared a laugh, but the lighthearted moment was interrupted by a sharp snort from one of Leomar''s officers, a tall, haughty man with a rigid posture. His expression twisted into disdain as he cut into their conversation. "Vulgar men only talk about vulgar subjects," he sneered "Maybe you lot should keep such filth to yourselves and not spoil the meeting ." Before Asag or Clio could respond, Egil, who had been standing off to the side, overheard the remark. With a lazy smile, he straightened up "Ah, but vulgar subjects keep things grounded, don''t they?" Egil said casually, his voice smooth and unbothered. "You''d be surprised how much wisdom you can find in a pile of shit if you''re willing to look close enough.Though perhaps some shit''s like you are not worth the time to look into " He winked at Clio, who stifled a laugh. The comment hit its mark, and the Leomar officer''s face flushed red with indignation. He took a step forward, fists clenched as he glared at Egil. "Watch your mouth, mercenary. You forget your place." Egil only shrugged, his smirk widening. "I know my place well enough. Besides, if I ever forget, you are welcome to remind me" Before the situation could escalate further, the flapping of the tent entrance caught everyone''s attention. The tent canvas snapped as Alpheo entered, his presence immediately silencing the room. His gaze swept over the officers, and without a word, he moved toward the head of the table, clearly ready to begin the meeting. Even before he could seat , one of the officers from Shahab''s side, a burly man with a thick beard and a brash demeanor, slammed his fist on the table, interrupting Alpheo mid-sentence. "We should storm the city now!" he barked, eyes gleaming with impatience. "Their morale is broken, their supplies low. This is the time to strike, not sit around waiting for them to recover." A few other officers murmured their agreement, nodding vigorously. "Why wait?" one of them chimed in. "We''ve been on this for weeks. Let''s end it now while they''re weakened!" Alpheo''s gaze turned cold, but his tone remained calm and firm. "Not yet," he said, cutting through the rising voices of dissent. "Our preparations are nearly finished. The mining tunnels of which we have been working on for the last weeks have reached the foundations of the city walls. We can bring them down from beneath their feet, rendering their defenses useless." Some officers exchanged uneasy glances. They were eager for the glory of the final assault, but the waiting had worn on them. A few of them crossed their arms, clearly displeased with the idea of further delay. "But how long do we keep waiting?" one of the more seasoned officers asked, his brow furrowed. "The men are restless. This could be over now." Another officer, younger and more ambitious, stepped forward. "Why don''t we hear what Lord Leomar has to say?" he asked, looking to the son of Lord Damaris for support , hoping to sway the decision. All eyes turned to Leomar, who stood quietly at the edge of the gathering, observing the exchange. His youthful face betrayed a moment of hesitation, but then he spoke, his voice firm but measured. "Sir Alpheo is right," he said, his eyes steady. "With just a few more days of patience, we can avoid unnecessary casualties . When the walls crumble, the city will be ours, and the fight will be easier." The officers, especially those who had been eager to storm the city, fell into a tense silence. Leomar''s support for Alpheo was decisive, and they knew it. Alpheo nodded subtly toward Leomar, appreciating the solidarity. "We wait," Alpheo concluded, his voice brooking no further argument. "Victory is already within our grasp. We need only to pull the rug out from under their feet." One of the officers, a grizzled veteran with a scar running across his cheek, furrowed his brow and leaned forward. "Then why were we called here if the decision to wait has already been made?" he asked, frustration lacing his voice. Alpheo''s eyes swept across the room, calm and calculating. "You were called," he said, "to decide on how we will storm the city once the walls crumble. And, more importantly, to determine who will lead the vanguard in the assault." A brief but palpable silence filled the tent. The gravity of leading the vanguard was clear to every officer in the room. It was both a great honor and a dangerous responsibility, as the first wave would bear the brunt of the defenders'' final resistance and yet would also get the glory of taking the city . Leomar suddenly broke the silence, his young voice clear and confident. "I will lead the vanguard." The officers from his side, tasked with ensuring the safety of Lord Damaris'' only heir, went wide-eyed in shock. A murmur of disbelief spread among them. The color drained from the face of a nearby captain, who immediately took a step forward as if to object. "My lord, with all due respect, you can''t¡ª" one of them began, his voice tight with alarm. Leomar held up a hand, silencing him. His expression was resolute. "I can, and I will. This is my first campaign, and it will not be said that I hid behind my men while they fought and bled." The officers from Leomar''s contingent exchanged anxious glances. They had been tasked with the protection of Lord Damaris'' heir, and now the young lord was volunteering to put himself in the most dangerous position possible. They knew their duty, and that the lord made sure to let them know of the consequences if anything happened to his heir . Alpheo raised his hand, cutting through the uneasy murmur in the tent. His voice was calm, yet firm. "The young lord''s courage is admirable," he began, his gaze locking with Leomar''s. "And it is only fitting that such bravery be rewarded. Lord Leomar, you may indeed lead the van." A few of the officers from Leomar''s side tensed, bracing for the implications already getting ready to argue against the order . But Alpheo wasn''t finished. "However," he continued, his tone measured, "we must all remember that the terrain around the city will not allow for a cavalry charge. This will be an infantry assault, fought in the mud and rubble. Horses will be of little use once the walls fall." There is no way I will let you get in danger boy...., Alpheo thought as he shared his gaze with Leomar''s officers. With that , most of the officers in the room relaxed slightly, their expressions shifting as they realized the deeper meaning behind Alpheo''s words. The young lord might lead the vanguard in name, but the implication was clear: he would not be at the very front of the fighting, charging headlong into the breach with his cavalry. Instead, he could stay safely behind, while the infantry and other units took the brunt of the initial assault. After all nobles did not fight on foot as a general rule,, that was the job of the poor footmen... Alpheo, for his part, was more than happy to grant Leomar the symbolic honor. The boy''s courage was commendable, but as general of the royal army, Alpheo knew that the true glory would come to him regardless of who led the first wave. Victory would be credited to his leadership, his planning. He also knew that the initial charge would be the most perilous, where the casualties would mount, and the risks would be high. If the officers of Lord Damaris'' contingent wished to have the glory for their young lord, they could have it. Alpheo would be content with the credit for conquering the city itself¡ªand he preferred his elite forces remain intact for later, more critical battles , after all his whole power resided on the strength of his army and it was not worth to throw away his soldier''s live for something meaningless like glory. Chapter 148: Turning point(1) Chapter 148: Turning point(1) Two soldiers stood atop the crumbling city wall, lazily leaning against their spears as they kept a halfhearted watch over the desolate landscape. The boredom of the endless watch weighed on them, making the hours drag painfully slow. "Gods, I miss the brothel," one of them grumbled, adjusting his helmet with a sigh. His tone was wistful "I''d give anything for a night with a woman. A real woman, you know? I am tired of using my hand in the dark...'''' His companion chuckled, nodding in agreement as he shifted his weight. "I hear you. If we''re lucky we''ll manage to sneak out duirng the night for a quick visit . I swear, the next woman I see, I''ll¡ª"during A low rumble interrupted the man''s crude fantasy, cutting his words short. The ground beneath their feet gave a faint tremor, just enough to be noticed. They froze, exchanging puzzled glances. "Did you feel that?" the first soldier asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. His grip on the spear tightened instinctively as he glanced down at the weathered stone beneath their feet. "Yeah... what the hell was¡ª" The second tremor hit, stronger this time. The stones under them shuddered with a foreboding creak. Panic flashed across their faces as they instinctively staggered backward, their eyes widening in sudden realization. "Gods, the wall¡ª" Before the warning could be finished, the stones beneath them let out a terrible, groaning crack. The ground shifted violently, and in an instant, the entire section of the wall collapsed with a deafening roar. The two men barely had time to scream as they were swept up in the fall, their bodies flailing helplessly as they plummeted into the abyss below Massive chunks of stone followed them, crashing to the earth below, burying them in a cloud of dust and debris. Across the besieging army''s camp, soldiers had noticed the sudden movement on the walls. Then, seeing the dust rise into the air, realization struck, and a wave of cheers erupted from the ranks. "It''s about time, you bastards!" one soldier shouted, raising his weapon high into the air. "Now it''s our turn to have some fun!" another bellowed, and more soldiers poured out of their tents, eager to witness the aftermath. Some ran toward the breach while cheering , others stood on the edges of the camp, hollering in excitement as they watched the dust rise into the sky, signaling the beginning of the end for the city. Alpheo heard the rumble first, a distant, resonant sound that seemed to shake the earth beneath his feet. He stood from the table, brushing aside the tent flap and stepping out into the cool air. His eyes immediately locked onto the cloud of dust rising from the city''s wall. The debris and crumbled stone were still settling, and he could already hear the distant cheers from the men outside, voices rising in excitement at the sight of their long effort bearing fruit. A slow, satisfied smile spread across Alpheo''s face. "It''s time," he murmured to himself. The end was finally in sight. Turning, he saw Ratto standing beside him, ever loyal and steadfast, as his personal squire always was. Without a word from Alpheo, Ratto already seemed to be waiting for instructions. "Tell Asag to get the workers clearing the debris," Alpheo ordered, his voice steady and calm. "Make sure the path is ready for the assault.I want the city conquered before nightfall..." His gaze remained fixed on the dust cloud ahead, almost as if he were watching a grand piece of theater unfold before him. The anticipation hung heavy in the air, a charged silence before the inevitable storm. Ratto nodded quickly, hurrying off to fulfill his command, while Alpheo remained where he stood, arms folded behind his back, eyes on the crumbled wall. ----------------------- Gairos, the garrison commander, shouted orders with desperate intensity as soldiers scrambled around him, dragging wooden palisades toward the breach. Dust and debris still hung in the air, the gaping wound in the wall looming before them like a death sentence. He could feel it deep within him¡ªthe city had fallen, not by a grand charge or heroic defense, but by the slow erosion of time and the enemy''s patient cruelty. Yet, despite the crushing certainty of defeat, he resolved to make his stand. "Move! Get the palisades in place!" he barked, pointing toward the shattered section of the wall. His voice carried over the cacophony of panicked men, some of them trembling, hammering wooden stakes into the ground with shaking hands. They knew as well as he did that the enemy was coming, relentless and overwhelming. And still, they worked, knowing that they might be constructing their final defense, a futile bulwark against the inevitable. Gairos turned his gaze to the sky for a moment, then back to his men. He could see the fear in their eyes, their faces pale, their bodies stiff with dread. Most of them were common soldiers, barely more than boys. They hadn''t signed up to be martyrs. Yet here they were, preparing for a last stand in a city that had been damned from the moment Thalys fell.Maybe even earlier than that ... There would be no escape for him, that was certain. He wasn''t a coward, and the last thing he would do was flee from the fight knowing what the consequence for his family would be , even if it was hopeless. No, he would die here with whatever remained of his dignity. That was the one thing they couldn''t take from him. Gairos took a deep breath, steadying himself as he watched the trembling hands of the men he commanded. He forced himself to remain calm, to look composed in front of them. He knew that they were looking to him for courage, even as they hammered their stakes into the ground with sweaty palms and hollow eyes. There would be no glory in this final stand, only blood, dust, and the faint hope that death would come swiftly. "Make it count," he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else. --------------- The laborers moved quickly, shoveling debris from the collapsed wall, their efforts spurred on by the promise of extra pay if they managed to clear the rubble by midday. Dust hung in the air, stirred by the constant movement of men and tools. The crumbled stone lay scattered, broken into jagged fragments. Despite the hard work, the laborers pushed forward, their sleeves rolled up and sweat glistening on their foreheads. But their work wasn''t easy. The garrison, desperate and enraged, launched a constant barrage of harassment. Arrows whistled down from the remaining parts of the walls, some finding their mark among the workers, others clattering against the shields of the soldiers standing guard. Stones, hurled by hand or slings, thudded into the earth, adding to the chaos and danger. Every few moments, one of the laborers would shout in pain or drop to the ground, injured or worse. To counter this, Alpheo had ordered the siege towers to continue their assault. From the tall wooden structures, archers rained fire down on the defenders, the twang of bowstrings filling the air as they aimed to suppress the enemy long enough for the laborers to work. This exchange of fire helped, but it didn''t stop the garrison entirely. The enemy, knowing their doom was near, fought with a fury born of desperation, trying to disrupt the workers'' progress as much as possible. Alpheo had anticipated this. Mantlets, large mobile shields on wheels, had been constructed earlier and were now being rolled forward, providing some cover for the laborers. These wooden barriers created a line of protection, allowing the workers to move from one to another as they continued their task. The workers ducked behind them, darting out when it was safe to shovel another load of rubble or to move stones from the pile. Seeing such a thing, the garrison could do nothing but shoot arrows and hurl stones in vain. The wait was short. No more than three hours passed, and the path to the city stood open, cleared of debris. The broken section of the wall now lay in rubble, leaving an unguarded gap large enough for an assault. Alpheo stood atop a small rise just outside the crumbled section of the fortress, observing the final preparations. Soldiers lined up, swords drawn and shields raised, their faces a mixture of grim determination and bloodlust. The waiting was over. The breach was theirs, and the time had come. Alpheo rode at the head of his army, 1,300 strong, their eyes glinting in the sunlight as their weapons caught the first rays of dawn. His banner of two simple black strips on a white field flapped violently in the morning wind.His polished armor gleamed, the sound of hooves and marching feet echoing through the valley. It had been a month of waiting, a month of enduring the tedium of siege warfare, but now, victory was close enough to taste. Alpheo stopped his horse and turned to address his , Shahab and Leomar''s men. His voice, sharp and commanding, rang out across the gathered ranks. "For a month, we have laid siege to this city. The last stronghold of those who dare defy the rightful ruler of these lands¡ªour princess, anointed by the gods themselves!" He let that sink in, his words weighted with divine authority, while wondering how much the men truly cared about that "They have turned their backs on their liege, rebelled against the crown blessed by the heavens. We offered them peace, a chance to lay down their arms and be spared. But time and again, they spat in our faces. They would rather live in defiance, their hearts blackened by treachery and malice!" He raised his bandaged hand high, the white cloth stark against the shining metal of his armor. "Look here, at the proof of their dishonor. During a parley, their commander¡ªa man without honor or virtue¡ªtried to put a dagger in my throat. The sacred laws of war, broken in cold blood! These are not men; they are vermin, devoid of loyalty, faith, or decency." His gaze swept across the soldiers, his eyes locking with theirs. "What kind of leaders break the bonds of brotherhood and sow deceit among their own? What kind of people follow such godless men, and have the courage to say that they willingly follow them? These walls, their homes, their lives¡ªall are stained with corruption. But today, we shall cleanse this land of their treachery!" He leaned forward in his saddle, his voice growing sharper, more intoxicating as that of a lawyer delivering the final speech to save his client, whom he fervently believes to be innocent . "The walls have crumbled, and the time to strike is upon us! And when this city falls, it falls to us! The spoils be it gold or women , will belong to us . There are riches ahead, just waiting to be picked from their broken streets. The wealth of this city, stolen from the true princess, will now fill your pockets!" The army stirred, eyes brightening at the promise of riches. They hung on his every word, as if each syllable made their weapons lighter, their spirits higher. Alpheo, seeing the spark of greed flare in their eyes, pressed on, knowing the moment was ripe. "And not only the gold! Everything they have taken from the true crown. Claim it and seize it as your rightful reward " A savage roar erupted from the ranks. Men beat their swords against their shields, their hunger no longer merely for battle, but for the spoils of victory. The fires of greed and lust burned brightly now, hot enough to drive them to tear the city apart brick by brick. Alpheo smiled to himself, watching as the men stirred with frenzy. He had them exactly where he needed them. He raised his hand again, calming the army for one final word. "Remember, this is not just a conquest of arms. This is the will of the gods! The traitors have turned their backs on divine order, and today, we restore it! We fight not only for gold, but for the honor of our princess, the chosen of the heavens! With every strike, we bring justice to this land, and with every breath, we reclaim what is rightfully ours." The soldiers roared once more, their cries echoing off the hills, shaking the very ground beneath them. The city lay broken, waiting to be taken. The soldiers, now feverish with anticipation and greed , surged forward, ready to reap their reward. And Alpheo, knowing the credit would be his no matter who struck the final blow, was more than happy to let them lead the charge to be the first to die. Chapter 149: Turning point(2) Chapter 149: Turning point(2) Gairos stood atop the crumbling remnants of the city wall of Confluendi, his gaze fixed on the advancing army. Arrows whistled through the air,Gairos saw some of the arrows hitting targets. Soon however, the enemy''s volleys came too in relentless waves, making it nearly impossible for his men to return fire without exposing themselves to the hail of deadly projectiles. Gairos clenched his jaw, frustration simmering beneath the surface as he surveyed the wall where few of his men had already fallen. He turned to face his soldiers, and what he saw tightened his gut: fear etched across their faces, their eyes wide and uncertain. "Look at me!" he commanded, his voice firm yet steady. He stepped closer, locking eyes with each soldier. "This is our city! Our home! We will not let them take it from us without a fight!" Drawing his sword with a smooth motion, Gairos raised the blade high, the sun glinting off its polished surface. "We will defend it to our last drop!Don''t you have families behind you?What sort of men would you claim to be if you run against those that plan to rape your women and kill your sons?" he shouted, his voice carrying over the din, a battle cry meant to rally their spirits. A few soldiers, emboldened by his declaration, raised their weapons high, echoing his sentiments. "For Confluendi!" one shouted, his voice cracking but resolute, and another joined in, fists clenched tight around their swords. The chant grew, a chant of defiance against the encroaching tide, a reminder that even in fear, they would stand united. "Hold the line! And may the Gods be with us !" Gairos commanded, his voice steady and resolute. The time for fear had passed. Now, it was time to fight. The enemy soldiers finally surged through the breach. The initial momentum of their advance began to falter as they passed through the shattered remnants of Confluendi''s wall. They could see the stakes rising from the ground, sharpened and deadly, jutting up like the teeth of a great beast ready to swallow them whole. The stakes promptly made to leave a few gaps through which one or two men could pass through, Gairos decided to make his stand here. These narrow openings, as he had predicted forced the attackers to funnel into the defenders'' waiting line, making them more vulnerable, slowing their charge as they struggled to maintain order amid the tumult. The defenders gritted their teeth, shield walls forming with unwavering determination. Gairos bellowed commands, urging his men forward. The soldiers with shields moved to the front, locking their bodies together to create a solid barrier, arms raised defensively. "Hold the line!" Gairos shouted, his voice echoing through the din of battle. As the enemy clashed with the defenders, two masses of wood clashed with each other . Shields slammed against shields, grunts of exertion mingled with the cries of those who fell to the ground. The defenders, brave and resolute, pointed their spears outward, using the sharp tips to keep the enemy at bay, thrusting with precision to ward off the advancing tide when they immediately passed through the stakes.. The enemy struggled to form up, chaos reigning as they found themselves entangled in the spikes. The sharpened stakes, cunningly positioned, tore at their ranks, preventing them from organizing into an effective formation. Many soldiers stumbled, some falling to the ground as their comrades pushed forward in a frantic bid for victory. The result was a jumbled mass of warriors, some yelling for order, while others fought blindly, desperation fueling their attacks. Amidst the tumult, a fierce melee erupted. The defenders, knowing their backs were against the wall, fought with a tenacity borne from the will to protect their home. The soldiers pressed forward, shields clashing, bodies colliding in a chaotic dance of survival. Each thrust of their spears was met with a corresponding strike from the enemy. The smell of sweat, blood, and smoke filled the air as the tide of battle ebbed and flowed. Men shouted and roared, their voices mingling into a cacophony of chaos. Gairos fought alongside them, his sword flashing as he cut down an enemy soldier who had managed to slip through the shields. "Push them back! For Confluendi!" he yelled, feeling the fervor of his words igniting the spirit of his soldiers. They surged forward, using their shields to create a wall, driving their spears deep into the enemy ranks, forcing the invaders to fight tooth and nail just to gain ground. The defenders worked in concert, thrusting and parrying, moving as one cohesive unit against the horde before them. --------- "Go! Go! Go!" An officer''s voice cut through the din, sharp and urgent, as he blew his whistle. Five rows of men, ladders in hand, surged toward the wall. "You heard the commander¡ª50 silverii to the first man on the wall!" he shouted, stoking the greed of Alpheo''s elite soldiers. It worked. The promise of riches ignited a fire in their hearts, and they scrambled up the ladders with the ferocity of wolves on the hunt, as if the glittering coins were already in their grasp. On the wall, the defenders of Confluendi were already trembling. Before the breach, the prospect of holding the walls had seemed daunting. Now, with hundreds of enemy soldiers storming up the ladders like a flood, fear turned to terror. Gairos had no choice but to divide his forces, stretching them thin. Half of his men were posted at the breach, while the rest¡ªscattered along the walls¡ªfaced the relentless tide. If the city had a second wall, Gairos would have ordered an immediate retreat. But Confluendi had no such luxury. The only fallback was the keep, but it wasn''t large enough to shelter the soldiers and their families. Ordering a retreat now would mean abandoning wives, children, and loved ones to the invaders¡ªa death sentence. And for a commander, that would have been amazing if his end goal was to end up with his head rotting on a pike. The defenders fought desperately. As the attackers neared the top, stones were hoisted and hurled down with all the strength they could muster. The heavy rocks crashed onto the soldiers below, shattering bones and cracking skulls. The air was thick with the sickening thuds of bodies crumpling under the weight of the stones. Screams mixed with the sound of clashing steel, but the men on the ladders kept coming, driven by greed and ambition. For every thirty defenders on the wall, there were a hundred attackers clawing their way up. The garrison was woefully outmatched, their weapons poor¡ªrusted swords, crude clubs, anything they could find, the best soldiers were put ahead of the breachs so they wall were defender by the second-rate warrior of an already weak army. The soldiers had to do what they coudl with the knowledge that : if just one enemy soldier set foot on top of that wall, the city was as good as lost. And so they fought like cornered animals, throwing everything they had at the attackers, knowing that defeat meant death not just for them, but for everyone they loved. Despite their fear, their exhaustion, and the seemingly endless wave of attackers, the defenders held the line. "MOVE IT, KID!" a grizzled soldier bellowed, hurling a jagged stone down toward the attackers. His eyes darted to the trembling boy beside him, struggling to lift his own rock. The boy''s arms wavered under the weight, and when he finally let it fly, it sailed harmlessly past the advancing enemies. Frustration flared in the veteran''s voice. "Throw it properly, damn it!" But before he could shout again, a sudden, sharp pain silenced him. A sword pierced his neck, sliding through flesh as if it were nothing more than soft clay. The soldier gasped, clutching the wound as blood poured from between his fingers, staining the stone beneath him. His vision blurred as he dropped to his knees, and in his final moments, he saw what had delivered the killing blow. Soon an hand grabbed the stonewall and threw himself forward finally falling inside the wall . Soon , a figure in full armor stood above the dead. The attacker was clad in chainmail that shimmered in the dim light, with a gleaming breastplate over his chest, iron plates guarding his legs and arms. A dented but menacing helmet sat atop his head, though it left his face exposed.. He wasn''t just any soldier; this man had the look of one who had tasted victory and wanted more. The boy stood frozen, wide-eyed as the armored man yanked his sword free from the dying soldier''s throat. Blood sprayed across the stones as the soldier crumpled, his body twitching in its final moments. Suddendly the armored soldier deflected a wild swing coming from his right from a rusted sword with a sharp snap of his small wooden shield. The old blade clanged uselessly against the shield''s rough surface, sending a jarring shock through the attacker''s arm. Without missing a beat, he countered, his sword flashing . The blade found its mark, slicing cleanly through the stomach of the unarmored defender that had tried his luck. For a heartbeat, the man staggered backward, his face twisting into a mask of horror. His hands fumbled to hold his stomach together, but it was no use. His viscera spilled out, falling to the blood-soaked stone with a sickening splat. He collapsed, gasping for air, his eyes wide with disbelief as his life ebbed away. Nearby, the young boy who had failed to lift his stone stood frozen, his legs trembling as the scene unfolded before him. His body betrayed him, and warm urine soaked his trousers. The armored man turned his gaze to the boy. He raised his sword, and before the boy could even scream, the blade came down with a brutal force. It cleaved through his collarbone, cutting deep into flesh and bone, and the boy crumpled under the weight of the blow. His breath came out in a wet gasp, but before he could even register the pain, a rough boot slammed into his chest, sending his broken body tumbling off the wall. A garrison soldier, breathing heavily and soaked in sweat, spotted an opening as an attacking man in full armor advanced past him. With a determined thrust, he gripped his spear tightly and aimed for the vulnerable spot on the man''s upper back, just outside the protection of his gleaming chestplate. The spear struck with a sharp metallic clink but failed to pierce the chainmail, the tip skidding off harmlessly. The armored soldier cursed in pain as the spear struck his back, the force of the blow jolting through his body despite the chainmail absorbing the worst of it. Anger flared in his eyes . With a snarl, he spun around and smashed his shield upward with brutal force, bashing it into the garrison soldier''s chin. The impact snapped the defender''s head back violently, teeth clacking together, blood spraying from his mouth as he staggered, dazed by the blow. Then not giving him a moment to recover, followed through with a savage thrust of his sword. The blade pierced clean through the garrison soldier''s stomach, slipping past the tattered leather and into flesh. The garrison soldier gasped, eyes wide with shock, as blood gushed from the wound. His hands instinctively clutched at the sword, trying to pull it free, but the attacker twisted the blade before yanking it out. The garrison man crumpled to the ground in a heap, his life draining away in seconds with his killer not even giving him any attention as he turned for the next fight , knowing that he had conquered the wall. Chapter 150: Fall of a city Chapter 150: Fall of a city Alpheo''s army surged onto the wall from every direction with relentless force, their elite soldiers, clad in armor, scaling the ladders with the frenzy of men already smelling victory. They did not need to worry about stones or arrows hitting them, as they had already cleaned the wall from any enemy, further allowing the rest of their comrades to safely access the top of the wall. Without any dangers, the men below quickly got above with the speed of a dog in heat, already hearing the call of their soon-to-be gold. The defenders had fought hard, throwing stones, stabbing with spears, and doing everything they could have done to repel the invaders. But the sight of wave after wave of heavily armored men pouring onto the wall broke their already weak spirit. A loud crack echoed across the battlements as one of the garrison soldiers fell, his body falling from the wall with a scream. Another was cut down, his blood spraying against the stone. One by one, the defenders crumbled. The sheer weight of Alpheo''s forces overwhelmed them, and panic spread like wildfire through the garrison. "They''re everywhere!" a soldier screamed, eyes wide as he turned to flee. The sight of more attackers reaching the wall was too much for the exhausted and terrified defenders. Chaos erupted. The garrison, once holding a thin, desperate line, broke completely. Men threw down their weapons, retreating from the wall in a disorganized rush. Some stumbled over each other in their haste to escape, while others, barely able to breathe through their fear, simply bolted without looking back, not giving a care for their comrades or what they were protecting. -------------- The fighting at the breach was fierce, but neither side was giving ground easily. The defending soldiers of Confluendi, spears leveled and shields locked together, held their line with a grim strenght . The stakes set in front of the breach forced the attackers to funnel into narrow gaps, where they were met by a wall of shields and pointed spears, nullyfing any advantage their numbers could have. The initial charge of Leomar''s infantry, full of vigor and bloodlust, had slowed upon meeting the well-organized defense. The attackers tried to push through, thrusting with their spears, but the defenders managed to keep them at bay, showing a wall that Leomar''s levy could not overcome. Maybe if in their place was Alpheo''s army, their equipment could have allowed them to break the status quo, however, they were in a different place, wrapping up the enemy resistance on the wall. So despite the fierce attempts to break through, neither side suffered heavy losses. The formations held strong, denying the opportunity for any decisive, large-scale clashes. After the initial surge of energy and rage propelled by greed, the attackers found themselves struggling to gain ground. Their initial enthusiasm dulled as the brutal reality of the defenders'' formation and the narrow breach sank in. Slowly, the rhythm of battle shifted from frantic charges to a grinding standoff, with both sides delivering blows but neither gaining a clear advantage. Gairos, standing behind his men at the breach, surveyed the battlefield . As the initial surge of the attacking forces had slowed, his own soldiers continued to hold their line. The stakes and narrow gaps had worked as intended, forcing the attackers into bottlenecks where they couldn''t bring their full numbers to bear, a common tactics that generals with less numbers always tried to employ. He allowed himself a moment to think, a flicker of hope stirring in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, they could actually hold. The enemy''s enthusiasm had waned. What had begun as a furious charge had turned into a grinding, indecisive clash. The attackers couldn''t muster enough force to break through in a single, devastating push. Then everything took a turn for the worse, with a soldier near Gairos being the deliver of the new. "ENEMY! They''re coming from the right!" The panic in his voice cut through the clamor of battle. Gairos snapped his head around, his heart pounding in his chest. His eyes widened as he saw them¡ªhundreds of men charging toward the breach. They were a terrifying sight, a wall of gleaming steel and iron surging forward,they were not the levy they were fighting but true and well-equipped warriors. Their weapons were not swords or lances but brutal instruments that only a proper army could have ¡ªhammers, maces, and axes raised high, ready to crush and break whatever stood in their path. For a moment, Gairos felt a cold wave of dread wash over him. These were no ordinary soldiers¡ªthey were the elite, he had seen before while scouting from the walls. The ground seemed to tremble beneath their approach, the heavy clank of their armor echoing across the battlefield. "Get ready! Brace yourselves!" Gairos shouted, his voice hoarse but commanding. His mind raced, knowing that if these men reached the line without resistance, they would tear through the defenders like paper. He pointed to a group of soldiers nearby, gripping their spears tightly, their eyes wide with fear. "You, with me! We meet them head-on!" Gairos barked, his tone brooking no hesitation as he grabbed some men and pushed them forward , with him leading from the front. The soldiers, faces pale and tense, moved forming a ragged line alongside him. Their shields came up, spears pointed forward, trembling hands gripping the shafts. As the enemy closed in, he drew his sword and raised it high. "Hold the line! For your homes, your families¡ªpush them back!" And then, with a thunderous crash, the two forces met. The sharp clang of metal on metal, the sickening thud of hammers smashing into shields, the cries of pain and fury filled the air. Gairos swung his sword fiercely, blocking a blow from a mace . All around him, chaos erupted, soldiers grappling in desperate combat. Gairos knew there could be only one reason for which they were being flanked: the walls had fallen . He cursed under his breath, fury mixing with disbelief at how quickly his soldiers folded. The defenders stationed there must have crumbled in mere moments, leaving the breach dangerously exposed. He clenched his jaw, anger simmering. There was no time to dwell on it. Gairos himself led the fight with the madness of a dying man, his sword swinging down on an enemy''s shield, but the strike did little more than make a dull thud. His soldiers thrust their spears and slashed with swords, but the armor of Alpheo''s men turned the blows aside, leaving only dents and scratches. The elite soldiers moved like an unstoppable tide, their hammers, maces, and axes cleaving through shields and smashing through helmets with terrifying ease. One of the defenders, wielding a battered sword, lunged forward at an approaching enemy. His strike glanced off the side of a heavily armored opponent, useless to say the blade failed to even cause the slightest of damage, leaving only a faint scratch on the chestplate. Before the defender could recover, the enemy backslapped the soldier using his armored glove before finishing him off with a swing of his mace. The blow connected with the man''s skull, crumpling the man to the ground with a -thud- as blood poured from the blow. Another garrison soldier thrust his spear forward, aiming for the faceplate. The point failed to hit the aimed point between the eyes , just grazing the enemy''s cheek, the man in armor barely flinched. Snarling in anger, he bashed his shield into the defender''s face, shattering his nose. The soldier stumbled back, dazed, only to feel the sudden impact of an axe cleaving into his side. He collapsed, gurgling his last breath as blood soaked the ground. Gairos''s dazing lasted little as he dove to dodge an hammer''s swing that came dangerously close, then watched in horror as a soldier next to him took a blow to the chest. The impact sent the man sprawling, his body crumpling like paper. Another defender screamed as an axe split his shield in two before burying itself in his shoulder. Blood sprayed the air as more of his men fell under the relentless assault. The defenders'' weapons were almost useless¡ªswords bounced off the heavy armor, spears glanced off as if striking stone. The fight was over in less than five minutes. Gairos felt a sinking pit in his stomach as his soldiers, seeing their comrades slaughtered so easily, began to panic. The lines broke, and in moments, they were fleeing, casting down their weapons in desperation as they scrambled to escape the overwhelming enemy. Gairos stood there, blood splattering his armor, manly coming from his soldiers, breath ragged, watching helplessly as the defenders scattered. The flank had collapsed. Gairos stumbled through the chaos, desperately shouting for his men to hold the line, but his voice was drowned out by the roar of battle and the cries of the wounded. He tried to round up the remaining defenders, grabbing soldiers by the shoulders, pulling them back into formation. "Hold your ground!" he yelled, his voice hoarse and strained. "We can still push them back! Fight, damn you!" But it was already too late. The garrison had begun to break, and panic spread like wildfire. Soldiers were fleeing, throwing down their weapons as they ran for their lives. Gairos could feel the momentum slipping away, could see it in the eyes of the men who remained¡ªeyes wide with fear, darting toward the gaps in the line as they searched for escape. The rout had begun, and there was no stopping it. "Stand and fight!" he bellowed with tears forming in his eyes , his heart sinking as he saw his command dissolve before him, ignoring completely the battlefield around him. Suddenly, a shadow loomed from the corner of his vision. Before he could react, an axe came down on him. The heavy blade bit deep into the side of his head, splitting his helmet and burying itself into his face. A sharp, searing pain tore through him, but only for an instant. His legs buckled, and the world spun around him as he crumpled to the ground, his lifeless body hitting the earth with a dull thud. Gairos lay still, his hand twitching one final time before the grip of death claimed him. Yet even with the death of the only man who held the city together, the battle was still going, becoming more and more like a massacre than a clash. The victorious soldiers surged forward, their weapons dripping with blood as they pursued the fleeing defenders. Battle cries filled the air, mingling with the terrified shouts of the routed garrison. One soldier, his face smeared with sweat and dirt, brought his axe down on the back of a retreating man, the blade cleaving through armor and flesh in a single stroke. Another soldier, wielding a heavy mace, swung it in a wide arc, smashing it into the side of a running man, the sickening crack of bones echoing above the chaos. No mercy was given; every fleeing soldier was a target. The rout spread like wildfire. Soldiers who had been defending the breach saw their comrades fall , saw the flanking forces collapsing, causing panic to overtake them. Spears and shields were cast aside, swords dropped in haste as men turned and fled, abandoning their posts. Shouts of "Run!" and "They''re breaking through!" rippled through the ranks, and the defenders, once holding the line with grim determination, now scrambled for their lives. Some tripped over the bodies of their fallen comrades, desperately clawing at the ground to rise again, only to be cut down by the relentless attackers. Alpheo and Leomar''s men showed no hesitation, driving their weapons into backs, sides, and legs, sending the remaining soldiers crashing to the earth in bloody heaps. The breach was no longer a battlefield¡ªit had become a slaughter. Defenders who had held firm only moments before now scattered in every direction, their will broken. And as the wave of armored men advanced, the last hope of resistance crumbled into dust, leaving the city open to its conquerors and ripe for the sack that would follow. Chapter 151: A door closed another one opening Chapter 151: A door closed another one opening While men bled and died in the mud in her name, their swords clashing in distant battles, Jasmine Veloni-Isha, the newly crowned princess of Yarkat, sat in the quiet opulence of her chambers, reading the latest reports. Her brow furrowed slightly as her delicate fingers turned the pages of the ledger, detailing the autumn taxation from the royal fiefs. Her emerald eyes skimmed over the figures, silently calculating the resources at her disposal. The royal fiefs had yielded 6,000 bushels of wheat in taxation, a figure that brought a brief but fleeting sense of relief. This harvest, would not be sold for coins. Instead, she had decided that it would be stored in the royal granaries¡ªan insurance against possible campaigns of war or the sudden grip of a famine. A wise ruler must think of tomorrow, even as today crumbles around her, she mused inwardly, as she thought of the army standing outside Confluendi. But wheat alone would not win wars, nor would it fill her vaults. Her attention shifted to the next section of the report, and her lips curled slightly in satisfaction as she read the tally of silverii brought in from her cities. Yarzat, the capital, had contributed a substantial 3,000 silverii, bolstered by taxes on trade, craftsmen, and merchants. The surrounding cities¡ªAracina, Cedebo, and the newly acquired Asetocende, gifted from the Prince of Oizen through careful diplomacy¡ªhad yielded a combined total of 2,400 silverii. Still, it wasn''t the taxes from her cities or even the tribute from her new acquisitions made through the rasonm from the Sorza that sparked true hope. Her eyes brightened as she reached the section on Alpheo''s workhouses, the legacy of the man whose victories were starting to bear fruit not just on the battlefield, but in the heart of her economy. Soap, a simple commodity, had surprisingly turned into a treasure trove. "One hundred pieces, sold at 5 silverii each..." Jasmine mentally calculated. "Five hundred silverii. Not bad for a product that costs so little to make." But even more lucrative was the apple cider, now sought after across the land. Two hundred pieces had sold, each bringing in 8 silverii, netting her an additional 1,600 silverii. Two thousand one hundred silverii in a single month, Jasmine reflected, the numbers swirling in her mind. And this... this is just from selling to my nobles. When the merchants from across the border catch wind of it, when these goods begin to flow into foreign markets.... She could almost see it¡ªher coffers filling faster than any tax could provide, the apple cider becoming a symbol of luxury and wealth. "Alpheo''s workhouses," she muttered in a low tone "Who would have thought that a warrior would become such a shrewd businessman? But I must give credit where it''s due." The soap and cider had already proven to be unexpected treasures, and she could see the beginnings of something much larger, something that could change the entire landscape of Yarkat''s economy. We''ve only just begun, she thought, her fingers lightly drumming the armrest of her chair. Two thousand silverii in a month, and that''s with our current, limited production. If I speak with Alpheo... if we expand the means of production, invest in more workers, more facilities... The possibilities were endless, and her mind raced with the calculations. Her lips curved into a thoughtful smile as she imagined the future. ''If we can increase output, not just a little, but significantly, the amount of coin coming in from trade will easily triple. At least.'' She could see it¡ªworkshops buzzing with activity, carts of soap and cider being shipped out to foreign lands, merchants from distant cities clamoring for her products.''We could become the trading center of the region. Not just known for our strength on the battlefield, but for the wealth flowing through our coffers.'' The thought excited her, the idea of turning Yarkat into a true economic power, built not just on force of arms but on commerce. "I must speak to Alpheo soon," she resolved. "He may be a warrior, but he understands the value of this. With his knowledge of logistics and my plans for expansion, we could dominate the markets" As Jasmine''s mind spun with visions of wealth and power, her thoughts tangled in the grand plans for Yarkat''s future, she unconsciously bit her lower lip, her mouth practically watering at the sheer volume of silver that would soon flow into the kingdom''s coffers. The possibilities seemed endless, each one more enticing than the last. She could barely contain the excitement¡ªuntil a sudden knock echoed through her chamber door. Startled from her daydream, Jasmine blinked, quickly composing herself. "Enter," she commanded, her voice steady despite her racing thoughts. The door creaked open, and one of her personal guards stepped in, bowing slightly before delivering his message. "Your Highness, a messenger bearing a letter from Lord Shahab has just arrived," he reported, his tone respectful but urgent. Jasmine''s expression shifted immediately. She rose from her chair with a fluid grace, brushing aside her thoughts of trade and wealth. "Send him in at once," she ordered, her curiosity now piqued. Lord Shahab must have sent the report about the siege Moments later, the messenger entered. He was a young man clad in the colors and crest of House Filastin ¡ªher mother''s house. He knelt down as soon as he crossed the threshold, his head bowed low as he extended a sealed letter toward her. "Your Highness, a message from Lord Shahab," he said, Jasmine''s fingers trembled slightly as she delicately broke the seal on the letter, the warm wax melting away to reveal the finely folded parchment. The crest of House Filastin¡ªan elegant silver falcon¡ªwas embossed at the top.She turned to the messanger dismissing him, the man bowed and did as ordered closing the door behind him and leaving the princess alone in her room. '''' To the Most Esteemed and Radiant Princess Jasmine of House Veloni-isha, May the grace of the ancestors and the blessings of the stars shine upon you, illuminating your path in these uncertain times. It is with great reverence that I, Lord Shahab, your loyal vassal , take quill to parchment to convey both my greetings and my report about the good tide that the princedom has just experienced. I trust this letter reaches you in good health and elevated spirits. It is my honor to provide a detailed account of the ongoing efforts in Confluendi, where your betrothed, Sir Alpheo, has been engaged in siege operations for nearly a month. During this time, both our forces and the enemy have witnessed limited direct conflict. Under Sir Alpheo''s command, the siege has been conducted with great caution, avoiding unnecessary risks and or casualties. The royal general you have wisely appointed has chosen a deliberate approach, preferring to carefully lay the groundwork toward the city''s eventual fall. With each passing day, his forces have consolidated their positions, gradually tightening the grip around the city and ensuring its inevitable downfall. Sir Alpheo had been overseeing the careful mining of the city''s outer walls, steadily weakening the very foundations upon which they stood. For over three weeks, his engineers worked tirelessly to destabilize the stone fortifications, knowing that time, rather than force alone, would bring about the city''s fall. Finally, on the twenty-third day since the operation began, their efforts bore fruit. The walls finally gave way, crumbling in sections and creating a wide breach through which our forces could launch a decisive assault. Our forces, numbering 1,300 strong, with the last batch of recruits having come few days prior from my land , finally launched the long-anticipated assault on the city. Of these, 300 of soldiers coming from Lord''s Damaris fiefdoms, led the primary attack through the breach, under the command of Sir Leomar, the valiant son of Lord Damaris. Meanwhile, the remaining troops were spread thinly across the city''s perimeter, scaling the walls and engaging the defenders in various positions. The assault was bold and coordinated, but not without challenges. The main assault on the breach, though fiercely executed, initially faltered. The defenders, bolstered by their desperation and the narrow terrain, managed to hold their ground, repelling wave after wave of attackers. The soldiers clashed violently, with neither side able to gain an upper hand for a time. However, the real turning point came from the soldiers attacking the walls, scaling the defenses and overwhelming the city''s garrison on the battlements. Once the walls were taken, the tide of battle shifted dramatically. With the city''s defensive line compromised, the soldiers who had secured the walls quickly turned their attention to the forces defending the breach, catching them completely off guard. In a devastating flanking maneuver, these troops descended from the captured walls, hammering into the exposed rear of the garrison, still holding the breach. The defenders, now attacked from both sides, were thrown into disarray. Within moments, what had been a stalemate turned into a rout, as the garrison broke ranks and fled, allowing Alpheo''s entire army to pour into the city unchallenged. The remnants of the city''s defenders, seeing their forces routed and the walls breached, fled toward the keep¡ªtheir final refuge in the chaos. As they retreated, the streets of Confluendi were overrun by the army''s troops, who wasted no time in sacking the city and taking their due. By dawn the following day, the remaining defenders had barricaded themselves in the keep, but their resistance was short-lived. Alpheo''s forces besieged the keep . In just a few hours, it became clear that further defense was futile. The men inside, seeing the hopelessness of their situation, surrendered without much of a fight. The bodies of Lady Elira and her son, Lord Cedric, were brought out to Alpheo''s forces. According to the survivors'' testimonies, after the fall of the city became inevitable, Lady Elira had chosen to poison both herself and her son, rather than see them fall into enemy hands. I express my condolences for the death of your grace''s cousin. Following the surrender of the keep, a garrison of 200 men was left behind to hold the city and restore some semblance of order. With the sack completed and the spoils secured, the army gathered what they could¡ªcoins, valuables, food stores, and captured goods¡ªand began their journey back to the court, triumphant, with the spoils of war in tow. Your Grace, it is my deepest hope that this news brings you satisfaction and pride, knowing that the royal banner now flies above Confluendi, securing yet another victory for your reign. May the gods continue to bless your rule and your endeavors. Your loyal servant and grandfather, Lord Shahab of House Filastin. '''' Chapter 152: A city standing and another falling.. Chapter 152: A city standing and another falling.. "DIEEE!" A man shouted as his hammer slammed into the side of an enemy soldier, the sickening crunch of bones shattering under the brutal impact echoing through the din of battle. The soldier collapsed, lifeless, but he barely spared a glance at the dying men before he bellowed once more. "To the gate!" he shouted, rallying his men. "Break it down! Forward!" The man had short brown hair, his locks damp with sweat beneath his helm, and his piercing blue eyes gleamed with determination as he led his men forward. The night was thick with tension, but his gaze never faltered, fixed on the gate ahead. His helmet, dented from past battles, bore the proud crest of House Retioa engraved on the front, symbolizing his house. Charging ahead, he swung his war hammer with brutal efficiency, his every movement purposeful, his battle cry echoing through the night.The man was the commander leading this night attack, recommended for the role by his uncle Lord Landoff, directly chosen by the emperor himself. His name was Willios of house Roetia and right now he was fighting for his life ----------- It was deep into the night,when the operation began . Willios and his men had encountered no trouble scaling the outer wall, moving like shadows in the darkness. They crept closer to the tower, emboldened by the silence of the slumbering garrison. But as they neared their objective, disaster struck. A lone guard, patrolling the high wall, spotted the mass of men below. His eyes widened in panic, and before anyone could react, the blaring sound of a horn cut through the night. The eerie wail echoed across the city, alerting every soldier within the walls. From the heart of the city, the castle stirred to life. The silence was quickly replaced by the shouts as soldiers poured out of their quarters. Willios glanced behind him, his brow furrowing in frustration as he saw less than 200 men following him. Far fewer than he had expected. He muttered a string of curses under his breath, his grip tightening on the handle of his hammer. "Not enough... damn it," he growled, realizing the odds were more against him than he''d hoped. Without wasting another moment, Willios turned and led his men down from the tower. The night cloaked their movement, but the sound of armor clanking and boots hitting the stone betrayed their presence. He moved swiftly toward the right, where the gate stood the prize of the mission "Move quickly!" he shouted back to his men ,as one of his soldiers finished off the man that discovered them , his blue eyes gleaming in the darkness as they filled with a silent panic . The men fought like rabid beasts when the enemy finally met them , their desperation fueling every strike as they pushed forward toward the gate. They knew there was no turning back, their only salvation lying in the success of their mission¡ªopening the gate and allowing the larger force outside to flood into the city. The clang of steel against steel filled the air, the frenzy of battle making them reckless, each soldier throwing himself at the enemy with a ferocity born of fear and necessity. Willios swung his hammer with brutal precision, crushing the side of an enemy''s helmet, the sickening crack of bone echoing in his ears. His breath came in ragged gasps, but he pressed on, leading the charge. Around him, his men surged, hacking and slashing their way through the opposition, their desperation palpable. Suddenly, amidst the chaos of battle, Willios heard shouts coming from the top of the wall. For a moment, panic seized him as he thought the guards were signaling to cut off his retreat, but then he realized something strange. The shouts weren''t directed downward at his men. They were aimed outward, toward the battlefield beyond the walls. His brow furrowed in confusion, his heartbeat quickening even though he did not stop moving for a second . His eyes darted toward the source of the commotion, and in a flash, he understood. The soldiers outside had heard the horn. They knew the operation had been compromised. But instead of retreating, they were using the chaos to their advantage, trying to scale the wall and take a foothold themselves. It was a gamble,and yet the most beautiful thing that could have ever happened to him right then ,as any men that was used to defend the wall, was one less man stopping them from reaching the gate. "Forward!" he bellowed, his voice hoarse but resolute. "To the gate! We end this now!" With a fierce battle cry, he smashed his down onto the nearest enemy, the impact reverberating through his arm as the soldier crumpled to the ground, leaving it to be finished by any of his soldiers. Around him, his men fought with equal ferocity. He could hear their shouts¡ªangry, determined, and raw with adrenaline¡ªas they clashed against the defenders. Willios weaved through the fray, every movement a blend of instinct and training. He dodged a sword swipe aimed at his side, the blade whistling just past him, and retaliated with a swift swing of his hammer that sent him sprawling As he pressed on, he glanced back at his men. The men following him were becoming less and less but it did not matter. They pushed forward, forming a chaotic but effective front, each man fighting not just for survival, but for a chance to turn the tide of battle. He could see one of his soldiers, grappling with an armored guard. Willios charged in, swinging his hammer sideways and catching the guard in the knee. The man fell with a howl, and his opponent quickly took advantage of the opening, driving his dagger onto the neck of the men "Keep pushing!" Willios shouted, rallying his men. "We''re almost there!" With each step closer to the gate, the defenders fought harder, their shouts echoing against the stone walls. Willios ducked beneath a sword aimed for his head and struck out, smashing the guard''s helmet with a resounding crack. He could hear the wind rushing past him, the sounds of the fight blending into a chaotic symphony of clashing steel, grunts of exertion, and cries of pain. Suddenly, an enemy soldier lunged at him, sword raised. Willios raised his shield deflecting the blow before he retaliated immediately, swinging his hammer in a wide arc. The heavy metal connected with the soldier''s midsection, the sickening sound of impact echoing around them. The man doubled over, gasping for air as Willios followed through, bringing the hammer down again, this time onto his head. "Don''t let them regroup!" Willios bellowed, eyes scanning for the gate. They were close now, but the defenders were relentless, pouring in from all sides, trying to encircle the small group of attackers. Willios felt the adrenaline surging in his veins, a fire igniting within him. With a fierce roar, he surged forward, his men following. They were almost at the gate, and with every strike, every clash, Willios felt the hope of success pulling him onward. "Push! We will take this city tonight!" he yelled, leading his men toward the final push against the gate, their collective might colliding with the last line of defenders. A sharp clang echoed through the chaos as a blade struck Willios''s helmet with tremendous force. The impact jolted his head sideways, and he felt a sudden, blinding pain as the edge of the blade cut into his brow, slicing through skin and sending blood gushing down into his left eye. The world tilted, the din of battle fading momentarily as he staggered, desperately trying to clear his vision from all the red on his face . Through the crimson haze, he swung his hammer instinctively, but the blow missed its mark. Instead, he felt a sudden force as a boot connected with his side, sending him sprawling to the ground. Willios grunted as he landed hard on the cobblestones, the air whooshing from his lungs. Gasping for breath, he tried to rise, but a heavy foot stomped onto his chest, pinning him down. Panic surged through him as he struggled against the weight, his heart racing. With his good eye, he caught sight of a menacing figure looming above him, a sword raised, its tip aiming down. The soldier sneered, ready to deliver the fatal thrust that would end this fight. Just as the blade descended, there was a sudden blur of movement, and the weight on Willios''s chest vanished. He blinked in surprise, blood still clouding his vision. He took a moment to wipe the crimson away from his face, clearing his sight enough to see the battlefield once again. The soldier who had been poised to kill him was now crumpled on the ground, the life snuffed out of him with a sword piercing his neck. Willios didn''t bother to look back; his focus sharpened with the instinct for survival. He surged to his feet, adrenaline surging through his veins like fire, and without a backward glance, he moved forward, hammer in hand, ready to rejoin the fray. Willios stumbled back into the fray, hammer gripped tightly in his blood-stained hands. In the confusion, he hadn''t noticed that his shield had been knocked from his grasp, in its abscense he uncosciously snatched up a sword from a fallen enemy The clang of steel on steel filled the air as he swung the sword, feeling its bite as it parried another blade. He fought with reckless abandon, his instincts guiding him as he hammered against the tide of foes. Willios focused solely on the fight before him, unaware that they had pushed through the defenses and reached the gate itself. His world was a storm of clashing swords and the grunts of exertion, everything outside did not matter. Every muscle in his body was alive with adrenaline as he wove through the melee, his thoughts consumed by the immediate threat. But then came the sound of triumphant cheers came from behind hi. Willios turned, his breath catching in his throat as he saw thousands of men pouring through the gate. Relief and excitement flooded through him, and he raised his sword, roaring in triumph just realising that he had done it.He did not know how many of the man he led were still alive but it mattered not . He had succeeded. But before he could celebrate,darkness swallowed him whole, and the last thing he felt was the weight of his body crumpling to the ground from a blow coming from behind. Chapter 153: King of the sea Chapter 153: King of the sea A tall man with neck-long black hair stood firmly at the bow of a ship, his hand gripping the bowsprit tightly as he looked out over the sea. His hair blew wildly in the strong wind, strands of it whipping across his stern face. The white sail above him, stretched taut by the gusts, billowed high and proud, propelling the ship forward. His dark eyes narrowed as he took in the horizon, then suddenly, his voice boomed across the deck. "Row, you dogs!" he shouted, his words laced with impatience. His gaze flicked down to the rowers, slaves hunched over their oars below deck, their muscles straining as they heaved in unison, their skins peeling off from the salt and the continuing touch with the oars. The roar of twenty slaves, grunting and groaning under the weight of their task, filled the air, blending with the creak of the ship and the relentless crash of waves. The oars plunged into the water rhythmically, each stroke pushing the ship faster, their efforts adding speed to the wind-driven vessel. The man''s grip on the bowsprit tightened, his body bracing against the ship''s motion as he sighted the sea. The pirate ship was slender and long, a menacing vessel cutting swiftly through the waves. Measuring nearly two and a half meters tall and twenty meters wide, it moved with deadly grace. The hull was sleek, built for speed, its dark wood glistening in the sunlight, a predator chasing its prey. Onboard, the deck was crowded with hardened men, their swords hanging from their belts, shields slung across their backs. Clad in chainmail and helmets, the men stood ready, their eyes locked on the horizon where their next prize sailed. The metallic jingle of their armor mixed with the creaking wood and the wind whipping the white sail. Ahead of them, a merchant ship desperately tried to flee. It was a broad, sluggish vessel, not built for speed but for carrying goods. Its sails strained to catch the wind, but no matter how hard the crew worked, the pirate ship was closing in fast. The merchant''s deck was frantic with movement as sailors scrambled, shouting orders, casting panicked glances over their shoulders at the pursuing pirate ship that bore down on them with terrifying speed. The two ships surged through the waves, the ocean roaring beneath them, but both crews knew the chase was nearing its end. The merchant ship, slow and heavy, was no match for the sleek predator closing in on it, and the men aboard could already feel the weight of their defeat looming. Suddenly, a wild voice pierced the air, cutting through the wind like a howl. "How much have I missed this ?!" one of the pirates bellowed, his shout echoing across the deck, sending a ripple of excitement through the crew. The captain, Blake, stood at the bow, his black hair whipping in the wind, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "All right, boys!" he roared, his voice a thunderous command that filled the deck with feral energy. "Let''s fuck the Empire hard and their merchants even harder'''' He jammed his helmet down onto his head, the polished steel gleaming in the sunlight, before turning back to his men, their eyes gleaming with savage anticipation. "Board her!" Blake shouted, his arm thrust toward the merchant ship now just within reach. The crew erupted in a chorus of bloodthirsty cheers, swords drawn and shields raised, as they readied to storm the helpless vessel. The first wave of twenty pirates stood at the bow of their slender ship, bows knocked and ready. "Loose!" came the shout, and as one, they released their arrows. The sky darkened for a moment as the arrows arced through the air, hissing like deadly serpents before raining down on the merchant ship. Sailors aboard the merchant vessel screamed in panic as the arrows struck. Men stumbled and fell, clutching at wounds, while others frantically tried to keep rowing. A few oars slipped from limp hands, splashing into the sea. The ship slowed, crippled, as more arrows found their marks. Some of the dozen guards aboard raised shields in a desperate attempt to protect the crew, but it was clear they were hopelessly outmatched. "Draw closer!" Blake shouted, his voice booming over the chaos as the gap between the ships narrowed. With a savage grin, he led his men toward the rail, ropes and grappling hooks at the ready. Arrows continued to rain down, sending sailors scattering for cover. The pirates threw their hooks with practiced precision, securing them to the merchant ship''s deck. "Board!" Blake roared, and with wild, bloodthirsty cries, the pirates surged forward, swords drawn and shields raised. The first of the pirate raiders leaped across, landing heavily on the deck of the merchant ship, their weapons gleaming in the sunlight. A guard, desperate and wide-eyed, charged toward Blake with a furious shout, his sword raised high. Blake saw him coming, his lips curling into a grim smile. As the man brought his sword down in a powerful swing, Blake raised his own blade and parried the strike with a sharp clang of steel. Before the guard could recover, Blake stepped in, his free hand shooting out like a viper. He grabbed the man by the neck, fingers digging into his flesh with crushing force. The guard''s eyes bulged in shock as Blake lifted him slightly off his feet and slammed him down onto the deck with a heavy thud. The sound of impact was lost in the din of battle, but the fear in the guard''s eyes was unmistakable. Blake stood over him, planting his boot firmly on the man''s chest, pinning him to the blood-slicked wood. "Not so brave now, are you?" he growled. Without hesitation, Blake raised his sword and drove it down into the guard''s neck, ending his life in a single, brutal strike. The man''s body twitched once before going still beneath Blake''s foot. As Blake stepped over the lifeless body of his latest victim, another guard rushed at him, screaming in desperation. This one was faster, his sword already mid-swing before Blake could fully turn. Instinctively, Blake twisted his body, the enemy''s blade grazing his chainmail with a screech but failing to cut through. Blake, unshaken, countered with a vicious overhead strike. The guard brought his sword up just in time, the impact sending a shockwave through his arms as steel clashed again. Sparks flew, and Blake grinned, seeing the man''s trembling hands. Without missing a beat, Blake shoved forward with brute strength, forcing the guard back. As the man stumbled, Blake swung his fist, slamming it into the guard''s face with a bone-crunching blow. Blood sprayed from the man''s nose, and he staggered, dazed. Blake seized the moment, stepping in close. With a savage roar he drove his knee into the guard''s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The man doubled over, gasping for breath, but Blake wasn''t done. He grabbed the back of the guard''s helmet, yanked him upright, and slammed him on the ground repeatedly before finishing him off by stepping onto his throat The pirates tore through the merchant ship like wolves among sheep. With the initial resistance broken, the guards who hadn''t already fallen to arrows or blades were quickly overwhelmed. The chaos of battle faded into desperate cries for mercy as the pirates'' superior numbers and ruthless efficiency made short work of the defenders. Blake''s men surged across the deck, hacking through the last pockets of resistance. Those who tried to stand and fight were cut down without hesitation, their bodies hitting the blood-slicked deck with dull thuds. The merchant crew, outnumbered and unarmed, stood no chance. One by one, they dropped their weapons, raising their hands in surrender as the realization dawned: there would be no escape. "On your knees!" one pirate bellowed, grabbing a sailor by the scruff of his neck and throwing him down onto the deck. All around, the defeated crew and remaining guards were forced to their knees, their hands bound tightly behind their backs with rough rope. The captain of the merchant ship, beaten and bloodied, was shoved forward to kneel beside his men. His eyes, wide with fear and despair, flickered up to Blake, who stood towering above the captives. The pirates whooped and jeered, kicking the bound men or spitting at them as they secured the victory. Blake sheathed his blood-stained sword, looking down at the kneeling crew. "That''s better," he said, his voice calm but dripping with malice. His men laughed, already looting the merchant ship, gathering sacks of goods and valuables. Blake strode across the bloodied deck, his eyes sweeping over the kneeling captives. He stopped in front of the merchant captain, who winced under his gaze. Blake crouched down to meet his eyes, a cruel smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Tell me, captain," Blake began, voice low and dangerous, "is there anyone who can pay your ransom?" The merchant nodded quickly, sweat pouring down his face. "M-my brother... He''ll pay, I swear it!" Blake narrowed his eyes for a moment, then nodded thoughtfully. "Good," he muttered, before pointing to the next man beside him, a trembling deckhand whose face was as pale as a ghost. "What about you? Anyone who''ll ransom you?" Blake asked, his voice icy. The deckhand, shaking his head furiously, mumbled a terrified, "No... no one." Blake stood up slowly, his smirk gone. He turned to address the rest of the bound men, his voice booming over the quiet tension. "Normally," Blake began, pacing back and forth as his pirates watched in silence, "you lot would have been sold into slavery. That''s what would have awaited you." The men stirred nervously, but Blake''s next words cut through their fear like a blade. "But," Blake said, raising a finger, "today is a special day." His crew exchanged glances, grins spreading across their faces as they began to sense what was coming. Blake''s eyes gleamed with vicious anticipation as he continued. "Today," he growled, "we pick up where our ancestors failed. And the first step? Sating their hunger." Without warning, Blake grabbed one of the sailors by the back of his shirt, lifting him with terrifying ease. The sailor kicked and screamed in panic, but Blake dragged him to the edge of the ship, holding him over the side. His eyes burned with fury as he shouted to his crew, "Today, we avenge those who died at Rock Bottom!Let these men serve our ancestors laying on the bottom of the sea" With a brutal shove, Blake hurled the man overboard. The sailor''s scream was short-lived, silenced as he hit the water with a splash. The other prisoners cried out in horror, watching helplessly as Blake and his pirates turned toward them. "One by one!" Blake barked, and his men moved swiftly, grabbing the captives by their collars, dragging them to the side of the ship, and tossing them into the waves like sacks of grain. The water churned with bodies as the pirates roared in triumph, throwing each man overboard, their cries drowned out by the roar of the ocean and the jeers of Blake''s crew. The merchant captain''s face drained of all color, his skin as pale as a ghost under the brutal midday sun. His trembling lips parted, but no words escaped as he watched his men thrown overboard, one after another, their screams silenced by the cold, unforgiving sea. His eyes darted wildly between the pirates, their roars of laughter and savage cheers filling the air like a storm of madness. Blake stood amidst the chaos, his chest rising and falling steadily, watching it all unfold with a twisted sense of satisfaction. Around him, his crew shouted and jeered, some raising their bloodied weapons high to the sky, others howling like wild beasts, reveling in their brutal victory. The sound was deafening, a chorus of raw, unchecked fury, echoing across the open sea. But Blake''s mind was elsewhere, far beyond the violence and bloodshed before him. His dark eyes gleamed with something far greater than the carnage at hand. As he looked across the vast horizon, where the sky met the sea, he felt the weight of destiny settling on his shoulders. Enough of this....he thought, his lips curling into a slow, cruel grin. The time has come. The seas need new kings roaring over their waves. Chapter 154: Raising the soul of man Chapter 154: Raising the soul of man Two weeks had passed, and the pirate ship sliced through the waves like a beast returning to its lair. The once pristine white sails were now stained with salt and streaks of battle, while atop the mast, the banner of a raging wave fluttered proudly, rippling in the wind. Its deep blue crest against a black background seemed to roar with the same fury that had filled Blake''s men during their raids. It had been years since Blake felt this alive, a feeling he hadn''t tasted since that fateful day at Rock Bottom, sailing beside his father. The sea roared beneath them then, a relentless force of nature, much like the battle that had taken place. The clash was nothing short of catastrophic¡ªa defeat that lived on in infamy¡ªbut no one could deny the magnitude of it. For Blake, the memory was vivid, a dark cloud that shaped the man he had become. He had been a boy of only fifteen summers, yet he fought as if he''d been bred for it, cleaving through men like a veteran of a hundred battles. All the free lords united under one banner and one might, known as the Free Fleet, they surged toward the Imperials with brutal force. The ships smashed into the enemy with the power of a raging axe striking down a tree. Splintered wood, torn sails, and drowning men littered the sea. His father, the infamous commander of the Roaring Axe, led the charge, while Blake and his brothers each commanded a ship of their own. It was a glorious assault¡ªBlake himself had taken down three ships that day, ramming their hulls and sending them to the depths. He remembered the twelve men he had personally cut down, their screams echoing in his mind even now. But glory quickly turned to horror. The Empire of Rolmia, ever cunning, had set a trap. Unknown to Blake''s father and the fleet, the Imperials had hidden their true strength behind the rocky cover of Hervia, a port of the Oizen principality , a small one just east of the battlefield. As the Free Fleet pressed forward, stretched too thin and too eager for blood, the trap was sprung. From the east, the Imperial fleet emerged in full force, their sleek warships cutting through the water with deadly precision. Blake''s heart had dropped as he saw them¡ªhundreds of ships, bearing down on their vulnerable position. The Free Fleet, committed to their forward assault, was unable to change course in time. It was like watching a wolf pack descend on an injured stag. The Imperials rammed their ships from the side, the sound of wood shattering and men screaming filling the air. In the chaos, the proud Free Fleet crumbled. Out of the eighty ships that had set sail that day, only twenty limped away, battered and broken. Of the four ships his brothers commanded, only Blake''s remained. His three brothers¡ªKaros, Merek, and Hadrin¡ªdied at Rock Bottom, their ships splintered into the sea. The memory of their final moments haunted Blake. Karos, defiant to the last, shouting orders as his ship went down in flames. Merek, torn apart by an enemy boarding party. Hadrin, struck by a stray catapult stone, his ship sinking before anyone could react.They all died as true men. The fourth brother, Kalen, survived¡ªbut barely. He had been found adrift, muttering incoherently, his eyes glazed over, broken by the horrors of the battle. Kalen''s mind never returned from Rock Bottom, and to Blake, it was as if he had lost him too. His father never recovered from the wounds from the battle, dying just few days later, and so the fourth son suddenly became lord of Ela''s island, at the cost however of their way of life. That day changed Blake forever. It had been a defeat, a massacre. But it had also been a lesson of hyubris of men who believed themselves to be gods. Following the catastrophe at Rock Bottom, the Empire of Rolmia swiftly tightened its grip on the seas, aiming to exterminate what remained of the pirate fleets that had once terrorized their merchant vessels. The key to this dominance was the capture of the fortress of Harmway, a stronghold used by the pirates to launch their raids and retreat to safety when the Imperial Navy closed in. Without Harmway, the pirates were little more than scattered bands, unable to organize large-scale attacks. The fortress of Harmway had always been a crucial base of operations for the pirate lords, its location perfect for controlling the narrow strait between the open sea and the Empire''s bustling trade routes. For years, it had allowed them to strike swiftly, then vanish before the Imperial Navy could retaliate. But after the slaughter at Rock Bottom, where the pirate fleet was lured into a deadly trap and nearly wiped out, Harmway became a sitting duck with no hope of support from the isles of its masters. With most of their ships destroyed and the survivors too scattered to regroup, the pirates could do little to defend Harmway. The fortress was strong, its stone walls towering over the sea, but it couldn''t stand against a determined Imperial assault without a fleet to protect it. The Empire sent its forces, and after weeks of siege, the walls of Harmway finally crumbled under the relentless bombardment. Imperial soldiers stormed through the breach, slaughtering the remaining defenders. For the pirates, the fall of Harmway marked the beginning of the end. Without the fortress, they had no safe port to repair their ships, gather supplies, or plan their raids outside their immediate waters. The Imperials quickly moved to patrol the waters surrounding the fortress, declaring it off-limits to any vessel without their approval. The once-feared pirate fleet, already decimated, was now fragmented and unable to launch coordinated raids. Their golden age was over, their power broken. ---------- Blake stood at the bow of the ship, as he always did, letting the wind whip across his face. His long, black hair blew freely behind him, strands occasionally sticking to his sunburned skin. His piercing gaze scanned the horizon, but this time it wasn''t searching for prey. This time, he was simply savoring the victory, the triumph of their raids, and the spoils they had taken. Gold, silver, and more slaves than they could count now filled the ship''s hold, but it wasn''t the riches that satisfied him the most. No, it was the opportunity to change things to make them right. As the salty breeze swept over him, Blake closed his eyes for a brief moment, feeling the pull of the sea deep within his bones. The wind was his herald, the waves his throne. He felt invincible. His men called to one another behind him, sharing bawdy jokes and tales of their raids, their spirits high from the success of their recent plundering. He was not sailing home but instead toward Blacktide Cove, the place where each lord or their representatives were sent to discuss matters regarding the confederation policies. It was funny they called themselves the Confederation of the Free Isles and yet they could not even raid and pillage wherever they wanted. The wind filled the white sails, and beneath him, the oars groaned as the slaves rowed in rhythm, cutting swiftly through the waves. Blake had been summoned by the other pirate lords to face judgment for breaking the Treaty of Sea-Rock. That treaty, forged between the Free Lords and the Empire of Rolmia after years of bloody conflict, was clear: no pirate vessel was allowed to raid within the water of the imperial seas. For two decades, the treaty had kept a fragile peace between the pirates and the Empire. The Free Lords could raid elsewhere, but the Imperial Sea was forbidden, and any pirate caught there would answer to the Free Lords before even facing the wrath of the Empire. They did not only lose their will to fight but also their back spine. Blake had been ordered to present himself before the Free Lords and explain why he had risked their fragile existence for his greed, in case he did not, he would be declared a criminal and brought to the Call with iron around his ankles. He didn''t care. His raids had been successful, and he had claimed more than gold¡ªhe had tasted the thrill of defying the greatest maritime power. Blake had no intention of walking into Blacktide Cove and accepting punishment like some beaten dog. As his ship neared the jagged cliffs that guarded the cove, he gripped the edge of the bow, his knuckles white but his mind sharp. He wasn''t going there to bow to the Free Lords, nor to grovel for their mercy. No¡ªhe was going to argue his case and stroke the fire now smoldering within every free man who still had salt in his veins. The treaty was nothing but a leash, a shackle the Empire had thrown around their necks, and Blake would remind them of that in case they failed to feel the rope. He would remind them of the glory that had once belonged to the free men of the sea, of the riches waiting in the Imperial waters, and of the chains they had allowed themselves to wear for far too long and that was now time to break off from. He wasn''t coming to apologize¡ªhe was coming to stoke the flames of rebellion. This was no time for submission. Blake was ready to fan the fire of defiance, one that could burn away the fear and timidity the Free Lords had clung to for too long, it was time to awake the ancient kings of the seas. Chapter 155: Call from the sea(1) Chapter 155: Call from the sea(1) Blake''s ship sliced through the waves as the jagged silhouette of the island came into view. The rocky coast rose steep and unforgiving, cliffs plunging into the sea like the jaws of a beast, but nestled in the heart of it was Blacktide Cove, the only place on the island that welcomed ships. A narrow strip of sandy beach curved into a natural harbor, its calm waters offering refuge from the wild seas beyond. As they drew closer, Blake''s eyes scanned the horizon, noting the dozens of ships already anchored in the cove. Their sails hung limp, banners fluttering weakly in the wind. recognized many of the banners¡ªold rivals, former allies, and friends. The cove itself was small but bustling with life. Campfires burned along the beach where crews gathered, talking and drinking whenever their captains walked inside the Call, their shadows flickering against the rocky cliffs that hemmed them in. Beyond the harbor, the cliffs rose up sharply, barren and craggy, save for the pathways carved by centuries of footsteps leading toward the inner sanctum where the Free Lords convened. Blake stepped onto the shore, his boots sinking slightly into the wet sand as he surveyed the cove around him. The salty breeze from the sea whipped through his neck-length black hair, but his eyes were already fixed on the imposing structure carved into the cliffside ahead. The Call of Sea loomed before him, a stone amphitheater carved directly into the mountain''s side, its stark silhouette descended from those who had ruled this island for generations.Apparently the history narrated by the elders said a long time ago they were not a confederations of island but instead a kingdom. Anyway that was a long time ago before they deposed their last king and declared a oligarchic confederation The entrance to the Call was framed by weathered stone pillars, worn smooth by centuries of wind and sea, giving it an ancient, almost godly demeanor. Above it all, the amphitheater rose in semi-circular tiers, with 200 stone seats, each meticulously hewn from the rock itself, sloping down toward a central platform where the Free Lords convened. It resembled the grand theatres Blake had heard about in Romelian history, where they would sing operas and recite poems. As he approached, the hollow sound of his boots against the stone echoed faintly across the cove. Pirates watched him with steely eyes as he moved toward the entrance, their whispers faint but unmistakably full of tension. Blake''s jaw clenched, but his steps did not falter. His fate would be decided here, in the belly of the mountain. As Blake made his way toward the stone amphitheater, a booming voice suddenly shattered the tense air around him. "Blake, you bastard! Is that really you?" Blake stopped in his tracks and turned around as fast as a fish in water. Striding toward him was a man of impressive build¡ªsturdy and wide-shouldered, with a full black beard that reached down to his chest. His bald head gleamed in the sunlight, and his dark eyes sparkled with that madness that only great men can own. There was no mistaking that loud, thunderous voice. Before Blake could react, the man closed the distance between them in a few powerful strides and threw his thick arms around him, pulling him into a bear-like embrace. Blake barely had time to register what was happening when the man planted a sudden kiss on his mouth, laughing heartily all the while. "I can''t believe you actually did it, you mad dog!To hell to those imperials!" the man roared, his voice full of admiration and disbelief as he finally released Blake. Blake staggered back a step, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and spitting into the sand. His face twisted in disgust, but the glint of amusement in his eyes betrayed him. "Gods, Kroll!" Blake said, spitting again for good measure. Kroll''s laughter echoed across the cove as he doubled over, clutching his sides. He wiped his mouth again and shot Kroll a glare, but the sight of the towering man''s infectious grin brought the faintest of smirks to his own lips. "I should''ve seen that coming, you old fool," Blake muttered, but he couldn''t help the chuckle that escaped him. Kroll, still laughing, slapped Blake on the back, nearly knocking him forward. "I always said you had a death wish, but this? I thought I''d be burying you, not seeing you marching toward the Call like you''ve got the sea itself at your back!" Blake, shaking his head, spat one last time into the sand and grinned. "Well, you''re not rid of me yet.The same goes for the rest of them." Blake''s grin faded as his expression turned grim, the lightheartedness of the moment vanishing in an instant. He stared at Kroll with cold determination in his eyes. ''''You knew the consequences of your actions?'''' "I wanted this to happen," Blake said, his voice low but steady. Kroll face grew serious, the weight of Blake''s words sinking in. The shift in mood was palpable. Kroll took a step back, his dark eyes narrowing as he studied Blake for a moment. "You really want to go all the way with this?If you don''t feel confident I can very well pull few favors and have you sail away with a slap on your wrist" Kroll asked, his voice quieter now, though it still held a rough edge. Blake gave a slow, deliberate shake of his head . There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. The resolve on his face was unshakable. Kroll let out a long sigh, rubbing a hand over his bald head as if trying to brush away the enormity of what Blake was suggesting. He glanced out toward the horizon, the sea stretching endlessly before them, then turned his gaze back to Blake. "It''s been brewing for years, hasn''t it?" Kroll muttered, his voice heavy with understanding. "That damn treaty''s been shackling us ever since it was signed. And now... now you''ve gone and given us a reason to break it." Blake remained silent, his eyes locked onto Kroll''s, unwavering. Kroll sighed again, deeper this time, but there was a glint in his eye, a spark of something primal. Blake finally opened his mouth "Don''t you think it is time already? The Empire thinks they own these waters. But the moment''s ripe, isn''t it?" He paused, a fierce grin forming on his lips. ''''It''s time the Romelians fell the consequence of another Rock bottom, that can only be done however, if the free lords sail together as one ship and one crew '''' Kroll grinned, clapping Blake hard on the shoulder. "You have my vote for that ," he said with a fierce gleam in his eye. "And with it that of my lords. We''ve been waiting for a firestarter like you, Blake. Time to shake the waves." Blake''s lips curled into a satisfied smile, though before he could respond, a long, mournful bellow echoed across the shore. The Salt Horn. It sounded from the cliffs above, a deep, resonant call that silenced the chatter of the beach. It signaled the start of the Call. Blake gave Kroll a firm nod before turning away, the conversation left unfinished. His boots crunched against the rocky ground as he made his way toward the stone path that led up the side of the mountain, The time had come to speak, to stand before the Free Lords, and to begin what he had set in motion. He did not look back. Ten minutes had passed, and Blake now stood in the center of the Call of Sea. The air was thick with tension, the walls of the stone amphitheater rising around him like the jagged teeth of a beast. Above, the sky was overcast, casting a muted gray light over the assembly. Around him, seated in the semi-circular rows carved into the mountain, were some one hundred and fifty lords¡ªeach representing their own small lordship, be it a castle or a barren island that their ancestors declared their own . Their faces were hard, weathered by wind and salt, and their eyes bore down on him with a mix of curiosity, suspicion, and hunger for what was to come. Blake felt their gazes like the weight of the ocean itself, but he stood firm, his back straight, shoulders squared. This was the moment he had been waiting for. At the top of the amphitheater, seated upon a throne carved from black rock, was the Elder of Blacktide Cove. His hair was thin and white, his skin like worn leather. He held a long, twisted staff in his hand, and when he raised it, the tip scraping the stone floor beneath, all noise ceased. The echoes of murmurs were swallowed by silence, and all eyes shifted fully onto Blake. The elder butted the stick against the ground with a resounding thud, the sound bouncing off the rock walls, sharp and final. The room fell into absolute stillness. Blake stared up at the elder, meeting his gaze. It was time to make his case. Chapter 156: Call from sea(2) Chapter 156: Call from sea(2) Ten minutes had passed, and Blake now stood in the center of the Call of Sea. The walls of the stone amphitheater rising around him like the jagged teeth of a beast. Above, the sky was overcast, casting a muted gray light over the assembly. Around him, seated in the semi-circular rows carved into the mountain, were some one hundred and fifty lords¡ªeach representing their own pirate ships or coastal territories. Their faces were hard, weathered by wind and salt, and their eyes bore down on him with a mix of curiosity, suspicion, and hunger for what was to come. Blake felt their gazes like the weight of the ocean itself, but he stood firm, his back straight, shoulders squared. This was the moment he had been waiting for. The murmurs among the lords, their whispers of doubt and excitement, buzzed around the stone chamber. At the top of the amphitheater, seated upon a throne carved from black rock, was the Elder of Blacktide Cove. His hair was thin and white, his skin like worn leather. He held a long, twisted staff in his hand, and when he raised it, the tip scraping the stone floor beneath, all noise ceased. The echoes of murmurs were swallowed by silence, and all eyes shifted fully onto Blake. The elder butted the stick against the ground with a resounding thud, the sound bouncing off the rock walls, sharp and final. The room fell into absolute stillness. Blake stared up at the elder, meeting his gaze. It was time. The old man, seated upon the black stone throne, tapped his staff against the ground once more, the sharp sound cutting through the stillness like a knife. His voice, though aged and gravelly, carried authority across the amphitheater. "Silence," he commanded, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the faces of the gathered lords. The weight of his words pressed on them all. "We are here to pass judgment on Blake lord of Ela , the accused may step forward." Blake stepped forward from the center, his boots echoing against the stone. His face was hard, unreadable, as he stood tall before the assembly. The old man''s piercing gaze settled on him, and for a moment, the world seemed to still. "Tell me," the elder began, his tone sharp, "I have heard troubling whispers. Tales of a ship raiding in the imperial seas for weeks without end. Is there truth to these stories?" Blake''s eyes flickered with defiance as he lifted his chin. "There is." The elder''s expression darkened, and his gnarled hand tightened around his staff. "And tell me, was this ship one of yours? Were you the one leading it?" Blake nodded, his voice firm. "Aye, it was mine. And I led it." A murmur rippled through the crowd, like a wave breaking against the shore, but a quick glare from the elder silenced it. The old man''s eyes hardened as the murmurs of the gathered lords subsided. His voice, low and deliberate, echoed through the stone hall. "Were you aware," he began slowly, his gaze boring into Blake, "that your actions were a direct breach of the Treaty we signed with the empire ? " Blake stood still, his jaw clenched, his hands at his sides. His eyes flickered with the fire that had always burned within him. "I knew," he said, his voice strong and steady. "I knew very well what I was doing¡ªand the consequences of it." Another wave of whispers coursed through the assembly, but Blake''s voice rose over them, raw and fierce. "But hear me now!" Blake shouted, his words reverberating off the stone walls. "What I did was not for greed of coin or hunger for glory. I did not sail into imperial seas to line my pockets or feed my pride. No. I did it to save my people!" He stepped forward, his hands gesturing as he spoke with fiery conviction, addressing the entire council now. "Look around you! The free men of the sea have been withering under that cursed treaty for too long. What future do we have if we sit idle, tied by agreements that were forged with our necks already halfway in the noose? We call ourselves free, yet we bow to the whims of the Empire, afraid to touch their waters, afraid to raid where our ancestors once ruled without fear!" As Blake''s fiery words echoed across the Call, one of the lords suddenly rose from his seat, his face twisted in disdain. "He is a traitor!" the man bellowed, pointing an accusatory finger at Blake. It was Lord Cedric of Stothewhich, a man known for his wealth, not from the sea, but from his iron mines deep in the mainland. Blake''s eyes flashed with fury as he turned to face the lord. "A copper-counter dares speak at a Salt Call?" Blake spat, his voice filled with venom. He stepped forward, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword, though he did not draw it. "You and your kind are not worthy of speaking here. This is a place for men of the waves, for those whose blood was born on salt and sea, you do not belong here..'''' Lord Stothewhich''s face reddened in anger, but Blake continued, his voice rising with every word. "You are the perfect example of the corruption that''s sinking its teeth into the free men of the sea! While the rest of us rot under Rolmia''s thumb, you grow fat off your iron mines, happy to line your pockets by selling to princes and lords. And what? You support this treaty because it protects your coin, because you''d rather bow to the Empire than risk losing your precious trade!" The lords around Stothewhich glanced at him, some nodding in agreement while others remained silent. Blake''s voice rang out, cutting through the growing tension. "If we continue down this path, we''ll be no better than the land-dwellers¡ªweak, shackled, and forgotten. Our ancestors ruled these seas with fearlessness, not treaties! But men like you," Blake sneered, "have poisoned that legacy" Stothewhich, though fuming, did not speak immediately, aware of the growing disdain among the other lords for his position. His wealth and connections with the empire had made him a powerful figure, but in this hall, among the free lords, his influence had already weaned. The old man sitting on the stone throne suddenly slammed his staff onto the ground with a resounding crack once again , his voice rising with unexpected strength despite his age. "Silence!" he commanded, his gravelly voice reverberating through the amphitheater. Blake, momentarily startled, felt a flicker of surprise; he hadn''t expected to be allowed to speak, let alone retort. "By the treaty," the Keeper began, his tone heavy with judgment, "that the Confederation has signed with the Empire of Rolmia, Lord Blake of Hollowmark stands in direct violation. His actions are not just a breach of trust, but an offense to every name signed on the treaty" The Keeper paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the crowd. "The penalty, by the terms of the agreement, is clear. Lord Blake should be fined twenty times the value of the loot he has taken, and his entire crew..." The old man''s eyes narrowed, "...should face crucifixion." The air felt heavy, suffocating, but before the tension could settle, a voice boomed from across the amphitheater. "NO!" It was Kroll, Lord of Holworth, who leaped to his feet, his broad chest heaving with indignation. His shout cut through the oppressive silence like a knife, and all eyes turned toward him. "This is madness! To crucify our own for doing what has been the very essence of our people, our traditions¡ªraiding the seas, claiming what is ours¡ªit would leave a stain on the soul of our Confederation that would never be washed away!" Kroll stepped forward, his fists clenched at his sides, his face flushed with anger. "It is unheard of, unthinkable, to punish one of us for carrying out what is in our blood! What Blake did may have broken a treaty, but it has broken none of our true laws, none of the ways that we have lived by for centuries!" The gathered lords erupted into shouts, some agreeing with Kroll, others uncertain, the hall filling with voices clashing like waves against rocks. Blake stood in the center of it all, his eyes fixed on the Keeper, who had remained silent, watching the debate unfold around him. For a moment, the Keeper did not speak, merely tapping his staff rhythmically on the stone. When he finally raised his hand for silence, the chaos gradually ebbed away, the lords settling back into their seats. The Keeper of the Call, his eyes gleaming with ancient wisdom, raised his hand once more, beckoning for silence. When the hall had finally quieted, his voice rang out, calm but commanding. "Lord Blake of Ela ," he said slowly, "you may speak your case." Blake stood tall in the center of the amphitheater, a sea of skeptical eyes fixed upon him. The weight of the moment pressed against his chest, but his resolve was ironclad. He nodded at the Keeper, then turned to address the gathered lords. "My ancestors and yours ," Blake began, his voice low but growing stronger with each word, "did not live by treaties. They lived by the sword, by the sea. We did not ask for permission to rule the waves, we took them. And for a time, we were feared across the waters¡ªpirates, some called us. Free men, I call us." He paced slowly as he spoke, his words measured, tapping into the history they all shared. "The blood that flows through me, through all of us, is that of warriors, raiders, men who did not bow to any crown or empire. My father , my brothers and I fought in the battle of Rock Bottom¡ªmany of your fathers and even grandfathers fought alongside him." His voice cracked with the weight of memory. "We smashed our ships against the imperial fleet, fearless, ready to die for the sea that belonged to us." Blake stopped and looked up, his eyes searching the crowd. "But we were defeated. The Empire of Rolmia hid their fleet in the harbors of Hervia, lying in wait. And when we stretched our forces too thin, they struck, ramming our ships from the east. Eighty ships we sent¡ªonly twenty returned. My father and three of my brothers died that day, as did many of your kin." The silence was heavy, laden with the unspoken memories of that disastrous day. Blake''s voice turned darker, more urgent. "The Empire has ruled those seas ever since. And now, we cower under a treaty they forced upon us, one that makes slaves of us all." He spat on the ground, the bitterness clear in his tone. "But we are not slaves. We are free men. We are lords of the sea!" The amphitheater was stirring now, soft murmurs of agreement rippling through the assembled lords. Blake''s confidence grew, his voice swelling with conviction. "The Empire of Rolmia is not what it once was. Civil war plagues their lands, their fleets are in disarray. Their emperor fights his own brothers for control, and while they fight amongst themselves, they grow weak." Blake''s eyes blazed as he made his final plea. "This is our chance¡ªour only chance¡ªto rise again. To reclaim the seas that were stolen from us. To make the Empire remember who we are. If we let this moment slip by, we will fade into nothing. But if we seize it, we will be kings of the waters once more." At this, many voices rose in agreement, louder and more fervent. The tide of the hall was turning, men murmuring to one another, nodding at Blake''s words. A few, like Lord Kroll, even stood, shouting their support. "He''s right!" "The time is now!" "We can''t let the Empire rule us forever!" Blake stood in the center of the storm, watching the momentum build, knowing that the fire he had stoked was beginning to blaze The Keeper of the Call raised his hand once more, his voice cutting through the rising clamor like a blade. "Silence!" he commanded, and the hall obeyed. "The time for words has passed," the Keeper declared. "Now, we shall cast our judgment. Not just on Lord Blake''s actions, but on the future of our people." He motioned with his hand, and attendants, clad in dark robes, began to move through the crowd. Each lord in attendance was presented with two stones¡ªone square, one round. "The square stone," the Keeper intoned, "signifies death. Should you believe that Lord Blake''s actions have brought ruin upon us and our treaty with the Empire of Rolmia, cast this stone. Let him face the price of his defiance and restore peace with the imperials ." The attendants moved swiftly from lord to lord, placing the stones in their hands. "The round stone," the Keeper continued, his voice grave, "signifies innocence¡ªand more. To cast this stone is to side with Lord Blake and to call for war against the Empire of Rolmia. Choose wisely, for this vote does not concern one man alone, but the fate of us all." One by one, the lords began to rise, casting their stones into the large, bronze urn set in the center of the Call. Each stone fell with a soft but distinct clink, a sound that echoed in the silence of the chamber. The voting continued, the rhythmic sound of stones being cast filling the air as each lord approached the urn. Once the last lord had cast their stone, the attendants moved to the urn and began preparing to bring it forward to the center of the Call, where the final decision would be revealed. The Keeper rose from his stone throne once more, his weathered hands gripping the arms of the seat as he pushed himself up. "Before the counting begins," he began, "there is something that must be said. For decades, I have stood in this seat, overseeing the justice of our people. I have listened, I have judged, and I have maintained the traditions of our ancestors." A low murmur spread among the gathered lords. It was highly unusual for the Keeper to speak beyond his role as the overseer. Normally, his function was to remain impartial, to guide the process but never to offer his opinion. "Quiet your yappings!" The Keeper''s voice thundered, silencing the whispers in an instant. "For seventy-three summers, I have lived among you all. I have seen our people rise and fall. I watched us command the seas, feared by all who dared cross our waters. But I must tell you this," he paused, his gaze sweeping over the assembly, "the last fifteen summers... they have been the worst of my life and that of our history." More murmurs followed, but no one dared speak aloud. The Keeper had their full attention now, and he continued, his voice steady and filled with a deep, simmering fury. "We were thrown from our thrones, our dominion over the seas usurped by the Empire of Rolmia. They called it a treaty of peace," he spat the word like it left a bitter taste in his mouth. "But it was not peace¡ªit was submission. We gave up our birthright for a false promise, and we have paid the price ever since." He leaned forward, his knuckles white as he gripped the arms of the throne. "I will be damned if I am to live another summer like that. If this vote should go against our traditions, if it should force us to continue crawling like beggars before the empire, then I shall renounce my position as Keeper. I will cast myself to the waves, and let them take me to join our ancestors, who would never have allowed this shame." A heavy silence settled over the gathering as the weight of the Keeper''s words hung in the air. His eyes gleamed with defiance as he took his seat once more, the deep creases of his face set in resolution. Without another word, the attendants stepped forward. The urn was brought to the center of the Call, and the counting of the stones began, tying the fate of a man with that of the state. Chapter 157: Twice victorious Chapter 157: Twice victorious Alpheo and the royal army finally reached the gates of Yarzat after a grueling week of marching. The towering spires of the capital city glimmered in the late afternoon sun, casting long shadows over the roads as they approached. The banners of House Veloni-isha fluttered in the breeze, their royal sigils unmistakable as the procession entered through the main gates. One by one, the army of 1,000 soldiers filed through the cobbled streets of Yarzat, their armor clanking and shields gleaming in the fading light. The men marched in disciplined ranks, their boots thudding in unison, and their weapons cleaned from the stains of battle now gleamed under the light of the sun . Alpheo led them from the front, his figure a grim symbol of victory. His helm was under his arm, his dark hair falling loosely over his shoulders as he looked straight ahead, his expression unreadable. The people of Yarzat had gathered in great numbers along the streets, eager to witness the return of their victorious forces. They lined the roads, standing on balconies, leaning out of windows, and crowding the market squares. Shouts and cheers erupted as the first of the soldiers passed. "Victory to the Princess! Long life her grace!" the crowd roared as they pushed forward, eager to get a glimpse of the army that had brought them triumph, most of them happy that the war did not reach them and was instead a minor issue on the countryside of the princedom. Alpheo''s eyes scanned the masses, his face still set in a mask of composure. Behind him, the army marched on, their presence dominating the streets, banners of the royal family swaying high above their heads. Spears and swords glinted in the late sun, and the sound of horses'' hooves striking the stone ground echoed through the alleyways. The royal guard,sent by the princess to welcome their heroes, draped in their finest ceremonial armor led the column of soldiers, guiding them through the main thoroughfare toward the royal palace. Behind them, the victorious 1,000 soldiers followed, their chainmail and helmets dusty from the road, but their spirits lifted by the adulation of the crowd. They were greeted as heroes, and the city of Yarzat swelled with pride as the third victory in two months. The cheers grew louder as the soldiers passed the city square. Women and children waved r, while the men in the crowd raised their fists in salute. The soldiers, despite their exhaustion, straightened their backs and marched proudly through the throngs of cheering citizens, their heads held high. A cold wind hit Alpheo''s face, reminding him that winter had finally arrived and that this will also be the first time in a long one, that he would not suffer the blow of cold. Thruth be noted, Alpheo thought as he watched the cheering crowds with a fleeting interest that came and was gone at the same time ,winter could not have come on a better moment.All military campaigns will be postponed to spring, and I can use this time to solidify my position and convince Jasmine to pass some reforms to strengthen the princedom. The most important thing of which, was to establish a working burecracy, as his motto was centralize the system and decentralize administration, which was at the base of any well-working and strong society. The strength of a kingdom doesn''t rest in armies alone, he mused, watching the banners flutter in the cold wind, reminding him however that they were the main source . He thought of Poland¡ªa kingdom that, despite its vast power, had been undone by the very decentralization that allowed its nobles too much autonomy. Without strong central control, Poland had failed to coordinate a unified response during times of crisis, ultimately leading to its tragic partition. Instead, he sought inspiration from the reforms of the Western Han Dynasty. The Han had managed to centralize power in the hands of the emperor, while simultaneously allowing local governance through carefully structured administrative bodies. This system, strengthened, would have worked perfectly if it were not for that one problem that any empire would face. Which was for the Roman empire unskilled emperors taking power or in the Chinese counterpart, children becoming the one above all , causing the power to fall either to the Eunuch faction or that of a kin of the emperor. Of course the second step would be much easier to take , while the first would require a set of actions that Alpheo couldn''t possibly accomplish in just one or two years of rules, as this was the work that sometimes even required an entire lifetime of efforts. As the army moved through the heart of Yarzat, the commanders of the victorious expedition rode ahead of the main force. Alpheo, at the forefront, was flanked by Sir Leomar, the son of Lord Damaris, and the other key leaders of the campaign. Their horses, large and battle-worn, carried them proudly through the streets. The clattering of hooves on the cobblestones was drowned out by the cheers from the crowd, but as they approached the city''s outer limits, the din of the crowd faded. Leaving the narrow streets of Yarzat behind, they entered the lush green expanse that stretched toward the royal keep. The open fields lay before them, offering a stark contrast to the crowded city. Here, the wind whispered through the grass, and the majestic walls of the royal keep rose in the distance, a stone sentinel overlooking the land. The commanders slowed their horses, the green fields rolling beneath them as they neared the palace. As they reached the stone gates of the keep, the clattering hooves of the commanders'' horses slowed to a halt. They dismounted swiftly, their boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. Stablehands rushed forward to take their reins, leading the tired steeds away to the royal stables. Alpheo and the other commanders were greeted by a group of royal guards, their armor polished to perfection. With a nod of respect, the guards gestured for the commanders to follow. Without a word, the men were led through the iron gates and into the grand entrance of the royal keep, leaving the army to camp outside. --------- The heavy oak doors of the royal hall creaked open as the commanders of the victorious army were led inside by the royal guards. The hall was grand, with towering stone columns that reached up to an arched ceiling adorned with intricate tapestries of the royal crest. Shafts of sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting a warm, golden glow across the chamber. At the far end of the hall, seated upon a raised dais in her majestic seat, was Princess Jasmine of House Veloni-isha. Draped in rich, royal blue robes. A finely wrought silver circlet rested atop her brow, catching the light and reflecting the power of her station. Alpheo and the other commanders moved forward with slow, as they approached the throne, they kneeled in unison, heads bowed in deference to their sovereign. "Rise, my loyal commanders," Princess Jasmine''s voice echoed through the hall, clear and commanding, yet touched with warmth. Her gaze swept over them, lingering briefly on Alpheo before taking in the rest of the men who had fought for her kingdom. They stood, straightening themselves before their princess. "I welcome you back to Yarzat as victors," she continued, her voice now carrying a note of satisfaction. "You have served this realm with unwavering loyalty, and your deeds in battle have brought peace to the princedom.A ruler, if they are to be just, must not only demand loyalty but reward it as well," she said, her gaze meeting each commander in turn. "You have proven your allegiance, and for that, you will be rewarded as befits those who have shed blood in service to the crown." The commanders bowed their heads once more, grateful for her recognition. There was a sense of anticipation in the air, as if the hall itself was waiting for the next words from the princess, the promises of honor and wealth that often followed such moments of triumph. "Step forward, and let your accomplishments be known to all, for today is a day of victory not only for me but for you¡ªmy loyal defenders of Yarkat." Princess Jasmine straightened herself on her seat, her gaze sweeping the hall before settling on one of the commanders. She raised her hand, and the room grew silent. "Lord Leomar," she called, her voice carrying through the royal hall with authority. Leomar, the son of Lord Damaris, stepped forward, his armor gleaming in the shafts of sunlight. He approached the dais and knelt before the princess, his head bowed in deference. "Your bravery and unwavering support during the siege of Confluendi have not gone unnoticed, you did what many others in dire times did not " Jasmine declared, her tone regal yet filled with approval. "For the loyalty you have shown and for the valiant efforts of your house, I hereby reward your father by shifting the allegiance of the lordships of Alenholm and Vernith from Confluendi to Megioduroli. Additionally, I exempt him from taxation for the year, a gesture of my gratitude for the sacrifices made in this campaign." Leomar, still kneeling, looked up at the princess with gratitude. "Your Grace, you honor my family beyond measure," he said, his voice steady despite the emotion behind his words. "We are your loyal servants, now and always. I will carry your generosity back to my father, and we shall continue to serve Yarkat with the same fervor and loyalty." Princess Jasmine nodded graciously, accepting his thanks with a subtle smile. As Leomar rose and stepped back into the line of commanders, Jasmine''s gaze shifted toward another figure, one who stood taller and prouder than most¡ªa man whose age had not diminished his stature in the court. "Lord Shahab," she called, her voice softening with a tone of familial respect. Her grandfather, Lord Shahab of House Filastin, stepped forward. The years had marked his face with lines of wisdom, but his presence remained as commanding as ever. He knelt before his granddaughter with a quiet dignity, though the bond between them was clear to all present. "For your unwavering loyalty and the steadfast counsel you have given to this house, not just in this campaign but throughout your life, I now bestow upon you a great honor," Jasmine began, her voice imbued with affection and respect. "You are hereby granted the title of Primis Ministerio inter Paris. You shall oversee all matters of diplomacy for the princedom ." Lord Shahab lowered his head slightly in reverence. "Your Grace, I am deeply honored. I shall serve this princedom with all my strength and wisdom, as I always have." His voice was steady, though there was a glint of pride in his eyes. "Rise, Primis Ministerio," Jasmine said, her voice filled with warmth as she acknowledged her trusted kin. Princess Jasmine''s gaze shifted once more as she pronounced the names that the court thought would never hear. "Jarza, Egil, Clio, and Asag," she began, her voice resonating with the pride of a leader acknowledging the valor of her people. "For your remarkable accomplishments in defeating Lord Ormund and for your unwavering dedication during the siege of Confluendi, I am pleased to announce that you are hereby awarded knighthood. You shall choose a name for your house and take on a banner, your oath ceremony shall be held later, from now on you hereby enter the caste of nobility." As the group rose from their kneeling positions, they turned toward Alpheo almost in unison. Alpheo stood a few paces behind them, a broad smile stretching across his face, his eyes twinkling with warmth and pride. In that instant, a silent understanding passed between them. The four commanders shared a knowing glance, and it was clear that Alpheo had played the main role in their elevation to knighthood. Chapter 158: Hot topics Chapter 158: Hot topics The flicker of candlelight bathed the small room in a soft, warm glow along the walls as Jasmine and Alpheo sat across from each other. The faint crackle of the hearth added to the cozy atmosphere, the fire fighting off the cold that pressed against the castle walls. They sat in plush chairs, their postures relaxed, legs stretched out as they sipped wine from ornate silver goblets.Alpheo swirled his cup idly, eyes fixed on the flames as they flickered and leaped, while Jasmine reclined with one arm resting casually over the chair''s armrest. Alpheo leaned back in his chair, setting his goblet aside as his gaze shifted from the burning fire to Jasmine. The warmth of the room and the ease of their conversation had lowered his guard, and now, curiosity flickered in his eyes . "So," he began, his voice steady but tinged with interest "did anything worthwhile happen during the month I was away? Any news I should be concerned about?" Jasmine took a moment, her gaze drifting to the flickering flames before shaking her head lightly. "Nothing pressing," she said with a casual shrug. "The court has been calm, no stirring nobles to deal with for now at least " She paused, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "However, there was one thing¡ªa happy surprise, actually." Alpheo raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh? Do tell." Jasmine leaned forward slightly, her eyes bright with satisfaction as she continued, "It''s about the reports from the sale of your products. Well," she continued, "the initial numbers are far better than expected. We''re bringing in nearly more than 2,000 coins every month. And that''s just from local markets. It doesn''t even account for when the products fully penetrate the neighboring princedoms, or¡ª" her eyes gleamed with ambition, "when they reach the markets of the Empire, there we will finally strike gold ." Alpheo''s expression shifted from casual interest to surprise, then to satisfaction. "Two thousand? Already?" he echoed, clearly pleased. He leaned back, a slow smile spreading across his face. "I wasn''t expecting it to take off that quickly." "Neither was I," Jasmine admitted, swirling the wine in her cup thoughtfully. ''''Soon we will have a meeting with the merchant guilds discussing a huge sale to open a market north in the Empire.'''' Jasmine leaned forward slightly, setting her goblet aside as her eyes sparkled with the gleam of opportunity. "With the demand increasing so rapidly, we should think about expanding production," she suggested. "Increase the supply so we don''t fall behind." Alpheo groaned, rubbing his temples with his fingers. "That''s the issue," he muttered, his voice a mix of frustration and thoughtfulness. "We can''t just expand production like that, not without addressing the bigger problem." Jasmine tilted her head, intrigued. "What bigger problem?" He sighed, leaning back in his chair and locking eyes with her. "Security. If we increase production without proper safeguards, we''ll risk everything. I''ve been thinking about this for a while," Alpheo said, his tone now more serious, "and I''ve decided that we need to build a fortress¡ªa self-contained stronghold that handles the entire operation." "A fortress?" Jasmine asked, raising an eyebrow. "Yes," Alpheo nodded. "A place where the production of these goods can be tightly controlled and protected. A fortress would ensure the security of our assets, the workers, and the products themselves. Everything in one place, surrounded by thick walls, with armed guards patrolling, strict security and a man with a torch to put them into fire if the fortress is about to fall, bringing the secrets to his grave . No chance of sabotage, no leaks of our methods, and it''ll be harder for anyone to steal or interfere with the supply chain." Jasmine''s lips pursed as she considered his words. "That sounds... ambitious. But wouldn''t that be costly?" "It will be costly," Alpheo admitted, "but it''s necessary. The more valuable the products become, the more likely we''ll attract unwanted attention¡ª rivals, even allies looking to disrupt our operations. If we build a fortress, we not only protect our investments but also centralize production, making everything more efficient. Plus, it gives us control¡ªcomplete control." Jasmine took another sip of her wine, swirling it thoughtfully in her cup before glancing at Alpheo. "So, how much loot did we actually get from the siege?" she asked, her curiosity piqued. Alpheo smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Quite a bit," he replied, his voice carrying a hint of pride. "There were 18,000 silverii stored inside the fortress¡ªofficial records, taxes, tribute¡ªeverything. And that''s not even counting what the soldiers took when they sacked the city." Jasmine raised an eyebrow. "18,000 silverii, and how much of that did we get?" Alpheo smiled, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "We took 9,000. Since my army made up more than half of the force, the split was fair. The rest went to the other lords and their men." Jasmine nodded slowly, calculating the numbers in her head. "That''s a significant haul.'''' She agreed , before lowering her tone ''''My uncles must have been saving it quite a bit....changing topic... do you think my aunt killed herself and her son?" Alpheo chuckled, shaking his head. "No, I wouldn''t put too much faith in that story." "You don''t believe it?" Jasmine asked, her gaze sharpening. "It''s more likely they were poisoned by their own courtiers," Alpheo replied with a wry smile as he sipped from his cup "Lady Elira was known for her pride and stubbornness. From what I''ve heard from the prisoner , she''d gone mad after the fall of the city and the retreat to the keep, not even leaving her room as she had the food brought to her . The idea that she would suddenly choose to surrender? Highly unlikely which made people that wanted to live even more desperate" Jasmine frowned slightly, leaning in. "Poisoned by her own people?" Alpheo nodded, his voice turning more serious. "That''s what I suspect. She was a fighter to the end, you have got to give it to her . It''s much more plausible that her own courtiers, desperate to save themselves, decided to silence her and her son in order to open the gates and surrender. After all, dead rulers can''t argue." Alpheo smiled, leaning forward slightly, his eyes gleaming with a quiet satisfaction. "Isn''t it better this way?" he asked, his tone light but with a sharp edge. He watched Jasmine as she considered his words, the faintest trace of amusement playing at the corners of her mouth. Jasmine nodded slowly, swirling the wine in her cup. "They''ve handled a rather hot potato for me, haven''t they?" she said, her voice carrying a note of dark humor. "No mess, no scandal. Just... neatly cleaned up with many witnesses giving their accounts." Alpheo''s smile widened. "Exactly. All of Lord Ormund''s direct kin, gone in less than two months'''' Jasmine raised an eyebrow, catching on as she continued listen "Which means," he continued,his voice thoughtful, "that his lordship is now without an owner.'''' Jasmine''s gaze narrowed slightly, her curiosity piqued. "And where exactly are you going with this?" she asked, her tone half-teasing, half-serious, as she studied him. Alpheo set his cup down, a subtle shift in his expression signaling that he was about to speak more seriously. "I''ve been thinking," he began, his voice calm but deliberate, "about Confluendi. Now that it''s back under royal control, I believe it would be fitting if I were named its lord." Jasmine tilted her head slightly, intrigued but silent as he continued. "As it stands, my words hold weight as the prince consort," Alpheo explained, "but imagine how much more authority they would carry if I also had lands of my own. Confluendi is an important is key to the realm, and as lord, I could better oversee the stability of that region. Not to mention," he added, a calculating glint in his eye, "it would help with the maintenance of my troops. They''ll need to be sustained, and having land would make that far more manageable,it a bit of a disgrace if the prince consort does not have land of his own." Jasmine sighed softly, setting her own cup of wine down as she looked into Alpheo''s eyes. "I can''t just name you lord of Confluendi," she said, her tone firm but not unkind. "If I were to do that so suddenly, the nobles would think I''m giving you too much¡ªshowing too much favoritism. They would question my judgment, Alpheo, and see it as a weakness." Alpheo raised an eyebrow, the thought running through his mind that she had already taken him as her husband. What''s wrong with a little gift? he thought, but he kept the words to himself. Jasmine continued, her gaze steady. "At most, I can appoint you as governor of Confluendi. It gives you the authority you need, without stirring too much unrest. Maybe in time, once things settle and the nobles have seen your merit, you can be granted the lordship." Alpheo leaned back in his chair, considering her words. Governor. It wasn''t exactly what he wanted, but it was good enough for now. He smiled, the calculating gleam still present in his eyes. "That''s more than enough for now," he said, reaching across the table to place his hand gently over hers. "Thank you." Much to Alpheo''s surprise, Jasmine didn''t pull her hand away, letting it rest beneath Alpheo''s touch. Her fingers, soft and steady, remained still. She looked at him with calm eyes, neither yielding nor defiant, simply present, as she already accepted that this would be the man she would spend the rest of her life with. Chapter 159: Friends and family Chapter 159: Friends and family Alpheo sat beside Jasmine on the raised platform of the royal court, his throne deliberately positioned slightly lower than hers. He was after all merely the consort¡ª and at that still not recognized as such by law. The room was alive with murmurs as courtiers and nobles gathered, but the atmosphere shifted as Alpheo''s attention turned toward the figures kneeling on the cold, stony floor before the throne. This was Alpheo''s first time presiding over court as prince consort, a role not yet official. Kneeling at the center of the hall were Egil, Asag, Clio, and Jarza¡ªfour of his most trusted comrades. Their heads bowed respectfully, yet their pride was unmistakable. The gleam of fresh knighthood on their armor was a mark of their recent elevation, a reward for their loyalty and achievements during the siege of Confluendi. They had earned their place here through steel and blood. But beside them, four others knelt, unfamiliar faces to Alpheo''s side. two were from Leomar''s army.While the others bore the colors of Shahab, Jasmine''s grandfather. These two had been included in the ceremony to address any lingering unease among the court''s factions¡ªparticularly those who might grumble about the princess favoring mercenaries over traditional lords. A gesture of balance, ensuring the court did not seethe with whispers of favoritism or bias, even though it did . Alpheo glanced at Jasmine from the corner of his eye. She held herself with quiet grace, her expression unreadable but firm. She stood from her throne, her movements as fluid as water, and descended the few steps that separated her from the kneeling men. The gleam of a sword hung at her hip, its hilt adorned with silver filigree. As she reached the men, her hand gracefully rested on the pommel, drawing the sword from its scabbard in a single, sharp motion that resonated through the hall. She approached the first knight-to-be¡ªEgil¡ªhis face lowered, waiting in solemn anticipation. Jasmine lifted the blade, holding it steady in her hands, and gently placed it on his right shoulder. "By the power vested in me, and by the honor of this court, I proclaim thee a knight," she said, her voice echoing through the hall. The blade shifted smoothly to his left shoulder. "Bound by oath, bound by honor. In service to me, to this realm, and to the protection of its people." Jasmine moved to the next¡ªAsag¡ªand repeated the same motion, her words carrying the same weight. The sword rested briefly on his shoulders before she stepped forward to Clio and then to Jarza, repeating the ritual with deliberate, practiced grace. Finally, with all eight now touched by the sword, she stepped back, her gaze fierce, but proud. The men had not moved, awaiting her final words. "Now, rise as knights of this princedom," she declared. "Sworn to serve with courage, loyalty, and unwavering strength. Speak your oath and be bound by it." Without hesitation, as if their voices were one, the newly knighted men spoke in unison: "I swear by the steel in my hand and the blood in my veins, to serve with honor, to defend with valor, and to uphold the laws of this land. I will stand by your side, through storm and shadow, and give my life if need be for the realm. By my oath, I am bound to thee." The words rang through the hall like the tolling of a great bell, echoing off the stone walls and carrying their weight through the gathered crowd. The solemnity of the moment lingered in the air as Jasmine sheathed her sword, her eyes briefly meeting Alpheo''s. He gave a subtle nod, the gravity of the ceremony settling in. The newly knighted men rose, one by one, to the applause of the court. As Jasmine finished the ceremony, a wave of murmurs and smiles spread across the gathered courtiers, their faces softening after the solemnity of the knighthood ritual. Alpheo, still seated on his lower throne beside Jasmine, had waited in respectful silence. Now, with the formalities complete, he was finally allowed to rise. He stood, stretching his legs slightly, and scanned the room. His eyes quickly caught sight of Jared, Shahab''s eldest son, moving swiftly through the gathering crowd. The young man was already making his way toward the newly knighted, his hand extended in warm congratulations. His grin was wide, his demeanor relaxed and full of confidence¡ªclearly taking something after his father in more ways than one. Alpheo moved toward them, his footsteps quiet against the stone floor. As he approached, Jared caught sight of him and immediately turned away from the new knights, his grin widening. "Alpheo!" Jared exclaimed, extending his hand. "It''s good to see you." Alpheo took his hand firmly, offering a smile in return. "And you as well, lord Jared," he said. "You''ve been quick to offer your congratulations, I see." "Of course!" Jared replied, his eyes glinting with excitement. "It''s a proud moment for them. They''ve earned their place at least from what lord Shahab has been saying " "I owe much to your father," Alpheo began, his voice quiet but sincere. "He has stood by me through many trials in this short time . Whatever you may need in the future, know that I will be there to aid you. I give you my word." Jared''s smile turned into something more thoughtful, a flicker of appreciation crossing his face. He nodded, clearly taking the promise to heart. "Thank you. My father speaks highly of you, and I hope to prove myself worthy of that in his eyes one day." Alpheo clapped him on the shoulder, his smile growing. "I have no doubt you will." With that, Jared turned on his heel and made his way through the crowd, leaving Alpheo standing near the newly knighted men. "I quite like the guy," Clio remarked, his voice cutting through the din of the hall as he turned to face the group. His expression was thoughtful, as if weighing Jared''s character carefully. Egil, standing beside him, crossed his arms. "I''m sure his behavior toward us is influenced by his father''s words" Alpheo replied, his voice calm and measured. "But let''s not fool ourselves into thinking he''d be this warm if we weren''t in the positions we hold now" Clio nodded but didn''t say anything more, while Egil scratched his head, a puzzled look on his face. "Still, it''s better than how most of the other lords treat us," he muttered. His gaze swept across the hall, where the noblemen and courtiers moved about in their elegant garments, casting occasional glances at the newly knighted group. "I can''t help but notice no one has congratulated us yet. Shouldn''t this be an important moment in your culture?We did not have anything like this in my tribe..." he noted , looking toward Alpheo. Jarza, always blunt and unapologetic, snorted loudly. "Shit is worth more than their congratulations," he scoffed. His eyes burned with disdain as he looked at the nobles, who had offered nothing but silence. "I couldn''t give less of a fuck about them." Alpheo let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "You shouldn''t expect anything more from them," he said, his voice firm but understanding. "These lords, they cling to their stones, their titles, their perceived superiority. But that''s all it is¡ªperception. They see us as mercenaries, men without proper lineage, and they won''t change their views easily." He paused, meeting their gazes one by one. "But we gain nothing by acting like we''re better than them, or by resenting them. Let them have their empty pride, while ours come from our strength. In time they will note the difference " Clio''s expression softened, while Egil uncrossed his arms and gave a small nod of understanding. "So what do we do then?" Egil asked. "Keep playing their game?" "Not their game," Alpheo corrected. "Our game. We came here as outsiders, but we''ve proven ourselves in battle titles and lands will follow in time, I promise that you will all become lords....." He glanced at the group of lords still gathered across the hall, their backs turned to the newly anointed knights. "We don''t need their words of praise. We''ve built our own path, and we''ll keep building. You all have seen how our soldiers smashed anything they were put against, that is something that they will never be on par with us" Asag, who had been silent for most of the exchange, finally spoke up, his voice low but carrying a weight of sincerity. "Everything that came our way, all the rewards, the recognition, and power, it''s all thanks to you" he said, his eyes locking with Alpheo''s. The others nodded subtly, their expressions showing agreement. Alpheo smiled briefly, but his expression quickly grew serious. He motioned for them to gather closer, his eyes scanning the room as if ensuring no one was listening. "Listen to me," he began, his voice a hushed growl that carried a sense of urgency. "Don''t forget where we came from. We were rats in the mud and scavengers , nothing will ever change that " His words hit hard, pulling them all into the shared memory of their harsh beginnings. "None of them," he continued, gesturing subtly toward the cluster of lords at the far end of the hall, "will ever understand the fraction of the strength it took for us to climb out of that pit. They have no idea what it means to fight for every scrap, to bleed for every inch of ground gained." Alpheo turned to Jarza, a glint of something not quite easy to discern in his eyes. "Do you remember, my friend, the day we escaped those accursed camp? You, with your booming laughter, called me mad as I dared to dream aloud of empires and thrones, of a destiny greater than the chains that bound us.'''' Jarza chuckled, the memory bringing a warmth to his heart. "I do remember. I thought you were dreaming, a fool with his head in the clouds. Look at us now , look at what you had us reach....'''' Clio, Jarza, Egil, and Asag listened intently, each of them bearing the weight of their pasts on their shoulders as Alpheo''s words struck at the heart of their journey. "What we''ve reached, what we have now," Alpheo said, his voice growing more intense, "wasn''t given to us. It wasn''t handed over by some lord or king out of pity or favor. It was through our might alone. Our grit, our blood, our sweat, and that makes it even more worthy in my eyes.We are the architects of our fate, and this¡ªthis is merely the first stroke of a masterpiece. This moment, this breath we take, is but the first stanza in a grand ballad yet to be sung. Let them call us mad; it is madness that gives birth to greatness!" Clio muttered under his breath, as he slapped Alpheo''s shoulder "I''ll walk into hell itself if you''re at my back." Jarza let out a short laugh "Hell?" he scoffed, looking at Clio. "We''ve already been there, remember? We didn''t just walk in¡ªwe were dragged, beaten, and chained. And we still came out the other side." His voice was rough, but there was a fierce pride underneath it. The group fell silent for a moment, each of them reflecting on the truth behind Jarza''s words. They had survived the worst of humanity¡ªslavery, chains, beatings, the cold cruelty of masters who saw them as nothing more than property. Yet, through it all, they had watched each other''s backs. When one of them fell, the others were there to pick him up. When one was too weak to stand, the others gave him strength. It was more than trust that bound them¡ªit was survival. A bond forged in the fires of suffering, deeper than any oath of knighthood could ever be. They had relied on each other in ways no one else could understand Chapter 160: Dealing with the aftermath(1) Chapter 160: Dealing with the aftermath(1) As the days passed, the royal army, was finally disbanded. With their purpose fulfilled and victory in their grasp, Shahab''s and Leomar''s soldiers and the sworn nobles who had fought under Alpheo''s banner began to prepare for their long-awaited return to their fiefs. The clanging of armor and the sounds of boots marching one last time through the capital marked the end of this chapter in their journey. Shahab''s forces,were the first to break camp. The seasoned troops that had fought alongside Alpheo since the ambush of Lord Ormund, gathered their banners and packed their gear, ready to return to their homes. Yet, even as they departed, everybody knew that they would be back , after all there was still a marriage to happen. The long-awaited and disliked by many union that would solidify the new reign, was officially set for one month from that day. It was a symbolic timeframe¡ªenough time for the returning lords to deal with the affairs of their fiefs, organize their households, and make preparations for their departure once more. Alpheo stood on the walls of Yarzat, his gaze following the columns of soldiers and nobles slowly disappearing into the horizon as they left the city. The banners fluttered in the cool breeze, and the rhythmic clatter of hooves and boots echoed faintly in the distance. His expression was one of quiet contemplation as he watched them go,this was after all the first proper army he led, and he kind of liked the feeling. Turning to Jasmine, who stood beside him, Alpheo broke the silence. "I''ll miss Leomar," he said, a hint of fondness in his voice. "He''s a good kid. Listened well, didn''t throw his opinions around carelessly like the others and he had an innate courage." Jasmine raised an eyebrow at that, her lips curving into a slight smile. "He''s only a year younger than you," she reminded him. Alpheo shrugged nonchalantly, the corner of his mouth quirking into a grin. "Maybe, but he feels younger. I don''t know, I guess I just feel more mature." Jasmine studied him for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly in thought. There was something to what he said. Alpheo was the youngest even in his own circle¡ªamong his companions like Egil, Clio, Jarza, and Asag¡ªyet everyone looked to him as if he were the eldest. It was an unusual thing and one that had become increasingly apparent the more she observed it. People seemed naturally drawn to him, not just for his sharp mind and tactical acumen, but for his ability to charm. Even Shahab, her grandfather, who had initially been wary of him¡ªif not outright hostile¡ªhad eventually warmed up to the young man. Jasmine had witnessed that transformation firsthand, seeing the old general''s begrudging hate turn into genuine trust. It was a rare skill, one that not even she, with all her royal upbringing and responsibilities, could wield so easily.She was a bit jealous... As the silence between them settled, Jasmine''s voice cut through it softly. "Do you really have to go?" she asked, her tone laced with something between concern and reluctance. Alpheo sighed, turning back to her with a gentle smile. "I do," he replied. "Lady Elyra left her husband''s lordship in chaos when she..." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "When she and her son left the picture. The villages have been picked clean, and now there are hordes of people¡ªthose who weren''t allowed inside the city walls¡ªroaming the countryside, tearing up whatever crops they can find just to feed themselves." He paused, watching the flicker of understanding cross Jasmine''s face as the weight of his words sunk in. "It''s a disaster waiting to happen. If we don''t act, the situation will spiral out of control. The people will starve, and it will lead to a famine. Crops ruined, villages abandoned... The population will drop drastically, and the land will become barren." Jasmine frowned, her hands folding in front of her as she absorbed the grim news. "You think you can fix it?" Alpheo nodded, his expression serious. "I have to at least try. If we can bring some order back, ensure that the crops are protected and that the people are fed, we can mitigate the worst of it. But if we leave things as they are now..." He shook his head. "We''ll be dealing with much bigger problems come spring" Jasmine''s brow furrowed slightly as she crossed her arms "Didn''t you leave anyone to handle it while you''re here?" she asked. Alpheo sighed, his gaze drifting toward the horizon as if weighing his answer carefully. "I left Egil''s second in command to oversee things," he admitted, "but the problem isn''t just managing the land¡ªit''s how the soldiers handle it. I fear they might think the solution is as simple as slaughtering the refugees to restore order." His tone darkened, frustration creeping into his voice. "That might ''solve'' the immediate problem, sure... but the consequences would be dire." Jasmine''s frown deepened, and Alpheo turned back to her, his expression serious. "If that happens, I''d be known as a butcher for the wrong reasons...." Jasmine''s lips tightened, and she looked away for a moment, as if considering the weight of his words. "When you will be back?It wouldn''t be proper for a marriage to go on without the groom" Alpheo nodded firmly with a chuckle , his gaze softening as he looked at her. "I''ll be back in just two weeks. Long enough to assess the situation and get things under control. After that, I''ll return, and we''ll move forward with our plans¡ªtogether." Alpheo''s gaze shifted from Jasmine to the open fields beyond the city walls, his thoughts clearly elsewhere as he calculated what he needed to stabilize Confluendi. "I''ll need to bring a quarter of the grain we have stored in the royal granaries," he said, almost to himself at first, then turning to Jasmine with more certainty. "And 5,000 silverii from the treasury." Jasmine blinked in surprise, her brows knitting together. "A quarter of the grain? And 5,000 silverii?" she echoed. "You are not asking for little you know..." Alpheo nodded, his expression firm. "I need the resources to calm the situation. The refugees are desperate, and if we don''t act quickly, they''ll be starving within weeks and of course before doing that they will wreak havoc everywhere. I can use the grain and rye to feed them, at least temporarily, and the silver to get more in case we finish them'''' Jasmine was silent for a moment, clearly weighing his request. Finally, she exhaled softly. "If it helps prevent a famine or worse, it''s a necessary cost." "It is," Alpheo said, his voice steady. "If I can bring some order to the region and prevent more devastation, it will be worth it'''' Jasmine crossed her arms, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "At least our financial situation isn''t as dire as it once was," she said, her tone lighter. "Now that the autumn taxation has reached us, alongside the part of the ransom from our prisoners, things are looking much calmer." Alpheo nodded, appreciating the shift in focus. "That is good to know " he said thoughtfully. "We have breathing room now, and it''s a luxury I certainly missed." Jasmine glanced toward the treasury ledgers on the nearby table, her expression one of measured relief. "The silver flowing in from the ransom was timely. And with the taxation from the villages, we''ve managed to stabilize the coffers for the season. We don''t have that much to spend; so make sure to let it be enough..." ''''I will try'''' Alpheo admitted as his gaze moved to the horizon where the army was nearly out of sight. ----- In the days that followed, the city was filled with the bustling activity of soldiers preparing for their departure. Alpheo had given clear orders to leave the bulk of their forces behind, ensuring that the city remained secure while he dealt with the unrest in Confluendi. Out of the 500 soldiers they had originally brought, only 200 would accompany him, while 300 remained under the command of Clio, tasked with keeping the peace and protecting the royal capital alongside Laedio, who found the position he had as garrison commander to be of his liking. The morning air was crisp, the chill of winter having already arrived but not yet fully gripping the land as the month was still that of November . Alpheo watched from the city walls as the preparations were carried out. Soldiers packed supplies, sharpened weapons, and made ready for the journey ahead. He had decided to bring with him Asag, Jarza and Egil. The first two had proven themselves invaluable and Alpheo was confident they would be useful in restoring order to the chaos either by sword or by being clerk. Egil meanwhile, was chosen to scout the countryside, find any refugees his second-in-command, Rykio, had missed, and keep a close eye on any potential uprisings among the displaced. As this was the only way he could use Egil expertise for the better, as the man was certainly not calm of mind enough to deal with a problem like that.As such he planned to use him as a potential bat to beat any dissent. After all he was there so save them, this however did not mean that he had to accomodate every single one of thier wish.The most important things was for the majority of them to survive, if a part of them died from his method it was still an acceptable loss under his planned parameters Chapter 161: Dealing with the aftermath(2) Chapter 161: Dealing with the aftermath(2) A line of five hundred soldiers marched steadily along the road to Confluendi, the rhythmic sound of their boots striking the frozen ground echoing through the cold winter air. The men moved in disciplined silence, their breath misting as they exhaled, forming small clouds against the crisp sky. Behind them, a procession of heavy carriages followed at a slower pace. Each was loaded with sacks of grain, rye and chests of silver, essential supplies to alleviate the brewing crisis in the lawless lands of Confluendi. The grain and rye , harvested in the autumn, had been stored for times of need, and now, it was more necessary than ever. As they neared the borders of Confluendi, the landscape grew more desolate. Empty farms with ruined crops and dilapidated houses lined the road, evidence of the chaos that had gripped the region after Lady Elyra''s death. Villages had been picked clean, their inhabitants either fleeing into the wild or succumbing to violence and hunger. ''''Things are worse than I thought," he muttered to himself, the cold air biting at his face. "Rykio said he''d managed to round up the refugees in camps in his last letter , so at least they''re not scattered across the countryside anymore." That had been one relief¡ªthe chaos of people roaming freely, pillaging what little was left, had been somewhat contained. "But still..."Alpheo''s jaw clenched, his breath escaping in a visible puff of frustration. Shit had hit the fan too soon... Despite Rykio''s efforts, the damage had already been done in a startlingly short amount of time. Even after the siege of Confluendi had ended, the lawlessness had persisted. The roaming refugees, driven by hunger and desperation, had stripped the land bare. Livestock had been slaughtered, crops trampled, and homes abandoned as fear spread like wildfire. Rykio and his men had only recently corralled them into camps, but the damage was vast, far worse than the initial reports had suggested. "Less than two weeks " Alpheo thought, "so little time since the end of the siege, and already the land feels ruined. How can so much be lost in so little time?" Famine was already on the horizon if they didn''t act fast. He glanced back at the carts of grain following the soldiers, a temporary solution to a growing problem. "This will buy us time, but not much. If we don''t rebuild and replant before the light-winter finished by spring, there won''t be a next harvest." Alpheo''s grip on the reins tightened. He wasn''t just here to distribute aid; he had to ensure the survival of the land and the people, after all soon they will all contribute to his coffers,, so it was his duty and also his interest , to make sure that the land did not flow into famine and banditry. That damn bitch ,Alpheo thought as she he projected the image of the person responsible for all of this. As they continued to march, the rhythmic crunch of boots on frost-covered ground filled the air. Jarza, ever observant, had been quietly watching Alpheo for some time. He rode his horse a little closer and cleared his throat. "Everything alright?" Jarza asked, his rough voice cutting through Alpheo''s thoughts. Alpheo blinked, dazed from his deep contemplation. "What?" he asked, turning his gaze to Jarza, his expression slightly confused. "I asked if everything''s alright," Jarza repeated, eyeing him closely. "It''s written all over your face, Alpheo. You''re thinking hard about something. Is it really that bad?" Alpheo let out a long sigh, his shoulders slumping a little. "It''s... complicated," he admitted, glancing back over his shoulder at the carts laden with grain and silver. "This is going to require a lot of work, more than I anticipated. We still need to make sure the land is cultivated again, and somehow, we need to repopulate the villages." His voice trailed off, the enormity of the task hanging heavily between them. Jarza didn''t say anything at first, just kept staring at Alpheo with that quiet intensity he was known for. Finally, Alpheo met his gaze and, in a rare moment of vulnerability, admitted, "After all this time... I thought maybe I''d get a chance to rest. But I''m worn out, Jarza. This is just... exhausting." Jarza nodded slowly, processing the confession. "I don''t know what to say" he said after a moment, his usual bluntness softened by an undercurrent of concern. "We all have been under a lot of stress, we did not think it was this bad for you yet...'''' Alpheo chuckled, though the sound was more weary than amused. "And there''s nothing I can do about it," he said, shaking his head. "This time, I just have to suck it up and get through it." Jarza gave a small shrug, though the look in his eyes said he understood more than his words let on. "Just don''t burn yourself out too much. We still need you in one piece." Alpheo smiled faintly at that. As they crested a small hill, Alpheo finally caught sight of the sprawling refugee camp in the distance. The outskirts of Confluendi were now dominated by a sea of ragged tents, hastily erected in uneven rows. Smoke curled from makeshift fire pits, and the faint clamor of human activity carried on the wind. It was a bleak sight, a stark reminder of the chaos the war had wrought. A group of riders emerged from the camp, galloping toward Alpheo''s contingent with purpose. At their head, Alpheo recognized Rykio immediately, even at a distance. The man''s usually sharp features were now haggard and worn, the exhaustion evident in the dark circles under his eyes. His armor was dirty and dented, his face lined with the fatigue of countless sleepless nights spent managing the unruly refugees. Still, there was a flicker of relief in his expression when his gaze shifted past Alpheo to the heavily laden carriages filled with grain and silver. The riders slowed to a trot as they approached, and Rykio raised his hand in greeting, a weary smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Captain'''' he called out, his voice rough but filled with gratitude. "I thought you''d never get here." Alpheo rode forward, nodding at Rykio. "I wish I could say things looked better," he replied, his eyes scanning the camp. "But I''m glad to see you''ve managed to keep things in check." Rykio sighed, dismounting his horse as he rubbed his temples. "Barely. It''s been... hell. But seeing those supplies..." He nodded toward the carts. "That''s more than I dared hope for." Alpheo dismounted as well, walking toward Rykio. He clasped his lieutenant''s arm in a firm, familiar grip. "We''ll get through this," he said, though he knew the road ahead was anything but easy. The sight of the mass of tents, the ragged state of the people, and the desolation surrounding them told him just how much work remained to be done. "What''s the situation?" Alpheo asked, his voice steady, though his eyes revealed his concern. Rykio exhaled heavily, rubbing the back of his neck as he began explaining. "We''ve been surviving on what little we had. Each person gets one bowl of porridge a day, but it''s mostly water. Barely enough to keep them standing." His tone was grim, reflecting the harsh reality they''d been living with. "The first week was the worst. A group of refugees couldn''t take it anymore and tried to riot... hunger got the better of them." His face darkened at the memory. "We put it down quickly, but the rebellion cost us lives." Alpheo nodded, his expression solemn. "That must''ve been hard." He knew Rykio had done his best, but the strain was evident in his voice and posture. Rykio shook his head slightly. "It was... necessary. Things have calmed down since then, but the tension''s still there. Every day''s a struggle to keep them in line." Alpheo crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. "What about the numbers? How many people are we dealing with now?" Rykio''s mouth tightened as he answered, "There were 3,500 refugees at the start. After the uprising and the sickness that followed, we''re down to 3,000. Most of those who died were too weak, starved to the point where any illness became fatal." He shook his head. "It''s been ugly, Captain . Real ugly." Alpheo absorbed the information in silence, his gaze sweeping over the camp once more. The sight of so many hollow-eyed people crammed into those ragged tents made his stomach tighten. He had known things would be bad, but this was worse than he''d anticipated. "3,000..." he murmured, mostly to himself. The number was still high, but at least it was manageable. With the supplies they''d brought and proper organization, he could work with this. "Alright. It''s not good, but we''ll manage. First thing''s first: we need to stabilize this camp, get some real food into them before things fall apart again." Alpheo rode through the middle of the refugee camp, the desolate sight unfolding before him with every hoofbeat. Rows upon rows of ragged tents flapped in the cold wind, and the air was thick with the scent of despair. Refugees, a mix of gaunt-faced adults and hollow-eyed children, stared at the passing carriages. Their eyes followed the wheels rolling over the dirt. As they progressed, some of the more desperate refugees shuffled too close to the supply wagons, reaching out with bony hands. A few soldiers reacted swiftly, striking at them with sticks, shouting harshly, "Stay back! Back away!" The blows weren''t heavy, but the refugees flinched, retreating quickly to avoid further punishment. Alpheo grimaced at the scene, gripping the reins tighter as he surveyed the people. The hunger etched into their faces was one thing, but what disturbed him more was the absence of the elderly. The old, it seemed, had been the first to perish, their frail bodies unable to withstand the harsh conditions. Even the children were few, their small numbers an indication of how many had been lost. It was one thing to know that so many people were starving while reading it on a letter , yet seeing it now was a completely different sight. He turned to his right, where Asag rode close beside him, ever alert. "Asag," Alpheo called, breaking the heavy silence between them, "we need to organize a handout as soon as possible. Get food to the people and calm this storm before it becomes a riot."He said as he recognised the first sign of a possible uprising Asag nodded, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp with understanding. "There will be chaos," he said, glancing at the desperate faces they passed. "They''ll rush us the moment they see real food." "I know," Alpheo said, his voice low but firm. "That''s why I want a good number of men standing on guard. We need to do this in an orderly fashion. If we lose control here, we will be forced to kill them all'''' "Consider it done," Asag replied. He spurred his horse ahead, riding toward the front to give orders, while Alpheo remained behind, watching the camp with a growing sense of unrest inside his chest. He surely did not want to be in the middle of it , if things took a turn for the worse Chapter 162: Hunger and Starvation Chapter 162: Hunger and Starvation Large iron pots simmered over roaring fires, their contents bubbling in a mixture of grain, water, and a small portion of milk. The thick scent of the cooking porridge wafted through the cold air, carried on the tendrils of smoke that drifted above the camp. The smell was a lifeline for the starving refugees¡ªsimple and plain, yet to their empty stomachs, it was the scent of survival. From all corners of the camp, men, women, and children emerged from their tents and ragged shelters, drawn by the promise of food. Their eyes were hollow with hunger, their cheeks gaunt. Slowly, they gathered into a large, disorganized crowd, circling the place where the fires burned and the pots boiled. Murmurs filled the air, mingling with the sound of crackling wood, as the refugees edged closer, desperate to get a portion of the meal. Around the cooking stations, a line of 400 guards stood firm, separating the growing mass of people from the iron pots. Their faces were grim, their shields held high to maintain order. Each one of them had seen the chaos that hunger could cause, the way desperation could drive people to madness. Shouts echoed from the guards, demanding order. "Form a line!" one of them bellowed, his voice hoarse from repeating the command over and over. "No pushing! Everyone will get their share!" But the crowd was restless. Children, their tiny bodies weak from starvation, clung to their parents'' legs, eyes wide and fixated on the food. Some of the bolder ones dared to dart forward, trying to get closer, while the men, lean and hardened by months of suffering, began to press in. The guards responded swiftly. Shields crashed against the bodies of those who pushed too far forward. "Back!" a guard snarled, bashing his shield into the chest of a man who had tried to shove his way through. The man staggered back, coughing, but there was no anger in his eyes¡ªjust desperation. Children who crept too close received harsh scoldings or light a push from a shield to send them scurrying back. "Wait your turn!" the guards growled, even though many knew that order here was a fragile thing. Despite the chaos, the fires continued to roar, the pots still bubbling with the precious mixture inside. It was a thin porridge, watery and lacking much substance, but to these people, it was life itself. One by one, the refugees moved forward, each family or individual inching toward the makeshift kitchen where a large iron ladle scooped up portions of steaming porridge. The porridge was watery and thin, but each bowl held a small, precious piece of meat¡ªhardly more than a scrap, but to those who hadn''t seen meat in months, it was a treasure. "Next!" barked one of the guards as the first person, a haggard man with sunken cheeks, reached the front of the line. A bowl was thrust into his hands, the hot porridge steaming in the chilly air. Without a word, he stepped aside, immediately dipping his dirty fingers into the bowl and scooping the mixture into his mouth with trembling hands. The look of relief and hunger on his face was mirrored by many behind him. Some gulped the food down the moment it touched their fingers, the porridge burning their mouths as they devoured it. They couldn''t afford to wait¡ªthe hunger gnawed at them too deeply. The small piece of meat was chewed carefully, as though it were sacred, savored for the brief moment it lasted before disappearing. A woman, holding a small child by her side, did the same. She barely moved from the serving point before tearing into her bowl with bare hands, lifting the watery meal to her lips with haste, offering her child the piece of meat before taking any for herself. Her eyes were wild with hunger, but she showed restraint for the sake of her child. Once finished, those who had eaten were led by more guards to a separate area on the far side of the camp, away from the serving lines. The guards ensured there was no way back into the line¡ªno second servings allowed. "Move along!" one of the guards snapped, waving them forward with his spear. "You''ve eaten! Make room for the others!" There, the fed refugees huddled together, still licking their hands and fingers clean, their stomachs no longer empty but far from full. Some stared back at the line, a faint glimmer of envy in their eyes as they watched others receive their portions. But they were kept away, guided further into the side of the camp where fires burned to warm them after their meal. Asag stood at a distance, his cold, pitiless gaze fixed on the scene before him. Refugees, men and women of all ages, their faces hollowed by starvation, tore into their bowls of porridge with desperate hunger. The guards barked orders, keeping them in line, ensuring they didn''t return for seconds, but Asag felt no sympathy for the masses. The sight was too familiar, too close to the memories that haunted him. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword as flashes of his past broke through the cold barrier he tried so hard to maintain. He remembered the days when he had been in their place¡ªhungry, worn down by hard labor, barely surviving each day. The work had been relentless, and the food, scarce, if he was given any at all. He had watched so many others fall¡ªthose who couldn''t endure, who lacked the will to fight. In those days, he had been nothing but a shadow of what he was now, a man on the brink of collapse. The difference between him and those who had died wasn''t strength, nor skill, nor wit. It was the man who had lifted him up when he could barely stand, the young leader whose vision had given Asag something to live for. Alpheo. The name alone brought warmth to Asag''s heart, a rare feeling for the hardened warrior. That young man¡ªbarely more than a boy when they first met¡ªhad saved him, not just physically, but in spirit. When others might have abandoned him to rot, Alpheo had seen something in Asag worth saving. He had given him a purpose when Asag had none.Now he ate meat and grain every day, and yet the taste of those small and hard pieces of bread he shared with Alpheo and his friends were something he would never forget. He was ashamed of it , because he knew that if positions were swapped, he wouldn''t find the strength to share those small foods he would every night risk his life to bring to them. He was disgusted by his own weakness. Alpheo was the reason Asag had survived those terrible days, the reason he had risen from the dirt when others fell. He had sworn to serve him for life, to ensure his vision came to pass, no matter the cost, no matter what Alpheo would do , no matter how low he would go , he would make sure to always be behind him. For Alpheo, he would endure anything. Because in that young man, Asag had found not just a leader but a cause worth dying for. ---------------- Alpheo pushed aside the flap of the tent and stepped into the dimly lit space where the courtiers of the late Lord of Confluendi were crowded together. The air was thick with unease. The once-proud courtiers, dressed in frayed and faded finery, shifted uncomfortably as they noticed Alpheo''s entrance. Nervous whispers died down as his presence dominated the room, tension rising with every step he took. Some glanced at each other, their faces pale, others looked toward the floor, fingers fidgeting with their cloaks. They were well aware of the chaos their previous lord''s downfall had caused, and the rumors of their complicity in Elyra''s mad rule hung over them like a sword Alpheo sat down, his gaze steady as he looked over the group of nervous courtiers huddled before him. His voice, when he spoke, was calm but carried the weight of authority. "You have all served Lord Ormund and his family for many years," he began, his tone as cold as the wind outside. "I do not know how loyally you did that . Frankly, it makes no difference to me." The courtiers exchanged uneasy glances, but none dared speak. Alpheo leaned forward slightly, letting his words sink in. "What I do care about," he continued, "is the mess left behind by the woman you served until two weeks ago¡ªLady Elyra. That chaos must now be undone, and it is your responsibility to help me fix it." He paused, watching their reactions as the gravity of his words settled over them like a heavy shroud. Some swallowed hard, others stood motionless, too fearful to even blink. "I need people who can read write and count ," Alpheo said, his tone hardening. "People who understand the workings of this lordship. This is not a request, but an order. You will work under me to restore Confluendi to order, and you will do so without hesitation." He straightened in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly as his voice took on a more dangerous edge. "And let me be clear: I have the power to declare every one of you rebels and have you executed where you stand.You know of what I did to Thalys, and he was a knight, none would bat an eye if I were to do the same to you who are not even nobles. Some men even questioned why I showed any mercy to the lot of you when the city fell." The tent was silent. No one moved, no one even dared to breathe loudly, some trembled some looked like they were about to throw up. "Your lives," Alpheo said with finality, "now belong to me, they are your debts to me . Understand that well." "I will need people to count the grain and people residing here " he stated, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "Every sack, every measure. And let me make this clear¡ªthere will be no corruption under my watch." He paused, letting the words settle over the crowd. They were all seasoned men and women of administration, yet the fear of the unknown was etched into their faces. "If even a single sack of grain disappears," Alpheo continued, his voice growing sharper, "you die. If one grain is found unaccounted for, fallen on the ground without explanation or cause , you die." He leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable but menacing. "I don''t need evidence. I don''t need to investigate. All I need is a word¡ªone whisper¡ªand you would all perish.If that is clear you may start to work , I will send word of your tasks , you are dismissed...'''' Chapter 163: Getting to work Chapter 163: Getting to work Alpheo wasted no time. As soon as the meeting with the courtiers ended, he immediately set about organizing efforts to tackle the looming famine. He knew all too well that the damage done by Lady Elyra''s neglect had left the land in chaos, with villages stripped bare and crops ruined. The people had nothing left to sustain them, and the food stores would barely last the winter. If nothing was done now, the famine would only worsen in the following year, and the population would plummet. Alpheo''s mind raced with solutions, and he quickly settled on the most critical step: agriculture . Though the harsh winter was upon them, there was still one crop that could grow beneath the cold earth¡ªpotatoes. Potatoes could thrive in the harsh conditions, providing sustenance through the long, bitter months. It was the one thing that could save them from total disaster.They were basically the rats of the plant world. Luckily, Alpheo had come prepared. Anticipating the dire situation in Confluendi, he had brought with him a large supply of potatoes, enough to start planting in the surrounding lands. Nobles tended to shy from such a thing, naming it like oats like a food for animals like pigs , however Alpheo knew that such a thing was the perfect solution for the situation.Also he personally loved potatoes .... He summoned Asag and the remaining soldiers, ordering them to oversee the work in the fields. The refugees would be put to labor¡ªthose strong enough to work would help prepare the frozen earth, digging trenches and planting the potatoes in whatever plots of land were still viable.Obviously near the villages they destroyed The next harvest might not be abundant, but it could be enough to stave off starvation and give them the time they needed to rebuild. In addition to organizing the cultivation of potatoes, Alpheo turned his attention toward another resource flowing through his future lands: the great river. The river, winding its way through Confluendi, had long been a vital artery for trade, irrigation, and sustenance. And right now it would serve as a lifeline for the starving population. He knew that relying on grain alone wouldn''t be enough in the short term. Cultivation would take time to bear fruit¡ªmonths before they saw the first harvest. But the river, abundant with fish and fresh water, could help alleviate some of the immediate pressure. Fishing could provide food for the hungry mouths that couldn''t wait for crops to grow. Without delay, Alpheo ordered groups of refugees, those strong enough to work and skilled in fishing, to be sent down to the riverbanks. Teams were formed to gather materials and construct basic fishing nets, and the refugees began the task of building small piers and fishing stations along the river. He also sent word for the local artisans and craftsmen to start constructing rudimentary boats that could help increase the fishing yield. As the labor force divided its efforts¡ªsome tending the fields for future sustenance, others focusing on the river for immediate relief¡ªAlpheo kept a close eye on the organization of it all. The guards ensured order, keeping the work going efficiently and preventing any disruption, while the courtiers, now under strict supervision, kept records of the grain and fish being collected. As the courtiers finished their tallies and handed the reports to Alpheo, it became clear that the vast majority of the refugees were simple peasants¡ªfarmers and laborers from the surrounding villages that had been ravaged during the conflict. Among them, however, the courtiers also identified a handful of craftsmen¡ªmost notably, a small group of shoemakers. While their trade was not immediately relevant to agriculture, Alpheo saw an opportunity. Without hesitation, he ordered that these shoemakers be taken into his personal service, not as mere workers, but as an essential part of his standing army''s logistical core.Most people tended to undermine the importance of having shoemakers in an army, for when soldiers are forced to wear shoes too big or too small for the foot during long marches , it may cause them to take injuries on their feet .The Ottoman Empire was especially among the first army to take this problem seriously, calculating how much time the boots could walk before having their soles breaking off , and as such, preparing couples of unused boots for each soldier. Alpheo, despite the exhaustion of overseeing the refugee camps and restoring order, refused to be idle. As soon as the immediate crisis began to stabilize, he secluded himself in a dimly lit tent with parchment, ink, and quill, working late into the night to draft letters to the lords of nearby regions. Each letter was an urgent plea for the sale of rye, grain, and other foodstuffs, knowing that the resources they had for now would barely be enough for a few months and so they needed to buy things with the silver he brought. The task was not simple. Alpheo knew that appealing to the lords'' , would not yield the supplies he needed as most would ask for prices above the market one as they knew of the situation he was in. Each lord, of course, sought their own benefit in the arrangement. Responses to his missives were swift but demanding, with most nobles asking for far more than just coin. Temporary tax exemptions were the most common demand, as the nobles sought to ease the burden on their own lands in exchange for the supplies Alpheo required. Others requested special rights or privileges¡ªexclusive trading rights with Confluendi once the famine was resolved. Alpheo weighed each request carefully,accepting some and refusing others. Currently he sat hunched over a small wooden desk in his dimly lit tent, the air filled with the quiet rustle of papers and the faint crackle of the fire outside. He broke the seal on yet another letter, this one marked with the sigil of Lord Xanthos of Bracus. As his eyes scanned the page, a sudden laugh escaped him¡ªsharp and unexpected. He leaned back in his chair, with a smirk. Just then, Egil pushed aside the tent flap and strode inside, his weathered face etched with curiosity as he was waiting outside for Alpheo to finish his work. "What''s got you laughing like that?" he asked, folding his arms as he eyed the papers spread across the desk. Alpheo, still amused, waved the letter in his hand. "Here, read this. It''s from Lord Xanthos. You''ll get a kick out of it." Egil narrowed his eyes at the offered letter, then tossed it back on the desk with a shrug. "You know I can''t read that nonsense." Alpheo let out a long sigh, shaking his head. "Of course not," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "Should''ve known.'''' Alpheo cleared his throat, setting the letter down as he began, "As you know, I''ve been writing to various lords, asking them to sell me supplies for this camp. Most of them, greedy bastards that they are, have been asking for things like tax exemptions. They know full well that while I may not have the authority to grant such things, if I accept, my soon-to-be wife will have no choice but to comply, or risk damaging the royal honor." Egil raised an eyebrow, leaning against the tent post. "So, what''s this Xanthos asking for, then? Coin? Land?" Alpheo chuckled, shaking his head. "No, nothing as simple as that. Xanthos doesn''t care much about that . No, what he wants is a promise from me that we will go to war with the Princedom of Herculia." Egil blinked, momentarily stunned. "War? What in the hell for?" "Apparently," Alpheo said, leaning back in his chair, "the lord of Bracus cares more about his personal feud with the lord of Arduronaraven than anything else. During a rebellion, the lord of Arduronaraven killed Xanthos'' brother. Ever since, Xanthos has been plotting his revenge, and he sees this as his opportunity.Jasmine tells me every year he always leads raid''s onto his land , with the lord of Arduronaraven doing the same as response.Of course the royal crown always have his consent , not that the lack of it would actually stop our lord from doing his yearly raid..." Egil let out a low whistle. "He seems like quite the guy." Alpheo smirked. "That he is. I have to say, for all his wild demands, we might actually get quite close..'''' Alpheo picked up the letter again, smiling to himself as he skimmed over a few lines before speaking. "In his letter, Lord Xanthos expressed his respects for our disciplined army and my so-called ''martial skills.'' Giving my compliments for my numerous victories over the rebels . He asked more than once if I could use that same army, whom he heard so much praises, to settle some old scores with the bastard of Arduronaraven." He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "It''s almost flattering how blunt he is about it." Egil snorted, crossing his arms. "So, what are you going to do? You thinking of actually agreeing to this madness?" Alpheo leaned back, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the table. "Obviously, I''ll accept. He''s in a position where he could become a valuable ally. And honestly, I''m even considering sending a few new military supplies his way I plan on issuing . I have a feeling that out of all the big nobles, Xanthos is the one I have the best chance of grooming to my side." Egil raised an eyebrow. "You think he''d be loyal? Or just using you to settle his grudge?" Alpheo shrugged. "A bit of both, probably. But loyalty can be nurtured over time. Right now, he''s driven by revenge, and if I help him achieve that... well, let''s just say he''d owe me more than just his gratitude. Besides, aligning with someone like Xanthos means having a fierce ally, and that could be useful in more ways than one.War-minded individuals after all have the same line of thinking...." Chapter 164: A womans cross Chapter 164: A woman''s cross In the soft light of Jasmine''s chamber, she stood beside her mother, Rosalind, both watching as the royal tailors presented the finished work with quiet anticipation. The gown, draped elegantly over a mannequin, was a rich, regal purple that shimmered faintly under the glow of the candles. Silver embroidery flowed across the fabric, delicate waves curling and weaving from the neckline down to the waist, giving the dress an ethereal, fluid appearance. As the eye followed the embroidery to the hem, the silver waves broke into short, sharp lines, accentuating the elegance of the gown with a subtle edge. The royal tailors moved with precision and care as they presented their finished work, revealing the gown with an air of quiet pride. The lead tailor, a woman with greying hair but steady, confident hands, lifted the gown for Jasmine to see in full, her voice calm and respectful. "Your Highness, as requested, the finest materials were used. We hope that the work is to your liking" Jasmine stood silently, her eyes tracing the fine details of the dress but offering no immediate response. Her posture was composed, and her face remained unreadable as she absorbed the tailor''s words and the work before her. She reached out, brushing her fingers against the soft purple fabric, feeling the cool, smooth texture under her fingertips. Queen Rosalind, seated nearby in an ornately carved chair, watched the scene with calm interest, she found her retirement more pleasarable that she would have ever thought. Her hand, wrapped delicately around a cup of apple cider, moved in a slow, practiced motion as she took another sip. Rosalind''s eyes flickered over the dress, her expression one of mild approval, but her attention kept drifting back to her silent daughter. Jasmine broke her silence, her voice cutting through the stillness with calm authority. "Who did the silverwork at the end of the dress?" she asked, her eyes narrowing as they focused on the intricate details along the hemline. The lead tailor, the same grey-haired woman who had presented the gown, smiled brightly, clearly believing she was about to receive praise. "I did, Your Highness," she said with pride, clasping her hands in front of her. "Each stitch was done by my own hand to ensure the finest quality." Jasmine''s gaze remained fixed on the tailor, her expression hardening ever so slightly. "Can you follow orders?" she asked coolly, her words slicing through the air with unexpected sharpness. The smile on the tailor''s face faltered. She blinked, clearly taken aback by the question, and bowed her head slightly in confusion. "Y-Your Highness?" Jasmine''s eyes didn''t waver. "I told you to finish the embroidery with gold," she said, her tone still calm but laced with unmistakable displeasure. "Not silver." The lead tailor''s face drained of color as realization dawned. She immediately dropped into a deep bow, her hands trembling slightly. "A thousand apologies, Your Highness. I¡ªI must have misheard. It will be corrected at once, I swear." Jasmine''s gaze remained unwavering, her voice steady as she delivered her next command. "Get out," she said, "and redo the work. Gold, as instructed." The lead tailor, along with the other servants, all bowed low, their faces pale and their movements hurried. "Yes, Your Highness," they muttered, shuffling backward as they left the chamber, still bent in subservience. The room fell silent again as the door closed behind them. Rosalind took another sip of her apple cider, her eyes drifting over the now-abandoned dress draped across the table. "It was a nice dress," she remarked casually, the warmth of the cider bringing a slight flush to her cheeks. Jasmine, still standing, glanced at the gown but shook her head. "It wasn''t the one I asked for," she said flatly, her fingers drumming lightly against the arm of her chair. She turned toward her mother. "I''ve been noticing you often drink apple cider" she added, her tone shifting slightly, as if changing the subject entirely. Rosalind raised an eyebrow, setting her goblet down with a soft clink. "Oh? I must say, I''ve grown fond of it myself," she said with a faint smile, leaning back. "I fell in love with the taste, that smooth flavor with the kick at the end. It''s quite addictive, don''t you think?" Jasmine didn''t respond immediately. Her gaze wandered to the wall again, her thoughts seemed distant. Rosalind''s smile faded, her expression turning more serious. "What''s going on with you?" she asked softly. Jasmine frowned slightly, her posture stiffening. "What do you mean?" "You seem... weighed down," Rosalind said, her eyes narrowing in motherly concern. "I''ve seen you handle court matters with ease" She paused, glancing at the gown before turning her full attention to Jasmine. "And I was there when you ordered the dress. You didn''t say anything about gold." Jasmine''s eyes widened slightly before narrowing, a flicker of frustration crossing her face. She let out a slow breath, her shoulders tensing before she turned back to her mother. "You''re saying I didn''t say it?" she asked, her tone more defensive than she intended. "I''m saying something''s bothering you," Rosalind pressed, her voice gentle but probing. "And you''re taking it out on the servants" Jasmine remained quiet for a moment, then her gaze dropped, her fingers unconsciously tracing the curve of the chair as she considered her mother''s words. Rosalind observed her daughter closely, sensing the unease radiating from her. She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a more intimate tone. "Are you scared about the marriage, Jasmine?" she asked, her brow furrowing with concern. "Is that what''s bothering you?You don''t like him?" Jasmine met her mother''s gaze, her expression shifting momentarily as if weighing her words. "It''s not that I don''t like Alpheo," she replied quickly, a hint of defensiveness in her voice. "It''s just... I''m nervous." She turned her gaze away, staring at the tapestry hanging on the wall as if seeking answers in its intricate patterns. Rosalind''s kind expression faltered, her brows knitting together as she reflected on her own past. "When I was set to marry your father, the first time I laid eyes on him, he was quite the sight. He had a bald head and was missing an ear. He was full of grand plans, but his skills never matched even his lowest ambitions. He was greedy and foolish, often prone to fits of anger. There was no kindness in him at all and in twenty years I still could not find an ounce of it...." She took a deep breath, her gaze steady on Jasmine, trying to convey the depth of her feelings. "Now look at Alpheo. He''s young and quite good-looking if I must say , skilled in ways your father could only dream of. But most importantly, he respects your power. He values your status and prerogatives¡ªsomething I never had with your father. Alpheo treats you as an equal, never commanding but advising you, always seeking your permission before making decisions related to the princedom.How many men do you think would do that?That they would not get power through their head as soon as the enter into contact with it?" Rosalind paused, her expression earnest, as if she were peeling back layers of her own heart to reveal her hopes for her daughter''s future. "Out of all the prospects you could have had, he is far better than anything I could have hoped for and especially anyone your father had for you. You deserve a partner who will uplift you, not one who will stifle your voice. '''' Her tone shifted slightly, becoming more serious, laced with a mother''s concern. "It''s important for a woman to marry, Jasmine. It''s not merely about alliances or social standing; it is what is expected of us. But I look back at the eligible men your father, Arkawatt, considered for you, and I shudder. Each one was more unworthy than the last¡ªchoices that would have left you unhappy, maybe even miserable, as I was with him." She leaned in closer, her eyes searching Jasmine''s for understanding, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "Your father was more concerned with his own ambitions than any of us. The thought that he had no male heir consumed him and made him furious toward me; I had failed in his eyes, just like the one before me whom he caused a twenty year long rivalry for . He wanted power and influence, and the fact he had none angered him like nothing could. " Rosalind sighed, her expression softening as she reflected on her own experiences. "You have a chance to build a life with someone who respects you, rather than someone who would seek to control you. That is something that most women in your position would never have the privilege to experience. Alpheo values your counsel. Don''t let nerves cloud your judgment; see the opportunity in front of you for what it truly is'''' Jasmine sat in silence, her mother''s words echoing in her mind like a gentle melody. Each sentence unfurled layers of thoughts and emotions that she had tried to suppress. The prospect of marrying him was daunting, yes, but perhaps it wasn''t as terrifying as she had initially believed. Rosalind''s reassurances wrapped around her like a comforting blanket, sparking a flicker of hope within her. Yet, uncertainty still gnawed at her. She glanced down at her hands, fingers intertwined as she wrestled with her thoughts. As she wrestled with her swirling emotions, she felt her mother''s gentle touch on her back. Rosalind stood up, her presence warm and comforting, patting Jasmine softly as if to ground her in that moment. "Take your time to think it through, my love," she said, her voice steady and soothing. Jasmine nodded, the weight of her mother''s expectations settling heavily on her shoulders. Rosalind smiled, her expression a blend of encouragement and understanding. With a final glance back, she left the room, the soft rustle of her skirts fading away. Alone now, Jasmine took a deep breath, letting the silence envelop her. Chapter 165: Roses thorns Chapter 165: Rose''s thorns "Bloody hell," a man muttered under his breath as he trudged through the aftermath of the battle, his armor catching the dull light of the morning sun despite the grime and blood that caked every surface. He wiped a hand across his face, smearing a streak of dirt across his brow. Dead bodies lay scattered like discarded dolls, limbs twisted at grotesque angles, their lifeless faces staring blankly at the sky or at the dirt below. "This is more tiring than the battle itself," grumbled another soldier, not far behind. He kicked a body lying in his path, watching closely for any signs of movement. The corpse remained still, eyes wide open in a final frozen scream. "These poor bastards really had the balls to attack us while we were sleeping." With a sickening sound, the second soldier yanked his lance free from the chest of a wounded man who had been groaning softly until that moment. A brief gurgle escaped the man''s lips, and then he was silent. The soldier spat on the ground. "You can say that again," he muttered, wiping the blood from his weapon onto the dead man''s tunic. As they moved forward, the first soldier''s gaze fell on something struggling in the distance. A figure, barely alive, was crawling across the stony ground, desperate to escape the scene of carnage. "Hey!" the soldier called out, a twisted grin spreading across his face. "What do we have here?" The second soldier turned his head, chuckling darkly as he saw the man, dirty and bleeding, trying to drag himself to safety. "Where do you think you''re going, friend?" he taunted, striding over with slow, deliberate steps. He raised his boot and kicked the man in the ribs, flipping him onto his back with a sharp grunt of pain. His chest heaved weakly as he tried to push himself up, his hands trembling against the cold, hard earth. Blood trickled down the side of his face from a nasty gash, and he squinted up at his tormentors, lips trembling as if to speak. "I... I''m a noble... I yield!" He tried to shout the words, tried to plead for his life, but his voice wouldn''t come. His lips barely moved, his throat dry and constricted as terror took hold. His vision blurred, and the sound of his own ragged breathing filled his ears. The first soldier looked down at him with a sneer, his lance poised in his hands. "Doesn''t matter who you are" he said, leveling the tip of the lance at the man''s throat. "Dead men don''t talk." The lance glinted in the light, cold and deadly as the soldier prepared to thrust it down. ------------ Willios jolted awake with a gasp, his chest heaving, sweat dripping down his face. His heart thundered in his chest, the vivid nightmare clinging to him like a suffocating fog. A sharp ache invaded Willios''s head, radiating from the center of his skull as if a dagger had been driven deep into his mind. He groaned, a sound of pure agony that escaped his lips before he could stop it. Instinctively, he moved his arms, only to be met with another sharp jolt of pain in his shoulder. The sensation shot through him like a blade, causing him to wince. Gritting his teeth, he pushed through the pain and raised a trembling hand to his head, where his fingers brushed against rough bandages. The touch sent another wave of discomfort rippling through him, and he groaned again. Suddenly, a gasp broke the silence. "Lord Willios! He''s awake!" a servant shouted, her voice high-pitched and frantic with disbelief. She rushed out of the tent, calling for the physicians and attendants with hurried steps. Within minutes, the tent was filled with people. The flurry of activity seemed like a blur to Willios, his mind still struggling to catch up with the waking world. Several figures appeared at his bedside, each one with an air of urgency. A group of physicians entered first, dressed in simple robes with leather pouches slung across their shoulders, filled with various herbs and instruments. They moved quickly, their hands checking his pulse, feeling his forehead, and inspecting the bandages wrapped tightly around his head and shoulder. Their faces were etched with concentration as they worked, murmuring to each other in low voices as they assessed his condition. He caught fragments of their conversation. "No fever... "Keep the bandages tight, the wound was deep..He''s lucky to be alive." Lucky? Willios thought bitterly, his head still swimming with pain. He felt anything but lucky. As the physicians finished their examinations and began to step aside, another figure loomed at the entrance of the tent. Lord Landoff, his uncle.. The tall, broad-shouldered man was dressed in dark, richly embroidered robes, his silver hair tied back neatly. His face, usually so stern and composed, now softened with a hint of relief as his eyes fell upon Willios. "Willios," Landoff said, his deep voice low but filled with emotion, as he approached the bed. He stood there for a moment, studying his nephew''s battered form "You gave us quite the scare, boy," Landoff said gruffly, though his words were softened by the concern behind them. "I wasn''t sure if you''d make it back." Willios tried to speak, but his throat felt dry, and his voice caught in his mouth. He managed a weak nod, his eyes still blurry, the pounding in his head refusing to subside. "The battle... did we win?" Willios managed to ask through gritted teeth, the sharp pain in his head making each word a struggle. "Aye, lad, we won," Landoff replied, his voice steady "If we hadn''t, you and I wouldn''t be having this conversation. You did well¡ªbetter than most. After you managed to open the gate, the entire might of the Emperor''s forces stormed the castle. It didn''t take long after that. Within a few hours, the God''s Finger was ours, and with it, our road to the capital." Willios blinked, trying to process his uncle''s words through the haze of pain and fatigue. The God''s Finger¡ªa fortress nearly impossible to breach. He had played a part in capturing it. Despite the agony in his body, a flicker of pride tried to surface, though it was quickly tempered by the reminder of how close he had come to death. Landoff''s voice continued, more somber now. "Unfortunately, many of the lords escaped before we could lay hands on them. We''re left with only minor nobles as prisoners. No doubt they''ll seek refuge with the remaining forces of the usurper" Willios''s brow furrowed as he absorbed the news. "When do we depart for the capital?" he asked, his voice raspy but eager. He could almost feel the pull of the battle yet to come¡ªthe final march that would bring them to the heart of the empire. Landoff''s gaze hardened, though not with anger. There was something else there. Concern, perhaps? Disapproval? "In a few days'' time," he said, his voice dropping in tone, as if bracing for what he had to say next. "But you, Willios, you won''t be coming with us." Willios''s eyes snapped up, the sharpness of the words cutting through his haze. He tried to push himself up on the bed, but his body betrayed him, the pain flaring violently in his shoulder and head. "What do you mean?" he protested, his voice weak but filled with frustration. "I''m not staying behind. I can still fight." Landoff raised a hand, his expression stern but not unkind. "Willios, the gods saw fit to spare your life on that battlefield. It would be madness to spit on their generosity by rushing back into danger before you''re healed." "But¡ª" "No buts, boy," Landoff interrupted, his tone final. "You''ve done more than enough. You''ve earned the right to rest. The physicians say your wounds are deep, and you''re lucky to be alive as it is. Pushing yourself any further would be foolish, and I won''t let you destroy yourself out of pride.I owe it to you and your father.Gods only may know how much he must be hating me seeing the state his son is in " Willios clenched his fists, frustration boiling beneath the surface. He had fought tooth and nail to get here, to prove himself, and now he was being told to stand down. Sensing his nephew''s turmoil, Landoff leaned forward, his gaze softening slightly. "Listen to me, Willios. You''ve made me proud.You managed to do what thousands of men thrown onto the walls could not. You''ve made the Emperor and our family proud. In fact, he''s honored you with a banquet for your bravery immediately after the battle . And when the war is over," Landoff''s voice grew quieter, more serious, "the Emperor has decreed that the God''s Finger¡ªthis very castle you helped us take¡ªwill be yours." Willios''s breath caught in his throat, the weight of those words sinking in. "Mine?" he echoed, disbelief lacing his voice. "Aye," Landoff confirmed, his eyes filled with something like pride. "The Emperor himself declared it. Once the rebellion is crushed, this fortress will be awarded to you, and with it, the lands that surround it. You''ve earned your place, Willios, but now, you need to heal. You''ll have your time again soon enough." Willios was silent, the anger that had surged moments ago now melting into a mixture of awe and exhaustion. The God''s Finger, one, if not the most important fortresses in the Empire... would be his? He had fought for glory, but never in his wildest dreams had he imagined something like this. He was set for life. Just the tax coming from all the caravans moving through it was enough to fund 500 knights . And now it was his.... Landoff rose from his stool, his large hand resting briefly on Willios''s shoulder. "Rest, lad. The battle for the capital will be there when you''re ready. And when it is, you''ll have more than proven yourself." With that, he turned and left, leaving Willios alone to process the enormity of what had just been said. As soon as Lord Landoff left the tent, the physician, who had been standing quietly in the corner until now, stepped forward with a small wooden cup in his hands. He was an older man, with silvered hair tied back and a weathered face that spoke of years spent tending to the wounded. "Drink this,my lord ," the physician said, offering the cup filled with a murky green liquid. "It will help ease the pain and calm your body." Willios eyed the concoction warily, sniffing it. The scent was earthy, with a faint floral undertone. Seeing his hesitation, the physician added, "It''s a mixture of lavender, chamomile, and various barks. Usually, I would prescribe only one of these remedies, but considering your condition, I believe all three are necessary." With a grimace, Willios took the cup. His body ached, his head pounded, and even though the mixture didn''t look appetizing, he didn''t have the strength or will to argue. He brought the cup to his lips and took a deep gulp of the thick liquid. The taste was as bitter as he expected, sharp with astringent notes and a hint of something floral from the lavender. The liquid was so thick that it stuck to the sides of his throat as it went down, making him gag slightly. He swallowed again, but a bit of the liquid slipped into his respiratory canal, causing him to cough violently. The sudden fit of coughing sent sharp pains shooting through his chest and shoulder, making him wince. His body trembled as he tried to catch his breath, feeling the bitter liquid burn at his throat as he struggled to calm himself. "Easy now," the physician said calmly, placing a hand on Willios''s back. "Take it slow. Your body''s still in shock, but this will help." Willios nodded, his eyes watering from the coughing, but he forced the rest of the mixture down despite the discomfort. Finally, after a few moments, he took a deep breath, the taste lingering unpleasantly on his tongue. "Rest now, my lord " the physician said, his tone softer now. "The herbs will do their work. Sleep if you can. You''ve fought hard¡ªlet your body recover." Willios leaned back against the pillows, his mind still swirling with thoughts of the battle, of his uncle''s words, and the Emperor''s decree. But as the warmth of the herbal concoction began to spread through his body, he felt the pull of sleep slowly creeping in, the tension in his muscles finally beginning to ease as he let the sensations have the better of him. Chapter 166: Madness and Weakness Chapter 166: Madness and Weakness Valeria stood before a heavy oak door, her breath measured but her heart pounding beneath her composed exterior. Before her, blocking her path, stood Keval¡ªher younger brother. His short red hair, the same fiery hue as hers, gleamed in the torchlight, though his expression was far from welcoming. Keval had never been one for royal grandeur, preferring the quieter life of a nobleman in seclusion over the intricacies of court politics. But now, as the Regent of the Emperor, he was forced into a position of power by his father''s ordder. His face, usually relaxed, was drawn in irritation as he stared at Valeria, his arms crossed over his chest. "Sister," he said, his tone clipped, "what is this about?" Valeria''s eyes blazed with determination. "I''m here to see my son," Keval sighed heavily, clearly exasperated by the situation. He glanced at the guards who stood nearby, their eyes flickering between the siblings in uneasy silence. "You''ve been told, Valeria. The emperor is inside with his tutors," he said, his voice tight with annoyance. "He''s in the middle of his studies. Interrupting him now would do no good. Not to him, and not to you." Valeria''s jaw clenched, the tension in her posture unmistakable. "I am his mother," she hissed, stepping closer to her brother. ''''And I am the regent in our father''s stead.Did you finish stating the obvious?'''' Keval''s patience was wearing thin. His brow furrowed as he leaned in slightly, his voice lowering to keep the conversation from spilling out into the ears of the nearby guards. "This is nonsense. I was called from my chambers only to find you here demanding access to Mesha like he''s a prisoner. He''s with his tutors, learning how to rule¡ªsomething you should be glad for." Valeria''s eyes flashed. "I will decide when and how my son learns to rule." Keval''s lips tightened, the frustration in his eyes clear. "You are not the one making decisions anymore,thanks the gods " he said coldly. Valeria''s hand tightened into a fist, but she said nothing for a moment. She could feel the power dynamics shifting, her once absolute control slipping away with each passing day. Keval stood firmly in front of Valeria, his arms still crossed as he met her fiery gaze with a calm, measured expression. "After his lesson," he began slowly, "Mesha will need to train in the yard with the new master-at-arms. Once that''s done, then you''ll be allowed to meet with him." His tone was firm but indifferent, as though her protest meant little in the grand scheme of things. Valeria''s face darkened, her lips parting in a sharp intake of breath as fury surged through her. "You dare?" she hissed, her voice rising dangerously. "You would keep me, his mother, from seeing him? Am I to wait like some courtier, hoping for a scrap of time with my own son?" Her fists clenched at her sides, and she took a step forward "I will not be dictated to in my own palace, Keval!" Keval sighed deeply, rubbing his temples as if warding off a growing headache. The frustration in his expression was obvious, but he remained composed. "Valeria," he said, his voice steady "if you don''t calm down and leave this corridor right now, I''ll have no choice but to force my guards to escort you back to your rooms¡ªand keep you there." Valeria''s eyes widened in disbelief, her rage deepening at the implication. "The only reason I''m not doing so," Keval continued, his voice sharpening with every word, "is because I don''t want to give the lords any more reason to think we''re a family torn apart. Imagine what the court will say if they find out the empress was locked in her chambers like a rebellious child." Keval sighed again, his features softening just a little, though his voice retained its edge of warning. "Father doesn''t need this kind of nonsense, Valeria. He''s out there, leading a war for Mesha¡ªfor your son. The least we can do is keep things here under control. The last thing he needs is to hear that his children are turning the palace into a battlefield of their own." Forcing herself to keep her composure, Valeria''s voice was icy as she finally spoke. "Tell my son I was here." Then, without another word, she turned on her heel, her gown sweeping across the cold stone floor as she stalked away, leaving Keval standing by the door, watching her retreat with a mixture of frustration and resignation. Keval watched her go, rubbing his temples again "As if we didn''t have enough to deal with..." It had been two weeks since the devastating news of the fall of God''s Finger reached the capital. The moment his father heard of the loss, he had sprung into action. There was no time for mourning or shock. He began raising an army from every source available, nearly emptying his vast coffers in the process. Mercenaries were hired by the thousands , bought with gold and promises of plunder, while reluctant lords were bribed into sending their banners to his aid. Marthio''s influence and wealth had always been his weapons, and now he wielded them with ruthless precision. But as his army gathered, Marthio knew he could not leave the capital unguarded. The city itself had become a political battlefield, filled with factions ready to exploit any sign of weakness. The court was rife with intrigue, and the Wise Council was already seeking to undermine the empress''s authority. Marthio needed someone to stay behind, to hold the reins of power in his absence. His choice fell on Keval. As the middle child, Keval was neither the bold warrior nor the cunning tactician that others in his family were known to be. His older brother, Tyros, had always been the one drawn to glory and battle, a man of action with a fiery spirit and a sword in hand. Tyros had been stationed at God''s Finger before its fall, and by some stroke of fortune¡ªor divine favor¡ªhad managed to escape before the fortress fell into Mavius''s hands. Had Tyros been captured, it would have been a disaster for the family. But the gods had smiled upon them, and now Tyros roamed free, organizing resistance far from the capital raiding and attacking lone bands of soldier with his cavalry whenever the circumstances allowed him to do so. Keval, by contrast, was far more reserved. A scholar at heart, he preferred the quiet of the library to the chaos of battlefields. He lacked the fire of Tyros or the imperial authority of Valeria. Yet Marthio had chosen him, not out of affection or preference, but because Keval''s cool, calculating nature was what the city needed. In Marthio''s eyes, Keval was dependable, more inclined to keep things running smoothly than to chase glory or risk everything in rash decisions. He wouldn''t take unnecessary risks, nor would he challenge his father''s authority while he was gone. Keval understood power, not in the way his father did, with grand gestures and armies, but in the small, careful manipulations that kept the palace running like a well-oiled machine. After having dealt with that sorry excuse of a sister Keval finally sat at his desk, resuming the work he had been put off from finishing . His brow was furrowed in concentration as he poured over the latest reports from the empire''s treasuries and grain reserves. His hands, more accustomed to turning pages than wielding a sword, moved deftly across the pages, noting every figure in it and grimacing from what he was seeing The empire was hemorrhaging wealth at an alarming rate. The fall of God''s Finger had not just been a military disaster; as it now greatly increased the time the crown would take to put down the rebels. Lands once rich with resources, teeming with farms and bustling trade routes, were now in rebel hands. The loss of these lands was not only a blow to imperial prestige but also to its coffers. Keval knew that the empire''s annual budget would soon diminish by at least 40%, a catastrophic reduction that would strain every aspect of governance¡ªfrom paying soldiers to maintaining roads and supporting the empire''s sprawling bureaucracy. While his father and Tyros fought on the front lines, Keval understood that the true threat to the empire went far beyond raiding armies and besieged castles. The civil war was already dragging the empire into an economic recession, and he knew it would only worsen. Armies could be rebuilt, lands reconquered, but the economic scars left by this conflict would last for generations, hundreds of merchant would lose their wares, which meant that much of the country''s richness and trading hegemony would fade away overnight. The rebellion had already disrupted trade routes across the empire, and Keval could see the signs of economic collapse beginning to take root. With half the empire''s lands gone, so too were the grain shipments that fed the cities and the iron mines that forged the weapons to arm the imperial forces. The empire''s tax revenue would be dwindling, and even the wealthiest lords would certainly soon be feeling the strain of sending levies to fight in a seemingly endless war. He knew his future efforts to balance the imperial income and expenditure would be crucial, even if they went unnoticed by those who preferred to count victories in battles won and castles taken. What good was an army if it couldn''t be fed, clothed, and armed? What use was a throne if there was no treasury left to support it? While others fought their wars in the field, Keval fought his in the back rooms of the palace, doing everything he could to support his family from the background, while his father expected him to find a solution that something that seemingly could not be stopped. Chapter 167: New solutions to old problems Chapter 167: New solutions to old problems Keval stood by the basin, his expression tight as he reached for a small, yellow-white cube of soap resting on the edge. The rough texture scraped against his palm as he picked it up, feeling its sharp corners and the faint grain of its surface. His fingers curled around it, absently rubbing the cube between his hands for a moment before he submerged it in the urn of cool water beside him. The soap lathered quickly, frothing in his hands as he passed it over his skin. Keval''s movements were methodical, but his brow remained furrowed in thought. This was something new. The cool water ran down his wrists, the sensation barely registering as his mind churned with worries that refused to settle. The empire''s finances the soon to come recession¡ªit all swirled in his head, as tangible and slippery as the soap in his hands and yet in his hands he was holding the solution for it . Standing just inside the doorway was Vrator, the head of the garrison and Keval''s nephew. Tall and imposing, Vrator was a soldier through and through, his sharp blue eyes taking in the scene silently Keval finished with the soap, rinsing the last of the lather off his hands before reaching for a cloth to dry them. As he glanced toward the table, his eyes lingered on the urn that rested there. It was a simple thing, but Keval''s gaze sharpened with a flicker of thought. Vrator moved toward the table, intent on serving the urn to his uncle, but Keval stepped forward, his movements swift and deliberate. Before Vrator could act, Keval''s hand reached out and grasped the urn. His fingers curled around the cool surface, lifting it with a controlled, steady motion. He paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he inspected the urn carefully. Pulling back the cloth that draped over it, Keval brought the opening to his face, inhaling deeply as the faint scent reached his nose. His brow furrowed slightly, not in displeasure but in contemplation. Keval, still holding the urn with one hand, glanced over his shoulder toward Vrator. His brow was furrowed with quiet suspicion as he spoke, his voice low and steady. "Did all of this come from the south?" Vrator gave a sharp nod, his expression as serious as ever. "Yes cousin . It comes from the Princedom of Yarzat." Keval''s eyebrows rose in surprise, and a faint trace of skepticism crept into his tone. "Yarzat? From that ear-missing beggar? Has he managed to climb out of the filth?" Vrator shook his head slowly."No, Arkawatt is dead. A new ruler has risen in his place¡ªa princess, I have heard" Keval paused for a moment, setting the urn down on the table with a controlled motion. He let out a breath, absorbing the news. "A princess, you say?" His voice was still calm, though the weight of his thoughts was evident in his sharp gaze. "How reliable is this information?" Keval asked, his eyes narrowing slightly, wondering what other implications this shift in power might hold for the empire''s current precarious state. Vrator stood firm, his blue eyes meeting Keval''s. "As reliable as it gets from a merchant '''' Keval, still holding the urn, tapped it lightly, his fingers tracing its smooth surface, his mind focused. "Did we manage to find the procedure for making any of this?" he asked sharply, his tone more urgent now. Vrator shifted on his feet, hesitating. "No, I just got these things; I know nothing else." Keval frowned, not pleased by the answer, but he remained composed. "How far has this product entered our market?" Vrator cleared his throat, glancing away briefly as if unsure how to present the situation. "Not much, yet. I, uh, managed to get this from a merchant, he''s under the princess'' direct sponsorship. She''s keeping a tight grip on distribution for now." Keval raised an eyebrow. ''''Is she married?" Vrator hesitated again, scratching his chin as if the details were still fuzzy. "Uh... yes, I believe so. The merchant said she''s married. To a mercenary, actually." Keval''s brow arched even higher. "A mercenary?" He leaned forward slightly, intrigued. "And you''re sure about this?" Vrator fumbled a bit. "Well... that''s what he said , at least. He mentioned the princess¡ªuh, Jasmine, I think¡ªand said she married some mercenary captain, Alpheo, I believe his name was. But I can''t be completely sure. It all sounded... strange, really." Keval narrowed his eyes. "Alpheo, you say?" Vrator nodded quickly but then hesitated again. "Yes... well, that''s what the merchant called him. Said this Alpheo''s been helping her stabilize the princedom after Arkawatt''s death. He commands a decent-sized force of mercenaries which he used to clean up a rebellion fast , and with his backing, she''s consolidated power faster than anyone expected. It''s... a bit hard to believe" Keval took a deep breath, lifted the cup of apple cider, and brought it to his lips. The sharp, sweet scent filled his nose. As the liquid touched his tongue, his eyes widened slightly in surprise. The flavor was rich, crisp, and refreshing¡ªfar beyond the quality of anything he had expected. He set the cup down, staring at the amber liquid for a moment, then looked over at Vrator. "This... this is remarkable," he said, his tone measured but impressed. "If this is what they''re producing in Yarzat now, there''s no question the nobles will be falling over themselves to buy it." He took another small sip, savoring the taste Keval set the cup down and turned toward Vrator, his brows furrowed in thought. "And how much did the merchant sell these for?" Vrator hesitated for a moment, then replied, "The soap went for 8 silverii apiece, and the urns of cider were sold at 12 silverii each." Keval''s eyes widened, his expression caught between disbelief and grudging admiration. "Twelve silverii for an urn of this?" He gestured toward the cider. "That small princess is sitting on a damn gold mine." He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. "With prices like that, if she plays this right, she could hold half the empire by the purse strings." Vrator''s face tightened with determination as he spoke, his voice low but insistent. "We should invade Yarzat immediately, take control of the production methods for these goods. With what they''re charging, we''d be able to fund anything we need¡ªthree campaigns over if we wanted." Keval, taken aback by the suggestion, let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Invade Yarzat? And with what army, Vrator? We barely have enough men to keep the city secure as it is. And the money?" He shook his head, his tone tinged with disbelief. "Where would we even get the coin to start another campaign?" Vrator, undeterred, leaned forward. "If we could control this¡ªthese soaps, this cider¡ªwe could afford three of those campaigns, Keval. We''d be swimming in gold before long." Keval regarded Vrator with a blend of amusement and curiosity, his brow slightly furrowed as he pondered the gravity of the suggestion. "That''s a mighty big ''if,'' you know, Vrator. Even if we could somehow get our hands on this cider and soap production, we''re still mired in a civil war. That presumes we''d be able to finish off our enemies quickly, but our best troops are currently marching against Mavius." He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, and continued, his voice steady. "And you would have us completely disregard that and march an army onto foreign soil? Let''s not forget that every time a foreign army has attempted to invade the South, all the principalities have united against us. It''s a proven fact. Even when we''ve managed to conquer a castle or two, they always regroup and come back with even more ferocity." Keval shook his head, disbelief mingling with a sense of reality. "We''d be walking into a hornet''s nest, and with what? Second-rate troops? Do you really think we can afford to distract ourselves with a campaign against Yarzat when our home front is so vulnerable? We''d be leaving the city open to attack, and we know how quickly rumors can spread among the lords. They''re already watching us closely, waiting for any sign of weakness.Unfortunately, we can''t afford to make any bold moves right now," he admitted, his tone a mix of frustration and acceptance. "You''re right¡ªthe princess truly has a gold mine at her fingertips. While we can''t take control of that treasure trove just yet, we can at least explore the possibility of sharing in its bounty." He leaned forward, a spark of strategic thinking igniting in his eyes. "After all, a small principality like Yarzat would surely appreciate the backing of a strong empire. A partnership could allow us to negotiate a substantial monthly supply of cider and soap, which could prove immensely profitable for both sides. They''d get the security of our influence, and we''d gain access to a lucrative market without the risks of military intervention." Keval paused, gauging Vrator''s reaction before continuing, "And if things go south, well, the option for military intervention is always on the table. We can keep our eyes on the situation while establishing a foothold. That way, we''ll be in a better position to respond if the need arises. Let''s tread carefully but strategically. It''s time to play the long game." Vrator shrugged, a glimmer of exasperation crossing his face. "If uncle were in our position, he''d march straight into Yarzat without a second thought. He wouldn''t waste time with negotiations or subtlety." Keval let out a hearty laugh, shaking his head. "You clearly don''t know my father as well as you think you do. He may be quick to action, but he''d show the carrot before he reaches for the stick. A display of strength, yes, but tempered with the promise of partnership. That''s how you build lasting alliances, not by charging in with swords drawn." With a wave of his hand, Keval shifted the conversation back to the task at hand. "Now, call for Dorian¡ªlet''s bring him in here, it''s time we make use of him." Vrator nodded, after sighing "Understood. I''ll fetch him right away." With that, he turned on his heel and left the chamber, ready to summon the dignitary to discuss their next steps. Chapter 168: Problem on the horizon Chapter 168: Problem on the horizon Alpheo walked side by side with Jasmine through the royal gardens, their steps slow and unhurried amidst the vibrant greenery. The late afternoon sun cast a golden hue over the lush landscape, illuminating the carefully tended flowers and the sprawling trees that stood as silent sentinels around the garden''s edge. Servants and slaves, scattered throughout the garden as they went about their duties, paused at their approach. Heads bowed low,as the royal couple walked through them Their footsteps crunched softly along the gravel paths as they passed a gardener trimming a hedge, who quickly set down his tools to kneel. A few kitchen hands hurriedly scurried to the side, their eyes never daring to rise from the ground as they bent in deep bows. Even the soldiers standing watch by the garden''s walls inclined their heads, respectful and silent as Alpheo and Jasmine continued their stroll. Alpheo''s gaze moved over the scene with quiet pride, noting how the people reacted to them. Jasmine, for her part, remained calm and serene, her fingers lightly brushing the petals of a flower as they passed,. As they walked deeper into the royal gardens, Jasmine turned her head slightly toward Alpheo, her voice soft yet laced with curiosity. "How has the work in Confluendi been going? Have the problems settled there?" "We''ve managed to get things under control," he replied, his tone steady but yet carefree. "The situation was dire at first, but the supplies we''ve gathered should be enough to get us through until spring. We''ve brought in enough grain and dried meats to keep everyone fed, though rationing will be tight. " He glanced at Jasmine, his eyes meeting hers "We''ve started cultivating potatoes," he continued. "The laborers have been working hard, and it''s one of the few crops that can be harvested early enough, even after winter. If all goes well, it should give us an immediate food supply as soon as the ground thaws. It won''t be much, but it''ll keep hunger at bay while we rebuild the region." As they continued their stroll through the royal garden, Alpheo''s expression darkened a bit . " There is something that I need to tell you. Until now, I was uncertain if I should had shared my worries with you .Initially, I had ignored the need for it , saying that nothing was certain and that I was just being paranoid , yet as I had been working to fix the refugee problem , I thought about it a bit and came to the conclusion it is best to share it even if it can be a false alarm. I have a feeling that next spring, war will break out," he said, his voice low and measured. Jasmine, who had been lightly brushing the petals of a rose, immediately halted her gentle movement and turned to face him, her demeanor shifting. The playful glint in her eyes disappeared, replaced by the cool, calculating gaze of a ruler, something that she was still working in get her hand on . "What makes you say that?" she asked, her tone serious, her hand dropping from the rose. Alpheo sighed, taking a moment to gather his thoughts before explaining. "During the siege we conducted at Confluendi, we captured some men outside the city walls. At first, I thought they were deserters, but after some questioning, it became clear¡ªthey were envoys. Their destination was the court of the Prince of Herculia." Jasmine''s brow furrowed, and she took a step closer to him. "Envoys?" she asked, the weight of the revelation settling over her like a shadow. He nodded. "Yes. And that was not the first sign of trouble. After the siege, while searching through Ormund and Elyra''s camber we found letters dating before our arrival. She had been corresponding with the Prince of Herculia after Ormund''s death, seeking military support for her claim." Jasmine''s lips pressed into a thin line. "And what did the prince demand in return?" "That''s where it gets interesting," Alpheo continued. "There were arguments in the letters. Herculia''s prince demanded fealty¡ªcomplete submission to his rule in exchange for his forces. Lady Elyra, on the other hand, was fighting for her son''s right to the throne. She wasn''t willing to give it all away. She promised to carve out a portion of the princedom for him in exchange for his aid, but she refused to bow her house entirely to Herculia." Jasmine''s eyes narrowed as she took this in. Alpheo''s tone remained calm, but his eyes were sharp as he continued, "At first, I wasn''t overly concerned. After all, their perfect window of opportunity vanished when the city fell. As for their negotiations, it seemed natural¡ªone prince meddling in the politics of another, trying to stir unrest or seize a chance to weaken his neighbor. That sort of thing happens all the time. Yet, now, I''m not so sure. It might be wise to take precautions, to act before the situation escalates." Jasmine''s expression grew thoughtful as she listened. "What sort of actions do you have in mind?" she asked, her voice steady but curious. Her gaze remained fixed on him, clearly expecting more than vague warnings. Alpheo paused, choosing his words with the precision of a man who had been through many battles. "If the prince of Herculia sees any opportunity in the chaos, he''ll likely seize it once winter passes. With a new ruler in place and nobles harder to control, it''s the perfect storm for an invasion. This isn''t a stretch for anyone with a basic understanding of politics. Worst case, we''ll face an incursion by spring." Jasmine stood still, her attention unwavering as Alpheo continued, laying out the possibilities with a grim clarity. "Now, if Herculia''s forces aim to breach our eastern borders, they have two routes they can take. First, they might attempt to besiege Bracum, then move south toward Confluendi. If they manage that, they''ll secure a foothold to carve through our land, splitting the princedom in two. From there, they could easily devour the north, and we''d be hard-pressed to stop them." He paused briefly, allowing the weight of his words to sink in, before continuing. "Alternatively, they could march toward Yarzat, but that path is far more treacherous. They''d have to take at least five fortified cities before even thinking of reaching us. A daunting task by any measure, and one that most prudent generals would hesitate to attempt." Jasmine frowned as he laid out the bleak options. Alpheo pressed on, his voice steady but unyielding. "So, in the likely event of an invasion, they''ll have to choose between Bracum and Cirilia and then choose between cutting us in two or going to the capital. Bracum presents a particular challenge for them. The lord of Bracum and Herculia''s forces have been raiding each other''s lands for years, so they''re intimately familiar with each other''s defenses. The Herculians will know exactly how hard it would be to not only lay siege but to convince Bracum''s lord to surrender, who wants nothing more than spill Arduronaven''s lord''s blood. The man is stubborn, and his castle is fortified. A siege would be long and costly for them." Alpheo''s tone shifted slightly as he discussed the other option. "On the other hand, Cirilia might seem like an easier target. Most enemy commanders would assume that besieging Cirilia would take less effort. After all their lords is much less military-inclined than Lord Xanthos. " Jasmine stared at Alpheo for a long moment, her brow furrowed in thought. The scent of roses, once calming, now seemed distant as the weight of his words hung in the air. Alpheo, sensing her hesitation, cleared his throat and spoke. "I''d suggest sending a letter to the Lord of Cirilia," he said evenly. "Inform him of the potential threat and offer some tax exemptions if he increases the size of the city''s garrison. It''ll show we''re serious. Along with that, we should promise military supplies to further strengthen their forces. If we prepare them now, they''ll be harder to dislodge later." Jasmine immediately snapped back, her voice sharp with concern. "Is it really wise to purposefully strengthen a border lord? Especially after what happened with the Lord of Arduronaven?" Alpheo shrugged, unphased by her question. "There''s never a sure way to proceed, Jasmine. Most of the time, we have to make a choice¡ªone that sacrifices something else. Strengthening Cirilia may carry risk, but right now, the risk of doing nothing is greater. If the Herculians march and find Cirilia weak, the road to Yarzat will be wide open. We can''t afford that. Arduronaven''s betrayal was a blow, but I think that would be a separate case." Alpheo offered a slight shrug, his tone measured. "I''m only suggesting, Jasmine. The final decision, as always, rests with you." Jasmine paused for a moment, considering his words. "You''re right," she said slowly. "But this is too important to rush. I think we should discuss it with Shahab first, before making any firm choices." Alpheo nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Of course'''' With the weight of their earlier conversation lifted, the tension between them eased. Alpheo''s smile widened as he added, "Now, perhaps we can talk about something less grim?For example, wasn''t that the place where you slapped me at the feast just after you tried to share hands with me ? " ''''Only after you called me a whore, remember?'''' Jasmine returned his smile with a chuckle, which Alpheo shared as they intertwined their arms together, as they strolled through the royal gardens, leaving behind the weighty matters of strategy and war. The troubles of the world faded, if only for a while, as they shared a peaceful moment in the serene beauty of the garden as they reveled in each other''s company. Chapter 169: Improving the equipment Chapter 169: Improving the equipment Alpheo strode purposefully through the bustling streets of Yarzat, his small frame passing through the sea of market stalls and merchants peddling their goods. Around him, the city thrummed with life¡ªvoices raised in haggling. But despite the lively chaos surrounding him, Alpheo remained focused. Flanking him were twenty of his closest guards, their presence an imposing wall of steel that kept the curious at bay. Among them, at the head of the contingent, was Vrosk¡ªthe man who had saved Alpheo''s life during his fierce battle with Arkawatt. Vrosk, a hulking figure with a scar tracing the side of his jaw, walked with the confidence of a man who knew his worth. After the attempt on his life during the siege of Confluendi , Alpheo had swiftly promoted him to the head of his personal guard based on previous achievements,as he seriously started to consider his safety. The near brush with death had been a sobering reminder that his life¡ªand the future of his newfound rule¡ªcould be taken in an instant if he wasn''t vigilant. And so, Vrosk''s promotion was more than just a reward; it was a necessity. The man was loyal and relentless,both traits Alpheo valued above all else in those entrusted with his protection. Jarza, Egil, and Asag were all stationed in Confluendi, tasked with overseeing the camps of refugees that had swollen after the recent conflicts. Their absence left a palpable void, one Alpheo felt keenly as he no one to joke the way he did with them. Meanwhile, Laedio remained in Yarzat, keeping command over the city''s garrison. The trust Alpheo placed in him was well-earned; Laedio had proven himself capable of holding the city together while Alpheo dealt with other matters during his early campaigns while also mantaining order within the city . Clio, his ever-watchful overseer, had been dispatched to the workhouses where the production of soap and hard cider was well underway. Alpheo knew the potential that lay in these products; they were Yarzat''s lifeblood, something that could stabilize their economy and increase their influence. Unfortunately Alpheo could not call any of them, just for a small business stroll inside the city.As one was the head of the garrison of the city , while the other was the one overseeing the gold mine under his thumb. As they walked through the crowded streets, Vrosk, ever watchful at Alpheo''s side, leaned in slightly. His voice was low but direct. "What exactly are we doing, captain ?" Alpheo glanced around the bustling market before turning his attention back to Vrosk. "We''re looking for a blacksmith. There''s a commission I need to discuss with them." Vrosk raised an eyebrow, his skepticism clear. "Couldn''t you have sent someone to deliver the message? After all, you''re to be a prince soon . Matters like these are beneath you." Alpheo let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. "If it were just a message, perhaps. But this is something I need to handle personally. It''s better if I show them the plans myself and explain clearly what I want . This commission requires precision, and I won''t risk any misunderstanding through secondhand instructions, I prefer dealing with such things by myself." Vrosk nodded but remained slightly unconvinced. "I understand, but you still expose yourself. A prince walking through the streets for a blacksmith... it''ll raise eyebrows in the court." Alpheo''s eyes flicked to Vrosk with a faint smile. "Let them wonder. They''ll learn soon enough why I do things my way." Alpheo came to a halt in front of a modest but sturdy-looking building. The blacksmith''s shop was nestled between a row of other small workshops, its stone facade darkened by years of heat and soot. A heavy wooden sign hung above the door, depicting a hammer and anvil in simple, worn carving. The clang of metal echoed faintly from within, accompanied by the sharp hiss of cooling steel. Alpheo pushed the door open, stepping inside. The scent of burning coals and molten metal hit him immediately, along with a wave of heat from the forge. The interior was dim, lit mainly by the flickering orange glow from the forge at the far end of the room. Various tools and weapons lined the walls¡ªswords, hammers, and horseshoes hung in organized rows. The blacksmith, a burly man with muscular arms covered in soot and scars, paused his work, his eyes narrowing slightly as he noticed Alpheo and the group of guards behind him. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, straightening up as he regarded the unexpected visitor as he clearly saw the ornate clothes the young man was wearing and the equipment of the men flanking him . As such it was no wonder that the blacksmith though he was dealing with someone of importance. As Alpheo stepped further into the shop, the rhythm of work among the blacksmith''s apprentices faltered. The steady clang of hammers on metal stilled, and the sound of tools scraping against armor ceased. A few of the younger workers paused, their eyes wide as they took in the fine fabric of Alpheo''s rich garments, clearly out of place in the soot-covered workshop. Which caused the young disciples to gape openly, their hands hovering hesitantly over their unfinished tasks. Before the silence could stretch any further, the blacksmith himself stepped forward, his voice booming with irritation. "Oi! Don''t just stand there like statues!" he barked, his tone sharp. "Back to work, all of you! Now!" The apprentices jumped at his command, their tools immediately springing back to life, and the clang of hammers quickly filled the air once again. Some stole quick glances at Alpheo between strikes, still curious but now keeping their focus on their tasks. The blacksmith turned back to Alpheo, wiping his hands on his apron once more. His stern demeanor softened into something more respectful as he bowed his head slightly. "Forgive them, m-my lord" he said, straightening as now that he had a closer look, he realized that the young man in front of him was the same man that led the thousands of men inside the city and the one set to become the consort of their princess.. "Not every day we get a visit from someone of your station. To what do I owe the honor?" Alpheo smiled, appreciating the man''s directness. "I have a commission," he said, his tone deliberate "One that I trust you''ll handle with the utmost care." The blacksmith squinted at the parchment, running his calloused fingers over the intricate lines of the design. His lips moved in a quiet murmur as he deciphered the details. "An axe... but with a longer end here, like a spear," he muttered, his finger tracing the extended shaft. "And the backside... a pickaxe? Hmph, it''s like nothing I''ve ever seen." Alpheo stood tall, watching the blacksmith''s reaction. "For now, I need only a sample," he said, his voice measured. "If you manage to craft something that meets my expectations, then we''ll talk about a much larger commission. You''ll have more work than you know what to do with and perhaps if you accomplish an especially satisfying work, such commission may not be the last I give you..." The blacksmith straightened up, realizing the weight of the offer. He quickly bowed his head in respect, his earlier confidence tempered with newfound urgency. "Of course, my lord. It will be done." Alpheo nodded, his expression remaining unreadable. "You have three days to present the sample at the keep. Tell the guards you were sent by Sir Alpheo, and they''ll let you through." The blacksmith nodded again, his face showing a mixture of determination and anxiety. "Three days, my lord. I won''t disappoint." Alpheo gave a slight nod, his gaze sweeping over the blacksmith and his workers. "You may return to your work," he said calmly, his voice cutting through the lingering tension in the air. The blacksmith immediately turned, shouting orders at his apprentices to abandon the work they were doing and instead start a new one. The rhythmic clanging of hammers on metal resumed soon as if Alpheo''s presence had been a brief disturbance in their world of heat and steel. Without another word, Alpheo turned on his heel and made his way toward the exit, the hot, smoky air of the forge giving way to the cooler breeze of the streets outside. Vrosk and the guards followed, flanking him closely as they left the blacksmith behind, the weight of his request still hanging in the air. As they walked away from the forge, Vrosk stepped forward, his curiosity piqued. "What was that thing about?" he asked, his gruff voice barely above the hum of the busy streets. Alpheo turned slightly, glancing back at him with a small, knowing smile. "A new weapon," he replied, his tone casual "It''s a combination of the best features¡ªan axe for brutal close-quarters combat and a spear for reach. And with the back end shaped like a pick, it can be devastating against armor." He paused, letting the idea settle before continuing. "I plan to issue it to some of our men. It will increase the shock strength of their charge. Imagine the damage they can do, hitting like a hammer and with the thrust-reach of a spear." He looked ahead as if already envisioning the chaos such a weapon could unleash on the battlefield. Chapter 170: Shaking hand with enemy Chapter 170: Shaking hand with enemy Alarzat, now declaring himself King of Arlania, sat on a simple wooden chair in his modest audience hall. His skin was a deep, tanned brown, kissed by the sun, as the people that declared themselves blessed by earth and sun. His black hair was braided tightly, falling from the back of his neck and draping over his chest, giving him a regal yet rugged look. Around his neck hung a heavy gold necklace, a symbol of his newfound kingship, resting atop his broad chest. Similar golden bands adorned his wrists, catching the light and glinting faintly with each of his subtle movements. Despite the simplicity of the chair beneath him, his adornments and commanding presence made it clear that he was no mere prince anymore, but the ruler of a land he now called his kingdom. The meeting had been called by none other than Maesinius of House Romelia, who now styled himself as the Snow King. It was a title he had claimed after the secession of the northern realms during the chaos of the civil war. His envoy, a sharp-eyed man named Cyrana man that did not come frome the northern land but from the province of Messenia , stood in the modest audience chamber of King Alarzat, watching the man who had become the symbol of Arlanian defiance and also the man who led the empire to his current situation. Cyran''s gaze lingered on Alarzat, his thoughts simmering beneath a composed exterior. He knew, as did many others, that it was Alarzat''s actions that had ignited the storm that tore the empire apart. The civil war had been triggered by the bold maneuvering of this self-proclaimed king, and it was his hands that had shaped the course of events. The secession of the north, the breakdown of imperial authority, and the widespread unrest¡ªthey all traced back to the chaos Alarzat had sown when with a stone they killed a giant. Cyran didn''t hate the man. In fact, a part of him couldn''t help but admire Alarzat. The so-called king had taken a crumbling, weak state and transformed it through sheer force of will. He had done everything possible to make it rise from its own ashes. It wasn''t lost on Cyran that Alarzat had seized control of the southern principalities just half a year ago, after the pivotal victory at Barshaa. In that short time, he made it very clear to everyone that he wasn''t just another princeling who would come and go every two years¡ªhe was here to stay The first thing he did after his victory was to rally his army and march to every lord in the region, demanding an oath of allegiance. He didn''t stop there¡ªhe also required a son as a hostage from each noble house. Many had obeyed, bending the knee as quickly as they could. But, as always, some had refused, either out of pride or fear. Those dissenters found their castles besieged, their walls shattered, and¡ªafter a few well-publicized executions¡ªeveryone fell in line. A few beheadings had been enough to remind the lords of who was in charge now. With the emperor''s death and the civil war raging across the empire, there was no central authority left to aid them. The only one who could''ve offered support against Alarzat was Azania, the distant and powerful kingdom to the southeast. And Azania, as it turned out, had no interest in backing rebellious southern lords. Instead, they had become the primary backers of Alarzat, seeing in him a strong and reliable ally against the imperials. The southern nobles quickly realized they had no choice but to bend the knee to their new king. There was no savior coming, no imperial army to save them. Alarzat had cornered them, and they could do nothing but accept it. As Cyran stared at the man on the simple chair before him, he understood that Alarzat''s methods¡ªbrutal though they were¡ªhad worked. Alarzat leaned back in his simple wooden chair, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. His dark, intense eyes locked onto Cyran, sizing him up as if the envoy was an unexpected gift wrapped in irony. "I must admit," Alarzat said, his voice calm yet laced with the accent of the people from the eastern sands, who struggled to properly master a language that was not their own. "I never thought the nobles of the empire, whose emperor I had a hand in toppling, would send an envoy to my halls. And now, here you stand before me." He let the silence linger for a moment, his gaze unwavering. "So, what is this all about? What do you bring from the ashes of that broken empire?" Cyran straightened, feeling the weight of Alarzat''s eyes on him but maintaining his composure. "I come as an envoy from the newly crowned Snow King, Maesinius I of House Romelia, not as any of the emperor squabbling for their''s father legacy " Cyran began, his tone respectful but firm. "The north has seceded from the empire, establishing itself as an independent realm, in its rise they have conquered the province of Messenia. And as a consequence , you now have a new neighbor,your grace" Alarzat''s brow lifted slightly, intrigued but still guarded. Cyran continued, "King Maesinius is committed to securing peace within his borders and beyond. As such, he sends his respects and a message of goodwill. He wishes to share with you, King Alarzat, his desire for a stable and prosperous relationship between our two kingdoms. He knows well your reputation as a warrior, a conqueror who has forged a kingdom through blood and fire. And he seeks to shake hands with such a renowned figure, to ensure that both our realms can grow without the need for further conflict." Alarzat leaned forward, his hands resting on the arms of his chair, the faintest trace of a smile curling his lips. His gaze remained fixed on Cyran, sharp and calculating, as though weighing every word the envoy spoke. "All I ever wanted," Alarzat began, his voice steady and low, "since I was a child, was my throne. And now that I have it, I will do whatever is necessary to keep it. No more, no less." He leaned back again, glancing briefly at the golden necklace hanging around his neck, a reminder of how far he had come from the days of ambition and bloodshed. "If a new kingdom rises to take the place of the empire as my neighbor, then so be it. I am more than happy with that," he continued, eyes flickering back to Cyran. "As long as we both keep our word, I have no interest in war. My kingdom has bled enough." Cyran nodded, his face carefully neutral but relieved. "It is good to hear, Your Majesty," he replied. "However, perhaps it would be in the best interest of both our realms to establish something more than just mutual promises of peace." He paused, the weight of his suggestion hanging in the air. Alarzat''s brow lifted slightly, his curiosity piqued as he waited for the envoy to continue. Cyran took a breath and said, "Trade, my lord. Perhaps a formal trading agreement between our two kingdoms." Alarzat''s fingers drummed lightly on the armrest, his eyes narrowing in thought. "Trade, you say?Well keep on talking , I may be interested." Cyran smiled slightly, sensing the shift in Alarzat''s interest. He bowed his head respectfully before speaking, his tone calm and measured. "I know, Your Majesty, that Arlania is a fertile and prosperous land, blessed with vast fields that yield abundant grain. But unfortunately, despite your kingdom''s wealth in agriculture, you have no true market to sell it to." He paused, watching Alarzat''s reaction, his words chosen carefully. "Azania, your main trading partner, produces as much grain as you do, if not more. There is little they need from you in that regard. However..." Cyran leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a more confidential tone. "A new neighbor, one who is more than interested in what Arlania has to offer, has appeared at your doorstep.They would gladly buy grain from you in large quantities.." He glanced up, gauging Alarzat''s expression, and added, "This is an opportunity for your kingdom. For all your history you had neighbors that wanted your land, now...one of them fell off their pedestal and a new one, someone that just wants peace has come...'''' Alarzat listened intently, his expression unreadable. His fingers stopped drumming on the chair''s arm, and he tilted his head slightly as he absorbed Cyran''s words. A kingdom eager to buy, with no competing market in sight¡ªit was a tempting proposition. "So," Alarzat murmured, "the north needs grain, and I have grain to sell.Now I love money as anyone else , yet is there something that I may specifically need from you?'''' Cyran leaned in slightly, his voice lowering as he ventured into more dangerous waters. "We''ve heard whispers, Your Majesty. Word of a certain prince¡ªnow a king¡ªtaking an interest in acquiring timber. The reason for such a desire, while purely speculative, seems rather clear. Some suggest it''s to build a navy... and open trade routes that can only be secured by the sea." At that, Alarzat''s expression shifted, his face becoming more guarded, more serious. His hands, which had previously been resting comfortably on the arms of his chair, clenched ever so slightly. His eyes narrowed. The fact that his ambitions had been discovered before they had even borne fruit by a new king, meant that the man at the head of empire behind him certainly was already aware of it Cyran observed this change in demeanor but pressed on smoothly, his tone steady. "Of course, Azania would never willingly relinquish timber to a rival¡ªespecially one that might challenge their trade monopoly. With the fall of the other giant, the empire, Azania has only strengthened its grip on maritime commerce. The last thing they want is competition from another power rising in their shadow." Cyran paused, letting the implications sink in, before continuing. "Fortunately for your kingdom, Your Majesty," he said with a hint of a smile, "your new neighbors have more timber than pebbles on their roads, and we would be more than happy to part with some. A trade agreement could be struck, benefiting both of us.'''' Alarzat leaned back in his chair, a faint smile touching his lips. "I accept your offer," he said, his voice calm "Trade between our kingdoms will benefit us both. We can discuss the terms later, as I''m sure there will be much to negotiate." Cyran gave a respectful nod, his expression neutral. "Of course, Your Majesty. There is no rush. The terms can be worked out to ensure mutual benefit." As he said so the tanned king took a deep breath before continuing "What I''m about to say is not out of kindness to a king I''ve never met, nor out of any affection for an empire that, for generations, has kept its boot pressed firmly down on the necks of my people. Your empire bled Arlania dry, used us for your wars, and took more from us than we ever owed.You can say you do not come from that place but your people , hells even your king does " His voice dropped to a low, deliberate cadence. "No, I don''t say this for him. I say it because I have planned for years and fought like a lion to stand where I am now¡ªfor my throne, for my people¡ªand I intend to keep it. But I''m not blind to what''s happening beyond my borders. The world around us is shifting and it can go many ways depending on what the right people do at a certain moment ." Alarzat leaned forward slightly, locking eyes with Cyran, making sure every word hit with the weight it deserved. "I have no desire to see a new neighbor fall before they''ve even had a chance to secure their place, especially when there''s a path forward for cooperation with us. I tell you this not as an ally, not even as an enemy. But as someone who knows what''s at stake and who has no wish to see his people''s future threatened and directed away from what he knows must be...." Cyran''s expression grew more serious as well, his eyes narrowing slightly. There was weight behind Alarzat''s words, and he sensed the gravity of what was coming. Alarzat leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering. "Behind my border," he said slowly, each word deliberate and steady "The sultan of Azania is preparing to march west.'''' Chapter 171: Changes comes and goes(1) Chapter 171: Changes comes and goes(1) The island of Harmway had undergone a dramatic transformation over the past two decades under Imperial rule. Once a barren, wind-swept outpost in the Confederation''s sphere of influence, it had served little more than as a military base. Back then, Harmway was a place for weary naval crews to dock, fill their casks with fresh water, and make hasty repairs before resuming their journeys across the vast seas to more raiding. However, when the Empire extended its reach over the island, everything changed. Now, Harmway had blossomed into a bustling hub of commerce, one of the most vital trade islands in the region. What had once been little more than a military garrison and rocky shores had been transformed by Imperial architects and traders into a thriving port city. Stone docks stretched out into the sea, wide enough to accommodate the growing numbers of merchant ships that arrived daily. Warehouses lined the waterfront, their sturdy structures filled with goods from all corners of the Empire¡ªspices from the east, timber from the northern forests, silks from the west and more. (Map of the story) Where before the island had been neglected, its new role under the Empire had breathed life into every corner. Traders who once feared stopping at Harmway now found it an essential destination if they wanted to go for deeper voyage on the open sea. The once-forgotten island had become a haven for long-distance voyages, a place where ships could dock, repair their hulls, and replenish their stores of food, fresh water, and other necessities. The Confederation had used it solely for strategic military purposes, keeping Harmway barren and unwelcoming for civilian traders. But under Imperial governance, the island''s natural advantages¡ªits central position along major trade routes, its vast natural harbor¡ªhad been fully exploited. The population of Harmway had surged dramatically over the past two decades , increasing by nearly half due to the steady influx of traders and most importantly, of their merchandise, human lives. Alongside the legitimate traders came slave drivers, men who sailed across the turbulent seas in search of fresh captives. They raided unsuspecting villages on states hostile to Romelia, capturing their inhabitants and transporting them back to Harmway to be sold into slavery.Much similar to how the free lords did. The slave market in Harmway became notorious, a place where the cries of captured men and women echoed alongside the sounds of bargaining merchants. Slave drivers displayed their captives in pens along the waterfront, where potential buyers could inspect them like livestock. People desperate for labor, whether for households, ships, or the growing number of warehouses, flocked to these markets, knowing there was always a ready supply of bodies to fill the gaps in their workforce. ----- A large merchant ship sailed into the bustling harbor of Harmway, its weathered hull creaking as it slowed to a stop at the docks. The sails, ragged from countless voyages, flapped in the sea breeze, while dockworkers hurriedly secured the ship''s ropes. The sun glistened off the waters, casting a golden hue across the harbor, which was busy with ships coming and going. Yet, as the merchant vessel pulled in, a group of soldiers stationed at the harbor''s edge immediately took notice. Clad in the imperial uniforms of Harmway''s garrison, the soldiers, with their swords at their sides, strode toward the vessel with purpose. They had seen this routine a hundred times before¡ªships coming to trade, many laden with goods, and some, though less openly discussed, carrying slaves. But all were subject to the same procedure: inspection. The moment the ship docked, one of the soldiers raised a hand, signaling for the others to fan out around the ship, keeping a watchful eye on the crew and any passengers. The lead soldier, a grizzled man with a thick beard, approached the gangplank as a lean man with short brown hair descended to meet him. The merchant was thin and wiry, his face tanned from years at sea, with sharp eyes that scanned the harbor as if assessing his surroundings. He wore simple but practical clothing¡ªa long, weathered coat, boots that had seen better days, and a belt with a small pouch jingling at his side. He nodded curtly to the soldiers, knowing the drill well. "Name and cargo," the bearded soldier barked, his tone formal and gruff. "Erath," the merchant replied smoothly, his voice low and steady. "I''m carrying textiles, dried fish, and... other goods. You''ll find everything in order." ''''We will be the one to check that,step back'''' The soldiers were not about to take his word for it. Without another word, two of them marched past him up the gangplank and onto the ship, boots thudding against the wooden planks. Erath, though outwardly calm, followed them closely, knowing full well they were about to rummage through everything he had on board. As the soldiers descended from the ship''s gangplank, one of them glanced back at the hold, noting the sparse amount of goods stored inside. The crates of textiles and barrels of dried fish were few, far fewer than they were used to seeing from merchant ships that docked in Harmway''s bustling port. The bearded soldier exchanged a glance with his companion before muttering, "Not much cargo for a merchant ship of this size, don''t you think?" The other soldier, a younger man with a scar across his cheek, frowned and gave a curt nod. "Barely enough to fill a few stalls at the market." Inside the ship''s hold, the soldiers began pulling open crates and barrels, checking the contents. One pried open a large wooden crate, revealing bolts of finely woven cloth, neatly packed. Another opened a barrel, smelling the strong scent of salted fish that wafted up. They then walked up to the merchant, who stood near the dock, his hands clasped behind his back. Erath''s face remained composed, but a flicker of tension crossed his eyes as the soldiers approached. The bearded soldier narrowed his eyes. "What''s going on here? Your ship''s nearly empty." Erath quickly bowed his head in a show of deference, his voice calm but a bit too eager as he responded. "Business has been bad lately, sirs. The markets aren''t what they used to be. Hard times for a humble trader like myself." The soldiers exchanged a skeptical glance, clearly not convinced by the merchant''s explanation. The younger one took a step closer, folding his arms as he stared at Erath, who suddenly looked more uncomfortable. "I mean¡ª" Erath stammered, quickly realizing he needed to salvage the situation. "It''s not so bad that I couldn''t offer... some small gifts to the right people, of course. A gesture of goodwill, you understand." As he spoke, Erath fumbled in the pouch at his side, his fingers trembling slightly as he pulled out several small silverii coins. He stepped forward, holding out his hand, and discreetly dropped the coins into the soldiers'' open palms. The bearded soldier inspected the coins for a moment, weighing them in his hand. His expression softened as he gave an approving nod. "Hm. Thoughtful of you." The younger soldier pocketed the coins and smirked. "But let''s not forget," he said, his tone shifting to a more official stance, "there''s still the matter of the harbor tax. Forty silverii, to be precise." Erath quickly nodded, forcing a smile onto his face. "Of course, of course. Forty silverii it is." With another swift movement, Erath counted out the coins from his pouch and handed them over, one by one, trying not to let his growing unease show. The bearded soldier counted the money with a practiced eye before nodding once more. "Pleasure doing business," the soldier said, his tone almost friendly now. He gestured for the crew to begin unloading, and without another word, the soldiers turned and walked away, satisfied. Erath watched them leave, his body relaxing slightly as they moved out of sight. ''''Dumbasses'''' he muttered as he followed them outside. ----------------- Blake stood in complete darkness, his eyes wide open but unable to see anything around him. The air was thick and heavy in the cramped space, the walls of the hidden compartment pressing in from all sides. In the stillness, the only sound was the almost imperceptible breathing of the men around him, huddled just as silently in the black void. Suddenly, a knock came from above¡ªthree solid raps on the wooden planks covering their hidden space. The dull thud of the signal echoed in the confined area, and almost immediately, a crack of light appeared as the plank above them was lifted. Blake squinted as the sudden brightness hit his eyes, and the fresh, salty air of the harbor rushed in, replacing the stale, suffocating atmosphere they had endured. One by one, more than fifty men began emerging from the hidden compartment, climbing out into the open. All of them wearing armor and armed to the teeth. The men were silent but resolute, their eyes focused, expressions hardened for the task ahead. Blake, tall and broad-shouldered, cracked his neck, the sound of bones snapping back into place breaking the tension that hung in the air. He grinned, his voice low and rough. "About time," he muttered under his breath, feeling the rush of adrenaline starting to build. He took the lead, stepping out from the shadows, the wooden floor of the ship creaking beneath his weight. His boots hit the deck with a dull thud as he straightened, his hand resting casually on the hilt of the sword at his side. Turning to his men, he gave a curt nod, signaling them to follow. As Blake stepped off the ship and onto the bustling harbor, the scale of the operation began to unfold around him. From nearly twenty ships docked at the harbor, more men¡ªclad in similar armor and bristling with weapons¡ªpoured out in disciplined silence. The ships had been disguised as harmless merchant vessels, but now the hidden forces were emerging like a well-rehearsed secret coming to light. Blake looked around, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. The sight of hundreds of men, all equipped and ready for battle, moving with quiet precision along the harbor filled him with a sense of pride. This was his plan¡ªhis stroke of genius. He turned to the other captains, their faces illuminated in the dim light of dawn as they gathered around him. Blake raised his hand slightly, urging them all to remain quiet. His voice, was as faint as a whisper. "Keep it as silent as possible," Blake ordered, glancing between the captains. "We don''t want to raise any alarms until it''s too late for them to stop us. Let this island remember who their real master is." And so that night the garrison on the island of Harmway did not know what had hit them.(Map in the comments) Chapter 172: Changes comes and goes(2) Chapter 172: Changes comes and goes(2) Blake deftly parried the thrust of a soldier''s lance with his shield, the force of the blow reverberating through his arm. Without hesitation, he stepped forward, closing the distance in a brutal surge. His axe swung in a deadly arc, biting deep into the soldier''s collarbone with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed in a hot, crimson arc as the man crumpled to the floor, his eyes wide with shock in his final moments. Blake barely registered the sound of the dying man''s gasp; his focus was elsewhere, caught up in the intoxicating rush of battle. How much he had missed this¡ªthe visceral thrill, the sharp scent of blood mingling with sweat and iron, the cacophony of war surrounding him like a dark symphony. Every clash of steel, every scream of pain, felt like music to his ears, a song he had been too long without. Around him, his men run through the halls of the governor''s house, their swords and axes cleaving through the defenders. The once grand structure had become a battlefield, the fine tapestries now smeared with blood, and the marble floors slick with the remains of the fallen. The governor''s guards, caught off guard by the sudden attack, were barely holding their lines. They were few , scattered, disorganized, no match for his men Such sight must be spread throughout the whole island, Blake thought gleefuly as he watched around to make sure there was no enemy to any of his side. To his left, one of his men disarmed a guard with a swift strike to the wrist before plunging his sword into the man''s gut. On his right, another drove his blade through a defender''s neck, the gurgling sound barely audible over the clash of battle. The governor''s soldiers fought with desperation, but Blake''s force had momentum, and they were relentless. Blake''s smile widened beneath his helm as he pressed forward, the rhythm of the fight taking hold of him. His axe moved with lethal efficiency, cutting down anyone who dared to stand in his path. This was where he belonged¡ªamidst the chaos, where life and death were decided in the blink of an eye. He could feel the island bending to his will, piece by piece, and the realization only fueled his bloodlust. They would remember this day. They would remember him. The honor of killing the governor of the island was coveted by many among Blake''s warriors and the other captains and lords. Each of them yearning for the glory of that final kill, the one that would end the island''s false reign. But despite their desire, there was an unspoken understanding among them¡ªa respect for the man who had masterminded their success. Blake. It was his genius that had brought them here, his plan that had allowed them to infiltrate the island with such ease. Disguised as mere merchants, slipping through the defenses undetected, they had taken the city from within. No lengthy siege, no prolonged struggle. Just swift, brutal conquest. Blake''s strategy had turned what could have been weeks or months of bloodshed into a matter of hours. So, when it came time to claim the final prize, the men stepped aside. None dared to challenge Blake for the honor. Blake stormed up the winding stairs of the governor''s house, his footsteps heavy, the clinking of armor and weapons echoing through the narrow stone corridor. He didn''t hesitate, his eyes locked on the doors above, but between him and his prize stood more guards¡ªmen who had no idea their deaths were coming. The first guard lunged at him from the left, spear thrust forward, aiming for Blake''s gut. With a twist of his body, Blake swung his shield, deflecting the spearhead off its iron rim. The guard stumbled, losing his balance for just a moment, but it was all Blake needed. He brought his axe down in a brutal arc, cleaving through the guard''s shoulder with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed across the stone walls, and the guard fell down the stairs in pain. Another soldier rushed in from above, sword raised high. Blake took a step back, watching as the man''s blade slashed through the air where he had just been standing. With a snarl, Blake countered, using the flat of his axe to knock the guard''s sword aside before driving his boot into the man''s chest. More guards appeared. They charged up the steps, three at once, their eyes filled with both fury and fear. Blake met them head-on. His axe swung with brutal precision, striking one man across the jaw, shattering bone and teeth. Another soldier came from his blind side, but Blake''s shield came up just in time to absorb the blow, sparks flying as steel clashed against steel. Without missing a beat, Blake brought the edge of his axe down on the second soldier''s thigh, severing muscle and sinew. The man screamed, collapsing onto the stairwell in agony, but Blake had already moved on, his focus now on the third guard. This one was quicker, more cautious. Their blades met in a series of rapid, ringing strikes, each man trying to find an opening in the other''s defense. Blake felt the familiar surge of battle thrill in his veins, the music of clashing steel and the scent of blood fueling him. With a roar, he bashed his shield into the guard''s chest, driving him back against the stone wall. The guard tried to raise his sword, but Blake was faster. His axe came up under the man''s arm, slicing through the chainmail and biting deep into his ribs. The guard gasped, blood spilling from his lips as he slid down the wall, lifeless. Panting, Blake paused for a moment, listening to the silence that followed the chaos. The bodies of the guards lay strewn across the stairs behind him, their blood soaking into the stone steps. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his grin widening. After dealing with light resistance , Blake and his men approached the heavy wooden doors at the end of the long hallway, their footsteps echoing against the cold stone walls. Blake paused for a moment, looking back at his men, giving a single nod before they all charged forward. With a crash, their shoulders slammed into the door, splintering the wood as it gave way under their assault. The doors burst open, revealing the governor''s private chamber. Inside stood a short, fat man¡ªhis face pale, drenched in sweat, and his body trembling. Behind him, barely visible, was a young woman, naked, huddled beneath the silk covers of his bed. Her eyes wide with fear, she cowered behind the governor, clutching the sheets to her chest as if they might protect her. "I surrender!" the governor blurted out, his voice trembling "You can have anything you want! My family¡ªthey''ll pay a ransom, a hefty one! Just spare me!" Blake stood at the threshold, his grip tightening around the haft of his axe. He scratched his cheek absentmindedly with the flat of the blood-stained blade, as if he were considering the man''s offer. His cold eyes flicked to the woman behind the bed, then back to the fat, trembling governor. He stepped forward slowly, each step deliberate, his boots leaving a trail of blood on the floor as he closed the distance between them. The governor''s breath hitched, his body trembling more violently as Blake drew nearer. Blake stopped inches away from the man, the dim light from the chamber casting dark shadows across his scarred face. Without looking at the woman, Blake asked calmly, "Do you know where he hides the coin?" The girl hesitated, her eyes darting between Blake and the governor, her breath quickening in terror. Her lips trembled as she nodded, the sheets still clutched tightly around her shaking frame. Blake didn''t even spare the governor a glance. With a swift, casual motion, he swung his axe. The edge cut through the air with a whisper before burying itself deep into the governor''s neck. Blood sprayed across the room, and the man fell to the floor with a dull thud, his lifeless eyes wide with shock, his final words dying on his lips. Blake wiped a splatter of blood from his face, not bothering to look down at the corpse. He turned his gaze to the woman, his voice steady and emotionless. "Lead us to it." The girl, trembling and pale, nodded again, her bare feet shuffling as she climbed out from behind the bed. With a final glance at the governor''s body, she led Blake and his men toward the hidden stash, her steps unsteady but obedient, knowing there was no choice. The girl hesitated for a moment, her trembling hand pointing to a large, ornate piece of furniture against the far wall. "It''s... under there," she whispered, her voice barely audible. Blake gave a brief nod, signaling one of his men. The soldier immediately moved forward, muscles straining as he pushed the heavy wooden dresser aside. The furniture groaned under the force before sliding away, revealing a section of the floor covered by a thick, luxurious carpet. Without hesitation, the man ripped the carpet aside, exposing a wooden plank with a small iron handle embedded in its surface Blake''s man crouched down and grasped the handle, yanking it upward. The plank lifted, revealing a hidden compartment beneath the floorboards. Inside sat a chest, small but reinforced with iron bands, the hinges old and well-worn. The man reached down, hauling the chest out of its hiding place and bringing it over to Blake. With a single sharp kick, Blake slammed his boot against the chest''s lid, the wood creaking before splintering open. As the chest fell apart, the contents spilled into the dim light of the room. It was filled to the brim with Auratii and Silverii, the golden and silver coins gleaming in the flickering light of the chamber. Blake cast a final glance at the trembling girl, her eyes wide with fear, huddled beside the now-empty chest. Without a word, he shifted his gaze to one of his men, a stocky soldier with a rough grin, standing by the door. "Hey, Darron," Blake said casually, scratching the stubble on his chin. "Weren''t you saying something about looking for a wife?" Darron''s eyes lit up at the mention, a crooked smile spreading across his scarred face. "Aye, Captain," he stepped forward, his gaze locking on the girl. Blake gave a small, dismissive wave. "She''s yours." Darron wasted no time. He grabbed the girl''s wrist with a rough hand, yanking her toward him. The girl let out a faint whimper but didn''t resist, too terrified to do anything but follow, better be the wife of one man than the plaything of the whole army. As Darron pulled her toward the door his grin widening , he glanced back at Blake. "Thank you, Captain," he said, his voice full of glee as he dragged the girl outside. Blake watched them leave, his expression unreadable for a moment before he turned back to the chest of coins. His men were busy scooping the wealth into sacks, their eyes gleaming with the same hunger for fortune that had driven them here. With a nod of approval, Blake turned and strode out of the room, leaving the chaos and bloodshed behind. Blake strode toward the window, the clamor of his men filling the room as they looted the governor''s wealth. He pushed it open, the night air rushing in with the scent of blood, smoke, and terror. From the streets below, the cries of men and women echoed through the night¡ªscreams of panic, of lives turned upside down in an instant. Blake leaned out slightly, a grin stretching across his face as he took in the chaos. Fires flickered in the distance, and the sound of steel clashing against steel told him his men were still meeting pockets of resistance. He raised his head and bellowed into the night air, his voice cutting through the confusion like a war horn. "The kings have returned for their lot!" he roared, his words carrying over the sounds of battle and pillaging. Below in the courtyard, his men responded with a deafening cheer. The sound rippled through the streets, growing as more men, scattered across the island, joined in as the howling of wolves that finished their bleeding prey Chapter 173: Bad new over bad new Chapter 173: Bad new over bad new Maesinius, the newly crowned King of the Northern Kingdom, sat at the long wooden table in the grand throne hall of Thelogontia, his new capital. The dim light of the fire flickered in the hearth, casting shadows along the stone walls and highlighting the tension in the room. Maesinius leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, one hand covering his mouth in deep thought as he stared down at the parchment spread before him. After their resounding victory at the Battle of Messenia, Maesinius stood before his closest vassals and declared Thelogontia as the capital of the newly formed Northern Kingdom. He appointed his most trusted vassals to key positions at his court, ensuring that those who had fought alongside him would continue to shape the future of the new emerging kingdom As for the rest of the northern lords, they returned to their lands, their wagons laden with the spoils of war¡ªsilvers and gold , grain, and tools seized from the empire''s defeated forces. For the first time in many years, their people would not face the biting sting of winter''s hunger as bad as they had in previous winter . The knowledge that this winter''s famine would be far less cruel filled the hearts of their people with hope. The lords left Thelogontia knowing that they had not only won a great victory but also secured their future through battle and blood. The North, for the first time in living memory, was united under one banner. The young king''s black hair, slightly tousled, fell down onto his neck . A fire crackled nearby, illuminating the faces of the few loyal vassals gathered around him, their expressions mirroring the gravity of the moment. "Lord Harold," Maesinius said, breaking the silence, his voice low but firm. He removed his hand from his mouth and looked up at his closest advisor, his sharp blue eyes piercing. "Is the news reliable?" Harold, standing beside him, nodded solemnly. His scarred face was set in a grim expression as he confirmed the worst. "It is, Your Majesty," Harold said with certainty, his tone as firm as the stone walls surrounding them. "The reports came from multiple sources.The kingdom of Sarlan is being ravaged by an horde of Tribesman as we speak..'''' Maesinius sighed heavily, the weight of his new responsibilities pressing down on him like a leaden cloak. "Not even half a year into our reign," he murmured, shaking his head. "And now we receive word that the Sultan of Azania is preparing an expedition southward. To make matters worse, a horde of tribesmen has somehow managed to make their way south through a path we know nothing about. Who knows if other tribes will follow ?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the polished table, his brow furrowing in concern. Turning to Harold he asked, "Do you have any idea how they managed to travel south without even passing through the Bane?" Harold''s expression mirrored the uncertainty swirling in Maesinius''s mind. "I have no idea, my king," he replied, his voice steady yet tinged with concern. "Since they moved through Sarlan''s lands, they must have passed the great Ice Flow'''' Maesinius''s eyes widened in shock, disbelief washing over him like a cold wave. "Gods!" he exclaimed, his voice reverberating through the stone chamber. He recalled his visit to the Ice Flow from the northern banks, standing before the colossal forces of nature that had sculpted the landscape. It had left him in awe, leading him to conclude that only the Storm God himself could traverse such a formidable river¡ªespecially in the heart of winter. Uther''s deep voice cut through the charged atmosphere, commanding attention. "It matters not," he declared, his tone resolute and unwavering. "If they dare set foot in our kingdom, we will smash them, just as the North has done for centuries." His words resonated with the weight of their heritage, a testament to the resilience and ferocity that defined the northern people. "The king of Sarlan must be calling his lords to rally against them as we speak," Harold stated. Maesinius leaned back in his chair, lost in thought. A grim realization washed over him; if the reports were true, then a horde of tribesmen, were really being accompanied by giants on their fearsome steeds, then the situation was even more hopeless than he thought. He couldn''t shake the feeling that King Sarlan would face a grim fate "With such an army converging upon him," he murmured, "he may very well be facing death itself." Maesinius shook his head, trying to snap himself out of the daze brought on by the unsettling news. His mind swirled with thoughts, weighing every possibility. After a moment, he spoke, his voice distant, almost as if he were convincing himself. "The news of the tribes invading Sarlan... it''s not our immediate problem," he said slowly, his words measured. Harold, however interjected, "If they passed through the Ice Flow once, there''s nothing stopping them from doing it again." Maesinius turned his sharp gaze toward Harold, frustration flickering in his eyes. "Any tribe that moves south does so for one reason: warmer lands, fertile enough to farm," he said firmly. "And now, whoever leads this horde¡ªwhether the spawn of a god or devil¡ªfinally sees that dream in front of them. Do you truly believe they would risk it all by crossing back through the Ice Flow to reach us, just to settle in lands as cold and barren as their own?" He leaned forward, voice lowering with intensity. "They wouldn''t even find enough wealth here to be worth raiding. The only reason that might make sense would be to avenge thousands of years of bloodshed between us , but even then, what sound man would lead an entire tribe to certain death for such a meager cause, especially when the lands ahead must seem like heaven to people coming from nothing but snow and ice?" The room grew quiet again, his words hanging heavily as they both contemplated the mysterious motives of the invaders. Maesinius leaned back, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, his eyes distant as if searching for clarity in the haze of uncertainty. "You''re speaking from your own perspective," he said slowly, his tone more introspective now, "as people who''ve fought against these tribes for hundreds of years. We think like Northerners, like those who have always had something to protect¡ªour lands, our people." He paused, his gaze shifting to Harold, then back to the flickering flames in the hearth. "But perhaps we cannot understand the view of those on the other side. Their goal isn''t to raid or just to conquer¡ªit''s to survive. To them, it''s not about wealth or vengeance, but about living through another winter. About escaping a life where starvation is more common than harvest. Maybe thoughts of revenge will come in the future but right now all they must have in their mind is to survive'''' Maesinius stared into the flickering fire, his thoughts drifting to a memory he had hoped to forget. In the imperial palace at Romelia, deep within the Hall of Relics, he had once seen the bones of one of the giants'' steeds, preserved in glass for centuries. The sheer size of it had left him breathless¡ªthe skull alone was as tall as half a man, and its ribs were like the beams of a great ship, towering above him. He remembered standing there, staring at the bones, feeling small, insignificant even. His hand had rested on the glass, trembling, unable to fully grasp the scale of the beast. It was one thing to hear tales of the giants and their massive beasts, but seeing the remnants of such a creature made the legends all too real. Now, as he sat in his throne room in Thelogontia, his hand began to shake again at the thought of facing an army with such things. Giants and their monstrous mounts, beasts that could tear through lines of soldiers as easily as a blade through cloth. The very idea sent a cold shiver down his spine. He had fought battles, faced down lords and savages¡ªbut this? This was different. This was a force beyond human reckoning. Uther''s booming voice cut through the tension like a hammer on steel. "Maybe it''s time for the others to face what we''ve been keeping out for hundreds of years." His words echoed in the chamber, resonating with the fierce pride of a people who had long stood as the first line of defense against the horrors of the frozen lands. Maesinius glanced at him, his own thoughts pulling back from the dark images of giants and their steeds. There was truth in Uther''s words. But still, the situation in Sarlan was beyond their reach for now, and as much as it did not sit down right with him, he should be washing his hands off of it. With a sigh, Maesinius shifted in his chair and spoke, his voice more grounded. "Perhaps. Still for the tribes in Sarlan... that''s not our battle, not yet. Their problem is out of our reach, and we can''t stretch ourselves too thin worrying about it." He paused, gathering his thoughts, before his tone turned sharp and focused. "For now, we have a much more pressing threat closer to home¡ªthe Sultan of Azania. We know he is preparing an expedition to the east,we are the obstacle separating him from the rest of the empire, and after the thaw of spring, his armies will march toward us. That is what we should plan for. We need to prepare our defenses before he comes knocking at our door." Harold leaned forward, his brow furrowed in deep thought. "The border from which the Sultan will pass is vast, too big to pinpoint where the attack might come. We''ll need to send word to the lords in those regions, instruct them to fortify their holdings and increase their garrisons. Perhaps even send them some weapons, if we can spare it." Maesinius sighed heavily, his fingers tapping lightly on the arm of his chair as he gazed into the flickering fire. "Our coffers are already too light to support such a commitment," he muttered. "The cost of preparing for the Sultan''s invasion is, while also buying enough food for the winters, ... daunting." His eyes darkened as his thoughts drifted back to history. "The last time Azania marched through Imperial lands was eighty years ago. They brought an army of 24,000 soldiers with them. A force like that is difficult to sustain, especially over such long distances. Their supply lines will be stretched thin." Maesinius leaned forward, his gaze sharpening as a new idea formed. "The Sultan will need the cooperation of Arlania to move such a force efficiently. Our greatest hope might be to convince the King of Arlania to betray him in the middle of the campaign. If the Sultan finds himself trapped between two foreign lands, his mighty army will starve, and we will be able to annihilate them." Harold met his king''s gaze, cautious but not dismissive of the plan. "This is all assuming we can convince the King of Arlania to turn on the Sultan," Harold said, his tone laced with skepticism. "And that''s no easy feat, considering that he is the reason for which the Alarzat sit on the throne..." Maesinius leaned back in his chair, his expression contemplative as he weighed the potential outcomes of their discussion. "If our plan to convince the King of Arlania fails, then we will have no choice but to meet the Sultan''s forces in battle the usual way. We might even need to consider hiring mercenaries to even the odds." Harold raised an eyebrow, skepticism creeping into his voice. "And how do you propose we pay for these mercenaries? Our coffers are nearly empty just as you said...." A wry smile albeit forced tugged at Maesinius''s lips. "There are many ways to convince mercenaries to fight for us. Coins is one way the other is something that that any warrior dream of and luckily for us something that we have lots to spare...'''' Chapter 174: Showing off new stuff (1) Chapter 174: Showing off new stuff (1) Asag, Jarza, and Egil stood in front of the towering gates of Yarzat, the city''s stone walls looming high above them. The three of them, alongside a dozen of their men, had returned from their duties at the refugee camp after weeks of hard work. Now, they were back in the heart of Yarzat, waiting for the gates to open and let them in. Dust from the road still clung to their travel-worn clothes, though their spirits were high. The journey back to Yarzat had been long, but the thought of what awaited them made it worth the trek. The men with them, hardy soldiers who had seen much under their command, stood in disciplined silence, though they too shared the excitement that buzzed in the air. In just a few days, the wedding of Alpheo, their commander and closest friend, to Jasmine would take place. It was an event they couldn''t miss, of course the common soldiers would not be able to attend however, they would get whatever remained from the previous night feast , something that many looked forward to. "Think he''s nervous?" Jarza asked, breaking the silence, a grin spreading across his face. "Getting married and all?" Asag snorted. "Alpheo? Nervous? I''d be more worried about Jasmine, honestly. " Egil chuckled, the sound low but full of affection. " She can handle him, I don''t think our friend has an high libido, never saw him swinging his cock around during campaigns, if I did not know better I would think he was an eunuch. Saw him piss once through, so that Is certainly not the case " The gate suddendly opened with a familiar face walking forward. Laedio turned around and gave a sharp nod to the men standing by the gate, signaling them to return to their posts. As he faced his friends again, his grin widened. "Alpheo''s been talking my ear off for days about something he''s been working on. Said he had a few things to show us." Jarza, the big Arlanian with a booming voice, raised an eyebrow. "Good things, I hope?" Laedio shrugged, the grin never leaving his face. "I''d guess so. Alpheo seemed pretty excited about the whole ordeal." With that, the group began their march toward the keep. The city of Yarzat was alive with activity as they moved through its streets, with merchants shouting their wares and craftsmen hammering away. But their purpose was singular, and they pressed on without stopping. After a half hour, they finally reached the keep. Just few dozens of meters from the east of the main entrance, a small, rectangular area marked by thick ropes was laid out in the sand. This was where duels were often held, they did not know much about it since in the time they had been inside the city they were all too busy to sightsee it. With a war to fight there was little time for duels . As the group moved , Alpheo sat comfortably on a sturdy wooden chair, his legs stretched out as he held a cup of cider in one hand, laughing heartily. Beside him sat Clio, as he chuckled along, clearly enjoying the lively conversation they were having. Alpheo''s eyes twinkled with excitement, and his booming laughter echoed across the courtyard. As the group approached, Alpheo and Clio both turned around, noticing their friends entering the space. Alpheo''s grin widened even further. "Ah! Look who finally decided to show up!" he exclaimed, raising his cup in a mock salute. He pushed himself off the chair and strode forward to greet them. Clio stood as well, offering a bright smile. "It''s been a while, hasn''t it?" he said warmly. Laedio, Jarza, Egil, and Asag returned the greetings with broad smiles of their own. Egil clapped Alpheo on the back. "Look at you, lounging around while we''ve been working." Alpheo chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, I''ve been busy myself. But today? Today''s a good day, my friends!" He glanced toward the small arena with a glint of mischief in his eyes. "I''ve got something to show you all." The group turned to see two men standing on the sand arena, their postures alert as if ready for something to begin. Their eyes were fixed on Alpheo, waiting for a signal. Alpheo, with a wave of his hand, motioned to a servant standing beside him. The servant stepped forward, holding a long object draped in a cloth. With deliberate care, the servant knelt and laid the covered item onto the ground in front of the group. As the cloth was pulled back, the weapon beneath was revealed. It was unlike anything they had seen before¡ªhalf spear, half axe, with a long, solid shaft that extended into a sleek, sharp blade. The axe head was broad and heavy, its cutting edge gleaming under the sunlight. On the opposite side, a wickedly sharp spike protruded, like the end of a pickaxe, designed to pierce through armor or shields with brutal efficiency. The overall length gave it the reach of a spear, while the weight and power behind the axe head provided devastating force in close combat. The weapon radiated craftsmanship¡ªevery line and curve forged with precision and strength. Alpheo looked over his friends'' expressions, a proud grin creeping across his face. "What do you think?" he asked, his voice filled with satisfaction. Jarza opened his mouth to speak, his deep voice ready to rumble a response, but before he could say a word, Alpheo raised a hand with a smirk. "Hold your thoughts, my friend. Maybe it''s best you see it in action first." He nodded at the servant, who quickly picked up the weapon and handed it to the unarmed man on the sand, while his opponent gripped a shield and a heavy mace. Alpheo''s voice rang out across the small arena. "Begin!" The man wielding the new weapon wasted no time. He lunged forward, thrusting the spear-like end toward his opponent with the precision of a trained warrior. The movement was fast, sharp¡ªintended to mimic a spear attack¡ªbut the thrust was light, more feint than a true strike. His opponent raised the shield to meet the attack, bracing himself for impact, only to be caught off guard as the attacker shifted fluidly. Without losing momentum after the thrust , the man with the halberd spun the weapon in a smooth half-circle, the heavy axe head sweeping around the shield''s edge.The sharp blade came to a sudden halt, its gleaming edge stopping just below the opponent''s shoulder, hovering a breath away from making contact. Alpheo, grinning, folded his arms and glanced back at his friends "You see, this weapon is something special. It gives you the thrust of a spear," he said, mimicking the earlier movement with his hands, "but just as easily, you can switch to slashing, like an axe." His eyes gleamed with excitement. "And if you''re up against someone in heavy armor, say, a knight in full plate, the back end of the halberd¡ª" he pointed to the blunt hammer-like side, "¡ªcan crush through their defenses. No matter the opponent, this weapon can kill with ease." The group nodded in agreement, admiration for the weapon clear on their faces. Laedio chuckled, scratching his chin. "I wouldn''t want to be the poor bastard on the other end of that, that''s for sure." Even Asag, usually more reserved, smiled faintly. "It seems worth the price you paid, Alpheo. A good choice." But then, Jarza, standing with his arms crossed, furrowed his brow. "It''s a fine weapon, no doubt," he began, his voice cutting through the compliments. "But using it like that¡ªthose wide sweeps, the rotations¡ªwouldn''t it be hard to handle in close quarters? Especially if you''re surrounded by your own men. You wouldn''t have the space to move like we saw in the open here." Alpheo looked at Jarza, his grin faltering slightly. "Hmm, true. It''s not ideal for tight formations," he admitted. "That is why they won''t be fighting in close units , as I will use them as shock troops .'''' Seeing the other''s confusion he continued " The disadvantage Jarza pointed out is exactly the reason why I won''t put these weapons in just anyone''s hands," he explained. "These halberds aren''t for the front line, where you''re packed shoulder to shoulder. No, they''ll be march alongside our core army but behind them'''' He began pacing slightly, gesturing with his hand to illustrate his point. "When the two sides clash, and the lines lock in battle, that''s when these men will strike. They''ll move around the edges, flanking the enemy, slipping through any gaps that open up. And once they''re in behind the enemy or at their sides, they''ll have the space they need to fight freely¡ªjust like we saw in the demonstration." His excitement grew as he spoke, his voice rising with energy. "Their job will be to cause as much chaos as possible, disrupt the enemy ranks, and make them vulnerable from all sides. With enough room to maneuver, these halberds will tear through armor and flesh alike, turning the tide of battle. They won''t need to worry about tight spaces because they''ll be carving their way through the enemy, forcing them back." Egil nodded in agreement. "A flanking force like that, hitting the enemy from the sides while they''re distracted? That could break their formation for good." Jarza, still thoughtful, scratched his chin. "As long as they''ve got the room, I see it working," he admitted slowly. "But it''ll take a lot of discipline to make sure they don''t get trapped themselves." Alpheo, still energized from the demonstration, turned to the group with a wide grin. "I''ll be commissioning two hundred of these beauties," he said, nodding toward the halberd now resting in the sand. "And I''ll be recruiting two hundred fresh recruits to train them, specifically in this style of combat." He crossed his arms, looking at the group with pride. "Each one of them will be drilled until they can fight like you just saw¡ªmoving fast, flanking, and smashing through whatever stands in their way. '''' Egil let out a low whistle, impressed. "Two hundred of them, moving like that? It''ll be a nightmare for whoever faces them." "I am happy to know you share my opinion " he said confidently. "But the surprises aren''t over yet." He raised a hand, signaling to a servant nearby. "I''ve still got a few more things to show you all," he said with a glint of excitement in his eye. Chapter 175: Showing off new stuff(2) Chapter 175: Showing off new stuff(2) As the group stood waiting for the next new introduction ,Jarza furrowed his brow as a thought crossed his mind. He glanced toward the young men , his expression slightly concerned. "Alpheo," he began cautiously, "this all sounds impressive, but can we really afford to do this right now? I''ve heard we''ve had some... financial troubles lately.I mean , not even a month ago you were running your head around the fact we were as poor as beggars..." Alpheo didn''t seem fazed by the question, his confident grin still intact. "It''s true that we''ve faced some tight spots recently," he admitted, his voice calm. "But things are changing. We''re not as strapped for coin as we were a before." He straightened in his seat, crossing his arms. "Part of the ransom for Sorza has finally come through," he explained. "And with the loot we took from the siege of Confluendi, we''ve managed to amass about 23,000 silverii." The group exchanged surprised glances. Alpheo''s tone was reassuring, almost casual, as if this large sum was just another detail in his grand plan. Jarza, still skeptical but less so, raised an eyebrow. "That''s a decent amount," he conceded, Alpheo''s grin widened. "It''s enough to get started," he said confidently. "We''re not going to transform the entire army overnight, but we now have some solid ground to stand on. With careful planning, we can afford to commission the halberds, recruit and train new soldiers, and make the necessary upgrades." He paused, scanning their faces to ensure they were following. "Think of it as an investment. We need to spend some coins if we want to make sure we are protected. And as we expand our influence, the silverii will keep flowing in.Trust me," Alpheo continued, "we''re not just spending blindly. Every coin is going toward something that will strengthen us in the long run." As the group continued their conversation, the sound of soft footsteps echoed from the far end of the hall. A servant returned, holding something carefully in his arms. He approached Alpheo with a respectful bow, his arms cradling a folded garment¡ªits fabric pristine and bright even from a distance. Alpheo gestured for the servant to come closer, and as the man stepped forward, he offered the item with both hands. Taking the garment with a casual air of excitement he , then turned to face his companions. With a slow, deliberate motion, he unfurled it, letting the fabric drape from his hands for all to see. The surcoat was striking in its simplicity. Completely sleeveless, it was a brilliant white, the kind of white that almost gleamed under the dim light of the room. Two bold black stripes cut diagonally across the surcoat, starting from the shoulders and crossing downward in a perfect line to the waist, giving the garment a sharp, angular appearance. The design was clean, minimal, but commanding "Well," Alpheo said, turning the surcoat so everyone could get a better view. "What do you think?" His eyes gleamed with pride as he showed off the garment, clearly expecting an impressed reaction. "Every man who serves me," he declared, his voice confident, "will be equipped with one of these. It won''t just be for me or my commanders" Egil, always practical and straightforward, raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. "What''s the use of it, though?" he asked, his tone skeptical. "It''s not armor, and I can''t see how it helps on the battlefield. Feels like you''re just wasting money on fancy cloth." Without a word, Alpheo slipped the garment over his shoulders and stood tall, adjusting it so the black stripes lined up perfectly. He looked straight at Egil, his gaze sharp, unwavering. "Think about another thousand men wearing this," he said slowly, his voice carrying a quiet intensity. "Marching together, side by side. A wall of white and black, a force that looks unified, disciplined, and unstoppable. The enemy won''t just see soldiers¡ªthey''ll see an army that''s more than the sum of its parts.And before the clash even begin they will feel small compared to their opponent" Egil stood silent for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he considered Alpheo''s words. He glanced at the surcoat again, then back at Alpheo, finally understanding the impact of such a sight on the battlefield. After a brief pause, he gave a nod. "I get the message," he said simply, his voice carrying a note of respect. Alpheo smiled, satisfied, as he removed the surcoat and handed it back to the servant. "Good," he said softly. "Because it''s not just about armor, Egil. It''s about the image we project." Jarza, after a brief moment of silence, scratched his head thoughtfully. "You know, Alpheo, that surcoat... it''s the same as our banner." His voice was casual but carried a hint of something deeper. "The white and black stripes, just like we''ve always flown, back when we were mercenaries." Alpheo nodded, not knowing where this was going. He met Jarza''s eyes with a confused look. Jarza hesitated, clearly unsure of how to phrase what he was about to say, then continued, "It worked well for us then, when we were just a band of sellswords. But now... well, things are different." He paused, scratching his head again, as if the words were reluctant to come out. "With you being about to marry Jasmine, and all. Shouldn''t we be considering a change? Maybe taking up the banner of her house? " "That banner," Alpheo began, his tone carrying a certain pride, "is Jasmine''s banner, not mine. While I''ll take the Veloni-Isha name through marriage, this army¡ªthis force we''ve built¡ªis mine alone." He straightened up, glancing at the surcoat draped over his chest. "Our banner, the one we''ve fought under, the one we''ve bled for, that will remain." He gestured toward the surcoat with its clean, simple design of black stripes cutting diagonally across the white fabric. "This," he said, tugging on the material, "this is easy to replicate, to put on the surcoats of a thousand men without complication." He paused, imagining the logistical nightmare of attempting to replicate a more ornate design. "Now, picture trying to outfit every one of our soldiers with the symbol of a bird surrounded by six fists. Every detail, every stroke¡ªit''d be a damned mess." Egil snorted a quiet laugh beside him, and even Jarza, though still scratching his head, couldn''t help but chuckle at the mental image. Alpheo''s gaze softened, but his voice remained resolute. "The banner we have now, the one you see on this surcoat, it''s who we are. Not just me, but all of us. We aren''t the Veloni-Isha¡ªat least not this army. We''ve built something different." He looked at each of his companions, his expression unwavering. "So, the stripes stay. They''re ours, and they''ll march with us into whatever battle comes next." Then all of a sudden his expression turned more serious as the conversation shifted back to military matters. "Jarza," he said firmly, "I''ll need you to promote some of our best soldiers to officers. We''re going to need at least twenty new ones." Jarza nodded, already thinking of names, but before he could respond, he asked, "How many men are you planning to expand to, exactly?" Alpheo crossed his arms, calculating the numbers in his head. "Right now, we''ve got a solid core¡ª100 bowmen, 150 light riders, and about 400 infantry. But it''s not enough. I want to bring our bowmen up to 150, give us more reach in battle. As for the infantry, I''m planning to recruit and equip 200 of them with halberds, ready for the new tactics I''m putting in place." Jarza, ever the pragmatic, nodded thoughtfully. "Makes sense," he replied, scratching his chin. "It''s a good start. We''ll have to drill the officer before promoting them, I have some names in my head I will however discuss with my lieutenants and request their opinions'''' As Alpheo spoke with Jarza about expanding the army, his mind turned inward, calculating the costs. He knew well enough that increasing the forces would come at a price. If I expand the bowmen to 150 and equip 200 men with halberds... he thought, the monthly expenditure will rise to around 5,175 silverii. Not small, but manageable. He weighed the numbers carefully,as he knew better than to create a military that he cannot sustain . But he had already planned for this. The increase in production and sales of his goods, would more than cover the additional costs. The profits are steadily growing, he reassured himself, which means I''ll not only be able to sustain the army, but also pocket a decent amount of silver each month. This thought gave him a sense of relief. The army would grow stronger without sinking the coffers. Making use of the silence, Egil never one to keep his thoughts to himself, asked rather loudly, "And when will you increase the riders, Alpheo? You''ve been talking about infantry and halberds¡ªwhat about the cavalry?" Alpheo turned sharply toward him, narrowing his eyes. "Shut up, Egil," he said, half-joking but with a pointed tone. "Do you have any idea how much one of your men costs me?" Egil raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Alpheo continued, his voice growing more animated. "To feed a horse, pay a rider, and maintain their equipment? I could easily pay for two footmen even there with that! Cavalry doesn''t come cheap, my friend." Egil, undeterred, smirked. "Can your footmen move across an entire battlefield in fifteen minutes?" His tone was teasing, but there was a point behind it. Alpheo, now chuckling, pulled off the white surcoat he had been wearing and, in one swift motion, threw it directly at Egil''s face. The cloth fluttered in the air before landing squarely on Egil''s head. The group burst into laughter, the tension instantly broken by the lighthearted gesture. Egil, pulling the garment from his face with a grin, joined in the laughter, as for one moment the small group of ex-slaves felt like the emperors of the entire world Chapter 176: Sealing the deal Chapter 176: Sealing the deal The day of the marriage had arrived, and the entire city was in an uproar of celebration. Crowds filled the streets, people cheering and laughing as news spread that there would be a free distribution of food to commemorate the occasion. Flower petals rained down from balconies as if the city itself was in joyous bloom. Vendors tired handing out bread and roasted meat from carts but not having any luck for the most part, as the city knew of the free meal coming from the royal family. Amidst all this excitement, Alpheo found himself in what could only be described as the heart of grandeur¡ªthe inside of the city''s towering cathedral. The sacred space was vast and imposing, with columns of marble rising like ancient trees.. Sunlight filtered through tall, stained glass windows, casting hues of crimson and gold across the polished stone floors. In front of Alpheo were five massive altars, each grander than the last. Before every altar stood a goat, its coat gleaming in the flickering torchlight, tethered and calm, waiting to be sacrificed in honor of the gods. Candles burned in long lines beside them, their flames swaying gently in the faint draft of the cathedral. The low murmur of the crowd fell into a reverent silence as the priest approached the first altar. In one swift, practiced motion, he drew a ceremonial blade from his robes¡ªits edge gleaming in the flickering torchlight, thin and sharp as a whisper. The goat, unaware of the ritual about to unfold, stood still, its calm presence not understanding of his end. The priest held the blade to the animal''s throat, murmuring an ancient prayer, his voice low and rhythmic. With a quick, clean slice, the blade cut through the goat''s throat. Blood poured from the wound, dark and vivid against the white stone altar, pooling beneath the goat as it slumped to the ground in silence. The other priests at the remaining altars followed suit, each cutting the throats of their respective goats in perfect unison. Alpheo''s tunic was made of rich, deep crimson fabric, embroidered with intricate gold thread that traced patterns of vines along the sleeves and collar. Over it, he wore a sleeveless surcoat of brilliant white, fastened at the waist with a black leather belt. The surcoat bore his own symbol¡ªthe two diagonal black stripes¡ªwhich he had insisted on wearing . His trousers were fitted, of the same deep red as the tunic, tucked into black, polished boots that gleamed beneath the cathedral''s light. A cloak of dark velvet, almost black, draped from his shoulders, the inner lining glimmering faintly with silver accents. His hair, usually worn loose, was pulled back into a tight, warrior''s knot, giving him a sharp, commanding appearance. A small circlet of silver rested on his brow, marking him as consort-to-be, though he had yet to officially take that title. Jasmine stood resplendent in her wedding attire, a vision of regal elegance. Her gown was a flowing masterpiece of ivory silk, with delicate golden embroidery tracing intricate floral patterns along the neckline and sleeves. The bodice was fitted, accentuating her slender form, while the skirt cascaded gracefully to the floor in soft, rippling layers of gold . A thin golden belt cinched her waist, adding a subtle touch of opulence without overwhelming her natural grace. A long, sheer veil of the finest lace,fell from a jeweled circlet atop her head, trailing behind her like mist. Her dark hair was braided intricately and adorned with small pearls, a symbol of purity and nobility. As Alpheo glanced at Jasmine, his breath caught for a moment. She was beautiful¡ªmore beautiful than he had ever seen her. The way her gown shimmered softly in the cathedral''s light, the delicate embroidery catching the glow, made her seem almost ethereal. Her poise, her grace, the way her veil floated around her like mist¡ªit all captivated him. Alpheo''s quiet admiration of Jasmine was suddenly interrupted as the sound of footsteps echoed through the cathedral. The main priest approached, holding a small, ornate bowl in his hands. Alpheo''s gaze flicked toward the vessel, his stomach tightening as he realized what it contained. He had heard of this ancient custom before¡ªthe groom was to drink a bowl of bull''s blood, a ritual meant to symbolize virility and strength. It was said that the blood would spread vitality through the body. But tradition also dictated that it had to be consumed in one gulp, or it would bring bad luck. The thick, dark liquid inside the bowl made Alpheo''s stomach churn. He was disgusted by the thought, but he kept his face neutral, unwilling to show any sign of weakness before the crowd. The eyes of the court were on him, and now was not the time to waver. Just drink it, he told himself. One gulp, and it''s done. Without a word, Alpheo took the bowl from the priest''s hands, lifted it to his lips, and steeled himself for the bitter taste that awaited him. Alpheo lifted the bowl to his lips, taking a deep breath before tipping it back. The thick, metallic taste of the bull''s blood flooded his mouth, heavier and more bitter than he had imagined. He forced himself to swallow it all in a single, long gulp, as tradition demanded. His throat worked hard, fighting the urge to gag, but he drank it down. A small trail of the dark blood escaped the corner of his mouth, slipping down his chin and tracing a line along his neck, cold against his skin. The warmth of the blood lingered in his chest as he lowered the bowl, fighting back the wave of disgust, determined not to show any discomfort. His hands, steady, held the now-empty vessel as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the trace of blood staining his fingers. It was done. As Alpheo lowered the bowl, his gaze met Jasmine''s. Her emerald eyes locked onto his, intense and unwavering. There was something unspoken in that moment, a silent understanding passing between them. Just then, a female priest stepped forward, her ceremonial robes swaying with her movement. In her hands, she held a silver plate, and on it rested the heart of a swan, glistening from the heat of being freshly cooked. The sight of it drew a murmur from the gathered crowd, but the ritual was well-known¡ªeveryone was waiting for the next part. The bride would have to eat the heart. Alpheo''s eyes flicked from Jasmine to the heart on the plate. The dark, glossy meat was clearly cooked, the scent of herbs faintly rising from it. At least hers is cooked.... Jasmine, with her gaze still locked on Alpheo, slowly reached for the plate. Her fingers were steady as she picked up the cooked swan heart. Without hesitation, she lifted it to her lips and took a bite, her movements graceful and deliberate. The crowd watched in respectful silence as she finished the ceremonial act, proving her commitment and fortitude. The high priest, a man dressed in flowing robes adorned with symbols of the gods, stepped forward as Jasmine lowered the plate. His voice rose through the sacred halls of the cathedral, solemn and powerful. "By the ancient rites of our ancestors and the will of the gods above, we gather here to unite these two souls," he proclaimed, his arms raised to the heavens. "May the gods bless this union, granting strength in adversity, prosperity in peace, and harmony in all seasons. As the earth nourishes the seeds that grow, may this marriage bring forth fruit and flourishing." The priest lowered his hands, his voice becoming more intimate as he continued. "O gods in the sky, bless this couple with your favor. Let their love be as constant as the stars, as strong as the mountains, and as deep as the oceans. In your wisdom, bind them together, so that no storm may tear them apart." Turning to Alpheo, the priest''s tone grew more formal. "Alpheo, groom of this day, you stand before us, before your bride, and before the gods. Do you vow to take this woman as your wife, to honor and cherish her, to defend her against all perils, and to protect her with your life, as the gods watch over this sacred bond?" As the priest finished his blessing, Alpheo and Jasmine turned toward one another, the weight of their vows settling between them. Slowly, Alpheo leaned in, and their lips met in a kiss that sealed their bond. Jasmine tasted the faint tang of blood still lingering on his lips, a trace from the bull''s blood he had just swallowed. It was metallic, warm, and strange¡ªbut she didn''t flinch. For a moment, time seemed to stop. The noise of the crowd, the scent of incense, and the flickering light from the candles all faded into the background. It was just the two of them, standing at the pinnacle of their journey. When they finally pulled apart, Alpheo''s eyes met Jasmine''s, and he saw her emerald gaze reflecting his own feelings. In that moment, Alpheo realized that everything he had fought for, every ambition he had nurtured in the depths of battle, had finally come true. He had gained power, and the throne he desired most was standing before him, through what was now his wife. He was on the road to win that promise he made in that hot desert of a long-forsaken life.. Chapter 177: Feast for a groom Chapter 177: Feast for a groom Hey guys! I apologise for any grammar mistake you may find, unfortunately my pc Is broken and I am writing with my phone, hence the bad grammar or logical mistakes --------- The music thundered through the grand hall, a wild mix of roaring laughter and pounding rhythms. Alpheo stood at the edge of the scene, his eyes scanning the jubilant crowd. Musicians played with feverish energy, their melodies weaving through the air as singers swayed and belted out their tunes. Guests, caught in the excitement, tossed coins onto the floor, and eager aides darted between them, scrambling to collect the scattered silver, some even throwing punches much to the crowd excitement . In one corner, a troupe of mummers captivated the crowd with their playful antics. Jugglers tossed bright-colored balls high into the air, while acrobats tumbled and flipped with effortless grace. Some of the performers took swigs from strange bottles, spitting fire onto blazing torches, sending brilliant flames soaring toward the ceiling. The guests gasped in amazement, their applause ringing out as the firelight flickered over their faces. Alpheo turned and exchanged a smile with his new bride, who was savoring her second cup of cider. In contrast, he was far more intoxicated than he had expected to be. As he lifted his own cup to drink, he turned it over, noticing the emblem of an eagle surrounded by nine clenched fists etched into the underside. Her sigil was everywhere his eyes wandered¡ªfrom the intricate embroidery on her gown to the cups they drank from. It seemed to follow him, a constant presence in every corner of the hall. He half-expected to find it stitched onto the pillow where they would sleep later that night. Alpheo glanced down the length of the high table, where his band of brothers were seated, deep in merriment. Egil, ever the watchful one, caught Alpheo''s gaze first. He nudged the others with an elbow, causing Jarza, Clio, and Asag to look up from their cups and laughter. As one, they grinned and raised their goblets high, a rowdy cheer echoing from their corner. Sorza, the heir to the Prince of Oizen, stood at the edge of the table too, currently he was still under prisony as his ransom had only been paid in half. Dressed in fine garments , he exchanged wary glances with the other guests, rarely starting conversations. The merriment around him felt distant, as longed to go home. Suddendly Jasmine rose from her seat . As she stood, the room seemed to react in kind. Conversations trailed off mid-sentence, laughter stilled, and the clinking of cups ceased. Even the musicians lowered their instruments. In the span of a few heartbeats, the grand hall was cloaked in expectant silence, all eyes drawn to the princess like iron filings to a magnet. She surveyed the crowd with a regal gaze, her emerald eyes glowing in the warm light of the feast. Her presence was magnetic, commanding the attention of everyone from the highest lord to the simplest servant. When she finally spoke, her voice, though soft, carried with perfect clarity to every corner of the room. "My honored guests," she began, her tone both warm and regal, "I thank you all for being here today, for celebrating this most joyous union, and for sharing in the happiness of our house. Your presence honors us beyond words, and we are deeply grateful to each and every one of you." Her voice grew a touch warmer as she smiled, "Now," she said, her eyes sparkling as she turned back to the guests, "in keeping with tradition, we invite you all to come forth and present your gifts" The hall remained hushed for a moment, the quiet weight of her words lingering in the air. Then, gradually, there was movement among the guests¡ªlords, nobles, and other dignitaries preparing to rise and offer their gifts to the newly wedded couple. The air buzzed with anticipation as richly adorned servants and courtiers began to step forward, bearing chests, wrapped items, and offerings meant to honor the union and strengthen alliances. Lord Shahahb, the patriarch of Jasmine''s family, rose from his seat with a deliberate, stately grace. He occupied the seat of honor, his position at the head of the table signaling his elevated rank and blood relation to the bride. His deep, rich robes shimmered under the torchlight, embroidered with the intricate sigils of his house¡ªthe eagle with its nine fists¡ªwoven in silver and gold. As he stood, all eyes turned to him, the murmuring guests falling into a respectful silence once more. Lord Shahahb took a step around the long banquet table, moving to face the newly wedded couple. His son, Lord Jared, rose with him, moving in lockstep with his father. He was a younger, fiercer image of Shahahb, broad-shouldered and serious. A servant, or perhaps a slave¡ªdressed plainly but with impeccable precision¡ªfollowed close behind, carrying something cradled carefully in his arms, concealed beneath a dark cloth. The three approached Alpheo and Jasmine with measured steps, their presence commanding respect from the crowd. As they neared, Lord Shahahb paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the hall, before locking eyes with Alpheo. "Alpheo Veloni-isha," Shahab''s deep voice rang out, formal and grand. "As family, I have no need to present a gift to my own granddaughter, for Jasmine is of my blood. But tradition holds that I must offer something to you, her groom, as you have joined our house. It is a duty to recognize your new place among us, to honor you as the man who will stand beside her and as a member of our family." Shahab gestured toward the servant, who stepped forward. The cloth was lifted slowly, revealing a finely crafted sword, its hilt gleaming with jewels, and its blade etched with the same nine fists that adorned the family sigil. Alpheo rose from his seat as Lord Shahahb''s servant presented the sword to him, the weight of the gift heavy with significance. With a respectful nod to the patriarch, he reached out and gripped the hilt, feeling the cool, polished metal in his hand. He drew the sword from its finely crafted sheath, and as the blade emerged, it glinted under the light of the torches, revealing intricate engravings that adorned not only the hilt but the entire length of the blade. Alpheo turned the sword slightly, marveling at how the artistry did not compromise its strength. He sheathed the sword slowly, its quiet click signaling the weight of the moment. Alpheo then bowed his head slightly, lifting his gaze to meet Shahahb''s. "I am honored, Lord Shahab and I thank you from the bottom of my heart" he said with deep sincerity, as the lord and his son walked back intro their seats. As the princess said for the next one to come , almost as if answering her , two servants moved forwsrd , straining under the weight of a large, ornate chest. One of them, a wiry young man, spoke up, his voice barely above a whisper, "This is a gift sent by the generous and glorious Prince of Herculia." A small murmur endured in the hall at the name of the sender, as lords and courtiers alike dropped any of the smiles they were wearing until that moment. Both servants were visibly sweating, their arms trembling as they carefully placed the chest on the table before Jasmine. She forced a smile, for the history between their houses was anything but amicable. With a nervous glance at one another, the servants exchanged anxious looks before the more timid of the two stepped forward, his hands shaking as he began to open the chest. The hinges creaked, and as the lid swung open, they revealed a bright jester''s cap, complete with two bells that jingled softly as the chest was moved. The trembling servant stuttered, his voice barely audible, "M-my prince said that after the play of this comedy is o-over, and that when the dog your princess shares her bed with will return to his cage . He will hereby invited to his court... and this is a gift for the occasion." Silence suddendly took over what once was a loud and gleeful occasion. Alpheo''s eyes scanned the crowd, specifically noting the tension radiating from his men. Jarza, in particular, had his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger, poised to spring into action. His muscles coiled, ready to leap up and slice the throats of the trembling servants, who had just delivered the insulting gift. Recognizing the dangerous precipice on which they stood, Alpheo sprang to his feet as the last thing he wanted was for an envoy to be killed by his men in his wife''s hall He walked forwant and suddendly sprang a wide smile as he regarded the jester''s cap. "Thank you for the gift," he said, his tone light yet pointed as he grabbed it and played with It . "However, I must respectfully refuse it. Please relay to your prince that perhaps one day that same dog will walk gracefully into his court, but I believe it will be with an army at his back.And when that happens, he will either have this cap on , or his lifeless head will be held in these hands... " His words dripped with challenge, as he threw the cap at one''s man head, causing him to flinch and move back, sending a ripple of laughter through the assembled guests. As the laughter subsided, Jasmine maintained her composure, turning her fierce gaze toward the servants. "You should return to your prince immediately," she commanded, her voice steady but edged with authority. "Before my guards cut your neck for this insult." The air grew thick with unspoken threats, her eyes narrowing as she gestured toward the chest. "Take your jester''s cap with you. We have no need for it here." At her command, the guests erupted into a chorus of jeers and laughter, their mood shifting as they embraced the moment. Cups and bits of food were hurled at the retreating servants, splattering against the walls and floor, an outpouring of mockery. "Take your gift and your shame!" one guest shouted, while another added, "We have no jesters here, only warriors!" The servants nodded hastily, their faces paling as they scrambled to gather the cap and retreat. Alpheo meanwhile reached for one of the cups from the table. With a swift motion, he launched it at the back of the servant''s head, the ceramic shattering upon impact. The servant crumpled to the ground, the chest tumbling alongside him, spilling its contents onto the floor in a chaotic mess. The sound echoed through the hall, drawing laughter and cheers from the nobles who watched the scene unfold. "Now that''s how you handle an insult!"Lord Xanthios guffawed, raising his cup in an exaggerated toast as seeing the envoys from Herculia scuffling back brought him a smile . The laughter swelled, filling the grand hall with raucous mirth as Alpheo returned to his seat, a grin plastered on his face. However, beneath the surface, his mind churned with unease. Alpheo understood the precarious situation he was in. As while the nobles and courtiers were laughing, Alpheo was the only one realizing the predicament they were put into. Chapter 178: End of a chapter start of another Chapter 178: End of a chapter start of another As the uproar of laughter and applause faded, the feast resumed its lively rhythm, the sounds of clinking glasses and cheerful chatter filling the grand hall once more. Alpheo, however, sat with a neutral expression, his gaze focused on the patterns of the tablecloth before him. He raised his cup to his lips and took a deep drink, the sweet cider offering a momentary distraction from the turmoil swirling in his mind. Alpheo understood the predicament he had been thrust into. This insult was a double-edged sword; by responding with indifference, it would portray him and Jasmine as weak, a vulnerability that could alienate the nobility and threaten their support which was already low on its own . His thoughts spiraled as he considered the prince of Herculia''s motives. Was this a deliberate attempt to ridicule their royal couple, and undermine their authority in front of their peers? Or perhaps it was a clever strategy designed to make them them lead an assault on their territory?Which would mean making their army bug down for a siege, before leading a counterattack knowig their current weak state, or who know maybe this was just an opportunity their prince took to slight an hostile house. Either scenario left Alpheo with little comfort.Between the two Alpheo thought that the first was more probable as I don''t think there could be many prince that would risk their land getting invaded and raided , as this would effectively cause devastion , of course if the lands was not directly of the prince but of a rival noble than it would make sense to hope for such things to happen. There is nothing to do, the more I think the less I understand, he thought as he extended his hand to grab his cup.Taking another sip, he reminded himself to maintain his composure. The laughter and merriment around him felt distant, the faces of his friends blurring into a haze. He was getting too much drunk... The remainder of the gifts presented were far more conventional, each in keeping with the long-standing traditions of noble weddings. Lords and ladies approached one by one, offering treasures that reflected their respect for the newlyweds. Glittering jewels, elegantly crafted and fit for royalty, were handed over with graceful bows. Fine garments, woven from the softest silks and embroidered with delicate patterns, were gifted to her and some also to him as well. For Alpheo, the gifts were more practical, but no less significant. Several nobles presented finely crafted armor, with pieces like ornate breastplates and greaves. Others gifted him proud steeds, powerful and well-bred warhorses that would serve him in the field. Of course he received so many pairs that he thought to share some with his companions, wondering however if it could be perceived as an insult in this setting. Though each gift was given with formal ceremony, the steady procession of jewels, clothes, armor, and horses was a welcome return to normalcy after the earlier insult. As the revelry continued, the atmosphere in the grand hall grew increasingly raucous. The wine flowed freely, and the intoxicating effects of the drink began to take hold. Suddenly, two courtiers, their judgment clouded by too much drink, erupted into a shouting match that quickly silenced the surrounding conversations. "I told you before!" the first man slurred loudly, pointing a wavering finger. "Yes, I fucked your wife! And if your mother wasn''t already rotting in the dirt, I would have fucked her too!" A shocked gasp rippled through the nearby guests, but the second man wasted no time in responding. His fist flew forward, landing a solid punch square on the first man''s jaw. "You bastard!" he shouted, his face red with rage. "I''ll kill you for that! That was followed by a punch as the cucked man started shouting profanity while delivering right and left to the other''s face. The surrounding guests erupted into cheers and jeers, their encouragement igniting the fight even further. "Get him!" one of the guests shouted, while another bellowed, "Don''t let him talk about your wife like that!" Alpheo watched the scene , he glanced over at his guards, handpicked soldiers from his own ranks, standing at attention nearby. With a subtle shake of his head, he signaled them to intervene. The guards exchanged quick glances before springing into action, moving through the crowd with purpose. "Enough!" one of them shouted as they reached the fighters, their voices cutting through the din. They grasped one courtiers by their arms, pulling them apart with a firmness that brooked no argument,while they brought the other to a physicist as they even started to wonder if the bastard was still alive. The cheers quickly shifted to groans of disappointment as the guards escorted the bickering nobles out of the hall, away from the festivities. Alpheo sighed, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Shahab, sitting comfortably at the high table, exchanged a knowing glance with Jasmine. With a subtle nod from Jasmine, Shahab rose from his seat. "Ladies and noblemen," he called out, his deep voice cutting through the drunken noise of the hall. The guests, still caught up in the excitement of the brawl, began to quiet down, turning their eyes toward Shahab. He paused for a moment, glancing around the room, before continuing, "It seems the hour grows late, and with the joy and revelry of this grand night, I believe it is time for the bedding ceremony." A ripple of laughter and excited whispers spread through the crowd. Some of the more inebriated guests cheered, clearly eager for the next tradition of the evening. Shahab gave a slight bow in Jasmine''s direction as he spoke, his tone light but firm. "Let us escort the bride and groom to their chambers." The hall erupted into cheers, the nobles'' voices rising in raucous approval as Shahab''s words sank in. The ladies of the court, giggling and excited, swarmed around Jasmine. They gently lifted her from her seat, half-carrying, half-guiding her with delicate hands toward the bridal chambers. Jasmine, regal as ever, smiled softly, her cheeks flushed from the evening''s revelry, but she let the women take her without protest. Behind them, the male nobles remained at a respectful distance, raising their cups as while many of them were drunk they still had no goodwill toward the groom, as the only reason they had come was out of respect for the crown, who in less than a month had dealed with the hot potato called Ormund.Couples also with the fact that they had nothing to gain from slighting them. The chamber was finally silent, the echoes of the night''s cheers and laughter fading into the distance as the last of the guests had left. Alpheo and Jasmine stood alone now, the once raucous energy of the hall replaced by a heavy stillness. Jasmine''s lady-in-waiting, moving with quiet grace, approached her princess. She began to assist her, untying delicate laces, carefully loosening the intricate garments that had adorned her throughout the night. Jasmine stood still, regal even in this intimate moment, as each layer of finery slipped from her form. Alpheo, leaning casually with his back against the chamber wall,started to take off his clothes. When some of the remaining servants moved toward him, offering to help him disrobe as was the custom, Alpheo waved them off with a flick of his hand. The servants froze, unsure of what to do. They started exchanging glances before bowing and retreating from the room after Jasmine was done . The chamber door closed behind them with a soft click, leaving only the two of them to seal their marriage . Making use of the silence and awkardness Jasmine eyes fell onto the young man''s body. Once lean and starved from the trials of slavery , with proper nutrition and regular training , Alpheo could be described as generally fit , his skin bronzed from the sun and his back hidden to her, scarred by the past. Jasmine''s eyes met his, and for a moment, they simply looked at each other. She broke the silence, her voice soft but clear. "This would be the moment when we share vows," she said, her tone hinting at the formality of what should have been, yet there was an undeniable vulnerability beneath it. Alpheo breathed deeply, his brow furrowing slightly. His thoughts seemed distant, not focused on the ceremonial nature of their union, but something deeper. "What''s your dream, Jasmine?" he asked suddenly, the question slipping out with an almost desperate curiosity. His eyes searched hers, seeking something beyond the surface, beyond the politics and titles. Jasmine blinked, clearly surprised by the question. Her brow furrowed slightly as she considered his words. "My dream?" she echoed, confused. "Sitting on the throne as a princess," she finally said, her voice calm, as if the answer was obvious. "Is that not what all of this has been for?" Alpheo shook his head slowly, his eyes still locked on hers. "No," he said quietly. "That''s your ambition, not your dream." Jasmine hesitated, taken aback. She opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out at first. After a moment, she sighed softly. "That was my dream," she admitted, her voice quieter now. "And now that I''ve reached it... I just wish to maintain it." Alpheo''s gaze softened, but a part of him still seemed to search for something more. Jasmine meanwhile stood laying on the bed. Her bare skin seemed to glow in the dim light, and as she rested against the pillows, her breath was steady but slow as she tried to put up a facade of bravery, yet the eyes gave her away betraying a hint of nervousness . This was new for her, a moment she had never experienced before, and it showed in the way she clutched the bed''s cover slightly in her fingers, her body tense and anxious. Alpheo stood at the foot of the bed.He could see that this was her first time. The thought filled him with a mix of tenderness and responsibility. He would have to be gentle, careful, and slow¡ªhe knew that half the marriage started on the first night Taking a deep breath, he moved closer, pulling the cover over them both to shield the moment from the world beyond these walls. As he crawled between her legs, he did so with the utmost care, his touch soft, his movements measured. He wanted her to feel safe, wanted to approach this new experience with patience, knowing that it would set the tone for the future they would share. Jasmine''s gaze remained on him, trusting yet anxious- He leaned closer, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead as he prepared to guide her into this new uncharted space that she would soon dive in. Chapter 179: The day after Chapter 179: The day after The next day, Jasmine found herself strolling through the royal garden, the soft fragrance of flowers filling the air as she walked alongside her younger sister, Lysandra. The sunlight filtered through the leaves as birds sang and flew through the air, and yet the young girl''s curiosity and attention were elsewhere. "So... how was your first night?" Lysandra asked with a mischievous grin, her eyes gleaming with the curiosity of a girl of fourteen winters. Jasmine immediately felt her cheeks flush. "It was fine," she muttered, trying to deflect the question as she glanced away, her steps quickening . Yet Lysandra wasn''t so easily deterred. "Oh, come on! You have to tell me!" she teased, grabbing Jasmine''s arm and shaking it lightly, her laughter ringing through the garden. Jasmine bit her lip, trying her best to keep her composure, but the memories of last night made her heart race. She could feel the blush deepening on her face. Without a word, she turned her face away, hoping her sister would drop the subject. Lysandra, however, noticed the blush and let out a giggle. "You''re not saying anything, but that face says it all!" Jasmine only blushed harder, her thoughts betraying her as the vivid memories played back in her mind. Many things played out that night, most of which she had liked. Lysandra, her bright eyes gleaming with curiosity, tugged at Jasmine''s arm again. "So, where''s Alpheo? I thought I''d see him with you." Jasmine shrugged, her voice light but distracted. "He''s probably working," she said, glancing away toward the distant courtyard. "There''s always something to do now." Lysandra raised an eyebrow. "He''s already buried in work the day after the wedding?" she teased, shaking her head. "You''d think he''d still be celebrating with you." Jasmine chuckled softly but didn''t say more, keeping her thoughts on their night to herself. --------- Egil clapped Alpheo on the back with a wide grin, his booming laughter filling the room. "So, the mighty Alpheo''s finally had his first time!" he shouted, raising his own cup high. "Welcome to manhood, my friend!A cheer to his now wet cock" The rest of the group, gathered around the short table, erupted into laughter, their cheers echoing through the hall. One by one, they reached for a pitcher of cider, pouring generously into Alpheo''s cup until it overflowed. "Drink up!" Egil roared, his face flushed from excitement and drink. "Here''s to Alpheo! May his nights be as vigorous as his battles!" The others joined in, laughing and shouting as they toasted Alpheo, who smiled wryly, lifting his cup in return and caressing his sore waist. Clio leaned in, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "So, how was it?" he asked, trying to suppress a chuckle. "Surprisingly good, especially when you don''t have to open your purse afterward..." Alpheo shot back. Clio just laughed heartily, giving Alpheo a playful slap on the back that nearly knocked him off balance. Jarza, not missing a beat, chimed in with a smirk, "Well, it''s official now! You''re a prince, a member of royalty. Should we start calling you ''Your Grace''?" Alpheo shook his head, chuckling at the absurdity of it all. "In private, you can still call me what you always have," he replied, a warm smile spreading across his face. "I''d prefer to keep it a bit more... personal." Alpheo''s expression shifted, a weight settling over the lightheartedness that had previously filled the room. "Alright, let''s set aside the jokes for a moment," he said, his tone firm and steady, the laughter in his voice giving way to a somber reality. "We need to discuss about what happened last night'''' The moment those words left his lips, the atmosphere in the room changed drastically. The playful banter evaporated, and smiles faded into serious expressions. Although the insult from Prince Lachlan hadn''t been aimed directly at them, the undertone of his gesture left an undeniable sting that resonated with all present. They were friends, comrades who had fought alongside Alpheo, and they couldn''t help but feel the weight of that slight. Alpheo''s voice took on a grave tone as he addressed the room. "I think it''s time we take a hard look at our situation before we make any decisions." He leaned forward, his expression tense. "In the past month, we''ve fought battle after battle, carved out our victories, and managed to keep going, but if anyone here believes our current position is secure... you''re wrong and he is a fool ." His words hung in the air, and a ripple of uncertainty passed through his companions. They exchanged glances, puzzled. To them, things seemed to be going well. His coffers were full, they were preparing to expand the army from 700 to 950 men, and everything seemed to be falling into place. Alpheo continued, his voice more serious. "Yes, we''ve strengthened our forces, but prestige¡ªthe thing that makes the nobles follow you¡ªis at an all-time low. Remember the campaign against Prince Arkawatt of Oizen? He could barely raise 1,500 men, and that was without our forces included. Now Arkawatt is dead, and the new ruler is a woman whose husband was a low-born mercenary. You know as well as I do that the nobles won''t take her seriously and as a consequence, me seriously . If we called them to arms, many would likely laugh at us, or send only token forces." His friends looked around, their expressions darkening. The reality of their situation was starting to sink in. "Now," Alpheo said, "that brings us to this gift from Prince Lachlan of Herculia. A mockery¡ªmeant to humiliate us in front of everyone. So, we have two choices." He paused, letting the weight of the moment settle in. "The first," he continued, "is to declare war. A bold move, no doubt, but a dangerous one. If we go that route, it will expose how fragile our hold on the nobles really is. Declaring war would put us on display for all the other princes, showing them that our power might not be as strong as it seems. And once they see those cracks, they''ll exploit them like hyenas ." The room was heavy with silence, and Alpheo''s voice dropped lower, more deliberate. "On the other hand, we could choose to ignore the insult. Pretend it didn''t happen. But that''s just as dangerous, if not worse. It would send a message to every noble that we''re weak, that we can be mocked without consequence. They''d lose what little respect they have for us, and Lachlan''s move would succeed in making us a laughingstock. So, whatever we decide, we must understand that neither path is without risk or consequence." The room fell into a contemplative silence as Alpheo''s words flew in the air. Each of his companions exchanged glances, their expressions tense. Asag,was to first to break the silence with a thoughtful suggestion. "Perhaps," he began, his tone measured, "the best response would be to send an insult back. Answer fire with fire." His eyes flickered with caution as he continued. The room fell into a tense quiet, but not for long, as apparently, his opinion fell on hostile ears. Jarza, leaned forward, slamming his fist against the table. "War is the only answer!" His voice boomed with conviction. "We can''t let this slight go unpunished. We''re no longer just mercenaries¡ªinsults are beneath us now. I say we answer in blood'' , that is what we know and what we are best at...'''' Egil, his eyes gleaming with excitement, nodded fervently. "Exactly. If we strike back hard and fast, we''ll prove to everyone that our achievements weren''t just luck. They''ll know we can''t be trifled with." The room buzzed with the clash of ideas, tension thickening in the air. Asag remained calm, but the fire in Jarza and Egil''s eyes only seemed to fuel their resolve for war. Clio, sensing the growing divide, turned to Alpheo, her gaze steady yet concerned. "And what do you believe is the right option, Alpheo?" Her voice cut through the noise, bringing everyone''s attention back to him. Alpheo took a deep breath, the weight of their expectations heavy on his shoulders. He knew they were all looking to him for leadership in this moment. "I appreciate the thought behind Asag''s plan," he began, choosing his words carefully. "Sending an insult back might delay conflict, but ultimately, it won''t erase what''s been done, we were the first to be laughed at , and no matter the response nothing will change that . Lachlan''s gift was a challenge¡ªhe''s testing us. Ignoring it or responding with words will only make us look weaker." The room stilled as he continued, his voice firm but calm. "We cannot allow this insult to go unanswered. If we do, the nobles will continue to see us as vulnerable. War may be dangerous, but it''s our chance to reshape that narrative. If we win, we''ll not only avenge the insult but force the nobles to take us seriously." There was a collective intake of breath as Alpheo''s words sunk in. He allowed a small, nervous smile to break through. "We''ve been in worse situations before, haven''t we?" Asag, ever the voice of reason, spoke up again. '''' Still , if we don''t handle this with care, we risk exposing ourselves. As you said, we do not know if the other nobles will support us for a war we are calling, which would mean facing an entire princedom alone..." Laedio, a seasoned soldier, shook his head. "We''re proficient in war, Asag. It''s what we do best. Diplomacy and insults might delay the inevitable, but they won''t win us respect. War will." His voice was gruff but resolute. "We go with what we know. And right now, the best way to make a statement is with steel, not words." "Lachlan has forced our hand'''', Alpheo began, '''' We have bled and fought for everything we''ve earned, and I will not see us reduced to the laughingstock of some distant prince. " His eyes sharpened as they fixed on the center of the table. "We will respond with war, this is our chance to prove that we are more than mercenaries, more than opportunists. We will remind the world who we are and what we did to reach this place.." The room was silent for a moment, the weight of his words lingering. Then, one by one, his companions nodded, as once again they decided to let war sort out their fates. Chapter 180: New masters Chapter 180: New masters The small, dimly lit room felt suffocating despite its modest size. A man sat on the edge of a simple wooden cot, wincing as he lightly swayed his head from side to side, his gaze unsteady and unfocused. His once noble features were gaunt, cheeks hollowed by days of sleeplessness, and his eyes, bloodshot and weary, seemed to stare through the air itself, as if seeing some terrible vision he couldn''t escape. His right shoulder was tightly bound in bandages, the white cloth stained faintly with dried blood. A physicist knelt beside him, carefully unwrapping the cloth with a practiced hand. "It''s healing well," he said, his tone brisk and professional. "A few more days of rest, and you should regain full use of the shoulder." Lord Maric, didn''t seem to hear him. His eyes were fixed on the floor, unmoving, his hands trembling slightly as if caught in a memory he couldn''t shake. "Dead," Maric whispered, his voice hoarse, barely audible. "My son is dead" The physicist paused, glancing up at the lord, but Maric remained still, his lips trembling as the words tumbled out, almost as if he were talking to himself. "The tribesmen... they came down from the north like a storm," Maric continued, his voice shaking. "We... we were so sure. The king... the king said we would send them back to their snow. That we would stand firm against the wild men. But... we didn''t. We couldn''t." His breath hitched, and he swallowed hard, trying to force down the tremor in his voice. "They slaughtered us. Thousands... thousands of men, lying in the snow. My son... my boy... I saw him fall." His hand twitched, as if reaching for something long gone. "I couldn''t reach him. I couldn''t¡ª" There was a heavy pause, the weight of his words filling the room with an unbearable silence. The physicist shifted uncomfortably but said nothing, knowing there was nothing he could say to ease the noble''s pain. Lord Maric opened his eyes, but they remained dull, haunted. "What good is healing?" he murmured. "When everything else is broken?" The physicist, sensing the depth of Lord Maric''s sorrow, spoke softly, trying to offer some comfort. "Your son... he died honorably, my lord," he said, his voice gentle. "He fought for Sarlan. His death was not in vain." But Maric''s eyes flared, anger mingling with the grief that had hollowed him out. "Honor?" he spat, his voice sharp and bitter. "He didn''t even have a chance. They grabbed him¡ªone of those monstrosities. It was three times the height of a man, with arms like tree trunks. It picked him up as if he were nothing, smashed him into the ground like a rag doll." His face twisted in anguish, hands shaking as he remembered the brutal scene. "One hit. Just one. And he... he went limp. Like a broken toy. No honor in that. No glory. Just death." Maric''s voice cracked, and he stared at the ground again, as if looking for answers in the dirt. His breathing was ragged, and he struggled to control the flood of memories that overwhelmed him. "How... how could the gods create such abominations?" he muttered, his voice thick with disbelief. "What kind of cruelty is this? Beasts that tower over men, stronger than anything we could imagine. They weren''t men¡ªthey were monsters. And we... we were nothing against them." Maric''s voice dropped to a ragged whisper, trembling with the weight of his despair. "Even Sarleon... is no more," he said, staring blankly ahead, his gaze distant. "Our king, our proud banners, all of it¡ªgone." He paused, his hands trembling as they gripped the edge of the bed. "The king... he turned and fled as soon as his cavalry stopped dead in their tracks. The horses¡ªthey wouldn''t go any farther. They could feel it too¡ªthe terror. Those things, those abominations, and the beasts they rode¡ªgiants that dwarfed even our strongest warhorses. The horses... they refused. No amount of spurs or lashes could push them forward." The door to the small room crashed open with a violent bang, startling both Maric and the physicist. A soldier, disheveled and breathless, stood in the doorway, panic etched across his face. "My lord," he gasped, "the tribesmen¡ªthey''ve come here!" Maric froze, his blood turning to ice at the words. His hand shot to his forehead, fingers gripping his hair as if trying to block out the reality of the situation. "Go away," he muttered, his voice shaky, barely audible. The soldier hesitated, confusion flickering in his eyes as he glanced between Maric and the old man. My lord," he stammered, unsure of what to do, "a group of them¡ªthey''re just outside the walls, we must¡ª" "Go away!Keep those demons away" Maric shouted, his voice suddenly loud, filled with desperation and fear. He pushed himself away from the bed, his body trembling uncontrollably. The soldier took a step back, bewildered, but still rooted in place, not knowing whether to stay or leave. Maric, overcome with terror, stumbled toward the corner of the room. His legs gave way, and he crawled under the table, curling into himself like a frightened child. He shivered violently, hands gripping the edges of the tablecloth above him . Tears streamed down his face, his body racked with sobs. "Go away... leave me alone....." he whimpered, his voice cracking as the weight of the past days collapsed upon him. The soldier stood frozen, watching helplessly as the once-proud nobleman cowered beneath the table, lost in the fear . ''We are truly lost...'' the soldier thought as he watched the state of his lord before turning around and leaving . ---------- Outside the city walls, a group of tribesmen stood waiting, their presence looming like a storm on the horizon. The cold wind swept across the barren land, rattling the little amount of armors of the assembled horde. Behind the vanguard stood a mass of three thousand warriors, their weapons gripped tightly in eager hands. At the forefront of the group stood a towering figure, a man whose sheer size made him appear almost larger than life. His broad shoulders were draped in furs, and a massive steel axe rested on his back, the head of the weapon glinting in the fading sunlight. His great beard flowed down to his chest, streaked with silver and black, framing a face that was both weathered and fierce. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the horizon, waiting for the city''s defenders to make their move. Beside him stood a hunched old man. He held a cane in one gnarled hand, its wood twisted and carved with ancient symbols. Every time the cane touched the ground, it rattled, the sound echoing faintly across the land. His skin was wrinkled like old leather, and his eyes, though clouded with age. Suddenly, the gates of the city creaked open, and the group of tribesmen turned their attention toward the small force that emerged. Five riders, dressed in the remnants of Sarleon''s once-proud colors, rode across the land toward the waiting horde. Their banners, tattered and dirt-stained, flapped in the wind as they approached. The tribesmen watched in silence, their eyes cold, as the riders advanced, dwarfed by the sheer numbers of the force before them. The five riders halted just a short distance from the mass of waiting tribesmen, their horses snorting and pawing at the ground nervously, sensing the tension in the air. The men atop them sat with forced calm, their eyes scanning the faces of the savage warriors who stood before them, unmoving. Suddenly, the towering man at the front of the tribesmen took a step forward. His voice, deep and booming, echoed across the space between them like a thunderclap. "Who dares stand before me?" he shouted. His eyes burned with command, and his great steel axe gleamed menacingly over his shoulder. "I am Jorundr, son of Hrulf, Warlord of the Jugash, and I demand to see the lord of this land!" The riders exchanged glances, uneasy in the face of their invader. One of the five dismounted slowly, pulling himself from his saddle with a deliberate motion. He stepped forward, taking a deep breath as he removed his helmet. Beneath it was the face of a young man, not yet hardened by age. His features were sharp but still fresh, his skin unmarred by the battles that had clearly left their mark on the older men beside him. He swallowed hard but stood tall, meeting the gaze of the warlord. Jorundr''s eyes narrowed, a bemused expression creeping across his face. "Your father?" He grunted, sizing up the youth before him. "I was told the lord of this land was a middle-aged man, not a boy." His words were half a sneer, half a challenge. "I am here in my father''s place," the young man announced, his voice steady though strained. "My name is Aric. I am his son and heir." His words hung in the air, a mixture of pride and uncertainty. "My father, Lord Harwic, is currently recovering from the wounds he received in battle against you.My father fights still, but his injuries are severe," he said, his jaw tightening. "He has trusted me to represent our house in these matters." Jorundr let out a harsh, barking laugh, his warriors behind him rumbling with their own amusement. "Then your father has more faith in you than I would." Jorundr''s eyes bore into Aric, his brow furrowing as his deep voice rumbled once again. "Do you have the authority to treat with me, boy?" His tone dripped with disdain, the weight of his words pressing on Aric like a heavy stone. Aric hesitated, his mind racing. For a brief moment, uncertainty flickered in his eyes as he felt the gaze of the warlord and his men upon him. His family believed him too young, too inexperienced. And yet, here he stood, facing the enemy that had brought their kingdom to ruin. After a beat, Aric straightened his posture, his breath steadying. He raised his chin and met Jorundr''s fierce gaze. "I do," he said firmly. "As my father''s son and heir, I have all the authority to speak on his behalf. I am the regent of this lordship while he recovers." Behind him, the four riders shifted in their saddles, their bewilderment barely concealed. They exchanged glances, clearly surprised by the boldness of the young man.After all his father still did not give him such title.Still they knew better than to sow chaos at that moment , when every second in this meeting could decide their fate. Chapter 181: New masters(2) Chapter 181: New masters(2) Jorundr''s sharp eyes flicked over the faces of Aric''s companions, taking in their surprise and unease. The corners of his mouth curled into a mocking grin. He let out a booming laugh that echoed across the field. "Your faces say it all!" he bellowed, his voice dripping with contempt. "The real lord is nowhere to be seen, and instead, the pup has come out to face the wolves." Aric''s men stiffened in their saddles, but none dared to speak against the warlord''s taunt. Jorundr stepped forward, his heavy boots sinking into the earth, and his voice rang out with an air of finality. "It matters not who your true lord is." He waved a dismissive hand, his gaze cold and unyielding. "Your father, your so-called lord, is nowhere to be found. From now on, you are the new lord of these lands¡ªby absence if not by right. And I," he raised his arms, his tone now laced with both arrogance and ceremony, "declare this by the authority given to me by the great Knotur Geowulf, to whom all these lands shall soon answer." He took a step closer to Aric, his towering frame casting a shadow over the young man. "I am the warlord of Knotur Geowulf, and I claim what is his by conquest. Whether you call yourself lord, regent, or son¡ªit matters not. You face me, boy, and your time to decide your fate is now." Aric straightened his back, forcing himself to stand tall despite the looming presence of Jorundr. His voice was firm, though he couldn''t hide the strain. "My father is still alive,that would be treason" he said, locking eyes with the towering warlord. Jorundr shrugged, utterly unfazed. "If you fear for your position, boy," he said with casual indifference, "then kill him." The statement was so blunt, so devoid of emotion, that it sent a chill through Aric''s men. Their faces twisted in bewilderment, horror flashing in their eyes as they glanced at their young leader, unsure if they''d heard correctly. Aric''s breath caught in his throat, his mind reeling at the cruelty of the suggestion. Even his men shifted uncomfortably in their saddles, eyes wide in disbelief. ''What sort of son would kill his own father?'' Jorundr looked around at the stunned faces with an air of impatience. ''''We''ve wasted enough time with this nonsense." he barked Without waiting for a response, Jorundr lifted two fingers to his mouth and let out a sharp whistle, the piercing sound cutting through the tense silence. One of the men from the thousands behind the warlord rode forward from the mass of warriors behind him, mounted on a sturdy horse, something they had clearly taken after the defeat of Sarlan''s king. The horse''s hoofs kicked up dust as it moved with purpose, and the eyes of Aric''s men immediately sharpened with suspicion. Hands instinctively flew to the hilts of swords and axes, the air buzzing with tension as they braced themselves for whatever came next. Aric, noticing the growing unease among his riders, quickly raised his hand, signaling them to hold back. "Wait," he commanded, his voice steady after all, if they wanted their heads , they had no use in sending a rider. The knights , though clearly on edge, obeyed, their hands still gripping their weapons but making no further moves. As the tribesman approached, it became clear that the horse was carrying something¡ªa body, tied by a long rope to the saddle, its lifeless form dragging along the ground. The body scraped over the dirt, raising clouds of dust with each step the horse took. The sight was grim, unsettling. The men on Aric''s side exchanged looks of confusion,whispers rippled through their ranks as they tried to make sense of the macabre display. The rider said nothing, his expression unreadable as he continued to lead the horse and the corpse toward them, stopping right beside Jorundr. The warlord with a sharp flick of his wrist, motioned for Aric to come closer.. Aric hesitated for only a moment before moving cautiously toward the towering tribesman. His heart pounded in his chest, but he masked his apprehension with a steady expression, unwilling to show any sign of weakness in front of his men or the enemy. As Aric drew nearer, Jorundr bent down, gripping the lifeless body by the tattered cloth at its back. With a swift, forceful motion, he kicked the corpse, flipping it so the face turned skyward. The body landed with a dull thud, its lifeless head rolling to one side before settling, eyes glassy and open, staring blankly at the heavens. Aric''s breath caught in his throat as he moved closer, his gaze locking onto the face of the body at Jorundr''s feet. When he was a child, he remembered his father bringing him to court alongside his older brother; there he remembered his eyes setting on the man sitting on a throne.He was tall , strong and fierce.His blonde hair kept short framed a beautiful face, devoid of any imperfection or scar. It was unmistakable¡ªthe man on the ground was the king of Sarlan. The once proud and monarch now lay broken and lifeless, his skin pale and sickly, already starting to stink of decay. His royal armor was no more as his clothes were now dirty and tattered. The smell of death clung to him, the rot setting in as a harsh reminder of the kingdom''s fall. He was missing the tip of his nose and an eye probably the work of the black birds , the final brush of a horrible canvas. Jorundr watched Aric closely, his lips curling into a cruel grin. "Wasn''t easy finding him," Jorundr said, breaking the silence with a low chuckle. "But, as luck would have it, one of his own lords came crawling to our great Knotur, dragging the bound king behind him like a beaten dog." Aric''s face twitched in disbelief and disgust. The thought of one of their own betraying the king filled him with disgust. If it had been up to me, he thought a note of bitterness creeping in as he watched the boy disgusted expression , I''d have cut off that traitor''s head for betraying his king. No man should turn on his own sworn man , and yet Geowful had another idea.And instead of cutting his head , he allowed him to retain his lands. Jorundr looked down at the pale corpse of the king for a moment before lifting his gaze to Aric, his eyes hard and unrelenting. "Now that your king is dead," he began, his voice cold and final, "and his sons too... you and your family are hereby cut off from any duty you had to your kingdom and crown." Aric''s eyes narrowed, his voice strained as he asked, "What do you want?" Jorundr grinned, his broad shoulders shrugging casually, as if the matter was nothing more than a business deal. "I prefer it this way¡ªquick, easy, without much fuss." He waved a hand dismissively, like it was all so simple. "You''re going to give us half the grain you''ve stored every year, starting of course from now . In exchange, no man of mine will raid your lands, and you and your family will be allowed to keep your holdings, without fear of death." Aric''s jaw clenched, his knuckles tightening around the hilt of his sword, he knew what this meant. Jorundr continued, his voice growing more serious as he laid out the terms. "You''ll send men to defend your new king when called upon. And one more thing¡ªunder no circumstances will you fight against us, send men to fight, or give aid to anyone who wishes to oppose our great Knotur. If you do, your so-called ''peace'' will vanish like smoke, and you will find yourself and your lands burned to ash." He stared into Aric''s eyes, the intensity of his words clear. "But as long as you follow this agreement, you''ll keep your lands, your lives, untouched. Simple as that." Aric stood silently for a moment, his mind racing. The implications of Jorundr''s offer gnawed at him. Half the grain. Men for their armies. Swearing loyalty to a foreign invader. His father was mad , his men outnumbered, and the land''s future rested on his next decision.A look into the dead king''s face and Aric knew that resistance meant ruin. He swallowed hard, his voice low but steady. "When am I to go and swear fealty to your Knotur?" Jorundr smirked, pleased with the question, and crossed his arms over his broad chest. "You won''t need to go anywhere. The great Knotur, Geowulf, gave me the authority to represent him in such matters. Bending the knee to me will be the same as bending it to him." The tribesman''s words were final. Aric knew there was no more room to negotiate. He took a deep breath, feeling the eyes of his men on him. His knights remained silent, their faces grim but resigned. They knew as well as he did¡ªthis was the best they could hope for. The alternative would be far worse. Without further hesitation, Aric stepped forward. He lowered himself onto one knee, bowing his head before Jorundr. The weight of the act pressed down on him like the full force of the mountains. His family''s honor, the legacy of his father¡ªit all seemed to fade under the shadow of this oath. Jorundr watched with satisfaction as Aric knelt. "Swear it, then," he said, his voice almost taunting. Aric, still kneeling, spoke the words that would bind his fate. "I swear, by my honor and and that of my ancestors , to serve your great Knotur. To give tribute as demanded, to raise no sword against him, to fight beside him whenever called and respect his words and actions." The knights behind him remained still, their hands resting at their sides. They understood what had to be done. Even the bravest among them knew that fighting now, with the odds so heavily against them, would only bring destruction. Jorundr grinned widely, his thick beard shifting with his smile. "Good," he said, clapping Aric on the shoulder. "You''ve made the right choice young pup." Jorundr''s grin widened as he stared kneeling Aric. "This was easy " he said, his voice low but dripping with satisfaction. "Some of my fellow warlords didn''t have such luck in their dealings. There are still lords who, out of pride, kept their gates shut, thinking they could withstand us." His smile deepened, his teeth showing through his thick beard. "A foolish decision. In a few weeks, you''ll likely hear news of some cities being burned to the ground, their walls toppled, and their people scattered like ash in the wind.That will be no metaphor; after all, we need peasants working on the field; those behind the walls are of secondary importance to us ." Aric kept his head bowed, trying to focus on his breathing as Jorundr''s words settled in. Jorundr chuckled darkly, a cruel amusement in his eyes. "So go, young lord, and sleep well tonight. Knowing you fared better than those who let their pride blind them." He clapped Aric''s shoulder once more, his heavy hand lingering as the young man felt he sold his soul to a devil. Chapter 182: Broken family Chapter 182: Broken family Geowulf, the Great Knotur of the united tribes, walked slowly through the stone halls of the Royal Palace of Sarlan. Each step echoed softly in the cold, empty corridors, the solid clack of his boots against the polished stone alien to him. He had spent nearly all his life on the rugged, windswept white plains and mountains, where the snow was soft beneath his feet and the howling wind was a constant companion. Here, there was no wind. The thick, impenetrable walls kept out the biting cold he had known all his life, and though the stillness was unfamiliar, Geowulf found a strange sense of peace in it. These walls, once a symbol of the power of the Sarlan kings, now belonged to him. The royal city had fallen quickly¡ªfar more quickly than the proud nobles of the kingdom had expected. Geowulf''s forces had surrounded the city in a swift and brutal siege, their giants protecting the man below from arrow, as they created a foothold for his infatry to sweep in on the walls. Once his men got inside, chaos reigned as the city''s once-mighty defenders were overrun. The battle had been short, brutal, and decisive. The royal family¡ªonce the heart of Sarleon¡ªwas no more. Geowulf had made certain that no member of the royal bloodline survived the fall of Sarlan. The king, his sons, and every man related by blood to the royal house had been executed, their line severed completely on a first correlation descendance . No one who could claim the throne through direct descent remained. The dynasty that had ruled Sarlan for generations had been eradicated in a single, bloody stroke. He paused in front of a large window overlooking the ruined courtyard, his gaze sweeping over the smoldering remains of what had once been a proud city. Perhaps during winter he could force some of his new subjects to restore the city they had destroyed, but for now, the beauty of a destroyed city suited the Knotur''s taste. Geowulf stopped in front of a large wooden door,he stood there for a moment, his hand resting on the cold iron handle, feeling the weight of the silence around him. Taking a deep breath, he bellowed, his voice deep and commanding, "I am entering." Without waiting for a response, Geowulf pushed the door open with a firm shove. It creaked on its hinges, revealing a modest chamber bathed in the dim light of the setting sun. There, near the wide arched window that overlooked the ruined city, stood his daughter, her back to him. She was holding her small son in her arms, her posture straight but distant, as if her mind was far beyond the room''s walls. Her name was Sifka. Tall and strong, with the proud blood of the unifer of the tribes running through her veins, she stood still, gazing out over the city that had been conquered under her father''s rule. The child in her arms shifted slightly, his small hands gripping the edge of her fur cloak as he peered down at the crumbling streets below. Geowulf said nothing. He stepped inside the room and closed the door behind him, the sound of it clicking shut muffled by the thick stone walls. He remained by the door, his towering presence a contrast to the quiet stillness of the chamber. His eyes studied his daughter''s silhouette, but Sifka did not turn to face him. She did not greet him, nor did she acknowledge his presence. Instead, she stood there, unmoving, watching over the city as if lost in a world only she could see. He had come to speak, but now, seeing her like this, even he was unsure what words would break through the wall she had built around herself while he provided her the bricks to build it. Geowulf stood in the silence for a moment longer, his rough hands clenched at his sides before he broke it with a quiet, low voice. "How are you, Sifka?" His tone was softer than one might expect from a man who had just taken a kingdom by force, but there was a heaviness beneath it, a tension that filled the space between them. Sifka said nothing, her eyes still fixed on the darkened city below. She seemed far away, as though she hadn''t even heard him. Geowulf frowned, stepping forward, his boots making a dull thud on the stone floor. "How is Beor?" he asked, his voice growing a little firmer, trying to reach her. But again, Sifka remained silent. She shifted slightly, pulling her son closer to her chest as if shielding him from the world. The child, no more than a few months old, nuzzled into her fur-lined cloak, unaware of the tension that surrounded him. Geowulf''s patience thinned, and he took another step toward her, his large frame now looming closer. "It is time, Sifka," he said, his voice deepening with command. "I am his grandfather. It is my right to hold my blood in my arms." He paused, his eyes narrowing as he continued, "Beor is my grandson and the heir to all I have conquered. To all I hold." His words were weighted with the authority of a man who had led countless warriors into battle, a man who now stood as the ruler of a kingdom he had claimed through bloodshed. But the moment the words left his mouth, Sifka spun around, her eyes blazing with a fury that seemed to ignite the very air between them. The calm that had cloaked her shattered like glass, revealing the raw, ferocious anger beneath. "The man who made Beor fatherless," she hissed, her voice filled with venom, "has no right to even think of holding him." Her words cut through the room like a blade, her voice sharp and unyielding as she stared at her father with the intensity of a lioness defending her cub. Sifka''s hands tightened protectively around her son, her body coiled with tension. Geowulf''s expression darkened as his daughter''s words struck deep. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tightening as the fury slowly built within him. For a moment, he said nothing, just staring at her with a storm brewing behind his eyes. "How long will you hold onto that, Sifka?" he growled, his voice growing rougher with each word. The room felt suddenly smaller, the tension thickening like smoke in the air. Without waiting for a reply, he stormed toward the table where a plate of half-eaten food sat, untouched and forgotten. With a snarl of frustration, he grabbed the plate in one large hand and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the stone wall, bits of food and pottery scattering everywhere, leaving a jagged smear on the surface. The sharp crash echoed through the chamber, but Sifka didn''t flinch, her gaze locked onto his with defiance. Geowulf took a step forward, pointing a thick, calloused finger at her. "It is thanks to Beor''s father that you, him, and tens of thousands of our people can eat well and sleep without fearing they''ll wake up to see their parents or grandparents burning on the same fire they use to keep themselves warm." His voice was like thunder, booming through the room, filled with the raw truth of the harsh life they had led before. "Do you forget what we were, Sifka? Scattered, starving tribes with nothing but our fists and stones? It was his sacrifice, his blood, that helped us take the land we were promised and ensure that our people wouldn''t be starved like dogs anymore!" His hand curled into a fist, trembling with the force of his anger. "Your son will grow up in a world where he doesn''t have to fear death every day. But you¡ª" he shook his head, his voice dripping with frustration. "You sit here, mourning a man who fought for this, who knew exactly what it would cost! " Sifka''s voice rang out like a thunderclap. "I know what door his sacrifice opened!" Her eyes blazed with fury, her words sharp and seething. "And I love him for that¡ªa thousand times more than I ever did, and that love will last a thousand times longer than he lived. But that does not mean," she spat, her voice trembling with emotion, "that I bear no poison for the man who took him from me, from us." She clutched Beor tighter, her grip protective, fierce. "The man who ripped him from his son, from my arms. You took him, Father! You made him die for this¡ª" her voice cracked but she held on, the grief nearly suffocating her words¡ª"for your war, your glory!" Geowulf''s face hardened, but beneath his stern expression was the flicker of pain. "It was necessary," he said, his voice low but resolute. "For the spirits of the ancestors to hear us, for them to bless our people, a great sacrifice had to be made. His death wasn''t in vain." Sifka glared at him, tears glistening in her eyes, but Geowulf pressed on. "Did you not see?" he continued, his voice growing louder with conviction. "Did you not see how ice shattered against his body as if it were mere pebbles? Blows that should have felled a tree only winded him! Do you think he could have done that if the spirits hadn''t taken hold of him? If they hadn''t accepted their sacrifice?" Sifka''s face twisted in a mixture of rage and sorrow. She couldn''t stand to hear any more. "Go!" she screamed, her voice raw, breaking under the weight of her grief. "Just go!" Geowulf''s breath hitched for a moment. He looked at his daughter, at the baby in her arms¡ªhis grandson¡ªand knew no words could heal this rift. He let out a long, heavy sigh, his anger slipping into something else: exhaustion, regret. Without saying another word, he turned and left the room, the door closing softly behind him as Sifka''s sobs filled the space as the fall of a kingdom , was followed by the destruction of a family. Chapter 183: The claw of an eagle(1) Chapter 183: The claw of an eagle(1) A grand carriage rolled through the towering gates of the city of Yarzat, its wheels creaking under the weight of luxury and its iron-rimmed edges kicking up dust from the well-worn road. The flag of the Imperial family of Romelia flapped proudly from its polished frame, a crimson and gold banner bearing the eagle crest of the empire, shimmering in the late afternoon sun. Surrounding the carriage, a throng of soldiers and servants marched with purpose, their polished armor and well-groomed attire reflecting their allegiance to the might of Romelia. At the forefront and rear, imperial soldiers clad in silver chainmail and plumed helmets kept a watchful eye on the cityfolk gathering at the sides of the road. Whispers and murmurs ran through the crowd as they caught sight of the imperial sigil. Inside the carriage, a man at the center of attention. His name was Dorian Arcelin, a seasoned diplomat dispatched by Keval Achea, the regent who ruled in place of the young emperor. As the carriage rattled through the bustling streets of Yarzat, Doria sat in its cushioned interior, his face partially obscured by a perfumed silk tissue held close to his nose. The delicate scent of jasmine and rosewater emanated from the cloth, offering a small reprieve from the pungent odors that seeped in through the carriage''s small windows. His brow furrowed beneath his neatly combed hair, though he tried to keep his discomfort concealed. Sitting across from him was Marcus, captain of his personal guard. He had noticed the subtle frown on Doria''s face. Concerned but cautious, Marcus leaned forward slightly, his chainmail clinking softly as he spoke. "Is everything alright, sir" Marcus asked, his voice low but respectful. He watched as Doria pressed the perfumed tissue closer, his irritation only thinly veiled. Doria let out a quiet sigh, lowering the scented cloth briefly as he glanced at Marcus. "It''s this wretched stench," he lamented, his voice thick with disdain. "How can anyone live in such filth? The smell is unbearable." Marcus straightened slightly in his seat, his expression neutral but understanding. "Yarzat has no aqueduct, sir" he explained. "Unlike the imperial cities, places like these...," he gestured vaguely towards the outside of the carriage, "are a reminder of the barely civilized lands that exist beyond Romelia''s borders." Doria''s lips twitched, caught between frustration and bemusement. He glanced out the window at the winding streets, where people hurried about their business, seemingly unfazed by the squalor. "And yet, from these wretched, smelly places come goods that are in hot demand across the empire'''' Marcus offered a slight shrug, he was no merchant , he was simply a glorified bodyguard. Doria grumbled something inaudible, shifting in his seat. The foul scent of the city''s filth clung stubbornly to the air, and he grimaced, drawing the tissue closer again. With a sigh of resignation, he pulled out a small vial from his inner pocket, dabbing more drops of fragrant perfume onto the cloth. "If only these barbarians could import Romelian decency along with our coin," Doria muttered under his breath, as the carriage continued toward the city''s heart, where the negotiations and politics awaited him. The carriage rumbled its way out of the cramped, winding streets of the inner city, finally emerging into a more open space as the cobbled roads gave way to the greenery of the keep''s gardens. Lush, well-tended lawns stretched out on either side, with rows of modest trees lining the path. Compared to the stifling alleys of Yarzat, this place seemed almost peaceful, though not without the sense of restrained wealth that marked a provincial stronghold. Doria Arcelin leaned forward slightly as the carriage slowed, peering out through the window. He noted the change in atmosphere¡ªthe cleaner air, the manicured grass¡ªbut his expression remained unimpressed. It was a far cry from the grandeur he was used to in Romelia. His perfumed cloth no longer pressed to his face, he muttered something to himself as they approached the keep. The carriage came to a halt in front of the keep''s gates, the sound of horses snorting and wheels creaking to a stop breaking the silence. Doria hesitated for a moment before pushing the door open, stepping out onto the gravel path. His boots crunched lightly beneath him as he took a moment to assess the keep before him. It was small, far smaller than he had expected. Simple stone walls, with only a few decorative flourishes, gave it the appearance of a modest fortress rather than a seat of power. He raised an eyebrow, his lips curling slightly in disdain. As he stood there, casting a critical eye over the structure, the heavy wooden doors of the keep creaked open, and a small procession emerged. At the forefront was a man of advancing years, his steps steady but deliberate. His grey beard was neatly trimmed, and his hair, though thinning, was combed back in an attempt to preserve his dignity. Behind him, a few knights followed, their armor gleaming despite the modest surroundings As he came closer, he bowed his head slightly and greeted Doria Arcelin with a measured tone. "Welcome, Sir," he said, his voice deep but steady. "I am Lord Shahab, Primo Ministerio of her grace, Jasmine of House Veloni-isha. On behalf of her grace, I extend the warmest of welcomes to the envoy of Romelia." Doria, still holding the perfumed cloth near his face, inclined his head in return, though his eyes briefly scanned the courtyard, taking in the surroundings. "Lord Shahab," Doria responded, his voice calm and distant, "I appreciate your greeting. It is my wish to pay my respects to her grace, as soon as may be appropriate." Shahab gave a brief smile, his posture formal as always. "Of course, Sir," he said, turning to gesture towards the grand hall that lay beyond the keep''s entrance. "Her grace is expecting your arrival. Please, allow me to lead you to the throne hall where you may meet her in person." With that, Shahab turned and began walking towards the keep, his footsteps measured and steady as he led the way. Doria followed behind, casting a glance over at Marcus, his captain of the guard, who marched silently behind him. Behind them, the knights and servants of the Romelian envoy trailed in an orderly fashion. As they moved across the courtyard, passing through the outer halls and into the main structure, Doria couldn''t help but once again notice the modesty of the keep. The corridors were dimly lit, with stone walls that bore the signs of age. While not without a sense of local pride, it was clear to Doria that this was far from the splendor of the imperial palaces he was accustomed to. Finally, he was allowed to enter the door leading to the throne hall, where he could finally meet the princess who owned the secrets to the manufacture of soap and cider. The banners of House Veloni-isha hung from the walls, and the sunlight filtered through tall windows, casting a soft glow over the room, which in itself struck Doria as being too simple. At the far end of the hall, on a raised dais, two thrones sat. One was empty, its rich purple velvet untouched, while the other was occupied by a young girl, no older than eighteen, her posture upright and poised. She had a quiet elegance about her, with long dark hair and a soft. She was dressed in fine robes, adorned with intricate designs of gold thread. As he came to a stop before the dais, he offered a small, respectful bow, his perfumed cloth no longer on his face. "Your grace," he said, his voice smooth and diplomatic, "I bring greetings from the Imperial Court of Romelia, expressing their condalances for your loss and congratulating your anscension." Jasmine, her face calm but with a hint of curiosity in her eyes, nodded slightly in return. "Welcome, Sir Doria Arcelin," she said, her voice soft but firm. "It is an honor to receive the envoy of Romelia. I hope that your journey to Yarzat was comfortable." Doria allowed a small smile to touch his lips, though his eyes betrayed little emotion. "It was a journey most anticipated, your grace. I am pleased by your warm welcome." As humble as it was, Doria thought as he rose from his bow. "I hope that His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor, remains in good health and that his efforts to quell the rebellion find success soon," Jasmine said, her tone both diplomatic and hopeful. "We hear of the troubles within the empire, and it is our sincere wish that order is restored swiftly under his command, knowing myself how it feels to have one right be challenged." Doria gave a slight nod, his expression carefully neutral. "I have heard much about your grace''s campaign in bringing peace to your land, and we are happy to know that the rightful heir to your father''s crown may now sit on her throne in peace. His grace, the emperor, remains ever-resolute in his mission to cleanse his land. The rebellion, though troublesome, will be vanquished in time. I bring his grace''s firm assurance of this." Doria''s gaze lingered a moment too long on the empty throne beside Lady Jasmine, and he allowed a flicker of curiosity to show in his expression. "I must admit," he began, his tone laced with diplomatic politeness, "I am somewhat puzzled by the absence of your prince consort. I had hoped to meet him upon my arrival" Jasmine''s eyes flicked briefly to the empty seat beside her, the slightest tension tightening her features before she composed herself. "You have my apologies, Sir Doria," she replied, her voice steady. "Unfortunately, my beloved husband is occupied with an important task I have entrusted to him. His absence is necessary, albeit well-missed." Doria nodded "Of course, your grace. I look forward to meeting the man who plays such a vital role in your rule. It is clear that your reign benefits from his support." Jasmine offered a small, composed smile. "Indeed, you shall meet him soon enough. He shares in the burden of our rule, and his dedication is without question." There was a brief, almost imperceptible pause before she added, "But for now, I imagine you and your men must be weary from your journey. Lord Shahab will be more than happy to escort you to your lodgings, where you can rest." With a subtle gesture of her hand, she signaled for Shahab, who had been standing nearby, ready to lead the envoy to their chambers. "Thank you for your grace''s hospitality," Doria said, bowing slightly once more. Though the formalities were observed, his mind lingered on the prince consort''s conspicuous absence and what this important task might be. --------- Doria stood in the center of the finely appointed room, the soft light filtering through narrow windows casting long shadows across the tapestries on the walls. Lord Shahab stood by the door, his face calm but professional. "If there is anything you require, Sir Doria, please do not hesitate to ask for any of the servants designed to satisfy him for any wish '''' Doria gave a curt nod, keeping his face composed, though his mind was racing with thoughts of the mysterious prince consort. "Thank you, Lord Shahab. Your attentiveness is appreciated." Shahab bowed slightly before backing out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him. The instant the door clicked shut, Doria''s formal smile vanished. His shoulders relaxed, and he let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. He turned toward the far side of the room, where Marcus stood waiting. ''''I have a job for you'''' Chapter 184: The claw of an eagle(2) Chapter 184: The claw of an eagle(2) Doria sat in a high-backed chair by the window, sipping a cup of cider. The cool liquid ran smoothly down his throat, its sharp sweetness a welcome contrast to the bitter taste left by the day''s formalities. His eyes wandered over the view beyond the window¡ªthe manicured garden, the distant city walls, and the landscape beyond. He could understand now why Lord Keval Achea, had taken such interest in this remote corner of the world. He was not sure whether they would agree to give up their monopoly on the imperial market. He knew that if this princedom was even a quarter as strong as the empire then they would have had no chance to even discuss such an arrangement, especially with all the turmoil in the empire. Setting the cup down, Doria looked across the room to where Marcus stood, arms crossed in his usual manner. "So," Doria began, his voice calm yet probing, "do you have something for me?" Marcus stepped forward slightly, his expression serious. "Not much, sir," he admitted. "Just general knowledge from what I could gather in such little time . Nothing concrete." Doria sighed, leaning back in his chair. He stared at the ceiling for a moment before his lips curled into a faint smile. "All we had before coming here was what a merchant whispered to a drunk lord, Marcus. So anything, no matter how little, is well received." Marcus stepped forward, his voice low and steady as he began to speak. "The prince consort''s name is Alpheo," he said, watching Doria''s expression closely. "He marched into this land from Romelia, leading a band of mercenaries. From what I''ve gathered, they were hired to fight off the prince of Oizen." Doria raised an eyebrow, intrigued, but said nothing, allowing Marcus to continue. "There was tension between the previous prince and Alpheo," Marcus went on. "A fight broke out between them, and the prince didn''t survive. What''s unclear is what happened next. Some say Alpheo and his mercenaries stormed the city, took control quickly, and forced Princess Jasmine into marriage. Others, however, claim the princess directly invited them in, offering her hand in marriage in exchange for their services." Doria''s eyes narrowed , but Marcus wasn''t finished. "Whatever the truth is, one thing''s clear: everything her grace, Princess Jasmine, now holds was gained through Alpheo. After their marriage, he led her forces, defeated her uncle when he tried to claim the throne, and later conquered his lands. Alpheo is the reason she holds any power at all." Marcus paused, his gaze fixed on Doria. "In short, sir, Jasmine may sit on the throne, but everything she''s acquired has been thanks to that man." Doria sat back in his chair, absorbing the information. Alpheo, then, was the key to everything. Doria leaned back in his chair, sipping from his cup of cider, his expression thoughtful. "When I return home, I''ll request Lord Keval to initiate a thorough search for any information regarding this Alpheo," he said, setting the cup down with a deliberate motion. Marcus, standing nearby, frowned slightly, unsure of the sudden focus on Alpheo. "I understand the interest in what''s happening here, sir, especially given the rise of this land, but I don''t quite grasp why there''s this sudden curiosity about that youngster," Marcus admitted, his voice carrying a tone of skepticism. Doria raised an eyebrow, his expression cool. "You don''t see it?" he asked, leaning forward. "These two revolutionary products¡ªthe ones causing a stir in Romelia¡ªappeared around the same time Alpheo entered this court. That can''t be mere coincidence." Marcus shook his head. "But it was an old man, some local craftsman, who came up with those inventions. At least, that''s what''s been said," he replied, almost defensively. "Ah, yes, that''s what Princess Jasmine claims," Doria acknowledged, his eyes narrowing. "But think about it. This supposed ''old man'' discovered not one, but two groundbreaking innovations, and all of a sudden, as soon as Alpheo enters Jasmine''s service? And this ''old man'' has minimal public contact, with no previous reputation to speak of?" Doria''s voice was laced with suspicion. Marcus hesitated, processing Doria''s words. "Why lie about it, though? What would be the point of hiding Alpheo''s involvement if he was the true inventor?" he asked, still puzzled. Doria tapped his fingers on the table, contemplating. "I don''t know," he admitted. "Perhaps Alpheo is the one who truly invented them, but he fears what might happen if people knew the truth. Power attracts enemies, Marcus, and if these inventions were linked to him, who knows what plots would unfold against him? The old man could just be a cover¡ªa convenient face for these innovations." Marcus glanced at Doria, uncertain. "Should I continue searching for more information on Alpheo, then?" he asked, ready to take on the task. Doria shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "No, that''s enough for now. I suspect that in the future, Lord Keval will send more agents here to dig deeper. For now, we''ve learned enough." Just as the room settled into a moment of quiet, a sudden knock at the door interrupted them. Doria stood up, quickly straightening his clothes and smoothing down the fabric of his tunic. His face took on a composed expression, ready to greet whoever had come. Marcus quickly opened the door to reveal Lord Shahab standing there, alongside a young man beside him. Lord Shahab stepped forward with a formal nod, extending his hand toward the young man beside him. "Sir Doria, allow me to introduce his grace Alpheo, the Prince Consort of Yarzat." Alpheo walked forward with steady confidence, his dark eyes meeting Doria''s. "It is a pleasure to meet you" he greeted, his voice smooth and measured. Doria inclined his head slightly, showing the appropriate deference. "The honor is mine, your grace " he said, his gaze studying the man before him. Shahab gestured to the seats nearby, and all three men moved to sit down at a small table. As they settled, Doria smiled, lifting his cup slightly. "Thank you for the generous hospitality. I must say, the drinks were quite nice. A fine touch." Alpheo returned the smile, his eyes briefly flicking toward the cup. "I find them rather pleasurable myself," he said, a hint of amusement in his tone. Shahab, watching the exchange, smiled as well, though his eyes sharpened with curiosity. "We are honored to have the Emperor''s envoy with us,I hope you found this city to be to your liking" he began, his tone warm yet inquisitive. Doria placed his cup down gently, his eyes shifting from Alpheo to Shahab, measuring their demeanor. "Yarzat has a certain charm," Doria began while keeping his real feelings inside. "It is no surprise since the empire has always been close to their neighbors in the south. His Grace, the Regent, holds a keen interest in fostering even closer relations." Alpheo gave a knowing nod. "Friends are always welcome here" he replied smoothly, leaning back a little in his seat. "After all we''ve benefited greatly from Romelia''s reach, especially with trade..." Doria smiled politely "Indeed. Which brings me to the matter at hand," he said, his tone still pleasant, but carrying the weight of his true intentions now. "The Emperor''s court has been watching closely, and we see much potential in deepening our cooperation. That is, after all, why I have been sent." Shahab leaned forward slightly, his interest piqued, though his expression remained guarded. "Of course," he said, his voice steady. "We are honored to hear such intentions. It is not every day that we receive an envoy directly from Romelia''s halls. We are eager to understand what exactly such cooperation would entail." Doria allowed a brief pause, his fingers lightly tracing the rim of his cup before he spoke again, his tone measured and diplomatic. "The Empire has taken quite an interest in the new products introduced by Yarzat to the market," he said smoothly, his gaze shifting between Alpheo and Shahab. "We find them to be... of exceptional quality, and their value is undeniable." Shahab raised an eyebrow slightly, while Alpheo''s expression remained unreadable, though he leaned forward a touch, clearly intrigued. Doria continued, the smile returning to his face as he folded his hands together. "Romelia would be honored to secure a more privileged position in this exchange. Simply put," he said, eyes glinting with intent, "we wish to be the best consumer of your finest products. After all, what better patron for your goods than the Empire itself?" Alpheo leaned forward slightly, a casual confidence in his voice. "We''ve noticed how quickly our brothers in the Empire have taken a liking to our new products," he said, the corners of his mouth lifting. "I believe that in the near future, they will adore even more what''s coming. Arstolier, our old and wise inventor, is tirelessly working on a few creations that will surely catch the Empire''s eye." Doria''s smile deepened as he nodded, his tone carrying both genuine curiosity and diplomacy. "We await such developments with much interest. I, personally, would welcome the opportunity to meet him. the great inventor himself. " Alpheo''s smile widened, a hint of pride in his expression. "I''m certain Arstolier would be more than happy to entertain a dinner with you, Sir Doria. You''ll find him quite engaging." Chapter 185: The claw of an eagle(3) Chapter 185: The claw of an eagle(3) In the dimly lit chamber, Jasmine paced back and forth, her brow furrowed with frustration. "Why the hell would the Empire send an envoy here," she snapped, "when they''re tangled up in a three-sided civil war?Do they have time to fucking daze around?" Her voice echoed off the stone walls. Alpheo, seated in a cushioned chair, calmly sipped his drink before answering. "They''re obviously interested in our products," he said, his tone measured. "The timing might be odd, but the demand speaks for itself, anyone with any bit of brain understand their value ." Shahab, standing near the window with arms crossed, nodded thoughtfully. "They''re likely trying to buy out our market," he mused. "Get a monopoly on the goods and control their distribution back in Romelia at least ." Jasmine stopped pacing, turning sharply to face them both. "Well, they can go fuck themselves," she said with an acidic edge to her voice. Alpheo nearly choked, his drink shooting from his nose as he coughed and chuckled simultaneously. Through fits of laughter, he finally managed, "It... it might be better not to be so rash, Jasmine." He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, still grinning. Jasmine slammed her hand on the edge of the table, her eyes ablaze. "Those products are mi-ours," she declared firmly. "Why should we hand them over so easily?" Alpheo leaned back in his chair, wiping the last of his laughter from his lips. "Refusing them outright could lead to unforeseen consequences'''' he warned, his tone now serious. "We don''t know what doors we might be closing. It may seem like a small thing now, but in the future, it could cost us more than we expect.Too much greed only lead to one downfall" Jasmine scoffed, crossing her arms. "Their backyard is on fire," she countered sharply. "They''re in the middle of a civil war. They shouldn''t have time to worry about how green the grass is over here." Shahab, ever the voice of reason, uncrossed his arms and stepped forward. "That may be true," he agreed. "But we don''t know how long this chaos will last. The tides of war can change swiftly, and the Empire, even in conflict, is still a force to be reckoned with, they would have no trouble raising an army of 10,000 ." Alpheo nodded thoughtfully. "Exactly," he said, gesturing for emphasis. "It''s in our best interest to hear them out. Get the best out of the situation while we still have the upper hand. From what I''ve gathered, the current baby-emperor in the south is faring the worst in the conflict. It''s to our advantage to help him just enough to keep the civil war dragging on. After all," he paused, locking eyes with Jasmine, "it''s better to have our powerful neighbor to the north tangled in their own problems while we grow stronger." Jasmine''s eyes narrowed, her fingers drumming on the table. "We could gain tens of thousands, just from their market in the north," she mused, her gaze flickering with ambition. Then she looked up at Alpheo, a sly smile curling on her lips. "Or are you not confident enough to defeat whatever second-rate army those imperials can send our way?" Alpheo''s smile faded, his eyes hardening as he leaned forward. "You''re letting greed cloud your judgment, so I am going to assume that what you just said was a fleeting thought," he said, his voice steady but edged with warning. "I have every confidence we can crush whatever peasant armies the empire''s princes might cobble together, but when it comes to the true imperial forces? That''s an entirely different beast.I would be a fool and naive bastard to think otherwise." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "The Empire''s most basic soldiers are equipped enough to actually challenge my men," he continued, his tone now deadly serious. "If we reach too high for the tallest apple, we risk slipping and falling into the mud. Why risk everything, when there''s fruit already within our grasp?" His eyes held Jasmine''s, and for a moment the room seemed to still in the moment. --------------------- Alpheo leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "Tell me, why should we purposefully cut our own feet?" he asked, his voice calm but firm. "If we sell independently, we''ll gain far more in the long run, keeping control over every market we touch. So, what would make us tie ourselves to just one buyer¡ªno matter how prestigious?" Doria, unfazed by the resistance, smiled slightly. "By doing this, you gain something much greater than just a single buyer," he replied smoothly. He let the silence hang in the air before continuing. "You gain the friendship of the Emperor." Alpheo''s brow furrowed, and he raised an eyebrow. "And what, exactly, does that entail?" "A potential relation that goes beyond being simple neighbors ," Doria said, his words measured and deliberate. "With the Emperor on your side, there are benefits far beyond trade. Protection. Influence. A stronger foothold in future dealings with us...." Alpheo leaned back, clearly thinking it over. He couldn''t help but wonder what help the Empire could offer, with their armies currently marching north to fight against the rebels. Their civil war was far from over, and the thought of aligning with a power that was so deeply entangled in its own struggles seemed... useless. Alpheo folded his arms, his gaze sharpening. "I''ll sell you the rights to distribute our products in the Empire''s market," he said, his voice steady, "but everything south of the Empire remains ours. We won''t give up control of that." Doria nodded smoothly, as if the concession was expected. "That won''t be a problem," he replied with a diplomatic smile. "The Empire is most interested in ensuring its markets are well-supplied. Your southern dealings can remain entirely in your hands, we have no interest on thsoe ." Leaning forward slightly, Doria added, "Perhaps now, we can begin discussing the prices. I''m certain we can come to an arrangement that benefits us both." His tone was confident yet cordial, as if this part of the negotiation was merely a formality. Doria''s mind raced as Alpheo laid out his terms. This is better than I thought, he mused, keeping his expression calm. Securing a monopoly over the Empire''s market was a significant win, he expected more fraction in order to get that . For now, just the empire market was enough. Perhaps, once the Empire had regained its strength and stability, they could push for even more favorable terms. Expansion could always come later, but today, this deal would provide the foothold they needed. Alpheo leaned back in his chair, speaking firmly. "I want 10 silverii a piece for soap, and 15 for the cider." Doria raised an eyebrow, his tone measured but firm. "The merchants who brought your products north were selling the soap for 8 silverii and the cider for 12. That was the price the market set." Alpheo smirked, as if anticipating the objection. "That was because the products were still new to the market. They didn''t know their real value yet. Now that demand has skyrocketed, the prices will reflect that. These goods have proven themselves." Doria leaned forward slightly, a measured smile on his face. "I understand you''re pricing these products for their value, your grace" he began, "but you should also consider the fact that we''re buying in bulk. A steady, guaranteed market over a long period offers stability.If we choose prices too high , we might find that our customers would rather buy directly from the south for their private use. It would be much more affordable for them, wouldn''t it?" Alpheo said nothing , he just tilted his head, waiting for their counteroffer. Doria didn''t flinch. "Then I will make you an offer," he said firmly. '''' six silverii per piece of soap and 8 for each urn of cider. For the first sale, we''ll purchase 350 pieces of soap and 200 urns of cider." He paused, letting the terms sink in. The room was quiet as Alpheo weighed the offer. And as soon as opened his mouth to respond, he was interrupted by his companion . "My apologies for his grace ," Shahab said with a graceful bow of his head. "Counting coppers is beneath all of us who stand on higher ground.Unfortunately, as you may know his grace''s birth did not allow him to be teached an higher form of behaviour " His voice was calm, controlled, as though he had rehearsed this moment many times. He turned his attention fully to Doria, offering a courteous smile. "Your terms, sir Doria, are acceptable. However," Shahab paused, his words deliberate, "we would like to see something else added to the agreement." As Shahab spoke, Doria noticed something¡ªShahab''s fleeting glance toward Alpheo, almost imperceptible, yet clear enough to raise Doria''s suspicions Doria sat back in his chair, a sense of satisfaction swelling within him. Whatever happened , the terms he had secured were far better than he had expected, both highly advantageous and generous to the Empire. His mission was more than accomplished. With a polite smile, Doria gestured for Shahab to proceed, saying, "Please, go on and relay your request." Shahab leaned slightly forward, his tone smooth yet businesslike. "In return for accepting the terms you have graciously offered, we would ask for a discount on any future weapon sales that may be entertained between your Regent''s family and ours." Doria''s eyebrows raised slightly in interest. "And how much of a discount would you suggest?" Without hesitation, Shahab blurted out, "Sixty percent." Doria paused, carefully keeping his expression measured. Sixty percent was an absurd figure, one that would result in substantial losses for the Regent''s family. "For such a discount," Doria said evenly, "the Acheia family would encounter significant losses for any sale made with you. " He leaned in slightly, his voice calm yet firm. "I can, however, offer you a fifteen percent discount. That, I assure you, is more than reasonable for both sides." Shahab leaned forward, his expression polite but resolute. "These terms, Sir Doria, weigh heavily in your favor. While you take a great deal from us, what you return amounts to little more than crumbs. How much weaponry could a small princedom like ours truly demand, after all?" He gestured vaguely, emphasizing the modesty of their needs. "Forty percent," Shahab proposed, his voice calm yet firm, as though the number were the most reasonable request in the world. Doria, maintaining a calm demeanor, tilted his head slightly in consideration. "Thirty percent," he countered, his voice decisive yet courteous. A moment of silence followed, a subtle exchange of glances between Shahab and Alpheo before Shahab nodded in agreement. "Thirty percent it is, then." The terms were settled, but Shahab had one more request. "There is one more matter," he said, his tone still measured but more pointed. "We would prefer if twenty percent of the payment for the products were to be made in armor." Doria raised an eyebrow slightly, curious but attentive. "Armor?" "Chainmail," Shahab clarified with a faint smile. "We will need the best your blacksmiths can produce.Perhapse in the future we may decide to change it, however for now those would suffice" Doria gave a slow nod, he knew the current imperial coffers were light, so the fact that they could manage to pay with other means was beneficial to them . It seemed both sides had secured what they desired, and the negotiation reached its close with a sense of quiet satisfaction. Alpheo''s face remained serious, his expression betraying nothing more than the typical stoicism expected during negotiations. It was as though he had just swallowed something bitter, his lips pressed tightly together, and his eyes fixed intently on Doria. Anyone looking at him would think the terms had taken an unpleasant turn for him. Yet, in his mind, Alpheo was cheering, his thoughts buzzing with excitement. Finally, he thought, a solution to the problem that''s plagued me for months. Acquiring weapons had been his greatest challenge, particularly due to the lack of iron mines in his wife''s lands . No matter how many victories he led on the battlefield, securing the proper arms to sustain and expand their forces had been a near-impossible task, as the local production of weapons and armors was too low and shabby. But now, with this deal, he had managed to secure exactly what he needed without raising suspicion. Payment in chainmail was a masterstroke¡ªit would supply him with armor to not only equip his current forces but to gift them to those he believed was necessary to arm for his future plans, as he knew the importance of creating proxy allies during a war. Supplies that would be given to him , basically for free given the low cost to produce soap and the averagely medium for apple cider. Outwardly, he remained still, serious, nodding along to Shahab''s final remarks. But inside, he was celebrating. Chapter 186: Running against time(1) Chapter 186: Running against time(1) Marthio''s pov: A month had passed since the fall of the Gods'' Finger, the ancient fortress that once seemed impregnable, now under the rebels. In that time, lord Marthio had wasted no moment in mounting his response. He had led his army down the Everlasting Road, an ancient stone route that carved through the empire''s southern block from Romelia up to the Finger . Remarkably, they had marched three-quarter of the entire length of it in just under ten days, a pace unheard of for such a large force. Over twenty-five kilometers each day, through rain, cold, and rough terrain ¡ª a feat that had pushed men and horses to their very limits. The old commander had done everything in his power to ensure they would arrive in the north before it was too late. He knew very well that now that the Finger fell, the southern nobles would have no real reason not to flock to the second prince''s side, which meant that the only way the young emperor could mantain power was to soundly defeat Mavius in battle. Now, The Imperial army had built camp across the wide plains of Durbegicum. The camp was a sea of tents and banners, fires flickering under the evening sky. In the center of it all stood the command tent ¡ª a large, imposing structure adorned with the imperial standard alongside that of Achea. Inside, Marthio sat at the head of a long table, his fingers tapping against its wooden surface as he surveyed the men gathered around him. At that table were the various lords and commanders Marthio had managed to rally to his cause, alongside those that were sworn to him personally. They wore armor and cloaks of varying colors and designs, their faces set in hard lines as they murmured among themselves, waiting for Marthio to speak. He studied them carefully. Convincing them to send their forces had been a battle in itself. But here they were, assembled around him. Marthio''s gaze shifted toward one of the lords seated along the table. His sharp eyes settled on Lord Varyn Harkain of House Harkain, a tall and gaunt man whose house had long been sworn to his. Varyn swallowed nervously as Marthio''s silent command was made clear ¡ª it was time for his report. Clearing his throat, Lord Varyn rose from his seat, his voice slightly wavering as he began to speak. "My lord, our search parties... they''ve scoured the hills, the forests, and the lowlands north of us . We''ve put all effort into locating him, but as of now, we still do not know his exact whereabouts. We''ve heard unsettling news, however... rumors from the local villagers and travelers." Varyn hesitated, glancing nervously around the table before continuing. "They speak of carts set aflame, entire caravans burning along the side of the roads. And the bodies... dozens of them, my lord. Left in the open, but without their heads . It''s clear¡ª" "I already know what he''s been doing," Marthio interrupted, his voice steely and calm, though the frustration was evident in his eyes. "I do not need another recounting of his valor in defeating his grace''s enemy. What I need, Lord Harkain, is to know where he is." His hand clenched into a fist atop the table as he leaned forward slightly, staring the lord down. The weight of his words hung in the air like a blade. Varyn shifted uneasily in his armor. "How," Marthio continued, his voice rising just enough to command the room''s full attention, "is it possible for a man leading over one hundred warriors to simply vanish into thin air? No matter how cunning he might be, men of that number don''t just disappear without a trace. And yet he appears, time and time again, only when it suits him." Marthio''s eyes narrowed. "Do your scouts report nothing of value? Not a trail, not a witness, not a single lead? He can''t be a ghost, Lord Harkain. Find him. I need to know where my son is, not just what he''s left behind." Lord Varyn''s face paled further, and he stammered, "W-we will intensify the search, my lord. I''ll double the patrols, scour every village, every shadowed path... I swear, we''ll find him." Marthio exhaled sharply, his frustration palpable. His hands gripped the edge of the table as he leaned forward, eyes scanning the faces of the lords before settling back on Lord Varyn. "We have received messages from him," Marthio said, his voice low "He sends us letters, where he reports the enemy where-abouts. How is it that he can reach us, but we cannot reach him?" Lord Varyn swallowed nervously, his hands resting on the table in front of him. "My lord," he began cautiously, "the messengers were mere travelers, paid to deliver his letters. They carried no allegiance to him nor did they ever meet him personally, only the promise of gold if they reached our lines. Your son¡ªhe seems intent on avoiding detection, perhaps to continue his raids without being slowed down." Marthio''s fist clenched slightly at the mention of his son, though his face remained composed. He sighed, more out of concern than anger. "I know what he''s doing, Varyn. I''ve read his reports. But we need to know where he is. He''s out there with over a hundred men, fighting a guerilla war against Mavius'' forces." He leaned forward, his tone sharper. "How can he simply vanish from our sight when we need him found?" Varyn met Marthio''s gaze with hesitance but spoke nonetheless. "It seems, my lord, that your son wishes to remain hidden¡ªperhaps to maintain his element of surprise against Mavius. His actions have been effective, but he''s making it difficult for us to track him down." Marthio leaned back, rubbing his temple, clearly more concerned for his son''s safety than the inconvenience his tactics caused. "Effective, yes. But he''s playing a dangerous game. Every day he stays behind enemy lines is a day closer to something going wrong." Marthio sighed inwardly, his thoughts drifting to his son, Tyros. Stubborn, relentless, and fiercely independent¡ª I''d have an easier time teaching a bull to dance, he mused as he thought of his eldest son , than getting my boy to obey me. Suddenly, the tent''s flap burst open, the wind carrying the scent of sweat and dust as one of the scouts rushed inside, breathless. "Lord Marthio," the scout panted, "some of the scouts have returned. They say... they say someone claims to be Lord Tyros." Marthio''s eyes widened, his heart skipping a beat. "Bring him in. Now!" he barked, pushing his chair back as he stood up abruptly. The scout hesitated for a moment before adding, "My lord... what should we do about his ''soldiers''?" Marthio shot him a sharp look, his voice dripping with impatience. "Are you really that incompetent? Do I need to spoon-feed you instructions on how to deal with a few dozen men?" The guard, still fidgeting nervously, swallowed hard. "My lord," he stammered, "there are... at least 300 outside, and if I may be honest... they don''t really have the air of soldiers..." Marthio''s brow furrowed in confusion. "Three hundred?" He paused, processing the number. "Let them in." The guard nodded stiffly, still visibly anxious, before rushing out. Meanwhile Marthio rubbed his temple, already feeling the dull throb of frustration. What in the gods'' names has hid son done now? he wondered, his mind racing as he made his way toward the camp''s entrance. The image of his son was fresh in his thoughts¡ªbold, reckless, and with a habit of defying orders at every turn. Marthio had long since learned that Tyros could be as unpredictable as a storm, and predicting his actions was as useless as commanding the waves to stop. Marthio sighed deeply, rising from his seat. "We''ll convene again tomorrow," he said, dismissing the gathered lords with a wave of his hand. The lords exchanged uncertain glances but quickly stood, offering respectful nods as they exited the tent, leaving Marthio to face his recently found son. Chapter 187: Running against time (2) Chapter 187: Running against time (2) Marthio stepped out of the tent, the flaps falling behind him with a dull thud, and he immediately heard a commotion stirring from the camp''s edge. Shouts, hurried footsteps, and the low murmur of soldiers speaking filled the air.His feet moved faster as he approached the growing crowd, and then he saw it¡ªwhat the scout had been stammering about. Over 300 men were pouring into the camp, a motley procession of soldiers and... something far worse. At the front of the group, about forty men wore the standard-issue armor of imperial light riders, their dark breastplates gleaming under the fading sunlight. These men moved with discipline, holding their spears and swords with the ease of veterans. They were clearly the riders that Tyros brought with him as he marched to the defense of the Fingers. Behind them, however, the real oddity began to filter through. Hundreds of men¡ªbarely looking like soldiers at all¡ªambled in. They had no armor, no shields, and no helmets to speak of. Instead, they wore furs and animal pelts draped over their shoulders, some of them little more than ragged cloaks. Their faces were smeared with dirt, and their eyes were sharp, feral even. Their weapons were crude¡ªbows slung over their backs, others gripping rusty daggers or battered lances. Marthio''s stomach tightened as he watched them enter his camp. Bandits. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. Tyros had brought back with him bandits His jaw clenched as he surveyed the chaotic procession. What has that damned fool gotten us into now? Through the mass of wild men and ragged soldiers, a familiar figure finally emerged, striding confidently toward the camp''s center, as he owned the whole world . Tyros. His red hair caught the last glimmer of daylight, standing out like a flame amidst the grays and browns of the bandits he had brought with him. He wore a half-smile, the kind of grin that could charm or infuriate, depending on the situation. His armor was scuffed but well-worn. Marthio''s eyes narrowed as his son approached, a mix of pride and frustration swirling within him. Tyros had always been impossible to control¡ªstubborn, reckless, and charismatic enough to draw others to him no matter how unwise his plans. And now, here he was, leading an unruly band of misfits straight into Marthio''s carefully built camp. Tyros walked forward with an easy gait, his smile widening as he stopped before his father. "Father," he greeted, voice warm but with that ever-present edge of mischief. "It''s good to see you." Marthio remained silent for a beat, his eyes scanning the rough-looking men Tyros had brought with him. Tyros seemed entirely unbothered by the tension in the air. "My companions," Tyros gestured with a casual sweep of his hand toward the bandits-soldiers , "will require some tents. They''ve been marching with me, days and nights, through every cursed road we could find. And I imagine," he added with a grin, "they would really appreciate a warm meal too. They''re a bit rough around the edges, but they''re loyal enough." Marthio''s jaw tightened, Loyal? To what? A bag of stolen coins? Marthio''s expression remained grim as he turned to his son. "Follow me," he said, voice tight with frustration, before heading toward the now-empty tent. Tyros followed, a glint of amusement in his eyes, clearly unbothered by the tension. Once inside, Tyros spotted an urn of wine on the long table, the remnants of the earlier meeting. Without hesitation, he grabbed it and took a long drink straight from the mouth of the urn, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes roamed the tent, noticing the scattered maps and empty plates. "Is there something to eat?Been starved for days " Marthio''s patience thinned further. "Stop acting as if you were a fool," he snapped, his voice low but edged with irritation. "Enough of this nonsense. Start explaining." Tyros grinned, leaning back against the table with a relaxed air. "Fine, fine, truthfully, I could not wait to share my story, so eventful... they could easily write a book about it" he began, still wiping wine from his lips. "After the fall of the Fingers, I managed to slip away before Mavius'' men could capture me. Had about sixty riders with me. Most of them were ready to head back, to return home and report the defeat. But I knew better." He tilted his head slightly, a playful glint in his eyes. "I knew you didn''t need me to trudge back to you, looking like a beaten dog. So, I decided to... remediate the situation." Marthio''s brow furrowed. "Remediated?" he repeated, his voice laced with disbelief. "You thought that playing the rider, chasing carts and foragers, would fix anything?" Tyros leaned back against the table, clearly savoring the moment as he recounted his exploits. "We hit their supply lines hard," he said, voice full of pride. "Every cart, every foraging party we found¡ªwe took them out. No food, no reinforcements, just chaos for Mavius'' forces." Marthio''s eyes narrowed as he took in his son''s words. "And these... ''companions'' of yours?" he asked, gesturing toward the ragtag group of men outside. "Where did they come from?" Tyros smirked. "Ah, yes. My charming companions." He paused, his grin widening. "While I was on the run, I was captured by bandits. Nasty lot, too¡ªmean enough to string me up, but smart enough to listen." He chuckled at the memory. "I convinced them that their days of raiding would soon end in a nice crucifixion if they kept on, be it from Mavius or Mesha''s side . But if they fought for me, swore loyalty, they might just earn a pardon for their crimes alongside a wide bag filled with coins at the end of everything." Marthio raised an eyebrow, still unconvinced. "And they believed you?" Tyros shrugged. "Desperation makes men do strange things, Father. I gave them hope, and they gave me their blades." He tilted his head, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "We kept riding, growing stronger, causing enough trouble for Mavius'' forces that they had to send someone after us." "And?" Marthio pressed, still not entirely satisfied. "Who did they send?" "A knight,I forgot the name of the poor bastard" Tyros said, his grin fading into something more serious. "One of Mavius'' men. They put him in charge of hunting us down, tracking us through the forests. But instead of being hunted, I turned the tables. We ambushed them¡ªcaught them by surprise. I even captured the knight himself." Marthio''s eyes widened slightly, impressed despite himself. "And?" "And," Tyros continued, leaning forward with a triumphant gleam in his eye, "from him, I got something better than a blade. Information. Useful information." Tyros leaned in closer, his voice lowering as he began to recount the information he had wrested from the captured knight. "The knight apparently was a close man of Mavius, he told me that their emperor is growing increasingly agitated. He''s convinced he needs to march south immediately, before the heavy winter sets in. Some of the lords in his camp disagreed, thinking it would be wiser to settle in and consolidate their gains. But they''re in the minority." Tyros continued, "Most of Mavius'' lords were disappointed with the meager loot they got after the fall of the Finger. They expected riches, spoils worthy of their ambitions, but they ended up with scraps. That frustration has made them eager to push south, supporting Mavius'' reckless plan for an advance." Marthio stroked his beard thoughtfully. "So, they''re divided and yet rash" "Exactly," Tyros said, nodding. "The hunger for wealth and power is making them careless. Mavius wants a decisive victory, a big win, and he wants it now. He''s not thinking about the long-term consequences¡ªhe just wants to march south and crush us before winter comes in full force. The boy is impatient." "And what about winter?" Marthio asked, narrowing his eyes. "Surely even he understands the danger of marching an army in those conditions?" Tyros grinned. "He doesn''t care. He''s willing to fight under any condition, thinking it''ll be a quick campaign. He wants to soundly defeat us before the deep winter sets in¡ªbefore the snow makes movement impossible.I think he believes, that if he defeats us on a pitch battle the southern lords will flock to his side. Which I believe is a sound thought....he''s going to give battle soon, no matter the cost." Marthio sat back, his brow furrowed, pondering the gravity of Tyros'' words. After a moment, he turned to his son. "Give me the knight," he demanded. "I need to verify this information." Tyros'' grin faded slightly. He shook his head. "I can''t Father." "And why not?" Tyros sighed, standing up and pacing slowly. "It wouldn''t look good for a lord, to walk into camp with a tortured nobleman in tow, even if he is a rebel. It''s bad optics and against the code of chivalry and honor. And truthfully, some things are better buried under the dirt." Marthio''s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. His son continued. "Look, the information is good, Father. I wouldn''t be bringing it to you if I had any doubts. And we don''t have the luxury of second-guessing right now. What we need is a plan, a way to use this against Mavius before he strikes." Tyros stopped pacing and turned back to his father ''''And on the way here, wouldn''t you know I just thought of something'''' Tyros'' smile unfurled slowly, like the first light of dawn creeping over a darkened horizon. It was the kind of smile that carried the steady confidence of a man who held his cards close to his chest and knew that he held the key to victory. Chapter 188: Unwanted evening Chapter 188: Unwanted evening Alpheo sat in the dimly lit chamber, the papyrus pages of an old manuscript resting delicately in his hands. His fingers traced the rough texture as he turned another page. The chair beneath him creaked softly as he leaned back, frowning at what he was reading. how crude, he thought as he turned another one. The door swung open, and Jasmine stepped into the room, her brow already furrowed in disapproval. "Why are you still not dressed?" Alpheo glanced down at his simple tunic, then sighed heavily, closing the book with a soft thud. "I got... lost," he admitted, his voice trailing off as if the explanation was as much for himself as it was for her. His fingers tapped the closed papyrus for a moment before he stood up, moving languidly towards the wardrobe. Jasmine watched him, arms crossed, her frown deepening. "You know we need to be there." "Do we truly?" Alpheo asked as he slipped the tunic over his head, folding it carefully. He reached for his formal attire¡ªa deep blue robe¡ªand began dressing himself with practiced ease. "I had some work to finish," he continued, his voice tinged with reluctance as he fastened the robe''s clasps. He pulled on a wide leather belt, adjusting it before reaching for the gleaming silver cuffs, sliding them over his wrists. Jasmine''s eyes narrowed. "Yes, we need to be there. I don''t care how much you hate these dinners'''' Alpheo nodded absently, picking up his boots and slipping them on, one after the other. "I just don''t see why we need to endure all the pomp. There are things I could be doing, things that would actually matter." He straightened his collar with a sigh, pulling his dark hair into place, his fingers lingering in his locks . Jasmine''s eyes glinted with amusement as she stepped closer, her tone now layered with playful mockery. "For this one, it''s better if we''re both there. You know as well as I do, that old senile fool might blurt out something we really don''t want him to." Alpheo smirked, his voice casual as he replied, "I trust you enough to take care of it on your own. You''ve always had a way with smoothing things over." Without warning, Jasmine cupped Alpheo''s cheeks in one hand, kneading them forward with just enough pressure to pull him closer. "I appreciate the trust" she purred, tilting his face towards hers, "but you should really move your ass." she pushed him away Alpheo chuckled, a deep, soft laugh rumbling from his chest as he finished adjusting the last fold of his robe. "I''m ready. See?" he said, raising his arms slightly to show off his efforts. Jasmine sighed, her fingers slipping from his face as she shook her head with mock exasperation. "I still don''t understand why you don''t let the servants dress you. We''d be out of here much faster." Alpheo shrugged, a light grin playing on his lips. "I''m only comfortable letting others touch my things when it''s armor. And even then, I leave that job to Ratto." .--------------- Alpheo sat at one end of a long, lavishly decorated table, set with an array of dishes and drinks, reflecting the wealth and power of the palace. Platters of roasted meats, fragrant breads, and colorful fruits were spread out before them, the rich aromas mingling in the air. Alpheo''s gaze, however, was not on the food but on the man sitting opposite him¡ªthe imperial envoy who had frequently requested this very dinner, eager to meet the so-called genius. Across the table sat the old man, Arstolier, the supposed mastermind behind the famed products. His frail hands trembled as he slowly moved another morsel of bread toward his lips, his fingers shaking visibly, as though even this simple action required great effort. His eyes, cloudy with age, blinked slowly under heavy brows, and his mouth moved in small, careful bites, as if every chew took deep concentration. Doria leaned back, enjoying his meal as he turned his attention toward Jasmine. "Once again, I must express my gratitude to Her Grace for accommodating my request," he said, his tone smooth and diplomatic. Jasmine returned the smile with grace. "It is our pleasure, Lord Doria," she replied, though her eyes flickered briefly toward the old man at the end of the table, a subtle reminder of why they were here. Doria, after taking a bite of chicken, glanced at the frail figure of Arstolier, who sat with his hand trembling slightly as he lifted another morsel to his mouth. "Arstolier," Doria said with a polite but probing tone, "when did you finally succeed in your work? When did these innovations come to life?" The old man blinked several times, his lips trembling as he tried to form his words. "I¡ªI... ah, yes, it was... a few... a few w-weeks after I w-was... accepted into c-court," he stammered, his hands shaking as he set down his food. Doria leaned in slightly, his curiosity piqued. "And before that?" he asked, his voice soft but insistent. "What were you doing before you joined the royal household?" Arstolier''s fingers fumbled with the edge of his tunic as he glanced nervously around the table. "I... I w-worked... in temples, m-mostly... yes, yes, as a... a manuensis, copying... texts and scrolls," he stuttered, his words faltering as if each sentence cost him great effort. "B-but in my f-free time... I... I did experiments, small o-ones... yes, small... ah, I... I could only afford s-small experiments..." Doria raised an eyebrow. "And I assume your budget was quite limited?" The old man nodded shakily, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Y-yes, my lord, v-very... very light. But now, with... with the royal... support, I... I don''t have to... to worry about such things anymore." He paused, swallowing nervously before adding, "N-now I can f-focus... entirely on my w-work." Doria gave a measured nod, watching the old man closely as he took another trembling sip from his goblet, clearly uncomfortable under the weight of the conversation. He gave a small gaze at the young man sitting on the far end of the table. Oi, this was not what we agreed on.... , the old man said with his gaze at which point Alpheo could only avert his eyes, ignoring the accusatory eyes. Doria, his curiosity still not satisfied, set down his fork and fixed his gaze on Arstolier. "Both the soap and the cider... quite impressive feats, I must say. But what truly intrigues me," he said, leaning forward slightly, "is how you managed to perfect both products in such a short amount of time." The old man blinked, clearly uneasy with the question. His hand trembled as he reached for his cup, but before he could answer, Alpheo subtly clenched his jaw, his expression tightening for just a split second. He quickly masked it with a calm demeanor. Arstolier, meanwhile, let out a shaky breath, his frail voice cracking as he spoke. "Ah... w-well, you see... it was... a miracle, m-my lord... y-yes, a miracle!" He nodded to himself, almost as if convincing himself of the story. "In the d-dead of night... the A-All-Knower... visited me... in a dream, y-yes, yes... He... He showed me... such w-wondrous things..." He paused, his hands now shaking more visibly as he continued. "H-He s-showed me... how to make the s-soap... and the cider. E-every detail... was revealed to me... as if... as if it were a g-gift... from the heavens themselves." Doria''s eyes narrowed, his interest piqued by the odd response, but he maintained a polite smile. "A dream, you say? Quite extraordinary..." Arstolier nodded vigorously, wiping sweat from his brow. "Y-yes... extraordinary indeed, m-my lord... it... it was truly... a b-blessing from the A-All-Knower," he stammered, clearly uncomfortable under Doria''s probing gaze. Alpheo, sensing the tension in the air and noticing Arstolier''s increasing discomfort, decided it was time to shift the conversation. With a smooth smile, he turned to Doria and spoke in a lighter tone. "Lord Doria, speaking of blessings, when might we expect your people to retrieve the convoys and finalize the payment?" Doria, recognizing the pivot in the conversation, responded with ease. "In no less than two weeks, everything will be prepared, Lord Alpheo. The convoys will arrive, and the payment will be settled promptly." Alpheo nodded, his smile widening. "That''s excellent to hear. I must say, I''m particularly eager about the armors that the Acheia family is famed for. I''ve heard much about their craftsmanship." Doria chuckled, his mood lightening further as the discussion turned to something more familiar. "Ah, I''m certain the emperor will be more than happy to gift a set of Acheian plate armor to our new friends , especially one fit for a brave warrior such as yourself." Alpheo, grinning, waved a hand modestly. "A brave warrior? I fear I have much to learn before I can claim such a title. But I will certainly make an effort, especially if it means I can show off such a precious gift. It would be quite the incentive to push myself harder." Doria, raising his cup with a practiced grace, smiled warmly as he addressed the table. "Then we shall cheer to that," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "To new beginnings and the opportunities brought by new ventures." His gaze swept over Jasmine, who returned his smile with a polite nod, and then to the old man, Arstolier, who managed a shaky smile of his own, still nervously fiddling with his utensils. As Doria raised his cup higher, his eyes briefly flickered across the table to Alpheo, the young man in front of him. "To the future and to what it helds..." he finished, his voice steady, as he brought the cup to his lips. Chapter 189: Getting into work Chapter 189: Getting into work Jasmine stirred beneath the heavy sheets, the warmth of the bed still clinging to her skin as she slowly opened her eyes. Her gaze drifted to the other side of the bed, now cold and empty. With a soft groan, she lazily propped herself up on her elbows, her hair tumbling messily over her shoulders as she blinked, adjusting to the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. She rubbed her eyes, her limbs still heavy with sleep, and glanced around the room. There, at the far side, was Alpheo, already up and seated at his desk. His back was to her, his posture focused as he leaned over a stack of parchments, his hand moving steadily as he wrote. Jasmine sighed and slumped back onto the pillows for a moment, half tempted to close her eyes again. Instead, she muttered softly, "Of course, you''re already working..." before swinging her legs over the side of the bed and forcing herself to get up. Alpheo, still scribbling on his parchment, heard the soft rustle of sheets behind him. Without turning, he asked, "Did I wake you up?" His voice was gentle, though there was a hint of amusement in it. Jasmine groaned in response, saying nothing as she stretched, her body still sluggish with sleep. She blinked, rubbing her eyes, before muttering, "How long have you been awake?" "A few hours," Alpheo replied, his quill pausing briefly over the paper. He chuckled softly, "I''m a light sleeper." Jasmine sighed, running a hand through her tangled hair. "Did you at least have breakfast?" He shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. "Not hungry." With a shake of her head, Jasmine stood and made her way toward him, the soft patter of her bare feet on the stone floor the only sound in the room. Jasmine approached Alpheo''s desk, leaning slightly to peer at the scattered parchment. "What are you working on?" she asked, her voice still thick with sleep. Alpheo glanced up, a tired but content smile on his face. "I''m planning a reform for the administration of the fiefs under royal control," he said, tapping a page filled with notes. "It''s nothing too exciting. Just trying to smooth things out for the crown.I told you about it, remember?" He looked up at her and raised an eyebrow. "Want to give me an hand?'''' Jasmine let out a soft scoff, crossing her arms. "Seems bothersome. I think you can handle all those things on your own." Her voice had a teasing edge to it, but the smile in her eyes showed her affection. Alpheo chuckled, shaking his head. "You''re the one who wanted the crown, remember?" He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms. She smirked, remembering their early days. "When I first thought I''d marry a mercenary, I assumed you''d only care about luxury and war. I didn''t expect to marry a man who dives into books from dawn until dusk." Her tone softened. "Not that I''m complaining," she added, a playful glint in her eyes. Alpheo laughed, the sound warm and genuine. Jasmine tilted her head and asked, "Do you want to have breakfast?" Alpheo glanced at the papers scattered across his desk and shook his head. "I need to finish these up first." With a sigh, Jasmine reached over and snatched the parchment he was writing on. Alpheo blinked in surprise as she held it up and began reading, her eyes skimming the words for several seconds. After a few moments, she looked up and asked, "What''s all this?" Alpheo leaned back, rubbing his temples briefly before answering, "I''m dividing the administrative tasks for each region. I want to make sure one area balances the other, so no position gets too much power or becomes too autonomous." Jasmine continued reading for a few more moments, then frowned. "Why do we need so many people for all these different tasks? We''ve always just named a regent to deal with everything in a region before, and it seemed fine." Alpheo smiled wryly. "Because they are allowed too much free space to work with . When one person controls too many things, they get sloppy¡ªor worse, greedy. By splitting tasks, each part of the administration keeps the other in check, and there''s more oversight. It also makes it harder for anyone to scheme behind our backs." Jasmine rolled her eyes but kept reading, absorbing the details. "Hmm... sounds like a lot of work for a lot of people. Are you sure we can trust them all?" "Of course we can''t trust everyone fully. Corruption comes with power. You can cut it back, reduce it, but never wipe it out completely. It''s not just about who you assign to a task¡ªit''s about the ruler himself," Alpheo said, leaning back and looking at Jasmine with a serious expression. He continued, "Picture a newly crowned young ruler, unsure of himself, or an old man who''s lost his edge. The people beneath him will steal, bribe, and embezzle without fear, knowing the king''s too weak to stop them. But now, imagine a strong king¡ªone who doesn''t tolerate corruption. All it takes is for him to punish one or two guilty men, and the rest will start thinking twice before lining their pockets. They''ll downgrade their schemes to just small enough that it flies under the radar, and even then, they''ll tread carefully." Alpheo stood and stretched, as if to emphasize his point. "Now, think about what happens when you have multiple people working the same region. It makes things a lot trickier for anyone trying to be dishonest. Before they act, they have to worry if one of their coworkers will notice and rat them out. That alone cuts down on corruption, and if we change their posts every few years, they won''t get too cozy with local powers or criminals. It keeps them from growing roots in any one place for too long." Jasmine tapped her finger on the table, a hint of amusement in her voice. "So it''s more like a game of fear than trust, then?" Alpheo chuckled. "Not exactly fear¡ªmore like accountability. When they know they''re being watched by both the crown and their peers, they''ll be less likely to let greed take over. It''s the best we can do, really.Of course some small actions of embezzlement are almost impossible to detect and stop; hence it is much better to make the heavier one harder to accomplish." Jasmine pulled out a chair and sat down across from Alpheo; her curiosity piqued. Alpheo couldn''t help but smile at her interest as she settled in. "Alright," she said, folding her arms on the table. "It''s clear you want me to ask more, I lived with you enough to know you like flaunting your ideas around.... Tell me, how have you divided these tasks?" Alpheo leaned forward, his fingers tapping lightly on the table as he began to explain. "First, we''ll have a Taxarius. His sole responsibility will be collecting and managing taxes, making sure the treasury is filled without bleeding the people dry. Then, we''ll have a Judicarius¡ªthe one who handles justice and disputes in the region, ensuring the laws are followed and order is kept. A third, the Praesidiarius, will oversee the local militias and garrisons, keeping control over military matters and security." He paused, watching as Jasmine absorbed the information, then continued, "Finally, the Referentius¡ªthey''ll be the one to gather reports from all the others and summarize the situation to send to the crown at the end of each season." Jasmine raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "So, the Referentius is like a watchdog for the rest?" "Not really " Alpheo said honestly, ''''More like someone to make our job much easier , as we will not have to read through hundreds of reports each season. He will also be the one to report any problems regarding the fiefs, like there being a drought or a banditry problem.'''' Jasmine leaned back in her chair, a smirk forming on her lips. "By the way, those names stink," she said bluntly, teasing him. Alpheo raised an eyebrow, "Alright, fine. I''ll think them over later. Naming isn''t exactly my strongest suit Jasmine leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "There''s one problem," she said, her tone serious. "We don''t even have that number of courtiers and administrators to fill all these positions.Last I counted, we have more than six governors assigned on royal fiefdoms." Alpheo waved a hand dismissively. "That won''t be an issue. There are plenty of merchants¡ªwealthy ones¡ªwho''d jump at the chance to secure an administrative position for one of their sons. They''ll come flocking as soon as we give them an opportunity." Jasmine raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Merchants? You''re not going to give those jobs to the small nobility?" She leaned back, her curiosity piqued. "Not a chance," Alpheo said, shaking his head. "The last thing we need is to hand over political power to people who already have ties to noble families outside the royal circle. Merchants don''t have that kind of political baggage. They''re after wealth, not power¡ªat least not the kind of power that could destabilize the crown.We could also make use of them when we are in need of quick cash..." Jasmine sighed, pushing her chair back and standing up. "I''m tired of speaking about this and I ''m hungry," she said, nudging Alpheo''s shoulder playfully. "Come on, let''s get something to eat." Alpheo chuckled, glancing up from his work. "Alright, alright," he said with a smile, rising from his chair. "I suppose I can take a break for food." Jasmine grinned as he finally agreed, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the door. "Good, because I wasn''t planning on eating alone." Alpheo laughed softly, following her out. Chapter 190: The bad one of the litter(1) Chapter 190: The bad one of the litter(1) Tiberius sat in a small, dimly lit room. This was was clean , well lighted everything that he could have desired in the dungeon that had been his prison for what felt like an eternity , was now there . He wore clean, simple clothes now¡ªa tunic of soft wool that felt like a luxury against his skin. He could still feel the stiffness in his bones, but for the first time in what he felt were years, he was warm, fed, and no longer bound by the cold, stone walls of a cell. Days after the rescue he came to know that what seemed like years from him, were just two months. The remnants of a meal sat before him on the wooden table¡ªroast meat, bread, and a cup of watered wine. He had eaten ravenously, almost mechanically the first days , his hunger overriding any thoughts of savoring the food. Now, with his stomach full and his hands no longer trembling, he sat quietly, staring at the pages scattered across the table. Each one was crumpled, filled with only a few jagged scribbles¡ªfragments of thoughts, aborted ideas. He remembered when his father was still alive, he could have written pages and pages of poetry by simply looking at the rising sun. She remembered when Clara came to his room bringing him food, he always tried to make her sit and eat with him . He missed her, not one day passed since he was detained in a cell where he wondered where she was He leaned back in his chair, turning to look over his shoulder at the desk behind him. The food had soothed his body, but his mind was still in turmoil. He glanced at the crumpled pages once more, knowing that they held no answers. They were just the ramblings of a man who had been caged too long, trying desperately to find meaning in the madness. Tiberius had spent hours, perhaps days, trying to piece together who had rescued him from that foul, suffocating cell. Each time the door opened to bring him food, it was the same boy who stepped in. The servant, no more than a year or two younger than Tiberius, was slight of build with unremarkable features¡ªpale skin, a mop of brown hair, and a nervous demeanor. He never made eye contact, always kept his head down, and moved with quick, silent efficiency. The boy came and went like a ghost. He would place the tray of food on the table, collect the empty dishes from the previous meal, and leave without uttering a word. The boy didn''t even acknowledge any of the questions he asked . His hands moved quickly as he cleared the remnants of the meal, his silence infuriating in its persistence. Frustration gnawed at Tiberius. It was as though he was still trapped in the dungeon, but now, instead of darkness, he was locked in a maddening silence. He wanted to ask so much¡ªwho had orchestrated his escape, what their motives were, and most importantly, where she was. In the solitude of his room, Tiberius had too much time to think. It was one of the few things he could do, as he tried to make sense of everything that had happened. He''s certainly rich, Tiberius thought, his eyes drifting toward the small window overlooking a well-manicured garden. The meals he received were good¡ªtoo good¡ªand the room, while modest, was a world apart from the cell he had been dragged from. He must have wealth. But more than that...he''s got political power too. How else would he know who I was? Where I was kept? He leaned back in his chair, mind racing. No one gets that kind of information without connections¡ªwithout pulling strings that go deep. He has to be a noble, someone high enough to get a detailed map of the prison, someone who can outwit the empress''s spy-work. Tiberius''s thoughts turned toward the rumors he had heard before his imprisonment¡ªabout the reinstatement of the Wise Council. Could it be one of them? he wondered. Someone wanting to undermine the Empress Mother, maybe? He let out a soft chuckle, bitter and knowing. It sure as hell wasn''t pity. No one does something like this out of the goodness of their heart. This was planned, deliberate... His gaze drifted to the corners of the room, his thoughts growing darker. And smart, he thought grimly. Smart enough not to let me see his face. Smart enough to keep himself hidden, just in case... A chill ran down Tiberius''s spine as he considered the possibility. If this man''s plans fall through...I''m dead. He''ll burn every bridge, erase every trace. And me? I''ll be the first thing he gets rid of. Tiberius shifted in his chair, balancing on its back legs as his thoughts solidified. I''m as good as gone if this goes south. He''ll make sure of it. The door creaked open, the quiet sound pulling Tiberius from his spiraling thoughts. The boy slipped into the room, his small frame blending into the shadows as he closed the door softly behind him. His eyes darted around, scanning for the empty tray from the last meal. Tiberius leaned back, lifting his hand lazily and pointing toward the window. "It''s over there," he said, his voice low and casual. The boy nodded without a word, his bare feet making soft padding sounds on the stone floor as he made his way across the room. He moved with the quiet efficiency of someone who had done this task many times, his head barely coming up to Tiberius''s shoulder when he stood beside him. Setting the fresh tray of food on the bed, the boy stretched on his toes, reaching for the old tray perched on the windowsill. But just as his fingers brushed the edge, he felt a sudden pressure against his mouth¡ªa hand, strong and unyielding, silencing him before he could react. The boy''s eyes widened in shock as he felt something cold and sharp press against the skin of his neck. The small eating knife, meant for cutting bread, now hovered just beneath his chin. His breath hitched, and he tried to pull away, but the hand holding him firm didn''t budge. "Stay calm," a voice hissed in his ear, low and urgent. The voice was that of a young boy, not much older than the servant himself. It was Tiberius¡ªthe boy he had been bringing food to for weeks. Tiberius pressed the blade a little closer to the boy''s neck, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Stay silent," he warned, his breath warm against the boy''s ear. "If you scream, I''ll have no choice but to plunge this into your neck." His grip was firm but not brutal, and there was a tremor in his voice that hinted at how much he didn''t want to follow through with the threat. "I don''t want to do that," Tiberius whispered again, his tone almost pleading. "But I need answers. And you''re going to give them to me." Slowly, cautiously, he removed his hand from the boy''s mouth. The servant boy immediately gasped, eyes wide, and his first words were a rush of panic. "You can''t escape from here! There are guards¡ª" he started, his voice high-pitched with fear. "I know," Tiberius cut him off sharply, keeping the knife steady but easing back just a fraction. "I am aware that there are guards. I''m not stupid." Silence settled between them for a moment. The boy''s chest heaved with quick breaths, but he didn''t try to pull away. He just stood there, waiting. Tiberius leaned in close, voice low but intense. "I need one simple thing from you," he said, the threat of the knife punctuating every word. "You''re going to report something to your superiors for me. Tell them that their ''guest'' has only one question¡ªwhere is Clara?" The boy''s eyes darted sideways, panicked, but he didn''t move, frozen in Tiberius''s grip. "And make sure they understand," Tiberius continued, his tone growing darker, "just how... invested I am in getting an answer." To make his point clear, he pressed the blade just a little harder against the boy''s neck, watching the flash of fear in his eyes. Then, with one quick motion, he released the boy, stepping back and sheathing the small eating knife in his pocket. Tiberius took the empty tray and shoved it into the boy''s hands. "I''ll be eagerly awaiting your reply," he said, voice flat. "Don''t keep me waiting" The boy stumbled back, his face pale but his expression fearful. Tiberius watched him closely, giving a final nod toward the door. The boy''s face was still pale as he backed toward the door, tray held in trembling hands before turning and slipping out. The door closed with a soft click, leaving Tiberius alone once more. He let out a slow breath, the tension lingering in the room, then placed the knife back on his desk, its dull glint reflecting the faint light filtering through the small window. With a steadying exhale, he sat down, shifting a fresh piece of parchment in front of him.He knew this time ¡ªhe wouldn''t tear this one up. His hand moved over the paper, leaving dark, steady marks as he wrote, each word becoming less hesitant, each line sure to stay. Chapter 191: The bad one of the litter(2) Chapter 191: The bad one of the litter(2) The days passed in an unchanging rhythm, with Tiberius settling into a routine, each moment blending into the next in the quiet solitude of his room. Yet despite the steady flow of monotony, he noticed a shift in his young servant. The boy''s eyes always held Tiberius figure whenever he entered , always making sure he was disarmed, even though he attempted to keep his gaze respectfully lowered. Tiberius found the transformation almost amusing. Where once the boy had slipped into the room like a shadow, practically ignoring Tiberius''s presence, he now lingered just a moment longer as if waiting to catch a hint of expression or movement. And though their exchanges were wordless, Tiberius could sense the boy''s tension whenever he set the tray down. He''d even become more eager to answer this time, readily disclosing small details whenever he asked something It was remarkable, he mused, how quickly a person''s attitude could change, as though with one sharp encounter. Over the next several days, Tiberius managed to extract more than just guarded glances and quiet observations from the young servant; he even got his name¡ªEdric. At first, the boy muttered it reluctantly, barely meeting Tiberius''s eyes as he stammered his own name. But it was a beginning, and Tiberius used the boy''s interest in talking to coax more information out of him. It started with simple details about daily life in the outside world, but soon he had Edric sharing bits of news from the empire itself. The stories Edric shared were scattered,among the first thing he spoke of , was the fall of the Finger. Hearing that Tiberius tried to put up a still face, but within, he was startled; he had once visited it and knew how hard it was for such a thing to fall. Edric spoke of other things, such as how the northern territories were still in open defiance of the crown and how the Wise council was reinstated once again by the order of that red bitch. Yet, it was the news of his own family that stirred him the most. The second prince, Mavius, was moving south with an army. Tiberius digested each detail with guarded skepticism. It was hard to know what parts of Edric''s information were real and what might be embellished or simply wrong. The boy was young, after all, and likely gathering these rumors second-hand from servants, soldiers, and the occasional passerby, who might not know the truth themselves.Words after all have such an easy way to distort themselves from mouth to mouth. But whether the information was fully accurate or not, he knew that the empire was in that same crisis that he had felt when he was a free man. For as much as he hated both the empress and the dynasty that cast him aside, he hoped that if it came to a siege, Mavius would succeed in his violent ambitions. In his mind, he could almost picture the capital¡ªa place he''d once thought of as home¡ªswarming with soldiers, the streets filled with terror, and the palace in flames. He had no illusions about his half-brother Mavius; he knew enough to see him for what he was: ruthless, unyielding, driven by a lust and ambition that eclipsed even his kin''s notorious pride and lineage, as the member of their family were known to have hot-blood. Tiberius could imagine the carnage that would follow if Mavius reached the heart of the empire. It would be a butcher-house, a massacre beyond reason. And even though those who might fall were family, the thought brought a twisted smile to his lip Tiberius allowed himself a grim smile at the thought. Between the empress and his half-brother, he knew there were no heroes. Yet, of the two, he knew who was the better one "Let him burn it all to the ground," he thought, the image of the imperial palace set ablaze vivid in his mind. "Let him tear down that shitty place, brick by brick." He felt an unexpected satisfaction. Despite the bitterness that simmered within him, one thought softened Tiberius''s resolve. Clara. He hoped¡ªalmost prayed¡ªthat she would escape the chaos of Mavius''s wrath, that somehow she''d slip through the carnage that he could only imagine would sweep the palace. "Let the palace fall to ash, but spare her," he prayed to whatever god would listen, feeling that usual feeling savaging his chest "If anyone deserves to live, it''s her. She''s the only one worth saving in that cursed place." He imagined her in the gardens, her movements light and quiet as she had always been, her eyes filled with a kindness he''d found nowhere else in the stone walls of the court. He missed her in way that words could not put. Tiberius turned from his thoughts, his gaze drifting toward the small window. Outside, in the narrow patch of the estate he could see, four mangy dogs circled each other, baring their teeth as they fought over a single bone. The largest one lunged, gripping the bone tightly in its jaws, while the others barked and snapped, desperate and hungry, yet unwilling to back down. Tiberius watched them with a neutral look, feeling a strange interests with the animals clawing for scraps. Tiberius kept his eyes fixed on the dogs, watching intently as the largest one clenched the bone tighter, backing away as the others closed in. He barely reacted when he heard the door creak behind him, his voice dry as he said, "The tray''s on the bed." He had no question to ask the boy. He expected the soft, near-silent shuffle of the boy''s feet, the same routine he''d been following for days, bringing in food with his wary glances and eager ears. But the step that followed wasn''t the timid scuffle he''d grown used to. It was heavier. Tiberius froze, his senses sharpening, a chill spreading down his spine. He turned around abruptly, heart pounding, gaze hardening as he searched for the figure behind him. Behind him stood a tall man, his silhouette blocking the doorway with an imposing presence that felt as if it had absorbed all the shadows around him. The dim light caught the edges of his face, revealing the deep lines etched into his skin. He was old His once-blonde hair was now streaked with shades of silver and ash, hanging down in rough, uneven strands that brushed the edges of his jaw. His features were starkly chiseled, his cheekbones sharp, and a jagged scar ran from just above his right brow down across his cheek.And yet the most striking feature, however, was the dark leather eyepatch stretched across his left eye. Lord Julian stood there, as real as the breath now caught in Tiberius''s throat. For the past six months, Julian had been a ghostly rumor, a legend gone to dust. No one knew what happened to him, and most came to the end that he had been killed during the battle, others that he vanished after the battle, not to bear the consequence for his failures that caused the emperor''s death . Whatever the story, all roads pointed to one fact¡ªJulian, the dagger of the empire, was dead. And yet, here he was , standing and breathing in front of him. A sharp, humorless laugh broke from Tiberius, as sudden as a spring cracking through ice. It was a sound mixed with disbelief and a twisted kind of relief. Julian watched him with a raised eyebrow, his one visible eye gleaming with mild curiosity, though his expression remained stony and unreadable. "And what, may I ask, is so amusing?" Julian''s voice cut through the quiet, low and steady, with that controlled calm that once unnerved even the hardiest of soldiers.That was the first time Tiberius heard the second most dangerous man in the empire speak, never having had an exchange with him. Yet his voice sounded just like he thought it should, cold and deep like the ocean with the same sharpness that the hidden blade of the emperor should have. Tiberius leaned back, still chuckling, his mind racing to piece together this improbable meeting. "Out of all the people who could be behind this... I spent days trying to figure out who my savior was. And here you are," he said, voice thick with irony, "Lord Julian, the dagger of the empire himself, thought dead and yet still kicking.If that isn''t something worth laughing about, what is?" The faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, though it didn''t reach his eye. "The empire has its way of swallowing men and spitting them out just as quickly. Sometimes it pays to... simply vanish.The bigger the ocean the more predators in it..." Why? Tiberius looked hard at the old man, searching his expression for a hint of his motives.Why would he disappear with all that is happening? Did he have a hand in it? Julian remained silent for a moment, his gaze steady, as if assessing Tiberius with a quiet, clinical detachment. Then, with a slow nod, he gestured to the chair by the desk, his deep voice coming out of his mouth "Sit, Tiberius. We have much to discuss." Chapter 192: Outsider(1) Chapter 192: Outsider(1) Lucius stood with his back pressed against the cool stone wall outside the barracks, his fingers idly tracing the links of his chainmail. The armor was standard issue, though worn and dented from the years of service of the men he had looted it from . At his side hung a short, heavy mace¡ªits head scarred from use¡ªand a dagger tucked neatly into his belt, a weapon kept close for more personal work. He shifted his weight and rolled his shoulders, casting a watchful eye across the still courtyard, his breath turning into faint wisps in the early morning chill. He was a young man, barely out of his teens, with a lean build honed from hours spent in training. His short, tousled brown hair fell in a casual mess around his forehead, adding a touch of ruggedness to his otherwise youthful face. His eyes were a sharp, earthy brown, and they had a habit of flicking around the room, always alert yet softened with a natural charm. His companion was late, as usual, and he was beginning to wonder if he should go in and drag the man out himself, but just as he pushed himself off the wall, the barracks door creaked open. Out stepped the familiar figure of Marcus, blinking against the dawn light as he adjusted his belt. He ran a hand through his unruly brown hair. A lazy grin broke across his face as he spotted Lucius. "Evening , Lucius," Marcus greeted, clapping him on the shoulder. "Hope I didn''t keep you waiting too long." Lucius scoffed, though he returned the grin. "Late as ever, Marcus.'''' Marcus chuckled, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright, I''m here now, aren''t I?" He gave Lucius a playful nudge. "Had to cool off after training¡ªdidn''t think Captain Varro would actually run us into the ground this morning. Thought I''d be seeing stars by the time we were done. He''s a hard bastard, isn''t he?" Lucius rolled his eyes, though his face held a trace of sympathy. "Captain Varro? He''d make his own mother run laps if she so much as looked at him wrong." he added with a smirk, mimicking Varro''s gruff voice. Marcus snorted. "Well, he could ease up a bit, couldn''t he? I don''t remember him being that harsh when we were in shackles. They exchanged a knowing glance. Lucius then raised an eyebrow, a sly grin creeping onto his face. "Sounds like you could use a drink, Marcus." "Thought you''d never ask," Marcus replied, his eyes lighting up. "If I don''t see a tankard soon, I''m liable to faint right here." They headed across the courtyard, the rhythm of their boots syncopated as they walked side-by-side toward the tavern just outside the garrison''s walls. The scent of baked bread and faint traces of ale grew stronger as they neared, and by the time they pushed open the tavern doors, the soft clink of mugs and warm chatter inside already had Marcus beaming. They found a table in the corner, a place that offered a decent view of the room but still kept them comfortably out of earshot of the few other patrons. A young woman with light red hair drifted over to the table, her curls catching the tavern''s dim light and casting a fiery glow across her face. She had an easy confidence as she glanced at Lucius and Marcus. Resting one hand on the table, she gave them a playful look. "Lucius, Marcus," she greeted, her voice teasing but warm. "What''s on tonight''s order?" Lucius flashed a charming smile, reaching for her hand with a gallant air, pressing a light kiss to her knuckles. "Well, Sabine," he said smoothly, looking up into her eyes, "I''d ask first for the pleasure of your company, but I suppose two of your finest ales will do for a start. Perhaps later, you''ll consider having honoring me with a walk under the stars?" Sabine chuckled, drawing her hand back with a grin, shaking her head as though she''d heard this one before. "Oh, Lucius, you''ll have to be a bit more serious if you''re looking for anything beyond an ale or two," she replied, her tone playful yet guarded . Beside him, Marcus snorted, nudging Lucius as if to say, "Told you so." Lucius gave a resigned sigh, lifting his hands in mock surrender. "Fine, Sabine. Two mugs of ale, please. And to put your mind at ease, we''ll be models of perfect behavior. Just make sure that no old worthless bastards come up to us and call us thieves.We are risking our lives for you, you know?Soldiers demand a little respect don''t they?" Sabine cocked an eyebrow, unconvinced but clearly amused. "I''ll believe that when I see it" she said with a smirk, spinning on her heel to head toward the bar. After a moment of wait , she returned, carrying two full mugs. She placed them in front of the men with practiced grace, lingering a moment longer, clearly expecting another attempt from Lucius. He leaned in, unable to resist. "And what about my other question?" Sabine''s eyes twinkled as she tilted her head, her lips curving into a small, amused smile. "Well," she replied, laughter in her voice, "if I''m not too worn out by the end of the night... I''ll think about it. But don''t go getting your hopes up too high." With a playful wink, she turned back to her rounds, leaving Lucius and Marcus to their drinks and a shared chuckle, the night feeling a bit warmer already. Marcus caught Lucius watching Sabine''s every movement as she weaved between tables, and he couldn''t help but grin. "You know," he said, giving Lucius a playful nudge, "I''ve seen you pining after her for a while now. Pretty sure she likes you too, the way she''s always smiling around you." Lucius''s gaze softened, lingering on Sabine as she laughed at something a patron said. "I think so too. She always seems happy when I''m around, and I can tell there''s something real there." Marcus took a long sip, glancing over at him. "So, what''s the hold-up, then?" Lucius let out a heavy sigh. "It''s her father. He thinks I''m beneath her. He won''t have her marrying a soldier, even if she''d be taken care of. Won''t even give me a chance to prove I could be good for her.Normally I would have no trouble boiling the potato first and the eat it later, but unfortunately she respects her father too much for such thing." Marcus scoffed, shaking his head. "You make double the coin he does every month! You''d give her a fine life, better than most." Lucius gave a wry smile, toying with his mug. "Yeah, but we earn it by risking our necks. Her father can''t see past the danger. Thinks I''ll get myself killed and leave her alone. Doesn''t matter how careful I am or how long I''ve survived on the field." Marcus chuckled, shrugging. "Our lives have been at risk from the day we took up a sword and fought for our freedom. Besides, anyone would be proud to have you as their son-in-law.Especially for a tavern owner, after all having one of us as son-inlaw, would mean to automatically get the protection of the city guards at all time..." Lucius shook his head, laughing softly. "Sabine''s father doesn''t see it that way. The old man scowls every time I show up, like just being a soldier is some kind of personal offense.Perhaps, someone before me coaxed him into giving him one too many discounts?Or to maybe pay for protection? " Marcus grinned, patting him on the back. "Well, if her father can''t see your worth, then maybe he''s the one in need of a wake-up call. She''s worth it, isn''t she?" Marcus leaned back, a faint grin on his face. "You know," he began, voice lowering in a tone that bordered on reverent, "even if we fall in the line of duty, our captain¡ªah, his grace¡ªhas promised that our families will still be looked after. Paid for two full year after we''re gone, so they don''t go hungry because of us, which would mean that she would have enough money to remarry." Lucius paused, mug halfway to his lips. He looked at Marcus, eyebrows raised since they were talking about his death; he then shook his head and asked something else . "How in the world does the cap--I mean his grace¡ªhave enough gold to make that happen by the way? Supporting every family of every soldier... He''s got to be bleeding money with promises like that." His eyes narrowed in thought, and for a moment, his skepticism took hold. Marcus merely shrugged, but there was a certain appreciation in his expression. "Who knows? The man could be swimming in debts, for all I care. Just knowing we''ve got someone watching out for the people we leave behind¡ª" he sighed, finishing with a nod toward his friend, "that''s rare. Makes the job mean something more than the pay." Lucius considered that as he took a long drink, letting the words settle. It felt good, he realized, to be seen as more than just another expendable soldier. "True enough," he agreed, nodding slowly. "And in two years, if everything goes as planned, I''ll finally have a stretch of land of my own. Maybe settle down. They said the payout''s decent... Just enough to start a farm." He leaned forward, the idea holding a certain awe, as if it was still hard to believe. Two years, he thought, just two years. After all the hours training, the battles, and the nights spent cold and far from home, it felt almost surreal to imagine having a place of his own, especially when half a year go , he believed he would not reach that life-expectation. Lucius sighed, his fingers tracing the rim of his mug. "But all this talk of land, of a future¡ªnone of it matters if her father still won''t accept me. It''s like I''m building a dream on air, knowing he''d just as soon turn me away if I showed up on his doorstep." Marcus shook his head, leaning forward to meet Lucius''s gaze, his expression both firm and reassuring , as he threw a look in search of the man . "Come on, Lucius," he said with a steady grin, "you don''t know what tomorrow holds. Things change, and people do too.'''' Chapter 193: Outsider(2) Chapter 193: Outsider(2) The night had settled deep over the town, cloaking it in a quiet, heavy darkness. Outside his tavern, a stout man with a thick belly and worn-out apron stood by the doorway, casting one last gaze at the empty, dim-lit street. With a sigh, he reached for the sturdy wooden door and swung it shut, the soft creak of its hinges cutting through the silence. He heaved his weight against it, locking the latch firmly, ensuring it was shut tight against any unexpected visitors who might stumble by after hours. The man paused, wiping a meaty hand across his balding head and glancing back at the darkened windows. Inside, the tavern was now empty of the raucous voices and laughter that had filled it only an hour before, its tables scattered with the remnants of the evening''s patrons¡ªa few forgotten mugs, a discarded cloak, crumbs littering the floor. With one last look at his quiet tavern, he turned and began the slow trudge back to his small room above, where a cold bed awaited him and the long, silent hours of night stretched ahead. As the tavern keeper turned from the locked door, the faint sound of footsteps reached his ears, breaking the silence. He froze, as the darkness three men emerged , their figures concealed by heavy cloaks that swept around their boots. They moved with a quiet confidence, stopping just a few paces away. One of them tilted his head, his voice smooth and calm as he spoke. "Evening," he greeted, a vague politeness in his tone that carried an edge. "Would you be Aldwin?" The tavern keeper straightened, eyes narrowing suspiciously. He knew his regulars and these men were not among them. He kept his voice steady, though his heart quickened. "Who''s asking?" he said gruffly, his gaze darting to each of their shadowed faces. The man in the center chuckled softly, stepping forward. "Ah, no one important," he replied with an easy shrug. "Just a few...concerned friends of a young man." He emphasized the words lightly, with an expression that hinted at something unspoken. Aldwin swallowed, his fingers twitching slightly against the cool metal of the padlock. "Friends, you say?" he repeated, his voice wary. "Seems a bit late to be dropping in, wouldn''t you think?" One of the men¡ªa lanky figure with a rough scar running from his jawline to his temple¡ªstepped forward, lowering his hood slightly. His face held a hard smile, and his gaze was steady as he spoke. "Perhapse.... do you think it is too late for a friendly conversation?" he asked with a casual tone, tilting his head as though making polite conversation. "I believe we''ve come across a matter that involves your daughter. Young fellow named Lucius has been... spending time with her." His mouth twisted in a mocking smile. "Odd, though. You don''t seem too thrilled about that arrangement." Aldwin stiffened, his eyes narrowing. "My daughter''s business is no concern of yours," he replied coldly. The man chuckled, shaking his head as he looked back at his companions, who merely folded their arms, watching the scene with faint amusement. "You misunderstand," he said, returning his gaze to the tavern''s owner "We aren''t here for gossip. We''re here on behalf of a few people who feel that your dislike towards the boy is unfounded.And we would just like to know the reason'''' Aldwin''s jaw clenched, his brows knit together, suspicion clear in his eyes. "Who''s asking?" The man gave a slight, disarming smile. "Nobody important. Just a few concerned friends of Lucius. He''s a good lad, loyal and hardworking. So when we hear he''s got plans to settle down, raise a family¡ªsomeone like him, you''d think he''d have a bit more luck convincing a father-in-law to give him a fair shot." Aldwin crossed his arms, his stance defensive. "If Lucius put you up to this¡ª" The man held up a hand, stopping him. "Oh no, Lucius doesn''t know we''re here. You see, he is too soft for this . Hasn''t spoken much other than a word of complaint about your resistance¡ªkeeps saying he''ll work harder. But that''s what bothers us, you see. He''s willing to do his part, so we thought perhaps you''d need a little insight into just who he is." Aldwin''s voice was cold, though a sliver of uncertainty had crept into his eyes. "What is it you''re after?" "We''re after nothing but a fair chance for a man who deserves one," the man said smoothly. "Lucius doesn''t come from the same luck as some, sure, but he''s earned every bit of respect he gets. So we''re here to... encourage a bit of understanding.Soldiers after all must support each other..." Aldwin looked away, unwilling to yield but clearly troubled by their words. "If Lucius deserves a chance, he''ll earn it without anyone twisting my arm. I''ve raised my daughter to know her own worth, and I''ll see she ends up with a good man." The man''s face darkened, and he took a menacing step forward. "Let me make this clear, Aldwin: if you won''t do as we''ve asked, then maybe you''re the one who needs reminding of how... fragile things can be around here.Be it your bones or how well your establishment can go in the upcoming days" Aldwin raised his chin defiantly. "You do whatever you think you need to, but I''m not changing my mind. You''re wasting your breath." The three men exchanged cold glances, their expressions hardening into something far less civil. Aldwin knew better than to let them have their way, he reached under his tunic and pulled out a dagger, showing he was armed . The tallest of the men laughed¡ªa low, cold sound. In a swift motion, he seized Aldwin''s wrist, wrenching the dagger from his grip and flinging it to the ground. Before Aldwin could even shout, his face was slammed against the rough wood of the tavern door, the sharp edge of a dagger pressed firmly against his neck. The man holding him down leaned in, voice a venomous whisper. "You think we came here to play games? Think you can spit on a friendly suggestion?" Aldwin struggled, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts as the dagger bit ever so slightly into his skin. The man pressed him harder against the door. "You''re not doing us any favors, old man. So think about that before you go waving a blade, especially to people that risk their lives for you.Perhapse you are in line for some corrections." ------------------ The three men walked briskly down the narrow cobbled street, their dark cloaks blending with the deep shadows cast by the overhanging rooftops. One of them, glancing nervously over his shoulder, broke the silence. "Marcus, are you sure we won''t get into trouble over this? What if he goes to the city guards?" Marcus threw his head back with a quiet laugh, clapping his companion on the shoulder. "Relax. He didn''t see our faces, and even if he did, the guards here? They''ll likely ignore him." The man gave Marcus a skeptical look, and Marcus smirked, explaining further. "See, they don''t like us stirring up trouble, sure. We can''t skip out on dues, and they don''t want us committing actual crimes¡ªno thieving, no killing, that''s for certain." He chuckled, shaking his head. "But if a man is just trying to marry and live a little more comfortably? Now that, they''ll turn a blind eye to, espeically coming from a brother in arms..." His companion relaxed slightly, and the three walked on, footsteps fading into the night as they left the quiet tavern and the rattled barkeep behind them. "Look, we''re as safe as if we were locked in an iron casket," Marcus said, his voice light and teasing. He gestured animatedly, his confidence infectious. "And to thank you two for helping me out tonight, I''ll treat you to drinks tomorrow. My treat!" His companion relaxed slightly, and the three walked on, footsteps fading into the night as they left the quiet tavern and the rattled barkeep behind them. "Drinks on Marcus? You sure you got the money?" one of them joked, though his expression was still showing a bit of nervousness. "Don''t worry, I have just stolen a few coins from Fattie''s pocket," he shot back, laughter rolling through the air like the warm glow of lanterns lighting up the street. Chapter 194: Common ground (1) Chapter 194: Common ground (1) Winter gripped the south with a biting cold that seeped through wool and leather, making the march harder with each hour. Though the skies held no snow, the bare trees lining the road shivered in the icy wind, their skeletal branches reaching out against the bleak horizon. Ahead, a procession of hundreds moved in disciplined unison, a river of men and steel marching through frostbitten fields and narrow, frozen pathways. At the heart of the line, the banner of House Veloni-Isha flew high, its bird seemingly trying to reach the sky as if claiming their very own meaning , while beside it, the simple crest of the White Company fluttered,defiant and un-beaten . This was Alpheo''s personal army, a force of 120 infantry clad in armor, chainmail glinting dully under the sun, marching with steady, practiced strides. Behind them, fifty horsemen rode aheahd , their breastplates shining in the pale light, their vambraces and simple guisses shielding them from the cold. These men were not simply a part of Alpheo''s army but belonged to the elite Golden Steeds, a select unit of knights under the royal family. They rode under the directive of Princess Jasmine herself, sent to solidify Alpheo''s standing and his position as her consort. Alpheo led the march toward Bracum, his gaze fixed on the distant fortifications that rose from the gray landscape. It had taken many letters, but common ground had been struck. Alpheo marched on with only Ratto and Jarza at his side as close companion. Clio and Leadio had remained behind in Yarzat, each with their own responsibilities to oversee. Clio managed security over their manufacture house, while Laedio held command over the garrison force of Yarzat. Asag and Egil had been dispatched to Confluendi, the massive refugee camp whose administration demanded constant attention. Until Princess Jasmine''s appointed ministers were ready to relieve them, Alpheo trusted Asag and Egil to keep Confluendi stable and functioning smoothly. As Alpheo''s company neared the city of Bracum, a line of armored men on horses appeared at the roadside. Among them, one rider held the heraldic banner of Lord Xanthios¡ªa dark lion against a background of pale green¡ªhigh above the rest. One rider in the front, a tall man with the same piercing gaze and sharp features of the lord of these land , urged his horse forward. With practiced grace, he lowered his head in a respectful nod, still astride his horse. "Your grace" he greeted with a strong, clear voice, "I am Caelum, eldest son of Lord Xanthios." Caelum''s eyes scanned Alpheo''s men briefly, noting the disciplined formation of both the White Company infantry and the polished armor of the Golden Steeds, before returning his gaze to Alpheo, and being especially surprised by how young he looked. "My father has sent me to welcome you personally," he continued, gesturing back toward Bracum''s fortified gates, visible in the distance. "He extends his sincerest invitation for you to be his guest within our walls, and assures you of every courtesy during your stay." Alpheo inclined his head with a respectful nod, his tone both courteous and confident as he replied. "Thank you, my lord , and please extend my gratitude to Lord Xanthios. I am honored by his hospitality and accept his invitation with great respect." He met Caelum''s gaze, a hint of warmth softening his otherwise formal demeanor. "It is a privilege to be welcomed as a guest in Bracum. '''' ---------- The grand hall of Bracum Keep was unusually silent, every corner swept and polished, every torch lit and flickering warmly against the stone walls. The banners of House Xanthios pictings depicting passed lord and an embroidered carpet of rich earth tones stretched from the massive double doors to the raised dais where Lord Xanthios would usually await his guest. The room had been meticulously prepared, the usual din of courtiers and soldiers absent, leaving only the echo of Alpheo''s boots on the stone floor as he crossed the hall with Ratto and Jarza following closely behind. Lord Xanthios, a tall man of dignified age with a graying beard and sharp, observant eyes, walked forward as Alpheo approached. His rich, green robes hinted at his family''s wealth and stature. With a practiced but genuine smile, he extended a hand to Alpheo. "Your grace" Lord Xanthios greeted warmly, his voice carrying through the hall. "You honor our house with your presence. Bracum has eagerly awaited your arrival." Alpheo clasped the lord''s hand with a respectful nod. "The honor is mine, Lord Xanthios," he replied, his tone measured and courteous. "The generosity of your welcome is more than I could have hoped for. My thanks to you and your family for hosting me and my men." Xanthios inclined his head, clearly pleased. "You are most welcome, your grace." As soon as the pleasantries were exchanged Xanthios immediately set the talks into the business at hand,after all he was no patient man. "The so-called ''gift'' sent by the Prince of Herculia was nothing short of an insult, Your Grace," Xanthios declared, his voice laced with simmering resentment. "To all of us. Our neighbors show themselves to be mindless brutes, shameless liars, and turncoats who have discarded any semblance of honor.Surely you agree with me your grace...." Alpheo listened, nodding thoughtfully. "The very reason I came here, Lord Xanthios, was to address this... menace that we both face. " A gleam of satisfaction crossed Lord Xanthios''s face. His posture shifted, his bearing more optimistic as he pressed further. "Then, might we finally settle these old grudges, and cull those wicked wretches?" he asked, his voice thick with hope. Alpheo nodded slowly, his expression resolute. "Indeed, Lord Xanthios, the honor of Yarzat has been marred, sullied by those who thought themselves clever enough to throw shit from the shadows. It cannot remain this way, not if we are to uphold the honor that generations before us bled to preserve." Xanthios allowed a slight smile to cross his face. "Your Grace speaks as a beacon of valor for all of Yarzat to follow." Alpheo inclined his head humbly, a faint smile appearing. "Valor... I cannot say, my lord, if such a grand title is fit for me. I am a man of battle, accustomed to the demands of steel and strategy. Perhaps I can speak only with certainty when it comes to martial matters." He took a measured breath, reflecting, and then continued, "But I have seen the fruits of relentless pursuit. It was my men who shattered the Oizen army, breaking their left flank so decisively that the cries of their scattered ranks still echo in my memory." He glanced at Xanthios, who listened intently, his approval evident in his eyes as he continued to flaunt his achievments. "And after the Oizen, there were the rebels, those who dared to rise against Princess Jasmine. We hunted them from every hill and hollow, taking back each stolen piece of Yarzat. At last, our flag stood over their last hold, victorious" Alpheo paused, as if the memories had leapt back to life in his mind, then smiled, his eyes warm with gratitude. "But, my lord, I do not share this out of pride. For any success attributed to me rests upon my allies and companions ¡ª those who would, without hesitation, correct my faults, sharpen my vision, and strengthen every battle plan. Together, we turned what could have been my mistakes into shared victories." Xanthios nodded, deeply appreciative. "Indeed, Your Grace. A commander''s brilliance shines only when he surrounds himself with wise counsel. That, as much as any blade, leads a charge to victory." Alpheo''s expression softened, his voice taking on a reflective tone. "Yes my lord , for no single sword no matter how sharp, can stand alone in the storm but is destined to drown in its loneliness.'''' Alpheo leaned forward slightly, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Lord Xanthios, might I ask your honest opinion? How do you think we managed to win so decisively in these last battles?" Lord Xanthios'' demeanor grew serious, his eyes reflecting the weight of his words. "Your Grace, I had the privilege of observing your forces firsthand when I was in Yarzat for your marriage to Princess Jasmine. I recall the scene vividly. Your soldiers were not merely equipped but fortified ¡ª each man had proper armor, not a single piece mismatched or hastily made. Their weapons shone with care, showing a respect for steel and readiness for war that only hardened warrior have." He paused, his voice carrying an air of deep respect. "I watched them train, saw the unity among them, the disciplined way they moved as a single, precise force. The cohesion, the clarity of purpose in each rank and file... it was unmistakable, the kind of bond one rarely sees outside the best armies in history." Alpheo''s lips curved into a faint, pleased smile, he hasn''t even seen the latest changes we''ve made to improve them, he thought , as he believed that all the money spent were nothing short of a good investment Alpheo inclined his head in appreciation, a modest smile playing on his lips. "Your praise honors me, Lord Xanthios, and I am grateful for it. However, that is not the answer I sought." Lord Xanthios raised an eyebrow, his curiosity keen and intent, his gaze that of a man who had dedicated his entire life to reach something , a pursuit that, time and again, had eluded him. "Then enlighten me, Your Grace," he asked, leaning forward with the quiet intensity of one who knows well the weight of what they were talking about . "What do you believe is the true answer?" Chapter 195: Common ground(2) Chapter 195: Common ground(2) Alpheo turned slightly, fixing his gaze on his loyal captain. "Jarza." he called out in a low voice At the sound of his name, Jarza stepped forward immediately, his sharp gaze locked onto Alpheo''s, awaiting his command without a hint of hesitation. His posture was upright, and rigid . "Tell me," Alpheo began, his voice calm but carrying a deliberate weight, "what are our men doing right now, back in Yarzat?" Jarza didn''t need to think twice. "At this hour they would be training, Your Grace," he answered, his tone as unwavering as his stance. Alpheo allowed a faint smile to curve on his lips, but he continued, pressing his point. "And tomorrow?" Jarza''s eyes gleamed slightly, recognizing the intent behind Alpheo''s repeated questioning. "They''ll be training, just the same," he replied Alpheo nodded slowly, though the glint in his eyes suggested he wasn''t yet finished. He leaned forward, his gaze intense, and asked once more, "And the day after that?" Jarza didn''t falter, his response as solid as steel. "They''ll still be training,the answer won''t change if you go by the weeks , Your Grace." A spark of satisfaction crossed Alpheo''s face, and for a brief moment, he glanced at Lord Xanthios, as if to underscore his point. Alpheo, maintaining his calm yet commanding tone, kept his questions going "And how much are these men paid for their loyalty and their lives?" Without hesitation, Jarza answered, "Each footman earns five silverii a month, Your Grace. Our archers receive three, while any rider is compensated with ten." Alpheo nodded approvingly, his expression one of quiet satisfaction. "And what do I demand in return for that pay, Jarza?" "Absolute obedience," Jarza replied, his voice steady and unwavering. "Discipline that knows no lapse, and strength in every step, no matter the odds they face." "And if a soldier were to fall¡ªif they were to be maimed or to die¡ªhow will their families fare?" "For the next two years," Jarza explained, "their families will receive the soldier''s full wage, Your Grace. Beyond that, any adult in the immediate family has the right to appeal for work, a means to sustain themselves." With a look of satisfaction, Alpheo turned his focus back to Lord Xanthios, his voice filled with calm conviction. "Each one of my soldiers knows that they fight with the assurance that their families will not suffer in their absence.Which means that they may go into the afterlife with an unburdened heart. They train as intensely as constant practice will allow, and their discipline is unshakable. Above all, their armor and weapons are of the best make, their strategies grounded in resilience. Such preparation ensures that they are equipped to shatter whatever comes against them. A mountain would break before them." Alpheo continued, his tone steady "In our last clash against Oizen, half my infantry stood their ground as wave after wave of their knights bore down on them, steel crashing against shields, hooves tearing at the earth. For two hours they stood. The other half fought against an army twice their number. And they endured," he paused, letting the gravity of those hours fill the hall, "until reinforcements arrived and together, overturned the enemy lines." Lord Xanthios nodded slowly, the flicker of respect in his eyes unmistakable. He inclined his head, acknowledging the feat,he knew that what the prince was employing was not arrogance , but confidence, as his results backed his claims. "But of course there is a price to sustain such an army," he went on, voice lowering, "a cost far heavier than armor and weapons alone. It takes mountains of gold, rivers of silver, to keep these men clothed in steel, their families fed and housed, their futures secure." Xanthios raised an eyebrow, the subtle frown on his face showing his curiosity. "How much?" he ventured, his voice betraying both intrigue and apprehension. Alpheo didn''t hesitate. "The annual cost of maintaining this force comes to five thousand aureii." The impact of the number hit Xanthios like a blow; his eyes widened, his lips parted in shock. He blinked, no doubt mentally calculating it against his own holdings. With an income that stretched barely to two thousand aureii a year, the sum Alpheo spoke of was nearly unimaginable. He came to wonder how they managed to sustain such an expenditure, as he knew very well that Jasmine''s father was known as the mud prince. Alpheo took in Xanthios'' reaction with a faint, knowing smile. He understood the disbelief, the slight dismay, perhaps even the envy. "We nearly saw our coffers emptied down to the last coin," he continued, a hint of self-deprecating humor coloring his tone, "but somehow, we''ve managed to stay afloat. And each time we''ve scraped the bottom of our treasury," he gave a slight shrug, "we''ve had faith that our efforts, our sacrifices, were worth it." Lord Xanthios looked at Alpheo and nodded slowly. "I see now why your forces are unmatched, Your Grace." Alpheo inclined his head in agreement. "Indeed, no army, hastily assembled and trained in mere weeks, can ever compare to one built with time, and most importantly, money. Every true army demands the commitment of its leaders. So," he paused, studying Xanthios with quiet calculation, "I wonder if you might ever desire something similar." Xanthios gave a short, humorless laugh, glancing away before answering. "What man wouldn''t?" he admitted, his voice low. "But even if I had the will¡ªand the need¡ªI could never sustain a force of such size and quality. The coffers of Bracum can''t even begin to support an army like that for a quarter of a year." Alpheo nodded understandingly, though his eyes didn''t lose their intensity. "I maintain a standing army of nearly a thousand soldiers," he said, letting the weight of the number settle in the air. He saw Xanthios tense almost imperceptibly, his jaw clenching as he processed the number. Alpheo sighed, a hint of frustration entering his tone. "But even with such a force, the divisions within the princedom prevent any cohesive action. To rally an expedition against Herculia would require unity Yarzat hasn''t seen in decades. A rift that our late ruler unfortunately only deepened.'''' Lord Xanthios frowned, fearing that the war he had so wanted would die before it could even start "Revenge must be exacted upon the traitor of Arduronaven," he murmured. "Surely, the lords will rally in the name of justice to bring down this turn-cloak." Alpheo''s smile was wry as he inclined his head slightly, his voice calm yet unyielding. "Ah, I wish it would be so, my lord. But the reality... I fear it will lean otherwise." He paused, letting his words settle, watching Xanthios carefully. "If we cannot rely on overwhelming numbers, then we must place all faith in the quality of our blades and armor¡ªthe edge we can craft ourselves. And that, my lord, brings us to a critical question." Xanthios looked up, a flicker of intrigue sparking in his eye. Alpheo''s voice took on a tone that was at once inviting and sharp. "Will you be the sword to cut down both your enemy and mine?" He paused, studying Xanthios with grave intensity. "If you are ready for this, then we may finally turn to the real reason I came to Bracum. But if you hesitate, if you aren''t the man I need for this, I will find another." A silence fell over the hall, the weight of Alpheo''s words hanging heavily between them. Lord Xanthios held Alpheo''s gaze, wrestling with the gravity of the offer laid before him. "If it means I will hold the head of the traitor in my hands," Lord Xanthios declared, his voice steady and resolute, "then I can be that man for any task you set before me. As long as you grant me justice, my full commitment will be yours." Alpheo nodded, a sense of purpose igniting between them. "Very well then. I believe it is time to reveal the true reason for my visit. I will provide you immediately with the necessary equipment and four thousand silverii for the endeavor. I''ll send my trainers to establish a rigorous training regimen for your troops. By the end of winter, I want you to have an army of 400 footmen that mirrors the strength and discipline of my own.I will provide everything all you have to do is stand back and admire the strenght that will be built in front of your eyes. Of course the money I will send will be more than enough to maintain such a force , however, I will get very angry if I discover that we went with a soft heart regarding expenditures...as money is the last of my concerns." Alpheo leaned in closer, his eyes locked onto Xanthios''s. "So I ask you once more: will you be my sword? Will you seize this opportunity to finally reach that thing you crave?" Overwhelmed by the magnitude of the offer, Xanthios felt a swell of ambition rise within him. The thought of building such a force¡ªsomething he had always aspired to¡ªstirred a fire in his heart. With a firm nod, he replied, "Yes. I will be your sword, Your Grace. Together, we shall forge a path to justice.'''' With a solemn nod to seal their pact, Lord Xanthios reached into his shirt and pulled out a small, weathered box hung around his neck by a length of leather cord. Alpheo''s gaze sharpened, curiosity flickering as Xanthios delicately unclasped the box. Alpheo felt a chill seep into him as he squinted at the box, unable to pull his eyes away. Until now, he''d dismissed the stories¡ªrumors that the Lord of Bracum kept his murdered brother''s finger close, swearing to carry this reminder until vengeance was complete. And yet now that he saw it with his own eyes, the young man came to wonder whether the lord''s condition would prove to be a liability or a boon for his cause, as that box contained a short, shriveled finger. And so the young man, who in his life saw just how deep human cruelty could really go , barely managed to mask his horror as Xanthios looked down at it, murmuring with fierce devotion words that would chill the heart of any man. "Our revenge will finally come brother..." Chapter 196: Cross road Chapter 196: Cross road The feast unfolded beneath a sprawling night sky, deep and endless, as torches flickered against the canvas of the makeshift pavilion set up in the heart of the military camp. Tables lined with simple cloth stretched out under the open air, surrounded by soldiers and attendants. The camp bustled with life as the warmth of the fires reached outward, casting a comforting glow over the gathering. Slaves moved steadily, carrying trays laden with roasted game and smoked meats, the aroma wafting through the camp and mingling with the crisp night air. The selection was unpretentious¡ªthick slices of dark bread, roasted root vegetables, and stews served from large cast-iron pots, all hearty enough to fill even the hungriest of soldiers after a long march. Trenchers piled with roasted pheasant and thick-cut mutton were passed around, the charred skin crisp under the torchlight, and cups of rough wine or ale were constantly refilled as laughter and conversation of the soldiers grew. Whatever resentiment they had regarding the low amount of loot they acquired after storming the Fingers, was being successfully culled by both the feast and the knowledge that their opportunity to get rich through sacking was still not out of sight. After all, were they not marching south? And so while the soldiers ate and laughed, the nobles too were busy in their own dealings, when however their reason for this merriment was based on a completely different business Long tables stretched across the massive tent , each covered in heavy linens embroidered with the royal family crests . At the head of the main table sat the highborn guests, including Mavius, surrounded by his lords and commanders. Servants moved in coordinated rhythm, carrying heavy silver trays overflowing with delicacies: roasted boar with a crackling glaze, pheasants stuffed with figs and spiced nuts, and platters of fresh fruits and cheeses from distant provinces. Trays of jewel-toned wines and spiced meads flowed freely, each glass attended with reverence and refilled by the silent, quick-footed servants before a noble hand could signal The feast had been arranged in a whim, a celebration of a most joyful announcement: Mavius''s wife was expecting a child, news that swept through the noble ranks like wildfire. The gathering took on an air of near-reverence, for many saw this blessing as a divine omen, a sign from the gods endorsing their prince and the campaign they would soon undertake. Lord Landoff suddenly rose from his seat , as he raised his goblet high, his face illuminated by both the flickering light of the torches and a proud, heartfelt smile. He looked to his son-in-law, Mavius. "To my liege," he began, his tone warm and resonant, " whose honor and strength I have come to know as well as my own heart. It is with joy, pride, and deep faith that I congratulate you on the blessing that has graced your and mine household." He looked to Mavius, his eyes filled with admiration, and then lifted his goblet higher. "And it is with equal joy that I anticipate the arrival of my grandson¡ªan heir not only to your line, Mavius, but a legacy of strength and virtue that will outlast even our most ambitious campaigns." The hall murmured in approval, with knowing glances exchanged and smiles breaking out among those gathered. Lord Landoff continued, his voice growing more fervent, his eyes sweeping over the room to include all in his words. "Is it not clear that the gods have smiled upon us in the arrival of this child? This grand blessing, bestowed just as we prepare for our greatest endeavor, is a sign¡ªa divine affirmation that our cause is righteous, that our path is aligned with the will of the gods. It signals victory, not just in battle but for the future of our people." He paused, the glint in his eyes brightening with barely concealed pride. "When I hold my grandson in my arms, I will know that the gods themselves have ordained our victory. This child will be a beacon, a symbol of what we fight for¡ªa promise that the blood of our line will continue strong and unbroken." The crowd broke into cheers and raised their goblets in unison, the toast resounding through the hall. The nobles shouted their allegiance to Mavius, to his future child, and to the campaign ahead, a resounding roar that shook the very walls. Mavius, visibly moved, nodded deeply in gratitude, lifting his own goblet to his father-in-law and, in a soft but steady voice, toasting in return, "To family, to victory, and to a future blessed by the gods." As the last echo of Lord Landoff''s words faded, the hall erupted in a thunderous chorus. Lords and nobles smashed their cups onto the heavy wooden tables, the sound resonating like a drumbeat of shared excitement and kinship. Voices rang out, loud and insistent, each calling for one man to speak, the cheers blending into one unified demand. "Speech! A speech, your grace !" they chanted, pounding the tables once more, their fervor mounting. The air buzzed with anticipation, the energy infectious as each man turned to look at Mavius. Mavius took one final, deliberate sip from his goblet, savoring the wine before emptying it with a single tilt of his wrist. Setting his cup down, he stood, drawing himself to his full height. The nobles erupted into fresh cheers, their enthusiasm filling the room with an almost tangible energy. He raised a hand to quiet them, his piercing gaze sweeping over his assembled lords, the firelight casting a powerful shadow behind him. The nobles quieted, leaning forward eagerly to catch his words, their eyes fixed on him with the kind of loyalty reserved only for a leader they held in the highest regard. Mavius''s voice cut through the gathered nobles, sharp and laced with a cold fury. "The Fingers," he began, his tone dripping with contempt, "stood as the so-called impregnable fortress of the empire, the last unbreakable shield. And yet, here we are! That fortress opened its legs, yielding like the empire''s faithless dog it had become. We have seized it like if it was a hoe , and with it, we''ve taken the gate to the heart of our enemy." The lords leaned forward, grins spreading across their faces, inspired by his brutal words. "The road to the capital lies open before us," he continued, his eyes gleaming with fierce determination, "and with it, the power to deliver the final, killing blow to the usurper.''s reign. Once the heartland is ours, we''ll finally cast our eyes north, to sweep away the remnants of rebellion there." He paused, allowing his words to settle over the assembly, his gaze scanning the lords who hung on his every syllable. "Our scouts bring word of the enemy''s position¡ªcamped to the right of Lake Dunvar, awaiting our advance as though they think themselves ready." Mavius''s expression twisted into a grim smile. "Very well then," he sneered. "We''ll end whatever paltry resistance that aging snake Marthio can muster. Once they''re brought low, we''ll finally move to root out every viper in that nest of snakes, purging those who dared to deny me my right." The assembled lords erupted in cheers, their fervor ignited by his words, ready to ride at his command and bring the empire back under his rule. Mavius''s eyes gleamed with a mixture of confidence and contempt as he looked out over his lords, raising his goblet once more. "Our enemy," he began with a scornful chuckle, "has managed to scrape together barely enough men to make it worth our while. They''ve taken position with the lake to their left , thinking they''re clever enough to avoid being flanked." The nobles around him exchanged amused glances, and Mavius allowed himself a short, derisive laugh. "They believe they can hold us off, but all they''ve done is make it easier for us to skewer them from the front," he declared, his tone laced with a dangerous calm. "They''ve laid their plans, and now they''ve set themselves up for defeat." He paused, the weight of his words sinking in, the quiet building tension among his lords growing. "We''ve come this far, driven through fortress and field, through those who would deny us what is rightfully ours. And now," he raised his voice, a fire in his eyes, "it''s time to end it all. The empire shall be led, once and for all, by its rightful ruler." The nobles erupted in cheers, cups raised high in celebration of their leader, ready to ride into battle and claim the empire under Mavius''s rightful rule. The night rang with their shouts of loyalty, each one charged with the fervor to see his vision come to life. Mavius smirked, holding up his goblet to his assembled lords, his voice laced with dark humor. "I''d say we should grant them the courtesy of one last drink before their death," he began, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "But it seems those stupid bastards will be left with nothing but salt water to drink!" Laughter rippled through the crowd, the image amusing his lords as they imagined their foes stranded and parched. "Therefore, I urge you all to press onward with unyielding resolve! Let us become the sword that cull the wicked, striking down those who would tear our empire asunder. Let us be the hammer that drives the nail, forging the bonds of unity among our fractured lands, and restoring the strength of our heritage. We march not just as warriors, but as the embodiment of justice and redemption. Together, we will reclaim what is rightfully ours and mend what teeters on the brink of ruin. We shall carve our names into the annals of history, ensuring that our empire emerges from the shadows and into the light. So raise your cups high! Let us toast to victory, to the glory of our ancestors, and to a future where our rightful ruler takes the throne and leads us into a new dawn! To NIKAE " ''''TO NIKAE'''' they chanted back, as they marched through to bring more pestilence to the sick old man on his last foot, that they so pridefully called Empire. Chapter 197: Kins blood(1) Chapter 197: Kin''s blood(1) Marthio''s army stood in formation, a determined line braced against the chill air and the weight of the battle soon to come. On the left flank, Orwan Kantazoukenes, the current Pater Autoritas of the same house responsible for the events that led to the civil war that saw the battle of the shifting sand happen , led his division. At his left was the lake, which made it much easier to create a deep-rank formation without the fear of being flanked. In the center stood the forces led by Thyris Veritita, the proud son of Lisidor Veritita, which was one amongst the great houses of the south that helped in raising this army. Thyris, a man of youthful but fierce resolve, held his soldiers in tightly packed ranks, their formation designed for defence. Clad in reinforced mail and helms that glinted under the sparse sunlight, his soldiers gripped their spears and shields , ready to face whatever Mavius'' forces would bring. On the right flank, Marthio himself commanded the lines, his presence like a steadfast oak in a storm. Marthio''s men, veterans with faces hardened by years of campaigns, seemed to absorb his unwavering strength. The left flank''s banner¡ªa deep crimson, marked by a white hawk¡ªwas held high along side that of the Emperor''s . Marthio sat tall in the saddle, his weathered hands steady on the reins as he surveyed the lines stretching before him. At sixty-two, he had thought his days of warfare were long behind him; he should have been at home by a warm hearth, recounting tales of battles past to younger generations especially his grandson, not riding into another campaign. Yet here he was, called back to the field by duty and bound by honor to defend his house''s legacy. His bones ached,the remnants of a life filled with countless battles and campaigns that should have been enough for two lifetimes. He raised his head, looking at the horizon This war... it''s different. This isn''t some mere clash over land or titles. No, this is the battle that will seal the fate of my house. It''s my family''s future that today I bet , whether my blood will still sit on that throne, or be forced to bend the knee to Mavius, branded as traitors." He clenched his fist around his sword''s hilt. I''ve served my house with every drop of my strength, with every breath I have left, and to think we could be made to kneel before that usurper... He shook his head, bitterness gnawing at him like a poison. "Not while I draw breath. Marthio''s forces stretched across the plain, 11,000 soldiers in total; he had to empty most of his coffers to raise it in such a short time , hiring many mercenaries along the way in order to fill the numbers.In normal cases, he would never have relied on them so much, but this one was a special case. Even if he won the battle he had to worry about replenishing their soon-to-be empty coffers, he knew trade would certainly take a dive for the worse, which meant that even his personal income would take one. Then, across the horizon, they appeared. Like a dark storm gathering on the plains, the enemy''s front ranks emerged, growing thicker by the moment. Mavius''s forces came in waves, their numbers obscured by dust kicked up underfoot, their banners snapping like whips in the wind. Marthio narrowed his eyes, studying their approach. The banners of Mavius''s would-be empire loomed over the field, bright and unmistakable, as the full extent of the force arrayed against him came into view. Marthio''s grip tightened on his sword hilt. Despite the cold creeping into his bones, there was a certain pleasure in fighting him. The enemy army halted as one, its ranks coming to a disciplined standstill, stretching across the field like a wall of steel and fury. Dust settled in the wake of their march, and an eerie silence blanketed the battlefield. Then, from their ranks, a lone rider emerged. He galloped forward, crossing the field , halting in front of Marthio''s front line where he had knew he would find the commander as the right is usually regarded as the ''seat of honor'' . Lifting his voice, he called out, his tone carrying both respect and finality. "His Grace, the Emperor, requests a parlay with the commander of the usurper''s forces ." A moment of thick silence stretched between the two forces, the vast field lying between them as still as a held breath. Then, with a faint hiss, an arrow sliced through the air, arching gracefully across the distance before landing just shy of the messenger, embedding itself firmly in the ground a dozen paces from his horse''s hooves. The rider''s expression remained unreadable, yet the message was unmistakable. There were no words to be said Wordlessly, he tugged on the reins, turning his steed with mechanical obedience. Without another look toward Marthio''s forces, he rode back across the field, carrying with him the silent understanding that today, there would be no parlay, no meeting of commanders¡ªonly battle. UUUUUoooooooooo- A low, resonant horn shattered the silence, its deep call rippling across the field like the growl of some ancient beast awakened from its slumber. The sound carried far and wide, filling the soldiers with a chill that went bone-deep. The enemy ranks stirred in unison, a wave of steel shifting as one under the command of the horn''s call. First, the banners moved forward, snapping against the wind as the enemy''s colors unfurled, marking the vanguard. Then, with a slow, powerful surge, the foot soldiers began their march, the thunderous beat of their boots echoing like a distant storm. Shields interlocked and spears bristled in organized rows, and from the center, the armored cavalry rode into formation, shining like a river of silver winding toward the loyalist army. As the weapon that made half the eastern continent bow their heads to the empire, stood ready to poise the blade against itself. The ground seemed to tremble as they advanced, the heavy steps of thousands pounding forward in relentless synchronization, each step bringing them closer, every heartbeat drawing the two armies nearer to the clash that would decide their fate. Marthio raised his arm, signaling to his archers. Without hesitation, the bowmen stepped forward from the main line, their movements swift and practiced. They spread out, forming a wall of archers that stretched along the front, each man settling into position as they nocked arrows and waited dfor the enemy to get into range. The sunlight gleamed off their arrowheads, sharp and deadly, a glittering promise of what was to come. Across the field, the enemy responded in kind. Their archers advanced in disciplined rows, stepping forward until they mirrored Marthio''s line. They, too, raised their bows, each archer waiting, the field suspended in a breathless silence as two walls of wood and sinew faced each other across the barren expanse. The silence shattered all at once . Archers loosed their arrows in a coordinated wave, the sky filling with a dark, whistling cloud as the arrows arced upward, blotting out the sun for a brief moment before plunging downward toward the enemy lines. They struck with sharp, unrelenting fury¡ªsome finding armor, some biting flesh, a deadly rain scattering chaos along the advancing ranks. The air between the armies buzzed with the ferocity of iron and feather, and men braced themselves, shield raised, as arrows plunged into the earth around them, some finding unlucky targets. The archers on both sides reloaded swiftly, again and again, sending volley after volley across the field, each rain of arrows seeming to answer the last, neither side giving way and doing all they could while the time allowed it . For a time, the sky itself became the battlefield¡ªa place of brief, brutal exchanges, arrows traded like words in an ancient, violent dialogue that accompanied humanity since its first breath. On the far right of both armies, the cavalry, clad in glinting armor and mounted on powerful steeds, surged forward, a thunderous roar of hooves echoing across the battlefield. Clouds of dust rose in their wake, and the ground trembled beneath the weight of hundreds of horses charging headlong into each other, each side determined to break the other''s flank in a clash of steel and speed. Lances broke against steel, smashing the meat hidden behind , breaking bones, smashing helmets and piercing throats, as the chaos of war, faceless ,loveless, and yet called on too many time picked the ones that caught her eyes. With a disciplined stride the infantry moved toward Marthio''s flank, shields raised and weapons ready, an advancing wall of iron and determination. Marthio''s men held their ground, watching the approaching line with steely resolve, knowing this assault would be brutal. The cavalry clash intensified on the right, horses and riders jostling, thrusting, and slashing in a fierce melee. Meanwhile, the enemy infantry continued their forward march on Marthio''s flank, the sheer weight of their numbers pressing relentlessly closer, inching toward what would soon become a furious meeting of blades and lives. Marthio narrowed his gaze, watching the enemy infantry''s steady approach. He turned to his closest officer, his voice low and commanding to make sure his archers did not retreat too soon. "Order the archers to release as many volleys as they possibly can. Once they''ve loosed their arrows, have them pull back before the infantry catch them ." The officer nodded sharply and relayed the order down the line. Moments later, a cascade of commands echoed along Marthio''s ranks as the archers readied themselves. They raised their bows, pulled back with a sharp, collective inhale, and released, sending a hail of arrows arcing high into the sky, darkening the air with a deadly swarm. As the arrows found their mark, a few chorus of cries rose from the enemy lines,while Marthio''s archers undeterred continued nocking and loosing again in a swift, relentless rhythm. After the final volley, the archers swiftly shouldered their bows and retreated in disciplined rows, slipping back behind the infantry, clearing the field for the infantry to brace themselves for the clash to come, leaving them to wonder which of them would effectively see the sun rise the next day. Chapter 198: Kins blood(2) Chapter 198: Kin''s blood(2) The two armies collided with a thunderous roar, the earth itself seeming to tremble beneath the weight of thousands of armored men slamming into one another. Shields clashed against shields, a chorus of metal scraping, bashing, and breaking as the front ranks pushed forward with grim determination. Swords rose and fell in brutal rhythm, each strike seeking a gap in the enemy''s defenses. Men staggered, grappled, and fought fiercely in the narrow space between the lines, sweat and blood mixing on their faces as they heaved against their opponents. Spears thrust forward from behind the shields, punching through gaps in armor or trying to simply smash through their chains . Every inch of ground was contested, and in the midst of the turmoil, the lines swayed, holding strong but only by sheer force of will as both sides locked in a deadly embrace. A soldier in Mavius'' ranks, barely old enough to grow a beard who tried his luck in war ,thrusted his spear in desperation, managing to pierce through the links of the enemy''s chainmail and pierce his guts, much to the surprise of both of them. And so his young mind, influenced by a life lived in what he regarded as a ''boring'' peace finally truly took in the horrors of war that he had so much idealized in his own short life. And so with an apology that he did not know if it was referred to the dying man or to the gods, he moved forward. Not far off, a grizzled veteran that fought in the catastrophe of Arlania, the battle that saw their emperor fall in the sand, parried a strike aimed at his neck, knocking his opponent''s blade wide before stepping in close and driving his blade in the enemy''s eyes. The soldier crumpled, screaming, and the veteran moved forward after slicing his throat, giving him the only mercy an enemy could give another. From his vantage point, Marthio gazed over the chaotic, brutal clash below, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the battlefield. The plains stretched wide and flat beneath the overcast sky, offering no hiding places, no shelter¡ªonly an unbroken expanse where every movement was laid bare. Even the dust clouds kicked up by the cavalry on the distant right flank were visible, a rolling haze of earth and grit that marked the violent dance of mounted warriors. Through the dust, he could see the silhouettes of armored clibanarii locked in battle, their heavy, gleaming armor flashing in brief, brutal exchanges as they clashed with opposing riders. The scale of the cavalry engagement was staggering, with at least 2,000 mounted soldiers colliding in waves of fierce combat, surging forward , flanking , retreating and charging again. Clibanarii fought clibanarii, the weight of their armor seeming to intensify each impact, while lighter mounted-mercenary riders darted around, attempting to find an opening in the iron-clad wall. Marthio turned abruptly, his gaze hardening as he caught sight of a nearby messenger. "Go to the archers," he commanded, his tone sharp "Tell them to put down their bows and take up their close weapons. I want them in the melee¡ªnow!" The messenger nodded swiftly, darting off toward the rear lines where the archers, having loosed nearly every arrow in their quivers, had begun to form up with uncertainty. At the word of Marthio''s command, they exchanged quick, steely glances, a ripple of determination tightening their expressions as they readied themselves for the brutal close combat awaiting them. One by one, the archers sheathed their bows, dropping them to the ground where quivers already lay empty, and reached for the weapons strapped at their sides. Some gripped the rough hilts of short swords; others hefted daggers and maces, their hands tightening around the crude, brutal metal. Without hesitation, they surged forward to join the fray, falling in alongside the infantry, their disciplined lines now breaking apart into a swirling, brutal melee. "All we must do is maintain our ground," he thought, his gaze fixed on the chaotic struggle before him. The true blade that would cut off their enemy, was his son.The battle teetered on a knife''s edge, and all they had to do was hold, as it was not their job to decide the outcome. Marthio''s thoughts turned to his eldest son, a man who had always been as wild and unpredictable as the sea, yet as captivating as its waves. He''s mad, always has been, Marthio reflected, a faint smile tracing his lips despite the chaos before him. And perhaps that madness will serve us all yet. But a pang of reality struck, a heavier thought settling in his chest. I''m growing old. The realization wounded him more deeply than he''d care to admit, an acknowledgment no denial could change. Just the effort to stay upright on his horse, bearing the full weight of armor, had become a battle in itself. Is this the sign that it''s time to hang up my cloak? he wondered, feeling the ache in his shoulders. I''ve taught them all I could, poured my soul into shaping them. Two out of three sons grew into men of honor¡ªthat is more than I could have hoped for. A quiet satisfaction tempered the sorrow in his heart; he felt, in a way, that he''d done well as a father, fulfilled the duties that truly mattered. He cast his gaze over the melee before him, the clash of swords and cries of men filling the air, and wondered how many more of these battles he had left in him. How many more times can I bear the weight of this armor, this command? It was a question that echoed in his mind as he gripped the reins, feeling the relentless march of time weigh heavily against him. For now, he was here, leading them, but he felt the sands slipping through his fingers¡ªone fight at a time. For now he just wondered about his son ------------------ "Row, you bastards !" The shout cut through the slap of waves and the grunts of men pulling at their oars. Tyros stood at the helm of the small fisherman''s ship, braced against the wind as it whipped at his face, filling his lungs with salt and his heart with fire. Around him, twenty-four men strained at the oars, muscles taut and faces set with a mixture of determination and fear. Behind them stretched a ragtag fleet of one hundred and nineteen ships all small fishing vesseal , each one packed to the brim with men just as hungry for fortune¡ªand just as reckless. Tyros grinned, his teeth flashing white against his skin, his eyes fierce with the thrill of the the lake and the scent of battle on the horizon. He took a step forward, planting his feet wide as he bellowed again, his voice fierce enough to stir even the most weary to one last surge of effort. "Row for glory! For coins! For whatever gods-damned thing you want¡ªjust row!" The men groaned and redoubled their efforts, their backs bending, muscles rippling as they rowed. Tyros'' smile spread wide across his face, the glint in his eyes hard and eager. Through lands and seas, he thought, I will bear steel, and the world will remember my name, did the song go like this? The boats surged forward, slicing through the lake''s choppy surface as the winds caught the sails they''d stitched and hammered together, each plank crafted in haste but held strong by their determination. Hundreds of hands had worked relentlessly to build this fleet. In only a week,they brought together 120 small ships to sail across the lake. If I was not a noble, I would have made a carreer on ship-building. Throwing the funny thought aside, Tyros finally began, his voice low and steady as he sang, each word catching in the salty air, "Through lands and seas, I will bear steel, and the world will remember my name..." A few voices took it up, repeating his words with quiet strength, as this was a popular imperial navy song, that anyone living in a city with a port would certainly had learnt. One by one, more men joined in, their voices mingling and swelling like the waves around them. Soon, the whole ship was singing, their words rhythmic, matching the rowing strokes. Tyros grinned, his eyes bright as he threw his head back and let the melody grow louder. He raised his fist, waving it in time with the beat as he led the chant, each line flowing from him to his men and back again. "Through lands and seas, I will bear steel, And the world will remember my name! Through storm and squall, through blood and flame, We carve our fate, we earn our fame! No chains can bind, no walls withstand, The fire fierce within our hand. With every strike, with every scar, We forge our path, we sail afar. In shadow''s grip, we do not yield, Our hearts are fire, our souls a shield. The tempest calls, the thunder cries, And still we march, with fearless eyes. Through storm and squall, through blood and flame, We carve our fate, we earn our fame!'''' The men roared the final line, Tyros shouting along with them as the ship rocked with the force of their voices. The lake''s surface rippled beneath their boat, the chant carrying over the water to the fleet behind them as Tyros sang on, his smile fierce with the thrill of the march toward glory. Tyros, standing at the bow, led the chorus with a raucous laugh, his grin as wild as the winds that whipped over the water. As the far shore grew closer, the men''s spirits rose even higher. They rowed harder, their laughter echoing across the water, each stroke of the oar bringing them nearer to their landing. Tyros, swinging his head with the beat of the chant, called out phrases between verses, urging them onward. "Row, for victory! Row, for glory! Row, for your pockets heavy with coing!" he shouted, and his men cheered, some joining his laughter, others singing louder, every one of them as fiery and eager as their leader. The shoreline loomed, and in the last throes of their chant, their voices reached a fever pitch. Tyros'' smile only grew as he watched the distant figures on the shore. Soon, the men who had followed him from boat to boat would be stepping foot on enemy land, steel drawn, and songs of battle still ringing in their ears. The men he was given were barely nameable as soldiers, a group of bandits and mercenaries, who would be tasked to decide the fate of two monarchs.If he was not to lead them forward himself, he would find the situation truly ironic, yet as the winds whipped on his face one simple thought came to Tyros'' mind. Isn''t this truly living the moment? Chapter 199: Steel and blood(1) Chapter 199: Steel and blood(1) Mavius sat astride his warhorse at the rear of the formation, his gaze piercing through the chaos ahead, trying to glean some sense from the turmoil of clashing armor and dust. His position in the reserve allowed him the vantage to observe the battle''s flow, yet today, despite the disciplined lines and calculated movements, he struggled to read the unfolding action clearly. Frustration lining his brow, Mavius turned to Lord Aron, who sat steadfast at his side. "What do you make of it,my lord ? I cannot even distinguish a break on the line from a rout, like this " Lord Aron leaned slightly forward, studying the distant infantry ranks as dust rose from the battlefield, obscuring the view. "Your Grace," he replied calmly, "the fight only began scarcely an hour ago. Even with their movements, it is unlikely much has shifted yet. If changes are occurring, they will still be subtle. Too soon for the chaos to settle." Mavius scowled, his eyes returning to the field, picking out pockets of movement. He had not expected to feel so blind, yet the dust, the roar, and the endless figures melding in battle gave him nothing but frustration. But he kept his composure; though his hands gripped the reins tightly, his knuckles paled under the mail of his gloves. Did my father really love war so much?What is there to like? Mavius squinted at the battlefield, his brow drawn in deep contemplation as he studied the enemy formation. "Look there," he said, a glint of impatience flickering in his eyes. "The lake may pins down their left flank, but the right... it''s wide open. They''ve left it practically exposed. If only our cavalry weren''t tied up with theirs, we could crush them here and now." Lord Aron shifted in his saddle, his gaze following Mavius'' pointed finger toward the unguarded edge of the enemy formation. ''The same could be said for ours '' Lord Aron wanted to say but refrained. He was silent for a moment, calculating the distance and terrain. "Indeed, Your Grace, it may be exposed," Aron agreed, "but it''s a long reach. It would take our reserve infantry at least twenty minutes to reach the enemy''s flank, maybe more." Mavius grunted, his eyes still narrowed on the opportunity ahead. "Yes... but if they did reach them, they could prove decisive," he mused, a glint of conviction beginning to replace his earlier frustration. "They could be the nail that finally drives our victory home." Lord Aron nodded while thinking that their emperor was too rash "In theory, yes. If we timed it right, they could tip the scales. We would need to commit quickly, though, before the enemy has a chance to adjust their formation, and even then we do not know if they will really be that effective." Mavius'' eyes sparked with renewed focus, his impatience giving way to determination. "Then we may have no choice but to test that theory, Aron. '''' Mavius set his jaw, his decision made. "We will take one thousand five hundred men and hit their right flank," he commanded, his voice firm and unyielding. Without pause, he turned to Lord Mereth, his gaze hard as steel. "Lord Mereth," he said, his tone carrying both the weight of command and expectation. "You''ll shall be the one to lead them. Take this moment, and don''t let it slip away." Lord Mereth straightened, his expression shifting from surprise to deep pride. "Your Grace," he replied, bowing his head slightly. "It is an honor to serve at your command." Mavius gave a curt nod, watching as Mereth spurred his horse forward, turning his steed to the back of the army , where the soldiers stood in reserve, waiting for their chance to enter the battlefield. ------- Marthio''s gaze moved across the battlefield, and a faint cloud of dust rose on the far horizon, twisting and growing with each passing moment. His eyes narrowed, assessing the formation within the haze. They are attempting to flank us, Marthio realized as he quickly racked his brain to think about how man men would be proper to be used to stop them. After some seconds of hesitation, he turned sharply to his trusted aid that had followed him through many wars "Vrivio," he barked, his voice urgent yet steady. "Take half of our reserve force¡ªmove immediately to our right and stop their advance. Do anything in your power to stop them; otherwise we risk collapse on the flank even before my son has the time to do his part of the plan." Vrivio''s eyes gleamed with understanding, and he nodded, determination set in his jaw. "It will be done, Lord Marthio," he replied, gripping his sword tightly. He raised his hand, signaling to his men, who quickly fell into formation behind him, ready to intercept the incoming threat, as, differently from Mavius''s composition, he had his reserve forces divided between the center and the right, as the left was given enough men to resist a simple infantry charge. Mavius''s forces moved swiftly, skirting around the battlefield in a tight formation as they angled toward the vulnerable far-right flank of Marthio''s line. Dust billowed around them as they charged, creating a cloud that seemed to pulse with the thunder of boots and the glint of drawn blades. At their back, Lord Mereth spurred his horse on, the crest of his helm visible as he urged his men forward, swords raised, their voices rolling across the field in a fierce battle cry. But Marthio''s counter move was already in motion. Vrivio''s detachment surged forward, soldiers in steady columns meeting the advancing force with precision and grim resolve. As the two forces clashed, Vrivio''s men formed a wall of shields, halting the momentum of Mavius''s assault and sending ripples of resistance through the enemy line. The clang of steel on steel filled the air, each blow accompanied by shouts and cries as Vrivio''s troops drove their spears and swords into the ranks of Mereth''s charging force, refusing to yield even an inch of ground. Truth be told, both forces were not as well-equipped as the first ranks battling each other, as the second-rate troops, mostly those that were enlisted on the way from the various villages they encountered, were kept in reserve used only to reinforce lines thought to be buckling under pression . Vrivio''s men met the oncoming charge with grit rather than grandeur. The soldiers held tight to their positions, gripping shields and standing in formation. Many in Mavius''s ranks were no better trained , their hastily donned armor and mix of weaponry being given too soon after recruitment as they had little time to prepare, creating a fight that looked more like a brawl than a military confrontation. In the middle of the battle a soldier with a jagged-edged axe squared off against a farmer drafted just days before, who clutched a mace with all he had. The soldier swung with everything he could, forcing the farmer back with each strike. But the farmer, fear giving way to fury, let out a guttural yell and charged forward, surprising the veteran by slamming the club down onto his shoulder with a crack that echoed over the field. The veteran stumbled, his weapon dropping from his grip, and the farmer followed through, bashing him again and again until the older man fell silent. Elsewhere, two men wrestled over in the ground, their hands and faces dirty and sweaty as they pushed and shoved, each determined to gain the upper hand. One finally managed to twist the blade free and ram it, hilt-first, into his opponent''s gut, forcing him to reel backward. He didn''t pause as he repeated the motion this time hilt-last. ------------------ The clang of metal and the cries of soldiers echoed across the plains, carried by the wind like a grim symphony as Marthio tried to make sense of what was happening, he could however see his flanking force being stopped by the enemy''s reinforcement. So much for that plan, Mavius thought as he clicked his tongue. Suddenly however , the pounding of hooves thundered behind him, a swift rhythm cutting through the din. Mavius''s grip tightened on his reins, and he turned sharply to see a dust-covered rider pulling his horse to a hasty stop just in front of him. The rider''s expression was grim, his voice barely steady as he delivered his message. "Your Grace," he gasped, still catching his breath. "The reserve troops... they''ve spotted enemy forces approaching from behind." For a moment, Mavius'' mind did not register the information , then when it did, he thought about the chance the information was wrong, and when all that failed he finally and truly understood the weight of what he has just been told. Lord Aron spat a curse his face twisted in incredulity . "What in the blazes have the scouts been doing?" he growled, looking out over the plains, vast and open with barely a rise or tree to obscure the view. "How could they let an entire force sneak up on us? This is no terrain for ambushes!" Mavius''s eyes flashed with a mix of anger and urgency, and his voice cut through Aron''s grumbling like steel, as fear was creeping his way inside the young ruler. "Enough, lord Aron. Take whatever reserves we have left and intercept them. Stop them from closing in on our rear at any cost." Lord Aron, momentarily thrown by the intensity of Mavius''s command, nodded briskly, his expression hardening with resolve. "Understood, Your Grace." He turned his horse and called out to the nearest captains, his voice ringing with authority as he moved to gather what remaining reserves could be spared, rallying them quickly to counter the unexpected threat approaching from behind. Mavius watched them ride off, his jaw set. This was a risk he hadn''t anticipated, and now every move would be a gamble. For a moment, Mavius''s gaze lingered on the chaos of the battlefield, and the thought crossed his mind like a shadow¡ªperhaps it would be wiser to call it a day. To pull back while he still had an army intact, to avoid risking a complete rout. He weighed the idea, feeling the weight of each soldier''s life and the strength of his army hanging in the balance. If he ordered a retreat now, he might salvage enough to fight another day. But a second thought nagged at him, a stubborn ember of pride and ambition refusing to die. This was his moment, his chance to prove his right to the throne. To retreat now might look like weakness to those watching, and word would travel fast across the empire. The enemy still stood before him, stretched and battered, perhaps just as weary as his own forces. With a deep breath, he clenched his jaw and decided to wait. Just a little longer. Perhaps the tide would shift; perhaps one last push could bring the breakthrough he needed. He would watch the field closely, giving fate a bit more time to favor him. --------- Tyros rode at the head of his forces, a mad gleam in his eye as he urged his horse forward. Behind him, a wild mix of hardened men followed¡ªbandits turned soldiers, toughened by survival and eager for blood, and the disciplined ranks of the mercenary company his father had spared no expense to hire. As Tyros charged, his soldiers followed in a chaotic yet fierce advance, their cries filling the air, a roar of defiance against the disciplined line they hurtled toward. Dust billowed in their wake, and Tyros could feel the pounding of hooves reverberate through him, matching the quickening of his pulse. Ahead, the reserve forces of Mavius braced for impact, hastily forming a line against this unexpected surge. Yet when the clash came they were unprepared for Tyros''s forces brutal onslaught. The clash was a violent storm of iron and flesh¡ªspears splintered, shields cracked, and men on both sides shouted and groaned as chaos erupted. Tyros''s men, crude but relentless, fought with wild abandon, cutting into the ranks of Mavius''s reserves with the raw energy of men used to taking what they could get by force. Tyros himself was at the front as he leaned forward on his horse, gripping the reins with one hand while his sword hung poised in the other. His eyes locked onto a footman who was attempting to fend him off, a rugged soldier clad in chainmail, eyes glinting with grim determination. The man braced his spear, aiming it at Tyros, who maneuvered his horse to the side, before deflected the pointed steel with his sword . With a fierce grin, Tyros swung his sword down toward the man''s shoulder, but the chainmail absorbed much of the impact, the blade hitting with a dull thud that reverberated through the metal links. The force, however, dislocated the footman''s shoulder, causing him to cry out in pain while stumbling to keep his footing as his spear dropped from his grasp. Tyros didn''t let up. With a swift twist of his wrist, he angled his sword again and delivered a quick, lethal swing. This time, the blade cut into the man''s neck just below his helm, slipping between the helmet and chainmail. Blood sprayed from the wound as the man crumpled to his knees, his body giving out as Tyros pulled his sword free. Around Tyros, the fighting became a whirlwind of violence. Each clash of swords, the guttural cries of men, and the metallic taste of blood heightened his senses. He turned to see another of his men grappling with a foot soldier, wrestling for control of the sword. To the left of the brave lord, a burly bandit-turned-soldier was locked in a struggle with one of Mavius''s reserve men. The soldier had a spear, jabbing at his opponent''s shield, but the bandit only laughed, ducking under a thrust before closing the distance. With a grunt, he then used the rim of his shield to slam the man off balance, then brought down his mace in a brutal arc, crushing the helmet and felling the man instantly. Tyros could feel the tide of the battle shifting, his soldiers fighting with a furious tenacity that drove them forward. "Keep pressing!" Tyros shouted, his voice ringing above the chaos. "They falter! Show them no mercy!" His men, emboldened by his words and the sight of their commanders fighting valiantly at the head of the battle , pushed them harder than any word could , using their momentum to cause as much damage as possible Chapter 200: Steel and blood(3) Chapter 200: Steel and blood(3) Mavius shifted uneasily in his saddle, his leg twitching against the stirrup as he scanned the battlefield, the clash of steel and cries of men filling the air. His gaze hardened as he weighed his options, the decision clawing at his mind. He muttered to himself, a low, strained voice barely audible under the cacophony of battle around him. Cutting my losses now might be the only sensible choice. I still hold the Fingers... no one can dislodge me from there. I could return, regroup¡ªpress south again when the time is ripe, under better conditions. His fingers tightened around his reins, jaw clenched as he considered the grim reality. This is my advantage to keep... as long as my forces live to fight another day, that advantage is mine. He looked out over in front of his men, seeing the push and pull of the fighting, feeling the precarious balance of victory slipping away as behind him in a clash he could not see lied his possible defeat But if I let the entire army die here...His brow furrowed as he thought of the consequences¡ªa sudden, bitter surge of uncertainty settling in his chest. If I let them fall, there''s no telling what might happen. Will the garrison left in the Fingers resist?Will the other lords raise another army the next season?Still willing to follow a loser? With another twitch of his leg, he gave a low hiss of frustration,what was he to do? Mavius gritted his teeth, his gaze flicking between the clashing lines and the dust rising from distant skirmishes. A frustrated thought bubbled to the surface, almost like a whispered accusation. "Why in the hell did that mad bastard of a father love war so much?" he muttered under his breath, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword. He couldn''t understand it¡ªthe thrill his father always seemed to find in the chaos, in the constant risk of ruin, in the raw edge of life and death that hovered over each command. To him, the weight of it all was sickening¡ªa pressure bearing down with each decision, a thousand ways to make one fatal misstep. The very idea that one wrong call here¡ªone poorly timed retreat or advance¡ªcould see his forces shattered, his army broken, even his own life ended in the rush of blood and steel. His father had reveled in that feeling, as if it were a game with lives as pieces. Mavius shook his head, disgusted. "What was there to like?" he murmured bitterly. "One twist of fate, one wrong move, and the whole thing falls apart... or worse, I''m dead along with it." Just as Mavius wrestled with indecision, fate made its call for him. A messenger galloped up, his face pale with urgency, barely bringing his horse to a halt before blurting, "Your Grace! Lord Aron is calling for more reinforcements¡ªhis lines are being pushed back!" Mavius''s eyes darkened, his expression snapping into a scowl. "Reinforcements?" he barked. "He''s got all the damned reserves we had left!" The messenger recoiled under the weight of Mavius''s fury, gripping the reins tightly as if to brace himself against the blow of his liege''s frustration. A tense silence fell between them, thickening the air. Then, after a long, ragged breath, Mavius steadied himself, the harsh lines of his expression settling as grim clarity took hold. "It''s time to cut our losses," he muttered, more to himself than the shaken rider. Mavius turned sharply to the messenger, his tone clipped and unyielding. "Go to Lord Aron. Tell him I am calling for a full retreat. He is to hold back the enemy forces at the rear for as long as he can. We''ll cover the withdrawal.Tell him the safety of the army is in his hand " The messenger nodded briskly, spinning his horse around and speeding back toward the chaos of the battlefield. Mavius then turned to the line of knights waiting near him, his eyes assessing each with swift decisiveness. He singled out three. "You and you " he commanded, pointing to each one in turn, "take word to the commanders on both flanks. Order them to fall back in good order" As good as they can, he added in his mind . The knights snapped to attention, each one offering a salute before breaking off to deliver his orders to the wings of the retreating army. As they rode off into the thick of the smoke, Mavius felt a hollow stillness settle over him. He glanced upward, the chill of the decision still in his gut. A flock of ravens circled overhead, their harsh cries echoing across the field -------------- Marthio narrowed his gaze as he observed the distant enemy lines beginning to falter, then shift, inch by inch, backward. A flicker of realization dawned in his mind as he watched their disorganized withdrawal¡ªTyros''s plan had worked. His boy had won the day, Mavius''s army was pulling back, and Marthio knew with absolute certainty that this was no feigned retreat as the enemy commander had an enemy at his back. A fierce, satisfied grin crossed Marthio''s face as he lifted his fist high. His voice thundered over the clash of metal and the pounding hooves, a rallying call that surged through his own lines. "They''re falling back! Advance! Pursue them¡ªpress them as they break!" The men at his command surged forward, their morale bolstered by the sight of the retreating enemy. Marthio''s heart beat strong in his chest as he led them onward, knowing that Mavius''s forces had nowhere left to run, and that this battle was now his to win. With Marthio''s command, the entire infantry surged forward, a wave of steel and determination bearing down on the retreating enemy. A sea of men raised their weapons, their pace quickening from a determined march into an all-out charge. Dust rose beneath their boots, thickening the air, while battle cries echoed across the field, drowning out the distant clangor of weapons still clashing at the flanks. As the fleeing enemy soldiers glanced over their shoulders, panic set in their eyes. Like hounds after quarry, Marthio''s soldiers closed the distance, swords and spears raised, pressing every advantage to break the enemy''s already fragile resolve. For hours they had been fighting and now that they had the opportunity to release all the stress accumulated during the battle, they pounced ahead like lions "After them! Don''t let the cowards breathe!" "Run, you bastards! Not so brave now, are you?" "Send ''em to the crows!" As the retreat turned chaotic, the slowest among Mavius''s soldiers were the ones to be cut down. One footman tripped on uneven ground. He scrambled to his feet, but a pursuing spear from Marthio''s ranks pierced his back before he could take another step, sending him face-first into the dirt. Nearby, another soldier, clutching his side where he''d already taken a glancing blow, stumbled. He looked over his shoulder, desperation in his eyes, just as a sword flashed, catching him across the neck in a spray of red. He crumpled with barely a cry. Another young recruit, who lived all his life in a small village, before being enlisted as the army passed through his home, with fear stamped across his face tried to climb over a pile of his fallen comrades, only for an enemy axeman to grab him by the shoulder and pull him back down. The young man''s scream was cut short as the axe struck down . The slow, the wounded, and the exhausted were left behind, easy prey for Marthio''s relentless soldiers, who cut down each straggler with merciless efficiency, their cheers mixing with the groans and screams of those who could not escape. Even the footmen that surrendered were not spared, for as as soon as they threw the weapons down, a swing of the enemy''s soldiers made them realize how maybe it would have been better, if they had just kept running instead. On the far right, the cavalry battle was finally drawing to a close as the order for a retreat arrived to them too . Hooves thundered across the field as the clash of armored clibanarii and hired riders waned, the last embers of resistance snuffed out. For nearly half an hour, Marthio''s cavalry chased their enemy counterparts across the plains. The two forces clashed, withdrew, and surged forward in a violent dance as armored clibanarii pressed against hired riders, each maneuvering to outflank the other, trying to buy time for their comrades behind them . Hooves thundered across the battlefield, and the air was thick with the clang of steel and the grunts of exertion. Then, in a brief lull, Marthio''s lead riders looked back and caught sight of the distant infantry lines, where Mavius''s forces had begun a full retreat. Murmurs of confusion passed among the mounted soldiers, the realization settling like a spark igniting dry tinder¡ªthe enemy was abandoning the field. From the front of the cavalry lines,the commander rose high in his saddle, his voice booming like thunder over the tumult of battle. He was Commander Severian Cassian, head of the imperial clibanarii, '''' Soldiers of House Cassian!" he shouted, his voice slicing through the din of chaos. "Look yonder! The enemy falters! They''re running! To the infantry, we ride! Show them no mercy!" The cavalry responded with a surge of energy, their spirits ignited by Severian''s commanding presence. His words were a clarion call, resonating deep within their hearts as they rallied around him, driven by a shared purpose. "We shall cut them down where they stand! For the glory of the empire and the honor of our house, charge!" Without hesitation, Marthio''s cavalry wheeled their horses, abandoning the pursuit of the enemy riders and charging at full speed toward the retreating infantry. Hooves pounded as they raced back across the plain, determination etched into their faces as they closed in on Mavius''s fleeing foot soldiers. The riders spurred their mounts on, eager to catch the slower infantrymen, weapons poised as they bore down with the relentless force of a wave crashing ashore. The rebel''s riders, who at that point had been buying time for their comrades behind to escape, decided to call it a day and leave the footmen to their fate as they used the opportunity to turn tail and return to a safe haven. And so the day was won , the nobles sitting in the capital would declare. And so the day was lost , the nobles fleeing to the Fingers would instead lament on that fateful day. As what could have been a decisive end for the senseless conflict that plagued what once was called ''The Giant of the East '', instead became the spark that stoked the still-burning fire of civil war. For as the sun lowered to the horizon, it became clear that each clash, each fallen soldier, only served to dig deeper into the hole their empire was falling into, as brother fought against brother, spilling the same blood into the uncaring ground.(IMAGE OF BATTLE IN COMMENTS) Chapter 201: Learning more Chapter 201: Learning more Alpheo stood by one of the tall, narrow windows of the keep in Bracum, his gaze settled on the training yard below, where Ratto moved with relentless focus. The boy''s stance was low, steady, his muscles coiled with anticipation as he sized up his opponent, another youth of his age and height, yet lacking his intensity. He lunged forward, his wooden sword arcing swiftly through the air, testing the other boy''s while not fully commiting . His opponent raised his blade just in time, their weapons clashing with a satisfying crack that echoed off the keep''s stone walls. But Ratto pressed on, feinting left only to dart right, swinging his sword in a sharp arc that his partner barely managed to deflect. At one point, Ratto took a calculated risk, pivoting on his heel and delivering a sweeping strike aimed low, forcing his partner to jump back. He then kept pressing forward with a series of rapid strikes, his footwork deft and agile. Though his movements still carried the rawness of youth, each blow seemed a little sharper, each reaction a little quicker, Alpheo knew that the boy was learning his way. A slight smile curved at the corner of Alpheo''s mouth. Ratto was eager to learn, not only in the rigors of physical training but in the discipline of the mind as well. After the campaign ended, Alpheo ensured the young, sandy-haired boy received the education worthy of a noble. He attacked his studies with the same intensity he showed in the training yard, his blue eyes alight with curiosity as he studied everything he was thrown. Whether it was late into the evening under candlelight or at dawn before the day''s training began, Ratto''s dedication was unwavering. Alpheo would often be told by his tutor that the boy would pass hours hunched over a table piled with scrol-. A voice sounded behind him. "Your Grace." Alpheo turned to see the eldest son of Xanthios stepping into the hall, bowing his head respectfully. "Lord Caelum," he replied, his eyes moving to his figure . The heir to Bracum stood at a modest height, his frame lean but well-built, revealing a strength that, while not imposing, suggested a man comfortable with the sword. At twenty-five , his face retained the youthful sharpness of his age.His black hair fell in a bowl cut, framing his face with an unstudied simplicity, the strands just brushing his forehead, giving him a slightly boyish look that contrasted with his otherwise serious demeanor. Caelum stepped up beside him, gaze following Alpheo''s out toward the yard. "You seem to take a keen interest in the boy''s training," he remarked with a slight smile. Alpheo''s expression softened. "I do. I have something of a soft spot for the child," he admitted quietly. Caelum''s smile broadened at the rare admission, and he moved closer to the window beside Alpheo. Together, they watched the yard in silence. "I''ve been told the reason for your visit, Your Grace," Caelum began, his eyes shifting to Alpheo, studying him with a guarded intensity. "Good," Alpheo replied, offering a measured nod. "Then perhaps you have some thoughts about it?" Caelum scratched his neck thoughtfully, his expression veiling any strong reaction. "Not particularly. It''s no snake in the grass, not after all that''s happened." He paused, his gaze turning somber. "I imagine you''ve seen... my father''s attachment with his brother?" Alpheo''s eyes narrowed slightly, a sign of understanding. "If you mean the finger, yes, I''ve seen it." Caelum''s gaze dropped, as if searching for some invisible answer. "He''s held that finger as though it were a tether to his own sense of honor. I''ve watched him clutch it for years, Your Grace," Caelum murmured, his voice tinged with a weary resignation. "That thing has haunted him... consumed him. To him, it''s as if that finger still pulses with his brother''s heartbeat." Alpheo studied Caelum closely, weighing the truth behind the young lord''s words. "So it would seem,you think he can go pass it?" he replied slowly allowing the words to settle before pressing further. Caelum''s face softened into an expression that was both sad and resolute. "You already know the answer, Your Grace," he replied, his voice lowering as though speaking the words made them truer. "There was a time I thought he could.Now I don''t '''' Alpheo looked at Caelum, his gaze thoughtful but piercing. "So, are you against this war, then?" Caelum let out a short laugh, a sound both bitter and amused. "If it means an end to that blasted obsession, I almost wish we''d gone to war sooner," he replied, glancing sidelong at Alpheo. His smile faded as he continued. "This rivalry with the Lord of Arduronaven has dragged our house toward ruin, Your Grace. My father spends his days plotting and scheming, clinging to some ancient grudge while the rest of us try to keep our heads above water." He sighed, voice dropping as he looked out the window again. "Every year, without fail, raiding parties pass between our lands. He sends one out, they return the favor¡ªthis endless cycle has drained us dry, debts piling up faster than we can count.The harvests is low and most of it is used to give enough food for the refugees created during last year''s raid. There was a time when Bracum stood proud and strong. But now?" Caelum shook his head, a trace of bitterness in his gaze. "All we''ve done is fan the flames of hatred, paying for it with every coin we''ve ever earned." Alpheo''s thoughts churned as he watched Caelum, eyebrows knitting together with suspicion and intrigue. Why is he telling me all of this? He couldn''t shake the question. He was practically laying out the vulnerabilities of his own house as if he were laying cards on a table. Surely, no man would reveal his father''s weakness like it was a card game so freely unless he intended something, Alpheo thought, eyes narrowing. Is he subtly telling me that with his father at the helm the lordship will be too weak to even help?Does he want to have my consent to depose him? Alpheo watched Caelum in silence, his expression unreadable "This rivalry needs to end, once and for all," the young man murmured, voice steady but laced with a deep-seated weariness. " Our coffers are empty, our lands scattered with scars¡ªscars they bear like burdens passed down, none of it their own doing." He glanced at Alpheo, his expression resolute as he continued his poetic ramble, making Alpheo think that the Lord liked theathers a bit too much. "Whatever it takes, this madness must have an end." Alpheo looked out over the courtyard, nodding slowly as he took in Caelum''s words. "It''s my end as well," he said, voice measured with the weight of conviction, "to bring this matter to a final close, once and for all." His gaze shifted thoughtfully back to Caelum, studying him with quiet scrutiny. "But tell me, what exactly do you hope to gain by sharing all of this with me?I am sure that is not just idle talking" Caelum met Alpheo''s steady gaze, holding his silence for a moment as though deciding just how much he could reveal. Then, with a respectful incline of his head, he asked, "Your grace, may I speak frankly?" Alpheo shrugged, a faint smile flickering across his face, somewhere between amusement and resignation. "By all means. Let''s have it, then." Caelum''s voice turned somber, each word deliberate. "Your grace, you and her grace ¡ªthough rightful in your place¡ªstand nearly alone in that position." He paused, gauging Alpheo''s reaction as he continued. "At Arkawatt, we saw only a small number of nobles answer his call, and now that you''ve established your role here, it may be fewer still who would willingly follow you into the next battle. The noble houses, though they grudgingly recognize you as consort, may not rush to your banner when the time comes." Alpheo''s brow arched, his eyes narrowing as he absorbed the words. Caelum did not flinch, pressing on. "More than anything, your grace, what you need is the loyalty of your vassals¡ªtrue loyalty. I have no doubt that you seek for the Lord of Bracum to stand among those allies." Alpheo''s face remained unreadable, but a faint nod acknowledged Caelum''s insight. "But," Caelum continued, voice softening, "to be of real use to you, we must be strong enough to lend a real hand. There is little to gain in binding Bracum to your cause if our strength is too sapped by this feud to offer you support when you need it." He glanced at Alpheo, choosing his words carefully. "If a powerful ally is what you seek, then it is in both our interests to sever the root of this longstanding conflict. Cut it down entirely if we must, for only in that way can Bracum''s loyalty mean anything substantial to you." Alpheo''s gaze hardened, his voice cold and resolute. "It has always been my purpose to see the Lord of Arduronaven brought to justice," he said, each word a promise of iron. There was no mistaking his conviction; his intent was set, unyielding as steel. Caelum inclined his head, speaking with careful respect. "Of course, your grace. Forgive my misjudgment," he replied, his tone measured. "It''s only... war is as fickle as the sea. Should fortune shift, I feared the turncloak might yet survive, spared somehow to bring our city back under Yarzat''s hands." A low laugh escaped Alpheo, rich with a flicker of amusement. "Not a concern, Lord Caelum," he replied with a wry smile. "You see, I''ve no tolerance for turncoats myself.They quite disgusts me..." Chapter 202: Private Dinner Chapter 202: Private Dinner Alpheo sat at a small, sturdy wooden table in his chamber, the midday light spilling through the narrow window and casting a warm glow over the stone walls. Across from him sat Jarza, his face calm but his eyes alert as he took a sip of wine from a modest silver goblet. The supper was simple yet hearty, laid out on the table between them: slices of crusty bread, a platter of cured meats, and a bowl of stewed vegetables with a savory aroma that filled the chamber. Alpheo reached for a piece of bread, tearing it thoughtfully as he watched Jarza from across the table, the quiet between them more comfortable than tense. The sound of a distant bell tolled softly from the outer keep, marking the noon hour as they settled into the meal. Between bites, Alpheo occasionally cast his gaze out the window, the view showing only a narrow slice of the courtyard below, where banners fluttered lazily in the midday sun. Ratto stood near the small table, a clay urn of wine cradled in his hands as he poured the deep red liquid into goblets, the dark fluid falling into Jarza''s cup. Alpheo watched him for a moment before breaking the silence. ''''Have you eaten yet?" he asked, his tone casual but curious. "Yes, Your Grace," Ratto replied quickly, but the slight hesitation in his voice hinted at the truth. Alpheo raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile creeping onto his lips. "I can tell you haven''t," he said gently. "Come, sit with us, and have something " Ratto glanced down at the table, then back at Alpheo, the invitation clearly tugging at him. With a slight nod, he set the urn down and took a seat at the table, a grin breaking across his face. "Alright, I suppose I could use a bite or two." As Ratto settled into his seat, Alpheo leaned back, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "I saw you training earlier this morning," he remarked, observing Ratto with a hint of pride in his eyes. Jarza''s lips curled into a smile at the mention of Ratto''s training. "Was he any good?" he asked, leaning forward with interest. "He fought well," Alpheo replied, nodding in approval. "I can already see him as a strong knight." Ratto beamed at the compliment, but Jarza wasn''t done. "So, are you planning to take up the sword yourself? Perhaps you''ll even start training in your free time?You would do good with a bit more muscle" Alpheo chuckled softly, shaking his head. "I wish I could, but I simply have no time for it. The administration here is heavy enough without adding swordplay to the mix. Until my reforms are in place, I can''t afford the distraction." He sighed, the weight of his responsibilities evident in his voice. "It''s a luxury I can''t indulge in right now." Jarza scoffed lightly, shaking his head as he took a sip from his cup. "Come on, Alpheo. Even before you picked up that quill and ink, you were never the brawny type," he teased, a playful glint in his eye. Alpheo chuckled, a warm smile spreading across his face as he bit onto a piece of meat "True enough," he admitted, a hint of amusement in his tone. "But we have bigger things to worry about before we stroke gold.As surviving for example, or rather yet preparing for our next conflict'''' Alpheo continued, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Regarding that , I had the honor of meeting the heir to the lordship while watching Ratto''s training session earlier." He glanced at Jarza, who raised an eyebrow in curiosity. "What did you talk about?" Jarza asked, leaning forward slightly, his interest piqued. Alpheo paused mid-bite, setting his fork down on the table as he considered how to frame his words. "He started saying some rather strange things," he began, his tone growing more serious. "He spoke of his father''s obsession with avenging his brother. It seems this fixation has clouded his judgment, leading the lordship into significant debt due to his petty wars against the turn cloak lord." Alpheo leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he reflected on the conversation with Caelum, his brow furrowing slightly. "To be honest, he seemed rather fed up with it all," he murmured, more to himself than to Jarza. "Frustrated, even.Not that I blame him, if I saw my own father leading my heritage to the ground , I would be angry too..." Jarza''s curiosity sharpened as he leaned forward, his expression keen. "Did he share anything else of interest?" Alpheo gave a wry smile, his eyes narrowing with a mixture of amusement and calculation. "Yes, in fact. He tried to convince me that the sorry state of Bracum affects us all¡ªthat it''s somehow in our best interest to help pull them from the muck. He seems convinced that our only path forward is to rally as many lords to our side as we can muster, especially with the noble houses practically shrugging off the royal crown''s authority." Jarza let out a soft, amused chuckle, a gleam of understanding in his eye. "And... isn''t he right about that?" Alpheo inclined his head in a small nod. "The reasoning itself is sound, I''ll admit that much. But he miscalculated something crucial about the arrangement." Jarza raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate. Alpheo''s smile turned sharper, almost predatory. "Caelum seemed to think we''re the ones who need him, that somehow, our success hinges on having Bracum''s backing. But he''s missed the truth entirely." He leaned forward, voice dropping with a quiet intensity. "The reality is that we don''t require his family''s support to get what we need. What we truly need," he said, pausing for emphasis, "is someone willing to let us train hundreds of foot soldiers¡ªglorified meat shields really- to absorb the brunt of any siege against Arduronaven." Alpheo glanced at Jarza, his eyes glinting with amusement. "And who better than a man already so consumed with vengeance that he''d drain his lands to the last coin and sword to see it done?So I guess they''ll do " Jarza raised an eyebrow, glancing thoughtfully at Alpheo. "So... we''re not going to help them then?" "That''s not what I meant," Alpheo replied, waving off the suggestion. "Caelum was right in some respects. Having Bracum''s lord on our side would certainly be an asset. His insight wasn''t entirely wrong, there is always something to gain to have a proxy." ''''What''s that?'''' Ratto asked in confusion, something that Alpheo could see that Jarza shared too ''''Basically a second party that is used to do things by another, usually it being much stronger than the first'''' Jarza tilted his head, considering this. "Then what''s the issue?Don''t we want something like that?" Alpheo leaned forward, an edge creeping into his voice. "It was the way he presented it, as if aligning with them would be our boon more than theirs¡ªas if we''re just as desperate as they are," he said, his voice laced with irritation, as just the presumption that they were forced to help them out irked him a bit. "But... that doesn''t mean we can''t lend a hand. We''ve enough coin to help foster a loyal noble to our side. With the right support, even Bracum could become something worthwhile." Jarza took a slow sip from his cup, squinting at Alpheo with a bemused smile. "You know, talking to you sometimes feels like untying a knot " he chuckled, swirling the wine thoughtfully. "You start off all clear, leading me one way, and then¡ªsnap¡ªI find out you were tangling me up in a whole other direction the entire time." Alpheo threw his head back, smirking a bit "Always keeping you on your toes, aren''t I?" He leaned in, his voice lowering as he looked at Jarza. "Anyway, I need someone sharp and trustworthy to help train that hundred-man regiment we''re raising out of Bracum. We need them ready if the fighting breaks out sooner than expected. So, what do you say? Care to lend a hand?" Jarza arched a brow, his mouth curving into a mischievous grin. "Oh, so I''m to be promoted to drill sergeant, then? Is this your way of saying you''re stripping me of command of my units?" Alpheo scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "And who would I put in your place, pray tell? Sir Robert?" He smirked at the thought, shaking his head. "No, Jarza, this is just a temporary swap. As soon as the war drums start up, you''ll be back in command of your men. Once we reunite in the field, it''ll be as though you never left.I''ll just have someone train our units back in Yarzat in your place, while you do the same taske here'''' Jarza chuckled, his eyes crinkling with mirth as he leaned forward. "I was just tugging at your reins, Alpheo. Whatever you need, consider it done already. And if that means turning Bracum''s fresh recruits into soldiers, well... that''ll be a damn sight easier than trying to make sense of your conversations." Both men erupted in laughter, the sound filling the room and cutting through the formal quiet of the midday meal. Alpheo''s deep, hearty chuckle mingled with Jarza''s lighter, more bemused laugh, and for a moment, they seemed like old friends without a care in the world. Across the table, Ratto looked up from his plate, eyes shifting between the two men with a mixture of curiosity and slight confusion. He continued to chew slowly, his brow furrowing as he tried to piece together what had them in such good spirits. But even as he puzzled over it, a small, reluctant smile began to tug at the corner of his mouth, caught up in the warmth of the shared laughter, though he hadn''t the faintest idea why , as politics was a completely different world for him. Chapter 203: The man behind the machine Chapter 203: The man behind the machine It was as busy a day as any other. While men clashed and bled in the mud, where warriors found either their calling or their end, far behind the battle lines, a single man toiled tirelessly to keep the machinery of the empire running. At a worn wooden desk sat Keval, his fiery red hair catching the dim light in the room''s quiet space. One hand held a parchment, eyes scanning the dense lines of text, while his other hand moved swiftly across another page, recording orders, approving requests, and denying others . Keval worked with an intensity that was almost fierce, his brow knit in concentration as he oversaw every detail, every missive, every decision that kept the empire steady, even amidst the chaos of war As if managing the empire''s affairs wasn''t taxing enough, Keval also found himself contending with the relentless interruptions of his sister, Valeria, who seemed to find a new reason each day to barge into his workspace, demanding favors or special permissions. She would arrive with a determined stride and an unyielding list of requests, piling yet more chaos onto his already staggering workload. After enduring several days of her persistence, Keval finally reached his limit. He had ordered his guards to stop letting her in altogether, instructing them to tell Valeria he was either unwell or simply not in his chambers. Keval sat at his desk, the steady hum of activity outside his chambers fading into silence as he took a report from the stack beside him. His fingers trembled slightly as he unfolded the parchment, his eyes skimming over the lines of text. To the high and noble standers in court, I, Lucius Marcellus , Governor of Caticareto sends word with utmost urgency and gravitas, as I find myself compelled to address a grave and deeply troubling matter that concerns not only our province but the entire reach of the imperial seas. Over recent months, I have received numerous complaints and appeals from our local merchants, each detailing encounters of unprecedented hostility upon the seas. Initially, I believed the menace to stem from small bands of lawless ship-armed rogues, common scourges that our patrols should readily deter. Yet, as the days passed, the frequency and brazenness of these assaults multiplied. Disturbed by the apparent persistence of these incidents, I began to suspect a lapse in vigilance among our patrol fleets and, thus, dispatched envoys to make direct appeal to the esteemed Governor of Harmway, trusting him to coordinate an immediate response. It was not until weeks had passed without any response or reassurance from Harmway that my concerns grew into a well-founded alarm. Determined to unveil the truth, I launched a discreet but thorough investigation. To my dismay, the findings have been bleak: it is confirmed that Harmway no longer bears the empire''s standard. Instead, that once-loyal bastion, pivotal in keeping the Free Lords at bay, has fallen under the sway of our adversaries, now bearing the flag of the scourges of the sea. It is with a heavy heart and an urgent sense of duty that I place this report in your hands before the customary end of the month, believing this intelligence to be of unparalleled significance. I implore the court to consider this matter as one that demands an immediate and decisive response. May the wisdom of the empire guide us in addressing this crisis. Yours in earnest service, Governor Lucius Marcellus of Caticareto'''' With each word read, his face grew paler. A moment later, he closed his eyes, dragging a hand over his face as if to wipe away the weight of what he''d read. Frustration boiled over, and with a sudden burst of fury, he slammed his fists down on the table. The sharp sound echoed through the room, a brief release of the turmoil roiling inside him. He slammed the paper down onto his desk again , fists clenching tightly at his sides. "Damn those wretched sea rats! Curs of the ocean, every last one of them," he spat, each word edged with venom. He shoved his chair back, pacing the room in a growing storm of anger. "Harmway, of all places!" he growled. "A vital stronghold, a key to our defenses¡ªand they''ve let it fall like some worthless fishing port!I have written to that fat idiot to pay more attention to the defense " His voice rose, echoing in the chamber, as he struck the edge of his desk with the side of his fist, pain flaring through his hand, only seeming to stoke his frustration. "Where were the blasted patrols? Where were the supposed garrison of Harmway? Did they just sit idly by as these sea-roaming vermin claimed the city for themselves?" He seethed, his thoughts spiraling into anger at the incompetence, the betrayal, the shame of it all. "Godless, thieving bastards!'''' Keval took a deep, shaky breath, forcing himself to steady his anger. He sank back into his chair, his hands running through his hair as he slumped into the worn leather. The weight of it all pressed down on him, heavy and inescapable. For a moment, he closed his eyes, piecing together the numbers he knew all too well. That little island alone, Harmway, had provided more than 4,500 aurei each year¡ªa crucial flow to the empire''s strained coffers. And now, with the court''s finances already gasping under the weight of rebellions and costly secessions, losing that income felt like being tipped over a precipice. He pressed his palms over his face and, fighting the frustration that seared in his chest, let his forehead rest against the cold wood of the desk. He had poured endless hours into small reforms, scrimping and cutting where he could, painstakingly reworking every coin spent to salvage the empire''s income. Just when he''d thought the scales were beginning to balance, just when he''d dared to hope that the impossible problem was coming to heel, life came in to make sure he remembered his place, sticking all his effort up his arse. A firm knock sounded at the door. Keval blinked, straightening up and quickly smoothing his hair and adjusting his collar. He took a steadying breath, then called out, "Who is it?" "It''s Dorian, my lord," came a voice from the other side. "Come in," Keval replied, regaining his composure . "I trust you''re here to report good news...'''' The door opened, and Dorian stepped in, his posture respectful as he inclined his head. "Yes, my lord," he greeted. "I come with news of success¡ªthe products we moved from the southern princedom of Yarzzat were sold in their entirety within three weeks." Keval''s eyebrow lifted with interest, and he nodded for Dorian to continue. "We purchased 200 urns of cider and 350 pieces of soap, spending a total of 3,700 silverii," Dorian explained. "The soap sold for 10 silverii per piece, and the cider for 15 silverii per urn, yielding us a raw gain of 6,900 silverii." Keval took a slow, deep breath, feeling the tension ease from his shoulders as the numbers settled over him like a balm. He managed a faint smile, the stress of his earlier fury beginning to dissipate as he considered their profit. It wasn''t the solution to his mounting problems, but at least, for a moment, it was a bright spot in a storm of darkened finance. They were still not out of the storm , but at least the winds were not as fierce as before. Keval gave a thoughtful nod, his brow easing as he leaned back in his chair. "This is good, let''s waste no time. Double the purchase for each product on our next venture. We should capitalize on this market especially now that we desperately need more finance." "It will be done, my lord," Dorian replied with a respectful nod. But he hesitated, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. "Though... if I may, there''s one more thing to report on this matter." Keval straightened slightly, his interest piqued. "Go on, what is it?" Dorian cleared his throat, lowering his voice. "While in Yarzat as an envoy, I had occasion to meet the one responsible for crafting these products¡ªthe supposed inventor. A strange man, my lord. He''s quite old, rather frail... and there''s something unusual about him." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "He told me, quite earnestly, that the inspiration for his creations came to him in a dream. He claims it was a revelation granted to him by none other than the All-Knower." Keval raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting from intrigue to skepticism. "A revelation from the All-Knower?" he repeated, almost amused , as he encountered many times men claiming such things. Of course by the end most of them went burning on a pyre. "And what do you make of such claims?" Dorian smirked, his voice lowering to a near whisper. "I believe his words are nothing but fanciful tales, my lord.'''' Dorian continued, his tone growing more serious as he leaned slightly closer. "It seems that this old man, worked in temples as an amuenensis before " Dorian paused for effect, "when I sent someone to search for clues about his past, none of the nearby temples acknowledgedever hiring this so-called blessed Arstolier. You would think if his story had any merit, they would''ve made note of it. " Keval''s brow furrowed as he processed Dorian''s words yet still not grasping the underlying meaning . "What do you mean to say?Be quick with it'''' Dorian nodded , his eyes narrowing with conviction. "I believe that the old man is just a face thrown there to keep the attention away from somebody else all together.And my lord , if I have to be frank my current suspicious turn to one man alone, Alpheo Veloni-isha, the prince consort of the ruler of Yarzat.'''' Chapter 204: Taste of mud Chapter 204: Taste of mud The fortress known as the Gods'' Fingers stood like a giant among men, rising below the rugged peaks of the God''s Hand mountains. This ancient stronghold, guarded the only pass between the northern and southern realms, making it a critical choke point for anyone attempting to cross between the two lands. The castle''s outer defenses comprised two formidable sets of walls. The outer wall, towering and nearly impenetrable, traced the mountain''s contours, seamlessly blending with the jagged rocks and sheer cliffs. Behind this first line of defense rose a second, even more imposing wall, built directly against the face of the mountain itself. Constructed with heavy stone , these walls stood as resilient as the mountains they were built from. Initially, only the inner area¡ªprotected by the first wall¡ªwas occupied by the residents of the Gods'' Fingers. But as the generations passed, the population swelled, and necessity demanded more space. Between the two sets of walls, layers of modest suburbs emerged, expanding the fortress into a bustling enclave. Nestled against the cliffs,its position and structure made the Gods'' Fingers nearly unassailable, while its strategic significance meant it remained fiercely guarded by those who wished to make sure nothing passed between the north and the south. The Gods'' Fingers fortress was the brainchild of Barlak the Lame, a cunning, iron-willed king from one of the fractured petty kingdoms that had once dotted the land before the empire rose to unify them. Over 200 years ago, Barlak, often called "the Cripple," had dedicated his life and his dynasty''s entire fortune to the construction of this towering stronghold. He understood that whoever held the pass could demand gold or favor, ensuring his small kingdom''s prosperity and independence. When a general from one of the invading armies jeered at him, sneering that he required servants to rise from his bed and that he would soon be unable to rule over even his own household, Barlak famously retorted: "Mark my words¡ªI may be lame, but I will stand taller than any of you who dare pass between the toes of my other leg." And today the grand iron doors of the Gods'' Fingers creaked open once again, their sound resonating like a groan of surrender through the narrow mountain pass. These were gates that had once been forced open only by the gleam of gold, collecting tolls from every merchant, traveler, and soldier seeking passage. Today, they opened under a different command: coming not from the jingling of gold and silver but the order of a defeated king. Mavius'' army, battered and broken, trudged beneath the towering stone archway. Armor dented and splattered with mud, soldiers shuffled forward in silent resignation, their heads hanging low, eyes hollow from the recent rout. The banners they bore, once vibrant now hung limp, the wind barely making them flutter Inside the castle walls, the citizens of the Gods'' Fingers looked on from behind the fortress''s stone parapets and crumbling battlements. There was no cheer, no jeering or pride in this hollow victory; they had been sacked just a month before by the same emperor who now returned defeated. Mavius pulled his horse to a stop, looking back at his weary, defeated army with a piercing gaze. His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, a strange hunger flickered across his face. His lips curled faintly, a sneer as he took in the scattered ranks of his forces; the sight of them battered and filthy seemed to stir something fierce within him. Yet he quickly concealed it, the sneer fading as he turned back, calm and calculating, toward Lord Landoff. The lord nodded, and his voice rang out, sharp and commanding over the rumble of his assembled men. "Set up camp here," he ordered, his tone firm and steady. "Make yourselves useful; prepare for the night." As the men moved about, shuffling to fulfill their lord''s commands, Mavius dug his heels into his horse, nudging it forward. He rode alongside a small band of his chosen guards, a handful of hardened men to stay close. Together, they made their way past the bustling soldiers and through the castle''s outer courtyard. Mavius seethed as he looked over his ranks. Thirteen thousand... he thought bitterly. And now barely ten remain. Cowards. Deserting cowards. He cursed under his breath, his hand tightening on his reins as he watched the scattered men stumble toward the camp. His fists clenched as he turned the events over in his mind, each detail flashing like bitter sparks. They had been so close¡ªthe gates of the capital had been in sight, the promise of victory nearly within his grasp. And yet, disaster had struck. An ambush had erupted from behind, a force that seemed to appear from nowhere, trying to catch his forces between the hammer and the anvil. How had they been concealed? He had ordered every land, every forest, hill, and hollow within miles to be scouted thoroughly. The thought of those hidden troops, slipping past his lines unseen made his blood simmer. He clenched his jaw, a grim resolve beginning to settle alongside the anger. They''d regroup, reforge their forces, and when the time came, he''d strike back with twice the fury. For now, though, he had to swallow the bitter taste of defeat and ensure that what remained of his army was ready to fight again. Mavius stepped into the keep, the air cooler within the thick stone walls, smelling faintly of earth and age. At the end of the room stood a figure bracing himself with a cane¡ªa young man of barely twenty-two, his name however being known by more and more as time passes, as Willios, the Hammer. As Mavius approached, Willios inclined his head respectfully. "Your Imperial Majesty," he greeted, his voice steady, though he leaned on the cane with a firm grip. Mavius''s eyes swept over Willios, appraising his upright bearing despite his injuries. "Lord Willios," he acknowledged, a hint of approval in his voice. "How fare your wounds?" Willios straightened as much as his injured side would allow, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "The physicians claim I''ll be back to full strength in a few weeks, Your Majesty," he replied, a flash of satisfaction in his gaze. "Though the pain in my side has become a constant pounding in my head," he added with a wry smirk, tapping his temple. Mavius gave a low chuckle, nodding knowingly. "A headache earned through victory¡ªa trophy of conquest, some might call it," Willios lowered his gaze respectfully, a hint of sympathy flickering in his eyes. "Your Majesty, my condolences on the losses sustained," he began, his voice carrying both understanding and resolve. "But rest assured, this was only a minor setback. Victory, in the end, will be ours." He paused, allowing a slight smile to lift the corner of his mouth as he looked back at the Emperor. "In the meantime, I''ve had the city''s defenses fully restored and established a standing garrison to safeguard it, reinforced by the men Your Majesty left behind. The gates of the Fingers will hold. As long as we command this pass, the road south remains within our reach whenever we decide to march." Mavius met Willios''s eyes with a steady gaze, his expression softening with something akin to pride. "You''ve proven yourself among my most steadfast allies, Willios," he replied, the edge of his voice carrying genuine warmth. "Though the Romelian capital may be out of our reach for the moment, it is a delay, nothing more. Come spring, we will reclaim the southern lands." The Emperor''s gaze shifted, his eyes narrowing with purpose as he continued, "But first, promises are to be kept. You, of all, understand what enabled us to attempt this campaign." He nodded resolutely. "Soon, there will be a ceremony of enfeoffment. You shall stand as the rightful lord of the Fingers." Willios''s face brightened, though he struggled to keep his composure, inclining his head in a show of humble gratitude. "Your Majesty, I am honored beyond words. This responsibility... I shall uphold it with everything I have." Mavius allowed himself a rare smile. "You''ve earned it, Willios. The Fingers can only belong to those who''ve fought to make them ours." Mavius''s gaze drifted past Willios, his eyes seeming to linger on a vision only he could see. He spoke slowly, his tone slipping into something almost poetic. "You know...when I saw the gates swing open that night," he began, "before even the order left my lips to seize the city, I had a glimpse... a vision of myself seated upon the throne. As that was the moment where the crown would be put onto my head " He paused, the weight of the moment pressing between them, his words carrying a far-off certainty as if the throne itself were drawing him forward. "Perhaps, that moment belongs to a not-too-distant future," he continued, voice softer now, the fire in his eyes simmering beneath a tempered resolve. Turning back to Willios, Mavius''s voice regained its command. "For now, we''ll stand the army down. Let them rest, let them rebuild their strength. And when spring arrives, we shall rise once more and finish what we began." Willios straightened, his expression brightening with resolve. "In the meantime, Your Majesty, I will do all that I can to fortify the castle and raise an army that can march with you when the time comes. The Fingers will be stronger than ever¡ªimpenetrable for any who dare test it." Mavius looked upon him with approval, that warmth touch that made so many people fight and throw their lot with him,as the prince had a natural gift to charm other people which made him be so beloved by the many lords he entered in contact with ''''I''ve no doubt, lord Willios," he said, resting a firm hand on his young follower''s shoulder. The gesture was brief but sincere ''''And when that happens the gods themselves will state how lucky I am to have such a hammer at my side'''' At that, Willos lowered his face as he hid his reddened visage to the face of the person for whom he would sacrifice his life to. Chapter 205: Capital passion Chapter 205: Capital passion In the dimly lit chamber, the faint glow of dawn crept through the thick curtains, casting gentle shadows across the room. Beneath a silken sheet, Valeria, the Emperor''s mother, lay entangled with Lord Marcellus, her bare shoulder peeking from under the light cover. Her long red hair was unbound, spilling over his chest, where her head rested. The calm rise and fall of his breathing matched the quiet rhythm of her own, the two figures comfortably draped in each other''s presence. Valeria''s arm lay across Marcellus''s chest, fingers tracing lazy patterns against his skin, while he absentmindedly twirled a lock of her hair. The weight of her head seemed at home against him, resting just over his heart, and he closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the rare stillness. Valeria''s fingers traced along Marcellus''s stomach in idle circles, her touch both gentle and possessive as she let out a sharp sigh, her frustration brimming to the surface. "They don''t even see me," she seethed, her voice low and bitter, the cadence of a well-worn grievance. "My father and that wretched brother, all smug with titles and sycophants hanging on his every word, as if I haven''t earned the right to be heard. I''m the Empress Mother!" She practically spat the words, her fingers pressing a little harder against Marcellus''s skin. Marcellus hummed, nodding slightly. "They''re fools, all of them," he murmured, his hand resting gently against her shoulder, encouraging her to continue. "They bar me from seeing my own son, my own flesh and blood, as though I''m some dangerous stranger!" Her nails dragged down Marcellus''s stomach as her voice rose, laced with fury. "And for what? To let those sycophants fill his head with nonsense? They twist him, I know it. Every day that I''m kept away, I can feel them shaping him, pulling him further from me teaching him to hate his own mother ." Marcellus made a noise of agreement, his gaze soft but attentive. "You''ve every right to be angry," he said simply, his voice low and smooth. "They''ve no respect for the woman who brought the Emperor into this world.He is your son it is your right to see him" He said as he tried his best not to sigh in annoyance Valeria''s mouth twisted in a bitter smile, and she laughed darkly. "They think I''m weak, that I''ll fade into the background, but they forget." she said fiercely, her fingers resuming their idle movements across his stomach, though her gaze was unfocused, her thoughts miles away. "It was me who put the crown on his head¡ªnot them. They have no right to keep him from me." Her hand tightened on Marcellus''s chest, as though the thought itself burned within her. Marcellus nodded, his eyes intent on hers, his hand drifting down to cover hers in a gesture of solidarity. "You''re absolutely right," he murmured, his tone soothing yet stirring, as though to reinforce her conviction. "It''s shameful, the way they''ve treated you. They owe you everything, yet give you nothing ." Her gaze sharpened, meeting his. "I am completely isolated. Every single person I trusted to back me, to help me keep my own son close, has turned their coat to line their purse with my father''s gold. And I..." She faltered, but her eyes remained locked with his, searching his face as if looking for assurance¡ªor perhaps reassurance. Marcellus''s grip on her hand tightened. "Then perhaps it''s time we do something about it," he said softly, his voice laced with a quiet intensity. Valeria raised her eyes to meet his; Marcellus leaned in, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "There are men I trust, loyal people that could be what you looked for on the wrong ones, but getting them inside...well, that''s another matter." He paused, watching her reaction carefully. "If we could find a way to bring them within the court walls, we could build a force loyal to us only.Unfortunately I am unable to do that as I am a simply a lord, of course, perhaps f it was not a lord bringing them in but the empress mother herself..'''' Valeria''s lips curled into a slow, considering smile. Her fingers traced absent circles on his chest as she nodded. "Well..." she murmured thoughtfully, "it''s time I found my current guards to be...lacking. A few replacements wouldn''t be unreasonable, after all." Marcellus''s eyes sparked with a quiet, calculating excitement, and he leaned in close, his face just inches from hers. "Then we''ll see to it," he whispered, the suggestion slipping easily into a promise. "You deserve a guard fit for an Empress Mother. We''ll see that you have only the best." Their breaths mingled, and he closed the distance, pressing his lips to hers in a slow, heated kiss that sealed their unspoken pact. ---------- The Wise Council meeting hall was filled with a tense silence as Keval, the Emperor Regent, stood alone at the center, his imposing figure framed by the flickering torches lining the grand chamber. Around him, tiered seating stretched in all directions, filled with the stern faces of three hundred council members, their eyes fixed intently on him. A wave of contempt passed through Keval as he scanned the council chamber, his gaze settling on the wealthiest and most powerful figures seated before him. Greedy bastards, every last one of them, he thought, his expression remaining outwardly controlled. Over the past few months, smaller factions had sprung up like weeds, each scrambling to curry favor and secure influence within the coucle , while the larger lords exploited the instability, swooping in to consolidate their control , building around them a core number of nobles amassing as many votes as they could. Keval''s voice, strong and unyielding, rang out as he began his address, filling the hall with a gravity that weighed on each listener. "Honored members of the council," he began, his gaze sweeping over the assembly trying his best not to let the inner scowl come out, "we are faced with the greatest crisis this empire has ever known¡ªa crisis that threatens not only our borders, our cities, our coffers, but the very future of our people." A murmur rippled briefly through the council, but Keval''s voice rose above it, clear and steely. "We stand on a precipice. The royal treasury bleeds daily, drained by uprisings, military campaigns, and shattered oaths. '''' He paused, his gaze intense, locking onto one council member after another. "Our forces are stretched thin. We have insurgents within our own lands, while our neighbors wait like wolves at our borders, ready to strike at the first sign of weakness.Must I remember that it will not be long until those wretched people in the sands of Azania will plan a campaign against us?" Keval drew a deep breath, his expression firm. "This is a time of reckoning. We must bring every ounce of wisdom, every scrap of loyalty, to the service of the empire if we are to survive. We cannot afford to falter, not now." Our resources, once abundant, are being stretched thin against countless threats, both internal and external. I will not mince words¡ªthe state of our finances is grim, and without immediate, collective action, we face a slow but certain decay." A murmur rose briefly through the assembly, but Keval raised his hand, stilling the whispers. "And that, dear members, is precisely why we gather today, " he continued, his tone grave but unyielding. "It is time we decide on the tax budget for the coming year, with full acknowledgment of the stark reality we face. Our finances, as you all well know, are expected to diminish considerably given the instability sweeping through the realm.But," he emphasized, "it is incumbent upon each of you to make your own contributions, however small, to give this empire the strength to stand tall once again, starting to give your support for the previous year''s taxation level." As the words flowed out from the Regent''s mouth, Lord Croxiatus, patriarch of House Vox, rose to his feet, his presence demanding the hall''s attention. In recent months, Croxiatus had deftly maneuvered within the city''s elite, building a core of nobles within the council to him The din of whispered conversations fell silent as he began to speak, his voice ringing clear and firm. "I, for one, am in complete agreement with our esteemed Regent," he declared, looking squarely at Keval. "The empire stands on a knife''s edge, and it is our duty as its stewards to strengthen it with every means at our disposal. Therefore, I too propose to maintain the tax budget at last year''s level and cast my vote for its swift approval." A murmur ran through the hall as Croxiatus paused, then added with a flourish, "In further commitment to the empire''s security, I am prepared to contribute an additional gift of four hundred aurei to the imperial coffers¡ªa small token of my devotion to the empire''s cause." The Wise Council erupted into an uproar, with members breaking into fervent discussion, some impressed by the show of loyalty, others suspicious of Croxiatus''s intentions. Seeing this , Lord Lisidor of house Veritia and Lord Vratinius Bax could have jumped from their seat and strangled the bald man to death.They knew very well that now they were obliged to follow , as if they did not , Lord Croxiatus image as a patriotic noble would make him rise among the neutrals , hot-blooded nobles who would certainly throw their lot with him. Exchanging a quick, knowing glance with Lisidor, Vratinius rose from his seat. His movements were deliberate as he lifted his voice, the low timbre easily carrying across the hall. "The Regent''s words ring true," he declared, his gaze steady on Keval, though his thoughts remained squarely on countering Croxiatus''s rising influence. "In the spirit of our noble duty, I, too, pledge my full support to the Regent''s proposal and offer a contribution of three hundred and fifty aurei for the imperial coffers." Lisidor followed swiftly, rising with a practiced grace. He placed a hand over his chest, inclining his head toward the council as he spoke. "And I, Lisidor of House Veritia, echo the Regent''s call. In solidarity, House Veritia will contribute three hundred aurei. May our support for the empire be unwavering." Their declarations sent a wave through the council chamber, as smaller nobles, recognizing the mounting momentum, hastened to align themselves with this patriotic display. One by one, they rose, offering their support, though their contributions were more modest. From the back of the chamber, a younger noble pledged one hundred aurei, his face flushed with the excitement of aligning with the council''s elite. Another, a minor lord with a wiry frame, stood and offered eighty aurei, nodding firmly to emphasize his loyalty. The contributions continued, each one reinforcing the image of a council unified in its dedication to the empire''s survival, however reluctant some might have been. As Lord Keval rose from his seat, his eyes instinctively met those of Lord Croxiatus across the chamber. A flicker of satisfaction crossed his features; the deal he had struck with Croxiatus was proving to be well worth it. Keval''s thoughts turned to his elder brother and father, both of whom were entrenched in the mud and chaos of battle, struggling to ensure the empire''s survival. He knew they were risking everything, fighting for the very future of their lineage. In the face of such dire circumstances, he felt a swell of responsibility to do his part, however removed it might be from the battlefield. The least I can do is ensure they have the resources to keep fighting, he thought resolutely , as the continued shouts of the nobles kept filling his ears with the beautiful sounds of the imperial coffers becoming heavier with every second. The Senex Arundus gripped his cane tightly, his knuckles white as he struck it against the stone floor of the council chamber. The crack of wood on stone echoed through the hall, slicing through the rumbling voices of the gathered nobles like a blade and bringing them to silence. "Order!" he barked, his voice still surprisingly robust for his years, filling the chamber with an old, commanding authority. "You are not merchants at a trade fair, but noblemen of the empire!Behave accordingly!" The murmur of voices subsided as the council members turned their attention toward him, some abashed, others merely annoyed but quieted nonetheless. The Senex with his gaze sharp despite his age, surveyed the assembly with a look that softened only slightly. His eyes, softened with age yet still fierce, seemed to hold a rare glimmer of warmth as he continued, "Yet I must admit¡ªtoday, my heart is warmed by the spirit of patriotism that has graced this hall. Each of you has displayed a loyalty worthy of your titles and the empire." He lifted a hand, motioning to a steward who moved forward, bearing a stack of neatly rolled parchments. "To honor this display further, each noble will receive a parchment," Arundus announced, his voice solemn. "Upon it, you will inscribe your name and the sum you so generously contribute to the strength of the state. And when all is done, each parchment shall be placed into the urn, to be read aloud before men and gods alike, bearing witness to the strength and commitment of our Optimates!" A sudden, tense silence fell over the chamber, stifling the excited murmurs and exaggerated declarations that had previously filled the room. Nobles who had moments before been shouting inflated numbers with brazen enthusiasm now shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Each one of them realized, with a flash of frustration, that their boasts would now be recorded. A few muttered curses slipped under their breaths, though none dared speak aloud as they watched a line of slaves begin to move through the chamber, carrying parchment, ink bottles, and quills. The nobles'' faces ranged from grim to sullen, eyes flickering between one another, each reading the same realization in their rivals'' expressions: they''d been caught in their own game. Chapter 206: Highers issues Chapter 206: Higher''s issues In a dimly lit corner of the bustling tavern, a burly man named Garvin sat with a tankard of ale in one hand, his other arm wrapped possessively around a young woman perched on his knee. The room buzzed with the chatter of patrons and the occasional clink of glass, but Garvin''s laughter cut above it all¡ªa rough, throaty sound, half-drowned by the foam spilling over his cup as he drank deeply. It was a time of celebration for him as his last job went well and provided him with 8 silverii, enough to go forward for at least three months if he used it sparingly, unfortunately, Garvin was many thing but parsimonious was not one of them. The woman on his lap, a local night girl with dark curls tumbling over her bare shoulders, giggled as Garvin''s hand traced a path along her waist. She leaned into him, her laughter soft and feigned, her fingers dancing along the edge of his collar. Garvin''s grip tightened around her, his hand slipping lower with a crude grin as he whispered something that made her laugh again, tilting her head back to meet his gaze. Garvin lifted his tankard, taking a long, unhurried gulp as the ale sloshed over the edges, the foam dripping into his scruffy beard. He chuckled, entirely at ease, but his companion''s smile began to wane. Her gaze had drifted over his shoulder, and her laughter faltered, eyes widening as she caught sight of something, or rather someone, behind him. Noticing the change, Garvin looked up, frowning slightly. He followed her gaze before slowly turning, only to find himself face-to-face with Ravinius. Cloaked in dark, finely tailored attire, Ravinius stood with an unsettling stillness, his presence imposing even in the crowded tavern. His steely gaze lingered on the girl just long enough to make his meaning clear, and without a word, she slipped from Garvin''s lap, her face pale as she backed away before disappearing into the crowd. "Oi!" Garvin growled, raising his empty tankard in protest. "I paid for her company, y''know." His complaint hung in the air, almost petulant against the heavy silence that now settled between him and Ravinius. Ravinius was known as the man one sought out when in need of a quick job for quick cash¡ªa broker of shadowy deals and risky ventures. He had disappeared for a few months and many along Garvin believed he was dead, and yet apparently he was not . Normally, it was men like Garvin who had to seek him out, chasing rumors and paying in coins or favors just for a chance at his table, as his jobs were usually the most lucrative . But tonight, here Ravinius was, sitting across from him, his piercing gaze unyielding and silent. Garvin eyed him warily, then let out a low chuckle. "Can''t say this happens often," he remarked, swirling the dregs of his ale and lifting it for a long sip. "You coming to me, that is. Usually, it''s the other way around.Many thought you dead you kno..." He watched Ravinius''s face for any flicker of response, but the man''s expression remained unreadable, cold as a winter lake. Setting his tankard down, Garvin straightened, scratching his scruffy jaw. "And as far as I know, I don''t owe you anything," he added, his tone edged with forced bravado as he leaned back, crossing his arms. Ravinius raised an eyebrow, his voice low and calm as he finally spoke. "Are you interested in a job?" Garvin squinted at Ravinius, suspicion simmering in his gaze. He leaned forward, his fingers tapping a rhythm on the scarred wood of the table. "And who would this job be for?" he asked, his voice laced with curiosity and caution. Despite the allure of Ravinius''s reputation, Garvin had learned long ago that nothing with him was ever as straightforward as it seemed. If Ravinius was here offering him a job personally, the stakes must be high, dozens of young fool would kill their mother to enter Ravinius''s payroll, but if he came personally to hire, then there was something wrong with the job. Ravinius met his stare, calm and composed, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across his face. With a slight tilt of his head, he answered, "I can''t say unless you agree to take it." His tone was flat. Garvin let out a rough, short laugh, leaning back with a slight shake of his head. He adjusted his weight, shifting uncomfortably under the unrelenting stare of the man across from him. "All right, then," he said, his tone edged with skepticism. "But how long is this job supposed to last?" Ravinius paused, his expression as unreadable as ever. "Long," he replied simply, letting the weight of that single word settle between them. Garvin scratched his chin, thoughtful. "I''m not used to long jobs '''' he muttered, narrowing his eyes, weighing the new line of work . Most of his workjobs had always been brief, gritty affairs¡ªquick and dirty, in and out before things could get too complicated. A job that stretched on and on was a gamble, and he wasn''t a man who enjoyed having his fate tied up in something indefinite. Ravinius didn''t flinch, his gaze steady and unwavering. "The pay is good," he said, his words cutting through Garvin''s hesitance. "Very good." Despite himself, Garvin felt his interest rekindling. He raised a skeptical eyebrow, though there was a glint of intrigue in his eyes. "How much are we talking?" "Thirty silverii a month, two hundred in lump sum at the end" The words landed with the weight of a sledgehammer, and Garvin blinked, taken aback. The prospect of that much steady coin was enough to make even the most cautious man think twice. For someone like him, who often had to scramble for jobs that barely scraped together half that amount, it was more than tempting; it was life-changing. He felt his pulse quicken, the allure of silver filling his mind. Still, doubt remained. He let the words roll over him, turning them over in his mind. At a month. His voice was quieter now, as he weighed the implications, as if he were voicing a thought rather than a question. "Just...how long is this job expected to last?" He kept his eyes fixed on Ravinius, waiting for the answer that might tell him just how deeply he''d be stepping into Ravinius''s shadow. Ravinius''s gaze never wavered as he answered in a single, unhurried word. "It is unknown yet it will be long." Garvin felt the weight of the word settle over him, heavy as an iron shackle. He sat back, thoughtful, running a hand over his unshaven chin as his mind turned over the risks that usually came with work like this. He''d been in the business long enough to know that when jobs stretched indefinitely, it often meant the kind of trouble that clung to a man and didn''t let go. Deep shit, he thought grimly, feeling a familiar prickle of unease. The sort of jobs where silver flowed easily also had a way of leading a man to dark, bloody places he might not come back from. Sure, he could sway a few green-eyed fools, young ones who still saw the glint of silver as worth any risk. He could tell them to shut up, look away, and hold out their hands for pay without asking questions. But Garvin was no fool. He had clawed his way through enough scraps to know that money didn''t spend so well when you were dead. "I''ll pass," he said firmly, crossing his arms. "That''s not the sort of job for me." But Ravinius made no move to stand, nor did he even blink at Garvin''s refusal. He simply sat, his gaze fixed on him with an unsettling, unyielding intensity. There was something too steady, too certain, in the man''s expression, and as he stared, Garvin felt a cold shiver run down his spine. Ravinius wasn''t pressuring him, not outright, but the silence, the sheer force of that stare, felt like a silent demand. It was a gaze that told Garvin he hadn''t heard the end of this. And as much as he tried to shake it off, that chill clung to him. Ravinius leaned in, his voice low and persuasive, smooth as oil yet edged with steel. "I need proper men for a proper job, Garvin. Few can keep their mouths shut as well as you, especially with a good wage to keep them happy." He paused, watching Garvin''s reaction, then continued, "If thirty silver a month isn''t tempting enough, then perhaps forty will do." With that, Ravinius reached into his cloak, drawing out a heavy bag, and tossing it onto the table between them. The bag hit the wood with a satisfying thud, and as the leather settled, its contents spilled slightly¡ªglimmering silver coins tumbling onto the scarred surface, catching the dim light in silvery flashes. Around them, the hum of conversation died down; patrons glanced over, eyes wide as they took in the open display of wealth. The tavern grew silent Garvin felt the tug of temptation gnawing at him, harder to resist than he wanted to admit. The mere sight of that much coin, was the sort of offer that could loosen even the firmest of refusals. And yet, the silver glinted at him from the table, shining with the promise of comfort and ease. Garvin''s fingers twitched, hovering over the coins for a heartbeat too long. Before he could think twice, his hand closed around the bag, the weight of the silver heavy in his grip. Ravinius gave a single, approving nod. "Good," he murmured, satisfaction evident in his tone as he rose from his seat with a smooth, measured grace. Garvin cleared his throat, glancing down at the bag of silver before looking up. "When does this job start, then?" he asked, still wary beneath the allure of easy money. "Tomorrow," Ravinius replied, his eyes unreadable. "I''ll come to you with the proper tools." He turned toward the door, moving with the same purposeful calm that had drawn all eyes when he entered. Pausing at the threshold, he cast a cold, sweeping gaze around the tavern, then spoke in a loud, firm voice that cut through the murmurs and whispers. "That man there," he said, gesturing briefly toward Garvin, "is now under me." The scattered patrons eyeing Garvin and his newfound wealth quickly looked away, the unspoken threat behind Ravinius''s declaration enough to halt any half-formed plans of lightening Garvin''s purse. Ravinius waited a beat, letting the silence deepen before finally stepping out into the night. Garvin watched him go, his gaze lingering on the door for a moment before he tucked the bag close, aware of too many eyes still on him. After a few seconds, he stood as well, knowing better than to let a full purse linger in the same place as a crowd and cheap ale. Chapter 207: Preparations Chapter 207: Preparations The next day, Garvin stood at attention within an elegant, sprawling garden, feeling out of place in the pristine surroundings.He had not expected his job to start like this; usually, they would start and end in the same place, in a back alley with the stench of urine and a job to dispose of; sometimes, if he was lucky, he just had to beat some people to convince them to pay back what they owed from loansharks, or in the worst case, dealing with the aftermath of a beating gone wrong. Currently, he was lined up alongside thirty other men, each outfitted in full armor. Their chainmail glinted beneath solid breastplates, steel helmets casting shadows over hardened faces, and polished cuirasses and greaves covering their legs with an imposing gleam. Apparently our job isn''t a discreet one, Garvin realized, as no employer would be so stupid as to make their hired man look so much eye-catching unless he had wanted them to be so. Garvin''s gaze drifted across the garden, momentarily entranced. Flowering vines wound up marble pillars, and fountains sent streams of crystal-clear water into the air, casting rainbows in the morning sunlight. Rare blossoms bloomed in bursts of color along manicured paths, their fragrance contrasting sharply with the smell of the places he used to visit.For a small moment he allowed himself to take the beautiful and pleasant sight in , however, he quickly took hold of himself as it would have done him no good to play the mesmerized fool. Especially in front of his superiors Ahead of them, stood a late middle-aged man, his gaze sweeping over the line of hired crooks with an expression of both scrutiny and quiet disdain. His face was weathered by time and his sharp eyes assessed each mercenary as if weighing their worth, and it was useless to say he was not pleased by it . At the man''s right side stood a figure Garvin immediately recognized: Ravinius. But gone was the shadowy cloak and simple attire he had worn the night before. Now, Ravinius was clad in a suit of gleaming armor, polished to a mirror shine. The breastplate caught the morning sun, casting bright reflections across the rows of armored men, and a finely-crafted helmet rested beneath his arm. Ravinius looked every bit the leader, with an intensity in his gaze that now seemed somehow fiercer, unhindered by the cloak of secrecy he''d worn the night before. Ravinius stepped forward, his armored boots pressing into the lush grass, the metallic clink echoing through the garden as he faced the line of hired crooks. His gaze swept over them, sharp and discerning, measuring each man as he spoke. "Each one of you," he began, his voice carrying a firm edge that commanded attention, "was handpicked by me, chosen for your skills and your ability to keep your mouth shut." His eyes lingered on a few, as though to remind them just how serious he was about that expectation. He paused, letting his words settle before continuing. "This job will pay you all dearly¡ªso well, in fact, that by the end of it, you''ll never need to work another day in your life." A faint murmur passed through the line as the men shifted, some exchanging glances, their faces betraying a mix of excitement and greed. Garvin felt his pulse quicken at the thought, his earlier doubts momentarily silenced by the prospect of wealth beyond anything he''d ever earned. Ravinius held up a hand, his expression hardening. "But there are a few important rules to keep in mind." His tone sharpened, and the murmur quieted immediately, the men''s full attention drawn to him as he continued. "These rules are not optional. Follow them, and you''ll walk away with more coin than you ever dreamed of. Disobey them, and you''ll wish you hadn''t set foot here." Ravinius''s gaze hardened, and he looked each man squarely in the eye as he continued, "You''ll be working with people of high class¡ªnobility, the kind you''d never normally get within arm''s reach of. Which means you''ll all need to learn the basics of how to act like proper hired guards." He paced slowly, his armor gleaming as he walked down the line of men "Don''t worry," he added, his tone slightly mocking, "I don''t expect you to learn to speak eloquently or bow like some court fool. But I do expect you to know how to stand with your back straight and to behave in the presence of people of higher birth. You will be their shadow¡ªseen, never heard, never out of place.If someone looks like you it has to be a fleeting stare, like one would give to an insect" Garvin glanced to his left and right, his brows furrowing as he took in Ravinius''s words. Where are we working, and, more importantly, who in the gods'' hells are we working for?Were they hired to be the bodyguard of some rich prick?No, if that was the case he would not have scoured the slums to pick the swords that would protect him... Ravinius paused and looked down the line as if he could hear their thoughts, his piercing gaze daring them to ask aloud. "During this job, you will keep silent. Not a word, not a whisper¡ªunless you''re spoken to. You are shadows, nothing more. If I so much as catch you breathing too loud, you are out'''' He paused, letting the threat sink in, his eyes narrowing as he continued. "And keep your hands to yourselves," he added, his voice growing darker. "If I have even the slightest suspicion of thievery, I''ll be dragging your corpse to the river myself and dumping it where no one will ever find it. Consider that your only warning." The men shifted uneasily, some gulping, others dropping their gaze. Ravinius''s voice softened slightly but lost none of its edge. "But," he continued, "if either I or our client asks anything of you, you will act immediately. No questions, no hesitation. You''re being paid well enough to follow orders without a second thought.To you they are ghosts until the moment they are in need of anything , at which point they become your gods. In one month, the job will begins" He gestured toward the older man standing just behind him, a figure wrapped in quiet authority. "This is Sir Rallius. He''s here to teach you the proper conduct expected of you." The old man , apparently whose name was Rallius, met their gazes with an assessing look. His silver hair framed a face marked with hard-earned lines, the type of man who tolerated neither excuses nor shortcuts. Seeing that the old man had nothing to ask Ravinius continued, "You''ll have exactly one month to learn what he teaches. Stand straight, follow orders, and learn how to blend into the background. You''ll learn how to carry yourselves around nobility¡ªhow to look the part of a guard to someone of high standing." He cast a final sharp glance over the line of men, his eyes hard. "Understand this: if any of you are deemed unfit by the end of training, you''ll be dismissed from the job.'''' After that, the old man finally stepped forward with a slow, deliberate sneer, his gaze sweeping over the assembled men as though they were little more than dirt under his well-polished boot. His lip curled in distaste, and he let out a sigh that hinted at long-suffering patience worn thin. "To think," he drawled, his voice dripping with scorn, "I have tutored the sons of lords ,and now I am forced to instruct a ragged band of cockroaches in manners far above their station." He shook his head, a trace of resignation in his eyes, as if still coming to terms with this unfortunate duty. With a clipped motion, he turned, gesturing curtly for them to follow. "Come along," he snapped. "We''ll be starting your lessons immediately. Every hour counts if I''m to shape any of you into something remotely presentable." Without waiting for a response, he began to stride forward, leaving unsaid that they had to follow him in. What have I gotten myself into? Garvin thought bitterly, as the more time passed, the more worried he became about the strange air hanging around everything. Why the hell would nobles hire low-born men like us when they have soldiers and knights at their beck and call? It didn''t make sense, and no matter how much he thought about it , he couldn''t find a reasonable answer for any of his doubts. This whole situation smells rotten, he thought, his mind racing with paranoia as he felt like a sheep unknowingly walking straight into a slaughterhouse. And as it would turn out, he was right in being worried, for this small group of men was being led to become accomplices in one of the gravest forms of treason that the laws of both men and gods could ever condemn: harming one''s own blood. Chapter 208: Emperors day Chapter 208: Emperor''s day How boring, thought the Emperor of Romelia, the Protector and Guardian of the West, as he sat slouched in his chair, one leg swung lazily over the other. His gaze drifted aimlessly around the study, bouncing from the tapestry on the far wall to the flickering candle beside him, anywhere but on his tutor, Frovius, who droned on with undisturbed enthusiasm. The old man''s voice was a relentless hum, a monotone river of words that Mesha had long since tuned out. "Now, contrary to popular belief," Frovius continued, squinting over the tops of his spectacles, "during the Red Plague, the ruling House of Estius was not, in fact, completely extinguished in the male line. It seems some of their male relatives had taken up the church as their calling, and due to their noble blood, they were allowed an exemption from the standard penance requirements of the time. Meaning they were still eligible to have kids and so they cou¡ª" Mesha''s mind wandered even further, his eyes glazing over. Frovius had been going on for what felt like an eternity about the genealogies and intrigues of the previous ruling houses whose names were all that remained, as hollow and dusty as the books lining the walls of the study. The tutor''s passion for forgotten facts was unwavering, and yet the more Frovius rambled, the less Mesha found himself able to grasp any of it. He stifled a yawn, wondering how many years would pass before Frovius realized that the old names and dead bloodlines stirred no fire within him, even if those were that of his ancestors. Mesha''s thoughts were interrupted by a damp, cool sensation on his hand. Glancing down, he saw his loyal hound, Hadrin, nudging his hand with a wet nose, a pair of amber eyes gazing up at him with quiet affection. Mesha couldn''t help but smile, his fingers running over the dog''s thick fur, scratching gently under his chin where Hadrin loved it most. The hound leaned into his hand, his tail thumping softly against the floor in contentment, which however caused the old tutor to notice his ward''s lack of attention. "Your grace" came the sharp voice of his tutor, cutting through his brief moment of reprieve. Mesha''s head snapped up, catching Frovius''s raised eyebrow. "Are you listening? Can you tell me what I was just saying about the House of Estius?" Mesha cleared his throat, quickly hiding his hand by his side and hoping his lack of attention hadn''t been too obvious. Mesha straightened, grasping for what little he remembered. "After the Red Plague," he began, hoping to sound convincing, "the remaining relatives of House Estius¡ªthose in the church¡ªrefused the title. So it passed through the female line to a member that was married into... House Romelia, beginning our dynasty''s rule." He glanced at Frovius, hoping his answer would suffice. "That''s how our hegemony as the ruling house started, isn''t it?" he added, trying to fill in any gaps, but mostly hoping the old tutor would be satisfied enough to move on. Frovius let out a deep sigh, shaking his head. "Almost, but not quite, Your Majesty," he corrected, rubbing his temples. "The throne first passed to House Paviogolous before it finally came to House Romelia, I believe that the ..." Mesha didn''t wait to hear more. The words "lesson is over" barely left his tutor''s lips before he leaped from his chair, landing lightly and striding quickly toward the door. Mesha strode out of the dim study with Hadrin padding faithfully by his side, his loyal dog''s nails clicking softly on the marble floor. Just outside the door stood his two guards, who snapped to attention the moment they noticed him. The first,was a guard on the older side named Alaric, who bore the weathered face and sturdy build of a man well into middle age and who knew for half his life war better than most. Originally he was a clibanarii officer in service of lord Marthio, who after many long years of service was given a small village to rule over and given the position of royal guard for the young emperor, mostly the late regent attempt into making sure that Mesha was sorrounded by men loyal to him.. Beside him stood his younger companion, Darius. Unlike Alaric, Darius''s face showed the vigor of youth, his features untouched by the weathering of war. Just shy of thirty, Darius was the bastard son of a noble, brought into the royal guard under Alaric''s recommendation.Of course the emperor had many more guards, but of course inside the palace two were deemed enough. Alaric turned to Mesha with a slight smile. "Lesson over, Your Majesty?" Mesha nodded, relief in his expression. "Yes, at last. I''d like to go to the garden." Pausing, Mesha glanced down at Hadrin, whose eager eyes followed his every movement. "Alaric," he continued, his voice lowering slightly, "make sure Hadrin stays safe, won''t you? I don''t want him to meet the same fate as Merion." Mesha''s gaze softened, a shadow of sadness crossing his eyes, still thinking that his black cat was mauled by wild animals in the royal garden Alaric nodded solemnly, knowing better than the young boy "Of course, Your Majesty. Hadrin will be watched over closely.May the gods burns me if something bad happens to him. Would Your Majesty like us to call for your friends to join you?" Mesha shook his head, brushing a hand absently along Hadrin''s back. "No,I''d rather keep this afternoon to myself." Alaric inclined his head respectfully. "Of course, Your Majesty," he replied, stepping back into position beside Darius. With that assurance, Alaric fell into step beside Mesha, while Darius followed a few paces behind, each keeping a silent watch as they escorted him toward the sunlight and greenery of the imperial gardens. As Mesha and his guards passed through the grand halls, servants and courtiers alike stopped what they were doing to bow respectfully, warm smiles lighting up their faces as they greeted the young emperor. Mesha noticed the unusual brightness in their expressions and glanced up at his younger guard, Darius. "Why is everyone so happy today?" Mesha asked, curiosity flickering in his gaze. Darius leaned closer, a subtle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Your Majesty, news has just arrived that Lord Marthio, your grandfather, has defeated the rebels in battle." Mesha''s eyes widened with excitement. "Is he coming back?" Darius nodded, a touch of pride in his voice. "Yes, Your Majesty. He''s already on his way back to the capital as we speak." A grin broke across Mesha''s face. "Good! I want to hear stories from him again." Darius chuckled, his tone reassuring. "I''m sure Lord Marthio will be more than happy to share them with you, Your Majesty." After a short walk through the palace halls, Mesha and his guards arrived at the expansive palace gardens, where a soft breeze rustled through lush green foliage, and vibrant flowers painted the grounds with bursts of color. Alaric and Darius stood back, keeping a watchful distance as Mesha unclipped the leash from Hadrin''s collar, freeing his eager companion. With an excited bark, Hadrin sprang forward, his tail wagging as he bounded across the grass. Mesha laughed, picking up a small branch and tossing it across the lawn. Hadrin darted after it, paws pounding the ground, his nose low as he tracked the path of the stick. The emperor watched, his earlier restlessness forgotten, as the loyal dog retrieved the stick with boundless energy, trotting back with it clamped proudly in his mouth. Mesha knelt, laughing as he scratched Hadrin''s ears before throwing the stick again. Alaric watched the young emperor run through the garden with Hadrin, his face softened with a faint, almost wistful expression. To see Mesha laughing so freely, so blissfully unaware of the darker shadows that surrounded his life, stirred a mix of protectiveness and sorrow in the old guard''s heart.Perhaps it was because he had some brats of his own,so his fatherly insticts were taking over. He''s too young to understand, Alaric thought, his jaw tightening. Too young to realize just how dangerous his position truly is. If Mesha only knew how much was the cost of his rule and the bodies left in its wake, would he still laugh like that not having a care from the deaths of people he did not know? Or would he instead be horrified by it... No, Alaric thought, feeling an ache in his chest. That innocence would vanish in an instant. Darius elbowed Alaric gently, urgency lacing his whisper. "Sir Alaric, we may need to move closer or leave . This isn''t good." As they made their way through the garden, Darius''s gaze shifted to the right, and his heart became heavier as he spotted Valeria, striding purposefully toward them, with her own guards. As soon as her face came into view, Alaric recalled the orders from Lord Tyros: the Empress was not to be allowed near the boy for too long and most importantly be alone. He remembered the words and found himself walking closer to the boy, heeding the temporary regent''s directive . Chapter 209: Winning hand Chapter 209: Winning hand In her private chambers, Valeria sat with a slender silver goblet in hand, the wine within casting a dark red gleam in the low candlelight. She sipped absently, her gaze fixed on the man kneeling before her. He was middle-aged, with dark, neck-length hair framing a hawk-like nose and falling on the sides of his face. Valeria eyed him critically, her fingers tracing the edge of the cup as she broke the silence. "Tell me," she asked coolly, "how long have you served under Lord Marcellus?" Ravinius kept his gaze averted, his knee firmly on the ground. "Nearly a year, your grace" he replied smoothly, his tone respectful. Valeria''s eyes drifted back to her cup, but she found little comfort in it, her distaste plain. The thought of having her steps shadowed by hired mercenaries like Ravinius unsettled her, even if he served her lover . This¡ªthis man, with no noble blood nor loyalty beyond coin, entrusted to her security by Marcellus himself? A part of her rankled at the decision,he could have at least selected someone of the equestrian class, someone with a proper lineage, and an ounce of honor that could not be bought by coins. Valeria set her cup down with a soft clink, looking at Ravinius with renewed scrutiny. "And tell me," she asked, her voice edged with command, "how many men do you have under you?" "Thirty, your grace" Ravinius replied promptly. Valeria allowed a slight nod, her thoughts calculating. Thirty, she thought, her mind flicking over the advantages. At least I have some numbers. "And your orders?" she inquired, studying his expression closely. Ravinius didn''t hesitate. "We are here to serve you, your grace. Whatever you desire, it is our duty to see it done, lord Marcellus, let us know that we are here to serve every whim you may have." Valeria considered this, the faintest flicker of satisfaction settling over her features. "Very well," she said finally, rising from her seat. She gestured for him to follow. "Come. You''ll accompany me to retrieve my newest guards." -------------- In the dimly lit, secluded chamber of her royal quarters, Valeria stood tall, assessing the row of new guards assembled before her. The room was quiet, the heavy silence broken only by the muffled sounds of the palace beyond its thick walls. Each guard was outfitted in armor that gleamed under the sparse candlelight, crafted meticulously to the standard of the royal guard. Dark metal with gilded accents adorned their breastplates and shoulder guards, and crimson plumes crowned their polished helmets, signaling loyalty to the imperial family. Valeria''s gaze moved from one guard to the next, her mind as sharp as her critical eye. Their origins may be low, she thought, her expression betraying neither approval nor disdain, but at least they''re fitted in proper attire. For all their pasts, each man bore the look of an elite protector in his new armor. They would be her shield¡ªand her tools. Valeria''s gaze settled on Ravinius, the man standing at the head of her new guard. She raised an eyebrow, tilting her head ever so slightly. "Are you their captain, then?" she asked, her voice smooth yet edged with the unspoken expectation of absolute obedience. Ravinius gave a respectful nod. "I am, Your Grace." "Good," she replied, a faint trace of satisfaction crossing her face. "I want ten of them stationed outside my quarters at all times, day and night." Her tone made it clear that this wasn''t merely a preference but a strict command. "It will be done," Ravinius answered, nodding once more. Valeria cast one last appraising look at her newly acquired guard before turning back to Ravinius. "Now," she said, a touch of impatience woven into her tone, "I''d like to take a walk in the garden." ------------- Valeria strolled through the winding paths of her private garden, her steps deliberate and measured. Ten armored guards followed at a respectful distance, their polished armor glinting in the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. As she walked, her mind turned to her son. If his lessons had ended as planned, he should be nearby. As she rounded a corner bordered by flowering hedges, she spotted him¡ªher son Mesha, carefree and spirited, laughing as he played with his dog. The animal leaped and bounded around him, its tail wagging with devotion, its joy a mirror of Mesha''s own untroubled smile. Yes, the dog had been a good idea, a companion more manly and fitting for an emperor , she thought as he stared at her son. For a moment, her gaze softened, watching him chase the dog, his laughter spilling through. Yet with the tail of her eyes she saw the guards that her father had appointed for him, getting closer as they caught sight of her. Just two, she thought pleasantry as she outnumbered them five to one; they could be soldiers while hers be hired crooks, but with this number even a child would win. Yet, as her gaze lingered on the pair, the relief gave way to a slow anger that began to rise within her. Two guards? That was all they thought was needed for the heir of the empire? Mesha''s safety was being balanced on the thinnest thread of security by her father , more a show than a genuine precaution. The palace should have been the heart of her son''s protection; instead, it seemed it was yet another place where he was vulnerable. What if I were an assassin myself? she thought, watching the guards stiffen as they neared her, only their duty holding them firm in her presence. With so little defense, the Achaean-Romelian line could be cut down on this pleasant afternoon. One moment, one knife, and her son''s entire future would be severed before he could even grow into his heritage. She looked back at Mesha, laughing and playing unaware. The thought made her chest tighten with a renewed sense of honor. If I must ensure his safety myself, she resolved, then so be it. The older guard anointed by her father , Alaric, stepped closer to Mesha, his hand gently but firmly guiding the boy behind him. His movements were subtle, but his eyes remained sharp, focused solely on Valeria and her retinue. "Is it not customary to greet the Empress Mother?" Valeria''s voice was smooth, almost a gentle chide. Alaric, though, maintained his stance for a heartbeat longer before giving a shallow bow. "Your Grace," he greeted, his tone careful but polite, his eyes never fully leaving hers. He bent closer to Darius, his younger companion, murmuring a single order under his breath. Without hesitation, Darius took off running, his feet barely making a sound on the garden path. Valeria''s gaze tracked Darius''s retreat, and her expression shifted, her eyes narrowing. She knew at once why he had left¡ªAlaric had sent him for reinforcements. Her instincts flared; she was out of time. With the faintest nod in Ravinius''s direction, she set her plan into motion. ------------------- Alaric''s pov: Help had been called, and now all they had to do was hold out long enough for the regent''s forces to arrive. Every moment counted, and Alaric knew it. Valeria stepped forward, her tone deceptively calm, though her eyes hinted at a rising irritation. "I would like to speak with my son alone,sir.." she said, her voice smooth yet firm. Alaric''s face was stone. "Apologies, Your Grace, but our orders are clear. We are not to leave him alone¡ªespecially with you." For a brief second, a flicker of pure anger flashed across Valeria''s face, though it quickly faded. Her guards tensed, catching the unspoken command, and began to move in unison, stepping forward with predatory intent. ''''Your grace, please get behind me.'''' Alaric said calmly as he threw the boy behind him,positioning himself as a shield between the young emperor and the Empress Mother''s approaching men. Sensing that battle was imminent, Alaric didn''t hesitate. With a swift motion, he drew his sword, the blade glinting under the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees as he danced against those that wanted to harm his liege. One of Valeria''s guards charged forward, his sword raised clumsily above his head in an unbalanced swing. Alaric watched the movement, and in an instant, he knew¡ªthese men weren''t warriors. With practiced precision, Alaric sidestepped the incoming blade, catching the guard''s wrist with a deft parry that sent the blow harmlessly to the side. Before his opponent could recover, Alaric slammed his shoulder into the man''s chest, sending him sprawling backward onto the ground with a grunt. Alaric sidestepped as another guard lunged toward him, his blade aimed too high. In a swift, almost instinctive movement, Alaric deflected the strike with a flick of his wrist,steel connecting with stell, he then pivoted, slicing his sword low behind the man''s thigh. The blade cut deep, severing muscle and sending the guard crumpling to the ground with a scream of pain, his weapon slipping from his grasp. Without hesitation, Alaric delivered a backhand slap with his gauntlet across the man''s jaw, silencing him instantly. He didn''t bother to watch the man fall; his eyes were already on the next assailant. The other came at him swinging his blade diagonally , Alaric easily deflected the blow and with an-all-in-one motion struck his sword onto the neck of his opponent, passing through one end and going the other. Before he could wrench it free, a sharp, brutal blow slammed into the back of his head¡ªa heavy strike from a sword hilt,as no matter his skill he was still outnumbered twenty to one. His vision swam, and the strength drained from his grip as he crumpled to the ground, unconscious. Two of the Empress''s guards moved swiftly, seizing young Emperor Mesha. He struggled, eyes wide with panic, but a hand clamped firmly over his mouth, muffling his voice. His gaze flickered desperately toward Alaric, lying unmoving on the ground. One of them , Garvin, pressed his boot into the older guard''s back, pinning him down with a smirk as he raised his blade, ready to finish the job. Yet before he could strike, Valeria''s voice rang out, sharp and imperious. "Stop it," she commanded, her tone cold.''''Leave him be. We are not bandits,he is a sworn knight to the emperor and will be treated accordingly .'''' Garvin glanced up, his eyes meeting hers.He bowed , his hung head hiding the flicker of annoyance that crossed his face. Yet he obeyed, sheathing his sword as he stepped back, leaving Alaric sprawled and defenseless on the ground as the Empress''s guards pulled the terrified emperor away. Chapter 210: Familys issue Chapter 210: Family''s issue Keval strode through the garden, his face twisted with barely concealed fury. Each step he took was firm, his posture rigid, as he advanced toward the secluded section of the palace grounds¡ªa five-meter square hidden among tall hedges and delicate stone sculptures. In the center lay a body clad in the unmistakable armor of the royal guard, a crimson pool seeping onto the ground below. He stopped abruptly, staring down at the fallen figure, a cold rage darkening his eyes. Slowly, he turned, his gaze snapping onto Vrator, his nephew and head of the palace garrison. Vrator stood a few paces back, tense and silent, as if bracing himself against the oncoming storm of Keval''s anger. "Explain this," Keval demanded, his voice low but seething, making Vrator think that his cousin looked more like his uncle than he let on. Vrator met Keval''s fiery gaze and swallowed, his voice steady but somber. ''''While the young emperor was at leisure in the garden, he was set upon by a group of guards under his mother''s orders." Keval''s expression darkened further, a tempest of emotions raging behind his eyes as Vrator continued. "One of the emperor''s men rushed inside to raise the alarm, while the other remained at his side, buying what time he could in a desperate bid to protect him. But when the palace guards finally arrived, they found the garden in utter disarray. The Empress and her guards had vanished, along with the emperor himself. Lying on the ground was one of her men, dead, and the emperor''s remaining guard, Alaric, left unconscious." Keval''s voice cut through the air like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. "Why did you not close the palace gates the moment the attack was known?" Vrator shifted uncomfortably, the tension between them palpable. "The Empress Mother exited through the main avenue immediately after the assault. She left in a carriage," he explained, keeping his tone calm despite the gravity of the situation. "A carriage, after abducting the emperor?" Keval''s eyes widened in disbelief, rage mixing with a sense of urgency. "How is that even possible?Did she buy the guards?" Vrator shook his head grimly, his expression reflecting the seriousness of the matter. "No my lord, the entrance guards reported they saw the Empress Mother accompanied by a young temple servant. They had no reason to suspect anything unusual; they said nothing seemed amiss and allowed them to pass without question." It was not uncommon in the realm for children to enter temple service before they even reached two digits in age. Many were offered up by families who could no longer bear the burden of another mouth to feed. These temples, devoted usually to one of the gods, were often a sanctuary for newborns left in woven baskets on the temple steps. Such children, without names or family bonds, were taken in and used as temple-helpers and raised within temple walls, learning the rituals and rites of their chosen deity. However many times especially in the countryside, temples were also organizers of hired child ''services'' for rich clients, such as merchants, stewards, and many times nobles. For this reason, for many common-born guards, it was normal for children to get in and out of castles, especially if in temple cloth, something that was an open secret for the high hierarchy of society. At this revelation, Keval''s face hardened, the implications of the situation hitting him with the force of a storm. He had lost the emperor. Vrator, sensing the mounting fury in his cousin, pressed on, eager to assuage the growing tension. "I ordered men after them the moment we learned of this, Your Grace. They''ll be in pursuit shortly." But Keval clenched his jaw, his gaze darkening as reality set in. "Too late," he muttered, his tone cold and filled with disdain. "By now, they''ll be well beyond the palace walls." Keval''s gaze hardened as he made his point known "Send more men after them immediately," he ordered, his tone low but fierce. "Stop and inspect every carriage on the roads, every single one with a child inside. I want no stone left unturned." Vrator nodded,"It will be done, my lord " he replied, already motioning to one of his lieutenants to start dispatching soldiers to the gates and beyond. Keval didn''t waste a second, his expression darkening further as he glanced back at the fallen figure sprawled in the grass. "And one more thing," he said, voice dropping into a dangerous calm as he kicked the dead body . "Run a full identity check on this bastard. I want to know who he really was¡ªand whether he was truly one of our own, or if my sister had outside help for this." What in the name of the gods is she thinking? he wondered, his mind racing. What could she possibly hope to achieve by snatching her own son right here in the heart of the palace? Did she genuinely believe that their father, a man who''d crushed rebellions and who had currently defeated them in battle, would let this go? Keval clenched his jaw, pushing back against his thinking about his father. This isn''t his battle to fight, he chided himself bitterly. It''s mine.. -------- Alaric''s eyes flickered open, and he was immediately greeted by a sharp, pounding ache radiating from the back of his head. He tried to sit up, only to feel the pull of bandages wrapped tightly around his brow. He blinked, taking in the dim room, its stone walls and sparse furnishings, before memory came rushing back¡ªthe clash of steel, the Empress''s guards, the emperor... "Easy now, Alaric," came a steady voice nearby. Darius was seated beside him, leaning forward with a hand extended, urging calm. "You need to rest; that blow was no small one." But Alaric''s mind raced, ignoring the pain. "The emperor... where is he?" he shouted, the urgency in his voice sharp, almost desperate. Darius leaned closer, his face grim but trying to soften his words as he spoke at his bed-lying companion. "He''s still with his mother, Alaric. The Regent''s sent nearly three-quarters of his forces to track them down; they''re combing the city and beyond." Alaric slumped back against the bed, a look of defeat in his eyes. "Then I''ve failed him," he whispered, the words heavy with regret. "No," Darius insisted, gripping his shoulder. "You stayed, you fought¡ªyou even killed one of them, while you were sorrounded. I was the one who ran to call for help. I left you there alone, you did your duty , I didn''t.... " Alaric shook his head, ready to reassure his companion that he''d done what was best under the circumstances. But then, a sudden realization lit up his face, cutting through the despair. "I killed one of them," he muttered, "and wounded another¡ªstruck him deep in the leg." Darius''s eyes widened as Alaric pushed himself upright, urgency replacing exhaustion. "They''ll have taken him to a physicist," Alaric said, the hint of a plan forming in his voice. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the throbbing pain in his skull. "Where are you going?" Darius asked, rising as well. Alaric, unsteady but resolute, stood. "I have to tell the Regent. If we find that wounded man, we might just find the boy." Darius stepped forward swiftly, pressing a firm hand on Alaric''s shoulder, pushing him gently but firmly back down onto the bed. "You''re in no state to move, let alone march into the Regent''s hall with a head wound," he said, his tone insistent. Alaric tried to protest, but Darius held his ground. "Rest. I''ll go. You''ve done more than anyone could''ve asked." He met Alaric''s fierce gaze, nodding. "I''ll tell the Regent everything'''' Reluctantly, Alaric sank back onto the bed, breathing hard but nodding. He watched as Darius turned and left the room in a hurry. ------------- In the dimly lit back room of a barber''s quarters, the smell of herbs and drying linens mingled with the sharper scent of oil . The barber-physicist worked carefully, his hands practiced and calm as he wrapped a clean bandage around a man''s bleeding leg. The gash ran deep along the thigh, still oozing despite the compress and stitches, but the barber''s hands moved methodically, tightening each wrap with the care of a practiced healer. Behind him, another figure stood, watching in silence¡ªa man with a tense expression, his arms crossed and eyes never leaving the barber''s hands. The barber assumed he was a friend, waiting patiently for his companion to be treated and sent home, and thought little of his stern gaze. Both of them had already thrown away their armor, making them seem normal , and yet armed , passerby . As the barber tied off the last knot on the bandage, he gave the patient a reassuring nod. He was still oblivious to the man behind, whose expression had only darkened, his patience drawing to a close. The barber, fully engrossed in his work, didn''t realize that his role in this man''s life would end with the final knot and that once his task was done, there would be no reason for his silence to remain intact. The barber reached for a small clay pot filled with crushed herbs, holding it out as he spoke. "Every evening before you sleep, soak the bandage in a paste made from these," he instructed, his voice calm and steady. "Change the dressing each time, and keep it clean. Infection sets in fast with wounds this deep." As he placed the vase down on the table, he became aware of the silent man behind him moving closer, his shadow stretching across the floor, darkening the small pool of lamplight over the patient. The barber turned slightly, feeling a faint prickle of unease but brushing it aside as he reached for a cloth to wipe his hands, thinking that the man was going to pay him. Just then, the door to the room burst open with a thunderous bang, the wooden frame shuddering from the force. Four palace guards stormed in,their alert eyes scanning the room. They took one look at the bandaged man sitting on the treatment table, his leg bound with fresh linens, and without hesitation, shouted, "Freeze! Don''t move, any of you!" The barber instinctively raised his hands, palms open in a gesture of surrender, his eyes wide with shock. But the other man didn''t wait¡ªhe darted his gaze around the room, calculating his escape, and without a second''s hesitation, lunged toward the nearest window. With a single, brutal motion, he hurled himself against the wood slats that covered the window, splintering them on impact, shards and dust scattering into the air. He almost cleared the frame, but just as he made his desperate attempt, a guard let out a sharp curse. "Don''t let him get away! Around the other side!" he shouted to the others, while one guard lunged forward, catching up to other wounded man. The guard tackled him, swinging the hilt of his heavy mace and slamming it down hard onto the man''s shoulder . Swiftly, the guard bound his arms with coarse rope, tying the knots tight. "You''re not going anywhere," he growled, tightening the rope as the man lay there, panting and defeated. Seconds after the fugitive bolted for the window, the other three guards immediately dashed out the barbershop''s door, circling around the building to cut off any potential escape. The fugitive had leaped from the first-story window, but his desperate jump came at a painful cost: he landed awkwardly on his waist, and a sickening crack echoed as his body crumpled to the ground, pain visibly seizing him. The guard who''d rushed outside was on him in seconds. With the injured man barely able to crawl, let alone flee, he bound him swiftly, his grip firm despite the fugitive''s weak struggles. The captured man gritted his teeth, the agony shooting up from his waist, adding insult to his failed escape as he was brought back to the place , where only death after torture would be his only mercy. Chapter 211: A new-come plague Chapter 211: A new-come plague The farmer stood outside in his field, clutching his cane, surveying the wintery landscape laid bare before him. The crops were dormant, the land quiet beneath a thin wind, leaving him with little else to do but guard his field from any birds or stray animals that might come scavenging. To pass the time, he absently played with a stalk of weed he''d plucked from the ground, snapping it between his calloused fingers into tiny pieces, letting them fall to the soil below. Then, he heard it: the patter of hurried footsteps and the urgent voice of his young son, breaking through the stillness. "Father! There are ships!" the boy cried, excitement and confusion in his voice as he ran to his father''s side. The farmer''s brow furrowed as he looked down at the boy. "Ships?" he asked, his mind searching for a reason any vessel would be nearing their small coastal village at this time of year. Perhaps a merchant looking to resupply with food and water? "Yes," the boy insisted, pointing with one hand toward the sea. "Two ships, coming close!" His gut stirred with a faint, creeping unease. Ships rarely visited their quiet shores in the dead of winter, and those that did were usually trading boats, yet they used to move alone . He knelt down, pressing the cane into his son''s hand. "Watch th'' field," he said, his voice thick with an odd worry he couldn''t quite place. "Don''t let anything come near." With one last look at his son, he turned and set off, moving as fast as his sturdy legs would take him. The cold air stung his face as he ran, his feet crunching against the frozen earth. Cresting the small ridge overlooking the sea, he caught sight of the two ships, their hulls dark and slender, drawing closer to shore. He squinted, his heart beating faster. These ships weren''t like any of the familiar traders that sometimes passed by. Sleek and narrow, they moved with a silent purpose, cutting through the water with an ominous grace that sent a chill through him far deeper than the winter wind. The farmer, though only in his thirties, vividly remembered the tales that had once haunted the coastline¡ªthe pestilence of pirates, marauding like a curse on the sea. He''d been a young boy when the empire declared victory over those bands of raiders, promising no more raid at last. It seemed like a story almost forgotten, something the empire had dealt with and sealed away forever. But now, as he gazed out at those slender, black-hulled ships, memories from his youth clawed back to life as unburied secret. He remembered those terrifying moments as a child, when cries of warning would ring through the village. He remembered the sight of strange, sinister ships slipping up to shore, and the horror they brought in their wake¡ªpeople seized and taken, slaves ferried off to faraway coasts. In those days, their village had kept a boy stationed on the look-out at all hours, a horn in his hand, ready to sound the alarm at the first glimpse of sails on the horizon. The farmer''s stomach twisted. They''ve returned. His heart thundered with a mixture of dread and urgency as he turned, and his voice erupted into the still morning air. "Pirates!" he shouted, his voice carrying over the fields. "Pirates! They''re coming!" He broke into a run, his footsteps pounding as he bolted back toward the village, his shouts gaining fervor. "Pirates! Pirates!" Windows creaked open, and sleepy villagers stepped out of their homes to hear the cries echoing through the streets. The warning sparked terror. Families rushed back indoors, mothers gathering children close, fathers grabbing what few weapons they kept, some already heading toward the woods to hide. The farmer did the same, bursting into his own home, breathless, his face pale with urgency. He gathered his family, his wife clutching their youngest child, her face wide with fear. "Get what you can carry. We''re leaving¡ªnow," he said, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. He glanced out the window one last time, feeling the weight of old memories pressing against his heart as he watched the black ships closing in on their peaceful shores. And so the pirates were roaming the sea once again...terrorizing anything in thier wake ---------------------- In the grand hall of Yarzat, Jasmine and Alpheo sat side by side on their thrones, gazing out over the line of petitioners that stretched before them. The room was adorned with tall, arched windows that cast a steady light upon the scene, illuminating the rich tapestries and dark stone walls that lent an air of dignity to the court. Jasmine, with her keen eyes and dignified posture, exuded a quiet authority, while Alpheo, with a steady gaze and hands resting firmly on the armrests, simply wished for the whole thing to finish quickly. Petitioner after petitioner came forward, each one humbling themselves before the rulers. The line moved slowly but steadily as hours passed, and the concerns of the citizens were presented in turn. Some asked for help with bands of wolves terrorising the villages near the eastern forests, other pleaded for permission to cut trees and hunt within the royal forests. As the hours wore on, the line finally dwindled, leaving the last petitioner to step forward. He was a rough-looking figure, his clothing worn and patched, standing out against the more modestly respectable attire of those who had come before. His tunic was stained and frayed, and his shoes were clearly many years past their prime. With a solemn expression, he made his way to the throne, and when he reached the dais, he dropped to his knees, bowing low before Jasmine and Alpheo, as all citizens were expected to do before their rulers. The man remained on his knees, head bowed respectfully, awaiting permission to speak. Silence fell in the grand hall, and all eyes turned to the lone figure, his form a humble contrast against the opulence of the royal court. Jasmine gave the man a slight nod, her gaze steady. "You may speak," she said, her voice calm and measured. The man cleared his throat, his rough voice cracking as he began. "My name''s Darrin , Your Majesty. I come from a village not far from Aracina¡ªain''t but a few hours'' walk out. Been a farmer all my life. But somethin'' bad happened." He looked up, his face worn and weathered, filled with desperation. "Pirates came," he said, his voice trembling "Came up from the sea, more than six weeks back. Took near all we had, they did. Busted into our stores, took our grains, our tools, killed our animals...anything they couldn''t carry off, they ruined.The old folks that could not run were killed in their beds" Jasmine leaned forward slightly, her brows knitting. "Why did you not appeal to the governor of Aracina?" Darrin shook his head bitterly. "We did, Your Majesty! We begged him! Sent a runner to Aracina right after it happened. Got nothin'' but a promise, and it''s been more than a month since. Not a scrap o'' help from the city." He glanced around at the gathered courtiers, then back up at the queen, desperation clear in his eyes. "We''re hurtin'', Your Majesty. We''re cold; got near no wood left for fires, an'' winter comin'' in hard now. We got no livestock left either. The few animals we did have, well, the pirates took ''em or slit ''em where they stood. An'' the food...half our stock, Your Majesty . Gone. All that we worked for." Darrin''s voice broke, and he lowered his head. "Half our folks''ll starve come winter''s end, that''s what we''re thinkin''. The young ''uns, the old folk...ain''t much we can do for ''em. We''re just askin'' for enough to see us through, is all." Jasmine''s expression softened as she took in the man''s pleas. "Help will be sent to you and your village immediately," she said, her voice firm with resolve. "For this winter, I grant you and your people permission to cut trees and hunt freely within the royal forest. Gather as much firewood and game as you need to survive the cold." The farmer''s eyes widened with gratitude, and he dropped his head low in respect, clasping his hands. "Oh, thank you, Your Grace. Bless you," he said, his voice trembling. "Thank you, bless you a thousand times over." Jasmine gave a small nod. "Furthermore, while you are in Yarzat, I will see to it that you are taken care of. You''ll have a place at an inn tonight, all expenses covered. By week''s end, you will be guided back to your village, where my men will be delivering food and supplies to see you through the worst of the season." Tears filled the farmer''s eyes as he bowed lower, his voice thick with gratitude. "You''ve saved us, Your Grace. Truly. Thank you... Thank you..." As Jasmine nodded to her attendants, they moved to guide the man from the hall, his face still etched with wonder. As the last petitioner left, the vast chamber began to empty, attendants and advisors filing out in respectful silence. Alpheo rose from his throne, stretching his back with a weary sigh. "Was this the third case of a village raid this month?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck. Jasmine, still seated, shook her head, her expression tight. "The fourth," she corrected softly. "It''s getting worse. Something must be done, Alpheo. Can''t have half my food reserved used for villages that should be the one producing it for me. Alpheo nodded thoughtfully, pacing a few steps down from the dais. "We could divide the army," he suggested, though he sounded less than enthusiastic. "Station them along the coastlines. At least we''d have some forces nearby to respond quickly, maybe take out one or two raiding parties if we''re fortunate.We have got no war until spring , so at least we can do that for now. " He paused, glancing back at her, his face grim. "But if we''re going to solve this for good, Jasmine, we''ll need more than just scattered troops." His tone grew resolute. "It''s time to consider a different approach. We need a navy of our own." Alpheo paused in his pacing, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "We currently have around 15,000 silverii in the coffers," he began, "and after covering all army expenses, we''re still taking in another three to four thousand each month. Setting aside nine thousand of that for some ships wouldn''t be a strain on us.If we don''t do this now , then when?" Jasmine considered this, tapping her fingers on the "Do we have the capabilities for it though?'''' she countered. "Some people near the sea barely know how to build a fishing ships; I don''t think we have the human''s resources for building galleys...'''' Alpheo nodded, a small, knowing smile crossing his face. "True. But I could call in a favor from the emperor''s regent." He let the idea settle between them for a moment. "We''ve exchanged a few cordial letters recently, and I suspect he''d be quite open to sharing some of the empire''s shipwrights, especially if we add a few ''gifts'' to smooth the path.They have so many after all, they won''t miss one or two." Jasmine''s expression softened, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.''''Very well, I will leave it to you, as long as next year we don''t have to deal with such news anymore.'''' And so to the seas we go, Alpheo thought with a beautiful smile as he always wanted for Yarzat to have a navy of his own, and right now he had finally got they okay to start working on it. Chapter 212: Bad blood(1) Chapter 212: Bad blood(1) In every man''s life, a time inevitably comes when he must face a choice between two paths: one leads to the satisfaction of his own desires, to the indulgence of his own anger and passions; the other is the hard road of duty, requiring the suppression of those very urges in favor of a greater responsibility. And for Keval, this was that moment. If he were to follow his desire, his hand would already be on his sword hilt, his blade drawn, ready to strike down the very kin sitting across from him. She wore a mocking, insolent smirk that set his blood alight, as if this entire affair was some trivial game. The fact that she had abducted her own son¡ªhis nephew¡ªand held the young emperor hostage seemed, to her, little more than an entertaining diversion. Keval''s fingers flexed involuntarily at his side, aching to silence her smug expression. But he knew what was at stake. To act in anger would be to ignite chaos, and to entertain a behaviour he could ill afford. His duty was to protect the throne, and right now he knew he had done a ugly job at it, not that the people around him made it better. As he stood there, jaw clenched, his choice became all too clear. Duty... Keval crossed his arms, his voice cold and measured as he said, "The last thing I expected was for you to barge into my chambers as if nothing had happened." Behind him, his guards stood alert, silent, but their expressions betrayed their mistrust and disdain, eyes hard as they took in the woman lounging before them. Their hands rested on their weapons, some fingers twitching at their daggers, ready to act should their lord so much as signal. Valeria only laughed, her voice a low, mocking melody. "And how else was I to make peace with my family, dear brother?" she replied, the corner of her mouth lifting into a defiant smile, as if her presence here¡ªafter all that had transpired¡ªwere some delightful jest. Keval''s expression darkened. "If you want peace," he said, his voice tense and laced with anger, "release your son to me at once. Do that, and I will forget about everything that happened here. Otherwise, your ''peace'' will be worth nothing.Must I remember you that you are not going against me, but against our whole family?" Keval''s voice grew sharp, his anger barely concealed beneath his words. "Our father and brother just won a battle, risking everything to secure your son''s life and his throne. And this," he gestured at her dismissively, "this is how you thank them? By kidnapping him?" Valeria''s smirk faded, but he pressed on. "What our family needs is unity, Valeria. Not these petty feuds and betrayal. Fighting among ourselves is the last thing we should be doing." She scoffed, her voice dripping with bitterness. "Unity?" she sneered. "You speak so easily of unity, yet this is the ''thanks'' I get for everything I''ve done¡ªeverything¡ªto keep our family''s interests first and foremost." Keval sighed, the exasperation clear in his eyes. "This again? Always the same, Valeria." But her patience snapped, and her face twisted with anger. "Of course you''d say that. It''s easy for you now, isn''t it? Now that you sit comfortably as regent." Keval shook his head, cutting her off. "Regent," he repeated firmly, "for just a few more days, until Father returns. That''s called filial duty, Valeria. A duty that doesn''t include starting wars against one''s own family. You can hardly justify this as ''for the family'' when you''re tearing us apart from within." Valeria''s face remained impassive, her eyes cold and unreadable. Keval cursed under his breath, frustration mounting as he realized his words were falling on deaf ears. Fuck! This isn''t working, Keval thought as his appeals were bouncing off her like stones off steel. We captured two of her hired thugs,Yet neither of them could tell us where Mesha is being kept. Fucking Useless! He knew they hadn''t been lying¡ªhe''d been there personally, watching as his men employed every brutal method available to pry information from them, to no avail.There are just so many nails and teeth that someone can pull before realizing they truly knew nothing, at this point they just did it for the sake of it. It didn''t help also that Mesha''s guards were there too. Keval''s eyes narrowed, his voice low but sharp. "When Father returns from his campaign and finds out about this disaster you''ve stirred up¡ªhow do you think he''ll react?" He leaned forward, his tone biting. "When he sees the mess you''ve made, what do you imagine he''ll do?" Valeria''s lips curled into a smirk. "Oh, he''ll be thoroughly disappointed. No doubt. But first, he''ll be swept through the city in his victory parade, hailed as a conquering hero. He''ll bask in the people''s adoration, walk through the palace as a triumphant general..." Her gaze turned piercing. "All the while, the emperor will be nowhere to be seen." The meaning of her words settled on him like a weight, and Keval felt a surge of irritation and reluctant admiration. So that was her game. She wanted to dangle this scandal over their father''s head, using his own pride and victory as leverage. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, his expression darkening as he met her eyes. "All right, you want to play like that," he muttered, his voice tight with restrained fury. "What is it you want, then?" Valeria''s eyes gleamed with a fierce determination. "I want to be regent," she declared, her tone resolute, as if it were an unshakable truth rather than a request. Keval let out a harsh, incredulous snort. "Father would never allow it. He''ll take on the regency himself. You''d have better luck reaching out and touching the moon." Valeria''s mouth twisted into a wry smile. "Perhaps I would," she murmured, a hint of something darkly playful in her tone. Keval shot her a hard look. "This isn''t a game, Valeria. He''s sacrificed too much for you to¡ª" "I don''t care about the empire, Keval," she interrupted, her voice soft but edged like a dagger. "Let Father keep his power, let him handle the battles and politics. But Mesha... he is mine. I want to be the one guiding him, to oversee his education, his decisions. I want to shape him, Keval. Not as some distant, caged heir, but as my son, trained in the way I see fit." Keval leaned forward, his voice low and tense. "If we agree to this madness¡ªif we allow you to play regent over Mesha¡ªwill you let the emperor come back to the palace?" Valeria smiled, almost indulgently, as if he were asking for some trivial favor. "Of course. I would never keep him from the palace." She glanced at him, her tone taking on a cold practicality. "Naturally, I''ll require a personal guard of a hundred men. I wouldn''t want anyone to conveniently forget our arrangement once Father returns." Keval''s gaze hardened, barely concealing his disdain. "I need time to decide'''' ''''Of course'''' she added with a mocking smile, "I''m not the one pressed for time here, Keval. Father is only days away. You''ll have plenty of opportunity to think about what kind of welcome to prepare for him." With a graceful turn, she rose from her seat, her movements calm and deliberate, and swept out of the room without a backward glance. As the heavy door closed behind her, Keval''s restrained fury erupted. He slammed his fists down, sending everything on his desk crashing to the floor¡ªpapers, ink, and scrolls scattering in a furious display. He hated to admit it but she had maneuvered him into a corner, and the clock was ticking. ------------------------- In the dimly lit room, Garvin stood amidst twenty-seven other men, each casting uneasy glances at one another. The tension hung thick in the air. Every man knew exactly what they had done and who they held captive: the emperor himself. Fear was etched on many faces, the enormity of their crime weighing heavily on them. Some muttered nervously, others shifted uncomfortably, but none could deny they were far too deep into this scheme to turn back. In front of them, tables were laden with rows of bags filled with coins, the only tangible reward for the danger they''d undertaken. Ravinius stood before the group, his demeanor steady, unbothered by the anxiety pulsing through the room. "It''s done," Ravinius began, his voice calm but firm. "The job is finished. You''ve completed your task, and now you have a choice. If you want to receive your pay and go, then do so. But if you''re interested in keeping on with this work, then you''ll be welcome to stay." The men exchanged uncertain looks, some eyeing the bags of coins hungrily, others casting nervous glances at the closed door. Finally, one of them stepped forward. "I''d like to take my pay and be on my way," he said, his voice firm. Ravinius nodded curtly, gesturing toward the table. "Take four bags, each one holds fifty silverii. That''s your cut." The man nodded, carefully selecting five bags instead of four before slipping out the door, his footsteps echoing faintly in the tense silence. Ravinius glanced around at the others, his gaze challenging, as if daring them to make their decision. "Anyone else?" he asked, his tone cold. His gaze shifted to Garvin, who met his eyes steadily for a moment before he, too, took his step forward Ravinius said nothing but gave him a long stare, awfully long , before nodding to the table. Garvin moved forward, swept up his silver, and turned for the exit, feeling the weight of the coins as he left the room. Once outside, Garvin''s legs felt heavy. He dropped to his knees, one hand covering his face as the other clutched the bag. He loosened the drawstring and peeked inside at the gleaming silver stacked within. The sight made his head swim¡ªa fortune, enough to keep him comfortable for the rest of his life, far away from this mess. He tightened the bag again and got to his feet, pushing himself to move. At the door, two men stood guard, their faces stony and watchful as he passed. Neither spoke, just eyed him with detached indifference. Garvin pushed through the door and out into the cool night air, feeling the chill settle around him. He walked further from the building, his thoughts racing with the newfound freedom the silver in his hand could buy him. As he left, a strange mix of relief and disbelief filled him. For the first time in his life, he was free from worry about his next meal, free from anyone''s orders, free to live however he chose. And with the weight of silver in his bag, Garvin knew he''d never have to work again if he didn''t want to. All that remained now was to decide on how to spend it . '''' I believe a drink is customary,'''' he murmured as he kept the bag close while walking forward deciding where he would spend the night. Chapter 213: Closing circle Chapter 213: Closing circle Garvin sat in a shadowy corner of a bustling tavern, nursing a small drink and slowly coming to terms with his newfound wealth. He was a rich man now, something that felt both exhilarating and dangerously surreal. He was down-to-earth enough to realize that walking around with a fortune in silver could easily turn deadly if he wasn''t careful. Carrying enough money to buy a fine war-horse and live comfortably for years wasn''t wise in a place like this, so he''d already taken steps to safeguard his fortune. The night before, he''d secured a private room and hidden most of his silver in a spot only he knew, a small, carefully dug hole behind a loose floorboard under his bed. The tavern was warm and filled with the smell of roasting meat, ale, and the low hum of chatter. He sat back, letting his nerves finally ease a bit as he glanced around the room. A young woman, her hair pulled back and eyes sharp with the kind of curiosity that was common in taverns, approached his table, smiling softly. "What''ll it be tonight, sir?" Garvin fished out a silver coin from his pouch and dropped it on the counter with a satisfying clink. "Something good to eat, and something to drink," he said, his voice steady. The girl''s eyes widened briefly at the sight of a full silver piece before her fingers swept it up. She leaned in a little closer, her hand drifting down to rest lightly on his arm. "Of course," she murmured, her voice dropping to a lower tone. "And... is there anything else you''d like tonight, sir?" Her fingers traced his arm lightly, suggestively. Garvin''s mouth quirked up in a half-smile as he shook his head, enjoying the moment but careful not to give too much away. "Just food and drink, lass. That''ll be more than enough for me." ''''Suit yourself'''' she answered in an acid tone. Garvin watched the girl as she took his coin and walked back to fetch his order, a faint smile playing on his lips. She was cute, no doubt about it, and in other circumstances, he might have enjoyed her company. But now that he had real wealth, his mind was moving in a different direction entirely. He imagined buying a small property somewhere¡ªmaybe a modest home with a bit of land. Something that was his, where he could find stability and security for the first time in his life. Yet there was also something keeping him on edge. He could feel the paranoia growing within him. He couldn''t risk anyone discovering the extent of his wealth. The girl might be charming, but he wasn''t about to bring anyone into the room he was renting . As he waited for his food, he kept one hand close to his pouch, his gaze occasionally scanning the room, eyeing everyone with cautious suspicion. He was no stranger to rough company, but with this much silver, he understood that he''d have to keep a sharp lookout at all times. The girl returned soon with a plate of hot stew and a sturdy cup filled to the brim with dark ale. She set them down in front of Garvin with a small smile, and he nodded his thanks, lifting the cup to his lips and taking a long drink. The ale was strong and smooth, warming his throat as it went down. He dug into the stew, savoring the hearty flavor as he let his eyes wander around the inn. Across the room, a group of patrons was hunched over a small table, rolling dice and laughing raucously with each win or loss. The clink of coins was audible over the hum of conversations, and Garvin''s fingers instinctively twitched toward his pouch. A game of dice was tempting, but he knew better. One should never flash money openly, especially in places like this where strangers became too interested too quickly. He continued eating, his thoughts turning inward. For the first time, he considered his future in earnest. He could see himself buying land, maybe even starting a small farm if he could find the right place. Garvin gripped his ale tighter, I''ve gotta get out of this city... sooner, the better. Can''t risk anyone from the palace recognizing me, he thought, his eyes scanning the inn for anyone watching him too closely, his face was after all watched by servants and guards, and the court must had sent any men they had in search of them. He took another bite of his food, trying to ignore the creeping sense of dread. And it''s not just the palace guards I need to worry about. If I were them...He glanced around, If I were Ravinius, I''d be cleaning up loose ends, making sure no one can talk. Taking that silver meant I was making my own choice¡ªto get out before they could make that choice for me, there would be no happy ending there.... When he accepted the silver, he''d done so with the full understanding that it meant running. It had been a risk worth taking¡ªbut only if he could make it out of the city safely. Leaving tonight would be ideal, but he realized he had a problem: he''d need a horse, and it was far too late to buy one now. The stables would be locked tight, and trying to purchase a horse at this hour would only draw unwanted attention. That meant he''d have to wait until morning, stay one more night within these walls, vulnerable and uneasy. Grimacing, he took another swig of ale, hating the feeling of being trapped, even temporarily. When he accepted the silver, he''d done so with the full understanding that it meant running. It had been a risk worth taking¡ªbut only if he could make it out of the city safely. Grimacing, he took another swig of ale, hating the feeling of being trapped, even temporarily. Garvin shifted in his seat, the murmur of the tavern suddenly feeling too quiet. Maybe they''ve already paid someone to finish me off, he thought, eyes narrowing as he scanned the room. The group of patrons rolling dice seemed to be glancing his way, laughter too forced, too staged. And that young man in the corner¡ªhe''d been throwing just a bit too many fleeting looks, just enough for Garvin to notice. So this is it, huh?, he looked down at his stew as he realized what he was doing , destined to spend every day wondering who''s lurking behind me, watching every shadow for a blade. What kind of life is that?" With a sudden resolve, he made his choice and raised his hand, signaling for the girl. When she came over, he set down another silver on the counter, letting it land with a heavy clink. "I want the drinks to keep coming," he said, his voice loud enough to reach the ears of any patron interested in his table a little to much. The girl''s eyes flicked to the silver, her smile widening. "They''ll keep coming," she promised, pocketing the coin and giving him an approving nod. Garvin leaned back in his chair, lifting his cup as if in salute to whoever might be watching him. "To the rest of this cursed night, then," he muttered to himself, taking a long drink. ------- Five cups in, Garvin was a mess of swaying limbs and unsteady steps. He rose from his seat, only to immediately lose his footing and crash to the floor, drawing a round of laughter from the patrons. Drunk and indignant, he slurred out, "Shut upf- !" but it only fueled their amusement. Grumbling, he reached for a nearby chair, dragging himself up with a barely steady hand and stumbling toward the door. He lurched out into the night air, his steps erratic as he staggered down the road, nearly falling more than once. To any passerby, he was just another fool who''d had one too many. Yet, for anyone sharp enough to notice, there was something calculated beneath his stumbling. Every time he tripped, he fell with his face angled back, eyes darting over his shoulder to check for anyone trailing him. When he veered too far to one side, he turned it into a staggered pivot, giving himself a quick glimpse of the shadows behind. And with every glance, he hoped he was the only one who knew how much he was looking back. Someone was following him... He hadn''t been able to catch the figure''s face, but there was no doubt in his mind¡ªsomeone was following. His mind scrambled through the possibilities. Could just be a thief thinking I''m an easy mark with this drunk act, he thought and hoped. But then there was the other option... Thinking fast, Garvin suddenly swayed to the left, lurching hard as if the drink had finally gotten the best of him. His coin pouch slipped from his belt, tumbling to the ground with a clink as silver coins spilled onto the cobbled street, glittering under the streetlight. Garvin leaned down to look at the scattered coins. For a few long seconds, he swayed over them, his expression blank, before letting out a loose chuckle and waving his hand in dismissal. He stumbled on, leaving the coins where they lay, hoping his follower would take the bait. He did not and kept walking forward. Garvin felt a trickle of sweat run down his temple despite the chill in the night air. His heart drummed faster, and he knew he needed to act. He staggered forward, turning sharply into a narrow, dimly lit street. That was it, He thought as the knowledge he was right did not please him one bit. Once out of sight, he pressed himself against the wall, breathing shallowly as he slipped his dagger from its sheath, its blade cold in his hand. He steadied his grip, the handle firm against his palm as he listened to the approaching footsteps, his hands trembling and his mind overworking. Seconds ticked by, each one lengthening as the sound grew closer, boots scuffing against the cobblestones. When a shadow began to emerge from the corner, Garvin moved like lightning and lunched forward. Chapter 214: Kill or be killed Chapter 214: Kill or be killed As soon as the shadow crossed into his line of sight, Garvin thrust his dagger forward, his arm steady, the blade slicing through the narrow space between them. The man''s eyes widened in shock as he caught sight of the glinting steel too late to react. The dagger plunged into his stomach with a sickening resistance, sinking deep. The man let out a strangled scream, staggering back, his hands instinctively clutching at the handle still embedded in his gut. Blood seeped around his fingers as he stumbled, his face twisted in pain and horror. Garvin''s heart raced as he took in the sight of his wounded pursuer, muttering a silent thanks to the gods that the man hadn''t been wearing any armor. This would be his only chance. The man, a stocky figure with short brown hair, grimaced as his gaze locked onto Garvin, hatred burning in his narrowed eyes. Blood was soaking through his shirt, dripping from the wound Garvin''s blade had left in his abdomen. Breathing through clenched teeth, the assassin drew his own dagger, his hand shaking slightly but his resolve clear. Garvin noted the man''s trembling stance, his face contorted with pain, and quickly formed a plan in his mind. Unfortunately he was unarmed as his only dagger was still in the man''s gut. He took a cautious step back, watching the man stumble a bit, trying to steady himself. The assassin''s eyes flickered with a new determination as he seemed to realize that, wounded or not, he might still have a chance , given his opponent lack of weaponry. His movements were awkward as he leaned back slightly, grimacing at the pain radiating from his abdomen, but he forced himself to ignore it, gripping his dagger tightly. With a sharp intake of breath, the assassin lurched forward, lunging at Garvin. Garvin sidestepped easily, watching the man stagger past him, clutching his wound as he recovered his footing and pulled back, his face twisted in pain and fury. "Who sent you?" Garvin demanded, his voice a low snarl. "Shut up!" the man spat, his voice hoarse. With a grim determination, he swung the dagger wildly at the air between them, his anger and desperation spilling over as he threw himself into yet another attack, though his aim was erratic. Garvin dodged, his eyes narrowing as he braced himself for what he knew would be a relentless, if sloppy, assault. Garvin saw an opening and seized it, swinging his leg in a sharp kick to the man''s hind leg. The assassin buckled, collapsing onto one knee with a grunt. Garvin wasted no time¡ªhe followed with a swift hook to the man''s face, the impact jolting the assassin''s head to the side. The man groaned, as he fell stomach toward the air . Garvin stepped in and, without hesitation, drove his boot down hard onto the dagger''s hilt, twisting it deeper. The assassin let out a howl of agony, his hand flailing as he dropped his own dagger, the weapon clattering uselessly to the cobblestones. Garvin pressed down harder with his foot, eyes fixed on his opponent as the man''s strength seemed to wane, pain sapping any last vestiges of a fight. The assassin''s face contorted in pain as he began to whimper, his resolve shattered as tears streamed down his cheeks. Garvin looked down at him, catching his breath, steadying himself. He lowered himself to retrieve the dagger that had fallen from the assassin''s hand, his fingers closing around the cold steel. Slowly, Garvin approached, his eyes locked onto the man''s tear-streaked face, now pale with fear and agony. He pressed the dagger to the assassin''s throat, feeling the rapid pulse under the blade. He hesitated, a moment''s thought flickering in his mind: was there anything left to ask? Any final piece of information? But as quickly as the thought arose, it faded. There was nothing. With grim resolve, he pressed the blade in one clean, decisive motion. The assassin''s eyes widened one last time, his mouth opening in a silent gasp before his body went slack. Garvin stood up slowly, his gaze fixed on the lifeless form sprawled at his feet. He watched as the man''s eyes dulled, the brief spark of pain and hatred extinguished, leaving only emptiness. A heavy realization settled over Garvin like a weight he couldn''t shake. The fact that they''d sent someone after him confirmed his worst fears¡ªhe was a loose end, a liability. The thought cut through him, casting a dark shadow over any small relief he''d felt at surviving this ambush. It wasn''t just one man he had to worry about; there could be others, sent at any time, without warning. He was living on borrowed time now, every moment ticking down until the next knife in the dark, leaving him with one single question. What could he do to survive another day? And so his eyes moved to the place , where it had all begun¡ªthe palace In that moment, he felt the full weight of its shadow, knowing it would follow him wherever he went. ------------------- The first light of dawn barely crept through the narrow window when the sudden crash against his door jolted Lord Keval awake. He sat up, his hand instinctively reaching for the dagger on his bedside table. Another pounding on the door followed, and muffled voices rang out. "Lord Keval! Lord Keval, it''s urgent!" Keval jolted awake, his instincts snapping him to attention as he threw on his robe and strode to the door. Flinging it open, he found a stranger¡ªa rough-looking man, clearly a guard by his uniform, with a tense, pale face. Their eyes met briefly before the guard dropped to one knee, bowing his head low. Keval''s voice, thick with the remnants of sleep, cut through the quiet. "What''s this commotion?" The guard kept his gaze trained on the floor, speaking in hurried, breathless tones. "My lord, a man surrendered to the palace guards, just at the main road entrance. He claims... he says he was one of the agents in the emperor''s kidnapping, and he knows where the emperor is being held." Keval''s face shifted, his expression sharpening. The news settled over him like a jolt of cold water. In a swift, commanding tone, he barked, "Take me to him. At once." The guard scrambled to his feet and turned sharply, ready to lead, while Keval threw on his cloak, his heart pounding with a renewed urgency, feeling like the gods had not deserted him. ------------------- Garvin sat on the cold stone floor, his hands bound tightly in rough rope, surrounded by guards who eyed him with barely veiled hostility. Any one of them would be eager to take their chance at ending him, should he so much as twitch the wrong way. His breathing was shallow, his head bowed, as he waited in the dimly lit dungeon cell, knowing that his life balanced on a blade''s edge. At last, the door to the dungeon opened, and footsteps echoed down the narrow corridor. Garvin raised his head as a tall figure with striking red hair entered¡ªKeval, though Garvin didn''t know him by sight. Not wanting to chance disrespect, Garvin quickly dropped his head again, bowing low. "Mi-lord," he murmured, his voice steady but tense. Keval''s sharp gaze fell on him, and his expression was unreadable. "Is this story you''re telling true?" he demanded, his voice cool and assessing. Garvin nodded, his voice low and earnest. "I swear it, by the gods themselves, mi-lord. It''s true." A nearby guard scoffed, his face twisted with contempt. "And what are the gods worth to a man who would harm the one chosen by them?" His words dripped with disgust, and several other guards murmured their agreement, their stares full of loathing. Garvin swallowed, feeling their scorn like a weight, but his gaze flickered briefly to Keval, searching for any hint of hope in the cold, judgmental eyes fixed on him. Garvin raised his gaze, his face shadowed with regret as he addressed Keval. "I came back to set things right, mi-lord. Believe me, I had no idea what the job was until it was too late, and by then...by then there was no way to turn back. Once you''re in that deep, the only choice is to go forward. But once it was over... I realized I could do something, something to make up for what I''d done." Keval''s eyes narrowed, a steely suspicion flickering across his face. "And why," he asked slowly, "should we trust a single word from your mouth?" Garvin''s expression hardened with conviction. "Because I could''ve disappeared, mi-lord. I could''ve lived out the rest of my days happy, long, and rich beyond anything I''d ever dreamed of. I came back, knowing the risk, because I couldn''t live with it." He paused, meeting Keval''s gaze steadily. "I didn''t have to be here, but I am.Surrendering my fate to you" Keval held Garvin''s gaze, his face unreadable, before asking in a low, measured tone, "And what is it you want from me?" Garvin swallowed, his eyes flickering down for a moment, as if searching for words. When he looked back up, his expression was stark and raw. "Absolution," he said, his voice a rough whisper that barely filled the cold, stone room. Fuck no!I just want to survive, and if that means sticking it to that red bitch, then that''s what I''ll do.... Garvin thought as he tried his best to appear like a man eaten by his guilt Keval stared at him in silence "Where is the emperor being kept?" he finally asked Garvin took a deep breath, his voice steady but laced with tension. "In a small building in the slums, hidden among the abandoned shops," he replied. "But... if I may say, my lord¡ªyou should move tonight." He glanced briefly at the guards around him, feeling the weight of their scorn, but continued, "They''re unpredictable. Who knows if they''ll change the location by morning?" Garvin took a steadying breath, then spoke. "I''ll lead you there myself, my lord. I know the way and... I may even be able to get them to open the door for you." Keval''s gaze fixed on him, assessing. For a long moment, he said nothing, the tension in the room palpable. Then, in a flash of clarity, Keval understood that perhaps the gods truly had granted him this chance. He''d be a fool to refuse. He nodded, the decision settling in his mind. "Very well," he said, his voice firm. "You''ll be our guide. And if your information proves true, I''ll see to it you''re pardoned for any part you played in this crime." Relief flooded Garvin''s face as he bowed his head in gratitude. "Thank you, mi- lord," he murmured as he felt that suddendly there was hope for his future Chapter 215: Raid Chapter 215: Raid Garvin took a steadying breath as he stood before the door, feeling a slight chill run down his spine.It was sun-rise, later than he had hoped for the imperial forcess to take action , but he believed at least that they still did not know he was alive, as if they did perhapse they could have decided to change place. What he was doing wasn''t about redemption¡ªhe couldn''t care less about that. This was about survival. If he succeeded here, he''d no longer have to worry about assassins lurking in every shadow, waiting to take him out on the orders of his former employers, there was still the question if the regent would mantain his words, but honestly it was his only road , so there was no use in musing over how safe it was. Keval had been meticulous in his planning: one hundred and twenty-five of the soldiers had locked down the entire perimeter, blocking every possible route of escape. The remaining seventy-five stood at Garvin''s back, silent and ready, their focus fixed on him and the door before them. He raised his fist and gave a sharp knock, his heart pounding as he waited. A moment later, a visor slid open with a faint scrape, and a pair of narrowed, suspicious eyes peered out at him. "Garvin?" The guard''s voice was confused, his eyes blinking rapidly as he recognized the man outside. Please don''t let them know that I had an assassin sent after me, Garvin prayed to whatever god would listen that the lower crooks knew nothing of how their employer would deal with them. Garvin nodded, keeping his expression carefully neutral. He heard something muttered behind the door, followed by the clank of bolts being drawn back. The door creaked open just enough for him to step inside, and Garvin forced himself to stay calm. Without hesitation, he drew his dagger as he slipped in side , he drove it into the guard''s neck, silencing him instantly. The guard staggered, his hand flying up to the wound, but Garvin''s blade had already done its work. The man crumpled to the ground as Garvin yanked the door wide open. A moment later, seventy-five soldiers stormed in, their footsteps thundering as they poured into the narrow corridors of the building. Garvin stepped aside, watching as they swept past him, weapons drawn and eyes set on their mission. Garvin retrieved his dagger, wiping it quickly on the dead guard''s cloak before following close behind the wave of soldiers flooding the building. His eyes scanned the chaos, and there¡ªjust ahead¡ªwas a face he recognized: the knight he''d knocked out cold during the kidnapping. Garvin instinctively shrank back, blending into the shadows, hoping to go unnoticed and wondering if he kept a grudge over it . Fights erupted throughout the dim corridors, the air filled with the clash of metal and the shouts of men. The defenders were a ragtag band of hired crooks¡ªburly, rough around the edges, but lacking any real skill that the royal guards instead owned . Most of them didn''t even seem to know who had hired them or what this fight was for. The guards pressed forward, their numbers and superior weapons giving them the upper hand. One guard drove his sword into the chest of an opponent, while another forced two crooks to retreat with quick, precise strikes. The hired thugs fell back, struggling against the trained soldiers as Garvin moved carefully through the mayhem, avoiding drawing attention to himself but staying close enough to watch the chaos he''d helped unleash. He was not a fighter and he certainly did not like risking his life , hence he had no desire and no pretense to help in any fight as he simply continued to run down the dim corridor, his memory racing as fast as his feet. Behind him, a dozen men followed, their weapons ready and their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. The sounds of clashing steel and shouts of battle grew more distant as they pushed deeper into the building, leaving the rest of the guards fighting off the remaining crooks in the entry hall. Suddenly, Garvin recognized the hallway, the familiar cracked walls and the worn floor. His heart pounded as he stopped dead in front of a thick, weathered door. He turned to the men following him, his voice urgent and breathless. "This is the one!" he shouted, nodding toward the door. One of the guards hoisted a small battering ram, steadying it before slamming it with force against the wooden door. With a splintering crash, the door gave way, swinging open as the guards flooded into the room, weapons drawn and eyes scanning for the boy they''d come to rescue. Inside, they froze. Standing near the center of the dim room was a small boy¡ªnone other than the young emperor¡ªheld tightly in front of a familiar, grim-faced man: Ravinius. In his hand, he clutched a heavy axe, its sharp edge hovering dangerously close to the boy''s neck. Behind Ravinius, another figure loomed¡ªa stranger to Garvin, yet clearly simply a hired man. The guards shifted uncomfortably, their weapons poised, yet uncertain as Ravinius''s gaze swept over them, defiant and unyielding. One of them took a step forward, shouting, "Drop the axe! Let the emperor go!" But Ravinius''s grip only tightened, his eyes narrowing with a chilling intensity, daring anyone to come closer. The guards hesitated, their hands gripping their swords with white-knuckled intensity, as they waited for a chance to act without endangering the young emperor''s life. The room was cramped, barely enough space for the handful of guards who had managed to force their way inside. They held their positions, unable to circle Ravinius fully, keeping their distance as his axe hovered menacingly near the emperor''s neck. Then Ravinius''s gaze drifted over the guards, his eyes coldly skipping over each of them , until they landed on Garvin. A strange smile spread across his face, and he let out a low, mocking laugh. The sound sent a chill through Garvin¡ªit was unnerving. The Ravinius he knew was always silent, deliberate, never one to waste words, let alone laugh. "Now I understand what was wrong," Ravinius said, his voice darkly amused. "The answer has been here all along." Garvin, his heart racing, took a cautious step forward, narrowing his eyes. "I had hoped to meet each other on a different occasion," he said, attempting to keep his tone steady. Ravinius chuckled, his grip firm on the axe. "Ah, Garvin," he said, his voice low but carrying easily through the small room. "How pleased I am to see you, you know out of everyone I had hired you were the one I wanted to hire most." He swung the axe slowly, almost casually, its blade catching the faint light as he continued. "While that supposed ''guard'' of the boy carved his way through my men, it was you who managed to knock him out cold." Garvin took a step forward, his face flat as he met Ravinius''s eyes. "Never heard you talk so much " he replied dryly Ravinius''s smile faltered for just a moment ''''I see the assassin failed...'''' "Should''ve hired a better one," Garvin muttered, his gaze hard. At that, Ravinius gave a small, wry chuckle, the old smirk returning to his face. "Perhaps," he conceded, "Still, Garvin, you''re a rare breed. I was truly pained when I saw you leave. But rest assured," he said, his tone half-teasing, "I don''t think any less of you for it, even now." Garvin met his gaze, managing a slight shrug, his voice steely. "Good to know," he replied, unflinching. The two looked at each other saying nothing, the guards too kept their mouths closed as they instead just kept looking at the situation. The man behind Ravinius, who stood silent during everything, suddenly moved forward raising his sword high, his face twisted with a wild, panicked resolve. After hearing everything, apparently, the man realized something: first of all they were surrounded, second, there was no secret passage or window to jump from and attempt to reach safety , as a consenquence he concluded that if he wanted to survive, he''d have to betray Ravinius and lead the emperor to safety himself. It was a long shot , yet he probably realized it was the only one he could take. Yet Ravinius was faster. He swung his axe with brutal precision, its blade slamming into the man''s neck, cutting off the scream as blood splattered across the room. In that split second, Garvin seized his chance. He lunged forward, grabbing the emperor''s trembling hand and yanking him towards safety. Realizing what happened , Ravinius pulled out the axe from the man''s neck and threw it hard toward the boy , realizing that there was only one way this day would end. Pulling the emperor behind him, Garvin braced himself, shielding Mesha with his body as Ravinius'' axe moved in the air. The axe cleaved into Garvin''s shoulder. He let out a sharp scream as he crumpled down onto the floor, feeling his shoulder burning and heavier from the axe embedded in it. Immediately after seeing the guard moving forward, Ravinius fumbled into his cloak and pulled out a small vial. He uncorked it and without hesitation, tipped it back and downed the contents, his eyes flashing with a disturbing intensity as the liquid disappeared into his mouth. As soon as the emperor was secured, several guards swiftly moved forward, gathering Mesha protectively under their watch. Garvin''s scream of agony echoed through the room, the wound on his shoulder searing with each heartbeat, but the guards paid no heed as they threw themselves at Ravinius, who swung wildly at them. "Filthy pigs!" Ravinius spat, his gaze flashing with contempt as the guards wrestled him to the ground. He wore a sly, knowing smile, fully aware that whatever punishment lay ahead, he would face no true suffering. Two guards carefully supported Garvin under each arm, helping him to his feet. His vision swam, but he fought to stay steady as they guided him outside. Mesha, looking back over his shoulder, watched them with a concerned gaze. "Will he...will that man be all right?" Mesha asked, his young voice filled with worry. One of the guards nodded respectfully, his tone serious. "We''ll take him to a healer, Your Majesty. He''ll be well cared for." Mesha gave a determined nod, his eyes never leaving Garvin. "Good. That man saved my life," he said, his voice firm. "Do whatever is necessary to heal him." The guard bowed deeply, acknowledging the order. Garvin, still clinging to consciousness, managed to keep his eyes opened as he stared at the kid that he had first helped kidnap, and then helped save him in return, causing him to wonder how fluid life can be and how easy it could change one day from the other . Chapter 216: Welcoming the heroes Chapter 216: Welcoming the heroes On either side of Romelia''s Royal Road, two trumpeters stood tall, their military uniforms immaculate, their instruments gleaming in the early light. They each raised their silver trumpets to their lips, and the sharp, clear notes echoed down the road, cutting through the bustling noise of the gathered crowd, who could barely rein in their cheers for the victorious army. The trumpeter on the left lowered his trumpet and projected his voice over the crowd. "People of Romelia!Proud citizens of the great Empire " he called, his voice ringing with authority. "Today, you are called to celebrate and honor our victorious imperial army, returning triumphant from their glorious campaign to cull the wicked rebels!" The crowd murmured in excitement, and the garrison soldiers lining the street raised their hands, signaling the people to stay in place, maintaining order on each side of the road. As the first trumpeter finished his announcement, the second trumpeter lifted his instrument again. Another series of triumphant, resounding notes sounded from the gate. And then, through the massive city gates, the imperial army began to enter, banners raised high, glistening armor reflecting the sunlight, and faces set with pride as they marched in step. The people erupted into cheers as the soldiers paraded down the Royal Road. The citizens'' shouts of joy rose to a crescendo, ringing out with a fervor that was not faked . This victory was a reprieve¡ªan assurance that Romelia''s people would not feel the cold dread of a siege, a fate that some of the oldest in the crowd remembered all too well from the bloody civil war that had led to Emperor Gratios''s coronation. Memories of food shortages, and pestilence still stirring their hearts. Another reason for the cheers was the promise of a reward from the royal palace: it was customary for a massive allotment of grain to be distributed to celebrate a military victory in honor of the commander that delivered it . The palace, shrewd in matters of public favor, had not hesitated to extend their generosity this time, using the ceremony to shift the nobles'' gaze from the loss of the Gods'' Fingers . Yet, beneath the public cheers and the haze of relief, the reality of Emperor Mesha''s position remained precarious. While the victory had solidified Romelia''s security from the north, the second prince, Mavius, was still alive with a powerful force of his own. Should Mavius decide to press for control, he could easily mobilize his troops for another campaign southward the next year , a threat that hovered quietly over Mesha''s newly claimed victory. The imperial army however for now entered Romelia''s gates in a flood of banners, armor gleaming in the midday sun. They passed through the tents and stalls set up along the main road, where thousands of people shouted their praise and waved in awe, filling the air with a jubilant roar. ''''Long life the emperor!'''' ''''Glory to the Empire'''' Lord Marthio rode proudly at the head of the procession, basking in the cheers of the people. His hand was firm on the reins, and his face remained composed, but his eyes glinted with satisfaction as he held high the imperial banner¡ªa proud, deep crimson adorned with the golden insignia of the empire. Directly behind Marthio rode his son''s Tyros, clutching the banner of the Achean family. Its azure blue and silver hues contrasted sharply with the empire''s colors but commanded equal respect. The men following behind them marched in tight ranks, their steps synchronized, creating a rumble that echoed off the high stone walls. Armor clinked in unison, and the brilliant colors of their tunics and banners seemed to form a living tapestry against the dust-churned road. The army moved forward with unyielding grace and strength, passing through streets crowded with onlookers and jubilant citizens, whose cheers grew louder as they advanced. The original force of 11,000 had been whittled down to 8,800 soldiers, with only 7,500 permitted to join the victory parade. The wounded remained behind, hidden from the public''s view to maintain the army''s air of divine strength. Any sign of weakness would detract from the spectacle that lord Marthio and his commanders intended to present¡ªa flawless force, as unyielding in discipline as in appearance. Each soldier bore armor polished to a mirror-like gleam, their weapons meticulously sharpened and gleaming in the midday sun. Even the soldiers of Tyros, a rougher contingent within the army, marched in the parade fully outfitted in regulation armor and well-maintained gear. Yet they retained elements of their past lives; animal pelts still draped over their shoulders or tied to their belts, remnants of their days as bandits in the wilds. These trophies¡ªwolf pelts, fox furs, and even the occasional bear hide¡ªmarked them as men who had survived on their own ruthlessness before the empire gave them new purpose. Victory parades were a rare spectacle in Romelia, a privilege generally reserved for campaigns led by the emperor himself or a direct heir. Parades were only granted sparingly, like precious gold, due to the delicate power balance in the empire. Allowing an army freshly seasoned with victory into the heart of the city under any leader but the emperor himself posed a risk: a general''s glory in the eyes of both the people and the nobles could be dangerous, sparking whispers of usurpation and fueling ambitions that few dared to ignore. The loyalty of troops newly loyal to a triumphant general, combined with the rousing support of the populace, was a potent and hazardous mix within the city walls. But today, there was no such risk. This time, the triumphant leader was old Lord Marthio, the emperor''s own grandfather, who rode into the city as a victor not for himself, but for the empire and its young ruler, Mesha. Even the most ambitious nobles felt no fear of treason or conspiracy¡ªno one could believe that Lord Marthio, in his later years , would harbor any intention of seizing the throne from his own grandson. So, for once, the people''s cheers rang free of any tension or doubt. The clibanarii, heavy cavalry clad in gleaming armor and mounted on powerful warhorses, paraded through the main road to the city''s thunderous applause. Their horses, massive and imposing, were among the most celebrated of the parade. People craned their necks for a better view, marveling at the massive, well-trained steeds that seemed as much a symbol of imperial strength as the soldiers themselves. Yet, as the horses moved along, the inevitable happened¡ªmany of the clibanarii''s horses began to leave deposits on the cobbled street, forcing the infantry following behind to awkwardly dodge the fresh piles. Despite their efforts, a few soldiers misstepped, their heavy boots squelching into the mess. The bulk of the army halted in the bustling city streets, just outside the palace walls, as the nobles and a select group of clibanarii continued forward. The soldiers on horse held ranks, their polished armor glinting under the sun, banners held high, as the citizens continued to cheer them on. Lord Marthio led the way, flanked by his loyal nobles and clibanarii guards, their horses'' hooves echoing against the cobblestones as they moved toward the palace gates. As they reached the grand entrance to the throne hall, each lord and guard dismounted with practiced precision, handing off their reins to the palace attendants. They entered in silence, boots muffled on the carpeted marble floors or the long decorated hallwas , and made their way up the aisle toward the throne, where the emperor himself awaited. The emperor sat in solemn grandeur, his frame adorned with the imperial crown and draped in a rich, deep purple silk cloth that shimmered under the throne hall''s torchlight. His gaze swept over the nobles who entered, each one kneeling in reverence before him. But when Lord Marthio bent to lower himself, gentle words from Mesha stopped him "Close family does not kneel gradfather." Lord Marthio paused, then gave a respectful bow, offering his thanks. "Your Majesty, it is my deepest honor to serve you and the empire," he said, his voice steady and solemn. The emperor''s expression remained composed as he replied, his voice carrying the weight of measured words. "You have honored us with your victory, Lord Marthio." He offered no thanks as such an expression could imply that, had he led the army himself, there might have been defeat¡ªa notion that politics would never allow. It was a subtle absurdity, yet in the balance of power and appearance, essential for preserving the emperor''s authority. Lord Marthio, still bowing, spoke with pride, his voice filled with conviction. "Your Majesty, I am honored to have served the empire and to have brought glory to its name." Mesha, watching his grandfather, nodded approvingly before addressing the room. "Such a victory deserves recognition," he declared, his young voice carrying an air of ceremony. "Great deeds deserve great duties, and so I grant Lord Marthio another responsibility." He paused, letting his words sink in. "Lord Marthio has proven himself honorable and capable, and so I entrust him with the reins of the empire until I come of age. I hereby name him Regent of the Empire once again." A ripple passed through the hall as the gathered lords processed the announcement. Many had anticipated this shift, but still, a few pairs of eyes instinctively turned toward Lord Keval, the current regent, expecting perhaps a flicker of discontent. Yet Keval, composed and unreadable, simply inclined his head, bowing with a slight smile, his expression one of calm acceptance. As in the late regent''s mind, only one thought was present: Thanks the gods above, it has ended... Mesha''s gaze then swept across the assembled lords, his young but steady eyes capturing their attention, made sharper by the last days that overturn his life and perception of family "To the rest of my loyal lords, your rewards will be seen to in good time," he announced with a slight nod, acknowledging the many sacrifices made. "But for now," he continued, a spark of enthusiasm entering his tone, "such a victory demands celebration. Let us honor this triumph of justice over the wicked rebels with a feast.Glory to the Empire" Chapter 217: Dealing with loose end Chapter 217: Dealing with loose end Keval walked down the quiet, echoing hallways of the palace, his footsteps resounding off the polished stone floors as he approached the regent''s chambers¡ªthe place that had been the center of his world for so many long, grueling months. He remembered the countless nights he had spent in that room, poring over documents, frantically balancing the empire''s precarious finances, and managing every problem that had been hurled his way. It had been the room where he''d argued with ministers, cursed misfortunes, and occasionally fought back the weight of it all with clenched fists and sleepless nights, which many times ended with him crying . Now, with each step, a new sense of freedom lifted him. No more desperate meetings to salvage royal coffers, no more watching over every shit his bich of a sister managed to make a mess of,whom by the way he was waiting with excitement to see the punishment, and more important no more vigilance against a hundred other fires in the empire. Keval allowed himself a slight smile. For the first time in what felt like ages, his shoulders relaxed. As Keval neared the regent''s chamber, he spotted Tyros waiting just outside the door, leaning casually against the wall. Tyros looked up, his face breaking into a wide grin, and he pushed off the wall to embrace his brother warmly. "It''s been too long, brother'''' Tyros said, pulling him into a tight hug. "Months since I last saw you¡ªlook at you, still alive after all this." Keval chuckled as they separated. "Barely. It''s been... harder than I thought it would be." Tyros gave him a knowing look. "I heard all about it¡ªespecially what Valeria''s been up to while your father was away." He shook his head. "But if it''s any consolation, just think: we''ll be spared her little games from here on out." "I can only hope," Keval replied, sighing. He felt Tyros'' reassuring hand pat his shoulder as he turned to face the chamber door. "Go on, get in there," Tyros encouraged. Keval glanced back at him, eyebrows raised. "And you? Why aren''t you already inside?" Tyros grinned, letting out a mock sigh. "Oh, I tried. But Father threw me out. Seems he wants some peace in his new office." Keval smirked, shaking his head. "Not surprised," he said, gripping the door handle,his brother was never the diligent one,and so Keval got ready to face his father¡ªnow the regent¡ªand feeling strangely lighter at the thought of leaving that room''s burdens behind. Keval stepped quietly into the regent''s chamber, and the familiar room seemed heavier now, almost somber in the morning light. Behind a broad desk littered with papers and official seals, Lord Marthio sat, his focus intense as he reviewed a long scroll. His face, sharply lit from the window, was as stoic as ever, but there was a quiet pride in his eyes as he glanced up to see his son enter. Keval bowed his head briefly in greeting and took his seat, clasping his hands in front of him, watching as Marthio set down the scroll with deliberate care. Marthio folded his hands over the desk, looking at Keval with a calm, assessing gaze. "Keval," he began in his deep, steady voice. "I''ve been briefed on your work these past months, and I want you to know I am... satisfied." He paused, as though letting the weight of his words settle. "You''ve managed a difficult hand¡ªvery difficult, hell even hopeless. And despite that, you''ve done well." Keval inclined his head slightly. "I only did what I could, Father." Marthio regarded him thoughtfully, almost severely yet blessed him with one of his very rare small smile "You''ve done far more than that," he said, "I reviewed our accounts personally before I returned to Romelia. Given the setbacks... you kept our coffers stable. It''s impressive¡ªparticularly with the fall of Harmway." His eyes narrowed, his expression still as stone. "Harmway''s loss could have crippled us, yet you managed to cushion the fall ." A flicker of memory crossed Keval''s face, his jaw tightening. He nodded. "It was a hard blow. I underestimated how much we had relied on the island." Marthio gave a grave nod. "You were not alone in that. We all counted on its resources." He was silent for a moment, his gaze weighing Keval''s response. "But you didn''t let it ruin you," he continued, voice lowered. "I noted that deal you secured with Yarzat.Those two new things of that small princedom truly are amazing, and you managed to negotiate to take over the monopoly over the entire market.We will increase the amount we will buy by at least an half starting from next month." Marthio''s gaze turned more intense as he shifted to the next subject. "Then there is the matter of the emperor''s kidnapping. A disaster averted, but it could have shattered the stability we fought so hard to preserve." He paused, his eyes narrowing as he looked at his son with a mixture of appraisal and solemnity. "And yet, you managed to contain it. Your response was swift, decisive." Keval inclined his head slightly, his voice even but laced with sincerity. "I had luck on my side, Father. The gods seemed to favor us, as they had given me defector from their ranks¡ªa rat willing to betray his own." He allowed a small, wry smile, a reminder of how close they''d come to losing everything. "Luck or no luck," Marthio replied with a dismissive wave, "you took control and defused a crisis before it could spread. That is what matters." His voice held a weight that left no room for modesty. Keval absorbed the compliment in silence, knowing that any additional praise from Marthio was rare and deliberate. Seizing the moment, he took a careful breath and ventured, "And Valeria?" The question lingered in the air, carrying an undercurrent of tension. Marthio''s gaze grew colder, and he leaned forward slightly, studying Keval with a penetrating look. "Tell me, Keval. How would you handle it?" Keval straightened, his expression hardening with conviction. "If it were my choice, she would be executed for treason. She endangered the Empire itself; that kind of betrayal demands a clear, unflinching answer. I say off with her heads" He met his father''s eyes, letting the weight of his words linger. Marthio gave a small nod, his face unreadable but his tone resolute. "I agree with you. After her actions, she''s no kin to us¡ªno kin to anyone who values this realm''s stability." He paused, his voice dropping to a tone that held a touch of bitterness. "But an execution would mean having the emperor order the death of his own mother. A stain like that would never wash off, no matter how many victories or achievements follow.That would follow his children and grandchildren" Keval frowned, considering the complications. Kinslaying held a deep, ancient stigma in their culture, something that would weigh upon the imperial lineage for generations. "Then... what is to be done with her?" he asked, wary yet curious. "I''ve already arranged it, she will no longer worry us anymore" Marthio replied, his voice turning almost clinical "Now that that''s settled," he continued, his tone shifting, "we need to discuss your new position." Keval felt a flicker of surprise but said nothing, waiting intently for his father''s next words. Marthio''s gaze was steady as he spoke. "Tyros will return to our lands and assume the regency there, managing affairs on that end. You, however, will remain here, Keval," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "I''ll need you by my side to continue overseeing the finances¡ªsomething in which you''ve proven remarkably adept." Keval''s face betrayed a flicker of disappointment, and Marthio caught it at once. "Is there something you want to say?" Marthio asked, studying his son closely. Keval hesitated, then exhaled. "I''m... tired, Father" he admitted quietly, as if confessing a hidden weakness. For the first time, Marthio truly took in his son''s face. He noticed the deep-set lines beneath his eyes, the strain in his expression, and even the faint strands of silver hair at his temples¡ªstark against the dark. His son had borne the weight of duty, and it had marked him. Marthio''s tone softened, just a touch. "I understand, Keval. I, too, am tired. If the choice were mine alone, I would gladly lay down this burden and leave it all behind." He let out a sigh, though it was barely more than a breath. "But the time isn''t right, not for either of us. Every one of us has to make sacrifices when duty calls." Keval nodded slowly, his expression resigned. "I know. I''ll continue, then, as I have until now." Marthio gave a slight nod of approval, his expression almost one of pride, tempered by the knowledge of the weight he had asked his son to carry. The room fell silent, and though no more words were exchanged, both men felt the heaviness of what lay ahead. For Keval, the path was clear¡ªone more step forward, into the quiet endurance that duty demanded from them. --------------- ------------------ Everything had unraveled for her, just when she believed she was standing at the summit of her ambitions, surveying the vast landscape of her success. But the ground itself had betrayed her; the mountain crumbled beneath her feet, and she plummeted, crashing down from the heights she''d fought so hard to reach. How had it all fallen apart so quickly? Had she been betrayed? Did Marcellus¡ªher own ally¡ªaid them in this downfall? Her mind raced as she turned her gaze to the door, where two royal guards stood like statues. She''d tried to walk through that door more than once, only to be shoved back, her status disregarded, her authority shattered. Valeria knew her father had returned, and she dreaded every second until his arrival. She sat tensely, imagining his reaction, the severity of his judgment weighing on her chest. And then, without so much as a knock, the door swung open. There he stood¡ªLord Marthio, his expression unreadable, yet his stern, unyielding gaze landed directly on her. It was the look of a man who''d already decided her fate, and her stomach twisted. She rose, swallowing down her pride, and greeted him with a quiet, "Father." Marthio''s voice cut through her words like a cold blade. "Do not call me that. You have forfeited the right to that title." His tone was flat, relentless. "From this moment on, you are no daughter of mine. Consider yourself disinherited, if only in private for now." Marthio''s voice was as steady and cold as steel. "You''ve fallen to new depths, Valeria," he said, his gaze heavy with disdain. "Not only did you turn against your family''s interests, but you did so with complete disregard for the honor we''ve fought to build." Her heart pounded, and she kept her head low, unable to meet his stare. But he didn''t stop. "I thought I could salvage some measure of respect for you¡ªsome shred of the daughter I once knew. But even that slipped away the day you disgraced yourself, bringing a stable boy to your bed, which now you share with that fool of a lord, the only reason he is still walking freely is because we have no proof of that ." The disgust was evident in his voice, cutting deeper than she''d expected. Valeria''s hands tightened into fists as she fought the burning in her chest. She''d known he would bring it up. He never forgave her for that mistake; even now, it seemed as if every slight she''d ever caused him would be laid bare. And this time, she had no defense. Marthio''s voice was unwavering, a final pronouncement. "You will be taken to the Temple of the Goddess Fertility," he said, his tone devoid of warmth. "There, you will serve as a servant to Her, as a member of motherhood. It''s the only path left for you now, since you disregarded your earthly motherhood." Valeria shot to her feet, her face contorted with fury. "I won''t!" she shouted, her voice laced with desperation. "I am not some servant to be cast off and thrown away!" Marthio regarded her outburst with a chilling calm. "The decision has already been made. Nothing you say will change it." His gaze hardened further, as if she were already gone from his life. "I came only to inform you of your fate¡ªto tell you myself, so you understood the weight of your actions. As of this moment, you are no longer a daughter of mine." Without waiting for a response, Marthio turned and strode to the door. He didn''t look back, leaving her standing in stunned silence, her protests silenced as the door closed behind him with a heavy finality, just as her access to power. Chapter 218: Hate and Love Chapter 218: Hate and Love The worst of winter had swept through quickly this year, with its icy winds and biting frosts seeming to pass in a blink. Now, as March arrived, the last remnants of the cold melted into the air. The days grew longer, sunlight lingering just a bit more each evening. People began to shed their heaviest cloaks, and a tentative energy filled the air, as if the whole world were taking a deep breath, ready to wake from the quiet slumber of winter. It had been a brutal winter for the coastal villages. The Free Lords, from across the seas wasted no time to relive the best time of their history ,as they had launched relentless raids, sweeping through the settlements with brutal efficiency. Barns were ransacked, filled with the year''s hard-earned stores of grain and produce, only to be emptied or set ablaze . For some villages, this meant facing the rest of winter with little to sustain them, and in the harshest cases, nothing at all. In response, the court had stationed ''The White Company'', or as they were called by the various people that saw the mighty of the only southern private army, ''The Black Stripes'', along the eastern coast. A name who by the way Alpheo hated. Now, though the coastline was vast and impossible to fully secure, the presence of these troops shielded key stretches, creating safer zones where villages saw less destruction and where families could sleep with a measure of ease. Jasmine, seeing the toll taken on her people, ordered grain from the reserves to be distributed to the hardest-hit communities, while buying it from the empire once it proved not to be enough, something they were happy to part with given their heavy need of coins. Such an act of relief was only possible due to the wealth amassed from thriving trade relations with the Empire and neighboring principalities. The coffers of Yarzat in fact brimmed with wealth, something that the ministers in court had not seen in decades, stocked and ready to finance war when the time came. Inside were an impressive 27,000 silverii¡ªa fortune amassed not only from the bustling trade routes but also from a handsome ransom collected for the heir of the neighboring princedom of Oizen,that had been paid in full . Months earlier, young Sorza, the long-missing heir, had been released from Yarzat''s custody, with one year of truce still present between the two states. ------ It was a bright, clear day¡ªa day that would once again remind the world that logic and reason were the true forces steering the power that governed everything. Alpheo had always despised physics, a sentiment shared by many devoted to the humanities. If anyone had asked him why, he''d have said it was because understanding the laws that controlled reality seemed useless for the ordinary person; knowledge of physics did little, he thought, to improve daily life for an average person. But now, faced with undeniable evidence, Alpheo found himself confronting the flaws in his own thinking. A large pavilion of rich, dark cloth had been set up outside the towering walls of Yarzat, its thick canvas providing shelter from the late winter sun. Inside, Alpheo sat on a sturdy wooden chair, sipping cool water from a clay cup as he observed a team of servants preparing an onager for its next launch. Nearby, the men strained as they loaded the formidable war machine with a 30-kilogram stone, securing it with practiced care to ensure a flawless shot. To Alpheo''s right stood Pontius, the head engineer, a man well-seasoned in siege craft and strategy. Pontius was a recent gift from Marthio, regent of the Empire, a gesture made in honor of Alpheo''s birthday. Alpheo had personally thanked lord Marthio for sending Pontius, recognizing immediately how valuable the veteran engineer would be for Yarzat''s forces. Skilled engineers were rare in his territory, and this man''s expertise was already proving invaluable. ''''Behind every great man, there is a likewise great woman. And Behind every great city-taker army is a likewise ass-kicking engineering corpse'''' Was Alpheo''s proclamation to his friend as soon as Pontius'' arrival. Since his arrival, Pontius had been set to work training young recruits, given the months of peace before the next war. Many of them were sons of Yarzat''s wealthiest merchants, seconds and third sons sent with hopes of getting an army job. Alpheo watched the stone being drawn back in the onager''s sling, his eyes occasionally drifting to Pontius, who was deep in conversation with one of the apprentices. Pontius, bald and with the sun glinting off his smooth scalp, walked back toward Alpheo with a brisk, almost impatient stride. His eyes, sharp and slightly narrowed, held a hint of resentment¡ªa sentiment he didn''t try to hide. Pontius had often voiced his displeasure about his transfer, grumbling to anyone within earshot about being moved from the grand imperial palace to what he considered the provincial backwater of Yarzat. Something that Alpheo did not take offense to, as it was probably right . Speaking in european terms, it must have been as if moving from the Alhambra palace of Granada to the tower of London. Here he was, he would say, stuck in a place where the wind was harsher, the landscape less refined, and the people, in his opinion, utterly unsophisticated. As he reached Alpheo, he didn''t bother to disguise his tone, addressing the prince with the slightly condescending air that his years of experience had bred in him. Alpheo, ever calm, merely gestured for Pontius to sit before leaning forward to ask, "And how are your pupils performing, Pontius? Do you find them satisfactory?" Pontius gave a dry chuckle, crossing his arms. "Well, your grace, they''re enthusiastic enough. But enthusiasm does not create engineers," he said, glancing sideways at the youths struggling with another onager in the distance. "Most of them are dull bastards who think they know something about construction because they''ve seen a ship or a bridge or two. I''d say, if they listen half as much as they boast, we might have two or three competent minds by year''s end. But don''t expect miracles." Alpheo''s eyes showed a flicker of amusement at Pontius''s blunt arrogance. "So you find no promise among them?" he asked. Pontius sighed, grudgingly nodding. "There are a few who can hold their own under pressure," he admitted, albeit reluctantly. "They''re untrained, but they could be shaped into something worthwhile¡ªgiven time and strict instruction." His tone softened just slightly as apparently there were some pupils that gained his goodwill. Alpheo leaned back, a faint smile crossing his face. "Then I''ll expect much from you Pontius, after all it is not everyday that we have the honor of meeting such smart minds like yours..." Pontius said nothing, as he merely gave a nod, his face betraying a flash of irritation as soon as he turned back to watch his pupils. Alpheo was well aware of Pontius''s arrogance. The man''s grumblings and superior attitude were hardly subtle. Yet Alpheo chose to ignore the engineer''s sharp remarks and condescension, letting them slide with quiet tolerance. He knew he had little choice¡ªsomeone as skilled as Pontius was rare, and Alpheo needed his expertise, even if it came wrapped in complaints and disdain. The importance of a man like Pontius outweighed the man''s irritating habits; Yarzat''s future strength depended on talents like his, given that in all reality the land his wife commanded were truly provincial and lacking in human resources. Surprisingly, though Pontius often sneered at the provincial life in Yarzat, there were aspects of his work here that left him unexpectedly impressed. Among these was a remarkable advancement in the aiming methods Alpheo had developed. Working from basic principles of physics and geometry, Alpheo had implemented adjustments to the onagers that significantly reduced aiming errors. By incorporating simple but precise measurements into the construction, each stone thrown had an error range of only a dozen of meters at most , an incredible improvement considering the onager''s reach of 300 meters. Something that Alpheo had achieved , by dedicating extensive time to refining the design and perfecting the specifications, issuing precise measurements to the court engineers so that each weapon matched the exact standards needed for accuracy. While Pontius''s pride didn''t allow him to openly praise Alpheo, he found himself impressed despite himself, something that changed the view in which Alpheo was regarded by the man. "You''ve done well with them, Pontius. Their accuracy has improved beyond expectations." Alpheo said once he regained Pontius'' attention Pontius shrugged, his tone still curt. "They''re passable, at best¡ªtoo shabby for real combat " Despite the gruffness, a flicker of pride hinted at his own satisfaction. "Well, that''s what you''re here for," Alpheo replied, smiling. "But such progress deserves a reward, wouldn''t you agree?" Pontius raised an eyebrow, intrigued. Rewards were not something he''d often encountered under past patrons. Alpheo continued, "I''ll arrange for a mansion in town, complete with servants¡ªyours to keep. And let''s add 500 silvers for good measure. Use it as you wish.Take it as a bonus for the good work" Pontius was momentarily stunned. He couldn''t fathom how the ruler of Yarzat, a modest state by imperial standards, could have such deep coffers for rewards and projects alike, as since he came to work in Yarzat, the princess had literally thrown silvers around as if they were confetti. The thought lingered, but he wisely kept it to himself, replying instead with a pleased smile, "Your generosity knows no bounds, your grace " Alpheo inclined his head. "I do have a job for you, though. One requiring your full attention and those keen students of yours.In a month, at best, war will erupt between us and the Prince of Herculia," Alpheo stated with quiet confidence, his voice low, but edged with the clarity of one who had already thought through every angle. "I have my suspicions you already know to why'''' Pontius nodded keeping his mouth shut about the rumors he had heard about Lechlian''s gift. "And when it happens," Alpheo continued, "you and your corps will follow the army, of course. I will need you and your pupils to be ready for long marches and even harder work by the end of it. The stakes will be high, and we will need every weapon at our disposal, especially that of mind" Pontius nodded, but Alpheo wasn''t finished. "I want your students ready to not just build the machines of war, but to lead others in constructing them. We''ll need many hands, and we can''t waste time on inexperience." His gaze was steady, his words calculated. "You will teach them how to direct others¡ªthose with no knowledge of construction at all. They will need to know how to manage labor and direct the creation of these siege crafts " Pontius straightened a little at the challenge, the fire of his professional pride flaring within him. "It will be done, Your Grace," he said. Alpheo gave a small nod of approval, his focus already shifting to the task at hand. "Good. I eagerly await the results," he said, his voice cool but filled with quiet authority. "Make sure your students are prepared. When the time comes, there will be no room for error." As he said so his mind drifted back to the siege of Confluendi. During that long confrontation , the White Army had performed admirably in constructing their camp, following the usual methods of siegecraft and defensive engineering. But it wasn''t the seasoned soldiers the problem; rather, it was the newly enlisted men from various lords'' territories who had, despite their initial inexperience, managed to perform below his expectations. Alpheo could remember how, at first, he had thought the soldiers¡ªmostly farmhands, tradesmen, and young recruits¡ªwould falter at the immense tasks required in such a large-scale siege operation. He had expected clumsy efforts, slow work, and the inefficiencies that came with untrained hands. Yet it was even worse than he expected. The camp they built was disorganized, their fortifications weak, and their siege equipment poorly constructed. The soldiers lacked the necessary skills and understanding of basic logistics, making simple tasks far more complicated than they should have been. I realized too late, he thought as he looked back at his previous campaign, that I relied too much on the idea that sheer numbers would make up for lack of skill. I was wrong... As a consequence, the small number of engineers he was given were overwhelmed by the amount of work , further extending the required time to finish everything. Alpheo realized that relying solely on numbers and enthusiasm had been a mistake. Without proper training and expertise, these soldiers could not manage the complex demands of a siege. He knew that If his army was to succeed in future campaigns, he needed to focus not only on numbers but on bringing in men with the right skills and knowledge to lead, plan, and build effectively, hence his kind and generous attitude towards the arrogant bald man in front of him, as if he was not in such dire need of such skills, he would have had him whipped weeks ago. Hence his excitement and expectation over the group of boys that he had nurtured during winter, made possible by the teacher kindly gifted by his friends in the north. Chapter 219: At war again Chapter 219: At war again April had finally arrived, casting a gentler warmth over the land as winter''s grip finally loosened. The once-gray skies softened into a mild blue, and buds of green peeked from barren branches, promising renewal. In the fields, the ground was thawing, and farmers prepared their tools and plows, eager to return to work . The smell of damp earth filled the air, mingling with the scent of blossoming wildflowers by the roadsides. While most welcomed the end of winter with open arms, not everyone viewed the season''s passing with such enthusiasm. For the elite regiments of the White Army, winter was something close to paradise. The cold months offered them an unexpected break from battle, and, with no wars to wage and no threats looming over the borders, they settled into an almost carefree existence. Mornings were spent in light training, a few hours of marching and drills just to keep themselves in shape, but their afternoons were wide open. They ate well, their pay continued to flow, and their only enemy was boredom. With little to occupy their time, the soldiers turned to cards, dice, and other games of chance, filling their hours with bouts of luck and laughter that echoed around the camp. On this particular day, Marcus was riding high on a winning streak. He grinned as he tossed the dice, watching with satisfaction as they clattered across the green and landed on a lucky roll. A cheer escaped him, and he pumped his fist in triumph, the grin on his face growing even wider. The thrill of a good roll was something Marcus lived for, especially when it meant seeing the irritation in his friends'' faces. Lucius, crouched nearby, scowled at the results. He clicked his tongue in frustration, brushing dirt off his hands as he stood up from his half-kneeling position. "Today''s my day, Lucius!" Marcus laughed, holding up the dice like a trophy, the smug sparkle in his eye daring Lucius to try his luck again. Lucius rolled his eyes and shook his head, trying to mask his frustration as he stepped back. "Shut it he grumbled. He knew better than to keep pushing his luck against someone on a roll. Marcus lifted his newly heavy pouch, letting the coins jingle with satisfaction. Around him, the recent losers of the game stood up, grumbling as they kicked at the ground before turning away, muttering curses under their breath. Turning to Lucius with a broad grin, Marcus said, "Come on, let''s go grab a drink. It''s been an eternity since we had a good round together. First one''s on me." Lucius glanced at him, his expression hardening. "You know exactly why we don''t go there anymore," he replied, his tone flat. Marcus''s grin faltered, but only for a moment, the silence between them suddenly as heavy as the weight of his new winnings. Marcus''s grin faded as Lucius''s words sank in, a knowing look passing over his face. He didn''t need Lucius to explain; he remembered well the night things had taken a turn at the inn. The innkeeper had gone too far, pointing his finger squarely at Marcus and ratting him out when the Watch arrived. Apparently the calculations he made regarding his night visit to the inn owner, were wrong, and he got into trouble for that. A tense talk with the Watch''s captain had been enough to clear Marcus''s name, but it had come with a hefty fine¡ªand a bruised reputation among his comrades, who mostly however made fun of it to him. He hadn''t set foot in that inn since. Marcus nudged Lucius with a sly grin, breaking the silence. "So, how''s it going with Sabine?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows. Lucius clicked his tongue, his face tightening slightly. "Since that day, we had to meet in secret," he muttered, his irritation barely hidden. "Her father doesn''t want her anywhere near me. Every time we see each other, it''s like we''re sneaking around in enemy territory." Marcus chuckled, but there was a hint of sympathy in his eyes. "Still haven''t tied the knot, then?" he asked, feigning disappointment as he watched Lucius''s face. "Not yet," Lucius replied, his tone clipped, though a trace of frustration edged his voice. "Too bad," Marcus said, shaking his head. But before Lucius could respond, his gaze shifted. The usual calm of the camp was disrupted, replaced by a flurry of activity. Soldiers rushed about, shouting to one another, some with wide grins, others with furrowed brows, all caught up in the sudden excitement. Marcus, too, frowned, watching the commotion with a raised brow. "Doesn''t look like payday to me," he said, adjusting his own gear. Catching one of the rushing soldiers by the arm, Lucius asked, "What''s going on?" The soldier, barely able to contain his enthusiasm, quickly replied, "His Grace! He''s called us all together for a speech!" The two immediately realized the boy to be a green recruit, probably added during the last round of recruitment, as he called Alpheo by his grace. The oldest followers of the young man called him simply by his name between themselves, yet they were a drying breed, as less than a third of the White Army actually followed Alpheo since the sandy terrain of Arlania, the rest of them being locals recruited during the year. Lucius released the soldier and glanced over at Marcus. "Guess we''d better get moving too," he said, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. Marcus nodded, tying his newly filled coin pouch securely at his waist with a satisfied grin. --------------- Lucius stood shoulder to shoulder with thousands of his comrades, each man a part of the vast assembly stretching across the open field. The air was thick with anticipation as the rows of soldiers waited, their attention fixed on the front where Alpheo would soon address them. It had been months since Lucius had last seen the young monarch, and in that time, something unmistakable had changed. The Alpheo he remembered from last campaign had been sharp and cunning, a wily leader with the air of a former mercenary captain¡ªa man who had once been an escaped slave, whose fight had always seemed driven by personal grit and hunger for freedom. But as Lucius took in the figure now stepping forward to address them, it was clear that Alpheo had shed those past skins entirely. Lucius couldn''t help but notice the stoic expression that marked Alpheo''s face, as if the man had become a vessel of authority itself, far away from the happy and carefree expression he remembered in the early days he wore day and night. The silver-colored cuirass hugged his torso, shaped to fit him perfectly. The silver gleamed in the sunlight, adorned with intricate etchings and patterns that resembled flowing rivers, or maybe flawers ,Lucius could not distinguish the difference. Beneath the armor, his cloak flowed like a dark shadow, its weight pulling gently at the fabric as if to contrast the brilliance of the silver armor. Behind Alpheo, Lucius spotted two familiar figures: Egil and Asag, both close companion who had fought alongside Alpheo during countless campaigns. The two stood as a silent wall behind Alpheo, their stances mirroring his resolve. He knew that whatever was to be talked here was very important if all three of them were present. Alpheo''s mouth finally opened ''''Since the start of my wife''s rule in this gods'' blessed land , you have been nothing short than the shield protecting her, the swords that culled her enemies and the pillars from which her rule stands on . You are the steady river upon which our kingdom sails forward, the fire that warms our people and scorches those who would do them harm. "Today, as tomorrow and ever more , as we face what lies beyond and inside our borders, know that you do not fight alone. You are more than soldiers; you are the breath of Yarzat''s spirit, its unwavering heartbeat, and as long as you stand, so shall our people and our kingdom endure." Alpheo''s voice carried out over the gathered men, clear and unwavering. "For all this, you are treated well¡ªbetter than any soldier under the sun," he declared, his tone a blend of pride and command. "Tell me, what man among you can claim to know anyone that every month his stomach is filled, his purse never empty? And should fate take him from this world, what other man can claim that that man''s family will be looked after, provided for, in his absence? What army, I ask you, is treated with such honor and justice by their sovereign?" A cheer rose from the ranks, a wave of voices merging into a powerful roar as soldiers lifted their fists and smashed them against their armor in thunderous unity. The sound echoed across the field like rolling drums, reverberating with pride and loyalty, swelling as Alpheo''s words settled in. Alpheo''s gaze sharpened, his expression hardening as he continued, his voice carrying a steely edge. "But now," he intoned, a simmering anger beneath his words, "the honor of the prince and princess, the very souls you have sworn to defend, has been spat upon. Our dignity has been mocked¡ªduring our own marriage celebrations, no less. Those barbarians from Herculia dared to insult the sacred hospitality we extended to them, trampling on our peace with reckless disregard." Alpheo''s voice grew louder, filling the air with a tone of dark resolve. "It seems the prince of Herculia has decided it wise to make an enemy out of us, sowing discord in our lands as he tried to foment revolt againt her grace''s rule" he declared, his voice steady yet laced with iron. "Tell me, men, will we accept this insult, lying down, silent and beaten?" A thunderous chorus of "No!" erupted from the soldiers,Lucius''s voice adding in the chorus, their voices blending into a wave of defiance that seemed to shake the earth beneath them. "Then tell me," he continued, raising his voice even higher, "will we stand idle, or will we march straight to their gates and repay this insult with blood?Taking all of their golds and women on the way there?" All men around roared in response, a cheer rising from the ranks that drowned out everything else, their fists pounding against their armor as they shouted their readiness for vengeance, as war always brought them an opportunity for some good old raiding. Alpheo waited, standing still as the roaring enthusiasm of his soldiers gradually quieted. The men, seeing their prince''s hand raised, fell into a respectful hush, their eager eyes fixed on him as they braced for his next command. With a voice that cut through the air, Alpheo shouted, "Then spread the word to any with ears to hear it¡ªfriend, foe, and kin alike¡ªthat Yarzat marches to war! And with her, she brings her loyal sons. " A ripple of fierce energy surged through the ranks as he continued, his voice filled with a chilling resolve. "We will raid their lands, seize every piece of gold we can lay hands on, and leave behind a wall of blood for the next fools who think to test us. Let no one doubt¡ªYarzat''s honor will be defended, and its enemies will fall.Yes, let it be known," he called, his gaze sweeping over his men "that for every insult hurled at our honor, we shall return a tempest. For every slight upon our dignity, we will repay with thunder and fire.'''' He raised his fist, the glint of silver catching the light as his voice softened yet intensified, each word deliberate and laden with purpose. "When we march, we bring the fury of the mountains, the unyielding tide of the sea. We are the hammer that breaks upon the shield, the flame that endures through the fiercest storm. And we do not go alone¡ªwe go as one, bound by purpose, bound by a kinness not of blood." A murmur of agreement rose, the soldiers'' eyes blazing with shared purpose, but Alpheo continued, his tone almost reverent. "When we cross their borders, they shall tremble, for they will know that Yarzat''s wrath is upon them. For every field they have scorched, we will bring a fire three times as fierce. For every insult they''ve thrown, we will write our answer in iron, in flame, and in blood." He paused, letting his words linger, watching his men as they hung on his every breath. "Bring our banners high, bright against the sky. Let them know that we do not forget, we do not forgive, and we do not fall. Together, my brothers, we will carve a path through their lands, and we will lay the foundation of our honor upon the stones of our triumph. And when we return to our beloved Yarzat, the sun itself will bow in envy of what we have done. For that my friends and sons is what we are." The silence stretched, vibrating with tension, before it shattered into a thunderous roar as the soldiers raised their fists, the sound echoing over the fields. We march to war then,Lucius undestood as that familiar tremble of excitement passed through his back. Chapter 220: Messy affairs Chapter 220: Messy affairs Before the age of absolutism¡ªwhen monarchs centralized their power so thoroughly that few institutions or nobles dared to oppose them¡ªwars involving entire kingdoms were far from streamlined, often as chaotic as they were brutal. Unlike later national conflicts, where the full resources of a state could be marshaled by a single ruler with sweeping control, wars in earlier centuries were deeply shaped by the delicate and often volatile relationships between kings and their vassals, which many times made it so that the leader of an army, more than a military commander was the head of a confederation of forces each with his own voice , as he had to always heed his ear to the bigger opinion in the camp least he faced the fragmentation of their army before battle. In those times, a king''s call to war did not automatically signify the united strength of his entire realm. Instead, his success depended largely on the loyalty, ambition, and resources of the lords beneath him. A strong and respected king could wield significant influence, rallying his vassals not just with orders but with his authority. Such a king could command a sizable force, as his vassals were more willing to heed his call, seeing it as aligned with their own interests or, at the very least, out of deference to his power. In contrast, a weaker monarch faced a very different reality. When a king was perceived as ineffectual or lacking in authority, his summons could be met with reluctance, delay, or outright defiance. Powerful lords might hesitate to commit their forces or might negotiate terms more favorable to their personal ambitions, viewing the king''s weakness as an opportunity to expand their own power or resist his influence. In such cases, what was supposed to be a "national" war quickly splintered into a bid to get as many supporters as possible Alpheo''s position in Yarzat, while outwardly powerful, was complicated by the realities of his low-born status, apart fromt the fact that he was a kingslayer . Unlike a king who inherited generations of noble blood and the unspoken authority that came with it, Alpheo''s word alone did not carry the weight it might have had he been born to one of the great houses. This lack of noble lineage made some of the princedom''s lords slow to heed his commands, and, as a consequence, even the words of his wife¡ªthe rightful ruler¡ªcould fall upon stubborn ears unwilling to bend. It wasn''t that Alpheo himself was weak. On the contrary, he was a formidable leader, a man of proven strength and sharp tactical prowess. Even the lords that would spat at his name would not deny his effectiveness with martial matters. His military background ensured that any individual lord thinking of crossing him would pause, aware of the personal risk of defying a seasoned commander who could call upon a loyal corps of elite soldiers at any time. Alpheo''s forces and reputation as a skilled warrior were enough to keep most potential challengers in line, at least individually. Yet, he understood the fragile nature of this respect. Were the lords of Yarzat to set aside their own rivalries and grievances and band together in opposition, then that would be a true problem, meaning that the last thing Alpheo wanted to do was to give them reason to band together in an army against him, which as a consequence meant turning a blind eye at hidden insults and insubordination. The court had sent out letters to the lords and knights of Yarzat nearly a month before Alpheo''s rousing speech, each message bearing the royal seal and the strict order to rally at Bracum. Strategically positioned and easily defensible, Bracum had been selected as the staging ground for the army. During the long winter months, it had served as a vital warehouse and logistics hub in preparation for the campaign that would soon be upon them, with carriages filled with grain already rolling inside the city deep into winter. By now, Bracum''s vast storerooms were filled to the rafters with barrels of grain and dried provisions. Alpheo had spent the winter meticulously filling Bracum''s wharehouse and spent quite a good deal of coin amassing enough food for an army of 3,000 to go forth for two months. Everything was ready ------------------ Alpheo stood in the dim hall, clad head-to-toe in armor that gleamed with polished edges and the wear of battle past. His left hand gripped his helmet by its crested top, fingers strong and sure, his stance the image of readiness. Jasmine observed him from a few steps away, her gaze steady yet with a touch of something softer in her eyes. "Are you nervous?" she asked, her voice low but carrying a hint of genuine curiosity. Alpheo turned, studying her briefly before a half-shrug lifted his shoulders. "I''ve prepared everything I could," he said. "Can''t do more than that. No use fretting over what''s set in motion." A faint smile touched Jasmine''s lips, though it didn''t quite hide her own hint of worry. "When you first rode off to fight Ormund," she admitted, "I was half convinced you''d lose." Alpheo''s eyebrow arched, the faintest glint of mischief flickering in his eyes. "And what brought you to that conclusion?" he asked, a smirk pulling at his mouth. She only shrugged, folding her hands as though the answer were obvious. With a chuckle, Alpheo leaned in, his tone dry. "Well, I guess I''m lucky I didn''t know that, or I might''ve made it true.I don''t perform well under pressure" Jasmine''s brow furrowed as she looked at Alpheo, her voice low but edged with concern as Alpheo''s jest fell flat "I still don''t understand why you''d clamor for war now that we finally have the throne, Alpheo. We have stability¡ªour position is no longer so uncertain. Why risk everything for a war that isn''t even urgent?" Alpheo''s expression softened, though he met her gaze with quiet resolve. "Jasmine, the fastest way for a new regime to be accepted is through victory on the battlefield. A new ruler sits uneasy in the minds of many, but a victor commands respect." He lifted his chin, his eyes catching a glint of steel. "The Herculian prince handed us this opportunity on a silver platter. To show strength, to bring unity¡ªthis is exactly what we need." She shook her head, her lips pressed tight. "Strength, yes¡ªbut our strength can be shown in time. War brings losses, Alpheo and most importantly, is unpredictable. You''re a soldier, yes, but it''s different now. Now you''re leading a state, not just an army." Alpheo stepped closer, his tone firm but gentle. "A kingdom needs to trust its leader, Jasmine, but trust isn''t built on words alone. I''ve spent enough time on the battlefield to know how it changes perceptions¡ªpeople rally behind a conqueror. The Herculians insulted us, spat on our throne at our own wedding. They think we''re weak. If we don''t answer that insult with strength, others will start thinking the same." She hesitated, still not entirely convinced. "But what if it goes wrong? What if we meet defeat?" Alpheo chuckled softly. "What if I die at a feast, or in my sleep, or from some illness? There are a thousand ways for fate to turn, Jasmine, each worse than the last. Worrying about all the ''ifs'' would only paralyze us and force us into stagnation ." Her brow furrowed, her words laced with concern. "But one of them will happen, Alpheo. That''s the nature of life. Fate''s hand will fall on us eventually. You act as though you''re untouchable." Her gaze softened, but there was a quiet frustration in her tone. "But sometimes... I wonder if you truly understand you aren''t." Alpheo looked at Jasmine, his gaze softening as he saw the uncertainty in her eyes. He understood now, perhaps more clearly than ever, that she could never truly grasp the hunger that had driven him, the drive to claw and rise for something that had always seemed just out of reach. For her, ambition had always been shaped by what she saw in her father''s steady, unyielding rule¡ªan ambition built from luxury, from privilege, from a throne that she had always thought to be hers to inherit. She could never understand the battles he fought for every breath, every inch of progress. Every moment of his existence had been a struggle, a desperate fight for more. He had never been born with the certainty that she had, never had the comfort of knowing his place in the world. Every decision had been a risk, every move a step toward a future that could just as easily slip from his grasp. But as he watched her, he wondered if she might be right about something. He had never allowed himself to truly entertain the thought of failure. He had always assumed that victory was the only possible outcome because it had to be. Failure wasn''t just a loss for him¡ªit was the end of everything and so he moved forward knowing that there would be no turning back . The thought of it never even crossed his mind, and perhaps, as Jasmine suggested, that was his greatest flaw. Maybe he wasn''t as invincible as he believed. Still this is something that I have to do, he thought as he stirred his eyes forward. He would go all the way, because there was no turning back now. The war, with all its risks, was the thing that would define them, for better or for worse. And in that moment, Alpheo knew one thing for certain: it was exactly what they both needed, even if Jasmine couldn''t see it yet. As Alpheo stood there, watching Jasmine, a flicker of something deeper stirred within him. These last few months had been unlike any he had ever known. Peaceful. Calmer than he had ever imagined his life could be. For once, he hadn''t been waking up to the sound of his own restless thoughts, or the fear that next month it would be the time where he would be whipped to death. In these months, he had found some semblance of normalcy, a rhythm to their shared life¡ªsomething almost... pleasant. He hadn''t anticipated it, but a kind of common liking had passed between them. It was subtle, yet undeniable. They had begun to understand each other''s moods, share quiet moments, talk about things that didn''t involve war, power, or survival. She would smile at him in the mornings, and he would feel a warmth he hadn''t known in the years of struggle that came before her He sighed inwardly. Maybe she would never truly understand me, he thought. Jasmine''s gaze lingered in Alpheo''s eyes. "We both knew this would come; we had talked about it during winter" Alpheo murmured, his voice steady, almost resigned. Jasmine exhaled, the weight of his words settling in her chest. "I know," she said, rising from her seat. As she moved past him, her eyes caught on something at his waist¡ªa small flower. Her brow furrowed, and she took a few steps closer, realizing with a jolt that it was the same rose he had given him months ago, the one she had kept close.Yet the petals were still there, red.She raised an eyebrow, surprised to see it still there. She touched the petals and immediately felt the rough touch of wood. "Is that...?" Her voice trailed off as she took a step back, studying the flower. Alpheo blinked in confusion, following her gaze. It took him a moment before he understood. He looked down at the small flower, and a shadow of realization passed across his face. He chuckled softly, though there was a hint of awkwardness in his tone. "I had the petals woodworked alongside the stem and then painted . It''s the first thing anyone ever gave me," he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I didn''t want to throw it away, so I searched for someone for a small wood-carving job.The stem is inside it you know?" Jasmine studied him for a moment longer, her expression softening. "You keep it still?" she asked, her voice a touch gentler than before. Alpheo shrugged, a bit uncertain now, as if the question had never occurred to him. "Should I throw it away?" For a heartbeat, Jasmine stood still, considering his question. Then, without a word, she leaned in, her lips brushing against his in a soft kiss. She smiled, a small, knowing smile, and her hand gently swept the flower from his waist, keeping it in her hand "No," she said, her voice low but clear. "But I''ll give you another one anyway" Chapter 221: Arriving to Bracum Chapter 221: Arriving to Bracum The army moved steadily across the countryside, a winding river of steel and leather snaking through the lush, rolling fields. The land was bathed in the warm light of early morning, the grass still damp with dew, and the soft hum of distant birdsong was muffled by the steady clinking of armor and rhythmic march of hundreds of boots. At the front marched 150 archers, light and quick, their quivers kept at the sides and their bows hung on the side. Behind them, 150 light cavalry in chainmail kept pace, each soldier bearing a mace and lance Following was the bulk of the force: 500 heavy infantry, clad in chainmail and reinforced with breastplates , guisse and greave, their shields raised as they marched with an ironclad determination that seemed to echo with each step. Nearby, 200 soldiers armed with the new court-issued weapon moved in formation, their polearms held ready, glinting in the morning light, as this was to be their first campaign. At the center rode the Golden Steeds¡ª100 elite cavalry in gilded armor, their polished breastplates and horsehair crests marking them as the crown''s finest.They were not part of the White army , but under Jasmine''s persistent request, Alpheo had doubled their number from fifty to one hundred. At the head of the Golden Steeds rode Ser Merth, an aging knight whose weathered face bore the marks of countless campaigns. His armor, though polished to a brilliant sheen, showed small signs of wear¡ªscratches along the edges, dents that told stories of battles he had fought in . Ser Merth had earned his position not by royal decree but by the respect of his fellow knights, each of whom had cast their vote to place him as their commander, a tradition long honored by the Golden Steeds. For years, the princes of Yarzat had respected this tradition, valuing the choice of the knights themselves. It was rare for a prince to intervene, though in certain times of political need or uncertainty, they had appointed a commander directly. Bringing up the rear, were 200 newly recruited light infantry from the royal fiefs marched with less precision but a dogged determination, their mismatched gear reflecting their fresh loyalty to the royal cause.Usually for offensive campaigns, enlisters would find many more recruits that they otherwise would on a defensive war, as after all campaigning in foreign land gave them the opportunity to raid and make money. At the head of the marching army, Alpheo rode alongside his closest companions, Asag and Egil. Their horses trod a steady rhythm against the ground, each man relaxed as they observed the surrounding countryside. Lord Shahab, who usually marched with them , had departed weeks earlier to his own lands to gather troops, with the plan of joining them in Bracum for the full assembly of forces. Asag''s gaze lifted to the sky, where a flock of ravens circled, dark specks against the dull, overcast horizon. "Look at them," he murmured, his voice carrying a note of unease. "More of them appear every day,them cursed animals..'''' Egil followed his gaze, a faint smile touching his lips. "Where I come from, we call the ravens messengers of the gods," he said, his tone almost reverent. "They come to battles to feast, yes¡ªbut also to bear witness. If they gather in great numbers, it means the gods approve. To us, it is a good sign." Alpheo listened in silence, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, yet he seemed to carry their words with him, letting them drift between his thoughts. They marched toward Bracum, and with every step, the ravens kept their silent watch overhead. Egil''s eyes remained fixed on the ravens circling above, a gleam of fervor in his gaze. "They know a glorious battle is coming," he murmured, almost as if speaking to himself. Asag turned, raising an eyebrow at Egil. "How can beasts that feed on the dead be seen as anything but omens of misfortune?Much less as benevolent beings" he asked, skepticism lacing his tone. Egil chuckled softly, his expression unwavering. "I never said they were benevolent. They are merely signs that the gods themselves have taken notice of the battle," he explained, his voice low and steady. "For my people, it''s considered an honor to deliver them a feast. A battlefield heavy with ravens means the gods are watching, and in a way, it''s a blessing to serve as proof of their attention." Asag considered this, his face drawn and thoughtful, as Egil continued to watch the ravens with an almost reverent pride. Alpheo glanced over at Egil. "Weren''t the tribes meant to convert when they settled on imperial land?" he asked, a slight curiosity in his voice. Egil''s eyes darkened, and without a word, he turned his head and spat on the ground. "Aye, they did," he replied bitterly. "My people bowed to that wretched faith. But behind closed doors, they kept the old ways alive, passing down the rites and beliefs in whispers." A shadow of sadness crossed his face, a flicker of memories he kept close yet rarely shared. Alpheo watched him quietly, recalling the famine that had gripped Egil''s homeland and the harsh treatment from the imperial governor. When the tribe rose in rebellion, the empire crushed them swiftly, leaving villages burned and fields barren. Not once, Alpheo realized, had Egil ever complained about the empire''s relations with them , though he''d done his best to keep his distance from imperial envoys, skirting around officials as if he knew too well that nothing good would come from being seen or heard by them. Asag shook his head, his gaze still on the horizon. "It''s a crude way to honor anything, isn''t it?'''' Egil snorted, unable to hide a smirk. "And yet you rather dress it up than treat it like a child''s game?" He turned to face Alpheo and Asag "All those rules, the drummers, the declarations, the pompous envoys spewing words like they''re worth a damn. They build a mountain of ceremonies around something as simple as killing to survive." He laughed. "In my homeland, you killed to protect or to eat, and that was that. No mess of politics to go with it." Alpheo smirked as Egil went on, and Egil''s grin only widened. "Tell me, Alpheo," he asked, his tone half-mocking, "do you enjoy announcing yourself at every turn? Even when you take a piss, you like to shout your intentions to the enemy?" Alpheo chuckled, a glint of humor in his eyes. "If it were up to me, I''d march straight into their cities, claim their throne without a word, without a single missive sent. But, alas..." He shrugged, still amused. "We play this game because we''re bound to it, Egil, and we have to follow its rules'''' In fact, Alpheo had already planned to send an envoy with a formal declaration of war a week before his forces would depart from Bracum, as custom dictated. It was a tradition that carried significant weight¡ªnot because skipping it would provoke retaliation from every neighboring ruler, but because it set the foundation for the authority of his and Jasmine''s words in the realm and outside of it . Without adhering to this custom, any treaties or alliances they might forge in the future could be viewed as fickle, lacking in honor or trustworthiness.The casus belli that was chosen were two, first delivering justice to the criminal-lord of Arduronaven, and then as retaliation for fomenting rebellion in Jasmine''s lands y Echlian land, providing as proof the letter of correspondance between Lechlian and lady Elyra. Alpheo knew well that respect in war, however tenuous, was essential to ruling. For a monarch, the perception of fair play, of adherence to the ancient laws of conflict, was something required if they did not want to be isolated diplomatically.Of course with enough gains , Alpheo wouldn''t hesitate to cast tradition aside in favor of dishonorable actions. Yet there was no reason to invite long-term disadvantages, no need to erode their position in the eyes of nobles and allies over a slight that could be repaid with patience. As the army crested the final rise, the sprawling city of Bracum came into view, its stone walls rising proudly against the open countryside. The sight of their honorary guards brought a slow whistle from Asag. "Seems Jarza hasn''t been slacking off." Egil shot him a wry glance, spurring his horse forward with a sharp nudge. "The equipment came from us, you fool. Even vagabonds in that gear would look like elite soldiers." He said as he nudged his head at the 400 soldiers waiting for them in formation. As they moved forward, they passed straight through Bracum''s foot soldiers, as Jarza had their ranks stretched evenly along both sides of the road, probably to allow Alpheo a quick glance at the force he would fight beside. Alpheo took the favor at his stem as he observed the forces he had sponsored : chainmail glinting under the sun, spears held firmly upright, each soldier steady and alert. It was reassuring knowing that his silver was not wasted. As they neared the gate, Alpheo''s gaze was drawn to the banner of House Bracum¡ªits deep green and silver colors fluttering boldly against the sky. Standing in front of it was a familiar figure he hadn''t seen in months, one he''d longed to see again since their last parting: Jarza. Chapter 222: Rebellious lords Chapter 222: Rebellious lords Two weeks passed since Alpheo and his company entered Bracum, welcomed into the heart of Lord Caelum Xanthios''s household. Alpheo''s quarters in the castle were well-furnished, and his host''s hospitality had been nothing short of meticulous. Each evening, Lord Caelum held a lavish dinner, inviting Alpheo and his closest knights-companions to feast with him. The meals were grand affairs¡ªroasted meats, fragrant breads, rare wines¡ªall meant to please his guests Not long after their arrival, Alpheo had heard from Jarza of the lord''s treatment of him, too. Though Jarza was of low birth, Lord Caelum had welcomed him to his table, showing an unexpected interest in the knight''s methods. It was rare for nobility to extend such courtesy to a man of Jarza''s origins, and even rarer for one to ask him questions so intently. Yet Lord Caelum had engaged him fully, asking after his training regimen, his methods for drilling troops, and even the weapons he favored. In this way, Alpheo soon realized, Lord Caelum''s hospitality was filled with every courtesy the lord could give, probably brought upon by his attempt to please the man that would give him the opportunity to fullfill his long-awaited dreams. In Alpheo''s private chamber, Alpheo sat in a worn but well-carved chair, helmet resting on a table beside him, while Egil leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, watching the scene with an amused glint in his eye. Jarza, however, wore none of Egil''s glee. With a sneer twisting his mouth, he paced back and forth, cursing under his breath "Finally arrived, the lot of them, dripping with silks and feathered crests as if they''re attending some damned tourney," Jarza muttered, voice thick with disdain. "And look at what they bring¡ªa handful of polished swords and barely a hundred men between them. They''d make a grand sight at a feast, but on the battlefield? Hah!" Alpheo exchanged a glance with Asag, who gave a resigned shrug. "Hate to say it, but didn''t we expect this?" he remarked, glancing between Jarza and Alpheo. "Expected?" Jarza''s voice rose, brimming with frustration. "This is war, not some show of half-hearted courtesy!" He stopped pacing, his gaze sharp and accusatory. "Sending a token few when summoned, practically an insult, nothing less. They might as well spit on you, Alpheo, for all the respect they''ve shown." In the weeks following their arrival in Bracum, Jasmine''s sworn lords trickled in one by one, answering the call to arms¡ªbut not in the numbers Alpheo had hoped for. To his irritation, many arrived with barely sixty men each, some dragging along ragged bands of farmers wielding simple spears with shields. The men wore mismatched bits of armor if any at all, and few seemed capable of holding a proper formation. Some struggled even to keep pace with the march. Alpheo''s frustration grew with each lord''s arrival though he tried not to show it , but each arrival only reminded him of how feeble the support from Jasmine''s nobles truly was. Alpheo leaned back , crossing his arms, his gaze steady. "That''s precisely the point, Jarza. By sending these sixty ill-equipped farmers instead of real soldiers, they''re just barely fulfilling their obligations. Enough to claim they answered my call, enough to say they''ve done their duty without truly risking anything. A clever game on their part, and just slippery enough to avoid open reproach." Jarza''s sneer deepened. "So they mock us, and do so with polished shields and hollow pledges." "Exactly," Alpheo replied, voice calm but edged with steel. "They''re testing the waters. Seeing how far they can go without defiance being called treason." Alpheo let out a measured breath, nodding slightly as he responded, "We expected this, remember? When we first planned for the campaign, we knew some lords would try this. Though... it''s not quite as dire as we feared." Jarza''s brows knitted, his frustration giving way to a cautious curiosity. "Not as bad? Why?" "Our numbers are high enough to actually win," Alpheo replied confidently. "Between our own forces, Bracum''s men, and the small contingents the other lords sent, we''ve got enough to push forward." Jarza, somewhat mollified, slumped into the nearest chair, his posture softening as he folded his arms across his chest. "You''ve already counted then? How many are we talking?" Alpheo nodded, a small glint of certainty in his gaze. "I have, and it''s enough for what we need. We can take the field without over-relying on these... half-hearted reinforcements." Alpheo looked around the room, his gaze steady as he laid out the numbers. "In total, we have about 2,100 troops," he began, letting the weight of that figure settle in. "From what I estimate, the Herculians will bring at least 3,000. Which means," he paused, letting the implication sink in, "we may be heavily outnumbered." A tense silence followed, as Jarza, Asag, and Egil exchanged quick, guarded glances but remained silent, waiting for him to continue. They knew better than to interrupt¡ªAlpheo was already leading them somewhere. "We''ll have to base our tactics on that fact," he continued, the words steady, yet carrying a quiet intensity. "We can''t simply match them on the field, as we usually did'''' Each of his commanders nodded slightly, their expressions thoughtful, the gravity of their challenge clear. They had faced difficult odds before, but this would demand more from the Egil leaned forward, his rough hands clasped in front of him, and asked, "What tactics can be used when we''re outnumbered like this?" Alpheo paused, eyes narrowing as he looked down at the table. His fingers drifted over the objects scattered across its surface until he seized a ripe apple, feeling its weight. With a sudden flick, he tossed it straight to Egil, who caught it reflexively, eyes widening in surprise. "Overly aggressive attacks," Alpheo said, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. "When you''re outnumbered, charging directly strips the enemy of their initiative. They won''t press forward as eagerly; they''ll be forced to defend. Whatever strategies they might have planned to trap us or encircle us will falter in the face of a relentless assault. Add to that our higher quality troops¡ªtrained and armored better than most of theirs. When we hit, we hit hard. It''ll be devastating." He paused, letting the words sink in, his gaze steady. "But," he added, his tone sharpening, "if they hold their ground... if they manage to blunt our assault and turn their numbers on us, we could find ourselves facing utter disaster." The weight of his words hung in the air. Jarza, Asag, and Egil exchanged uneasy glances, their usual confidence faltering as they absorbed the risk Alpheo was laying out.Asag swallowed audibly, his jaw tightening, while Jarza nodded, his expression unreadable but sober. Even Egil usually brash, was silent, a serious look settling over his face. Alpheo''s smile broke through the tension, faint but enough to make his companions lift their eyes. "What''s the matter with you lot?" he asked with a raised brow. "Haven''t you fought battles like this before?" The men exchanged sheepish smiles, some of the tension easing from their shoulders. Alpheo leaned over the table, his gaze sweeping across the faces of his companions. "We''ll have to work with what we''ve been given," he said, voice edged with resignation. "This isn''t the force I would have hoped for, but we make do. Perhaps a decisive victory will teach these lords the cost of their half-hearted support." He paused, glancing toward the men who had ridden with him, the core of this force who had pledged themselves fully. "Let them see what they missed, when the spoils are shared," he continued, a harder tone cutting into his words. "When the true rewards are given, those who offered us real strength will have the lion''s share. The others will find their portion far leaner¡ªmere crumbs next to what they might have had." Perhapse winning could truly make the nobles commit more troops for the next campaigns, Alpheo thoughts as he was thrutfully on a bind on how to convince the nobles to share more support with the crown, as unfortunately his common background prevented him from that. Alpheo leaned forward, his eyes sharp with resolve. "The first thing we''ll do," he said, "is improve what we''ve been given. There''s no time to bemoan the lack. I know Bracum has stores of chainmail inside these walls¡ªif we can acquire them from Lord Xanthios, we might just armor this lot a little better. He''ll want something in return, of course. Either we pay him outright, or he gets a greater share of the loot from the campaign. Either way, we''ll make it happen." He turned to Jarza, who met his prince''s gaze with an understanding look but a trace of reluctance. "My lord, the farmers these lords have sent... Well, you saw what''s standing outside those walls. I''d need months to turn them into anything close to a fighting force." Alpheo gave a nod, but his expression stayed firm. "I don''t need them to rival Xanthios''s men, Jarza. I just need them to hold a spear and march in unison, to have enough cohesion that they don''t break at the first sign of blood. Give them that much, and we can work with the rest." Jarza ran a hand over his jaw, mulling it over. "Aye, I can drill them enough to get them to hold together. Won''t be pretty, but it''ll hold." Alpheo cracked a small smile. "That''s all I ask. Between Xanthios''s armor, a bit of discipline, and a taste of victory, we''ll make them believe they''re warriors yet.Beggars can''t be choosers after all " Chapter 223: Starting from the base Chapter 223: Starting from the base A young child leaned over the edge of the old stone well, arms stretched down to grip the coarse, frayed rope attached to a wooden bucket. With a determined furrow in his brow, he gave a strong tug, starting the slow pull of the bucket up from the deep, cool darkness below. The bucket swayed and sloshed as he drew it closer, spilling droplets of water that caught the early morning light. Finally, with one last pull, he lifted it over the rim, carefully balancing it on the edge of the well. The child''s fingers trembled slightly as he lifted the bucket, tiny trails of water spilling onto the dusty ground and dampening his bare feet,as he tried to drip the water into his bucket. A sharp shout came from the boy''s right, slicing through the calm morning. He turned, wide-eyed, to see a woman sprinting down the road, her face pale and panicked. "Bandits! Bandits!" she cried, her voice rising in terror. In moments, others burst from their homes, clutching children and old people, as they starting moving toward the village''s head house, their footsteps a thunderous rumble on the dusty road. The boy stood frozen for a heartbeat, the heavy bucket slipping from his hands and splashing onto the ground as it tipped, water soaking into the dirt at his feet. Then, his pulse pounding, he turned and began running alongside the others, his small legs pumping as he raced toward the village center, his heart racing with the same frantic beat as the shouts filling the air. A steady, thunderous pounding filled the air, like distant drums growing closer with every heartbeat. The boy''s ears rang with the rhythm, and he turned, his eyes widening as a sea of horses surged into the village. Leather and iron-clad men rode high upon them, their weapons glinting under the morning sun. Terror seized him, and he spun, legs churning as he ran with all his might. But it was no use. The riders overtook him effortlessly, two of them pulling away from the rest to circle around him like wolves cornering their prey. The boy stumbled, tripping over his own feet as he fell backward, his small hands slapping against the hard ground. His chest heaved as he looked up, his gaze filled with the sight of towering men clad in chainmail and steel, faces shadowed under iron helms, their swords and axes gleaming as they regarded him with dark, unreadable eyes. One of the riders loomed over the boy from his saddle, a hulking figure wrapped in dark iron, face shadowed beneath his helmet, eyes like slits of steel. His voice was a rough, jagged bark that seemed to cut through the air. "Where are the others, boy? Where did they run off to?" The boy''s throat closed up, his mind blank with fear, legs frozen as he stared up at the towering figure¡ªa monster of metal and scarred flesh. He tried to speak, but no words would come. The rider leaned closer, his shadow swallowing the boy, his voice rumbling louder, sharper, as he repeated, "Where did they go?" Hands shaking, the boy finally raised a trembling finger, pointing toward the large house in the center of the village, unable to tear his eyes from the glint of iron at the man''s side. The rider''s harsh gaze followed his finger, and then he looked back down with a sneer. "Good," he growled, his voice low and menacing, like the snarl of a wolf. "Now, get yourself in there and tell whoever''s in charge to get out here, or we''ll burn the whole lot of you inside." The boy scrambled to his feet, but before he could move, the rider let out a thunderous shout¡ª"Go!"¡ªand the boy shrieked, fear propelling him forward as he sprinted toward the house, the monstrous figure still burning in his vision. The child took off running, stumbling at first, his feet pounding the dusty road as he made a desperate dash for the central house. Egil watched him go, leaning back in his saddle with a heavy sigh, one gloved hand resting lazily on the pommel of his sword. At his side, Rykio, his second-in-command, glanced over, brow raised. "What''s wrong?" Egil groaned, stretching his shoulders. "It''s just bloody boring, isn''t it? All this... waiting around. Can''t even put a torch in one or two houses to liven things up. Takes all the fun out of it." Rykio began to murmur a cautious reply, but Egil cut him off with a roll of his eyes. "Yes, yes, I know what Alpheo ordered. ''Show restraint. Be diplomatic.'' But tell me, Rykio, where''s the thrill in that?" Egil flashed a wicked grin, his fingers drumming idly on the hilt at his side as he watched the child vanish around the corner. "Besides, sometimes a little smoke gets things moving faster." A few minutes later, the heavy doors of the central building creaked open, and a middle-aged man stepped out, his face pale and eyes wide with fear. He took cautious steps toward the line of horsemen, his gaze flicking from the soldiers'' armored forms to the stern faces staring down at him. He swallowed hard, voice shaky as he began, "We''re... we''re just simple folk here, good sirs, we¡ª" Egil cut him off, his voice dismissive. "Spare me. I''ve heard it a thousand times. ''Simple folk and we mean no harms¡ªsame story in every town we ride through." He pointed back at the dozens of mounted soldiers at his rear, each one a disciplined figure draped in iron and steel. "In case you hadn''t noticed, we''re not some common band of brigands. We''re soldiers under oath, in service to her grace, the Princess of Yarzat." The villager''s mouth opened and closed, clearly at a loss, and Egil leaned forward, his tone dripping with a mockery that barely veiled the menace underneath. "Now, normally, a village belonging to a traitor''s domain would already be smoke and ash by now. But her grace''s commander¡ªkind-hearted soul that he is¡ªseems to think mercy is due to loyal subjects of traitors. So here''s the deal. You''re free to leave with enough food to make it to the city of Arduronaven." The man dropped to his knees, bowing his head so low his forehead nearly touched the dirt. "Thank you, good sirs. Thank you, thank her grace¡ª" "Enough," Egil snapped, reining his horse in and gesturing impatiently at the wagons behind him. "Load up whatever food you''ve got left onto those carts. And then get out of my sight. You''ve got until sunset to clear this place.Also make sure to keep your women inside until we leave , as I don''t want to beat any of my men to death for trying to claim one of them." The old man bowed low again, nodding fervently, and scurried to follow Egil''s orders. He led a handful of riders to the village''s small, aging warehouse, where dusty sacks of grain and bundles of dried vegetables were stacked in haphazard piles. His hands shook as he hefted the grain sacks onto his own rickety cart, struggling under the weight but determined to comply without a word of protest. Egil watched with a satisfied look as the villagers hurried to empty out their stores, his men working efficiently to round up what they''d claimed as spoils. Some of his riders guided lambs from a nearby pen, securing their legs with thick ropes before binding the animals to their saddles, each lamb bleating pitifully as they were tied. It was all done in swift silence, but the faintest hint of a smirk played across Egil''s face as he imagined the feast that awaited them tonight. The old man hesitated, his voice a weak murmur. "We...we''re done loading, my lord. All you asked for." Egil gave him a curt nod, barely sparing him a glance. "Yes, we can see that. As promised, you''re free to leave.Make sure to tell everyone how merciful his grace is for allowing you to live" Relieved, the old man started to step away, but Egil raised his hand, halting him. "Ah, one last thing. Nearly forgot," he said with a feigned casualness that felt as sharp as a blade. "Where''s the nearest village?" The man looked back at him, fear flickering in his eyes. "The next village?" Egil''s expression softened just slightly, almost in amusement. "Don''t fret, old man. We''ll treat them just the same as you. Only gathering what we need, that''s all." The man swallowed hard and nodded, raising a shaky hand to point eastward. "If you follow the road that way...a few hours'' ride, perhaps. It''s not far." "Good," Egil replied, a grin flashing across his face as he waved a hand in the air, signaling his soldiers. "Mount up! We''re headed east!" With a last look at the villagers left behind, Egil spurred his horse forward, his men quickly following suit, the sound of hooves beating against the earth as they rode off toward their next destination. The army moved steadily along the dirt road, their pace kept purposefully slow to allow the cumbersome carts loaded with supplies to keep up. Wagons creaked under the weight of sacks of grain, barrels, and bound livestock as they followed the soldiers'' columns, trailing through the countryside in a long line. Egil rode near the front, his gaze sweeping over the men as they rode, occasionally throwing them a nod or a wry grin. Beside him, Rykio nudged his horse closer. "Some of the men are getting restless," he muttered, glancing back at the troops. "They''re not used to this...restraint." Egil huffed a low laugh, glancing at Rykio with a sly glint in his eye. "Tell them that on last village we stop at, they''ll be given all the rewards they''re craving. Let them know that when we reach the final place we''re to raid, they''ll be allowed to choose women for the night before we depart." He gave a half-smirk. "That should satisfy them." Rykio nodded as he knew that the soldier''s interest and grumbles were shared by Egil, as such they knew very well that if the situation allowed, he would turn a blind eye to some of his men''s fun, a small upside of being part of Egil''s riding units.And so the bands of soldiers went forward to each village surrounding the city of Arduronaven , taking the food and sending its inhabitants to the city as they had done to the one before, not understanding why their commander wouldn''t just let them completely sack and burn everything on their path. Chapter 224: Crossing that damn border Chapter 224: Crossing that damn border War had finally begun in earnest as Alpheo led the Yarzat army to the frontier, crossing the border that separated the two princedoms, moving towards the city of the turn-cloak lord , Arduronaven. Serving as the gates to the capital , Arduronaven was the fortified stronghold that blocked Yarzat''s path to the Herculian capital. While his change of sides was an insult and a blow to the princedom of Yarzat, for the Herculians, it was instead a genius move, as they effectively had a barrier that Yarzat would have to take if they wanted to take the city. The journey from Bracum to Arduronaven covered just forty-eight kilometers, the land was basically all flat which meant that Alpheo could have no worries about walking into any ambushes, not that he had any prior to this, as there was no way that the prince of Herculia could coordinate a border ambush so soon from the start of the war, as the prince at this point should be waiting for his army to assemble. Alpheo had laid plans for the main force to reach the stronghold in three days. Ahead, his soldiers marched steadily, moving as a unified force, while supply wagons rumbled behind them The rear guard away from the bulk of his army , however, had a slower pace. Burdened with the onagers¡ªa series of siege engines freshly constructed in Bracum¡ªthe rear guard trailed significantly behind, their pace reduced by the weight and bulk of the weaponry. Alpheo knew he would need those onagers to break Arduronaven''s defenses and more , yet he expected it would be at least five days before the siege weapons would arrive at their position. At the head of the army rode Lord Shahab, leading the vanguard with his men.The position usually being the most prestigious, was given without half a thought by Alpheo to him , given him being close family with his wife. In contrast, the rear guard usually the one with less prestige, held the troops of Lord Xanthos, who had delegated leadership to his son, Caelum. Xanthios bore no ill will for it , as he was personally told by Alpheo the importance of the things he was to protect, while also promising him that during the battle his troops would have the most important job of all. At the center of the army rode Alpheo himself, flanked closely by Lord Xanthos. Riding a few paces behind to allow space for conversation, Alpheo''s knights and guards shadowed them, vigilant and ready. Lord Xanthos adjusted his reins slightly, bringing his horse closer to Alpheo''s and inclining his head with the respect due to a prince. "Your Grace," he began, his tone polished and deferential, "forgive my saying so, but I wonder if it might have been wiser to permit me to lead a raid along Arduronaven''s outskirts as the first stroke of our campaign. Had we struck before winter and the declaration, the people would have fled to the city gates, the panic spreading like flame through straw, driving them to overrun villages and strip resources as they passed. Even Vroghios would have been forced to scramble for supply, his storehouses likely drained by now.I still do not understand why you had not allowed me to." He allowed a pause, his eyes scanning the rugged landscape ahead. "Instead, by granting that turncoat a peaceful winter, we''ve given him months to fortify himself behind walls, his stores still half-full from the last harvest. It was a generous delay that perhaps he did not deserve, if I may say." Alpheo turned to Lord Xanthos, a subtle smirk playing at the edge of his mouth as he met his advisor''s steady gaze. "Perhaps, my lord , if we''d conducted those raids, that blasted prince might have started drawing connections¡ªa bit too easily, I''d say¡ªto that ''gift'' we sent during the royal marriage," he said, voice low but firm. "And If they suspected even a hint of preparation for war,than our chances of victory would have greatly diminished.As a simple letter to his liege would have undone everything. As it is, I assure you, Arduronaven''s gates are presently crowded with desperate peasants scrambling for refuge, complicating his ability to focus on defending the city , precious times that he currently does not have...'''' Lord Xanthos kept staring at the young man "That may be True, Your Grace, yet by allowing so many to flee there, we may have swelled Vroghios''s ranks by default. " he argued, his voice as calm as it was earnest. Alpheo looked sideways at Xanthos, his eyes glinting with a sudden, almost playful curiosity, the same one that anyone that had to do anything with Alpheo would have to deal with . "Tell me, Lord Xanthos¡ªdo you like mushrooms?" The older lord furrowed his brow, unsure of where this was going. "Mushrooms?" he echoed, caught off guard. "Yes, mushrooms," Alpheo repeated with a faint smile. A chuckle escaped Xanthos''s lips as he relaxed, nodding. "In fact, I do. Quite fond of them, actually. They''re a delicacy when prepared properly." Alpheo''s smile broadened. "They''re a versatile food, aren''t they? Easy to find, easy to cook, and perfect for our foraging parties to bring back to the camp. They add something to that communal stew... something familiar and comforting to make it taste better." Xanthos tilted his head, still not seeing where the conversation was leading, what did mushroom had to do with their argument? Alpheo leaned in slightly, his gaze sharpening. "Now, what happens if, among those foraged mushrooms, a few poisonous ones end up in the pot?" Xanthos''s expression shifted, a slow understanding dawning in his eyes, though he remained silent, listening intently. "The entire pot becomes deadly," Alpheo murmured, a glimmer of dark amusement in his eyes as he leaned in toward Lord Xanthos. "And perhaps... I may have accidentally slipped a few of those into Arduronaven''s stew already." He paused, savoring the moment before adding, "Soon enough, we''ll see what sort of effects that may bring...." --------------- Outside the towering walls of Arduronaven, a sea of refugees pressed tightly together, desperation etched across their faces as they waited for entry. Men, women, and children clutched what little belongings they''d managed to bring with them At the gate, a line of guards stood firm, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords as they shouted for order. Their voices rang out over the noise, harsh and unyielding. "Stay back! Don''t move forward unless called!" The guards scanned the huddled masses and, every so often, called out or motioned to fifty people at a time, gesturing for them to step forward. As each small group was selected, the gates opened just wide enough to allow them in before slamming shut again, leaving the others to press forward, hoping they would be next. Inside the gates, the chosen refugees were herded through narrow streets, past watchful townsfolk who eyed them with wary curiosity. The guards led them to the central square, where a hastily constructed refugee camp sprawled across the cobblestone. Tents made of rough canvas and makeshift shelters patched with tattered cloth filled the area, offering scant protection from the elements. The soldiers dropped the group off with a quick, gruff warning. "Stay here and don''t cause trouble," one barked, his voice carrying a sharp edge. Without waiting for a response, they turned on their heels and marched briskly back toward the gate, leaving the newcomers to find a spot among the crowded camp as they anxiously waited for a semblance of normalcy in this temporary haven A small knot of people settled together near the edge of the camp, weary faces shadowed under the dim light. They sat close, shoulder to shoulder, forming a huddled circle as they took in the scene around them: lines of exhausted refugees slumped against makeshift tents, children curled up on scraps of cloth, the murmur of low voices thick with worry. Their own voices were low as they exchanged nervous whispers, casting wary glances at the guards and the other refugees. One of the men in the group leaned in, a faint glimmer of excitement in his tired eyes. "This will be easier than I thought," he murmured, barely moving his lips. Immediately, the older man beside him gave a sharp look and hissed, "Keep your voice down. Act low, or you''ll get us all killed." He adjusted his own cloak, making sure it draped fully over his form. "Cover yourself. Don''t let anyone see your steel," he warned in a low, stern whisper. The younger man nodded, tucking his cloak close to hide any sign of a weapon, and lowered his head, forcing a blank expression as the guards continued to make their rounds through the camp. These men weren''t weary refugees seeking shelter but soldiers¡ªdisguised among the desperate to slip past the city gates. With rough-spun cloaks and worn boots caked in dirt, they blended in seamlessly, appearing no different from the rest of the ragged, displaced crowd. But beneath those cloaks, they carried short swords and daggers, carefully hidden from sight. Getting inside had proven surprisingly easy. The guards at the gates, focused more on the strength of arms than on suspicion, had chosen the able-bodied adults first, likely intending to enlist them for the defense of the city. This oversight had allowed the disguised soldiers to slip in among the first wave of accepted "refugees," bypassing scrutiny with by sticking their head to them and avoiding eye contact, doing everything they could in order to not gain their attention They resisted the urge to move or adjust their weapons hidden beneath their cloaks, each man aware that any shift might betray them. Instead, they mimicked the defeated postures of the people around them, slumping as if exhausted, blending into the suffering and exhaustion etched on the faces of the true refugees. The square was crowded, loud, and chaotic¡ªthe perfect cover¡ªyet each of them was aware that any misstep would unravel everything. And so, they waited, keeping to the shadows as the minutes dragged by, eyes fixed on the gates, the guard rotations, and the movements of the city watch, any information that could have helped them on the next part of their plan. Chapter 225: Reaching the city Chapter 225: Reaching the city Alpheo reined in his horse as the walls of Arduronaven came into view, the fortified city standing tall against the horizon. The stone battlements loomed defiantly, but even from this distance, Alpheo could see signs of hasty preparations. His gaze wandered over the surrounding landscape, his eyes narrowing slightly as he noted a single, shallow ditch running along the city''s perimeter, separating the inner city from the refugee camp huddled outside. A leisurely smile crept across his face. The overcrowding outside the walls had evidently hampered Vroghios''s defenses¡ªflooded with peasants and refugees, they had barely managed to dig even a rudimentary trench. Alpheo''s sharp gaze traced the line of a half-finished ditch that stretched unevenly across the field, a hastily constructed second line of defense. It was clear that Vroghios had attempted to dig another trench after the first one, but the work was rushed and incomplete, ending abruptly midway. Alpheo allowed himself a brief, approving smile as he thought of Shahab''s swift charge earlier that morning. With the thunder of hooves, Shahab''s knights had torn through the laboring peasants and workers, scattering the crew attempting to finish the ditch. In a matter of minutes, they''d forced the entire work party to abandon the trenches and flee back behind the city''s gates, stopping all preparations in their tracks.Then few hours later the whole army had arrived Alpheo turned from the sight of the unfinished ditch, his gaze hardening as he took in the expanse of ground where their camp would be set. Without a moment''s pause, he called out to Asag, who approached briskly. "Have the men begin digging our own trenches," he commanded, his tone firm. "We''ll set the perimeter here." Asag nodded, already signaling nearby soldiers to begin assembling the tools and marking positions. Next, Alpheo''s eyes shifted to Jarza, who stood close by, watching the field. "Jarza," he ordered, "take four hundred men and keep them posted ahead of the workers. We''ll need a line of defense as they dig." Jarza gave a quick salute, but before he turned to leave, he glanced around, frowning. "Where''s Egil?" he asked, his eyes scanning the camp, as with the gates closed Jarza came to the conclusion that Alpheo had already ordered him to stop sending waves of refugees to their position. ''''I already sent a rider after him , to let him know to just take enough food and send enough men toward us as workers and to make sure not to create more refugees that we actually need'''' At Alpheo''s orders, the soldiers moved swiftly, each one slipping a shovel from their marching packs with the familiar scrape of metal. They spread out across the rough ground, forming lines as they waited for direction from the engineers. A team of engineers, clad in simple leather but bearing the crested insignia marking them as specialists, strode among them, calling out instructions in sharp, practiced tones. "Start here!" an engineer shouted, motioning with a gloved hand to the earth where he drew a line in the dirt. "Dig straight until you reach that marker over there. We''ll need the trench at least shoulder-deep¡ªno shortcuts!" The soldiers didn''t hesitate; they set to work with steady resolve, each thrusting shovels into the packed soil, the rhythmic sound of metal biting into earth growing into a steady hum that filled the camp. Alpheo knew well that pushing too hard on a refugee crisis at this stage could easily backfire. His objective was clear: to bring these lands back under Yarzat control with as little lasting damage as possible. Overrunning the countryside would only result in scorched villages and displaced people turning to banditry¡ªa burden for him later on as he intended for these lands to be theirs . An occupied region stripped to ashes would be costly to restore, and Alpheo had no interest in ruling over charred remains. For a moment, he''d considered directing the refugees to flee toward the Herculian heartland, flooding it with desperate people and straining their resources. However, he knew that if the countryside were depopulated entirely, it would take years to restore a steady income flow. Worse, it would complicate his own strategy; the Herculian prince''s forces would lengthen the time needed for him to form up his army, making Alpheo''s plans for a decisive confrontation with the prince harder to pin down. Alpheo needed a quick victory, ideally one that would neutralize the enemy''s power in a single battle and leave the road open for a straightforward siege. Alpheo spotted Lord Shahab approaching through the haze of dust kicked up by the digging soldiers and workers. With a light nudge, he spurred his horse forward, meeting Shahab halfway, their mounts coming nose to nose. Alpheo offered a nod of respect, his eyes glinting with approval. "My compliments on your charge'''' Shahab smiled, a knowing gleam in his eye. "We both know that''s more praise than I deserve. I merely scattered a few peasants¡ªdidn''t even need to draw my sword." Alpheo chuckled, leaning back in his saddle. "Still, this siege brings back memories of Confluendi'''' Shahab let out a soft laugh, his gaze turning distant for a moment. "The day it broke , was a good one. I hope we''re headed for an outcome just as favorable." Alpheo gave a thoughtful nod as he studied Shahab for a moment, then asked, "Why didn''t you bring Jared? I would have loved to march at his side." Shahab''s face softened with a hint of pride as he replied, "Someone had to remain in my lands, to look after my business while I''m away." But Alpheo caught the shift in Shahab''s gaze, something unsaid lingering there. Alpheo''s smile faded as he looked at Shahab with measured intensity, he knew very well Jared had brother , yet the old man brought none of them. "Do you really think this campaign is a mistake that much?" The older lord''s expression turned serious, the familiar warmth replaced by a somber resolve. "I like you, Alpheo," he said quietly. "You''ve been a good husband to my granddaughter, and I see what you''re trying to accomplish¡ªrallying these lords, giving them a common enemy. It''s a bold and ambition." He paused, eyes scanning the assembled soldiers scattered over the field. "And while most of these lords sent just the minimum to satisfy their duty¡ªa small force led by a few young sons, or a few sworn knights¡ªthey still came." Alpheo nodded, accepting the words in silence as Shahab continued. "It may not be much, but it''s a start. Convincing them fully won''t be easy... But you''re laying the foundation for something greater." Shahab''s expression turned thoughtful, a hint of caution in his voice as he continued, "Still we might have done better to show a bit more patience with this.We are not ready" Alpheo raised an eyebrow, but Shahab pressed on. "I''d love nothing more than to see those those bastards humbled , to give them the beating they deserve. But we could''ve used a bit more time to sway some of the larger houses fully to our side. At the moment, we''ve only managed to secure Lord Xanthios and a few lesser nobles." He cast a wary glance toward the distant hills, "And Lord Damaris is... well, let''s say he has one foot in and one foot out, neither with us nor against us." Shahab sighed, the weight of his years showing as he shook his head. "Time, Alpheo. We needed more time," he muttered, almost to himself, his eyes focused on the distant horizon. "You''re too rash, eager to force your will on the land without softening it first. More lords would''ve come around, given some persuasion. Perhaps if we''d held off a season, let them see reason and the benefits of a united front¡ª" Alpheo''s jaw tightened, but he kept his tone eve n. "And when is there ever a good time? Tell me that," he challenged, leaning in as he spoke. "Right now, we can put every ounce of our strength into this campaign. The southern border with Oizen is secured by our truce, and it''s only lasting another year. The moment we try to plan any campaign against Herculia after that, Oizen will pounce¡ªtaking back every inch of land we''ve fought for both in war and diplomacy.While also ignoring the fact that these two princedoms could join hands?'''' Shahab didn''t immediately respond, his eyes narrowing as he considered Alpheo''s words. He knew his prince was right in one respect; the Oizen border was a constant threat. But rushing a campaign with so few allies was a perilous gamble. Alpheo softened his tone, sensing Shahab''s hesitation. "Shahab, I know you''d have liked more time, more alliances. But a truce''s end waits for no one. And here we stand, with a rare chance to settle the score with Herculia before Oizen even considers raising a sword. If we don''t seize this moment, we might never have another. Must I remind you of the letters we found in Confluendi between lady Elyra and Prince Echlan? How long do you think it will be before the prince of Oizen and Herculia realize they have a common enemy and plans a double invasion from two routes? Must I spell to you how much trouble that would be?The best defense is always to attack first and cripple that bastard enough that for the next years, he will have no time to worry about things outside his fucking reach..." Shahab let out a heavy sigh, clearly wrestling with his thoughts. "Does it really matter now, Alpheo? We''ve already marched, the die is cast. What''s done is done." His voice was tinged with a mix of resignation and frustration, as if he was acknowledging the inevitability of the situation while still holding on to some lingering doubts. Alpheo''s lips twitched into a small, knowing smile, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. "I suppose it doesn''t" he replied, his voice calm but firm. He turned his horse around, glancing back at Shahab. "Come, let''s smooth things over with the commanders. Our leal lords might have sent their men with half-hearted promises, but it would be good to ensure they don''t hinder us and our campaign and that they understand the line of command....'''' Chapter 226: Explaining the way Chapter 226: Explaining the way As the week passed , the air around Arduronaven had transformed. Where there was once open land, now stood four well-organized camps surrounding the fortified city, each positioned to lock down one side of Arduronaven, forming a complete blockade. Tents were set in orderly rows, with barriers and defensive ditches encircling each camp . Soldiers, numbering around 2,200 in total, had worked tirelessly alongside various laborers brought by Egil, under the direction of Alpheo''s engineers to secure their positions, carving trenches and reinforcing embankments, each camp becoming its own miniature fortress. Around the camps, fires burned steadily as the soldiers settled into a rhythm of watch rotations, readying themselves for the siege ahead. At last, five days after the works started the onagers arrived¡ªa full complement of ten, soon brought into the southern camp where more than half of Alpheo''s "White Army" was stationed. The engineers worked swiftly, securing the machines on sturdy, level ground just within range of the city walls. Once in place, the siege engines stood ready, their massive arms and loaded slings like poised fists preparing to hammer Arduronaven into submission. Alpheo wasted no time. As soon as the onagers were positioned, he ordered a relentless bombardment, eager to announce their arrival with force. At dawn, the first stones were loosed, flying through the air with a deadly whistle before crashing into the city walls with resounding impacts. Each hit sent a shudder through the stones of the city''s defenses and stirred dust into the air. The onagers kept a steady pace, hurling stone after stone until the morning light gave way to the heat of midday. Then, with during the afternoon they stopped in order to bring more projectiles , before resuming late into evening ,when everyone inside the city was asleep The defenders, under this continuous barrage, found no respite. Even in the darkest hours, the constant echo of stone smashing against their walls kept them from rest, fraying their nerves and leaving them tense, sleep-deprived, and worn. After a full week spent building camps, digging latrines, and following Alpheo''s endless list of orders, the commanders of the army were growing restless. They had expected that, by now, Alpheo would have given the go-ahead for an assault¡ªat the very least to begin filling the ditch around the city walls in preparation. Yet, no such, command had come. Every time one of them cautiously suggested advancing or inquired about attacking the city, Alpheo shut them down with no explanation. When the call to war first came from the court, most of the lords had little faith in its success. Many assumed that the campaign was doomed to failure, and, in line with this belief, they only sent token forces: poorly equipped peasant levies with whatever scraps of armor could be spared. And, having no interest in risking their own heirs, they appointed third or fourth sons¡ªor lesser knights under their service¡ªto lead these contingents. Yet while their fathers might have lacked enthusiasm, these commanders felt entirely differently. For them, this campaign was a rare chance. They saw the war as an opportunity to distinguish themselves, to catch the eye of the prince consort, and perhaps even earn a place at court. The younger sons in particular, who stood no chance of inheriting their family''s lands, were eager to prove their worth. For them, this was more than just an assignment; it was their path to a future beyond the religious path or as wandering knights... As the days dragged on with little action, the tension in the camp only grew. They had expected a chance to fight, but Alpheo''s refusal to advance¡ªor even discuss his reasons for delaying¡ªleft them increasingly frustrated, caught between his inscrutable patience and their own burning ambitions. Recognizing the mounting impatience among his commanders, Alpheo finally decided it was time to gather them in the war tent. The murmur of discontent had grown louder with each passing day, and he could sense the tension simmering just beneath the surface. If he didn''t address it soon, he knew that ambition and frustration might boil over into outright defiance. In the war tent, thick wooden poles held up the spacious place . Oil lamps flickered as the commanders filed in. The knights bore the rough-cut look of soldiers elevated into command, while others, particularly the younger noble sons, tried to mask their restlessness with a veneer of respect. In the mix there were some minor nobles who , after hearing about the call and without being asked by their lord-liege, mounted their own small forces in hope of getting part of the loot in case of success. Alpheo waited until they were all present, letting the silence build as he studied their faces¡ªcalculating, hungry, some openly questioning. He knew they all had the same question in mind: Why haven''t we attacked yet? His gaze was steady as he leaned over the table, his hands resting on it as he silently stared at each one of them. Alpheo began with a nod of respect to the assembled commanders, meeting each man''s gaze with calm authority. "My lords," he addressed them, his voice smooth but carrying a faint edge that cut through the charged silence. "In these past days, as the camps have taken shape and the final trench lines have been set, I know that many of you have raised concerns¡ªand questions¡ªabout our current position and the lack of preparations for a direct assault on Arduronaven." Many of which rather persistently... Several commanders exchanged glances, nodding in agreement. Some crossed their arms, their expressions expectant, eyes fixed on Alpheo . Here stood the husband of their prince, the man leading their siege, and for many of them, the liege of their own liege. They had come expecting swift action, especially from the man whose martial record was unblemished by defeat , yet days had slipped by with barely a whisper of forward movement. With a calm, deliberate pause, Alpheo continued, "I understand your desire for haste. I know many of you see this campaign as an opportunity¡ªone to prove yourselves, to rise in honor and rank." Alpheo''s gaze swept over the eager faces of the assembled commanders, a faint smile playing at his lips. "For those of you who crave action," he began, "I bring good news." With a swift motion, he produced a sealed letter and tossed it onto the table before him. The commanders'' eyes fixed on the letter, curiosity sparking in their expressions. "This letter," Alpheo continued, "is from one of my informants inside the enemy capitals" He gave them a moment, watching as the significance of the message settled over the men like a storm cloud. "It reports that the Herculian prince is assembling an army at the capital to relieve Arduronaven." A murmur rippled through the tent, and Alpheo seized the moment to look each commander in the eye, one by one, his voice steady and controlled. "I have known for some time that the enemy would rally forces. Knowing this, I decided against a costly assault on these walls. Why weaken our own strength in a reckless storming of the city, when a far greater battle awaits?The city may come to us later as we instead wait for the enemy to directly come to us." Amidst the murmurs that filled the war tent, a young man stepped forward, shoulders squared with the air of someone eager to prove himself. "Your grace," he announced, his voice cutting through the room, "I am Leontis, son of Lord Pyrros of Sistarorum." Alpheo turned his gaze toward Leontis, who continued with a steady but questioning tone. "How long, do you think, before we face them directly?" "At most, a few weeks," Alpheo replied, his expression calm. He studied Leontis as the young man nodded thoughtfully. Still undeterred, Leontis pressed further. "Then, your grace " he ventured, "wouldn''t it be wiser to start preparing siege engines now, to bring the city under heel? After all, the turncloak Vroghios is right here in front of us. We could capture him before the Herculian army even arrives." There was a stillness as the young lord''s words hung in the air, the commanders'' eyes flickering between Leontis and Alpheo,some even nodding at the young noble''s intervention. Alpheo''s voice rang out firmly, commanding the room. "I''ve already stated," he began, "there will be no assault on the walls until our enemy''s reinforcements reach us. That day will come, but not now." Leontis''s jaw clenched, and he leaned forward, his discontent plain. "But my lord, surely a small attempt could be made to taste the water ," he argued as his rashness went ahead of his "and if your grace is not confident into breaching them , may I volunteer to lead¡ª" Alpheo cut him off sharply, his voice rising with frustration. frustration he felt at everything that started from the blatant lack of participation from the great lords, to the consistent questioning of men beneath him. Erupting from the blatant overconfidence of a young man barely older than him, and yet with no experience in war whatsoever. "Lead what,Sir Leontis? The mere dozens of men your father sent with you? Men whom I personally had to equip with proper armor because they arrived here with nothing but spears and shields?Completely turning a blind eye to the state they were in, and whom your father believed wise to send them as their due to the crown?" His gaze was unyielding, fixed on Leontis, while most of the men in the tent knew the accusation was not only against him "Are you so confident you could take these walls with so few, or merely arrogant enough to think you might?Or perhaps you thought that I would allow you to lead my soldiers when clearly your father did not give you enough?" The young lord faltered, remembering at that moment that the person a few summers younger than him was the prince consort of his liege, a man who personally delivered the crown to the princess, after smashing every enemy that had risen against her in rebellion, whom some believed he had plotted the death of the rebel lord. Seeing the young man leaning back, Alpheo''s voice softened but remained resolute as he continued, addressing everyone in the tent. "I have given my orders and my reasons, none of which will be questioned anymore " Alpheo stated, sweeping his gaze over the gathered commanders. "This is a battle we will fight when we are ready, not a day before. Each one of you is here to see Yarzat''s justice delivered, and that will come not through impatience but through strategy. So, let there be no more questions on this matter, the city will fall after we win against our enemy in battles." The tent fell silent, the commanders exchanging glances, Leontis sinking back into his place as the other big lords in the room, nominally Lords Damaris, Shahab, and Xanthios, all clearly stood in support of Alpheo as none came in support of his interjection. Meanwhile maye tkaing pity in him , Lord Damaris stepped forward, a slight smile on his lips as he gave a respectful nod to Alpheo. "Your grace ," he interjected smoothly, his tone light but firm, "forgive the young Sir Leontis. He is merely hot-blooded, eager to prove himself in service of Yarzat." He cast a measured glance at Leontis, who immediately took the way out kindly offered by the lord ''''Yes my deepest apologies your grace, I was out of line...''''He spoke as he bowed Alpheo exhaled, his tension easing as he nodded. "Very well," he replied, his tone softening. His gaze swept over the commanders, his expression now returning to one of calm stoicism "If there are no further questions," he said, "it is time we focus on what truly matters¡ªour preparations for when the Herculian army marches toward us." Chapter 227: Enemy to enemy Chapter 227: Enemy to enemy The lord of Arduronaven , Vroghios, stood atop the battered stone walls of his city , his gaze fixed on the Yarzat encampment sprawling across the southern fields. His weathered face was set in a grim expression as he took in the enemy camp below, clusters of white tents and wooden fortifications spread like a rash over the countryside, resembling a small fortification of his own,with ditches around the permiter and wooden-built wall protecting those insides, and worse yet, there were four more of that. It was afternoon, and the relentless bombardment that had pounded his walls each morning and evening had finally ceased just a few hours before. The eerie silence that followed weighed heavily, a calm that seemed to press upon the defenders as much as the day''s pounding had. Dust and rubble still clung to the crevices of the stonework where the stones had struck, leaving the walls scarred but standing. Vroghios squinted against the low, slanting sun, his mind racing about nay possible action that he could take against them. Yarzat''s forces had entrenched themselves with unnerving patience, and while the southern camp loomed closest, he knew they''d stretched out around all sides of the city. There was no easy path and doing a sortie would have no help given how fortified the camps were . And yet they still did not even bother to fill the ditch and prepare ladders or battering rams, are they trying to starve us out? Lechlian will come before we even get low on supplies, perhapse that is what they want?A battle against his forces? The lack of action from Alpheo''s forces gnawed at Vroghios''s nerves as he stood on the wall, his eyes fixed on the stillness of the enemy camp. Though Yarzat''s forces had surrounded the city from all sides, they hadn''t made a single attempt to storm it. Instead, they simply pounded the walls with onagers at intervals each day, waiting them out while wearing them down . His sleeping chamber was at the far end of the city so he had no trouble sleeping, but for the soldiers that was another matter altogether, as during the night some of the projectiles would fall inside and bypass the wall, with the screaming of women and children waking them up. Originally, Vroghios had thought Arduronaven''s stores ample enough to last eight months if they rationed carefully. But that calculation had been before the swarm of refugees flooded through the gates. With the thousansd of added mouths to feed, those provisions had dwindled alarmingly, now barely enough to stretch across three months, five with strict rationing . And yet, for all the strain they placed on his stores, those same refugees gave him something precious: manpower. He''d ordered everything remotely metal to be delivered to the city''s smiths, creating a haphazard arsenal from whatever they could gather. Scrap iron, old tools, even household objects had been reforged into crude weapons. They crafted daggers, spearheads, and fashioned jagged nails into makeshift maces, battered onto sticks to create brutal, if rudimentary, clubs. No iron or scrap metal had gone unused, and he took comfort in knowing his soldiers were now armed with something, however rough, even if they looked nothing like a trained army. All told, he had raised a garrison of nine hundred soldiers¡ªmade up from his raiding veterans, the fresh young volunteers, and as many able-bodied refugees able to wield a weapon. Against any assault, he believed he could hold these walls, at least for now, even if the supplies ran thinner with every passing day. Help after all was coming. With nothing to do in front of a siege, the turncloak lord let his thoughts run wild, especially on what brought him to this situation. Regret gnawed at him,constantly. In a moment of ambition, he had turned his back on Yarzat, rebelling against Arkawatt''s rule and once defeated throwing his lot in with Lechlian. But that decision had cost him dearly. Now, he was nothing more than a puppet under Lechlian''s thumb, forced to shoulder crippling taxes that drained his lands, compelled to send his two eldest sons as hostages to a foreign court, their lives bargaining chips in a game he no longer controlled. As he thought of his sons and the burdens forced upon him, Vroghios couldn''t help but wonder if all this misery had been worth it. Had he stayed put in Yarzat, he might have retained his family and his autonomy. Instead, here he was, surrounded by enemies on all sides, his once-proud fief at the mercy of foreign powers. He took the bet and promptly failed miserably. Vroghios thought bitterly of the turn of events since he had first rebelled against the crown twelve years ago. News of Arkawatt''s death had come like a distant tremor, quickly followed by the rise of his daughter, and then¡ªthe most infuriating insult¡ªher common-born husband, Alpheo. When he was still Arkwatt''s vassals , he had thought of betrothing his firstborn to her, now knowing that Arkawatt died without a male heir made him realize how good of an opportunity he lost, as his house could have succeeded Veloni-isha.Of course at the time joining hands with Arkawatt was a bad idea, especially given how ambitious and yet weak he was. And now, within a mere half an year of his ascent, Alpheo had taken up the crown''s long-forgotten grudge and mobilized an entire expedition to drag him back to Yarzat, to answer for his rebellion. The rumors of Alpheo''s exploits had reached Vroghios'' ears as well. They spoke of a ruthless campaigner who had crushed Lord Ormund and taken Confluendi within a month''s time, some even suggesting he had slaughtered Ormund''s family. Whether the stories of Alpheo''s cunning and ferocity were true or not, Vroghios could not say. But in the weeks since the siege began, he realized something. He was an arrogant piece of shit. He had tried again and again to negotiate, even just to see the face of the man now so determined to destroy him. Yet every time he had sent out a flag of truce, it was sent back untouched. His attempts to reach out were met with an unyielding silence, as though his very existence was beneath notice. Vroghios'' fingers tightened on the cold stone of the battlements. He knew that Alpheo''s army was just waiting, watching¡ªrefusing him even the dignity of a parlay, while he himself was just a low-born mercenary that luckily found a high-born whore to open her legs to him. Vroghios felt no shame in bending the knee if it meant keeping his life and keeping his land . He''d done it twice already, first to Yarzat and then to Lechlian, surrendering his loyalty and even his sons to the Herculian court as hostages.He didn''t understand why people found that hard, it was much easier than see their holdings burn. In truth, his original plan for the parlay had been simple: meet with the enemy general, gauge his demeanor and ambitions, and look for an opportunity to negotiate a possible return back into the fold, obviously only if they came victorious against the relieve force marching towards them.After all, what good would it do to throw their lot before the results were out? Perhaps if Yarzat''s forces somehow managed a significant victory, the victorious general could offer peace to the defeated prince ¡ªexchange his hostages as terms of the truce¡ªand let the city slip quietly back into the fold. But with each rebuffed attempt at a truce, that plan withered. Alpheo''s refusal to meet had made it clear there would be no chance to negotiate, no moment to see his opponent''s eyes or weigh his intentions. Now Vroghios was left only with the grim reality of a siege that would not end until one side was crushed, and if he was the defeated one, his head would be on a pike; of that, he was now sure, as the entirety of the expedition had been to bring his head back into Yarzat. Now, Vroghios''s only remaining hope lay with Lechlian''s forces. If they could break through Alpheo''s army, there might yet be a way out of this doomed rebellion. He turned from the wall, eyes drifting over the shattered remnants of his city, the wreckage left by the relentless barrage. Stones and splintered beams littered the ground, homes, and stables gutted by the projectiles that had rained down on them. Even some of the horses lay dead or wounded in the rubble, the lord''s hearth bleeding a little from the loss of such valuable beasts. Yet he couldn''t do anything except to curse the boy in his mind, as after all leading a sortie in these conditions was a sure way to lose precious soldiers that he didn''t have the equipment to replace. He felt the weight of the siege pressing in more with each passing day, even while they passed the day doing nothing but observing the enemy do anything except preparing an assault . How much longer would it be until aid arrived¡ªand would he still have a city at the end of it? Chapter 228: Day of revelation Chapter 228: Day of revelation Alpheo sat tall on his horse, gazing up at the clear morning sky with a quiet, simmering anticipation. The day had finally come, the long-expected battle on the horizon. The scouts had brought word that the Herculian army was closing in, now only half a dozen kilometers out. By Alpheo''s measure, they would arrive by early afternoon, perhaps even sooner. He turned his gaze from the sky down to his army, spread across the camps, now bustling with activity as the soldiers gathered their arms and secured their marching formations. The rhythm of preparation¡ªthe sound of armor clinking, of horses shifting, of quiet commands being barked to ready the ranks¡ªfilled the air. Alpheo felt a steady pulse of determination rise within him. Every step they''d taken, every night spent under the stars, every stone cast against the walls of Arduronaven had led to this day. It was finally time to face their enemy head-on. From the moment he arrived at Arduronaven, Alpheo had carefully studied the surrounding terrain, scouting every detail to gain an edge. The land stretched out flat in all directions¡ªa feature that brought him both frustration and a certain satisfaction. The open, level ground would suit his strategy well, allowing him to execute his plans without the obstacles of hills or dense cover. But the same terrain also worked to the enemy''s advantage, as it was ideal for a strong cavalry charge while also allowing the enemy to stretch his forces and overwhelm Alpheo''s. Alpheo knew very well who held the advantage here. He had received troubling reports from his scouts: the Herculian army advancing toward them was estimated at 3,300 soldiers, outnumbering his own force of 2,200 by a significant margin. Worse still, he couldn''t rely on the full strength of his army; he''d been forced to station at least 300 men in the eastern camp to guard against any surprise sortie from the garrison within Arduronaven. He had no doubt that Vroghios would attempt a breakout once the main Herculian army arrived to divide Alpheo''s attention. Which left him with only 1,900 soldiers to face the incoming force,something that made intimidated Alpheo quite a bit as he was outnumbered nearly two for each of his own man. As Alpheo scanned the gathering army, he noticed Lord Xanthios moving toward him, a slight frown visible even from a distance. Recognizing the need to address any misgivings before the battle, Alpheo spurred his horse forward to meet him. Xanthios wasn''t pleased about being assigned to guard the rear¡ªa decision he clearly found beneath his station. Alpheo had anticipated this reaction, though, and had spent time cultivating Xanthios''s support. He emphasized the essential role Xanthios would play in maintaining the army''s strength and security, reinforcing how critical his position was to ensuring they could maneuver and fight effectively. Additionally, Alpheo reassured him that by the campaign''s end, his loyalty and contributions wouldn''t go unrewarded. But Alpheo knew Xanthios''s deepest concern went beyond mere prestige; it was a matter of achievements. As it was generally considered the way to get the highest achievement by simply fight at the side of his liege, sharing in the glory and dangers of the front lines, of course Alpheo saw it completely different. This role, he worried, seemed to minimize his contribution. Alpheo took care to dispel any such thoughts, making it clear that his trust in Xanthios''s leadership was precisely why he needed him in this crucial position. And that he had no such bias, as what he cared about were actual deeds, something that Xanthios would surely come into as he would most certainly fight against the city''s sortie. Lord Xanthios gave Alpheo a firm nod, his earlier reluctance softened by Alpheo''s reassurances. "May the gods be with you , Your Grace" Alpheo returned the nod with a slight smile. "I shall entrust our backs to you.." With a deep breath, Alpheo turned to face the rest of the assembled commanders and soldiers, his voice rising above the quiet rumble of anticipation. "Prepare to march!" he commanded, his voice steady as he assumed his ''General'' voice. --------------- The soldiers marched in disciplined lines across the open plains, their rhythmic steps pounding steadily beneath the morning sun. Alpheo glanced to his right and noticed Egil, riding with a grin that was practically spilling over his face. It wasn''t rare to see him so openly cheerful, yet he seemed much more gleeful than usual and Alpheo''s curiosity got the better of him. "What are you so pleased about, Egil?" Alpheo asked, a faint smirk crossing his lips. Egil gave him a mischievous look. "It''s been like old times" he replied, his voice thick with nostalgia. "For two weeks, I''ve had the freedom to raid and ambush¡ªjust as I did when I rode with my tribesmen." He laughed, a sound raw with satisfaction. "They camped out there without any real defenses¡ªjust tents sprawled across the ground, few watchmen, not even stakes in the dirt." Alpheo''s mind flickered over the past two weeks , while his had passed rather calmly , Egil''s must have been weeks of bloodshed. He''d assigned Egil to harass the enemy''s smaller forces as they moved toward the capital to assemble the royal army , and he''d chosen well. Egil had seized the opportunity with ruthless precision, ambushing troops who camped carelessly, unprepared for the wrath of his men. Without fail, he struck under cover of night,burning tents , cutting men down as they slept, and causing entire divisions of soldiers to desert into the night, exploiting their lack of defenses to the fullest, as no one would ever think that a general , whose force were even outnumbered, would let his own forces be so detached from the main contigent.. "In just two weeks," Egil continued, his voice full of triumph, "we cut down numbers nearly four times the size of my men. They had no chance." Alpheo gave a satisfied nod. "Well done" he said approvingly, as without him he would have had to fight an even bigger force than the one today ''''Effective as always'''' Egil, eyes gleaming with excitement, leaned closer to Alpheo as they rode . "My prince, if you''ll allow it," he began eagerly with an overly solemn tone that clearly made the both of them chuckle. , "I''d like to break off with my men and give those bastards marching toward us a reminder of what we''re capable of. Hit them hard before they even see us on the battlefield." Alpheo smiled, appreciating Egil''s enthusiasm. "I admire your zeal, Egil," he replied, "but not this time. I want them to arrive exhausted, desperate to catch their breath; if you attack them you will slow their march, making perhaps the enemy prince decide to rest for the night. I want them to reach us after a long march , I want them to arrive in one piece¡ªbut drained and hungry.Which they will be at their current pace" Alpheo then gestured toward their own ranks. "I had the men eat a solid breakfast this morning, meat , kindly provided by you and your men , alongside something hearty enough to sustain them for the day. They''ve each got a bit of rations for a quick bite in the afternoon if we''re still on the field by then." Egil nodded, understanding the strategy, though his face still showed a hint of disappointment. "Well-rested and well-fed against tired and hungry," Alpheo said confidently. "An army marches on his stomach, and our soldier will fight with a full one also. '''' With a final nod of understanding, Egil settled back into line, completely agreeing with what he said as he always believed that an hungry soldiers was a weak and unruly one . And so he prepared himself for the battle that lay ahead, excited at the prospect of riding onto the field with an axe in hand, something that never failed in making his blood boil. Differently from his knight , behind his steady gaze and commanding presence, Alpheo fought a current of worry beneath his calm exterior. His own men were seasoned veterans, soldiers who had fought by his side through skirmishes and sieges. He knew he could rely on their skill and discipline. But the other half of his forces¡ªhastily conscripted levies from lords who barely believed in the campaign themselves¡ªwere another matter. These were men who had just barely learned the weight of their armor, who could still be thrown off by the unexpected recoil of a sword or the weight of a shield. The last-minute drills they''d endured were more of an introduction than real training, and Alpheo was painfully aware that for many, this would be their first real taste of battle. He had done what he could: supplied them with better weapons, inspected their armor, urged them on with confident words. But those things only went so far. In the quiet of his thoughts, Alpheo couldn''t ignore the facts: These men aren''t ready. He kept his expression steady, his eyes sweeping over the army as they assembled, but inwardly, doubt stirred. Still, he could only press forward. He had made his decision, and now it was up to his men to meet it. As one way or another this day would decide the outcome of his reign , be it to be destined for greatness or to stagnate in the mud. Chapter 229: Face to face Chapter 229: Face to face Alpheo''s army stood in disciplined rows across the broad, open plain¡ªa force of 1,900 soldiers stretched in ranks, their armor and weapons catching the early light. Shields gleamed, and men formed a bristling line, poised as if part of a single, breathing creature. Behind the front line, archers positioned themselves, checking their bows and exchanging quiet words, while Alpheo''s cavalry held firm on the flanks, their horses snorting and shifting with the anticipation of the charge to come. To the far right of the battlefield lay the deserted village of Valdarr, its empty houses and abandoned fields casting a silent, haunting presence over the scene. Once a thriving settlement, Valdarr had been raided by Egil''s forces a week prior; its people were now huddled within the walls of Arduronaven, anxiously awaiting the outcome of the coming clash. As Alpheo watched the horizon, the Herculian army began to emerge over the plain in a vast, shifting line¡ªa sea of steel and color stretching wide across the landscape. Banners flapped above the mass of soldiers, bearing the symbols of Herculia''s noble houses, vibrant and proud against the morning sky. Rows of. infantry marched in disciplined ranks, flanked by squadrons of heavily armored cavalry, their polished armor glinting like mirrors in the sunlight. Alpheo could feel his men''s tension rising, quiet murmurs spreading among the younger, unseasoned troops as they took in the sight of the imposing force before them. He felt the stirrings of his own worry but held himself steady, face unmoving, as he gripped the reins of his horse. He knew the weight of his position¡ªa general had to be a stone. "Hold fast," he muttered to himself, schooling his expression into calm resolve. Every breath, every gesture, every steady word he spoke would shape the courage of his men. Alpheo knew his plan, and he had trained himself to be unreadable. In a way, Alpheo envied Jarza, Asag, and Egil. Their faith in him was so unwavering that they seemed to view victory as the only possible outcome. Ever since they''d joined his side, they''d known nothing but success, witnessing his rise from a slave to the prince of a state in mere months. To them, his presence alone seemed to guarantee triumph; the idea of defeat simply did not exist in their minds. But Alpheo knew better. He remembered the many times they''d come close to losing it all¡ªmoments that haunted him, close calls only he fully understood. Alpheo had arranged his forces into three distinct divisions. He positioned himself on the left flank, Shahab commanded the center, and Lord Damaris took charge of the right. Forced by both strategy and politics, Alpheo had to hand over a third of his forces to Damaris; the lord had contributed two hundred soldiers, making him one of the more significant backers of this campaign. Alpheo split his seasoned White Army, placing two-thirds under his own command and giving the remaining third to Shahab, while the left was bolstered with the assorted troops from the various lords who had sent their third and fourth sons to fulfill their feudal obligations. His own division was the most numerous and, crucially, the best trained and equipped. Alpheo intended to utilize a classic hammer-and-anvil tactic, putting the weight of his forces on the left to serve as the hammer while Shahab and Damaris'' men would form the anvil, holding the enemy in place. Usually such thing required the use of cavalry as hammer, unfortunately the only thing Alpheo planned to use the cavalry for was to waste time. As such this arrangement relied on the ability of his own troops to break through an entire flank and sweep around, pressing their advantage on one side with sheer force. Alpheo knew that victory hinged on one decisive, brutal strike¡ªone powerful enough to collapse the enemy''s left flank entirely. There was no room for hesitation, no second chances. To pull off this gambit, he would have to commit every ounce of strength and skill at his disposal, throwing the full weight of his best soldiers, his finest tactics, and his own daring leadership into that single point of attack His gaze swept over the hardened ranks of the White Army, his own warriors who''d proven their mettle time and again, and he felt a glimmer of resolve. The left flank was the key, and he was ready to throw every last resource he had into smashing it open, gambling on speed, precision, and overwhelming force to break the Herculians before they had the chance to understand what hit them. Across the open field, a lone rider emerged, the white flag of truce held high, fluttering against the wind. He moved forward with a measured pace, his gaze fixed on the banners of Yarzat and the White Army, the royal crest unmistakable against the white field marked by two diagonal black stripes. As he drew closer, he reined in his horse, momentarily stunned by the sight of the army before him. The soldiers of the White Army stood shoulder to shoulder, a seemingly impenetrable wall, their armor gleaming in the morning sun. Each soldier wore the same shade, every helm and plate coordinated in darkened steel, creating an imposing, unified appearance. The army looked less like a gathering of men and more like a single, relentless force¡ªa wall of iron prepared to answer any threat. The rider took a steadying breath, reminded by their solemn gaze that he was not among allies. He lifted his flag higher, letting know that he came in peace. and waited for the summons that would allow him to approach further. ---------- These things are as useless as priests in a brothel, Alpheo thought to himself, spurring his horse forward. Behind him rode Jarza, Asag, and eight of his guards, each one bearing the polished armor and colors of the White Army. His hopes for this parlay were nonexistent; he had agreed to it only for the chance to finally see the face of the man he''d soon be fighting. As they advanced, Alpheo caught sight of the opposing party approaching¡ªa small contingent of riders bearing the colors of Herculia. When he reached a point midway between the two armies, he reined in his horse, signaling his guards to halt a few paces behind. Alpheo sat straight, his gaze steady, observing the enemy riders who now drew closer. At the front of the opposing party rode a middle-aged man with a face that seemed carved from stone, stern yet radiating a pride that bordered on arrogance. His beard was thick and full, dark brown with hints of gray, framing a mouth set in a hard line. His hair was cut short in a blunt bowl shape, giving him an air that was both precise and somewhat austere. The man''s gaze settled on Alpheo, taking him in with a lingering, almost appraising look. For a moment, there was silence as they sized each other up. Then, slowly, a small, knowing smile crept across the man''s face, as though he saw something in Alpheo that amused him. "So," he began, his voice thick with derision, "this is the so-called ''prince'' of Yarzat. I must admit, I expected... well, someone with a little more bearing. A bit more experience, maybe. You are a bit short even " He paused, letting his eyes drift over Alpheo''s face with feigned pity. "Though, I suppose that''s what you get when lowborn dogs are handed titles. Pretending to be a prince doesn''t make it so." Alpheo''s jaw tightened, but he held his tongue, watching Lechlian''s sneer with cold, measuring eyes. "Tell me, boy," Lechlian continued with a chuckle, "what''s it like to play prince after slaying one? How does it feel to be a little nobody masquerading as something grand?" He leaned forward on his horse. "I wonder, does your wife enjoy knowing she married beneath her? Or did she just open her legs for the first cur that wagged his tail her way?" Alpheo''s face hardened, a flicker of anger tightening his grip on the reins, but his voice was calm, almost cold. "Bold words for a man who cowers behind walls and send insults delivered by his servants " Alpheo replied, meeting Lechlian''s sneer with a razor-sharp glare. "A prince hiding like a rat¡ªnow, that''s something worth mocking. Are you so frightened that you need to puff yourself up with insults? Or are you simply as hollow as your words?I saw more action in one year that you craven saw in ten" Lechlian''s smile faded, his expression darkening. But Alpheo went on, unyielding. "And as for my wife, you''d do well to keep your mouth shut. Her honor''s worth more than your title, or any claim you can make." He glanced around, voice rising as he met the eyes of Lechlian''s men with cold disdain. "And as for pretending, let''s see who''s still standing after this battle. I wonder if these fine soldiers will follow a ''prince'' who can barely stand the sight of blood, you see the men behind me? They would follow me to the gods'' hells and back, can you say that same for yours?" Lechlian''s eyes flashed with rage, but Alpheo''s gaze was unwavering. "Save your breath, Lechlian," Alpheo added with quiet menace. "Soon enough, the field will decide which of us is a true prince¡ªand which is just another man whose mouth writes checks his sword can''t cash. I am no prophet, but I can see that by sundown you will have an army no more and you shall run back at court defeated..." Lechlian''s face twisted with disdain as he leaned back in his saddle, his voice clipped and mocking. "Enjoy this little display while it lasts. The battlefield won''t care about your bravado, nor will it have mercy on pretenders like you. You''re outmatched. And when your army is dust, no title or banner will save you." Alpheo let a slow, mocking smirk creep across his face, his gaze sharp with disdain. "Outmatched? By you?" He tilted his head, voice dripping with sarcasm. "After I drive your face into the mud, Lechlian, I may just ride straight to Herculia myself. Perhaps your wife should know what it feels like to have a real victor in her bed. Though," he paused, his smirk widening, "I may have to wait in line, given how often she entertains her other... guests, I am sure that right now her bed is more crowded than a tavern." Lechlian''s face flushed red, his expression contorting with barely contained fury as he gripped the reins tighter, knuckles white. His mouth opened, but whatever words he was about to spit out vanished as Alpheo met his glare with cold defiance. Without another word, Alpheo spat on the ground between them, turning sharply on his horse. As he rode off, his shoulders square and head high, he didn''t look back¡ªknowing full well his words had left Lechlian seething, his rage as palpable as the stinging autumn air. It went better than I thought, Alpheo commented in his mind as he rode back to his army, the clinking of armor and the steady drum of hooves the only sounds breaking the tense silence. Once they arrived , he turned to Jarza, his eyes steely and his voice low. "Go ahead. Set it in motion.In case the parlay wasn''t enough " Jarza met his gaze with a confident nod, his face unreadable but his eyes glinting with determination. Without a word, he turned in his saddle and gave a sharp, piercing whistle that cut through the chill air. Chapter 230: Battle of the bleeding plains(1) Chapter 230: Battle of the bleeding plains(1) Following Jarza''s sharp whistle, two riders broke away from the ranks and galloped forward into the open field, banners streaming behind them. Each man held his head high, but one rode with an extra burden: the banner of House Herculia, a rich crimson flag emblazoned with a silver lion. As they reached the middle of the field, the rider with the banner lifted it high into the sky, letting it unfurl proudly one last time. With a quick, defiant flick, he threw it onto the ground, the flag fluttering down like a fallen predator. The second rider, holding a burning torch, approached the fallen banner and cast the flame onto it, igniting the fabric instantly. Flames licked up the edges, blackening the lion as it began to curl and shrivel. Then, to make the display complete, both men dismounted, and with an exaggerated mockery, one of them stepped forward, turned his back on the burning emblem, and unbuckled his belt. He took aim and, as the fire continued its consuming work, let loose a stream of piss upon the charred banner. The two riders remounted, leaving the burned and desecrated banner smoldering on the ground as they trotted back to their ranks, grins of satisfaction on their faces. Alpheo watched from afar as the two riders returned to their positions, their dark satisfaction radiating even from the distance. The Herculians had witnessed the whole display¡ªthe flaming banner, the utter desecration¡ªand though Alpheo couldn''t hear their outcry, he could see the immediate response ripple through the opposing ranks. A moment later, the Herculians began to stir, their lines shuffling and then surging forward as their commanders barked orders. The entire army began to advance in a furious tide, the prince''s rage unmistakable, pushing them forward in a vengeful march. Alpheo''s lips curved into a smirk. "Works every time," he muttered to himself, keeping his gaze fixed on the oncoming wave. The prince''s pride and fury had been stoked as he''d hoped; the insult had struck true, forcing Lechlian''s hand. It was either charging after bearing the insult , or be laughed as a coward for doing nothing as the honor of his entire dinasty was burnt and literally pissed on by lesser men. And as it could be seen the prince of Herculia chose the first. Alpheo took a steadying breath as he finally absorbed the sight of the full Herculian force marching against him. Even with his own flank bolstered by the largest share of his troops, they still seemed but a thin line against the rolling wave of men advancing across the plain. Hundreds of armored figures glinted under the morning light, each step of the enemy seemingly doubling their numbers as dust rose in their wake, thickening the horizon. He felt the weight of it¡ªthe sheer, daunting scale of the force that now bore down on them. But he had already given the orders. Every detail had been set in motion, each maneuver weighed and placed. All he could do now was stand firm and see it through. Clenching his jaw, Alpheo forced himself to stay calm, pushing any second guesses from his mind. The enemy he was fighting were not using starved peasants, as even though his troops were better trained and equipped, many of his scouts reported for , at least the front lines, to be wearing chainmail and helmets. Alpheo squinted, eyes narrowed against the glare as he tried to gauge the advancing enemy''s distance, 400 meters?350? Judging the right moment would be critical. Lost in calculation, he was abruptly yanked from his thoughts by a sharp shout behind him, followed by the unmistakable, bone-rattling sound of something massive slicing through the air coupled with the shouts of Pontius. He didn''t need to look back to know what it was. Pontius had already given the order to loose the first onager. Alpheo''s gaze darted up just in time to catch the heavy boulder sailing in a high, deliberate arc, its shadow growing smaller as it soared toward the enemy ranks. The stone seemed almost graceful, weightless in flight¡ªbut he knew the devastation it would bring when it landed. 300 apparently, Alpheo thought as he watched the cruesome spectacle that would soon reach his eyes. The air trembled as ten massive boulders arced through the sky, their dull shadows sweeping across the battlefield below. For a breathless moment, all was silent, the soldiers frozen in their ranks as they watched the inevitable descent. Then, with a sickening series of cracks and thuds, the boulders slammed into the enemy formation. The impact was brutal. Men were thrown like ragdolls, crushed beneath tons of stone. Dust and blood misted the air, the red droplets catching the morning light as screams began to echo across the plain. Bodies lay twisted and broken, armor splintered and shields smashed to splinters. Those who survived scrambled to close ranks, their eyes wide with fear and shock. The onager''s strike hadn''t torn through the ranks with devastating casualties, but what it lacked in numbers, it delivered in raw horror. Soldiers who had stood steady moments before were now rooted in place, staring in shock at the splattered remains of their comrades, their bodies crushed into the dirt. Here and there, men gagged at the sight, some dropping their weapons, hands shaking, as by the end of the day they were still peasants. A few tried to keep their composure, but most could only stand and watch, trembling as the smell of blood and pulverized earth filled the air. Some soldiers lost all control, wetting themselves, at the sight of their comrades'' torso squashed onto red paste. Alpheo allowed a faint smile to flicker over his face as he watched the enemy ranks waver. For a moment, satisfaction filled him¡ªbut only for a moment. His gaze sharpened, and he turned to Ratto, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. "Sound the blow!" he ordered. Ratto gave a quick nod, lifting the horn to his lips. A deep, reverberating call echoed across the field, low and resonant, demanding movement. At the signal, Jarza''s voice rang out, barking commands with practiced ease. "Forward! Advance en-charge!" In perfect unity, the soldiers surged ahead like wolves. Clad in their striking surcoats of black and white stripes, they moved like a singular wave, shields lifted high, axes and maces gleaming in the pale morning light as to the enemy if felt like death itself was charging against them . Feet thundered across the ground as they closed the distance, the air thick with the collective roar of men''s steps emboldened by greed and the promise of victory. The White Company''s archers, stationed in the empty stretch between the two flanks, , seized the moment of disorder rippling through the Herculeian line. They drew their arrows, each man sighting down the shaft with practiced precision before releasing. The air filled with a whistling storm of arrows, black and sleek against the pale sky. They arced high, then descended with deadly accuracy into the disrupted ranks of Herculean soldiers. As the scattered men scrambled to form a cohesive shield wall, the arrows found every weakness: slipping between unclosed gaps, embedding in exposed limbs, and splintering the hastily-raised defenses. The impacts were brutal. Men staggered back, some falling outright, clutching at bloody wounds as arrows found purchase through thin armor or slipped beneath raised shields. The Herculeian line wavered further, the initial chaos from the artillery strikes now compounded by the relentless rain of arrows. In his fury, the Herculeian prince, Lechlian, had sent his infantry surging forward in haste, blinded by the sting of Alpheo''s insult and the deliberate desecration of his banner. The men marched ahead without the critical support of their archers, who lagged behind, caught unprepared by the hasty advance order. The infantry of Alpheo''s royal army meanwhile advanced steadily, a tide of disciplined silence moving across the plain. Their faces were set, expressions hardened and eyes fixed forward in unison. Alpheo had drilled his private soldiers to perfection, training them to march without shouts or clamor¡ªonly the steady, rhythmic thunder of boots striking the earth. Something that he went proud of The silence stretched ominously, each step amplifying the tension as they neared the Herculeian line. It was a soundless storm, a muted roar, each soldier holding his place and movement with unwavering precision. Alpheo''s mind flashed to Cicero''s words: In battle, there is no sound as deafening or scaring as the silence of legionary lines. The Herculeians watched with growing unease, their lines trembling as Alpheo''s forces, draped in stark surcoats of white and black, bore down on them. They moved as one entity, every man seamlessly connected to the next, no voices, no raised weapons, only the merciless, wordless promise of what was to come, making their charge thousands of time more scary than the biggest roars that hundreds of man could muster. The armies finally collided with a thunderous roar that shook the very earth beneath their feet. Shields crashed into shields, the brutal sound ringing out as the front lines of Alpheo''s soldiers smashed into the Herculeians with unstoppable force. Spears splintered on impact, and maces swung down with bone-crushing strength, breaking through armor and driving men to the ground. The Herculeian front, less organized and reeling from the constant volley of arrows, wavered under the sheer force of the charge. Every gap in their line became a deadly weakness, filled by Alpheo''s soldiers who pressed in, striking with disciplined ferocity. Finally allowing the various Herculeain lords to see how strong the pillars of Jasmine''s rules truly were, steady and hard as tempered steel, something that they would learn at their own displeasure. Chapter 231: Battle of the herding plains(2) Chapter 231: Battle of the herding plains(2) Egil stood with one foot braced against the saddle, the other steady in the stirrup, surveying the battlefield with a calm, practiced eye. In the distance, he spotted the ominous shimmer of the enemy''s heavy cavalry advancing, their polished armor and lance tips gleaming like silver under the midday sun.Arrogant in their charge as they could be, he sighed, and got ready for the showdown "Alright, boys," he shouted, his voice cutting through the sounds of clashing metal and battle cries from his left, "it''s time to go. Let''s show them what we''re made of!" In a single motion, Egil swung fully into the saddle, and his men did the same. They kicked their horses into motion, surging forward across the plain. The open land gave them a clear view of the chaos unfurling across the battlefield: the enemy infantry pushing forward in ragged lines, the smoke of distant fires rising, and, just in time, he saw Alpheo''s artillery boulders crashing down upon the Herculeian infantry, scattering men and shattering ranks. Egil let out a bark of laughter at the brutal sight, but his amusement quickly faded as his gaze sharpened, focusing on the task ahead. He knew how much Alpheo was counting on him today¡ªevery movement, every charge would need to be exact if they were to survive this outnumbered battle. Egil and his 150 light riders thundered across the open plain, the wind whipping through their faces, hooves pounding in rhythm as they charged toward the enemy''s formidable heavy cavalry. Across the field, the enemy horsemen loomed like an iron wall¡ªnearly two hundred strong, a column of armored knights eager to clash, their lances lowered, glinting like steel spikes. As they closed the distance, Egil raised his sword high above his head, his eyes narrowed with focus. Then, in one swift motion, he lifted himself into his stirrups, balancing with ease even as his horse galloped at full speed. The enemy line was close enough now that he could see their helmets. Without a moment''s hesitation, Egil swung his sword to the right. Instantly, his formation obeyed, veering sharply in that direction, their lighter horses nimbly adjusting to the sudden maneuver. The heavy cavalry, bent on meeting the charge head-on, tried to follow, their steeds heaving to change direction and keep pace. The heavy cavalry thundered after Egil''s riders, their armor glinting under the sun, lances outstretched as they pursued the nimble horsemen. Egil, with practiced ease, twisted around in his saddle to look back at the pursuing column. ''''JAVELINS'''' He shouted with the strongest voice he could muster. Heeding the order the light riders closest to the pursuing cavalry reached down to their sides, each one pulling free a javelin. The air buzzed with the anticipation of battle as they aimed, their practiced arms steady even at a gallop. Then, one after another, they hurled their javelins backward, the iron tips cutting through the air with deadly purpose. The javelins streaked toward the heavy riders, catching them mid-charge. The heavy cavalry pressed on, undeterred, driving their powerful mounts forward with relentless focus, champions of the code of chivalry and honor, never to show you back to the enemy and to fight with relentless grit. In smooth, fluid motions, more of Egil''s men drew their javelins and cast them with deadly accuracy into the charging mass. The air filled with the sharp whistling of projectiles slicing through the wind, letting fate decide where they would fall. A javelin struck a horse squarely in the chest, the beast rearing with a strangled whinny before collapsing, throwing its rider forward into the path of his comrades. Another rider screamed as a javelin found its mark on his upper limb, driving through his shoulder and sending him crashing sideways from his saddle. The chaos rippled through the heavy cavalry line. Horses stumbled, tripping over their fallen comrades or veering off course as wounded animals thrashed in the dust. Some riders tried to shield themselves, ducking low, but others, less fortunate, felt the cold bite of iron as javelins skewered them cleanly or threw them off the saddle. The light riders laughed and jeered as they darted in and out of range, tossing javelins and taunts with equal ease. "Come on, you lumbering tin cans!" one rider shouted, tossing his javelin into a thick knot of heavily-armored cavalry. "Too slow! " "Did you think you''d catch us by now? My grandmother rides faster than you!" "Is that armor to keep you safe or just to keep you upright? Looks like you''re already falling over!" Egil himself leaned back in the saddle, flashing a wolfish grin. "Come on, Herculeians! I thought you were warriors! But all I see are donkeys struggling under a load!" He laughed, his taunt carried across the field as his riders echoed his words, the mocking cries only fueling the frustration of their opponents. The light riders'' laughter rang out with each javelin they flung, chipping away at both the Herculeians'' armor and their pride. Taunts and jeers filled the air, each insult driving the heavy riders into a deeper rage, spurring them to charge harder even as their ranks thinned under the relentless rain of javelins. Yet each time they seemed to be closing in, Egil''s riders would pull ahead, leading them farther and farther from the main battle. Egil cast a quick glance over his shoulder, a sly smile spreading across his face as he saw the enemy drawing deeper into the trap. His riders expertly maintained their distance, darting just out of reach but always keeping the heavy cavalry''s attention fixed on them. Little by little, Egil''s troop was luring the Herculeian horsemen farther across the plains, away from the clash of infantry and archers where Alpheo''s battle lines held firm. ----------------- Across the battlefield, the clash of infantry had erupted into brutal, close-quarters fighting. Shields smashed into shields, and the air was thick with grunts and the sharp clang of metal against metal as swords, maces, and axes bit into armor and flesh alike. Alpheo''s heavy infantry pressed into the Herculeian lines like a battering ram, each soldier armored in chainmail and breastplates that gleamed dully under the battle-scarred sky. Every step forward was another foot taken, another line breached as they steadily cut their way into the heart of the enemy ranks. A Herculeian spearman braced himself, spear tip aimed at the advancing mass, but an infantryman of Alpheo''s White Company closed the distance too quickly, deflecting the spear with his shield before bringing his heavy mace down in a crushing blow. The Herculeian crumpled to the ground, his armor dented from the impact. The Black Stripes'' soldier wasted no time, stepping over the fallen enemy and pressing forward, keeping the momentum of the advance. Elsewhere in the line, a Herculeian soldier thrust his spear desperately toward one of Alpheo''s men, only to see it slide off the reinforced leg armor, barely slowing the man''s advance. With a quick pivot, the armored warrior brought his axe down in a sweeping motion, cleaving through the spear''s shaft and forcing the Herculeian back. As the enemy stumbled, the White Company soldier delivered a swift, upward blow with the edge of his shield, sending his opponent sprawling. The sheer weight and resilience of Alpheo''s infantry began to fracture the Herculeian line, creating small gaps that widened with each relentless push. Here, a mace crashed down onto a helm, crumpling it with a grim finality; there, an axe found its mark, severing a spear-wielding enemy''s defense and ending his struggle in an instant. The Herculeians, armed with long spears trained to fight in shield formation would normally never allow for the enemy to reach so deep onto the line,yet the barrage from the enemy onager, together with the sudden charge of the enemy infantry, completely made any advantage they could have null as their initial formation had been completely shattered before the fighting even started.. Now the same weaponry and style of combat that would have allowed them to keep the enemy at a distance, now made cause them to struggle in close quarters where their weapons became liabilities, clumsy and ineffective against the crushing force of the White Company''s assault. As Alpheo''s soldiers advanced, they shouted taunts that echoed above the clash of metal and the cries of battle, their voices filled with grim amusement and raw energy: "Is that all you''ve got, Herculeians? I''ve seen lambs put up a better fight!" A soldiers shouted as he shouted at the uncosciously retreating enemy "Come on, cowards! My grandmother swings a spear harder than that!" "You''re already dead¡ªyou just haven''t hit the ground yet!" Another jeered as he smashed his mace onto his opponent''s chin shattering his jaw. "Where''s that spine of yours, Herculeians? Left it back in your homes, didn''t you?Don''t worry I ''ll help you find it..." ----------------------- Jarza stood on a small rise, his keen eyes scanning the battlefield below. Alpheo''s heavy infantry had broken into the enemy''s front lines, carving into their ranks like a hot knife. He could see Herculeian soldiers staggering under the relentless assault, faltering in places, but even so, their sheer numbers were holding Alpheo''s troops from fully routing them. The enemy line bent but refused to break. That was not good, as Alpheo''s entire strategy relied on a quick breakthrough on their flank... For a moment, Jarza assessed the situation. They were close¡ªclose to tipping the scale entirely, but they needed one final push to seal it. His eyes narrowed, a decision forming quickly. Turning, Jarza raised his voice and barked at a nearby messenger. "Tell the second infantry corps to join the fight! I want them moving in now¡ªlet''s see what those green recruits of Asag are worth!" The messenger nodded sharply and took off at a sprint, weaving through the throng of soldiers until he vanished toward the waiting reserve lines. Jarza watched him go, feeling the tension rise in his chest as he looked back at the clash below. Time to see if the money Alpheo spent on those new shiny things are worth the silver, Jarza thougth as he would finally come to see how those halberds would fare on a real battlefield. Jarza''s gaze sharpened as he spotted the two hundred fresh soldiers advancing from the rear lines, clearly seeing a man on horse on their back pushing them forward. These men, part of the second infantry corps, were armored just like their veteran counterparts, their mail and plate gleaming in the sunlight. But where their comrades wielded shields and one-handed weapons, these soldiers carried long halberds¡ªan addition Alpheo had specifically chosen to cut through the enemy''s flanks once the initial charge stalled. The halberds, with their long reach and devastating power, were designed to carve through the chaos of battle, betting twice on ferocity at the cost of discipline and order. Something that could prove to be the key to bring into reality the strategy that Alpheo had envisioned for the battle. Chapter 232: Battle of the bleeding plains(3) Chapter 232: Battle of the bleeding plains(3) Across the battlefield, while Alpheo''s right flank surged forward with a relentless energy, pressing deeper into the enemy line with every charge, elsewhere the fight was far less decisive. The center and right flanks struggled, held at bay by the Herculeian forces and barely managing to hold their ground. Some units were pushed back in slow, grueling inches, while others fought to a tense standstill against the enemy''s sheer numbers and force. Alpheo had committed all of his heavy cavalry to the right flank, giving them a crucial edge against the Herculeian forces and enabling them to hold their ground firmly. Meanwhile, on the left, Egil''s light cavalry continued their relentless harassment of the Herculean heavy riders, drawing them farther and farther from the battlefield. Darting in and out of range, they rained javelins down on the encumbered enemy horsemen, wounding mounts and men alike in a series of quick, evasive maneuvers. This classic skirmisher tactic, perfected by light cavalry, left the Herculeian heavy riders increasingly scattered and weakened, their furious pursuit growing ever more futile as Egil''s men continued to bleed them dry in the open field. On the Herculeian left flank, the commander lord Tavian Blackmar, scanned the battlefield with a watchful eye. Noticing a sudden movement rippling through his flank, his brow creased. Tavian''s jaw tightened as he noticed the enemy troops moving around the flank . No one needed to tell him the danger of allowing them to complete the maneuver Among his knights, one stood taller, armor polished and face grim with determination. "I''ll lead the charge, Commander," he said, pounding a mailed fist over his chest. Tavian gave a sharp nod, grateful for the confidence, though his eyes showed a hint of doubt as he glanced at the soldiers the knight would take with him. "Very well, Sir Harwin " he replied. "You''ll have three hundred men with you, stop them with everything , further reinforcement are currently arriving , you just need to hold the line'''' With a grim smile, Sir Harwin saluted and turned, rallying the troops with swift, curt commands. The young soldiers, though visibly anxious, gathered around him, and he raised his sword high, urging them forward. Together, they began to march forward against a force armed with weapons they had never seen, they looked like spears and yet they resembled more axes than anything else. Sir Harwin Flint rode at the head of his three hundred recruits, his horse''s hooves pounding the earth beneath them, a cloud of dust billowing up from the hastily assembled line. The young knight''s heart beat in time with the march, each beat a step closer to his ambitions. Harwin was a landed knight, with little to his name but a modest estate and the loyalty of a single village. When the call to arms came, he had eagerly raised as many men as his lands could muster, seizing nearly every spare weapon his villagers possessed and pressing even the youngest into service. To him, this campaign wasn''t only a duty to his lord; it was a chance¡ªa single, fleeting opportunity to prove himself on a grand stage. Farmers, stablehands, and hunters now wore mismatched armor, some wearing chainmails other simple helmets, a third of the men he was leading were his. The enemy''s flanking force, was right there¡ªan opening to glory. If he could stop them, if he could hold the line, it might be enough to elevate his name and earn the coveted title of baron. Clutching the hilt of his sword tighter, he shouted over his shoulder, "Keep steady! Follow my lead, and we''ll show them what strength lies in Herculeian blood!" With a final look at his men, Harwin raised his sword high and spurred his horse forward, leading the charge toward the advancing halberdiers, his mind set on the victory that could be within his grasp. Sir Harwin urged his horse forward, charging with the thunderous roar of hooves behind him, his three hundred recruits close on his heels. The ground between the two forces seemed to shrink in a heartbeat, and then, with a bone-jarring clash, the lines collided. Steel crashed against steel, the dull thud of weapons meeting flesh filled the air, and cries of pain and fury erupted all around as the infantry of both sides smashed into each other in brutal melee. Harwin fought like a man possessed, his sword flashing in wide, arcing slashes, his armor already splattered with grime and blood. Each swing was fueled by the raw fire of his ambition, the will to carve his name into history. He broke through the defenses of one soldier, his blade finding a seam in the armor, and with a fierce grunt, he drove it home, feeling the weapon sink deep. A man coming from the right raised his halberd, aiming for Harwin''s chest. But Harwin, in a fluid motion, struck iron against iron deflecting the lethal swing.Then he swung down hard, the momentum of his charge lending extra weight to his strike. His blade cleaved into the shoulder of the halberdier, cutting deep through armor and flesh. The man cried out as he fell, collapsing under his own weapon as Harwin''s horse reared and trampled forward. Harwin''s horse danced beneath him, nostrils flaring as it caught the scent of blood, and Harwin lifted his sword high, signaling his recruits forward. His face was set in fierce determination, his heart pounding with the thrill of combat and the promise of glory. "For honor and victory!" he bellowed, driving his horse deeper into the fray. Sir Harwin fought like a man possessed, a whirlwind of steel and fury as he drove his horse through the thick of battle. His sword flashed in wide arcs, cleaving through soldiers who dared approach him. But amid the chaotic clash of blades and shouts, a sudden force slammed into his side¡ªa halberd, its blunt end hitting him square in the ribs. The blow knocked the air from his lungs, leaving him gasping as pain shot through his chest. For a heartbeat, he was stunned, wavering in his saddle, struggling to regain his breath. Then, as if in a nightmare, he felt a powerful hand latch onto his arm, tugging him down from his horse. Harwin''s grip on his sword faltered as he swung his arms wildly, desperation taking over. His frantic swipes met only air, each move weaker than the last as his vision began to blur. "Where are my men?" he thought, his mind clouded with confusion and anger. As he looked around, he saw them¡ªhis recruits, the untrained villagers he had rallied for glory. But instead of pressing forward, they were stumbling back. In that single, brutal moment, it became clear: they were losing. That final thought was shattered by a crushing impact. A heavy strike from the back end of a halberd crashed into his helmet, the pickaxe-like pointy rod caving in the metal and sending an explosion of pain through his skull as he died instantly, with his last thought being that he had gone ahead too much and that he should have staid back. -------------- The Herculeian line buckled as Alpheo''s fourth infantry corps tore through their ranks with relentless force. Armed with halberds, these soldiers struck with brutal precision, swinging their weapons to shatter shields and hammer against armor. With each wide arc, the heavy and wide steel would smash flesh and bone, and then, without pause, they would thrust forward, driving the spiked ends of their halberds into vulnerable spots. Stomachs were pierced, throats were slashed open, and cries of pain erupted as the Herculeian troops faltered under the sheer force of the onslaught, as they would be honored as the first army to fall under this new regiment. One soldier, wielding his halberd in a dance of elegance and death, spotted an enemy soldier lunging toward him with a spear. He parried the thrust with a sharp, low swing, cracking the shaft of the spear. Without hesitation, he followed up with a diagonal cut across the enemy''s chest, shattering armor and knocking the man back. Before his opponent could collapse, he jabbed forward, driving the spike into the man''s exposed throat with deadly accuracy. Nearby, another halberdier found himself surrounded by two Herculeians. Pivoting swiftly, he swung his halberd in a sweeping arc, forcing them to step back. As one charged in, he brought the halberd down like an axe, breaking the man''s shield and cleaving into his shoulder. The second soldier attempted to flank him, not having enough time , the soldiers temporarly deserted his weapon and taking out his short blade he thrust forward . The blade drove through his attacker''s mail and buried deep into his gut enough to make him fall over, only to be then finished by a quick slash at the throat. "Is that all you''ve got?!" one soldier barked as he swung the axe blade, crushing the skull of a Herculeian peasant "Pathetic!" "You thought you could stand against us?" he laughed cruelly as he ripped the halberd free, blood spraying. "We''re the storm, and you''re the dirt!" Everywhere, the Herculean forces faltered, their shields and formations splintered as Alpheo''s soldiers pressed the assault, their halberds moving in unison, each swing and thrust tearing through the line. In their relentless assault, they became an unstoppable tide, carving their way deeper into the enemy''s ranks, unyielding, precise, and brutal, they needed no tactics as a simple shash of theirs was enough to break the enemy''s shield and to cleave tilll they reached the hand or the arm. The reserve troops of the Herculean army, poorly equipped and poorly trained compared to their battle-hardened comrades fighting on the front line , found themselves utterly crushed beneath the might of Alpheo''s newly established Fourth Infantry Corps. While their opponent may not have been veterans, this being their first real touch of combat, any disadvantage that their lack of experience could have had was completely covered by their well-maintained equipment. Knowing that the use of this corpse was to wreak havoc deep into enemy lines, and since their weapons did not allow them to use a shield, Alpheo spent quite the good money into buying the best armor that the market allowed, making them look more like iron tanks than actual footmen. Making their appearances only in par with the amount of dead bodies they left behind as they advanced, unyielding towards their enemies.Proving to everyone on the other side that the money spent on the were actually a good investment.(Watch the comment for map of the battle) Chapter 233: Battle of the bleeding plains(4) Chapter 233: Battle of the bleeding plains(4) Away from the chaos of the main battlefield, Lord Xanthios and his detachment found themselves locked in a desperate fight for survival. Hundreds of enemy soldiers had poured out from the garrison of Arduronaven in a swift, brutal sortie, aiming to strike at the camp and overwhelm the defenders stationed there. The clash of steel and the shouts of fighting men filled the air, echoing off the hastily constructed walls and throwing the entire camp into turmoil. The enemy attackers, armed with makeshift ladders and ropes, swarmed toward te two-and-a-half-meter walls surrounding the camp, determined to break through and wreak havoc on the defenseless supplies and rear guard. They raised their ladders against the walls, clambering up as stones rained down from the defenders above. Xanthios, gripping his sword tightly, stood at the front of the line, roaring orders and striking down attackers as they breached the defenses. "KEEP FIGHTING!" Xanthios bellowed, cutting down an enemy soldier who had managed to scale the wall, sending him tumbling backward onto his comrades below. His face was set in a grim mask of determination as he moved around, his armor blood-streaked but his movements precise, undeterred by the sheer number of attackers. His desire to hold the line was driven not only by his duty but also by Alpheo''s promise¡ªthe promise that, if they succeeded, Xanthios would finally get his revenge. The attackers were twice the defenders'' number, a surge of bodies and blades pressed against the camp''s defenses in a brutal, ceaseless tide. They had no choice but to assault the camp if they wished to move onto the battlefield; they couldn''t leave an enemy stronghold standing behind them. The sight was a chaotic maelstrom, with desperate soldiers scrambling up ladders while those above cut them down in close combat, steel clashing on steel and echoing across the field. The defenders, made up of the infantry Alpheo had sponsored, who had trained through the winter under the watchful eyes of Jarza, rallied by the unyielding example of Lord Xanthios, who fought alongside them on the walls with tireless vigor, they held fast, resisting each fresh wave of attackers, with a vigour that they never believed they could have. Lord Xanthios, meanwhile kept getting in the middle of the fighting striking down assailants as they climbed, all while shouting encouragement to his men, his voice ringing clear and fierce over the noise of the battle. "Hold the line! The prince depends on us! We will not fall today!" he roared, his defiant cry invigorating his soldiers as they pushed back the advancing enemy. Alpheo''s decision not to fill the moat now made perfect sense to him ¡ªit was a measure to trap any cavalry within the city walls. If the enemy''s horsemen attempted to join their comrades on the battlefield, the moat would hold them back. Without it, they would have ridden free, easily outpacing Xanthios''s forces and joining the battlefield . What a clever bastard, Xanthios thought , a glint of admiration flickering in his eyes before he turned back to the fray. ------------------------------ As the battle continued eagerly on all sides a rider came galloping toward Lord Tavel, dust clouding the air as he pulled up short before the lord and shouted, "My lord! Sir Harwin is dead¡ªthe flank is collapsing, and the men are being forced back!" Tavel''s face darkened, Damn that fool of a knight! You''d think he could do one job. He turned to one of his own men, and pointed sharply. "Take command of the archers. Support our flank immediately and keep them from breaking entirely." As the men was ready to take off however another rider approached, face strained and voice urgent. "My lord, scouts have sighted enemy forces moving toward our left flank!" Tavel this time swore barely restraining his frustration. "They press us from every side," he muttered, his brow furrowed with frustration. Then, barking orders, he pointed at the messenger. "Change of order use the archers to stop them at any cost.'''' As he said so he then turned to the first men ''''Tell whowever is in charge to hold the line. Reinforcements are on the way. Now go!" The messengers raced off, while Tavel''s eyes narrowed on the shifting tides of battle. With a sinking feeling, he knew their situation was becoming ever more dire, and if reinforcement did not come soon, then one of the lines would certainly route. --------------- Alpheo stood tall in his stirrups, scanning the chaos around him. His face remained calm, though his heart beat faster with each report coming in from the lines, as the world seemed to shake . The left flank was buckling under pressure, messengers reporting that they were being steadily pushed back. Meanwhile, the center wavered, barely holding as wave after wave of Herculean soldiers hammered against them, desperate calls for reinforcements echoing across the bloodied field. A young, mud-splattered messenger pulled up beside him, panting as he just finished delivering his report. Alpheo''s jaw clenched slightly, but he allowed himself no more than that. In a steady, resolute voice, he replied, "Tell them to hold. Stand the line and press forward. Reinforcements or not, they are to hold." The messenger hesitated, as if considering the hopelessness of delivering such orders, but one look at Alpheo''s unwavering eyes sent him scrambling back into the chaos. Alpheo watched him go, his expression stoic. The line had to hold, no matter the cost. Despite the steady advance of his own contingent, Alpheo''s face darkened as he surveyed the rest of the field. His fourth infantry corps, which had nearly broken through the Herculean flank, was now stalling as fresh reinforcements from the enemy prince flooded in, bolstering the ranks that should have crumbled by now. Damn bastards,Alpheo thought as he fought back the urge to swallow. His archers, had been forced to draw their secondary weapons and join the right flank, in a last bid to force the enemy to rout. Alpheo''s confidence wavered as he felt the weight of his own mistakes. What have I done? he thought, fighting back the gnawing dread in his chest. He''d ignored his wife''s concerns and dismissed her grandfather''s seasoned caution, setting off on this campaign too soon, too bold, too reckless. Now, his forces were stretched thin, every soldier fully engaged, with no reserves left to counter the shifting tide. Ordering a retreat now, with the enemy pressing so close, would shatter his army and nullify the only thing that kept all those nobles houses from rising up against him, from killing him, stealing his soap and cinder-making secrets and force his wife from marrying another. He shuddered at the thought, and for a small moment he felt as he was at the bottom of an ocean. And yet...waiting was the only option he had left. He clenched his fists, silently willing his troops to hold on. The only chance for victory was to withstand just a bit longer¡ªthrough sheer grit, if nothing else¡ªuntil some opening emerged. His heart, usually tempered steel, now beat heavy with doubt, shadows creeping into the corners of his mind. The storm he had belittled now thundered at the edge of his control, threatening to drown him This was too soon, they had said, and now he felt the truth of it, bitter as winter''s first frost when he trembled lacking any warmth and fire when he was still a simple slave. He had gambled everything¡ªhis soldiers, his pride, ¡ªand yet here he was, his forces tangled holding the the fragile line that would decide between his victory and his defeat. Suddendly from the corner of his eye, Alpheo caught a flicker of movement, something beyond the frantic blur of battle and the haze of dust. He turned, squinting as he focused his gaze on the distant horizon. Shapes, dark and low against the dimming sky, ¡ªhorses. Riders were joining the battle. The small lords around him crowded closer, the various sworn lords of the great houses that pledged their forces who now whispered anxiously, their voices a stream of rising panic that grated against his composure. Cowards "We should withdraw," muttered one, his face pale and damp with sweat. "Your Grace, if we wait we''ll be crushed!" urged another, tugging anxiously at Alpheo''s sleeve. He fought the urge to knock the man''s hand aside, to silence their cowardly chatter that chipped away at the thin shell of calm he clung to. He fought against his desire to take up his swords and start slicing the man''s stomach to see if he held any gut in him . The temptation to lash out surged within him as more voices pressed around him, each one eroding the foundation of his control. But he quelled it, his jaw clenched tightly as he scanned the approaching riders. ''''SILENCE'''' he shouted with the heaviest voice he could muster. His heart hammered against his ribs, but he forced himself to stay rooted, his mind racing through the possibilities. While those around him feared an enemy host, he knew better than to surrender to doubt. Alpheo''s gaze narrowed as he steadied himself, refusing to waver. He knew that man¡ªthe one he had entrusted with this task, the one who had fought beside him and had never failed him, through victories and defeats, through the darkest nights. He believed with all his heart that Egil would not falter now. Holding his ground, Alpheo silenced the murmurs with a fierce look, his eyes as he forced himself to believe something that by all means should have been improb-no impossible. "Hold," he commanded in a tone that brooked no argument , the edge of a man who believed could take on a lion if he believed hard enough "We wait." Chapter 234: Battle of the bleeding plains(5) Chapter 234: Battle of the bleeding plains(5) Egil''s voice bellowed across the charging line, fierce and unyielding."Either victory, or we all die!" The words thundered over his riders, igniting a fire that burned as hot as the sun glinting off their raised weapons. Behind him, a ragged cheer erupted, raw and wild like that of wolves, rippling through the ranks as the riders felt the weight of fate settling upon them, a destiny shared in blood and steel.For one moment Egil felt as if his tribesman rode once again behind him. Swords, maces, and axes rose into the air, glinting as they caught the light, sharp and eager for the fray. Together, they tore forward, cutting through the winds like a flock of fierce hawks, low and fast, barreling across the plain. Dirt and dust flew beneath pounding hooves, and the roar of their approach swept ahead of them, a dark wave surging toward the Herculean forces. In Egil''s sights was the rear of the right flank, the unyielding line that had defied Alpheo''s assault for so long. No more! Egil thought as the winds whipped on his face.You don''t send the footmen to do a riders'' job. The riders held nothing back, every man braced for the clash, for the glory and danger of that first, furious impact. The clash was a thunderous eruption, as Egil''s light cavalry smashed into the rear of the Herculean flank like a spear thrust through armor. The shrill clamor of clashing steel, the crunch of bone underhoof, and the guttural roars of men locked in desperate struggle filled the air. Dust and blood mingled, clouding the scene as Egil''s riders drove their mounts into the fray, swords and axes swinging down with relentless force. The Herculean infantry, unprepared and overwhelmed, staggered under the brutal assault, breaking formation as Egil''s men tore into their ranks. Egil himself was a whirlwind in the heart of the melee, each swing of his weapon leaving death in its wake. His sword came down onto the shoulder of a spearman, cleaving through the shoulder and sinking deep into the bone. Luckily the men on the rear had little armor, as most was used for the first lines, leaving them even more exposed to the attacks coming from them. With a powerful yank, he freed his blade from the dying man, as another soldier came forward with a trust of his spear. With a brutal efficiency, Egil deflected the thrust and then brought his blade down in a sweeping arc, severing the man''s arm at the elbow. A scream rang out, but it was soon drowned out by the next clash as Egil plunged forward. He shouted for his men to press harder, to drive the advantage they''d won, his battle cries urging his men onward as they hacked deeper and deeper into the Herculean ranks. The soldiers of the Herculean right flank began to falter, their faces etched with terror as the reality of their situation set in. Pressed from both the front and rear, they found themselves ensnared in a deadly vise, Alpheo''s infantry driving them backward only to meet the ruthless charge of Egil''s cavalry behind them, a standard application of the hammer and anvil tactic. The sight of Egil''s riders, relentless as storm winds, cutting down their ranks like wheat before the scythe, sent waves of dread through the men. Then, with a single collective behaviour, it finally happened. Realizing their commanders had vanished , the first to run when the cavalry came into sight and they realized they were not allied, made their morale fall to the mud, the last threads of resistance dissolving. One by one, soldiers threw down their arms and turned, no longer looking back as they fled the scene, as their fighting lines was effectively cut into two by the charge. The sound of boots thudding against the ground rose in panic, the once-organized flank devolving into a hasty retreat. A cry echoed among them, urging others to run, and soon the entire right flank was in full retreat, leaving weapons, shields, and fallen comrades scattered like remnants of a broken wave crashing against the shore. Alpheo watched in astonishment as the Herculean right flank began to break, men abandoning their weapons, and fleeing in every direction. It was the very sight he had prayed for since the beginning of this brutal clash. He blinked, hardly able to believe what he was seeing, as though he feared it was a mirage born from the desperation of hours of fighting. Then his thoughts found their way to Egil. That reckless, cleptomaniac whoremonger of a friend¡ªwho had, against all odds, managed to turn the tide. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he let himself savor the moment. Egil had done it, and in the way only Egil could: charging in like a storm and scattering the enemy in one swift blow. He would have kissed the man if he was in front of him. Alpheo''s soldiers needed no orders. Without hesitation, they surged forward, instinctively sensing their victory. A battle cry erupted from their ranks as eight hundred soldiers poured across the field in pursuit, relentless and merciless as they swept over the remnants of the Herculean flank. Armor glinted, shields raised, and weapons poised as they charged after the fleeing soldiers, the thunder of their footsteps a rolling wave of fury that would not be stopped. As Alpheo''s soldiers chased down the fleeing Herculeans, a chorus of jeers and taunts filled the battlefield, a cacophony of scorn that matched the merciless gleam in their eyes. Spears pierced backs, axes came down on shields and shoulders, and swords struck as they closed in on their retreating enemies. "Run faster! Is that all you''ve got?" one soldier shouted, laughing as he swung his mace, sending a Herculean soldier sprawling into the ground , before quickly being finished off, his blood tainting the ground red. "Not so brave now, are you?" A man said as he yanked the axe out of the man''s shoulder, "Go on, scurry back to your prince! Tell him we are coming for him next!" he shouted as he went off in search of the next victim. A rider thrust his sword forward, knocking a fleeing man to the ground. As he withdrew the bloodied weapon, he laughed, "Cowards! We''ll paint the ground with you!" The chase surged onward, Alpheo''s men fueled by a vengeful satisfaction. The field had become a place of slaughter, as Alpheo''s forces exacted a ruthless vengeance upon those who had dared to stand against them for so long. What began as a break in one flank soon spread like wildfire through the entire Herculeian force, transforming a local collapse into a full retreat, as the army was small enough for the soldiers from the other flanks to see what was happening at their right and left. Alpheo''s soldiers, once contained to pressing a single weakened wing, now surged across the battlefield, their shouts and jeers echoing as they cut down every soldier who stumbled or hesitated. From his position in the rear, Lechlian could see the full extent of the devastation, the once-solid lines of his army buckling, wavering, and finally splintering apart. He knew the tide had turned irrevocably, the battle slipping through his fingers like sand. His jaw tightened, but his decision was swift. Lechlian gave the command for a full withdrawal, rallying those closest to him to set an example, as they turned their horses towards the capital. Even those flanks that had been holding strong were now forced to abandon their gains, leaving their hardened positions and hard-won ground. Some soldiers threw down their weapons to flee faster, while others scrambled back, casting nervous glances over their shoulders at the oncoming storm of Alpheo''s men. The victorious soldiers, freed from resistance, turned their bloodlust toward the scattering enemy, sweeping through the field with relentless fury as even the most timid levied peasant became an blood-thirsty hound after hours of being on the receiving end. Some of the slowest among the fleeing Herculeian soldiers, realizing there was no hope of escape, dropped their weapons and raised trembling hands in surrender. But the men they now pleaded with had spent hours locked in brutal combat, enduring the Herculeians'' relentless assault. Mercy was not a luxury they could afford, nor a sentiment they carried in their hearts. This happened more with the enlisted soldiers from the countryside, as the elite? of Alpheo more or less accepted their surrenders, taking their weapons and telling them to lay on the ground, as they knew how much their leader wanted to have as many prisoners as possible. For the others soldiers, the fury of the battle had boiled over into a bitter, vengeful rage. The sight of raised hands did little to sway them, their minds still filled with the cries of comrades who had fallen, with the memory of sweat and blood spilled on the field. The only mercy they offered to those who surrendered was a swift death¡ªa blade across the throat, or a spear to the chest This was no longer a battlefield but a slaughter, as the victors exacted a grim vengeance on those too slow to escape their reach. The rout was total¡ªLechlian''s once-proud army a mass of fleeing men, a dwindling line of soldiers desperately trying to escape the chaos. As while the noble prince cut the ground between him and safe refuge with his horse, he felt those words he exchanged with the low-cur prince re-enter his mind once again. He would come for the capital next. Chapter 235: Tales of bravery Chapter 235: Tales of bravery Lord Xanthios stood atop the makeshift palisade, his figure commanding and resolute despite the chaos erupting around him. The air was thick with the acrid stench of sweat, blood, and smoke, as attackers swarmed the walls in desperate waves. Xanthios, clad in steel plate that gleamed dully under the afternoon sun, raised his sword high. "Hold the line! " he bellowed, his voice cutting through the clamor like a trumpet''s call. His men roared in response, their morale bolstered by his presence. An enemy soldier, climbing a ladder, thrust his spear toward Xanthios. The lord sidestepped the attack and brought his sword down in a sweeping arc, severing the man''s grip on the ladder. The soldier screamed as he tumbled back into the throng below. Another enemy emerged at the top of the palisade, only to be met by Xanthios''s shield, which smashed into his face with enough force to send him sprawling back onto his comrades. Despite the relentless assault, Xanthios refused to retreat to safety. He fought shoulder to shoulder with his men, a spark of youthful defiance rekindled within him. In that moment, he felt transported back to his younger days, when he had first followed his father into battle. Perhaps it was the weight of years pressing upon him, the desire to close a lifelong chapter that went on for far too long, but he found himself wielding his blade with a ferocity he hadn''t felt in decades, all times wasted for that moment he wanted to live. He pivoted to face another attacker who had managed to breach the wall. The soldier lunged with a sword, aiming for Xanthios''s midsection. Xanthios deflected the strike with his shield and countered with a brutal thrust to the enemy''s throat, silencing him instantly. Blood sprayed onto the lord''s armor, but he paid it no mind. "Reinforce the western side!" he shouted to some of his men as another ladder slammed against the wall nearby. "Archers, keep shooting! Do not let them gain a foothold!" Lord Xanthios paused mid-strike, the clash of steel momentarily drowned out by the unmistakable sights of somethign shining on the horizon. He swiftly dispatched the enemy in front of him with a brutal thrust, his voice rising above the chaos. "Reinforcements have come!" he bellowed, raising his bloodied sword high''''We have won!'''' A roar of relief and triumph erupted from his weary soldiers. Spirits that had been battered by hours of relentless combat surged anew. The attackers faltered, their confidence visibly shaken as they began to withdraw, eyes darting nervously between the advancing reinforcements and the defenders who now pressed forward with renewed ferocity. As the enemy stumbled back toward the city walls, Xanthios made a split-second decision. "We''re not done yet, lads! Let''s give them something to remember us by!" A cheer rang out as soldiers poured from the main camp, rallying behind their lord, as while normal soldiers after hours of fighting would have dropped down onto the field, the sight of the lord charging head first himself filled the men''s with courage, prompting them to fight in a last minute sortie, striking down any stragglers and scattering the attackers like leaves before a storm. -------------- Less than twenty minutes later lord Xanthios stood outside the battered gates of the camp, his sword still in hand, its edge dulled and crusted with blood. Around him, his soldiers slumped against the walls or sat on the ground, their exhaustion visible in their every movement. The enemy army had retreated into the safety of their city walls, the defenders too drained to pursue them further. Xanthios himself, though weary to his bones, stood tall, his bloodstained armor catching the late afternoon light. From the distance, the rhythmic pounding of hooves on earth signaled an approaching force. Xanthios turned his gaze toward the horizon, where fifty armored riders emerged from the haze of the battlefield, their polished armor dirtied with blood . At their head, a proud banner fluttered¡ªthe falcon of House Veloni-Isha. Leading them was Alpheo himself, his youthful figure unmistakable in the saddle as he urged his steed forward. A victorious general coming back to camp. As the riders closed the distance, Xanthios couldn''t help but notice the young prince''s gaze sweeping over him, lingering on the blood that streaked his armor and face. Alpheo dismounted gracefully, striding forward with purpose, allowing Xanthios to see that also his own armor was not untarnished by blood. Shortly after the rout, in fact, Alpheo led his bodyguards in a brief pursuit of the fleeing enemy troops, ensuring his presence was noted among the aftermath. He joined the fray only once the battle''s outcome was secure, cutting down three routing peasants with quick, efficient strikes. His blade easily cutting unarmored backs with ease, an effort to pain his armor with a bit red, before returning back to camp in time to see the lord holding it against a sortie made by the garrison of the city they were besieging. "Lord Xanthios," Alpheo began, his voice steady but warm, "your bravery and resolve have been the backbone of our victory today. If not for your courage in holding our rear, we would not have achieved what we have." Xanthios, battle-hardened and unflinching until now, felt his chest swell at the prince''s words. He dropped to his knees, bowing his head low before Alpheo. "Your Grace," Xanthios said, his voice rough with emotion and weariness, "it has been my honor to fight in your name. But my deeds pale in comparison to the glory you have achieved on this day. Perhaps now, at long last, justice may truly be delivered." Alpheo reached down, grasping Xanthios by the arm to help him rise. "You have honored me with your service, Lord Xanthios. Your deeds on this field will not be forgotten, nor will your steadfastness , as for in the enemy''s defeat we draw our glory. Justice is closer now because of you and the men who followed your lead." As Xanthios stood, Alpheo''s expression softened. "May I ask about your son, Sir Caelum? I have not seen him among the victors." Lord Xanthios hesitated, his weary face shadowed by concern. "Your Grace, my son fought with valor, as he always does, but he wounded in the fray. He is alive, thanks to the quick actions of his men, but he is resting now." A flicker of sorrow crossed Alpheo''s face. "I am deeply sorry to hear this. Caelum has always been a man of courage, and today was no exception. I will send my best physician to attend him. Such bravery demands the finest care. " Xanthios inclined his head, his voice breaking slightly as he replied, "Your Grace, you honor my family beyond words. My son will be grateful for your kindness, as am I. It is no small comfort to know he has your favor." Alpheo placed a hand on the older man''s shoulder. "Favor? Your family has earned more than that¡ªyour name is etched in this victory more than mine . Without your steadfastness here, my lord, there would have been no triumph, something I will make sure to soon award. Having said that, I am sure you are tired from your battle , so I will leave you to rest.'''' Alpheo said with that smile that could have charmed stones. ---------------- The night blanketed the camp in a heavy silence, broken only by the occasional groan of a wounded soldier or the faint shuffle of lone guards patrolling the perimeter of the camp. The army had returned victorious, yet the air carried none of the jubilance that often followed a triumph. Even the loot obtained from the enemy camp was overshadowed by fatigue . The camp itself seemed like a crypt, eerily still under the pale light of the stars. Fires burned low, their embers casting feeble shadows over soldiers slumped against tents and crates. No songs were sung, no laughter rang out, no toasts were raised. The victory feast had been postponed¡ªthere was no strength left to celebrate. Even those who had imagined glory found themselves overwhelmed by the ache in their bones and the weight of the day''s bloodshed. Inside the tents, many collapsed without removing their armor, their breaths heavy and uneven as sleep claimed them like a slow, inevitable tide. Outside, a lone wind whispered through the camp, rustling the banners that hung limp from their poles. It carried with it the faint smell of death from the battlefield and the distant cries of scavengers birds already circling the carnage left behind. The prince himself, stepped into the sanctuary of his tent,. His armor, dulled with grime and streaked with dried blood, felt like a weight dragging him down to the earth. Ratto stood by the entrance, eager for orders, but Alpheo waved him off with a weary hand. "Go rest, Ratto. I am sure you are tired," he said, his voice hoarse. The young squire hesitated but nodded, retreating into the night without another word. Left alone, Alpheo, let the stillness envelope him. He stumbled toward his bed and sat heavily upon it, the thin mattress creaking beneath his weight. His shoulders sagged, and for a long moment, he did nothing but stare at the floor. Finally, he let out a deep, shuddering breath and placed his hands over his face. The weight of his palms against his skin felt like the pressure of the world itself, threatening to crush him. Now, in the silence, the truth clawed at him ,that same thing that he had refused to see until now, while pride and desperation had guided his every move. He had been so close to ruin. So close to watching his men break under the enemy, to witnessing the collapse of everything he had dared to build. "Damn my arrogance," he whispered, his voice trembling with the raw edge of self-reproach. "Damn it all" He had believed himself invincible, untouchable, and in doing so, had nearly led his army to destruction, as the only thing that stopped it were the action of a man whose loyalty he had taken until now for granted, something that he swore to make sure never happened, as he now realized that despite it all, he was not a god. For a long moment, he sat there, motionless, the prince stripped bare of his titles, his victories, his armor¡ªjust a man weighed down by his own hubris as he came to realize how close he was to fall down in the dig he had dug himself. And yet still, he was still a human, imperfect as they come. (In comment map of the last moment of battle) Chapter 236: Aftermath Chapter 236: Aftermath Two days passed since the end of what was to be known as the Battle of the Bleeding Plains, which saw Alpheo''s army triumph against Prince Lechlian''s. The first day was reserved to looting, as the soldiers combed the battlefield, stripping it of what little value remained. Weapons , armors, coins from the fallen¡ªall were scavenged with practiced hands.As whatever could be sold was taken, some even starting taking the teeth of the dead soldiers, planning to sell them to doctors that would use them as dentatures. As the sun began to set on that first day, the mood of the camp shifted. Alpheo, keen to bolster morale and remind his troops of the triumph they had earned, ordered a feast unlike any seen in recent campaigns. Alcohol flowed like rivers, loosening tongues , which coupled with the good amount of loot that the soldiers had taken , were as happy as a man with a fat purse could be. With the start of the second day however everything returned as it was , as the preparation for the storm of the city of Arduronaven started to seriously be prepared, letting everybody see, foes and friends alike that Alpheo planned to hammer the nail and finish what he started. -------------- The quiet scratch of a quill against parchment broke the stillness in the tent. Alpheo sat hunched over a plain wooden table, his face lit by the flickering light of a single candle. His hand moved steadily, the letters flowing from his thoughts to the page as he wrote to Jasmine. The words, though framed in the context of war, carried a personal touch. He detailed the battle, the triumph hard-won and the costs heavy, but he did not linger there. Instead, he wove in notes of longing for her company, updates on trivial matters she might find amusing, and questions about home. This was not just a report to a wife but a tether to the life he had left behind. The flap of the tent shifted, and Jarza stepped in without ceremony, his armor bearing fresh scratches and his face set in its usual blunt expression. In one hand, he carried a small sheaf of papers, while in the other an apple half eaten. ''''So early in the morning and yet already at work?" Jarza asked as he took a bite out of the fruit "Anyway I''ve come with what you asked of me." Alpheo glanced up from his letter, setting the quill down and leaning back in his chair. He gestured for Jarza to continue. "We''ve lost 260 men," he began, his tone steady but heavy. "Another 120 are wounded, and 30 of those will likely never fight again." Alpheo''s jaw tightened, though he kept his expression controlled. "How many of those losses are our men?" he asked quietly. Jarza didn''t flinch. "Ninety five dead and twelve severely wounded from the core forces. The rest are from the other lords." A long breath escaped Alpheo''s lips. He leaned back slightly, his hand absently brushing the edge of the table. "It could have been far worse," he admitted, his voice carrying a faint note of grim relief. "Considering how bad our position was, it''s a mercy it wasn''t worse. What about the prisoners?" Jarza shifted his weight slightly. "We captured 380 men in total. They''ve already been put to work on menial tasks around the camp¡ªfilling the moats, cutting trees and building ladders.It is unlikely that those bastards will ransom them, which mean that we are free to do as we like with them, be it execution or slavery...." ''''We will use them as laborers for roads and repairs back in Yarzat ''''Alpheo answered before asking about their other prisoners "And the high-born?" Jarza''s lips pressed into a thin line. "Some seconds and third sons of minor nobles, along with a few dozen knights. No one of significant standing. They''re worth a ransom, but... nothing extraordinary." Alpheo hummed, his fingers drumming lightly on the wooden surface. "Well, even small ransoms add up. I will have them write their families for ransom..'''' "What about the loot?" Alpheo finally asked. Jarza folded his arms and gave a dry chuckle, his tone both wry and satisfied. "Well, after our troops reached the enemy camp, they did what soldiers do best¡ªlooted the place to the bones. By the end of it, we secured goods and coin valued at roughly 10,000 silverii. Our share comes to around 4,000. Not a bad haul considering the circumstances." Alpheo nodded, his expression unmoved as Jarza continued. "Now, as for equipment, we managed to claim nearly 300 chainmails and helmets, along with 80 full iron pieces of armor each¡ªspoils from the knights Egil''s cavalry tore apart. While no one''s laying claim to the heavy armor yet, the chainmail and helmets are already in the hands of the soldiers. That means we''ll have to buy them back if we want them for the armory." "And the cost?" Alpheo asked, his voice steady. Jarza smirked knowingly. "Three silverii apiece should do the trick. Most of the lads will accept that without issue. It''s a fair price for what they''ve claimed as their reward." Alpheo tapped his fingers against the table, mulling it over for a moment before giving a small nod. "A fair price indeed. I will see to it, then." With that out of the way, Alpheo leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. "Well, since you''re here and got nothing to do , tell me¡ªwhat''s your take on the battle? How did we do?" Why does he assume I have nothing to do? Jarza wondered as he crossed his arms, his expression thoughtful. "Our men? They did damn well. Especially the fourth corps. Those halberdiers were monsters out there. You wanted them to punch holes, and they delivered. They tore through the Herculeans like a hot knife through butter the only thing that stopped them from breaking was the fact that they outnumbered them." Alpheo gave a tired nod but smirked faintly. "Yeah, but let''s not kid ourselves. If it wasn''t for Egil, we''d all be rotting in a ditch somewhere. The man saved our asses." Jarza chuckled, shaking his head. "He did. I still can''t wrap my head around it, though. A bunch of lightly armed riders taking down a bigger, heavier cavalry force?I always knew he was good with horses, never thought he was that good however...Seems like living all your lives with horses tends to do that'''' After the battle, Alpheo had learned the full extent of Egil''s daring. For an hour, Egil''s light cavalry had led the enemy heavy riders on a relentless chase, whittling them down with well-aimed javelins. Once the enemy realized the trap, they tried to regroup and change course, but Egil''s riders splintered into smaller contingents, harassing them from every angle. It was a tactic he''d secretly trained his men for, one Alpheo only became aware of during the raucous victory feast, where Egil''s boasts rang loud and clear. By the time their javelins were spent, the enemy cavalry was scattered and weakened enough for a decisive charge, which Egil led with brutal efficiency. Though he had lost half his riders, the result was undeniable¡ªan elite force crippled, and a crucial flank secured. Reflecting on it, Alpheo couldn''t decide whether Egil''s tactics were brilliance or recklessness. Perhaps both. Alpheo leaned back in his chair, the weight of the past days evident in his posture. The faint candlelight flickered across his tired face, and he exhaled heavily, breaking the silence that hung between him and Jarza. "We came close to losing, closer than I''d like to admit," Alpheo said, his tone unguarded. With anyone else, he might have deflected or softened the truth. But with Jarza, there was no need for pretense. Jarza leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed, his eyes steady on Alpheo. "I know," he said plainly. "But luck was on our side this time, and everything turned just right. The men held. Egil did what Egil does, whatever that is . You made the right calls and even though we came close to lose, everyone will think that we had everything under control, and I believe we should act like that..'''' Alpheo let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Luck seems too generous a word for the mess we were in. Honestly, it felt like I was gambling with lives out there.The gods perhapse took us in simpathy" Jarza smirked faintly, his eyes narrowing with that familiar blend of sharpness and amusement. "Three years, Alpheo. I''ve followed you for three years. In all that time, I''ve never seen you bow your head in prayer or pay even a passing thought to the gods. I''m convinced you don''t believe in them at all." Alpheo raised an eyebrow but said nothing against an accusation that could have him killed, letting Jarza continue. "And yet," Jarza went on, "if I didn''t know better, I''d say you''re a favorite of one of them. How else do you explain our luck? We''ve danced on the edge of ruin more times than I can count, but here we are¡ªstill standing, still winning." For a moment, Alpheo didn''t respond, the words hanging in the air between them. Finally, he scoffed lightly, a faint, wry smile tugging at his lips. "If that''s true, I hope they keep favoring us. Because next time, I don''t think I''ll have enough left to roll the dice again." Jarza had once been a devout follower of the Sun God, like so many in his homeland. His youth had been spent in fervent prayer beneath the golden light, trusting in the divine warmth to guide his path. But that faith had been tested, and ultimately shattered, when his prayers went unanswered once he became slave. Then once he met Alpheo and fought alongside him with his freedom, he changed his religion to that of the five gods, as apparently the day before the rising he prayed to them for victory .A priest was easy to find from there , completing the blessing and ceremony to introduce him to the religion of the Empire. And still now he carried a small token of the Five Gods¡ªa polished disk etched with their symbols¡ªtucked beneath his armor. A soft shout on the wooden post outside the tent interrupted the quiet murmur of conversation between Alpheo and Jarza. "Your Grace," the soldier began, his voice steady but cautious. "May I enter?'''' ''''Go ahead'''' Soon the soldier pushed back the heavy canvas flap slightly, and bowed low. "A messenger from the city has arrived. He bears a request for parlay from the lord of the city." Jarza let out a sharp scoff, turning to Alpheo "Parlay? I would have thought the countless refusals to surrender would have spoken loud enough. " Alpheo remained silent for a moment, his sharp gaze falling to the floor as he tapped his fingers lightly on the table. "Bring the messenger to me," Alpheo said, his voice carrying the authority of decision. The soldier bowed again and stepped back out of the tent, leaving the two men alone once more. Jarza raised an eyebrow, studying his friend with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. "That''s a shift," Jarza said, his tone half-questioning, half-probing. "What''s changed? Didn''t you say before the battle they''d get no audience?" Alpheo straightened, " I am tired of receiving a messanger each day, It''s time to put my terms flat on the table,even though I am sure that the turn-cloak won''t like them " he said simply with a small smile as he rose from the table, Jarza following behind, wondering what the hell was his friend and liege thinking about doing now. ---------------- SO IN THE COMMENTS THERE ARE IMAGES TO HELP VISUALIZE THE SOLDIERS OF ALPHEO''S PRIVATE ARMY Chapter 237: Parlay Chapter 237: Parlay The sun hung high in a clear, cloudless sky, its golden rays casting sharp shadows across the southern camp. The usual hum of activity that often filled such encampments was conspicuously absent. Instead, a heavy, disciplined silence hung over the air as five hundred soldiers stood in formation, their rows precise and unyielding. Each man stood at attention, armor gleaming under the relentless sunlight. Shields rested firmly in hand or strapped to their backs, while the points of weapons glinted under the sun. There were no idle conversations, no laughter from dice games, nor the clatter of mess kits. Even the horses tethered nearby seemed subdued. A strict command had been issued: no leisure, no distractions. The men were to remain ready, their stance embodying the readiness of a force prepared to move or fight at a moment''s notice. The camp itself mirrored their tension¡ªno laundry fluttered on lines, no fires burned for cooking, and even the usual bustling quartermasters moved with hushed efficiency. The sound of boots crunching against the dirt and the clinking of polished armor pulled attention to the gates. Soon, the reason for the unusual silence became apparent. Through the gate walked a man clad in gleaming plate armor. Behind him, two men marched, each gripping a tall staff that bore the banner of the besieged city. The sight of the heraldry¡ªthe intricate crest of their enemy¡ªimmediately caught the eyes of the soldiers revealing who the man was . Jarza''s eyes narrowed, and Alpheo''s lips pressed into a thin line as the man came closer. The lord of the city had initially demanded the parlay take place between the two camps¡ªa neutral ground to avoid the risks of walking into enemy territory. But after the last disastrous attempt at Confluendi , there was no chance Alpheo would expose himself to danger again, particularly not with an adversary cornered and desperate. After a tense exchange of messengers and arguments, the parlay was begrudgingly agreed to take place within Alpheo''s camp. This alone spoke volumes about the dire position of the besieged city. Walking into an enemy camp under such circumstances was an act of vulnerability, bordering on humiliation. For a military leader, it was a bitter blow to both pride and perception¡ªsuch scenes were typically conducted on neutral ground or outside the camp, away from the prying eyes of common soldiers, now instead he was forced to lower himself just for the opportunity to speak. . At the center of the camp, Alpheo sat composedly on a plain wooden chair, a modest table in front of him, its surface bare except for a jug of water and a single cup, nothing for his guest. He had chosen this spot intentionally, ensuring that the assembled soldiers lining the camp''s open grounds could watch the lord of the besieged city approach. The lord moved with the measured pace of someone determined to keep his dignity intact despite the circumstances. As he drew nearer, he stopped just short of the table, bowed curtly to Alpheo, then sat down opposite him, the polished steel of his armor catching the sunlight. Behind Alpheo stood Lord Xanthios, his battered but polished breastplate still showing faint traces of the bloodied battlefields he had fought on days before. The air shifted as the lord of the city, Vroghios, allowed his gaze to flick toward Xanthios. For a moment, their eyes locked. Xanthios''s face darkened, his features hardening into a murderous glare. Vroghios''s jaw tightened, and he looked away, unwilling to linger under the weight of Xanthios''s seething stare.He knew very well the hate he had for him. Alpheo, calm and indifferent to their silent exchange, leaned back slightly in his chair, giving no indication that he had noticed¡ªor cared¡ªabout the sparks flying between his vassal and his adversary. Vroghios cleared his throat, his voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of reluctance. "Your Grace, allow me to first congratulate you on your resounding victory. Few men could have orchestrated such a feat'''' Alpheo leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. His expression, while polite, had an unmistakable edge of impatience. "Spare me the pleasantries, Lord Vroghios," he said, his tone clipped. "We both know you''re not here to exchange compliments. Spell out what you want." Vroghios flinched ever so slightly at being reprimanded by a man less than half his age. His jaw tightened, but he quickly suppressed his irritation, bowing his head slightly. "Of course, Your Grace," he said, his voice faltering for a moment. His gaze dropped to the ground, whether out of humility or a calculated act. "I must admit, I have long admired your reputation, even from afar. It is not every day one turn the reins of a princedom from weakness to strenght, and I... I find myself in awe of your accomplishments." Alpheo fought the urge to roll his eyes, his fingers tapping lightly against the table in a display of his mounting irritation. He masked it with a thin smile, though his patience wore thin with every word that spilled from Vroghios''s mouth. "Get to the point, Lord Vroghios," Alpheo said, his voice cold but still controlled. Vroghios took a deep breath, "Your Grace," he began, his tone reverent, "I would be deeply honored if you would allow me the privilege of swearing my loyalty to a prince of your caliber. It would be my life''s greatest service to stand under your banner.'''' Alpheo raised a single brow, leaning back in his chair. His lips curved into a faint smile, but it held no warmth. "You misunderstand, Lord Vroghios. Loyalty is not mine to claim. It is my wife, Jasmine, who rules as the lawful sovereign of this realm. Any oaths you take would be sworn to her¡ªnot to me." His voice dropped slightly, the steel in his tone cutting through the air. "And for the record, flattery won''t get you far here, especially considering your situation." Vroghios visibly faltered, his shoulders stiffening, but before he could respond, Alpheo''s tone turned sharp, each word delivered with precision and weight. "You speak of loyalty, yet your history sings a different tune. You rebelled against your lawful lord, Arkawatt Veloni-isha, breaking your oaths and spilling the blood of those you were sworn to serve. When your rebellion failed, you turned your allegiance to a foreign throne, denying your previous vows without a second thought. Do you see the pattern here?" Alpheo leaned forward, his piercing gaze locking onto Vroghios. "You are a rebel, a traitor, and an oathbreaker. Take your pick. Whichever title you prefer, know that it defines you in the eyes of those who now hold your fate.'''' Alpheo''s expression hardened, his voice low and unyielding as he spoke. "Whatever salvation you hoped for from that bastard of a prince," he said, each word laced with cold certainty, "lies broken and scattered on the ground a few kilometers from here. I believe you saw the banners burning outside the camp the day after the battle. A fitting pyre for their ambitions¡ªand yours." Vroghios flinched, but Alpheo didn''t relent. "You''re alone now. Your walls won''t hold forever, and outside waits an army hungry for the taste of your blood. They don''t need orders to take what they think is owed." He leaned slightly forward, his gaze like a dagger. Vroghios raised a hand in supplication, his voice suddenly urgent. "There''s no need for such barbarism, Your Grace. I... I would be willing to swear an oath of loyalty to you, to put this enmity behind us and serve as your vassal. I can¡ª" Alpheo cut him off with a sharp laugh, more disdainful than amused. "Your oath? That isn''t worth the shit under my boots. It would be the third time you''ve sworn loyalty, and look where the first two led. How many lives were lost because your word meant nothing? Do you honestly think another oath from you will change anything?" Vroghios''s face turned a mottled shade of red, his frustration barely contained. "Then why," he demanded, his voice rising slightly, "did you even agree to this parlay if you think so little of my offer?" Alpheo leaned back in his chair, his gaze steady and his tone calm, but his words carried a weight that pressed down like an executioner''s blade. "I agreed to this parlay, Vroghios, to make my terms clear and leave no room for misinterpretation. You will find them hard to swallow, but they are fair." He let a moment linger before continuing, his voice cold as steel. "You will surrender yourself to Her Grace Jasmine Veloni-Isha, where a tribunal will judge you for your crimes. The city of Arduronaven will come under royal control, to be governed as she sees fit. Your eldest son will receive a lordship befitting his loyalty to the crown¡ªwhen it is earned¡ªand suitable marriages will be arranged for your daughters." For a brief, pregnant silence, Vroghios said nothing, his jaw tightening as if grappling with the enormity of the demands. Then, with a sudden burst of indignation, he stood, "Preposterous!" he spat, his face flushed with anger and infinity . "You dare strip my family of its legacy and offer us crumbs in return? You are no ruler¡ªyou are a tyrant!" At his outburst, the captain of Alpheo''s guard, standing just behind, instinctively placed his hand on his sword. Alpheo raised his hand sharply, stopping him. "No," he said quietly, his tone firm but calm, his eyes fixed on Vroghios. "Let him speak." Alpheo stood, his presence towering even though his voice remained measured. "You are not compelled to accept my terms," he said, the calm menace in his words more unnerving than a shout. "Return to your city if you wish. Face death with courage. But know this: the same fate will fall upon your family¡ªyour name erased, your legacy turned to ash." Vroghios turned on his heel, his cloak sweeping behind him as he strode toward the camp gates. His face was a mask of fury, but in his gait, there was something else¡ªhesitation, perhaps even defeat. Alpheo''s soldiers stood silent as he passed, their eyes tracking him with the quiet intensity of predators watching prey slip away. As the lord disappeared beyond the camp''s threshold, Alpheo remained seated, his fingers drumming idly on the table. He exhaled softly, more to himself than anyone present. "A father should set himself ablaze to spare his family, apparently I mistook the cloth from which he was cut. He isn''t a father¡ªjust a man with children." His words carried no anger, only disappointment, as though Vroghios had already been weighed, measured, and found wanting. Alpheo leaned back in his chair, his gaze lingering on the direction the lord had taken, knowing that the easy way forward was no longer possible for him . Chapter 238: Message to those insides Chapter 238: Message to those insides The days slipped by like a steady march, each one bringing the army closer to the final act of their siege. Outside the city of Arduronaven, Alpheo''s soldiers worked tirelessly, transforming the barren landscape into a theater of war. Engineers directed crews to haul timber,and the dirt filling path would pass through the ditch shielding the city''s walls. The onagers, finally having been dragged back to camp after the battle, resumed their relentless barrage. Stones the size of barrels crashed against the walls, sending up plumes of dust and chips of rock that rained down like hail upon the defenders. The air reverberated with the deep thrum of impact and the distant cries of the besieged. To the soldiers in Alpheo''s camp, the sound was a steady drumbeat of progress. Siege towers began to take shape, their skeletons of wood rising slowly under the efforts of carpenters and laborers. Ladders were prepared, and sharpened stakes were affixed to thei ground between the walls and the camps, creating wooden shields for the archer to take refuge in while shooting at those on the walls. After the parlay, the lord of Arduronaven, Vroghios, seemed to age a decade overnight. His once-proud bearing was diminished, replaced by a nervous energy that was plain to all who served him. The grim terms Alpheo had laid before him played endlessly in his mind, and though he had rejected them, the prince''s confidence had planted seeds of dread. The watch during the night was doubled as the lord feared for a night attack. Recruits filled the gaps left by the failed sortie, hastily conscripted and given armor stripped from the wounded, who were left to their fate in crowded infirmaries, where groans of pain mixed with the acrid scent of death were in everyone''s nose and ear. The morale of the city''s defenders was as fragile as it has ever been, as the knowledge of the outcome of the battle had reached everyone''s ears. Even the presence of the lord did little to improve morals, as their trust in holding the city was at an all-time low. ------------------ Two soldiers paced along the crumbling parapet of Arduronaven''s walls, their spears tapping rhythmically against the stone as they walked. The elder of the two, a wiry man with a streak of gray in his beard, squinted toward the horizon where the sun was beginning its slow descent. "Look at that," he muttered, motioning with his chin. "Sun''s almost gone. Won''t be long before those bastards start throwing rocks again." The younger soldier, a stocky lad with a perpetual scowl, groaned loudly. "Don''t remind me. I haven''t slept properly in days. Between the screaming, the damn engines, and the captain shouting orders every other minute, I''m ready to pass out standing." The older man chuckled, a rough, knowing sound that carried a hint of weariness. "You think this is bad? Twelve years ago, I was stuck in the Lord''s rebellion. When the campaign went to hell, and we holed up in the city, it was worse than this. They threw their soldiers at us three times a day, every day. You should count yourself lucky you haven''t had to fend off a storming attempt yet." "Yeah, well, at least they didn''t have boulders back then," the younger one shot back, stealing a nervous glance over the edge of the wall. "I swear, the last one hit so close I felt my teeth shake in my head." The older soldier shrugged, his grip tightening on his spear. "Better get used to it, boy. As long as that prince and his army are camped out there, the only thing coming our way is more trouble." The younger man snorted in frustration but didn''t argue. His eyes stayed fixed on the enemy camp as shadows stretched long over the fields. The two soldiers stood on the wall, waiting as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the landscape in hues of orange and deepening blue. The younger one shifted on his feet, his eyes darting nervously toward the enemy camp. But no boulders came, no screech of onagers to shake the air. Just silence, thick and uneasy. "Strange," the older man muttered, leaning on his spear. "I thought for sure they''d start hurling stones again by now." The younger soldier glanced over his shoulder. "You think they''re planning to attack the city?" he asked, his voice tight with apprehension The elder gave a sharp laugh, sparing a single glance at the camp. "With what? They''ve got no ladders, no towers outside. You can''t storm a wall with just enthusiasm" But then, suddenly, there was movement in the enemy lines¡ªmen gathering in clusters, dragging objects toward the open field. The younger soldier squinted, his heart hammering in his chest. "What are they doing now?" The answer came with a cacophony of noise. The enemy soldiers began taking potsand smashing them with maces and hammers in front of the walls. The racket echoed through the night like a chaotic drumbeat, metal clanging and clay shattering, the noise grating against the nerves of everyone within earshot. "What in all the gods'' names are they playing at now?" the younger one shouted, covering his ears. "Maybe they''ve run out of boulders," he muttered, his voice wavering slightly. "And they''re just doing this to keep us from sleeping? Wear us down before they try something?" The older man stroked his grizzled beard, his expression thoughtful but grim. "No that ruckus will be keeping their own soldiers awake. Maybe they are trying to scare us thinking they are going to attack?'''' Both men stood there, watching the chaos below. Neither could know that Alpheo had no grand siege tactics underway, nor any plans of psychological warfare beyond the obvious. What the prince was doing wasn''t about exhaustion or intimidation. The clamor, loud and unrelenting, was a deliberate message meant for the right ears among those in the cities. -------- Marcus adjusted his tattered cloak, pulling it tighter around his shoulders to shield himself from the cool night air that drifted through the square. The so-called refugee camp within Arduronaven was a grim cluster of tents and makeshift shelters, pressed into the city''s main square. To anyone else, Marcus and Lucius looked like just another pair of weary souls driven from their homes by Egil''s raids. But they were anything but that. Standing near the edge of a firepit, Marcus leaned casually against a post, his sharp eyes scanning the square. His posture was loose, but his gaze missed nothing: the guards patrolling the perimeter, the clusters of refugees too quiet to be genuine, the children darting between tents. He glanced toward Lucius, who crouched a few steps away, fiddling with a frayed strap on his worn boot. "Are you hearing it?" Marcus asked, his voice low and calm, barely audible above the crackle of the flames and the muffled hum of city life beyond the square. Lucius straightened, rolling his shoulders as though easing a knot of tension. "Yeah," he replied, his tone equally muted. He didn''t look at Marcus but instead let his gaze wander, pretending to study the movements of the refugees. "I''ve been hearing it for a while now." The faint clang of metal against metal drifted over the city walls, carried on the night air. To most, it was just another layer of noise in a restless city. But to men like Marcus and Lucius, it was a clear signal. For weeks, they had lived under the guise of refugees, enduring the same hardships as those genuinely displaced by war. It was a harsh, grinding existence, marked by cold nights and the gnawing pain of hunger that never truly left them. The meager rations and dehumanizing treatment had worn at their patience. They clung to the hope that this charade would end soon, that the call to action would finally come and deliver them from this misery. But now that the signal had been given, a cold, creeping dread settled over them. It wasn''t just an idea anymore; it was a moment that demanded action. For the first time, they truly understood what they were about to do. They weren''t armed soldiers marching into battle;they were starved and armed with little more than kitchen knives and scraps of resolve. The confidence they had bolstered during the long wait began to falter, replaced by the terrifying realization that they were about to pit themselves against soldiers with only the flimsiest of weapons and even flimsier hopes. Chapter 239: Final hour Chapter 239: Final hour Morning broke over the city of Arduronaven, bathing its grey stone walls in a pale, unforgiving light. The guards were out in full force, every inch of the ramparts bristling with men. Some leaned over the edge, squinting toward the horizon where the enemy encampment stirred with ominous activity. Others hurried back and forth along the battlements, carrying baskets of stones, bundles of arrows, and heavy jugs of water to quench the thirst of those who would soon face the onslaught. Down in the streets, the mood was no better. Civilians peeked from shuttered windows or huddled in doorways, their eyes wide with fear. Soldiers gathered in clusters, their nervous chatter betraying their mounting dread. Whispers of doubt spread like wildfire¡ªrumors that the city was surrounded, that no aid would come had reached the ears of every men. On the wall, Lord Vroghios moved among his soldiers, his polished armor gleaming delivering words of encouragement "Stand strong," he called out to a group preparing to lift a massive cauldron of boiling oil into place over the gate . "The walls have held for generations, and they will hold today! These invaders may bark, but they will break against the strength of Arduronaven!" His voice carried, and for a moment, a flicker of hope seemed to light in some of the soldiers'' eyes. But it was faint, quickly overshadowed by the grim reality they faced. Many of the men knew the truth: they were alone. The armies of their supposed allies had either fallen or abandoned them. The prince outside had crushed every sortie they had attempted, and his men were disciplined, relentless, and hungry for victory. Even now, the enemy camp buzzed with preparation, siege engines being readied and ranks of soldiers lining up in anticipation of the assault. --------------- Alpheo stood outside his camp, the crisp morning air biting at his face as he ran along the assembled ranks of his troops. His horse''s hooves pounded the earth in rhythm with his steady breath, and his eyes scanned the thousands of soldiers standing in formation. As he moved, the men watched him, some nodding, others straightening their posture as the prince passed by, after all for normal men, it was not everyday that one could look at the prince''s face. And many of them, who were not in the White Army , became surprised by how young he looked. He knew the weight of sieges¡ªhow they gnawed at morale and sapped strength. Time was an enemy as much as the walls of Arduronaven. Alpheo didn''t have the luxury of patience; his campaign had other objectives waiting to be claimed. This siege had to end swiftly, decisively. As soon as Alpheo felt the weight of countless eyes fixed on him, he drew a deep breath and began, his voice clear and commanding, yet laced with a calculated charisma: "Loyal subjects of her grace, the hour is upon us¡ªthe hour that shall define the righteous and unmask the cowardly. The turncloak who dares call himself a lord has scurried to his final refuge, trembling behind these walls, hiding from the justice that marches with us. He cowers, for he knows the truth. He faces not just an army but the army¡ªthe army that knows only victory. The prince of this so-called lord, sought to tear apart the harmony of our lands, to turn brother against brother, to burn the fields tended by her grace''s humble and faithful servants. He would have seen your sons and daughters slaughtered or condemned to fates far darker, all for the crown he lusts after¡ªa crown he would wear atop the ashes of your homes, for he would gladly burn it all if he could rule over those ashes. He is godless, sending armies to halt us, to stop the justice that the gods themselves have entrusted to us. But tell me, my brothers and sisters, where is that enemy now? Do you see their banners flying in triumph, or their swords raised in celebration of some grand victory? No. Their army lies in ruin. Their banners are ash, their swords shattered, and their souls now face the judgment of the gods, who weigh them to decide if they will ascend to the heavens or burn for eternity in the flames of their folly. And who was it that carried such justice to them? Who was it that cast them down so utterly?" His voice swelled, a clarion call to the spirits of his soldiers, as his eyes swept across their faces. "It was you. You, the vanguard of righteousness. You, the chosen hand of the gods'' will. And today, we shall finish what we started. Today, we bring that same justice to these walls, to this trembling rebel, and ensure that he, too, is judged." "Behind those walls lies the wealth of a man who hoarded while you toiled, who grew fat off the labor of those he betrayed. Silver, jewels¡ªtreasures stolen from the hands of the righteous¡ªall sit there, waiting for someone bold enough to take them. And who better to claim them than you, the victors of every battlefield, the unstoppable force that even the gods themselves seem to favor?" He let the words settle for a moment, the promise hanging in the air like a tantalizing scent. Then, with a sweep of his arm, he gestured toward the city. "They''re yours for the taking. Every coin, every goblet, every bauble¡ªit''s waiting. Waiting for your hands to pry it free from the grip of cowards. Those walls cannot keep you out. They cannot hold what is rightfully yours!" The soldiers stirred, some gripping their weapons tighter, others murmuring among themselves, their anticipation palpable. Alpheo took a step forward, his boots crunching on the dirt as he stood taller, his eyes blazing with purpose. "Today, you fight not just for duty, not just for glory, but for the rewards you have earned a hundred times over. The spoils of victory are there, just beyond those stones. All that remains is for you to reach out and take them!" The soldiers erupted into cheers, their voices rising like a wave across the camp, shaking the very air. Weapons clashed against shields, and men roared their approval of Alpheo''s words, their spirits ignited by the promise of glory and spoils. Among the throng, commanders moved quickly, calling their men into order, each taking their assigned units to prepare for the impending assault. Mostly nobles calling for their enlisted troops that survived the battlefield, while the white army with his clear division in squads , was much more efficient in rounding up their soldiers as in less than two minutes they were ready, while the nobles were still calling after their men. Six paths had been carefully constructed and filled over the past days, spanning the ditch that once protected the city. Each path led to a different section of the wall, providing six avenues for attack. Alpheo''s strategy was clear: stretch the defenders thin, force them to divide their strength, and make them vulnerable where their lines faltered. At the center of this carefully orchestrated assault stood a siege tower¡ªtaller than the city walls by few meters. This tower was destined for Asag''s flank, its height offering a distinct advantage in breaching the defenses by giving the archers on top an advantage in height over the enemy. Alpheo deliberately stretched his men across the battlefield, thinning his own lines to ensure the defenders could not mass their forces at any single point. His plan was to have the enemy stretch his troops thin, so that at least one flank would have a higher possibility of breaching through. From atop the walls, the defenders of Arduronaven gazed down at the imposing sight of their enemy. The city was surrounded, with no gaps in the lines for escape. Every direction revealed rows of enemy soldiers, siege tools, and the relentless drumbeat of war. Men scrambled along the battlements, clutching bows and crossbows, hauling barrels of stones, and filling buckets with water for the defenders to drink from But despite their preparations, nervous energy rippled through the defenders. Many were fresh recruits, hastily armed and poorly trained, their faces pale beneath their helmets. The tension was suffocating, each second stretching into an eternity as they awaited the inevitable. Arduronaven''s defenders clung to their positions, fingers tightening on their weapons, nerves fraying as the enemy''s lines seemed to press in closer with every beat. A sharp, commanding horn pierced the tense air, its reverberation carrying across the battlefield and up to the walls of Arduronaven. Within moments, a thunderous roar erupted as 2,000 of Alpheo''s soldiers surged forward, a tide of disciplined chaos. Ladders clattered on shoulders and shields held as they charged . Behind them, archers advanced in practiced formation, crouched low behind wheeled wooden barricades. The barricades, inched forward steadily, offering the archers cover as they prepared to unleash death upon the defenders. Quivers were slung across their backs, their bowstrings taut, eyes locked on the battlements above. The air became alive with movement. Soldiers carrying ladders pressed toward the walls, yelling in unison to drown out their fear. The barricaded archers halted just shy of range, setting up their positions with precision. Moments later, the first volley of arrows arched into the sky, casting fleeting shadows over the charging infantry before hurtling down toward the defenders above. On the walls, the defenders shouted warnings and braced for impact, the sudden, coordinated advance of Alpheo''s forces tightening the knot of fear that had gripped them since morning. The clash had finally begun on the 19th day from the start of the siege. Chapter 240: Siege of Arudonaven(1) Chapter 240: Siege of Arudonaven(1) "More arrows!" a man shouted hoarsely, his bowstring trembling as he nocked yet another shaft. He gestured urgently to the boy tasked with running arrows along the wall, the lad darting back and forth like a shadow amidst the chaos. With a sharp exhale and ignoring the kid running towards him, the archer leaned forward to take his shot, his aim fixed on the soldiers swarming up the ladders. His eyes narrowed as he sought his target¡ª Thwack. A sharp, sickening impact cut his focus short. The archer staggered back, a gasp clawing from his throat as an enemy arrow buried itself cleanly at the base of his neck. He dropped his bow, his hands clutching at the wound as crimson life spilled between his fingers. His knees buckled, and he sank to the ground, the light in his eyes dimming as his breath rattled away. "Come on... help me, gods," the man whispered, his prayer desperate and scattered as he climbed the swaying ladder. His left hand clung to the wooden rungs, the other clutching a spear. Each step felt heavier as he neared the top, the din of the battle above blending with his thundering heartbeat. Finally, he hoisted himself over the lip of the wall, breathless but determined. For a fleeting moment, his eyes locked with those of a defender¡ªa young soldier leaning over, trying to gauge the chaos below in a morbid interest to see the dead bodies down the wall. The climber knew he had no time. His spear fell through the air as his hand instinctively reached for the dagger strapped to his back. In a single fluid motion, he lunged, driving the blade upward beneath the defender''s chin. The steel pierced through flesh and bone, the blade emerging through the man''s jaw as his body went limp. But victory lasted only a heartbeat. A sharp, blinding pain shot through his side as a spear struck him hard. The chainmail absorbed the tip, sparing his life, but the force was enough to send him teetering. He toppled backward off the wall, the ground rushing up to meet him. The impact shattered his arm, the same one that had carried his spear moments ago. Dazed and broken, he had no time to even comprehend his fall before a stone, flung by a boy from above, struck his temple. His vision blurred, and then the world went dark, his prayers unanswered as he went directly to face the gods. Perhaps he was a pious man, his prayers now unanswered. Perhaps he had a family waiting beyond the walls, their hopes pinned on his return. Or maybe he was a condemned criminal, plucked from the gallows and promised survival in exchange for his service by his lord. It did not matter. On either side of the siege, men of similar stories and similar fears bled beneath different banners. They fought and died for causes greater than their understanding, for leaders they may never meet. Each life snuffed out was a thread severed from a story that could be a narrative on his own, ready by the thousands and adored by as many . ---------- The defenders on the walls hurled stones with all their might, their muscles straining as they sent jagged rocks crashing down on the climbing attackers. Most of them struck with brutal force, knocking men from ladders or crushing helmets as screams rose from below. Arrows whistled through the air, loosed in rapid succession by those stationed near the crenellations, their shafts aimed at the soldiers attempting to scale the walls. But the attackers were not without retaliation. Outside the walls, Alpheo''s archers crouched behind their mobile barricades, steadying their bows with practiced precision. They unleashed a relentless volley of arrows, each one arcing toward the defenders. The air became thick with the deadly exchange. The defenders ducked behind their parapets, shielding themselves from the sharp hail. The reprieve was brief, but it was enough. Below, the soldiers on the ladders took advantage of the moment. Gripping the wooden rungs tightly, they climbed with desperate speed, spurred on by the chance to reach the wall before the defenders returned to their positions. Vroghios stood atop the battlements, his sharp eyes scanning the chaos unfolding before him. Enemy soldiers surged toward the walls like an unrelenting tide, their ladders rising against the stone as archers loosed volleys from behind mobile barricades. For all the noise and bloodshed, something gnawed at his mind¡ªthere were no battering rams in sight. He turned his gaze toward the enemy''s sprawling forces, noting how Alpheo''s men were pressing hard on every side, stretching his own defenders thin. His eyes darted back to the gatehouse, where his own reserves stood in formation, waiting to repel a ram that wasn''t coming. "Damn it, " he muttered under his breath. "Ugor!" Vroghios roared, his voice cutting through the din. His second-in-command, a stout man with a bloodied face, rushed to his side. "Take the man on the gate !" Vroghios barked, gesturing toward the waiting men. "Get them to the walls¡ªnow! We don''t need them there if the bastards don''t have a ram!" The captain hesitated for only a moment before nodding and turning to issue the order. Vroghios gripped the cold stone of the battlements, his thoughts racing. This was not a defense; it was a desperate attempt to plug the cracks before the entire dam gave way. But he couldn''t risk leaving his walls undermanned while Alpheo''s forces swarmed them from all sides -------------. Lucius stood amidst the makeshift refugee camp, his gaze darting around the chaos of the city. The screams from the walls echoed in the distance, the anguished cries of dying men a grim symphony to the turmoil unfolding. Despite the commotion, the area around the camp was eerily mostly unguarded, as the only ones looking over the refugees were five men, and even those were wounded and only had clubs with nail on the plank of wood. Lucius''s sharp eyes met Marcus''s, who stood nearby with a tense expression. A subtle nod passed between them, and they turned to the others¡ªtwenty men in total, each one positioned discreetly among the throngs of displaced villagers. These were no ordinary refugees. Each man was a soldier ,that volunteered for this mission. Lucius crouched low, his hand tightening on the hilt of his blade. "We move quietly," he murmured to Marcus, his voice barely audible over the distant din. One of the disguised men, took a deep breath and stepped forward from the shadows of the refugee camp, as hours before he was the one that picked the shortest straw. The guards'' backs were turned at first, their attention drawn to the distant commotion at the walls, but one of them turned sharply, catching sight of him. "Oi! Stop right there," barked the guard, raising a hand to halt his approach. At his call, the other guards turned, their expressions a mix of irritation and mild suspicion. The wiry man raised his hands, palms open, and took another step forward. "Sorry, I¡ª" he stammered, his voice carrying a nervous tremor. "I''m starving. Haven''t eaten properly in days. Please, have you got anything to spare? Even scraps?" The guards exchanged glances, one of them shaking his head with a scowl. "Your meal will come in the afternoon, same as everyone else," one snapped, shooing the man away with an impatient wave of his hand. "Now get lost before I¡ª" He never finished the sentence. The wiry man surged forward in a flash, his hand darting to the dagger hidden beneath his tattered cloak. With a swift, brutal motion, he plunged it deep into the guard''s neck. A choked gurgle escaped the man''s lips as he crumpled to the ground, his life spilling out in crimson streams. All around them, men moved like shadows. They had discreetly circled the guards while the exchange took place, and at the first sign of violence, they sprang into action. One lunged at a guard from behind, wrapping an arm around his neck to stifle his shout while driving a dagger into his chest. Another instead plunged the dagger onto the man''s gut before taking out a second one and trusting onto his back were the heart should have been. The guards had no time to react, their shouts of alarm strangled before they could form. In moments, all five were sprawled lifeless on the ground, their blood pooling in the dirt. The refugees huddled in the square, their gaunt faces betraying hunger and despair, turned to watch the brutal scene unfold. They said nothing, their eyes wide but their mouths silent, thinking that perhaps hunger had gone at the head of some of them. These were the men that they would have to use, a crowd of starved peasants, without home and without hope. Lucius stepped forward, his bloodied dagger glinting in the dim light. His gaze swept over the huddled masses, taking in the hollow cheeks, the frail limbs, and the defeated postures of the men, women, and children who had endured weeks of neglect, even he was hungry as he had been barely fed. Just one meager meal a day, barely enough to keep them alive, who knew that their desperation would be the soldiers'' hope to win the city. "You''ve been starved like worms," Lucius began, his voice sharp but steady, carrying over the quiet murmurs. "Left to waste away while that fool of a lord sits on his walls pretending he can win.If this continue we are going to die, even if they repel the enemy what will happen to us when the food goes short?Will the lord feed us or his soldiers? The enemy outside," he gestured toward the wall, "they''ve promised us safety and food if we open the gate for them. Not scraps. Food. Whoever wishes to eat¡ªtruly eat till his stomach burst than may come with us." Chapter 241: Siege of Arduronaven(2) Chapter 241: Siege of Arduronaven(2) For a moment, silence reigned. The refugees exchanged glances, fear and uncertainty written on their faces. Lucius studied them, his expression unreadable. Will they follow, or do we have to finish this task alone? The thought flickered through his mind, the thought scaring him, as he had no confidence in completing the mission with 20 men ,worse once he fell he would certainly be tortured for any information he may have, as he was a spy. Suddendlly though it seemed that fate took pity on them as from among the crowd someone stepped forward, a boy no older than fourteen. He moved hesitantly at first but grew more confident with each step. His thin fingers wrapped around one of the daggers, and he straightened, his gaze meeting Lucius''s. Following his inquisitive gaze he muttered"I only had my father," the boy said, his voice trembling but defiant. "He died defending this city. But I''m going to starve whether it stands or falls. I''m done waiting to die." Lucius nodded, a flicker of approval in his eyes. The boy''s courage was a spark. One by one, others began to rise. A middle-aged man with a limp, wounded from the sortie and forgotten by the city. A woman clutching her toddler to her chest. Their numbers grew, and soon the quiet murmur turned to shouts. "We''re hungry!" one man cried, grabbing a club discarded on the ground. "We deserve bread too!" More voices joined, a swelling tide of anger and desperation. Alpheo''s soldiers tossed out more spare daggers, each weapon finding a pair of eager hands. Lucius raised his blade high above his head, his voice cutting through the chaotic scene like a blade. "To the gate!" he bellowed. "Follow me! Let''s take what''s ours!" Many stooped to pick up the daggers from the ground. Others scavenged from the lifeless bodies of the guards, pulling their clubs. Lucius led them, dagger in hand, his stride steady and commanding ,as behind him, the ragtag group grew in number, with more men, women, and even boys clutched whatever they could find. --------------- Vroghio''s pov We''re barely holding on, Vroghios thought grimly, his gaze sweeping over the different sections of the walls. His soldiers fought valiantly, holding the enemy at bay and ensuring no one gained a foothold atop the battlements. Arrows flew, spears thrust, and stones rained down, delivering heavy casualties to the attacking forces. Yet his own men fell too, their bodies slumping against the parapets .. Still, the losses didn''t weigh on him as they might have. In his mind, manpower wasn''t the issue¡ªhe had enough desperate souls to conscript into the defense of the city. The real problem was the weapons. As long as his men died inside the walls, their equipment could be reclaimed and pressed into the hands of another recruit. So virtually he would lose no soldiers. "Why are they still there?" he muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowing at the mounted troops positioned outside the enemy''s camp. They sat motionless, a disciplined and ominous presence on the horizon. Why the hell would that arrogant bastard keep his horsemen outside the fight? Did that youngster truly believe a sortie possible? The thought gave Vroghios pause. A mounted counterattack against the troops assaulting the walls would indeed be a clever move¡ªif only he had enough knights to carry it out. But he doesn''t know that, Vroghios reasoned. Still, the sight of the cavalry gnawed at his nerves, as if mocking his inability to act. Vroghios'' thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a distant, unified shouting. The sound grew louder, an unsettling chant that sent a chill down his spine. He spun around to find a crowd swelling behind him, marching with purpose toward the gate. Their cries echoed through the air, a mix of desperation and fury: "We need bread too!" "We are hungry!" For a moment, Vroghios stood frozen, overwhelmed by a wave of conflicting emotions¡ªanger at the audacity of the mob, confusion at how this had spiraled out of control, and a gnawing despair of what would happen. His eyes darted toward the gate, where twenty of his soldiers stood nervously, their spears gripped tightly as they looked up at the advancing crowd. The mob, a mixture of ragged refugees and civilians, surged forward with growing confidence, their chants growing louder and their numbers swelling. What in the gods'' names is happening? he thought, his mind racing. Do I crush them ? Do I even have the men for that? Grinding his teeth, Vroghios barked at a nearby aide. "You! Send word to the nearest positions¡ªtake men from their posts and bring them here, now!" As the messenger sprinted off to carry out the order, Vroghios tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword and descended from the walls. He could feel his heart pounding as he made his way toward the gate, the chants of the crowd growing deafening. I need to stop this madness before it spirals further, he thought grimly. But deep down, a pit of dread had formed. This wasn''t just hunger¡ªit was rebellion and he knew that the enemy outside had an hand in it. As Vroghios reached the base of the wall, one of his personal bodyguards approached quickly, leading a horse by its reins. Without hesitation, Vroghios mounted the animal, his polished armor glinting under the harsh sunlight. Behind him, the banner of his house snapped sharply in the wind. He spurred the horse forward, weaving through the chaotic press of soldiers scrambling to reinforce the gate. His steely gaze fixed on the twenty men standing in tight formation before the massive wooden doors. Their expressions mirrored his¡ªtense and uncertain as the crowd surged closer. The advancing throng of refugees, their chants still echoing, wavered slightly as Vroghios arrived. The sight of their lord on horseback, flanked by his banner, seemed to give them pause. But the momentum of their march carried them forward, a tide of desperation. "Stop!" Vroghios bellowed, his voice ringing out with authority. The horse beneath him pawed at the ground, adding weight to his command. "Go back to your camps! Return to your homes! This is not the way!You are going to be fed but not like this" The crowd slowed, their cries faltering as their eyes met the lord''s fiery glare. But even as they hesitated, a few men from Alpheo''s hidden force at the edges of the mob continued advancing. Still most stood unmoving on his position, even with Alpheo''s agents pushing them forward. ''''Fuck" Lucius muttered under his breath, scanning the crowd for any sign of momentum. His eyes darted frantically, landing on a jagged stone lying just within reach. Inspiration struck like a spark to dry tinder. Without hesitation, he snatched it up and turned to his companions, gesturing sharply toward the stones scattered around. His comrades immediately caught on, wordlessly picking up their own stones, their eyes hard with determination. At the forefront of the crowd, Lord Vroghios sat tall in the saddle emboldened that his presence alone enough to halt the refugees'' advance. His voice thundered over the restless murmurs. "Go back to your camps!" he commanded, the horse beneath him shifting uneasily. "I promise forgiveness for those who return. Think of your families! Many of them are on the walls now, defending this city from the enemy that wishes to destroy it!" The crowd hesitated, their hunger and desperation warring with the authority of the man before them. For a moment, it seemed Vroghios'' words might succeed. Then, from the back of the mob, a voice rang out like a crack of thunder. "SILENCE, TYRANT!" The shout was quickly echoed by others, all comrades of Lucius , making it appear the refugee''s work. Before Vroghios could respond, the air suddenly filled with the sharp crack of stones flying through the air. A hail of rocks struck him and his mount, one glancing off his polished breastplate, another grazing his cheek, drawing blood. His horse reared in pain and fright, its shrill neigh piercing the chaos. Hooves lashed out, forcing soldiers nearby to scramble for cover and to get out of the way. Lucius stepped forward, his voice cutting through the cacophony like a blade. "There''s no turning back now!" he shouted, his eyes blazing with urgency as he scanned the crowd. "You think the lord will forgive this? You think he''ll let you live after you''ve dared to defy him?!" The refugees hesitated, their defiance wavering as the weight of his words sank in. "The only thing waiting for you if you stop now is death!" Lucius continued, his voice rising with each word. "But if you push forward, if you fight for your lives, there''s hope! Food, freedom, a future for your children¡ªit''s all within your grasp, but only if you take it!" The murmurs among the crowd grew louder, anger reigniting in their faces. Slowly, hesitantly at first, but with growing confidence, they began to surge forward again, stones in hand, their desperation transformed into fury. Lucius clenched his fists and turned to his companions. "Let''s show them the way!" he barked, leading the charge toward the gate. The crowd surged like a tidal wave, their desperation and fury fueling their charge toward the soldiers stationed at the gate. Stones flew through the air, striking helmets and shields, while the cries of the advancing mass grew louder, drowning out the orders shouted by the soldiers trying to maintain their ground. On the gate, the twenty defenders wavered. Some raised their weapons feebly, but others, seeing the sheer numbers pressing toward them, began to falter. A few dropped their spears, panic overtaking their sense of duty, and turned to flee. Vroghios reined his horse sharply, the beast stamping and snorting as he wheeled it around. He cast a desperate glance over his shoulder at the teeming crowd. Hundreds of them¡ªmen, women, even boys¡ªcharged forward with a collective roar. His eyes flicked to the soldiers at the gate, disorganized and crumbling under the weight of the assault. The lord''s face twisted with anger and despair. The day is lost, he thought grimly. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed one of his bodyguards by the arm as the man tried to steady his own horse. "Ride!" Vroghios barked, his voice sharp with urgency. "Get to the walls and tell every man to retreat to the keep! Now!" The bodyguard nodded, his face pale as he run forward,reaching the walls to deliver the desperate order. Meanwhile, Vroghios turned his horse again, spurring it into a gallop as he rode back toward the safety of the inner city, leaving the chaos of the gate behind. The banner of his house falling down in the ground as hundreds of foot stepped on it , dirtying it with mud , shit and dirt . Chapter 242: Siege of Arduronaven(3) Chapter 242: Siege of Arduronaven(3) With the Rubicon already having been crossed, the crowd collided with the remaining soldiers like a wave crashing against a crumbling wall. Shouts and screams filled the air as desperation and rage overwhelmed whatever will to fight those few dozens of soldiers had, getting slaughtered where they stood. An infantry-man raised his spear defensively, but a man armed with a dagger darted under it, driving the blade into the soldier''s unprotected thigh. The soldier stumbled with a cry, only to be set upon by two others who wrestled him to the ground, their daggers flashing mercilessly. Nearby, another soldier swung his sword wildly, backing away as a woman with a wooden club studded with nails lunged at him. Her first strike glanced off his helmet, but the second found his shoulder, the nails biting through the chainmail. He screamed as she yanked the club free and swung again, this time connecting with his temple, sending him sprawling and dead. One soldier turned to flee, but a boy, no older than sixteen, tackled him to the ground. The boy screamed incoherently as he drove his dagger repeatedly into the soldier''s side, each thrust more forceful than the last. At the gate itself, a soldier frantically tried to hold his ground, parrying a blow from a club before stabbing forward with his sword. His blade struck home, but the press of bodies was too much. A dagger caught him under the arm, piercing his side, and he fell to his knees, gasping for breath as more figures swarmed over him. Blood splattered onto the cobblestones, and bodies of the defenders was smeared with dirt and gore. The remaining few who tried to fight were quickly overwhelmed, while most of those who fled were either caught or trampled underfoot by the surging crowd. The cries of the dying mingled with the victorious roars of the refugees, their rage and hunger driving them to claim the gate. Lucius gritted his teeth, gripping the heavy wooden bar locking the gate. With bloodied hands and aching arms, he heaved it upward. Sweat dripped down his face as he shouted over his shoulder, his voice hoarse but commanding. "Give way! Make space, all of you!" The refugees parted, forming a narrow path through the throng, their eyes wide as they realized what was happening. Some stumbled back, pressing themselves against the walls or clutching at their meager weapons. With the bar finally lifted, Lucius shoved the gate open, the heavy doors creaking wide to reveal the forces of Alpheo waiting just beyond. Almost immediately, the thunder of hooves filled the air as 180 cavalry surged forward, their banners snapping in the wind and their armor gleaming under the morning sun. The horses galloped through the gap created by the refugees, their riders maintaining tight formation, spears at the ready. The crowd watched in stunned silence as the cavalry passed, the rhythmic pounding of hooves echoing off the stone streets. Lucius stepped aside, letting the torrent of horsemen rush past him, his chest rising and falling heavily as he shouted, finally throwing away the identity he had nurtured for the past weeks: "For the prince!" The cavalry spread out into the city, their disciplined ranks weaving through the narrow streets, ready to secure the key locations of the rebel stronghold. The sight of them seemed to spark something in the refugees¡ªas many had friends and family defending the city, making them wonder if mercy would be shown to them or if it has been worth it to betray them all . ----------- The defenders on the wall were in disarray as the order came. Shouts carried from officers to soldiers: "Fall back to the keep! Retreat to the keep!" Panic mixed with urgency as they abandoned their positions, clambering down stairs, some stumbling in their haste. Once on the streets, they ran toward the central keep, their weapons clattering against armor or held tightly in white-knuckled grips. As they moved, their eyes darted nervously toward the outer gate. The sounds of chaos echoed from there¡ªshouting, clashing metal, and the unmistakable roar of a crowd. The sight of refugees engaged in combat with their comrades at the gate stopped some in their tracks. Before anyone could process what was happening, a deafening creak filled the air as the gate swung wide open. From the gap burst a flood of cavalry, their banners flying high and their horses pounding the ground with earth-shaking force. "Cavalry! They''re inside!" someone shouted, the cry laced with terror. ''''Gods help us,'''' another cried out while looking at the sky. The thundering wave of horsemen barreling through the streets gave the soldiers little choice. Panic overtook discipline as many dropped their weapons, scattering in all directions, desperately trying to avoid being trampled or skewered by the enemy riders. Those who hesitated or tried to hold their ground were cut down or ridden over, their cries drowned out by the cacophony of hooves and battle cries. The cavalry surged deeper into the city, carving a path toward its heart, while the defenders who could still move fled toward the keep, their ranks shattered and their morale destroyed. Lances lowered, their sharpened tips glinting in the sunlight. Soldiers attempting to raise their shields were too slow; the lances pierced through their armor with brutal force, impaling them and sending lifeless bodies sprawling into the dirt. Others screamed as the sheer impact of the charge knocked them backward, bones snapping under the weight of horse and rider. The heavy cavalry, clad in gleaming steel, smashed through the lines with the force of an hammer. Maces rose and fell, crushing helmets and skulls beneath their weight, blood spraying in crimson arcs. Axes swung , splitting skulls and cleaving into flesh and bone. One soldier, caught mid-turn, was struck by an axe to the side of his neck, the blow sending his head lolling unnaturally as his body crumpled to the ground. The lighter cavalry, too weaved through the lines, their swords and maces flashing in the air. Blades slashed across throats and torsos, severing tendons and spilling blood onto the cobblestones. One soldier raised his spear to fend off an attacker but was swiftly cut down, the cavalryman''s sword slicing through his arm before driving into his chest. Another, desperately trying to flee, was struck from behind, the curved blade opening his back with a savage blow. The narrow streets offered no escape; men were crushed against the cobblestones ground or trampled underfoot as the cavalry surged forward, relentless in their advance. By the time the cavalry had passed, the streets were littered with broken bodies, crushed weapons, and pools of blood soaking into the earth, as the city was effectively conquered by the cavalry''s charge. ------------- Within the dim confines of the keep, Lord Vroghios paced, his face a mask of tension. From the high windows, the sounds of misery and chaos echoed up from the streets below: the dying screams of soldiers, the clatter of hooves against cobblestones, the frantic cries of those fleeing the relentless cavalry. He clenched his fists, knowing that his city had been lost. In the main hall, the remnants of his forces trickled in, battered and bloodied, their numbers woefully few. Dozens of soldiers staggered into the keep, some dragging comrades too wounded to walk, others limping on broken legs or clutching torn arms. Their eyes were wide with fear, faces pale and streaked with grime and blood. These were the lucky ones¡ªthe survivors who had managed to escape the massacre in the streets. Vroghios stood by the great doors of the keep, his bodyguards at his side, watching grimly as the ragged remnants of his army assembled. He waited, his jaw tight, his fingers tapping against the pommel of his sword. Every soldier was precious now, and he needed as many as could still fight. Inside the keep, barely fifty men remained to defend it, as most of his forces had been stationed on the walls. Those that had fled the carnage outside were his last hope of holding out. The air in the keep was thick with tension and the stench of sweat and blood. Torches flickered, casting wavering shadows on the cold stone walls. The few soldiers who had reached safety huddled together, sharing hushed, fearful whispers as they glanced toward the doors as though expecting them to burst open at any moment. "We should close it, my lord " a guard urged from the door, panic clear in his voice. "Not yet," Vroghios barked, silencing him with a glare. His voice was firm, but his thoughts raced. I need every man. Every blade. Some time passed before the deep, rhythmic pounding of hooves grew louder, reverberating through the stone walls of the keep. Vroghios froze, his sharp gaze darting toward the open gate. The sound was unmistakable¡ªthe enemy cavalry was closing in. His heart sank seeing so little of his soldiers reaching the keep.He turned to the guards at the great doors. "Close it!" The guards didn''t need to be told twice. They surged forward, pushing the heavy doors with all their might. The wood groaned, hinges creaking as the massive gate swung inward. With a resounding thud, it slammed shut, sealing the keep along the fate of those that failed to reach it . Bolts were slid into place, and iron bars dropped into their brackets, fortifying the entrance. The guards worked quickly, their faces taut with fear, their movements hurried. Relief was palpable as the sound of hooves hammering the ground echoed just beyond the walls, too close for comfort. Yet as soon as the gates closed a common thought reached into the head of every man be it soldiers, knights, or the Lord himself . They were all at their last foot Chapter 243: Taking the city Chapter 243: Taking the city The sun was high above the city of Arduronaven when Alpheo rode through its battered gates, the sound of his horse''s hooves muffled by the debris and blood-soaked streets. He sat tall in his saddle, his polished armor glinting in the light, the silver-and-gold cloak of his wife''s house draped across his shoulders. His expression was stern, his gaze sweeping over the ruin that had once been the proud city of Arduronaven Behind him rode his commanders, their banners snapping in the breeze, bearing the sigils of houses loyal to his wife. Each lord carried themselves with the satisfaction of a campaign reaching its crescendo, forgetting that their aid in the campaign had been minimal. Alpheo''s column moved through the streets, flanked by their close guards . The golden steeds, resplendent in their gilded armor, marched in disciplined ranks, as they in fact had their spoils already counted so there was no need to debase themselves as the common footmen .Soldiers clad in mismatched gear laughed and shouted as they helped themselves to the spoils of war, raiding abandoned homes and overturning market stalls. Even Alpheo''s private army, renowned for their iron discipline and unyielding loyalty, had cast off their usual restraint. Though they moved with methodical precision, their faces betrayed an eagerness to claim their reward, as after weeks of besieging this city they were eager to take in their part. Looting was everywhere. Soldiers pulled goods from shops, their arms overflowing with stolen wares. Women screamed, some pleading for mercy, others bargaining to keep their families safe, as soldiers had no qualms in getting their victor''s due. Alpheo had given orders: no indiscriminate killing and no arson, the rest was permitted. But aside from these constraints, the city had been laid bare for the taking. His men seized food, weapons, gold, and more, dragging their prizes back to their camps or pocketing them as their spoils of war. The air was thick with the mingled smells of smoke, blood, and fear. Alpheo''s horse stepped over a discarded merchant''s chest, its precious contents scattered across the cobblestones. He barely spared it a glance, just wondering how much silver and copper was in there Ahead, he could see the keep rising like a grim monument in the city''s heart. It was his next destination, the final bastion of resistance. For now, the streets were his, claimed in blood and conquest, and his soldiers were making sure no one would dare dispute it. Alpheo''s horse slowed as he entered the city''s main square, a wide, open space now crowded with the trembling remnants of some of Arduronaven''s populace. These were the refugees¡ªthe desperate souls who had thrown open the gates in a bid to survive. Alpheo''s sharp gaze swept over them as he approached, his horse moving with a measured, almost disdainful gait. His commanders rode behind him, their expressions unreadable, while his guards flanked him, their hands resting warily on the hilts of their swords. From the dense crowd, twenty figures emerged hesitantly, their steps faltering as they moved forward. The tension among Alpheo''s guards was immediate, their hands tightening on their blades as they prepared for the slightest sign of treachery. "Hold," Alpheo commanded sharply, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. His guards froze, though their eyes stayed locked on the advancing figures. The twenty men moved closer, each step more hesitant than the last, until they finally stopped a few feet away. In a single motion, they dropped to their knees. Alpheo''s keen eyes studied the kneeling figures before him, and a flicker of recognition crossed his face. These were the soldiers he had smuggled into Arduronaven, disguised as refugees¡ªhis handpicked men who had turned the tide of this siege with their cunning and resolve. A small, satisfied smile played on his lips. "Rise," he said, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic warmth, though his tone retained its usual authority. "I know you, men. You were the key to this victory, the shadowed blade that opened the gates of this city for my army. Without you, this conquest would have been far more costly." The soldiers exchanged glances, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten, their faces lighting up with pride. They bowed even deeper, their voices murmuring gratitude as Alpheo continued. "You have done more than your duty. Such feats do not go unnoticed, nor unrewarded. Rest assured, your due will be worthy of what you''ve achieved here today." The kneeling men smiled broadly, some visibly fighting back tears of relief and joy. They knew the weight of their prince''s word and bowed even lower, their voices rising in unison, "Thank you,your majesty" Behind Alpheo, the assembled lords and commanders of his wife''s court exchanged quiet, uneasy glances. Though they made no move to voice their thoughts, their disdain was apparent in the stiffness of their postures and the faint flicker of disapproval in their eyes. To them, the conquest of Arduronaven through guile and treachery was not the path of glory or honor. A city taken by open siege, with steel clashing on the battlefield, was the way of true conquest. Yet they held their tongues, for now. Whatever their misgivings, Alpheo had delivered them victory. The city was theirs, its walls breached, its defenders scattered. Pragmatism dictated their silence. As Alpheo prepared to turn his horse, a voice rose from the group of kneeling men, hesitant yet firm. "Your grace, may I speak?" The interruption drew Alpheo''s sharp gaze, his highbrow rising as he surveyed the speaker. A moment passed before he inclined his head slightly, granting permission with a subtle gesture. The man, Lucius, stepped forward from the group, his demeanor humble but his tone steady. "My prince, for the past weeks, my men and I were barely fed . The people behind us," he gestured toward the refugees, "were enlisted in this cause with the promise that once the city fell, they would be fed. We ask that your word ensures they are granted that mercy." Alpheo''s features hardened slightly as he considered the request, his dark eyes narrowing in thought. Then, after a short pause, he gave a curt nod. "It will be done. The city''s stores will be opened to them. Their hunger will be sated, as promised." After all giving a bit of food costed him nothing Lucius bowed his head in gratitude but hesitated before stepping back. "There is one more matter, your grace" he said carefully. Alpheo''s gaze flickered again, though his tone carried a hint of impatience. "Speak, then." "Many among the defenders of this city," Lucius continued, his voice lowering, "are kin to these people. Brothers, fathers, husbands. They fought because they had no choice, not out of rebellion or defiance. We humbly ask if it would be possible to spare their lives." ''''Did you promise that too?'''' Alpheo asked briefly Lucius eyes trembled ''''N-no your grace..'''' A murmur rippled through the gathered crowd, the refugees daring to hope for clemency. At last, he spoke. "As your reward for the service you''ve rendered," he said slowly, "this mercy will be granted. Those who have surrendered and layd down their arms will be spared and released without arm , and if wounded they will be treated " The words were met with a wave of audible relief and gratitude. The refugees, overcome, prostrated themselves before him, their foreheads touching the ground. Cries of thanks and blessings for "His Grace" rose among them, a stark contrast to the grim atmosphere that had enveloped the square moments earlier. Alpheo watched them for a moment, his face a mask of detached composure, before turning his horse with a swift motion. Behind him, the lords exchanged more uneasy glances, but they held their silence once again As Alpheo turned his horse to depart, Sir Mereth, riding a short distance behind, cleared his throat and spoke up, his voice measured but edged with reservation. "Your Grace," the knight began, addressing Alpheo with the proper title, "the men you''ve promised mercy¡ªthey fought against us, spilled the blood of your loyal soldiers. Does such defiance not demand justice with blood?It would be unjust toward them to extend such treatment to their killers...especially given how they resisted us." Alpheo halted his horse and turned his gaze toward the knight, his expression unreadable. He held Sir Mereth in a brief, piercing stare before speaking, his tone calm but laced with authority. "The fact that we''ve conquered this city with so little bloodshed has put me in a merciful mood, Sir Mereth," Alpheo said, his words slow and deliberate. His eyes narrowed slightly as he continued, "Do you think your charge into a routing army, as admirable as it may have appeared, is the reason we stand victorious today?" Sir Mereth''s face reddened slightly, and he lowered his head, bowing in deference. "No, Your Grace," he murmured. "If it weren''t for these men infiltrating the city," Alpheo continued, gesturing subtly toward the kneeling group of Lucius and his comrades, "we would still be hurling our soldiers'' lives at those walls, hoping for a break. If the cost of this city''s fall is to spare a few hundred men and provide a few thousand mouths with meals, then I''ll pay that price with my eyes closed." His voice dropped into a softer, cutting tone. "Do you have any further objections, Sir Mereth?" The knight immediately bowed his head lower, his armor creaking slightly with the movement. "No, Your Grace," he replied, his tone contrite. "Good," Alpheo said curtly, turning his horse once more. "Then let us proceed. There is much to be done." Behind him, the lords exchanged brief glances but remained silent. Sir Mereth kept his gaze down, his jaw tight, as the prince led the procession forward, his authority unquestioned and his decisions final. Egil spurred his horse forward, the animal kicking up a cloud of dust as it closed the short distance to Alpheo. Leaning closer to the prince, Egil''s youthful face morphed into an happy smile , his blonde hair tousled beneath his helm. "It''s time someone shut that old man''s foul mouth" Egil muttered under his breath.His hand briefly tapped the hilt of his sword as if to emphasize his frustration. Alpheo turned his head slightly, his sharp gaze meeting Egil''s care-free one. Though he remained silent for a moment, his expression conveyed that he was already aware of the tension simmering between the two commanders. It had been present since the campaign''s start, a rivalry impossible to ignore. Sir Mereth''s staunch sense of honor and rigid adherence to chivalry clashed fiercely with Egil''s chaotic and pragmatic approach to war. The seasoned knight commander had long believed that Egil''s brash demeanor and unorthodox tactics disqualified him from the title of knight, a sentiment he had not hesitated to voice, albeit indirectly. Egil, for his part, seemed to revel in proving the old knight wrong at every opportunity. His greatest triumph¡ªa devastating victory in which his light cavalry annihilated a far larger force of heavily armored knights¡ªhad only served to deepen the rift between them. While Egil''s victory had cemented his reputation as a brilliant tactician among the younger soldiers, it had further antagonized Sir Mereth, who saw the unconventional tactics of skirmishing on horse as lacking the honor befitting true knighthood. Alpheo''s lips curved into a subtle, knowing smile, though his eyes betrayed no amusement. He placed a hand on Egil''s shoulder, his grip firm, a silent reminder of the discipline he expected from his commanders. "Egil," he said evenly, his voice low enough to avoid drawing the attention of the lords and men behind them, "we''ve just taken a city. Save your fights for the battlefield, not within my ranks." ''''Come on Alph, you know very well that some rivalry between commanders is a good thing, it spurn us forward'''' Alpheo simply didn''t aknowledge the statement with his attention as he moved his head the other way looking straight at the other two. "Jarza, Asag," Alpheo began, his tone commanding yet conversational, "when the soldiers are done enjoying their spoils, I want them to start fortifying our position around the keep. That''s the last ember burning before this city is truly ours." Asag groaned theatrically "I was hoping for a little rest. Surely a few hours to enjoy the fruits of victory isn''t too much to ask?" Alpheo let out a low chuckle, the corner of his lips twitching into a smirk. "I didn''t realize you were so delicate. Perhaps I should send you to a farm. I hear the cows could use another hand." Jarza barked a laugh, and Asag rolled his eyes, though his grin widened. "Fine, fine. I suppose I can push through for your sake." "You''re too kind," Alpheo said dryly"Perhaps next time, I''ll have cushions and sweet wine with some strawberry brought out to the battlefield just for you, to let you know not to overstretch yourself and take care of your health." The four men chuckled, their camaraderie briefly lightening their surroundings. Jarza straightened in his saddle, his grin fading into a look of determination. "Understood, Your Grace. We''ll see to it immediately." Asag nodded, his playful demeanor giving way to a soldier''s resolve. "The keep will be surrounded and secure before tomorrow night''s over." "Good," Alpheo said, satisfied. "Let''s finish this the way we''ve started¡ªefficiently." Chapter 244: Bonds Chapter 244: Bonds Two soldiers grunted as they hoisted a heavy stack of timber from the cart, sweat dripping from their brows in the noonday sun. The makeshift fortifications surrounding the enemy''s inner keep were already beginning to take shape¡ªbarricades, sharpened stakes, and wooden palisades designed to hold any sudden attempt at a breakout. It had been two days since Arduronaven fell, and the soldiers of Alpheo''s army worked tirelessly, fueled by both orders and their own hunger for profit. The first soldier, a wiry man with a crooked nose, set his bundle down with a loud thud and straightened his back, groaning. "I swear, if I see another copper coin, I''ll spit. Damn peasants didn''t have more than a few silvers between them." The second soldier, a broader man with a patchy beard, wiped his hands on his tunic and nodded. "Tell me about it. Thought we''d be walking out of here with enough gold to live like lords. What did I get? A sack of copper, few carrots, and a pair of boots that don''t even fit." Crooked Nose snorted, grabbing another plank. "Same here. Most of ''em barely had anything worth taking. It''s all in there." He jerked his head toward the imposing inner keep, its tall stone walls defiant despite being surrounded. "That''s where the real treasures are¡ªgold coins, jewelry, silks, good women." Patchy Beard nodded, his eyes narrowing at the keep. "Figures.They are on their last leg they are simply waiting for us to descend on them." Even after two days of looting Arduronaven and the battlefield outside its walls, the average soldier in Alpheo''s army found their personal spoils underwhelming. For all their efforts, most had barely managed to scrape together the equivalent of two months'' pay. The city''s common folk had little to offer beyond copper coins, a few tarnished silvers, and household trinkets, while the real wealth remained locked away in the inner keep The battlefield had offered more promising plunder: weapons, armor, and the occasional pouch of silver taken from fallen enemies. However, Alpheo''s decree had been clear¡ªspoils of war in the form of arms and armor were to be surrendered to his private stores. Instead of immediate coin, soldiers received signed paper bonds from their prince, promising a specific sum to be paid out after the campaign concluded. Though some soldiers grumbled about not holding their silver immediately, most of them trusted Alpheo. His reputation as a leader who honored his word and rewarded loyalty carried significant weight. Better this than a sack of worthless armor I can''t carry. Was the common thought passing on soldier''s head Still, the lack of tangible silver left a trace of saltiness in the air. As many would have preferred to hold the coins in their hand What began as mild discontent soon turned into a creative workaround. Soldiers started using their bonds as currency among themselves , for bettering or paying each other . Some even used them to buy extra rations . "Got a bond for five silver," Crooked nose spoke as bragged to his friend, shaking a slip of parchment in the air. "Won it off a poor bastard who thought he could out-roll me." Before long, a bustling micro-economy emerged, running almost entirely on Alpheo''s promises of future payment. As soldiers referred to the paper as "Alpheo''s Marks", though it was an economy that relied mostly on betting and repaying debts to each other. Crooked-Nose continued to boast to his companion, his voice loud enough to carry over the clatter of tools and the shuffling of wood. "I tell you! If lucks continue to favor me as she did until now and I will have enough to buy an horse once this war''s done," he said, smirking as he held up the parchment bond as if it were a royal decree. His friend meanwhile wasn''t listening. His face had gone pale, and his eyes darted behind Crooked-Nose before he quickly bent into a low bow. "What''s got you¡ª" Crooked-Nose began, turning with a half-formed sneer. But the words caught in his throat as he came face to face with none other than Prince Alpheo himself. Alpheo sat tall on his horse, his calm gaze fixed momentarily on the pair before it drifted down to the trench being dug before them. Crooked-Nose, suddenly aware of the parchment still in his hand, stuffed it hastily into his tunic and bent into a clumsy bow, his mouth still slightly open. "Y-your Grace," he stammered, eyes darting to the prince''s boots. Alpheo''s lips quirked into the faintest hint of a smile. "Don''t mind me. Return to your work," he said, his tone measured and even, as if speaking to a council rather than soldiers fumbling at their labor. The prince then turned his attention to the keep, his face growing serious again. His sharp gaze lingered on the sturdy stone walls and the banners still defiantly fluttering atop them Crooked-Nose and his companion, still frozen in their bows, exchanged nervous glances before hurriedly picking up their tools again, digging with newfound fervor as Alpheo''s presence loomed behind them. As Alpheo continued gazing at the keep, his voice suddenly broke the awkward silence. "What was it you were talking about just now?" Crooked-Nose froze mid-swing of his shovel, a bead of sweat instantly forming on his temple. He cleared his throat, fumbling for words. "J-just, uh... just some vulgar talk between soldiers, Your Grace. Nothing worth troubling you with." Alpheo turned his head slightly, a small smile playing on his lips. "Vulgar talk, you say? Before I was a prince, I was a common soldier like you that led men, many of the officers above you are familiar with me on a close basis. I''ve heard my share, and perhaps worse." Crooked-Nose straightened, his nervous chuckle breaking into a weak grin. "Well, uh... actually, I was just saying I won some marks yesterday, Your Grace." Alpheo''s brow arched sharply. "Marks?" His companion, standing stiffly beside him, quickly blurted out, "The bond, Your Grace! The papers you issued us after the battle, in exchange for the loot. We''ve been calling them marks, your grace''s marks more exactly ." Alpheo''s smile grew a touch wider as his gaze dropped to the trench again. He allowed a brief pause, as if savoring the thought. "Marks," he echoed, the word rolling off his tongue with faint amusement. His mind flicked to a distant memory,from a book he had read about the evolution of curreny . He recalled the Maritime Republic of Genoa''s ambitious attempt at introducing paper currency in the 12th century. Which unfortunately did not work for various reasons , amongst all the fact that such paper bonds were only accepted through some specific banks, as in fact it was not a currency for the average person, but instead as a promise to certain merchants that if they went to another bank under their firm, they would usually get the amount that was written in that bond. A method mostly used for merchants that would have long travel towards the holy land, as bringing with them their money was too dangerous. Remembering his past, Alpeho''s lips curled into a smirk, his amusement at the unintentional parallel evident. "Marks, indeed," he murmured, as if to himself.While thinking on the back of his mind to try and employ something similar. His sharp eyes were scanning the soldiers and their trench. Then he turned back to Crooked-Nose, who stood stiff as a pole, unsure whether to keep digging or stand at attention. Alpheo''s smile lingered, but his tone took on a more thoughtful edge. "I''ll leave you to your work," he said, his voice calm but steady. "But let me give you one piece of advice, soldier." Crooked-Nose blinked, his nervous grin fading as he hung on the prince''s words. "Luck," Alpheo continued, "can be a powerful ally... or a cruel deceiver. It''s blind, fickle, and never something to trust too much. A wise man uses luck when it comes his way but never leans on it. Keep that in mind." Crooked-Nose gulped, nodding quickly, his earlier bravado completely deflated. "Y-yes, Your Grace. Of course, Your Grace." Alpheo gave a small nod, the faintest flicker of amusement crossing his face at the soldier''s earnestness. "Good. Now, back to it." As he said so he moved away from the trench, letting the clatter of shovels and muted chatter of the soldiers fade behind him. As he walked through the busy encampment surrounding the keep, a familiar figure hurried into view¡ªVronsk, the towering and broad-shouldered head of his personal guard. The man''s brow was furrowed with concern, his armor glinting dully in the daylight as he jogged up to Alpheo''s side. "Your Grace," Vrosnk said, his voice low but thick with frustration, "where have you been? You disappeared without a word. I had half your guard scouring the camp for you." Alpheo turned slightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "I simply decided to take a walk," he replied, his tone light, almost teasing. Vrosnk''s brows furrowed deeper. "With respect, Your Grace," he said, his words measured but firm, "next time, I''d appreciate being informed before I send your guards running in circles." Alpheo exhaled softly, his expression relaxing as he resumed his pace. "Your diligence, as always, is noted and appreciated, old friend," he said, his words kind yet deliberately noncommittal to the request just made. Vrosnk opened his mouth as if to protest, but he quickly clamped it shut, swallowing any further retort. His shoulders stiffened as he fell in step a few paces behind Alpheo, clearly exasperated but unwilling to press the matter further. Unbeknownst to the loyal guard, Alpheo''s brief excursion had sparked a fresh idea¡ªone he intended to explore further and implement on a small scale as an experiment. Chapter 245: Fall of the soul Chapter 245: Fall of the soul The day of the assault dawned gray and heavy, the air thick with the kind of tension that pressed down on the shoulders of every soldier before the start of the meatgrinder. The skies above were eerily empty, the usual flocks of ravens that circled battlefields conspicuously absent. Far beyond the city walls, they feasted still on the banquet left for them by the Yarzats few days prior, when fleeing stragglers and discarded corpses littered the fields a few kilometers away. The silence in the skies only deepened the foreboding stillness. It was as if even nature itself held its breath, sensing the storm that was about to break. The small walls sorrounded the keep, was their last bastion, their last hope built on sands and ready to unravel at the slightest touch of reality. Behind the walls, the remaining embers of the army that defended the city now moved with the same hopeleness of a man going to work knowing that tomorrow he would die, each soldiers casting final glances at comrades who might not see another sunrise. Inside the city, the defenders were gripped by fear, their hearts heavy with the knowledge of what was coming. But outside, it was a different story. Alpheo''s men weren''t paralyzed by dread; they were restless, driven by the promise of victory. Many of them weren''t thinking about survival¡ªthey were thinking about the wealth waiting behind those walls. Craving to get their hands on the richness of a noble house that lingered for half a century On the walls of the keep, fewer than 200 men remained, a ragged and desperate force standing between the invaders and the heart of the city. Most were barely equipped, some clutching rusted spears or clubs , their tattered armor if they had any offering little protection. Among them were fewer than two dozen archers, each with a dwindling quiver of arrows¡ªjust enough, if rationed carefully, to last through the day. They were tired, hungry, and painfully aware of the odds stacked against them. Beyond the walls, an army of 1,800 soldiers stood ready. Every man wore chainmail that glinted under the pale daylight, and they carried weapons sharpened for the final assault. Even the lowest-ranked soldiers were better outfitted than the defenders, many wearing armor stripped from those that would need them no more. In the rear, rows of archers stood in formation, arrows nocked, awaiting the signal to unleash volleys in support of the advancing infantry. Alpheo sat on his warhorse at the back of the army, His commanders flanked him, their faces set with the excitement of the final assault. Alpheo''s hand rested on the pommel of his sword, poised to give the command that would unleash the fury of his soldiers. But before the words could leave his lips, the creak of wood caught his attention. The gates of the keep groaned open, and a single figure emerged¡ªa man clad in patched armor, clutching a white flag that fluttered weakly in the breeze. The army fell silent as the figure descended the slope, his movements hesitant yet deliberate. He stopped before Alpheo, dropped to his knees in the dirt, and raised his head to speak. "My lord sends word¡ª" Alpheo raised a hand, cutting him off sharply. "I am tired of your lord''s games," he declared, his voice carrying across the ranks of his soldiers. "If he wishes to talk, let him walk to me himself. Let him kneel before me and hear my terms.I had offered him before and he proudly said that he would fight, now that the time has come, he hesitate?Is a lord''s word could only when it comes from the knowledge of safety?" The emissary''s face paled, but Alpheo continued, his eyes narrowing. "You will tell him this: he has exactly one hourglass to appear. Should he fail to trudge from his keep and fall to my feet, I promise you, there will be no mercy. Not for him, and not for anyone who remains within those walls.Soldiers , servants and family alike" The man bowed his head, trembling, before scrambling to his feet and retreating toward the gate. The minutes dragged on with a tense stillness, and when Alpheo believed that he was to give the order after everything , the gates leading to the keep creaked open. A lone figure emerged. He was clad in battered armor that once might have shone with the wealth of a noble house, now dulled and scratched from weeks of siege and desperation. His helmet was tucked under his arm, revealing a weary, pale face with lines etched deep from sleepless nights and mounting dread. His steps were slow but steady, his armor clinking softly as he made his way down the slope, passing through the ranks of Alpheo''s soldiers. The army bristled as he passed, hundreds of hardened men glaring daggers at the lord of the city. Some gripped their weapons tighter, their disdain for the man who had resisted them for so long barely held in check. Others whispered among themselves, sneering at the image of a noble now forced to walk through the enemy''s lines like a common petitioner. He bore no banners, no prideful insignias of their house, only the reality of defeat etched into his stance. Vroghios hesitated for only a moment before his knees hit the dirt, his armor clanging as it met the ground. The proud lord bowed his head low, his hands trembling as he clasped them together in a pitiful plea. His voice, once firm and commanding, cracked with desperation as he began to speak. "Your Grace... I beg you... for mercy. Not for myself, but for my family. They do not deserve the fate that awaits them. Please..." He knew very well he had lost and right now the only thing he wished was for his house''name not to fall with him. Alpheo remained mounted, gazing down at Vroghios with a cold stare. He leaned slightly forward in his saddle, the faint curl of a smirk on his lips. "This look of hopelessness suits you well, Vroghios," Alpheo said, his voice smooth yet laced with contempt. "It''s a pity you didn''t adopt it from the start. Things might have gone differently." The kneeling lord flinched but kept his head bowed, unable to meet Alpheo''s piercing gaze. "You must remember," Alpheo continued, his tone turning sharper, "I offered you terms¡ªterms that were, I daresay, rather lenient, especially considering the crimes your family has committed over the years. And yet, you, in your arrogance, rejected them outright. You thought yourself better than me, better than my army, better than the reality that faced you.You were not of any of them..." Alpheo''s horse shifted slightly, the prince tilting his head as he continued. "But I think you now understand where that arrogance has led you, don''t you? Here. On your knees, in front of the man you thought you could defy. And behind me?" Alpheo gestured to the battered wall, his voice hardening. '''' walls that have crumbled¡ªpiece by piece, stone by stone¡ªjust as your pride has. It only needed a final push to fall completely." Alpheo sat tall upon his horse feed himself on the pride of his victory, his voice cutting through the tense air with the authority of a king and the venom of a serpent. "These are my final terms, Vroghios. There will be no further debate, no more games, no more pathetic attempts to salvage the unsalvageable. You will either accept them, or you will refuse. Accept, and your house will be spared to continue its existence. Refuse, and your house will fall, fighting bravely, I''m sure¡ª" his voice dipped into sarcasm, "¡ªbut utterly and irrevocably destroyed. The choice is yours, though I suspect your pride would prefer the latter." Vroghios flinched, his breathing shallow, his hands still clasped before him in submission. Alpheo leaned forward slightly, narrowing his eyes. "You have proven yourself, with this last act of desperation, guilty beyond question. You defied me when you had no right to do so. You gambled the lives of your people, squandered your soldiers, and failed. You, lord Vroghios, are hereby sentenced to death ." "Your eldest sons¡ªlike their father¡ªhave forfeited their right to live free. They will enter the church, along with your wife, to spend their days in prayer and penance for the crimes of their father and husband. Your daughters and your youngest male son, however, will be spared." He allowed the words to hang for a moment, then continued, his tone biting. "Your daughters will be married to men, chosen by the crown, their futures decided by the good graces of their conqueror. Your youngest son will retain a noble title, as he will be granted a lordship deemed appropriate when he comes of age by her grace'''' "As for your city," Alpheo said, gesturing broadly with one hand toward their sorroundings "it will no longer bear your banner. It will fly the standard of House Veloni-Isha. It will pay tribute to the royal house and to it alone. This is no longer your city, Vroghios¡ªit is of my wife." Alpheo''s lips curled into a cold smile, his gaze cutting into Vroghios like a blade. "So tell me, lord of nothing, will you choose mercy, or will you choose the ruin your arrogance has courted all along?" Vroghios bowed his head, his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed his teeth might crack. His voice was low, trembling with suppressed rage and humiliation. "I... accept." Alpheo regarded him for a moment, his expression unreadable save for the faintest flicker of satisfaction in his sharp gaze. He inclined his head, a regal nod that carried both dismissal and finality. "Wise of you." His tone, though calm, carried an edge that hinted at mockery. "You have one hour. Your soldiers are to disarm and leave the keep. At that time, you and your family will vacate the premises and place yourselves in the custody of my officers. Resist in any way, and mercy will be rescinded. Completely." Vroghios didn''t respond, his head still bowed, shoulders trembling with the weight of defeat. Alpheo''s lips curled into a faint, cold smile as he studied the broken man before him. His voice dropped to a quieter, more personal tone. "Your house will live on," he said, almost contemplatively. "Though what it will become... well, that depends on how wise your remaining son is. Without waiting for a response, Alpheo turned his horse, his dark cloak trailing behind him as he rejoined his commanders. Behind him, Vroghios remained on his knees, the echoes of Alpheo''s words a bitter taste in his mouth, as he was walking to his death simply to make sure that his house did not die with him, not knowing if it would ever rise again to the prominence it once had. Chapter 246: Crimson stump Chapter 246: Crimson stump The air in the dungeon was damp and stale, carrying the faint stench of mildew and despair. The faint torchlight flickered against the rough stone walls, casting long, distorted shadows that danced around the three men standing in grim silence. Alpheo stood at the center, his expression composed but sharp, his eyes scanning the dimly lit room with an air of dispassion. Beside him stood Jarza and Asag. Egil was notably absent, having indulged too deeply the night before in the spoils of their conquest mostly wine and maids that caught his eyes. The servants, for their part, relished in being chosen , knowing that the alternative was far worse. Many had surrendered themselves to the likes of Egil and others willingly, if only to avoid being prey to the unrestrained desires of the dozens of soldiers. Egil had taken full advantage, earning himself a debauched night and, by morning, a splitting hangover. Returning to the dugeon before Alpheo, chained to the wall, knelt the man who had once called himself lord of the city¡ªVroghios. He was a pathetic sight now, half his former height and robbed of his defiance. His once-proud armor had been stripped, leaving him in a white tunic. His hollow eyes, devoid of fire or hope, stared at Alpheo with the numb detachment of a man who had lost everything. Alpheo, tall and commanding, gazed down at the former lord with an almost clinical detachment. The silence stretched for a long moment, broken only by the faint drip of water echoing from somewhere deep in the dungeon. Alpheo shifted his weight slightly, his leather boots scraping against the cold stone floor as the defeated lord stared at him . Vroghios shifted weakly, his wrists not bound by any chain as his voice broke the heavy silence. "Is it time?" he asked, his tone flat, as if resignation had long replaced any hope or fear. Alpheo, standing tall and composed, regarded him with the faintest trace of amusement tinged with coldness. "For your execution? Not yet," he replied"In a few hours, it will commence. I trust you''ve already given your goodbyes?" Under the ever-watchful eyes of Alpheo''s guards, Vroghios had been permitted a last dinner with his family. It was a bittersweet affair, attended by his wife, two daughters, and youngest son. His two eldest absent sons , were still being held by Lechlian as hostages, which meant that the only thing they would receive would be the news of fall of the city and the information about its aftermath. In that evening, the fallen lord gave his goodbyes, recommendations and last whishes, mostly directed to his youngest son, who was far too young to understand the situation that he had now become the head of their house. His wife, her tears falling silently at first, broke down as she realized this would be her last night to nurture her son. She wept openly, knowing she would soon be sent to a temple to live out the rest of her days, her role in his life reduced to a memory. While his two daughters were mostly anxious about what would become of them, not being reasurred by the fact that their marriages would be decided by the killer of their father. After finishing remembering what would be his last night Vroghios finally broke the silence, his voice low and hoarse but edged with bitterness. "Why are you here? Have you come to taunt me in my final hours?" At his side, Jarza and Asag exchanged glances. The same question lingered in their minds. Alpheo, leaning slightly against the cold stone wall of the dungeon, gave a faint shake of his head. His voice, calm but tinged with a subtle sharpness, filled the damp air. "No, my lord, I''m not here to taunt you. I have no need to twist the knife¡ªit''s already been done." He paused, letting his words settle before continuing. "If I were in your position, with only hours left to live, I''d likely spend them thinking of two things." He straightened, folding his arms across his chest. "I''d think about my family¡ªwhat will become of them once I''m gone. And I''d think of the final words I''d say before the end. Perhaps, even, what I''d say to the man who took everything from me." The fallen lord''s expression hardened slightly at that, though he remained silent. "So, I suppose," Alpheo went on, his tone conversational but underpinned with a trace of gravity, "I came down here to see if you had any for me. Any last accusation or speech to deliver to me personally?I have always had the curiosity of knowing what would a man say to his killer before his death'''' Vroghios exhaled slowly, his voice subdued but still carrying a sharp edge. "I have no speech. Only a question." His gaze lifted to meet the prince''s, the hollowness in his eyes laced with a faint, stubborn glimmer. "No matter how much I think about it , it doesn''t make any sense. Why did you accept my surrender when I held up in the keep for a last stand? Why not finish it there?" Alpheo regarded him in silence for a moment, then slowly leaned forward, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. "Well, if you want to know my campaign isn''t over with you" he said, his tone cold but devoid of cruelty. "I had no trouble stepping over what you called a ''last stand'', as it was barely a bug on the ground. But it would''ve cost me soldier and time. Frankly, it would''ve been more bothersome than it was worth, it was also much more prestigious for me to have you surrender to me rather than die fighting." Vroghios''s shoulders sagged slightly at the answer, and he turned his head away, a bitter sigh escaping his lips. His silence was heavy, the resignation in his posture unmistakable. Alpheo straightened, realizing the conversation had reached its end. He took a step back, his boots scraping against the damp stone floor. "In a few hours, your execution will take place," he said, his voice as firm as stone. "I will send a priest down if you wish." "I have no need for them," Vroghios murmured, his gaze fixed on the far wall of the dungeon'''' the gods have forsaken me'''' Arrogant till the last even to his gods Alpheo inclined his head slightly, as though granting the man his final defiance. Without another word, he turned and strode out of the dungeon, his dark cloak trailing behind him. The heavy door groaned shut behind him, leaving Vroghios alone in the dim, flickering light for what would be his last hours alive . -------------- The royal army stood in disciplined formation, flanking the cobbled road leading from the keep to the square. Rows of soldiers, three deep, their polished armor reflecting the pale sunlight, created an imposing corridor of steel. Spears and banners bearing the sigil of House Veloni-Isha swayed gently in the faint breeze, the only sound aside from the quiet shuffle of boots and the low hum of murmured prayers. Down the road, a bound man in battered armor trudged forward, his steps heavy and labored. His wrists were shackled before him, chains clinking softly with each movement. Five soldiers flanked him, their expressions stoic as they kept their swords close and eyes watchful. Behind the group, two priests dressed in somber robes walked with measured steps, each holding a small handbell. The soft chime of the bells rang out as they prayed. The procession moved through the city, past streets that bore the raw scars of the sack. The buildings stood intact, as no fire was commenced, but eerily hollow, their inhabitants either gone or huddled within. A few brave souls peered from the safety of shuttered windows, their gazes fixed on the condemned man, that by fate was also their lords. The square ahead loomed vast and cold, its open space . Vroghios, walked on, his head held neither high in defiance nor low in shame At the center of the square, a small wooden platform had been hastily constructed, its rough planks hammered together with little regard for aesthetics. The platform rose only a few feet from the ground, but it was high enough to ensure all gathered could witness the execution. Around the base of the platform, the lords of Alpheo''s court sat astride their mounts, their armored forms gleaming in the pale sunlight. Even Caelor, who was wounded just half a week ago, made the effort to appear on the day his uncle would be avenged, knowing that he had to be present for this day. As among the lords gathered, one stood on the platform itself, his presence dominating the whole stage. Xanthios, gripped the haft of a massive axe as he awaited Vroghios. His sharp features were carved with restrained fury, his dark eyes locked on the stairs leading to the platform.Most lords were bewildered by the sight of a lord serving as the executioner, but they knew very well of Xanthios'' obsession against Vroghios, so mosts made the wise choice of keeping silence. It was a promise made by Alpheo himself: when the time came, it would be Xanthios who ended Vroghios''s life. Years earlier, during a rebellion, Vroghios had slain Xanthios''s brother in battle , and that bitter wound had festered ever since. Now, at long last, justice¡ªor vengeance¡ªwould be his. The wooden stairs creaked under Vroghios''s weight as the fallen lord climbed them slowly, his steps deliberate, heavy with resignation. Xanthios watched him with a predator''s focus, his knuckles whitening as they tightened around the axe. A faint, cold smile tugged at his lips, though it failed to reach his eyes. Xanthios and Vroghios locked eyes, the tension between them as palpable as the gathered silence of the crowd. Vroghios sneered, his lips curling in disdain. "So, the mighty Xanthios has lowered himself to the work of a common executioner,always knew you didn''t have the paste of nobility" he spat, his voice filled with scorn. Xanthios''s grip on the axe tightened, his voice a low growl. "I''ve waited twelve years for this moment. I''ll see your head roll for it.You can shout, scream , bawl anything that you will do, shall be a delight for me" The guards, impassive and unmoved, pushed Vroghios forward. He stumbled slightly but kept his dignity intact as he stepped up to the stump, lowering himself to his knees. With one last glance at Xanthios, he placed his neck upon the rough, stained wood, the sneer never quite leaving his face. Nearby, a man in a dark tabard stepped forward, holding a rolled parchment. He unfurled it with a snap, the document catching the faint breeze, and began to read aloud in a clear, steady voice: "By order of His Grace Alpheo of House Veloni-Isha, commander of the Royal Army, through the authority vested in him by Her Grace Jasmine of House Veloni-Isha, First of Her Name, Lord Vroghios Agonaris is hereby declared guilty of the crimes of oath-breaking, rebellion, betrayal, dishonorable conduct, corruption, and laesae maiestatis. For these grievous offenses against crown and realm, he is hereby sentenced to death. May the gods have mercy on his soul" As the word-bearer finished Xanthios leaned forward slightly, his eyes cold and filled with a quiet fury that had simmered for years. His voice was calm, but with an edge that could cut through the air. "Do you have any last words?" he asked, his grip tightening around the axe. Vroghios''s eyes flickered, his lips curling into a mocking smile. "Move it up" he sneered, his voice dripping with defiance, as if he had nothing left to lose. Xanthios didn''t flinch. Instead, he reached up and unclipped a heavy silver collar from around his neck. He opened the chest at the end of it and showed it to the soon to be dead man. "I''ll let you in on a little secret," Xanthios said, his voice low but carrying, as he leaned closer. "Part of Xorse is here right now, I am the only one that can see him . And he''s clamoring for your head.'''' "I always knew you were mad,you crazy bastard " he spat, shaking his head as if Xanthios''s revelation was beneath him. Xanthios didn''t respond. With a swift motion, he swung his axe high, muscles taut from years of training and hate. -Thud The blade came down in one clean arc, and with a sickening thud, it struck Vroghios''s neck. The head of the man rolled from the stump, a steady stream of blood splattering across the wooden ground. The severed head came to a rest just a few feet from where it had fallen, eyes still open, staring vacantly into the crowd that just witnessed his death and that of his house . Chapter 247: Pacifying the region Chapter 247: Pacifying the region Two weeks had passed since the fall of Arduronaven and the execution of Lord Vroghios. In those days, Alpheo had scarcely known rest. From dawn until the darkest hours of night, he immersed himself in the colossal task of solidifying control over the region and dealing with the mess he had caused . The weight of responsibility bore heavily on his shoulders, but the drive to complete what he had begun burned brighter. Immediately following the city''s capture, Alpheo had divided his army into two forces, sending them to the keeps and strongholds of Vroghios''s sworn lords. Their task was clear: extract oaths of loyalty to House Veloni-Isha or crush any defiance. Letters had been sent ahead, each marked with Alpheo''s seal, offering terms of fealty quite lenient as they exempted them from paying any tax for one year before resuming the previous rate of tribute they yearly paid to their lord. The first force, led by Shahab, achieved remarkable success. Three of the five lords who had served Vroghios quickly swore their loyalty, accepting the terms presented to them without resistance. With little more than a show of strength and diplomacy, and apparently the prestige that came from his house, Shahab managed to pacify the northern territories under Vroghios''s former dominion. As a gesture of submission, these newly sworn lords offered men to Alpheo''s army. While they were neither many nor well-equipped, they represented an acknowledgment of their allegiance.As soon as he received them Alpheo immediately got to work , equipping them with armor and weapons looted from the battlefield. They were promptly integrated into Xanthios''s forces, where they were now undergoing rigorous training to prepare them for the subsequent march he planned as soon as the entire army converged back into the city. The second army, under the command of Jarza and Asag, was tasked with securing the southern territories. Their mission was met with mixed results. The first of the two lordships they approached submitted without resistance, swearing fealty to Jasmine without hesitation. The second, however, proved far more obstinate, perhapse feeling like he could get better terms . Dismissing the army''s threats outright, the rebellious lord forced Jarza and Asag''s hand. Without further delay, the castle was stormed, its defenses overwhelmed, and the lord taken captive as a hostage along with the whole family. Alpheo read these details from the letter in his hands, his eyes scanning the neat script that described the campaign''s events. He gave a soft hum of acknowledgment at the reported casualties¡ªmercifully low, . Satisfied, he carefully set the letter aside, his gaze briefly lingering on the lines detailing the capture of the rebellious lord. Then, reaching for an empty parchment, he prepared to continue his work. Regarding the lord''s fate, killing them was not a beneficial choice, as he feared that killing a member of nobility could set the precedent that any possible future captors would use to cut off Alpheo''s head if he were the one captured.Of course , Vroghios was an exception given his crimes, but generally, nobility did not outrightly kill each other , as they tended to treat war like a game. Perhapse simply keeping them prisoners from life or forcing them to join the church is much better.He thought as he gave a little more thought to the case. Following that Alpheo raised his eyes from the parchment, catching sight of Ratto, his young squire of eleven years, standing nearby. The boy''s expression was a mix of curiosity and focus, his gaze fixed on another report¡ªthis one from the logistics head of the army. "What does it say?" Alpheo asked, his voice calm Ratto straightened, clearing his throat. "Mostly complaints" he began, glancing back at the report. "About the refugees. They''re putting a strain on the stored food supplies, and it''s starting to show. The provisions aren''t holding as well as we''d hoped." Alpheo leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping against the wooden table as he hummed in thought, his expression thoughtful but not overly concerned. His gaze drifted to the window, where the faint sounds of the camp outside carried on the wind. Ratto, sensing his liege''s deliberation, ventured hesitantly, "What should I write in reply?'''' Alpheo glanced at the growing stack of parchments on his desk and sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. The sheer weight of administrative tasks had been pressing down on him for days, and it showed in the faint shadows under his eyes. Ratto stood by his side, a quill in hand, ready to serve as his helper once more. Though only eleven, the boy had proven invaluable¡ªnot just as a squire, but as a capable assistant in matters requiring literacy and quick thinking. It was a skill that even some of Alpheo''s most loyal retainers lacked, and one that he relied on heavily. "Write this down, " Alpheo said, his voice steady as he paced the room. "Tell them we''re effectively dealing with it." "''Effectively dealing with it,''" Ratto repeated, dipping the quill into the ink and starting to scribble on the parchment. "And?" Alpheo paused, looking out the window at the bustling camp outside. "Add this¡ª''The problem won''t remain for long. Measures are already being taken to ensure stability.Add some bullshits about praising his work and keeping up the good work and give it to me to sign it." Ratto nodded, his tongue peeking out slightly in concentration as he carefully transcribed the words. "Got it. Anything else?" Alpheo shook his head and placed a hand briefly on the boy''s shoulder. "That''s enough for now. You''re doing well, Keep it up, you are of immense help to me right now." Ratto grinned faintly, pleased by the praise. Alpheo leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the reports spread across his desk. The matter of the refugees was a thorn in his side¡ªnearly two thousand displaced souls now reliant on his army''s supplies. They were a burden that could not be ignored, yet one that he couldn''t allow to cripple his campaign for. Of course, he was not one to let such issues fester without action. Behind the scenes, Alpheo had already begun to weave a solution, deftly playing the ambitions of the young nobles around him. With careful words and veiled promises, he had secured vocal commitments of aid for the refugees from their families The cost? Small favors, really¡ªtrivial in Alpheo''s eyes. Employing a handful of their sons or relatives in his court, granting them minor positions of honor, or promising fiefdoms in the form of modest villages by the campaign''s end. Such concessions were of little consequence to him, especially compared to the relief it brought to his current predicament. Alpheo tapped a quill against the edge of the desk, his smile fading into a knowing smirk. He was well aware that most of the promises made by these young nobles amounted to little more than jack shit, as they had no real power back to their families. The key lay in documentation. Letters were already being drafted¡ªpolite, formal, and unmistakably precise. These missives would find their way to the families of those nobles, outlining the pledges made in their name and the "small" tasks they had agreed to undertake: namely, hosting a few hundred refugees and ensuring their care for a few months. Of course, they could obviously refuse, such a modest request, which would mean publicly undermining their kin''s word. However they also had to take into consideration who the sender was. As these were not missives penned by some lowly court official or minor lord; they bore the seal and signature of their prince. The man who had crushed the rival prince''s ambitions, quelled a rebellion that had simmered for over a decade and delivered the head of the infamous turncoat lord, Vroghios Agonaris. A refusal to comply with a general so closely tied to the queen''s authority risked more than just dishonoring their family names; it could be seen as a failure to align with the crown while they were on the verge of success. Among the more astute members of the nobility, there was an even deeper layer to consider. They would recognize Alpheo''s letters as an olive branch extended to mend relations frayed by past slights. Many of these nobles had sent only token contingents to support Alpheo''s campaign¡ªsmall, poorly equipped forces, so this was their opportunity to realign once again with them. Alpheo glanced at Ratto again, his voice calm but edged with frustration. "Any word from Egil yet?" Ratto shuffled through the scattered parchments on the desk, his small hands moving quickly before pausing. He looked up and shook his head. "Nothing here." Alpheo let out a long sigh, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the wooden surface. "It''s been days since he disappeared without orders," he muttered, the memory of Egil''s poorly written note resurfacing in his mind. Scrawled hastily and barely legible, it had claimed he needed to reward his men with some pillaging¡ªa justification that left much to be desired. For a moment, Alpheo stared off into the distance, weighing his options. If the situation were different, he thought bitterly, he wouldn''t hesitate to ride after Egil and drag him back by the ear like a misbehaving child. But circumstances were rarely ideal. Egil''s men had performed admirably in recent weeks, and Alpheo begrudgingly admitted that their loyalty might waver without some reward to placate them. As much as he despised the lack of discipline, the crude plundering would have to suffice¡ªat least for now. This hadn''t come out of nowhere, after all. Egil had broached the idea of looting with him before, planting the seed in their earlier conversations. Alpheo had deliberately delayed his answer, weighing the risks and optics, and clearly, Egil had taken that as tacit approval to act. Still, there was one small mercy. Egil wasn''t entirely reckless. Alpheo took some comfort in knowing the man would know which villages to leave untouched, and which ones could be sacked without serious repercussions. That, at least, spared Alpheo the additional headache of cleaning up a possible political mess as he had a further aim for this campaign,that casually entertained what Egil''s know and love best, pillaging and raiding the countryside. Chapter 248: Call of loyalty Chapter 248: Call of loyalty Lord Ilbert Hervius of Bricaterun sat heavily on his ornate wooden throne, its carved lions staring out with regal indifference. The dim light from the high windows cast jagged shadows across the hall, where a single envoy from Prince Lechlian stood, his expression a mask of politeness barely concealing his urgency. "The Prince calls upon his loyal lords to rally once more," the envoy declared, his voice firm yet carrying a faint tremor. "He requires troops to assemble at the capital without delay, and so he demands from you to honor your dues made to his house and that you had renewed to him after his father ." Ilbert leaned forward slightly, his brow furrowed. He knew what the envoy didn''t dare spell out in too much detail. The prince''s forces had been gutted after the disastrous battle. Though Lechlian had managed to retreat with his life, his army was reduced to a mere 1,900 within a week. Of the losses, only 700 were accounted for in battle¡ªgruesome but not catastrophic for an army of that size. The real disaster laid in the aftermath. Disillusioned and scattered, hundreds of soldiers deserted during the retreat. Many broke away from the main force, wandering through the countryside. Some sought their native villages, while others turned to a darker path. Armed with weapons issued for war, they now haunted the roads and forests as bandits, probably already planning to aim against peasants and carriages passing through. To make matters worse, many lords close to Arduronaven, fearing for their own lands, had abandoned the prince''s cause entirely i They had retreated to their holdings, rallying their own forces for defense rather than risking further losses in the prince''s name. Ilbert had been one of them. And so from the nearly 2,000 men army, the actual force commanded by the prince was barely 1,100. "I see," Ilbert finally said, his tone measured as his fingers tapped the armrest of his throne. He hadn''t regretted his decision to return to Bricaterun after the prince''s retreat. Arduronaven''s fall had been a grim omen, and the winds of fortune were blowing stronger in the invader''s direction. Lord Ilbert offered a faint, calculated smile, gesturing for the envoy to continue. After a brief pause, he however raised his hand as if to forestall any further argument. "Please inform His Grace," Ilbert said, his voice heavy with an air of regret, "that I am, sadly and most unfortunately, unable to send any more men to his aid. My own forces are stretched thin, holding this land against the looming threat of invasion and raiding . As much as I desire to fulfill my duty, I cannot leave Bricaterun undefended." The envoy stiffened, his face tightening as he pressed his case. "My lord, if I may... you swore an oath to the prince. It binds all lords to stand together in the defense of the princedom. The very stability of our lands depends on your loyalty to this cause." Ilbert raised a brow, his lips curving into a thin smile. "And I am loyal," he said smoothly. "But tell me this¡ªshould I be leaving my subject''s homes open to plunder? Should I let their fields burn and their villages fall, just to honor an oath that our good prince has made increasingly difficult to uphold?" The envoy''s cheeks flushed as he tried a different approach. "If the enemy chooses to march through your lands, my lord, you won''t be able to hold them alone. Only united can we repel them. That is why the prince calls upon you now¡ªto prevent such a disaster from befalling us all." Ilbert leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands together as he gazed down at the envoy. His silence stretched just long enough to make the man shift uneasily under his scrutiny. Finally, the lord spoke, his tone patient, almost condescending. Lord Ilbert leaned forward on his throne, his sharp gaze locking onto the envoy. "Tell me, did His Grace answer Lord Vroghios'' call for aid? Surely the late lord must have sent some plea before his city fell and his head along." The envoy straightened his back, though his voice carried a note of discomfort as he replied. "His Grace would have loved nothing more than to send aid to Vroghios. Unfortunately, we had just suffered a defeat and were in the midst of reassembling our scattered forces. The situation was... precarious." Ilbert''s lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. "I see. So, while His Grace ''reassembled,'' Arduronaven fell. The city sacked, its people butchered. And Vroghios, executed like a common criminal." The envoy''s jaw tightened, but he quickly countered. "All the more reason to band together now, my lord. This is why His Grace calls upon you¡ªto prevent such a fate from falling upon the rest of the princedom." Ilbert chuckled darkly, his tone dripping with irony. "Reason to band together? No my dear sir, it is reason for me to remain here. To defend my lands, my people, from the ''enemy force'' that so effectively dismantled your prince''s campaign. I''ve seen what happens when unity fails. I''ve no intention of letting Bricaterun share in that fate." The boy-prince has taken the last boulder standing between him and the capital, Ilbert mused. Arduronaven fell, and with it, the last bastion of resistance before the crown city. He must be planning to march straight to its gates, he is young and hot-headed surely he wishes to capture the capital to hoard the glory . He snorted softly to himself, shaking his head.One defeat was enough for me. Let the boy test his mettle against the royal army, or whatever remnants Lechlian commands. Better for me to stay here, defend my fief, and keep my head attached to my shoulders. The capital is after all no simple conquest. Its walls are high, its coffers deep. If the young prince may be a walking storm,the capital is certainly a mountain and yet the safest place it to stay away from its winds. Breaking the lord''s line of thought , the heavy doors of the hall swung open with a resounding creak, interrupting the tense silence within. A man stepped inside, his clothes simple and travel-worn, a dark cloak draped over his shoulders. He moved with urgency, dropping to one knee as he reached the center of the room. "Forgive me for entering without leave, my lord," he said, his voice breathless yet steady. "But I come bearing urgent news¡ªthe scouts have sighted the Yarzat''s army marching toward us." The hall froze. For a heartbeat, no one spoke or moved. The air hung heavy with tension, as silent and still as a crypt. Ilbert''s eyes narrowed "Did the scouts find a detachment, or is it the whole force?" The envoy turned back, a flicker of unease crossing his face. "We sighted the vanguard, my lord," he said, shaking his head. "The rest of the army is likely not far behind." Ilbert''s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. So the bastard never aimed for the capital after all. He''s coming here. The lord cursed silently, his teeth grinding together. Damn him. He wants this hall as another trophy to parade under his cursed banner. Then Ilbert shot up from his throne, his face grim. "Gil!" he barked, his voice echoing through the chamber as he called one of his sworn lord. "Announce a curfew immediately! Mobilize the citizenry at once¡ªI want ditches dug outside the walls before nightfall. Send riders across the countryside," he continued his voice a clipped growl. "Confiscate any food stores you find and bring them here. I won''t let the enemy feed themselves at our expense." Following the order Gill quickly bowed before getting into work. The room erupted into movement as knights and attendants rushed to carry out their tasks. Ilbert stood still for a moment, his jaw set and his hands clenched into fists. So much from staying out of trouble, when trouble comes your way... Ilbert''s voice cut through the chaos like the swing of a blade. "I want every citizen we can equip stationed on the walls. If they can hold a spear, get them up there." His gaze turned to one of his knights. "Order the blacksmith to melt down any scrap iron, horseshoes, hinges¡ªwhatever he can find¡ªand forge them into weapons. We need every blade and spear we can muster." He turned back to the gathered men. "I want the walls bristling with defenders¡ªevery man we can spare, no exceptions." His tone brooked no argument. As the hall emptied with knights and attendants scrambling to follow his commands, Ilbert''s sharp eyes landed on the envoy, who stood silently near the doorway. "I hope your prince," Ilbert said coldly, "won''t make the same mistake he made with Arduronaven. Another lapse like that, and there won''t be a princedom that will rise to stand with him; losing one noble is already bad; must I spell out the consequence of losing two?" The envoy bowed low, his face impassive, everyone knew that if the prince did not show any effort in aiding his lords for the second time , then they would have no need of any other reason to refuse to answer the call at arms of their liege . "I will relay your concerns to His Grace immediately, my lord." Without another word, he turned and departed the hall. Ilbert stood there for a moment, watching the envoy leave, moving his legs away from the hall while refusing to answer his question, something that made him quite worried Chapter 249: From the sands (1) Chapter 249: From the sands (1) A woman walked gracefully through the towering arches of the Eternal Palace of Khairo, her footsteps echoing softly against the polished marble floors. The palace was a marvel of grandeur, its golden domes glinting in the sunlight that filtered through windows. Pillars of alabaster and jade lined the expansive hallways, and the air was thick with the scent of rare incense burning in ornate braziers. This was the kind of wealth of a nation blessed by a dynasty that stood for half a millenia , blessed by their god. Her hair, blacker than the deepest night, cascaded down her back like a silken veil, accentuating the regal poise she carried. She was Shuaa, the High Ecclesiastic, a vessel of divine authority and wisdom, and now a mother-to-be. Her hand instinctively rested on her rounded stomach, her skin glowing with the vitality of pregnancy¡ªa gift she cherished as the blessed carrier of her beloved god''s son. Her thoughts, however, were not with herself. What are you thinking, my love? she wondered, her mind turning to the one whose absence had left a void in her heart. She walked slowly, the weight of both her unborn child and her contemplations bearing on her steps. His father blessed him with a good omen, she mused, her heart swelling with both pride and unease. He will be the eagle that cuts down the four pigs, that fed themselves out of their father''s carcass.He is the chosen one... The omens had promised triumph, foretold that her beloved would finally bring to heel those arrogant upstarts who dared to rival their might. For generations, these challengers had defied the Sultanate''s divine right to dominion¡ªa defiance that her beloved, the Sultan, would at last extinguish. All winter, his vassals have trained their soldiers, preparing them for the invasion. Each day spent in drill and discipline, every spear sharpened and sabers polished, had been dedicated to the sacred task. But now, just as the time to strike had come, he had changed course. Shuaa''s brow furrowed, her steps pausing as she stood before a towering mosaic of their god''s avatar bestowing victory upon a kneeling general. Why, my love? she wondered silently. Why alter your path when destiny itself was on your side? The uncertainty gnawed at her, yet she forced herself to trust in him. He would not act without reason, not with the blessings of the heavens guiding him. The heavy doors of the throne hall groaned open as Shuaa barged in the guards outside not even daring to stop the sultan''s favorite. The hall fell silent, save for the murmurs of courtiers that hushed one by one as her presence became undeniable. The nobles turned toward her, their gazes narrowing when she entered their sight. Bayezid, the Sultan of Azania, paused mid-sentence. His sharp, amber eyes shifted from the lesser lord standing before him to Shuaa''s face, and then, inevitably, lowered to the curve of her round stomach. His gaze lingered there for a heartbeat longer. The Sultan, forty years old and every bit the ruler destined to sit on Azania''s grand throne, exuded authority effortlessly. His short beard was neatly trimmed, his tanned skin glowing faintly in the golden light of the hall''s high chandeliers. A regal white turban adorned his head, hiding the length of his brown hair that fell to his shoulders in private. He was fair of face, his features finely chiseled, the kind that inspired both admiration and fear in equal measure. His robes shimmered with opulence, the finest silks embroidered with intricate patterns in gold thread. Gems gleamed along the edges of his collar, and the royal sash across his chest boasted the vibrant emerald-green hue of the Sultanate''s banner. Golden bangles adorned his wrists, each one subtly clinking as he shifted in his throne, a display of wealth and power that no one could miss. "Shuaa," Bayezid spoke again, his voice steady but with a slight edge of curiosity, "Did you finally receive another omen?" It had been months since the offerings made after what the romelians calls The Catastrophy of Arlania, when the Sultan''s proxy forces in the stead of the prince of Arlania, had secured a decisive victory, killing Gratios and plunging the Romelians into civil war. Shuaa, the High Ecclesiastic, had been revered for interpreting a divine sign from the Father of Light himself, one that foretold glory for the Sultanate. But since that fateful day, the heavens had remained silent¡ªa point not lost on the court, and that her enemies made use of many times. Shuaa shook her head, lowering her gaze briefly in deference before meeting Bayezid''s eyes once more. "No, my beloved Sultan," she said, her voice smooth and deliberate, each word wrapped in humility and poise. "I have not been graced with another omen. The Father has been quiet since the offerings were made months ago." Her hands, resting lightly over the curve of her stomach, tightened for a moment before she spoke again. "But I have come not to speak of divine signs," she continued, her tone respectful but firm. "I have come to understand whether the rumors that have reached my ears are baseless insinuations... or the truth." Bayezid leaned back slightly, his fingers brushing over the gilded armrests of his throne. His expression remained unreadable, but the tension in the room was palpable. Shuaa drew a breath, then spoke with the eloquence befitting her station. "My Sultan," she began, "you were destined to walk the path paved by your high father, a road of iron and ambition, built to lead you to triumph over the arrogant Romelians once and for all. To humble them as they so richly deserve.Is it true that you ar-?" Before Bayezid could respond, Pasha Mamud stepped forward, his richly embroidered kaftan swaying with the motion. His face was stern, his tone sharp as a blade. "How dare an ecclesiarch presume to interject in the matters of the holy Sultan? Is it not enough to interpret omens and serve the divine? Must you now believe yourself fit to guide his hand as well?" Shuaa turned her gaze slowly toward Mamud, her expression calm yet steely. Among her opponents in court, Mamud had always been the most vocal, using every opportunity to undermine her authority. Though she held the favor of the Sultan, Mamud seemed determined to remind her, and everyone else, of the limits of her station. "My place," Shuaa began smoothly, her voice steady but with an unmistakable edge, "is to serve the will of the Father . And it was the Father who prophesied victory for my beloved Sultan against the arrogant foes in the east." Mamud smirked, tilting his head. "Ah yes," he replied, his voice dripping with condescension. "You speak of the omen¡ªfour pigs choking on their mother''s bone, was it not?" Shuaa''s eyes narrowed slightly, sensing the trap he was laying. She kept her composure, though the weight of the court''s gaze pressed heavily upon her. "Indeed, I speak of that omen," she said, her voice calm but firm. "And soon after, Romelia shattered, breaking into civil war. '''' Mamud nodded, his smirk widening. "Three factions, three leaders¡ªeach son vying for control, as the Father foretold, yes," he said, taking a small step forward. "But the prophecy spoke of four pigs, did it not? So I ask you, High Ecclesiarch¡ªwhere is the fourth?I believe we have all seen three , yet one is missing" A murmur ran through the nobles, their curiosity and unease growing. Shuaa held Mamud''s gaze, her fingers pressing lightly against her stomach as she silently measured her response, for that question she could not find one . Shuaa ignored Mamud''s taunts entirely, turning her full attention to the Sultan. Her expression softened as she addressed him directly, her voice resonant and filled with conviction. "My beloved Sultan," she began, her tone reverent yet firm, "the Father of Light has foretold your triumph. It is you who will bring an end to Romelian dominance over the East. You shall rise as the Sultan who begins Azania''s ascendancy over the entire continent¡ªa legacy foretold, a destiny only you can claim." Bayezid''s eyes locked onto hers, his expression impassive but his brow furrowed slightly as if weighing her words. Before he could respond, Mamud stepped forward again, turning toward the Sultan with an air of practiced deference. "Your Radiance," he interjected, his voice measured and persuasive, "if this omen is indeed as the High Ecclesiarch interprets, then it will hold true a year from now as well. Let the heretics continue to bleed each other dry, as they surely will. Meanwhile, our strength is better spent securing the southern borders and ensuring our other enemies do not seize this moment to strike." Mamud spread his hands as if to present a logical alternative. "Patience, my Sultan, is also a virtue. Why risk the uncertain when time is already on our side?" The room fell silent, all eyes turning to Bayezid, awaiting his decision. Shuaa, standing tall, met the Sultan''s gaze unwaveringly, her faith in him as unshakable as her belief in the prophecy. Mamud, meanwhile, watched the Sultan closely, his expression cool and composed, masking the satisfaction of his well-timed argument. Chapter 250: From the sands(2) Chapter 250: From the sands(2) The atmosphere in the grand throne hall was thick with tension, as if the air itself held its breath. Every courtier, noble, and official present stood silent, their gazes shifting toward Sultan Bayezid. It was clear to all that his decision was what really mattered , determining to which faction he would lend his favor. Shuaa remained resolute, her dark eyes unwavering as they rested on her beloved. She was not alone in this confrontation; many among the nobles, particularly the most devout, stood firmly on her side. Their loyalty to the high ecclesiarch was strengthened by their faith in her divine connection and the promise of a blessed heir growing within her,as many were among the first who witnessed her powers and blessing. Yet, not all shared their conviction. Another faction had formed, aligning themselves with Pasha Mamud. These were the pragmatic, the politically calculating, or simply those who resented the power and influence Shuaa wielded as the High Ecclesiarch and the Sultan''s consort. To them, her rise symbolized an imbalance in court politics, and they rallied behind Mamud as a counterweight. The infighting in the Sultan''s court, though cloaked in debates of omens and military strategy, had its roots deeply entrenched in the question of succession. With Bayezid''s vast harem producing many heirs, tensions simmered among the nobles, each fearing the rise of a particular faction that might tilt the balance of power. The favor shown to Shuaa, with her influence as the High Ecclesiarch and the mother of the Sultan''s unborn child, further fueled these fears. Whispers of a potential return to the dreaded era of the God Sultan stirred unease. In those dark times, the power of the Sultan and the High Ecclesiarch had been one and the same, culminating in unchecked tyranny. The most infamous of these rulers, Abraham the Terrible also known as the Frivolous , wielded divine authority as a weapon against dissent. Declaring heretics of any noble family that opposed him. Noble daughters were seized as concubines under the pretext of devotion, and those who fell from favor, be it politically or in bed , were condemned to agonizing deaths by fire. Entire families, too alongside their daughters were cast into the flames, their ashes proclaimed sacrifices to the Fire and Sun God. Such atrocities could not stand indefinitely, and a long-coming rebellion erupted, led by nobles exasperated by decades of abuse. And so the Rebellion of the Moon and the Sun , commenced and then two years later ended with the rebel''s victory and Abraham''s capture. Since it was considered heresy to spill the blood of the sultan, the enraged nobility buried him alive beneath the burning sands of the Kush Desert, a punishment as merciless as his reign. Yet victory brought only temporary unity, for the question of succession plunged the Sultanate into further chaos. Noble factions warred to install their chosen heir, each maneuvering to ensure a sultan who would limit ecclesiastical power and prevent another Abraham. Ultimately, the rebellion reshaped the power of the enternal palace. The Sultan retained supreme rule over temporal matters, while the High Ecclesiarch presided over the spiritual, hence the name of the rebellion . This balance, while fragile, had held for two centuries, and now many feared that with if the child inside Shuaa was a male, the two powers could once again reunite in one. The Sultan finally broke the tense silence, his deep voice cutting through the charged atmosphere. "The instability within Romelia will not end in a single year," Bayezid declared, his gaze sweeping across the divided court. "While I would wish for nothing more than to march east and fulfill my high father''s plan for me of bringing the Romelians to their knees, the reality before us cannot be ignored. Another horde has entered our blessed lands, raiding and pillaging the soil consecrated by my high father." Shuaa, her voice measured but laced with urgency, stepped forward. "Heretics from the west have pillaged our lands every spring, my beloved. They come and go like a passing storm, leaving destruction in their wake. What makes this different from before?" Pasha Mumad interjected swiftly, his tone sharp. "This is no passing storm, High Ecclesiarch. These are not mere raiders but a united horde, one that has named a horse king to lead them. This is no temporary incursion¡ªthey seek to migrate into our lands, to claim them for themselves." He turned to the Sultan with a grave expression. "Villages and cities along their path have already been put to the sword. If we allow this to continue unchecked, how long before others in that wretched lands of Barthai get the same idea? How long before they see Azania as weak and ripe for the taking?Must I spell out to a woman what would dozens of hordes attacking our fertile field means for the sultanate?" The court murmured as Mumad''s words resonated with many. Shuaa, however, stood her ground, her sharp eyes fixed on Bayezid. Yet even she could not dismiss the gravity of what Mumad had said and she couldn''t certainly just say to ignore them. She straightened her posture as she thought of a response, her voice carrying a tempered resolve. "My beloved, surely your leal vassals could deal with these invaders. Their loyalty and strength are blessings from the Fire and Sun God. It would free you to¡ª" Bayezid''s eyes sharpened, his expression hardening like tempered steel. His voice was low but commanding, a thunderous calm. "Are you rebutting me, High Ecclesiarch?Do you believe that I could allow enemy to ravage my land while, I am campaign outside my border?" Shuaa''s gaze faltered under the weight of his stern demeanor. Slowly, she lowered her head, her hands clasping in front of her bulging stomach. "Forgive me, my beloved," she said, her tone soft and contrite. "I meant no disrespect, only to offer counsel in service of your divine wisdom." A faint, satisfied smile crept across Pasha Mumad''s face as he observed the exchange. He leaned back slightly, his eyes gleaming with quiet triumph, savoring the sight of Shuaa humbled before the court. The sultan, Bayezid, watched the tense exchange between Shuaa and Pasha Mumad with calm detachment, but inwardly his thoughts churned. He was no fool; the divide in his court was as clear to him as the sun rising over the Kush Desert. The nobles'' anxious glances toward Shuaa''s rounded belly betrayed their true fears. They worried not just about her influence but about the child she carried¡ªthe son he had longed for, who would be born with both royal and ecclesiastical blood, he had many sons but none would be as prominent as this one. Bayezid''s ambitions burned quietly in his chest. He wanted his son to inherit both the throne and the spiritual authority of the High Ecclesiast, uniting the fractured powers of their empire. Such a union, in his eyes, would restore the greatness that had been lost in the rebellion two centuries ago. Yet, he knew the court would not tolerate any overt signs of such favoritism. The memory of the rebellion of the Moon and the Sun knew very well what he could risk to ablaze. If he were to realize his dream, it had to be done carefully, methodically. Any misstep now would ignite a rebellion before his plans could bear fruit. The nobles were powerful and watchful, their alliances tenuous but capable of uniting against him at the first sign of overreach. For now, he would bide his time, ensure that no one could rebuke him, and slowly lay the groundwork for an empire where his son''s dual inheritance would be unquestioned. But here, in this moment, he could not afford to give even a whisper of his true intentions. His features remained serene, his voice calm as he spoke, yet the storm of strategy raged within him. Every decision, every gesture was part of a delicate game, and Bayezid intended to win. But for now he had to keep appearances. Bayezid rose from his throne, the white silk of his robe shimmering faintly in the golden light filtering through the intricately carved windows. He swept his gaze across the hall, from the defiant piety in Shuaa''s eyes to the smug satisfaction on Pasha Mumad''s face, before addressing the assembly with the weight of his authority. "I have made my choice," he began, his voice steady but resonant, filling the grand chamber. "For too long, the heretics on horseback have ravaged our lands, staining the soil blessed by the Almighty with the blood of our people.'''' Shuaa sighed and looked down '''' They come not as mere raiders but as invaders, defilers who seek to claim what is not theirs. They put our villages to the sword, burn our crops, and trample the livelihoods of those who call this land home." He stepped forward, his white turban gleaming as a symbol of his station, his golden robes catching the light with each deliberate movement. "It is my duty as Sultan, as the guardian of this realm, to stop them. To bring peace once more to the lands entrusted to me'''' Bayezid''s voice rose, carrying both conviction and a regal command that could not be denied. "We will confront this threat, not for conquest, but for the sanctity of our borders and the safety of our people. It is not just our right, but our sacred responsibility to ensure that no invader dares to challenge the might of Azania again. Only through strength will we demand peace, and only through unity will we endure." The court stood in rapt silence, the weight of his words pressing down on them. Bayezid returned to his throne, his expression unreadable but his resolve unmistakable. "This is my decision. Let none question it." Bayezid''s gaze shifted to Shuaa, his expression softening just enough to reveal a glint of something personal¡ªwhether pride, reassurance, or calculation, it was impossible to tell. His eyes briefly fell to her rounded stomach, then back to her face- "By the end of this conflict," he said, his tone sharpening, echoing with an almost divine conviction, "the land blessed by my father will be cleansed of this filth. These heretics who dare to trample upon our soil will burn, their false Horse King consumed by the flames of justice." The words hung in the air, a solemn vow that carried with it both a warning and a promise. "Their ashes," he continued, his gaze never leaving Shuaa''s, "will rise as an offering to the Almighty, and his name will be honored with the fall of these blasphemers." Bayezid turned to the gathered court, his presence towering even amidst the golden splendor of the hall. His voice carried, firm and resonant, leaving no room for doubt. "This year, we bring fire and vengeance to the heretics on horseback," he declared, his hand sweeping outward as if to encompass the lands where the invaders dared to tread. "And the next, we march east to put the Romelians under our heel, once and for all." The declaration struck like a spark in dry wood. A roar erupted from the nobles and courtiers, the divide between factions momentarily bridged by the unifying fervor of their Sultan''s words. Voices rose in unison, echoing through the hall. "Praise the sun!May he live forever!" Even those who might have harbored doubts found themselves swept away by the energy, bowing their heads and raising their voices in praise. For Azania marched to war. Chapter 251: Words before swords Chapter 251: Words before swords Alpheo strode through the bustling expanse of his army''s camp, his boots crunching over the dry earth. Around him, his soldiers worked with precision, setting up tents, digging trenches, and reworking wood into plank. The air was alive with the clamor of hammers driving stakes, the shuffle of boots, and the occasional bark of an officer giving orders. As he passed, men paused briefly from their tasks, straightening to salute their general. Each raised hand or slight bow was met with a curt nod from Alpheo, his expression calm but focused, he would be lying if he did not admit he liked when people bowed to him as he passed. The new likings however did not make him blind to the situation, though the soldiers showed little outward complaint, Alpheo could sense the undercurrent of resentment rippling through the camp. It was no mystery why¡ªvictory bred satisfaction, and satisfaction bred reluctance. For a soldier, the promise of plunder was often the only incentive for marching into battle, and the first month of this campaign had delivered that in spades. The Battle of the Bleeding Plains and the subsequent fall of Arduronaven had been lucrative beyond expectation. The coffers of the late Lord Vroghios alone held a staggering 12,000 silverii, and by custom, the soldiers were entitled to a fifth of that sum. Each man received three silverii straightaway, and many had bolstered their share to ten or more with loot taken from the city beyond the lord''s keep, that much to thier happiness was declared was theirs to keep. For men accustomed to living hand-to-mouth, the sudden weight of coin in their pouches dulled the desire to march. After all, what use was risking their lives for more when they hadn''t even spent the spoils they already had? When Alpheo announced that the army would be marching again, there had been grumbling in the ranks¡ªlow and bitter, though never loud enough to reach their commander''s ears. There were even some deserters mostly among the lords'' levies, but soldiers were pragmatic creatures, and they knew that grumbling would do nothing to stop the inevitable, and along with that there was the fact that deserters were nailed alive on trees for the whole army to see making them cry in pain for days before thirst got to them, and by the next day everyone was ready to march once again. He had no qualms about the punishment, after all, they were deserters, who believed they could just turn around after getting their pockets filled. The spoils of Arduronaven had not only enriched the army but also Alpheo himself. By the terms of his command, he was entitled to half of the loot from the campaign¡ªa hefty prize given that his forces made up nearly half of the combined army.The army had even swelled in the aftermath, growing from 1,850 to nearly 1,950 thanks to the contributions of the newly sworn lords now sworn to Jasmine, his wife. "The guides spoke true" Asag reported following behind breaking him from his reverie "There''s little in the way of water sources around here. What we have in the barrels won''t last long." Alpheo slowed his pace, turning to face him. "And the nearest river?" "That would be at Confluendi, a good five days'' march from here," Asag replied, his voice steady despite the weight of the statement. Before Alpheo could respond, another voice joined the conversation. "The nearest villages have wells," Egil said, stepping closer with a shrug, "but they won''t be enough for all of us. We''d drain them dry soon." Alpheo''s gaze didn''t shift toward Egil. Instead, he fixed his eyes firmly on Asag. "Did you hear anyone speak, Asag?" he asked coolly, his tone cutting through the air like a blade. Asag glanced briefly at Egil before straightening giving out a slight smile . "No, commander. I heard no one," he said evenly, Alpheo''s lips thinned as he resumed walking, pointedly ignoring Egil''s presence. He hadn''t forgotten¡ªor forgiven¡ªthe man''s recent escapade, disappearing with his detachment under the guise of rewarding the troops. That reckless stunt had tested Alpheo''s patience and Egil knew that. Egil let out a sharp, sarcastic laugh from behind. "I never thought you could be this childish," he muttered, his voice just loud enough to carry. Alpheo stopped mid-stride, his shoulders tightening for a moment before he turned slightly toward Asag. "Asag," he said, his tone calm but sharp as glass, "tell the fly buzzing in my ear something for me." Asag''s brows lifted slightly, but he inclined his head obediently, awaiting his commander''s words. "Tell him," Alpheo continued, his eyes still fixed on the horizon, "that leaving without authorization typically results in the commander being whipped in front of his troops. Tell him that I, instead, had to cover for him¡ªlie for him. I told them I''d sent him out scouting, that his absence was under my orders." His voice grew colder with each word. "Tell him," Alpheo added, his gaze now flicking over his shoulder, though it still didn''t settle on Egil, "that every time someone asked where he was, I had to swallow my pride and make up a lie over and over. Because if they knew one of my commanders had disobeyed me so flagrantly, it would have made me look like a joke Asag glanced at Egil briefly, then back at Alpheo, his mouth tight as he was now clearly uncomfortable . "Understood" he said. Egil''s expression faltered for a moment, but he quickly crossed his arms and straightened. "So dramatic" he said, though there was less bite in his voice this time. Alpheo didn''t bother replying. He turned back to his path, leaving Egil to stew in silence. As Alpheo continued his stride, his thoughts turned toward logistics. Bracum should still have a month''s worth of supply stored. If we ration properly, it should be enough to see us through this siege, he calculated. While the lack of a reliable water source gnawed at him,which would mean he would have to leave a contigent of man to guard the carriages that will bring them water. A dry chuckle escaped his lips as he imagined Lechlian scrambling in the capital. The poor fool must be working himself into a frenzy, fortifying Herculia like it''s the fourth Imperial Invasion. Alpheo shook his head, picturing the prince barking orders, eyes wide with paranoia thinking that one day or the other an army would appear outside his city. He thinks I''d be mad enough to march this rabble of half-fed and half-disciplined men straight to Herculia''s walls? Not in this lifetime. Alpheo had no intention of being the protagonist in another cautionary tale of military overreach, the previous battle was enough and he certainly was not in the mood to tease death once again. Herculia, with its towering defenses and vast reserves, was a fortress that only a full, rested, and reinforced army could hope to breach.Perhapse next time he would try but for now making sure that Lechlian would not be able to pose a threat for the next few years was enough for him. As they walked further through the camp, Alpheo turned his attention to Asag. "What of the prisoners? How are they faring under your watch?" Asag, ever diligent, gave a curt nod. "They''ve been calm, my lord. Surprisingly so. Once word spread that we weren''t planning to sell them into slavery, most of them settled into their tasks without complaint. Right now, they''re assisting with the grunt work¡ªdigging trenches, setting up additional camp fortifications, and hauling supplies. Keeps them busy, at least." Alpheo''s expression remained neutral, though his mind churned with possibilities. Asag glanced sideways at him. "And what do you plan to do with them in the long term? Once the siege is done?" Alpheo stroked his chin thoughtfully. "There will be a great deal of rebuilding and expansion to undertake in Yarzat," he said, his voice steady but laced with intent. "Roads, irrigation systems, fortifications¡ªa whole network of infrastructure to strengthen our holdings. Free labor will be invaluable for such projects." He paused, his gaze distant as he weighed the options. "Selling them is always a possibility," Alpheo admitted, "but the coin we''d earn wouldn''t come close to the benefit of putting them to work for us." He turned to Asag, his lips curling into a faint smile. "Why sell the hammer when you have so many nails to drive in?" Asag nodded, understanding the pragmatism of his commander''s reasoning. "Then I''ll see to it that they remain under control and productive." "Good," Alpheo replied, his tone sharp and decisive. "Keep them in line.'''' As Alpheo paced back toward his command tent, his thoughts wandered to the capital city of Yarzat. He knew it for what it was¡ªa grimy, unkempt sprawl that stank of neglect. The streets were a mess, narrow and choked with refuse, and the air carried the constant stench of unwashed bodies and stagnant water. A place unworthy of its potential. What it needed, Alpheo mused, was clean water¡ªa proper aqueduct. However, constructing it would require significant manpower and resources. His mind turned to Marthio. A letter asking for their expertise would suffice, especially with the promise of future favor as leverage. Luckily the river isn''t far. A few kilometers at most. It''s doable. With a river so close, it was a wonder no one had ever attempted it before, probably the lack of money was the reason . But Alpheo had both money and the interest to do that, and the three hundred prisoners now at his disposal would ease the burden of the initial labor costs considerably. Still, he knew better than to rely solely on slaves and prisoners of war. While they were cost-effective, they wouldn''t be enough to build lasting goodwill. By hiring local workers alongside the prisoners, Alpheo could introduce more currency into the economy, incentivizing it. As he knew very well that many times the best type of wealth, isn''t that of hoarded coins but the amount held by the population. A perfect example of that was Rome , where many emperors would start many public projects, many times being statues, gardens or bath-houses, which would be apart from a good way to increase their prestige and fame , would also a perfect solution for giving a push to the local economy and pacifying the population as the landless workers were the main beneficiaries of that. One of the many reason that allowed Caesar to get into power, was in fact the political division and discontent among the people, many of whom were unemployed given the huge amount of slaves present in the capital. So for many when an emperor decalred the starting construction for a public work , it basically meant some years of work for many of them through which to feed their families. Chapter 252: Talks before swords Chapter 252: Talks before swords Alpheo sat comfortably on a simple wooden chair, his fingers drumming idly on the armrest as he glanced at the small table before him. Two seats had been arranged, one for himself and one for his guest¡ªa modest setup that hinted at civility before a proper start for the siege. A pitcher of cider and two cups sat on the table, untouched. He was mildly surprised that the lord of Bricaterun had requested a parlay so soon. Typically, these things dragged out, with defenders holding onto their pride and usually waiting for the attacker to call the parlay. Yet here they were, barely into the first stages of encirclement. I suppose it helps kills time, Alpheo mused, adjusting his posture. Sieges, after all, were dull affairs. Long stretches of waiting punctuated by occasional skirmishes and endless logistical headaches. The chance to look his opponent in the eye and measure the man was a welcome diversion. At Alpheo''s side stood the various lords that he had chosen to witness the parlay with, them being , lord Shahab , lord Xanthios , lord Damaris , Jarza and Asag. Egil, however, was notably absent, as he was out with his riders this time under Alpheo''s orders , tasked with requisitioning half the food stores from each village within the surrounding territory. His orders were explicit: take enough to sustain the army but leave the people largely unmolested. Not a decision born of kindness¡ªAlpheo knew the difference between mercy and strategy¡ªbut one made with an eye toward negotiation. If this parlay turns sour, Alpheo thought, his mind neutral ,iron and fire remain at our disposal and are still an open option for the sorrounding land. The creak of the city gates was the first sound to break the tense stillness. All eyes turned toward the opening, where a small contingent of men began to emerge. Alpheo, seated at the makeshift table set between the camp and the walls, rose deliberately from his chair, his gaze narrowing on the approaching figures. Ten men accompanied the lord, their armor polished enough to catch the sunlight. Behind them, fluttering in the light breeze, was a banner bearing the sigil of a stone tower¡ªthe unmistakable symbol of House Hervius. Alpheo studied the group closely, his expression unreadable but his mind working swiftly. So this is lord Ilbert, he thought. Beyond the name, he knew little of the man who ruled behind these walls. I wonder if he''s the kind of lord who bends when he is in the corned or the kind who breaks after biting hard.... The contingent marched forward.As they neared, Alpheo stepped away from the table, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword¡ªa gesture not of threat but of readiness. His own advisors and knights shifted subtly, forming a loose semicircle behind him. The two groups approached each other at an even pace, closing the distance until they stood a respectful few paces apart. Alpheo''s gaze swept over the man at the forefront of the opposing party, and he immediately presumed this was Ilbert Hervius, the lord of the city and head of House Hervius. Ilbert was tall and broad-shouldered, his full black beard neatly groomed, contrasting against his fair skin. His long, dark hair fell just above his shoulders, framing a face marked by a life of command but not untouched by weariness. His sharp, dark eyes observed Alpheo with quiet calculation, measuring the man before him just as Alpheo measured him. lbert was the first to break the silence, inclining his head respectfully, as protocol dictated. "Prince Alpheo," he began, his deep voice steady and measured. "I would have preferred that our paths crossed under more amicable circumstances than the shadow of siege and war." Alpheo returned the gesture with a faint nod, his tone polite yet laced with an edge of pragmatism. "Lord Ilbert, your courtesy does not go unnoticed. I, too, might have wished for a meeting free of swords and walls between us. But fate, it seems, has other plans." He gestured toward the table, his expression neutral. "Shall we?" The two men clasped hands briefly, their grips firm but devoid of unnecessary theatrics, before lowering themselves into the chairs set at the table. Their entourages remained vigilant a short distance away, silent witnesses to the unfolding parley. Ilbert leaned slightly forward, his features adopting an air of polite cordiality. "Your triumph on the Bleeding Plains was no small feat," he remarked, his words chosen with care. "Especially considering the disparity in numbers'''' Alpheo allowed a faint smile to touch his lips, though his eyes remained as sharp as ever. "You honor me, Lord Ilbert, though I merely wield the blade I''ve been given. A lesser man might despair at the odds, but the tools of war often yield to the hand that wields them well." His tone darkened as he leaned back slightly, his voice steady yet colder. "As for our mutual friend, the prince¡ªit was high time someone taught him that meddling in matters beyond his grasp comes with consequences. Some lessons are best learned with the sting of the rod, lest the dog forgets its place and growls where it should bow." Ilbert chose not to address Alpheo''s biting remark about the prince, his silence a subtle acknowledgment of the awkwardness of speaking ill of one''s liege. He shifted slightly in his seat, maintaining a calm and measured demeanor. Alpheo broke the silence, his tone laced with curiosity. "I must admit, Lord Ilbert, I hadn''t expected you to be the one to request a parlay. It''s not often the defender seeks out the invader." Ilbert met Alpheo''s gaze, his expression steadfast. "I have always preferred peace to war, Your Highness. Bloodshed is costly, and it seldom spares the innocent." Alpheo smirked faintly, leaning back in his chair. "Peace, yes. I''d love peace too¡ªif I were losing the war. But as I see it, I''m not. In fact, I''d say I''m winning, and very well at that ." His words were sharp, his gaze unyielding as he studied the man before him Ilbert inclined his head slightly, not rising to the bait. He chose his words carefully. "Perhaps," he began slowly, "there is a path to peace, at least as far as this city is concerned." Alpheo raised his eyebrows, saying nothing but clearly inviting him to elaborate. Ilbert took the cue, his tone measured but persuasive. "I am prepared to offer a substantial gift to spare my people further harm," Ilbert began, his gaze unwavering. "Ten thousand silverii, with a quarter of it in aureii, if you would agree to withdraw your forces and leave my lands untouched." He leaned back slightly, watching Alpheo for any sign of interest or agreement. Alpheo''s lips curved into a faint, calculating smile, the kind that invited no trust. His voice was conversational but laced with a biting edge. "Tell me, Lord Ilbert, what do you think your liege is doing at this moment?" Ilbert maintained his composure, though his shoulders stiffened. "He is preparing to relieve me, Your Grace. My prince is not the kind to abandon his vassals in their hour of need." Alpheo chuckled softly, a low, indulgent sound that sent a ripple of unease through the room. "Relieve you?" He repeated, almost amused. "I suppose that''s one way to describe fortifying Herculia like a madman. My scouts report he''s been turning his precious capital into a fortress for weeks now. Stones stacked, supplies hoarded, every granary bursting. And yet..." He paused for effect, letting his words hang in the air. "...I never had any intention of pursuing him there." Ilbert''s face remained neutral, though a flicker of unease crept into his eyes. Leaning forward, Alpheo dropped his voice to a conspiratorial murmur, his sharp gaze piercing through Ilbert. "Do you truly believe, Lord Ilbert, that your prince would fare better against me in a second battle than he did in the first?" Ilbert said nothing, his jaw tightening as he held Alpheo''s gaze, refusing to rise to the bait. Alpheo smirked at the silence, his voice turning cold and sharp. "No, I don''t think so either." He leaned back in his seat, studying Ilbert like a cat cornering its prey. "I wonder," he said, his tone light yet venomous, "how many troops remain with him? How many lords still swear him loyalty? I know that some nobles with their troops left his capital these past weeks. Returning to their fiefs, perhaps? Raising more men for their brave prince?Or maybe..." Alpheo paused, a mockingly contemplative look on his face. "...they''ve simply grown tired of propping up a doomed prince." Ilbert inhaled deeply, his face a mask of forced calm. "Your Grace," he said, cutting through the tension, "regarding my offer?" Alpheo''s sharp gaze flicked to him, and his smile vanished. "There will be no such deal," he said curtly. "The only thing I want is the castle behind you. Here is what I will offer in return: bend the knee and swear fealty to Princess Jasmine of Yarzat. Do this, and I will leave your lands unscathed. I will even grant your people a one-year exemption from taxes before resuming the tribute you already paid to Lechlian." Ilbert''s lips pressed into a thin line, his tone colder now. "Did you offer such a generous deal to the Lord of Arduronaven? Surely he would have leapt at the chance, given his history of bending the knee to any man who asked." Alpheo gave a short, derisive cough, his expression darkening. "Vroghios," he said, his voice laced with disdain, "was no lord. He was a turncoat, a rebel, and a traitor.And he was behaded for that " Ilbert''s face tightened, his composure cracking just enough to reveal the storm underneath. His voice was icy and precise as he replied, "Then that is what I would be, Your Grace, if I accepted your terms." Alpheo threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing across the space between them. "Vroghios rebelled against the crown over a land dispute, protesting the assignment of lands by Arkawatt''s father to his second son, Ormund, on some land he believed it was his . A petty grievance. When he was defeated, he threw his lot in with Lechlian, thinking he''d find safety there. And what came of it? Twelve years later, his head rolled clean off his neck." He leaned forward, his voice taking on a sharp, instructive tone. "Vroghios went against the oath and contract he made with the crown. But let''s not forget, Lord Ilbert, that it''s a two-sided coin. A lord is bound to be loyal and aid his prince. But a prince is equally bound to protect and uphold the rights of his vassals. When a prince breaks that contract first, when he fails his duties, the lord is fully legitimized in seeking a new master." Ilbert stiffened, his dark eyes narrowing. "Perhaps," he said, his voice measured, "but my lord has done me no ill." Alpheo''s smile didn''t waver, but his gaze sharpened as he studied the man before him. "Not yet," he muttered under his breath, his thoughts unspoken but clear in his calculating expression. Alpheo leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on Ilbert. "Here''s what I propose," he began, his voice steady but firm. "Send word to your liege of your plight. Inform him of the siege and that you need aide. If, in two weeks, relief has not come, then it will be clear to all that Lechlian has failed you, breaking the sacred contract between liege and lord. At that point, you would be lawfully justified to swear loyalty to my wife.Which is what you will be, in exchange I will leave with my army for good, provided you obviously stay loyal to us...'''' Ilbert said nothing at first, his gaze distant as he weighed the proposal. His fingers tapped lightly on the table, betraying his inner turmoil. Finally, he spoke, his voice low but resolute. "And if I do that? What will I be but a turncloak?" Alpheo sighed deeply, as though addressing a stubborn pupil. "Then let''s put it plainly," he said, leaning forward, his tone sharpening. "I want this city. That much is certain. But it can fly my banner outright, or it can remain under your rule as a loyal vassal of Yarzat. The choice is yours." He gestured toward the distant walls of Bricaterun, his voice growing colder. "Remember this: I needed less than a half a week, to take Arduronaven when I decided to put it under assault . Imagine what I could do here with a month." Chapter 253: Time to settle down Chapter 253: Time to settle down The days drifted by in a tense, expectant calm since the parlay between Alpheo and Ilbert. The offer made by the prince had been accepted in principle, but all that remained was to wait¡ªfor Lechlian''s response, for reinforcements, or for the deadline to pass. It was a quiet siege now, the kind where swords were sheathed, and diplomacy danced its subtle waltz, with soldiers from both sides mostly relaxed knowing that no assault would be made. This was not unusual in wars of noblemen. Rarely did lords wish to defy invaders to the bitter end, for they understood well the unpredictable savagery of a sword once unleashed at the conclusion of a long siege. Compromises such as this¡ªa negotiated surrender veiled in loyalty¡ªoffered a way to temper devastation while preserving the appearance of honor. It allowed the invading army to claim their spoils and terms while the defenders salvaged their dignity, avoiding the complete ruin that would came with cities stormed by fire and steel, which usually however did not entail the lord and his family . The case of Vroghios was a special one, as he effectively had to fight almost to the death, while in most lords would be more than happy to open the gates and surrender if things started looking grimly. There were no attempts at breakout or resistance. Bricaterun''s defenders waited, as did Alpheo''s army, each side knowing the deadline loomed over them like a shadow. Inside the dim glow of Alpheo''s command tent, the atmosphere was surprisingly relaxed. The three men sat around a modest wooden table, their cups brimming with cider as Ratto, ever dutiful, hovered nearby holding an ornate urn. Whenever one of their cups ran dry, he would promptly lean forward to refill it, his movements precise and practiced. ''''So what comes now?'''' Asag asked , ''''When the war all done and finished?'''' Alpheo leaned back in his chair, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup as he spoke. "Well I will become lord of confluendi, and I will get my hand on quite some land , which I will make sure to carve up a piece for each of you. This war," he began, his voice calm but with an edge of conviction, "is just the beginning. When it''s done, there''s more to be won than lands and titles. We must build. We must grow." Jarza, swirling his cup lazily, raised an eyebrow. "Grow? You mean planting trees and building farms?" he teased ''''I think we passed that when we became mercenaries, exchanging peace for silver and gold...'''' Alpheo smirked and shook his head. "Not quite. Bridge and roads, Jarza. A proper aqueduct for the capital, to finally put a stop to that shit-smel in the city. And the navy it''s time that we increase exponentially the armament of the royal fleet to deal with those fuckers on the Sea....'' Asag, who had been quiet until now, took a measured sip before leaning forward, his expression skeptical. "Ambitious, that is for certain , yet can you afford it?After all shouldn''t war burn coins fast?'''' Ratto silently stepped in, refilling the half empty cup with cider before retreating to his post. Alpheo raised his own cup high, his eyes gleaming with confidence. "We can afford it, just a bit of parsimoniousness here and there and we should have enough for them while still having some coins to spare" he declared. The tent''s flaps rustled violently before flapping open, a gust of cool night air following in their wake. Egil strode in, his tall frame casting a shadow that briefly danced in the flickering light of the lanterns. His piercing gaze swept over the four men inside, pausing briefly on each of them before settling into an unspoken understanding. Without a word, he dropped into an empty chair at the table, his movements brisk but casual, as if he''d always belonged there. He raised a hand, motioning to Ratto. "Bring me a cup," Egil said simply, his voice low and rough, betraying a weariness he hadn''t yet shaken off. Ratto, ever efficient, stepped forward, pouring the cider with care and offering the cup to Egil, who snatched it up with a curt nod. Without hesitation, he tipped the cup back, downing the contents in a single gulp before slamming it onto the table and motioning for a refill. Ratto refilled the cup promptly, only to watch as Egil emptied it just as swiftly. Leaning back in his chair, Egil placed the cup firmly on the table, finally exhaling deeply. "I think I''ve fallen in love with this cider," he admitted, his tone as dry as the desert sands but tinged with a smirk. Asag raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a rare grin. "We can see that," he remarked, his voice laced with amusement. Alpheo swirled his cider lazily in his cup, his dark eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he regarded Egil across the table. "So, tell me," he began, his tone calm but expectant. "Anything new to report?" Egil set his now-empty cup down with a faint clink, his expression shifting to something more focused. "Last report came in yesterday," he said, leaning back slightly in his chair. "Still no signs of movement from the capital. Nothing that suggests they''re raising another army, at least." He shrugged, a wry smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Looks like the fucker''s too scared to get his ass whipped twice." Jarza, sitting to Alpheo''s right, burst out laughing, his broad shoulders shaking with mirth. He raised his cup high, cider sloshing near the rim. "To that!" he roared, his booming voice filling the tent as he grinned at Egil. "May his cowardice keep us well-fed and his troops far away!" The tent erupted in lighthearted chuckles, the tension of the weeks-long siege briefly forgotten. Even Alpheo allowed himself a faint smile, the flickering lanternlight catching the glint in his eyes. Alpheo tapped the rim of his cup lightly, the faint sound drawing the attention of the table as the laughter subsided. His expression grew thoughtful, yet tinged with a faint edge of calculation. "Don''t mistake his stillness for peace," he began, his tone measured. "I believe Lechlian would wish for nothing more than to have another go against us. It''s not in man''s nature to let humiliation fester without striking back, if given the opportunity to do so, perhaps he will be crazy enough to try something in the future " He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table, his gaze flicking between his companions. "Still we should be good for some months , raising an army... now, that''s no simple task," Alpheo continued, his voice carrying a note of confidence. "On the matter of manpower, he might have no issue. The capital and his lands are teeming with able-bodied men. But organizing them into an army? Equipping them with weapons and armor good enough to give them a fighting chance? That''s a different beast altogether.There is a reason after all why kingdoms need months to raise another army after losing badly in a fight" Egil nodded slightly, his lips quirking into a half-smile, but he remained quiet, watching as Alpheo elaborated, understanding little of what he was saying. "And then there''s the matter of his lords," Alpheo said, his voice dropping a degree, laden with skepticism. "Many of them returned to their fiefs after the last battle. Exhausted, depleted. I doubt they''re eager to muster their forces again so soon¡ªnot unless Lechlian has the coin and persuasion to compel them. And even then, time is his enemy. Raising a proper force under these conditions is a near-impossible feat in such short notice, so it is much more probable that he will stand still , after all a loss of a lord''s domain is not an easy blow to receive, yet certainly one that can live with" Jarza leaned back in his chair, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his cup. After a moment of contemplation, he asked, his tone casual but carrying the weight of genuine curiosity, "So, Alpheo, after we''ve subjugated Bricaterun,will we finally be bound home?" Alpheo, seated at the head of the table, smirked faintly as he swirled the cider in his cup. He took a measured sip before responding, his tone firm and purposeful. "Not yet. Not while we still have the means to make a greater impact. As it stands, our supplies should last us another month at least. And with that time, I intend for us to do far more than just claim a single city." He leaned forward slightly, his eyes glinting with a mix of determination and mischief. "No, we''ll spend what time remains making sure Lechlian''s hold on his lands is weakened¡ªcrippled, even. We''ll take the fight to his private fiefs , riding through the countryside and hitting where it hurts most." Egil grinned at the mention of riding, his excitement barely contained. Alpheo caught the expression and added with a wry chuckle, "We''ll do what Egil loves best¡ªsack and ride, spreading ruin across his lands. Burn his crops, strip his villages, and leave his people trembling at the mere thought of our banners. We''ll create so much devastation that his treasury will bleed as much as his pride." Alpheo nodded, a fierce smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yes. A chevauche?e so devastating, so unforgettable, that it''ll earn itself a name.'''' Asag furrowed his brow, the word clearly foreign to him. "Chevauche?e?" he repeated, his tone tinged with curiosity. Beside him, Egil and Jarza exchanged equally puzzled glances, their expressions mirroring his confusion Alpheo chuckled at their bewilderment, leaning back in his chair. "It''s a style of warfare," he began, swirling the cider in his cup. "One that focuses on pillaging and raiding¡ªstriking at the heart of an opponent''s strength without necessarily engaging their armies directly. The goal is simple: to weaken the pillars of their rule. Burn their crops, plunder their wealth, leave their lands so desolate that their people begin to question their ability to protect them, causing refugees to turn to bandits and even more devastation.." Jarza rubbed his chin thoughtfully before repeating the word aloud. "Chevauche?e." He let it roll off his tongue, his lips curling into a grin. "It has a nice ring to it, doesn''t it?'''' Egil''s grin widened, his enthusiasm palpable. "I''ll drink to that," he declared, raising his cup high, with the other following suit. Chapter 254: Failures Chapter 254: Failures A week had passed since the parlay, and the city of Bricaterun remained enveloped in an uneasy stillness. Lord Ilbert Hervius sat alone in his private chamber, a place of muted opulence, with dark oak paneling and a single window letting in slivers of pale daylight. The air was heavy with the scent of wax and ink. The last days had been uneventful, the kind of quiet that felt tenuous, like the calm before a storm. No banners of war had been unfurled, no shouts of skirmish rang from the battlements, and the siege lines beyond the walls showed no sign of movement. Both sides adhered to the uneasy agreement brokered during the parlay; neither party had any interest in spilling blood unnecessarily when a bloodless compromise was still within reach. Ilbert sat at a broad wooden desk, his fingers steepled as he stared at the collection of documents and letters spread before him. Reports from his stewards, quiet musings on the morale of the city''s defenders, and the state of their supply . He rubbed his temples, the week''s weight pressing down upon him. The city seemed to mirror his mood¡ªwatchful, tense, caught in the liminal space between despair and determination. Among the sea of reports, requisition lists, and missives scattered across the desk, only one document held Lord Ilbert''s attention. His hand gripped a letter bearing the red-and-gold seal of House Herculia, its wax imprint gleaming under the dim light of his chamber. Without ceremony, he slid a small dagger beneath the seal, breaking it with a soft crack before unfolding the parchment within. '''' To our loyal vassal, Lord Ilbert Hervius of House Shafza, Defender of Bricaterun, I have received word of the dire circumstances in which you now find yourself, and it troubles me greatly. Your steadfastness in the face of adversity is a testament to your noble lineage and unwavering commitment to the crown, more than any of your ancestors ever showed. Let it be known that I hold your loyalty in the highest regard, and your endurance during these trying times shall not go unnoticed. However, the complexities of our current struggle must be acknowledged. While it grieves me to say this, I cannot muster the forces necessary to relieve you within the fortnight. The heavy losses sustained in recent engagements have demanded a more deliberate approach to our preparations. Even now, I am rallying the lords of the realm to my banner, assembling a host that will be strong enough to break the siege upon Bricaterun, your lands, and push back the invaders with the fury they deserve and that they will get , for their dare onto marching on our land.For that however I need more time . I must ask of you a grave duty, one that weighs upon my heart to request. The Yarzat dogs, arrogant in their temporary success, believe they can buy your fealty with honeyed words and empty promises. But you, Ilbert, are of sturdier stock, and I trust you to resist their lies. Stand firm, my loyal servant, even should the agreed-upon date pass. Let no doubts creep into your heart, for I swear upon my honor that help is coming, as I will personally deliver help to your house as soon as my circumstances permit it . Your oath binds you to me as my lordship binds me to your protection. Remember that it is the duty of all who serve the crown to endure hardship in the name of justice and honor. You fight not only for your house but for all those who rely upon us to preserve order and stability in these lands. When this war is won¡ªand it shall be won¡ªyou will be rewarded richly for your loyalty. Your sacrifices will not be forgotten, and your house will rise in prominence, its coffers filled and its name spoken in the highest circles of the realm. Do not let despair cloud your judgment, for the dawn of our victory is near. Hold fast, Lord Ilbert, and may the gods grant you strength. Lechlian, Prince of Herculia'''' Ilbert stared at the letter on the table, his eyes hard and unblinking. The words etched on the parchment seemed to mock him, their hollow reassurances and veiled commands echoing in his mind. With a slow, deliberate motion, he picked it up one last time, scanning its contents as if daring the ink to offer a better answer. But the message remained the same. With a sharp exhale, Ilbert flung the letter to the floor. It landed carelessly among the other papers, its seal of House Herculia half-crushed against the stone. He leaned back in his chair, one hand rubbing his temple, the other gripping the armrest as his thoughts churned. "That bastard," he muttered under his breath, his voice dripping with quiet fury. He wants me to die here. To bleed and burn in this forsaken city, buying him time for his grand schemes. The idea festered in his mind, each repetition sharpening his resentment. Lechlian''s letter wasn''t a command to hold the city for glory or the good of the realm¡ªit was a death sentence, written with all the flourish of noble prose. He truly believes I''ll sacrifice myself and my family for his foolish ambitions. Ilbert''s jaw tightened as his fingers drummed against the armrest. The faint noise of the city outside his chamber, the muted bustle of soldiers and servants, only deepened the weight of his thoughts. It was Lechlian who had caused this war, Ilbert thought bitterly. His meddling, his arrogance, his insatiable desire to impose his will on lands that had no wish for his interference, allowing traitors to join his side. The prince had extended his fingers where they did not belong, and now it was Ilbert''s neck caught in the noose of his ambition. He had been clamoring for this war, and now that it came, it hit him fast and hard. "Fool of a prince," he spat, his voice low but venomous. "A man with a crown but no wisdom to wear it?" He rose from his chair abruptly, the legs scraping against the stone floor as he paced the room. His hands were clenched into fists, the knuckles pale. "You arrogant wretch," he hissed. ".You play at king while men like me spill our blood and burn our homes for the scraps of your favor. You want me to stand here, to hold this city against an army you could not defeat yourself. And for what?" Ilbert paused, glaring at the letter as if it might rise from the floor and defend its sender. "For a promise of rewards that you can''t even guarantee? You think your name and your trinkets will be enough to bury the ashes of my house when it falls?" Ilbert''s voice rang out with sharp authority as he turned from the window, his fury tempered into cold resolve. "Guards!" The heavy wooden door swung open almost immediately, two men stepping inside with practiced precision. Both bowed slightly, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords, waiting attentively. "My lord," one of them said, his tone steady, awaiting instructions. Ilbert''s gaze was icy as he addressed them. "Is the envoy that delivered this letter from the court still within these walls?" The guards exchanged a brief glance before one of them nodded. "Yes, my lord. He remains your guest in the east chamber." Ilbert held the guard''s gaze for a moment, then gave a short, dismissive laugh, as if the word guest was the punchline to a grim joke. He straightened, his tone unwavering. "Throw him out and send my eldest to me" The command hung in the air for a moment, the guards'' expressions flickering with confusion. One of them hesitated, opening his mouth as if to ask for clarification, but quickly thought better of it when Ilbert''s piercing eyes settled on him. "As you command, my lord," the guard replied, bowing deeply. Ilbert stood by the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back, the firelight casting sharp shadows across his face. He had summoned his eldest son only moments ago, and now, footsteps approached from the hallway. The door creaked open, and a boy of fourteen stepped inside, his frame tall for his age but still carrying the wiry awkwardness of youth. The boy''s name was Arendon, and though his dark hair was neatly combed, the hint of curiosity and tension in his green eyes betrayed the boyish energy beneath his composed exterior. He bowed slightly, showing respect, and greeted his father in a clear voice. "Father." Ilbert turned to face him, his expression unreadable. "Arendon," he said, his tone firm but not unkind. "Do you know why I called for you?" Arendon hesitated for a moment, then straightened, meeting his father''s gaze. "I saw the commotion in the hall, Father. It seems you''ve made your choice." For a moment, Ilbert regarded his son, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Without a word, he turned and picked up the discarded letter from the ground. He held it out to Arendon, his eyes dark with simmering anger. "Read it yourself,I wan''t the one that made the choice" Ilbert said curtly, his voice edged with a bitterness that made the boy flinch slightly. Arendon''s eyes flicked over the letter one last time before lowering it slowly. His fingers tightened around the edges as he looked up at his father. "So, we''re alone, then," he said quietly, his voice steady but carrying a note of gravity beyond his years. Ilbert nodded, the firelight casting his expression into sharp relief. "Yes, we are. And that is why I called you here today," he said, his voice softer than before. "You are my heir, Arendon, and you need to understand the reasons for the choice I am about to make." Arendon inclined his head, his youthful face composed as he replied, "You are the lord, Father. It is your decision to make, I have no part in it ." Ilbert studied his son for a long moment, a mix of pride and burden visible in his eyes. "Being lord, Arendon, is not about the title or power. It is about the choices you make, no matter how bitter, for the well-being of your family." He took a step closer, his gaze unyielding. "Vroghios," he continued, his voice hardening, "chose treachery for his own gain, and where did it lead? To the block. His head rolled, and his family was stripped of their titles and lands.'''' Arendon''s grip on the letter tightened slightly, his brow furrowing as he listened. "But the boy outside," Ilbert said, gesturing toward the door, his voice shifting as if weighing his words, "he is not like Lechlian. Not at all." Ilbert''s tone grew quieter, but resolute. "That boy has substance behind his claim. Even If I manage to stand for two weeks help will not be coming , as soon as the date passes , I will come down and bend my knee.'''' Arendon''s eyebrows shot up in surprise, his voice tinged with disbelief. "To a commoner?" Ilbert''s lips tightened briefly before he replied, "No. Not to the boy. But to his army, to his cause. And more importantly, to his wife, it''s either that or see our family deprived of his land and nobility." The young heir''s expression grew incredulous. "Still, Father. Taking the knee to a lowborn? " "Still," Ilbert interrupted sharply, his voice hard and resolute, "we will keep our lands, our titles, our lives. And you, my son, will have a future unshadowed by war or ruin." He let the words settle, his gaze challenging. "Do you disapprove?" Arendon stared at his father for a long moment, the letter still in his hand, before shaking his head slowly. "No," he admitted at last, his voice quiet. "I do not. I just... I did not believe it was in you to go so deep, to bow so low, even if it was for the well-being of our family." Ilbert''s expression softened, though his eyes remained sharp. "A lord must know when to stand tall and when to bend, Arendon. What matters is not the posture but the outcome. I bend now, so you may one day rise without the weight of my mistakes upon your shoulders." Arendon gave a slight nod, absorbing his father''s words, as he came to the understanding that they now had a new liege to bow their heads to. Maybe he will be better than our current one, Arendon thought as his eyes moved toward the window, where 2,000 men sharpened their blades. Chapter 255: Taking the knee Chapter 255: Taking the knee The banners of House Veloni-isha rippled in the cool morning breeze as lord Ilbert and his son Arendon marched through theYarzat''s camp. Ilbert had kept his word, waiting until the promised date had passed without relief from the capital. He now sought only to ensure that the army of Yarzat would leave his lands intact, he had enough of this war. The camp sprawled across the rolling hills outside the city, an organized hive of disciplined activity. Soldiers moved efficiently, their armor gleaming even under the muted sunlight. Arendon''s eyes roved over the men, and his lips pressed into a thin line. Each soldier wore a matching helmet and chainmail, many supplemented by breastplates and cuirasses that shone with well-maintained polish. Their surcoats, all in the same color, white, with two black stripes going from shoulder to waist . Even from a distance, the sharpness of their weapons¡ªhalberd, swords, axes, maces and spears¡ªwas evident, their edges catching glints of light as if eager for battle. Ilbert kept his gaze ahead, his expression carefully neutral, though he could feel the tension in his son walking beside him. Arendon couldn''t help but glance at his father, his jaw tight. It wasn''t just the equipment of the men¡ªit was the way they carried themselves. These weren''t peasants pressed into service or a hastily gathered militia. Every movement, every glance, exuded experience. Veterans. Every single one of them. He looked back to the soldiers, their helmets masking most of their expressions, but their body language spoke volumes. The rigid precision of their posture, the confidence in their stride. Arendon shot another look at his father, his eyes wide with realization. As he now understood how their prince lost against them. He''d known from the reports of his soldiers after the battle that Alpheo''s army was formidable, but seeing it now with his own eyes drove home the scale of what they had faced. Arendon''s gaze lingered on the soldiers as they passed, the realization heavy on his young shoulders. And today, they would bend the knee to it¡ªnot for glory, not for honor, but for survival. At the center of the sprawling camp, amidst a sea of disciplined soldiers, stood a young man astride a powerful black steed. His face, still touched by the softness of youth, betrayed that he was barely a few years older than Arendon. Ilbert caught the subtle widening of his son''s eyes, a flicker of surprise at the sight of this boy¡ªwho had outmaneuvered and outfought lords twice his age. Ilbert himself felt the urge to caution his son with a glance, knowing full well that underestimating the Yarzat prince would be a grave mistake. A youthful face meant nothing; it was the fire behind the eyes that one had to gaze at. As they came within a few steps of Alpheo, Ilbert felt the weight of many eyes upon them. Alpheo''s gaze shifted too, his face composed yet sharp. His gloved hand rested lightly on the pommel of his sword, the casual attitude of a conqueror Stopping a respectful distance from the young prince consort, Ilbert dipped his head briefly, signaling the beginning of what could be the most pivotal moment of his life. Beside him, Arendon followed suit, though his gaze remained fixed on Alpheo. Ilbert straightened his posture as he approached, his voice carrying the practiced formality of a seasoned noble. "Prince Alpheo," he began, dipping his head respectfully. "I come before you unharmed. This," he said, gesturing to the young man beside him, "is my eldest son and heir, Arendon Hervius." Arendon, though younger and less composed, mimicked his father''s bow. His gaze briefly met Alpheo''s, curiosity and wariness mingling in his expression. "Your Grace," the boy said, his voice steady despite the tension in the air. Alpheo inclined his head in return, his tone calm . "Lord Ilbert. Arendon. It is good to meet the next steward of your house." His sharp eyes swept over the younger Hervius briefly before returning to Ilbert. "It seems the date we agreed upon has finally reached us," he continued, his words deliberate. "Have you come to fulfill your side of the arrangement?Or instead to inform me or your decision to let blood and fire dictate our next actions?" Ilbert nodded firmly, his voice unwavering. "I have, Your Grace come to deliver the deal . As promised, I am here to swear my loyalty to your wife, Lady Jasmine, and to seal my house''s bond with her cause." Alpheo gave a faint smile, not of triumph but of acknowledgment. "Good," he replied, his voice low yet carrying the weight of expectation. "The time has come to settle this without further bloodshed." Ilbert moved with deliberate purpose, stepping forward and sinking to one knee before Alpheo. His son, Arendon, hesitated only for a moment before following suit, kneeling beside his father. The older lord bowed his head low, his voice steady and solemn as he began the oath. "I, Ilbert Hervius of House Shafza, do solemnly swear my fealty to Her Grace Jasmine Veloni-isha, Princess and Protector of Yarzat. I pledge my loyalty, my service, and the strength of my house to her cause, to hold her law as my guide and her enemies as my own. May the gods witness my vow, and may my honor never falter in its fulfillment." As his words echoed across the gathering, Alpheo unsheathed his sword in a single, smooth motion, the polished steel gleaming in the sunlight. Stepping forward, he gently placed the flat of the blade first on Ilbert''s right shoulder, then his left. His voice was clear and firm as he spoke. "In the name of Her Grace Jasmine Veloni-isha, Princess and protector of Yarzat, I accept your oath, Lord Ilbert Hervius. May your loyalty strengthen the bonds of this realm, and may you rise as a vassal of Yarzat." With a slight nod, Alpheo stepped back, the blade returning to its sheath with a crisp ring. "Rise, Lord Ilbert, and take your place among the loyal." Ilbert lifted his head and stood with a measured grace, his expression composed yet resolute. Alpheo stepped forward, his expression shifting from formal to genial as he patted Ilbert lightly on the shoulder. A faint smile curved his lips as he spoke, his tone warm yet still carrying an air of command. "The only proper way to welcome you into our mix, Lord Ilbert, is with a feast," Alpheo declared, a glint of amusement in his eye. Ilbert inclined his head, a faint trace of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You are gracious, Your Grace. I am honored to partake in your hospitality." Alpheo waved a hand dismissively, though his expression remained inviting. " If you are to serve alongside us, then it''s best to start as we mean to continue¡ªwith camaraderie and wine." He turned slightly, nodding to one of his nearby aides. "See to it that the preparations are made. Tonight, we feast." The surrounding lords and commanders murmured approvingly, the atmosphere around the gathering lightening with the promise of revelry. Ilbert gave a small, grateful bow. "Then I shall prepare myself, Your Grace." Alpheo chuckled softly. "Prepare yourself for more than just food, Lord Ilbert. My men are a lively sort, I am sure you will fit right in...." ---------- Ilbert and his son, Arendon, were seated at a long wooden table adorned with an assortment of food and drink, the air thick with laughter and the clatter of plates. Their seats were close to Prince Alpheo, who sat at the head of the table, surrounded by men whose names Ilbert did not yet know. The only familiar face was Lord Xanthios, who sat to Alpheo''s right, occasionally contributing to the boisterous conversation with his booming voice. Ilbert''s gaze wandered to the other men. It was apparent, even to a casual observer, that they were not highborn. None bore emblems on their chests, and their manners at the table left much to be desired. They tore at the meat with their hands, drank deeply from their goblets, and laughed without restraint. Their camaraderie was unmistakable, their ease with Alpheo a clear indication of long familiarity. Perhaps, Ilbert thought, these were companions of the prince consort from his days as a mercenary. The way they spoke to him¡ªequal parts respect and teasing¡ªwas unlike anything Ilbert had witnessed among noble courts. These men were no courtiers; they were soldiers that was clear. As the feast continued, Ilbert ate sparingly, his appetite diminished not by the food but by the thoughts that swirled in his mind. He sipped his wine cautiously, keeping his gaze moving from one end of the table to the other. Suddendly his new prince turned around , locked sight with him and with a wave of his hand called him forward. ''''Stay here'''' Lord Ilbert told his son as he rose and walked toward the table where he was called. As soon as he reached the prince, he saw as one of the servant bringing a chair near the prince , clearly prepared for the lord, which he gracefully took with a bow. Seeing the lord seated, Alpheo leaned back in his chair, raising his goblet slightly before setting it down with a deliberate clink. He turned to Ilbert, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Well then, Lord Ilbert,since you are now one of ours" he began, his voice carrying over the din of the feast. "I think it''s time you were properly introduced to my close company." The conversations around the table hushed slightly as heads turned toward the prince consort, anticipation hanging in the air. Alpheo''s smile widened, and with an easy gesture, he indicated the men seated around him. "These are the ones I trust most in this world, and I think it''s only fitting you meet them properly." Chapter 256: Face to face Chapter 256: Face to face As Alpheo went around the table, introducing each man with a blend of humor and merriment , Ilbert''s initial assumption solidified: these men had been companions of the prince consort during his mercenary days. Their relaxed demeanor, shared jokes, and the ease with which they addressed one another spoke of bonds forged not through titles, but through battle and shared blood. The first one he was presented of the bunch of commoners was Asag, he did not leave that much of an impression, he was not that tall nor he seemed to be adept with the sword, the only unusual thing about him was his burnt-scar, that he tried to hide with hair that fell onto the side of his face , but that were still visible whenever he turned his head around. Jarza was the eldest of the group, broad-shouldered , raised his goblet in mock salute as Alpheo introduced him, he was clearly not from the south, nor from the empire , as his hue of skin suggested he came either from across the sea or from Azania or Alarnia. A foreigner... Finally, there was Egil, whose neck-long curly blonde hair seemed like that of a moman. While his outward appearance might have marked him as a man of quick-laugh, there was no mistaking the fire in his sharp eyes. Alpheo gestured to Egil with a sly grin. "Sir Egil here commands my light riders. It was his charge that shattered the right flank of Lechlian''s forces and turned the tide of the battle." Ilbert inclined his head politely toward Egil. "Sir Egil," he began, "since that day, I''ve often pondered how such a feat was possible. If I recall correctly, Lechlian''s cavalry outnumbered yours, particularly with knight . How did you manage to bypass them and strike the infantry with such precision?" Egil leaned back slightly, raising an eyebrow "Bypass?" he echoed, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint smirk. "I didn''t bypass them, Lord Ilbert. The day I run , is the day I stop being a man. I killed the ones who dared to fight and ignored the rest." Ilbert''s eyes widened slightly, and Egil chuckled before continuing, his tone growing sharper. "As soon as we finished our javelins, we got onto real fighting. Most of them broke at the first sign of disorder. They''re brave shouting about honor and glory until the fighting gets real, then they ride for their mothers. We chased the bold ones, gave them a quick end, and let the cowards run." He leaned forward now, fixing Ilbert with an intense gaze. "I knew my place wasn''t with the survivors. My riders and I needed to be where the battle was still alive. That''s why we cut through them fast, regrouped, and hit the infantry before they could breathe." Egil shrugged as if dismissing the entire ordeal. "Simple enough: fight smart, strike hard, and don''t waste time on those already beaten." Alpheo chuckled. "As you can see, Egil has a knack for horse-fighting while having a ....particular view on life" Ilbert nodded slowly, his brow furrowing in contemplation. Though Egil''s explanation was straightforward, the lord found it difficult to reconcile the ease with which the light cavalry had bested a force not only larger but better equipped. It defied the conventional wisdom of warfare that had been ingrained in him since his youth. Alpheo''s gaze shifted toward an older man seated a few places away, his posture dignified yet relaxed. He gestured toward him with a smile. "And here, Lord Ilbert, is Lord Shahab, my grandfather by marriage. When Her Grace, Jasmine, ascended the throne, he was among the first to rise against the rebellion led by his uncle , rallying his forces to her cause and was among the first to fight alongside me..." Lord Shahab inclined his head modestly, though his sharp, knowing eyes betrayed a quiet pride. His silver-streaked beard framed a face weathered by years of command and experience. "Duty to one''s family and sovereign is the essence of our bonds, Lord Ilbert," he said with a low, gravelly voice. "I trust you''ll find it so in time." Ilbert nodded respectfully to a relative of her liege Alpheo turned to his right, where Lord Xanthios sat, his wolf-emblazoned surcoat catching the light of the nearby fire. "And of course, you''ve already exchanged words with Lord Xanthios." Xanthios leaned forward, a wry smile playing at his lips. "Indeed, we have. Lord Ilbert," he said, his voice deep and steady, "you''ll find Jasmine to be a ruler of unmatched generosity, alongside her husband ¡ªtoward those who prove their usefulness." The subtle emphasis on the last word lingered in the air for a moment Ilbert met Xanthios''s gaze, nodding thoughtfully. "A quality I am certain we shall all benefit from in due time." Alpheo gestured toward another man seated nearby, his posture formal and reserved. "And lastly, Lord Damaris, who had been of great help during the battle holding the center against a superior force, while my men did their part" he said, his tone polite but without the warmth reserved for closer companions. Ilbert inclined his head respectfully, and Lord Damaris mirrored the gesture, his expression neutral. "Lord Ilbert," he greeted simply. "Lord Damaris, a pleasure to make your acquittance" Ilbert replied, his tone equally calm. The exchange was brief and formal, the two acknowledging each other without further comment before Alpheo smoothly moved the conversation along. As the presentations finished , Ilbert stared at every face in the room with a newfound clarity. Of the nobles present, only three bore the unmistakable signs of great lords: Lord Shahab, Lord Xanthios, and Lord Damaris. Suddendly it struck him like a well-aimed arrow: the rest of the nobility had likely refused to take up arms in support of the crown, which would explain the clear difference in forces. The reason was probably , and yet clearly Jasmine''s controversial marriage to Alpheo, a man of common origins turned prince-consort. Which sowed such division between crown and nobility. Yet, despite the disarray within the royal ranks, Alpheo had triumphed¡ªa feat that grew more impressive the more Ilbert dwelled on it. His victory was no mere battlefield accomplishment; it was a declaration of legitimacy, to those that ignored his wife''s crown. Nothing establishes a ruler''s worth like winning a war against daunting odds. Ilbert''s mind turned to his own precarious position. He realized by now that there were probably two faction within Yarzat, and by swearing fealty to Jasmine and her consort, he had thrown in his lot with the royal faction¡ªa choice he now understood was as much about survival as allegiance. Without Alpheo''s protection, Lechlian would almost certainly seek vengeance for his perceived betrayal, so he could only join the royal faction as not even being neutral could work with his circumstances. His gaze drifted back to Alpheo, who exuded a calm authority as he engaged with those around him. If anyone could shield him from Lechlian''s wrath, it was him. The future belongs to the bold, Ilbert mused, and for now, there is no bolder ally than the prince-consort of Yarzat. -------------- As the conversations came to an end , Ilbert resumed his meal, though his attention wandered as Lord Xanthios leaned closer, regaling him with the story of the siege of Arduronaven. With a grim satisfaction, Xanthios described the rebel lord''s humiliation, recounting his walk of shame to the chopping block, something that he was never tired to tell to whoever had ears.. As Ilbert listened, a thought stirred in his mind, a flicker of memory reigniting. He turned toward Alpheo, the young prince-consort who had thus far proven more formidable than he had imagined. With measured respect, he addressed him, his tone steady but deferential. "My lord," Ilbert began, "I must commend you on the tactics you employed during the siege of Arduronaven. A coordinated attack from within and without¡ªtruly magnificent in its execution." Albeit dishonorable, not that I think he cared much about it, since he was fighting against a criminal without honor. Alpheo inclined his head slightly, his lips curving in a faint smile. "You honor me with your words, Lord Ilbert. Though I wonder, does everyone here already know of this tale?" Ilbert nodded solemnly. "They do, my lord," he confirmed, his voice laced with cautious respect. Then, after a brief pause, he added, "And... if I may, there is a name some have begun to use when they speak of you. Would you care to hear it?Though I believe it would be better to say in private..." Hearing that Alpheo gave a small chuckle filled with the pride of a victorius general ''''Whatever they call me won''t change what her grace''s men have achieved , and if they forget about the details the hundreds cadavers outside Arduronaven will be good enough of a reminder . You can be at ease , my lord, and speak without reserve'''' Hearing the answer Ilbert coughed lightly, clearing his throat before speaking. "Some have taken to calling you... Yarzat''s Little Fox," he said, his tone careful, though his choice of words sparked an immediate reaction among the prince''s men . The gathered lords chuckled quietly amongst themselves, their mirth barely restrained. However, Egil could not contain himself, bursting into a hearty laughter that shook the table. Jarza, seated nearby, hastily covered his lousy friend''s mouth with both hands, though his shoulders quaked with suppressed amusement, knowing very well that such behaviour could not be displayed in public. Alpheo, ever composed, allowed a smirk to tug at the corners of his mouth, mostly forced . He leaned back slightly, resting one arm on the chair as he tilted his head. "I understand the ''fox'' part," he remarked "But why, I wonder, ''little''?" Ilbert, maintaining his composure despite the amusement around him, gave a small shake of his head. "I cannot say for certain, my lord," he replied, keeping his tone neutral. Yet in the recesses of his mind, the answer came unbidden: It is likely for your youth and stature. At barely older than his own son, Alpheo''s age and stature seemed to strike a contrast with his sharpness on the battlefield. Ilbert wisely kept this thought to himself, focusing instead on Alpheo''s measured reaction to the moniker. Alpheo meanwhile maintained his composed demeanor, the nickname lingered in his thoughts. Yarzat''s Little Fox, he mused inwardly. He would have preferred something more imposing. Yet, as the words rolled through his mind, a faint sense of amusement tempered his initial irritation. Still, it''s not without its charm, he thought. His lips twitched in the barest of smiles. The nickname reminded him of one of his favorite Norman rulers, who had also earned the title of "fox" , Guiscard Hauteville. To share such an epithet, even in jest, was not the worst legacy to begin carving for himself. Who know perhaps I should take the fox as my emblem...they can call me what they like, wolf , rabbit , dog , as long as they remember I outsmarted them. As Alpheo was thinking about how to answer that , suddenly the quiet murmur of conversation and the clinking of goblets was disrupted with the tent flaps burst open. A man stumbled in, his breath ragged, his eyes wide with urgency. The lords and commanders seated at the table froze mid-bite, their expressions ranging from confusion to irritation at the abrupt intrusion. The man, dressed in the colors of Yarzat''s court, sprinted forward, his boots scuffing against the ground. He stopped several dozen steps from the main table, his knees hitting the dirt with a thud. His head bowed low as he raised his voice, breathless but clear: "Your Grace! My lords! Her Grace, the princess¡ªshe is with child!Her grace expects a child!She who is fertile has blessed the royal family" The words hung in the air like a clap of thunder. The tent went still, every pair of eyes fixed on the messenger as the enormity of the announcement settled over them. The princedom was finally about to have an heir. Chapter 257: Being a Father Chapter 257: Being a Father The camp was alive with activity as dawn painted the horizon in pale shades of orange and pink. Soldiers moved sluggishly through the camp, their armor clinking softly, boots crunching on the frost-laden grass. The air was heavy with the scent of smoke from the cookfires, where pots of thin stew bubbled faintly. Some men cleaned their weapons, others checked their gear, but all carried the weariness of the campaign etched into their expressions. Among them, Lucius and Marcus, two of the twenty soldiers who had led the disguised refugees to breach the gates of Arduronaven, sat cross-legged on the dew-soaked ground. They leaned against their packs, the morning chill barely bothering them, as they shared a quiet conversation. The bags under their eyes spoke of exhaustion, but their laughter was light, tinged with the satisfaction of men well-rewarded for their efforts. "Seventy silverii," Marcus muttered, running his thumb over a small pouch tied securely to his belt. He shook his head, still in disbelief. "Can you imagine? That''s more than a year''s salary in one night." Lucius chuckled, tapping his own pouch. "The prince sure knows how to keep his men loyal. I''ve seen lords in our camp who wouldn''t part with a single coin after a victory, let alone something like this." To some, seventy silverii considering that they made 5 each month, might not seem like a fortune, but to them, it was life-changing. The footmen in the prince''s private army were already paid well compared to most. Earning five silverii a month, meant that they made more than twice the income of a skilled artisan. This wage allowed them to live comfortably, purchasing grain¡ªthe food of choice for those above the barest subsistence¡ªand even indulge in meat regularly . Feeding a family of five for a month was no trouble on such wages, and still, there would be enough left to save for the future. But this gift was another matter entirely. Lucius smiled to himself, thinking how the coin perhapse would finally convince that old fat oaf to allow him to have the hand of Sabine, Marcus meanwhile, less grounded, was already dreaming of ale and a pair of boots without holes. The two fell silent for a moment, watching the camp come alive around them, much more than usual. Soldiers seemed to move with a sense of urgency that was uncommon in the slow, groggy hours of the morning. Groups were gathering in clusters, murmuring with an energy that spoke of something extraordinary. "What''s all this about?" Marcus muttered, standing up and brushing dirt off his trousers. He exchanged a confused glance with Lucius before they both rose to their feet. Marcus spotted a passing soldier, a broad-shouldered man grinning ear to ear, and reached out to clasp him by the shoulder. "Oi, what''s the ruckus?" Marcus asked, his tone curious but tinged with the irritation of someone pulled from a quiet morning. The man turned, his grin stretching wider, his cheeks flushed with excitement. "Haven''t you heard?" he said, his voice brimming with joy. "Her Grace, the princess¡ªshe''s with child!" Lucius and Marcus blinked at the news, their expressions caught somewhere between surprise and dawning understanding. "And that''s not all," the soldier continued, his excitement spilling over. "The prince himself has declared that today, there''ll be no drills, no duties. Full rest for the entire army! And tonight?" He clapped his hands together with a laugh. "Meat for supper.All hail the prince!" Marcus exchanged a glance with Lucius, their confusion replaced by a broad smile. The news was welcome, both in what it meant for the future and in the rare gift of a day''s reprieve. Marcus let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Well," he said, clapping Lucius on the back, "guess the prince knows how to celebrate." Lucius nodded, his smile warm. "And how to keep morale high. Can''t say I mind a bit of meat and rest after the weeks we''ve had." The two stood for a moment, absorbing the ripple of happiness spreading through the camp, their earlier fatigue washed away by the good news. -------------- For the ordinary soldiers, the news of the princess expecting a child came as a delightful surprise, made sweeter by the prince''s declaration of a celebratory feast. The promise of meat for supper, a rare luxury in their ranks, was enough to spark cheer and laughter across the camp. For these men, it was a day of rest and camaraderie, a brief escape from the grind of their service. But for the soldiers of Alpheo''s private army, the announcement carried a deeper significance. These men, who spent most of their year stationed in the capital, often found themselves in the prince''s presence. It was not uncommon for Alpheo to stroll among them, sharing a word or two, asking after their well-being, or making a speech. That, combined with the exceptional treatment they enjoyed¡ªhigher pay than nearly any soldier in the realm, generous care for the wounded, and assurances that their families would be provided for should they fall¡ªfostered a bond that went far beyond duty. To say they were loyal to the prince was an understatement. For many, it was not just a matter of following orders but of genuine devotion. Alpheo''s leadership had not only earned their respect but also their unwavering trust. They knew he valued them as more than tools of war, and in return, they would give their lives for him without hesitation. Now, hearing that their prince was to be a father filled them with warmth they hadn''t expected. Making them willing to toast not only to the health of the princess and her unborn child but to the prince himself, a man they felt privileged to call such. The loyalty of Alpheo''s private soldiers ran so deep it bordered on the unshakable. These were not men who served out of fear or obligation , making their morale soar into the sky. Their allegiance extended beyond Alpheo himself; it now encompassed the unborn child he and the princess awaited. If, by some cruel twist of fate, the prince were to fall that very day, there was not a shred of doubt among them about what they would do. Every man in their ranks, hardened by countless campaigns and bonded by years of shared sacrifice, would immediately take up arms to safeguard the future of Alpheo''s line. They would rally to the child, swearing their lives to ensure the heir''s ascension to the throne. And any noble harboring ambitions of usurping power or exploiting the vulnerability of a regency would face a grim reality when they looked upon the thousand of battle-scarred soldiers gathered outside the gates, led by men such as Egil, Jarza and Asag who would have gladly died in service of their prince, with whom while at the head of command , made the soldiers only know victories and luxury. ------------------ Inside the private tent, laughter and the clinking of cups filled the air as Alpheo sat surrounded by his closest companions. The announcement of the princess''s pregnancy had unleashed a wave of celebration, and his friends had taken it upon themselves to ensure the prince joined in. Jarza, his face already flushed with drink, grinned as he poured yet another round of wine into Alpheo''s cup. "Come on, Alpheo'''' he teased, raising his own cup high. "You''ve won battles with half an army, stormed walls with fewer men than this, and now you''re telling me you can''t finish a little cup? Truly, you''re slipping." Egil leaned back with a roaring laugh, slapping the table. "Leave the man be, Jarza! He''s about to become a father¡ªhe''ll have no time for wine when the little one''s cries are ringing in his ears." He turned to Alpheo with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Though I wager the real trouble will be Jasmine. She''ll have you play with him while she leads court meetings, you will become the woman of the royal family." Alpheo rolled his eyes but smirked as he took a sip from his cup, earning cheers from his companions. "If I will know fatherhood to be that bad, I might consider spending all years at war" he quipped dryly, eliciting more laughter. Alpheo finished his cup with a satisfied sigh, setting it down with a deliberate thud. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze sweeping over his companions, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "So," he began, his tone light but edged with meaning, "when will the rest of you get around to having brats of your own? I''d like for our sons to be brothers too." The laughter rolled for a moment, but Alpheo''s expression shifted, his smirk fading as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His voice took on a serious edge. "Jest all you want, but hear me on this. When we return to court, you''ll all be lords. The days of wandering as free men are coming to an end. Titles bring duties, and one of those is securing your line." The men quieted, the weight of his words sinking in. Alpheo continued, his tone firm. "With Vroghios dead, his two daughters are eligible for marriage. The eldest is of age and can be wed immediately following the ceremony. The younger will wait until she comes of age, but that still leaves her as a valuable match." Egil set his cup down, his earlier mirth tempered by thought. "You''re saying one of us should marry them?" Alpheo nodded. "Not just one of you, two. I mean to see that each of you is established¡ªsecure. This war has cost us much, but it has also opened doors. You''ve stood by me through battles and blood. Now, it''s time to claim the rewards of victory. '''' Alpheo leaned forward, his gaze settling on Egil with a determined glint. "The eldest daughter of Vroghios should be wed to you, Egil. It was your charge that shattered the rebels'' line and won us this war. Such a reward is well deserved." Alpheo''s eyes turned to Asag and Jarza. "As for the younger daughter," he began, "I''ll leave it to you two to decide who will take her hand. She won''t come of age for a few years, but she''ll be a valuable match when she does." Asag glanced at Jarza, his face breaking into a sly grin. "Let Jarza have her. The man''s older, and let''s be honest¡ªhe''s got less time to put that cock of his to use before it stops working altogether." The tent erupted in laughter, Egil nearly choking on his drink as Jarza scowled in mock indignation. "I''m in my late thirties!" Jarza protested, a hand on his chest as if deeply offended, lying as he was instead in his early forties. "Hardly old enough to warrant such slander, you bastard." Egil leaned back in his chair, shaking his head with an exaggerated sigh. "It''s nice to know my future is being decided without so much as asking me. Maybe I don''t want to get married at all. Did that thought cross your mind?" Alpheo smirked, raising his cup to his lips before pointing it at Egil. "If you waited to marry when you wanted to, you''d go down in history as the patron deity of whores." The tent erupted in chuckles, Asag nearly spitting his drink as Jarza thumped the table in amusement. Egil glared at Alpheo, though there was a trace of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "And why is it that you get to decide when and who I marry, eh?" Alpheo leaned forward, his tone light but firm. "Because it''s not your choice, Egil. It''s been decided. The eldest daughter of Vroghios goes to you, and the youngest to Jarza. That''s final." He sat back, his smirk returning. "And you''ll marry as soon as this war is over. The match is perfect¡ªnot just for you, but for the rest of us too. They''re nobles, Egil. Tying you and Jarza to high society will do wonders for all of us." Egil groaned, rubbing his temples. "Just what I need¡ªembroidered silks and court intrigue." Asag clapped him on the back, grinning. "Don''t forget the estates, titles, and a bed warmer with proper manners, and a lady waiting for you . It''s not all bad." Egil shot him a withering look, but the humor in his expression betrayed his resignation. Alpheo raised his cup. "To the soon-to-be-lord Egil, then. You''ll thank me one day, I promise." The group laughed, Egil shaking his head as he lifted his drink. "Sure. When that day comes, I''ll let you know." Alpheo pushed himself up from his seat, his cup held high above his head. "To the new lordships!" he declared, his voice steady but brimming with warmth. "To Egil, Asag, and Jarza. May your estates be vast, your wine plentiful, and your children bear the strength of lions!And may them be brothers to each other as if they came from the same womb" The group erupted in cheers, cups clinking together in a chaotic symphony. Even Egil, still feigning reluctance, couldn''t help but lift his drink with a crooked grin. Chapter 258: From the English war-book Chapter 258: From the English war-book The village was a blazing inferno, its thatched roofs crackling and collapsing under roaring flames. Smoke billowed into the sky, turning day into a choking twilight. Villagers screamed as they fled, their cries piercing the air, a symphony of terror and despair. Children clung to their mothers, while the old and frail stumbled, their attempts to escape thwarted by the chaos around them causing them to fall. Riders thundered through the streets, their torches flaring as they set fire to every building in sight, sparing only the central warehouse. The flames painted their armored figures in a hellish glow, their laughter echoing cruelly over the destruction. "Run, little rats!" one rider shouted, his grin wide as he slapped the flat of his blade against the back of a fleeing villager, sending the man tumbling forward. Another leaned from his saddle, grabbing a young woman by the arm and hoisting her onto his horse despite her struggles. His comrades cheered and whooped, spurring their horses forward to continue the rampage. Carts overturned, spilling their contents onto the muddy ground, where they were trampled under hooves. Riders smashed barrels for sport, wine and grain spilling out like blood. For the past several days, the army had swept through the lands under the prince''s domain, leaving behind a trail of ash and ruin. Villages, granaries, and outposts fell like brittle reeds before a storm, their resistance either nonexistent or easily crushed. The campaign was relentless, methodical, and without mercy¡ªa scorched-earth strategy to cripple the prince''s northern reach. Among the marauders, Egil had been given command of the forces tasked with scouring the northern lands. It was a role he took to with zeal, and filled with glee, his reputation for brutal efficiency preceding him. The northern villages, isolated and left to fend for themselves, had no chance. If perhapse they were sworn to some lords, maybe a defense party could have been set up near them , yet they were not and the only man that could have protected them turtled himself behind high walls. Egil''s men took to their raid with an eagerness born of long weeks in the field, finally free to vent their frustrations. Livestock was driven off, and fields were burned to ensure they could not be used to feed the enemy''s forces. Egil himself led from the front, his presence galvanizing his men. It was a brutal campaign, one Egil carried out with a sense of personal satisfaction. "They owes us blood," he had declared to his men before the raiding began. Now, he was collecting it with interest. ---------- It was the third village sacked today, and the air was thick with the mingled scents of smoke, sweat, and terror. For most, it was a scene of horror and devastation, but for Egil, it felt oddly like home. He rode leisurely at the center of the mayhem, reins loose in one hand, while the other held an apple, freshly plucked from a crate discovered in the last storehouse. Taking a slow, deliberate bite, he savored the crisp crunch and the tart sweetness of the fruit . Soldiers darted between buildings, their laughter and jeers punctuating the cries of the villagers. Riders torched anything that would burn, their torches streaking flames across roofs and walls. The only buildings spared were the warehouse and granaries, which would be emptied soon enough, and then whatever could not be brought with them burnt. A farmer stumbled into the street, clutching his daughter''s arm and dragging her toward the woods. The girl''s tear-streaked face twisted in fear as one of Egil''s riders cut them off, laughing as they played with the man, hitting him with non-lethal strike, giving him bruises and delivering pain. "Burn it all!" one of his men shouted nearby, prompting a chorus of cheers. Egil smirked, the corner of his mouth tugging upward as he took another bite. If this was not home, it was the closest thing to it he could imagine. As Egil savored the last bite of his apple, his eyes settled on the granary standing stubbornly amid the flames licking at the rest of the village. Smoke billowed into the sky, a signal of ruin to anyone within miles. He felt a small twinge of something like regret¡ªnot for the people, but for the food. All that grain, those sacks of barley and wheat, even the dried meats they''d uncovered in some of the cottages, now either going up in flames or left behind. It was wasteful, really, to destroy so much sustenance. His men had already stuffed what they could into their saddlebags, but eighty riders couldn''t haul even a fraction of what the village held. Egil tossed the apple core to the ground, its remnants trampled into the dirt as his horse trotted forward. His sharp eyes caught sight of a man kneeling amid the chaos, hunched over with his face buried in his hands, unmoving even as flames devoured what once might have been his home. The man''s frame shuddered in quiet despair, a contrast to the riders'' whoops and laughter echoing all around. With a nudge of his reins, Egil guided his horse toward the figure. Stopping just short of him, he leaned down and kicked the man lightly on the shoulder with his boot. "Oi, get up," Egil said lazily, as though addressing a stray dog. "Run like the rest of your lot." The man slowly raised his head, dirt streaking his face and eyes hollow with despair. He stared up at Egil with a look devoid of fear, almost daring him to strike harder. "Run?" the peasant croaked. His voice was hoarse and cracked, trembling with exhaustion. "Run where? My house is gone. My food''s gone. The fields are ash. What''s left to run to, eh? Starvation? Better I kneel here and burn with it." "I''ve lived in that house since I was a boy," the peasant continued, his voice cracking as he gestured toward the skeletal remains of his home, now engulfed in roaring flames. "My father lived there. And his father before him. It was all we had, everything we built. You''ve taken that, left us with nothing, not even scraps." Egil said nothing at first, staring down at the man. His grip on the reins tightened slightly. Around them, the village burned, smoke and cries filling the air as the reality of ruin unfolded. For the briefest of moments, Egil''s expression seemed to flicker, not of sympathy , just amusement. Then he straightened, his face hardening once more. "Life doesn''t care about what you had," he said, his tone almost nonchalant. "Best start walking. At least that way, you''ve still got your legs." Egil halted his horse once more, turning his gaze back to the peasant who remained firmly planted on the ground, his head bowed toward the scorched earth. A long sigh escaped Egil''s lips, exasperation creeping into his tone as he asked again, "You''re really not going to run?" The man didn''t move, but a faint sound preceded his reply¡ªa wet noise of disgust as he spat onto the ground near Egil''s horse. Egil straightened in his saddle, his hand drifting lazily to the hilt of his sword. "Suit yourself," he muttered, drawing the blade with an easy grace. The steel gleamed cruelly, reflecting the inferno consuming the village. He tilted his head slightly, as if addressing the man one last time. "If you''re not going to run, then you''re not much use to my prince, are you?" The peasant finally raised his head, his face twisted with rage and grief. His voice, though cracked and raw, carried a venomous conviction as he spat, "To hell with you and your prince. I curse you both, may the Mother take away all your children." Egil blinked "Joke''s on you. I''ve got none." The peasant''s lips curled into a bitter snarl. "Then I curse you never to have any. May you die alone, with nothing to carry your name forward." Egil shrugged, the motion casual, almost indifferent. "Fine by me," he replied as he raised his sword. The swing was fluid and practiced, the blade cutting cleanly through the air¡ªand the man''s neck. His head toppled to the ground with a dull thud, rolling to a halt amidst the dirt and soot. Egil wiped his blade on the peasant''s tattered shirt before sliding it back into its scabbard. Without another word, he spurred his horse onward, leaving the lifeless body behind as the fires consumed the remnants of the village. ''''I ain''t got that much of a name to let them carry anyway'''' Egil turned his horse, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of a group of his riders farther down the smoldering village road. Several of them had women slung across their saddles, heads bowed, shoulders trembling as they clung to the horses'' sides. The sight made his jaw tighten. "What in the Gods'' name do you think you''re doing?" Egil bellowed, his voice cutting through the crackling fires and distant cries. "Carrying women with you? What''s the plan, then? You think you''ll take them back to camp?The military law says no whore can be brought in the camp" The riders froze, exchanging nervous glances. A few lowered their heads sheepishly before one of them, a wiry man with a weathered face, spoke up hesitantly, "We... we thought, maybe... to take them as wives, sir. Back in the city, we''ve got no one. Alone, sir." Another rider chimed in, his voice pleading. "Please, Commander, let us. We mean no harm, we will give them our share of food until we are back home.'''' Egil sighed, dragging a hand through his unruly hair in frustration. His gaze swept over the men, then the women, who still refused to raise their eyes. His lips twisted into a scowl as he muttered a curse under his breath, they were his men after all . "Fine," he barked, pointing a finger at the riders. "But listen here. You want to keep them? You better marry them, I won''t have people say that the prince make exceptions for us . I''ll talk to the prince myself, see if I can get him to let you have it, after all he says no whore in camp, and technically they are not..." The men broke into relieved grins, their voices tumbling over each other in gratitude. "Thank you, Commander! Thank you, sir!" Egil snapped his hand in the air to silence them, his patience worn thin. "Don''t thank me yet," he growled. With a sharp motion, he kicked one of the riders in the leg, nearly knocking him off his horse. "Now move it! Back to camp before I change my mind." The chastised riders nodded hastily, tugging their reins and spurring their horses forward. Egil watched them for a moment, shaking his head, before turning his own mount back to the road. "Bloody fools" Chapter 259: From the English war book(2) Chapter 259: From the English war book(2) Lechlian sat on his high-backed chair in the dimly lit court, his jaw tight as he bit the inside of his cheek . The reports stacked before him were damning, each one worse than the last. For the past week, messengers had poured into his hall like a tide, bearing grim news: the Yarzats had been raiding village after village, leaving a trail of destruction behind them. Yet, infuriatingly, they weren''t slaughtering the villagers. Instead, they torched homes, destroyed crops, and pillaged everything of value, sparing the people only to leave them broken and destitute. His people didn''t have the means to recover; they were being bled dry by devastation and fear, and he knew that next year he would face a famine. He clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening as his eyes darted to the few men who still stood loyally in his court. Once, his banners had flown high with a host of lords at his side. Now, his army numbered less than a thousand, a pitiful shadow of its former strength. The failure to relieve Lord Ilbert had been the final straw. His decision to delay reinforcements had backfired spectacularly, and the consequences had been catastrophic. The remaining lords, disgusted by his failure, had abandoned him altogether. They had withdrawn to their fiefs, no doubt hoping to safeguard their lands and fortunes from the Yarzats'' relentless pillaging. Lechlian''s grip tightened on the armrest of his chair as his thoughts turned venomous. What did they expect? he seethed internally. Did they truly believe I could march straight to Ilbert''s aid with just 1,500 men, knowing full well the enemy had bested me before when I outnumbered them two to one? He bit the inside of his cheek harder, the taste of blood intensifying. If those lords had even a shred of backbone, they''d see that this was a fight for survival, not just their petty fiefs. Do they think the Yarzats will stop at Ilbert''s lands? Let them rot in their castles when the Yarzats come for them. Perhaps then they''ll understand what I was trying to prevent. Yet Lechlian remained oblivious to Alpheo''s true intentions. The prince consort of Yarzat had no desire to extend his devastation to the lands of the other nobles. His aim was singular: to lay waste solely to the prince''s fiefs. By doing so, Alpheo sought not just to cripple Lechlian''s power but to ensure that the surrounding nobility emerged stronger than the prince himself. He desire to sow deep instability within the region¡ªan instability far more enduring and corrosive than the temporary chaos of a famine.And there was no better instruments for that to make it so that the nobles heavily outnumered in strenght that of the prince. ''''Your Grace..." a voice to his right pulled him from his brooding. "We cannot remain holed up in the city while the enemy ravages the countryside." Lechlian''s jaw tightened, a low grumble escaping his throat before he could suppress it. "And what would you have us do, Arnold?" he asked, keeping his tone measured. His eyes moving to that of his eldest. Lechlian''s gaze lingered on Arnold, his eldest son, standing proud in the dim torchlight. It was like staring into a mirror of his younger self¡ªbroad-shouldered, with the same piercing eyes, strong jawline, and the dark, unruly hair that framed his face. The resemblance was uncanny, and it stirred a complicated mix of pride and frustration within him. So much like me, Lechlian thought bitterly, but blinded by the same fire of youth that once made me reckless. He could see the determination in Arnold''s stance, the unyielding resolve in his tone. Yet, all Lechlian could think of was how easily passion could lead to folly. Lord Cretio stepped forward from the shadowed edges of the court. His voice was steady, commanding attention as he addressed the room. "Your Grace, the Yarzats'' raiding parties are spread thin. Reports from the north and south suggest they are overextended. If we act swiftly, we can send small detachments to harry them. It won''t break their strength entirely, but it will be a blow to them" Lechlian regarded Cretio with a guarded expression, weighing his words, he was after all one of the few lords that still stood with him. Before he could respond, Arnold took a step forward, his voice ringing with determination. "I''ll lead the expedition," the prince declared, his eyes alight with the fervor of purpose. "I know the land better than most, and I can move quickly with a trusted force'''' A murmur rippled through the room, the gathered men exchanging uncertain glances. Lechlian''s jaw tightened, his brow furrowing deeply as he studied his son. Arnold''s eagerness was palpable, but so too was the shadow of risk. Lechlian mulled over the suggestion, his brow furrowed deeply. Splitting his already meager force felt like courting disaster. With fewer than a thousand men, every soldier was precious, and dividing their numbers further might weaken the city''s defense irreparably. Yet, the alternative¡ªremaining passive as villages burned and his people suffered¡ªwas equally untenable. He drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair, the sharp sound filling the silence. It''s a risk we cannot avoid. If we do nothing, I''ll look like a coward who can''t protect his own lands.Something must be done, well since he was the one to bring it up , then it is only fair he is the one to lead them... Lechlian rose from his chair, the weight of his decision evident in his rigid posture. "Lord Cretio," he said, his voice steely with resolve, "you will take command of a force to drive back the raiders north of here.As for the my son he shall follow you and learn. I task his security to you" Arnold took the command with great displeasure, as he believed this would be his occasion to show his worth, yet he did not argue against it, as the lord beside him was faster in his answer. Lord Cretio straightened, bowing deeply. "Your Grace, I will do my utmost. May I ask how many men we might lead?" The prince paused, the hesitation visible in his furrowed brow. Every soldier spared was a risk, and yet he could not afford to send too few else the lords thought he forced them toward failure. "You shall take 200 footmen and 50 knights. " Lord Cretio inclined his head once more, his tone resolute. "It will suffice, Your Grace. We will ensure these raiders regret their insolence." "See that you do," Lechlian replied, his gaze hardening. "I''ll not suffer another report of their flames licking at my lands." The northern lands had sent in fewer reports of raiding parties, leading Lechlian to believe that the enemy presence there was lighter, perhaps more scattered. It wasn''t much, but it offered a sliver of opportunity. If he could claim a decisive strike, even a small one, he could parade it before the nobility as proof of his resolve. Sitting idle in the capital while his villages burned to ash was a humiliation that gnawed at him. It made him seem weak¡ªlike a prince unable to protect his own people, a ruler unfit to wear the crown. A victory, no matter how modest, would help to shore up the image of the throne. The 200 footmen placed under Lord Cretio''s command were drawn primarily from the levies of the lord. Less than half of them belonged to the prince''s personal recruits , ensuring that any losses incurred during the mission would fall more heavily on his allies than on his own dwindling forces. If the venture failed, it would cost him less directly¡ªan unfortunate but necessary sacrifice to maintain appearances. If it succeeded, he could claim the victory as his own, for his son was with them, a triumph orchestrated by the crown one could say. Either way, the risk to his personal strength was minimized, leaving him with just enough force to hold the capital should the worst come to pass. Of the whole venture, the thing that caused him most distress was however the safety of his son. ----------- A man stood at the side of the road, leaning casually against the post f his shop as he watched the column of soldiers march out of the capital. Their banners fluttered listlessly in the cool morning breeze, and the metallic rhythm of boots on cobblestones echoed faintly along the street. Around him, the citizens seemed largely indifferent to the sight, their expressions betraying little more than weary acceptance. Since the crushing defeat at the hands of the Yarzats, the city''s mood had been steeped in unease. Whispers of the enemy''s growing strength and the prince''s dwindling forces had fostered fears of an inevitable siege. But as the weeks dragged on and rumors began to circulate that the Yarzats had bypassed the capital, those fears had dulled, replaced by a cautious hope that the war might never truly reach their gates. The man''s eyes followed the soldiers until they disappeared down the road, their numbers swallowed by the distant haze. He took one last look at their retreating figures before stepping back into his shop, the wooden door closing softly behind him. The shop was a modest butchery, its air thick with the mingled scents of raw meat and sawdust. Hooks dangled from the ceiling, bearing slabs of pork and lamb, while a wooden counter held a sharp set of knives meticulously cleaned. In the corner, a row of cages housed pigeons¡ªthe perfect way to hide the messanger birds on open sight. Behind the counter, the butcher glanced at the pigeons as he weighed his next move. Normally, a bird would carry word to the prince in the south, but he knew that by the time such a message reached its destination, the information would be useless. The troop movement he''d just witnessed demanded immediate action. His gaze shifted to a boy crouched near the cutting block, diligently sharpening a cleaver. The boy, a wiry lad of fifteen with dark hair and quick eyes, was named Fenn. He was more than an apprentice butcher; he was a messenger-in-training for far more dangerous errands. The butcher studied him for a moment, considering the risks, before finally speaking. "Fenn," he called, his voice low but firm. The boy straightened, placing the cleaver down carefully before turning to his master. "Yes, sir?" The butcher stepped closer, resting a hand on the counter. "I''ve got a mission for you. This one''s important¡ªno pigeons this time. You''ll need to deliver it yourself." Fenn frowned slightly, tilting his head. "Where am I going, sir?" The butcher hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line before he finally answered, "North." He had heard of the words coming out of the refugee in the city , and he had got information that there was a raiding party not only south but north too. As he was a spy , he obviously had basic knowledge of geography around the crown''s land , so he knew from the names of the villages that the raiding party north of them was much closer than the southern one. "North where?" Fenn asked, blinking. There was a note of nervousness in his voice, though he tried to hide it with a calm facade. The butcher let out a breath, glancing briefly at the cages of pigeons as if weighing his words. "north of us. They''ll be near the burnt villages¡ªfollow the trail of ash and smoke. That''s where they''ll be." Fenn''s mouth opened slightly as he processed the poetic words You damn old man, you don''t know either! He swallowed hard, realization dawning. "I''ll need to give them the letter?" "That''s right," the butcher confirmed. He turned and began rifling through the drawers of his counter, pulling out parchment, ink, and a quill. "I''ll write it as quickly as I can. You''ll hand it directly to them. Nothing less will do." "But..." Fenn''s brow furrowed. "How will I get there? I can''t just walk all that way." "You won''t," the butcher replied, his tone firm. "I have a contact in the city. They''ll lend you a horse¡ªa good one. Strong, fast. You''ll ride straight through, no stopping for anything but the barest rest. Understand?" "Yes, sir," Fenn murmured, nodding, though the gravity of the task pressed heavily on his shoulders. The butcher leaned closer, gripping the edge of the counter as his gaze locked onto the boy''s. "This is of the utmost importance, Fenn. If you succeed..." He paused, his expression softening just a touch. "There will be rewards¡ªproper ones. You''ll have earned them." Fenn straightened his back, determination flickering in his eyes despite the apprehension that still lingered. "I won''t fail, sir. I''ll get it to them, I will make sure not to fail ." The butcher sighed deeply, rubbing his hands together as he stared at Fenn, his face lined with tension. "We don''t have a choice in this, boy. The prince pays for our service, and he expects to get something in return. If we fail him..." He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "There''s no doubt in my mind that he''d silence us, permanently, if we proved beneath his desired worth." Fenn''s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. The gravity of the statement wasn''t lost on him, and a chill ran down his spine. He nodded slowly, his youthful face pale but resolute. "I understand," he said, his voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in his chest. The butcher gave a sharp nod, his eyes lingering on the boy for a moment, as though gauging his readiness. "Good. Now, prepare yourself. This is not something we can afford to bungle." For a moment, the butcher and Fenn locked eyes. They both knew that their fates were intertwined, their survival dependent on fulfilling the prince''s expectations. If this mission failed,and something bad happened to the prince''s soldiers neither would be spared. Chapter 260: Searching for fire Chapter 260: Searching for fire Fenn sat uncomfortably atop the horse, its steady clop against the dirt road doing little to ease his frustration. He squinted at the vast expanse of countryside stretching in every direction¡ªrolling fields, sparse clusters of trees, and the occasional ruined farmhouse. Damn him for this madness. The old man''s insistence that Fenn be the one to deliver the letter made sense in theory,but who knew it would be such a drag? "Why me? Why not someone who knows where they''re going?" Fenn muttered, nudging the horse into a faster trot. The horse snorted, and Fenn found himself glancing around nervously. He scanned the horizon for signs of the burnt villages the old man had mentioned, but nothing was on sight. Then, as he urged the horse forward again, a cold realization hit him like a punch to the gut. He was lost. Fenn pulled the reins, bringing the horse to a halt. He turned in every direction, his stomach twisting. "Great. Just great. Lost in the middle of nowhere between two armies. Perfect." The horse shook its head as if in agreement, and Fenn groaned. He needed to think fast or risk wandering aimlessly until he stumbled into the wrong kind of company. Fenn''s gaze darted to his right as he suddenly caught sight of movement far off in the distance. Squinting against the midday sun, he made out the faint shapes of three figures walking along the edge of a field. Relief surged through him¡ªfinally, someone who might tell him where he was. He adjusted the belt holding the scabbard of his short sword, pulling it tight across his waist. Just in case, he thought, though he hoped it wouldn''t come to that. With a quick nudge of his heels, he spurred the horse forward, its hooves pounding against the dirt as he closed the distance between himself and the figures. As he drew closer, Fenn saw that it was a middle-aged man accompanied by a teenage boy and a younger girl. The man''s shoulders tensed as the sound of hooves reached him, and he quickly stepped in front of his children, shielding them with his body. His weathered face was a mixture of fear and defiance as Fenn slowed his approach. "We''ve got nothing worth taking, stranger," the man said firmly, his voice steady despite the quaver of his hands. Fenn shifted in his saddle, trying to appear non-threatening. "I''m not here to take anything," he said, his tone steady but firm. "I just need information. Where are you from?" The middle-aged man hesitated before replying, his voice wary. "We''re from Rellan''s Hollow, just north of here." Fenn nodded thoughtfully, running the name through his mind, though it meant little to him. "When did the raiders come through your village?" Before the man could answer, the boy behind him spoke up, his voice thin but hopeful. "Did the prince send you? Is he going to help us?" Fenn paused, the question catching him off guard. He wasn''t sure what to say "Yes," he said with a curt nod. "An army has been sent by the prince." The boy''s eyes brightened, but his father''s skeptical gaze lingered on Fenn. "They came yesterday," the man finally said, his voice carrying a grim weight. "Took what they wanted and burned the rest." Fenn''s heart quickened as he realized how close he must be to the raiding party. He leaned forward slightly. "How far is the nearest village if I head left from here?" The man raised a calloused hand and pointed northwest. "Three days'' walk in that direction," he said, his voice resigned. "Maybe less since you are on horse." Fenn did a quick calculation, realizing that with his horse, it would only take a day''s ride. He adjusted his grip on the reins, his mind racing with what he needed to do next. He gave the man and his family a final glance. "Carry on," he said, spurring his horse into motion. The villagers watched silently as he rode away, the sound of hooves fading into the distance. Once Fenn disappeared beyond the horizon, the three villagers exchanged wary glances. The father ushered his children forward. "Let''s move," he said quietly, his tone urgent. They began walking in the opposite direction, heads low and steps hurried, leaving behind the encounter with the stranger. ---------------- Fenn urged his horse northwest, following the direction the man had indicated. The countryside rolled by in a patchwork of browning fields and sparse woodland. The rhythmic clatter of hooves on dirt accompanied him, and the occasional breeze rustled through the distant trees. His mind wandered, replaying the conversation with the villagers. He hoped the directions were accurate. After several hours of steady riding, the sun began to dip lower, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. He slowed his horse as he came across a small river winding lazily through the landscape. The clear water shimmered in the fading light, and Fenn decided it was time to rest. He dismounted, letting the reins fall loosely over his arm as he led his horse to the water''s edge. The animal eagerly bent its head, drinking deeply from the cool stream. Fenn crouched by the bank, taking off his canteen and dipping it into the river. The water was refreshing, and he took a few sips, feeling the fatigue of the ride ease slightly. As the horse drank, Fenn gazed around, noting the quiet stillness of the surroundings. The faint chirping of crickets began to fill the air as twilight settled in. Sighing, he leaned back on his heels, momentarily appreciating the calm. Fenn''s moment of calm was shattered by the distinct sound of hooves approaching from behind. He tensed, spinning around to see two riders closing in on him, their figures silhouetted against the fading daylight. Heart pounding, he quickly raised his arms in a gesture of surrender. He remained by his horse, still and compliant, as the riders reined in their mounts a few paces away. One of the men, a wiry fellow with a thick beard, let his eyes sweep over Fenn before nodding toward the horse. "That''s a fine animal you''ve got there," he said with a smirk. Without waiting for a response, he nudged his own horse forward and casually seized the reins of Fenn''s mount, pulling it closer. Fenn fought to steady his nerves. He had no way of knowing whose side these men were on¡ªwhether they were Alpheo''s scouts or of the other Prince''s forces. Logic told him it would make more sense for them to belong to Alpheo''s army this far north, but logic wasn''t always reliable in war. He took a cautious breath and ventured a question. "What prince do you serve?" he asked, keeping his tone as neutral as possible, as he believed that beating around the bush served no use, as he knew that after he had been robbed, the two men would probably kill him. The two riders exchanged a glance, their expressions hardening. The second man, broader and with a scar cutting across his cheek, rested a hand deliberately on the hilt of his sword. He leaned slightly forward in his saddle, his eyes narrowing. "Why does that matter to you?" he asked, his voice low and edged with suspicion. Fenn licked his dry lips and forced himself to stay calm, though his heart threatened to beat its way out of his chest. He raised his voice enough to be heard but kept his tone steady. "I have a letter," he said, carefully, "for the commander leading the army of His Grace, Prince Alpheo." Inwardly, he prayed fervently to any gods who might be listening that his hunch had been right. He dared not think about what would happen if he''d guessed wrong; death would be much better than being captured. For a moment, there was silence. Then the man with the scar relaxed, a smile breaking across his weathered face. He took his hand off the hilt of his sword and leaned back slightly in his saddle. "You''re in luck," the man said with a chuckle. "You gave the name of the right one.We can bring you to him " Relief flooded Fenn, but he kept his expression neutral. Nodding slowly, he raised his hands to show no resistance and began disarming himself. He removed his belt and scabbard, handing them over without complaint. The riders accepted them, their suspicion easing as they watched him comply. "Thank the gods," Fenn muttered under his breath, almost light-headed with relief as he was led on horseback by the two men. ---------------------------- As they approached the camp, Fenn surveyed the scene with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. The camp was simple, lacking the defensive walls or trenches he had imagined. Instead, rows of basic tents were arranged with little apparent order, their canvas flapping gently in the evening breeze, there were as many horses as there were people. Soldiers moved freely about, some polishing their weapons or tending to their steeds, while others sat in groups, laughing and drinking. Here and there, Fenn noticed women among them, mostly looking down trying not to make eye contact. Fenn''s horse was taken from him as the riders led him on foot through the camp. He was flanked closely by his escorts, their presence a clear warning not to wander. Finally, they stopped in front of a larger tent, its entrance marked by two banners bearing a coat of arms he didn''t recognize. One of the riders gestured for him to enter, parting the tent flap. Fenn took a deep breath, steadying his nerves, and stepped inside. Chapter 261: Unusual commander Chapter 261: Unusual commander Fenn stepped through the tent''s entrance, and his initial impression was complitely different to what he had expected. Instead of the grandeur or luxurious sophistication he thought might belong to a commander''s quarters, the tent was shockingly bare. There were no tables laden with maps, no racks of polished weapons, and no ornate furnishings. The ground was covered with little more than a few scattered patches of straw and dirt, except for a modest fur thrown across one corner, serving as a makeshift bed. Beside the fur lay a sword still in its scabbard and an axe , casually discarded as though they were an afterthought rather than the primary tools of war. Fenn''s gaze lingered on it for a moment, noting its worn leather grip, before returning to the man sprawled on the fur. The man didn''t bother to rise as Fenn entered. Instead, he propped himself up lazily on one elbow, his sharp eyes flicking up to size the boy up. A sigh escaped him, a mixture of exhaustion and faint annoyance, as though the arrival of yet another stranger was more a nuisance than anything else. "Well?" the man said flatly, his voice low and steady. "You''re not much to look at. What do you want?" Fenn blinked, caught off guard both by the man''s appearance and his tone. He had expected someone regal or commanding, but this man radiated an air of relaxed indifference, as though he were simply waiting for the next interruption to pass. Egil was a striking figure, even in his state of apparent disinterest. His tall frame was immediately noticeable, with long, corded muscles visible even through his relaxed posture. His blonde hair, neck-length and slightly unkempt, framed a face sharp and angular, his high cheekbones accentuating the intensity of his piercing eyes. Those eyes, cold , seemed to take in everything with an unnerving clarity, leaving Fenn feeling like he was being weighed and measured. Though he was lying on the fur with a casual air, there was an undeniable presence about him, a latent energy that suggested he could spring into action in an instant if the situation demanded. The tent itself mirrored Egil''s heritage and philosophy, resembling the style of his nomadic ancestors. There were no unnecessary adornments, just the bare essentials: a fur-covered bedroll, his weapons resting carelessly beside it, and a few scattered personal items. Egil''s camp was filled with similar tents, as he had issued a command to his men to follow this nomadic principle. "A man can only ride as the wind," he had often said, "if he is as light and empty as it." One of the riders stepped forward, breaking the silence. "We found him during our scouting, Commander," he said, nodding towards Fenn. "He claims to be in the service of His Grace and says he has a letter to deliver to you." Egil''s sharp eyes turned to Fenn, studying him intently. "And why," he asked in a low, gravelly voice, "would Alpheo send you to me?" Fenn, nervous under the weight of the commander''s gaze, quickly clarified, "I wasn''t sent by the prince directly, my lord. I''m here on behalf of one of his informants." He paused, licking his lips nervously, before adding, "The enemy prince, Lechlian, has sent a force to deal with you." Egil''s brows furrowed slightly, his interest now piqued. "Go on," he ordered. "There''s more, my lord," Fenn continued, his voice steadying as he spoke. "The details are in the letter." He gestured toward the small satchel at his side. Egil let out a short sigh and rose smoothly from the fur-covered ground, his tall figure even more imposing when upright. He extended his hand toward the boy, palm open. "Give it to me," he said, his tone leaving no room for delay. Fenn hastily retrieved the letter from his satchel and handed it over, his hand trembling slightly as Egil snatched it from his grasp. Egil broke the wax seal on the letter with a practiced flick of his thumb, unfolding the parchment and scanning its contents. As his sharp eyes moved over the words, he muttered absently, "Don''t call me my lord, boy. I''m no lord¡ªjust a knight." Fenn nodded quickly, murmuring, "Understood, Sir." Egil''s expression remained neutral as he reached the end of the letter very slowly, giving away nothing of its contents nor if he had understood what it entailed inside, as he still had trouble reading. Once finished, he folded the parchment deliberately and tucked it into his belt. He turned his gaze to the guards still lingering by the entrance of the tent. "You can leave," Egil commanded curtly. "And fetch Rykios for me. Now." The guards exchanged quick nods and exited the tent without hesitation. Egil''s piercing gaze then turned back to Fenn. "You," he added, gesturing at the boy, "stay here." Fenn shifted nervously, unsure of what was to come, but he swallowed his unease and remained where he stood as the flap of the tent fell shut behind the guards. Egil leaned against the tent''s central post, fixing his sharp eyes on Fenn. "How long have you been riding before reaching us?" he asked casually, his tone almost disinterested. Fenn hesitated before responding. "Two days, including the time I was... uh, brought here." Egil rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Hmm. The enemy''s army has footmen, hundreds of them. They''ll move slower. Three, maybe four days before they''re anywhere near us." He paused, then straightened up. "Do you know how to ride? And more importantly, do you know aroound here?" The boy nodded quickly, sensing the importance of the question. "I do. Do you want me to deliver a letter back?" Egil chuckled, the sound dry and short. "No. That won''t be necessary." He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. "Tell me, boy, do you know how to swing a sword?" Fenn froze. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. "Y-yes," he stammered, though he wasn''t sure his hesitant training with a dull blade counted as knowing. Fear prickled at the back of his neck as he began to suspect where this conversation was leading. Egil grinned, a wolfish expression that sent a chill down Fenn''s spine. "Good," he said. "Then buckle up, boy. You''re a soldier now." Fenn''s eyes widened in alarm. "Wait, I¡ª" Egil silenced him with a single, pointed look. It wasn''t angry, but it carried a weight of authority that brooked no further argument. "Yes, Sir," Fenn murmured, nodding reluctantly. The tent flap rustled as a man entered, his stride confident and purposeful. His short black hair framed a rugged face marked by a deep scar running across his cheek. Without preamble, he announced, "You called me sir?" Egil glanced up and nodded. "Rykio." His tone was almost amused as he continued, "Seems the bastard prince finally found his courage. He''s sent 200 footmen and 50 knights marching toward us.We are finalle seeing some actions" Rykio''s face barely shifted, though his brow furrowed slightly. "Are we retreating, then?" Egil laughed, the sound deep and hearty, shaking his head as though the very suggestion was ridiculous. "Retreat? You think I''d pass up this kind of challenge?" He stepped forward, clapping Rykio on the shoulder. "No, we''re not running. I want you to send out more scouts. I need eyes on every road, field, and path around here." Egil turned, gesturing toward Fenn. "And while you''re at it, take the boy with you. Ride out and study the terrain. I want to know every advantage we can wring out of this land." Rykio nodded without hesitation. He had known, even as he posed the question, that Egil would not shy away from the fight. His commander was never one to back down when the odds were stacked against him¡ªit was half the reason he followed the man so loyally. Fenn, standing off to the side, raised an incredulous eyebrow. His thoughts raced as he tried to process what was happening. They really mean to fight a force three times their size? He swallowed hard, suddenly feeling the weight of his new "recruitment" pressing down on him. After all there were less than 80 riders in the whole camp, while the enemy had 250 at its disposal... Egil stretched, raising his arms high above his head and letting out a satisfied grunt. "It''s been a while since we had some real fun," he said with a lopsided grin, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. Rykio crossed his arms, his dark eyes steady. "Is there anything else?" Egil sighed, his grin fading into something more contemplative. "There is." He ran a hand through his blonde hair, his tone tinged with reluctance. "We need to send a letter to those bastards." Rykio''s eyes widened in surprise, his scarred cheek twitching as he processed the statement. "Are you sure about that?" He asked as he already knew of whom he was talking about. Egil nodded, his expression firm. "I am. As much as I hate his guts, at the end of the day, we fight on the same side. No sense letting him blunder in blind." His lips twisted into a grimace. "Prepare a messenger. The missive will go to that golden fool." Rykio hesitated for a moment, his face a mask of conflicting thoughts, but he bowed his head in acknowledgment. "Understood." Egil waved him off. "Go on, then. I''ll put the words together. Make sure whoever you pick rides fast¡ªI don''t want to waste more time on this than necessary. We will as much sword as we can get, even if it means fighting alongside those chivalrous and pompous baboons," he finally said forgetting that he too was a man knighted by the princess. Chapter 262: Chivalry vs Pragmatism Chapter 262: Chivalry vs Pragmatism The sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky, its golden rays warming the earth below. Egil reclined on his horse, lying on his stomach over the beast''s strong back with one arm draped lazily over its neck. The horse, a sturdy creature with a glossy black coat, trotted steadily beneath him, seemingly accustomed to its master''s unconventional posture. Behind Egil, a line of ten riders followed, their horses kicking up small clouds of dust as they moved in unison. It had been three days since the letters were sent out, and the tension among his men had shifted into a kind of restless anticipation. Egil had sent out a quarter of his forces as scouts, and their efforts had paid off. They had successfully located the enemy army without being detected themselves. Their reports confirmed that the enemy force was still two days away, moving at a fast but predictable pace. Egil adjusted his position slightly, raising his head just enough to peer at the horizon. A faint smirk played on his lips. Two days. Two more days until the real fun began. Egil had not spent the past two days idly lounging. His camp had shifted positions twice already, small raiding parties continued to harass nearby villages, succeeding in manipulating the enemy''s movements, drawing them along paths of Egil''s choosing. The chosen battleground was nestled within a hilly expanse. It was a place of natural advantage, where the uneven terrain provided countless opportunities for concealment and ambush. Ahead, the thundering of hooves signaled the approach of a column of riders¡ªsome sixty men in total¡ªcresting the nearest hill and descending into the valley where Egil and his company waited. The glint of sunlight on steel and the fluttering of pennons marked their arrival, the riders forming a disciplined line as they drew nearer. Egil sighed audibly, pushing himself upright in his saddle. His casual demeanor melted into one of measured focus. He turned to Rykio, a dry smirk tugging at his lips. "The bastards finally made it," he muttered, patting his horse''s mane as if bracing himself for the encounter. At the forefront of the approaching riders was a figure that could not be mistaken: Sir Mereth, his golden steed an ostentatious sight among the more subdued mounts of his escort. Clad in polished armor that reflected the sunlight with an almost blinding brilliance, Mereth cut a sharp, imposing figure. As the column halted, Sir Mereth guided his steed forward with practiced precision, stopping mere feet from Egil''s horse. The contrast between the two knights was stark. Where Mereth''s armor gleamed like a king''s prize, Egil''s simpler attire was well-worn and dusted from days in the field. Yet it was Egil who sat with a lazy confidence, his piercing eyes taking in the man before him with undisguised amusement. "Sir Egil," Mereth greeted coolly, his tone clipped and devoid of warmth. "Sir Mereth," Egil replied in kind, matching the cold formality with his own detached drawl. He tipped his head slightly, an acknowledgment that bordered on mockery.Useless to say bad blood passed between the two. Sir Mereth''s eyes stayed locked on Egil, his expression stern as he spoke. "We received your letter and we have come." His voice carried a hint of something, as though he had anticipated more decorum from the man before him. Egil waved his hand lazily, as if brushing away any need for formalities. "That''s good," he replied, his tone almost mocking in its casualness. He shifted in his saddle, looking entirely too comfortable for a man discussing war. "Your timing''s not bad either. My scouts reported the enemy''s position a bit ago. They''re two days from here, maybe less." Mereth''s brow furrowed slightly, but he gave a small nod. "Good," he said curtly. "Then we should march at once. " Egil chuckled, a low, amused sound that made a few of Mereth''s riders glance at each other in confusion. "March at once?" he repeated, leaning back in his saddle. "Why in the Mother''s name would we do that?" Mereth''s face stiffened. "Because it''s common sense, Sir ..." "Common sense," Egil interrupted, grinning broadly, "is what people call it when they don''t have a better idea. Listen, Mereth. They''re coming to us. Right now, they''ve got no clue where we are. They think they''re intercepting our raiding path, chasing shadows. And here we are, sitting right where we want them to be." Mereth''s frown deepened. "Where you want them to be?'''' Egil adjusted himself in the saddle, leaning forward with a casual air as if discussing the weather rather than war. "My scouts," he began, his tone light but with a glint in his sharp eyes, "say these bastards march the whole day, long and hard. Their plan? Rest up at night so they can cover as much ground as possible and reach that village. Smart, right?I mean for a idiot lord who does not understand that you can run day and night but footmen will never outpace cavalry" Sir Mereth''s stern expression didn''t change, but a flicker of curiosity crossed his face. Egil continued, "Here''s the best part about this. When they stop for the night? They don''t bother with defenses. No palisades, no trenches, nothing. Just some half-nailed tents shoved into the dirt and a few sorry excuses for watchmen¡ªif you can even call them that. I suppose their men are tired after a full day of marching , too bothered to even dig a trench considering that in less than ten hours they will march again.." He smirked, his confidence radiating as he gestured lazily toward the horizon. "It''s like they think since they don''t know our position , they think we don''t know theirs. So here''s the play. The night before they reach that village, we come out of the shadows and hit them hard¡ªbefore they even have time to raise a sword. We''ll make sure they''re too groggy, too scattered, to do anything but die in their tents." He leaned back, his hands resting on the pommel of his saddle as if the battle was already won. "It''ll be an easy victory,my good Sir" Egil said with a crooked smile, "for all of us. No need for heroics, no need for losses. Just one quick, clean strike, and this little army of theirs? Gone before sunrise.And we will both be hailed as the commanders that fought an army two time their size without breaking a sweat" Sir Mereth finally broke his silence, his cold eyes narrowing as he spoke, his tone laced with quiet disdain. "I expected no less from you, Egil. A plan like this, crawling in the dark like thieves, striking when a man''s back is turned¡ªthis is no way to fight. It''s dishonorable, unworthy of a knight. We are bound by our values, by our oath to carry ourselves with honor in all things, even in war." Egil''s grin faltered, the carefree amusement draining from his face like water from a cracked jar. His sharp gaze locked onto Mereth, and his voice, once laced with mirth, now carried an edge. "Disregard such a victory? For our prince? Over honor? Tell me, Mereth, which matters more: the shining banner of your so-called knightly virtues or delivering our prince what he needs¡ªa win?" Mereth stood firm, his jaw tight. "Without honor, a knight is no better than a brigand. The way we fight matters. We cannot abandon our principles simply because it is convenient." Egil''s tone dropped, his words slow and deliberate, like a blade unsheathed. "Your values, Mereth, not mine. I serve the prince. That''s the only value I hold¡ªto serve him to my utmost, to see that everyone of his need is met. You''d do well to remember that." He leaned slightly forward in his saddle, his voice lowering into a dangerous calm. "Or is your devotion to your own image greater than your devotion to him?" Mereth''s lips pressed into a thin line, his hands clenching the reins of his horse. Egil tilted his head, his voice gaining a sharper edge. "You think the prince cares if we march in shiny lines and fight on some noble field like you read about in ballads? No. He cares that we win. He cares that we bring his enemies to heel, however it''s done. And you should care about that too, Sir Mereth.The honor of our prince had been smeared at his marriage. His own marriage!Where was the honor in that ?" Sir Mereth''s lip curled in contempt. "I expected nothing more from a barbarian from the west. Men like you wouldn''t understand the proper conduct of behaviour if it struck you across the face." Egil''s face darkened even more. He spat on the ground, his saliva hitting the dirt between them with a loud splat. His voice was low, filled with the simmering heat of barely restrained fury. "In any other situation, I''d pull my axe right now and split your skull open, you pompous little worm. But I won''t¡ªbecause my prince wouldn''t like it if I put down one of his knights, even one as spineless as you." He leaned closer, his piercing eyes locking with Mereth''s, daring him to flinch. "Listen carefully, you fool. I''ll march with or without you, and when we crush that force, everyone will know the truth. That Sir Mereth the Craven sat back like a frightened pup, clutching his precious code while real men fought and bled." Egil straightened with a sharp jerk of the reins, his tone cutting like a blade. "Your code? It''s nothing but a leash to keep fools like you tame. Don''t mistake it for something that binds me. I answer to one code, and that''s my prince''s will. Yours? Yours means less to me than the dirt under my boots." He wheeled his horse around in one swift motion, the movement sharp and commanding. Turning his back on Mereth without a second thought, Egil added over his shoulder, "Stay here if you want, shine your armor, and wait for us to win your war for you, like your women at home. Just don''t expect me to let anyone forget how you cowered while we fought and bled for the only thing that should matter for us...." With that, Egil rode off, his posture a picture of defiance, every muscle radiating contempt. His men followed him, leaving Mereth alone in the dust, his knuckles white as he gripped the reins of his horse. Egil tightened his grip on the reins, his horse snorting as if sensing the resolve of its rider. "Those Herculian bastards thinks the darkness is when they can rest. I''ll teach them that it''s where death waits." They were not knights who fought by the light of day, announcing their banners and making grand speeches. They were warriors who knew the value of cunning and the weight of true loyalty¡ªto their prince and to each other. Egil thought again of the ambush he had planned . He smiled, a cruel and exagerated one as he wanted to let their enemy know , that now Yarzat was above their petty ambitions, and he would teach that lesson through blood. Chapter 263: Night attack(1) Chapter 263: Night attack(1) The moon hung high in the night sky, its pale light spilling over the hills like a silver veil. The enemy force, as anticipated, had pushed themselves to exhaustion, marching relentlessly to reach the village they believed would be the next target of the raiders, day and night they marched in order to reach it before the enemy From his vantage point on a ridge, Egil could see their encampment nestled in the shallow valley below. Just as his scouts had reported: no defensive structures, no proper watch rotations¡ªjust tents haphazardly nailed into the ground. It''s really too easy... He turned slightly, his sharp eyes catching the gleam of polished armor amidst the shadows. Sir Mereth had come after all. The "High Buffoon," as Egil had privately christened him, had brought his knights along, their golden finery and stiff demeanor at odds with the more rugged and practical appearance of Egil''s riders. At least he didn''t tuck tail and ride home. I''ll give him that, we will need all the swords we can get... The two groups, however, could not have been more divided. Even now, as they prepared for the strike, the hostility between them was palpable. The animosity had boiled over during their brief time together, with scuffles breaking out between Egil''s hardened and free-spirits warriors and Mereth''s disciplined knights. Harsh words had escalated into fists, and in one instance, a broken nose. It had taken Egil stepping in¡ªaxe in hand and no small amount of colorful threats¡ªto keep the groups from outright bloodshed before the battle. Egil turned to Rykio,who stood nearby, leaning casually against his horse. "Looks like the fool decided to join us after all," Egil muttered, his voice low enough to keep the knights out of earshot. Rykio snorted. "Hope he doesn''t get in the way." Egil smirked. "If he does, I''ll let the enemy take him as a gift." The two shared a quiet laugh before Egil''s expression hardened. He mounted his horse in a single, fluid motion, gripping the reins with practiced ease. "It''s time. Let''s show them what it means to march against us ." With a silent gesture, his riders moved into position, their horses treading softly on the dew-covered grass. Egil''s plan had worked to perfection thus far, and the time had come to deliver the final stroke. A strike from the shadows, swift and merciless¡ªthis was how enemies learned to fear the name of Yarzat, and he would be the one to deliver it . Egil''s voice cut through the night like a knife, quiet but firm. "Advance." The riders moved with practiced precision, rows of four forming a disciplined column as they began their descent toward the enemy encampment. At the front, four men held the edges of a great woolen blanket, stretched taut across wooden poles. It was a crude yet useful creation, woven by the women of the camp and designed specifically for this moment. Egil rode at the center of the formation, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp as daggers. His horse moved with a steady, deliberate gait, as if it too understood the gravity of the moment. He glanced ahead, watching as the blanket shielders maintained their pace, ensuring no stray flicker of light coming from their torches gave away their position. As soon as they were close enough, Egil''s hand rose into the air, his fingers curling into a tight fist. The riders tensed, their grips tightening on reins and weapons. He held the gesture for a moment, his sharp eyes locking onto the campfires flickering in the distance. Then, with a decisive motion, he thrust his hand forward. "Now!" His voice, though low, carried an undeniable authority¡ªthat of a man whose will could move mountains if he so wished . In perfect unison, the riders surged forward, kicking their horses into a thunderous gallop. The blanket shielding the torches was thrown to the ground, forgotten, as the torches flared brightly against the night,, decalring to everyne their position and intention. The sudden blaze illuminated the riders'' faces¡ªferal grins, clenched jaws, and eyes that burned with the promise of chaos. The sound of hooves became a deafening roar, the ground trembling beneath the weight of the charge. The distance between them and the camp shrank rapidly, the once-calm night shattered by the pounding of horses and the rising shouts of men. Egil leaned forward in his saddle, his blonde hair whipping behind him as he bared his teeth in a wild grin, feeling once again that primordial instics of his people, to kill, rape and burn. It wasn''t long before the first alarmed shout echoed through the camp, piercing the stillness of the night. "Riders! Riders coming!" a frantic voice yelled, probably from a watchman who saw the torches , soon followed by a cacophony of more cries as the sentries scrambled to comprehend the sudden threat. But it was too little and far too late, for it to amount to anything. Egil and his men descended upon the camp like wolves in the fold, the roar of hooves and the flicker of torchlight casting chaotic shadows across the confused scene. The first line of tents buckled as horses trampled them, their occupants barely managing to crawl out before being overtaken be it by weapon or simply by the hooves of the steeds. Soldiers fumbled with their weapons or simple armors , still tangled in sleep and confusion, while others bolted out half-dressed, clutching spears ,shields, and sometimes nothing. Egil rode at the front, his axe glinting in the torchlight around the camp as he barked orders to his men. "Give them no mercy! Push through!We have no need of prisoners " His voice cut through the chaos like a whip, spurring his riders to maintain their momentum, as the best charge was the one that carried more on fear than actual damage. The riders unleashed their fury, torches flaring as they swung them low and hurled them onto the fabric of the enemy tents. The dry fabric caught fire instantly, the flames licking hungrily across the surface before erupting into roaring infernos, that devoured anything inside. Men who had taken refuge within the tents, hoping to escape the slaughter outside, now found themselves trapped in a hell of their own making. Their muffled screams turned into shrill, guttural cries as fire consumed them. Figures burst from the tents, their clothes and skin alight, flailing in agony as they stumbled blindly into the chaos. "Help me!" one man shrieked, his voice cracking as he clawed at his burning tunic, only to collapse onto the ground, his cries fading into a guttural moan as the smell of burning meat spread through the camp. Another bolted from his tent, his face blackened and blistered, only to be cut down by a passing rider before he could take another step, ending his pain and giving him the only mercy a soldier can give another. The air was filled with the cries of suffering¡ªwails of agony, desperate prayers, and panicked shouts blending with the roar of the flames. In that moment there had been more piety on those men , than in any temple, as the name of the gods and their beings was invoked by their twisted mouths thousands and thousands of times. In the chaos, shadows danced wildly, the light of the fires playing cruel tricks on the fleeing soldiers, who ran headlong into each other or straight into the path of Egil''s riders, who cut down men left and right, the enemy too divided to mount even the slightest of resistance, making them look like lambs waiting for the slaughter. Flames spread unchecked, engulfing row after row of tents, creating a hellscape from which there was no escape. Egil, at the head of his riders, watched the chaos unfold with an happy smile on his face, taking in the cries of pains as it was the cold and pure air of a mountain, the commander himself taking part in the slaughter as he always used to dow. Egil spurred his horse forward, his laughter cutting through the din of battle like a blade. He swung his axe in a brutal arc, its edge splitting the jaw of an unarmored man who had stumbled out of a burning tent. Blood sprayed in a grotesque fountain as the man crumpled to the ground. Egil''s eyes gleamed with a dark amusement as an idea struck him¡ªa sick, twisted jest to add to the chaos. "A fox!" Egil bellowed, his voice rising above the screams and crackling flames. "A fox is on the loose!" He laughed, the sound deep and unsettling, his shoulders shaking as if he truly found the carnage around him comical, as he used the nickname so hated by his dearest friend. The riders nearest to him caught on, their initial confusion giving way to mirth as they joined in. "A fox!" one of them yelled, throwing his javelin into a panicked soldier''s back "There''s a fox in the night!" "A fox in the camp!" another shouted, just before his sword slashed across the enemy throat. The blood-streaked riders took up the cry, their voices ringing out in cruel harmony. They galloped through the camp, the thundering of their hooves echoing alongside their jeers. To the terrified soldiers, it was as if the night itself mocked their plight. Barefoot, unarmed men scrambled out of the flaming ruins of their tents, their faces pale with terror as the riders bore down on them. Some tried to run but were trampled under the roof or cut down by sweeping blades and spears. Others froze, their eyes wide with dread, as the cries of "Fox! Fox!" came closer, making their legs tremble and wet from the golden liquid coming down from their waists. Egil slashed his axe again, its blade catching a man across the ribs, splitting flesh and bone with a sickening crunch, that usual feeling that he adored so much and craved in the life he had lived as slave . He twisted in his saddle to look at his men, his grin widening as he saw them reveling in the slaughter, their voices rising in frenzied unison. "RUN YOU, BASTARDS, YARZAT''S FOX HAS COME." Chapter 264: Night Attack(2) Chapter 264: Night Attack(2) "Give them no mercy!" Egil roared, his voice a booming command that fueled the frenzy of his men. He charged forward, his axe raised high, catching the desperate thrust of a spear with a deft twist of his wrist. The soldier holding it, trembling and half-naked, barely had time to react before Egil''s weapon came down in a savage arc, biting deep into his shoulder. The impact severed flesh and bone, sending the man collapsing to the ground with a strangled cry, his spear clattering uselessly beside him. Egil didn''t pause, yanking his axe free with a sickening squelch as blood sprayed across his face and armor. Another soldier rushed at him, clutching at a short sword, his eyes wild with desperation. Egil spurred his horse to meet the man head-on. The blade came swinging toward him, but Egil deflecting it , avoiding the blow with the ease of a predator toying with prey. He swung his axe horizontally, its blade catching the man at the side stomach, and cleaving through his ribs and onto whatever was behind them. Nearby, a pair of riders pursued a man who run between the burning tents. One soldier lunged with his spear, skewering the runner through the back, the tip of the weapon bursting through his chest. The soldier twisted the spear savagely before pulling it free, letting the man drop like a broken puppet. Another rider dismounted, driving his sword through the throat of a man who had been trying to crawl away, gurgling as blood pooled beneath him. Egil wheeled his horse around, scanning the chaos. A small group of enemy soldiers had managed to gather, their weapons raised as they tried to form a shaky line of defense. Egil sneered at their pitiful display of resistance, before calling some of his men to his side. Their horses surging forward in unison as they charged toward the trembling line of infantry attempting to form a defensive wall. The soldiers braced themselves, spears angled outward, desperately trying to maintain their formation. But if they believed they were preparing for a direct clash, they had gravely miscalculated. As Egil''s riders closed the distance, they suddenly reined in their horses, halting just outside the range of the spears. With practiced precision, the riders unslung their javelins. A chorus of sharp whistles cut through the air as the deadly projectiles hurtled toward the enemy line. The impact was devastating¡ªmen screamed as javelins pierced torsos, arms, and legs. Some crumpled to the ground, clutching at the shafts impaling their bodies, while others fell silent, lifeless before they hit the dirt. Panic rippled through the remaining soldiers. The realization that Egil''s cavalry were not merely charging brutes but also carried ranged weapons shattered their resolve. Their formation dissolved into chaos as men began to scatter, their weapons abandoned in blind terror. But there was no escape. Egil''s riders pressed the attack, their horses surging forward once more. Spears and swords flashed in the firelit darkness as they mercilessly cut down the fleeing soldiers, leaving no room for mercy. "Burn it all!" Egil commanded, his eyes alight with a savage joy. His men obeyed, throwing more torches into the tents and storage carts, the flames roaring higher as smoke billowed into the night sky. Amid the inferno, Egil stood tall in his saddle, his axe dripping with blood. Around him, his riders shouted their war cries, their voices mingling with the dying screams of the enemy and the crackle of burning fabric. ---------------- Far to the south, Sir Mereth''s heavy cavalry was engaged on the opposite side of the camp. While Egil led his assault from the north with his swift and deadly riders, Mereth''s knights struck with the brute force of armored warhorses, smashing through disorganized clusters of soldiers who tried to regroup. The enemy had been caught in a deadly pincer, their forces fractured and outmaneuvered. As the camp burnt into chaos Mereth clearly saw the result of the attack,turning his eyes around just in time to see a knight swinging his heavy mace and with a sickening sound shattering the skull of a fleeing, unarmored footman. The man collapsed in a heap, lifeless, as Mereth''s steed reared briefly, its hooves pawing the smoky air. All around him, the camp was a vision of carnage and fire. Tents burned fiercely, their skeletal frames collapsing into ash. Mereth''s lips curled into a grimace as he surveyed the scene. There was hardly any resistance left¡ªjust a scattering of terrified, disorganized men, most of whom ran like hunted prey. This wasn''t a battle. It was a slaughter. He turned his gaze northward, where Egil''s men continued their chaotic rampage. The barbarian, no doubt, was reveling in this madness, as if the blood and fire were some great jest. Mereth''s fingers tightened on the reins, the leather creaking under his grip. If only Egil wasn''t the prince''s favorite, he thought darkly,I''d have left him to his rabble long ago. But Mereth knew better than to entertain such notions. If Egil fell, the prince''s wrath would not be directed at the enemy but at anyone who had failed to protect his precious pawn. That fury, Mereth was certain, would land squarely on his shoulders. He cast another disdainful glance at the burning camp and the pitiful remnants of the enemy''s forces. With a weary sigh, Mereth muttered under his breath, "This is no knight''s work." Still, he drove his horse forward. As Sir Mereth rode closer, the commotion ahead drew his attention. A soldier under his command swung his sword at a man in polished armor, but the blow was expertly deflected. The armored man countered swiftly, driving his blade into the soldier''s thigh with a precision that sent the man crumpling to the ground. Before the wounded soldier could cry out, his opponent plunged a dagger through the visor of his helmet, silencing him with brutal efficiency. With the death of his enemy , the man''s eyes narrowed, catching the glint of the knight''s finely crafted armor illuminated by the flickering light of a nearby torch. He turned toward him, and their eyes locked. "I am Lord Cretio!Commander of this army " he bellowed, his voice cutting through the dark "I demand a fair fight!" he said recognizing that the man on horseback was perhaps the commander of the knights, given the elegance of his armor. Mereth reined his horse to a halt, his piercing gaze fixed on the man. For a moment, the cacophony of the battlefield seemed to fade, replaced by a tense, electric silence between the two warriors. "So be it," Mereth said, his voice carrying a grim finality. With practiced ease, he dismounted from his horse, the sound of his boots hitting the bloodied ground lost amidst the distant screams and crackling flames. He unhooked his heavy mace, resting its weight in his hand as he stepped forward. The two circled each other briefly, studying their opponent''s stance as lions searching for the moment to pounce. While howerver Cretio focused on the battle, Mereth''s thoughts flickered for a moment. If he is a lord, then where are his guards? he wondered. Are they dead? Or scattered throughout the camp, too caught in the chaos to regroup around their leader? Before he could dwell further on the question, Cretio lunged forward. His blade flashed in the dim light, slicing toward Mereth''s midsection in a precise and forceful thrust.Mereth stepped back, raising his mace to deflect the blow, before countering with a sweeping strike. Cretio sidestepped as soon as he saw the blow.He aimed a quick thrust at Mereth''s side, but the knight turned just in time, the blade glancing harmlessly off his plated shoulder, given he had no shield he had to use whatever mean he could to defend himself. Mereth retaliated with a powerful downward swing, forcing Cretio to block with his shield. The impact rang out like a hammer striking an anvil, pushing Cretio back a step. The duel continued, the air heavy with the sound of grunts and the screech of metal on metal. Cretio''s sword lashed out again, this time catching Mereth''s arm and scraping against his armor. The lord''s strikes were light and quick, calculated to keep his opponent off balance. Each swing of his blade demanded Mereth''s full focus to deflect or sidestep, leaving him no room to counter. Cretio''s footwork was masterful, driving Mereth back step by step . Mereth gritted his teeth, watching for an opening that never seemed to come, while using his armor to deflect the blow,cursing the absence of a shield . Every time he considered retaliating, Cretio was already moving, his blade slicing the air with relentless efficiency. Then, Cretio overreached. A forceful thrust aimed at Mereth''s side missed its mark as Mereth twisted his body at the last moment. The momentum of the strike left Cretio''s balance faltering, his sword extended too far. Mereth didn''t hesitate. Seizing the opportunity, he swung his mace in a low, punishing arc, aiming for the exposed side of Cretio''s torso. The impact landed with a sickening crunch throwing the lord to the ground, splattering his armor with the dirt of the ground. Lying in the dirt, Cretio groaned in pain, his head raised and perhapse for the first time truly seeing what was happening around him.Soldiers screaming in fear and pain , tents burning resembling the hells so feared by pious men admonished by priest. Seeing everthing , the lord ''s voice finally rose in defiance. "Yarzat dogs! You have no honor!Attacking in the night like thieves" Mereth stood over him, his mace poised for a finishing blow ignoring the remarks as he had no words to give back "Yield," he demanded coldly. "You''ll be treated well if you do." Cretio hesitated, his mind racing. He thought of his prince, who by now should have escaped the camp and made it to safety. If I die here, the blame for this disaster will fall squarely on the prince''s shoulders, he realized bitterly. But if I surrender, I''ll bear the weight of this defeat alone as I was the commander of the expedition. With a heavy sigh, he threw his sword and shield aside, raising his hands in surrender. "I yield," he said, his voice filled with contempt, recognising the failure of the expedition. And so the punishment that the lord wanted to give back to the raiders had died before it could begin, leaving only a camp filled with ashes, corpses, and broken spirits to mark its place . Some of the soldiers would however manage to escape , wandering for days alone. Others, unable to flee, would captured, their fates now in the hands of Egil and his men, who would decide between simple execution or trade their lives with slave-merchants. By morning, the once-proud expedition was nothing but another loss of the prince. The soldiers who had hoped to return as heroes of the crown would instead meet disgrace¡ªor worse¡ªin the hills where Egil''s forces had drawn them. Chapter 265: Aftermath Chapter 265: Aftermath The following day, the remnants of the enemy camp lay only as a haze of smoke and ash. The charred remains of tents and the scattered bodies of the night''s carnage were the only thing proof that an army was camped there . Among the chaos, prisoners sat bound on the ground, their heads bowed in exhaustion and humiliation, guarded by Egil''s victorious men. Two soldiers stood near the prisoners, speaking in hushed, disgruntled tones. One of them, a stocky man with a missing tooth, gnawed on a chicken leg with visible frustration. "What kind of army is this?" he muttered, his voice thick with derision. "I thought we''d at least find some proper loot. Hell, even decent boots. But no, nothing but tatters " His companion, taller and wiry with a crooked nose, snorted. "Maybe their prince spent it all on the armor they ran out of at the last battle. Look at ''em," he said, gesturing with his chin toward the huddled prisoners. "More like beggars than soldiers. Pitiful lot." The stocky man finished his chicken leg with a loud bite and regarded the prisoners with a sneer. A particularly ragged one caught his eye, slumped against a piece of fallen canvas. "Hey, you," he barked, his voice dripping with contempt. "Why are you lot so bloody poor, huh? Some army. Can''t even afford a proper plundering." With a cruel smirk, he tossed the bone with a flick of his wrist, sending it arcing through the air to strike the prisoner squarely on his head. "Word''s in anyway," he continued "Egil says we''ll meet up with the rest of the army soon enough. Guess that''s that for our little side adventure...." His lean companion leaned against a shattered post, tilting his head. "Hmph. Fun while it lasted, wasn''t it? There''s something about sneaking up in the night, burning tents, and watching those bastards run like headless chickens that I''ll miss." The burly man barked a laugh, tossing the remains of another small chicken leg toward the prisoners. The bone clattered against a bound man''s head, drawing a muffled grunt of pain. "Aye. But at least we didn''t leave empty-handed, eh?" He nodded toward a group of women huddled together under heavy guard. "Looks like some of us chose ourselves wives for when we return home." "Maybe it''s for the better," he grunted, eyeing the prisoners with disdain. "Sure, taking women and eating meat is fun, but these villages? They''re too poor for us to get much out of them. Barely worth the trouble." His companion, leaning lazily on his spear, nodded in agreement. "You''re not wrong. At this point, I wouldn''t mind heading back , spending what little we''ve managed to scrape together. Enough of this chasing shadows and raiding ash heaps." The first soldier sighed, rubbing his neck. "Aye. Don''t know how Egil gets a kick out of this. It''s not like we''re lining our pockets with gold. Half the time, we''re just chasing starving farmers." The second soldier chuckled darkly. "That''s our commander for you. He fights for the thrill of it, not for the spoils. Us? I''d rather fight for something shinier than smoked pigs and empty granaries."As he said so he turned his head "You reckon what''s gonna happen to them?" He gestured with another half-eaten leg toward the bound prisoners, their heads bowed low, shoulders slumped in despair. "No idea. Egil said to bind ''em up, not to kill ''em. Maybe they''re keeping them for a trade¡ªmight be some slave merchant looking to buy cheap bodies. Could fetch a few coins for the effort." The words hit the prisoners like a lightning bolt, their eyes widening in alarm as muffled gasps and shuffling echoed through their huddled ranks. The burly soldier noticed, snorted, and laughed around a mouthful of chicken. "Hah! Look at that¡ªseems like they don''t like the idea of being sold." The lanky man tossed the grin back on his face but shook his head. "You think so? Well, after the last big fight, His Grace refused to sell any captives.Makes you wonder, though... maybe he just planning to work them to death instead? Maybe in some mines?You heard that boys!Maybe you will simply work to death few kilometers from your old home..." He spat onto the ashen ground, the glob landing inches from a prisoner''s foot. "Either way, it''s not our business. We''re not the ones hauling their sorry hides around. I say let Egil and the higher-ups figure it out." --------------- Egil sat cross-legged on the ground of his modest tent, his relaxed demeanor at odds with the tension in the air. The dim glow of a single lantern illuminated the sparse interior: a bedroll in one corner, his axe resting against the central pole, and a simple wooden tray holding a jug of wine and two cups. Across from him, Lord Cretio knelt on a small, thin cushion, his back stiff and his expression one of barely restrained fury. The awkward position of being made to kneel like a supplicant was clearly uncomfortable for the proud noble. Egil leaned back slightly, propping himself up on one elbow as he regarded Cretio with an amused smile. "So, my lord," he began lazily, "how much do you reckon your family can pay to see you free again? I''m sure they''ll miss you." Cretio''s jaw tightened, and he spat out his response. "You''re honorless scum. A thief and a savage. Speak of ransom all you like;I do not treat with the likes of you." Egil sighed heavily, as though disappointed by the lack of creativity in the insult. He leaned forward, his tone sharpening slightly. "Honor this, honor that¡ªdo you know how dull it gets hearing the same tired lines from your lot? You think you''re better than me because you prance around in gilded armor and talk fancy, but here you are, on your knees, in my tent. Defeated, without army and without weapon. In my tribe if a man suffered such a loss, he would have his head trampled by horses." Cretio daggers at him, but Egil waved a dismissive hand. "Spare me the theatrics. I''ll ask again: how much is your family willing to pay?Or you think your sons would want it better for their father to remain as prisoner?Impatience to get hand on a inheritance is a rarely good of a counsel...'''' The prisoner glanced around the sparse interior, his lip curling in distaste at the lack of furniture or any semblance of comfort. Turning his attention to Sir Mereth, who leaned against a tent pole, he barked, "I was promised good treatment, yet here I kneel like a slave. Is this how you honor your word?" Before Mereth could reply, Egil froze at the accusation, tilting his head in confusion. "What in the hell are you yammering about?" he said, his tone carrying more irritation than concern. "Do you see a chair anywhere in my tent? A bed of silk, maybe? No? Then quit whining. You''re sitting as I do, prisoner or no.This is my private tent..." Cretio''s brows furrowed as he looked around again, as if trying to find some overlooked sign of refinement. "Are you truly a commander?" he asked, incredulity laced in his tone. "You live like... like this?My slaves lives better than this" He gestured vaguely at the bare tent, his disdain clear. Egil chuckled, a deep, mocking sound. "A man needs two things," he said, holding up two fingers for emphasis. "A weapon and a horse. The rest? It only weighs you down. Makes you soft. What you see here, lordling, is how a warrior should live." Cretio''s mouth opened to retort, but Egil cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. "Now, unless you''re itching to start composing poetry about your hardships, you''ve got two options. Either you write to your family and let them know of your... situation, or you keep that mouth of yours shut and prepare to follow us." "Follow you?". Egil leaned forward in his saddle, the sharp glint in his eyes both amused and predatory. "Ah, yes. We''ll soon be rejoining his grace, the prince," he said with deliberate slowness, his voice laced with mock reverence. "And you, my dear Lord , will have the singular honor of being presented as the crown jewel of our victory¡ªyour defeat, a token of my regard, oh I am sorry our regard." He said giving an apologetic look at Sir Mereth After that he paused, rolling his shoulders as if loosening them after a tiresome chore. "You see, for the past month, we''ve been leisurely touring your lands¡ªburning villages, scattering the weak, putting your prince''s subjects to the sword. But alas, the time for such distractions is over. We''ll soon return to his grace, and I must admit, I''m eager. You see, he has this rare gift¡ªleading men forward with nothing but the force of his charm. It''s something you wouldn''t understand, naturally, having someone to give your earnest, everything you are, have and will ever have.Someone that you care more than you do for yourself." Cretio''s lips curled into a faint sneer, his voice cold and cutting. "I would rather face the noose than debase myself before the so-called prince you serve¡ªa lowborn pretender propped up by traitors and cutthroats, who forsake the fact that he was the one that killed their previous liege. And you, Sir Egil, are no better¡ªa barbarian masquerading as a knight. How fitting that such a rabble calls him their lord." The air between them grew taut, charged with tension. Sir Mereth, standing nearby, glowered at Cretio, his hand instinctively brushing the pommel of his sword. "You''d do well to hold your to-'''' Without a word Egil stepped forward and backhanded Cretio across the face. The crack of the blow echoed in the air, and Cretio staggered under its force, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Egil didn''t stop there. He struck him again, harder this time, sending the nobleman sprawling to the ground. The force of the blow left Cretio gasping for air, his expression dark with humiliation and anger. Egil stood over him, his shadow long and ominous. "You''d best learn when to speak and when to keep your mouth shut, my lord," Egil growled, his voice low but brimming with menace. "You may insult me at your leasure, but do not ever pretend to have the worth to do that to his grace. This is my kindness. The next time you insult his grace, I''ll forget my manners entirely, I shall cut off your tongue with a hot knife, and then extend my apology to his grace, for having damaged what he now owns." The tent was heavy with silence, the kind that seemed to press down on the chest and choke the air. Egil stood mere centimeters from the captured Lord Cretio, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger, thumb brushing the ornate handle in idle, deliberate motions. His gaze bore into the captured man, unblinking and as sharp as a blade itself. Sir Mereth, standing a few steps back, tensed "Egil," he finally said, his voice carefully measured, but even he could hear the faint tremor of unease within it. "You''ve made your point. The man''s your prisoner, not your quarry." Egil didn''t respond at first. His expression remained unreadable, his gaze fixed on Cretio as if weighing a thousand invisible scales in his mind. Then, slowly, he exhaled through his nose, a low, rumbling sound that broke the silence like distant thunder. He straightened, his hand slipping away from the dagger. Chapter 266: End of a campaign Chapter 266: End of a campaign Alpheo and his companions stood outside the encampment made near the walls of Arduronaven, The prince''s dark hair was bound at the nape of his neck, and the breeze toyed with the loose strands that escaped the tie,as his eyes, scanned the horizon for signs of Egil''s approach. His scouts had reported that his companion was near, and Alpheo was excited to see him once again, given the victory he had achieved in the field with the Golden steeds Behind him, the city of Arduronaven stood, now reluctantly settled under new rule. A month ago, its walls had echoed the screams of the dying and the clash of steel. The siege had left its mark: decomposing cadavers, and corners of the city where rubble had only recently been cleared. Yet, for all its scars, the city now breathed anew. The stench of death, once so thick that even hardened soldiers had gagged as they marched through the streets, had dissipated. Alpheo had ordered the bodies burned and the rubble cleared, knowing that a city drowning in its own ruin could never be made whole again. Now, a man could walk through Arduronaven without fearing that every breath might carry the sour reek of decay. The people, too, had begun to emerge from their shuttered homes. At first, they had been shadows, slipping from doorways only when absolutely necessary, their faces pale with fear and suspicion. But hunger and the pressing need for survival had drawn them out. Merchants had returned to their stalls, even if their wares were meager, and children, thin and wary, skulked near the marketplace. Alpheo''s decree¡ªthat the people of Arduronaven would not be sold into slavery despite their resistance¡ªhad done more than any sword to settle the city. It was not a purely merciful act, and Alpheo knew it. A city emptied of its people was a corpse; its markets silent, its coffers barren. Arduronaven would serve him better alive, its streets busy with trade and its fields tended by farmers who could pay taxes rather than ghosts haunting ruins. ''''Got no use for them if they don''t produce anything for me '''' he had said to lord Damaris when he proposed on slavery for the population A flicker on the horizon caught Alpheo''s attention, and he turned back toward the road. A plume of dust rose against the darkening sky, the unmistakable sign of riders approaching. Egil was coming. As they drew closer, the light caught the polished bronze of their bridles and the shimmering armor of the golden steeds following behind them. The horses, a prize as much as any coin, moved with a grace that matched the ease of their riders. Egil rode at the forefront, his silhouette tall and commanding despite the casual slouch in his saddle. His chainmail was marked with the dust of countless raids, and his hair, windswept and streaked with sun-bleached highlights, framed a face split by an easy grin. As they entered the camp, Egil slowed his mount, his sharp eyes picking out Alpheo waiting just beyond the tents. Egil dismounted with practiced ease, his boots kicking up a small cloud of dirt as he landed. With a quick pat to his horse''s flank, he strode toward his friend, his arms swinging loosely at his sides. "Your grace!" Egil called, his voice carrying over the murmurs of the camp. "Looking as regal as ever, my liege!" His tone was teasing, but the warmth in his words was genuine. Alpheo, smaller in frame yet no less commanding, stepped forward to meet him after dismounting . His dark hair, tied loosely at the nape of his neck, stirred in the breeze as he extended a hand. Egil clasped it with both of his own, pulling Alpheo into a brief but firm embrace. "Egil," Alpheo said, a rare smile touching his lips. "It''s good to see you''ve made it back in one piece. I hear you''ve been having... fun." "Fun?" Egil echoed, stepping back and crossing his arms with a mock-serious expression. "If you call chasing a bunch of farmhands with pitchforks across half the countryside fun, then yes. Pure, unadulterated joy." He grinned again, his teeth flashing in the fading light. "Though I admit, torching those last few idiots they sent after us . And watching them scatter like ants? Pure happiness.." Alpheo chuckled, shaking his head. "Insolent as always. But in all seriousness, your victory over that expedition was well-fought. You''ve done me proud." Egil''s grin softened, and he tilted his head slightly, studying his friend. "It was nothing. A few well-placed torches, a little chaos, and voila?. They didn''t stand a chance. Though," he added with a sly smirk, "if you insist on heaping praise on me, I won''t stop you." "I''ll heap praise where it''s due," Alpheo replied evenly, though his tone held a note of amusement. "And it''s well due, Egil. You''ve done more than I could have asked." Egil waved a hand dismissively, though his eyes twinkled with satisfaction. "Anything for you, old friend. Though, if I may be blunt, I could use a proper meal. And maybe a cup or two of whatever wine you''ve been hoarding. All that victory can really work up a thirst." As Egil and Alpheo continued their conversation , Sir Mereth emerged from a cluster of soldiers. Bowing low before Alpheo, Mereth said, "Your Grace," his voice steady, " Alpheo gave a curt nod of acknowledgment, his dark eyes momentarily sweeping over the camp before returning to Mereth. "My dear knight, I must thank you too for your great victory, you have honored all of Yarzat with your feats" ''''I thank you , your grace '''' as he said so Mereth straightened and shifted his gaze to Egil, an eyebrow lifting in faint reproach. "Sir Egil," he said dryly, "you didn''t forget something, did you?" Egil''s grin widened as if suddenly remembering a delightful secret. "Ah, you''re right, Sir Mereth! It nearly slipped my mind." With a theatrical gesture, he turned and called over his shoulder, "Bring the lord forward!" Two of Egil''s riders led a man forward, his wrists bound with rough cord. The prisoner dismounted awkwardly, his face shadowed with exhaustion and indignation. Lord Cretio''s once fine clothes were torn and dust-streaked, though his bearing still carried a shred of dignity. Alpheo approached, his movements measured and deliberate, as his gaze fixed on the captured noble. Cretio met his stare, his chin lifting slightly despite his predicament. "I trust you were well-treated, Lord Cretio?" Alpheo asked Cretio''s lip curled in distaste as he answered, "Your men''s lodgings leave much to be desired, Your Grace. Awful, to be blunt." Alpheo''s expression softened with a hint of amusement. "Ah, yes. You have the misfortune of being captured by Egil. I''m afraid he''s not renowned for his stock of fine silks or feather beds." He turned his head slightly, casting Egil a mock-chiding look. Egil shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance "What can I say? My hospitality is... efficient." Alpheo returned his attention to Cretio, inclining his head. "But you are my guest now, and I see to my guests properly. Sir Mereth," he said, raising his voice slightly, "have his bonds removed." The cords binding Cretio''s wrists were cut away, and the nobleman flexed his hands. Turning to the boy who had been standing quietly nearby, Alpheo addressed him. "Ratto, would you be so kind as to prepare a bath for our tired lord? Ensure it''s hot and that he has clean clothes to change into. A man must recover his dignity, even here." Ratto nodded eagerly, his young face lighting up with determination. "At once, Your Grace!" He darted off, a blur of youthful energy. Cretio looked taken aback by the sudden civility, though he quickly recovered. Bowing stiffly, he said, "You are most gracious, Your Grace. My thanks for your consideration.'''' As he disappeared into the camp, Alpheo turned back to Egil, the faintest flicker of a smirk on his face. "You didn''t mistreat him too much, I hope?" Egil scoffed, his grin unapologetic. "Me? Never. I even gave him the best fur to sleep on..." ---------------------- Inside the spacious war tent, the atmosphere buzzed with a rare sense of camaraderie and triumph. Lords and commanders from the campaign lounged around the central table, which was strewn with maps, and goblets of wine. The faint, earthy scent of wax candles mixed with the sharper tang of ink and parchment, as men discussed the details of their victories with animated gestures and booming laughter. The mood was undeniably buoyant¡ªwhy wouldn''t it be? The campaign had yielded more success than they could have hoped for. Two towns conquered, their enemy humiliated, and the army''s momentum was undeniable. Alpheo, seated at the head of the table, watched the revelry quietly. He leaned back slightly, his slim frame blending into the shadows cast by the tent''s central pole. He had listened to the talk, allowing his commanders their moment of celebration, but now it was time to focus their energies. He raised a hand to his mouth and coughed¡ªnot loud, but sharp enough to cut through the hum of conversation. The effect was immediate. Heads turned toward him, laughter dwindling into silence as the lords and knights straightened in their chairs or shifted their stances. Even Egil, leaning casually against a wooden post, tipped his head in curiosity. "My noble lords and valiant knights, for more than a decade, the man who dares to call himself Prince of Herculia has mocked us with impunity, extending his filthy hand toward lands and honors that are not his to claim. Twelve years ago, the lord of Arduronaven betrayed his oaths and rebelled against his rightful liege. When he was defeated, rather than face justice, he crawled to the Herculians, and they, as dishonorable and greedy as ever, shielded this criminal under their so-called protection. One year ago, when the vile uncle of Her Grace conspired to usurp the throne¡ªa treachery mercifully quelled before it could fester further¡ªthe Herculians once again showed their true nature. They sought to exploit our turmoil, attempting to seize Yarzat lands under the pretense of extending their ''protection'' to Lady Elyra, widow of that traitor lord. Their scheme, like so many before it, was thwarted, but their audacity remains seared into our memory. Yet their insolence did not end there. During the sacred ceremony of my marriage to Her Grace, they dared to send an insult so vile, that it could not be ignored. Prince Lechlian''s affront on that joyous occasion was a stain he thought would linger without consequence. But on that very night, before the assembled nobles and gods alike, I swore an oath that his insult would be repaid¡ªrepaid not with words, but with blood. And now, my lords, look to what we have accomplished in but two short months. His once-proud armies now lie beneath the earth, their corpses a feast for the ravens. The turn-cloak lord he harbored for so long has been struck down, his treachery extinguished by our might. Arduronaven, once a bastion of his influence, now stands under our control. The lands Lechlian called his own are blackened and broken, reduced to ashes through steel and flame. His people scatter like leaves before a storm, their faith in him shattered. So I ask you now, my lords," Alpheo''s voice lowered, the fire in his eyes unrelenting, "have I not made good on my oath? Has the insult not been avenged? Speak, for the evidence lies all around us." The tent erupted into a cacophony of cheers and shouts, the lords and knights pounding the wooden tables with their fists or raising their goblets high in a gesture of triumph. The air crackled with jubilation as the weight of their victories over Herculia seemed to lift every spirit. He raised his hand, signaling for quiet. Gradually, the raucous celebration subsided, the lords and knights turning their expectant gazes toward their liege. The prince-consort''s dark hair caught the light of the torches flickering around the tent, and his eyes glimmered with both resolve and satisfaction. "My lords," he began, his voice steady and clear, cutting through the lingering murmurs, "our banners have flown triumphant across these lands. Our swords have brought justice to those who dared defy us. But every victory, as you well know, is but a step in a longer journey." The room quieted further, anticipation thick in the air. Alpheo allowed a moment for his words to settle before continuing, his tone measured but resolute. "For now, we shall return home. Our men deserve rest, our coffers need replenishment, and our people must see their protectors riding back in triumph. We have bloodied Herculia and humbled their prince, but the work is not yet finished." He paused, his eyes scanning the faces before him, ensuring he had their full attention. "Once we are ready¡ªonce our strength has been renewed and our plans laid¡ªwe shall return here to finish what we started. Herculia''s day of reckoning is far from over.For while our enemies will only get weaker from now on, for they will be facing famine and unrest , we shall instead do the opposite...as when we will come back we will be stronger than we ever been." Chapter 267: The matter of ruling Chapter 267: The matter of ruling While Alpheo led his campaign in hostile territory, Princess Jasmine adeptly managed the governance of Yarzat,dealing with matters of governance alone. The palace bustled with activity as courtiers and officials sought her guidance on various matters. Among the most pressing issues were reports of coastal villages being raided by pirates. Without the royal army to respond, Jasmine''s options were limited, forcing her to focus on providing immediate relief to the affected areas. As effectively she had no way to military prevent those without the return of the elite? army commanded by her husband. Not everything was bad however , as during this period came the arrival of Doria, an envoy representing the Romelian regent who governed on behalf of the young emperor. Yarzat had cultivated a close trade relationship where in exchange for their prodocuts, the princedom received not only payment in coin but also high-quality weapons or armor, which were vital to maintaining its defenses, especially given the absence of iron mines in Yarzat''s territory.It would not be wrong to say that half the campaign was paid from the empire''s coffer. The reason for Doria''s arrival, was to express the regent''s desire to increase its monthly purchases from Yarzat. Recognizing the mutual benefit of such an arrangement, Jasmine promptly accepted the proposal, maintaining the previously agreed-upon fixed prices. ---------- Away from the boring tasks of governance and court Princess Jasmine reclined against the plush pillows of her bed, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders like a silken curtain. The chamber was bathed in soft afternoon light filtering through the intricately embroidered curtains. Beside her, an elderly physicist, draped in a long robe of muted grey, meticulously examined her wrist, his fingers gentle but firm as they sought her pulse. His weathered face bore the calm confidence of years of practice. "How are you feeling, Your Grace?" the physicist inquired, his voice measured and kindly, though tinged with professional detachment. Jasmine offered a faint smile, her emerald-green eyes betraying both her weariness and resolve. "Apart from the bouts of nausea and the occasional... ungraceful vomiting," she admitted with a slight chuckle, "I feel generally good. Tired at times, but nothing unbearable." The old man nodded thoughtfully, his movements deliberate as he set down her wrist. "The sickness, unpleasant though it may be, is a sign of health in this case. It suggests that the child is thriving," he said reassuringly, a warm note in his voice. Jasmine exhaled softly, her smile deepening, though a flicker of relief passed across her features. "That is good to hear." "Indeed," the physicist replied, folding his hands neatly before him. "You are in good health, Your Grace, though there are precautions you must take to ensure the child''s continued well-being. Avoid alcohol entirely, as it would harm the child. And most importantly, you must prioritize rest. Overexerting yourself could jeopardize the child''s growth." Jasmine nodded solemnly, her gaze distant for a moment as she considered his words. "Thank you for your counsel. I will do my best to heed it." The old man bowed his head respectfully, gathering his tools into a small leather satchel. "You are most welcome, Your Grace. I will return in a tomorrow to check on you again. Until then, take care of yourself¡ªand the little one." With a final, gentle smile, he excused himself, leaving the princess alone with her mother. Rosalind sat in a cushioned chair beside her daughter''s bed.Her auburn hair, streaked with threads of silver, framed a face that, despite its age, retained a timeless elegance. In her hand, she held a goblet of honeyed cider, the golden liquid glinting softly in the afternoon light. She sipped from it with an air of practiced nonchalance. The younger woman''s emerald eyes narrowed slightly as she looked pointedly at her mother. "Mother," Jasmine said with faint exasperation. Rosalind sighed theatrically, setting the goblet down on a nearby table with an exaggerated gesture. "Fine, fine," she said, raising her hands in mock surrender. "No cider while in the company of the virtuous. You''ve made your point." Jasmine smiled faintly before her expression grew pensive. "Is this what it feels like,every time one is with child?" Rosalind''s lips curled into a fond smile, and she reached out to tuck a stray strand of Jasmine''s dark hair behind her ear. "Oh, my dear, this is only the beginning. When the child grows, it becomes much worse," she said with a mischievous glint in her eye. "By the end of it, you''ll feel as though you''re carrying a pack mule." Jasmine chuckled softly, but Rosalind wasn''t finished. "When I was carrying Lysandra," she continued with a knowing smile, "she was the more spirited of the two. It was as though I had a horse trotting inside me¡ªrelentless and impossible to ignore." At that, Jasmine broke into genuine laughter, the sound brightening the room. "Lysandra?" she said, shaking her head at the notion. "And how was I, then?" Rosalind''s smile softened into something more nostalgic as she leaned back in her chair. "You, my darling, were as meek as a squirrel," she said. "So quiet and gentle, I sometimes wondered if you were even still there." Jasmine laughed again, her cheeks coloring faintly as her mother exempted herself from telling her how many of her pregnancies carried stillborns, brothers and sisters that she would have had. Rosalind leaned back in her chair, her keen eyes studying her daughter "So," she began, her voice warm yet probing, "when is my dear son in law returning, my dear?" Jasmine glanced up from the folds of her blanket, her emerald eyes brightening. "He sent word just yesterday. The campaign is over, and he''s returning home¡ªvictorious." Rosalind''s brow arched, a pleased expression crossing her face. "Happy to have your war hero back?" Jasmine chuckled softly, shifting slightly in her bed. "Extremely," she said, a touch of humor in her voice. " Ruling alone is... tiring, and the reports in my desks are piling up, I will have him deal with them once he returns." Rosalind laughed lightly. Jasmine''s smile deepened, in truth, she was deeply satisfied with the current state of affairs. Alpheo, from the day they married, had kept his promises¡ªevery single one. He had never once acted without her permission or interfered with the matters she deemed most important. Instead, his role had been one of support , taking on tasks that she had little interest in or had outright chosen to discard. In many ways, their arrangement suited her perfectly. She had the final say in matters of governance and diplomacy, while Alpheo handled the tedious, practical aspects of rulership that she found burdensome. The only area in which she had no say was the military, a domain Alpheo commanded entirely. Yet, Jasmine found no issue with this. Her upbringing as a noblewoman had left her utterly unprepared to deal with strategies, troop movements, or sieges. She viewed such things as foreign and inscrutable, and she was more than happy to leave them in the capable hands of her husband. "Do you want to know more about the war? About what Alpheo has accomplished?" She asked her mother Rosalind waved her hand dismissively, leaning back in her chair with a faint smile. "Oh, you know I have neither the taste nor the mind for such things. It''s enough to know that we''re winning, is it not?" Jasmine gave a faint chuckle at her mother''s predictably disinterested response. Yet, inwardly, her thoughts swirled with the enormity of what had been achieved. Winning? she thought. We''ve done far more than merely winning. The reports she had received from Alpheo over the past weeks painted a vivid picture of complete devastation wrought upon their enemy. Prince Lechlian''s forces lay in ruin, his once-vaunted army shattered and fed to the crows. His lands had been set aflame, left desolate and unproductive, a haunting reminder of his overreach. Even more significant were the fates of his two strongest vassals: one executed for his crime, his corpse left in the dust, and the other forced to kneel, now a tool in Yarzat''s expanding influence. As Jasmine considered these accomplishments, she couldn''t help but admire Alpheo''s vision. The war, brutal as it was, had become precisely what they needed to solidify her position as sovereign. She had not missed the subtle shift in attitude from some of the kingdom''s more skeptical nobles. Those who had once eyed the crown with doubts now seemed invigorated, their allegiance bolstered by the tales of glory and strength emanating from the frontlines. For example, when she announced the pregnancy to the realm, many nobles sent their congratulations and gifts. Perhaps she was the one who overthought them, but she believed that many used the event to diplomatically convey their alignment with the crown. She allowed herself a small, satisfied smile, her thoughts quiet but resolute. Yes, she mused, this war has done more than humiliate our enemies. It has strengthened the crown, silenced the whispers, just as he had told me before he marched. She in fact believed that everything that happened during the war was what her husband had planned, and as a consequence believed that everything had been under control. Not knowing that the general in question had suffered a small mental break-down the day after the victory in the field against the Lechlain, for he knew how close they were to total defeat. Chapter 268: Finally at home Chapter 268: Finally at home The army moved steadily along the well-worn road, the rhythmic clinking of armor and the soft thud of boots against packed earth filling the crisp morning air. Banners fluttered in the gentle breeze, the falcon of Yarzat standing proudly against the pale blue sky. Soldiers marched in ordered lines, their faces uplifted by the thought of returning home and finally getting hold of their due payment . Supply wagons creaked under the weight of provisions and spoils, while the occasional neigh of a horse punctuated the steady cadence of the march. Jarza, towering and broad-shouldered, rode beside Alpheo, his deep voice breaking the relative quiet. "So, your grace " he said with a crooked grin, "are you excited to finally be home? Alpheo, his smaller frame upright in the saddle, glanced at his long-time companion with a faint smirk. His dark hair, now longer from the weeks on campaign, shifted slightly with the motion. "I''ve had my fill of war for now, Jarza," he replied with a tired chuckle. "These last two months have been exhausting, and I won''t pretend otherwise. I''m relieved to be heading back. Rest sounds like a luxury I''ve sorely missed." Jarza barked a laugh, his broad shoulders shaking as he adjusted the reins of his horse. "Tiring for you?" he said, his tone laced with playful incredulity. "Imagine what it''s been like for that Herculean prince! While you''re getting ready to rest, I''d wager he''s still trying to scrape together the pieces of his pride¡ªif he can even find them." Alpheo chuckled, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. "For him," he said dryly, "the next few years will be a living hell. Mending scorched lands,facing famines, placating vassals who are likely questioning their allegiance after this debacle of his... I almost feel sorry for the man." Jarza raised an eyebrow. "Almost?" "Almost," Alpheo repeated, his grin widening slightly. "But not quite." "It''s a shame we didn''t press on," he mused, his voice carrying over the steady din of the marching army. "With their forces shattered and their morale in the dirt, we could''ve taken their castles with barely any effort. A full victory was within our grasp." Alpheo shook his head, his dark hair brushing the collar of his tunic. "Food doesn''t fall from the sky, " he said with a small smile. "The campaign may have been glorious, but our provisions back in Bracum were nearly exhausted. We may win battles, but we can''t march an army on empty bellies." Jarza grunted, clearly not entirely satisfied with the practical answer. Alpheo continued, his tone shifting to one of calculated confidence. "Still, it doesn''t mean this is the end of our work. Next year, when the stores are replenished, and the men rested, we''ll return. Their situation is dire¡ªtoo dire to recover quickly. The odds will favor us even more heavily." The thought seemed to appease Jarza, who offered a grin. "True enough. I doubt they''ll manage much beyond licking their wounds. When we come back, it''ll be like picking fruit from a tree." As their conversation trailed off, the atmosphere of the march shifted. Excitement rippled through the ranks as the familiar sight of the capital''s came into view on the horizon. The soldiers, weary yet exhilarated, straightened their postures, their steps quickening at the sight of home. The promise of rest and reunion with the soldier''s family loomed near, and the capital, a sanctuary after months of hardship, welcomed them like a beacon As the city came into view Alpheo felt a wave of relief wash over him, a mix of pride in his triumph and the bone-deep exhaustion of months of hard campaigning. But as he gazed at the city, a thought struck him with sudden clarity, piercing through his weariness like a shaft of sunlight: Jasmine. She was now the mother of the child they now awaited. The realization struck him anew, and for a moment, the clamor of the marching army around him seemed to fade, leaving only the quickened beat of his heart. He was about to become a father. ------------------------------ Few hours later, Alpheo and Jasmine lay side by side in their bed, the warmth of the blanket cocooning their nude bodies. Jasmine''s hand, delicate and tender, moved slowly across Alpheo''s stomach, her fingertips lightly tracing the firm, familiar lines of his body. There was no rush, no need for words¡ªonly the simple, comforting presence of each other. The reality of their shared life, of what was to come, settled in his chest, and for a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to fully bask in the peace of being home. Alpheo tilted his head toward Jasmine, his voice soft with curiosity. "So, how has it been in my absence? Running the realm without me can''t have been too bad, surely." Jasmine sighed, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face and giving him a wry smile. "Harder than I expected," she admitted. "Doing everything you usually handle, and doing it all alone¡ªit''s not something I''d care to repeat anytime soon. I''m glad you''re back. Truly." A grin tugged at Alpheo''s lips, his expression playful. "It''s a wonder I''m not twice as gray with all I deal with," he quipped, leaning a little closer. Jasmine chuckled softly. "Did you miss me?" Alpheo shifted onto his side, brushing his fingers over hers. "Of course," he replied smoothly, his tone as earnest as the smile on his face. "All the time." Not a chance, he thought to himself with a flash of humor. Between nearly losing battles, wrestling with supplies, and deciding which castle to torch next, there hadn''t been a spare moment to miss anyone. I have been neck-deep in shit to deal with at every turn . Jasmine''s fingers moved gently over his arm, her touch light and soothing. "Do you plan to march off to war again soon?" she asked, her voice quiet, though there was a slight edge of curiosity. Alpheo let out a long breath, turning his gaze to the ceiling. "For this year, I''ve had more than enough of bloodshed and sieges. Honestly, I think we could use this time to focus on the matters of the princedom¡ªthings closer to home. Roads to repair, trade to nurture, maybe even some peace to enjoy." He glanced at her with a soft smile. "It might not sound as thrilling, but I think a bit of calm will do us all good." Amongst his many plans however, Alpheo''s thoughts lingered on one pressing issue that had been gnawing at him for years: the dire need for an aqueduct in the capital.Just the memory of the city''s inner quarters assaulted his senses,just the smell of piss and shit could be heard from outside the wall . Every time he walked the crowded streets, he couldn''t help but feel a mixture of disgust and unease. The filth wasn''t just unpleasant; it was dangerous. True, the stench alone was enough to make even the most hardened warrior''s stomach churn, but the greater concern was the looming threat of disease. Alpheo knew it wasn''t a matter of if an epidemic would break out, but when. Yarzat needed to follow the example of the Empire, whose aqueducts and sewer systems ensured not only clean water but also healthier cities.After all epidemics do not take into account the status of people,as everybody , from slaves to kings can easily be one of their countless victims. Alpheo''s thoughts flickered to his past, when he was still a slave, toiling endlessly in harsh and filthy conditions. He recalled the sight of his fellow slaves, their bodies marked with angry red bubbles that oozed and festered, succumbing one by one to an epidemic that swept through the camp like wildfire. Strangely, he had been spared,even though he slept and ate next them , as if fate had decided to shield him from the sickness. It wasn''t the first or the last time he had witnessed such horrors, but it had left an indelible mark. He knew all too well how filth and poor sanitation could become the breeding ground for death. For years, he had dreamed of starting the project, but wars, rebellions, and the absence of financial security, impeded it .But now they could finally put their effort into it. Alpheo felt a rare sense of fortune as his thoughts turned to Pontius, though officially assigned to lead the military engineers during the campaign, Pontius''s expertise extended far beyond siegecraft. His knowledge of infrastructure¡ªbridges, roads, and aqueducts¡ªwas his one true strenght . Alpheo had often been amused by the man''s not-so-subtle attempts to steer conversations toward the necessity of these. Before they did not have the time and money for it . But now, in the aftermath of their successful campaign, Alpheo realized there would be no better time to act. The coffers were flush with wealth¡ªspoils taken from enemy territories, tributes imposed on subjugated lords, and the ever-reliable trade agreements with the Empire. Even more fortuitous was the capture of 450 prisoners during the war , could now be used as free laborers. We must have it, Alpheo thought, his mind already envisioning the acquedoct already channeling water into the city. Clean water, flowing streets, and a city where people thrive instead of choke on their own filth Chapter 269: Rewards Chapter 269: Rewards The grand halls of the throne room came alive that morning, courtiers in their richly adorned robes clustered in groups, whispering among themselves . Nobles, clad in their finest but still bearing the subtle marks of recent campaigns, a sight that was purposefull kept, stood in solemn clusters awaiting for the princess to start the ceremony.They held their head high, with their recent victory over the Herculains being the crown they put atop their head At the far end of the hall, the High Priest, stood near the dais, while his servants kept swinging the ball, burning the incense. High Priest Oren, was a venerable figure with a long, silvered beard and sharp.. Though his expression remained calm, the undercurrent of his thoughts told a different story. His gaze occasionally flicked toward Alpheo, the Prince Consort, with a subtle tinge of frustration. Oren had long harbored a quiet resentment toward Alpheo. It wasn''t just the prince''s infrequent attendance at the grand temple''s ceremonies that irked him¡ªthough that alone was enough to stir whispers among the devout¡ªit was the utter disinterest he showed in matters of faith. Oren had made several attempts over the years to offer counsel, to guide the prince toward deeper devotion to the Five Gods, yet each suggestion had been met with polite indifference or outright disregard. Alpheo''s ears seemed perpetually closed to divine wisdom. If he did not know better¡ªif it weren''t for the prince''s outward adherence to the necessary rites¡ªhe might have believed that Alpheo didn''t truly believe in the Five Gods at all and was an heretic . A thought which was, in fact, the truth, though Oren remained oblivious to it. Instead, he rationalized Alpheo''s dismissive attitude as a product of poor education. After all, it was not unheard of for provincial temples especially in the empire, to inadequately teach the subtleties of faith, leaving their congregants half-informed or even skeptical. In Oren''s mind, Alpheo was a victim of such negligence, a man who simply needed the right enlightenment to rekindle his devotion. Returning to the ceremony , the Princess sat gracefully upon her high-backed throne. The hall fell silent as she rose slightly, her emerald-green eyes sweeping across the assembled courtiers, nobles, and high-ranking priests gathered before her. Her black hair was neatly braided and adorned with a delicate silver circlet, giving her an air of serene majesty. When she finally began to speak, her voice carried across the vast hall with measured clarity. "My lords and noble friends," she started, her tone steady but warm. "Today, we stand united in celebration of our victory, not merely against swords and shields, but against the dishonor that sought to stain the name of Yarzat and this crown." Her words were met with a low murmur of agreement, and a few nodded their heads. Jasmine paused, allowing the sentiment to settle, before continuing. "The vile ambitions of our enemies sought to bring shame upon us, to question our sovereignty, and to diminish our strength. Yet through your loyalty, your courage, and your sacrifices, we have proven that neither our honor nor our people can be so easily subdued." She sat back slightly, her hands resting on the arms of her throne, her gaze softening as she looked over the room. "But I know full well that this triumph is not mine to claim. It is the fruit of the unwavering support of my leal lords and gallant knights¡ªthose who took up arms to defend this realm without hesitation. To each of you who marched, who fought, and who gave of yourselves to protect Yarzat, I offer my deepest gratitude." Her voice grew gentler but no less sincere. "You have not only preserved the honor of this land; you have strengthened the very bond between crown and kingdom. And for that, I will forever be in your debt." Princess Jasmine''s voice took on a more deliberate tone as she raised her hand to command attention once more. "Such loyalty," she declared, her eyes meeting those of the gathered nobles and knights, "must not go unnoticed. Nor should it go unrewarded." The room grew quiet as her words resonated through the hall. She stood briefly, her gaze settling on one figure in particular among the crowd. "Let us begin with a man whose wisdom has guided this realm through its darkest and brightest hours. My grandfather, Lord Shahab, Primus Ministerio of the court." Lord Shahab with his silver-streaked hair and a weathered but dignified face, stepped forward. He moved with the steady grace of a man accustomed to the weight of responsibility. Bowing deeply, his robes brushed the stone floor as he paid his respects to Jasmine. "Your Grace," he said simply, his tone reverent. Jasmine inclined her head slightly, her voice warm but formal. "Since the day I ascended the throne, you have been one of the shields standing before me, protecting this crown and this land with your wisdom and loyalty. Today, we honor your service. Tell me, Grandfather, what reward would you ask of me?" The room waited in hushed anticipation as Lord Shahab straightened, his sharp eyes meeting hers with a hint of familial pride. "Your Grace," he began, his voice steady but humble, "whatever I might have desired has already been given to me¡ªa granddaughter who rules with grace and strength, and a kingdom that stands firm under her reign. I ask for nothing more." Which clearly translated meant :For now I do not want anything, but maybe in the future I will. After all it wasn''t rare for a lord to want the crown to owe a favor to him, as after all one never know what could happen in the future, and whetever that favor will come in handy "Even so, you have my gratitude," she said sincerely. "Your wisdom, your valor, and your tireless service shall not be forgotten. The crown will remember this, and so will I." It came as no surprise to the gathered court that Jasmine chose her grandfather, Lord Shahab, to be honored first, as after all he was her closest immediate family. None begrudged this recognition, even though the lion''s share of the recent campaign''s merit clearly lay with her husband, Alpheo. When Lord Shahab returned to his place, Jasmine''s voice rang out again. "To my prince consort " she called, and all eyes turned to the prince consort. Alpheo stepped forward with a practiced grace, his black hair brushing his shoulders as he knelt before her. Jasmine''s voice softened slightly, yet it carried a weight that commanded respect. "Alpheo," she began, "you have stood steadfastly by my side, both as my consort and as my champion. For your victory over the Herculian prince, for the capture and execution of the turn-cloak rebel, and for the subjugation of Bricaterun, you have shown this realm and all who watch us the undeniable strength of the crown." Her emerald eyes shone with a mix of pride and gratitude. "For this, I hereby grant you the lordship of Confluendi, along with the fealty of the nearest castle within its bounds.I also give you the right to bear vassals sworn to you and enfoiffe them as you wish. May you continue to serve as a shield to this realm." Alpheo bowed his head deeply, his voice steady but humble as he replied, "I am honored, Your Grace." Jasmine nodded, a flicker of satisfaction passing over her features as she motioned for him to rise. As Alpheo returned to his place, the murmurs of approval among the court began to rise. Jasmine allowed them a moment before raising her hand once again. "Now," she announced, her voice firm, "Lord Xanthios, step forward." Jasmine''s gaze settled on Lord Xanthios, her tone warm yet authoritative as she spoke. "Lord Xanthios," she began, her voice carrying across the great hall, "for your valor in holding the line against the forces of the turncloak, allowing our army to secure what would become a decisive victory, and for the many contributions you have made throughout this campaign, it is only fitting that your loyalty and bravery be rewarded." She paused, letting her words sink in before continuing, "For these deeds, I hereby grant you lordship and the fealty of the castles of Verathis, Greystone, Nitholme, and Ravnor." A ripple of astonished murmurs spread through the assembled lords and courtiers. Lord Xanthios himself froze, his eyes widening in disbelief. Though he had been assured by the prince that his service would not go unnoticed, he had never imagined such a grand reward. He stepped forward, bowing low before the princess. "Your Grace," he said, his voice trembling with emotion, "I am... unworthy of such generosity." Truthfully, all that he wanted was to take the head of Vroghios, and now that the prince had delivered on what he promised , everything that came afterward was a bonus for him. Jasmine''s lips curved into a faint smile. "Your actions prove otherwise, Lord Xanthios. The crown remembers those who serve it well." He bowed even lower, his voice steadying as he said, "Then I shall endeavor to prove myself worthy of your faith, now and always." Jasmine''s gaze shifted across the hall, her voice resonating as she called out, "Sir Egil, step forward." There was no surprise among the assembled nobles and commanders at the name; if anyone in the hall deserved recognition, it was Sir Egil. His deeds during the campaign were already the stuff of legend¡ªno one could deny his achievements on the battlefield. Murmurs of approval rippled through the gathered lords as Egil strode forward with his characteristic nonchalance, a faint grin playing on his lips. Jasmine addressed him, her tone proud and formal. "Sir Egil, for your unmatched valor in the campaign against the Herculeians, for besting a larger contingent of knights and leading the charge that secured our great victory, and for your significant role in defeating the second expedition mounted by the Herculeian prince, it is only fitting that your service be rewarded." She paused for effect, her emerald eyes glinting as she continued, "I hereby grant you the castle of Raventhorne and the fealty of the nearest villages." Egil knelt before her, his grin widening into a genuine smile as he bowed his head. "Your Grace," he said, his voice carrying his usual easy charm, "you honor me beyond words'''' Jasmine inclined her head slightly, a satisfied smile on her lips As he rose and returned to his place among the nobles. Egil''s grin returned, his manner relaxed but his pride unmistakable. The ceremony proceeded with a steady rhythm, Jasmine meticulously fulfilling the promises Alpheo had made to his commanders during the campaign. Among the recipients was Lord Damaris, whose role, though less dramatic than others, had been pivotal in its own way. As one of the main contributors of men and resources, his support had been essential to sustaining the campaign''s momentum. He was rewarded with the castle of Vehron and its surrounding villages, a holding distant from his ancestral seat of Megiorduroli. This arrangement, though generous, subtly ensured that his influence in the heartlands remained balanced. It was understood that the new lands would likely be passed to his second son. The distribution of honors continued in this manner, with Jasmine rewarding those who had achieved notable but less celebrated feats during the war. Castles, villages, and titles were bestowed upon nobles, ensuring their efforts were acknowledged. Even sir Mereth, that had fought alongside Egil in the night attack over the Herculeian expedition , who also captured by single combat the enemy general, was rewarded with a small castle near Aracina, the costal city where everything started for Alpheo. Chapter 270: There is no two without three(1) Chapter 270: There is no two without three(1) A few kilometers outside Yarzat, nestled amidst rolling hills, stood a small, unassuming castle. Modest in size and humble in appearance, it lacked the grandeur of fortresses built to withstand sieges or house royal courts. Yet, despite its unremarkable dimensions, its significance to Alpheo''s rule was immense. Within its wooden walls, the lifeblood of Alpheo''s private army was crafted¡ªsoap and cider. The castle was more than a military asset; it was the beating heart of his economic reign. It was no exaggeration to say that the income from this small castle was literally the blood of Alpheo''s ambitions. Without the wealth generated here, the maintenance of his private army, with its salaries, provisions, and equipment, would have been an impossible dream. Behind the prince stood ten of his bodyguards; he did not need more given he was in a safe place, simply meeting an old friend. Alpheo''s gaze shifted across the bustling courtyard of the small castle, his eyes falling on a figure he hadn''t seen in two months. The man stood with his arms crossed, his short blonde hair tousled and falling just above his forehead, the familiar sharpness of his features softened by a smile . On the other side of the yard, Clio noticed Alpheo at the same time, his expression breaking into something between relief and delight. Without hesitation, he moved toward Alpheo, his strides purposeful and sure, carrying with them a familiarity that needed no words. The two men met halfway, their movements mirroring the years of trust and shared hardship between them. Alpheo grinned and clasped Clio''s forearm, pulling him into a firm embrace. "Clio," Alpheo greeted, his voice warm with recognition. "Alpheo," Clio replied with no qualms from using the direct name given they were in private, clapping him on the back. "It''s about time." They pulled back just enough to study each other, taking in the subtle changes two months apart had etched on their faces. Alpheo smirked, shaking his head lightly, while Clio chuckled, his hand resting briefly on Alpheo''s shoulder. As they stepped apart, Alpheo took a moment to study Clio, his gaze sharp and appraising. "So, in my absence, has anything worth my attention happened here?" he asked, folding his arms loosely. Clio shifted his stance, leaning one shoulder against a sturdy wooden post. He crossed his arms, his expression unbothered but attentive. "Nothing too far out of the ordinary," he began, his tone light. "Though we''ve had our fair share of spies sneaking around, trying to get a look inside." Alpheo''s brow lifted slightly, though there was little surprise in his expression. "Spies? I suppose that''s to be expected. And who sent them?" Clio''s lips curved into a wry smile, and he let out a soft chuckle. "It''d save us all some time if I just told you who didn''t send them." His smirk faded, replaced by a more serious expression. "Most of them didn''t live to regret their attempt. A few, though, we managed to take alive. After some... persuasion, they were quite generous with information." "And?" Alpheo prompted, though he already suspected the answer. Clio sighed, running a hand through his short blonde hair. "Every neighbor we''ve got. No exceptions.Kakunians , Oizens , hells even that foolish bastard of Herculia thought it was worth sending a few of his men to snoop around." Alpheo''s expression remained neutral, though a flicker of irritation passed through his eyes. "Predictable," he muttered, his voice low and edged with disdain. His gaze swept briefly over the activity in the courtyard,. "This isn''t new, though," he added, his tone more reflective. "Ever since we started producing enough here to matter, spies have been slithering in from every corner of the map. Still, it''s good to know that we''ve been able to keep a lid on it." Clio nodded, his expression lightening somewhat. "It''s manageable. And I''ll give you this¡ªthose bastards don''t stop trying'''' As he said so stretched slightly, his arms falling to his sides as he glanced back toward the castle. "So, ready for a little stretch?" he asked, his voice carrying a hint of humor. Alpheo''s lips quirked into a small smile, and he gave a single nod. "Lead the way." Clio turned and gestured for him to follow, his voice taking on a more serious tone as they walked. "Just as you requested, every entrance is locked down tight. Access is strictly limited to those we''ve vetted¡ªonly a handful of trusted guards and overseers come and go." Alpheo''s eyes roamed over the structure, taking in the fortifications as they moved. Clio continued, "Inside, we''ve got about 300 workers, along with their families. All of them pulled from the slums, just as you ordered. None of them can read or write." At this, Alpheo''s smile widened slightly, a glimmer of satisfaction crossing his face. Exactly as I planned. Having families together means the men will think long and hard before making foolish choices. And if they can''t write, they''ve no way to send word outside unless they''ve already got someone planted within. That''s a layer of trouble I don''t have to worry about." Clio cast a glance over his shoulder, his own grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he saw his expression "I figured you''d be pleased. It''s a well-oiled machine here. Everyone knows their role, and no one wants to make waves¡ªnot with so much on the line." As the two kept walking Clio gestured toward a nearby building.. "Every worker," he continued, "is fully registered. Name, age, place of origin¡ªall logged, as you requested. And, as per your orders, we''ve got a portrait of each one stored, in that facility there ." Alpheo glanced toward the building, his expression betraying neither approval nor surprise, though he appreciated the thoroughness. "How long did that take?" he asked casually. Clio rubbed the back of his neck, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Almost a month. Getting them all through took some effort'''' They walked further along the grounds, Clio''s lips curled up slightly as he continued. "Had our share of complications, of course. Plenty of bastards tried to scale the walls at night or push their way through the gates during the day. Desperation, greed, or plain stupidity¡ªI''ve stopped trying to figure it out." Alpheo raised an eyebrow. "And how were they handled?" Clio shrugged, his smirk turning into something colder. "One way or another, they all ended up underground, after a long talk with our guards.... '''' Having said that and with the tour continuing Clio meticulously guided Alpheo through every corner of the castle''s bustling operation, ensuring no detail was overlooked. He began by pointing out the vast storage facilities, where an impressive array of barrels, crates, and sacks were carefully arranged. Clio took a moment to emphasize the security measures in place, including the rotation schedule of guards assigned to watch over these critical supplies. Moving further, Clio gestured toward the sprawling production buildings. Each one was dedicated to a specific stage of the manufacturing process. In the soap workshop, workers tended to cauldrons of boiling fat and lye, mixing the ingredients with practiced precision before pouring them into molds. Smaller structures nearby housed the preparation and refinement of ingredients essential to both soap and cider, ensuring a steady supply chain for uninterrupted production. Clio didn''t stop at showing the infrastructure. He also provided a detailed report on the operational efficiency and general output levels. He highlighted the workforce''s productivity and the challenges they''d overcome to maintain a steady pace. Some time during the tour, Clio leaned against a nearby post, his gaze drifting over the bustling workers below. "I''ll admit," he said, his tone more wistful than bitter, "I miss it sometimes¡ªmarching with you, fighting alongside everyone. Things were simpler then." Alpheo''s lips pressed into a thin line, his expression serious. "I understand," he said, his voice measured. "But I need someone I can trust here. I can''t exactly hand this responsibility to one of the knights serving my wife. Loyalty like yours is rare, Clio." Clio sighed, running a hand through his short blonde hair. "Don''t misunderstand. I like the job¡ªI do, it is calm and rewarding. But some days, I can''t help but feel like it was better when we were just soldiers. No politics, no endless paperwork, just sleeping , marching and sometimes fighting...." Alpheo stepped closer, a small smile breaking through his stern demeanor as he clasped a firm hand on Clio''s shoulder. "Well," he said, a touch of mischief in his voice, "do you know what I think will make you feel better?" Clio raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "What?" "A lordship," Alpheo said matter-of-factly as he had just given a dog a biscuit, and not something that separated the 0,1% from the rest of the people they in fact ruled over. "Some villages to call your own. I think it''s about time you were rewarded properly for all your hard work." Clio blinked, momentarily stunned. "A¡ªa lordship?" he stammered, his usual composure slipping, with a reaction more acceptable for the matter that was being discussed "You''re serious?" "Dead serious," Alpheo replied, his grin widening. "You''ve earned it, Clio." As realization dawned on him, Clio''s face turned a mix of disbelief and pride. For the first time, the weight of his dedication and loyalty seemed to take on a tangible reward. "I... I don''t know what to say," he finally managed, his voice wavering slightly. "Then don''t say anything," Alpheo said, his tone light but firm as he calpped him on the shoulder. "Just keep doing what you''re doing and that will be more than enough" Chapter 271: There is no two without three(2) Chapter 271: There is no two without three(2) As they walked through the castle grounds, Alpheo couldn''t help but notice the subtle unease in Clio''s demeanor. His old comrade, normally steady and confident, seemed unusually stiff, his steps slower and his gaze occasionally darting to the ground. Sensing the awkwardness, Alpheo decided to address it directly. "Something on your mind, Clio?" Alpheo asked, his voice casual but edged with curiosity. Clio hesitated before answering, his tone measured. "No, everything''s fine. I just... can''t help feeling like I haven''t done enough to deserve what you''ve given me." Alpheo stopped and turned to face him, his expression calm but firm. "What I''ve given you?" He shook his head "Clio, this isn''t some random gift. You''ve earned this. You''ve been the one standing guard over our best assets.You have done a fantastic job...'''' Clio looked up, meeting Alpheo''s gaze, though his uncertainty lingered. Alpheo clapped a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "You''re protecting the foundation of everything we''ve built. Without you here, this whole operation could crumble. Trust me, there''s no one more deserving." Though Clio''s posture relaxed slightly, a faint hint of discomfort still flickered in his expression. Alpheo chuckled and gave him a small nudge. "Stop overthinking it, old friend. You''ve more than earned your place." As they continued their walk through the castle grounds, Alpheo glanced at Clio with a grin. "So, did you get the chance to catch up with the others yet? Or have you been too busy lording over this place?" Clio chuckled, his stance loosening a bit. "I did, actually. Had a round of drinks with Egil not too long ago. He made sure I was up to speed on everything that went down during the campaign. Sounds like it was brutal¡ªhard on everyone." He hesitated for a moment, then added, "I won''t lie, Alpheo. I wish I could''ve been there with you all. Fighting alongside you, like the old days." He repeated once again Alpheo stopped, turning to face Clio fully. "Clio," he began, his voice steady and full of conviction, "you were there, just not on the same front. While we were dealing with the enemy out there, you were here, protecting me and everything we''ve built from behind the scenes." He placed a firm hand on Clio''s shoulder, his expression softening. "Don''t think for a second that what you''ve done here isn''t just as important. If this place had fallen¡ªor worse, if someone had gotten to the heart of our operation¡ªit wouldn''t have mattered how many victories we won out there. You''re part of this fight, Clio. Always have been." Clio looked down for a moment, his lips pressed into a thin line, before nodding. "I guess you''re right." Alpheo gave him a reassuring smile, a warm glint in his eyes. "I know I am. And if I haven''t said it enough, I''ll say it now¡ªthank you. For keeping it all together when I had nobody that could" "It brushes in comparison to what you all did for us," he said, glancing at Alpheo with a faint smile that didn''t quite mask the depth of his feelings. "You know, a lot of us talk about it¡ªhow you seem to underestimate what you''ve done for us. It''s almost maddening." Alpheo raised an eyebrow, curious but silent, letting Clio continue. "You go on and on about what we do for you," Clio admitted, his words measured but intense, "but not what you''ve done for us. You gave us life, Alpheo. Hope. You turned us into knights, lords, people with something to live for and for some perhapse protect. And yet, you act like it was the bare minimum¡ªlike anyone would''ve done the same." Clio''s hands clenched slightly at his sides, his gaze steady but softened with admiration. "But it wasn''t the bare minimum. It was everything. What you did for us¡ªit changed everything. And no matter how hard we work, no matter what we achieve or give back, it''ll never feel like enough, because every breath we take, every meal we eat, it''s all because of you. You''re the one who leads the charge, Alpheo. You''re the one who rides into the thick of it first, headlong into peril. And yet, you always turn back to thank us for following you¡ªas if it''s us who are doing something extraordinary. But it''s you. You set the example, take the risk, and inspire the rest of us to believe we can survive it." There was a pause, the weight of Clio''s words hanging between them. His admiration was evident, and his expression reflected an almost familial pride, as if he needed Alpheo to truly understand the role he played in their lives. Alpheo''s lips curved into a faint, thoughtful smile, and he rested a hand on Clio''s shoulder. "I''ll think it over," he said, his tone soft but sincere. Clio nodded, a small smile breaking through his earlier intensity. "I''m glad to hear that," he said, his tone lighter now. He motioned toward a path leading to another building. "Now, are you ready to see the last addition to this place? The one you specifically asked for?" Alpheo nodded, curiosity sparking in his eyes. Together, they made their way to the newly constructed warehouse. As Clio swung the heavy wooden doors open, the cavernous interior came into view. Inside, the space was arranged meticulously. There were large wooden vats for soaking and pulping fibers, stone presses for flattening the sheets, and drying racks lining the far walls. Bundles of raw materials¡ªmostly tree bark ¡ªwere stacked neatly near one corner, ready for processing. In another section, tools for cutting, sorting, and refining the paper into uniform sheets lay in orderly rows on workbenches. The air inside was still and cool, but the building was empty of workers for the moment, as production had not yet started. Alpheo stepped forward, running his hand over the smooth surface of one of the vats. The room had a quiet potential about it, waiting for its full purpose to come to life. Alpheo''s gaze swept over the warehouse, taking in the neatly arranged equipment and stacks of raw materials. After a moment, he turned to Clio. "When will this place be ready to begin production?" he asked, his voice carrying a tone of expectation. Clio crossed his arms, leaning slightly against the nearest workbench. "In a few weeks," he replied. "Just enough time to finish recruiting workers who meet the requirements. You know the drill¡ªloyalty, families already within the compound, and no ties to the outside world." Alpheo nodded approvingly, satisfied with the methodical approach. "And how do we acquire the materials? The wood fibers?" he asked, gesturing toward the stacked bundles. Clio straightened, his expression calm and confident. "We buy them from trusted woodcutters and suppliers. The materials come through the gates once a week with the caravan. The person leading the caravan is the same one whose family resides here as our... ''guests.'' He get a good deal of coin at each travel and has no motive to risk everything. Alpheo approached one of the neatly stacked bundles of bark and picked up a strip, running his fingers over its rough texture. His eyes narrowed slightly, already calculating its potential in his mind. Clio watched him from a few steps away, his arms crossed as he considered the material. "This one," Clio remarked, nodding toward the bark Alpheo held, "I doubt it''ll yield much profit compared to the others. This thing you call ''paper'' doesn''t seem like it''ll be overwhelming, not here at least." Alpheo turned the bark in his hand, his lips curling into a knowing smile. "You underestimate its value," he replied. "An empire runs on paper, Clio. While the neighboring princes might not care for it, there''s a different story to the north. The empire will leap at the chance for cheaper, sturdier documents compared to their costly papyrus or parchments. It''s not about overwhelming demand here; it''s about finding the right market." Clio tilted his head, his skepticism giving way to curiosity. "And here?" Alpheo chuckled softly, placing the bark back on the stack. "Here, our neigboring princes won''t give half a shit, for us it will instead lay the foundation for our own soon-to-be bureaucracy. If we aim to govern efficiently, I will need to expand our administration, and paper will need to be an abundance '''' As Alpheo placed the bark back on the stack, Clio''s expression shifted, as though a sudden realization struck him. He straightened, a rare grin breaking across his face. "By the way," he began, his tone warm and genuine, "congratulations on the news about the princess. A child¡ªquite the blessing." Alpheo blinked, startled by the shift in conversation, and dropped the bark he had been holding. It hit the floor with a faint thud. He recovered quickly, offering a nod of gratitude. "Thank you," he replied, a trace of warmth softening his demeanor. Clio leaned casually against a nearby post, arms crossed. "Have you and her grace decided on a name yet? Or is it still too early?" Alpheo chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "There are a few ideas floating around," he admitted, his as he had some names he wanted to give his child, yet he still had not discussed them with Jasmine , yet... Chapter 272: A long way Chapter 272: A long way Prince Alpheo had waited far too long for this moment. Since the day the notion of taking over the princedom had first planted itself in his mind right after he had killed Arkwatt , it had grown into a fervent belief that reform¡ªboth administrative and political¡ªwas not only necessary but inevitable. The princedom, with its patchwork of outdated customs and fractured authority, had always struck him as an unwieldy relic. His vision, bold and clear, demanded an overhaul. But the timing had never been right. First, there had been Ormund''s rebellion, a mostly short conflict, but one that required his attention nonetheless. No ruler could afford to dream of reforms while the very foundations of his rule were under attack. Then, barely had the dust settled from that uprising when the Herculeian Prince had insulted them , forcing Alpheo to abandon all other considerations in the pursuit of a war of honor, something that ironically he did not give a shit about For years, one crisis followed another. Each battle, negotiation, and uneasy truce seemed to push his ambitions further into the shadows. And yet, the idea persisted, burning brightly in the back of his mind. He carried it with him like a secret talisman, knowing its time would come. Now, at last, the horizon was clear. Peace, hard-won and tenuous though it might be, was ahead of them. The Herculeian threat was no longer imminent, and the chaos of rebellion was but a distant memory. Alpheo could finally turn his attention inward, away from swords and shields, and toward quills and ledgers. He finally received Jasmine''s approval to begin the long-anticipated recruitment process for the new administrative body. With her consent, he wasted no time in setting the wheels in motion, disseminating information about the effort to merchants in the capital. He believed they would eagerly seize the opportunity to secure employment within the court. After all, service to the crown was not only prestigious but also profitable, a way to climb the social ladder for families that had long thrived in commerce. Alpheo had also considered another potential pool of recruits: the second and third sons of knights. These younger scions, often overlooked in inheritance and overshadowed by their elder brothers, were usually given little more than a horse, armor, and vague encouragement to seek their fortunes. Alpheo imagined they might welcome the chance to work for the court, particularly in administrative roles that offered stability and stature. Unfortunately, their numbers were disappointingly small, and they often resisted positions unrelated to the military. A desk and quill could hardly compete with the allure of swordplay and adventure for most of them. This left Alpheo to rely far more than he had anticipated on the sons of merchants. While these young men lacked the martial traditions of knightly families, they possessed one invaluable advantage: literacy. They had grown up around ledgers, contracts, and negotiation tables, making them ideally suited to the bureaucratic demands of Alpheo''s reforms. It was a practical compromise, and one he reluctantly accepted as necessary. If the knights'' sons preferred warhorses to paperwork, then the merchant class would serve as the backbone of his budding administration. Alpheo had briefly entertained the notion of charging a fee for these positions¡ªa way to draw funds directly from the aspiring recruits or their families. It would have been easy enough to justify; as they were commoners after all, and the roles he offered carried prestige and access to the corridors of power. Many families would likely pay handsomely for such opportunities. But the idea was quickly discarded. Alpheo understood too well the dangers it posed, as he was no fan of the idea of selling positions,something that plagued great empires, like the eastern roman empire during the middle ages. It wasn''t as though he needed the money. The princedom''s coffers, bolstered by recent victories and spoils of war, were more than sufficient to fund the recruitment and establishment of a capable bureaucracy. His focus was not on short-term gains but on building a foundation that would stand the test of time. Right now Alpheo stood in his chambers, the day had finally arrived. His mind, usually sharp and ordered, now swirled with something akin to relief, as if seeing a man arriving with a bucket while your hand is on fire. At his side, Ratto stood at attention, his slight figure unobtrusive yet always present when needed. With his sharp eyes and quiet demeanor, he was as much a shadow to the man, always at his side as much as he was still young and eager to learn as much as he could. "The guests have already arrived" Ratto informed him, his voice calm and measured. He stepped forward slightly, hands clasped behind his back. Alpheo turned to face him, the faintest trace of a smile brushing his lips. "Thank you, Ratto," he said, his words sincere but distracted. His gaze, however, lingered on Ratto longer than usual. His eyes narrowed slightly as though trying to parse something unspoken. Ratto shifted slightly under the weight of the prince''s scrutiny. "Is everything all right?'''' he asked, his tone carrying just a hint of unease. Alpheo''s gaze lingered on Ratto for a moment longer before he spoke, his tone calm yet deliberate. "How old are you, Ratto?" Ratto straightened his posture instantly, as if the question itself was a summons to attention. "Twelve" he replied crisply, his words almost mechanical but infused with pride. Alpheo nodded slightly, the answer aligning with what he already knew. At twelve years old, Ratto had proven himself more than capable in many ways. He already knew how to write and read¡ªsomething that one person in high command still refused to learn . His training with weapons was sufficient for someone his age.. "It''s time," Alpheo said, his voice firm, "that you learn on how to properly ride and fight on horseback." Ratto''s eyes widened slightly, his composed demeanor giving way to a rare moment of unguarded excitement, it was every boy dream to be a knight after all , and a knight always fought on horseback. He didn''t say anything immediately, but his hands twitched faintly as if suppressing the urge to fidget. Alpheo leaned back slightly, folding his arms as he continued, "Tomorrow, I''ll speak with Sir Egil and inform him of my decision. You''ll follow him for a time, learn from him, until he deems you good enough. At that point, we''ll shift your training once again." Ratto''s excitement was barely restrained now, his face lighting up as he bowed slightly, his voice brimming with gratitude. "Thank you, Alpheo . Truly..'''' Alpheo allowed himself a small, approving smile as he rose from his seat. The boy''s enthusiasm was infectious, and it reassured him that his trust was well-placed. "Good," Alpheo said simply, his voice steady but tinged with warmth. He adjusted the folds of his tunic and began to move toward the door, his thoughts already turning to the matters ahead. It was time to meet the men and women who would form the foundation of his fledgling bureaucracy. As Alpheo glanced back at Ratto, his eyes caught the familiar dagger strapped to the boy''s side¡ªthe same one he had given him on the day they first met, ugly as he remembered it to be . The sight stirred a small, fleeting smile on Alpheo''s lips, a quiet acknowledgment of how far the boy had come since then. Without a word, he turned away and walked forward, stepping out of the room . --------- The hall was a grand space, with high vaulted ceilings and an air of solemnity. Alpheo stood near the entrance, his eyes scanning the crowd of roughly one hundred applicants gathered for the examination. The merchants'' sons, as no knight were requested to take the test given thier nobility, stood out like gaudy roosters in a barnyard. Their brightly colored hats and silk garments, clearly chosen to display wealth and status, instead gave them an air of nervous flamboyance. The rich fabrics shimmered under the hall''s light, but the anxious glances they exchanged undercut any pretense of confidence. They shifted uncomfortably in their fine shoes, clearly unused by the place. Alpheo''s lips curled faintly in amusement. The ostentation was almost comical, but he understood their motives. These young men were trying their best to impress, to look the part of someone worthy of a position in his nascent bureaucracy. Alpheo stepped into the room with an air of quiet authority, flanked by five of his guards. The solid steps of the armored men echoed off the walls, drawing the attention of everyone present. The examiners, seated at long tables laden with quills, inkpots, and parchment, turned to observe the unexpected arrival. For a moment, confusion clouded their faces. They exchanged glances, wondering if this was some minor noble , given the guards trailing behind him. But then, recognition flickered among a few of them. Whispers began to ripple through the hall as some examiners who recognized him from the military parade on his return leaned toward each other, murmuring, "That''s the prince" Their eyes widened as they connected the youthful face before them with the storied reputation of the man who had led armies, subjugated rebellion, and vanquished the Herculeian prince, called by some the War-Prince. Most of the room was visibly taken aback. Alpheo''s youthful, almost boyish face stood in stark contrast to the image of a hardened warrior they had conjured in their minds. Alpheo stepped forward, his eyes sweeping over the room of applicants. He paused briefly, allowing the murmurs to settle before addressing the gathered group in a steady, commanding voice. "Welcome. Each of you has come here today with the hope of serving the court and the realm of Yarzat, something that is both honorable and glorious. The tasks ahead , and I am not speaking about your exam ,will require patience, diligence, and above all integrity of the soul. Today marks the beginning of a journey, one that will help shape the future of this princedom. Prove yourself worthy of this calling, and you will be rewarded with the trust and responsibility of aiding in the governance of our lands. I wish you all the best of luck. Work hard, and show us what you are capable of." He gave a firm nod, his gaze briefly meeting those of a few applicants before turning to leave. His guards followed closely behind, their armor clinking faintly in the silence he left in his wake. As Alpheo walked down the hall, his thoughts lingered on the candidates behind him. Soon, he thought, these individuals¡ªawkward merchants'' sons and nervously posturing hopefuls¡ªwould grow into the pillars on which the state would stand. They would carry out the administration, maintain order, and implement the reforms he had long envisioned, as many times the work of many was much more efficient than those of the few... Chapter 273: New turns Chapter 273: New turns Keval moved with through the grand halls of the imperial palace of Romelia, his polished boots clicking against the intricately tiled floor. The corridor stretched endlessly before him, lined with towering columns of alabaster veined with gold and lit by the soft glow of chandeliers dripping with crystal. Murals of Romelia''s past glories adorned the walls, depicting victories in battle, the crowning of emperors, and the divine blessings bestowed upon the dynasty. Every detail spoke of grandeur, yet to Keval, it felt more like a theater of hypocrisy, he hated the place, but mostly he hated the work. As the regent''s son and the former empress mother''s brother, his presence here was a necessity, given what his father regarded as a fantastic work done the one he did in his absence Truthfully he just wanted to retire back home, with his wife, instead of going to sleep dark in the night with his daughter and wife already asleep. With a sigh he kept walking forward Guards in ceremonial armor stood at intervals, their gazes forward but their awareness acute. Keval met none of their eyes, though he noted their posture and positioning. His mind was clouded as he passed under a massive archway carved with depictions of the imperial eagle, its wings outstretched . The symbol, once something he had admired as a boy, now seemed hollow. It reminded him of his sister, the former empress mother¡ªher rise, her arrogance, and her catastrophic fall.Her audacious attempt to abduct her own son, the emperor, still echoed in the court, though none dared speak them aloud when Keval or the regent was near as it was kind of a taboo. Her disgrace had splashed over the entire family, staining their family''s prestige. And here he was, her brother, walking the halls he had once walked as regent. Keval''s fingers brushed the hilt of his sword, more out of habit than necessity as he reached the door leading to his father''s study. As he approached the heavy oak doors, he noticed two familiar figures standing vigil outside. The first was Alaric, the knight-commander of the emperor''s personal guard, someone that he actually respected given his great fervor in protecting his nephew. While on the other stood... Garvin.Once a lowborn mercenary, he had been part of the group that abducted the young emperor, only to turn against his companions and ensure the boy''s safety when he realized the full weight of their crime. His actions had earned him a pardon from Emperor Mesha himself, who, in a rare moment of magnanimity mostly spurred from his young age , granted Garvin a place in the crown''s guards. It was a post Garvin had embraced eagerly, no doubt spurred by the generous pay and steady position¡ªa far cry from the precarious existence of a sellsword. As Keval''s eyes settled on him , the rugged guard''s demeanor shifted. For all his confident bearing moments before, Garvin now looked down, his gaze fixed on the polished stone floor. Keval paid it little mind, lifting his hand to knock firmly on the heavy door before pushing it open and stepping inside. The room beyond was warm, with the glow of midday light spilling through tall, arched windows. Scrolls, maps, and ledgers lay in neat but voluminous piles on a massive desk of dark oak. Behind it, Marthio, the regent, sat . At sixty-five, he bore the weight of his years with dignity, though the lines on his face and the silver in the little hair he had , betrayed the burdens of ruling in his grandson''s stead. His piercing gaze lifted to meet Keval''s entrance, softening briefly in acknowledgment. Beside Marthio stood Emperor Mesha, an eleven-year-old boy who carried himself forward with all the confidence a boy could have. Keval paused for a moment, he remembered his nephew as a child of laughter and unrestrained joy, his bright smiles lighting up any room he entered. But those days seemed far away now. The events surrounding his mother''s betrayal had left their mark on the boy too . The once vibrant boy now carried a shadow in his eyes, his smiles rarer, his laughter more subdued. He was still a child however , so sometimes smiles and laughter came to him on their own. And yet, amidst the sorrow, Keval saw the bond that had grown between the boy and his grandfather. Marthio had stepped into the role of protector and mentor with fervor, and Mesha, in turn, had gravitated toward him. Marthio''s sharp gaze fell on Keval the moment he entered the room. The regent, always perceptive, leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers steepled before him. "Keval," he began, "I assume you''ve come to report?" Keval inclined his head respectfully, stepping forward. "I have, Father. Pontius wrote." At the mention of the name, Marthio''s expression shifted into one of keen interest. He had basically been ,a gift to the princess, while in reality it was for her husband . Officially, he was an engeneer and architect sent to assist the Yarzat court with his knowledge , while instead behind the scene, he served as Marthio''s eyes and ears in Yarzat. His missives were detailed and frequent, providing the regent with a steady stream of insight into court politics,and military action that the prince-boy took while in war. It wasn''t like they were fundamental for him, however, he believed that since a great deal of the Empire''s interest lay with the boy-prince, it was better that they knew what was going on in his backyard. For the last months , Pontius had been their primary source of information regarding Alpheo''s conflict with Herculia. The reports ranged from military victories to the movement of the army. Marthio nodded, gesturing for Keval to continue, meanwhile Mesha, standing quietly beside his grandfather, glanced up at Keval as well, his youthful curiosity momentarily breaking through the solemnity that had come to define him in recent months. Over the past months, Mesha had become an increasingly present figure in the day-to-day administration of the empire. Though still young, the boy had shown a keen interest in understanding the vast machinery of governance. He often stood at his grandfather''s side, listening intently as Marthio dictated orders, reviewed reports, or doign anythign worth watching. From time to time, Marthio would pause to offer his grandson a lesson, explaining the reasoning behind his decisions or testing Mesha''s own understanding of the matters at hand. Though the child was still growing into the weight of his responsibilities, his sharpness and resolve were unmistakable, traits Marthio privately attributed to the father''s blood, which luckily he took more than from the mother. Among the many matters that occupied the regent mind was the quiet acknowledgment that Prince Alpheo of Yarzat was undoubtedly aware of Pontius''s true purpose. Alpheo was no fool, and Marthio respected him all the more for it. It was one thing to allow a spy to operate under your nose; and another being aware of that and limiting him to just what he wanted to show. In truth, Marthio often praised Alpheo in private for his remarkable acumen. The reports of the prince''s victories¡ªespecially the decisive triumph against the Herculeian prince¡ªhad left the regent genuinely impressed. The sheer strategic brilliance of the campaign, coupled with Alpheo''s ability had taken Marthio aback. Keval began his report in a measured tone, relaying the details with precision. "For the past month, the Yarzat prince has been orchestrating raids into the lands of the Herculeian prince. His forces have laid waste to the countryside, burning villages, torching granaries, and plundering supplies, while sparing the people . Notably, one of his retainers, leading the light cavalry, intercepted and destroyed an expeditionary force dispatched by the Herculeian court to halt the raiding. The enemy was smashed before they could organize effectively." Keval paused briefly, ensuring he had Marthio''s full attention before continuing. "Following the weeks of fire and pillaging, the Yarzat army withdrew back into their territory. Supplies in Bracum, already scarce, forced their hand. They left the Herculeian lands devastated, but they avoided prolonged engagements or any attempts at sieging more castles." Marthio leaned back in his chair, his shrewd eyes flicking to his grandson. The faintest smile tugged at his lips, more in thought than mirth, as he turned his gaze toward Mesha, who was following the conversation with keen interest. "Why do you think the Yarzat prince chose to pillage the countryside," Marthio asked, his voice low and reflective, "instead of laying siege to additional castles? Surely he could have taken them, or at least tried." Mesha furrowed his brow, his young face a mask of concentration as he pondered his grandfather''s question. After a few moments, he ventured, "Perhaps they lacked the supplies to sustain a siege? That would make it difficult to hold their position long enough to take the castles." Marthio gave a soft chuckle, the sound more approving than amused. "Maybe," he said, leaning forward slightly. "But the real reason lies elsewhere." His tone shifted, becoming the instructive cadence of a mentor imparting a lesson. "You see, Yarzat has no natural defenses¡ªno rivers, mountains, or dense forests to shield them. Their territory is an open plain, a land that invites invasion. The only barrier between them and their enemies are their border castles. Those fortresses are all that keep Yarzat from being overrun." Marthio''s sharp gaze lingered on Mesha as he continued, his voice deliberate and precise. "Before the princess ascended the throne, her father''s reign was marked by repeated invasions from the prince to the south. Now, with the boy-prince leading the armies, the Yarzat prince has taken a different approach." The regent leaned back again, his expression thoughtful. "This campaign wasn''t about taking castles.He saw an opportunity to cripple his neighbor to the west¡ªthe Herculeians. And to do that, he turned his attention to the villages. By setting them aflame and leaving the countryside in ruin, he''s inflicted a wound far deeper than the loss of a few strongholds." Marthio gestured lightly, as though conjuring the image of the scorched lands. "For the next year, the Herculeian prince will face famine and a loss in manpower. His granaries are ash, his fields untended, and his villagers displaced. Worse still, the banditry will surge. When the Yarzat prince''s forces left those villages unmolested, they left behind thousands of hungry, desperate people. Many of them will turn to theft and violence to survive." The regent''s eyes gleamed with respect "This isn''t just a raid¡ªit''was a punch to the gut . By the time the Herculeian prince recovers, he''ll be weaker than ever. And all the while, Yarzat secures its western border, while leasurely sending his army to besiege more fortresses once the autumnal harvest comes..." Keval''s eyes flickered toward Mesha as the young emperor nodded earnestly, absorbing every word his grandfather spoke. The boy''s youthful face, was set in a mask of intent concentration. He listened as Marthio continued his explanation, his small hands resting on the table in a posture far more serious than his years should have allowed. Keval couldn''t help but feel a twinge of melancholy as he observed his nephew. The transformation was undeniable.And yet, for all the sorrow that lingered in the shadow of recent events, Keval also saw something else: Mesha''s growing competence. Perhaps this is for the best, he thought. His nephew was finally receiving the education and guidance he deserved, lessons that would prepare him for the monumental responsibility of ruling an empire. Marthio had taken the boy under his wing, not merely as a grandfather but as a mentor, sculpting him into a ruler worthy of the throne, even if the cost for that was his own daughter, an exchange that the more time passed everyone believed heavily leaned onto everyone''s best interest. Chapter 274: Studying the land Chapter 274: Studying the land Talek, the son of Sir Robert¡ªthe knight whose loyalty had been key to the previous prince''s rule¡ªstood under the clear, bright blue sky. Few truly understood how important his father had been for the new princess''s rise to power .Even Talek himself didn''t know the full truth about what his father had done or how far he had gone to secure the throne. It was Sir Robert who had led Arkawatt''s brother to his doom, making him believe he was marching toward the glory and crown he had always dreamed of. The man thought his moment of triumph was at hand, unaware that Robert was leading him into a trap. Even when Alpheo''s warriors burst from the trees, breaking his army and ending all hope, it was likely he never realized how carefully he had been deceived. What he thought would be the start of his reign instead became the end of his life¡ªand the lives of his family. Sir Robert''s mission had been carried out perfectly, leaving no way for Arkawatt''s brother to escape or fight back. In the end, his ambition destroyed him, and he died without ever understanding how his greatest dream had become his nightmare. It was a heavy story, one Talek might never know, hidden beneath the same blue sky that now stretched endlessly above him. Talek''s gaze lingered on it, as though seeking answers in its tranquil vastness. There was a reflective stillness in his stance, hands resting lightly at his sides, his face calm but touched with a faint trace of melancholy. Talek couldn''t shake the growing worry gnawing at him. Since his father, Sir Robert, had returned home with the victorious prince consort , he hadn''t been the same. The man who once carried himself with quiet pride, who had always been a stable and dependable , now seemed like a shadow of himself. He no longer smiled as he once did,instead, he turned to drinks more often, his goblet rarely empty, and withdrew from the world outside their castle walls. Days would pass without Sir Robert appearing at court or even leaving their home. It was baffling to Talek. Their family had never been better off. The princess, in her gratitude, had rewarded them generously, a castle to call their own, lands to rule over, and a steady stream of income from customs.We finally got it all . We have gained wealth, status, and respect. By all accounts, he should have been celebrating his good fortune, he is now a lord. Talek thought as he pictured the image of his father drunk in bed before he left the house for his task. Talek couldn''t understand it. What had caused his father to behave this way? To retreat from his duties as the head of their house, leaving Talek to step in and shoulder the responsibilities he''d always expected to learn from him? It wasn''t lost on Talek that something weighed heavily on his father''s mind¡ªsomething tied to the rewards their family now enjoyed. A castle, lands, titles, and the princess''s apparent favor. Yet even with all this, there was no word of rebuke for Sir Robert''s prolonged absences from court. No summons to explain himself. That, more than anything, hinted to Talek that whatever had been done to earn these gifts carried a cost too great for his father to bear openly. Perhaps, Talek thought, it was the marriage itself that broke him. The sight of their new princess taking the man who had killed her father as her husband. Perhaps it was the weight of bowing and calling "Your Grace" to one who wore the crown with blood-stained hands. But truthfully, Talek didn''t care about any of that. For their family¡ªand the princedom as a whole¡ªthings had never looked so promising. What had been a fractured land teetering on the brink of collapse was now a budding power, strong enough to hold its own against larger threats. The new rulers were the best thing that could have happened to anyone in Yarzat , Talek thought, his conviction firm. If his father had heard him, Talek was certain he would have been struck for saying so, as the man hated both rulers seeing them as traitors, one of her own blood the other to his employer. Yet it didn''t change the fact that it was the truth. Turning away from thinking about the sorry condition of his father , Talek''s eyes turned, as they landed on the court''s eccentric engineer, Pontius. The bald man was kneeling on the ground, scribbling furiously on a piece of material that resembled parchment but seemed far lighter and more flexible. A faint breeze tugged at its edges as Pontius held it down with one hand while with a small stick of charcoal he started writing something . Talek frowned slightly, watching the man''s focus. Pontius appeared completely absorbed in whatever calculations or notes he was making, his lips moving silently as if he were murmuring to himself. Talek had been tasked with escorting the engineer on this journey, along with five other knights, to survey the field where the new aqueduct was to be constructed. This grand structure would supply the capital with much-needed water¡ªa project of immense importance, and one that Pontius approached with unwavering zeal. Talek took a step closer to the kneeling engineer, his tone polite but carrying a hint of impatience. "Do you need anything, Engineer Pontius?" he asked, folding his arms as he peered down at the man''s hunched figure. He was tired of waiting. Pontius froze for a brief moment, his hand tightening on the piece of parchment-like material. He turned his head slightly, enough for Talek to catch the brief flicker of annoyance in his face. "No," Pontius replied, his voice clipped and barely masking the irritation bubbling beneath the surface. His jaw tensed, and he quickly looked back to his work, scribbling again with renewed intensity. Talek could see it clearly¡ªPontius was trying to rein in whatever had made him wince, as if Talek''s simple question had struck a nerve. The young knight exhaled silently through his nose, fighting back the sigh that threatened to escape. He had no great love for these outings, and the engineer''s prickly attitude only made things worse. With nothing else to occupy his thoughts, Talek turned his gaze back to the rolling countryside, sprawling lazily beneath the bright afternoon sun. Escorting Pontius on this monotonous task felt beneath him, especially now that he was the heir to a lordship. His family had been elevated to nobility, a rare honor, and one he believed deserved duties befitting his new status. Surveying land for an aqueduct and babysitting the court''s engineer hardly seemed appropriate for someone of his station. And yet, he clenched his jaw and kept his thoughts to himself. He knew better than to speak out against Pontius. The man wasn''t just an engineer; he was the little jewel of Yarzat''s Fox¡ªespecially now that the prince consort had clearly showed everyone at court his ambitious plan for the city. Not worth it, Talek thought bitterly, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword reining the desire to cut the man down where he stood . He could endure a few hours of tedium if it meant avoiding the ire of someone that he now served. During the past few days, Pontius had been in an unusually jubilant mood. Talek had never seen the man like this before. The bald, arrogant engineer, who normally carried himself with the sternness of a man who had fucked everyone''s mother twice ,acting like a bootlicker. Pontius had always fancied himself an architect above all else, lamenting that his true talents were wasted on war machines and fortifications. Yet, with the prince''s announcement of the aqueduct project, he seemed to come alive, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. Talek could hardly count the number of times Pontius had loudly praised the prince''s consort, crediting their foresight and vision for initiating such a monumental endeavor. "A marvel of governance!" he had declared more than once, his voice booming with admiration. "A leader who understands the value of progress! What a great day for these people!" Pontius was practically glowing, like a dog finally tossed a juicy bone, and Talek couldn''t help but roll his eyes every time the man launched into another effusive monologue, practically seeing the brown on the tip of his nose. He practically worships him Talek thought bitterly as he wondered how could Alpheo even stomach such a man. While Pontius celebrated this project as if it were the greatest achievement of his life, Talek found it hard to muster the same excitement. To him, it was just another chore, another tedious task that kept him from what he believed to be more important matters. During Pontius work, Talek unkowingly threw glimpse at his notes, and couldn''t make sense of it all. He stood there, watching as Pontius poured over his drawings and calculations, mumbling to himself about angles, pressures, and materials, none of which made the slightest bit of sense to Talek. They had a river right there¡ªcouldn''t they simply dig a trench to lead water into the city? It seemed so much simpler to him, a clear, straightforward solution. The more he looked at Pontius''s sketches, the more confused he became. The drawings seemed to show intricate bridges, but not the kind that he understood¡ªno wooden beams. Instead, there were sketches of structures that looked like bridges, yet didn''t look like bridges at all. They were somehow... different and whom mostly important he could not get the use of. "What does all this mean?" he muttered under his breath, but before he could voice his confusion aloud again, Pontius was already launching into another long-winded explanation about water flow, and getting consequentally angry that Talek did not understand one bit of it, as apparently he regarded the matter as child''s play . Was it my fault that I had not been educated in such useless subjects? He cursed in his mind as he held himself from striking the man down onto the dirt. Chapter 275: Reporting Chapter 275: Reporting Alpheo sat at his desk in the workroom, the glow coming from the small window at his sides lightened the meticulous reports spread before him. He leaned forward, his sharp eyes scanning the rows of numbers compiled by the treasury accountants. The calculations were clear as soon as the army returned home 14,800 silverii had been spent on the soldiers'' pay that was owed at the end of the campaign. The figure was staggering, but it was a necessity. Warfare demanded discipline, and discipline demanded compensation. Soldiers did not receive their salaries during a campaign, a policy Alpheo firmly upheld. Transporting such vast amounts of silver was logistically burdensome and with high risk of losing them against enemy''s ambushes, not to mention the sheer amount of guards that would be needed to guard the money. But there was a more calculated reason why general did not pay soldiers during campaign : soldiers with full pockets were more inclined to think of home, their minds wandering toward comfort and the temptation to desert. Even a victorious army like that of Alpheo, after conquering Arduronaven experienced desertion, although the criminals were soon apprehended and nailed into trees, their shouts being the clearest warning to anyone that shared the same thought of going home before the prince''s permission. This time, however, the campaign had been a financial success. The Herculeian prince''s land had proven fruitful in plunder, yielding 19,000 silverii from the spoils of war. The margin was modest given the expenditures , but it was a victory nonetheless. Alpheo allowed himself a small smile, satisfied with the balancing act of costs and returns. The loot after all not only covered the soldiers'' remuneration but also left a surplus to bolster the treasury Alpheo carefully flipped through another sheet of parchment, his gaze fixed on the columns of numbers that represented the expenditures of his private army. The figure was worryingsome 6,000 denarii, a significant expense that weighed heavily on the overall budget. He leaned back in his chair, his thoughts trailing to the contrast with the past. Before his arrival, the entire annual income of the princedom under Arkwatt''s rule had been a meager 28,000 denarii. At that rate, his private army alone, in just five months, would have consumed the equivalent of one full years of the old regime''s income. It was an unsustainable model for a weaker state. Now, however, things had changed. Through his reforms, trade incentives, and territorial acquisitions, the princedom''s income had surged to 108,000 denarii annually, something that none could rebuke against him. Yet, this success came with its challenges. Of the increased revenue, 72,000 denarii were spent on the military alone. The cost was staggering, but it ensured the security and expansion of his domain, while keeping the unruly nobility at bay, especially now that they just saw how strong their prince''s army truly was. As he contemplated these numbers, a fragment of history came to mind. At the peak of its power, the Roman Empire, with its vast territories and professional legions, had spent nearly half of its income on the military. A sobering thought. By comparison, Alpheo''s military expenditure ratio was even higher. The thought brought a small smile to his lips,I pay more than the Roman ever did.... The Romans had used their armies not only to defend their empire but to enforce their rule, expand their borders. His own princedom, though far smaller, followed a similar path. Yet he knew very well that the only reason he could sustain this was for his trade income, which meant that he effectively was reliant on foreign markets to sustain his own, right now it wasn''t a problem , but who knew in the future if that would still be the case? A sharp knock echoed through the room, interrupting Alpheo''s musings over the daunting figures before him. He glanced up as Vrosk, the head of his guards, entered with his usual composed demeanor. "Your Highness," Vrosk announced, inclining his head slightly. "Pontius has arrived and requests an audience. He says he has a report to deliver." Alpheo exhaled softly, a small sigh of mild irritation escaping his lips. He leaned back in his chair, flipping the report he''d been reviewing toward the desk, the numbers no longer commanding his attention, as it now had to be reserved to the biggest bootlicker he had met in last years "Let him in," Alpheo said with a resigned tone. He folded his hands on the desk, steeling himself for what was likely to be an exhaustive update. As Vrosk departed to fetch the engineer, Alpheo''s thoughts drifted briefly to the man. Pontius, talented as he was, had his strings tied elsewhere¡ªnamely, the imperial court. Alpheo was well aware of the correspondence Pontius maintained with the Romelian regent. It wasn''t unexpected. Spies and informants in court dealings were a matter of course, and Alpheo was no fool in thinking that Pontius would not have informed his past employer of his current one. Still, Alpheo didn''t find it particularly troublesome, provided Pontius was kept away from the truly vital information. In this instance, that meant keeping the engineer entirely unaware of the true income and expenditures of the princedom. The door opened again, and Vrosk re-entered, ushering Pontius into the room. The balding engineer stepped forward, bowing slightly in deference, his expression a mix of eagerness and self-importance. Alpheo watched him approach, his face calm and unreadable, as he prepared to hear the man''s latest report. Alpheo extended his hand toward the chair opposite his desk, a gesture of calm authority. "Take a seat, Pontius," he said, his voice steady and neutral. Pontius, ever eager to present himself favorably, bowed his head slightly in gratitude. "Thank you, Your Grace," he said, his tone measured but tinged with enthusiasm. He smoothed the front of his tunic as he lowered himself onto the chair, taking care to maintain an air of respect. Once settled, Pontius leaned forward slightly, his expression serious. "I have come to report my findings regarding the field outside the city, Your Grace," he began, his voice gaining a confident edge. "The site has great potential, but there are some matters I believe require your attention." Alpheo leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin, his gaze fixed on Pontius as he prepared to listen. As he began his report with practiced confidence, his hands gesturing to emphasize his points. "Your Grace," he started, "the nearest river lies approximately nine kilometers from the city. For the majority of that distance, a simple canal can be dug to direct the water toward us. The terrain is manageable until we encounter a significant dislevel in height about midway through." He paused briefly, adjusting his posture before continuing. "At that point, we will need to construct elevated stone channels¡ªpontini- as they are called . These will bridge the uneven terrain and maintain the necessary gradient for the water to flow steadily. Once we cross the missing ground , we can return to digging a standard trench to guide the water directly into the city." Pontius''s enthusiasm grew as he elaborated. "Of course, Your Grace, the city itself must be prepared to receive this water. Reservoirs will need to be constructed, and we must establish a distribution network to ensure the it does not overflow during great rains.'''' Alpheo leaned back in his chair, his gaze steady as he asked, "How much time will you need to complete this project, Pontius?" Pontius rubbed his chin thoughtfully, the gears visibly turning in his mind. "That depends, Your Grace, on the number of workers available and the budget allocated. With sufficient resources, we can expedite the work significantly." Alpheo nodded, his tone firm as he outlined his plan. "You will be provided with 500 free-laborers which you can use however you like and 1,500 regular-workers. For the budget, I am allotting you 20,000 silverii for materials and construction. The payment for the workers will be accounted for separately by me ." Pontius blinked, then allowed a smile to curl at the corner of his lips. "A most generous provision, Your Grace," he said, visibly impressed as he feared that he would be working with a small budget given the provincial princedom he was now ruling . After a brief pause to collect his thoughts, he continued, "We will need to prioritize the digging of the canals immediately, focusing the majority of our manpower on that before winter sets in. Once the ground freezes, it will be impossible to make meaningful progress on the trenches. At that point, we can shift our efforts to constructing the pontini, which will require a good deal of material, but that can proceed through the colder months." Alpheo listened intently before asking, "How much time do you estimate will be needed to complete the entire project?" Pontius tilted his head, considering carefully. "With these resources, I would estimate anywhere from eight months to a full year, depending on the weather and any unforeseen complications.Luckily the water will come from a river, as if it was from a mountain it would be much more difficult" Alpheo tapped his fingers on the desk, pondering the timeline. After a moment, he nodded decisively. "That is acceptable. Begin immediately and ensure your plans remain within these constraints. I expect regular updates." Pontius straightened in his chair, his expression brimming with confidence. "Your Grace," he began, "I assure you, this aqueduct will be a marvel of ingenuity and functionality. When it is complete, not only will it bring water to the city, but it will also wash away its stench¡ªboth figuratively and literally, after all I believe we both know the current state of the city.... " Alpheo leaned forward slightly, his voice measured but firm as he ignored the last remark. "I expect nothing less than exemplary work, Pontius, especially given the amount of budget I am giving you'''' Pontius placed a hand over his chest, as if to swear a solemn oath. "Your Grace, you have my word. This will be a structure to rival any in the empire. The people will sing your praises, and people will marvel at the transformation of your capital." Chapter 276: Divided tribe(1) Chapter 276: Divided tribe(1) Geowulf , the Great Knotur of the tribes behind the North''s bane, stormed through the stone halls of the Royal Palace of Sarlan, his boots striking the floor with force, the sound echoing through the cold, empty corridors. His jaw clenched tight, his teeth grinding together in frustration as his thoughts churned with bitter anger. How could they raise these issues against him after everything he had done? He had led them from the brink of death, from the frigid white plains where starvation and frost had claimed so many of their kin. He had fought, bled, and sacrificed, carving a path southward, defying fate itself. Where countless Knoturs had failed, forced to bow their heads and knees to the southerners for scraps, he had succeeded. Geowulf, and no one else, had moved their people to fertile lands, warm and rich, where their bellies could be filled each day and night, their ancestors head''s now bowing to what they had achieved. The grandeur of the palace around him¡ªa fortress once symbolizing the might of the Sarlan kings¡ªseemed to mock him. These halls were his now, their opulence a testament to his triumph. Yet, the weight of that victory felt hollow in this moment, his daughter''s venomous words cutting deeper than any blade ever had, as his men now raised an hutt into his own palace. What more do they want from me? he thought bitterly, his fists tightening at his sides. He had given everything¡ªhis blood, his will, his son, his very soul¡ªfor the survival and strength of their people. He had turned death and ruin into life and prosperity. Yet, instead of gratitude, he was met with anger, resistance, and scorn. Pausing for a moment beneath a massive archway, Geowulf exhaled sharply, his breath hissing through his teeth. His vision blurred slightly, not from tears but from the sheer force of his fury. He looked out at the courtyard below, its crumbled stones and soot-streaked walls still bearing the scars of conquest. "Ungrateful," he muttered under his breath, the word like a curse spat into the cold air. His grip on the edge of a stone pillar tightened until his knuckles turned white. "After all I have done... survival, victory, warmth, land of our own... and still, it is not enough." Geowulf''s mind raced. His legacy, his unifying of the tribes, his conquest of Sarleon¡ªthese were not just victories; they were salvation. He had carved life from the barren snow, transformed suffering into strength, and replaced the icy winds of death with the fertile promise of life. Yet, the very people who owed him their survival now dared to question him, as if they could not see the cost he had borne for their sake. His breath came heavy, the fire in his chest refusing to die. He clenched his fists and resumed his march He was Geowulf, the Great Knotur, the savior of his people, and he would ensure they never forgot it. Geowulf strode into the great hall, now refashioned as the Hutt, the traditional meeting place of a tribe''s elder. The stone chamber, once a site of royal banquets and councils for the Sarlan kings, now bore a rougher, tribal character. Heavy furs draped over the high-backed chairs, and the floor was scattered with woven mats and animal hides, symbols of the traditions Geowulf and his people had brought south with them. A fire burned in a massive hearth at the room''s center, its light flickering over the gathered figures seated in a circle, each representing one of the tribes now bound to Geowulf''s side. This was no kingdom anymore. What had been the unified and orderly realm of Sarleon had been transformed into a confederation of tribes, each retaining its distinct identity and leadership under the overarching authority of the Great Knotur. For most present, this arrangement was unprecedented. In the north, it was common for a victorious tribe to absorb or scatter the defeated. The weak were folded into the strong, their names and customs erased. But here, Geowulf had not merely conquered; he had unified by force, compelling these disparate peoples to follow his banner. The Sarlan lands they had seized were rich and fertile, their bounty alien to those who had spent their lives struggling against the harshness of the Great Snow. For the first time, many of them found themselves living off the labor of others¡ªsouthern farmers who yielded their crops without resistance, seemingly willing to part with their food. It was a concept foreign to them , who had grown up in a world where a man would sooner spill his guts than surrender his provisions. As Geowulf entered, the hum of conversation quieted. The gathered leaders shifted in their seats, some nodding in deference, others watching him with guarded eyes. This was a Hutt like no other¡ªa place where not one tribe, but many, convened. The elders of the Snowspears, the Frostmanes, the Bitterrocks, and others sat shoulder to shoulder with Geowulf at their head, each carrying their own grievances and ambitions. The leader of the Bitterrocks, Klarik, rose from his seat as soon as Geowulf entered the Hutt. Klarik was a striking figure, even among the hardened warriors gathered in the room. His long, tangled beard was streaked with gray, and a deep scar carved a jagged path across his left eye, rendering it milky and unseeing. His front teeth were missing, giving his words a sharp, snarling quality. He wore a battered suit of chainmail, its links dulled and dented, taken as spoils during the battle against the Sarlan. It clinked softly as he stood, pointing a calloused finger at Geowulf. "What in the gods'' name are we doing here?" Klarik''s voice boomed, echoing against the stone walls. His tone was raw with frustration and disdain, each word spat like a challenge. "Sitting on our arses in stone halls, watching fields grow! This is not our way" Some of the younger leaders muttered uneasily, while others turned their eyes to Geowulf, waiting for his response. Klarik, however, was undeterred. He stepped forward, gesturing wildly with his hands, his chainmail rattling with each motion. "I''ll tell you what I see," Klarik snarled. "A land of weaklings! Farmers who bend the knee without a fight, who hand over their grain like beaten dogs! And we¡ªyou, me, all of us¡ªwe''re just sitting here, eating their food, sleeping in their homes, when we should be raising our weapons and raiding their fields! Taking what we want by right of strength instead of meekly waiting for them to give it to us!" A few of the leaders, particularly those from tribes more accustomed to raiding than governance, raised their weapons high in agreement. Spears clattered against shields, and war cries echoed through the chamber. Klarik turned, his single good eye gleaming with satisfaction as he saw the support growing around him. "They are weak!" Klarik bellowed, his voice rising over the din. "We all saw it with our own eyes! Their men broke like dry sticks in the snow when we stormed them on the field. Their nobles wept as they begged for their lives! And now you tell me we''re supposed to sit here, governing them? Eating their scraps like old wolves too slow to hunt?" The cheers grew louder, several leaders pounding their weapons against the floor in agreement. Geowulf remained seated, silent as a mountain, his dark eyes fixed on Klarik. The Great Knotur''s face was unreadable, his thoughts locked behind a mask of cold indifference. But inside, a storm churned. Not even three steps into the room, Geowulf thought grimly, and the cause of my troubles stands before me, as loud and blind as ever. Klarik''s sneer deepened, his scarred face twisting with contempt as he jabbed his finger toward Geowulf. "And instead of taking the land of the nobles, we let them keep it!" he roared, his voice thick with disdain. "All we asked for was their word! Their loyalty! Do you think they care for your oaths, Knotur? Do you think their words are worth the piss it takes to speak them?" Klarik leaned forward, his voice dropping into a low growl. "Do you think you''re our king now? That we''ll bend our heads and obey your whims, like those craven farmers bowing in their fields?" The room erupted into murmurs and snickers, some leaders nodding in agreement, others exchanging uncertain glances. But before Klarik could press further, Geowulf rose to his full, towering height, his hand raised to silence the noise. "We do not bow to anyone!" Geowulf''s voice thundered, reverberating through the chamber like a winter gale. The murmurs ceased immediately, and the leaders turned to him, the weight of his authority cutting through the discontent. Geowulf''s piercing gaze swept over the gathered leaders, his voice steady but commanding. "I am not your king," he said, his words deliberate and unyielding. "And I do not want you groveling at my feet or kneeling every time I go to take a piss." He stepped forward, his presence dominating the room. " It is by conquest that I stand here. By my blood, my sweat, and the blood of the thousands who fell before us. We fought, we bled, and we endured what no one else could." His eyes bore into Klarik. "It is by that conquest I gained the vassalage of these people, their oaths sworn not to you or your tribes but to me. To me." Geowulf turned, his gaze sharp as he addressed the room. "Each of you has received lands. Lands that are yours to govern, to rule, to defend. Do with them what you will. Tax them, raid them, farm them, or burn them to the ground¡ªit is no concern of mine." He paused, his tone growing colder. "But the nobles who swore their oaths swore to serve me. Not you." He turned back to Klarik, his dark eyes narrowing as he took a step closer, towering over the Bitterrocks leader. "So tell me, Klarik," Geowulf growled, his voice low and menacing, "what the fuck do you want? Your stomach bulges with meat, milk, wine, and grain¡ªthings you never had in the north. You have land to call your own. You are no longer chasing hares in the snow, scraping moss from rocks to keep your people alive." Geowulf''s voice rose again, cutting through the tension in the room like a blade. "What more do you want? Another raid? Another slaughter? Or do you just want to spit and whine because you can''t stand the thought of having more than nothing?The thought that your people no longer starve?Or perhapse the thought that during winter you shall have a warm fire beside you, keep you awake at night?If you dislike those things perhapse you should turn your back and return to our old desolate home...." Geowulf''s hand shot to his belt, gripping the haft of his massive axe. With one fluid motion, he tore it free, the sharp edge glinting menacingly in the firelight. Without breaking his gaze from Klarik, he raised the weapon high and brought it crashing down onto the thick wooden table beside him. The impact was deafening. The axe cleaved clean through the surface, splinters flying in all directions as the table cracked and sagged under the blow. The room fell into an uneasy silence, the leaders flinching at the sudden violence, their previous murmurs now replaced by tense stillness. Geowulf leaned on the embedded axe, his knuckles white around its haft as he fixed Klarik with a glare as sharp as the weapon itself. His voice, low and deadly, sliced through the air. "Or is it a fight you''re after, Klarik? Is that what all this barking is about?Because if it is that, maybe it is time that you get to know my axe closely" His eyes narrowed, his voice rising like a storm. "If you think you can take me, here''s your chance. Pick up a weapon, stand before me, and take your swing. Come on, Bitterrock!" He spat the name with disdain. "Let''s see if your stomach can hold more than wine and complaints!" Chapter 277: Divided Tribe(2) Chapter 277: Divided Tribe(2) The hush in the Hutt was thick and oppressive, the leaders frozen in their seats, their gazes darting between Geowulf and Klarik. The air crackled with tension, the shattered remains of the table lying as a silent witness to what was about to unfold. Klarik finally broke the silence, the scrape of his chair against the stone floor loud in the stillness. Rising to his full height, he reached for the axe strapped to his back, his movements fast and sharp, his expression a twisted mask of defiance and fury. He held his weapon high, its battered blade glinting in the firelight as he pointed it at Geowulf. "Enough of this!" Klarik bellowed, his voice filled with venom. "We''re done following the lead of an old wolf whose fangs are dull! It''s time someone else took charge¡ªa man with the strength to lead us into real battles! Your time is over, Geowulf!" For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. Geowulf''s face twisted into a snarl, his teeth bared like a beast provoked. His booming voice echoed through the hall like a war drum. "Old age? Klarik, you won''t live to see it!You will just be known as the latest fool killed by me!" Without another word, Geowulf lunged forward, his massive frame a blur of motion as he surged toward Klarik. His axe, still embedded in the ruined table, was wrenched free with a splintering crack as he brought it up, the blade gleaming wickedly in the flickering firelight. The room erupted into chaos as the Great Knotur charged, his roar filling the hall, a declaration of dominance and rage. The leaders scrambled back from the sudden clash, some overturning their seats in their haste, while others simply stared, transfixed by the collision of two titanic wills. Klarik, undaunted, raised his own axe and braced himself, shouting in defiance, "Come on then, old wolf! Show me your bite!" Geowulf''s roar filled the Hutt, primal and ferocious, as he swung his axe in a vicious upward arc. The sheer force of the blow made the air hum with its passage, aimed with murderous intent at Klarik''s chest. Klarik brought his axe down to parry, the haft of his weapon catching Geowulf''s swing just beneath the blade. The impact rang out like a thunderclap, the clash of steel on wood reverberating through the chamber and sending sparks flying from the axes'' edges. Klarik''s arm trembled from the force, his feet skidding back slightly as he absorbed the blow. He bared his teeth in a savage grin. Geowulf did not reciprocate, using the momentum of the rebound to bring his axe around in a deadly horizontal slash aimed at Klarik''s exposed side. Klarik ducked low, the blade passing just inches above his head, and countered with a swift chop toward Geowulf''s legs. The Great Knotur leapt back, the axe missing him by a hair''s breadth and leaving a deep gouge in the wooden floor. He surged forward again, pressing the attack. His strikes were relentless, each swing heavy and deliberate, forcing Klarik onto the defensive. Klarik parried another overhead blow, grunting as his arms bore the brunt of Geowulf''s ferocity. The strength behind the attacks was monstrous; each one meant to end the fight with a single decisive strike. "You think this is strength?" Geowulf growled, his voice rumbling like distant thunder as he pushed Klarik back step by step. "I''ve bled for this land! I''ve carved it out with my hands, my axe, my will! You think you can take it from me?" Klarik snarled, using a sudden burst of strength to shove Geowulf back and break their deadlock. He spun his axe, stepping to the side and aiming a powerful blow at Geowulf''s torso. Geowulf twisted away just in time, the blade grazing his side and slicing through the thick fur cloak he wore. A shallow line of red welled up, but he ignored it, his eyes blazing with unbridled rage. "You''ll have to do better than that!" With a sudden surge of speed, Geowulf closed the gap between them, slamming his shoulder into Klarik''s chest. The force sent Klarik stumbling backward, and Geowulf capitalized, bringing his axe down in a crushing diagonal strike. Klarik hit the ground hard, his breath escaping in a ragged gasp. The room seemed to hold its breath as Geowulf loomed over him, his chest heaving, his face twisted into a mask of wrath. Without hesitation, the Great Knotur brought his axe down again. Again and again, Geowulf''s axe descended, striking wildly and Klarick trying to parry even more, the more time passed however the more the fate of the battle was already written down in stone. Klarik tried to crawl backward, his hand scrabbling back, but Geowulf''s shadow swallowed him whole. With a roar that shook the hall, Geowulf brought the axe down one final time, the blade biting deep into Klarik''s shoulder. A sickening crunch echoed as bone gave way to steel, as everybody was reminded once again why Geowulf was their knotur.. Klarik cried out, his grip on his own axe faltering until it slipped from his blood-slicked fingers and clattered uselessly to the ground. His face twisted in pain, his body writhing beneath the weight of the blow, as the weight of the gift he had given to hundreds now laid beside him. With a snarl, Geowulf dropped to his knees, straddling Klarik. With the ferocity of a predator claiming its prey, he grasped Klarik''s face with both hands, his thumbs pressing against the man''s eyes. Klarik screamed, his voice shrill and guttural, as Geowulf''s thumbs bore down with brutal force. The pressure built, and then, with a sickening squelch, the orbs burst beneath Geowulf''s relentless grip. Blood and viscous fluid ran down Klarik''s face, mingling with the sweat and dirt. The Hutt was silent, save for Klarik''s strangled, dying cries and the heavy, ragged breaths of Geowulf. Releasing the ruined face, Geowulf reached for Klarik''s own axe, the weapon still stained with the fight''s fury. With a final, guttural roar, he raised the axe high and brought it down onto Klarik''s skull. The blade split bone and flesh with a wet crunch, the force of the blow silencing Klarik''s cries forever. He raised his arms, gripping the haft of his axe tightly, his voice booming like thunder. "Do you know who I am?" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls. "I am Geowulf! The Great Knotur! The one who united the tribes when no one else could! I led us from starvation, from death, from the frozen wastes, and brought you here, to lands rich with soil and full of food. Lands that you now call your own!" The leaders flinched at the force of his words, but Geowulf pressed on, his tone growing sharper, fiercer. "I broke the kingdoms of the south! I toppled their so-called king! Their royal bloodline lies in the dirt because I willed it so. Their lands are ours because I took them. I am not your king, nor do I wish to be! I do not need you to kneel or bow or scrape before me!" He gestured to the room, to the men seated in stunned silence. "You want to raid? Go! Take up your weapons and spill blood. Ravage the fields of our neighbors. Feast on the spoils of the weak. But if you dare," his voice dipped, low and deadly, "to raid what is mine¡ªto lay a hand on the lands and people that I have claimed¡ªthen you will share the fate of Klarik here!" He yanked his axe free from the floor and raised it high, its bloodied blade catching the light. "See this axe? It has tasted the blood of kings, of warriors, and of every fool who thought to defy me! If you think yourself greater than me, step forward and try your luck! But know this," he snarled, sweeping the room with his furious glare, "go against me or my will, I will take your lands, your life, and your name. You will be nothing but a story of failure, told in whispers around campfires!" "If you want to grow fat over the food your slaves bring you," he spat, his tone thick with disdain, "then do so. If you wish to drink the blood of your enemies, to feast upon the spoils of war¡ªthen do it!" His chest swelled with each word, his fury palpable. "The lands are yours now. Every tribe has its place, its people, its territory. This is my gift to you ," he said, his voice echoing in the hall like a final decree. "Take what you want from it, take what you can- but never what I LAY AS MINE '''' The room was deathly quiet, the leaders cowed by the raw fury and certainty in Geowulf''s voice. None dared meet his gaze for long, let alone stand against him. His dominance was absolute, and his message crystal clear: Defiance would only lead to death. Chapter 278: The matter of ruling(1) Chapter 278: The matter of ruling(1) Geowulf sat heavily on the throne, the faint creak of the wood beneath him a far cry from the majesty the seat once held. Once adorned with gold and fine engravings, the throne had been stripped of its grandeur, the precious metals and jewels looted during the city''s fall. Now, it was nothing more than a weathered frame of dark wood, its splendor traded for the spoils of conquest. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands dangling loosely as he stared at the ground beneath his boots. The stone floor was smooth and cold, unmarred by blood or dirt¡ªthe kind of surface that felt strange to a man who had spent most of his life on snow-covered plains and frozen cadavers. His gaze lingered there, on the scuffed leather of his boots, as if they held the answers to questions he dared not voice. Geowulf sighed, a long, deep breath that seemed to carry the weight of years. His broad shoulders sagged under an invisible burden, and for a moment, the Great Knotur, the conqueror of Sarlan, looked merely like a tired man. I''m getting old, he thought, the admission heavy in his mind. Once, he would have dismissed such a notion with a snarl and a sharp laugh, but not now. Now, the truth of it was inescapable. He closed his eyes and remembered the man he had been¡ªyoung, fierce, and unstoppable. He thought of the battles he had fought, the enemies he had crushed beneath his axe, all the female that he bedded in the night after a battle . There had been a time when he could have killed three men like Klarik without breaking a sweat,and bedded triple the women afterward. But today¡ªtoday, he had sweated, bled, and fought harder than he cared to admit to bring down just one. Geowulf''s hand clenched into a fist, the knuckles whitening as the memory of the fight burned in his mind. The humiliation of his slowing body was a bitter taste in his mouth, but it was one he could not spit out. Time had taken its toll, even on him. The Great Knotur, who had united the tribes and brought them to this land of plenty, was now a man who felt the ache in his bones and the weight of his axe in ways he never had before. One of the main arguments raised against him , was if he wanted to be king of the various tribe.All the time he replied negatively, saying that he was merely the Knotur of their Knotur, yet if he was to be true, the answer would be yes. What other man did what he had done? The dream that their ancestors craved during their last breath was achieved by him in his lifetime, he had done things thought impossible. Was it not proof that he was worhty of being their king?Yet the thought seemed to revolt them. Ungrateful mutts all of them! He cursed as he closed his fingers in a fist. Geowulf''s fingers drummed lightly against the armrest of the throne, his thoughts swirling like a storm over a churning sea. Those idiots think themselves wolves, he mused bitterly, his eyes narrowing at the memory of their jeers and boasts in the Hutt. They strut and howl, convinced of their might, convinced that toppling a kingdom makes them predators. A wry smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, though it held no humor. But they are sheep dressed in furs. They don''t see it. Not yet. His gaze dropped again to his boots as he let the memories play out in his mind. The fall of Sarlan had been swift and brutal, but it had not been the kind of triumph his so-called leaders imagined it to be. They think it was their strength, their cunning, that brought the kingdom to its knees. He snorted softly. Fools. They don''t realize the truth¡ªthey never really fought the Sarlan. The giants did The presence of the giants of the Tribes of Unth had tipped the balance long before the first sword was drawn. The massive beings, towering over even the tallest of men, more than two times their size , had sent the horses of Sarlan into a frenzy. The steeled discipline of the royal cavalry had shattered in an instant, the noble steeds bolting in terror as the giants approached. Without their mounted force, the Sarlan infantry had been left vulnerable, scattered, and broken. Their king, who deserted the fight , was then captured and killed. The giants won that fight for us, not those sheep, Geowulf thought grimly. And even then, it wasn''t strength or glory that brought them to my side. He remembered the first time he had approached the Unth. They were solitary by nature, each giant living far from the other, their massive forms moving silently through the icy wilderness. They had no interest in raiding or conquest, no hunger for blood or gold. Their lives were simple, and their desires simpler still: to be left alone. Geowulf had not won their allegiance through feats of strength or great speeches, as the tribal leaders believed. He had offered them wine, cheese, and salted meats He had shown them the path to these riches, the fertile fields of the south where food grew in abundance. When he faced them for the first time , he thought that he was going to be squashed by them or their steeds, yet they were calm and mostly ignored him while watching him with a certain interest. However , as soon as they tasted the things he brought them as gift , they immediately wanted more or so they tried to say through signs, as their ancient language could not be spoken by no man, as it resembled more grunts of an animal than actual words. And they had come here ¡ªnot out of loyalty or bloodlust, but out of gluttony. They had followed him into Sarlan, cleared his path, and then quietly stepped back, retreating as soon as the city fell. They had no interest in pillaging or slaughter, no lust for southern women whom they could not bed or hatred for southern men, they simply wanted , meat, cheese and wine. And yet, the leaders of the tribes didn''t see this. They thought the giants were their tools, their fearsome warriors waiting to be unleashed again and again. They thought the victory over Sarlan meant they could topple any kingdom they wished, not understanding that their so-called might had been borrowed, not earned. Now that the giants had their fill, they had little reason to fight. Solitary by nature, they preferred quiet lives, keeping to their own and avoiding needless bloodshed. Left alone, they''d do the same in return. Even Geowulf doubted he could stir them to war again. But if his lands were attacked? Then, perhaps, the giants might rise¡ªnot for glory, not for kinship for what kinship could two different race share, but simply to protect the abundance they now enjoyed. Geowulf''s gaze drifted across the empty hall, his thoughts heavy with the weight of the future. If the tribes were to stay in this land and make it their home, they would need more than scattered leaders and isolated tribes clinging to their own interests. They needed unity¡ªa single ruler who could command their combined strength, prevent infighting, and lead them against any threats that might rise. Once, he had believed he could be that ruler. For years, he thought himself the only man capable of holding the tribes together, of forging strength out of their chaos, and in a certain way he was, but unfortunately recent event proved otherwhise. The years weighed too heavily on him. His body, his instincts¡ªthey were not what they had been. Klarik''s challenge had shown him as much. His gaze dropped to his feet, and a sigh escaped his lips. The realization settled in: he was not the man to lead them into the future, not anymore. But as his thoughts turned darker, an ember of hope flared. His grandson¡ªBeor. A boy of two, yet already the symbol of their future. Geowulf''s chest tightened as he thought of the child, innocent and full of potential. Beor could be the one. With the blood of the Unifier in his veins, raised to understand their possible power, then he could actually accomplish what he wanted. The land of Sarlan laid carved and divided, each tribe claiming its piece of the once-unified kingdom. Fields, villages, and forests bore new names and banners, but the lion''s share belonged to Geowulf. His dominion stretched across the fertile southern territories, where defeated Sarlan nobles had bent the knee and sworn fealty. Their oaths tied them to him nominally, but he knew better Loyalty? Hah. Pride like theirs doesn''t bend without reason, and it snaps back as soon as the chance arises. He sat back on the worn throne, his fingers drumming against the haft of his axe.I could bring them all together now.By might, by fire if I had to. But what would it mean for the boy?" His thoughts trailed off as his mind conjured images of Beor¡ªa small child with no understanding of the storm that would descend upon him. "They''d kill him," Geowulf growled, his voice raw. "Slit his throat before he''d see ten winters. They wouldn''t dare risk my blood taking root." He sighed, the weight of years pressing down on him. "Five winters," he said softly. "At best. That''s the best I will last. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his calloused hands clenched into fists. If I force them together now, I leave him a crown of thorns. But if I don''t...He closed his eyes, the visions of a fragmented Sarlan flashing before him. This land will rot under their endless bickering. A patchwork of wolves, snapping at each other''s throats. Unity. That''s the only way. But not by my hand. His gaze drifted to the faint light of the setting sun through the window. The boy... He must grow into it. He must be the one His fingers brushed over the blade of his axe, his resolve steeling as he realized that all he could do was to pave the way for Beor to do what he had failed in accomplishing. Chapter 279: The matter of ruling(2) Chapter 279: The matter of ruling(2) Two weeks had passed since the confrontation in the hutt. Geowulf stood by the narrow window of his chamber, looking out over the city he had conquered and now ruled. The streets bustled with life, though quieter than before his arrival. The people of Sarlan had quickly adapted to their new overlords, their shoulders hunched and gazes averted whenever one of Geowulf''s warriors strode past. He rested his hand on the cold stone of the windowsill, his calloused fingers tracing the rough edges. He would be lying if he claimed not to feel anxious. The weight of what he had wrought bore heavily upon him. There was no precedent for what he sought to achieve. Never in the history of the tribes had rulership passed through blood. The traditions of their people were unyielding¡ªleadership was earned, not inherited. The memory of those ceremonies came unbidden to his mind: brutal fights to the death, held beneath the open sky, where contenders laid claim to their right to lead. No matter the alliances, no matter the lineage, it was the blood spilled and the strength displayed that crowned a ruler. He sighed, his breath misting in the cold air of the chamber. "And yet," he muttered, "here I am, trying to plant roots where none have ever grown." His gaze fell on the streets below, watching the interplay of daily life. He knew full well that what he contemplated went against everything their people held sacred. To name an heir by blood, to pass rulership from father to son¡ªor in this case, from grandfather to grandson¡ªwas an affront to their traditions. Leadership was earned not in blood but through it. The tribes would resist, perhaps even violently. He would not be surprised if blades were drawn and challenges issued before he could see his vision realized. Yet, for all the risk, he saw no other choice. The future stretched before him in stark clarity: if he left the tribes to decide their leader by tradition, his death would mark the beginning of chaos. The strongest and most ambitious would rise, and Beor would be seen not as a boy but as a threat¡ªa potential claimant to the mantle of leadership. That alone would be enough for his successor to ensure the boy never reached manhood. Geowulf exhaled sharply, the sound filled with frustration and resolve. "It''s this or see my line end..." he murmured to himself. His jaw tightened as the weight of the decision pressed down on him. "Better they hate me now while most of their warrriors are underground than see the boy''s life snuffed out because I clung to old ways." He straightened, his grip tightening on the edge of the sill. Tradition had its place, but it would not dictate the survival of his bloodline. If he had to fight to bend the tribes to his will, so be it. He had fought to conquer this land; he would fight to protect his grandson''s future, if he was lucky perhaps the giants would lend an hand.He knew better however than to count on that. "They won''t understand," he muttered, his voice low and rough, "but they don''t have to. They only need to obey, and to die if they do not " His gaze darkened as he turned back toward the room waiting for the person he had called. In the wait Geowulf''s thoughts turned to the leaders of the other tribes, his mind sifting through their faces and temperaments as though preparing for battle. Most respected his rule, that much was clear. They had bent to him, not willingly, but because he had proven himself stronger. Yet respect was a fickle thing, especially among warriors. The moment he declared kingship by blood, he knew their respect might sour into rebellion. "Their minds will churn with suspicion," he mused, his expression grim. "Some will believe I aim to inherit the tribes whole, to make their lands and their people my own¡ªretaining overlordship over all as if I were some southern king." He clenched his fists, the very thought of it appealing yet unattainable. Others, he thought with a wry twist of his lips, might rise in revolt not for ambition, but for tradition. "They''ll paint themselves as defenders of the old ways, righteous and pure, claiming my actions defile what makes us strong." Yet he was not naive. He could see through their hypocrisy, at least for some of them. Many would use tradition as a guise, masking their true motives¡ªa desire to claim the position of Great Knotur themselves, Klarik was simply the first of many. His eyes narrowed, his knuckles whitening as he leaned against the window. "Better it comes to a head now," he muttered. "While I''m alive to meet them with axe in hand." His gaze swept over the city again, his jaw tightening. If he allowed the resentment to simmer, it would only grow, boiling over after his death. His successor would face a war they could not win, and Beor¡ªhis grandson, his hope¡ªwould be caught in the crossfire. The door creaked open, and Geowulf turned to see a figure enter¡ªa man with a tall, broad frame, dressed in furs that clung to his powerful form. His long black hair fell in thick waves over his shoulders, and his dark eyes, keen and sharp, scanned the room with quiet purpose. This was Edvard Ironhand, the man Geowulf had raised after the death of his father, his old comrade and friend. Edvard, now in his early thirties, had been like a son to Geowulf. His father, a warrior who had fought beside Geowulf in many skirmishes, had died early, leaving the young boy to fend for himself. Geowulf had promised his old friend that he would care for his son, and true to his word, he had. Now, Edvard had grown into a strong, capable man, someone Geowulf trusted implicitly, and one of the few he could share his most dangerous thoughts with. Geowulf studied Edvard for a moment, his piercing gaze holding a depth of emotion rarely shown. Finally, he broke the silence, his voice steady but carrying the weight of their shared history. "Edvard, we''ve known each other for twenty years. I''ve cared for you as I would a son¡ªor at least, I tried to." Edvard''s lips quirked into a small smile, one that didn''t quite reach his eyes but carried an unmistakable warmth. "You don''t need to try, old man. You''ve done more than most fathers I know. You''ve taught me how to fight, how to lead, and how to survive. You''ve given me everything I needed." Geowulf nodded, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Aye, but not everything you wanted, I''m sure. I was never much for kindness, was I?" Edvard chuckled softly. "Kindness doesn''t build warriors. You gave me what mattered most." The older man''s expression softened for a moment, a flicker of pride in his stormy eyes. Then, as if grounding himself back in the present, his face grew more serious. "Tell me, Edvard¡ªif Klarik had bested me in the Hutt, what would you have done?" Edvard''s response was immediate, his tone steady and filled with conviction. "I''d have avenged you. I would''ve killed Klarik and every one of his sons." Geowulf''s brow furrowed slightly, though he was not surprised by the answer. There was a fire in Edvard''s voice, one that echoed the loyalty and ferocity Geowulf himself had instilled in him over the years. "And if that started a blood feud between our tribes?" Edvard shrugged, his expression hard. "Then so be it, I have never feared to spill blood . '''' Geowulf turned his gaze toward the window, his weathered face hard as stone. Without looking back at Edvard, he spoke, his voice carrying the weight of years of battles and burdens. "If all the tribes raised their banners against me, if they marched to tear down what we''ve built here¡ªwhat would you do?" Edvard stood firm, his tone unwavering. "You already know the answer" The old warlord turned to face him, his eyes narrowing as he studied the younger man. "Aye, I do. But I need to hear it." Edvard''s voice was like iron. "I''d fight them. I''d crush their uprisings, burn their banners, and drive them into the dirt. I''d do what you''ve always taught me¡ªto never let a challenge go unanswered and to make them regret their foolishness." Geowulf nodded, a flicker of approval in his expression as he laid out everything that he held within himself, as for his plan to works he had to trust Edvard to see them done after his demise. "I plan to declare kingship by blood.'''' He said with all the strenght he could muster ''''It''s the only way to ensure the boy''s survival after I''m gone, as any successor of mine will probably kill the boy or maim him, as they fear what he will grow up to be. The tribes respect me, most of them anyway, but this goes against everything they''ve ever known. Some will rise against it outright, thinking I''ll keep overlordship of them all, passing it down to my grandson. They won''t stomach the thought of losing their autonomy to a bloodline. Others will cry tradition, but only to cover their real intent¡ªto push me out and claim the Great Knotur title for themselves. And the rest... they''ll wait, silent, to see how the pieces fall." He stopped speaking and turned to Edvard, his voice firm. "It''s better to stir this fight now, while I''m still here and strong enough to break them, than to let it boil over after I''m gone. If I die before this is settled, they''ll gut the boy like a lamb before he''s even old enough to understand what''s happening." Edvard clenched his fists, his jaw tight. "Then don''t die. You''ve come this far. You can hold them together for a few more years, until the lad grow up...." Geowulf shook his head with a wry smile. "My body tells me otherwise. I''ve got five winters left, maybe less. My strength wanes, and while I can still swing an axe and crush an upstart like Klarik, time is catching up to me. If I fall before Beor comes of age, he''ll need someone to protect him. Someone I trust." The words hung heavy in the room as Geowulf''s piercing eyes met Edvard''s. "That someone is you. I want you to be his regent. Guard him. Guard this land. And if they try to take what''s his, make them remember why they feared my name." Edvard''s shoulders stiffened, his face betraying the pain of the promise he was being asked to make. He looked away for a moment, his hands flexing as if the weight of the task was already upon him. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. "You know I''d rather follow you into the grave than think of you gone, Geowulf. But if this is what you need of me, then I''ll do it. I swear that I shall do everything in my power, so that your grandson shall lead the tribe after you. " Geowulf stepped forward and placed a hand on Edvard''s shoulder, his grip as steady as his resolve. "I knew you would, lad. That''s why I chose you. You''ll make them remember my legacy, and you''ll make sure they respect yours and that of my grandson....my only regret will be not being there to see that happen.." Chapter 280: Work set into process Chapter 280: Work set into process The long and grueling examination process for the sons of merchants seeking entry into the bureaucracy had finally concluded. The great hall, once filled with the rustling of papers and the scratching of quills, now stood quiet, its stone walls bearing witness to weeks of relentless scrutiny. Alpheo, the overseer of the examination, stood at the head of the hall, a stack of neatly organized results in his hands. Out of the 220 who had attempted the rigorous tests, only 200 remained eligible. Twenty aspirants had been excluded, their lack of skill in reading, comprehension, and writing betraying them in the unforgiving rigor of the process. For every region of the realm, sixteen coveted spots in the bureaucratic hierarchy awaited filling. Alpheo''s task was clear: to select ninety-six of the 200 eligible candidates to occupy these critical positions across the six major regions of the land. These roles were not merely functional; they carried influence, responsibility, and a direct hand in shaping the future of the realm''s governance, and obviously every one aspired in getting chosen for those. The remaining candidates, while not chosen for these prominent roles, would still find purpose. They would be assigned to simpler bureaucratic duties, managing ledgers, drafting correspondence, and performing the essential yet less glamorous tasks that oiled the machinery of the new state. Their work, though uncelebrated, was no less vital to maintaining order and ensuring the smooth operation of the kingdom''s affairs. For those among the 200 candidates who would not secure a coveted role as regional councilors, a new opportunity arose¡ªa chance to prove their worth through service to the realm in a different but equally vital capacity. The court had announced the grand undertaking of constructing a network of aqueducts, a project of immense scale and importance to the kingdom''s infrastructure. These positions, offered their own form of sustainance , allowing them the possibility to rise , albeit slowly toward the bureaucratic ladders, and as it would seem, the undertaking of the court or better yet of the Prince , opened up a lot of positions for them . ----------------- Outside the walls of Yarzat, ten sturdy wooden tables, weathered but serviceable, were arranged in neat rows, each equipped with stacks of crisp parchment and small bottles of ink. Quills rested on their stands, as papers filled with inscriptions were neatly stacked in rows of paper. Around this setup, 300 guards moved with a mix of duty and boredom, their presence both a display of order and a precaution. These were not the elite soldiers of Alpheo the Striped, whose reputation as fearsome warriors preceded them. The elite army was currently stationed along the coastal provinces, a bulwark against the ever-present threat of pirate raids. Before their deployment, the elite had been granted a well-earned respite, a week to revel and recover in Yarzat''s bustling taverns and pleasure houses. Soldiers, pockets heavy with coin earned in recent campaigns, spent their days and nights indulging in drink, song, and the company of companions who made their professions among the city''s less reputable districts. Laughter and bawdy tales had echoed through the streets during those fleeting days of leisure, but now, the time for merriment had passed. The garrison guards filling in today were a different breed¡ªless disciplined and more unruly. Their faces were hard as they patrolled the tables, keeping watch over the scribes, and the people who waited in line. In front of the ten tables, a long line of people stretched far down the dusty path outside the walls of Yarzat. Most of them were dressed in patched tunics and worn-out sandals, the unmistakable signs of the city''s impoverished masses. The line moved slowly, the hopeful murmurs of those waiting punctuated by the occasional murmurs or the clink of guards'' armor as they adjusted their stances. At the tables, the scribes¡ªmen dressed in simple but clean attire¡ªworked with measured efficiency. One of them, glanced up from his papers and called out in a clear voice: "Next!" A man in his late thirties shuffled forward, his sun-worn face tight with nerves but determined. He stood before the scribe, clutching his hands tightly as he awaited instruction. "Your name?" the scribe asked, dipping his quill in ink. "Rahim," the man replied, his voice rough but steady. "Family members in your household?" "Five," Rahim answered. "My wife and three children." The scribe paused to write, his quill scratching softly against the parchment. He adjusted his spectacles before looking back up. "Are you aware of the perks of this job?" the scribe asked, his tone neutral but brisk. Rahim frowned slightly and shook his head. "No, sir. I just heard there was work and came. That''s all I know." The scribe let out a small sigh, not of annoyance but of acknowledgment¡ªRahim''s response was common enough. In a city with 10,000 people after all there were many cases that rumors of work spread around , making many not think twice before throwming themselves at a steady position paid by the state. The scribe cleared his throat. "The job pays three silverii a month, with three meals guaranteed by the court at day," he explained, his tone matter-of-fact but firm. "The work is expected to last about five months. After that, there may be a break for a few months before the project resumes." Rahim''s eyes widened in surprise. Three silverii a month was more than he had ever earned in steady work, and meals provided by the court made it an even greater boon. He nodded quickly, trying to suppress the excitement bubbling up within him. "I understand, sir. That''s... that''s more than fair, thank you sir" he said, his voice laced with gratitude. ''''I don''t care if you think it is fair. Thank the prince not me '''' Reaching into a small stack of pre-written slips, he handed Rahim a piece of parchment with a stamp of the court''s seal. "Take this to the guards stationed at the carts. They''ll escort you to the worksite. You''ll work during the day and return home in the evening, the transportation will be organized by us." Rahim clutched the slip with both hands, his fingers trembling slightly as he processed the instructions. "Thank you, sir," he said earnestly, bowing his head slightly as he thanked him again. The scribe merely motioned for the next in line and returned to his records. Rahim stepped away from the table, glancing around for the guards. One of them, a burly man in a weathered chainmail. caught his eye and pointed to a wooden cart a short distance away. Rahim walked over, holding up his slip of parchment. The guard nodded, gesturing for him to climb aboard. The cart was nearly full, with other laborers already seated, waiting for the next departure. Rahim found a spot near the back, sitting quietly and gripping the edges of the cart as he gazed back toward the line of hopeful workers still waiting their turn. The scribe stamped the parchment with a loud thud, signaling the end of the exchange, and then called out, "Next!" His voice was brisk and efficient, the word almost blending into the hum of activity surrounding the ten tables. Another hopeful worker stepped forward, a wiry man with calloused hands and a wary expression. The scribe adjusted his records and prepared to ask the same routine questions. Meanwhile, the other nine tables echoed the same rhythm: "Next!" followed by the shuffle of feet as each applicant moved forward, eager to secure the promise of steady work. At each station, the pattern repeated. Scribal pens scratched across paper, and the occasional clink of stamped seals punctuated the air. Many of the laborers answered the questions dutifully but with a touch of confusion. "Name and number of family members?" the scribes would ask, jotting down the responses. "Five," one would answer. "Seven," another replied. Some hesitated, trying to remember exact figures for extended families. Few of them realized the true purpose of these records. They assumed it was merely bureaucracy or an odd quirk of their new employer. Unbeknownst to them, Alpheo had ordered these small interviews to document the average family size and living arrangements of the townsfolk, at least only using as data a small strata of the population. Regarding the job, the pay for the workers was undeniably generous¡ªthree silverii a day, a rate that sent murmurs of astonishment rippling through the city. For Alpheo, the job not only ensured the completion of vital infrastructure, but it also provided a convenient way to rid himself of the cumbersome stockpile of bronze coins that had accumulated during the war. The influx of coins into the local economy was a deliberate choice, meant to invigorate the city''s trade and increase the frequency of exchanges within its walls. Alpheo wasn''t stingy about the numbers. The coffers held 45,000 silverii, the recent increase thanks in no small part to the hefty ransom secured from the lord captured by Sir Mereth. Trade revenues continued to flow steadily, and while the aqueduct project would result in a deficit of around 3,000 silverii for five months, it was a manageable shortfall. Given that his total monthly expenditures would be of 12,000 silverii, while his monthly income would be of 9,000. Coupled with the 20,000 silverii already allocated for Pontius''s construction budget, the overall expense was steep though. Yet Alpheo regarded the cost as a necessary investment. Without improved infrastructure and public works, the city''s long-term prosperity could stagnate. A reliable water supply was foundational to supporting the growing population caused by the increase amount of coins getting inside the city , particularly as Yarzat began to solidify itself as a regional hub of commerce and governance, plus it would finally get rid of that disgusting smell of shit and piss that Alpheo hated every time he strolled through the capital. Chapter 281: Dealing with rats(1) Chapter 281: Dealing with rats(1) The pirate stood at the prow of the ship, wrapped in a cloak of salt-stiffened wool. The sharp sea wind bit at his face, carrying with it the tang of brine and the distant tolling of bells¡ªa frantic warning from the village ahead. His ship, sleek and black as a predator, cut through the waves with deadly precision, the oars moving in a synchronized rhythm that sent sprays of foam cascading into the air. Behind him, his brothers sharpened blades and adjusted belts heavy with weapons, anticipation etched into every scarred face. The ship finally reached the shore with a low groan of wood against sand. As soon as the prow kissed land, the pirate raised his sword, his voice cutting through the roar of the waves. "Brothers! To the raid! Take what you can, and leave no man standing!" A cheer erupted, and the pirates surged forward, leaping over the gunwales and splashing into the shallows. Feet pounding the wet sand, they charged into the village. Doors were smashed in with heavy boots and the butts of axes. The few houses that remained unboarded were quickly gutted, their meager valuables stuffed into sacks and packs. A handful of villagers mostly elder man, cowered in corners, pleading for mercy that did not come. Most of the village, however, already had deserted, having sound the horn of alarm a dozen of minutes before . The pirates found signs of hasty flight: footprints stamped into the mud, abandoned carts, and broken fences. Here and there, signs of animals being led away¡ªthe bleating of lambs and sheep fading into the distance as the villagers fled inland, desperate to escape the raiders. The pirate scowled, his sword dangling loosely in his hand as he kicked over a table "Cowards that desert their own homes," he muttered, before calling out to his brothers. "Search everywhere! If they''ve left anything worth taking, we''ll find it!" They scoured the homes, storerooms, and even the temple, pulling apart walls and smashing open barrels. A handful of coins, a fine set of candlesticks,and some sack of grains. That was all. The pirates cursed loudly as they tore through the empty houses and barren storerooms. "Nothing! These rats left us scraps!" growled one, kicking over a broken chair in frustration. Another pirate spat on the ground, his face twisted in rage. "Not even a chest worth breaking into. What kind of miserable place is this?" One of the younger raiders, a wiry man with a jagged scar across his jaw, chuckled darkly and pointed to the few sheep and lambs that had been left behind in the hurried escape. "At least we''ll have meat tonight," he said, his grin flashing in the sunlight. "Better than nothing, eh?" The others muttered begrudging agreement, but another pirate, older and broader with a thick beard matted with salt, scowled at the idea of such a meager prize. He hefted his axe onto his shoulder and gestured toward the small temple that stood at the edge of the village. Its wooden doors hung ajar, the interior dim and uninviting. "Check the temple again," he barked, his voice sharp and commanding. "You think these cowards left us nothing? No! They''re hiding something in there, mark my words!" Moved by greed a group of them marched toward the temple, muttering prayer of finding coins as they went ------------------ Rykio sat in his tent. Opposite him was Joanne, a woman with long brown hair that fell in gentle waves past her shoulders, the strands catching the flickering light. She adjusted her seat on the cushion, her expression calm but thoughtful as she poured a cup of wine for the knight who had changed the course of her life. Joanne was no stranger to hardship. Her village had been raided, its peaceful routines shattered by pirates who tore through homes and slaughtered families. She had been among the terrified survivors. Then came Rykio and his horsemen, thundering into the fray with steel and righteous fury, killing the pirates and rescuing the prisoners Some of his brothers-in-arms had taken the women as wives. For some of the women, it was a good deal since they had no families and no means of substainance, except selling their bodies, so being taken as wife was a good thing . Among those women had been Joanne. But Rykio had not claimed her as a wife. He was a knight, and taking a commoner was beneath him now. Instead, she became his mistress, a role she accepted without complaint. As at least she now went to sleep with a full belly and a roof over her head. The house had been a gift, arranged through channels of gifts on the ladder. Rykio had approached his commander, Egil, with the matter, and Egil had relayed the request to Prince Alpheo himself during one of their many nights of drunken revelry. The prince, in high spirits and flushed with wine, had granted the favor without hesitation. Yet despite the comfort and safety that house in Yarzat promised, Joanne had chosen a different path. When Rykio was stationed in the countryside with Egil''s band of riders, she insisted on following him, and Rykio, though initially hesitant, ultimately relented. Military law explicitly forbade civilians from accompanying knights on active campaigns, a regulation meant to maintain discipline and readiness. Yet Egil''s band of riders operated under a unique brand of command that they all followed. If the commanders isn''t there, you can do the fuck you want. The men turned a blind eye, either out of respect for Rykio or simple indifference.After all he many time did the same with them , when they brought whores in the camp during campaigns. "You''re quiet tonight," Rykio said, breaking the silence. His voice was deep but softened when directed toward her. Joanne looked up, her fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. "Just thinking," she said, her words measured. Rykio leaned in close, his lips brushing against Joanne''s neck as his hand slid over the fabric of her dress. She tilted her head slightly, a soft smile playing at her lips, but just as he began to lift the dress away, the sound of the tent flap rustling made them both freeze. The entrance opened, and a soldier stood there awkwardly, his face flushed as he realized he had interrupted something. "Sir..." he stammered, glancing nervously at Joanne before averting his eyes. "Apologies for the intrusion." Rykio''s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he straightened and turned to face the intruder. "What is it?This better be important." he growled, his voice low and simmering with irritation. The soldier swallowed hard before speaking. "A rider just came in from the Booth. Pirates, sir. The village has been attacked." Rykio sighed heavily, the weight of responsibility settling over him like an old, familiar cloak. His hands dropped to his sides as he turned back to Joanne briefly, a flicker of regret in his eyes before his focus returned to the soldier. "Of course,fucking sea rats..." he muttered, almost to himself. Then, louder, he said, "Tell the men to prepare. We ride immediately." The soldier gave a quick nod, his relief at escaping Rykio''s temper evident as he hastily backed out of the tent. Joanne watched Rykio as he reached for his sword and began to fasten his armor. Rykio paused for a moment, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword as he turned back to Joanne. He leaned down and kissed her forehead ''''Sorry," he murmured as then turned away, pushing through the tent flap and stepping into the fading daylight. Outside the tent, Rykio stepped into a scene of chaos. His men were bustling about, preparing their horses and checking their weapons. The metallic clink of bridles, the rustle of saddles, and the occasional sharp bark of an order filled the air as they readied themselves for the ride ahead. Amid the activity, a boy approached, leading a tall, dark-coated horse toward Rykio. The boy was Svenn, the same youth who had delivered the critical message to Egil during the last campaign. His reward for that brave act had been a squirehood under Rykio, quite generous given that it meant that in due times he would be elevated to knighthood too. "The horse is ready, my lord," Svenn said, his voice steady as he handed Rykio the reins. Rykio nodded, his sharp eyes scanning the horse before fixing on Svenn. "Good. Mount up. You ride with us." Svenn''s eyes widened, and he gulped audibly, but he didn''t protest. Instead, he gave a quick nod, darted to fetch his own horse, and clambered into the saddle with the awkward determination of a squire still learning the ways of the riders. Rykio straightened in his saddle, his commanding voice cutting through the clamor of the camp. "Move up! Form the line! We ride now!" His men, seasoned riders of Egil''s band, quickly snapped into action. They gathered their gear, mounted their horses, and arranged themselves in a disciplined column. The tension of urgency hung in the air, yet the practiced efficiency of the group was evident as they prepared for yet another skirmish. Within minutes, the riders were ready, their horses pawing the ground and snorting with impatience. The line stretched along the edge of the camp, a mix of hardened faces and gleaming weapons catching the last light of the day. Rykio cast a sharp glance over his men, ensuring every rider was accounted for and prepared. Satisfied, he pulled his horse to the front, raising his voice once more. "Let''s ride! To the Booth!" With a collective shout, the riders spurred their horses into motion, the ground thundering beneath the charge as they departed the camp, a vengeful storm aimed at the pirates who dared threaten the land of their prince. Chapter 282: Dealing with rats(2) Chapter 282: Dealing with rats(2) The man hung against the wooden wall, his body a broken and bleeding . His knees sagged, one twisted grotesquely, the shattered bone jutting unnaturally beneath his skin. Blood dripped steadily from his arms, pooling at his feet, staining the coarse wooden rags clinging to his battered frame. His hands were nailed to the rough surface above his head, the pirates making sure he could not move . Around him, a pair of tormentors wielded stout sticks, delivering rhythmic blows to his ribs and thighs. Each strike forced a desperate, anguished cry from the man''s lips, his pleas echoing in the confined space as wood met meat and bone "Mercy, please, in the name of the gods!" he begged, his voice raw with desperation appealing to a force that had no power now. Wearing chainmail and a helmet , the man he was talking to leaned casually on the hilt of his sword. His name was Korran,and right now he was losing his patience.He came here for silver not to be preached at. He tilted his head slightly as he coldy observed the man "You know what to do to make this stop,you are the only with the power to do tha, no gods nor devils need to be invoke, you are your own prisoner after all " he said The bound man sobbed uncontrollably, shaking his head as much as his restraints allowed. "There is no gold!Nor silver!This is a small temple for a small village.Why would anyone give us silver?" he cried, his words barely coherent through his shuddering breaths. "I swear on all the gods, there is nothing left!" Korran stepped closer, his shadow swallowing the broken figure. He knelt, bringing his face level with the man''s, and stared into his bloodshot eyes. "I don''t believe you," he whispered, his voice ice-cold. Korran smirked, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement "Why would you remain here," he asked, his voice low and deliberate, "while everyone fled, if it wasn''t to protect something?I have been on the sea for a long time, and I have met dozens of people like you" He said as he touched his nose ''''You know how many times I have heard those words?And that they were then proved to be falsehoods? Too many to remember...'''' The priest, bloodied but resolute, raised his chin, his voice trembling but steady. "This is the house of the gods! And we are its keepers. It would be sacrilege for a priest to abandon his oath." Korran snorted, leaning closer. "Didn''t seem like the others thought the same. You must have had some helpers, no?Where are they?" "They are not priests," the man snapped, his desperation edged with anger. "They have taken no oath. They are simply helpers, nothing more. What they did was cowardice in face of death, not sacrilege. Don''t you have any respect for the gods?Don''t you fear their wrath and what comes after, all man is set to meet them , how will you?" Korran straightened and chuckled darkly. "Respect for the gods? We serve only one¡ªour God of the Sea and Storm. Our only temple is the sea itself, who devours believers and heretics alike. That''s the only altar we kneel to, you landers have added four more gods, but to us the only one is the one with the sea" He turned on his heel, facing his men, and gave a sharp nod understanding he was only wasting more time. The beatings resumed with renewed ferocity, Korran''s expression remaining stoic as he waited for the truth¡ªor another excuse¡ªto spill from the prisoner''s lips. One of the men standing behind Korran shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "This is getting boring." His voice carried just loud enough to draw a sharp glance from his companion, but Korran remained focused on the battered man in front of him. The muttering man shrugged and turned away. "I''ll go see if the meat''s ready," he said, more to himself than anyone else, before heading for the door. As he passed a group of men lounging around inside the temple, one of them called out, "Hey, bring us back a piece, will you?" Another man chimed in, "Make it a big one, I am starving here!" Grumbling, the man pushed open the heavy door and stepped outside. The chill evening air met him as the smell of smoke and roasting meat wafted toward him. Several campfires flickered in the gathering dusk, their orange glow throwing dancing shadows across the rough ground. Around the fires, men crouched or sat, eagerly tending spits where slabs of meat sizzled and dripped fat into the flames. For a week, they had subsisted on tough jerky, chewing endlessly on leathery strips of dried meat that offered little satisfaction. The promise of proper roasted meat now was enough to keep morale high. The man''s stomach growled as he approached one of the fires, where another was turning a spit slowly, the juices glistening on the surface of the cooking meat. "Hurry it up," the man growled, his eyes locked on the spit. "We''ve been chewing tree bark for days. Let''s get something decent in our guts." "Almost ready," came the reply, the cook poking the meat with a dagger to check its tenderness. ''''It''s perfect'''' The man said as he tore a piece of meat from the skewer with his teeth, savoring the first proper meal after days of chewing on leathery jerky. He barely had a moment to swallow before an unexpected sound broke the peace. -Thuds-Thuds-Thuds He turned sharply, hearing something repeatedly hitting the ground , his brow furrowed in confusion, only to see a dark object spinning through the air. Before anyone could react, the projectiles struck with deadly precision, skewering two of his companions and pinning them grotesquely to the dirt. Blood sprayed, and their gurgled screams were cut short as they spit blood. "Cavalry!" one of the men managed to shout, panic lacing his voice, as he scrambled to draw his weapon. But his warning was cut off as a javelin whistled through the air and drove into his back piercing the rusty chainmail he had,while throwing him frontward onto the ground, coughing for a few minutes before death would claim him. The ground shook as the cavalry surged into the village, the thunderous roar of hooves drowning out the panicked shouts of the pirates. Steel glinted in the sunlight as axes, javelins, maces and swords gleamed in the hands of the charging riders. Dust rose in great clouds, swirling around the chaos like a storm. A pirate wielding an axe swung wildly at an oncoming rider, but the rider''s javelin pierced his chest before the blow could land. The pirate was thrown backward, the force of the blow driving him into the dirt. Nearby, another pirate managed to dodge the thrust of a spear and lunged at the cavalrymen''s leg with a dagger as he had left his weapon onto the ground near the fire. The horse reared, its powerful hooves crashing down on the attacker''s head, leaving him lifeless in the dirt. Further into the melee, two pirates attempted to hold their ground against a mounted rider. A mace came down upon on one of their shoulder, shattering bone and sending him crumpling to the ground, holding the broken limb. The remaining man cried out in fury, leaping to grapple the man. But the rider''s comrades arrived swiftly, one slashing the pirate across the back with a saber, ending his struggle in a gory mess, while simply throwing at point blank his projectile on the second screaming pirate. At the edge of the village, a group of sea-men tried to flee, scrambling over fences and through narrow alleyways. Yet the cavalry pursued relentlessly, their riders dismounting to cut down those who thought they had found safety. A pirate crouching behind a cart sprang up to attack but was slashed in the back of the head by a rider behind him. Pirates fell left and right, their cries of pain swallowed by the chaos. Blood stained the earth where they fell, trampled beneath the hooves of warhorses or cut down by the sharp edge of blades. Realizing their disorganized defense was crumbling, many of the pirates turned and fled, their faces pale with terror, after all they were no soldier. They raced through the narrow streets and alleys of the village, desperate to reach the sanctuary of the temple where their remaining comrades had taken refuge , or at least the most of them, as some were simply too slow . The pounding of hooves behind them spurred them on, but not all were quick enough to escape. A young pirate carrying a spear stumbled and fell, only to be crushed beneath the hooves of a charging steed, the final step bringing him to the afterlife¡ªthe one that battered his head onto the dirt. Another tried to fight back, turning to swing his axe at an advancing horsemen, but his throat was slashed by a sword before he could even raise his weapon. He collapsed, blood pouring from his wound, his gurgles drowned out by the thunder of battle. "To the temple!" one of the pirates screamed, rallying the others. Dozens of them sprinted toward the stone structure, their ragged breaths mingling with the distant tolling of the temple bell that seemed to mock their plight. They slammed against the heavy doors, throwing them open and piling inside, the last few struggling to shove the doors shut behind them as their comrades hurried to barricade the entrance. Chapter 283: Dealing with rats(3) Chapter 283: Dealing with rats(3) Inside the temple, chaos reigned as the pirates scrambled to seal the entrance. With sweat-slicked hands and frantic desperation, they slammed the heavy wooden doors shut. Tables, benches, and statues of stone and wood were dragged across the floor, piled high against the doors to form a makeshift barricade. Their breaths came in ragged gasps as they worked, the thundering of hooves and the distant cries of their comrades outside a haunting reminder of what awaited them if the doors were breached. Damn me!I should have left when I had the chance, instead of torturing that bastard.... Korran thought as his face turn into an ugly sneer. As if mocking him the priest¡ªbloodied and bruised, his robes torn¡ªstood by the altar, his face twisted in a mix of delirium and grim satisfaction. "The gods call for your souls!" he declared, his voice rising above the commotion. "Their wrath descends upon you! No barricade will stop their judgment! No door will bar their will!" His laughter rang through the air, wild and unhinged, echoing off the stone walls. Korran, teeth gritted and a hand resting on the hilt of his sword, turned and strode toward the priest. Without a word, he raised a hand and delivered a sharp backhand across the man''s face, sending him stumbling backward into the altar. The sound of the blow snapped the pirates'' attention momentarily from their desperate work. "Shut your cursed mouth!" Korran hissed, anger and uncertainty burning in his eyes. The priest raised his head, blood trickling from his split lip, and smiled through his pain. Then perhapse if the slap brought him back to reason, his voice, though hoarse, carried a note of sinister clarity. "There is still a way," he rasped, his grin widening. "A way for all of you to live." The pirates paused, their hands hovering over their makeshift barricade as they turned toward the priest, their expressions a mix of suspicion, desperation, and faint hope. Korran''s scowl deepened as he stared down at the man, fists clenched. "Speak quickly, priest," he growled, "or I''ll send you to meet your gods myself." "This is the house of the gods," he began solemnly, his voice filling the space like a sermon. "No blood may be spilled here. No blade raised, no life taken under this roof of divine sanctuary." A ripple of confusion and faint hope passed through the pirates. They exchanged glances, their fear briefly tempered by the unexpected words. "I can offer you hospitality," the priest continued, his tone measured. "A chance to cast aside your sins and your savagery. Fertility is not only the patron god of women but also of kindness and mercy. Lay down your weapons, convert to the true faith, and repent for your crimes through a life of servitude. I will extend the hospitality of the gods to you. You may yet live." Korran''s sharp laugh broke the momentary reverence in the room. He stepped forward, his boots echoing on the stone floor, and jabbed a finger at the priest. "Why the hell would you do that, priest?" he demanded, his voice laced with suspicion. "Why show mercy to a pack of murderers and thieves? What''s in it for you?" The priest''s expression faltered for a fraction of a second, a flicker of disgust crossing his face, but he quickly masked it with the same serene demeanor. "The gods do not bargain like men, Korran. Mercy is their gift, extended freely to those willing to take it. Will you?" As Korran hesitated, his mind turning over the priest''s offer, a sudden clatter of weapons falling to the floor startled him. Some of the pirates, weary and desperate, stepped forward with their hands raised. One of them, trembling, knelt before the priest. "I will convert," he said, voice shaking. "I''ll repent... for as long as I live. Just... just spare me." Another followed, and then another, their weapons forming a growing pile near the altar. Korran watched, his face twisted in frustration and disbelief. "You cowards," he muttered, but his words carried no real venom. He glanced back at the priest, who now regarded the kneeling pirates with a momentary look of disdain before smoothing his features once more into a mask of divine patience. The priest''s gaze drifted toward the barricaded doors, his composure as steady as a stone pillar despite the agony of his wounds. "I will need to inform those outside," he said matter-of-factly, his voice calm and unwavering. Korran raised an eyebrow, incredulous. "You think we will let you leave like that?'''' The priest let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "If you wish, you may come with me, Korran," he said, his tone laced with challenge. "Blade in hand, ready to strike me down if I attempt any betrayal. But I assure you, the gods have no need of deception. My purpose is clear." Korran''s eyes narrowed as he crossed his arms. "You''ve got guts. What''s your name?" The priest tilted his head slightly, his bloody face somehow serene. "Father Donar," he said simply. At that moment, two of the pirates stepped hesitantly toward him, glancing at Korran for approval. When he gave a subtle nod, they began to work on the nails that had impaled the priest''s hands. Donar grimaced, his lips tightening as the nails were carefully removed from his flesh, but he made no sound of pain. As soon as the bloodied pieces of iron fell to the ground, he flexed his battered hands gingerly and turned back to Korran, his gaze steady. Korran jabbed a finger toward one of his pirates "Torv" he barked, "follow him. Keep your blade ready." Torv nodded wordlessly, unsheathing his sword with a metallic hiss. The other pirates worked to clear the barricade enough to allow passage, their movements tense and hurried. With a dull scrape of wood and stone, a gap was opened just wide enough for the two to slip through. As Donar stepped into the open air, the sunlight falling on his bloodied and battered form, his gait was uneven, his limping steps echoing the severity of his injuries. His arrival quickly drew the eyes of nearly a hundred riders, their spears glinting like needles of death in the light. Murmurs spread through the mounted ranks as they watched the disheveled priest limp forward. Donar raised a trembling hand, his voice cutting through the tense silence. "This is the house of the gods!" he began, his tone swelling with righteous fervor. "A sanctuary for all men, and no blood may be spilled within these walls." The riders looked at one another, some furrowing their brows, others gripping their reins. Torv stood still, watching Donar intently, his hand resting on his sword hilt. Donar pressed on, his voice growing louder. "A temple has the power to protect men from the dangers of the world¡ªshelter for the weary, refuge for the hunted. Yet what stands before me today are not men." He pointed a trembling, bloodstained hand at the cavalry. "You are hounds, that protect the herd from wolves!" His voice rose to a shout. "The temple has only one entrance, and it is barricaded. So do what beasts do¡ªset it aflame! Burn this profaned house of gods with its trespassers inside!" The words hung in the air like a death knell. The riders stared, their faces turning into shock. Donar''s eyes flashed with defiance as he delivered the final blow of his proclamation. "This temple is already soiled with my blood. Let it be a pyre for those who defiled it. Build another upon their bones and ashes!Kill them al-" A sharp curse erupted behind him as Torv, pale with rage, thrust his blade through Donar''s back with brutal force. The priest let out a low gasp, his knees buckling as the sword pierced him clean through. As Donar''s body collapsed to the ground, Torv wrenched the blade free, blood spraying the dirt. Without a word, the pirate turned and dashed back toward the safety of the temple, slipping through the narrow gap in the barricade . The soldiers shifted uneasily, their weapons in hand as they stared at the temple''s sturdy walls. Many among them were believers in the Five Gods, and the idea of spilling blood within a sacred temple tugged at their conscience. The gods'' wrath was not something to invoke lightly. Yet Donar''s final words echoed like a thunderclap in their minds. The priest himself¡ªa sworn servant of the divine¡ªhad denounced the sanctity of the temple, calling for its desecration to rid the world of the filth within. With his blessing, their hesitation began to melt away. Now there was nothing to stop them. Rykio dismounted with solemnity, stepping toward Donar''s lifeless body sprawled in the dirt. His men watched in silence as he bowed his head deeply, paying respect to the priest who had defied both fear and pain for his gods. He never like priests, he believed they were greedy bastards who lived off luxury with the donation of the believers, yet he had to admit that the dead man in front of him, was what all of them should aspire to be, fearless when facing the end of life. "Carry him aside," Rykio ordered, his voice steady but laced with reverence. "After this battle, we''ll ensure he receives a burial worthy of him, it is not every day that we meet such a pious man." Several soldiers stepped forward, carefully lifting the priest''s bloodied body from where it lay, moving it to a place of temporary rest. Rykio turned back to his assembled troops, his voice rising with authority. "You all saw it with your own eyes. Even the servant of the gods despised the rats hiding behind those walls!" His words carried a sharp edge, striking at the pride and hearts of the men before him. He gestured toward the temple with his sword. "He shamed us, all of us, with his courage!With his bravery! We have faced dozens of men in battles! And yet this priest, who for all his life prayed at the altar, shows something that is rarely found in even the most veteran soldier. A single man, nailed and broken, had the strength to stand tall for what he believed in, more than some of you have shown." The soldiers shuffled slightly Rykio''s voice grew stronger, brimming with conviction. "There''s only one way to honor such courage¡ªto heed his final words! We must cull the wicked who cower inside and cleanse their taint from this land!" The soldiers erupted in cheers, their shame replaced with fervor. Swords, spears, and axes rose to the sky, their battle cries echoing across the village. Rykio raised his sword high, its polished edge catching the light of the fading sun. "Prepare the torches!" he commanded, his voice booming with determination. "The only way to cleanse the impiety we have witnessed today is through justice¡ªjustice delivered by fire and steel! Burn the rats inside and purify this desecrated ground." His gaze swept across the soldiers, fierce and unyielding. "Once their ashes are scattered, we will build a new temple over it¡ªa true house of the gods, untainted by cowardice and wickedness!" The soldiers nodded, their expressions resolute. Some began gathering torches, dipping them into the fires that the pirates had prepared for their final meal, while others moved to secure the temple''s perimeter. Everybody knew they were in for a good old roast now... Chapter 284: Dealing with rats(4) Chapter 284: Dealing with rats(4) Rykio stood silently near his horse, arms crossed as he watched his men move around as they trained to do . The torches were ready, the hay bundles gathered from the nearby fields and stored for moments like this. The soldiers worked quickly, stacking the dry hay tightly against the wooden walls of the temple, encircling it completely . Rykio''s cold gaze swept over his men one final time. Then, with a sharp gesture of his hand, he gave the order. "Do it." The soldiers smiled, a grim satisfaction lighting their faces. One by one, they began tossing the hay against the walls, piling it high. A few joked among themselves, but most worked in silence, awaiting for the fun to start. Torches flared as they were lit, the flames snapping hungrily at the oily rags wrapped around their heads. With coordinated precision, the soldiers stepped forward, one man to each section of hay. A soldier paused for a moment, a cruel grin splitting his face as he called out to those inside the temple. "Hope you''re praying to your god, cowards! Not that it''ll help!" He chuckled darkly, then stooped down, pressing the torch against the dry hay. It ignited instantly, the flames roaring to life. Around the temple, the scene repeated, torches kissing hay as fire climbed greedily along the wooden walls. The soldiers retreated, watching as the flames began to consume the temple''s base. The dry timber groaned and cracked, smoke curling into the sky in thick, black plumes. Some of the men chuckled at the taunts hurled by their comrades, but most stood in grim silence, gripping their weapons, their faces illuminated by the growing firelight. The siege of the temple was nearly at its end. Rykio raised his voice above the crackling of the growing flames, his tone sharp and commanding. "To your positions! Form up!" The soldiers immediately snapped to attention, the playful smirks and taunts fading from their faces. Each man hurried to his assigned role, moving with practiced precision honed by countless battles. Riders climbed onto their horses, the thudding of boots against stirrups and the creaking of leather saddles punctuating the smoky air. Lines of cavalry began forming, their steeds snorting and stamping as if they, too, sensed the tension of the moment. The soldiers moved seamlessly into position, splitting into three groups as they had been drilled under Egil''s command. Twenty men took up positions to the right of the temple doors, another twenty to the left, while the central line, forty strong, formed the core of the trap, directly facing the entrance. The heat of the flames rippled in the night air, and the occasional creak of a saddle or a snort from a horse was the only sound apart from the roaring inferno. Rykio sat motionless, his gaze fixed on the temple. He could feel the anticipation rolling off his men, but he gave no signal to act. They were waiting for the moment when desperation inside the temple would boil over. Minutes stretched on, punctuated only by faint screams and muffled shouting from within. The tension mounted. Then, faintly at first, came the sound of things crashing to the ground. Heavy thuds and scraping noises followed, growing louder and more frantic. The temple doors burst open with a sudden force, slamming against the walls as a tide of bodies surged out. Around forty pirates emerged, those at the front holding up shields in a tight line while moving as fast as they could. Their faces were pale with terror, streaked with soot and sweat, now that they were not fighting against defenseless farmers. They charged forward, weapons clutched tightly, as though desperation alone could win them the night. Rykio leaned forward in his saddle, resting a gauntled hand on the pommel of his sword as he watched the scene unfold. He remembered when Egil had led them against the Herculean knights. That was a day worth to be alive for, Rykio thought as he recounted the glory of that day for their unit. Looking now at the band of fifty pirates running forward without proper equipment or discipline, the only word that could describe what he felt was disgust. He exhaled slowly, his breath coming out heavy . "Too easy," he muttered under his breath. Before he could issue a single command, his soldiers moved as if one body. They had drilled for this countless times, and instinct took over. Without hesitation, they acted, a deadly machine springing into motion to meet the charging pirates. As soon as the pirates charged out of the temple doors, the flanking troops on both sides sprang into action. Javelins arced through the air in swift, deadly volleys. The first shield-bearers in the pirates'' ranks raised their defenses just in time, the sharp thuds of the missiles embedding into their wooden fronts. But the men behind them weren''t as lucky as they had no protection. The pirates, caught in the open, found themselves completely surrounded as the rain of javelins came from every direction. The men in the front tried to advance, their shields raised high to protect themselves, but with each step forward, more of their comrades fell. The projectiles sliced through the air, striking shields and unprotected flesh alike. Some of the pirates in the middle and rear turned to face the assault from behind, but their makeshift defense faltered. Javelins pierced into backs and legs, bringing down men who had nowhere to run. A pirate with a spear hurled it wildly toward the enemy lines, but it fell short, bouncing harmlessly off the ground. Another threw a hatchet, the weapon spinning through the air, yet its arc ended far from any target, landing uselessly among the dirt. Those without shields tried to duck and weave, some shouting curses, others screaming prayers to the gods, but few could escape the deadly rain. All the while, the soldiers of Rykio''s band stood firm in their formations, methodically launching volley after volley, ensuring no pirate could find refuge or rally their comrades. A pirate took a javelin clean through the shoulder, the force spinning him sideways before he collapsed with a scream. Another missile struck a man in the thigh, tearing through flesh and bone; he crumpled, clutching at the wound as blood seeped onto the dirt. One javelin plunged into an unprotected gut, doubling its victim over before he toppled forward, unmoving but screaming . The relentless rain of projectiles broke the cohesion of the pirate ranks, panic spreading as men tripped over the fallen, their momentum faltering under the assault. Within minutes, the once-fierce charge of the fifty pirates had been reduced to a pitiful sight. Only twenty men stood without visible wounds, their shields battered and their weapons trembling in their hands. The rest lay on the ground, screaming in agony or silently clutching their wounds as blood seeped into the dirt. The relentless barrage of javelins had sown chaos, leaving the pirates disorganized and their morale in shreds. The horsemen, having spent their javelins, reined in their mounts briefly. Then, at Rykio''s command, the line surged forward with a thunderous roar. The earth trembled beneath the hooves of the warhorses, and the soldiers lowered their weapons, their eyes fixed on the broken ranks of their enemies. The charge hit like a storm. A pirate tried to swing his axe at an incoming rider, but the swing was blocked with a buckler before a mace smashed his skull apart. Another man, attempting to fend off a cavalryman with his shield, was thrown to the ground as a blade slashed across his unprotected side. The pirates tried to regroup. One of them lunged at a rider, his spear aiming high, but the horse reared, striking him in the face with its hooves. He crumpled to the ground, blood pouring from his broken nose. In the center of the melee, a pair of pirates fought back-to-back, desperately fending off the attackers. One managed to strike a horse''s flank, causing it to rear and throw its rider, but before he could savor the victory, another cavalryman''s sword cleaved through his shoulder, sending him sprawling. The screams of men, the neighing of horses, and the clash of steel filled the air. The pirates who still stood tried to flee back toward the temple, but the horsemen cut them down before they could make it far. The cavalry had shattered their formation, and now it was a rout¡ªa bloodied, desperate fight for survival, with no quarter given. ---------------- The sun hung low on the horizon, casting a blood-red glow over the beach as the tide lapped at the shore. Rykio stood tall, his armor splattered with blood and dirt, staring out at the vast expanse of the sea. Behind him, Svenn stood a few respectful paces away, his youthful face pale also splattered with blood. The air was thick with the agonized screams of the twenty two wounded pirates nailed onto wooden planks, their cries echoing toward the heavens as their bodies writhed against their restraints, with the cold salty water hitting their toes and feet. Rykio folded his arms, watching the scene with an expression of detached contemplation. "If I were a poet," he said, his voice calm yet tinged with a dark humor, "I would immortalize this moment in verse. Look at them¡ªso close in their agony to the gods they prayed to for deliverance. Perhapse next time those rats swing here, they will think twice before boarding once they see our little welcoming flowers....'''' Svenn said nothing, bowing his head slightly in acknowledgment. His hands twitched at his sides, his unease palpable. Rykio turned his head slightly, studying his young squire''s reaction. "Perhaps I should bring Joanne here," he mused, the ghost of a smirk on his face. "Do you think she would appreciate this?'''' Svenn hesitated, raising an eyebrow as he struggled to find a response that would neither offend nor provoke. Finally, he said, his tone carefully measured, "I wasn''t aware women''s tastes had shifted from jewels and flowers to dying men nailed to planks, sir." Rykio let out a short, sharp laugh, his smirk growing. " A touch of wit suits you. You are growing....." Svenn said nothign to that, as the screams continued to pierce the salty air, blending with the sound of waves crashing against the shore and the men shouting at the sea. Chapter 285: Cravings Chapter 285: Cravings The leisure hall of the palace was a cozy,small chamber, meant not for formal gatherings or grand displays but for the quiet, personal moments of the royal family. The room was adorned with soft, cream-colored drapes that fluttered slightly in the evening breeze filtering through an arched window. The prince consort of Yarzat, sat comfortably on a plush sofa with deep, soft cushions that seemed to mold to his form. He was reclined slightly, a small table beside him holding a tray of fresh grapes and a goblet of watered wine. With one hand, he absentmindedly plucked a grape and popped it into his mouth, savoring the burst of sweetness. In the other, he held a report¡ªa neatly penned summary from his army officers. The pages crinkled faintly as he turned them, his sharp eyes scanning the words with practiced ease. A small wooden desk stood nearby, stacked with unopened scrolls and letters, but for now, the sofa served as his workspace. This room, with its inviting quiet and modest charm, had become his favored retreat for handling lighter tasks of governance.As unlike the big and vast hall room and working station, this small chamber allowed him to relax while working on light work, that did not require much concentration for him.He usually used it whenever he had to read the monthly report from some of the branches of the state, the first one being about the military. The aftermath of the first campaign against Herculia was nothign short of a success ,especially given the odds. The White Company, his most dependable force, had unfortunately suffered significant losses¡ª130 soldiers between the dead and the wounded that would not be able to return the fight, an acceptable rate given just how hard was the task that Alpheo had assigned them . Though the sting of such losses lingered, especially among the veterans who mourned their fallen brothers who they had been comrades of for years way back before following Alpheo south , it did little to dampen the spirit of the campaign''s success.(in comments there is territorial change that came from the conflict) What truly surprised Alpheo, however, was how swiftly these losses were replenished. The influx of recruits that poured into the recruiting stations in the capital was nothing short of overwhelming. Apparently the sight of returning soldiers weighed down by purses brimming with coin spoke louder than any decree or proclamation. These men, strutting through markets and taverns, became visual proof to the rewards of service. Tales of their victories, exaggerated as they passed from tongue to tongue, painted the campaing as a glorious and money grabbing endevour, where they outnumbered five to one , had managed to break through the enemy through simple and sheer force of arms. As soon as the first day of recruitment was announced , Alpheo found out that the amount of recruits that tried to join the elite-core army of the crown reached the three-thousands. Which was a lot considering Yarzat had a population of 25,000 people, but understandable given the great amount of perks that followed being accepted into the White Army. After giving a quick look at the figures coming from the first recruitment wave, the prince started reviewing the latest reports from his captains stationed along the coastline. The parchments detailed skirmishes and raids, recounting victories where pirate bands were intercepted in the field or driven out of coastal villages. Though the losses were occasionally noted, the tone was one of measured success, indicating that the defensive efforts were holding firm and in some cases much to the prince''s happiness they even managed to capture the pirate''s ships. For all his distaste for the sea-rats¡ªmarauders who dared to pillage his shores and disrupt trade¡ªAlpheo found an unexpected utility in their menace. Pirates, for all their savagery, had become an unwitting tool in sharpening his forces. The fresh recruits, drawn by tales of glory and wealth, had swelled the ranks of the White Company, so much that choosing which one to take was the hardest issue. After only a few weeks of rigorous training, many were deployed to the anti-piracy efforts along the coast. There, in the chaos of real battle, they learned lessons no drill yard could teach. Fighting pirates was brutal, unpredictable, and far from the structured engagements they would face in formal warfare, after all they were trained to fight in formation, nonetheless ahead of forces who would without qualms retreat back to their ships at the sight of true soldiers they perfomred wall. It was exactly the kind of crucible Alpheo needed to temper his green soldiers. After all, the worst thing about recruits was that they were not used to the sight of blood and the sensation of harming someone; as such, pirates were the perfect instruments to use to get rid of those. As the reports noted engagements where these recruits held their ground, cut down raiders, or defended villages, Alpheo allowed himself a rare smirk. By the time the next major campaign came, these green soldiers would no longer be inexperienced farmhands, but bloodied soldiers. As Alpheo kept on his reading , the door to the chamber creaked open, drawing Alpheo''s attention from the stack of reports. His brow furrowed, the irritation plain on his face. He had made it clear as he asked , or better yet ¡ªordered¡ªthat he was not to be disturbed by the servants , this was in fact his little Personal Time as he liked to call it . Yet as his eyes lifted to the figure stepping through the doorway, the confusion and irritation melted away. It was Jasmine. Alpheo quickly swallowed the piece of grape he had been chewing, as he greeted her warmly. Without a word, Jasmine crossed the room and settled herself onto the sofa beside him. She reached for the bowl of grapes, plucking two and slipping them delicately into her mouth. Alpheo observed her closely as she leaned back against the plush cushions, her eyes falling closed as a long sigh escaped her lips. The sound carried the weight of the day''s exertions, and Alpheo could see it clearly¡ªshe was tired. Seems like she had an hard day For a moment, he said nothing, simply watching her as the room fell silent, save for the faint rustle of papers and the distant hum of activity elsewhere in the palace. In the quiet, her weariness felt almost contagious, and Alpheo found himself setting aside the report in his hands, waiting for her to speak¡ªor simply to rest, as these recent months had been testing for the both of them. Alpheo leaned forward slightly "Is everything all right?" he finally asked, his voice gentle but laced with curiosity that he had been plagued with since he was a boy. Jasmine opened her eyes and turned to him, giving him a single look of distaste that pierced straight through him. Alpheo''s stomach dropped. He recognized that expression all too well¡ªit meant he had something to do with her current state of displeasure, still he could not remember doing anything peculiar today? Perhapse It was Egil?Did he slept with her ladies in waiting again?Shit, I don''t feel like grumbling to him like last time after all he knows I don''t give a heck about whom he put himself inside of.... "Did something happen?" he ventured cautiously, his voice trailing off. He watched as Jasmine picked another grape from the bowl and popped it into her mouth, chewing slowly before replying. "I''ve just spent the better part of my day dealing with the grumblings of the nobles," she said, her tone clipped yet still measured. "Apparently, they''ve seen fit to draft a common signed petition to the crown." Seems like I owe him an apology, Alpheo thought as he arched an eyebrow. "About what?" She sighed, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face, the faintest hint of sarcasm creeping into her voice. "Most of the governors whose power was recently reduced¡ªthose who once managed everything, from military to taxation to law¡ªare none too pleased about now only dealing with city administration. So displeased, in fact, that they''ve written to their cousins, uncles, and anyone else among the landed nobility who would listen. Naturally, these noble benefactors spread the word far and wide, culminating in this... noble and just petition sent by our leal vassals, begging the crown to undo the turmoil caused by your changes." Alpheo leaned back, his lips tightening as he absorbed her words. "And what exactly did you tell them?" he asked cautiously. Jasmine gave a humorless smile. "I told them precisely what they needed to hear to keep their egos soothed and their tempers at bay," she said. "Which is to say, I nobly stalled for time." "So, what do you intend to do about it?Give in?" Jasmine gave a dry chuckle "I intend to tell them to go to fuck themselves " she said bluntly, in a tone that surprised even Alpheo for it was the first time he heard her swear. She let the weight of her words settle before continuing, her voice quieter but no less determined. "Apparently, the governors in question managed to detract a fair amount of coin from their respective regions before their powers were reduced. If the first month''s pattern coming from our new governors is extrapolated for the entire year, the loss to the royal coffers would total at least 5,000 silverii," she said, shaking her head, She paused, meeting Alpheo''s gaze with a knowing look as he was the one that was right about the governors abusing their positions and pressing her into making those changes "I plan to compile these findings into an organized report. Then, I''ll have private letters drafted to each of our esteemed former governors, graciously detailing our discoveries. In those letters, we''ll politely suggest they keep quiet about their grievances, lest the crown be forced to pursue... deeper investigations into their mismanagement." Alpheo let out a soft chuckle as leaned closer, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he placed his hands gently on Jasmine''s shoulders, kneading them in an attempt to ease her tension. "Is there anything I can do to help you calm down?" he asked, his tone warm and earnest. Jasmine chuckled lightly, swatting his hands away with an amused smirk. "Fat chance,you know we can''t " she teased, leaning back against the sofa. After a moment, she tilted her head toward him, her expression softening. "Though, perhaps hearing about what gifts you''re preparing might do the trick." "Gifts?" Alpheo asked, a note of confusion in his voice. His brow furrowed as he searched her face for clarification. Jasmine raised an eyebrow, a sly grin forming. "Oh, don''t tell me you don''t know," she said, clearly relishing his cluelessness. "In the south, husbands are expected to prepare gifts for their wives before they give birth. It''s believed to bring good luck." Alpheo''s eyes widened slightly , he did not know of such thing . His confusion shifted to embarrassment, and Jasmine immediately picked up on it. Watching his expression, she couldn''t help but laugh, shaking her head in mock disbelief. Then, with a dramatic sigh, she leaned forward and let her head rest on his lap. "Normally," she began, her tone teasing, "it''s supposed to be a secret. The husband is meant to surprise his wife with the gift." She chuckled. "But given your, let''s say... ignorance on the matter, I''ll make an exception." With that, she reached up, her fingers threading into Alpheo''s hair. Before he could react, she tugged gently, pulling his head down until their faces were mere centimeters apart. Her lips curved into a sly smile as she spoke, her voice soft yet commanding, resembling that tone that she used when she spoke with him the first time they met, like that of a predator soothing a mouse. "Before our child is born,there is only one thing I want," she said ''''Give me Herculia and the head of Lechlian'''' Her gaze bore into his unblinking , as if daring him to deny her. Chapter 286: New encounters Chapter 286: New encounters The morning sun gleamed off the polished armor of the fifty Golden Steeds, the elite crown knights of Alpheo''s personal retinue. Their formation was pristine, their banners snapping crisply in the breeze. The royal house''s banner¡ªa deep blue field adorned with a golden falcon¡ªtowered high above the group, marking the presence of the crown. Ahead of the knights, on horseback, were Alpheo, Egil, and the other companions of theirs. Alpheo''s cloak rippled behind him as he adjusted his reins, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon. Egil, by contrast, shifted restlessly in his saddle, his expression sour. "This is ridiculous," Egil grumbled, rubbing at his temple. "We could have just welcomed her in the palace. All this pomp out here¡ªit''s absurd." Alpheo turned his head toward Egil, a grin tugging at his lips. Without warning, he leaned over and delivered a playful punch to Egil''s shoulder. "Egil," Alpheo said, his voice teasing but firm, "this isn''t just anyone we''re welcoming. It''s your wife. You have to make a good impression." Egil snorted, straightening in his saddle as he rubbed his shoulder. "The wife someone forced onto me," he shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He shook his head, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the distant road. "Not exactly the joyous reunion of lovers, is it?" Alpheo adjusted the reins of his horse, as he changed topic "So, have you given any thought to your dynasty name now that you''re a lord? Or your banners?" Egil didn''t hesitate, his gaze fixed ahead, his voice steady. "My dynasty name will be Shakzai, after my home tribe. My banner," he added after a brief pause, "will be a horse on a white field." The group fell silent, the words hanging heavily in the air. Alpheo exchanged a brief glance with the others. It wasn''t just about a name or a banner¡ªthey all knew that Egil''s original tribe was that of the Shakzai. Finally, Clio broke the silence, voice soft but sincere. "They''re good choices, Egil," he said, his tone carrying a rare note of solemnity as an akward silence entered in the group Luckily as if saving them the silence was interrupted by the sound of wheels crunching against the gravel road. Turning toward the noise, they saw the carriages approaching, their polished wood gleaming under the sunlight, the royal house''s sigil displayed prominently on the sides. The procession came to a halt near the gathered riders. A knight, clad in courtly finery, dismounted and approached the first carriage, his steps measured and deliberate. He opened the door and extended a gloved hand. From within, a girl stepped out with hesitant grace. Her long brown hair flowed freely, catching the light, though her demeanor betrayed her unease. She smoothed her modest gown nervously as her feet met the ground, her gaze darting between the assembled riders and the imposing city gates. As the girl moved forward, her awkwardness was apparent in her careful steps. She seemed unsure of what was expected of her, her eyes searching the group for any sign of familiarity¡ªor for the man who would be her husband. Alpheo nudged Egil lightly, a faint smile curving his lips. "Welcome to your new life, Egil. Meet...Vaeloria Arduronaven." The girl¡ªVaeloria¡ªfinally lifted her eyes fully, and for the first time, they landed on Egil. Egil sat tall in his saddle, his blonde hair falling to his neck in loose waves that swayed with the breeze. His strong chin and sharp eyes gave him the air of a man accustomed to command, his presence as striking as an eagle in the sky. Vaeloria, standing before him, dared to meet his gaze for only a few seconds before her eyes fell to the ground, her expression unreadable. Alpheo, catching the moment, chuckled softly, elbowing Egil. The lord responded with a bemused sigh before dismounting. His boots crunched against the gravel as he strode toward Vaeloria. Without a word, he extended his hand, his grip firm yet careful as he guided her closer. He leaned forward, brushing his lips against her hand in a chivalrous gesture that drew a small gasp from her. "Come," Egil said as he helped her onto his horse with practiced ease. Vaeloria settled herself, looking uncertain and out of place atop the tall steed. Egil tilted his head, a faint grin playing on his lips. "You know how to ride, don''t you?" "A bit," she admitted softly, her voice barely carrying over the sounds of the gathered company. Egil nodded, seemingly satisfied. In one fluid motion, he mounted the horse behind her, his presence a steadying force as they rode forward together. The horse moved at an easy pace, Vaeloria visibly stiff as she adjusted to the unfamiliar situation. The others exchanged knowing looks, their expressions ranging from amusement to quiet contemplation,as they now understood how come Egil''s was so good with the opposite sex even before having been granted a knighthood. The procession trotted steadily through the city gates, the Golden Steeds forming an impressive guard at both the front and rear of the entourage. Their polished armor gleamed in the midday sun, banners of the royal house rippling with every step of their horses. The streets of Yarzat came alive with the rustle of movement as townsfolk paused their tasks to watch the noble company pass. Heads bowed in respect, murmurs rippled through the crowd, and children peered from behind their mothers'' skirts, wide-eyed at the regal display. Vaeloria sat atop Egil''s horse, her posture stiff but her gaze roving with curiosity. Her eyes lingered on the bustling market stalls, the colorful banners fluttering from windows, and the cobblestone streets worn smooth by countless travelers. Egil''s voice broke through the rhythmic clatter of hooves. "First time in Yarzat?" he asked, his tone casual as he held the reins with practiced ease. Vaeloria turned her head slightly, her long brown hair catching a brief glint of sunlight. Her cheeks flushed with a faint pink as she replied softly, her voice nearly lost in the surrounding noise. "Yes, my lord." Egil arched a brow, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Not too overwhelming, I hope?" Vaeloria hesitated, her eyes darting to the bustling streets before her. "It is... different from what I know," she admitted. Then, as if forgetting herself for a moment, she added, "The smell, however..." The words slipped out before she could stop them. Realizing her mistake, her eyes widened, and she stammered quickly towards the prince, "I-I apologize, your grace, I did not mean...." She dared to glance at him, expecting sharp rebuke or perhaps a cutting remark from the man she had heard so much about¡ªthe man who had defeated a force twice his size, humiliated the Herculeian prince, conquered her hometown, executed her father, and reduced her noble house to ruin. But as her gaze met his, she was startled. Alpheo wasn''t what she imagined. She had expected a figure who radiated an almost oppressive authority, someone domineering and larger than life. Instead, she found herself looking at a young man, ordinary in appearance but carrying himself with a quiet confidence that was far more disarming than she expected. Egil chuckled as he answered her statement in the place of the prince, a low and warm sound that felt strangely out of place given the stories of his ruthlessness during his raids onto Lechlian''s land . "You''ll get used to it soon enough," he said with a small shrug. "Not that it will remain long. You must have noticed the construction outside the city?" Vaeloria blinked, then nodded hesitantly. "The smell," Egil continued, "is something our noble prince has taken to fighting with ambition. He decided to follow the example of the Imperials, commissioning an aqueduct¡ªor so they''re called. Seems their engineering is worth mimicking, at least in his eyes." Her shoulders relaxed slightly at his unexpected lightness. Still, she fidgeted nervously with the hem of her sleeve, unsure of how to respond. Her shyness hung in the air like a fragile veil, and Egil seemed content not to press her further, letting the conversation settle naturally. For a moment, Vaeloria''s eyes wandered back to the streets. She felt the weight of her circumstances once more, a reminder that despite her current calm, she was in the company of the very man responsible for her family''s downfall.Yet his companion Egil, oblivious or indifferent to her inner turmoil, nudged his horse onward with the confidence of someone accustomed to being in control, a faint smile still playing on his lips. Alpheo tilted his head, his sharp eyes glinting with curiosity. "So," he began, a teasing lilt in his voice, "when is this grand marriage going to happen? I hope you''re not expecting me to plan it for you." Egil let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "Not quite yet," he replied. "There''s something I must do first¡ªsomething important. I still have to go on the hunt." "The hunt?" Alpheo asked, raising an eyebrow as he leaned slightly forward on his horse, intrigued. Egil nodded, his expression growing more serious. "In my tribe," he explained, "before any man can marry, he must hunt an animal and present it to his bride. It''s a tradition that symbolizes providing for her and proving his worth as a husband." His gaze shifted to the horizon before continuing. "The groom goes alone, except for two companions¡ªone who acts as his chosen brother, and another who stands in the place of a father." Alpheo straightened, the significance of Egil''s words dawning on him. Egil''s voice softened as he looked directly at Alpheo. "I''d like to invite you to join me as my brother, Alpheo. And I''d ask Jarza to join me too'''' The declaration hung in the air for a moment, a rare earnestness settling over the group. Egil then turned his gaze to the others¡ªAsag, Clio, and Laedio. A flicker of apology crossed his face as he said, "You know I care for each of you as my brothers too. You''ve fought beside me, bled beside me, and I value you more than words can say. But for this... Alpheo is the one I wish to honor." There was a brief pause before Asag, ever the first to break tension, gave a sly grin. "Well, we''ll just have to drink in your honor twice as hard while you''re off proving yourself." Clio and Laedio both nodded, the faintest traces of smiles on their faces. Alpheo, meanwhile, allowed a small smirk to play on his lips as he gave Egil an approving nod. Alpheo inclined his head slightly toward Egil, his expression sincere. "Thank you for the honor, Egil. It means a great deal to me. Of course, I have my duties to attend to, but..." he paused, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, "I''m sure I can carve out some time. How could I refuse something so important?" Egil''s face lit up with gratitude, and the moment was sealed with a firm nod from both men. --------------------------- "Absolutely not." The sharpness of Jasmine''s voice echoed through the chamber of the palace, the finality of her tone unmistakable. She stood at the center of the room, her hands on her hips, her gaze drilling into Alpheo. Alpheo stood near a table strewn with letters and reports, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. Egil, who had joined the discussion, remained near the door, shifting uncomfortably, clearly unused to witnessing royal disputes. Jasmine''s fiery gaze moved to Egil for a moment before snapping back to Alpheo. "You are a prince now!" she exclaimed, her voice brimming with exasperation. "You can''t just gallop off into the wilderness on a whim, especially not without proper protection." Alpheo opened his mouth to speak, but Jasmine cut him off, pointing a finger at him. "Do you honestly think there won''t be people plotting the moment they hear you''re wandering around alone in some forest? No guards, no defenses? Do you think they''ll just politely let you go about your quaint tribal traditions?" Egil cleared his throat, attempting to offer some defense, but Jasmine''s stern expression silenced him. Jasmine crossed her arms, her gaze unwavering. "You want to go on this hunt? Fine," she said, her tone brokering no argument. "But you''ll take eighty of my knights with you as guards, and you will not take unnecessary risks." Alpheo let out an exasperated sigh, straightening to his full height. "Eighty? That''s not a hunt; it''s a royal procession! I''ll take five, no more." His voice was firm, laced with a hint of irritation. Jasmine''s eyes narrowed. "Five? You might as well send them home and wave a banner telling everyone to take their best shot. We are not hassling.It''s either that or you won''t go" Egil glanced between them, trying to stay invisible, but the weight of the standoff was palpable. Finally, after a long moment, Alpheo exhaled deeply and broke his gaze, lowering his head in reluctant acceptance. "Fine," he said, his voice quieter as he resigned the victory to his wife. Chapter 287: Planning to deal with loose ends Chapter 287: Planning to deal with loose ends In the heart of Romelia, the capital of the Empire, the grandeur of the imperial palace loomed over the bustling city. Inside its gilded halls, Lord Lisidor, patriarch of House Veritia, sat in a stately chamber, nursing a goblet of crisp apple cider. Across from him, the regent of the Empire, Marthio of House Achea, reclined in his high-backed chair. Lord Lisidor''s gaze drifted down to the pale amber liquid in his cup, its faint sparkle catching the light streaming through the tall, arched windows. The cider was cool on his lips, sweet and tart, a drink that had become the toast of noble gatherings across the Empire. He swirled the goblet absently, reflecting on the significance of this unassuming beverage. In recent months, the imperial family had taken the lead in distributing two wonders from the distant southern reaches: the luxurious soap that left skin smooth and fragrant, and the cider that now rested in his cup. From the moment these goods entered the Empire''s markets, they had been an overwhelming success, consumed voraciously by the nobility. Their popularity had swiftly turned them into a cornerstone of the imperial economy. Thanks to the remarkable profits from these commodities, the Empire''s coffers had swelled. Where fiscal disaster once loomed in the aftermath of the civil war, drastic measures to cut expenditure had been avoided entirely. It was a lifeline that would not have been possible without the resourcefulness of the regent''s son, Keval Achea. His ingenuity in securing and marketing these southern goods before they gain popularity in the Imperial market had been the thing that allowed the ship to stay afloat. Many noble houses across the Empire, eager to partake in the lucrative trade of soap and cider, had scrambled to gain their own foothold in the market. Envoys were dispatched southward, bearing offers of gold and alliances to the Princess of Yarzat, hoping to bypass the imperial monopoly. Yet every attempt was met with polite but unwavering refusal. The princess, bound by the treaty she had signed with the ruling imperial house, remained steadfast in her agreement: the goods would be supplied exclusively to the Empire''s ruling family. Frustrated, these noble houses turned to the next logical alternative¡ªsouthern merchants. However, this avenue proved no less unfeasible. Purchasing directly from southern traders required crossing borders, and paying a string of tolls and taxes at every town and checkpoint. By the time the goods reached their intended markets, the accumulated costs far exceeded their value, leaving no margin for profit, not to say that many did no still do it , as even though the prices were higher , there was still a quite profit, still however not as good as the one that owned the monopoly, as while they could sell soap at 12 cider bearing a 6 silveri of gain at piece, the one that had to go all the way south , were forced to sell it at 28 with a 5 silverii margin of gain. This harsh reality forced many to reluctantly concede defeat. The imperial family''s carefully structured trade arrangement ensured that no secondary party could undercut their control, no matter how ambitious or resourceful. The loss of the Princedom of Arlania as a client state, coupled with the severance of the Empire''s northern and eastern provinces, had forced the imperial administration to rely heavily on trade with the south. This lifeline, however, was now under siege. The once-thriving trade routes were becoming treacherous passages, exacerbating the woes of the Empire''s coastal lands. Lord Marthio of House Achea, regent of the Empire, had long harbored a bitter resentment over the loss of the Isle of Harmway to the Confederation of the Free-Isles. Harmway, a vital strategic and economic outpost, had been lost during the chaos of the civil war. While the regent had desired to reclaim the isle since the moment the news reached Romelia, the internal strife had tied his hands. Even now, as he meticulously planned an expedition to retake the Gods'' Fingers, he issue of piracy loomed heavily over his mind. Realizing that direct military action against the Free-Isles would stretch the Empire''s already overburdened resources, Marthio resolved to pursue a secondary approach. Lord Marthio set his cup down gently, his piercing gaze locking onto Lord Lisidor. "I intend to launch an expedition to reclaim the Isle of Harmway," he said with measured gravity. "The time has come to drive the pirates back to the forsaken waters they once called home and reassert the Empire''s dominion over its seas." Lord Lisidor''s expression brightened at the announcement after all he too was an house that relied on sea trade "A fantastic idea, Your Grace," he replied enthusiastically. "It is long overdue that this plague of piracy is dealt with decisively. Our imperial seas have suffered far too much." But then, as if a thought tempered his excitement, he leaned back slightly, his tone shifting to one of cautious curiosity. "However, I must admit, I find myself uncertain about the reason I was called here. Surely such a grand endeavor does not hinge on my presence alone?" A faint smile tugged at the corners of Marthio''s lips. "On the contrary, Lord Lisidor, your presence is essential." He folded his hands atop the table, leaning forward slightly. "Like myself, you stand to gain a great deal from the reclamation of Harmway. Your ships sail these waters, and your house thrives on trade, just as mine does. With the isle reclaimed, commerce would flow freely, and the coffers of our houses would fill once more. As such," he said, his voice steady and deliberate, "I hoped you might be willing to contribute ships to the expedition." The room fell silent for a moment as Lisidor considered the regent''s words, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup. "May I ask how many ships currently compose the royal fleet?" he asked, his tone neutral but his gaze keenly fixed on the regent. "Fourteen," Lord Marthio replied plainly. Lisidor''s brows creased at the number, his disapproval evident. Fourteen ships? For the Empire? The number was startlingly low. His expression betrayed his thoughts, and Marthio, perceptive as ever, caught the unspoken question lingering in Lisidor''s furrowed gaze. The regent sighed softly. "I understand your reaction, Lord Lisidor. Unfortunately, most of our resources are currently committed to mounting the army for this year''s expedition to reclaim the God''s Fingers. The royal fleet, I fear, has received minimal attention as a result. Supplies and funding for naval efforts are woefully inadequate. Which brings me to you." He paused for effect. "I was hoping that House Veritia would contribute ships to increase our numbers and ensure the success of this venture." Lisidor''s fingers stilled as he absorbed the request, his eyes narrowing slightly. "How many ships, exactly, would you have me contribute?" he asked cautiously. "Forty or fifty," Marthio replied, his voice calm yet firm. Lisidor''s eyes widened in disbelief. "Forty or fifty?" he repeated, his tone carrying the faintest edge of incredulity. He set his cup down carefully, as though steadying himself. "Your Grace, with all due respect, you are asking me to place the majority of my fleet into the service of the Empire, without yet offering any incentive to do so?" Lord Marthio nodded, setting his cup down with a deliberate air. "I did not expect such great participation from House Veritia without offering proper rewards," he said smoothly. He took a measured sip of his cider before continuing throwing his main card on the table "In exchange for your contribution, I am prepared to confirm the island of Harmway as part of the Veritia household''s fiefdoms." A small silence fell between them, broken only by the faint clink of Marthio''s cup as it met the table. Lord Lisidor''s gaze sharpened as he processed the magnitude of the offer. Harmway? The thought echoed in his mind, heavy with significance. The tolls alone... everyone knows how much coin that island generates each year, taxing every ship from south to north and back again. Marthio leaned forward slightly, his voice steady. "Of course, the agreement would stipulate that twenty percent of the island''s income from tolls will go to the Crown. Additionally, no ships belonging to the imperial family or House Achea will be subject to tolls." Lisidor''s fingers tightened around his cup. Ah, there it is. A setback. He allowed himself a quiet moment of reflection. Yet... even with those terms, the offer remains exceedingly generous. His mind raced with possibilities, the weight of opportunity being more oppressive than that of the risks. Lord Marthio''s desire to bring back the island of Harmway as part of the Crown''s lands was undeniable, who after all would give away the meat to eat the bones?When he could have the whole leg? He knew the island''s strategic and financial importance, its tolls enriching the imperial coffers year after year. However, his current circumstances¡ªcaught in the throes of a civil war and stretched thin by the expedition to retake the Gods'' Fingers¡ªprevented him from moving forward with the necessary action to reclaim it for the Crown. The pirates were a growing threat, but the question remained: should he allow them to remain for a few more years, or take the opportunity to expel them, granting the majority of the spoils to another house? With the current situation in mind, Lord Marthio leaned toward the latter option, choosing the course of action that would grant him political leverage while still achieving a victory for the empire. Lord Isidor, sensing the direction of the conversation, smiled coolly. "I am more than willing to deliver imperial justice upon those sea rats," he said, his voice calm but firm. "However, there are some clauses I would like to have met first." Marthio''s expression shifted slightly, and he nodded, gesturing for his guest to continue. "Go on," he said, his tone expectant. Lord Isidor leaned forward, his eyes steady. "First, I would like to choose the commander of the expedition.Be it me , or someone from my household, given that the majority of the fleet will be composed by my men, I believe that is only fair that I am the one to choose the commander. " Marthio listened intently, clearly contemplating the request, but his brow furrowed slightly as Isidor continued. "Second," Lord Isidor said, "I would like the first year since the subjugation of Harmway to be entirely free from tolls to any ships. The second year, once the island is firmly under our control, we will resume the obligation to the Crown, but the twenty percent will apply then. I will need this to offset the significant investment in silver and gold that the expedition will require." His voice was firm, and he allowed a pause for effect. "It''s only fair that I be allowed to recoup the costs of such an undertaking." Lord Marthio leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping thoughtfully on the table as he processed the request. No tolls for the first year... he thought, considering the implications. Still a small payment to bring the pirates to heel. And in the long run, it would serve the empire''s interest, even if it means losing out for a time. He knew that the deal was acceptable given the current situation¡ªthe pirate threat could not be allowed to fester, and the resources required for the campaign were considerable. The potential to solidify his relationship with House Veritia, whom proved to be a fervent supporter of the Acheian faction and gain the island back under imperial control made this a favorable bargain. After a few moments of silent contemplation, Marthio nodded, conceding. "Very well," he said, his voice steady. "I agree to your terms. I will soon issue the charter officially relinquishing ownership of Harmway to House Veritia." Lord Isidor''s lips curled into a satisfied smile as he leaned back in his chair. "I trust this will be a successful venture for both our houses, your Grace." ''''As do I, lord Isidor...'''' Said the regent mimicking Isidor''s attitude. Chapter 288: Raise the hoes(1) Chapter 288: Raise the hoes(1) Two soldiers sat on overturned crates near the edge of a sprawling refugee camp. The air was heavy with the mingling smells of unwashed bodies and meager cooking fires. Their armor was dented, their boots caked with mud. One leaned on his spear, muttering under his breath. "Portions''ve been gettin'' smaller by the day," the first soldier grumbled not only about his , casting a glance toward a group of refugees huddled around a cookpot, but of everybody . "Folk are gettin'' restless. Saw a couple of ''em shovin'' each other on the line for supper, which soo'' tuned into fistin''." His companion scratched the back of his neck, his face drawn in a frown. "Aye, I heard. And I''ll tell ya somethin'' worse¡ªthere''s talk the carts bringin'' food were ambushed. Bandits took the lot." The first soldier straightened, turning sharply. "Bandits? You havin'' me on?" His voice rose slightly, incredulous.''''Where ya heard that horseshit?'''' "Wish It was," the second replied, spitting on the ground. "I believe it''s why the supplies ain''t shown up like they oughta. Couple o'' blokes say the roads to the city ain''t safe no more." The first soldier cursed under his breath, glancing toward the watchtower where a handful of other guards were posted. "So what, we''e just gonna sit here?They really now going to let these folk starve ''cause some rat-faced brigands got greedy?" "Don''t ask me," the second muttered with a shrug. "All I know is if them'' carts don''t come soon, we''e gonna have more trouble tha'' just bandits.'''' The first soldier spat on the ground, his face twisting in anger. "Damn Yarzats," he growled, gripping his spear tighter. "They burnt down every bloody village between here and the border. Torched all the food stores, left nothin'' but ash. All this¡ª" he gestured toward the camp, where refugees wandered listlessly, "¡ªis on them." The second soldier nodded grimly. "Aye. And now look, we''re the ones dealin'' with their bloody mess. If it ain''t the bandits, it''s the beggars, scrappin'' over crumbs. Hell of a time to be a soldier, eh?" The first soldier sneered, his voice dropping low and venomous. "And that bitch. She''s to blame for this, her and that husband of hers. High and mighty in their castle while we clean up their shi-'''' The conversation was interrupted however by the distant sound of shouting¡ªa low, angry murmur that quickly grew into a chaotic uproar. The two soldiers turned their heads sharply, their expressions taut with alarm. From within the sprawling refugee camp, tents swayed as if buffeted by a storm, the ruckus growing louder by the second. "What''s that racket?" the first soldier muttered, already rising to his feet. Before the second could respond, a cry split the air: "They''re revolting!" The shout sent a ripple of tension through the soldiers nearby. Men began moving swiftly toward the source of the noise, their hands instinctively reaching for weapons. From their vantage, the two soldiers could see a mass of people¡ªhundreds, no, nearly a thousand refugees¡ªpressing forward in a tide of fury. The handful of soldiers at the forefront stood no chance, their cries of pain and terror cut short as the mob descended upon them, tearing them apart with desperate hands and whatever weapons they could muster. "Shit, they''re tearing through!" the second soldier cursed, scrambling to grab his spear. The first soldier spat another curse, his face pale but resolute. "Bloody hell, they''ve gone mad! Get yer arse up, we''re gonna need every man!" The two rushed to join the gathering lines of their comrades, the camp now a maelstrom of chaos sa apparently the story about the bandits was not a load of horseshit. The mob surged forward, a chaotic wave bodies. Amid the turmoil, something swung wildly in the air, catching the soldiers'' attention. From a distance, it looked like a piece of wood¡ªa crude weapon, perhaps, wielded by one of the desperate refugees. But as the mob drew closer, a sickening realization dawned. It wasn''t wood. It was a child, limp and emaciated. The figures swung the body overhead like a banner, their hoarse screams lost in the roar of the advancing crowd. "Gods above," one soldier whispered, his knuckles whitening as he tightened his grip on his spear. "They''ve lost their bloody minds.They gonna kill us!" "Shut it!" barked another, the fear in his voice thinly veiled with anger. "Hold the line!They are starve'' and w'' got the weapon" The soldiers braced themselves, shields locked tightly together in a wall of iron and determination. The mob slammed into them with a roar, a mess of hands, makeshift weapons, and raw desperation. The line buckled but held firm, the soldiers digging their heels into the dirt as they pushed back against the human tide. The air was filled with a cacophony of screams, curses, and the thud of bodies colliding against shields. Bloodied faces pressed against the soldiers'' defenses, and trembling hands reached out in frenzied attempts to grab at their armor or pull them down. "Push! Push them back!" came the command, and the soldiers heaved forward as one, forcing the mob to stumble back a step. But the refugees, driven by hunger and despair, threw themselves at the shields again and again, each assault more feral than the last. A soldier at the front gritted his teeth, his shield trembling under the force of the mob''s assault. With a fierce shove, he drove the refugee in front of him backward, sending the man stumbling into the crowd. In one swift motion, he thrust his spear forward, the sharp tip plunging into another attacker''s chest, one of the many . Blood sprayed, and the refugee crumpled to the ground with a guttural cry, blood oozing out of his stomach along his guts. But before the soldier could recover retract the spear and get back into formation , hands clamped around his arm¡ªtwo sets of them. Desperate fingers dug into the chainmail and the leather straps beneath, wrenching him forward with unnatural strength born of sheer madness. He staggered, his balance lost, and was dragged over the line of shields. "Help! Pull me back!" he shouted reaching his hand too far from his comrades . But it was too late. The mob engulfed him, dragging him down into the thrashing, screaming sea of bodies. His comrades could do nothing but watch in horror as the man was torn apart with bare hands¡ªfingers clawing at his armor, prying off pieces of protection, teeth sinking into exposed flesh mimicking what weapon would. Further down the line, another soldier cried out as a refugee swung a jagged piece of wood, shattering the shield he held. The soldier retaliated with a quick, brutal slash of his sword, cutting down the attacker. Yet as one fell, two more took their place, lunging forward with rocks and fists. He barely had time to react as one caught him off guard, smashing his helm with a heavy stone. He stumbled, dazed, and the mob surged forward, swallowing him whole. More skirmishes erupted along the line. Soldiers pushed and thrust their spears, driving back the relentless tide of rage and hunger, only to lose ground as others fell to the ferocity of the mob. Refugees clawed and bit like wild beasts, their eyes wide with desperation, their movements uncoordinated but overwhelming in sheer numbers. Shouts of command mingled with screams of agony and the wet thud of flesh and bone meeting steel The soldiers formed a thin, desperate line at the camp''s entrance, their shields locked tightly together in a fragile wall of steel and determination. Only a hundred men stood between the raging mob and total chaos, their ranks stretched precariously thin. Behind them, the camp''s narrow entrance funneled the assault into one point, the only thing preventing the thousand-strong horde from swarming them entirely. Each push from the mob sent ripples through the shield wall, the soldiers grunting and straining as they held their ground. The refugees, maddened by hunger and despair, hurled themselves against the line with reckless abandon. Bodies slammed into shields, the impact reverberating through the ranks as feet slid against the churned mud beneath them. "Hold the line!" the only sergeant present there bellowed,suddendly cursing his luck at being the head in charge of this shit-show, his voice hoarse from repeated commands. His spear jabbed forward, driving back a man wielding a makeshift club. The blow staggered the attacker, but another immediately took his place, forcing the sergeant to brace himself once more. "Stand back, ya'' bastards!'''' A soldier shouted as he desperately held on to his shield, the only thing protecting him from the thousand pair of hands of hungry men and women out for their blood. The wall buckled as more refugees surged forward, their weight and numbers threatening to break the soldiers'' formation. The defenders pushed back with all their might, the sound of shields groaning under pressure mixing with screams of fury and pain. A soldier near the center cried out as a refugee''s hands grabbed the edge of his shield, pulling it downward. A jagged rock came swinging toward his head, and he barely ducked in time, the rock glancing off his helm with a sharp clang. He shoved forward, driving his shield into the attacker''s chest, but the force of the push sent him stumbling backward. "Brace up, damn it!" another soldier shouted, his voice panicked as the line wavered, the hope of making it out alive becoming smaller and smaller, as the pression only grew stronger and stronger, as the gods themselves appeared to have made their choice. Chapter 289: Raise the hoes(2) Chapter 289: Raise the hoes(2) Spears jabbed and thrust into the crowd, piercing through ragged clothing and starved flesh, but each fallen attacker was replaced by two more. The air was thick with the cries of rage, pain, and desperation, mingling with the dull clang of weapons against shields and the wet thuds of blows landing on flesh, followed by body hitting the ground. A soldier near the center of the line gritted his teeth as he drove his spear into the stomach of a refugee. The man fell with a choking gasp, but before the soldier could pull his weapon free, two others seized the shaft, yanking it from his hands. Their faces, gaunt and hollow with starvation, twisted with fury as they lunged at him. The soldier raised his shield just in time, catching one across the chest, but the other grabbed his arm and pulled him forward. "Help me gods!" the soldier screamed, his voice filled with terror as he was dragged into the crowd. His comrades tried to reach him, their spears stabbing wildly, but the mob swarmed him, fists and rocks crashing down in a frenzied storm. Within moments, his cries were drowned out by the roar of the mob. Further down the line, another soldier swung his sword in a wide arc, the blade slicing into the shoulder of a refugee armed with a crude club. The refugee fell back with a guttural scream, but his place was immediately taken by another who hurled himself at the soldier, grabbing him by the throat. The two grappled violently, the soldier''s sword clattering to the ground as he struggled to break free. A comrade rushed to his aid, driving a spear through the attacker''s back. At the edges of the line, the soldiers were faring no better. A small group had broken off to secure a weak point, their shields raised against a torrent of makeshift weapons. A jagged piece of wood slammed against one soldier''s shield, splintering into shards, but the force knocked him off balance. Before he could recover, a rock crashed into his knee, and he crumpled to the ground with a scream. The mob surged over him like a wave, trampling him underfoot as they pressed forward. Despite the chaos, the sergeant bellowed commands, his voice raw. "Push them back! Don''t let them through!'''' Amidst the chaos, one soldier found himself surrounded, his shield shattered and his sword lost. He swung his fists wildly, punching and shoving anyone who came near, but the mob descended on him like predators on prey. A man smashed a stone into his side, and he crumpled with a cry. Another leaped onto his back, clawing and biting, while others kicked and stomped. His comrades could only watch helplessly, unable to reach him without breaking the line. The shield wall trembled under the assault, the soldiers'' boots digging into the mud as they struggled to hold firm. They were outnumbered ten to one, their strength waning as the mob''s fury showed no sign of abating. Blood splattered the ground, mingling with the filth of the camp, as the battle raged on in a desperate, savage struggle for survival. "We are hungry!" they roared, their cries reverberating through the camp. "We deserve food too!" The words were filled with raw desperation and fury, echoing like a battle cry as they surged forward against the soldiers'' shield wall. Another voice bellowed from deep within the crowd, soon picked up by dozens more. "No more starving! No more lies!" The chorus became a relentless rhythm, each shout punctuated by the dull thud of bodies slamming into shields and the crash of rocks hurled at the soldiers. "We die, or you feed us!" The chants came from every direction, overlapping and swelling into a cacophony that seemed to shake the very ground. The mob, though ragged and starved, seemed empowered by their unity, their voices forming an unbreakable force even as their bodies fell under the soldiers'' spears. "We deserve to live!" The shield wall, already teetering on the edge of collapse, began to buckle as the relentless force of the mob pushed against it. With each shove, more gaps opened, exposing soldiers to the frenzied hands of the starving crowd. Through the breaches, refugees swarmed in, their emaciated faces twisted with rage and desperation. Each opening in the wall became a floodgate, allowing more of the mob to pour through, overwhelming the defenders with sheer numbers. The once-disciplined line became a scattering of individuals fighting for survival, their cohesion shattered. "Hold the line!" a soldier shouted, but his voice was lost in the chaos. One of the soldiers, gripping his shield with trembling hands, watched in horror as a comrade was dragged into the throng, screaming as he disappeared beneath a sea of fists and makeshift weapons. The sight broke his resolve. "It''s over! We''re done for!" he cried, tossing his spear aside and bolting toward the open fields. His desperate retreat was a signal to the others, who began to follow, weapons and shields clattering to the ground as they abandoned their posts. Even the sergeant, who had held his ground for a moment longer, looked around at the chaos and the hopelessness of the situation. The entrance was no longer defensible, and the soldiers were moments away from being completely surrounded. With a grimace, he turned and ran, not bothering to issue orders or rally the men. The remaining soldiers, seeing their leader flee, succumbed to panic. "Run! Save yourselves!" one shouted, and the camp''s defenders dissolved into a full-blown rout, scattering in all directions as the mob surged forward, chanting and roaring with newfound triumph The mob didn''t bother chasing after the fleeing soldiers; their goal was never bloodshed but survival. Like a tidal wave, they surged toward the carts stacked with food supplies. Starved bodies jostled and pushed against each other, desperate to be the first to reach the precious cargo. Hands clawed at sacks of grain and bundles of dried meat, tearing them open as the contents spilled to the ground. Some stuffed handfuls of grain directly into their mouths, ignoring the gritty texture as they chewed frantically. Others grabbed whatever could be eaten raw¡ªfruits, cured meat, and even unripe vegetables¡ªdevouring it with trembling hands. A man clutching a sack of grain was tackled by another who wrestled it from his grasp. The two scuffled on the ground, fists flying as the sack ripped, spilling its contents. People around them dove to collect the spilled grain, scooping it up by the handful and cramming it into their mouths or pockets. Near the carts, a woman shouted to a small group. "Get the pots! Start the fires! Boil the grain before we waste it all!" Her voice was barely heard above the chaos, but a few obeyed, scrambling to gather what they could and set up makeshift cooking stations. Some started to boil water in dented pots salvaged from the camp, pouring grain into the bubbling liquid to prepare a crude porridge. Meanwhile, fights broke out elsewhere. A child clung to a small bundle of bread, only to have it ripped away by a desperate man. The child screamed, but the man, with tears streaming down his face, shoved a piece into his mouth, unable to resist the pull of hunger even if that small satisfaction came from stealing it from a child. Amid the chaos, a few in the crowd, their stomachs no longer clawing at them with the same urgency, began to look around and realize what they had done. The blood on their hands¡ªthe corpses of soldiers torn apart in their fury. A man, clutching a half-eaten piece of bread, sank to the ground as the reality hit him. What have we done? he thought, staring at the broken spears and scattered shields of the soldiers. A woman nearby, cradling a child who finally nibbled on a scrap of meat, glanced at the carnage and muttered, "The prince... he won''t forgive this. We have killed his soldier." She hugged the child tighter. Another man, crouched by a fire with a pot of porridge, looked up with haunted eyes. "There''s no going back now," he whispered to no one in particular. "We''re not refugees anymore... we''re outlaws." His voice trembled as he stared at the horizon, where the soldiers had fled. "The prince will hunt us down. He''ll make examples of us." They had crossed a line they could never retreat from. Their hunger had driven them to rebellion, and in their desperation, they had destroyed the fragile order that once held them. To stay here was to await judgment; to flee was to embrace a life of banditry. Their fears were well-founded. Lechlian, already struggling under the weight of endless demands, would undoubtedly seize this opportunity to reduce the overwhelming number of mouths to feed. A quarter of them, at the very least, would be cut down¡ªwhether through execution or by being sold into slavery. The latter option was fraught with risks to his reputation. Selling his own people into bondage would tarnish his image as a just ruler. Yet, with his current dire straits, reputation held little sway. The prince''s armories were empty, his coffers drained, and his soldiers ill-equipped. Thousands of refugees swelled his lands, and the last harvest had yielded only enough to scrape by. The uprising only worsened his predicament, forcing harsh measures to the forefront. In such a desperate situation, practicality would outweigh pride. If selling the rebels to southern markets meant filling his treasury and easing the strain on his dwindling food supply, Lechlian might very well choose infamy over inaction. For the prince, survival¡ªboth his own and that of his realm¡ªwas the only priority left. For the starved there was only one path forward ''Rising up in rebellion''. Chapter 290: Improving the defence Chapter 290: Improving the defence Rykio sat atop his horse, gazing down at the village that had once been the scene of his triumph against the pirates. The charred remnants of the old skirmish were mostly gone, replaced by the beginnings of new wooden structures. The village hummed with the sound of labor as men and women worked in unison, their faces etched with determination. Villagers hauled logs, their shoulders straining under the weight as they carried them toward the village center. A group of workers, armed with axes, set about cutting off the ends of the logs, their rhythmic chopping filling the air. The freshly sharpened points gleamed in the sunlight, a rudimentary yet necessary effort to prepare the timber for its defensive purpose. Nearby, others wielded shovels and hoes, digging furiously into the earth to create deep, narrow trenches. Sweat dripped from their brows , as they worked in order to ensure the logs could be driven securely into the ground. What they were building right now were not houses but palisades and trenches. Rykio sat astride his horse, observing the organized chaos. His gaze swept over the bustling workers, mentally planning the palisade''s construction. The design would be simple¡ªa sturdy defensive barrier encircling the inner part of the village. It would never be enough to protect the entire settlement, but it wasn''t meant to. The palisade''s purpose was simply to safeguard the central area where the warehouse containing all the food stood. By protecting the stored food and grain, Rykio knew he could at least make sure the village did not starve. A week ago, he , like many others had received a royal decree¡ªthough he thought of it more as Alpheo''s decree¡ªaddressed to all captains charged with defending the coastal regions. The instructions had been precise, ambitious, and firm. Each captain was to oversee the construction of defenses in every village within their jurisdiction. Villages would also form militias, composed of able-bodied locals that would defend the village until help arrived, so at least the amount of damage they would receive would be lower. What caught Rykio''s attention most was the clause granting him expanded powers over nearby city garrisons. With this authority, a military captain could requisition up to half their soldiers from any town and castle , either to bolster defenses or to serve as laborers for construction efforts. Alpheo''s decree came with a private addendum addressed to each captain. In it, he assured them that the militias they formed would be equipped with weapons and armor sent directly from the capital. For Alpheo, this was no empty promise; a steady stream of equipment flowed into Yarzat every month from the Empire, and diverting it to the coastal defenses posed no logistical issue. Rykio''s feelings on the matter were mixed. On one hand, he couldn''t deny the logic behind the plan. Every village equipped with basic defenses and a militia capable of holding out for even a few hours would reduce the devastation of future raids. In most cases, help could arrive from nearby garrisons in time to prevent total disaster. On the other hand, the decree demanded immense effort from his already stretched forces. For at least a month, his men would be consumed by construction and training duties. To manage the workload, Rykio had divided his lieutenants among the villages in his jurisdiction. Each lieutenant was instructed to oversee the training of village militias, teaching them the fundamentals of defense¡ªhow to hold a line, wield basic weapons, and act in coordination. Meanwhile, villagers worked tirelessly to erect palisades and trenches under the supervision of Rykio''s soldiers. Despite his reservations, Rykio understood the great importance given by the prince to the initiative. Villages that could defend themselves, even for a short time, would no longer fall victim to the complete destruction that typically followed pirate raids. The fires that gutted homes and granaries after every attack would be less frequent. And with fortifications and training in place, there would be less need to send costly aid from the capital to rebuild what was lost¡ªa burden the prince had vowed to reduce, since it amounted at a good 2,000 silverri per month. As Rykio''s eyes moved from the villagers to his right, he saw the face of his young squire coming forward, with his his horse''s hooves kicking up light puffs of dust along the village road. His posture was slumped, his gaze fixed downward in an unmistakable display of discontent. Being demoted to the role of private messenger between Rykio and Joanne was a far cry from what he imagined his duties would entail. As they passed a line of villagers working on a palisade, Svenn broke the silence. "Joanne wanted me to ask if you''ll be home to have supper together," he said, his voice carrying a hint of resignation. For all his complaints about the more work, Rykio did find some solace in the current arrangement. Settling in the village wasn''t all bad, particularly since he and Joanne had taken the mayor''s house for themselves. A smug thought crossed his mind: At least we''re not stuck in the barracks like the others. "Tell her I''ll be home immediately after dawn this time,and that I want meat today" he said, his words steady as if to leave no room for interpretation about his craves . Svenn let out a small sigh, tugging on the reins to turn his horse around. "Fine, fine," he muttered, more to himself than to Rykio. With a reluctant kick, he urged his steed into a brisk trot back toward the village to deliver the message, leaving Rykio to his thoughts. With Svenn going away , the captain stood at the edge of a makeshift training ground, his arms crossed as he surveyed the forty men assembled before him. They moved in rough formation, each gripping a spear. At his command, they stepped forward in unison, thrusting their weapons forward with uneven but determined precision. The dull thud of wooden shafts against straw targets echoed across the area. A second group of twenty stood farther back, clutching slings crafted from strips of leather and woven cloth. With practiced movements, they loaded stones into their slings and hurled them at makeshift hay targets scattered around the field. The stones sailed through the air, striking the targets with satisfying cracks, though not every shot hit its mark. Rykio''s sharp gaze noted their efforts. He had chosen to focus on the simplest and most effective tactics: teaching the men how to thrust with spears and training a second line to pelt attackers with stones. Spears were straightforward to use, and even the untrained could quickly learn to deliver a deadly thrust. Slingers, meanwhile, could easily gather piles of stones, which were both abundant and cost nothing. From behind the walls, they could provide crucial support by harassing and weakening the flanks of any attacking force. The results weren''t perfect, but Rykio had little choice. Supplies were limited, and he had to work with what he had. The first batch of equipment had arrived a week ago¡ªa modest delivery of twenty chainmail shirts and fifty spearheads per village. It was hardly sufficient, but it was something. For the slingers, Rykio had ordered the villagers to fashion their own tools using whatever materials they could find. Ropes with strips of cloth or cured hides had been turned into serviceable slings. They were crude but effective, and that was all that mattered. Rykio walked steadily along the line of villagers, his boots crunching on the hard-packed dirt as he observed their movements. Each man clutched a spear, their grips uneven, their stances wavering. He stopped in front of a wiry young man, whose trembling arms barely kept the spear level. "Stop shaking," Rykio said sharply. "This isn''t a toy, and your life will depend on it." The young man froze, straightening his back and tightening his grip. Rykio nodded and stepped closer. "Your spear is an extension of your arm. If you hold it like a loose branch, it''ll betray you. Grip it firmly, but don''t tense up. Find balance." He placed his hand over the villager''s, adjusting his grip. Then he stepped back and motioned for the man to thrust. The spear shot forward in a jerky motion, but it landed squarely on the straw target. "Better," Rykio said. "Do it again." He turned his attention to the others. Some were faring better, their movements more fluid. Others still struggled, their stances wide and clumsy. "Don''t plant your feet so close!" he barked at another the end of the line. "You''ll trip over yourself. Shoulder-width apart, like this." He demonstrated, planting his feet and stepping forward in a smooth, deliberate motion, thrusting his spear toward an invisible enemy. The man nodded and adjusted his stance. His next thrust was noticeably improved. Rykio moved to the back of the group, where the slingers were practicing. The rhythmic whirl of leather slings filled the air, punctuated by the sharp crack of stones hitting hay targets. Rykio cast a glance at the slingers as they struggled to master their weapons. Their movements were clumsy, with some barely managing to launch their stones beyond a few paces. He sighed quietly and turned his back on them. Slings were not his expertise, and he saw no point in wasting time pretending otherwise. Despite the grumbles and doubts of some of his lieutenants, who had dismissed the idea of training peasants with spears as a waste of time, Rykio remained resolute. He understood the broader strategy behind this effort, even if they did not. The pirates who plagued these coasts were not hardened soldiers. They were opportunistic sailors,maybe some were even peasants who in winter seeking easy plunder and vulnerable targets took up the seas. Villages with no defenses offered them everything they wanted¡ªfood, livestock, coin, and the satisfaction of seeing their victims flee in terror. But Rykio envisioned a different reality. He saw villages fortified with simple palisades, each with a core of defenders who could hold spears steady and hurl stones from behind makeshift walls. When pirates landed on such shores, they would find resistance where there was once none. "They''ll think twice," Rykio muttered to himself, his eyes scanning the villagers'' progress. "When they see walls rising, men and boys stands ready with a spear, and slingers rain stones on them like hail..." He turned his eyes toward the sea "They''ll realize it''s not worth it. Losing men for scraps of food and a few copper coins? They''ll take their ships elsewhere." He knew it wouldn''t stop the piracy entirely¡ªnothing ever truly did. But as more and more villages became fortified strongholds, the pirates would begin to avoid these shores. Their focus would shift to easier targets: other princedoms, or the unprepared coastal holdings of lords who hadn''t taken the same precautions. In any case it would not be their problems anymore. Of course not everybody could employ such tactics. First and foremost, it necessitated arming peasants¡ªan inherently risky endeavor, provided one had such a GREAT deal of weapons. Providing arms to common folk could easily backfire if they found sufficient cause to rise in revolt. The dangers were undeniable, but Alpheo carried this risk with confidence. Unlike most lords, whose incomes were heavily reliant on land taxes, Alpheo''s financial stability came from alternative sources. The royal fiefs, therefore, operated under a much lighter tax burden. While the villagers in other lords'' domains often groaned under a crushing 40% tithe on their harvests, Alpheo''s subjects paid only 25%. The second requirement was no less daunting: having enough capable men to train the villagers in basic combat skills. This was no simple task. While many lords depended on local militias or conscripts during times of war, Alpheo was unique in maintaining a standing force of professional soldiers. It was from this core of disciplined men that he drew the trainers now scattered across his lands and that were teaching to his subjects how to defend themselves until help arrived.. Chapter 291: The hunt Chapter 291: The hunt The long-awaited tribal hunt that Egil had called for before the marriage ceremony finally commenced, though it was quickly overshadowed by unforeseen complications. Egil, Alpheo, and Jarza had envisioned a traditional hunt, as they used to do when they went in search of meat in forest during their long march south after they regained their freedom. However, their plans met an immovable obstacle: Jasmine. Determined to ensure Alpheo''s safety, Jasmine had ordered the eighty knights assigned to guard the prince to remain at his side at all times. Their steadfast presence, though well-intentioned, turned the hunt into an exercise in futility. The sheer number of knights, clad in their heavy armor and thundering hooves, made it impossible to approach any game quietly. Animals that might have been viable prey scattered long before the party could get within striking distance. For Egil, this was an affront to the spirit of the sacred hunt. They had hoped to bond with Alpheo in the ancient tradition of the his tribes, stalking their prey as one with the land, celebrating their connection to nature. After much deliberation, and reluctance from Alpheo, the group made a difficult decision: Egil and Jarza would press on without the prince. It was a painful but necessary compromise. The royal hunt, as Jasmine and the nobility envisioned, would have seen the knights capturing an animal for Alpheo to slaughter while it was restrained and bounded ¡ªa far cry from the authentic experience Egil intended. Alpheo, though dismayed, understood their reasoning. His safety came at a price, and while he longed to take part in the hunt as they used to , he had no choice but to relent. Left behind with his knights, he watched as the others melted into the dense foliage, their spears and bows ready. -------------- Jarza crouched low, his broad frame blending surprisingly well with the dense undergrowth. Ahead of him, Egil knelt with his head nearly to the ground, his sharp eyes scrutinizing faint tracks in the soil. They had been following the trail for the better part of half an hour, but the ease with which Egil navigated the wilderness was nothing short of impressive. "You''re good at this," Jarza muttered, his deep voice carrying a note of reluctant admiration as he glanced at Egil, who was hunched over, studying the faint traces on the forest floor. Egil didn''t bother to look up but allowed a faint smirk to play on his lips. "Good enough to keep us from starving back in Arlania,every week I either hunted game or stole sheep and goats from villages" he replied lightly. After a pause, he leaned in closer "On the steppes, though, hunting was a whole different game. We used hawks always on horseback. But when my father brought us to the empire, everything changed. Horses stumble in the forest, and hawks are useless under the canopy. He taught me to hunt like this¡ªon foot, reading the signs in hoofprints and animal''shit." Jarza raised an eyebrow, his expression half-amused, half-thoughtful. "My father never taught me anything like that," he admitted with a wry chuckle. "He was more interested in drowning himself in wine and wasting coin on whores after my mother died. Until the first killed him. I''ll admit, I kind of envy you." Egil straightened, his sharp eyes softening for a moment. He clapped a hand firmly on Jarza''s shoulder. "That''s because I''m one of a kind," he quipped with a grin. "A true genius. No point in measuring yourself against perfection." Jarza snorted and shook his head. "Genius, my ass," he muttered before giving Egil a good-natured shove that sent him sprawling onto the forest floor. Egil landed with a theatrical grunt, brushing dirt off his tunic as he sat up. "Geez," he grumbled with mock indignation. "Always so quick to use your fists." Jarza let out a low sigh, his gaze sweeping the dense forest around them. "I wish Alpheo could be here too," he said, his voice tinged with disappointment. Egil chuckled, a mischievous glint lighting his eyes. "Well, apparently, the man handed over his balls as bridal gift" he said with a bark of laughter, shaking his head as though the thought were too ridiculous to believe. "I mean, why the hell would he take orders from his wife? Isn''t he supposed to be the man in the marriage? The one who makes the decisions?" Jarza shot him a sharp look, his brow furrowing in disapproval. But Egil, undeterred, leaned back, his grin widening. "Alpheo''s always been a paradox, hasn''t he? One moment, he''s leading a slave revolt¡ªactually winning it, mind you¡ªand the next, he''s meek as a lamb the second she raises an eyebrow. It''s like he''s got two personalities stuffed into one body." "Or maybe," Jarza interjected, his tone heavy with meaning, "he just understands what''s at stake. You ever think of that? She''s the reason we''re all sitting pretty right now. If she hadn''t backed him, our so-called good life wouldn''t exist." Egil paused, his smirk faltering. "Fair point," he admitted begrudgingly. "Though let''s not pretend she had much of a choice. A blade to your throat tends to make decisions for you. Still, I''ll give her this: She''s sharper than most recognizing an opportunity . Her princedom was weak as a starving pup when she took over¡ªripe for anyone''s plucking. And now?" He gestured vaguely, his tone tinged with reluctant admiration. "It''s strong enough to hold its own. Damn near unshakeable. I mean, look at two months ago¡ªAlpheo wiped the floor with Lechlian, and yet somehow, now, he''s too scared to stand up to his wife?" Jarza''s expression darkened like storm clouds rolling in. His eyes locked onto Egil with an intensity that cut like a blade. "Mind your words," he said, his voice a low growl. "He''s the reason we''re lords, Egil. The reason we command soldiers, own lands, and have peasants who toil for us instead of the other way around. Speak like that in jest all you want, but know this¡ªsome jokes are better left unsaid." Egil shifted uncomfortably under the weight of Jarza''s words, his cocky demeanor visibly dampened. "Our fate," Jarza continued, his voice gaining a steely edge, "was to die as slaves¡ªbroken, nameless, and forgotten. Yet here we are, basking in wealth and power, because of him. But that''s not why we owe him respect." His gaze grew distant, his tone softening as if he were choosing his words with care. "The gods could strip me of every gift Alpheo''s given me¡ªmy lands, my title, this very sword at my side¡ªand I''d still follow him. Not out of gratitude or duty, but because I need to see it through. I need to witness what he''ll accomplish. What a man who started with nothing can achieve before the end of his days¡ªor mine." Jarza tilted his head back, staring at the patch of sky visible through the treetops. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows over his face. "You know," he began, his voice tinged with a rare wistfulness, "the week after the revolt, I asked Alpheo what his dream was. What drove him through all of it¡ªthe chains, the blood, the misery¡ªwhen the rest of us had nothing left. He was the one who kept hope alive when we couldn''t." "And?" Egil asked, leaning forward despite himself, his curiosity piqued. Jarza''s lips curled into a faint smile, a mix of reverence and disbelief. "He told me. And at the time, I thought he was mad¡ªmore than usual, anyway. But now? Now, seeing what he''s built, I realize just how close he is to making that madness a reality." Egil frowned, intrigued despite himself. "What was his dream?" Jarza''s smile widened, a glimmer of admiration shining through his otherwise stern demeanor. "He said he wanted to sit on a throne higher than any other, with his banner flying over lands so vast it could blot out the sun. He wanted people to bow before him, not out of fear or duty, but with the reverence they''d show to an angel¡ªor a demon. He wanted to carve out a dynasty so powerful, its name would live for a thousand years." Jarza chuckled softly, shaking his head as though still processing the enormity of it. "And of course, I called it horseshit back then." Egil stared at him, dumbfounded. Then, slowly, he shook his head, a smirk creeping back onto his face. "You''re right. That does sound like horseshit." Jarza laughed, a low, rumbling sound. "Maybe it is. But here''s the thing, Egil¡ªhe''s already halfway there." Jarza turned to him, his voice heavy with conviction. "We''ve been honored by the gods, Egil. Honored to have met him, to follow him. And to witness him building that dream¡ªa dream that no slave should have ever dared to think, let alone chase." Silence stretched between them for a moment,when suddendly the stillness of the forest was shattered by the guttural roar of a boar, its deep, savage grunts reverberating through the underbrush like an omen. Jarza and Egil froze for a moment, their eyes locking before their training took over. Jarza''s hand flew to his bow, his fingers nimbly nocking an arrow, while Egil pulled a javelin from the quiver on his back, his muscles tensing like a coiled spring. The boar burst from the shadows like a storm given flesh. Its hulking frame bristled with wiry hair, its tusks gleaming sharp and lethal in the dappled light. Egil''s lips twitched into a satisfied grin. A boar this size was a worthy challenge¡ªa beast like this would make their hunt a tale to remember. According to his traditions, the more dangerous the prey, the greater the blessing for the union. But the boar was too far for a javelin to strike true. Egil gave Jarza a nod, the unspoken signal clear. Jarza exhaled, raising his bow with practiced precision despite the pounding of his heart. He drew the string tight, his breath steadying as he aimed for the boar''s flank. The arrow sliced through the air and struck home, burying itself deep into the beast''s thick hide. The boar let out an enraged bellow, its fury shaking the forest. The wound, far from slowing it, seemed only to ignite its wrath. It charged, each thunderous step pounding against the earth, tusks lowered like a battering ram as no arrow could kill such an animal. "Here it comes!" Egil barked, stepping forward, his stance firm as he prepared to meet the beast head-on. The arrow had done its job; it had provoked the boar, ensuring it wouldn''t retreat. Jarza discarded his bow, seizing his spear with a grim determination. His breath was steady now, his grip tight as he prepared for what was to come. Egil, meanwhile, hefted his javelin, its polished tip gleaming as he braced himself to throw. A spear might stop the beast, but a well-thrown javelin was their best chance to halt its deadly momentum, allowing for Jarza to deliver the final touch. As the boar barreled toward them, Egil hurled the javelin with a burst of raw power. The weapon flew straight and true, striking the boar in the chest with a sickening crunch. The beast stumbled, its charge slowing as blood streamed from the wound. Yet, even impaled, it pressed forward, driven by a primal will to fight. Now was the moment. Jarza lunged forward, his spear held firm in both hands. With a roar of his own, he drove the weapon deep into the beast''s neck, the force of the thrust knocking the boar off its feet. The beast''s body convulsed before it slumped to the ground with a final, bone-shaking crash. They stood over the fallen boar, their chests heaving, hands trembling from the rush of adrenaline. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the earlier tension replaced by an almost reverent stillness. Egil broke the silence with a sharp exhale, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "That''ll wake you up, for sure," he said, a wry grin tugging at his lips. Jarza chuckled, his voice still unsteady. "Good enough to call it a day?" he asked, as he took out the spear , holding it still in his hand, though now it was more for balance than defense. Egil nodded, his grin widening. "Yeah, I''d say we''ve earned it." Chapter 292: Friends marriage Chapter 292: Friend''s marriage Alpheo''s lips curved faintly into a smile that didn''t quite reach his eyes as he nodded at yet another lord who excused himself after a brief exchange with him . Another one, he mused. This was far removed from the cold detachment they had displayed during his first year, right after Jasmine''s coronation. Back then, the nobles had treated the crown like a glass bauble¡ªfragile, decorative, and utterly powerless. Now, their tone had changed. Alpheo turned away from the departing noble, his practiced smile vanishing the moment the man was out of sight. His expression grew neutral as he leaned slightly toward Laedio, who stood at his side. "What are we at now?" Alpheo asked quietly Laedio adjusted his stance, his tone equally subdued. "twelve." Alpheo''s eyes scanned the hall, his thoughts flickering between the lords who had approached. Twelve so far, each one offering hollow congratulations to the groom while spending considerably more time conversing with him, the prince. The pattern was clear. Their presence was less about celebrating the union and more about currying favor with him. Not that he was dissatisfied about it , totally the opposite, as it allowed him to at least gouge the results of his hard work. He had been right to take the offensive. The military victories, just as he had predicted, proved to be the essential boost to legitimacy he could never claim through his blood . The truth of it became undeniable. The feast had turned into a subtle parade of allegiance. Many nobles, previously lukewarm or outright cold toward the crown, approached him under the guise of exchanging pleasantries. Beneath their polite smiles and courteous words, their intentions gleamed. At least a few of the larger noble houses, and by extension, the smaller ones sworn to them, had made their stance clear¡ªnot in direct words, but in the nuanced language of politics. They spoke of future conversations, of opportunities to "better align interests," of upcoming visits to the court, each phrase a dignified olive branch, extended however short enough to make the opposite party grab it, something that Alpheo threw himself toward as after the last campaign he realized just how he needed the noble''s support. Victories, Alpheo thought, Real, undeniable victories. It was the perfect icebreaker for factional stalls, a currency more valuable than gold in the realm of power. Two major households had made their interest clear in warming up to the crow tonight, and where the great houses went, their vassals would inevitably follow. Politically speaking the war had been a success, and now he could leasurily harvest the fruit of his work, in what was to be a jovial celebration. Still that did not excuse the behaviour of his friend... Almost instictevely his gaze drifted to the far side of the hall, landing on Egil. The blonde rider was seated few chairs from him, his head swaying unsteadily, his face slack with a vacant, dead-fish expression. His cheeks were flushed, and his once-proud posture now slouched pitifully as he struggled to remain upright. One could hardly think that the hero of the bleeding plains was that drunkard who barely held himself upright Alpheo''s lips tightened into a thin line. Could he not hold himself together for one night? While Egil had never been the most formal of his companions, Alpheo had hoped¡ªperhaps naively¡ªthat he would muster at least a semblance of decorum for this event. It wasn''t even the midpoint of the night, and already Egil was drowning in drink, utterly oblivious to the eyes upon him. Still, Alpheo could not bring himself to blame him entirely. He understood Egil''s frustrations, his need to escape in his own way. But that didn''t make the sight of him any easier to bear. Alpheo had already taken measures. Earlier in the evening, he''d discreetly instructed the servants to serve Egil only water. Not that it seemed to matter. Egil, in his current state, didn''t even notice the difference, drinking it down with the same enthusiasm as wine. Clio leaned back in his chair, swirling the contents of his goblet lazily before glancing toward the slumped figure of Egil at the table. "Is it even a proper wedding if the groom isn''t drunk?" he asked, a sly smile playing on his lips as he tried to defend the drunk friend. Jarza, seated nearby, raised an eyebrow. "Drunk is fine," he replied dryly. "But he shouldn''t be so inebriated that he can''t... perform." He gestured vaguely, earning a chuckle from the others. Clio smirked, leaning forward. "Oh, I don''t think that will be an issue for him. If anything, that''s the one thing he''ll manage, no matter the state he''s in he is always up for drinking and fucking." Alpheo, who had been quietly observing the exchange, chuckled softly for a moment detaching himself from politics . "Was I this drunk at my wedding?" he asked, his tone light with humor. Jarza turned to him with a wry grin. "Not quite.'''' He turned to Egil '''' Surely not enough that you couldn''t hold a conversation for three minutes without repeating the same sentence at least twice." His smile widened as Alpheo laughed, shaking his head. The conversation was briefly interrupted as they heard a thud, before glancing toward Egil, whose face was now plastered against the table. His eyes were closed, and an occasional incoherent mumble escaped him. Asag, who had been silent until now, shrugged. "Does it even matter? It''s obvious they''re more interested in Alpheo than they are in congratulating Egil. Most of them didn''t even bother pretending otherwise." Jarza sighed, his gaze returning to Egil. "He doesn''t make it easy for them though," he said, a note of exasperation in his voice. "Not like this." Alpheo raised a discreet hand, signaling one of the nearby servants. The man approached swiftly and bowed his head. Leaning slightly, Alpheo whispered into his ear, his tone calm but firm. The servant straightened immediately after receiving the instruction, bowing once more before hurrying off. The group''s conversation trailed off as they turned their attention to the commotion unfolding at the far end of the hall. A cluster of servants had surrounded Egil, gently but firmly urging him to his feet. His head swayed as he blinked blearily, confusion etched across his face. "Wha¡ª? Wait! Where are we going?" he slurred, his voice a mix of protest and bewilderment as they began to escort him away. Clio raised an eyebrow and glanced at Alpheo. "What''s going on?" Alpheo''s expression was composed, a faint, apologetic smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I''ve sent him to sober up a bit," he explained, his voice measured. "A cold bath and a few remedies should help." He gestured slightly toward the retreating figure of Egil, now halfway out of the hall and still mumbling incoherent protests. "You had him dragged away?" Jarza asked, half-amused and half-incredulous. With a slight shrug, Alpheo responded, "I''d have preferred not to. But at this point, if I hadn''t intervened, he''d be snoring on the table before the bride even makes it to bed." ------------------ Egil''s bride sat quietly at the long feast table, her gaze fixed on her plate as though it held the answers to her unease. The young woman seemed small, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as she sat beside the Princess of Yarzat. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, betraying her fear in the presence of the woman whose husband had ended her father''s life. Jasmine, ever perceptive, turned her sharp eyes toward the bride. She extended a slender hand adorned with rings, reaching toward the bride. The girl flinched, her shoulders tightening as Jasmine''s fingers brushed against the necklace draped around her neck making her feels as if he was about to be strangled , it was certainly a striking piece, fashioned from boar''s tusks carved into the shape of a half-moon. "This is lovely," Jasmine remarked, her tone smooth and deliberate as she toyed with one of the tusks. Her words hung in the air, carrying an almost predatory curiosity. The bride hesitated, her voice small and barely audible when she responded, "Th-thank you, Your Highness. It was my husband''s gift...from the hunt." Jasmine''s eyes lingered on the necklace for a moment longer before her smile faded. With a subtle shrug, she withdrew her hand and turned her attention elsewhere, clearly bored now that the trinket''s novelty had worn off. The bride returned her gaze to her plate, her silence heavier than before. Her mother had refused to attend, unable to set foot in the court of the man who had killed her husband, while her sister was still to young and would enter the court in two years to marry another one of the prince''s close lord, one who like Egil too had been given recently a castle with lands. Left to navigate the evening without family or allies, Vaeloria''s hands rested uneasily on her lap. After a moment of hesitation, she glanced toward the Princess of Yarzat seated beside her. Summoning her courage, Vaeloria asked softly, "Your Highness, if I may what... what is my soon-to-be husband like?" Jasmine turned her head, her sharp eyes meeting Vaeloria''s uncertain gaze. For a moment, she seemed to consider the question before answering in a calm, almost detached tone. "He is one of my husband''s men. I don''t know him well, but I do know this: he is fiercely loyal to Alpheo, savage in battle, and, as you''ve likely noticed, rather heavy with the bottle when he''s not out riding." Vaeloria bit her lip, unsure how to respond to such a blunt description. Jasmine continued, her voice as steady and unflinching as ever. "He follows Alpheo wherever he goes. That means you will probably be left behind to manage his lands in his absence." "I see," Vaeloria murmured, her eyes dropping to the polished surface of her plate. After a brief silence, Jasmine surprised her by offering advice. "If you want my counsel, give him space for his traditions. From what I''ve observed, he holds them in high regard. Don''t try to force those away from him." Vaeloria hesitated, curiosity flickering in her expression. "Did you... have such challenges with His Grace?" Jasmine smirked faintly, shaking her head. "No. My husband is not like his men.He has a noble temperament, he is calme and yet fierce when the situation demands. He adjusted to our customs with little trouble. But then," her tone turned dry, "you are marrying a lord, at least. Considering your father''s actions, things could be far worse." Vaeloria''s fingers tensed in her lap as the sting of Jasmine''s words settled in. She managed a small nod, acknowledging the truth in them. Jasmine, clearly losing interest, turned her gaze back to the festivities, leaving Vaeloria to sit once again in silence alone and without friends to turn to . Chapter 293: Failed plots Chapter 293: Failed plots A man hunched over the desk with a black band stretching over r one of his eyes. His head was tilted slightly forward, his brows furrowed in concentration as he observed the thing in front of him . He scratched lines and loops onto the sheet in front of him¡ªa material far lighter and more pliable than parchment, smooth under his fingertips. It folded with ease and seemed almost frivolously cheap compared to the coarse, brittle parchments he had used his whole life. He paused mid-stroke, the ghost of a wry smile tugging at his lips. Another southern invention, he mused, thinking of the notoriously resourceful princedom. Their innovations seemed endless, each more confounding than the last, this one however manage to creep into the Empire''s burocracy. He ran a finger along the edge of the sheet as if inspecting its secrets. This particular innovation had stoked his curiosity already having had sent wave after wave of spies southward, he had nothing really do anymore except wait for a miracle . Each returned with promising leads but no clear answers. Eventually, his agents pinpointed a single manufactory nestled in the southern princedom. Yet the true enigma began there. As all the men he had sent failed to enter any of those manufactory. For a man who prided himself on knowing what others sought to hide, the impenetrable silence was both infuriating and fascinating. More than a dozen spies had disappeared¡ªeither dead or captured, no doubt¡ªbut the few who returned had only useless scraps of knowledge to offer. None could describe the manufacturing process, the ingredients, or the mechanism behind this marvel. Leaning back in his chair, he tapped the pen lightly against the desk and allowed himself a moment of grudging admiration. Not bad, he thought, his lips twisting into a smile that was equal parts frustration and respect. Whoever guarded this secret knew their trade well. Their defenses were tighter than a miser''s fist holding a coin. A backwater country, insignificant on the maps of grander minds, had suddenly become indispensable for a great nation. Who would have thought? he mused, his expression souring. The ingenuity of their prince, though perhaps unintentional, had saved the empire''s finances from falling on themselves. Extensive trade agreements with Yarzat had pumped life into the empire''s shriveling veins, creating a lifeline that had miraculously staved off economic collapse. He exhaled a slow, measured sigh, his gloved fingers tracing the edge of the desk. Even that plan¡ªone carefully calculated to sow discord and economic ruin¡ªhad failed. The chaos he sought to unleash had been thwarted not by imperial might or cunning but by the unlikely intervention of a small princedom. What he needed now was instability. No, more than that¡ªchaos. Without it, his plans would crumble into dust. The grand country that his old liege had ruled with an iron fist for three decades he was now trying to break. Quite ironic... His lips pressed into a thin line as he straightened in his chair. His thoughts turned to Gratios, the late emperor, and a faint, fleeting smile crossed his lips. Despite all his eccentricities¡ªthe strange whims, the peculiar habits¡ªGratios had been a ruler of exceptional caliber, the kind that emerged once in a century. A man of vision, of strength, of cunning. It had been an honor to serve him. Yet now, that legacy lay in tatters. He ran a hand over his face, frustration seeping into his features as he thought of the chaos that had followed thinking whetever what he was doing was betrayal . No, not as he saw it. He was trying to salvage what was left of an empire already splintering when Gratios''s shadow faded. It wasn''t my fault, he thought, his jaw tightening. The fault lay elsewhere¡ªwith the sons and their competing ambitions. The eldest son, obsessed with the northern snows, had buried his head and his potential in the ice and frost. The second prince had thrown his lot in with the roses, spending its time sleeping around with both males and females nstead of studying and actually making his wardenship useful. And then there was the empress herself, that useless pupping bitch , who thought herself a lioness when she was a foolish pup, snarling against things bigger than her . He sighed again, leaning his head against the high back of his chair. By the time he had grasped the breadth of the collapse, it had been too late to act decisively. The foundations of the empire were already crumbling, and any hesitation on his part would have seen him swept away by the tides of change. Was it his fault he''d had no choice but to play his part in the game? His mind drifted to Tiberius,his only pawn that he could use as king, the unwanted bastard who had taken up more space in his thoughts than he would ever admit aloud. He had extended a hand to the boy reluctantly at first, skeptical of the usefulness of someone cast aside by the imperial family. And yet... the boy had surprised him. It was a pleasant surprise, indeed, to find that his gamble had paid off. Tiberius pleased him in ways he hadn''t anticipated¡ªsharp-witted, observant, and unflinchingly pragmatic. The man let the thought linger, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. Perhaps, he mused, the bastard will do more for Gratios''s legacy than his legitimate heirs ever could.Though he certainly got more arrogant... The heavy wooden door creaked open, the sound echoing through the dimly lit room. Julian''s single visible eye flicked toward it, his thoughts interrupted as the very person he had been musing about strode inside. Julian didn''t bother hiding the irritation in his voice. "What happened to knocking?" he asked dryly, leaning back in his chair, his hands folding across his lap. Tiberius ignored the remark, his gaze sharp and focused. "Did you find her?" he demanded, his tone clipped and brimming with barely contained frustration. Julian studied him for a moment, his thoughts taking an unspoken turn. If it weren''t for her, he''d be perfect, Julian mused with time I should be able to deal with it . The bastard prince had all the qualities Julian admired¡ªdetermination, intelligence, and a steel spine that so many of Gratios''s legitimate heirs lacked, although he was a bit too peotic. And yet, this relentless obsession with that maid was a crack in an otherwise flawless fac?ade. Julian shook his head slightly, pushing the thought aside. Tiberius''s jaw tightened, the muscles in his face twitching with frustration. "Are you even searching for her?" he pressed, his voice rising just a fraction. Julian''s expression hardened as he raised his gaze, his visible eye locking onto Tiberius with a stern, unyielding intensity. The boy held his ground, his glare unwavering, unblinking under the weight of Julian''s scrutiny. What happened to the meek boy living in the imperial palace? "I have my men searching for her," Julian said, his voice low and measured, each word deliberate. Tiberius scoffed, his frustration bubbling over. "Your men''s skills don''t seem to be as good as you''d like me to believe. Finding her isn''t the only thing they''ve failed at doing." Julian''s brow furrowed slightly, his gaze narrowing. There was no denying the sting in the boy''s words. Sharp-tongued as always, Julian thought, though he was true they were so close on winning, sword poised to behead the current imperial court , when suddendly an ant so small that should not have had any impact, suddenly ruined all of his plans. Julian leaned back slightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though his tone remained even. "It was a good plan, the one you made, we could have had our own forces around the emperor and take control of the court when the time was right , cutting the head of the boy whenever we wished " he said, his voice calm but with a trace of bitterness. "It failed because of an unplanned variable. That happens.At least we have saved the red bitch, maybe in the future she will come useful again..." Tiberius''s expression hardened further, his frustration palpable. "I doubt the regent will let his daughter ever have a come back, I still don''t understand why you wasted her time capturing her on her way to a temple, she has no use for you anymore. Still, I don''t care if the plan worked or not," he snapped, his tone laced with anger. "We had a deal." Julian raised a hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. "And I''m still dealing with my part," he said firmly, his gaze sharp as steel. "That hasn''t changed." The younger man clenched his fists, his jaw set in a stubborn line, but Julian gestured toward the chair opposite him. "Since you''re here, sit down," Julian said with a touch of sardonic amusement. "Perhaps you''ll grace me with another brilliant plan¡ªone as good as the last." Tiberius narrowed his eyes but complied, dropping into the chair with a controlled, deliberate motion. "That''s not possible," he said flatly. "Not with the stranglehold the old regent has on the capital. We can''t move against him¡ªnot yet. Not until he leaves for his campaign in the north. Until then, your men should stay low, keep quiet, and avoid drawing attention. Anything else is too risky." Julian''s brow arched slightly, his gaze sharp and unrelenting. "I asked you for a plan, Tiberius," he said, his voice taking on a harder edge. "Not a repetition of the information I gave you." ''''You can give a genius or slow-headed man a stone, and none of them will be able to make a tower out of it'''' Julian leaned forward, his singular eye piercing as he fixed Tiberius with a withering stare. "I have no use for birds that repeat my words," he said sharply, his tone biting. "If you''re here to echo back what I already know, then you''re wasting both our time." Tiberius''s jaw tightened, his lips pressed into a thin line. Inside, his mind churned with silent contempt. Fool. The word repeated itself in his thoughts, venomous and precise. If he thinks for even a moment that his grand schemes could ever come to fruition, then he''s far more deluded than I thought. He knew exactly what Julian was¡ªa relic of a bygone era clinging desperately to notions of control and legacy, when the reality was that nobody could control who the empire had evolved into. If he truly believes that taking the capital will hand him the reins of the empire, he should have stayed dead on the Sands of Arlania. It would''ve been a better fate than coming back to chase shadows. But Tiberius wasn''t here for power, nor for the empire that Julian schemed to reclaim, he had half a mind to ditch the fool when the time was right, he was tired of being used as a pawn when he had no interest for their game . The vastness of the empire, its riches, its throne¡ªnone of it mattered to him. The only thing he wanted, the only thing that burned in his chest with unrelenting fervor, was her. Yet it seemed as though the moment he was imprisoned, she had disappeared into the ether. Not a single trace of her remained in the palace or any of the places Julian''s men had searched. The longer the fruitless hunt dragged on, the more the gnawing void inside him grew as he wondered if she was even still alive, and he was not searching shadows too , like the secret blade now blunt of the previous emperor, too blind to realise he was walking toward a wall. Chapter 294: Interesting development(1) Chapter 294: Interesting development(1) Alpheo sipped leisurely on his cup of warm honeyed milk, savoring the soothing sweetness that had long become his customary morning indulgence. The rich, creamy warmth rolled over his tongue, chasing away the lingering haze of sleep and replacing it with a quiet clarity. He missed coffee¡ªmissed it terribly, in fact. The rich, bold aroma, the comforting warmth, and the invigorating bite of the first sip had been a cherished part of his mornings once. Yet, no matter how hard he tried to fill that void, it lingered like a stubborn ache. Alpheo had spared no effort in his attempts to find even a trace of the plant that produced such beans , sending word to merchants, explorers, and herbalists far and wide. He scoured the markets for any whispers of its existence, combed through ancient records for clues. But despite his persistent efforts, his searches yielded nothing.His only far-thought idea on where he could find them , was in the western continent of Azania; after all coffee beans were discovered in Ethiopia and the area that shared such a climate was that of the west. With regret on the back of his mind, he settled deeper into his chair, his thoughts meandered to the previous night''s feast. By all accounts, it had been a success, a rare moment of triumph in the turbulent waters of politics. A fair portion of the nobility had shown signs of thawing toward the crown, their once-stony expressions softening into smiles and convivial gestures. Progress, he mused. It was overdue, but it''s progress nonetheless. The marriage itself, though... well, that was another matter entirely. Alpheo''s lips quirked into a small, sardonic smile as he took another sip of his milk. The ceremony had been splendid enough, no less than what was expected of a royal sponsored event, but the festivities that followed had been far from perfect. The feast had been halted at barely half its usual duration, a decision he had reluctantly made. He could still picture Egil, slumped over the table, glassy-eyed and incoherent, dangerously close to passing out in the midst of his own wedding celebration. Alpheo had known then that if the revelry were allowed to continue unchecked, Egil would have been in no condition to fulfill his duties as a husband. It''s one thing to marry a bride; it''s another to actually consummate the marriage, Alpheo lampooned, setting down his cup. It had been an ungraceful end to an otherwise pleasant evening, but pragmatism had demanded his intervention. Better to curtail the celebration than risk the embarrassment. Alpheo rubbed his temples and sighed, the weight of fatigue pressing heavily on him as he reviewed the stack of reports that had come in overnight. Though the warm milk in his cup had taken the edge off the morning chill, it did little to invigorate him as his eyes scanned the lines of meticulously written updates. The first report detailed the progress of Pontius. Alpheo''s lips twitched into a faint smile as he read of the success achieved within a mere month. Pontius and his team had not only managed to dig the canals leading from the river to the lower elevation , but they had done so ahead of schedule despite the challenging terrain and unpredictable weather. The report went on to outline the next steps of the ambitious project. Having completed the section connecting the river to the intermediary lowlands, the focus would now shift to carving a path from the capital down to the same lower height, which the man hypothesized to require two months. The second report was more concise, a straightforward account of the kingdom''s industrial production. Alpheo skimmed through it, noting the key figures summarized in precise handwriting. Cider production was up by 12%, buoyed by favorable harvests and a growing domestic demand for the beverage. Soap production mirrored this success, with output also increasing by 15%, caused by the rising reputation of their finely crafted goods. There was even a pang of dissatisfaction inside Alpheo, for in the last months many imperial houses had sent envoys to his wife asking to buy such products, which would have certainly at least increased by half their income; unfortunately, that would have meant going against the wishes of the imperial house and the treaty signed with them , something that Alpheo was still not ready to face given just how dependent he was on the imperial iron seing by the regent. However, the report on paper production painted a different picture. It remained stagnant, with no growth in output. The explanation was simple yet frustrating¡ªdespite the improved quality and reduced costs of their paper, the Empire remained their primary customer, and it appeared their warehouses were already well-stocked with surplus supplies. With no significant orders or new markets to drive demand, increasing production would be a fruitless and costly endeavor. Alpheo set aside the report on industry and reached for the second document, his demeanor shifting as he did so. The warmth of his honeyed milk was forgotten as he placed the cup down with deliberate care, its sweetness unable to compete with the gravity of the parchment in his hands. This one bore the seal of his agents in Herculia.He straightened in his seat, his eyes narrowing as he continued reading. --------------I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits. Allow me to offer my humble greetings and express my continued loyalty to your cause. There has been much activity here in Herculia of late, and I felt it my duty to report what I have observed. The most pressing issue being that the recruitment or more like enlistments campaigns are being held almost daily, with young men and even some older ones being pressed into service. It has caused unease among the people, though none dare to speak it aloud. Taxes, too, have been raised significantly. For my own part, I must confess that it has been a struggle. My shop is not doing well, and this increase only makes matters worse. Forgive me if this appears as a complaint¡ªit is not my intention to burden you with my troubles.-------------- Alpheo paused at this line, his fingers still on the edge of the parchment. For a moment, he wondered if the man''s commentary was a subtle way of asking for financial support. ''''Perhapse I should send a bonus...'''' he muttered as he resumed reading the letter. ------------I also noticed something peculiar: the number of carts with food leaving the city has greatly diminished. This, along with the rumors floating among the common folk, led me to try piecing things together. The noticeable decline in carts leaving the city suggests a significant reduction in the prince''s efforts to provide for the refugees. This abrupt shift implies that something substantial must have occurred. When considered alongside the intense push for recruitment, all signs point to a potential development of grave importance¡ªmost likely, a rebellion. From everything I have seen and heard, I believe that the refugees scattered across the royal fief have reached their breaking point and risen in revolt. The frantic recruitment efforts here suggest that the prince is scrambling to raise an army as swiftly as possible to respond. These are merely conjectures, based on my limited observations and the whispers of others. I am no soldier or statesman, only a humble merchant, and I cannot know for certain if my conclusions are correct. I beg your pardon if I have overstepped my bounds in bringing these thoughts to you. May your wisdom and strength guide us through these troubled times. Yours in loyalty, --------- As Alpheo set the letter down on his desk, his gaze drifted upward to the ceiling in quiet contemplation. His thoughts, however, were not preoccupied with calculating how to extract the most advantage from the information at hand¡ªthose conclusions had been drawn in mere moments. When he had played the role of Genghis Khan across the lands of Herculia, he had already anticipated the possibility of this exact situation . Instead, his mind lingered on just how unfortunate Lechlian''s predicament had become. It was July now¡ªone more month, and it would have been August. By then, the prince could have scraped together a harvest sufficient to stave off the famine until the autumn grain came in. Not from his own lands, of course¡ªmost of those had been razed to the ground thanks to a certain someone, but instead from the surrounding lords. So close, Alpheo mused, almost feeling a pang of pity. In just six months, he had utterly dismantled one of his rivals, leaving him teetering on the brink of collapse, he felt a kind of pride for that. Now Lechlian would have no choice but to muster an army and crush the uprising of starving peasants with whatever meager resources he could scrape together. The question, of course, was whether such an effort would succeed. The key issue now was which vassals would respond to Lechlian''s call to arms. Those farther from the crownlands might easily dismiss the summons, seeing no immediate threat to their lands. But the lords closer to the conflict¡ªthose who risked their estates being pillaged by rampaging peasants¡ªwould be far more inclined to rally to the prince''s banner. The outcome of this conflict would hinge on how many of them chose to answer the call. It was always a funny thing to watch a political system fail, be it a democracy or an oligarchy, as many times the crushing of interest prevented outsiders to truly grasp the reason for their clashes and political failures.In Lechlian''s case, it was probably a long-standing dissatisfaction with their ambitious prince , whose wrong move to clash against Yarzat made them fall in the pit they currently reside in. Normally, of course, a peasant army¡ªstarved, poorly equipped, and disorganized¡ªwould pose little threat to the charge of horses, with them breaking just at the sight. Unfortunately for Lechlian, there was a single, devastating variable that could tip the scales: the cunning hand of a certain little fox..... Chapter 295: Interesting development(2) Chapter 295: Interesting development(2) Jasmine adjusted herself in her seat, crossing her legs and leaning back slightly, her gaze fixed on Alpheo as he meticulously organized a stack of papers in front of him. She allowed her attention to drift momentarily, her sharp eyes scanning the room. Around the large, circular table, the others sat in quiet anticipation. Their expressions ranged from curious to impatient as they waited for Alpheo to begin. To her left sat her grandfather, his fingers drumming lightly against the table''s edge.Next to him was Asag, calm and composed as always, his hands folded neatly in his lap clearly looking akward int her oom . Across from Jasmine, Jarza lounged back in his chair as his eyes rested on the prince. Egil''s absence was noticeable, though not surprising. Alpheo had given him a brief reprieve from his duties, allowing the new lord to bask in the early days of his marriage. Not that he could add anything worthwhile to the meeting,She thought in her mind as her view of Egil was really low, given also how he had impregnated three of her lady-in-waiting- Which then forced her to find knight to marry them and take the baby as theirs , something that many offered themselves to knowing full well the catch, only to get in the favor of the royals. Alpheo finally broke the silence, his voice cutting through the muted tension in the room. "First, I must apologize for the short notice in calling you all here," he began, inclining his head slightly as a gesture of contrition. Lord Shahab, however, waved a dismissive hand. "Spare us the formalities. If there''s something worth gathering us for, then speak of it. I have my own duties to attend to" the man spoke as he had been interrupted when he was planning to visit his mistress. Alpheo gave a slight cough, whether to clear his throat or mask a flicker of annoyance from lord Shahab''s tone, Jasmine couldn''t tell.She knew very well just how positive her grandfather looked onto her husband, however it seemed that it would still be a long way until he would drop his brash tone when speaking with him, though she knew Alpheo didn''t mind. Alpheo adjusted the papers in front of him one last time before continuing. "Very well. Let''s proceed, then. There have been some developments in the princedom of Herculia since our departure." Jasmine raised an eyebrow, her voice cutting in with a note of intrigue. "Positive developments, I hope?" Alpheo''s lips twisted into a faint smirk, his tone taking on a measured irony. "For us, they certainly are. As for the Herculeian prince...or anyone that lives there for that matter " He paused, as if weighing his words. "Not so much." Jasmine tilted her head, a glint of curiosity in her eyes, while Shahab leaned forward slightly, clearly eager for details as he took the insult they sent onto the royal couple to hearth. Noticing the interest Alpheo continued, his tone more steady "It seems that all the effort we poured into pillaging and setting fire to every field and village within Lechlian''s grasp has finally borne fruit." His words were delivered with a quiet satisfaction Jarza leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with a wry expression. "Well, we did spend at least half the time we were there torching fields and villages," he said, his voice tinged with regret. "It''s almost sad when you think about it¡ªall that food, burned to ash. We could have stored it, made use of it ourselves.We could have campaigned more and attempted to take even more land from him, given just how powerless he was to react." Alpheo shook his head, his tone firm but patient. "It was a necessity, Jarza. We couldn''t afford the time or manpower to gather and transport supplies from every village we passed. Speed was our ally then, and it''s what kept us ahead of Lechlian''s men, after all the more time we gave him the more he could use it to replenish his numbers. Besides..." He leaned forward, a faint, sharp grin forming on his lips. "We can finally harvest what we sowed." The others exchanged glances, curiosity flashing in their eyes. Alpheo continued, his voice steady but laced with dark satisfaction. "For months, Lechlian has been forced to feed thousands of refugees. A burden he took on, as it was either that or see them turn to bandits . It seems, however, that all his efforts were for naught." "And how do you know this?" Shahab asked, raising an eyebrow. "My contacts in Herculia," Alpheo replied, tapping the papers in front of him for emphasis, "report that the capital is scraping the bottom of the barrel to acquire enough weapons to raise an army. His coffers are nearly dry, his resources stretched thin from the last war." Shahab frowned deeply, his fingers drumming lightly on the arm of his chair. "That doesn''t sound like good news for us. Isn''t he planning to retake some of the castles we took from him?" Alpheo chuckled, a low sound filled with amusement. "Oh, no. I doubt he''s planning to march against us. Though it certainly would''ve been an interesting spectacle to watch him attempt it." He tapped his fingers on the table, his voice dropping into a more serious tone. "No, my lords and lady wife , it seems he''s failed to keep the situation under control. The refugee problem has spiraled out of his grasp. They''ve risen in revolt...and he is trying to raise an army to march against them" The room fell silent as the weight of his words settled in. The group''s eyes widened in unison, the unexpected news throwing them into stunned contemplation. Jasmine, breaking the silence, leaned forward, her brows furrowing. "You''ve planted a spy in Lechlian''s court?" she asked, her tone sharp and a bit angry. It wasn''t the reaction Alpheo had expected; rather than approval, there was a hint of frustration in her voice. Perhaps she thinks that I managed to plant a spy on Lechlian''s court and kept it a secret from her. Caught off guard, Alpheo quickly raised a hand, doubling back with a disarming smile trying to calm down his pregnant wife, as he worried that any stress could harm the child, perhapse it was a long throw but Alpheo did not want to take any chances "More conjecture than certainty, I assure you. This is the theory of one of my informants, not a verified report which certainly did not come from their court, as much as it pain for me to say so...." Jasmine''s sharp gaze stayed on him, but she said nothing further, allowing him to continue. "Months before the war began, I arranged for a shop to be set up within the capital. Its purpose was to provide me with information on what happened within its walls. Most of the reports I''ve received have been... less than critical. Petty rumors, mundane accounts of useless information. But now and then, something of note surfaces." Hearing that Jasmine''s frown eased as she realized that the explanation made sense and that he did not act behind her back. As he said so Alpheo reached for the letter sitting on the table, passing it to Shahab, who extended a hand to take it. The older lord unfolded it and scanned its contents, his frown deepening as he read. Finally, he spoke, his voice skeptical. "This is nothing more than a hypothesis from a spy who isn''t even within Lechlian''s court. It''s an interesting theory, but a long way from being credible information." Alpheo shrugged nonchalantly. "I''m inclined to agree with the letter''s conclusions, Lord Shahab. It fits with everything else we''ve observed about his current state. Besides, even if it''s just a possibility, it''s one worth preparing for. If it''s true, we may yet reap a far greater harvest than we imagined." Alpheo leaned back slightly, a faint smile on his lips as he addressed the group. "I''ve already sent riders to gauge the situation," he said casually, "but I''ll admit I''m inclined to believe the reports. The signs align too well with what we know." Shahab, still holding the letter, gave a quiet grunt before passing it to his granddaughter, Jasmine. She took it with a raised eyebrow and began to read. Meanwhile, Asag leaned forward, curiosity evident in his expression. "Are you planning to take the field again to take advantage of this?" he asked directly. Alpheo shook his head, his tone almost regretful. "I wish I could, but I''ve already started too many projects, which unfortunately are like bottomless pits for coin. If I were to muster an armed force and maintain supplies again, I''d have no choice but to take on loans, which is not an appealing option." He sighed, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. Jasmine, lowering the letter, fixed him with a knowing look. "I know you well enough to see that you have something in mind. So stop dancing around it and spit it out," she said with a touch of exasperation. Alpheo chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Well, since you insist," he said, leaning forward with an almost conspiratorial air, "What is one to do after all when the neighbour''s garden is on flame?Throw wood onto the fire..." Jasmine blinked, her confusion momentarily breaking her composed demeanor. "What?" she asked, though Shahab''s expression mirrored her surprise. "Exactly what it sounds like," Alpheo continued smoothly. "We will make sure to prolong the rebellion as much as possible, send some weapons and food to the peasant rebels. And perhaps," he added with deliberate nonchalance, "strike a deal with them, after all the enemy or your enemy is your friend ." The room fell silent. Jasmine and Shahab exchanged shocked glances, their astonishment evident. Jarza and Asag, seated nearby, wore confused look at the exchange of the two as if Alpheo had said something unprecedented, honestly it was a good plan. Shahab narrowed his eyes, his voice carrying a low, measured warning. "You''re playing with fire, Alpheo,you are a smart man I''ll give you that, far smarter than many that I know of .But right now you are edging too close to a precipice" he said, his tone heavy with caution. "If anyone discovers this, the consequences would be catastrophic. Supporting a peasant revolt is the kind of scandal that could destroy us, and make any neighbor onto an enemy. We''d suffer a diplomatic disaster of monumental proportions." Alpheo''s expression remained unchanged, his calm demeanor unaffected by the admonition. He had anticipated this reaction, perhaps even counted on it. His mind, as always, had already walked through the labyrinth of risks and outcomes long before Shahab voiced them. Of course, he knew that the stakes were high. Alpheo knew better than anyone that a state''s power rested squarely on the shoulders of its peasant class. Yet, he also understood the latent danger that came with their discontent. Peasant revolts were not unheard of; history bore testament to scattered uprisings that often failed due to lack of leadership, resources, or sheer force of a knight''s charge. What made this situation different¡ªand what made it precarious¡ªwas not just the rebellion itself but the ripples it could create. The ruling classes of all neighboring states shared an unspoken understanding: peasant rebellions, no matter how justified, had to be crushed. The fear that a successful uprising could inspire their own subjects loomed too large. But there was a greater taboo at play here. To support rebellious peasants was to cross a line so absolute that it approached sacrilege. Such an act placed one in the same despised category as kinslayers¡ªan unforgivable betrayal of the order made by the god''s laws . Alpheo knew all this, and still, he did not waver, it was too a meat too good not to take a bite. "Then all it takes is not to be found out. Play it smart, conceal our traces¡ªa matter I''ve already considered thoroughly." His calm confidence contrasted sharply with the unease still etched on Jasmine''s face. Jasmine, clearly not appeased, leaned forward slightly, her expression sharp. "Before you start justifying this plan, explain it in full," she said, her voice firm and tinged with frustration. "Then we''ll decide whether it''s worth the risk to act on it." Alpheo sighed lightly, perhaps anticipating this resistance. He cleared his throat, setting aside the faint smirk he had worn earlier, and began to outline his strategy. "It''s quite simple, really," he began. "We won''t throw open the gates of support. Instead, we''ll provide subtle incentives to redirect the rebellion along a path we can predict and control. Minimal aid¡ªjust enough to nudge them in the direction we desire, but not enough to make us indispensable. Always keeping the dagger at the ready to sever any ties, should anyone begin to catch on." His gaze swept the room as he spoke, his tone cool and calculated. "Of course, this requires selecting someone to act as our intermediary, someone who meets very specific criteria. Especially being utterly expendable should the need arise, but still capable enough to advance their interests." Alpheo leaned back, his fingers drumming lightly on the edge of the desk. "I''ve spent time considering this carefully. And I believe I''ve found a suitable candidate¡ªsomeone who fits the role perfectly." Chapter 296: Brutal but cunnning Chapter 296: Brutal but cunnning Geowulf sat on his throne with the calm poise of a man who had weathered countless storms, his axe resting upright against the arm of the seat. The weapon gleamed faintly,one could hardly believe that it had been his weapon for decades , during which it saw countless battles. Edvard, standing just beside him, couldn''t help but let his eyes drift to the axe, its hild worn and battered, triggering a wave of nostalgia. He remembered the many spars he had with the Knotur as a boy. The heavy axe, far too unwieldy for his young hands, he had tried to wield many times, all of which failed. Those lessons were always grueling strangely now that he was an adult he remembered them kindly Edvard''s gaze shifted upward to Geowulf himself. The silver streaking through his golden hair stood out in the warm light of the hall, a sharp contrast to the vibrant locks Edvard had always known. Lines etched into the older man''s face told stories of battles fought, losses endured, and victories hard-won. The sight hit Edvard harder than any blow he had ever taken in training. The realization that time was slowly catching up to Geowulf was more painful than if he had borne the years himself. The unshakable rock of his life, the man who had seemed as eternal as the mountains, was aging. Geowulf looked up at him, his sharp blue eyes cutting through the air like the edge of his axe. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the arms of the throne. "How many tribes answered the pup''s call?" he asked, his voice steady but carrying a weight that demanded honesty. The "pup" in question was Virguth, the son of Klarik the same men who a week prior he had killed. After Klarik''s death, Virguth had clawed his way to power, solidifying his claim by cutting down two of his cousins who dared to stand against him. To honor his father, Virguth had called for a raid, a bold proclamation that had set the men of his tribe alight with excitement. Edvard straightened slightly, his tone measured as he responded. "Three tribes. The Frosthides, the Embercloaks, and the Thunderhorns." The previous kingdom of Sarlan, a land once united under a single crown, had long since fractured into a tapestry of rival tribes following its collapse. The fertile plains, rugged highlands, and dense forests of Sarlan were now dominated by seven great tribes, each having carved out his domain after the kingdom collapse. There was the FrostHides,the Emberclaoks,Thunderhorns, Ironroots, Bronzehalls and the riverclaws. To Geowulf, the tribes that joined Virguth''s raid were not mere possible rivals; they were enemies. And Virguth himself¡ªhot-headed and driven by ambition¡ªwas the greatest threat of all. Geowulf had no illusions about the younger man. He knew Virguth would not stop at raids or tributes. Sooner or later, Virguth would come for his throne, and when that time came, it would not be with words but with blades and he feared that at the time he will not be able to fight back. "Tell me," he said, his tone edged with steel, "how many of our tribe do you think would join the enemy if I were to call for a succession of blood?" Edvard, standing tall before his chieftain, did not flinch. "Few," he replied confidently. "Our tribe has stood with you through the thick and thin of it. Many believe your bloodline to be honored by the ancestors, a lineage marked by their favor. And they hold your son-in-law in the highest esteem for his sacrifice¡ªbuilding that bridge across the Great Ice Flow was what allowed us to live through the last winter." He flexed his arm, scarred from countless battles. "As for the ones who might grumble about it, know this: I''ve not gone soft in the arm." Geowulf allowed a rare smile to play across his lips. Edvard''s confidence was contagious, but it was the loyalty of his tribe that warmed him most. He understood how vital it was to have his backyard secure, free from treachery and doubt. His thoughts shifted to the other sworn to him. The lords who had bent the knee to him would likely heed his call, he knew. Their eldest sons were under his roof, hosted as honored guests but also held as collateral. It was a simple equation: defiance would mean risking the lives of their heirs Geowulf''s smile faded as his mind shifted to the task ahead. If he was to secure his hold and stave off the chaos that Virguth''s ambitions threatened to unleash, his enemies had to be weakened before they could muster strength against him. A storm had to be dealt with before it could rage. Geowulf''s voice was low but commanding as he spoke. "Do you have everything ready?" Edvard nodded, his expression steady, though the flicker of anticipation danced in his eyes. "Aye, we''ve chosen the right man for the task. He is sharp and reliable . The information we''ve given them is good enough and the face of the operation was made to cooperate.'''' Geowulf raised an eyebrow, seeking assurance in his words. "The man at the heart of it," Edvard continued, "is loyal to the core. He''s seen enough blood and fire to harden his spirit, and he''ll hold to the story we''ve crafted, no matter what. Even if they break every bone in his body, they''ll hear nothing but what we want them to hear." Geowulf leaned back, a shadow of approval flickering across his face. He knew Edvard''s meticulous nature and trusted his judgment. "Then send him," he said, his voice steady but heavy with the weight of his choice. He glanced at Edvard, catching the flicker of unease that crossed his old friend''s face. "You disapprove?" Geowulf asked, tilting his head slightly, his piercing gaze probing for the reason behind Edvard''s reaction. Edvard hesitated, then nodded, his expression grim. "I do," he admitted, his tone quiet but firm. "Even after everything, they are our brothers. The tribes should stand united, especially now, with enemies pressing on every side, we should not stab each other in the backs especially now. Weakening ourselves only makes us prey for others.Right now we are damning them to death; we both know that." Geowulf sighed deeply, his expression momentarily softening as if sharing Edvard''s sentiment. "Sometimes, Edvard, you have to cut off a finger to save the arm. The alternative is losing it all. Or do you mean to say you won''t do it?" Edvard straightened, his jaw tightening. "I swore an oath to you" he said, his voice carrying the weight of unyielding loyalty. "And I''ll keep it, even if it''s the last thing I do¡ªno matter if the order I carry out is against what I believe is best for us." Geowulf sighed again, leaning back against his throne. His shoulders bore the weight of years and choices he wished he didn''t have to make. "I wish it weren''t necessary either," he said, his voice quieter now, tinged with regret. "But if my grandson is to survive, if the bloodline is to endure, then it means betraying even those we once called brothers. This isn''t about what I wish¡ªit''s about what must be done." Geowulf leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, and his voice dropped to a tone both firm and weary. "When my time comes, and you take the reins of this tribe, you will need to understand something, Edvard," he began, his gaze piercing yet laden with the wisdom of experience. "The right choice is almost never the easy one. A man must weigh his integrity against what he truly cares about. Sometimes, doing what is necessary means staining your soul. And sometimes, it means questioning if what you hold as sacred is worth something else that you care about, and you keep making that choice until you finally reach the point where the weight goes to the other side, at that moment you know there will no come back." His words hung in the air, heavy with the implication of sacrifice and the burden of leadership. Geowulf''s eyes softened as they settled on Edvard, his expression betraying a rare vulnerability. "I hope," he continued, his voice quieter now, almost a plea, "that you''ll never have to bear a weight like this one. It''s a burden I wouldn''t wish on someone I see as my son" For a moment, the room was silent, the words between them filling the space with an unspoken understanding. Geowulf''s gaze lingered on Edvard, as if willing the younger man to understand the depth of what he was saying¡ªnot just with his mind, but with his very soul. Unfortunately, he did not. How could he? A man who had walked a straight road all his life, where the good thing and the right choice were always one and the same, could never truly grasp the thorn-laden path of the man burdened with ultimate responsibility to make the choice, where even the best decision could leave scars that would never fully heal. Chapter 297: Long lost powers(1) Chapter 297: Long lost powers(1) A young boy stood on the bow of a ship, the salty spray of the sea misting his face as waves crashed against the slender wooden hull. He leaned forward, perched at the very edge, mesmerized by the rhythmic rise and fall of the lower deck as it cut through the churning waters. "Blake," his father''s voice called, steady and firm, breaking through the boy''s reverie. The man studied his son''s eager, bright-eyed expression with a mixture of pride and amusement. "Remember this: half the worth of a man lies in what he does, not in what he says. When you make a threat, see it through. The other half, though, is in how vivid and bold those threats can be." He smiled, his rough hand resting atop Blake''s windswept hair. "You''re thirteen now," his father continued, his tone deepening with purpose. "It''s time you truly understand the weight of these words. Today, I give you your first ship¡ªyour own little kingdom, where you are the ruler. Sail the waves fearlessly, fight with a spirit so fierce that even death itself hesitates to claim you. And remember, when our time comes, we will all return to the embrace of the God of the Storm, as is the fate of every free soul. The only question is whether we go with our chests lifted in pride or bowed in shame." Blake barely registered his father''s words, his mind adrift on a tide of excitement as the reality of the moment crashed over him. His first ship¡ªhis own ship¡ªwas all he could think about. The boy''s wide eyes sparkled as he glanced down at the lower deck, where the crew busied themselves with preparations, the sea spray leaping up to mist their faces. The ship seemed alive beneath his feet, the creak of the wood and the tug of the sails whispering promises of freedom and adventure. The boy''s fingers twitched at his sides, itching to grasp the wheel and feel the power of steering such a vessel through the endless blue. His father''s hand, heavy and warm, tousled his dark hair, but Blake''s attention remained fixed on the vast expanse of ocean before him. Every wave seemed to beckon him forward, a new challenge, a new horizon. He nodded absently to his father''s solemn words, though the meaning slipped through his grasp like the wind through the rigging. For the first time in his life, Blake felt like he belonged to the sea¡ªnot as a passenger, but as its master.A ship that he would command with its sailor calling him- "Captain! Captain!" Darron''s voice rang out, cutting through the sound of the waves as he dashed up to Blake, his eyes bright with excitement. "Please, make the mummers play their tricks again!" Blake, standing tall at the helm, turned sharply. His dark coat of hair flared with the motion as he threw his hands into the air, a wide grin breaking across his face. "Aye, let them perform!" he bellowed, his voice carrying over the deck. The crew erupted into cheers as two men hurriedly descended to the lower deck, eager to set up the spectacle. Blake strode up the main staircase with five of his crew at his side, their boots thudding against the wood. The wind filled the ship''s sails, pushing it steadily forward, but for the moment, the sailors abandoned their tasks, letting the breeze do its work while they gathered to watch the show. From the lower deck, the mummers were carried up in chains speaking in strange languages, until the pain of rods against their backs worked better than the meaning of words they could not understand . One man, thin and wiry, lit a torch and smiled , a terrified one, before plunging it into his mouth, extinguishing it in a flash of smoke. The crowd roared in amazement. Another, broader in frame, danced across the planks, juggling apples, dancing with his feet while doing so . Then came the highlight: the wiry man spat a plume of fire into the air, the flames licking the sky as the crew erupted in applause, stamping their feet in appreciation. In contrast to the animated scene, an old woman sat cross-legged on the wooden planks at the edge of the deck, utterly still. Her face, lined with age, remained impassive as she gazed out over the water. A young sailor, emboldened by the festivity, strode over and gave her a playful nudge with his foot. "What about you, granny? What trick are you hiding?" he teased, laughing. The woman winced, irritation flickering across her face as she simply pointed at the fire and then at herself while speaking gibberish ''''Ruth dai Svenia akdaa mioe '''' From the upper deck, Blake watched the exchange, intrigued. Leaning on the railing, he raised his voice. "You know what she wants ! Bring her a torch!" He straightened and fixed his gaze on the old woman. The old woman and the mummers were not ordinary members of Blake''s crew; they were part of the spoils of his latest conquest. They were slaves, freshly acquired during Blake''s daring raid on the Sultan of Azania''s shores. That raid had been a feat of legend¡ªBlake and his men had struck under the cover of darkness, plundering treasures from a palace nestled on the coast. With the Sultan''s royal fleet hot in pursuit, they had made their escape by weaving through treacherous reefs that only Blake''s seasoned instincts could navigate. The bounty from Azania was unlike anything found in the Eastern Seas. His ship''s hold now carried wonders that none of his crew had ever seen¡ªcreatures so alien they seemed drawn from myth. There were animals with humps rising from their backs like rolling dunes of sand, their long lashes batting lazily at the world. Birds, taller than the tallest sailor, strutted with an arrogant grace, their plumage a riot of earthen tones and stark whites. Among the most fearsome of his haul were lions with manes as dark as the abyss, their eyes burning like embers as they prowled restlessly in their makeshift cages. But the most peculiar prize was the slaves. These people, their skin glowing with the sun''s kiss, spoke in a language utterly foreign to Blake and his men. The sailor hesitated for a moment as Blake''s command hung in the salty air, then retrieved a torch from its sconce, the flame flickering brightly against the dusky sky. He approached the old woman cautiously, holding the torch out at arm''s length, as though the flame might leap out at him. The old woman took it without a word, her thin, gnarled fingers curling around the wood like roots grasping soil. With an unsettling calm, she brought the flame closer to her face. Her eyes reflected the firelight, glowing with an intensity that made the surrounding crowd fall silent. The air seemed to still as her weathered face came so close to the flame that it seemed impossible she wouldn''t burn. Yet she did not flinch. In a slow, deliberate motion, the old woman cupped her hands over the flame, enclosing it entirely. The sailors gasped, expecting her to cry out in pain or recoil. But she remained eerily still, her thin lips unmoving, her breath measured. When she opened her hands again, the fire was no longer on the torch but resting in her palm, a glowing orb of warmth and light that seemed to pulse with life, like a living creature. A murmur swept through the crew. One sailor let out a loud whoop, and the sound unleashed a torrent of cheers and laughter from the others. They clapped and stomped, enthralled by the impossible sight before them. The old woman, however, was not finished. With her free hand, she reached out and grasped one end of the fire, as though it were a strand of rope. Slowly and methodically, she began to mold it, stretching it into a glowing cord that shimmered and danced in her grasp. The fire did not burn her hands; instead, it obeyed her, taking shape as if it were clay warmed by her will. No one cheered. Even Blake, who had seen his share of strange wonders, found himself mesmerized. He leaned slightly forward, his usual air of command softened by sheer amazement. The old woman, sensing the weight of the attention on her, turned her head toward Blake. Her lips parted in a crooked grin, revealing a row of missing and broken teeth. Her eyes glinted with an uncanny understanding as she muttered something in her own language¡ªa string of gibberish that carried an unsettling rhythm, as though it were part chant, part curse. She raised her bony finger and pointed directly at Blake, her hand moving sharply, accusingly, before she gestured to herself and then back to him. Again, her incomprehensible words filled the air, her tone almost playful, yet edged with something deeper. The crowd fell silent, unsure whether to laugh or shiver. Blake''s hand reflexively tightened on the hilt of his sword, though he didn''t draw it, no he was too curious to do that , he wanted to know more and get to the bottom of this "Darron," Blake called, his voice sharp and clear, a captain''s tone that brooked no hesitation. The younger man snapped to attention, his hands dropping to his sides. "Go to my quarters," Blake ordered, his words carrying a deliberate weight. ''''Wake up the wench from my bed'''' Darron hesitated for only a moment, then nodded quickly. "Aye, Captain," he said, his voice betraying a mixture of nervousness and eagerness. He turned and moved briskly toward the captain''s quarters, disappearing down the steps with the sound of his boots echoing faintly against the wooden planks. Chapter 298: Long lost traditions(2) Chapter 298: Long lost traditions(2) The usual lively chatter and cheers from the crew dwindled into a tense silence as the minutes stretched. A few exchanged whispers, their voices barely audible over the gentle lapping of waves against the ship''s hull was all that could be heard . Finally, the sound of footsteps echoed up the wooden stairwell, sharp and deliberate. All eyes turned as Darron emerged, guiding a figure behind him. The woman he brought was striking in her bearing. Her skin was deeply tanned, a sun-kissed bronze that spoke of a life lived in warmer, brighter lands. Long black hair cascaded down her back, though its neat braids were now loosened, disheveled from her captivity. She was clothed in a simple but well-made garment, its elegance dulled by days of rough handling. This was no ordinary slave. She was the daughter of the very man whose town and palace Blake had stormed¡ªa noblewoman, taken in the chaos of fire and steel. The town had burned, its defenders scattered, and she had been plucked from the wreckage as a prize. Not merely a spoil of conquest but as a wwarming bed, Blake''s newest bed slave. The woman kept her gaze low, her movements hesitant as she stepped onto the deck. Her hands trembled, clutching the folds of her garment, but she dared not resist. When she finally looked up, it was to meet Blake''s piercing eyes, her own filled with dread. Blake stepped forward, his boots clicking against the planks as the crew parted instinctively to give him space. He stopped before her, looming like a shadow over her smaller frame. His hand shot out, grabbing her firmly by the arm and pulling her upright. She let out a small gasp but did not struggle, her fear rendering her pliant. The crew watched, as Blake turned her to face the old woman still sitting on the deck. His finger jabbed toward the woman and her curious, flickering display of fire. "Translate," Blake commanded, his voice low but resolute, leaving no room for refusal. His grip on her arm tightened just enough to emphasize his authority. The woman swallowed hard, her throat bobbing as her gaze darted nervously between the old woman and Blake. The woman gave the girl a glance and let out a chuckle before she started talking while watching at the sea. The noblewoman''s voice trembled as she began to translate. "She says... she says the sun is the strongest of all gods," the woman said, her tone uncertain as though the claim itself were blasphemous. "Unlike your gods,cruel to anyone sailing the sea, it bestows blessings only upon those who bear the right blood... and the right attitude to sacrifice what must be offered in its name." At this, Blake burst into laughter, a booming sound that echoed over the silent deck. The crew exchanged puzzled glances, their unease melting slightly in the wake of their captain''s amusement. "The sun, strongest of gods? And we''ve never heard of you lot?" Blake''s voice was rich with mockery. "What kind of gods are these, hiding in the shadows while the rest of the world sails past them?" The noblewoman winced at his derision but pressed on, her voice gaining steadiness as she continued. "She says their numbers are few. Their blood..." she paused, visibly uncomfortable before finding the words, "...their blood has been tainted by men. Men who tried to mix the blessed blood with that of the common in their bit to touch heavens ." The old woman spat something, her tone sharp and filled with scorn. The noblewoman translated hesitantly. "She says those men succeeded only in throwing a spill of blessed blood into a sea of... filth." Her cheeks flushed slightly at the crude description. "And by doing so, they drew the ire of the gods themselves that came for both of them alike ." Blake''s smirk faltered slightly, his amusement shifting to faint curiosity. He leaned forward, motioning for her to continue. The old woman gestured emphatically, her toothless grin returning as she spoke more rapidly, her eyes gleaming with a fiery conviction. The noblewoman''s voice grew quieter, more serious. "She says they now stay away from the court of the Arkushka... from all who associate with them. They believe the court''s corruption runs deep, and to be near it is to invite ruin, and only foolish one approach the court looking for luxury that they should have no need of..." Blake leaned against the ship''s mast, his sharp eyes narrowing as he looked down at the noblewoman. ''''The hell is an Arkushka?" he asked, the foreign word rolling awkwardly off his tongue. The noblewoman hesitated, her lips twitching as though unsure how to phrase it delicately. "It... it is an insult, a pig''s son would be the translation" she said finally, her tone carefully neutral. Blake snorted, crossing his arms. "Figures," he muttered, his gaze shifting to the old woman who remained seated on the deck, her gnarled hands resting idly on her knees. He raised his voice, directing it toward her. "If you''re so strong, old woman, why are you sitting here as our slave?" The noblewoman translated the question, her voice tight as she echoed Blake''s words in the strange, lilting tongue. At first, there was silence. Then, the old woman''s shoulders began to shake, a raspy cackle escaping her lips. It built and built until it became a wheezing, full-bodied laugh, her missing teeth visible as she tossed her head back. The noblewoman looked increasingly uneasy as the old woman spoke between fits of laughter. "She... she wants you to point out the one who captured her," the noblewoman translated nervously. Blake straightened, scanning the crew. His expression grew darker as no one stepped forward. The sailors shuffled uncomfortably, some exchanging wary glances, others pretending to focus on the horizon or the ropes in their hands. "Well?" Blake demanded, his tone sharp. "Which one of you idiots brought her aboard?" Still, no one moved. The noblewoman cleared her throat, drawing his attention back. "She says..." her voice was softer now, almost uncertain, "...that she chose to come aboard. She says... the flame told her to.As no man can hold her against her wishes" Blake stared at her, his brow furrowing deeply. "The flame told her?" he repeated, incredulity dripping from his words. "And why in the hell would her god want her to become a slave?" The old woman''s laughter subsided, and she spoke again, her voice low and crackling, like fire smoldering in a hearth. The noblewoman hesitated before translating. "She says... to serve the one the flame pointed at.A man crossing the ships while leaving behind everywhere he boarded , only flames , and last nights he saw the man her god pointed at " There was a beat of tense silence as Blake processed her words. Slowly, the old woman raised a crooked finger, her movements deliberate. Her bony hand extended outward, pointing directly at Blake. The deck seemed to grow quieter, the soft creak of the ship and the distant cry of seabirds the only sounds breaking the stillness. Blake''s lips curled into a smirk "Well, then," he drawled, his voice heavy with sardonic amusement, "looks like your god has a sense of humor after all.The only god I serve is the God of Sea and Storm," he declared, his voice firm and unwavering. "If your sun god pointed at me, then your god made a mistake." The noblewoman translated his words hesitantly, her voice trembling as she relayed them to the old woman. The crone''s reaction was immediate; she began to speak rapidly, her voice rising and falling like the crackling of a fire. The noblewoman, looking increasingly uneasy, spoke up. "She says... the god made no mistake. As she has not. She says the flame knows truth, even if men do not." Blake''s smirk faded into a hard line, his irritation evident. "She''s mistaken," he said curtly. " I don''t owe a damn thing to her god. I don''t need her Sun God''s blessings nor her witch" The old woman''s response came quick and forceful, and the noblewoman swallowed before translating. "She says... that you could be king of all the seamen. All you have to do is swear loyalty to the Sun God and he will provide the power." Blake''s expression darkened, and a growl rumbled low in his throat. "I''ve had enough of this," he snapped. "If her god is so powerful, then let him prove it. Let him help his blessed." He turned toward his crew, his tone commanding. "Bind her in rope. Stop the ship. And toss the hag overboard." The crew hesitated for only a moment before springing into action, their faces alight with wicked grins. "Make sure she doesn''t die," Blake added with a faint smirk. "I like her tricks too much to lose her just yet." The sailors worked swiftly, binding the old woman''s wrists and ankles tightly with coarse rope. The crone''s confusion turned to rage, her voice rising in sharp, guttural cries as they dragged her toward the side of the ship. The noblewoman tried to speak up, but Blake silenced her with a sharp glare. With a collective grunt, the sailors threw the old woman overboard. She hit the water with a splash, her bound form struggling as she bobbed to the surface. For a moment, she floundered, twisting and writhing in the water as the sea threatened to claim her. Her head disappeared beneath the waves, only to reemerge moments later. The crew erupted into laughter, their jeers echoing across the open sea as they tugged on the rope, jerking her above and below the water like a marionette. Blake leaned against the railing, watching the spectacle with an unreadable expression. Her earlier words echoed in his mind. King of all the freemen... Chapter 299: Another job Chapter 299: Another job Lucius stirred from his bed, the sunlight streaming through the narrow window of his chamber casting golden streaks across the stone walls. He stretched languidly, a grin spreading across his face as he sat up. For the first time in months, he felt rested, content, and untouchable. Life had been good¡ªvery good for him. It had been three months since that fateful night in Arduronaven,when he alongside his comrades had led a charge to open the gate from the inside. His reward had been nothing short of extraordinary for particepating in this task. The prince himself had handed Lucius a heavy purse of silver and formally announced his promotion to sergeant. Since then, life had been a dream. The extra coin had afforded him comforts he''d never dared to imagine. Lucius smiled as he thought of Sabina, her shy smile and the way her brown hair framed her delicate face. It still felt like a dream¡ªshe was finally his. His promotion and the generous sum of money he''d received had done more than elevate his standing among his peers; it had softened the heart of Sabina''s father, a man who once saw Lucius as little more than an ambitious foot soldier. The old tavern owner had been reluctant at first, grumbling about the precariousness of a soldier''s life, but the gleam of Lucius''s new sergeant insignia and the weight of his purse had silenced those protests. After weeks of negotiations and showing his newfound stability, Lucius had received the answer he had prayed for: Sabina''s hand in marriage. Their wedding was set to take place soon, and the thought filled him with a nervous excitement. He glanced around the modest inn''s room where he currently resided. It was clean and well-kept, but the worn wooden floorboards and the faint smell of ale from the common room below reminded him that this was no place to start a new life with his bride. The room had served him well in these past months, but now that he had the means, he knew it was time to do better. Lucius''s brow furrowed slightly as he ran a hand through his hair, considering his options. He had coin enough now to buy a proper home Today was one of his two allotted days of leave¡ªa perk of his recent promotion to sergeant. No cold barracks this morning, no stiff cot lined up in a row with the grumbling snores of other soldiers to break the stillness of the night. Instead, he''d been free to spend the evening in the comfort of this inn, away from the rigid order of the camp. Being a sergeant came with its privileges, and these brief respites were among the best of them. Two days each week whenever they were not a war , he could step outside the shadow of the military, blend into the rhythm of city life, and pretend¡ªif only for a while¡ªthat he wasn''t bound to the prince''s army. A sudden knock at the door startled Lucius, pulling him from his peaceful morning. He frowned, setting down the cup of water he had been sipping, and moved toward the door. His hand hesitated on the handle for a brief moment before he swung it open. Standing before him were two men. They were clad in shining armor that caught the morning light, their polished steel marked with the crest of the princess'' guard. Lucius''s stomach knotted instantly. "Are we speaking with Sergeant Lucius?" one of them asked, his voice calm but firm. Lucius swallowed hard, his mind racing as his body tensed. He nodded, unable to summon the words. "You are to come with us," the other man declared, his tone leaving no room for argument. Lucius glanced down at himself, realizing with sudden embarrassment that his chest was bare, and he stood in nothing but his loose linen trousers. He managed a weak, nervous smile and gestured to his state. "Can I... at least dress myself first?" The two guards exchanged a brief, unreadable look before the first one gave a curt nod. ------------------ Lucius walked through the long, gleaming halls of the palace, his boots echoing on the polished marble floor. The grandeur of the place was both awe-inspiring and unsettling. Towering columns lined the corridors, mosaics gave color to the walls, representing gods or simply scene of battles . Stragely the hall was silent and empty , strange given Lucius thought that the palace was filled with servants The two guards marched silently beside him, their heavy armor clinking softly with each step. Lucius couldn''t shake the knot of tension in his chest, his mind racing with speculation about why he had been summoned,as he knew very well that he had made no trouble. At last, they stopped before a tall wooden door.One of the guards stepped forward, gripping the ornate handle, and pushed the door open with a low creak. "Go in," he said curtly, gesturing for Lucius to enter. Lucius hesitated, glancing back at them. The second guard leaned closer, his expression grave. "A word of advice" he said quietly. "Behave yourself.'''' With a nod as thanks Lucius stepped into the chamber, the door closing behind him with a dull thud that echoed faintly in the vast space. The room was dimly lit by the warm glow of a few oil lamps, their light reflecting off the polished stone floor and casting flickering shadows on the tall, arched ceiling. Heavy velvet drapes framed narrow windows, their deep crimson color lending the room still air . At the center of the space was a single, ornate chair . Standing near the chair, his hands clasped behind his back, was a man Lucius immediately recognized: Alpheo. Alpheo''s presence filled the room like a storm cloud, his bearing commanding and his gaze sharp enough to cut steel. He was dressed in a rich, dark tunic his blak hair swept across his cranium. Lucius''s breath hitched, and without hesitation, he lowered himself to the ground, his knee pressed firmly to the cold floor and his head bowed. "Your grace " he said, his voice steady but tinged with reverence. "Rise," Alpheo commanded, his tone calm but brooking no argument. Lucius obeyed at once, standing straight and clasping his hands behind his back in an attempt to mask his unease. Alpheo''s lips curved into a faintknown each other too smile, his gaze steady and calculating. "No need to look so stiff, Lucius right?" he said, his tone unusually relaxed. "We''ve met each other once already. When it''s just us, you can afford to breathe a little.After all you have been following me for a long time ." Lucius hesitated, the tension in his shoulders still lingering. After a moment, he inclined his head, adjusting his posture. "As you say, Your Grace." "That''s better," Alpheo said, a hint of amusement slipping into his voice. "I haven''t forgotten the bold move that opened the gates of Arduronaven. If I remember right, I made you a sergeant for that little miracle." "You did, Your Grace," Lucius replied, keeping his tone respectful but unable to mask a flicker of pride. "And a good call it was," Alpheo continued, his smile hardening slightly. "You saved us from a bloodbath. We''d have spilled enough lives to paint the fields red if not for your quick thinking, or so your comrades said." Lucius lowered his gaze slightly, the weight of Alpheo''s words striking a chord. "I only did what needed to be done, Your Grace." Alpheo reached for a polished silver pitcher on his desk, pouring amber cider into a finely engraved cup. The fragrant aroma of apples and spices wafted through the room as he extended it toward Lucius. "Humble too...here, take this," he said smoothly. Lucius blinked, caught off guard by the gesture. He stuttered out a barely audible, "Th-thank you, Your Grace," before hesitantly accepting the cup. He gripped it awkwardly, unsure whether to sip it or simply hold it, his discomfort evident under the prince''s calm scrutiny. Alpheo leaned back slightly, studying Lucius with a faint smile. "I must admit, I was surprised your plan actually worked. You see, one doesn''t expect much from a band of refugees¡ªdesperate souls with little training, no resources. And yet, you and your comrades managed to defy those expectations." He paused, swirling the contents of his own cup with a practiced hand. "Impressive." Lucius straightened, trying to mask his unease, though his pride flared again at the compliment. Alpheo continued, his voice taking on a sharper edge of focus. "That''s exactly the kind of tenacity I need for something else¡ªa job of great importance." He let the words linger, his calculating gaze never leaving Lucius. "It''s not a task I assign lightly, but if done well, it will not only serve me¡ªit will reward you handsomely." Lucius felt his pulse quicken, though whether from excitement or trepidation, he couldn''t tell. Alpheo tapped a finger on the desk, his expression growing more thoughtful. "I''ve thought long and hard about who to entrust with this. Many faces crossed my mind, but then¡ª" he smiled faintly, as though recalling an old memory, "¡ªyour face came to me. Clear as day." He leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk. "Tell me, Lucius¡ªhave you been studying as you should?Are you literate?Three months is quite the time" Lucius swallowed and nodded quickly. "Yes, Your Grace. I''ve learned to read... mostly. And a little writing too." Alpheo hummed softly, his expression unreadable. "Good'''' Alpheo leaned back in his chair, his keen gaze steady on Lucius. "I believe you are the perfect man for this task,then...congratulations" he said with quiet conviction. Lucius straightened, his voice filled with earnestness. "I would be honored to serve you, Your Grace." Alpheo nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I knew I could count on such loyalty. Men like you are rare, Lucius¡ªdependable when it truly matters, humble and with quite the skill." He took a brief sip of his cider before setting the cup down with a soft clink. "The details of the job will come to you shortly. For now, prepare yourself." Lucius hesitated before speaking, his tone cautious. "Your Grace... may I ask something?" Alpheo arched a brow. "Of course." "When am I to depart?" Alpheo folded his hands, his fingers tapping lightly against each other. "As soon as possible. Potentially as early as tomorrow." He paused, studying Lucius carefully. "Is something troubling you?" Lucius shifted, lowering his gaze briefly before answering. "In three days, I was to be married, Your Grace." A silence fell over the room, heavy and awkward, stretching longer than Lucius expected. Then Alpheo rose smoothly from his chair and crossed the short distance to Lucius, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "Congratulations," Alpheo said warmly. "A wedding is no small matter. As a married man myself I can only wish the best. You may wait until after the ceremony. Especially given..." He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly , "how dangerous this job will be." Lucius''s eyes widened, alarm creeping into his expression as he did not know what he was to do, else the alarm would have become fear. You said nothing about it being dangerous?! He swallowed hard and asked, his voice hesitant, "Will I be undertaking this mission alone, Your Grace? Or will I have the chance to choose someone to accompany me?" If I am going to die then I will return the favor to that bastard. Chapter 300: Favors Chapter 300: Favors The streets of Yarzat buzzed with life, the morning sun casting a warm glow over the stone buildings and cobbled roads. Merchants shouted their wares, and children darted between carts, their laughter echoing through the air. Amid the bustle, two men walked with measured purpose, their heavy boots clinking against the stones. Lucius adjusted the weight of his breastplate, the polished steel gleaming faintly over his chainmail. Beside him, Marcus strode with less composure, his scowl dark as thunderclouds. "You''re a piece of shit, you know that?" Marcus growled, his voice low but laced with fury. He shot Lucius a glare that could have cut through their armor. "If you want to die, fine. Go do it alone. Don''t drag me into this madness." Lucius sighed, his eyes fixed ahead. "Are you done?" "No," Marcus snapped, his tone sharper. "I am not done. Next year, Lucius. Next. Bloody. Year. We were going to retire! Land, a little farm, a good life¡ªgone, because you couldn''t keep your damned mouth shut and just stay content as a sergeant, you had to poke the bear and then throw me toward it ." Lucius turned to look at him, his expression calm but firm. "It''s not just my mouth, Marcus, our prince chose us'''' Marcus threw his hands up. "Oh, of course! The prince! You''ve got to impress him, don''t you?He chose you,not me. Meanwhile, I''ve got to haul my ass to some godsforsaken backwater with you, where peasants are sticking pitchforks into anyone wearing armor!" Lucius glanced over at Marcus, his brow furrowing slightly. "The prince gave me the job, Marcus. I couldn''t exactly refuse him." Marcus threw his hands up in mock surrender. "Oh, I know that," he replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. "But what I find a bit hard to believe is that he also decided I should come along for the ride. Funny, considering I wasn''t called into the palace like you were, as a matter of fact does he even know my name? Of course he does because you bastard told him." Lucius kept walking, his lips pressed into a thin line as he turned his head slightly away. Marcus leaned forward, his tone low and accusatory. "You volunteered me, didn''t you? Don''t bother denying it. I knew it the moment you told me about this damned mission." Lucius stopped abruptly and turned to face him "Does that sound familiar to you?" Marcus blinked, momentarily taken aback before narrowing his eyes. "That''s different," he growled. "Back then, we succeeded, didn''t we? And we were rewarded for it! I got promoted, you got promoted, and we walked out of that mess alive.Was that not a favor I did you?" Lucius folded his arms, his voice calm but firm. " But I didn''t know we''d succeed when you pushed me on my back when the prince called for twenty volunteers. And neither did you. Now that it''s the other way around, you''re crying about it." Marcus opened his mouth to retort, but no words came. His jaw tightened, and his scowl deepened as he tried thinking of somethign ''''Well when I pushed you, you grabbed my arm so you paid that back!You still owe me '''' Lucius took that as the end of the argument and turned back to the road. "You sow..." he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Marcus to hear. As the conversation was cut short the two reached the end of the road where the great iron-bound gates of Yarzat loomed ahead. The guards stationed there straightened at the sight of them, their eyes scanning the chainmail and breastplates that marked them as soldiers of the White Army. One of the guards nodded in greeting. Marcus and Lucius exchanged it with a nod of their own With a wave of a hand, the heavy gate began to creak open, its mechanisms groaning as the massive wooden doors swung outward, revealing the world beyond the city walls. As the gates opened, Lucius and Marcus saw a cloaked figure leaning casually against the outer frame. The man pushed himself upright and turned toward them, his face partially obscured by the deep hood of his weathered cloak. "You''re the ones heading out, then?" he asked, his voice calm but carrying a hint of impatience. Lucius gave him a once-over and nodded. "We are." "Good," the man said, gesturing down the road. "Follow me." Without waiting for a response, he turned and began walking away from the gates, his boots crunching against the dirt path. Lucius exchanged a brief glance with Marcus, who rolled his eyes but fell in step beside him. The two followed the cloaked figure into the open expanse of the countryside. After a few moments of silence, Lucius cleared his throat. "Are you coming with us on this mission?" The man didn''t slow his stride or turn to face him, but his voice carried back to them easily. "Everything you need to know will be explained soon enough," he replied cryptically. Marcus muttered under his breath, clearly annoyed, but he said nothing more as they continued down the road, the city walls fading into the distance behind them. The hooded man led Lucius and Marcus toward a cluster of three carts stationed just off the road. Each cart was harnessed to a team of four sturdy horses, their breaths steaming in the morning chill. The carts were covered with thick canvas tarps, fastened securely with ropes to protect their contents. Stopping in front of the first cart, the hooded man gestured to it. "This one holds food and other provisions. '''' He moved to the second cart, rapping his knuckles lightly against the side. "Weapons and spare equipment" Finally, he pointed to the last cart. "Armor" Lucius''s gaze shifted to a group of ten men standing nearby on horseback, all dressed in light chainmail with short swords and shields slung across their backs. The hooded man nodded toward them. "These are your guards. They''ll accompany you and ensure the safety of the supplies. They are under your orders and will obey your commands." Lucius took a moment to size up the men, then turned back to the hooded figure. "And what about you? Are you coming with us?" The man shook his head, his hood swaying slightly. "No. My role is to oversee the supplies. I''ll remain here and organize additional shipments as needed. " Lucius frowned. "How exactly are we supposed to stay in contact with you?" A faint smirk tugged at the corners of the man''s lips. "That''s my concern, not yours. You''ll hear from me when the time comes.'''' The smirk disappeared as he shifted his stance, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice sharpened. "Now listen carefully. I know you''ve been briefed, but I''ll repeat it for clarity. The first contact is everything¡ªget it wrong, and we might as well burn the supplies where they stand." Lucius remained silent, his focus unwavering, while Marcus looked away, scowling faintly. "The group you''re looking for," the hooded man continued, "is a minor band of rebels led by a peasant. Approach them cautiously. Let them take the lead so you don''t appear hostile. When the moment is right, you''ll deliver the message: your backer¡ªwhose name or identity must never be mentioned¡ªis prepared to provide support. Food, weapons, armor... whatever they need." Lucius nodded, his expression serious. "We understand the importance of this. We''re ready." The man''s eyes shifted between Lucius and Marcus, lingering on each of them in turn. "We''ll see if you''re ready soon enough." He straightened and gestured toward the carts. "Now go. Time is a luxury we don''t have. The sooner you leave, the sooner we''ll know if this venture bears fruit." Lucius gave a crisp nod, but Marcus lingered, muttering under his breath as he adjusted his sword belt. The hooded man ignored the grumbling, turning his attention back to the carts as Lucius and Marcus began their departure. With that, the man stepped aside, gesturing toward the road ahead. Lucius tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, gave Marcus a glance that said they were officially committed, and turned to signal the guards to get moving. The group departed with a creak of wheels and the rhythmic clatter of horseshoes on the dirt road. The three carts rolled in single file, each flanked by guards who kept their weapons close, eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of trouble. Marcus stood beside Lucius on the lead cart, his usual scowl fixed firmly in place, as the coacher led the horse forward with his rein. As the caravan settled into a steady pace, Marcus glanced at Lucius and broke the tense silence. "If we die out here, I swear to every god above, I''m dragging you down to hell with me." Lucius didn''t even turn his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "You can go there alone. I''m a pious man. My place is in the heavens." Marcus snorted, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, I know. That''s exactly why I said I''d drag you. If I''m stuck down there, I''m not letting you enjoy some pearly-gate paradise while I''m roasting." "You''ve got a twisted sense of justice." "Call it what you want," Marcus grumbled. "Just keep your prayers handy. I might need you to pull some divine strings when things inevitably go south.I had one too many whores to go up..." Chapter 301: Watching over the sea Chapter 301: Watching over the sea Alpheo rode tall in the saddle, his sharp eyes scanning the roads of Aracina, the salt-tinged breeze a familiar reminder of the town''s place by the sea. Beside him, Ratto rode silently, his compact frame hunched slightly as he occasionally glanced at the Golden Steeds, the company of sixty men, all in gleaming gilded armor following behind. The rhythmic clinking of chainmail and the steady beat of hooves on cobblestones echoed like a heartbeat through the streets. Alpheo allowed himself a moment of reflection, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he recalled his first days in this very town. Aracina was more than just a, coastal settlement of the crownland to him¡ªit was the birthplace of his rise in these lands. One year and some months ago, he had been no more than a sellsword when fate intertwined him with the late Prince Arkawatt. Tasked with holding Aracina until the royal army could arrive. He still remembered when his companions had been against being hired by Arkawatt as they could not understand the reason , he would pledge his service to a man without coin. Now I am the ruler of that princedom, and all of them were made lord.Fate is a fickle thing .... He could still picture the walls of Aracina at dusk, the fires flickering in the dark as the army of Prince Shamleik of Oizen loomed outside the gates. It was here that he had devised his boldest ambush, luring Shamleik''s forces into the town''s narrow streets, turning their numbers against them. The bloody skirmish that ensued became a defining moment¡ªa triumph that not only saved the town but also gave them a good amount of coins and equipment for his soldiers, that would not come from Arkawatt''s pocket. As he rode now, the sea breeze stirred memories of that fateful night. The cries of battle and the sight of Shamleik''s banner falling still lingered vividly in his mind. A slight frown darkened Alpheo''s features as another thought emerged¡ªthe fragile truce signed after that victory was coming to an end. By December, the Principality of Oizen would be free to renew hostilities. And if Alpheo knew anything about Shamleik,he would probably not miss an opportunity to pay back the man that had thwarted his plans. "Always circling, like vultures over a carcass," Alpheo murmured under his breath, his fingers tightening around the reins. "Did you say something, Your Grace?" Ratto asked, his voice cutting through the prince''s musings. Alpheo shook his head slightly, snapping out of his reverie. "No, just thinking aloud." As they reached the city, the gates of Aracina creaked open with a slow groan, revealing the narrow road leading into the bustling town. From within, a man in polished but weathered armor rode out to meet them. As the rider approached, Alpheo''s eyes narrowed, instantly recognizing the man¡ªSir Fahil. If he had to describe the man he would use one word Rat , Fahil had played a crucial role in Alpheo''s triumph during the siege of Aracina. It was Fahil who had secretly plotted to open the gates for Prince Shamleik''s forces, only to be discovered by Alpheo at the last moment. Cornered and desperate, Fahil had switched sides once again, aiding Alpheo in luring the Oizen vanguard into a devastating ambush. His duplicity had inadvertently sealed Aracina''s salvation, though Arkawatt, unaware of Fahil''s treachery, had retained him as governor of the city. Now, after Alpheo''s administrative reforms, Fahil stood as the head of the garrison force instead of his governor. As Fahil drew closer, Alpheo observed the man''s discomfort. Sweat gleamed on Fahil''s brow, despite the cool coastal breeze, and his bow was deep and deferential, an obvious attempt to placate the man he had insulted just a year ago, and who in the meantime had become his liege. "Your Grace," Fahil greeted, his voice wavering slightly. Alpheo allowed himself a smile¡ªone more unsettling for its warmth than its menace. "Sir Fahil," he said, his tone measured, "it has been quite some time since we last crossed paths." Fahil straightened slightly, only to bow again, lower this time. "Indeed, Your Grace. A most...fortuitous meeting to see such nobility again...." Alpheo''s smile lingered as he tilted his head, pretending to muse aloud. "And yet, I see you''ve retained your position as head of the garrison. How interesting that the winds of fortune still blow in your favor." Fahil''s face paled, and his bow became so low it seemed he might tumble from his saddle. "It is my greatest honor to serve under the crown, Your Grace," he stammered, his voice cracking. Alpheo sighed, a sound more exasperated than cruel. "No matter," he said with a wave of his hand. "Show me the way to the port. I''ve no time for pleasantries." Fahil straightened at once, fumbling to turn his horse around. "Of course, Your Grace. Please , follow me." As Fahil led the way, Alpheo''s gaze lingered on the man for a moment longer, a flicker of disdain flashing in his eyes before he spurred his horse forward. Behind him, the Golden Steeds marched in perfect formation, their disciplined strides a stark contrast to Fahil''s obvious unease. As Alpheo rode behind Fahil, his calm exterior betrayed nothing of the storm brewing in his mind. His eyes studied the back of the man leading them, noting the stiffness of Fahil''s posture, the slight tremble in his movements. A rat once is a rat always, Alpheo thought grimly. The memory of Fahil''s double-dealing during the siege of Aracina resurfaced like an unwanted specter. That he had been forced to rely on such a man to secure victory still left a bitter taste in his mouth, since now he was the one above him. The fact that Fahil now commanded the garrison of Aracina¡ªone of only two coastal cities that the Prince of Oizen coveted most was something that he had to deal with immediately. There is no chance he''ll retain his position, Alpheo resolved silently. His decision was already made; the moment he returned to the capital, Fahil would be replaced by someone more trustworthy¡ªsomeone loyal to his wife. Better to have a loyal fool than a cunning traitor guarding my walls, Alpheo mused as he believed that the actual people of skill in service of his wife, and that were not employed by him , were really few.... and automatically associated that they would certainly be of poor skill. Fahil might bow low and tremble now, but the opportunistic glint in the man''s eye hadn''t faded, he recognised it very well for after all he shared that same trait with him Opportunistic men after all resemble each other. Aracina''s defense was too critical to be left in the hands of a man whose loyalties were as fickle as the wind. With the truce between the Crownlands and Oizen ending in December, Shamleik''s forces would undoubtedly turn their eyes toward the city once more. Aracina was a key prize, its port vital for control of the coast, as such Fahil had to go one way or the other. ---------------- As Alpheo and his entourage reached the bustling port of Aracina, the salty tang of the sea filled the air, mingling with the sharp cries of seagulls overhead. The prince wasted no time; his eyes immediately sought the ships that had dominated his thoughts and coffers for the past six months. There they were, moored in orderly rows, their sleek forms gleaming in the sunlight. Fifteen ships in total ready to sail the waves. Each galley bore a bronze-clad ram at its prow, its sharp, gleaming point a deadly promise to any ship that dared cross its path. These rams, carefully forged and polished, had been designed to punch through the hulls of enemy vessels, turning the sea itself into a battleground, he knew very well that most ships used during sea invasions , were mostly merchant vessel borrowed from merchants . As such Alpheo tried to make it so that his royal fleet would serve a similar purpose to his White Army.Both extremely expensive and yet to be that diamond in the midst of dirt. Alpheo''s gaze swept across the fleet, his chest swelling with pride. This was no mere vanity project of his , but it was instead his future power . His realm''s strength could no longer depend solely on armies marching across fields or cities held behind walls. If his ambitions were to thrive, they needed dominance on the sea as well, as after all many of the interests of Yarzat lied on the other side of the sea... The cost still had been staggering¡ª35,000 silverii sunk into the endeavor, enough to build a small city. But as Alpheo surveyed the galleys, he knew the investment had been worth every coin. These ships were not just tools of war; they were symbols of power, as he knew very well just how important ships would be for the next few years "Magnificent, aren''t they?" Alpheo said aloud, mostly to himself, his voice carrying a note of pride as he admired the galleys gleaming under the midday sun. "If you say so, Your Grace," Ratto replied, folding his arms involutarly with a skeptical tilt of his head. "Still, if you don''t mind me asking, who''s going to have the honor of leading them out to sea? Surely, I hope it is not you your grace?'''' Alpheo let out a soft laugh, turning his gaze to Ratto. "No, not me. My talents lie on land. I''ve hardly set foot on a ship, let alone commanded one. And therein lies the problem." Ratto raised an eyebrow, catching the slight hesitation in Alpheo''s tone. while giving him a stare that sounded like : Ah, so you don''t have a man for the job yet? ''''That''s unlike you, Your Grace. Usually, you''ve got ten steps planned before anyone else even realizes there''s a game." Ratto said with a small smile Alpheo sighed, his brow furrowing. "The truth is, our expertise at sea is... lacking. Yarzat was never much of a naval power, and there''s no one in my ranks with the experience to lead a fleet of this scale. Most of the crown''s man have spent their lives staring at fields, not waves." "So, I suppose you will start searching for one?Or you think of trying your luck with someone? "Hardly," Alpheo shot back, smirking liking the tone of his voice as he never liked anyone that used a flattering tone . "I''ll likely have to look beyond our borders for someone with the necessary skill.'''' Alpheo''s smile faded as his mind wandered back to the complexities of what he had just discussed. He knew better than anyone how dangerous it was to entrust something as critical as a fleet to a foreigner. As any state , Yarzat while tolerant in some ways, had their share of suspicions toward outsiders. Placing a man of different culture at the head of their first royal navy would invite more than whispers of dissent But the political unease wasn''t even the greatest concern. A foreign captain would come with a past: previous employers whose interests might still hold sway, family ties that could tug at their loyalties, or allegiances forged in ports far beyond the Alpheo''s influence. A captain with a family in an another state might be tempted to switch sides with the navy. Alpheo''s jaw tightened at the thought . Of course, there were ways to safeguard against such betrayals. If he could gain leverage over a potential commander¡ªsecure their family as "guests," for example or making him a nobleman with some lands. Many already grumbled about Alpheo''s ambitious reforms and the speed with which he was changing the realm, the recent reaction of the noble to the administrative reforms was one example, and bringing a foreigner is a seat of power was certainly no better. Still they were not the one that ruled the princedom, so by the end of the day their grumblings could be ignored especially if it was not a common attitude of the majority of his vassals, given that most had no interests regarding the crown''s fleet and as such for the most part were apathic toward it.... Chapter 302: Hell on hearth(1) Chapter 302: Hell on hearth(1) For the past three months, the once-prosperous lands of Herculia had descended into a maelstrom of chaos. Half the region, rich with sprawling farmlands and quiet villages, now swarmed with disorder. Bands of brigands and rebelling peasants roamed unchecked, raiding granaries, torching manors, and seizing whatever they could to sustain their uprisings. The roads, before the war once bustling with merchants and travelers, were now death traps, as convoys fell prey to ambushes and supply lines were severed. Villagers fled to the forests, leaving behind ghost towns haunted by the specter of starvation and destruction. This wave of anarchy was the bitter harvest sown by Alpheo, Yarzat''s little fox , during the war just months prior. As his forces swept through Herculia, he had left a trail of scorched villages and desolation, burning crops and driving thousands from their homes. Now, Herculia''s ruling court scrambled to quell the uprising, struggling to muster enough forces to contain the spreading violence. But even that in the midst of widespread anarchy was an uphill battle for the prince. His principality, already weakened by the devastation inflicted during the war with Yarzat, found just how hard it was to rally troops when your enemy is everywhere Lachlian''s call to arms was met with simple and pure disarray. Minor lords, that resided near the Crown Lands and tasked with rallying their banners, struggled to even reach the capital. The countryside was infested with bandits and rebels who had grown increasingly bold. These factions, driven by hunger and rage, ambushed the small retinues of soldiers marching under the banners of the lords. Outnumbered and unprepared for such ferocious assaults, the forces of these lesser nobles were frequently overrun. The rebels, emboldened by the low numbers and scattered defenses of the minor lords, struck with reckless abandon. Along winding forest roads and narrow passes, they hurled themselves at their prey, descending upon the soldiers like a swarm. Weapons, armor, and provisions¡ªall intended for the prince''s war effort¡ªwere seized in brutal raids. Entire caravans were looted, leaving Lachlian''s already struggling lords humiliated and defenseless. Reports of the rebellion''s scale painted a grim picture. By the latest count, there were nearly 6,500 rebels in open defiance of the prince''s authority. The only silver lining for Lachlian in the chaos consuming Herculia was that the rebellion lacked any true coordination. Despite their numbers swelling to nearly 4,500, the rebels were not a unified force but rather a scattered collection of ragtag bands, each operating independently. These groups had no singular leader, no overarching strategy, and no shared vision beyond survival. This disorganization provided Lachlian with a glimmer of hope. The rebels, for all their ferocity, were fragmented and lacked the capacity to unite their strength into a single, devastating blow. Their focus was on raiding and pillaging, scavenging whatever supplies they could find to sustain themselves, rather than mounting a concerted effort to seize strongholds or claim political power. Lachlian understood that if he could somehow muster a proper army, he would have the advantage. A trained and disciplined force could crush these bands piecemeal, isolating and annihilating them one by one before they could consolidate. Unlike an organized rebellion with central leadership, these groups would struggle to respond to a coordinated counteroffensive. The prince clung to this reality as he planned his next moves. The challenge, however, remained formidable: raising such an army amidst rebellion and chaos. Among the scattered bands of rebellion that plagued Herculia, one of the these forces was led by Inor, a peasant whose story commenced with the larger turmoil gripping the land. Inor had been among the first to rise from the refugee camps that seeded the rebellion. He had managed to be the head of one of these band, not by charisma but mostly by experience. Inor hailed from a small village near the borderlands, and unlike most of his kin, he had seen battle. During the recent invasion by the forces of Yarzat, he had been conscripted into the Herculeian army. He had fought valiantly at the Battle of the Bleeding Plains, and once defeated, in the chaos of retreat, he slipped away, returning to his village. When the rebellion began to stir, it was only natural that Inor''s name came to the forefront by his acquaintances. Inor''s current force numbered around 700 people, though calling it an "army" would have been a gross overstatement. Only 300 of them were actual fighting men, and even they were poorly armed and not even trained. The remaining 400 were women and children,mostly families of the men Unlike other bands, where the strongest men had broken away to form purely martial groups, Inor''s force was primarily composed of people from his own village. Accepting men who could not desert their families to join the more ruthless rebel groups, who viewed women and children as nothing but mouths to feed¡ªan unsustainable liability in times of scarce resources. As a result, Inor found himself leading not just fighters but also a vulnerable population that slowed his movements and limited his options. Still, he held fast to his role. Leading them one way or another in a bid to survive, as the moved west from their position. ----------------- Inor sat on a makeshift stool in the shade of a crumbling cottage, the faint smell of smoke still lingering in the air from the fires his band had used to chase the villagers away. Around him, the remnants of a small Herculeian village sprawled in disarray. The original inhabitants were long gone, scattered into the surrounding forests or down the winding roads, fleeing before his band arrived. Their homes now stood hollow, their belongings ransacked or discarded, leaving only ghostly traces of their lives behind. The rebels moved through the village like locusts, stripping it of anything remotely edible. Livestock pens stood empty, the bleating of goats and the clucking of chickens replaced by silence; whatever could walk or be carried was gone. Inor''s men had raided the orchards and gardens, pulling fruit straight from the trees and tearing roots from the ground, whether ripe or not. Even the wild herbs growing between the cobblestones had not been spared. A woman dragged a sack filled with foraged goods toward a central pile that was being sorted. The bag sagged under the weight of scavenged potatoes, wild onions, and mushrooms. Children darted between the adults, their faces smeared with dirt as they gnawed on stolen apples. Inor himself leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, watching his people work with a weariness that came from more than just physical exhaustion. Nearby, a group of his fighters were roasting a freshly slaughtered pig over a low fire, the fat sizzling and dripping into the flames. The smell should have been inviting, but to Inor, it was a reminder of the precariousness of their situation. The food would last only a few weeks , even with rationing, and then they would have to move on. One of his men approached, "Inor," he said, voice low. "We''ve taken all we can from the fields and homes. There''s nothing left worth the trouble." Inor nodded, running a hand through his unkempt hair. "Then we''ll rest tonight and move at first light," he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside. The man hesitated. "And the villagers? Some are hiding in the woods. They might come back." Inor''s lips pressed into a thin line. "Let them," he said finally. "What we''ve left won''t be worth fighting over." He glanced toward the distant hills, where he imagined Lachlian''s soldiers were gathering. "We''ll have bigger problems soon enough." He nodded and stepped away, leaving Inor to his thoughts. The peasant leader''s stomach churned¡ªnot with hunger, for once, but with the gnawing realization of what lay ahead. This can''t last. Not like this. The food''s already going too quickly, and every day it''ll only get worse. How many villages can we raid before there''s nothing left? Before we start tearing at each other like starving dogs? He clenched his fists, the thought bitter as bile in his throat. His gaze shifted to the villagers'' homes, now nothing more than hollow shells of what they had once been. There weren''t many villages left nearby that hadn''t already been stripped bare by other bands. And what happens then? He thought grimly. How long before we turn on each other instead of waiting forthe prince''s soldiers to finish us off? Or worse, until another band of rebels decides we''ve got something worth stealing? The idea churned in his head, sharp and unavoidable. Inor had seen it before¡ªdesperate men fighting over scraps, alliances shattered in the blink of an eye. He imagined the chaos that would erupt when the first blade was drawn, when the first hungry man turned on his neighbor. This can''t be the way. This can''t be how it ends. Either we die of hunger, hunted like animals by the prince''s men, or we get torn apart by other rebels trying to survive just like us. His hand instinctively moved to the hilt of his sword, fingers brushing the worn leather grip. Perhapse we could search for refuge in another lord''s land, we should be close to Yarzat''s border.If I am not mistaken it was further west from here , perhapse with some luck they could enter unmolested and then separate into smaller groups looking for help village from village, until someone accepted us... He knew the odds were slim¡ªslimmer than he dared admit¡ªbut compared to the alternatives, it was the least dire of their options. At least this plan gave them a chance, however faint, to avoid starvation or slaughter. Because deep down, Inor understood the truth: they were living on borrowed time. Every day they lingered in this wasteland brought them closer to their end. What he didn''t know, however, was that another path¡ªa fourth, unforeseen option¡ªwas already making its way toward them. Chapter 303: An unkown sponsor Chapter 303: An unkown sponsor Inor moved briskly through the sprawling chaos that was his camp, his eyes scanning the disarray around him. It was not a sight that inspired confidence. Tents and crude shelters fashioned from scavenged fabric and wood dotted the area without any sense of order. Families huddled together around meager fires, clutching what little they had left. Children played aimlessly, their laughter rare and subdued, while others simply sat, staring hollow-eyed at the dirt. There were no barricades, no sentries posted, and no discernible structure to the camp. A sigh escaped him as his boots kicked up dust on the uneven ground. It wasn''t just disorganized¡ªit was indefensible. Anyone with even the faintest military experience could see that this was an easy target for a raid or ambush. Inor''s mind wandered briefly to the camps of the Herculeian army, where he''d served during the war. But those camps had been manned by trained soldiers. This rabble was different. Farmers, laborers, and broken families¡ªnone of them had the discipline or knowledge to recreate the efficiency of a real military force. Inor knew it was a futile effort to even try. He''d barely managed to keep them alive, let alone whip them into any semblance of an army. His pace quickened as a scout, which was more as a watchman as he had no horse approached him, breathless and wide-eyed. "Inor! A group of men with carts appeared ahead of the camp. They surrendered to our scouts and said they wanted to speak with you." "Carts?" Inor stopped in his tracks, his brow furrowing. He didn''t trust easily, especially not strangers with supplies in tow "Yes," the scout confirmed. "They''re unarmed¡ªor at least they appear to be. They''ve made it clear they only want to meet our leader." What the hell is going on? He lampooned as he tried to make sense of what was happening. After quite a bit , realizing that he had no answer to give himself , and with curiosity pushing him quite a bit , he decided to give in to their request. ''''Show the way then'''' He said as he resumed his walk. -------------- Inor moved steadily toward the southern edge of the camp, his brow furrowed in suspicion. The scouts ahead of him were already at work, poking through the carts with rough hands, tossing aside the coverings to reveal what lay beneath. Beneath the blankets, sacks of grain, and dried meats, filled one cart There were also bundles of iron-tipped spears, neatly stacked together. At least two weeks of supply here, with two meal at day..and enough to equip half the men I have Inor''s gaze shifted to the three men on the ground. Two were clad in fine armor, polished steel catching the light, their helmets taken from them now adorned the head of two of his scouts. The third man stood out, wearing nothing more than a simple cloak and tunic, his clothing modest to the point of being out of place among the finery and steel. He crossed his arms, his sharp eyes scanning the three men before stepping closer, his boots crunching on the dry, uneven ground. His gaze was sharp, unrelenting, as he addressed them. "Word is you surrendered your weapons to one of my scouts and asked to speak to me. Well, here I am. Speak your piece¡ªwho are you?" The first man, with light blonde hair that fell untamed as curls across his forehead, smiled faintly, his tone calm and measured. "We''re just people who want to help," he said, his voice steady, betraying no fear. Inor raised an eyebrow, his gaze shifting toward the carts nearby. He took a slow step, letting his eyes linger on the polished armor, the neatly stacked weapons, and the bulging sacks of food. "Good steel, fine gear, and enough food to feed a lot of mouths for two weeks. Not to mention those weapons. That''s a mighty generous. Almost feels like my prayers''ve been answered.Never been quite pious, but it seems the gods work in mysterious way..." Before the blonde man could reply, the second figure¡ªdark-haired, cut in, his tone brisk. "Don''t forget the armor. Plenty of that, too.'''' Inor''s lips curled into a thin, humorless smirk. "Aye, you''ve brought a lot, no denying that. But three carts packed to bursting, and just three of you to guard it all? You''ve either got guts or rocks for brains to haul all this through these parts alone." He paused, his gaze shifting to the edges of the camp, the treeline, and the distant hills. He scanned for signs of movement, his senses prickling. "Then again," he continued, turning his attention back to them, "you didn''t get here by luck alone. I''d wager you''ve got others out there, hidin'' in the brush, keepin'' watch.It is a long way for a couple of men after all. And judging by the fact they haven''t already come charging in, I''m guessing you mean to talk first, not fight." The blonde man''s faint smile returned, but there was a glint of something sharper in his eyes now. "A fair guess," he said smoothly. "But I''m not inclined to share their whereabouts just yet. Let''s just say they''re here to make sure things go... smoothly." Inor let out a low chuckle, though there was no humor in it. "Smoothly, huh? That''s one way to put it. Another way is that they''re insurance, in case we decide to gut you and take those carts for ourselves." The blonde man didn''t flinch. Instead, his tone took on a confident edge. "You could try.But then who is going to deliver them next?'''' Inor''s eyes narrowed as he planted himself in front of the blonde man, his arms crossed. "Who sent you?" he asked, his tone firm and unyielding. The blonde man tilted his head slightly, the faintest hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "The order was passed down through more hands than you''ve got fingers," he replied, his voice calm but clipped. "It''d be no use throwing out a name you don''t know, and even less use pretending I''ve met the one pulling the strings." Inor grunted, his suspicion far from eased. "Convenient," he muttered, glancing briefly at the carts before fixing his gaze back on the man. "Maybe we ought to head back to camp, where we''ve got more privacy, to continue this little talk of ours." The blonde man''s smile faded slightly as his expression hardened. "We''re going to talk here," he said flatly, his eyes steady as they met Inor''s. Before Inor could respond, one of his scouts¡ªthe one with a wild beard and a temper to match¡ªstepped forward. Without warning, the scout smacked the back of the blonde man''s head with an open palm, sending the man''s hair flying. "You talk like you''ve got a choice!" the scout growled. "You''re our prisoner, not some lordling barkin'' orders!" The blonde man staggered slightly but righted himself quickly. He turned his head slowly to glare at the scout, his expression icy. Then he looked directly at Inor, his tone sharp and cutting. "I''d suggest you keep your dogs on a leash, or this will be the last time we deliver anything to you. Like it or not, the only one deciding whether this is the first of many deliveries¡ªor the last¡ªis me." Inor held the man''s cold gaze for a moment, his jaw tightening. Finally, he turned to the scout and barked, "Stand down!" The scout hesitated, his glare shifting between Inor and the blonde man, before reluctantly stepping back with a muttered curse. Turning back to the blonde man, Inor''s voice was steady, though his tone carried a warning. "You''ve got a sharp tongue for someone standing in the middle of my camp, unarmed and with no good will around. I''d tread carefully if I were you." The blonde man shrugged slightly, brushing a hand through his hair where the scout had struck him. "And you''ve got a camp full of hungry mouths and no good options. Seems we both have reasons to stay civil.First of many that motherfucker right there" He said as he nodded toward the man with the beard Inor''s lips twitched, his expression unreadable, before he gestured toward the carts. "Let''s see just how much you''ve brought, and then we''ll decide how civil this gets." The sound of heavy crates thudding onto the dirt and the rustle of sacks being dragged from the carts filled the air as Inor''s scouts began unloading and counting the goods. Grain sacks hit the ground with dull thumps, and the sharp metallic clinks of weapons and armor accompanied the bustling work. The scouts moved quickly, muttering among themselves as they inventoried the supplies. One scout, stood up and wiped sweat from his brow. "We got 150 sacks of grain, three cases of jerky meat," he called out, his voice tinged with excitement. "And... let''s see... 180 spearheads, 120 chainmails¡ª" Another scout interrupted, raising something in his hand with a baffled expression. "And fifty of... whatever these are." Inor stepped closer to get a better look. His sharp eyes caught the curve of the object in question, and a faint smile tugged at his lips. "Those are slings," he said, his tone matter-of-fact. The scouts muttered among themselves, a mix of confusion and recognition passing through them. Inor turned to the blonde man, who had been watching the proceedings with an air of calm confidence. "Quite the haul," Inor admitted, gesturing to the assembled goods. "I''ll say this¡ªyou don''t travel light." He paused, then added, his voice softening slightly. "Looks like we got off on the wrong foot. Maybe we ought to start this over... exchange names and such." The brown-haired man stepped forward, his sharp eyes meeting Inor''s. "Marcus," he said simply, his voice carrying the faint hint of a foreign accent. He gestured toward the blonde man next to him. "This here is Lucius." Marcus nodded toward the coachman, who was leaning casually against one of the carts, chewing on a piece of straw. "And him?" ''''His name doesn''t matter'''' Inor raised an eyebrow at that, but his smile broadened slightly. He extended a hand toward Marcus. "A pleasure to meet you, Marcus. And you, Lucius.I believe there are more things that should be said between us...as I said before we just got on the wrong foot here.'''' Chapter 304: Pointing the details Chapter 304: Pointing the details The camp buzzed with muted activity as Lucius and Marcus walked through its heart, their boots kicking up thin clouds of dry dirt. Their weapons and helmets had been returned, the polished steel of their armor catching the dim light Both men carried themselves with the poise of seasoned fighters. Lucius''s pale blonde hair, slightly tousled beneath his helmet, gleamed like gold. His eyes swept the camp with a faint look of amusement, though his face betrayed nothing. Beside him, Marcus walked too his sharp gaze dissecting every detail of the rebel settlement. Even though the had been officers for less than a month, they knew from their experience as soldier that was not how camp should look like Sprawled in disorganized chaos¡ªcrude tents patched together from scraps of cloth and leather dotted the area. Smoke spiraled lazily from small cookfires, and children darted between the tents, their faces dirtied but curious. The rebels watched the two armored men with wary eyes. Some stood frozen, a mix of awe and suspicion written on their faces. A handful of men muttered among themselves, glancing repeatedly at Lucius and Marcus as if trying to piece together who they were and why they were here. Women clutched their children close, stealing nervous glances at the strangers. Lucius and Marcus exchanged a subtle look, a shared understanding passing between them. They''d seen this before¡ªthe distrust, the curiosity, the quiet fear. "Charming place," Lucius murmured under his breath, his tone laced with sarcasm. Marcus didn''t reply ,his usual non-chalance nowhere to be seen, his jaw tightening as his eyes lingered on the disheveled state of the camp. His gaze flicked to a line of poorly maintained weapons stacked haphazardly against a post¡ªrusted blades, makeshift clubs, and a few battered spears. As they moved deeper into the camp, the tension followed them like a shadow. More rebels stopped what they were doing to stare openly. Their faces were hardened from weeks of hunger and uncertainty, but their curiosity was palpable. Whispers spread quickly, questions muttered just loud enough to be heard. "Who''re they supposed to be?" "Never seen armor like that before." ''''Are they soldiers?'''' Inor walked with purposeful strides, his boots grinding against the dry earth as he led Lucius and Marcus toward the center of the chaotic camp. Inor''s private tent itself was little more than a patchwork of coarse cloth and leather stitched together, but it stood taller and broader than the others, marked with crude stakes and ropes that pulled it taut against the wind. Inor reached the flap and held it open, stepping inside without looking back to see if they followed. Lucius and Marcus ducked into the dim interior, their helmets brushing the top of the entrance. The inside was sparse with just an uneven rug on the dirt floor. Before anyone could speak, the rustling of cloth caught their attention. A small child, no older than six, darted from behind the cot and threw himself at Inor with unrestrained glee. His tiny arms wrapped tightly around Inor''s waist as he buried his face into his father''s tunic. "Papa!" the boy exclaimed, his voice high and bright against the tension in the room. Inor froze for a moment, a flicker of something softer crossing his hardened face. He placed a large, calloused hand on the boy''s head, ruffling his hair. "What are you doing here, boy? I told you to stay with the others." The child looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "I wanted to see you," he said simply, his small voice carrying a stubborn tone that mirrored Inor''s own. Inor crouched slightly, bringing himself down to the boy''s level. "Go on now," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "Play with your friends. I have important business." The boy pouted but nodded, his gaze flicking toward Lucius and Marcus. His eyes lingered on their armor, his curiosity evident. The men didn''t move, letting the child study them in silence. "Go on," Inor repeated, nudging the boy toward the exit. The child glanced back one last time, his small face wrinkled in fascination, before darting out of the tent. The flap closed behind him, leaving the three men in a moment of stillness. Inor sighed and moved to sit on the ground near the low table, his legs folding beneath him in a practiced motion. He gestured toward the space across from him, his sharp eyes watching as Lucius and Marcus followed suit. Inor leaned forward slightly, his arms resting on his knees, his expression unreadable. "When can I expect the next delivery?" he asked, his tone calm but edged with the quiet authority of a man used to bad news. Lucius straightened his back, his polished armor catching the faint light filtering through the tent''s patchwork seams. "The next shipment will come in two weeks," he replied, his voice measured. "But after that, the deliveries will stop being... free." Inor''s eyes narrowed, though he didn''t seem surprised. He let out a low, humorless chuckle. "Knew it was too good to be true. So, what is it you want from me? What''s the cost?" Lucius exchanged a brief glance with Marcus, then leaned forward slightly, his tone quiet but pointed. "Our employer has expectations. He doesn''t just give out support for charity, you see. In exchange for his... generosity, he''ll need you to follow some orders. Nothing too complicated, mind you, and more often than not, they''ll align with your cause. Useful things for you and your men." Inor''s eyes flickered with suspicion. "Useful things, huh? Like what?" Marcus, who had been silent so far, added, "You''ll know when the time comes. But discretion will be key." Lucius nodded in agreement, his gaze steady on Inor. "What matters most is that you understand the arrangement. You''ll keep our involvement¡ªand by extension, our employer''s involvement¡ªa secret. If word spreads about where your support is coming from, this all falls apart. Remember, there are plenty of other men in rebellion out there, men who''d be more than willing to take this arrangement in your place." Inor''s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, letting Lucius continue. "You, however, have one advantage they don''t," Lucius went on, his voice dropping slightly, making his next words land like a hammer. "You have us. And through us, you have him. If you''re smart, you''ll treat our employer''s orders as you would a divine commandment." The room went still, the weight of Lucius''s words hanging between them. Inor leaned back slightly, his face carefully blank. "So that''s how it is," he said slowly. His voice was calm, but his mind raced. He had expected strings attached, but the leash they were offering was shorter than he feared. Lucius spread his hands in a placating gesture. "That''s how it is. But think on this: in a world where you''ve got enemies closing in from all sides, wouldn''t it be better to have someone watching your back? Or are you planning to feed and arm your people with dirt and prayers?" Inor stared at Lucius for a long moment, then shifted his gaze to Marcus, who remained silent but watchful. Finally, he nodded, though it was more to himself than to them. "Fine," he said, his voice low but firm. "Let''s see what your orders are when they come. Until then, keep the deliveries coming." Lucius smiled faintly, as if he''d just won a small victory. "A wise decision." Marcus looked around the dimly lit tent, his face set in a disapproving scowl before he clapped . "Now that the presentations are out of the way, we can talk about this camp," he said bluntly, "is a mess. A handful of determined men could overrun you without breaking a sweat. Ten at most, and you''d be nothing but corpses and ash by sunrise." Inor''s eyes darkened, but he didn''t rise to the insult. "We''re peasants, not soldiers," he replied, his tone even but with an edge of defensiveness. "We fight to survive, not to march in rank and file." Marcus crossed his arms, his sharp gaze boring into Inor. "That''s something we''re going to address, then. Now that you''ve got weapons, armor, and a bit of hope, it''s time for you to stop acting like desperate farmers and start becoming fighters. Fighters who stand a chance." Inor''s lips thinned as he considered Marcus''s words. "And how exactly do you propose we do that?" Marcus smirked. "Simple. We''ll send us some men, we will teach them , and they''ll drill your people, teach them the basics. Not just how to hold a spear, but how to work together and hold a line" Inor leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. "That all? Or are you here to tell me something else?" Marcus nodded, the faint smirk fading into a serious expression. "One more thing. While I was looking around your camp, I couldn''t help but notice how thin your actual fighting force is. Out of the entire camp, what? Three hundred who can swing a weapon properly? The rest are either too young, too old, or too scared. You''re sitting on a barrel of grain, but you''ve got no one to guard it." Inor''s brow furrowed. "And what do you suggest I do about that?" Marcus leaned back slightly, gesturing with his hands. "Simple. Assimilate other bands. There are plenty of smaller groups out there, barely scraping by, same as you. Offer them something they can''t refuse¡ªfood, weapons, and a chance to survive. Tell them they''ll get their share of the provisions when they join you.I remind you the provisions will obviously increase with your numbers Inor tilted his head, still wary. "And you think they''ll just fall in line?" "Not all of them," Marcus admitted, shrugging. "Some will fight. Some won''t trust you. But many of them? They''re just as desperate as you are, if not more. Make the offer sweet enough, and they''ll come running." Lucius, who had been silent until now, chimed in. "Numbers are everything. Right now, you''ve got the weapons, the armor, and a trickle of support. But unless you build an army¡ªone at least twelve hundred strong¡ªyou''ll never be more than a nuisance to your enemies." Inor sighed, rubbing his temples. "That huh? And what if the other bands decide to turn on us instead?" Marcus grinned, his sharp eyes gleaming. "Then you''ll finally have the chance to weed out the ones too foolish to see reason. Besides," he added, "with the supplies you have now, and the ones still to come, you''ll be in a better position than any of them. Play it right, and you won''t just be surviving¡ªyou''ll be leading the strongest force in these lands.If you cannot even do that , what use are you to us?" Inor sat back thinking about the proposal. It wasn''t an easy road, but survival never was. Chapter 305: Hearing an old story Chapter 305: Hearing an old story Blake sat in his cabin, his axe balanced across his lap. The grindstone in his hand moved slowly, dragging along the edge of the blade with a measured rhythm. Scrrrk, scrrrk. Each stroke sent sparks dancing briefly in the dim light of the swaying lantern above. The air smelled of salt and steel, heavy with the faint dampness of the sea. Beside him, Halima knelt on the wooden planks, her head lowered as was her habit. She was quiet and still, her dark hair framing her face like a shadow. Her almond-shaped eyes flicked upward for a moment, catching the gleam of the sharpened axe before darting back down to the floor In the corner of the room sat the old witch, her hunched form draped in layers of frayed cloth. Her hair was a tangled mess of gray and black, her face lined with deep creases that made her seem carved from ancient wood. She muttered to herself in her foreign tongue, her voice raspy and uneven, as though speaking to ghosts only she could hear. Blake''s eyes flicked toward her for a moment, his hands never stopping their work. He still wasn''t sure why he had kept her alive. A fire-worshiper, someone who claimed the flames as her god, had no place on a ship dedicated to the God of Sea and Storm. She was an oddity, a contradiction, and yet he had ordered her spared. Maybe it was her defiance, or perhaps her cryptic gaze that seemed to cut through his own doubts. "She speaks again," Halima said softly, her voice careful, her eyes not daring to meet his. "What''s she saying?" Blake asked, his tone gruff, his attention fixed on his axe. Halima hesitated for a moment, listening to the witch''s murmurs. "She says... fire and water are not enemies. She says they need each other. Like breath needs a body." Blake paused , he had not spoke of that , the thought gave him pause, his grindstone hovering over the blade. "The old fool doesn''t know what she''s talking about. Fire scorches the land. Water swallows it whole. There''s no needing between the two." Halima turned her head slightly, relaying his words back to the witch. The old woman chuckled, a dry and rasping sound, shaking her head as she replied in her strange tongue. "She says... you''ll see, in time. That the storm will teach you what words cannot." Blake narrowed his eyes, his lips curling in irritation. He held up his axe, the edge gleaming wickedly in the lantern light. "Tell her the only thing I need to learn is how to cleave a man in two before he can draw his sword." Halima hesitated again but did as he commanded, her voice trembling slightly as she translated. The witch laughed again, louder this time, the sound making Blake''s jaw tighten. After staying silent for a bit , he paused in his sharpening, holding the axe still as he looked toward the old woman. There was somethign that bothered him and made no sense. "With your... talents, I''d think you''d be serving kings. Gold, land, a life of ease¡ªall of it would be yours. Why don''t your kind take what''s offered and serve them? Or are you just too proud?" Halima lifted her gaze briefly, gauging the old woman''s expression before translating. The witch listened, her head cocked slightly, her lined face unreadable. When Halima finished speaking, the old woman let out a dry, rasping laugh, her voice a crackle in the air like fire devouring kindling. She replied slowly, her tone deliberate, and Halima repeated her words for Blake. "Glory and gold are worthless in the face of time," Halima translated. "You could pile mountains of it at your feet, yet it would all turn to dust given time . They serve only one thing, and it is not gold." Blake frowned, leaning forward slightly. "And what is it?" The witch''s eyes gleamed, her lips curling into a faint, enigmatic smile. She spoke again, her words unfurling like smoke. Halima hesitated before translating. "She says you would not understand, but suffice to say it is something greater than kings, greater than you, or me." Blake''s scowl deepened, though he said nothing, waiting for her to continue. The witch did, her voice gaining a sharper edge as she spoke. Halima''s voice softened as she relayed the next part. "There is no trust between the Arkushka and the blessed, even if that was not the case. There is a long history of persecution from the first to the latter, and so they keep away from kings or inter case sultans" Blake raised an eyebrow at that. "Persecution, eh? What''d you do to earn it?" he asked gruffly. The witch answered almost immediately, her tone laced with both amusement and disdain. Halima translated again. "She says... the ones above men fear what they cannot control. And what they cannot control, they destroy and taint , trying to take it." Blake tilted his head, taking that in. "So, you hide. Live in hovels, away from the world. That''s it?Your kind leave secluded from civilization?" The witch shook her head slowly, her gaze steady on him as she spoke more, her words deliberate, biting. Halima''s voice dropped even lower. "From time to time, apostates among us do offer their services. They betray their own, thinking to gain favor or riches, or sometime yearning for love. Yet in the end, they all find ashes in their mouths. Every time. It has happened countless times before. It will happen again." Blake''s lips pressed into a thin line, his mind chewing on her words. He wasn''t sure if he believed half of it, but something about her conviction made it hard to dismiss. "So you''re saying your kind are cursed to stay away from power?" The witch responded again, her tone dry and almost mocking. Halima translated without looking at him. "She says... power comes with a price. Most are too blind or foolish to see it until it''s far too late." The witch leaned back slightly, her thin, withered frame casting sharp angles in the dim light. Her lips curled into a wry smile, and then she laughed¡ªa dry, hollow sound, like brittle leaves scattering in the wind. After a moment, she spoke, her voice slow Halima, sitting nervously nearby, translated the words. "She says... sometimes, what people receive are only blessings, when instead they should be seen as curses." Halima glanced uneasily at Blake before continuing, her tone uncertain. "She finds this amusing." Blake frowned, setting his axe down with a dull thud. "What''s so damn funny about that ?" he growled. The witch''s laughter softened into a knowing chuckle, and she muttered something more, her eyes fixed on him like she could see straight through to his soul. Halima hesitated, her face tense, before translating. "She says... she knows very well why you kept her alive." Blake''s gaze hardened. He leaned forward, his large hands resting on his knees. "Oh? And why''s that?" The old woman''s smile didn''t falter. She spoke again, her tone almost playful, but laced with an edge sharp enough to draw blood. Halima''s voice wavered slightly as she repeated the words. "She says... because you want to become king." The words hung in the air like a thunderclap. Blake''s expression didn''t change immediately, but a storm brewed behind his eyes. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, the room felt smaller, the air heavier. "Is that so?" he asked, his voice low, dangerous ''''Isn''t the wish of every man to become a king?'''' "She says... her God will provide the opportunity for you to become king. Soon, all you have to do is take it when it comes" Blake''s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on the axe handle. He didn''t trust riddles, least of all from someone like her. "That so?" he muttered, voice edged with skepticism. "And why would your God care about a man like me?" The old woman tilted her head, her laughter now a quiet, chilling chuckle, almost as if Blake''s question amused her. She said something short and sharp, gesturing vaguely toward him with her gnarled hand, her gaze still locked onto his with unnerving intensity. Halima swallowed before relaying her words. "She says... it is not about care. It is about opportunity. Her God works through moments, through cracks in the world where ambition and fate collide. She says... you may want to watch carefully for it when it comes, and maybe you will finally see the truth.As for what he wants from you, not even her knows it." Blake leaned back slightly, his lips pressing into a grim line. A sharp knock echoed against the thick wooden door of Blake''s quarters. He didn''t look up from his axe, still running the whetstone along its edge with deliberate care. "What is it?" he called out, his voice a mix of irritation and curiosity. "It''s Darron, captain," came the muffled reply. "A ship''s approaching us... flying a white flag.It is only one, Do we stop?" Blake''s hand stilled for a moment, the axe resting against his knee. His eyes flicked toward the old witch. She met his gaze with a faint, knowing smile, her wrinkled face lit with that same unsettling amusement she always carried. Blake scowled. "Figures," he muttered under his breath, then spoke louder. "Tell the fleet to stop. Surround the damn ship, nice and tight." There was a brief pause on the other side of the door before Darron answered. "Aye, Captain." As the sound of hurried footsteps faded down the hall, Blake leaned back in his chair and turned to the witch. "You know something about this?" The old woman said nothing, her smile widening just a touch. It wasn''t a yes or a no¡ªit was something maddeningly in between, as if she knew it would happen and yet did not. Blake''s eyes narrowed. "Keep that smugness to yourself if you don''t want to be thrown at sea again," he muttered, pushing himself up from the chair. Halima cast him a worried glance, but he ignored her, grabbing his cloak and sliding the axe into the loop at his belt. Chapter 306: Opportunity Chapter 306: Opportunity Blake stepped out of his quarters, leaving behind both Halima and the witch. The door creaked shut behind him, sealing them inside as he strode up toward the deck. The salty wind hit his face the moment he emerged, cool and bracing, carrying the sharp tang of the sea. For a moment, he closed his eyes, letting the breeze push through his hair. King , he could become one. The rhythmic creak of the ship''s timbers and the sound of boots moving on deck greeted him as he adjusted his cloak. His first instinct was to scan the horizon. Blake''s eyes swept the expanse of water, the sun''s glare bouncing off the waves in flashes of white light. His gaze lingered on every ripple, every shadow on the horizon. No ships loomed in the distance, no sails ghosted across the waves. The surrounding waters were empty save for his own fleet, their vessels circling with predatory precision. Satisfied, he shifted his attention to the ship flying the white flag. It cut through the waves with deliberate slowness, its sail furled just enough to signify caution, not arrogance. The hull looked weathered but sturdy, its crew visible on the deck¡ªa cluster of figures standing with their hands at their sides, clearly unarmed. Blake leaned against the railing, his eyes narrowing as he studied the approaching ship. He said nothing, letting the sight of it sink in as his thoughts churned. A white flag meant parlay, and given how his fleet outnumbered the lone ship, he thought that there was no sign of treachery, As the distance between the two ships shrank, Blake adjusted his belt, his fingers brushing the handle of his axe. Whatever was coming, he intended to be ready. Wooden planks groaned under the weight as they were lowered between Blake''s ship and the vessel flying the white flag. The salty wind caught the loose edges of the fabric, and the gentle sway of the sea gave the precarious bridge an unsettling wobble. Five men crossed over, their boots thudding on the timber as they stepped aboard Blake''s deck. His crew, armed and watchful, gave the newcomers a wide berth but kept their hands close to weapons, their eyes narrowing with suspicion. At the head of the group stood a man Blake recognized immediately: Torvitz. The sharp angles of his face were still as rugged as Blake remembered. Torvitz''s leather armor was scuffed and worn, but his stance was proud, confident. His piercing eyes swept across the deck before locking onto Blake''s, a flicker of recognition passing between them. Blake''s eyes lingered on Torvitz, the name and face stirring memories of the past. Loyalty in the Confederation was a fluid thing, bound not by blood or oaths but by the currents of opportunity and shared survival. Even now, the ships that followed Blake bore his banner by choice, not obligation. It was an unspoken agreement: as long as his leadership brought success, wealth, and the promise of victory, the men would remain. And as long as it was not done during a raid or a military campaign, such a bond could easily be broken without consequence, a man was king of his own ship and he could choose where he could said wherever he wanted to. Torvitz was a perfect example of that precarious structure. Years ago, after the crushing defeat at Rock Bottom and the end of the war , he had left Blake''s father''s service to forge his own path, given that a 13 year old boy had assumed the rein of the household. Desertion, the landers might call it , but in the Confederation, where independence was prized above all, no man could truly be said to desert when no unbreakable bond tied him. Like Blake''s current followers, Torvitz''s allegiance had been conditional, and when the conditions had failed, he had done what any practical seafarer would¡ªhe had walked away. Men followed leaders, not out of fealty, but because the leaders provided what they needed¡ªprotection, riches, and a semblance of order in the chaos of the seas. Blake himself owed his fleet''s loyalty not to his name or heritage, but to his ability to deliver. "I recognized that flag the moment I laid eyes on it," Torvigz began, his voice calm but resonant with a hint of reverence. "It is an honor to see the patriarch of House Elio once again." Blake, standing tall with the wind catching his coat, regarded Torvitz with an impassive expression. "Eighteen years," he mused, his voice low and reflective. "I was fourteen when I set out on my own. A boy aboard a ship that barely held its sails." His eyes narrowed as he studied the man before him, a mixture of nostalgia and curiosity flickering across his features. Torvitz bent slightly at the waist in a respectful bow. "I hope that decision did not displease you, my lord. I only sought to carve my own way as any man should " Blake''s lips curved into a faint smile, his demeanor softening just enough to convey understanding. "It is right to do so. One would be a fool to take it against a man for seeking his own course.You did nothing wrong" He waved a hand as though brushing away any notion of offense. "But tell me, Torvitz, why the parlay? What matter urged you to meet?" Torvitz straightened, his expression growing somber. He nodded, gathering his thoughts. "I believe I have come across something that may interest you . During one of our recent raids along the coast, we came upon information¡ªvaluable, and troubling. The Imperials are amassing a fleet at Daiectum." Blake''s eyes widened slightly, the weight of the revelation striking him. He stepped forward, his boots hitting the planks with purpose. "So," he murmured, his voice dropping to a dangerous edge. "The Imperials have decided to rise from their slumber. I knew it was only a matter of time before they sought to retaliate.I am actually saddened that they took so long..." A smile began to form on his face, sharp and predatory, his features alight with a grim anticipation. "Good," he said, his tone carrying a dangerous glee. "Let them come. I''ve waited long enough for this¡ªour chance to avenge the loss at Rock Bottom.However what I cannot understand is why not take this news to the Call? Such information ought to be shared among all the Confederation''s captains, you were in for a reward in , I believe." Torvitz inclined his head, a flicker of something akin to guilt crossing his features before he composed himself. "That was my first thought, my lord," he admitted. "But fate had other designs. By chance, we crossed paths with your fleet, and it reminded me of deeds I had only heard of in tales. The waves bring what the Sea God wishes.'''' Torvitz chanted ''''The waves bring what the Sea God wishes'''' Blake chanted back'''' ''''Your name¡ªyour deeds¡ªhave reached the ears of every free man along the seas." He bowed deeply, his long blonde hair cascading forward as he spoke with solemnity. "I must confess, I feel a fool for not having recognized such bravery and greatness years ago. I was blind then, young and proud, thinking I could build a legacy on my own." Rising from his bow, Torvitz''s eyes met Blake''s, his gaze steady and earnest. "I have wanted to approach you for years, my lord. To offer my loyalty once more. But I knew a man like you deserved a worthy gesture. I searched for a gift befitting your stature, and now, I believe I''ve found it." With a sweep of his hand toward the sea, as though presenting not just the information but himself as an offering, Torvitz continued. "I bring you this knowledge, my lord, as both my gift and my apology. I would be honored to take your flag once again, to sail under your name and your cause. Let this moment mark the day I return to where I should have been all along." His voice carried the conviction of a man who had long sought redemption, his posture resolute as he awaited Blake''s judgment. A rare smile broke across Blake''s face, his sharp features softening for a fleeting moment as the news sank in. The Imperials were ready to fight back¡ªit was an inevitability, but one he welcomed with open arms. The prospect of battle ignited a fire in him, the chance to avenge Rock Bottom finally within reach. And as if that weren''t enough, Torvitz¡ªonce a steadfast follower of his father¡ªnow sought to return to their banner, he was a good lieutenant and knew how to operate a ship, so he had no reason to refuse. Blake stepped forward, his boots thudding against the deck. "You were always a leal man to my father, Torvitz. He spoke highly of your service in the old days." He paused, his smile growing faintly sharper. "It pleases me to no end that you now wish to share the sea with me as you did with him." He extended his hand, his palm open, his gesture carrying both authority and a measure of camaraderie. Torvitz didn''t hesitate. He knelt slightly, taking Blake''s hand with a reverence born of tradition and pressing it against his forehead, his blonde hair brushing Blake''s calloused fingers. When Torvitz rose, he bowed low, his voice filled with conviction. "Thank you, my lord, for this opportunity. I will not fail you, as I did not fail your father." Blake regarded him with a nod, the faintest glimmer of approval in his sharp eyes. Chapter 307: Rise and fall Chapter 307: Rise and fall The Sultan of Azania departed his capital in grandeur and purpose, leading the full might of his army southward to confront the marauding horse lords who had dared to raid and besiege his towns and cities. His banners, adorned with gilded edges, fluttered in the arid winds as the rhythmic cadence of drums announced the march. The Sultan himself rode at the head of the formation, mounted on a magnificent white stallion draped in rich silks, his armor gleaming under the harsh sunlight. Behind him followed a disciplined array of soldiers¡ªarchers, spearmen, cavalry and camel''s riders ready to confront the enemy in the souther part of the sultanate. The decision to leave the capital had not been taken lightly, but the Sultan understood the urgency. The horse lords had grown bolder, their actions no longer simple raids but instead occupations. To allow such affronts to go unanswered was an insult to his honor and a threat to his reign. Thus, resolutely, he took command of his forces, leaving the palace and its delicate politics behind. As was customary in Azania during military campaigns, the governance of the capital was entrusted to the eunuchs. Deprived of the ability to sire heirs, they were considered loyal and unambitious¡ªideal stewards in the Sultan''s absence, as they posed no threat of establishing a dynasty. Among them, the one who wielded the greatest authority was Arkarth, an aged eunuch who had served the Sultan since his boyhood, a bit like a tutor. His years of unwavering service had earned him the ruler''s trust, making him the natural choice to oversee the palace and manage the affairs of state while the Sultan led his army to war. The palace was in an uproar, its usual calm shattered by the frantic movements of servants, midwives, and guards rushing through its grand halls. The cause of the commotion was none other than the High Priestess Shuaa, revered as both spiritual guide and mother of the Sultan''s unborn son, who was now deep into her labor. Her chambers, an ornate sanctuary adorned with silken tapestries and golden lamps, had been transformed into the places where she would sire that latest son or daughter of the sultan The air was thick with incense and the hushed murmurs of prayers, as attendants darted in and out with basins of water, linens, and medicinal herbs. Outside her chambers, a growing crowd of courtiers, eunuchs, and advisors gathered anxiously, their faces a mixture of excitement and concern. Whispers of the child''s importance¡ªa potential heir to the throne¡ªbuzzed through the palace like an electric current. Arkarth, the trusted head eunuch, stood at the forefront of the gathering, his sharp eyes scanning the chaos with his usual calmness As the Sultan''s most trusted confidant, Arkarth was privy to plans that even the palace''s highest-ranking officials dared not imagine. He knew well the weight of this birth. The Sultan''s ambitions for the unborn child had been whispered to him in the privacy of shadowed chambers, plans that would reshape the power dynamics of Azania forever. If the child was a son, the Sultan intended to consolidate both spiritual and temporal authority into a single throne. The boy would inherit the dual mantle of Sultan and High Priest, a merging of power that would shake the foundations of the empire. Arkarth''s sharp mind saw the brilliance of the plan, but also its perils. Such a move would undoubtedly provoke the ire of the nobility,causing the crown to clash with at least half of the nobles . Among them, none posed a greater threat than Pasha Mamud. Pasha Mamud had long positioned his family for dominance. His nephew, the product of a union between his sister and the Sultan, was one of the strongest contenders for the throne. Should the Sultan''s plans come to light, Mamud would not stand idly by while his carefully constructed ambitions were dismantled. A clash between the Sultan''s vision and Mamud''s influence seemed inevitable, yet Mamud was strong enough that the sultan couldn''t simply take it out from the palace''s intrigue struggle. ----------- Inside the chamber, chaos reigned. Shuaa, the High Priestess, lay on the grand bed, her body wracked with agony. Her screams pierced the heavy air, reverberating off the gilded walls of the chamber, adorned with sacred symbols of the gods she served. Blood soaked the silken sheets beneath her, pooling dark and ominous despite the flickering lamplight. The midwife, a seasoned woman with steady hands but worry etched into her features, worked tirelessly. "Breathe, High Priestess! Deep breaths now, come on!" she urged, her voice firm but strained. She leaned forward, wiping sweat from Shuaa''s brow with a wet cloth Shuaa''s head thrashed side to side, her jet-black hair clinging to her face. "It burns! " she cried, clutching the bedpost with trembling hands. "By the gods, help him!" The midwife didn''t falter, her hands moving swiftly as she adjusted Shuaa''s position. "The child is stubborn, but he''s coming, I swear it. Keep pushing, my lady! " Another scream tore from Shuaa''s throat, raw and unrelenting. She reached out blindly, gripping the midwife''s arm with surprising strength. "Do not let him die!" ''''Yes my lady!" the midwife replied firmly, though a flicker of doubt crossed her face as she glanced at the blood-soaked bed, that was too much blood. Turning to an assistant near the corner of the room, she barked, "More towels, and get that bowl of water heated again! Quickly!" The assistant scurried to obey, while Shuaa''s cries grew louder. Outside the chamber, the muffled sound of servants whispering and praying could be heard, a reflection of the mounting tension within. But inside, the battle raged on, between life and death, mother and child. Shuaa''s screams reached a crescendo, a sound so raw and primal it seemed to echo through the palace like a hymn of life and death intertwined. Her body arched against the pain as if straining to defy it, and then, at last, the midwife''s voice broke through the haze of agony. "The head¡ªit''s coming!" she exclaimed, her voice a mix of relief and urgency. The midwife''s hands, calloused from decades of bringing life into the world, moved with practiced care. From the blood and shadow, the crown of the child emerged¡ªa slick, dark shape, glistening in the lamplight like a pearl in a tide of crimson. ''''Please no!Don''t let him die!'''' "Push, my lady, push now! The worst is almost done!" the midwife urged, her voice trembling slightly with the weight of the moment. Shuaa clenched her teeth, her strength wavering but undeterred. With a guttural cry, she bore down one final time, her entire being focused on expelling the life she carried. The child slipped further into the world, the midwife cradling its delicate, fragile form as it emerged, like a just blossomed flower. The room seemed to hold its breath, time freezing as the midwife lifted the child¡ªslick with blood, tiny fingers curled instinctively. For a moment, the chaos gave way to an eerie stillness, broken only by the crackling of the lamps. Then, with a piercing wail, the newborn announced its arrival, filling the chamber with a sound so vibrant and fierce it seemed to chase away the shadow of death that had loomed only moments before. "A son!" the midwife proclaimed, her voice triumphant, her face glowing despite the exhaustion etched into her features. "High Priestess, you have borne a son!" The wail of the newborn should have brought relief, but instead, Shuaa''s screams redoubled, filling the room with a chilling intensity. Her body convulsed, hands clutching at the blood-streaked sheets as if grappling with an invisible foe. "He''s dying! He''s dying!Help him, oh Father! " she cried out, her voice raw with despair and grief. The midwife, her hands still cradling the slick, squalling infant, froze in confusion. "What is she saying?" she muttered to herself as the child was healthy as an hornse , she turned to a servant. "Fetch the doctor, now!" Moments later, the doctor¡ªa thin, severe man with graying hair tied back tightly¡ªrushed into the room, his medical satchel clutched tightly in his hand. He moved swiftly to Shuaa''s side, pressing two fingers against her wrist, his face a mask of concentration, putting an hand over hear forehead . Shuaa''s cries grew more frantic, tears streaking her pale face. "He is dying! He is gone!Father, help us!" she sobbed, her voice rising to a fever pitch. The doctor''s brow furrowed. "Her pulse is strong, and the bleeding has stopped, maybe she lost too much blood and is delirious..." he said quietly to the midwife. The child in her arms squirmed and wailed, a vivid symbol of life against the chaos of the room. "But the child is alive, High Priestess," the midwife said hesitantly, holding him up as proof. "He cries strong and healthy. See? He''s here, and he''s well!He wants milk..." Shuaa''s eyes darted wildly between them, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. She shook her head violently, her hair clinging to her sweat-drenched skin. "Not the child!" she cried out, her voice breaking with grief as tears fell down her eyes. "The Sultan! My love!He is dead." Chapter 308: Swapping head Chapter 308: Swapping head Pasha Mamud bit down a curse as he spurred his horse forward, the powerful animal snorting and kicking up dust beneath its hooves. Behind him rode sixty of his Sipahi guards, their lamellar armor glinting in the fading sunlight. Despite their orderly formation, their grim faces betrayed the truth: the battle had been lost. The banner of the Sultanate, once proudly billowing above the ranks of Azania''s army, had fallen amidst the chaos, with its bearer unknown whetever alive or dead . Mamud''s thoughts seethed with fury as he pushed his mount harder. Fool, he snarled inwardly, the word echoing like a drumbeat in his mind. That pompous fool. We had the strength, the numbers. We had the ground. And still, he squandered it, by putting that fool of his brother in command of the right... The battle had begun well enough¡ªor so it had seemed. The Sultan, in his arrogance, had positioned the army with their backs to a shallow ridge.Initially, both armies stood on the opposite side of the river, and given that none of the two would march through it and contend with the river on their backs, they stood on a standoff for a few hours, until the horse King retreated a few hundreds of steps, inviting the Sultan''s army to pass through unmolested, which they did. Those bastards had thousands of horses and the horse tribes were known to have no discipline; we needed to just maintain our positions until night fell and then attack their camp at night.It would have been slaughtered and instead we gave battle... The azanian infantry, disciplined and resolute, stood firm against the tide of the horse lords. Arrows rained down from Azanian archers stationed in the rear, their volleys turning the open plains into a deadly gauntlet for the enemy''s charging horsemen. For nearly two hours, the lines had held. Shields braced, spears leveled, and discipline unwavering. But then came the disaster. The horse lords had feigned weakness on their right flank, retreating just enough to tempt the Sultan''s cavalry into pursuit. The right wing of Azania''s forces led by the sultan''s brother ¡ªeager but a poor leader ¡ªhad taken the bait. Mamud had shouted himself hoarse, when he had heard of that, everybody knew that one should never pursuite a horse lord . He had watched helplessly as the Sultan''s cavalry, abandoning their positions, surged after the retreating enemy. It was a trap, and a simple one at that. As the Azanian cavalry pursued deeper into the plains, the horse lords'' retreat turned into a swift, encircling ambush. A fresh wave of mounted warriors swept in from hidden positions, slamming into the Azanian right flank. Worse still, with the right exposed, the horse lords launched a devastating charge straight into the rear of the main Azanian line, their riders cutting down archers and scattering reserves like chaff before a storm. Now, Mamud galloped through the remnants of what had once been a proud army, the stench of blood and burnt flesh heavy in the air. He had to save himself, he needed to stay alive, not for a simple desire to not die, but because he knew the danger his house would be in with his death, especially given the current situation. He tightened his grip on the reins, his knuckles whitening. The Sultan''s flag fell, no doubt of it, he thought bitterly. If he survived, it would only be by sheer luck¡ªand even then, he''d deserve to face the wrath of the nobles for this debacle. His Sipahi guards followed silently as their liege cursed his sultan in his mind. Pasha Mamud knew his survival depended on swift action, as he did not know whetever the sultan survived or not. The fate of the Sultan would dictate the course of the entire Sultanate¡ªand his own future. If the Sultan lives, he thought grimly, then we''ll have no choice but to rally the remnants of the army. Another campaign will be necessary, no matter the cost. We cannot let the Horse King rampage through our lands unopposed as what they needed now was to show strength . The notion filled him with a mix of dread and reluctant determination. Reassembling another army meant more levies, more gold, and more risk. The Sultan''s authority, though damaged, could still pull the fractured nobility together for one last effort. But if the Sultan had fallen... Mamud''s lips pressed into a hard line. Then there will be no stopping the Horse King. He''ll sweep south like a storm, burning villages , conquering cities and enslaving our people. The Sultanate will fall to chaos, not from his blade alone but from our own. Civil war is inevitable. Mamud cursed under his breath. The Sultan''s death would fracture the realm into feuding factions, each faction raising their banners in pursuit of the throne by putting a puppet of their choice. Without a unifying figure, the nation would collapse into bloodshed, leaving no one to oppose the Horse King. Still, Mamud felt a small flicker of solace amidst the chaos of his thoughts: At least my nephew is safe. The boy, the son of the Sultan and his sister, was currently under his protection, safely getting educated in his fiefdom far from the capital. Mamud allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. If he were in the palace, that Priest-bitch would have killed him by now. She wouldn''t hesitate to clear the path for her own spawn to take the throne, be it a boy or a girl. The Pasha''s face darkened at the thought of Shuaa, the High Priestess. She was dangerous, wielding not just her influence as a religious figure but also the favor of the Sultan, who had been bewitched by her beauty and cunning, worse her predictions , even though she did not have one for two years, she was till a problem . Even now, Mamud wasn''t sure whom the Sultan had named as his heir¡ªhis nephew, a legitimate son of royal blood, or the newborn, the product of the Sultan''s union with Shuaa. It doesn''t matter, Mamud thought grimly. If the Sultan is dead, her brat will claim the throne, and theeunuchs, making use of howunsteadyd her power is will rally to her in exchange for more influence . The nobles will never accept it to bow to cockless grown child, and war will tear the Sultanate apart. Pasha Mamud had already set his plans into motion as soon as defeat came into view , even as his horse thundered down the dirt road, flanked by the steel-clad Sipahi guards. A messenger had been dispatched hours earlier, racing toward his fiefdom with urgent orders for his son. The message was simple: rally the levies, arm every man capable of bearing a blade, and prepare the banners for war. Mamud had no intention of being caught unprepared be it if he was to march in war or in a civil one. The one who moves first takes the advantage, Mamud thought grimly. And I''ll be damned if I sit idly by while the Priest-bitch , her spawn and those cockless eggs seize the throne. He clenched the reins tightly, his knuckles whitening. His mind churned with thoughts of strategy and ambition, but the shadow of inevitability loomed large. This will not end with mere words or threats. Either she and her brat die... or I do. It was an ugly situation, but Mamud had never been one to shy away from cold truths. If Shuaa secured the throne for her son, she would not hesitate to eliminate any opposition, and Mamud, as the uncle of a rival claimant, would be at the top of her list. I have no choice but to act decisively. His son, still green but capable, would oversee the assembling of his forces. Levies would be raised from his fief, words sent to their allies who would certainly not wish for a return of a Priest-Sultan , bolstered by his household troops would march toward the capital , and Mamud would return to his lands as quickly as possible to lead them. As Pasha Mamud rode on, the irony of it all gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. Just three years ago, the Empire of Romelia , the eternal rivals of Azania, had lost their Great Imperator in battle. That death had plunged their empire into chaos, splitting alliances and igniting a vicious civil war that left them fractured¡ªeasy prey for Azanian invasions, which however they never made use of given the time was never right . Now, the wheel had turned, and the Sultanate was poised to suffer the same fate. If the Sultan truly lay dead, Azania would not be spared the bloody reckoning that followed. The thunder of hooves on the dusty road matched the storm brewing in Mamud''s mind. He spat bitterly into the wind. How quickly the mighty crumble, one year it is Romelia the other is Azania . They had thought that glory would follow , and yet, here they were. The Horse King had outmaneuvered the Sultan, turning what should have been a decisive victory into a slaughter. Perhaps we all should have listened to the priestess when we had the chance, Mamud thought grimly even though admitting it was like a dagger in his guts, his lips curling in bitter self-reproach. But it was too late for regrets now. The cost of their arrogance was measured in blood, and the balance had yet to be paid in full. Azania was walking the same road that Romelia was walking on.... Chapter 309: An ugly job Chapter 309: An ugly job Lucius and Marcus stood on the edge of the training grounds, the sun bearing down on the dusty field where the rebels drilled. A group of peasants, their clothes patched and worn, clutched spears with unsteady hands, stepping forward in staggered lines as they thrust clumsily into the air. The wooden shafts wobbled with every jab, their grips uneven, their stances weak. Further away, a ragged circle of slingers spun stones over their heads before letting them fly toward makeshift targets¡ªscraps of bay and tattered cloth tied to wooden poles. The stones clattered harmlessly off or missed entirely, thudding into the dirt. The air was filled with the sound of labored grunts, the dull snap of wood hitting earth and the steps of two bored man walking around as if they were outside of it. Lucius crossed his arms, his sharp gaze scanning the disorderly display. "How do you see it?" he asked quietly, his voice barely above the breeze that stirred the dust around them. Marcus let out a long, measured breath, shaking his head as he looked over the scene. "Worse than I thought," he muttered, rubbing his jaw. "Their starved and half of them hold their spears like it''s the first time they''ve touched one. I''d need at least a month to whip this lot into something resembling soldiers." Lucius turned his head, arching an eyebrow. "We don''t have a month," he said flatly. "Tell me something I don''t know," Marcus replied, turning away from the dismal drills to face him. His expression was grim, eyes narrowing with frustration. "But look at them. This isn''t a fighting force. They are sheep with sticks and stones. You can''t make a wall of spears out of wishful thinking." He gestured back toward the ragged lines, where a handful of men stumbled over their own feet while stepping into thrusts, nearly falling over. "They wouldn''t be able to assault stables, let alone castles," Marcus continued, his voice edged with irritation. "I''ve seen better coordination from drunkards fighting over a loaf of bread." Lucius sighed, his gaze lingering on the rebels as one slinger released a stone too early, sending it flying backward and narrowly missing another man''s head. The poor fool yelped and ducked as his comrades erupted into laughter. "This is going to be a problem," Lucius muttered. Marcus crossed his arms and looked back at the rebels. "A problem is putting it kindly.A problem is waking up on a wet bed after a drinking night, this is a catastrophe." Alpheo''s plan had been laid out to the two before their departure, making them understand his over-all plan and to better act on it . The peasant rebellion, unrefined and desperate, was the perfect smokescreen for Alpheo''s plans, and the two would have to make sure it worked as he wanted. The plan was simple in principle and in execution, especially for a man that knew just how useful espionage and sabotage truly was. First, the peasants would be incited to attack lightly defended targets¡ªsmall castles, who he was certain would be lacking in manpower to mount a true defense, given that the prince had just raised an army and most certainly took a good portion of the various garrisons to mount the numbers . Lucius and Marcus were to guide the rebels by influencing his leaders , encouraging their attack with the promise of more provisions. Once a castle fell, the peasants would then strip it bare¡ªfood, weapons, and valuables¡ªbefore leaving the castle entirely .Then Alpheo''s force would be sent to occupy the castle. The rebellion would move on, unaware that they were nothing more than tools in a grander game, and Alpheo would point them to the next target. Each victory would deepen Lechlian instability while bolstering his own power . ''''Look at them. They''re hopeless. " Marcus said as he kneaded his highbrows Lucius rubbed his jaw, his gaze heavy as he took in the scene. "Then what do we do? Someone expects results." Marcus turned to him, his face hard. "We push them. We drill them day and night until they stop thinking like farmers and start acting like something more similar to soldiers . Because if we don''t, they''ll break the moment they see an actual fight." The two both knew they were running out of time. The prince had been generous enough to keep them updated with his intelligence. Word had arrived that the Lechlian prince had raised an army, and it was already on the move. Fortunately, for now, fortune favored them: the prince''s forces had first been dispatched to deal with the peasant uprising in the east, while Inor''s growing band of rebels operated in the west. This small twist of fate meant they would be among the last to be targeted, but it was only a reprieve, not salvation. The noose was tightening, and both men felt its grip. The prince had appointed Arnold''s eldest son as commander. The appointment reeked of politics, of course. Lord Cretio, desperate to restore his family''s pride after the humiliating defeat his forces had suffered at the hands of Yarzat''s cavalry, had sweetened the offer. He had promised 200 footmen and 40 knights to support Arnold''s son in the campaign with the only condition being that Arnold would be the commander, no doubt hoping to wash away the stain of dishonor and rebuild his house''s reputation in the prince''s court while bolstering that of the first prince. Obviously that made the prince accept the appointment as what his forces lacked most were actual numbers, for after a month he had just managed to raise 450 footmen and 30 knights, which now, thanks to Arnold''s patron, would be 650 footmen and 70 knights, a number more than sufficient to beat a horde of starving peasants, or so he had hoped. Having faced the Herculeian forces at the Battle of the Bleeding Plains, Marcus and Lucius had a clear understanding of their enemy''s strength. While the royal army''s prowess could only be described as average at best, it was more than enough to crush starving peasants, whose fighting spirit was little more than desperation. It was clear that leaving the Herculeian army''s defeat to chance¡ªor to the scattered efforts of ill-prepared rebels¡ªwas a hopeless gamble, like playing with the dice of your opponents. If they wanted any chance of victory, they would have to actively shape Inor''s ragtag force into something resembling an army. And yet, time¡ªtheir most precious resource¡ªslipped away like water through clenched fists. The royal army was coming, inevitable as a storm on the horizon. Marcus finally broke the silence. "If strength alone won''t win this fight, we''ll need numbers¡ªfast. That''s the only advantage we can hope to exploit." Lucius nodded, arms crossed, his sharp gaze sweeping over the disjointed drills before them. "Strength may fail, but numbers might just bridge the gap. If they can''t fight as warriors, then perhaps they can hold as a flood." Marcus scoffed grimly, his tone edged with pragmatism. "We''ve got word of other bands scattered nearby. It''s time we threw them a bone¡ªfood, weapons, something¡ªand brought them under Inor''s banner. If they''re to stand a chance, they''ll need every man we can get." Lucius furrowed his brow as he observed the disorganized training efforts before them, his voice low and measured. "There''s a leadership problem we''re overlooking. The other bands near us have far more men than Inor does. If we approach them, we''ll be the weaker force. They''ll see no reason to fall in line." Marcus snorted, his expression hard but calculating. "Perhaps. But we''ve got something they don''t iron. Show them what we have, intimidate them with the steel we carry while dangling the promise of ample food, and they''ll won''t think twice. Maybe not the whole lot, but I''ll bet plenty of those peasants will splinter off and join Inor. And if that doesn''t work, we offer their leaders autonomy¡ªlet them keep their bands, let them lead them, as long as they follow orders when the fighting starts." Lucius grimaced at the thought, his distaste clear. "A decentralized army? Bands led by whoever fancies himself a captain? I don''t like it" Marcus turned to him with a weary shrug, his voice sharp with frustration. "I don''t like it either. Just like I don''t like sitting here, risking my neck to teach these dirt-poor peasants how to hold a spear straight. But apparently what I want doesn''t matter." He gestured toward the ragged men struggling to train while throwing daggers at Lucius, who was the one responsible for him being there "You are as unpleasant as acid milk, always complaining and complaining. Still, we either do this, or we get swept away when the Herculean army comes knocking." Lucius stood quietly for a moment, his sharp gaze fixed on the horizon as if calculating their odds before continuing as he thought of something "If things turn sour, we can always run." Marcus turned his head sharply, his brow furrowing. "Run?" He crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes. "Didn''t you say that he expects results?" Lucius gave a slight nod, unfazed by the question. "He does. But the prince was clear about one thing above all else: we are to keep our support hidden. If it looks like everything is about to collapse, we cut our losses, sever all ties, and vanish. No one can trace this back to him." Marcus let out a low breath, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he considered those words. "So that''s the contingency plan? Abandon the whole mess if it falls apart?" Lucius gave a faint shrug, though his expression remained hard. "It''s better than staying and dying for a cause that isn''t ours. If the peasants break, or if the Herculeian army proves too strong, we disappear." He turned to Marcus, his voice cool and deliberate. "Alpheo plays the long game. This rebellion is a tool¡ªnothing more. If it shatters, we leave it behind." Marcus gave a dry chuckle, though there was little humor in it. "Well, that''s comforting," Let''s hope he doesn''t think the same for us, he thought in his mind while deciding on doubling his effort on teaching those rebels how to fight. Chapter 310: Uniting forces together Chapter 310: Uniting forces together Inor''s three hundred followers stood on the open field, their ranks silent. The sunlight glinted off the steel of their spears and the polished links of chainmail worn by half of them. While at least one hundred and fifty wore chainmail, their torsos protected, while the others were clad in more humble garments of leather or padded cloth. Each man bore a spear, and nearly half of them also gripped sturdy wooden shields, their rounded faces dull but serviceable. It was a good day for such a meeting; the sky stretched clear and blue above them, a light breeze rustling through the grass and carrying the faint scent of earth. Yet for all the beauty of the day, tension gripped the field. On the opposite side stood a band of five hundred common rebels, their numbers alone creating an imposing line. But the illusion of strength faded the closer one looked. Unlike Inor''s mildly equipped fighters, these men were a chaotic assembly of farmers and deserters. They stood in uneven clusters, gripping whatever weapons they could muster¡ªold daggers, rusty pitchforks, and crude clubs. Only a few among them held decent blades or spears, and none wore armor except at most a dozen of them ; their chests were left bare save for linen or roughspun tunics. Their faces were lined with uncertainty, though the presence of numbers seemed to give them some measure of confidence. It was the first time Inor and his band had come across another group of rebels, and this moment, Inor knew, was pivotal. This was no battle yet¡ªthis was a meeting, a chance to sway hearts and minds, or prepare for bloodshed. On the far side of the field, one man broke from the ranks of the common rebels. He walked forward alone, his steps slow but deliberate, shoulders square as he moved across the grassy expanse between the two forces. Without hesitation, Inor stepped forward in turn, moving away from his men .His heavy boots pressing into the earth with each step. The chainmail draped over his broad shoulders glimmered faintly in the sunlight, and the spear he carried rested in his hand like an extension of his arm. The distance between them shrank slowly as the two leaders approached, neither hurrying nor faltering, the wind tugging at their cloaks. Inor studied the man opposite him¡ªa wiry figure, with the rough face of a man who had spent a life in toil rather than war. Yet his stride held purpose, and the determination in his eyes was clear. When they were close enough to speak, the two stopped, each leader standing tall and measuring the other. The vast field stretched around them, silent save for the distant murmurs of their men and the rustling of the wind through the grass. Lucius and Marcus were absent,as to avoid any direct association with Inor''s band of rebels. From the outset, their role had been clear: subtle support, whispers in the shadows,and orders to follow . This was, after all, a test for Inor. If he could not prove his worth here, if he failed to command respect or dominate this meeting, then what purpose would their support serve? A proxy who needed to be hand-fed at every turn was no proxy at all. What good was a leader who couldn''t lead? What good was a rebellion if its figurehead lacked the strength to rally others? Lucius had made his views plain before: "If he falters here, we cut him loose. There''s no sense wasting resources on a broken tool." The man standing opposite Inor was called Gerric, a man with sun-hardened features, his dark hair matted with sweat under a simple leather cap. As he eyed Inor''s warriors¡ªthree hundred strong, their gleaming chainmail and spears catching the sunlight¡ªhis face betrayed a mix of suspicion and envy. His men fidgeted behind him, their nerves exposed, for the contrast was undeniable. "How the hell do you have so many weapons?" Gerric finally demanded, his voice sharp but edged with disbelief. His eyes flicked between the rows of spearmen and the shields glinting faintly in the light. Inor smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn''t quite reach his eyes¡ªcold, calculating. "Luck," he said, spreading his arms wide as though fortune itself had chosen to bless him. "Caught a cart filled with weapons not long ago. We shared them among the men. A gift from the gods, I suppose." The answer rolled easily off Inor''s tongue, and though Gerric squinted, clearly skeptical, there was no point pressing further. Around them, Gerric''s men shifted uneasily, many stealing glances at their crude, dull blades as they took in the stark difference. Gerric took a breath, composing himself, then squared his stance. "You''re the one who called for this meetin" he said. "Then you start. What do you want?" Inor gave a slight nod, his expression now serious, as though acknowledging a formality. "It''s good manners," he began, his voice loud and steady, "to show hospitality when calling a friend into your home.As such before any real talk begins," he continued, his tone rising as he addressed not just Gerric, but the masses gathered behind him, "we should all eat together.The women of our camp have prepared food. Good food. Let''s sit, let''s break bread as brothers, because at the end of the day, we''re all friends here, aren''t we? Friends fighting to survive." The words were a call, loud and clear¡ªa carefully crafted performance. Inor has food. Inor has weapons. Inor is strong. Gerric froze, clearly realizing the play for what it was¡ªa power move meant to display strength and abundance. His instincts screamed at him to deny it, to turn his men away before they fell under Inor''s sway. But he knew the truth of it just as much as they did. Hunger clawed at the guts of every man standing behind him. They had seen Inor''s army; they had smelt the food carried on the breeze. If he refused this offer¡ªif he denied his men the chance to eat¡ªhe risked mutiny then and there. Gerric clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists. He had no choice. Damn him, he thought bitterly as he glanced over his shoulder at his men, already murmuring amongst themselves, their faces torn between caution and desperate hope. If he refused, they would tear him apart. With a sharp nod, Gerric turned back to Inor, his voice flat with reluctant acceptance. "Very well. Let''s eat." As Inor''s men began distributing bowls and food, murmurs rippled through Gerric''s band like wind rustling through dry grass. The men at the back, their hollow faces lighting up with a mix of disbelief and longing, whispered to one another in low voices. "They''re feeding us?" one man muttered, eyes wide as he watched the bowls being passed. "I haven''t seen food in days..." "Look at those weapons," another hissed under his breath, his voice tinged with envy. "Spears, shields, chainmail. How the hell did they get all that?" "And they have enough food for all of us?" a third whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of hunger and awe. The smell of cooked porridge and salted jerky wafted over the crowd, cutting through the stench of sweat and unwashed clothes. Gerric heard every word, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He didn''t turn to face his men, knowing the expressions he''d see¡ªfaces bright with hope and desperate hunger. He knew, with a sinking weight in his chest, that the meeting had been set from the start. This wasn''t just a show of goodwill. It was a trap, deliberate and artful. Inor hadn''t come here to negotiate; he had come to win. The moment the bowls began to land in the rough, calloused hands of his men, Gerric knew there was no turning back. They would not refuse a chance to join forces¡ªnot now. The possibility of full bellies and a share of strength was far too tempting. Any attempt to pull them away from this promise would be futile, and Gerric himself would be torn apart for trying. Each man received a steaming bowl of porridge¡ªthick, golden gruel that might have seemed meager on any other day but, to starving men, it looked like a king''s feast. Alongside it came a strip of jerky, dark and tough, but unmistakably meat. For many, it was the first real food they''d seen in days. They ate voraciously. Fingers scraped at the sides of bowls, scooping every last trace of porridge. Teeth tore into jerky with a desperation that spoke of empty stomachs and gnawing hunger. Some didn''t even bother to sit, hunching over as they devoured the meal. The clatter of spoons and slurps filled the air, drowning out all other sounds. Gerric stood at the front, his fists clenching and unclenching, watching the scene unfold. His men had been claimed before a single word of negotiation had truly begun. Damn it all, he thought bitterly, his gaze locking on Inor, who stood calmly among his warriors, a faint smile on his face. Inor hadn''t just fed them. He had bound them. How the hell does he have so much food?So many weapons?Are they truly blessed by the gods? Gerric''s thoughts raced, unable to make sense of the sight before him. During their march, they had scraped by on what little they could pillage¡ªhalf-empty villages, barren of supplies, yielding barely enough food to last a week. As for weapons, they had found nothing worthy of the name¡ªrusted tools and sharpened sticks at best. Yet here stood Inor''s men, bristling with spears and shields, their armor glinting in the sun, and bowls of food passed freely into grateful hands. They had everything his men lacked¡ªeverything they wanted. It was clear now. Gerric had lost. All that remained was for him to salvage what little pride he could and dictate the terms of his band''s assimilation, the first of many bands that would rally behind Inor as the greatest threat that the prince''s army would face in this rebellion. Chapter 311: An honest day work Chapter 311: An honest day work Outside the city of Yarzat, a vast swarm of workers toiled under the hot sun, their figures scattered across the barren earth like ants in a field. Over 2,500 men, employed underthe princess , dug with shovels, sweat dripping from their brows as they labored to carve a path for progress. The massive construction were the preparation for the aqueduct¡ªand their current task was to dig a canal to channel the flow. This canal, stretching far into the horizon, would eventually run from Yarzat to a lower point of dislevel where the pontini¡ªstone arches to carry the aqueduct¡ªwere planned to rise in the coming winter months. For now, their orders were clear: a trench two and a half meters wide, half a meter deep, cut precisely into the earth. Among the workers was Rahim,an humble men with sun-darkened skin, his tunic stained with dust and sweat. He stood deep within the canal, shoveling dirt in rhythmic motions, the heavy weight of the earth thudding as it landed to the side. His muscles strained with every lift, his shoulders burning, but he moved with a quiet determination, each stroke digging deeper into the trench that would one day carry water to the whole city, and from whom he did not know he would greatly reap many benefits in the future. Another dozens of men worked alongside him, some shoveling, others carrying the accumulated dirt away. Rahim''s shovel bit into the earth, the rich brown soil peeling away with every thrust. He grunted as he tossed another load to the growing pile above the trench, sweat slicking his brow. Yet, for all the toil and heat, Rahim was content. More than content, he thought, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. Hard work it was, yes, but good work. The overseers¡ªmen with sharp eyes and coiled whips¡ªrarely made use of their cruel tools. Most times, they merely stood watch, shouting the occasional order. And every twelve turns of the hourglass, which was equivalent to 3 hours , the men were granted a break, precious and consistent. An hourglass of rest to drink, to stretch, and breathe before the shovels resumed their bite. The food was good too¡ªthree full meals a day, hearty enough to keep the body moving, with bread, salted meats, and even fruit when the carts came full from the countryside. Then there was the silver¡ªthree silverii a month. Honest pay. A man could feed his family and still have some coins left to tuck away, something Rahim hadn''t been able to do before this princess and her husband had taken charge. A year and a half ago, things had been different. He remembered the whispers, how they spread through the alleys and market squares like an oily fire. Their new prince¡ªsome mercenary, they said¡ªhad taken the throne in blood. Rumors swirled that he''d murdered their last ruler, cutting his way to power with sword in hand. A tyrant, the voices hissed. A blood-drinker, cruel and insatiable. Men like Rahim had spoken in low tones, uncertain of what this Alpheo would bring to Yarzat. But now, as Rahim''s shovel struck soil again, he almost laughed at the absurdity of those tales. Bloodthirsty? A tyrant? The truth was far different. The prince had fought two wars, that much was true,quite a lot in a year and half for anyone , but no men had been dragged from their homes and pressed into service against their will. No new taxes had come, nor had soldiers stomped through the streets demanding coin and grain. In fact, Rahim thought, there seemed to be more coin moving through Yarzat now than ever before. He didn''t know where it all came from, but work¡ªsteady, paid work¡ªhad poured into the city like rain after a long drought. What Rahim didn''t realize was that every time the army marched out, its soldiers returned with purses heavy with coin, wealth taken from faraway fields and foreign hands. And when those soldiers came back, they spent freely, their hard-won silver flowing into Yarzat like a tide. The effect was unmistakable. Coins passed from soldier to merchant, from merchant to craftsman, and from craftsman to laborer. Shops bustled with trade, and the city thrived in ways it hadn''t before. If a man brought home just enough to feed his family, the coin stopped there. But if he returned with extra¡ªenough to feed his children and have some to spare¡ªhe might buy a new pair of shoes to replace his threadbare ones, or an urn to store salt and grain. Those small luxuries, once purchased, filled the pockets of shoemakers, potters, and artisans, who in turn found themselves with more silver than they were used to. And what did they do with it? They spent too¡ªon better tools, on finer clothes, or on a warm meal from the tavern. Coin, once stagnant, now flowed through Yarzat like a living river, touching every hand, from the baker to the blacksmith. In short as long as the coins remained inside the city everyone gained from it. None knew the reason yet it happened... He had been a simple laborer before, scraping by on odd jobs here and there. Now, with Alpheo seated beside the princess, there was always something to be done. He smiled to himself as he hefted another shovelful of dirt. Whatever they said about the prince, Rahim didn''t care. All he knew was that his family had done fairly well in recent months , he was paid decently, and his back, though sore, worked for something more than bare minimum. And if this trench would carry water to Yarzat''s people, he would dig until his hands bled, then praise the princess a bit, and then dig some more. A sharp voice broke through the rhythmic clang of shovels striking dirt. "Supper''s ready! Move on, lads! Let''s go!" The overseer''s shout carried across the canal, prompting a collective sigh of relief from the workers. Rahim straightened up, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. The midday sun had left him drenched, his muscles aching from hours of hard labor. Gratefully, he leaned the shovel against the trench wall and climbed out of the canal, shaking loose the dirt that clung to his boots. The smell of food carried on the breeze¡ªsimple, but enough to stir a growl in his stomach. Rahim joined the others, his steps brisk but measured as he made his way toward the eating camp. He fell into the line, where workers shuffled forward in silence, each clutching a tin bowl. When his turn came, the cook ladled thick porridge into Rahim''s bowl, the steam curling up into the cool air. Alongside it, six ounces of bread¡ªa dense, warm loaf that still carried the scent of the oven¡ªand a small strip of jerky meat were handed to him without ceremony. It wasn''t luxurious, but it was hearty, enough to keep a man on his feet through the next shift. Rahim nodded his thanks and made his way to one of the long wooden tables set up under a canvas shade. Sitting down with a groan of relief, he placed the bowl in front of him and tore off a piece of bread. He dipped it into the porridge and began eating, savoring the warmth of the food. Soon other people sat with him, and after exchanging greetings they all started eating As Rahim tore another piece of bread and chewed, he glanced up, his gaze wandering toward the edge of the camp where a group of men eating under quieter supervision. They were easy to spot¡ªtheir broad frames, worse cloth, and angular features bearing scars marked them as outsiders. The prince''s personal slaves: Herculeian prisoners of war from the last campaign. Yet, despite their captivity, they didn''t carry the haggard, beaten look Rahim often associated with slaves. There was no gauntness to their cheeks, no trembling from exhaustion or hunger. Instead, they moved with steady purpose, shoulders square and steps firm. Like the workers, they were given three meals a day¡ªRahim had seen it himself. Porridge in the morning, bread and jerky in the afternoon, and stew come nightfall. It wasn''t a feast, but it was more than enough to keep their strength up, and they looked better for it. There were no lash marks on their backs, and their overseers rarely lifted their whips. Rahim had even heard whispers that their high morale came from a promise made by the prince himself¡ªa vow that after four years of service, they would be freed and sent back to their homeland. None of the workers, however, understood the true reason behind the prince''s treatment of the Herculeian captives. By all rights, they were his personal property, and it would have made perfect sense for him to waste their lives on a whim or work them into the ground. Yet that never happened. What no one realized was that the prince despised slavery at its core, for obvious personal reasons. Above that he held no hatred for the Herculeian soldiers, either¡ªafter all, they were just men given weapons and orders, no different from anyone else caught in war. In his eyes, they were not enemies to be destroyed, but tools to be used efficiently. So he chose to extract every ounce of value from their labor as long as he would need them. And when their four years of service were complete, he would keep his promise. Whether they realized it or not, the prince would make sure that their freedom would still lie within the borders of his domain. After all in Alpheo''s eyes and hopes, Herculia in the future would no longer exist as a independent princedom. Chapter 312: Great raid(1) Chapter 312: Great raid(1) The long-awaited call for a raid had finally come. Virguth, the fiery son of Klarik, had summoned his people and that of common tribes , and 6,500 warriors answered, their blades sharpened and their hearts brimming with anticipation. This winter had been unlike any in memory. Far from the biting cold of their northern homeland, the tribes now thrived in the fertile lands of Sarlan. Their bellies were full every day, thanks to overflowing granaries stocked with the spoils of conquest, and warm fires burned in their hearths each night. It was a luxury that many had never imagined. Some had even embraced this new life, trading the chaos of battle for the quiet rhythm of farming. Fields sprouted under their hands, and herds of sheep and goats, taken from defeated Sarlani settlements, roamed the rolling hills under their care. They were no longer just raiders but settlers, carving out a new future in the land they had seized. Yet, for many, the peace and comfort were suffocating. To warriors forged in the crucible of battle, such stillness was a foreign and unwelcome thing. Inactivity gnawed at them, turning their restlessness into a roaring hunger for blood and glory. Virguth''s raid was like a spark to dry kindling, igniting the hearts of those who longed for the clash of steel and the thunder of hooves. For these men, the raid was more than a venture; it was a return to purpose, a rekindling of the fire that had always driven their tribes forward. They were not made for peace, bur for a life leaning toward action and violence, of people who found their call in dominating others. The 6,500 warriors were a congregation of three thribes : The Frosthides, the Embercloaks, and the Thunderhorns. However, such a vast number of warriors could never move as a single unified force without slowing to a crawl. To avoid this, the tribes divided themselves, each splintering into smaller raiding bands that struck out independently. Their target was clear: the lands of Prince Mavius, ruler of the Eastern Secession state. The prince''s territories, rich with crops and livestock, were a tempting prize. Villages fell to chaos as the three tribes carved their way through the land, their efforts coordinated not by a single hand but by the unspoken understanding that the spoils of conquest would flow freely. The Frosthides, Embercloaks, and Thunderhorns shared no love for one another, but for now, the prospect of glory and plunder kept their alliances strong. Each band raided as they saw fit, their leaders trusting in their own strength and cunning to make the most of the campaign ------ Virguth sat on a rough wooden stump, the firelight casting flickering shadows across his sharp, weathered face. At 30 winters, he was in his prime¡ªa towering figure with long, ash-blonde hair tied loosely behind his head, and a beard braided with beads of bone and copper. His piercing blue eyes seemed to burn with a restless intensity, and the scar running from his left cheekbone to his jawline added an air of menace to his presence. He wore a sleeveless leather jerkin, his muscular arms bare despite the chill in the air, adorned with faded tattoos. In his hand, he held the roasted leg of a pig, tearing into it absentmindedly as his gaze wandered over the flickering flames. The meat was tender and flavorful, but there was no pleasure in it for Virguth. Food and livestock had once been treasures in the harsh winters of the north, where every meal was a battle won against starvation. But now, with their new homes brimming with these once-precious commodities, the joy had drained from such spoils. "How dull," he thought, gnawing on the pork as he watched his warriors. Some were lighting torches and throwing them onto the roofs of thatched cottages, laughing as the flames spread. Others were dragging screaming women into the fields or chasing fleeing villagers for sport. It was a scene of chaos and revelry, but to Virguth, it was as empty as the ash that remained when the fires burned out. His eyes flickered back to the horizon, where he knew wealth truly lay¡ªnot in these dirt-poor villages, but behind the tall walls of Romelian cities. There was no silver or gold here, only mundane spoils that once meant survival but now only stoked his growing discontent. The thought gnawed at him, a hunger deeper than any feast could sate. Virguth turned the leg of pork in his hand, his mind racing. This boredom isn''t mine alone, he realized. Many of my warriors must feel the same. Food and women are fleeting distractions. What we desire now is the true prize¡ªtreasure, riches, the kind of spoils that fill a man''s chest and his soul. He looked over his men, laughing and shouting amidst the burning ruins, and clenched his jaw. The villages hold nothing for us but ash and echoes. What we seek is hoarded in the cities. And if we want it, we''ll need to break those walls.How else can my raid be celebrated, if I bring back poultry and grain? Virguth leaned back on the stump, the taste of pork fading on his tongue as his thoughts wandered to the siege of Sarlan. He remembered those walls vividly¡ªtowering slabs of stone, seemingly impenetrable, designed to defy even the boldest assaults. But they hadn''t stood long against the giants. The memory brought a faint smirk to his face. The giants, with their towering frames and clubs the size of tree trunks, had been the true terror of that campaign.Geowulf''s warriors had only needed to provide them with simple wooden ladders, barely fit for human use. The giants climbed them effortlessly, their massive hands gripping the parapets. The defenders on the walls had stood no chance. Virguth could still hear the sickening crunch of the first club strike, scattering soldiers like dry leaves. It had only taken a few blows before the men on the walls deserted, fleeing in terror and leaving the gates undefended. The breach had been swift, the victory total. But there were no giants here now. Virguth frowned, his fingers tightening around the bone of the pork leg. This time, they were alone. If they were to break through the walls of a Romelian city, they would have to do it with their own strength, their own wits. Perhaps, he thought, we''ve been too eager with the torch. His gaze flicked toward the nearest cottage, its thatch roof ablaze as warriors laughed and jeered. If we''re going to crack a wall, we''ll need craftsmen¡ªmen who know wood and how to shape it. He grunted to himself, tossing the pork bone into the fire. At the next village, we should spare whoever can work wood. Carpenters, wheelwrights... anyone with hands steady enough to make siege tools. The idea settled in his mind as he stared into the flames. The walls of Romelia loomed in his imagination,he had heard from the prisoners just how high and thick those were , even more tall and unyielding than those of Sarlan had been. The low murmur of laughter and the crackle of fire died abruptly as a lone rider emerged from the tree line. The figure, hunched low over his horse, wearing pelts and movign toward them . Virguth and his warriors immediately stood, hands drifting instinctively to the hilts of their weapons. The horse stumbled to a halt, its sides lathered with sweat and flanks heaving. The rider, his face streaked with dirt and exhaustion, slid from the saddle and staggered forward, his legs barely supporting him. "Embercloaks," he rasped, his voice hoarse. "They''ve been hit... by men in tin on horse and were dispersed and harassed during their retreat ." A ripple of murmurs passed through the warriors as Virguth strode forward. His jaw tightened at the messenger''s words. "Survivors?" he demanded. "Moving south," the man said, swaying on his feet. "They''re heading for us... but they won''t make it unless you rally to their aid. Call the Thunderhorns.We call you to meet us together in battle." Virguth grabbed the man''s arm to steady him and barked an order for water. As one of his warriors fetched it, his thoughts churned. Men in tin. How in the gods'' names did they get here so quickly? His brow furrowed as he recalled Sarlan''s sluggish response to their invasion. When word of the first raids reached the Sarlanese, it had taken them a full month to muster an army. Yet here, barely two weeks into their strikes, they were already facing an organized force. Virguth''s gaze swept over his men, many of whom were still clutching torches or loot from the burning village. He clenched his fists. Two weeks. Perhapse it was the Sarlan that were too slow He turned to the messenger, whose eyes were glazed with exhaustion. "Rest. You''ll ride again soon," Virguth ordered sharply. "We''ll send word to the Thunderhorns. If the southerners want battle, they''ll get it." After that he turned to his warriors, his voice rising like a battle horn over the crackling flames and cries of women . "So, they''ve come to us, have they?" His lips curled into a savage grin. "They dare march against us , thinking they can hunt us down. But all they''ve done is walk into their graves." A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd, building into a roar as his voice thundered on. "They think they can frighten us with their armor and swords? Let them try! We smashed them once before¡ªremember Sarlan! We tore down their walls, broke their armies, and claimed what was ours. And we''ll do it again!" The warriors, emboldened by his words, began cheering, pounding their shields and stamping their feet in a growing frenzy. "They''re not here to take what''s ours," Virguth bellowed. "They''re here to give¡ªto give us their gold, their silver, their weapons. And we will take it all. The glory of this victory will be ours alone!" The camp erupted in wild cheers. Men clapped each other on the back, raised their weapons high, and shouted oaths of vengeance and triumph. Virguth''s grin widened as he saw the fire reignite in their eyes. Chapter 313: Great raid(2) Chapter 313: Great raid(2) By many hailed as Emperor, Mavius stood tall on the rise overlooking the camp. The sun, low on the horizon, bathed the sprawling tents and banners in a fiery orange glow. His gilded armor gleamed in the fading light. A column of cataphractarii, their heavy armor clinking faintly with each step of their steeds, delivered the latest batch of prisoners into the camp. The captured barbarians trudged forward in a ragged line, bound by thick ropes that snaked between them. They wore for the most part little more than fur pelts, their faces streaked with sweat and dirt, their heads bowed low in defeat. Mavius observed them with an inscrutable expression. There were 340 prisoners in all¡ªwarriors of the tribes that had dared raid the empire''s borders. These men had been caught during the rout after the devastating charge of the cataphractarii had broken their ranks and crushed their hopes of escape. This was the third barbarian band stopped in its tracks on imperial soil this week , and Mavius felt a satisfaction at the sight. The so-called "sons of the north" were learning that the empire''s lands were not as weak as they had believed. Already, slavers were preparing to take possession of the prisoners. Merchants and handlers, some with parchments in hand, moved among the captives, evaluating them with cold efficiency. The deals had been struck even before the final capture, payments made to the imperial coffers for these new slaves. Their fates were sealed: labor in the mines, a short and ugly sentence for the rest of their life. Mavius''s gaze lingered on the barbarians as they stumbled into the camp, their once-defiant postures broken. These were men who had thought themselves invincible, raiders who had sacked villages and taken what they pleased. Now they were nothing more than property Mavius stepped into his grand tent, the flickering light of oil lamps casting shifting shadows across the heavy canvas walls. His armor clinked softly as he removed his gauntlets, handing them to an attendant before turning to the guards stationed outside. "Bring the prisoner," he commanded, his voice sharp and even. Within moments, the guards reappeared, escorting a man into the tent. The prisoner was no common barbarian; he wore fine clothes¡ªa woolen tunic of deep blue, trimmed with subtle embroidery¡ªand his clean, composed appearance suggested he had been treated well. Yet, as he entered, he knelt immediately, pressing his knee into the dirt-strewn ground of the tent. "Your victory is nothing short of magnificent,your grace" the man said, his tone deferential, his head bowed in respect. Mavius studied him for a moment, then sat on the cushioned stool at the center of the tent. "You flatter me too easily," he said. "We defeated a mere detachment of their forces¡ªa small band of raiders. But my scouts tell me the rest of the barbarians have begun amassing as soon as word of their comrades'' defeat reached them. Soon we will have a real battle at hand" The man on the ground bowed lower. Mavius leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he regarded the prisoner closely. "The information you provided was accurate," he said, his tone measured but tinged with acknowledgment. "Had I not known their movements, it would have taken far longer to assemble my forces and repel them. Time, as always, is the edge of the blade." The man lifted his head slightly, his expression calm yet tinged with a certain humility. "My master is honored to have served the emperor" he replied. His voice carried the faintest note of pride, though he maintained his subservient posture. Mavius had initially planned to march south. His mind had been set on accomplishing on what he failed last year. Yet, before the full army could be raised, a messenger arrived at his doorstep, bearing an unexpected plea. The man, clad in travel-worn but well-kept clothing, introduced himself as a servant of Aric, the new lord of Aldo. He claimed that some of the tribes who had overrun Sarlan were now planning a great raid on the lands of his master. Of course that was a cover-up story that Mavius bought. As soon as his scouts confirmed the story , the emperor of the east departed the capital with the men raised thus far¡ª2,000 footmen, 600 archers, and 250 cataphractarii. And right now, after that small taste of victory, there was the question of what to do with what he held in his hands right now. "I am thankful for the information," he said, his tone even and measured, "but I must ask¡ªwhy did your master risk his new overlord''s wrath by bringing this to me ?" The man bowed low before speaking, his voice trembling with emotion. "Your grace....each passing day, the good Sarlani people are mistreated, enslaved, and robbed of their dignity. My lord Aric''s heart bleeds at the thought of such suffering and begs for your intervention. He promises that, should your army cross the Morzul River, he and his men, along with his fellow lords, will rise to your banner, swear loyalty and banish those barbarians to the desolate place they came from." Mavius leaned back slightly, his piercing gaze fixed on the messenger. The emperor''s mind worked swiftly, considering the implications.Of course he had no intention to do that....for now after all he was in contest to take his throne. Still, he had no reason to refuse an opportunity to establish an informant in his new neighbor''s court who would without doubt follow with other raiding parties in the future After a brief silence, Mavius offered a diplomatic nod. "My heart, too, bleeds at the thought of such suffering," he said, his voice resonant with conviction. "I will come to their aid, but only once the war against the traitors has reached its conclusion. Order must first be restored here, and then I will march to Sarlan''s liberation." The messenger knelt low, his forehead nearly touching the ground. "Your grace''s kindness will not be forgotten," he said, his voice filled with gratitude. "My lord will await your banner and stand ready when the time comes." Mavius leaned forward, his sharp eyes fixed on the prisoner kneeling before him. "In the meantime," he said smoothly, his tone carrying both authority and calculated warmth, "I hope your master will continue delivering such important information. If I am to liberate the poor Sarlani people, I will need all the help I can get." The prisoner raised his head slightly, still careful to keep his eyes low, and replied with earnestness. "Your grace, my master, had this intention from the very start. He is committed to aiding your righteous cause in every way possible." Mavius gave a single nod, gesturing to the guards stationed nearby. "Cut his bonds," he ordered. The guards obeyed without hesitation, drawing their daggers and severing the ropes that bound the man''s wrists. The prisoner flexed his hands briefly, a faint relief visible in his expression. Mavius rose from his seat, his tone shifting to one of apology. "I regret that you were brought to me in such a manner," he said. "I needed to be certain this wasn''t some elaborate trap. I trust you understand the necessity of caution in times like these." The man stood slowly, rubbing his wrists but maintaining a respectful bow. "There is nothing to apologize for, your grace. What you did was prudent¡ªwhat any wise ruler would do in your position." Mavius studied the man for a moment, then nodded again, his expression unreadable. "Good," he said simply before dismissing the men and ordering his men to give him a tent and a bath. Until now, the campaign to repel the raiders had gone remarkably well. In three separate engagements, his forces had crushed bands of 1,500 barbarians, killing more than half, capturing 340, and scattering the survivors into disorganized routs. But now, his scouts reported unsettling news: the remaining bands had united into a single force, determined to give battle. Mavius wasn''t sure how to feel about this development. On the one hand, facing the raiders all at once meant he could end the campaign decisively with a single victory. On the other, the sheer numbers gave him pause¡ªhe was outnumbered nearly two to one. Yet numbers weren''t everything. The enemy lacked both discipline and cavalry, two elements he could exploit to devastating effect. If he played his cards right, the day could still be his. He considered waiting for reinforcements. But delaying would come at a steep cost: it would give the raiders more time to wreak havoc on his lands, to torch villages, and plunder what little they hadn''t already taken. Worse, it would project an image of weakness, something he could ill afford after the sting of his last defeat. Though his previous campaign had been largely successful, that single blemish still hung over his reputation.A bold and immediate victory would go far to erase it and what better enemy than half naked barbarian raiding onto his land? Mavius leaned over the map on his table, his fingers tracing the routes his forces would take. The decision was clear. "Luck favors the bold," he murmured to himself, the corners of his mouth curling into a faint smile, drawn up both from his decision and the fact that he now had an informant between the barbarian line, not knowing however that he was not the one playing them, but instead the one being played by one who quickly learnt the art of intrigue. Chapter 314: Great Raid(3) Chapter 314: Great Raid(3) The usual boring plains was this day alive with activity, officers barking orders as their soldiers scrambled into formation. Crisp commands echoed in the cold morning air, blending with the neighing of restless horses and the clatter of armor. Under the watchful eyes of their leaders, imperial archers took position at the front, their quivers bristling with arrows, while disciplined ranks of infantry lined up behind them. At the rear, the cavalry waited in silent readiness, their armored steeds stamping the ground in anticipation. Mavius rode along the lines, taking in the sight of his army. Though nearly outnumbered two to one, they stood firm and disciplined, their polished armor gleaming in the early light. His force numbered 2,000 infantry, 600 archers, and 250 cataphractarii. Across the field, the enemy positioned himself. Of the original 6,500 tribesmen, 5,300 remained¡ªstill a daunting horde, their ranks a wild mass of uncoordinated warriors. They spread across the land in a loose, sprawling formation, their lack of discipline glaringly apparent. Without any discernible order or command, they were simply an overwhelming tide of bodies, each man armed with whatever he could find. Mavius observed them closely. His scouts had confirmed that the raiders possessed neither archers nor cavalry, which left them at a critical disadvantage. Mobility and ranged attacks would be key, and the imperial forces held both. His archers would thin the ranks before the infantry engaged, while his cavalry would strike where the enemy was weakest. Mavius sat atop his horse, his eyes fixed on the chaotic front of the enemy. As the sun climbed higher, he noticed an unusual movement rippling through the tribesmen''s ranks. He squinted, leaning slightly forward in his saddle to ensure he was seeing clearly. "What in the name of the gods...?" he muttered under his breath. A group of warriors had stepped out from the loosely scattered enemy front line. Stark naked, their bodies gleamed with sweat and war paint as they knelt onto the ground in a row. Behind them, other men began to wave long sticks wildly in the air, chanting and swaying as if caught in some strange frenzy. The scene left Mavius momentarily perplexed. Around him, the imperial soldiers shifted uncomfortably, muttering among themselves. "What''s that about?" one infantryman said, his voice tinged with a mix of confusion and unease. "Probably some savage tradition," another offered, his tone half dismissive, half uncertain''''You think they gonna fuck each other?'''' A ripple of similar comments spread through the imperial lines as more soldiers caught sight of the bizarre spectacle. "Close your mouths, men!" came the sharp bark of an officer, cutting through the murmur. "Eyes forward! Focus!" another commanded, his voice stern and unyielding. The orders brought the troops back in line, though a faint murmur of unease remained. Mavius frowned, still studying the peculiar ritual. Were they praying? Summoning courage? A stir of movement rippled across the tribesman army, the disorganized mass beginning to surge forward. "They''re moving first," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. The tribesmen advanced, their numbers pressing forward like a rising tide, slowly making their way to them, but then, to Mavius''s surprise, they stopped. The entire line of warriors came to a halt, no more than half a kilometer from the imperial army. Dust rose lightly from the trampled earth as they stood there, a chaotic sea of weapons and painted faces waiting in eerie silence. All except for a small group¡ªno more than 150 men¡ªwho broke away from the main force. Mavius''s brows furrowed in confusion. The group of nude warriors began to charge forward, their bodies painted with crude symbols and streaked with mud and ash. They moved with alarming speed, their war cries echoing across the plains. "Just them?" one of his officers muttered in disbelief. Mavius didn''t answer, his gaze locked on the bizarre sight. The rest of the tribesman army remained motionless behind the charging figures, watching as their comrades sprinted toward the imperial lines. Why aren''t they advancing with them? Mavius thought, his mind racing to decipher the enemy''s intent. It was unlike anything he''d seen before. A full frontal charge by their entire force would have made sense, even if reckless¡ªbut sending this small, naked band alone? Mavius''s thoughts turned to the strange rituals he''d seen before the battle. Were these men some kind of offering? Sacrifices to their gods, sent to prove their courage and gain divine favor? What a bunch of savages... The plains echoed with the wild cries of the charging nude warriors, their voices rising in an almost animalistic cacophony. They sprinted toward the imperial lines like madmen, their movements erratic and devoid of any discipline. Some tossed aside their shields as they ran, others flung their swords into the dirt, leaving themselves completely unarmed. Bare, painted bodies streaked with mud and ash hurtled forward, glistening with sweat under the midday sun. Mavius felt a chill run up his spine, a creeping unease he couldn''t entirely suppress. These weren''t men; they were something primal, something unnerving. He adjusted his grip on the reins, his knuckles whitening as he fought to maintain his composure. There was no formation, no coordination¡ªjust a mass of flesh and fury barreling toward his army with no thought for defense. Not a single shield raised, not a single step hesitated. The officers along the imperial line shouted over the confusion, barking commands to ready the archers. "Archers! Fire!" The order was met with a flurry of motion as the imperial bowmen loosed their first volley. The sky darkened momentarily as hundreds of arrows arced upward before plunging toward the onrushing horde. The missiles struck true. Arrows buried themselves into shoulders, chests, and legs with sickening precision. Flesh split, blood spattered, and still, the warriors didn''t falter. Not a single cry of pain rose from the charging men. Even as arrows protruded grotesquely from muscles and meat, they kept running, their faces twisted in crazed determination. One man with an arrow lodged deep in his thigh didn''t even glance down, his gait barely faltering. Another had two shafts piercing his chest, yet his arms pumped with unrelenting fervor, his eyes fixed on the imperial lines. The archers fired again, and then again, arrows falling like hail upon the crazed mob. Still, no screams came. No hesitation, no faltering. The naked warriors surged forward as if immune to the agony, their voices continuing their guttural, maddening cries. Mavius''s grip on the reins tightened further, his stomach twisting as the scene unfolded. He wasn''t a man easily shaken, but this... this was different. These weren''t warriors fighting for their lives; they were something far more terrifying¡ªmen who didn''t care whether they lived or died, like the very concept of death as the end of life completely foreign to them. No men could not be afraid or death, for even those that faced death bravely presupossed that their courage was stronger than their fear, yet those running toward his line were not human anymore. This was not a state that could be implemeneted on masses like training or discipline, as their very concept of pain and fear was now foreign , Mavius realized something had been done to them. And it was disgusting. The arrows continued to rain down, wave after wave slicing through the air with deadly precision. Each volley struck the charging men with sickening force. Yet, the scene that unfolded before the imperial soldiers was nothing short of horrifying. Some of the nude warriors had half a dozen arrows embedded in their flesh, jutting out grotesquely like the quills of a porcupine. Others carried as many as a dozen, shafts protruding from shoulders, thighs, chests, and even necks, which caused them to fall down after a dozen of step. Blood ran freely, painting their bodies in streaks of crimson, but for the most part not one of them slowed their pace. They ran on, some of them staggering but never falling, their eyes locked on the imperial lines with a feral intensity that chilled even the hardest of hearts. "Gods..." muttered one grizzled veteran, his voice trembling. "They''re... they''re not human." Another archer beside him fumbled with his next arrow, his hands shaking as he struggled to nock it to the string. "They''re monsters," someone whispered, the words barely audible over the officers'' frantic commands. "Not men. Monsters." Despite the unrelenting hail of arrows, the crazed warriors seemed impervious to fear, pain, or death itself. Their bodies jerked and twisted with each impact, yet they refused to fall. One man, with arrows piercing both thighs and his abdomen, continued to sprint, his movements fueled by a madness that defied comprehension. The veterans, men who had seen the worst horrors of battle, found themselves shaken to their core. This wasn''t war. It was something else entirely. "Keep firing!" the officers roared, their own voices betraying a crack of unease. "Take them down!" But even the most disciplined soldiers found themselves hesitating, their resolve shaken as they watched the grotesque spectacle. It was as if they were shooting at something unnatural, something beyond the realm of men. For all their years of service, for all the carnage they had seen, this was different. These weren''t warriors¡ªthey were nightmares made flesh, driven by a force no sane mind could comprehend. The archers, their quivers nearly emptied, retreated swiftly behind the line of footmen. Their faces were pale, their hands still trembling as they glanced back at the advancing horde of maddened, arrow-pierced figures , thanking the gods that they would not be the one facing their charge . The last volley had been fired, but it seemed to have made little difference. On Mavius''s order, the infantry raised their shields and readied their spears, forming a solid wall of discipline and defense. They braced themselves as the naked men charged, their wild, unrelenting cries carrying across the field. It was only then, few dozens of meters before the first crazed warriors collided with the imperial line, that Mavius noticed movement from the enemy''s main force. The mass of tribesmen, who had thus far remained still, now began to advance. Their movement was slow and deliberate, contrasting sharply with the chaotic, frenzied assault of the naked men. Why now? Mavius wondered The sound of steel meeting flesh and bone snapped his attention back to the front line. The naked men crashed into the imperial soldiers like waves against a rocky shore. That was when Mavius understood the reason for which they charged alone. Chapter 315: Great raid(4) Chapter 315: Great raid(4) Virguth marched steadily across the battlefield, his warriors keeping pace behind him in a loose, confident stride. Each step brought him closer to the clash of battle, the sound of screams and steel filling the air. His cold eyes scanned the front lines, drawn inevitably to the scene of carnage unfolding where the spirit carriers waged their horrifying assault. The carriers fought like nothing human. Virguth watched as one of them, pierced by a spear through the stomach, pulled himself closer along the shaft with grotesque strength, slashing his blade across the throat of the soldier holding it. He shuddered at the sight, no matter how many times he witnessed it, the result was always the same. Pure disgust. Another stumbled forward, his chest cleaved open by a sword, blood oozing out toward his belly, yet somehow managed to swing his weapon in a wild arc, taking down two more men before collapsing mid-strike. The imperial line struggled to kill those men who felt no pain nor fear , the discipline of their soldiers wavered in the face of the such monster, as they may have worked against humans, but those things weren''t that anymore. Even gutted or dismembered, they continued their assault, their bodies only failing them after they''d expended every ounce of life. Virguth''s jaw tightened as his gaze shifted to two carriers that instead of focusing on the enemy, had turned on each other. One drove his sword into the other''s side, while his opponent, weaponless, sank his teeth into the attacker''s neck with feral savagery. The two collapsed together in a heap of bloody, twitching limbs, their gruesome struggle leaving even the seasoned warriors nearby momentarily stunned. It was not a detached case, as in their frenzy the carriers could not distinguish friends from foes, something that they tried to issue by extending their lines as much as they could so that each man could face only enemies without have friends closer. It was always like this, Virguth thought, his stomach knotting despite himself. No matter how many times he witnessed it, the spirit carriers sickened him. They were revered among the tribes, symbols of their unbroken connection to the brutal will of their ancestors, but to Virguth, they were a disgusting sight. Were their ancestors truly this brutal? Virguth wondered, his face grim. Had the bloodline they worshipped always been this monstrous, or had centuries of hardship and exile into the spirit world warped them into what they were now? Virguth tightened his grip on his axe as he marched, his face masking his inner fear and disgust , as deep inside, his stomach churned with revulsion. Watching the spirit carriers die¡ªor refuse to die¡ªalways reminded him of the abyss that lurked within his people. I''d rather gut myself with this axe, he thought, his mind unflinching in its resolve, than end up like that. To die with dignity and purpose was one thing; to be reduced to a mindless beast, a puppet of violence, was something else entirely. Despite his disgust, he couldn''t deny the carriers'' effectiveness. They did the job they were meant to do, horrifying and breaking the enemy''s spirit. Their sacrifice ensured that the imperial soldiers, no matter how disciplined, were left shaken and vulnerable. Ahead, the imperial lines finally managed to kill the last of the spirit carriers, but the victory rang hollow. Virguth could see the toll it had taken on them. Probably even the most hardened veterans stood in stunned silence, their weapons trembling slightly in their hands as they stared at the carnage around them. The air between the two armies was heavy, the moment stretching taut. But the tribesman lines were closing in now, marching steadily toward their prey. Virguth could see the imperials forcing themselves to recompose, officers shouting hoarse orders to rally their men. Shields were raised again, and the wall of spears steadied itself for the impending clash, which finally came. The clash of the two sides erupted with a thunderous roar as the tribesmen smashed into the imperial lines. The first wave of axes came down like hammers, splintering shields and ringing against the iron rims. The disciplined imperials held their formation, their shields interlocking into a protective wall, but every strike from the tribesmen tested their resolve. Axes bit into wood and metal, some finding purchase in flesh. An imperial soldier grunted in pain as a tribesman''s axe head cleaved through his shield and buried itself into his shoulder. He crumpled to the ground, only for another soldier to step forward and fill the gap, thrusting his spear into the tribesman''s exposed chest, killing him and teaching why pushing too much was never a good idea. Behind the front line, other tribesmen pushed forward relentlessly, hacking and battering against the shield wall, determined to break it. The imperials countered with spear thrusts, darting between shield gaps to impale their attackers. One tribesman roared as a spear punched through his stomach, blood bubbling at his lips. Nearby, a tribesman swung his axe in wide arcs, forcing the footman against him to duck and parry desperately with his sword, which he had taken up letting down his spear. Finally, the imperial found an opening, driving his blade through the tribesman''s thigh. The giant fell to one knee, but before the imperial could finish the job, another tribesman struck him from the side, cutting him down. Amidst the chaos, an imperial officer barked orders, his voice rising above the din. His men adjusted their shields, bracing themselves as more tribesmen hurled themselves into the fray. The tribesmen fought with ferocity, their wild, uncoordinated attacks clashing against the calculated discipline of the imperials. Virguth waded into the fray with his massive axe, the weight of the weapon seeming as natural in his hands as a feather to a bird. His first swing caught an imperial soldier square in the chest, cleaving through shield and mail as if they were parchment. The man crumpled with a gasp, his life spilling out onto the ground. Virguth turned, his fur-lined cloak whipping in the air, to meet the thrust of a spear aimed for his ribs. With a roar, he parried it with the haft of his axe, stepped forward, and smashed the weapon''s blunt end into the soldier''s face, shattering his jaw. To his left, a tribesman grappled with an imperial officer, both men locked in a desperate struggle. Virguth ended it swiftly, his axe descending to split the officer''s skull in two. Blood sprayed across his face, and Virguth grinned, wiping it off with his forearm as he surveyed the chaotic battlefield. "This," he laughed aloud, his voice cutting through the din of war, "this is how a warrior should live!" He surged forward again, swinging his axe in a wide arc. The sheer force of the blow sent two imperial shields flying, the men behind them staggering back in terror. One tried to raise his sword to strike, but Virguth was faster, burying his axe deep into the soldier''s side before closing on the other. The scream was short-lived. As he fought, Virguth''s sharp eyes caught sight of the battlefield''s heart. The imperial center was buckling. Not by brute force, but by the relentless pressure of numbers. The tribesmen swarmed like a tide, each warrior replacing the one who fell. Virguth could see gaps forming in the enemy line, soldiers glancing nervously over their shoulders for support that wasn''t there. He chuckled to himself, reveling in the thought. "The center will break soon," he murmured, his voice low but pleased. He knew the men around him¡ªhis warriors¡ªwere emboldened. They had tasted blood and craved more, and their eyes gleamed with a hunger not just for battle but for something greater. Steel. The weapons of the imperial soldiers ahead were coveted, sharper and stronger than the battered and dull axes and swords the tribes had carried since the conquest of Sarlan. Virguth knew that most of the spoils from that campaign had gone to Geowulf''s tribes, leaving his own warriors yearning, he was the one with the most numbers and the strongest warrior, so none could take the meat that he had bitten. Here, they saw their chance. Every imperial soldier felled was not just a victory but an opportunity to arm themselves with the finest tools of war. "Push forward!" Virguth bellowed, his voice a rallying cry. "Take their steel, take their lives! Leave nothing for the crows but broken men and empty hands!" Virguth fought with ferocity, but his thoughts wandered beyond the immediate bloodshed. Each swing of his axe, each soldier felled, was more than an act of survival¡ªit was a step closer to the glory he sought. As this battle was not just a fight but a proving ground. Victory here would be his foundation, a cornerstone upon which he could build his reputation. He could feel it in his bones¡ªthe path to greatness opened before him, one paved with steel, blood, and fire. Geowulf''s shadow loomed large over all the tribes, and Virguth knew well that it would linger long after the man''s death. The Great Knotur had done the impossible: uniting a good portion of the fractious tribes, conquering Sarlan, and carving out a legacy that no warrior, not even Virguth, could hope to surpass. The man''s name would echo through generations, celebrated in songs and stories as the one who achieved what their ancestors only dreamed of, a warm land for their people. Yet Virguth saw opportunity in that shadow. Geowulf would not live forever, and when he fell, the title of Great Knotur would be vacant. Virguth''s own tribe, one of the strongest among the three, made him a natural contender. But strength alone wouldn''t secure the mantle¡ªhe would need prestige, allies, and the love of the people. That required victories, ones grand enough to stir hearts and solidify loyalties. This battle, with its spectacle of blood and valor, offered just such a chance. Still, he knew better than to delude himself. Even if he earned the title, he would never eclipse Geowulf''s legacy. That conquest was a singular feat, a once-in-a-lifetime achievement. Virguth''s own father had been foolish enough to challenge Geowulf, and the memory still churned his stomach. What had his father expected? Even if he had slain Geowulf, the act would have tainted him forever. Killing the man who had unified the tribes would have marked him not as a hero but as a villain, a usurper who tore apart what had only just been forged. There would have been no love, no songs of triumph¡ªonly the bitter taste of hatred from his own people.Where he looked for approval , he would only face scorn. No, Virguth thought, shaking his head as he cleaved through another soldier. My path is clearer than his. I will not repeat his mistakes. he vowed as he resumed his real battle. Chapter 316: Great Raid(5) Chapter 316: Great Raid(5) Mavius stood atop his horse , his eyes scanning the battlefield below as the chaos unfolded in front of him. Though his disciplined soldiers had finally dispatched the savage, naked warriors, their unsettling display lingered in his mind. He could not shake the image of men charging forward with arrows protruding from their flesh, swords cleaving through their bodies, yet still fighting with monstrous determination until their very last breath. He hated to admit it, but he was impressed. The sight of warriors ignoring pain, fear, and even death to such an extent was something he had never witnessed before. A mix of disgust and reluctant admiration churned in his chest. What sort of magic did these savages possess to create such monstrous devotion? He recalled the imperial books he had studied in his youth, records of the northern tribes that had clashed with the empire''s forces in the frozen expanse known as the Bane. Those writings often spoke of tribal shamans¡ªelders who practiced strange rituals and wielded powers alien to the empire''s understanding. It was said they communed with spirits or whatever otherworldly forces they believed in, channeling that connection to sway their people.Of course the book was old,and most time than not people liked to embelish their narratives with circumstances of magic. Still what he saw today was not embellishment "If my knowledge is correct," Mavius muttered under his breath, "their magic is usually the domain of the oldest among them. The ones who stay back, whispering to their gods and guiding their tribes with spells and omens." The thought stirred his mind. What if he could harness such power? The empire''s legions were formidable, disciplined, and well-equipped, but even the bravest soldier had his limits. Pain, fear, fatigue¡ªthese were natural boundaries that no amount of training could wholly erase. But what if those limits could be stripped away? "What I could do with such magic," Mavius murmured, his fingers tightening on the reins of his horse. His mind drifted to the campaigns he still had to fight, the territories he planned to reclaim or conquer. Troops like that¡ªunwavering, unyielding¡ªcould break the backs of any enemy line. Still it was strange that no one ever attempted to harness it?And why of the many tribes that were assimilated on the empire such thing was never discovered?After all the priest of the five gods, sees magic as something of an abomination, and those who practiced it were burn on the stake , yet he never heard of such mass burning in recent years, not even in history books. But how could it be replicated? And at what cost? The tribes'' magic came at a price; he was certain of that,after all the Bane still stood standing , didn''t it? Sacrifices, rituals, or whatever other barbaric methods they used¡ªit wasn''t something the empire could stomach outright. Still, if there was a way to study it, refine it, and apply it... Mavius snapped out of his thoughts, the battlefield pulling him back to the present. Below, the clash of steel and the cries of men filled the air, a cacophony of chaos and blood. Both lines were locked in brutal combat, but his disciplined imperial soldiers were steadily being pushed back in the center. The tribesmen fought with relentless ferocity, their sheer numbers bearing down on the imperial shields like a tide threatening to overwhelm a seawall. Mavius''s jaw tightened. It was time. Turning sharply, he fixed his gaze on the nearest messenger, a young man who stood ready with a look of both tension and eagerness. "Send the signal," Mavius ordered, his voice firm and commanding. "The cataphractarii are to charge now. And tell them¡ªcapture any man who surrenders during the rout. I want prisoners, not corpses. Understand?" The messenger nodded swiftly, not daring to hesitate. He turned on his heel and bolted toward the cavalry positioned on the imperial flank, the banners of the heavy horsemen fluttering in the wind. As the messenger disappeared into the distance, Mavius''s thoughts turned inward again, his mind calculating even amidst the chaos. These savages, crude and barbaric as they were, had proven themselves a potential asset. Their resilience, their fervor¡ªit would be a waste to see it snuffed out completely. My new toys can''t be allowed to break so soon . Not yet. He watched the battlefield closely now, his keen eyes following the messenger''s path toward the cataphractarii. Once those heavily armored horsemen charged, the tide would turn decisively. The tribesmen, however fierce, could not withstand the sheer momentum and crushing power of the imperial cavalry. The battlefield raged with the clamor of steel and shouts, as the imperial and tribesmen lines clashed with unrelenting fury. Shields splintered, axes hacked, and swords thrust as men fought with everything they had. The cries of the wounded mixed with the roar of defiance, but amidst the chaos, something began to shift. A great cloud of dust began to rise on the horizon. It started as a faint blur against the sky, but it grew thicker and darker, a storm in motion. Both sides faltered in their melee, their attention drawn to the ominous sight. Heads turned, weapons stilled for just a heartbeat, as eyes squinted to make out the figures emerging from the dust. And then they saw them¡ªa horde of horsemen, the imperial cataphractarii, their gleaming armor catching the sunlight like a wall of metal death, their lances lowered in unison as they charged with terrifying precision. To the seasoned soldiers of the imperial army, it was a moment of hope, a tide-turning force that would crush the enemy under hoof and steel. But to the tribesmen, it was something else entirely. For the warriors of the north, their only memory of cavalry was of the Sarlani king''s riders. Those horses had faltered and fled in fear before the giants that marched in their ranks, their hooves unable to stand firm against the thunderous clubs of the towering beasts. To these tribesmen, cavalry was a laughable concept, weak and easily routed. The warriors in the rear ranks, emboldened by their ignorance, raised their axes high and roared their defiance. "Come!" they bellowed, their voices filled with bravado. "Come to your deaths!" ''''You cumbersome motherfuckers will die here!''''Another shouted as he raise his axe The shouts rolled across the tribesmen ranks like a battle cry, axes lifted to the sky as they jeered at the approaching horsemen. The earth shook as the charge drew closer, the ground trembling beneath the weight of armored destriers and riders. But bravado turned to terror in an instant. When the charge hit, it was like a hammer striking glass. The cataphractarii thundered into the tribesmen with unstoppable momentum, lances skewering through axes, shields, and flesh alike. The warriors who had jeered moments before were crushed beneath the horses'' hooves or hurled aside by the sheer force of the impact. The front lines of the tribesmen buckled and broke under the devastation, men flung screaming into the air as the imperial cavalry cut through them like a scythe through wheat. Those who had stood firm moments before were now scrambling to turn away from their charge , the realization of their mistake dawning too late. The first wave of the cataphractarii charge had devastated the tribesmen''s rear ranks, but it had not entirely shattered their spirit. Seeing their kin trampled and skewered ignited a primal rage in the remaining warriors. "Forward! Break them!" roared a man his axe raised high as he led the charge toward the cavalry. The tribesmen advanced against the cavalry , axes and swords swinging wildly. They hurled themselves at the armored riders with ferocious determination, some managing to pull riders from their saddles, others slamming their weapons against the horses'' legs. One tribesman, a hulking man with a mane of wild hair, leapt onto the side of a horse, his axe burying itself into the rider''s helmet before the warrior was flung to the ground by another rider''s lance. Another, screaming a war cry, managed to strike down a horse, the beast collapsing under its own weight and crushing its rider beneath it. For a moment, the cavalry charge appeared to falter, the tribesmen swarming around the scattered horsemen like ants over a struggling beetle. But then, the cavalry regrouped.How could they not?As they after all faced much more difficult situation during their long history. The disciplined cataphractarii wheeled their horses around, their banners snapping in the wind as they formed up once more. The sight of the horsemen reforming sent a wave of unease rippling through the tribesmen ranks as they felt that it had been to easy, only to then watch as the cavalry turned, their lances ready for another devastating charge. The horn blew, and they came again. The thunder of hooves grew louder, a sound that seemed to shake the very earth beneath the tribesmen''s feet. This time, the charge was even more devastating. The second impact was merciless, lances spearing through the dense clusters of warriors, horses plowing through men and sending bodies flying. The tribesmen''s lines, already strained and chaotic, broke under the sheer weight of the charge. Axes were dropped, and men began to scatter, their defiance turning into panic. One tribesman tried to hold his ground, raising his shield against an oncoming rider, only to be hurled backward like a ragdoll when the horse slammed into him. Another screamed as a lance pierced his chest, the rider dragging him along for several paces before letting the body slide off the bloodied tip. The charge didn''t stop. The cataphractarii rode through the tribesmen, their formation unbroken, their discipline impeccable. They turned again, readying for yet another assault. This was no mere skirmish or brawl; this was devastation. -------------- Virguth swung his axe with all his might, cleaving through an imperial soldier''s shield and hitting the neck behind . Around him, the front line of his warriors fought with relentless fury, their shouts and war cries drowning out all other sounds. He barely noticed the blood splatter on his face, his focus entirely on the clash ahead. But something was wrong. A ripple of chaos seemed to flow through the air behind him. Virguth paused for the briefest moment, his instincts honed from years of battle picking up the subtle shift. He turned his head just enough to glance over his shoulder and saw it¡ªthe rear lines were falling back, their formations crumbling like sand under a tide. He cursed under his breath, bellowing to those around him, "Hold the line! Keep fighting!" But the men at the front were oblivious. They could see nothing of the disaster unfolding behind them. Five thousand warriors were too many to keep an eye on what lay beyond the immediate battle, especially given how crowded they were , without any formation . Axes clashed against swords, shields splintered, and blood spattered the ground. The front line held strong, unaware that their rear was already collapsing. Virguth roared, pushing his way through the mass of warriors, trying to rally the men further back. "Stand your ground, you dogs! Face the enemy, or I''ll gut you myself!" It was no use. Panic was spreading like wildfire. The men in the front finally seeing their comrades rout , in confusion or fear followed . One by one, then in droves, they broke away, fleeing the battlefield in disarray. Virguth''s face twisted in fury as he saw more warriors running. He knew that if he didn''t act quickly, the entire force would rout. But as he tried to stem the tide, he realized the futility of it. "Curse you all!" he spat, his voice raw with rage. His hands clenched his axe so tightly his knuckles turned white, cleaving the back of a running man in fury . "Another day," he growled to himself, spinning around and fleeing with the others. His feet pounded against the blood-soaked earth, and in his mind, a single vow burned. The first coward I see after this will feel my axe in their skull. Behind him, the imperials seized their moment. Seeing the tribesmen''s rear crumble, Mavius ordered his infantry to advance. The disciplined lines of imperial soldiers surged forward, taking the fleeing savages in the back as retaliation of the attacks they been suffering. The tribesmen, already scattered and panicked, stood no chance. Spears and swords found their marks with ease, cutting down men as they ran. Chapter 317: Foresight Chapter 317: Foresight Before the imposing walls of Nabad, the grand capital of Ushandeia, an army of five thousand men stood in disciplined formation. The shimmering ranks of spears and shields glinted in the late afternoon sun, and the banners of Habadia fluttered proudly in the wind, each one bearing the sigil of the silver crown. The soldiers'' faces were hard, their gazes unwavering as they stared at the city that marked the end of their long campaign. Between the imposing army and the gates of Nabad, a simple wooden table had been set up on the plain. The table was unassuming, almost laughable in its simplicity compared to the grand spectacle of the forces arrayed behind it. At the table, two men sat across from each other. One of them wore a finely crafted silver crown, its gleaming surface catching the sunlight as though it was a star fallen to earth. His posture exuded arrogance and authority, his chin held high as his piercing gaze rested dismissively on the man seated opposite him. This was Nibadur, the Prince of Habadia, the man who had brought Ushandeia to its knees. Nibadur''s armor, polished to a mirror finish, reflected his regal bearing. His every gesture spoke of a man who knew victory was already his. His lips curled in a faint smirk as he observed the man before him, the subtle amusement of a predator playing with its prey. The man seated opposite him, clad in simpler garments, was the prince of Ushandeia, purposefully dressing less magnificent as a term for thier surrender. Though he sat with a rigid spine and clenched jaw, the weariness of six months of crushing defeats was etched into his face. Behind Nibadur''s army stretched the scars of war. For six months, the armies of Ushandeia had fallen to Habadia''s relentless advance. Their proud banners had been taken as spoils of war, paraded through conquered lands as symbols of humiliation. Towns had burned, and once-proud fortresses now lay in ruins. Nibadur''s army had marched unopposed to the gates of Nabad. What few remnants of Ushandeia''s military remained were scattered and broken, unable to muster a defense against the conqueror''s might. Nibadur leaned forward, his hand resting casually on the table. His voice, rich with confidence, broke the silence. "Let us bring an end to this farce of resistance. Your people have suffered enough, and your banners are but ornaments in my camp. Nibadur leaned back in his chair, his silver crown catching the light as he fixed Aranith with an imperious gaze. "You stand on your last foot, Prince Aranith," Nibadur said, his tone casual yet laced with cutting certainty. "No lord of Ushandeia will come to your aid. They''ve all knelt before me or fled like cowards into obscurity, some even offered me provision to go ahead. My armies have marched unopposed, and not a single sword has dared to rise against us. Even the wind itself carries tales of your nation''s ruin if you continue down this path ." Aranith clenched his jaw, his lips pressing into a thin line to suppress the retort rising to his tongue. He knew better than to speak out of anger. Nibadur''s smirk widened as he savored the silence. "But, Prince Aranith, know this¡ªI do not seek the destruction of Ushandeia. Your city, your people, and what remains of your shattered kingdom may yet endure. I have terms to propose, terms that will save you from annihilation." Aranith''s throat tightened as he swallowed his pride. His voice, steady despite the turmoil within, broke the tension. "What terms you offer?" Nibadur leaned forward, his gloved hands folding on the table. "The terms are thus: Ushandeia will pay tribute for five years, ten thousand silverii annually. A truce shall be declared, lasting for ten years. Furthermore, you will recognize all lands beyond the Issharmir River as rightfully belonging to Habadia." The conqueror''s tone hardened as his piercing gaze locked onto Aranith. "Understand, these are not negotiable. They are an ultimatum. You can either accept them and spare your people, or you can hole up in your city and face starvation, despair, and the inevitable fall of Nabad." Aranith''s hand tightened on the edge of the table, his knuckles whitening as the humiliation of the moment bore down on him. Yet he knew there was no alternative. His armies were crushed, his allies scattered, and his people at the mercy of this man who held his kingdom in his iron grip. Nibadur''s terms were merciless¡ªhalf of Aranith''s princedom and more than half of Ushandeia''s annual revenue, laid bare in the ultimatum. Aranith felt the weight of it pressing down on him like a crushing boulder. Yet, in his heart, he knew there was no choice. The proud walls of Nabad could not stand forever, not against a foe with the means and patience to starve the city into submission. Aranith''s voice was steady but tinged with bitterness as he spoke, each word heavy with the pain of betrayal. "Your father and I had an understanding, Nibadur. For thirty years, I served as the shield that protected Habadia from the raids of the Latvians. It was my men, my blood, and my people who bore the brunt of their savagery. Not once in all that time did I give any sign of treachery or harbor any desire to lay claim to Habadia''s lands." Nibadur leaned back in his chair, his expression cool and unyielding. "I am not my father," he said dismissively, his tone cutting like a blade. "In case you have not noticed I am younger. And I recognize the Latvians as no threat to my rule. They are nothing but gnats to be swatted if they dare to cross into Habadia." Nibadur''s lips curved into a thin, calculated smile as he added, "But if you feel you cannot resist their invasions on your own, Prince Aranith, then there is another option. Take the knee to me. Swear fealty, and I will offer my protection. In doing so, I shall reduce the reparations to only two years, a fraction of what I now demand, I shall give you my armies if any Latviand dare mount an invasion, I will even allow your eldest to marry one of my daughters..." Aranith''s jaw tightened, his fists clenching under the table. His pride and dignity would not allow him to stoop so low, not even for the survival of his people. His emerald eyes burned with defiance as he replied, "No. I will not kneel to you, Nibadur. I will sign your deal, but my loyalty will never be yours." For a moment, silence lingered between them, heavy and tense. Nibadur studied Aranith, his expression unreadable, before nodding. "So be it," he said with a faint shrug. "Both ways serve me well. You may keep your pride, and I shall take your lands and silver." Nibadur''s cold satisfaction was unmistakable. To him, Aranith''s refusal was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, for the outcome was still his victory. -------------------------------- In the dimly lit confines of Nibadur''s private tent, servants carefully unfastened the clasps of his silver-inlaid armor, lifting the heavy breastplate from his broad frame and setting it aside with reverence. Nibadur stood still, his mind momentarily lost in thought, when the flap of the tent parted. A figure entered¡ªa lean man with sharp features, clad in dark, unassuming robes. His presence was as quiet as a shadow''s,and yet attracted the attention of the prince . Nibadur''s piercing gaze shifted to the man, and with a simple flick of his wrist, he dismissed the servants. They bowed quickly and scurried out, leaving the two men alone. Nibadur crossed his arms, his expression unreadable but his tone firm. "What is it? Have there been any developments?" The spymaster inclined his head respectfully before speaking. "Yes, my prince," he said in a low voice. "Word has reached us of revolts breaking out across the Herculeian lands. The peasantry in several fiefs have risen against their lords, emboldened by recent events that I am not privy to." Nibadur exhaled sharply, his sigh carrying a mixture of annoyance and weariness. He stepped to the side of the tent where a goblet of wine awaited him, pouring himself a cup with practiced ease. "Herculeia was supposed to be stable," he muttered, taking a sip. "Few thought it possible that Yarzat could defeat Lechlian. The numbers alone made it unthinkable.Seems like my worries were not baseless." The spymaster gave a thin, knowing smile. "And yet, that little prince has not only achieved victory but annihilated Lechlian''s forces. Castles have fallen to his banners, and his raids have left the Herculeian countryside in chaos. The peasants,probably under starvation now rebel after seeing their lands pillaged. They see their prince as weak and incapable of protecting them.No that they are wrong..." Nibadur frowned, the lines on his face deepening as he processed the news. "The boy prince," he said with disdain, swirling the wine in his goblet. "I underestimated him. As did many. And now Herculeia teeters on the edge of collapse." he spymaster lingered after delivering his report, his sharp eyes narrowing with curiosity. "If I may ask, my prince," he said carefully, "why do you concern yourself so much with those two ? They are far from our borders and have little direct bearing on our affairs." Nibadur leaned back, his expression darkening slightly as he regarded his spymaster. "It seems I am the only one who recognizes the boy for the danger he truly is.Am I the only one who has eyes among the blind?" He stood, pacing slowly as he spoke, his words measured and deliberate. "Tell me, how much do you think he earns from his soap and cider?" The spymaster frowned and shook his head. "I couldn''t say, my prince." "Nor can I," Nibadur admitted, stopping mid-step and turning to face him, "but it must be a considerable sum. Enough to send entire markets into a frenzy for his wares. Enough that even we hear tales of it, despite the distance. And worse, the Empire is behind him." He paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. "Even in the chaos of their civil war, the Empire''s word still carries weight¡ªa dangerous amount of weight, diplomatically speaking of course. Enough to give even rulers like us pause." Nibadur''s eyes grew colder as he returned to the table and poured another goblet of wine. He swirled it thoughtfully, his mind racing. "The boy prince is not only skilled but also resourceful. He has the means to build something far greater than anyone in Herculeia seems to realize.He is adored by his soldiers, whom our spies report that they fight like lions and are as disciplined as men made of Iron." The spymaster remained silent, watching his prince carefully as Nibadur made his decision. "Prepare a caravan," Nibadur said suddenly, his voice sharp and commanding. "Fill it with food, weapons, and armor, anything that we have no yet used for this invasion and then send it to that foolish prince that lost in such blatant way . Make it clear that these are supplies meant to aid the Herculeian prince against the treacherous rebels plaguing his lands. Ensure the caravan flies my banner, and instruct the men to announce its purpose loudly. No one will dare interfere with it once they hear it is meant to support a fight against peasant rebels, not that they would dare either way, seeing my banner. " Nibadur set his goblet down with a decisive clink, his sharp eyes fixed on the spymaster still standing in the tent. "From now on," he said in a low, commanding voice, "the boy prince must be recognized as our greatest rival. Increase the number of spies in his territory. I want eyes on every move he makes, every deal he strikes, and every whisper of dissent within his borders, especially the latter.Just because he is not our neighbor doesn''t mean he will not be in the future" The spymaster nodded, his expression unreadable. "And another thing," Nibadur continued, leaning forward, his voice growing colder, "provide second-level support to any who oppose him. Don''t worry about direct ties, even if we are discovered it will bring us no trouble, the boy after all has no way to launch a war again us, for now . But if his enemies need coin, weapons, or mercenaries, make sure they find them on us, from now on Yarzat has to have all of our attention and strenght against ." "As you command, my prince," the spymaster said, bowing deeply even though he believed that the boy did not require such attention before exiting the tent. As the flap of the tent fell back into place, Nibadur leaned back on his cushioned bench, reaching for the goblet of wine once more. He swirled it absentmindedly, his gaze lost in thought as he stared at the flickering lantern light. He understood the stakes all too well. If the boy prince of Herculeia was allowed to consolidate power and continue unchecked, soon there would rise a state capable of challenging his own. Nibadur took a slow sip of the wine, letting its bitterness spread over his tongue. After all a low-born doesn''t take a throne and mantain in it without proper skills to shape the world at his will, and the last war he head waged, had given Nibadur just that proof that he needed to know that for the next decades all of his attention would be set to supress the boy at the stem before he could become a tree as the last thing he needed was for a kingdom, not a princedom, to rise without him as its ruler, the south was after all too little for two to share. Chapter 318: Peasant assault Chapter 318: Peasant assault Inor''s men surged toward the towering walls of the castle, hauling ladders through the chaos, their faces grim with determination. The assault roared like a storm, the clang of steel, the thrum of arrows, and the guttural cries of the wounded weaving together in a brutal symphony. A group of attackers heaved a ladder against the stone battlements, its wooden frame shaking as dozens began their ascent. The defenders above wasted no time, hurling rocks down onto the climbing men. A stone smashed into one man''s helmet, sending him sprawling back to the ground, lifeless. Others clung to the ladder despite the onslaught, their hands slipping on bloodied rungs. At the top of the ladder, the first attackers reached the battlements, only to be met by defenders wielding swords and spears. One soldier thrust his spear into the chest of a climber, the man''s body sagging before he was pushed back, dragging others below him into a chaotic fall. Another attacker swung his axe wildly as he stepped onto the wall, splitting a defender''s shield in half before being cut down by a sword stroke to the neck. Arrows rained from above and from below stone came . Defenders took up positions at the crenellations, loosing shafts into the mass of attackers swarming the walls, while taking cover from the stones of the slingers on the ground . "Hold the line! Push them back!" bellowed the commander of the garrison, his voice cutting through the cacophony like a whip. He strode along the battlements, barking orders as the melee unfolded. "Archers, focus fire on the ladders!Drive them down¡ªdon''t let them get a foothold!" His presence galvanized the defenders. A group of spearmen surged toward the latest ladder where attackers had managed to gain a foothold. With precise thrusts and swarming attacks, they drove the climbers back, toppling the ladder with a mighty push. Men on it screamed as they plunged to the ground below, landing amidst the chaos of the siege. Elsewhere, an attacker armed with a short sword engaged a defender in close quarters. The two men traded blows, the clash of their blades echoing across the wall. The attacker feinted left and then lunged, his blade finding the gap beneath the defender''s armpit. The defender grunted in pain, blood spurting as he fell to his knees, but before the attacker could finish him, another soldier came up behind him, driving a dagger into his back. -------------------- Seeing the attack going nowhere, the men below decided to call it a day,not that an order was given more like they did not feel like wasting their lives in the assault. The men on the ladders scrambled down in haste, their footing slipping in their panic. Others abandoned the climb entirely, leaping down and landing hard before fleeing back toward the sprawling camp in disarray. The defenders, bloodied and battered but resolute, stood victorious once again atop the battlements. A raucous cheer erupted among them. Helmets were tossed into the air, and exhausted soldiers clasped each other''s shoulders in celebration. The sight of the rebel forces retreating was enough to rekindle spirits that had been dulled by days of relentless siege. Some men sank to their knees, offering whispered prayers of thanks to the gods. Others leaned wearily on their weapons, their faces pale with exhaustion but lit with the faintest glimmer of triumph. The garrison commander, stood apart from the celebration. His eyes swept over the bloodstained battlements, taking in the sight of the fallen. The stench of death clung to the air, and the lifeless forms of comrades lay scattered where they had fallen, their sacrifices making the victory possible. Of the original 300 defenders who had held the small castle, only 170 remained. Over a week of near-constant assault had worn them down, and the toll was evident in every haggard face and slumped shoulder. The commander tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword as he surveyed the ramparts, silently counting the men still standing and committing their faces to memory. Below, the rebel army retreated in disorganized clusters, licking their wounds and reforming within the safety of their sprawling camp. A Thousand of them remained or so it seemed ¡ªa vast and seemingly endless tide. Even from the battlements, the gleam of chainmail could be seen among the mass of soldiers. How they could have acquired those was still a question that he asked himself. The commander leaned heavily against the battlements, staring out at the rebel encampment with a furrowed brow and clenched fists. The faint echoes of laughter and celebration from his men grated against his nerves; the victory felt hollow, knowing how precarious their position truly was Where in the gods'' name is our help?he thought bitterly, his lips pressing into a thin line. His mind churned with doubt and anger as he glanced at the horizon, searching for even the faintest glimmer of hope¡ªan approaching dust cloud, the glint of armor, the sound of horns heralding reinforcements. But the horizon remained achingly empty, the distant hills and fields offering no reprieve. The prince had to send help soon¡ªor all would be lost. he had already written a week ago and he had received a response saying that help was on its way. What the commander didn''t know was that the prince''s forces were nowhere near the castle. The kingdom''s only fielded army, led by the prince''s eldest son, Arnold, was embroiled in a grueling campaign to crush the western rebels. Arnold''s troops had achieved many victories, but their march toward the castle was still far off, delayed by the stubborn resistance of the western insurgents who were however soon to be dealt with . The rebels encircling the castle, meanwhile, grew bolder with each passing day, their numbers seemingly undiminished despite the heavy casualties they had suffered. The commander cursed again, his teeth gritting as he stared down at the enemy camp. They''ll come again, he thought grimly, his mind racing. And when they do, I don''t know if we''ll have enough strength left to repel them. ----------- Lucius and Marcus stood on a low rise overlooking the besieged castle, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows over the battlefield. The air was thick with the mingled scents of smoke, sweat, and blood, drifting faintly toward their vantage point. Below them, the rebels milled about their encampment, the latest failed assault leaving behind a frustrated hum in the air. Lucius crossed his arms a lock of his curly blonde hair falling on his face , his sharp eyes scanning the battered walls of the castle. "If we had proper engineers," he remarked with a trace of disdain, "this siege would''ve been over days ago. A ram, and those gates would be nothing but splinters." Marcus, a man of broader build and rougher humor, snorted, leaning on his spear. "Engineers?" he said with a grin. "We''re lucky we''ve got carpenters who can cobble together a ladder without it snapping in two." Lucius''s lips quirked into a wry smile as if the carnage was above them. "Fair point. Though I imagine those ladders don''t feel so lucky to the poor bastards climbing them." Marcus chuckled, nodding toward the castle. "True enough. But look at them up there¡ªhalf-starved and outnumbered. Every time we pull back, they cheer like they''ve won the war. It''s all a show, though. They''ve lost quite a number of men already, and their numbers can''t grow. Ours can." "Yes, " Lucius replied dryly, "we have the advantage of numbers. But sheer numbers can be a curse as much as a blessing." Marcus raised an eyebrow. "A curse? You''d rather be holed up in that deathtrap with some hundred of men and food running out?" Lucius shook his head, his expression darkening. "You misunderstand. Numbers don''t mean much if they''re the wrong kind of people. Our ''army''¡ª" he gestured toward the sprawling camp behind them"¡ªis nothing but a horde of desperate peasants. They''re here because they want food , not because they believe in something . Their mood shifts like the wind." Marcus frowned, his grin fading. "You think there''s a risk of... what? A riot?" Lucius nodded, his tone grim. "I''ve seen it before. Give them a few more failed assaults, a few more friends and family members falling to the defenders'' arrows, and see what happens. Morale is as fragile as glass in a group like this. One crack, and it shatters completely." Marcus glanced uneasily at the encampment, where a few small scuffles had broken out between groups of rebels arguing over spoils from the latest assault. "You think it''s that bad already?" Lucius sighed. "Not yet. But it''s brewing. There''ve been desertions¡ªsmall numbers, yes, but it''s a warning. If we keep throwing men at those walls without success, the whispers will start: ''Why are we dying for nothing? Who''s leading us, anyway?Why do we care about that small castle '' Those whispers can turn into shouts very quickly." Marcus scratched his beard, his eyes narrowing in thought. "So what''s the solution? We can''t just sit here and wait." Lost in thought, Lucius scanned the camp, his sharp eyes flitting from one cluster of activity to another. His mind churned over the grim reality of their situation¡ªif they continued like this, they were headed for nothing but failure and he would hate to report only that . Suddenly, however his gaze seemed to bless him as it finally came to rest on the supply carts, where a handful of rebels were securing barrels and sacks. That could work... A glint of realization flashed in his eyes, and a sly smile curled across his lips¡ªthe same smile he''d worn when he hurled a rock at the turncoat lord during the charge to seize the gates. He murmured, almost to himself, "Maybe it''s time we lend our friends in the castle a helping hand... once again." From behind him, Marcus''s voice rang out "I know that look," he said, his own lips curving into the same grin. "You''ve got an idea, don''t you?" Chapter 319: Treachery Chapter 319: Treachery As the next day dawned it marked the ninth assault on the small castle, and the peasant prepared themselves for yet another grueling attempt to breach the walls. The sun cast its early rays over the battlefield, illuminating the makeshift ladders leaning precariously against the weathered stone ramparts. Shouts began to rise as they formed into disorganized but determined clusters. The defenders atop the walls were already in position, their eyes bloodshot from days without proper rest. They gripped their weapons tightly, each man knowing that they did not have much fight in them. For more than a week they had been fighting , repelling attack during the day while trying to take as much sleep as possible during the night, only to be weakened by the sound of horns on men on the wall that discovered a small assault being made in the dark. ''''Those bastards are going to try again'''' A weary soldier commented to another who simply nodded ''''How much do you reckon until they actually manage to get inside?''''The second asked ignoring the fact that what he had just said could be interpreted as self-sabotage,but at that moment everybody was too tired too care. ''''Not much, I have made my peace long ago. I just went to the priest yesterday , you should have done the same.'''' The men on the wall watched tiredly as the rebel started their attack , a sea of worn faces like theirs, carrying their ladders on shoulders and slinging stones with desperate fervor. Their war cries mixed with the dull thud of projectiles striking the castle walls, as both sides started shooting at each other from the distance. Finally ladders thumped against the stone, clattering as they were hoisted upward by teams of rebels under a storm of arrows and rocks from the defenders above. The more daring climbers scrambled up, shields held awkwardly overhead, though some lost their grip and fell screaming to the earth below, cut down by blades or struck by defensive missiles. The attackers pressed on, their resolve unbroken despite the carnage. Sweat and blood slicked their hands as they pushed forward, attempting to scale the walls. Above, the defenders fought with the energy of cornered animals, knowing they only had themselves that they could trust. The battle was fierce and unrelenting, each side throwing all they had into the fray. For the attackers, it was desperation; for the defenders, survival. As the sun climbed higher, its light gleamed off blades and bloodied stone, illuminating a struggle neither side could afford to lose. One rebel, his tunic soaked with sweat and blood, lunged at a defender with a crude axe. The defender parried with his shield, stepping back before driving his sword onto the rebel''s throat with a trust , sending him tumbling backward off the battlements. Nearby, a desperate attacker grappled with a defender. The defender snarled, shoving the attacker back before thrusting his spear onto the rebel''s gut, causing him to scream and fell, blood pooling beneath him. As the day went on as it usually did, with savage fights going one on the walls, suddenly, a voice broke through the chaos saying something that ringoverated more to any man atop the wall than an entire week of rest could have done. "Dust! Dust on the horizon!" The defenders, weary and battered, turned their heads in unison, peering into the distance. At first, it was just a faint smudge on the skyline, but as the seconds passed, the outline of a mounted force became clear. A ripple of excitement spread through the garrison. "It''s the prince''s cavalry!" Someone shouted ''''We are saved !''''. A wave of cheers erupted from the defenders. Men raised their swords to the sky , their exhaustion momentarily forgotten as hope surged through them like a flood. As the cavalry drew closer the cheers grew louder. The thunder of hooves echoed across the battlefield, shaking the earth and the resolve of the attackers. On the ground, the attackers faltered. Those nearest the walls turned, their eyes wide with fear as they caught sight of the incoming cavalry. A murmur spread through their ranks, followed by panicked shouts. Without waiting for contact, the attackers broke. First in small groups, then en masse, they abandoned the ladders and siege equipment, fleeing toward their camp. The defenders on the walls watched, their cheers turning to victorious roars as they saw their enemies rout. The cavalry continued to advance, their polished armor glinting in the sunlight, a promise of death to any who dared stand their ground. By the time they reached the walls, the field below was already littered with abandoned weapons and scattered rebels fleeing in every direction, the remnants of a broken assault. The sixty men-strong force rode ahead , their chaimail making them appear much bigger than bears . At the forefront was a man with an imposing presence, his axe resting easily on his shoulder. His curly blonde hair tumbled wildly across his face, half-concealing piercing blue eyes that surveyed the castle with a chilling calm. As they neared the gate, he raised his voice, a commanding shout that echoed off the castle walls: "Open the gate! Welcome the prince''s vanguard!The prince''s relief is coming!" The castle''s defenders, still riding high on the wave of their perceived victory, rushed to comply. The garrison commander barked orders eagerly, his voice thick with relief. "Open the gate! Let them in!" He descended the stone stairs at a brisk pace, anticipation brightening his features. The gate groaned as it lowered, and the cavalry entered, their horses snorting and stamping, their riders silent . The garrison commander stood at the base of the gatehouse, bowing deeply in gratitude. "You have our thanks for aiding us in our hour of need," he said earnestly. The blonde-haired leader moved his horse closer to the man, the captain trembled thinking that he was about to be honored for a job well done. He had after all kept the castle standing under a week-long assault of a force three times their size. His men did the opposite and instead dismounted , silent and efficient as they slid from their saddles. Feeling the presence of the knight above him, the captain started ''''I-'''' -Swick- Without a word, however the knight swung his axe . The blade cleaved into the commander''s skull with a sickening crunch, splitting it cleanly in two. Blood sprayed as the commander''s lifeless body crumpled to the ground. The people around watched in confusion for half a second, not comprehending what was happening, nor moving nor screaming. . The leader''s horse suddendly reared, and he spurred it forward, charging deeper into the castle courtyard. His men, now on foot, moved quickly to seize control of the gate. They drew swords and axes, striking down the defenders who were woke from their reverie The startled cries of "Enemies! Enemies within the walls!" finally rose as the garrison realized the horrifying betrayal. Chaos erupted as the defenders scrambled to react, but the surprise was complete. The assailants overpowered those nearest to the gatehouse, cutting them down with ruthless efficiency as they kept the gate open. One of the attackers away from combat pulled a curved horn from his belt. With ease, he raised it to his lips and blew a long, resonant note that echoed across the castle courtyard and over the surrounding fields. The mournful sound carried to the rebel camp, where men who had hid in their tents since morning, finally burst into action. ''''Get to the castle!The gate is open'''' one shouted as he lead the charge toward the castle ''''Avenge our comrades'''' another shouted as he followed, several other cries following behind. ''''Kill the bastards'''' ''''Take the fucking castle!'''' Weapons clanged as they were drawn from makeshift racks and scabbards, and a surge of rebels poured forth, armed with axes, spears, and maces. Their eyes gleamed with excitement as they charged toward the now-lowered gate, their war cries rising like a deafening roar. Inside the castle, the garrison was thrown into utter chaos. Men who had moments before been celebrating their salvation now found themselves embroiled in desperate combat. A young defender, his face pale with fear, blocked a slash from an attacker''s axe with his shield, the impact reverberating through his arm. He pushed back with a cry, driving his blade into the enemy''s exposed side, wounding him . Before he could rejoice however another rebel rushed him from the flank, bringing a mace crashing down onto his helmet and sending him crumpling to the ground. At the main gate, the rebels flooded in. One defender tried to slam the gate shut, but a rebel spear pierced his side, dropping him instantly. The gates swung wide, inviting the full tide of insurgents. Amid the clamor, the man with the curly blonde hair that fell the commander, stood tall on his horse. His axe now red with blood stood calmly on his shoulder. The castle''s inner walls turned into a brutal melee. Defenders fought desperately in narrow corridors, their backs to the stone as they held their ground. Rebels met them with raw aggression, axes battering shields and spears thrusting past guard positions. With a grim sense of satisfaction, the man reached up and removed his helmet, shaking free his blonde , sweat-matted hair. He tugged the reins, turning his horse in a wide arc to face the now bloodied and battered gate. Behind him, rebels flooded into the castle, their triumphant cries echoing off the stone walls as they claimed their prize. He raised his voice, firm and commanding, addressing the chaos around him. "Marcus!" he shouted, his tone sharp enough to cut through the din of victory. Marcus appeared moments later, his own blade sheathed, and a look of satisfaction still lingering on his face. He approached Lucius with steady steps, his boots crunching against the blood-slicked stones of the courtyard. Lucius gestured toward the rebels swarming the castle, their shouts echoing as they scavenged anything of worth and hunted down the last of the defenders. His expression was as impassive as his tone. "Our part''s done," he said, his voice calm but edged with finality. "This place belongs to them now. Let them have their fun. We''ve played our role." Marcus glanced at the scene, raising an eyebrow as he watched a rebel kick down a door before disappearing inside. "You''re sure? No interest in joining the feast? There''s plenty to go around¡ªmaybe a trinket or two to keep things lively?" Lucius''s lips moved into a sneer as he touched the haft of his axe. "We are above that, we will be rewarded handsomely at the end of it. No use taking things of no value; you shouldn''t let greed dictate your actions especially given our circumstances. " ''''Yes, yes sire!'''' Marcus groaned as he cracked his neck, mounting on a nearby pack-horse and following his friend closely behind. The castle was now in the hands of the rebel, conquered not by sword or strenght of arms, but through the treachery of a man who cared not one bit about both sides. His only task being to stoke the flame of chaos with every action that he could muster, no matter how much blood and cadavers would be required for that. Chapter 320: Failing court Chapter 320: Failing court Things could not have gone worse, Prince Lechlian thought grimly, as he scanned the latest report from yet another disgruntled lord whose holdings had been ravaged by raiders. It was a familiar refrain¡ªone that had been echoing relentlessly in recent months. Each letter, each dispatch, brought with it a new wave of bad news, dragging his already precarious position further into the depths of despair. The peasants, once pliant and subdued, had risen in rebellion, striking at the very lifeblood of his princedom. Fields that should have yielded enough to stave off the impending famine now lay scorched or stripped bare. What crops remained were pitiful remnants of what could have been a modest salvation. The barley and oats¡ªthose early harvests that typically sprang forth in June and July¡ªwere gone, stolen or trampled by the marauding mobs. They should have provided a crucial buffer, to placate the starving masses. But now, even the grain fields that promised sustenance for the year ahead had been looted or destroyed. Lechlian clenched his fist, the brittle parchment crumpling slightly in his grasp. He knew the truth as plainly as if it were whispered by the gods themselves: this year''s income would be a shadow of what it should have been. His coffers, already stretched thin, would dwindle to almost nothing. The warehouse that contained weapons and armons were now empty , stripped of everything worth wielding or wearing. Every last sword, spear, and chainmail had been pressed into service to equip the army led by his eldest son. Even the ceremonial arms¡ªonce used only for pomp¡ªhad been conscripted to meet the desperate need. The effort had borne a modest force: 650 footmen and 70 knights, hardly an overwhelming army, but enough to stake his hopes upon. It had been a monumental strain on his already-depleted resources, yet at least in that venture, he had not been disappointed. Lechlian allowed himself a rare flicker of pride as he thought of his son. Reports came regularly from the young commander¡ªmissives detailing victory after victory. Band after band of rebels had been broken and scattered, their poorly organized uprisings crushed beneath the disciplined boots of his army. The prince read those dispatches not just with relief but with something closer to satisfaction. The land there, though pillaged and scarred by the turmoil, was slowly returning to order. At least, Lechlian mused, all the rebels in the west had been defeated, and the land that had not fallen to plunder could still be salvaged. It was bitter solace, considering the devastation wrought by the lowborn cur of Yarzat''s prince, but solace nonetheless. His eyes still went red at the thought of he had been defeated by the son of a common whore. Lechlian drummed his fingers on the armrest of his throne, his mind lingering on the precarious balance his princedom teetered upon. The army, his last hope, was all that stood between his rule and utter collapse. If it fell¡ªif his son failed¡ªthere would be no second chance, no reinforcements to muster. His coffers were barren, their meager contents already scraped clean to fund this campaign. He had taken desperate measures to keep the princedom afloat. Court expenses had been slashed by half; opulent feasts and costly tournaments were but memories of a more prosperous time. The courtiers, once adorned in silks and jewels, now wore more humble attire. Yet even these harsh sacrifices would not solve the deeper problem. Next year loomed like a specter, promising only more scarcity, more impossible decisions. His brooding thoughts were interrupted as the heavy oak doors to the hall creaked open. A servant, clad in a simple but tidy tunic, hurried in, dropping to one knee before the prince. "Your Highness," the man said, bowing his head low. "A caravan has arrived at the gates of the city, bearing gifts from the Prince of Nabudai." Lechlian''s fingers paused mid-drum. He leaned forward slightly, his piercing gaze fixed on the kneeling servant. The servant, still kneeling, raised his head slightly, a glimmer of excitement in his expression. "Your Highness," he began, his voice steady but charged with urgency, "the man leading the caravan claims to have brought food, weapons, and armor to aid you in your struggle against the treacherous peasant rebels." Lechlian straightened in his chair, his heart pounding in his chest. "The guards report that two carts are filled with food¡ªgrain, oats , barley and dried meats. One is laden with weapons. And the last holds armor'''' The prince''s hands gripped the armrests of his throne tightly, his knuckles whitening as the weight of the news settled over him. His vision blurred momentarily as tears threatened to well in his eyes. For the first time in weeks, something good happened to him. The gods have not abandoned me, he thought, his lips trembling with the sheer force of his gratitude. The servant, emboldened by the prince''s reaction, continued. "The man leading the caravan requests an audience with Your Highness. He wishes to meet with you personally." Lechlian stood abruptly, his voice carrying a rare note of vitality. "Yes! Bring him here at once!" His gaze softened momentarily . He was so happy that he could crawl all the way to the temple to thank the gods. As the servant hurried to fulfill his orders, Lechlian allowed himself a rare, fleeting smile. Perhaps, just perhaps, fortune had not entirely abandoned him. Soon, the great doors of the court creaked open, and a man in gleaming armor stepped inside, the metal catching the dim light of the chamber. His polished breastplate gleaming , and a flowing crimson cloak draped from his shoulders. Beneath the plumed helm he carried tucked under one arm, his sharp, aquiline features and steely gray eyes exuded an air of quiet confidence. He approached the throne and bowed deeply, one knee grazing the cold stone floor. "Your Highness," the man began, his voice resonant and composed, "I am Sir Thalas of Nabudai, emissary of His Grace, Prince Nibadur. I bring with me gifts, tokens of goodwill and solidarity in your hour of need." Lechlian rose from his seat, his hands clasped before him, his voice trembling slightly, though he strove for regal composure. "Emissary of the illustrious Prince Nibadur, you honor us greatly with your presence, and more so with the generosity of your prince. I bid you welcome to this hall and extend my deepest gratitude for the succor you have brought " Thalas inclined his head respectfully. "Your Highness is too kind. It is the will of my liege that the curs of your rebels find justice, and he bids me assure you that his thoughts are with you as you face this rebellion. " Lechlian inclined his head, a rare glimmer of a smile gracing his lips. "Pray convey to your prince my eternal thanks, Sir Thalas. Know that this act of generosity will not be forgotten, and the house of Nabudai will have a steadfast ally in the halls of my court." Thalas straightened, his gray eyes gleaming with conviction as he spoke, his voice imbued with the gravity of a sermon. "Your Highness, this rebellion is not merely a challenge to your rule , It is, in its essence, an affront to the very order ordained by the gods themselves. The heavens have decreed the right of kings and lords to guide the masses, to rule with wisdom and strength over those who lack the clarity and will to govern themselves." His gaze swept the chamber, commanding the silent attention of all present. "The peasants who dare to rise against their sovereign are not only defying the laws of this realm, but the divine mandate that underpins your rule. Such rebellion is not simply treachery against a liege¡ªit is blasphemy against the gods who have set this sacred order in place.And my liege is more than happy to aid you in this holy war" Lechlian straightened his back ''''Please sir Thalas, be assured that we are doing everything possible to let justice do his work and restore good order onto the land divined to me by the gods.Sir Thalas, your journey has no doubt been long and arduous. As both an emissary of the esteemed Nibadur and a bearer of much-needed succor to my realm, it would be remiss of me not to offer you the full hospitality of my court. Please, accept my invitation to rest and refresh yourself within these walls." Thalas inclined his head, his polished demeanor unbroken. "Your Highness, you honor me greatly. I humbly accept your offer'''' Lechlian gestured to a steward standing at the edge of the hall. "See to it that Sir Thalas is provided the finest accommodations we can muster. Let him lack for nothing in his respite." The steward stepped forward with a deep bow. "At once, Your Highness." Thalas rose from his respectful bow to Lechlian, his armor catching the light as he adjusted his sword at his side With that, the steward approached and motioned for Thalas to follow. As they exited the hall, the emissary moved with the quiet confidence of one accustomed to noble courts. He observed his surroundings keenly, his calm demeanor betraying no weariness from the road except distaste for the state of the princedom they were aiding. What good my liege will have from helping that beggar is beyond me... As the doors of the hall closed behind the steward and Sir Thalas, Prince Lechlian dismissed the court and was finally left alone, his hands clasped tightly as he stared at the stone floor beneath his throne. His expression, once one of gratitude and relief, now shifted to one of contemplation and suspicion. "Why?" The question burned in his mind. Why would the Prince of Nabudai, a ruler from a distant land far to the south, send such bountiful gifts in a time of strife? Certainly, the rebellion was an affront to the gods and a breach of divine law, but to cross such distance to intervene? That smacked of ulterior motives. Lechlian rose from his seat and began pacing the hall, he knew Nabudai''s reputation well. Its lands were vast, its armies formidable, and its coffers deep, luckily his domains were far from Lechlain''s, with an appetite that matched his ambitions. So why? Could it be an effort to extend influence?Perhapse he is looking to expand eastward, but he knows better than to walk that path alone, hence mayhaps his need for allies. A struggling ally could be molded, indebted, and ultimately brought into the fold. The gifts were a an open hand to a drowning man. And who could refuse such charity when it came so freely? He stopped near one of the tall windows, looking out over the fading light of the day. His reflection in the glass betrayed his weariness, the lines of stress etched deeply into his features. More than an alliance it would be a one sided relationship, yet he knew very well that he could not be picky about anything extended to him, since he knew that his only enemy was not only Yarzat, but every prince that will bother his realm for as soon as the rebellion was put down , he was sure he would hear news armies coming from the south and his east,to pick bites out of his land. And perhapse having an ally to deter such incursions is not such a bad deal. He thought as he thought that he came to realize the true interest lying under the gift bore by the foreign prince, failing however to consider that he was just the pillow he would use to try and curb the growing strength of that Son of a common whore that wiped the floor with his armies and raided every land under his personal domain. Chapter 321: Heir of a failing country(1) Chapter 321: Heir of a failing country(1) Prince Arnold walked through the sprawling camp, his boots kicking up dust as he surveyed the scene. The clinking of armor and the low murmur of men at rest filled the air, interrupted only by the occasional crack of a whip on a prisoner or the bark of an officer. His gaze drifted to the rows of cages where captured rebels sat bound in ropes, their faces grimy and hollow with defeat. Some glared defiantly at their captors, their fury undimmed even in chains, while others sat slumped and silent, their spirits broken. The stench of sweat, blood, piss , and despair hung heavy in the air. Arnold''s jaw tightened as he passed, watching as a soldier tested the strength of the bindings on one cage. These men were to be sold into slavery¡ªpunishment for their rebellion and also a reward for the prince to keep everything afloat in the chaos. In the last two weeks, Arnold had led his forces to five decisive victories against bands of rebels, scattering or capturing up to 1,000 of them in total . The fights had been short-lived, given that most of time a charge and a pincer attack was all it took to break them. Few could withstand the charge of knights after all. With each victory, his reputation grew. Word of his successes would reach the courts, bolstering his image . For a moment, a small measure of pride swelled in his chest. More troubling still was the looming shadow of the Prince of Yarzat. Arnold stopped near the edge of the camp, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared out at the horizon. Yarzat''s forces had been relatively quiet during these skirmishes, but he knew it was only a matter of time before they struck. August was approaching, and with it, the harvest season¡ªa time that often marked the beginning of new campaigns. Arnold''s mind churned with the possibilities. The Yarzat prince was ambitious and cunning, no one could deny that, and his forces were far better supplied than his own. Worse, their realm''s relative stability meant that the other princes would nost stay put and could launch attacks from multiple fronts, exploiting the weakened state of Herculia. His hand unconsciously went to the hilt of his sword as he thought about the precariousness of their position, the more he thought the worse it became. Arnold ducked under the canvas flap of the tent. The metallic tang of blood hit his nostrils immediately, mingling with the stale stench of sweat. In the center of the space, a man hung from a pole, his wrists bound tightly to it with coarse rope. His head lolled forward, dark hair matted with dried blood, obscuring a face marred by brutality. The man''s hands were a grotesque sight¡ªraw stumps where fingernails should have been, the skin red and cracked, flecked with dirt and dried blood. His feet fared no better; the toes were missing entirely, leaving only uneven scars and oozing wounds that glistened in the flickering light of a nearby lantern. His mouth was a black void, devoid of teeth, his swollen lips crusted with blood, split in multiple places. Arnold''s eyes scanned the rest of the man''s body, noting the myriad of bruises and cuts that painted his skin like some macabre artwork. The prisoner''s chest rose and fell shallowly, each breath a rasping, labored sound that filled the silence of the tent, betraying that despite everything he still lived . His clothes¡ªor what remained of them¡ªhung in tatters, stained with grime and blood, barely covering his starved frame. Arnold adjusted himself on the stool provided for him by some servants, his sharp eyes studying the broken figure before him. Despite the man''s grotesque state¡ªnails ripped away, toes missing, his mouth a bloody void¡ªthe rebel still refused to speak. For a fleeting moment, Arnold felt an odd pang of respect for the defiance the man clung to, even in the face of unrelenting pain. Arnold knew well enough that he, in such a state, might have sung like a bird long before this point.He wasn''t ashamed to admit that, he after all knew very well his limitation "You know," Arnold began as he addressed the man, "it was quite the revelation to learn the rebel bands weren''t as disorganized as we''d thought. Who could have guessed you were exchanging reports on our logistics and troop movements? Clever, I''ll give you that. More than a few carts and men fell prey to your ambushes. Those first weeks were... costly.I bet you had your fun, didn''t you?" He leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, his voice dropping an octave as if speaking to an old acquaintance. "And then, when we finally managed to drag you out of that hole you''d crawled into, I thought we''d uncovered the prize of all prizes. A chance to break this network of yours apart once and for all." The rebel said nothing. His head lolled forward slightly, a viscous line of bloody saliva trailing from his mouth to his chest. Arnold tilted his head, a flicker of impatience darting through his otherwise calm demeanor. He wasn''t even sure if the man was fully conscious. "Four days," Arnold continued, leaning back now, his tone sharpening. "Four days since we started this game. And through it all, you haven''t whispered a single thing¡ªexcept for one strange request: to speak with me." He smirked faintly, shaking his head. "At first, I laughed. A rebel, demanding an audience with the prince''s heir while he''s being... persuaded. I dismissed the idea outright. I figured you''d change your mind by nightfall, spill everything to save what was left of yourself. But no. Here you are, still holding on to whatever stubborn pride or cause that drives you." Arnold gestured vaguely toward the man''s mangled form. "I''ll admit, for a peasant, a rebel at that, it''s... impressive. Few men could endure what you''ve taken.I have never met anyone like you" Arnold''s voice turned colder, the edge of admiration replaced by calculation. "Well, here I am. You wanted to see me. Speak, then. Tell me¡ªwhere is the last camp?Did you simply want a fairer ear to hear your informations?Or you want a deal?" The rebel slowly lifted his head, his swollen, bloodied eyes locking onto Arnold with a look that defied his broken body. His lips moved, trembling as he struggled to form words without teeth, his voice a garbled rasp. "You... already know... where it is," the man wheezed, his voice slurred and wet, as if every word was dragged from some cavernous depth within him. "I''ll... tell you... everything... but..." He paused, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. "I ask... one thing." Arnold arched a brow, his tone sharp and authoritative. "You tell me, and I''ll let you live." The rebel let out a choking laugh, a grim, hollow sound that echoed in the tent. His head tilted to the side, a faint grin curling his cracked lips. "Live?" he slurred, spitting out a wad of bloody saliva onto the dirt floor. "No... matter what... I''m dead. Can... smell it... already. Meat... rotting...can feel myself dying... " Arnold''s jaw tightened, his patience fraying. "Then what is it you want? Speak clearly, and I''ll consider it." The man coughed, his body convulsing with the effort. His voice broke into something faintly resembling a plea, yet his gaze remained steady. "A wife... two sons," he said, each word a struggle, but his tone resolute. "They''re... captured. Only reason... you got me... is I failed... to save them." Arnold leaned in, his piercing gaze studying the man. The rebel''s words were heavy with desperation and love, the kind of love that burned so brightly it survived even this hellish torment. Arnold remained silent, letting the man continue. "You want... the last camp?" the rebel wheezed. "Fine. I''ll... tell you... every... damned thing. But... they live. Let... them live." Arnold straightened, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword as he considered the man''s demand. He gave a short nod. "Agreed. Tell me where the camp is, and I''ll spare them." The rebel laughed again, a broken, gurgling sound. "Not... so soon," he said, his words slurred but his defiance unmistakable. "The moment... I speak... they''re dead. Not... until... you swear." Arnold''s eyes narrowed. "Swear? On what?" The rebel raised his gaze to Arnold, his bloodied lips moving with deliberate slowness. "By the gods. Swear... by them. Swear... you''ll let... them live." Arnold''s hand gripped the hilt of his sword tighter, his eyes locked onto the rebel''s face. After a moment of tense silence, he nodded. "By the gods, I swear. Your wife and sons will live. " The rebel raised his head slightly, his gaze unwavering despite the broken state of his body. His voice, though slurred, carried a clear demand. "As... free people," he rasped, his tone steady and unyielding. Arnold nodded, his voice firm. "As free people," he affirmed, his words resonating with the weight of the oath he had sworn. For a few long moments, the rebel held Arnold''s gaze, searching his eyes as though seeking any crack in the prince''s resolve. Finally, he seemed satisfied, his bloodied lips parting as he began to speak. "They hide... in the forest. I can... take you... there. But..." He paused, taking a labored breath. "My sons... need horses. And... silver. Enough... to get away.Please...." Arnold''s expression softened just slightly, normally he would have refused but such sight made him do the opposite, perhaps it was the fact that he was a father who under untold pain simply wanted the best for his family, or perhaps it was his respect for the man "Agreed," he said truthfully, turning to one of his knights. "Bring a physician. Have his wounds treated. At first light tomorrow, we depart." He looked back at the rebel. "Once you''re strong enough to stand, you''ll lead us to your family." The rebel let out a weak chuckle, coughing through the sound. "No... need... to wait," he said, his tone laced with determination. "Can point you... now. " Arnold arched an eyebrow, his respect for the man growing despite himself. He gestured toward the exit of the tent. "Very well. Go ahead, then. Show us." The rebel nodded faintly, his body trembling with the effort, but his resolve shining through. The soldiers around him exchanged wary glances, but Arnold motioned for them to follow. "Get him up," Arnold commanded, his tone leaving no room for debate. Two soldiers moved forward to untie the man from the pole, careful not to aggravate his injuries further. The rebel staggered, leaning heavily on the men, but his bloodshot eyes remained focused as he prepared to fulfill his end as the Judas of the rebel, with the only difference that what he wanted was not silver but the well-being of his family. Chapter 322: Heir of a falling country(2) Chapter 322: Heir of a falling country(2) From the information extracted from the captured men, Arnold was informed that there were in total seven bands of men, scattered across the region that had been in secret communication, coordinating their attacks and sharing critical intelligence about the prince''s forces. Led by the rebel to the location he had described, the prince''s forces moved under the cover of darkness, encircling the final camp nestled deep within the forest. At dawn''s first light, the attack began. The surprise was total. Confusion erupted among the rebels as horns blared and the prince''s soldiers surged forward. Men stumbled from their tents, half-dressed and disoriented, scrambling to arm themselves. But it was futile. With the entire camp surrounded, there was no escape. Those who tried to fight, those few that even tried, were quickly overpowered in the chaos, while most abandoned their weapons and fled, as it was said however they were sorrounded and if they managed to escape the infantry the cavalry was waiting for them. Within less than an hour, the camp was silent,except of course from the moans of pain and the cry of women and children that were to be sold away, the hub of rebellion reduced to a field of broken tents, scattered weapons, and subdued captives. Arnold strode through the wreckage, his gaze scanning the scene with grim satisfaction. The rebellion in this region was over.Half his work was finally down . Men strode through the remnants of the last rebel camp, their boots crunching on bloodied earth as they moved among the bodies sprawled across the ground. The air was thick with the stench of death, mingling with the faint cries of the wounded who had yet to succumb to their injuries. A soldier kicked at a lifeless form, his expression cold and calculating. When the body flinched, he wasted no time, driving his spear down hard into the man''s back. The muted gasp and final twitch of the rebel confirmed his work, and he moved on without a second thought by yanking the spear free Nearby, another soldier spotted a rebel desperately crawling away, his face smeared with mud and blood. The soldier chuckled darkly, striding over to the pitiful sight. With a swift kick, he flipped the man onto his back, exposing his terrified, pleading face. he saw that the men was too wounded and would have no value as a slave , so he spared him the pain of that . The rebel''s voice broke as he begged for mercy, his hands trembling in the air. The soldier silenced him with a single, brutal thrust of his spear into the man''s chest. Blood gurgled from the rebel''s lips as he stilled. In the heart of the camp, if a man was not killing another then he was raping a woman . A group of soldiers had seized several women, their cries of protest and fear ignored as they were dragged toward the tents. The chaos of victory had devolved into something far darker, and the remaining rebels whose wives were being dragged , were either in rope unable to intervene ¡ªor too dead to care. The general that led the army to victory, Arnold, however, had already distanced himself from the carnage. He rode back to his main camp at the forest''s edge as soon as the battle was over. From his vantage, the prince considered the campaign complete, leaving the cleanup to his men and his thoughts fixed on the next challenge which was to now deal with the western part of the rebellion. The prince''s heir pushed aside the heavy canvas flap of his tent and stepped inside, his armored boots clinking against the wooden planks hastily laid out for a semblance of comfort. Behind him, Lord Cretio followed with a steady gait. The older man had been a steadfast supporter of Arnold since he was a kid ¡ªa bond made firmer by the union of their two families through Arnold''s betrothal to Cretio''s daughter. Blood now linked their fortunes, making Cretio''s loyalty to the prince''s heir both personal and political.After all his grandchildren would inherit the throne As soon as they were inside Cretio wasted no time, clasping his hands behind his back as he offered a slight bow. "Another feather in your cap, my prince. The rebels fall like leaves in autumn under your blade. Soon, this forest of discontent will be cleared." Arnold let out a dry laugh as he dropped into the chair by the map, tossing his gauntlets onto the table with a clatter. "A feather in my cap, is it? More like dust on my boots. Let''s not dress it up, Cretio. We''re slaughtering men too weak to hold a proper spear and too hungry to stand their ground." "Victory is still victory, my lord," Cretio replied smoothly, stepping closer to the table. "It is not the strength of the vanquished that matters, but the steadiness of the victor. The nobles will sing your praises regardless. We''re in hard times, and your success¡ªno matter how achieved¡ªshines brighter because of it and honestly I believe the state should hold on any victory they can get in this hard time." Arnold shook his head, rubbing his temple with one hand. "Spare me the gilded words. You and I both know there''s no glory here. These peasants are half-beaten before we reach them. Killing desperate men is hardly the stuff of bard''s tales." Cretio tilted his head, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Bard''s tales are written by those who pay the bards. If fame cannot be found in the field, than it can be in the hand that restores order in chaos. That is a tale worth spinning, wouldn''t you say?" The prince leaned back in his chair, sighing heavily. "Order in chaos," he echoed, the weight of it evident in his tone. "We''ll see about that once the last of these fools are dealt with. Until then, this so-called victory is just another slog through the mire. We''re not out of the woods yet." Arnold leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the table as his gaze bore into the map spread out before him. His fingers traced absent patterns across the stained parchment, though his mind was clearly elsewhere. "Even if we put this rebellion to bed," he began, his tone low and edged with bitterness, "there''s still the hound on our west, greedy for blood and waiting for his chance." Lord Cretio shifted slightly but said nothing, sensing the weight behind the prince''s words. Arnold continued, his voice growing colder. "My father couldn''t put it down with a rod when he had one in hand. And now? Now, with nothing more than a stick to defend ourselves, all we can do is cower behind high walls and pray Yarzat doesn''t come howling at our gates.Worse that foolish father of mine, did not even send a man to ask , or better yet beg for a truce, a man should not yield to a dog, he says as Yarzat sinks his teeth to our throat" His fist clenched as he spat the words, the veins on his temple briefly visible. "And why? Because my father couldn''t keep himself from insulting the so-called fox. Making a fool of him during his own marriage, no less. So now we reap the rewards of that folly. Yarzat is no friend to us, and who can blame him for wanting vengeance when the only dowry he got was humiliation?Worse he is winning which means that unless we cut ourselves a leg and an arm, he will not even ponder about coming to the negotiating table with us,, always if my father eyes aren''t cleaned from all the shit he threw in...any silver lining to say my lord?" For a small moment he said nothing. "There are times, when even the sweetest words cannot mask the bitterness of reality," he finally said, his voice quiet feeling that even in victory there was no joy to be found and feeling like the young man in front of him needed a break more than anything . Arnold gave a dry, humorless laugh. "That''s the first honest thing I''ve heard in days." He sat back in his chair, exhaling heavily as he brought his hands to his face, showin a side of him that he only dared show to the one he trusted most. The display of self-loathing Arnold was giving was interrupted by a firm voice just beyond the tent''s entrance. "Your Highness," the voice called, sharp and formal. "A messenger has arrived from the court. He bears a letter from His Grace, the prince." Arnold exchanged a glance with Lord Cretio, the faint flicker of unease passing between them unspoken. Straightening his posture, Arnold replied, his voice steady and authoritative, "Send him in." The flap of the tent was pulled aside, and a man entered, his face shadowed by the dim light within. His travel-worn clothing and mud-splattered boots hinted at a hard journey. He immediately bowed low, holding the posture for a respectful moment before rising and stepping forward. In his gloved hands was a sealed letter, the wax bearing the unmistakable crest of the prince. With a measured step, he extended the letter toward Arnold, his head slightly bowed as he spoke. "Your Highness, I bring word from His Grace, your father. He instructed me to deliver this with all haste." Arnold leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly as they fixed on the letter. He took it with deliberate care, breaking the seal with his thumb. The faint crack of the wax seemed to echo in the charged silence of the tent. Arnold broke the seal with a practiced motion, unfolding the letter with a faint crackle of parchment. His eyes skimmed the lines, his expression tightening with each passing word. By the time he reached the bottom of the letter, he let out a slow exhale and closed his eyes. More bad news apparently. Lowering the letter, he turned toward Lord Cretio, extending it with a steady hand. His voice was calm but carried an edge of urgency. "The rebels have taken the fortresses of Kiryo and Srits." Cretio''s face darkened as he accepted the letter, his lips tightening as he read it for himself. Arnold rose from his seat, his movements sharp with purpose. "Please inform the officers," he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "We march west at first light. This cannot be allowed to stand." Cretio gave a solemn nod, his jaw set with grim resolve. "I''ll see to it at once, Your Highness." Arnold turned away, his gaze fixed on some unseen point beyond the tent''s canvas walls, the fire in his chest reigniting with the resolve to crush this rebellion once and for all. Chapter 323: Nice development Chapter 323: Nice development Alpheo sat at his desk, the golden light of the afternoon sun streaming through the arched windows of his chamber. The faint scratching of his quill echoed in the quiet room as he meticulously penned the edict on fine parchment. His hand moved with precision, the ink flowing smoothly as he detailed the grant of administrative powers to the bodies he had chosen to govern the fiefs of Egil, Jarza, Clio, and Asag. Finishing the text, he leaned back and inspected his work, nodding in satisfaction. He reached for the block of wax resting on the edge of the table and held it carefully over the flame of a nearby candle. The wax softened, dripping onto the parchment in a deliberate, rounded pool. From his desk, Alpheo retrieved the banner stamp of House Veloni-Isha, a carved sigil of the house''s crest¡ªa soaring phoenix with nine fists around .He pressed it firmly into the warm wax, holding it for a moment before lifting it away. The letter''s text formally assigned governance to the two administrative bodies dispatched to the fiefs. These bodies, composed of advisors handpicked by Alpheo, were to oversee taxation, justice, and the maintenance of order. Of course Alpheo had not done this out of his own will, for after all he was not the owner of those fiefs; he was instead requested to do so by his companions, who admitted not to knowing jack-shit about ruling. "We can barely hold a quill, let alone rule over people "they had told him when he asked the reason for their choice. And Alpheo had obliged them, not only sending capable administrators but also crafting and delivering the sigils they lacked¡ªsimple rings bearing their banners that the would use for official document.. Having sealed the administrative edict, Alpheo reached for the small stack of papers neatly arranged at the corner of his desk resuming the rest of his work . His fingers brushed over the pile, selecting one from the top. The document detailed the expenditures from the royal coffers in the last two month, where apparently Alpheo had spent 35,000 silverii on the various expenses related to the aqueduct, with an additional 5,000 to send weapons to the various villages in his national effort to fortify the coastal villages. As Alpheo read through the report, a faint smile touched his lips. The expenditures had proven to be a sound investment. Over the past month, there had been a significant decline in requests for state aid to rebuild burned villages. The modest defensive measures, combined with the stationed army, had not only repelled the small pirate raiding parties that had long plagued the coast but also dissuaded further attempts. Reports even indicated a sharp decrease in the number of raiding ships altogether, as the pirates realized there were far easier targets than the crownland''s now-militarized villages. This outcome was no surprise to Alpheo; he had anticipated it. After all, most of these pirates were not hardened warriors but desperate peasants looking to earn a few coins before returning to their fields or families. Their inexperience and lack of discipline made them poorly equipped to handle armed resistance. Faced with villages that actively fought back and yielded scant rewards for their trouble, they quickly reconsidered their choices. Rather than persist against these fortified villages, the pirates had begun moving northward to attack less-prepared settlements under lords who had failed to allocate any response to such threats. In any case it was now their problem, not his. Such undertakings , while yielding tangible results, had left Alpheo''s coffers unfortunately almost barren, with a mere 6,000 silverii remaining. The weight of such a sum¡ªpaltry for him that held just few months prior 45,000¡ªwas felt keenly by him as he reviewed the numbers. Maybe I am a bit too lax with money.... Still, the timing could not have been better. It was August, and the harvest was in full swing. Soon, a round of taxation would bring much-needed resources to the court. Nobles, as always, would deliver their tributes¡ªprimarily in coin¡ªbut it was the grain that Alpheo truly sought from the private fiefs of the crown . For his future ambitions, silver was secondary to sustenance. Grain was the foundation of his plans that he wanted to work on this year . The work he envisioned would require more than just funds; it demanded a steady and abundant supply of food. The princedom''s low population remained a persistent problem, one that Alpheo intended to solve by encouraging migration and resettlement. But to attract and sustain a larger population, Yarzat would need full granaries, he could certainly not hope to invite people and then leave them on their own without food or help for a few months. Grain meant security. It meant being able to weather poor harvests, feed laborers engaged in state projects, and support new settlers as they integrated into Yarzat''s lands. Without it, even the most ambitious schemes would collapse under the weight of hunger, unless of course one had ample coin to buy the grain he needed. Putting away the positive thoughts about the upcoming harvest, Alpheo reached for another report from the stack on his desk. However, the moment his eyes scanned the header of the parchment, his calm demeanor shattered into a flash of irritation. The report was from Herculia, sent by the two men he had sent there to make use of the rebels. He clenched the parchment tightly, his knuckles whitening. This? Here of all places? If he hadn''t decided to sift through the mundane reports tonight, who knew when he might have stumbled upon it? Alpheo''s jaw tightened as he resolved to have a very pointed conversation with his secretaries. Their laxity was unacceptable. Reports such as this belonged in the priority file, not buried beneath mundane village assessments and minor trade correspondences. He took a slow breath, forcing himself to focus. The problem of his staff could wait until tomorrow; for now, the report needed his undivided attention. In truth, Alpheo could hardly place the blame entirely on his secretaries. The fault lay in the nature of the letter itself. At first glance, it was the picture of innocence¡ªa benign correspondence between supposed friends, with nothing about it to arouse suspicion. In fact, Alpheo had gone to great lengths to ensure it appeared that way. He was no fool; he understood that what he was orchestrating was tantamount to supporting a covert insurgency in another nation¡ªa diplomatic taboo of the highest order. Such actions required absolute discretion. If any part of this operation was uncovered, nothing could lead back to him or Yarzat. The letter was deceptively simple, devoid of any distinctive markings, save for an odd, faint circle near the far-left margin of the envelope containing the letter. To the casual observer, it would seem a meaningless blot¡ªa careless dab of ink from an unsteady quill. But Alpheo had designed it that way. For those who knew what to look for, the circle was a subtle sign. The true brilliance of the deception lay in its construction. To anyone holding it, the letter was a single sheet of harmless pleasantries. But if one carefully peeled apart the seemingly ordinary parchment, they would find two pages glued together. Inside, hidden between the layers, lay the real message¡ªwritten in clear, uncompromising detail. Still, maybe the letter fell into the hand of a clumsy secretary who failed to spot the ink. Anyway I will talk with them, afterward. For now, I am curious of what''s inside. --------- I write with the most promising news regarding our endeavors. The rebel band has successfully assimilated several smaller bands, swelling their numbers to nearly a thousand active combatants. This force, though unconventional, is proving to be more than sufficient for the tasks assigned to us. As per your directive, the mission concerning the twin fortresses has been accomplished with precision. Both Kiryo and Srits have fallen, delivered into rebel hands. After initial failures regarding any assault made on the first castle,we unwillingly took the rein of the operation understanding that if it continued it would lead to a riot of the men within the band, or so we believe from the behavior in the camp.We hereby report the strategy that was used to take the castles. During one of the assault, we created a fake cavalry charge, masqueraded as reinforcements,which compelled the garrison to open their gates in desperate hope once the attackers were made to rout . Once the gates were opened, and the rebel''s forces went in , they wasted no time. Control of the gatehouse was swiftly secured, and the rest of their forces poured in, overwhelming the defenders. By the time the sun set seven times, both fortresses were firmly in their grip. As we deliver the report , we apologiz for the matter given the order that they we not to get too close to the endevour, unfortunately we believe that our actions was required to make sure that the task assigned to us was to meet success. As we look to the future, the next phase of the plan awaits your guidance. I humbly await your next directive and stand ready to ensure its execution with the same precision and discretion that has marked our efforts thus far. -------- As Alpheo finished reading the letter, he paused, his brow lifting in surprise. The news within was far more promising than he had anticipated. The two individuals he had chosen to lead this covert operation , selected primarily because they were expendable, and yet they had not only met his expectations but exceeded them. He allowed himself a small, rare smile of satisfaction and a bit of admiration , too. Their method was a clever twist on a strategy Alpheo himself had once employed to secure his entry into Yarzat after the death of Arkawatt. Yet, while he now was forced into working within the tightrope constraints of diplomacy and noble law¡ªthe rebels had no such limitations. They had the freedom to employ methods that a prince could only dream of without facing the consequences of dishonor or political backlash. The rebels'' use of a falsified banner, for instance, was a tactic that, in Alpheo''s position, would have been unthinkable. Faking the heraldry of another house was not only a grave crime but also an unpardonable affront to noble decorum. For a prince, such an action could destroy alliances and provoke endless feuds. Yet for these rebels, unshackled by the burdens of nobility, it was merely a means to an end. Initially I had thought to use them for this one job, yet apparently I understimated their ability.... he thought as he drummed his fingers onto the desk ,reaching the conclusion that perhapse discarding them after this work finished was too much of a waste, as he after all was still in the midst of building an undercover network, and perhapse he had already found the first two members.... Chapter 324: Matters of diplomacy Chapter 324: Matters of diplomacy Lord Shahab watched as Alpheo settled himself into the chair opposite him, the prince''s movements deliberate and unhurried. The room, warm with the glow of a midday sun filtering through the high windows, was quiet but for the faint sound of a servant pouring cider into Shahab''s cup. The liquid glinted like molten gold, and the servant, with practiced grace, set the cup back in front of Shahab before moving to Alpheo''s side. Without looking up, Alpheo raised a hand in refusal. "Water," he said simply, his tone leaving no room for debate. The servant hesitated, then gave a respectful nod, retreating to fetch the prince''s preferred drink. It was peculiar, this meeting. Ordinarily, the protocol would dictate that Shahab, as a lord, would present himself in Alpheo''s chambers at the prince''s request. That Alpheo had sought him out for a private discussion here, in Shahab''s own quarters, was unusual courtly speaking ... Still Shahab had come to understand however that Alpheo''s adherence to courtly formalities was, at best, superficial. The prince was no fool and certainly knew how to wield the game of pomp and protocol when it served his purpose, but in private matters among allies and family, he often stripped away the veneer of aristocratic pretense, finding his own ways much more efficient and quick. The servant returned with a crystal carafe of cool water and a goblet, placing them carefully on the table before Alpheo. Shahab leaned back in his chair, his fingers lightly drumming on the armrest. His expression was calm, though there was a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he spoke. "Tell me, are you here to discuss matters of state, or is this one of those rare moments where we share a simple conversation as family?" Alpheo paused, his brow arching in mock surprise. "That may very well be the first time I''ve heard you attempt a jest," he remarked, his tone as dry as the desert winds. Shahab allowed himself a small smile. "I am a serious man'''' he replied with a slight incline of his head. "I leave the entertaining to the bards and jesters. They have a talent for such frivolities that I do not share." "Indeed," Alpheo said, his lips curling into a faint smirk. He set his goblet down and leaned slightly forward, fixing Shahab with a sharp gaze. "Then let us speak of matters more suited to your gravity. Tell me, Shahab, since you took hold of the role of primus ministerium what achievements have you made in your line of work concerning the other princedoms?" Shahab lifted his goblet, taking a slow sip before setting it down with deliberate care. "Not much, I fear," he admitted, his tone steady but tinged with frustration. "The other princes continue to steer clear of us. None are willing to entertain interactions beyond the bare essentials, such as permitting merchants to pass through. They keep us at arm''s length, some even going so far as to implicitly sneer at us for the common blood of our prince consort. It seems your lineage is not as palatable to their lofty sensibilities." In truth, much of a noble''s prestige stemmed from as much as their feat, as the blood coursing through their veins. Their lineage was their badge of honor, and many leaned heavily on the legacies of their ancestors¡ªparticularly the founders of their noble houses¡ªto bolster their standing. Even minor branches of prominent families wielded their ancestry like a weapon, invoking names long dead to lend weight to their own. So it was no surprise, nor was it beyond expectation, that the other princes held the new addition to the royal house of Veloni-Isha in disdain. To them, the union was a stain, a tarnish upon what they saw as a sanctified lineage of nobility . The mere thought of mingling their vaunted blood with that of commoners was anathema, and they would view Alpheo''s children as irrevocably tainted¡ªlesser, in their eyes. This was not a slight that would vanish with time. Alpheo knew full well that the whispers of such disdain would echo into the future, likely haunting even his grandchildren. Bloodlines were sacred currency in this world, and though right now his wife''s princedom was gaining momentum , the old guard clung stubbornly to their antiquated notions. For now, their haughty sneers were as predictable as the sunrise. "It would not surprise me if many among them harbor more than just disdain¡ªenvy is a likely undercurrent as well. Our products have gained quite the reputation, after all and probably the only thing stopping them from banding together and marching toward us is the nominal protection of the Empire...." He leaned back slightly, his gaze sharp as he continued. "A fair number of spies have been caught by Clio alone, attempting to uncover the secrets behind our manufacture of soap and cider. Even the neighbors of our neighbors seem intent on prying into our methods.Of course all they got was shit from them..." Alpheo leaned back in his seat, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrest, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. "Diplomatically speaking, we''re alone, Shahab," he began, his voice calm but carrying a weight that made his words feel like stone. "And let''s not delude ourselves into thinking our situation will miraculously improve. No, the future looks as gloomy as a storm cloud ready to burst.One small wrong step and we fall down the precipice. Of course we have to change that , for if they won''t come to us, then we''ll have to pay them a visit ourselves. Force the conversation, as it were." Shahab tilted his head, intrigued despite himself. "And how, pray tell, do you plan to do that? Our neighbors seem quite content pretending we don''t exist." Leaning forward, Alpheo''s expression shifted, his eyes narrowing with a glint of mischief. "Herculia," he said simply. "Herculia?" Shahab''s brow furrowed. "Yes, Herculia," Alpheo repeated, his tone deliberate. "Our recent campaign didn''t just bruise their pride; it shattered their kneecaps. They''re stumbling around like a drunken fool in a tavern fight, incapable of standing on their own legs. Their defenses are in tatters, their coffers light, and their people... in rebellion" Shahab set his cup down, leaning in. "You''re suggesting we exploit their weakness? Perhapse another campaign?'''' Alpheo''s smirk deepened. "Unfortunately our current situation won''t allow another arm intervention. I intend to send word to the Prince of Kakunia. He has his own scores to settle with Herculia, and their current state offers an opportunity too delicious to ignore. Together, we could orchestrate a dual offensive¡ªtime it right, and Herculia won''t just be weakened; but may even be partitioned ." Shahab leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing as he considered Alpheo''s words. "And what," he began, his tone measured, "prevents Kakunia from deciding to strike Herculia alone? Surely, they see the opportunity as clearly as you do. '''' Alpheo smiled faintly, unbothered by the question. "Nothing," he admitted with a shrug. "We have no leverage to stop them if they choose to act alone. But an open discussion about dividing Herculia¡ªdrawing clear borders for each party''s share¡ªmight pave the way for something more valuable than just a joint campaign. It''s time we broke the status quo with someone, Shahab. Kakunia''s as good a place to start as any." Shahab tapped his fingers on the table thoughtfully, but before he could reply, Alpheo leaned forward, his gaze sharp. "That being said," he continued, "if we''re to pursue this path, I''ll need someone capable to handle it. A diplomat. Unfortunately, in my mix, I have warriors, not silver-tongued courtiers. Do you already have someone in mind?" Shahab allowed a small smile to tug at his lips, his tone light but pointed. "Your Grace, any court worth its salt always has at least more than one diplomat among its courtiers. Yes, I do have someone in mind" ''''Very well we should arrange a meeting and prepare some gifts to give . Let''s see if this candidate of yours can help us pull Kakunia into our corner." He knew better than most the dangers of standing still in a world that never ceased to shift and turn. In the theater of power, where alliances were forged and broken over a single word or gesture, to remain diplomatically isolated was akin to waiting for the tide to sweep you away. The risk wasn''t just a hypothetical one¡ªit was a certainty. In his experience, the wounds dealt by a blade were often half of the havoc wrought by a few well-placed words. A blade might cut through a man, but words could cleave through nations. Right now, Yarzat was an island, surrounded by currents that could sweep it into irrelevance if it failed to move with purpose. Other courts avoided them, disdained them even, and the silence was as ominous as any declaration of war. Alpheo''s chest tightened at the thought; as the cost of doing nothing was far greater than the risks of action. After all. if he was to receive an ugly defeat, nothing would stop all princedoms from uniting together and pushing into his borders, with their demands for peace being the exposure of the secret for the manufacture of soap and cider. Alpheo''s gaze drifted toward Shahab again , his expression composed but his voice carrying a weight of expectation. "What of Oizen? Did our diplomats manage to convince them to extend the truce for another year?" Shahab''s face remained neutral, but the slight downturn of his lips betrayed his frustration. He shook his head. "No. They wouldn''t even entertain the idea. Our envoys weren''t allowed past the outer halls before their requests were flatly denied." Alpheo closed his eyes briefly, rubbing his temples with slow deliberation. A deep sigh escaped him, heavy with resignation. "Of course they didn''t," he muttered, more to himself than to Shahab, as he was well aware that their recent defeats hurt their pride more than anything.Which meant that next year they would have war once again on the doorsteps. Luckily, he mused, the eastern prince will be preoccupied with his own troubles and won''t have the luxury of aiding Oizen. That leaves only one adversary to face next year, always if war was to come. The thought brought some solace, but it was fleeting.After all , Alpheo had planned after returning from the war against Herculia, to concentrate all of his effort into deal with the internal issues of the country, as he knew very well that a strenght of a nation was only measured by its armies. With Oizen looming on the horizon, I''ll have to finish my internal plans far sooner than expected. The idea was maddening as he hated doing half-ass jobs,for he believed that once he started something than he should put 110% of himself into seeing it done. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming against the armrest as he stared at nothing in particular. Just when I thought I could finally tend to the affairs of this crumbling princedom in relative peace, someone has to barge in and wrench that possibility away. Chapter 325: Truth behind the snow Chapter 325: Truth behind the snow It was an indisputable triumph, a victory that would be sung in taverns and courts. Three thousand Imperial soldiers had crushed an unruly horde of six thousand barbarians. None could deny the significance of the day For a fleeting moment, Emperor Mavius allowed himself to gaze back through the corridors of history, perhaps the recent victory against an enemy that had not walked south for three hundred years, caused him to draw correlation with the past. In his mind''s eye, he thought of the days when the Empire was but a the kingdom of the Hand, its reach confined to the southern slopes of the God''s Hand Mountains. Those peaks, towering and austere, had once marked the line between civilization and untamed savagery. It was Vritiux Rotorxoroctano, who had first dared to challenge that line. Known as the Slayer of Rotors,was the one that started what the priest called the Great War ,leading war parties everywhere outside the lands he inherited, seeking to expand his dominion. The God''s Fingers, those impregnable castles perched along the mountain passes, became his stepping stones, not only protecting his realm but also serving as a bridge that only he could walk to the wild lands beyond. With the resolve of a conqueror, Vritiux led his forces through the crags and valleys, purging the barbarian tribes that dared to defy him. He didn''t merely conquer; he assimilated, folding the defeated into the fabric of his growing kingdom, accepting thier warrior in his armies and marrying the tribe''s leader daughters to southern nobles. The same land that Mavius was currently ruling were the one that Vritiux conquered before being supplanted by his son Rovius after his death, finishing up what he started , announcing the birth of the sixth province of the empire , Rotoria. Returning to the present, among the many prisoners brought before Mavius, one stood out¡ªa prize of particular importance. The man wasn''t hard to spot; while most of the defeated wore little more than animal pelts, this one stood adorned in bronze lamellar armor, dented and tarnished from the fight but still a clear mark of status. It was no wonder the cataphractarii who captured him had immediately assumed he was someone of significance. Their instincts had proven correct, and now this savage chieftain knelt in chains before the Emperor himself. Who knew that without knowing it he had just hit gold? Mavius''s sharp eyes studied the man intently. His appearance was striking¡ªlong, unkempt blond hair framed a weathered face, his beard thick and knotted, adorned with small beads that glinted faintly in the light.His blue eyes, though defiant, betrayed a trace of unease. Even in captivity, the man carried himself with a pride that hinted at his high station among the barbarians. The Emperor found the sight both amusing and intriguing. Here was a man who had likely rallied hundreds, perhaps thousands, of warriors to his cause¡ªa leader who, moments ago, might have been dreaming of victory over the Empire. Now, he knelt in the dirt, humbled before the might of Imperial arms. The real question now was what to do with the man. Typically, when one captured a noble, the path forward was well-trodden: ransom them back to their family or liege after the war, provided they weren''t a traitor. Rebels, of course, faced a different fate. Depending on the circumstances and the value of their lineage, they might be publicly executed to set an example or kept as bargaining chips for future negotiations, or at least this happened in the empire, going south things were different as many times even after rebellion noble houses did not cease to exist. Of course ransoms were not just about coin; they often came with political concessions, territorial cessions, or even promises of neutrality in future conflicts. But this situation was anything but typical. Mavius leaned back in his seat, fingers drumming thoughtfully against the armrest as he studied the man kneeling before him. A savage. A tribal leader, perhaps, but still a barbarian. What ransom could this man even offer? The thought brought a wry smile to the Emperor''s lips. Do these people even have gold? Or would they arrive at the imperial court bearing pinecones or whatever trinkets they called currency?Perhapse they use pebbles? The thought made him chuckle. He met the prisoner''s gaze, his own sharp and calculating, while the man stared back with a defiance that bordered on foolishness. It was almost admirable, Mavius thought, though it didn''t help clarify the issue at hand. To ransom or not to ransom? The man''s value is uncertain¡ªperhaps his tribe would care enough to buy him back, but what would they offer? Grain? Livestock? A pile of furs? Or worse, would they see his capture as a stroke of luck, a convenient way to rid themselves of an ambitious rival? He had no knowledge of how those tribes worked politically so he literally had no idea on what to do , and it certainly did not the help the constant shouting of the chip on his shoulder. "Heretic!" he bellowed, pointing an accusatory finger at the captured barbarian leader. "This creature is a servant of darkness! Did we not all witness the abominations that charged against our lines? Monsters born of corruption and black magic!" The court''s high priest, Father Callenor, strode forward with a fury that seemed to shake the very air around him. His voice boomed across the grand chamber, amplified by his righteous indignation. Murmurs of agreement rippled through the assembled nobles and officers. Some nodded vigorously, their faces pale as they recalled the eerie sight of misshapen beasts that had joined the barbarian charge. He resisted the urge to groan aloud. This was precisely why he had second-guessed this spectacle. Parading the prisoner before nobles and courtiers had seemed like a good idea at first¡ªa chance to flaunt his victory and solidify his standing. But now, watching the escalating fervor of the priest and the way it was stirring , he silently cursed his decision. He kept it hidden behind the mask of imperial composure, but inwardly, he was already regretting not securing the barbarian leader in private custody, away from this mob of self-serving courtiers and fervent priests. His eyes flicked to Father Callenor, who was now rallying the room with vivid descriptions of "witchcraft and unholy pacts." Mavius could almost hear the torches being lit in their imaginations. It was clear that Callenor wouldn''t stop until someone was put to the flame. The Emperor''s grip tightened on the armrests of his seat as he quelled his rising irritation. If they only knew what he had already done with the tribal shamans captured after the battle, Callenor''s firebrand speeches would seem like nothing more than harmless whispers. Those shamans had been whisked away under the cover of darkness, entrusted to the care of Mavius''s most loyal men. They were far from the prying eyes of the ecclesiast and the burning stakes that would else have awaited them. He after all had many questions to ask them as he always had been the most curious of his brothers, and when was it that he was given such an interesting subject as that of black magic? Yes, the church would scream sacrilege if they knew the truth, but Mavius wasn''t about to let zealots destroy something¡ªor someone¡ªhe might use to his advantage and pleasure. "Father Callenor," he began, his tone measured but firm, "your zeal is admirable, and your devotion to the gods unquestioned. Yet I must ask¡ªare we not charged as shepherds to guide the lost and the wayward?" The priest turned to face him, his righteous fervor momentarily tempered by the Emperor''s gaze. "This man," Mavius gestured to Virguth, the captured tribal leader, "may indeed be steeped in heresy, for he has never been shown the light of the gods'' truth. How could he know the righteous path when his people have lived in ignorance for generations? He is the leader of these savage tribes, their voice and their guide. If shown the true way, perhaps he could bring his people into the fold." There was a ripple of uncertainty among the gathered nobles. They glanced at one another, some nodding in hesitant agreement while others remained stone-faced. Mavius continued, his voice gaining strength as he pressed his argument. "Is it not the will of the gods, as the All-knower says?" he asked, raising a hand as if invoking divine witness, "For their shepherds to seek out the unfortunate and bring them salvation? To guide those who have strayed into darkness back into the light? What greater glory could we achieve than to turn an enemy into a brother under the heavens?" He turned his gaze pointedly toward Father Callenor, the challenge clear in his eyes. "Would it not be a greater triumph for the faith if this man, this leader of heretics, were to stand before his people as a converted servant of the gods, preaching their word and leading them to righteousness?" The chamber was silent for a moment, the tension thick in the air. Callenor''s lips tightened, but he could hardly refute the Emperor without appearing to defy divine will himself. Slowly, he inclined his head in reluctant acknowledgment. Mavius leaned back, his expression serene but inwardly relieved. He had maneuvered the room to his will. Virguth still had his uses, and Mavius would see to it that the barbarian leader served the Empire in ways the court could scarcely comprehend. Mavius''s words resonated not only with the authority of the emperor but also with the teachings of the holy scripts themselves. Four of the five sacred texts of the faith consistently exhorted believers to spread the divine truth of the Five, urging them to guide the ignorant and bring them under the light of the gods. Only the Script of the Sea stood apart from this mission of conversion. Its tales, cryptic and metaphorical, were filled with stories of mortals whose hubris brought about their doom on the waters, serving as warnings rather than guidance. It seemed the Sea-God had no interest in spreading belief, content instead to watch as the waves carried judgment upon those who disrespected the vast and unknowable depths. It was also the reason why the Sea-God had few temples in the empire. Mavius, however, was no stranger to this anomaly in doctrine. He had long studied the nuances of the holy texts, . His argument was thus not only politically sound but also deeply rooted in the very faith the court claimed to uphold. Hence nobody could deny that , not even the staunchest of bygots. Chapter 326: Smoked meat Chapter 326: Smoked meat Mavius''s words rippled through the tent like the tide, washing over the gathered nobles, officers, and priests with undeniable logic and the weight of divine justification. His arguments struck a chord with many, not only because they were grounded in the holy texts but because they also made sense from a pragmatic standpoint. It cost them nothing to attempt what he suggested. Conversion was, after all, a gamble with low stakes and potentially high rewards. Should Virguth and his tribes accept the faith of the Five, the empire would gain a valuable foothold in the east possibly even an ally to creat chaos in their eastern frontier . The murmurs of agreement grew louder, heads nodding as the various men in the tent exchanged glances. The priests, some begrudgingly, began to admit that this approach aligned with the gods'' will as they understood it. Mavius turned his gaze toward Virguth, his piercing eyes locking onto the captured chieftain. The look was as sharp as a blade, carrying a silent yet unmistakable message: "I am giving you a chance. Take it. This is the hand that might save you from the flames. Virguth, still on his knees and flanked by guards, seemed to sense the weight of that stare. He straightened slightly, his beads clinking faintly as his head tilted upward to meet the emperor''s gaze. Whether it was pride, defiance, or the dawning realization that this was his lifeline, the expression in his eyes shifted subtly. The room quieted, the decision waiting to show itself The court priest, Callenor, strode forward with deliberate purpose, his ornate robes brushing the floor as he reached for the collar hanging around his neck. The centerpiece of the collar was the Star of the Five Gods. Raising the star high for all to see, Callenor began to speak, his voice resonant and commanding, imbued with the authority of his station. "Virguth, chieftain of the barbarian from the eastern tribes, know this: the Five are merciful. Their light is vast, shining even in the darkest corners of the world. Though your people have strayed far from the path, worshipping false gods and dwelling in ignorance, the Five do not forsake you. Today, you are given the opportunity to walk a new path, one of redemption and truth." The priest paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. The room was silent, every ear attuned to his voice. "It is written in the Book of the All-knower that the unyielding stone can be shaped by patient hands. So, too, can the hearts of men. Will you reject this gift, this chance to join the fold of the faithful? Or will you humble yourself before the Five and accept their mercy? As he finished, Callenor extended the star toward Virguth, his arm steady, the gesture deliberate. The star hovered just inches from Virguth''s face, glinting with a holy luster. "Kiss the star," the priest commanded, his voice softer now but no less firm. "Prove to the Five that you are not beyond salvation. Show us your willingness to embrace their light." All eyes in the tent turned to Virguth. Virguth tilted his head to one side, a sharp crack echoing as he rolled his neck, the motion almost casual. He leaned forward, his rugged features set in defiance as he studied the Star of the Five Gods, the room holding its collective breath. Then, with deliberate contempt, he spat on it. The room was taken by chaos Gasps of shock gave way to shouts of outrage as the gathered nobles and officers surged forward. Virguth straightened, his voice booming over the chaos, his tone dripping with scorn. "Pigs! Filthy imperial pigs!" he snarled. "Take your gods and your chains and go fuck yourselves. We bow to no one, least of all you!" It was as if a dam had broken. Some men rushed toward Virguth, fists raised in fury. A solid punch connected with the side of his jaw, sending him stumbling, but before any further blows could land, guards moved in, restraining both Virguth and the attackers. "Hold yourselves!" one officer barked, though his voice was barely audible over the din. Mavius sat silently amidst the uproar, his expression carefully neutral, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of exasperation. He rested his chin in one hand, fingers drumming lightly on the armrest of his chair. All for naught, he thought bitterly. He had given Virguth a chance¡ªa lifeline, even¡ªbut the savage had spurned it in the most dramatic fashion possible. Now, there was no path forward but the one painted in blood and fire. Not even Mavius could halt the tide that would come crashing down upon Virguth now. ------------------- Men have always harbored a morbid fascination with death and, more so, with a man''s defiance in the face of it. There is an unspoken respect, almost reverence, for those who face their final moments with unyielding resolve. When a condemned man walks toward his end, head held high and eyes unflinching, it stirs something primal in those who witness it¡ªa reluctant admiration for courage that defies fate itself. Even now, amidst the fervor of the righteous calling for purification by flame, Emperor Mavius found himself watching the barbarian chieftain with a begrudging respect. Virguth strode toward the stake with a calm that belied the horrors awaiting him, his step unbroken, his gaze steady as if he were walking into a feast instead of his death. There wasn''t an ounce of fear in his eyes. The other prisoners, bound and under heavy guard, watched in silence, their breath caught in their throats. Among them were his men¡ªhardened warriors who had fought at his side¡ªand yet, even they now stared at him with awe. Virguth did not speak to them, for what words could match the power of his defiance? In this moment, his silence was louder than any battle cry. The priest stepped forward, his robes billowing with the motion, his face a mask of righteous fury. He clutched the spit-stained star of the Five Gods to his chest as if to shield himself from further blasphemy. His voice rang out over the crowd like a hammer on an anvil. "This heretic shall burn before gods and men! His blackened soul will serve as a warning to all who dare defy the will of the divine!" The assembled soldiers and nobles erupted in response, their anger ignited by the priest''s firebrand speech. "Burn the savage!" a grizzled officer roared, his fist raised high. "Let the flames purge his wickedness!" cried another, his voice thick with venom. "Avenge our fallen!" shouted a soldier, his face contorted with the fervor of vengeance. The atmosphere around the stake became electric, charged with both fear and bloodlust. Kindling was piled high, and the wood, dry from the summer''s heat, promised a swift and merciless blaze. Virguth stood calm as they bound him to the stake, the coarse ropes digging into his flesh. His arms were drawn tightly behind him, the cords biting deep enough to leave angry red welts on his snow-white skin. The soldiers worked methodically, their faces grim but detached, avoiding Virguth''s eyes as they secured the final knots. He did not struggle or curse. His defiance lay in his silence, his refusal to give them the satisfaction of seeing him break. The priest approached with a torch, its flame flickering hungrily in the wind. He held it high, his voice booming over the gathered assembly, invoking the judgment of the Five Gods upon the heretic. With a dramatic flourish, he lowered the torch to the kindling. The fire caught with an eager hiss, spreading like a living thing. Thin tendrils of smoke spiraled upward, twisting around Virguth like ghostly serpents. Flames licked at the dry wood, cracking and snapping as they grew stronger, reaching hungrily toward him. Virguth''s body jerked involuntarily as the first flames bit into his legs. His skin blistered almost instantly, the sickly-sweet stench of burning flesh wafting through the air. The flames climbed higher, devouring the ropes that bound him and scorching his exposed flesh. His beard caught fire, the beads woven into his locks popping like tiny firecrackers. Yet, through it all, Virguth refused to scream. But the flames were merciless, biting deeper into his flesh, peeling away layers of skin and muscle as if the very air around him had turned into molten iron. At last, his resolve shattered. A guttural, primal scream tore from his throat, echoing over the assembled crowd like the roar of a dying beast, filled with the rawness of a man enduring the unimaginable. The scream lingered in the air, hanging over the silence. Virguth''s body writhed against the ropes, his muscles spasming uncontrollably as the fire claimed him. By mercy, the pain overwhelmed him, unbearable and inescapable. His eyes rolled back in his head, his scream cutting off abruptly as his body went limp. His head slumped forward, and he passed out, his consciousness mercifully retreating into the void depriving the man from any more seconds of pain. The flames however showed no mercy, devouring him as he hung lifeless against the stake. The crackling of the fire being the only sound that remained, showing to the tribes in Sarlan, that no, they were not invincible. Chapter 327: Diving into the unknown Chapter 327: Diving into the unknown When Virguth''s charred remains had been reduced to ash, the priests, high on the feeling of burning someone at the stake and feeling good about it , sought to extend the same fate to the other captured savages. They called for their immediate conversion under the looming threat of the stake, their voices rising in righteous fervor, declaring that the souls of these heathens must either be redeemed in flame or through devotion. Yet, this time, their cries met staunch resistance¡ªnot from compassion but from pragmatism. The nobles, with their purses always in mind, were quick to voice their dissent. "Burning them is a waste," one barked, his tone sharp with greed. "They''ll fetch a hefty price in the markets!" The common soldiers, many of whom stood to gain a share of the profits from the sale of these prisoners, grumbled in agreement.After all they had captured nearly 2,000 prisoners , which at the market price of 6 silverii a men, meant that there were 12,000 silverii at stake. The murmurs soon turned to shouts, and the shouts to action, as soldiers began waving their weapons in the air reminding the priests that while they may have hold of celestial power, the soldiers are the one holding the weapons. Their voices carried through the camp, a collective roar of disapproval that drowned out the priests'' fiery rhetoric. Faced with the unified opposition of both noble and soldier, the priests were forced to relent. Though their faces flushed with indignation, they masked their retreat behind a facade of piety. "Perhaps," one priest declared, raising his voice over the crowd, "these heathens may find redemption not in the flames but through servitude. Living among the faithful, even as slaves, may yet guide their wretched souls to the light." With those words, they turned a blind eye to the impending sale, offering no further resistance. The nobles smirked, their eyes already gleaming with calculations of profit, while the soldiers muttered their satisfaction, knowing that the spoils of war would line their pockets rather than feed the flames. Thus, the prisoners'' fates were sealed¡ªnot as martyrs to the cause of faith, but as commodities, their lives valued not for their souls but for the gold they would bring. The nobles harbored no illusions about the practicality of ransoming the tribal leader. From the pages of history, they knew well that the tribes were a hydra¡ªcut off one head, and another swiftly emerged to take its place. Every time a chieftain was slain in battle or captured, a new leader rose. And of course the last thing that a new chieftain would do is bring the previous one back, after all that would be equal to throw one''s hoe on his foot. Most of time there was no familial lineage or political weight attached to their leaders as there might be in noble courts. Instead, leadership among the tribes came from strength, a quality that would simply shift to the next capable warrior once the previous one is no longer available. For the nobles, then, Virguth''s death served its purpose as an example, but his life held no value as a bargaining chip. ---------------- Mavius sat in his tent, the flickering light of a solitary lantern casting shadows across the thick canvas walls. Before him sat one of the captured shamans, a frail old man whose body seemed too withered to pose any threat. His once-elaborate robes and ceremonial staff had been confiscated, leaving him dressed in the simple tunic of a commoner. To the untrained eye, he appeared to be just another elder . The emperor had ordered his men to disguise the shamans in this way, hiding them from the wrath of the priests, whose fervor had been stoked to dangerous levels after the earlier spectacle. The old man was not bound, for there was no need; his feeble frame betrayed a life too advanced in years to muster any resistance. He sat hunched, his gnarled hands resting on his knees, his sharp eyes fixed on Mavius with a mixture of defiance and resignation. Mavius leaned forward, his voice calm but edged with steel. "Do you know what happened this afternoon?" The old man''s lips twitched into a grim semblance of a smile. "I heard the screams," he rasped, his voice cracked but steady. Mavius nodded, his expression hardening. "Then you understand what is at stake.Too old to be of any use in the slave markets. Too inconspicuous to inspire rebellion. The priests would delight in seeing you burn, and there would be nothing¡ªnothing at all¡ªto stop them." The emperor''s words hung heavy in the air, the unspoken threat lingering like a blade poised above the shaman''s neck. The old man did not flinch, but the faintest flicker of unease crossed his face. Mavius''s tone softened, but only slightly, as he continued. "Your only path to survival lies through me. Cooperate, and perhaps you will live to see another dawn. Refuse, and you''ll follow your leader into the flames.I have after all more than a dozen options to choose from , one of them will cooperate, won''t he?" The tent fell silent, save for the distant murmurs of the camp outside, as the shaman''s sharp eyes bore into Mavius. "Tell me," the emperor began, his tone low but commanding, "who were those men you sent after the first wave? Those...naked lunatics who charged without armor, without weapons. And don''t try to spin some nonsense¡ªthey felt no pain, no fear. Was it magic?" The shaman let out a rasping chuckle, a sound that grated like stones rubbing together. "Magic? Is that what your southern minds think of everything you do not understand?" His eyes glinted with an almost mocking amusement as he continued. "No, Emperor. They are what we call the Soul Carriers¡ªmen chosen to bear the spirits of our ancestors, to bring them back to this world to fight once more. The spirits have no bodies, you see, no flesh to feel pain or fear death. What remains is their hunger. Their lust for glory, their thirst for carnage." Mavius frowned, his fingers drumming on the armrest of his chair. "Spirits of ancestors, you say. How do you do it? " His tone was tinged with both fascination and disbelief. The shaman grinned, exposing a mouth of crooked teeth. "Our people have passed down this tradition for centuries, long before your empire rose from the dust. In our eyes, it is no more than spiritualism¡ªthough I suppose to you southerners, it can only seem like magic.With the right preparation is quite easy to do it" His grin widened as he added, "It is amusing how small your understanding is, for all your power and armies that you can wield." Mavius''s expression darkened, but he held his temper. "If this is some ancient practice, why haven''t we seen it before? Many tribes have come south as foederati to serve the empire. None of them were capable of this...this madness." The shaman''s laughter came again, this time deep and hoarse, like the wind howling through a chasm. "That''s because they are cowards," he spat, "and their shamans know better than to tread where the priests of your Five Gods rule. Flames are all that await our kind in the south, Emperor. The tribes you''ve welcomed have cast off their shamans to survive¡ªabandoning the ancestors and kneeling to your gods. But not us. Never us.We conquered what we now have..." Mavius leaned forward, his interest visibly piqued. "And what if we wanted to... replicate it? Could we, do what you do? " His tone was measured, but the spark of intrigue in his eyes was unmistakable. The shaman smirked, his aged face creasing like worn leather. "You southerners," he began, his voice thick with disdain and amusement, "have severed your link with the past. You bow to deities that exist in the heavens, distant and unyielding, rather than to the spirits that dwell beneath your very feet. You have turned away from the earth and its truths, leaving you hollow." Mavius frowned, but he said nothing, letting the old man continue. The shaman''s voice took on a low, almost conspiratorial tone. "But if you ask whether the incantation¡ªthe ritual¡ªcould be applied to your soldiers? Then yes." He paused, his gaze sharp and penetrating. "It can be done. The ancestors may not recognize your blood, but the rites can still open the doorway to allow something through. You would need the right items sacrifices to appease the spirits, and warriors willing to surrender their bodies to the unknown, with the result being however weaker than what you witnessed yesterday." Mavius''s brow furrowed, sensing the weight behind the shaman''s words. "And if we asked you to teach us this magic?" The shaman''s grin turned cruel, his teeth glinting in the lantern light. "Ah, now that is a different question altogether. Our magic? No. It cannot be passed to you. The power runs in our blood, Emperor. For centuries, we have walked this land, bound to it, nourished by it, and shaped by the spirits that reside here. It is not something that can be taught or stolen¡ªit is as much a part of us as your gods are to you. Mavius''s gaze lingered on the shaman, the flickering light of the lantern casting sharp shadows across his face. This is incredible, if I can wield men as fearless as those we fought, than I will be able to take throne much easier than I had hoped... "I find your people... intriguing," Mavius began "Your traditions, your connection to the land, your power¡ªit''s something I wish to understand. And as a gesture of my interest¡ªand my mercy¡ªI will ensure the safety of you and your kin." The shaman''s eyes narrowed slightly, gauging the emperor''s sincerity, but Mavius pressed on. "All of the shamans we have taken will remain under my protection. No priest will harm you, no flames will touch you¡ªso long as you serve me faithfully. Betray that trust, and I will let them finish what they started this afternoon." His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken consequence. For a moment, the tent was silent, save for the faint crackling of the lantern. The shaman''s expression softened ever so slightly, the defiance in his eyes giving way to a cautious acknowledgment. He rose as much as his old bones would allow, bowing his head just enough to show respect while retaining his dignity, as he just gave Mavius the edge he needed to fight against his enemies in the south, wielding weapons that the south would see for the first time. "As you command, Emperor" Chapter 328: Preparations Chapter 328: Preparations Without armor or weapons to mark their rank, or in this case allegiance , Lucius and Marcus moved silently among the lines of workers, indistinguishable from the peasants toiling in the fields or hauling timber. The air was thick with the pungent blend of sweat, damp earth, and the faint metallic tang of tension¡ªa smell they knew all too well. It was the odor of a battlefield waiting to happen. They were young, neither yet twenty-five winters past , but their youth belied their experience. Five battles had already etched their names and skin, and with them came an intimate familiarity with this grim atmosphere. The rhythmic grunt of laboring men, the scrape of wood against stone, and the muted clang of distant hammers filled their ears. They knew this song by heart¡ªit was the orchestra of preparation, that preluded bloodshed Lucius stole a glance at Marcus, his jaw set in that same resolute grimace he wore before every battle. The peasant army had claimed a hill as their last sanctuary where they would decide whetever they would live or die , their last bastion before the storm of battle. It was a choice made by Lucius for he knew that their ragged force, composed only of footmen, could not face cavalry or disciplined soldiers on even ground. Here, atop this rise, they could turn their disadvantage into an equalizer. The hill buzzed with activity as the peasants worked tirelessly, their sweat-drenched faces illuminated by the fading light of day. They carried heavy trunks of wood up the incline, their shoulders bowed under the weight. These would become palisades, crude but effective defenses against the enemy. Others crouched near the trunks, wielding axes with practiced rhythm, sharpening the ends into jagged spikes. The harsh, repetitive thunk of blade against wood echoed across the camp like the heartbeat of the army itself. Some peasants wielded shovels instead of axes, their muscles straining as they dug into the stubborn earth. The soil was hard, resisting their efforts, but they labored with a grim determination to soften it, knowing that loose dirt would make it easier to plant the sharpened stakes. Sweat poured from their brows, mixing with the churned-up soil to create a muddy mess that clung to their boots and tools. Ahead of the main lines, the fruits of their efforts were already visible. Several rows of palisades jutted out from the earth like jagged teeth. Lucius and Marcus observed the scene with quiet satisfaction, the lines of defense slowly but surely transforming this hill into a fortress. Marcus wiped a streak of mud from his cheek when he had fallen into the ground ,as he turned to Lucius, the sound of axes and shovels providing a constant backdrop. "Alright" he said, his tone laced with curiosity. '''' I am curious . We''ve never used anything like this before.How did you come up with it?" He gestured toward the crude but effective palisades taking shape on the hill. Lucius smirked, arms crossed as he surveyed the laboring peasants. "I didn''t " he admitted. "Our liege provided me with a set of... suggestions. One of them covered tactics for leveling the field when you''ve got nothing but footmen. High ground, palisades, defensive lines¡ªit''s all in there." He glanced sidelong at Marcus. "Though I suppose you''d know that if you''d been paying attention." Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Suggestions, huh? Lucky you." He shrugged, his expression turning wry. "Not that it matters. You''re a decurii; you''re supposed to know this stuff." Lucius chuckled and clapped Marcus on the shoulder. "Marcus, we''re both decurii now. That''s what''s expected of us¡ªthinking a step ahead, making sure the poor sods we lead don''t get trampled like wheat under the enemy''s boots. Which means, my friend, you should''ve finished reading the book they gave us." Marcus groaned theatrically, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "I started it, alright? Made it through a chapter or two, but..." He trailed off, waving a hand toward the chaos of the camp. "There''s been a lot going on, and, well, it''s not exactly a thrilling read." The book in question was Strategio, a concise yet invaluable manual penned by Alpheo during the winter months. Within its pages lay a collection of battlefield strategies, ranging from pincer maneuvers and feigned retreats to arrowhead formations and defensive tactics. It was more than a guide to tactics, however¡ªit also outlined the strict military code of conduct expected of every soldier, complete with the corresponding punishments for those who dared to stray from its rules. Since there was no printing press , the original Strategio had been painstakingly handwritten by Alpheo himself, with every subsequent copy reproduced by skilled scribes. In total, fewer than sixty copies existed, but that number sufficed, as the book was intended solely for the upper echelons of the military hierarchy. Given its limited audience, there was little need to employ additional scribes to produce more copies. Marcus adjusted the strap of the satchel slung across his shoulder and glanced sideways at Lucius as they walked past another group of peasants sharpening stakes. "So," he asked, his tone casual but tinged with unease, "what do you think our chances are, really?" Lucius sighed, running a hand through his unkempt hair. "Not very high. That depends on a few things. For one, the army we''re up against consists of 600 footmen and 70 knights. Meanwhile, we''ve got 1,100 combatants. Maybe 1,300 if we press the women into service with slings, but even then..." He trailed off, casting a glance at the palisades in progress. Marcus raised an eyebrow. "So you''re saying there''s a chance?" Lucius smirked faintly. "Slim, but not impossible. We''ve got the hill, the preparations are coming along, and the palisades will make it hell for their cavalry. But make no mistake¡ªit''s uphill for us. Literally for them, figuratively for us." Marcus exhaled sharply, kicking a loose rock on the path as Lucius continued explaining ''''As for their morale it is sky-high. They''ve won six battles in a row, though I hear most of them were walkovers. They ambushed other bands with ease¡ªno mounted scouts to spot them coming. That would''ve been our fate too if we weren''t supplied with the resources and information we were given." Lucius stopped and turned to him, the faint grin gone. "Listen, Marcus. We''re not facing amateurs, and this isn''t a ragtag militia we''re up against , like the initial bands of starved peasants we fought off from taking our supplies. They''re apparently quite well equipped and riding high on their victories. But," he jabbed a finger toward the palisades, "we''ve got the terrain, the numbers, and enough sense to use them. So keep your head in the game and your doubts to yourself. We''ve got a shot¡ªhowever slim it is, it''s better than none." Marcus shrugged, a wry smile creeping onto his face. "Fair enough.Should I still keep planning our escape route then?" ''''Do that, Marcus.No use linking with ropes two ships on a storm." Marcus and Lucius both understood, deep in their hearts, that their commitment to this rebellion was conditional not linked to ideology or loyalty to the peasants they now commanded, but to the ambitions of their prince. Their fate was not tied to the success of this uprising. Should the tides turn against them, they would have no qualms about abandoning ship. This rebellion was, after all, a means to an end. Their prince cared not for the peasants'' cause but for hisobjectives. The campaign against Herculeia and its allies was meticulously planned, and securing the twin fortresses was the only small obstacles that he would have had to bypass with his army . Lucius had obviously been told of the main object , his fingers tracing the map''s lines as though drawing blood. "An uncontrolled fortress is a dagger at the side at all time" the prince had said, his tone as sharp as steel. Even though several kilometers separated the fortresses from the planned path of their supply lines, the mere potential of hostility made them intolerable as for a siege to continue their supply lines had to be immaculated. As soon as they had sent their missive regarding the mission success, Alphoe had with the same speed congratulated them while promising them rewards once they returned to Yarzat. After all the fall of the twin fortresses was no small feat, and the prince had made it clear their success was integral to his broader designs. But with that victory now behind them, their presence in the region had shifted in purpose , into dealing as much harm as they could. The longer the unrest roiled, the more damage the prince of Herculia would face. For Lucius and Marcus, their role had morphed into one of opportunistic puppeteers¡ªnudging the rebellion along, stoking its embers just enough to keep Herculia off balance. After all, it wasn''t loyalty to the rebels that held them here. It was loyalty to their prince and his vision of a map redrawn to his advantage. Hence they had no internal conflicts into throwing the rebels under the bus.... Chapter 329: Day of reckoning Chapter 329: Day of reckoning The day had finally arrived. For over a month, Arnold had led a relentless war, crushing rebellion after rebellion , justice had been meted out, and the crown''s authority was steadily being restored to lands that had long since fallen into disarray and defiance. Yet, as triumphant as these campaigns were, Arnold could not ignore the scars they left behind¡ªscars etched deep into the countryside. He had been among the first to witness the rebellion''s grim toll. The charred remains of once-fertile fields, the hollowed shells of villages razed to the ground. Even the few cultivated plots that had survived the initial uprising now lay in ruins, trampled underfoot by the very people who had once tilled them. Still, amidst the ashes of devastation, Arnold found an unexpected boon. Politically, the rebellion had worked in his favor , as much as he hating saying so , fortifying his reputation after the defeat he''d suffered against Egil, now known as Lord. The sting of that loss had been compounded by his younger brother''s whispers, intended to tarnish Arnold''s name. While the nobility had largely dismissed the rumors, attributing the failure to Lord Cretio''s poor leadership, the stories had found fertile ground among the common folk who would never waste an occasion to spread gossip about the royal family. But now, with victory upon victory, Arnold had rewritten the narrative. His relentless campaign had not only crushed the rebellion but restored his standing among both the nobles and the people, making his brother look like a fool. The stain of Egil''s victory had been washed away in the flood of Arnold''s successes. Why can''t he be more like Carnio , put , obedient and self-aware?. He lampooned as he thought of his youngest brother , I had no qualms with him , he should have been content living as a lord after father died, now it looks like I can''t allow even that. You brought this on yourself, you fool. Yet, one final challenge remained. One last rebel army stood between him and the complete pacification of the lands he was destined to inherit. This was the final obstacle, the last piece of a war that had dragged on far too long. Arnold stood before the rebel army, his gaze fixed on the forces arrayed against him. This would be his seventh battle in the campaign, and up until now, he had no reason to believe it would differ much from the others. But he had been wrong. Where in the seven hells did they get all that armor and weaponry? Arnold''s thoughts churned as his eyes tracked up the slope to the hills where his foes had entrenched themselves. His brow furrowed at the sight of their front lines¡ªmen clad in helmets and what unmistakably appeared to be chainmail, their weapons gleaming even at a distance. Something was off. Deeply off. His father could barely scrounge together enough chainmail to outfit 150 soldiers. Even then, another 300 suits had been supplied by the prince of Nibadur, an ally whose motives Arnold still struggled to understand, which he had used to increase his numbers from 600 footmen to 800. Why Nibadur would even bother arming us that generously is a question in itself, he thought. But one thing was clear¡ªthere simply weren''t enough suits in circulation for the rebels to acquire such numbers. The sight of so many armored men gnawed at Arnold''s mind. This stinks of outside help. Still, suspicions and questions wouldn''t change the hard reality of the field. He was outnumbered, and the rebels had secured the high ground¡ªa glaring disadvantage. He drew a steadying breath, forcing the doubts to the back of his mind. Whether this situation made sense or not, the battle loomed ahead, and he had no choice but to meet it head-on. Arnold''s thoughts were interrupted by the rhythmic pounding of hooves, signaling the approach of a rider. Turning, he saw Lord Cretio, his grizzled features framed by the dust kicked up by his mount, arriving with the scouts in tow. Arnold eyed the older man with quiet scrutiny. For someone who had been stripped of his command, Lord Cretio had accepted his demotion with surprising composure. Arnold had expected more resistance. but instead, the lord had carried on as if the decision was of no great consequence. As Cretio reined in his horse, he bowed his head briefly before speaking, his voice steady. "Your Grace, the fortifications are more extensive than expected. They encircle the entire hilltop, with no apparent gaps from every position.'''' Arnold hummed thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing as he glanced up toward the hills once again. The stakes and trenches were clear even from a distance¡ªa defensive masterpiece for a force of rebels. After a moment''s silence, he turned back to Cretio. "Do you think we could starve them out? Force them to come down and meet us on even ground?" Cretio hesitated, his expression grave. "It would be difficult to say, Your Grace. Our own supply lines are thin as it is. We have no reliable knowledge of how much the rebels have stockpiled up there. For all we know, they could outlast us, or they might break in days. Without proper knowledge, any guess I give would be meaningless." Lord Cretio shifted in his saddle, his weathered eyes scanning the rebel-held hilltop once more. "I must admit," he said, his tone begrudging, "these rebels have shown remarkable foresight. Their defenses are far from amateurish." As he spoke, he cast a peculiar glance toward Arnold¡ªan expression that lingered just a fraction too long to be casual. Arnold caught the unspoken message instantly. There was more to this rebellion than met the eye. He didn''t need Cretio''s subtle cue to confirm what he had already been mulling over: someone else was orchestrating this.And all the arrow pointed at Yarzat, as after all they had the motive, the means and the interest to do such thing. Yet they could not just go and attack them diplomatically , as after all they had no proof of that.And given their history, of which the princess of Yarzat had been the victim, diplomatically speaking , most would think of it as a means to throw shit at them and , as such the other prince won''t give it half a thought. Arnold''s gaze followed Cretio''s to the fortifications sprawled across the hill. The rebels had outdone themselves, truly. Trenches carved into the earth ran in jagged lines along the slope, bristling with sharp stakes hammered into the dirt. Behind those defenses, lines of men stood ready to take their weakened charge The high ground itself added another layer of misery to any attacker''s plans. It rendered Arnold''s cavalry, the weapon that had shattered five of the last six rebel bands with devastating charges, utterly useless. Charging uphill into entrenched spearmen would be tantamount to throwing lives away, and Arnold had no intention of wasting his men in such a reckless endeavor. Arnold tilted his head back, studying the sky with a calculating gaze. The sun still hung high, casting long shadows that crept across the uneven ground, but he knew better than to let optimism cloud his judgment. There were still good hours of daylight left, but his instincts told him that forcing a battle today would be a mistake. If they fought and lost, the consequences would be disastrous. The army would be forced to retreat under the cover of darkness, their lines shattered and scattered, with no proper rendezvous point to regroup. The rebels, emboldened by a victory, could pursue them, turning a tactical retreat into a full-scale rout. No, they needed to be methodical, and it would do good for the soldier to rest . Arnold turned on his heel, his cloak sweeping behind him as he addressed the knights gathered nearby. Most of them were minor lords, sworn to the crown and commanding levies of peasants and household guards as personal bodyguards. "We make camp here," he said firmly. His voice carried the weight of command, and there was no room for argument. " Tomorrow, we''ll reassess and take the field on our terms." The men exchanged glances but offered no objection. One by one, they nodded, their faces a mixture of relief and determination.They saluted briefly before turning to carry out the orders, their voices rising as they relayed commands to their own forces. Arnold lingered on the crest of the hill as his officers dispersed, his sharp eyes fixed on the enemy lines sprawled across the high ground in the distance. He let out a slow breath, the weight of the campaign pressing heavily on his shoulders. This revolt had dragged on far too long, its fires reignited time and time again by scattered bands of dissidents emboldened by minor successes. Now, he stood on the brink of what could either be its decisive end or yet another frustrating chapter in its relentless saga, as he knew very well that he was leading the only army that his father could have raised . His mind churned, searching for a way to even the field. A head-on assault against those fortifications would be suicide. The trenches and palisades were designed to break the momentum of any attack, and with the rebels holding the high ground, their position was nearly unassailable. Nothing came to mind, and yet he had to think of something. Chapter 330: Night attack(1) Chapter 330: Night attack(1) The moon hung high in the night sky, casting its cold, silver light over the quiet landscape. Shadows stretched long and dark, cloaking the figures of Gerric and his 300 soldiers as they moved like phantoms through the night. The only sound was the faint rustling of grass beneath cautious footsteps and the distant chirping of crickets. "Keep low," Gerric hissed, his voice barely above a whisper. He crouched as he moved, his sharp eyes darting between the faint glimmers of light from the enemy''s campfires in the distance. His soldiers followed suit, their weapons clutched tightly, their breath controlled and quiet. The men advanced slowly. The weight of their chainmail and padded armor seemed heavier in the silence, every scrape or clink threatening to betray their presence. The night had an eerie stillness, amplifying the smallest noises. A soldier brushed against a bush, its branches snapping faintly, and Gerric shot him a sharp glare. The man froze, his face pale in the moonlight,as soon as silence came again the group pressed forward again, their movements measured and this time more cautious. Ahead, the enemy camp lay in a shallow valley, its outline marked by scattered fires and the dim glow of tents. Shadows flickered as figures moved near the flames¡ªguards pacing their rounds. Gerric gestured for his men to halt, crouching down. Damn It, he muttered as he observed as best as darkness allowed him to. Behind him, his soldiers waited, their breaths shallow, their bodies tense. Each man knew the stakes of this nocturnal mission. A single misstep, a stray sound, and the entire camp would be roused. Gerric wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. The night was heavy with tension, as Gerric had been ordered by Inor to lead a night''s attack, which was suggested by Lucius to replicate Egil''s infamous ambush. Still as he and his men crouched behind the rise overlooking the enemy camp, he felt a knot of unease settle deep in his stomach. Gerric''s men whispered nervously among themselves, their breaths clouding in the cool night air. One look from Gerric however silenced the murmurs better than any threat could have done. He gestured forward, motioning for them to advance. The trench loomed ahead, a yawning blackness in the earth. Gerric raised his hand to signal a halt, his senses sharp, scanning the defenses for any sign of movement. Then it happened¡ªa sharp, sudden scream pierced the quiet. One of his men vanished into the earth with a sickening crunch, the sound of snapping bone unmistakable as the soldier''s weight drove him into a hidden pit. The man howled in agony, clutching his shattered leg, his cries echoing into the still night. Gerric''s heart sank. There were traps around the perimeter . The silence was broken and their intention given away "Night attack!" a voice from the enemy camp bellowed, and chaos erupted. The sound of a horn cut through the air, loud and shrill, its tone a call to arms. Figures stirred in the camp, shadows darting as men rushed to their positions. The glow of campfires brightened as torches were lit, and the once-quiet hillside was suddenly alive with the noise of shouts and the clamor of weapons being readied. ''''CHARGE!'''' With the only two options being to retreat or to give the order to charge, Gerric promptly chose the second, as he still believed he could at least deliver some casualties before retreating. Once given the order the peasants poured out of the shadows, some clutching spears, others gripping axes expecting their opponents to be as unprepared as babies out of wombs. The soldiers however weren''t emerging from sleep as Gerric had expected. Many were already outside their tents, armored in chainmail that glinted ominously from the near torch. The dull gleam of helmets reflected the flickering torchlight as they raised their weapons. How are they already ready?Whats happening? Luckily for the rebels, even thought they were already equipped the enemy''s soldiers weren''t still concentrated in a defensive line¡ªthey were scattered throughout the camp. Some rushed from tents, fastening straps or gripping half-ready shields. Others formed loose groups, ready to meet the attackers head-on, in whatever formation they could make. The battle started immediately and suddendly as a thunder in the night. Soon the quiet night, became filled with the sounds accompanying war, taunts, moans of pain, cry begging for mercy, and the simple, yet unmistakable sound of steel meeting steel. "Is this the best your lords can send?" A Rebel shouted as he hacked a man''s torso with his axe "Come closer, and I''ll show you how we peasants cut down noble''s lackeys !" ''''You should have fed us when you had the chance!'''' The first clash was brutal, and given that while the soldiers in the prince''s army were not in a defensive formation, the initial advantage was with the rebels who using their numbers, swarmed the small groups of soldiers ahead of them. Nearby, a rebel armed with a spear jabbed it forward against a soldier , who however parried the attack with a quick shield block. The two exchanged blows in rapid succession, before the rebel slicing through the shaft of the spear ,with wood crossing wood, found its mark in the soldier''s thigh unprotected by the armor . The man howled in pain, collapsing , the soldier then kicked him as good measured and trusted his spear onto his chest ending him for good. The rebels surged forward, emboldened by their percieved superiority in battle, fighting with a fervor that they did not believe they could have. "Is this what your prince feeds his dogs? Better armor, but the same empty bellies!" a man jeered as he swung a spiked club, smashing into a soldier''s shield with a resounding crack. "You fight for crumbs while we starve for none!When the last time you ate meat?" another bellowed, plunging a crude spear into a man''s stomach. "Go back to your fat lords!" a scarred man screamed as she hacked at a retreating soldier. "They feast while we bury our dead!" Arnold''s soldiers, hastily forming lines of five or six, struggled to hold the rebel charge . The rebels'' reckless fury overwhelmed them, and groups of soldiers found themselves encircled, their cohesion shattered. A cluster of soldiers attempted to brace themselves, their shields locked and spears thrust forward. But the rebels swarmed them with sheer numbers. A rebel with a rusted axe slammed into the shield wall, splintering a plank before throwing himself forward, forcing a soldier to stagger backward. The momentary gap was all the rebels needed. Two men rushed in, cutting down the isolated soldier before the others could react, breaking the formation. Another group of soldiers retreated under the relentless assault, their line crumbling as rebels chased them down. A young rebel with matted hair and a wild grin leapt onto a soldier''s back, stabbing him repeatedly with a jagged dagger. The man''s scream drowned in the cacophony as he fell, his comrades fleeing in disarray. For a brief moment, the rebels held the advantage, their ferocity driving the prince''s soldiers back. However while the northern part of the camp was engulfed in chaos with the rebels slaughtering the lone soldiers , the southern side of the battlefield had a brief window of calm that they used to prepare . The prince''s soldiers, having been given time to regroup, swiftly formed small square formations under the command of their respective lords. At the back of the line, Arnold stood his posture betraying none of the tension brewing within him with his decorated armor , glinting enough for everyone to see that their general was there, the best encouragement they could have been given. What the rebels didn''t know, as they slaughtered the helpeless soldiers however, was that the prince had anticipated such a night attack, or at least wanted to make sure that they did not fall prey to the same mistake twice and had issued a directive for every soldier to sleep in their armor. Only a fool doesn''t learn from his mistakes... Though some had scoffed at the command, most had obeyed, recognizing the danger of the close rebel army. With the presence of the enemy so close, the soldiers had reluctantly donned their padded leather first, followed by their chainmail, which allowed them to ease into sleep without fully shedding their armor, as after all sleeping while pressing their bodies onto metallic-small chains was not the best bed to have. When the attack was discovered, and the horn sounded , in a few instants the soldiers had emerged from their tents, grabbing their weapons while waiting for their lords to appear and give them order. The rebels, meanwhile, had lost their initial momentum, now scattered across the camp as they took advantage of the confusion to target the retreating soldiers, with Gerric himself taking the lead, not knowing that the gravest mistake one could was break the formation before the entire army was shattered.. As they spread out to finish off the routing enemy, some of the lone men turned their heads to see 400 hundreds footmen charging toward them. "ENEMIES!" With the little time they had,after a few shouts of panic , they tried to form up some straight line, however they were too spread out and their time was too little for any meaningful preparation. Hence they could only form up some meager squares while most of their comrades were too far away or too taken up by the slaughtered to understand what was happening . Of course that was too badly and too hasty of a preparation to have any actual meaning for the up-coming Clash. Arnold''s soldiers, armored and battle-ready, slammed into their disorganized ranks with the force of a battering ram. The rebels, caught off guard, scrambled to form some semblance of defense. But the time they had was far too brief. The prince''s men crashed into their scattered lines, and the rebellion''s fragile cohesion shattered making thier lines cave in on the centre pressing further and further inside. Now it was time for the rebels to be on the other edge of the sword Chapter 331: Night attack(2) Chapter 331: Night attack(2) What had begun as a one-sided slaughter in favor of the rebels had now transformed into a fierce battle. The two sides clashed with a thunderous roar, their lines colliding like tidal waves crashing against a rocky shore. Men locked shields with their comrades, forming a wall as they pushed forward with thier weapons. Spears darted above the enemy''s shields in deadly downward arcs or thrust, aiming for exposed throats and faces. Each thrust was swift and precise, immediately followed by a retreat to the safety of their shield wall. Soldiers moved with disciplined precision, their shields rising to protect their bodies as they reset their stances, readying for the next deadly exchange. The battlefield was a chaotic symphony of grunts, cries, and the sharp clang of steel meeting steel, as neither side yielded ground easily. The once fluid momentum of the rebels had now met the proper battle they never expected, and as a consequence the rebel lines began to falter, their center buckling under the assault of the prince''s soldiers. The once-bold ranks of the rebellion, scattered and disorganized, struggled to maintain their footing against the formations pressing forward. The shield walls of the prince''s men advanced like a tide, each thrust of their spears claiming another life, each push forcing the rebels further back. Cries of anguish and desperation filled the air as the rebels fell in droves, their courage fading as their comrades collapsed around them. Blood slicked the ground beneath their feet, and the acrid smell of sweat and steel mingled with the stench of death. "This is for my village, you damned traitors!" roared a man as he drove his spear forward, the point sinking into a rebel''s unprotected side,reminiscing about the flames eating his home as the steel-end of the spears reached closer and closer to the organs. "You''ll pay for starving our children, filth!" another bellowed while cutting down a man "We''''ll go after your family next, as you did with ours!" sneered a soldier, slamming his shield into an opponent and sending them sprawling before finishing them off with a precise thrust, relishing at the sight of the people that had burnt his family''s field to the ground. All of them were soldiers that were recently recruited by Arnold after receiving the newest batch of equipment from his father. All of them had a thing in common and they were destituted from the raids of the same men that they were fighting right now, hence their ferocity was only enhanced as they came face to face with the rebels. One of these one, wielding a spear thrusted forward with practiced efficiency, the point slipping between the ribs of a rebel who had overextended his swing and was unfortunately not among the lucky one chosen to wear a chainmail. The rebel gasped, blood frothing at his lips, as the spear was yanked free with a sickening squelch. "Is that all you''ve got? I''ve seen farmers fight better than this!" he then shouted as he went on in search of his next victim ''''Oh Gods!Mercy!'''' a rebel instead shouted as a soldier kept him down into the ground with a foot pressing down his chest, before striking down at his head. It was clear which side was having the best. The rebels tried fighting back desperately, but their lack of discipline showed as they had no coordination with each other, more suited to hunt down villagers than to fight in a proper battle. Until then they had not met any resistance as they went raiding, as such their style of fighting resembled more back-alley fighting than battling in formation. One rebel, the perfect example of that, swung wildly with a club, hoping to break through the shield in front of him, only to have a spear thrust pierce his thigh. He collapsed to his knees, clutching the wound, before an axeman stepped forward to finish him with a swift downward chop to the neck, ending his life on the spot. ------------ Gerric''s breath came in ragged gasps as he stumbled back from the fray, his once-bold confidence now eroding under the weight of the battle. The sharp clang of steel and the anguished cries of the wounded filled his ears, each sound chipping away at the resolve he had barely managed to hold onto. His eyes darted across the battlefield, taking in the horrifying tableau before him. The ground was strewn with bodies, some still and lifeless, others writhing in agony. Rebels he had led just minutes ago now lay broken, their blood soaking into the churned earth. A young boy barely of thirteen clutched at a gaping wound in his side, his trembling hand reaching out as if to grasp something¡ªanything. Gerric couldn''t bring himself to meet the boy''s pleading gaze. His hands trembled as he gripped the sword slick with blood, his knuckles white against the hilt. But as he looked around, the truth became inescapable. This wasn''t a battle; it was a slaughter, and they were losing. A deep, gnawing fear clawed at his chest, making it hard to breathe. Gerric was no soldier. He wasn''t a seasoned warrior hardened by years of combat. He was just a man¡ªstronger than most, perhaps, but that strength now felt meaningless amidst the chaos and death. The spear thrusts and axe blows that fell on his comrades seemed almost mechanical, unstoppable. He turned his gaze to the prince''s soldiers, their grim faces set with determination, their shield wall an impenetrable barrier. Gerric felt his grip falter, his sword lowering almost involuntarily. Without a word, Gerric turned on his heel pushing between the soldier attempting to run. His heart pounded in his chest as his legs carried him away from the battlefield, alone. He couldn''t bring himself to call out an order or even look back. All he could think about was escape, the primal urge to survive drowning out everything else. His flight did not go unnoticed. Some rebels recognised him ,seeing their leader fleeing and, already wavering, felt their remaining resolve crumble. One by one, they broke from the fight, dropping their weapons and fleeing after him. The retreat turned into a chaotic rout, the rebels scattering in all directions like leaves before the wind. The prince''s soldiers jeered and roared as the enemy disintegrated. "Run, cowards!" one shouted, raising his spear triumphantly as he gave chase. "Is this your rebellion? Scurrying like rats!" bellowed another, his voice heavy with mockery. And so the field was left to the soldiers, who pressed forward to cut down the stragglers. Gerric''s force had been reduced to a panicked, disorganized mob, fleeing for their lives as the prince''s men tightened their grip on the battlefield. ------------ The morning sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the camp as Lord Cretio walked through the aftermath of the battle. The air was thick with the acrid stench of blood and burnt wood, mingling with the rising smoke from countless fires. Despite the dead bodies , the mood within the camp was buoyant . Soldiers moved with a spring in their step, their laughter ringing out across the field like echoes of victory. Ahead, a group of men hauled bodies toward the trenches. Two of them carried a corpse, one gripping the arms and the other the legs, swinging it casually before heaving it onto a growing pile just beyond the trench. The motion was almost jovial, punctuated by jests exchanged between the men. "Think this one''s lighter than the last in the pockets?" one joked, earning a round of laughter. "Doesn''t matter they are all poor, still he''ll burn the same!" quipped another, drawing more guffaws as they turned back for another body. Lord Cretio watched them for a moment, his expression impassive. Morale was high, the kind of morale only a victory could bring. Cretio''s boots crunched against the churned earth as he made his way toward the main tent . He had just received the report of the battlefield and was ready to deliver it to Arnold The guards flanking the entrance to the prince''s tent snapped to attention as he approached, their polished chainmail gleaming in the morning sun. "My lord" one greeted him with a slight nod. Cretio acknowledged them with the barest tilt of his head, brushing past without slowing. He had no time for pleasantries. Inside, the tent the air was much cooler, heavy with the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread. At the center, seated at a sturdy wooden table laden with food, was lord Arnold. His armor had been removed, and he sat in a simple tunic, his cloak draped across the back of his chair. The prince looked up from his meal as Cretio entered, his expression calm but his sharp eyes missing nothing. He held a slice of bread in one hand, a knife in the other, cutting into a chunk of salted meat on his plate. "Ah, Lord Cretio," Arnold said, his tone neutral as he gestured toward the seat opposite him. "You''re up early." Cretio inclined his head in greeting, his hand tightening slightly on the report. "Your Grace," he replied, his voice steady as he stepped closer. He laid the folded parchment on the table with deliberate care, his gaze meeting the prince''s. "I''ve brought the report from last night''s engagement," he said, his tone as composed as always "Our losses amount to thirty dead and twelve wounded. As for the attackers, while we cannot confirm their full numbers, the dead left on the field suggest they suffered no fewer than two hundred casualties." Lord Cretio inclined his head respectfully, his expression thoughtful as he addressed the prince. "Your foresight proved invaluable, Your Grace," he said, his tone carrying genuine admiration. "Had you not ordered the soldiers to sleep in their armor, the infantry would have been taking by surprise and the cavalry wouldn''t have been ready in time to pursue the rebels who fled the camp" What the lord said was in fact true, for while the infantry was clashing against the rebels the cavalry who could certainly not charge directly, given that their allies were on their way, instead decided to move around the camp and hit the rear. However before that could happen the rebels routed after just a few minutes of fighting . And so as the infantry pressed their retreat, the cavalry who had just executed a roundabout maneuver, swinging wide around the camp saw that the flank of the rebels was wide open to ravanging , and so with a quick charge on their flank in the open field, they completely scattered the remnants of the rebel''s forces claiming complete victory , as most of the enemy were either killed outright or taken captive Arnold nodded slowly, spearing a piece of meat with his knife and bringing it to his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully, his gaze fixed somewhere distant as if weighing the report against the broader situation. After swallowing, he spoke, his voice calm "They''ve taken a bloody nose, no doubt," he said, gesturing with the knife as if punctuating his words. "But they still have plenty of men up on those hills, and their defenses are solid. This was a skirmish, not the endgame." And as if uncosciously nodding , the lord couldn''t help but move his eyes on the direction where the enemy was currently camped, waiting for the prince''s army to come to them. Chapter 332: Other side of the coin Chapter 332: Other side of the coin The first rays of the sun broke over the horizon, casting a soft golden light across the rebel camp perched atop the fortified hill. The morning mist clung to the trenches and palisades, painting the scene in an eerie stillness that felt like the calm after a storm. Inor stood near the edge of the hill, his arms crossed tightly against his chest. His face was drawn, his gaze fixed on the winding path leading to the camp. The faint sounds of weary footsteps and clinking metal grew louder as the remnants of the night attack emerged from the distance. He had risen before the dawn, unable to sleep, and now watched the somber procession with growing dread as he sadly found out that his worries were well-founded Of the three hundred who had departed under Gerric''s command, fewer than fifty returned, their leader not even being with them. Their battered forms shuffled up the slope, their heads bowed in defeat. Mud and blood caked their clothes, and their hollow eyes saying everything that words could not As the survivors neared the trenches, those within the camp sprang to life. Soldiers helped their comrades over the earthen barriers, while others formed a silent line, their expressions grim as they counted the few who had made it back. From among the tents and makeshift shelters, women began to emerge sometimes with children sometime alone, their faces lighting with brief hope at the sight of movement. They hurried toward the trenches, calling for their husbands. But as the moments passed and the truth began to settle, hope gave way to sorrow. Those searching faces furrowed and crumbled, the realization dawning that their loved ones were not among the returning. Quiet sobs broke the stillness, and a wave of grief swept through the camp like an unwelcome wind, damping the morale of the entire camp. Inor''s jaw tightened as he watched, his knuckles whitening where they gripped his arms,turning away into anger as he retired into his tent. ----------------- Inside the tent, Lucius was bent cleaning his nails with a small dagger. Marcus sat nearby, sharpening his sword with a whetstone, his calm expression betraying none of the tension that had overtaken the camp. "You damned fool!" Inor barked as he entered, his voice loud enough to make both men look up sharply. "Three hundred men! You caused three hundred men to walk into that slaughter, and fewer than fifty returned! What in the gods'' hells were you thinking?" Lucius straightened, his face a mask of neutrality that only stoked Inor''s fury, he after all had much less attachment to the fate of the band than him . "I was thinking of weakening the prince''s forces," he replied coolly, his tone deliberate. "And for what it''s worth, Gerric was supposed to strike swiftly and return. It''s not my fault he lingered, that ''s what happen when one doesn''t have useful underlings.The plan was sound the execution was not " "Not your fault?" Inor snapped, his voice rising further. He slammed his fist onto the table, making the map flutter. "You planned this idiocy! You convinced me to let Gerric lead that damned attack! Don''t you dare wash your hands of this, you bastard!'''' Lucius''s expression hardened, his eyes narrowing. "I didn''t tell him to kill time looting tents or what the hell that fool had been doing wasting time around," he retorted sharply. "The plan was clear: hit fast, cause chaos, and retreat.He was no cavalryman, and certainly he was not of sharp mind. Gerric chose to gamble, and he paid the price for his recklessness. you want someone to blame? Take a shovel and go find him, but don''t go finding fault with me." Inor took a step forward, before he could do whatever he thought he would be doing , Marcus interjected, his voice calm but firm. "Enough, both of you. What''s done is done." He set his whetstone aside and rose to his feet, his towering frame making Inor thinking twice before picking a fight with Lucius, whom he apparently failed to notice was holding a dagger in a much more straigthforward manner. Seeing the tension in the tent ebbed, the heated words dissipating into silence. Lucius turned his attention back at cleaning his nail. After a moment, he brought one finger to his lips and blew softly against it, inspecting it for any stubborn residue. Satisfied, he wiped his hands on his cloth and glanced at Inor, who still lingered near the entrance, his shoulders tense with frustration. Before Inor could make another remark, Lucius spoke, his voice measured and calm. "Before you waste more time finding fault with me, perhaps you should focus on reassuring your people," he said, his tone cutting just enough to make his point.''''They just watched their leader leave after seeing their comrades suffer great casualties.Go back to them you fool'''' Inor frowned, turning back to face him. "Reassure them? And how, exactly, should I do that?" Lucius raised an eyebrow, leaning slightly against the table. "Start by telling the cook to prepare double portions for tonight. Food does wonders for morale, even for men who''ve just lost friends in battle. Then gather them and remind them of this: whatever happens, whether they fall in battle or live to see victory, their families will be fed, their children looked after." He paused, letting his words sink in before continuing after thinking of something else "But make it clear that to ensure all of that, they must stay united. Strong. We can''t afford divisions now, not with the prince''s army breathing down our necks or some shits like that " For a moment, Inor said nothing, his face unreadable as he stared at Lucius. The silence stretched, heavy and tense, before Inor finally gave a slow nod. Without a word, he turned on his heel and strode out of the tent, leaving Lucius alone with Marcus. Lucius smirked as the tent flap closed behind Inor, a low chuckle escaping his lips. "Stubborn ass motherfucker" Marcus stood silently for a moment, watching Lucius with a mix of concern and impatience. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and measured. "Should we proceed with the plan to leave?" His eyes flicked toward the tent flap as if expecting someone to burst in at any moment. "Everything''s ready. Two horses are waiting just outside the camp. We can be gone before anyone realizes." Lucius paused, his hand hovering over the map he had been studying. Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet Marcus''s, giving him a long, contemplative stare. After what felt like an eternity, Lucius leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. "We''re still in a fortified position," he said, his tone thoughtful. "The enemy will have to assault us if they want to dislodge us, and that''s no small task. We''ve got the advantage of these defenses, and the men¡ªthough battered¡ªare still holding together. There''s still a chance we can turn this around, I don''t feel like ditching our work so soon." He tapped a finger against the edge of the map, his gaze distant as he weighed the odds. "It''s too early to leave. If we can hold out and bleed them dry, it''ll be a victory worth sticking around for." Marcus let out a soft sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly as he nodded. "It''s your call," he said, his voice resigned but respectful. "Just don''t wait too long. If things start to go south, you know what''ll happen to anyone caught staying too late." Lucius smirked faintly at that, his confidence undimmed. "If it comes to that, we''ll leave. For now, we stay. There''s more we can do here." Marcus gave a small shrug, as if to say he''d said his piece. Then he turned, moving to stand by the tent''s entrance, his sharp eyes scanning the camp outside. What neither Lucius nor Marcus could grasp, being less than average strategists, was that the night attack had been doomed from the very beginning. Night assaults, despite their allure, were rarely advantageous. Given that the enemy would usually think that they could be attacked in the middle of the night, as such they had many contigents to counter that The failures of this particular attack stemmed from several glaring oversights. First and foremost was the utter lack of strategic acumen displayed by its leader. Gerric was a peasant that had never had a real battle, as such he had lingered in the enemy camp far too long without having no real understanding of what could happen. As instead of killing retreating soldiers, he should have instead sowed widespread chaos. The northern sector alone bore the brunt of the attack, leaving the rest of the camp ample time to organize, regroup, and counterattack with decisive force without even feeling the effect of being under attack. The second issue was their crippling lack of mobility. Even if the initial assault had succeeded in breaking the enemy lines, the attackers were ill-prepared to deal with the inevitable cavalry pursuit. Cavalry was the bane of retreating infantry, even more at night when confusion compounded every misstep. This oversight alone rendered the attack a reckless gamble. A comparison to Egil''s famous night raid illuminated these flaws further. Egil''s success was not a product of blind aggression but meticulous planning.Egil might not have been a genious, yet he was sharp and most certainly not a fool. His attack had struck an army unprepared, with the Herculeians believing their enemy was still days away. Moreover, Egil''s forces had divided into two groups, hitting both the northern and southern ends of the camp simultaneously. This division ensured chaos reigned everywhere giving no part of the camp enough leasure to understand what was happening. Egil''s men also prioritized destruction and disarray over outright slaughter, targeting tents, supplies, and morale. By the time the Herculeians could react, the camp was ablaze, screams and moans filling the night air, leading many to ditch the battle as soon as they caught sight of their sorroundings In contrast, this most recent attack had achieved none of these objectives. The defenders, far from breaking, had time to rally under the guidance of their lords. Their levies formed orderly ranks, charged, and turned the tide decisively against the attackers. What could have been a daring blow to enemy morale had instead devolved into a costly rout, its failure rooted in poor planning and a fundamental misunderstanding of the principles of warfare. Chapter 333: Storming the trenches(1) Chapter 333: Storming the trenches(1) Arnold sat tall on his warhorse, its black coat gleaming under the morning sun, much like the intricate decoration of his armor. Gold accents caught the light with every movement, making him a shining figure as he moved deliberately through the ranks. The 800 footmen stood in disciplined rows, their weapons at their sides, eyes locked on their prince. Each man could hear him clearly as his horse paced slowly along the line. Arnold''s words, when he spoke, would carry to all corners, but for now, he said nothing. He looked closely at the faces in the lines. Some of these men came from villages ravaged by the rebels¡ªhomes burned, families slaughtered, as they were recruited on the way there. Their eyes burned with a fury that needed no words to express. They craved vengeance, and it was this shared hunger for retribution that bound them together. The aftermath of the night attack had only solidified their resolve. No prisoners had survived. Those rebels who were unfortunate enough to be dragged back into the camp alive were quickly surrounded by soldiers whose anger boiled over. Without orders, men had approached the captives and slit their throats on the spot. For those few who initially survived the butchery, their fate was no less grim. Arnold had allowed it to happen, watching impassively as the captured were then dragged to a spot where the rebels atop the hills could see. They were tortured, their screams echoing across the battlefield, reaching the ears of their comrades above. Piece by piece, the soldiers took their revenge, cutting into the prisoners while laughing cruelly. Arnold knew the psychological toll this would take on the rebels, and he made no move to stop it. By the time the soldiers were finished, there were no prisoners left¡ªonly broken bodies dumped in plain view of the enemy. As Arnold continued his ride through the lines, he finally slowed, letting his voice cut through the stillness. "I still remember the day I took command of you," Arnold began, his voice carrying strong and clear over the assembled men. "Back then, the people of Herculia looked upon you as little more than fodder for the enemy''s blades¡ªanother band of doomed souls destined to die in the dirt, trampled underfoot by those who dared defy the state. You were the third army that my father raised, the first two as you know met defeat, and the people of the city thought you would share that same fate. When I first took you under my banner, you were raw, unshaped¡ªa slab of meat, as good as bound for the butcher''s block. "But under my command, you changed. Victory after victory has forged you into something greater¡ªsomething unstoppable. You have trampled the same dogs who once burned our villages, razed our homes, and butchered our families. You''ve brought justice to those who thought they could sow chaos and go unpunished. And today, my men, we stand here to finish what we started. "Yesterday, you saw the outcome of their attack. They thought to catch us unprepared, to strike fear into our hearts under the cover of night. But instead, what did we give them? We gave them death. Even in our sleep, we were more than a match for their so-called strength. And now, I ask you¡ªhow will they fare against us when we are wide awake, with our weapons in hand and a thirst for vengeance in our hearts? "They cower on that hill, thinking their trenches and palisades will save them. They believe that their desperation will make them stronger. But let me tell you this: desperation is the cry of a beaten animal. It is the sound of defeat. And we, my brothers, are not the defeated¡ªwe are the victors. We are the storm that will wash them from that hill and scatter their ashes to the wind." Arnold''s horse turned slightly as he looked out over the ranks, his armor gleaming as he raised his voice. "Today, we will show them what true strength is. We will show them what it means to face the soldiers of Herculia. No quarter, no hesitation, no mercy. For every village they burned, for every family they slaughtered, we will repay them tenfold. Let the hills hear your roar and tremble at the wrath of our might!" He raised his sword high, the sunlight catching the blade as it flashed like lightning. The soldiers erupted in a deafening cheer, pounding their weapons against their shields in a thunderous rhythm. Arnold smiled grimly. The time for words was over; the time for battle had come. He had divided his 700 footmen into two distinct lines, each stretching wide across the field. Arnold''s plan was simple yet effective: waves of steady pressure, each assault building upon the success or failure of the previous one, see how one fared and make decision based on their performance. Behind these lines, his cavalry remained idle but ready. Arnold had deliberately kept them in reserve, stationed far enough back to ensure that the enemy could not see them. He knew well that horses were of little use in a steep uphill battle against fortified positions. To waste them in such terrain would be folly, and Arnold was no fool. Arnold raised his gauntleted hand, his voice ringing out across the lines. "First wave, advance! Archers, forward to support!" His tone was resolute, cutting through the tension like the blade of a sword. The soldiers obeyed without hesitation, the discipline he had drilled into them evident in their precise movements. The first wave began to march, shields held high and spears ready, a wall of determination heading steadily uphill. Just ahead, the archers moved forward as well, their bows slung over their shoulders and their quivers clinking softly against their backs. They were tasked with closing the distance enough to harass the rebel lines before the melee could begin. The morning sun gleamed off their polished helmets as the archers neared the midpoint of the incline, their eyes fixed on the distant rebel fortifications. Then it came¡ªa faint swish in the air, like an ominous whisper. Thud. Thud. The sound of projectiles striking flesh and shields was followed almost instantly by bodies crumpling to the ground. The column wavered for a heartbeat, archers looking around in confusion. "What was that?" one of them muttered, his hand reflexively reaching for an arrow. The answer came not in words but in cries of pain and horror. A man fell clutching his shattered arm, with a stone coming out of it the bones beneath his skin grotesquely bent. Another screamed, a projectile crushing his kneecap and sending him sprawling face-first into the dirt. "Slingers!" one of the archers yelled, his voice cracking as panic began to ripple through their ranks. Smooth stones, whirled with leather sling, streaked through the air like invisible missiles. Unlike arrows, they struck with blunt force, shattering bones and rupturing flesh. The archers were caught in the open. With no cover and still far out of range to effectively use their bows, they became easy targets. Men began to fall, clutching their faces, chests, or limbs as the relentless hail of stones rained down. Some tried to raise their bows, but the distance was too great, and their shots fell short of the rebel positions. "My arms! My arms!" a man shrieked, collapsing to his knees as a stone smashed into his forearm with sickening force. The impact shredded muscle and tendons, the jagged edges of fractured bone barely hidden beneath torn flesh. He cradled the ruined limb, his face pale with shock and agony. "Gods help us!" another soldier cried, his voice trembling as chaos surrounded him. The sound of spitting blood followed by a sharp crack echoed as a third man spat blood, a stone striking his chest with devastating accuracy. The force caved in his ribcage, sending jagged shards inward to puncture his lungs. He coughed violently, each spasm bringing up frothy red as he fell to the ground, clutching his side and gasping for breath that would not come, as his throat was filled with blood. A fourth soldier staggered backward as a stone caught him square on the knee, the joint bending unnaturally as bone splintered beneath his greaves. He let out a guttural scream, collapsing into the dirt and clutching his shattered leg, his cries drowned out by the chaos around him. A young archer, barely more than a boy, dropped his bow as a stone struck his temple. The crack of bone was unmistakable, and he fell silently, his body limp before it hit the earth. His comrades barely had time to register his death before another volley of stones rained down. "Get back! Fall back for cover!By the gods!" an archer shouted, his voice cracking as he waved his comrades to retreat. The panicked cries spread like wildfire among the ranks, the archers abandoning their exposed position as another volley of stones tore through the air. "They''re cutting us down out here!" another yelled, his face pale as he clutched at his quiver. He turned and sprinted toward the advancing infantry, his fellows following suit in a frantic dash to escape the deadly barrage. The infantry''s shield wall loomed ahead, a semblance of safety amidst the chaos. "Behind the shields! Hurry!" someone within the ranks bellowed opening a small gap, the soldiers bracing as the retreating archers scrambled toward them. The archers ducked and weaved, their breaths ragged as stones continued to rain down. One stumbled and fell, only to be yanked to his feet by a footman throwing him back inside the formation with one arm while holding the shield on the top with the other. Another limped forward, blood dripping from a nasty gash on his thigh, but sheer desperation drove him onward. Finally, they reached the shield wall. The infantrymen parted briefly, their shields shifting to let the fleeing archers slip through before closing ranks again. "Stay low and keep your heads down!" an officer barked, ignoring the fact that no officer gave the order to retreat, but knowing that out there they were getting torn into shreds, his voice steady even as stones clanged against the shields around him with dull, resonant thuds. The archers huddled together, panting and shaking as they crouched behind the protective line of shields. "Bloody slingers," one muttered bitterly, clutching his bow as if it were a lifeline. Their fear and subsequent retreat, was actually the right choice , since slingers had a much longer range than archers given that they were on the high ground ,and their projectiles was effective even against armors, which coupled with the fact that archers had nothing excepted some padded leather effectively meant that they stood no chance to win the engagement. Under all point of view, the action they had taken was the right one , yet they did not know if their general would have the same opinion, as after all he gave no order for any retreat Chapter 334: Storming the trenches(2) Chapter 334: Storming the trenches(2) The screams filled the air, mingling with the grim sight of enemy archers retreating in disarray. Some lay motionless where they had fallen, lifeless forms scattered across the battlefield. Others crawled feebly toward the safety of their lines, their movements slow and desperate, like worms writhing in the dirt after a heavy rainstorm, ready to be stepped on over by the heels of the men above them. Inor''s gaze shifted upward to the architects of this music that filled his ears ¡ªa group of one hundred women, their slings whirling overhead in perfect unison before unleashing a deadly rain of stones onto the enemy. Some of them had lost husbands and sons in the previous night, as such their slings were given extra strength He allowed a smile to curl his lips. If the enemy knew the truth, if they realized that those who had shattered their ranks and sent them scrambling were women, the shame of it might outweigh their fear and pain, prompting them to charge once again. These were no warriors by trade, no seasoned soldiers that learnt the of killing. They were women of the hills¡ªfarmers, shepherdesses, ¡ªdriven by necessity rather than choice. So he was sure that the shame would have burnt twice as much. As for the wmen,their lives, their families, their futures all depended on this battle, everybody knew that, and everybody fought harder because of it . The women didn''t pause, didn''t falter. Stone after stone was cast into the fray, killing man after man. Unfortunately the feast of corpses did not last long for the rebels, as the lines of infantry now advanced with a steady rhythm,replacing those of the archers that proved most ineffective, their shields locked tightly together to form an unbroken wall of steel and wood. Thud- Thud- Thud- The air was alive with the sound of stones striking their defenses¡ªsharp cracks echoing as projectiles ricocheted off shields, harmless but relentless, hitting wood instead of meat. The tightly packed formation held firm, the disciplined troops absorbing the blows without breaking stride, letting no projectiles through. The women on the hilltops continued their barrage, their arms a blur as they sent stone after stone whistling through the air. Four volleys rained down, then a fifth, each delivered with precision as it was hard to miss with hundreds of targets to pick from. But the infantry''s advance was undeterred, their shields proving an impenetrable wall against the assault, like a forest covering those below from the tears of the sky. Inor, watching the battle unfold, saw the futility of continuing the distant attack , when the enemy was approaching them without breaking a sweat . Raising his arm, he shouted above the din, his voice carrying clear and commanding: "Stand back! " The women ceased their assault, stepping back from the edge of the hills as their arms fell to their sides, exhaustion and adrenaline both taking hold, as drops of sweat came down their neck toward their breasts . Inor gestured to a nearby unit of rebel infantry waiting behind the slingers. "Take those positions!Let no man through,we make our stand here!" he barked. The rebels moved forward,those at the frontline, the one in the first ranks were the best equipped in the whole army, their armor and weapons glinting in the early light as they moved to occupy the high ground. They replaced the women at the edge of the trenches, forming a new line of defense, with spears, swords and axes sticking through. Inor''s expression hardened as he watched his infantry take up the positions, his mind already calculating how best to repel the enemy when they inevitably reached the head of the hill. The lines were drawn, and the battle for the heights was about to begin in earnest. The enemy infantry quickened their pace now that the relentless rain of stones had ceased, their shields still locked in tight formation as they advanced up the slope. The sound of their boots pounding against the dirt grew louder, a steady drumbeat of determination that echoed through the air. With the hilltop defenders no longer raining death upon them, they reached the ditches and the crude stakes that marked the rebel fortifications with startling speed, and letting out a loud war cry as they threw themselves forward. The clash erupted as the advancing soldiers encountered resistance at the stakes. Men with spears, axes, and swords sprang from behind the barricades, their movements quick and practiced. The defenders stabbed through gaps in the stakes, thrusting spears into the advancing enemy and slashing at exposed limbs. The stakes, sharp and jagged, forced the attackers to navigate with care, disrupting their cohesion and leaving gaps for the defenders to exploit as now that they could no longer advance as one, instead being forced to throw themselves forward alone at the enemy waiting for them. One soldier, stepping too quickly over a ditch, had his thigh speared by a man on the other side . He howled in pain, his shield falling to the ground as he tried to pull free, only for a spear to drive now into his side, failing however to pierce the mail allowing enough time for a companion to pull the wounded man back to safety, where hopefully he could live to see another day. Another attacker swung his axe, hacking through the stakes in a desperate attempt to clear a path in order to have more comrades to advance together , but a defender lunged forward, his sword finding the man''s neck in a clean thrust, before throwing himself back, evading the attempt to avenge the man by his companions. The fight was chaotic and ferocious. Soldiers on both sides grunted and roared as weapons clashed against shields, stakes, and flesh. The attackers swung their axes at the stakes, some chopping them down, while others used spears to prod at the defenders through the gaps, like children poking animals behind cages with sticks. The defenders, crouched behind their improvised barriers, jabbed and struck at any exposed flesh, their weapons slick with blood. Inor stood behind the safety of his lines, his gaze fixed on the chaotic struggle unfolding below. The stakes were doing their work, splintering the enemy''s tight formations and forcing them to advance in disjointed groups of one or two. These fragmented clusters became easy prey for his men, who struck with precision and ferocity. He could not help but begrudgingly acknowledge the effectiveness of the chosen battleground. Those two actually knew what they were doing, he admitted silently, his pride stinging at the thought, he certainly was no commander, yet he partecipated in two battles, survived both and believed himself to have a little bit of exprience. It was Lucius who had insisted on this location, and now, as much as he hated to concede it, the wisdom of that choice was undeniable. Without the natural defenses of the hill and the carefully placed stakes, they would have been overrun by the enemy cavalry within minutes from the start. Instead, the tide of battle seemed to favor them, or at least not their opponent for now, which was good enough. Inor watched as the enemy''s advance faltered, their soldiers struggling to navigate the treacherous obstacles while his own men exploited every opportunity to strike. For the first time since the fighting began, he felt a glimmer of hope. They had a real chance to hold their ground¡ªand perhaps even to win. Even from behind he could hear the shouts and screams of men fighting for their lives. "Come on then, heroes of Herculia! Where is your grit?" A rebel wielding a woodcutter''s axe, his face streaked with mud and sweat, said as he hacked savagely at the arm of an enemy trying to force his way through. The blade bit deep, severing flesh and bone -At the sight he bellowed, waving the bloodied axe in defiance before bringing it down this time on his head. "Where''s your courage now, eh?My woman has more balls than the lots of you!" Another rebel crouched low, waiting for an opening stood in silence , which would later come in the form of an enemy soldier carelessly advancing, his shield raised to deflect a blow from somewhere falinign to instead notice the once below. The rebel lunged forward with a knife, finding sweet home under the soldier''s arm, sliding between the seams of his chainmail. The soldier gasped feeling the cold instrustion of steel, his breath coming in short, desperate bursts. "You''ll meet the same end as the tyrants you serve!" the rebel snarled, shoving the soldier backward as he gasped for air, while the soldier barely a boy in his teenage years, frantically held onto his armpit with his hand trying to stop the bleeding in a fruitless endeavor with tears growing into his eyes. The prince''s soldiers were not silent in their rage too, returning fire with their own taunts and curses as they hacked whatever was in front of them. ''''Die bastard!" one of them roared, plunging his spear into a rebel''s chest, protected only by padded leather which proved to be of little resistance against the iron of the spearhead. Following that he then spitted onto the gutted man''s face, before keeping on moving forward. Another swung his mace with all his might, knocking aside a defender''s blade by breaking the bones in the man''s hand , and then with another swing, striking directly at the helmet with a sickening crunch. "You''ll pay for every village you burned, you filthy cowards!" he growled as the rebel collapsed at his feet, blood going over his eyes as he swayed around before falling lifelessly. And so the fights for the ditches became a deadly bottleneck where neither side could gain a clear advantage. It was like a sea of bodies moving around, each second passing claiming more and more lives in what would prove the most bloody environment that most from be it rebel or loyalist would ever lay eyes upon, their ears overwhelmed with the clash of metal, the screams of the wounded, and the taunts of men desperate to break their enemy''s spirit before the opposite could happen. Chapter 335: Storming the trenches(3) Chapter 335: Storming the trenches(3) At the base of the hill, the remaining 350 footmen stood in disciplined ranks, their shields locked and spears resting at the ready. They watched the battle above with tense anticipation, their eyes darting between their comrades locked in combat and their prince''s heir, Arnold, who sat atop his warhorse, surveying the scene with all the calm detachment he could muster. Arnold''s armor gleamed in the sun,as his sharp gaze moved across the hilltop, taking in the stakes and trenches where his men fought fiercely against the entrenched rebels. The clash of arms and cries of battle drifted down the slopes, but after an hour, the lines on the hilltop remained largely static. No decisive ground had been gained or lost, though the mass of bodies showed proof that it certainly was for no lack of trying, as the man fighting within it were having the worst time of their life The young lord brows furrowed beneath his helm as doubt crept into his thoughts. Perhaps the men at the front had grown too fatigued. Or perhaps the defenders had simply fortified too well. Either way, the assault showed no signs of breaking through, but instead stagnated at the top, which meant that they were having the worse of the fight . He tightened his grip on the reins, the leather creaking in his gauntleted hands. "We may need to swap the lines," he muttered to himself before glancing over his shoulder. He spotted one of his knights. With a flick of his hand, Arnold summoned him. "Ride to the lords commanding the front," Arnold said, his voice calm but firm. "Order them to begin an orderly retreat. Have their men pull back in good form. We''ll reform and reassess as the second line take their palce in the attack." The knight nodded sharply, his expression unreadable beneath his visor, and turned his horse toward the steep incline. Arnold watched as the knight spurred his mount up the hill, and sighed. Time and patience were as much weapons as swords and spears in battle, he reminded himself as thinking that they could just easily break through the fortification was a foolish idea. Something must be done to break the status quo. ---------- At the top of the hill, the battle raged fiercely, swords clanging against shields and cries of pain and fury filling the air. Suddenly, amidst the chaos, the booming voices of knights¡ªtasked with leading their lords'' levies¡ªrang out over the din. "Fall back! Fall back in formation!" they bellowed, their commanding tones cutting through the chaos, the soldiers closest to him , hearing the command , immediately started repeating it while obeying. While those at the back had no problems following the order,as they were far away from the fight, the soldiers, deep in the thick of combat, hesitated, their weapons still locked with those of their enemies,. After all since they had jumped in, it certainly was not easy to go to the other side as they effectively had to jump from the low ground , while showing their back to the enemy.Some did not even hear the order, confusion flickering in their eyes as they saw their comrades pulling back from the lines.Still, many shields shifted, and men stepped back cautiously as the air around them changed. "Fall back now! Keep your formation!" the knights that served as minor commanders shouted again on top of the horse behind the line of men fighting,of course far away from it , as they would never enter the fray as a footmen, for that was not a role that nobility could serve in. Theirs was the honor of leading the charge from mighty steed, not to grovel in the dirt as peasants . Returning to the fight , soldiers inside the bloody trenches jumped back from the edge of the fortifications, retreating from the spears and axes that had been bearing down on them, which were still dangerously close to their turned back. And in fact as they turned to flee, their exposed back proved to be too good of an opportunity and too tempting to ignore. A desperate soldier tried climbing over a trench, foot atop the ground as he pushed himself with his army, only to be caught mid-air by a spear thrust upward, piercing back and reaching the lungs , his body soon crumpling into the dirt with blood filling his mouth . Another who tried to run , with his shield limp at the side , was quickly cut down by a rebel wielding an axe, who let out a triumphant roar at the sight of the unmoving enemy. Soon other cries rose, not of triumph, but of pain echoed as rebels claimed those too slow to leave combat. And so as the enemy soldiers began to fall back down the hill, a roar of elation rose from the rebels holding the trenches. "They''re retreating! They''re running!" shouted one man, his voice breaking with a mix of exhilaration and exhaustion. Others echoed the sentiment, thrusting their weapons into the air triumphantly. The sight of the enemy turning their backs was too much for some to resist, and a group of rebels clambered over the stakes and out of the trenches, determined to chase the fleeing foe. "Let''s drive them down the hill! Finish them off!Let''s avenge our comrades " one cried, already bounding forward with reckless enthusiasm. But before their pursuit could gain momentum, a thunderous voice rang out from behind them. "Stop! Hold your ground!" Inor''s voice boomed, cutting through the chaos. "Do not pursue!Stand your positions" Most of the rebels froze mid-step, glancing back toward their commander. A few clicked their tongues in frustration, muttering curses under their breath, as they did not understand why the could not pursue the routing men "Why the hell do we have to stay put?" one grumbled, reluctantly stepping back into the trench. "We could''ve had them." Still, the authority in Inor''s voice left no room for argument, and the majority obeyed his command as his authority was still unquestioned within the camp, their bloodlust simmering down to grumbling compliance. However, a dozen or so rebels, emboldened by adrenaline, ignored the order perhapse not having heard of it or simply having decided to act on their judgment, they continued down the hill, weapons ready. As they moved forward, they quickly realized they were alone, their comrades having fallen back. The vastness of the open space before them and the sight of the enemy reforming at the base of the hill struck them with sudden nervousness. One man slowed his pace, who had not heard the order tightened his grip on the sword as he glanced around. "Where is everyone?" he muttered, his voice trembling slightly. Realizing their isolation, the small group hesitated, then turned and scrambled back toward the safety of the trenches, their earlier bravado fading with every step. The others watched in silence, their bloodlust now tempered by that feeling of awkardness -------------- Arnold sat tall on his horse, the sunlight gleaming off his polished armor, a satisfied smile playing across his lips as he watched the scene atop him, more exactly on how some of them had ventured out of their positions before going back. His eyes shifted from the retreating soldiers up the hill to the enemy trenches, still bristling with defiant fighters. The earlier exchange had proven to him what he suspected¡ªthey still could work with they had, all they had to do was give a bait for them to bite on. Turning to the nearest knight after quickly developing a general plan, Arnold gestured sharply with his gauntleted hand. "Send in the second line," he ordered, his voice calm but commanding. "Infantry forward. Archers behind them. When they get within range, the infantry will halt and shield the archers as they unleash their volleys." The knight saluted with a quick nod and rode off to relay the command. The second line, comprised of fresh footmen, began to advance. Unlike the first wave, there was no rush or confusion; this movement was measured, deliberate. The infantry marched steadily, shields raised, their weapons glinting as the sunlight caught their polished steel. Behind them, the archers followed, their quivers brimming with arrows. "Hold your ranks!" barked one of the knights, riding alongside the formation. "Keep it steady!" The sound of boots stamping in unison reverberated through the air as they moved. Atop the hill, the slingers had already resumed their positions, their arms a blur as they spun their slings in practiced arcs. The steady whirring sound of the spinning leather straps filled the air before the stones were released with deadly precision, arcing high before descending onto the advancing enemy, just as before. The hail of stones battered the shield wall of the infantry below, the blunt impacts thudding against wood. The infantry, now advancing steadily, bore the brunt of the assault, their tight formation shielding the archers marching behind them. Shields braced overhead and forward, the soldiers grimaced as stones rained down, denting metal and bruising flesh beneath armor, but still not killing them . Some stumbled but quickly regained their footing, their discipline unbroken as they continued the advance . "Hold the line!" shouted one of the knights leading the advance atop his horse from the back. "Protect the archers!" The archers, soon reached their designated range. They quickly took up their bows, pulling arrows from their quivers in smooth motions. Nocking the shafts, they aimed high, their eyes squinting against the sunlight as they calculated the range. "Loose!" came the command. The archers released in unison, and a hissing sound filled the air as the arrows soared upward in a deadly arc. ''''Too much!'''' A footment shouted ''''Too far!'''' raised another "Adjust your range!" barked another as he peered over his shield. "You''re overshooting!" "Shorter! Aim shorter!" another called, pointing toward the tighter clusters of rebels hiding just behind the stakes, unseen however by the archers who stood behind the lines of infantry The archers quickly adjusted, their next volley angled to fall more or less where the enemy defenders crouched. Again and again, they loosed their arrows, each hailstorm more precise than the last, their deadly rhythm coordinated by the shouts of the infantry in front. As the hail of arrows descended from the sky, the once-calm determination of the women slingers gave way to panic. Screams tore through the air as the sharp tips of the enemy''s volley found their marks. One woman clutched her arm, blood streaming from a wound, while another collapsed with an arrow lodged deep in her side. The chaos spread like wildfire, breaking their formation as some instinctively tried to shield themselves with their arms, futile against the rain of death. They had no armor, nor shield to take cover in , as such as soon as the arrow fell they broke. "Fall back! Fall back now!" Inor''s voice thundered across the hilltop, simply wording what the women were already doing . Tears mixed with dirt streaked their faces as they moved, some helping the wounded while others stumbled in their haste to escape the lethal arrows. Inor watched them go before turning his focus to the infantry. "Hold the line!" he roared. "Shields up and crouch! Protect yourselves!Occupy the trenches!Don''t let any pass through" The infantry responded instantly, falling into formation. Shields were raised overhead, overlapping into a makeshift roof that deflected the incoming volleys. The metallic clang of arrows striking shields filled the air, mingling with the muffled grunts of men bracing against the force of the impacts. It was a good shot that made by Inor, for as soon as the infantrymen saw movement atop, they slowly started advancing taking advantage of the fact that those still on the trenches would be too much preoccupied with not getting shot rather than stand in their pre-chosen ground between the stakes. "Stay low!" shouted one of them, unknowingly proving the enemy right "Let them waste their arrows!" Above them, arrows continued to rain down, glancing off the sturdy shield wall or embedding themselves into the earth harmlessly, as the enemy slowly made their way atop. Chapter 336: Storming the trenches(4) Chapter 336: Storming the trenches(4) The stand off continued for a few more minutes, with the archers emptying the quivers all of their arrows, before the infantry advanced forward to actually enter battle with the rebels. Their boots pounded against the earth as they neared the trenches. As they reached the trenches, the stakes once again slowed their approach. Soldiers in the front lines hacked at the obstacles with axes, splinters flying as the stakes gave way under the assault. Behind them, others pushed forward, stepping over the broken barricades to close the distance with the rebels. The defenders met the attack with fierce resistance. Spears thrust from behind the cover of the trenches, jabbing at exposed throats and faces. Axes swung downward, cleaving into shields and arms alike. Swords lashed out in the chaos, clashing against armor with resounding clangs. One soldier, climbing over the jagged remains of the stakes, was yanked into the trench by a rebel wielding a scythe. He screamed as he was dragged into the fray, disappearing into a throng of stabbing blades. "Push forward! Take the trenches!" a knight in shining armor shouted from the rear, his voice carrying above the chaos The prince''s soldiers surged with renewed ferocity, using their shields to batter aside the defenders'' spears. They leaned into the fight, slowly advancing step by brutal step. Blood stained the ground as men fell on both sides, their cries of pain mingling with the grunts of exertion and the taunts hurled by the rebels. "Come on, you dogs!" one rebel shouted, thrusting his spear into the chest of an advancing soldier. "This is where you meet your end!" But the weight of the assault was overwhelming. The sheer number of attackers forced the defenders back, inch by bloody inch, until the trenches became a chaotic melee of flashing steel and desperate shouts. The second wave of Arnold''s soldiers proved far more seasoned than the first. These were not green levies recruited on the way , but men who had seen war before and were lucky enough to survive military disaster after military disaster. Unlike their predecessors, they didn''t hesitate or falter; they moved like a machine, battering aside rebels with shield and blade. The trenches, once the defenders'' strongest bulwark, began to falter as more and more attackers poured in, forcing gaps in the rebel line. From his vantage point above, Inor''s jaw clenched as he saw the attackers gaining ground. The banners of Arnold''s forces waved defiantly near the breached trenches.He turned to a nearby runner and barked his orders. "Send in the reserves! Now! Tell them to reinforce the trenches or we''re done here!" The runner nodded and sprinted off. Moments later, a fresh wave of rebels began streaming toward the front lines. Farmers turned fighters, herders and huntsmen, their faces hardened with resolve, swarmed down from the hilltop fortifications, throwing more bodies to the meat grinder. The trenches became a maelstrom of chaos as the reinforcements poured in. Rebel soldiers rushed to reclaim lost ground, vaulting into the narrow earthen defenses with weapons raised. Swords clanged against spears; axes swung in devastating arcs, shattering shields and biting into flesh. A young rebel carrying a sword leaped into the fray, slashing wildly at a knight who was shouting orders. His first strike glanced off the knight''s shield, but his second found its mark, slicing a gash in the knight''s thigh. The knight fell,unfortunately for the young fightier, he was quickly swarmed by two enemy soldiers, who cut him down where he stood, preventing him from finishing the kill. After a quick self-check noting the gash not to be too deep, he kept on fighting helped on his feet by the men who had saved him, keeping close to him, knowing that by the end of it all they could be in for a reward, as they had just saved a member of the low nobility who was also courageous enough to jump in the fray. Returning on the battlefield, there was a back and forth. Men grappled in the mud, clawing and stabbing, their cries of agony and fury filling the air. The trenches were a chaotic mess of bodies, blood, and steel as both sides fought tooth and nail for control. Inor''s reinforcements, bolstered by sheer determination and the need to protect their lives and families, managed to stall the enemy''s advance. But the second wave, seasoned and relentless, held firm, pushing back with every inch they gained. The archers, having expended all their arrows, slung their empty quivers aside and unsheathed the short swords and daggers at their sides. These men were not trained for close combat, but the desperation in their eyes showed they knew there was no alternative. "To the trenches!" the knight leading them bellowed leading the charge and entering the fray with his men One archer, a lean man with a fresh gash across his forehead, leaped into the melee. He ducked beneath the wide swing of a rebel''s axe and thrust his dagger upward into the man''s gut, twisting the blade before yanking it free. The rebel fell with a guttural moan, and the archer turned to find his next target. Another charged shoulder-first into a rebel who was grappling with an infantryman. The impact knocked the rebel off balance, and the archer drove his short sword into the man''s neck "Push them back!" one of the infantrymen shouted, his shield splintered but still holding firm. The archers formed into loose groups, covering one another as they moved through the chaos. A particularly bold archer climbed onto the edge of a trench, only finding however a spear waiting for him, quickly finding its mark on his neck. Blood sprayed as the man collapsed down, another victim of the hundreds of that day. While in a battle , commanders would always make sure that their troops remained in formation to give some resemblance of order to the engagement and understand the flows of the battle, right now there was none of that nonsense. Commanders'' orders were drowned out by the cacophony of clashing steel and guttural screams, leaving each man to fight for his survival in the cramped five-meter-wide trench, whatever order was given the men would follow their own, kill the enemy before the enemy kills you. Spears, once the pride of the infantry, lay abandoned in the mud¡ªtoo unwieldy for the brutal close quarters. Men wielded whatever they could find: axes hacked through armor and flesh alike, short swords jabbed mercilessly, and daggers slashed and stabbed, as the man holding it watched the life goes away from the eyes of another men. The trench had become a maelstrom of bodies, where shoving, punching, and clawing were just as effective as any weapon. One soldier pinned another to the ground, his hands tightening around his opponent''s throat. Before he could finish the job, a dagger plunged into his neck from behind. His grip faltered, and he collapsed with a wet gurgle. The man who had stabbed him glanced down briefly, his bloodshot eyes filled with weary malice, but there was no time for relief¡ªan axe swung down at him, narrowly missing as he rolled away into another tangle of bodies. In the chaos, it was nearly impossible to distinguish friend from foe. Without banners to guide them and no clear difference in armor or attire, the only certainty was this: anyone in front of you was the enemy, and anyone behind you was an ally¡ªfor now. On occasion, two men would find themselves hesitating, blades raised but unsure if the other was friend or foe. Their eyes narrowed, their breaths heavy as they sized each other up. A quick, shouted question¡ª"Who do you serve?"¡ªwas enough to break the spell. As soon as the answer came, one lunged forward while the other retaliated, their hesitation giving way to the raw, animalistic need to kill or be killed. The trench itself seemed alive, churning with the chaos of the melee. Bodies fell only to be trampled underfoot, and the mud grew slick with blood. Like a demon calling for the sacrifice of more, relishing in the pure bloodshed happening there, the red mixed in the dirt being the carpet from which he would walk on and the dead bodies being the bricks of his throne. The air reeked of sweat, iron, and death. In the madness, camaraderie and enmity blurred, but one thing remained clear: survival demanded ruthlessness, and the trench showed no mercy to the faint-hearted. The sun climbed higher in the sky, its relentless heat pressing down on the battlefield. The clash of steel and the screams of men continued to echo from the trenches, but from the base of the hill, it was an indecipherable cacophony. Two hours had passed since Arnold had sent the second wave, and his patience was wearing thin. Arnold sat astride his horse, its polished armor gleaming in the sunlight, though the prince''s heir looked far less composed. His jaw tightened as his gaze fixed on the ridgeline where the trenches lay, the smoke and dust obscuring any view of the fighting. At last, he turned to Lord Cretio, who stood at his side, wiping the sweat from his brow. "My lord" Arnold began, his voice clipped, "do you have any sense of what''s happening up there? Anything at all?" Cretio hesitated, glancing toward the hill as if straining to see through the haze. His expression betrayed his unease. "Not much, Your Grace. From what we''ve seen, the second wave managed to breach the trenches, but beyond that..." He gestured vaguely with a gauntleted hand. "I couldn''t say. It''s chaos in there. No runners have come back, and with the fighting so dense , it''s impossible to say what is going on" Arnold''s frown deepened. "So we''re blind, then. No way to tell if they''re holding, advancing, or being slaughtered?" "Blind for now, yes," Cretio admitted, his tone cautious. "But the fact they''ve lasted this long might mean they''re holding the trench. At the very least, they''re keeping the enemy occupied. If the rebels had regained full control, I suspect we''d seen our lines much behind" "My lord," Cretio began, voice steady despite the tension in the air, "are we to proceed with the plan? " Arnold considered the question in silence for a moment, his gaze fixed on the hill where the battle raged unseen. The faint clang of steel and the cries of men drifted faintly on the wind, mingling with the crackle of fire and the distant roll of drums. At last, he leaned forward slightly in his saddle, his expression cool and calculating. "Our current state favors us more than you think," Arnold said, his voice low but firm. "Let them fight it out in the trenches, Cretio. Let the blood run high between the two forces'''' Cretio frowned, shifting uncomfortably. Arnold cut him off with a sharp gesture noticing his displeasure . "Half an hour," he said decisively. "That''s all. Let them stew in their struggle for another thirty minutes. Then, we''ll give the order to for them to go ahead with the plan.Get the cavalry ready, I want everything to fall under one fast swoop'''' Chapter 337: Storming the trenches(5) Chapter 337: Storming the trenches(5) As the hours dragged on, the struggle for control of the trenches remained locked in a brutal stalemate. Neither the rebels nor the Herculean soldiers could claim dominance, as the battle devolved into a relentless back-and-forth of vicious hand-to-hand combat. Any semblance of order or formation had long since dissolved, replaced by chaotic skirmishes that raged along every stretch of the blood-soaked frontline. Men fought like cornered animals, wielding whatever weapons they could manage in the narrow confines of the trenches. A Herculean soldier slammed his shield into a rebel''s chest, sending the man falling backward into the mud. Before the rebel could rise, the soldier drove his shortsword downward, impaling the writhing figure. He barely had time to wrench the weapon free before another attacker lunged at him, an axe whistling through the air. The Herculean barely managed to duck, the blade grazing the top of his helmet with a metallic screech. "Is this what you call rebellion?" in another section of the trenches a r soldier sneered , stepping forward to deliver a killing thrust with his spear, which he retained during the battle . "My grandmother swings harder than you lot!And she can barely get up from her bed!" Further down the trench, a rebel wielding a axe grappled with a Herculean who clutched a bloodied dagger. The two twisted and shoved against the trench wall, boots slipping on the slick mud. With a grunt of effort, the rebel slammed the Herculean''s wrist against the edge of the trench, forcing the dagger loose. Before he could press his advantage, however, another Herculean thrust a spear through his side, pinning him against the wall like a grotesque trophy. Nearby, a young Herculean soldier locked eyes with a rebel no older than himself. They hesitated for a brief moment, the chaos of the battle momentarily drowned out by their own ragged breathing. Then, almost simultaneously, they charged. Another Herculean soldier, wrestling with a rebel in the mud, managed to slam his knee into the man''s ribs before flipping him over. "This one''s for my brother, you bastard!" he growled, driving his dagger into the rebel''s back. "You think your hill rats can match our steel?" Around them, the cries of the wounded and dying mixed with the clash of steel and the dull thuds of shields and fists. In the chaos, alliances and enmities blurred. Men stumbled over fallen comrades and foes alike, their boots slick with blood and gore as the trenches filled with bodies, the air thick with the iron tang of death. Yet the status quo that was mantained for hours, abruptly changed in a moment overturning everything. The blaring sound of two horns echoed over the battlefield, cutting through the din of battle like a knife. The Herculean soldiers in the trenches, bloodied and exhausted from hours of relentless fighting, recognized the signal immediately. It was the order to retreat. With no hesitation, they disengaged from the rebels perhapse the relief of finally getting away from that hell dictating their actions, shoving back their opponents or throwing punches to create space before turning and scrambling away from the narrow trenches. Men leapt over the stakes and ditches, sliding down muddy slopes, many too weary to even glance behind. Shields were held over their backs to ward off strikes as they retreated, their breaths ragged from exertion. The rebels, who had been locked in brutal combat for what felt like an eternity, were momentarily stunned. The sight of their enemy breaking away spurred a primal instinct. "They''re running!" one rebel shouted, his voice filled with exhilaration. "After them!" roared another, gripping his blood-streaked spear tightly as he jumped on the back of a fleeing man pinning him down. That moment that they had been waiting for so long had finally come, and the glee that came from it was exhilarating The cries of pursuit spread like wildfire through the rebel lines. Without waiting for an instant more , dozens, then hundreds of them surged forward, pouring out of the trenches like a flood breaking through a dam. The relentless pursuit began, driven by both bloodlust and the illusion of imminent victory. Inor stood further up the hill, his face contorted in fury as he realized what was happening. He raised his voice above the chaos, trying to regain control as he did before . "Stop! Hold your ground, you fools!" he bellowed, his voice hoarse with strain. "Get back to the trenches! Stay in formation!" But his commands fell on deaf ears. The sight of their enemies fleeing downhill was too intoxicating for many of the rebels to resist after hours of fighting . Half of his footmen abandoned their positions and sprinted after the Herculeans before Inor could even utter a word, their weapons glinting in the sunlight as they descended the slope in a chaotic wave. Since there were no sub-officers in the rebel army, with the peasants fighting like a mass without close command, there was no proper military structure and the lone voice of a man failed to reach the ears of those charging, which meant that most of them did not even hear the order in their frenzied charge. Inor cursed under his breath and shouted until his throat ceded.It was useless however as the mass of moving bodies in front of him could not be stopped. Gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He barked at the one near him gesturing wildly for those that were still close to restore order. But it was too late. His disciplined formation, painstakingly maintained for hours, was unraveling before his eyes. ----------- The Herculean soldiers, weary and battered, stumbled down the slopes in a desperate scramble for their lives. Their once-disciplined lines had dissolved into chaos, each man for himself as survival became the only goal. Some threw away shields to lighten their load, others discarded broken weapons, their breaths coming in sharp, panicked gasps, made worse by the sight of the enemies pursuing . The uneven terrain made every step treacherous, sending many tumbling to the ground, only to claw their way back up and keep running. Behind them, the rebels charged like a pack of wolves, emboldened by the sight of their enemy''s disarray. Their shouts filled the air, a cacophony of jeers and threats. "Run faster, cowards, or we''ll catch you!" "Leave your armor! It''ll save us the trouble of prying it off your corpses!" One Herculean soldier, his face pale with fear, tripped over a root and fell hard onto the dirt. A rebel was on him in an instant, driving a spear into his back. The dying man let out a strangled cry, his body convulsing before going still. "Too slow, dog!" the rebel spat, yanking his weapon free and laughing as he sprinted after the others. Further up, another Herculean, clutching a wounded arm, limped desperately toward safety, only to be overtaken. A rebel with a bloodied axe raised it high and brought it down with a brutal swing, cleaving into his exposed neck. The body crumpled to the ground, lifeless. The rebels charged downhill, their focus entirely on the fleeing Herculean soldiers before them. They were intoxicated with the thrill of the hunt, their vision narrowed to the backs of their prey. Their yells and taunts echoed across the valley as they gave no thought to the terrain or their surroundings, failing to see the trap they were falling into. Suddenly the dream turned into nightmare, a distant shout broke through the chaos. "Enemies!" a voice cried, sharp and panicked , a lone one, a singularity among the massess of gleeful faces. Nonetheless the rebels turned, their momentum faltering as they looked to their left. Emerging from the tall grasses and thundering across the plain was a line of horses, their riders clad in shining armor, lances gleaming under the sun, making them face that forces that many of their comrades in the other part of the princedom, faced and were shattered by. The earth trembled beneath the charging cavalry, a deep, rhythmic rumble that sent chills through even the most fearless among them. "Cavalry! Cavalry!" came the frantic screams, spreading like wildfire through the rebel ranks. Panic erupted as the bloodthirsty mob realized their folly. They scrambled to get out of the way, shoving one another aside in a desperate bid to avoid the oncoming knights, making no attempt to stand their ground . But it was too late. The riders crashed into the exposed flank like a tidal wave, lances piercing through flesh and throwing men to the ground. The thunderous impact scattered the rebels, many of them screaming as they were trampled under the hooves of warhorses or cut down by the riders'' swords. One man barely had time to raise his spear before a lance punched through his chest, sending him sprawling backward with the frontal half of the wooden shaft of the knight''s lance breaking in front of his eyes. Another turned to run, only to be cut down by a knight''s sweeping blade. If that was not enough the routing footmen coming from the front , were instead swapped with a new line of footmen charging toward them, fresh and rested, and ready to claim bodies. "What''s happening?" a rebel screamed, eyes wide with terror. "We were winning!" "They''re everywhere!" another cried, swinging wildly at an advancing Herculean soldier'''' We are sorrounded!'''' ''''Gods, help us!'''' The rebel scattered among the pursuing forces, struggled to regain control or better yet to understand where to run to, but it was too late. They didn''t realize that what they were witnessing wasn''t a continuation of victory, but the culmination of a bait that dangled on for hours by the enemy general, who after hours of gladly throwing more meat in the grinder, waiting and seeing his numbers dwindling dows, was finally reaping the reward. The initial Herculean retreat had however been genuine, that was in fact not staged, born from exhaustion and fear as the second wave had just went through under the hours of brutal fighting.In fact this was not really a feigned retreat, but a real one .Still the execution resembled a feigned one only because the line of footmen were divided into two, allowing one to retreat while the other took its place. Yet Arnold, observing from the base of the hill, had seen the opportunity that exhaustion offered of both sides . He knew that after such relentless combat, the rebels'' discipline and cohesion would be frayed, their judgment clouded by the thirst for final victory, as would be his. The prince had acted decisively, sending his rested cavalry around the hills to encircle the battlefield dozens of minutes before giving the order to retreat, knowing that the soldiers too tired and finally given an opportunity to retreat would instead route. This however would meant that those that pursued them , once they were outside of their fortified positions would be easy prey for the cavalry as those before them. Once the rebels had taken the bait, and the cavalry clased against the rebel pursuing flanks, he finally unleashed the first wave of soldiers, who had been held in reserve, onto the exposed rebel front. As the knights charged from the flank and fresh infantry pressed the center, the rebels finally understood their error. Their fortified position, their greatest strength, was no longer theirs as they had voluntarly abandoned it walking toward their death . It was total defeat The rebel''s commander, from his vantage point, watched the disaster unfold with a sinking heart. He saw his men slaughtered by the cavalry, their backs turned in their mad pursuit, while others fell in droves as the Herculean soldiers pressed the front. He clenched his fists, rage and despair mingling in his chest, knowing that the battle was lost. Arnold, meanwhile, sat astride his horse at the rear, his face impassive but his eyes gleaming with cold satisfaction. Their lines were shattered, their position forfeited, and their army fractured. The battle was over he had won and with it he could finally return home after dealing with those castles that had been conquered by the rebels. Chapter 338: End of battle Chapter 338: End of battle The rebels who had moments ago been drunk on the thrill of pursuit were now the ones in full retreat. Their cohesion had disintegrated under the relentless onslaught of the Herculean cavalry and the advancing infantry. Panic spread like wildfire, and cries of fear replaced the victorious shouts that had once filled the air. Some rebels tried to flee back toward the hill, but their path was cut off by the Herculean cavalry, who carved through their disorganized ranks with ruthless precision. A knight, his armor splattered with blood, drove his lance through the chest of a fleeing rebel, lifting him from the ground momentarily before the lance broke from impact. Another cavalryman swung his sword in a wide arc, decapitating a rebel whose last scream was drowned in the rush of hooves and steel. Others attempted to surrender, dropping their weapons and raising their hands. Their pleas, however, were met with cold indifference. A Herculean soldier advanced on a kneeling rebel, raising his axe high before bringing it down with a sickening crunch. "No mercy for bandits!" the soldier spat, stepping over the lifeless body to engage another foe. Amidst the chaos, some rebels tried to band together and make a stand. A small group formed a desperate circle, wielding spears and shields, but they were quickly overwhelmed. The Herculean infantry, emboldened by their renewed momentum, pressed in from all sides, hacking and stabbing until the rebels'' meager defense collapsed entirely. Farther down the slope, the second wave of Herculean soldiers that had been in full retreat began to rally. Seeing the prince himself riding among them, his voice booming commands and his presence a steadying force, they turned to face the battlefield once more. "Hold your ground!" Arnold shouted, raising his sword high while pointing at the rebels behind "The enemy is routed! Advance with me, and take back the fight!We have won!Take your due!" One Herculean soldier, his face smeared with dirt and blood, grabbed the arm of a fellow infantryman. "Look!His grace tells the truth" he cried, pointing to the cavalry decimating the rebels. "The tide''s turned! We''ve got them!They are running" The soldiers, emboldened by his words and the absence of pursuing rebels, reformed their lines. The sight of the cavalry devastating the fleeing enemy spurred them further. As they steadied their shields and advanced back toward the trenches, their confidence returned. What had moments ago been a rout was now a renewed offensive. Inor stood atop the hill, his face pale beneath the grime and sweat of the day, his eyes scanning the battlefield below. What had been a scene of brutal combat was now a catastrophic rout. The cavalry and the rallied Herculean infantry were slaughtering the rebels who had foolishly pursued down the hill, and those who remained atop the height were too few to hold any semblance of a front. The lines were broken, men were scattered, and chaos reigned. Looking around, Inor assessed his dwindling forces. The soldiers left at the top of the hill¡ªthose who had not descended in the reckless pursuit¡ªwere exhausted, bloodied, and clearly shaken. The realization dawned on him that there were simply not enough of them to defend the entire perimeter, let alone push back the encroaching Herculeans. He made his decision quickly, his voice cutting through the din. "Break camp! Take what food you can carry and run! Move now, or we''ll all be slaughtered!" A soldier nearby turned to him, his face contorted confusion at the command "Our brothers are dying down there! We can''t just leave them! We need to go and save them!" Inor''s gaze hardened, his jaw tightening. "I told them¡ªrepeatedly¡ªnot to break formation!" he snapped. "They ignored me, and now they pay the price. If you want to save them, go. But don''t expect anyone else to throw their lives away for fools blinded by bloodlust!" The soldier hesitated, there were some friends of his down there, but he also knewthat alone he couldn''t do anything, so for a bit he just stood there watching Inor didn''t wait for an answer. He turned sharply and barked more orders to the others. "Grab what food and supplies you can carry and get moving! Anyone who lingers will be left behind!" Leading by example, Inor strode purposefully toward the camp''s center, his voice carrying over the clamor. "Move! Do not look back! Live to fight another day!" The men began to comply, though many did so reluctantly, their faces shadowed with bitterness and despair. Packs were hastily filled with provisions, tents were abandoned, and carts were loaded with whatever could be salvaged in the short time they had. He knew, deep down, that this was the end. His army, battered and broken, would not stand a chance against the prince''s forces in open battle again. Their numbers had been halved, their morale shattered. Even the hills, which had served as a natural stronghold, were no longer enough to save them. But there was still a way out. Yarzat. Inor''s gaze darkened as he thought of Lucius and Marcus. The two men had been taken into custody under his orders the moment it became clear the battle was lost. He had known from the beginning that if things turned dire, they would abandon the cause without a second thought. They were pawns of someone far more powerful. Inor had his suspicions about who pulled their strings,after all he was not blind to the sight of the banner moving atop the castles they conquered, and if he was right, the two men''s true value lay not in their own skins but in the one they served. If he could use Lucius and Marcus to strike a bargain with their backer, perhaps there was still a chance to save his men¡ªor at least himself ---------------- The triumphant shouts of the soldiers echoed across the battlefield as they surged up the slopes toward the crest of the hill. Their cries grew louder with each step, voices hoarse from hours of battle but now alive with the fervor of victory and the thought of filling their purse. At the summit, the first wave of footmen arrived, weapons at the ready, only to find... nothing. The trenches were abandoned, the defensive lines emptied, and the makeshift rebel fortifications eerily quiet. The absence of an enemy only deepened their sense of triumph; as it meant that the fight was over, and all of them could finally return home, or for those that lost theirs build another one. "They ran! The cowards ran!" shouted one soldier, pumping his fist in the air. "Victory is ours! Herculia reigns supreme!" bellowed another, prompting cheers from those still climbing the slope. "By the gods, we did it!" The soldiers'' voices combined into a jubilant roar, a wave of unrestrained celebration that carried across the hillside. Groups of men thrust their weapons into the air, while others clasped each other on the shoulders, shouting triumphantly, "No more rebels! No more rebellion!I can finally go home!" With their victory assured, the soldiers turned their attention to the abandoned camp. Tents flapped lazily in the breeze, left behind in the rebels'' hasty escape. The weary but ecstatic soldiers, now fueled by the thought of reward, swarmed into the camp like ants to a sugar heap, kicking open trunks and rifling through belongings in search of anything of value. "Check the tents!" one man shouted. "Time to get our compesation!Anything that will fetch us coin!" Unlike the earlier skirmishes against ragged peasants who had nothing but pitchforks and rags,which meant that what they got out of them was nothing, these rebels had been equipped with proper gear. And even if they didn''t find anything worthwhile in the abandoned camp they could still return back to the battlefield and scavenge the equipment of the dead, still many of them decided to bet on the camp of the men they fought, looking around to see if their experiences was in fact or not worth the pay. By pausing to loot the camp, the soldiers knowingly abandoned their chance to chase down the fleeing rebels. With only a half-hour''s head start, the retreating force could have been overtaken if the men had pressed forward. Instead, the allure of abandoned weapons, armor, and supplies proved too great. The moment the camp fell into their hands, the soldiers turned from warriors to scavengers, combing through the spoils like a swarm of ants on a fallen feast. As the day wore on, the jubilant mood of Prince Arnold¡ªwho had just delivered the princedom from the chaos of rebellion¡ªwas tempered by the realization that at least half of the enemy had slipped through his grasp. Victory was undeniable, but it wasn''t as complete as it could have been. Yet, even as his forced went over the hills, a significant portion of the rebel forces had melted away into the countryside, escaping his grasp. What should have been a resounding and total victory now carried the nagging sting of unfinished business. Still, Arnold held his tongue. Though the escape of the rebels frustrated him, he understood why his soldiers had chosen to plunder instead of pursue. They were men who fought not out of loyalty to the crown, but necessity. Poorly paid, if at all they were , their true reward often came from what they could seize after battle. Looting was their unspoken right, their compensation for risking life and limb. Without it, Arnold knew, they would have little incentive to march into battle at all. And so, he kept silent as his men rifled through tents, gathered discarded blades, and stripped the fallen of whatever valuables they could find, reining in his frustration at the thought that his enemies had succeeded in surviving another day. He knew that if he were to deny them this would not only court resentment but might spark outright rebellion among his own ranks. Even a noble prince, Arnold reflected, must bow to the practicalities of command, and led ears to the voices of hundreds armed to the teeth. Typically, in the aftermath of a rout, the cavalry would be unleashed to pursue the fleeing enemy, turning retreat into slaughter. Swift and relentless, mounted knights were the ideal tool for chasing down broken ranks, ensuring no foe could regroup or live to fight another day. Yet, as Arnold surveyed the battlefield and considered his options, he knew this was not a luxury he could afford. With only seventy knights remaining under his command, his cavalry was far too small a force to risk in pursuit. The rebel army, though scattered, still retained enough strength to potentially overwhelm such a small detachment if it rallied. With a heavy heart, Arnold made his decision. The pursuit would wait. The risk was simply too great. For all his skill and success on this day, the lack of a strong cavalry force now revealed the limits of his power, a chain around his ambition that prevented him from grasping the total victory just beyond his reach. Chapter 339: Change of path Chapter 339: Change of path For the last several days, the rebel army had marched relentlessly, pushing their bodies to the brink in their desperate bid to escape. From the first light of dawn until the shroud of night fell, they pressed forward without respite. Only when darkness rendered further progress impossible did Inor allow his men to stop, collapsing onto the cold earth in exhaustion. The few hours of rest they could snatch felt fleeting, a cruel tease before the next day''s grueling march resumed. Through dense forests they trudged, their feet breaking through layers of fallen leaves and tangled roots, it was an hard road to walk on, yet it was to their advantage, as it was chosen to confound any pursuers on horse, as the twisting paths and uneven terrain offered no path for their steeds. Following the defeat, Inor''s heart was dominated by fear. If the enemy had pursued them immediately after the disastrous battle, there would have been no hope of escape. Their head start had been tenuous at best, and the shattered morale of his men would have rendered them easy prey. But that fear, as overwhelming as it had been, had yet to manifest. The expected pursuit never came. Instead of the relentless thunder of cavalry, there was only the rustle of wind through the trees and the occasional crack of a branch beneath a soldier''s boot. It was a reprieve, one that seemed almost too good to be true. He in fact had no knowledge that the reason for which they were still alive, was because the greed of the common soldiers got on the way of Arnold''s total victory Yet even as the fear of immediate annihilation began to fade, a new unease crept in. Inor knew they were not truly safe, not yet. Their path was perilous, and their strength was waning. Every step forward brought them closer to survival but also closer to collapse. At present, the rebel force was staring down another grim reality: their food supplies were rapidly dwindling. What little provisions they carried were all that remained after they had been forced to abandon their supply carts during the chaotic retreat, as they had no way to move fast enough by carrying those carts with them, apart from the fact that they could not push them forward with horses considering the forest they were in. Stripped of wagons and beasts of burden, the men had grabbed only what they could bear on their backs¡ªmeager rations that were now running perilously low. Each passing day brought thinner portions and hungrier stares. Worse Inor could no longer rely from the resources that were weekly brought to him . The fugitives could not afford to stay in one place for long, lest the prince''s forces catch up. This constant need to move, to remain elusive, rendered resupply impossible. The battle had been their best and final opportunity to turn the tide, to strike a blow that would secure their cause a real chance of victory. They had failed. What had begun as rebellion now teetered on the brink of annihilation, as now Inor only thought on how to save as many as his followers as possible. -------------------- Lucius and Marcus trudged along the defeated rebels. Despite still wearing the chainmail and armor they had donned when first arriving in the rebel camp weeks ago, the presence of ten watchful guards trailing behind them made it abundantly clear they were prisoners, not comrades. Lucius glanced down at his armor, clean and polished as if it never saw a day of service, in all fact, this was his only property as soldiers , and it was instilled in them the habit of always making sure that their armors was white-clean , as every week the officers would walk to their tents for inspection. Apparently their prince, as good and caring he was to the man that served him , had an obsession with order, and as a consequence, he made sure that each of his soldiers kept his belongings in his tent in order, citing also what was permitted and what was not. Returning to the subject in hand , Lucius knew why it hadn''t been stripped from him¡ªit marked him as a distinct figure, one not easily mistaken or lost among the masses. Inor had anticipated their treachery from the very beginning, ensuring there would be no easy escape for the two. I underestimated the bastard, Lucius thought grimly. His eyes flicked to a ragged rebel a few paces ahead, the man staggering with his broken shoulder before collapsing into the dirt with a dull thud. No one moved to help him. A few weary gazes lingered briefly on the fallen man before shifting forward, devoid of sympathy. He wasn''t the first to fall, nor would he be the last. The grueling march had taken its toll. Behind them, the forest path was littered with the weak, the wounded, and the defeated¡ªmen who could no longer stand, women clutching their children, and those too disheartened to continue. Many had deserted during the cover of night, slipping into the darkness without resistance. There was no one left with the strength¡ªor will¡ªto stop them. Before the disastrous battle, their numbers had been close to 1,500, with nearly 1,000 fighting men. Now, they were reduced to a shadow of that force. Less than 600 stragglers remained, their spirits as broken as their bodies. The line of marchers stretched thin, each step heavier than the last. This was the closest Lucius and Marcus had ever come to tasting the bitterness of defeat, and it lingered like the acrid tang of mud on their tongues. Since their earliest days as soldiers, all they had known was the intoxicating sweetness of victory¡ªa taste that had accompanied them on every campaign, always served by the hand of their prince to them, accompanied with the sweet allure of a full purse. Yet now,bound to the rebel rabble, that once-familiar triumph felt like a distant memory. Strangely, the sting of defeat didn''t cut too deeply for the two . Their indifference to the rebel was caused by the fact that these weren''t their people, nor was it their fight, in short they did not give two shits about them. Much more stinging was the fact that their escape route had been cut off from them,much more than the loss the rebel just faced. As they trudged along with the defeated rebels, Marcus broke the heavy silence, his tone sharp but low enough not to draw attention from their "escorts." "We should''ve escaped when I first said so," he muttered, his eyes fixed ahead but his voice heavy with frustration. Lucius didn''t turn to look at him but sighed. "Too soon," Lucius replied evenly, though a flicker of regret darkened his gaze. "Until the last hour, we didn''t know how the battle would turn. For all we knew, Inor might''ve pulled off a victory . Running too early would''ve been just as foolish." Marcus snorted, his mouth twisting into a bitter grin as he glanced around at the ragged rebels limping along beside them. "A victory, huh?" He gestured vaguely to the crowd, his gesture dripping with irony. "Well, it looks like we in fact won. I mean, look at us¡ªalive, intact, and oh-so-graciously gifted with these charming bodyguards by Lord Inor himself, to better protect us to make sure we don''t have accidents wandering around his camp, see those hungry stares?How long before they decide that meat is on the table again?" Lucius shrugged, his curly blonde hair falling to his forehead, he hated to admit that Marcus was right not about the meat-thing, but that it was his fault that they were prisoners "You think I don''t know that? That I fucked up? There''s no sense in stirring the pot now that it''s boiling. For now we play along; wait for the right moment." Marcus shook his head, his frustration boiling just beneath the surface. "You always have a ''right moment,'' don''t you? And where has that gotten us? Chained to a dying army and watched by fools who wouldn''t know strategy if it hit them between the eyes." "Worse yet," he continued , loud enough for Lucius to hear but quiet enough to avoid catching the attention of their escorts. "That bastard thinks he can make a deal with him. As if holding us hostage actually gives him something to offer." Marcus scoffed, shaking his head. "We both know it''s not true. We''re not that valuable¡ªnot now that we''ve completed the mission.We were chosen because we were expendable, perhaps we were thought of as sacrifices since the start, and you graciously made sure to carry me here and fasten my descent down onto the five hells. What a great friend I got....with me all the way down." Lucius didn''t reply immediately, instead glancing at Marcus out of the corner of his eye. His expression was unreadable, though there was a flicker of something¡ªannoyance, maybe. He stopped just short of rolling his eyes and finally said in a calm, measured tone, "Stay put." Marcus turned his head to look at him, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. "Stay put? That''s your answer?All of our problem, and just such a simple solution?Wonderful!" Lucius gave him a pointed look, one that hinted at plans not yet revealed. "Our situation isn''t as bad as you think," he said, his voice low and deliberate. ''''Perhaps he already considered this possibility; I wouldn''t cross that option yet. Have faith in him , maybe rescue is on his way." There was a long silence as Marcus studied him, searching for any sign that Lucius might be bluffing. But he saw none. Whatever Lucius had planned, he wasn''t sharing it¡ªnot yet, at least. Marcus finally exhaled, his lips tightening into a thin line as he turned his gaze back to the path ahead. "Fine," he said, the word clipped and reluctant as he trudged forward in silence Chapter 340: Change of path(2) Chapter 340: Change of path(2) The remnants of the rebel army pressed onward until nightfall,as usual. There was no fanfare when they stopped¡ªonly the hollow shuffle of boots over dirt and the muted groans of aching bodies. Without tents, they spread out wherever they could find a patch of ground, hastily clearing spaces for small fires to fend off the cold. Sparks flickered against the darkening sky as groups of men huddled around the flames, sharing what little food they had and muttering in low voices. Lucius and Marcus sat on a fallen log near the edge of one of the makeshift camps, their faces cast in the glow of the nearest fire. They hadn''t spoken much during the march, both lost in their thoughts. Marcus idly poked at the dirt with the tip of his boot, while Lucius seemed to be staring into the flames, his expression unreadable. A shadow fell over them, and one of their watchers stepped into the firelight. His face was grim, and his voice was blunt, short and gruff as that of an old man "Inor wants to see you." The two exchanged a glance, neither surprised. Marcus let out an exaggerated sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Of course he does," he muttered as he rose. Lucius didn''t respond immediately, rising to his feet and brushing off his cloak. He adjusted the sword belt he still wore, though the weapon had been taken away "Let''s get this over with," he said, his tone flat but resigned. Lucius and Marcus were led through the chaotic sprawl of the rebel camp, their guard cutting a path through clusters of men huddled around fires. When they reached the center of the camp, they found Inor seated near a modest fire, his cloak wrapped tightly around him to ward off the night chill. Like everyone else, he had no tent, no luxuries¡ªjust the barest semblance of comfort on the cold, hard ground. Inor rose as they approached, his face gaunt from exhaustion but his eyes sharp and alert. He gestured for them to sit on a pair of logs opposite him. "I apologize for the conditions," he began, his tone measured. "And for the... precautions. I hope you understand that I had little choice." Lucius sat down , folding his arms across his chest as he regarded the rebel leader. "You didn''t drag us out here to apologize. What do you want?" Inor allowed a faint, tired smile to flicker across his face before he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I need you to act as intermediaries. To convey my terms for a safe haven to your sponsor." Marcus gave a derisive snort but said nothing. Lucius''s gaze, however, did not waver. "Quite the plan. But what makes you think we''d do that?" Inor straightened slightly. "Because I''m certain your sponsor has no desire for their involvement in this rebellion to become public knowledge. If I am captured, I will have no choice but to reveal everything I know. I am not so durable as not to confess under torture; of course that would mean painful death for me , so I have no intention of getting captured. Still in the event that it would happen, I''m sure you realize how damaging that would be¡ªnot just for me, but for whoever is behind you. Also your lives are in my hands, so if you won''t do it for the sake of who is behind you, than perhapse you will do it for your own.Until now you have been our guests; I am sure you have no intention of becoming prisoners." The fire crackled softly between them, its light playing across Inor''s weathered face as he continued. "I also have my suspicions about his identity,after all only a fool would trust un unknown hand without more information" he said, his voice lowering just slightly. "The banners flying above the castles we took were... illuminating, to say the least. I''ve pieced enough together to have a fairly clear picture.I mean I would be a fool if I did not." Lucius raised an eyebrow but said nothing "For the sake of all parties," Inor said, his voice steady and deliberate, "I will keep those suspicions to myself, as simple thoughts that my head wondered into. But that discretion depends on reaching an agreement. A safe haven for myself and my people. Nothing more.We want no gold, simply some lands to live the rest of our lives as what we know best, you will have no more trouble from us" The silence stretched between them for a long moment before Lucius finally leaned back, a faint smirk playing on his lips masking the worry he felt inside . "You''ve certainly thought this through." Inor didn''t respond. Lucius leaned forward "Perhaps," he said slowly, "we could start by building a little trust. Relax the watch over us, let us move about more freely. It''s not like we''re in any position to do anything." Inor immediately shook his head, his lips pressing into a firm line. "We both know it is impossible," he said bluntly. Lucius opened his mouth to protest, but Inor raised a hand, cutting him off. "Don''t insult either of us by pretending you don''t have a way to communicate with others . I''ve no doubt you''re resourceful enough to have a method, even here. All I ask is that you relay my intentions. My desires are simple¡ªI want to make a deal. A safe haven. Nothing more.I am sure he can manage something considering what we have done for him" "I''ll need to write a letter," he said curtly, his tone implying that it was less a request and more a statement of fact. Inor nodded, gesturing to a small bundle at his feet. "My people rummaged through your belongings earlier, before the escape. They found some ink, quills, and the things you write on. You can thank me later for my foresight." Lucius rolled his eyes at the fact that people rummaged through his things. Still, once the things were brought to him , he got on the ground as he had no desk to write on. Unfurling a crumpled sheet of paper, he dipped the quill into the ink pot and starting writing Minutes passed, and Inor remained standing nearby, arms crossed, his watchful gaze fixed on Lucius''s every movement. Marcus, sitting a few feet away, occasionally glanced toward his companion but kept his thoughts to himself. Finally, Lucius set the quill down.He straightened, rolling the letter with practiced ease before holding it up to Inor. "It''s done," he said "careful; it''s fresh." Inor took the parchment from Lucius, his fingers brushing over the rough surface avoiding the lines of inks . He turned it slowly, his face unreadable, but there was something in his eyes. He held it up, the dim light of the campfire casting shadows across the uneven lettering. For a long moment, he said nothing, letting the silence stretch until it became almost unbearable. Then, finally, he spoke. "I can''t read," Inor admitted, the words carrying neither shame nor pride. "And neither can my men. Which means that whatever you''ve written here..."¡ªhe held up the letter between his fingers¡ª"...we''ve no way of knowing if it''s what I asked for.You are the keeper of its content alone , I always wanted to know how to read; you know, any men that enlisted and were literate did not even go near the frontline.But worked in the logistics" Lucius stayed still, his gaze unwavering, though his fingers twitched near his knee. He did not like where it was going "So I''ll ask you," Inor continued, stepping closer, his presence heavy, like a storm pressing down on the air. "From man to man. Did you write what I told you to?" "I did," Lucius said evenly, his tone betraying no emotion. Inor''s eyes narrowed, his gaze hard and unblinking staring straight "Then prove it. Read it to me." He crouched down slightly, pointing at the parchment with one thick, calloused finger. "Word for word. And you''ll trace each word as you read it. If you stammer, hesitate, or so much as look up too long...maybe to bullshit words as you read, '''' he thought a little before nodding toward Marcus '''' I''ll have my men kill your companion right here." Marcus''s head jerked toward Inor his eyes wide with disbelief. "Why me?" he blurted ''''What I do?'''' Inor didn''t even glance at him. His focus remained locked on Lucius, as though Marcus''s protest hadn''t even reached his ears. "I''m not repeating myself.I am giving you one last chance to come clean, one last chance to save him. Did you write what I asked?" he said coldly. Lucius shifted slightly, not out of discomfort but to straighten his posture,or perhapse the opposite, his calm demeanor holding even under the weight of Inor''s scrutiny. "I wrote exactly what you asked, word by word," he said. "Good," Inor replied, his voice still low but carrying the edge of steel. "Then read it. Prove it , and as you do know that you are the keeper of your little friend''s life and you have just betted on it ." Marcus, still pale, looked between the two men, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. He opened his mouth as though to speak again, but the look Lucius gave him silenced him. Lucius reached for the parchment, his movements deliberate, and picked it up from Inor''s hand. He glanced at Marcus once, his expression unreadable, then back to Inor. "Let''s get this over with," he said, his voice steady, though the faintest flicker of something, glimmed in his eyes. Chapter 341: Rise of an horde Chapter 341: Rise of an horde The horizon rippled like waves on a stormy sea, but it wasn''t water that stretched endlessly before the city of Al-Kahis¡ªit was horses. A vast, unbroken horde of riders astride their mounts, forty hundred strong, the manes of their horses dancing like dark wings in the arid wind. The sheer mass of them consumed the plains, the grass trampled to dirt, the air thick with the dust churned up by uncountable hooves. It was a sight the city had never witnessed, and the people on its walls stared in stunned silence, their hearts seized by awe and dread. In their long history the saw their villages rided my some horse lords, yet they never saw such numbers, worse they were not here to simply pillage. The one leading them after all had named himself Khan of all Khan. The riders were of course no less merciless than the previous one however. Villages dotting the countryside were left smoking husks, their homes razed, people enslaved, and women raped. Those whose lord refused to bow to the horsemen found their subjects'' fields salted and their wells filled with bodies. From atop the wall of Al-Kahis, the city''s defenders could see their uncountable numbers. The riders themselves sat tall and proud in their saddles, their faces obscured by scarves, their eyes like black coals. Weapons gleamed at their sides¡ªcurved sabers, spears and bows with quivers filled with arrows The horde stopped just out of arrow range, their sheer number pressing against the senses of those watching. It wasn''t just an army. It was a force of nature, a storm that consumed everything in its path, not deigning to spat even the grass out, used to let their steeds feed themselves. Three weeks ago, the Sultan of Azania, adorned in the splendor of his station and astride his finest steed, had ridden out to meet the horde in battle.The son of their god, finally riding to put an end to the countless horses that ravaged their land. Yet faith crumbled in the face of reality. The Sultan''s armies, proud and mighty, were swallowed whole by the sheer ferocity of the horde. When the dust settled, the Sultan was nowhere to be seen. Yet soon the news of his fate was carried by the winds itself, with the Great Khan being its messanger, his towering lance bearing the severed head of the Sultan. The great trophy swayed with every step of the Khan''s steed, unmistakable to all who laid eyes upon it. The beard, carefully combed even in death, the high-arched nose¡ªfeatures so familiar to those who had once bowed in reverence to their Sultan. The sight of it broke the will of city after city, and lord after lord. Nobles who had shared wine with the Sultan, who had knelt in his court, could not deny the truth before them. Their god''s chosen had perished. To every city in his path, the Khan sent his demands. Two things were required for the gates to remain standing: women, to sate the riders who hungered after their conquests, and gold, to swell the Khan''s coffers and proclaim his dominion. Those who hesitated were made examples, their walls crumbled, their people quartered by horses and whoever was alive was made their slaves And so, the shadow of the horde stretched ever closer, devouring the plains, the villages, and the pride of those who had once stood defiant. Luckily for the citizens of Al-Kahis, their lord was a man of pragmatism and survival, unburdened by the arrogance that had led others to ruin. When his eyes laid on the Sultan''s head, impaled upon the Khan''s lance, he did not hesitate to act. Gathering his most trusted retinue, he rode out to meet the horde, not in battle but in surrender. At the edge of the plains, before the thunderous assembly of forty thousand riders, he dismounted. With trembling hands and a bowed head, he presented his offering: five thousand young women, their veils concealing tear-streaked faces, and five chests brimming with gold and silver, their contents a glittering testament to submission. The Great Khan, atop his black warhorse, watched impassively as the lord knelt before him. A silence hung over the plains, broken only by the restless snorting of horses and the whisper of the wind. Then came the pronouncement: the lord of Al-Kahis was now a tributary of the Great Khan, spared the wrath of the horde in exchange for his offerings. As the decree was given, the riders erupted into a deafening roar, their war cry, "Ashalah-Ashalah!" surging like a tidal wave over the plains. The sound echoed across the land, drowning out all other noise and sending a shiver of dread through the city''s inhabitants. Dozens of similar encounters played out across the plains and deserts of Azania. Wherever the horde''s shadow fell, the story repeated itself except for a few exceptions that were made as example. City after city bent the knee, offering up their daughters and their treasures in desperate bids for mercy. By the end of the campaign, the Khan''s riders could boast of enough spoils that each man could easily claim two brides, their tents swelling with the wealth of a hundred conquered towns. But for all the gold, silver, and women that flowed into their camps, these prizes were not what truly drove the Great Khan Oghulai. His ambitions stretched far beyond the fleeting spoils of war. What Oghulai sought was not mere plunder but dominion. He was not just the leader of a warband, sating the transient hunger of his warriors; he was a visionary conqueror with a singular purpose. Where his countless predecessors had stolen riches, Oghulai stole land. With each city that surrendered, with each lord that groveled before his lance, Oghulai wove allegiances. The lords of Azania, men once sworn to the Sultan, now swore their fealty to the Khan. And as the campaign reached its zenith, Azania¡ªlong a formidable thorned apple standing against the advance of the horse-horde¡ªnow lay stripped of its defenses, ripe for the taking. Oghulai did not merely seek to break the land; he sought to reshape it under him. The southern states, once thriving as bastions of defiance and commerce, became the first morsels of the Khan''s feast. Like the edges of a great piece of meat, they were bitten away, their people subjugated, their cities swallowed into the newly growing empire. For Oghulai, this was not just conquest, it was the calls for all of his brothers across the Stepps that now had a home that they could claim as theirs, as long as they went and serve its ruler, Oghulai. The land, the lords, and the people were no longer Azania''s . They were now the Khan''s, a new order that effectively plunged the whole western continent into the shades of total war. The Khan responsible for all of this , Oghulai , was a man whose very presence demanded reverence and fear. In his late fifties, his body bore the marks of decades spent in the crucible of the lawless abyss that was Bairthai. The brutal region, a realm where survival was both an art and a testament to one''s will, had sculpted him into something more than a man¡ªa living embodiment of the horde''s indomitable spirit. He never knew peace, inaction for him was poison, violence was his only knowledge, language, love , hate and care, with blooshed is means to show them. His face was a map of harsh lines and weathered skin, etched by the scalding winds of the steppes and the fierce sun above. A grizzled beard, streaked with silver, framed his jaw like the mane of a predator. For years, Oghulai had survived in Bairthai''s chaos. By the end of it, he rose as the Khan of Khans, uniting many warring clans, ruthless brigands, and desperate nomads into a singular force, many of course not all, for every clan that bowed to him, two more moved across the stepps after being defeated. His rise was not through birthright or fortune but by the strength of his arm, the sharpness of his mind, and the unyielding force of his will. Now, under his banner, the greatest horde the world had ever seen thundered across the land¡ªa staggering forty thousand raiders bound not just by fear but by a fierce loyalty to their Khan. He himself was at all time sorrounded by warriors, his sons by blood or bond, followed him with a devotion that shook the earth beneath their hooves. Their battle cries echoed like storms through mountains, their thirst drained rivers dry, and their hunger left entire plains barren. But Oghulai''s ambitions were not constrained by the steppes. He was no mere horse lord seeking fleeting victories or transient plunder. What Oghulai sought dominion over something no horse lord had ever claimed: the land itself. He was not content to merely conquer¡ªhe sought to rule. For Oghulai, the lands of the sands were not just prey; they were trophies to be seized and kingdoms to be forged. The legacy he envisioned stretched far beyond the fleeting cries of battle; it was a legacy of power, permanence, and unyielding authority. He was the shaper of empires desire to create a distany that would exist after him and not to simply be one of the many names swallowed by the land of the horses. Chapter 342: Arrival of August Chapter 342: Arrival of August The arrival of August marked a time of universal anticipation, one of the rare occasions when nobles and commoners¡ªtwo groups divided by every conceivable aspect of life¡ªshared a common joy. To the peasantry, who toiled tirelessly in the soil, August was the reward for their labor, the culmination of months spent sowing and tending to the fields. It was the season of the great harvest, the moment when the golden bounty of the earth, grain, would be gathered to sustain their families and communities through the year. For the nobles, however, August was a season of prosperity of a different sort. While the peasants rejoiced in their hard-earned yield, their lords relished the wealth it brought. With the stroke of a quill and the weight of ancient laws, the fruits of others'' labor flowed steadily into their coffers. Their entitlement to the harvest¡ªtypically set at 25¨C30%, which usually changed between lordship and lordship, represented a steady stream of grain or its worth in coin. To the nobility, this was no mere transaction; it was a reaffirmation of their status and privilege which were gods'' given, dressed up in justifications that made their parasitic lifestyle seem not only natural but worthy of admiration. Thus, while nobles and peasants might differ as vastly as two species of men, August united them in a fleeting harmony. One celebrated the yield of their toil; the other rejoiced in the wealth it bestowed upon them. Even so, there was one exception that set a different tone between lord and monarch in this case: the lands directly owned by the crown had much lighter taxation. Here, the taxation of the harvest was capped at 15%. This policy endeared the throne to its tenants, as it allowed them to keep more of their grain to store for leaner times or to sell in town markets without fear of starvation should the following year prove less bountiful. There were two primary methods of taxation: one paid in kind and the other in coin. Nobles often favored coin-based taxation for its practicality in financing wars. Unlike grain, which required the extra step of selling to be converted into usable funds, coinage could be spent immediately. However, both methods came with their own drawbacks. Taxation in coin placed a significant burden on villagers, who were forced to sell their goods to raise the necessary money. This desperation created an imbalance, as merchants, fully aware of the villagers'' plight, would exploit the situation by purchasing their products at prices far below the market value. Furthermore, coin taxes presented an enticing opportunity for corruption; unscrupulous tax collectors could easily skim off more than they were entitled to, as coins were simple to conceal and immensely profitable. On the other hand, taxation in kind¡ªprimarily through grain¡ªoffered its own challenges but was less prone to corruption. Grain was cumbersome to steal and far less lucrative for those looking to pilfer. For Alpheo, the choice was clear. The crown''s wealth flowed abundantly from trade monopolies, providing all the coinage he required. What he truly needed was grain.A decision that also earned him the favor of the peasants living on the crown''s lands. For the peasantry, this system meant they could keep more of their coin and avoid the predatory practices of merchants. Grain taxes, cumbersome though they might be, were a tangible and predictable burden, far preferable to the financial devastation wrought by coin-based levies. Of course , the lighter taxation imposed by the crown wasn''t simply because the princess was generous and the nobles were greedy , as some in the peasantry might have assumed¡ªparticularly in lands recently transferred from noble to royal control, such as Arduronaven and Megioduroli. The truth was more pragmatic and rooted in economic status . While the nobles'' wealth was primarily tied to agriculture, leaving them reliant on ever-higher taxes to sustain their coffers, the crown''s economy thrived on its monopoly over trade. For Alpheo, agriculture was less a source of silver and more a supplement for his plans This distinction gave the crown a significant advantage. Unlike the nobles, who saw no alternative to squeezing their peasants for revenue, the royal treasury swelled with silver from control over key trade goods and lucrative markets. This disparity was not lost on the nobility, who watched enviously as the crown''s wealth grew with apparent ease. Many lords dreamed of securing a piece of that profitable monopoly, their ambitions stoked by visions of silver flowing into their own coffers. Yet, these dreams remained just that¡ªdreams. Alpheo''s recent military successes had proven time and again that the crown wasn''t that weak thing under Arkawatt . The prince was undefeated on the battlefield, a fact that had sobered even the most ambitious of lords. They understood that any rebellion aimed at wresting control of the crown''s monopoly would likely end in disaster. After all, Alpheo had demonstrated the ability to raise an army of 1,300 men without their aid, something that succeeded in putting their foolish ambitions to rest. Of course, no one in the realm greeted the arrival of August with more enthusiasm than the prince himself. Sitting in his grand study, surrounded by shelves of books and maps, Alpheo hummed a jaunty tune under his breath as he leafed through a fresh report from his ministers in charge of taxation. "Grain, grain, grain, it feeds the men, it fills the purse, From field to barn, the kingdom''s nurse!'''' The parchment, marked with tidy rows of figures and neatly inked seals, detailed the total number of bushels collected from the year''s grain taxation¡ªa treasure trove that promised to swell the royal coffers. ''''Grain, grain, grain, golden and fine, Nothing better than it, on this land of mine!" He tapped his fingers in rhythm against the edge of the oak table, his mood buoyed by the figures in front of him. The scribes had outdone themselves this year in presenting the data¡ªclear, efficient, and pleasing to the eye, just like the harvest itself. Alpheo''s lips curled into a satisfied smile as he traced the numbers with his finger, envisioning the bounty flowing from the countryside into the granaries and royal storehouses. Yes, this was his favorite time of the year, especially this one. "Grain, grain, wonderful grain, Fill my coffers, grow my domain¡ª" "What in the world has possessed you?" Jasmine interrupted, looking up at her report, staring him down as if he were a child caught raiding the pantry. "Are you a lovesick minstrel?'''' Alpheo looked up from the scroll in front of him, his grin as wide as the horizon. "Oh, not at all. In fact, I''ve never been more in my right mind. It''s the simple joy of seeing the warehouses bursting with grain again. I swear treating with those merchants to get those grains during the war was even more tiring than leading it, those greedy bastards even inflated the price... " Jasmine raised an eyebrow, leaning against the desk with a smirk. "This is still a new level of domestic bliss for you. What''s next? Poetry about turnips?" Alpheo waved his hand dismissively, his grin undimmed. "Oh, don''t scoff, my dear. These aren''t just idle dreams. We have plans for all this grain this winter." He leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head as though the kingdom''s future were already secure in his grasp. "Plans?" Jasmine repeated, arching an eyebrow. "You''ve shared plenty of plans with me, Alpheo¡ªsome in far greater detail than I ever asked for. So which one are you rambling about this time?" Alpheo leaned forward, his expression growing earnest. "The expansion of the crown''s lands," he began, gesturing with his hands to emphasize the scope of his vision. "Right now, the amount of fertile land under cultivation is just a fraction of what we could be using. The potential is enormous. The problem is people¡ªwe don''t have enough peasants to establish new villages or work those fields. But there''s a solution." Jasmine folded her arms, a mixture of skepticism and curiosity playing on her face. "Go on," she said, clearly indulging him. "We''ll bring in new settlers," Alpheo continued. "People willing to work the land. Of course, simply throwing open the gates and inviting everyone would be a disaster¡ªwe''d end up with famine and chaos. That''s where this grain comes in. With these stockpiles, we can feed them until they''re self-sufficient, long enough for them to cultivate the fields and start producing their own harvests. Once they do, the flow of grain into our warehouses will increase dramatically. And more grain means more resources¡ªmore wealth for the crown, more supplies for trade, and," he added with a twinkle in his eye, "more soldiers we can raise to defend it all in case one of our neighbors tries to get smart on us." Jasmine narrowed her eyes at Alpheo, crossing her arms. "Yeah, I remember you talking about it to me before, yet it was just a general idea the one you showed me. For example, where exactly do you plan to find these people?" she asked sharply. "I trust you''re not thinking of snatching them from the vassal lords. That would spark a rebellion faster than you could say harvest, those are after all their property." Alpheo laughed, waving her concern away with a flourish of his hand. "Do you take me for a fool, Jasmine? I have no intention of undermining the nobles¡ªat least, not like that for now." He winked mischievously, then continued. "No, I want people to come of their own free will. Besides, there''s no shortage of desperate souls willing to trade their old lives for a chance at something better, maybe not here but in other places there are." Jasmine raised an eyebrow. "And where, exactly, are these desperate souls going to come from?" Alpheo leaned forward, his grin widening. " I didn''t spend a fortune developing our navy just to toss silver into the sea for fun. From now on, our interests are moving beyond these shores¡ªto the other continent across the sea." Jasmine''s expression froze as she processed his words. Her eyes narrowed, her lips parting slightly in disbelief. "The other continent?" she echoed, her tone tinged with incredulity. " Have you lost your mind? You want us to treat with those heretics in Azania?'''' Alpheo leaned back in his chair, his smile never faltering as he raised his eyebrows at her. ''''Oh please I am not a fool....what could I possibly get from reaching out to the only nation able to rival the empire?Apart from the uselessness of it , If I was discovered it was certainly sour our relations with our big neighbor in the north, something that I don''t plan on doing yet. Instead we will be taking a cut from Romelian history and have some foederati of our own...'''' Chapter 343: Organizing the expedition Chapter 343: Organizing the expedition Alpheo sat in his study, sunlight pouring through the tall windows and pooling over the stacks of parchment and ledgers cluttering the wooden desk. His steward had just handed him the latest inventory report from the royal warehouses, and Alpheo''s sharp eyes scanned the document with growing satisfaction. "Three thousand six hundred bushels of grain," he murmured to himself, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile. "Five thousand bushels of oats. Four thousand bushels of barley." He leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head and exhaling a pleased sigh. The numbers were better than he''d expected. His diligent oversight of the kingdom''s agriculture¡ªand the crown''s relatively lighter taxation policies¡ªapparently did not weighted down on the total by a lot . Now, the coffers of the warehouses brimmed with the sustenance needed to fuel his next plans. For the first time in months, the path forward seemed as clear and golden as the bushels themselves, no war , no political issues, just him , his reports and the warm air of summer. Alpheo rose from his chair, pacing the room with a bounce in his step, his boots echoing faintly against the stone floor. His mind raced with the possibilities: expanding the crown''s lands, inviting new settlers to cultivate fertile but unused territory. That was the thing that had been bugging around his head, since he had married into the throne. "With this much food stored," he muttered, his tone almost giddy, "I can feed two thousand new settlers through winter until they''re self-sufficient.'''' Of course, he also knew his limitations making sure to not invite too many was of fundemental importance, for he knew the danger of overconfidence and bad preparation. A perfect example of it was the Roman-Gothic war, where the Eastern Romans had accepted to give sanctuary to the Goths . who had been displaced from their lands by the relentless advance of the Huns, it seemed a gesture of both pragmatism and goodwill, as the Goths would receive lands, and the emperor could make use of their warrior with his wars against Persia. However as the first bunch of refugee arrived, it proved immediately to be a disaster. As bad logistics, incompetence of the people overseeing the job, greed, and malice alongside the sheer number of refugees, caused a famine to erupt among the camps. Making it even more daunting, was the fact they were still half of the total number that were still to enter the Roman province of Moesia. Apparently the people tasked with overseeing the camp, instead of despersing them when it came clear that they did not have enough food, they instead got bribed by slave traders, who exchanged rotten dog meat with parents in exchange for the children. When the rest of the Goths were refused entry, given that the Romans struggled with even simply half of their number, they instead invaded the empire. Seeing this, the Romans then tried to slaughter the Goth''s leader at a banquet, but the whole ordeal backfired when one of the Goths leaders escaped and rallied his forces against the Romans, defeating them and rising in revolt. This was exactly what Alpheo wanted to avoid, making sure to invite as much people as his current restrictions would allow to mantain, for the last thing he wanted was to repeat the mistakes that the Romans made. WIth that out of the way Alpheo leaned back in his chair, the rich grain totals swirling in his mind as he tapped a finger thoughtfully against the armrest. Though his heart brimmed with the quiet glee of a plan finally within reach, he forced himself to rein in his excitement as he considered from where he would get these settlers The first hurdle was obvious. Peasants, in the world of nobility and power, they were not merely subjects of a lord but property tied to the lands they worked. To poach settlers from the lands of another lord or prince would be tantamount to theft. Such an act would not only incite the wrath of the local nobility but could also mark Alpheo as a dishonorable rogue among his peers¡ªan invitation to isolation or, worse, retaliation from other princes. To find his settlers, then, he would have to look beyond the borders of his kingdom and those of his neighbors. A pool of willing people must exist somewhere¡ªpeople unattached to the suffocating chains of feudal obligation. His thoughts drifted across the sea, to the distant shores of the other continent. While his navy had been a costly investment, now it seemed it would serve a purpose beyond mere prestige, after all how else would he be moving people across the continent if not by sea? And of course, the choice of where to draw settlers from was paramount. After careful consideration, Alpheo''s gaze turned south¡ªbeyond the borders of the Sultanate of Azania, just south of it . It was a gamble, admittedly, but one with potential. He hated to admit it, but his understanding of the region was woefully incomplete. His knowledge extended only to the most rudimentary details: the area to the south of the Sultanate was dominated by a patchwork of tribes that made their homes in the rugged mountain ranges. Beyond this vague notion, he was in the dark. He knew nothing of their culture, their customs, or even the names of these tribes. To complicate matters further, he didn''t even know if these mountain tribes shared a common language with the Azanians or if they communicated in entirely distinct tongues. This lack of information made the task more daunting, but it also presented an opportunity. These tribes, nestled high in the mountains and distanced from the Sultanate''s main centers of power, might be open to persuasion¡ªor, at the very least, more accessible to an ambitious prince seeking settlers. The initial proposal would be straightforward: an invitation for some mountain tribes to settle in his lands as a vassal tribe. In exchange for autonomy and the right to self-administration, they would pledge to provide levies during wartime and to abide by his overarching laws. However, Alpheo was a pragmatist. If the tribes rejected his offer, he had no qualms about exploring an alternative: purchasing slaves. While not his first choice, it was a practical solution to his immediate need for manpower. After all that was how the europeans and Americans got their slave, they paid the elders of a tribe to go to a war against a neighbor, then afterward selling their prisoners to them in exchange for things such as iron. Fortunately, he possessed something these mountain tribes often lacked¡ªa commodity so vital that it could sway even the most reluctant sellers: salt. Alpheo had in fact made sure to produce salt on his own using the sea to create salt fields, something that he was sure that the tribes desperately needed as they tended to stick to the mountain, which meant that unless they had many salt mines, they were open for business. Alpheo recalled stories of merchants trading salt for its weight in gold with certain African tribes. The logic was simple while gold was used as a simble of power, for rings and necklaces for the elders of the tribes . Salt, however, was a necessity¡ªessential for preserving food during lean years and ensuring survival, as such in the eyes of both Europeans and Africans it was a deal Which in his case would make for a fantastic diplomatic tool. Before proceeding, Alpheo knew the first step was selecting the right envoy. The task required something specific : someone tolerant and open-minded enough not to insult the tribes for any perceived lack of sophistication, yet strong and resolute enough to hold their own during negotiations. The choice was critical, as these mountain tribes, in Alpheo''s estimation, were defined by their martial prowess, which meant that using talks would only bring one so far. Their ability to maintain independence while living on the doorstep of Azania¡ªthe mightiest empire across the two continents¡ªspoke volumes about their strength. Approaching them with anything less than respect would be a grave mistake. Which made those tribes the perfect pick for the prince , for what Alpheo coveted most was not just their numbers or on how much taxes they could pay but their skills as warriors. These mountain tribes, forged in the rugged terrain, likely excelled in skirmish warfare and ambush tactics¡ªa mastery born of necessity in their environment. Such expertise was invaluable to Alpheo, who envisioned integrating their unique capabilities into his forces. His ambition was to mold them into something akin to the Almogavars, the famed light infantry of the old Spanish kingdom of Castile, masters of hit-and-run tactics on foot and uncanny ability to exploit difficult terrain.This however made them more like bandits than proper soldiers, as they were stationed on the border with the Muslims using them to raid and pillage the enemy''s farms even during times of peace. Alpheo saw potential in these tribes to create a similar corps of warriors, versatile and deadly, that could serve as an asset for defensive warfare. Alpheo was also acutely aware of the strategic value in introducing warriors from diverse cultural backgrounds into a region where warfare followed predictable conventions. He admired historical precedents where such integration had yielded remarkable results, none more inspiring than the example of Frederick II of Sicily. Who had extended his protection to the Muslim communities within his predominantly Christian kingdom. In return, he cultivated a loyal and elite force of Muslim archer-infantry. These warriors, with their unmatched skill in precision and discipline, became a cornerstone of Frederick''s military strategy and served as his personal royal guards during the many years of his excommunication There was a distinct advantage to integrating warriors from a different culture into the fabric of a feudal state. Such individuals, often disconnected from the local nobility and political machinations, would rely solely on their monarch for protection, status, and livelihood, which made them extremely loyal if treated well. By standing apart from the entrenched power struggles of the nobility, these warriors could serve as a stabilizing force, answering only to their sovereign. This arrangement not only enhanced the ruler''s military capacity but also provided a reliable counterweight against internal dissent something that Alpheo did not know he would bash his head a lot in the future. Chapter 344: Five-point star Chapter 344: Five-point star Ten knights rode forward at a measured pace, their steeds'' hooves striking the earth with a steady rhythm that echoed through the vast, arid plains. Sweat trickled down their foreheads, not from exertion but from the gnawing tension that sat heavy in the pit of their stomachs. It wasn''t every day that ten men, bound by duty and steel, found themselves tasked with confronting a horde of more than a thousand. The odds were almost laughable, yet here they were, their armor glinting in the sun like fragile scales before a storm. Luckily for them they were not there to fight, though they did not know if it would come to that , after all many time reason and laws bend to the stronger. At the head of the group rode Sir Eryndor the one tasked by Lord Niketas to deliver the ultimatum. He cursed under his breath as his horse trudged forward, dust rising with every step. Of course, it had to be him. Even though it was different he could''nt help but think of Herculia , peasants rose up against their lords and prince. Those whispers of rebellion were unsettling enough, but what if something similar could happen here?Sure they were not peasants and they were not from here, yet they got the weapons.... Eryndor shuddered at the thought, his hand tightening around the reins. Still the man that they were to meet were not rebels; they did not raid around but instead they apparently simply marched around, be it in the south or in the empire. Eryndor''s thoughts churned as his horse ambled forward, his mind thinking about the rumors he had heard. Apparently they were led by a priest, though he did not know the name. They marched from the land of Romelia, passing through village and village conducting mass and sermons. The peasants, in their reverence, called it the Great Procession. The priest''s followers, humble and ragged though they were, called themselves Pilgrims . Farmers along their path were said to offer donations willingly¡ªfood, grain, and livestock flowing into the throng like tributaries feeding a mighty river, sometimes selling everything the had and following him. Even the clergy in the temples they passed, often wary of such movements, had been reported to emerge with offerings of gold, though curiously, the priest had refused such wealth. Instead, the priest had asked for food alone, ensuring his people could keep moving, their bellies full and their faith unshaken. Sometimes where they passed the built churches , helping with work around whenever village needed it , apparently one time the priest even delivered forgiveness to bandits , who swore under the five star to serve him. Other times they simply killed the bandits doing what the lord of the land refused to do. More troubling were the whispers of miracles attributed to the priest. There were accounts of sick children rising from their beds to walk again, of barren fields suddenly yielding. Eryndor, pragmatic to a fault, dismissed such tales as the natural exaggerations of frightened or desperate people. A few coincidences and the seeds of legend were easily sown. To Eryndor , such thing was more dangerous than any blade. As a knight sworn to his lord, he had no time for miracles or divine proclamations. His duty was to ensure that order prevailed, even if it meant confronting this enigmatic leader and his so-called Pilgrims head-on. The first signs of the Pilgrims emerged as a hazy ripple along the horizon, the shimmering air above the dry path blurring the edges of the approaching throng. Eryndor straightened in his saddle, his heart thudding with unease. Beside him, the other knights murmured uneasily among themselves, their eyes narrowing as the details of the procession came into focus. It was not merely a disorganized rabble of peasants trudging forward, as they had expected. At the head of the column were men clad in armor, their polished steel catching the sun with an almost divine radiance. They rode on sturdy horses, their surcoats emblazoned with the Star of the Gods, the holy symbol woven in shimmering thread. The emblem seemed to pulse with an unspoken authority, a celestial mark that set them apart from the common folk who shuffled behind. "By the gods," one knight muttered, tugging at his reins nervously. "They''ve got knights among them? What sort of rabble is this?" "They''re not knights," another snapped, his tone heavy with disbelief. "They must be peasants that looted both armor and horse. No true knight would march with peasants under a priest, actually no man would march behind a eunuch." Eryndor said nothing, his jaw tight as he observed the advancing group. The men in armor rode with an unsettling calm, their posture straight and their expressions serene, though he could feel their eyes on them. Where could they get so many armors, if they were not knight before? The Fanatics knights urged their horses forward, the clink of armor and the rhythmic clop of hooves filling the tense air. They slowed to a halt just a few steps from the priests at the head of the procession. Dust rose in faint clouds around the knights as the Procession also came to a stop, the collective silence of a thousand voices falling heavy over the scene. Eryndor raised his voice, his tone sharp with command. "Who leads this band? Step forward and speak!" The knights exchanged wary glances as the tension hung thick between the two groups. Then, from the front of the priests, a man stepped forward, his movements calm and unhurried. "There''s no need to shout, Sir Knight," the man said evenly with the same tone one would use with a child "I am here." Eryndor''s brows furrowed deeply as he looked down at the figure. This was the leader of the procession? The man before him was short, his head bald and gleaming under the afternoon sun. His frame was thin, almost frail, draped in simple robes that seemed to ripple slightly in the breeze.He had some spooks of a beard , like few grass coming out from the road of stones in the cities. There was no grandeur about him, no physical presence that suggested leadership over such an amount of man For a moment, Eryndor simply stared, his disbelief plain on his face. This man? he thought, scarcely able to process it. The knights at his side shifted uneasily, exchanging whispers that Eryndor ignored. "You," Eryndor finally managed, his voice colored with skepticism. "You''re the leader of this... band?" The bald man gave a faint smile, his gaze steady and unreadable. "I am. And you are the one sent to meet us, I presume?" Eryndor''s gaze hardened as he steadied his horse, the reins in his grip. His voice, though still commanding, carried the edge of tension. "You expected us?" The man before him, the so-called leader of this horde, smiled faintly. His demeanor remained calm, almost indifferent. "I have met dozens of lords walked through their land aiding the people that they forgot about," he replied evenly, his voice carrying a quiet authority. "All marching forward with their demands, with their laws. It would have surprised me if I had not been visited by someone such as yourself. But of course," he continued, his tone shifting slightly, "I am certain you are more than ready to deliver the words your lord has sent you." Eryndor''s jaw tightened, his hands instinctively clenching the reins as he steeled himself. He pushed aside his discomfort, looking down at the thin man before him. "Lord Niketas of Lonsium," he began, his voice steady despite the growing tension, "declares your presence in his lands as a clear transgression of his rights and authority. Your crossing onto his domain, with armed men and¡ª" he glanced over the gathered group "¡ªwith all these people, is a direct violation of his laws." Eryndor shifted his posture, sitting up straighter in his saddle, his tone growing firmer as he continued. "As such, he demands that you turn around and leave his lands at once. Or, if you do not wish to leave, then you will immediately disband this horde and disperse. The choice is yours, but know this: you will not be allowed to continue on your path unless you comply with his command." The leader of the pilgrims met his gaze without flinching. There was no fear in the man''s eyes, no hesitation, only an unsettling calmness that unnerved Eryndor even further. The silence stretched between them, and Eryndor could almost feel the weight of the thousand eyes watching them both, waiting for the priest''s response. The priest''s smile didn''t fade. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, as if considering Eryndor''s words carefully, before speaking with deliberate slowness. "You come here, demanding that we turn back, disband, or leave. I have heard these words before and I will answer as I did then.'''' The priest''s calm gaze lingered on Eryndor for a moment before he spoke, his tone measured and steady. "I will go to your lord personally and defend our case," he said, gesturing slightly toward the procession behind him. "In the meantime, my pilgrim brothers will remain here. They will not molest or harm anyone while we seek a resolution and his blessing to go ahead.We will not plunder , nor break his law, we will simply build churches in villages without one, and aid with whatever problem they may have .That is our temporary mission." Eryndor''s eyes narrowed slightly as he considered the offer. "We will accompany you," he said after a moment, his voice still firm. "But understand this: I can''t promise what my lord will do or decide. Nor if he will even accept to meet you. The priest inclined his head, accepting the warning with a faint smile. "That is enough,and I am well aware of the great plague that befell the men of power,'''' he said simply. Then, with a small bow of his head, he added, "Forgive me, sir knight, for not introducing myself earlier. My name is Elyas, humble brother pilgrim of what many call us the Great procession." Eryndor gave a curt nod, his grip still tight on the reins of his horse, as even though the priest gave himself voluntarly he could not help but feel the eyes of a thousand men looking through him. Chapter 345: Future problem Chapter 345: Future problem In recent weeks, Alpheo''s workload had surged dramatically, leaving him buried in the seemingly endless tide of administrative tasks that came with ruling. The reason for this increase was as joyous as it was demanding¡ªhis wife, Jasmine, was seven months pregnant, her belly rounding with the promise of their first child, with three more months to go before her expected delivery.And honestly Alpheo couldn''t have been more happy as he had always desired to be a father, be it in this or in the last life. For her part, Jasmine had taken to her situation with as much grace as she could muster. While naturally strong-willed and eager to be involved, the court physicians and advisors had insisted she rest for the sake of her health and that of the unborn heir. Consequently, her presence in the throne room had become a rare sight, limited only to those times when petitioners came before the court. The rest of the time, she remained in their private quarters, her days spent in relative repose along the company of her mother and ladies in waiting, who, thanks to a certain man Alpheo was familiar with, were expecting too. This left Alpheo juggling his own responsibilities with those Jasmine would normally share. Administrative reports, trade deals with more and more merchants coming in and correspondences with vassals now occupy nearly every waking hour of his. While he prided himself on his efficiency and focus, even he had to admit the weight of it all was exhausting. In fact, Alpheo found himself envying those simple bastards that sorrounded him, whose tasks were far less demanding. Most of them seemed to spend their days with idle pursuits, drinking or pestering him with trivial matters that only added to his workload, for as a matter of fact they only worked when there was a war. Still, it wasn''t all drudgery for him. From time to time, he allowed himself a reprieve, gathering his companions in his chambers for a few hours of camaraderie. They would share food and drink, their laughter filling the room as they indulged in lighthearted conversation and exchanged jests.Reminding him that even amidst the pressures of governance, there was room for simple joys. It was such moments, that reminded him how lucky he was to count on them, even now with Laedio, who after downing his cup admitted to Alpheo that there was another merchant, a high member of the trade guild who would like to buy a big batch of products, and that would also want to express his greetings to him. Apparently, they always liked to casually meet Laedio before organizing such a meeting, as the news spread that if someone wanted to speak with the prince , then all he needed to do was to give a fat purse to the head of the garrison of Yarzat who would then vouch for him . Useless to say Alpheo was not happy. Alpheo''s brows furrowed deeply , this wasn''t the first time that such situation occured . "Laedio, how many times have I told you to stop this nonsense?" Laedio leaned back in his chair, throwing up his hands with a sheepish grin. "I know, I know, but you should''ve seen the guy! The fat bastard practically threw the purse at me. What was I supposed to do? Felt bad to turn him down." Yet if he thought that it would turn out as the other time he was wrong, as a combination of some things that happened during the day, made Alpheo''s patience run out. His fist quickly slammed onto the table, causing the cups to rattle. "You''re supposed to say no!'''' He shouted in a tone of voice that surprised everybody'''' That''s what you''re supposed to do! This is the last time, do you hear me? The. Last. Time.I won''t allow for such thing to happen again." The room fell into a stunned silence. The others exchanged wide-eyed glances, not daring to speak. Alpheo rarely lost his temper, and when he did, it carried a weight that no one dared challenge. "Laedio," Alpheo continued, his voice low and dangerous, "you have a castle now. A good salary. You don''t need to stoop to this anymore. Stop accepting bribes, or I swear¡ª" "Oh, come on!" Laedio interrupted, trying to keep things light. "What good is being a prince if you can''t help your friends out, eh? It''s just a bit of friendly trade!" Alpheo''s glare hardened, and his voice dropped even further. "Friendly trade? You think this is a joke? Because if I see you pocketing another coin that doesn''t belong to you, I''ll find someone else to take charge of the garrison.There are countless bastards that will drop down and massage my feet to get your position, and believe me, I''ll find you a new job¡ªone much harder and far less comfortable. And don''t worry , I will make sure that there are no bastards that will give you coin as a side hustle" Laedio''s grin faltered, and he raised his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright! I get it. Point taken." "Do you?" Alpheo shot back, his tone icy. "Because it doesn''t seem like you''re taking this seriously. You''re not some two-bit thief, Laedio. You''re the head of my garrison, for gods'' sake. Act like it.What do the soldiers do when they see their captain taking bribes?How does that make me look, that I vouched for you ?" Laedio scratched the back of his head, avoiding Alpheo''s gaze. "I didn''t mean anything by it," he mumbled. "That''s not an excuse!" Alpheo barked. "You''re better than this. Or at least, I thought you were." The tension in the room was suffocating. One of the man at the table tried to stifle a cough, only to earn a glare from Alpheo. Laedio sighed, throwing up his hands once more in defeat. "Fine, fine! I said I get it. No more bribes. You have my word." Alpheo didn''t relax immediately, his eyes still locked on Laedio as if trying to gauge the truth in his words. Finally, he leaned back in his chair, the fire in his eyes dimming slightly. "Good. Let''s not have this conversation again.Because there won''t be one..." The room now buzzed with an awkward tension as Asag, Clio, Jarza, and Egil sat nursing their cups of cider. None of them seemed eager to be the first to speak. The uncomfortable silence was broken only by the occasional gulp or clink of a cup being set back on the table. Alpheo sat at the head of the table, kneading his eyebrows with frustration as he looked at Egil. "Egil," Alpheo began, his tone weary, "how are things at home?" Egil downed the rest of his drink in one long gulp, slamming the cup down for emphasis. "They couldn''t be worse," he declared with exaggerated misery clearly trying to send away the awkard air around the room "That wife of mine¡ªby all the gods, she''s the most boring woman I''ve ever met! And on the bed? Like a bloody log, Alpheo. A log!I saw goats have more interesting fuck than mine with her!" Clio winced, nearly choking on the drink. With Jarza exploding in laughter. Asag, with his sense of propriety intact despite the drinks, gave Egil a sharp look. "Egil, you shouldn''t speak about your wife that way. She''s will be the mother of your children, not some tavern wench." Egil waved a dismissive hand, extending his empty cup toward Ratto, who quickly refilled it without question. "I don''t want a partner. Never asked for one. I didn''t want a wife.You know that." Alpheo sighed, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his temple. "And without a wife, there''s no heir. Without an heir, your house ends. That''s the point, Egil. Or do I need to remind you of basic succession?" Egil let out a loud, unrepentant laugh. "I would''ve put a bastard in charge. At least bastards don''t come with mothers who whine about drapes and embroidery, as long as you throw some coins they are more than happy." Asag groaned audibly, shaking his head. "You''re unbelievable." "Shut up about it, Egil if anyone apart from us hear such talks you will become a laughing joke..." Alpheo snapped, his patience visibly wearing thin. "If you can''t be grateful for your wife, then at least be grateful for the gift I gave you." Egil paused, then with a beaming genuine smile as he raised his newly filled cup. "Ah, yes, that is actually something to be happy about . Now that is something to celebrate! What I need a wife for, when I can lead 200 riders to the end of the world!'''' He said that he downed the cup, as his soldiers increased from 150 to 200. Asag leaned forward, his cup in hand and a wry smile tugging at his lips. "And when exactly will my Third Corps get its due? We''ve been holding the line and then some. It''s about time we see more soldiers." Before Alpheo could respond, Jarza interjected, leaning lazily on the table with a smug grin. "Green recruits like yours? Come back when they''ve seen more than their own shadows on the battlefield. If anyone deserves reinforcements, it''s my First Corps. We''re the ones who routed the Oizenian left flank, in case you''ve conveniently forgotten." Asag bristled, as he thought of a retort , but Alpheo interrupted before the argument could escalate. He burst into laughter, the sound hearty and infectious as he raised his own drink. "You two are like a pair of old hens squabbling over scraps" The room soon joined in his laughter,because at the end of the day they were all friends. Yet, as the merriment subsided, Alpheo''s expression shifted. He placed his cup down with deliberate care and straightened in his chair, his gaze sweeping over the table. The room fell silent, the shift in mood palpable. "Now I hate to be the party pooper," Alpheo said, his voice steady but grave, " especially for such a jovial event , but it''s time we address the elephant in the room. For as we all know in one year we will lose half of our army." Chapter 346: Dealing with the issue Chapter 346: Dealing with the issue Alpheo leaned back in his chair, his gaze heavy as it swept over the faces of his closest friends "Now, I hate to be the party pooper," he began, his voice calm but carrying the weight of what was to come. "But it''s time we address the elephant in the room. By this time next year, we''re set to lose nearly half of our army." The room, already subdued, turned eerily silent. All eyes were on him. Alpheo straightened, his hands clasped together as he explained further. "When I took the throne," he said, "You will recall that I made a promise. A promise to our men. They were to serve for two years, and in return, they would receive land¡ªland to call their own, to work and pass on to their children. For the new recruits, the terms were longer¡ªtwenty-five years, they are still a long way from that . But for those who have stood with us from the beginning, their time is almost up." Alpheo''s gaze grew distant. The enormity of what had transpired since their escape pressed on him like a physical burden. Once, there had been six hundred of them¡ªslaves who had cast aside their chains and dared to dream of freedom, who had followed in the man they believed. They had marched together, fought together, and endured unimaginable hardships. Now, only three hundred and seventy remained. The thought was daunting, almost paralyzing. Nearly half of the men who had stood beside him in their desperate flight to freedom were gone. One in every two men who had gambled everything on this cause was now dead. It would be a lie to say that Alpheo did not care about them, many time he had meals with them, and whenever he marched through the camp of his army, he would meet them sometime and exchange words with them. He thought of the faces, some that he did not remember . Each one had fought for something better, for a life beyond servitude. It wasn''t just numbers or soldiers lost; it was comrades, brothers-in-arms, whose absence weighed heavily on the survivors. "One year," he continued, his tone somber, "is all we have left with some of our most seasoned fighters. Come December of next year, for every ten men we have in the ranks, four will retire with the land they were promised." Alpheo''s words hung in the air like a dense fog. He glanced at each face in turn, gauging their reactions. It wasn''t just the loss of brothers that concerned him, as the statemen in him had to look past it , it was the loss of veterans, men who had forged the backbone of his forces. Their absence would create a void not just in numbers but in experience and morale. Alpheo leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table, his expression firm. "Before anyone gets any bright ideas about proposing an extension," he began, his tone brooking no argument, "let me make myself clear. I''m not going back on my word, and I''m not moving the deadline. They deserve their peace¡ªevery single one of them.And it would do no good for the crown''s reputation not to take hold of a promise" The room was silent, the weight of his conviction filling the space. Alpheo continued, his voice steady. "They''ve given everything¡ªrisked everything¡ªfor this. Come December, those who''ve served their two years will get their land. Good land. And they''ll settle down, just as I promised." The others exchanged glances, nodding in agreement. No one dared to contest the decision. Asag was the first to speak, his voice low but resolute. "You''re right. They''ve earned it." Jarza followed with a solemn nod. "They''ve fought hard. They deserve more than just survival¡ªthey deserve a life worth living." Even Egil, ever the jokester, raised his cup in silent acknowledgment. Alpheo leaned back in his chair, his eyes scanning the room as he began to speak. "Let''s face it," he said, his tone pragmatic. "Most of those eligible for retirement will take it. And why wouldn''t they? They''ve earned their peace, and there''s nothing we can do about it.Anyone would like to become landowner after all " He paused, his expression momentarily shadowed. "It''s a big loss. A damn big loss. But that''s the reality we''re dealing with." Straightening, Alpheo let his gaze settle on each of them in turn. "But what really matters," he said, his voice taking on a sharper edge, "are the officers. The men who''ve been through it all, who''ve survived not just battle but the hellish first year of rule we endured. They''re the ones with the experience, the skills, and the trust of their men. Far more valuable than any green knight or pampered nobleman, they already know our tactics, and are fucking amazing at inspiring the men they lead." He tapped the table for emphasis, his expression resolute. "We need them. They''re the brain of our forces, the ones who''ve proven they can lead under fire and in chaos. If we let them all go, we''re starting from scratch with leadership.If we have them we can form up enough recruits to have the same level of skill of before, with the only minus being their lack of experience. That''s not an option, we need them." He leaned forward, his eyes intent. "So, the question is, how do we keep them? Or, failing that, how do we poach them back once they''ve had their taste of peace? I''m open to ideas." The room was silent for a moment, the weight of his words settling in. Jarza leaned forward, his sharp features illuminated by the flickering light of the room. "In total, we have 120 captains under our banner. Eighty of them are Decurions, and the remaining forty are Sub-centurii," he began, his voice steady and calculated. The decurions were effectively leaders of ten men, while the sub-centurii commanded fifty. Five sub-centurii formed a corps, and the army was divided into three infantry corps: two composed of standard footmen, and the third of halberdiers led by Asag. There was also a detachment of 150 archers, but they weren''t counted as part of the formal corps structure. In practice, however, the second corps was often referred to as the first. Both were under Jarza''s leadership, a consolidation that had started as a temporary arrangement. Initially, Alpheo had planned to appoint a new leader for the second corps, but Jarza had proven himself a formidable commander. His ability to lead from the front and his knack for taking on the most dangerous assignments had earned Alpheo''s trust¡ªand the role had quietly become permanent. Alpheo, ever pragmatic, had little issue delegating the riskiest positions to someone as competent as Jarza. Plus much to his glee, such structure had created a sort of rivalry between corpse, something that Alpheo adorated to see as he knew just how uplifting some rivalry between unit was, as after all a thing that a leader should always reward is over-agressivness, the roman being the perfect example of it, as they were true go-getters . Jarza tapped a finger on the edge of the table, his expression thoughtful. "The Sub-centurii," he began, "are the ones we should focus on. They have the experience and they lead larger units¡ª, they are the one that drill them for formation and lead them forward. If we want to keep them from walking away when their term is up, we''ll need to give them something substantial." He glanced around the table before continuing. "Perhaps a knighthood? It doesn''t have to come with land¡ªjust the prestige of the title. Pair that with an increase in pay, and it might just be enough to keep them in our ranks." Alpheo leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he considered the proposal. A small smirk played at his lips. "I had already been thinking along similar lines," he said, his tone carrying a trace of amusement. "A knighthood would work as an excellent lure. It costs us little but gives them something to aspire to. And a pay raise¡ªwell, that''s always a good sweetener. But I''d go one step further." Jarza raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "What if," Alpheo continued, "by the end of their extended service, we offered them something even greater? A small village as a fief, perhaps, after some more years of service. After our recent wars, the crown lands have nearly increased of more than one third , thanks to our work. We could afford to grant a few villages here and there without issue." He paused, his gaze sweeping across the room to gauge their reactions. "The prospect of becoming landed noblemen, even on a modest scale, would be more than enough to keep them loyal. And frankly, it''s better to reward competence with land than to leave it sitting idle. Plus the nobles will keep their mouth shut , as after all those that are being rewarded are veterans officers of the most disciplined force they ever laid eyes on, and if that isn''t worth a knighthood than what is?" With a general clap of end, the military reform made on that drinking table resolved the firest of problem, yet not all of them. Clio sudddendly cleared his throat, breaking the brief silence as he leaned forward slightly. "The next issue," he began, his voice calm "would with the decurions." Alpheo nodded thoughtfully, shifting his gaze toward him. "Yes, the decurions. Their blow won''t be as hard felt as with the Sub-centurii, but they''re still important," he acknowledged, tapping his fingers against the table. "They''re the ones who hold the line on the ground, ensuring the smaller groups stay in formation and follow through with orders. They can''t be neglected, for sure." He paused for a moment, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing, his tone deliberate. "For the decurions, we can''t offer them the same incentives as the Sub-centurii, but we can still sweeten the deal." Alpheo leaned back, folding his arms as he began to outline his plan. "A quarter increase in pay should be enough to keep them satisfied in the short term. It''s not extravagant, but it''s fair. Along with that, we''ll give them double the land after five years of service, plus they''ll also receive a monetary reward. That should be enough to keep some of them from walking away." He gave a small, almost sly smile. "But still I think that the part that will appeal to them the most will be the rewards we will give to the sub-centurii, as they know very well that they have a good chance of rising up . After all for every five decurions, one will be promoted to sub-centurii. That means there''s a real chance for them to step up into a role where they can lead fifty men. And with that comes the possibility of becoming a landed knight. The allure of power, land, and title... I believe that''s what will tempt them the most. Ambition is after all a demanding bitch.'''' Alpheo looked around at the others, his eyes sharp. "I believe some of them will take the offer for that possibility . It''s a strong motivator for men who are ambitious and hungry for more than just the basics. This is their chance to break into the higher echelons of our society." Clio gave a slow nod, clearly agreeing with the plan. "That sounds reasonable. Some of them will definitely take that chance.I mean was I in their place, I would" Alpheo gave a satisfied nod, feeling the weight of his decisions settle into place. "I think we''ve got a good plan here.Tomorrow morning I will sign the correspondant document and announce it to the army.Afterward we will see the result of it" Chapter 347: Behold my stuff(1) Chapter 347: Behold my stuff(1) "Look at our youngest captain in the family!" Hadrin, the eldest of the brothers, bellowed as he pulled Blake into a crushing embrace. Blake stiffly returned the hug, clearly unused to the display of affection. The swaying of the ship seemed powerless against Hadrin''s great bulk, his sheer mass anchoring him firmly. "You''re a lucky bastard, you know that?" Koros said with a wide grin, leaning against the railing. "Father made me wait until I''d seen fifteen winters before I could even set foot on a deck. But look at you¡ªthirteen winters, and already commanding men. Seems like Father finally picked a favorite." Blake opened his mouth to protest, but Merek cut in, his voice steady as he worked a piece of limestone along the edge of his axe. "Well, to be fair, this is a day unlike any other. When was the last time we saw so many ships gathered together under one banner? This is a moment that will be sung about for generations¡ªa day passed from free man to free man. Even Father wouldn''t be cruel enough to take such a moment from his youngest." Koros chuckled, his sharp eyes darting to Merek. "Or maybe he just didn''t want to be the one stuck listening to Mother complain if he left the pup behind." "Watch yourself, Koros," Blake muttered, his tone more defensive than he intended. "Easy, little brother," Kalen teased, striding over and ruffling Blake''s dark hair with one calloused hand. "Lucky pup, let your elders give you some advice. Keep your eyes sharp and your wits sharper. We wouldn''t want our glorious day spoiled by your funeral. Mother would never forgive us¡ªshe''s the one who dotes on you the most, after all." Blake scowled and batted away Kalen''s hand, his expression caught somewhere between annoyance and embarrassment. "I''m not a pup," he shot back, his voice cracking slightly as he glared at his older brother. "And I don''t need your advice. I''ve got my own crew." Hadrin barked a laugh, his booming voice echoing over the ship''s deck. "Your crew follow you only because they''re terrified of father. But don''t worry, little brother, you''ll grow into it. Just don''t get any of them killed too early." He clapped Blake on the shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance. Koros grinned, leaning lazily against the mast. "Speaking of growing into it, let''s hope you''ve grown into that axe on your belt. It''s nearly as big as you are." Blake''s cheeks flushed, but he stood his ground, gripping the handle of the weapon at his side. "It''s not the size of the axe," he retorted, trying to sound more confident than he felt, "it''s how you swing it." Merek chuckled softly, shaking his head as he continued honing the blade of his axe. "I have heard such talks in brothel too. You''ve got spirit, Blake. That''s good. Spirit will keep you alive¡ªwell, spirit and luck. Pray the Sea God grants you both, because out there, it won''t matter if you''re father''s son or a favorite." He glanced up, his sharp gaze locking on Blake''s. "Out there, you''re just another ship among hundreds. No one''s coming to save you if you mess up." The weight of Merek''s words hung in the air, tempering the teasing atmosphere. For a moment, the brothers fell silent, their thoughts turning to the impending battle. The sound of the waves and the creak of the ship filled the void until Hadrin broke the silence. "Enough of that," Hadrin said, his voice gruff but warm. "We''ve got a day of glory ahead of us. Let''s not waste it worrying about what might go wrong. We''re Elio men. We don''t lose." ---------------- "We''re Elio men. We don''t lose," Blake muttered, his voice low but resolute as his eyes followed the rhythmic dance of the waves glinting under the sun. The endless expanse of the sea seemed alive, pulsing with a quiet power that mirrored the storm of thoughts churning in his mind. "Everything all right, Captain?" Tonitz''s voice cut through the hum of the ship''s activity. The man approached with an easy stride, his boots thudding softly against the deck. "Yes," Blake replied without turning. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon. "Just thinking." Tonitz gave a short nod. "Well, the crew''s ready to disembark. Spirits are high¡ªit''s been a hard week of sailing, but the thought of setting foot on land again has them eager." Blake finally tore his gaze from the waves and glanced at Tonitz. "Good. It''s time." He straightened, his voice ringing with command as he called out over the deck. "Crew, prepare to disembark! Lower the vessel and anchor the ship. Bring out my things." A ripple of excitement surged through the crew at his words, their tired faces breaking into wide grins. The promise of solid ground after days at sea was enough to ignite their spirits. With a collective cheer, they sprang into action. Men swarmed to their tasks, uncoiling ropes and securing pulleys with practiced ease. The anchor chain rattled as it plunged into the depths, the ship shuddering slightly as it came to a halt. A smaller vessel, sleek and sturdy, was carefully lowered into the water, bobbing gently alongside the larger ship. Blake''s lips curved into a rare smile, sharp and full of self-assured charm. It was a smile that often left his crew wondering whether he was about to commend them or unleash chaos. His dark eyes gleamed with mischief as he turned to Tonitz, who stood nearby, waiting for further orders. "Bring the hunchback horse to my ship," Blake said, his voice carrying a note of amusement. Tonitz arched an eyebrow, a flicker of confusion flashing across his face before realization dawned. "That ugly-looking horse?'''' Blake chuckled, a low, almost predatory sound. "Yes, that one. Let the free lords see what spoils I bring from the distant sands. It''s not every day they''ll witness a beast so strange¡ªand so far from home.Make sure to bring out the other animals too.I want every man to be talking about it to their friends ." Tonitz smirked, nodding quickly. "Aye, Captain. They''ll be talking about it for weeks." ''''Make sure to chain the hag to my room , I don''t want words to spread that I have witches in my ships'''' as he said that Blake turned back toward the sea, the breeze tugging at his coat as he watched the smaller vessel rock gently in the waves. The crew moved quickly, their hands steady as they guided the animals onto the small vessel before lowering it into the water . The camel groaned, its lanky legs moving awkwardly on the swaying planks, but the men handled it with care, their laughter bubbling up as they adjusted to its odd gait. The salty wind whipped Blake''s dark hair, but his thoughts were far from the present. The message he had sent weeks prior had been clear and urgent: the Imperials were amassing a fleet, he had sent his fastest ship, and the free lords were quick to amass at the call. The seas would soon be painted red with war once again, and this time, it would not be a battle fought solely for plunder or pride. It would be a reckoning¡ªa chance to avenge the crushing loss at Rock Bottom. That cursed battle had been the undoing of House Elio. His family, once a force to rival the strongest captains of the Free Isles, was reduced to just two survivors: himself and Koros, his mad brother, whose mind had shattered under the weight of loss and fury. Blake clenched his fists, the memory of their deaths¡ªHadrin''s laugh silenced by steel, Kalen''s steady guidance lost forever, and Merek''s bravery extinguished too soon¡ªburning like fire in his chest. The Call was more than a meeting. It was a chance to rally the Free Isles against the Imperials, to avenge not just his family but every life lost to their relentless expansion. Blake had endured a decade of waiting, scheming, and gathering strength for this moment. He had clawed his way up from the wreckage, building a fleet that carried not just his house''s name but their ambition. They would pay in blood for Rock Bottom, for his family, and for every insult they had ever dared to hurl at them His hand tightened on the railing, the wood groaning under his grip as the island grew larger before him. For all his charm, cunning, and ruthlessness, Blake''s mind was singular in purpose: vengeance. This Call would decide the course of the Confederation. He intended to be at its center, guiding its fury like a tempest. It was his time to reclaim the legacy stolen from him and his kin. His lips curled into a smile¡ªnot of joy, but of satisfaction. The Free Lords would hear him as he went to claim what was to be his, command over the flee-fleet that would be raised, for he was the most worthy and the strongest of them all. The Romelians would soon learn what it meant to cross Blake Elio. Chapter 348: Behold my stuff(2) Chapter 348: Behold my stuff(2) For most, life began and ended in the same place. Generations toiled on the same patch of earth, their lives linked to the familiar fields and villages where their ancestors had lived and died. Even among the free men of the Confederation¡ªthose rare wanderers of the seas who sought plunder and glory¡ªtrue wonders remained elusive. Their raids might bring fleeting glimpses of lions or wolves, creatures of myth to most, but such beasts were distant shadows, more often heard of in tales than seen with their own eyes. Yet nothing in their experience¡ªneither the humble lives of villagers nor the storied exploits of seafaring raiders¡ªcould have prepared the gathered free lords and their retinues for what Blake Elio revealed upon the Call. It was not Blake himself, though his commanding presence drew attention like iron to a lodestone,as he was the man who had led the rise of the free people, the one that had conquered the island of Harmway renewing the golden age of the Confederation, but what amazed was instead the sight that followed him. What he brought was no mere oddity; it was an impossibility made flesh, so outlandish and extraordinary that even the hardest and most battle-worn among them were struck silent in its wake. He rode tall on the back of an animal unlike anything most had ever seen¡ªa creature with long, spindly legs and a humped back that rose high above the heads of even the tallest men. Its gait was strange, a swaying, loping motion that seemed almost unnatural, yet Blake sat atop it as if he were born to command such a beast. Behind Blake trailed a procession that defied the imagination. Towering birds, easily as tall as a man and broader still, stalked forward on powerful legs. Their long necks stretched skyward, their feathers shimmering in the sunlight with hues of gray and cream. Their piercing eyes, set in sleek heads, scanned their surroundings with curiosity. A massive cage followed, hauled by a team of men straining against its weight. Inside, a lion lounged with a dark mane that gleamed like polished obsidian, its amber eyes fixed lazily on the crowd as though it deemed them unworthy of its full attention. When it yawned, its cavernous mouth revealed rows of dagger-like teeth. And then there was the dog¡ªor what the onlookers first assumed to be a dog. Its body was sleek yet muscular, its coat a mesmerizing pattern of black and gold spots that rippled with its every movement. A small, scruffy mane adorned its neck, giving it a savage, untamed appearance. Its shoulders sloped forward, its gait lopsided . The crowd could do little but gape, their murmurs barely audible against the spectacle before them.Even the nobles arguably the more knowledgable of the batch, could do nothing but amaze and be amazed by the amazing sight . The gathered free men murmured among themselves, their voices hushed but tinged with a mix of awe, envy, and incredulity. They huddled in small clusters, their rough-spun cloaks and leather jerkins marking them as men accustomed to the sea and the blade, but even they were shaken by what they were seeing. "Did you see the size of that bird?" one said, his eyes wide with disbelief. "A head taller than any man here, and look at those legs! Ever seen a bird walk on two legs without flying away?Can it fly?" "What in the name of the Sea God is that... dog?''''Another said elbowing his companion. ''''Look at that motherfucker; he is laughing while looking at me.You are the one in the cage bitch!'''' a man shouted witnessing for the first time the laughing of a hyena ''''Did not even know animals could laugh...'''' "And what about that... thing he''s riding?" someone else asked, his tone filled with disbelief as he gestured toward Blake atop his mount. "Its back¡ªwhat''s wrong with its back? It''s all bent and swollen, like it''s carrying barrels under its skin." "It''s not a horse, that''s for sure," muttered another, shaking his head in bafflement. The murmurs continued, but the underlying tone was clear: Blake Elio had done something none of them had imagined. He had brought the exotic, the unknown, and the fearsome to the heart of the Call, displaying his power and reach for all to see. Blake''s swaying motion beneath him was foreign yet commanding, each step of the animal drawing a hushed awe from the crowd. He held the reins loosely in one hand, his other resting on the hilt of his axe. They spoke of him, of his wealth, his audacity, and his power. The awe in their voices swelled his chest with pride. Blake felt the weight of their attention, not as a burden but as a crown. And today, riding through the Call, he felt as though he had claimed the throne of the free men without ever needing the title. Behind him, his crew marched with heads held high, their boots striking the stone with purposeful steps. They carried their captain''s demeanor like a second skin, their shoulders squared and their faces filled with pride. As the murmurs of the gathered free men swirled like the sea breeze, a booming voice cut through the din. "Blake Elio! Still parading like a peacock, I see!" Blake''s head turned sharply at the familiar voice, his dark eyes narrowing before they softened, a rare and genuine smile curving his lips. He swung his gaze toward the source, and there he was¡ªa man as wide as a boulder striding toward him, his steps purposeful and heavy, causing the ground beneath him to seem to tremble. The man''s beard had grown longer since their last meeting, wild and untamed, flecked with streaks of gray that added to his formidable presence. His barrel chest was clad in thick leather armor, worn and scarred by countless battles, and his arms, thick as ship masts, swung with the confidence of a man who feared nothing. Blake eased himself down from the camel with a practiced motion, the beast letting out a guttural grunt as it shifted its weight. He handed the reins to a nearby crew member and began striding toward the approaching figure, his boots crunching against the packed earth beneath him. "Kroll," Blake called, his voice carrying a warmth rarely heard in his tone. His smile widened as they closed the distance between them. Kroll''s face broke into a grin, his teeth gleaming beneath the wild expanse of his beard. When they were within arm''s reach, Blake extended his hand, but Kroll had other ideas. "Enough of that formal nonsense!" Kroll bellowed, sweeping Blake into a bone-crushing embrace. Blake laughed¡ªa sound as rare as a calm sea during a storm¡ªand awkwardly patted the larger man on the back, enduring the bear hug with good humor. "It''s been too long, Kroll," Blake said as they pulled apart, his smile lingering. "Aye, it has," Kroll replied, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. He clapped Blake on the shoulder with a hand so heavy it nearly made the younger man stagger. "And look at you¡ªcommanding beasts and men alike. You''ve done your name proud" Kroll''s sharp eyes fell on the camel Blake had just dismounted, his thick brows furrowing as his gaze raked over the creature. The hump on its back, the long, gangly legs, and its peculiar expression¡ªall of it seemed so absurd that the seasoned warrior couldn''t hold back. "What in the name of the sea gods is that thing you were riding on?" Kroll demanded, his voice half-laughter and half-genuine incredulity. Blake smirked, tilting his head toward the camel, which stood there chewing lazily, utterly indifferent to the attention it was drawing. "That, my friend, is my latest piece of loot." "Loot?" Kroll barked Blake''s smirk widened as he crossed his arms. "Oh, if you think that''s impressive, wait until you hear the rest. The silver we hauled back from the raid was enough to fill a ship¡ªa fortune fit for kings. But it wasn''t just silver we brought. The rest of the ships were loaded with wonders." Kroll raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Wonders? You mean more of these... what''s-it-called?" He gestured at the camel with a dismissive wave. Blake chuckled, shaking his head. "No, far grander things. On that journey, I saw creatures that defied belief, some I tried to capture, unsuccessfully however . There was one¡ªmassive, broad as three ships side by side, with skin-like armor and teeth that could crush wood to splinters. We tried to capture it, but the beast was too unruly, too strong. One of my men got too close, and it snapped him up like a morsel before dragging him into the river. The water turned red, and that was the last we saw of it.I swear it was as strong as it was fat." "And then," Blake continued happy to have someone to talk about the things he saw , his voice tinged with awe, "there were giants¡ªtowering beasts with ears like sails and trunks that could tear trees from the ground. We thought of trying to capture one, but when it roared, the earth seemed to shake beneath our feet. Even my bravest men wouldn''t go near it, not that I blame them." Kroll let out a low whistle, his usual bravado tempered by Blake''s tale. "And finally," Blake added, his tone growing quieter, "there were monsters that moved silently in the rivers, their eyes barely visible above the water. They could wait for hours, still as death, and when they struck, it was like lightning¡ªfast, brutal. One of them dragged a sailor under so quickly, we didn''t even see the splash." He met Kroll''s eyes, his own dark with the memory. "Going into the water with those things was suicide.Some of my men that went for a swim on the river, mistook those things for logs, useless to say the rest of our time there was spent away from water, at least those of rivers." Kroll scratched his beard, his grin faltering for just a moment before returning, though now tinged with unease. "By the gods, Blake, you''ve truly seen it all. And here I thought I''d lived a life worth telling tales about." Blake let out a hearty laugh, clapping Kroll on the shoulder. "Oh, trust me, old friend. After what I''ve seen, this one I had been riding seems like a harmless pet by comparison." Kroll shook his head in mock disbelief, his laughter joining Blake''s before curiosity got the better of him. "All right, I have to ask¡ªwhere in the seven seas did you go to find these... things?" Blake''s smirk turned into a knowing grin, his eyes gleaming as he spoke the name. "Azania." The word hung in the air like a thunderclap. Kroll''s smile vanished as if it had been wiped from his face, replaced by a sudden surprise as he finally realized just how mad his friend truly was. After all, there was a reason for which pirates steered clear of the lands of the sultan. Chapter 349: Behold my stuff(3) Chapter 349: Behold my stuff(3) The moment Blake uttered the name, every trace of humor vanished from Kroll''s face, replaced by a disbelief so stark it bordered on shock. For good reason, too¡ªthere was a logic to the free men''s raiding habits, a pattern as old as their way of life. The southern principalities and the empire were the preferred prey, their lands ripe for plunder and their defenses weak enough to make the raids swift and profitable. Strike, take, and sail away into the safety of the open sea. It was a song the free men had sung for generations.Most times small ships hit villages and temples, however bigger fleet targeted coastal cities. True, there had been whispers of a few places in the southern principalities fortifying their defenses, villages fortifying themselves and a prince putting coin into spears and shields. But such exceptions were rare, and the rest of the coastline offered an endless buffet of easy targets. For every fortified place, there were ten more ripe for the taking, too fractured or poor to mount a proper resistance. More importantly, none of these lands¡ªthe empire included¡ªboasted a navy worth the name. Their coastal waters were a free man''s playground, unguarded and unclaimed. Romelia, perhaps, had a shred of maritime power, but even that was limited to a handful of small escort ships, protecting only their richest merchants. Hardly enough to trouble the swift and savage raiders of the sea, who most of the time picked out smaller vessels The south was a land of sheep waiting to be sheared, its rulers more focused on squabbling amongst themselves than defending their shores. It was this weakness that ensured the free men lived to raid another day. But Azania? That was another story entirely. Unlike the fractured principalities and sluggish empire to the north, Azania''s waters were guarded by swift ships and sharp-eyed sailors, men who knew their trade and their enemies. Few captains dared to sail those treacherous seas, and those who did often paid the price in blood and wreckage. The stories passed down by the free men''s ancestors were clear: Azania was no place for raiders. Any ship foolish enough to test its defenses risked running headlong into one of the Sultanate''s patrols. These were no lumbering galleys with poorly armed crews¡ªthey were sleek, fast vessels, with disciplined warriors ready to board at a moment''s notice. A pirate vessel would be spotted long before it reached the shore, its strange design betraying its intent. By the time the raiders realized their mistake, the Azanians would already be upon them, cutting off escape and bringing a quick, brutal end to their ambitions. That Blake not only dared to raid Azania but returned alive¡ªand with a haul so rich it left the free men speechless¡ªwas nothing short of legendary Kroll shook his head, his expression a mix of disbelief and reluctant admiration. "Blake, I''ve always known you were mad, but I never thought you''d be this crazy. Azania? Of all places? How in the name of the sea god did you pull that off?" Blake chuckled, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "Luck, mostly. It was quiet when we landed¡ªtoo quiet. We took what we could, fast as the wind , looted coastal cities on the way , and made for the ships before anyone realized we were there. The trouble came on our way back." Kroll raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "Trouble?" Blake nodded, the memory flashing behind his gaze. "We ran into resistance on the water¡ªpatrol ships, sharp and fast. But the gods must''ve smiled on us that day because the wind was with us. We outpaced them, barely, and slipped into the open sea before they could close the gap." He paused, running a hand through his dark hair. "It''s been decades since anyone dared raid Azanian land. Maybe their navy''s grown slack in that time, ill-maintained and unused to real threats. Or..." Blake grinned, his tone shifting into something lighter, almost playful. "Or maybe I''ve just been very, very lucky." Kroll leaned in closer, his expression turning serious as his voice dropped just enough to convey the weight of his question. "Lucky enough to spot the imperial fleet on its way, though, eh?'''' Blake shook his head, a smirk playing on his lips as he leaned against his camel. "Not quite, Kroll. That honor belongs to another¡ªa captain, not I. He brought the news and gifted it to me, a fine little offering to serve my house once more." Kroll''s brow furrowed, his curiosity unrelenting. "Once again?'''' Blake chuckled, pushing off the camel and folding his arms as he met Kroll''s gaze. " It was a captain of my father''s, one who abandoned our house after the disaster at Rock Bottom." Kroll blinked, the name of the infamous battle hanging heavy in the air. "Rock Bottom... That was a sad day especially for your house . Just you and Koros were left.Your father and brothers were good and hard men" Blake''s smile tightened, his voice cool and measured. "Exactly. He left after that, like many others. No loyalty when the tide turned, no spine when the storm hit.Was it not my father that gave him control over his ship? But now?" He gestured grandly, as if to take in the world he''d built. "Now I''ve proved myself. I''ve risen above it all, and suddenly, he wants to crawl back under my banner." Kroll chuckled darkly, shaking his head. " Let me guess¡ªyou let him live for the information?" Blake''s grin widened, sharp and unyielding. "Let him live? Of course. But forget? Never. He''s serving under me; after all, it is always good to have more ships.I just need to make sure that he knows that there will be no turn-around now'''' Blake straightened up, his grin taking on a self-assured edge. "Changing subject, I have now Thirteen ships, Kroll. Thirteen under my banner.True my father had 18, but give me some more time and I will convince some other captain to follow me." Kroll let out a low whistle, folding his massive arms across his chest. " I can see, you''ve been busy." Blake nodded, the faintest glimmer of pride flickering in his dark eyes. "Busy enough. But tell me, how long have you been here?" "A week and a half," Kroll replied with a shrug. "Long enough to know the lay of the land and who''s who among the free men. Long enough to see the tempers flare and the barrels run dry." Blake tilted his head slightly, his tone casual, though his words carried weight. "And what about the competition?" Kroll''s grin widened, a knowing gleam in his eye. " I wondered when you''d bring that up. We both know you''re not asking about wrestling matches or drinking games.You want that position, too eh?" Blake chuckled, his sharp smile betraying his intentions. "The High Captain," Kroll said plainly, leaning in conspiratorially. "Every ambitious bastard here''s sharpening their blade and their tongue, angling to command the fleet.'''' Blake met Kroll''s gaze, his expression unyielding. "And you, Blake Elio," Kroll continued, his smile growing sly, "you''re not here to watch, are you?" ''''Of course not'''' Kroll stroked his beard thoughtfully, his eyes scanning the gathered ships visible from the shore. "Very well, let me give you a rundown.You''re not the only one with ambitions, Blake. There''s Harrick ''Stormcaller'' with his seven ships. Old bastard''s been raiding since before you were born, he is old and most fool thing that being old is equal to being wise.But that senile has more sand in his boot than wit in his head. Then there''s Jorvan Saltbeard. Four ships,a noble lineage, and more allies than you''d think. He''s got a quarter of the lesser captains eating from his palm. And lastly, Drennan Wavecleaver, with full dozen under his command. He''s young, but he''s got a good name and plenty of coins to throw around." Blake leaned against a weathered post, "Let me guess. They''ve all been organizing banquets, feasts, and giving endless speeches about glory." Kroll chuckled, shaking his head. "You''re not wrong. It''s a show, Blake. Food, drink, and empty promises. But here''s the thing¡ªyou entering the way you did, with those beasts and that camel? Brilliant. Word''s must already have spread across the Call about the strange wonders you brought. You should raid the wave as it comes, there are still a few days before the call.Go for it and regain lost land, plus you are the one that sent the ship with the news, so I am certain that you have much more leverage than you think." Blake raised a brow, his smile sharpening. "Then the spectacle served its purpose. Still Kroll what about you? Don''t you feel like giving it a shot or¡ªare you with me in this?" Kroll''s grin turned sincere as he clasped Blake''s shoulder with a calloused hand. "Always have been, lad. You''ve got my vote, and my captains''. We''ve followed you through thick and thin when we broke the treaty with the Romelians. Why stop now?" Chapter 350: Behold my stuff(4) Chapter 350: Behold my stuff(4) The Call was set to start in three days, leaving Blake with a limited window to make his mark and catch up to the other contenders. His dramatic entrance had been a strong start, memorable and bold, but anyone who thought that alone would secure his place was a fool. Blake''s accomplishments over the past year were undeniable. He had shattered the fragile treaty with the Empire, reigniting the old ways of raiding and conquest. His victory at Harmway was a defining moment, carving out a haven where the Free Lords and their crews could live as they once had¡ªunbridled, untamed, and reigning over the seas like kings, with the only obstacle that prevented that being now in flame . While notable achievements could earn respect, they were rarely the most effective way to secure votes¡ªespecially when the voting system was as open as the Confederation''s. For matters of politics, only the Free Lords cast their votes, but when it came to military decisions¡ªlike assembling a fleet or choosing its leader¡ªany man who owned a ship had the right to participate. This broad electorate transformed the process into something entirely different. The "average voter" in this scenario wasn''t a cultured statesman or a battle-hardened lord. No, it was the quintessential sea wolf¡ªthe rough-and-tumble, wine-soaked, thrill-chasing sailor who cared little for grand strategies or polished rhetoric. Winning in this arena required more than deeds or lineage; it meant appealing directly to the desires and ambitions of the everyday pirate. They wanted someone who could promise gold, glory, and endless plunder on the high seas. There was a reason the democracy of Athens crumbled¡ªa fatal flaw rooted in its greatest strength: the power it granted its citizens, which was the very meaning of democracy. Every citizens had the right and duty to vote, which meant that if the interests of the populace diverged from the good of the city itself, well¡ªmay the city burn as long as they can sing over the flame . The people would cheer as long as their own pockets jingled and their festivals flourished. By the twilight years of Athens'' once-mighty empire, civic pride had given way to personal indulgence. Long gone were the time of Pericles and his empire. The citizens cared less about securing their city''s future and more about free seats at the theater or revelry at the next grand festival. They became a people who would trade strength for spectacle and security for a good story, drunk on the pride of a strenght that was no longer theirs to flaunt. Time and again, this shortsightedness turned on them like a viper. Their natural suspicion of politicians¡ªthough not entirely unwarranted¡ªoften led them to exile their most capable generals and statesmen, the very individuals who could have preserved their golden age. The irony was deliciously tragic: the defenders of the city undone not by foreign invaders but by the very hands they sought to protect. There''s a reason why modern democracies favor representation over direct rule¡ªa system where the people elect representatives to make decisions rather than entrusting every political choice to the general populace. History has shown, time and again, the pitfalls of leaving complex matters in the hands of the many without the filter of informed leadership. Winston Churchill famously remarked that the best argument against democracy was a five-minute conversation with the average voter. It''s a biting observation, but one that has proven true more often than not. Considering for example a nation at war, performing admirably on the battlefield yet suffering from rising food prices. The general populace, feeling the sting of short-term hardship, might clamor for peace, blind to the fact that surrendering now would lead to far greater suffering in the future. It''s the harsh truth: what''s good for the individual in the moment often conflicts with what''s best for the nation as a whole. And when the power to decide rests entirely in the hands of the uninformed or impatient, the long-term good is easily sacrificed on the altar of immediate comfort. Blake spent the last two days in a flurry of activity, orchestrating grand banquets that showcased the spoils of his raids and delivering fiery speeches to gathered free lords and captains, which in fact succeeded in gaining a few votes . Many were swayed by his charisma and vision, throwing their lot in with him as he promised a future of unchallenged supremacy for the Free Men. Yet, despite his growing support, doubt lingered in his mind. The competition was fierce. Some of his rivals had quite the toll of ben behind. Every tally of potential votes left Blake unsure whether his efforts would be enough to secure victory. He knew he needed a more decisive edge. Among the strategies turning in his mind, one stood out as the most pragmatic and advantageous: forming an alliance with another candidate. If he could find someone whose ambitions aligned with his own¡ªor someone who could be persuaded to take a secondary role in exchange for something¡ªit might be enough to push him over the threshold. Blake weighed his options carefully, considering the three candidates he could potentially ally with. The first was Harrick Stormcaller, the eldest of the contenders and as unyielding as the tides themselves. His age brought experience and respect, but also a stubbornness that made negotiation a challenge. Then there was Saltbeard. His following was substantial, making him one of the frontrunners in the race. Aligning with him might tip the scales, but his chance to win also made him a difficult ally to bargain with¡ªif he even needed one, as after all in a race one would not cede his place to those behind. Lastly, there was Wavecleaver, a brash upstart whose arrogance seemed to grow in proportion to his wealth. He was ambitious and well-funded as island was filled with iron mine, but his youthful hubris made him utterly unapproachable. Convincing him to join forces would be about as likely as taming a lion barehanded while holding a piece of meat in hand . In the end, the only realistic choice was the first one ------------------------------------- "Well, well," Harrick said, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. "If it isn''t the youngest lord to ever captain a ship. Your reputation precedes you, Blake. I''ve heard tales of your raid¡ªbold, audacious, and successful. The kind of courage our younger generation needs." Blake inclined his head respectfully, hiding the pride that flickered in his chest. "Your words honor me,lord Harrick . I''ve only done what I could to prove myself worthy of our name that had been under the heel of the Romelians for far too long" Harrick chuckled, gesturing for Blake to sit across from him. "Worthy, indeed. It''s been many years since anyone dared to raid the lands you''ve tread, let alone come back with such spoils. Your bravery reminds me of the days when we roamed without fear, when every raid was a declaration of our defiance." Blake took his seat, meeting Harrick''s gaze steadily. "Bravery alone isn''t enough, my lord , you may recall that we were humbled in the sea by same people we scorn. I''ve learned that survival requires not just daring, but foresight. And it''s foresight that brings me to you." Blake leaned back slightly in his chair, the faint creak of wood echoing in the dimly lit room as he regarded Harrick Stormcaller with a curious smile. "I apologize if this question may come out wrong. But , what do you think your chances are, truly?" he asked, his tone deceptively casual. Harrick leaned on the table, his gnarled hands clasping a tankard, his expression as calm and weathered as the sea after a storm. "Trying to predict the outcome of men''s ambitions," he began slowly, "is like claiming to own the sea itself. You might chart its currents or sail its waves, but you never control it¡ªnot for long." Blake tilted his head, a spark of amusement in his eyes. "A poetic answer, my lord. Wise, even. But not quite what I was asking." He leaned forward now, his voice dropping slightly. "Let''s be honest. A man like you, with all your years and experience, must know the lay of the field. So tell me¡ªwhat are your chances of winning ?" Harrick studied him for a moment, the flickering lamplight catching the sharp angles of his face. "You''re persistent" he said, his lips curling into a faint smile. "But let me turn your own question back on you. What do you think your chances are?" Blake didn''t hesitate. "If we''re being honest? I''d say both our chances are slim. Very slim." He paused, letting the words sink in before adding, "At least individually." Harrick''s thick brows furrowed slightly, and he repeated the word with an edge of curiosity. "Individually?" Harrick''s eyes narrowed slightly, his voice taking on a deeper tone. "There''s only one position, boy. One winner. Two cannot win. If you think otherwise, you''re chasing a fool''s dream¡ªor worse, playing at politics like some landlocked lord, we are above that, you should be above it , especially one who did so much for the Confederation .I expected more than some treacherous intrigue chaser from the one who raised the voice for our rise." Blake didn''t flinch, his grin growing broader. "True enough, I apologize if I am not what you expected " he said smoothly. "But even lords and sometimes heroes know when to strike alliances for the greater good. And you''ve already admitted¡ªyou don''t try to own the sea, my lord . You navigate it.So instead of running our ships individually toward the storm, I believe it would be much more profitable for one to help the other, with of course one leading the way and the other following closely behind..." Chapter 351: Wake before the voting Chapter 351: Wake before the voting The day of the vote dawned with a brisk wind rolling off the sea, carrying the tang of salt . On the Call, the amphitheater carved into the rock was alive with activity. Its semicircular tiers, capable of holding every lord and captain on the island, were quickly filling as men took their seats.Seats that were usually occupied sparingly by lords, were now all filled as the captains now bore the right to vote. The air was thick with the hum of conversation, the scrape of boots on stone, and the occasional bark of laughter. This was no royal court; the Call had no gilded chairs or flowing banners, just hard stone and the raw power of the men who sat upon it. The four contenders for the title of High Captain stood apart,looking at each other with blank stares. Blake Elio, the youngest of them, carried himself with a confident ease, his dark hair combed back, his sharp features set in a calm, almost calculating expression. He wore no finery, just the simple leather and steel of a man who''d earned the rise of his house from the bottom of the sea . Harrick Stormcaller stood with a quiet weight, his thick arms crossed over his chest. His graying hair and beard gave him the air of a seasoned warrior, and his clothes¡ªsturdy wool and faded leather¡ªspoke of practicality over pride, the only reason for which he did not bring his armor was because no steel was allowed, of any type. Harrick''s face was weathered by decades at sea, his expression unreadable as he watched the proceedings with a steady, unyielding gaze. Saltbeard, on the other hand, stood out like a storm cloud among the others. His beard, thick and blak, spilled down to his chest, and his frame was massive, the kind that filled doorways and made others step aside. As a matter of fact the reason for which he was called Salt Beard was because his island owned mines of salt. As such most of the time that nickname became the official epithet of every patriarch of the his house.It was his father, as his father''s fathers, as it would be of his son, hopefully. Wavecleaver was the last one. His youth and arrogance were evident in the way he stood, his head held high, his golden hair neatly combed, and his coat embroidered with silver thread. He was the picture of a man who believed his wealth made him untouchable. A jeweled dagger usually hung at his belt, more ornament than weapon, today of course was absent. The day of voting traditionally began with a ceremony that mirrored the fierce and yet free nature of the Free Men. Each contender was given the floor for one final speech, a chance to sway the undecided, rally their supporters, and carve their vision into the minds of the audience. It was a sacred moment, one where interruption was strictly forbidden, as each person was to be given all the opportunity to speak. But once the speeches ended, the gloves came off. Tradition dictated that after a contender spoke, the others could challenge them. Questions were hurled like daggers, meant to expose weaknesses or force contradictions, while taunts aimed to rattle composure and sway the crowd. The verbal sparring was as much a part of the process as the vote itself, a test of wits and resolve under pressure. The amphitheater seemed to bristle with energy as the crowd waited for the first contender to step forward. The Free Men were not ones for politicking in the conventional sense but they loved to see men shouting at each other, sometimes with weapons in hand. Lord Harrick was the first to step forward, his heavy boots echoing across the stone floor of the amphitheater. The murmurs of the crowd stilled as he approached the center, all eyes locking onto the weathered, grizzled veteran. His gaze swept the assembly briefly before pausing on Blake. For a moment, he simply looked at the younger man, then exhaled sharply through his nose¡ªa sound somewhere between a sigh and a release of tension. When Harrick finally spoke, his voice was a booming force that carried over crashing waves and roaring winds. "I stand before you today not to ask for your vote, but to relinquish it." Gasps rippled through the crowd like waves breaking against the shore. Confusion spread among the assembled lords and captains, who exchanged looks of disbelief. Even Saltbeard and Wavecleaver looked surprised "I have fought more battles than most of you have seen winters," Harrick continued, his tone steady but firm. "And yet, as I look out at you today, I cannot in good conscience ask for the honor of leading this fleet. Not because I do not believe in the fight¡ªby the Sea, I do¡ªbut because I believe there is another, better suited to carry this burden." His words hung in the air for a moment before he turned again toward Blake. "Lord Blake Elio," Harrick declared, his voice ringing out like a battle cry, "has proven himself a captain of daring and resolve. In a single year, he has achieved what many of us could not in decades, he put the older generation to shame . To those who would have cast their vote for me, I ask you to place your trust in him instead. Let him lead us to the vengeance we seek." Harrick''s declaration was a move no one had anticipated. Even the most cynical among the assembly couldn''t deny the weight of a man like Harrick throwing his support behind Blake. Blake himself sat motionless for a moment, masking whatever emotions might have threatened to show. He dipped his head slightly, a gesture of respect, even as his mind churned with the implications of this turn, hoping that it would be enough ot win. Harrick finished with a nod toward Blake and strode back to his place among the other contenders. The amphitheater buzzed with speculation and whispers, the air thick with shifting alliances and recalculations. Not it was Saltbeard that rose from his seat with a theatrical flourish, his weathered face set in a grin that seemed carved into his flesh. His beard, thick and streaked with white and gray, swayed slightly as he walked toward the center of the amphitheater, his heavy steps deliberate and full of confidence. He wore no armor, only a flowing sea-blue tunic trimmed with gold. When he reached the center, he planted his hands firmly on his hips and turned in a slow circle to face the assembly. His voice, rough and booming, carried the cadence of a seasoned orator¡ªor a man who knew how to spin a tale over a tankard of ale. "Brothers!Sisters!Free folk of the sea!" he began, throwing his arms wide. "Today, we stand on the precipice of glory! Not just for ourselves, but for the very way of life we hold dear!" The murmurs in the crowd faded as Saltbeard''s voice swelled with emotion. "What is it that makes us free?" he asked, pacing now, his boots scuffing against the stone floor. "Is it the gold we take? The ships we plunder? No! It''s the knowledge that no king, no emperor, can put chains on us! It''s our choice to sail where we will, to live as we choose, to raise our children as free people, not as pawns for some throne!" A cheer rose from a section of the crowd, and Saltbeard smiled, his eyes gleaming. "But make no mistake," he continued, pointing a thick finger skyward, "this way of life we cherish is under threat. The Imperials come with their fleets, their armies, their gods that we have no use for . They think they can crush us like an insect underfoot! And yet, are we insect?" "No!" came a shout from the crowd. "We are wolves of the sea!" Saltbeard roared, his voice ringing out. "We hunt in packs! We strike with precision and fury! And under my command, I vow to you, we will not only preserve our way of life¡ªwe will carve our defiance into the history of the seas!" Another cheer erupted, louder this time, as Saltbeard''s fervor washed over the assembly. "And let me tell you this," he added, his tone lowering conspiratorially as he leaned forward, "I do not seek this mantle of leadership for myself alone. No, my friends, I seek it for us. To ensure that the Free Folk will remain the masters of the waves, long after we''re gone. So cast your vote for me, and I will take this fleet to glory. Not just for today, but for every tomorrow to come." As soon as the speech was over Wavecleaver rose with an exaggerated air of confidence, his fine cloak trailing behind him as he strode to the center of the assembly. His smirk was sharp as a blade. He stopped at the center of the amphitheater and gave a slow, mocking clap. "Quite the speech, Saltbeard," he drawled, his tone dripping with condescension. "And quite the spectacle, Harrick, bowing out like that. Noble, I''m sure, but surprising to see anyone place faith in someone from the Elio line." "Anyway to the matter at hand, Saltbeard," he began, addressing the older lord directly, "you spoke grandly of the glory of the free people and the bravery of captains, but I can''t help but wonder..." He paused for effect, turning slowly to face the crowd before continuing, "...does that bravery run through all veins? Or do some veins carry... something else?" Saltbeard narrowed his eyes, his broad shoulders tensing as the room fell silent. Wavecleaver''s smirk widened. "I seem to recall a tale about the Battle of Rock Bottom. A certain captain¡ªyour brother, wasn''t it?¡ªJorik ? The one who abandoned his ship and his free brothers the moment things went poorly? Fled faster than the tide, didn''t he?" The crowd murmured, the accusation hanging heavy in the air. Wavecleaver pressed on, savoring the moment. "Tell us, Saltbeard, does that kind of blood run strong in your family? Should we trust you to lead us when your own kin turned coward?What if the same happen to y-" Saltbeard''s face darkened like a storm cloud, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white. He took a step forward, his voice a roar. "You little whelp! If it weren''t for the laws of this assembly, I''d crush your skull with my bare hands!Yes my brother ran from the battle, and I shed his lifeless corpse to the sea myself when I saw his blade unblooded, he was a shame for everybody, I prefer to commit kinslaying rather than have a coward for brother. My mother must have laid with another because that filth comes not from my father''s thick blood. Still, I want to see if your blood is yellow like your gold, come here!" Wavecleaver stepped back, raising his hands in mock surrender, his smirk never faltering though he did take two steps back. "Peace, Saltbeard," he said with a mockingly conciliatory tone. "No need for violence. I''m simply asking questions the others are too afraid to voice." He said though he stepped back a little The room buzzed with tension as Saltbeard loomed closer, but the old moderator''s staff struck the ground with a sharp crack. "O-Order! No blood shall-l be spilled in these h-halls!" Saltbeard shot a final glare at Wavecleaver before stepping back, his chest heaving with rage. Wavecleaver, for his part, adjusted his cloak and returned to his seat, clearly satisfied with the discord he''d sown. Chapter 352: Final speeches Chapter 352: Final speeches Saltbeard stormed away from the center of the hall, his boots striking the stone floor with the force of his simmering rage. His face was a mask of fury, his nostrils flaring as his eyes burned holes into Wavecleaver''s smug grin. Then he stopped. Halfway to his chair, Saltbeard turned slowly, his massive frame coiled with tension. His fingers flexed, as if testing their grip, and his shoulders hunched forward ever so slightly. For a fleeting moment, it was clear to all that he was weighing the thought of lunging at Wavecleaver, and perhapse pop his eyes using his thumbs,it wasn''t like he hadn''t done so already. The hall held its breath, a collective pause as every eye locked on Saltbeard. "Lord Saltbeard!" The sharp voice of the old moderator rang out, cutting through the tension like a blade. The sound of the staff striking the ground followed; its echo a warning in the heavy silence. "Return to your seat. Now." Saltbeard''s glare flicked to the moderator, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack bone. After a long, simmering moment, he exhaled sharply through his nose and turned back toward his seat. The crowd watched him go, his every step a testament to the battle raging within, the daggers in his eyes now firmly aimed at the floor. With a deep sigh, the golden boy rose from his seat and with a smile that hid the fear that he just felt at Saltbeard temporary stop, he strode to the center of the hall .His golden cloak trailed behind him like the sunlight he clearly believed himself to embody. His chin was high, his grin sharp and polished. He waited for the murmurs to quiet before spreading his arms wide, addressing the crowd as though speaking to subjects rather than equals. "Brothers of the sea!" he began, his voice rich and smooth, strong enought to carry through the hall. "Free men, lords, captains of legend¡ªyou, who embody the very spirit of liberty and power! Today, you face a choice, and I am here to make that choice as clear as the sunrise on a calm sea." He paused, letting the anticipation build as he turned, his gaze sweeping over the gathered men. "I will not prattle on about honor or legacy, for words do not fill our bellies or line our coffers. No. I offer you something far more real, far more immediate¡ªprosperity beyond anything you''ve dreamed." He gestured with an open palm, as if to share this prosperity with the room. "I swear to you now: should you choose me as your High Captain, I will renounce my share of the spoils entirely. Every coin, every slave, every weapon will go to you, my brothers. But that is not all!" His grin widened, the confidence in his tone sharpening into arrogance. "I will double the spoils for each and every one of you. Yes, you heard me correctly! Whatever fortune you''ve claimed after the battle , I will see it doubled. I will ensure we return from this campaign wealthier than you could possibly imagine!" The crowd erupted in murmurs, some intrigued, others skeptical. Wavecleaver, unfazed, spread his arms wider, his voice rising above the din. "This is not a promise¡ªit is my guarantee. I ask for your votes as the leader who will transform your fortunes. Cast your vote for me, and together, we will redefine what it means to be a free man, while having your pockets filled with my coins!Why settle for glory or silver and gold when you could have both?" Just as he had done to Saltbeard, so Saltbeard did to him. A sharp, disdainful laugh burst from him as Wavecleaver finished his speech and stepped back, basking in his self-proclaimed triumph. "A lot of words for a pup still wet behind the ears. Tell me, boy, do you even know what war smells like? Or are you planning to buy your way through battle with that fat purse of yours?" The room chuckled, emboldened by SaltBeard''s cutting tone, the young man clearly did not like being from the other side. The older man rose to his feet slowly,he pointed a thick, calloused finger at Wavecleaver, the mocking grin now lying instead on his face. "You talk about wealth, about doubling spoils like it''s coin that wins battles. But let me ask you, when was the last time you held a blade in your hand that wasn''t polished for show? When have you ever stood on a blood-soaked deck, the screams of men in your ears, and held your ground like a real warrior?Did you even do it at any point in your life?" Wavecleaver''s smug grin faltered for a moment, but he quickly masked it, opening his mouth to respond. SaltBeard cut him off with a dismissive wave. "Oh, spare us, boy. We all know the only thing you''ve ever fought for is the best seat at a banquet table. The only thing sharp about you is your tongue, and even that''s as brittle as a snapped mast." The laughter in the hall grew louder, some clapping and stomping in approval. SaltBeard wasn''t done. "You prance around here, promising gold and riches like a merchant hawking trinkets at a dockside market. But we''re not here to line our pockets, lad. We''re here to reclaim our honor, to show the Empire and anyone else who dares cross us what it means to be free men. You don''t lead warriors with bribes; you lead them with courage and steel." SaltBeard leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he delivered the final blow. "So, tell me, boy, if the only thing you''ve got going for you is the purse behind you, why don''t you just sit down and let the real men handle this?" The hall erupted into cheers and jeers, the air thick with tension and excitement. Wavecleaver''s face flushed with a mixture of anger and embarrassment, but he held his ground, though the fire in his earlier speech had noticeably dimmed. Not it was Blake that stepped onto the stage with a calm, measured stride, the murmur of the crowd softening as they leaned in to hear the final contender. His face bore a faint smile, though his eyes carried the sharp glint that he always add, as if the entire world was just a joke made for him. "My lords, captains, free men," he began, his voice steady and firm. "I will begin by saying that Lord SaltBeard gave a fine speech. He is, without question, a hardened warrior and a man of great renown." At this, SaltBeard raised an eyebrow, his expression hovering between suspicion and curiosity, one would usually not commend their opponent. Blake turned toward him slightly, his tone genuine. "You''ve fought and bled for the free men, SaltBeard, and your reputation as a leader of warriors is well-earned. You''ve reminded us of the stakes we face¡ªthat this is not a battle for gold, but for the preservation of our way of life. And on that, we are in complete agreement." There was a ripple of assent from the crowd, and Blake let the moment breathe before stepping forward, his voice growing sharper. "But I must ask, my good lord¡ªwhere were you when the free men were under the heel of the Romelians? Where was your steel then? Your voice of defiance?" SaltBeard stiffened in his seat, his face hardening. Blake extended his arms , his expression open yet cutting. "I know where I was . Raiding , and risking neck onto Romelian sea and ships, and returning to the Call to present my case. Nearly a year ago, I stood in front of you to stake a claim knowing that failure could mean death,as a criminal mind you " He straightened, looking out over the gathered lords and captains. "However I will not fall back on past deeds, for I have already been rewarded for them. I was given the honor of leading the conquest of Harmway with only a few hundred men. Together, we broke the Romelian grip and allowed the free men to rise again." He let his gaze sweep across the crowd, his voice taking on a softer but resolute tone, reminding them that it was thanks to him , that they were now free to sail in these seas. "Yet, I am not here to invoke the past. What is done is done, and it has earned me a place among you. But this fight, this call, is not about the past. It is about the future." Blake turned sharply toward WaveCleaver, his expression a mix of scorn and pity. His voice cut through the tense air like a blade. "And you, WaveCleaver," he began, letting the weight of his words fall slowly. "Right now, what our fleet needs is a warrior¡ªsomeone forged by fire and tempered by the fight. Not a rich youngster whose only quality is how deep his pockets are and how quickly the coin slips through his fingers." There was a ripple of laughter from the crowd, mingled with murmurs of agreement. WaveCleaver stiffened in his seat, his arrogance giving way to visible irritation. Blake didn''t wait for a response. He turned back to the gathered captains and lords, his voice rising with conviction. "Is that what you want?" he shouted, his voice carrying over the crowd. "To sell your integrity for coin like common whores? If that''s the case, then by all means, vote for the youngest and see how far his gold takes you before the waves swallow it all. But if you are true men¡ªmen of the sea, men of pride¡ªthen you''ll vote for a true warrior to lead you!" The crowd erupted, some cheering, some shouting in agreement, others still murmuring their thoughts. Blake raised a hand, silencing them. "And let me be clear," he continued, his tone steady but fierce, "even if SaltBeard wins today, I will be proud to sail behind him. For he is a brave man, and in his hands, the fleet will fight with honor. But know this¡ªwhat he fights for and what I fight for are not the same." Blake began to pace slowly "He will fight for glory¡ªhis glory, your glory, the glory of all our people. And there''s honor in that. But I will fight for one thing and one thing only: victory." He stopped and pointed toward the crowd, his voice rising to a roar. "Defeat means going back to how we lived before last year''s Call, before I stood before you to be judged¡ªwhether for praise or criticism. Before we tasted what it meant to break free. If you choose me, I will deliver victory¡ªnot for my glory, but because I know what it means to lose. And I will not let that happen. No matter the cost.No matter the jeer that I will receive afterward. For at the end of the day , only he who wins is remembered" Chapter 353: Result of the reforms Chapter 353: Result of the reforms After a day of revelry and productive discussions made under river of wine and cider, Alpheo turned his attention back to matters of state. The day afterward, with the hangover still plaguing his head, he signed the final documents to formalize the details of his new military reform. Once the papers were sealed, Alpheo wasted no time ensuring the news reached the White Company''s soldiers ¡ªthough not everyone called them that. To his thinly veiled annoyance, some preferred the moniker "Black Stripes," a nickname that had gained traction among the common folk. The name probably stemmed from their striking heraldry: two bold black diagonal stripes crossing in an "X" over a pristine white field.When Alpheo designed such herald, he didn''t have any profound and deep reason . Honestly he had chosen it because it was easy to make as black paint, could easily be made from some roots or coals, and also because it left a striking image, and was easy to see in the open field. After all when hundreds, all bearing such heralds and colours, marched in silence and as a single unit, it was conceivable to think that some peasant soldiers would shit themselves even before the fight started, as discipline had such bearing. Still, Alpheo couldn''t quite shake his irritation at the informal title, though he had to admit it carried a certain rugged charm. Anyway, he wasn''t so petulant and such a control freak to try and curb the informal name.After all as long as the army did what he was supposed to do , it wouldn''t matter what they were called.And it wasn''t that bad that they had more than one name, as it meant that in one way or another they left an image in the mind of the populace. After unveiling the reform, Alpheo''s curiosity about its reception led him to order a census, dispatching his courtiers to gauge the sentiment among soldiers and officers as he sought the hard numbers and genuine opinions from the ranks themselves. The results, when they came were encouraging. A staggering 95% of the sub-centurii¡ªthose with command over 50 soldiers¡ªexpressed their willingness to continue serving until completing the full ten years of duty. Among the decurii, the more senior officers, 60% pledged to remain loyal to their posts. As for the rank-and-file soldiers, the response was less overwhelming but still heartening. About 26% agreed to extend their service for an additional three years, lured by the promise of double the land at the end of their tenure. The census results painted a picture of optimism, much to Alpheo''s relief. The lingering fear of commanding a private army cobbled together from green, untested recruits was finally put to rest.After all, everybody knew that it was a bad idea to glue together veteran and green mens in the same unit, as even the efficacy of the veterans would be watered down by the greens. Of course, such enthusiasm from the ranks wasn''t entirely unexpected¡ªespecially among the officers and captains. The allure of knighthood and the promise of a fief, a reward not for a lifetime but one that could endure for generations, was too tantalizing to pass up, after all what chances did a common born have to become a noble? A fief wasn''t just land; it was a stake in the future, a foothold in the noble class. All they had to do was serve loyally, avoid betraying their liege, and steer clear of the wrong side in a civil war and they could be noble forever, perhaps their sons or grandsons would be able even to get a castle if they were lucky, maybe after some long years of servitude in the royal army just as their ancestors did. As for the decurii, their logic followed a similar path. Ten years in service was seen as a gateway to greater things. With one in every five of them having a shot at rising to sub-centurio, the odds weren''t dismal, and the promise of a steady ascent in rank kept them motivated. Moreover, the whispers among them suggested a quiet certainty that the Black Stripes,would expand in the near future. After all, they knew their prince. Alpheo wasn''t one to rest on his laurels; if the ink wasn''t drying on one campaign, he was likely sketching the next, and the more he conquered the more resources he had to expand the army , and as a domino, the more chances they would have to rise as a sub-centurii and get that glimpse of the ladder they so much desire. For the men, ambition was as much a part of the uniform as the stripes on their surcoats, it pushed them forward and was good as long as their ambitions did not clash with the interest of their liege, at that point it would become a problem. Alpheo leaned back in his chair, savoring a rare moment of peace, his princedom was at peace; he had no issue to deal with and currently he was just receiving reports from his side projects, with the most requested of him being to sign or to give a directory. Before him sat a slice of honey tart, its golden glaze catching the afternoon light. He cut a small piece, letting the sweet richness melt on his tongue, a faint smile playing on his lips. Moments like these were few and far between, and he intended to make the most of it. After dealing with the politcal issue, Alpheo of course decided to deal with his private one, mostly the culinary as he planned to give some details for the cook to follow for some food of his past life, that he could make here, such as for example pasta or sausages. A sharp knock at the door interrupted his reprieve. Alpheo sighed, setting down his fork, and straightened in his chair. "Come in," he called. The door creaked open, and in stepped Ratto. After the last issue that Alpheo had with his communication line with Lucius and Marcus, he had decided for a different man to temporarily occupy himself with such things, making sure that these letters immediately came to him, and for this job, Alpheo chose his squire. The job was light, so he had more than enough time to train with Rykio about riding and how to fight on horse while also furthering his education.As a matter of fact Alpheo planned in a few years, to give him some soldiers to lead and too see how he fared leading him, after all if what his tutors were saying was right , than he was a bright boy. Ratto held up a sealed envelope. "A letter came" Alpheo raised an eyebrow. "Does it have the bubble of ink?" Ratto nodded briskly, stepping forward to extend the letter. "Yes , It''s marked." Alpheo took the letter, his fingers tracing the edge of the parchment. He held it up to the light, noting the ink bubble pressed neatly into the left side of the letter "Well," he muttered, setting his plate aside and extending it toward Ratto. "Go ahead and finish this." The boy''s eyes lit up with a mixture of surprise and delight as he accepted the offering. "Thank you, " Ratto said, his voice brightening as he turned and exited the room with the tart, leaving Alpheo alone once more, it wasn''t everyday that he ate cake after all so his excitement was expected Even without breaking the seal, Alpheo could guess the contents of the letter. The reports from his scouts had already painted the general picture: the Herculeian heir was on the march, moving west to crush the last embers of rebellion. The band of men led by Lucius and Marcus¡ªthe very rebellion Alpheo had been secretly supporting¡ªwould now face the might of a proper army. A pity Egil or Mereth didn''t capture him,Alpheo mused, his fingers idly tracing the edges of the letter. He tilted it in the lamplight, as if the paper itself could somehow answer for the squandered opportunity. He could''ve been the perfect lever to topple Herculia even further into chaos. Demand a ransom,he continued, half-speaking to himself, Force Lechlian''s hand. And no matter what he chose, I''d win. Pay up? Fine. I take the gold¡ªor better yet, a few castles in exchange. Refuse? Even better. He chuckled low, leaning back in his chair. The perfect crack between father and son, that I could thrive on A little rumor here, a whisper there... say, about Lechlian favoring the middle child for succession. Oh, that would send the eldest into a frothing rage, wouldn''t it? With a little nudge, I might even convince him to take up arms. Lead an army, claim the throne. And when he does..." Alpheo''s smile grew sharper. The lords will see their chance to switch sides, to pledge allegiance to a winner. But my terms would be clear to him . He would have to bend the knee. Then I carve out a nice slice of Herculia for myself. Some lands here, a few lords there¡ªand the rest to him. "What a pity," he muttered, shaking his head with a rueful grin. "A golden opportunity, wasted." He finally turned the envelope over in his hands, the weight of it feeling heavier than it had any right to be. It didn''t take a brilliant tactician to discern what lay within. This letter would hold the outcome of that battle and with it the fate of the rebellion, not that Alpheo cared much about that , after all their use was done for his objective , for now he just kept it going just to see if he could further weaken that dog of Herculia. Alpheo sighed, his expression hardening. "Time to see how the dice have fallen," he said under his breath, breaking the letter. As he opened it , he then turned the letter over, noticing the bulk was thicker than a normal one. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he carefully peeled apart the layers, revealing two additional pages¡ªdecoys. He set them aside, unbothered by their meaningless contents, and focused on the third page, nestled between them like the heart of a riddle. His eyes scanned the words, taking in the terse, formal script. His expression hardened, though he felt no surprise. "I was right," he murmured to himself, the confirmation settling in his chest like a weight. They had lost. Chapter 354: Request for help Chapter 354: Request for help Alpheo placed the letter down on the desk, its edges curling slightly from the tension of his grip moments before. He leaned back, his chair creaking faintly under his weight, and scratched his chin thoughtfully, his fingertips brushing against the faint stubble growing there, he liked to have his face cleans as such he always shaved at least once a week, not that much grew there anyway, perhapse in the future he would grow a beard, he still did not know. The room was silent except for the soft tap of his fingers against his jawline. His gaze lingered on the letter. After a moment, he leaned forward again, the chair creaking once more as he reached for the paper. Sliding it back into his hands, he unfolded it carefully, smoothing out the creases. His eyes traced over the words once more I trust this letter reaches you in good health, though it pains me deeply to deliver such disheartening news. The battle between the rebel forces led by Inor and the Herculeian army commanded by the prince''s son, Arnold, has concluded in a resounding defeat for the rebellion. The rebels,had chosen to entrench themselves upon a fortified hilltop, constructing rudimentary defenses of stakes and ditches designed to neutralize the Herculeian cavalry''s feared mobility. It was a strong position, and their strategy was sound. The Herculeian forces arrived late in the afternoon and, wisely, opted to encamp for the night, intending to engage in full battle the following day. That night, under the cover of darkness, the rebels attempted a bold night assault, likely hoping to catch the Herculeians unprepared. Tragically, the enemy had anticipated such a move. From the reports of those that survivered, I am of the belief that Arnold, had ordered his troops to rest in their armor, ready for just such an eventuality. The surprise attack turned into a slaughter, as the Herculeian forces rallied swiftly and counterattacked with brutal efficiency. Those rebels who fled were mercilessly pursued by the enemy cavalry, their flight illuminated by the pale glow of the moonlight. Few returned to tell the tale. The following morning, with the rebels'' morale already shaken, the Herculeians launched an assault. Arnold ordered his infantry forward in waves, testing the rebel defenses, the engagement lasted an hour . The first attack was repelled , as the rebels held their ground. However, the second wave lasted at least three hours, and when the Herculeian footmen retreated, against Inor''s explicit orders, the rebel lines broke cohesion, giving in to the impulse to pursue what appeared to be a fleeing enemy. It was then that the trap was sprung. The foot soldiers at the base of the hill , that rested all the way during the second wave''s attack, charged forward and met the pursuing rebels head-on, while their cavalry executed a devastating flanking maneuver, striking at the now-exposed rebel lines. The cohesion of the rebels dissolved entirely, and what had begun as a pursue turned into a chaotic rout. Following that , Inor ordered what remained of his forces to abandon their camp and retreat into the nearby forest. While this allowed some to escape the slaughter, their condition has since grown dire. The rebel remnants now wander through the dense woods with dwindling supplies, their numbers and resolve steadily eroding , with deserters escaping in the night. Now comes the crux of this letter. Apparently Inor himself, wishes to discuss terms of sanctuary for himself and his surviving men and women. It is a desperate plea, borne of the realization that further resistance is no longer viable. As of this writing, they are making their way toward the city of Arduronaven, weary and bloodied but determined to seek your protection. I await your instructions on how to proceed with this matter of diplomacy . Time is of the essence, as the Herculeian forces may yet close the distance and finish what they began. Your loyal servant ------------- Alpheo had anticipated this outcome from the start. In truth, he doubted even his own abilities would have salvaged victory in Inor''s position. The strategy itself was not at fault; after all, it was he who had advised Lucius and Marcus to seek high ground to confront the Herculeians. The plan had merit, and by the contents of the letter, it seemed to have worked admirably¡ªat least until the rebels'' lack of discipline and leadership unraveled it. It wasn''t the strategy that failed, but the men leading it. Peasants-turned-commanders were hardly fit to counter an experienced foe, there weren''t even officers to make sure that orders were obeyed between lines, they were just a long line of men put together with only one man leading the. Their ineptitude had sealed their fate. Alpheo set the letter down with a sigh, his thoughts straying to the young Herculeian general. Arnold''s skill is sharper than I gave him credit for, Alpheo lampooned to himself, begrudgingly impressed.He had never had much of an opinion of the young man, still this last campaign proved him wrong. The feigned retreat had been a masterstroke¡ªa tactic that bore an eerie resemblance to William the Bastard''s maneuver at Hastings, which had secured his famous title of William the Conqueror. A flicker of unease crossed Alpheo''s mind. Perhaps Herculia wasn''t as feeble as he had once assumed. Yet the thought was fleeting, replaced by his customary confidence. His own forces were a different breed entirely. If it were my army on that hill, this debacle would never have occurred, Alpheo mused, fingers tracing the edges of the letter. His troops were bound by discipline as much as by steel, trained rigorously to resist the folly of reckless pursuit. His officers would never allow the lines to dissolve into chaos, even in the heat of battle. They were drilled to stay attuned to their surroundings, to heed orders without hesitation.Of course, this did not mean that his men would not pursue the enemy in that situation as the rebels did, they were men too after all; it just meant that if an order came from them to stop, one could easily bet his house that they would follow it to the letter. Arnold had won this round, but only because he was playing against children. Against Alpheo, it would have been a different game. As he thought of that young nobleman , he leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping against the edge of the desk. It wasn''t the defeat that bothered him¡ªhe had expected that much. No, what truly set his nerves was the fact that his spies had been captured. The letter didn''t say it outright of course . It seemed like a simple report, but Alpheo had planned for situations like this. He had instructed his men to include hidden messages in their letters, just in case. A system of reading the first letter of each line¡ªa secret code. A secret message in a secret letter , quite ironic. He grabbed the letter again, his eyes narrowing as he read the first letters down the page. Slowly, the words came together: "Prisoners, need help.". Apparently, Lucius and Marcus had managed to get themselves detained by the remnants of the defeated rebels. Alpheo couldn''t help but feel a twinge of disappointment¡ªbeing captured so easily was amateurish at best. Still, he reminded himself, they weren''t born spies, just ordinary people he''d molded for the role. Expecting perfection from them would be as foolish as trying to build a castle on sand. "Well," he muttered with a wry smile, leaning back in his chair, "a little adversity builds character, that''s for sure; perhaps this isn''t all bad.'''' Despite their misstep, Alpheo knew the larger picture was still firmly in his favor. The plan had worked. The twin fortresses were now under his control, and their strategic significance couldn''t be overstated. With those fortresses in hand, the enemy capital was ripe for a siege, as his supply line were now easily sorrounded by friendly castles, which meant that there was no worry about having his supply lines ambushed and raided, which in itself made the plan of starving the capital city of Herculia more than a feasible and doable job. As for the issue at hand, Alpheo wasn''t particularly concerned. It was an inconvenience, yes, but hardly a crisis. He had anticipated the possibility of such complications and had laid the groundwork to deal with them well in advance. One after all doesn''t play with fire in a house made of hay. Opening this jar of pickles, as he liked to phrase it, would take effort, but it wasn''t beyond his reach. He wasn''t naive enough to believe everything would always unfold perfectly in his favor. Life, after all, was a series of moving pieces, and the unexpected was inevitable. Still, the newfound bravado among the rebels now made more sense. Their audacity to propose a deal came from holding this card, however flimsy it was. They thought they could threaten him by exposing his role in supporting their cause, a move that could indeed create a diplomatic mess if it ever reached the wrong ears, in their positions he would probably do the same. Still he wasn''t worried. Everything was under control, neatly moving on the track he had set. By the end of the month, this irritation would resolve itself without him so much as lifting a finger. He wasn''t one to respond kindly to threats, after all and the rebels would learn that at their own price. After all , he had a contigency plan for everything, as one of the many boons of being prince was that the bigger your imagination was the better the plan would be. Chapter 355: Deal(1) Chapter 355: Deal(1) Marcus sat on the cold, uneven ground, his back pressed against a gnarled tree trunk. His clothes were torn and dirty, and a weariness hung over him like a cloud. Beside him, Lucius sat cross-legged, his face shadowed with guilt that seemed heavier than the pack he carried. "We really fucked up," he muttered, rubbing his hands together to ward off the creeping chill of the evening air. Lucius exhaled deeply, his gaze fixed on the ground. "It''s my fault. We should''ve escaped sooner. I kept thinking there was more time, that we could still win. If I''d acted faster... we''d be home by now.They say perseverance is a virtue, but it seemed to be the opposite to us" Marcus turned his head, his expression firm despite the exhaustion in his eyes. "That was not perseverance, but stubbornness. Still , it doesn''t matter now, Lucius. What''s done is done. We''re in this together. Always were, always will be.I don''t fault with our situation, everyone make mistakes don''t worry." Lucius didn''t respond immediately. He simply nodded, though the guilt didn''t lift from his features. The rebel band had been on the move for a week and a half, a slow and desperate march through dense forests and uneven terrain. Each night, the sound of footsteps slipping away into the dark became more frequent as men and women deserted in ones and twos. Their numbers had dwindled to just 430 now, a ragged amount of the force they''d started with, as soon as the food started to go down, people with their family tried their luck alone. They are probably dead by now..., Lucius thought, as after all they would have to first cross the forest, hope not to get caught by the pursuing army, and hope to find a village that not only had not been pillaged but that was willing to part with some food. Food supplies were in fact nearly exhausted. The stale bread and dried meat had been rationed to crumbs, and the last of the supplies would barely see them through another day. Hunger gnawed at their bellies, making tempers flare and morale sink further. Marcus and Lucius had no choice but to stay with the crumbling remnants of the rebels. Every step felt heavier than the last, and the growing despair was palpable, a weight they all carried.They both knew whose was at fault and it was kind of Marcus not to point it out, as many other would had. Marcus shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting around the encampment. He chewed on his lip, his fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on his sleeve. Finally, he turned to Lucius, his voice low and uncertain. "Do you think he''ll... you know..." He hesitated, then raised a trembling hand to his neck and made a slicing motion. Lucius''s head snapped toward Marcus, his face a mix of disbelief and exasperation. "Don''t be ridiculous. Inor needs us alive. We''re his only leverage. He''s not stupid enough to kill the only bargaining chip he has; without us, he has nothing, not that he has much now. I don''t think he realizes how little of a value we are and that he is holding low cards right now ." Marcus shook his head, his expression growing darker. "I didn''t mean Inor." The words hung in the air like a heavy fog. Lucius''s breath hitched, and he stared at Marcus, his face pale. "Gods forbid," he said sharply, shaking his head. "I refuse to believe he would do something like that to his own men. To us, we marched with him since the sands of Arlania, that must be worth something." Marcus leaned closer, his voice a harsh whisper. "He''s a monarch now, Lucius. That changes things. Remember what he said when we took this job? Leave no trace. No loose ends. It would make more sense for him to...than not to, you surely realize that. We became an inconvenience " He trailed off, his throat tightening at the thought, because even as he tried to fight his case, he still understood he was choosing to see the darker side of their already pitch-black situation Lucius clenched his fists, his voice trembling but resolute. "No. No, that''s not who he is. He wouldn''t; he even gave me a gift for my marriage, some bottles of cider and soap¡ªthose things that only the nobles have, you really think that such a man would do something so terrible to his men?To those that he walked to freedome with?" Marcus sighed heavily, his eyes dropping to the dirt. "I hope you''re right, I truly do. But the only thing we can do now is pray that he''ll have mercy on his men. On us." Lucius didn''t respond. He turned away, staring into the flickering shadows of the campfire, his jaw tight with worry and doubt, as he shuddered as Marcus'' words starting to make sense. While they were deep into their discussion much to the guard''s displeasures who wanted some quiet, a shadowed figure suddendly approached one of the watchmen standing near them. The man leaned in close, whispering something urgent while gesturing toward Marcus and Lucius. His eyes flicked over to the two men sitting near the dying fire, narrowing with suspicion. He adjusted the spear in his hand and began walking toward them with measured steps. "Get up," the watchman barked, his voice cutting through the stillness of the night. Marcus and Lucius exchanged a wary glance but obeyed, their movements slow as they rose to their feet. "What''s this about?" Lucius asked, trying to keep his tone steady despite the apprehension coiling in his chest. The watchman''s lips curled into a faint sneer. "Inor wants to see you. Now." Marcus swallowed hard, his throat dry. "What for?" "Did I ask you to talk?" the watchman snapped, his hand tightening on the shaft of his spear. "Move.It''s already bad enough I am stuck looking after you two" Without another word, he turned on his heel and motioned for them to follow. Marcus and Lucius hesitated for a heartbeat before falling in line, their steps heavy with dread as they were led deeper into the rebel camp, toward whatever fate awaited them. Marcus and Lucius trudged through the dimly lit camp, The state of the rebel camp was impossible to ignore. Gaunt faces peered out from beneath tattered cloaks, eyes sunken and hollow from days of hunger. A woman sat near a smoldering fire, cradling a child who whimpered faintly. Nearby, a cluster of men argued in hushed tones over a strip of dried meat, their voices sharp with tension. A few rebels sat bashing stones together as entertainment with what little strength they had left, their movements sluggish. Others huddled in small groups, muttering grievances or staring blankly at the ground. The sense of defeat was palpable even by one without hands ; the once-defiant spirit of the rebels now ground down to a weary silence. Marcus nudged Lucius and gestured subtly around him describing what even a little child could have noticed "They''re on their last legs," he murmured. ''''Silence there!'''' the watchemen shouted hearing talks behind him as he continued walking on The center of the camp was slightly more lively, though not by much. A large fire crackled, casting flickering shadows over the weary faces that surrounded it. At the heart of it all sat Inor, his expression grim and his hands clutching a dented metal cup that he occasionally brought to his lips, it was one of the things that they had looted inside the fortress of Stitz , a silver-gilded cup that the enemy commander drank from and that Inor had taken as spoil. Opposite him, seated on a roughly hewn log, was a man whose presence seemed oddly calm amidst the despair of the camp. He was lean and sharp-eyed, his dark cloak draped carefully to conceal much of his frame. His posture was too composed, too at odds with his sorrounding. Lucius felt his heart skip a beat as he recognized the man. He was the same individual they had encountered at the start of their mission¡ªa courier, or so he had claimed then . The man''s gaze shifted, locking onto Lucius and Marcus as they approached. His expression didn''t change, but there was an unmistakable spark of recognition in his eyes. He tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he studied them like a predator sizing up prey, this time he was without hood, which showed his facial characteristics to all who had eyes. And by all means, he was an average-looking man, without anything worth noticing, no scar, nor characteristics worth observing. He was the literal definition of bland. Marcus leaned slightly toward Lucius, muttering under his breath, "You know him?" Lucius nodded, his voice tight. "We''ve met him already, he must be here for us." Inor''s eyes scanned Marcus and Lucius . He took in their disheveled forms¡ªthe dirt-streaked faces, the hollowed cheeks, the weariness etched into every line of their bodies. A flicker of something¡ªcontempt, perhaps, or pity¡ªcrossed his face before his mouth twisted into a faint, humorless smile. "Here they are," Inor said, his voice carrying the same weariness that seemed to suffuse the entire camp. He gestured loosely toward Marcus and Lucius, addressing the man across the fire. "As you can see, they''re well enough. I''ve ensured they''ve been looked after.They have been given no harm as our guests" The man on the other side of the flames leaned back slightly, letting his gaze linger on the two captives. "A bit gaunted, wouldn''t you say? I suppose they have not eaten very well.Though I can see they aren''t the only one " His voice was smooth, almost teasing, but there was a coldness to it that made Lucius''s stomach twist. Inor let out a low, humorless chuckle, leaning forward to warm his hands by the fire. "Food has been... a scarce commodity as of late." He gestured vaguely around the camp, where the gaunt, sunken faces of his remaining soldiers told the story he didn''t need to voice. "We''d really like to receive some before we begin the... talks, of course." The man across the fire arched a brow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Naturally," he murmured, though his tone made it clear he found Inor''s plight both amusing and pathetic, or perhapse he was smiling at something else all together. Chapter 356: Deal(2) Chapter 356: Deal(2) Lucius shuddered under the weight of the man''s gaze. It was unsettlingly neutral, devoid of malice yet coldly detached, like the normal eyes of a farmer surveying his livestock, deciding which pig to slaughter as soon as the winter''s chill arrives, making use of the cold and the absence of flies and insects. He knew almost nothing about the man. Their only interaction had been the brief instructions he''d been given before his departure, delivered in a clipped, dispassionate tone that revealed nothing of the speaker''s nature. Lucius had since tried to piece together some understanding of him, some shred of context to anchor his growing unease. Was he a trusted confidant of the prince?Was he recruited like them , and it just happened that he was actually good at the job? Unlike them? The questions came as quickly as they were dismissed. Lucius had more pressing concerns, the foremost being the gnawing sense that this man was here to decide their fate. Was he right? Could it be true that Alpheo had sent this man not to rescue them, but to ensure their silence? It was a chilling thought, one that wrapped itself around Lucius like a suffocating cloak. Could the prince truly prefer us dead? he wondered, the words echoing in his mind like a prayer uttered in desperation. The thought was unbearable, but Lucius couldn''t ignore the mounting evidence that his life, and Marcus''s, might be in more danger than they currently were As if oblivious to the turmoil roiling in the two captives'' minds, the man simply shifted his gaze away from them, his attention returning to Inor with the same calm detachment. Lucius''s shoulders sagged slightly, though not in relief. As the man''s indifference was as disconcerting as his scrutiny. Inor leaned forward "So," he said, gesturing toward Marcus and Lucius with a casual wave of his hand, "are you satisfied? Here they are, alive and well, as promised." The man''s gaze lingered on the two captives for a moment longer before he straightened his back and gave a single, deliberate nod. "I am," he said, his voice smooth and clipped. Inor exhaled audibly, leaning back as though relieved to move past that point of contention. "Good," he said, though there was an edge of impatience to his tone. "Now, about that food. You can see for yourself that we''re in dire need of it." He gestured around the camp with a sweeping motion, taking in the gaunt faces, the half-starved rebels clustered around meager fires, and the faint, hollow coughing that punctuated the silence. The man tilted his head, his sharp eyes scanning the scene. After a pause, he nodded. "Yes," he said evenly. "I can see that. In fact," he added, with an air of calm authority, "the carts with supplies were prepared some time ago." Inor''s expression darkened instantly. "Prepared?" he repeated, his voice rising slightly. "If they''ve been ready, then why in the gods'' hells haven''t they been brought here?" The man''s lips twitched, and for the first time, a hint of emotion cracked his otherwise impassive demeanor. It wasn''t much¡ªa faint, mocking snigger "And how, exactly, were we supposed to drag wagons through the forest?Ever seen horses with wings?" he asked, his tone laced with dry sarcasm. Inor''s jaw clenched as he glared at the man, but before he could speak, the man raised a hand to forestall him. "The problem remains," he said, his voice firm now. "You''re still moving through the trees, and as long as you are, we can''t reach you with supplies." His gaze swept the camp again, his tone softening just enough to sound almost complimentary. "I understand why you''ve taken this route. Avoiding the army''s pursuit was a wise decision¡ªa commendable one, even¡ªbut it''s left you stranded." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "You''re out of danger now," he concluded'''' Given that kn- Inor raised a hand, his patience visibly thinning as he cut off the man mid-sentence. His voice, though steady, carried a sharp edge of frustration. "What do you mean ''out of danger''? Are you blind to the fact that there''s an army breathing down our necks, hunting us like dogs?" The man turned his gaze toward Inor, his expression a frustrating mix of calm and faint disdain. "I mean exactly what I said," he replied, his voice measured and firm. "The army stopped pursuing you several days ago. Their focus has shifted to the fortresses you captured. In short, you''re not worth their effort anymore. If they had been genuinely intent on catching you, you''d all be corpses by now. Marching at the pace you''ve set, through terrain like this? It''s a miracle you''ve managed to keep yourselves together this long.Cavalry could not go further, but infantry could" Inor''s jaw tightened as he absorbed the news. His shoulders sagged, and he exhaled heavily. "If that''s the case, what are we to do then?" The man straightened, his gaze shifting to the forest canopy above as if calculating distances in his mind. Finally, he pointed northeast with a gloved hand. "You''ll march in that direction," he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "Half a day''s travel should suffice. If you stay on course, you''ll leave the forest by nightfall of the next day ." Inor followed the direction of the man''s gesture, his eyes narrowing as though he could pierce through the trees and see the open plains beyond. The man continued, his voice steady and businesslike. "Once you''re out of the forest, we''ll ensure that your supplies are delivered. And you can have your follower have an actual meal" Inor''s brow furrowed, his lips twitching as though he wanted to argue. But before he could, the man added, "As for the meeting, it will be arranged based on your position. You''ll be escorted to the individual who holds the authority to finalize this... agreement. That''s where you''ll make your requests. Until then, all you need to do is march." He dropped his hand and crossed his arms, his expression unchanging. The fire crackled between them, the only sound breaking the tense silence. "You expect me to walk willingly into their hands?" he said, his voice low and brimming with suspicion. "What''s to stop them from simply locking me away or worse? If I go, I won''t come back. That much is clear." The man across from him didn''t flinch. His gaze remained level, calm, and unyielding. "If you think he''ll step in your place, you''re mistaken," he replied evenly, cutting off Inor''s suggestion before it could even be voiced. "The same argument applies to them.'''' He leaned forward slightly, gesturing with his hand. "The talks will take place in an open field¡ªneutral ground. There will be no hiding places, no opportunity for anyone to spring an ambush unnoticed. Both sides will be allowed no more than ten guards to ensure equal footing." Inor''s lips twisted into a frown as he considered the proposal, but the man wasn''t finished. "Once the discussions are concluded, both of your hostages will be freed. That is the agreement on the table.I suggest you take it while it still on." For a moment, Inor said nothing, his gaze fixed on the fire. His mind raced with the implications, weighing the risks. Honestly, he knew that the only advantage he had were those two, and regarding the talks of today it appear clear that they have some value; after all if they weren''t what stopped them from denying any support and waiting for the rebels to starve? Finally, he straightened, his jaw set in reluctant determination. "Fine," he said, his tone curt. "But only on the condition that your promise of food is fulfilled. Without it, there''s nothing to discuss." The man gave a slight nod, his expression unreadable. "Then we have an understanding." Inor didn''t reply, his eyes still locked on the fire, the flames casting a flickering glow over the hard lines of his face. As the conversation seemed to settle, Lucius, unable to restrain himself any longer, cleared his throat. The interruption was jarring, and both Inor and the man turned toward him. Lucius stepped forward hesitantly, his voice tinged with unease. "Forgive me," he began, glancing briefly at Inor before focusing on the man. "But... is he disappointed?" The man studied Lucius for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. Then, with a measured calm, he said, "Disappointed? Yes, to a degree." His tone was sharp but not cruel. "But he is also satisfied with the results you''ve achieved. He is willing to overlook it...'''' Lucius and Marcus exhaled deeply, relief washing over them like a wave. Lucius bowed his head a bit "Thank you. Truly. We needed to hear that" The man nodded slightly, his gaze steady as ever. "Good," he said. "If there''s nothing else?" Inor, who had been silent during the exchange, shook his head stiffly, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Then I will take my leave," the man said, standing and adjusting his cloak. His movements were precise, deliberate, as though he had already planned his next steps. Without another word, he turned and walked away, his boots crunching softly against the ground, leaving the camp to itself Chapter 357: Rescue(1) Chapter 357: Rescue(1) By the time the following night descended, the rebel army had finally emerged from the suffocating confines of the forest. The open plains stretched out before them, offering a vastness they had not seen in weeks. A few hours after the campfires were lit, the long-awaited carts arrived, creaking under the weight of promised provisions. The sight of the wagons, laden with sacks and barrels, sent a palpable wave of excitement through the camp. Rebels who had barely spoken for days now scrambled to unload the food with newfound energy. For the first time in over a week, the rebels sat down to a proper meal. Gone were the meager scraps and foraged roots; tonight, there was bread, dried meat, and even a small measure of ale. The camp was alive with the sound of crackling fires, murmured thanks, and the occasional laughter¡ªa stark contrast to the sullen silence that had gripped them during their march. Lucius and Marcus sat near one of the fires, sharing a simple meal. Lucius tore into a piece of bread, savoring every bite like it was a feast fit for a king. Marcus gnawed on a strip of dried meat, his face lighting up with one of his lost smiles. The two were still heavily guarded, but they did not care about that, as they now had their belly filled. After all, seeing how someone actually met Inor and express interest for a deal, be it fake or real meant that perhaps their lives were not forfeited as they previously thought; of course, they were not out of the woods yet, but at least the knowledge that there was a path forward alleviated their worries a lot. Lucius took a deep, relieved breath, his eyes scanning the camp around them. "You got me worried there, Marcus," he said with a light chuckle, his voice betraying a hint of lingering tension. "You really made me start pondering the possibility of being silenced. I thought we were done for, that we''d never make it out of that forest." Marcus, chewing slowly, gave a small smile and nodded, as if his thoughts were aligned with his friend''s. "Thank the gods for their mercy, never thought I would be so happy to be proved wrong." he muttered quietly, glancing up toward the starlit sky. ''''Thank them for allowing us to keep our lives; thank them for allowing us to have such food once again. He paused, the weariness of the past weeks showing in his eyes. "You know," Marcus continued, the weight of the moment sinking in, "when I get back home, I think I''ll become a new man. A proper one. No more of this... reckless living. I''ve seen too much to keep pretending I''m invincible." Lucius snorted, unable to suppress his grin. "A new man, eh? You planning on stopping with the whoring then?" he teased, raising an eyebrow. "I''m sure Yarzat''s whore will go begging now." Marcus glanced at him seriously, a rare edge of sincerity to his expression. "No. I''m serious. When I get home, I''ll settle down. Build a proper family.Do as you did" His voice was low but resolute, the light of conviction in his eyes. "For once, I want a future that''s not just about the next drink or the next woman." Lucius blinked, surprised by the shift in his companion''s tone. His usual sarcastic, devil-may-care demeanor was gone, replaced by an unexpected seriousness that hung between them for a moment. But after a beat, Lucius let out a hearty laugh. "Well, I''ll believe it when I see it, he said with a grin, "but I hope for your sake you''re being serious about this one.'''' As the hours passed, the conversation between Lucius and Marcus continued through the night , everyone was happy about finally eating, and the relaxed mood made everyone feel a bit calmer in their minds. As the night deepened, the two men remained by their fire, their talk slowing as weariness took over them , making them decide to call it a day and go to sleep, much to the relief of their guards, who wanted some silence but that were told by Inor to treat them better than before, which meant not shutting their conversations when they became too loud. ------------ The guards stationed near Lucius and Marcus exchanged glances as the camp grew quieter, and as usual they divided the night''s watch between them . Two of them prepared to sit through the first shift, while the other pair settled in for a brief rest, their faces shadowed by the dim glow of the dying fire. One of the watchmen crouched low near the flames, a long stick in his hand as he poked at the charred remnants of the wood. There was nothing much to do , so one of them played with the fire. Sparks danced upward with each jab, flaring briefly before fading into the night. He tilted his head toward his companion, his voice a mix of dry humor and complaint. "Well, that''s the end of that," the first guard muttered, poking at the fading embers with a stick. He gestured lazily at the dwindling pile of ash. "Unless some brave, selfless soul wants to fetch more wood for the fire..." The other guard groaned, rubbing his face like a man burdened by existence itself. " Go to hell." "Come on, you son of a whore," the first one shot back, grinning. "I was the one who fetched wood last night." "Yeah, because we were in a bloody forest, you dumb bastard," the second guard retorted, throwing a glare his way. "My point still stands," the first one said with a shrug, clearly enjoying himself. The second guard rolled his eyes and let out an exaggerated sigh as he rose to his feet. "Fine, fine. Don''t burn the whole damn camp down while I''m gone. I''ll grab some wood... and maybe take a piss while I''m at it, my cock feels as if it''s bursting." The first guard smirked, leaning back against a log and stretching with a mock yawn. "Don''t wander too far now. If you get lost, I''m not dragging your sorry ass back here." "Noted," the second guard replied, waving a hand dismissively as he turned and headed into the shadows beyond the firelight. The remaining guard shook his head, chuckling softly as he prodded the fire once more. "Lazy bastard," he muttered with a smirk, watching the sparks jump and fade. Around him, the camp was quiet save for the crackle of the flames and the distant shuffle of his companion disappearing into the dark. Some dozens of minutes passed, the fire crackling softly as the lone guard stared into the glowing embers.Just when he was wondering where his friend was , the faint rustle of footsteps behind him broke the stillness. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he muttered, "Took your damn time, didn''t you?" Silence answered him, colder than the night air. ''''Oi are you there?'''' The guard frowned, his brow furrowingas he slowly started to turn¡ª But before he could turn completely , a hand clamped over his mouth, silencing the sharp intake of breath that would have been his cry. His eyes widened in panic as he felt the cold kiss of steel against his chest. The glint of a dagger in the firelight was the last thing he saw before it plunged deep, seeking his heart with deadly precision, with down-up motion. The pain was sharp, fleeting, as his body stiffened in shock. A wet gasp escaped against the hand that muffled him, his vision blurring as warmth spread through his chest¡ªnot from the fire, but from his own blood. The guard slumped forward, his lifeless body collapsing near the fire, the faint flicker of its glow reflecting in his glassy, unseeing eyes. The camp remained quiet, the night swallowing the soft thud of his fall. The killer turned his head sharply, his face half-illuminated by the firelight a small drip of sweat reaching down his back as he realized how close he was to fucking it all up.Almost instictively he turned behind exchaning gaze with the two behind him ''''Get on with it,'''' one of them said as he walked forward. One of them approached his target, crouching low, placing a firm hand over the guard''s mouth to muffle any sound, repeating the same motion as the other one. The sleeping man stirred faintly, his eyes fluttering open in confusion for the briefest of moments before the dagger drove into his chest. The guard''s body tensed, then went slack as his life drained away. The other assassin mirrored the movements, clasping the mouth close before striking with the dagger; this time however he missed the heart and instead pierced the lung , prompting him to take out the dagger and repeating the motion until he got it right. In the meantime, the guards choking on his own blood and futilely trying to get the man off of him swung his arms trying to free himself , until with each thrust his effort became lighter and lighter, before ceasing to move all-together The more time i passed the more the kill-count of each of them increased, until all the ten guards watching over Lucius and Marcus, who were sleeping on some rugs on the ground unbothered by the sounds around them, were killed. One of the assassins prompted by the other to go ahead, slowly looked around, and after making sure that nobody was up, much to his relief as they took much more time than they expected, he slowly walked towards Lucius. His chest rose up steadily, the men standing before him gazed at him for a few seconds before quickly clasping his mouth shut as he did with the other. Chapter 358: Rescue(2) Chapter 358: Rescue(2) "You won''t touch him, you drunk bastard!"her voice a fierce, trembling roar as she hurled herself against his father. She fought with everything she had, clawing, scratching, and shoving. But he was bigger, stronger, and meaner. It didn''t take long before he overpowered her, grabbing her wrists in one massive hand and throwing her aside as if she weighed nothing. "He''s my son. I''ll do as I damn well please!" he spat Lucius stood frozen in the corner, watching with wide eyes as his mother hit the ground hard, clutching her side and crying out in pain. Why are they fighting this time? he wondered, his small hands trembling. He didn''t have the courage to step forward yet, his feet rooted to the dirt floor of their home. He watched his mother, her face streaked with tears, clutching the hand of his younger brother who looked just as frightened. Lucius took a tentative step toward her. "Stop it, Lucius!" his father barked, his voice sharp as the crack of a whip. In two strides, he was there, seizing Lucius''s arm in an iron grip. "She''s crying!" Lucius cried, his voice wavering. "She''ll stop soon enough. Now quit your whining and come with me!" his father snapped, dragging him toward the door. His grip tightened until it felt like Lucius''s arm would snap. Lucius glanced back, desperate and scared. His mother had struggled to sit up, her hand outstretched toward him as if begging his father to let him go. Her lips moved silently, calling his name. His little brother, too young to understand, clung to her other arm, staring at Lucius with wide, confused eyes. Lucius tried to dig his heels in, but his father''s strength yanked him forward. He watched helplessly as his mother''s fingers curled in a futile grasp, her outstretched hand not meant for her younger son but for him¡ªher desperate plea to keep her child from harm. Outside, the cool night air did little to calm the storm in Lucius''s chest. His father shoved him forward, growling. "You don''t talk back to me, boy. You''re coming for a walk, and that''s final." The two walked in silence for what felt like hours, though it was only minutes. Lucius''s bare feet shuffled against the dirt road, his father''s heavy strides crunching beside him. The boy''s heart pounded in his chest, each step filling him with a growing dread he couldn''t name. Ahead loomed a shabby building, its wooden walls warped and cracked with age. The windows were either boarded up or smeared with grime, and the faint, sour stench of rot hung in the air. As they stepped closer, Lucius instinctively pulled back, but his father''s iron grip on his arm tightened. "Come on, boy. Don''t make me drag you," his father growled, his voice dripping with impatience. Lucius''s breaths quickened. His small frame shook as a wave of fear unlike anything he''d ever felt coursed through him. Something about this place was wrong, deeply wrong. "No... I don''t want to... Please, Father..." he stammered, his words coming in frantic gasps. His father stopped abruptly, turning to look down at him with a grin that twisted his face into something monstrous. "You know that this is going to happen!You can''t stop it , it already happened!'''' Lucius yanked his arm back with all his strength, but his father didn''t let go. Panic took over, and he began clawing at the hand gripping him. "Let me go!" he screamed, tears spilling down his cheeks. His father laughed, a deep, guttural sound that echoed unnaturally. The edges of the world seemed to blur and ripple, and Lucius''s voice faltered as he realized his screams weren''t escaping. His throat convulsed, but no sound came out. He clawed at his own face, his nails tearing into the skin around his mouth as he tried to pry his lips apart. But they weren''t there. His mouth had vanished, replaced by smooth, featureless flesh. Blood dripped down his chin as his nails scraped deeper, his breathing now a frantic wheeze through his nose. "Don''t you want to go back to your mother?" his father taunted, leaning closer. His face distorted, becoming warped and grotesque. The lines of his features blurred, his grin stretching impossibly wide as his deep voice rumbled. "You just need to say it, Lucius. Say it!Come on!" Lucius tried to scream, his hands clawing desperately, but the air wouldn''t come. His chest burned, his vision swam, and his father''s laughter grew louder, echoing in his ears. The boy fell to his knees, his bloodied fingers trembling as they dropped to his sides. He awoke with a jolt His eyes snapping open to a suffocating darkness. A heavy weight pressed down on his stomach, pinning him to the ground, and a coarse, calloused hand clamped over his mouth, silencing his startled gasp. His chest heaved as he fought to breathe, the panic from his dream bleeding seamlessly into this new nightmare. His mind raced as the pressure on his body grew unbearable, his breaths quick and shallow beneath the stifling hand. Gods, save me. Please, please save me. The desperate prayer repeated over and over in his head, each word laced with frantic hope. I don''t want to die. I don''t want to die. Please, gods, I don''t want to die. His body jerked instinctively, struggling against the weight holding him down, but it was no use. The hand on his mouth tightened, and his muffled cries were swallowed by the quiet stillness of the night. I don''t want to die. The words became his mantra, his silent plea to the heavens as his vision blurred with unshed tears. Please, gods, save me. Fortunately for Lucius, the night of his death was not this one. The man pinning him down pressed a single finger to his own lips, signaling for silence. When no dagger materialized to end his life, a flicker of relief seeped into his panic-stricken mind. Slowly, he nodded, his movements hesitant but deliberate. The man''s piercing gaze lingered for a heartbeat longer before he eased the hand away from Lucius''s mouth. Gasping, Lucius sucked in a deep breath, his chest heaving as if he''d been underwater for minutes. The cool night air filled his lungs, but the tension remained coiled in his body like a taut spring. Lucius leaned up slightly, his voice a trembling whisper as he asked, "Are you here to rescue us?" The man gave a curt nod, his expression unreadable in the dim light. Relief washed over Lucius like a wave, though it was laced with apprehension. He glanced over to see another figure crouched over Marcus, waking him in the same silent, firm manner. Marcus jolted awake, his panicked eyes meeting Lucius''s for a brief moment before understanding would settle in for him too. Soon the group moved quietly through the rebel camp, their footsteps light and careful. Around them, the camp was completely silent, with no crackling fires or shifting guards to break the stillness. Most of the men were asleep, scattered in small groups or wrapped in rugs near the cold remains of the fires. The camp felt abandoned in its stillness, as though it had been forgotten by its own people. Lucius followed close behind, keeping his breathing as quiet as he could. He couldn''t believe how easy it was to walk through the camp. There were no guards patrolling, no watchmen standing at the edges of the camp¡ªnothing to stop them from leaving.After all they were kept at the centre of the camp with men always watching over them armed, so they could not simply go patrolling around at edges of the camp. Still as long as they didn''t trip or make a loud noise, it seemed like they could just walk right out. But something felt off. Lucius noticed that the men rescuing him were looking around more often than he expected. Not simply to make sure that nobody was awake, but were instead watching every direction even behind them as they did so. How many times had he thought he was going to die this week? Far too many. Even during the fiercest battles he''d fought in, he''d never felt this close to death so often. As they moved closer to the edge of the camp, his eyes shifted to his rescuers. He finally took in their appearance. The tattered clothes they wore caught his attention¡ªthey weren''t just rough or simple; they were ragged, patched in places, and torn in others. Strangely, their clothing looked almost identical to what many of the other rebels wore, at least those that did not wear armor. A realization hit him. Were there other agents apart from us two?For how long were they among the rebels? It was clear now that these men must have blended in with the rebels, living among them. But if that was the case, why hadn''t they helped sooner? Lucius''s thoughts darkened as he pondered. There had been countless moments during the march when it would''ve been easier to stage a rescue¡ªtimes when the camp was even less guarded than tonight, or when the rebels had been too focused on their own survival to pay attention to prisoners. So why wait until now? The question gnawed at him, making him uneasy. He knew he should feel grateful for these men as after all they had rescued them from their situation , yet suspicion soon crept in through the crack of his mind What had changed tonight that finally made them act? He just could not understand. Chapter 359: Ending a liability(1) Chapter 359: Ending a liability(1) The night was dark, with only the faint glimmer of stars overhead to light the open field. In the distance, 200 horses stood silently, their riders waiting in a tense stillness. The horses snorted softly now and then, their hooves occasionally scuffing the ground, but the scene was otherwise eerily quiet. At the center of this gathering lay Lord Egil, the commander of the light riders of the White Army. He lounged on his horse, sprawled across the saddle as if he had no care in the world. His posture, almost languid, was a sharp contrast to the watchful readiness of his men. Egil''s eyes were fixed on the night sky, tracing the constellations with a lazy interest. Between his teeth, he chewed on the stem of a wildflower he''d picked earlier in the evening. The sharp, acidic tang of the stem made his mouth water, and every so often, he bit off a piece, rolling it around on his tongue before spitting it out, letting the acidic taste linger on his tongue . The spit landed with a faint, wet pat on the dry earth below. Egil smirked to himself, finding an odd satisfaction in the bitter taste and the rhythm of his chewing. The silence stretched on, broken only by the occasional creak of leather saddles and the low shuffle of restless horses. Egil took one last bite of the flower stem, spit out the piece, and let out a quiet sigh, still staring at the stars as if the night were his to command. "How long is this going to take? Patience is for priests, not soldiers." He shifted slightly on his saddle, craning his neck to glance around the assembly of riders, his second in command Rykio unfortunately was not there to appreciate his joke The silhouettes of his men were barely visible in the dim starlight, their figures blending with the shapes of their horses. His eyes lingered on the group for a moment, and a faint grimace tugged at his lips. Since the last war, his once-proud force had temporarily dwindled down , from 150 hardened riders, to only a hundred. They had faced a force of heavy cavalry that outnumbered them nearly three to one, and the toll had been devastating. Still, the outcome had been nothing short of remarkable. They had inflicted heavy losses on the enemy, breaking their lines and sowing chaos in a force that had seemed unstoppable, before turning around and winning the battle for Alpheo, by all means it was a success. Yet the cost was as great as the victory ¡ªnearly a third of his men gone¡ª. He''d buried too many good riders that day.. Their numbers had since been replenished, and not just restored but increased, a small gift of appreciation by Alpheo . Now, 200 riders waited under his command. Yet Egil knew what that meant. Half of them were green as fresh spring grass, untested recruits who''d never heard the whistle of a javelin ,except in training, and that surely never felt the sticky warmth of blood of their enemies on their hands. He let out a slow breath, his smirk returning. "Perfect time for the lads to pop their cherry," he muttered to himself, the words carrying a dark humor. A battle like this was exactly what they needed¡ªa skirmish, small enough to control but fierce enough to bloody his men, though he was certain it would not be a skirmish as much as a slaughterhouse. He leaned back slightly, watching the night as if it held all the answers. The veterans will carry the greens through this, he thought. They always did. By the end of the night, the green ones wouldn''t be green anymore. They''d either be blooded riders¡ªor corpses. And if they were really to die against such rabble, then it was better for them to stay dead. He spat the last piece of flower onto the ground, there is no place for them here. Egil straightened himself in the saddle with a groan, shaking off the stiffness from lying flat for so long. His gaze swept lazily over the assembled riders until his eyes landed on a particularly nervous-looking figure near the edge of the group. Having nothing goo to do, with a glint of mischief, he raised a hand and pointed. "You!" he barked, his voice cutting through the quiet night. The rider flinched, glancing around to see if someone else might be the target of Egil''s attention. When no one else reacted, he awkwardly raised a hand to his chest. "M-me, my lord?" "Yes, you dumb fool," Egil shot back, rolling his eyes. "What, you think I''m pointing at the bloody stars? Get up here." The man urged his horse forward hesitantly, bowing as he approached. "My lord, I¡ª" "Wait," Egil interrupted, holding up a hand. "Let me guess. You''re one of the newbies, aren''t you?" The young rider nodded quickly, his posture stiff. "Yes, my lord. I joined only a month ago.", then as if remembering something he bowed. The veterans around them erupted in laughter, their voices echoing in the darkness. The young man glanced around, his face flushing with confusion. "Relax, lad," Egil said, waving a hand dismissively. "You''ll learn. And when you do, you''ll look back on this moment and laugh like they are, as you will understand what you did wrong." The young rider nodded again, though he still seemed uncertain, had he done something strange? Egil leaned forward slightly, resting his forearm on the saddle horn. "Listen up, boys!" he called, his voice loud and clear. "Today is a great day for all of you fresh-faced pups. You''re about to become proper men." The veterans cheered and clapped, while the green riders exchanged nervous glances. "You''ll have the chance to draw blood for your prince," Egil continued, his tone taking on a sharp edge. "The first kill is always the sweetest. It''s the moment you stop being just a boy on a horse and become a real rider, a real warrior." A murmur of agreement rippled through the group. "And," he added with a sly grin, "if among the prisoners there happens to be a woman that catches your eye¡ªwell, you can have your fun. That''s your right as a victor. But," he raised a finger, "you either kill her when you''re done or take her as your wife at the end of the campaign." The veterans roared with laughter and approval, banging fists against their saddles and whooping in the moonlight. Even the green riders couldn''t help but cheer, swept up in the energy of the moment. Egil smirked, watching the group come alive. "Every damn one of your comrades who''s married started the same way," he said, raising his voice over the noise. "Ask any of them. So make tonight count, lads!" The cheers grew louder, a wave of excitement and adrenaline coursing through the riders. Egil leaned back, satisfied, and let the moment carry them forward.And just as he turned his head, his second-in-command, Rykio, emerged from the shadows of the hill. "Well, well," Egil greeted with a wolfish grin, sitting up straighter. "Is it time?" Rykio nodded curtly, his voice steady and low. "The two agents have been rescued. Our hands are untied now. We have free ground to proceed." Egil''s grin widened, his teeth flashing in the dim starlight. "Ah, finally! Music to my ears, Rykio." He let out a sharp, barking laugh and raised a hand to his riders. "Boys, you hear that? It''s time to have some fun!" A roar of approval erupted from the riders, their cheers reverberating through the night air. Egil didn''t wait for further ceremony. He turned his horse toward the slope of the hill, signaling the charge with a sharp whistle. "Let''s show them what real riders look like!" Without bothering to hide their tracks or even a hint of subtlety, Egil and his men surged down the hill, the thunder of hooves pounding against the earth. The riders spread out in a loose formation, the sight of their charging force like a black tide descending upon the valley below. The cool night air stung Egil''s face as he urged his horse faster, his blood thrumming with excitement. His men followed, their shouts and laughter cutting through the night, ready to claim the chaos and glory that awaited them. During the war against Herculia, Egil had learned much to his surprise the value of cunning. He remembered vividly how they had approached the enemy camp under the cover of darkness, their front rows carrying blankets of wool to cover up the light of the torches . Those makeshift shields were propped up by sticks, carefully angled to keep the light from giving away their position while still allowing the rear lines enough visibility to advance. He had thought about it the night before that attack and was surprised by the fact that it worked But tonight, Egil saw no need for such sophistication. They weren''t facing the army of Herculia. No, this time they were up against a ragtag group of peasants¡ªhungry, tired, and utterly untrained. These rebels might have held swords and spears in their hands, but they lacked the discipline and gut to wield them properly. For hours, Egil''s riders had observed the enemy camp from the hilltop, noting its vulnerabilities. The lack of watchmen patrolling the perimeter was glaring, as was the absence of torches to illuminate the camp''s edges. It was almost as if the rebels had given up on the idea of defending themselves altogether. Emil couldn''t help but feel a mixture of amusement and disdain as he took it all in. He had seen better security from drunk farmers guarding their livestock, in the past he was the one after all that raided their herd of sheep when he worked with his tribesmen as mercenaries. The contract would usually be from a side between the feud that two lords had with each other,and the job usually was to kill the other''s side soldiers , which was then followed by raiding their villages. These peasants weren''t soldiers though¡ªthey were desperate men trying to hold onto a cause already slipping through their fingers. Not that their negligence surprised him. What else could one expect from undisciplined commoners thrust into the chaos of war? They had no training, no proper leadership, and no understanding of what it truly meant to fight. Even their leader was soundly sleeping , smiling while thinking that he had managed to at least save their skin,not knowing that in the eyes of those he thought he would treat with, he was just a nuisance that was ordered to be taken care of. Chapter 360: Ending a liability(2) Chapter 360: Ending a liability(2) Two hundred riders, their steeds restless and snorting in the cool air, descended the hill in a wave of dimly glowing embers. The descent was measured at first, the rhythmic clatter of hooves muffled by the damp soil,as after all there was no use into forcing one''s horse to go all out since the start. As they closed the distance, the golden glow of the torches reflected in the eyes of the riders, illuminating faces hardened by past battles for some , with for the others still green there was onlu the presence of the thrill of their first charge, the rustle of their movement blending with the whisper of the wind. The camp below was oblivious to the storm approaching it. Each light of each torchlight, making the riders looks like embers or stars Egil rode at the forefront, his torch held high, a beacon that led his men closer to their quarry. The smell of the burning pitch mixed with the earthy scent of the fields they passed. Each step of their advance brought the camp''s crude outlines into clearer sights of campfires sparingly burning ,and the faint silhouettes of men who slumbered unaware of the fate bearing down on them. What little peace the rebels clung to would be shattered before the next dawn. The thunderous roar erupted as Egil''s riders let loose their war cry as soon as they deemed the camp close enough, a chorus of defiance that shattered the stillness of the night. "Either victory or we all die!" The words echoed across the hills, raw and primal, a declaration of intent that carried the weight of lives willingly staked on the charge ahead. It wasn''t just a battle cry¡ªit was a belief forged in the during the Herculeian campaign, when Egil had first uttered those words to his men as they prepared to ambush a relief army that outnumbered them three to one. Back then, Egil had never imagined that his actions would have such standing among his troops, nor that they would significantly bolster his reputation in Yarzat. Alpheo, had in fact spared no expense in ensuring that word of the triumph spread far and wide. After all, a victory¡ªno matter how unconventional¡ªwas still a victory, which would have helped bolster his image as a warrior-prince. The minds of many nobles soon painted Egil as a shrewd and ruthless warrior.An image that was only reinforced by Egil''s origins as a mounted nomad, which made him look like an alien in a feudalistic society Most surprisingly however, that rallying cry had taken root in the soldier''s hearts, becoming an unofficial motto that they all shouted before a charge. Egil couldn''t help but grin at their ferocity, the flames of their torches reflected in his eyes as he glanced back at the charging lines. These men¡ªthis army¡ªhad become a mirror of the life he once thought lost forever. Their reckless courage, their stubborn refusal to bow, as he tasted during their clash against the Herculeian knights at the battle of the Bleeding Plains, reminded him of his tribe before the Empire''s iron hand crushed it. He thought of his hometribe often, recognizing sadly it was now gone, its remnants scattered across the Empire like ash after a great fire. His kin were either enslaved, resettled in distant lands, or slain outright. Egil himself had been spared from that destiny, by the appearance of a seemingly uncospicious young boy. But here, with this band of riders, he had found something akin to what he had lost. Not freedom, not entirely, but a purpose¡ªa brotherhood that echoed the wild, untamed spirit of his people. "Either victory or we all die" he shouted back his tongue rolling around his mouth As the cry reverberated across the hills, Egil straightened in his saddle, his chest swelling with pride. He raised his torch higher, its flame licking at the night air, and spurred his horse onward. If this was to be the life he led, a life built on the embers of his past, then so be it. The first stirrings of confusion soon rippled through the sleeping camp as the distant war cries reached a few scattered ears. Drowsy figures stirred within the campfires , their movements slow and clumsy as they tried to make sense of the chaos unfolding around them. One man stumbled out of his dreaming waking up , rubbing his eyes and muttering groggily, only to freeze as the faint glow of torches reflected off steel and chainmail bearing down upon him. His confusion turned to wide-eyed terror as the riders¡ªfaceless under their helms¡ªdescended like an unstoppable wave. "What¡ª?" was all he managed to utter before the leading horseman''s blade arced downward, cleaving through the air and cutting through his throat . The sharp cry of confusion became a scream of pain, silenced almost instantly. Elsewhere, others stumbled to their feet, clutching crude weapons or empty-handed, their reactions too slow for the speed of the charging riders. One young man, barely more than a boy, stood petrified as a rider''s lance found its mark, a sickening thud followed by the boy''s scream piercing the night. Shouts of fear and confusion became a chaotic cacophony, mingling with the dull thud of hooves and the clamor of steel. The camp, once a scattered collection of sleeping forms, was now alive with terror, lit by the flickering glow of torches and the ominous shadows of riders striking down anything in their path. No attempt at resistance arose within the camp. The rebels, once defiant, for the last week moved like shadows of their former selves. The fighting spirit that had driven them weeks ago had been extinguished by the crushing weight of starvation, endless desertions, and the humiliating defeat they had suffered at the hands of the Herculeian army. Those who once held weapons with conviction now cowered in the face of the descending riders, their will broken and their minds consumed by despair. Days without proper food had sapped their strength; weeks of disarray had fractured their unity. The rebel band was no longer an armed force but a scattered collection of desperate souls waiting for the inevitable, that was coming to them right now. As the chainmail-clad riders tore through the camp, striking with brutal efficiency, there were no counterattacks, no rallying cries. Some tried to flee, only to stumble on weakened legs, their efforts futile against the speed of the horses bearing down upon them. Others simply stood frozen, too weak or resigned to move, their fates sealed by the crushing hopelessness of the moment. This end was foretold not by their enemies, but by the circumstances that had doomed them long before Egil''s riders appeared on the hill. The massacre unfolded with that same merciless efficiency,that Egil''s rider became known among their comrades for. Men, women, and even children were caught in the chaos, their cries of terror drowned by the thunderous gallop of horses and the sharp clash of steel. The rebels, those who once dreamed of freedom, scattered like leaves before a storm while being cut down. Javelins soared through the cold night air, whistling death as they found their targets. Fleeing figures crumpled mid-stride, struck down by precise throws. The riders, their chainmail glinting faintly in the torchlight, laughed and shouted as they tore through the camp. For them, this was no battle¡ªit was sport. One rider leaned low in his saddle, his blade arcing down to strike a man struggling to run. The laughter that followed resembled that of an animal rather than man. Another rider grabbed a fleeing woman by her hair, dragging her kicking and screaming toward his saddle. Her desperate struggles were met with jeers and mocking cheers from nearby riders. Elsewhere, a group of riders encircled a small cluster of terrified civilians¡ªmen shielding their families with trembling hands. One rider spurred his horse forward, striking a man with his sword''s edge, sending him sprawling with a missing jaw. They all had to die The camp, once filled with the weary and downtrodden, became a blood-soaked ruin. Fires smoldered where tents had been overturned or trampled. The cries of the dying and the pleading of the captured echoed into the dark sky, mingling with the triumphant shouts and laughter of the riders. It was not war, nor justice¡ªit was a massacre, display of power and ruthlessness. --------------------- Inor stood motionless at first, his breath caught in his throat as he witnessed the nightmare unravel before him. The chaos of the camp¡ªthe screams of the dying, the laughter of their killers, the crackle of fires consuming tents¡ªoverwhelmed his senses. Around him, people he had fought beside fell like stalks of wheat to a scythe. Just when he had thought that he had managed to lead his people to survival everything came rolling down. A young boy, no older than twelve, tried to flee past him, his face streaked with dirt and tears. A javelin struck the boy in the back, his body crumpling to the ground mere feet from Inor. His lips moved silently as blood pooled beneath him. Inor''s gaze turned, unwilling yet unable to look away, as a woman, was dragged screaming from a tent by two riders. Her cries for mercy pierced his ears, but no one came to her aid. The light from a nearby fire danced on Inor''s face, painting it in hues of flickering orange and deep shadow. He didn''t run. He didn''t fight. His legs gave out beneath him, and he sank to his knees in the dirt. The light illuminated his face, revealing eyes that had lost all hope. His hands rested limply on his thighs, trembling faintly as he stared at the ground. Inor''s shoulders sagged, his body slack as though the weight of his failures had finally crushed him. He muttered to himself, too low for anyone to hear, as his gaze slowly lifted to watch a group of riders laughing cruelly while driving their weapons into another cluster of fleeing rebels. His chest heaved with shallow breaths, but no tears came. He was no stranger to this sight. Countless times, he had stood amidst the flames of another''s ruin, his sword wet with blood and his hands stained with the spoils of their raiding spree. Back then, it had felt almost natural, a grim necessity of their rebellion¡ªa way to strike fear, to take what was needed, to survive. But now, as he knelt amidst the chaos, the roles reversed, the weight of it all crushed down on him with unbearable clarity. Watching his own people suffer the very horrors he had inflicted upon others, he began to see those actions in a new light. A bitter thought churned in his mind as he watched the riders laugh while cutting down those who had no chance to fight back. He had always known men were capable of such monstrosities; he had been part of it. But to be on the receiving end, to feel the helplessness, the despair¡ª For the first time, he truly understood the depths of human cruelty, not as a perpetrator but as a victim. And that realization twisted in his gut like a blade, sharper than any weapon wielded against his people that night. So he did nothing ,for what could he do?He just knelt there, surrounded by the chaos, a man who had once inspired hundreds now reduced to silent despair. The world burned around him, but he remained still, his spirit already consumed and walking toward the end of the road. Chapter 361: Ending a liability(3) Chapter 361: Ending a liability(3) By the following morning, the rebel camp was a grim and silent wasteland. Bodies lay strewn across the ground, some tangled in unnatural positions, others half-buried beneath javelins. The air was thick with the stench of death, mingling with the acrid smoke that still lingered from the fires of the previous night. Soldiers moved methodically through the camp, clearing away the remnants of their bloody work and fun of last night . They dragged lifeless corpses , be it females or males forms toward hastily chosen mass graves, tossing them into unceremonious heaps. Now and then, a rider would grumble, their voices carrying faintly in the still morning air. The repetitive, grim task weighed on them, and their boredom showed in their languid movements and irritated glances. This was after all the work of footmen, not of mounted men. Egil, perched atop his horse, watched his men with a keen eye. He understood their frustration; he felt it himself. Ordinarily, he would have ordered them to leave the aftermath behind, bound for the capital with the spoils of victory and the echoes of their triumph in tow. Yet this time, the circumstances were different. Alpheo''s orders had been explicit, leaving no room for deviation. The rebellion had been quashed, but the task was not yet complete. Egil knew that what came next would demand patience, focus, and a steady hand. Still, as he surveyed the carnage, even he couldn''t help but feel a twinge of restlessness. The thrill of last night had faded, leaving behind only the monotony of obligation and the heavy weight of the work yet to come. Bloody hell,we should have kept some fools alive to do this job, this is boring,Egil thought as he laid out a yawn, having people dig their own grave that would have been ironic... This wasn''t the kind of work he relished; he was a commander, not a gravedigger. Yet Alpheo''s orders had been crystal clear¡ªevery last body was to be burned. "Make sure the bodies are dealt with properly," Alpheo had said, his tone leaving no room for argument as he found himself repeating the question with that voice of his. "We can''t risk sickness spreading through the surrounding lands, we just conquered Arudonaven we don''t need any ,yaba yaba yaba " His mind hurt to just remember it , who cared if some farmers were to die?By the end another one would sprout to take its place...the only thing that never ended were those willing to work the land. At first, Egil had scoffed at the prince''s insistence on such measures, not just this in particular , but every precaution he took with the soldiers, such as forcing them to bathe during campaigns in rivers at least once a week , or to wash their hands with soap before every meal. How Alpheo seemed to know so much about disease , and how to fight against them was a mystery Egil neither cared to solve nor trust. For a good while, he''d dismissed it as unnecessary caution¡ªuntil the siege of Confluendi, and later Arduronaven. He couldn''t deny the results. In both campaigns, where other armies might have succumbed to the creeping specter of plague, Alpheo''s men remained healthy, or so Jarza implied many times over to the others, as in fact he was the only one of the group that had partecipated in sieges before, hence they had to take his words by heart. What had initially felt like needless micromanagement became a point of grudging respect, even for him who didn''t give a shit about being clean. Whatever strange wisdom guided Alpheo''s precautions, they worked. The absence of epidemics had saved countless lives during those sieges, much even to Egil''s surprise who when he was younger, saw how some of his tribesmen fell vvictimto sicknesses such as yellow fever or the red pox. Of course, in hostile territory, the calculus changed. If the dead belonged to their enemies, they were left to rot; their putrid stench and rotting corpses were someone else''s problem. But when Alpheo intended to annex the land, prisoners from the battle were forced to deal with the bodies. Now, standing amidst the chaos of their latest victory, Egil sighed deeply, watching the pyres begin to blaze. He had learned to follow Alpheo''s orders without question, even if it meant spending hours dealing with the aftermath of a slaughter. As the first flames licked the edges of the makeshift pyres, Egil gave a final glance at the rising smoke. The acrid smell of burning flesh and wood began to permeate the air, a scent he had grown too familiar with over the years. "That''s done," he muttered to himself , as if he had been the one doing the menial task, before tugging the reins to turn his horse around. The animal snorted softly, eager to leave the grim scene behind. Egil straightened in the saddle, brushing ash from his sleeve as he spurred his mount toward the camp. The pyres roared behind him, their glow growing brighter as the fire consumed the remains of last night''s work. Egil didn''t look back again. The task was distasteful, but it was no longer his concern. He had other matters to attend to¡ªpeople waiting for him in his tent, which he planned to use to relieve himself of boredom, as last night''s works was less fun than he had anticipated. ------------------- Marcus and Lucius walked through the camp, their boots kicking up small clouds of dust as they stepped between scattered tents and tethered horses. The camp itself was strangely unguarded; there were no defensive walls, no sharpened stakes planted in the earth, nor even ditches dug as a token barrier. The sight unsettled Lucius. Did they believe themselves so deep within friendly territory that no enemy would dare approach? Or was it a deliberate decision born of their nature as cavalry? Their strength lay in their speed after all , the ability to pack up and vanish across the plains before any pursuer could close the distance. Perhaps, Lucius thought grimly, they simply had no use for fortifications. After all, walls are of little value to men who lived and fought on horseback, that is the job of footmen to entrench their position . That morning, as the sun began to rise over the remnants of the rebel camp, Lucius and Marcus had walked among the aftermath of the massacre. Bodies lay scattered across the ground, face down in the dirt, bloodied and broken.Of course they weren''t there for fun Occasionally, the two would kick over a corpse with the heel of his boot, briefly scanning the lifeless face before moving on. They were looking for one man¡ªInor. The search dragged on, the stench of death thick in the morning air. It was nearly an hour later, near the edge of the slaughter, when they finally found him. Inor lay crumpled on the ground, a deep gash across his throat that had bled into the dirt below. His eyes stared lifelessly at the sky, as though he had spent his final moments watching the stars fade into dawn. Just a few meters away from Inor''s body, Lucius spotted something small and still. He recognized it: a boy, no older than six or seven, lying motionless beside his father. It was Inor''s son, the same child Lucius had seen clinging to his father when the rebellion still had a shred of hope, not the first nor the last that had fallen last night. Still the mission had been accomplished, there were no more witnesses that could rat out their prince''s participation in the rebellion, which meant that they were now safe. Currently, the pair walked silently, flanked on either side by some men that clearly saw their work as a chore that they forced to do. The men paid little attention to them, their faces unreadable beneath helmets and shadowed by the flickering light of a dying day. Marcus and Lucius exchanged a glance but said nothing, their footsteps crunching softly against the dirt as they were guided toward a large, weathered tent at the center of the camp. As they reached the entrance, one of the guards pulled back the flap, gesturing for them to enter. The smell of leather, sweat, and faintly of ash greeted them. Inside, they saw the man they had expected: the same commander who had led the charge the night before. Egil was lounging on an animal pelt¡ªa wolf, judging by the coarse, gray fur¡ªspread across the floor of the tent. His relaxed posture and the faint smirk playing on his lips seemed entirely out of place given the brutality of the prior night''s events. Egil''s eyes flicked up lazily as they entered. His expression shifted into one of faint amusement as he recognized them. Slowly, he rose to his feet, brushing a few errant strands of hair from his forehead. "About time," he muttered, his voice low and rough, like gravel scraping against iron. His words carried a mix of annoyance and expectation, as though he had been waiting far longer than he liked. With a practiced ease, Egil crossed the tent and seated himself at a small table in the center of the space. Three chairs, clearly mismatched and hastily arranged, surrounded the table, and its uneven legs wobbled slightly as Egil leaned forward, resting his arms on the surface. It was obvious that the setup had been thrown together temporarily, likely to accommodate this particular meeting. Egil gestured toward the other chairs with a casual wave, a silent invitation¡ªor command¡ªfor them to sit. His gaze lingered on Lucius and Marcus, sharp and measuring, as though sizing them up in a way that made the air feel heavier, as at the end of the day the man in front of them was a member of the nobility. Chapter 362: Path forward Chapter 362: Path forward Lucius glanced at Egil, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the man before him. It was only yesterday that he had first laid eyes on the infamous leader, and the image had burned itself into his memory. Egil''s reputation preceded him¡ªstories of his riders'' savagery, their merciless efficiency, and the chaos they left in their wake were well known across the army. For many, Egil wasn''t just a commander; he was the spearhead of a cavalry force that thrived on fear and blood , that the prince set forward only when he wanted either destructions or results. He was basically his glorified hunting hound. Now, standing in his presence, Lucius found himself struck by the dissonance between the man''s legend and his current demeanor. Egil''s blond hair fell in loose strands to his neck. His features were sharp, confident, but there was a relaxed ease in the way his lips curled into a pleased smile, like a predator content after a feast, with his belly filled and interested no longer in hunting. He wondered if Egil knew of how his name was known, or if he simply did not care.Though from the various rumors going around about the commander, it was the latter. Egil raised a hand lazily, pointing to the two mismatched seats in front of him. "Go on," his gesture seemed to say, though his smile carried an edge that made Lucius feel as though he were being invited into the jaws of a beast. Marcus and Lucius froze as the realization suddendly dawned, that the man before them lounging casually and smiling as if without a care, was a lord, someone far above their station. Without hesitation, the two bowed low. Egil''s laughter rang out, rich and unrestrained, as if the very air inside the tent had been infected by it. "Why you do that?" He shook his head mockingly, his grin widening into something almost dangerous. "A year and a half ago, we would''ve shared a pot and slept under the same cursed sky, and now you bow? Ridiculous." His sharp eyes darted between them, amusement flickering behind the smile like a flame caught in a draft. His gaze didn''t waver, though, studying them with an unsettling intensity. After a moment, he tilted his head, as if weighing something in the air. "You''re from the old core, aren''t you?" The question was casual, almost playful, but Lucius caught the undercurrent¡ªEgil was asking about their past, about whether they had been part of the uprising, part of the slaves who had risen alongside the prince. Both men nodded. Marcus, his voice a little steadier than usual, answered, "From Sandy March. Left Arlania behind my lord." Egil''s smile softened, though it still had that mischievous edge. "Then no need for bows," he said with a dismissive wave. "That''s for peasants, not brothers in arms.We go a long way after all...." His voice dropped into something warmer now, almost approving, as if acknowledging their shared struggle. Without further comment, Egil reached for a jug beside him, his movements smooth and confident. With a flourish, he filled three cups, the liquid sloshing as he slid them across the table to the center. "Sit, sit," he gestured again, almost as though it were a friendly command. "Don''t make me say it again." Marcus and Lucius exchanged a glance, the tension still there but a little more manageable now. With a shared breath, they obeyed, each settling into one of the chairs opposite Egil. Marcus and Lucius hesitated briefly, the weight of the cups in their hands heavier than usual. With a silent nod, they raised the glasses to their lips and drank. The liquid was crisp, cool¡ªdefinitely not wine. Egil noticed the shift in their expressions before they even spoke. His grin stretched wider. "That''s the court''s drink," he said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms, clearly enjoying their reactions. Marcus''s eyes flickered with surprise. "Cider," he murmured, a mix of wonder and respect in his voice. Egil nodded, his grin almost smug. "First time?" Lucius, after taking another sip and savoring the taste, shook his head. "No, my lord. The prince sent us bottles after the last campaign. But there were so few bottles, and so many of us, the officers watered it down with wine just to make sure everyone got a sip." He raised the cup slightly, eyes wide as he took in the flavor. "This... this is something else." Egil''s lips curled in a knowing smirk. "Watered it with wine, you say? Tragic," he mused, eyes gleaming. "But go on. What else have you got?" Lucius suddenly remembered something, and his expression softened. "Ah, yes¡ªwhen I married, the prince sent a basket as a gift. Soap, cider, and some other trinkets." He paused, a faint trace of regret in his voice. "Though, I never opened it. It''s still sitting at home, untouched." Egil raised an eyebrow, intrigued, and for a moment, Lucius wondered if the man was going to make light of it, but instead, he listened with quiet interest. Lucius continued, his tone turning more tender. "But my wife, when she saw that basket arrive, her eyes lit up like I''d brought home treasure from the emperor himself. She didn''t care what else was in it¡ªshe saw that cider, and it was like the gods had delivered it personally to our doorstep." Egil chuckled, a low, warm sound that suggested he understood exactly the kind of delight Lucius was talking about. "Ah. A gift worth more than gold to a woman, it seems." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his expression momentarily serious. "It''s the little things, isn''t it? Things you wouldn''t expect to matter, but they do." Marcus and Lucius exchanged a quick glance, the air between them suddenly lighter, filled with unspoken understanding. For a moment, it was as if the world outside this tent had faded away¡ªthere was just the cider, the warmth, and the strange camaraderie of two former slaves and a lord who had once walked the same path. Egil leaned back in his chair, swirling the cup of cider lazily in his hand. "I''ll never understand why men get married," he muttered, half to himself, half to his guests. "If it were up to me, I''d stay unwed my entire life. No obligations. No expectations." He sighed, a flicker of genuine irritation crossing his face before he waved the thought away. "But, alas, duty calls.Not for me of course, it was a duty that was forced onto me." He took a sip of his cider, his tone shifting as he continued, "Speaking of duty, earlier this morning, we found the body of the rebel leader.You two were the one that recognized him right?" Lucius and Marcus exchanged a glance before nodding. Egil smirked. "Good. Would''ve been a bore hunting him down like hounds after a fox, and I certainly would not want to report such failure before Alpheo." His piercing gaze flicked between them, catching the silent exchange of looks that passed between the two men. His lips curled into an amused smile. "Ah, I see it on your faces. You''ve got questions." Lucius stiffened, his hand gripping the edge of his cup. "I... uh... my lord," he stammered, searching for words. "If it''s not too bold... You are right , I¡ªI''d like to ask some questions." Egil chuckled, leaning forward with an air of casual authority. "Well then, Lucius. Ask away. Let''s hear what''s rattling around in that head of yours." Lucius blinked in surprise, his grip tightening on the cup as he realized Egil had addressed him by name. His brows furrowed slightly as he tried to recall if he''d introduced himself earlier, but no memory surfaced. Egil caught the look on Lucius''s face and chuckled. "Ah, surprised, are we?" His smile widened, the corners of his lips curling with amusement. "Of course I know your name. You think Alpheo would send me to two men without telling me a thing about them?" He gestured around the tent, his voice light but laced with a certain sharpness. "Let''s not pretend I called you here just for a nice drink and a chat." Lucius swallowed, unsure how to respond. Egil leaned back again, the amused grin never leaving his face. "Anyway," he said, waving a hand dismissively, "don''t let that stop you. Ask your question." Lucius hesitated for a moment before finally asking, "Were the men who rescued us in the camp for long?" Egil''s lips curled into a faint smile, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and knowing. "From the start," he replied casually, taking another sip of his cider. "Our prince... He''s many things, but one thing he always is¡ªan overthinker." Egil tilted his head as if reflecting on the thought. "And, annoyingly enough, he''s right more times than he''s wrong." Lucius and Marcus exchanged glances, their expressions betraying the question that lingered in their minds. Egil caught it immediately, his smile widening. "You''re probably wondering why they didn''t rescue you sooner," he said, cracking his neck as though shrugging off the weight of the question. The two nodded almost in unison, their curiosity undeniable. Egil leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. "Back in my tribe," he began, his voice taking on a reflective tone, "we had a method for finding water. This was when we still roamed the Steppe Sea of Barthai...before they were foolishly enough to move across the sea through an imperial fleet to settle in the Empire." "These are stories my father used to tell me," he began, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "By the time I was born, the tribes had already been settled onto Imperial land. My memories of the Steppe Sea of Barthai are secondhand¡ªshaped by tales, not experience." He tapped the table lightly with his knuckles, the sound rhythmic as he spoke. "There''s this misconception that everyone on Barthai is a nomad, but that''s far from true. Many are semi-nomadic, tied to certain places, but still moving when the seasons or the land demanded it. Their main challenge wasn''t food or shelter¡ªit was water. Out there, water is life, and finding it meant survival." Egil''s gaze drifted momentarily, as if picturing the sprawling grasslands of Barthai. "One method they used was rather clever. They''d find baboons¡ªfurry beasts that live mostly in trees, they are as big from your belly to your head. They''d take salt¡ªsomething irresistible to those creatures¡ªand hide it inside a hollow tree trunk. The baboon, curious as it is greedy, would climb up and grab the salt. That''s when the trap would be sprung, and the beast would be caught and bound in ropes." He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "With nothing to eat but the salt, they''d wait a few hours. When the baboon was released, it''d be so parched it wouldn''t waste a moment, leading the hunters straight to its secret water source. You see, baboons are hoarders by nature¡ªgreedy little things. But in their greed, they gave the tribes what they needed to survive." Egil paused, his smile faint but contemplative. "The tribe would settle by that water source, knowing they had a constant supply. And so, life went on." Lucius and Marcus exchanged puzzled glances, the story clearly lost on them. Egil rolled his eyes, letting out a long, exasperated sigh. "You two really don''t get it, do you?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the small table. "You were the baboons," he said bluntly, watching as the realization dawned on their faces. "We needed you to lead the rebels into a trap. To lure them all together so we could wipe them out in one clean sweep. And guess what? It worked.They were on a forest where we could not reach them with our horses, however we lured them out toward the plains where we could attack them." The two men nodded slowly, the pieces finally falling into place. Lucius hesitated before asking, his voice cautious, "So... does that mean the prince isn''t disappointed in us?" Egil leaned back in his chair, a grin spreading across his face. "Disappointed?No, a bit peeved maybe that you were captured, but he understands that this is your first time, well second considering Arduronaven.Also If he was disappointed, do you think he''d want you working for him again?" Lucius and Marcus looked at each other again, this time even more confused. "What you mean , my lord?" Marcus asked, furrowing his brow. "The prince has plans for you," Egil explained, his tone casual but pointed. "He wants to make use of you again in the future. Of course, you can refuse. But I''m telling you this now so you can have your answer ready when you meet him in Yarzat. One thing about the prince¡ªhe doesn''t like to be kept waiting. Not that many do.." Egil''s piercing gaze lingered on them for a moment, as though measuring their worth. "So, think it over. But I''d make up my mind before you''re standing in front of him. It''s bad manners to make powerful men wait, especially those holding power over your lives." Chapter 363: The money of the land(1) Chapter 363: The money of the land(1) While, hundreds of kilometers away, men toiled in grim silence, stacking bodies into mass pyres¡ªa monument to the night''s bloody harvest¡ªthe man for whom they fought, bled, and would, at least for many, willingly die engaged in a pursuit far removed from the grim realities of war. Alpheo, the prince they revered, a man perched at the pinnacle of feudal hierarchy, was knelt upon the ground as if he were no different from a humble peasant. His fine garments bore the smudges of earth, his fingers caked with soil as he worked with an unusual focus. It was a strange sight ¡ªa man who commanded armies and carried the weight of a princedom upon his shoulders, crouching low and utterly absorbed, at looking while sniffing at the dirt upon his hand, checking to see how deep the worms were and how brown it was. Among the members of the court, Alpheo was the most knowledgeable about agriculture¡ªa strange claim to fame for a prince, perhaps, but one rooted in the peculiar circumstances of his origins. He had spent the first fourteen years of his life in a remote small town nestled deep in the mountains of southern Italy. It was a place as far removed from grandeur as one could imagine, where life revolved around the relentless grind of tilling rocky soil, raising livestock, and agriculture. By every measure, Alpheo hated it. If there was one thing he had no stomach for, it was backbreaking, repetitive labor. He often felt like a misfit among his family, all of whom seemed resigned to their lot and well-suited to the demands of rural life. Alpheo, on the other hand, found joy not in the sweat of toil but in the pages of books. When he finally managed to enroll in university, it felt like stepping into a world where he truly belonged. There, he excelled. It was a golden time in his life, where any person he met was somehow cultured. Still, just because he hated it didn''t mean he hadn''t learned anything from it. In fact, it was precisely that lifestyle that had taught him the kind of practical knowledge that basically made him the richest man among the southern princes. He knew how to make cider from a harvest of apples, distill potent alcohol, which of course were unfit for consumption, repurposed instead as a quick and effective disinfectant. Of course, it wasn''t practical for use across the entire army¡ªproducing enough to meet such a demand would require vast resources and an endless supply of ingredients. For most situations, large cauldrons of boiling water served well enough for sanitization. However, the alcohol found its purpose on the battlefield, reserved for those dire moments when wounded soldiers required immediate attention and couldn''t be transported back to the safety of the camp. Alpheo stood outside the court, away from the polished marbles and gilded halls, immersed in one of his many side experiments. His fingers sifted through the soil, assessing its fertility with an intentness that made even his close guard exchange bemused glances. Behind him stood Captain Vrosk, the grim-faced leader of his personal guard, ever watchful, his hand never far from the hilt of his sword. The quiet of the moment was broken by the arrival of a man. He approached hesitantly, his steps slow and measured as though unsure if he should interrupt. His simple attire and sun-weathered skin marked him as a farmer. As he drew closer, he pulled off his straw hat and dropped to his knees, lowering his forehead to the ground in an exaggerated gesture of reverence. Alpheo, sensing the presence, straightened from his crouch and glanced over his shoulder. He rose, brushing dirt off his elaborately embroidered tunic, smearing it with streaks of brown without the faintest concern. His hands, still dusted with soil, moved to wave the man upright. "Rise, Baren," Alpheo said, his tone as casual as though he were addressing an equal. "There''s no need for all that groveling. We talked about that last time.'''' Alpheo stretched his back and gestured casually to the farmer before speaking, his voice steady but laced with a trace of exasperation. "I''m here to see the results of my little experiment," he said, brushing the remaining dirt off his hands with a faint smile, "to see if this land is as cooperative as I was told." Baren nodded enthusiastically, his eyes lighting up as though the prince''s mere presence were a divine gift. "Of course, your grace! We''ve been waiting for this day¡ªblessed, truly blessed, to finally have your gaze upon our humble efforts." He clutched his hat tighter, his voice trembling with reverence. Alpheo sighed, a small, almost amused breath escaping his lips as he regarded the farmer with a raised eyebrow. "No need for all the feet-licking" he said, waving off the man''s obsequious tone. "Show me the results. Lead the way." Baren scrambled to his feet, bowing his head once more before turning to guide the prince. Alpheo fell into step behind him, hands clasped loosely behind his back, while his guards followed close. Baren was no one of note¡ªa simple farmer like countless others, who had spent his days toiling under the sun and rain to coax life from the stubborn soil. For years, he had known nothing else, working the same land his father had worked before him, harvesting just enough to see his family through the seasons. His life was as predictable as the rising and setting of the sun¡ªuntil last fall. It was then that a pair of men from the court arrived in his village, their presence as out of place as a jewel in the dirt. They sought him out , offering silver for a curious bargain. The proposition was clear work his land, in the way they told him. Baren had hesitated at first, but the glint of silver in their hands was undeniable.He accepted, nodding eagerly, even as a gnawing unease settled in the pit of his stomach. What followed was unlike anything he could have imagined. The instructions they left him with seemed... strange, bordering on madness. He was told to gather animal feces¡ªpiles of it¡ªand spread it across the very fields that fed his family for generations. It went against every instinct, every piece of wisdom handed down through his family. Such acts, he had always believed, were the work of witches, curses meant to blight the land and ruin crops. And yet, here he was, doing it with his own hands. Baren had tried not to think too deeply about it, burying his doubts beneath the promise of coin. After all, silver was silver, and the courtmen had assured him that whatever the result , the coin in his purse wouldn''t disappear. Alpheo stood on the edge of the field.In his hand, he held the key to revolutionize agriculture itself. The entirety of the agricultural output could increase by half, perhaps even double, if the techniques he was testing here bore fruit. Alpheo thought back to his early years in that remote mountain town, where the soil was rocky and the crops stubborn. One of the few things his town had to import from the city was fertilizer¡ªexpensive and yet effective His thoughts wandered to his grandfather, a man as stubborn as the soil they worked. Unlike most of his neighbors, who had readily embraced chemical fertilizers, his grandfather had clung fiercely to the old ways. "Chemicals poison the land," the old man would say, his voice gruff but resolute. Instead, he insisted on creating his own fertilizer, a process that fascinated and horrified young Alpheo in equal measure. He remembered the pungent stench of compost heaps and the meticulous care his grandfather took in mixing organic matter to feed the soil. "This is how you respect the land, boy," his grandfather had said, "and the land will reward you." Now, years later, standing as a prince rather than a farmer''s grandson, those memories seemed prophetic. His grandfather''s methods, once dismissed as outdated and unnecessary, formed the foundation of what Alpheo was trying to implement on a national scale. Baren cleared his throat awkwardly, shuffling his feet in the dirt as he adjusted the straw hat in his hands. "Your Grace," he began hesitantly, his voice tinged with deference, "we''re nearly there. If I might ask... which one of the fields would you like to see first?" Alpheo, still lost in his thoughts about the potential of the land, glanced at Baren with a faint smile, brushing off some lingering dirt from his ornate sleeves. "It''s all the same to me, no use playing favorites" he said with an air of nonchalance. "Just point out the closest one. That''ll do." Baren nodded quickly, his movements a little too eager to please. "Of course, Your Grace. Right this way." He turned, gesturing toward a path that wound gently downhill toward a field bordered by rough wooden fencing. The field was green and lush, the crops swaying lightly in the breeze as though beckoning them closer. Baren adjusted his pace to ensure he stayed ahead, glancing back every few steps to ensure Alpheo was following, ready to show his year''s work to the prince behind his new lifestyle. Chapter 364: The money of the land(2) Chapter 364: The money of the land(2) Alpheo was well aware, as his friends often reminded him, that he had a tendency to overthink¡ªthough some went as far as to call it paranoia. He dismissed the label of paranoia outright; after all, when one sits at the top of the hierarchy, many fears aren''t as unfounded as they might seem. The real challenge wasn''t whether to worry, but rather determining which instincts were worth acting on and which were mere distractions, like pebbles sinking into water. As for overthinking? That charge, he couldn''t deny. Alpheo approached every decision with meticulous care, dissecting every potential outcome and crafting contingency plans for each. It wasn''t that he sought to control everything¡ªhe knew better than that¡ªbut he believed firmly in preparing for as much as possible. Success wasn''t about luck; it was about foresight. So, when he found himself holding the key to potentially revolutionizing agriculture in his lands, he knew better than to act impulsively. The prospect of turning his fields into some of the most productive in the region was tantalizing, but it demanded caution. The first hurdle wasn''t simply implementing the newfound knowledge¡ªit was deciding how to use it responsibly. And so under the shining of the high sun Baren led Alpheo down the path, his voice hesitant but dutiful as he began to explain. "Your Grace,the first field I must confess was a failure. '''' They approached a stretch of land where the air carried a faintly sour tang. The field itself was sparse. A few scraggly stalks poked up here and there, their feeble attempts at growth overshadowed by patches of rotten, discolored remnants of grain scattered across the soil. Much of the plot was barren, or at least grain failed to grow there. Baren stopped at the edge of the field, gesturing nervously. "As instructed, I spread the... material... directly on top of the land after I put the seed in, just as your men advised. But..." He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding Alpheo''s gaze. "Well, as your grace can see, it didn''t work as we''d hoped. Out of every sixteen seeds, maybe four sprouted. The rest... they rotted in the ground and those that came out came sick." Alpheo stepped closer, his ornate boots sinking slightly into the loose soil. He crouched down, plucking one of the withered stalks from the soil and examining its frail roots. The corners of his mouth turned downward, but his expression remained thoughtful rather than displeased. "This," Alpheo murmured, almost to himself, "was to be expected." He tossed the stalk aside and straightened, brushing the dirt from his hands. "Using raw waste directly on the seeds was bound to result in this.It was just a harmless experiment this one." His tone was calm, even instructional, as though the failure was part of a greater lesson rather than a setback. With this at least I know that all the precautions I took were not wrong. He glanced at Baren, who looked increasingly anxious, and offered a small, reassuring smile. "You''ve done exactly as I asked, Baren. No need to look so down." Baren exhaled a breath he hadn''t realized he was holding as he feared he would be found fault in the failure. Alpheo, satisfied, turned his attention toward the next field in the distance. Alpheo was acutely aware of the stakes involved in his experiment. Improperly implemented, his plan could result not in a bumper harvest but a catastrophic famine. For this reason, he was adamant about proceeding methodically. Before introducing the fertilizer across his lands, he needed conclusive proof of its effectiveness. More than that, he needed precise instructions¡ªa written manual¡ªto ensure its proper creation and application. This was not the sort of change one could afford to leave to guesswork or interpretation. Baren, meanwhile, led the way toward the second field, his steps slowing as they approached. He gestured toward the patch of land, where Alpheo noted a slight improvement over the barren failure they had just left behind. A scattering of green shoots broke the soil, their sparse presence marking progress, though still far from satisfactory. Baren hesitated, adjusting his straw hat nervously, before beginning to explain. "Your Grace, here the results are... better. In this plot, about half of the seeds didn''t die. That''s a marked improvement over the first, where most rotted before they could sprout. Still, the output is below what we see with normal methods of cultivation." He glanced at Alpheo for any sign of approval before continuing. "In this field, we applied animal feces directly to the soil, much like the first one with the only difference that those were people''s. While the results here are less disastrous, they''re still worse than the simple tending of a properly worked field. But... Your Grace¡ª" His voice picked up, and an excited gleam appeared in his eyes. "The real results, the ones worth seeing, are in the other fields. There, we witnessed a remarkable rise in output." Baren''s excitement was palpable as he gestured forward, eager to lead the way. Until now, he had only shown failures, and the thought of finally unveiling success filled him with haste. As they reached the third field, the transformation was undeniable. Golden grains stood tall, swaying gently in the breeze like rows of hands reaching toward the sky. The lushness of the field was striking, contrary to the barren and struggling plots they had seen earlier. Baren''s excitement spilled over as he gestured at the thriving crops. "Your Grace, this is the result I am most proud of! In this field, the difference is night and day compared to the others. Normally, this land would yield about fifteen bushels per acre, but with the methods applied here, the output has increased to twenty-two bushels. '''' That''s nearly a 68% increase! Alpheo lampooned in his mind. He beamed with pride, the nervousness from earlier replaced by the uncontainable thrill of showing off something extraordinary Alpheo, usually reserved in his reactions, allowed himself a brief but genuine smile. He stepped forward, crouching to run his hands through the stalks, letting the grain brush against his fingers. "Sixty-eight percent," he murmured once again under his breath, his voice almost drowned out by the rustling of the field. In his mind, the implications began to crystallize, and a sense of triumph bubbled just beneath the surface. If these results could be replicated across the royal fiefdom, the agricultural output would skyrocket. Which means that his warehouses would swell with grains The prospect was intoxicating. Alpheo could already see the ripples spreading outward¡ªtrade surpluses, political leverage, and the ability to withstand famine without fear. Inwardly, he salivated at the thought of the prosperity this could bring, not just for his people but for the realm as a whole. Alpheo straightened, his calculating gaze sweeping across the thriving field, before fixing on Baren. "Explain everything about what yoy did '''' he commanded, his tone calm yet imbued with an unmistakable authority. Baren immediately bowed, his straw hat pressed tightly to his chest. "Of course, Your Grace," he said, his voice trembling slightly with a mixture of respect and excitement. "As per your instructions, I began by gathering feces from cows and sheep. To that, I added fruit cores, straws of hay, burnt and smashed burnt bones, and any rotten vegetables I could find. I even introduced a lot of worms into the mix, as you requested." He straightened just enough to glance at Alpheo''s expression before continuing. "I left the heap out in the open for a few months, letting it break down naturally under the sun, mixing it once a week . After that, I plowed the ground and spread the decomposed waste mixture evenly across the soil. Once that was done, I covered it with a layer of dirt and sowed the seeds. From there, it was the usual work¡ªwatering, weeding, and tending to the field as one would in any ordinary season." Baren''s face lit up as he gestured to the golden expanse around them. "The results, Your Grace, are what you see now. It''s unlike anything I''ve seen before. The soil here seemed... alive, almost, and the grains grew stronger and taller than they ever have." Alpheo listened intently, nodding slowly. His mind worked swiftly, processing the details. The combination of natural composting and traditional methods had clearly borne fruit¡ªliterally. "Good," he finally said, his voice heavy with approval. "You''ve done well, Baren. Very well." There was a reason for why the first two fields failed and the third one succeeded. Fresh fertilizer, as Alpheo well knew, was unsuitable for agriculture in its raw state. Feces, while rich in nutrients, carried pathogens that could harm plants and pose serious risks to those consuming the harvest. The key to transforming this waste into something beneficial lay in the process of composting¡ªa natural, but slow, method of conversion. When left to decompose, the bacteria and microorganisms in the soil broke down the organic matter, neutralizing harmful pathogens and creating a nutrient-rich compost. This process, however, was far from immediate. It required patience, taking several months of work. Despite the time and effort involved, the benefits of this transformation were undeniable. Properly composted fertilizer improved soil fertility, enriched crop yields, and even enhanced the land''s capacity to retain water. These advantages far outweighed the inconvenience of the waiting period, making it a worthwhile investment. Alpheo understood this balance well, seeing the months of labor as a small price to pay for the promise of abundance. Unfortunately not everything was good, as the biggest drawback for this invention would not be the time required to make it, but instead the great political drawbacks it would have. Chapter 365: Money of the land (3) Chapter 365: Money of the land (3) One of the key reasons warfare evolved so dramatically from the medieval period to the modern era was the dramatic increase in population, fueled in large part by successive agricultural revolutions. These innovations in food production transformed societies, enabling nations to support vastly larger armies than had ever been feasible before. Contrary to what some might think, the relatively small size of medieval armies wasn''t due to a lack of manpower. There were plenty of people, but the agricultural output of the time simply couldn''t sustain large forces for extended periods. Feeding thousands of men, along with their horses, was an immense logistical challenge in an age where food production was limited and vulnerable to seasonal fluctuations. Medieval military campaigns, as a result, were dictated by the agricultural calendar. Armies typically marched in the months following the grain harvest in late summer, when food was at its most abundant. This timing allowed armies to either forage from the freshly reaped fields or rely on supply lines laden with the fruits of that season''s labor. But even then, these armies were constrained. A campaign could last only as long as the provisions held out, and the ability to gather more from the surrounding land often determined the success or failure of an expedition. As agricultural advances increased the efficiency of farming, nations could produce surplus food, sustaining not only larger populations but also armies that could remain in the field for far longer. All of this was pictured in an instant by Alpheo, who stood amidst the golden grains. His hands, still dirty from the soil he had inspected earlier, trembled slightly¡ªnot from excitement, but from a gnawing fear that grew with each passing moment. He wasn''t a man prone to panic, but the weight of the realization pressed heavily on his chest. He literally held in his hands the power to reshape warfare itself, and with it, the seeds of his own potential undoing. This... this could change everything, he thought, his gaze sweeping over the swaying stalks of wheat. The simple yet profound method to supercharge food production, could alter the balance of power in ways he wasn''t sure he was ready for. Increased food meant larger armies, longer campaigns, and a capability to sustain war on a scale the world hadn''t seen in centuries. However not for him alone but for everybody, even his enemies. If word gets out,he mused bitterly that I have a method to make lands produce nearly twice what they do now... how long before my fear of facing a coalition would happen? The thought sent a chill down his spine. For now, his neighbors turned a blind eye to his little "miracles"¡ªsoap and cider. Those luxuries, while useful and profitable, weren''t enough to raise a sword and make the empire their enemy . But this? This was different. The only thing that had protected him so far was the Empire''s fragile shadow looming behind him. The empire still claimed suzerainty over the western continent , and their diplomatic support had been enough to deter most aggression. But Alpheo knew better. The empire was a lion of paper, a once-mighty force now bogged down in its endless civil war. Their ability to offer any real assistance if things turned dire was laughable. If the princedoms banded together against him, he''d be alone, outnumbered, and outmaneuvered. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. The power to revolutionize agriculture was a double-edged sword. It could elevate his realm to unprecedented prosperity, yes, but it could just as easily paint a target on his back so large that no amount of planning could protect him. Alpheo took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He was not a coward, nor was he naive. But as he stood there, staring at the fertile field that promised so much, he couldn''t shake the feeling that this discovery might be the very thing to spell his doom. Perhaps the safest route is to set up shop," he thought, the idea gnawing at him like a pest. "If the other princes could purchase it, then maybe they wouldn''t feel the need to demand it from me outright by threatening war. I could control its distribution, set the terms, and sell it to those I want. But as quickly as the thought emerged, it dissolved under the weight of reality. He couldn''t possibly produce enough fertilizer to meet both his own needs and the insatiable hunger of his neighbors. Even now, his resources were stretched thin. The process of composting was labor-intensive, required months of careful tending. Scaling it to meet the demands of an entire region¡ªor worse, multiple principalities¡ªwas impossible. And then there was the Empire. If the Romelian regent caught wind of this innovation, they wouldn''t simply request it. As soon as they bdiscovered that he could not possibly produce enough to meet the empire''s need , he would instead demand it. Expecting Alpheo to funnel the majority of his production to support their dominion. The Empire''s appetite for resources was unending, and to deny them could bring ruin. After all their alliance was built on interest, he needed their diplomatic support, and to also have their northern border safe, while the empire used their trade with him to keep their treasure float. If the interests of one side were threatened or were not convenient anymore, than Alpheo harbored no doubt, that he would have to face the empire in war. The deeper fear, however, lay not in the empire''s demands but in its ambitions if he gave in . If the Romelian regent sees this as the key to their dominance, Alpheo thought, what''s to stop them from siding with the coalition instead of opposing it?Either way they would get the secret to produce it... The Southern princedoms had long been a thorn in its side,so close and yet so distant. their defiance etched into the history of the land. Three times the Empire had attempted to extend its dominion over the southern princedoms, and three times it had been repelled by the combined might of all the princes standing together, of course they achieved some victory and conquered some cities, yet by the end they would always be repelled. But this¡ªthis could change everything. If the Empire gained access to a method to increase their agricultural output by half, or even double it, they wouldn''t need to rely on fractured alliances or precarious logistics. With granaries overflowing, they could field an army of 30,000 men without breaking a sweat. A force of that magnitude, unified under a single imperial crown, would sweep across the south like a scythe through wheat. Alpheo''s stomach turned at the thought. "It would be the end of us all, me included" Unfortunately for Alpheo, the one thing his dominion lacked was an island¡ªa secluded haven where he could experiment, innovate, and guard his secrets with impunity. The idea was tantalizing: a self-contained pre-industrial powerhouse, humming with activity day and night. In his imagination, the island would be a fortress of ingenuity. With a proper navy patrolling its waters, its perimeter would be impenetrable. Sleek ships would glide along the coastlines in perpetual watch, their crews trained to spot even the faintest whisper of clandestine activity. Espionage? Sabotage? Forget it. No rival spy or saboteur could ever hope to slip in unnoticed; the very waves would betray them. On the island itself, every inch of land would be put to work, be it for fertilizer, soap, alchohol and cider . But alas, no such paradise lay within his grasp. His dominion was decidedly landlocked, its borders hemmed in by forests, hills, and rivers¡ªnot a single speck of an island to his name. A man can dream, Alpheo thought wryly, kicking a loose clump of dirt as he thought so. The closest island he could take was Harmway, which unfortunately was a trade hub, which meant that it would be much less profitable to change it as an industrial production center. Plus to do that he would actively have to go against the Confederation of the Free Isle, and also snatch away land that the Romelians had claims over. What he had instead were rolling fields, stubborn nobles, and enough political intrigue to fill a library of tragedy plays. Plus his navy consisted of less than twenty ships at best which meant that going against both Empire and Pirates , was just a fool''s quest. He brushed a hand through his hair, dislodging bits of dirt that had clung stubbornly to his fingers from his earlier inspection of the soil. For now, he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible above the rustling grains, this must be buried deep, . It wasn''t just the fear of rival princes or the specter of imperial betrayal that weighed on him. It was the sheer enormity of what he had discovered. To unlock this secret prematurely, to let it slip into the wrong hands¡ªor even the right ones too soon¡ªcould spell disaster not just for him but for countless others. For now, the fertilizer, this double-edged gift, would have to remain in the depths of his mind, tucked away in the vault of his plans. When the time was right¡ªwhen he was strong enough, powerful enough, to stand unchallenged¡ªthen, and only then, would he unleash its potential. He sighed again, softer this time, and cast one last look at the fertile field. "Patience," he whispered to himself, a word that had become both his anchor and his torment. When the time comes, the world will know, and perhapse by then I could be a king already. King in the South...it has a nice ring to it. Chapter 366: Captain of the high fleet Chapter 366: Captain of the high fleet In the end, he had done it. Out of 97 captains, 39 had chosen Blake. It wasn''t a resounding majority¡ªfar from it¡ªbut it didn''t need to be. The rules were clear: the candidate with the most votes won. And by the slimmest of margins, Blake had seized victory. Captain of the High Fleet. It had a nice ring to it Of course, it hadn''t been a clean triumph¡ªfar from it. Strings had been pulled so tight they nearly snapped. Blake had tugged at every single one of them. Favors were called in, alliances forged in the shadows, palms greased with whispered promises of future rewards. And in the end, it paid off. As the final vote was announced, a ripple of murmurs swept through the assembly. The title was his. He had climbed the ladder, rung by rung, and now stood at the top¡ªa position so coveted, so powerful. He still remembered when he entered the Call as a criminal for his raid over Romelian ships, he could have died there.And now he was above them all. He would be the one to lead the charge, to avenge Rock Bottom. Yes, it had been messy. Yes, the deals left a bitter aftertaste. But the world didn''t care how you won¡ªonly that you did. And Blake had won. --------------- Currently he was laying in his bed, staring up at the dark ceiling of his quarters. Beside him, curled up on the edge of the mattress, his bed slave slept soundly, her breathing soft and steady. By all accounts, he should have lost. Blake rubbed his temples, his thoughts churning like a stormy sea. How? he asked himself, over and over. He wasn''t the only one who had played dirty; far from it. Blackmail, favors, whispered threats, and promises of glory had flowed freely from his rivals as well. In fact, some of them had resources and connections that dwarfed his own. Yet, against all odds, he had emerged victorious. The numbers didn''t lie: he was now Captain of the High Fleet. He was a man who liked to understand every angle, every piece of the puzzle, and yet he could not see the mistery behind it. His thoughts turned to the old hag¡ªthe soothsayer who had been so infuriatingly certain of his success. He could still see her face, weathered like old parchment, her dark eyes glinting. She had declared to him before they arrived to the call that he was to win. He''d laughed in her face at first, mocking her cryptic proclamations. She started laughing too , not at the situation however, but at him.The same way a man would laugh seeing a child afraid of an insect. He hated being laughed at, there he snapped and threatened her life¡ªpromising to cut off her head if her visions proved false¡ªshe hadn''t even flinched. Instead, she''d merely tilted her head and asked for a bull. At the time, he''d assumed it was for some elaborate ritual. His men had chuckled nervously, but he had been too intrigued to stop her. Her answer had come in the form of another cackling laugh, followed by a string of rapid, unintelligible words. It was his bed slave who had finally translated- "She says the victory is already written in the fire. The bull is not for the ritual... it is for gratitude. She is thanking the Almighty Flame for what has already been set in motion." Blake remembered the chill that had run down his spine at those words. The cold that had swept through Blake''s body had been unlike anything he''d ever felt, and it settled like ice in his bones. He shook his head, trying to dispel the thought, but it clung to him like a shadow. He glanced over at his companion , still sleeping peacefully, and envied her. He wished he could silence his mind long enough to rest. But instead, he lay there, eyes wide open, trying to untangle the threads of his unlikely triumph while the night stretched on around him. Blake reached out, his hand gripping the bare shoulder of his sleeping slave. His touch was not gentle; it was rough and impatient, shaking her awake. She stirred with a startled gasp, her eyes blinking rapidly as she tried to comprehend the sudden jolt from her rest. "Get up," he growled, his voice low but sharp enough to pierce through her grogginess. "Fetch the old hag. Now." Without a word of protest, she nodded,and moved quickly to obey. Rising from the bed, she reached for the simple cloak draped over the nearby chair, pulling it around her nude form to cover herself against the cool night air. The cabin door creaked softly as she slipped out into the darkness, leaving Blake alone with his restless thoughts. He exhaled heavily, running a hand through his disheveled hair before crossing the room to a wooden bucket filled with water. He dipped his hands into the cold liquid, scooping it up and splashing it onto his face. The shock of it jolted his senses. Droplets clung to his skin, glistening in the dim light as he leaned on the edge of the basin, his knuckles white against the wood. Minutes stretched out, each one feeling heavier than the last, but finally, the sound of footsteps broke the silence. The door creaked open, and the slave stepped back inside, her cloak dampened . Behind her shuffled the old hag, her hunched figure illuminated by the lantern Blake had left burning. Her face, lined with years and secrets, bore the same infuriating calm that had unnerved him earlier. She stepped into the cabin without hesitation, her dark eyes flicking toward him as if she already knew why she had been summoned. Blake stood by the bed , his posture rigid, eyes locked onto the old hag''s weathered face with an intensity that could have burned through stone. "Did you do something to make me win?" The slave stepped forward, her nervous gaze flicking between Blake and the hag as she prepared to translate. The old woman didn''t flinch. Slowly, she shook her head, the movement deliberate, almost as though Blake''s question was beneath her. "She says she did nothing," the slave hesitated, her voice faltering as she relayed the old woman''s words. "Even if she wanted to, it was not she who brought change. She only saw the result.She has no power in herself." Blake''s jaw tightened. His right hand clenched around the fingers of his left, an unconscious reflex as his mind grappled with the ambiguity of the answer. There was no smug satisfaction in the hag''s demeanor, just the cold certainty of someone who had glimpsed something far beyond what Blake could comprehend. For the first time in years¡ªmaybe since his youth, when he had stood on the deck of a ship facing down a storm¡ªBlake felt a strange, unsettling sensation. It was awe. He didn''t recognize it at first, but there it was, gnawing at the edges of his pride, a reminder of just how small his efforts seemed in the face of something larger. His voice softened, almost to a whisper, as he asked, "What else can your god do?" The old woman''s eyes gleamed with an unsettling calm, her lips curling into a knowing smile that sent a ripple of unease through Blake''s chest. She spoke, the words flowing effortlessly in a tongue foreign to him, but the slave had already begun to translate, her voice quivering slightly as if she, too, felt the weight of the old woman''s words. "Everything," the slave said, her voice trembling, though her eyes never left Blake''s. "But he only does what he wishes to do." Blake''s mind reeled, as if the very air around him had thickened with the gravity of the statement. He leaned in, his face drawn with tension. "Can he give power?" he asked, his voice low, barely audible. The hag nodded, her expression serene, almost detached as she spoke once more in her native tongue. The slave hesitated for only a moment "He can give power over men.He can make kings," the slave translated, "He can point the path forward, create empires, undo them, destroy nations, raise them from the ashes... and create victory for those who earn his favor." The hag''s gaze never wavered from his. It was as if she were daring him to challenge the divine power she spoke of. The slave translated again, her voice faint, almost hesitant. "She asks if you want to earn his favor," she said, her eyes flicking nervously to Blake, gauging his reaction. "She says all you need to do is praise him, make others do the same, spread the truth that there is only one power above men." Blake''s brows furrowed. He wasn''t sure if he wanted to play the pawn in some divine game. Yet he could become king if he wished, or at least he chose to believe so. The old woman continued, her tone rising with a sharp edge of conviction. "She says that the giants of Azania, those who once ruled with blood and arrogance, forgot this truth. They dared to claim divinity through their own flesh, believing they were gods, and now they are no more.They are falling to their doom, the Almightly as already seen himself to it" The hag''s voice gained strength as she continued, her eyes burning with a fire that mirrored the words she spoke. "Their arrogance was their undoing," the slave translated, her voice trembling as the words fell from her lips. "The Almighty punished them for it. And now he seeks someone worthy to carry his flame. Someone who will carry his will... and mandate. She asks if you want to be that carrier." The slave''s voice softened, almost to a whisper. "You became captain of a fleet. Imagine what it would be like to be king of the seas." Blake''s pulse quickened. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he locked gazes with the old hag. "How will he make me king?" His voice was firm, challenging. He needed answers. He couldn''t¡ªwouldn''t¡ªbe swayed by vague promises. "How will the Almighty, help me when I''ll be surrounded by the domain of his enemy?" His voice dropped lower, intense with the weight of his question. "How will he bring me victory?" The hag chuckled, a dry, rasping sound that sent a chill through the room, like the sound of dead leaves skittering across a forgotten battlefield. She raised one gnarled hand and pointed directly at Blake, her crooked finger trembling with purpose as she spoke her first words in the Eastern tongue. "Fire." Chapter 367: Calling the shots(1) Chapter 367: Calling the shots(1) Blake had never set foot inside the cave beneath the island of the Call. It was sacred ground, where only the most momentous councils in their history were held. His father, before his death, had surely stood within these halls. The old man had once commanded ten ships at his peak¡ªone-tenth of their entire fleet during the fateful battle at Rock Bottom. A man of such standing would have been present. By contrast, Blake was still seen as a boy. Too young. Too untested. Too unworthy to stand where legends had gathered. Well , he was now the one standing there. The cave itself was no ordinary hollow of stone. It had been shaped by the hands of his ancestors, transformed from a natural wonder into a living record of their history. Its walls bore the scars of their past¡ªetched with victories, defeats, and the bloodlines that shaped the Call. Not figuratively, either. The names of the most virtuous and the bravest among them were literally carved into the rock, forever enshrined in a space dedicated to the heroes of the Confederation and the Salt Kingdom. Much of this work dated back two centuries, to the time of the Old Salt Kings¡ªthe rulers of these waters before the Free Lords rose against the crown. They had seized their moment when a mere boy took the throne, striking before he could grow into his power. Less than a year into his reign, he was captured and forced to abdicate, leaving behind a kingdom shattered, a title stripped of meaning. In its place, the Free Confederation was born. And it still endured. The walls of the cave, save for the jagged ceiling where the rock remained untouched, had been meticulously smoothed and polished to resemble the fortresses of the mainland. Generations had labored to shape them¡ªgenerations of slaves, their toil forever imprinted in the gleam of the stone. Dozens of torches lined the walls and central pillars, their flames stretching high, sending flickering shadows across the chamber. At the heart of it all, a grand circular table of stone dominated the space. Seated around it were fifteen captains¡ªthe most powerful among the Free Lords. Each commanded a fleet, the weakest among them still possessing five ships under his banner. The firelight illuminated their faces, revealing eyes sharpened by years at sea, etched with determination and hardened by battle. Before them, maps sprawled across the table¡ªworks of cartographic mastery, perhaps the finest in the known world. The Free People were not merely pirates, though their name was infamous for it. They were explorers, navigators, and mappers of unmatched skill. Their charts, scrawled in ink and blood, mapped the known seas with a precision no empire or kingdom could rival. The southern principalities, the treacherous reefs that spelled death for the unskilled, the hidden inlets where a ship might disappear without a trace¡ªevery inch of their world was charted in the hands of these men. And now, as their torches burned and the sea raged beyond the cave''s stone walls, they gathered to plan for war. A full Imperial invasion loomed on the horizon. Currently Blake stood holding his face at how the meeting was proceeding. Was this what I always dreamed to be part of? Blake wondered as he eyes raised up toward the spectacle once again. It began predictably enough when Captain "Ironhand" Jericho¡ªa name he gave himself and reminded everyone of far too often¡ªslammed his fist on the table and proposed an audacious plan: a preemptive strike against the Imperial Navy while they were still nestled in their home port. Jericho, who commanded a respectable , great and strong fleet of five ships ,two of which were barely seaworthy, insisted that he, naturally, should lead the charge since the plan was his. His chest puffed out as he declared himself the boldest among them, a man with the nerve to strike at the heart of the enemy before they could even raise their sails. Captain Borvik however, had other plans. Borvik, whose fleet of nine vessels dwarfed Jericho''s ragtag squadron, leaned over the table, his broad frame casting a shadow over the maps, and scoffed at the very idea. With mock gravitas, he pointed out the obvious flaw: Jericho''s fleet was "barely enough to take on a flock of seagulls, let alone the Imperial Navy." Borvik, of course, was happy to volunteer himself as the rightful leader of the strike. After all, he had more ships, more experience, and, as he reminded everyone repeatedly, "a face that even the gods respect." It didn''t take long for the debate to devolve into chaos. Jericho, red-faced and determined to defend his honor and his plan, accused Borvik of cowardice, saying that his preference for leading from the largest ship in the fleet was more about his girth than his courage. Borvik, unamused, retorted with a colorful insult about the dubious sturdiness of Jericho''s vessels, which he claimed were held together by little more than spit and optimism and of course after that he called his mother a whore. And then, predictably, fists flew. The table became a battlefield of its own, with maps crumpled and torches nearly toppled as Jericho and Borvik lunged at each other. The other captains, half amused and half exasperated, stepped back to avoid the flailing limbs. However the one who was not amused was Blake. Blake turned his gaze to Kroll, hoping to find help, only to find him utterly engrossed in the spectacle before him. Kroll was roaring with laughter, egging the brawlers on as if this were the grand entertainment of the evening. Blake''s eyes narrowed, and he wondered¡ªAre these the men who will decide the fate of the Free People? Are these the one that defend our freedom? A chaotic bunch of undisciplined ruffians, raising their fists in battle more often than their mugs for toasts . The commotion showed no signs of abating as lord Borvik, threw himself atop the barrel-chested Jericho Blake''s patience snapped. "Enough!" he bellowed, but his words barely registered above the cacophony of blows, grunts, and jeers. His jaw tightened. Resolved, he strode forward, shoving his way through the gathered captains who had formed an informal circle to watch the brawl. He grabbed Borvik by the collar, yanked him off Jericho, and, with a single firm push, sent him sprawling onto the larger man. The clash of bodies hit the floor with a satisfying thud, followed by a stunned silence. Blake stood over them, his voice sharp and commanding. "This is a war council, not a tavern brawl! If I wanted to see men knock each other senseless, I''d have dragged us all to the pits and thrown in some coin!" His eyes swept across the room, meeting each captain''s gaze with cold fury. "How in the depths of the sea are we debating who will lead a plan that only you two fools seem to agree on?" The room stilled, save for a faint cough from Kroll, who tried to suppress his laughter. Blake ignored him. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and said with icy clarity, "We''re facing an Imperial invasion, and you''re squabbling like deckhands fighting over a lost card game. Do you think this is how the Free People prevail? By punching each other senseless over who gets to fail first?You think this a game?" The captains exchanged sheepish glances, the weight of his words finally sinking in. Jericho groaned from the floor, Borvik muttering something unintelligible, but neither dared to meet Blake''s glare. Satisfied that his point had landed, Blake stepped back, his shoulders squared. "Now," he said, voice steady but firm, "shall we actually discuss how to deal with the Imperial Navy? Or are you all just here to practice getting tossed overboard?" Seeing that no one argued, Blake assumed he could continue. He let out a long, tired sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose before stepping back to his place at the head of the stone table. "Now that we''ve regained a semblance of order," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, "perhaps we can actually discuss what to do next." SaltBeard, slapped his palm down on the table. "Simple! We sail out at once to meet the Imperials in battle!" His voice carried the same blunt force as his reputation¡ªa man of action, never hesitation. "Catch ''em before they can form up properly. Smash their fleet before it''s even out of port!" He said as he proposed the same plan of before. Several of the other captains nodded in agreement, murmurs of approval rippling through the chamber. Blake watched as hands gestured and heads bobbed, the eager posturing spreading like a fever. A few even slapped the table, clearly itching for blood and glory. Blake''s jaw tightened as unease churned in his mind. Is this how we lose again? He stared at the map spread across the stone table, its intricate details illuminated by flickering torchlight. His eyes drifted southward, tracing the coastline of Romelian-allied lands. It was far too easy to imagine the trap¡ªa powerful Imperial fleet luring them into enemy waters, only for allied southern princes to pincer them from hidden ports. It had happened before, a painful memory etched into the Free People''s collective history, just less than two decades years ago. A bold fleet sailing headfirst into foreign seas, only to be torn apart when reinforcements struck from an unexpected angle. Have they learned nothing from that debacle? Blake wondered bitterly. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the table. To charge blindly into enemy territory, assuming the Imperials would be as unprepared as they hoped, was arrogance bordering on suicidal. Blake''s gaze swept across the room, taking in the eager faces of the captains. Men who, despite their experience, were blinded by their lust for an early victory. SaltBeard, loud and commanding, continued to argue his point, detailing a bold strike that would carry them straight into Imperial waters. And likely into disaster, Blake thought grimly. He sighed again thanking the Sea god and perhapse another one, that he was the war-commander, as if it was the opposite than they would had most certainly sailed towards their own deaths. Chapter 368: Calling the shot(2) Chapter 368: Calling the shot(2) As the room continued to evolve into a shouted match , it appeared that the High Captain of the Free Fleet finally had enough , making sure to point out his opinion by slamming his palm down onto the wooden table. The sharp sound succeeded in making the other shut up, drawing all eyes to him. "As Captain of the High Fleet," he began, his voice steady but firm, "it is only proper that I too present my views on the coming war and propose strategies for our defense. It is not my role to merely oversee these noble and respectful discussions that you are currently having but to contribute to them. So hear me out now, before I resort to throwing the unruly ones out" Blake glanced around, his gaze lingering briefly on each captain, ensuring their attention before continuing. "Twenty years ago, when the Romelians last dared to challenge us, the High Captain who led this fleet¡ªLord Valrick Stormbound¡ªwas a man of courage and ferocity. He was no stranger to the flames of battle, and his name inspired terror from the Northern Shores to the Eastern princes. In the climactic battle of that war, Stormbound''s ship took down two Romelian war galleys, ramming one to splinters and boarding the other in a storm of steel and blood. He fought to the last, refusing to yield even as defeat closed around him and our people scattered to regroup, until his soul was taken in the arms of the sea, as any true free man can aspire to end to." Blake paused, letting the memory of the legendary captain linger in the room. "I was too young then to stand where I stand now," Blake admitted, his voice softer but still carrying authority. "But I imagine that similar arguments were raised in this very chamber. The same fiery passions, the same competing plans, the same desire to protect our way of life at all costs. And yet, the decisions made then determined the course of that war¡ªand our survival as free men, that we have lived for the past 21 years." The room remained silent, the weight of his words settling heavily over the council. Blake drew a deep breath, his voice calm but weighted with an edge of bitterness. "My father must have been one of those voices," he began, his tone carrying both reverence and regret. "One of the many who argued and fought, believing they were doing what was best for our people. Yet, as much as it pains me to say it, they all sailed toward their doom." He straightened, looking each captain in the eye as he spoke, his words deliberate and sharp. "As soon as word reached us of the Imperials planning an invasion, the council of that time rallied their fleets and sailed. Not toward home, not to fortify our waters or protect our people¡ªbut out onto the open sea, far from the safety of our shores. They took the fight to the Imperials, venturing boldly into their waters." Blake slammed his fist down on the table, making the maps jump. "And what was their reward for this bravery? Defeat. On imperial seas, they found themselves outmaneuvered, caught in a trap. A pincer attack, no less¡ªone fleet charging them from the front while another, hidden in the ports of those bootlicking southern princes, cut off their retreat. They fought with courage, yes, but they were doomed the moment they left these waters." He let the memory of the disaster hang in the air, the weight of it pressing down on the gathered captains. "What makes you think this time will be different?" Blake''s voice rose slightly, the intensity of his words cutting through the tension like a blade. "Are you so arrogant as to believe that where your fathers and brothers failed, you will succeed¡ªwhile doing the exact same thing they did? Do you think you can rewrite history with the same old plans that led them to ruin?" His gaze hardened as he leaned forward. "Will you patrol every port, every cove, and every hidden inlet across the lands of those treacherous southern princes? Will you shadow their waters day and night, ensuring the Imperials don''t lay the same trap again? Tell me¡ªwhere is this magical fleet that can be everywhere at once?" Blake straightened, his voice softening but gaining a darker edge. "Because if you can''t answer those questions, then you''re gambling with our lives. And I, for one, won''t bet everything on the same doomed strategy that already cost us so much." "And what would you have us do then, High Captain?" Waveweaver asked , his high voice cutting through the heavy atmosphere like a knife "If you''re so against meeting them at sea, what''s your grand strategy?" Blake met his gaze, unflinching, and stepped toward the center of the gathered captains. "We do nothing rash," he began, his voice steady and resolute. "We have no reason to venture out into waters where the advantage belongs to them. These are our seas¡ªwaters we know as well as the palms of our hands. Every current, every shoal, every hidden inlet and island belongs to us, not them. Let the Imperials waste their time searching for a fleet that could be anywhere, while we remain invisible." He gestured to the maps spread across the table, his finger landing on the island of Harmway. "But we know exactly where the Romelians will go. They won''t sail aimlessly; they''ll head straight for Harmway. It''s the heart they are trying to capture, the key to our waters. They''ll come for it, certain that taking the city will be their victory." Blake''s voice grew firmer, his words carrying the authority of command. "So let them come. We garrison Harmway. We fortify the city and allow them to land safely. Let them besiege it, and once they''re committed¡ªonce they''re on our soil, far from any port that might harbor a hidden fleet¡ªwe strike. We''ll come at them from the sea and the land, catching them with no escape." The captains exchanged uncertain glances, murmuring amongst themselves as Blake continued. "If we win, they''ll be forced to retreat all the way back to their lands. Their invasion will end in ruin, while with our faster vessel we will board those too slow to move. And in the unfortunate case we lose..." He paused, letting the weight of the possibility settle in the air before continuing with unwavering confidence. "We have dozens of homes across these seas to retreat to. We can rally, reform our fleet, and strike again. And again. And again if we must, until we break them.The imperials may have the number, but we have our home turf and our resolve" He looked around the room, his gaze locking with each of the captains. "This is our home. These are our waters. We fight on our terms¡ªnot theirs.'''' SaltBeard shot to his feet, his booming voice echoing off the polished walls of the cave, as he clearly was against it "We''ll be waiting till eternity itself ends before the Imperials come to us!" He swept his arm dramatically across the room, glaring at Blake with fire in his eyes. "How do you plan to feed the crews while we sit on our arses twiddling our thumbs? Do you know how much it takes to keep a fleet fed? It won''t just be the Imperials that starve us¡ªit''ll be ourselves!" A murmur of agreement rippled through the gathered captains, and soon others were chiming in with their own concerns. "SaltBeard''s got a point," grumbled Ironjaw, a hulking man with a face that seemed carved from stone. "The longer we wait, the more we''ll eat into our stores. Blackfin, a tall, lean captain leaned forward, his voice cutting through the din. "And what if they don''t even land at Harmway, eh? What if they hit one of the other islands first to attract us for battle?'''' SaltBeard pounded the table with a meaty fist, his face red with frustration. "Aye! We can''t just sit here like cowards! We need to act! Strike first, strike hard, and show the Imperials that the free men don''t wait for anyone!" The room was in uproar, voices overlapping in a chaotic symphony of objections and anger. Blake remained silent, his eyes scanning the room, his mind working to untangle the mess of arguments being hurled his way. "It seems, gentlemen, that many of you are under a misconception," Balek began, his tone steady but firm. The room began to quiet as the captains turned their attention toward him once again "You believe we must keep the fleet assembled, sitting idle in one place, waiting for the Imperials to come knocking.Consuming our supplies and having us face starvation. That is not my plan." He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto SaltBeard and the others who had spoken so passionately. "We don''t need to maintain the fleet in one place. This call was after all to discuss on what to do for the invasion plans of the empire, not to act immediatley after it. We''ll break off, scatter. Each ship will resupply and make short raid in close coast for food. And when the time comes, when the moment is ripe, we''ll rally the fleet once again, this time to strike with precision and strength while the enemy is where we know it is." A low murmur rippled through the room, a mix of curiosity and doubt. It was Kroll who broke the silence, his calm voice as he was talking to his friend . "Rallying the fleet will take weeks, Blake," he said, his tone reasonable "Perhapse Harmway will fall before we come to its aid'''' Blake turned to Kroll, his expression resolute. "That''s why I''ll send my ships to patrol the waters near the Imperials. They''ll keep a close watch on their movements and send word as quickly as they can. We won''t be caught off guard. Of course Harmway will face a bit of a fight. But that is the reason for which I proposed to increase the garrison, fortify the defenses, and stockpile enough food to last through months of siege if needed.As I said our strategy will be both on land and on sea" He gestured to the map spread across the stone table, his finger landing firmly on Harmway. "When the Imperials arrive, we''ll have time. Time to rally, time to prepare, and time to strike when we are ready¡ªnot when they dictate. It won''t be a rushed, chaotic gamble like before. It''ll be a coordinated, deliberate assault, where we will call to our sails as many ships as we possibly can . If we fight on our terms, we stand a chance at breaking them." The room was silent for a moment, the captains absorbing Blake''s words. Some exchanged skeptical glances, while others nodded slowly, beginning to see the merit in his plan . After all the veterans among them who had participated at Rock Bottom, knew that the reason for which they had sailed away from the isles was that their food was running out and the crews were restless to have a fight, which Lord Varlick was more than happy to give, as he himself was thirsty for the glory of a proper naval engagement. So after putting everything into perspective, some of them realized that perhaps, what Elio''s lord was saying did actually make sense. Chapter 369: Sharing power Chapter 369: Sharing power The gentle sway of the Roaring Axe accompanied the captain of the ship like a mother''s lullaby. Inside the captain''s cabin, Blake sat at the large oak table. The Roaring Axe, or better yet its name, had once been his father''s vessel, a symbol of power and pride in the days when his father commanded the respect of ten ships. Now, it was Blake''s flagship''s name , a legacy he carried both proudly and heavily as a way to honor him. Across from Blake sat Kroll, his long-time friend, leaning back in his chair with an easy air. Between them on the table were two empty cups, their polished metal gleaming faintly in the lantern light. Blake had invited Kroll aboard earlier that day, the rare lull in the chaos of leadership offering them a chance to reminisce. Before the breaking of the Treaty of Seabreak, a fragile pact with the Imperials which limited pirate activity outside what the Romelians regarded as their seas, that now layd in tatters, the two had seen little of each other. Both had been preoccupied with their own pursuits¡ªKroll raiding far to the west while Blake cemented his position as captain of his personal fleet. The demands of their lives had kept them apart, but now, with the fleet preparing to scatter once more under Blake''s orders, the opportunity to share a moment presented itself. The air in the cabin was warm and thick with the scent of salt and old wood. "This feels like old times," Kroll said, his voice rich with nostalgia, though his tone held an edge of weariness. Blake nodded. "Aye," Blake said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "It''s been too long since we''ve sat across a table like this." The cabin door creaked open, and Blake''s slave entered gracefully, a slender jug of golden apple cider balanced expertly in her hands. The cider, fresh and fragrant, was a rare luxury that spoke of Blake''s growing influence. She moved to the table, pouring the cider into the waiting cups without a word. The rich, sweet aroma of the drink filled the room, a welcome contrast to the sea-salt tang that permeated the air. Kroll leaned forward slightly, curiosity sparking in his eyes as the golden liquid filled his cup. Taking a sip, Kroll''s eyes widened in surprise, the sweet yet sharp tang of the cider hitting his palate. "Now, this," he said with a grin, "must be an occasion worth marking." His rough hand set the cup down, but his expression held genuine delight. Blake gave a curt nod, a faint smile playing on his lips as he swirled the cider in his own cup. Kroll took another sip before shaking his head in amazement. "I''ll be damned. First time I''ve tasted the wonders of Yarzat." Blake chuckled softly, the sound deep and knowing. "I remember when Yarzat was just a backwater princedom," he said, his voice carrying a hint of disbelief. "Yet now, it''s on the lips of everyone¡ªpirates, lords, and even emperors. Who would''ve thought that little corner of nowhere would make something so sought after?" Kroll leaned back in his chair, watching Blake carefully. "You''ve got that look in your eye," he said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You''re thinking of leading a force into Yarzat''s capital, aren''t you? Seeing what their little princess has accumulated with her cider and trade?" Blake smirked, the expression betraying nothing. "The thought''s crossed my mind," he admitted, his tone light yet layered with intention ''''I think I can convince some captains to follow behind, after all greed is a common trait for us...'''' Kroll''s grin faded, replaced by a more serious expression. "I''ve heard stories about her husband," he said, his voice low and pointed. "A warmongering prince, they call him. In just one short year, he''s led three battles¡ªand won every one of them. He doesn''t seem the type to sit idly by while you siege his city." Blake''s fingers tapped the rim of his cup, his gaze distant as he mulled over the warning. "I''d think twice about it," Kroll continued. "You might find your force surrounded before you''ve even breached their walls, and It would pain me to see our little heroes dies in one of his ventures." Blake hummed softly, the sound thoughtful but noncommittal. He took a slow sip of the cider, his eyes fixed on the map sprawled across the table as Kroll watched him in silence. Kroll took another sip of cider, savoring the drink as he leaned back in his chair. "Tell me," he said, raising an eyebrow, "how in the depths did you even get your hands on this? Merchants don''t come sniffing around these waters unless they''ve got a death wish or unless they are affiliated with us...." Blake let out a low chuckle, swirling the golden liquid in his cup. "You''re not wrong," he admitted, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. "I didn''t buy it, if that''s what you''re wondering. Took it off a merchant vessel. They were creeping through these seas¡ªlikely heading toward Romelian lands to sell it, it is very well liked there...." Kroll tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his sharp gaze. "Huh well that can be said everywhere . I thought Yarzat traded over land. They''re neighbors with the empire, aren''t they? Bastards managed to find a way to grace themselves with them." "They are," Blake said with a shrug, "and the Imperials have their claws sunk deep into that market which they gladly given up. Practically a monopoly, over their own market obviously " He leaned forward slightly, the edge of a conspiratorial grin on his face. "But you know how it is. Some men don''t like playing by the rules. Greed makes them... inventive, for five soaps and bottles of ciders that the imperial family sell, two of both get in through black trade." Kroll chuckled, shaking his head. "Inventive enough to cross these waters? That''s bold. Or stupid. Why not stick to land? Seems a lot safer, sure there may be brigands, but I bet they are safer than us..." Blake tapped the rim of his cup with his finger, his grin widening. "Oh, they''d love to. But here''s the thing¡ªthe Imperials don''t just guard their coin; they worship it. Anyone caught sneaking goods around their little empire without a document issued by the court allowing them to trade such wonders gets more than a fine. They get ''requisitioned''¡ªand by that, I mean robbed blind and executed before they can say a prayer to their gods." Kroll''s eyes narrowed in amusement. "Petty bastards." Blake nodded, his voice carrying a dry humor. "Petty doesn''t even cover it. So, what''s a greedy man to do? He can''t take the goods through land without losing his head. That leaves the sea. They load up a ship, pick a nice little port where the commander''s got a weakness for bribes, and pray they don''t meet anyone like us along the way.If they manage to get in they can sell their products at three times the prince that the little emperor does, after all the demand is huge by the offer little" Kroll let out a bark of laughter. "So, let me get this straight¡ªsome poor sap risked his neck, got past Imperial land patrols, bribed some greasy port officer, and thought he was home free... only to end up floating in our waters with his hold emptied by you?" Blake raised his cup in a mock toast, the smirk on his face sharp and wolfish. "Exactly well he is not really floating , I think some sharks must have made a snack out of him . Anyway, they gamble that the silver''s worth their heads. And sometimes, they lose the bet, sometimes they win, the money must certainly be good to make them have such ventures." Kroll laughed harder, slapping the table. "And here I thought this cider tasted sweet on its own. It''s even better with a story like that." Blake joined in the laughter. Blake leaned back in his chair, the flickering lantern casting shadows across his face. He stared at Kroll over the rim of his cup, the corners of his mouth curling into a sly grin. "What do you say, Kroll? Once we''ve sent the Imperials packing, why don''t we put our ships together and pay Yarzat a little visit? Quick raid¡ªnothing grand. Perhaps we get lucky." Kroll raised an eyebrow, his lips pulling into a faint smirk, though his tone was tinged with concern. "Blake, you know I care about you. You''re my brother in everything but blood. So, as your friend, let me say this¡ªdon''t." Blake blinked, surprised at the bluntness. "Don''t?" Kroll nodded, setting his cup down with a heavy clink. "I mean it. That Young Mercenary Prince¡ªhe''s not just some pampered lordling playing soldier. The man keeps an army raised at all times, which isn''t cheap, but it seems Yarzat''s profits can more than afford it." Blake waved a dismissive hand. "Armies don''t mean much if they''re too slow to react. We wouldn''t be there to fight a war, just to take what we can and leave." Kroll shook his head, his expression grave. "You think you can get in and out before he even notices? You''d be gambling against a man who''s made his fortune leading others to ruin. They say in one short year, he''s fought three battles and won every single one of them. Personally led the army each time. I wouldn''t be surprised if he''s itching for someone to make a mistake, just to prove a point." Blake''s grin faltered slightly, but he didn''t answer, merely taking another sip of his cider. Kroll leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "You think you''ll put an army ashore, take the city, and be gone before he gathers his forces? How much time do you think you have before his thousands men will go and protect their prince? To anyone that went against him,he didn''t just beat them; he made sure they were remembered as fools." Blake hummed thoughtfully, his fingers tapping against the table. "I hear your warning, Kroll. But Fortune favors the bold, doesn''t it?" Kroll gave a small laugh, shaking his head. "Fortune may favor the bold, my friend, but it doesn''t favor the reckless. If you try this, you might just find out what those lords felt like smashing against a mountain." Blake sat in silence for a moment, his eyes fixed on the swirling liquid in his cup. He didn''t respond immediately, but Kroll could see the flicker of determination still burning in his gaze. Kroll sighed, knowing that once Blake got an idea in his head, it wasn''t easily dislodged, still he hoped he did. Chapter 370: Dividing power(2) Chapter 370: Dividing power(2) Kroll leaned back, tipping his cup slightly as he glanced toward Blake. "You know," he started, his voice casual but carrying a trace of curiosity, "it''s been a while since I''ve seen any of those slippery brokers around.My ships is filled with things to sell, yet I haven''t seen any of them in a bit. Starting to wonder if they''ve all vanished into thin air." Blake raised an eyebrow but said nothing, letting Kroll''s comment hang in the air as he took a slow sip of cider. ''''I am sure they will appear soon, after all they know that our business is good...'''' In the world of piracy, brokers were the unspoken lifeblood of the trade¡ªshadowy intermediaries who turned stolen goods into spendable coin. Unlike gold or silver, which could be immediately pocketed, the vast majority of loot raided from merchant ships was far less straightforward to monetize. Bales of silk, crates of spices, barrels of wine, and jewels couldn''t simply be spent in the taverns of pirate havens. Instead, they needed to be sold. The brokers thrived in this niche, ferrying goods from the hands of pirates to the markets of the mainland. The brokers took their cut, of course¡ªa significant one¡ªbut for pirates with no other means of turning their plunder into currency, they were indispensable. Of course, there were always a few known brokers lurking in the shadowy corners of ports across the seas. But for many Free Men, stepping into a port was as much a gamble as sailing through a hurricane. Every ship was boarded and inspected by the local garrison, eager to sniff out the scent of piracy. And let''s face it, an empty hold was as good as painting "pirate" in bold letters on the side of the hull. After all, there were only two kinds of people who sailed the seas¡ªmerchants or pirates¡ªand if you weren''t loaded with cargo, well, it wasn''t hard to guess which one you were. Because of this, most brokers were the ones on the move when dealing with the Free Men. They braved the perilous waters to sail directly to islands controlled by the Confederation, conducting their business right under the pirates'' noses. It wasn''t without risk¡ªrogue captains could be tempted by the fat purses these brokers carried. But piracy had its unspoken rules, and one of the most sacred was to leave the brokers alone. After all, if you robbed the man who turned stolen silk and stolen wine into cold, hard coin, where would you sell your next haul? Certainly not back to him, and unless you fancied trading barrels of fine wine for mackerel, there weren''t many other options. Rumors of an impending Imperial invasion had swept through the seas like wildfire, sending brokers scrambling for safety. The whispers of Romelian warships soon to be cutting through the waves were enough to make even the most daring of these middlemen think twice about lingering on pirate-controlled islands. After all, the Romelians had no love for anyone who dealt with the Free Men. To them, a broker was as much a pirate as the one swinging the cutlass¡ªand they made no distinction when it came to executions, both of them just needed some nails and planks. So, one by one, the brokers abandoned the islands, retreating to the relative safety of their ports. There, they plan to hoard their silver and gold, their minds already turning to the future. If the Confederation emerged victorious, the brokers would return, their coffers ready to buy up whatever spoils the Free Men plundered during the war. If they did not, well, then it was time to consider becoming proper merchants. The allure of Harmway under the Confederation''s yoke had always been a boon for their trade, who had a relative close base to go to do business, instead of traveling dozens of kilometers into the sea. But for now, they waited, silently rooting for a Confederation victory, as their gains depended on them Kroll leaned back in his chair, his lips twitching into a sly grin as he swirled the remnants of cider in his cup. "I''ll admit, Blake, I didn''t expect you to win the role of captain. Not with all the sharks circling for it." Blake raised an eyebrow, his expression unbothered. "You shouldn''t have expected it," he said with a smirk. "The only reason I did was because I convinced StormCaller to drop out and throw his votes behind me." Kroll''s grin widened in surprise. "StormCaller? The stubborn old bastard who''d rather eat his boots than take orders? How the hell did you pull that off?" Blake shrugged nonchalantly, leaning forward to pour himself another cup of cider. " I reminded him that this would probably be the last big battle of his life. And let''s be honest¡ªhe''s not likely to win if he''s just another captain among many. But if he backed me and I took the lead? Well, I promised him command of the right flank." Kroll let out a bark of laughter. "The right flank, huh? The honor of leading a third of the fleet in what he thinks is his swan song. That must''ve been music to his ears." Blake nodded, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "A few more sweet words, a reminder of how history would remember him as the steadfast hand that helped shape our victory, and he was in. Apparently, the idea of commanding such an important role in what he believes will be his last battle was enough to make him see reason." ''Well, that certainly was unexpected '''' Kroll admitted with a smirk, when suddendly the conversation turned more melancholic than he had hoped. ''''IYou know, we have known each other since we were boys, so I wonder if we will have the chance to drink like this ever again...''''he admitted with a sigh Blake leaned back in his chair, the flickering lantern casting a golden glow across his sharp features. He swirled the cider left in his cup, then looked up at Kroll. "We''ll see each other soon enough, my friend," he said, a small, calculating smile tugging at his lips. "When it''s time to sail into battle against the Romelians.That night''s drink will outshine every other experience we will share. And if one of us is destined to not be there, then we can only blame the sea-god for his decision." Kroll grinned wide his teeth gleaming. "I can''t wait for it," he replied, the eager fire of a man who lived for the thrill of a fight clear in his voice. He raised his cup as if to toast the thought but drained the cider instead. "It''s been too long since we''ve cracked some imperial hulls." Blake nodded, his expression sharpening into focus. "Speaking of cracking things... I''ve been thinking about the best way to manage the fleet. With the numbers we''ve pulled together, it''s no small task. I''ve been searching for the right people to assign command over some of the smaller captains. You know the ones¡ªnot part of any main fleet, just a handful of ships waiting for orders." Kroll arched an eyebrow, his interest piqued. "And you''re telling me this because...?" "Because I''d like you to lead some of them," Blake said evenly, his gaze locking onto Kroll''s. "I want someone I can trust," Blake continued leaning forward. "This isn''t just busywork, Kroll. There''s a mission¡ªa special one¡ªI''ll need carried out when the Romelians disembark on Harmway. I need someone with their head screwed on right." Kroll rubbed his chin, feigning reluctance, but there was a glint of excitement in his eyes. "Well, when you put it that way... I''d be honored. How many ships are we talking here?" Blake tilted his head, considering. "Not as many as I''d like, of course. But fifteen, maybe twenty. Enough to make an impact.You feel confident?" Kroll slapped the table, grinning ear to ear. "You''re damn right I do. Just tell me when and where, Blake, and I''ll show those Romelian bastards what Free Men can do." The command structure of the fleet had already been decided. Salt Beard, a fierce veteran with a penchant for aggressive maneuvers, was entrusted with the left flank. StormCaller, as he was promised would command the right. Blake himself would take the center, bearing the brunt of the enemy''s attention and leading the main attack. And then there was Kroll. Blake leaned back. Kroll''s command was a wildcard¡ªa fleet assigned with no defined purpose, at least not yet.He needed of course someone he could trust and that would not have his head fuzzed around by thoughts of glory. Blake had only vague ideas for now about how to use him : perhaps as a rapid-response force to exploit weaknesses in the enemy lines or maybe as a way to copycat the trick that the Romans used at Rock Bottom, after all the home ground was theirs and the possibilities were infinite. What gave Blake confidence, even as the prospect of war loomed large, was the quality of his commanders. He knew they were no mere opportunists or glory-seekers but seasoned captains who had weathered countless storms, both literal and figurative.... Outside, the rhythmic crash of waves against the hull reminded him of the inevitability of what was to come. War was brewing, and soon, all their preparations would be tested. ''''I am sure you will do...to our friendship then, may it last a thousands of storms!'''' He shouted as he raised his cup, sharing a toast with his friend, not knowing whether this would be the last time they two will ever share such a moment together. Chapter 371: Joining hands?(1) Chapter 371: Joining hands?(1) Two months. In just two months, Alpheo would finally lay eyes on his firstborn, a child destined to carry his blood and his legacy into the future. The thought filled him with a mix of exhilaration and nervous energy that refused to be quelled, no matter how much he tried to distract himself with his duties. He had always dreamed of becoming a father, whether in the life he had left behind or the one he now lived. The notion of guiding a young soul, of seeing a part of himself reflected in the eyes of another, had always been a quiet but persistent longing. Now, that dream was about to become reality. The knowledge that his child would soon take their first breath in this world made his heart feel as though it were caught between a roaring tide and the steady beat of a war drum. A strange warmth filled him, perhaps the primal joy that came with the understanding that life was about to be created, not merely in a general sense, but his life¡ªan extension of himself . Alpheo found himself daydreaming more often than he cared to admit, imagining what his child might look like. As the date of birth loomed ever closer, Jasmine''s strength waned, leaving her increasingly fatigued. What energy she could muster was focused on preparing for the monumental day ahead, leaving Alpheo to shoulder the responsibilities of governance. He ruled in her stead, his days consumed by an endless stream of tasks that left him no time for his usual pursuits. The court''s petitions, disputes among small nobles in the crown''s lands who would argue on which village was theirs and which was not , and the mountain of reports requiring review all landed squarely in his lap. Even the decisions Jasmine had previously delegated to him were now entirely his burden to bear without any help . Today was no exception. Alpheo sat in the grand chamber of the palace, dressed in the finest robes befitting his station. Every seam, every stitch of his garment screamed princely authority¡ªsilks dyed in deep crimson, embroidered with golden thread that caught the light with every movement. It was a far cry from his preferred attire, something simpler and more practical. But today, appearance was as important as action. He gritted his teeth and endured the cumbersome clothing, knowing that presentation mattered now more than ever. An envoy from one of the strongest imperial families, the Veritia, was set to arrive. Alpheo had heard the rumors, as they weren''t the kind you could ignore. The Romelians were planning to bring Harmway under imperial control, a bold move especially in the middle of a civil war. The task had been handed to Lisidor Veritia, patriarch of the mighty Veritia family. Whatever rewards the regent had promised to get Lisidor on board must have been massive¡ªbigger than the usual perks of imperial politics. Which unfortunately he wan''t privy to. This wasn''t Alpheo''s first time hosting envoys from imperial nobles. Over the previous year, they''d sent their silver-tongued messengers to his court, hoping to strike trade deals. But Alpheo had always turned them down, politely but firmly. His alliance with the regent of the young emperor was useful and he did not want to risk it for more coins. This visit, though, felt different. Alpheo doubted the Veritia family had crossed the sea just to talk trade. Sure Lisidor had many interests in the sea-trade, but right now he was dealing with war not trade. Alpheo couldn''t shake the feeling that this meeting wasn''t about goods¡ªit was about conquest. Harmway was the prize, and Alpheo''s princedom could be a chess to get it . The Romelians must have already received reports about my growing fleet. There was no hiding it, not that I even attempted to, after all why would I? Alpheo found himself grinning uncosciously , why would he not? With a proper fleet his possibilities, be it in war and in peace were endless. He had spent much effort on it , after all and it was only proper that they returned the investment. His fleet had grown to an impressive twenty vessels. Seventeen of them were simple galleys¡ªreliable and swift. The real jewel in his arsenal, however, were the three mighty galleasses. Towering over the galleys, these behemoths were built for more than speed¡ªthey were built for dominance. Their reinforced hulls and ramming prows could cut through a galley as if it were made of paper, leaving behind a trail of splinters and despair. Of course, that kind of power didn''t come cheap. Each galleass had cost him a small fortune¡ªat least 6,000 silverii per ship, a staggering expense compared to the galleys. Yet the investment was worth it. With these warships at his command, Alpheo could rightfully claim to have the strongest navy among the southern princedoms. Which meant that he had the undisputed control over the sea, and that he could easily move his army across the sea to strike deep into enemy''s territory while also having allowing him to carry supply by sea, without fear of them being radied by cavalry deep inside his line. The grand double doors of the throne hall groaned open, their iron hinges protesting softly. Into the room stepped a man flanked by a pair of armored guards, their polished breastplates reflecting the dim light of the chamber''s hanging chandeliers. The man in the center, clearly the envoy, bowed softly He wore a richly embroidered tunic of deep crimson, trimmed with golden thread that caught the light with every step. His boots, polished to a mirror shine, clicked against the stone floor as he approached. The man''s features were sharp, his jawline clean-shaven and angular, with a thin mustache that curled slightly at its ends. His dark hair was swept back and slick with oil, revealing a high forehead that lent him an air of intellect¡ªor arrogance, depending on the perspective. A badge pinned to his chest bore the sigil of the Veritia family. It was immediately clear to Alpheo that this man was not Doria, the regent''s personal envoy. "Your Highness," the envoy began, his voice smooth as silk but with an undercurrent of steel, "I bring the warmest regards of the esteemed Veritia family to a friend of the empire.My congratulations over your victories against the prince of Herculia. The whispers of your triumph have traveled far, even reaching the ears of my lord." Alpheo inclined his head graciously, though his smile was carefully measured. "You are most kind to say so. It was a campaign that demanded much from both myself and those who stood beside me. And please let me extend the gratitude of Yarzat for your visit. It is an honor to host an envoy from one of the most illustrious families in the empire." With the pleasantries exchanged, Alpheo gestured toward the empty seat beside his throne, meant for Jasmine. "I must, however, begin with an apology. My wife, Princess Jasmine, cannot join us today. As you may have heard, we are expecting a child soon. Her health takes precedence over all." The envoy''s expression shifted ever so slightly, his lips curving into a gracious smile. "But of course, Your Highness. Please accept my heartfelt congratulations to you both. A royal heir¡ªwhat joyous news indeed! May your lineage grow strong and prosperous." "Thank you," Alpheo replied with a small nod. "It has been a long-anticipated blessing." Alpheo''s smile remained fixed, warm but practiced, as he clasped his hands together. "It must have been a long and arduous journey for you to reach our shores," he said, his tone laced with polite concern. "As a host, it is only proper that I extend the hospitality of Yarzat to you. Rest and refresh yourself¡ªour land is your home for as long as you may need." The envoy inclined his head slightly, his smile just as rehearsed. "Your Highness is most gracious." Alpheo, not missing a beat, gestured toward the side of the hall where an older figure stood. "As for the business you''ve traveled to conduct, it would be prudent to initiate discussions with Lord Shahab. I trust you will find him both knowledgeable and accommodating." Shahab, Jasmine''s grandfather, stepped forward as he then turned to the envoy, offering a respectful nod. "Dear Envoy of the Veritia''s household ," Shahab said in a rich, steady voice, "it will be my honor to discuss the matters you have brought to our esteemed city. I look forward to an enlightening conversation." The envoy returned the gesture with equal formality. '''' I am eager to begin our discussions then. " With that, Alpheo leaned back on the throne, signaling the conclusion of their exchange. Shahab turned toward the hall''s exit, gesturing for the envoy to follow. The envoy offered Alpheo a final bow. "Your Highness, I thank you again for your hospitality. Until we speak again." "Of course," Alpheo replied smoothly, watching as the envoy and Shahab departed. The rhythmic clinking of the guards'' armor echoed through the chamber until the doors shut firmly behind them. Alpheo sat back in his seat, the weight of the envoy''s visit settling on him like a slow tide They''re here to gauge my position. To see if they can use me in their grand designs against the pirates. Alpheo couldn''t suppress a small chuckle. It feels good to have actual naval power, to know that I have actual power to interfere with other''s nations. His fingers drummed lightly on the armrest as he considered the implications. But it''s not a bad thing, he continued to muse, a grin forming on his lips. The pirates have been a thorn in my side for far too long. If they want to come in and clean up that mess for me, well, there''s nothing wrong with a little help, as long as the price is right. His eyes narrowed, calculating. There isn''t much they can offer me, he mused. After all, I don''t trade with them. They''re not my neighbors. The only thing that could make this worthwhile is a chunk of Harmway''s income . That should be enough to satisfy my interests. After all, my trade is mostly on land.Yes, of course the pirates are a not on my side, but for the most part they don''t harm me too much. With a final, decisive thought, he stood from his seat as he prepared to retire in his room as he was the last petitioner of the day, a slight smirk curling at the edge of his lips. Let''s see if they''ll play my game. Chapter 372: Joining hands?(2) Chapter 372: Joining hands?(2) In the end, he was right once again, Shahab mused with a faint smirk as his measured steps echoed through the grand halls of the royal palace. The polished marble gleamed under the soft light of chandeliers, and at his approach, servants and guards alike paused to bow and step aside, their deference as automatic as the tides. Two decades ago¡ªwell, to be fair, twenty years ago still placed him in his early forties, so calling himself "young" might have been generous¡ªhe had dared to dream of his grandson claiming the throne from his son-in-law. A son-in-law who, by all accounts, was a walking disaster in royal garb. The man had been a calamity of contradictions: insatiably greedy yet perpetually broke, brimming with grand ambitions but woefully lacking the talent to achieve even the smallest of them. He had somehow managed to alienate half the nobility through a combination of arrogance and ineptitude, reducing his court to a den bootlickers, who never dried up of complimenting to spit on him. Yet, no matter how colossal a failure his son-in-law proved to be, Shahab found himself repeatedly cleaning up the man''s messes, scrambling to salvage dignity and stability after every one of his reckless attempts to prove he was something more than a pretender. The years dragged on, and with each one, it became increasingly clear that another son would not be born to carry the family''s legacy. At last, Shahab was forced to accept a bitter reality. Ormund , Arkawatt''s brother would take the throne, so the best he could achieve was to have his son marry his grandaughter. And then, from the most unlikely of places, the impossible happened.A small mercenary appeared from nowhere and from then everything changed. Through clever maneuvering, calculated risks, and undeniable talent, Alpheo managed to kill Ormund throwing his lot with Jasmine. She became the sovereign in her own right, firmly planting her feet where her predecessors had faltered. What followed was nothing short of extraordinary. The kingdom''s annual income quintupled, the once-bleeding coffers now brimming with wealth. Wars that had seemed as unwinnable war turned into triumphs, beginning with the capture of the Oizen princeling. Not long after, the Herculians were crushed, a quarter of their lands annexed as trophies of victory. The realm flourished like never before, and at the center of this golden era was one man: Alpheo. The young prince had proven himself to be not just capable, but transformational. Shahab, who had once resigned himself to mediocrity, could only marvel at the unlikely hero who had turned despair into prosperity. Shahab finally arrived at the ornate double doors of the guest chamber, their polished wood gleaming under the warm glow of the corridor''s lanterns. Behind him, the rhythmic patter of his steps came to a halt, and the silence was broken only by the faint crackle of a nearby brazier. A servant stepped forward, bowing slightly before raising his hand to knock on the door. Three firm raps echoed through the air, followed by a moment of expectant stillness. A muffled voice from within granted permission to enter. The servant, with practiced precision, turned the heavy brass handle and swung the door open just enough to allow Shahab to stride through. He entered with measured grace, his own flowing robes brushing softly against the marble floor, as his eyes appraised the envoy even as a warm smile spread across his lips. "Lord Veritia''s esteemed representative," Shahab greeted, his voice smooth and welcoming, "I trust your accommodations have been to your liking?" The envoy bowed slightly, returning the smile with one of his own. "They have been more than satisfactory, my lord'''' Shahab clasped his hands behind his back, inclining his head slightly as he addressed the envoy. "My sincerest apologies for having stepped away earlier. However, after a brief exchange with Her Grace, I now have a much clearer understanding of where her interests lie." His tone was warm and diplomatic, his words laced with intent. The envoy, whose name was Adrastos Veritia, gave a small nod, his face remaining impassive. "I appreciate your candor, Lord Shahab. In that case, let us get to the heart of the matter. How many ships might we count from Her Grace''s fleet?" Shahab didn''t hesitate. "Twenty," he replied smoothly. "Seventeen galleys and three galeasses. Each of the latter is a formidable vessel, capable of cutting through an enemy galley with ease." Adrastos''s expression didn''t shift, maintaining the calm, practiced neutrality of a seasoned diplomat. Yet inwardly, he was taken aback. Twenty vessels... and three galeasses? In a single year? He hid his surprise behind warm smile, his mind racing Calculating quickly, he added the numbers in his head, with them we would reach 87 ships.... His sharp gaze flicked back to Shahab, seeking any hint of confirmation. "Am I to take this as a sign that Her Grace is interested in cooperation to rid these seas of the pirate plague?" Shahab''s lips curved into a subtle smile. "Her Grace has expressed interest in seeing these waters secured. However, as I am sure you''ll understand, such endeavors are rarely undertaken without due consideration of the benefits to all involved." Adrastos leaned back slightly in his chair, his posture remaining composed as he began to lay his offer on the table. "To show the sincerity of my lord''s desire for cooperation, I am authorized to propose that no vessel bearing Her Grace''s heraldry shall pay taxes or tariffs in any of the lands under the Veritia family''s authority, including Harmway itself." His tone was measured, his words calculated to appeal to Shahab''s sense of pragmatism. He leaned forward slightly, the flicker of a confident smile on his lips. "In addition, Her Grace''s fleet would be entitled to a quarter of the spoils taken from any engagement, including goods, silver, and vessels captured in battle." Shahab listened, his expression calm yet unreadable. When Adrastos finished, the elder statesman shook his head slowly. "I''m afraid that is simply too little for us to commit the entirety of our fleet," he replied, his voice firm but not confrontational. Adrastos frowned faintly, his composure faltering for just a moment before he schooled his features. "Surely, Lord Shahab, such terms are fair? Tax exemption, a quarter of the spoils, and a seat at the table for operations such as this¡ªit is a generous offer, considering that your fleet would be but a small part of the entire naval armament'''' Shahab''s tone didn''t waver as he countered, "Fair? Perhaps. But little when weighed against the value of committing to such a campaign.I am sure that many of your ships are but merchant vessel loaned for this invasion, ours instead are pure ships made and baptized for war. For that price, you would be using the entirety of our fleet to shoulder a significant portion of the risk. If we are to fight alongside you, the stakes must align with the contribution." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing. "Apart from the terms you''ve outlined, we require thirty percent of all tolls collected from Harmway and its surrounding waters once the pirates are dealt with. It is only fitting that a fleet of this caliber be compensated accordingly." Adrastos straightened in his chair, his composure finally cracking as he raised his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Absolutely not," he said firmly, his tone clipped. "The Crown itself only demanded 30% in return for granting my lord Lisidor the title to Harmway. For you to ask for the same share, on top of your other demands, is simply unfeasible." His sharp gaze locked onto Shahab, and he continued with a hint of exasperation. "Lord Shahab, I urge you to be diplomatic in this matter. The terms you propose are, quite frankly, excessive. We are negotiating an alliance, not attempting to mortgage the entirety of Harmway''s future." Shahab smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth barely moving, as if he had expected this response all along. "I appreciate your candor, Lord Adrastos," he replied smoothly. "But I would remind you that the risks that it provides to us is big too, considering the amount we spent on building such a fleet that honestly would most certainly tilt the scale of the conflict in your favor." Adrastos''s jaw tightened. "And yet, 30% is far more than what any reasonable ally would demand." He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a calm yet pointed tone. "You must understand, Lord Shahab, that my lord Lisidor is already shouldering the lion''s share of the costs. Troops, supplies, and the organization of this campaign¡ªthese expenses fall squarely on his shoulders. Asking for such a cut is asking us to undermine our very cause." The silence stretched long and taut, the two men staring at each other as if testing one another''s will. Yet neither man flinched nor broke their gaze. It was as if the outcome of the entire campaign rested on this moment, the very walls of the royal palace bearing witness about whether or not Lord Lisidor would manage to acquire that ally that could turn the scale of power toward him. For as Shahab as correctly guessed most of their ships were merchant vessels. As such seeing twenty military ships in front of them was a good enough bait to make the upper echelons of the Imperial fleet drool at the thought of it, for he knew just how much of a good addition they would be to their armada. Chapter 373: Playing the game(1) Chapter 373: Playing the game(1) Things were spiraling downhill¡ªat least for the nobility. For the crown, however, it was nothing short of a golden age. If there''s one thing the noble caste dreads, it''s the rise of a strong central power that could overshadow their own influence. And in Yarzat, that very nightmare was unfolding right before their eyes. The recent war against Herculia was the ultimate wake-up call. The crown wasn''t just a toothless relic as it had been three years ago, apparently a new prince meant a new heard; it had become a force to be reckoned with. The nobility had no choice but to watch in growing unease as Princess Jasmine rallied an army of 1,300 soldiers¡ªwithout so much as lifting a finger to ask for their support. It was a stunning display of power, one that drove home the uncomfortable reality: the days of a weak and malleable monarchy were over. Needless to say, the crown''s recent campaign had been an overwhelming success¡ªan outcome that defied all expectations. By every measure, it was a war they should have lost. Yet, they didn''t just hold their ground; they emerged victorious. This turn of events sent ripples of unease through the nobility. Their wariness of Alpheo, already simmering beneath the surface, surged to new heights. The nobles, once confident in their ability to band together and crush any royal challenge, now faced a sobering reality: if they ever clashed with the crown, the outcome would no longer be a foregone conclusion. Times were changing, and they could feel it. The winds were no longer in their favor, and for the first time in generations, they were forced to question their place in this shifting landscape. To make matters worse, envy and greed burned hot among the nobility, fueled by the crown''s tightly controlled monopoly over two of Yarzat''s most lucrative industries: cider and soap. These products weren''t just profitable¡ªthey were the lifeblood of the royal treasury, enabling the crown to fund a standing army that none of the nobles could hope to rival. They had tried everything but the crown remained unyielding. It was like a lion guarding its feast, unwilling to part with even a morsel of its hard-won meat. Each rejection left the nobility fuming, forced to watch as the royal coffers swelled while they were left to gnash their teeth in frustration, mere spectators to a fortune they could never touch. The nobles, like hungry dogs, could only drool at the edge of the table while the crown dined alone, savoring every advantage its monopoly brought. And the more the crown prospered, the more bitter their envy grew. From seemingly nowhere, a potential solution to the nobility''s frustrations appeared on the horizon in the form of a long, winding procession traveling from the imperial lands into Yarzat. At its head rode a priest named Brother Elyos. The first noble to come into contact with the procession was Lord Niketas of Lonsium. At first, he treated them with the same cold indifference he reserved for all imperial interlopers. His instructions to his men were simple: ensure they caused no trouble as they passed through his lands. Yet, the longer they lingered in Lonsium, the more intrigued Niketas became, as it became clear that the procession didn''t have simple poor religious fanatics, but actual soldiers, with even some knights holding up the star of the five gods patched up in banners fluttering in the winds. And then, the thought began to take shape. Slowly, subtly, a dangerous idea took root in his mind. He could use them. In a wide, sunlit field nestled at the juncture of their four domains, the lords of Lonsium, Florium, Agripisio, and Corgendaue gathered, their banners fluttering in the breeze. It was an unusual sight, a rare assembly of such powerful men outside of war or courtly obligations. Lords of their stature seldom left their lands without dire cause, each fiercely guarding their territory and influence. Yet, the letter from Niketas of Lonsium had struck a chord The ever-growing power of the crown. After the crown''s successful campaign , the nobility split into two clear camps. On one side were those who saw the writing on the wall and chose to realign themselves with the crown. Lords like Pyrros of Sistorum and lord Damaris of Confluendi, two of the largest landowners, quickly pledged their support, bringing along a few smaller lords who followed their lead. On the other side, however, were those who refused to bow to the growing strength of the throne. Instead of falling in line, they focused on rallying as many allies as they could, determined to resist any further shift in power toward the crown. The four lords sat around a heavy wooden table inside a grand tent The tent itself was large enough to comfortably accommodate them and their closest attendants, with banners of their respective houses hung modestly outside the tent. The meeting began with Lord Niketas of Lonsium rising to address the gathered lords. The air in the tent was tense, each noble seated around the wooden table eyeing the others .Niketas started, his voice calm "It is good that we''ve all come together, united by a common purpose," he began, resting his hands on the table. "The ever-growing power of the crown is deeply troubling, especially now that it rests in the hands of a common-born mercenary. His greed for riches and influence knows no bounds, and it is encroaching on all of our interests." Lysander, the Lord of Agripisio, leaned forward, his expression grim. "It was a mistake to ever allow a mercenary to marry the princess," he said bitterly. "We should have done as Ormund did¡ªrallied in rebellion before it came to this. The signs were all there." Crovan of Argendaue shook his head, his jaw tightening as he responded. "Before we even understood what was happening, Ormund was dead. Killed by that mercenary in battle. And before we could rally, the princess announced her marriage to him." His voice carried a hint of frustration, tinged with regret. The lords exchanged uneasy glances, their silence giving Crovan room to continue. "We all sent envoys, didn''t we? Hoping to dissuade her. We appealed to reason, to tradition. And yet every single one of us was denied. Not one voice among us could sway her." He paused, his tone sharpening. "Clearly, the marriage wasn''t one of duty¡ªit was done at swordpoint. There can be no other explanation." The lords nodded reluctantly, murmurs of agreement passing around the table. Still what could they do now? Lord Gregor of Aratum leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the table as he broke the tense silence. "And to make matters worse," he began, his voice carrying a sharp edge, "our own peers¡ªlords who should stand with us¡ªare instead bowing their head to the crown. Sistorum, Confluendi, even some of the lesser houses. They''re abandoning tradition for promises of royal favor. Spineless, every one of them." He paused, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the faces of the other lords. "If¡ªgods forbid¡ªwe were to rise in arms against the crown, with the state of things as they are now, we''d be crushed. There''s no question about it. Unless, of course, we can secure help from outside our borders." The tent grew still as his words sank in, the lords exchanging glances, the weight of their predicament pressing down on them. Lysander of Agripisio cleared his throat, breaking the momentary silence. "Outside help?" he repeated, his tone tinged with skepticism. "Lord Gregor, I hope you haven''t forgotten who the crown is dealing with to the north. The Romelians themselves have joined hands with that mercenary. They''ve already cast their lot with him and his wife.What that cur did not share with us , he freely gave it to them'''' He leaned forward, his gaze locking on Gregor. "Do you know what that means? It means they have every interest to make sure that the current situation is standing.We are one letter away¡ªone plea for aid¡ªfrom sending an allied contingent to march straight into our lands. Romelian soldiers, armed to the teeth. If we rebel, we''d not just be fighting the crown, but potentially the empire as well." Niketas cleared his throat, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the lords, drawing their attention. His sharp eyes scanned the room, ensuring he had each of them fully focused before continuing. "Gentlemen," he began, his tone deliberate, "this meeting wasn''t called just to lament our situation or discuss what''s already gone wrong. We know that. No, we are here to consider what comes next¡ªand how, perhaps, we can level the field before it''s too late." The room fell silent, the weight of his words hanging in the air as the lords leaned forward, their interest piqued. Niketas allowed a moment of pause for the tension to build, then continued, "I may have found a way to shift the scales in our favor. A new player, one we can bring into our fold. Someone who can counterbalance the growing strength of the crown. However..." He let the word linger. "It will require sacrifice. From all of us." The lords exchanged glances, curiosity written on their faces. This was the first real spark of hope they had heard all day. Each of them had come in frustrated, overwhelmed by their options, but now¡ªjust for a moment¡ªthere was the glimmer of something different, something potentially game-changing. "What kind of sacrifice?" Gregor asked, narrowing his eyes as he leaned forward. He had never been one for half-measures. ''''The one that perhapse we may not like, but that is always a much better than the one we are going to get if we our situation does not change..'''' Chapter 374: Playing the game(2) Chapter 374: Playing the game(2) "Are you out of your mind?" Gregor roared, his voice booming through the tent as he slammed both hands onto the table, rattling the goblets and maps spread across it. His face was flushed with anger, his piercing eyes locked on Niketas as if trying to bore a hole through him. "Giving land to a priest? This is your grand solution? Weakening ourselves¡ªdisgracing our ancestors? For what?Engracing ourselves with the gods?''Did you commit that many sins?'' The other lords exchanged uneasy glances, their silence thick with tension. Some shifted uncomfortably in their seats, while others busied themselves by staring down at the table. None dared speak up just yet, their expressions caught between contemplation and doubt. Gregor''s temper flared further as he took in their silence, his disbelief mounting. He leaned forward, his fists clenched on the table''s edge. "Why aren''t any of you saying anything? You can''t possibly agree with this nonsense! For gods'' sake, say something! Have you all gone deaf¡ªor worse, blind to the insult this would bring to our houses?" Still, the room held its quiet, the weight of Gregor''s words colliding with the unspoken thoughts of the others. Biting their inner cheeks, they stared at the table, seemingly lost in their own considerations. Niketas, for his part, remained calm, letting Gregor''s anger run its course without interruption. The stillness only served to fan Gregor''s fury. "By all the gods, don''t tell me you''re seriously contemplating this!" He threw up his hands, looking from one lord to the next, seeking a single ally in his outrage. "Have we truly come to this? Surrendering what our ancestors fought and bled for to some wandering priest?" "How many men are we talking about here?" Lord Lysandros finally broke the silence, his tone measured as he ignored Gregor''s fiery glare. The room seemed to exhale at his words, the tension loosening just enough for Niketas to seize the moment. "Twelve hundred men," Niketas replied smoothly, his voice carrying an air of calculated confidence. "Along with ninety knights, all sworn to serve under him. Their vows of poverty mean they won''t cost him anything in upkeep. All we''d need to do is equip the rest of them, and we''d have another army ready at our side should things escalate to open conflict." He leaned forward slightly, gauging the room''s reaction, his prepared response flowing seamlessly as though he had anticipated this very question. Niketas leaned back slightly in his chair, a thin smile playing on his lips as he continued, "Every one of the men who follow him carries an unshakable fervor for his cause. That kind of devotion makes them fight harder, endure longer, and obey without question. If he commands it, they''ll march into fire itself.Which is honestly the most similar to the quality of the damn army of that mercenary." The lord of Corgendaue, who had been quietly listening until now, furrowed his brows and interjected, "And how exactly do you know that he will fight for us? Fervor or not, they have no use for us unless they march onto war " Niketas met Eurenis'' gaze, unflinching. "Because I''ve spoken with him," he admitted calmly "I met with the priest during his travels through my lands. It became clear to me that he''s not just some wandering priest. He''s a man on a mission¡ªone to form a land where the grace of the gods is not merely respected but followed as law by all, starting with the one who rules over the flock.In short he want to rule over lands." The room grew quiet, save for the faint rustling of the tent in the breeze. "And how does that help us?" Gregor demanded, his earlier anger simmering just below the surface. Niketas turned to him, his voice unwavering. "Because I broached the subject of his quest with him. I asked him outright what he would be willing to do to achieve such a vision. His answer was simple: some sacrifices may be necessary. Even if that means spilling blood." A heavy silence followed his words, the implication hanging thick in the air. For a moment, no one spoke, their minds racing as they weighed the gravity of the proposition. Lord Corvan leaned forward, his sharp eyes narrowing as he spoke with measured precision. "What ensures us, lord Niketas, that after receiving these lands, this priest and his zealots will actually fight with us when the time comes? A man driven by divine purpose is often blind to practical loyalties." Niketas allowed a small smile to cross his lips, as if he had anticipated the question all along. "Well Lord Corvan, I have thought much about it and the solution would be in the lands we propose to grant him . They would be carefully chosen¡ªsandwiched squarely between our own territories. If war were to break out, they would find themselves surrounded by our domains, with no path of retreat. Unless he wants his fields scorched and his people starved, he will have no choice but to align with us." "That''s a rather flimsy assurance, don''t you think?" Corvan interjected, his voice laced with skepticism. "They''ve marched through the Empire for months, with nothing at their back to support them. What''s to stop them from doing it again, leaving us with nothing but empty promises?" Niketas sighed, the weight of the situation reflected in his furrowed brow. "I understand your concerns, Corvan, truly. But this is the best option we have given our circumstances." His tone was firm yet measured, carrying an air of reluctant resignation. He leaned forward, his gaze locking onto Corvan''s. "We can debate the risks and flaws all day, but the reality remains: we don''t have a better choice. Elyos and his followers bring numbers, fervor, and a cause that binds them. They are the only significant counterweight we can muster to offset the Crown''s growing power. Unfortunately, this is the solution we must employ to level the playing field. There is no alternative, not one that doesn''t leave us more vulnerable than we already are." The room fell silent, the other lords exchanging uneasy glances. Niketas pressed on, his voice now carrying a sharper edge. "I won''t pretend this is without risk. But ask yourselves¡ªdo you see another path forward? Can any of you offer a plan that gives us even a fraction of the strength that they can bring?" Gregor slammed his fist on the table, his face flushed with anger. "Do any of you have even a shred of shame? Parting with the lands our ancestors fought, bled, and died for? Lands that were entrusted to us, their heirs? And for what? To give it to a wandering priest and his ragged band of zealots?" He scanned the room, his glare bouncing from one lord to the next. "What benefit, I ask, will we gain from carving away pieces of our inheritance? What do we get in return for betraying the legacy we''ve been sworn to uphold?" Niketas leaned back in his chair, his hands steepled before him. His voice was calm but carried an unmistakable edge of urgency. "We''re not parting with our lands for nothing, Gregor. We''re preparing for a war¡ªa possible war¡ªagainst the Crown. Should we win, we''ll have the leverage to force the Crown to relinquish their monopolies over soap and cider. Think of what that means: wealth pouring into our coffers instead of theirs. The benefits will far outweigh the cost of a small sacrifice now." Gregor''s lips curled into a sneer. "That''s assuming we even go to war. This is all just speculation, Niketas. You''re asking us to gamble with our birthrights on a vague possibility." Niketas straightened, his gaze hardening as he leaned forward. "Perhaps it''s not as vague as you think, Gregor. Look around. The Crown grows stronger with every passing day. Their armies swell, their coffers overflow, and their influence stretches further into our domains. If we wait much longer, there may not be an ''if.'' The princess and her mercenary husband will take what they want, and we''ll be too weak to stop them. Who know if the situation is good; perhaps they will not be the one to initiate it.Thingkabout it if we had the means to sell cider and soap on our own, how much silver we will be able to get.With it , that low cur managed to raise a force of a thousand men all year''s around, imagine what we could use it for instead.'''' Niketas spread his hands, his tone steady yet firm, as though trying to guide a restless horse back into the barn. "Look, the land we''d part with is little, especially when divided between the four of us. Truly, how much land does a mere few thousand souls need to survive? A modest parcel, at best. We won''t even notice the difference in our vast holdings." He leaned forward slightly, his eyes scanning the gathered lords, searching for a flicker of agreement. "Think about it¡ªsuch a small cost for such a substantial gain. For a sliver of our land, we gain a thousand fighters ready to stand beside us. Zealots, no less, who will fight harder and longer than any soldier we could hire." Niketas allowed the weight of his argument to sink in, his voice gaining a sharper edge. "This isn''t charity, my lords. It''s strategy. For a pittance, we gain a force that could tip the balance in our favor when the time comes. And make no mistake¡ªthe time will come." His gaze shifted to Gregor, who still wore a scowl. "You worry about losing what your ancestors passed down, but what legacy will remain if we let the Crown grow unchecked? A sliver of land is a small price to pay for the security of everything else we hold dear." The tent fell silent, save for the faint rustling of the wind outside, as the other lords mulled over Niketas'' words. Even Gregor, for all his grumbling, seemed to hesitate, his scowl softening into a look of reluctant consideration, for after all, a thousand more men could change any battle from defeat to victory. Chapter 375: Welcomed a winner(1) Chapter 375: Welcomed a winner(1) The sun was beginning its descent, casting a golden hue over the city of Red Rose as Mavius returned as a victorious Imperator. The air buzzed with the energy of celebration, the streets packed with cheering citizens waving theirs arms around. Flower petals rained from the balconies, and children darted through the crowd, laughing as they mimicked the soldiers marching proudly behind their leader. The victorious Imperator''s sharp eyes scanned the jubilant faces lining the streets, his expression one of stoic satisfaction, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. The soldiers following him held their heads high, their polished shields and spears catching the light as they passed under the great archway leading into the heart of the city. The chants of the people echoed in the narrow streets for the men who had successfully repelled the barbarian raid threatening their eastern borders. Once the parade concluded and the army veered off to establish their camp just outside the city walls, Mavius dismounted his warhorse and began ascending the marble steps of the palace. Though he knew this palace was merely a replacement for the grand residence of his youth, he couldn''t help but compare the two in his mind. This one was smaller in size, less of towering in height, and undeniably less opulent¡ªlacking of close the familiarity of his home. Mavius paused for a moment, his gaze lingering on the intricate carvings adorning the palace facade, then pressed onward, his boots clicking against the stone with resolute purpose. His thoughts drifted as he crossed the threshold. The palace he had grown up in lay hundreds of kilometers away, separated by swathes of contested land and scores of castles. It seemed almost a lifetime ago when Mavius had launched his ambitious campaign, aiming to crush resistance in the Fingers. His strategy had been clear: take the castles, defeat the army, and force the southern provincial lords to kneel. Victory there would have secured not only their allegiance but also the swift conclusion of the civil war. But instead of the decisive triumph he had envisioned, he had tasted bitter defeat. His youngest brother''s grandfather took the field and defeated him, leaving him no choice but to retreat and raise his banners once again for the future. The cost of his initial failure had been high¡ªtime, resources, and blood, or so he thought, however as winter had passed, he realized that his situation was actually much more favorable than he thought. Any invasion from the south had to pass first against the fingers, to his west was his older brother Maesinius , who after conquering the province of Messania apparently entered in hybarnation, not doing anything worth noticing. Mavius had honestly though about mounting an expedition to subjagate the land of his elder, however he had no interest about the snow of the north, nor of their people, poor, smelly, and rude to the core. He can keep them, Mavius thought as he continued his walk up the stairs toward the palace, as a matter of fact he did not mind leaving them to him , as long as he did not bother him in his invasion to take the throne, it was clear that Maesinius had no interest in it and Mavius was more than happy to leave things as they were. Perhapse I could even send an envoy to make a treaty of friendship...I would prefer marching south with the head clear of any worries about having my home invaded while I am south. Strange ...I did not remember the stairs to be so steep, he thought, He quickly glanced around, hoping no one had noticed his momentary struggle for breath. Embarrassed by his own lack of stamina, he straightened his posture and adjusted his cloak with a to simulate an air of authority. Waiting for him at the top was his wife, Silena, with one of her practiced smile, lacking of any mirth that Mavius has so searched for everywhere when he was younger. In her arms was their firstborn child, Vrivius. Mavius''s sharp gaze darted from Silena''s elegant form to the child she held, landing squarely on his son. Vrivius. His pride. His legacy. His heir Or at least, that''s what he told himself as he studied the boy. The baby''s face was a curious mix of chubby cheeks and overly serious expressions, as though he had spent all six months of his life silently judging the world¡ªand found it inadequate for his worth. A wild tuft of dark hair jutted out at impossible angles, giving him the look of someone who had just woken up from a nap By the gods, my father come again... the same perpetually unsatisfied eyes, Mavius mused as he reached out, scooping the boy into his arms. Vrivius stared at him for a moment, as if deliberating on his father''s worthiness. Then, much to Mavius''s satisfaction, the child''s stern little face gave way to a wide, toothless grin that lit up his features. "Ah, there you are," Mavius murmured, a smile tugging at his own lips as the baby''s clumsy hands found his face, patting it with all the precision of a drunk trying to play the harp. Behind the tender scene of father and son stood another figure, an older man . Lord Landoff, Mavius''s father-in-law and the first minister of the one third of the empire , observed the reunion with a faint smile. His bearing was that of a seasoned statesman¡ªeyes sharp, back straight, and an air of quiet authority that demanded respect. During Mavius''s absence to fend off the barbarian invasion, Landoff had been left as regent, tasked with overseeing the administration of the kingdom. We''ve come a long way, haven''t we, old friend? Mavius thought, glancing at the man who had shaped so much of his life. Their bond went back nearly a decade, to the time when Mavius was just a boy of twelve, sent by his father to Landoff as a ward. Ostensibly, it was an honor¡ªa way to pay respect to the powerful lord by entrusting him with the care and education of a prince, probably a second-rate reward for his father refusal to make Landoff High Marshal of the entire province of Mevinia, whom he preferred not to give out . Only, it didn''t quite go as Father planned, Mavius mused, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The arrangement had backfired spectacularly. By the time his father passed, Landoff''s influence had already secured Mavius a strong foothold in the east. The network of lords who had sworn fealty to Landoff and his allies became a ready-made base of power for Mavius. When the time came, they rallied to his banner without hesitation, forcing the smaller, weaker houses to fall in line or face absorption under the pretext of treachery. It was almost too easy, Mavius thought . The eastern provinces arguable the second richest place in the empire , had effectively become his personal fiefdom before he''d even ascended to the throne. And it was thanks in no small part to the man standing behind him now¡ªa man who had been his mentor, father-in-law, and most steadfast supporter. Lord Landoff stepped forward, his face composed yet warm with pride as he inclined his head slightly. "Congratulations on your victory, Majesty," he said, his voice steady but carrying a subtle undertone of genuine admiration. "The men fought well, but their commander led them better still." Mavius gave a small, satisfied nod. "Thank you, my kord . Though I suspect they''ll remember the feasts and cheers of the city more fondly than the battle itself." His tone was light, but his eyes were sharp as they met Landoff''s. "What of matters here? Did anything demand attention in my absence?" Landoff shook his head reassuringly, a faint smile playing at his lips. "Nothing of consequence, Majesty. All has remained calm. Your instructions have been followed to the letter. Preparations for the army''s next campaign are well underway." He paused, his hands clasped behind his back as he continued. "The grain from the recent harvest has been safely stored in the royal warehouses, as you commanded. It will be sufficient to sustain your forces, even if the campaign extends longer than anticipated. The suppliers and quartermasters have ensured that every detail is accounted for." Mavius''s eyes flickered with approval, though his expression remained guarded. "Good. I had no doubts, but it''s still a relief to h-'''' -Cough-Cough- Mavius coughed, a brief but sharp sound that echoed faintly in the hall. He brought a fist to his mouth as the fit subsided, his expression remaining composed despite the interruption. "Majesty, are you unwell?Should I call for the physiscist?" Lord Landoff asked immediately, his brow furrowing as he stepped closer. Mavius waved a hand dismissively, offering a faint smile. "I''m fine, my lord. Just a bit of a cough, nothing to concern yourself with." Landoff''s expression remained unconvinced, but he inclined his head respectfully. "Even so, Majesty, perhaps it would be wise to consult the royal physicists. The campaign is on all of us, and it wouldn''t hurt to ensure you''ve recovered fully." Mavius sighed lightly, his shoulders sagging just a touch as he nodded. "Yes, yes. I''ll see to it." He raised a hand again, as if to cut off further concern. "But not tonight. For now, I''m tired, Landoff. It''s been a long day, and I''ll rest before indulging any more of your fatherly worrying." Landoff allowed himself a small smile, bowing his head slightly. "Of course, Majesty. Rest is well-earned after your efforts." Chapter 376: Welcoming the shadows Chapter 376: Welcoming the shadows Any hope Alpheo harbored for reaching a satisfying agreement with the Veritia envoy evaporated like morning dew under the harsh glare of reality. The envoy''s proposal was not only disappointing but borderline insulting, offering terms that failed to reflect the risks and resources Yarzat would be expected to commit. The crux of the offer¡ªjust 8% of the annual toll revenues collected from the ships passing through Harmway, plus no taxes from any ships bearing the royal seal of Yarzat ¡ªwas a laughable offer. It was an amount so negligible that it couldn''t even begin to justify the hazards of sending Yarzat''s fleet into battle. Contrary to what many might assume, the crown of Yarzat didn''t command vast caravans crisscrossing the lands. Yes, their goods were coveted far and wide, found in markets from the glittering capital of the Romelians to every southern princedom¡ªbut they weren''t the ones lugging those wares to distant lands. They weren''t merchants; they were the source. Their wealth came not from selling to foreign buyers directly but from selling to the merchants who flocked to Yarzat''s gates, eager to play middleman for a slice of the profit. This dynamic meant that the promise of tax exemptions in far-off lands was about as useful as offering a fish a golden saddle. Sure, it sounded nice, but it didn''t change a thing. The royal coffers didn''t fill by dodging duties abroad; they overflowed because Yarzat''s merchants happily paid a premium for the chance to resell its prized goods. Tax-free trade routes? A charming gesture for traders, perhaps, but for the crown? It was like handing a man a bucket to fix a sinking ship¡ªit didn''t even scratch the surface of what they needed. They were the one filling the shop, not those at the desk serving the customers. As for the second part of the offer, it is a bit more convoluted: before the war, Harmway raked in a tidy 12,000 silverii a month from sea tolls for the Imperial Royal House, more or less. Based on the envoy''s generous proposal, Yarzat would be entitled to a modest slice¡ª1,000 silverii per month. Now, on the surface, that might not sound like pocket change, and it would have been. But when you stacked it against the staggering 66,000 silverii Alpheo had already poured into building his fleet, it wasn''t just a bad deal; it was a great risk. Risking a fleet¡ªone that had cost him sweat, blood, and a fortune¡ªon the high seas for a cut so small it barely jingled was unthinkable. The mere thought of it would be enough to rob any sane man of sleep. As a matter of fact his worries were not unfounded, his fleet while costly , was still green and largely untested in true warfare. To pit it against the pirates, an enemy who had ruled those seas for generations, was to gamble with lives and resources against seasoned adversaries who knew every hidden cove, shifting current, and treacherous reef in the waters of Harmway. Instead, the envoy seemed to offer the barest token of acknowledgment, as if Yarzat''s contribution could be bought on the cheap. This was not a matter of pride alone¡ªit was practicality. To risk everything for such an insultingly small share of the spoils was a work that only a fool would agree on. Still, a refusal didn''t mean Alpheo wouldn''t walk away with something to show for it. After all, even a bad offer can open a door. If the Veritians lost their grand gamble, Alpheo could swoop in and potentially ransom some of the captured crews and their captains¡ªmen Lord Lisidor certainly wouldn''t have much use for after a crushing defeat, and things that he was instead desparately in need of. And if, by some miracle, they actually won? Well, then Alpheo''s pirate problem would be solved without him lifting a finger, which meant to no longer worry about raiding along the coast. In the end, it was a classic win-win for Alpheo. Whether the invasion ended in disaster or triumph, the wheels of fortune would still turn in his favor. Now, all he had to do was wait and let the Veritians roll the dice, while he instead worried about his things, such as dealing with his newborn spy-network, which only had 3 members, and 2 temporary one that he hoped would become full-fledged soon. Still unless the terms for the alliance changed, it was a sound refusal. ------------- Marcus and Lucius finally found themselves walking once again on the winding roads of Yarzat, the bustling heart of Alpheo''s growing power. . Despite the weight of the journey, a flicker of joy lit his face at the thought of reuniting with his wife. The thought of her warm smile and soothing voice had been his sole comfort through the grueling weeks of travel. Unfortunately, duty comes first in this case, as it wouldn''t be proper, to first return to his wife and then to greet the prince.So right now he was on his way to meet him. As he entered the grand hall, Lucius couldn''t help but compare his current stride to the previous steps he had taken on his first visit here. It had been a long and hard journey, one where he did not understand if he was going to die or to be rescued multiple times. Still in his heart Lucius had nothing but gratitude, because at the end the prince did not abandon them, as Marcus had said multiple times in one of his many attack of sadness, as he liked to call them. Lucius and Marcus were escorted by two guards as they made their way to the chamber. The guards were thorough, methodically relieving the two men of every weapon they carried¡ªdaggers, short swords, even the small knives hidden within their boots¡ªbefore finally allowing them through the heavy wooden door. On the other side of the threshold sat Alpheo. The young ruler''s dark hair framed a fair face that still bore traces of youth¡ªbarely seventeen, yet commanding a princedom. He sat casually on a simple but elegant chair, its dark wood polished to a shine. Before him was a small table with three cups and a few urns filled with unknown liquids, their subtle aromas mixing in the air. Lucius and Marcus exchanged a quick glance before stepping forward and bowing respectfully. "Your grace" they greeted in unison, their voices measured. Alpheo nodded in acknowledgment, a faint smile curling his lips. "Take a seat," he said, gesturing toward the two empty chairs across from him. Lucius and Marcus exchanged a glance before complying, moving toward the chairs with deliberate steps and lowering themselves onto the cushioned seats. With a practiced air, Alpheo reached for the urn of cider. He filled the two cups placed before his guests.Usually a prince would never serve as cup bearer, but in private he found it much more pratical to be the one doing that , especially with people that knew where they all came from. After filling his own , he grabbed it and as he lifted his cup with a confident flourish, he proposed a toast. "To the success of the mission," he declared, his voice steady and inviting. Without hesitation, he brought the cup to his lips and drank deeply. Lucius and Marcus followed suit, raising their cups and drinking. As the cider slid down their throats, both men froze a bit tasting that beatiful flavor that they first drunk with the Crown''s hound. Still, the air between them remained heavy. Marcus fidgeted slightly, casting an uneasy glance at Lucius, who squared his shoulders and spoke. "Your Grace," Lucius began, his tone steady but tinged with regret, "I must apologize. Being captured... it was a failure on my part. On our part. We should have done better." Alpheo set his cup down, leaning back with a thoughtful expression. A brief silence followed, the kind that stretched just long enough to unnerve. Then, with a calm, measured tone, he spoke. "This was your first mission," he said, his voice free of blame. "You were thrown into an impossible situation with no proper training or preparation. To expect flawless execution would have been... unrealistic." Alpheo continued, leaning forward slightly. "But in the end, the mission succeeded. And your capture, while unfortunate, served a purpose. It provided the perfect cover for our ambush¡ªa way to eliminate any loose ends. Thanks to that, there''s nothing for the Herculian prince to trace back to us. No breadcrumbs, no suspicions." He offered them a reassuring smile, his tone softenin. "Sometimes, gentlemen, even failure can pave the way to victory." Lucius''s posture relaxed marginally, though the tension in the room didn''t entirely dissipate. Alpheo leaned back in his chair, his gaze steady. "As promised, you will be rewarded for your service. One hundred silverii each." Marcus and Lucius stiffened, their disbelief plain as their eyes widened. "Your Grace," Lucius stammered, his voice thick with gratitude. "This is... beyond anything we could have imagined. We are deeply thankful." "Thank you, Your Grace," Marcus echoed, bowing his head with earnest sincerity. Alpheo gave a brief nod, his expression unreadable, as though brushing off their gratitude. Then his demeanor shifted, becoming sharper "There is something else I''d like to discuss," he said, his voice carrying a weight that immediately recaptured their attention. He leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the table. "The fact that I relied on you for this mission is proof of how limited my network truly is. The truth is, it needs to be reformed, rebuilt into something stronger, something reliable." His eyes flicked between the two men, gauging their reactions. "I want you both to consider becoming part of that. To be among the first members of what I hope will grow into an unmatched web of intelligence ." Lucius and Marcus exchanged a glance, their expressions shifting, as they knew that it was coming . Alpheo continued, his voice steady and persuasive. "The rewards will be far greater than anything you have received so far. Loyalty and service will not go unnoticed¡ªor unrewarded. With time, dedication, and success, it is not impossible that you might even find yourselves elevated to noble status." A brief silence settled over the room after Alpheo''s offer, the gravity of his words hanging in the air like a storm cloud. The only sound was the faint creak of chairs as Marcus shifted uneasily, his gaze flicking toward Lucius. It was a look that spoke volumes without uttering a word. Whatever you choose, I''ll stand by you. Lucius exhaled deeply, his fingers gripping the edge of the table as if steadying himself. The hesitation was brief, but the weight of his decision pressed visibly on his shoulders. Finally, he shook his head. "Your Grace," Lucius began, his voice calm but resolute, "I... I must decline." The words landed like stones in the quiet room. Alpheo''s brow furrowed slightly, though he maintained his composure, his expression a careful balance of disbelief and curiosity. "Decline?" he repeated, his tone measured but laced with incredulity. "Lucius, think carefully about what you''re turning down.You will be able to build a legacy that will continue after you..." Lucius met his gaze, unflinching, though the strain was evident in the set of his jaw. "I understand the magnitude of what you''re offering, Your Grace. But this... this is not a path I can walk, I am not cut for it , to risk my life in such a way." For the first time, a shadow of frustration crossed Alpheo''s face, his youthful features hardening ever so slightly. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, persuasive murmur. "Lucius, you''re a thoughtful man. Surely you realize what''s at stake here. Take time¡ªconsider this. Not just for yourself, but for your family. For your children. What I''m offering could change everything for them, for generations to come." Lucius''s resolve didn''t waver. He shook his head again, slower this time, his tone steady but edged with finality. "I''m grateful for your trust, Your Grace, and for the reward you''ve already given. But my answer remains the same. I cannot accept." Alpheo sat back, exhaling a sigh that was part resignation, part disappointment. His shoulders relaxed, though his sharp eyes lingered on Lucius with a trace of calculation. "Very well," he said, his tone lighter now, almost amiable. "You must be tired. We''ll meet again, and by then, I trust you''ll have had time to truly think it over." Lucius hesitated, feeling the weight of the unspoken command. Refusing once was bold; twice, daring; but three times? That was folly. He bowed his head low, his voice subdued. "As you wish, Your Grace." Alpheo''s lips twitched into a faint smile, though his eyes betrayed his lingering disappointment. "Good. Rest now, Lucius. We''ll speak again soon." Lucius rose, his movements careful, his head still dipped in deference. Marcus followed suit, glancing at his friend with a mixture of concern and curiosity. Together, they turned and exited the chamber, leaving Alpheo alone, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his cup as a nasty expression appeared on his face. As he apparently found out he didn''t like being told ''No''. Chapter 377: Sour end Chapter 377: Sour end The Herculeian army advanced across the open plains . The sun glinted off their polished armor, casting dazzling reflections as ranks of soldiers moved in unison. Banners bearing the royal crest fluttered in the breeze,more proudly than ever before . The soldiers marched with a relaxed ease, the satisfaction of loot gleaming in their eyes. It wasn''t the lavish rewards that Yarzat''s soldier had during the campaing of few months ago , but for the peasants-turned-soldiers, it was more than enough to make the journey worthwhile. Their pockets were fuller than when they left, and that made the harsh roads and long marches seem a little less grueling. But their duty was far from over. Ahead lay the looming twin fortresses, their ancient stone walls standing as silent sentinels. The rebels had been driven from the fields, but the real prize still stood tall between them and the capital. With those fortresses in any enemy hands, the royal capital was as exposed as a child after a bath, left wide open to whatever came next. Half-surrounded by Yarzat-held lands, the capital was ripe for a siege¡ªa siege that would be as swift and inevitable as a rainbow after a storm. Arnold rode at the head of the column, his horse''s steady pace reflecting his outward calm. But within, his mind churned with uneasy thoughts. They dared to rise so close to our seat of power, he reflected, his jaw tightening at the audacity of the rebels, as much as it lacked any potential harm directly to the capital, it was still a heavy blow against the image of his father. His thoughts darkened further as he considered the stakes. If I had lost that battle... He dared not complete the thought, but the image was unavoidable¡ªa princedom without any power to raise anymore soldiers, the capital isolated, ready for the taking of the Small Fox , and the rebels emboldened. The consequences of failure would have been catastrophic. But he had not failed. He allowed himself a small measure of relief as he scanned the horizon, the first of the twin fortress coming to his eyes. Now, I can leisurely put an end to this revolt, he thought, his grip tightening on the reins as his horse carried him forward. These fortresses will fall, and with them, the last embers of rebellion.Still I wonder why they besieged it, it isn''t after all a priority for a band of starving peasants, perhaps I was right in my earlier assessment and that man was really behind it all. Arnold squinted into the horizon, his sharp eyes catching the first glimpse of the fortress of Stitz. Its stone walls rose defiantly against the flat expanse of the plains. As the distance closed, he could make out the details of its towers, their silhouettes etched against the light of the sky. Satisfied with the progress of the march, Arnold raised his hand, signaling for the army to halt. "We make camp here," he declared firmly, his voice carrying over the din of marching soldiers. A chorus of orders followed, the men falling into their well-rehearsed routine of setting up tents, lighting fires, and preparing for the next day''s siege. Arnold was in the midst of instructing his officers¡ªoutlining positions for the vanguard and discussing supply lines¡ªwhen the sound of hooves galloping across the plains pulled his attention. A single scout, dust-covered and clearly in a rush, was riding hard toward the command group. The scout dismounted in a fluid motion, his boots hitting the ground with a thud. Dropping to one knee before Arnold, he bowed his head in deference. "Your Grace," the scout began, his voice tight with urgency, "I bring news." Arnold''s gaze narrowed, his tone calm but edged with authority. "Speak. What have you to report?" The scout lifted his head slightly, his expression grim. "The fortress, Your Grace¡ªit flies the banner of House Veloni-Isha." For a moment, the sky seemed to fell on Arnold''s head. ------------------- I knew it, Arnold seethed, his lips curling in disdain as he stood before the fortress. "That snake. This has his stench all over it. Why else would a mob of filthy peasants think they could besiege a fortress?" Victory should have been sweet, a triumph to savor. But now, standing here, staring at the banner fluttering mockingly above the ramparts, the taste had turned bitter. The sigil was unmistakable: a falcon surrounded by six closed fists, the emblem of House Veloni-Isha. A deep, weary sigh escaped his lips as he studied the symbol. This fortress was ours two weeks ago, he muttered under his breath, his tone dark. Now it''s a nest of vipers. Arnold''s eyes scanned the fortress walls, his trained gaze trying to piece together the defenses. From this distance, the number of soldiers manning the stronghold was hard to determine, but there was enough movement to suggest a well-organized garrison. I can''t tell how many men they''ve got up there, he thought, frustration gnawing at him. But can 600 footmen be enough to take it? The sharp reality of his situation clawed at the edges of his mind. Starving them out wasn''t even worth considering. We''d break before they did. Damn it all.And I still have another castle after this Arnold clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as he awaited the enemy commander. The creaking of the castle gates echoed through the air, cutting through the stillness of the plain. Slowly, a small party emerged¡ªa knight flanked by five men, all mounted and clad in chainmail and breasplates that glinted dully under the overcast sky. They advanced at a steady pace, their formation tight and deliberate, a clear signal that this was a parlay, not an assault. Arnold sat atop his horse, his expression composed but his thoughts keenly alert. His own retinue of riders, equally armed and ready, stood to either side of him. They didn''t move as the enemy delegation closed the distance, the tension between the two groups as taut as a drawn bowstring. When the two parties were within speaking range, one of Arnold''s men urged his horse forward. Clearing his throat, the herald''s voice rang out confidently: "You stand before Lord Arnold, eldest son of His Grace, the Prince of Herculia.'''' The enemy knight pulled on his reins, halting his steed a respectful distance away. Dipping his head in a small but deliberate bow, he answered, his voice calm yet edged with defiance. "I am Sir Aldemar of Veloni-Isha, sworn knight and commander of this garrison.'''' Arnold straightened in his saddle, fixing the knight with an imperious stare. "You''ve come a long way from Yarzat, Sir Aldemar. Yet here you are, firmly planted on Herculia''s soil. You are quite far from your homeland, aren''t you?'''' The knight''s expression remained calm, though a faint smirk played at the corners of his mouth. "I am exactly where I ought to be, Lord Arnold. This land now falls under the dominion of Her Grace, Jasmine Veloni-Isha." Arnold''s eyes narrowed, his tone laced with disdain. "Does it now? And pray tell, how does one come to such a claim over a fortress so deep within Herculia''s borders?" Aldemar''s smirk faded, replaced by an air of unshakable resolve. "By right of conquest, my lord." Arnold leaned forward in his saddle, his hands gripping the reins tightly. "We received news that this castle was conquered by rebels?Did my scouts report wrong, sir? The knight shook his head slowly, his voice calm but deliberate. "No, my lord, this castle was conquered by them . It seems your previous garrison wasn''t as diligent as they ought to have been, they have lost the castles, which we now hold as we took it from the thieves and bandits that held it. '''' Arnold straightened in his saddle, his voice ringing with authority as he delivered his ultimatum. "Sir Aldemar, hear me well. This fortress lies within Herculia''s borders, and it is the property of the Herculean crown. You and your garrison will vacate it immediately, or you will face the full force of our army. This is not a negotiation." Aldemar met Arnold''s stern gaze, his expression unyielding as he shook his head. "With all respect, my lord, you are mistaken. This is no longer Herculia''s land. It is now Yarzat''s, claimed and secured in the name of Her Grace Jasmine Veloni-Isha. It is my duty to defend it, and I will do so, even at the cost of my life." The knight leaned forward slightly, a hint of grim satisfaction in his tone. "Though I suspect such a cost will not be necessary. From the numbers you''ve brought, it seems clear that my garrison has the advantage. We have ample men, fortified walls, and stores of food to endure whatever challenge you might present." Arnold''s jaw tightened, but Aldemar pressed on, his voice steady and unwavering. "We are at war, Lord Arnold. And until Her Grace commands otherwise, we remain loyal subjects in service to the crown. It is not my place to question her orders, nor to relinquish land that has been lawfully taken in her name.If you wish for it, then you should first enter in negotiation with her grace, as I have no power to relinquish it." The knight''s gaze sharpened, his tone growing more defiant. "So, by all means, throw your men at these walls. Let them batter themselves against stone and steel. We will be here to greet them¡ªand to ensure that none pass through. I can assure you that by the end of it the stones of the walls will be painted red...." With that, Aldemar inclined his head in a final, deliberate bow. "Good day, my lord." Before Arnold could muster a reply, Aldemar turned his horse with military precision, his retinue following suit. Without waiting for further words, the Yarzat knight spurred his mount toward the open gate of the fortress. The heavy wooden doors creaked shut behind him with an echoing finality, leaving Arnold to stare at the sealed fortifications, his fury simmering beneath a calm facade. In the end, it was to come down to a siege. Chapter 378: The taste of mud Chapter 378: The taste of mud Arnold sat atop his horse, his gloved hands gripping the reins tightly as he surveyed the somber scene before him. The remnants of his assault force trickled back from the walls of Stitz.The golden light of the setting sun did little to soften the grim expressions etched into their faces. The soldiers limped and staggered, their armor dented and smeared with mud and blood. Some leaned heavily on comrades, while others clutched at hastily bandaged wounds, the fabric already dark with fresh stains. Their steps were slow and labored, tired and their morale dampened by another failed assault. The faint murmur of bitter curses and pained groans filled the air,far different from the cheers they let out barely a week ago. Arnold''s men, once brimming with confidence now wore hollow expressions, some of them even resented their commander, after all they had just got some proper loot and now they were forced to fight again, risking for so many of them to have made surviving until then useless. Arnold''s eyes narrowed as they drifted to the fortress looming in the distance, its walls seemingly untouched by the day''s assault. From his vantage point, the Yarzat banners fluttered mockingly atop the ramparts, the falcon with six closed fists seemingly flipping him off. His jaw tightened as he watched his men. They had marched here with the joy of conquest in their hearts, expecting another easy victory to add to their tally. Now, they were simply weary soldiers, trudging back to camp. Arnold''s steely gaze turned colder , he knew just how bad his situation was, this was simply the first fortress and he failed to even make a dent on it . In just a few brutal days, Arnold had already lost more than 120 of his soldiers to the relentless defense of the fortress. Another 150 lay wounded, their agonized cries filling the camp. How many of the enemy had he slain? He couldn''t say. From the way the Yarzat defenders still manned the walls with unyielding vigor, it seemed the toll they suffered was but a shadow of his own losses. If any gaps had formed in their ranks, they had been swiftly filled by the resolute garrison, who as the knight had said fought like true soldiers. How much longer will this go on? How many more of us will fall? He wondered as he turned his horse around to retreat to his tent He knew the truth, even if he didn''t dare admit it aloud. He was marching torward defeat . Every assault on the fortress bled his forces further, leaving them weaker, less capable of mounting the overwhelming strike needed to break the walls. The dream of a swift victory had become a nightmare of slow attrition. His forces, exhausted and diminished, could not afford another week of such slaughter. The path before Arnold was narrowing to two grim possibilities: order a retreat and abandon the twin fortresses to the enemy, or press on, only to face the same outcome after driving his men to mutiny. He wasn''t blind to the reality. The signs of unrest were plain¡ªhis soldiers, their bodies battered and spirits worn thin, cast longing glances toward the horizon, yearning for home. Many had lost their villages in the flames of war, whether at the hands of the Yarzat invaders or the rebels, and now clung to the meager spoils they had earned. To them, those coins were not just wealth but a chance to rebuild their lives. But retreat wasn''t as simple as giving the order. Technically, it was; he had the authority to end the campaign. Yet the consequences would ripple far beyond the battlefield. The prince deserts the front lines¡ªwhat a coward! The words of those who would jeer at his decision already echoed in his mind, loud and scornful, and he was sure his brother would fan the flame. No, if he was to retreat, he needed something more than raw pragmatism. He needed a pretense, a justification to preserve both his men''s morale and his reputation. For now, he placed his hopes on a waiting game. A week earlier, he had dispatched a letter to his father, detailing the hopeless situation at the fortress. He had spared no detail in his plea, explaining how, with his current forces, Stitz was an unconquerable bastion. He had requested permission to withdraw, hoping the weight of his father''s authority would shield him from the inevitable criticism. Now, all he could do was wait for a response, his patience stretching thin with every passing day. Of course, there was always the possibility that his father might deny his request. Arnold couldn''t ignore that . If that happened, he already had another plan¡ªa desperate one, but a plan nonetheless. He would feign sickness, something debilitating enough to require his return home. In the same letter, he would urge his father to send someone else to relieve him of command. When the army eventually crumbled in defeat, as Arnold was certain it would if forced to continue, he could wash his hands of the entire debacle. No blame would stick to him, and the failure would rest solely on the shoulders of whoever his father sent to replace him. In that scenario, Arnold could retreat to Herculia as the prince who had crushed the rebellion and stabilized the heartland. Once his reputation was secure, he could finally focus on the other thorn in his side: his brother. Arnold''s lips thinned at the thought. His younger brother''s whispers and schemes had been growing louder in the court, undermining him at every turn, especially after Cretio''s defeat against Alpheo. But if Arnold returned a hero, the court''s favor would tilt back in his direction, and his brother''s machinations would wither under the weight of his influence. Suddendly the tent''s flaps billowed open with a sharp snap, entering in as Lord Cretio stepped inside, his boots crunching faintly on the dirt floor. In his hand, a piece of parchment was clutched tightly, the edges crumpled slightly as though the journey to deliver it had been hurried. The sight of the parchment in Cretio''s hand made the young man''s heart quicken. "Your Grace," Lord Cretio began, "an envoy has arrived bearing a letter from your father." Arnold''s brows shot up, and he straightened in his chair. "Finally," he muttered, his voice low and edged with restrained frustration. He rose quickly, stepping forward to take the parchment from Cretio''s outstretched hand. The seal, bearing the unmistakable emblem of the House of Herculia, glistened faintly in the dim light of the tent. Arnold broke it with a swift motion, the wax crumbling under his thumb. Arnold''s eyes moved quickly over the lines of his father''s letter, his expression a careful mask as he absorbed the contents. When he reached the end, he lowered the parchment slowly onto the table, letting it rest atop the clutter of maps and reports. He exhaled deeply, the tension in his shoulders easing as a smile broke through his otherwise weary demeanor. "We can finally leave," he said, his voice carrying a rare note of relief. Cretio, standing silently nearby, had been watching Arnold closely. At those words, his own lips curled into a grin, the shared weight of their predicament lifting from his chest. He had known better than most the dire state of their campaign, and the thought of a retreat was as much a blessing to him as it was to Arnold. "About time," Cretio remarked, his tone tinged with dry humor. "I was beginning to think your father might''ve forgotten he sent us here in the first place." Arnold chuckled lightly, shaking his head as he sat back in his chair. " Still, better late than never, wouldn''t you say?" "Much better," Cretio agreed, stepping closer to glance at the discarded parchment on the table. "Though I doubt the men will care much for the reasons. They''ll just be glad to finally get away from these walls." Arnold straightened in his chair, the faint smile on his face replaced by a more resolute expression. "Give the order for the men to prepare to leave tomorrow." Cretio nodded, his grin fading into a look of dutiful focus. "Understood, Your Grace. I''ll make sure they''re ready. Do you want the camp dismantled at first light or later in the morning?" "First light," Arnold replied decisively. "I want us moving as soon as we can. I have got enough of this war" "As you say," Cretio said, bowing slightly. As Cretio turned to leave, Arnold called after him. "My lord" The lord stopped and turned back, his brow slightly raised. Arnold''s eyes met his, steady and sincere. "You''ve done well through all of this." Cretio gave a small, appreciative smile and inclined his head. "Thank you, Your Grace, though you were the one that did mmost. Chapter 379: Choosing the right man Chapter 379: Choosing the right man So this is the one Shahab recommended for the mission, Alpheo thought, his sharp gaze resting on the young man standing before him. He studied him quietly, taking in every detail. The envoy was younger than Alpheo had anticipated¡ªbarely a man by his estimation. Twenty-five, perhaps even younger. Certainly not the seasoned operative he might have envisioned for such a critical task, though the prince was even younger than him.. Still, Shahab had vouched for the man , and Shahab''s word carried weight. That alone was enough to make Alpheo take this candidate seriously, though skepticism still flickered in his mind. It wasn''t as though Alpheo had an abundance of options. His network was small, fragile even, after all there were so many skilled people in a small state like his. The task itself was delicate: to establish contact with a tribe that could be described as barbarians , people that he believed would be fiercely independent and wary of outsiders. Diplomacy would require tact, courage, and a quick wit. Alpheo leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming lightly on the table as he continued to observe the envoy. His appearance betrayed little¡ªneither arrogance nor fear, just a quiet resolve. That alone was promising. After all, the last thing Alpheo wanted was to send an envoy burdened by arrogance to a tribe where first impressions were everything. Arrogance would only breed disdain, exposing a man''s thinly veiled contempt for the very people he was meant to negotiate with¡ªa surefire way to close doors that should remain open. On the other hand, fear would be just as disastrous. A timid envoy would falter under the intense scrutiny of a people who valued martial prowess above all else. To them, strength was life''s ultimate currency, and a fearful man would be seen as nothing more than a weakling unworthy of their respect. No, this mission required balance¡ªa man with enough confidence to hold his ground but not so much that it veered into condescension. The envoy''s name was Aron, the third son of a knight who had served the court until his untimely death. The informations he was given by Shahab detailed a string of modest experiences:He had participated in a few diplomatic missions to Oizen before the last war. A respectable feat, though hardly impressive, considering that it came to war, the same one he had partecipated as a mercenary, and that kicked off everything from there, landing him his current position. The truth was plain: Anor had no real accomplishments to his name. He was a man with only a smattering of experience, enough to give him some credibility but not enough to inspire confidence. Alpheo''s lips pressed into a thin line as he considered the options¡ªor rather, the lack thereof. There are certainly better choices, he thought with a touch of irritation. But they aren''t mine to summon. This one will have to do. Alpheo leaned forward finally opening his mouth to speak "Tell me," he began, his voice steady but with an edge that cut through the room''s quiet. "Why should I choose you for this mission?" Anor blinked, caught off guard. "Pardon, Your Grace?" . "You heard me," Alpheo repeated, this time slower, each word deliberate. "Why should I choose you? There are plenty of others I could send. The only thing setting you apart from them is the fact that someone referred you to me. So, convince me. Why are you the one I should entrust with this?" The man shifted his weight slightly, his hands clasping in front of him as he tried to steady his thoughts. "Your Grace," he began, his voice gaining confidence as he spoke, "I may not have the most extensive record, but I''ve been tested in the field, I have been sent so other diplomatic meetings to represent the royal house. Alpheo''s expression didn''t shift "I understand the importance of this mission," Anor continued, his tone earnest now. "I know this isn''t something that can be entrusted to just anyone. But I believe I can adapt to what''s required'''' Alpheo sat back, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest of his chair. He studied Anor in silence, his face unreadable. After a moment, he said, "This mission is crucial. The first contact sets the tone for everything that follows. I cannot afford mistakes." Anor nodded, the weight of the words clear in his eyes. "And I won''t make any, Your Grace. Give me this chance, and I''ll prove you were right to trust me." His desire for this mission was genuine, driven by ambition and an understanding of the opportunity it represented. To be entrusted with such a task meant more than carrying out orders¡ªit was a chance to elevate his standing. If he succeeded, the approval of the royal family would be within reach, and his influence in court would expand exponentially. Until then he was just one of the countless courtiers there, now with this opportunity he could become someone. Alpheo''s voice drew Anor from his line of thoughts. "Understand this," he said, his tone steady and firm. "On this mission, you''ll come face to face with things that will feel alien to you, things that lie far outside your culture or sense of normalcy. You will see practices, beliefs, and behaviors that you may find appalling or incomprehensible" He listened intently, his expression serious. "No matter what you encounter," Alpheo continued, his gaze sharp, "you must never let disrespect slip into your words or actions. You are not there to judge or change them. Whether they drink from the skulls of their enemies or burn children every year as some sacred ceremony to have bigger crops ¡ªthat is not your concern.They are people that lived in a completely different cultures, always have a straight face when dealing with them." Alpheo leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Your job is to maintain composure. Keep a steady face and focus on building the foundation we need to create for our future there . You''re laying the stones for a house we will build . Do you understand?" Anor nodded firmly, meeting Alpheo''s gaze without hesitation. "I understand, Your Grace.'''' Alpheo allowed himself a small sigh of relief, the weight of uncertainty lifting slightly from his shoulders. "Good," he said simply. As he said so leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrest as he studied Ranor''s determined expression. After a pause, he spoke with deliberate clarity. "You will be given a contingent of guards to safeguard your wellbeing," Alpheo began, his tone measured. "They will accompany you during the journey by sea and remain at your side when you set foot to commence your mission." "These men are not a luxury," he continued, "do not grow soft when you are with them, they are a necessity. You may face dangers both known and unforeseen. Their role is to ensure that you return alive to report your success." However before he could speak, Alpheo raised a hand, silencing any premature thanks as he was not finished . "I don''t care what methods you employ to accomplish your task," Alpheo said, his voice taking on a sharper edge. "Persuade them, trade with them, flatter them¡ªwhatever it takes. What matters is the result. Fulfill what is requested of you." There was a pause as Alpheo allowed his words to settle in the air. His tone softened slightly as he leaned forward. "If you succeed, there may be more work like this awaiting you in the future. Opportunities that could bring greater rewards and recognition than you''ve dared imagine.Gods knows how much I require men''s of sweet words." Hearing the invitation Aron straightened, his chest swelling with resolve. "I will not fail, Your Grace," he said with conviction. Alpheo nodded once, satisfied. "See that you don''t," he said simply, the finality of his words dismissing any doubt of the mission''s importance. With that exchange the soon to be envoy left the room. The heavy door closed behind him with a soft thud, leaving Alpheo alone. He leaned back in his chair, letting out a long sigh as the tension eased from his body. He stretched his arms above his head, the stiffness of hours of working melting away with the motion. Rising from his seat, he prepared to leave. The sound of soft footsteps reached his ears before he turned. Vrosk, his ever-watchful shadow, stood silently with another guard at his side, his expression as stoic as always. Alpheo gave him a knowing glance and waved a hand dismissively. "If you''re planning to hover, you can stay behind," he said with a faint smile. "I''m only going for a quick visit to see my wife. Hardly the sort of excursion that needs an entourage." Vrosk tilted his head slightly, his lips twitching with the hint of a smirk. "Apologies, but I''d feel better accompanying you. It would not look good for a prince to walk alone. At least until you''re safely there. Your wife made us a new ass when she discovered just how lax we are on the job; especially when she found Marx to be drunk on the job," he quipped ''''Not that it is our fault; you kind of spoil us. At least when we are in the palace halls, in war you become another man as if discipline was your mother'''' Alpheo chuckled softly, shaking his head. Don''t overthink it , she is under a lot of stress.If I was the one to deliver a child you would be certain I would be as approachable as a cockroach. But if you want to accompany me in my stroll.... suit yourself then" he said, as he continued walking forward Vrosk gave a mock bow, his stern demeanor breaking just enough to let a fleeting smile show. "Understood, Your Grace," Chapter 380: A new life Chapter 380: A new life It''s happening,Alpheo shouted in his mind, his heart pounding as he paced back and forth in the long hallway outside his wife''s room. His boots struck the polished stone floor in a rhythmic pattern, but there was nothing rhythmic about the turmoil in his chest. The shouts of pain from inside the room pierced through the heavy oak door, filling the air and his ears with an intensity that made him feel pain between the legs too. He had taken every precaution he could, ensuring that the midwives washed their hands meticulously with soap, that all the towels were disinfected, and that the room was prepared with the utmost care. Yet, despite his best efforts, he knew just how high the risks were for an infant. The fear lingered like a shadow, slipping into his mind as easily as water pouring from a cracked pot. The entire palace buzzed, like a hive stirred into frenzy. Courtiers whispered in hushed tones, servants scurried through corridors with wide eyes and hurried steps, and even the guards at their posts seemed tenser than usual. The birth of a firstborn to the royal family was an event of monumental importance¡ªnot just for the family but for the entire state Yet behind the outward displays of preparation and reverence, fear brewed. Everyone from the lowest servant to the courtiers understood how volatile those in power could be in moments of great stress. A single misstep¡ªspilled wine, a misplaced word¡ªcould bring wrath down upon them like a storm. So, they moved carefully, heads down, hoping to remain invisible until the ordeal was over. Outside the birthing chamber, Prince Alpheo paced relentlessly.He wasn''t alone, though his companions wisely chose silence over conversation. Even Egil the most jovial of the company kept his mouth shut. Seated along the edges of the hall, Alpheo''s trusted circle of advisors and friends watched him with a mix of sympathy and unease. These were the men who would ride into battle with him, plot strategy at his side, and drink to their victories late into the night. But tonight, they sat quietly, offering no jests or reassurances. Each of them understood the gravity of the situation. Childbirth, even for royalty, was a perilous affair. Many infants never took their first breath, and of those who did, a significant number failed to survive the fragile days that followed. None dared voice such thoughts aloud, but they lingered, unspoken, in the tense air around them. When he finally got enough of walking around, Alpheo finally took his seat, bringing his thumb to his mouth and biting it.Asag, who was the closest at his side, said nothing but just caressed his back in a circular motion as a way to reassure him . Suddenly, the muffled cries from the other room ceased after a long, raw scream of pain, and a piercing wail of an infant broke through the tense silence. Alpheo froze , his heart racing. The hallway seemed to hold its breath as he stared at the door, willing it to open. Moments later, the eldest midwife emerged, her face calm despite the long hours. She bowed deeply, her hands folded in front of her. "How are they?" Alpheo asked, his voice betraying the nervous energy still gripping him. "A healthy male, Your Grace," the midwife replied with a soft smile. "He has a strong cry and seems to be in excellent health." Alpheo exhaled deeply, a smile spreading across his face. "And the princess? How is she?" "She is tired, as expected," the midwife said gently, "but she is well. Both mother and child are safe." Relief washed over Alpheo, and he let out a long, steady breath. His shoulders relaxed, and the tension that had gripped him for hours finally dissolved. Behind him, his closest companions¡ªJarza, Egil, Asag, Clio, and Laedio¡ªstood from their seats, their expressions softening. Jarza stepped forward first, clapping Alpheo''s shoulder with a wide grin. "Congratulations, A son and heir! The gods smile on you today." "Congratulations" Egil added with a respectful nod, more serious than he had ever been. "Truly wonderful news," Clio chimed in, offering a smile. "Thank you," Alpheo murmured, his voice tinged with emotion. He glanced back at the door before nodding to his friends. "Thank you all." Straightening his tunic, Alpheo pushed the door open, ready to meet his new family and take in the sight of his wife and child. Alpheo entered the room quietly, his eyes immediately settling on his wife, Jasmine, who was resting in the bed, still looking a little flushed but radiant with the glow of motherhood. Her tired eyes met his, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she watched him approach. Her hair was disheveled, but her expression held a quiet strength, and Alpheo could see the depth of her exhaustion. Beside her, a small bundle lay in the crook of her arm, wrapped in soft linens crying. Shahab stood to the side, respectfully allowing the moment to pass, but he cast a proud glance at his new grand-grandson. Jasmine took a deep breath, her eyes closing briefly as she gathered her strength. Slowly, she extended her arm, the child cradled in her hands as if it was a prize of war. Her voice was soft but steady as she spoke, "Here, Our son." Alpheo''s heart swelled as he stepped forward. The sight of his newborn child¡ªhis flesh and blood¡ªwas more than he had imagined. His hands, at first unsure, gently took the bundle from Jasmine''s arms, his smile growing as he held the child. He marveled at the tiny fingers that curled instinctively around his hand. His son. The baby''s cries had softened into contented little coos, his small chest rising and falling with each gentle breath. Alpheo''s heart clenched at the miracle in his arms, and his eyes filled with a tenderness he had never known before. "He''s perfect," Alpheo whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his eyes never leaving his son. His hands trembled slightly as he gazed at the tiny life in his arms, overwhelmed by the depth of the moment. Jasmine, despite her exhaustion, let out a small, soft laugh. The sound was light and melodic, as though the weariness had no power to dampen her joy. Her gaze lingered on the baby, the tenderness in her eyes unmistakable. "Of course he''s perfect," she replied with a hint of amusement, her voice warm and full of love. "I made him." Alpheo smiled at her words, his heart swelling with a mixture of pride and affection. After a moment, he rocked the baby gently, savoring the stillness of the moment before speaking again. "Well," Jasmine began, her smile barely contained as a playful glint danced in her eyes. "Are we going ahead with the name we discussed?" Alpheo chuckled, his smile widening. "Of course. Unless you''d prefer to name him Arkwatt instead." Jasmine raised an eyebrow at the suggestion, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. "No," she said firmly, shaking her head. "The name we agreed on is more than good enough. May that name die with him. I wouldn''t want him carrying my father''s name.The last thing I want is for my child to be like him." Alpheo nodded in understanding, forgetting for a moment that he was the one who killed his father. "I''m glad," he said quietly both at the decision and the fact that father and daughter held no love for each other, as if they did, his bid for power would have been much more difficult. "Basil," he said, the name spoken with both certainty and tenderness. "His name shall be Basil." Jasmine''s eyes glistened as she smiled, a deep, contented smile that reached all the way to her heart. "Basil," she repeated softly, as if testing the sound of it. Her voice was filled with quiet joy, a note of wonder in the way she spoke her son''s name. "It suits him perfectly." Who knows, perhaps he will accomplish the same feats as the one he is named after, Alpheo thought with a smile. With that thought, the child was then carefully passed into Shahab''s hands, the older man''s face softening with a smile that spoke of years of patience. He cradled the newborn carefully, gazing down at him with a tenderness that only a grand-grandfather could possess. "I''ve waited years for a moment like this," he said, his voice rich with emotion. "Though I always thought I''d be holding my grandson, not my grand-grandson." Alpheo chuckled lightly, watching his father''s joy. "Better late than never," he remarked with a small, teasing smile. Shahab gave a soft nod, agreeing. "Indeed," he replied, his voice thick with affection for his new blood. Jasmine, still lying in bed, let out a small chuckle too, her eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. "It''s good that the family is growing," she said, her voice soft, but the weariness in it was undeniable, ''Especially after the slaughter for the throne...she thought with her eyes closed as she remembered the two weeks in which half of her family was killed to make sure there were no loose ends... As the moments passed, Jasmine shifted slightly, her fatigue finally catching up with her. "I think I''m tired," she murmured, looking at Alpheo "I want to sleep now.Everyone get out." Alpheo nodded, his expression softening as he moved closer to her. "Of course, rest," he said gently, turning toward the midwife who was still standing by. "Take Basil," he instructed, his voice calm The midwife took the child carefully, her hands steady as she moved towards the small crib beside the bed. As she passed, Alpheo caught a brief glimpse of the bloodied sheets, a reminder of the labor and the pain Jasmine had endured. Yet, her eyes were already beginning to close, too tired to even concern herself with changing the bed. The room gradually emptied, the soft murmurs of the midwives leaving Jasmine alone with her thoughts. The air felt still, quiet, and heavy with the weight of what had just transpired. Jasmine''s eyelids fluttered shut, surrendering to the exhaustion that had long since settled in her bones. An heir was now born. Chapter 381: Birth of an heir Chapter 381: Birth of an heir November had always been a bittersweet month for the common folk¡ªa final burst of activity and joy before the long, unrelenting grip of winter. It was the last chance to gather the late harvests, with fields yielding turnips, pumpkins, and beets, the hardy crops that could withstand the year''s waning days. This was also the season when peasants worked tirelessly to stockpile wood, knowing full well that by December,the grounds would be picked clean, and the bitter cold would bite at their doorsteps. For those fortunate enough to live near dense forests, the task was easier, as fallen branches and dry sticks were plentiful. But even then, there were strict boundaries. The towering trees themselves belonged to their feudal lords, and felling one without permission was a grave offense. To be caught chopping down a tree was to be branded a poacher, and such a crime often ended at the gallows, swinging for all to see. So, most peasants, well aware of the dangers, avoided the axe altogether. Instead, they scoured the forest floor, collecting whatever the winds or storms had shaken loose. Some, bolder or more desperate, might snap off lower branches, keeping a wary eye out for the foresters who patrolled their lord''s lands. For those dwelling in the bustling cities, the arrival of winter brought a different kind of preparation. As the days grew shorter and colder, lumberjacks would trundle into town with wagons laden with freshly cut logs, calling out their wares in hopes of finding eager buyers. And find buyers they did¡ªthough only among the well-to-do. Merchants, master artisans, and other medium-prosperous folk could afford the luxury of a steady fire to keep the winter chill at bay. For the less fortunate, however, the prospect of warmth was a far more daunting challenge. Coins were scarce in their purses, and the cost of even a meager bundle of wood was often beyond reach. Some families scraped together enough to buy what little they could, rationing it carefully through the season. Others turned to more desperate measures, sending their children to the outskirts of the city with makeshift carts to scavenge for fallen branches or abandoned sticks. But even this wasn''t an option for many. Lacking carts, time, or the extra hands to spare, countless families simply had to endure the cold, wrapping themselves in threadbare blankets . For the urban poor, winter wasn''t just a season¡ªit was the time of death. Fortunately for those living in the southern reaches, the winters were far gentler than the unforgiving cold experienced in the north. Summers blazed hot, and winters, while chilly, rarely dipped into the realm of true danger. Frosted mornings and brisk evenings were the extent of the season''s bite, and snow, when it did fall, was more of a fleeting spectacle than a persistent menace, in those rare times it came . As a result, the cases of people succumbing to the cold in regions like Yarzat were exceptionally rare. The temperate climate offered a small mercy, allowing families to endure the season without the constant specter of freezing to death. It was an hard season true, but not an insurmountable one, a test of patience rather than life or death. It was in this bittersweet month of November, as the last harvests were gathered and the chill of winter began to creep into the air, that the heir to the throne of Yarzat was born. Basil Veloni-Isha, the firstborn of Princess Jasmine and her consort Alpheo, entered a stage. His birth was not just an occasion of joy within the gilded halls of the royal palace but a moment that rippled outward, touching the hearts of the countless subjects toiling below the royal family''s rule. If one were to assume that such moments of happiness were reserved solely for those living within the splendor of the court, they would be sorely mistaken. Across the city, in modest homes and bustling markets, in the smoky warmth of taverns and the open spaces of busy squares, people shared in the excitement. Joyous murmurs spread like wildfire, and though the people of Yarzat had no direct connection to the velvet cradle or silk-draped nursery, their spirits were lifted all the same. For the common folk, whose daily lives were often filled with toil but they were still met, there was nothing as satisfying as a juicy piece of news, a fresh tale to liven the monotonous rhythm of survival. And what better source of such intrigue than the royal family? Stories of their lives, whispered and speculated upon, had long been a favorite pastime. The royal family, aware of their people''s appetite for news, wasted no time in announcing the joyous event. By the very next day, heralds took to the streets, their voices echoing off stone walls and wooden eaves as they proclaimed the arrival of Prince Basil. Word spread swiftly, carried by eager tongues and attentive ears. Throughout the city, the speakers ¡ªthose usually paid by the crown to spread news to the masses, the ancient equivalent of a newspaper¡ªwere dispatched to announce the joyous occasion. Of course not always they were made to tell the truth, but simply to spread whatever information they wanted. These speakers, clad in the long simply tunics , made their way to every square, marketplace, and street corner, gathering crowds eager to hear the latest decree. Clearing their throats, the heralds unfurled their scrolls and spoke in loud, clear voices so even the humblest listener could understand: "Good people of Yarzat! Rejoice, for a blessed event has come to pass! Her Grace, Princess Jasmine Veloni-Isha, and His Lordship, Prince Alpheo, are delighted to announce the birth of their firstborn son, the heir to the throne of Yarzat! Basil Veloni-Isha has entered this world hale and strong, a beacon of hope and prosperity for our great city and princedom!" Pausing to allow the murmurs of excitement and cheers to settle, they continued: "To mark this momentous occasion and to share this joy with all her subjects, Her Grace, Princess Jasmine, has declared a full week of celebration! Starting tomorrow, there will be public meals offered throughout the city to all who wish to partake. Let us come together in gratitude and happiness for the blessing of this new life, our future prince and protector!It is recommended to all people to go to the temples and pray to the goddess in gratitude for their blessing!" With that, the heralds rolled up their scrolls, offering bows to the clapping crowds before moving on to the next corner of the city to repeat their joyful proclamation. As the herald finished his proclamation, a ripple of excitement coursed through the gathered crowd. A few voices rose above the murmuring, offering heartfelt gratitude and praise: "Bless Her Grace for her generosity!" shouted a burly cobbler, his voice loud and clear. "Long live the royal family!" added a woman clutching a toddler to her hip, her face beaming with joy. "May the Princess live a thousand years!" cried an elderly man, his hands clasped together in reverence. The energy in the square shifted to unrestrained elation as the news sank in. A week of free meals for the entire city! For many, this was as rare and joyful as a rainstorm during a drought. Mothers grinned at the thought of not worryng about food , while laborers who barely made enough for a loaf of bread imagined sitting down and eating without worrying about affording it. For those whose daily meals were sparse and often plain, this was a miracle. Faces lit up like a dog catching sight of a juicy bone. It was no exaggeration to say that the crown''s reputation among the people of Yarzat had never soared as high as it did now. The streets buzzed with life, the city''s veins pulsing with the vitality of prosperity. Public works projects flourished. Jobs were plentiful, and the clang of hammers and the hum of trade filled the air. The coins changing hands in bustling markets sparkled brighter, their abundance undeniable, even if few understood the reasons behind this sudden surge of fortune. The initial murmurs of doubt about a woman ascending the throne, were silenced by the steady stream of good news. Reports of military victories spread through the city like wildfire, each tale more triumphant than the last. The proof of these victories wasn''t merely in the proclamations but in the sight of soldiers returning home. Their satchels overflowed with spoils, their coin purses bulging, and their holes in their hands bigger than ever. The people swelled with pride at the victories of their state. It wasn''t just about the glories of conquest¡ªthough that certainly played its part¡ªit was the tangible benefits that made the difference. No enemy raided their lands, no fields burned under foreign banners. Grain prices remained steady, ensuring bread on every table. The soldiers'' riches, flowing back into the city''s shops and taverns, trickled down through every stratum of society. Merchants thrived, artisans were busy, and even the humblest laborer found more work on hand than usual. The result was a city alive with optimism, its people more in touch to the throne than they had been in generations. The army, perhaps more than any other group, celebrated the joyous news with unparalleled enthusiasm. Having marched countless miles beside Alpheo, they felt a unique connection to the monarch, one forged by shared hardships and triumphs on the battlefield. To them, his happiness was their happiness, and the birth of his son felt like a victory they could all claim as their own. The announcement that the soldiers would be granted a week without training added fuel to the fire of their celebrations. For seven glorious days, they were free to wander the city, reveling without the shadow of the usual curfews or the rigid schedules of the military camp. The prospect of unrestrained freedom was enough to send cheers echoing through the barracks. "Seven days!" one soldier exclaimed, slapping his comrade on the back. "Seven days without drills or that damned sergeant barking in my ear. By the gods, I''ll finally sleep past sunrise!" Another grinned as he polished off a mug of ale. "Sleep? I''m heading straight to the tavern district! It''s been too long since I''ve seen a pretty face that wasn''t scowling at me from across a battlefield." "I''m buying myself a proper feast," a gruff older soldier added, cracking a rare smile. "Meat, wine. It''s about time we celebrated like the prince we fight for." Laughter and cheers filled the air as the soldiers began to plan their week of freedom. The barracks, usually a place of rigid discipline, had transformed into a hub of unbridled excitement. For these men, who had faced death and hardship time and again, the chance to enjoy life, if only for a week, was as precious as any treasure taken from the spoils of war. Chapter 382: Start of an invasion(1) Chapter 382: Start of an invasion(1) The island of Harmway loomed on the horizon, a rugged bastion rising defiantly from the waves. It was the crown jewel of the Romelian Sea, the keystone that kept the waters free from the scourge of sea-rats and ensured trade flowed uninterrupted, or at least it was. Ahead of the Imperial armada, its silhouette stood as if calling the Romelians closer. Sixty-seven ships cut through the waves, their sails billowing with purpose. The fleet, though formidable, paled in comparison to the ninety-five mighty vessels that had claimed Harmway for the Empire two decades prior. Back then, the Empire''s strength had been undivided, a singular force untainted by the rot of civil war. That fleet had carried the full weight of Imperial might, its banners flying high in unchallenged supremacy. But these were different times. The ships now assembled represented not the Empire as a whole but a coalition of southern noble houses, their power rooted in maritime trade and naval dominance. Chief among them was the House of Veritia, whose influence loomed as large as their sails. Nearly half the armada hailed from their shipyards, so of course they were the face of the coalition. With the passing of Imperator Gratios, the true magnitude of his reign became clear to all. His rule, often taken for granted in his lifetime, now proved just how much of a good Imperator he was. When Gratios ascended the throne¡ªthough "ascended" hardly captured the bloody road he walked to conquer it from his brothers¡ªhe inherited an empire fractured by civil war. Yet, with unmatched decisiveness, he restored the power of the crown, reforged the military and the navy, and wielded them as tools to reshape the Empire''s place in the world, be it through strenght of arms or of words. His revitalized fleets secured the southern seas, forcing the fragmented principalities to accept trade deals that tilted heavily in the Empire''s favor. Against Azania, he played the long-standing game of influence and puppetry with the Sultan, a chess match fought over control of the Principality of Arlania. Arlanian princes rarely ruled for more than a few years before being overthrown, replaced either by Azania''s hand-picked puppet or one of Gratios''s own. Meanwhile, Imperial coffers swelled as Arlanian nobles paid handsomely to keep their fiefs safe from harm. Gratios turned chaos into profit, unfortunately it was in one of these ventures , that Gratios would find his death. It had all been going well, as Gratios''s campaigns often did, just when he thought that he simple battling the last Azanian-supported puppet. The Sultan''s forces, unleashed their camel riders from inside the city out to the battlefield in a sudden and devastating charge. Chaos erupted as the riders struck deep into the heart of Gratios''s army, bypassing traditional infantry to focus on his personal bodyguard. The terror of the attack was amplified by the camels themselves¡ªterrifying beasts to horses, who recoiled in panic at their scent and sound. Gratios''s elite guards, seasoned but unprepared for this onslaught, faltered under the pressure. Despite his courage and the desperate efforts of those who remained, Gratios was struck down amidst the melee. The tragedy was also made easier by Gratios''s earlier decision to divert all his reserves toward the centre . As obsessed with vengeance, he had thrown every available unit into a ferocious assault against the Order of the Betrayed, the mercenary company infamous for the killing of his father, which started the succession crisis and the civil war that he fought for the throne. But those days were gone. With a leaner fleet and a diminished empire, leadership had shifted into new hands. The armada now sailed under a far different commander¡ªnot Gratios, but a man whose authority stemmed from the southern House of Veritia. Caius Veritia, to be precise. While the family patriarch, Lisidor Veritia, retained control of their vast estates and influence from the safety of the mainland, he had no intention of risking his neck¡ªor his heirs¡ªon the treacherous waters of war. That duty fell to his younger brother Caius, a man whose appetite for glory was equaled only by his willingness to take dangerous gambles. For Caius, this was no mere naval campaign. Success meant land, titles, and the promise of a sprawling castle, a reward Lisidor had dangled before him like a glimmering prize. The promise of reward, however, wasn''t the only force driving Caius. He had always yearned to etch his name into the annals of Imperial history, to step out of his brother''s shadow and carve his own legacy. Harmway was the stage he had been waiting for. The Imperial fleet came to a gradual halt, its ships forming a wide crescent that faced the imposing silhouette of Harmway Island. The air was tense as the sailors stood by, , waiting for orders that had yet to come. The sun glinted off the polished wood of the flagship, where Caius Veritia paced on the deck, his expression unreadable. He was not a man to act hastily, and for now, he waited. Somewhere out there, his patrol ships scoured the waters, their task simple: report back on the outline of the island Caius found himself staring at it , its rugged cliffs and sparse greenery looming like the very bastion it was claimed to be. His brow furrowed. The Confederation''s fleet should have met them by now. These pirates, while undeniably brutal and barbarious, were also famously direct. Where are they? Surely they wouldn''t abandon their precious island, considering that they provoked war by doing that . Treacherous, yes, but cowards? Hardly. He paused, leaning on the railing as his sharp eyes scanned the horizon. They''ve fought us in open waters before,that is where they excelled and they''ve never shied away from the challenge. Yet here we are, no resistance, no fleet... I doubt they did not know we were coming.... Time dragged on and Caius opted to wait for the patrol ships. The distant patrol ships were mere specks on the water, moving at a maddeningly slow pace. Finally, after what felt like an eternity but was no more than half an hour, one of the ships returned, its small silhouette growing steadily larger as it approached the flagship. The crew bustled to prepare as the smaller vessel drew close, the sound of creaking wood and the splash of waves filling the air. A rope ladder was lowered, and one of the patrol ship''s crew began to ascend, his form steady despite the slight sway of the ships. Caius straightened, brushing his coat and adjusting his sword belt. His piercing gaze locked onto the figure as the sailor clambered aboard, saluting quickly before stepping forward. The scout, his face flushed from the climb and the weight of his message, saluted briskly before beginning. His voice was steady but carried the edge of unease. "My lord," he began, "we''ve scoured the waters surrounding the island, but there''s no sign of enemy ships. Not a single vessel, not even their smaller raiding craft." He paused, glancing at Caius''s unreadable expression, before continuing. "It''s as though their fleet has vanished entirely." Caius''s sharp gaze didn''t waver. "And the island?" The scout shifted his weight uneasily. "Unusual, my lord. The coastline is empty¡ªno people, no sentries, not even signs of movement. The villages near the shore are silent, and their small piers have been abandoned. We didn''t see any boats or fishermen, not even in the usual spots." This caught the attention of the officers standing nearby, but Caius raised a hand, signaling the scout to go on, uniterrupted. "We surveyed the fields as we circled closer," the scout continued. "They''re barren, stripped of crops. Not a single stalk of anything left standing. It''s as if they harvested in haste or simply abandoned the land. And the livestock, too¡ªthey''re gone. No animals grazing, no herds to be seen." The man''s brow furrowed. "As we neared the fortress at Harmway, things became clearer. The port has been sealed, my lord. A massive chain stretches across the harbor, barring entry. There are no ships docked there, and the walls are fully manned.Sir the island had prepared itself for a siege " Caius''s expression remained impassive, he knew after all that a siege was coming, as he would have been a fool to expect for the city to open his gate at its arrival. Well with time it would, but they had to first deal with those that claimed ownership of it. The scout finished his report with a faint exhale, his shoulders relaxing slightly after delivering his observation Caius nodded slowly, his lips tightening in thought. "You''ve done well," he said, his tone measured. "Return to your post and relay to the others to maintain vigilance. No one is to act without my direct order." The scout saluted once more before retreating down the ladder, leaving Caius to contemplate the situation The entire island appeared prepared for a siege¡ªfields stripped, livestock removed, and the harbor sealed tight with a chain. None of it surprised him; he had expected a fortress like Harmway to be fortified to the teeth. Yet, one glaring question lingered in his mind: Where was the Confederation''s fleet?How can I leasurily take the fortress if I can''t first send its fleets to the bottom of the sea? He frowned, his sharp mind cycling through possibilities. They were supposed to be their first obstacle, meeting the Imperial armada in open waters before they even neared the island. It was unlike those sea wolves to shirk a fight, no matter how unfavorable the odds. Caius drummed his fingers against the wood, the steady rhythm a reflection of his restless thoughts. Perhaps they weren''t ready? The thought struck him suddenly. It is late autumn, and winter is fast approaching. Could it be that the Confederation''s fleet is still gathering resources? Whatever the case he could stand in the open sea forever "Prepare the landing parties!" Caius shouted, his voice booming across the deck. The crew immediately snapped to action, echoing his command to the other ships in the armada. The once-quiet fleet sprang to life with the clamor of boots, the rattling of gear, and the barked orders of officers. "We''re disembarking," Caius continued, his tone sharp and commanding. "Establish a beachhead and set up camp. I want defensive positions prepared before sundown. Move quickly¡ªif they''re expecting a siege, let''s give them one." Chapter 383: Start of an invasion(2) Chapter 383: Start of an invasion(2) Caius stepped onto the rocky shore of Harmway with the measured confidence of a commander who knew victory was inevitable. The landing was calm and unchallenged, the imperial forces disembarking in orderly waves, unbothered by even the faintest resistance. High above them, the garrison within Harmway''s stronghold watched in silence, their banners fluttering in the breeze. Not a single soldier dared to make a sortie or harass the landing parties. Caius''s sharp gaze flicked up to the battlements, where shadows moved behind crenelated walls, the thought that he would have to order his men to scale those walls made him sigh. The scouts did not lie, Caius thought as he lazily moved his sight toward of the many abandoned field around the stronghold.. Once-fertile fields were barren, stripped clean of crops and vegetation. The labor had been thorough; not even a stray bundle of hay remained. Livestock, too, had vanished, likely slaughtered or hidden deep in the fortress. His men scoured the surrounding areas, but there wasn''t so much as a goat or stray chicken to be found. The western part of the island was occupied by a forest , devoid of life larger than birds or insects. No boars, no deer, not even a scrawny fox. For as a matter of fact the city did not allow the sustenance of big animals, except for some goats and cows that were brought in by settles.. The reason was obvious. The island lacked any substantial source of fresh water, save for a single spring beneath the fortress itself, that was later made to cut through the land through some hard-built canal starting from the mountains down to the various sections of the islands, canals that of course, were now filled with dirt. Harmway''s defenders had destroyed every resource that was not within their walls, leaving nothing for an invading army to scavenge. Sustaining a foreign army in Harmway was no small feat. The island''s barren lands and lack of fresh water made it a logistical nightmare for any would-be conqueror. Without a strong navy to support supply lines, even the mightiest force would falter. The greatest challenge wasn''t in breaking the fortress walls but in keeping the soldiers fed and hydrated long enough to do so. Fortunately for the Imperial armada, their ally Yarzat was well-positioned to solve this problem. With enough grain to feed the fleet and the troops it carried . Or so it seemed, until an unexpected roadblock emerged: Yarzat''s prince consort, Alpheo. When the Empire''s envoys approached Alpheo to negotiate the purchase of grain, they were met with a baffling response: outright refusal. Even when they sweetened the deal, offering to pay 1.5 times the usual price, Alpheo''s answer remained unchanged. The rejection left the envoys stunned and infuriated. Of course, the Empire''s fleet wasn''t entirely without provisions; they had packed enough grain and water to last for about six weeks. But the ongoing civil war had drained resources across the Empire. Much of the available grain was funneled to the Emperor''s land armies, leaving the navy to scrape by. What they carried was enough for now, but it was a far cry from the amount needed for a prolonged siege. And prolonged sieges were the norm. The last major confrontation at Harmway, during the Battle of Rock Bottom, had required three grueling months of blockade before the Confederation forces surrendered. With that in mind, the shortage of grain loomed large in the minds of the Imperial commander. For Caius Veritia, Alpheo''s refusal was more than just an irritant. It was a personal affront, a thorn in his plans. Since when did grain become more valuable than gold? Caius had fumed, when he heard from his envoy of the response. The fact that Alphoe had also refused to provide ships to the fleet, only leaping his frustration at the friend of Romelia. He''s no peasant, though he came from there. He''s living in a palace now, with no fear of starvation¡ªso why in the name of the gods is he hoarding grain like a miser with jewels? The refusal fromt he prince consort had been a blow to his plans, an unforeseen obstacle that now demanded tedious workarounds. Without the crown''s cooperation, the fleet had been forced to turn to the city''s trade guilds. And the guilds, sensing the fleet''s desperation, had set the price at 2 times the usual rate¡ªa figure that might as well have been extortion. Price caused by the sheer amount of grain had thrown the merchants into a frenzy, scrambling to source enough supplies and hoarding it within the city . It wasn''t the money that gnawed at him most. His family could afford the expense, though it annoyed him to waste funds on what should have been a simple transaction. What stung deeper was the humiliation of it all. A general of the Imperial fleet, representing one of the mightiest powers of the known world, was now forced , or at least those that represented him , to haggle with merchants, men of no station, who lined their pockets at his expense. The indignity of lowering himself to deal with such common rabble was a wound to his pride that no amount of gold could soothe. Still the deal was at least made sweeter by the fact that the guild had promised to deal with the transportation which meant that the armada could spare more fleet to mantain the blockade and patrol the nearby sea, to make sure that no fleet from the Condederation took them by surprise. The Romelian soldiers got to work as soon as Caius issued the order to establish a proper siege camp. The air was filled with the sounds of shovels biting into the earth and hammers driving stakes into the ground. Methodically and with precision born of experience, the troops dug trenches around their positions. The displaced dirt was heaped to form defensive embankments, reinforced with wooden walls built from timber brought ashore. This style of fortification was a hallmark of Romelian warfare, perfected over centuries. Which was also used as the blueprint for other armies, including the infamous Black Stripes. The Black Stripes had adopted and adapted the Romelian techniques.With the only difference being that the Yarzat standing army was much quicker and efficient in the work, an aspect that came naturally with it being a force that drilled all day every year The Romelian army was not what it had been in its glory days. The Veritia family, who now led this campaign, relied on levies to bolster their ranks¡ªa mix of farmers, and recruits pressed into service around a core of professional soldiers. Usually the core force would be made up of cavalry, and heavy one of that , in this case however horses had little use both for siege and sea-warfare, as such for these campaigns, they were supplanted by trained heavy infantry, which would have an actual use for the weeks to come, especially considering the castle-city they were to attack. It was certainly a sturdy, imposing structure, its thick stone walls rising high to dominate the surrounding terrain. Built with defense in mind, the city-fortress was walled on three sides, with the fourth side left open to the sea, as a matter of fact the whole town was built to accomodate trader in the short twenty years that the Empire had it under their control. The fact that they were attached to the sea meant that unless a proper sea-blockade was made, the city would still receive supply through smugglers. In front of the fortress, a series of ditches had been dug deep into the earth, each designed to slow and break the momentum of an advancing army. These trenches would need to be filled before any assault on the walls could be made, a task that Caius planned to undertake as soon as the camp was properly built. The same man was now standing on a small rise overlooking the scene, taking in the fortress and its formidable defenses. Behind him, his forces were on and on following his orders ¡ª4,200 footmen and 800 archers, a respectable number but hardly sufficient to take the place by storm. The general knew that even, in the impossible odd, that his troops actually breached the walls and captured the island, it would still mean little if they couldn''t defeat the Confederation on water. Without naval supremacy, the island would remain vulnerable to counterattacks made easier by the fact that the Confederation had much easier access by the sea, than Veritia''s family did, who certianly could not afford to have a standing fleet to guard the place at all times, which was exactly what they needed unless they crippled the Confederation as Gratios had done two decades ago. Caius let out a slow, measured breath, as the knowledge that it was effectively waiting for the enemy to come was weighting on him. Starving the garrison into submission seemed the far more practical option, on paper at least . Because in truth with the sea at their backs, the defenders might hold out longer than he would like, as after all there were people whose job was exactly that, and he certainly could not hope for his ship, to stop any small vessel who only creation was made to evade pursue. For now, his strategy was clear: wait, for the enemy to come. If they could cripple the Confederation''s fleet , the fortress would fall without the need for a bloody storming of the walls, which was exactly what was counting on, as in the end it was the sea-battle that would decide the outcome of the campaign. Chapter 384: Confederations Strategy Chapter 384: Confederation''s Strategy Never a war been so much profitable, Alvarie thought as he calmly gazed at the sea. The merchant stood atop the deck of his ship taking in the beauty of the sea. His clothing was certainly a display of wealth,as that was all that merchants could flaunt. The nobility did so with blood and steel, and the merchants did it with their gold . The main cloth was a deep crimson doublet of fine wool, trimmed with gold thread. Over it, a dark brown leather belt, fastened with an ornate buckle shaped like a lion''s head, cinched his waist and supported a short dagger in a scabbard¡ªthough he had never used it; after all, if a merchant had to get his hands on his weapon, then with much chance it was already over for him. Since if even with all the security they employed they were attacked, it meant that either the attacker had enough numbers to be sure of winning or that they were desperate for money, both cases were bad, of course. However above all the most eye-catching piece was a wide-brimmed hat crowned his head, adorned with a single white feather tipped with red dye that looked very similar to the decoration that the sub-legionarii of the Black Stripes used. Alvarie was a proud member of Yarzat''s Trade Guild. So of course he had to look the part of being a member of the sprawling and tightly woven network of merchants who controlled much of the city''s commerce. When the elders of the guild gave the official nod to buy up as much grain as they could, the news rippled through the merchant community like wildfire. For once, the rules were clear, and the path to profit wide open. The merchants, sharp-eyed opportunists that they were, knew all too well about the lucrative deal struck with the Imperial armada. The demand for grain was insatiable, and the Romelians were paying generously¡ªmore than generously. Most merchants didn''t need to be told twice. Many eagerly sold off small properties or took out loans against their future earnings to stockpile grain, turning warehouses into veritable fortresses of golden wheat. Risk? Of course. But the promise of profit outweighed any fleeting concern. What made this moment particularly exceptional¡ªand set every merchant''s heart racing¡ªwas the guild''s unusual decision to let them keep the lion''s share of their profits. Typically, the guild controlled much of the trade, regulating how much of any product a merchant could buy or sell and taking a hefty cut of the earnings. But this time, in an uncharacteristic gesture of generosity, the elders imposed only a modest levy on grain sales. For once, the merchants weren''t just middlemen lining the guild''s coffers¡ªthey were players in their own right. The docks and markets of Yarzat were soon abuzz with activity, as grain flowed from the hinterlands into merchant warehouses and gold changed hands faster than a gambler''s dice. Alvarie, like many of his peers, moved from village to village , securing deal after deal. For a merchant, this was the kind of moment dreams were made of¡ªwhere the right decisions, bold risks, and a touch of luck could turn a fortune into a dynasty. To anyone with even a passing glance, it was obvious that the Trade Guild of Yarzat was a relentless, iron-fisted institution. Its control over the merchants under its umbrella was stifling, almost oppressive. Rules, quotas, taxes, and regulations¡ªthey were the tools the guild wielded to maintain its dominance, keeping every merchant, from the smallest fish to the biggest whales, firmly in line. But one could ask tbe reason on why the merchants tolerated it? Why didn''t they rise up, break free from the suffocating grip? The answer lay in the perks of membership¡ªperks that outweighed the restrictions for most. Chief among these was a safety net that no merchant dared to undervalue. If a member made a bad deal and found themselves financially ruined, they could apply for a loan from the guild. T he terms were shockingly favorable, with a meager interest rate that was practically unheard of elsewhere. For struggling merchants, this was salvation. A second chance. A lifeline to rebuild their trade, restore their livelihood, and start over without spiraling into destitution. For the wealthier merchants, this wasn''t much of a concern. A poor gamble here or a bad season there wasn''t enough to sink their ships. They had resources to cushion the blow, investments to fall back on. But for the small and mid-level traders¡ªthe lifeblood of Yarzat''s markets¡ªa single misstep could spell disaster. To them, the guild''s safety net wasn''t just a perk; it was survival. It was the promise that one mistake wouldn''t reduce them to beggars on the streets. And that, of course, was exactly how the guild maintained its grip. The promise of protection, of stability, of a safety net, was a powerful incentive. Merchants stayed loyal not out of love but necessity, knowing that stepping outside the guild''s shadow meant losing that lifeline, something that made most of them accept the downsides, knowing that it was better to be covered for the hard times of the future than to simply relish the good times of the present. Alvarie leaned against the rail of his merchant ship, gazing out at the endless expanse of blue that surrounded them. The sun glimmered on the waves, a faint breeze carrying the salty tang of the ocean to his nose. His thoughts, as they often were, danced between profit margins and future ventures. Suddenly, a voice rang out from above, slicing through the rhythmic creaking of the ship''s timbers. "Ships on the horizon!" the lookout shouted from the mast, his arm outstretched and finger pointing westward. Alvarie''s head snapped up, his heart skipping a beat. He turned, squinting against the sunlight as he followed the lookout''s direction. Far in the distance, faint shapes broke the seamless line of the horizon. Ships. And they were moving fast. A knot formed in his stomach. They were still several kilometers away from Harmway, far from the Imperial fleet''s protection. Why would there be other ships here? He gritted his teeth, instincts screaming that something was off. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath, before spinning toward the crew on deck. "Faster! Get those paddles out now!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the sudden buzz of unease among the sailors. "We''re not waiting to find out if they''re friendly!" The crew sprang into action, the practiced rhythm of seasoned mariners driving them as they readied the large wooden paddles stored below deck. The ship groaned as the paddles dipped into the water, adding muscle to the sail''s effort. But even as the ship picked up speed, Alvarie couldn''t ignore the ominous truth creeping closer with every passing moment. The flashes of sunlight glinting off numerous paddles confirmed his worst fear¡ªthey were military ships, galleys. The three ships following them came closer with terrifying speed, their sleek, dark hulls cutting through the water like knives. The sound of their oars crashing against the waves echoed ominously across the sea. There was no mistaking it now¡ªthese were not merchant vessels, nor any friendly ships. It was the absence of any flag, any symbol of the Veritia''s house or the Empire, that made Alvarie''s stomach churn. These ships weren''t allies; they were enemies. The merchant''s pulse quickened, a cold sweat beading on his forehead as he stood rigid at the edge of the deck. His thoughts turned frantic, heart hammering in his chest. Pirates. They are pirate ships. His gaze darted to the thirty guards he had hired for protection¡ªmen he had thought would ensure his safety in any situation. They were a rough crew, but their faces were just as pale as his own. They knew exactly what was happening. "Get ready!" one of them shouted, gripping a cutlass, his knuckles white. The others followed suit, reaching for their weapons, forming a tight ring around Alvarie. They could see what was coming, and their fear was palpable. Alvarie''s mind raced. The thought of his life¡ªhis hard-earned fortune¡ªbeing taken by ruthless raiders twisted his gut into knots. He had imagined many scenarios in his life, but never one where his wealth could lead him straight into the hands of death. The pirates were closing in now, their ships like shadows looming over the merchant vessel. Alvarie could see the rough faces of the boarding party¡ªbroad-shouldered men with cruel eyes and grins that could cut through steel. They didn''t need to speak. The knives, the grappling hooks, the heavy boots as they slammed against the planks¡ªeverything was clear. As soon as the wood of the two ships creaked together ,the boarding started. Alvarie''s mind raced in a blur of chaos, his every instinct screaming at him to fight, to run, to escape this nightmare. But he couldn''t. His body was paralyzed by terror, rooted to the deck as the pirates closed in around him, their eyes glinting with malice. This is it. A bloodbath will start now. They''re going to butcher us. I¡ª Suddenly, a sharp, rough hand clamped down on his shoulder, yanking him forward with terrifying force. He was thrown, stumbling, unable to regain his balance in time. His arms flailed as he hit the wood, the sharp pain shooting through his palms. His breath caught in his throat as he lay sprawled on the deck, gasping for air, the world spinning around him. Then the unmistakable clatter of steel hit the deck. One after another, the noise echoed, growing louder, sharper. Thirty pieces of steel, one after another, falling to the ground like coins from a fallen purse. They were surrendering bringing an end to the shortest fight that he had ever witnessed. Chapter 385: Confederation strategy(2) Chapter 385: Confederation strategy(2) When Alvarie first saw his bodyguards¡ªthe thirty well-paid men he had hired to ensure his safety¡ªkneel to the ground and raise their empty hands in surrender, his mind struggled to process what he was witnessing. These were the men he had chosen with care, paying more coin than he cared to admit . And yet, here they were, throwing down their weapons without so much as a fight. For a brief, desperate moment, he thought he might be imagining it, that perhaps the exhaustion of the journey or some unaccounted-for wine had clouded his mind. But as the sharp tang of salt air filled his lungs and the distant cries of gulls pierced the quiet tension, reality settled in. He hadn''t been betrayed by his senses.But instead by his men. And, of course, when imagination faltered and cold reasoning took hold, only then did the storm of emotions erupt. "You spineless, gutter-born bastards!" Alvarie roared, blood dripping from his chin where it had struck the wooden planks of the ship. "The fight hasn''t even begun, and you''ve already sold me out? Cowards! Craven dogs! Is your precious skin worth so much? Hope you enjoy your chains¡ªyou''ll look splendid as slaves!" The pirates burst into laughter as they swiftly produced ropes, binding Alvarie''s bodyguards with practiced efficiency. They joked amongst themselves, their taunts sharp and mocking. "Didn''t even break a sweat!" one jeered, securing a guard''s wrists. "Best haul of the week¡ªno fight and still a full catch!" another quipped, tugging the knot tight and grinning at his mates. Darron, one of the creweman of Blake, who was receintly given command over a ship , strode purposefully onto the boarded vessel, his boots thudding against the planks. He surveyed the scene with a faint smirk, his eyes cold as they darted over the prisoners. Suddendly Alvarie making use of the silence spat insult at his captured guards. again " Don''t expect me to ransom you¡ªI wouldn''t waste a single coin on your sorry hides!" Darron''s attention shifted to the merchant, his smirk vanishing. "Shut that fat fool up," he ordered curtly, his tone sharp as a blade. One of the pirates, a burly man with sunburned skin, nodded with a grin. "Aye, Captain," he said, stepping toward Alvarie. Without hesitation, he delivered a hard slap to the back of the merchant''s head, sending him staggering forward. "Quiet down, unless you''re thirsty for seawater," the pirate growled, his voice low and full of menace. The laughter around them only grew louder as Alvarie, bit back further insults under their mocking gazes. This was Darron first week as the captain of a ship, it was a small ship true, with only forty men aboard, at least the one he commanded. Even thought the dimension left to desire , he was happy altogether, as it was the culmination of years of loyalty and service to Lord Blake, a hard-won prize that cemented his place among the pirate small elite? . He couldn''t help the grin that spread across his scarred face as he barked orders. "Alright, lads! Routine check¡ªmake sure everything''s in order. See what kind of cargo our merchant friend''s been hiding. Move!" The pirates sprang into action, scattering across the ship to inspect its nooks and crannies. Some climbed below deck to check the holds, while others rifled through barrels and crates stacked along the deck. The creaking of wood and the rustling of goods filled the air as the minutes ticked by. Before long, the men began to reappear, their expressions less eager than when they had first boarded. One by one, they returned to Darron with the same bored look, their shoulders slumping in disappointment. Darron leaned against the railing, tapping his fingers impatiently. "Well?" he called out. "No luck?" A broad-shouldered pirate with a crooked grin shook his head, hoisting a small sack onto his shoulder. "It''s grain and barley. Again," he said with a dramatic sigh. "Another load of grain," one muttered, rolling a barrel toward the hold. "Our ships are stuffed already. There''s only so much a man can eat, you know." "Aye," another chimed in, tossing a sack of barley into the pile. "Feels like we''ve been raiding floating pantries these days. Where''s the gold? The jewels? Even a good cask of wine would make this worth it." "Hope''s the last to die, they say. Maybe next ship." Darron, standing with his arms crossed listened to the conversation with an amused glint in his eye, and finally spoke up. "You lot are raiding supply ships bound for the enemy, not some rich noble''s pleasure barge. What were you expecting, treasure chests and silk? This is war, lads.Jewels are for the riches, food is for the soldiers." The crew chuckled at their captain''s jab, one pirate grinning as he replied, "Still, Captain. Can''t help but dream. Even war can spare a gem or two for us, eh?" Darron chuckled, a deep, gravelly sound that carried across the deck. "Keep dreaming, then. It''s free. But for now, check if the other ships in our fleet have space for what we''ve got. If they''re full, start tossing whatever we can''t carry overboard. No sense in letting the enemy have it." The men nodded and scattered to relay the orders. A few minutes later, word returned: the other ships, all under the service of Blake were already packed to the brim with supplies. "Alright, you heard me!" Darron barked, motioning toward the remaining barrels and sacks. "To the fish it goes!" The pirates wasted no time. Barrels were rolled to the edge of the ship, sacks hoisted and swung into the sea with casual abandon. The sound of heavy containers splashing into the water echoed across the waves as the men worked efficiently, laughing and joking all the while. "Maybe the fish''ll grow fat enough for us to catch," one pirate joked, tossing another sack overboard. "Or choke on all this barley," another quipped, eliciting another round of laughter. All of this was seen by the bounded Alvarie , who with his face pale and his eyes wide with despair watched barrel after sack after crate of grain, barley, and oats¡ªhis grain, barley, and oats¡ªtumble over the edge and vanish into the sea. He felt as if he could cry, which he did It wasn''t a dignified cry, either; it was loud, pitiful, and uncontrollable, like a man who had just seen his life''s work torn apart before his very eyes. He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms, but there was nothing he could do but sob. The pirates noticed, of course. "Look at him!" one guffawed, elbowing his crewmate and pointing at Alvarie. "Blubbering like a babe!" "Aye," another chimed in, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye. "You''d think we were tossing his firstborn overboard!" The laughter among the pirates ebbed as one of them approached Darron, "What about the others, Captain?" he asked, jerking a thumb toward the captured bodyguards huddled together. Darron rubbed his chin, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the pathetic group. "No slave traders until this invasion''s over, and we sure as hell don''t have weeks'' worth of food to waste on idle mouths. You know what to do." The burly pirate nodded grimly, turning to his comrades. "You heard the captain. Over they go." The men''s faces darkened as the pirates began hauling them up, dragging the struggling bodyguards toward the ship''s edge. Cries of panic and pleas for mercy filled the air, blending with the creak of wood and the slap of waves against the hull. "No! Please, don''t do this!" one of the guards begged, clawing at the deck as he was dragged toward the edge.''''We surrendered'''' Another, braver or perhaps just more desperate, managed to break free of the pirates'' grip . He didn''t make it far before a pirate''s axe cleaved into his back, cutting his escape¡ªand his life¡ªshort, much to the man real intention as he feared a death by drowning. For the rest, their fate was less swift. The pirates flung them overboard one by one, the men''s screams fading as the sea swallowed them whole. The unlucky ones flailed in the water, gasping and sputtering as they struggled to stay afloat. Alvarie, still on his knees and trembling with fear but alive , watched the scene unfold. Tears streaked his cheeks as he bit his lip, trying not to sob out loud, as he feared that perhapse he was next . His trembling only worsened when one of the pirates, a lanky man with a cruel smirk, sauntered up to him. "You''re lucky, fat man," the pirate sneered, crouching down to his eye level. "You''re worth a ransom. Otherwise, you''d be swimming with your boys right now." He spat on the deck for emphasis before standing and walking away, leaving Alvarie shaking and clutching at his chest, his tears flowing freely now. "All right, enough," Darron finally barked, his voice cutting through the lingering sounds of misery and chaos. "Clear it up. We''ve got work to do. Back to the ships." A pair of burly men grabbed Alvarie by the arms, hoisting the sobbing merchant to his feet as if he weighed nothing at all. He struggled briefly but soon gave up, his face pale and resigned as they dragged him toward one of the pirate ships. Others moved to secure the remaining survivors of the cargo vessel''s crew, who had been spared only because they had a use. The pirates herded them together, shoving them toward the wheel and rigging, growling threats to keep them compliant. "Follow us," one of the pirates sneered, gesturing toward the pirate ship. "Try anything funny, and we''ll toss you in after your friends." A handful of pirates lingered at the edge of the merchant ship, that would be later normally sold , watching as the rest of the crew set about their grim task. For the pirates, this was routine. As countless more ships did the same, denying the Imperial fleet their grain at all costs. And so, this raid was just one of many, part of a larger effort by the Confederation to choke the Empire''s supply lines and bait them into action Chapter 386: Incompetency Chapter 386: Incompetency If looks could kill, the man standing before Caius would already be a lifeless heap on the ground. The siege of Harmway wasn''t going disastrously¡ªfar from it, in fact. In a week and a half, the invading army had managed to avoid outbreaks of disease, a feat that any seasoned general would count as a minor miracle. The city was locked down tight, with no ships slipping past the naval blockade. By all accounts, things were proceeding as planned. But the devil was in the details. The island''s population, never more than a few thousand due to Harmway''s unforgiving geography, worked against them. The small city nestled within the fortress walls could sustain itself for longer than Caius liked to admit, stretching their meager supplies to outlast the siege. It wasn''t a thriving metropolis filled with mouths to feed¡ªit was a hardscrabble outpost of survivors accustomed to scarcity, which meant that whatever food they had stored, it could last them quite a bit. Of course the fact that the very sustenance of the troops regarding not only food but water was linked up with the navy, was certainly worrisome for the general, who in due time found out that his worries were not actually misplaced. In the dim glow of a candle that was lit at all time , Caius sat rigid in his chair, his piercing gaze locked on the envoy standing before him. The man fidgeted, a sheen of nervous sweat glistening on his brow as he struggled to maintain his composure under the general''s unrelenting scrutiny. "If I''m not mistaken," Caius began, his voice low and venomous, "the contract we signed with your trade guild was explicit. We agreed to pay twice the market price for grain¡ªtwice. An absurdly generous sum. And in return, your guild assured us full control over the logistics and redistribution process. Complete responsibility, you said, without any room for mistakes. Yet here we are, with our coffers lighter and our stomachs empty. Where is the grain?" The envoy swallowed hard, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. "General, with all due respect," he began cautiously, his voice trembling slightly, "a considerable number of guards were employed to ensure the safety of your shipments. But your enemies... they didn''t take the bait. When they saw the level of protection on the cargo ships, they changed their tactics." Caius''s eyes narrowed, his impatience barely concealed. "Changed their tactics? What are you saying?" The envoy hesitated, then continued, "They didn''t attempt to board. Instead, they opted for a more... brutal method, they rammed the ships. Deliberately. With no intention of taking the cargo, they sank them outright. At that point, there was nothing we could do. The guards we paid for couldn''t stop hulls splintering under the force of their ships." A tense silence followed, broken only by the sound of Caius''s fingers drumming on the armrest of his chair. The general''s voice dropped to an icy calm, his words cutting like steel. "So, you''re telling me that I paid an exorbitant price to secure my army''s lifeline, and your response to sabotage is to shrug and tell me you were powerless? This incompetence is unacceptable." As he said so his piercing eyes bore into the envoy, who shifted uneasily under the weight of his gaze. "Your prince built a navy, did he not?" Caius asked, his voice sharp ''''Why didn''t you request their protection for these shipments? Surely, with all the coin I''ve thrown at your guild, you could have secured an escort. Or was that too much to manage as well?Is your greed that much?" The envoy stiffened, clearly bracing himself for the backlash that would follow his response. "General," he began hesitantly, "we did try. We humbly approached the prince, who right now is in full control of the throne given her grace pregnancy, and formally requested that the navy accompany the supply ships to ensure their safe passage. It was a reasonable request, given the circumstances." Caius raised an eyebrow, his lips pressing into a thin line. "And?" The envoy swallowed hard before continuing, his words tinged with frustration and resignation. "Unfortunately, the prince refused. His response was... blunt. He stated that he had no obligation to aid the guild in fulfilling a contract we willingly entered into with your lordship. According to him, this matter was strictly between the guild and your lordship. He washed his hands of it entirely.Even after we proposed to pay a part of the money we received , he still refused " Caius exhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring as his hand clenched into a fist on the table. "Of course he did," he muttered under his breath, his tone laced with bitter sarcasm, as if he did not know better he would have thought that their prince was trying to sabotage their effort.Bloody hell!My brother paid his weight in silver for the grain , and we won''t even be able to receive it !What am I supposed to feed my men with? Caius narrowed his eyes, his irritation mounting as he glared at the envoy standing meekly before him. The man''s timid posture only fueled his disdain. "If you''ve come all this way just to whine about how you failed to uphold your end of the bargain," Caius began coldly, "then you''ve wasted your breath. Why are you here instead of fixing this mess you made ?" The envoy flinched but mustered the courage to respond, his voice trembling slightly. "General, if I may... given the situation, we were hoping your forces might be willing to dispatch a few ships to accompany our next convoy. It would ensure safe delivery and¡ª" Caius didn''t let him finish. His fist came down on the table with a thunderous crack, rattling the maps and goblets spread across its surface. "That wasn''t part of the deal!" he roared, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. "I paid good coin¡ªmore than good coin¡ªfor your guild to deliver what was promised. The contract was clear. I supply the gold; you supply the grain. Not the other way around!" The envoy took a shaky step back, his face pale as he tried to keep his composure. "General, with all due respect, we couldn''t have foreseen¡ª" "Enough!" Caius snapped, his glare sharp enough to pierce armor. "I didn''t ask for your excuses. I don''t care about your prince''s refusal or your guild''s incompetence. I paid for a service I have yet to receive, and now you stand here asking me to pick up the slack for your failures? You''re lucky I haven''t sent you back to Yarzat in chains for breach of contract. "It is explicitly written in the contract," he began, his words sharp and precise, "that if either side fails to uphold their end of the agreement, they will be subject to a financial penalty. If you cannot fix this mess you''ve made, then return the money we paid in good faith, and we will seek another guild¡ªone capable of fulfilling what you clearly cannot." The envoy visibly flinched, if that was to actually happen it would surely be a disaster, as after all with the margins of failure to sell grain being actually zero, many merchants spent most if not all of their savings on grain to sell it, and if the imperials were going to actually search for another client, then most of the guild would have gone bankrupt. At which point they would have to take out a loan from the crown, which was not sure could even happen as it was an open secret that the prince consort, , actively despised them as if the crown was a dog and them the cat. The envoy hesitated before speaking, his voice cautiously measured as he tried to gauge Caius''s mood. "General, if your forces could spare a few ships to defend our transports, I''m certain the guild would be willing to reconsider the price of the grain¡ªlower it significantly, even." Caius arched an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly as a humorless smile played on his lips. "Lower the price, you say?" He tapped his fingers on the table, the sound sharp and deliberate. "If I agree to assign five ships, the only price I''ll consider paying is the standard market rate. We''re already doing half your job for you." The envoy flinched but quickly regained his composure. "With all due respect, General, that would be... problematic," he replied, swallowing hard. "Many of the guild members paid above the standard price to secure enough grain for your fleet. If we accept your terms, it would be a financial catastrophe for us." Caius''s expression darkened, and he leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. "Catastrophe? You dare talk to me about catastrophe while I sit here managing an invasion on a hostile island, surrounded by enemies, because your guild couldn''t keep up its end of the bargain?" His voice was sharp, but his tone carried an edge of restrained patience. The envoy held his ground, though sweat glistened on his brow. "General, we deeply regret the circumstances, but a price reduction as steep as you propose would cripple us. Surely, a compromise can be reached?" For several minutes, the two argued back and forth, voices rising and falling as each tried to bend the other to their will. Caius made it clear he would not pay exorbitant prices for work he was now partially funding with his fleet, while the envoy insisted the guild couldn''t afford a substantial loss without risking their broader operations. Finally, Caius exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. "Fine," he growled. "Ten ships. You''ll get ten of my vessels to escort your transports. But in return, we pay no more than one and a half times the standard market price. Not a single coin more." The envoy hesitated, weighing the terms. After a moment, he gave a reluctant nod. "Very well, General. Ten ships, one and a half times the market price. I''ll inform the guild immediately." Caius gave a curt nod, dismissing the man with a wave. As the envoy scurried out of the tent, the general''s scowl deepened. "They better deliver this time, or no amount of excuses will save them. Wretched incompetents" Chapter 387: What can a month bring(1) Chapter 387: What can a month bring(1) Alpheo sat in a chair within his working station, the soft glow of the afternoon sun streaming through the arched window, bathing the room in warmth. In his arms, little Basil wriggled, his tiny fists punching the air with all the strength his one-month-old body could muster. Alpheo couldn''t help but smile, a softness in his features as he gazed down at his son. "Already ready to take on the world, aren''t you?" he murmured, his deep voice quiet and full of affection. Basil responded with a gurgle, his bright eyes locking onto his father''s face as though he understood every word. Alpheo chuckled softly, the sound deep and unfamiliar even to himself. He reached out with his free hand to gently tickle Basil''s cheek, eliciting a tiny, toothless smile. "You''ll be a strong one," Alpheo said, his voice barely above a whisper. "And clever too, I''ll make sure of it. You''ll have everything you need to be better than me" He shifted Basil onto his shoulder,making small jumps . The baby''s soft breaths and laughs were the only sounds in the room. "Rest easy, little one," Alpheo whispered, pressing a kiss to the downy hair on Basil''s head. "The world will wait for you to grow." The door to the room opened softly, and Jasmine entered, her movements graceful yet purposeful. After several weeks of well-earned rest following Basil''s birth, the princess had returned to her role as sovereign, resuming her duties to many of her subjects'' happiness, such as the nobility and the trade guild, who found in Alpheo a not too keen listener to their problems. Jasmine had already begun addressing petitions, presiding over court matters, and managing the intricate politics of the realm¡ªtasks that had been temporarily overseen by Alpheo during the latter months of her pregnancy. While he had performed these responsibilities diligently, it was clear that his heart had never been in them. The mundane rhythms of courtly life, the endless procession of petitioners, and the delicate balance of noble disputes were not where Alpheo''s passion laid. Especially with the latter as most of the time he couldn''t bear to listen about the useless blabbers that he was supposed to preside over, appointing instead most of the time people to oversee them, completely washing his hands of it.This however in turn displeased some of the lords as they were to be judged by people who, most of the time were only small nobility or courtiers. For him and for many, the return of Jasmine to her sovereign duties was a relief as water in a desert, Alpheohimself in particular was far happier to delegate the daily affairs of governance to her capable hands, allowing himself to focus on the matters that truly interested him. Whether it was refining the military, drafting reforms to strengthen the realm, or conceptualizing strategies for future ambitions, these were the pursuits that animated him. It was clear for many that while Alpheo had a keen mind about the general idea of governing a country, on the daily duties that a prince was to perform, he came down short.He was in fact reliant many times on Shahab''s suggestions ,which sometimes, however, he did not listen to. And now, with her return, he could finally step back and focus on the endeavors that made him tick¡ªa prospect that brought a small, private smile to his face. Jasmine quickly moved to her son, whom she scooped up with practiced ease, cradling him against her chest. Basil gurgled softly, his tiny hands brushing against her collar as she adjusted her hold. The tenderness in her movements was met with a warm smile from Alpheo, who stood nearby watching. "I can''t tell you how relieved I am that I don''t have to deal with your duties anymore," Alpheo said, his voice light . Jasmine glanced at him, with a small smile as she gently rocked Basil. "You certainly did your best," she replied, her tone kind but with a playful edge. "And for that, I''m grateful. Grandfather, most of all, is pleased to see things returning to how they were." Alpheo chuckled, stepping closer to the two of them. "The feeling is mutual," he said, reaching out to pet Basil''s soft, downy hair that had started to grow in earnest, completely ignoring the little jab he was just subject of . "I have no stomach for those endless petitions and court disputes. Leave that to you¡ªI''ll gladly stick to what I know best." Jasmine''s smile deepened as she watched the way Alpheo''s large hand carefully brushed over their son''s hair. "Well, seeing him now, it makes all the bother of carrying him for nine months worth it," she said softly, her voice brimming with maternal pride. She hesitated for a moment before adding, "Mother told me I''m lucky to have a son as my first-born." Alpheo smirked slightly, his expression playful. "I wouldn''t want to take all the credit for that." Jasmine couldn''t help but laugh, the sound light and musical as she leaned her head against his As Jasmine gently swayed with Basil in her arms, she glanced up at Alpheo, who suddenly remembered something "I forgot to tell you.Our gamble on the rebels worked better than I could''ve hoped. The twin fortresses have fallen. Now we can easily besiege it and starve the capital without fear of having our supply lines harassed.'''' Jasmine tilted her head slightly, her brow furrowing in thought. She didn''t know much about the intricacies of warfare; her knowledge was limited to what Alpheo had explained to her in simpler terms over time. A woman, after all, was not expected to inherit the throne, so all that she was taught was just some general knowledge just to appear cultured, as after all her fate was to be the key for a politcial allegiance that could benefit her father, so in that regard, she was completely ignorant. Jasmine leaned back slightly, cradling Basil in her arms as she absentmindedly traced patterns over his tiny hand. "Since we''re on the subject of what happened while I was absent I''ve been meaning to ask you about something that''s been bothering me." She paused, searching his eyes as if weighing her words. "You''ve always been very... resistant, shall we say, to the trade guild. And I know you''ve had your reasons, but what I don''t understand is why you refused to make use of our fleet when they offered money, for it.'''' We both know how much silver they were willing to part with. It''s not a small change, Alpheo." Her fingers stopped tracing patterns on Basil''s hand, and she looked up, meeting his gaze fully. "It cost us a lot. Too much to just let it sit there in the water. To let it go to waste." Seeing the question, Alpheo sighed, bracing himself for the explanation he knew Jasmine would demand. He leaned back slightly, adjusting his posture as if preparing for a long discussion. "Well," he began, his voice steady but touched with the faint weariness of someone constantly juggling a dozen plans, "soon enough, every ship we have will be needed elsewhere. This siege¡ª" he gestured vaguely, as if pointing toward the distant island across the waves, "¡ªit might drag on longer than any of us want, from what I know after the victory at Rock Bottom, Imperator Gratios took some months before the isle fell. In just a few weeks, we''ll be sending an envoy to whoever lives across the sea, to make contact and hopefully strike a deal." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing. "If it goes well, and there are people willing to move¡ªwilling to join us¡ªthen we''ll need every single ship at our disposal. Not just for transporting them here but to protect them along the way. The waters are crawling with pirates these days, and every merchant ship is a target. A fleet of twenty warships might not solve everything, but it will certainly make any small-time pirate think twice before trying their luck. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees as his tone grew more deliberate. "The truth is, I see the trade guild as more of a hindrance than a help. Their entire existence hinges on a few wealthy and powerful merchants wanting to control the prices of goods in the city. And to achieve that, they''ve devised a clever scheme¡ªbaiting smaller merchants with benefits that seem irresistible. To the small trader, the perks they offer far outweigh the costs of joining." Alpheo paused mid-sentence, his throat catching slightly as he spoke. He gave a quiet cough, reaching for a nearby cup of water. After taking a slow sip, he set the cup down and glanced at Jasmine with a faint smile. "Apologies," he murmured, his voice clearing. "I was talking about the cost of creating a monopoly. So the small fishes are attracted by a bait, making them lose something , to gain another more important . But for the big merchants? It''s a completely different game. What they gain is far more significant than any cost they bear: control. They secure power over the entire mercantile economy of the city, dictating prices and monopolizing the flow of goods. They basically dominate the flow of coins getting inside and out of the city " Alpheo leaned back slightly, rubbing his chin before looking at Jasmine. "Tell me, my dear," he said with a wishful expression "do you know how business operates as you move down the ladder of power? How each rung works to benefit the ones perched comfortably above it?" He gestured vaguely, his tone taking on a note of ironic amusement Chapter 388: What can a month bring(2) Chapter 388: What can a month bring(2) As Jasmine listened to Alpheo''s explanation, she tilted her head slightly, her expression thoughtful. Of course, she didn''t know the intricacies of trade or the lives of common folk. Growing up in the palace, her world had been one of luxury and privilege, far removed from the struggles of those born outside noble bloodlines. For her, the low-born had always been an abstract concept¡ªpeople who lived their lives, paid their taxes, and occasionally took up arms when summoned by their betters. It wasn''t indifference that kept her detached, though. On the contrary, she harbored a quiet detatched interest with those who lived so differently from her. Of course that was only secondory compaired to what intrigued her most, which was Alpheo, who in his rare moments of candor, would share glimpses of his life before entering her father''s service. Whenever he opened up, she would listen with rapt attention, ears keen for any details about the enigmatic man she had married. To Jasmine, Alpheo was a puzzle¡ªa figure shrouded in mystery. He had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, a man of no noble lineage, and in the span of a single year, he had transformed their kingdom''s fortunes. Under his guidance, their country had risen to a regional prominence, a feat that nor Jasmine and nor her father had never dared to dream of achieving alone. Of course, much of this newfound stature rested on the foundation of imperial support, but that hardly diminished Alpheo''s accomplishment in her eyes. Making her question on jow had this man, with no apparent ties to royalty or great wealth, managed to know so much about the business of ruling ? Alpheo was never short on ideas, and he rarely hesitated to share them with her. Yet, when it came to his own past, he was as impenetrable as stone. Jasmine had tried, more than once, to draw him out, be it in bed or outside. Each time, however, he deftly sidestepped her questions, dismissing them with a smile or a clever change of subject. But Jasmine was neither stupid nor blind. She had noticed the scars on his back¡ªjagged lines that crisscrossed his skin like an artist''s cruel etching. Though he went to great lengths to hide them, always undressing with his back to the wall, and never showing his back during sex. Still ,there were moments when his careful charade faltered. In the restless heat of summer, when he wore only a light tunic to bed, the faint outline of those marks would betray him. Or on nights when he twisted and turned in his sleep, the fabric shifting just enough to expose the truth. The thought that her husband had once been a slave had never occurred to her. Slaves were broken by design, their lives snuffed out long before they could carve out even a shadow of what Alpheo had accomplished. No, she had reasoned, those scars must be the remnants of some punishment meted out during his time as a mercenary, which was the only thing he mentioned about his past. That was the story he had given her, after all, and it was plausible enough. Soldiers of fortune ofter received the lash of discipline. What Jasmine didn''t know¡ªwhat Alpheo would never tell her¡ªwas that those scars were not the result of a drunken brawl in a mercenary camp or a punishment for some misconduct. They were the price of breaking a sack of grain when he was still a slave following the army in the principality of Arlania. There were rare moments in their conversations when Alpheo would lose himself, letting his words flow freely as if caught in a current of his own thoughts. This was one of those moments. "You see," he began, his tone taking on that lively edge Jasmine had come to associate with his deeper musings, "the further you descend the ladder of society, the more people try to mimic the structure of power above them. It''s almost instinctual. Take states, for example. Why do they even exist? It''s because people¡ªknowingly or not¡ªsacrifice part of their well-being to escape a worse state of living." Jasmine tilted her head, intrigued as always when he took this tone. "Think about it," Alpheo continued, gesturing animatedly now. "Peasants hand over a portion of their grain, their hard work, to their lords. And what do they get in return? Protection from bandits, a semblance of order¡ªlaws, even. Except," he leaned back slightly "those laws, more often than not, are crafted to benefit the lords more than the people they''re supposed to protect. It''s a bargain, sure, but it''s a loaded one. The peasants pay, and they endure, hoping the trade-off is worth it.Until it reaches a certain point where it isn''t a choice anymore." "The same principles," Alpheo continued, his voice carrying the rhythm of a storyteller who had spent years thinking about such things, "apply to trade guilds. Smaller merchants hand over a slice of their profits and abide by the rules set by the guild to avoid something far worse¡ªa complete collapse of their livelihood. For instance, a merchant who loses his fortune on a risky investment can appeal to the guild for a loan with an incredibly low interest rate, giving him a chance to rebuild his savings. It''s a lifeline, yes, but one that comes with a price." He leaned forward slightly, his expression thoughtful but edged with a subtle bite of disdain. "And so, the trade guilds become miniature lordships in their own right, exerting control over the mercantile life of the city. They monopolize everything: who buys, who sells, and at what price. But their reach doesn''t stop with merchants¡ªit seeps into the everyday lives of artisans and shopkeepers, too. These shop owners rely on raw materials provided by the guild-affiliated merchants. Many times, they''re coaxed into becoming clients of the guild, not full members, but bound by benefits and agreements they can''t afford to refuse." Jasmine frowned slightly, the weight of his words settling over her. Alpheo, noticing her reaction, gestured to emphasize his point. "This system, though," he continued, "can work against them. Let''s say a new merchant enters the city with better goods or lower prices. If that merchant isn''t part of the guild, local shop owners won''t touch their wares. Doing so would violate their agreements with the guild, cutting off their supply of essential materials or even blacklisting them entirely. It''s not loyalty¡ªit''s fear." He paused for effect, then added with a hint of exasperation, "And if the guild decides to raise the price of raw materials? The shopkeepers have nowhere else to go. No alternative. They''re trapped. It''s a vicious cycle¡ªone where the guild profits at the expense of everyone else." Alpheo leaned back in his chair, his expression tightening with resolve as he cradled Basil against his chest. His gaze, usually warm when directed at his family, took on a sharper edge "This," he said, gesturing vaguely as if encompassing the trade guilds and all their dealings, "is exactly why, in the future, I plan to see the crown take over the entire trade guild network. It''s the only way to ensure the city remains truly under our control¡ªadministratively, yes, but mercantile as well." Jasmine tilted her head, curiosity flickering across her face. Alpheo, noticing her unspoken question, continued with a passion that made his words feel like declarations carved in stone. "Think about it," he said, shifting slightly to better meet her gaze. "Right now, the guilds are like parasites, feeding off the city while pretending to support it. They dictate prices, stifle competition, and ensure that everyone¡ªfrom the smallest shop owner to the wealthiest merchant¡ªanswers to them. But if the crown were to absorb their structure to take direct control over trade, we could eliminate these power struggles entirely. No more secret deals, no more monopolies. Instead, everything would flow through us.As it should." Jasmine arched a delicate brow, her lips curving into a teasing smile. "You know" she began, her tone light but edged with playful accusation, "sometimes it feels like you don''t just want to govern this city¡ªyou want to own it entirely." Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, Alpheo didn''t respond. Then, a chuckle escaped him, low and unrepentant. Basil squirmed slightly in his arms, and he shifted the infant gently, his free hand brushing over his son''s soft hair. "You''re not wrong," he admitted, his voice carrying a note of humor mixed with genuine resolve. "I won''t deny it¡ªI think we should have complete control over the city . But..." He leaned forward slightly, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that was impossible to ignore. "If in taking over the city, we can ensure that everyone benefits then isn''t it a goal worth pursuing?" Jasmine studied him for a moment, her playful expression softening as she saw the sincerity behind his words. "You make it sound noble , when you just want to pursue your ambitions. No need to mask them when you are in front of me. I already know what goes through your mind by now.The same goes through mine after all...'''' Chapter 389: Change of Strategy Chapter 389: Change of Strategy The once-perilous routes that that Yarzat''s merchant ships took , filled with supplies for the Romelian Armada, finally found respite with the arrival of the ten ships Lord Caius had dispatched to guard them . Of course, this newfound security came at a cost, which was bore from them, apart naturally from the lowered price they were forced to sell the grain, there was also the problem of time. Where once merchants could set out individually as soon as their holds were packed, eager to collect payment and prepare for their next voyage, the protection of the fleet introduced strict schedules. Now, convoys departed only on designated dates, carefully timed to allow the warships to escort the flotilla to the besieged isle and return for the next group. These intervals, spaced by necessity, meant fewer trips and, consequently, reduced profits for the merchants. Despite this limitation, the trade-off was clear. Though they could no longer dictate their own pace, the guarantee of safety outweighed the loss. No longer did they have to gamble with their livelihoods¡ªor their lives¡ªagainst the ever-present threat of pirates or enemy ships. Their cargo reached its destination intact, and they returned with their vessels unscathed, as lone pirate ships steered clear from them as soon as they caught sight of Romelian ships. The grumbling among the merchants was minimal, tempered by the relief of no longer sailing with the specter of destruction looming over them. After all, even reduced profits were far better than facing the potential of losing everything, including their own lives, to the cruel whims of the sea and those that thrived on it. Of course if such changes were a boon for the merchants they were naturally the opposite for the pirates ------------------- Darron''s boots crunched against the coarse gravel of the secluded isle''s shore as he approached the small command tent, his jacket still damp from the sea spray. His ship had returned from another successful foray, and he had made his way here as instructed, following the discreet directions given to all junior captains under Blake''s personal command. Unlike the rest of the Confederation fleet, gathered at a more distant anchorage to avoid detection, Blake had chosen this remote spot to operate quietly and maintain flexibility over his core force for small-time operations. The sea near Harmway was dotted with a constellation of islands, ranging from modest specks of land barely large enough to support a few trees to more substantial formations with jagged cliffs and hidden coves. Many of these islands were so small and insignificant that they had never been mapped, let alone named. They simply existed, unbothered and unremarkable,which made them perfect as a place to anchor safely for a few days without attracting attention. Of course no force could stay here too long , as there were no water sources to drink from, still they were perfect for Blake who was planning attacks over the convoys bringing food to the Romelian invading force. Pushing aside the tent flap, Darron found Blake bent over a weathered table, scrutinizing the maps that detailed the waters surrounding Harmway, alongside him was a man that he recognised as Blake''s long time friend. The High Admiral looked up briefly, acknowledging his arrival with a nod before turning back to the charts. Blake''s clean-shaven face, now slightly weathered by salt and sun, bore the same calm, calculating expression Darron had come to respect over the years. "Well, it seems like the feast is over, Cap¡ªer, I mean High Admiral," Darron announced, standing at ease but with a trace of nervous energy in his stance. ''''Good afternoon to you lord Kroll'''' He said with a small bow, to the man who answered with a quick nod as acceptance of the greeting. Blake glanced up again, this time letting out a dry chuckle as he leaned back from the table. "It was bound to happen," he said, his tone resigned but still laced with confidence. He scratched his chin thoughtfully, the faint sound of stubble betraying his usual meticulous grooming. "Though I''ve told you before, Darron, there''s no need for titles when not in official meetings .We go a long way back, you and I.Still , enough about that.I suppose you bring news?" "The enemy''s supply ships are no longer running their routes freely," Darron began, his expression turning serious. "They''ve started gathering them into convoys, guarded by a detachment of their fleet. It''s clear they''ve adjusted to our tactics." Blake nodded, his fingers tracing the coastline on the map before him. "Expected, but unfortunate. That''ll make it harder for our smaller ships to pick them off without significant risk. Anything else?" ''''No, that was all, Captain," Darron said, standing at attention, his tone still excited by his new-given power Blake nodded, his eyes still fixed on the map sprawled across the weathered table in front of him. The flickering lantern light cast sharp shadows over the parchment, accentuating the intricate detailing of the waters and islands near Harmway. After a moment, he glanced up, his expression softening slightly. "Very well," Blake replied, his voice steady but carrying an air of finality. "You are relieved, then. Get some rest while you can." Darron offered a curt nod, his posture relaxing as he turned to leave the tent. Left alone Kroll turned to Blake. "Our current plan of action is no longer feasible, it seems " He tapped one of the maps with a calloused finger, pointing to a series of tiny islands scattered across the sea near Harmway. "The raids worked because their convoys were fragmented. Ships moved in twos or threes, making it easy to evade their patrols, hit isolated targets, and retreat before any information could get back to the main fleet. But now..." He leaned back, exhaling heavily. "They''re grouping their ships into larger convoys, and those patrols are becoming more coordinated. We can''t keep slipping through undetected. If we try the same tactics, it''s only a matter of time before we''re caught out." Blake listened in silence, his sharp eyes fixed on Kroll as he spoke. When the man finished, Blake shifted his gaze back to the map, his fingers tracing the coastline of Harmway. "I know very well we can''t win by doing this," he said finally, his tone calm but resolute. "But it served its purpose. We managed to chip away at their naval strength without losing a single one of our ships. Every ship they''ve lost is one less to blockade us or ferry troops to the island." Inside the tent, Blake leaned back in his chair, the worn wood creaking under his weight as he looked at Kroll. The flicker of the lantern light reflected in his sharp, calculating eyes. "There''s still a little bit of time before our fleet congregates fully," Blake began, his tone deliberate. He tapped the map with a finger "That means we''ve got a window for one last trick before we have to commit the whole fleet forward." Kroll crossed his arms, "Whatever trick you''re planning, can''t it wait for the whole fleet to assemble? I think it will have much more success to succeed at full force'''' Blake shook his head firmly. "We can''t do that. As soon as the fleet''s ready, we won''t waste a single day before sailing into battle. That''s why anything we''re going to do, any move we''re going to make, has to happen before we''re at full strength. Once the entire fleet is on the water, we''re committed, and our element of surprise will be gone, plus the small captains won''t have the patience for strategy different , from sailing straight toward the enemy." Kroll''s brow furrowed, his fingers idly tracing one of the islands marked on the map,. "What kind of move are you talking about?" Blake leaned forward, his voice lowering as though the very walls of the tent could betray their words. "We know where they''re anchored. We''ve had eyes on their movements for weeks now, and they still don''t know where we''re hiding. That''s an advantage we''ll lose the moment we sail in force. But if we strike now¡ªbefore they know what''s coming¡ªwe could tilt the odds even further in our favor." Kroll leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studied Blake. "What sort of plan are you thinking about? One that not only doesn''t need the entire fleet but would somehow be disadvantaged by it? " Blake smirked, the faintest hint of satisfaction creeping into his expression. "The kind of plan where precision matters more than numbers," he said, his tone deliberate. "You see, everything we''ve done up to now¡ªevery raid, every ship we''ve harried ¡ªhasn''t just been about trying to starve the Romelians.Since the start I knew it would have been impossible. It''s been about preparation." Kroll raised an eyebrow. "Preparation? For what?" Blake leaned forward, the smile he usually has when he thinks of something devious already lying on his lips "For the same thing that two sides do in wars since the dawn of time , killing those on the opponent side.'''' Chapter 390: A gift from the friends across the sea(1) Chapter 390: A gift from the friends across the sea(1) The night was cloaked in pitch-black darkness, a veil so thick it felt as though the world itself had been swallowed by the void. Blake stood on the deck of the Roaring Axe, his hands resting on the cold railing as he stared out into the abyss. He had always despised the dark; the inability to see what lay ahead filled him was nerve-wrecking. Yet, tonight, that very darkness was an ally, as after all being unable to see ahead worked on both sides. The Roaring Axe was the lead ship, cutting through the blackened waves like a predator stalking its prey. Behind it, ten other vessels sailed in tight formation, their sails catching the faint breeze. Blake''s gaze shifted to the merchant vessels among them¡ªawkward, slow-moving hulks of wood and cargo. They were a far cry from the sleek warships he was accustomed to commanding, but they had their purpose. Their size and weight, combined with the element of surprise and the wind in their favour, would allow them enough speed to breach the enemy ships For an entire week, Blake and his crew had waited, testing the wind, scanning the skies, and measuring the currents. Without the wind blowing in their favor, the ships wouldn''t achieve the speed needed to execute the plan. Ramming an enemy vessel required momentum¡ªa crushing force that merchant ships simply couldn''t muster under their own sluggish power. Each of Blake''s ships had been meticulously prepared for this mission, their decks loaded with flammable materials. Bundles of dried wood and bales of hay were packed tightly against the rails, while barrels brimming with fish oil were secured in the holds. The fishing fleets had scoured the seas tirelessly for the latter , their hauls processed and rendered until they had enough of the viscous, flammable liquid to coat the decks and ensure that the ships took up flame as soon as even a spark got close Now, after weeks of painstaking preparation, the time had come. The ships sailed ahead. Their course was set for the unsuspecting enemy fleet, which lay anchored off Harmway, oblivious to the threat creeping toward them under the shroud of night. The journey, however, was far from direct. The waters surrounding Harmway were heavily patrolled by enemy ships. These vigilant sentinels scoured the seas for any sign of approaching vessels, though they were mostly lax. They were looking for an enemy fleet, that could be easily seen from the light of the torches from the distance. In the pitch-black darkness of this moonless night, it was unthinkable that a fleet would risk moving. The dangers were too great: ships might drift apart from their formation, their captains unable to navigate without sight, or worse, they could collide in the choppy waters. The sea was far from calm, its restless waves a challenge even for seasoned sailors. Of course such a problem would have happened in this case too, still Blake had taken precautions against it. He had ordered the ships in his fleet to be tethered together by long, sturdy ropes¡ªeach thirty meters in length. This ensured that no vessel would drift too far from the main group, maintaining cohesion even in the black void of the night sea. Such a strategy, however, was only feasible with a small detachment of ships. With a full fleet of seventy or eighty vessels, the risk of collisions and entanglements in the chaos of darkness would have been far too great. Meanwhile as the ships sailed the seas, down onto the cabin the old hag was doing whatever she was, eitheri praying or sacrificing animals, Blake did not know nor care as long as it worked. She had insisted on performing her rituals under the open sky, claiming that it would be a disrespect not to be in the open when asking Their god''s a favor. She had promised him that the ships would catch a flame "hotter than the sun itself." Of course Blake, ever pragmatic, had ordered her confined to the cabin. The crew needed their wits about them, and the last thing he needed was for their morale to worsen under the sight of dark magic on display. The crew knew, of course, who traveled among them. Whispers of the witch had circulated since her first boarding, but so long as her rituals remained hidden from sight, the men were content to turn a blind eye. Superstition ran deep among sailors, and Blake had no intention of allowing it to fester. He also had a more practical deterrent: discipline, enforced with ruthless efficiency, he was lax at times but he certainly had his ways for those that went against him . The crew understood the consequences of disobedience aboard the Roaring Axe. Among the punishments available to Blake, none was more feared than keelhauling. The mere mention of it silenced dissent. The grisly method¡ªdragging a man beneath the ship''s keel, his body torn apart by barnacles and jagged wood, over and over again until death came from either shock or drowning¡ªwas enough to make even the boldest sailor think twice about mutiny, even in the face of certain death caused by obeying them . As Blake stood on the deck, the faint sounds of the hag''s words filtered up through the planks beneath his feet. "Better her down there than scaring the men up here," Blake muttered to himself, his eyes scanning the horizon. He trusted in discipline and fear to keep order aboard his ship, but even the most hardened sailors had their limits. The old bitch can have her flames. He just hoped they''d burn the enemy and not his own fleet. As the night stretched on, faint glimmers began to dot the horizon, growing brighter with each passing moment. The lights of the city came into view¡ªpinpricks of firelight from torches and lanterns that lined the streets and walls, their warm glow stark against the pitch-black sea. Blake leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he studied the distant specks. "That''s it," Blake muttered under his breath, gripping the edge of the rail. "We''re close." He had no time to dwell on distractions. His eyes remained fixed ahead, scanning for any sign of enemy ships or patrols. Under his command, the fleet adjusted course, angling northward. They moved carefully, hugging the coastline where shadows from the cliffs and dense vegetation offered a degree of concealment. The plan demanded stealth, and every man aboard knew the importance of silence. Torches had been extinguished long before, leaving only the faint glow of starlight to guide their way. He knew that the enemy''s camp and anchoring ground lay further north, on a stretch of coast with a natural harbor¡ªa suitable location for a fleet of their size to gather and prepare. It wasn''t hard to imagine their ships resting there, lined up like sitting ducks. ---------------- Darron stood on the deck of his ship, his hands gripping the worn wood of the rail as he stared into the darkness ahead. The faint glow of the enemy camp had just begun to creep into view on the horizon. He could feel the tension in the air, a heavy weight that seemed to press down on every man aboard. Though he wore the insignia of a captain, his heart wasn''t in this mission. He hadn''t wanted to be here. The plan felt reckless, even suicidal. But refusing the opportunity to command one of the ships would have been disastrous for his reputation. He''d been raised to captain just months ago, a coveted position that others had spent years, even decades, striving to attain. To turn down such an assignment would have marked him as a coward and undone everything he''d worked for. So here he was, standing on the deck of a ship destined for destruction, pretending to exude a confidence he did not ahve as his crew moved with their usual efficency around him. "Keep the course steady," he called out, his voice steady despite the unease roiling inside him. "Aye, captain," one of the men replied, adjusting the sails to catch the faint breeze that pushed them forward. The crew worked in near silence, each man aware of the stakes.Some adjusted the ropes tethering their ship to the others, ensuring the formation held. Others kept watch, their eyes scanning the coastline for any sign of trouble. Darron''s gaze turned to the horizon once more, where the lights of the enemy camp grew brighter. The campfires dotted the shoreline like scattered stars, flickering against the backdrop of darkness. Their prize was there, just a few hundred meters off the coast¡ªenemy ships floating lazily on the water, their silhouettes illuminated by the distant glow. It was almost surreal, the sight of those ships so close and yet so far. They were the culmination of weeks of preparation, of long nights and risky maneuvers. Darron''s hand hovered in the air for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest. The glow of the enemy camp was brighter now, the flickering lights reflecting faintly on the water. He steeled himself, then dropped his hand decisively. We are close... "Cut the ropes," he ordered, his voice with a raspy tone that surprised even him, carrying however just enough weight to command immediate action. A crewman near the bow moved swiftly, unsheathing a dagger. With a single, clean slash, the tether that bound their ship to the others was severed. The ship was on its own now, gliding forward in silence toward its final destination. The sound of the rope snapping was like a signal in the still night, and the other ships in their small fleet began to follow suit, one by one. "Spill the oil," Darron barked as the crew sprang into action. Men carried barrels of fish oil from the hold, the containers sloshing with their volatile contents. Others heaved bundles of hay onto the deck, stacking them in mounds already slick with oil. The acrid smell of it filled the air, mixing with the salty tang of the sea. Darron watched as they worked with grim determination, their movements efficient but tense. "Get the smaller vessels ready,I don''t want to be here when it chatches fire" he called, turning to another group of sailors. The order was met with immediate compliance. Wooden skiffs, tied to the sides of the ship, were lowered into the water with quiet precision. The small boats rocked gently as they touched the surface, waiting for the crew to pile in once the ship''s fiery fate was sealed. Darron stepped toward the edge of the deck, gripping the rail tightly as he looked out over the dark waters. The enemy ships were clearer now, their silhouettes looming larger against the faint glow of the camp. They were tantalizingly close, but the moment wasn''t right yet. Timing was everything if they were to suceed. Chapter 391: A gift from your friends across the sea(2) Chapter 391: A gift from your friends across the sea(2) That was it¡ªthe moment of truth. Weeks of preparation and relentless effort had all led to this. The plan was in motion, and there was no turning back. The ropes had been cut, allowing Darron to lead his own part of the operation. The ship, now laden with oil-soaked hay, surged forward, gaining speed as they glided toward their target¡ªthe anchored enemy vessels resting unsuspectingly under the cover of night. The pitch-black darkness had been their ally. The patrol ships circling the islands had missed them entirely, as there were no source of light in the ship . Sure Blake''s decision to forgo torches and rely on ropes to maintain formation had been risky, but it had paid off. Darron stood at the helm, his heart hammering in his chest as he watched the distance close. The enemy ships, their masts swaying gently against the horizon, were growing larger with every moment. This was it¡ªthe point of no return. He glanced back at his crew. They moved like shadows, working with a silent urgency to ensure everything was in place. The barrels of fish oil had been emptied, their contents saturating the hay piled high on deck. The smaller escape boats bobbed beside the ship inching a few meters above the water , waiting for the moment when they would be their lifeline. Darron scanned the horizon, his eyes straining against the oppressive darkness. The other ships were out there¡ªhe knew that much¡ªbut be coud not see them . For now, it was only him. His ship cut through the waves, the sound of water slapping against the hull the only evidence of its progress. The faint glow of the enemy campfire grew steadily larger, flickering like a distant star. The enemy ships were closer now, their shadows just beginning to take form in the faint ambient light spilling from the coast. The enemy ships loomed larger now, their dark silhouettes becoming clearer against the faint light of the anchored campfires on the shore. The tension aboard Darron''s ship was suffocating, every creak of the hull and slap of the waves amplified in the silence. One of the crewmen,with nervous eyes, crept closer to Darron, his boots making the faintest scuffing sound on the deck. He said nothing, his gaze fixed on the approaching shadows ahead. His lips twitched as if he wanted to speak, but he held his tongue, standing just close enough for Darron to feel his presence like a nagging weight on his shoulders. The silence dragged on, broken only by the soft rustle of the wind against the sails. Finally, the crewman could take it no longer. "We''re on route to collision captain," he blurted, his voice barely above a whisper but shaking with tension.''''We sh-'''' Darron didn''t look at him. His jaw tightened, and his hand gripped the rail with bruising force. "Shut up," he hissed interrupting him , his tone sharp enough to cut through the man''s nerves. "We have one shot to get this right.And I will not look the Admiral in the face and report that as cowards we left the ship too soon" The crewman flinched but didn''t step back, his gaze darting nervously between Darron and the looming ships. "It''s night," Darron continued, deciding to explain himself., his voice low and steady, though the weight of the moment made it tremble slightly. "We do no know if we''re on course unless we''re close. That''s the risk." The crewman hesitated, his breath shallow. "If you''re empty-handed..." Darron paused, finally turning to meet the man''s gaze. His eyes, lit by the faint glow of the enemy''s fires, were unyielding. "Prepare the torch.Do something to calm your nerves." The crewman nodded stiffly, retreating toward one of the barrels of oil near the center of the deck. The faint splash of liquid could be heard as he dipped a stick wrapped tightly in cloth into the viscous substance. He worked quickly, his hands trembling slightly as he withdrew the soaked torch and wrung out the excess oil onto the deck. Nearby, another crewman knelt on the far side of the ship, well away from the stacked hay and oil-soaked boards. He held two stones in his hands, their surfaces jagged and rough. With measured determination, he struck them together repeatedly, each impact producing a faint spark. For long moments, only the soft scrape of the stones and the muted lapping of waves filled the air. Finally, one strike yielded a small ember that danced to life on the edge of the cloth. The crewman blew on it gently, coaxing it to grow. Within seconds, the ember flared, the flames licking up the length of the torch, casting flickering light across the deck. Darron watched silently, his eyes narrowing as the flame took hold. Then he turned his gaze outward. Across the horizon, small flames erupted like fireflies in the night. One by one, the other ships ignited their torches, their flickering lights appearing almost in unison as if guided by some unseen hand. The scattered flames reflected on the dark waters, casting eerie patterns that rippled and danced with the waves. Darron exhaled slowly, his breath fogging in the chill air . The moment was here. He turned toward the crewman clutching the flaming torch. His boots thudded heavily against the deck as he closed the distance. Reaching out, he grasped the torch firmly. For a brief moment, he stood there, the flickering light casting deep shadows across his face, as if weighing the gravity of what was to come. Finally, he turned, his voice steady but low"Evacuate the ship. In order." The calm in his words was the eye of the storm. Almost immediately, chaos erupted around him. The crew sprang into action, shouting orders to one another as they scrambled to lower the ladders over the sides. Wooden creaks mixed with the splash of water as the smaller vessels were quickly readied. The men moved with purpose, but the tension in the air was palpable. They all knew time was running out. Darron watched the scene unfold, the torch in his hand casting a glow over his weathered face. Above the chaos, he could hear the waves crashing harder against the bow, the rhythmic sound accelerating his heart. The enemy ships were growing closer with every heartbeat, their silhouettes looming larger in the darkness. He wasn''t going with them. That much was clear in his mind. A ship like this didn''t set itself alight, and the responsibility for doing so¡ªand for ensuring the mission''s success¡ªrested squarely on his shoulders. As captain, it was his duty to be the last to leave, the one to throw the torch and see the task through. The first lifeboat splashed into the water below, its crew scrambling aboard and calling for others to hurry. Darron turned his gaze toward the horizon, where the faint outlines of the enemy fleet were now unmistakable. The tension in his chest tightened like a coiled spring. The salty breeze whispered around him, as his mind turned to the gods of the sea. Lord of the Depths, master of all tides, hear me. Great Mariner, who steers the currents, grant me your favor. Let these waters carry me safely, even as we trespass upon their fury. The flame in his hand danced wildly, as he spared a look at the stormy sea''s wave Father of Storms, spare us from your wrath tonight. Let the winds remain at peace, the waves gentle beneath our hulls. Guard those who sail under my command, that they may see another dawn. Men were descending faster as the enemy shims loomed closer and closer Let no watchful eyes pierce this darkness, no stray sound betray our purpose. Carry this vessel forward unseen, as only you can. He tightened his grip on the torch, feeling its heat like a pulse in his palm, and opened his eyes. Darron breathed deeply, the sea air filling his lungs, and silently offered one last plea: If this night is my last, so be it. But let my soul rest with you, O Lord of the Abyss, among the endless tides. By the time the prayer finished , the last of the crew had disappeared over the side, their frantic shouts and hurried footsteps fading into the darkness. Now, Darron was alone. The ship groaned beneath him, its momentum pulling it closer to the anchored enemy vessels. That was it , it was about to collide and there was no time left. Darron strode across the deck, the torch blazing fiercely in his hand. The heat kissed his face as he reached the slick oil-soaked boards near the stacked hay. His heart thundered in his ears. The ship''s bow cut through the water, and the enemy''s forms grew dangerously close. There would be no second chance. With a sharp inhale, Darron threw the torch. It arced through the air, landing amidst the oil and hay with a muffled thump. The flames licked hungrily at the fuel, roaring to life as if they had been waiting for this moment. In an instant, the deck ignited, golden light bursting into the night and illuminating the approaching enemy fleet. Darron barely had time to react. The ladder was out of reach now, and the flames surged too quickly, consuming the wooden planks in a fiery embrace. Too fast With no other option, he ran to the ship''s side and threw himself into the sea,forsaking any safety that came with that. The icy water hit him like a fist, stealing the breath from his lungs. His body was engulfed in the numbing cold, every nerve screaming as he sank beneath the surface. The sound of the flames crackling above mixed with the roar of the water in his ears as he prayed to his god, that this was not the day. Chapter 392: A gift from your friend across the sea(3) Chapter 392: A gift from your friend across the sea(3) The icy darkness wrapped around Darron like a shroud, pressing in from all sides. Beneath the surface of the sea, there was no sound but the muffled roar of distant chaos and the rush of blood in his ears. His chest burned, the cold water biting at his skin, and everything around him was a void¡ªa deep, consuming blackness that seemed infinite. He kicked hard, his limbs heavy from the cold, clawing his way toward where he hoped the surface lay, for a small second, he even wondered if he was going up or down, the complete darkness playing with his mind. Suddenly, however the darkness above him exploded into brilliance. A burst of light so intense it pierced the murky depths, flooding the water with an unnatural glow. It was as though a thousand torches had ignited all at once, becoming even more dashing as it contrasted with the complete pitch black. For half a second, he froze. The immense radiance illuminated the water around him, as if the sea itself had caught fire. The suddenness of it, the sheer force of the brightness, stunned him. But the searing ache in his chest yanked him from his daze. His lungs screamed for air, the crushing need to breathe overwhelming every other thought. He kicked harder, pushing his arms through the illuminated water with desperate strength, his mind focused on the single goal of breaking through to the surface before the dark depths claimed him for good. Darron burst through the surface of the water, gasping as if he had been reborn. The cold night air rushed into his lungs, burning like fire but filling him with the life he so desperately needed. He coughed and sputtered, saltwater pouring from his mouth as his arms flailed instinctively, trying to keep him afloat. "Over here!" he shouted hoarsely, his voice raw and weak against the chaos around him. He raised his arms, thrashing them above his head in a frantic attempt to draw attention. Suddendly much to his relief, a small boat emerged from the gloom, rowing toward him. One of the crew aboard spotted him, their silhouette illuminated by the glow. "There! Grab him!" a voice called out, barely audible over the roar of the burning ships. The small vessel maneuvered closer, and rough hands reached out toward Darron. With the last of his strength, he swam toward them, his legs weak and trembling. "Got you Captain!" One of the crew grunted as they grabbed his arm and heaved him up. Darron half-climbed, half-collapsed over the side, landing heavily on the wooden boards of the small boat. He lay there for a moment, gasping, his wet hair plastered to his forehead. The crew leaned over him, relief etched into their faces. "Thought we lost you in his embrace Captain," one of them said Darron sat up slowly, his body aching and drenched to the bone. He turned back toward the inferno, its fiery light still casting shadows across the waves. The first part of their mission was complete, but he knew the true test was yet to come. One of the crew members crouched beside Darron, his face pale and eyes wide, the flickering light of the flames playing across his features. "Did you see it? The flames¡ªthey were... unreal." Darron blinked, still trying to catch his breath, his mind foggy from the cold and the chaos. "See it?" he rasped, his voice hoarse. "No... I was underwater. What are you talking about?" He turned his head, squinting toward the inferno. The ship¡ªwhat had been at least ¡ªwas unmistakably lodged against one of the enemy vessels. The impact had been clean, the hulls jammed together as though they were locked in a final, destructive embrace. But what truly struck him was the fire spreading across the enemy''s anchored fleet. Flames licked hungrily at the decks, climbing masts like living creatures. Those that were on those ships were quick to abandon it, not even bothering to lower the smaller vessel as the flames were burning up unnaturally fast , as they directly threw themselves onto the water, trying to reach the relatively close shore. Darron frowned, his confusion mounting. He''d never seen a fire move like this before. The blaze was unnaturally quick. True, their ships were soaked in oil, but the others? Was this normal? Surely, a wooden vessel doused in fish oil and hay would burn, but the wood itself did not take up fire so fast... He turned back to the crew member. "Why did you ask if I saw it?" The man hesitated, his lips pressed into a thin line as though struggling to find the right words. Finally, he gestured toward the burning ships. "It wasn''t like a normal fire, Captain. It didn''t just spread¡ªa lot " He mimicked an explosion with his hands, his fingers splaying outward. "One second it was dark, and then the flames were everywhere, all at once. Like a wave of light rolling over the deck." Darron stared at him, his brow furrowing. "Spread?" he repeated, disbelief creeping into his voice. " Ships are made of wood, and wood doesn''t do that. It doesn''t make sense." "I know what I saw; the others do too," the crewman insisted, his voice trembling. "It was like¡ªlike something inside the ship just... went up all at once." He glanced uneasily at Darron, then back at the flames Darron''s mind reeled. Could it have been the witch''s doing? No, that was ridiculous¡ªwasn''t it? He shook his head, his wet hair clinging to his skin. "It doesn''t add up," he muttered to himself, half to the crewman and half to no one at all. Another crew member, perched on the edge of the small vessel with his oar resting across his lap, nodded vigorously. "He''s right, Captain," the man chimed in, his voice barely audible over the distant roar of the flames. "It wasn''t natural. One moment there was barely a glow, and the next, the whole deck lit up like the sun had come down to sit on it." A murmur of agreement rippled through the crew, their voices tense with a mixture of awe and unease. The man who had first spoken looked back at Darron with a grim expression. Darron raised a hand, cutting them off before the conversation spiraled further into speculation. "It doesn''t matter," he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for debate. He straightened as best he could in the cramped boat, the cold saltwater still clinging to his skin. "What matters is that the mission is done. We did what we came to do." He gestured toward the blazing enemy ships, the fire reflecting off the water in shifting, golden streaks. "Those ships won''t be fighting anytime soon. That''s one less threat for our fleet to worry about." The crew exchanged hesitant glances but seemed reassured by Darron''s confidence. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and glanced back toward the dark horizon where their other ships had disappeared into the night. "Now, enough of this," he said, his voice firm with finality. "Pick up your oars and row us out of here. I''ve had enough of this place for a lifetime.Right now I just want to change clothes and sleep on a proper bed" The men hesitated only a moment before following his order, their hands gripping the oars and pulling the boat away from the inferno. As the small vessel pulled away from the chaos, Darron glanced back over his shoulder. The light from the blazing ships painted the night sky in hues of orange and gold, the dark waters reflecting the fiery dance. The enemy camp on the distant shore, once silent and still, was now stirring with urgency as those at the watch clearly saw the light coming from where their ships were anchored Shouts began to rise over the crackling of the flames, distant but distinct. "Fire! Fire!" The cries grew louder as more men roused from their sleep, their voices a mixture of alarm and confusion. The sound of running feet and clattering equipment carried faintly across the water as the camp burst into life. But it was already too late. The ships burned with a ferocity that defied any hope of suppression, if that was not enough they had no way to stop the fire, as the last thing an army would bring to war would be buckets, which even if they had would have been quite useless, as the inferno had already spread, consuming ropes, sails, and timbers with terrifying speed. Even if the enemy somehow managed to organize a response, it would do little good. The ships that had been rammed stood no chance of recovery. Their hulls had been breached by the force of impact, the flaming vessels lodged deep against their sides. Water poured through the shattered woodwork, sending the damaged ships listing dangerously. The combined destruction of fire and water was unstoppable. As the flames devoured the upper decks, the lower portions of the ships groaned and creaked, succumbing to the pull of the sea. One by one those ships that were at least hit, as not all of the burning ships hit home as their crew pulled off too soon, began to either sink a bit or burn in the darkness. With no hope of salvaging the ships that had been hit, those who were on the ships that were not burning acted quickly. As without order they dropped the anchor and got into defensive formations to make sure that a follow-up attack would make no way, an attack that however would never come. Chapter 393: Start of a mission Chapter 393: Start of a mission Alpheo had been waiting for this moment ever since he had ascended to the throne¡ªor rather, married his way into it, only to discover the crown''s lands to be woefully underpopulated. The disparity between the land''s potential and its meager population had been gnawing at him like a persistent itch he couldn''t scratch. He knew why, of course. Feudal societies weren''t built for mobility. In a system where most people worked land they didn''t own, tied to it by the iron grip of tradition and their lord''s will, the idea of packing up and moving elsewhere was nearly unthinkable. Serfs were as much a part of the land as the crops they toiled over, bound by law and custom to stay put. From birth, their world was confined to the stretch of soil they were born on, unless a disaster like a famine forced their hands. It wasn''t just a question of tradition; it was a question of power. To the feudal lords, their serfs weren''t merely workers¡ªthey were the ones that paid taxes and served them during wartime. And so, even in a land as rich as the crownlands, the potential for growth was suffocated under the weight of a system that kept its people tethered to the ground they plowed. Another reason for the low pupulation lay in the crownlands'' precarious location was for the most recent decade. Bordering the Princedom of Oizen, the region was a frequent target of raids. These weren''t random incursions but calculated strikes, often orchestrated by fortresses along the borders during wartime. Alpheo knew this all too well. His conquered castles had themselves refrained from further raiding Herculeian lands during the critical harvest months of August and November¡ªnot out of mercy, but simply because the previous campaigns had stripped the surrounding lands bare. Any territory reachable by a garrison without venturing dangerously far from its castle had already been pillaged. There was nothing left to take. This constant threat of raids discouraged growth and moved people away from their homes . Who would willingly settle in a region where their harvests, homes, and lives could be snatched away by enemy forces? The typical solutions for repopulating such depopulated lands were slow to bear fruit. Encouraging higher birth rates, or offering incentives for settlers¡ªall these were strategies for the long term, requiring years or even decades to show results. However Alpheo needed results in the short term, and that left him with only one practical option: move¡ªor, if necessary, force¡ªmore people into the crownlands. This was precisely why Alpheo placed such immense importance on the diplomatic mission across the sea, to the untamed lands where tribal clans lived in relative isolation. He saw an opportunity to do just that. Alpheo''s hope was simple yet ambitious: to entice some of these tribes to abandon their lives and settle within his borders. By presenting them with marvels unavailable in their homeland¡ªtools of advanced craftsmanship, the allure of fertile lands, and the promise of stability¡ªhe aimed to tempt them into a new life under his rule. The benefits were clear. More hands in the fields would mean a dramatic increase in grain production come harvest time. And, as an added advantage,or better yet the main one, tribal warriors could provide a valuable supplement to his armies¡ªa pool of free and fiercely loyal fighters ready to defend their new home. -------- Currently, Alpheo rode steadily along the winding road of Aracina, the path ahead cleared by the city garrison in preparation for his arrival. It felt surreal to return to the city that had witnessed his meteoric rise¡ªnot as a mercenary hungry for fortune and fame, but as its prince. Memories stirred as he passed familiar streets, now bustling with life. He could still recall the days when desperate defenders dismantled homes for wood and stone to hurl at besiegers. Those same houses had since been rebuilt, their sturdy frames standing as quiet witnesses to a tumultuous past. Beside him rode Aron, the envoy handpicked for the mission across the sea . As the third son of a modest knight, he had never imagined himself in such company¡ªriding alongside the husband of the princess, a man who was known as a warmonger as he personally led three battles in one single year. Aron kept his posture straight and his mouth tightly shut, but his unease was palpable. The ride was far from silent. Alpheo, intent on ensuring the success of the mission, spoke with a calm yet authoritative tone as he offered Aron a stream of advice. "When you approach their leaders, remember to keep your posture straight, but don''t look too rigid," Alpheo said, his eyes scanning the road ahead. "You need to seem strong, yet approachable. Show them what we''ve brought¡ªiron tools, and fabrics they''ve never seen. These things will catch their interest, but don''t linger too much on the gifts. Make it clear we''re offering more than trinkets; they will have to understand on their own that we are richer, we don''t need to wipe their face on the fact" Aron nodded occasionally, his focus torn between the prince''s words and the heavy weight of his own thoughts. The prince''s instructions were precise, even meticulous. How to react if they welcomed him warmly. How to adjust if their response was more guarded. How to recognize the subtle shifts in tone or body language that might reveal hesitation, interest, or distrust. "Watch their faces when you speak of the land we''re offering. Tell them about its fertility, about the harvests they could have. But," Alpheo added with a sharp glance toward Aron, "never make them feel like they''d be subservient to us. As a matter of fact you just need to say they will have to give a small part of their harvest and, of course be in defense of it, which will come off as natural for them." Aron nodded again, his heart pounding slightly as he absorbed the prince''s words. He understood perfectly well what this mission meant, not just for the crownlands, but for him personally. Success would mean a seat in the prince''s inner circle, a role that carried influence, prestige, and¡ªmost importantly¡ªsecurity. As the third son of a small landed knight, Aron had no inheritance to fall back on. No castle, no village, no legacy, not even an armor, as his father only owned a small village. He was a man poised at the edge of the commoner''s world, where the lack of land or title could reduce his children to mere lowborns. But this mission could change everything. If he succeeded, he wouldn''t just be Aron, the knight''s son. He''d be Aron, the prince''s envoy¡ªa position that brought with it work, influence, and the stability of being firmly tied to the court. The prince continued, unrelenting in his instruction. Aron nodded again, this time with a bit more confidence, though his nerves still simmered beneath the surface. This was his chance, and he couldn''t afford to fail. As the group reached the port, the ride finally came to an end. Before them, the harbor stretched wide, its docks bustling with activity. Ten ships stood ready, their sails furled, and their hulls loaded with provisions and goods. Soldiers moved about with disciplined precision, their armor glinting in the sunlight as they prepared for departure. Alpheo took a moment to survey the scene, his sharp eyes lingering on the soldiers lined up along the docks. In total, 100 footmen from the White Army had been assigned to the fleet. Their presence was a necessity, as the ships would have to pass near Harmway¡ªwhere war was raging between the Confederation and the Romelians . The soldiers were there to ensure that no hostile fleet could intercept the mission . Among the 100 footmen, 30 were specifically designated as the envoy''s personal bodyguards. They stood slightly apart from the others, their armor polished and their weapons sheathed but ready. Alpheo had been deliberate in keeping their numbers limited. Sending more might have given the tribes they sought to meet the impression of hostility or intimidation. After all, it wasn''t as if a larger force would have guaranteed survival if the tribes decided to reject the envoy¡ªor worse. If the meeting turned sour, 30 or 100 would make little difference. The tribes would have certainly more men , and no amount of guards would save the mission if diplomacy failed. Instead, the 30 bodyguards were intended as a statement: a display of the strength and equipment of those who had sent them. The polished armor, the sharp blades, and the confident stance of the soldiers were as much part of the message as the gifts they carried. Aron dismounted his horse with a practiced but careful motion, his nerves hidden beneath a mask of composure. Turning to Alpheo, he stepped forward and gave a deep bow, his voice steady despite the enormity of the moment. "Thank you, Your Grace, for this opportunity," Aron said, his words laced with both gratitude and determination. "I will not disappoint you." Alpheo regarded him silently for a moment, his piercing gaze scanning Aron''s face. "We shall see," Alpheo said evenly. As Aron straightened and turned toward the docks, Alpheo allowed his thoughts to wander. Will he even return alive? The question lingered in Alpheo''s mind, unspoken but insistent. It was not cruelty or doubt that drove the thought but the simple acknowledgment of reality. The dangers Aron would face were many, his survival would be due as much as skill as to luck. Still he hoped he would , as after all Alpheo hoped that what he was going for would be the solution he was searching for , in order to solve the problem of the small amount of cultivated land in the fiefdoms of the crown. Chapter 394: Bound to sea Chapter 394: Bound to sea By the time dawn stretched its fingers across the horizon, Blake and his captains were well away from the jagged silhouette of the island that had served as their base of operations. The sails billowed under a brisk morning wind, and the fleet cut through the waves like predators on the hunt that came victorious. The island faded behind them, little more than a smudge on the pale horizon, the memory of their presence already drifting into history. Blake leaned against the rail of his flagship, his sharp eyes scanning the endless expanse of blue. His face betrayed no regret at leaving the island behind; the decision had been made the moment the fires from last night''s attack had painted the skies crimson. The time for bold strikes had passed. Lingering in those waters was no longer daring¡ªit was suicidal. They had accomplished what they set out to do: sown chaos, destroyed ships, and gave more time for the Confederation to assemble . Now, every ship they left behind on the island''s defense was one less that could be deployed in open pursuit. Blake''s thoughts drifted to the Romelian general, who now stood as his unseen adversary. What little he knew of the man had been gleaned from the tongues of captured merchants, spilling fragmented details like coins from a torn purse. Caius Veritia¡ªthat was the name. Younger brother to the patriarch of the powerful Veritia household.Beyond that?He knew nothing...except of course that he must have had a bad night. Blake smirked, the corner of his mouth curling into a knowing grin. By now, no doubt, Caius must have doubled the number of ships on patrol, his orders carried out with the urgency of a man desperate to save face. Hunting parties would have been dispatched, prowling the waves in vain. The thought was almost comical to Blake, and he let out a low chuckle, the sound carried off by the wind. "Chasing ghosts," he muttered to himself, shaking his head at the futility of their efforts. They were scouring the wrong waters, hunting for a fleet that was already leagues away, sails full and slipping beyond their grasp. The daring raid that had left Romelian ships in flames was no longer a puzzle to be solved¡ªit was a memory. Of course, not everything was smooth sailing after last night''s assault. The results, truth be told, fell far short of Blake''s expectations. Weeks of relentless effort¡ªhunting the seas, amassing eleven ships equipped with everything needed to turn enemy vessels into floating infernos¡ªand all that preparation seemed to burn away just as quickly as the oil-soaked kindling. Of those eleven ships sent on their fiery mission, six never even reached their mark. They sailed straight into the jaws of destruction, consumed by the darkness, without even as so much as grazing their targets. The remaining five did manage to strike home,with only three managing to destroy the enemy''s vessel, while the others at least succeeded in making them unusable for the short term. Still, Blake couldn''t help but grimace at the ratio.Five ships more or less destroyed out of eleven was hardly a victory, especially when this had been their best shot¡ªa rare opportunity to strike hard before the final battle. The failure didn''t come as a surprise, though. Blake knew all too well where things had gone wrong. The crews, in their haste to escape death, abandoned their ships too soon. Their premature exits meant the critical ramming strikes either missed entirely or glanced harmlessly off the enemy vessels, leaving only scorched paint and singed wood in their wake. Instead of the devastation Blake had envisioned, it had been a chaotic flurry of misjudged angles and missed opportunities. It gnawed at him¡ªthe sheer waste of effort and resources¡ªhalf a month of work after all was no easy stroll in the park. But still, he pressed the bitterness down, burying it beneath the stoic resolve that years at sea had carved into him. Last night had been a gamble, and though the dice had rolled poorly, it wasn''t a total loss. Of course, his frustration was made worse by the uncomfortable reality that he couldn''t punish the ones who had failed. Most of those who bungled the mission were captains in their own right¡ªfree men, not bound by any oaths to Blake beyond the loose ties of shared purpose. Unlike Darron, who owed his command to Blake''s generosity since the ship he was sailing with was Blake''s property, these captains could simply sail away if they felt slighted. In truth, it was commendable they hadn''t done so already, given the high-risk nature of the mission. But the inability to hold them accountable gnawed at Blake all the same. Still, amidst the disappointment, one bright spot shone through: Darron. Blake hadn''t expected much from the man when he handed him command, but the stories that filtered back from the crew painted a picture of an unexpected talent. Darron had stayed with his ship until the very last moment, abandoning it only as it was about to collide. He hadn''t hesitated to throw the torches himself, ensuring the oil-drenched wood caught fire at precisely the right time, before hurling himself into the icy waters below. It was the kind of daring performance Blake rarely saw, even among seasoned captains. What made it all the more remarkable was Darron''s position.As he had expected less from a captain that had been in duty for less than a month.Instead, he was proved wrong. Darron for now wasn''t a captain; he was an underling, a man with no vote in the Call¡ªas only a man with a ship could have the power to cast his vote. His lack of ownership meant he had more to prove and less room to fail. Blake suspected that was precisely why Darron had excelled. The man must have known that any mistake could cost him everything. Since punishment for failure was off the table, Blake focused instead on rewarding success¡ªa tool just as powerful, if not more so. Among those who stood out in the chaotic aftermath of the attack, two names rose above the rest: Darron and Rheys. Both had shown exceptional courage and effectiveness, ensuring that at least some of the plan''s goals were met. And if Blake couldn''t reprimand the weak links, he could certainly make examples of the strong ones. For Darron, the reward was an easy calculation. Handing over ownership of the ship he''d commanded so well would elevate him from a leased captain to a true one, granting him not only the respect that came with ownership but also a higher share of the loot from every successful venture. Rheys, however, was a different matter. The man already owned his ship. Blake considered other options as he weighed Rheys''s contributions. The answer came quickly enough. Elio''s household controlled not just the Elio mainland but also several surrounding islands, some of which included small, sparsely populated villages. Offering Rheys one of these as a reward would be a good one , as it would make him akin to a landed pirate. Of course such rewards would wait at the end of the war as after all there was still the final battle to fight with the whole Confederation behind them. As great rewards could only come at the end of hard times. Still much more interesting for him were the reports of the flames spreading like a ravenous beast from one ship to the next, igniting with such ferocity that witnesses compared it to the rising of a second sun. The descriptions of the enemy''s vessels exploding into bright, fiery chaos brought a grim smile to Blake''s face. He didn''t need confirmation; he''d seen enough to know the work of the old hag when it unfolded before him. It was curious the fact that Blake found himself relying more and more on the witch''s unsettling talents, especially considering that he had thought of throwing her to the fishes the first time he saw here. Over the past month, her involvement has turned the tide on several occasions. Still, her growing influence was a double-edged sword. As much as her help was invaluable, Blake was keenly aware of the unease that followed her wherever she went. His men might whisper about her, crossing themselves when her name was mentioned, but Blake couldn''t afford to care. Results spoke louder than rumors, and for now, her results were undeniable. Out of a mixture of generousness and curiosity, Blake had approached her earlier that morning. Her quarters were dim and pungent with the scent of herbs and strange incense. With a straightforwardness he was always usde to, he had asked if there was anything she desired as a reward for her invaluable assistance. After all, he had thought, it was better to be on the good side of someone with such power. But the old hag had simply given him a sly, toothless grin, her dark eyes gleaming with something almost predatory. "No reward now," she had said in his languages, which she was starting to learn, albeit slowly. "But when the seas yours, favor will come ." Blake had stiffened at her words, though he managed to keep his expression neutral as he wondered the first part of her words. Still , for now there were much more pressing matters at hand then the meaning behind some broken words of the common tongue. After he still had to link up with the amassed fleet of the Confederation, as it would be a poor sight to have the Admiral absent when the fleet sailed forward in battle. Chapter 395: A man hard to refuse(1) Chapter 395: A man hard to refuse(1) Lucius couldn''t remember the last time he''d been able to sit down with Marcus and enjoy a drink without the weight of a thousand worries pressing down on him. These past months had been a nightmare¡ªevery moment a fresh opportunity to die in some horrible, inventive way. At one point, he''d genuinely started checking his hair in the mornings, convinced it would have turned white overnight. The fact that it hadn''t felt like a small miracle. But now? Now, life was sweet. The storm was behind him, and for once, the future didn''t look like a grim abyss. He was a married man, and to top it off, his wife had recently shared the best news of his life: they were expecting a child. A child! Him¡ªa father. The thought made him laugh .It hadn''t been two years since he was destined to die as a slave, instead now look at him! And if that wasn''t enough, he was rich. Rich! A year ago, he''d been scrounging for enough coin to keep his boots patched, and now he had enough money to buy a home¡ªan actual home with proper walls and a roof that didn''t leak. Best of all, he hadn''t even dented his savings to do it. " Of course, he was already dreaming big. With all that coin sitting idle, maybe it was time to dip his toes into the world of business. Start a mercantile enterprise, perhaps. Who knew? Maybe he had a knack for trade. Worst case scenario, if the whole thing went belly-up, he''d still have his land and the tidy bonus waiting for him when he retired from the army next year. Marcus raised his cup high with a grin that could rival the sun itself. "To Lucius! Soon to be a father! May your kid inherit the mother''s side!" He turned, bellowing toward the counter where the innkeeperwas polishing a mug. "Oi, old man! Did you hear? Your son-in-law''s going to be a father! Drinks should be on the house!" The innkeeper shot Marcus a glare"Go fuck yourself, Marcus....'''' The innkeeper said before resuming cleaning the mug. Apparently he still hadn''t forgiven Marcus for the little group beating he had organized against him, and it was clear even during the marriage ceremony he wasn''t happy with him being there. His hate toward Marcus, was of course only made deeper by the fact that even though he had reported the beating he had received to the garrison squad that patrolled the streets of Yarzat , nothing substantial was done and he was just given a slap on the wrist. Marcus chuckled, tapping his cup against Lucius''s. "Cheers to you, my friend. That''s no small news." Lucius smiled, a rare moment of genuine contentment crossing his face. "Thanks, Marcus. You''ve been a solid friend through all this chaos. Speaking of... that promise you made when we got out of that hellhole¡ªstill holding up?" Marcus nodded solemnly, though the gleam in his eye remained mischievous. "I haven''t forgotten. I''m putting money away little by little.Hadn''t gone whoring since I came back. Got a pouch so heavy now it makes my belt sag. Soon enough, I''ll be a man of means." Lucius leaned forward, an eyebrow raised. "And what about finding a wife? How''s that search going?" Marcus groaned dramatically, leaning back and spreading his arms. "Haven''t even tried, but why bother? Look at me." He waved a hand toward himself like he was showcasing a prize horse. "I''m rich, a decurion, and soon I''ll retire with land in my name. Who wouldn''t want all this?" He gestured to his not-so-impressive physique with mock grandeur. "I''m practically a walking marriage contract." Lucius smirked and sipped from his cup, though inwardly, he couldn''t deny Marcus had a point. Both of them were successful men now wealthy, and on the rise. For all the hardship they''d endured, they''d come out ahead. "Fair enough," Lucius said, "I suppose I should be glad for you that the competition''s only getting poorer.'''' After a bit , Lucius finally drained the last of his drink, setting the empty cup down on the table with a satisfied sigh. "Well," he said, stretching as he rose to his feet, "it''s about time for lunch. I should head back before your drinking habits make me forget what day it is." Marcus, not one to be outdone, tilted his head back and downed his own cup in one smooth motion. He slammed it on the table with a grin, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Lunch, eh? Sounds better than sitting here and letting my stomach turn into a battlefield.It wouldn''t be bad to have a woman at home cooking for me.... I''ll tag along the way . After all," he added with a smirk, "someone''s gotta make sure you don''t get distracted on the way and show up late. Your wife will skin you alive." Lucius chuckled as he adjusted his belt. "You''d love to see that, wouldn''t you?" Marcus grinned as he pushed back his chair, standing with a slight stretch and a yawn. "Not at all.'''' -------------------- As Marcus turned down a side street with a wave, Lucius continued down the familiar road toward his home. The bustle of the city surrounded him, but his thoughts were already on the warm haven waiting for him. By the time he reached the modest but well-kept house, his steps quickened. He pushed open the wooden door to be greeted by the comforting smell of something hearty cooking. "Sabine?" he called out as he stepped inside, shrugging off his cloak and hanging it by the door. Lucius walked into the small kitchen to find Sabine standing near the hearth, stirring a steaming pot. Her brown hair was tied back neatly, and her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the fire. She turned to smile at him, her eyes lighting up. "You''re home." "I am," Lucius said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. He peered over her shoulder at the pot. "What are you cooking? Smells good." "Grain porridge," she said, giving the pot one final stir before setting the ladle down. "And boiled meat on the side. It''s nothing fancy, but it''ll fill us up." "It sounds perfect," Lucius said with a grin as he moved to sit at the small table. Sabine wiped her hands on her apron and turned to face him fully. "Where were you earlier? I didn''t hear you come in last night." "Went to see your father," Lucius replied, his tone casual as he adjusted his chair. Sabine arched an eyebrow, crossing her arms. "Shouldn''t you be at the military camp outside the city, though? You''re an officer, Lucius. They don''t usually give you that much time to stroll about the streets." Lucius shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I''ve been given a month''s leave. Figured I''d spend it here, with you. Seems only fair after all the time I''ve been away." At that, Sabine''s stern expression melted. She stepped forward, leaning down to kiss him softly. "It''s nice having you home. You didn''t say much about where you were for an entire month." "I already told you," Lucius said, leaning back in his chair, his arms crossing over his chest. "I was on a mission ." Sabine narrowed her eyes playfully, her voice light but probing. "With the army that''s camped outside the city?" Lucius faltered for a moment but then chuckled, shaking his head. "It wasn''t with army. It was... a different mission." Sabine smirked as she went back to her cooking. "A different mission. Right. You''ll have to work on that explanation." Lucius laughed,a nervous one. A sudden knock echoed through the house, interrupting the comfortable silence. Sabine paused mid-motion, looking toward the door with a questioning glance. "I''ll get it," Lucius said, rising from his chair. He stretched briefly, his mind already wondering who it might be. As he walked through the small house, his boots thudded lightly against the wooden floorboards. When he opened the door, the sight before him froze him in place. Standing there, framed by the warm light spilling out from the house, was the last person Lucius ever expected to see: Alpheo, the prince he had sworn to serve. The prince''s striking features, sharp and unmistakable, were softened only slightly by the faint smile playing on his lips. His attire was plain , the last thing he thought a prince would wear, as he expected everything to be made of silk or precious metals. For a moment, Lucius simply stared, his mind struggling to reconcile the impossibility of the scene with the reality before him. His mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came. ''''Who is it?'''' Sabine asked without turning around What could he possibly say to explain why his prince was standing on his doorstep? Alpheo''s smile widened slightly. "May I come in?It is bad manner after all to leave a guest standing outside" he asked, his voice calm yet carrying the natural authority that made him a prince. Chapter 396: A man hard to refuse(2) Chapter 396: A man hard to refuse(2) Alpheo stood just outside the doorway, flanked by two men who were unmistakably his guards. Their cloaks concealed much, but the slight bulge of armor beneath and the way their hands hovered near their belts betrayed them as warriors. Despite the presence of his protectors, the prince himself looked nothing like royalty¡ªhis simple attire, unadorned and practical, was meant to help him blend in with the streets of Yarzats. No silks, no embroidery, no rings. Just a young man with striking features and a knowing smile that could dissolve ice. "May I enter?" Alpheo asked again, his voice light with amusement once again snapping Lucius out of his daze. Before Lucius could respond, Sabine''s voice rang out from within. "Who is it?" Lucius hesitated for a brief moment, his mind racing with how to explain. Instead of answering her, he stepped aside and gave a short nod. "O-Of course, Your Highness." Alpheo inclined his head slightly, stepping inside as he murmured, "Apologies for the intrusion." His tone was polite. As Sabine turned to see who had entered, her eyes first landed on Alpheo. At a glance, he didn''t draw much attention¡ªjust a well-kept young man. But the moment her gaze drifted past him to the two men standing just beyond the doorway, a spark of worry flickered in her eyes. Their posture, the slight gleam of armor beneath their cloaks,that smelled like trouble.. Her fingers tightened slightly on the wooden spoon she had been holding as her hand slowly moved to the knife on the counter. Her eyes flicked back to Lucius, silently questioning him before she finally spoke aloud. "How do you know my husband?" Though her voice was even, there was a guardedness to it, her body subtly tensing as she looked between them. Lucius felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He knew Sabine well enough to tell that her mind was already running ahead. The last thing he needed was for her to do something reckless. But before he could step in, Alpheo let out a light chuckle, raising a hand in a placating gesture. "No need to worry, madam. I assure you, we''re not delinquents," he said with an easy smile. "We''re friends of your husband. Comrades, even." Sabine''s gaze flickered back to Lucius, searching for confirmation. He gave her a firm nod, hoping that would put her at ease. She exhaled softly before dipping her head slightly. "I''m sorry," she said, her tone more apologetic now. "It''s just... well, you can imagine my surprise." Alpheo nodded understandingly. "I would be just as wary if armed men walked into my home unannounced," he admitted with a small grin. "But truly, these two are comrades of your husband, and they mean no harm.They simply had no time to disregard their weapons." Sabine relaxed slightly at his words, though she still cast another glance at the guards before turning back to Lucius, waiting for an explanation by the man who meanwhile had just felt a weight come down from his stomach. It was a strange thing to realize¡ªLucius had spent close to two years following Alpheo, fighting in his name, marching under his banner, and yet, in the span of two minutes, he had learned more about the man than in all those years combined. And of all the things he had come to understand in that short time, the most important was this¡ªAlpheo hated to be refused. That, in itself, wasn''t particularly surprising. Plenty of men in power disliked hearing the word no. But with Alpheo, it was more than that. It wasn''t just pride or arrogance¡ªthough, he certainly had his share of both. It was something deeper, a force that ran through him like an unyielding current. He was obsessed with control, at least over the things that truly mattered to him. If he couldn''t be the one pulling the strings, he would rather burn the whole thing down than let someone else take the reins. He would burn a house as long as he could sleep on the ashes . It was why, when it came to command, Alpheo kept his circle painfully small, after all if he truly wanted he could open up one or two positions in his armies for some lords, that was after all one of the main arguments that were brought against his wife, that he gave too many positions to commoners. Of course, If he trusted you, he would hand you the world and expect you to wield it well. If he didn''t? You wouldn''t get so much as a scrap. No middle ground. No delegation for convenience. Either you were in, or you were nothing. One could only imagine the nightmare it would have been if men like Jarza, Egil, and Asag weren''t there to lead his forces. If all Alpheo had to rely on were noble lords with their own lands, their own ambitions, their own agendas¡ªhe would have rather handed command to some random foot soldier than entrust his army to those vipers. And with that obsession for control came an intense dislike for when things didn''t go according to plan. The very fact that Alpheo, a ruler, had personally walked into the home of a commoner was proof enough of that. Most men of his standing would have simply chosen and trained another man. But Alpheo wasn''t most men. Of course he could argue his case with logic¡ªLucius was experienced, and someone Alpheo could easily keep in check. But at its core, it wasn''t really about logic at all. It was about the simple, stubborn truth that Alpheo despised being refused. If someone told him no, that was reason enough for him to dig in his heels and ensure that, one way or another, he got the answer he wanted. Returning to the situation Lucius barely had time to process everything before Sabine, ever the good host, spoke up. "Since you''re here, would you like to have a meal with us?It''s not everyday I get to meet people other than Marcus" Alpheo offered a polite smile. "We wouldn''t want to intrude too much." Sabine waved a hand dismissively. "Nonsense. As I said it is rare to see my husband with other company. I''d be a poor wife if I let this moment go to waste." Alpheo turned slightly to Vrosk, the head of his guard, who merely shrugged in response, as if to say, Why not? Seeing no objections, Alpheo inclined his head. "Then I graciously accept. Apologies again for the intrusion." Sabine was already moving, grabbing five wooden bowls. "Intrusion? Don''t be ridiculous." She placed the bowls on the table with a soft clatter. "It''s lucky I made extra meat today." Alpheo turned to his other guard, a burly man who had remained silent until now. "Help her." The guard hesitated only a second before nodding and stepping forward to assist. Sabine, unfazed, pointed toward the bowl which he held as she filled them. Meanwhile, Lucius shifted uncomfortably. His prince¡ªhis sovereign¡ªwas sitting in his home, in his chair, waiting for his wife to serve him food. The table was soon set, wooden bowls neatly arranged, the warm scent of grain porridge and boiled meat filling the room. Sabine wiped her hands on her apron and turned toward Alpheo with open curiosity. "So, how do you know my husband?" she asked, ladling the thick porridge into each bowl. Lucius, who had been tense since the moment Alpheo crossed the threshold, cleared his throat. "I, uh... worked for him," he answered, then quickly corrected himself. "Or rather, I still do." Sabine raised an eyebrow, glancing between the two men. "So he''s your superior?" Alpheo gave a small, amused nod, dipping a piece of bread into his porridge. "We can leave it at that," he said smoothly before taking a bite. Lucius, for his part, wasted no time, tearing off a piece of bread and dipping it into the thick, steaming porridge. The taste was simple but hearty, the warmth grounding him in a moment that still felt unreal. Across from him, Vrosk ate in silence, his movements methodical. The other guard, the one who had helped Sabine, had already finished half his portion and seemed entirely at ease. Sabine herself was eating with the casual grace of someone used to feeding others before herself, though her eyes flicked toward Alpheo now and then, as if trying to piece together the puzzle of her guest. Suddendly Alpheo leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. He glanced at Lucius, then at Sabine, a small smile playing on his lips. "You''re a fortunate woman, Sabine," Alpheo began, his tone light but deliberate. "Your husband is one of the bravest men I''ve had the pleasure of knowing. Not many would have done what he did during... many of the missions he was made to do " He paused, his gaze flickering to Lucius, who was now staring intently at his bowl, as if hoping it might swallow him whole. Sabine raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "Oh? He''s never mentioned anything like that." Alpheo chuckled, a low, pleasant sound. "Modesty, I suppose. A rare trait in men these days. Though, if I may be frank, it''s also his greatest flaw." He leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table, his eyes locking with Sabine''s. "Lucius has no shortage of courage or skill, but ambition? Well, let''s just say he''s not one to chase titles or glory. A pity, really. With his talents, he could easily become a knight ¡ªperhaps even more, given time, I assure you of it ." Lucius shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his spoon clinking against the edge of his bowl. Sabine glanced at him, then back at Alpheo, "A K-knight?" she repeated, her voice tinged with disbelief. "Oh, absolutely,even more " Alpheo said, waving a hand as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "But alas, he seems... reluctant to continue his work. Which, I must admit, is why I''m here today." He sighed, a theatrical sound that somehow managed to feel both genuine and calculated. "I do apologize for the intrusion, truly. But today was the day I was to receive his answer¡ªwhether he would continue to serve me or not. And given his hesitation, I thought it best to come myself. After all, a man like Lucius isn''t easily replaced.I also took quite a liking to him...." Sabine''s eyes widened slightly, and she turned to Lucius, her voice soft but firm. "Is this true? You never told me any of this." Lucius opened his mouth to respond, but Alpheo cut in smoothly, his tone almost apologetic. "Don''t be too hard on him, please. It''s not an easy decision, leaving behind the life he''s built here. But I can''t help feeling it''s a waste. A man of his caliber, so close to knighthood, to greater things... and yet he seems content to let it all slip away." He shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. "But then again, perhaps that''s what makes him so admirable. He''s not driven by greed or power that is truly rare...'''' The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of Alpheo''s words hanging in the air. Sabine looked at Lucius, her expression softening as she extended her hands to pinch his thigh under the table , while giving him a long stare . "Well," she said finally, her voice steady, "whatever he decides, I''ll stand by him.As I am sure he will make the best decision for his family." Chapter 397: Pioneers of the futures(1) Chapter 397: Pioneers of the futures(1) At just twenty-two winters, Aron was hardly a seasoned diplomat. His experience in statecraft was limited to a handful of fruitless missions to the Principality of Oizen¡ªexercises in formality rather than actual negotiations. Not because he lacked skill, but because the power dynamic had been entirely lopsided, with Yarzat becoming too weak to hold its own. A deal between nations is only upheld after all when both sides wield comparable strength, either to match each other, or enough to make war a costly affair . If a nation grows powerful enough to discard a treaty that no longer serves its interests, why wouldn''t it? Likewise, if a stronger nation deems an agreement with a weaker one insufficiently beneficial, it may seek to renegotiate¡ªor dictate new terms entirely. And should negotiations fail, the decision to go to war becomes a simple matter of weighing risks against rewards. If the spoils of victory outweigh the costs of conflict, then war is merely an extension of diplomacy by other means. Of course, not every war is the result of cold calculation. Some are set into motion by unforeseen events, spiraling beyond the control of even the most cautious rulers. In many cases, war is not planned¡ªit simply happens, a chain reaction of missteps, ambition, and circumstance leading to the inevitable clash of steel. Before Alpheo''s arrival, Yarzats had been losing the war in every way that mattered¡ªon the battlefield, and in politics. The prince''s defeats had turned the crown into little more than a joke.Only with the arrival of Alpheo did things turned around, as with some military victories he managed to succeed into drawing back nobles who had once distanced themselves from the sinking ship that was the royal court. Now, with momentum on their side, those same lords were slithering back, eager to align themselves with power once again. Currently Aron''s last week and a half at sea had been, by all means, the most exciting stretch of his life. For someone who had spent most of his days dealing with the dull formalities of court, the open sea had proven to be a far more unpredictable stage. At first, the voyage had been uneventful¡ªjust the rhythmic creaking of the oars and the steady wind filling the sails, horrible food and the continuous swaying of the ship that made Aron wanting to throw up . That was until they spotted trouble on the horizon. Pirates. Two ships, to be exact, shadowing them from a distance, never drawing too close but never straying far enough to be dismissed. The head of the expedition, a sub-centurion named Valen Decius, had tolerated their presence for the better part of two days. Valen wasn''t particularly remarkable in rank¡ªjust an sub-centurii of the White Army given a temporary promotion for this mission¡ªbut he had the air of a man who valued discipline above all else. And patience, Aron quickly learned, was not his strong suit. On the third day of their unwanted escort, Valen had finally had enough. Standing at the prow of his galley, he barked an order for two of their ships to break formation and give chase. The military galleys, built for speed and endurance, surged forward, their rowers pulling with the fury of men eager for action. The pirates, realizing they had lingered too long, tried to flee. But their smaller, single-masted vessels, propelled only by their meager rowers, stood little chance. Within half an hour, one of the galleys caught up to its prey, the iron beak of its prow slamming into the flimsy wooden hull of the pirate ship. The impact sent a sickening crack across the water, splitting planks apart like kindling. The ship listed to one side, taking on water fast, and within minutes, it was swallowed by the sea, along with most of its crew. The second pirate ship, seeing the fate of its companion, wasted no time in turning tail and vanishing over the horizon.Strangely to think about, that was the very first engagement that any ship in the Royal fleet had fought in and won, commanded not by a sea-general, but a land one. Still, that was the last they had seen of pirates. Whatever band had been testing them clearly learned their lesson. Aron soon discovered, much to his displeasure, however that the rest of the travel would be incredibly dull. The days stretched endlessly with little to break the monotony. When there was nothing to do but stare at the vast expanse of sky above or the endless blue of the ocean below, boredom could easily set in. And for those, like Aron, who could read or write, such activity was impossible to perform for the rhythmic rocking of the ship. At this moment, Aron found himself giving in to the first of his options: staring into the blue depths beneath the ship. He watched the waves break against the hull, the white bubbles rising and popping, carried away by the motion of the water. It was peaceful in a way, though far too still for his restless mind. Almost instinctively, his gaze drifted toward the small bundle of papers tucked under his arm, linked with some chain that held the pages together . Who would have guessed the prince was such an avid seeker of knowledge? Aron mused as he pulled out the bundle and opened it, the crisp pages flopping open with no resistance. It was a journal¡ªa completely empty journal. It wasn''t meant to hold any great mysteries or wisdom, just a task, or more accurately, a favor from Alpheo. It was his job, or rather his subtle order, to document everything he observed about the tribes they were going to encounter. In truth, the knowledge of the eastern continent was little more than a blank canvas, painted only with the most basic and often exaggerated snippets of information. The only details passed down came from Azanian merchants, who had crossed paths with the wild lands in their travels¡ªmostly tales of spice traders and caravans that braved the untamed territories to bring exotic goods back to the empire and sultanate. Their reports, however, offered little of substance beyond a few well-worn stereotypes: barbarians, they called them, fierce and unrefined; a people who dwelled high in the mountains, far removed from the luxuries of civilization. They were also told that they had no use for coin. And to top it all off, they didn''t even practice agriculture¡ªnot in any real sense. To a civilized mind, this was absurd. Yet this was the widely accepted image of a barbarian. Such scant knowledge was taken at face value, as no one had any reason to dig deeper into the mystery of these wild lands. To them, the tribes beneath Azania were an irrelevance. After all why would they concern themselves with a group of barbaric tribes with nothing to offer? Still apparently now a prince appeared with such interests, that on itself did not have much value ,except maybe to better understand the culture of people that would settle on his land, but whose main interest wasto feed a mind that craved knowledge in his barest form. Aron''s mind had begun to wander once again, the monotony of the sea tugging at his focus. The gentle sway of the ship, the endless horizon stretching out before him, the ceaseless sound of water slapping against the hull¡ªall combined to lull him into a kind of trance. His eyes lingered on the rippling waves beneath him, the expanse of blue hypnotizing. He had started to drift, thoughts running aimlessly like the endless currents beneath the ship. It was then that a sudden shout cut through the air, snapped him from his reverie. "Land ho!" The cry came from the lookout perched high in the mast, his voice filled with unmistakable excitement. The crew, scattered about the ship, seemed to vibrate with renewed energy. A collective cheer rose from the sailors, a sound of pure, unrestrained relief. Some clapped each other on the back, others shouted prayers or curses to the gods of the sea. Aron felt his heart leap in his chest. The endless stretch of water, the oppressive sensation of being at the mercy of the sea, was finally coming to an end. His legs, stiff from days of standing on the unyielding deck, itched to feel the soft give of soil beneath his feet again. "Land," he whispered under his breath, barely believing it. And yet, there it was, rising slowly from the horizon like a mirage turning real. He couldn''t contain himself. A broad grin spread across his face, and he found himself clapping a along too This was it. This was the moment he had been waiting for¡ªthe beginning of the mission that could, if successful, reshape his future. No longer just the third son of a knight without inheritance, Aron could finally take the steps he needed to carve a name for himself. He had dreamt of this moment since Alpheo had entrusted him with the task, of proving himself worthy and rising through the ranks of the prince''s inner circle. "Land at last!" he shouted as he joined in the cheers too. Chapter 398: Pioneers of the future(2) Chapter 398: Pioneers of the future(2) It is like a dream come true! Aron cheered in his mind as he stepped down from the smaller ship, his boots sinking slightly into the soft, warm sand. The salty breeze tugged at his cloak, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the constant sway of the ship beneath his feet was nothing but a distant memory. He paused for a moment, turning back to the ship¡ªa floating, creaking mass still anchored just a short distance from shore. The ship that had held him captive for nearly a week and a half was finally behind him, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to breathe in the unbroken stillness of solid land beneath him. Finally, he thought, his eyes scanning the horizon. "I wonder if there are any tribes nearby," Aron muttered to himself as he stretched his legs, taking slow, deliberate steps on the firm sand. The sensation of solid ground beneath his boots was almost intoxicating after what had felt like an eternity at sea. He took a deep breath of the salty air, glancing toward the tree line beyond the beach. "Or better yet, I hope they speak Azanian." Of all the obstacles they might face, the language barrier loomed largest. Alpheo had been clever enough to undestand that and choose somebody that spoke a close language . Fortunately, their proximity to Azania meant there was a chance¡ªperhaps a slim one¡ªthat the locals had traded with the sultanate before. If so, there might be someone among them who spoke enough Azanian to bridge the gap. And if not? Then they''d have to rely on the crude art of hand gestures, a less-than-ideal means of communication. Not to explain their true goal, of course¡ªhow could one possibly convey we wish to take your people across the sea to settle in our lands with mere motions? No, at first, they would pose as merchants. Trade was a language spoken by all men, civilized or not. Through commerce, they could build trust, study their ways, and¡ªmost importantly¡ªbegin to decipher their tongue. Only then could the real negotiations begin. As Aron was busy thinking about the mission , Valen, the head of the expedition meanwhile wasted no time. "Move, you lazy bastards! This isn''t a pleasure stroll¡ªget those supplies unloaded now!" he bellowed, his sharp, commanding tone leaving no room for argument as he directed his voice at a group of men. He stood tall, his breastplate gleaming under the afternoon sun, his hand resting instinctively on the pommel of his sword . "You lot¡ªstart digging a perimeter trench. I want stakes in the ground before nightfall. If anything comes sniffing around, I want them to think twice before getting any ideas!" He turned on his heel, fixing another group with a glare. "As for you get those tents up! If I see one of those things sagging by sundown, someone''s sleeping under the stars tonight!" The camp began taking shape under his watchful eye. Men scrambled to follow orders, the rhythmic sound of axes chopping at nearby trees mingling with the thud of wooden stakes being driven into the ground. Fires were being kindled, tents raised, and a defensive perimeter marked out. Valen turned to Aron, his eyes narrowed. "You. Diplomat. Try not to wander off. The last thing I need is you getting yourself speared by some savage before we even start negotiations.Who is going to explain that to the prince then?" Then, without waiting for a response, he was off again, barking orders at another group of soldiers dragging heavy crates through the sand. The beach was soon alive with the relentless rhythm of labor. Soldiers and sailors alike toiled under the blazing sun, shovels biting into the earth as they carved out the camp''s perimeter. Further inland, axes bit into the trunks of sturdy trees, their sharp cracks echoing through the shoreline. Men grunted as they worked in teams, hacking away until the timber groaned and collapsed onto the forest floor. Others rushed to strip the branches, leaving behind only the solid trunks that would soon form the camp''s outer defenses''s walls. Aron stood slightly apart, watching with undisguised curiosity. He had read of armies building fortifications before, but seeing it in action was something else entirely. There was a seamless efficiency to it, an unspoken rhythm among the men as they worked together. He observed as sharpened stakes were driven into the trench, forming a crude but serviceable defense that would deter any immediate threats. By the time the sun was to dip lower in the sky, the outer perimeter was to be mostly complete¡ªjust a ring of trenches and stakes, enough to offer protection for the night. The real work, however, the wall, would take at least two or three days to finish. For the men, though, this was just another day''s work. But for Aron it was mesmering, he may not have been a soldier, but even he could see that this was the work of men who knew how to carve a defensible camp from nothing. Aron weaved through the bustling camp, sidestepping soldiers hauling logs and sailors hammering stakes into the ground. He scanned the organized chaos for Aven, his impatience mounting with each passing second. Finally, near a stack of freshly cut timber, he spotted him¡ªlocked in conversation with the expedition''s engineer, a wiry man gesturing animatedly toward a direction Aron hesitated for a moment before stepping forward. "Apologies for the intrusion," he said, clearing his throat. Aven turned his head, exhaling sharply through his nose before leveling a tired gaze at him. "What is it, Aron ,right?" he asked, voice clipped. "As you can see, I''m busy." "I can see that," Aron admitted, his eyes flicking to the engineer, who was now eyeing him with mild annoyance. "But I wanted to know when we can send scouts to make contact with the local tribes." ''''I am sorry, but right now I am dealing with other things.We will talk about that at a later time.''''Aven said in an even tone. ''''I would just like for some estimates.'''' Aron retorted, pressing for an answer. Aven''s brow twitched, and though he clearly tried to rein it in, irritation bled into his tone. "Tell me, do you see these men?" He gestured broadly at the workers around them, sweat-drenched and exhausted. "Do you see the trenches, the logs being hauled, the stakes being hammered in?" "Yes, I¡ª" "And do you, by any chance, notice how every single one of them is occupied?" Aven continued, folding his arms. "Now tell me, with what manpower do you suggest we send scouts while the camp is still being built?" Aron swallowed back his frustration. "That''s exactly why I''m asking for a date," he said, forcing himself to remain composed. Aven let out a long, slow sigh, rubbing his temple as if warding off an oncoming headache. "Half a week," he muttered. "That''s how long it will take to finish the camp. After that, we''ll start the mission.And begin scouting for any sign of civilization around us" Aron hesitated for a moment before speaking again. "Can''t we spare just a dozen men to go out and start looking?" His tone was measured, but there was a clear edge of impatience beneath it. Aven exhaled through his nose, rubbing the bridge of it as if he were dealing with a particularly slow-witted squire. "We have enough supplies to last for months," he said flatly. "So tell me¡ªwhat exactly is the rush?" Aron opened his mouth to respond, but Aven wasn''t finished. He swept his hand toward the camp, where men were still hauling logs, digging trenches, and hammering stakes into the dirt. "All hands are needed here," he said. "Every single one. You think walls build themselves?" Aron shifted his weight, crossing his arms. "And let me remind you," Aven continued, his voice dipping lower, "we have no idea how the locals will react to our arrival. They could be friendly¡ªor they could see us as invaders. And if things turn sour, We will be very happy to have some walls between us and their spears. In fact, I bet you''ll kiss the hands of every damn soldier who hammers in the planks." His expression hardened. "So, no¡ªwe cannot spare a few dozen men." Aron bit down on the retort forming on his tongue. He could argue, but it wouldn''t get him anywhere. Instead, he forced himself to nod. "Understood," he said, his tone carefully neutral. "Thank you for the answer." Aven grunted, already turning back to his discussion with the engineer. Aron took that as his cue to leave. Aron walked away, his steps a little too firm, kicking up small puffs of sand with each stride. His jaw was clenched, and despite his best efforts, he couldn''t stop the frustration boiling in his mind. Arrogant, stiff-necked bastard of a soldier. He had expected some resistance, of course. But Aven hadn''t even considered his point¡ªhad just shut him down like he was some over-eager squire asking pointless questions. Oh no, we need every single pair of hands to build some sticks in the dirt! Aron scoffed internally. Gods forbid we actually start doing the job we came here for. His fingers curled into a fist before he forced them to relax. He took a slow breath, trying to push the irritation away. It wasn''t like arguing would do him any favors. Aven was the one in charge here, at least in a military sense, and if Aron wanted this mission to go anywhere, he''d have to find a way to work with him. But, as he muttered under his breath, "Perhaps that''ll be harder than I thought." Chapter 399: Sea People(1) Chapter 399: Sea People(1) Two young men lay flat on their stomachs atop a small, grassy ridge, hidden among the tall, swaying blades that whispered with the evening breeze. From their vantage point, they had an unobstructed view of the the sea-people below . They could not believe that it could be possible to move through the sea , yet the sight was ahead of them. Great wooden beasts floated upon the water, their pale, square skins catching the wind, and from them had spilled dozens of men, busying themselves with strange tasks. Some dug into the earth, marking the land in neat lines, while others hacked away at trees, their sharp tools biting into the trunks with brutal efficiency that they had never seen.Those same trunks being now nailed onto the ground as if they were tree in a forest. Jandari''s dark eyes narrowed as he glanced at Torghan, his curiosity turning into something sharper. "You think they come for war?" Torghan studied the sea-people for a few moments, his gaze calculating. "They don''t have enough numbers for that. If they came armed for battle, they''d be dead before they even knew what hit them. We outnumber them twenty to one." But Jandari wasn''t so sure. "Perhaps there are others that are comin-?'''' Suddenly, however his sharp eyes scanned the movement below, and then, he saw it¡ªa flash of light, a glint of something unnatural among the people. It wasn''t water that shimmered but metal¡ªthe shining plates of steel of the soldiers there, gleaming with the light of the setting sun. His heartbeat quickened as he focused on the sight. There was something more here than mere numbers. "They wear iron," Jandari murmured, his voice low, his words laced with a strange hunger. "Like your father." Torghan''s jaw tightened, his gaze hardening as he observed the group below. "I see it." He was quieter now, a shadow falling over his expression. "They must be from outside the mountains." "Thrazanie?" Jandari asked, his brow furrowing. Torghan shook his head, slowly, the weight of his thoughts settling in. "No. Similar, but not them. The Thrazanie come through the mountain passes with their mules and wagons. These... these ones came from the sea." Jandari tilted his head, his fingers brushing the grass as he shifted his weight, getting comfortable on the ground. His voice lowered, laced with a sudden intensity. "Then perhaps your father should call the warriors." Torghan''s frown deepened, the suggestion not sitting well with him. "For what?" Jandari''s eyes gleamed with excitement, his words quickening, spilling out in a rush. "That steel! Think of it. If we had that, we could take back the hills, drive the Jagothai out. Our people would have something to fight with, something that doesn''t break or bend after a few uses." Torghan exhaled sharply through his nose, turning his gaze back to the scene below, watching the sea-people move with their gleaming armor. The weight of Jandari''s words sank in, the sheer amount of steel they had¡ªmore than his father''s warriors had ever dreamed of. Jandari wasn''t done. He pushed further, his voice a low whisper now, filled with urgency. "Our fathers fight with old leather, bent spears, and chipped blades. But if we had that steel, Torghan, we wouldn''t have to hide in these mountains, feeding our families on scraps. We could drive out the Jagothai, reclaim the hills and their pastures for our cattle." Torghan stared at the camp below, his thoughts churning. It wasn''t a decision that was his to make; after all, he wasn''t the leader of the tribe; his father was. He let out a slow breath, a decision forming. "We should go back and inform my father of what we saw. He''ll be the one to decide." Jandari nodded eagerly, his face lighting up. "Let''s go, then. Before the sun sinks completely. The sooner we tell him, the sooner we might take that steel for ourselves" And with that, the two of them rose, the weight of their words hanging in the air between them as they made their way back¡ªtoward decisions that could change everything. -------------- It was going to be a hard winter, of that Varaku was certain. The air had already turned biting, a cruel reminder of the long months ahead. The wind howled through the barren hills, sweeping across the land where his people had once lived freely, grazing their herds on the fertile grass of the high pastures. But now, those hills were no longer theirs. The livestock had been halved¡ªboth from the harsh sales he''d been forced to make to be leased enough pastures where they could feed. Last year had been bad enough, when they still held their hills, still had double the herds, but this year? This year, everything was different. Varaku could feel the weight of what was coming. HWithout the hills, without enough food, many of them wouldn''t make it through the winter. He had no illusions about it. He knew many of his people would die. The decision that lay ahead¡ªthe only way to feed the rest of them¡ªwas to slaughter what remained of their herd. But even that came with a terrible cost. If they butchered the last of the goats, they would have nothing left to feed them in the coming months. It wasn''t just the winter they had to worry about; it was every season after that. There was also the old tradition, the ritual of the cliff-walk, where the elders chose to leave the world in their own way rather than suffer through a slow and painful decline. But even that was no guarantee. He could call for the walk, yes, but it wouldn''t change what was coming. The herd was already too small, the land too harsh for grass . It wouldn''t save them, not for long. It was a horrible thing to know what would happen, to understand the bleakness of the future, and yet feel powerless to stop it. As the elder, it was his responsibility to ensure his people survived. But he was staring at a mountain he couldn''t climb, an enemy he couldn''t fight. How could he stop it? He had no answers. And that knowledge tore at him. The wooden door burst open, the chill of the night air rushing in as Torghan barged into the house. The fire at the center flickered violently, shadows dancing against the wooden walls. Varaku, already tense with the weight of his thoughts, shot to his feet, his weathered face twisting in anger. "What is this, boy?!" he roared, his voice hoarse with frustration. "Have you forgotten how to enter your home ? Or do you you may barge as you wish?" Torghan winced at the outburst, lowering his gaze but refusing to cower. He had grown used to his father''s sharp tongue, but tonight, there was more than just irritation in his words¡ªthere was a deep, simmering frustration, one that Torghan knew came not from him, but from the dire state of their people.He of course, did not take offense in that. Varaku had every reason to be in a foul mood. The coming winter would be harsh, harsher than any they had known. The herd was too small, the pastures lost. His father was carrying the weight of their survival on his shoulders, and it was slowly crushing him. So, Torghan stood there, waiting. He was the third-born son, not the heir, not the favored one, but still of his father''s blood. He knew better than to interrupt until the storm had passed. When Varaku finally fell silent, letting out a heavy breath as he rubbed his temple, Torghan seized his moment. "Father," he began, voice steady but urgent. "There are people¡ªstrangers. They came from the sea." Varaku''s brow furrowed, deep lines of exhaustion creasing his forehead. He exhaled sharply through his nose. His dark eyes locked onto Torghan''s. "What are you talking about, boy?" he demanded, his voice still rough, but quieter now, measured. Torghan took a steadying breath. "I was with Jandari," he began, speaking quickly but clearly. "We were scouting the lowlands, looking for the lost sheep of Murthai¡ªhe said they had wandered past the ridge." Varaku grunted, unimpressed. "And?You found them? " "No, we found no sheep." Torghan took a step forward. "But we found them.The strangers. We saw them with our own eyes." Torghan''s voice carried a note of urgency now. "They came from the sea, father. Great wooden turtle, beasts that floated upon the water, their pale, square skins catching the wind,unlike anything we''ve ever seen . And the men¡ª" He hesitated, the image of gleaming steel flashing in his mind. "They wore steel. All of them. Their bodies gleamed from the rays of the sun as if they were fires in the nights." At that, Varaku''s fingers curled into fists. His jaw tightened. Steel. They were warrions¡ªclad in metal like the Thrazanie from outside the mountains. Why the hell would they be here?The shiny stones are north, not here in the south?Are they even Thrazanie?They never attempted to use the sea. Varaku thought as now, apart from a famine, he had to worry about invaders. "Tell me everything that you saw.Do not lie," he commanded as he realised that the tribe would be going for a bigger crisis than they ever had. Chapter 400: Sea People(2) Chapter 400: Sea People(2) This was Torghan''s first time standing among the warriors and elders of the tribe¡ªa privilege granted only to those who had proven themselves in battle. By tradition, only warriors and the council of elders could speak in a tribal meeting. True, he was seventeen¡ªa man by the count of his years¡ªbut not by his deeds. He had yet to spill an enemy''s blood, to carve his place among those who had earned the right to stand tall. Until he did, he was little more than a child in the eyes of the tribe. Without a kill to his name, he had no voice in council, no claim to spoils taken in raids. He was neither boy nor warrior¡ªjust another herdsman, another shadow on the fringes of their world. Once, he had come close. A year ago, there had been war¡ªa chance to reclaim what was theirs. But the Jagothai had come in numbers too great to defy, their warriors outmatching the tribe two to one. The elders, bound by duty more than pride, had chosen survival over slaughter. And so, the tribe had bent the knee, surrendering their ancestral hills and pastures to the enemy. They had been driven to the lowlands. A bitter irony, for the "lowlands" were no great plains, no fertile fields, but only endless mountains with sparse patches of green clinging to the stone like ghosts of what once was. And yet, here he was now¡ªnot just standing among warriors, but standing at the very center of their attention. It was his words that had summoned them, his discovery that had called this gathering. And for the first time in his life, he had a voice. At the head of the circle, Varaku sat motionless, his weathered face half-lit by the flickering flames. The fire cast deep lines across his features, accentuating the scars and wear of years spent struggling to keep his people alive. His sharp eyes, dark and unwavering, settled on his son. "Speak," Varaku commanded, his voice low but edged with expectation. "Tell them what you have seen with your own eyes." Torghan swallowed, feeling the weight of a hundred stares pressing into him. The warriors¡ªmen who had bled for the tribe¡ªwatched with measured patience, waiting to see if the boy had brought them anything worth their time. The elders, wrapped in heavy furs, sat as still as carved idols, their expressions unreadable. Many of them knew, in the quiet of their bones, that this would be their last winter. Torghan hesitated. His hands clenched at his sides before he turned, casting a glance toward his two elder brothers seated near their father. Sharu, the firstborn, sat with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable but for the flicker of curiosity in his sharp gaze. Beside him, Marhun leaned forward slightly, watching. Neither brother spoke. Neither offered him anything¡ªno encouragement, no disdain. He was alone in this moment. Drawing in a steadying breath, Torghan straightened his shoulders and began. "I was with Jandari," he said, his voice firm but cautious. "We were searching for Murthai''s lost sheep when we saw them." A few warriors exchanged glances, but no one interrupted. "They came from the sea," he continued, scanning the circle. "Not on wagons, not through the mountain passes like the Thrazanie traders or their armies¡ªbut from the sea. Great wooden turtles, floating upon the water." That earned a few scoffs. A handful of warriors shifted, some smirking in doubt, but no one dismissed him outright. "There were many of them," Torghan pressed on. "Not enough for war, but too many to be mere wanderers. And they wear steel¡ªlike the Thrazanie and like my father''s steel clothes." His voice grew stronger, more assured. "Every man we saw had steel wrapped around him like a second skin. Not just their warriors¡ªall of them." A ripple of whispers passed through the council. This time, the murmurs carried weight. "They work," Torghan continued. "They cut trees, dig the earth, raise walls. They do not move like lost men. They act as though they mean to stay. We have not seen more than two hundred of them." That sent another stir through the gathered men. Some muttered in curiosity, others in unease. Torghan clenched his fists, forcing himself to remain steady. "They are not like us. And they are not like the mountain traders. But if they have steel... if we had their steel..." He let his words hang in the air as he turned his gaze toward his father. Varaku sat still, unmoving, his face unreadable. The fire crackled between them, throwing flickering shadows across the circle of men. Torghan had spoken. Now, it was time to see what the elders would make of his words. Murmurs rippled through the gathering like dry grass stirring in the wind. Some elders leaned toward Varaku, their faces shadowed by the firelight. "Did you send men to confirm it?" one finally asked, his voice cautious. Varaku gave a slow nod. "I did," he said simply. "The boy tells the truth." A hush fell. If the chief had already acted on Torghan''s words, then there was no doubting them. Among the warriors, the hush quickly turned into a low, eager rumbling. "The boy speaks true," a grizzled veteran muttered, rubbing his jaw. "All of them wearing steel? That alone makes them worth taking." "We should go now," another said, his voice thick with hunger. "Steel like that... if we had it, we could carve a path straight through the Jagothai and reclaim our hills¡ªour homes!" A younger warrior, barely past his first battle, grinned. "Imagine the loot! If they have that much steel, what else might they have? Food? Perhapse even wine?" Laughter rippled through the group, but it was not the laughter of amusement. It was the laughter of men who could already taste victory. One man clapped a hand on his friend''s shoulder, his grin wide. "This is it," he said with pride. "My boy will finally have the chance to become a warrior yet." Another warrior spat onto the ground, his eyes gleaming like a wolf scenting blood. "They came from the sea? Then they have nowhere to run. We take them. We take their steel. And then..." His smile was a cruel slash in the firelight. "We take back our land and make the Jagothai our slaves." More nods. More murmurs of agreement. The embers of war had been stirred. Soon, they would catch flame. But still, at the head of the gathering, Varaku remained silent, his expression unreadable. He had heard the eagerness of his warriors, the hunger in their voices. He had seen the desperate glint in the eyes of his people. But he also knew that battle was never as simple as eager men thought it to be. Still, the steel was tempting. Very tempting. His mind was elsewhere however , turning over the implications of what Torghan had reported. Who are these men? They came from the sea, yet they wore steel like the Thrazanie. But the Thrazanie, had never attempted to invade from the waters¡ªonly through the mountains, where their armies could march in force. If it were them, there would be far more than just a handful of men building their strange camp. His brow furrowed. He knew the history well¡ªthree times the Thrazanie, which in their language meant from Outside the Moutain, had tried to claim the lands of the tribes. Three times they had come with their warbands, banners high, marching through the passes with their armor and their spears, seeking to break the scattered clans in the name of their sultan. And three times, they had failed. Each time, the tribes had cast aside their feuds and rallied together, fighting with spears, axes, and ambushes among the cliffs and valleys. Their warriors, hardened by the land itself, had driven the invaders back, forcing them to retreat beyond the mountains. But he also knew why the Thrazanie kept coming back. Some traders, the ones who risked their necks carrying goods between the lands, had spoken of what lay beneath the hills. Iron. Silver. Wealth hidden in stone. Enough to make kings greedy, enough to make empires reach out with their hungry hands. If this new band of sea people had come for the same reason, then it would not be long before more followed. Varaku''s fingers curled into his furs as he stared at the flames, his mind weighing possibilities. Varaku exhaled slowly, his breath heavy with thought. He could sit here and wonder about who these sea-people were, where they had come from, and why they had come. But in the end, none of it truly mattered. What mattered was their steel. That gleaming armor, those weapons¡ªit was exactly what his people needed. Varaku looked down at his steel both of his cloth and of his axe, pieces of loot that his father had taken after their battle with the Thrazanians. 200 more of these... The hills had been theirs for generations, their pastures stretching wide, their herds fat and plentiful. But the Jagothai had taken everything, forcing them down into the lowlands like starving dogs. Without the hills, they had no land. Without the land, they had no grass, without grass no food. This winter would be cruel¡ªhe had known that before this meeting. The herd would starve and with it their herders. Unless something changed. But with steel? With steel, they could carve their way back. With steel, they could stand against the Jagothai, drive them from their stolen lands, and return to where they belonged. That tribes had the numbers. But his warriors will have the will and, after tomorrow, the weapons. Varaku''s jaw tightened, his decision taking root in his mind. It did not matter who these men were. They had come from the sea, into their lands, and by tomorrow they would return into those waters as corpses. Chapter 401 Confusing news. Chapter 406 Confusing news. "It just doesn''t make any sense," Alpheo muttered, his fingers rubbing against his temples as he leaned forward, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. No matter how much information he turned over in his mind, it simply didn''t add up. He glanced at Shahab, his eyes narrowed in disbelief. "Are you sure this is reliable?" Shahab, sitting across from him with a slight frown, let out a long sigh, his frustration clear. His brow furrowed, but he didn''t let his calm exterior crack. "What could possibly make it false?What situation could have brought my informer to report this?" he asked, his voice carrying the hint of impatience that came with repeated explanations. "This isn''t some wild rumor. The information checks out. I don''t see the point in doubting it." Alpheo was unconvinced. He leaned back in his chair, his posture tense, arms folded across his chest. His sharp gaze darted between Shahab and Jasmine, who had been silent until now. "I''m not questioning the core of it. But maybe the dimensions were exaggerated. Maybe the numbers are off," Alpheo murmured, running his fingers over the surface of the desk. His mind raced through possibilities, trying to make sense of what didn''t seem right. "It doesn''t make sense that so many nobles, all at once, decided to turn into holy men. I don''t buy that these greedy bastards suddenly found religion¡ªlet alone started donating so much to a foreign priest. And for what?To allow them to build a temple?'' Right now, Alpheo, Jasmine, and Shahab were gathered in a dimly lit room, the heavy scent of aged paper and ink hanging in the air. The only sound was the occasional crack of the fire in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. Alpheo, leaning forward with furrowed brows, was clearly the most unsettled of the three. His mind raced, spinning over the new information that Shahab had just delivered. Shahab leaned back slightly in his chair, his eyes narrowing in thought as he spoke. "Of course, the priest isn''t a normal one," he said, the weight of the words not lost on him. "Apparently, he''s been traveling for years now, moving with a procession of men across the empire. They''ve been building temples, hunting down bandits, and... well, there are even stories of him curing people. Miracles, you could say'''' Jasmine, who had been standing by the window, chuckled lightly, breaking the tension in the room. "Is he planning on turning lead into gold next? He seems like he wants to be an alchemist next " she joked, raising an eyebrow as she clearly did not see a problem with it. After all it was not hers the land they were giving away. Alpheo ignored the jest, his face still serious as he answered, "He''s certainly something more than just a preacher. How many people were following him?" Shahab shrugged nonchalantly. "No exact number. They say there were as many as a thousand building the temple upon receiving the donation. Right now they''re spread out across the land, taking down bandits upon their lands." Alpheo''s fingers drummed softly on the edge of the table, his mind clicking into place. "If they''re hunting down bandits," he muttered, his voice low but edged with realization, "it means they''re armed." His hand stopped abruptly, the rhythmic tapping ceasing as his thoughts crystallized. For a moment, silence settled over the room¡ªthen his eyes darkened, and his voice cut through the quiet like a blade. "Those bastards." He exhaled sharply, his breath hissing through clenched teeth. "They didn''t turn holy overnight," he spat, voice thick with contempt. "They bought themselves an army." His gaze flickered between Shahab and Jasmine, burning with an anger that only deepened the more he spoke. "That priest isn''t some wandering preacher spreading the will of the heavens. No¡ªhe wanted land, and those fools gave it to him in exchange for steel." Who the fuck does he want to be? A pope? Jasmine, watching him with narrowed eyes, finally spoke. "That doesn''t make sense," she said, arms crossed, her voice laced with skepticism. "Nobles don''t just hand over land, why would they willingly depart with it with a priest?'''' Alpheo let out a mirthless chuckle, shaking his head. "Exactly," he said, his tone dripping with scorn. "Think about it¡ªwho are the ones making these donations? The same nobles who refused to realign with the crown after the war with Herculia." He jabbed a finger in the air, as if pointing at invisible conspirators. "They''re the ones whose influence is shrinking, whose allies are vanishing. The balance of power is shifting, and they know it. They''re outmatched." He took a step closer to the table, leaning forward, his hands pressing into the wood. "And desperate men make desperate deals," he growled. "They weren''t donating land out of faith¡ªthey were making an investment. That priest, his so-called followers? They''re muscle. A force strong enough to tip the scales if things turn to war." Jasmine arched a brow. "And they think they can control them?" Alpheo scoffed. "They don''t need to. The land is still technically theirs, and as long as that priest plays along. If he ever refuses, they''ll just take it back by ganging up on him." His jaw tightened. "They think they''re being clever." His fist slammed onto the table, making the wooden surface tremble. "Those traitorous bastards," he hissed, his voice low with barely restrained fury. "They aren''t just scheming¡ªthey''re preparing for war." The room fell into a heavy silence, the only sound the distant crackle of the fire. The weight of his words pressed down on them all. Shahab''s expression darkened, his mind clearly working through the implications. Jasmine, though still skeptical, no longer looked dismissive¡ªjust troubled. A civil war, after all was not something that one could scoff at. Alpheo''s anger didn''t stem solely from the fact that, just when he thought he had gained the upper hand over the opposition lurking within his lands, the enemy had made a move that evened the playing field once again. No, it wasn''t doubt that gnawed at him¡ªhe had no question that, if things escalated to war, he would win. But war took time. And time was the one thing he couldn''t afford. Every wasted season gave his neighbors the opportunity to sharpen their claws, to rally their own forces, and to set the stage for yet another round of conflict. What infuriated him most, however, was who they had handed power to. A priest. Unlike nobles, the clergy played by an entirely different set of rules. Temple lands were untouchable. They paid no taxes to the crown, and once granted, their holdings belonged solely to them. Even he had no authority to reclaim them. And unlike land bartered between nobles¡ªwhere force, persuasion, or politics could change ownership¡ªwhatever the temples acquired stayed within their grasp, insulated by faith and tradition. It wasn''t uncommon for merchants and nobles to offer up wealth to the temples in their final days, hoping to buy penance for a lifetime of sins. But to Alpheo, it was nothing short of theft hidden beneath the veil of piety. Land that could have fed villages, gold that could have bolstered armies, all sealed away in vaults and left to rot¡ªhoarded by those who neither toiled nor bled for it. And now, his enemies had taken advantage of that system, slipping their power into the hands of a priest where no blade or decree could touch it. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about it. Armies could be crushed, rulers could be overthrown, but if there was one force more powerful than steel and strategy, it was faith. A leader excommunicated by the temples, which usually would meet in a council to decide on whether to go on with an excommunication, wasn''t just a man without divine favor¡ªhe was a walking corpse. His lands became free for the taking, his rule a flame snuffed out overnight. Rivals wouldn''t even need to justify their conquest; seizing his territory would carry no stain of treason, no political repercussions. And worse, his own people might turn against him, unwilling to risk damnation by following a ruler cursed by the gods. Even the mighty emperors of Romelia had been wary of angering the priesthood. Now and then, during times of national crisis, they borrowed gold from the temples¡ªof course, only when circumstances made it convenient for the clergy to look the other way. But for the most part, the priestly class was left untouched, their wealth and influence preserved like sacred relics. It was an unspoken law of power: rulers ruled, but temples endured. And that was what made this situation so maddening. Because now, his enemies had hidden themselves within the one institution he could not afford to challenge. Alpheo exhaled slowly, steadying the storm within his mind. Perhaps it was time to stop treating this as a game of reaction and start playing his way. The old network of informants, scattered and unreliable, wouldn''t be enough anymore. No, he needed something more¡ªsomething organized, something disciplined. It''s time we start working on a real spy network. His fingers tapped against the table once before he turned to Shahab, his expression sharpening like a blade being honed. "Can you send men from the court¡ªlawful ones, scribes, tax officers, all the usual bureaucratic bastards? To have them conduct a full census of every property that was handed over. And tell them to pay close attention to the number of armed men under that priest." His voice darkened. "I want an exact count. As for the reason for that .....'''' he thought about it a bit ''''Make it to be a simple investigation to see the number of property of each village, as to set it with a legal base." Shahab nodded without hesitation, already mentally selecting the men for the task. "It can be done'''' Jasmine, who had been listening quietly until now, leaned forward,as she asked. "If this turns into a civil war... do you think you can win with the cards you have?" Alpheo met her gaze with a slow, confident smirk. "Of course," he said smoothly. "It''ll be no problem." But even as he spoke, his mind whispered a single, unspoken caveat. As long as I only have to fight them. Chapter 402 Outsiders(1) Chapter 407 Outsiders(1) So this is what it feels like to march to battle, Torghan thought, adjusting his grip on the hilt of his short axe, his shield pressed firmly against his chest. The cold morning air bit at his skin, but he hardly noticed. His heart pounded in his ears, not from fear, but from something else entirely¡ªanticipation. Excitement. The warriors had moved faster than he''d imagined possible. Just last night, the summons had gone out, carried from fire to fire, from home to home. By dawn, the warriors stood ready, their weapons sharpened. It was a sight Torghan had dreamed of since he was a child, watching the men return from raids, bloodied and triumphant. And now, at long last, he was among them. How could he not be eager? This was his chance¡ªhis only chance probably ¡ªto prove himself, to become more than just the third son of Varaku, more than just a boy. A single kill would mark him as a warrior, would elevate him from the ranks of those who could only watch, listen, and obey. He would no longer be dismissed, no longer be a child in the eyes of the tribe. His voice would matter. But for all the excitement coursing through his veins, it was not the thought of glory that sent warmth surging through his chest. It was something far smaller, far simpler¡ªa moment so fleeting that had he blinked, he might have missed it. His father truly looked at him. It was barely there, just the faintest look of approval of Varaku''s lips when he had seen him walk out of their house with weapons, a moment so brief it might not have existed at all. And yet, to Torghan, it was everything. A silent approval. A recognition that, for the first time, he was not just a son, but a man. And he would not waste it. Tribes that lived far from the reach of civilization were many things, but cravens were never one of them. To endure centuries beside the ever-expanding Sultanate of Azania while holding lands rich with silver and iron was proof enough of their resilience. A weaker people would have long been crushed, but the tribes had survived¡ªand not just survived, but thrived. Unlike the rigid feudal kingdoms that surrounded them, where armies had to be raised through levies and reluctant peasants were dragged from their fields, a tribe''s warriors were always ready. Every able-bodied man wanted to fight, for in their world, battle was not just survival¡ªit was status. A man''s worth was measured by his courage, his kills, and the blood he shed for his people. To prove oneself in war was to claim honor, a voice in the tribal council, and the right to stand among warriors as an equal. And when war came, they did not waste time. While feudal lords required weeks, sometimes months, to muster their banners and gather their armies in one place, the tribes needed only days. A call to arms spread like wildfire, and within hours, men were sharpening their weapons, painting their faces, and singing war songs around the fire. By the time their enemies had even begun to assemble, the tribes were already on the march, ready to spill blood before the first battle horn was sounded. The sultans of Azania had, on three separate occasions, sought to bring the tribes beyond the mountains to heel. And three times, they had failed. Each attempt had ended in defeat, and not because the tribes possessed greater numbers or superior arms¡ªno, their greatest weapon was the land itself. The mountains and hills they called home were a fortress no foreign army could conquer, a treacherous maze where even the most disciplined soldiers became little more than lost men awaiting their doom. In truth, the tribes only counted two true invasions, for the first barely deserved the name. That campaign never even reached their lands, collapsing under its own arrogance before a single proper battle was fought. The Azanian nobles, drunk on their own might, had sent an army filled with horsemen, believing they would crush the scattered tribes with swift cavalry charges. But within a week, the invaders found themselves in ruin. The rugged terrain shattered their supply lines¡ªcarts snapped and splintered along jagged paths, food and water became scarce, and the very horses they relied upon began to starve. And then the ambushes began. Warriors hidden among the cliffs sent boulders crashing down onto marching columns, turning roads into graveyards. Arrows rained from unseen perches high above, striking men down before they even glimpsed their attackers. When soldiers rushed to scale the rocky slopes in pursuit, they found nothing but empty air¡ªtheir enemies had already vanished, melting into the mountains as though they had never been there at all. The campaign ended not in battle, but in disgrace. Demoralized and exhausted, the noble lords of Azania soon realized there was no glory to be had in such a war. There were no cities to sack, no wealth to plunder¡ªonly an endless march through a land that refused to be tamed. With their men starving and their tempers flaring, they abandoned their ambitions and turned back, retreating without ever having laid eyes on the true heart of the tribes'' lands. Beyond the unforgiving terrain, another reason for which the Azanian campaigns crumbled was the tribes'' ability to mobilize at a moment''s notice. The very instant an enemy force set foot in the mountains, the call to arms had already been sounded, and warriors stood ready to defend their homeland¡ªa homeland that, to the frustration of the Azanian nobles, was everywhere. There were no grand cities to besiege, no strongholds to conquer¡ªonly endless hills, valleys, and forests, where the land itself seemed to shift and swallow invaders whole. Without a central target to subdue, Azanian armies found themselves wandering blindly, chasing shadows and phantoms through the highlands. The tribes rarely offered open battle, for why should they? The invaders were foreigners in a land that despised them, and the mountain warriors knew all they had to do was wait. Days turned to weeks, and as the invading armies pushed forward, their supplies thinned. Foraging parties sent ahead never returned. Columns left behind to guard vital passages were discovered, weeks later, to have been slaughtered to the last man. Every attempt to establish a foothold was met with the same grim fate. And without fertile land to sustain them, any garrison left behind would wither and die¡ªeither from starvation or at the hands of warriors who knew these lands like the backs of their hands. And so, the question loomed over the minds of every strategist in the sultanate:How do you conquer such inhospitable land? ----------------- Torghan adjusted the grip on his axe, feeling the rough leather of the handle press into his palm. The crisp morning air carried the scent of damp earth and the distant smoke of the campfires where the last of the warriors were preparing to march. He turned to Jandari, his childhood friend, who stood beside him, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake off the stiffness of sleep. "Are you excited?" Torghan asked, his voice barely containing his own anticipation. Jandari gave a short nod, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Of course I am. I just never thought our first battle would come this soon." He exhaled sharply, his breath misting in the cold air. "Feels strange, doesn''t it? All those years listening to the elders and warriors talk about war, and now we''re finally here." Torghan grinned, his fingers tightening around his axe. "Strange? I''d call it long overdue." He turned his gaze toward the warriors ahead of them, seasoned men who had fought in countless battles. "Do you think we''ll get to fight in the front?" Torghan grinned, his fingers tightening around his axe. "Strange? I''d call it long overdue." He turned his gaze toward the warriors ahead of them, seasoned men who had fought in countless battles. "Do you think we''ll get to fight in the front?" Jandari chuckled. "That depends. If you keep running your mouth, they might throw you in first just to shut you up.'''' Torghan joined too in the laughing . Jandari scoffed. "''''But in all seriousness you are the leader''s son; he will certainly make you fight....As for me I think if the gods are watching, they''ll send me an enemy too slow to dodge." His smirk faded slightly, and he looked ahead, where their fathers and elder warriors stood, their expressions grim with the weight of experience. "You know, I thought I''d be more afraid." "Me too," he admitted, his voice quieter. Then he shook his head, forcing the doubt away. "But it doesn''t matter. By the end of this, we''ll be warriors. That''s all that counts." Jandari met his gaze, and for a moment, there was no bravado between them, no nervous jokes¡ªjust the silent understanding that neither of them would ever be the same after this day. Then Jandari smirked again, clapping Torghan on the shoulder. "Just don''t die before I get to see you kill someone," he said. Torghan smirked back. "I should say the same to you." And with that, the two of them stepped forward, ready to take their place in the march to battle.Not knowing whether or not a week from now, any of them would still be able to talk to each other. War after all had always a price to pay Chapter 403 Outsiders(2) Chapter 408 Outsiders(2) As the warriors crested the final hill, the outsider''s camp sprawled before them, a strange and unnatural sight against the rugged landscape. The murmur of voices rippled through their ranks, some filled with excitement, others laced with curiosity and skepticism. "Look at that," one warrior muttered, gripping the shaft of his spear with anticipation. "We''ll be feasting on their weapons before the sun sets." "They don''t even know what''s coming for them," another chuckled, running a calloused hand over the edge of his axe. A younger warrior, barely past his first blood, squinted at the fortifications ahead, daunted by it, as he even thought he tried not to show it , he was a bit scared from the constructions in front of him. Despite the bravado of many , the sight of the camp gave even the most seasoned among them pause. It was no mere collection of tents hastily thrown together, as they had expected. Instead, it was something else entirely¡ªsomething built to endure and leave its mark. Encircling the entire camp was a two-meter-tall wall of wooden logs, thick and reinforced, driven deep into the earth. The top bristled with sharpened stakes, positioned to skewer any who dared climb. But more unsettling than the height of the wall was the trench dug before it¡ªa deep ditch, lined with wickedly pointed stakes at the bottom. Any man unlucky enough to fall while scaling the walls would not only find himself trapped but impaled, his broken bones the least of his concerns. There were no banners fluttering, differently from what the scouts he had sent had reported to Varaku. Smoke curled into the sky from what must have been fires, though it was impossible to tell if they were for warmth, cooking, or something else entirely. The warriors studied the layout in silence, their earlier chatter slowing as the reality of the sight before them settled in. This was not the camp of a band of lost wanderers.Perhaps they were truly in for a fight And now, they would have to break it. Varaku stood at the front of his warriors, his eyes fixed on the wooden walls rising before him. His grip on the hilt of his axe tightened, though not out of anger or anticipation¡ªbut uncertainty. This... this was something he had not seen before. For a man who had spent his life leading raids, ambushing enemies in the mountain passes, and clashing against rival tribes in brutal, open combat, this kind of warfare was entirely foreign to him. A wall, a ditch, ¡ªthis was not how battles were fought in the mountains. There was no open ground to charge into, no hidden paths to strike from, no place to lure the enemy into a trap. He exhaled slowly, his expression darkening. None of them¡ªnot him, not his warriors¡ªhad any experience in storming a fortification. In their lands, enemy garrisons never lasted long enough to require such a thing. If the Azanians dared to send men into the mountains, they would hole up in whatever ruin or makeshift palisade they could, but it never mattered. The tribes knew how to bleed an enemy without ever facing them directly. It was simple: they would cut them off. Every foraging party sent out for food would be hunted down, every attempt at resupply would be ambushed. The mountains gave nothing to outsiders¡ªno food, no shelter, no escape. Within weeks, starvation and despair would set in, and then, inevitably, the soldiers trapped inside would make their move. Desperate and broken, they would attempt to flee under the cover of darkness, trying to slip away before death claimed them. But the tribes knew the land far better than they ever could, and when the enemy finally emerged to escape, they would be waiting. That was how wars were won here. Not with sieges or walls, but with patience and blood. if there are no supply carts winding their way through the mountain passes, then how are these outsiders sustaining themselves? Had they brought enough provisions to last, or are they waiting for reinforcements and supplies to arrive by water? His jaw tightened. The latter possibility troubled him, but even if it were true, it did not change the fact that these men were too few. Two hundreds warriors at most. A mere handful compared to the might of the tribe. Even if they had enough food to survive, they did not have the numbers to hold out against a full assault. He allowed himself a small breath of confidence. They could still starve them if needed¡ªtheir herds were safe, watched over by the children and elders deep within the hills. There was no fear of an attack on the villages, not from so few enemies. Time, as always, was on their side. Still, Varaku clenched his fists. Why waste time when the answer was simple? They would take the fort. "They are only a fistful of men," he muttered under his breath, his fingers tightening around his axe. "We can easily overpower them." He turned his gaze back to the walls, his mind already picturing the battle to come. Once their warriors reached the fortifications, they would scale them, break through, and slaughter the outsiders before they had a chance to react. Varaku exhaled through his nose, his decision made. There was no need to wait¡ªno need to waste time starving out an enemy so few in number. They would take the fort, and they would take it today. He turned sharply, his fur-lined cloak shifting with the movement as he faced his warriors. His voice, rough and commanding, cut through the murmurs of the gathered men. "Go," he ordered, pointing toward the nearby woods. "Cut down some trees. We''ll need ladders to get over that wall." The tribesmen did not hesitate. At once, axes were pulled from belts and slung over shoulders. Groups of men broke away from the main force, moving swiftly toward the small patch of trees in the distance. A sudden creak shattered the rhythm of axes striking wood. Varaku''s head snapped toward the fort as a deep, groaning noise echoed across the clearing. The wooden gates, thick and heavy, were moving. At first, it was only a crack, but then, slowly¡ªdeliberately¡ªthey began to swing open. A hush fell over the tribal warriors. Hands flew to weapons, fingers tightening around axe hilts and spear shafts. The excited murmurs died, replaced by tense silence. "They''re coming," someone muttered under their breath. The warriors instinctively fell into formation, shields rising, spears leveling toward the gate. Their blood pounded in their ears. If the enemy was launching a sortie, then they would meet them head-on. But no charge came. No battle cries rang out from behind the walls. The doors stood open, revealing only emptiness. No soldiers rushed forth, no blades gleamed in the morning light, not the glorious charge that they were expecting from the outsiders within. The warriors hesitated. They shifted, glancing at one another, uncertainty flickering in their eyes. From the dark maw of the open gate, five figures emerged. Four of them moved together, shoulders hunched as they pushed a wooden cart forward, its wheels creaking against the uneven ground. The fifth man walked beside them, his posture unhurried, as if he were merely out for a stroll rather than stepping into the midst of an armed warband. A heavy silence fell over the gathered warriors. They gripped their weapons, watching in quiet disbelief as the strange procession advanced. No formation, no shields, no drawn weapons¡ªjust a handful of men and a cart. Murmurs flickered through the ranks. Eyes darted toward Varaku, searching for answers. But their leader was just as baffled as they were. His brow furrowed as he stared at the approaching group, confusion gnawing at the edge of his thoughts. Were they sending someone to talk? To negotiate? The outsiders were few, hopelessly outnumbered. What did they have to bargain with? And yet, here they were, walking toward his warriors, unarmed and unafraid. Varaku''s fingers flexed around the haft of his axe as he narrowed his eyes at the cart. Whatever this was¡ªhe sure as hell did not have any idea on where it would go. The man walking alongside the cart was unlike any the tribesmen had seen before. His garments shimmered slightly in the morning light, made of fine silk, a fabric so foreign to them that it almost seemed unnatural. His robes were deep blue, embroidered with golden patterns that wove across the fabric like rivers of sunlight. Perhaps if they were not in the middle of an armed expedition, they would have been awed more at clothes they had never laid eyes on, but at the moment, whatever sense of awe was present was overshadowed by confusion. He moved with a calmness that did not belong on a battlefield, his posture untroubled, his steps unhurried. Then, as he came within a few meters of the gathered warriors, he stopped. And bowed. The motion was smooth, deliberate¡ªhis arms at his sides, his head lowering slightly in a display of politeness that none of them could have ever expected The warriors exchanged uneasy glances. Should they go forward and just slash the man to death? It was an absurd sight for certain, a lone man, so richly dressed, standing before them with not even a dagger in his hands. He did not flinch, did not cower, and did not even seem to acknowledge the tension thick in the air, as it seemed he was simply there for a stroll. Chapter 404 Outsiders(3) Chapter 409 Outsiders(3) The murmurs among the warriors grew louder, their voices laced with confusion and unease. "What in the name of the ancestors is this?" one of them muttered "Why does he bow?Does he want to surrender?'''' "This doesn''t feel right," another grumbled, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Look at his clothes! Who wears silk to war?" "Maybe he''s a priest?" someone offered hesitantly. "Perhaps he''s come to beg for his gods to spare them." "A priest?" another scoffed. "What priest walks without an escort? What priest bows to warriors instead of raising his hands to the sky?" "He''s not armed," a younger warrior pointed out, his voice uncertain. "Should we just¡ª?" He made a quick, slicing motion with his hand across his throat. Varaku listened, his face unreadable as his warriors debated among themselves. Their confusion was evident in their voices, in the way their eyes flicked between the stranger and the unmoving gate behind him. Some shifted their weight uneasily, others clenched their weapons as if waiting for a sudden command to strike. Still, no reinforcements emerged from the gate. No archers took to the walls. No hidden warriors rushed forth. Only this one man, standing alone before them, as if the rules of battle simply did not apply to him. Varaky watched the man calmly look over them taking over their numbers, as he wondered what the hell was going on in the Outsider''s mind for him to walk so leasurely toward an army -------------------- Bloody hells, please, gods, let these men be more than mere beasts¡ªlet them have reason. Aron prayed silently, inhaling deeply to steady himself. Every fiber of his being screamed that he was standing in the jaws of a beast, surrounded by warriors who could cut him down before he could even utter another word. But he pushed those thoughts aside, forcing himself to stand tall, to exude the kind of confidence that might make these men hesitate rather than lash out. He cleared his throat, his voice carrying across the tense silence. "Brave warriors of the mountains," he began, ensuring his tone was firm yet respectful, "is there anyone among you who speaks my tongue?'''' He said in the Azanian tongue, hoping that anyone among them could speak it. His eyes swept across the gathered ranks, searching for any flicker of understanding, any sign that his words had registered. Some of the tribesmen turned to one another, muttering in their own tongue, their voices hushed but filled with curiosity and skepticism. Aron could see their expressions shifting¡ªsome looked confused, others wary, and a few even amused by the sight of a lone man dressed in silk standing before their assembled warriors. He watched them closely, his interest piqued. Their language was foreign to him, but the way they spoke, the way their gazes darted toward him and then back to each other, told him they were trying to make sense of what was happening. Suddenly, a voice cut through the murmurs like a blade. A sharp, commanding shout. Aron''s gaze snapped to the front of the group, where a man clad in chainmail stepped forward. The metallic links glinted in the daylight, a sign that he was no ordinary warrior. His presence alone silenced the others, their attention shifting toward him as he barked something in their tongue. A moment later, a figure emerged from the crowd. Aron''s eyes flickered with interest as he watched the chainmail-clad man turn to this newcomer, speaking quickly and gesturing with his hands¡ªfirst toward Aron, then toward the cart behind him, and then back toward the camp. His tone was firm, authoritative, as if he were giving instructions or perhaps clarifying something. The newcomer stepped forward, his expression unreadable as he studied Aron for a moment before speaking in a rough but understandable Azanian tongue. "What are you Azanians dogs doing here?" he asked, his voice edged with suspicion. For a brief second, Aron felt frozen in place. Then, a surge of relief crashed over him like a wave, and he had to stop himself from letting out a breathless laugh. It was as if the gods themselves had answered his silent prayers. With a broad smile, he dipped his head respectfully and greeted the man in the same language. "We are not Azanians, my friend. We come from across the sea. Our homeland is called Yarzat." His voice was warm, carrying the unmistakable excitement of someone who had just found common ground where he thought none existed. The tribesman frowned slightly, his eyes narrowing in thought before he asked, "Then why do you speak the Azanian tongue?" Aron chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "Because I did not know what tongue your people spoke,"he admitted honestly."But I assumed that with the Azanians so close, you must have had some dealings with their traders. I had hoped that at least one among you would understand me." The man stared at him for a moment longer before nodding slowly. He turned back toward the warrior in chainmail¡ªthe one Aron now suspected was the leader of either the army or perhaps even the entire tribe. The two men exchanged a few short words, the newcomer gesturing toward Aron and then back toward the camp. Aron couldn''t understand their language, but from the way the armored warrior''s eyes flicked toward him with scrutiny, he could tell he was being sized up. Judged The tribesman''s gaze flickered toward the cart, his brow furrowing in curiosity. He pointed at it and asked, "What is that?" Aron''s smile widened, his expression warm and inviting. "Gifts for you," he said smoothly. With a simple snap of his fingers, his four servants immediately set to work, reaching into the cart and pulling out various items. The watching tribesmen murmured amongst themselves, some gripping their weapons a little tighter, still unsure whether to take this as an offering or a trick. Aron raised a hand in a placating gesture before addressing the man again. "May I come closer to your leader?" he asked, his tone respectful but confident. The tribesman hesitated for only a moment before turning to the armored warrior behind him, speaking in their native tongue. The leader¡ªwho had been silently observing the exchange¡ªgave a slow nod. Aron inclined his head in gratitude before stepping forward, his movements measured and deliberate. His servants followed close behind, their arms full of gifts, while the gathered warriors eyed them warily. Hands hovered over weapons, muscles tensed, ready to strike at the first hint of treachery. The first servant stepped ahead, presenting a bundle of fine silk, dyed in vibrant blues and deep reds, the fabric shimmering under the light. Aron gestured to it with a flourish. "These are garments of the finest quality," he said smoothly. "Fit for men of status." A few tribesmen leaned in slightly, intrigued by the rich texture and color of the fabric¡ªso unlike the rougher materials they wore. But their leader remained unmoved, merely watching. Then, the second set of servants brought forth large urns, placing them carefully on the ground. They removed the lids, releasing the scent of wine into the air. Which meant the only wine they could acquire came through Azanian traders. And if that was the case, then he had something they truly valued. The warrior in chainmail finally stepped forward, his curiosity getting the better of him. He took one of the urns and peered inside as soon as the red liquid swayed they knew what it was, wine. Aron observed him closely, the reaction confirming what he had suspected¡ªthey have no vineyards. Which meant the only wine they could acquire came through Azanian traders. And if that was the case, then he had something they truly valued. A resource they could not produce themselves. His smile deepened. Oh, yes. He could use this. Aron''s smile remained steady as he gestured toward the second urn. "If you enjoy the wine, then you must try the cider,"he suggested smoothly. "It is sweeter, with a crisp taste unlike anything you''ve had before." At his cue, one of his servants stepped forward, bowing slightly as he presented a small cup filled with the golden liquid. The tribesmen watched in silence as the light of the sun danced over the surface, making the cider shimmer like molten amber. The man in chainmail eyed the cup warily, his fingers twitching slightly before resting on the hilt of his weapon. His suspicion was clear. Aron, ever the diplomat, raised his hands in a disarming gesture. "It is not poisoned," he reassured, his voice smooth and unwavering. "If you wish, I can take the first sip myself." Varaku, the leader, gave him a sharp, measuring gaze, searching his face for any sign of deceit. Then, without a word, he took the cup himself, dipping it into the urn before raising it to his lips. As the liquid touched his tongue, his eyes widened in surprise. He swallowed quickly, then ran his tongue over his lips, as if trying to capture every last drop of the drink''s flavor. Without hesitation, he lifted the cup again and took another long swing, savoring it this time. A slow grin spread across his face. "This... this is delicious," he said to his people, his voice carrying an unmistakable note of satisfaction, Aron didn''t need the translators to understand the meaning. Aron bowed deeply, his expression one of perfect humility. "I am honored that you appreciate our gift," he said smoothly. "It is only a taste of what Yarzat has to offer.We come here as friends...'''' The man in chainmail''s eyes took a third cup before he lowered it , his fingers tightening around it with a sudden tension. He glanced at Aron and narrowed his gaze. "He asks what are you really here for?" the man translated ''''We are here to trade'''' Aron said simply "Trade menas you give us something and we do the same. But what stops us from taking the gifts, killing you and your people, and then taking everything for ourselves?" Aron''s smile did not falter, though a subtle shift in his posture betrayed his awareness that the situation was more delicate than he had hoped. He had come here expecting to barter with men of reason, even if they were foreign, but the reality before him made his pulse quicken. His mind whirred, taking in the threat behind the man''s words, the glint of greed and violence in his eyes. The tribesmen around him, their posture brimming with impatience and barely suppressed hostility, told him all he needed to know. These were savages. Chapter 405: Outsiders(4) Chapter 405: Outsiders(4) A heavy silence followed the question, thick and unmoving like a stagnant pool of water. The gathered warriors exchanged glances, some gripping their weapons tighter, others waiting with barely restrained anticipation. The wind carried only the distant cries of seabirds and the rustling of the trees. Aron inhaled deeply, steadying himself. His fingers twitched slightly, but he forced them still. Slowly, deliberately, he rebuilt his smile, the same friendly one he had used earlier "You are free to do so," he said at last, his voice breaking the silence with an eerie calm. "Slit my throat, storm the camp, take everything you find and claim it for yourselves." A few of the tribesmen blinked in confusion at the way he so easily invited his own death, but Aron only chuckled softly before continuing. "In fact," he added, gesturing loosely toward the wooden palisade behind him, "I encourage you to do it now. Don''t wait. Go ahead, take the camp right now." He saw the flicker of doubt in their eyes, the shift in their stances, the slight hesitation that cracked through their certainty. Aron raised a hand and pointed past the camp, toward the sea, where their ships floated upon the calm waves. "As a matter of fact there won''t be a single sword raised against your attempt." His voice dropped slightly, carrying a knowing edge. "There is no one inside. Not a single soul. Every man who disembarked has already returned to the ships,"Aron continued smoothly. "Along with all of our belongings. If you storm the camp now, you''ll find no plunder, no food, no weapons¡ªnothing. Not even a tent worth carrying away." He spread his arms wide, as if presenting an empty prize. "So tell me, mighty warriors, what meaning does your threat hold now?" His smile turned into something more pointed, almost mocking. "What value is there in killing us if it gains you nothing?" The silence that followed was far heavier than the one before. Aron let the silence linger, allowing the weight of his words to settle over the gathered warriors like a thick fog. Then, with a small, knowing chuckle, he tilted his head and spoke again. "Truth be told," he admitted, his voice as calm as ever, "the camp has been empty since the moment we spotted you marching toward our position. We had no intention of making a stand against you.We hold no reason to have men die to maintain our position here." Some of the tribesmen narrowed their eyes, while others exchanged uncertain glances. "The initial plan," he continued, gesturing toward the sea once more, "was to simply leave. We would have boarded our ships and sought another land¡ªanother tribe¡ªone more willing to listen, more open to business." He let out a soft breath, shaking his head. "In fact, that would have been the safest choice. The logical one." His sharp gaze flickered between them, lingering on the man clad in chainmail, before he offered a wry smile. "But it was I who convinced them otherwise. I alone asked to remain, to see if reason could prevail over the blade. If I was wrong, then so be it¡ªmy life holds no meaning in the grand scheme of things." He exhaled, his expression turning cold, his voice dropping ever so slightly. "I am merely a dog, one that can be replaced the moment I outlive my usefulness. You could cut me down where I stand, and another would simply take my place with another tribe . It would change nothing for us ,while for you everything." He paused, then took a step forward, his eyes gleaming with quiet confidence. "But before you go ahead with your choice, before you decide whether to kill me or listen, ask yourselves this¡ª" he let the question hang in the air for a moment, drawing them in before delivering the final blow, "how many tribes like yours exist, ones we can offer trade, ones we can bring the same luxuries you have just tasted mere moments ago?" He saw the uncertainty flicker through their ranks. Then he smiled. "And now tell me¡ªhow many are there who are willing to trade with you?I believe you are pretty away from the mountains, and I don''t see many ships coming here.Even if there were how many would be willing to offer what I now presented you?" The translator relayed Aron''s words in the guttural, rolling cadence of the tribe''s tongue, his voice carrying across the assembled warriors. Some listened intently, their expressions unreadable, while others exchanged wary glances, shifting uneasily as they weighed the foreigner''s words. Varaku let out a slow, measured sigh. He didn''t like what he was hearing¡ªeverything in him recoiled at the idea of dealing with these outsiders, of relying on them for anything¡ªbut he couldn''t deny the truth in the man''s words. Back in the hills, traders would occasionally risk the treacherous journey to bypass the mountains between and barter with them, offering salt, in exchange for furs, wool, or silver. But here? In this foreign land? That possibility was gone. They had no network, no established paths of trade¡ªonly the weapons in their hands. And the outsiders knew it. What Aron did not know, however, was that the situation of those he was to trade with, was even worse than he could have imagined. The tribe was on the verge of famine. Their journey had been long, and while they had herds, they could not slaughter too many without crippling their future. The land here was unfamiliar, and their hunters had struggled to bring in enough game. The thought of a hard winter without enough food loomed over them like a specter. Varaku exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers flexing at his sides. He hated this. He hated the idea of needing anything from these foreigners. But survival came first. He leveled a hard gaze at Aron. "And what is it that you can trade?" he asked, his voice flat, revealing nothing of the storm of thoughts raging inside him. Inside, Aron nearly collapsed with relief. He kept his face composed, his practiced smile still in place, but in his mind, he was cheering, exalting, and thanking every god that might be listening. I live. The weight that had been pressing on his chest since the moment he stepped forward lifted ever so slightly. He had gambled everything¡ªhis life, his future, his very existence¡ªon the slimmest chance that reason would prevail, that these warriors would see the value in what he was offering rather than simply cutting him down like a stray dog. And he had won. He could almost feel his knees trembling, but he kept his posture straight, willing himself to appear as if he had expected this outcome all along. He would live to see another day. He would not die in this forsaken land, bleeding out in the dirt at the hands of savages that do not even know the word civilized Aron''s smile widened ever so slightly, though his heart was still hammering in his chest. He gestured subtly to the gifts that had already been presented. "Everything you have seen today can be yours. Silk, wine, cider,salt...." Varaku''s ears seemed to twitch at the mention of that last word. His expression, carefully guarded until now, shifted ever so slightly as his sharp eyes focused intently on Aron. Salt. There were only a few salt mines within reach of the tribes , and the precious grains or sacks of salt that traders brought were costly¡ªtoo costly to be wasted except on the most necessary occasions. The meat they hunted had to be eaten quickly before it spoiled, and during the colder seasons, when hunting became difficult, preserving enough food was always a struggle. With salt, they could store their kills for much longer, ensuring that no beast went to waste. More than that, salt was a valuable commodity among the other mountain tribes. If they had a steady supply, they could trade it for food. The possibilities were endless. Varaku''s fingers flexed at his sides, his mind already racing through the implications. Aron, watching him closely, could see it¡ªthe hesitation, the shift from hostility to reluctant interest. Aron kept his voice calm and measured, though inside, he was nearly giddy with triumph. He had to press his advantage while the iron was hot¡ªquite literally. "Of course, if your tribe is willing to trade, then it is in our interest that you have the means to defend yourselves." As he spoke, he reached behind his back, carefully unfastening a scabbard that had been strapped to him. With a slow, deliberate motion, he unsheathed a small but exquisitely crafted blade and held it out to Varaku, handle first. The tribal leader eyed him warily before stepping forward and grasping the weapon. He pulled it from its scabbard in one smooth motion, tilting it to let the metal catch the light. The steel gleamed, sharp and clean, a stark contrast to the crude iron and bronze tools his people wielded. With a flick of his wrist, Varaku tested the weight of the blade, letting it slice through the air in a smooth arc. Then, without hesitation, he pressed the edge lightly against his finger. A thin line of red appeared instantly, and he watched the bead of blood form with silent approval. Aron smiled. "If you are willing, we may be able to trade iron weapons as well." He didn''t need to be a mind-reader to see it¡ªthe interest flashing in Varaku''s eyes, the subtle shift in his stance. Aron knew at that moment: he had won. And with the victory came the favor of the prince. . Chapter 406: Fruits of one work Chapter 406: Fruits of one work Blake finally laid eyes on the fruits of his relentless labor. With a slow turn of his head, he took in the sight before him¡ªthe fleet anchored in the bustling port of the Call. The salty breeze carried the scent of the sea and the distant sound of waves lapping against the hulls of the warships. Seventy-nine vessels stood ready, their masts reaching toward the sky like the spears of an army poised for battle. And yet, he could not ignore the absent ships. Ninety-seven captains had cast their votes when choosing the High Admiral, but nearly twenty had not arrived in time. A shame, but not a disaster. Their absence , at least he hoped , would not change the course of what was to come. Blake let out a slow breath, his fingers tightening behind his back. They were more than enough. Blake could see it in the restless energy of the captains who had made it to the island¡ªmen eager for battle, their patience wearing thin with each passing day. And truth be told, he had no desire to wait any longer. Time was not on their side. The longer they lingered, the greater the risk. The island was a fortress. But It could not withstand a siege, not with a population that despised its new masters. Between the steady stream of merchant ships that once filled its docks and the pirate vessels that now called it home, the people had made their preference clear. They merely endured the new order, waiting¡ªperhaps even praying¡ªfor an opportunity to turn against them. How long until they opened the gates for the oil-drinkers? Blake exhaled sharply. No, they couldn''t afford to wait. What they needed was an overwhelming victory, a crushing blow that would shatter any hope of the Romelians reclaiming the isle. The people had to understand that this was their new reality¡ªwhether they liked it or not. The sandy shores of the Call were alive with the presence of the fleet. Captains and crews sprawled across the beach, their voices merging into a chaotic sea of laughter, murmured prayers, and hushed excitement. The salty breeze carried the scent of the ocean, but soon, it would be overpowered by the rich, metallic tang of blood. This was tradition¡ªan ancient rite performed before every battle. Here, under the open sky, every man of the fleet gathered, bound not just by oaths of plunder and war but by their god. The more they offered, the better their fortune at sea, and today, they were making sure the sea-god would have no reason to abandon them. One hundred cows stood tethered in the center of the gathering, their anxious snorts barely audible over the growing anticipation of the men. Some of the younger deckhands, their faces barely touched by a razor, whispered among themselves, their eyes flicking between the animals and the seasoned warriors sharpening their blades for the sacrifice. The older sailors stood calmly, some gripping charms and talismans, others simply watching, their expressions hardened by years of battle and bloodshed. Fires were already being lit, their flickering glow casting long shadows over the sand. Soon, the priests would step forward, the first throat would be slit, and the ground beneath their feet would turn crimson. The gods would feast tonight, and in return, the fleet would ask for swift winds, strong tides, and steel that would bite deep into Romelian flesh. The priests stepped forward, their long hooded robes swaying with each measured step. Their heads were shaven clean, reflecting the glow of the ritual fires, making them appear almost otherworldly in the dimming light. In their hands, they gripped curved ritual blades, the polished steel catching the flickering glow of the flames as they moved with practiced precision. A hush fell over the gathering. The air was thick with tension, the low, uneasy murmurs of the animals mixing with the heavy breathing of the assembled warriors. Then, with a single motion, the priests struck. One hundred blades met one hundred throats, slicing deep in perfect unison. A choked symphony of final, gurgling bellows erupted across the beach as the cows collapsed, their legs twitching as life drained from them. The blood surged forward in dark, steaming rivers, funneled expertly into the narrow canals carved into the sand. The channels, dug with precision, guided the crimson tide into waiting bowls, each filled to the brim before being carefully emptied into a massive iron cauldron at the center of the ceremony. The cauldron, blackened with age and countless past sacrifices, swallowed the offering greedily, the thick liquid swirling and steaming as it mixed within. The warriors watched in silence, their expressions unreadable. Some gripped their weapons tighter, as if the sacrifice itself had already called them to battle. Others murmured prayers under their breath, their gazes flicking toward the cauldron, waiting for the gods to accept their offering. The scent of blood filled the air, thick and heady, mixing with the salt of the sea. The priests moved swiftly, their robes darkened at the hems from the blood that had splashed upon the sand. With solemn reverence, they filled small wooden bowls with the still-warm liquid from the great cauldron, the surface thick and glistening under the firelight. One by one, they stepped before the warriors, offering them the sacred drink. Each man took a bowl with steady hands, the weight of the moment heavy upon their shoulders. This was no mere superstition¡ªthis was tradition, a bond between them and the gods. Blake accepted his bowl without hesitation. The heat of the liquid seeped through the wood, warming his palms as he lifted it to his lips. The thick, metallic taste coated his tongue as he swallowed it down in one motion, feeling the warmth trail down his throat and settle in his stomach. He exhaled through his nose, letting the ritual complete its hold over him. All around, warriors did the same. Some drank eagerly, their thirst for battle ignited by the act. Others took slow, deliberate sips, their eyes closed in silent prayer. The sound of dozens of bowls being emptied echoed against the night, mixing with the crackle of flames and the rhythmic crashing of waves against the shore. The offering had been made With it having been made there was now nothing to stop them to go ahead. The men were restless¡ªoarsmen, deckhands, and warriors alike¡ªeager to board, eager to set sail, eager to carve their names into history with fire and steel. But before they left, there was something Blake had to do. He stepped forward, his boots sinking slightly into the sand, the weight of command heavy upon his shoulders. Thousands of eyes turned to him¡ªmen hardened by salt and storm, men who had made their living by the blade, men who had once been slaves and now stood as free warriors, ready to kill for that freedom. They watched him in silence, waiting. This was the moment. Once they were on the water, there would be no time for words. No time for anything but battle. Blake let the tension build for a moment, let the crashing of the waves and the crackling of the fire speak for him. Then, with a deep breath, he began. "Before we set sail toward glory, before we carve our names into the pages of history, I want each of you to remember¡ªthis battle is not just for your own honor, nor for your own gain. It is for all of us. For the life we have built, for the freedom we have bled for." Blake''s voice carried across the beach, cutting through the crackling of torches and the distant crash of waves. His gaze swept over the hardened faces before him, men who had spent their lives upon the tide, men who had fought and killed for every coin and crumb. "Think back to how we lived before this¡ªscouring the coasts for scraps, raiding miserable villages that had already been picked clean by raiders before us, taking whatever was left behind like dogs fighting over bones. Tell me, where was the honor in that? Where was the wealth, the power, the future?" Silence. The crowd stood still, listening. Blake''s voice rang across the shore, his words carried by the night wind and the murmuring sea. "For two hundred years, we have ruled these waters, not by the mercy of kings, not by the grace of empires, but by the strength of our own hands! We took nothing that was not ours to take, and we bowed to no master but the waves themselves. And now¡ªnow these oil-drinking bastards think they can march in and take it from us?" A growl rippled through the crowd, low and angry. Men shifted, gripping weapons, fists tightening, jaws clenching. Blake raised his arm, pointing toward the horizon. "Look at that sea. Look at it! That is not Romelian water¡ªit is ours! It is the lifeblood of our people, the path to our riches, the home of our sons! And these fools would see it tamed under the boot of a merchant-king, turned into another road for their fat-bellied ships to pass, guarded by their fleets as if it were theirs to keep. But we know the truth, don''t we?" A chorus of voices answered. Some shouted in agreement, others snarled curses, some simply let loose wordless roars. "They have grown too bold, my brothers. Too comfortable. They''ve forgotten who we are. They''ve forgotten what it means to sail into the unknown with nothing but a blade, a ship, and the will to take what is ours. They will remember soon enough." Blake let the words hang in the air, let the firelight dance in their eyes. He took a step forward, lowering his voice, forcing them to listen. "This is not just a raid. This is not just another skirmish. This is a reckoning. We will not run. We will not scatter like thieves in the night. We will meet them on the open sea, and we will break them like we were broken at Rock Bottom.We will be the one to avenge our fathers and brothers who nobly died in that battle" He took his sword from its sheath, lifting it high, the steel gleaming in the fire''s glow. "For the Free! For the Call! And for the only law we have ever known¡ªthe law of the strong!" A thunderous roar erupted from the warriors, shaking the very sand beneath their feet. Fists and blades were raised to the sky, oaths were shouted, and the sound of men readying for war drowned out the crashing of the waves. The time for words was over. The time for battle had come. Chapter 407: Romelian preparations Chapter 407: Romelian preparations The docks outside the Romelian camp had been alive as it hadn''t been in weeks. A congregation of furious merchants, their silk coats embroidered with gold thread and their plumed hats bobbing with each angry gesture, swarmed before a small maniple of imperial soldiers. The air was thick with the scent of salt, tar, and sweat, but most of all, with outrage. "This is theft!" one merchant bellowed, his face red as the velvet of his doublet. He stomped forward, waving a parchment in the air. "We came here under imperial sanction, with legal writs signed and sealed! These ships are not war vessels, they are grain carriers! You have no right¡ª" "No right indeed!" another shouted, his many chins wobbling with the force of his indignation. "We risk pirates, storms,between here and the capital, and now you would commandeer our ships as if we were your lackeys?!" "This is tyranny! Lawless tyranny!" cried a third, his bejeweled hands clenched into trembling fists. "If you take our ships, what are we to do? Swim back home? Do you even intend to compensate us?" The soldiers standing opposite them shifted uncomfortably. Their faces, lined with exhaustion, remained stony, but beneath their polished breastplates, their patience was wearing thin. The fat merchants jostled and flailed as they ranted, their rolls of flesh quivering with each indignant movement. One of the soldiers, a thick-necked veteran with a scar running down his cheek, clenched his jaw so tightly that his teeth ached. He tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword, the leather creaking under his fingers. The merchants were shouting directly into his face now, spittle flying, their perfume mixing nauseatingly with the stench of their sweat. "By the gods, do they ever stop talking?" he muttered under his breath. Beside him, another soldier, younger and still unused to such displays, forced himself to inhale deeply through his nose. His fingers twitched near the haft of his spear, every instinct screaming to shove the nearest merchant back and be done with it. But he dared not. Not yet. One of the merchants, emboldened by their restraint, thrust a finger into the chest of the nearest soldier, prodding at the steel of his cuirass. "Well?! Say something, you glorified bandits! What gives you the right¡ª" The scarred veteran''s eye twitched. His patience, already strained to its limits, frayed dangerously close to snapping. It was only a matter of time, before the soldiers took out his weapon , and always before thousands more followed. A battle was coming, inevitable as the tide. Fortune had favored the Romelians¡ªand cursed the merchants of Yarzat¡ªwhen news of the approaching enemy fleet reached Lord Caius while the supply vessels were still docked at the island. Seizing the moment, Caius absorbed the ten escort ships he had sent for protection back into his fleet, bolstering his numbers. But that alone would not be enough. To compensate for the losses suffered during the night raid a week prior, he had no choice but to borrow the merchant vessels that had just arrived. It was hardly a fair trade¡ªreplacing four warships with a dozen lumbering merchant hulks¡ªbut necessity left him with little choice. These were ships built for cargo, not for war. They lacked reinforced hulls for ramming, their decks were not made to endure the chaos of battle. That meant there was only one use for them: carrying troops for boarding actions. The merchants, of course, were livid. But their fury was as inconsequential as the waves crashing against the shore. The Romelians had more pressing matters¡ªan enemy fleet was on the horizon, and whether the merchants wailed or not, war was coming. The soldiers exhaled long, weary sighs, their patience thinning as they faced the wall of enraged merchants. One of them, a grizzled veteran with a scar running down his cheek, stepped forward and spoke in a tone that barely concealed his irritation. "We are merely requisitioning the ships for the battle. Once the enemy is dealt with, they will be returned to you¡ªalong with a fair share of the loot taken from the enemy. Consider it an investment in victory." But the merchants were not so easily placated. "An investment?" one of them spat, his face red with fury. "We were not even asked! Is this how the Empire does business now? Theft under the guise of duty?" The soldiers exchanged glances, resisting the urge to roll their eyes. Why would we ask? they thought. We have steel, and they do not. Another merchant, his feathered hat wobbling with each frantic motion, pointed an accusing finger. "And what if the ships are destroyed? Who will compensate us then?" "Aye!" another voice rang out from the crowd. "What if you lose? What happens to our livelihoods if the Romelian fleet is defeated?" At that, the soldiers snapped. "Enough!" barked the veteran, his voice carrying the weight of finality. "The orders came from Lord Caius himself. If you have complaints, then march to his tent and voice them there. But we are soldiers¡ªwe obey orders, not your whining." The crowd wavered, but some still looked ready to argue. The soldier took a step forward, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. His eyes narrowed. "Now get out of our way. If you do not leave this instant, we will restrain you with the necessary force to carry out our duties. And believe me, we would rather not dirty our hands before battle¡ªbut we will if you give us reason." A tense silence followed, the threat hanging in the air like a drawn blade. The merchants hesitated, their faces shifting between outrage and reluctant acceptance. Their hands twitched at their sides, as if grasping for some unseen leverage, but there was none to be found. The soldiers had made themselves clear, and none of them were willing to test the sharpness of Romelian steel. One of the older merchants, his face flushed and his fine robes slightly damp with sweat, let out a frustrated huff. "Fine," he spat, adjusting the extravagant feathered hat that had nearly fallen from his head. "If Lord Caius has ordered this, then we will take it up with him directly." Another, a portly man with thick gold rings on each finger, nodded hastily. "Yes, yes. We will do that. There''s no point arguing with men who only know how to swing swords." His words were laced with venom, but his retreating steps betrayed his lack of resolve. The rest of the merchants muttered amongst themselves, some shaking their heads, others cursing under their breath. Slowly, they began to disperse, their robes billowing as they turned toward the command tent, their pride wounded but their bodies intact. The soldiers remained still, watching them go. Only when the last of the merchants had moved a safe distance away did the veteran soldier let out a sharp exhale, rubbing his temple. "Spoiled bastards," he muttered under his breath. "Let''s hope they waste their breath on Lord Caius instead of us." ------------- Lord Caius exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple as the muffled shouts from outside seeped into his tent. He had been expecting this. With a measured breath, he adjusted the thick crimson cloak draped over his shoulders, brushing off an invisible speck of dust before fastening the golden clasp at his collar. His armor, polished but worn with years of use, shifted slightly as he stood. Pushing aside the heavy fabric of his tent''s entrance, he stepped into the open air, the scent of salt and damp wood filling his lungs. The sight before him was exactly as he had anticipated¡ªdozens of merchants, their richly embroidered robes swaying with each exaggerated gesture, crowding at the entrance of his command post. Their voices, high-pitched and shrill with indignation, rang through the camp as they berated his guards, who stood firm, their expressions caught between exasperation and restraint. Lord Caius did not slow his stride. He had neither the time nor the patience to entertain the whining of merchants when a battle loomed on the horizon. The salty breeze rustled his cloak as his boots crunched against the dirt, his gaze fixed forward, his mind already occupied with formations, naval maneuvers, and the enemy fleet waiting beyond the horizon. The merchants, however, were not so easily deterred. One of them, a man draped in fine silk with golden rings adorning his fingers, stepped forward hastily, almost stumbling over his own feet in his desperation. "My lord! My ship¡ªmy ship has been requisitioned without my consent! '''' Others quickly joined in, their voices rising, pleading, demanding. "This is not what was signed with the guild'''' "Surely you do not expect us to simply accept this!" Caius did not break his stride. He did not spare them a glance. His voice, cold and unwavering, rang out over their grievances. "Whatever questions you have can wait until after the battle. If you still have complaints then, you may bring them to me, as I said after the battle." His words were final, dismissive, and laced with the implicit warning that he would not entertain further discussion. He did not need to look back to know that his guards had already stepped forward, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords, ready to enforce his command. "Now leave," Caius continued, his tone sharpening. "Before the guards decide to remove you by force." The merchants hesitated, their indignation warring with the instinct for self-preservation. They knew better than to test a Romelian officer''s patience¡ªespecially not one preparing for war. One by one, they stepped back, their protests dying in their throats. Fat greedy fucks... Caius did not stop to watch them retreat. He had more important matters to attend to then the whims of commoners, namely a battle that would decide the masters of these seas... Chapter 408: Among the tribes(1) Chapter 408: Among the tribes(1) Given everything¡ªthe risks, the uncertainties, and the cards I was dealt¡ªI''d say I''ve pulled off a great success. Aron sat in the small hut that had been granted to him by the tribe, his fingers idly tracing the rough wooden beams that made up its frame. It was a meager dwelling, barely large enough for a man to stand upright without brushing against the thatched roof. The walls were little more than crude wooden pillars, lashed together and reinforced with dried mud, while the roof was layered thick with hay. He frowned slightly as he glanced upward. I wonder how well it holds against heavy rain. But discomfort aside, he had no right to complain. Only a day ago, the warriors of this tribe had been ready to slaughter him and his men, to pile their corpses in the dirt and take whatever they pleased. Yet now, not only had he averted bloodshed, but he had secured an agreement¡ªone that could prove far more valuable than any desperate fight for survival. Trade. That single word changed everything. If he played his cards right,they would trade people, not forcefully their own. And to his great surprise, the tribe had even declared him Friend of the Tribe. Aron wasn''t entirely sure if it was an honorary gesture or if it came with actual significance. Still, he appreciated it nonetheless. Resting his head against the wooden support beam, he exhaled deeply. The fire in the small hearth before him flickered, casting long shadows along the cramped interior. For the first time since their landing, he felt something close to relief. With nothing to do Aron reached for the small bundle of paper he had brought with him, carefully untying the string that held the sheets together. The firelight cast a warm glow over the parchment as he dipped his quill into the ink, preparing to tackle the second task his grace had assigned him¡ªthe documentation of anything worth noting about these people. He had been surprised when first given this duty. That the war-prince of Yarzat, a man famed for his cunning in battle , would have such an avid thirst for knowledge seemed almost at odds with his reputation. The Little Fox, as he was known,mostly by foes. Aron had difficulty picturing him as a bookworm, pouring over notes and accounts of foreign customs. Perhaps the fact that he was a commoner made him realize the power of knowledge? And yet, he mused as he put ink to paper; the newest creation of the great sage of Yarzat, here I am, writing as he commanded. Since he was the one writing the first written document about these people, he also had the honor of naming it , which after a bit of time at sea, he had chosen the title:A treaty over the people beyond the sea. With a deep breath he started writing , begining with his first impressions of the village. "The settlement as I was honored to lay eyes upon as guest, is simple, yet sturdy in its own way. The dwellings are huts, built of wooden beams reinforced with mud, with roofs thatched thickly with hay. There is little uniformity to their placement, as they are scattered in a haphazard manner, yet all seem centered around a communal space where fires burn day and night, smoking meat to conserve for winter" He paused for a moment, adjusting his seat on the rough wooden floor before continuing. " I have seen no fields of grain or crops cultivated here. There are no plowed lands, no irrigation channels, nor any sign of the farming tools one might expect in a village of this size. Instead, their wealth seems to lie in their herds¡ªsheep and goats, numbering in the hundreds, perhaps more. These animals are watched over by children and younger men, who guide them through the hills with practiced ease.As for the older men, they are sent hunting. The quill hovered over the page for a moment before he added another thought. "I do not know yet if this is a peculiarity of this specific tribe, who dwell in these rugged mountains, or if it is a broader trait of their entire people. If it is the latter, then it would explain their warlike nature¡ªwithout fields to tie them down, they live by their herds, moving where they must and taking what they need. Such a life breeds men who are unbound by walls or kings, who answer to no law but that of the strong." Aron set his quill down for a moment, flexing his fingers as he leaned back against the wooden beam. He had barely begun, and yet he already felt as though he were beginning to understand these people¡ªat least, in part. Aron dipped his quill back into the inkwell, tapping off the excess before returning to his writing. "It is clear that these people are warlike by nature. Their first instinct upon encountering outsiders was not curiosity, nor caution, but immediate violence. Had I not managed to establish communication, they would have slaughtered us without hesitation, or at least attempted to. There was no thought given to discourse or reason¡ªonly the desire to kill what they did not understand." His lips curled into a small smirk as he continued. "It is not unlike a wild beast, whose first reaction to something foreign is to bare its fangs and bite." He paused, considering whether to soften his words, then decided against it. They would never read this, nor would they ever know what he truly thought of them. He doubted they were even capable of such things. Civilized people read and write. Savages wield spears and grunt at each other like animals. What was the point? These people did not keep written records, did not seem to grasp the concept of history beyond the songs they howled by the fires at night. He doubted they even had a word for "scribe." Aron exhaled through his nose, a quiet amusement flickering in his chest. It is fortunate they do not know our tongue. He glanced toward the entrance of his small hut, where the flickering shadows of tribesmen moved past, speaking in their guttural, rough language. Yes, he thought as he turned back to his parchment, very fortunate indeed. Aron suddenly heard the sound of footsteps approaching, the crunch of boots against the dirt floor just outside his hut. His fingers twitched, and with a quick motion, he gathered the pages of his writing, tucking them away beneath a small bundle of cloth. Almost instictevely, something that he found himself surprised by, as after all it wasn''t like they could read it. Before he could fully compose himself, the wooden door creaked open without so much as a knock or an announcement. It was certainly not a cordial thing to do but he masked his irritation as he turned to see the familiar face of the man who had spoken Azanian before. "The leader calls for you," the man said, his voice rough as he remembered Aron studied him for a moment, searching his expression for any sign of what this summons was about. There was nothing¡ªjust a blank, expectant stare. Well, it wasn''t as if he were a fool who couldn''t guess the reason. What else would they want from traders, if not to trade? The last time they spoke, he had carefully laid out the goods they could offer¡ªwine, silk, salt, iron weapons¡ªbut he had been wise enough not to mention the one thing he had truly come for. His prince had little interest in wool, cheese, or furs. No, the only thing Yarzat desired from these people was something far more valuable. People. Yet, when he first stood before them, with their weapons drawn and their eyes filled with suspicion, he could hardly have looked them in the face and told them outright that he had come to take their people. The moment those words left his lips, he would have been a dead man. No, this was a matter that had to be approached with patience, like a hunter stalking prey, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. First, he would let them realize the truth on their own¡ªthat they had little else to offer. That their herds, their simple crafts, were of no interest to men like him. He would make them see the futility of their position. And when they did, when they were desperate for something worth trading, he would present them with the answer they had not yet considered. Besides, he told himself, he was not here to buy slaves. The people he had been tasked with acquiring were not forced to be truly theirs to begin with. Prisoners of war. Spoils taken in raids. If anything, he would be doing them a favor by taking such burdens off their hands. Still that was an option, he did not miss the way their leader''s eyes widened when he showed both the salt and the grain. Perhapse they lack in food... With a measured breath, he pushed himself up from his seat , which was on the ground, and gave a small nod. "Lead the way." Without another word, the man turned, stepping back outside, leaving Aron to follow into whatever awaited him. Chapter 409: Among the tribes(2) Chapter 409: Among the tribes(2) Aron stepped out of the small hut, the dry earth crunching beneath his boots as he followed his escort through the village. The air was thick with the mingling scents of woodsmoke, livestock, and the ever-present staleness of unwashed bodies. Around him, the daily life of the tribe unfolded, though he could feel the weight of countless eyes lingering on him as he passed. Women tending to small fires paused their work, their hands stilling over clay pots. Children, some bold and curious, others wary, peeked out from behind their mothers'' legs. The warriors, however, made no attempt to hide their scrutiny. They stood in clusters, sharpening weapons or adjusting the leather of their armor, their expressions unreadable. Aron had been given the option from Valen to bring some of his men with him for protection, but he had refused. It would have caused problems as not all could be as welcoming to differences as him , and, in truth, it would have done little to assure his safety. If these people wanted him dead, no handful of guards would be able to stop it. No, he had to trust in the thin, fragile thread of diplomacy he had woven between them. As he walked, he studied the village with keen eyes. The huts were crude, little more than wooden frames lashed together . All of them made of wood and hat. It confirmed what he already suspected¡ªthese were not people accustomed to staying in one place for generations. They were semi-nomads at heart, herders and raiders who followed their food, taking what they needed from weaker neighbors when the land could no longer sustain them. His gaze flicked to the herds of goats and sheep grazing in the open spaces between huts, their presence yet another sign of their reliance on movement rather than cultivation. No fields, no orchards¡ªonly the animals, their lifeblood. If the herds ever failed, would they starve? Do any of the other tribes practice agriculture? Aron was led through the village until they arrived at a great hut¡ªone that dwarfed the others in both size and construction. Unlike the smaller dwellings hastily built from wood and thatch, this one had sturdier walls reinforced with thick beams, and its roof was layered with animal hides, likely to keep out the rain. Smoke curled lazily from a hole at the top, a sign that a fire burned within. This was unmistakably the dwelling of the leader. Standing at its entrance were several warriors, their expressions impassive but their presence unmistakably imposing. Aron''s escort stepped forward, exchanging a few brief words with them. Whatever was said, it earned a short bark of laughter from one of the warriors. Aron caught the glance thrown in his direction, and though he did not understand the words, he understood well enough that he might be the subject of their amusement. He kept his expression neutral, not allowing irritation to show. There was no point in reacting to a jest he couldn''t even understand. The moment passed, and with a final nod, his guide turned back to him and gestured toward the entrance. Without a word, Aron stepped forward, ducking slightly to enter the dim interior of the great hut. Inside, the hut was dimly lit, the flickering glow of the central fire casting long shadows along the wooden walls. The air was thick with the scent of burning wood, mingled with the faint, lingering aroma of cooked meat. Smoke curled lazily toward a hole in the ceiling, the only true escape for the thick haze that hung in the air. The interior was surprisingly sparse, but not without signs of importance. A few wooden tables and chairs¡ªsimple in design but sturdy¡ªwere placed around the room. Some held earthen jugs and carved bowls, while others were bare, their surfaces worn smooth from years of use. Animal pelts lined portions of the floor, their presence offering a modest sense of warmth in the otherwise rugged space. The translator leading him strode ahead without hesitation, his boots thudding softly against the dirt-packed floor. He moved with familiarity, as if he had done this countless times before, and Aron followed in his footsteps, his own steps measured and careful. At the heart of the room, just beyond the fire, sat the leader of the tribe. He was perched on a sturdy wooden stool, a seat that, despite its simplicity, seemed almost like a throne in this place. The firelight danced across his features, highlighting the hardened lines of a man who had lived through countless battle. His expression was unreadable, his gaze steady as he regarded Aron in silence. After several moments of locking gazes, Varaku was the first to break the silence. "He hopes the hut you were given suits you," the translator said, his voice steady, as he gestured toward a chair. Aron nodded and took a seat. In turn, Aron looked at the leader and smiled, the words coming with a respectful tone, "Please tell him that the hut, while small and simple, is indeed appreciated. Where I come from, the rooms I reside in are three times the size of this one. But I understand that our ways of living are different. And despite its modesty, I am thankful for the hospitality that has been offered to me." Varaku said something with a small gesture, pointing to a modest table where a few slices of cheese and dried meat were laid out. The translator relayed the message: "He is offering something to eat." Aron''s stomach rumbled quietly¡ªhe hadn''t eaten since the night before, and the thought of food made him momentarily forget the weight of the conversation. He smiled and reached for the knife, cutting a piece of cheese. As he tasted it, he couldn''t help but appreciate the rich, sharp flavor. It wasn''t the luxurious fare he was used to, but it was satisfying, nonetheless. The meat, too, was flavorful in its own way¡ªtough, but hearty. However, as his eyes moved over the small portion of food, he quickly noticed the lack of bread, fruits, or grains. The food was sparse, with no sign of anything fresh. It was a meal meant to fill the belly, not to please the senses. His earlier suspicions about the tribe''s way of life seemed to be solidifying. They lived frugally¡ªand probably did not have cultivation of any type. Curious, Aron looked up and asked, "Do you practice agriculture here?" The translator spoke with Varaku for a moment before responding, "We do not have the right terrain for farming. The cultivable land in the entire region is very few, and all of it is already occupied." Aron nodded thoughtfully. That would explain the lack of crops or fields. It made sense, though it only reinforced the tribe''s limited lifestyle¡ªa life sustained by herding and hunting, rather than growing or cultivating. Varaku''s expression remained impassive as the translator relayed his words, his voice measured and steady. "We have furs, cheese, goats, wool, and sheep to offer in exchange," he said. Aron had expected this. He nodded along, but inwardly, he already knew the answer. These were the goods of struggling people, necessities rather than luxuries. No fine silk, no precious metals, no rare spices¡ªnothing that could truly entice those who already lived in wealth. Their offerings were the kind any backwater settlement could provide, things of little worth to the prince he served. He kept his expression courteous, though the thought of them believing such meager goods could be a fair trade almost amused him. When the translator finished, Aron let out a slow breath and smiled, though there was an unmistakable sharpness to his tone. "I appreciate the offer," he began, "but I must be honest¡ªeverything you have named is of no real value to us. We have thousands of goats and sheep in our own lands. The prince I serve can summon an army of 3,000 warriors, each clad in steel, their weapons sharp enough to carve through even the finest armor." He gestured to the garments he wore, the richness of the fabric standing in stark contrast to the humble surroundings of the hut. "Your furs, your wool, your herds... they are not things we lack, nor things we would ever struggle to obtain." His eyes flicked back to Varaku, watching for any flicker of reaction, as the last thing he wanted was to anger him. The tribe leader''s brows furrowed ever so slightly. It was a subtle thing, but Aron saw it¡ªfelt the unspoken shift in the room. This was not the response they had expected. These people had lived trading such goods for generations, and now, for perhaps the first time, they were being told it was not enough. Aron allowed a brief pause, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing. His voice was firm, but not unkind. "However," he said, leaning forward ever so slightly, "there is something you possess that I do desire¡ªsomething that, in turn, can bring you all the things you''ve asked for." He let the words hang between them, the air thick with a meaning he had yet to reveal. Chapter 410: Among the tribes(3) Chapter 410: Among the tribes(3) Varaku was momentarily taken aback. Three thousand warriors, all clad in steel? The number alone was staggering. His first instinct was to dismiss it as an outrageous lie¡ªboastful words meant to intimidate, as any trader might do to make himself seem grander than he truly was. But as his mind worked through the claim, doubts crept in. The foreigner had not come empty-handed, nor had he made empty promises. The goods he spoke of¡ªsalt, wine, and steel¡ªwere not rare trinkets doled out in small amounts but things he had offered freely, as if they were as common to him as air. He also said they had more in the ships. Steel was not something to be handed over lightly, yet this man had done so without hesitation, as though it were of little consequence. That meant only one thing: they had it in abundance. Their value after all was only proportionate to how they could get them, which was only by trading with the Azanians.This meant that only the truly powerful in a tribe could boast to have steel-weapon and chainmail, or as they called them Chain-cloth or Steel cloth. And even then those with armor only were less than a few hundred. Varaku glanced at the blade Aron had presented earlier, now resting against the table. It was finer than anything his own warriors wielded¡ªits edge sharper, its craftsmanship superior, and it was just a short blade. The man in front of him had not even haggled over it, but gifted it. A man who possessed little would have clung to such an item like a lifeline, yet this foreigner had given it away with the ease of a man who knew he could always get more. The realization struck him hard. If what Aron claimed was true¡ªif his people truly had the means to arm thousands in such steel¡ªthen the strength they wielded was unimaginable, and as such what could they offer them? Aron allowed a small, knowing smile to curl at the edges of his lips. He could see the doubt lingering in Varaku''s eyes, the way the tribal leader wrestled with the sheer scale of what he had just been told. But he wasn''t finished¡ªnot yet. It was time to drive the point deeper, to make them understand just how small they were in comparison. With a flick of his hand, he gestured . At once, two of his servants , that had followed him in, stepped forward, carrying something large and rectangular, draped beneath a heavy cloth. They moved with care, their faces betraying no emotion as they placed the object onto the table before Varaku. Aron took a deliberate step forward, then, with a slow and practiced motion, he pulled the cloth away. Beneath it lay a breastplate, gleaming even in the dim light of the great hut. Its polished steel reflected the flickering flames of the firepit, the craftsmanship evident in every curve and rivet. Aron let the silence stretch, watching as Varaku''s eyes traced over the armor, his fingers instinctively tightening on the armrests of his chair. Only then did he speak. "A fine blade," he said, his voice smooth and measured, "deserves to be paired with an equally fine armor." He reached out, tapping the breastplate lightly with his knuckle. A sharp metallic ring echoed through the hut. "This," Aron continued, "is the standard equipment of a Yarzat soldier.The steel-cloth you wore when you marched to our camp. That, noble chief, is merely the underlayer of the equipment of any Yarzat''s soldier. This¡ª" he gestured to the breastplate, "¡ªis what is worn on top." He saw the way Varaku''s jaw tensed, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to reach out and feel the weight of the armor himself. Aron did not give him the satisfaction. Not yet. "I would be honored," Aron said, inclining his head slightly, "if you would wear it in battle the next time you fight.'''' He let his words linger, then took a step closer, his gaze locking onto Varaku''s. "No blade, no spear, no arrow can pierce this. It is unbreakable by any steel forged by man." He could see the way Varaku''s throat moved as he swallowed. Doubt had already been sown, but now¡ªnow came the realization of just how vast the gap between them truly was. Aron exhaled lightly, feigning casual indifference as he pushed the breastplate toward Varaku. "Try it," he said smoothly. Varaku hesitated, glancing at Aron before looking down at the steel plate before him. He reached out, running his fingers over the smooth, polished surface. It was heavier than it looked, yet far from unwieldy. Aron, sensing his hesitation, acted before doubt could take root. With a deliberate motion, he reached for the dagger at Varaku''s belt, drawing it free with ease. The blade was bronze¡ªdull in color, well-used, but still sharp enough to gut a man. "Go on," Aron said, flipping the dagger in his grip before handing it back to Varaku hilt-first. "Stab it." Varaku''s eyes flicked up,he did nto need a translate for it .He searched Aron''s face for any sign of trickery. He found none. His grip tightened around the dagger, and then, with a sharp breath, he thrust it downward into the steel. A loud metallic clang rang through the hut. Varaku''s mouth parted slightly as he stared at the blade, his breath caught in his throat. The armor had not only stopped the strike¡ªthere wasn''t even a dent. Instead, it was the dagger that had suffered. Along its edge, a jagged chip had formed, a piece of the bronze curling away uselessly.u? Aron allowed the silence to linger, watching as Varaku slowly withdrew the dagger, his fingers brushing over the flawless steel as if to confirm that his eyes weren''t deceiving him. The warlord''s expression was frozen, his mouth slightly agape, the weight of realization settling over him like a shroud. Aron folded his arms across his chest, the ghost of a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Of course," he continued, his tone almost apologetic, "such craftsmanship does not come cheap. A single breastplate is costly, and few rulers can afford to outfit their warriors in such protection." That much, at least, was true. What was a lie, however, was the notion that Alpheo could easily field 3,000 men clad in such armor. In reality, only his private infantry¡ªthe White Army¡ªwere granted such luxury. Outfitting just 800 of them had taken an entire year of relentless work. The cost was staggering. A single breastplate alone was worth twenty silverii, and when paired with chainmail, leg armor, and a helmet, the price surged to forty-five silverii. Add to that the weapons¡ªspears, shields, maces, or axes¡ªand each soldier required an investment of at least fifty-five silverii. It was a fortune, one that could equip three times as many lesser troops with simpler gear. But that was precisely why the White Army was feared. They were always given the hardest battles, the deadliest fights, yet they suffered the fewest casualties. Their armor turned blades and shattered enemy weapons, turning their foes'' best efforts into fruitless struggles. Aron exhaled, watching Varaku''s stunned expression as he processed the sheer strength of the armor before him. Then, without missing a beat, he leaned forward slightly, his voice smooth but firm. "As you can see," Aron said, his hands spreading out in an open gesture, "everything you have listed¡ªyour furs, your wool, your goats and sheep¡ªis of no interest to us. My prince has no need for them.Given what we are offering is clear that there is an inbalance." Varaku''s brows furrowed at that, and for a brief moment, something like frustration flickered across his face, as the man translated everything . Then, as if grasping at the last thread of hope, he straightened slightly and asked, "Then... is there anything that you do wish for from us?" Aron nodded. The gesture was small, but it hit Varaku like a hammer to the chest. His shoulders, which had been held tense in uncertainty, loosened ever so slightly, and a barely audible sigh of relief escaped his lips. It was as if he had wandered the endless dunes of a desert, dying of thirst, only to finally see water glimmering on the horizon. Only for that water to become an illusion, luckily this was not the case. For the first time since this negotiation had begun, Varaku felt a rare emotion slip into his chest¡ªuncertainty. He had assumed they would barter as equals, but now, for the first time, he wasn''t sure if that was the case. His eyes settled back on the foreigner, his voice measured as he finally spoke. "And what," he asked carefully, "is it that you desire from us?" Aron held Varaku''s gaze, letting the weight of the moment settle between them. Then, with a calm and deliberate tone, he spoke. "Of all the things we need... of all the things we want... there is one thing that you can provide and to which luckily you have in abundance." He paused, allowing the anticipation to coil like a tightened rope. "People." Chapter 411: Among the tribes(4) Chapter 411: Among the tribes(4) Aron knew that persuading a tribal leader to trade his own people wouldn''t be as simple as flashing steel and making demands. If anyone thought otherwise, they were a fool. At best, he could hope to strike a deal for prisoners of war. It had been done before¡ªacross history. The African slave trade had functioned in much the same way, with tribes raiding one another and selling their captives to foreign traders in exchange for weapons, glass, salt, or other coveted goods. But that was a system built over centuries, reinforced by the lure of power and profit. This, however, was different. These mountain tribes, lingering in the rugged lands behind the Azanian Sultanate, were naturally isolationist. It was no accident¡ªit was the result of a long, bloody history of resisting the Sultan''s rule, of fighting tooth and nail for their independence. That struggle had bred deep distrust, making them wary of any outsiders, no matter what they brought in their hands. And that meant this trade would take more than just words. The only reason Aron had managed to establish contact at all was desperation¡ªVaraku''s tribe was staring down the barrel of a harsh winter, one they knew would bring famine. Hunger had a way of making men reconsider their principles, and in this case, it made them willing to listen. That desperation was sharpened further by their thirst for vengeance against the Jugundai people. So when an outsider force arrived, offering steel, salt, and food, the tribe had been more than eager to open a dialogue. If the negotiations went well, Aron had far greater ambitions than a simple trade deal. His true goal was to establish a permanent foothold¡ªa small settlement that would serve as a harbor for trade and, more importantly, as a gateway for transporting people from the western continent to the eastern one. If he succeeded, this wouldn''t just be a one-time exchange. It would be the foundation of something far larger, after all the arable land in the crown''s lands were just that much. Under normal circumstances, the very moment Aron so much as hinted at the idea of purchasing people, he would have been dragged outside and gutted without a second thought, like a fat fish for the soup. That was the reality of dealing with proud, warlike men who saw outsiders as little more than enemies or opportunists. To them, the notion of selling their own peoplewas a disgrace. A man who dared to utter such an insult was a man who would not leave the village alive. And yet, Aron had done just that. Not bluntly, of course. No, he had spent efforts carefully weaving his web, laying the foundation for this very moment. Every move he made, every word he spoke, had been calculated. The gifts had been generous but deliberate¡ªexotic wines, fine salt, barrels of cider. Things they could not easily obtain on their own. Then came the final stroke: the steel breastplate. Not merely a token of goodwill, but a symbol of superiority. A reminder that the prince he served could afford to clad his soldiers in steel, while they still fought with bronze and hardened leather. It had been a masterful game of power, one designed to shake Varaku''s confidence. Aron had wanted him to feel the weight of his own insignificance, to realize that he was not dealing with just another merchant looking for simple goods. No, this was something different. This was a negotiation where Varaku held very little, and the longer it went on, the more he would come to understand it. And Aron had succeeded. He saw it in the way Varaku hesitated, in the moments of silence between his words, in the subtle shift of his posture. The tribal leader was beginning to grasp the imbalance between them. He was beginning to see that what he desired¡ªwine, steel, and salt¡ªwas completely out of reach unless he was willing to play by Aron''s rules. But knowing and accepting were two different things. Varaku might have begun to understand the reality of his position, but that didn''t mean he would take kindly to the words Aron was about to say next. No amount of careful maneuvering could erase the fact that he was treading on dangerous ground. The anger was coming. Aron had no illusions about that. But he had played his hand well, and now, it was time to see just how far he could push. As soon as Aron''s words were translated, the air in the hut thickened. It was not the usual tension of negotiations, nor the unease of an uncertain deal¡ªit was something far more dangerous. Aron saw it the instant Varaku''s eyes darkened, a flicker of old defiance burning behind them. These were the eyes of a man whose people had spent nearly a century and a half resisting the giants of the sands, defying the sultans of Azan who had tried to break them. They were eyes filled with pride, with the stubborn refusal to bend, no matter the cost. For the briefest of moments, Aron even entertained the thought that he had pushed too far. That Varaku, despite his careful maneuvering, would grab the very blade Aron had gifted him and slit his throat where he sat. A foolish way to die, he thought, but not an unthinkable one. He remained still, unreadable, though his muscles tensed beneath his fine cloth. But Varaku did not reach for the blade. Instead, he exhaled through his nose, a slow, heavy breath, before muttering something low and sharp in his rough, guttural tongue. His voice carried the weight of a boulder, steady, unshaken, but laced with something close to fury. Aron turned his gaze to the translator, who hesitated for a moment before speaking. "He says..." The man''s voice was careful, cautious, as if he too was aware of the fire smoldering in the air. "That they will never sell their people into slavery. Not even for all the steel that you outsiders possess." Varaku''s eyes locked onto Aron''s, daring him to challenge the words. The translator continued, "He says, if you wish to trade, decide on something else. But this... this will never be." Silence fell over the hut, broken only by the distant crackling of the fire. The rejection was absolute. Unyielding. Aron let out a sudden, hearty laugh, the sound breaking through the thick silence like a blade through cloth. He raised a hand in mock surrender, shaking his head. "My deepest apologies," he said smoothly, leaning forward slightly. "It seems there has been a miscommunication between us, and that is entirely my fault. I should have explained myself better." His tone was light, disarming, as if he were discussing nothing more than an amusing mistake rather than a subject that had nearly gotten him killed. He gestured around them, to the hut, to the rough, simple way of life they lived. "Your tribe, as I see it, has no arable lands. You are herders, strong and proud, raising your flocks upon these mountains. That is the way you have survived, and it is admirable." His eyes flicked to Varaku, watching the tribal leader''s reaction carefully before continuing. "But where I come from," Aron said, his voice taking on a more measured, deliberate cadence, "there is too much land to cultivate. Almost all of it is fertile, rich, ready to bear crops¡ªyet there are not enough hands to work it." He let that settle for a moment, ensuring they were listening before pressing on. "Nearly a year and a half ago, there was a great change in leadership." His lips curved, a knowing smirk playing at their edges. "The man who rose to power is... let us say, a warrior. A warrior who led our ''tribe'' to victory against many enemies, a warrior who has made us rich with trade¡ªrich with the very goods you have tasted, the wine you have drunk, the steel you have held in your hands." Aron''s gaze remained fixed on Varaku, reading his expression. "And this warrior, my prince, realized something. He realized just how much land there was to be cultivated, but how few people there were to do it." He spread his hands, palms open. "That is why we are here. Not for slaves. Not to take your people in chains." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a great secret. "We are here for men and women who will own land. Who will cultivate it for our leader and keep the fruits of their labor. Our land is rich¡ªfertile beyond imagination. For every ten sacks of grain, those who work the land will keep eight for themselves." He paused, letting the weight of those words settle, before delivering the final blow. "They will not be slaves. They will be citizens, protected under my prince''s rule, their livelihood safeguarded by his strength. He will guard them, as he guards all his people." Aron reclined slightly, his expression relaxed, yet his sharp eyes studied Varaku''s face for any sign of a shift. As the translator began to speak, Aron kept his eyes fixed on Varaku, watching every flicker of emotion that passed across the tribal leader''s face. At first, there was resistance, the same hardened defiance that had been there from the beginning. But then, as the words sank in, Aron saw something else¡ªuncertainty. Varaku''s expression shifted, subtle but telling. His brows furrowed slightly, his lips pressing together in thought. He was weighing it, Aron could tell. The warrior''s pride was warring with the reality of his people''s situation. Aron had given him something to consider, something he could not immediately dismiss. This was the moment. He had cracked the surface. Now, he needed to drive the final nail in. Chapter 412: Among the tribes(5) Chapter 412: Among the tribes(5) Varaku narrowed his eyes, his gaze sharp and searching as he repeated Aron''s words with disbelief. "You say you have so much land that you cannot cultivate it yourselves?" His voice was edged with suspicion. "That you need my people, not as slaves, but as farmers?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "You feed me lies, outsider." Aron simply nodded as soon as it was translated , unsurprised. He had expected this reaction. To Varaku, and to any man who had spent his life in these mountains, where cultivable land was scarce and survival was a constant struggle, the very idea of a place where land was so abundant that there weren''t enough hands to work it must have sounded like nonsense. "I understand your mistrust," Aron said evenly, his tone calm and measured. "And I understand why you hesitate. You are not a fool. If you were to believe my words without question, you would be an unfit leader." He gestured slightly. "If you agree to what I offer, and my words turn out to be false, then you would have condemned your people to death. I do not take that lightly,as I should ." He let those words linger for a moment before offering a small, confident smile. "But such a thing is easy to prove, isn''t it?" He leaned forward slightly. "You don''t have to take me at my word. We have ships, Varaku. The same ones that brought us here can take you, or your people, to see it for yourselves. It takes less than a month to make the journey there and back. You can see the land with your own eyes, walk on its soil, and judge whether my words are true ifyor not.Or just send someone that you trust, he will look at the land that we are offering ,and in case I am telling the truth he will testify" Aron gestured toward the firelight, letting his words settle. "Would that not be better than rejecting an opportunity outright? If I am lying, then nothing is lost, and you will have your answer. But if I speak the truth... then your people will have a future far greater than what these mountains can offer." Then, he leaned back once more, watching Varaku closely, waiting to see if the seed of doubt had begun to take root. Varaku sat in silence, his fingers drumming lightly against his knee as he mulled over Aron''s words. His dark eyes flickered with thought, narrowing slightly, then widening, then narrowing again. Aron could see the battle waging in his mind, the pull of temptation clashing against the weight of tradition, pride, and the fear of betrayal. Come on. Aron willed him forward in his mind. You know the truth. You know you have nothing else to bargain with. You know you need this. He could see it in the way Varaku''s jaw tightened, the way his lips pressed together in indecision. He was close¡ªso close¡ªbut still unwilling to take that final step. Aron knew he had to give him one last push. He leaned forward slightly, his voice steady as the translator conveyed his words. "This is only for the first transaction," he said. "In the future, the people do not have to be yours." He let the words sink in before continuing. "This expedition was costly. Very costly. And if I return empty-handed, it will also be my last. My prince will not waste resources on a fruitless endeavor." Varaku''s fingers stilled. Aron pressed on, his tone low, persuasive. "Do not let this opportunity slip through your fingers, Varaku. This is a one-time exchange. After this, you will have enough steel to take back your hills." His eyes locked onto the tribal leader''s, letting the promise settle. "And after that? You will get even more¡ªsteel, salt, wine, cider, silk¡ªall for a price so small. All you need to do is sell your prisoners to us, you will be the strongest among the tribes." Silence followed. Aron watched Varaku closely, seeing the weight of the decision pressing down on him. He had placed everything before him, stripped away every excuse. Now, all that was left was for Varaku to decide. Varaku exhaled a long, heavy sigh, the kind that carried the weight of a man who had fought a battle within himself and come to a reluctant conclusion. He glanced toward the translator, his lips pressing together before he finally spoke. His voice was low, measured, as if speaking the words made them real in a way he wasn''t quite ready for. The translator turned to Aron and relayed, "For now, we will see if what you say is the truth." Aron gave a slow nod, hiding the satisfaction that stirred within him. He knew what those words truly meant. Varaku had already made his decision¡ªhe just wasn''t ready to say it outright. He still needed the illusion of caution, the reassurance that he had some level of control. That was fine. Aron could play along. Maintaining a respectful tone, he asked, "And who will you send to see it for themselves?" Varaku didn''t hesitate this time. "One of my sons," the translator relayed, "along with some of my guards." Aron smiled, dipping his head slightly. If Aron thought that it was over, however he was wrong, as the tribal leader spoke again in his guttural-like words. The translator quickly conveyed the message, "For such a commitment, we wish for something in return." Aron raised a brow, feigning mild surprise, though he had expected this. Of course, they would ask for something. That was only natural. He let a small, amused smile tug at his lips before responding, his tone light, almost playful. "Fifteen sacks of salt," he said smoothly. "Surely that is fair? After all, we are merely borrowing your son for a few weeks, and he will return unharmed. If anything, he will come back with gifts from our prince himself, I imagine." Varaku considered it for a moment before giving a slow nod. The decision was made. "Wonderful," Aron said, his voice laced with satisfaction. He clasped his hands together before spreading them slightly. "And is there anything else?" Varaku''s expression remained unreadable as he spoke again, his deep voice carrying an air of finality. The translator quickly relayed his words, "There will be a communal meal tonight.It is a tradition of his tribe. You and your men are invited." Aron did not react immediately, though in his mind, alarms rang. It was an obvious risk. Having all the soldiers in the camp leave their walls, sitting exposed and vulnerable in the very heart of the tribe''s domain¡ªit was practically delivering themselves on a platter. A poor commander would have scoffed at such a careless invitation. A fool would have blindly accepted it. But Aron? He knew he could not refuse. To do so would be an insult, an offense he could not afford while the negotiations still hung in a delicate balance. He exhaled lightly, tilting his head with an easy smile. "It is an honor," he said, his voice warm and gracious. "I will gladly participate and share in your customs." He let the words settle for a moment before shaking his head slightly, as if regretful. "Unfortunately, my comrades will not be able to attend." He gave an apologetic chuckle. "As per our laws, they are under service and may not partake in feasts or drink while in the duty of our prince. It is a sacred rule, one that every warrior in Yarzat must follow when they serve His Grace.As soon as their service is over however they would gladly partecipate" Aron observed Varaku''s face carefully, gauging his reaction. By shifting the responsibility onto the laws of his homeland, he avoided offending their hosts while ensuring that his men remained secure. Aron knew full well that his excuse was a flimsy one¡ªan easily discoverable lie. A single conversation with any of his soldiers would be enough to unravel it, to expose his claim as nothing more than a convenient fabrication. There was no such law in Yarzat forbidding warriors from feasting while on duty well except for the military codebook for the soldiers of the White Army, who could however participate if allowed by the highest in command, which was Valen. But this deception was not about weaving an impenetrable web of lies¡ªit was about buying time. He did not need Varaku to believe him completely; he only needed him to accept the answer for now, to let the matter slide in the name of hospitality. By the time the two sides knew any words in the other language, Varaku would either be too invested in business with them to question the excuse or would simply choose to turn a blind eye. Because that was how these things worked¡ªonce hands had clasped in trade, once gifts had been exchanged and a fragile bridge of trust had formed, people had a way of ignoring inconvenient truths. So Aron kept his expression steady, his tone even, and his lie carefully wrapped in the cloth of tradition. He hoped, as he always did, that it would be enough. Chapter 413: Sea lions(1) Chapter 413: Sea lions(1) The hour of reckoning had arrived. The sea, vast and unyielding, would bear witness to a battle that would shape its dominion for decades to come. Two mighty fleets, bound by rivalry and ambition, converged upon the open waters¡ªone sailing beneath the banner of the Confederation of the Free Isles, the other under the proud standard of the League of the Southern Romelian Houses. A hundred and fifty-six warships, advanced toward one another, their prows cutting through the waves like blades poised for the kill. The prize was no mere island or fleeting victory¡ªit was control of Harmway, the keystone of the trade routes, and with it, supremacy over the boundless sea, between the two continents For the victors, glory and dominion; for the vanquished, ruin and exile upon the tides. And so, as the sun cast its golden glare upon the restless waters, war came to the sea. Both fleets surged forward, like two great beasts baring their fangs. The arrowhead¡ªa classic formation meant to slice through enemy lines and envelop their flanks¡ªwas mirrored perfectly by both sides. Because no matter how meticulously planned the formations were, a naval battle always devolved into a swirling, unpredictable maelstrom, far messier than any clash on land. On solid ground, armies fought in rigid formations, their ranks dictating the rhythm of battle. A single broken flank could send the entire force into retreat, like a row of dominoes toppling in unison. But the sea was no solid ground. It was a living, shifting thing, and battles fought upon its surface were as fluid as the waves themselves. There were no steadfast lines to hold, no ground to claim. Instead of one grand, decisive clash, the fight fractured into a hundred smaller duels¡ªships peeling away from the main force, locked in deadly, isolated struggles that could stretch on for hours. Yet victory at sea was not always about winning the most of these scattered skirmishes. It was about delivering the decisive blow¡ªthe kind that shattered morale and turned the tide in an instant. And nothing did that better than the destruction of the enemy flagship. The flagship was more than just a ship; it was the heart of the fleet, the symbol of its strength and leadership. To see it broken¡ªits masts splintered, its sails ablaze, its hull swallowed by the unforgiving sea¡ªwas to witness the collapse of order itself. As the two armadas closed the distance, their sails billowing with the wind and the thunder of war drums reverberating across the waves, the admirals of both fleets understood one undeniable truth: before the sun dipped below the horizon, one of their banners would vanish beneath the sea. The question was whose. On the side of the Confederation of the Free Isles, the left flank was commanded by the seasoned Saltbeard, given command by Blake who appreciated his courage. The right flank was under the command of Stormcaller, arguable the oldest captains in the fleet , as he had been promised by the High Admiral in exchange for his renouncement over the position of High Admiral for the fleet. But at the heart of the formation, where the battle would be decided , where the fight was to be the thickest and bloodies , sailed Blake, the Confederation''s admiral, his closest fleet forming the spearhead of the attack. His flagship, the Roaring Axe, was planned to be the sword that would cut down the enemy''s head. Across the water, the League of the Southern Romelian Houses had arranged their own squadrons into the same arrowhead formation, prepared to meet the Confederation head-on in a battle that would decide the fate of the sea. The wind filled the sails, the drums of war beat in unison, and the two great fleets bore down upon each other, neither willing to yield, each prepared to fight to the bitter end and then some more. ------------ Blake stood tall atop the deck of the ship his eyes fixed firmly on the horizon where the enemy fleet loomed like a dark, jagged wall against the sky. The sea stretched endlessly before him, the pale morning light shimmering across the water, but his focus was unshakable, locked onto the coming clash. He swept his gaze over the men around him, each one standing with a quiet resolve, ready for battle. They wore chainmail shirts, their helmets gleaming like the heads of lions, with the hilt of a sword, axe, or mace resting firmly in their grasp, all of them prepared for the boarding that would come after the ramming. They knew very well, some even to their dislike, that they would be the prized game of the battle, being the flagship of the fleet which would be the primary target of all Romelian captains , looking to make a name for themselves. Their shields, were tightly gripped as they prepared to board and fight. Their faces were hardened;all of them were veterans, having followed Blake for close to a decade. In the other ships instead there were a mix of veterans and younger men who had grown up hearing tales of the Confederation''s victories and losses, this being their chance to grab some actual loot or make a name for themselves and have songs singed about this day. The rhythmic sound of the slaves'' paddles broke through the tension. They worked tirelessly, their bodies moving in time with the wind that favored the Confederation,their chains clicking with every row, as they pushed the fleet forward faster than they had any right to move. The wind was a blessing, though Blake knew better than to rely too much on luck, though he found himself being favored by a god, one different from the one he grew, which was rather strange both in his view and those of his men, who still believed the old hag to be a simple witch and not a prophet of a god that favored their captains. Blake clenched his fists around the rail as he thought of the past, of his father and brothers who had been lost in the battle that had broken their fleet and pride two decades ago. The memory of that day, the flames licking at the sky, the sound of wood splintering, and the bitter silence of the survivors haunted him still. His father, had fought valiantly until the end, and his brothers, proud and strong, had followed in his footsteps. All were lost , swept beneath the waves like so many others who had dared challenge them, even that who survived was as if he was swallowed by the sea too. Now, all those years of waiting, of building, of enduring the scorn of those who had claimed victory, would finally come to an end. This was his chance¡ªhis chance to avenge his family, to take back what had been lost, and to prove that the Confederation was not a fleet to be trampled underfoot. To prove himself worthy of what was coming. He let out a slow breath, steadying himself. Today, Blake thought with grim finality,is the day of thruth, everything that I had worked all the way to this moment. As the enemy fleet drew closer, Blake''s grip tightened on the hilt of his axe. His voice was low, barely a whisper over the roar of the wind and the creak of wood, but he spoke it as if to himself and to the ghosts of his fallen family. "Father, brothers...this is for you. We take what is ours today. '''' The minutes dragged on, each one stretching like a taut bowstring, as the two lines of ships crept closer and closer, their hulls slicing through the water with a deadly, almost predatory grace. The wind, whipped across the decks, filling the Confederation''s sails and driving them forward . The sails billowed like the chests of warhorses at full gallop, and beneath the decks, the rhythmic thrum of oars pulsed like a heartbeat, propelling the fleet faster and faster toward the inevitable clash. The tension was suffocating, thick enough to choke on. The sea, once a vast, tranquil expanse, now seemed to hold its breath, the waves trembling in anticipation of the violence about to erupt. The Confederation''s ships moved in perfect unison, bows cutting through the water like blades, each one a promise of destruction. They weren''t just sailing; they were hunting. And they were coming for blood. As the distance between the fleets shrank, Blake''s pulse quickened, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. The distant shouts of the crews carried across the water, mingling with the metallic clink of swords being drawn, shields being raised, and most importantly hands grabbing whatever they could hold on. They all knew what was coming. They could feel it in the air, even those who would have this being their first experience war. Blake could see it in the eyes of his men¡ªthe tension in their jaws, the way their hands gripped their weapons, the way their eyes never wavered from the enemy ships now looming larger and larger on the horizon. He immediately grabbed onto the mast ,as if it were a lost son, not caring a little bit of how clumsy he looked. As it was better to look a dry fool , than a heroic drowned man. And then, finally, the moment arrived. The long-awaited clash had begun. And blood was already beginning to spill. Chapter 414: Sea Lions(2) Chapter 414: Sea Lions(2) The clash came like a hurricane¡ªviolent, inescapable, and utterly consuming. The first rows of ships collided with a force that sent tremors through the decks, their hulls slamming into each other with a deafening crack. Wood splintered and snapped like brittle bones of a child beneath the pressure, jagged shards exploding into the air as vessels shuddered from the sheer impact. It was as if the gods themselves had seized them, shaking them like playthings before casting them into the storm of battle once they grew bored . Some ships lurched backward from the collision, thrown off course as though struck by an unseen giant, their prows rearing down only to crash back into the waves with a mighty splash. Others locked together in a deadly embrace, their timbers groaning in protest as they became one tangled mass of destruction. The unfortunate souls who failed to brace themselves were hurled into the merciless sea, their screams swallowed by the howling wind and the roar of the battle around them. For those who plunged into the dark abyss, the ocean''s maw was not a forgiving one. The lucky ones were pulled under in an instant, the weight of their armor and weapons dragging them into the cold depths, where the light of the sun faded into a shadowy grave. The others were left to float amidst the wreckage, their fates far crueler. The saltwater would wasted no time in working its torment, seeping in their wound. Some clung to shattered planks and broken oars, their fingers white with desperation as the waves battered them from all sides. But the sea was an unfeeling beast, and those who lingered upon its surface were granted no mercy. Hours would pass, then days, their skin blistering under the relentless sun, swelling and cracking until it peeled away in strips, leaving their bodies raw and red like the inside of a gutted fish. Their lips would split, their tongues swell, and madness would take them long before death did. Yet the battle had no time for those already lost. Above the waves, the chaos was only beginning. The two fleets were now fully entwined, ships ramming into one another as warriors bellowed their war cries, steel gleaming in the morning light. Arrows filled the air like a swarm of stinging wasps, striking down those who dared to move too slowly. Grappling hooks were cast, thick ropes tightening as enemy vessels were drawn together, bringing the true horror of the battle into full force. And in the midst of it all, the sea ran red. Blake groaned , his vision blurred from the violent impact. He had managed to stay aboard, but the force of the collision had thrown him , his head smashing hard onto the unforgiving wood. A dull, throbbing pain spread through his skull, pulsing with each frantic beat of his heart. He sucked in a sharp breath, shaking off the dizziness as he pushed himself upright, his hands slick with sweat and seawater. The acrid scent of splintered timber filled his nostrils as he steadied himself. The world around him swayed, though whether it was the rocking of the ship or the fog still gripping his mind, he wasn''t sure. He blinked rapidly, clearing his sight, and turned his gaze toward the enemy vessel they had struck. It was shattered. The prow of the enemy ship was little more than a jagged ruin, torn open as if by the jaws of a sea beast. The impact had driven it backward, the weight of his flagship, The Roaring Axe, proving overwhelming. Already, its deck was in disarray¡ªmen stumbling, some missing entirely, having been thrown overboard from the force. Water gushed through the massive wound in its hull, the ship beginning its slow, inevitable descent into the hungry sea. The Roaring Axe was no ordinary warship¡ªit was a galeass afterall, a beast of a vessel, larger and heavier than the standard galleys around it. With its reinforced hull and high deck bristling with soldiers it was a battering ram upon the sea. The sheer mass of it, coupled with the wind at their backs, had made their ramming strike all but unstoppable. Against smaller ships, they held every advantage; the kinetic force alone ensured that most enemy vessels would buckle under their charge. The only way to bring down a galeass was through precise, coordinated efforts. To punch through its defenses, an enemy would have to ram its sides with enough force to cripple its structure¡ªor else swarm its deck, overwhelming its defenders and setting its flag ablaze to signal its fall. But that was no easy feat, not with Blake''s hardened warriors standing ready, their weapons eager to spill blood. The first strike had been theirs. Now came the true test¡ªthe boarding, the butchery, and the fight to claim the waves. The sea was a cacophony of screams, splintering wood, and the clash of steel as men leaped from ship to ship, turning decks into battlefields. Gritting his teeth, he steadied himself and barked out the order. "Tell the rowers to go back!Pull the sail down! We change course to the next ship!" His voice carried over the chaos, sharp as a blade, and the crew sprang into motion. The rowers, shackled and sweating below deck, dug their paddles into the sea, straining against the currents as the massive vessel lurched into its new course. The ship finally changed course , putting the sail up again as they surged forward, Ahead Blake caught sight of another ship, moving around waiting just to be rammed "Row, you bastards! Faster!" The men below the deck shouted slashing with their whips at the back of the slaves The ship''s speed increased, the bow cutting through the waves like a spear. The enemy vessel was moments from impact, its deck bristling with defenders scrambling to brace for the inevitable. Blake gripped the hilt of his sword. "Again!" he roared. "Break them!" -''Uzzah''- was the answer of the crew ------------- For the most part, the battle had devolved into a brutal and chaotic melee. The initial ramming had yielded no decisive breakthroughs¡ªafter all, nearly every galley in the battle had its hull reinforced with bronze, making it nearly impossible to breach them head-on. To shatter an enemy ship outright, one had to strike at the sides with precision and force, a feat easier said than done in the ever-shifting chaos of naval warfare. Thus, after the first furious collisions, the battle turned into a boarding action. Crews from both sides scrambled over the rails, swords and axes in hand, clashing in the narrow spaces of their decks. The air was filled with the clash of steel, the screams of the wounded, and the crash of waves against shattered hulls. The boarding was a savage, frantic affair. Crews hurled ropes tipped with iron hooks across the gaps between ships, latching onto enemy rails and hauling their vessels together with brute force. The groaning of wood and the snap of taut ropes filled the air as decks were forcefully drawn side by side, locking the ships into inescapable combat. As soon as the hulls were close enough, thick wooden planks were slammed down, bridging the gap between the ships. Their ends were lined with jagged iron spikes, sinking deep into the enemy deck to anchor them in place. Then, with a roar, warriors surged forward, charging across the makeshift paths with axes, swords, and maces in hand, eager to bring death to the enemy. On the other side, defenders braced for the assault, forming tight ranks where they could, their shields raised against the coming storm. A few archers stood behind them, loosing arrows into the onrushing boarders, their shafts finding gaps in armor and striking down men mid-stride. The first to cross often met a brutal fate¡ªsome cut down before even setting foot on the enemy deck, others struck and thrown overboard, swallowed by the merciless sea. But hesitation meant death, and as the first wave of men fell, the second and third crashed into the defenders like a relentless tide. Soon, the battle was no longer one of ships but of men, locked in a deadly struggle atop blood-slicked decks, where steel and fury determined who would rule the sea. Each ship locked in combat became its own desperate battlefield, men hacking and stabbing at one another in a deadly contest of strength and skill. Yet, every warrior knew the greatest danger wasn''t just the enemy''s blade¡ªit was the lurking threat of another ship taking advantage of their entanglement, driving its bronze-tipped prow into an exposed flank, sending both vessels and their fighters to the depths. It was a battle not just of might, but of timing, as every helmsman and captain tried to deal with the enemy''s ships as soon as they could so that they could turn their attention elsewhere and become that threat they had feared, ramming the enemy as they were locked into a fight, effectively meaning that unless they were to conquer the ship they were boarding , they were effectively dead. Chapter 415: Sea Lion(3) Chapter 415: Sea Lion(3) Caius stood atop the deck of his flagship, his arms crossed, his stance rigid as he observed the chaos of battle from afar. Unlike that fool of the enemy commander, who had recklessly thrown himself into the heart of the fight, Caius remained exactly where he was meant to be¡ªbehind the main line, where his mind could reign over the battle rather than be swallowed by it. War was not won by the first man to draw blood but by the one who dictated its flow. The afternoon sun reflected off his crimson-crested helmet as he studied the clash before him. The sea had turned into a maelstrom of war cries, clashing steel, and the splintering of wood as ships battered against one another. Smoke from burning vessels coiled into the sky like the breath of a waking beast, and the air reeked of salt, sweat, and blood. His eyes found their target¡ªthe enemy flagship, a beast of a ship sitting at the center of the chaos. It cut through the battle with brute force, its hull plowing through lesser vessels as if they were no more than driftwood caught in a storm. He had no doubt that the man leading it was Blake, the so-called warrior of the Confederation, or so the spies he had among the captains of the fleet spoke of. Blake was at the tip of the spear, leading from the front like some romantic fool. That''s the problem with these sea-rats. Caius thought as his eyes moved to a lone piece of wood floating in the water. All of them obsessed with their own glory, desperate to have their names shouted by drunken men in taverns or whispered by whores in the dead of night. They fought for legend, not for victory. But legends could be slain. Caius knew the truth of war: a beast was best killed by cutting off its head. He turned to his helmsman, his voice sharp as a drawn blade. "Send word to Officers Marius, Vasinio, and Pullo. They are to break from formation and converge on that ship." His second-in-command, a grizzled man with a scar running from cheek to jaw, hesitated. "The merchant ships, lord?" Caius smirked. "Yes. Them" A Galleases was a formidable ship . A galley would have to ram one multiple times to make a dent, something no captain could afford in the heat of war. If Blake''s ship was to be taken, it would not be by breaking its hull. It would be by boarding. Caius watched as messengers leapt into smaller boats, rowing with haste to deliver his orders. The plan was simple: surround the enemy flag-ship, latch onto it with grappling hooks, and drown Blake and his crew in bodies. Let him and his men fight until their arms ached, until their boots stood ankle-deep in blood¡ªuntil they had no choice but to collapse under the weight of sheer numbers. The pirate rabble that followed him might have been fierce in their own way, but they were undisciplined. His own troops, would carve through them like a knife through salted pork. The Confederation''s so-called champions would be no match for soldiers for the best equipped men in the whole world Blake had made himself a target by standing at the front. And Caius? He would be the one to put an end to his glory-seeking foolishness. ------------- Blake''s ship tore through the chaos of battle , coming to the aid of one of their allies as its reinforced prow slammed into the flank of an Imperial galley locked in a brutal comat, which up until that moment they were winning. The collision struck like a thunderclap¡ªwooden beams snapped like twigs, the enemy ship''s hull caving inward as if a giant''s fist had struck it. The force sent men flying. Those fighting atop the planks laid between ships lost their footing, flailing helplessly as they tumbled into the churning sea below. Some crashed hard onto the decks, weapons slipping from their grasp with blood ozing from their head , while others disappeared beneath the waves, their armor dragging them down like stones. Even the men still aboard the two galleys staggered, struggling to stay upright as their world lurched violently beneath them. A deep, groaning sound echoed from the Imperial galley as water surged into the gaping wound in its hull. The pirates who was in the middle of the fight roared in triumph, their voices rising above the cacophony of clashing steel and splintering wood. Below them, the Imperial vessel listed heavily to one side, its once-proud sails now tattered and limp, its hull groaning as it swallowed the sea. "Look at them flounder!" one pirate bellowed, his axe glinting crimson in the sunlight. He leaned over the railing, his face twisted into a savage grin as he watched the enemy crew scramble like rats. "Run, you cowards! Back to your mothers!" "Finish them off!" another pirate shouted, his voice raw with bloodlust as he drove his sword into the gut of a stumbling Imperial soldier, the man crumpling with a choked gasp. With a boot to the chest, the pirate sent the body tumbling overboard, where it disappeared into the churning waves. "That''s one less dog to bark at us!" The Imperials now descended into chaos, even for those that were still on the ship away from the fighting . Panic spread like wildfire, cracking their ranks as surely as the hull of their ship. Men who had stood shoulder to shoulder moments ago now turned on each other, shoving and clawing their way toward the lifeboats. "Off the ship!" a captain bellowed, his voice hoarse with desperation. He grabbed a young soldier by the collar and hurled him toward the boats. "There''s not enough room!" a soldier screamed, his voice cracking as he shoved another man aside. "Get out of my way!" "To hell with you!" another roared, drawing a dagger and slashing at anyone who came too close. "I''m not dying here!" Some fought with the ferocity of cornered animals, kicking and punching their comrades to reach the safety of the smaller vessels. While others instead aided their friends to get on "Abandon ship!" a voice cried from the crow''s nest, though no one needed the warning. The deck tilted sharply, sending men sliding into the railings or tumbling into the sea. "She''s going under!" Meanwhile below deck, in the dim, suffocating hold of the ship, the first to see their fate were the slaves. Chained to the oars in rows, they knelt in silence, their bodies slick with sweat and their muscles trembling from hours of relentless labor. The sound of rushing water reached them first¡ªa low, ominous gurgle that grew louder with every passing second. "No, no, no!" one slave muttered, his voice trembling as he yanked at his shackles. The iron bit into his wrists, drawing blood, but he barely noticed. His eyes were fixed on the dark water swirling around his feet, icy and unrelenting. "We''re going to drown!" "Cut us loose!" another slave screamed, his voice raw with desperation. He turned toward the overseer standing by the stairwell, his eyes wild with fear. "Please, for the love of the gods, cut us loose!" The overseer,of course gave them no attention. Without a word, he turned and fled, his boots pounding against the wooden steps as he abandoned the slaves to their fate. "Come back, you bastard !" a slave roared, his voice cracking with rage. "You can''t leave us here to die!" The water rose fast, swallowing the floor and lapping at the slaves'' knees. The hold erupted into chaos as the men screamed, pleaded, and cursed, their voices blending into a cacophony of despair. "Break the chains!" one man shouted, slamming his shackles against the oar in a futile attempt to free himself. "We have to break free!" "It''s no use!" another cried, his voice breaking as the water reached his chest. "We''re done for!" One slave, a young man with calloused hands already resigned to his fate ,simply whispered a female name. For years, the thought of her had kept him alive¡ªhad given him the strength to endure the lash, the hunger, the endless days at the oars. But now, as the water reached his chest, he realized he would never see her again. "Forgive me," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the rising tide. "I tried , the gods know I did...." The water rose higher, swallowing the slaves one by one. Their screams faded into silence, replaced by the cold, unyielding embrace of the sea. Above instead, the pirates cheered as the Imperial ship slipped beneath the waves, its once-mighty hull now a tomb for the living and the dead alike. As the last of the wreckage disappeared beneath the churning surface, the pirates aboard the Confederation ship erupted into a frenzy of celebration. Swords, axes, and shields were thrust skyward, glinting in the sunlight like jagged teeth. Their voices rose in a deafening roar, a primal chorus of triumph that echoed across the open water. "HAH! Send the bastards to the deep!" one bellowed, his face alight with savage joy. "To the sea with them!" another howled, swinging his dripping blade through the air in exhilaration. Across the way, atop the Confederation ship that had been locked in the brutal melee, the warriors who had survived the bloodbath answered the salute. They raised their own weapons¡ªslick with the crimson of their foes¡ªglinting in the afternoon sun. Some beat their swords against their shields in rhythmic thunder, the sound rolling over the sea like a war drum as their way of expressing thanks for the help they just received. From ship to ship, they hailed one another, warriors bound not just by allegiance but by the pure, unrelenting thrill of battle. Above them, gulls circled and shrieked, as if calling out in celebration of the carnage. One of the warriors near the prow suddenly turned, his voice rising above the fading cheers. "Captain! Ahead!" he bellowed, pointing toward the horizon. Blake followed the outstretched arm, his eyes narrowing as he spotted three ships cutting through the waves, their prows slicing toward them like hunting hounds closing in on prey. Two came from the front-right, the other from the front-left. For a brief moment, his grip on the railing tightened. A pincer maneuver? But then he saw them clearly¡ªmerchant ships, clumsy and broad, not the sleek war galleys meant for ramming. A slow grin spread across his face. "Merchant hulls," he muttered, rolling his shoulders as tension eased. "They can''t break us with those." Still, they weren''t here for nothing. The only reason to send such ships into the heart of battle was for one purpose¡ªboarding. Blake''s grin faded. "Ready for another fight, lads," he called out, his voice firm, unwavering. "Looks like they''re coming to dance." Chapter 416: Sea Lions(4) Chapter 416: Sea Lions(4) Blake stood atop the deck of the Roaring Axe, his boots planted firmly against the blood-slicked wood as he watched the three enemy ships draw ever closer. The salty wind lashed against his face, carrying with it the scent of the sea, sweat, and death. Under normal circumstances, he would have already barked the order to turn the prow and ram them¡ªcleaving through those sluggish merchant hulls like a hot knife through butter. A single well-placed strike would tear their wooden bellies apart, sending them and their crew to the depths before they even had the chance to board. But these weren''t normal circumstances. They had no time. The Roaring Axe had just finished ramming an enemy galley, its hull still scraping against the wreckage of its latest victim. The impact had drained their momentum, leaving them sluggish in the water. The oarsmen below deck were struggling to reset their rhythm, their exhausted strokes unable to push the massive ship into another charge so soon. Every second they remained in this vulnerable state gave the enemy an opportunity to close the distance. Blake clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on the pommel of his axe No leverage. No time. That left only one option. He turned to his men, his voice a roar that cut through the chaos. "Brace for boarding! Shields up! Axes ready! Let them come!" The warriors of the Confederation responded instantly. Shields locked together, forming a wall of iron and wood across the deck. Axes and swords gleamed under the sunlight, ready to carve into the flesh of any Imperial who dared set foot on their ship. The archers positioned themselves along the upper decks, nocking arrows, waiting for the perfect moment to loose death upon the enemy. Blake exhaled slowly, watching the three ships press forward, their crews scrambling to prepare grappling hooks and boarding planks. His eyes narrowed, watching the disciplined formations of Imperial footmen standing at the ready on the decks. These were not undisciplined sailors as normally the Free men were ¡ªthese were heavy infantry, men trained for brutal melee combat, the kind that turned ships into slaughterhouses. Blake''s arm shot up, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. "Archers! Loose!" The air erupted with the sharp twang of bowstrings, a symphony of death as a hail of arrows streaked across the sky. They flew like a storm of vengeance, their iron tips glinting in the sunlight before plunging toward the enemy ships. But the Imperials didn''t flinch. With a thunderous crash, their shields snapped together, forming a wall of steel and wood so tight it seemed unbreakable. The arrows slammed into the barrier, their shafts quivering from the impact. Most buried themselves uselessly into the thick planks, while the few that slipped through the cracks met the cold resistance of chainmail, their lethal force dulled to mere scratches. Blake''s jaw tightened The distance between the ships was closing fast.He could see the glint of grappling hooks in the hands of the Imperial crew, the thick ropes coiled like serpents ready to strike. They were preparing to bind the ships together, to turn this battle into a bloody brawl on the decks,where they were sure they would have the better in an engagement. "Brace yourselves!" Blake roared, his voice carrying over the din of the waves and the creak of timber. "They''re coming for blood!Sate their thirst with their own!" The crew of the Roaring Axe scrambled into position, their weapons drawn and their faces set with grim determination. The air was thick with the smell of salt and sweat, the tension so palpable it felt like the sea itself was holding its breath. His hand tightened around the hilt of his axe as he watched the enemy ships draw closer. The Imperials were relentless, their discipline a weapon as deadly as any blade. But Blake had faced worse odds before, and he wasn''t about to let them take his ship without a fight. The first grappling hooks came from the left, their iron claws glinting as they arced through the air. They landed with a deafening clang, biting into the wooden rails of the ship. The ropes snapped taut as the Imperial sailors heaved with all their strength, their muscles straining against the weight of the sea and the resistance of Blake''s ship. The distance between the vessels began to shrink, inch by inch. Before Blake could react, another volley of hooks flew in from the right, their ropes hissing through the air like serpents. They, too, found their mark, embedding deep into the deck and rails. The Imperials on both sides pulled in unison, their synchronized effort turning the Roaring Axe into the meat of a ship-sized sandwich. Blake''s mind raced. If they allowed both sides to close in, they''d be trapped¡ªcaught between two walls of Imperial steel. His crew was tough, but they were outnumbered and out-equipped. The Imperials had discipline, armor, and training. All Blake had was grit, ingenuity, and a few tricks up his sleeve. "Concentrate on the right!" Blake barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Cut those ropes! Leave the left to do their job for now!" The crew moved quickly, their axes and daggers flashing as they hacked at the ropes on the right. The thick fibers resisted at first, but the blades bit deep, fraying the strands one by one. The Imperials on the right shouted in frustration as their progress stalled, the ropes snapping and whipping back toward their ship. "Prepare the urns!" he shouted, his voice rising above the din. "And keep those blades ready! We''re not done yet!" The crew grinned, their faces lighting up with dark anticipation. They knew what was coming. "Smells like roasted meat for dinner, lads!" one sailor called out, earning a chorus of rough laughter. Blake didn''t join in the humor. His eyes were fixed on the left side, where the Imperials were still pulling, their ship inching closer with every heave. He could see their faces now¡ªcold, determined, and utterly focused. They were coming, and they weren''t stopping. "Hold the line!" Blake roared, his voice a rallying cry. "Cut those ropes, and be ready with the oil! Let''s give them a warm welcome!" The crew obeyed, their axes and daggers working furiously to sever the remaining ropes on the right. The Imperial ship on the left loomed ever closer, its prow cutting through the waves . The gleaming armor of the soldiers aboard reflected the sunlight, as they got ready and prepared to storm the ship and drown its crew in sheer numbers. They had nearly closed the gap. Just a few more moments, and they would be upon them. Then the urns flew. Sailors on the Roaring Axe hurled the clay vessels with practiced aim, their hardened hands ensuring they met their marks. Some shattered against the ship''s deck, spilling their slick, pungent contents across the wooden planks. Others struck the Imperial soldiers directly, the force of impact breaking the urns upon their bodies, drenching them in the thick, reeking oil. A moment of confusion followed¡ªthe Imperials hesitated, glancing at one another, at the strange wetness now covering their armor, their hands. Then came the fire. The archers of the atop Blake''s ship , stationed just behind the main deck, wasted no time. With smooth, fluid movements, they dipped their arrows into waiting oil-drenched cloth, ignited them in small braziers, and let loose. The first arrow struck the deck, and instantly, flames burst forth as if the ship itself had come alive in fury. The second and third embedded themselves into the oiled bodies of unfortunate soldiers. Screams erupted. Fire clung to armor, to flesh, to the deck below. The flames spread hungrily, licking up the oiled planks, devouring the ship''s surface with terrifying speed. Some of the Imperials panicked, trying to shake off the fire as it seared through their clothes and burned through leather straps, charring the skin beneath. Others ran for the lower decks, desperately scooping up barrels of drinking water to douse the flames. They splashed it across the burning wood, over their comrades¡ªbut it was too late. More urns came, smashing down like a rain of doom, spilling fresh oil into the growing inferno. The fire leapt, spreading to those who had just moments ago been trying to smother it. The ship was becoming an infernal trap. Smoke coiled into the sky, black and thick, choking those who inhaled it. Some Imperials, their armor cooking them alive, made the only choice left¡ªthey leapt into the sea, preferring the merciless depths over the agony of fire. The crew erupted into laughter and jeers as they watched the Imperial soldiers scramble in panic, their once-disciplined ranks descending into chaos. Flames danced across the enemy deck, smoke rising into the sky like a funeral pyre. "How does it feel to roast in your tin shells?!" one bellowed, slamming his axe against his shield. "You came for a fight, and now you''re the feast!" "Jump! Jump! Maybe the fish will take pity on you!" another taunted, pointing at the desperate Imperials leaping overboard. "Go on, drink your water! Pray it drowns the flames before it drowns you!" a sailor sneered, laughing as Imperials tossed water on the fire, only for more burning oil to spread across their decks. "Tell those in hells we sent you! And let them know more are coming soon!" a veteran roared, his sword raised high. The taunts mixed with the screams of the dying, the crackling of flames, and the snapping of burning wood. But the battle was far from over¡ªas the other ships were coming, and their urns were almost finished. Chapter 417: Sea Lions(5) Chapter 417: Sea Lions(5) Blake allowed his men a moment to revel in their victory, their laughter and jeers rising above the crackling flames. The sight of the Imperials flailing in the fire, their discipline reduced to desperate screams, was a welcome one. But he knew better than to let them linger in their triumph. The second enemy vessel was closing in¡ªfast. The ship on the right, the one whose boarding attempt they had stalled, was now gaining ground. The Imperials aboard it had adjusted their course, using the Roaring Axe''s distraction to creep into striking distance. Their archers were already lining up along the rails, ready to unleash a deadly volley. Blake''s grin vanished. "Enough cheering!" he roared, his voice like a thunderclap over the deck. "You want to live to gloat about this later?! Then get your shields up and your blades ready! We''ve got more company!" The laughter died instantly, replaced by the sound of boots scrambling across the deck. Shields were raised, weapons drawn, and heads snapped toward the incoming ship. Blake turned toward his archers, his voice sharp and commanding. "Loose at will! Don''t let them get comfortable!" Even as the first arrows flew, Blake knew the crew was in for another brutal fight. The Imperials had learned from their comrades'' fiery fate. They weren''t coming to be set ablaze¡ªthey were coming to kill. The only silver lining in the chaos was that the third ship¡ªthe one that had been meant to join the assault¡ªwas now effectively out of the fight. Had the left-side boarding vessel survived, it would have acted as a bridge, allowing the third ship to throw its soldiers across and overwhelm the Roaring Axe from both sides. But now, with the wreckage engulfed in flames, that path was cut off. Normally, the Imperials would have maneuvered around the burning hulk, circling to find another opening. But maneuvering required space, and space was something they did not have. The sea was too tightly packed with vessels, the battle raging in every direction, leaving no room for elegant repositioning. And soon the straweberry on top of the cake arrived as before the third ship could attempt a desperate push, another Confederation vessel slammed into its side¡ªone of Blake''s allies, standing firm beside him in the chaos of war. The enemy ship rocked violently from the impact, throwing its crew off balance. Blake allowed himself a sharp grin. That was one less problem to worry about. But there was no time to celebrate. The ship on the right was nearly upon them, and this time there was nothing that could stop them from getting their long-awaited close quarter fight The Imperial ship finally closed in, its hull scraping against the Roaring Axe with a deep, grating groan. Thick wooden planks with iron hooks were hurled across the gap, slamming onto the deck with heavy thuds. The metal teeth bit deep into the wood, anchoring the vessels together as a bridge for the enemy to cross. Arrows filled the air, a deadly storm loosed from both sides. Some embedded themselves in the hulls, quivering like needles in flesh. Others found their mark¡ªmen screamed as shafts punched through limbs, buried themselves in throats, or lodged into exposed flesh. The smell of salt and blood thickened in the air. Blake''s crew wasted no time. They rushed to the planks, shields locked together, axes, maces, and shortswords gleaming in the dimming light. They would not let the Imperials take a single step onto their ship without a fight. The enemy gathered on the other side, their heavy shields forming a wooden wall, swords glinting as they prepared to charge. The first wave of Imperial soldiers surged forward, boots pounding against the thick wooden planks as they run along the wooden bridge. The makeshift bridge shuddered under their weight, but the iron hooks embedded deep into the deck held firm. On either side of the planks, wooden rails stood tall, ensuring that no man would slip into the churning sea below, allowing the soldiers to run forward without fear of falling down . The Imperials threw themselves onto the enemy deck, shields raised high like a moving wall. The first rank crashed into the pirate defenders, their heavy shields smashing against the hastily formed line of cutthroats. The impact sent men stumbling back, some barely keeping their footing as the Romelians took advantage of the gap to enter and swing their weapon to open up more space "Push! Drive them back!" a centurion bellowed from the second rank, his voice cutting through the chaos . The soldiers obeyed without hesitation. Their training took over as they pressed forward, using the sheer weight of their armored bodies to force gaps into the defenders'' formation. One man lunged with his shortsword, the short blade plunging into the throat of a pirate whose axe had been raised too high. Another bashed his shield forward, sending his opponent reeling before a quick thrust ended his struggle. For every Imperial that crossed, another was right behind, the boarding planks now a bridge of death between the two vessels. The air was thick with the clash of steel, the cries of the wounded, and the furious roars of men locked in combat. A pirate swung his blade¡ªfast, reckless. The Imperial soldier caught it on his shield, the impact jarring his arm. He bashed forward, metal crunching against bone. The pirate staggered, and an opening was created. The soldier''s axe came down. Skull split and blood sprayed. The body crumpled to the wooden ground unmoving. Another pirate lunged,mace flashing . The soldier twisted, but the mace connected with his shoulders, breaking whatever bone was there. Screams and then a kiss''steal, bringing silence to the man. A burly pirate with a great axe roared as he charged, muscles flexing as he swung for the Imperial''s head. The soldier ducked, barely dodging the deadly arc. He stepped in, inside the pirate''s reach quickly followed by his short sword stabbing up¡ªdeep, under the ribs. The pirate gasped. The blade twisted, and the pirate with a gurgle, fell. The planks ran slick with blood. More Imperials poured in and the fighting shifted from the planks to inside the flagship as the worst phase of the fight for the attacking side was now over. Blake watched the battle unfold, his sneer curling in anger. His men were holding, but the Imperials were pushing hard. Too hard. He had seen enough to know where and when help was needed. With a growl, he grabbed his shield and axe, stepping forward into the fray. The soldiers around him saw him coming¡ªsaw the look in his eyes¡ªand they cheered. Their commander was here. Now the real fight began. Truth be told, Blake was just waiting for an opportunity to get some action; commanding his men was fun but there was something that it lacked: action. After all, there was a certain and undeniable pleasure to be found in getting one''s hands dirty, especially when dealing with Romelians. An Imperial soldier , who probably thought he was going to be a hero who killed the enemy commander, swung at him, a heavy mace arcing toward his ribs. Blake barely acknowledged it, as one would with an ant . His shield rose, catching the blow with ease. It was like swatting away a feather. Before the soldier could react, Blake''s axe lashed out¡ªfast, brutal. The blade crashed into the man''s side, biting deep into the chainmail but failing to break through. It didn''t matter. The force alone sent the Imperial staggering, all the air driven from his lungs in a choking gasp. Blake didn''t wait. He stepped in, his shield slamming into the soldier''s temple with a sickening crack. The Imperial crumpled to his knees, dazed, barely aware of the boot that came down on his throat. A sharp crunch. The body twitched once, then lay still. Blake barely spared him a glance. He rolled his shoulders, spat and strode forward, stepping over the corpse without a second thought. His soldiers roared in triumph, slamming weapons against shields, finally seeing the man that they had been following for two decades in action. An Imperial soldier who learnt nothing from his predecessor, lunged at Blake, an iron axe gripped tight in his hands. He swung hard, aiming for Blake''s neck¡ªa killing blow. Blake sidestepped, fast and precise. The axe whistled past his shoulder, hitting nothing but air. Before the Imperial could recover, Blake''s shield smashed forward, slamming into the man''s arm. The axe flew from his grip, clattering onto the bloodied deck. Wide-eyed, the Imperial stumbled back, reaching for the short sword at his hip. Too slow. Blake''s shield came up again, this time slamming into his throat. A wet, strangled gurgle escaped the man''s lips as he collapsed to his knees, clutching his crushed windpipe. His eyes bulged, terror flooding his features. Blake ended it swiftly. His axe rose, gleaming in the sunlight¡ªthen fell. A single, clean stroke. The head tumbled from the body, rolling across the deck before coming to a stop at the feet of the Imperial line. For a moment, there was only silence. Then, the Imperials took a step back. Blake exhaled, shaking the blood from his blade. He lifted his shield, raised his axe, and sneered. With a slow, deliberate motion, he lifted his axe hand and curled his fingers¡ªbeckoning for more . "Next," Chapter 418: Sea Lion(6) Chapter 418: Sea Lion(6) Discipline is the steel spine of any great army. It is what turns mere men into an unyielding wall, what keeps swords steady when chaos reigns, and what forces warriors to stand firm before horrors that would send lesser men fleeing. Beyond its practical edge in battle, discipline possesses a beauty of its own¡ªthe way it suppresses fear, how it molds instinct into obedience, and how it allows soldiers to march into death as if it were merely another step forward. For a commander, nothing is more frustrating than an enemy that refuses to break. Battles are not won by strength alone, but are instead always won by the collapse of an enemy''s will. Many wars have been decided not by sheer bloodshed but by the simple act of forcing the other side to run. Quick, devastating strikes¡ªsudden ambushes, relentless charges, and overwhelming force¡ªthese have been the weapons of tacticians for thousands of years, used to shatter morale and send men scattering before a fight can even begin. Few understood this better than Alpheo. Time and again, he bent the tide of battle to his favor, exploiting the fragile resolve of enemy armies. Against the rebel lord Ormund, he struck fast and hard, driving into the enemy''s center with ruthless precision with an ambush. Within moments, their lines buckled, and their left flank¡ªmade up of trembling levies¡ªcrumbled after barely ten minutes of fighting. Against the Herculeians, Alpheo did not meet them head-on immediately . Instead, he shattered their cohesion with well-placed catapult fire, breaking apart their advance before his troops surged forward and drove them back. They might have routed entirely had their reinforcements not arrived in time to steady their ranks, opening the field for Egil to save the day with his triumphant cavalry charge. But Alpheo''s true genius lay not just in strategy, but in understanding the mind of the common soldier. He knew what made men stand and what made them run. He knew the weight of fear, the strength of hope, and the thin line between courage and despair. He used this knowledge to manipulate battles as a sculptor shapes clay, twisting the minds of his enemies to his liking. Yet even a master of fear and morale has limits. No amount of cunning could shatter a force that did not feel fear¡ªa force bound by iron discipline. When faced with warriors who had stripped themselves of hesitation and emotion, who held their ranks no matter the slaughter around them, even Alpheo''s tactics faltered. There is no breaking an enemy that refuses to bend, no terror that seeps into the mind of a soldier who has buried his fear beneath sheer will. Against such men, there could be no easy victory. Against such men, there was only slaughter, until one side stood alone on the blood-soaked field. Still,even the most disciplined men were not immune to fear. No matter how much training, how many battles fought, or how unbreakable their formation seemed¡ªfear was always lurking, waiting for the right moment to sink its claws into their minds. It was not always a scream or a desperate flight that gave it away. Sometimes, fear was as subtle as a single, hesitant step backward. Blake saw it happen the moment his axe split another Romelian soldier apart. The edge bit through chain and flesh, carving deep into the man''s side before ripping free in a spray of crimson. The body crumpled, lifeless, joining the growing heap of corpses at his feet. His arm barely felt the weight of the strike, as if his axe had passed through nothing more than air. And then, for the briefest moment, hesitation flickered through the Romelian ranks. It was barely noticeable¡ªa shift in their stance, a tightening of their grips¡ªbut Blake caught it. The slightest backward shuffle, a reflex so deeply ingrained in survival that even disciplined men could not fully suppress it. They had seen too many die. They had seen the way he fought¡ªrelentless, brutal, a force of nature hacking through them like wheat before the scythe. And in that instant of doubt, in that breath where their resolve wavered, the crew took their chance. With renewed fury, they surged forward, shields locking, weapons striking. The space granted by that single step allowed them to stabilize, to catch their breath, to reset their footing. A moment ago, they had been barely holding on¡ªnow, they stood firm. Blake let out a sharp, barking laugh. He raised his bloodied axe and pointed it at the enemy, his lips curling into a sneer. He felt better than he had ever been, with a strength he had never felt running in his blood. He felt as powerful as a god,or better yet if he was strenghtened by on. "Go on, then!" he roared, his voice carrying above the chaos. "Run, if your legs still work! Or step forward and die like the rest!" The Romelians did not flee¡ªnot yet. But that creeping fear had begun to take root, and Blake had no intention of letting it fade. Blake swung his axe. The blade tore through a Romelian shield like it was parchment. The soldier behind it staggered. Blake didn''t stop. He ripped the axe free and brought it down again. This time, it split a helmet¡ªand the skull beneath. Another Romelian lunged. A spear jabbed at Blake''s side. He caught the shaft mid-thrust. With a twist and by letting his weight fall onto his knees , he fell on it snapping it like a twig . The soldier froze, eyes wide. Blake''s fist crashed into his face. Blake moved forward, letting one of his men slay the soldier on the ground. His axe rose and fell. Each swing was a killing blow. Shields splintered. Swords shattered. Men died. The Romelians felt it. They saw it. And they began to falter. Around him, the crew of the Roaring Axe fought like demons. They fed off Blake''s fury. A sailor drove a dagger into a Romelian''s throat. Another swung a mace, crushing armor and bone. The deck was slick with blood. The air reeked of iron and sweat. "Push them back!" Blake barked. His voice was a thunderclap. The crew obeyed. They surged forward, shields locked, weapons flashing. The Romelians stumbled. Their discipline cracked. Fear crept into their eyes. Blake didn''t let up. He grabbed a Romelian by the collar and smashed him to the ground , before letting his axe fall. Another soldier swung at him. Blake caught the blade mid-air with his shield, the rest was easy to expect. The Romelians were breaking. Step by step, they retreated. Their formation wavered. Their courage faltered and the strenght and resolve in their arms sapped. Blake''s crew pressed harder. Axes rose. Hammers fell. The tide was turning. Blake stood at the center of it all, a force of destruction. His axe dripped red. His chest heaved. His eyes burned with a fire that wasn''t human. The Romelians saw it. And they knew¡ªthey were not fighting a man. They were fighting a monster. -------------------- Caius watched, his jaw clenched so tight it ached, as the assault on the enemy flagship crumbled before his eyes. What was supposed to be a decisive strike had turned into a disaster. One of their ships was engulfed in flames, its crew leaping overboard to escape the inferno. Another had been rammed by an enemy vessel, its hull torn open, warriors spilling onto its deck in a brutal melee. The third¡ªtheir best chance at overwhelming the flagship¡ªhad failed to dislodge the defenders. The enemy still stood, unbroken, hacking down every soldier who tried to board. Then came another blow. "Red flag! Red flag on the western approach!" The voice rang out from the mast, sharp and urgent. "Another fleet incoming!" Caius felt his breath hitch. No. It couldn''t be. Not now. He turned sharply, eyes darting to the horizon. His heart pounded against his ribs as he scanned the waters, but he couldn''t see how many ships were coming¡ªonly the telltale red banner fluttering in the wind. "Orders, sir?" a crewman asked, voice tight with tension. Caius didn''t answer immediately. His fingers curled into a fist. He wanted to demand a number¡ªhow many?¡ªbut the lookout had only seen the signal. It could be five ships. It could be fifteen. What he did know was that the battle was already tilting against them. The assault had stalled, their forces were entangled in brutal fighting, and now, with more ships approaching their flanks, the situation darkened further. Should we send ships to intercept them?But how many?5-10?Do I even have more? They were running out of time. And options. "Orders, sir?" The question came again, this time more urgent. Caius turned to the crewman who had spoken. The man''s face was tight with tension, his knuckles white where they gripped the rail. Around them, the officers and sailors looked to their commander, waiting, expecting. But Caius had no answer. His mind raced, running through possibilities. There were few¡ªfar too few¡ªand yet, the weight of choosing between them felt heavier than any decision he had ever made. Keep fighting? The assault on the enemy flagship was failing. Their ships were battered, their soldiers locked in desperate combat. If the reinforcements were few, perhaps they could hold, regroup, and continue the battle. But if the approaching fleet was larger... Retreat? It would mean abandoning any chance for a comeback His jaw tightened. He had commanded thousands in battle, had given orders without hesitation. And yet, now, in the face of these two grim choices, he hesitated. Was he to retreat or not? Chapter 419: Receiving news across the sea(1) Chapter 419: Receiving news across the sea(1) Alpheo sat in his workroom, the dim glow of a single lantern casting flickering shadows on the stacks of parchment spread across his heavy oak desk. He took a slow sip of honeyed milk, the warmth of the drink fighting against the bitter chill that crept through the stone walls of Yarzat''s citadel. It was December, and winter had settled upon the city, its icy fingers slipping through every crack, seeping into the bones of those unprepared. Before him lay reports¡ªdocuments detailing the state of the capital''s crime under his rule. Alpheo''s sharp eyes traced the carefully inked lines, reading the accounts of arrests, and reports about how criminality crackdown was going. The situation had improved, but the city had been a festering pit of lawlessness before his arrival. The gangs had once ruled Yarzat with clear-cut territories, each faction carving out its domain like lords of the underworld. Their control had been made all the easier by the garrison''s corruption¡ªguards accepting bribes to look the other way, allowing thieves and murderers to operate unchecked. Few patrols wandered the streets, and those who did often ignored the cries for help, more afraid of angering the gangs than failing their sworn duty. It had been an unspoken agreement: the city belonged to the gangs, and the soldiers merely collected their share for staying out of the way. That had been the order of things. Until now. Alpheo placed the empty cup aside and leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping idly against the armrest. The city was no longer the same, but there was still work to be done. His arrival had shattered the comfortable balance of the underworld, and now the rats were scurrying, desperate to either survive or reclaim what they had lost. Winter had come to Yarzat. And for some, it would be their last. Alpheo allowed himself a rare smile as he glanced over the latest report from Laedio, the head of the capital''s garrison. The man had proven to be a relentless force against the gangs that once infested Yarzat, striking at them with a brutal efficiency that even Alpheo found impressive. The man may have had long hands when taking bribes from merchants, but at least he was serious on the tasks that Alpheo assigned him. Laedio had in fact personally led raids, delivered detailed break plans, and ensured that every gang¡ªwhether proven criminals or merely suspected¡ªwas crushed underfoot. The best part of being a monarch was that the law bent to his will. There were no long debates in the council, no trials clogged with legal formalities. If Alpheo or his men deemed someone to be part of a gang, then he ceased to be. Simple as that. It was most certainly a dangerous tool for men who only desired power for themselves; it was another if it was used for the collective well-being of the city. And now, the effects were undeniable. Where once the gangs had ruled like hidden lords, extorting protection tolls and controlling entire districts, now they were nothing more than ghosts. They no longer lined their pockets with the hard-earned coin of merchants and commoners. Their stranglehold on the streets had been broken, their operations dismantled with ruthless precision. Even contraband¡ªthe lifeblood of any criminal enterprise¡ªhad become a near impossibility in the capital. Yarzat had no port, no hidden docks where illicit goods could slip in unnoticed. Every road leading into the city was guarded, every checkpoint manned by soldiers loyal not to their own greed, but to Alpheo''s vision of order. Without a reliable means of smuggling, the underworld had been choked into submission. Of course, crime itself could never truly be eradicated. Thieves would always steal, and desperate men would always resort to desperate measures. But the days of organized criminal empires ruling from the shadows were over. And Alpheo had made sure of it. He had backed Laedio''s campaign at every turn, lending regular soldiers who were now out of need for the winter to patrol the streets, to make arrests, to root out dens of vice and extort confessions about other hidden strongholds from those that they captured. The garrison alone could not have done it, but with the full weight of the monarchy behind them, they had turned the tide. In just a few months, the city had been purged. The gangs were either dead, imprisoned, or scattered like rats, too afraid to rebuild what had been lost. Alpheo exhaled slowly, savoring the victory. Yarzat still had crime, but it no longer had rulers in the shadows. It had only one ruler. Him. A sudden knock echoed through the quiet of the workroom, the sharp sound breaking the tranquil moment. Alpheo glanced toward the door, his fingers still wrapped around the cup of honeyed milk, the warmth of the drink contrasting the winter chill that seeped into Yarzat. "Enter," he said, his voice steady, composed. The door creaked open, revealing an elder man wrapped in thick wool robes, his steps measured, his expression solemn. His wrinkled hands clasped before him as he bowed low with practiced deference. "Your grace" the elder intoned, his voice weathered with age but firm with purpose. "A pigeon has returned. It bears a message from Sir Valen''s expedition." Alpheo''s brow arched slightly. News at last. Setting his drink aside, he reached forward, his fingers brushing against the sealed letter as he plucked it from the old man''s hands. He studied the wax imprint briefly before nodding. "Good," he said. "See to it that the bird is rewarded with some meat. A reliable messenger deserves its due." The elder bowed again, a hint of a knowing smile crossing his lips. "At once, Your Majesty." With that, he turned and departed, leaving Alpheo alone once more, the weight of Valen''s words sealed within the parchment now resting in his grasp. Alpheo carefully unfolded the small parchment, his fingers moving with deliberate care. The letter was brief, a compact messenger of news, not one for long, flowery prose. He began to read aloud, his voice low but clear in the quiet of the room. ''''To His Majesty, prince Alpheo, and Her Grace prince Jasmine. , I trust this letter finds you in good health, as well as her grace and the entirety of the royal family I am pleased to write with good tidings regarding my recent diplomatic efforts. After much negotiation and careful planning, I have successfully concluded a meeting with the leaders of the mountain tribes. These people live high in the mountains, where the land yields little for farming. They are a proud people, their livelihoods based upon herding sheep and goats, which they tend with remarkable skill and care. At first, there were moments of tension, as some of their more restless factions threatened hostility. However, I was able to meet with their chieftain directly and, through careful diplomacy, prevent any bloodshed. The situation has since calmed. Through further talks, I have managed to sway the tribe''s leader toward a proposal that I believe will benefit both our realms. I have convinced him to allow a portion of his people to settle within the borders of Yarzat. In exchange, we will provide them with goods that they desperately need or simply desire, such as steel, wine, salt, and cider. Further to these initial steps, I must confess that the tribe did not leave their homeland by choice. They were forced out of the mountains by a neighboring faction, a decision made under the threat of arms. Their lands, once their own for generations, were seized with brutal force, and they now find themselves displaced and looking for a way to take back their home, which, I believe, is a fortunate turn for us. The situation is optimal also for any long term standing in these lands. Bad blood runs deep between certain tribes¡ªrivalries that go back longer than anyone can recall. This, I believe, gives us a unique opportunity to influence the balance of the region as simple traders , making our gains in the loss of others. I suggest that we begin supplying them with weapons. By stoking their internal strife, we can ensure that these tribes fight amongst themselves and, in time, will be willing to sell us any prisoners they take during their skirmishes. These prisoners will be the very settlers we need, willing to work the lands they would otherwise never dream of walking upon. To make certain that what I said was true , it was arranged for the youngest son of the tribe''s elder to travel by sea to the capital. He will witness firsthand the fertility of the lands we are offering them, and he will return with an honest report of the ground''s capacity to sustain their people. Alongside him will travel a translator fluent in Azanian, so that there can be no misunderstanding in their discussions. If the meeting goes as planned, then this agreement will be set in stone, and we can proceed to make it official. I must, of course, extend my deepest gratitude to Your Grace for the opportunity to carry out such a delicate and important negotiation. It is a privilege to serve in this capacity and to contribute, however small, to the greatness of Yarzat. Please extend my best wishes to Her Grace and the youngest addition to the royal family. May your house continue to flourish in strength and unity. I remain, as always, loyal and at your service, waiting for any other dealings you may wish for me to attend to, which I shall extend all of my efforts to see done as well as I can manage. Chapter 420: Receiving news across the sea(2) Chapter 420: Receiving news across the sea(2) The transmission of information across distances has always been one of the cornerstones of a stable and functioning society, whether in the realms of governance, commerce, or war. The question of how to convey a message to another person, especially when they are far beyond the reach of one''s sight, has long been a challenge for any leader, commander, ruler, but also to the common person. One of the simplest and most efficient methods for long distances is to entrust a letter to a messenger, typically mounted on horseback. This system, while rudimentary, has stood the test of time as a reliable way to send messages, especially during times of conflict. A general on the battlefield, for instance, would often issue orders and receive vital reports through this very means¡ªan effective solution for relaying crucial information when speed is of the essence. This method was, in fact, so crucial to military logistics and civil one that the Romans, ever pragmatic in their approach, established a state-funded courier service. Their empire was vast, and to keep it running smoothly, they set up a network of well-maintained roads, each with designated stations where horses could be swapped out, allowing messengers to travel far more swiftly without exhaustion. But even with the Romans'' network and the horse-mounted couriers, there remained a fundamental limitation. For smaller distances, this system was flawless. A rider could swiftly carry a message from one army to another, or from one city to a neighboring town. However, when dealing with the enormous expanses that stretched between distant cities or even between sovereign states, the travel time could become cumbersome. A horse might carry a message with the speed of the wind, but when cities were days, even weeks apart, the message could often feel like a slow drip, trickling its way across the map. In addition to using messengers on horseback, one of the most ingenious methods of communication in the ancient world was through pigeon post. Pigeons, particularly homing pigeons, possess a remarkable inborn ability to navigate their way home, no matter how far they may travel. This extraordinary sense of direction made them invaluable for long-distance communication, even when other methods were too slow or cumbersome. To use pigeons for messaging, a servant or caretaker would usually be assigned the task of raising and caring for these birds. The pigeons would be hatched, raised, and trained, and once mature, they would be sent to distant cities or to serve as companions for envoys traveling between courts. When communication was needed, a letter would be securely fastened to the bird''s leg, and it would be released to fly back to its home¡ªwhether that was a royal palace, an important city, or even a distant outpost. The royal courts, for example, often became hubs for these birds, as each important city needed its own supply of pigeons to ensure reliable communication with far-off territories. It was not uncommon for a bustling court to have a loft full of pigeons. The advantages of pigeon post were clear. The birds could fly much faster than horses over long distances, and because pigeons are naturally homebound, they rarely got lost. Pigeons were also inexpensive to maintain, feed, and breed, making them an accessible option for many courts and military leaders. In a time when resources were often stretched thin, pigeons proved to be a cost-effective means of communication. However, the system did have its limitations. One of the primary downsides was that pigeons could only deliver messages in one direction¡ªthey would always return to their place of origin, meaning that someone would have to be dispatched to bring the pidgeons back to their working station. Additionally, pigeons were far from invulnerable; they were prey to larger predatory birds such as eagles and falcons. These birds of prey would often swoop down on pigeons mid-flight, making them vulnerable to interception. To mitigate this risk, messengers would sometimes send multiple pigeons at once, alongside a horse rider, to ensure that at least one bird would make it safely to its destination. This precaution helped ensure that messages were sent with the highest likelihood of success, even in the face of the unpredictable challenges posed by nature. Though not without its flaws, the pigeon post was still a marvel of its time, connecting distant regions in ways that had once seemed impossible. Alpheo''s capital city , in fact nestled within the grand palace complex a great number of birds. Far away of course, from royal chambers, there were rooms with windows filled with nearly one hundred pigeons, each contained within their own small, carefully crafted cage. The cages, lined up in neat rows, were organized with meticulous precision, their occupants resting quietly, awaiting their next assignment. Above each cage was a small wooden sign bearing the name of an important city: from the capital itself to far-flung cities, each represented by its own pigeon. As Alpheo placed the letter down onto the table, a small but knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. What he had just read wasn''t merely good news¡ªit was fantastic. He had expected difficulty, had known that the task he had set for Aron was hard. After all, they were venturing into uncharted territory, to meet with tribes whose customs, cultures, and even manner of communication were entirely unknown. The risks were high; failure had always been a possibility. But now, as he read the words on the parchment, Alpheo''s mind surged with satisfaction. The talks were progressing¡ªagainst all odds, they were succeeding. He could hardly believe it, at just the first attempt they had found potential settlers A deep sense of contentment washed over him. The highest form of happiness a man could know on any given day was not some fleeting pleasure or transient victory, but the realization that his plan was coming to fruition. Of course, Alpheo knew that while things were progressing well, the path to a full, lasting success was still fraught with the delicate art of diplomacy. He had to play his part, and play it with precision. Most importantly, that meant drowning the son of the tribe''s leader¡ªwho would soon be visiting in person¡ªin luxury and opulence beyond his wildest imaginings. There is no better way after to say I am better than you, then to show one''s power and richness under the guise of hospitality and have the other thank you for it Alpheo was no fool; he knew the power of wealth and status in convincing such tribal leaders of their own inferiority in the face of such grandeur. This was what power looked like. This was what security, prosperity, could bring to his people. The young tribal leader''s son would be shown nothing but the finest of what Alpheo''s court had to offer. Fine silks, rich foods, gilded jewelry, and the finest wines of Yarzat would be paraded before him. By the time the young man left the capital, he would be awash in an intoxicating blend of admiration, awe, and the understanding that the might of Yarzat was not to be taken lightly, especially when witnessing the White Army, which was arguably the finest jewel that Alpheo could show - This was the dance of diplomacy Alpheo knew all too well¡ªonce the son had seen just how much more was at stake by aligning with the monarch, his loyalty would be as secured as the city walls themselves. But the game didn''t end there. Once the son had been suitably dazzled, Alpheo would then show him the land that would be allocated to his people. The decision was already made¡ªhe had chosen a piece of land close to the sea in the Crownlands. Where they could get a steady food source for the tribe''s people during the early settling season, as they could fish to sustain themselves while the more laborious task of preparing the land for sowing was underway. Plus since they were more or less close to the capital it meant that it would be much easier to monitor and control them. Well, things seem to be going my way, Alpheo thought as he got up from his chair, stretching his limbs. But midway across the room, his steps slowed as a sudden realization hit him, a solution to one of his nagging problems. The garrison''s crackdown on the gangs had left the city''s prisons overflowing. Normally, such criminals would be sent to the gallows, to swing in front of the public as a brutal reminder of the consequences of crime. But something about the idea didn''t sit right with Alpheo. The gallows were a waste manpower. He was always one to see opportunity in the least expected places, and today was no different. Rather than letting the prisoners hang, why not put them to use? He thought . After all the land for the incoming settlers was still unprepared, fertile but filled with wild grass. Those criminals could work the soil, break it, and ready it for the planting season. They could build the houses needed for the new arrivals¡ªhouses that if that was not the case, would be built during the winter months when the earth was too cold to farm. No need to waste lives, plus if I want them dead, I can have them hang after they complete the works...it''s not likes they are of any use to me right now... Alpheo''s lips curled into a small smile. It''s perfect, he thought. A solution to two problems at once: the overflowing prisons and the unprepared land for the settlers. Plus it also reminded him of something for the future : he had to do some reforms regarding law and Judicial powers in the State.... Chapter 421: Pioneer Chapter 421: Pioneer This is outrageous. Why am I the one forced to leave home? Torghan seethed as he trudged forward, his steps heavy with frustration. Beside him, his newly assigned bodyguard walked in silence, his expression unreadable. I was the one who found them! So why should I be the one to cross the salt lake? The thought burned in his mind, an ember of resentment that refused to die. He had brought news of the outsiders, yet instead of being praised for it, he was the one sent away to verify their claims. His father''s decision gnawed at him. Why him? Why not one of his brothers? Why not one of the elders? They had lived long enough to understand the ways of the world better than he did. Yet here he was, walking toward the unknown, burdened with a task that shouldn''t have been his. Just when he had thought that his father was proud of him, there he sent him into exile.He was not a fool; he knew very well that he was the most sacrificable of his brothers; he was the youngest after all, which meant that if things turned ugly, the loss would be minimal. Unknowingly, his gaze drifted backward, settling on the five warriors his father had sent as protection. They walked in formation, their faces hardened , their weapons close at hand. Among them was the translator¡ªthe man who had been the bridge between his father and one of the outsiders. Torghan exhaled sharply and faced forward again. It should have been someone else, he thought bitterly. But it didn''t matter anymore. The decision had been made, and now, there was no turning back. Torghan''s gaze drifted, almost unconsciously, toward the outsider walking among them. The man stood out like a sore wound, his garments unlike anything Torghan had ever seen. Instead of thick furs or sturdy leathers fit for the harsh mountain winds, he wore silken cloth, flowing and delicate, shimmering faintly even in the muted light of day. How can a man fight dressed like that? Torghan wondered, his brow furrowing. Shaking off the thought, Torghan clicked his tongue and called out, "Rhazan." The translator, a wiry man with streaks of gray in his dark beard, turned from his conversation with Aron. He had been deep in discussion with the outsider, but at Torghan''s voice, he stepped away without hesitation. "What is it?" Rhazan asked, his sharp eyes scanning Torghan''s face. He turned his attention back to Rhazan. "What were you talking about with him?" he asked, his voice edged with impatience. Rhazan glanced away from his conversation with Aron before stepping closer. He let out a slow breath, clearly annoyed at being interrupted. "He was giving me a few suggestions on the proper etiquette we should follow when we meet his leader." Torghan narrowed his eyes. "And you thought to keep that from me?Should I not be informed too?" Rhazan tensed but dipped his head slightly. "You are in charge of this expedition," he admitted, though his tone was stiff, reluctant. Clearly, he didn''t enjoy being ordered about by someone younger than him. Torghan waved a hand. "Go on, then. What did he say?" Rhazan hesitated, then answered. "He told me that when we meet their ruler, we must first bow to the woman and only after to her husband." Torghan''s brow knitted further. "The woman first? Why?" Rhazan crossed his arms. "Because rulership is hers. The man is just her consort." Torghan stared at him, silent for a moment. The idea was baffling. A woman ruling over men? He glanced again at the outsider, watching the man''s composed posture and the way he carried himself. Torghan scoffed, shaking his head. "How can a woman take power? Is she a great warrior?" Rhazan exhaled, clearly restraining himself. "In their tribe, rulership is decided by blood, not strength." Torghan frowned. That made no sense. In his lands, power belonged to those strong enough to hold it. A ruler who could not fight, who could not command respect through force, was nothing more than a sheep waiting to be overthrown. "He told me that her husband is a great warrior. He has led his soldiers into battle many times against stronger foes and always emerged victorious." Torghan snorted. "Then why isn''t he the ruler?" Rhazan hesitated for a moment before giving the answer. "Because he married into power. His victories belong to him, but the throne does not. She holds the right to rule by birth. He is merely her consort.It is a strange tradition for me too, I am as baffled as you are." Torghan narrowed his eyes, his lip curling slightly. The idea that someone could simply marry their way into power instead of seizing it felt absurd to him. And yet, he knew that the outsiders were different people from theirs. So should our people be ruled by a woman who can''t hold a weapon? He blew through his nose in frustration. He had already had enough of this nonsense¡ªand he hadn''t even set foot on the land across the salt lake yet. As the group approached the outsider camp, the foreigner at the front suddenly raised his hand and shouted something in his strange tongue. His voice rang out, carrying over the cold air. Torghan watched as, almost immediately, a deep groan filled the air¡ªthe sound of wood scraping against each other. Before him, the towering wooden gates, reinforced with thick beams, slowly creaked open. From behind them, the camp revealed itself. Stepping inside, Torghan found himself momentarily breathless. Not from fear, but from awe. Warriors. They were everywhere, having some drills, moving in small groups, sharpening weapons, or speaking amongst themselves in low voices. And they were armored¡ªeach and every one of them. Not just in scraps of boiled leather or bits of iron, but in full steel, covering their bodies as if it were nothing more than cloth. Chainmail gleamed beneath thick tunics, while polished steel plates protected their chests. And atop their heads, they wore helmets of shining metal, some with simple nasal bars. Swords and axes rested in scabbards at their sides, their hilts worn but well-maintained, showing years of use. Round shields, their rims reinforced with iron, were slung across their backs, waiting to be brought forward at a moment''s notice. Torghan let his eyes drift across the camp, taking in the sight of so many warriors¡ªall of them so well-equipped. In his own tribe, only the wealthiest warriors could afford chainmail, which was rougly worth its weight on gold, always if they were lucky enough to find someone willing to sell it . After all, the only way to get it was to welcome trader across the mountains, and that was a thing that only those living on the borders with the Trazhanie could do. Most had nothing more than hardened leather, and only the truly elite carried swords. Here, even the lowest-ranked soldier seemed to wear steel as if it were nothing more than common garb. He had sighted them before , as he was the one that after all reported to his father. Yet, he had been far away when he first spotted them that fateful day with his friend. Now, seeing the intricate craftsmanship required to bend iron in such a way up close filled him with awe¡ªthree times more than when he had first laid eyes on them. He wasn''t the only one struck by the sight. His bodyguards, men who had fought and bled for his father for years, stood stiff beside him, their eyes wide as they took in the scene. None of them had expected this. None of them had seen anything like it before. As they moved deeper into the camp, the warriors of the outsiders turned to watch them, pointing in their direction, speaking among themselves in their foreign tongue. Some had their arms crossed, others rested their hands on their weapons, but none looked concerned¡ªonly curious. Torghan felt their eyes on him, heard their voices murmuring words he could not understand. He clenched his jaw. What are they saying? Suddenly, someone from the camp strode toward their guide with a purposeful gait. The man in question was Valen the head of the expedition,as he reached him, he raised a hand and pointed behind him, gesturing toward one of the ships docked at the pier. The vessel loomed large over the rest, its hull thick and reinforced, its masts towering high above, their sails furled tightly against the wind. Aron, following the gesture, gave a small nod of understanding. Without hesitation, he turned to Rhazan and spoke a few words in their tongue. The translator, after a brief pause, turned to Torghan and his men. "We are to enter that...thing" he said simply, nodding toward the massive vessel Valen had indicated. Torghan''s gaze followed the motion, and when his eyes settled on the ship, he felt his breath hitch. A monster of wood It was a galeass, though he did not know the name for it. Rows upon rows of oars lined its sides, a testament to the sheer manpower needed to move such a beast through the water. The deck stood high above the water, tall enough that a man on the shore had to crane his neck just to take it all in. How can men build something like this? Torghan wondered, his fingers unconsciously tightening around the hilt of his axe , as perhaps it was for the better that bloodshed had been avoided that faithful day. Those outsiders were not sheep feeding on grass , as they were mistaken for, but they were instead wolves with sharp claws , waiting for an opportunity to sheathe them to the dog dumb enough to snarl at them. Chapter 422: King of the seas Chapter 422: King of the seas Oh, Jhonny was a daring lad, He left his home one fateful morn, beneath a golden sky. With naught but wind to guide his way, he set upon the tide, To seek his fate on distant shores, where restless spirits ride." Through raging storms, through waters black as night, He danced upon the deck with fate, a devil in the fight. The silver shone, the torch burned, the gold was piled high, And Jhonny swore he''d not return ''til riches met his eye. Oh, Jhonny, bold Jhonny, the sea it made you free, With cutlass drawn and sails unfurled, you laughed upon the breeze. Through battles fierce and tempests wild, your name was known afar, A pirate king, a reaver bold, a demon born for war! But old men dream of hearth and home when youth has had its say, And so, with pockets full of gold, he turned his ship away. To find the village he had left, a lifetime in the past, And place his weary bones to rest in peace and gold at last. A great roar of voices thundered into the night, thousands of throats bellowing the final lines with drunken mirth. The song soared over the beaches and the waters beyond, where the wrecks of Romelian ships still drifted like broken corpses upon the tide. Fires burned high into the sky, casting wild shadows over the revelers¡ªpirates, sailors, and warriors of the Free Isles, their victory sealed in blood and fire. They had done it. The Romelian fleet lay shattered, their proud banners torn and trampled underfoot. Their ships, once mighty, had been sunk, or taken as prizes. The night was theirs, and the sea itself seemed to celebrate with them, waves crashing against the shore in rhythm with the beat of drums. Casks of wine and barrels of ale had been broken open, their contents spilling freely into waiting cups. The scent of roasted meat filled the air, mingling with the salty breeze. Men danced around the great bonfires, arms slung over shoulders, faces flush with victory and drink. This was, in fact, the third day since the great battle. The first two had been spent scouring the sea, hunting down the Romelian ships that had tried to flee. There had been no mercy. Some were overtaken on the open water, their hulls splintered by ramming prows, their decks swarmed by boarding crews with axes and blades, further adding more ships as loot. Others were cornered near the isles, their desperate defenders cut down before their ships were set aflame and left to the tide. By the time the hunt was over, a good quarter of what remained of the Romelian fleet had been sunk or captured. Only then did the victors turn their sails homeward, their banners snapping in the wind as they returned to Harmway, the new pumping heart of the Confederation. Now, the blood and fire of battle had given way to roaring laughter and raucous song. The beaches, of Harmway were alive with celebration. The taverns had thrown their doors wide, the brothels filled to the brim, and barrels of wine had been cracked open for all to share. Victory belonged to them, and they would make damn sure the world knew it. This was more than just a victory¡ªit was the dawn of a new era. The golden age of the Confederation had begun. With the Imperial fleet lying in shattered ruin beneath the waves, there was no power left in the southern seas to challenge them. No trade route beyond their reach, no merchant vessel beyond their grasp. The north, of course, still held the Azanian fleet, a force that in better times could have rivaled them. But these were not better times. The Azanians were bleeding in their own civil war, their navy left undermanned and underfunded as rival claimants tore the empire apart. The Free Isles did not know this yet¡ªnews traveled slowly in these days of chaos, with both Romelia and Azania collapsing under the weight of their own struggles,still it was just a matter of time before they knew and did something to take advantage of the situation, with the men at the center of it all still being the one that made all of this possible. Perhapse , just perhapse, it was not unthinkable for a new maritime empire to be born anew from the ashes of the olds. That was a matter for the future. Right now, they were too deep in their victory¡ªwhoring, feasting, drinking, and raising their cups in roaring toasts to the name on every man''s lips: Lord Blake of House Elio. His name echoed through the night, repeated over and over in song and drunken slurs, the admiral who had led them to the triumph they had craved since the bitter defeat at Rock Bottom. Many saw in him the key to their rise, the man who had cracked the Romelian yoke and given them dominion over the southern seas. Those who had fought aboard The Roaring Axe were treated like legends, their words hung onto as they spilled every detail of the battle. With cups of wine and ale in hand, they boasted of the admiral''s ferocity, how he carved through men like they were cattle, how not even the armored Romelians could stand against him. "I swear it on my mother''s grave," one pirate declared, slamming his cup on the table, "I saw the admiral take on three Romelians at once¡ªthree of ''em! One came at him with a spear, and he broke the damn thing with his knee, let the bastard stumble past him, then drove his axe into his back like he was chopping firewood." "Pah, that''s nothing," another interrupted, leaning forward with a drunken smirk. "Didn''t you see what he did to the captain of that Romelian galley? The bastard tried to run, but Blake caught him by the hair and yanked him back¡ªcut his head clean off with one swing! One swing, I tell you! Blood shot up like a damn fountain!" "I saw it with my own eyes," one man slurred, waving his cup. "He grasped a Romelian by the throat, lifted him clear off the deck, and smashed his skull against the planks¡ªonce, twice¡ªuntil the bastard went limp." Laughter and disbelief rippled through the crowd. "That''s a load of horse shit if I ever heard one!" another jeered. The first man narrowed his eyes, thumped his chest, and swore, "By the Sea-God himself, I speak true." Silence. Then murmurs. No man was foolish enough to invoke the Sea-God''s ire in vain --------------------- While the common men feasted in the streets, drinking and singing around roaring bonfires, the lords of the Confederation had claimed a grander stage for their own revelry. The governor''s palace, once the seat of Romelian power on the island, was the place where they drunk and ate. The tapestries bearing the Imperial eagle had been ripped down long ago , the Romelian banners trampled underfoot. In their place, crude wooden tables were piled high with roasted sheep and cows , fresh fish, bread, and an endless flow of wine and ale. They drank from silver goblets, tore into their meals with greasy hands, and laughed loudly, relishing the taste of victory as much as the food before them. But the true star of the night, the man whose name echoed from every ship deck and tavern, was too preoccupied to bask in the praise. Lord Blake of House Elio, the man who had led them to victory, sat at the high table, his cup ever full, sharing a drink with Kroll¡ªthe same man whose fleet had sealed the Romelians'' doom. Kroll, had in fact under Blake''s order before the battle sailed around the island and struck at the Romelian flank just as the battle reached its breaking point. His arrival had been the hammer blow, the sight of his sails finally shattering the resolve of the already bloodied Imperial fleet, forcing them into full retreat. Now, he and Blake sat side by side, tankards in hand, drinking deep as the lords around them raised their cups in their honor. "You mad bastard," Kroll said, slamming his cup against Blake''s. "I thought for sure you''d be dead by the time I got there." Blake chuckled, taking a long drink before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Not for lack of trying on the Romelians'' part,mind you" he said, voice rough from days of barking orders and battle cries. "But you, my friend, timed your entrance like the sea-God himself was guiding you." Kroll grinned. "Aye, and now there''s nothing left of that Imperial fleet but splinters and shark bait.Still it was your plan was it not?" Around them, the other lords continued to toast, drink, and gorge themselves, the weight of their victory sinking in. Kroll suddendly slammed his silver goblet onto the long wooden table, the force of it sending droplets of wine splattering onto the polished surface. His voice, rough and thunderous, boomed through the great hall. "Rock Bottom is avenged!" he roared, his scarred face alight with savage satisfaction. A great cheer erupted from the lords around him, fists pounding tables, tankards raised in triumph. The memory of their humiliating defeat at Rock Bottom had festered in the hearts of every man in the Confederation, a wound that had never quite healed¡ªuntil now. This victory had cleansed that shame in blood and fire. Blake took a long drink, setting his cup down before turning to Kroll with a smirk. "And now that you''ve had your vengeance, what''s next for you?" Kroll wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned. "Got a hell of a lot of loot to offload first¡ªgold, slaves and weapons, all that fine Imperial treasure I''d got. After that?" He let out a short laugh. "I''ll keep doing what I always did. Raiding, pillaging, taking what I want and leaving the rest to rot. The sea''s ours now, Blake. No damned Romelian warships to hunt us down. We can take what we please, when we please." Blake nodded, swirling the wine in his cup before taking another sip. "A fine way to live," he admitted. "I''d do the same, but unfortunately, I''ve got some debts to settle first." Kroll raised a thick brow. "Debts? Didn''t know you owed anyone.Who would be so foolish as to lend you money " Blake let out a low chuckle. "They''re self-given debts,not of gold" he said, leaning back in his chair. "There is one who''ve done good service for me, and it''s about time I repaid . And on the road to doing that, well... it might just be the most audacious venture I''ve ever commanded." Kroll eyed him for a moment, curiosity flickering across his face before he let out a barking laugh. "You always did have a taste for madness, debts that are self-given, that is new!" Blake simply smiled, lifting his cup once more. "Madness, maybe. Or just unfinished business." Chapter 423: Changing from the situation Chapter 423: Changing from the situation Seems like I was right to mind my own business, Alpheo thought as Shahab passed him the news of the Romelian fleet''s crushing defeat at the hands of the Confederation of the Free Isle. It was exactly as he had predicted. When the envoys had first arrived, practically begging Yarzat to join Veritia''s grand league and purge the pirates from Harmway¡ªand from the Southern Sea entirely¡ªmany in his court had clamored for action. To stand with the old powers. To rid the world of the scourge of the sea. Alpheo had done the opposite.The choice had been his, after all. The fleet and the army did not move without his command. The reputation of a warrior prince had its benefits¡ªwhen he spoke, soldiers listened. Officers listened. Even the highest lords knew that while Jasmine may have carried the blood of the throne, no sword was drawn and no ship set sail without Alpheo''s word.Both Jasmine and Shahab had tried to sway him. Their hatred for the sea rats burned deep, and was the hands that steered the ship towards its destination. But Alpheo saw what they did not¡ªthe advantage of claiming neutrality. as there were gains to be had on whoever won or lost. And now, the outcome was clear. The mighty Imperial fleet was gone, shattered beneath the waves. Harmway belonged to the Confederation. The Southern Sea was theirs. And Alpheo, once again, had been right. Jasmine crossed her arms, her brow furrowed as she let out a frustrated sigh. "I still believe that if we had joined Veritia, with our fleet added to theirs, we could have turned the tide of battle." Her voice was firm, unwavering. Behind her, Shahab gave a small nod of agreement, though he said nothing. His stance alone made his thoughts clear¡ªhe, too, had believed in the fight against the pirates. Alpheo leaned back in his chair, fingers idly tapping against the wooden armrest. "Perhaps," he admitted, his tone almost dismissive. "But it would have been a risk¡ªa risk not worth taking. The rewards Veritia offered us were scraps compared to what we would have sacrificed. We would have spent our men, and our ships on a gamble, and for what? To fight a war that brought us no tangible benefit?" Jasmine''s furrow deepened. "And now look at what''s happened," she shot back. "The Empire has lost its grip on the sea. There is no power left to challenge the Confederation. You think we avoided war? You''ve just ensured that our coasts will be plagued by pirates for years to come." A flicker of amusement danced in Alpheo''s eyes, though he masked it well. He had expected this argument. But that did not mean she was wrong. What she said was true with them gone; there was no power that could stop them now , at least yet.... Alpheo exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple as he regarded his wife. "Regrettable? Perhaps. But not truly a problem for us. We have a fleet patrolling our coast. Do you think any pirate captain worth his salt would be foolish enough to test us?" He shook his head. "No, they''ll steer clear. There are far easier, softer targets than us¡ªports with little less than wooden palisades and fishing boats to defend them." Jasmine didn''t look convinced. Her arms remained crossed, her sharp gaze still locked onto him. "And how much do we pay to maintain this fleet of ours?" Alpheo let out a sigh, tilting his head back as if the ceiling might hold the answer. "Three thousand silverii a month," he admitted. Jasmine scoffed. "Three thousand silverii. And yet, we''ve had occasion to use it." Alpheo smirked. "And yet, we can afford it with our trade income alone. A small price for security, I would say." Shahab, who had remained silent up until now, finally cleared his throat. "Perhaps. But we may have another problem," he said. "Our allies might not see things the same way. What you did¡ªstanding aside¡ªit could be seen as a betrayal of sorts. We may not have joined the Confederation, but we did not aid Veritia either. That might not sit well with them.Aren''t we allies with the empire?" Alpheo snorted, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Allies?" He spread his hands, his expression almost amused. "We have no alliance, Shahab. We trade with them, nothing more. A relationship of convenience. The only commitment we ever made was a simple courtesy¡ªan understanding that we may ask for each other''s help if needed." He let his hand fall to his side and scoffed. "Tell me¡ªwhen did they ever beg for it?Did they drop on their knees, asking for our help?" Shahab exhaled deeply, rubbing his chin as he leaned back. He knew very well that what Alpheo was saying was true. Veritia would never have asked for help outright, let alone begged for it. It was unthinkable. He could only wonder what words would come from their envoys now, with the sea lost to them.It could cause them troubles As the conversation lingered in silence, a voice finally rose from the corner of the room. "I agree with Alpheo." All eyes turned to Jarza, who until now had remained quiet. But that was nothing new¡ªhe, Egil, and Asag rarely spoke unless the discussion turned to war, where their knowledge was unmatched. Jarza, the eldest of the three, was a man of few words, and when he did speak, it was with the certainty of a soldier who knew his own strengths and weaknesses. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall, his voice calm yet firm. "Now that we know the outcome, it is clear this was the right choice. Our officers and soldiers have fought in many battles, and there are few on the continent who could match them in battle. But that is on land." His dark eyes swept over the room. "At sea, we are little more than babes." Jasmine, clicked her tongue. "And how do you expect to gain experience without trying?" Jarza only shrugged, seemingly unbothered. "Perhaps your grace. But this was not the fight to learn in." Alpheo, rather than responding, simply turned to Jarza and gave him a look of gratitude. He had expected resistance from all sides, yet at least one among them had backed his decision openly. He might have been able to outmaneuver Jasmine and Shahab with words, but having another voice of support¡ªeven a simple and practical one¡ªwas a relief. It was a rare thing to be validated in matters of state by men who preferred the battlefield. He allowed himself a small smirk as he leaned back in his chair. "At least someone here has some sense." Alpheo''s smirk deepened as he leaned forward, tapping a finger against the wooden table. "It seems also," he said, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction, "that we''ve just found a solution to our lack of experience." Jasmine raised an eyebrow, while Shahab watched him carefully, waiting for an explanation. Alpheo exhaled through his nose, as if amused they hadn''t already come to the same conclusion. "The Confederation''s victory wasn''t just over ships. They now have thousands of slaves in their hands¡ªmen who lived their lives on the sea, fought on it, died on it. Captains, though those will pay their ransom on their own, helmsmen, deckhands, navigators." He spread his hands as if presenting something obvious. "And the sheer number of them means that prices will be low. Far too many mouths to feed, far too many to keep shackled. They will sell them, and they will sell them cheaply." Jasmine''s expression shifted slightly, realization dawning. "You''re saying we should buy them?" Alpheo nodded. "With a handful of coin, we can have men who know the sea better than we ever could. They will teach our sailors how to properly move a ship, how to fight on water, how to master the tides and the winds." He opened his hand and gestured lightly. "And all of it without risking a single ship of our own. No wasted men, no lost armaments, no reckless gambles. Just a simple exchange¡ªsilver for knowledge." He sat back, letting the weight of his words settle. "We don''t need to learn from our own mistakes. We can learn from theirs." Shahab crossed his arms, skepticism clear on his face. "And how exactly do you think we''ll even approach them?" he asked. "Any ship sailing toward their ports with coin will be pillaged before it even reaches the shore." Alpheo scoffed, shaking his head. "Pirates may be thieves, but they''re not fools. They need someone to buy what they take¡ªespecially the things that aren''t silver or gold. Fine silks, spices, dyes, weapons¡ªthose don''t turn into coin on their own." He leaned back, stretching his arms. "And there are men in Yarzat who deal with them." Asag, who had been silent for most of the conversation, let out a dry chuckle. "So you''d trust these merchants¡ªmen who already work with pirates¡ªto handle thousands of silverii for us?" His grin was sharp. "And you just hope they don''t set sail with it themselves?" Alpheo only shrugged, unconcerned. "They must have families, don''t they?" His tone was light, almost amused. "And men with families always have a home to return to..." Chapter 424: Ants on an hive(1) Chapter 424: Ants on an hive(1) Ten ships cut through the waves, their sails taut with the wind as they crossed the very sea where, just weeks ago, the Romelians and the Confederation of the Free Isle had waged their fateful battle. The waters once churned with fire and blood, now bore silent witness to the rise of a new order. The Confederation had emerged victorious, and with the Imperial fleet sent to the depths, there was no disputing it¡ªthese waters had a new master. The fleet followed a carefully charted course, the sailing road between Yarzat''s foreign outpost on the distant continent and the open seas just above Harmway. Along the way, pirate ships¡ªlesser ones, the kind that lurked in wait for easy prey¡ªspotted the passing fleet. Yet none dared approach. Their captains knew better than to test the strength of such a force.Against a fleet of warships of this caliber, they were but gnats against a storm. And so, the pirate vessels kept their distance, content to watch as the ten great ships sailed unhindered, carving their way toward their destination, carrying with them both men and great changes. Of course, this did not mean there were no forces capable of posing a threat. There were captains who commanded fleets of equal size, men who could, in theory, muster the strength to challenge them. But even if they did, the cost of bringing down such a force¡ªif they even succeeded¡ªwould far outweigh any potential gains. The risk simply wasn''t worth it. And so, ten ships were all that was needed for a quiet sail across the pirate-infested sea. A fortunate circumstance, especially for the guests being transported within¡ªthe outsiders¡ªwho, unused to the relentless sway of the waves, were busy puking their guts out over the rails. Torghan heaved over the side of the ship once again, his body convulsing violently as another wave sent his stomach twisting in protest. His arms trembled as he clutched the wooden railing, knuckles white from the effort of keeping himself upright. As the salty wind did little to soothe his nausea, and the endless motion of the ship beneath his feet made him feel as though the entire world had become unstable. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he muttered through gritted teeth, "The spirits of the water must have been angered by our intrusion." His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it carried enough weight for the others slumped beside him to nod weakly in agreement. "They do not welcome us," one groaned, pressing his forehead against the wooden planks of the ship, his face sickly pale. Another warrior, barely able to lift his head, croaked, "We should have never set foot on water, we are made to run on land not on water" His fingers dug into the deck as if trying to anchor himself to something solid, though the relentless sway of the sea made such a thing impossible. "Why in the hells haven''t the outsiders been cursed like us?" another rasped, his voice raw from retching. "They walk the deck as if the sea were solid ground, not a single one of them sick. Are the spirits blind to them?" Torghan, still gripping the railing tightly, took a deep breath before answering, though the effort of speaking made his stomach twist again. "They must venerate water spirits," he muttered between clenched teeth. "This is their domain, after all. Perhaps the spirits welcome them, while they see us as intruders." He spat into the waves below, as if to rid himself of the thought. Far behind them, Aron stood near the mast, his sharp eyes catching sight of the sick warriors doubled over in their misery. He could hear the low murmurs of their conversation, the occasional curse or groan reaching his ears, but their language was a mystery to him. He considered asking what they were talking about, but as his gaze drifted to their translator, slumped on the deck with his face buried in his hands, looking no better than the warriors he was supposed to interpret for, Aron sighed and let it go. Whatever discussion they were having, it wasn''t worth the trouble of trying to piece it together now. ------ As the ships finally reached the towering harbor of Aracina, the tribesmen who had spent the journey hunched over the rails in sickness now stood, their nausea momentarily forgotten. Eyes wide, they took in the sprawling city before them. "Spirits above..." one of them whispered, gripping the wooden railing tightly. "This... this cannot be made from people." Torghan, still pale from the voyage, swallowed hard as he stared at the massive stone buildings rising beyond the docks, their tops reaching toward the sky like the peaks of mountains. "It isn''t," he muttered. "This must be... something else." One of the older warriors, his face lined with years of hardship, squinted at the massive walls carved into the side of the mountain itself. "They have tamed the land itself," he said in awe. "The mountain serves them, bends to their will. Look¡ªit''s shaped like a wall, like a great barrier." Another pointed toward the sea of people moving about the docks, carts rolling over stone paths, and men unloading goods from massive ships. "How many live here?" he asked, almost afraid of the answer. "Nearly half of our kin combined? " Torghan''s stomach churned¡ªnot from seasickness this time, but from something else. Unease. This place, with its stone roads, great walls, and towering buildings, was beyond anything they had ever known. They were no longer in the lands of their ancestors. They were in the domain of the outsiders now. Torghan turned to Rhazan, his voice still hoarse from the sickness of the journey. "Ask him if this is where their leader resides," he said, eyes still locked onto the towering city before them. Rhazan gave a brief nod and spoke to Aron, who had been watching their reactions with mild amusement. The foreigner listened, then shook his head. "The princess and her husband lives in the capital," Aron explained. "This is simply a city under her domain." Torghan blinked, struggling to comprehend. He gestured at the sprawling streets, the stone walls, and the endless flood of people moving like ants below them. "There are more?" he asked, unable to keep the bewilderment from his voice. Aron chuckled, nodding. "Oh yes. This is merely a minor settlement. The royal capital is seven times the size of this." Torghan inhaled sharply, his mind reeling. He turned back to Rhazan, barely able to get his next question out. "Ask him... how many people are in their tribes?" Rhazan relayed the question, and Aron let out a small, thoughtful hum. "That is actually a nice question," he said with a smirk. "There are far too many to count. But the capital alone? It holds 30,000 people." Torghan''s throat went dry. 30,000. Just in one city. More than he had ever thought possible. He looked back at his men, their faces mirroring his own disbelief. Aron saw their stunned expressions and couldn''t help but smirk. He decided to press on "And mind you," he continued casually, "there must be at least twenty or so cities like this under our control." Torghan''s jaw clenched as soon as the words came in his language , his fingers tightening around the leather of his belt. He turned to his men, seeing the same mix of awe and unease on their faces. Even Rhazan, usually composed, seemed shaken. "So many?" one of the warriors muttered under his breath. Torghan swallowed hard. Their entire world had been made up of vast open plains and hills scattered villages, and the occasional fortified camp with wood . The idea that these outsiders controlled not just one, but dozens of cities like this¡ªeach teeming with more people than he had ever thought possible¡ªmade his stomach twist. He had known they were walking into the unknown. But he was starting to wonder if they had any idea just how small their world had been. The fleet anchored smoothly at the port, the great ships creaking as they settled into place. Ropes were thrown, sails furled, and gangplanks lowered as the crew disembarked. The salty sea breeze mixed with the scent of fish, tar, and damp wood, a familiar smell to the sailors but foreign to the newcomers. Torghan and his men stepped onto the firm ground with a deep sigh of relief. Some even muttered quiet thanks to the spirits, grateful to finally be free from the sea''s torment. Their legs still wobbled slightly, unused to standing still after days of being rocked by the waves. But their relief quickly gave way to curiosity. They took in the city before them¡ªa place unlike anything they had ever seen. Aracina, though small by the standards of the locals, was still a sight to behold for the tribesmen. Stone buildings stood firm, their tiled roofs sloping gently downward. Narrow streets bustled with movement as merchants arranged goods on wooden stalls, fishmongers shouted their wares, and children ran barefoot through the alleyways. The townsfolk had already begun to gather, eyes locked on the strange newcomers who looked so out of place among them. Their clothes, made from tanned animal hides, stood in stark contrast to the woven tunics and layered garments of the city-dwellers. Their sandals, simple and worn, scuffed loudly against the stone streets. Some of the warriors, draped in furs or wools, carried long spears that seemed crude compared to the polished swords hanging from the waists of the city guards and the spearheads of the garrison. Low murmurs spread through the crowd, curious whispers and occasional laughter. A few children pointed, tugging at their mothers'' skirts, while the braver ones stood on their toes, eager to get a better look at the wild-looking men who had just stepped off the ships. Torghan rolled his shoulders, feeling the weight of their stares. The murmurs and whispers of the gathered crowd were suddenly interrupted by the rhythmic clanking of armored boots against the stone streets. From the main road leading into the port, forty men in gleaming mail and polished helms and breastplates descended upon the scene, their presence an immediate and commanding force. Each of them bore the same white surcoat, emblazoned with two bold diagonal black stripes¡ªan unmistakable mark of the Crown''s Standing Army. "Move along! There is nothing to see here!" one of them barked, his voice carrying over the hum of the port. His comrades joined him, motioning firmly with their gauntleted hands, stepping between the tribesmen and the onlookers. The people hesitated for only a moment. The sight of the stripes on their surcoats was enough to sober even the most curious among them. Unlike mercenaries or city watchmen, the White Army answered directly to the ruling crown, and disobedience to them was a far riskier affair. One by one, the townsfolk stepped back, a few still stealing glances before turning away entirely. Torghan watched all of this unfold with keen eyes taking the scene in front of him, with all the curiosity of a boy in front of a new world. Chapter 425: Ants in a hive(2) Chapter 425: Ants in a hive(2) Torghan couldn''t deny it¡ªthey were masters of woodworking. He leaned back, nearly sinking into the plush bench of the carriage. The gentle sway as it moved was soothing, almost hypnotic. He let his eyes close for a moment, trying to process everything. It had been less than a week since their arrival, yet he had already seen things that threatened to unravel his understanding of the world.Creatures unlike anything his tribe had ever known paraded through the streets, their forms so strange they seemed like spirits from another realm. But none had baffled him more than the one he had seen earlier. It walked on four legs, yet it was nothing like the animals he had hunted in the mountains. Its body was sleek and powerful, its muscles shifting beneath a smooth coat. A long mane flowed like river grass caught in the wind, and when it moved, its hooves struck the ground in a steady rhythm¡ªstrong, confident, unshaken by the weight of the world.Torghan had stared, awestruck. It was a horse, they had told him¡ªa beast of speed and strength, a companion to the people here. But to him, it seemed like something pulled from a dream. At first, they had been offered the animals to ride, but as the tribe members gathered around, murmuring in hushed wonder, it became painfully clear that none of them had the slightest idea how. Aron, quick to read the situation, suggested they not take the risk, one could only image what the reaction would be if the son of the tribe leader died as their guest. Of course all deals that he could have made would no longer be doable, and probably all of them would be treated as hostiles. Torghan had nodded, though a part of him burned with curiosity. What would it feel like to mount such a creature? To command its strength, to move with its grace? But for now, he pushed the thought aside. And so, instead of horses, they were given carriages.The idea of riding inside a wooden box pulled by one of these creatures was almost as strange as riding one outright, but the tribe accepted with a mix of excitement and hesitation. "Do they feel the wind when they run, like we do?" "Are they spirits too, like those great turtles that carried us over the water?" "They must be a gift from the wind, then!" Torghan had declared, half to himself, when Aron shook his head at both questions .As the journey continued, Torghan''s endless questions about the beasts only deepened the fascination of his tribesmen. Each answer Aron gave seemed to strengthen their conviction¡ªthese creatures were no ordinary animals. Surely, the spirits of the sea and wind had blessed the people of this land, granting them such wondrous beasts to command. The last time any of their kin had laid eyes on a horse had been during the third Azanian campaign, when the empire sought to bring the mountain tribes under its heel. Even then, the sight had been rare, for the Azanians quickly learned that cavalry was useless in the jagged, winding passes. Their horses had struggled, their riders floundering on treacherous ground, and soon they abandoned the idea altogether. For those tribes living near the Azanian borders, the memory of the beasts still lingered. But for Varaku''s people, the sight of a horse was nothing short of a revelation. Not one among them had ever laid eyes on such a creature before, let alone imagined riding one. To them, the idea was as foreign as the towering cities they now found themselves in. For half a week, the carriage had rumbled along the well-worn road, carrying them deeper into this strange land. The days had blurred together¡ªrolling hills, vast plains, and scattered villages passing by as they adjusted to the foreign world around them.Then, without warning, the carriage came to a halt.Torghan and his men exchanged confused glances. Why had they stopped? Was something wrong? Their hands instinctively moved toward their weapons, though the days of travel had dulled their initial wariness. Aron, noticing their tension, raised a calming hand. "It''s all right," he assured them. "We''re close to the capital now. It''s just over the horizon."He stepped down first, gesturing for them to follow. One by one, the tribesmen climbed out, stretching their legs and blinking against the bright midday sun. When their eyes adjusted, they saw it¡ªthe first distant sight of the capital. Even from this far, they could make out the grand walls, their stone gleaming under the sky. The sheer scale of it made their stomachs tighten.Before they could fully take it in, movement nearby caught their attention. From the side of the road, servants led eight horses forward, their polished coats gleaming in the sunlight. The sight alone was enough to make a few men hesitate. Aron turned to them with an encouraging smile. "We are close now, and there is no longer any risk. It''s time you rode."The tribesmen eyed the creatures warily. The carriages had been strange enough, but now they were being asked to mount these beasts? They watched as the servants approached, gentle hands offering aid. One by one, they were helped into the saddles, their bodies stiff with uncertainty. Aron walked among them, giving quiet reassurances. "They are docile," he explained, patting the neck of one horse. "They will not throw you, so long as you do not panic. Hold the reins lightly, guide them with your legs, give them a small hit with your ankle to make them move."The tribesmen murmured to one another, some still uneasy, others marveling at how easily the outsiders commanded such creatures. Though doubt lingered in their eyes, they did as they were told, gripping the reins with cautious fingers. The capital awaited them, and whether they were ready or not, they would enter it on the backs of these spirits of the wind.Still the reason why they were to do this was lost on them, Torghan in fact had no qualms about asking as he turned to his translator with a questioning look. After a brief exchange in their own tongue, the translator quickly addressed Aron. "Why can we not continue with the carriage?" he asked, his tone carrying the same confusion as the tribesmen around him.Aron smiled slightly, as if he had been expecting the question. "The city is only a few minutes'' ride from here," he explained. "Things have been prepared to welcome you properly.Things that should be seen clearly out in the air "He let that statement settle for a moment before adding, "It is also poor manners for a man to arrive before a prince in a carriage. Unless one is a woman or an elder, they are expected to present themselves in a manner no higher than the prince himself. Since I am here, it would not be fitting for you to be brought to him in greater comfort than he take for himself." The tribesmen exchanged glances, some grumbling under their breath, others simply processing the strange custom. Begrudgingly, they accepted the explanation, though the unease of riding remained evident in their expressions. The horses moved forward at a slow, cautious pace, their riders shifting uneasily in their saddles. The tribesmen, unfamiliar with the rhythm of the beasts beneath them, gripped the reins tightly, some muttering quiet prayers to the spirits of the land. As they crested a small rise, the full sight of the city unfurled before them, and in an instant, they understood.The towering walls of the capital stretched wide, standing like a mountain of stone shaped by the hands of men. It was clear now. They had been made to ride not for mere ceremony, but to witness firsthand the strength of those they had come to treat with. The message was unspoken, yet undeniable¡ªpower was not simply told, it was shown.The walls of the capital loomed ahead, rising to an imposing four meters¡ªfar taller than the humble fortifications of Aracina, which barely stood at two and a half. The thick stone barriers stretched endlessly in both directions.Yet, as grand as the city itself was, the true strength they had been brought to witness did not lie behind those walls. It stood outside, in the vast field beyond the gates.There, stretching as far as the eye could see, were the soldiers of their host. Rows upon rows of armored men, their polished breastplates gleaming in the sun, banners swaying with the wind. Infantry stood in tight formations, their strange spears planted firmly into the ground, shields at the ready. Cavalry units trotted in perfect lines, their horses adorned with chainmail and their riders with plumed helmets. Further backupon the wall there were even some catapults, small one built as to lower the kick back as much as possible. The tribesmen stared in stunned silence. This was no mere show of power¡ªit was to impress them whom the stronger party was, a lesson that for sure they would not forget. As they were made to witness the steel, discipline, and an army that could sweep across the land like an unrelenting tide. Chapter 426: Ants in a hive(3) Chapter 426: Ants in a hive(3) In all his life, Torghan had never felt as small as he did now, walking past the silent ranks of armored warriors. Nearly two thousand eyes followed his every step, pinning him in place like a creature under a predator''s gaze. It was as if he were an ant wandering into the den of giants. The men before him were not mere soldiers¡ªthey were killers, hardened and sharpened like the steel they wore. Their nasal helmets built with chainmail attacked concealed their faces, but not their eyes. Cold, calculating, and utterly without fear, they watched him with the quiet assurance of those who had spilled blood and would spill it again without hesitation. Their chainmail draped down over their ears like woven ironwood, their bodies encased in metal as if it were their second skin.Torghan had known warriors all his life. But these men were something else. He could see it in the way their gazes lingered¡ªnot on his eyes, but lower. To his throat. He had seen that look before. It was the look of men who had killed so often that their minds had learned to picture the act before it happened. He could almost feel their thoughts tracing the motion¡ªhow easily their blades would carve flesh, the wet gurgle of a severed throat, the flicker of fear as a man realized his life had already slipped beyond saving. His fingers twitched, craving the familiar weight of his weapon. But what good would a blade do here? Against an army of men who wore war like a second skin? If they wanted him dead none could stop it. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears like a drum. He forced himself to keep walking, his pace steady, his face calm. He would not show fear. He could not. Not here. Not in front of these men. They walked beneath the weight of a thousand stares, each one as sharp as the steel glinting beneath the sun. The world felt smaller under their gaze, the very air thick with something unspoken, something heavy. What the outsiders had told his father¡ªit had been the truth. Every man standing before him bore the very thing his people would have fought, bled, and died for: steel. Not scraps, not rusted fragments scavenged from the dead of a nation much stronger than them, but whole suits of mail, shields polished to a dull gleam, swords resting easily in their scabbards, waiting for the moment they would drink blood again. He had never seen so much steel in his life. It clung to these warriors like a second skin, draped over their shoulders, encasing their arms, sheathing their legs. It was not just armor¡ªit was a statement, a silent declaration of power. They were better than them His people carved their lives from the bones of the earth, shaping wood and leather with skilled hands, fighting with weapons made of bronze. But here, steel was not a treasure. It was not hoarded, not treated as something rare and precious. Here, it was simply worn as a commen tunic of wool. Ahead of the great city gates, between the rows of silent warriors, a group of men sat atop their horses. Their presence alone spoke of status, of command. But among them, there was no question as to who led. Torghan did not need an introduction. His eyes were drawn, inexorably, to the one standing at the forefront. It was not just the way the others hung slightly back, as if even among their own ranks, he stood apart. It was the way his armor gleamed¡ªnot simply well-made, but elegant, forged for more than mere survival. It was a suit meant for those who dictated the course of battles, not merely fought in them. Since the moment they had departed, Aron had spoken of the man who ruled this land as if he were something beyond mortal. A force of nature. A storm given human form, who had sent thousands to their graves with nothing but the edge of his blade and the weight of his will. Torghan had built an image in his mind¡ªa towering figure of unshakable pride and muscle, the kind of warrior who had spent a lifetime carving his legend into the world. But what sat before him was not that man. The leader of this mighty nation was no hardened warlord past his prime, no grizzled veteran with the scars of a hundred campaigns. He was a boy. A boy no older than himself. Torghan''s fingers curled unconsciously around the reins of his horse, gripping the leather as his mind reeled. This was the one who had shaped an empire with steel and blood? This was the force that had crushed enemies and bent men to his will? He had expected strength carved into thick muscle, arrogance worn on an unshaken brow. Instead, he found something else¡ªsomething quieter, something colder. And somehow, that was far more unsettling. It was one thing to see a ugly and bad wolf on top of a herd, and another to see a sheep. As they approached the mounted figures, Aron moved first. Without hesitation, he slid from his horse and dropped to one knee, pressing his fist over his heart in a deep, practiced bow . The tribesmen followed, though with a touch more hesitation, their movements stiff and uncertain. Yet they knew enough to mimic their guide, lowering themselves in respect before the ruler of this foreign land. Then, from the prince, a voice rang out¡ªnot the deep, seasoned growl of an old warlord, but a youthful, clear tone. "You may rise," he said, his voice carrying the ease of one accustomed to command. "You have done well, Aron. The service you have provided me has not gone unnoticed." Aron lifted his head, his expression composed, though a flicker of something lighter¡ªpride, perhaps¡ªplayed at the edges of his features. "It was both my duty and my pleasure, my prince," he replied, his voice steady. With that, he rose to his feet, and as he did, so too did those behind him, the soft rustling of fabric and leather filling the air as the tribesmen followed suit. The prince did not simply remain atop his steed, distant and untouchable. Instead, he moved. Swinging himself down from his horse with effortless grace, his polished boots met the ground with a soft thud. Behind him, his men followed his lead, dismounting with quiet precision. As he stepped forward, he reached out¡ªnot as a ruler to a subject, but as something more personal. His hand came to rest on Aron''s shoulder, fingers firm yet not overbearing. "Good things are ahead for you," he said, the words carrying a weight beyond mere pleasantries. For the first time, Aron''s composure cracked, if only slightly. His lips parted into a smile¡ªnot the polite, measured one of a servant in the presence of his lord, but something genuine, something full of quiet triumph. The prince''s gaze shifted, his sharp eyes sweeping over the kneeling tribesmen. He studied them for a moment, his expression unreadable, before turning back to Aron with a slight raise of his brow. "Are they going to introduce themselves?" he asked, his tone carrying neither impatience nor amusement, merely curiosity. Aron dipped his head. "Of course, my prince." He turned to the translator, speaking swiftly in Azanian, his words carrying the practiced weight of formality. The translator listened intently before turning to the kneeling tribesmen, repeating Aron''s words in their own tongue. "The man before you is the Prince Consort, Lord of Confluendi, and Marshal of the Princedom of Yarzat," Aron declared. "You may rise." The translator echoed him, and slowly, the tribesmen obeyed, pushing themselves to their feet. Some moved with cautious reverence, others with veiled curiosity, their eyes lingering on the young prince who had already defied their expectations. Aron then turned fully toward Alpheo, his voice steady as he continued. "And this," he said, gesturing toward one among the tribesmen, "is Torghan, son of Varaku the chieftain of the tribe I was a guest of until two weeks ago." The prince''s gaze settled on Torghan then, weighing him with the same quiet scrutiny he had given his warriors. And for the first time since setting foot in this land, Torghan felt that he was truly being seen. Torghan swallowed, suddenly aware of how small he felt beneath the weight of not only Alpheo''s gaze but that of the thousands of warriors standing in rigid formation around them. The sheer intensity of their presence made his skin prickle, their silent judgment pressing down on him like a great, unseen hand. He squared his shoulders, but his fingers twitched at his sides, his body fighting the urge to shift under such scrutiny. Then, unexpectedly, Alpheo smiled. A warm, easy expression¡ªnothing like the cold steel Torghan had braced himself for. The prince closed the last bit of distance between them and placed a firm hand on Torghan''s shoulder, gripping it with a familiarity that felt strangely disarming. "Are you hungry?" Alpheo asked. The words were so simple, so casual, and even though Torghan did not know what they meant he knew it was something simple. He blinked, glancing at Aron, who only gave him a knowing smirk,as he translated. Alpheo''s grip remained steady, his smile unwavering, as if he had just asked a friend to join him for a meal rather than a guest from an unknown land standing before an army that could erase his people from existence. ''''Thai thi thrusot '''' (Yes Tribe Lord) Chapter 427: Ants in a hive(4) Chapter 427: Ants in a hive(4) Torghan''s room was as spectacular as all the things that he had seen. The walls were smooth stone, painted in deep red, and the ceiling arched above him with intricate carvings that he could not begin to decipher. A large brazier in the corner cast a warm glow across the chamber, its flames dancing behind an ornate metal grate. Of course, he had been given the finest accommodations¡ªhe was the one they had to impress, after all. The others had been given their own rooms, but none as grand as this. The bed alone was a marvel. It was not a simple pile of furs as he was accustomed to, nor the hard wooden slabs travelers sometimes used. No, this was a great, cushioned thing, covered in thick blankets embroidered with swirling patterns in gold and silver thread. The mattress, impossibly soft, swallowed him whole when he lay upon it, a cloud beneath his weary body. His hands traced over the clothes they had given him. The fabric was strange, smoother than anything he had ever worn, lighter than leather yet warmer than wool. It clung comfortably to his form without being tight, the tunic a rich shade of blue, the embroidery at the collar and cuffs glinting in the light. Even the trousers were different, made of something softer than hide yet just as durable. He had expected discomfort in wearing the garments of outsiders, but instead, he found himself marveling at their quality. These people did not only drape themselves in finery for the sake of appearances¡ªthey had perfected the art of comfort itself. Lying back against the pillows, Torghan let out a slow breath, staring at the ceiling. Everything about this place, from the walls to the bed to the clothes on his back, whispered of power. Not just the power of war, but the power of wealth, of skill, of control over their world in a way his people had never imagined. And that thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit. A sudden knock at the door pulled Torghan from his thoughts. The room had no gaps in the walls like his home, but there was a window, and through it, he could see that the sky had darkened into deep shades of blue and purple. The fires of the city flickered in the distance, small golden lights dancing against the night. Perhaps it is time for supper... Pushing himself off the impossibly soft bed, he crossed the room, his bare feet sinking into the thick woven carpet beneath him. The sensation was strange¡ªluxurious, even¡ªbut he forced himself to ignore it as he reached for the door. He pulled it open to find Aron standing there, his usual composed expression in place. Beside him, the translator gave a respectful nod. "The prince has invited for us to dine,"the translator said, his tone even but firm. "The royal family will be present, as well as many important ministers." Torghan blinked, his mind briefly stalling He swallowed, nodding as he squared his shoulders. "Then let us not keep them waiting." ----------------- The grand dining hall was alight with the soft glow of candle chandeliers, the long oak table set with silver goblets, fine plates, and steaming dishes waiting to be touched. Seated at the head was Alpheo, his fingers idly tapping against the wood, his eyes flicking toward the doors every so often. Jasmine sat beside him, cradling little Basil in her arms , the infant wrapped in delicate silk, his tiny face resting against his mother''s chest. Across from them sat Jarza, Egil, Asag, and Shahab, each in their own state of anticipation, though none as outwardly composed as Jasmine. The wait had stretched long enough that the princess, ever one for maintaining proper decorum, decided to break the silence with conversation. "Egil," she began, her voice carrying a practiced politeness, "how is your wife?" Egil, leaning back in his chair, barely seemed to register the question at first. Then, with the same nonchalance that made Jasmine''s patience thin, he shrugged. "Pregnant." Jasmine blinked, sitting straighter. "Oh? How long?" Egil frowned as if the question had been an unnecessary complication. "I don''t know. I was told some months ago , as for the night of conception I was too drunk to remember." A sharp snort came from Asag, followed by a suppressed chuckle from Jarza, both of them exchanging looks as they barely restrained their amusement. Jasmine, on the other hand, was far from entertained. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her grip on Basil adjusting as if to ground herself. "You do realize that as a husband, it''s your responsibility to¡ª" Egil gave a slow, exaggerated nod before she could finish. "Mhm, yeah I already heard that ." Jasmine inhaled sharply, eyes narrowing, but it was clear that Egil''s mind had already drifted elsewhere. Asag and Jarza, struggling to maintain composure, exchanged another look before focusing intently on their goblets, pretending to sip as if it would hide their grins. Alpheo merely smirked. Jasmine sighed as she turned a pointed gaze toward Egil. "You do realize that you are a lord now, don''t you?" she said, her tone sharp yet controlled. "You should behave appropriately." Egil, who had already leaned back in his chair with all the grace of a man who had never cared for courtly manners, offered no indication that he had even heard her. His fingers drummed idly against his goblet, his eyes drifting toward the flickering candlelight as if the conversation was of no concern to him. Jasmine''s patience thinned. Her gaze flicked to Alpheo. "Surely you agree with me," she pressed. "He is a noble now. He should act as one." Alpheo, who had been quietly enjoying the moment, picked up his cup, drained the last of his water, and placed it back onto the table with a deliberate motion. Then, in his usual calm and careless manner, he said, "As long as he''s good at killing those I point at, he can behave however he wants.I mean you would not expect a pig to bark" At that, Egil grinned, raising his goblet high before downing its contents in one swift motion. Slamming it down onto the table, he let out a satisfied sigh. "Wiser words have never been uttered," he declared, his voice filled with drunken amusement. Jasmine exhaled slowly, clearly unimpressed. Before she could form up a reply the great doors to the dining hall finally opened, and the guests finally stepped inside. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows over the polished wooden floor as the tribesmen entered, their movements hesitant yet purposeful. Their simple leather garments had been exchanged for finer robes provided by the court, yet their unfamiliarity with such attire was evident in the way they adjusted their collars or tugged at their sleeves. Shahab, leaning slightly toward Alpheo, murmured clearly surprised by the hue of thier skin "They''re darker than I expected." "They''re neighbors of the Sultanate of Azania. That''s their usual hue." Alpheo replied, his tone was casual, as if discussing the weather, . Stepping forward, he gestured toward the table. "Come," he said, his voice carrying an air of authority yet welcoming. Aron quickly translated, his words rolling smoothly off his tongue, and the translator relayed the message to the Torghan. After a brief pause, the guests complied, moving toward the seats. The main guest , however, hesitated. His eyes darted over the grand table, the unfamiliar sight of silverware, fine plates, and goblets making him shift awkwardly. It was clear he didn''t know where he was expected to sit. Alpheo noticed and, with an easy motion, pointed to the seat beside him. He stiffened for a moment, his face unreadable, but then, with a nod of acknowledgment, he moved . Before taking his seat, Torghan first turned to Jasmine and gave a respectful bow, just as he had been taught. His movements were a bit stiff, unfamiliar with the customs, but the gesture was sincere. Then he turned to Alpheo and did the same, bowing slightly lower as a sign of respect. Alpheo watched with mild amusement but gave a small nod of acknowledgment. Once Torghan finally settled into his seat, Jasmine let out a small breath and smiled. "Now, we can finally dine," she said, her voice poised yet warm. With a graceful clap of her hands, the signal was given, and immediately, the servants moved into action. The private feast had begun. The servants moved swiftly, balancing ornate trays as they placed dish after dish upon the long wooden table. The first wave brought in the traditional fare of the Yarzat court¡ªspit-roasted lamb glistening with fat, seasoned with rosemary and garlic; thick stews of lentils and chickpeas, their rich aroma filling the air; freshly baked loaves of bread; platters of soft cheese drizzled with honey; and bowls of pomegranates, their ruby-red flesh glistening in the candlelight. Then came the more recent additions to the menu, a clear mark of influence from a certain somebody that soon found its places in the hearts of courtiers and royals alike, the serving which the diners awaited more than anything. Chapter 428: Dining (1) Chapter 428: Dining (1) Torghan ate like a man who had spent his entire life preparing for this one meal. His hands were a blur as he grabbed whatever was placed in front of him, tearing into meats he had never tasted before¡ªsucculent beef that melted in his mouth, rich pork that dripped with juices, and something they called a "pork pie," which, to his delight, was exactly what it sounded like: a pie, filled with meat. H is tribe had always made do with goat, fish, and whatever game they could hunt or milk, but this? This was indulgence made flesh. Then, there was... something strange. Small yellow-like piece of something steaming on a plate. He poked at it suspiciously before scooping up a forkful and shoving it into his mouth. By the spirits.... It was soft, yet firm. Chewy, but not in an unpleasant way. Alpheo, watching all this, leaned back in his chair, sipping from his goblet with a smirk. The way Torghan was stuffing his cheeks, he looked like a damn squirrel trying to hoard food for winter. Good to know he''s enjoying it, Alpheo thought, amused. He had always been a fan of pasta. Now that he had the time and influence, he had made it his personal mission to have it prepared properly in court. It was cheap, it was easy to make, it tasted deliviously and more important it lasted a ton of time. He''d expected resistance at first, but after a few plates had been set down and devoured, even the skeptics had changed their tune from their argument that manly composed of disgust over their worm-like appearance. Now, it seemed like another convert had been made, given the way Torghan was inhaling his meal like it might be stolen from him at any moment. Alpheo glanced at Jasmine, who was watching with mild amusement, and then at Aron, who was finding the plate delicious too. Pasta wasn''t just delicious¡ªit was practical. In a world where food preservation was a constant struggle, pasta was a godsend. Even without proper airtight storage methods, dried pasta could last for half a year with little effort, making it one of the most reliable food sources imaginable. And in Alpheo''s mind, that made it perfect for one thing above all else: the army. Feeding an army was a logistical nightmare, and keeping them well-fed during campaigns was even worse. Salted meats and hardtack could only do so much before morale started to plummet, grain did not last that much. But pasta? Pasta was different. It was easy to make, filling, and best of all, it stored exceptionally well. Even in the harshest winters, when foraging was impossible and fresh supplies were scarce, pasta could be boiled and turned into a warm, hearty meal¡ªsomething that could keep men marching even in the worst conditions. Of course, there was a catch. The amount of eggs needed to produce enough pasta for an entire army was immense. But with peace still holding, there was time to stockpile. Alpheo had already put plans in motion to keep reserves full, using it sparingly as a special dinner for the troops every few weeks to keep them both well-fed and in high spirits. A soldier who ate well was a soldier who fought well. And when war came¡ªand it would come¡ªhe wanted his men marching on full stomachs, ready to carve their way through whoever stood in their path. Alpheo wiped his mouth with his hand, throwing a glance at Jasmine, making sure she had not seen that, before glancing at the guests who were still devouring their meals with an enthusiasm that bordered on animalistic. Smirking, he turned to Aron and gestured toward the feasting tribesmen. "Ask them if they like the food," he said casually. Aron gave a knowing nod and spoke to the translator, who relayed the question in the guests'' tongue. One of them, still chewing, spoke through the mouthful, and the translator promptly returned with the answer. "They say this is the best thing they have ever eaten." Alpheo raised an eyebrow. "Really?" He leaned forward slightly, intrigued. "Ask them if they don''t have anything like this back home." Another brief exchange followed, and soon the translator returned with a response that made Alpheo frown slightly in thought. "Their diet consists mostly of milk and cheese," the translator explained, "with fruits gathered from the wild. Meat comes from old goats and sheep, and sometimes they manage to catch fish or game, but it is never in abundance." Alpheo leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin. So, their people live off what little they can scrape together from the land. That explains their excitement. No wonder they were eating like starving wolves¡ªif he had grown up on nothing but goat milk and the occasional tough piece of mutton, he''d probably be stuffing his face too. Still, it was an interesting insight into their world. One he might just find a use for especially considering how easy to control the boy ahead of him seemed.. Alpheo leaned back in his chair, casually swirling the wine in his cup before raising it to his lips. "We eat like this every day," he said with a smirk. "And it wouldn''t be unthinkable to extend this kind of life to whoever comes to settle here." Torghan, who had been wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, froze mid-motion and looked up. "Do you speak the truth?" he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. Alpheo chuckled, setting his cup down. "Of course. I could easily send one or two of my servants to serve whoever will be in command of your people when they arrive. They would make sure your leaders know how to prepare food like this." Torghan fell silent, his expression shifting into deep contemplation. He stared at his half-empty plate, his mind turning over what had just been offered. A life where his peoplwould not have to survive on meager scraps of old goat and sour milk? A land where food like this could be made for them daily? Alpheo watched him carefully, letting the weight of his words sink in before he clapped his hands together lightly. "Ah, I almost forgot," he added as if it were a passing thought. "In a few days, I will send a guide to show you the piece of land where your people will settle." Torghan looked up sharply at that, but Alpheo continued, his tone smooth and confident. "It is a good place. Close to the sea for fishing, with fertile land¡ªperfect for both herding and cultivating grain." Alpheo took another sip of wine, letting the tribesman think long and hard about everything that had just been put on the table. Jasmine, ever the gracious hostess, set down her cup and smiled at Torghan. "I would like to know more about our guest," she said, her voice warm but laced with curiosity. Torghan straightened slightly at the attention, glancing at the translator, who promptly relayed the princess''s words to Aron. Aron, in turn, nodded and began speaking in Azanian, allowing the translator to pass the message along. "I am the youngest son of my father, the chieftain of our tribe," Torghan stated. His voice was steady, though there was a flicker of something¡ªperhaps uncertainty¡ªin his eyes. "Back home, I tend to the sheep." Jasmine arched an eyebrow, clearly expecting something more grand, but Torghan continued without hesitation. "I have not yet been allowed to hunt for game," he admitted, his expression betraying a hint of frustration. "I am still unbloodied." Alpheo, who had been drinking from his cup, raised an eyebrow and leaned forward slightly at that word. "To become a warrior," Torghan explained, "one must spill the blood of an enemy. Only then are we permitted to hunt and vote on whatever matters are in store to be decided for the tribe." He exhaled sharply, his fingers tapping once against the table. "But there have been no raids. No wars. Not since I came of age." Alpheo swirled his drink absentmindedly as the translator did his work, studying the young man before him. So, back home, he was just another herder¡ªone with no battles, no kills, and nothing to his name. The thought passed through Alpheo''s mind before he took a slow sip of wine. He has nothing worth noticing back home. Torghan''s fingers drummed against the table for a moment before his eyes lit up, as if remembering something. He straightened in his seat and spoke, his words quick and eager. The translator leaned slightly toward him, listening intently before turning to Aron and relaying the message. Aron nodded and turned to Alpheo. "He says he has heard that you are a great warrior." At that, Alpheo chuckled, a small, knowing smile playing at his lips. He set his cup down and leaned back in his chair. "I have led men in battle before," he admitted, his tone light but carrying the weight of truth. "And I''ve managed to come out on top every time, even when I was outnumbered." Torghan''s eyes widened slightly, clearly impressed. "Though," Alpheo added with a smirk, "I wouldn''t say my skill with weapons is anything to boast about." He tapped a finger against the table. "What I truly excel at is leading men in war." The confidence in his voice was undeniable, not arrogance, but a quiet certainty that left no room for doubt. Alpheo leaned forward slightly, his smirk still lingering as he rested his arms on the table. "Right now," he said, his voice carrying the weight of a man who had seen war and emerged victorious, "we''ve just come out of a short but fierce conflict. We were outnumbered, heavily so." His fingers tapped lightly against the wooden surface. "And yet, we came out on top in a battle that will be remembered for years to come." Torghan listened intently, his dark eyes locked onto Alpheo with curiosity and admiration. "If you''d like," Alpheo continued, a glint of pride in his expression, "I would be more than happy to tell you about it." There was a brief pause, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across the room as Torghan sat a little straighter, clearly eager to hear the tale as a child with his granfather. Chapter 429: Dining(2) Chapter 429: Dining(2) Alpheo leaned back in his chair, the flickering candlelight painting his face in soft, shifting shadows. He looked every bit the seasoned storyteller, his voice smooth and deliberate, each word honed to perfection. If his sword arm was unremarkable, his tongue was a blade of its own¡ªrazor-sharp and impossible to ignore. "The Battle of the Bleeding Plains," he began, his tone low and measured, "was a day the gods themselves might have wept to witness." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "The enemy outnumbered us two to one. Their banners stretched across the horizon like a storm cloud, their spears glinting like teeth. '''' Torghan sat across from him, his food forgotten, his eyes wide and unblinking. Alpheo''s voice grew quieter, drawing Torghan in like a moth to flame. "I spent weeks preparing. But when the battle began, none of it mattered. They came like a flood, and we were the dam. For hours, the field ran red. Men fell like wheat before the scythe, and the air was thick with the stench of blood and sweat." He leaned forward, his eyes glinting in the candlelight. "And then, just when it seemed all was lost, Egil arrived." A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You should have seen it. His cavalry thundered across the plains like a force of nature, their lances gleaming, their war cries shaking the earth. The army broke. They ran. And the day was ours." Torghan''s breath caught. He could almost see it¡ªthe clash of steel, the roar of men, the ground churned to mud underfoot. His heart raced as if he were there himself, standing shoulder to shoulder with Alpheo''s warriors. But as the story unfolded, something shifted in Torghan''s chest. Admiration curdled into envy, sharp and bitter. Here was Alpheo, a man who had started with nothing, now dining with god:s food and carving his name into history. And here was Torghan, the son of a tribal leader, a warrior-in-training who had yet to see his first real battle. His hands, calloused from endless drills, felt useless now. What had he done? What had he achieved? Alpheo''s voice faded into the background as Torghan''s thoughts churned. He stared at his own reflection in the polished surface of his cup¡ªa young man with fire in his heart but nothing to show for it. The sting of self-disgust was sudden and unrelenting. He had trained, yes. He had learned the ways of the spear and the bow. But what good was training without deeds to match? Alpheo leaned in slightly, his curiosity piqued by the silence that followed his tales. With a soft smile, he asked, "And you, Torghan? Do you have stories of your own to share?" As the translator''s words echoed through the room, Torghan''s face immediately flushed crimson. His gaze dropped to the table, his fingers tightening around his cup, as if gripping it could somehow steady the torrent of embarrassment that threatened to overtake him. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, acutely aware of the eyes upon him, especially those of Alpheo, who had lived through so much more. "No... no stories," Torghan muttered, the words hanging heavily in the air. His voice was soft, almost apologetic, as if he was ashamed of his lack of worthy experiences. "Not yet." The silence stretched for a moment before Torghan''s expression hardened, determination flickering in his eyes. He lifted his head, a newfound resolve slowly pushing aside the shame. "But... next season," he continued, his voice gaining strength, "we will march to retake the hills¡ªour land that was lost. The steel we''ve traded will arm us. I''ll be there... fighting. I will take back what''s ours." He straightened, though the edge of his voice betrayed a quiet, burning pride¡ªhe may have no stories now, but soon, that would change. He would carve his own tale in blood, just as Alpheo had. Alpheo sat back in his chair, his gaze steady as he studied Torghan. His voice, when it came, was laced with both intrigue and something akin to challenge. "It is noble," Alpheo said slowly, his eyes gleaming with quiet thought, "to fight for one''s tribe, to defend what is yours. But... is that enough, Torghan? To be one among the thousands? Will you be satisfied to be another name lost in the tide of warriors who fought and died? Who will sing of you, in the end, when you are just another face in the crowd, fighting alongside the many?You will probably die in the mud with only a few knowing your name, something that will disappear in a few decades" Torghan remained silent. Alpheo''s lips curled slightly, as if he were amused by the young tribesman''s uncertainty. He leaned forward, his voice carrying a note of wisdom honed through countless battles. "You see, one must have something¡ªsomething to distinguish themselves. Something that sets them apart from the rest, something that makes their story worth telling.Are you compelled to speak to your friend about many crows onto a tree?Or will you speak about the one with the shining feathers?" A moment passed before Alpheo clapped his hands once, sharply, and the sound echoed through the room. Almost immediately, a group of servants entered, carrying bundles wrapped in fine cloth. They moved with quiet precision, laying the bundles before Alpheo as he gestured for them to stop. "This," Alpheo said, his voice soft yet firm, "is my gift to you. As the first guest from your tribe, I will give you something to distinguish you¡ªto make your name remembered, even beyond the battle. Something to ensure that your tale will be more than just one of many." The servants bowed respectfully as Alpheo gestured for them to unwrap the cloths. Slowly, with a flourish, they revealed a beautifully decorated breastplate. The bronze trimmings gleamed in the light, intricate patterns etched into the metal, a work of both artistry and function. Torghan''s breath caught in his throat. His hand instinctively reached for the breastplate, his fingers grazing the cool metal. His eyes widened in awe as he gently knocked on it, the sound echoing like a promise of something greater. He held the breastplate in his hands, marveling at its weight, its craftsmanship, its significance. For a moment, Torghan couldn''t speak, his heart thumping loudly in his chest. He had never seen something so finely made, so powerful in its presence. This would be his¡ªhis mark, his distinction. The tool that would set him apart from the thousands. The thing that would make his name echo across the land. Alpheo''s smile grew, though it held a certain edge, as he watched Torghan run his hands over the fine armor. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if weighing his next words carefully. "This armor," he began, his voice low and deliberate, "is what will set you apart from the rest. But let me be clear,this is not the kind of thing a simple warrior should wear. No. A piece like this... it demands more than just battle scars. It demands the right kind of man to wear it." He paused, letting the weight of his words hang in the air for a moment. "A warrior who holds such armor and doesn''t lead his men into battle... Well, that is a waste. A waste of skill. A waste of potential. You see, this armor¡ªthis piece, it''s only worth looking at from behind, as your warriors raise their weapons to follow your command. It is the banner of a leader, not just a fighter." Alpheo''s gaze sharpened, and he leaned just a little closer to Torghan. "Would you like to be that man, Torghan? The one whose name is shouted by those who follow you into war? The one they look to for guidance, for strength?" The moment the translator spoke those words to Torghan, a flicker of something passed through the young man''s eyes. He nodded slowly, but then his face shifted with a slight grimace of hesitation. "My father..." he began, voice careful. "My father, Varaku, is the leader of our tribe. It is he who will lead us, not me. I am still young¡ªunblooded in the ways of true leadership." Alpheo, however, did not seem discouraged. He simply nodded, as if he had expected that answer. "Of course," he said, voice rich with understanding, "your father will lead, as all leaders should.But that it only comes to those that he can lead. When it comes to those taking the ships to settle on our lands... he will have no power there. That will be a new beginning, and there will be space for a new leader. " ''''My father will choose that leader'''' The translator''s words were still ringing in the air, but before they could fully be conveyed, Alpheo leaned forward with a soft but firm chuckle. His eyes sparkled with that peculiar glint, like a predator sizing up its prey. "Ah," Alpheo interrupted, his tone casual but charged with meaning, "Your father will decide who leads... But you see, Torghan,he has no power here, we hold that " His voice deepened slightly as he leaned back, letting the weight of his words settle. "We decide who commands, who leads, who rules. Perhaps," he continued, looking around at the table, a sly smile creeping onto his lips, "someone who is dining with me right now might be the one who commands in the future." Torghan''s heart skipped a beat. Alpheo''s voice dropped low, deliberate, as he leaned in closer to Torghan, the weight of his words like a heavy mantle. "Will you be the one, Torghan, to fight among the thousands, to bleed into the mud just as they do, or will you be the one who leads them into battle, the one who commands their fates?" The question hung in the air, thick with challenge and possibility. Torghan''s mind raced, his heart pounding in his chest. He could hear the clatter of the battlefield, the cries of warriors, the clang of steel, and then, just as quickly, silence. His thoughts drifted back to his homeland, to the simple life of herding sheep and the endless cycles of mundane existence. He had nothing there, no grand purpose, no true distinction. But here... here he was being offered something different. Something he had never even dreamed of. Wealth. Power. Influence. This land, with all its offerings, was a far cry from the hardships of his people. And Alpheo... He was offering him the chance to step into something far grander than he''d ever known. Torghan felt the heavy pull of fate, as though it was calling him forward, daring him to take what was being laid before him. Without thinking, driven by the vision of what could be, Torghan stood from the table, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. He took a step forward, his heart racing as he knelt on both knees before Alpheo. His gaze fixed firmly on the prince, his voice steady but filled with a deep, newfound resolve. "I will serve you," Torghan declared, his words cutting through the silence of the room, resonating with the weight of commitment that he thought had been born at the moment, instead of having been cultivated since his arrival there. Chapter 430: Departing guests Chapter 430: Departing guests With the dinner ended, the royal couple retired to their chambers. The room was bathed in the soft, flickering glow of candlelight, casting restless shadows across the high walls. The scent of burnt wax lingered in the air, mingled with the faint traces of jasmine perfume. Alpheo lay stretched out on the grand bed, hands folded lazily behind his head, watching as Jasmine changed into her nightgown. She moved with the effortless grace of nobility, yet as the delicate fabric slipped over her bare shoulders, she let out a sharp sigh¡ªone heavy with frustration. "Our guest has no manners," she muttered "The way he ate... Gods, I''ve seen starved dogs with more refinement. He tore into his food as if he expected someone to snatch it from his plate." Alpheo smirked, adjusting his position against the pillows. "He''s from a different world, Jasmine. A different way of living. You should''ve seen how Egil ate before he entered your father''s service through me . The man had the table manners of a warhorse." Jasmine turned sharply, placing her hands on her hips, the hem of her nightgown swirling around her ankles. "From brute to brute¡ªthey are not so different," she scoffed. Alpheo chuckled, shaking his head. "Egil is one of my oldest friends. He may be rough around the edges, but he''s loyal. I''d trust him to hold a dagger to my throat while I slept, knowing full well he wouldn''t use it." Jasmine narrowed her eyes, arms crossing over her chest. "Yes, loyal to you," she pointed out, her voice carrying a note of exasperation. "But to me? He barely acknowledges my existence. The way he speaks to me¡ªor rather, the way he doesn''t¡ªit''s as if I''m nothing more than an inconvenience to him, if he wasn''t so dear to you I would have already done something about it ." Alpheo sighed, rubbing his temple. "Egil is... Egil," he muttered, as though that was explanation enough. Jasmine let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Oh, well, that clears everything up," she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "He''s a lord, Alpheo. A man of his station should know better. Did you see any of the other lords behaving that way? Did any of them look at me like I was beneath their notice?" Alpheo sat up slightly, resting his weight on his elbows. "No, because they can''t afford to," he admitted. "Nor do they have the skill to justify it. But Egil... Egil is not like them. He''s not a man made for courtly pleasantries. He was born for war, for bloodshed. That''s why men follow him. That''s why I trust him. I''d rather have one Egil than a hundred of those silk-clad nobles you speak so highly of." He paused, tilting his head. "When Egil smiles, he means it. When the others curl their lips, it could mean a hundred different things." Jasmine shook her head, disbelief and frustration etched into her delicate features. "You say that because he respects you. But if he looked at you the way he looks at me, you''d feel differently." She let out a small huff, pacing near the foot of the bed. "It''s as if I''m a bothersome insect in his eyes¡ªsomething to be tolerated, nothing more." Alpheo exhaled through his nose, watching her closely. He had never cared much for how Egil acted around others¡ªwhat mattered to him was that Egil was unflinchingly loyal when it counted. But Jasmine was not just anyone. She was his wife, the woman who shared his burdens. Her grievances, whether he cared for them or not, were things he could not ignore. Even if Egil''s disdain was of no concern to him, it mattered to her. And so, by extension, it had to matter to him. "I''ll speak to him," Alpheo said finally, his voice softer now, laced with the quiet understanding of a husband who knew when to yield. Jasmine raised an eyebrow, skepticism flashing in her emerald eyes. "Will you?" He smirked, a glint of mischief playing at his lips. "I''ll try." Jasmine let out a slow sigh before sinking onto the bed beside him, the mattress dipping beneath her weight. She turned her head, her dark eyes sweeping over his face, her expression caught between curiosity and mild exasperation. "By they way why are you so hell-bent on being generous to our guest?" she asked, stretching her legs beneath the covers, her voice laced with suspicion. Alpheo smirked, his fingers idly tracing slow, deliberate circles on the bedsheet. "Because he''s young and easy to mold. The perfect candidate for what we need." Jasmine arched a delicate brow. "That simple?" He nodded, his smirk deepening. "He''s the youngest son¡ªprobably given the least honor, the least expectations. Someone like that will seize any chance to carve a name for himself. And if we''re the ones to offer him that chance, his loyalty is as good as ours." Jasmine scoffed, shaking her head. "And here I thought you were just being charitable." Alpheo chuckled, the sharp glint in his gaze betraying the strategy lurking beneath his words. "Inviting outsiders onto our land is always a risk. The best way to prevent rebellion is to make sure their leader never dreams of one in the first place. Give a man something to lose, and he''ll guard it with his life, show him what will be the consequence of rebelling and he won''t dream of thinking about it. That''s exactly what I''m ensuring." He stretched his arms behind his head, the slow grin creeping onto his lips brimming with self-satisfaction. "Which, I''d say, I''ve already succeeded in." Jasmine hummed thoughtfully, her gaze drifting to the ceiling. "But isn''t he too young to command? Will the settlers even follow him?" Alpheo let out a low chuckle. "And I''m so much older?" He turned to her, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. Jasmine rolled her eyes, unimpressed. "Age is one thing. Experience is another." Alpheo reached for her hand, bringing it to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to her fingers. "They will obey him just as they obey you," he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. "We are not so far apart in age, and yet here we are, ruling just fine." Jasmine exhaled, shifting onto her side so she could meet his gaze more fully. "The only reason they obey us is because of your army," she said bluntly, her voice steady but laced with the weight of truth. The words settled between them, heavy yet undeniable. Alpheo merely shrugged, utterly unbothered. "And just as they obey us through the army, they will obey him always through that . Whether through respect or through fear¡ªthat part is up to them." Jasmine studied him in silence, her brows knitting slightly as if weighing the merit of his words. Then, narrowing her eyes, she asked, "And if they don''t?" Alpheo smirked, his fingers skimming lazily over the back of her hand. "Then the army serves its other purpose." He leaned back against the headboard, the flickering candlelight stretching long shadows over the sharp angles of his face. "And if a few eggs need to be broken to keep the hen safe," he mused, voice quiet but firm, "I''ll be the one to crack them." ---------- The week of their guest''s stay had come to an end. The crisp morning air carried the scent of the sea as Alpheo stood at the city gates, personally walking Torghan out, with Aron in tow. Torghan stood before him, clad in the armor he had been given¡ªa breastplate with bronze trimmings that gleamed under the pale light of dawn. It fit him well, though it was clear he was still getting used to its weight. But what stood out the most was the way he looked at Alpheo, eyes filled with something akin to awe, the way a chick would look up at the hen that had taken it under its wing. Aron cleared his throat and spoke. "We will now take him to see the land where his people will settle. After that, he will return to finalize the deal and bring the settlers." Alpheo nodded, arms crossed over his chest. "You''ve done a good service for me, Aron." He let the words settle before continuing. "In a few weeks, I will send someone to take your place. I will have other jobs for you." Aron bowed his head, the hint of a satisfied smile on his lips. "I am honored." Alpheo smirked. "You earned it." After hearing that Arom smiling before turning to Torghan and speaking in Azanian, his words flowing smoothly like a river over stones. The translator, standing dutifully beside them, quickly relayed the message in their tongue. Torghan listened, his expression serious, then gave a firm nod. He turned to Alpheo, his eyes lingering on him for a moment before he bowed deeply, the polished bronze trimmings on his breastplate catching the morning light. Alpheo smiled, a knowing, satisfied look crossing his face. With that, the group turned and made their way out of the palace gates . The heavy doors creaked as they swung open, revealing the road ahead. Step by step, the guests walked forward, leaving the city behind as the gates groaned shut behind them. Alpheo''s gaze lingered on Torghan''s back as he walked away, the young warrior''s figure stiff with newfound purpose. The polished breastplate gleamed under the sun, but Alpheo knew that armor alone did not make a leader. His expression remained unreadable as he leaned slightly on the stone railing of the stairs , watching the group grow smaller in the distance. Would Torghan prove himself when the time came? Would he rise to the challenge and lead, or would he break the first time steel met flesh? Alpheo exhaled through his nose. If the boy failed, he would have to find a replacement. He turned on his heel, brushing the thought aside for now. Time would tell whether Torghan was worth the investment¡ªor just another pawn to be replaced. Whatever the case, his primary objective would already be fulfilled. By then, he would have a fresh pool of warriors¡ªmen who would fight for him with minimal cost and investment. A perfect arrangement, considering the likelihood that, in the future, he might find himself on the other end of a coalition war. War was inevitable. It always was. And when that day came, he would need every blade, every shield, and every willing hand he could muster, not knowing however that day was coming faster than he had hoped or throught. Chapter 431: Among the ants (1) Chapter 431: Among the ants (1) Half a month had passed since Torghan had been guested¡ªno, honored¡ªby Alpheo. The time spent in the prince''s company had been unlike anything he had ever experienced. After that grand dinner, he had taken part in many activities alongside the prince, from riding through the rolling fields to observing the strange yet disciplined formations of Alpheo''s soldiers, in a not so subtle propagandistic line of activity coming from the prince. He could not communicate much with him; after all, it was not easy to speak through two translators, and many of the jokes did not maintain their funny side when translated. Still, it had been fun to be in his company. Actually, it had been the most exhilarating week of his life. Every night since leaving, his thoughts drifted back to those days¡ªhow the horses thundered beneath him, how the soldiers moved like a single beast, precise and unyielding, how he had sat beside the prince himself, spoken with him, learned from him. A part of him longed to return, to once again be in that world where he was not just another son among many but someone seen, recognized, and given purpose. But for now, he was back at sea. The wooden deck of the ship creaked beneath his feet as the salty breeze tugged at his clothes. Around him, Alpheo''s people worked the sails, the rhythmic crash of waves filling the silence between them. On the horizon, the outliers of the land he had departed from stood against the sky, growing smaller with every passing moment. He had been ordered to depart by his father and yet he chose to remain there. But as he gazed toward the receding shore, he wondered¡ªnot for the first time¡ªwhether it would be okay to leave his home behind. Still, he had a bit of time to decide,even though in truth, he believed the decision had already been made in his hearth. His feet were pointed homeward, but his heart lingered behind. For now, his duty was clear¡ªhe had to report what he had seen, relay the truth of the outsiders'' words, which, to his mild surprise, had proven to be just that¡ªthe truth. After his week of riding, feasting, and watching warriors train in ways he had never imagined, he had been taken to see the land where his people would settle. It was a good place, better than he had expected. Villages were already scattered across the region, their people speaking the language of the outsiders. Perhaps that was intentional¡ªplacing them close to those who could teach them, easing the transition into this new world. But what had truly caught his attention were the hundreds of men working the land. Fields were being tilled, earth softened, preparations made well before his people had even arrived. As apparently the prince wanted to make the new settlers job as easy as he could. When he had asked about it, or better yet why people would be working land that did not belong to them, he finally learned the name of the outsider who had accompanied him¡ªAron. Aron had explained, in his oddly smooth way of speaking, that those laboring were criminals¡ªprisoners taken from the capital''s overflowing dungeons and put to work. Apparently, they were to be his people''s... slaves? Servants? Torghan hadn''t entirely understood the details, only that they were meant to work for them for a time, doing whatever tasks were needed. Well, almost whatever tasks. There were some days, Aron had mentioned, when other men would come to take them away for a few weeks before bringing them back. Torghan hadn''t bothered asking why¡ªwhatever the case, the important thing was that they would have extra hands to help. And that was good. His people would need all the help they could get. Still, above all, there was one thought that dominated his mind. That would be his land. His tribe. He was about to become a leader. And the best part? It didn''t even matter that he wasn''t the strongest with an axe. Back home, strength alone determined a man''s right to rule. Here, it was different. His power wasn''t measured by his own muscle, but by the number of soldiers tied to his prince''s army¡ªsoldiers who would ensure he remained at the head of his people. It was fantastic. Without lifting a finger, he had become the most powerful man in the newest tribe he was to lead. And Alpheo¡ªhis prince, his benefactor¡ªhad assured him there would be plenty of chances to prove himself in battle. The thought sent a thrill through him. This was everything he had ever wanted. A dream, not only within reach, but already placed in his hands. As the ship glided ever closer to the shore, the jagged cliffs and rolling hills of his homeland grew clearer on the horizon. The salty breeze carried the familiar scent of damp earth and wild grass, a stark contrast to the bustling, stone-built world he had left behind. Torghan stood at the bow, his hands gripping the wooden railing as the wind tugged at his cloak. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the air of home, yet it did little to ease the weight pressing on his chest. Soon, he would stand before his father once more. It had only been half a month since he departed, yet he felt like a different man. He had feasted at the tables of foreign nobility, seen warriors move in formations unlike anything his people had ever known, and, more importantly, he had been given something no one else in his tribe had¡ªa chance to lead. --------------- Since the day Torghan and his group had set sail from the western continent, a month and a week had passed. In that time, the land where his people were born into had remained eerily silent, caught in a fragile limbo. The one man capable of bridging the language gap between the two cultures¡ªAron¡ªhad departed with him, leaving the settlers and the local garrison without any means of true communication. It was a dangerous situation, one that could have easily unraveled into bloodshed. The tribesmen who roamed the area had regarded the outsiders with suspicion, their first instinct being to drive them off¡ªor worse, slaughter them and take whatever goods they carried. Yet, for reasons unknown, the tension had never boiled over. Both sides had kept their distance, wary but restrained. The only real interactions came in the form of cautious exchanges¡ªdaggers and weapons from the garrison traded for livestock, a sheep or a few lambs in return for steel. It was an unsanctioned practice, and those caught engaging in it were made examples of, at least in normal times with death. Punishment was as swift as it was docile. The soldiers guilty of selling military property were stripped to the waist and made to endure twenty lashes each, their backs torn open beneath the bite of the whip. Under normal circumstances, such a crime would have warranted execution, but with only sixty men stationed in the garrison, every sword arm was too valuable to waste. In another time, the wounds would have festered, infection taking its toll and claiming lives. However, the expedition had been well-prepared, bringing along military doctors who ensured that the punishments left only scars, not graves. And so, against all odds, what could have been the spark of an early conflict remained little more than a simmering unease. The land waited, its people watching one another with quiet wariness, yet no war drums sounded, no blood was spilled. For a situation so fraught with danger, it was oddly uneventful¡ªalmost disappointingly so. However, the fragile calm that had settled over the land was shattered the moment the ship''s sails appeared on the horizon. As the vessel cut through the waves and neared the shore, the tribesmen who had been watching the coastline with idle curiosity stiffened, their eyes narrowing. By the time the ship docked and Torghan stepped onto familiar soil once more, that peace was broken. Word spread like wildfire. Barely a few hours after their arrival, a figure could be seen sprinting through the village, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he shouted at the top of his lungs. "The leader''s son has returned! Torghan has come back!" The cry echoed through the settlement, reaching every ear, setting feet into motion. Doors creaked open, heads turned, and soon the village was stirring with life. Women peered from the entrances of their homes, whispering among themselves. Warriors, sharpening their axes or collecting the day''s games paused in their work, exchanging glances before rising to their feet. Even the children, too young to fully understand the weight of the moment, sensed the shift in the air and began to follow the growing crowd that surged toward the heart of the village where the leader was in, after all , their knowledge amounted to the fact that the leader''s son had gone to the outsider''s land as guests. So even though they did not knew all the details they knew something was happening. They may have been ignorant , but sure as hell they weren''t fools. The man sprinting through the village, his voice hoarse from shouting, was none other than Marduk, a sheepherder. Unlike the rest of the tribe, who had hesitated to engage with the outsiders, Marduk had been the first to swallow his fear and approach their strange settlement. He had seen opportunity where others saw danger. The foreigners had steel, and he had sheep¡ªit was only natural that a deal could be made. For weeks, he had been slipping away from the village, venturing toward the foreign outpost where the garrison stood watch. There, he would trade his livestock in exchange for their steel weapons. A single dagger could fetch either a full-grown sheep or three lambs, a bargain that left both sides believing they had outwitted the other. To the foreigners, a simple dagger was worth nowhere near the price of an entire sheep. In their homeland, such a weapon was cheaply forged, while livestock was far more valuable. But to Marduk, it was the trade of a lifetime. With a single dagger, he could return to the village and resell it at an outrageous price, easily exchanging it for five more sheep. It was a game of wits, and he played it well, quietly amassing wealth while the rest of the tribe scoffed at the idea of bargaining with the outsiders. So in the end the reason for which the tribe could almost instantly knew of Torghan''s return was a greed of one man. Chapter 432: Among the ants(2) Chapter 432: Among the ants(2) The ship that carried Torghan and his group back home did not return empty. Its hull was filled with the goods meant for exchange with the outsiders¡ªbarrels of wine and cider, sacks of salt, steel weapons, and pieces of armor gleaming under the afternoon sun. The sheer amount of wealth being unloaded onto the shore was enough for the tribesmen to propser and take back their hills, as long as they were willing to pay the price. For the first few hours after disembarking, Torghan found himself lingering at the outskirts of the outsider camp, watching as the soldiers and laborers meticulously organized the shipment. Even though he was home, something about the camp''s structured order felt oddly familiar now. Perhaps it was the memory of his time spent in Alpheo''s court, the days of riding, observing drills, and sharing meals with men who were utterly different yet strangely welcoming. The sickness of the sea still clung to him, a dull unease in his stomach, so he chose to rest a while. The rocking of the waves had ceased, but his body had not yet caught up, making solid ground feel unsteady beneath his feet. He waited, letting the discomfort pass before finally rising to his feet. With the sun starting its slow descent, Torghan knew it was time to return to the village. He adjusted the fine armor that still felt slightly foreign on his shoulders and began his journey back. However, Aron remained behind in the camp saying that he had some matters to tend to, and that he would follow them either later into the evening or the next day. And with that, Torghan and his tribesmen departed without him, heading toward the heart of their homeland to report all they had seen. After hours of marching, their feet carrying them over hills and through forests they had once thought they would never see again, the group finally found themselves walking the familiar path back to their village. The scent of the land, the rustling of the trees, and the distant sound of animals grazing brought a strange mixture of nostalgia and realization¡ªthis was home, yet something about them had changed. As soon as they emerged onto the village outskirts, the response was immediate. Tribesmen swarmed around them, faces alight with curiosity, relief, and confusion. Questions came at them from all sides. "Where have you been?" "Why did you leave?" "What happened across the sea?" The bronze trimmings along the edges of his breastplate caught every glint, making him appear almost otherworldly¡ªlike an outsider rather than the son of their leader. The craftsmanship was unlike anything his people had ever seen, its surface polished and strong, each piece fitting together seamlessly. He had chosen not to wear the helmet, letting his people see his face. He wanted them to know it was still him beneath the foreign steel, that he had not been replaced by some ghost from beyond the sea. And yet, the way they looked at him told him they weren''t so sure. Murmurs filled the air as hands reached out to touch the metal. Curious fingers ran along the edges of the armor, knuckles rapped against the breastplate, testing its strength. Some marveled at its make, whispering among themselves about how such a thing could be forged, while others eyed it with suspicion, as though the armor itself carried some unseen curse. "Where did you get this?" someone asked. "Is this what they wear in their wars?" another voice chimed in. Torghan remained silent, standing firm as more hands pressed against the foreign steel. Before the crowd could overwhelm them with their inquiries, a group of warriors stepped forward, their presence alone enough to command silence. They parted the gathered villagers with firm hands, creating a clear path toward the great tent at the village''s center. "Enough," one of them barked shoving away at a kid who was touching the cuisse of his armor. Yet even the warriors, for all their discipline, could not hide their own fascination. Their eyes lingered on the armor, studying the metal with quiet awe. For the first time in his life, they were looking at him as something more than just the chief''s son. They were looking at him as something greater. "The leader wishes to speak with his son," one of the warriors declared. "Make way." Torghan straightened his posture, inhaling deeply. The moment he had been preparing for had finally arrived. Torghan walked in silence as the warriors led him through the village, his armored boots pressing into the dirt paths he had walked since childhood. But now, those familiar paths felt smaller¡ªless than what they had once been. His eyes drifted over the huts of his people, the same rough structures of wood, straw, and clay that had housed them for generations. Smoke curled from small openings in their roofs, the scent of burning wood and roasting meat thick in the air. Children ran barefoot between the homes, their laughter light and carefree, while women pounded grain into flour outside their doorways. It was the same as it had always been. And yet, it felt so different now. Torghan couldn''t help but compare what he saw to the towering homes of Yarzat, with their strong foundations, tall wooden beams, and tiled roofs that did not leak when it rained. He thought of the great halls where the lords and captains sat in luxury, of the vast markets filled with goods from every corner of the land, of the paved roads that did not turn to mud after a storm. The difference was staggering. The outsiders lived better. That much was undeniable. For the first time, he felt something strange in his chest. Not quite shame¡ªbut something close to it. A realization that his people had been left behind in a world that was moving forward. The warriors led him to the largest hut in the village, his father''s home. It was larger than the rest, built sturdier, with wooden posts reinforcing its sides. But to Torghan, it now felt small¡ªless than it should have been. One of the warriors pushed aside the thick hide that covered the entrance. "Go," he said. Torghan hesitated for only a moment before stepping inside. The dim glow of the fire cast flickering shadows across the inside of the hut, the scent of burning wood thick in the enclosed space. Torghan''s father sat on the opposite side of the flames, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he turned his gaze toward the entrance. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes¡ªdark and piercing¡ªwatched intently as his son stepped inside. "Torghan," his father called, his voice deep and firm, carrying the weight of expectation. Torghan inclined his head in greeting. "Father," he said, his tone steady. "I have returned." He stepped forward, the armor he wore glinting in the firelight. He could feel his father''s eyes lingering on it, but no words were spoken of it yet. Torghan lowered himself onto a stool near the fire, stretching his hands toward the warmth. The long journey across the sea had drained him, and even now, his body still felt sluggish from the voyage. His father studied him for a moment before speaking. "Word reached me that you returned hours ago," he said, his tone edged with quiet reproach. "And yet, you only appear before me now." Torghan exhaled, leaning forward slightly. "Traveling through the salt lake leaves a man unsteady," he replied. "I needed some time to recover before making my way here." He met his father''s gaze and then added, "I am here now, am I not?" Silence hung between them. The fire crackled, filling the space where words had momentarily ceased. His father''s expression hardened, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. His gaze, sharp as a blade, locked onto his son. He did not appreciate the tone. His fingers drummed against his knee, a habit that only surfaced when he was deep in thought. "I see you received a gift from them," he finally said, his voice even but carrying a weight that was difficult to decipher. Torghan shifted slightly, feeling the weight of the armor against his shoulders. It fit him well¡ªalmost too well, as though it had been made just for him. He nodded, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the embossed patterns along the chest. "I did." Varaku exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression unreadable. "It looks nicer than mine." His tone was gruff, but there was something beneath it¡ªcuriosity, perhaps. Torghan allowed himself a small, knowing smirk. "It was given to me by their leader," he said, rapping his knuckles lightly against the chestplate. The metal responded with a deep, satisfying ring, far different from the dull thud of the iron and leather armor their warriors wore. His father''s lips pressed into a thin line as he studied him more closely. "Personally given?" Torghan met his gaze and nodded. "Yes. Alongside other things." His voice carried a quiet confidence, one that had not been there before he left. Varaku leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, the firelight casting deep shadows across his lined face. His eyes flickered with thought, something working behind them that Torghan could not yet read. "And what, exactly, did you do to earn such generosity?" his father asked, his tone deceptively calm. ''''I swore eternal fealty to him'''' Chapter 433: Among the ants(3) Chapter 433: Among the ants(3) Torghan sat straighter, his fingers drumming once against the metal of his breastplate before stilling. He met his father''s gaze without hesitation. "I swore fealty to him." For a moment, there was only silence. Then, Varaku threw his head back and laughed¡ªa deep, booming sound that filled the hut, shaking the walls as though mocking the very foundation they stood upon. He laughed long and hard, his shoulders shaking, his breath coming in short gasps as he clutched his stomach. Torghan did not speak. He simply sat there, letting his father laugh as much as he wanted, waiting for him to finish. He had expected this reaction. He had prepared for it. Finally, Varaku wiped at the corner of his eye, shaking his head in disbelief. "A month," he said, exhaling sharply, amusement still thick in his voice. "A single month away from home, and already you have forgotten where you come from." His gaze hardened. "You are willing to kneel to an outsider¡ªto become his slave?" Torghan''s jaw clenched slightly, but his voice remained steady. "I will not be a slave." Varaku snorted, leaning back as he folded his arms. "You can believe whatever you want." He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. "But tell me, boy¡ªif he tells you to kill your own kin, would you do it?" Torghan hesitated for only a moment. "He would not ask that of me." Varaku''s lips curled into a smirk. "And if he did?" Torghan said nothing. Varaku chuckled again, shaking his head. "One month and you already forgot your real home.I think that in one more week you would be willing to kill your brother for a shiny stone.'''' Torghan made no move to answer. ''''You are still young, still foolish. You think a man who gives you armor and lets you ride beside him is your friend. But remember this, Torghan¡ªwhen a man owns your loyalty, he owns your blade as well. And one day, he will ask you to use it." Torghan''s fingers curled into fists, but he held his tongue. He saw nothing wrong with it, what good was a blade if not to be spilled blood with Torghan exhaled slowly, his patience wearing thin. He leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on his knees as he spoke, his voice calm but firm. "He didn''t just give me an armor." Varaku''s eyes narrowed. "Oh?" Torghan met his father''s gaze unwaveringly. "He gave me more than that. He gave me the power to rule." He let the words settle in the air, watching as the firelight flickered across his father''s face. "Over those who will settle on our land. From here." For a brief moment, there was silence. Then Varaku let out a sharp laugh, pointing a calloused finger at his son. "Ah, there it is," he said, shaking his head. "The truth at last. It wasn''t loyalty that swayed you, wasn''t it? Wasn''t honor or fucking glory." He scoffed. "All it took was the promise of power." Torghan clenched his jaw. "I won''t discuss this any further," he said, his tone final. He stood up, his shadow cast long against the hut''s walls. "Instead of questioning me, perhaps you should think about what you''re going to do next." Varaku''s smirk faltered for just a moment Varaku''s eyes flickered with something unreadable¡ªskepticism, perhaps, or something deeper, something uneasy. He folded his arms across his chest, his voice low but firm. "So, tell me, is what the outsider said true?" Torghan met his father''s gaze without hesitation and gave a slow nod. "It is," he said simply. "I saw it with my own eyes. I personally walked the lands where our people will settle." Varaku''s expression remained unreadable, but Torghan pressed on. "The land is fertile¡ªmore than anything even the Orthai currently occupy. It stretches as far as the eye can see, endless plains where nothing hinders growth. Whatever is planted, it flourishes." His voice gained an edge of excitement as he spoke, remembering the rich fields, the orderly farms, the streams of clear water that wound their way across the land like veins of life itself. "I have never seen its equal." Varaku''s frown deepened, but Torghan didn''t stop. "The prince has an army raised at all times," he continued, "a thousand men all days of all weeks, all equipped with the same armor he gifted me." He knocked his knuckles against the bronze-trimmed breastplate he wore, the sound ringing through the hut. "And that''s just a fraction of what they can muster." He took a step forward, his voice dropping lower, almost reverent. "I saw things, Father. Things beyond what I ever imagined. Better than anything I ever hoped to lay eyes upon." His fingers curled slightly at his sides, as if struggling to grasp the enormity of it all. "It was everything... and even more than that." The fire between them crackled, casting shifting shadows across the walls. Varaku said nothing for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Varaku let out a long, weary sigh, his shoulders sagging slightly as he brought a hand to his face, fingers rubbing at his temples. The fire crackled between them, the flickering light playing against the hard lines of his face. Torghan watched him closely, waiting, gauging the weight of his father''s silence. Finally, he took a step forward and spoke, his tone calm but firm. "I know this isn''t an easy decision," he said. "I understand what you must be thinking, what you feel you have to do. But that doesn''t change the fact that this is the right choice." Varaku''s fingers dragged down his face, but he said nothing, so Torghan pressed on. "We''re headed toward famine. The herds are thinning, the game is disappearing. We both know that when food runs short, sacrifices must be made." His gaze darkened slightly. "Surely, you would have already planned for the elders to walk the cliffs when the time came." Varaku''s jaw clenched. "How is this any different?" Torghan asked, his voice steady. "Except now, they won''t have to die. No one will. Instead of famine, they will have fields¡ªrich, fertile land where everything they plant will grow. They''ll work the earth, and in doing so, they''ll bring food, supplies, and wealth back to the tribe. Back to you." Varaku exhaled sharply through his nose, but he still didn''t speak. Torghan took another step closer. "The tribe is going through hard times," he continued. "And this is the chance to turn the tables¡ªto not only survive, but to prosper." His eyes burned with conviction. "If you don''t take this opportunity now, we may never get another." The fire crackled between them, the silence stretching thick and heavy in the dimly lit hut. Torghan''s gaze remained steady as he spoke, his voice calm but edged with purpose. "The outsiders need settlers," he said. "This first payment... it may have to be made with our people. But once we get what we need¡ªthe steel, the weapons¡ªwe won''t have to keep giving our own." Varaku''s fingers twitched slightly, though his expression remained unreadable. Torghan could see, however, the sharp glint of thought flickering behind his father''s eyes. He was listening. "We were driven from our hills," Torghan continued, his tone measured. "The ones who forced us out still live there, growing fat off the land that was once ours. Why not take them instead?" Varaku''s gaze sharpened, his lips pressing into a thin line. "With the steel we gain, we can settle along the border with the Azanians," Torghan pressed on. "From there, we raid them. We take their people and sell them to the outsiders instead. The wealth will flow to us, not just scraps, but true power¡ªland, weapons, everything we need to rise." The fire between them crackled, the shadows shifting along the hut''s walls. Varaku sat back slightly, his fingers drumming against his knee. He was silent, but the weight of his consideration was heavy in the air. He was thinking. Weighing. Calculating. Torghan remained quiet now, letting the idea settle, letting the vision of what could be take root in his father''s mind. The choice had not yet been made, but Torghan could see it¡ªsee the way his father''s eyes no longer burned with rejection but with something else. Possibility. Varaku finally spoke, his voice low but firm. "And this outsider prince... Can he be trusted? Will he truly deliver what he promised?" His sharp eyes bore into Torghan, searching for any sign of doubt. Torghan did not hesitate. "I spent a week in his home," he said, his tone resolute. "I sat at his table, I spoke with his men, I saw the way he rules. If he says something, he follows through. That much, I am sure of, it is in both party interest to have such relation going." Varaku grunted, still unconvinced. "Words are easy. But actions?" Torghan leaned forward slightly, the firelight casting shadows across his face. "I saw the fields with my own eyes. I walked on the land our people will be given. Everything the outsider that came to us told was true. They have more land than they know what to do with, but their numbers are small. They need people to work it, to grow their land. That is why they came to us in the first place." He straightened his back, looking directly at his father. "So, yes. I believe he is trustworthy¡ªat least when it comes to delivering what was promised. He needs us as much as we need him." Varaku sat in silence, staring into the fire as if searching for answers in the flickering flames. His fingers tapped against his knee, his mind clearly weighing the risks and rewards. Torghan remained still, waiting. He knew better than to press his father for an answer before he was ready to give one. Finally, Varaku let out a deep sigh, rubbing a hand down his face before meeting his son''s gaze. "I will not force anyone to make this choice," he said, his voice carrying the weight of a leader''s burden. "But this is not a decision to be made in the dark. Tomorrow morning, I will call for a meeting. You will make your case before the tribe." Torghan nodded, his expression unreadable. Varaku continued, his tone firm. "Whoever wishes to go may go. But I will not force a single soul to leave if they do not wish it. I suppose then that if you wish to gain the favor of your new master you should probably think of what to says at the morrow, after all their choice will depend on you and you alone." Chapter 434: Tribal Meeting Chapter 434: Tribal Meeting The next morning arrived like the blade of an executioner¡ªcold, sharp, and unrelenting. Dawn did not creep gently over the land; it struck, slicing through the comfort of sleep like a knife to the throat of the night. The sky bled at the edges, streaks of crimson and gold spilling across the horizon as if the gods themselves had torn open the heavens. Torghan awoke to the distant calls of the morning herders, their voices thin and brittle against the biting wind. The air carried the scent of damp earth and burning wood, a reminder that the world outside was alive and restless. The village stirred with a quiet unease, the kind that settles in the bones before a storm. Today, words would wield more power than swords. Today, fates would be sealed. He stood in the dim light of the hut, already clad in the armor that had been gifted to him. The polished steel gleamed faintly, catching the first rays of sunlight that pierced through the cracks in the walls. It was heavier than the simple leathers he was used to, the weight pressing down on his shoulders like a promise¡ªor a burden. This was his proof. His chance. His breath came hard and slow, each inhale measured, each exhale steady. The outcome of this meeting rested on him alone. He had spent countless nights dreaming of power, of standing at the helm of something greater, and now the moment had come. His people would listen. They would judge. They would decide. The soft creak of wood snapped him from his thoughts. At the entrance of the hut, his father stood waiting, arms crossed, his silhouette framed by the pale light of dawn. The fire from the previous night had long since burned out, leaving only the faint scent of smoke lingering in the air between them. Torghan let out a final, deep breath, then stepped forward, each movement deliberate, each footfall heavy with purpose. As he reached his father''s side, he didn''t speak. Neither did Varaku Torghan walked through the village, his boots pressing firmly into the dirt paths that wound between the familiar huts of his people. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke, yet everything felt different. As he moved, he noticed eyes peering from doorways, hushed whispers following him like a ghost. The village was awake, but not in the usual way. Normally, the communal square ahead would be bustling with life¡ªwomen weaving baskets, men preparing hides, children running underfoot as laughter and conversation mixed with the sounds of daily labor. It was the heart of the tribe, where work and kinship came together. But not today. Today, the square was filled with warriors. They stood in clusters, the hardened men of the tribe. Their faces were unreadable, but their presence alone was enough to make Torghan''s heart beat faster. These were the men who fought, who bled, who had seen hardships no outsider could understand. And now, they were here for one reason¡ªbecause their leader had called them. At the center of it all, Varaku stood waiting, his expression carved from stone. He said nothing as Torghan approached, merely watching, waiting. Torghan swallowed hard. This was it. This was the moment. Varaku took a deliberate step forward, his presence rippling through the square like a wave. The hum of voices stilled, swallowed by the weight of his arrival. Every eye fixed on him, every breath held. "A month ago," he began, "we marched on the wooden walls the outsiders had raised. Our blades were sharp, our fury sharper. We thirsted for their steel, for the blood that would stain it. We were ready to take what we deemed was ours." He paused, letting the memory of that day settle over the warriors like a storm cloud. "But that day,thanks the spirits" Varaku continued, his voice softening just enough to draw them closer, "the clash of steel never came. Instead, hands that should have wielded weapons reached out in peace. The outsiders came bearing gifts, speaking of lands beyond the sea¡ªlands rich and fertile, where the soil yields crops as bountiful as a mother''s love, where herds roam thick as the stars in the night sky. Lands where our people could flourish." A ripple of murmurs spread through the crowd, but Varaku raised a hand, and silence fell like a blade. "I am no fool," he said, his voice sharpening. "I did not take their words at face value. I sent our own to see these lands, to test the truth of their promises. Among them was my son, Torghan." He paused, his gaze sweeping the crowd, letting the name hang in the air like a challenge. "And five others¡ªwarriors whose loyalty to this tribe is beyond question, men whose word is as unbreakable as their swords." At the mention of Torghan, the crowd stirred. Eyes turned to the young warrior, some filled with respect, others with doubt. Torghan met their gazes, his jaw tight, his fists clenched at his sides. Varaku''s voice cut through the tension like a whip. "My son has walked their lands," he declared, his tone leaving no room for challenge. "He has stood before their leaders, seen their fields, and breathed the air of their world. He will tell you what he has seen. Torghan," he said, turning to his son, "step forward. Speak the truth." Torghan moved into the center of the square, his every step measured, his shoulders squared under the weight of the tribe''s expectations. He felt their eyes on him He took a deep breath, and when he spoke, his voice was steady, clear, and unshakable. "I have seen the land," Torghan began, his voice steady but carrying the weight of a man who had witnessed something extraordinary. "And I tell you now, without hesitation or doubt, the outsiders'' promises are true. I walked fields so vast they seemed to swallow the horizon. I stood on soil so rich, it felt alive beneath my feet¡ªlike the earth itself was breathing, nurturing every seed planted in its embrace. Crops grow there as if the land is a mother, cradling them in her arms." He paused, letting the image take root in the minds of the warriors. His eyes swept across the crowd, meeting their gazes one by one. "There are no jagged hills to climb, no barren stretches of dust and stone¡ªnothing like the lands we''ve struggled against for generations. It is flat, soft, and yielding, as if the earth itself bends to the will of those who tend it. Whatever you sow¡ªbarley, wheat, vegetables¡ªit thrives. There is no battle with the land, no fight to wrest life from its grasp. And for our herds? Grasslands stretch endlessly, green and lush, where our animals will grow fat and strong. No more hunger. No more scarcity." Torghan''s voice grew sharper, more urgent, as he leaned into his next words. "But the land is only half the truth. The outsiders¡ªour hosts¡ªare not weaklings cowering behind their walls. Their strength is real. I saw their army¡ªthousands of men, all clad in armor like this." He struck his chest, the metal ringing out. "Their swords are sharp, their discipline unshakable. They are well-fed, well-trained, and always ready for war. They are not offering us empty promises. They are offering us protection. They will defend their lands¡ªour lands¡ªfrom any who would try to take them. We will not suffer as we have before. We will not lose what we build." The crowd stirred, murmurs rising like a low hum. Torghan''s voice cut through it, rising with conviction. "I saw more than I ever imagined. Wealth. Strength. Opportunity. This is not just a place to survive¡ªit is a place to thrive. A place where our children will grow tall, where our herds will multiply, where our people will flourish. It is everything we''ve dreamed of, everything we''ve fought for. And it is within our grasp." He stepped forward, his voice now a commanding call to action. "The land is waiting for us. The outsiders are not fools. They are men of their word. They have more land than they can work, more wealth than they can manage alone. They need settlers¡ªpeople to farm, to build, to grow. And they have chosen us. They see our strength, our resilience, and they want us to share in what they have built." Torghan''s voice dropped slightly, drawing them in. "And they are not asking us to come empty-handed. They have made an offer¡ªone that proves their sincerity. They will give us livestock. Two hundred heads for our herds. One hundred goats. One hundred sheep. Animals that will breed, that will grow, that will feed our families as we settle the land. '''' The murmurs grew louder, but Torghan raised his hand, silencing them. "These animals are proof. Proof that they mean us no harm. Proof that they want us to succeed. They are offering us more than land¡ªthey are offering us a partnership. A future where we are not just surviving, but thriving. Where we are not just a tribe, but a people with a legacy." Chapter 435: Tribal meeting(2) Chapter 435: Tribal meeting(2) As Torghan''s final words hung in the air, the square erupted into a storm of voices. Warriors turned to one another, their faces a mix of disbelief, curiosity, and outright suspicion. The tension was high and in the ear of every men, like the crackle of lightning before a storm. "Two hundred heads of livestock?" one man muttered, his brow furrowed as he scratched at his beard. "That''s no small gift and the fact that they want nothing is even more strange...." A burly warrior, his arms crossed over a chest riddled with scars, let out a derisive snort. "Loyalty? To outsiders? I''ve lived on our ancestral land since I could walk. My father and his father before him bled for the soil we were deprived of. And now we''re to pack up and leave? For what? Pretty words and promises?" A younger warrior, his face still unmarked by the harshness of life, stepped forward, his voice sharp with frustration. "Did you not hear him? The Leader''s son saw it. The land is rich¡ªricher than anything we''ve ever known. My cousin was among the group, and he told me the same. Fields that stretch forever, soil that yields without struggle. Are we so proud that we''d rather starve here than thrive there?" The older warrior spat on the ground, his eyes blazing. "Thrive? At what cost? Our freedom? Our honor? Better to die free than live as a slaves. What happens when they demand our sons for their wars? Or decide they no longer need us? They''ll cast us aside like broken tools as soon as they are done with us!" Another voice cut through, sharp and mocking. "And what''s your plan, old man? Stay here and watch our children wither ?If the boy speaks true, we''d be fools to turn our backs on this." A low, rumbling chuckle came from a man who had been silent until now. He leaned against a post, his arms folded, his gaze steady. "The real question," he said, his voice slow and deliberate, "isn''t whether the land is fertile. It''s whether the outsiders'' word is worth the dirt they''re offering. Promises are easy. Trust is hard." The murmurs grew louder, a cacophony of doubt and hope clashing in the square. Some men nodded, their eyes alight with the possibilities Torghan had painted. Others shook their heads, their faces dark with suspicion. The air was thick with the weight of decision, each warrior grappling with the choice before them. Torghan stood firm, his jaw set, his eyes scanning the crowd. He had expected this¡ªthe doubt, the fear, the resistance. But he also knew the truth of what he had seen. The land beyond the sea was real. The opportunity was real. And now, it was up to him to make them see it. He stepped forward, his presence commanding the square like a storm rolling in. The murmurs died instantly, every eye fixed on him as he began to speak, his voice sharp and unyielding. "A few days before I left," he said, his gaze sweeping over the crowd, "this square was alive with the sounds of preparation. Men and women salting meat, storing grain, trying to stretch what little we had to last the winter. But tell me this¡ªwas it enough? Is what we have now enough to feed our children, to keep our elders from the cold, to ensure we survive another year?" The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the unspoken truth. Warriors shifted on their feet, their eyes darting away, unable to meet his gaze. Torghan pressed on, his voice rising like a flame. "That salt we used¡ªwhere did it come from? It wasn''t ours. It came from the outsiders. And don''t fool yourselves into thinking it was trade. It was a gift. They have so much that they gave it away without a second thought, while we ration every grain of it , every scrap, like beggars clinging to crumbs!" His words cut deep, and the crowd stirred uneasily. Torghan''s eyes burned with intensity as he continued, his voice ringing out like a war drum. "They have so much grain that they toss it aside like it''s fucking nothing! And yet here we stand, debating whether to accept their offer, as if we have the luxury of pride , and the arrogant belief of choice. Look around you!" He spread his arms, his voice rising to a roar. "Do you not remember the months before they came? The empty stores? The hollow eyes of the children? The silence of the hunt when the game grew scarce? Or have you already forgotten what it means to starve?" The square was utterly still now, the weight of his words pressing down on every soul. Torghan''s voice dropped, low and dangerous, as he delivered the final blow. "Have you forgotten what comes next if we do nothing? The cliff-march. The cold, slow walk to the edge of the world, where we send our elders to die so the rest of us might live another season. Is that the future you want? Is that the legacy we leave for our children, teaching them already that the end they will witness will be their own?" A shiver ran through the crowd, though the morning sun still warmed the air. Torghan stood tall, his chest heaving, his eyes blazing with a fire that dared anyone to challenge him. "The outsiders are not our enemies," he said, his voice steady now, but no less powerful. "They are offering us a way out. A way to thrive, not just survive. The choice is yours. But ask yourself this¡ªwhat will you tell your children when the winter comes and the tables are empty again? Will you tell them you were too proud to take the hand that was offered?Where will you lay your eyes on when your parents shall do the march of those before them?Will you as a coward move your eyes away from the reality that you yourself created?" "A son is filial," he began, his tone heavy with the weight of tradition, "when he accepts the sacrifices of his parents and carries forward their wisdom. That is our way. That is who we are." His gaze swept over the crowd, piercing and unyielding. "But tell me this¡ªwhat is the difference between honoring their sacrifice and refusing to save them when the chance is right in front of us? What does it make us if we stand by and watch our elders march to their deaths, knowing full well there was another path¡ªa path that could have spared them?" He took another step, his voice rising like a storm. "How is it any different from pushing them off the cliffs ourselves?" The words struck like a thunderclap"If you refuse this offer, you are choosing for them. You are choosing starvation. You are choosing suffering. And for what? Because you are suspicious? Because you fear what you do not yet understand?" His eyes burned with accusation as he turned, his voice cutting through the silence like a whip. "You could have guided them to a new life. You could have given them peace in their final years. But instead, you would let them wither away for no reason other than your own pride. So I ask you¡ªwho here is truly the monster?" The square was utterly still, the weight of his words pressing down on every soul. Torghan''s chest heaved, his fists clenched at his sides, as he continued, his voice like iron striking stone. "Do you fear being swindled?" he demanded, his gaze locking onto the doubters in the crowd. "Do you think this is some elaborate trick? A lie meant to lead us to ruin?" His voice rose, sharp and unyielding. "Then prove it. If you believe my words are false, if you think I have deceived you, there is only one way to know for certain." He slammed his fist against the breastplate he wore, the metallic ring echoing through the square. "I will go. I will be among the first to settle this land. I will work it with my own hands, live as you will live. And if it is barren, if it is a trap, then I will starve alongside you or if you prefer, you may lynch me if the anger is more overbearing than hunger. My fate will be tied to yours¡ªflourishing or perishing, as one of you." His eyes swept over the warriors, daring them to challenge him. "Does that sound like the act of a man who lies for his own gain? You may doubt the outsiders. You may doubt the land they promise. But will you doubt me? Will you doubt my resolve?" A heavy silence settled over the square, thick as the morning fog rolling over the hills. No one spoke, no one moved. The warriors of the tribe stood with arms crossed, brows furrowed in thought, their gazes flickering between each other, between Torghan and their leader. Then, from within the crowd, a lone voice broke the hush. "I don''t want to see my parents walk the cliffs." The words hung in the air, raw and heavy with truth. Heads turned toward the speaker¡ªa broad-shouldered man, his features lined with the hardship of past winters. His fingers curled into fists at his sides. "Not if there''s another way." Another voice joined him, hesitant at first but growing stronger. "If the outsiders did not have salt in abundance, why would they gift it to us? Who gives away something they do not have plenty of?" Murmurs rippled through the crowd like a slow-moving tide. "They gave us some grain too, and they didn''t ask for anything in return. What kind of merchant parts with his wares for nothing?" "They wear armor like the one Torghan wears. If they are strong enough to arm all their men like that, then they are not desperate." The voices grew, one after another, until the silence was replaced with a low hum of discussion, doubt battling against reason, tradition against opportunity. Torghan remained still, letting them speak, letting them wrestle with the truth he had laid before them. One by one, the seeds of change had been planted. Now, all that was left was to see who would let them take root. Chapter 436: Settling for a price(1) Chapter 436: Settling for a price(1) Aven stood atop the wooden palisade, his arms crossed over his broad chest, the wind tugging at the fur lining of his cloak. He exhaled sharply, the sound almost lost in the crisp morning air, and scratched at the stubble along his jaw. "Honestly," he muttered, his voice low and gruff, "I didn''t expect this to be more than a waste of food and time." Beside him, Aron leaned against the rough wooden beams, his sharp eyes scanning the bustling camp below. Unlike Aven, his build was leaner, his demeanor more measured. He hadn''t believed this would work either¡ªnot at first. But now, as he watched the settlers gather their belongings and prepare for the journey ahead, he couldn''t deny the results. "It wasn''t easy," Aron admitted, his tone thoughtful. "But apparently, it was worth the effort." From their vantage point, the camp sprawled out like a living tapestry. Families huddled together, their meager possessions bundled in cloth and leather. The air was thick with anticipation, mingled with the faint scent of woodsmoke and porridge. This was no longer just an idea or a gamble. It was real. Aven let out a low grunt, his gaze shifting to Aron. "You do a count yet?" Aron nodded. "Two thousand, one hundred and sixty-three." Aven whistled, the sound sharp and appreciative. "Hells, that''s more than I expected." He smirked, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Seems like the prince will be happy about this." "Let''s hope so," Aron replied, his tone dry but not without a hint of satisfaction. Aven turned back to the crowd below, his sharp eyes narrowing as he took in the faces of the settlers. His lips twisted into a thoughtful frown. "There are a lot of old folk down there," he muttered. "At least a quarter of them." Aron nodded, having anticipated the comment. "We knew that would happen," he said evenly. "But look again. They''re not as old as they seem. Most are forty, maybe fifty. They''ve still got the strength to work the fields." Aven exhaled through his nose, his gaze lingering on a group of elders helping each other to their feet. "So, they took the opportunity to push out the ones who wouldn''t live through the winter," he said, his tone matter-of-fact rather than judgmental. Aron shrugged. "That''s likely part of it." He gestured toward the younger men and women scattered throughout the camp. "Besides, there are plenty of able-bodied ones mixed in. And that''s what really matters." Aven gave a slow nod, his expression shifting from skepticism to reluctant acceptance. "Yeah," he muttered. "I think it does" Below, the settlers gathered around large cauldrons, steam rising into the crisp air as wooden bowls were filled with thick porridge. Loaves of bread were broken and shared among families, the scent of warm food cutting through the chill. It wasn''t a feast, but it was enough¡ªsomething to steady them while they waited for the next steps. All that remained to do was settle on the price to pay. Aron leaned forward against the rough wooden railing of the watchtower, his eyes scanning the sea of tribespeople below. Fires crackled in makeshift pits, casting long shadows over the camp, while men and women huddled in groups, sharing bowls of thick porridge and tearing into hard bread. Despite the uncertainty that lay ahead, there was a strange calm among them, a quiet acceptance of the fate they had chosen. He exhaled through his nose before turning slightly toward Aven. "And where are our guests?" he asked, keeping his voice level. Aven, standing beside him with arms crossed, arched a brow and smirked. "Which one?" he asked dryly. "The younger one is over in the camp, helping himself to our wine while watching some of the men gamble away their wages. Seems to be enjoying himself quite a bit." He snorted, shaking his head. "As for the older one..." He rolled his shoulders. "He''s in my tent, sipping wine and being tended to by a few of my servants. Doesn''t look like he''s in much of a hurry to leave.Apparently both father and son have a soft spot for our wine." Aron let out a short chuckle, though there was little humor in it. "I suppose I meant the older one¡ªthe leader of their tribe." Aven gave a lazy nod, shifting his weight against the railing. "Figured as much." Aron straightened, brushing the dust off his coat as he prepared to leave. "Thanks for the information," he said, already stepping toward the ladder. "I''ll go finalize the deal. We need to know exactly how much we''re paying for them." Aven waved a hand dismissively, his attention already returning to the mass of settlers below. He watched as a child clung to his mother''s side, his small hands grasping at her cloak while she ladled warm porridge into a wooden bowl. It was a strange sight, Aven thought. Just a month ago, these people had been on the other side of the walls, ready to slaughter them . Now, they were here, fed and waiting, their fate being decided in a language they didn''t even understand. He let out a quiet sigh. ------------ Aron strode through the camp with measured steps, his boots kicking up dust with each step Around him, soldiers milled about in clusters, some sharpening their weapons, others tending to their gear or tossing dice in small circles, gambling away their coin and rations. Laughter and murmured conversations filled the space, as an easy atmosphere settled over the men. A few nodded at him in acknowledgment as he passed. Others merely glanced up before returning to their tasks. Few minutes later he reached the place. Aven''s tent stood slightly apart from the rest of the camp, larger and more well-kept, its entrance flanked by two guards clad in simple steel breastplates and carrying short spears ,well more like javelins , at their sides. They stiffened as Aron approached, but upon recognizing him, they merely gave him a silent nod of acknowledgment. He returned the gesture, lifting the tent flap and stepping inside. The air within was noticeably warmer, the scent of wine thick in the enclosed space. Inside, seated on a sturdy wooden chair, was Varaku, his broad arms resting on his knees as he glanced up at Aron''s entrance. His expression was unreadable, though the slight narrowing of his eyes spoke of cautious expectation. Beside him, the translator¡ªthe same man who had served as their bridge since the very first encounter between their people¡ªsat cross-legged on a stool, his hands resting loosely in his lap. Aron stepped fully into the tent, his sharp eyes immediately locking onto Varaku''s. The chieftain sat rigidly on a low stool, his posture as unyielding as the mountains that surrounded his lands. Aron could see the tension in Varaku''s shoulders, the subtle twitch of his fingers against his knee. "Varaku," Aron greeted smoothly, his tone calm but firm. "We''ve just finished counting the settlers. That means we can finally begin discussing the terms of their exchange¡ªyour remuneration." The translator spoke quickly, his voice steady as he relayed Aron''s words. Varaku listened without reacting at first, his dark eyes fixed on Aron with an intensity that could have made a lesser man falter. When the translator finished, the chieftain gave a slow, measured nod, his expression as unreadable as stone. But Aron didn''t miss the subtle signs¡ªthe faint clench of Varaku''s jaw, the flicker of something hard and resentful in his gaze. This was a man who understood the necessity of the deal but despised the reality of it. Parting with his own people, even for their survival, was a bitter pill to swallow. Aron respected that. He also knew better than to comment on it. Instead, he folded his arms, tilting his head slightly as he regarded the chieftain. "Shall we begin?" Varaku''s response was a curt nod, his voice low and gravelly as he spoke a single word. The translator turned to Aron. "He says, ''Proceed.''" Aron shifted his stance, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. "Very well. Let''s discuss what you''d like in exchange. We have salt, wine, steel weapons, armor, and fine silk clothes. Choose what suits your needs." The translator relayed the offer, his words flowing swiftly. Varaku listened, his face as impassive as ever, but his eyes narrowed slightly as he considered the options. When he finally spoke, his voice was firm, each word deliberate. The translator turned back to Aron. "He seeks a deal that encompasses all of what you have offered¡ªexcept for the clothes and the wine." Aron raised a brow, his expression thoughtful as he tapped a finger against his arm. "So, what you want most is salt and steel," he said, more a statement than a question. Varaku gave a slow nod, his gaze unwavering. There was no hesitation in his decision, no hint of doubt. Aron allowed a faint smile to touch his lips. "Salt and steel," he repeated, his tone measured. "Practical choices. Salt to preserve your food through the winter, steel to arm your warriors. I can respect that, requesting only what you need for the betterment of the tribe. Very well then, let us start..." Chapter 437: Settling for a price(2) Chapter 437: Settling for a price(2) Aron studied Varaku carefully before speaking, his tone still measured and professional. "Are you fine with determining the price for every five people?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. Varaku barely hesitated before giving a curt nod. The translator relayed his answer. "He has nothing against it." Aron smiled faintly. "Good. Then let''s start with your offer first." He gestured slightly with his hand. "Name your price." This wasn''t just about the current exchange¡ªit was about gauging exactly how much Varaku valued his people in comparison to the goods. Future transactions would be shaped by this, and Aron needed to see where the chieftain would stand before making his own counteroffers. Varaku took a breath, thinking for only a moment before speaking firmly. "For every five people," the translator began, "We ask for three sacks of salt, two steel chain cloth, two hardened steel cloth, and two full sets of axes and swords." Aron remained expressionless, though inwardly, he was already calculating. The request wasn''t entirely unreasonable¡ªmost of it, in fact, was manageable. The salt, the chain cloth, even the weapons were all within the realm of fair trade. But the hardened iron cloth¡ªthe equivalent of a full breastplate¡ªwas a different matter entirely. That was something far too valuable to be exchanged for mere settlers. Alpheo''s ability to equip 600 footmen with breastplates, in addition to the standard gear of a soldier¡ªhelmets lined with iron cloth, chainmail, cleaves, and knee cops¡ªwas nothing short of a financial marvel. Any other princedom would have easily collapsed under the economic strain, yet Alpheo had managed it through a carefully crafted trade agreement. Every half-month, the Achea family, which were the one holding the regency of the empire, delivered ten full sets of breastplates and cleaves as part of their payment for the steady supply of cider, soap, and paper they purchased. It was an arrangement that ensured a constant flow of armor without draining Alpheo''s coffers dry. For Varaku to request two sets of hardened iron cloth in exchange for a handful of settlers? That was something Aron could never agree to. The sheer cost of producing a breastplate was reason enough to reject Varaku''s request outright. But beyond that, Aron would have been a fool to allow the tribesmen to equip themselves with armor on par with the White Army. Alpheo was no fool. From the moment trade negotiations began, he had set strict boundaries on what could and could not be exchanged. And at the very top of that list were breastplates. The reason was simple: no one could predict the future. Their current relationship with the tribes was favorable, but there was no guarantee it would remain so. If conflict ever arose, the last thing Alpheo wanted was for these warriors¡ªwho already outnumbered them¡ªto be equipped in the same steel that made the White Army so formidable. Superior weapons were the one advantage they held, and Aron would not be the man to tip that balance. The second forbidden item? Potatoes. It was a deceptively simple crop, one that grew in almost any soil with little effort. And that was exactly the problem. If the tribes gained access to it, famine would cease to be a concern for them. Their fields would yield enough food to sustain them indefinitely, making them self-sufficient. That was not in Alpheo''s interest. Right now, the tribes depended on trade to survive¡ªespecially for salt, which preserved their food through the harsh seasons. The moment they stopped needing it, the value of their dealings with the outsiders would plummet. For trade to remain profitable, dependency had to be maintained. So no, Aron would not be giving them breastplates. And he sure as hell wouldn''t be giving them potatoes. Aron exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he folded his arms across his chest. "A good quarter of the settlers are old," he stated plainly, his tone carrying the weight of irritation. "You basically dumped them on me. You expect me to pay the same for them as I would for able-bodied workers?" He scoffed before continuing, "As for the price, it''s too high. What I will offer is two sacks of salt, one piece of chainmail, and a set of an axe and a sword." He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locked onto Varaku''s. "And as for the ironed steel cloth that you and your son were gifted¡ªforget it. Those are far too valuable to produce, let alone trade away." Varaku''s jaw tightened, his fingers tapping idly against his knee. After a moment, he let out a low, discontented grunt. "This is too little for my people," he said, his voice laced with dissatisfaction once the translator relayed his words. Aron arched a brow, his expression unreadable. "You speak as if they are being sold into slavery," he said, his tone calm but firm. "They''re not being shackled and sent to some distant land to be forgotten. They''re going somewhere where they will work fertile fields, where they will no longer have to fear being displaced from their homes. Their lives will be better, and they will help sustain the rest of your people in return. I fail to see how you think you''re being robbed." Varaku clicked his tongue in irritation before muttering something under his breath. When the translator spoke again, his voice was measured. "Three sacks of salt, three chaincloth, two axes, and one sword." Aron narrowed his eyes slightly. They were getting closer to a final price, but they still had some haggling left to do. Aron sighed through his nose, glancing toward the tent''s ceiling as if searching for patience before meeting Varaku''s gaze again. "Fine," he said at last, his voice firm. "Three sacks of salt, two pieces of chainmail, and two sets of axes. No more." He let the words settle, watching as Varaku''s expression hardened. But before the chief could argue, Aron raised a hand. "Since this is our first exchange," he continued, "the most we can do is add 150 chain cloth as a gift. Consider it a goodwill gesture and a pre-payment for the dealings we will have in the future, as much as it is an investment considering they you shall be moving to war and we would not want our partners to lose it.." Varaku remained silent for a moment, his fingers flexing slightly as he mulled over the offer. He then exhaled heavily through his nose, his eyes narrowing slightly before he gave a firm nod. "Very well," he said, his voice resolute as the translator echoed his words. "After the war, we will make sure to take as many prisoners as we can. We will trade them with you." Aron allowed himself a small smile, inclining his head. "We will be glad to accept them," he said smoothly. "You know where to find us." Without further words, the two men clasped hands, gripping tightly¡ªa firm, unspoken agreement sealed between them. As they released, Aron straightened. "I will depart alongside your people," he said, adjusting his coat. "My leader has recalled me." Varaku frowned slightly at the translation, his brow furrowing. "And whom will we treat with after you are gone?" he asked. Aron shook his head slightly, his expression calm. "Of course, a replacement will come. The dealings will continue as normal. There will be no disruptions." Varaku studied him for a moment before grunting. "It has been a pleasure," he said, the words carrying the weight of a man who did not give compliments lightly. "The pleasure is mutual," Aron replied with a respectful nod. He turned to leave, but before he could step out of the tent, Varaku''s voice stopped him. "When will you depart?" Aron glanced back. "Tomorrow." Varaku sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before glancing toward his side. "Then send my son to me," he muttered, half to himself, half as an order. Aron gave a final nod before stepping out, leaving Varaku to his thoughts. Stepping outside the tent, Aron took a deep breath, letting the cool air fill his lungs. The scent of smoke, sweat, and damp earth clung to the camp, a reminder of just how long he had been stuck in this wretched place. His gaze swept over the crude wooden palisades, the uneven dirt paths, and the clusters of warriors and settlers moving about. He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. Finally. The deal was done, and soon, he would be on a ship, leaving this shit-hole behind. No more sleeping in drafty tents, no more breathing in the stench of unwashed bodies, no more worrying about the savages changing opinion and attacking them for all they had. He could almost feel the warm water of a proper bath already, washing away the grime of this place. A smirk played at the corner of his lips. One more day, he thought, stretching his arms before making his way through the camp. Then I can finally return to civilization. Aron adjusted his coat and began walking through the camp, his boots kicking up dust as he moved past soldiers busy with their own affairs¡ªsome sharpening blades, others tossing dice, wagering away their pay. Yet Aron''s mind was elsewhere. He wasn''t looking for them. He was looking for Torghan. He knew very well that this was the last chance for father and son to speak before they parted ways. Whatever grievances, whatever unspoken words lingered between them, this would be the time to settle them. Once they left, there was no telling when¡ªor if¡ªthey would meet again after all; once across the sea, Torghan was set for an independent and isolated life away from the rest of his family. ?????? ?????????? ????? ??????????????????? ????????? ???? ??? ???????????????????? ?? ?????????????? ??????????????????? ??? ????? ???????? ??????? ??? ????????????????????????? ?? ???????????????????????? ???? ????????? ??? ?? ??????????????? ???????????? ????? ??????????? ????????????? ????????????????? ????? ?? ?????????? ??????????? ???? ????? ??????????????????? ??????????? ???? ??????? ???????????????????? ?? ?? ???? ??????????"?????????????? ????? ????? ????????? Chapter 438: Last Goodbyes Chapter 438: Last Goodbyes Inside the tent, the air was thick with unspoken words. The only sounds were the distant crackling of torches outside and the faint rustling of the fabric walls as the wind brushed against them. Varaku sat cross-legged near the fire pit, his calloused hands resting on his knees. His face, worn by years of hardship and battle, was unreadable, though his jaw was set tight. Across from him, Torghan sat in silence, his posture rigid, his fingers idly tracing the embroidery on his sleeve. The flickering firelight cast shifting shadows across their faces, highlighting the sharp lines of father and son¡ªso alike, yet now standing on opposite paths. Neither of them spoke. There was nothing to say that the other did not already know. Yet something they would have to say. Varaku''s fingers tightened into a fist on his knee, his knuckles whitening. He inhaled deeply through his nose, holding the breath for a long moment before releasing it in a slow exhale. The tent was dimly lit, the flickering light of the fire casting long, wavering shadows against the fabric walls. Outside, the sounds of the camp¡ªvoices murmuring, the clatter of metal, the occasional distant laughter¡ªfelt distant, insignificant compared to the silence that stretched between father and son. "So you''re really going to leave," Varaku finally said, his voice low, measured. But there was something else beneath it¡ªsomething restrained, something close to resentment. "You would abandon the land where our tribe has lived for half a century. The same land we were exiled from, the same land where your mother''s spirit waits, where we will soon bleed to take it back." Torghan met his father''s gaze steadily. There was no hesitation in his posture, no doubt in his voice when he answered. "You already know the answer to that." Varaku let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. "And for what?" His voice was edged with something bitter now, something close to anger. "For the promise of a life you may never live? For a place that is not your home, among people who are not your kin?" Torghan sat still, his hands resting lightly on his knees, his fingers relaxed. He did not waver. "For a life I will never be able to achieve again. I will make my new home and I will make more kin." Varaku''s gaze hardened, the muscles in his jaw flexing. He was searching, watching, waiting for some flicker of hesitation, some glimmer of regret in his son''s eyes. But there was none. "And is it worth it?" Varaku asked, his voice quieter now, though no less sharp. "Everything you have ever known, everything you have ever been¡ªwill you throw it all away for this?" Torghan leaned forward slightly, his expression unwavering. The light of the fire caught the edges of his face, highlighting the sharp planes of his features, the determination in his eyes. "It is worth that," he said, voice steady, firm. "And much more." Varaku sat back, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He looked at his son, truly looked at him¡ªnot as the boy he had raised, but as the man he had become. And he realized, perhaps too late, that there was no bringing him back. Varaku exhaled sharply, nodding once, slow and deliberate. His shoulders, broad and worn by years of battle, lifted slightly before settling as if releasing a weight he had long carried. He studied Torghan for a long moment, his expression unreadable, then spoke. "Well," he said, his voice rough yet steady, "it was high time you did something worthwhile of your life." Torghan scoffed, shaking his head as he leaned back slightly, arms crossing over his chest. His eyes, once filled with the restless fire of youth, now burned with something colder, something hardened by the path he had chosen. "Why would you care about that ?" he asked, his tone edged with something sharp, something unsaid. "You didn''t seem to for half my life. And you already have offsprings to pass your blood to. What does it matter what I do?" Varaku''s gaze darkened, his features tightening, though not in anger¡ªno, this was something else. Something deeper. His fingers flexed briefly before he set them on his knees, steadying himself. When he spoke, his voice was quieter, but no less firm. "I had to care," he said. "For your mother." Torghan''s jaw tensed. "I would not have dared to look her in the face and tell her that I didn''t even try." Varaku''s voice did not waver, but there was something in it, something raw beneath the words. "That I let our son walk away to a place where his spirit would never meet with hers." The words lingered between them, heavy like a stone dropped into deep water. The flickering fire cast shadows across their faces, shifting with the silence that followed. Varaku leaned forward slightly, his gaze locking onto Torghan''s with the intensity of a man who had lived through war, through exile, through loss. "Are you really ready for that?" he asked. Torghan remained silent, his gaze dropping to the dirt floor of the tent as his thoughts drifted to his mother. He could barely remember the sound of her voice now, only the warmth of her hands when he was a child, the way she used to hum old songs while tending the fire. She had died too soon, and he had been too young to understand what it meant to lose something forever. But now, as he stood on the edge of abandoning everything he had ever known, the weight of that loss pressed against him like a boulder. Slowly, he lifted his head and met his father''s eyes. There was no hesitation when he finally spoke. "I already said that it was worth more." His voice was steady, but not without feeling. There was conviction in it, the kind that only came from knowing there was no turning back. "I will create a new place," Torghan continued, "where my son will meet with mine and my mother''s spirit. Perhaps... one day, we will all be reunited." Varaku''s face remained impassive, but his jaw tightened ever so slightly. His fingers curled against his knee, and for a moment, the old chief simply stared at his son- Then, barely more than a whisper, Varaku muttered, "Not if you are across the Great Lake." The words were like a knife slipped between the ribs. Torghan inhaled sharply but said nothing. He had already made his choice. Whether or not his father could accept it was no longer his concern. Varaku let out a long, weary sigh, rubbing a hand over his face as if trying to wipe away the weight pressing down on him. His voice, when he spoke, was quieter now¡ªresigned. "I still have my duty to the tribe," he said. "So I will do all I can to make your settlement as stable as possible." Torghan remained silent, watching his father as he continued. "Vasha will come too," Varaku added, his tone measured, watching for any reaction. "It will be a good thing to have someone of your blood marry someone else''s leader. A bond of blood is stronger than a bond of trade." Torghan''s eyes flicked toward his father, but his expression was unreadable. He made no move to answer, no sign of agreement or rejection. His hands rested on his knees, fingers still, his breathing slow and even. Varaku studied him for a long moment before exhaling again, shaking his head. His voice was rougher when he spoke next, laced with something almost bitter. "Your mother would not speak to me if I did not even try to help." The words lingered between them, heavier than before. For a moment, there was only silence, save for the distant sounds of the camp outside¡ªthe crackling of fires, the occasional murmur of voices. Torghan rose to his feet, the movement slow, deliberate. He stood there for a moment, looking down at his father, who remained seated, his fingers idly tracing the rim of the wooden cup he had set down earlier. "I suppose this is goodbye, then," Torghan said, his voice steady. Varaku didn''t look up at first, only nodding slightly before finally meeting his son''s gaze. There was something distant in his eyes, as if he were looking at something far beyond him, beyond this moment. Then, with a quiet breath, he spoke. "Good luck." With that, he picked up the cup of wine from the ground, tilting it slightly before taking a slow sip, as if that single motion could wash down everything that had been left unsaid between them. Torghan lingered for a heartbeat longer, then turned and stepped out of the tent. The cold air greeted him as he emerged, the scent of salt and damp earth filling his lungs. He walked a few paces forward, his boots pressing into the dirt, before finally lifting his gaze. There, in the distance, past the wooden palisades of the camp, the great ships waited. Their tall masts stretched toward the sky, dark silhouettes against the early morning light. Ropes swayed with the wind, sails furled and ready. And below them, his people gathered¡ªwaiting, preparing, murmuring among themselves as they stood on the cusp of a journey that would change everything. A new home. A new beginning. Where he would be the one in powe Chapter 439: New home Chapter 439: New home After two long weeks of travel, Torghan finally stood on solid ground once more. The journey had been a grueling one¡ªone and a half weeks spent at sea, and the rest navigating the land toward their new home. He had never thought he would be so grateful to feel dirt beneath his feet again. The sea voyage had nearly driven half of them mad. The first few hours had been tolerable¡ªuneasy but tolerable. Then, like a creeping sickness, paranoia took hold. It started with whispers¡ªold warriors muttering under their breath, clutching at their amulets, their eyes darting to the endless waves as if expecting vengeful spirits to rise from the depths. And then, the vomiting started. What began as a handful of seasick men quickly spread like a plague. Grown warriors, the same men who had taken heads in battle without flinching, now lay curled up on the deck groaning in agony, puking their guts out. Some accused the outsiders of tricking them with cursed waters. Others claimed the spirits of their homeland had turned against them, punishing them for their betrayal. There were even a few who declared that the only way to appease the spirits was to throw themselves into the sea and beg for forgiveness. That was when Torghan had stepped in. He had done everything to silence the panic, stamping it out before it could spread further. He had stood among them, pale and nauseous himself but unwilling to show weakness, as he tried his best to calm his people down. "Yes, the water spirits do not favor us. We have reached their domain, and they have withdrawn their blessings. But do you know who else suffers from this? The outsiders! Even they, who cross the sea as easily as we walk the land, sometimes find their stomachs twisting in pain. If this were truly a curse, then why do they also fall victim to it?" Some had grumbled, some had scoffed, but the truth in his words had taken root. And after a few miserable days, the nausea had finally lessened, and their paranoia faded into nothing more than an embarrassing memory. But now, at long last, the endless journey was behind them. Now, they stood here ahead of their new home. There was a general thought that passed through the minds of the new settlers, be it elders, children or adults man. How amazing--- The tribesmen muttered among themselves, their voices hushed yet brimming with awe. Their feet stood on firm, rich earth¡ªearth that stretched out before them in an endless sea of green, so vibrant it almost hurt the eyes. This was nothing like the land they had left behind, where the soil was patchy and the winds carried dust more often than they did the scent of fresh grass. "Look at it," one of the older warriors murmured, rubbing the dirt between his calloused fingers. "No rocks, no dry patches, just... earth. Soft and rich." Another man, younger, stepped forward and let out a low whistle. "I have never seen a place so flat," he admitted. "You could walk a sheep across this land for a whole day and never have to climb a single hill." "Aye," another voice added, half in disbelief. "No cliffs, no jagged stones... just space. And grass as far as the eye can see." And it wasn¡¯t just the grass. Their herds would thrive here. There was no shortage of thick, healthy weeds and lush pastures for grazing. It was the kind of land where even the weakest of animals could fatten up without much effort, where a shepherd wouldn¡¯t have to fight the earth itself to keep his flock alive. Then there were the villages. As they had approached, on the way on the road, their guides made sure to let them see the settlements that, to their trained eyes, bore the marks of prosperity. But what truly erased any lingering doubt was the sight of the great warehouses. Whenever they stopped to rest in a village¡ªeach one already prepared to welcome them¡ªthey were allowed to see them up close. The buildings were packed full of grain, their wooden walls practically bulging under the weight. Some of the tribesmen had gasped aloud at the sheer abundance before them. "I thought we would be scrounging for scraps," one of them whispered. "But this... this land has more food than I have ever seen in my life." Another nodded, eyes still fixed on the distant storehouses. "No wonder the outsiders could afford to give away salt for free. They don¡¯t just survive here... they thrive." The weight of the journey, the fears of spirits¡¯ curses, the exhaustion of leaving behind everything they had ever known¡ªall of it paled in the face of what they saw before them. The land was so blessed that even their doubts seemed insignificant now. Perhaps, just perhaps, they had not made a mistake. As the tribesmen gawked at the vast green fields stretching endlessly before them¡ªthe land that was now theirs¡ªgasps and murmurs of awe filled the air, few noticed the figure standing silently behind Aron. Unlike the warriors and settlers, this man did not stare in amazement at the land. He stood with arms crossed, his sharp eyes fixed on Aron and the man he was speaking to. The man in question was gesturing animatedly, pointing in different directions as he spoke, his words quick and clipped. Aron nodded along, listening intently. He was dressed in a long brown cloth that reached his knees, simple yet strangely formal, and atop his head sat an odd brown hat, stiff and flat. Torghan narrowed his eyes at the sight. He had no idea that this was the standard attire of a common clerk, one of the countless functionaries working within the newly established princedom¡¯s growing bureaucracy. After a brief exchange, the clerk gave Aron a respectful bow before turning on his heel and departing, his brown robes fluttering slightly as he walked away. Aron watched him go for a moment before shifting his attention back to Torghan, who stood with his arms crossed, waiting. Aron exhaled and gave a small, almost amused shake of his head. "That was our directive," he said, gesturing vaguely at the departing clerk. "Instructions on how your people should settle into their new lands." Behind Torghan, his translators murmured in low tones, converting Aron¡¯s words from the smooth syllables of Azanian into the rougher, more guttural tongue of the mountain tribes. Aron continued, "The lands have already been worked, so there won¡¯t be much trouble with farming for now. But since there are over two thousand of you, it¡¯d be best to expand it a little more. However, most of your efforts shouldn¡¯t go into farming at the start." He paused, letting the words sink in before continuing, "Your workforce should focus primarily on building homes and organizing food stores." Torghan¡¯s brows furrowed slightly at that. Wouldn¡¯t the prince feed them until the first harvest? Aron caught the look and let out a chuckle, smiling as he waved a hand dismissively. "Don¡¯t worry," he reassured him. "There¡¯s more than enough food prepared to sustain all of you until the next early spring harvest. No one¡¯s going to starve." Then, leaning in slightly, he added, "Still, it¡¯s best you start learning now how to sustain yourselves between harvests. After all, once you¡¯re here, this land is yours to work. Might as well learn how to make the most of it between each harvest." Aron folded his arms and tilted his head slightly. "You¡¯ve been settled near the sea," he said, "so your people can learn how to fish as well as work the land." Torghan¡¯s brows raised slightly in surprise. Fishing had never been a part of his people¡¯s way of life, yet the thought of it was intriguing. Before he could say anything, Aron continued. "The prince has already prepared fishing ships for your people to use," he added with a smirk, as if amused by Torghan¡¯s surprise. "You¡¯ll have the tools¡ªyou just need to learn how to use them." Torghan couldn¡¯t deny it. The sheer amount of effort that had gone into ensuring their settlement was a success was far greater than he had expected. When he had first agreed to leave, he thought they would be little more than hired hands, given lands and expected to survive off of it . Instead, they had been given prepared land, stored food, and now even ships for fishing. After a moment, he gave a slow nod, accepting the directives laid before him. He might not have expected this level of preparation, but he wasn¡¯t foolish enough to reject it. Aron watched him closely, then exhaled. "From now on," he said, his tone turning firm, "this is your land. You are expected to administer it, to ensure order is kept, and that the laws are respected." His gaze sharpened slightly. "That means it falls on you to lead¡ªnot just in battle, but in governance." Torghan met his gaze evenly, understanding the weight of the words. "In the future," Aron went on, "we will send men to explain the laws you are expected to follow." His lips twitched into a faint smirk. "It¡¯d be best for you to listen to them when they arrive." Aron crossed his arms, watching Torghan carefully. "We will also send people to teach you the language," he continued. "It would be a poor thing for you to rule over these lands and not speak a word of the southern tongue." Torghan gave a small nod at that. He had already expected as much¡ªif he was to lead, he needed to understand those around him. After a brief pause, he met Aron¡¯s gaze and said, "Then when the time comes, thank the prince on my behalf." As soon as the words were translated Aron nodded once and let out a short chuckle. "If you truly wish to thank him," he said, "then make sure your people do not cause any issues with the locals. There is land enough for all, but a single reckless act can undo even the best-laid plans.You are here for his grace¡¯s benevolence , any misconduct you have will also be associate with that of the crown.So behave yourselves...." Torghan furrowed his brows but gave another nod. He understood the warning well enough. His people were warriors, but he knew very well they would not disdain peace. Still, Aron¡¯s next words caught his attention. "In the future," he said, his tone shifting slightly, "there may be opportunities for you to lead your warriors into battle¡ªbeside the prince, and of course you and your people will be well rewarded for your service." Torghan¡¯s eyes sharpened, his interest clear. A chance to fight¡ªnow that was something worth considering. His lips curled into a faint smirk as he nodded. "If that day comes,then when we are called, we will answer." He answered not knowing that such moment would come much earlier than any would have expected. Chapter 440: Making a business transaction Chapter 440: Making a business transaction The last flicker of hope that Harmway¡¯s citizens had clung to¡ªthat their island might return to the embrace of Romelia¡ªwas shattered the moment they saw the pirate ships turning toward their harbor. Any illusions of a swift liberation crumbled as the battered remnants of Romelia¡¯s forces were paraded through the streets, bound in chains. The long lines of prisoners, some limping, others staring hollow-eyed at the ground, were the final nail in the coffin. There would be no salvation, no return to the golden days of trade and prosperity. Many among the people had already begun to yearn for the past, for the days when the Romelian banners flew high and Harmway thrived as a bustling hub of commerce. Back then, the docks had never been empty. Each sunrise had brought with it a fleet of merchant ships, their hulls heavy with goods from across the seas. Romelians, Azanians, and traders from the southern princedoms all converged upon the island, their languages mingling in the markets, their coin fueling an economy that relied entirely on the flow of foreign trade. But now? Now the great port of Harmway, once teeming with life, was as good as abandoned. The mere sight of the Confederation¡¯s flag had been enough to drive merchants away, fearful of being harassed, blackmailed and raided. Trade routes that once wove through Harmway now bent around it, treating the island like a plague-ridden corpse. And with no ships coming in, no goods changing hands, and no money flowing, the city¡¯s lifeblood was cut off. Businesses shuttered their doors. Warehouses that once overflowed with grain, spices, and exotic wares now stood empty, their owners unable to sell what they could no longer acquire. Even the taverns, once filled with sailors and traders boasting of their journeys, had grown eerily quiet, now only being filled with pirates speaking about their latest catches. Harmway had always been an island dependent on the outside world, but now, under the Confederation¡¯s rule, it found itself adrift¡ªcut off, forgotten, and suffocating under the weight of its own isolation. The only merchants who dared to set foot on Harmway now were the brokers¡ªthose scavengers of war who thrived on chaos, dealing in whatever spoils the pirates could bring them. With war raging between the Free Isles and Romelia, the usual trade had dried up, and these men, ever adaptable, had turned to the one commodity that was never in short supply after battle¡ªflesh. A few weeks after the fighting had ended, Harmway had transformed into something grotesque. The island, once a proud and thriving trade hub, had become nothing more than a vast storehouse for human chattel. The docks that had once welcomed great merchant ships laden with goods now bore witness to a different kind of cargo¡ªlong lines of prisoners, shackled and silent, marched off ships and herded into makeshift holding pens. Some were Romelian soldiers, captured when their fleet was sent to the depths, others were civilians, unlucky enough to have been caught in the chaos. Weapons were also plentiful, taken from the dead and the defeated, but steel could only be sold once. People, however, could be sold again and again, and the brokers knew it well. The main business of Harmway was no longer in grain, nor cloth, nor precious metals. It was in bodies. The market for flesh stretched out beyond the city walls, a sprawling, chaotic thing hastily built from wooden stalls, makeshift tents, and hastily erected platforms where men stood in miserable rows, waiting to be sold. Bartos of Aracina pulled his cloak tighter around himself as he walked through the throng, ignoring the press of bodies around him. Normally, he had to scrounge, haggle, and fight for every silver coin he spent. But today? Today was different. Today, he had no limit. A merchant near him shouted, his voice hoarse from hours of barking. "Strong backs for strong work! Good Romelian stock! Look at this one¡ªno scars, no deformities, fit for anything! 9 silver to start¡ªdon¡¯t insult me with less!" Another bellowed from a platform, standing beside a man with hair the color of honey. "A rare beauty! Think of the prices he¡¯ll fetch in the right market! Gentle hands, a piece of meat, 15 silverii ! Bartos barely heard them. The weight of the coin pouch at his belt should have been comforting¡ªshould have made him feel powerful. But it didn¡¯t. It wasn¡¯t his money, and the weight of it felt heavier than coin had any right to be. He had no idea who the coin belonged to. No name, no face.The only thing he knew was that they had his family. His jaw clenched as he walked, eyes scanning the rows of captives. Somewhere among this wretched sea of misery was what he had been sent to find. Bartos came to a halt in front of a stocky man with a thick, greased beard and a tunic stained with sweat and old wine. The merchant stood behind a row of gaunt, sunburnt men, their wrists bound in front of them, their eyes hollow from exhaustion. Bartos wasted no time. "Which of these are sailors?" he asked, voice clipped. The merchant¡¯s grin was wide and yellow. "Sailors?" He scoffed. "Oh, you don¡¯t want sailors, friend. I¡¯ve got strong backs here! Fighters¡ªthe best of the Romelian dogs who put up a real struggle before we took ¡¯em down. They¡¯ll serve you well, break ¡¯em right and¡ª" Bartos cut him off with a sharp glare. "Are you deaf?" he snapped. "I asked for sailors, not warriors. I don¡¯t need men who swing swords¡ªI need ones who can tie a proper knot and know a rudder from their own ass." The merchant¡¯s grin faltered. He scratched at his greasy beard before shrugging. "Aye, got some of those. Eighty-three of ¡¯em, fresh from the wrecks." Bartos exhaled through his nose. "I¡¯ll take them all." The merchant¡¯s eyebrows lifted slightly, but he wasn¡¯t fool enough to look surprised. He pulled out a small slate and began scratching rough numbers onto it with a stub of chalk, murmuring to himself. Finally, he looked up. "Five hundred eighty-one silverii," he said smoothly. "But since you¡¯re clearing out a full lot, let¡¯s call it five-seventy. Consider it a gesture of goodwill." Bartos didn¡¯t care for goodwill, but he did care about saving time. He reached into his cloak and pulled out six small bundles wrapped in coarse cloth, dropping them into the merchant¡¯s outstretched hands with a dull thud. The merchant grunted at the weight, setting them down on a nearby crate. He peeled one open, revealing neat stacks of gleaming silverii. His lips curled into an appreciative grin. "Hundred in each," Bartos said flatly. "I expect thirty back." The merchant cracked his knuckles before opening another bundle, his fingers working quickly as he counted out the silverii one by one. The coins clinked softly as they stacked atop each other, his lips moving silently as he kept track of the numbers. When he reached one hundred, he set the bundle aside and pulled another closer, repeating the process with the same methodical care. By the time he finished counting the second bundle, he nodded and scooped out thirty silverii, handing them back to Bartos. "There," he said, tucking the rest into a leather pouch at his waist. "That settles it. But I¡¯ve got other goods too, you know I-." Bartos, slipping the returned silver into his own cloak, tilted his head. "Would you like to make more coins?" The merchant raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Always," he admitted. "Depends on the deal." Bartos leaned in slightly. "I need another two hundred and twenty sailors. If you can find merchants willing to part with them, I¡¯ll pay you a fee of one hundred silverii." The merchant¡¯s eyes gleamed with interest. "And," Bartos continued, "if it works out, we can repeat this deal twice next week¡ªfor three hundred men each time." The merchant scratched his chin, clearly considering the offer. "That¡¯s a lot of bodies to pull together," he muttered, rolling the numbers over in his head. After a moment, he exhaled through his nose and gave a slow nod. "I¡¯ll see what I can find for now." He turned to one of his helpers, a wiry young man who had been lounging nearby. "Go around the market, find Vorti , Rashin and Vrisk ," he ordered. "Ask who¡¯s got sailors to sell. If they do, bring them here." The helper didn¡¯t hesitate. He got up with a nod and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Bartos and the merchant to wait. The merchant clicked his tongue, glancing at Bartos with a curious smirk. "That¡¯s a lot of sailors you¡¯re buying up. You got a ship to put them on, or are you just collecting them for decoration?" Bartos turned his head slowly, his gaze like a dagger slipping between the merchant¡¯s ribs. "Do you want answers," he asked, his voice flat, "or do you want coins?" The merchant blinked, then raised his hands in mock surrender. "My mistake," he said quickly. "Didn¡¯t mean to pry." He shifted his weight and cleared his throat, suddenly far more interested in the bustling market around them. The two men stood in silence as they waited, the merchant idly rubbing his thumb over a silver coin while his eyes flicked toward the crowd, watching for his helper to return, not knowing that the sailors he was currently selling would one work for one of the player who in the future would fight for control of this sea, as the area around Harmway would in the future be in a tornado of chaos. Chapter 441: The road after winter Chapter 441: The road after winter Winter passed gently through the lands of Yarzat, its presence felt more in the crispness of the air than in any true harshness. There was no snow to blanket the fields, no ice to seal the rivers, only the subtle shift in the wind and the shorter days that reminded the people of the season¡¯s passing. The mornings carried a bite, and the nights were cooler, but the midday sun still warmed the earth, ensuring that life never truly paused, only slowed. Now, as February crept forward, winter¡¯s grip loosened further. The days stretched longer, and the first hints of spring stirred in the land. The trees, which had shed only a few leaves in the mild chill, now seemed to swell with anticipation, their branches heavy with budding life. Green shoots poked through the soil, eager to claim the sunlight. The scent of damp earth filled the air as the first rains of the season softened the roads and fields. The people of Yarzat were already preparing. Farmers inspected their lands, readying their tools and livestock for the labor ahead. Traders grew busier, their routes soon to open further as warmer days encouraged travel. In the villages, children ran barefoot through the fields, no longer shivering in the morning air, while the elderly sat outside their homes, feeling the change in the wind and speaking of how spring was nearly upon them. For the common folk of Yarzat, especially those within the Crownlands, winter had nearly passed without much to remark upon. No wars had come to darken their fields, no campaigns had called their sons to battle, and no blight had struck their crops. It was, by all accounts, a season of peace and quiet¡ªa rare thing in these lands, and one that many took as a blessing. The granaries remained full, the roads were safe with no bandits that could be found, much thanks to the regular patrol of the White Army residing on the land. Life went on as it always did, with the people tending to their work, their families, and their simple joys. But for those who looked beyond the ordinary, it had been a winter filled with surprises. The most celebrated of these was the birth of Basil, the firstborn child of Jasmine and Alpheo. The news had spread swiftly through the capital and beyond, carrying with it a mixture of joy, relief, and curiosity. A royal heir was always cause for celebration, but this birth held a deeper significance, at least for Alpheo.As of right now, his position in the state was firmly planted onto stones, as with a child born between them, any annulment of the marriage was impossible, something that could have instead happened during the first months of his rule if the nobles had actually banded together to put a stop to the union. At the same time, great change had been set into motion in the western Crownlands. The long-discussed settlement plans had finally begun, and more than two thousand tribesmen had made their homes there. They had come from the rugged highlands , men and women who had once lived by the rule of their own chiefs, now swearing loyalty to the crown. But for now, they worked the land, built their homes, and adapted to their new lives by the sea, learning the ways of farming and fishing . So, while the fields lay undisturbed and the people rested through an uneventful winter, the princedom itself was quietly reshaping. During these months of peace, the kingdom¡¯s treasury had quietly swelled, rising from the modest 7,000 silverii of August to a far more comfortable 25,000 silverii by February. On the expenditure side, the military remained the largest drain on the treasury. The recent expansion of the fleet had been particularly costly, with its maintenance alone demanding a staggering 3,000 silverii per month. This, combined with the standing army¡¯s wages, equipment upkeep, and logistical costs, had pushed the military budget up to 9,535 silverii per month. Yet, for all the spending, the kingdom¡¯s economy was flourishing. The production of key trade goods¡ªsoap, cider, and paper¡ªhad surged. Soap and cider, ever in high demand across the region, had seen an impressive 50% increase in output, while paper, though a more specialized commodity, had still managed to grow by 22% thanks mostly to their sale to the Romelians. These industries, combined with various other economic activities, brought in a steady flow of wealth, leading to an estimated monthly income of 3,800 silverii. With the practical aspects of resettlement complete, what remained were the far trickier political and administrative matters. A slew of edicts had to be carefully reviewed and issued, ensuring that the integration of the new settlers proceeded smoothly¡ªat least on paper. One of the most pressing concerns was the legal groundwork defining land ownership within the new settlement. After much deliberation, it was decided that the tribesmen would own the land they worked, granting them personal stake and stability. However, their chief, Torghan, would hold only administrative and executive authority¡ªmeaning he could oversee governance but had no right to levy taxes or draft his own laws. Powers which were held firmly in the hands of the nobility, as they did across the rest of the realm. Furthermore, the position of chief would not be hereditary¡ªat least not officially. Torghan¡¯s son would have no automatic claim to his father¡¯s title, ensuring that leadership remained subject to royal discretion. Of course, Alpheo was not blind to the realities of power. He had no qualms about adjusting the arrangement in the future if it suited his interests. But for now, the rules were set, and the foundations of the settlement¡¯s governance were laid. Torghan¡¯s people had settled in well. Their homes were already completed, sturdy wooden structures that offered far more comfort than the tents and huts they had known before. The land had been tilled and prepared, lying in wait for spring when the first crops of grain, oats, and barley would be sown. Everything had gone according to plan¡ªso far. To ensure the integration went smoothly, Alpheo had dispatched men to educate the settlers, teaching them the language of their new home while also making it clear which laws they were expected to follow. There would be no misunderstandings, no excuses. And, of course, Alpheo did not leave things to chance. He had demanded constant reports on the situation, delivered in careful detail by the very men he had sent to oversee the settlement. One such letter was now in his hands, the parchment crisp and the ink fresh. He leaned back in his chair, scanning the words that painted a picture of the fledgling settlement¡ªone that, for now, seemed to be thriving. Among the many matters demanding Alpheo¡¯s attention, one particularly satisfying success stood out¡ªthe ransom of 900 Romelian sailors captured after the disastrous battle for Harmway. The Romelians had lost, their fleet sent to the depths, and their men taken as spoils of war. Normally, such captives would have been sold off like cattle, mostly as either rowing slaves for the new ships they had captured or as slaves for the mines, where they would be put to work until death claimed them. But Alpheo had intervened. At least for 900 of those lucky few. Yarzat¡¯s navy, though growing in size, still lacked one crucial thing: experience. No matter how many ships he built, a fleet was only as strong as the men who sailed it, and raw recruits could not be expected to match seasoned Romelian mariners. So the moment the sailors were ransomed, they were put straight to work. As for the sailords in particular , knowing that things went well for them especially considering the alternative, they mostly obeyed the new status quo. If they wanted to live, they would row, sail, and fight under Yarzat¡¯s banner. Alpheo leaned back in his chair, exhaling as he placed the letter aside. One problem solved, at least, he reasoned . The fleet had the sailors it needed, and with time, Yarzat¡¯s navy would no longer be filled with green recruits barely able to tie a proper knot. But as always, when one issue was dealt with, another took its place. His mind drifted to the broker¡ªthe man who had arranged the ransom, whose name he barely cared to remember. By all rights, the wretch should have been in chains by now, rotting in the depths of a galley, oar in hand, rowing until his body gave out. As for his family? The law was clear. Those who consorted with pirates forfeited their freedom. Slavery was the only fate that awaited them. Pirates, slavers, and men who deal in flesh. That¡¯s all he is. I should have no hesitation who knows how many of the things he dealt with came from my land? Yet, as Alpheo weighed the man¡¯s fate, another thought crept in. The very reason he deserved death might also be the very reason he was worth keeping alive. A man with ties to pirate merchants, one who could walk onto islands crawling with Confederation-aligned cutthroats without raising suspicion, was not something to discard so easily. How many spies could claim to walk freely among the enemy? To enter their dens and leave without so much as a second glance? Having an agent who could move through those waters mostly unharmed was an advantage few could claim. I would be a fool to waste that.Plus, I still hold his family , so I am sure that he will do whatever it is asked of him.... And so, in a twist of fate, the very crime that should have sealed the broker¡¯s doom became the key to his survival, with Alpheo gaining another piece in his growing web of intelligence. An organization that in the meantime, was already at work, gathering fragments of information that, when pieced together, painted a grim and unsettling picture of the future Alpheo would soon have to navigate in . As soon Yarzat would be on his way to fight for the right to exist in the greatest crisis that they would have ever faced, and it what would be known in history as the First Coalition War... Chapter 442: A work to remember Chapter 442: A work to remember Alpheo stood outside the palace of Yarzat, gazing up at the newly completed aqueduct¡ªa feat of engineering that had taken ten long months of labor to finish. The structure stretched across the landscape, carrying fresh water into the heart of the city. Finally, after nearly a year of planning, construction, and setbacks, the work was done. Beside him stood Pontius, the Romelian engineer sent by the imperial court at Alpheo¡¯s request. From the very moment he had set foot in Yarzat, Pontius had made it painfully clear that he loathed working here. A backwater princedom? I left the splendor of Romelia for this? He had grumbled endlessly about the dust, the lack of refinement, and most of all, the stench¡ªan ever-present complaint that made even the most patient workers roll their eyes behind his back. But all that disdain had vanished the moment he had been given the task of constructing an aqueduct. At that, his entire demeanor had changed. Pontius had practically giggled with excitement, rubbing his hands together like a child given a toy. It was well known among engineers that if one wanted to be remembered¡ªtruly remembered¡ªone had to build an aqueduct. Bridges, roads, even fortifications were respectable, but nothing showcased the grandeur of engineering like a structure that carried life-giving water over vast distances. Of course, he was also delighted by the idea that this project might finally put an end to the godawful stench he had spent months complaining about. Now, as the final stones had been laid and water flowed freely through the channels, Pontius stood with an air of smug satisfaction, as if he alone had brought civilization to this forsaken land. Unlike the grand aqueducts of Romelia, where water was masterfully guided into the city through a series of precisely engineered pontini, using gravity to distribute it seamlessly to various districts, the project in Yarzat had to be much more... practical. Money was tight¡ªtoo tight for the level of finesse that Romelians were accustomed to¡ªso compromises had to be made. After all, one cannot spend silver that does not exist. Instead of a sprawling underground network of pipes and reservoirs, the engineers had to rely on a simpler yet still effective design. The pontini were used solely to bridge the elevation gap between the water¡¯s source and the land toward the city. From there, rather than meticulously channeling the water , they opted for a more direct approach¡ªa massive open canal, wide enough to transport large volumes of water straight into the city¡¯s main square. Of course, this was easier said than done. Unlike laying pipes beneath the streets, carving a canal straight through a bustling city was a brutal endeavor. Buildings stood in the way¡ªhomes, workshops, and even a few small shrines¡ªall of which had to be torn down to ensure that the water¡¯s path remained straight and unobstructed. When the work was finally done, a canal two meters deep and one meter wide now cut through Yarzat like a fresh scar, bringing in the much-needed water. It flowed steadily to the square, where a few simple public fountains had been set up¡ªnothing grand, just enough for people to drink from and wash their hands and faces. It was far from the level of sophistication seen in Romelia, but for Yarzat, it was a revolution. The sound of flowing water filled the square as Alpheo stood before one of the newly built public fountains, its steady stream glistening under the midday sun. Around him, his guards kept the space clear, ensuring the prince had room to move freely. People pushed against each other trying to get a glimpse of the prince . A few steps away, Pontius, the Romelian engineer responsible for the project, stood with an eager yet restrained expression, waiting for his prince to speak. Alpheo turned his gaze from the fountain to the engineer and gave a nod of approval. "You have done well, Pontius," he said, his tone carrying the weight of genuine appreciation. "This is fine work." Pontius immediately bowed, his hands clasped before him. "Your Grace, it was an honor," he said, his voice filled with the rare satisfaction that only an engineer who had left his mark on a city could understand. He hesitated for a moment before continuing, "If I may?" Alpheo gave him a brief look before waving a hand. "Go on." Pontius straightened, his enthusiasm bubbling to the surface. "This is a great step forward for Yarzat, no doubt, but there is still much to be done," he said. "The city¡ª" "I know," Alpheo interrupted, rubbing his temple as if already anticipating where this conversation would go. "But you must understand, this work alone devoured nearly 45,000 silverii." Pontius spread his arms in a gesture of insistence. "Silver well spent, Your Grace. This aqueduct will serve the people for centuries! What is a few months¡¯ treasury in exchange for something that will outlive us all?" Alpheo exhaled sharply, his lips curving slightly in amusement. "I will not argue with you on that. I was the one who called for this project, after all." He turned his gaze back to the fountain, watching as a child ran up to cup water in his hands. "But unfortunately, there are more pressing matters at hand right now. The city must wait." Pontius sighed, clearly unsatisfied but wise enough not to press the issue further. "Of course, Your Grace," he said, bowing again. Alpheo let his gaze drift across the square, watching as the people cautiously looked at the new fountain, some still in awe that clean water now flowed freely within the city. He exhaled through his nose before speaking again. "In the future," he said, his voice measured, "I plan to improve the city further¡ªmost importantly, a proper sewer system. That should finally rid this place of the stench of filth for good." His expression darkened slightly. "No more streets reeking of waste, no more foul-smelling air choking the alleys. Yarzat will be a city fit to be lived in." Pontius¡¯s eyes lit up, and for the first time in the conversation, a broad grin split his face. "Ah! Now that is something worth waiting for, Your Grace," he said with almost childlike excitement. "The day you call upon me for that task, I will be more than ready." Alpheo smirked. "I don¡¯t doubt it. But for now, contain yourself, Pontius. I am not made of silver." Pontius chuckled "A pity, Your Grace.¡¯¡¯ Alpheo crossed his arms, glancing once more at the canal that now cut through the city. "In the meantime," he said, turning back to Pontius, "you may study the city¡¯s infrastructure and determine the best way to construct a proper sewer system when the time comes. I want the filth gone for good, but I also want to know the most efficient way to do it." Pontius nodded eagerly. "Of course, Your Grace. And perhaps my pupils may learn from the study as well." Alpheo raised an eyebrow. "Speaking of them, how are they doing?" Pontius straightened with a bit of pride. "Eager to learn, Your Grace. Give them a few years, and they will be full-fledged engineers. When that day comes, they will be at your service, ready to take on whatever grand project you set before them." Alpheo nodded approvingly. "That is a good thing. A city cannot grow without men who know how to build it." Pontius smiled. "And I assure you, Your Grace, I will see to it that they are trained well. Yarzat will not lack for engineers under my watch." In just a year, Pontius had transformed the city¡¯s defenses. The walls, once crumbling in places, had been reinforced and taken care of, ensuring they could withstand a proper siege. But he had not stopped there. Under his direction, new platforms had been added to the fortifications¡ªflat, sturdy extensions designed to hold onagers. These siege weapons were carefully fixed to the stone, compact enough to avoid too large fireback yet powerful enough to unleash destruction on any attacker. With a thousand defenders, I could hold this city against a force six times our number without breaking a sweat. He had thought when he laid eyes on the new defenses He had also taken no chances in ensuring the city was prepared for war. The capital had been steadily stocked with chainmail and weapons, ready for a mass enlistment if ever the need arose. Enormous piles of stone had been gathered for the onagers¡ªafter all, in a siege, a fortress was only as strong as its supply of ammunition. Yarzat was no Romelia, but it was becoming something just as valuable¡ªa city that could endure. And in uncertain times, endurance was the key to survival What Alpheo did not know¡ªwhat no prince would ever wish to imagine¡ªwas that one day, these very fortifications would stand between his city and ruin. No ruler ever hoped to see their capital under siege. No sovereign ever desired to hear the thunder of war drums echoing against their walls or to watch their people cower beneath the shadow of an invading army. But fate cared little for the desires of rulers. And in the days that were to come, when the storm finally arrived, it would be the walls that Pontius had rebuilt, the onagers that had been carefully mounted, and the weapons stockpiled in the armories that would make the difference between survival and annihilation. . 4o Chapter 443: Falling into the abyss(1) Chapter 443: Falling into the abyss(1) In the stillness of a moonless night, a lone figure stumbled through the great green plains outside the city of Yarzat. Out here, in the quiet embrace of the open land, there was only the sound of shuffling boots, the occasional snap of a twig underfoot, and the gentle slosh of golden liquid against lips Sir Robert¡ªno, Lord Robert now¡ªclutched the bottle of court-issued cider with a white-knuckled grip. The finest vintage, they had called it, gifted in honor of his elevation. A castle of his own, sprawling lands, villages teeming with peasants to tax and rule¡ªa dream for most knights, especially for one who had once held only a poor village as his fief. By all accounts, he should have been elated. Instead, each step felt heavier than the last, as if the weight of his new title had shackled him, dragging him deeper into a mire of doubt. He paused, bracing himself against a low stone wall, the rough edges biting into his palm. With his other hand, he raked through his disheveled hair, breathing hard. He had sold everything that once defined him¡ªhis honor, his loyalty, his very soul¡ªnot for wealth or ambition, but for something far more fragile. Family. The word sat like a shard of glass in his chest, its edges twisting with every shallow breath. He lifted the bottle to his lips again, hoping to drown the taste of regret. The cider burned sweetly down his throat, but the bitterness in his heart remained. From the city, laughter drifted through the air, mingled with honeyed words that praised the princess and her consort. The people called them saviors now¡ªPrincess Jasmine, the jewel of the realm, and Alpheo, Yarzat¡¯s Fox. Their names were spoken with reverence, their rule lauded as just and strong. It churned his stomach. What was there to praise? He clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the bottle¡¯s neck. A cur who betrayed and butchered his own employer? A whore who warmed the bed of her father¡¯s murderer, while his blood had barely dried on the blade? He spat to the side, as if the very thought had soured the cider on his tongue. What honor lies in that? What generosity? What glory? He raised the bottle again, but this time, the burn of the drink wasn¡¯t enough to suppress the bile rising in his throat. He turned abruptly and retched, the cider splattering onto the damp grass below. His breaths came ragged, his chest heaving with more than just nausea. But even as disgust filled him, a deeper, uglier thought slithered in. Who am I to judge them? The question festered, gnawing at the edges of his mind. Had he not been the first to betray his prince? Had it not been his hands that gripped the blade in service of the usurper? His voice that swore fealty to a stolen crown? His silence that permitted a daughter to forsake her father¡¯s memory in the arms of the very man who had slit his throat? He had told himself, time and again, that it was survival. That it was the natural course of things¡ªthe strong prevailed, the weak perished. But that was a lie, wasn¡¯t it? He knew it in his bones. He should have stood beside Lord Ormund the moment Jasmine swore herself to Alpheo. He should have refused, even if it cost him everything. But he hadn¡¯t. Because he couldn¡¯t. Because they had his son. The thought struck like a hammer, knocking the breath from his lungs. His vision blurred for a moment, and he wasn¡¯t in the fields anymore¡ªhe was back in the cold stone halls of the palace, where his boy¡¯s wide, terrified eyes met his across the chamber. Just a precaution, Lord Robert. Just to ensure your cooperation. The words had been spoken with a smile, wrapped in velvet and deceit, he could have killed that boy if he did not fear the consequences. That was the price of his silence. That was the weight of his betrayal. Not gold, not land, not even his own life. His son. And so he had knelt. He had spoken the words of fealty. He had raised a cup to the new regime, watched them toast in return, and let them call him lord. Now, here he was, alone in the fields with only his shame and a bottle of fine cider to keep him company. He let out a bitter laugh, empty and hollow. A knight of the crown, a traitor to his prince, a lord by decree¡ªwhat was he, truly? He didn¡¯t know anymore. The night stretched endlessly before him, offering no answers. Only silence. And the weight of what he had done. All the hells of the gods wouldn¡¯t be enough for my sins. The thought clawed at Robert¡¯s mind as he stared at the three figures before him¡ªphantoms of memory, ghosts of his failures. He wasn¡¯t blind. He saw exactly what he had become: a man forever with a drink in hand, poisoning himself one swallow at a time. His gaze dropped to the bottle, the amber liquid swirling in the dim light. A poor man¡¯s solace, a coward¡¯s crutch. How many nights had he drowned himself in it, hoping to quiet the voices, to soften the jagged edges of regret? And yet, every morning, he woke with the same gnawing ache in his gut, the same weight on his chest, heavier than any armor he had ever worn. His grip on the bottle tightened. Ahead of him stood a gnarled old tree, its branches stretching toward the sky like skeletal fingers. He stared at it, unblinking. Then, his eyes lowered to his other hand. The rope lay coiled in his palm like a serpent. Wouldn¡¯t it be easier to just disappear? The thought crept in unbidden, whispering its cruel logic. It had been there before, lingering in the corners of his mind during sleepless nights, lurking in the bottom of every empty bottle. But this time, it didn¡¯t slink away. This time, it held fast. No one would miss me. His breath hitched at the thought. My own son¡ª the words caught in his throat, bitter as bile, ¡ªlicks the feet of those who once used him as a leash around my neck. He almost laughed. Almost. What good was a family like that? What good was a man like him, still walking the earth, dragging his shame behind him like an anchor? After everything he had done, everything he had betrayed, what right did he have to still breathe, to still exist in the dirt and dust? Robert exhaled slowly, setting the bottle down with a dull clink against the earth. His hands shook slightly, whether from drink or from something deeper, he couldn¡¯t say. Slowly, methodically, he began to tie a knot. The fraying fibers scraped against his calloused palms, rough and unyielding, much like the life he had led. He stood, the rope coiled in his grip like fate itself. His legs felt sluggish, leaden, as if each step forward carried him deeper into some dark, inevitable abyss. With a slow exhale, he began to climb. The trunk was rough beneath his fingers, his boots scraping against the bark as he pulled himself up. He ascended carefully, deliberately, each movement measured. When he reached a sturdy branch, thick and unyielding, he swung himself onto it, straddling it like a rider atop a mount. He gazed down. The ground swam in shadow, the world below lost in darkness. A fitting end. He tied one end of the rope around the branch, pulling it tight, testing its strength. The fibers groaned beneath the strain, but they held firm. He stared at his work for a long moment, breath shallow, heart steady. Then, slowly, he fashioned the other end into a noose. And as he slipped it over his head, tightening the loop, the night around him was silent. Waiting. Robert sat perched on the branch, the rough rope dangling in his grasp like a serpent coiled to strike. His gaze drifted toward the horizon, the wind whispered through the great green plains, carrying the scent of earth and distant fires, but it did nothing to still the storm within him. A soft sigh escaped his lips, his breath shuddering as the knot rested heavily in his palm. He looped the noose around his neck, tightening it with trembling fingers. The coarse fibers bit into his skin, a cruel reminder of what was to come. His heart pounded against his ribs, each beat a drum of finality, urging him forward¡ªyet his hands hesitated. Not out of fear, but something else. A lingering whisper in the depths of his mind. "If I have any words left in me," he whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible over the rustling of the evening breeze, "this would be the time." His throat tightened. He had always been a man of action, a man of steel and duty, not of words. But if there was ever a moment to speak, it was now. "This is it, then," he muttered, his voice cracking like brittle glass. The weight of his sins bore down upon him, heavier than armor, heavier than steel. His vision blurred as unshed tears welled in his eyes. "Forgive me, my prince," he begged, his voice shaking as he bowed his head. "For what I¡¯ve done. For betraying your trust. For selling your honor for my own selfish needs." A tear slipped down his cheek, lost to the wind. "There were... there were so many things I wanted to say," he murmured, his voice raw with grief. "So many truths I should have spoken, and now I¡¯ll never have the chance. I¡¯ll carry them into silence." He looked up, searching the heavens for something¡ªanything. But the stars had not yet appeared, and the sky above him was an endless expanse of nothing. "I don¡¯t know if I¡¯m going where you are," he continued, his voice thick with sorrow. "But if I¡¯m not... if I¡¯m to wander some darker place, I beg for your understanding. I... I did what I thought I had to." The rope grew heavier around his neck as his shoulders sagged under the weight of his words. The sun dipped below the horizon, and the world around him faded into twilight. Robert closed his eyes, his final plea carried away on the wind. Then¡ª A flicker of light. Robert squinted as a sudden glow pierced the encroaching darkness. He winced, raising a hand to shield his eyes as he peered down at the source. Below, a lone figure held a torch aloft, its flickering glow casting long shadows against the gnarled trunk of the tree. The light caught Robert¡¯s face, illuminating his haggard features¡ªthe unshaven stubble, the sunken eyes, the noose taut around his throat. The man below tilted his head, his expression unreadable in the wavering firelight. "If you¡¯re a looter," Robert rasped, his voice laced with bitterness, "you can wait until I jump. My coin¡¯s easier to take off a corpse." The stranger chuckled softly. It was not a cruel laugh, nor mocking¡ªjust a warm, knowing sound. "A looter? No," he said. His voice was calm, steady. "I¡¯m a man of the gods." Robert let out a dry, humorless scoff. "If you¡¯re after a donation, you can wait too. The contents of my pockets will be yours soon enough." The priest did not move. He simply watched Robert, his torchlight dancing across the twisted branches. "I¡¯m not here for coin, my son," he said, his tone measured but insistent. "But my old neck isn¡¯t what it used to be. Can we have this conversation with you on the ground?" "I wish to be alone," Robert muttered, his voice hardening as he turned his face away. The priest didn¡¯t flinch. "And I¡¯ll grant you that," he said evenly. "But only if you step down first. These old bones don¡¯t take kindly to craning upward. I would like to speak with you face to face." A pause. Then, softer: "I swear, after that, I will leave you to your own fate. I only ask that you hear me out." Robert hesitated. He glanced down at the priest, now clearer in the fire¡¯s glow¡ªa man past his prime but not yet frail, with weary eyes that held neither judgment nor pity, only patience. The priest met his gaze. Then, in a voice quieter but no less firm, he added pointedly: "Without the rope." Chapter 444: Falling into the abyss(2) Chapter 444: Falling into the abyss(2) Robert stared down at the priest, whose torch was now lowered, the warm light casting a soft glow over the man¡¯s features. His hair was white, cut short, a stark contrast to his amiable face¡ªone lined with age yet absent of weariness. A quiet understanding lingered in the mirthful curve of his lips, in the steady gaze of his brown eyes. There was no judgment there. No pity. Only patience. Something about that patience made Robert¡¯s shoulders sag under its weight. With a deep sigh, he reached up, fingers fumbling briefly before he loosened the knot at his throat. The rope slithered away, the coarse fibers scraping against his skin one last time before it hung limp around his shoulders. "Fine," he muttered, more to himself than to the priest. "But make it quick. I¡¯ve no patience for sermons." His descent was slow, boots scraping against the bark as he made his way down. The noose still dangled from the branch above, swaying idly in the wind as Robert stepped onto the earth once more. His feet felt heavier than before. The priest stood motionless, his expression unchanged as the torchlight flickered between them. Robert¡¯s patience, already stretched thin, snapped. "Well?" he barked, throwing out a hand. "Talk, damn you! Say whatever wisdom you¡¯ve come here to share and let me get back to my business." The priest tilted his head slightly, his calm demeanor unshaken. "You said you didn¡¯t want a sermon," he said evenly, "and honestly, I¡¯ve got nothing prepared. I¡¯m no great speaker, just a man who walks the path the gods laid for me. I am but a simple man." Robert¡¯s scowl deepened, but the priest continued as if he hadn¡¯t noticed. "Truth is, it just didn¡¯t sit right to turn my back after seeing a man on the end of a rope. Men spend their whole lives searching for signs, asking the gods for guidance. Who¡¯s to say this isn¡¯t one? Maybe for you. Maybe for me. Only the gods know." He adjusted his grip on the torch, its warm glow illuminating the lines of his face. "If I¡¯m being honest," he admitted, "perhaps this is my first test. The gods might be asking me if I am worthy of their path, or if I¡¯ve lost my way and should not proceed. And maybe¡ªjust maybe¡ªthis moment is a sign for you too." He nodded toward the tree, his expression unreadable. "Either way, I couldn¡¯t just walk away." "A sign for me?" Robert scoffed, folding his arms across his chest. "The gods have nothing to say to me, priest. If they did once, they no longer do." He gestured at himself with a bitter, humorless laugh. "A drunk. A traitor. A fool. What use would the gods have for a man like that?" The priest studied him for a long moment, then smiled¡ªsmall, knowing. "Funny thing about the gods," he said quietly. "They don¡¯t tend to choose the righteous." The priest tilted his head, his expression calm and unreadable. "Do you think the gods only speak to those that are already one the high road?" Robert let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "In the stories, they do. Not men like me." His voice turned bitter. "If the gods had anything to say, they¡¯re too late. I doubt they even listen anymore." The priest raised his torch slightly, its flickering light casting long shadows across Robert¡¯s face, accentuating the weariness etched into his features. "Oh, they listen," he said, his voice steady. "They are always here. Not to rewrite the past, but to see what you do next." Robert barked out another laugh, this one tinged with hysteria. "Next?" He gestured wildly at the noose, still dangling from the branch. "There is no ¡¯next¡¯ for me! Every breath I take is borrowed from a debt I can never repay." The priest watched him for a long moment, then let the torch dip slightly. The flames danced in Robert¡¯s hollow eyes. "A debt," he murmured. "To whom?" Robert¡¯s jaw tightened. His fists clenched at his sides, then relaxed, as if the strength had drained from him entirely. The words came unbidden, rasping and raw. "To a benefactor. To someone who deserved better than what I gave." The priest¡¯s expression softened, though his gaze never wavered. "Are they still alive?" Robert let out a bitter, broken laugh. "No. He¡¯s gone. Taken by the same man I couldn¡¯t stop... The same man I couldn¡¯t fight then, and can¡¯t fight now." The priest studied him, tilting his head slightly. "And do you believe you betrayed him?" Robert swallowed hard, staring at the ground. "I don¡¯t know," he whispered. "Not with a blade in the back, but with my cowardice.Not by action but from lack of it. I should have avenged him. I should have done something. But I let his killer walk free." His voice cracked. "I failed him when it mattered most, and now I have no power to make it right." The priest stepped closer, his voice quiet but firm. "I¡¯m no saint. I have no miracles, no sacred words that will erase your guilt. I¡¯m just a man, like you. And I can tell you this¡ªno god, no priest, no stranger can carry the weight of your soul. That burden is yours alone." He lifted the torch slightly, its warm glow washing over them both. "The only thing I can offer you is a choice. The past is set in stone, but what happens next? That belongs to you. Maybe the gods brought me here, or maybe they didn¡¯t. Maybe this moment is nothing more than chance. But if there¡¯s even the smallest chance that there¡¯s more for you to do, wouldn¡¯t it be a shame to walk away from it?" Robert scowled faintly, his lip curling. "Another sermon?" The priest chuckled, a dry, knowing sound. "Not a sermon. Just this moment." He stepped back, raising the torch higher. "I¡¯ll come back in the morning. If you¡¯re still here, well... perhaps you¡¯ve found a reason to stay. If not..." He glanced at the tree, his expression solemn. "I¡¯ll see to it that you get a proper burial.That much i think you deserve" He turned, his simple robes swaying as he strode into the night, the glow of his torch fading with each step. Robert stood beneath the darkened sky, the silence pressing in. The noose hung loosely in his grip, its weight different now¡ªnot heavier, not lighter. Just... changed. ------------------------------ Robert ran. The forest was endless, a maze of twisted trees that loomed over him like silent sentinels, their gnarled branches clawing at the sky. The darkness was thick, pressing against him from all sides, broken only by the pale slivers of moonlight that flickered through the canopy. His breath came ragged, his legs burned, but he could not stop¡ªnot with the howling behind him. It wasn¡¯t the cry of wolves. No, this was something else. Something worse. The sound slithered through the trees, echoing in unnatural ways, as if the forest itself whispered his doom. Run. His boots pounded against the damp earth, kicking up dead leaves and tangled roots. The air was thick with the scent of rot, of damp wood and something foul, something wrong. His heart slammed against his ribs, urging him forward, faster, always faster. Then the ground vanished. Robert pitched forward, his body bracing for the hard impact of dirt and stone¡ªbut it never came. Instead, he fell into grasping hands. Thousands of them. They burst from the earth, pale and writhing, their fingers cold as they latched onto his limbs, his chest, his throat. They pulled, dragging him down into the shifting mass of flesh and bone. He thrashed, twisted, kicked, but the hands did not loosen. They climbed his body, nails scraping against his skin, twisting into his hair, covering his mouth¡ª Robert screamed¡ªor tried to. The sound was muffled as fingers forced their way past his lips, pressing against his tongue, choking him with the taste of dirt and decay. He bucked violently, his mind roaring in panic, but it was useless. The more he fought, the deeper he sank. The howling grew louder. Closer. Through the mass of writhing limbs, he saw shapes moving in the darkness. Tall, hunched figures, their glowing eyes burning like embers in the void. They were coming. And the hands kept pulling. The hands gave way. For the briefest moment, Robert felt weightless, his body no longer being pulled downward, no longer suffocating in the sea of grasping limbs. But relief was fleeting. The darkness peeled away, and in its place, fire erupted. It was not the flickering warmth of a hearth, nor the controlled blaze of a torch. This was fire unchained, wild and ravenous, a monstrous inferno that stretched endlessly before him. The air boiled, thick with the stench of burning flesh. People screamed¡ªa chorus of agony so raw, so wretched, that it carved into Robert¡¯s very bones. They burned. Skin blistered and cracked, splitting apart like overripe fruit. Flesh sloughed off in bubbling sheets, exposing sinew and blackened bone beneath. Eyes swelled, melted, ran down their faces like wax. They clawed at themselves, at each other, at the fire that would not relent. Among them, Robert saw him. Arkawatt. The prince he had once sworn to serve stood amidst the flames, his regal robes reduced to smoldering rags, his golden crown half-melted into his charred scalp. His mouth hung open in a silent scream, his lips burned away, his teeth exposed like the grinning maw of a corpse. And yet, the hands were not done with him. They rose again, stretching out from the inferno, latching onto Arkawatt¡¯s arms, his legs, his shoulders. They pulled, lifting him higher, higher¡ªyet they did nothing to stop the fire. The flames clung to him, consuming, devouring, but they would not let him die. His eyes¡ªhollow, melted pits¡ªturned toward Robert. And he spoke. Or perhaps he screamed. "Forgive me! " he begged, his hands trembling as he reached toward the burning prince. "I had no choice! They had my son¡ªmy only son!" But Arkawatt did not hear him. Or if he did, he gave no sign. He only screamed. A soundless wail, an endless cry of agony that did not cease, did not falter. The hands held him aloft, the fire devoured him whole, but his suffering did not end. His melted eyes did not blink, his ruined mouth did not close. Robert gasped, a sharp breath of horror cutting through him as true fear¡ªpure, soul-deep terror¡ªwrapped around his chest. He scrambled backward, his hands flying to his neck, searching, grasping¡ª The star. The holy symbol, the one thing that could protect him, the one thing that could save him. His fingers found the chain, yanking desperately¡ª But it slipped away. Like mist between his fingers, the star slithered from his grasp. He grabbed again¡ªnothing. His hands clawed at his own throat, shaking, frantic, but the image would not stay in his hands. And then¡ª The hands came for him. Wrapped around his wrists, his ankles, his waist. Cold, pitiless, unyielding, they pulled, dragged, yanked him downward. Toward the fire. Robert thrashed, his screams swallowed by the heat, by the never-ending cries of the damned. He felt the heat licking at his boots, the hands tightening, pulling¡ª "Gods, please!" he sobbed. "Spare me! Save me! Have mercy¡ª!" The fire surged¡ª And he woke up. Gasping, drenched in sweat, Robert¡¯s eyes flew open. His chest heaved, his breath came in ragged bursts, his hands trembling where they clutched at the damp earth beneath him. A soft breeze rustled the leaves above. The golden glow of morning filtered through the branches, dappling his skin with warm, shifting light. Birds chirped in the distance, the gentle hum of life filling the air. He was beneath a tree. A great, beautiful tree, its branches stretching high into the heavens, its roots deep in the cool, forgiving soil. The fire was gone. The screams had faded. But Robert could still feel them. They were not done with him. Chapter 445: Religious matters(1) Chapter 445: Religious matters(1) A lone old man ambled along the dusty road of Yarzat, accompanied by five scruffy boys who trailed obediently behind him. Their clothes were simple¡ªworn tunics and patched trousers that bore the marks of hard work¡ªbut there was a dignity in the way they carried themselves. In his gnarled hand, the old man held a sturdy pole, at the top of which sat a finely carved effigy of the star of the gods, its surface catching the sunlight and glinting like a sacred token. He walked slowly, each step measured and deliberate, as if guided by some divine purpose. The boys frequently offered to help¡ªone would try to steady his load, another would rush forward to clear a path¡ªbut the old man merely smiled and shook his head, continuing on his steady course without a hint of hesitation. Along the road, the people of the city instinctively made way. Shopkeepers paused their trade, travelers stepped aside, and even children playing in the streets fell silent And so he continued onward, the five young boys at his heels, as the city¡¯s inhabitants parted like the sea before a mighty tide. Ahead of the great gates that led to the royal court, Brother Elios came to a halt. The entrance was, as expected, heavily guarded¡ªmen in polished armor standing firm, their hands resting upon the hilts of their swords. Their eyes, quickly fell upon the old man and his young followers. One of the guards, a broad-shouldered man with a gruff voice, stepped forward, raising a hand to halt their advance. "Turn around," he ordered. "Beyond this point is royal ground. No common folk past these gates." Brother Elios did not waver. He lifted his chin slightly, his grip tightening around the wooden pole bearing the effigy of the star. "I am no common folk," he said in a calm, unwavering tone. "I am a priest. My name is Brother Elios." The guard looked him over, skepticism plain on his face. His gaze flicked from the old man¡¯s threadbare robes to the carved star atop his staff. "A priest, you say?" he asked, eyes narrowing. "And what temple claims you?" Brother Elios met his gaze without flinching. "Ordained not by a temple, but by the gods themselves," he said. "I have walked their path for longer than you¡¯ve drawn breath, and today, I humbly request a chance to present my case to the princess." "And why would a priest abandon his temple to come here? The old man smiled faintly, though there was a weight to it¡ªa burden carried for far too long. "Because the gods have called me to do a higher work," he said simply. "And when the gods call, even nobles must listen." Priests occupied a peculiar space within the hierarchy of society. They were neither common folk nor nobility, existing outside the rigid structure that governed the lives of others. Untouched by taxation, bound by their own laws, and judged solely by their fellow priests, they answered to no prince or magistrate in matters of justice. In certain regions, their influence extended beyond the spiritual, as some rulers entrusted them with minor civil duties¡ªtasks deemed too insignificant for the attention of the nobility. Yarzat, however, was not one of those regions. Since Alpheo¡¯s reforms, all matters of administration and law had been placed firmly in the hands of men appointed by the court. No priest held an official role in governance, nor did they serve as mediators in civil disputes. Their influence was limited to the privileges granted by tradition¡ªchief among them the exemption from taxes, the right to be tried by their own, and the rare entitlement to petition the nobility. It was an old custom, one often granted out of politeness rather than obligation. Most of the time, when a priest sought an audience, it was to report the presence of bandits or other disturbances that threatened the peace. And so, while the nobility was under no strict requirement to grant such requests, they usually did¡ªif only because there was rarely another reason for a priest to come knocking at the palace gates. The guard crossed his arms, eyeing the old man and the five youths behind him before exhaling through his nose. "I¡¯ll report your request," he said gruffly. "But you may have to wait. These things take time." His gaze flickered to the pole Elios carried¡ªthe effigy of the Star of the Gods glinting faintly in the morning light. A moment of hesitation passed before his hardened expression softened just a bit. "That thing looks heavy," he admitted. "If you don¡¯t know how long you¡¯ll be waiting, do you want some help with it?" Elios smiled, a warm, knowing thing. "You are kind to ask, young man. But tell me¡ªif I cannot hold onto this measly thing, then how could I call myself a man of the gods?" The guard blinked, then gave a short nod of respect. "Fair enough," he muttered. "I¡¯ll go now." With that, he turned on his heel and strode toward the palace gates, leaving Elios and his young followers to wait under the open sky. ---------------- Jasmine sat on her throne, her expression composed as she listened to yet another petitioner lay out their grievances. The grand hall was filled with murmurs, the air thick with the scent of burning incense, wax, and the faint mustiness of old stone. She had already sat through half a dozen complaints¡ªland disputes, trade grievances, minor squabbles between merchants¡ªand while her patience had not yet frayed, the repetition was beginning to wear on her. For the most part, the number of petitioners coming to court had dwindled compared to previous years. With Alpheo¡¯s reforms firmly in place, most regional matters no longer required the direct intervention of the royal court. Each region now had the authority to judge local disputes, save for those involving the nobility, which remained the jurisdiction of the palace. Additionally, the military restructuring had granted regional governors the necessary power to handle banditry and maintain order without needing to constantly appeal to the capital. Not that there was much banditry left to deal with. The White Army had proven remarkably efficient in rooting out and eliminating criminal elements throughout the place. Reports from the field spoke of entire camps being discovered and wiped out before they could grow into real threats. The survivors, if any, were dragged before the courts and sentenced accordingly. Word had spread quickly¡ªthere was no longer mercy for brigands. As a result, the roads were safer than they had been in generations. Merchants and travelers could now walk from Yarzat all the way to Confluendi without fearing an ambush in the night or a blade to their back.Especially given that in times of peace the light riders of Egil aways patrolled the road , a further dagger deep into the back of any outlaws group that may have wanted to prey on merchants or passerby. From the far side of the throne room, the measured rhythm of boots against marble broke through the steady murmur of voices. Jasmine caught the sound immediately, her sharp gaze flicking toward the approaching palace guard. He moved with purpose, his expression composed, though the weight of his message was evident in his stride. As he reached the appropriate distance before the throne, he pressed his fist to his chest in salute, then bowed deeply. "Your Grace, may I speak?" Jasmine lifted a hand, silencing the petitioner mid-sentence. She did not look at the man who had been pleading his case mere moments ago; her attention now rested solely on the guard before her. "What is it?" she asked, her voice even, but expectant. The guard straightened. "A priest has arrived at the palace gates. He calls himself Brother Elios and requests an audience with you." Jasmine¡¯s expression remained composed, but inwardly, she searched her memory. Elios... Elios... The name tugged at something distant yet familiar, something she had read or heard in passing. Then, the realization struck her. Shahab¡¯s informers had reported a priest by that name¡ªthe very one who had received a land donation from the northern nobles. The same man whom Alpheo thinks may be our enemy Her fingers tapped lightly against the carved armrest of her throne as she considered the implications. What in the gods¡¯ name does he want from us? She allowed no outward sign of her thoughts to show, maintaining the poised, unreadable air expected of her. Finally, she exhaled softly and gave her decision. "Make him wait," she ordered, her voice measured and deliberate. Then, without shifting her gaze from the guard, she turned slightly and addressed one of her attendants. Her voice dipped just slightly in volume, quiet enough that only those closest to the throne would hear. "Fetch my consort. I may want his counsel on this matter." The attendant bowed swiftly before hurrying off, leaving Jasmine to recline against the high back of her throne, her mind already turning over possibilities on why someone like him would walk across the princedom for an audience with them. Chapter 446: Religious matter(2) Chapter 446: Religious matter(2) After twenty minutes, everything had been set in order. The throne hall had been emptied of petitioners, leaving only the palace guards stationed at their posts. The grand chamber, usually filled with the murmur of voices and the shuffling of petitioners, now carried a solemn stillness. At the head of the hall, the royal couple sat upon their respective thrones. Jasmine¡¯s seat was tall and commanding, a symbol of her rightful rule. Alpheo¡¯s, while finely crafted, was positioned slightly behind and shorter in height¡ªa subtle but clear reminder that while he was her consort, she was the legitimate sovereign of Yarzat. Alpheo sat with his chin resting against his palm, his expression unreadable as he fell deep into thought. His other hand drummed lightly against the armrest, his mind evidently turning over the implications of the priest¡¯s presence. He had not spoken much since arriving, merely acknowledging the situation with a thoughtful nod before retreating into silence that accompanied a deep thinking . Jasmine watched him carefully, her dark eyes studying his features. She knew him well enough to recognize when he was weighing something heavily. This was why she had summoned him¡ªshe valued his judgment, and his insights had proven invaluable time and time again. So she waited, patient and silent, allowing him the space to gather his thoughts. After all, she wasn¡¯t quite sure what to make of the situation. If Alpheo¡¯s suspicions were correct and this decrepit old priest was truly an enemy, then how was she to handle this so-called visit of courtesy? There was a choice to be made. Should she receive him with the cold, measured distance befitting a foe¡ªkeeping him at arm¡¯s length, wary of every word? Or should she drape herself in the illusion of piety, feigning the reverence expected when speaking to a man who held the reins of the divine? Jasmine¡¯s fingers tapped idly against the armrest of her throne, her thoughts circling like a hawk in search of prey. Whatever reason Elios had for walking unchallenged through her halls, he had chosen to come before her willingly. That alone meant something. Alpheo suddenly exhaled sharply, lifting his chin from his palm. "The old bastard must have come to speak about our new subjects." Jasmine turned to him, arching a brow. "What makes you think that?" Alpheo¡¯s lips curled into a knowing smirk. "Because it has been three months since the land donation was made, and yet he chooses to appear before us only now? What else could it be about?" He leaned back, fingers drumming idly against the armrest of his throne. "It must be must be about the tribesmen west of our capital¡ªmore precisely, their religion." Jasmine¡¯s gaze sharpened. "Their religion?" Alpheo nodded. "Of course. They didn¡¯t exactly keep it a secret, did they? They raised their altars the moment they settled, worshipping their spirits in plain sight. It was only a matter of time before the temple took notice." Jasmine¡¯s expression remained unreadable, though a flicker of curiosity crossed her face. "And what exactly do they believe in?" Alpheo¡¯s smirk faded slightly, his tone shifting into something more thoughtful. "I¡¯ve read through the reports Aron sent me¡ªhe¡¯s compiling them into a book as per my request. From what I¡¯ve gathered, they practice a form of spiritualism. They believe that all living things, once dead, return to some kind of collective spirit union." He gestured vaguely with one hand. "And they also worship the natural elements. They see them as deities¡ªalive, sacred, and deserving of reverence." Jasmine hummed, resting her chin on her knuckles as she processed this information. "I see." Alpheo scoffed lightly. "You can imagine how well that sits with the temple." Jasmine tilted her head slightly, her gaze lingering on Alpheo. "Are you going to force them to convert?" she asked, her tone unreadable. Alpheo¡¯s lips curled into a smirk, a glint of amusement flickering in his eyes. He let out a short chuckle and leaned back against his throne, shifting comfortably as if the very notion was laughable. "Jasmine, I spent a great deal of effort making this settlement happen. Do you really think I¡¯d throw it all away just because some eunuch bastards have something to say about it?" Jasmine exhaled sharply, rolling her eyes at his crude words. "Must you always be so vulgar?" He shrugged. "Would you prefer I speak like one of your courtiers, all sweetened words and empty smiles? " She didn¡¯t argue the point, though she gave him a pointed look before gesturing for him to continue. Alpheo let out a breath, stretching his arms before settling back into his seat, his expression growing more thoughtful. "Look, we gave the tribesmen a legal framework, one that explicitly grants them the right to worship as they please. It was written down, stamped, and signed by your own hand. If the temple has a problem with it, they can cry to the gods themselves. Maybe the gods will care more than I do." His smirk faded, his features hardening into something more serious. "But let¡¯s be clear¡ªif I force them to convert, I¡¯ll have a rebellion on my hands before the ink even dries on any decree." His fingers drummed idly against the armrest of his throne, his voice losing all traces of humor. "And I refuse to see our efforts go to waste over something as pointless as what spirits they kneel to. ." Jasmine studied him, the flickering torchlight casting shifting shadows over his face. She could see the conviction in his eyes, the weight of a ruler who knew exactly what was at stake. "And what of the nobility?" she asked after a moment. "Some among them are bound to take issue with allowing a people to worship in ways they see as... heathen.Don¡¯t you fear alienating those that just recently reached for us?" Alpheo snorted. "The nobility can complain all they like. The crown¡¯s strength isn¡¯t measured by how well we bow to the demands of self-righteous nobles or priests who think they hold dominion over men¡¯s souls. It¡¯s measured by the order we keep and the strenght of arms we show." He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locking onto hers. A beat of silence stretched between them before he sat back again, exhaling as if the discussion had already exhausted him. "As long as they pay their dues and fight for the crown when the time comes, they can worship whatever the hell they wish." Jasmine tapped her fingers against the armrest, processing his words. She allowed a small smirk of her own to tug at her lips. "You certainly do know how to make friends among the clergy." Alpheo chuckled, shaking his head. "If I cared about making friends, I would¡¯ve become a bard instead of a ruler." Jasmine let out a quiet breath before straightening in her throne. With a small but firm nod, she gestured toward the guards stationed near the great doors of the hall. "Allow him in." The guards immediately moved to obey, their polished armor glinting under the flickering torchlight as they stepped toward the heavy doors. With a coordinated effort, they pushed them open, revealing the dimly lit corridor beyond. Outside, Brother Elios stood waiting, his posture straight despite his age. Unlike before, the tall pole bearing the effigy of the Star of the Gods was no longer in his grasp. He had left it behind, entrusted to his pupils who remained outside. The priest stepped forward, his robes plain and unadorned, his movements measured yet unhurried. His gaze, wise and knowing, swept across the grand hall before settling upon the two figures seated before him. Alpheo leaned back in his throne, his expression unreadable, while Jasmine sat poised, watching the old man¡¯s approach with careful scrutiny. When he reached the appropriate distance, Elios paused, then bent into a deep bow, his hands clasped together as a sign of respect. His voice was steady but carried the weight of practiced humility. "I give my thanks to Your Grace for granting me this audience," he said, his words deliberate and unwavering. "It is a privilege to stand before you both." Alpheo¡¯s fingers drummed idly against the arm of his throne as he studied the old man before him. He had expected someone frail, perhaps feeble with age. It was a strange thing to reconcile, looking upon a simple, unadorned priest and knowing that, if rumors were to be believed, a thousand men would die for him without hesitation. Alpheo¡¯s sharp eyes swept over Elios, taking in the careful way he carried himself. The old priest¡¯s expression was calm, betraying nothing, his hands steady at his sides, neither fidgeting nor clenched in defiance. Alpheo had faced warlords, mercenaries, scheming nobles, all of them easy enough to understand. They wanted power, land, and gold. But men like Elios? They wanted something far greater. He wanted a state governed by a temple, he wanted to be the ruler of a state commanded by priests. And for that , this man was his enemy. And here, there was no Sutri Castle to be given Chapter 447: Religious matters(3) Chapter 447: Religious matters(3) The great hall was silent, the weight of expectation pressing down upon the air as the old priest bowed. No one spoke. No one moved. The only sound was the faint rustle of Elios¡¯s robes as he straightened. Alpheo¡¯s eyes drilled into the old man, his stare unwavering, sharp as a blade poised against the throat. He studied every wrinkle on the priest¡¯s face, every movement of his hands, every breath he took Then, Alpheo broke the silence. His voice was even, almost casual, but there was an unmistakable edge beneath it, as he would have liked nothing more than to cut the man where he stood. "We were quite surprised when we heard that certain nobles in the north had made a rather... generous land donation for the construction of a temple." He let the words settle in the air, watching for any flicker of reaction. "At the time, I couldn¡¯t quite understand the reason for such a display of piety." His lips curled into something resembling a smirk, though his eyes remained cold. "And truth be told, I still don¡¯t." He tilted his head slightly, fingers tapping idly against the armrest of his throne. "So, I¡¯d like to ask you,father Elios¡ªwhat method did you use to bring out such generosity from a man? From people who, if memory serves, had never before shown themselves to be so charitable." Elios lifted his head, his face calm, the deep lines on his skin etched like the roots of an ancient tree. His expression did not waver beneath Alpheo¡¯s scrutiny, nor did his voice falter as he spoke. "The good way," he said, his tone gentle yet firm, "always finds its path into the hearts of men, given time. Every soul has its own way of opening to it, some in quiet contemplation, others through trials that weigh upon their spirit." He straightened slightly, the posture of a man who had walked countless roads yet carried no burden upon his shoulders. "For many years, I have wandered through the lands of this Empire, tending to the lost sheep of the flocks. I have spoken to the weary, the hopeless, the forgotten. I have mended what was broken, given warmth where there was only cold." His gaze flickered between Alpheo and Jasmine, unreadable yet steady. "What I have found is this¡ªmost men, no matter their wealth, no matter their station, are always searching." His voice softened slightly, as though recalling memories far older than the room he stood in. "They seek the hand that will guide them, that will steady them when the path is unclear." A small, knowing smile touched his lips. "And when the need was there, I did what I could to be that hand." Elios let his gaze settle on Jasmine, his expression shifting into something almost warm¡ªthough not without the measured control of a man who chose his words with great care. "Your Grace," he began, his voice carrying the weight of sincerity, "I would be remiss if I did not commend you for the generosity you have shown your people. It is not often that a ruler¡¯s name reaches the ears of the common folk with gratitude rather than lament." He clasped his hands in front of him, his tone becoming thoughtful. "On my way here, I made it a point to stop wherever I could, to lend a hand where it was needed. I have walked these lands for many years, and in every corner of the Empire, I have heard the same cries¡ªtaxes that strip men of their livelihoods, roads plagued with bandits who prey upon those desperate enough to travel in search of coin." His eyes darkened slightly, as if remembering the countless times he had come across such hardship. "It is a tale as old as time itself, and one I have heard repeated so often that I expected no difference here." Then, something like amusement¡ªperhaps even admiration¡ªglimmered in his gaze. "And yet, I was pleasantly surprised. As I moved southward, through lands sworn directly to the crown, I found none of the suffering I had come to expect. Each village I passed spoke not of hunger but of good harvests. Not of fear, but of safety." He spread his hands slightly. "I was told, again and again, that since Your Grace ascended the throne and wed your consort, no bandits had darkened their roads. That the weight of the taxes did not break their backs but allowed them to thrive." He inclined his head, his voice taking on a reverent note. "It is a rare thing, indeed, to hear such words about a ruler. And even rarer for them to be true." Jasmine¡¯s lips curved into a measured smile, though there was a sharpness in her eyes as she replied, "The safety of the roads is owed to the brave soldiers in service of the crown. In times of peace, they do not idle in luxury but safeguard the very veins of my princedom, ensuring that merchants and common folk alike may travel without fear." Elios nodded, as if in agreement, before his gaze drifted toward Alpheo. "Great things have happened here, indeed," he said, his voice carrying the weight of observation. "It seems the gods have shown great generosity upon this land." His eyes lingered on the prince consort, studying him with an almost knowing expression. "You may be pleased to hear, my lord, that there are many who believe you to have been blessed by the gods of warriors. Some even claim you to be one of his offspring." At that, Alpheo let out a chuckle, his head tilting slightly in amusement. "I hate to disappoint," he said, voice laced with dry humor, "but my parents were farmers. No divine blood flows through my veins¡ªonly the sweat and toil of honest work of people who broke their backs." Elios chuckled softly, the sound low and measured, before shaking his head slightly. "Everywhere I traveled where the crown¡¯s rule was direct, I heard naught but good things," he continued, his tone still light but carrying a newfound weight. "The people spoke of plentiful harvests, of roads free from bandits, of a ruler who sees to their well-being." His voice remained even, but there was something careful in the way he shaped his next words. "You can understand, then, my confusion when I heard that this same crown had allowed heretics to settle upon its lands... and maintain their wrong ways." The atmosphere in the throne hall shifted instantly. The ease that had settled in the conversation evaporated like mist under the rising sun. The guards, standing motionless along the pillars, seemed to straighten ever so slightly. A subtle tension gripped the air, the words hanging heavy between them. Jasmine¡¯s gaze turned sharp, the warmth in her expression cooling into something unreadable. Her fingers, resting lightly on the arm of her throne, drummed once before stilling. "Are we to understand, then," she said, voice measured but firm, "that this was the reason for your request to meet with us?" Elios inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "I fear so," he admitted. Elios let out a quiet sigh, as though burdened by a weight only he could feel. He lifted his gaze, eyes steady and unwavering, and spoke with the conviction of a man who had long since dedicated his soul to his faith. "It is the duty of any follower of the Star, especially those blessed with power, not only to protect the flock but to correct those who have strayed from the righteous path," he said, his voice carrying through the hall with a solemn gravity. "With gentle hands, we must guide those who seek redemption, those who would turn their hearts back to the light of the gods. But for those who refuse to see, those who cling to their false idols and defy the will of the divine..." He paused, his fingers clasping together before him as if in silent prayer. "For them, there is only fire." His words echoed in the chamber, settling uneasily in the air. Elios¡¯ gaze flickered toward Jasmine, and there was no mistaking the weight behind his next words. "To allow heretics to remain upon your lands, to let them openly maintain their false ways, is not merely an error of governance¡ªit is an affront to the gods themselves. A challenge to the natural order that has guided the faithful for centuries." His tone softened, but only just. "I do not come to question your wisdom, Your Grace. But I must ask... how could such a thing be allowed?" Alpheo exhaled slowly, then leaned forward, resting his forearms on his throne. His gaze, sharp as a blade¡¯s edge, locked onto Elios. "If you came here hoping for our permission to lay waste to the people we have invited onto our lands, then I¡¯m afraid you will be sorely disappointed." His voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the iron beneath his words. "The crown has extended its protection over them, and that does not change simply because of a whime. Be it right or wrong in their religion, they are under our rule now, and under our rule, they will remain unmolested." His fingers tapped lightly against the carved armrest of his throne before he continued. "The royal decree is clear. Just as the followers of the Star are to be protected from any who would seek to do them harm, so too are those whom we have welcomed to settle within our borders. It is not for you, nor any priest, to decide who is worthy of the crown¡¯s protection. That privilege belongs to the throne alone." His voice grew firmer. "The crown will maintain its position in this matter, and I swear to you, Brother Elios, so long as they pay their due and honor their obligations, we will defend them as we would any man, regardless of the gods they pray to.And perhapse those who voiced such concerns may even have the opportunity to see whetever or not the rumors about my heritage are true..." The hall was silent, the air thick with unspoken tension. Elios suddenly smiled.His expression was one of serene understanding, as though the words exchanged mere moments ago had been nothing but a simple miscommunication, and as if the threat given by Alpheo wasn¡¯t directed to him. "Oh, but I fear you misunderstand me," he said, his voice smooth, almost placating. "I am but a simple priest, Your Grace. I come not with swords or fire, only with faith. I merely wish to send some of my brethren to preach among these new subjects of yours, to guide them to the Star¡¯s light, and perhaps¡ªshould the gods will it¡ªto build a humble temple among them." As he spoke, his eyes were fixed not on Alpheo, but on Jasmine. He had made his stance clear, and now he addressed the true authority in the room, the one with the power to decide. Jasmine, ever composed, did not immediately respond. Instead, she turned her gaze to Alpheo. He met her look with the barest twitch of a smirk before giving a small swoosh of his hand¡ªa casual, almost dismissive gesture. Returning her focus to Elios, Jasmine finally spoke, her tone measured. "As we have stated, those we invited upon our lands are under the crown¡¯s protection. And just as we will shield them from harm, so too will we protect any who choose to walk the path of the Star within their lands." She let the words settle for a moment before continuing, "You may send your priests to show the way, as you say. They will not be hindered." She studied Elios carefully as she spoke, watching for any shift in his expression, any flicker of emotion that might reveal more than his words. The old priest had come with a purpose, but whether this was truly the extent of it¡ªJasmine was not yet certain. Chapter 448: Finding the way Chapter 448: Finding the way Brother Elios walked with steady steps through the winding roads of Yarzat, his expression serene beneath the golden light of the setting sun. Behind him, his pupils followed in silent reverence, their simple robes rustling with each movement. The city bustled around them, merchants calling out the last of their wares, children laughing as they dashed through the streets, and the scent of roasted spices drifting from nearby stalls. But none of it seemed to touch Elios¡ªhis mind was elsewhere, his thoughts lingering on the conversation that had just taken place. One of the younger pupils, a boy barely past his twelth summer, quickened his step to walk beside him. His brows were furrowed with curiosity, his voice cautious but eager. "Father Elios, did it go well?" Elios turned to him with a knowing smile, his eyes twinkling like a man who had seen the path unfold exactly as he had envisioned. He placed a gentle hand on the boy¡¯s shoulder. "Ah, my child, the mercy of the gods is boundless. Their light touched the soul of our shepherds today, and so, in their wisdom, they have allowed us to do the work of the divine." The boy¡¯s eyes widened with excitement. "Then... we are truly allowed to go among the unfaithful?" Elios let out a soft chuckle, his steps never slowing. "Not only allowed, my dear boy. You may become helpers in a temple among them. A place where the lost may find their way, where the blind may see, and where the unfaithful may have the grace of the Star revealed to them." Another pupil, a young woman with a sharp gaze, spoke up from behind. "And if they do not listen, Fathre? If they refuse the light?" Elios sighed, though his smile did not falter. "Patience, my child. The will of the gods is not turned by mortal stubbornness. We shall show them the way with kind words and open arms. Some will follow. Others will resist." He paused for a moment, glancing at the towering spires of Yarzat¡¯s temples in the distance. His voice lowered slightly, though it was still rich with conviction. "For now, we go as gentle hands. But in time, should the gods decree it... steel and fire will shape what words cannot." The pupils fell silent at his words, their expressions solemn as they followed their master down the road, the last rays of daylight casting long shadows behind them. Elios walked with purpose, his grip firm around the wooden pole that bore the shining effigy of the Star. The sacred symbol swayed gently with each step, catching the last golden hues of the setting sun as he and his followers made their way toward the great gates of Yarzat. As they approached the towering gates, the guards stationed there straightened, their eyes flicking toward the old priest and his procession. With a measure of respect, they bowed their heads slightly, acknowledging him as he neared. Elios, ever the shepherd of his flock, offered them a warm smile, lines of age and wisdom creasing his face. With a slow, deliberate motion, he raised one hand in blessing while balancing the long pole between his shoulder and the curve of his other arm. "May the light of the Star watch over you¡¯¡¯ he intoned, his voice steady, carrying the cadence of countless prayers spoken before. "May your swords never falter, your spirits remain steadfast, and may the gods guide your path as they guide mine." The guards did not speak. Regardless, they did not hinder the priest¡¯s way. With a final nod, Elios turned forward once more. The group moved as one, robes shifting in the evening breeze as they passed beneath the grand archway, stepping beyond the threshold of Yarzat and into the lands beyond. The moment Brother Elios stepped past the great gates of Yarzat, his gaze swept across the open road ahead. His pupils followed behind him in silence, but the old priest barely noticed them now. His eyes were searching¡ªsearching for something, or rather, someone. And then he saw him. Under the shade of a weathered tree stood a lone figure, shoulders slightly hunched, his face half-hidden by the angle of his head. The sight of him made Elios¡¯ heart swell with something almost like relief. A bright, boyish grin spread across his face. Without hesitation, he moved forward¡ªthough his advance was far from graceful. The long wooden pole bearing the Star of the Gods wobbled awkwardly between his shoulder and his hand, forcing him to adjust his grip as he half-walked, half-stumbled toward the waiting man. When he reached him at last, he didn¡¯t hesitate. "You never did tell me your name, my son," Elios said, his voice warm, carrying the gentleness of a man who had lived long enough to understand pain. Robert lifted his head slowly, his eyes meeting the old priest¡¯s. For a long moment, he said nothing. Finally, he let out a slow sigh. "I was waiting for you to leave the city since the morning after we met," he admitted. His voice was steady, but there was something in it¡ªsomething Elios recognized all too well. The priest tilted his head, studying him. "Ah," he said softly, "so you waited." Robert exhaled through his nose, a humorless chuckle escaping him. "I figured I owed you that much." Elios understood the words he didn¡¯t say. He understood them because he had heard them before¡ªfrom men who had stood on the edge, from those whose souls had nearly slipped into the abyss. He placed a hand on Robert¡¯s arm, firm but gentle. "The gods still have use for you yet, my son." His smile was knowing, quiet. "They would not have sent you to me otherwise." Robert swallowed, his jaw tightening. Then, after a pause, he let out another breath, softer this time. "I hope you¡¯re right." Elios chuckled, squeezing his arm once before letting go. "I have faith that I am." Robert shifted on his feet, glancing at the small group of young priests trailing behind Elios. His expression was unreadable, but the way his fingers flexed at his sides betrayed his unease. He exhaled slowly before speaking. "Can we talk in private?" His voice was quieter now, almost hesitant. Elios studied him for a moment before nodding. Without a word, he turned and gestured for one of his pupils to step forward. The young man approached quickly, eyes full of reverence. "Hold this for me," Elios said, passing the long wooden pole with the Star into the boy¡¯s waiting hands. The weight of it made the pupil straighten his back instinctively. Then, Elios turned back to the rest of the group. "Wait here for me, my children. I will return shortly." The pupils bowed their heads in obedience as Elios followed Robert away from the road, further into a small grove where the trees cast long shadows across the ground. The city¡¯s walls were still in view, but here, at least, they were out of earshot. Robert stopped, running a hand through his hair. His jaw tensed as if trying to decide where to begin. Then, finally, he spoke. "I¡¯ve been dreaming," he admitted, his voice low. "that night" Elios raised an eyebrow but said nothing, allowing the man to continue. "I¡¯m running," he said, his voice carrying a raw edge. "The forest is endless, and something is chasing me¡ªsomething I can¡¯t see. It howls, but not like a wolf. It sounds... wrong." His hands clenched into fists. "The ground disappears beneath me, and I fall. But instead of hitting the earth, I land in hands." "Hands?" Elios asked, his expression unreadable. Robert nodded. "Hundreds¡ªno, thousands of them. They burst from the ground, grabbing me, clawing at me, pulling me down. I fight, but it¡¯s useless. They cover my mouth, my throat¡ªI can¡¯t breathe, can¡¯t move." He swallowed hard. "And then, through them, I see... fire." His breathing grew uneven, his fingers trembling slightly as he spoke. "Not just fire. A sea of it. People are burning, screaming, their skin melting away, and I¡ª" His voice caught, his throat working before he forced himself to continue. "I see him." Elios remained silent, waiting. "Arkawatt," Robert whispered, his tone barely above a breath. "The prince. My prince." His eyes were distant now, staring past Elios as if seeing the vision unfold again before him. "He¡¯s burning, his crown half-melted into his skull, his robes in tatters. But the hands¡ªthey lift him higher. They won¡¯t let him die." His voice cracked, the weight of the memory pressing down on him. "He looks at me¡ªwhat¡¯s left of his eyes, they turn to me. And he screams." Elios finally spoke, his voice calm, steady. "What does he say?" Robert let out a bitter laugh, though there was no humor in it. "Nothing. He just screams." He took another breath, trying to center himself. "I try to help him. I reach for him, but the hands come for me too. I grab for my star¡ªfor something, anything¡ªbut it slips away like mist." His eyes flickered back to Elios, and for the first time, the priest saw it clearly¡ªthe sheer terror buried beneath the exhaustion. "And then the hands pull me into the fire," Robert finished, his voice hoarse. "That¡¯s when I wake up." Silence hung between them for a long moment, the wind rustling gently through the trees. Elios let out a soft hum, his fingers stroking his chin as he regarded Robert with a knowing gaze. Then, with a small smile, he said, "You have been blessed." Robert frowned, confusion flickering in his eyes. "Blessed?" he repeated, almost scoffing. "I just told you that I saw my prince burning, that I was dragged into the depths of some unholy fire, and you call it a blessing?" Elios nodded. "Yes. For the gods have seen fit to send you a warning." Robert swallowed, shifting uncomfortably. He wasn¡¯t sure if he should feel grateful or terrified. "This Arkawatt," Elios continued, "was he a pious man?" Robert hesitated. His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, he looked away as if ashamed to speak ill of the dead. "...No," he admitted quietly. "Not in the way you mean. He did not care much for the gods, nor did he ask for their guidance. He lived as he pleased, took what he wanted, and gave little thought to the heavens." Elios sighed, his expression heavy with something that almost resembled pity. "Then I fear you have been given a glimpse of what awaits him¡ªand others like him. One of the many hells the gods have fashioned for those who stray too far." Robert¡¯s breath hitched, his stomach twisting into knots. "And what about me?" he asked, his voice quieter now. "I saw the fire, I felt it. You said it was a warning¡ªbut a warning of what?" Elios placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Right now, you are walking toward the same fate," he said simply. "But there is hope." Robert looked up at him sharply. "The fact that you reached for the star," Elios continued, his voice filled with conviction, "means that the gods have not abandoned you. Even in the depths of that vision, you sought the light. That means you can still turn back. Instead of being pulled downward, you can rise." Robert exhaled, his mind racing. "...Then what do I do?" he asked, his voice laced with uncertainty. "How do I change my path?" Elios¡¯s smile did not waver, but there was a knowing glint in his eyes. "You do not ¡¯do¡¯ anything¡ªnot yet." Robert furrowed his brow. "What?" "Fake good actions born from fear are worthless," Elios said firmly. "A man who only acts because he is afraid of punishment is not a good man¡ªhe is merely a coward who wishes to avoid pain. The gods do not want the service of cowards." Robert clenched his jaw at the words, but he could not refute them. "So then what?" he muttered. Elios¡¯s smile widened. "Come with me." Robert blinked, caught off guard. "Come with you?" "Travel with us for a time," Elios offered. "Open your eyes to a new way of seeing the world. Perhaps, in time, you will find the meaning that the gods wished to impart to you." Robert stared at him, his mind warring with itself. Follow a priest? A lord following a eunuch?It sounded ridiculous. And yet¡ª He remembered the fire. The screaming. The hands pulling him downward. Perhaps it was worth a thought, considering he was betting on his eternity. Chapter 449: Temple鈥檚 land Chapter 449: Temple¡¯s land For a full week, Robert walked among the small group of priests and pupils, his heavy boots treading the same dirt paths as theirs. He, a lord with lands and a castle, walked as if he were still a simple knight, just another traveler moving from village to village with nothing but the weight of his own armor and the road ahead. His son had offered him guards¡ªmany times. After all, they had retainers now, men sworn to their family, ready to ride at his word. But Robert refused. He always refused. He could not see himself as a lord, not truly. A man like him,a man of failure ¡ªwhat right did he have to command others that were only gained through shameful betrayal? And so, he traveled as he had in his younger days with his father. His armor, old but well-kept, was strapped to his body with the same familiarity as a second skin. At his side, a shortsword hung in its scabbard, its edge sharp, its grip worn from years of use. A mace rested against on his hip . And tucked within easy reach was his mercy-bringer¡ªa small dagger, thin and pointed, its blade slender enough to slip between the gaps of any armor, to offer a swift end when the battlefield demanded it. Yet despire the horse, he walked as they walked, refusing the privilege of riding while the rest of the group moved on foot. The priest had smiled upon seeing Robert fall into step beside them, saying nothing but clearly pleased. As they journeyed together, Elios took it upon himself to converse with Robert, filling the quiet stretches of their walk with stories of the land where they had settled. He spoke of the villages under the temple¡¯s protection¡ªsimple places, where the people worked the land with calloused hands and lived by the cycles of the seasons. The temple did not merely offer them spiritual guidance; it provided aid where it could, ensuring that no child went hungry, that the sick found care, and that the weary had a place to rest. Yet their efforts did not stop at their own flock. Elios explained that the temple¡¯s mission extended beyond its immediate reach, helping even those outside its protection. Whether through charity, mediation, or simply offering shelter to those in need, they did not turn away any who sought their aid. But not all struggles could be met with kindness alone. While Elios had found the southern lands of the princedom surprisingly free of bandits, the same could not be said for the north. There, the roads were far less safe, and the rule of law wavered in the face of desperate men who had turned to brigandry. The temple, alongside those willing to aid them, had made it their mission to root out these dangers. Much of their time and resources had been poured into eradicating the threat¡ªwhether through diplomacy, offering these men a different path, or, when all else failed, through force. It was a never-ending task, one that tested both faith and steel. But Elios spoke of it with a quiet determination, as though it were simply another duty placed upon them by the gods. A task that must be done, no matter how long it took. After a full week of walking, Robert finally laid eyes upon the so-called temple¡¯s lands. At first glance, it appeared no different from any other settlement¡ªsimple houses of wood , thatched roofs dotting the landscape, nestled among fields where peasants toiled under the afternoon sun. Yet, at the heart of it all, standing taller than any other structure, was the temple. It was not an opulent thing, not like the grand cathedrals of the capital, but it held a quiet dignity. From the sheer number of homes and the bustle of people, he estimated that no more than nineteen hundred peasants lived here¡ªperhaps a little more, but not by much. It was larger than three villages put together, but not quite a town. Elios, walking beside him, gestured toward the land before them. "This is where we settled," he said, his voice carrying a note of pride. "But we are not alone. Many villages have entered our protection¡ªscattered places, some farther than others, but all under the watchful eye of the temple." As they walked further into the settlement, the people took notice. It did not matter whether they were humble peasants with dirt-streaked hands or men armed with steel at their hips¡ªeach one, upon seeing Elios, bowed deeply. Some placed their hands over their hearts in reverence, others whispered quiet prayers under their breath. Robert watched them, his brow furrowing slightly. There were hundreds of them, scattered throughout the settlement. They did not bear the banners of any lord, yet they carried themselves with discipline. Their armor was not uniform, nor were their weapons. As Robert walked through the settlement, his eyes flicked over the armed men once more, their presence gnawing at his thoughts. He turned to Elios, his voice low but firm. "Why are there so many with weapons?" he asked. ¡¯¡¯Have you never heard of us?¡¯¡¯ Elios asked as he turned to Robert The answer came from a shake of his head Elios chuckled softly, though there was no humor in it. "We come from the Empire, Robert. I was once just a wandering priest, a simple man carrying nothing but the words of the gods. I went from village to village, offering prayer, holding mass wherever there was no temple, speaking to those who would listen.And praying for those that were sick" Robert watched him closely, saying nothing, waiting for him to continue. "At first, I was alone," Elios went on. "But then, as the days passed, some chose to follow me. A farmer here, a craftsman there. They wished to do more than just listen¡ªthey wished to act." His expression grew distant, as if recalling something both fond and painful. "It started small. We held mass, but we also helped rebuild homes that had fallen to storms, tilled fields for widows, tended to the sick. People began to rely on us, not just for guidance, but for aid." He paused, glancing at Robert. "And then, more came. Not just the poor, not just those in need, but men who could fight. Some were former soldiers, others were just men tired of seeing their homes burned and their families butchered by bandits. They offered their swords, and with time... we accepted." Robert raised a brow. "You became more than just priests, then." Elios sighed. "We did what was necessary. Banditry is a plague, one that spreads where lords grow indifferent and roads are left unguarded. We tried, Robert¡ªwe tried to make them see the light, to turn them away from their path. Some listened. Most did not." His voice was quieter now, tinged with something between regret and resolve. "And when they would not change, when they still chose to prey on the weak... we spilled blood. More times than I would have liked." Robert studied him, noting the weight in his words. He had met many men who killed and spoke of it lightly, as if it were as natural as breathing. Elios was not one of them. He carried the burden of it, even if he believed it necessary. Robert exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "So you became executioners." Elios met his gaze, unwavering. "We became shepherds. And sometimes, a shepherd must drive out the wolves, to safeguard the sheeps.There is a lot of evil in the world, Robert," he said. "It festers in the shadows, in the forgotten corners of the land, where no one dares to look. But it is our duty to stop it¡ªto bring light where there is darkness." As he spoke, the sound of approaching footsteps drew their attention. A man in armor strode toward them, his movements steady but carrying the weariness of long travel. His mail was dusted with the grime of the road, his sword resting at his side, the hilt worn from use. He came to a stop before Elios and bowed his head in respect. Elios¡¯ face brightened with a warm smile. "Ah, sir Joshen," he said, calling the man by name. "It has been some time. How fare you?" Joshen straightened, offering a small smile of his own. "I fare as well as a man can in these times, Father," he said, then tilted his head slightly. "How went your meeting with the princess?" Elios¡¯ smile widened. "Very well. We are to organize a preacher to build a temple in the south and instruct the faithless in the ways of the gods. A great step forward." Joshen nodded but did not seem entirely at ease. His smile was tinged with sorrow. "Good," he said, though his tone held a weariness deeper than just travel. "We could use some good news. These lands are infested with bandits. We have been marching day and night, chasing shadows in the woods, but there is always another den, another pack of wolves waiting in the dark." As he spoke, his eyes shifted, landing on Robert. His gaze flicked over the man¡¯s armor, noting the well-worn steel, the weapons at his side, the way he carried himself. Joshen¡¯s brow furrowed slightly, and Elios, realizing his lapse, let out a small chuckle. "Ah, I have yet to introduce him," the priest said. He turned to Robert and gestured toward him. "This is Robert. He is..."¡ªElios paused for the briefest moment, then continued¡ª"someone looking for guidance." Joshen studied Robert a moment longer, eyes narrowing slightly as they lingered on the knightly armor. "As everybody here is,Father. ¡¯¡¯ ¡¯¡¯You are a knight,right?" he finally asked, though it was more statement than question. Robert nodded once. Joshen exhaled, his expression shifting into something considering. "Then perhaps you would be willing to help the sheep by culling the wolves," he said. "We have word of another camp, deep in the forest. A bandit stronghold. We are to ride out in a few days, once our men have rested and our stores have been replenished. Another hunt, another cleansing." Robert turned his gaze to Elios, his expression thoughtful. Around him, the settlement was alive with purpose. In the fields, men and women toiled under the sun, their hands calloused from work but steady with the knowledge that their labor sustained the flock. In the distance, armed men stood watch, their presence a silent promise of protection. Each person had a role, each played their part in something greater than themselves. "Everyone here is doing something," Robert said at last. "The peasants till the earth, bringing food to the table. The men with weapons guard them, ensuring that their labor is not stolen, that their lives are not snuffed out by bandits and worse." He exhaled, glancing down at his own hands¡ªhands that had spent a lifetime holding weapons, taking lives. "Each is a noble job... if done for the right reasons." Elios gave him a knowing smile, nodding gently. "All I can do is set you on the road, Robert,you are here looking for guidance" he said, his voice warm, understanding. "But you are the one who must walk it." For a moment, Robert said nothing. He let the words settle within him, their weight pressing against the hollow in his chest. Then, slowly, he turned to Joshen. "I am willing to help," he said¡¯¡¯ It¡¯s been a bit since I used the sword¡¯¡¯ Chapter 450: Strange people(1) Chapter 450: Strange people(1) The tribesmen had chosen the name Vogondhai for their people¡ªa necessity imposed by the bureaucrats of Yarzat when it came time to file the legal documents for their settlement. After all, there were only so many times officials could refer to them as "the tribesmen" before the records became a tangled mess of confusion. And so, for the sake of clarity and governance, Torghan¡¯s tribe became the Vogondhai. The name was not chosen lightly, nor was it a mere convenience. Vogondhai meant "those who come from gold," a name steeped in meaning and reverence for the land they now called home. As the farmers sent by the court questioned about the feritility of the field, would speak of how during summer each village would look like a settlement built from golden land. To the normal eye, it was merely a harvest. But to the Vogondhai, it was a sign, a blessing from the spirits, proof that this land had accepted them. Life for the Vogondhai was steady, if simple. Their bellies, once accustomed to the gnawing ache of hunger, were now filled each night with warm food¡ªbread, porridge, or fish hauled in from the sea, just a few hours¡¯ walk from their settlement. Some of the fish were even caught by the tribe¡¯s own greenhorn fishermen, their nets clumsy but their determination unyielding. It wasn¡¯t always a feast, but it was enough. Enough to let children drift into sleep without the sharp sting of hunger in their stomachs. Enough to keep men and women strong for the work each day demanded of them. Farming was foreign to the Vogondhai. Back in the western continent, they had lived by the rhythm of herding and hunting, their survival tied to the movement of beasts rather than the turning of the soil. But here, in the land granted to them, they had to learn a new way. The farmers assigned to their settlement were patient teachers, showing them how to break the earth, how to plant and tend to crops, and when to harvest each type of grain or vegetable. It was hard work, unfamiliar and often frustrating, but the Vogondhai were quick learners. They had to be. Yet it wasn¡¯t just the farmers who brought change to their way of life. After a month in their new home, a long-awaited shipment arrived¡ªone that sent murmurs of excitement rippling through the camp like a spark through dry grass. Crates were pried open, their contents gleaming beneath the morning sun: Four hundred and thirty sets of chainmail and helmets. Eight hundred spearheads. Two hundred axes. Two hundred and fifty daggers. All of steel. For a moment, silence fell over the warriors as they stared at the weapons and armor before them. Then, like a slow-rising wave, the realization dawned¡ªthese were theirs. No longer would they fight with weapons made of bronze or stone. No longer would their defenses be stitched together with leather and hope. They, the Vogondhai, now bore arms of steel, armor forged to fit their backs, weapons sharp enough to bite through flesh and bone alike. Some reached hesitantly for the chainmail, running their fingers over the interwoven rings, feeling the weight of it. Others picked up the spears, testing their balance, their grip. A few, unable to contain their excitement, raised the axes into the air, their edges flashing in the sun like shards of lightning. "Steel," one warrior murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it too loudly might break the spell. Another had laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to shake the ground beneath them. "Steel!" he roared, lifting a helmet high. The shipment of weapons and armor had been met with great excitement, but it didn¡¯t take long for the Vogondhai to realize there wasn¡¯t enough to go around. Out of the 2,200 people who had settled in their new land, about 600 were elders¡ªwise and respected, yes, but well past their days of swinging axes or charging into battle. The largest group, 1,400 strong, were men and women between thirty and fifty, still capable of hard work and, if push came to shove, a good fight. The remaining 300 were the youth, the future of the tribe, full of energy and not yet worn down by life¡¯s hardships. But among them, 700 were prime fighting-age males¡ªyoung, full of vigor, and now very, very aware that there were only 430 sets of armor to share between them. The unlucky 270 had to make do with what they had¡ªtattered leathers, hand-me-down furs, or in some cases, just their own misplaced confidence. There was some grumbling, sure, but it was quickly drowned out by the news that another shipment was on the way. Patience was something the Vogondhai understood well¡ªafter all, they had waited this long to get proper weapons, what was a little more time? That moment of happiness however didn¡¯t last much. But just as they were starting to feel good about their slowly improving armory, a much graver problem reared its head¡ªone that no amount of sharpened steel could fix. There were too few women. The imbalance was staggering. For every three men in the tribe, there was only one woman, making it painfully clear that unless something changed, the future of the Vogondhai would be looking rather... bachelor-heavy. What was meant to be a thriving, growing settlement was instead starting to resemble a very aggressive all-male social club. This was no small issue¡ªno women meant no children, and no children meant that in a generation or two, the Vogondhai would be little more than a legend, with future historians wondering if they were just a myth or if they were a real culture that settled onto the eastern continent . Fortunately for them , promises had been made by their prince¡ªwomen would be introduced to the tribe in due time. Some would come through from neighboring villages, others however would not go with goodbyes from their parents as the more ambitious warriors were already sharpening their swords and considering alternative recruitment strategies that involved kidnapping. One way or another, the Vogondhai would endure. ------------------ Torghan, leader of the Vogondhai, sat in the largest house in the village¡ªa sturdy wooden structure built by the hands of his people, with a little help from the southern laborers who had overseen its construction. It was no palace, nor did it need to be. It was strong, spacious, and most importantly, his. Three months had passed since his people had settled in this new land, and in those months, Torghan had taken on a challenge unlike any battle he had ever faced¡ªlearning the southern tongue and, more daunting still, learning to write. For a man who led a people with no written language, the idea of trapping words onto parchment was as strange as catching wind in his hands. His people had always carried their history in stories, songs, and the memories of their elders. They spoke their oaths, they did not sign them. They told their tales, they did not scribble them down. But here, in this foreign land, everything was different. Laws were written. Deals were written. Even histories were chained to ink, so that the dead might be remembered not by the mouths of their kin, but by the scratch of a quill. If Torghan was to lead his people in this place, he had to master these southern ways. At this moment, he sat hunched over a sheet of parchment, thick fingers gripping the edges as if the words might try to escape. He read aloud in a slow, deliberate voice, each syllable fought for and won. As a matter of fact reading was easy , as Torghan had memorized the pronunciation of each couple of letters, the problem were their meaning "A... wolf... was..." He scowled, jabbing a finger at an unfamiliar word. The scribe sitting beside him¡ªa thin southern man with ink-stained fingers and the patience of a man who had long accepted his fate¡ªleaned in. With a quiet word to the translator, the meaning was relayed. "It means ¡¯hiding,¡¯" the translator explained. Torghan nodded, murmuring the word to himself as if testing its weight before moving on. Each new word was another weapon in his growing arsenal, another step into this world of parchment and ink. The scribe, perhaps sensing that Torghan¡¯s patience for letters was nearing its end, set down his quill and rubbed his hands together. "That is enough for today," he announced. "We will continue tomorrow morning." Torghan was already rolling his shoulders, stretching out the stiffness from sitting still for too long, when the scribe continued. "For now, I have news to share." Torghan¡¯s sharp gaze flicked up, his posture straightening slightly. He said nothing, simply resting his large hands on the table as he waited the words of his teacher. "Soon, priests will be arriving at the settlement," the scribe said, watching the chieftain¡¯s reaction closely. "They have been granted permission to establish a temple among your people." Torghan¡¯s brow furrowed, his expression betraying no immediate hostility, but it was clear this news had his attention. He had known the customs of the south would begin creeping into his people¡¯s lives. He just hadn¡¯t expected them to march in so soon. The scribe, perhaps sensing that an outright rejection was possible, quickly added, "You will still be allowed to practice your own faith. The priests will not interfere, nor will they force conversion upon your people." Torghan¡¯s gaze lingered on the man for a moment longer before he gave a slow, considering nod. That was good. His people would not take kindly to outsiders telling them which gods to kneel before. The spirits of the Vogondhai had walked with them through storms and battle, had feasted with them in times of plenty, and had carried their dead beyond the earth. No southern priests would change that. The scribe, sensing no immediate explosion of rage, pressed on. "There are also a few things you should know regarding the privileges of the priests," he said carefully. "By law, they are protected from harm. No one may lay hands upon them, no matter the reason. They do not pay taxes. They are not required to work the fields. And should one of them commit a crime, they will be judged by an assembly made of their own, not by our courts." Torghan listened, his face unreadable. Some of it was new to him, but much of it was not. Among his people, priests were also exempt from labor, their hands meant for healing, for reading the will of the gods, and for leading the great ceremonies that tied the Vogondhai to their ancestors. They were respected, celebrated, and yes, protected¡ªafter all, to harm a priest was to invite the wrath of the gods.And none of course wished for that So far, nothing sounded like cause for concern. Chapter 451: Strange people(2) Chapter 451: Strange people(2) The sun hung bright in the sky, its golden light spilling over the land like molten amber. The chill of winter had begun to fade, replaced by the crisp, invigorating air of early spring. The earth was waking. Buds swelled on branches, the scent of damp soil and fresh grass filled the breeze, and the distant hum of insects foretold the coming bloom. Down the well-trodden dirt road, a cart rolled steadily forward, its wooden wheels creaking in rhythm with the slow sway of its passengers. It was an old thing, sturdy but weathered, its frame scarred by time and travel. A single horse pulled it, a shaggy beast of brown and white, its thick winter coat beginning to shed in uneven tufts. Seated atop the cart was an old man, his back straight despite his years, his hands steady on the reins. His white beard flowed down to his chest, stark against his deep brown robes, which were thick with the dust of the road. Around his neck hung a simple but unmistakable pendant¡ªthe Star of the Gods, its metal worn smooth by decades of wear. Beside him, five boys sat in the back of the cart, their legs dangling over the side, their chatter a mixture of excitement and curiosity. They were young¡ªnone older than thirteen¡ªdressed in simple tunics belted at the waist, their hair tousled by the wind. Each carried small bundles of supplies, parchments, and wooden tablets, their first tools for the task ahead. They were his helpers, his apprentices. Too young to be called priests, but old enough to learn. The road stretched before them, leading toward the heart of the Vogondhai settlement, where the people of the tribe had made their home. Smoke rose in the distance¡ªcooking fires, forge bellows, the breath of a living, growing village. Soon, this would be where they would build their temple. Here, beneath the vast open sky, where the people of the tribe would hear the words of the gods. The cart rolled to a slow stop before the wooden gates of the settlement, its wheels crunching over the dirt road one last time before settling into stillness. Standing tall before it, flanking the entrance like sentinels of iron and discipline, were the men of the Prince¡¯s private royal army. Their wool-cloth, a striking contrast of white and black, marked them from miles away.Their armor gleamed in the sunlight, well-kept and polished, their hands resting with practiced ease on the pommels of their weapons As the old priest shifted in his seat, one of the soldiers stepped forward, his boots thudding lightly against the ground as he approached. Behind him, the others remained in position, silent and watchful. The priest turned to his young helpers, nodding for them to climb down first, and with careful movements, he followed, his old joints stiff from the journey. His boots met the dirt, and as he straightened, he turned back toward the cart. Reaching into the folds of his robes, he withdrew a single silverii. With a kind smile, he extended it toward the cart driver, a wiry man with a weathered face and hands that bore the callouses of years spent on the road. "I thank you for your service, my good man," the priest said warmly. The carter blinked in surprise before his lips curled into a grateful smile. He dipped his head, taking the coin with a rough but careful hand. "May the gods bless your path,father" he murmured, tucking the silver away before pulling on the reins. With a creak and a lurch, the cart turned around, the horse trudging obediently in the opposite direction. The priest watched it go for a moment before turning back to the approaching soldier. The man, his posture rigid but not unfriendly, stopped a few paces away and gave a respectful nod. "Welcome, priest," he greeted, his voice steady and measured. The old priest met his gaze, his own eyes warm with the weight of experience. He inclined his head in return, his voice carrying the quiet strength of a man who had seen many years and walked many roads. "And peace be upon you, soldier." The soldier adjusted his stance, his gauntleted hand resting idly as he spoke, his tone even yet polite. "I trust your voyage was peaceful?" The priest nodded, brushing some dust from the sleeves of his robe. "Indeed, it was. The road was long, but the gods watched over us." He cast a glance toward his young helpers, who stood quietly behind him, their faces filled with curiosity as they observed the settlement before them. The soldier gave a curt nod. "You will be pleased to know that some men have already started laying the groundwork. The word spread quickly that you were coming." The priest arched an eyebrow. "Oh? Did they await us?" The soldier shrugged slightly. "It was expected that someone would come sooner or later. There are believers of the gods here after all ." At this, the priest¡¯s lips curled into a satisfied smile. "That is good to hear," he said. Then, after a brief pause, he added, "Amongst the heretics, at least." At those words, the soldier¡¯ gave him a long star. The priest stroked his white beard as he walked beside the soldier, his sharp eyes scanning the settlement with interest. The people here¡ªboth the native villagers and the newly settled tribesmen¡ªmoved about their business, casting the occasional glance his way. He turned to the soldier, noting the stark white-and-black surcoat. "Tell me, are you part of the White Army?" The soldier gave a short nod. "I am," he confirmed. "In direct service to His Grace." The priest hummed, folding his hands behind his back. "Then perhaps you can answer a question that has been weighing on my mind. Why is it that the royal standing army has been stationed as a garrison in this settlement? Surely there are fortresses and duties that demand more pressing attention?" The soldier exhaled through his nose, adjusting his belt. "I don¡¯t know about all¡¯that , all I know is that we are needed here." he said. "It¡¯s about making sure the newcomers settle in properly, that there¡¯s no trouble between them and the locals. His Grace wants to ensure that both sides learn to live together without drawing steel at the first disagreement." He smirked. "Besides, it¡¯s a sweet assignment, you don¡¯t see me complaining . No back-breaking drills, no sleeping after digging a muddy trench. Just walking the streets, keeping an eye on things. " His smirk faded slightly, and he let out a sigh. "But it won¡¯t last. We¡¯ve already heard that fresh recruits are being trained in the capital. Once they¡¯re ready, they¡¯ll be sent here to take our place, and we¡¯ll be off to wherever His Grace deems us most useful." The priest clasped his hands together, tilting his head. "A shame, truly. A man should enjoy the peace while he has it." He paused, then gestured towards the half-constructed temple in the distance. "Perhaps, if you and your men are so free of hardship, you might find some time to help with the temple¡¯s construction. Strong hands are always welcome when building a house of the gods." The soldier chuckled, shaking his head. "Generous of you, but I¡¯ll have to pass. My duties lie elsewhere. And besides, there are already workers handling that. If anything, it¡¯s them you should be thanking¡ªno one forced them to help, and yet here they are, putting in the work." The priest nodded, his lips curling into a knowing smile. "A fair point. I shall make sure they know their efforts are appreciated¡¯¡¯ The soldier leaned in just slightly. "Watch yourself, father. The peace we¡¯ve had these past months? I want it to last.Many of us are set for retirement , don¡¯t cause no trouble." For a moment, there was silence between them, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. Then, the priest gave a slow, measured nod. "Peace," he echoed, his voice calm. "A noble thing to wish for." With that, he turned and walked away, his young helpers trailing behind him, leaving the soldier standing at his post, watching him go. As the priest and his young followers disappeared into the settlement, another soldier, clad in the same white-and-black cloth approached his comrade. His gait was relaxed, but there was a questioning look in his eyes. "Don¡¯t you think you were a bit too harsh?" he asked, glancing after the departing priest. "He¡¯s an old man of the cloth, not some troublemaker." The first soldier scoffed and spat onto the dirt. "Holy man or not, I don¡¯t trust their kind," he muttered. His jaw tightened as he turned to face his companion. "You may not know , but I once went to a temple priest for help with my debts" His eyes darkened, and his voice took on a bitter edge. "We both know how that ended; those bastards are filled with coins and they won¡¯t even share it to save a family, my debt was of 12 silverii; they could have done something with all the coins they had. Now it has been 4 years since I saw my family, tell me which of that was too harsh?" The second soldier shifted uncomfortably but said nothing. The temple had probably turned him away with empty words of patience and penance, leaving him to fend for himself when the debt collectors came knocking. The first soldier exhaled sharply through his nose. "Whatever happens," he said, voice low and firm, "I¡¯m going to retire soon. And when I do, I want it to happen without us having to draw steel because some new feller with a star decided to stir things up.So make sure to watch him." Chapter 452: Fight evil for good(1) Chapter 452: Fight evil for good(1) It was chaos. Pure, unrelenting chaos. The battlefield was a swirling maelstrom of bodies, steel, and blood. The clash of weapons rang out like a discordant symphony¡ªswords clashing against shields, axes biting into flesh, and the sickening crunch of bone beneath the weight of a mace. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of sweat, the cries of the dying blending into the guttural roars of those still fighting to live. Robert¡¯s eyes darted across the carnage, his mind struggling to process the sheer brutality of it all. A warrior swung an axe in a wide arc, cleaving through a skull with a wet thunk. Another drove a sword into a man¡¯s throat, the blade sliding in with horrifying ease. A lance pierced through a chest, its tip emerging bloodied and glistening on the other side. Everywhere he looked, there was violence¡ªraw, unfiltered, and unending. A man clutched at his belly, his hands slick with blood as his intestines spilled between his fingers. His lips moved in silent prayers to gods who seemed deaf to his pleas, his killers already moving on, their faces grim with the conviction that they were doing divine work for those their victimes were praying to. Those who could still fight wasted no time. They finished off the fallen with ruthless efficiency¡ªa dagger thrust through a throat, a boot crushing a throat, a sword driven into a chest. There was no mercy in their actions, only the cold pragmatism of survival. The moment a foe ceased to be a threat, they were discarded, forgotten¡ªa mere obstacle removed from the path of victory. If there was space, if there was a fleeting second to spare, some offered the mercy of a quick death. A dagger driven cleanly through the heart, a blade across the throat to end the suffering. But more often than not, there was no such luxury. The living moved on, their eyes already scanning for the next threat, the next kill. It was brutal. It was relentless. It was war. When Robert had agreed to take part in the attack against the bandits, he had assumed¡ªperhaps naively¡ªthat he would fight as a nobleman should: on horseback, where speed and height offered both advantage and dignity. But the dense, tangled forest had no regard for nobility. There was no room for thundering hooves, no space to charge in gallant fashion. The trees forced them all onto equal footing, stripping away rank and status until every man was just another figure in the mud, armed and desperate to survive. The only thing that still marked him as different was his armor, the breastplate and chainmail affording him greater protection than the men around him. It set him apart, but not in any way that truly mattered. A well-placed blade would still find its way through the gaps. An arrow loosed from the shadows would still pierce his flesh if fortune turned against him. Of course he didn¡¯t mind. It wasn¡¯t that he relished bloodshed¡ªfar from it. The sight of so much red pooling at his feet, the coppery stench filling his lungs, made his breaths come faster, shallower. But it was the knowledge that if death came for him here, it would be absolute. No second chances. No delaying the inevitable. And in some quiet, shameful part of his heart, he almost welcomed it. If fate had decided that his life should end in this cursed forest, cut down by a stranger¡¯s blade, then so be it. It would only accomplish what he himself hadn¡¯t had the strength to do that night, high atop that tree, staring into the abyss. Perhaps, at last, it would put an end to this wretched thing he still called a life. He was here in search of redemption¡ªbut if death came for him first, he would not turn it away. And perhaps it had arrived, stepping out of the chaos in the form of a towering man wielding a axe. Robert locked eyes with the bandit, a silent understanding passing between them. The man was younger, his face twisted with a mix of fear and bravado, his knuckles white as they gripped the haft of his axe. Robert¡¯s gaze was steady, his breathing calm. He had seen this before¡ªthe wild desperation of a man who believed brute strength could overcome skill and discipline. The bandit moved first, as Robert had expected. Inexperience made men predictable. With a guttural roar, the bandit charged, his axe swinging in wide, reckless arcs. Each blow came with more fury than thought, the steel whistling through the air like a storm. Had Robert been without a shield, he might have flinched, might have taken a step back to avoid the onslaught. But fear didn¡¯t touch him¡ªnot when the reassuring weight of his shield met every attack with a dull, resounding thud. Again and again, the axe hammered against the old wood, the bandit mistaking Robert¡¯s lack of immediate retaliation for weakness, for hesitation. He thought he had the upper hand. He thought wrong. As the third blow came, Robert shifted his stance, angling his shield just so. The axe slid uselessly off the wood, carving only air. The bandit¡¯s own reckless momentum carried him forward¡ªstraight onto the waiting point of Robert¡¯s short sword. The blade punched through cloth and mail, meeting little resistance as it sank into the man¡¯s belly and burst from his back. A wet gasp escaped the bandit¡¯s lips, his eyes wide with shock. The axe slipped from his fingers, clattering to the ground as he crashed forward, his face smashing against Robert¡¯s helmet with a sickening crunch. The two of them slammed together, the bandit¡¯s weight pressing against Robert¡¯s shoulder as he clung to life for one desperate moment. Robert¡¯s grip tightened on the hilt. With a twist, he wrenched the sword free, tearing it sideways through flesh and gut. He planted a heavy boot against the bandit¡¯s stomach and kicked him off. The body crumpled onto the forest floor, the dirt drinking in the mess of blood, bile, and shit spilled from the guts. Only then did Robert glance at his blade, the steel slick with red and smeared with brown. His nose curled in disgust, and he wiped it clean on the bandit¡¯s filthy tunic. As he did, his gaze flicked to the ruined chainmail the man had worn¡ªcheap, rusted, brittle. If that armor had been well-kept, my sword would have never gone through. The thought was a cold one, but it was true. Robert shook his head, his lips curling into a grimace. "Amateur," he muttered under his breath, stepping over the body as if it was a dead rat , while he turned to face the next threat. This was far from Robert¡¯s first battle. He had seen war before, stood amidst the chaos of clashing armies, watched men die under his banner. But more often than not, he had fought on the losing side. Yet, despite all those battles, he had never been this close to the killing. His place had always been behind the lines, issuing commands to men with shields and spears, sending them forward to bleed and die at his word. At most, he had led a detachment of footmen when ordered by his late prince, maneuvering them as pieces in a larger game of war. But a sword in his own hand? An enemy just a breath away, staring him down with murder in his eyes? That was different, that was more personal. Now, as he stood among the bodies, his sword slick with blood, he finally understood. He understood why men broke rank and ran, why hardened warriors sometimes abandoned their shields and fled like frightened children. It wasn¡¯t cowardice¡ªnot truly. It was the unbearable weight of death breathing down your neck, whispering in your ear that the next blade to fall would be the one to take your life. Even he, who had seen so much death, felt it. A shudder ran through him as he pulled his blade free from the bandit¡¯s corpse, his breath coming shallow and quick. It was one thing to watch men die from a distance. It was another to see the light fade from their eyes up close. This was a small battle¡ªif it could even be called that. No more than a hundred and fifty men had been here, and most of them had already fled the moment steel met flesh. Robert could hardly call this a real fight. Unlike the brutal clashes he had witnessed in the past, this was one-sided. There was no disciplined shield wall, no desperate last stand, just scattered groups of bandits breaking apart like dry twigs under a boot, evolving in multiple single combats rather than full-fledged fighting. A few stubborn men still fought, clutching their rusted weapons with desperate, shaking hands, but even they were only delaying the inevitable. The majority had already turned tail and ran, disappearing into the trees in a frenzied retreat. But the temple¡¯s men were right behind them, boots pounding against the damp earth as they gave chase. They were not knights, nor were they professional soldiers, but there was something relentless about them, as they fought for something they believed in. Robert watched as the last remnants of resistance crumbled, the few still standing either cut down or wise enough to drop their weapons before they met the same fate. The battle was over almost as soon as it had begun. After all bandits were certainly brave when facing weaponless peasants, but when facing someone with steel, all the bravery turned into fear , just as it was happening in front of him. A voice cut through the din of dying groans and pounding footsteps. "Hey you!" He turned sharply, his grip on the sword tightening as his gaze swept the battlefield. A group of three men stood near the remnants of a half-collapsed tent. One of them¡ªa broad-shouldered man with a bloodied axe resting against his shoulder¡ªwas waving him over. "If you¡¯re not going to chase them, come with us!" the man shouted, his voice hoarse from exertion. "There are prisoners here!" Robert blinked. Prisoners? Chapter 453: Fight evil for good(2) Chapter 453: Fight evil for good(2) The battle was over. The forest clearing, once filled with the clash of steel and the screams of dying men, had fallen into grim silence. The bandits who had chosen to fight lay strewn across the ground, their lifeblood soaking into the dirt, watering the ground with their life essence. Those who had tried to flee had not made it far¡ªskewered from behind by relentless pursuers, who found themselves not to have much mercy for a kind that thrived on attacking harmless people. A handful had thrown down their weapons and surrendered, now forced to their knees, hands bound behind their backs as they awaited whatever judgment was to come. Robert took it all in with a cold, assessing stare. There was no glory here, only bodies and the stink of death. His focus shifted as he turned toward the men who had called for him. They were already moving, vanishing into the largest tent in the camp¡ªa ragged but sturdy structure, likely where the bandits had stored their most valuable goods. Or, as they had said, their prisoners. His boots crunched against the bloodied ground as he made his way forward, pushing aside the tent¡¯s heavy fabric and stepping inside. Inside the tent, the air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, damp straw, and something foul and yet human. The dim light filtering through the fabric walls cast eerie shadows over the figures within. Women. Dozens of them. Huddled together. Their clothes¡ªwhat little they had¡ªwere torn and filthy. Their faces, streaked with dirt and dried tears, carried the same look: hollow, distant, and afraid. Some clutched at each other, their thin fingers digging into the flesh of their companions as if grounding themselves to something real. Others shrank back, pressing themselves against the wooden poles that supported the tent, their eyes flitting toward the entrance like cornered animals awaiting the next cruel hand. Robert did not need to ask what had happened here. The answer was written across every bruise, every fresh scar, every pair of vacant, terror-stricken eyes. One of the men who had led him here stepped forward, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "It¡¯s over," he said, his voice firm yet gentle. "The bandits are dead or scattered. You¡¯re safe now." Another spoke up, his tone softer, "We are not here to hurt you. We came to free you." The women did not move at first. Their fear was not so easily dispelled, their bodies tense, as if expecting a cruel trick. Then, slowly¡ªhesitantly¡ªsome began to look up, their gazes flickering between the men¡¯s armor and their weapons, no longer drawn in violence but slung across their backs in rest. A murmur spread through them, a tremble in the air as realization settled in. The men in front of them were not their captors. They were their liberators. A shuddering breath was released from somewhere within the group, followed by another. Shoulders sagged. Tears welled up, but this time, they were not ones of despair. They were free. The four of them silently drew their daggers, the sharp glint of steel catching the dim light inside the tent. Without a word, they moved among the women, cutting away the coarse ropes that bound their wrists. The fibers had dug deep into flesh, leaving behind angry red welts, torn skin, and dried blood crusted around the wounds. Some of the bindings were so tight that even after being severed, the women¡¯s hands trembled and twitched, their circulation struggling to return. Robert stepped forward, his dagger steady in his grip, and reached for the nearest girl. She was young¡ªtoo young. Not much older than his own daughter would have been. The realization made something in his chest tighten, but he ignored it, sliding his blade carefully beneath the rope and slicing through it with one clean motion. The moment her hands were free, she let out a ragged sob and threw herself against him. Her frail arms wrapped around his torso as she buried her face against his chest, her thin shoulders shaking violently. "Thank you," she gasped, the words tumbling out between sobs. "Thank you, thank you, thank you¡ª" Robert did not move. He stood there, rigid as stone, his dagger still clutched in his hand, the sharp edge of the blade glistening with the fibers of the severed rope. His mind struggled to process the warmth of the girl clinging to him, her tears soaking into the fabric of his tunic. He felt nothing. No relief. No satisfaction. Not even discomfort. Only emptiness. The girl¡¯s grip on him only tightened as she kept repeating her broken thanks, her voice hoarse from crying. "Thank you... thank you... thank you..." The words came out in gasps, as though speaking them aloud might somehow undo the horrors she had endured. Robert did not respond. He did not return the embrace. He did not even look down at her. He only stared past her trembling form, his dagger still hanging loosely in his hand. Was he supposed to feel something? Relief? Satisfaction? A sense of righteousness for having¡ªif not saved her¡ªat least played a part in it? Wouldn¡¯t that be hypocritical? His stomach twisted at the thought. He had been on the other side of this before. He had led warriors on forays into enemy lands, ordered the burning of villages, watched from horseback as his men stormed through homes and took their spoils however they pleased. He had never partaken in the raping¡ªnot out of any moral objection, but because he had considered it beneath him. But he had allowed it. Led them to the next village, knowing exactly what awaited the women there. So why now, standing in the aftermath of the same cruelty he once facilitated, was he supposed to feel anything , perhapse even disgust? Not at the bandits. Not at the horror in this tent. But at himself. Disgusted or not , one by one, the women were freed. The ropes that had bitten into their skin, leaving behind raw, bloody welts, fell away as daggers worked through the bindings. Some women flinched at the touch, others simply stood there, hollow-eyed, as if even the prospect of freedom was too distant to grasp. When the last of them had been cut loose, the three men gently guided them outside. They did not resist, nor did they celebrate. As they stepped into the open air, their gazes fell upon the battlefield. Bodies¡ªsome of the very men who had held them captive¡ªlay strewn across the clearing, lifeless. The metallic scent of blood lingered in the air, mixing with the dampness of the earth. The women did not react. They did not cry, did not spit upon their corpses, did not scream curses at them. They only looked. Tired. Defeated. Empty. And then, at the quiet urging of their rescuers, they walked forward, leaving behind the place of their suffering. Robert did not follow them. Instead, he turned away and let his feet take him elsewhere, his mind drifting back to the girl who had clung to him moments ago. She had been young. About the same age his own daughter would have been, had she lived and not been taken by sickness years ago. He had not thought about her in a long time, strangely, he now did. But now, as he walked, his thoughts betrayed him. He imagined her in that tent, bound, bruised, and broken, whispering those same desperate words of thanks to some nameless warrior who had come too late. His jaw clenched. He turned his gaze away, pushing the thought from his mind, though it lingered like a shadow at the edge of his consciousness. He knew what awaited these women. It did not take a genius to know what they had been kept alive for, and it did not take a genius to know what their lives would be now. No man would take them in, and many of their own families would reject them¡ªnot out of cruelty, but out of cold, practical survival. They would be seen as damaged. As burdens. As dead weight. Robert said nothing. He only kept walking, seeing if ahead of him there would be salvation or the hot holds of all the hells that the gods created awaiting him.Suddendly, his eyes fell upon a familiar corpse¡ªthe last man he had killed. The bandit¡¯s body lay sprawled across the blood-soaked earth, his lifeless eyes staring blankly at the sky above. His axe rested where it had fallen, useless in death, while his rusted chainmail bore the mark of Robert¡¯s blade. Robert¡¯s gaze lingered on the corroded links of metal. That was the only reason his sword had pierced through so easily. Had the chain been well-kept, had the man been a soldier instead of a raider, would things have ended differently? Would he still be standing here, or would it be Robert lying cold and still in the dirt? He studied the bandit¡¯s face. Had he known? In his final moments, had he understood that his life was ending? Or had he only felt confusion¡ªa dull, hazy bewilderment as the pain bloomed inside him? Or perhaps, in those last few breaths, there had been clarity for the fact that the hells awaiting their new guests. Perhaps he had seen something Robert had yet to grasp. He exhaled through his nose. He did not know. Just as he did not know if the road he had just begun to walk¡ªthe one paved in blood, redemption, and uncertainty¡ªwould lead him anywhere at all. Would it be his salvation? Or would it be just as meaningless as everything else? He did not have the answer. And so, he walked on. Chapter 454: An hard place Chapter 454: An hard place The attack force had set out in the morning, ninety bandits their target. Now, the battle was over, and not a single one remained standing. Victory had been swift, decisive, merciless. The fight itself had not lasted long¡ªmost of the bandits had fled at the first sign of defeat, only to be cut down as they ran. The ones who had stood their ground met their end with steel, their bodies now strewn across the bloodstained earth. But it wasn¡¯t over yet. The work of warriors did not end when the killing stopped. There was still one final task. The camp¡ªa wretched place of filth and suffering¡ªcould not be left standing. The very ground was tainted by the horrors that had taken place within its tents. It needed to burn. Orders were given, and torches were lit. The fire started small, creeping along the wooden beams of the makeshift structures. Then, as more fuel was thrown into the blaze, it grew into an inferno. Smoke twisted into the sky, thick and heavy, as the camp was reduced to embers. The bodies of the fallen were dragged into the fire, their broken forms vanishing beneath the hungry flames. There was no reverence, no prayers¡ªonly the crackling of burning flesh and the distant sound of the wind. But not all the bandits had perished in the battle. Some had surrendered, throwing down their weapons, begging for their lives. Perhaps in another place, on another battlefield, their fate might have been different. A lord might have taken them as prisoners, and sold them to a slaver. But not here. Not after what had been found in the tents. The captured bandits were lined up before the fire, their hands bound, their eyes filled with growing horror as they realized what was to come. No one spoke. No one begged. By now, they knew there would be no changing their fate. Blades flashed in the firelight. One by one, their throats were slit. Their bodies collapsed onto the dirt, twitching, gurgling, before the flames claimed them alongside their fallen kin. No graves would mark their passing. No memory of them would remain. Only ashes. When the last of the corpses had been swallowed by the fire, the warriors turned their backs to the burning ruin and began their march home. ------------ Robert sat atop his horse once more, the beast shifting beneath him with a steady, rhythmic trot. He had left it behind to fight on foot, the dense forest making cavalry useless in the attack, but now that the battle was over and the road ahea0d was clearer, it was a relief to have the animal beneath him again. The army, however, was not yet on the move. The sun sat high in the sky, marking that midday had long since passed, yet the men still remained in camp. Some sat in clusters, chewing on stale rations while they awaited for the cooks to finish up stirring the pots, while others repaired straps of armor or re-wrapped the grips of their swords. The scent of burnt flesh still clung to the air. Robert urged his horse forward, weaving past scattered groups of soldiers and their tethered mounts, heading toward the head of the expedition. Sir Joshen. The knight was where Robert had expected him to be, seated atop his own steed near a small gathering of officers. His polished breastplate gleamed in the sunlight, though the lower half of his surcoat was marred with dried blood from the fighting. As Robert approached, Sir Joshen caught sight of him, his expression unreadable. "Sir Robert," he greeted, nodding once. Robert returned the nod. "Sir Joshen." The army had set up camp just outside the village¡ªthe very same one the bandits had been preying upon for food, supplies, and worse. It was a grim return, for both the soldiers and the villagers, though nothing needed to be said. The scars left behind by the raiders were evident on the faces of those who had survived them. Robert pulled his horse up beside Sir Joshen, his eyes scanning the idle camp before turning to the knight. "Why are we still here?" he asked. "The prisoners have been returned, the bandits are dead. We should be moving." Joshen let out a breath, running a hand through his graying hair before answering. "The cooks are preparing food. If we¡¯re to march, we may as well do so with full bellies. A few more hours won¡¯t make a difference." Robert frowned. "Is it really necessary to waste a day¡¯s march over that?" Joshen turned to him with a knowing look. "Perhaps not. But this village has suffered, and not all of the women will be taken back by their kin. The gods only know how many. If they are to have nowhere else to go, we may as well take them with us." Robert¡¯s gaze flickered toward the village, to the figures of women who had once been captives, now free but uncertain of their fate. He said nothing, and Joshen didn¡¯t press him. Instead, the knight smirked slightly. "I¡¯ve heard from some of the men. They said you fought well." Robert scoffed, shaking his head. "They were bandits," he said flatly. "Men who only knew how to swing at something weaker than them." Joshen chuckled. "Still, you handled yourself well. Some were surprised, I¡¯d wager, from your age mind you." Robert said nothing. He hadn¡¯t fought for glory or admiration. If anything, the battle had been nothing more than another step forward¡ªwhether toward redemption or ruin, he had yet to know. Joshen studied Robert for a moment before speaking again, his tone thoughtful. "Still, it¡¯s one thing to say they were just bandits. It¡¯s another to face them and come out on top. I imagine it¡¯s been some time since you fought like that." Robert gave a short, humorless chuckle. "It has. My fights were usually fought from horseback or from behind a line of men I commanded. I gave orders, they carried them out. Simple." Joshen nodded, understanding. "And yet, this time, you stood among them, sword in hand. Not quite the place of a nobleman, is it?" Robert glanced at him, his expression unreadable. "So you know of me?" Joshen let out a low hum, watching as a group of soldiers sat around a fire, laughing over some crude joke. "Enough to know that you are a castles and villages bound in oath to you." He turned back to Robert. "Do not worry I will not ask of why you are here marching among men swore to never know opulence, each one has his demons to fight after all. So, tell me, did you feel anything? Standing among them, fighting with your own hands?" Robert¡¯s grip tightened slightly on his reins. "Nothing worth speaking of." Joshen let out a sigh, rolling his shoulders as if easing the weight of his armor. "We¡¯ll be marching in a few hours. Best use the time to rest and eat while you can." His voice was steady, but there was something distant in his tone, as if his thoughts were already elsewhere. As he spoke, he turned slightly, his gaze drifting toward a small group moving slowly through the camp¡ªgirls, their faces pale and streaked with grime, their thin shoulders hunched as if the very air pressed down upon them. Tears ran silently down their cheeks, their eyes fixed on nothing, lost in whatever horrors their minds refused to let go of. Joshen¡¯s expression darkened. He exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his chin. "I feared as much," he muttered. "Their troubles aren¡¯t over." Robert followed his gaze, watching the way the girls clung to each other, how some flinched at the sudden clatter of armor or the bark of a soldier¡¯s laugh. Their bodies had been freed from the bandits, but their souls? That was another matter entirely. Joshen¡¯s voice was quieter when he spoke again. "They may never find peace from what happened to them... but at least tonight, they¡¯ll find a warm meal from us." It was a small mercy, and they both knew it. But in a world where mercy was scarce, it was all they had to give. ----------------- Robert sat down heavily on a rough patch of earth, his body aching from the battle, though he barely registered the discomfort. Before him lay a simple wooden bowl filled with thin, watery porridge and a piece of hard bread that looked like it had seen better days. He stared at it for a moment, his lips pressing into a thin line. Once, his meals had been a display of wealth¡ªroasted venison, spiced fowl, fine cheeses, and wine rich enough to make a man forget his troubles for an evening. Now, he was reduced to this. Bland slop and stale bread. With a quiet sigh, he let his eyes wander across the camp. The soldiers, for the most part, kept to themselves, speaking in low tones or tending to their weapons. Some ate, others rested, and a few gathered around fires, letting the warmth soothe the stiffness of battle-worn limbs. He had expected worse. In another army, one less disciplined, the women they had rescued would have likely been dragged into tents under the guise of comfort, coerced into repaying their so-called saviors. But here? Here, the men gave them space. Whether out of pity or something else, he did not know. His gaze drifted idly, until a familiar figure caught his eye. Just a few meters away, sitting among the others, was the girl he had freed. She was thin, frail-looking, her face still marked by dried tears and exhaustion. Yet, even as she sat in silence, there was something guarded in her posture, something that refused to break completely. Their eyes met. For a heartbeat, she stared at him, wide-eyed and uncertain, as if debating whether to say something. Then, as quickly as it happened, she looked away, lowering her gaze and turning her attention elsewhere, as though ashamed of being caught. Robert paid her no mind. He dipped his spoon into the porridge, lifted it to his lips, and took a slow bite. It was as tasteless as he had expected. Robert grimaced as the bland porridge hit his tongue, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to swallow. He muttered a curse under his breath before scoffing, "Gods, even water has more fucking taste than this." He stirred the mush with his spoon, watching the lifeless mixture slosh around in the bowl before he let out a sigh of disgust. "I¡¯m not eating this grub." Without another word, he set the bowl down on the ground, letting the stale piece of bread fall inside with a dull plop. As he rose to his feet, his eyes flicked back to the girl. She was still sitting there, still avoiding his gaze. "Take it if you want," he said as he turned to walk away. "I am not going to eat that" He didn¡¯t wait for a response, didn¡¯t bother to see if she would reach for it. Whatever she did with it wasn¡¯t his concern. His boots crunched against the dirt as he strode off, leaving the girl¡ªand the tasteless slop¡ªbehind. Chapter 455: Opening up Chapter 455: Opening up Elios stood tall before the gathered faithful. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, casting golden beams upon the wooden and rather simple carvings of the gods that adorned the stone walls. Elios raised his arms, his deep voice resonating like rolling thunder, filling every corner of the sacred space. "Brothers and sisters," he began, his tone both warm and unyielding, "there is no greater pleasure than that found in the honesty of work. No joy more fulfilling than the sweat upon one¡¯s brow, the ache in one¡¯s hands, the fatigue in one¡¯s bones after a day spent shaping, building, crafting, or tilling. It is in toil that we are closest to the divine, for the gods themselves labored to carve the world from the void. And so too must we labor to carve meaning from our own lives." His gaze swept across the gathered crowd farmers with calloused hands, artisans bearing the marks of their craft, and soldiers with blades at their sides. Each face, each pair of eyes, was drawn to him, captivated by the weight of his words. "But," he continued, his voice lowering, sharpening like a blade being drawn from its sheath, "there are those who do not share in this sacred toil. There are those who feast not from their own labor, but from the sweat of others. The usurer, who grows fat on coin he never earned. The thief, who takes what he never bled for. The deceiver, who twists words and peddles falsehoods for his gain, spinning lies as a spider weaves its web, waiting for the honest man to stumble into his trap." A murmur rippled through the crowd, a mix of agreement and unease. Some nodded fervently, their hands tightening on the hilts of their blades. Others looked downward, their faces shadowed with reflection. Elios let the moment linger, the silence heavy with the weight of truth. "Work," he declared, his voice rising like a flame, "is the heartbeat of the world! It is the great forge in which civilization is hammered into shape. A farmer¡¯s calloused hands are worth more than a merchant¡¯s silken robes! A blacksmith¡¯s sweat is holier than the golden coins of a moneychanger! A builder who lays brick upon brick gives more to this world than a dozen lords who have never lifted anything heavier than their own indulgence!" He paused, his chest rising and falling with the force of his words, his staff striking the stone floor with a resounding crack. The sound echoed through the hall, a punctuation mark to his sermon. The crowd leaned forward, their breaths held, their eyes fixed on him. "But the leeches of the world?" His voice darkened now, low and filled with quiet fury. "They cling to the honest, draining them, taking and taking, yet never giving. They do not create, only consume. They do not sow, only reap. And what is a man who feasts without labor? A parasite! And what happens to a body riddled with parasites?" "It dies," a voice called out from the crowd, low and grim. Elios¡¯s eyes flashed, his lips curling into a grim smile. "Yes," he said, his voice a whisper that carried like a blade. "It dies. And so too will our world, if we allow these parasites to thrive. But we are not helpless. We are not weak. We are the hands that shape the earth, the backs that bear its weight, the hearts that give it life. And together, we will cast out the leeches. Together, we will reclaim what is ours." Elios nodded gravely. "A nation that allows such men to flourish will find its roots withered, its harvest stolen, its soul poisoned. It will crumble, not from the swords of its enemies, but from the rot festering within." He stepped forward, his expression softening but his intensity never waning. "But we¡ªthose who work, those who build, those who give¡ªare the cure. We are the fire that burns away the rot. We are the flood that drowns the filth. It is through honest labor that we find not only prosperity but purpose! The man who toils knows the true taste of his bread. The woman who sews feels the warmth of her cloth not just upon her skin but in her soul." He lifted his hands high, his voice rising like a prayer. "Rejoice in your labor! Rejoice in your sweat! For every drop shed in honest work is a hymn sung to the gods! And curse those who would seek to grow fat upon the work of others, for they are the enemy of righteousness, the enemy of the gods, the enemy of mankind itself!" The temple erupted in agreement¡ªcheers, shouts, fervent prayers filling the air. Elios stood at the altar, his eyes ablaze, knowing that his words had planted something deep within their hearts. A seed of truth. A fire that, once kindled, could never be extinguished. As the sermon concluded, the temple began to empty. The grand hall of the temple, so recently filled with passion and righteous conviction, grew quieter with every departing soul. Robert remained behind, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes lingering on the grand carvings of the gods as he waited. A small group of farmers had gathered around Elios, their faces earnest, their hands still dirt-streaked from the fields. They spoke in hushed but urgent tones, gesturing as they explained their troubles¡ªperhaps a dispute over land, or a plea for aid in securing better seed for the coming season. Elios, with his usual patience, listened intently, nodding along, offering words of counsel and comfort in return. Robert exhaled through his nose, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, waiting as the last of the farmers left, their shoulders lighter than when they had arrived. Only then did he step forward. The moment Elios caught sight of him, a wide, beaming smile spread across the priest¡¯s face. "Ah, Robert!" he greeted warmly, his voice brimming with genuine delight. "What a pleasant sight it is to see you here!" Robert gave a small nod in return. "Father Elios." The priest clasped his hands together, his expression alight with enthusiasm. "I have heard much of your deeds of late, my friend. They say you fought nobly and valiantly in cleansing these lands of the bandits that plagued them." His smile faltered for a brief moment, a shadow of sorrow crossing his face. "It pains me to hear how deeply their presence had sunk its claws into the villages, how much suffering they inflicted on the innocent." But then, with a renewed brightness in his eyes, he continued, "And yet, I rejoice in knowing they shall spill no more innocent blood. The people of these lands can sleep with lighter hearts, and that,is no small thing." Robert said nothing at first, merely letting the words hang in the air between them. Then, after a pause, he let out a low hum, neither agreement nor dispute, but something in between. "Aye," he finally said, his voice calm, measured. "They won¡¯t be hurting anyone anymore." Elios studied him for a moment, his sharp eyes searching Robert¡¯s face. Whatever he found there made his smile soften, his voice turning a touch quieter. "And you? Do you rejoice in it?" Robert¡¯s lips pressed into a thin line. He did not answer right away. Robert exhaled, his gaze drifting toward the altar before he spoke. "I didn¡¯t find anything in it," he admitted. His voice was steady, but there was no weight behind it, no sense of pride or satisfaction. "No great sense of purpose, no glory, no peace. Just another fight. Another pile of bodies left to the crows." He rubbed his jaw absentmindedly. "Perhaps¡ªperhaps there¡¯s some reassurance in knowing I was fighting for something better this time. Maybe. I don¡¯t know." Elios let out a quiet sigh through his nose, watching him with a knowing look. After a moment, his lips curled into something just shy of a smirk. "Well, it seems someone has found you a pleasurable companion, at least." Robert arched a brow, unimpressed. "If you mean the girl, she just follows me around," he muttered. Elios chuckled lightly, though his expression quickly grew somber. "She is a poor little thing. She¡¯s seen too much in too little time, suffered things no child should endure, only to be refused by her own kin in the end." He shook his head, his voice heavy with sorrow. "She has a hard road ahead of her." Robert said nothing, but his fingers curled slightly at his sides. Elios watched him closely, his sharp eyes missing nothing. "You¡¯re a nobleman, Robert," he said finally. "Perhaps you could employ her as your servant." He spread his hands in a simple, reasonable gesture. "You have a small home here, do you not?I believe some farmers built it for you.... I¡¯m sure she could manage to look after it." Robert stared at him, he exhaled, glancing away as if the answer was somewhere in the flickering candlelight of the temple. "I¡¯ll think about it," he said finally, his voice even but noncommittal. It was neither a refusal nor an acceptance, just a thought left to linger in the air. Elios nodded, as if expecting that response. A silence stretched between them before the priest tilted his head slightly, his expression turning inquisitive. "And your dreams?" he asked. "Have they troubled you still?" Robert let out a slow breath. "No," he admitted. "Not since then." He folded his arms, his gaze lowering in thought. "I¡¯ve actually started sleeping more soundly." At that, Elios smiled, a genuine warmth in his features. "That is a good thing," he said with quiet certainty. "At the very least, it seems the gods have chosen not to punish you further." Robert wasn¡¯t sure if he should feel relieved or wary at that notion, but he said nothing. Elios¡¯ smile, however, did not last long. He let out a sigh, rubbing his temple as if he could chase away whatever troubled him. "I only wish I could say the same for myself," he admitted. His voice, usually so steady and full of conviction, now carried a weariness Robert had rarely heard from him. "In recent days, I¡¯ve been plagued by ugly nightmares." Robert studied him, frowning slightly. "What kind of nightmares?" he asked. Elios¡¯ eyes darkened, his thoughts seemingly drifting elsewhere. "The kind that do not fade with the morning light," he murmured. Elios tilted his head back, his gaze lifting toward the wooden beams of the temple¡¯s roof as if searching for answers carved into the old timbers. The candlelight flickered across his face, casting shifting shadows that made him look older, more burdened than Robert had ever seen him. "I fear a great storm is coming," he said at last, his voice quiet but weighted, as if each word carried the heaviness of an unspoken truth. "Not one of wind or rain, but something far worse¡ªsomething unseen yet inevitable." His fingers drummed against the wooden podium beside him, a restless movement betraying his unease. "And I do not know what will emerge from it," he continued, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if trying to peer through a fog that had yet to descend. His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening. "Only that it is coming.And we cannot do anything to stop it from reaching us..." Chapter 456: A dark storm Chapter 456: A dark storm The wooden door of the barracks creaked open, and a soldier stepped inside, rolling his shoulders with a weary sigh. The air was thick with the mingling scents of sweat, damp wood, and the faint lingering smoke of last night¡¯s fire. His boots thudded dully against the floorboards as he made his way toward his bunk, fingers already reaching up to unfasten the straps of his helmet. With a grunt, he pulled it off, revealing damp, matted hair, before setting it down onto its allocated spot along with his breastplate. The polished steel caught the dim light of the torches mounted on the walls, reflecting the worn and lived-in state of the barracks¡ªsimple yet sturdy, built by the rough hands of the gang members who now toiled as communal slaves within the settlement. Across the room, a cluster of eight soldiers huddled around a makeshift table, their voices carrying a mixture of amusement and frustration. Dice clattered against the wood, rolling to a stop as groans and cheers erupted in equal measure. Coins exchanged hands, alongside slips of parchment bearing written credits¡ªpromises of their next month¡¯s salary, wagered away in the heat of the game. There was an unspoken rule among them, never written down but followed religiously: no one could bet more than what they¡¯d earn in the coming month. It was a measure of control in an otherwise reckless pursuit, ensuring that no man dug himself into a hole too deep to climb out of. And yet, as the soldier glanced at the small pile of credits growing in front of one particularly smug-looking player, he wondered just how many men had already gambled away their next weeks before they¡¯d even begun. The soldier had barely stepped inside when one of the men at the dice table looked up and smirked. "Ah, look who¡¯s finally done sulking," he said, shaking the dice in his palm. "Come sit with us. You¡¯ve been here how long and still haven¡¯t played a single round? That¡¯s practically a crime." Another chuckled, tossing a handful of coins onto the floor. "Come on, even the greenest recruits throw dice at least once. What¡¯s stopping you? Fear of losing all your precious savings?" The soldier sighed, unlatching his breastplate and setting it down with a dull thud. "Not interested," he muttered, rubbing at his neck as if trying to relieve a persistent ache. The group at the table erupted into laughter. One of them leaned back, grinning. "Not interested? You¡¯re retiring soon, and you¡¯ve never even played a single game with us? That just ain¡¯t right. What kind of soldier leaves the company without even rolling the bones?" Another, younger than the rest, raised an eyebrow. "What, scared you¡¯ll lose your pension before you even get it?" The soldier gave them all a flat look before exhaling sharply. "Betting is foreign to me," he said with irritation. "And I¡¯m not in the mood." "Not in the mood?" one of them mocked with exaggerated pity. "Poor bastard must¡¯ve had a long day." At that, the man who had clearly been winning the most let out a loud sigh and slumped back against the bench. "You think he had a long day? I just wasted a quarter-hour arguing with some wretch who couldn¡¯t speak a damned word of our tongue, and for what? A bloody dagger." One of the men snorted, tossing his own dice across the floor. "A dagger? And?" The man waved a hand in frustration. "Fifteen damn minutes. I had to get a translator because I couldn¡¯t understand a word he was saying. Thought he was begging for food or coin, maybe even that someone was murdered in his family. But no. Turns out he was just going on and on about how someone had stolen his dagger, bloody hell, not even if it was made of fucking gold." Laughter erupted again from the table. Another soldier wiped at his eyes, shaking his head. "A whole dagger? By the gods, what a tragedy!" "It must have been a fine blade," another teased. "What was it? Gold hilt? Jeweled pommel?" The soldier let out a huff. "Steel, apparently. Some old thing, but he was damn well attached to it. Kept pointing at his hip, wailing like someone had cut off his hand instead of just taking his knife." He ran a hand down his face before slumping into a seat. "Ended up just giving him mine to shut him up." That sent another round of laughter rippling through the group. One of them clapped him on the back, shaking his head. "You¡¯re a damn saint! You better make sure the decurion doesn¡¯t find out, though. If he hears you¡¯ve been handing out standard-issue gear to every beggar that cries at you, he¡¯ll have you digging horse dung for a week." The man rolled his eyes. "Oh, don¡¯t worry. I¡¯ll make sure of that." The laughter carried on, dice clattering across the floor, coins changing hands, and the air thick with the scent of sweat and ale. The dice clattered against the wooden floor once more, and a round of groans and chuckles followed as the winner raked in his winnings. The conversation shifted naturally, turning toward their work here in the settlement. "Honestly," one of the older soldiers muttered, stretching out his legs, "this might be the easiest post I¡¯ve ever had. We stand around, walk a few patrols, break up some drunken fights, and every now and then, we have to listen to some poor sod complaining about something we don¡¯t understand a smooch of . Hardly what I¡¯d call soldiering." Another soldier, a grizzled man with a thick beard, grunted in agreement. "Aye. And compared to marching through mud, sleeping in ditches, and waiting weeks for half our pay, this is practically a vacation." One of the younger men smirked. "Nice for this to be our last work before retirement, eh? I¡¯d rather spend my final years of service sitting on my ass here than bleeding in some gods-forsaken field." A murmur of agreement spread through the group. This was an easy post¡ªcalm, steady, effortless. No desperate battles, no starvation, no harsh winters spent shivering in a tent. For men who had spent their lives marching and fighting, this was a fine place to wait out the end of their service. As the dice rolled again, one of the players glanced up and called out, "Hey, Dain! What about you? What do you think you¡¯ll do once you¡¯re out?" Dain, the soldier who had just entered, exhaled through his nose and leaned back against the wall. "I¡¯ll take the land they owe me," he said simply. "Find a woman. Marry. Become a farmer." A few chuckles spread around the room. One of the younger soldiers whistled. "Farming, huh? Trading steel for dirt? Good luck with that boring life." He shook his head and smirked. "Not for me. When the time comes, I¡¯ll refuse the retirement line." "Oh?" Dain raised an eyebrow. "Aye," the younger soldier said, grinning as he scooped up his dice. "I like the work. I like the looting when there¡¯s war,I like the girl that I can take after a city falls and I like the easy coin when there¡¯s peace. As long as my lance arm holds, I¡¯ll keep taking pay and drinking on the prince¡¯s coin." The others chuckled, some nodding in approval, others shaking their heads in amusement. Dain just exhaled and shrugged. "To each his own." The laughter in the barracks was suddenly drowned out by the distant but unmistakable sound of shouting. At first, it was faint, just a ripple on the edges of their awareness, but within moments it grew into a chaotic, frenzied roar¡ªmen yelling, voices raised in panic and anger, the sharp clamor of metal striking metal. Then came another sound. A crackling, snapping noise, followed by the acrid scent of smoke creeping through the gaps in the wooden walls. The dice had barely settled when the barracks doors crashed open with a loud BANG. A soldier burst inside, panting like a dog, his face pale and slick with sweat. His chest heaved as he tried to suck in air, but the words still tore from his throat like he was choking on them. "Armor! Get your damned armor on! NOW!" For a moment, nobody moved. The weight of the command, the sheer urgency in his voice, paralyzed them just long enough for the next sound to hit them¡ªthe unmistakable, gut-twisting screams of men . That was enough. Chairs scraped against the floor as the soldiers shot to their feet, coins clattering as they abandoned their game. The dice rolled uselessly across the table as hands grabbed for armor and weapons. Boots slammed against the wooden planks as men rushed to their designated places, tightening straps, pulling on helmets, reaching for swords, axes, maces and spears. "What the hell is going on?" one of them barked, fumbling with the buckle of his breastplate. "It¡¯s chaos!" the breathless soldier gasped, bending over with his hands on his knees before snapping upright again. "Shouts, fire¡ªthe savages are rioting, the locals are too, it is fucking chaos!" "The hell do you mean rioting?" another soldier demanded, yanking his sword from its scabbard. "I mean it¡¯s a godsdamned warzone out there!" The soldier¡¯s eyes were wide, his breath coming fast. "I don¡¯t even know who they are fighting against!There are fires going through some houses" He swallowed hard before adding, "If you¡¯ve got a star to pray to, you¡¯d better start now." The barracks, once filled with the easy laughter of men with their boots kicked up, now erupted into a storm of action. Armor clanked, blades hissed from their scabbards, men muttered curses under their breath as they grabbed whatever they could. The laughter was gone. The dice, the bets, the idle talk of retirement¡ªall of it was drowned out by the rising din outside, the distant clash of steel, the screams. One soldier, his hands shaking as he adjusted his helmet, turned to another. "This was supposed to be an easy post," he muttered. The other soldier, already fastening his weapon belt, just spat on the ground before grabbing his axe. "Not anymore." Then, without another word, they rushed toward the door. Chapter 457: Walking onto the spark Chapter 457: Walking onto the spark The moment they stepped outside, the full scale of the chaos hit them like a slap to the face. The first thing they noticed¡ªbefore the screaming, before the shouts, before the pounding of frantic feet against the dirt¡ªwas the fire. Further north in the settlement, flames licked hungrily at the wooden structures, their glow painting the night in flickering shades of orange and red. Smoke billowed high into the sky, twisting and curling like a living thing, carrying with it the acrid scent of burning wood, flesh, and whatever else had been caught in its wake. The air was thick with the sound of chaos¡ªfrenzied shouting in a tongue most of them barely understood, the wails of women, the guttural bellows of men, and somewhere in the distance, the distinct crash of something heavy collapsing into the flames. The soldiers followed their guide at a hurried pace, weaving between fleeing villagers and frantic slaves, moving toward the heart of the settlement where the rest of the garrison was gathering. As they neared, they saw all that they had to stop this¡ª150 men, all that could be mustered, standing in tight formation, their armor gleaming under the sickly glow of firelight. The commander had already given his orders, and each soldier stood ready, clad in full armor, shields strapped to their arms, but their weapons not drawn to kill. In their hands, they gripped heavy clubs¡ªthick, sturdy things meant to break bone but not spill blood. The head of the garrison, a seasoned officer with lines of age carved into his face, had made his stance clear. No swords. No spears. Not unless the savages force our hand. He had no desire to turn this riot into a massacre¡ªnot yet, anyway. If it could be ended without a bloodbath, that would be the ideal outcome, he after did not want to be the one to ruin his liege¡¯s plans for the settlement¡¯s reforms . Still his wishes were one thing the reality was another as the tension in the air made one thing clear, it wouldn¡¯t take much to tip it into slaughter. Men adjusted their grips on their clubs, exchanging uneasy glances as they waited for the order to march. The firelight danced across their armor, their breath misting in the cold air as they listened to the chaos beyond their ranks. This had been an easy post. Now, it was a powder keg, and they were walking straight into the spark while holding some water in their naked arms. At the head of the gathered soldiers, mounted atop a dark warhorse, sat Captain Haldrek, the head of the garrison. He was a broad-shouldered man, hardened by years of service, his features carved from stone¡ªsquare jaw, weathered skin, and a permanent scowl that only deepened under the flickering firelight. His steel breastplate, dull and scratched from long campaigns, reflected the shifting glow of the burning settlement behind him. His gloved hands held the reins tightly, the leather creaking under his grip. His voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "Form up! On me!" The soldiers, already tense, snapped into motion. The loose gathering of men shifted into marching columns, their clubs gripped firmly, shields strapped to their arms. Their boots struck the dirt in unison, their discipline a stark contrast to the madness surrounding them. Haldrek pulled his horse around, surveying the men with a sharp gaze. His face was unreadable, but his posture radiated confidence, the kind that kept men from breaking ranks when chaos threatened to overtake them. He turned his horse back toward the heart of the settlement, toward the growing riot, toward whatever waited for them in the smoke and fire. Then, with a voice that carried through the night, he roared¡ª "Forward!Bring about our prince¡¯s peace" And with that, the garrison marched into the storm. The garrison moved as one, their boots pounding against the dirt roads of the settlement, shaking the earth beneath them. The deeper they marched, the more red the world became. The night, once thick with darkness, was now pierced by the angry dance of fire, licking at the sky, twisting and writhing as it devoured whatever stood in its path. Smoke coiled around them, acrid and suffocating, burning their throats as they pressed forward. Each soldier carried the same grim expression¡ªjaws clenched, brows furrowed, hands gripping their clubs so tightly that their knuckles turned white. Their armor clinked with each hurried step, but none of them broke stride. The tension was palpable, lingering between them like an unspoken fear, but none would voice it. They were soldiers. Soldiers did not fear riots. Soldiers feared being alone. And so, in the company of their comrades, they found the only relief they could afford. The shouting grew louder. Screams¡ªsome of anger, others of pain¡ªechoed through the streets, carried on the wind like the embers of burning homes. Shadows twisted against the walls, moving frantically, figures clashing in the distance. Then, they reached it. The garrison rounded the final bend, stepping into the full embrace of the riot. The scene before the soldiers was a maelstrom of chaos¡ªtwo sides locked in a furious clash, bodies pushing, shoving, throwing fists and stones with wild abandon. Shouts filled the air, an unintelligible mixture of rage, pain, and desperation, creating a deafening roar that drowned out even the crackling flames consuming parts of the settlement. The tribesmen made up the larger and fiercer side. Their faces were twisted with anger as they swung crude weapons¡ªbroken tools, wooden clubs, and anything they could find. They surged forward like a wave, shouting in their native tongue, their movements wild and relentless. Many of them were bare-chested, their bodies lean and hardened from labor, their eyes burning with fury. The other side, smaller in number, was made up of the locals. They fought back with whatever they had, some using their fists, others gripping stones or wooden planks. They stood their ground as best they could, but they were being pushed back, step by step, struggling against the sheer force of the attacking tribesmen. Some had already fallen, either beaten to the ground or trampled underfoot, their bodies sprawled in the dirt. Further beyond the fighting, flames stretched into the sky, their orange glow flickering against the darkening sky. The fire had spread, jumping from one home to another, but the settlement¡¯s design¡ªordered by the crown¡ªhad slowed it down. Unlike the crowded cities where flames could swallow entire neighborhoods, the houses here had enough space between them to prevent a full disaster. The fire could still be controlled, but only if it was dealt with quickly. But before that could happen, the riot had to be stopped. Captain Haldrek pulled his warhorse to a stop just ahead of his gathered men. His gaze swept over the chaotic scene before him for a small second , then snapped back to his soldiers. His voice rang out like a hammer striking iron¡ªfirm, unyielding. "Shields up! Form the wall!" At once, the soldiers moved with practiced precision. The front rank raised their shields, stepping forward in unison, locking the heavy wooden barriers together with a dull thud. The second rank followed immediately behind, gripping their clubs tightly, ready to strike when the time came. The formation took shape in mere moments, a small parting gift from all the training they were subjugated to. "Close the gaps! Keep tight!" Haldrek barked, his horse pacing alongside the formation. "We advance as one! No breaks, no hesitation!No man behind!" The men adjusted their grips, boots digging into the dirt as they braced themselves. The shield wall stood firm, unwavering. "Step forward on my command!" Haldrek raised his gauntleted hand. "Push through, break their will¡ªbut remember: no swords . We bring the prince¡¯s peace, not slaughter." A breath of silence fell over the formation. The only sounds were the crackling of flames, the distant shouts of the riot, and the heavy breathing of the soldiers as they steadied themselves. Then, Haldrek¡¯s arm swung down in a decisive motion. "Advance!" Without hesitation, the shield wall surged forward, their boots striking the earth in unison, a disciplined force moving to bring the riot to heel. The rhythmic pounding of boots against dirt filled the air, steady and disciplined, a stark contrast to the wild, frenzied movements of the rioters ahead. His gloved hand tightened on the reins, the leather creaking as he rode just behind his soldiers, ensuring the line did not break, ensuring order held against the storm. The heat of the fires gnawed at his skin, smoke coiling in thick, choking plumes, stinging his eyes. Shadows danced wildly across the burning settlement, twisting and stretching like specters in the night. The air was thick with the acrid scent of charred wood and sweat, but above all, the stench of something fouler, something unmistakable¡ªblood. Then, as the formation pressed forward, the soldiers saw it first. Their movements faltered, just for a breath. Their steps slowed, shields quivering ever so slightly in their grasp. It was not hesitation in the face of battle. It was not fear of the enemy before them for they had none Haldrek noticed the shift immediately, his jaw tightening. "Keep moving!" he barked, his voice cutting through the din. But as he followed their line of sight, his own breath caught in his throat. There, at the heart of the riot, laid upon the a ground made of hands , was a sight that turned his blood to ice. The priest, or better yet his lifeless body held up as a effigy. For the first time since the riot had begun, Captain Haldrek trembled. Chapter 458: Catastrophe(1) Chapter 458: Catastrophe(1) Haldrek¡¯s breath hitched. His hands went rigid on the reins, his warhorse shifting uneasily beneath him as if sensing its rider¡¯s sudden hesitation. His soldiers still advanced, shields locked, boots striking the earth in rhythmic unison, but Haldrek¡ªHaldrek did not move. His body was stiff, frozen atop his saddle, his world narrowing to the terrible sight before him. The priest was not just dead. He was carried. The rioters held his lifeless form aloft, hoisted on their shoulders like some wretched banner. His bloodstained robes billowed as they moved, his head lolling grotesquely, mouth agape in an eternal, silent prayer. The firelight flickered against the deep wound in his throat, against his still fingers curled stiff in death. A deafening silence fell over Haldrek¡¯s thoughts, a void that swallowed all else. This was no mere riot anymore. This was no simple unrest, no minor outbreak of violence to be quelled with clubs and shield walls. This was sacrilege. And there would be a reckoning. The weight of it crashed down upon him, heavier than any armor, heavier than any battlefield burden. A priest had been slain. The fires consuming the settlement were nothing compared to the fire that this death would ignite. Haldrek¡¯s stomach twisted with dread. Someone would have to answer for this. Someone would have to bear the blame. His throat went dry. His fingers trembled against the reins. He could already hear the whispers that would crawl through court, through the halls of power, through the lips of scheming men eager to point a finger. The garrison was meant to keep order.The garrison allowed a holy man to be butchered.The garrison failed. No¡ªhe had failed. It would not matter that the priest had been slain by these wild tribesmen, nor that the flames had been lit by desperate hands. The prince¡¯s reforms were a delicate thing, and their enemies would seize upon any excuse to call them doomed from the start. And what better proof than a priest, dead in the arms of heathens? Haldrek swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat did not go away. He felt the cold grip of inevitability tightening around his neck, dragging him toward a fate he had no power to stop. There was no glory in this night. No honor in this battle. Only ruin. And he feared¡ªno, knew¡ªthat ruin would come for him first. The soldiers marched forward, their shield wall unyielding, boots pounding in steady unison against the dirt. The flickering firelight cast their armored forms in shifting shadows, the acrid scent of smoke and blood thick in the air. Their grip tightened on their clubs, their breath misting in the cold night as they neared the heart of the riot. Then they saw it. It was a soldier on the left flank who spoke first, his voice hoarse with disbelief. "Gods above... that¡¯s a priest." The words carried through the ranks like a ripple through still water. The men¡¯s steps slowed ever so slightly as their eyes fixed on the lifeless body hoisted above the rioters. The long tunic, the hood now stained dark with blood¡ªit was unmistakable. "The priest," another muttered, voice barely above a whisper. "They killed a holy man." Murmurs spread through the ranks. Even beneath their helmets, the soldiers¡¯ faces twisted with unease. A priest¡¯s murder wasn¡¯t just another corpse in the dirt¡ªit was sacrilege, a blasphemy that would shake the very foundation of their prince¡¯s rule. There would be consequences. Haldrek swallowed the bitter taste rising in his throat. He had been a soldier long enough to know that battles were not won only with steel, but with politics. If the flames consuming this settlement did not die down, if the riot was not quelled immediately, the fire that would come for him would be far worse. The nobility, the clergy, even the prince himself¡ªsomeone would demand blood for this night. And Haldrek had no intention of it being his. He had one option. Do his duty. Perfectly. If order was restored, if the riot was crushed decisively, perhaps he could maneuver through the storm that would follow. Perhaps the blame could be placed elsewhere¡ªon a failure of intelligence, on local incompetence, on treachery from the rioters themselves. Someone else¡¯s head could roll. But if he failed now, if this settlement fell into complete anarchy... His fate would be already sealed. Haldrek inhaled sharply, steeling himself. There was no time for hesitation. He pulled hard on his reins, turning his horse sharply. His voice rang out like thunder. "Silence in the ranks!" The murmuring ceased. The soldiers straightened, eyes snapping back to their captain. "You will obey my orders,you will execute the prince¡¯s laws " Haldrek continued, his voice cold as iron. "The riot ends now. We restore order, we put these dogs in their place, and we bring the prince¡¯s peace back to this settlement." He swept his gaze over his men, letting the weight of his words settle. "No hesitation. No mercy. No voices." He gestured toward the body. "Forget what you see. Forget what you think. Do your duty." He raised his arm, signaling the advance once more. "Forward! Quell the riot!" The soldiers clenched their teeth. Whatever fear had gripped them was swallowed by duty. They moved with cold precision, their shield wall advancing like an unbreakable tide. The soldiers tightened their grips on their clubs, their formations flawless despite the chaos ahead. Their disciplined march cut through the madness of the burning settlement, boots hammering the ground in perfect unison. Then¡ªthe horns blew. Two sharp blasts echoed through the night, slicing through the air like the cry of war itself The sub-centurii, each leading a contingent of fifty men, raised their brass war horns again and again, their deep, commanding notes reverberating through the settlement. The wailing of women, the crackling of fire, the screaming of wounded men¡ªall were drowned beneath the overwhelming sound. Again. Again. Again. Each horn blast tore through the riot like a thunderclap, forcing its way into every ear, overpowering every voice. The effect was immediate. The rioters, both tribesmen and settlers alike, faltered mid-swing. Clubs hesitated in the air. Fists stopped just short of striking their mark. The cacophony of combat gave way to the deafening echo of the horns. For the first time since the chaos had erupted, silence threatened to overtake the riot. The fighters turned¡ªone by one, then in clusters¡ªtoward the new force marching upon them. Tribesmen, their faces painted in streaks of soot and rage, let their grip loosen on their crude weapons. Settlers, bruised and bloodied, instinctively stepped back, their attention stolen from their immediate foes. The garrison had arrived. The clash that had consumed the streets, the brawl that had turned men into beasts, had suddenly found itself frozen¡ªbecause a third force had entered the storm. And it was coming straight for them. Captain Haldrek wasted no time. His voice rang out, sharp and commanding. "Hold formation! Advance in step! Shields high!" The garrison moved as one, their discipline unwavering. Shields locked together, forming an unbreakable wall of steel. Their clubs, thick and brutal, were held firm in calloused hands, ready to strike. Their march was relentless, their armor gleaming in the firelight. The sight alone sent ripples of unease through the rioters. The tribesmen, hardened by labor and survival in harsh lands, found themselves hesitating¡ªnot because of numbers, but because of something far greater. Steel. In their homelands, iron was rare, let alone chainmail and full-plated breastplates. Yet here stood an entire force clad in it, their weapons forged from a metal stronger than anything the tribesmen had ever wielded. It was not just the men who terrified them¡ªit was the unnatural shine of their gear, the weight of their weapons, the impenetrability of their shields. This was not a battle between warriors with clubs and crude blades. This was like fighting gods made of iron. And gods could not be killed. A nervous murmur rippled through them. Many shifted in place, their grips tightening on their weapons, but their once-burning rage now dulled into something else¡ªfear. On the other side, the locals had fallen eerily silent. There was no one among them so ignorant as to not recognize the banners of the Black Stripes¡ªthe private army of the War-Prince. These were the men who had crushed the Ozanians, who had hunted down and butchered the rebel lord Ormund, who had stood unbroken at Arduronaven against an army twice their size and won. Their reputation was legend. Their discipline unmatched. And their fear daunting as the ocean These were not mere garrison soldiers. These were warriors who had forged their name in blood and fire. These were the men of Alpheo. And they were marching toward them. A heavy silence draped over the battlefield, thick with uncertainty. The settlers shifted uneasily. The tribesmen¡¯s awe turned to hesitation. Then, without thinking, both sides took slow steps away from one another. The battle that had raged so fiercely just moments ago had suddenly... stilled. A space, a cautious no-man¡¯s-land, began to form between them. The riot was not over. But neither side dared to make the first move. The soldiers paid no mind to the hesitation of the rioters. There was no pause in their march, no hesitation in their movements. The moment the first line reached the open space between the two sides, they crashed forward with brutal precision. "Break them apart!" Their clubs and sticks swung in measured arcs, not wild, not reckless¡ªcontrolled violence. Wood cracked against flesh and bone, striking arms, shoulders, ribs, and legs. The force was just enough to hurt, to drive back, but not to kill. The tribesmen, still reeling from the sheer sight of the armored force, instinctively stepped back as the soldiers came crashing in. Their fury, which had burned so hot just moments ago, faltered under the relentless discipline of the advancing line. Their crude weapons and fists were nothing against chainmail and steel. The settlers, too, found themselves forced back. They had expected the garrison to subdue the tribesmen, not them.How could they attack their own? But the soldiers did not discriminate. The riot had to end. More boots pounded the ground as the second wave of soldiers pushed into formation, taking full advantage of the widening space. Their movements were ruthless in efficiency¡ªeach strike widening the gap, each step forward claiming control of the battlefield. And it worked. Within moments, the riot had been split. The tribesmen and settlers now stood apart, separated by the advancing wall of iron and discipline. Haldrek watched from behind, gripping his reins so tightly that the leather creaked beneath his gloves. The riot was being pushed back. The first step toward order had been taken. His mind raced ahead. If they could keep this pace, they could turn their attention to the fires. They had to be fast. But then¡ª A scream. A voice, shrill and furious, piercing through the night. And just like everything else that night, Haldrek realized¡ª It would not be that easy. Chapter 459: Catastrophe(2) Chapter 459: Catastrophe(2) The moment the soldiers¡¯ clubs struck the settlers, the shouting began. "What are you doing?!" one man bellowed, staggering back, clutching his arm where a soldier¡¯s stick had slammed into it. "We¡¯re not the enemy! They are!Kill them not us" He jabbed a finger toward the tribesmen. Others took up the cry, their voices filled with outrage and disbelief. "You strike your own people while savages run free?!What has come to you?" "We are the faithful! They are the heretics!" "You protect them after they murdered a priest? Do you not fear the gods?!" The accusation spread like wildfire. A priest was killed and in retaliation, their voices rose in fury, pointing, shouting, eyes blazing with righteous anger. "They killed him! The enemy is right there, you blind fools!" The rage that had once been directed at the tribesmen now began turning toward the soldiers themselves. But the soldiers did not answer. They did not pause. They did not hesitate. They kept swinging hardly on them, at every exposed head, at every arm extended. It wasn¡¯t the gods that paid and honored them, it was their prince, the same who had ordered to protect his peace. A club cracked against a settler¡¯s knee, sending him toppling onto the dirt with a cry of pain. Another soldier shoved a man back with his shield, forcing him away from the frontline. Every time the rioters surged forward, the soldiers beat them back, forcing them to retreat step by step. Their orders had been clear. Quell the riot. Restore order. No exceptions. The Black Stripes did not stop to argue. They did not stop to explain. They did their duty. The rioters as a consequence were being pushed back. Step by step, under the relentless force of the advancing soldiers, they lost ground. The space between the two sides widened with every club that struck home, with every shield that shoved them away. Their shouts turned from anger to frustration, and then to hesitation. Captain Haldrek saw the moment for what it was¡ªa brief opening. He seized it. Bringing the war horn to his lips, he sounded a deep, commanding blast. The heavy note cut through the night, echoing above the fire, the screams, the chaos. The battlefield seemed to pause, if only for a heartbeat. And in that breath of silence, Haldrek roared. "Enough!" His voice, sharpened by years on the field, carried through the streets with the force of a hammer striking stone. "Disperse! Now! Return to your homes before we turn to steel! Before we have to spill blood! You have been warned!" The soldiers did not lower their weapons. They stood in a solid wall, waiting, ready. Haldrek¡¯s horse shifted beneath him as he swept his gaze over the rioters¡ªfaces twisted in anger, confusion, fear. He exhaled sharply and pressed forward. "Whatever has happened tonight will be investigated! Justice will be served! But if you do not stand down, if you continue this madness, then you will not be seen as victims, but as traitors." His words hung heavy in the air, cutting through the smoke and tension. "This will not be remembered as grief or vengeance. It will be remembered as acts of rebellion. And rebellion against the Crown is put down without mercy." The weight of his warning settled over the crowd like a storm rolling in. Some clenched their fists. Others glanced at one another, uncertain. Haldrek pushed on. "Do not condemn yourselves. Do not condemn your families. If you believe in justice, then let it come as it always has¡ªby the law of the Crown, and spread through his powers." The air stood thick with the unspoken choice before them. And still, the soldiers waited. Fear took hold where anger had burned only moments before. The locals, their voices once raised in fury, now wavered. The weight of the soldiers¡¯ presence, the unmistakable finality in the captain¡¯s words, pressed down on them like a heavy hand. Some still clenched their fists, their eyes darting between one another, but the fire in them had dimmed. The promise of retribution was not one they wished to test. One by one, they stepped back. Some muttered curses under their breath, others looked away in shame or frustration, but all understood the truth¡ªthis was not a fight they could win. And so, they turned. They moved away. Some stumbled, others hurried, but as one, they withdrew from the battle they had been so desperate to win. The tribesmen on the other side did not share their understanding. They did not know the words of the southerners, nor did they grasp the weight of the threat Captain Haldrek had delivered. The shouting had meant nothing to them but noise, the gestures incomprehensible. But what they did understand was movement. They saw their enemies, the settlers who had fought them so fiercely, suddenly flee. They saw hesitation take root where defiance had once been. And, most of all, they saw the soldiers. For a moment, the tribesmen seemed ready to push again, their bodies tense, their grips tightening on crude clubs and stones. Then a Black Stripe soldier stepped forward, his heavy club cracking against the metal cup of his shield. A dozen others followed, shields up, boots firm in the dirt. No words were needed. The argument was clear enough. The tribesmen ceased their advance. The battle was over or rather yet theirs had. They, too, turned and began to retreat into the shadows of the burning night. Captain Haldrek let out a deep sigh, the weight in his chest loosening just enough for him to breathe properly again. The riot was over. For now. Around him, the soldiers stirred, their grips easing on their clubs as the tension finally began to unwind. "By the gods," one muttered, shaking his head. "Thought we¡¯d have to start breaking skulls for real." "That¡¯s a damn victory," another said, rolling his shoulders. Haldrek straightened in his saddle, forcing the unease down. There was no time to dwell. The fire still raged, and if it was not dealt with, they would be left with ashes instead of a settlement. "Forget the damn riot," he barked. "Get to the flames! We¡¯ll have a second disaster on our hands if we let the whole place burn." The soldiers snapped to attention, some already turning toward the fires. Then, the sound of hurried footsteps reached their ears. Dozens of figures emerged from the smoke and darkness, running toward them. The flickering firelight cast their forms into shadows, their features unclear. Instinct took over. The Black Stripes soldiers immediately moved, shields rising in practiced unison, feet planting firmly in the dirt. The sudden motion came without thought¡ªdiscipline and training guiding their bodies even before their minds could catch up. The tension snapped back into place. Was the fight not over? Then, a voice cut through the night, loud, clear, and unmistakable in the southern tongue. "Hold! We are not enemies! We have come to put down the fire!" Haldrek¡¯s eyes narrowed, scanning the faces in the dim light. Then, he saw him¡ªa familiar figure among the bucket-carrying men. The man was thin, with sharp features and a calm bearing, even in the chaos of the night. Haldrek recognized him immediately. He was the one who worked as an intermediary between the court and the settlement. The one who had been teaching the Vogondai chieftain, Torghan, the southern tongue. For a brief moment, Haldrek hesitated. Then, he exhaled sharply. "Lower shields," he ordered. "And for gods¡¯ sake¡ªget to the fire before the whole thing burn down!" Captain Haldrek spurred his horse forward, the worn leather of the reins creaking beneath his grip. His soldiers moved with him, advancing toward the fire alongside the bucket-carrying tribesmen. The Vogondai moved swiftly and without hesitation, their bare feet pounding against the dirt as they rushed forward, lifting their buckets high before hurling the water into the flames. Steam hissed, smoke billowed, but the fire still raged, hungrily consuming wood and thatch. As Haldrek rode, his eyes locked onto a single figure amid the chaos¡ªa young man standing tall, his presence commanding. Torghan. The chieftain¡¯s youthful face was illuminated by the fire¡¯s glow, his brow furrowed, mouth set in a hard line as he barked orders in his native tongue. His warriors listened without question, throwing themselves into the task with fervor. Haldrek¡¯s scowl deepened. He needed answers. Now. He scanned the chaotic scene, his gaze quickly falling on a familiar face¡ªCaldric, the scholar assigned to teach Torghan the southern language and act as a bridge between the court and the Vogondai. Haldrek wheeled his horse around sharply, stopping just short of the man. "What in the fuck is happening here?" the captain snapped, his voice cutting through the din of crackling flames and shouted orders. "And why the hell is a priest dead?" Caldric¡¯s eyes widened, his face paling in the firelight. "We¡ªwe don¡¯t know," he stammered. "We didn¡¯t see it happen. No one did." Haldrek¡¯s jaw clenched. That was not an answer. "Ask your damn chieftain," he ordered, jerking his chin toward Torghan. Caldric hesitated only a moment before stepping forward and calling out to the young chieftain in through a third translator. The words carried over the firelit street, and Torghan¡¯s head snapped toward them. For a moment, the chieftain¡¯s expression was unreadable. Then, his face twisted in anger. He replied sharply, his words fast and clipped. Caldric swallowed, turning back to Haldrek. "He says... he doesn¡¯t know either." Haldrek¡¯s grip tightened on the reins. "All he knows," Caldric continued, voice grim, "is that when they came, they found their temples and altars put to the flame." Haldrek cursed silently in his mind, a storm of profanity running through his thoughts. Damn this night. Damn this riot. Damn this whole gods-forsaken post. The death of a priest, the burning of the temples¡ªit was all a catastrophe. For a brief moment, he shut his eyes, inhaling through his nose before forcing the tension down. There was still a fire raging. There were still orders to give. "For now, we put out the damn fire," he said, his voice clipped with exhaustion. "One catastrophe at a time." Caldric lingered, his face drawn, as though the weight of the night had settled onto his shoulders as well."And after that?" he asked, though the hesitation in his voice betrayed that he already knew what the answer would be. Haldrek exhaled slowly. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the stiffness settle into his bones. He was tired¡ªtoo tired for this shit. He rubbed his temple before letting out a dry, humorless chuckle. "After that? I¡¯ll have to write a letter." Caldric grimaced, knowing exactly what that meant. Some heads will roll.But hopefully it wasn¡¯t to theirs Chapter 460: Ruined plans Chapter 460: Ruined plans The war room of the royal palace in Yarzat was a chamber built for for war-planning, not grandeur, as such there were no decoration except the lone presence of a royal banner atop one of the stone wall. At the heart of the room stood a great table, its polished surface nearly hidden beneath a collection of maps, scattered notes, and wooden figures marking key positions. One map in particular held Alpheo¡¯s attention¡ªthe most recent and detailed depiction of the borders with Herculia, the princedom that had been his enemy just last spring. It was a product of careful scouting and precise cartography, compiled under his orders after the campaign¡¯s success, as he found out much to his dislike just how ineffective were the maps they had in previous store, something that he quickly ractified. Around the table stood the trusted men who had fought by his side¡ªEgil, Jarza, and Asag, commanders of the White Army, the feared Black Stripes. Egil leaned lazily over the table, one hand gripping the edge while the other resting on his hip. His eyes danced across the map, but whether he studied it or merely observed what he regarded as the newest toy of Alpheo was unknown. Jarza stood firm, arms crossed over his broad chest, his dark gaze scanning the maps with quiet intensity, as whatever Egil lacked in planning was instead picked up by him. Asag was as silent as ever, standing slightly behind the others, his scarred face half-lit by the candlelight. The only man in the room who was not part of the White Army was lord Shahab. Alpheo had come to trust him deeply, especially in latter moths when, during Jasmine¡¯s pregnancy the burden of court politics had rested squarely on his shoulders.As he found in him a good source of counsel. Alpheo¡¯s finger pressed firmly against the map, right over the city of Herculia¡ªthe heart of the princedom they had so thoroughly crushed. His voice, steady and deliberate, filled the war room. "The last campaign gave us everything we could have wanted," he began, his gaze sweeping over the men gathered. "Politically and militarily, the gains were fantastic. Lechlian¡¯s armies and resources were either burned to the ground or taken for our own. His standing with his lords? At an all-time low. We put Vroghios the turncloak¡¯s head on a pike and even convinced Bricaterun¡¯s lord to renounce his oaths to him." A smirk played at his lips. "That slap across the face alone might have been worth the whole war." A round of quiet chuckles passed through the room. Even the ever-stoic Jarza allowed himself the ghost of a grin, while Egil¡¯s amusement was far less reserved. He threw his head back, laughing loudly, the scent of wine already clinging to him despite it being only midday. It had been a glorious campaign. No one in the room doubted that. Yet, as Alpheo looked around at their pleased expressions, he knew that perhaps only he truly understood just how close they had come to disaster. His eyes settled on Egil, whose grin was wide, careless, and entirely too smug. It was a strange thing to think that the man who reeked of wine and debauchery was the very one who had saved them all. Had Egil not turned the tide at the crucial moment, the war would have spelled not just their downfall, but Alpheo¡¯s own. If he had lost, the lords of the princedom would have leapt at the opportunity to weaken his standing, to make him pay for the risk he had taken. Instead, here they stood. Victorious. Secure. For now. That was the reason Alpheo was so lenient with Egil¡¯s endless transgressions. He was no fool¡ªhe knew exactly how lacking in discipline Egil¡¯s riders were. They were nothing like the drilled ranks of the Black Stripes, nor even the halberdiers under Asag¡¯s command. They were wild men, rowdy, reckless, more likely to break formation to chase down loot than hold the line. But they fought like savages, and that made up for their unruliness. Egil had shaped them in the image of the home tribe he had lost, that much was clear. Their laughter, their revelry, their utter disdain for rigid discipline¡ªit was all a remnant of a past Egil refused to let die. Alpheo understood that. And as long as they continued to win battles for him, he had little reason to complain. Asag¡¯s dark eyes settled on Egil, studying him with the same quiet intensity he always had. Then, with a slow shake of his head, he muttered, "I still don¡¯t understand how you managed to defeat Lechlian¡¯s heavy cavalry." The room quieted a little, the weight of that statement settling over the table. Asag continued, his voice even but thoughtful. "I remember when I fought the Oizenian knights. Nearly lost my head there. The fight lasted for hours, and we barely managed to hold the line. And you... your situation was worse than mine. Outnumbered. Outmatched in armor. And yet you not only sent them packing but even had the time to come and aid us in battle." Egil, who had been tilting his chair back lazily, took a slow swig from his cup before smacking his lips. "Well, if I learned anything from watching my old tribesmen fight, it¡¯s how to make armored fools chase their own tails." He grinned, clearly enjoying the confused looks around the table before continuing. "See, heavy cavalry all charge the same way. They lower their lances, they scream something about honor, and then they thunder in like they¡¯re already writing songs about themselves. All we had to do was not be there when they hit." He made an exaggerated motion of sidestepping, grinning at Asag. "They charge, we dodge. They turn around, we pelt them with javelins. They charge again, we¡¯re gone again. Then we keep doing that until their horses are so tired they can no longer move , which is easy considering that their owners make them charge around at all time" He set his cup down and leaned forward, lowering his voice mockingly. "And that¡¯s when we charge them, giving them the fight they so much desired. Of course by then, it¡¯s just a bunch of exhausted cans flailing around, waiting to be turned into expensive corpses, which, as you may all remember, we gladly did." Alpheo let out a sharp exhale, shaking his head with an amused smirk. "Alright, enough. If we let Egil keep talking, we¡¯ll be here until sunrise listening to him tell us how he personally invented war" The room erupted into laughter, Egil included, who raised his cup in mock acknowledgment before taking another sip. "I mean, I was going to get to that part," he said with a grin. Alpheo chuckled but then leaned forward, his fingers tapping once on the large map spread before them. His tone grew more serious. "Back to what matters. Herculia." His finger pressed firmly against the city marked at the heart of the princedom. "If things go well this year, we¡¯ll drive the final nail into this war by taking their capital.As you may all remember, last fall we successfully occupied the twin fortresses, which means that the capital is now as naked as a newborn child, ripe for our taking. " The room quieted slightly as they all turned their attention to the map. Alpheo continued, "Once the head is cut off, the body won¡¯t last long. The moment Herculia falls, most of the remaining lords will abandon Lechlian. He¡¯s already on thin ice with them after last year¡¯s disaster. If we make a decisive move, no one will take him seriously anymore." He glanced around the table. "And once that happens, annexing the rest of the princedom will be an easy feat." Shahab, who had been listening quietly, stroked his beard thoughtfully before letting out a low chuckle. "Two years ago, if anyone had told me we had a real shot at conquering the whole of Herculia, I¡¯d have called them mad.Especially when we were having our capitale to the mercy of the prince of Oizen" He shook his head, a small smile forming. "And yet, here we are, sitting in this very room, actually discussing such a thing." Before the discussion could continue or more fruitful arguments could be made, it was cut short by a quick knock on the door, rather soft and yet clearly urgent .Everybody¡¯s eyes move to the door before quickly turning to their prince. Alpheo¡¯s eyes flicked toward the door too, his posture however stiffening. No one interrupted a war meeting unless it was urgent. His fingers tapped once against the table before he gave a curt nod already knowing he would probably not like what he was to hear. "Enter." The door swung open, and a guard rushed in, breath unsteady, his face glistening with sweat. He barely managed to drop onto one knee, his arm outstretched, a sealed letter clutched in his hand. Alpheo took the letter without a word, breaking the seal in one sharp motion. His eyes scanned the parchment, his jaw tightening with each passing second. He took a step toward the map, his grip crumpling the edges of the letter as a muscle twitched in his cheek. Asag, noticing the change in expression, finally spoke. "What does it say?" Alpheo exhaled sharply through his nose, then slammed his palm against the table. With a swift push, the wooden pieces scattered, toppling off the map like fallen soldiers onto the floor. "Once again," he said, voice taut with fury, "all of my godsdamned plans are ruined." His head lifted, eyes blazing as they met those of his commanders. His voice was cold, laced with barely restrained anger. "It would look like we are soon to plunge into a civil war." He scoffed bitterly. "And the horn that¡¯s calling it..." His hand curled into a fist at his side. "...is a fucking dead priest." Chapter 461: Important dinner Chapter 461: Important dinner Keval sat in his father¡¯s chamber, his eyes flicking across the modest yet refined spread laid out before them. He couldn¡¯t help but notice that Mesha, the young emperor, was absent from the dinner table. That meant only one thing¡ªthis was to be a private and serious discussion. His father was never one for idle meals; if he called Keval alone, it was because something needed to be said. Over the past year, the two had worked closely to hold the reins of the empire, and Keval liked to think they had done so admirably. With his father¡¯s strength and experience guiding them and his own aptitude for administration, they had managed to steady the ship of state. As for Tyros, his elder brother had been sent to oversee their family¡¯s holdings, a position he was destined to inherit. It was a decision that worked well for all involved. Marthio was no fool¡ªhe had placed each of his sons exactly where he wanted them. No one could deny Tyros¡¯ charm and battlefield prowess, but when it came to matters of governance, it was Keval who had the keener mind. That much had been made clear during his time as regent. The empire had been teetering on the edge of financial ruin when he had stepped in, negotiating a lucrative trading deal with the princess of Yarzat had saved the royal coffers. Without that, the treasury might well have collapsed. It was one of the rare moments Keval allowed himself a sense of pride¡ªhe had saved Romelia from a disaster that could have shattered its foundations, something that his father clearly recognised. Amid the silent and akward dinner Keval glanced up from his plate as he noticed his father¡¯s gaze settle on him. There was something different in Marthio¡¯s eyes¡ªsomething heavy, something old. Then, with a long sigh, his father leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face as if the weight of the years had finally caught up with him. "I have lived a blessed and long life," Marthio said, his voice quieter than Keval was used to. Keval instinctively set his knife down, his appetite vanishing. He didn¡¯t like that tone. It didn¡¯t sound like the voice of lord Marthio Achea, the man who had bent lords to his will, crushed conspiracies before they could take root, and carried the empire on his back while a boy wore the crown. No, this voice sounded... old. Tired. Not like the unshakable force of power his father had always been. Marthio exhaled slowly, his lips pressing together before continuing, "The greatest blessings I could have asked for were my children." He paused, then let out a short chuckle, though it lacked humor. "Well, most of them. Each one¡¯s a genius in his own right¡ª" His gaze flicked to Keval with something like pride before he scoffed and waved a hand. "Except for Valeria, of course. It seems the gods took whatever sharpness was meant for her and gifted it to you and Tyros instead." Keval remained silent, but his father¡¯s blunt words made his lips twitch. "She always had dreams of grandeur, that girl," Marthio went on, shaking his head. "Dreams far too big for the hands she was dealt.I tried to make her settle down and understand her limits,but we all saw it, didn¡¯t we? She was never quite as clever as she thought herself to be. The ambition was there, certainly, but the skill to match? Lacking." Marthio went quiet for a moment, staring down at the table, lost in thought. Then, as if making peace with something within himself, he lifted his head again and sighed. "It is best to be said plainly. I do not think I have much longer in this world." Keval stiffened. "I can feel it,no use denying it" Marthio continued. "This will likely be my last summer among the living." Keval opened his mouth¡ªonly to close it again. What was he supposed to say to that? To a man who had spent his entire life shaping the empire and now sat before him, certain of his own approaching death? He had argued with his father before, challenged his decisions, questioned his words. But this? What argument was there to be made? For once, nothing came to his mind. Marthio¡¯s jaw clenched as his gaze shifted to his right, his eyes narrowing in barely contained frustration at the cane resting beside him. His fingers twitched, as if fighting the urge to knock the damned thing over, to toss it into the fire and be rid of it entirely, every time his eyes landed on it he felt weak and old . Ever since the incident, he had been forced to rely on the damn thing to walk¡ªan indignity that weighed heavier on him than all the burdens of the empire. It had been mere months ago when he had still made plans for a military campaign to reclaim the Fingers, a campaign that should have restored the borders with the rebelling regions to what they were before last winter. But before those plans could take shape¡ªperhaps even luckily, he begrudgingly admitted, for it had happened in a private setting instead of out in the open before his men¡ªhis body had betrayed him. A minor stroke, the physicist called it. Yet despite what his physicians assured him, he knew he had not fully recovered from it. The court remained oblivious. They had kept it that way, as they must. His appearances had grown rare, each carefully managed to ensure that no one saw the truth. When he did appear, he was made to arrive early, already seated upon the throne or a chair before the first of the lords entered the hall. The cane¡ªhis shame¡ªwas always tucked out of sight, hidden away as if it did not exist. But Marthio knew the truth. He was close to the end. That was why time pressed upon him like never before. Everything had to be settled before he passed. There was no room for mistakes. No room for hesitation. No room for weakness. Least of all his own. He exhaled, straightening his posture despite the ever-present weight of age pressing upon him. "It is very important that all dealings are settled before I am gone," he said, his tone firm, unwavering. "There can be no loose ends, no uncertainties. Everything must be in place." His fingers drummed once against the table before he continued. "Tyros will inherit my lands and my armies. He is a warrior first and foremost¡ªthat is where he belongs, and that is where he will serve best. You, however, will inherit something far heavier, Keval. My position as regent of the empire." Keval¡¯s expression remained composed, but the weight of those words settled on him like a stone. "You have done the work before, and you will do it again," Marthio continued. "Until Mesha comes of age to rule on his own. And even then, he will still rely on you." His eyes locked onto Keval¡¯s, his meaning clear¡ªMesha may be emperor, but you will be the one ensuring the empire still stands. he leaned back slightly as he continued "Tyros is a sharp man," he said after a moment. "If you need someone to lead the armies, rely on him. He¡¯s more than capable, even more than me. But you ¡ªyou must never leave the capital unless it is for something of the utmost urgency. The moment you step away, the snakes will come slithering back, whispering, scheming, plotting. Keep your feet planted where they belong, Keval. They had their taste with your sister and they will crave to taste the freedom they had with her. Make sure to let them know how things stands, or you may return to find a throne poisoned against you." Keval merely nodded. He already understood that much. His father¡¯s gaze lingered on him for a long moment before he exhaled. "You will have the hardest of tasks, harder than leading men into battle, harder than holding land. You will have to keep the empire afloat." Then, for the first time that night, a rare glimmer of something softened Marthio¡¯s expression¡ªnot quite warmth, but something close to it. "It will not be easy. But if there is anyone fit for the task, it is you.....Of course," he said, "I will have some suggestions. One of the few things I am able to aid you with " Keval smirked slightly despite the situation. "I would have been worried if you didn¡¯t." Marthio ignored the remark and pressed on. "Above all else, our alliance with the prince of Yarzat must be maintained. I don¡¯t care what it takes. That man is the reason our treasury isn¡¯t drier than a bone in the desert. Without their coin filling our coffers, we are one bad harvest away from ruin." Keval nodded, already making mental notes. "Second," Marthio continued, raising a hand, "you must put an end to any ideas of a military campaign outside our borders. No invasions, no conquests, nothing." Keval frowned slightly. "You always pushed for the reunification of the empire." "I could afford to," Marthio shot back, voice firm. "When I rode out, my name was heavy enough to make sure the capital stayed clean. No one dared to play their little games while I was away, except for that foolish woman. But you?" He pointed a finger at Keval. "You do not have that luxury." Keval bristled slightly, but Marthio wasn¡¯t done. "Until things are stable, our priority is our own borders. The only war we fight is the one Mavius brings to us." He leaned back in his chair. "So for now, we hold, we watch, we strengthen. Then, when the time is right..." He let the words trail off, but the meaning was clear. Keval exhaled through his nose, glancing down at his untouched meal. "So, in short," he said dryly, "sit still and keep the ship from sinking." Marthio let out a low chuckle. "For now? Yes. Do that well, and maybe one day you¡¯ll be the one making the plans." Keval placed his cup down carefully, fingers lingering on the rim. "And what of Valeria?" The air in the room seemed to grow heavier at the mention of her name. Marthio¡¯s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he simply stared at the table as if debating whether to waste his breath on the subject. After her ploy was stopped, she had been sentenced to a life of seclusion as a nun. However, on the journey to the temple where she was to spend the rest of her days, her carriage was attacked by bandits. From that moment on, any trace of her vanished. "She¡¯s alive and well¡ªof that, I have no doubt," Marthio said, his voice like iron. "That attack wasn¡¯t some chance misfortune. She planned it herself." Keval¡¯s lips pressed into a thin line. "You think she¡¯s still out there scheming?" Marthio exhaled, rubbing his temple. "I don¡¯t think, I know. That woman was born reaching for a crown that was never meant for her head. Wherever she is, she¡¯s plotting her way back to power." He looked Keval in the eye. "And whatever it takes, this has to stop." Keval felt a chill crawl up his spine at the way his father said those words. "And if she is found?" Marthio met his gaze without hesitation. "You do not bother with our blood attachment. You do not let her weave another web. You have her killed. Quietly. In some back room, where no one will ever know or care." Keval felt his stomach turn slightly. "That¡¯s kinslaying." Marthio leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. The weight of his years, his exhaustion, and his resolve bore down on Keval like an unshakable wall. "If it is you," he said, voice heavy with certainty, "I know that you will be capable of it. It is for the well-being of our family after all...." Chapter 462: Going forward Chapter 462: Going forward Alpheo sat in a private chamber deep within the palace, the air thick with the weight of dread, surrounded by the people whose counsel counted for him. Yet even they seemed at a loss, their expressions grim as they absorbed the gravity of the news. No one dared to voice the obvious: this was a disaster. A party affiliated with the crown¡ªmore or less¡ªhad killed a priest. Under normal circumstances, that alone would have been a scandal. But the fact that the perpetrators were unbelievers? That made it a diplomatic catastrophe of the highest order. For a long moment, silence reigned, heavy and suffocating, as if the sheer act of speaking might summon the storm that loomed on the horizon. Finally, Alpheo exhaled sharply, the sound cutting through the stillness like a blade. He straightened in his seat, his sharp eyes scanning the room before he broke the silence. "It seems," he began, his voice measured but laced with an undercurrent of frustration, "that the fucking dead priest was the first to strike. According to the report, he set fire to the Vogondai altars, and the flames spread, consuming several houses. When the tribesmen saw their sacred places in flames¡ªwith the priest standing there, torch in hand¡ªthey lynched him." He paused, letting the weight of that fact settle over the room like a shroud. "The locals, seeing a priest torn apart by foreign hands, rioted. The settlement descended into chaos, and the garrison had no choice but to put the uprising down." He placed the letter from the garrison¡¯s commander onto the table with a quiet thud, his fingers lingering on the parchment for a moment before pulling away. The room seemed to hold its breath, the implications of his words hanging in the air like smoke. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple as if the pressure of his fingers could somehow ease the tension building behind his eyes. "The most widespread reaction," he continued, his tone steady but edged with bitterness, "will be one of horror¡ªoutrage at the sacrilege. The nobles, the clergy, and the zealots will demand that the crown either force the Vogondai into conversion or outright massacre them as punishment." He paused again, his jaw tightening. "Because, of course, that¡¯s the predictable response. Blood for blood, fire for fire." They were in a pitch¡ªand they all knew it. Jasmine, seated beside Alpheo, tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable. "Are we going to do it?" she asked, her voice calm but probing. Alpheo scoffed, his lips curling into a grim smile. "Of course not. The moment we give in to their demands, we lose. Who in their right mind would settle in our lands again if they knew that at any moment, they could be forced to convert or be wiped out? The entire policy we¡¯ve built¡ªthe reason we¡¯ve managed to bring in so many people to strengthen our realm¡ªwould crumble overnight." Jasmine nodded slowly, her eyes narrowing as she digested his words. "Then what will we do?" Before Alpheo could respond, Shahab shifted in his seat, the old lord¡¯s fingers stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Before we decide on a course of action," he interjected, his voice measured, "perhaps it would be wise to list the short-term events that could pose immediate problems. There will be plenty." Alpheo exhaled sharply, leaning forward as his fingers drummed against the table. "The biggest problem we¡¯re facing right now," he said, his voice cutting through the tense silence, "is the condemnation by the temples. If that happens, we¡¯re finished." The room seemed to grow colder at his words. A condemned person¡ªor kingdom¡ªwas as good as damned. It wasn¡¯t just a death sentence for the soul; it was a death sentence for the body as well. Any obligations¡ªoaths, debts, allegiances¡ªwould dissolve like smoke in the wind. Nobles could rebel without consequence. Entire nations could march against them without so much as a formal declaration of war. It was an open invitation for chaos, and their enemies would seize it without hesitation. "But," Alpheo continued, a hint of steel in his voice, "we have a way out,luckily for us. The Romelians." The tension in the room shifted¡ªnot lessened, but redirected. While the temples operated independently, there was still a single authority capable of uniting them under a common cause: the Ecclesiast Priest. In reality, this figure was less of a purely religious leader and more of a political extension of the Romelian court, acting as the emperor¡¯s personal court priest. He was the one who could authorize religious reforms, call councils, and, most importantly, approve or deny condemnations of rulers and entire nations. Alpheo tapped the table, his gaze moving between those present. "He is the one we have to convince. If we can secure his neutrality¡ªif we can make sure he doesn¡¯t take an openly hostile stance¡ªthen we avoid the worst-case scenario. Without official condemnation, the temples can scream all they want, but they won¡¯t be able to openly act against us. No wealth funneled into our enemies¡¯ coffers, no holy cause to rally behind. Just a lot of noise and bites without teeth." He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin as his mind raced. "It won¡¯t solve all our problems," he admitted, "but it¡¯ll keep us from walking straight into the abyss." "I¡¯ll send word to Lord Marthio," he continued "We need him to intercede with the Ecclesiast Priest and ensure that no condemnation is issued. If that goes through, we¡¯re done. Our enemies will have a blank check signed by the gods themselves." His eyes flickered over the room, gauging the reactions of those gathered. Of course he didn¡¯t wait for objections. He pressed on, his tone steady but urgent. "Of course, getting that kind of favor won¡¯t come for free. We¡¯ll likely have to pay for it, and I imagine it won¡¯t be cheap." He sighed, rubbing his temple as if the thought alone gave him a headache. "But if all it costs us is a bribe, then we come out ahead. Better to fill a single coffer with gold and silver than to let our enemies fill hundreds with temple silver. If we play this right, we¡¯ll be cutting off tens of thousands of silverii in potential funding for anyone who¡¯d want to march against us." He let that sink in for a moment, the weight of his words settling over the room like a storm cloud. Then he raised a hand, his expression sharpening. "Of course, this won¡¯t be as easy as throwing money at the problem." He scoffed, a bitter edge to his voice. "No, we have to give the Ecclesiast Priest something to work with. Some excuse he can use to justify not condemning us, or else the bribe will be worthless." A small, humorless smirk played on his lips. "Fortunately, we have just that. The priest wasn¡¯t some martyr struck down in prayer¡ªhe was an arsonist. He put a torch to the Voghondai altars, which we¡¯ll call... a building, omitting its purpose. In doing so, he caused a fire that spread to homes, destroying property and killing innocent people." Alpheo leaned forward, tapping a finger against the table for emphasis. "That¡¯s our angle. Instead of being accused of sacrilege¡ªof murdering a priest¡ªwe shift the narrative. We say that this was a case of misuse in the deliverance of justice." He shrugged, his tone pragmatic. "Still a crime, but a different one. One that can be resolved with a fine rather than the destruction of our realm." His expression darkened slightly as he glanced at the letter once more. "It won¡¯t make this mess disappear, but it¡¯ll make it manageable. And right now, that¡¯s the best outcome we can hope for." Alpheo turned his gaze to Shahab, his sharp eyes locking onto the older man. "Do you think it¡¯s doable?" he asked, his tone calm but expectant. Shahab blinked, caught off guard by the direct question. He leaned back in his chair, stroking his beard as he turned the plan over in his head. The more he considered it, the more it made sense. It wasn¡¯t just a desperate gamble¡ªit could work. Alpheo had managed, in mere moments, to carve out a path where there had been nothing but a dead end. Slowly, Shahab nodded. "Yes... it¡¯s possible," he admitted. "As long as the Lord Regent of the Romelians can arrange the meeting with the Ecclesiast Priest. If we can get them to sit down and listen, then the rest can be handled." Alpheo exhaled, leaning back slightly in his chair. "That won¡¯t be a problem," he said with confidence. "It isn¡¯t in Marthio¡¯s interest to see chaos erupt in our lands¡ªafter all, we¡¯re the ones filling his markets with our goods. If our borders collapse into unrest, that trade flow stops, and he¡¯ll have to find new suppliers." He tapped his fingers against the armrest of his chair, his smirk returning, though there was little humor in it. "He¡¯s too pragmatic for that. He¡¯ll help, one way or another." He paused, his expression turning more serious. "Of course, we¡¯ll owe them a favor in return," he added. "But given the circumstances, that is the lesser evil.Of course, this doesn¡¯t mean we will all hold hands in peace" he said, his voice carrying an irony that none in the room appreciated . "Condemnation or not, I believe that, one way or another, the state will plunge into a civil war." Jarza furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?" he asked. "If we avoid condemnation, then the temples won¡¯t act against us. That was the main concern, wasn¡¯t it?" Alpheo let out a short, humorless chuckle. "When I spoke of enemies marching against us, I wasn¡¯t referring to the temples," he clarified. "They have no men, no armies. And certainly the last thing I would even be worried about are eunuchs marching against us with books and preaches. But our nobles in the north?" He shook his head. "They were wise enough to let a fanatical priest settle on their lands, with a thousand zealots at his back. That is the problem." Silence settled over the room as the weight of his words sank in. Alpheo leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. " I don¡¯t believe that priest will sit idly by. He was the one who sent a priest to the Voghondai in the first place. You think he¡¯ll just accept what happened and move on?" He scoffed. "No, he¡¯ll use this as his excuse to march down on us. And, of course, the northern nobles won¡¯t have a choice but to march with him. Once that happens... who knows how many others they might convince to join them." A heavy silence filled the room once more. The storm was coming, and they all knew it. Jasmine broke the silence first, her voice cutting through the heavy air. "Then... what do we do?" she asked, her usual confidence tempered . Alpheo turned his gaze toward her, his expression unreadable. "The only thing we can do," he replied. "We prepare for the worst eventuality." His fingers drummed against the table, his voice calm but firm. "Because the enemy we will face might not just be an internal one." Chapter 463: Religious fervor Chapter 463: Religious fervor A cart creaked along the uneven road of the settlement, its worn wooden frame groaning with each small stone that met its wheels. The single horse pulling it plodded forward at an unhurried pace, indifferent to the burden it carried. But there were no sacks of grain or crates of goods bound for the temple¡¯s square¡ªonly the cold weight of a lifeless body, laid bare in the open air. Robert felt his stomach tighten the moment his eyes settled on the corpse. The breath he hadn¡¯t realized he was holding left him in a slow, uneasy exhale. He knew that face Just under two weeks ago, that man had walked out of the temple¡¯s doors, alive and whole, clothed in the garb of the devoted, ready to preach the good faith to the new peoples that entered the princedom. And now, here he was, sprawled like a discarded thing. His skin had lost all trace of warmth, turned the pale, lifeless grey of old stone, mottled with patches of purple and sickly blue where the blood had settled. His lips were slightly parted, frozen in an expression that might have been surprise, pain, or perhaps even a final, unheard plead. The paleness drained whatever remained of his humanity, as if death had carved him into something unnatural, something wrong. The body lay stiff atop the bare wooden cart, bouncing slightly with each rut and stone along the uneven road. Its arms, once devoted in prayer, were sprawled awkwardly, fingers half-curled as if reaching for something it would never grasp. The rich colors had dulled, the fine stitching frayed. A thin trail of dried blood had crusted beneath his nose, stark against the ashen pallor of his face. A gash, deep and jagged, split the side of his skull near the temple, exposing dark congealed blood and fragments of shattered bone. Flies buzzed hungrily around the wound, drawn to the sickly scent of rot that even the cool morning air could not mask. Whoever had done this had not been content with a simple killing¡ªthey had beaten him, mangled him, as if they had wanted to erase every trace of the man he once was. One eye socket was sunken, caved in from some brutal strike, while the other was barely visible beneath the swelling and the deep, jagged gashes that ran across his cheek and brow. His nose had been broken in more places than one, twisted unnaturally, and his lips were split and swollen, caked with dried blood. Thick, uneven stitches crisscrossed his face, pulling the flaps of skin together in a poor imitation of what had once been a man, the only mercy given by whoever tended to the corpse. Robert¡¯s hands clenched at his sides. This wasn¡¯t just a death; it was a declaration. And if that was the case, they were undone. The moment the cart rolled to a stop, a murmur of horror rippled through the gathered peasants. Some gasped, others recoiled, shielding their eyes as if the mere sight of the mutilated corpse might stain their souls. A woman clutched her child¡¯s head to her chest, turning him away, while an old man made the sign of warding, his lips moving in hurried, silent prayer. The stench of death clung to the air, thick and putrid, and for every person that stayed to gawk, twice as many turned away, faces pale with disgust. Robert watched them carefully, his lips pressed into a thin line. He understood why they had done this¡ªwhy they had left the body bare, exposed for all to see. A simple cloak draped over the corpse would have spared the villagers from this horror, would have softened the blow. But that was precisely the point. Whoever arranged this wanted revulsion. Wanted anger. Wanted the sight of the priest¡¯s broken body to burn into the minds of these people, to turn disgust into fury. His hands trembled slightly as he exhaled, turning away from the crowd and toward the temple. He did not know why he walked there¡ªperhaps it was instinct, perhaps it was fear, or perhaps it was some foolish part of him that thought he could still stop what would come . But he did know what would come next. This was a spark, and he feared very well that the man who had once taken everything from him would do so again. Because if this led to war¡ªif this truly became the firestorm he feared¡ªit would not be the crown that would be defeated. As he walked, his eyes drifted over the familiar homes that lined the road¡ªhomes he had passed countless times. But in his mind¡¯s eye, he saw them as they had once been¡ªengulfed in flames, their roofs collapsing under the weight of fire and smoke. He could hear the screams again, the same desperate wails that had once echoed through the streets. The people¡ªthose who had once gathered in the temple to hear the sermons of Father Elios, those who had prayed with clasped hands and whispered faith¡ªwere now running in blind panic, sobbing, pleading, scattering like frightened cattle. And among them, riding with cruel laughter and lances gleaming in the firelight, were the rider of the Crown¡¯s hound. He could see them in his mind as clearly as if they were there before him¡ªtheir armor glinting, their spears piercing flesh, each strike made with casual, reckless amusement. They had turned slaughter into a game, competing with one another to see who could land the cleanest kill. Robert swallowed hard, his throat dry as the memory tightened around him like a noose. He had seen it all before. He had lived through it. And now, here, in this place that he had finally dared to call home, he feared it would all happen again. It had been a long, punishing road to get here. A road paved with grief, anger, and a numbing emptiness that once threatened to swallow him whole. But after all of it, he had found something¡ªsomething precious, something fragile. Peace. For the first time in years, he had woken without the sting of drink clouding his mind, without the dull ache of last night¡¯s poor choices weighing on his body. His hands, which once shook from withdrawal and sorrow, now felt steady. Every morning, he had risen not with regret, but with clarity. With purpose. He had been happy. And he would be damned if he let it all slip through his fingers again. Robert strode toward the temple, his steps purposeful, his mind racing. The thick scent of burning incense mixed with the faint, lingering stench of the corpse that had been paraded through the streets. As he approached, his sharp eyes landed on Father Elios, who stood at the entrance of the temple, his robes pristine despite the turmoil that had settled over the settlement. Elios met his gaze with an unsettling calm, his expression composed yet weighted by something deep and unreadable. Could it be? Robert thought, a flicker of suspicion tightening his jaw. Elios exhaled softly, his voice gentle yet heavy with sorrow. "This is a sad day, my friend," he said. "Brother Vrostinio lies dead, a martyr, slain by the hands of unbelievers." His words were measured, but his grief seemed genuine¡ªhis eyes clouded with mourning, his hands clasped in quiet reverence. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them, his tone edged with something far less patient. "How long have you known?" he asked, his gaze piercing. Elios didn¡¯t hesitate. "As did everyone else¡ªwhen the body entered the settlement." A lie. Robert studied the priest¡¯s face, searching for any crack in the mask of sorrow, any twitch that betrayed him. "I don¡¯t believe you." Elios blinked, his face still unreadable. He took another step closer, lowering his voice, though each word cut like a blade. "The dead¡¯s coaches would have covered the body, hidden it from the eyes of the people. Instead, it was put on display, paraded through the streets like a spectacle." His dark eyes narrowed. "It was meant to be seen. Meant to stoke fury" The silence between them thickened, the weight of unspoken truths settling in the air like a storm on the horizon. Robert¡¯s voice was quieter this time, but there was no mistaking the steel behind it. "I have been lied many times. Yet I would never have thought that I would be belittled by you in such a way. I will ask only once more. How long have you known?" Elios sighed, the weight of Robert¡¯s accusation settling upon his shoulders like a yoke. His fingers brushed the silver pendant of his faith, and for the first time, his calm wavered¡ªnot in guilt, but in sorrow. "This is what Vrostinio would have wanted," he said at last, his voice heavy with conviction. "He died in agony, suffering at the hands of heathens, and the world should see it. They should know the pain he endured in his last moments¡ªas a martyr." The sadness in his face was undeniable. It was not the sorrow of a man caught in deceit, but of one who believed he had done what was necessary, no matter the cost. Robert¡¯s lips curled in a bitter smile, his chest tightening with fury and disappointment. "Whatever it is you wanted the people to feel," he said, his voice low and taut, "you have succeeded." His fingers clenched into fists at his sides. "I came here looking for peace," he continued, stepping closer, his breath sharp with anger. "And yet, you¡ªyou¡ªhave willingly brought war upon us." He searched Elios¡¯s face, desperate for an answer, for some justification that would make sense of the ruin he had unleashed. "Why?" he demanded. "For what reason did you do this?" Elios held his gaze, but did not answer. Robert shook his head, his anger giving way to something worse¡ªbetrayal. "I trusted you," he said, his voice cracking with the weight of it. "I trusted you to show me a new path¡ªto teach me a way forward." His eyes darkened. "Was that a lie, too?" He gestured toward the square, toward the whispers of the crowd and the smoldering embers of outrage catching fire in their hearts. His voice trembled, not with fear, but with disbelief. "You preach of goodness in the morning, only to send your flock to the slaughter by evening. Why, Elios?" His voice dropped to a whisper, pleading and furious all at once. "Why would you want them dead?I have seen what war brought and I thought that you did too, apparently I was wrong in thinking that." Chapter 464: Religious fervor(2) Chapter 464: Religious fervor(2) The temple was silent. The air felt heavy, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows, stretching across the stone floor like silent witnesses to what was unfolding. And in that silence, Elios felt the weight of a single, unbroken stare. Robert¡¯s eyes bore into him, demanding an answer, a reason¡ªsomething that could justify the storm that was about to be unleashed. Elios finally spoke, his voice calm but burdened with something deeper, something old. "I have been on the road for a long time," he said, his gaze distant, as if seeing past the walls of the temple, past the present, into memories that had long since hardened into truths. "Everywhere I went, I saw the same thing. Poverty. Misery." He let out a slow breath, as if exhaling the weight of it all. "I preached, I prayed, I gave what little I could, but it was never enough. I watched children starve, watched men break their backs only to die in debt. I watched mothers weep over empty cradles." His voice faltered, just for a moment. "And I lost my faith." Robert¡¯s brow furrowed, but he remained silent as Elios continued. "I wondered¡ªhow could the gods allow this? How could they watch their flocks suffer and do nothing? And the more I thought about it, the more I realized there were only two possible answers." He turned his gaze to Robert, sharp, unwavering. "Either mankind was made to live in pain, or mankind causes its own suffering." A bitter smile flickered across his lips. "And in the end, perhaps out of self-preservation for the little reason I had in my life, I chose to believe the latter." His voice grew stronger now, steadier. "The problem was not the starving child or the dying mother. It was not the beggar in the street or the farmer who tilled the land until his hands bled." His fingers curled into a fist. "The problem was those above them. The ones who ruled over them. The nobles. The lords. " His eyes burned with conviction now, no longer distant but locked onto Robert¡¯s. "They are the architects of suffering. And so long as they sit in their palaces, nothing will ever change." Elios exhaled, his fingers briefly tightening at his sides before he spoke again. His voice was steady, measured¡ªbut beneath it lay something deeper, something that had simmered for years before finally boiling over. "I came to believe that the source of most¡ªif not all¡ªpain in this world was them," he said, his eyes dark and unwavering. "Taxes that drive men to starvation, injustices that crush the weak beneath the boots of the strong, wars that spill blood for reasons they will never explain to the ones who must fight them... Do they not all come from them?" His lips curled, not in a smile, but in something colder. "The first nobles, perhaps, were not like that. Perhaps, in the beginning, there was honor, there was duty." He let out a quiet chuckle, though there was no humor in it. "But power is a poison. They deteriorated. They lost their light." He glanced at the flickering flames of the temple¡¯s candles, the golden glow reflecting in his eyes. "But where I saw misery, I also saw something else," he continued. "I saw temples. I saw faith. I saw men and women of the cloth, tending to the sick, feeding the hungry, giving shelter to those cast aside by the lords who claimed to rule over them." He turned back to Robert, his expression unreadable. "And that is when I came to understand," he said softly. "If things were to change, then perhaps it was time to change who sat in power." The air in the temple felt charged, heavy with the weight of his words. "And in the end," Elios murmured, his voice almost reverent, "I realized that we¡ªthose closest to the gods, those who dedicate their lives to their will¡ªshould be the ones to rule over the common flock." A long silence followed. Elios let his eyes drift over the temple, over the carved stone walls and the flickering candles. "The last twenty years of my life," he said, "have been spent for this reason. Every sermon, every lesson, every step I have taken was toward this goal." He looked back at Robert, and this time, he did smile¡ªa small, knowing smile, filled with quiet triumph. "And now," he whispered, "I have come so very close. Look around you, Robert. These lands, these people... My temples are the only ones that rule over them now." Elios exhaled slowly, his gaze distant, as if looking beyond the walls of the temple¡ªbeyond the present, beyond the man before him, toward the future he envisioned. "But even now, we are still bound," he admitted, his voice softer but no less resolute. "The temple governs these lands, yet we remain tethered to a higher authority¡ªone that still casts its shadow over us, dictating the limits of what we may become." His fingers curled into a fist at his side. "That must change. We cannot claim to rule while still bending the knee to another. I will see to it that we sever that chain, that we become truly free¡ªa state governed not by greed and corruption, but by faith, by righteousness. Only then will we be able to shape the world as it should be." Robert¡¯s eyes lowered, sorrow weighing on him like heavy chains. He had hoped¡ªtruly hoped¡ªthat Elios, the man he had followed, the man whose words had once given him solace, had remained the same. But now, staring at him, listening to the conviction in his voice, he understood the truth. Slowly, he lifted his gaze once more, meeting Elios¡¯ eyes with a sadness deeper than words could express. "Perhaps," he said, voice hoarse, "it was for the better that His Grace had already passed." Elios¡¯ expression flickered, but Robert did not stop. "Because now, for the first time, I truly understand what he would have felt¡ª"what he would have suffered"¡ªhad he lived to see the depths of my betrayal." Robert exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. He scanned Elios¡¯ face, looking for even the slightest crack in his conviction, but there was none. Only certainty¡ªdangerous, unwavering certainty. "Whatever you think will come of this war," Robert finally said, his voice measured but laced with an edge of warning, "you are mistaken. You are not the first man to believe he has the perfect hand to play against the Low-Prince, only to realize too late that his opponent was playing an entirely different game." Elios remained silent, watching him with the patient calm of a man who had already accepted whatever may come. Robert continued, his tone sharpening. "Before you, there was the Prince of Oizen. He fell." Robert took a step closer, voice unwavering. "Then there was Lord Ormund¡ªwealthy, powerful, He fell. And then Herculia, who held two men for each one of the court.He too had been defeated and his entire domain is now on the brink of collapse" He held Elios¡¯ gaze. "You are marching down the same path, and you don¡¯t even see it. You believe yourself victorious before the battle has even begun. That is the first sign of a man who is walking toward his own grave." Elios listened in silence, his expression unreadable. Then, after a long pause, he tilted his head slightly, the candlelight casting long shadows across his sharp features. "Tell me, Robert," he said, voice smooth and deliberate. "Do you admire the consort of Her Grace?" Robert let out a short, humorless laugh. "Admiration?" he repeated, shaking his head. "No, I do not admire him. But I acknowledge him. I acknowledge that he is dangerous, that he does not lose, and that underestimating him is a fool¡¯s mistake." His eyes darkened. "And that is exactly what you are doing." Elios gave a slow nod, as if Robert had confirmed something he already suspected. "Then we agree on one thing," he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "The Prince consort is formidable. He has turned back greater threats than mine. But you are mistaken in believing I intend to fight him ." Robert frowned. "What are you talking about?" Elios¡¯ eyes gleamed with something unreadable, something deeper than mere ambition. "My war against the crown is not waged alone," he said. "after all the temple will be behind me" Robert¡¯s breath hitched slightly. "The temples?" Elios¡¯ smile remained, though there was no humor in it. "Do you not see? The killing of a priest is a sacred wound, a crime that no temple will ignore. They will demand justice, and justice in their eyes will be condemnation. And unless the Low-Prince places the blame upon the heretics¡ªwhich we both know he will not¡ªhe will find himself at war not just with me, not just with my followers, but with the entire caste of the gods¡¯ servants. Every temple in the land will unite against him, against his rule. And once the temples rise, what force do you believe can stop them?" Robert could feel his pulse in his ears, but Elios was not finished. He stepped forward, lowering his voice like a whisper laced with poison. "Not even Vrivius the Red, in all his glory, in all his legend, would be able to win such a war.¡¯¡¯ The temple was silent. The candlelight flickered. Elios watched Robert carefully, his expression unreadable, his calm demeanor unshaken. Then, in a measured voice, he asked, "Now that you know the truth, what will you do?" Robert exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening. He already knew the answer, had known it the moment the conversation began, but now that it was time to voice it, the weight of his choice settled on his shoulders. "I will do the only thing I can," he said, his voice firm, steady. "I will fight." Elios gave a slow nod, but Robert wasn¡¯t finished. His eyes burned, not with devotion, not with anger, but with something else¡ªsomething personal, something resolute. "Not for you," Robert continued, his tone carrying a quiet finality. "Not for the man who turned out to be something I did not expect. Not for the cause that I once believed in but now see for what it truly is." He took a deep breath, letting the words settle in the still air of the temple. "I will fight for this place, for the small peace that I have found here. For the mornings I wake without regret. For the faces that have come to mean something to me. I will swing my sword to protect this¡ªbut not for you." For a moment, Elios said nothing. His gaze remained locked onto Robert¡¯s, unreadable, thoughtful. And then, to Robert¡¯s surprise, a faint smile touched his lips¡ªnot one of triumph, not one of amusement, but something deeper. Something almost proud. "You have no idea," Elios murmured, "how much that means to me." Robert frowned slightly, but Elios continued. "Had you told me you would fight because of love for me, or because of some lingering loyalty, I would have felt nothing " He took a step closer, his voice quiet but filled with conviction. "But this? This tells me more than you realize. It tells me that what we have built here¡ªwhat I have spent my life building¡ªis real." His eyes gleamed with something beyond faith, beyond ambition¡ªsomething that, for the first time, made Robert wonder if the man before him was truly as deluded as he had believed. "You are the proof," Elios said, "that this place is good." Chapter 465: The higher authority(1) Chapter 465: The higher authority(1) Aron exhaled through his nose, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he leaned back in his carriage. Apparently, what His Grace had told him before he departed for his last diplomatic mission had been true¡ªhe was to spend more time among foreign dignitaries than among his own countrymen. Less than three months had passed since his return, and already, he had been sent forth once more. This time, the task before him was even more delicate. He, like everyone else of importance, knew what had happened with the Voghondai. The priest¡¯s death, the riots, and the soon to be religious conflict ¡ªnone of it had escaped his notice. And now, he was to meet with the High Ecclesiastic Priest of the entire eastern continent, the one man whose word could mean salvation or ruin. The preparations had been painstaking. Every letter, every gesture, every minute detail of protocol had been arranged with obsessive care. There could be no room for misinterpretation, no misstep that might give the High Ecclesiastic Priest reason to harden his stance. Fortunately, they did not approach the meeting as mere supplicants. Lord Marthio¡¯s intercession had smoothed the way, easing what would have otherwise been an impossible task. Without him, Aron knew, they would have never secured this audience so swiftly. Even so, he could not afford to be complacent. Aron ascended the grand stone steps of the High Cathedral, his boots pressing against the polished marble with steady purpose. The towering structure loomed above him, its spires piercing the sky like the fingers of the divine reaching toward the heavens. Ornate windows cast colored light upon the entrance, shifting hues dancing across the floor as the midday sun streamed through. He kept his gaze forward, his expression composed, though inwardly, he understood the gravity of where he stood. This was not just a house of worship¡ªit was the seat of the most powerful religious figure in the eastern continent. It was fortunate, then, that the High Ecclesiastic Priest was currently under the yoke of the Imperial ruling house. Had this meeting taken place during the age of the Religious Dilemmas¡ªwhen the priesthood stood as an untamed beast, unchecked by the empire¡ªAron knew he would be stepping into the jaws of something far more perilous. But times had changed. Now, the High Ecclesiastic Priest was little more than a fat dog, content to feast on the scraps that fell from the Imperial family¡¯s table, his authority a shadow of what it once was. Almost instinctively, Aron¡¯s mind wandered back to the days when the High Priest had been a wolf, a figure who clashed relentlessly with the Imperator of Romelia, defying the empire with a zeal that could shake thrones. The Religious Dilemmas had not been a singular conflict but a brutal series of civil wars that tore through the Romelian Empire, all stemming from one question¡ªwho had the right to choose the priests? The High Priest had demanded full control over the appointment of clerics, especially those presiding over land-bound temples, while the Emperor sought to keep his own hand firmly on the scale, unwilling to relinquish the power that came with those appointments. And it was no small matter. Temples did not pay taxes. Their wealth, hoarded over decades¡ªgold, grain, and treasures hidden behind sacred walls¡ªwas beyond measure. To an Emperor waging war, struggling to fill his coffers, the sight of that untouched fortune was enough to make his mouth water. Control over these temple appointments meant control over vast reservoirs of riches. The Emperor had wanted his own kin seated upon those golden thrones, ensuring that when war came knocking, those sacred vaults would open at his command. But the Ecclesiastic High Priest had sought the opposite, placing only those loyal to the cloth, those who would resist the empire¡¯s greed and answer only to the divine, which of course meant backing up their boss during a clash against the Emperor. In the end, the struggle between throne and altar had resulted in a fragile draw¡ªthough one that leaned slightly in the Emperor¡¯s favor. The High Priest retained the sacred right to choose the clergy, ensuring that the priesthood would not become an outright extension of the imperial court. However, this power was curbed by a crucial concession: all appointments required the Emperor¡¯s approval. No priest assigned to a temple with more than a thousand acre of land, no matter how devout or well-regarded, could rise to power without the blessing of the crown. The Emperor, too, had secured another vital advantage. He gained the legal right to demand long-term loans from the temple¡¯s vast coffers¡ªthough these loans were limited to no more than 80,000 silverii at a time. It was a sum large enough to fund a war, yet not so large as to completely strip the priesthood of its wealth. It was a compromise¡ªone that allowed both sides to claim victory, but neither to reign supreme. But power is rarely left to stagnate, and over the years, through a slow and careful erosion, the Emperor had tipped the balance further in his favor. Fraudulent elections, quiet assassinations, and well-placed bribes had ensured that, time and time again, the High Priests chosen were not men of fire and faith, but men of gold and indulgence. These were no wolves, ready to bare their fangs against the empire. They were fattened hogs, more concerned with maintaining their riches than waging ideological wars. And so, the once-defiant institution of the priesthood had been reduced to an echo of its former self. Aron came to a halt before the towering wooden gates of the High Cathedral, their sheer size and weight a testament to the power that lay within. The doors were always shut, sealed like the vault of a king¡¯s treasury, only ever opened for grand religious festivities or for meetings of undeniable importance. This was one of those rare moments. He knew he would have to wait. Protocol demanded it. No one simply walked into the presence of the High Priest, no matter their rank or purpose, except of course for the Emperor . He folded his hands behind his back, keeping his expression composed as the moments stretched on. Minutes passed in silence, save for the faint sounds of the city beyond the steps. Then, at last, the heavy groan of shifting wood and iron filled the air. The gates creaked open, revealing the dimly lit interior, and with it, the looming figures of the High Priest¡¯s personal guards. They were tall, clad in ceremonial armor more ornate than practical, their helms adorned with golden filigree that gleamed even in the low light of the vestibule. One of them, a man whose deep-set eyes barely peeked through his visor, stepped forward. His voice was a low rumble, steady and commanding. "His Holiness grants you permission to enter." Aron gave a single, respectful nod. Without hesitation,he stepped forward, the grand doors widening to allow him passage. His servants and slaves followed in silent obedience, their footsteps swallowed by the cavernous entrance hall beyond. As the gates began to close behind them, sealing them within, Aron steeled himself for the meeting ahead. The interior of the High Cathedral was a world unto itself, a place where the wealth of the faithful had been poured for centuries. Vast columns of marble, not stone but marble, stretched toward a ceiling so high it seemed to vanish into the heavens, its surface adorned with intricate frescoes depicting the divine mysteries of the faith. Stained-glass windows, towering and majestic, cast beams of colored light across the polished floor, illuminating scenes of martyrs,and the gods themselves. At the far end of the great hall, beneath an arched alcove, sat the High Priest upon a throne of solid gold. The throne itself was raised atop a dais, forcing all who approached to look up at the man who sat upon it, a deliberate display of divine authority. The High Priest was a short, rotund man, his body overflowing in layers of rich, soft flesh. His fingers, adorned with rings thick with jewels, rested lazily on the armrests of his gilded seat. He was dressed in flowing white robes, their silk so fine that they seemed to ripple with his every slight movement. Upon his head sat a tall, cylindrical white hat, its surface adorned with golden braids that coiled like vines up to the very peak. His small, piggish eyes peered down at Aron with an expression of bemused curiosity, his lips curled in the ghost of a knowing smile. He did not speak immediately. He merely watched, as if waiting for Aron to absorb the full weight of the grandeur before him. The silence stretched, thick and oppressive, as the echoes of footsteps faded into nothingness. The High Priest said nothing. He merely extended his plump, bejeweled hand forward, his fingers slightly curled, as if expecting something that was his by divine right. Aron knew what was required of him. Without hesitation, he stepped forward, the sound of his boots against the polished marble floor echoing through the vast cathedral. As he reached the dais, he lowered himself down, first onto one knee, then onto the other. The golden throne loomed above him, the High Priest perched atop it like a bloated idol, unmoving, expectant. Aron bowed his head, took the man¡¯s soft, ring-laden hand in his own, and pressed his lips against it. The faint scent of scented oils clung to the skin, mixed with the metallic tang of gold. It was a gesture older than empires, one meant to signify devotion¡ªbut for Aron, it was as empty as the fervor within the fat man whose hand he was made to kiss . Chapter 466: The higher authority(2) Chapter 466: The higher authority(2) Aron rose from his kneeling position, moving with measured grace as he straightened his back. His gaze met the High Priest¡¯s without hesitation. The man¡¯s expression remained unreadable for a moment, his heavy-lidded eyes scrutinizing him with the laziness of a well-fed predator. Then, with a slow, deliberate nod, the High Priest granted him permission to sit. Behind Aron, a small wooden chair awaited¡ªplain and unadorned, which appeared even more miniscule if compared to the golden throne before him. Aron stepped back and lowered himself onto it, adjusting his posture to maintain the dignity of his station despite the humble seat, finding the chair even uncomfortable to sit in. I wonder if this is the standard procedure or if he simply vexed being forced to meet the envoy of a simple prince. Aron thought as he stared straight at the fat man, wondering if he was that prideful. He began with the expected pleasantries, his tone smooth and respectful. "Your Holiness, I must first extend my gratitude for your generosity in accepting this meeting. It is a great honor to be granted your time." The High Priest let out a short, hearty laugh, his stomach shaking beneath the heavy white robes. "Generosity?" he echoed, amusement coloring his voice. "It is my duty to listen to the problems of my flock, dear envoy. What kind of shepherd would I be if I turned away those in need?" His smile was wide, but Aron felt it was empty. The High Priest leaned back, fingers tapping idly against the gilded armrest of his throne. "But I must admit," he continued, his tone turning sly, "I was quite surprised when I received the request for this audience¡ªespecially after learning that it came with the personal intercession of Lord Marthio himself." His eyes gleamed with something unreadable as he added, "One wonders what it is about your prince that has earned such... a soft spot from the Lord Regent." Aron offered a measured smile, his voice smooth as silk. "His Regency and His Grace share quite an amiable relationship, Your Holiness. One forged not in empty courtesies but in the fires of mutual interest. The prosperity of our lands and the strength of our trade have tied them together, and from that, a partnership of trust has emerged." The High Priest nodded slowly, the golden braids of his tall white hat swaying slightly with the motion. His thick fingers drummed against the armrest of his throne as he regarded Aron with a knowing smirk. "When the Shield of the Star intercedes," he said, voice thick with amusement, "one must at least make the effort." His laughter was a deep, rolling sound, like a man indulging in a private joke. "It would not do to ignore a voice that carries such weight." He shifted in his throne, his rings catching the candlelight as he gestured vaguely. "Your lands may be humble in size, dear envoy, but I must say¡ªsome great wonders have been making their way from there." His eyes twinkled with genuine pleasure. "I recently had the opportunity to partake in a drink most delightful. A certain cider that, I daresay, rivals even the vintages of the eastern valleys, that unfortunately made their wine lacking following their rebellion." Aron dipped his head in a graceful bow, his lips curving in polite satisfaction. "Then I shall ensure that Her Grace sends a chest of our finest as a token of gratitude for your time, Your Holiness." The High Priest let out a pleased hum, leaning back into his golden throne, fingers steepled before him. "I shall await it with great expectation." The High Priest shifted on his golden throne, his plump fingers tapping idly against the polished armrests. The lighthearted mirth from before faded slightly, replaced by something more calculating. "Well then," he mused, tilting his head just so. "I believe you should lay out the problem that has even troubled the Lord Regent himself. It is not every day that such a man finds himself concerned enough to personally intervene." Aron gave a solemn nod, his demeanor sharpening like a blade being drawn from its sheath. He straightened his back, his face a mask of regret and reverence. "A tragic event has cast its shadow upon the lands of Her Grace," he began, his voice steady, deliberate. "A sorrowful thing. One that has moved even the royal family to tears in its grief." The High Priest¡¯s thick brow arched, curiosity flashing in his small, keen eyes. "Oh?" Aron exhaled softly, as if pained by the very words he had to speak. "I regret to report that a priest¡ªone of your devoted servants¡ªhas met an untimely and most unfortunate end." He paused, letting the weight of the words settle. "Though he was found in the midst of a most heinous crime... his death remains a loss. A tragedy nonetheless." The amusement drained completely from the High Priest¡¯s face. His fingers stopped their lazy tapping, now gripping the golden arms of his throne with a quiet intensity. No priest¡¯s death, least of all one by unnatural means, was ever taken lightly. His expression darkened, the weight of his authority pressing down on the chamber like a gathering storm. "The death of one of the faith is not something to laugh at," he said, his voice now stripped of all warmth. "I assume that the perpetrators have been punished?" Aron bowed deeply, his hands resting upon his knees in a display of reverence. "Of course, Your Holiness," he intoned smoothly. "Punishments have already been administered to those responsible." A half-truth. A necessary lie. The reality of it was far more complicated. How, after all, could one pinpoint the exact hand that had snuffed out the life of the priest? When a riot erupts in the streets, when fury grips the hearts of the masses like a fever, blame becomes as fluid as spilled wine. The crowd had been a beast of many limbs, many voices, many fists. If they were to seek justice in its truest form, they would have to execute all of them. Every man, woman, and child who had raised their voices in defiance. Every soul that had been present in the chaos. But such a thing was not feasible. Nor was it politically wise. So, instead, they had done what was necessary. A few criminals, already sentenced for their own misdeeds, were chosen. Their lives were offered as penance, their bodies hung from the gallows as a statement. A demonstration of justice¡ªhowever hollow it might have been. Aron kept his expression unreadable, his voice unwavering. "The matter has been handled." The High Priest stroked his thick, jeweled fingers over the embroidered gold braids of his ceremonial robes, his small eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he studied Aron. He gave a slow nod, though skepticism still lingered in the way his lips pressed into a thin line. "That is good," he said at last, his voice measured, each word weighed carefully. "Justice has been done, and the matter has been addressed. But... I confess, I do not quite understand the purpose of all this." He gestured vaguely around the grand hall, the flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold-leafed walls. "As sorrowful as this loss is, I fail to see why such a meeting was necessary. Surely, you did not journey all this way simply to tell me such a sad new.I suppose there is more to it." Aron, ever the diplomat, let a small, knowing smile touch his lips¡ªjust enough to seem sincere, but not so much as to appear insolent. He folded his hands neatly before him and inclined his head. "Before all else, Your Holiness, Her Grace wishes to express her deepest sorrow for what has transpired. A crime of this nature, against a man of faith, is a stain upon the lands, and she is moved by grief over such a deed." His voice was smooth, like well-aged wine, seeping into the ears of those who listened with just the right amount of weight. "As such, she wishes to show her respect for those who labor in the noble mission of the gods... by offering a small token. A gift, if you will. One that shall be used to ease the burdens of the faithful and aid the suffering masses as you see fit the most." At that, Aron clapped his hands together, the sharp sound echoing through the vast cathedral. From the side of the chamber, the servants moved as one, each step measured, each motion rehearsed with precision. Their heads remained bowed in reverence, their bodies low as they placed the offering before the High Priest¡¯s throne. The great wooden chest, its brass fittings polished to a mirror sheen, now sat before the man who held the spiritual fate of an entire continent in his hands. The servants, still kneeling in reverence, moved with practiced grace as their hands lifted, unlatching the ornate brass fittings of the chest. With a soft creak, the heavy lid was pushed open, revealing the treasures within. At the sight of it , the High Priest¡¯s small, beady eyes widened¡ªfirst in surprise, then in something far more familiar. Greed. And mirth. His fingers twitched, as if resisting the urge to reach out and touch the shimmering offering. Instead, he exhaled slowly, his expression smoothing into something more dignified, more measured. But Aron had already seen it¡ªthe flicker of hunger in the holy man¡¯s gaze as he apparently, as they were told by the lord regent, loved bribes with all his souls, as a sheep does with grass. Chapter 467: The higher authority(3) Chapter 467: The higher authority(3) The chest gleamed under the golden candlelight, its contents more radiant than the silks and incense that surrounded it. Silverii and gold coins were stacked in it, with of course the gold coins being the one at the top for , awe-effect. Aron watched as the High Priest¡¯s thick fingers twitched, his breath hitching ever so slightly at the sight of so much wealth laid before him. The gleam in his eyes was unmistakable¡ªhunger, barely concealed beneath a mask of solemnity. Aron had seen that look before, on merchants counting their profits. But never had it been more apparent than now in the supposed holy man who sat draped in the finery of the gods. Maybe it should be worrying that our highest religious authority is a fat, greedy man ,Aron thought as he resolved to perhaps say a prayer about it one of those evenings when he had nothing to do. For now however such situation adressed his prince¡¯s needs perfectly. His gaze flickered from the priest to the bribe, a fortune beyond what Jasmine¡¯s father had ever managed to gather in the royal treasury. Back in the old prince¡¯s reign, such a sum would have been unthinkable. Yet now, here it was, packed in a single chest, offered freely. 12,000 coins. A number chosen not on a whim, but with painstaking deliberation. Too little, and the high priest might feign disinterest, unwilling to risk his position for a mere pittance, especially given the magnitude of what he was to ask. Too much, and the treasury would bleed, leaving them vulnerable should war descend upon their lands. The realm could not afford reckless generosity¡ªnot when the threat of war loomed on the horizon, dark and inevitable. After all money was perhapse more important the food when dealing with the war effort. So his grace had chosen wisely, selecting the perfect sum¡ªan amount that would both entice and satisfy. And now, as Aron observed the unguarded avarice in the High Priest¡¯s gaze, he knew without a doubt. His grace had chosen correctly. The High Priest finally tore his gaze away from the glimmering hoard, blinking as if rousing himself from a pleasant dream. His thick fingers curled over the armrests of his golden throne, gripping them as if to steady himself. Then, with the carefully practiced solemnity of a man who wished to appear unmoved by wealth, he straightened his posture and cleared his throat. "Her liege¡¯s generosity is... most welcome," he said, his voice rich and deep, like honey poured over stone. "For the noble work of aiding the less fortunate and the miserable." Aron bowed his head slightly, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to show the appropriate level of deference without slipping into outright servility. "Her grace will be most pleased to know that her silver shall be used for such a noble purpose," he replied smoothly, his tone betraying not a hint of irony. The priest smiled¡ªsmall, pleased. But then, as if reminded of his own station, he let out a deep, measured sigh and leaned back against his gilded throne. His fingers tapped idly against the armrest, and his sharp, beady eyes refocused on Aron, scrutinizing him now not as a mere messenger, but as a man who had something to request with that bribe. "While I am always grateful for more resources to further the gods¡¯ holy mission," he mused, voice slow and deliberate, "I cannot help but wonder if generosity alone moved your liege¡¯s hand in this matter. A gift of such magnitude... surely, it is not without purpose?" A lesser diplomat might have balked under the weight of such a question. But Aron had been prepared for this, as surely as he had been prepared for the steep ascent to this grand cathedral. He did not flinch, nor did he hesitate. Instead, he gave a small nod, as if he had expected nothing less. "Your holiness is wise," Aron said, keeping his voice measured. "Indeed, this is not merely a gift, but a fine. A sum her grace felt compelled to offer, given the sorrowful event that has befallen her lands." The priest¡¯s expression hardened ever so slightly. He did not interrupt, but Aron could see the unspoken question forming behind his dark, calculating eyes. "And," Aron continued, "It is also given in the hopes that her grace might request something in return." At this, the High Priest¡¯s thick white brow arched ever so slightly. The amusement of before had vanished, and now, a sharper, more assessing look settled onto his face. The Yarzat envoy took a measured breath before continuing. "The issue, Your Holiness, lies not only in the unfortunate tragedy itself but in what may follow. The priest who met his end... he brought suffering upon the land. Through his actions, fires were set, and innocent lives were lost¡ªlives that, I must clarify, belonged mostly to unbelievers. Unbelievers, yes, but ones whom Her Grace had welcomed with generosity, granting them land to settle on. Not out of folly, nor out of defiance, but with the intention that, in time, they might find their way back to the righteous path. Lost sheep, gently guided home." At this, the High Priest¡¯s brows furrowed deeply, the lines on his forehead carving a map of displeasure. His fingers ceased their idle drumming, and for the first time since the start of the meeting, true scrutiny settled into his gaze. "And tell me," he said, his voice quieter now, but no less heavy, "was it these unbelievers who took his life?" Aron was already shaking his head before the High Priest had finished speaking. "Some individuals, Your Holiness, were guilty of that . Of course the perpetrators, the ones who committed this grievous act, have long since been executed. Justice has already been served." He let the words hang in the air for a moment before continuing, keeping his tone even, diplomatic. "The problem is not in what happened, but in may come. There are those among the clergy who may not be satisfied with the punishment of a few. I fear that some priests may demand that Her Grace extend that guilt to the entire settlement¡ªto all of those who dwell within it¡ªregardless of whether they had any part in what transpired." A shadow passed over the High Priest¡¯s face, though he said nothing yet. Aron pressed on. "But the true dilemma is this: Her Grace, having already ensured that those responsible have met their end, will refuse to punish the innocent. She will not allow an entire settlement to suffer for the crimes of a few." The High Priest exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. "And should such a refusal become known," Aron continued, "it will not be long before this matter is reported, spreading beyond our lands. There will be voices among the faithful¡ªpriests too fervent in their rage, too consumed by indignation to see reason. Priests who will call for condemnation, for retribution, against Her Grace herself... all because she did not punish further. And that, Your Holiness, is where the true danger lies." The High Priest let out a slow breath, his lips pressing into a thin line before he finally spoke. "They would do well to demand such a thing," he said, his voice grave yet unwavering. "Unbelievers dared to kill a man of the gods¡ªa servant of the divine! Such an act cannot simply be washed away with the blood of a few." He leaned forward, his fingers tapping against the gilded armrest of his throne as his gaze bore into Aron. "Her Grace should do well to cleanse her lands properly. Those who refuse to convert to the rightful preaching should be cast out or put to the sword. This is not some lawless hinterland where savagery and false idols are allowed to take root. This¡ª" he gestured broadly, as if to encompass the entire continent in one sweeping motion "¡ªis the land of civilization. A land graced by the gods. We are their chosen people, and we cannot allow heresy to fester within our borders." His voice grew heavier, each word striking like the tolling of a bell. "To permit unbelievers to live in peace among us is to invite corruption. The rot spreads, slow at first, then all at once. And if we allow it to fester, it will not be long before the sickness reaches even the faithful. That is something we cannot allow." His words settled into the air like dust after a great storm¡ªsuffocating, inescapable. Aron remained still, his expression unreadable, though behind his eyes, thoughts churned like a sea before a tempest. Aron had known this resistance would come. It was inevitable. Allowing unbelievers to settle on the land of the Star was already a matter of controversy, tolerated only because of His Grace¡¯s careful maneuvering . But for those very same unbelievers to now bear the blame for the killing of a priest? That was something else entirely. To the High Priest, it was blasphemy beyond reason, a sin that could not be ignored. And Aron knew that unless he played his hand with precision, unless he used every card at his disposal, the condemnation would go forward. The settlement would be purged. He could already see the fires in his mind. Houses reduced to charred husks. And all the efforts that his Grace had obtained burning to smokes. That could not happen. Not because he cared about some unbelievers¡¯ well-being, but because the last thing he wanted to do was to displease the man holding the key for his success. He had to succeed for his own sake. Chapter 468: The higher authority(4) Chapter 468: The higher authority(4) Aron kept his face carefully neutral, though inside, he felt the pressure mounting. The High Priest was unwavering, as expected, but there was still room to maneuver¡ªhe had to make him see reason, or at least convince him that this purge would be more trouble than it was worth. He took a steady breath and began, his tone respectful yet firm. "Your Holiness, in the short three months since the settlement was established, something remarkable has taken place." Aron gestured with a slow, deliberate hand. "Many of these unbelievers¡ªmen and women who had never before known the grace of the Star¡ªhave already seen the light. They have embraced the faith, casting aside their false idols and their empty traditions. And why? Because they were given time. Given the chance to work the land, to build homes, to live under the watchful eye of the faithful, and in that time, the truth of our faith reached them." The High Priest watched him, unimpressed, his thick fingers tapping lightly against the golden armrest of his throne. Aron pressed forward. "They pay their taxes as every other subject of Her Grace does. They till the fields, they mend the roads, they contribute to the prosperity of the land. And in return, the Crown has extended to them its protection, as is only just." His eyes locked onto the High Priest¡¯s. "It would not reflect well on the Crown to rescind such a promise." The High Priest let out a low chuckle, his lips curling in amusement. "If that is what troubles you, dear envoy, you need not fear. The Crown will be forgiven for breaking its word." He leaned forward slightly, his thick, bejeweled hand waving in a dismissive gesture. "Promises made to unbelievers are not bound by the will of the gods. They are like etchings in the sand¡ªwashed away when the tide changes. If Her Grace worries for her soul, I will personally absolve her of any guilt. And I will ensure that the Church does the same." Aron clenched his jaw but forced himself to keep his composure. "And what of those who have already converted?" he countered. "If the settlement is purged, they will be swept away with the rest. Those who have taken the Star into their hearts will burn alongside those who have rejected it. Do their lives mean nothing?" The High Priest exhaled heavily, a flicker of impatience crossing his round face. "Then they shall be given one final chance. An ultimatum. Convert or die.Let the believers out of the settlement and kill the rest" Aron felt the sting of frustration, but he did not let it show. Instead, he shook his head slowly. "And what do you think will happen after that, Your Holiness?" His voice remained measured, but there was a sharp edge beneath it now. "If the Crown allows this to happen, no other tribe will dare to come to our lands. The conversions will stop. The opportunity to bring more souls into the faith will vanish. Do you truly believe that is what the gods would wish?" The High Priest¡¯s face darkened. His fingers curled slightly against the golden armrest, his thick rings glinting in the candlelight. "If it means preventing the rot from spreading, then yes. If it means ensuring that our faith remains pure, then yes. If it means cutting away diseased flesh before it poisons the body¡ªthen yes." Aron met his gaze unflinchingly. He had expected this answer. He had seen it coming before he ever set foot in this grand, gilded hall. And yet, he was not finished. Not yet. He had one last card Aron inhaled deeply, letting the silence linger between them for a moment before speaking. His next words would have to be chosen carefully. "Your Holiness, has history not taught us the way?" His voice was calm but unwavering. "The very Shield of the Star, in his long and illustrious history, allowed tribes from across the sea, even those from beyond the Bane, to settle upon our lands. And within three generations¡ªno more¡ªthey were fully converted, their false gods forgotten, their faith placed solely in the Star." He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice just enough to force the High Priest to listen intently. "Time, Your Holiness. Time has always been our greatest ally in matters of conversion." The High Priest remained silent, but Aron could see the skepticism in his eyes, the way his fingers twitched as if resisting the urge to wave off his argument. Words alone wouldn¡¯t convince him. Nor would gold, no matter how much it gleamed inside that chest. No, if reason and greed would not move him, perhaps fear would do the trick. Aron straightened his posture and delivered his next words with precision. "The Lord Regent himself has expressed his approval of the Crown¡¯s plans to settle these people onto our lands." The effect was immediate. The High Priest¡¯s expression changed in an instant, his amusement and disdain vanishing like a candle blown out by the wind. His body stiffened, his eyes narrowing as he sat up straighter upon his golden throne. Aron did not miss the way his fingers tightened around the armrest. "What?" the High Priest asked, his voice lower, laced with sudden unease. Aron pressed forward. "The Lord Regent not only approved but even contributed to their resettlement, providing food to aid in their transition." For the first time, the High Priest looked truly shaken. Aron had expected this. After all, the man sitting before him may have been the highest religious authority on the continent, but he was still a creature of politics. And politics was dictated by power. And the Lord Regent held far more power than the High Priest ever could. The High Priest exhaled through his nose, a deep, heavy sound, his gaze flickering as though scrambling to make sense of this revelation. "I fail to see how the protector of the one true faith would do such a thing," he muttered, his voice uncertain in a way it hadn¡¯t been before. "After hearing of the killing of a priest... surely, surely he would not be so willing to support those responsible." Aron allowed himself the smallest of smiles. He had him now. "Once all the evidence of what truly happened was laid out before him, the Lord Regent expressed his full support for the Crown¡¯s continued efforts in the settlement process." The High Priest¡¯s lips parted slightly, his breath hitching in what could only be described as shock. His fingers, which had moments ago curled with indignation, now seemed to loosen, as if the weight of what Aron had said was settling into his very bones. The High Priest¡¯s fingers twitched upon the gilded armrest of his throne, his nails tapping against the gold as he processed Aron¡¯s words. His face remained composed, but there was a flicker of something beneath the surface¡ªan unease, a restrained irritation. Aron did not give him time to regain his footing. He pressed on. "Lord Marthio himself," he said smoothly, "does not believe this was a murder of an agent of the gods. Rather, he sees it as an unfortunate misuse of unsanctioned justice in response to the priest¡¯s own crimes." At that, the High Priest stiffened. His back straightened, his chin lifted slightly, and the calm veil he had worn so far cracked to reveal something much more dangerous beneath. His lips pressed into a thin line, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly. "Blasphemy," he muttered, his voice carrying an edge of restrained anger. Aron knew he was walking upon thin ice now, but there was no room for retreat. If he backed down, all negotiations would crumble, and her grace¡¯s lands would be at the mercy of religious fervor. He had to hold his ground. "Your Holiness," he said, his voice measured but firm, "if a priest is accused of arson, with proof¡ªproof, mind you¡ªand is responsible for the deaths of multiple innocent people, what is the proper sentence?" The High Priest¡¯s eyes narrowed. He leaned back into his throne, as if to create distance between himself and the question. The movement was subtle, but Aron noticed it. The hesitation. The discomfort. There was only one answer. And they both knew it. After a long pause, the High Priest finally spoke. "Such a sentence," he said, voice slow, deliberate, "is to be decided by a council composed entirely of priests." Aron inclined his head, as if in agreement, before delivering his final strike. "And such a tribunal would have, without doubt, passed a sentence of death upon a priest accused of such vile crimes." The High Priest¡¯s lips curled ever so slightly downward. Aron could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers drummed against the armrest. He was losing ground, and he knew it. But then, after a long, simmering silence, the High Priest let out a sharp breath and spoke once more, his tone clipped, cold. "The killing of unbelievers and heretics," he said, his voice heavy with disdain, "cannot be accounted as proper murder." Aron had expected nothing less than that answer. He had known from the moment he set foot inside the cathedral that the High Priest would not waver in his belief¡ªthat to kill an unbeliever was not a crime, that the lives of heretics were worth nothing in the eyes of the gods. But he had prepared for this. He took a slow, deliberate breath and pressed forward. "As I mentioned before, Your Holiness," he said, his voice smooth, unwavering, "many of them had already converted to the true faith. In fact, I fear that among the victims who perished in the priest¡¯s reckless game of arson, there were true believers." The High Priest reeled back, his expression tightening. His fingers stopped drumming against the armrest. Aron saw the slight widening of his eyes, the flicker of hesitation. He had struck the nerve he needed. But he gave the man no time to recover. "And if that is the case," Aron continued swiftly, "then what transpired cannot be accounted as an act of murder against unbelievers and heretics. Rather, it becomes exactly what the wise Lord Regent himself has named it¡ªa misuse of unsanctioned justice. Those responsible did not commit sacrilege but rather acted outside the proper judicial process. The crime, therefore, was not in their actions themselves but in their failure to allow the judgment of the priests to be carried out as dictated by sacred law." The words were carefully chosen, each syllable a precise instrument meant to carve away at the High Priest¡¯s stance without striking at his pride. "Which, of course, is a crime in its own right," Aron added, "and one that has already been addressed. The perpetrators were executed, as is only just for such reckless impunity." Silence stretched between them. The High Priest said nothing. He merely stared at Aron, his gaze unreadable, his mind undoubtedly racing as he weighed the words laid before him. Aron did not break the silence. He simply held the man¡¯s gaze, unwavering. Now, it was a matter of whether the High Priest would accept the path he had been carefully guided toward¡ªor if his stubbornness would push him to fight against the reality placed before him, deciding along with it if Aron was to report to his prince the sentence that he feared would put an end to his rising career. Chapter 469: Throwing the dice(1) Chapter 469: Throwing the dice(1) The day was beautiful, almost cruelly so. The sun hung high in the sky, casting golden light over the rolling hills and lush fields . A warm breeze carried the scent of fresh earth and spring blossoms, a reminder of how peaceful the land remained¡ªfor now. But beneath the splendor of the afternoon lay a moment that could unravel everything. Today, in the privacy of a secluded encampment, five lords would decide whether to cast the die and risk plunging the realm into a civil war that could shake its very foundation. Lord Niketas,Lord Gregor, Lord Lysandros, Lord Eurenis, and Lord Corvan gathered once more, their meeting eerily similar to the one they had held months before. The same heavy canvas tent shielded them from the sun, the same long wooden table stood between them, and the same quiet tension settled over their shoulders like an unseen weight. But there were two key differences. The first was the subject of their discussion. No longer were they merely strategizing ways to safeguard their position against the growing power of the Crown. Now, they faced the far graver decision of whether to commit to outright rebellion¡ªwhether to risk ruin or grasp for dominion. The second difference was the man seated among them who had not been there before. Elyos, the priest to whom they had once granted land, sat in their midst, his presence clearly showing just how much things had changed. He was no longer just a wandering preacher with a band of devoted followers; he was a man who had, through sheer fervor and cunning, made himself indispensable to the coming conflict. Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts. The moment had come. The final decision awaited. The die was in their hands. It was time to cast it¡ªor let it drop. However what was in the noble¡¯s heart was not tension or indeciveness as much as there was anger. Lord Niketas¡¯ gaze was sharp enough to cut stone as he stared at Elyos, his fingers tightening around the crumpled letter in his grip. He did not speak immediately, but his silence was no reprieve¡ªit was the kind that heralded an inevitable storm. His eyes burned with the fury of a man who had just realized he had placed a loaded crossbow into the hands of a fool. When he did finally speak, his voice was dangerously low, each word slicing through the air like a drawn blade. "How dare you?" he hissed, though his tone carried less of a question and more of a demand. He slammed the letter onto the table, his palm pressing down onto it as though trying to smother the insult it carried. "How dare you write to us with such... scandalous idiocy?" The other lords shifted in their seats, their faces drawn, their hands twitching as though resisting the urge to snatch the letter and burn it on the spot. None of them needed to see its contents¡ªthey already knew what kind of disaster Elyos had invited into their midst. A noble¡ªany noble with the barest shred of sense¡ªwould have never put to paper something so brazen, something that, if found by the wrong hands, might as well have been titled Proof of Treason... A noble would have known that words could be daggers, and that letters were just waiting to be intercepted. A noble would have written something vague, something benign¡ªan invitation to discuss lands, tithes, or a hunting excursion. Anything but this. But Elyos was no noble. That much was clear. He was a cockless man, that spoke of good and sheep The letter that now lay between them was nothing short of a death warrant, inked by the priest¡¯s own hand. A fool would have to squint to miss the meaning behind his words, and the Crown, for all its faults, was not run by fools. Niketas leaned forward, his knuckles whitening as he pressed against the table. His voice, though controlled, seethed with a fury barely restrained. "Do you have any idea what you¡¯ve done? If this¡ª" he jabbed a finger at the damning parchment, "¡ªwere to find its way into the hands of the Crown, it would be over. Over for all of us." His voice dropped lower, venomous, "And only the gods would know how much I¡¯d regret not gutting you first." The tent was silent, save for the rustling of the fabric in the warm breeze outside. No one dared to breathe too loudly, their eyes flickering between Niketas and Elyos, waiting to see how the priest would answer for his mistake. Gregor scoffed seemingly not bothering on mantainin the silence, his face twisting into a sneer as he crossed his arms over his broad chest. His voice, rough and simmering with barely contained frustration, filled the tent. "We gave you land, priest," he growled, his sharp gaze locking onto Elyos. "Not because we believed in your damn sermons, as you have eloquently made use of for this piece of crap, not because we wanted to kneel at your altar, but because we needed men. Men who would fight when the time came. That was the deal." He jabbed a finger toward Elyos, his tone darkening. "What we did not give you was a voice in this matter. You have no right, no power, to so much as think you get a say in whether we light the match or snuff the flame." Elyos, in contrast, remained calm. His expression was unreadable, his hands folded neatly before him. When he spoke, it was with a measured ease, as though the weight of the accusations meant little to him. "I merely acted upon what we had already entertained in our past discussions," he said smoothly. "In my previous letter¡ª" "You mean the one that wouldn¡¯t damn us all if it fell into the wrong hands?" Lord Lysandros cut in sharply, his cold gaze snapping toward the priest. His voice carried none of Gregor¡¯s fiery temper, but the steel in his tone was just as lethal. "Things were different then. We thought the high priest would condemn that fucking commoner , that he would declare him unfit to rule with his sould going to whatever fucking hell the gods deemed good to send him to. That would have given us our justification¡ªa war waged in the name of righteousness, with the temples behind us,and with the Romelians unable to aid him unless they would like to share his downfall." Lysandros leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. "But that did not happen. The high priest refused to cast judgment upon the prince, refused to denounce him, and in doing so, stripped us of the strongest shield we had. Without the backing of the temples, the scales no longer tip overwhelmingly in our favor." Elyos met their scorn with an unwavering gaze, his voice carrying the quiet confidence of a man who had already measured the room and found it wanting. "You believe our position to be weak," he said, his words slow, deliberate. "That the lapse in judgment of the High Priest, which we did not expect from the highest authority in this earthly realm, has left us stranded. But I tell you now, that is not the case. Even though the High Priest himself faltered, many within the temples have not. They still clamor for justice. They have written to me, privately, pledging their support. So, Lord Lysandros, I must correct you¡ªthe temples are still with us and with it is their silver, which I believe is the only thing you wish from them." Lord Eurenis scoffed, his chair creaking as he leaned forward, cutting in before Elyos could continue. "Not all of them," he interjected sharply, his brow furrowed with deep skepticism. "I find it hard to believe that every temple would risk the ire of the Crown without the right of arms given by official condemnation. Without that, they are nothing more than frightened clerics whispering in shadows, too timid to act when the time comes." Elyos tilted his head, his expression unbothered. "Enough of them," he replied simply. Niketas exhaled sharply, his fingers tapping against the table as he finally spoke, his tone edged with both frustration and pragmatism. "Even if that were true, even if the temples¡¯ coin would be a useful addition to our war chest, we will not risk a total confrontation with the Crown unless the odds are overwhelmingly in our favor. Faith alone does not win wars, priest." Elyos¡¯s lips curled slightly, not in amusement, but in the satisfaction of a man who had yet to play his strongest card. "I was not finished," he said, his voice carrying a new weight. "After all, the support for our cause does not come only from the priests. We have other allies. Stronger ones. The Crown has no shortage of enemies, and two of them¡ªtwo whom the prince himself has scorned¡ªhave pledged themselves to this cause as well." The air in the tent grew heavier, charged with something deeper than tension¡ªanticipation, unease, the slow realization that perhapse they were not as subtle as they thought they were "I know very well of all of your dealings with the Princes of Herculia and Oizen," Elyos continued, his voice laced with quiet triumph. A ripple of reaction swept across the lords. Lord Lysandros stiffened in his seat, his usually composed features betraying a flicker of unease. Lord Corvan¡¯s fingers curled slightly against the armrest of his chair, his lips pressing into a thin line. Gregor¡¯s ever-present scowl deepened, his hands tightening into fists on the table. Even Niketas, who had up until now met Elyos¡¯s claims with measured skepticism, shifted subtly in his seat, his sharp gaze betraying just a hint of surprise. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Elyos smiled. A slow, knowing smile that barely touched his lips but burned in his eyes as he took in the lords¡¯ reactions, their uncertainty, their hesitation. "I see it in your faces," he said smoothly. "You¡¯re wondering how I know of this.¡¯¡¯ He let the silence hang, savoring the moment before delivering his next words like a blade pressed against the throat. "Well I can just say, that they did not only approach you." Elyos straightened his posture, his chest lifting, his presence suddenly feeling larger in the tent. "Their envoys found in me a good host," he continued, his voice carrying the tone one would have when pointing out the wrongs on a child. "They found a man who understands what is at stake, who understands that this is no longer just about your grievances with the Crown. This is no longer about whether you choose to fight or not." His piercing gaze swept across the lords, his voice deepening with finality. "The choice has already been made, when you invited me in your midst. We share the same fate now. We stand together, bound by the same truth¡ªglory in victory, or ruin in defeat." Chapter 470: Throwing the dice(2) Chapter 470: Throwing the dice(2) Gregor shot up from his seat so forcefully that his chair nearly toppled over. His face twisted into a mask of rage, his eyes burning with barely restrained fury. "You can go to ruin yourself!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the tent like a thunderclap. "We have no reason to listen to a single wretched word that spills from your damned mouth! You think you can waltz in here, puffing yourself up like the beggar Prince did, and dictate terms to us?" He scoffed, his lip curling in disgust. "You are nothing more than a landless vagabond we decided to humor. A mongrel dressed in robes, barking like he belongs at the table of lords." Gregor slammed a fist onto the table, rattling the goblets and ink pots. "We will fight when we choose to fight! Not because some self-important zealot decided it for us!" His voice grew sharper, colder. "And no one¡ªnot a single miserable soul¡ªcan say otherwise. Least of all you." Niketas, who had been watching with cold scrutiny, now leaned forward, his expression one of controlled contempt. "He is right," he said, his tone lacking the fire of Gregor¡¯s outburst but carrying just as much weight. "You stand here because we allowed it. Because we deemed it useful to let you have some land in exchange for military support. Do not make the mistake of thinking that places you on our level." His eyes narrowed, his voice turning razor-sharp. "We are not the same, priest. We are barely even on the same side ." Lord Lysandros, who had remained silent through the exchange, now spoke, his voice cool and measured but carrying an undeniable edge. "And let us remind you, priest," he said, fingers tapping idly on the table, "that the land we gave you can just as easily be taken back. A gift can become a burden, and burdens are swiftly cast aside." His eyes flicked toward Elyos, unblinking. "Keep that in mind before you grow too comfortable in your borrowed authority." Elyos stood unmoving, his gaze shifting between the lords as they hurled their insults, their rage directed at him as though he were nothing more than a dog that had overstayed its welcome. And still, Elyos said nothing. He simply watched. He watched their faces contort with anger. He watched their hands grip the table, their knuckles white with fury. He watched their voices rise and fall, their words weaving together in a discordant symphony of arrogance, fear, and self-interest. He watched¡ªand he felt nothing but disgust. Are these the men chosen by the gods to rule over the flock? The thought crawled into his mind like a whisper of revelation, and the more he looked at them, the more the question gnawed at him. These men, these lords who prided themselves on their noble blood and divine right, were nothing but children bickering over their toys. They thought only of themselves¡ªtheir lands, their gold, their fleeting pleasures. Not once did they speak of duty, of righteousness, of the higher calling that should have been the foundation of their rule. They did not see the suffering of the people beneath them, nor did they care to. They ruled not as shepherds guiding their flock, but as gluttonous beasts feasting upon it. They were not the blessed ones. Perhaps, once, long ago, their ancestors had been touched by the divine, chosen to stand as protectors and leaders. But if there had ever been a light within them, it had long since dimmed. What remained now was a mere flicker, a dying flame barely clinging to its wick, too feeble to illuminate the darkness, too weak to warm those left shivering in the cold. And if that light had truly died out, then perhaps it was time for a new flame to rise. Elyos exhaled slowly, a sigh slipping from his lips as he cast his gaze downward. It was supposed to be easy. The path had seemed so clear, so ordained. The Crown was to be condemned, its sins laid bare before the gods and men alike. The temples would rise in righteous fury, a tide of faith crashing against the corrupt order. The lords, ever eager to safeguard their own power, would take up arms, not for him, not for justice, but for their own survival. And beyond the borders of the princedom, the enemies of the Crown would not hesitate to strike, seizing the moment to carve away at its flesh like carrion birds descending upon a wounded beast. From there, all would have fallen into place. With the old order shattered, he could have shaped something new, something pure. A land not ruled by greed, nor ambition, nor the whims of men who called themselves noble. A land where only the priests, the true servants of the divine, held dominion. A land where faith was not just preached , but enforced, woven into the very bones of the state itself. But the world had proven itself unwilling to yield to his vision. The Crown had not been condemned. The High Priest had balked at the decisive moment, leaving justice half-spoken, its weight dulled by hesitation. The temples, though sympathetic, were forced into the shadows, whispering their support but unable to act openly. The lords, these men who had once spoken of rebellion with bold tongues, now cowered before the specter of failure, fearful of what they would lose rather than emboldened by what they could gain. And beyond their lands, the foreign princes who had once seemed eager for war now clamored impatiently, demanding action, urging them forward without care for the dangers they faced. It was supposed to be easy. Instead, it had become a tangled mess of hesitation, doubt, and divided wills. And as he stood among these so-called rulers, feeling the weight of their cowardice pressing down on him, a bitter thought took root in his mind¡ª If they will not move, then perhaps they do not deserve to decide at all. Elyos let his gaze sweep across the gathered lords, his eyes heavy with something that was neither anger nor contempt, but something deeper¡ªsomething resolved. He exhaled slowly before speaking, his voice steady, almost regretful. "I had hoped it would not come to this." The lords quieted, shifting uneasily at the sudden weight in his tone. "Truly," Elyos continued, "I am disheartened by the hostility you bear toward me. After all, I owe you a debt of gratitude. Without you, I would never have been able to take the first step toward realizing my dream." His expression was solemn, his hands spread ever so slightly as if in an open gesture of peace. "And yet, here we stand. You speak to me as though I were a leper, as though I had no place at this table. As though my words¡ªmy presence¡ªwere an offense to you. It is a shame, truly. But more than that, it is disappointing." The room was silent, the only sound the faint rustling of the wind against the tent. He sighed, shaking his head, the weight of the moment settling onto his shoulders. "But my greatest sorrow is this: If we cannot all agree to move forward together, then I fear I will have no choice but to pull you forward myself." His words lingered in the air, heavy and sharp. Gregor¡¯s brow furrowed in confusion before twisting into something uglier¡ªrage. His fist slammed against the table as he stepped forward, his voice thundering with fury. "And just how do you think you¡¯ll do that, priest?" he spat, his tone laced with scorn. " You sit here and speak as if we are equals, but let me remind you¡ªyou are not. So tell me, Elyos, what exactly do you think gives you the authority to threaten us?" Elyos met Gregor¡¯s glare with an eerie calm. He tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into the faintest hint of a knowing smile. "I?" he mused, as if the answer were obvious. "I have no power to do that." He paused, letting the silence stretch before finishing, his voice smooth as silk but sharp as a dagger. "But as it turns out... entering into negotiations with the enemies of the Crown is not a good look for a noble." Niketas scoffed, his lips curling into a sneer as he crossed his arms. His gaze was sharp as a blade, his voice edged with disdain. "No one would believe you," he said, his tone firm, resolute. "A priest speaking of high politics? Of negotiations and war? You think the Crown would take the word of a cleric over that of its noble lords?" Elyos blinked, tilting his head as if genuinely confused. Then, with an exaggerated air of realization, his expression brightened. "Oh, my dear lord Niketas," he said, his voice thick with irony, "what a terrible misunderstanding. Did you truly think I would be the one to say anything?" His smirk widened ever so slightly, his tone turning mockingly gentle. "No, no. I wouldn¡¯t dare accuse such honorable men of treason." He let the words sink in before continuing, his voice smooth as silk. "But they will." Silence. Elyos clasped his hands together, stepping forward with the slow, deliberate pace of a man who knew he was holding the dagger at someone¡¯s throat. "You see," he continued, "Herculia and Oizen are both at war with Yarzat. And what better way to weaken the Crown than by fanning the flames of rebellion here? Now, imagine if your noble selves refuse to play your part. Do you think they¡¯ll simply accept your cowardice?" His eyes glinted in the dim light. "Of course not. They will force your hand." The weight of his words settled over the lords like a thick fog. "They will reveal your dealings. Your talks. Your promises. And when the Crown learns that its own vassals have entertained treasonous discussions with its enemies¡ªwell, I don¡¯t think I need to explain what comes next." Elyos turned his gaze to Gregor, watching the storm of rage and unease flicker across his face. "You were right about one thing, Lord Gregor," Elyos said, his voice quiet but cutting. "I have no power for such decision." His eyes darkened, and his smirk faded into something colder. "But neither do any of you." Chapter 471: New player Chapter 471: New player Two soldiers stood in front of the great wooden gates of Herculia, their spears resting idly against their shoulders. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows on the cobbled road leading into the city, but neither of them paid it much mind. It had been a quiet day¡ªtoo quiet for their liking. "By the gods, this is dull," grumbled the first soldier, a broad-shouldered man with a patchy beard. His name was Myron, and boredom, it seemed, had become his greatest enemy. "I swear, if one more beggar plead with me to enter the city, I¡¯m going to run him through just to see some excitement." "Go ahead," said the other, a younger, leaner man called Darios. "Wouldn¡¯t make much of a difference. All they do is whine and beg. You¡¯d be doing the city a favor." "That¡¯s what I¡¯m saying," Myron huffed. "It¡¯s the same thing every day. What I wouldn¡¯t give for something interesting." "I wouldn¡¯t be so whistful " Darios muttered, kicking a loose stone with his boot. "Last time we said that, we ended up on the front lines outside Arduronaven, knee-deep in Yarzat¡¯s finest." Myron scowled. "Yeah, and look where that got us¡ªcold, hungry, and still behind on our pay." Darios chuckled dryly. "I was waiting for you to bring that up. Thought we might actually go an hour without complaining about it." "You¡¯re not mad?" Myron shot him a look. "We¡¯re two months behind, Darios. Again. Tell me how I¡¯m supposed to afford anything when the damned price of bread keeps jumping like a hare in a wolf den." Darios shrugged. "I¡¯ve stopped thinking about it. At this point, I¡¯m just happy we still get fed at the barracks. If I had to live off my wages alone, I¡¯d be gnawing on my boots by now." Myron let out a bitter laugh. "You¡¯d be lucky to have boots left. You seen the price of leather?" "Leather? Forget that¡ªbread , Myron. Gods damn it, nine loaves costed 2 bronzii before the war. Then it went to three bronzii, then five. Last month it jumped to ten." "Aye, and just last week it went up again," Myron grumbled. "You know how much now? Fifteen. Fifteen coppers ! You know what that means?" "Yeah," Darios sighed. "Means I¡¯m stretching my rations thin because there¡¯s no way in hell I can afford to eat outside the barracks." "Means someone¡¯s making a killing off our misery," Myron spat. "Probably some fat merchant sitting in his nice warm villa, laughing at all the poor bastards like us scrounging for scraps." Myron leaned back against the stone wall, crossing his arms as he let out a deep sigh. He cast a glance at the street leading into the city, his eyes narrowing at the sorry state of things. The once-bustling entrance to Herculia, where merchants and travelers used to stream in with carts full of goods, now felt like a ghost of its former self. The people who did pass through looked weary and gaunt. "You ever seen Herculia looking this bleak?" he muttered. Darios shook his head, running a hand through his unkempt hair. "Not in my lifetime. I remember when you couldn¡¯t even stand here without getting shoved by some merchant trying to push through the gates. Now look at it¡ªhalf the stalls are empty, and the ones still standing sell scraps at prices only a noble could afford." "Gods, the beggars," Myron groaned. "You saw how many of them were huddled by the west market? Could barely take a step without tripping over one." Darios scoffed. "West market? You should¡¯ve seen the temple district. I swear, they¡¯re breeding like rats. And what do we get told? ¡¯Go in there and clear them out!¡¯ Right, because that¡¯s exactly what¡¯s going to fix things." "Don¡¯t remind me," Myron spat. "We must¡¯ve dragged out hundreds of them last week alone. " "And for what?" Darios sneered. "So they can go sleep in the alleys instead of in front of the temples? We might as well have thrown them straight into the river for all the good it did, fucking parasites." Myron shook his head, his jaw clenched tight. "I never thought I¡¯d see the day when the capital of Herculia looked like this. " Myron¡¯s expression darkened. "And we know exactly whose fault that is." Darios spat on the ground. "Yarzats. May the gods curse them. If they had just stayed on their side instead of raiding our lands, none of this would¡¯ve happened.Fucking thieves! "Exactly," Myron growled. "We marched onto war following the prince, and what do we get for it? Empty bellies and empty streets, those that at least died did not have to witness this shit." "They took everything from us," Darios muttered, shaking his head. "The war, the taxes, the hunger¡ªit¡¯s all because of them. And now we¡¯re the ones left to suffer for it." "Aye," Myron agreed, gripping his spear so tightly his knuckles turned white. As the two soldiers grumbled, the faint sound of hooves echoed from the horizon. Darios straightened first, squinting against the sunlight. Myron followed, his hand tightening on his spear. "Rider," Darios muttered, his posture stiffening. "About time something happened," Myron replied, though his tone lacked any real enthusiasm. The rider approached quickly, a trail of dust swirling in his wake. As he neared, the guards stepped forward, lowering their spears into position. "Halt!" Myron barked. "Name yourself!" The rider yanked at the reins, his horse skidding to a stop. Sweat gleamed on his face, his cloak heavy with dust. It took only a moment for recognition to dawn¡ªit was one of their own, a scout from the patrols beyond the city. "Trouble?" Darios asked, lowering his weapon slightly. "Not trouble," the scout panted, voice sharp with urgency. "But you¡¯d best get the commander¡ªthere¡¯s a force marching this way. Three hundred, maybe more, and you might want to close these gods-damned gates before they arrive. The last thing we need is hundreds of sellswords wandering in unchecked. Damn thieves all of them..." The two guards stiffened, exchanging uneasy glances as the rider spat onto the ground. "Who are they?" Myron demanded. "The fuck should I know?" the scout shot back with a shrug. "All I know is they¡¯re carrying a white banner, and they¡¯re headed straight for us." Without another word, the two stepped aside, letting the scout ride through at full gallop. The sharp clatter of his horse¡¯s hooves echoed down the empty streets before fading into the city¡¯s depths. Darios felt his stomach tighten. Myron let out a long breath, his expression dark. If the prince was hiring new bands of mercenaries, it could only mean one thing. Another round of war was coming. As if the current famine was not enough, they were with high probability going to be enlisted to march once again, going to risk their life following a prince that only knew defeat in this war. Darios shifted his grip on his spear, muttering, "Back to war, then." Myron¡¯s face twisted with something between frustration and fear "And against the same bastard who burned our fields last spring." Neither of them said anything more. They simply stood there, spears in hand, watching the horizon and waiting for the storm they both knew was coming. Soon enough, the distant thunder of marching boots filled the air¡ªa steady, rhythmic drumbeat that carried over the city¡¯s outskirts. The mercenary force had arrived. From their vantage point atop the walls, Darios and Myron watched as dust billowed beneath hundreds of boots, the fading sunlight stretching long shadows behind them. The gates remained firmly shut. No one had to give the order. Letting hundreds of armed mercenaries inside, no matter who had hired them, was a risk no sane man would take. From above, the two guards silently observed the scene below. The sellswords wasted no time. As soon as they reached the city, they began setting up camp just outside the walls. Tents went up with practiced ease, campfires flickered to life, and men settled in for what looked to be a long stay. Darios let out a slow breath, gripping his spear a little tighter. "Doesn¡¯t feel real, does it?" Myron scoffed. "You¡¯d think we¡¯d be used to it by now.I don¡¯t want to fucking fight against them again...." Darios didn¡¯t answer, though Myron suspected he was of the same opinion. His gaze remained locked on the blurred shapes below¡ªmercenaries moving in small groups, sharpening weapons, inspecting armor, gnawing on whatever stale rations they carried. Even from a distance, the scene was all too familiar. The two guards should have been complaining about their pay. They should have been griping about how their wages barely covered the rising cost of bread. But as they stood there, looking out at the men camped just beyond the city, their unpaid coin felt like the least of their worries. After all, what good was gold to a man who wouldn¡¯t live long enough to spend it? Chapter 472: Poor opulance Chapter 472: Poor opulance The polished marble floors gleamed beneath his boots as the mercenary captain made his way through the grand halls of the Herculian palace. Chandeliers and brass hung overhead, casting shifting patterns across frescoed ceilings that depicted the victories of princes long dead. Statues of gods lined the path ahead, their cold, lifeless gazes looking down upon him as though they were judging his presence. Opulence. A grand display of wealth, meant to awe and inspire. But he wasn¡¯t fooled. Beneath the surface, beneath all the excess, he could see the cracks forming. The wealth of Herculia was an illusion, a fine cloak draped over a dying body. He exhaled sharply through his nose. They were truly on their last legs. His short walk from the gates to the palace had been more than enough to confirm his suspicions. The streets of Herculia, once bustling with merchants and citizens, had an air of quiet desperation about them. Beggars lined the avenues, their hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes betraying the true state of the princedom. That of a scheletric man trying to hold a mountain on his bare back, while barely standing on his own. Even the soldiers, those sworn to protect this so-called jewel of the princedom, looked haggard,tired and dissatisfied. They stood at their posts with dull eyes, shifting uneasily at the sight of mercenaries marching past. They probably haven¡¯t seen a silverii since only gods know when, and yet their prince keep on pushing them on. And still here they were, preparing for war. He snorted. Fools. This city could barely feed its own people, let alone an army. And still, they persisted, grasping at war as though it were the last branch before drowning. What did they hope to accomplish? Did they truly believe they could hold back the tide? They were trying to hold a river with their bare hands. He shook his head, the weight of his new armor feeling heavier than the one he usually wore. War was coming, and these men were too desperate or too blind to see they had already lost. Of course, for him, it didn¡¯t matter. The contract was signed. His men would fight as long as he gave the order. And when the city burned, they would probably walk on the ashes and dance on them. --------------- Lord Arnold stood among his courtiers in the grand throne hall of the Herculian palace, his gaze sweeping over the gathered nobility with quiet satisfaction. The hall, adorned with towering banners bearing the princely sigil, echoed with murmurs of conversation. Tall braziers burned brightly upon the marble floors and the high-domed ceiling . Arnold breathed out through his nose, his lips curling into the barest of smirks. It was good to be back. His campaign to crush the peasants¡¯ revolt had gone moderately well¡ªwell enough, at least, to secure his standing among the nobility. A few burnt villages, a couple thousand dead rebels, and suddenly, he was the savior of the realm. Nothing pleased the lords more than seeing their rightful order restored, their lands freed from the rabble who thought starvation was cause enough to challenge their betters. Arnold had delivered that order with fire and steel, and his reward had come swiftly. His name was now spoken with approval at feasts, his presence sought after in council of his father. Meanwhile, his younger brother had returned to find the floor cut from beneath him. Arnold wasted no time putting the whelp back in his place. The little snake had grown bold in his absence, whispering in ears, gathering men around him, posturing like a future ruler. It was laughable. With careful precision, Arnold dismantled every shred of support his brother had managed to gather. His would-be allies found themselves reassigned, dismissed, or otherwise reminded of where true power lay, as many immediately understood which one would be the winning side. His servants and retainers were scattered, his confidants turned cold. One by one, Arnold cut the threads until his dear brother stood alone, isolated, with no one left to whisper his foolish ambitions to. Now, he was nothing more than an afterthought. Arnold¡¯s fingers tapped idly against the hilt of his sword as he watched the courtiers move around him, their laughter and empty pleasantries filling the room like the hum of insects. The nobility of Herculia had chosen their champion. And it was not his brother. The court was currently in wait. Despite the usual murmur of noble chatter an air of restless anticipation hung over the grand throne hall. The reason was clear¡ªsoon, the mercenary company his father had hired for their next campaign against Yarzat would arrive. Their presence would mark the beginning of yet another war, a war that the lords of Herculia could ill afford yet had no choice but to fight. Lord Arnold stood at the center of it all, posture relaxed yet mind sharp, his keen eyes reading the expressions of those around him. He knew well that there were many in this room who shared his initial opposition to hiring sellswords. After all, had they not just emerged from the fires of a peasant rebellion? Their coffers were empty, their warehouses nearly the same, and the people of Herculia¡ªthose still left alive¡ªhad barely begun licking their wounds from the last catastrophe. Under normal circumstances, he would have fought tooth and nail against such a reckless expenditure. Mercenaries were a fickle tool¡ªuseful, yes, but dangerous. They fought for gold, not loyalty, and gold was something Herculia was fast running out of. And yet, despite all of this, Arnold had relented Because no matter how dire their situation, he could not deny that there was no better moment to strike. Contact had already been made with several rebellious lords of Yarzat¡¯s "Little Fox," those who chafed under the rule of their own prince and would eagerly rise against him given the right push. More importantly, the Prince of Oizen¡ªfresh from two years of peace¡ªwas sharpening his sword for another round of war. Two years might have been a short time, but it was long enough for Oizen to rebuild, to replenish his ranks, and to thirst for vengeance. He was ready, waiting, eager. Then there was the Prince of Habadia, whose monetary and supply support had kept Herculia from completely crumbling. But such generosity came with strings attached¡ªstrings that would snap the moment Herculia showed weakness. Habadia had no interest in throwing gold and grain into a pawn not willing to advance. If Herculia did not clash with Yarzat¡¯s Little Fox soon, their lifeline would be severed, and their fate would be sealed. So, of course, there was no choice but to fight. The great doors of the court groaned open, and in an instant, the idle murmur of the gathered nobles died. A hush fell over the hall as the mercenary captain strode forward, his boots striking the polished marble floor with steady, deliberate steps. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows over his form, the worn leather of his armor creaking as he moved. He walked with the unmistakable confidence of a man who knew his worth¡ªand perhaps even more dangerously, knew that the men in this hall needed him. Arnold¡¯s sharp gaze landed on him, studying him with a cold, assessing stare. So, this is the man my father is bringing into our war. Something about the way the captain carried himself, the easy, unshaken way he met the weight of so many noble eyes, made Arnold uneasy. There was something familiar in it. Yarzat¡¯s Little Fox had started in the same way, I recall. That man had clawed his way to power through sheer will and ruthlessness, rising above his supposed betters. And now, he sat upon the throne of Yarzat, waging war as if he had been born for it. Arnold exhaled through his nose, pushing the thought aside. It didn¡¯t matter. The only thing that mattered now was war. Even with the Habadian prince¡¯s support, their available forces were far from ideal. His father, at least, could rely on foreign coin and supplies, but the rest of the nobility¡ªthe ones who should have been filling the ranks of their armies¡ªwere still reeling from last year¡¯s war. The devastation had not spared them. Their lands had been raided, their men killed, their coffers bled dry. Unlike his father, they did not have the financial backing of Habadia, and as a result, many of them were reluctant to commit their troops. Arnold doubted that, even if they scraped together every able-bodied man, they would reach 2,000 soldiers for this campaign. That was why these sellswords were necessary. Without them, they had no army to speak of. His grip tightened on the pommel of his sword as the mercenary captain approached the dais. ----------------------- The mercenary came to a halt before the throne, his movements controlled, practiced¡ªdeferential, but not servile. With a fluid motion, he dropped to one knee, lowering his head in the customary gesture of respect. The polished marble beneath him was cold, but he barely noticed. His posture was steady, his expression unreadable, betraying nothing of his thoughts. A herald, standing beside the prince¡¯s throne, took a deep breath before speaking, his voice ringing through the chamber with well-practiced clarity. "You stand before His Grace, the Most High and Mighty Lord, Prince Lechlein of Herculia, Defender of the Realm, Shield of the Faith and Sovereign of the Great City of Herculia! The mercenary listened, keeping his gaze low as the litany of titles continued, one after another. He had heard a hundred such proclamations before, each one dripping with grandeur, each one meant to impress. All of them just words, he thought idly, waiting for the formalities to end. At last, the herald fell silent, stepping aside. The true business could begin. The contract had already been signed¡ªhis company would fight for Herculia, for as long as the agreed-upon coin flowed. But a contract was not enough. Not for nobility. Now came the oath. A scribe stepped forward, unrolling a parchment as he prepared to dictate the words of fealty. The mercenary captain did not interrupt. When the time came, he lifted his head at last. His piercing blue eyes swept across the court, taking in the assembled nobility with a sharp, assessing gaze. He exhaled softly, raising a hand to push back a few stray curls of golden hair from his forehead. The court was watching, waiting for his words. He shifted slightly, feeling the weight of their scrutiny, yet unmoved by it. His gaze flickered back to the throne, where the prince sat impassive, observing him in turn. A second later, another loose strand of blonde hair fell over his eyes. He brushed it aside once more, his lips curving into the faintest of smirks. He was now in the enemy¡¯s camp. Chapter 473: Drop of an hat Chapter 473: Drop of an hat Alpheo had seen the storm coming long before the first clouds darkened the horizon. While lesser men relied on scouts, diplomats, or spies, he understood the oldest truth of war: an army moves on its stomach. Grain, steel, and flesh were the gears of conquest, and no veil of secrecy could fully hide their grinding. So it had been laughably easy to trace the shape of his doom before the first blade was drawn. The contact both in Oizen and Herculia had pointed out what he suspected: there had been a great effort into preparing grain and gears for a campaign. The pattern unfolded before him like some tired play he¡¯d sat through too many times. Herculia would come from the west with their remnants of armies, all gleaming spears , arrogant nobility and a weakness that seeped from their very bones. Oizen would be a harder challenge, they came out of two years of peace, their swords would swarm up from the south like locusts, burning everything too small to garrison while cheeping away at the border towns Alpheo had defended and even expanded from the war of two years ago. And then there were the northern lords. Those starving jackals would descend such war onto his domain with their swords, the catalyst of such a storm. Alpheo would make sure they choked on their desperation. But knowing the enemy was only the first move. The true art of war was fought in ledgers, in whispers, in the slow, methodical theft of every advantage before the first sword ever left its sheath. His greatest victory had come without a single drop of blood spilled¡ªthe High Priest¡¯s silence. It had taken every ounce of persuasion and coin to sway the fat one , every carefully placed argument to cool the fires of holy wrath. But in the end, reason and shiny coins had triumphed over zeal. No condemnation meant no righteous war, no divine legitimacy . No righteous war meant the temples stayed neutral¡ªand without the gods¡¯ favor, his enemies were just ambitious men with very poor judgment. He had hoped¡ªfoolishly, perhaps¡ªthat this would be enough. That the conspirators would see the scales tipping, that their pet priest would lose his nerve, that they might finally realize they were digging their own graves. Yet they marched anyway. Maybe they had other allies. Maybe desperation had made them reckless. Or maybe they were simply too stupid to understand what they were carelessly bringing to the table, for even if they won, they would thoroughly be hated by each noble house , as theirs was the horn that called the armies that would burn their fields to ashes. Any last flicker of hope that war might still be avoided died the moment Alpheo laid eyes on the envoy striding through the grand doors of the throne hall. The chamber fell into silence¡ªthick, stifling, the kind that pressed against eardrums and stilled even the most restless of courtiers. They all knew. This was no ordinary audience. This was the prelude to ruin. At the far end of the hall, seated upon her throne, Princess Jasmine remained as poised as if carved from marble. The silver laurel resting against her dark hair caught the torchlight, a delicate crown above the golden embroidery of her royal attire. Her face revealed nothing¡ªno tension, no fear, not even curiosity. A ruler¡¯s mask, perfected. Alpheo, standing beside her in his own high-backed throne, did not share her stillness. His fingers tightened imperceptibly around the armrests, his gaze locked onto the approaching figure like a hawk sighting prey. The envoy moved with measured steps, each footfall ringing against the polished marble in a deliberate rhythm. He was a man past his prime, his face lined with the wear of years and the strain of countless sleepless nights bent over dispatches and ultimatums. The shadows beneath his eyes spoke of a man who understood the precariousness of his position¡ªas no one liked to be the envoy of a declaration of war. In the south, harming an envoy was sacrilege. In the north? Merely a matter of patience. Still the two were close enough for one to mistake one for the other. Yet the man carried himself with the unshakable bearing of a man sent by House Niketas, one of the most powerful names among the opposition. He reached the steps leading up to the thrones and halted, bowing deeply, the motion practiced and precise. "Your Highness." His voice was smooth, but beneath the polished tone lay something heavier¡ªthe weight of inevitability. "I come as an envoy of Lord Niketas, sent to deliver a petition to the noble Princess of Yarzat." A petition. The word alone nearly drew a derisive scoff from Alpheo. They all knew what this was. No lord sent a formal envoy with a mere petition unless the words written there were a final, veiled warning. The last courteous gesture before the gates of war swung open and the troops marched in. Jasmine did not respond immediately. Her fingers rested lightly on the arms of her throne, her expression as unreadable as still water. She let the silence stretch, let the weight of the moment settle over the hall like a suffocating cloak. As for Alpheo , he was already measuring the matter of how to strike. The envoy straightened with the slow precision of a duelist taking his mark, his chin lifting not in arrogance but with the grave certainty of a man bearing words that could set the princedom ablaze. "I bear a petition," he announced, the parchment trembling slightly in his grip - not from fear, but from the tension thrumming through his body. The wax seal caught the torchlight, its crimson hue like a fresh wound against the vellum. "Signed by lords who serve justice before peace, and men of the cloth who would see heresy cleansed rather than coddled. They beseech Your Grace, Princess of Yarzat, to excise the corruption poisoning your lands before it claims more pious souls." His gaze swept across the assembled nobility like a scythe through wheat, lingering just long enough on certain faces to suggest their silent complicity. "This corruption," he continued, his voice dropping into the register of a graveside eulogy, "showed its true nature when it struck down an anointed servant of the stars - not merely a murder, but a dagger plunged into the very heart of the faithful." The envoy paused, allowing the weight of his accusation to settle over the assembly like a burial shroud. When he spoke again, his tone softened into something almost pastoral, the cadence of a priest offering final rites. "Yet redemption¡¯s door remains ajar. These good men ask only for justice: that Your Grace withdraw protection from those who dwell in darkness. Grant them one final chance to kneel before truth¡¯s light. As for those who spurn salvation..." His fingers whitened around the parchment. "They must be torn out root and stem, lest their venom spread beyond curing." The ensuing silence was so absolute that the rustle of a courtier¡¯s sleeve sounded like thunder. Every eye in the chamber turned toward the throne, where shadows pooled like spilled ink around the princess¡¯s feet. Jasmine sat as motionless as the marble effigies lining the hall, her silver laurel glinting with each subtle breath. When she spoke, her voice held the sound of a sword being drawn from its scabbard. "The Ecclesiast High Priest has rendered his verdict." Each word fell with the finality of a headsman¡¯s axe. "The condemned stood convicted of arson, murder, and the destruction of Crown property. His execution was lawful - his premature death at vigilante hands was not." Her fingers flexed almost imperceptibly against the throne¡¯s arms. "You decry murder while defending those who usurped the Crown¡¯s justice. This matter is settled , as it had been long before your arrival ." For the first time, the envoy¡¯s composure flickered. A muscle jumped in his jaw as he recalibrated, his cloak swirling about him like storm clouds as he shifted stance. "Then consider the greater malady," he pressed, his voice regaining its steel. "Your leal vassals urges her grace to immediately consider that the savages she harbor¡ª" "¡¯Urges¡¯ me?" Jasmine interrupted, the slightest arch of her brow transforming the single word into a challenge that seemed to reverberate off the stone walls. At her side, Alpheo felt the ghost of a smile tug at his lips despite himself. As in the end, it appeared she was her father¡¯s daughter in some parts. ¡¯¡¯I apologize, your grace , a slip of the tongue,¡¯¡¯ the envoy said with a small bow in apology. Jasmine inclined her head ever so slightly, her expression never betraying more than measured politeness as she made no move to say whetever it was accepted or not. "The Crown shall take this petition into account and carefully review it before rendering a decision," she declared, her voice smooth, deliberate. "As soon as a judgment is reached, you will be informed." The envoy gave a slow nod, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes, perhapse relief at keeping the head on his shoulder, but instead, it was probably recognition of a game being played. Yet, with the formalities upheld, he had no grounds to press further. Alpheo, standing at her side, knew full well that the decision had already been made. There was nothing to consider, no debate to be had. But in war, time was as valuable as steel, and wasting it¡ªdragging on negotiations, delaying responses, ensuring the enemy was left waiting¡ªwas the most viable tool they had to finish their final preparations. And so, he watched in quiet approval as Jasmine played her part flawlessly, granting nothing, yielding nothing, and yet offering just enough to keep their enemies waiting for the fire that he would bring them. Chapter 474: War Plan(1) Chapter 474: War Plan(1) The chamber was utterly silent¡ªnot the quiet of contemplation, but the thick, smothering hush of a tomb. A strange observation, given the figures seated around the long oak table, their faces carved into sharp relief by the flickering candlelight. The air itself seemed to curdle with unspoken tension, the kind that pressed against eardrums and turned breath shallow. Even the flames seemed hesitant to dance too boldly, as if afraid to disturb what was being laid bare. Jasmine¡¯s fingers drummed a slow, measured rhythm against the polished wood, the only movement in the stillness. Her silver laurel glinted as she turned toward Alpheo, the question in her eyes as sharp as a blade¡¯s edge. "Are you sure?" Her voice was controlled, but beneath it thrummed something taut¡ªsomething between hope and dread, the last fragile thread before the fall. Alpheo didn¡¯t flinch. "I am positive." His voice was iron, unyielding. "My contacts in Herculia and Oizen report the same: granaries stuffed to bursting, armories overflowing, roads choked with supply trains. They aren¡¯t just preparing for war¡ªthey¡¯re preparing to drown us in it." A beat. Then, with deliberate weight: "They will march." The silence that followed was suffocating. Shahab shifted, his arms crossed, his expression as inscrutable as a fortress wall. When he spoke, his voice was low, methodical¡ªthe tone of a man dissecting a corpse for hidden wounds. "And we cannot ignore the rebels." Alpheo exhaled through his nose, a sound like a whetstone dragging along steel. "No. We cannot." He spread his hands flat on the table. "Herculia from the west. Oizen from the south. The northern lords gnashing at our flanks. A three-front war." The words landed like stones in still water, rippling through the room. They had all known, of course¡ªhad seen the signs, had felt the storm gathering in their bones. But to hear it spoken aloud, to have the shape of their doom laid so plainly before them¡ªthat was different. That made it real. Jasmine¡¯s fingers stilled. She looked at Alpheo, her gaze unflinching. "Then what do we do?" No hesitation. No waver. His answer was a hammer striking anvil: "We fight them.The very thing I am more apt at " A pause. Then, softer but no less certain: "And we prepare with what we know." A bitter laugh cut through the tension¡ªdry, humorless. "That¡¯s it? That¡¯s the grand plan?" Shahab asked Alpheo turned his head just enough to pin the man with a look that could have flayed flesh from bone. "Do you have a better one?" Silence. The lord¡¯s mouth snapped shut. Jasmine exhaled slowly, her fingers interlacing as she leaned forward, the silver threads in her sleeves catching the candlelight. "There may yet be another path," she began, her voice measured but insistent. "Herculia came out bleeding from last war. If we offered some concessions along the borderlands¡ªthey might be persuaded to rescind their attack." Alpheo¡¯s response came like a gate slamming shut. "No." The single word hung heavy in the air before he continued, his voice rough as grinding stone. "Every concession we make becomes a foothold for their next demand. Give them some sword today, and tomorrow they¡¯ll want the forges. By summer¡¯s end, we¡¯d be negotiating which of our lord to send as hostages." A muscle twitched in Jasmine¡¯s jaw as she held his gaze. "Oizen has ammased its armies ," she countered. "The northern rebels grow bolder by the day. If we can remove even one threat from the board¡ª" "¡ªwe¡¯d be cutting off a hand to treat a wound that needs cauterizing," Alpheo interrupted, his palm coming down on the table with quiet finality. "Herculia won¡¯t make peace. They¡¯ll take whatever we offer, catch their breath, and stab us the moment Oizen¡¯s vanguard appears on the horizon." He leaned back, the shadows deepening the hollows of his face. "We fight with what we have, not what we wish we had." The silence that followed was broken by Shahab¡¯s dry cough. The strategist unfolded his arms, the lamplight glinting off the silver rings he wore "There remains the Imperial option," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "The Romelians have the resources to aid us. A word from our ambassador and Romelian troops could be marching south within the fortnight." Jasmine¡¯s eyes brightened with sudden possibility. "The trade agreements alone would give them reason to intervene," she said quickly. "Not to mention their vested interest in¡ª" "Madness." Alpheo¡¯s voice cut through the chamber like a winter wind. "Invite the Empire into our lands, and we¡¯ll need another war to remove them." His fingers traced the carved lion¡¯s head at the table¡¯s edge, a habitual gesture when weighing terrible choices. "Do you know what the Romelians call ¡¯military aid¡¯? An investment. One they collect with interest in territory and tribute." Shahab raised an eyebrow. "Better a temporary friend in one¡¯s home than an unleaving enemy" Alpheo¡¯s laugh was bitter as wormwood. "There¡¯s nothing temporary about imperial ¡¯assistance¡¯. First they¡¯ll see our situation. Then they¡¯ll ¡¯suggest¡¯ advisors for your treasury and demand the production of either soap or cider for the help, after all better to give up one of the two , than lose both, Right? Before you know it, we will half of our income disappear and hundreds of Romelian serving as a garrison in our capital." His gaze locked onto Jasmine¡¯s. "Today we ask for their help? In twenty summers we will be called the souther province." Jasmine¡¯s fingers tightened around the armrests of her chair. "Then what would you have us do? Fight on three fronts with no allies?" Alpheo pushed back from the table, the legs of his chair scraping against stone. "We fight smarter." He moved to the war map pinned along the far wall, his shadow swallowing whole provinces as he traced supply routes with a calloused finger. "Our position is not as dire as you all think it is, the enemy is not unified but is divided on a three different and unlinkable front¡¯¡¯ Turning back to the council, his expression hardened. "I¡¯ll request grain shipments from the Empire. Weapons. Even gold if they¡¯re feeling generous. But not one imperial boot steps across our border unless it¡¯s over my corpse." Shahab studied the map like a gambler eyeing his last roll of dice, while Jasmine¡¯s gaze sank to her folded hands, as if they held the weight of every unsaid word between them. She exhaled¡ªslow, deliberate¡ªher silver laurel glinting like a blade in the candlelight as she straightened. Her eyes swept the chamber, sharp as a hawk¡¯s, before locking onto Alpheo with a look that could¡¯ve carved stone. "We aren¡¯t facing one enemy," she said, her voice a tempered steel. "Not two. Three. Three forces, Alpheo. That means precautions aren¡¯t just wise¡ªthey¡¯re survival. And survival demands sacrifice." Alpheo¡¯s lips parted, but she rode over him like a tide. "You refuse the Empire¡¯s aid. You won¡¯t even entertain talks with Herculia¡ª" "Because both are poison wrapped in pretty promises" Alpheo¡¯s voice slashed through the air. "Jasmine, open your eyes. If the Empire marches south, their ¡¯help¡¯ comes with chains. And Herculia? Their idea of peace is us kneeling with a dagger at our backs while robbing us of what we have gained from them ! You call it negotiation¡ªI call it suicide." Jasmine¡¯s fingers tightened, but her voice remained ice. "And I call your defiance arrogance. This isn¡¯t last summer¡¯s war, where you outmaneuvered two-to-one odds. This time, it¡¯s three blades for every one of ours. We. Are. Surrounded. Or do you truly believe your strategies alone can defy the impossible?" "I cannot just what?" Alpheo asked , his boots striking the floor like a gauntlet thrown. "He who dares already has accomplished half the deed, a has achieved a thousand more than he who is plagued by hesitation. You¡¯re asking me to trade our future for fleeting safety. Let the Empire in, and we¡¯ll be their puppets by winter. Bow to Herculia, and we might as well hand them the keys to our treasury while we¡¯re at it!" Jasmine¡¯s knuckles whitened. "And if we stand rigid? If we charge ahead with nothing but swords and pride? Tell me, Alpheo¡ªwhat happens when the last arrow is spent?" He dragged a hand through his hair, frustration sparking like flint. "We have supplies. We¡¯re securing more. We can hold¡ª" "At what cost?" Her voice lashed out, low and searing. "You¡¯ll gamble so much in a game of dice, because the thought of concession burns your pride more than defeat ever could." At the accusation something in Alpheo shattered. His jaw clenched like a vice, teeth grinding hard enough to spark. "ENOUGH!" For a moment, the room was utterly still - not the quiet of peace, but the terrible stillness of a drawn bowstring trembling at its limit before release. The silence that followed Alpheo¡¯s outburst thickened like clotting blood, pressing down on every soul present until breathing itself felt like defiance. The candles guttered as if even their light feared to disturb the equilibrium of the moment. His oldest company knew that tone like they knew the taste of their own fear. They¡¯d heard it before, that dangerous undercurrent beneath his normally easy manner, like finding a razor¡¯s edge beneath velvet. Not one of them so much as shifted their weight. They¡¯d stood beside him long , they had seen how his face looked when the mask slipped . There was nothing that burned in Alpheo hotter than being second-guessed, no quicker way to wake the sleeping wolf than to imply he might not have considered every angle. And so they did what battle-hardened veterans do when they sense the ground is about to explode beneath them - they became statues. Across the war table, Jasmine and Shahab sat frozen in their chairs, the comfortable familiarity of council chambers suddenly feeling like the slick marble of a executioner¡¯s platform. The weight of their miscalculation pressed down on them with physical force. They¡¯d almost forgotten. Forgotten that behind the quick smiles and easier laughter stood the man who had crossed the blood-slick stones of Yarzat¡¯s throne room without breaking stride, who had driven his blade through the last prince¡¯s elaborate armor like it was parchment, then calmly wiped his sword clean on the royal banners before turning to address his daughter after taking her capital as if discussing the weather. The same man who, still smelling of smoke and iron, had walked into their own capital and rearranged the world with nothing but his will and a dagger at the right throat. The truth settled over them like winter¡¯s first frost: Alpheo did not negotiate with reality - he reshaped it. With a jest if possible, with steel when necessary. With words first, with wounds last. The world bent. Prince broke. And Alpheo... Alpheo kept walking forward. Jasmine¡¯s fingers curled slightly on the armrest of her chair, the only outward sign of the storm raging behind her composed features. Shahab drew a slow breath through his nose, the kind of breath a man takes before stepping off a cliff, but wisely kept his silence. This was not the Alpheo who traded bawdy jokes. This was the Alpheo who carved paths through impossible odds, who treated fate as a suggestion rather than a law, the strategist who looked at a losing battle and saw only pieces that hadn¡¯t been moved to their proper places yet. And in that crystalline moment of understanding, the final piece clicked into place with terrible clarity: Their agreement was irrelevant. Their objections were academic. The decision had been made the instant Alpheo recognized the shape of the game, and now they were merely witnesses to the unfolding of his will. True power had always rested in those deceptively relaxed hands, and they were only now remembering how heavy that truth could be. Chapter 475: War plan(2) Chapter 475: War plan(2) Alpheo¡¯s breath came in ragged gusts, his broad chest heaving as if he¡¯d just run through a battlefield rather than stood in a council chamber. When he spoke, his voice was a blade dragged across stone¡ªlow, grating, and honed to a killing edge. "I bled for this." He started "for all of this " His gaze¡ªdark as a starless night, burning like siege fire¡ªswept across the room, challenging every soul present to contradict him. None dared. "I¡¯ve dug graves in ditches foaming with shit and rotting men. Taken the lash until my back was a map of scars. Every soldier who let this crown prance in victory¡¯s sunlight? I dragged them from the pyre they were meant to burn on. Gave them the chance to have graves instead of ashes." His voice surged now, raw as a gut wound, every syllable dripping with the filth of a hundred battlefields. "And now, after crawling from the dark on hands and knees¡ªyou ask me to kneel? To hand over what I carved out with my teeth?" A muscle jumped in his clenched jaw. His breath hissed through his teeth. "You want me to grovel at Herculia¡¯s feet? To let the Empire plant its banner in our soil like we¡¯re some backwater province begging for protection?" A laugh tore from his throat¡ªhollow, vicious, the sound a dying man might make with a knife at his throat. "No. I¡¯ll see this place drown in fire before I hand one inch of what I¡¯ve earned to those vultures." He spat on the flagstones, the wet crack of it echoing like a gunshot in the silent chamber. "They¡¯re not lions. They¡¯re not even wolves. They¡¯re fucking crows, circling what they think is a corpse." His burning stare locked onto Jasmine, then Shahab, then each council member in turn, branding them with his conviction. "But I am still breathing. And I do not fear carrion-eaters." He took one deliberate step forward, his presence rolling over them like a stormfront. "They think numbers win wars?" His lips peeled back, teeth bared like a war-dog¡¯s. "Let them come. Let their banners blot out the sun, they¡¯ll burn. I¡¯ll pile their corpses so high, their own mothers won¡¯t recognize the rot. Aracina taught them. The Bleeding Plains taught them. Every gods-damned field where ¡¯invincible¡¯ armies learned the price of crossing me.And yet the only lesson they learnt was that they were not fight alone against me" His chest rose and fell like a bellows, his pulse a war-drum in his temples. But his voice never shook. "I will not bow. I will not bargain. And I will not¡ª" His gaze seared into Jasmine¡¯s, the words a vow etched in steel, "¡ªlet one fucking concession undo everything we¡¯ve paid for in blood." Slowly, deliberately, his fingers unclenched. The fire in his eyes did not dim. "So unless someone has a plan that doesn¡¯t reek of surrender?" No one stirred. He bared his teeth. "Then this? This is just another wall." His fingers twitched¡ªthe phantom weight of a sword already in his grip. "And I know how to handle walls." Another step. The room trembled, breathless as a hanged man¡¯s last gasp. "I break them." His composure cracked then, fury spilling through like blood from a fresh wound. "And when they rebuild? I¡¯ll shatter those too. Again and again and again, until they learn that no matter what they do the result won¡¯t change!" His voice rose to a roar, shaking the very stones beneath their feet,. His breath came fast now, his body coiled like a spring, every muscle taut with the need to move, to fight. "You want me to kneel?" The word tore from his throat like something vile. "To that backstabbing worm who mocked me at my own wedding? To that spineless coward that can only attack when others push his back while prattling on and on about a perceived slander like a broken flute? To those bloated leeches that aren¡¯t satisfied with what they have?" A laugh¡ªhollow, deranged¡ªripped from his chest. "I¡¯d rather have been come out stillborn from my mother womb. At least then I wouldn¡¯t have to live in a world where snakes like them think they deserve my surrender." Shahab turned his face away, as if suddenly remembering the acts that the men in front of him accomplished . Jasmine meanwhile had gone utterly still. Only the faint tremor in her fingers betrayed her, gripping the throne¡¯s arms like she was bracing for impact. Alpheo leaned forward, palms slamming onto the table. The wood groaned in protest. Then¡ª CRACK. His fist came down like a warhammer on the table. In the ringing silence that followed, Alpheo lifted his head. "We do not kneel." The words were final, absolute. "We do not beg." His voice was ice, sharp enough to flay flesh from bone. "We fight. We break them. And we paint the earth red until the only thing left trembling¡ª" He bared his teeth "¡ªis their memory of us." After a long, suffocating silence, Alpheo exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair before sinking into his chair. The fire in his eyes had not dimmed, but the storm within him had momentarily settled. He lowered his shoulders, forcing the tension from his muscles, his breath evening out. His gaze flicked over the others¡ªJasmine, Shahab, the council¡ªeach still frozen in the wake of his outburst. The weight of it lingered in the air, heavy and unshaken. He let it sit a little longer, let them feel it. Then, at last, he spoke, his tone measured, composed. "I lost my temper," he admitted, his voice quieter now, restrained but no less sharp. He exhaled through his nose, pinching the bridge of it before shaking his head. "That was... unseemly of me." His fingers drummed idly against the armrest, his usual smirk flickering back like embers catching wind. "Frustration aside, our situation is not as dire as it seems." He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the splintered table, gesturing loosely. "The prince of Herculia?" He scoffed. "He¡¯s about as dangerous as a caterpillar in the rain . Ambition doesn¡¯t win wars¡ªstrategy does. And he has none. He might fancy himself a conqueror, but the truth is, his only real option is to sit on his ass and hope he can starve some border castles out." His smirk widened, all teeth. "And hope alone does not win sieges." He let the words settle before shifting his focus. "As for the prince of Oizen¡ª" he tapped a finger against the battered table, each knock punctuating his words, "¡ªhe cannot even think of marching on the capital until he takes Aracina first. And that," he said, his voice gaining a razor¡¯s edge, "buys us all the time we need to deal with the rebels." His gaze flicked to Jasmine, unwavering. "We fortify it. Make it a bleeding wound in their advance. Let them crash against its walls, let them exhaust themselves trying to break it. We stretch them thin, force them to throw bodies into the fire until they have nothing left but ash." The room had shifted now¡ªthe weight of his anger had become something else entirely. No longer wild and unchained, but sharpened into something precise. A weapon. "We are not fighting three enemies at once," he continued, voice smooth and certain now. "This is not three against one." He sat back again, fingers drumming rhythmically, his smirk deepening. "This is one against one against one." His eyes gleamed like a gambler who already knew the outcome of the game. "And that," he murmured, "is a much easier battlefield to play on." He traced a slow circle against the armrest with his thumb, watching as the tension in the room shifted. The weight of panic was lifting, replaced by something far more useful¡ªcalculation. "They cannot merge their forces. They are too far, too divided, too suspicious of one another. Each of them is looking over his own war. And that means," his smirk turned sharp, "all we have to do is pick them off. One by one." He glanced at Jasmine and Shahab, watching as realization dawned in their eyes. "One at a time," he reiterated, leaning forward just slightly, "until there¡¯s no one left to march against us." As he said so Alpheo turned his gaze toward Asag, his sharp eyes locking onto tman with the weight of expectation. "You will take the Third Corps and sail for Aracina," he declared, his fingers tapping lightly against the table. "Once there, you will recruit reinforcements from the city and fortify it. Hold it. Keep them at bay." He paused, letting the words settle before continuing. "Meanwhile, we will deal with the rebels here. Quickly. Once that¡¯s done, we will come to reinforce Aracina and put an end to the Oizenian prince before he can take a single step toward the capital." He leaned back slightly, his expression calculating. "At that point, we will turn our full attention to Herculia. By then, they will be alone, and without their allies propping them up, they will fall like rotten fruit." He studied Asag carefully, his gaze weighing the man¡¯s resolve. "Do you think you can do it?" Asag did not hesitate. He placed a firm hand on the table, straightened his shoulders, and met Alpheo¡¯s gaze with a confidence that bordered on defiance. "Just give the order." A slow grin tugged at the corner of Alpheo¡¯s lips. He exhaled through his nose, nodding once. "Exactly what I hoped to hear." After that he turned his gaze around the room, his sharp eyes locking onto each person present. His voice, steady yet filled with an undeniable fire, carried through the chamber with the weight of conviction. "Just as we have done every time before," he said, his tone unwavering, "we will come out of this victorious." His fingers drummed against the table for a brief moment before he spread his arms slightly, as if embracing the challenge ahead. "I know the odds look grim. I know what we face. But I have fought battles that should have crushed us . We have stood against situations that should have ended us. And yet, every single time, we walked away the victors." His gaze moved from face to face¡ªShahab, Jasmine, Asag, and the others. Some looked tense, others wary, but they all listened. "All we need to do is what we have always done: trust in each other. Trust in me, as you have before. Give me that, and I will deliver results once again." There was no false bravado in his voice. No empty reassurance. Just cold, unshakable certainty. Because that was the kind of man Alpheo was. Chapter 476: Forgiveness Chapter 476: Forgiveness A week had passed since the court had given its answer¡ªa firm, unyielding refusal. The moment the envoy rode from the capital, the lines were drawn, and civil war was no longer a distant specter but an undeniable reality. The nobles had received their reply, and with it, the sword had been unsheathed. There would be no more negotiations, no more veiled threats. The time for words had ended. Now, only blood and steel would decide the victor. Alpheo, ever the pragmatist, had not wasted a single moment. The enemy would not wait, and neither would he. He moved swiftly, calling his forces to assemble before the capital¡¯s gates. By the end of the week, his standing army had arrived, swelling with two hundred eager recruits¡ªyoung men from the city streets, driven by duty, desperation, or the simple thrill of battle. What mattered however was the fire in their eyes. More importantly, though, many of these men were no strangers to war. They had fought in last year¡¯s Herculian campaign,carving their way to victory. Meanwhile, Asag had already begun his march south, leading a disciplined column toward Aracina. With him traveled his corpse of two hundred halberdiers. Of course, Alpheo knew that two hundred would not be enough, so he had given him a royal decree allowing him to gather more men¡ªanother two hundred fresh recruits from the Crownlands, swelling his ranks with every village passed. His orders were simple: hold Aracina at all costs. The city was their shield, their bulwark against the Oizen prince¡¯s ambitions. If it fell, the road to the capital would lie wide open. But if it held? The enemy would be forced to hurl itself against its walls, bleeding itself dry before even daring to look beyond them. The war had begun in earnest, and there was no turning back. Every piece was in motion, every decision a step closer to victory¡ªor ruin. Now, it was only a matter of who would shatter first. The night before Asag¡¯s departure, Alpheo and his closest companions gathered for one final feast¡ªa tradition of sorts, a last moment of camaraderie before duty tore them apart once more. The great hall was alive with the warmth of firelight, the scent of spiced meats thick in the air. The long table groaned under the weight of a lavish spread¡ªroasted venison glazed with honey, fresh loaves still warm from the ovens . Dark, spiced wine along with cider flowed freely, staining lips and loosening tongues. Laughter rang against the stone walls, loud and boisterous, but beneath the revelry lurked the unspoken truth: this was a farewell, and none could say who among them would return to sit at this table again. At the height of the feast, Asag stood abruptly, raising his cup high. The flickering candlelight cast jagged shadows across his weathered face, but his eyes burned bright with conviction. "I swear before you all," he declared, his deep voice cutting through the merriment, "the Oizenian banner will never fly atop Aracina so long as I draw breath!" A resounding cheer followed, fists slamming against the table, cups clashing together in a symphony of iron and wine. For a moment, fire and certainty filled the hall, a shared belief in their strength, in their defiance. But Alpheo did not lift his cup so quickly. He wanted to believe it¡ªto take Asag¡¯s oath as ironclad¡ªbut the weight of the task he had given his old companion pressed heavy on his mind. Holding Aracina was not impossible, but it was damn close. The prince of Oizen was not a man to be easily deterred. His army would be larger, and he would have the patience to grind Aracina down, to bleed it dry. And yet, that was why Alpheo had chosen Asag. Jasmine had suggested knights for the role¡ªseasoned commanders, men of noble birth¡ªbut Alpheo had dismissed them outright. A nobleman would hold the city, yes, but only until the walls began to crack, until the first breach sent cold fear slithering down his spine. Then he would sue for terms. Seek mercy. Asag would not. He would fight until the streets ran red. Until the last stone fell. Until there was nothing left but corpses and ruin. That was the kind of man Aracina needed. And that was the kind of man Alpheo was sending into the fire. There was a weight to the air, thick with wine and unspoken fears. The war was no longer something distant¡ªit had arrived, and this was their last moment of peace before it swallowed them whole. Tomorrow, Asag would ride south. And the game would truly begin. While Alpheo had little things to celebrate , he could not deny the satisfaction that came with hearing the first results of his efforts to integrate the Voghondai into the realm. Reports had arrived from his men that aided in such integration that showed a very positive picture . Six hundred and fifty warriors had been raised¡ªfierce, battle-ready men, their morale high and thirst for blood high, if the words that came from his men were to be taken ture. These were not soldiers conscripted out of duty or mercenaries bound by coin; they were men fighting for their own land, their own right to remain on the land they were given,so they were dirty cheap to mantain. They understood better than anyone that they were the reason for this war¡ªthe reason for which the nobles had raised their banners in the first place. And they would be damned before they let those bastards take from them what was theirs. Torghan, ever the clever tactician, had ensured that this sentiment took deep root. The young warrior had spoken to his people in their own tongue, reminding them that Alpheo was the ruler who would fight to protect their claims, the only one who had defied noble pressures and temple condemnations on their behalf. The Voghondai were not fools and knew very well what was the event that delivered such a situation That message spread like wildfire, and with it, so did his name. The irony was not lost on him. While the nobles of Yarzat whispered behind his back, while priests cursed his name in sermons, here, among the so-called savages, his name had become a banner of pride. And when the time came, they would fight with the fury of men who had everything to lose. Regarding the troops promised by the other nobles, Alpheo had given them a strict deadline¡ªtwo weeks¡ªto assemble at the city of Florioum. Once the Voghondai warriors reached the capital and reinforced his standing forces, he would personally lead his army there, bringing the full might of his gathered host to bear. While the main force consolidated, one among the nobility had been given a different set of orders. Lord Xanthios of Bracum had not been instructed to send troops to the war effort. Instead, he was tasked with a more insidious role¡ªensuring that no enemy force crossed the border unopposed. It was not a task of glorious battles or pitched warfare. No, Xanthios¡¯ job was to harass, delay, and frustrate. He would not meet the enemy in open field; rather, he would use his riders and light infantry to strike at supply lines and ambush foragers. Every delay he inflicted, every headache he caused, was another precious hour for Alpheo¡¯s forces to consolidate. A minimum resistance had to be present on every front¡ªjust enough to slow the enemy without wasting forces that could be better used elsewhere. For now, Alpheo had no choice but to wait. War, for all its moments of decisive action, was a game of preparation, of patience, of ensuring that when the sword was drawn, it was done so at the right time and with the right force. His new recruits from the capital required training, driving them through formations, ensuring their spears did not shake in their hands, that their shields did not dip when braced against a charge. Yet, drilling recruits was not the only matter demanding his attention. There were other decisions to be made, and among them was one that many in the court whispered about¡ªthe fate of Captain Haldrak. Some called the man a failure. Others an unfortunate scapegoat. And some, those with bitter tongues and resentful eyes, called him the very reason they now stood on the brink of war. Haldrak, the commander of the garrison at Voghondai, the settlement at the heart of this crisis. It was under his watch that the riot had spiraled out of control turning into a bloodbath. The priest had died not by his hand, but because he had failed to act quickly enough to stop the chaos before it reached its breaking point. His men had fought, yes, but by the time they did, it was too late. The damage had been done. And now, his judgment loomed like a storm cloud, a decision that could not be ignored. Alpheo sat in thought, fingers tapping against the armrest of his chair. What was to be done with him? Captain Haldrak kept his head low, his hands clenched into fists against his knees. He did not tremble, nor did he speak out of turn. He simply waited¡ªfor punishment, probably death. Standing to the side was Jarza, the veteran general had been the one to recommend Haldrak for the position at Voghondai, and now that very recommendation had turned into a burden that he too had to bear. Responsibility did not rest on Haldrak¡¯s shoulders alone¡ªJarza had chosen him, and Alpheo had agreed. That made this judgment trickier after all he also had to take into account the two familiarities, as after all there were only six sub-centurii serving under the general. Alpheo let the silence stretch The truth was, Haldrak was not entirely to blame. A single commander with one hundred men could not have possibly hoped to contain a riot of nearly a thousand furious tribesmen. Events had unfolded too quickly¡ªa spark that became a blaze before anyone could douse it. To say that Haldrak had failed in his duty was not untrue, but it was not the whole truth either. Still, Alpheo could not let this pass without consequence. No ruler could afford to set the precedent that failure¡ªeven one borne from impossible circumstances¡ªcame without cost. Discipline had to be upheld. He leaned forward, his voice firm but calm as he spoke. "Sub-Centurio Haldrak," he began, his tone leaving no room for interpretation, "for your failure to suppress the riot in time , you shall have your pay frozen for the next four months. Furthermore, for the remainder of this war, you shall serve on the front lines." Alpheo¡¯s gaze did not waver as he continued. "I will not be the one to decide the extent of your fault. The gods shall do that. If you survive every battle, you will be reinstated to your position. If you do not..." He let the words hang in the air, the meaning clear. "Then the gods will have made their judgment." For a moment, there was only silence. This this was an incredibly light sentence. A man in Haldrak¡¯s position¡ªa garrison commander whose failure had contributed to the war¡¯s ignition¡ªcould have easily lost his head. At the very least, exile was expected. But this? This was mercy. And Haldrak knew it. Slowly, he lifted his head. His eyes, wide and almost fanatical, locked onto Alpheo¡¯s with something that resembled devotion. He had walked into this tent expecting a blade against his throat, expecting his name to be struck from the records of honor of the first corpse¡ªbut instead, he had been given a chance. A trial by battle. "Thank you, your grace" Haldrak said, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for your mercy." Alpheo held his gaze for a moment longer before exhaling sharply and waving a hand. "Go," he said simply. "And do not make me regret this decision." Haldrak bowed deeply¡ªa bow lower than one of simple respect, almost of worship¡ªbefore he rose to his feet and strode out of the tent. The silence lingered even after he was gone. Alpheo leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking toward Jarza, who had said nothing through it all. The veteran general met his gaze but merely nodded. There was no need for words, he was thanking him for the mercy. Chapter 477: War planning Chapter 477: War planning Inside the dimly lit war tent, the air was thick with unease. The gathered lords sat around a heavy wooden table, their faces lined with tension, their hands either clenched into fists or drumming anxiously against their scabbards. None of them had ever imagined that their actions would bring them here¡ªthat what had begun as political maneuvering, backroom dealings, and whispered grievances would spiral into full-fledged civil war. But it had. And now, they had no choice but to see it through. At the far end of the tent, standing with an unsettling calmness, was the priest. The very man whose presence had ignited the flames of conflict. Draped in simple but pristine robes, his expression was composed, his hands clasped together in what might have seemed like reverence to an outsider. But the men around the table knew better. He was not here to pray¡ªhe was here to ensure that the war he had helped start would reach its inevitable conclusion. The lords glared at him, resentment clear in their eyes. He had been the match that set off the fire, the whispering voice that turned discontent into outright defiance. And yet, he stood among them without a single sign of guilt. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, until Niketas, seated at the center of the table, exhaled sharply. He ran a hand through his dark hair, eyes narrowing as he realized that this stalemate was getting them nowhere. "It seems," Niketas finally said, his tone clipped, "that you have been in many discussions with foreign envoys. Much of it to our back. A faint, unreadable smile touched Elyos¡¯ lips, but he said nothing. Across the table, one of the lords shifted, exhaling sharply through his nose. The silence stretched long enough that Niketas had to fight down his irritation. His fingers tapped once against the table before he spoke again. "Did they give you a date?" His voice was measured, but his eyes were sharp as he studied Elyos. "A date for when they will march against the prince with their armies?" None of them had been so foolish as to believe this war would be easy. But standing in open defiance against the war prince? That was suicide if they were to move alone They were not nai?ve men. They had spent years maneuvering, scheming, and playing the great game of power, yet none of them could claim the sheer experience that Alpheo had in matters of war. While they had spent their years hosting feasts and settling disputes over land and titles, he had been wading through battlefields, turning wars into his trade. In two years, he had seen more battles than most lords would in generations. And now they had made themselves his enemies. It was no wonder that a heavy, suffocating unease hung over the war council. Elyos, of course, remained unbothered, as he did not have the same knowledge about the prince as his allies had. His serene gaze moved between them as if he were above such mortal concerns, untouched by the fear gnawing at the lords¡¯ minds. He stood with his hands clasped in front of him, ever the picture of patience. "The Prince of Herculia has given his word that he will march in three weeks," Elyos finally said, his voice smooth and unhurried. "The Prince of Oizen, two." For a brief, collective moment, the tension in the room was released. It wasn¡¯t much¡ªonly a few breaths let out, only a few shoulders no longer quite so tight¡ªbut it was something. At least they wouldn¡¯t be left alone to face the full might of the royal army for too long. The fear would remain, of course. None of them were foolish enough to underestimate the boy. But for now, they had been given a flicker of reassurance, however small it might be. The lords knew what needed to be done. Their hands had been forced, and now, with no turning back, all that remained was to plan their strategy for the coming month. The weight of that reality settled over them like an iron shroud. It was Lysandros who finally broke the silence "I believe we all understand how much of a blunder it would be to meet the Mud Prince in battle." He paused, letting his words sink in. "We have no reason to give it to him. The longer this war drags on, the better it is for us. The more time passes, the deeper the crown¡¯s strain will become." Niketas nodded, his expression grim. "If we were to suffer a major loss now, even with the two princes marching south, we would have already lost most of our leverage. The war would not be over, but we would be nothing more than a nuisance rather than a true threat.What we should do is instead evade battle and retreat whenever he advances, he will be forced to move either south or east, at which point we will spring and march south straight toward the capital after, of course, burning the savages lands and homes, which will inevitably create a crack between the crown and them " No one needed convincing, as it was a sound plan: retreat if the crown moved to them and advance once it did not. They all remembered, after all the achievements of their opponent. Above all, the Battle of the Bleeding Plains. It had been a massacre, nothing short of that. Alpheo had taken to the field with an army barely half the size of the force he faced, and yet by the time the sun had set, the prince of Herculia¡¯s forces had been shattered. It wasn¡¯t just a defeat¡ªit was utter destruction. His army had been crushed, and the war prince had taken vast swaths of Herculia¡¯s land as spoils. The memory of that battle haunted many of them. Not because they had fought in it,as they had not but because it had been the perfect demonstration of why facing Alpheo in open battle was a fool¡¯s gamble. That was the kind of enemy they faced now. And so, the unspoken agreement in the tent was clear. They would not give him the fight he wanted. They would play for time, bleed him out, and let the war grind the crown down until the burden became too much to bear. It was their best¡ªperhaps only¡ªchance at survival. The lords had no delusions of grandeur, after all. Conquering the capital was never their aim, nor did they have the strength for such a feat. They had taken up arms not to seize the throne but to force the war prince to the negotiating table, to make him yield to their demands. Chief among them was the disbandment of the White Army, the very force that had been the foundation of his relentless victories. Without it, his strength would be crippled. Then, there was the demand for the production secrets of cider and soap¡ªwealth beyond measure, something that would shift power from the crown to the nobility. And finally, of course, the banishment of the Voghondai, the excuse they had clung to when this revolt had begun. Among the gathered nobles, there was a silent understanding. They would not throw themselves into a reckless war. The battlefield was the boy¡¯s domain. The negotiating table¡ªthat was where they would force him to break. All agreed. All except for one. Elyos. The priest scoffed, shaking his head with a quiet, disapproving chuckle. "Cowards, the lot of you," he muttered, before his voice rose in strength and conviction. "Tell me, why do you need such concessions? The silver flowing from the temples will be enough to hire the strongest mercenaries in the land! And with the blessing of the gods, we shall prevail over this faithless man. He is weak, for he stands against the will of the divine!" A tense silence settled over the tent. Gregor¡¯s fingers twitched near the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white as he clenched his fist. He could barely restrain himself. His whole being itched to strike the man down where he stood, but he forced himself to breathe, forced himself to wait. Instead, he fixed Elyos with a glare as sharp as a drawn blade. "You are the reason this war even started," Gregor growled. His voice was low, simmering with restrained fury. "And the greatest achievement to your name is hunting down some famished bandits who barely had the strength to lift a blade." Elyos stiffened, but Gregor did not relent. "You speak as if you know what the prince consort is capable of," Gregor continued. "As if you understand war. But you do not. And you will not throw your opinion on matters you have no knowledge of." Elyos opened his mouth to argue, but Gregor was done humoring him. "If you wish to march, then march. March alone and perish alone. But do not expect us to throw everything away¡ªto gamble every ounce of leverage we have¡ªbecause some priest, who should be praying, thinks himself a commander. After we receive news of your death, we will carry on with our plan. And when the crown finally comes begging for peace, we will advance our interests¡¯¡¯ Elyos bristled. "The Princes of Oizen and¡ª" "¡ªWill not give a damn about a priest¡¯s death," Gregor interrupted coldly. "So long as we remain, so long as the rebellion persists as a thorn in the crown¡¯s side, they will march. You should know this. They don¡¯t give a shit about your holy war. They care only for one thing¡ªdefeating the man who stands in their way. You should know this the most among us , given that they tried to use you to force our hands..." For once, Elyos had no response. He could not march alone, and he knew it. He would not only lose the war¡ªhe would lose the only thing keeping the other lords from turning on him. For all his righteous fury, he was not indispensable. The moment his grand ambitions collapsed into dust, the noblemen around this table would strip him of everything. The temples¡¯ silver, his influence, his lands¡ªhe would be picked apart like a carcass surrounded by starving wolves. For the first time that night, the gathered lords allowed themselves to breathe. They had won against the eunuch. Not a battle of swords, but one of wills¡ªa victory, however small, over the ever-grating arrogance of the priest. Chapter 478: Among friends Chapter 478: Among friends I just never get used to it, the young chieftain of the Voghondai tribe thought as he made his way toward the royal tent, where the war prince awaited. Two days of marching had brought him and his warriors to the heart of the Royal Army¡¯s encampment, sprawled just outside the capital¡¯s walls. As his feet pressed against the dirt, his sharp eyes swept across the camp, taking in the disciplined figures clad in the white and black wool of the White Army. These soldiers¡ªAlpheo¡¯s chosen elite, his shields , his steel¡ªwere the only force permitted in the inner sanctum of the encampment, where their commander and his generals resided. It was not the first time the chieftain had witnessed the might of the army that had secured Alpheo¡¯s rule, nor the men who wielded it. Cold, impassive eyes peered out from behind steel helmets as the warriors of the White Army moved with quiet purpose. Their gazes flicked toward him, then drifted to the mass of Voghondai warriors marching at his back before returning to their duties. There was no curiosity, no hesitation¡ªonly unwavering focus. Despite the camp being on the verge of mobilization, the soldiers found ways to occupy the brief moments of respite before the march began. Some meticulously inspected their armor, running whetstones along the edges of their weapons. Others tended to the more mundane aspects of soldiering¡ªadjusting the straps on their leather canteens, tightening the bindings of their boots, or ensuring their packs were properly secured. A handful sat on crates and makeshift stools, finishing their meals with practiced efficiency. The chieftain¡¯s gaze lingered as he observed one soldier methodically using a slender stiletto as a crude fork for a piece of meat he must have bought with his money as a side snack. The soldier stabbed a thick strip of roasted meat, holding it steady as he cut a smaller piece with his dagger, before bringing it to his lips with a practiced ease. A small, subtle movement ensured the tip of the blade never nicked the inside of his cheek. It was a skill that most of them had mastered through trial and error. While the medics of the White Army had remedies for infection, a careless slip of the knife would still leave a man nursing a sore wound for days. As Torghan advanced toward the royal tent, the murmurs of the White Army soldiers filled the air, hushed yet sharp enough to carry. The young chieftain did not need to understand their language to recognize the tone¡ªdisdain, frustration, and a simmering resentment that lingered just beneath the surface. The warriors at his back, the men of the Voghondai, were no longer the scattered, lightly armed horsemen they had once been. Now, they moved like a proper force each man clad in chainmail that clinked softly with each step. They carried spears, axes, and round shields reinforced with iron rims, a force no longer resembling savages living in mountains but warriors ready to fight under the prince¡¯s banner. And yet, it was clear from the stares of the White Army that their presence was far from welcome. "All of this because some priest got himself killed in a riot. Hope it was fucking funny you bastards!" one soldier muttered bitterly to his companion, tightening the strap of his bracer. "Bloody fucking hell, If I am going to die for some fucking heretics ....I swear- " another scoffed. A third, older soldier spat onto the ground. "I was supposed to be done with this in July. Retired. Out. " He exhaled through his nose sharply. "Now? Now I¡¯m marching into gods-know-how-long of a fucking war, because some backwater savages and a priest decided they didn¡¯t like the other." "Should¡¯ve been dealt with quicker," another grumbled. "We should¡¯ve hung the bastards all of them or better yet burnt them. Would¡¯ve saved us all the trouble." The voices blended together, a chorus of resentment spoken in a tongue the Voghondai did not understand¡ªbut Torghan did not need to. He caught the sharp glances, the dismissive looks, the way some of the soldiers shook their heads or sneered in their direction. They were not being welcomed. And yet, neither he nor his warriors spoke back. They knew why this war was happening. They understood, perhaps better than anyone, that this massive force was gathering to fight for them. The crown was risking everything, marching thousands of men to war, because the Voghondai had been granted land¡ªand allowed to mantain their religion. And while the prince had declared them part of his realm, while Alpheo had given them a place under his rule, his soldiers had not been given the same choice. They fought for their prince, not for the tribesmen. Torghan¡¯s grip on his axe tightened, but he said nothing. The murmurs continued, but they would pass. At a certain point, a group of officers arrived, clad in the distinct black-and-white wool of the White Army and their red feathers atop their helmet , their steel-plated boots crunching against the dirt as they approached. Without a word at first, they motioned toward the Voghondai warriors, directing them toward a designated section of the sprawling camp. Torghan turned slightly, meeting the eyes of his men. They hesitated only briefly before following the instructions, their chainmail shifting with each step as they moved through the rows of foreign soldiers who continued to watch them like an unwelcome storm on the horizon. The murmurs had not ceased, but the tribesmen neither responded nor faltered. Torghan himself did not follow. Instead, two officers gestured for him to remain before they turned toward a separate path leading to the heart of the royal encampment. He would be taken to see the prince. At his side stood two translators¡ªone to translate from his Voghondai tongue to the Azanian speech , and another to carry those words into the softer cadences of the southern tongue spoken by these people. It was an imperfect chain of communication, but it would serve. Of course Torghan had made progress into learning this princedom¡¯s language, but obvioulsy it was no way near enough to even have a proper communication with a local. Soon Torghan was led to the prince without ceremony, the heavy fabric of the tent flaps falling shut behind him, muting the sounds of the camp outside. It had been nearly two months since he had last laid eyes on the prince or any of his close companions. Two months since that fateful meeting where words and promises had been exchanged¡ªpromises that had now brought him here, standing before the man he regarded as a friend Without hesitation, the chieftain bent his knee, bowing his head low in the traditional gesture of respect. His thick, calloused fingers pressed against the ground as he spoke in his heavily accented voice, rough yet firm. "I answer call," he said in a broken tone. A chuckle, quiet yet unmistakable, came from above him. A moment later, small but strong hands grasped his forearms, pulling him gently back to his feet. "You have made progress in learning our tongue," Alpheo remarked, his southern drawl softened by amusement. Torghan straightened, looking the prince in the eye. "Bit," he answered simply. Alpheo nodded in approval before clapping the chieftain on the back, the weight of it solid but not unkind. "Good. Then you will finally fight at my side and draw blood for the first time." The words were swiftly translated down the chain, passing from one tongue to the next until they reached Torghan¡¯s ears. His expression did not change, but his eyes glinted with something sharp, something fierce. He gave a firm nod, his rough voice carrying only two words. "Blood for prince." Alpheo¡¯s smile widened. Satisfied, he turned toward a tall figure standing silently by the entrance. "Vrosk, please accompany our friend to his tent.It¡¯s been nice to see you again, I hope you will find the next battles to your tastes" The head of the guards, clad in his polished armor, nodded in understanding before gesturing for the chieftain to follow. Torghan obeyed without question, though his gaze flickered briefly to the translator who remained behind. As he stepped out, the man began speaking in the southern tongue, saying things Torghan did not understand. As the tent flaps swayed in Torghan¡¯s wake, Alpheo¡¯s easy smile, the one he had worn when greeting the young chieftain faded as a quiet, thoughtful sound came out of his mouth. The words the court-appointed envoy had just spoken lingered in his mind¡ªhow the soldiers had murmured, whispered, and spat their distaste toward the tribesmen. How they resented this war, and those who caused it Alpheo exhaled sharply through his nose, pushing aside his irritation as he refocused. He glanced up at the man standing before him. "Thank you," he said simply, dismissing the envoy with a nod of appreciation. Then his gaze shifted toward Jarza, his ever-reliable general standing at attention. "Please make sure the tribesmen are kept as far away as possible from the rest of the army," Alpheo ordered. "I don¡¯t want unnecessary fights breaking out especially between armed-men." Jarza inclined his head, a knowing glint in his eye. "I will make sure of it." "Good." Alpheo leaned back in his chair as the general took his leave, the tent flaps rustling once more as Jarza stepped out to carry out his orders. For a long moment he sat in silence as his fingers drummed against the wood of his chair, his gaze distant. The last thing he needed was his men fighting each other instead of the enemy. He had enough problems without dealing with some petty infighting. A sigh escaped his lips, low and heavy with irritation. All of this. All of this because of some fucking polytheistic religion. Chapter 479: Linking up Chapter 479: Linking up The sun hung high in the sky, its golden rays cascading over the marching host like a silent herald of their journey. It was as if the heavens themselves acknowledged the advance of the 1,650 men that now made up the Royal Army¡ªan army raised without the aid of any noble banners, a force bound not by feudal ties but by the will of the crown itself. The earth trembled beneath the rhythmic pounding of 300 horses, their hooves striking against the hardened dirt road with unwavering purpose. Alongside them, 1,350 footmen marched ahead their boots shaking dust up. The clinking of chainmail, the creak of leather, and the occasional neigh of a restless steed blended together into a symphony of war¡ªa song that carried across the fields as they advanced toward Florium, the city where the noble levies would gather before merging with the royal host. Even in the face of looming catastrophe, with three separate forces moving against him like wolves circling a wounded beast, Alpheo could not help but feel a surge of pride. He sat atop his horse, feeling the power beneath him as he listened to the sheer might of his army pressing forward. For the first time, he truly understood why the nobles feared him. If he were in their position, he would fear the crown too. Two years ago, the royal banners could barely summon 400 men. A pitiful force, a mere formality against the might of the nobility, which most certainly aided in understanding just why the crown was so distant to the nobility with Jasmine¡¯s father. But now¡ªnow the crown alone marched with over a thousand and a half soldiers, armed, trained, and loyal. Yes, the nobles were right to fear him, as he was the one who held the biggest blade. Alpheo allowed himself a small, knowing smile as he gripped the reins of his steed. He had built this. And he was not about to let anyone take it from him. Jarza rode behind him, his sharp eyes catching the faint smile playing on Alpheo¡¯s lips. With a huff, he shook his head. "I truly don¡¯t get what there is to smile about," he muttered, his voice carrying just enough bite to show his frustration. Alpheo turned slightly in the saddle, meeting his old friend¡¯s gaze. The man looked tired, but then again, they all were. He studied Jarza for a moment before tilting his head, curiosity lacing his words. "And what is there not to smile about?" he asked. Jarza scoffed, his gloved fingers tightening on the reins. "Well, let¡¯s see," he started, his tone dry. "Perhaps the fact that we are at war. Or maybe the fact that we are outnumbered. Or just maybe¡ª" he leaned forward slightly, "¡ªit is the fact that every single one of our enemies is united in their desire to see you dead. No, I truly don¡¯t understand what there is to smile about, Alpheo." Alpheo exhaled through his nose, his amusement unshaken. He turned his gaze forward again, watching the endless stretch of marching men and rolling banners ahead of him. "Herculia barely has the strength to look under her own feet," he said at last. "The only real threats are the rebels and Oizen, and they are separated¡ªtoo far apart to aid each other, too divided to be anything more than two problems to solve, one after the other. They have no way to link up." He paused, glancing back at Jarza. "And that means we can fight them alone." Jarza grunted. "That doesn¡¯t mean it¡¯ll be easy." "Of course not. But that is not what I am smiling about." Alpheo¡¯s fingers drummed against the pommel of his saddle before he gestured toward the great host stretching across the land. "I am smiling because I just realized something," he continued. "I realized just how mighty of a force I have assembled. Alone." Jarza furrowed his brow, watching as his friend¡¯s eyes gleamed with something old, something that had carried them through fire and blood. "It wasn¡¯t three years ago," Alpheo said, his voice quieting just slightly, "that we were running across the sands of Arlania, our stomachs empty, our throats burning, constantly looking over our shoulders for a pursuing force that never came. We trudged forward, hungry, fearful... but still hopeful." He turned back to Jarza, his expression alight with something that was not quite joy, but not quite madness either. "Now look at us," he said, sweeping his arm across the vast column of soldiers. "We are lords. Rich lords. We lead men into battle, raise banners, burn some others." He let out a breath that might have been a laugh. "Tell me, Jarza¡ªdoes that not excite you?Doesn¡¯t it make your blood boil, this notion that since you achieved what others were freely given, it makes you better than the rest? And that now that we are fighting for our right to keep what we gave ourselves, do you truly understand how far we have gone?" Jarza held his gaze for a long moment before, despite himself, the corner of his mouth tugged into a small smile. "Perhaps," he admitted, ¡¯¡¯There is something to smile about...¡¯¡¯ --------------------------- As the sun continued its slow descent, casting long golden rays over the marching host, the city of Florioum finally came into view. Its pale stone walls, though not towering, stood firm against the horizon, while beyond them, the rooftops of houses and spires of temples peeked through like jagged teeth against the sky. The fields surrounding the city stretched wide, but it was not the city itself that first caught Alpheo¡¯s attention¡ªit was the banners. Fluttering proudly in the wind was the sigil of Lord Corvan, the ruler of Florioum¡ªa lily on a green field, catching the afternoon light as it rippled against the breeze. And beneath that banner, ahead of the assembled forces waiting outside the city walls, rode the lord himself. Alpheo recognized him immediately, though he had not seen the man in nearly two years, not since his marriage feast. Now, as he rode ahead of his retinue, flanked by armored knights bearing his colors, his posture was straight, his expression neutral, though his eyes flickered with something unreadable as he drew closer to the advancing royal standard. Alpheo shifted slightly in his saddle, adjusting his grip on the reins, watching as the lord and his men rode toward him, closing the distance with their steeds. As the two parties closed the distance, Lord Corvan brought his horse to a halt before the prince, his men following suit in perfect discipline. Without hesitation, the lord straightened in his saddle, then dipped his head in a respectful bow, his gloved hand resting lightly on his chest. "Your Highness," Corvan greeted formally, his voice even, his expression composed. "It is an honor to ride alongside you in this campaign. Florioum stands with the crown against these rebels, as is our duty." Alpheo gave him a measured look, his expression betraying nothing, though his thoughts strayed to last year campaign, where Corvan did not participate in. That time, he had not been so eager¡ªsending his nephew in his stead with barely eighty men, a token force meant to satisfy duty while keeping his true strength at home. Yet now, here he stood, leading his banners in person. Still, Alpheo knew better than to scorn the lords who had rallied to him. Making a fool of them, or casting doubt upon their devotion, would do him no favors. Instead, he offered a nod, his lips curving slightly into something that could almost be called a smile. "Your loyalty is well received, Lord Corvan," he replied. "And you shall have your share of glory, for there is much to be taken. Ride beneath the royal banner, and together we shall shatter their forces, breaking them upon the weight of our steel." His voice carried strength, and the men in both their entourages straightened at his words. Corvan, for his part, nodded in acknowledgment, his gaze lingering on the young war prince as if measuring him once more. Lord Corvan straightened in his saddle, his expression resolute as he spoke. "It is an honor to welcome the royal host, Your Highness, before we march to meet our enemy," he declared. His tone was steady, and practiced, but not without a trace of genuine conviction. "We have eagerly awaited your arrival, and as you may see, the banners of the other lords have already been raised within the city. Their hosts have made their way inside, setting up camp around Florioum¡¯s walls in preparation for the campaign ahead." Alpheo¡¯s gaze swept beyond Corvan¡¯s retinue, past the city gates, where the sight of newly pitched tents greeted him¡ªcolors of different noble houses fluttering in the wind, their standards standing tall in the grassy fields beyond the walls. The encampment was bustling with activity as soldiers hurried to arrange their lodgings, smiths hammered away at last-minute repairs, and squires rushed to see to their knights¡¯ horses. "As lord of this city, I deemed it my duty to personally receive Your Highness," Corvan continued, inclining his head once more. "The rest of the noble lords await you inside. A feast has been prepared in your honor, that we may dine and discuss the course ahead before steel is drawn and blood is spilled." Alpheo turned his gaze back to Corvan, his smile returning. "You have my thanks for such hospitality, Lord Corvan," he said, his voice carrying the weight of both gratitude and expectation. "My men will welcome the opportunity to rest before we begin our march." It was not lost on him that feasts held in wartime were rarely meant for simple merriment; after all, it was the time when the lords could express their loyalty and, of course, secure a chance to ask for favors from the crown, which Alpheo wasn¡¯t really keen to experience. Chapter 480: Strategy Chapter 480: Strategy The air in Lord Corvan¡¯s borrowed chamber hung heavy with the cloying scent of perfume that the lord was kind enough to spray everywhere . At the head of the table, Alpheo sat motionless, his fingers steepled before him. His gaze drifted across the room¡ªpast the goblets of deep red wine, past the half-eaten platters of roasted meats, past the maps weighed down by daggers at their corners¡ªand settled on the empty space where Torghan should have been. The Voghondai chieftain, though sworn to the war effort with nearly six hundred hardened warriors at his back, had not been summoned to this council. The reasons were twofold: first, Torghan¡¯s grasp of the southern tongue was rudimentary at best, making strategic discussion nearly impossible. But more importantly, his presence would have been a spark in a room full of dry tinder. Many of these lords had only reluctantly answered the crown¡¯s call, their loyalty strained by years of resentment toward the Voghondai¡¯s presence within the princedom. Some had even been among those whispering that the barbarians should have been driven back beyond the mountains long ago. To seat Torghan among them now, after their rebellion had been justified as a defense against his people¡¯s "savagery," would have been to invite disaster. Alpheo could already picture it¡ªsome young lordling, emboldened by wine and pride, letting slip an insult. Torghan, never one to suffer fools, responding in kind. And then? Then blades would be drawn, blood would stain Corvan¡¯s fine carpets, and this fragile alliance would shatter before the first battle had even been fought. No. Better to keep the chieftain occupied elsewhere, drilling his warriors or hunting in the forests beyond the camp. Alpheo¡¯s attention returned to the men before him. They sat straight-backed and solemn, their expressions carefully schooled into masks of determination. But he knew better than to mistake their attendance for true allegiance. These lords had answered the call to arms¡ªsome out of loyalty, others out of obligation, a few perhaps out of sheer opportunism. But none of them truly understood what was coming. If they had even an inkling that this was not merely a campaign to crush a few rebellious nobles, but the opening moves of a war that would pit them against not one, but two foreign princes... Well. Their wine might have tasted considerably more bitter. A servant moved silently along the table, refilling goblets. The liquid splashed dark as blood against the silver. Alpheo watched the ripples fade, then raised his eyes to meet those of his war council. Had word spread that the rebel lords were not alone¡ªthat both the Prince of Oizen and the Prince of Herculia had cast their lots into this conflict¡ªthen some of the men seated before him would not be here at all. Many would have hesitated, others might have outright refused to join the royal host, perhaps even choosing to heed the call of the rebels instead, while others instead would claim neutrality over the conflict. After all, the rebel lords had not sat idle. Their letters had traveled across the princedom, reaching every major noble house, each parchment carefully penned to stir doubt and fear. They did not simply call for open defiance against the crown; they painted themselves as protectors, guardians of tradition against the tyranny of an overreaching throne, who was encroaching on their rights as noblemen. They spoke of the White Army as a blight upon the land, a force that answered only to the prince and not to the well-being of the state. They decried the crown¡¯s interference in matters of faith, stirring the pious to anger by framing this war as a defense of sacred institutions. Had the lords truly understood the weight of the forces gathering against them, would they have still ridden to his banner? Some, perhaps. But others... Alpheo dismissed the thought. It did not matter now. They were here. Their banners had been raised, their soldiers stood ready. He would make use of them before any of them had the chance to reconsider their oaths. Alpheo reached for the rolled parchment at the table¡¯s edge, its edges slightly curled from age and use. With deliberate care, he unfurled the map across the polished oak surface, using empty goblets to weigh down its corners. The thick candlelight danced across the vellum, illuminating intricate lines and notations that made several lords lean forward in their seats, their brows furrowing in surprise. This was no crude traveler¡¯s sketch. The map was a very good piece of cartography, its details so precise that individual villages and minor streams were marked alongside the major holdings. Some lords exchanged glances¡ªsuch thorough mapping of noble lands was unusual, bordering on suspicious. In many courts, the very act of commissioning such detailed charts might be seen as preparation for confiscation rather than governance. Lord Corvan¡¯s fingers twitched toward his wine, his eyes narrowing slightly as he recognized his own lands rendered in exacting detail. "This is... remarkably thorough, Your Grace," he said, the compliment laced with unspoken questions. Alpheo ignored the implied inquiry. Instead, he picked up a slender ebony pointer and let its tip hover above the northern territories. "These," he said, tracing a slow arc across the parchment, "are the lands currently held in rebellion." The pointer moved with precision, outlining a swath of territory that made several lords suck in quiet breaths. It was one thing to hear of revolts¡ªanother to see their sheer geographic scale laid bare. He tapped four key locations in succession, the pointer striking like a judge¡¯s gavel with each name: "Lord Niketas of Lonsium holds the land nearest to us." Tap. ¡¯¡¯While lord Gregor and Lord Lysandros are in the middle of the two." Tap. "And Lord Eurenis of Corgendau sits astride the northern border with the empire." Tap. Alpheo let the weight of that realization settle before continuing. "Thus far, their forces remain within these borders." The pointer circled the rebel lands again. "No probing attacks. No raiding parties slipping past our patrols. Just... silence." Lord Corvan snorted into his wine. "Then they lack the stomach for a real fight. Hiding behind their walls like frightened children." A few chuckles rippled through the room, but Alpheo noted how quickly they died.Who knew what they were waiting for? Reinforcements? Or simply the advantage of letting us wear ourselves out on the march? Of course, he expected it to be the first. Alpheo¡¯s pointer struck the table with a sharp crack, cutting off the murmurs. "We march north in three days¡¯ time." The ebony rod carved a path through the map¡¯s open plains. "This route gives us clean lines of advance¡ªno dense forests for ambushes, no narrow valleys where numbers become meaningless." He paused, the pointer hovering over a cluster of hills near the rebel border. "The only terrain favoring deception is here. We¡¯ll send forward scouts to ensure no surprises await.Then we will seek battle with them and put an end to this rebellion as soon as possible." Before Alpheo could continue, he was interrupted by Jarza. "And what do we do if they refuse to engage? If they retreat further inland instead of facing us?" A moment of silence passed before Lord Pyrros of Sistarorum scoffed, shaking his head. "No noble would have the face to retreat from an open challenge and leave his holdings unattended and ripe for raiding," he said, his tone dismissive. He let his gaze settle on Jarza, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "But I suppose it is not your fault for asking something like that. You have not had the time to understand the... dynamics of nobility." The unspoken jab¡ªcommonborn¡ªmight as well have been shouted. The meaning was clear. The slight was intentional. Jarza¡¯s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as his glare bore into the older noble. "In war, all situations must be planned and reviewed," he shot back, voice low and measured, though no less cutting. "Something you may not know, given how little time you have spent actually fighting one." The tension in the chamber crackled like a fire catching dry wood. Some of the lords shifted in their seats, watching the exchange with barely concealed amusement or disapproval. Pyrros¡¯ smirk faded. His fingers twitched against the table, as if considering whether or not to escalate the insult further. Alpheo had no patience for it. "Enough," he said, his voice calm but final succeeding into cutting down the argument. "We have no time for petty squabbles¡¯¡¯ Jarza gave Pyrros one last glare before leaning back, crossing his arms. Pyrros merely scoffed but said nothing more. Alpheo exhaled slowly, barely restraining the frustration. He loathed these meetings. They were more exhausting than the march itself. He had once thought that gathering more men of rank and standing would bring a diversity of perspectives, sharper ideas, a greater understanding of strategy. Instead, all it did was bring more egos, more bickering, and more men who were more interested in posturing than actually planning. This was why he preferred the close, private meetings with his officers. There, he could engage in true strategic discussions without having to wade through the chaos of noble pride and pointless insults. There, plans were formed with sharp minds, not dulled by arrogance. But for now, he had no choice but to endure it. Alpheo let the silence linger for a moment before speaking again, his voice measured. "It is a valid issue to raise," Alpheo continued, watching Pyrros bristle at the acknowledgment. Jarza gave a small smile, just enough to show his satisfaction in being acknowledged, which clearly stood on the other lord temper. Alpheo continued, turning back to the gathered lords. "Personally, I would prefer not to pursue them further inland. If I were in their place, I would use such a retreat to lure our host deeper into their lands, waiting until we were stretched thin, before hidden forces emerged from castles and strongholds to surround us from different sides." Some of the lords shifted in their seats, their expressions growing more serious as they considered his words. "But if they do retreat, we will turn the whole region upside down," Alpheo went on, his voice taking on a sharper edge. "We will burn and loot every village in our path, take their crops, cut their supply lines, leave them with nothing but ash and ruin. They will not sit idly by and watch their lands be destroyed¡ªthey will be forced to meet us in battle." Silence settled over the room. It was clear from their expressions that many of the lords had not thought of this, not about the raiding part but the trap that Alpheo would have sprung if he was on the opposite side. Then, breaking the quiet, Lord Damaris of Megioduroli , the same one who had cooperated early with the crown back when lord Ormund was the main problem of the crown, spoke up. "And who will lead the vanguard your grace?" Alpheo considered it for half a second before giving his answer. "The honor will go to the one who has hosted us in his home¡ªLord Corvan." Lord Corvan straightened, his chest puffing slightly with pride. "I am honored, Your Grace." Alpheo met his gaze with a smile, but inwardly, he had other thoughts. The vanguard was the most dangerous position, the one that bore the brunt of any sudden attacks or ambushes. It was always attributed as the position of greatest glory, but Alpheo had no intention of taking it himself. He needed to be at the center of command, and preferred not have his standing army suffer the biggest casualties. Lord Corvan, however, was eager for the distinction, and Alpheo was more than willing to grant it especially since it would his forces to take the brunt of an attack. Chapter 481: Fire to all Chapter 481: Fire to all The village was ablaze, fire consuming the thatched roofs and wooden walls of homes, turning them into collapsing infernos. Smoke billowed into the evening sky, thick and dark, choking the air with the scent of burning wood, grain, and flesh. The once peaceful fields that surrounded the settlement were either brutally emptied of their harvest or set aflame, their crops now reduced to smoldering embers. Villagers ran in all directions, screaming in terror. Mothers clutched their children as they stumbled toward the woods, old men fell to their knees pleading for mercy, and young men either joined on the running or fearlessly and yet vainly tried to defend their possessions with what they had, which always quickly ended in their death. Riders on horseback surged through the chaos, jeering as they swung their scabbards and the flats of their swords at fleeing villagers. Some struck men to the ground, and laughed as they witnessed them scrambling to their feet and running. Others rode down those too slow to escape, knocking them into the dirt before moving on to loot whatever could be taken. For the most part, they did not kill. The goal was not slaughter but fear. They wanted these people to run, to abandon their homes, to leave the land barren and empty for their masters to claim. Yet, any who dared to resist¡ªthose who picked up a blade or refused to flee¡ªwere cut down without hesitation, their blood soaking into the scorched earth beneath them. Within moments, the village was nothing more than a burning ruin, the last echoes of its people fading into the night as they disappeared into the forests, leaving behind their smoldering homes and the laughter of men who had taken all they had. The fires raged high, smoke curling into the night sky as the riders of the White Army carried out their grim work with the same ruthless efficiency they were known for. This was not simple looting¡ªit was purposeful devastation, designed to cripple the enemy¡¯s lands, leaving them not just raided but gutted, ruined, and broken beyond quick recovery. After all, if a village was merely raided and its people killed, that was the end of it¡ªthe village, for that year, would no longer harvest for its lord. But burn the fields, scatter the people, and suddenly, the enemy had a far greater problem on his hands: more mouths to feed and less food to do it with. Now, repeat this process dozens and dozens of times across the land, and within months, the very foundation of his power would crumble. His granaries would empty, his roads would be filled with starving, displaced peasants, and his once-loyal subjects would turn to desperation, either fleeing his rule or resenting him for failing to protect them. This was the true art of destruction¡ªnot merely killing, but breaking the enemy¡¯s ability to recover. The White Army did not simply seek to defeat their foes in the field. They sought to make them wither away, to bleed them dry until they collapsed under the weight of their own ruin. The light riders under Egil mastered such tactics, as they tore through the village like wolves in a sheep pen, their laughter ringing through the air as they smashed down doors, rushing inside homes to ransack whatever they could find. They moved savagely and quickly, overturning furniture, tearing open chests, and dragging out whatever was worth taking¡ªcoin purses, bolts of cloth, even sacks of grain if they could be easily carried. "Come now, don¡¯t be shy!" one rider jeered as he rode past a group of fleeing villagers, his blade tapping playfully against his saddle. "We just want to have a little talk!" He barked out a laugh when the terrified peasants picked up their pace, vanishing into the woods. Another man kicked open a door, stepping inside to find a family huddled in the corner. "Oh? You¡¯re still here?" He grinned, his eyes scanning the room before they landed on a young woman clutching her mother. "Looks like I found my share of the spoils." A chorus of laughs echoed as other riders dragged women from their homes, their cries swallowed by the crackling flames and the roars of celebration. Some struggled, kicking and screaming, while others went silent, their faces pale with horror as rough hands took hold of them. "Run, run, little rats!" another soldier shouted, waving his torch as a group of children sprinted past him. "You best pray to whatever gods you got, ¡¯cause we ain¡¯t done yet!" Ratto sat atop his horse, his blonde hair falling messily over his face, damp with sweat from the heat of the flames consuming the village. He barely blinked as he took in the sight¡ªhouses collapsing into blackened rubble, villagers screaming as they fled into the night, chased off like stray dogs. Soldiers of the White Army rode through the chaos, jeering and laughing, striking down those foolish enough to resist and letting the rest scatter into the fields. A rider to his left, a grizzled man with a broken nose and a cruel smile, held a struggling woman by the wrist. Her face was streaked with dirt and tears, her clothes torn where rough hands had already grabbed at her. "Oi, Ratto!" the man called, his voice rough with amusement. "First turn¡¯s yours if you want it." Ratto met his gaze for a brief moment, then shook his head. The man shrugged, uninterested in forcing the boy into anything he didn¡¯t yet hunger for. "Suit yourself," he said, then dragged the woman toward one of the houses that had yet to catch fire, her screams muffled as the door slammed shut behind them. Ratto exhaled through his nose, gripping the reins tighter. He was only thirteen, yet for the past year, he had ridden with Egil¡¯s light cavalry, learning the ways of war as Alpheo had ordered. It was time, the prince had said, for him to grow accustomed to the sight of blood and guts, to understand what it truly meant to wage war. He had seen death before. He had seen men cut down, seen corpses rotting in ditches. He knew this¡ªthis burning, this looting, this driving of villagers into the wilds¡ªwas another side of war. Yet the taste it left in his mouth was bitter. These people weren¡¯t just faceless enemies. They weren¡¯t Oizen¡¯s men, nor Herculia¡¯s. They weren¡¯t soldiers standing against them in battle. They were farmers, children, mothers and fathers. And, no matter how necessary it was, no matter how many times he told himself it was for the war effort, the thought lingered. These were their people. A voice came from behind Ratto, smooth but edged with amusement. "Are our games not to your taste, boy?" Ratto turned in his saddle, his grip tightening slightly on the reins as he met the gaze of Sir Rykio, Egil¡¯s second-in-command. The knight was a hard-looking man, lean but wiry, with sharp eyes that never seemed to miss a thing. He sat comfortably on his horse, watching Ratto with something between curiosity and condescension. "It¡¯s not that," Ratto answered, his voice steady. "But... aren¡¯t these people still part of the princedom?Aren¡¯t these subjects of the crown?" Rykio snorted through his nose, shaking his head. "Their lords rebelled," he said flatly. "And when their lords rebel, they pay the price. It¡¯s their young who march against us, their grain that feeds the men trying to kill us. You think they¡¯re blameless?" He gestured toward the burning village with a casual flick of his fingers. "This is war, lad. We don¡¯t just kill soldiers¡ªwe break the land that supports them. We starve them, we scatter them, we make sure they have nothing left to fight for." Ratto said nothing, his eyes drifting back to the chaos. The villagers weren¡¯t warriors. They weren¡¯t marching in an army. Some of them probably had no say at all in what their lords decided. Rykio studied him with an even expression, then smirked slightly. "Maybe you just need to ease yourself into it. You¡¯ve yet to taste a woman, haven¡¯t you? Perhaps that is what you need to kill the tense" Ratto stiffened. "I¡¯m not in the mood." Rykio sighed dramatically. "Pampered, then. I should¡¯ve guessed. A child with a soft heart and a noble soul... but I suppose that¡¯s to be expected, we all have been kids once." He paused for a moment, then added, "You must¡¯ve noticed how the others act around you. How careful they are with you. Because everyone knows¡ªyou¡¯re one of the prince¡¯s favorites, so no one is willing to say a thing." Ratto¡¯s jaw clenched, but he kept his face blank. He had noticed. He wasn¡¯t stupid. The men treated him differently, watched their words around him, never struck him as roughly as they did each other Rykio leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping just enough to sound almost fatherly¡ªthough the edge of steel never left his tone. "Since you¡¯re one of the prince¡¯s favorites, you must do everything to make sure you never shame him." Ratto¡¯s fingers twitched around his reins, but he said nothing. "You ride well, you train hard," Rykio continued. "But if you keep yourself distant from the truth of war, if you refuse to embrace it, then when you¡¯re finally in front of an enemy, you¡¯ll falter. And when you falter, you¡¯ll die." "I won¡¯t," Ratto said immediately, his voice firmer than he felt. "You will," Rykio countered, just as certain. "The commander¡¯s already taken notice. You never take part in the raiding, never join the looting. And now he¡¯s considering moving you out. He has no place for soft hearts in his unit." Ratto furrowed his brows. "I fight well enough." "You¡¯ve never killed." Rykio¡¯s eyes gleamed, watching his reaction. "I can see it. And when the time comes, it¡¯ll go against you. The first kill always changes a man. If you hesitate, it¡¯ll break you. And if it breaks you, you¡¯ll die." Ratto swallowed, but Rykio didn¡¯t give him time to respond. He simply nodded toward the village, his voice pressing down like a weight. "If you don¡¯t want to shame the prince with your soft spots, then prove that you can gut a man without batting an eye." Ratto stiffened, but Rykio didn¡¯t stop. "Unless you ride out and cut a man down in front of me, you¡¯ll prove that I was right about you." Ratto opened his mouth, anger flaring in his chest. "This isn¡¯t¡ª" But Rykio said nothing more. He simply pointed at the short-sword at Ratto¡¯s hip. The meaning was clear. Prove it. Ratto bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood. His fingers tightened around the reins. His heart pounded, but he said nothing. Then, with a sharp breath, he drove his heels into the horse¡¯s sides. The beast lurched forward, its hooves kicking up dirt and ash as it thundered through the burning village. Flames crackled, screams still rang in the air, and Ratto rode past his fellow raiders as they laughed and jeered, dragging their spoils behind them. He rode fast, his eyes darting through the chaos, searching. Then he saw him. An old man, thin and bent, his tattered clothes whipping as he ran aimlessly through the village, his face twisted with terror. His steps were uneven, panicked. He looked lost, like a wounded animal that didn¡¯t know where to flee. Ratto swallowed, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword. "He is the enemy." The words echoed in his mind, over and over, louder with each galloping beat of his horse¡¯s hooves. His breaths came short, his pulse hammering in his ears. "He is the enemy." His knuckles were white as he unsheathed his short sword. It felt heavier than it ever had before. "He is the enemy." The old man turned his head. His eyes met Ratto¡¯s. There was no fight in them, only confusion. Fear. Pleading. The sword was already coming down. He cut through skin and muscle with ease. A wet, sucking sound filled the air as it bit deep into the old man¡¯s collarbone, lodging against bone. He didn¡¯t scream. He only gasped¡ªsharp and thin, like the whimper of a dying animal. His hands, veined and shaking, reached up reflexively, grasping at the blade buried in him, as though his frail fingers could somehow pull it free, undo it. Ratto yanked the sword back, and the old man fell. He landed hard on his back, his head bouncing off the dirt with a dull thud. Blood gushed from the open wound, pooling in the dry earth beneath him, soaking into the dust. His body twitched, his chest rising in short, sharp jerks as his lungs fought uselessly for air. His fingers flexed once, twice¡ªthen stopped. His killer stared down at him. The body still moved, slightly. A shudder in the fingers. A last, pathetic heave of the chest. The eyes were still open, locked onto nothing, glossy and unblinking. Then a horse trampled over the corpse. The crunch of bone was loud, wet, final. Ratto felt bile rise in his throat. His sword dripped, red staining his hands, his clothes, his face. He was still gripping the reins, but his knuckles weren¡¯t white anymore. They were red. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his mind blank except for one thought. "He is the enemy." But he knew deep down he was not. Chapter 482: Throwing a bait(1) Chapter 482: Throwing a bait(1) Alpheo sat in his tent, the heavy canvas walls fluttering slightly from the evening breeze, though the air inside remained thick with the scent of oil candles and the lingering musk of sweat coming from thousands of men. He barely spared a glance at the map sprawled across the table before him, his hand resting against his forehead, fingers digging into his temple as if he could knead the frustration from his skull. The bastards still hadn¡¯t moved. For a week now, every time his forces had pressed forward, they had simply retreated. The so-called lords of this rebellion¡ªNiketas, Greogr, Lysandros, and Eurenis¡ªtucked their tails and pulled back deeper into their holdings like rats scurrying for cover. Never standing, never fighting, never meeting him in the field. Just running. Cowards. The word hissed through his mind, his fingers curling into a fist. What use was all their pompous talk of noble defiance if they refused to take up the sword against him? They had raised their banners, had they not? Declared themselves warriors of the just cause? Then why did they flee like whipped dogs whenever his army so much as breathed in their direction? But in their cowardice, they had doomed their own lands. For the past week, the royal host had been busy turning every stretch of rebel-held land into a wasteland. They had plundered villages, emptied granaries, slaughtered and cooked livestock, and put every settlement they passed through to the torch. Smoke had become a constant companion on the horizon, the black pillars rising into the sky as the faithful companion to the ruin they left in their wake. And everyone loved it. The nobles rode through the devastation, giddy from the ease of it all, their saddlebags heavier with stolen wealth. The tribesmen, always eager for blood and plunder, had embraced the work with savage delight, treating the raids as both duty and sport. Even his own private army, men hardened by battle and bound to him by years of service, took to it like wolves let loose upon a defenseless flock. It was, after all, what war often was to men like them¡ªan opportunity. No grand speeches, no noble pretenses, just simple, brutal profit. For many of these men, war was not about honor or loyalty. It was about profit about power, about what could be taken from those too weak to hold onto it. It was why lords gathered their banners, why footmen eagerly enlisted. It was the loot¡ªthe promise of stolen riches, of land, of the kind of wealth that could never be earned in peacetime. And yet, Alpheo felt nothing for it. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose, his gaze fixed on the map but unfocused. He hated this waste of time. He did not care for the looting. He did not care for the plunder. He did not care for the way his men reveled in the destruction, drunk on the ease of it all. What he did care about was the war itself¡ªending it. And every day spent burning these villages, every day spent pillaging, was another day wasted. Another day where the rebels slipped further into safety, another day where the other two princes¡ªthe real threats¡ªwere gathering their forces. Oizen and Herculia would not wait forever. While he wasted his time here, torching villages that held no real strategic value, they were sharpening their swords, mustering their armies, preparing for the moment when they would march against him. I should be marching against them, he thought bitterly. Not wasting time on these miserable cowards. But he had no choice. The rebels would not face him, so he had to force them to.The question however was how... Alpheo dragged his gaze up from the map, eyes settling on Jarza, who stood across from him, arms crossed, observing him in silence. The candlelight flickered over the man¡¯s face, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes¡ªa quiet, knowing look that made Alpheo¡¯s lip curl in irritation. He was not alone in the tent. Alongside Jarza stood Shahab, the old warrior as disciplined as ever, his presence solid and unshakable. Uninvited, yet not unexpected, he had brought his son along as well, the middle aged man standing just behind his father¡¯s shoulder, watching and listening. Of course he did. Shahab was a man who thought ahead, a man who played the long game. No doubt he believed that having his son witness these war councils would put him in Alpheo¡¯s good graces, ensuring that when the the man took over his place at Alpheo¡¯s side would already be secured. Alpheo exhaled slowly, before speaking, voice flat. "Are you happy being right?" Jarza didn¡¯t so much as blink. "I would have gladly been wrong." Alpheo snorted, pushing himself back against his chair, running a hand through his hair. Wouldn¡¯t we all. He had misread them. He had thought the nobles would come screaming down at them the moment their fields were set ablaze, that they would be forced to face him in open battle once they saw their wealth¡ªtheir very sustenance¡ªburning before their eyes. But no. They had done nothing. They had simply stood back and watched, retreating deeper inland like cowards, leaving their peasants to scatter and starve, their villages to be turned to cinders. Alpheo had underestimated their patience. He wouldn¡¯t say it aloud¡ªwould never give Jarza or anyone else the satisfaction¡ªbut he understood now why they held back. They weren¡¯t simply licking their wounds, nor were they afraid. They had other incentives to stay put. The loss of this year¡¯s harvest? The destruction of their villages? That would have been a crippling blow for any other lords. But these men¡ªthese rebels¡ªhad already accounted for that loss. The wealth of the temples would cushion them. Alpheo wasn¡¯t stupid. He could see the shape of it clearly now. The great temples, those holiest of institutions, had deep coffers, filled with more gold than any noble house could hope to match. And though they remained quiet, though they played at neutrality, he had no doubt that many of them had sent their secret support to the rebels. It made his blood simmer. The temples were untouchable¡ªfor now. But once this rebellion was crushed, once their so-called noble defiance had been stamped out, once the traitors were rotting in the ground, then he would turn his attention to them. Perhaps a priest or two, under the right persuasion¡ªthe right torture¡ªwould confess which temples had sent aid. Perhaps they would give him names, accounts, ledgers. Perhaps they would weep and beg and spill every secret they had. And once he had proof... well. It would be a shame if certain temples found themselves stripped of their wealth. After all, traitors could not be allowed to prosper. --------------------------- Alpheo exhaled, rubbing his temple as he looked over the map once more, before finally straightening. His voice, when he spoke, was measured, but laced with the irritation of a man forced to admit his own mistake. "I misjudged them." That got Jarza¡¯s attention, as well as Shahab¡¯s and his son Jared. Alpheo continued, his fingers tapping idly against the edge of the table. "I believed they would march south the moment we set their fields alight. That they would be forced to ride out in defense of their lands, of their people¡ªand of their taxes. It is their duty, after all, to protect both. But here we are, a week into this campaign, and they haven¡¯t moved an inch." He sighed, tilting his head back for a moment before rolling his shoulders. "So, I was wrong." No one dared to comment on that. "That means we need to discuss our next move, because while our soldiers may enjoy setting villages to the torch and stuffing their pockets with silver, we don¡¯t have the luxury of wasting time here. The more we linger, the worse it gets for us. We need to decide¡ª" "Why not simply keep marching north?" Shahab¡¯s voice cut through, calm and firm. Alpheo let out a thoughtful hum, but shook his head. "That would put us in a fine mess." He lifted his rod and tapped the map, outlining the stretch of land directly above them. "If we continue north, we¡¯ll be marching straight into their holdings, into a web of castles and fortresses that we do not control. It would mean allowing ourselves to be surrounded, trapped in a land where every pass, every hill, every bridge would be held by enemies. They wouldn¡¯t need to fight us head-on¡ªthey could simply harass us, picking off lone detachments, starving us out, waiting until we were stretched too thin before closing in for the kill." Shahab frowned. "Starve us? We¡¯ve looted enough grain from these villages to keep marching. We have no shortage of food, and if necessary, we can change direction, pull back south whenever the situation demands it." Shahab leaned over the table, tracing the northernmost part of the map with a calloused finger. "You say they aren¡¯t moving, and you say they have no reason to move. Then they also have no reason to retreat further north. If we press forward, we force them into a decision they will either trespass onto Romelian holdings or giving us battle. Alpheo exhaled sharply through his nose. Alpheo studied the map, drumming his fingers against the wooden table. Unfortunately it would not be so easy "You¡¯re forgetting another possibility, Shahab. They don¡¯t have to retreat into Romelian territory. They could just as easily take refuge in one of their castles." Shahab huffed, crossing his arms. "Even better," he said with a smirk. "If they hole themselves up behind stone walls, we¡¯ll know exactly where they are. We won¡¯t have to chase them anymore. A siege means time, and time means hunger, disease. Let them rot in their own homes¡ªsooner or later, they¡¯ll break." Alpheo sighed, shaking his head. "No. That¡¯s exactly what they want." Shahab¡¯s expression faltered. "What?" Alpheo raised a hand and gestured toward the map. "Every scout we¡¯ve sent has returned with the same report¡ªour enemies have as many men as we do, perhaps even more. They aren¡¯t holding back because they lack soldiers. That¡¯s not what¡¯s keeping them from facing us." He tapped his fingers against the wooden table, his frustration evident. "No, their reason for avoiding battle is far more deliberate. They¡¯re stalling. They¡¯re waiting. Waiting for reinforcements. Waiting for others to join the fight. If we put ourselves in the position of besieging them, we do nothing but play into their hands. They gain time, and time is their greatest weapon right now." Shahab exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly displeased but unable to argue the point. His arms remained crossed, his brows furrowed as he processed Alpheo¡¯s words. After a long silence, he relented with a small nod. "Very well..." he muttered. Alpheo of course didn¡¯t want to completely dismiss the man¡¯s instincts, after all it was not rare for him to give out sounds opinions. He met Shahab¡¯s gaze and gave a slight nod of reassurance. "Your plan is sound¡ªunder different circumstances. It¡¯s simple, effective. But in this situation, it¡¯s too straightforward. We need something else." He exhaled, rolling his shoulders, before casting his gaze across the others in the tent. "So, does anyone else have a better solution for our little situation?" Chapter 483: Throwing a bait(2) Chapter 483: Throwing a bait(2) Alpheo exhaled through his nose, his fingers drumming lightly on the map as he swept his gaze over the gathered men. He had asked the question once already, yet no one had answered. He let the silence settle, a weight in the air as each of them mulled over the matter, brows furrowed in contemplation. Then, unexpectedly, a voice cut through the stillness¡ªnot from one of the grizzled general that witnessed more wars than any in the tent nor the seasoned lords that accompanied Alpheo since his presence in Yarzat, but from the man least expected to speak. Jared. Alpheo¡¯s brow rose slightly, not out of disdain but out of surprise. Jared had been silent for most of the war council, always present at his father¡¯s side yet never offering his own input. He was not a man of few words in general, but here, in the presence of hardened commanders and ruthless warriors, he had chosen to observe rather than contribute. Until now. Jared¡¯s voice was steady, deliberate. "What about their castles?" Alpheo blinked, confused. "What about them?" Jared composed himself, glancing around before continuing. His expression was not hesitant, but rather measured, as if choosing his words carefully. "The rebellion, as we well know, is made up of numerous lords. But the ones truly calling the shots, the ones with the real power and influence, are the magnates." Alpheo leaned back slightly, interested despite himself. "Go on." Jared nodded. "Until now, we have raided their lands, burned their fields, stolen their food. We have taken from them their tax revenue for this year, perhaps even the next. But is that enough to make them act? Truly act?" His dark eyes scanned the room. "Men like Niketas, Lysandros, Gregor, and Eurenis... they are not fools. They are playing for time, waiting for reinforcements or for a shift in fortune, as your grace have dutifully noted. They are willing to bear these losses because, in the end, these losses are only political and strategic, which given time they will recover from . A blow to their ability to wage war, yes, but not a strike at their very being." Shahab rubbed his beard, considering the words. Alpheo narrowed his eyes, beginning to see where this was going. Jared continued, his voice sharper now. "But what if we stop making this about their lands and their coffers? What if we make it personal?" A ripple passed through the tent, some shifting in their seats, others exchanging glances. The suggestion hung in the air like an unsheathed blade. Alpheo watched Jared intently, waiting to see where he would take this. The silence that followed was not out of dismissal¡ªbut out of deep, unsettling intrigue. Alpheo tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady on Jared. "How?" he asked, his tone carrying genuine curiosity rather than skepticism. Jared did not hesitate. "While the rebels have mustered their armies and retreated, their families remain in their holdings," he said plainly. "Their wives, their children¡ªnone of them have been moved. They remain within the thick walls of their ancestral keeps, safe behind high stone and guarded gates." Alpheo listened intently, his fingers idly tapping against the map. Jared leaned forward slightly, his voice steady. "Perhaps we should stop wasting our time chasing villages and instead set our eyes on where they truly live. Their castles. Their family seats. If we march our army not against their soldiers but against their homes, we force them to make a choice¡ªremain hidden in the north, waiting for some opportune moment to strike, or turn south to defend what truly matters to them." The tent fell silent. The men within sat still, mulling over the proposal, their expressions unreadable. Some narrowed their eyes in consideration, others cast glances at Alpheo, waiting to see his reaction. Alpheo studied Jared carefully, reassessing the man he had previously regarded as nothing more than his father¡¯s shadow. He saw now the weight of his words, the cunning behind them. The cold logic of it. After a long moment, Alpheo exhaled, nodding. "That is a very good idea," he admitted. "My compliments my lord. I will take that into serious account when making my decision." Jared¡¯s chest straightened subtly, a flicker of pride in his expression, though he kept himself composed. Across from him, Shahab¡¯s lips curled into a small smile, clearly amused. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction, not just at his son¡¯s insight but at the recognition it had earned. For the first time that night, Alpheo felt that the war council had not been a complete waste of his time. Alpheo leaned back slightly, his fingers pressing against his temples as he thought over Jared¡¯s proposal. The idea had merit¡ªfar more than he had initially anticipated. If they continued as they were, burning villages and looting grain stores, they would achieve little beyond temporary disruption. Time was not a luxury he could afford to waste. Every day spent raiding without engagement brought them closer to disaster. Eventually, either Oizen or Herculia would enter the conflict, and when they did, the delicate balance of power would tip against him. If that happened, no amount of fire or plunder would save his campaign. He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing at the map before him. The truth behind Jared¡¯s words lay in what was left unsaid. The rebels did not fear for their lands. They did not fear for their peasants. What they feared was him. Alpheo was no stranger to the whispers that trailed in his wake¡ªthe hushed voices that spoke not of his triumphs on the battlefield, nor of the cunning strategies that had turned the tide of war in his favor, but of something far darker. It was not the glory of his martial prowess that made men wary, nor the brilliance of his command that kept them up at night. It was the stain on his name, the shadow of ruthless deeds carried out in places war was never meant to touch. The late Prince of Yarzat had been the first. He had fallen by one of Alpheo¡¯s man¡¯s blade, slain in what had been called self-defense. That had been the excuse, the justification¡ªone that had been widely accepted because it was convenient. But they all knew the truth, or at least they thought they do, as in that case the killing of Arkawatt had been an incident. Then there had been Lord Ormund. When the old lord had rebelled, seeking to take the throne for himself, Alpheo had crushed his forces in ambush, cutting down both the lord and his heir in a single stroke. The rebellion had ended before it could truly begin. And then came the siege of Ormund¡¯s lands. The castle had stood defiant, holding on against all odds. But just as the walls were about to be breached, something curious had happened. Ormund¡¯s widow and his last surviving son had taken poison. Together, mother and child had chosen death rather than capture. A tragic tale. A convenient one. Even more curious was what had followed. The moment their deaths were confirmed, the castle had surrendered¡ªand its defenders, despite their long resistance, had been spared. That was the reputation that surrounded him now. It was unspoken, never directly addressed, but always present. Alpheo was a noble-killer. And that was precisely what Shahab¡¯s son had been carefully alluding to¡ªnever stating it outright, of course. Saying such a thing to Alpheo¡¯s face would do him no favors; a misstep like that could easily be taken as an insult. Instead, Jared had danced around the truth, nudging toward it with deliberate subtlety, letting the weight of his unspoken words settle in the minds of everyone present. Wars, for most nobles, were a game. A spectacle where noblemen tested their skill, paraded their banners, and clashed swords for honor and prestige. And when a noble died, it was to be treated as a tragedy, an unfortunate accident in the great dance of war. But Alpheo? Alpheo had killed more nobles than all of them put together. Now, that same man¡ªthe one who had torn apart entire noble lines¡ªwas marching toward their homes. If he were in their position, he too would feel fear. Not for his lands. Not for his subjects. But for his family. He glanced up, his gaze flickering toward Jared, then toward the rest of the tent. Yes. This was a plan worth considering. Alpheo was on the verge of making his decision when a sudden thought cut through his mind like a blade. It was quick¡ªso quick he almost dismissed it¡ªbut as it settled, a slow, knowing smile curled onto his lips. The shift in his expression did not go unnoticed. The men in the tent, at least two out of the three of them had seen that look before. It was the look of a man who had just grasped something¡ªa thought, an advantage, an answer¡ªthat no one else had yet considered. No one spoke, but their eyes remained fixed on Alpheo, waiting. Expectant. Because whatever had just crossed his mind, they believed , was something that would be able to change the status quo. Chapter 484: The great circle Chapter 484: The great circle The sea stretched endlessly behind them, a vast, undulating plain of deep blue that merged with the horizon in a shimmering haze. Ahead, the familiar silhouette of Aracina¡¯s coastline grew more distinct with each rhythmic surge of the waves against the hulls. Six ships cut through the water, their sails taut with the steady offshore wind, timbers groaning in protest as they rode the swells. At the prow of the lead vessel, Lord Asag stood motionless, his hands resting lightly on the sun-warmed railing. It was strange, he mused, how fate twisted a man¡¯s path. When Alpheo had seized the throne, Asag had assumed his days in Aracina were finished, that his future lay elsewhere. Yet here he returned, not as the mercenary he¡¯d once been, nor even as the victorious commander he might have imagined, but as something far more complex - the city¡¯s appointed guardian. Behind him, the crew moved with the brusque efficiency of men who¡¯d made this landing a hundred times before. Thick oaken planks were lowered with practiced ease, their ends thudding against the sun-bleached stones of the quay. The metallic jingle of armor and weapons mingled with the shouted orders and the groan of ropes as the first companies began disembarking, their booted feet finding purchase on solid ground after days at sea. Asag inhaled deeply, the familiar scents of tar and saltwater, of fish and forge-smoke triggering memories he¡¯d thought long buried. The welcoming party awaiting them was modest but orderly - a double line of garrison soldiers in patched but well-maintained mail, their spears upright like a steel thicket. Behind them stood a handful of city officials, their robes slightly rumpled from what had likely been a rushed assembly. No cheering crowds lined the docks, no flower petals rained down from the walls. This was a city preparing for war, not celebration, and the reception reflected that small little fact. The rhythmic thud of armored boots echoed across the stone quays as Asag¡¯s halberdiers disembarked behind him. Two hundred strong, they moved with the precision of well-oiled machinery, their polished halberd heads catching the sunlight like a field of steel blossoms. The air filled with the metallic jingle of mail and clinking of steel plate as they formed ranks without needing shouted commands - veterans all of them, their discipline speaking louder than any herald¡¯s proclamation. As Asag¡¯s boots met the sun-warmed stones of the pier, a single figure detached from the waiting retinue. The man moved with the measured stride of a career soldier, his armor - though bearing some scars - maintained with the fastidious care of a professional warrior. He wore no helmet, revealing a face weathered by time. "Lord Asag," the man said, executing a bow that balanced respect with military crispness, his right fist pressed against his breastplate in formal salute. "I am Sir Edmar, garrison commander of Aracina. The city welcomes you." Asag returned the nod with equal economy. "By the prince¡¯s decree, I now assume command of Aracina¡¯s defenses." His words carried neither bluster nor apology - simply the immutable fact of royal authority made manifest. One of his aides stepped forward with the sealed parchment, but Asag stayed him with a subtle gesture. The documents were mere formality now. To his credit, Sir Edmar showed neither resentment nor relief at being superseded. "My men stand ready to assist in the transition, my lord." His gaze flickered briefly to the disciplined ranks of halberdiers still disembarking. "We¡¯ve prepared quarters for your troops near the eastern barracks." This was no mere changing of the guard. Asag¡¯s appointment represented the fundamental shift in power that Alpheo¡¯s reforms had wrought across the princedom. Once, a single governor had ruled each city as a petty king - his authority stretching from marketplace taxes to dungeon cells, from granary stores to garrison deployments. But Alpheo had shattered that ancient model, dividing power into four distinct pillars: One for justice, one for the administration, one for the army, and one for taxation. In peacetime, these four balanced each other in an intricate dance of checks and balances that made corruption far more difficult. But when war¡¯s shadow fell across the city walls, the other three pillars stepped back, their authority temporarily suspended. In that moment, all power flowed to the he who bore the sword alone. And now, by Alpheo¡¯s express command, that mantle fell upon Asag¡¯s shoulders. He could feel the eyes of the city upon him - not just Sir Edmar and his soldiers, but everybody, dockmen, bureaucrats and ministers. Asag met Sir Edmar¡¯s gaze steadily giving no mind to the stares. "Walk with me," he commanded, not unkindly. As they turned toward the city, the halberdiers fell into step behind them, their synchronized footsteps echoing off the stone quays like a drumbeat heralding the new order. "If my lord wishes, I can present you to your new seat," Edmar offered. "A small banquet has been prepared to mark your arrival¡ªnothing lavish I fear, given the small time to prepare , of course, simply a courtesy of welcome." Asag did not hesitate. "No," he said firmly. "You will accompany me while I inspect the city¡¯s defenses.The food can wait , I don¡¯t mind eating it cold" A brief pause. Then, with fluid ease, Edmar bowed. He did not flinch, did not let even a flicker of disappointment cross his face. If anything, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips¡ªa subtle expression, but one that spoke volumes. He was pleased. Pleased that the man assigned to defend the city was not some idle noble who thought only of feasts and pleasantries, but one who understood the weight of his duty. The siege was coming. They all knew it. And now, it seemed, their new lord was ready to meet it head-on. "As you command, my lord," Edmar said smoothly. "I will lead the way." ----------------- Asag and Sir Edmar walked side by side through the streets of Aracina, their boots crunching against the uneven cobblestones. As they neared the base of the walls, Asag turned to Edmar, his expression unreadable "What measures have been taken in preparation for my arrival?" he asked Edmar answered without hesitation, his tone crisp and practiced. "As per orders, I¡¯ve begun the necessary preparations for a siege. First and foremost, the countryside has been emptied¡ªfood, livestock, and people. The enemy will find no easy meal should they come this way." Asag nodded, his gaze sweeping over the bustling city wondering how much the city food store would last. "Good. What else?" Edmar continued, his voice steady as he listed their defenses. "The city¡¯s muster has been called. Every man we can spare has been given a weapon. To maintain order," he added, "I¡¯ve imposed a curfew. No one moves through the streets after nightfall unless they have a good reason. Anyone caught outside without proper leave is detained and questioned as a spy." Asag¡¯s lips twitched in approval thinking about how he was the one that caught the rat last time in such a way. Edmar¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change, but there was a flicker of pride in his eyes. "And the laborers have been set to work beyond the walls," he said. "Ditches are being dug¡ªwide and deep¡ªto slow the enemy¡¯s approach. Our engineers are reinforcing the gates, layering them with additional timber hammered onto the ground" Asag listened, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. Despite his satisfaction with the preparations so far, he knew more could be done. Defending a city wasn¡¯t just about sealing its gates and arming its men¡ªit was about endurance, about securing every possible advantage before the enemy arrived. "We need wood," he said abruptly, his voice cutting through the rhythmic clang of hammers below. "Send out carts. Gather as much as you can from the outskirts before the enemy arrives. Prioritize construction timber¡ªanything that can be shaped into barricades. Bring it all inside the walls." Edmar listened attentively, nodding once. "Understood." Asag continued, his tone firm. "And stones. I want men sent out to search for them¡ªlarge ones, the kind that will shatter bones when thrown from the walls." He paused, then added, "Offer two silver coins for every fifty stones they bring back." Edmar raised a brow at that but didn¡¯t question the order. It was an effective way to ensure the work was done quickly. "I¡¯ll inform the Administratorium of your orders," he said smoothly. "Good." Asag turned his gaze toward the ships that had carried him here though they were now out of sight as given that the port was not visible from there. "I¡¯ve brought weapons and armor with me. Have my men unload them and store them properly. We¡¯ll use them to enlist as many new soldiers as our supplies allow." Edmar nodded again. "Understood, my lord." Asag let out a slow breath, his eyes still scanning the landscape beyond the walls. "That is all." With that, Edmar bowed and departed, his armored steps fading as he descended from the wall. Asag remained, standing alone atop the fortifications, gazing down at the people digging trenches and reinforcing the city¡¯s defenses. The sight stirred something in him¡ªmemories, sharp and vivid, of another siege, another battlefield. Two years ago, in this same city, he had stood on these very walls, watching as the enemy closed in. It was strange to think of how much could change in such a short time. Back then, he had been a mercenary, a man with no name and no allegiance. Now, he was a commander, a leader tasked with defending a city and its people. Below, a group of laborers struggled to lift a stone away from the path of the ditch. One of them slipped, cursing loudly as the stone thudded back to the ground. Asag watched for a moment, then turned away, his mind already racing ahead to the next task. There was no time for nostalgia. The enemy was coming, and Aracina was to be ready. Chapter 485: Branch of opportunities(1) Chapter 485: Branch of opportunities(1) Lord Lysandros¡¯ fist slammed against the wooden table, his face twisted in frustration. "How much longer," he growled, his voice thick with anger, "will I have to sit here and bear the knowledge that while we linger, our lands are plundered and put to the torch? That our people are being butchered like cattle? That our fields¡ªour lifeblood¡ªare being stolen by the very men we swore to defeat?" His eyes burned as he turned toward the others in the dimly lit tent, searching for someone to give him an answer that could dull the rage coiling in his chest. "Aye," Lord Gregor said, his arms crossed, his expression equally grim. "How long before the promised aid arrives? We were told we only needed to hold, that we would not stand alone. But as the days stretch into weeks, all I see is our strength withering while the enemy grows bolder." His gaze settled on the one man who had yet to speak¡ªthe priest. Elios did not shift under their scrutiny. If anything, he seemed almost amused, his lips curling into the ghost of a smile. He folded his hands together, his rings gleaming under the flickering candlelight. "If such knowledge weighs so heavily on your noble hearts," he said smoothly, "then why not rid yourselves of it? Move your soldiers forward. Engage the enemy in the field. Burn away your sorrows in battle instead of sitting here, sunbathing and whining like impatient children." The two lords stiffened at his words, but Elios pressed on before they could interrupt. "I have always advocated for action," he reminded them, his voice now carrying a sharper edge. "I have always said we should take the fight to the heretical prince, strike and be done with it . And yet, I was refused. Cautious minds," he said, glancing toward the absent figures who had urged patience, "prevailed over righteous fury. So tell me, my lords, why do your complaints fall upon me, when it is not I who keeps your swords sheathed?" Lord Eurenis exhaled, leaning forward with his hands spread in a placating gesture. "Enough," he said firmly, his voice cutting through the tense silence. "This bickering will not mend burned fields or unmake what has been taken. Lord Lysandros, Lord Gregor¡ªyour grievances are understood, and they are not without merit. But I assure you, when this war is won, it is you who shall be remunerated most for the suffering you now endure." He let his gaze sweep over them, his tone smooth but commanding. "We have already sworn that once Alpheo is cast down, your lands will not be left in ruin. We will aid you in rebuilding what was lost, and you will be the first among us to receive compensation for your sacrifice." Lord Lysandros, though slightly appeased, shook his head, his jaw clenched with lingering frustration. "I am not one to wail over my own losses," he said. "If it were only myself, I would bear the harm alone. But my vassals..." His voice tightened as he spoke. "They are the ones who suffer most. They see their lands ravaged, their people scattered, and their liege standing idle while his enemies feast upon his labor. And must I remind you all?" He leveled his gaze at them, voice firm. "A good portion of the forces we have raised are not our own ¡ªthey are men sworn by vassals. If they lose faith in us, what happens to those forces?I am sure the low-prince south of us will be more than happy to accept them back in the flock" Lord Eurenis nodded, his expression unreadable, but his words were measured. "Then reassure them," he said simply. "Tell them again what we have already sworn: that they will be repaid, that they will be restored. There is no need for doubt." He gestured broadly, his rings catching the candlelight. "Have we not seen the silver the holy temples have gifted us for this righteous war? Their loyalty must not waver now, when the struggle is not yet decided." With that, his gaze slid toward Elios. "That said, perhaps there is something else we should be discussing," he said smoothly. "You have spoken of patience , priest. But tell us, when will the princes finally join this war?" Elios met his stare without hesitation, his expression calm but unreadable. "I know as much as you," he admitted. "But rest assured, they will not tarry much longer. In a matter of days, they will enter Yarzat¡¯s borders¡ªperhaps they already have. But we have no knowledge of it." He leaned back slightly, folding his arms. "And do not forget, with the royal host lingering south of us, any messengers sent our way would not have an easy journey. We may already have word from them, but that word might be lying in a ditch with an arrow in its ba-" Interrupting the priest from his answer was the sudden entrance of a man,a guard more exactly, who as he entered with his armor clinking faintly immediately dropped to one knee. The interruption was abrupt, and all eyes turned toward him, a flicker of annoyance crossing the faces of the gathered lords. "My lords," the guard began quickly, bowing his head in apology, "forgive my intrusion, but this matter could not wait." Lord Niketas, whose house colors were stitched into the man¡¯s surcoat, straightened in his seat, his gaze sharpening. The guard turned slightly, as if seeking his lord¡¯s approval before continuing, and at Niketas¡¯ slight nod, he did so. "We have apprehended a man near the gates," the guard said, his voice steady despite the many powerful eyes upon him. "He claims to have come from the royal army¡¯s camp." The lords exchanged glances, their brows raising in mild interest. A spy? That was always a fine catch, but hardly something worth bursting into their council over. Lord Gregor exhaled through his nose, waving a hand dismissively. "If he is a spy, break his fingers, take out their teeth and peel the skin from his back, see if he sings anything useful," he said, his voice thick with irritation. "Then come back when you have something worth reporting. We are busy." The guard, still kneeling, did not rise. Instead, he lowered his head further in deference. "My lord," he said carefully, "I apologize for interjecting, but the man is no spy. He made no effort to hide. In fact..." He hesitated a beat before continuing. "He let himself be captured and apprehanded by our guards." That caused a murmur to ripple through the tent. A man willingly allowing himself to be seized?Was he a traitor? The guard lifted his head slightly, his next words slow and deliberate. "He claims to be a noble, my lords." He let that hang for a moment before adding, "An envoy." Silence. The lords, once merely indifferent, now truly raised their brows, exchanging glances that held far more weight than before. An envoy from the royal army? Lord Niketas leaned forward slightly, his fingers drumming once against the armrest of his chair before he gave a sharp nod. "Bring him inside," he ordered, his voice steady but laced with intrigue. The guard did not hesitate. He bowed his head in acknowledgment, rose to his feet, and swiftly exited the tent. Less than two minutes later, the flaps of the tent were thrown open again, and a young man was forced inside. His steps were unsteady as the guards behind him giving a calm yet firm shove forward. The gathered lords watched him in silence, their expressions unreadable, their eyes bearing down upon him like the weight of an anvil. He was young¡ªbarely in his early twenties¡ªwith a cleanly shaven face and sharp but unweathered features. He carried himself with an attempt at nobility, his back stiff and shoulders squared, as though he wished to meet their gaze with confidence. But despite his efforts, the reality of where he stood had clearly sunk in. His breath was steady, yet too controlled, forced into an even rhythm to mask the unease creeping through his body. His gaze flickered ever so slightly from one lord to the next, unable to settle, unable to hold firm beneath the combined weight of their scrutiny. He was trying to remain composed. Trying to be a man worthy of the title of envoy. But the slight stiffness in his stance, the way his fingers twitched at his side, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed¡ªall betrayed him. He was daunted. The young man took a breath, as if steadying himself, before bowing slightly¡ªjust enough to show respect, but not enough to grovel. When he straightened, his voice was measured, though there was a faint edge of uncertainty beneath his carefully crafted words. "I am Sir Lorren Derathio," he announced, his tone carrying an air of practiced authority, though it wavered slightly under the heavy gaze of the gathered lords. "Fourth son of Lord Vrasio of House Derathio." Silence settled in the tent for a moment. He squared his shoulders, as if trying to ward off the creeping feeling that he was prey standing before a circle of predators. "My lords....I am a noble,and yet I find myself treated as a commoner with no reason to be owed such a thing," he continued, his voice firming with each word, as if reminding himself of his own status. " I demand the treatment given to a guest asking for home , given the horrible hospitality that has been shown to me since my arrival." With that, he lifted his bound hands, shaking them slightly for emphasis, presenting them to the entirety of the tent. Chapter 486: Branch of Opportunities(2) Chapter 486: Branch of Opportunities(2) Lord Niketas narrowed his eyes as he studied the young man before him, his mind already sifting through the names and allegiances of the lesser houses. Derathio. A small house, sworn to Megioduroli. Not particularly powerful, nor particularly influential, yet still noble by all rights. Recognition flickered across his face, and he turned slightly, beckoning one of his servants closer. Leaning in, he murmured a few quiet words, his voice too low for the others to hear. The servant bowed in understanding and swiftly exited the tent, disappearing into the night. Satisfied, Niketas turned his attention back to the bound envoy, his expression softening just enough to feign cordiality. He motioned to the guards. "Cut his bonds." The guards hesitated only for a moment before obeying, drawing a short blade and slicing cleanly through the rough bindings around Lorren¡¯s wrists. The young noble exhaled, flexing his hands, his fingers still stiff from the tight restraints. Niketas offered him a small nod. "Apologies for the poor hospitality, Sir Lorren," he said, his tone smooth, though with an undercurrent of measured politeness rather than warmth. "But I am sure you understand¡ªit is not every day a man arrives at our gates, unannounced and alone, claiming to be a noble while willingly allowing himself to be captured, without of course a banner to attest to it. Under such circumstances, caution is required." Before Lorren could respond, a scoff came from the side. Lord Gregor leaned forward in his seat, his thick fingers drumming against the armrest of his chair. "Tell me, young Derathio," he drawled, voice thick with sarcasm, "is your prince so arrogant that he does not even bother to send his envoys under the banner of his royal house?" He gestured vaguely in the air, as if waving away the very idea. "No standard. No colors. No herald to announce you properly. What sort of prince sends an emissary into an enemy camp with nothing but his word to shield him?" Gregor¡¯s lip curled into something between a smirk and a sneer. "If our guards had been a little less patient," he continued, "if instead of apprehending you, they had cut you down where you stood, mistaking you for a common spy, we would have unknowingly committed a great sacrilege." He shook his head, feigning dismay. "Surely, a prince who truly wished for diplomacy would not be so careless with the lives of his messengers?" The young man shook his head. He rubbed at his wrists where the rope had chafed his skin raw, then lifted his gaze to meet the eyes of the gathered lords. "I fear," Lorren began, his voice steady despite the weight of so many powerful men scrutinizing him, "that there has been a misunderstanding." A murmur rippled through the tent as Lorren took a measured breath before continuing. "I do indeed come from the royal host," he said, pausing briefly to let his words settle, "but I was not sent by the prince consort." The murmur grew louder. Lord Gregor¡¯s brow furrowed, and Lord Lysandros exchanged a brief glance with Niketas. Only Lord Eurenis remained impassive, his fingers steepled together as if already piecing something together. "Then who sent you?" Niketas asked, his tone sharp with suspicion. Lorren squared his shoulders. "I was tasked by my father to act as messanger on behalf of my father¡¯s liege lord¡ªLord Damaris." That sent a jolt through the tent. Damaris was one of the more prominent lords in the prince¡¯s host. For him to send an envoy in secret, without the prince¡¯s knowledge, suggested that something far greater was stirring beneath the surface of the royal camp. "You¡¯re telling us," Lord Gregor said, his voice laced with skepticism, "that a lord, one who willingly marches beneath the banners of the prince, has sent you to treat with us in secret? And we are to believe this?" Lorren nodded. "This meeting was arranged with the understanding that the prince would never know of it." Lord Lysandros ran a hand through his beard, glancing at his fellow lords with a raised brow. "Well," he muttered, "it seems the royal host is not as united as we were led to believe." Lord Eurenis, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. "For what reason," he asked, his voice calm but pointed, "would a lord marching beneath the prince¡¯s banners send an envoy to us?" Lorren¡¯s expression darkened slightly, his hands clasping together in front of him. "Before we discuss that," he said carefully, "perhaps it would be best if we first talked about the prince." Lorren¡¯s expression grew tense as he glanced around the dimly lit tent, his fingers twitching slightly as if weighing his next words. "Before I speak further," he said, voice low but firm, "I would prefer that what is said within these walls does not leave them." The lords and the priest exchanged looks, their eyes flickering with curiosity and suspicion alike. Secrets had power, and for a man in Lorren¡¯s position to request secrecy, it meant what he was about to reveal was of great importance. Niketas, ever the composed one, leaned forward slightly and nodded. "You have my word," he said, his tone carrying the weight of authority. "What is spoken here will remain among us." The other lords gave their reluctant nods, though a few still eyed the young noble with quiet scrutiny. Lorren exhaled, seemingly satisfied, and straightened his posture. "A few days ago," he began, carefully choosing his words, "word reached our camp that the Prince of Oizen has raised his armies and crossed the border into Yarzat." A brief silence filled the air before the weight of his words truly sank in. Then the tent erupted. Lords surged forward in their seats, their voices rising in a cacophony of shock, disbelief, and growing excitement. Even the priest Elios, who had remained composed thus far, tilted his head with a look of intrigued amusement. "Asetocende," Lorren continued over the noise, "was the first city to fall. The Oizen prince¡¯s forces laid siege to it, and in only a few days, the walls were breached." Lord Gregor let out a sharp laugh, a broad grin splitting his face. "Ha! So they finally made true on their promise!" He clapped a hand on the table, the sound loud and triumphant. "I was beginning to think those princes were all bluster and no blade, but it seems they¡¯ve finally bared their fangs." The mood in the tent shifted swiftly, the tension of before giving way to murmurs of satisfaction. "This is excellent news," Lord Lysandros said, stroking his beard, his earlier frustration now melting into something closer to enthusiasm. No one needed to be told that with Asetocende fallen, the way ahead was open, with only Aracina standing between them and the capital itself. Of course, such a shift in the war brought consequences of its own. On one hand, the mounting pressure on the prince to end the rebellion swiftly could now push him to the negotiating table, forcing him to accept terms favorable to the rebels in order to unify his forces against the foreign invaders. On the other, they now faced the reality of a two-front war. Before this, the royal host held the advantage¡ªits movements unburdened by uncertainty, its strategy dictated by the knowledge that the enemy lay before them. But now, with another force advancing from the north, the balance had been upended. If the prince turned his army toward Oizen¡¯s invading host, the rebels would have free reign to push deeper into Yarzat¡¯s heartland. If he chose instead to crush the rebellion, then Oizen¡¯s armies would march unchecked. It was a game of pressure, and the prince was now caught in its vice. This was the kind of squeeze that could break a ruler¡¯s will¡ªor force him into a desperate, unfavorable bargain. Lord Gregor smirked, leaning back with satisfaction. "And here I thought this would be another dull evening." Laughter rippled through the tent, the lords exchanging pleased glances. The tension that had plagued them since the moment they raised their banners in defiance now seemed to melt away, replaced with renewed confidence. Yet amidst the satisfaction, Lorren remained standing, his expression unreadable. He had delivered the news they wanted to hear¡ªbut he was not finished. What came next would demand their attention far more than anything he had said thus far. Amidst the laughter and the triumphant murmurs of the lords, Lorren¡¯s gaze sharpened. He turned his attention toward a man clad in finely wrought armor, the sigil of House Palladion embroidered proudly upon his chest. The young envoy squared his shoulders, his voice measured but firm. "Do I have the honor of addressing the Lord of Agripisio?" The man in question, still caught in the glow of victory that the news had brought, let out a small chuckle, flashing a confident smile. "That you do." But the laughter in the tent began to wane. It was subtle at first¡ªa few voices trailing off, a handful of glances exchanged¡ªbut then it fell into silence entirely. They had noticed the shift in Lorren¡¯s face, the way his expression went serious and worried Lord Lysandros furrowed his brow, leaning forward. "What is it?" Lorren inhaled sharply, his hands clenching at his sides before he finally spoke. "Lord Damaris would like to express his utmost apologies and his worries for you, my lord." Chapter 487: Branch of opportunities(3) Chapter 487: Branch of opportunities(3) All eyes turned toward Lord Lysandros, the man who had only moments ago been basking in the triumph of their long-awaited ally¡¯s arrival. But now, the weight of the envoy¡¯s unfinished words hung over him like a sword suspended by a single thread. Lysandros¡¯ fingers curled into the wood of the table before him, his voice sharp and impatient. "Apologies? Apologies for what? What could he possibly have done to me? Speak clearly, boy." Lorren swallowed. His stance, once composed, now wavered. He had prepared himself for this moment, but under the piercing gazes of the rebel lords, he found the words struggling to form. He shifted where he stood, his fingers twitching slightly, before he finally forced himself to go on. "When the news of Asetocende¡¯s fall reached the prince..." Lorren hesitated, his gaze flickering downward for a brief moment before meeting theirs once more. "Lord Damaris was in the command tent, alongside several other lords. When the messenger delivered the news, the prince..." He paused again. "Go on," Lord Eurenis urged, his tone measured, but the flicker of unease in his expression betrayed him. Lorren exhaled. "The prince... went mad with anger. He raged against the treachery of Oizen and that of his lords. And then¡ª" He stopped himself, as though saying the next words aloud would solidify them, would make them too real to ignore. Lysandros¡¯ patience snapped. He slammed his fist against the table. "Then what?" Lorren¡¯s throat felt dry. He pressed forward, his voice lower now, but each word struck like the blow of a hammer. "In his fury, the prince ordered the army to march for Agripisio." A sharp intake of breath rippled through the lords, but Lorren was not finished. "He declared that your lands were home to traitors and criminals," he continued, his voice heavy with the weight of the words he had been forced to carry. "And as such, if he couldn¡¯t take hold of you, he would with your families... declaring they were to hang until death claimed them." The words fell like stones into the pit of Lysandros¡¯ stomach. His mouth parted slightly, but no words came. Around him, the lords stiffened, their initial shock quickly morphing into something else¡ªdread, disbelief, and for some, cold, simmering fury. The men in the tent did not need to speak to know what was running through each other¡¯s minds. They all knew Alpheo¡ªknew the man who raised Jasmine to the throne. He was a butcher. A man who had clawed his way to power not with diplomacy or lineage, but with blood and steel. Every lord who had dared oppose him was now dust along with his family. And if Alpheo had truly given the order to march on Agripisio, then there was no hope for clemency especially after they went hand in hand with foreign forces. It was Lord Niketas who moved first, grasping hold of the situation before it could spiral into madness. He straightened, his sharp eyes locking onto the young envoy. "How do we know this isn¡¯t a lie?" Niketas asked, his voice steady, cutting through the silence like a blade. "A desperate attempt to shake us, to make us panic? What proof do you bring, beyond mere words?" All eyes shifted toward Lysandros, the man at the heart of this storm. But he said nothing. His gaze, cold and piercing, remained fixed on Lorren, as if searching him for weakness, for any sign that his words were false. Lorren, despite the scrutiny, did not shrink. He had come prepared for this. He inhaled deeply, then spoke. "Lord Damaris feared that you would not believe my words," he admitted. "So he gave me proof¡ªhis herald¡¯s ring." A murmur rippled through the tent. A herald¡¯s ring was no minor trinket. It was the seal of a lord¡¯s word, the only thing that gave true credibility to letters bearing their name. It was the mark of identity, of authority. To give it away, even for a mission such as this, was an extreme measure. Niketas studied him carefully before turning to one of the guards stationed at the entrance of the tent. "Bring it to me." Lorren reached into his tunic, producing a small velvet pouch. He held it out, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. The guard stepped forward, his armor clinking faintly as he took the pouch from Lorren¡¯s hand and brought it to Niketas. The lord took it with practiced ease, untying the string and letting the heavy ring slide into his palm. He turned it over, inspecting the crest engraved upon it¡ªthe sigil of House Damaris, unmistakable in its design. Silence stretched for a long moment. Then Niketas raised his head, his gaze dark with certainty. "He speaks the truth." Hearing the statement Lysandros¡¯ breaths came in sharp, ragged bursts, his chest rising and falling with the weight of barely contained fury. His fingers curled into fists, knuckles whitening as his entire body trembled with the effort to keep himself from outright shaking. "I will march," he hissed, his voice low and seething with anger. "I will take my men and ride south immediately. I do not care if the rest of you follow or cower here like frightened dogs." He turned as if to storm out of the tent, but before he could take a step, Niketas spoke, his voice firm. "Lysandros, wait a moment." The lord of Agripisio whirled around, his face twisted in fury. "Wait? Wait while that fucking lowborn bastard points his army at my family? While my people are dragged from their homes and hanged like criminals?" He spat on the ground. "Every second we waste here is a second they die." Niketas, ever the strategist, remained calm. His gaze slid back to Lorren, assessing. "Tell me, sir. Was this the only reason for your journey here? Did Lord Damaris send you only to warn Lord Lysandros of his family¡¯s peril?" Lorren hesitated, but only for a moment. Then, straightening, he took a breath and continued. "No. There is more my lords." The lords leaned in, their attention once again locked on him. "After the prince¡¯s fit of rage, after he gave the order to march on Agripisio, word quickly spread through the camp," Lorren said. "But that is not all¡ªrumors of the Oizen army¡¯s advance reached us at nearly the same time. Aracina won¡¯t last long against the full might of the Oizen¡¯s army. The capital itself may be in danger." A quiet tension rippled through the tent. "Lord Damaris believes that the only way to preserve the princedom is to make peace with you," Lorren continued. "To end this war quickly and unite against the true enemy. But the prince¡ª" his lips curled bitterly "¡ªwill never do that so long as he has an army behind him." He looked around the room, his voice dropping, but his words carrying the weight of something far greater than a mere envoy¡¯s plea. "And so, my lords, I tell you this: there are many within the royal host¡ªfar more than just my father¡¯s liege¡ªwho have begun to believe that if the prince will not make peace, then perhaps peace must be made for him." A pause. "There are those who would raise their men and defect to your side, if it meant bringing a swift end to this civil war and concentrate forces on the foreigners .Many of the lords marching under the prince¡¯s banners do not take kindly to fighting for the sake of savages and heretics." "They were sworn to the prince," Lorren continued, "but they swore their oaths under the belief that they were defending the sanctity of our lands, not spilling their men¡¯s blood in service of heretics who spit upon our traditions." His voice grew sharper, eyes flicking between the assembled figures. "They will not march to their deaths for a ruler who does not see the gods¡¯ will as absolute." A heavy silence followed as the young lord expressed the justification for their defections. And then, finally, another voice spoke. One that had, until now, remained quiet. Elios. The priest sat forward he had listened, observed, gauging the room as the conversation unfolded, but now¡ªnow was the time to act. "You speak truth, young sir," Elios said, his tone smooth as silk, yet carrying the weight of conviction. "Even those who once stood beneath the prince¡¯s banners must realize there is still time¡ªstill a chance¡ªto fight on the righteous side." His gaze swept over the gathered lords, his presence magnetic, commanding. "The gods do not abandon their chosen," he continued. "Your arrival here, bearing this news, is no mere circumstance. It is proof¡ªproof that the divine favor our cause." Elios pressed on, his voice steady, unwavering. "But I cannot¡ªwill not¡ªremain passive in the face of such blasphemy." His eyes found Lord Lysandros, still burning with rage, his fingers clenched so tightly around his sword hilt that his knuckles had gone white. "I cannot sit idly by, knowing that the innocent family of a man who took up his sword against those who protect heretics will be slaughtered like animals." Elios rose to his feet, his robes flowing as he did so. "I will march with you." The words rang through the tent, settling like a hammer¡¯s strike. And with that, the tide shifted. One by one, the hesitant lords gave their solemn nods, their gazes shifting from one another before finally settling on Lysandros. It was clear now¡ªif Agripisio fell, it would not end there. Alpheo was not the kind of man to simply stop after crushing one so-called traitor. If he was willing to march upon the lands of a high lord in a blind fury, what was to stop him from turning his wrath upon the rest of them? If they stood by and did nothing, it was only a matter of time before their own homes were put to the torch, their banners trampled beneath the boots of the royal host. So, one by one, they rose from their seats. The rest, namely Niketas and Eurenis, had no choice but to follow. The decision was made. The march south would begin. Chapter 488: Rock of Aracina(1) Chapter 488: Rock of Aracina(1) The wind howled through the battlements like a dirge, carrying with it the scent of damp stone and cold iron. Asag stood motionless atop Aracina¡¯s walls, his cloak whipping behind him like a tattered standard. Below, the city roused itself¡ªnot with the orderly precision of a garrison preparing for war, but with the desperate, scrambling energy of a beast backed into a corner. Armor straps creaked as men tightened them with shaking hands. Bowstrings thrummed in testing pulls, the sound sharp as snapped bones. Soldiers sprinted along the ramparts, their boots hitting the stone of the wall as they reached their position Yet Asag¡¯s gaze never wavered from the horizon. The Oizenian host had come. They spread across the fields like a living flood, their banners¡ªblue as drowned flesh, crimson as fresh wounds¡ªsnapping in the wind. The weak dawn sun glinted off their spears, turning the distant ranks into a shifting, glittering nightmare. They moved with the terrible, rhythmic certainty of a storm front, their war drums pounding like the heartbeat of some vast and hungry beast. The ground trembled beneath their march. Asag¡¯s hands gripped the parapet, his knuckles bleaching to the color of old bone. The cold gnawed at his skin, but he ignored it. His mind was a whetstone, sharpening itself against the nightmare that would come. The Oizenians numbered between 2,500 and 3,000. Not a horde to shake the earth, but more than enough to drown Aracina in blood. His own forces? 1,050 men. A pitiful figure, and even that was a lie. Three hundred of them were barely soldiers¡ªpeasants and laborers handed spears, their armor little more than their tunic and desperation. Some carried nothing but sacks of stones to hurl when the arrows ran dry. They were meat for the grinder, bodies to clog the gears of the enemy¡¯s advance for a few precious seconds longer. Asag exhaled, watching his breath curl into the air like a dying man¡¯s last prayer. He knew why he had been sent here. He was not Jarza, Alpheo¡¯s iron fist, the general who always found a way to do Alpheo¡¯s bidding. Nor was he Egil, the hound of the crown, the man who was released only when bloodshed was required. No. Asag was neither. He was expendable. His purpose was not to win. It was to hold. To bleed. To die slowly enough that his corpse bought time. Alpheo needed days¡ªjust days¡ªto crush the rebellion in the north. Then, and only then, would he turn his gaze southward. And if Aracina¡¯s fall was the price? So be it , but he knew that the Oizenians would only rule over its ashes. If history remembered him as a fool, a failure, a man who broke beneath the tide, it did not matter. So long as his bones bought one more hour. The walls of Aracina were old, their stones worn smooth . But they would hold today. And so would he. The wind carried the stench of fear and iron as Asag leaned against the weathered parapet, his lips curling into a predator¡¯s smile. The memory played behind his eyes with perfect clarity - the Oizenian envoy¡¯s smug satisfaction when he¡¯d delivered his terms, the way the man¡¯s eyes had gleamed at what he thought was an easy victory. "If my prince does not relieve me within a week, I shall surrender the city to you." The lie had slipped from his tongue like honeyed poison. He could still see the envoy riding back to his prince, could still feel the delicious tension of those seven long days as the enemy host made camp beyond arrow range, their fires twinkling like mocking stars each night. Then, when the appointed hour came and the prince rode forth in his gilded plate to claim his prize, Asag had given his answer - not with steel, but with shit. The contents of every chamber pot in Aracina, collected in reeking buckets, rained down upon the prince¡¯s shining procession. The man¡¯s screams had carried all the way to the battlements, his polished armor dripping with the city¡¯s defiance. A dry chuckle escaped Asag¡¯s lips. Alpheo would have appreciated the crude poetry of it. The prince had the luxury of grand gestures - sweeping charges, cunning stratagems, but he always had a knucle for vulgar commedy. But Asag? He was just a stubborn bastard with nothing to lose. Who wouldn¡¯t mind having history remember him as the lord who fought with shit and spite if it must. His amusement faded as he turned to survey his men. Along the battlements, they stood like a gallery of doomed saints. The ground began to tremble. Not the subtle vibration of before, but a deep, rhythmic pounding that set the loose stones dancing along the walkway. Asag breathed deep, tasting iron and damp stone. This was where stories ended. Not with glorious last stands sung by bards, but in the mud and blood and shit of a city. His fingers found the notch in the parapet where an Oizenian arrow had struck yesterday - one more scar among many. The air grew thick with tension as the enemy host marched into range. The archers along Aracina¡¯s walls needed no command¡ªdeath was coming for them all, and only fools waited for permission to fight back. A hundred hands moved as one: calloused fingers finding familiar grooves in well-worn bows, arrows drawn from quivers , the rasp of fletching against wood as shafts were nocked. For a heartbeat, the world held its breath. Then the sky turned black. A storm of arrows screamed through the morning air, their deadly song a chorus of whistling death. The sound was almost beautiful¡ªuntil it found flesh. The Oizenian front ranks raised their shields in unison, the movement so practiced it might have been choreographed. Wood met arrowhead with a cacophony of splintering impacts. Some shafts shattered harmlessly against the thick oak planks. Others buried themselves deep, the fletching trembling like frightened birds. But death always finds its way. A soldier screamed as an arrow slipped between shield and helm, the broadhead punching through his cheekbone with a wet crunch. He staggered, hands fluttering uselessly toward the shaft protruding from his face . Another took an arrow through the knee, the barbed tip severing tendons with surgical precision. His leg buckled instantly, sending him sprawling as the ranks behind trampled over his writhing form. "Shields up! Keep formation!" bellowed an officer, his voice raw with panic. Too late. A second volley darkened the sky. This time, the arrows fell like judgment. A young soldier¡ªbarely more than a boy¡ªgasped as a shaft punched through his mail shirt as if the rings were mere parchment. He looked down in dumb shock at the feathered end protruding from his stomach, his fingers brushing it lightly before painfully keeping on marching. Nearby, a veteran cursed as an arrow pinned his shield arm. The pain came slow at first¡ªa dull pressure, then white-hot agony as the barbed head caught muscle with every movement. "Gods damn it!" he roared, trying in vain to wrench himself free without dropping his only protection. The screams rose in a ghastly chorus: "Gods Help me!" "Mother...oh mother..." "Pull it out! Just pull it¡ªAAAAAH!" Somewhere in the press, a man sobbed openly as he clutched at an arrow buried in his thigh, the shaft bobbing obscenely with each panicked breath. His companion tried to drag him forward, only to take an arrow through the throat mid-step. He collapsed without a sound, his blood arcing crimson over the churned earth. Still the advance continued. The dead became stepping stones. The wounded were left behind without a backward glance. The Oizenian host marched on, their boots churning the mud to bloody slurry as they closed the distance to Aracina¡¯s walls. And high above, Asag watched the carnage unfold, his face as unreadable as the stones beneath his hands. The archers were already reaching for fresh arrows, their movements mechanical, their eyes hollow. This was but the first verse of a much longer song¡ªone that would end in blood. The Oizenian tide, however, still rolled forward, unstoppable as the turning of the seasons. Shield walls locked tight, their overlapping rims forming an armored shell against the deadly rain from above. The once-distant walls now loomed overhead like the clenched teeth of some ancient beast, their shadow swallowing the advancing ranks whole. War horns split the air - not the clean, bright calls of morning drills, but the guttural bellowing of beasts scenting blood. The sound crawled up men¡¯s spines like cold fingers, driving them forward even as their guts turned to water. Then the ladders came. With a chorus of grunts and curses, teams of armored men heaved the ladders upward. The wooden frames groaned like living things, protesting the weight of desperate climbers. The garrison tried everything to fend the ladder away, but for every ladder that fell, two more took its place. "UP! DRIVE IT UP!" roared a soldier, his face a mask of sweat and dirt. His comrades obeyed, muscles corded like ship¡¯s rigging as they forced another ladder against the stones. The instant it struck, armored figures began swarming upward like ants on a honeyed branch. The defenders answered in kind as they could as after all the branch was their home. All along the wall, the dance of death played out in countless variations. Spears thrust downward found soft throats. Arrows fired at point-blank range punched through eye slits. Men grappled at the precipice, locked in final embraces where the only consummation was mutual destruction. And through it all, the drums kept pounding. The horns kept screaming. The walls kept demanding more blood, more bodies, and more broken dreams to mortar their unfeeling stones, aking to a bloody god whose hunger could never be satisfied. Chapter 489: Rock of Aracina(2) Chapter 489: Rock of Aracina(2) The first Oizenian warriors reached the top of the ladders with guttural roars, their swords already swinging before their boots touched stone. A defender lunged to meet the lead attacker, only for the enemy blade to carve through his throat in a crimson spray. The dying man staggered back, hands clutching at the ruin of his neck as the invader vaulted onto the battlements and planted his banner in the guts of another soldier. But triumph was fleeting - a spear took the Oizenian in the side, punching through his mail with a metallic snick. He snarled, gripping the shaft as if to snap it, then a second spear found his eye. He toppled backward, his body crashing down onto the climbers below and sending three men tumbling to their deaths in a tangle of limbs and shattered bones. The wall became a slaughterhouse. A young defender - barely more than a boy of 13 - swung a hatchet wildly . The warrior caught his wrist mid-swing and pulled hard , the bones popping like kindling. The boy screamed, but the sound was cut short as a dagger rammed up under his chin, its point bursting through his palate in a shower of teeth and blood. Nearby, a grizzled sergeant fought back-to-back with two of his men, their spears lashing out like serpents. One Oizenian fell with a gurgle, his throat opened to the spine. Another took a spear through the foot, pinning him to the walkway - right before a boot stomped down on his face, flattening his nose into pulp. But for every invader slain, two more took his place. An attacker waded into the fray, his spiked maul swinging in brutal arcs. The first blow shattered a defender¡¯s shield, the second caved in his chest. A spear jabbed at the brute¡¯s flank - he twisted, caught the shaft, and yanked, sending its wielder stumbling into the path of his maul. The impact turned the man¡¯s head into red mist. "PUSH THEM BACK!" someone bellowed - whether attacker or defender, none could say. The order was lost in the chaos as the Oizenians gained ground, step by bloody step. The defenders were being overwhelmed. Everyone could see that they were having the worse. A bloodied soldier swung a broken spear like a club until an axe split his skull. Another, backed against the parapet, chose the long drop rather than the enemy¡¯s blades - his scream ended abruptly on the stones below. And still the horns blew, and still the ladders came, and still the dead piled higher. Before the enemy foothold on the wall could spread further however , a new sound small and yet daunting joined the fray¡ªa rhythmic, metallic clinking, steady and ominous, like the sound of an iron tide rolling forward. The daunted defenders, some barely holding onto their ground, turned to see the source. And then their fear turned into joy. A formation of dozens of armored men, their bodies clad in steel, as the black and white wool put atop their armor revealed their identity, the Black Stripes. Long and grey chainmail¡¯s hood coming down from the nasal protection of the helmet, the newest change of the footman¡¯s standard equipment, hid their expressions as they advanced gripping their halberd tightly. They moved with slow, deliberate steps at first, but then, as soon as the pressed defenders opened a gap for them with a sudden, brutal surge, they crashed into the enemy ranks like an executioner¡¯s axe going for the neck of the sentenced. The long, wicked blades of the halberds bit deep into flesh, slicing through shields, armor, and bone alike. The abstract effect, of course, was immediate as a defender, a young man emboldened by their arrival, let out a desperate war cry, lunging forward with renewed fury. A halberdier beside him caught an Oizenian soldier mid-swing, hooking the end pickaxe of his weapon around the man¡¯s shoulder and yanking him forward, effectively saving the life of the young yet brave boy. The invader barely had time to cry out before another soldier¡¯s halberd came down like a headsman¡¯s stroke, cleaving his helmet nearly in two. "Is that all you have?!" one of the halberdiers bellowed as he thrust the spiked tip of his weapon into an enemy¡¯s gut, twisting it as the man choked on his own blood. Another let out a sharp laugh as he drove the spike-like back end of his halberd against an Oizenian¡¯s knee,embedding it just above the joint and sending the man tumbling before a downward stroke silenced his screams forever. "Go back to your fucking homes!This is our city!" one growled as he sent an enemy tumbling with the shaft over the edge of the parapet, his final scream lost to the battle¡¯s roar. The tide was turning. The Oizenian soldiers, once advancing with confidence, now found themselves reeling back, suddenly outmatched by the sheer brutality of these armored warriors, as at the end of the day while they were farmers and vagabonds given weapons, these were proper soldiers that, whenever they were not fighting, were instead training, and of course the difference was clear. One man, his face smeared with sweat and blood, stumbled backward, eyes darting wildly as he tried to process the slaughter before him. "Where the fuck did they come fro¡ª" He never finished. A halberd came down in a vicious arc, the spiky end crashing against his temple. His skull caved inward with a sickening crack, and his lifeless body crumpled to the blood-slicked stone, his final words drowned out by the ceaseless storm of steel and death. ------------- The runner¡¯s boots pounded against the blood-slick stones, each hurried footfall echoing through the chaos of the besieged walls. He skidded to a halt before Asag, chest heaving, his face streaked with soot and sweat. The young soldier didn¡¯t bother to wipe the grime from his eyes as he delivered his report. "My lord!" he gasped, slamming a fist against his breastplate in salute. "The eastern breach is secured! The wall holds!" A moment of silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant screams of battle and the constant thud of arrows against stone. Asag didn¡¯t move at first, his armored form as still as the statues that once adorned the city¡¯s gates. Then, slowly, he turned his head, the morning light catching the sharp angles of his face beneath his plumed helm. "Good," he said at last, the single word carrying the weight of a hundred unspoken orders. "Once the position is secured, pull seventy from the reserves to reinforce it. And have my personal unit recalled to the central bastion." The runner¡¯s nod was sharp, professional. "At once, my lord!" He spun on his heel, his cloak whipping behind him as he disappeared back into the maelstrom of battle. Asag exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible over the din of combat. His gaze swept across the embattled walls, taking in the ebb and flow of the desperate struggle. Six hundred men held the defenses now, their forms dark silhouettes against the rising smoke. Behind them, waiting in the shadowed courtyards and narrow streets, stood his remaining four hundred - the backbone of Aracina¡¯s defiance. His two hundred halberdiers, their polished weapons now dull with blood and grime. The hundred fresh-faced reinforcements from the capital, their pristine armor already bearing the scars of war. And the hundred local recruits, their faces still bearing that haunted look of men who had never imagined they¡¯d be fighting for their homes. But it was the halberdiers who had become legend in these past days. Where they marched, broken lines reformed. Where they stood, the tide of invaders broke like waves against a cliff. They moved through the battle like incarnations of death itself, their long weapons carving through enemy ranks with terrible efficiency, as while chaimail, for those who had in the enemy army , may have been useful against swords and spears, it was completely useless against the third corpse¡¯s polearm . The eastern wall¡¯s salvation had been no different - a collapsing defense, a desperate stand, then the sudden appearance of those gleaming halberds rising above the smoke like the standards of vengeful gods. Asag¡¯s gauntleted hands clenched against the parapet¡¯s cold stone. These men were more than soldiers - they were the nails holding Aracina together, the final barrier between survival and annihilation. Without them, the city would have fallen within hours of the first assault. A strange warmth flickered in his chest despite the morning¡¯s chill. Pride, perhaps, though it was a bitter sort. They might all die here, crushed beneath the Oizenian boot, but by the gods of war and warriors, they would be remembered. Not as victims, not as casualties, but as the immovable object that had made the unstoppable force bleed for every inch of ground. "Commander!" The shout pulled him from his thoughts. A soot-streaked soldier stood at attention, his breastplate dented from a recent blow. "The cauldrons are prepared," he reported, voice hoarse from shouting orders. Asag¡¯s gaze dropped to the scene below. The massive gates shuddered with each impact of the battering ram, the wood groaning like a living thing in pain. Boom. Boom. Boom. The rhythm was relentless, each strike sending a fresh shower of splinters into the air. The enemy soldiers worked with frantic energy, their faces twisted in exertion and anticipation, unaware of the horror about to be unleashed upon them. For a heartbeat, Asag simply watched. Then his head snapped up, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade through flesh. "Then by all the hells, what are you waiting for? Drown the bastards in it!" The soldier¡¯s eyes widened slightly at the venom in his commander¡¯s tone. He saluted sharply and turned to carry out the order, his boots pounding against the stone walkway as he ran to the waiting crews. Asag stepped forward, his armor creaking with the movement. The massive cauldrons stood ready along the battlements, their iron bellies glowing with contained fury. The air above them shimmered with heat, distorting the figures of the soldiers who stood ready to tip them forward. A slow, grim smile spread across Asag face as he watched his men prepare to unleash hell upon their attackers. And he knew that he was in, for the most beautiful melody he would have hear. Chapter 490: Rock of Aracina(3) Chapter 490: Rock of Aracina(3) The iron cauldrons tilted with a metallic groan, their searing contents spilling over the battlements in a shimmering golden torrent. For one suspended moment, the boiling sand caught the morning light, glittering like liquid fire as it arced through the air. Then it found its mark. The first screams weren¡¯t human. They were the shrieks of metal - the tortured hiss of superheated sand meeting cold steel armor. The battering ram crew never stood a chance. Their raised shields, so effective against arrows and stones, became instruments of their own torment. The cascading sand didn¡¯t strike - it flowed, it crept, it insinuated itself with malicious intelligence into every gap and crevice. An officer was the first to understand his fatal mistake. He watched in dawning horror as the golden cascade deflected off his shield... only to pour directly into the open visor of the man beside him. The soldier¡¯s scream started deep in his chest, a guttural animal sound that rose in pitch until it shattered into incoherent shrieking. He tore at his helmet with fingers already blistering, revealing a face that was no longer a face - just a bubbling, red ruin where features had been. All along the ram¡¯s crew, similar scenes unfolded. The sand worked its way under collars, trickled into gauntlets, seeped through mail rings to scald the flesh beneath. A burly soldier dropped to his knees, his mouth opening in a soundless scream as boiling grains found their way down his backplate. His armor contained the agony, turning his own steel shell into a cooking pot for his living flesh. The formation dissolved into chaos. Men who had stood shoulder to shoulder in disciplined ranks now clawed at each other in blind panic. A young soldier ripped off his gauntlet to reveal skin sloughing off in raw, pink strips. Another collapsed, his throat swelling shut as inhaled sand boiled his airways from within. From the walls, death continued to rain. Arrows found exposed necks and backs. Stones crushed skulls no longer protected by upraised shields. The once-mighty battering ram lay abandoned, its handlers scattered like leaves in a storm - some twitching in the dirt, others running madly toward their own lines while tearing at their armor. Men who had faced sword and spear without flinching now turned and fled from this invisible, insidious torment. They abandoned weapons, standards, even wounded comrades in their desperate retreat. The sand kept burning long after it had fallen, its victims still writhing in the dirt as their attackers dissolved into a routed mob. Now, with the ram left discarded at the feet of their gate, it was their time to deal with it. The gates groaned as they cracked open just wide enough for two armored figures to slip through. The first soldier moved with the precision of a veteran, his arms straining under the weight of a massive clay urn brimming with viscous, pungent oil. His companion followed close behind, clutching a pair of burning torches whose flames danced wildly. Without ceremony, the first man upended the urn over the abandoned battering ram. Thick, amber-colored oil cascaded across the siege engine¡¯s wooden frame, pooling in the intricate carvings of its iron-shod head before dripping onto the churned earth below. The acrid scent of rendered animal fat mixed with the metallic tang of blood still fresh on the battlefield. The torchbearer didn¡¯t hesitate. As soon as his comrade stepped clear, he thrust both flaming brands into the oil-slicked wood. The effect was immediate - flames roared to life with an audible whoosh, leaping up the ram¡¯s length like some primordial beast awakened from slumber. Heat radiated outward in palpable waves, forcing the soldiers to stagger back as their armor grew uncomfortably warm. They retreated through the gates just as the flames reached their zenith, the massive siege engine now fully engulfed in a conflagration that cast flickering orange light across the battlefield. The iron reinforcements glowed cherry-red, their once-proud sigils now indistinguishable as the fire consumed everything in its path. From his vantage point on the walls, Asag watched the panic spread through the Oizenian ranks with the cold precision of a tactician assessing a chessboard. What had begun as an orderly withdrawal from the gate area now threatened to become a full-scale rout. The sight of their prized battering ram - the instrument meant to break Aracina¡¯s defenses - reduced to a towering pyre proved too much for the already shaken attackers. Along the siege lines, ladders that had moments before been swarming with climbers were suddenly abandoned. Some Oizenian soldiers slid down the wooden rungs with reckless haste, while others simply leapt from terrifying heights, preferring broken legs to whatever horrors awaited them atop the walls. A few unfortunate souls remained trapped on their precarious perches, their desperate cries for help going unanswered as their comrades fled. The defenders¡¯ taunts rained down like arrows: "That¡¯s right, run back to your mother¡¯s skirts!" "Tell your prince we¡¯ve got more sand where that came from!" "Next time bring wine instead of swords - at least that we¡¯ll welcome!" Laughter and cheers echoed along the battlements, the giddy release of men who had stared death in the face and lived to jest about it. Weapons were raised in mocking salute to the retreating enemy, shields beaten in triumphant rhythm. Even the wounded joined in, their pain momentarily forgotten in the euphoria of survival. Yet amidst the celebration, Asag remained still as a statue, his gauntleted hands resting on the sun-warmed stone of the parapet. His sharp eyes tracked the fleeing enemy not with joy, but with calculation. The retreat was real - for now. But how long before their commanders restored order? How many hours until the next assault? The sun dipped lower in the sky, painting the battlefield in hues of gold and crimson that mirrored the still-burning ram. Shadows lengthened across the corpse-strewn field, where here and there a wounded man still twitched or cried out. The stench of burning wood and flesh hung heavy in the air. Asag inhaled deeply, tasting ash and blood on the wind. His gaze swept across his exhausted but victorious men, taking in their battered armor, their bloodied weapons, their faces lined with fatigue yet alight with hard-won triumph. ------------------ Prince Shamleik stood atop a small rise overlooking the battlefield, his gaze locked onto the retreating mass of his soldiers. His lips pressed into a firm, unyielding line, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, the leather of his gloves creaking under the pressure of his grip. The remnants of the day¡¯s failed assault lay scattered before him¡ªabandoned ladders, fallen bodies, and the smoldering ruin of the battering ram, now little more than a blackened husk at the city¡¯s gate. And above it all, the walls of Aracina stood tall and proud, unbroken, unbowed. The defenders had begun their jeering. He could hear them from across the field¡ªmocking cries ringing out over the battlements, their voices carrying the unmistakable bite of triumph. Some of his soldiers cast bitter glances over their shoulders, while others trudged away with slumped shoulders, knowing that today, once again, they had achieved nothing. Shamleik felt the shame of it gnaw at his gut like a starving beast. This was not just a failed attack; this was an insult, one that festered deep in his soul. Aracina had defied him before, and now, it mocked him again. The same city that had humiliated his bloodline still stood before him, its banners fluttering lazily in the evening wind, as if reveling in his failure. He had been played for a fool¡ªforced to spend precious time and men , all because of some stubborn cur unwilling to surrender when given the chance. His patience was thinning, and the desire to grind those walls to dust had never burned hotter. Yet, he remained still, his face betraying nothing. At his side, his nephew shifted restlessly. The young man had been watching the retreat as well, his jaw tight with frustration. There was anger in his eyes, but more than that, there was a wound that had never healed. Two years ago, he had fallen prisoner to this very city after a reckless night attack ended in disaster. It was a humiliation that still clung to him, an open sore that had never scabbed over especially politically he had never recovered from that. His voice was edged with that same bitterness as he spoke. "Uncle," he said, his words carefully measured, though his temper frayed at the edges. "Shall we rally the men and force them back into the assault? One more push, and we might¡ª" "No." Shamleik¡¯s answer was cold, unyielding. The young man faltered, caught off guard by the finality of the response. His lips parted slightly, as if to protest, but something in his uncle¡¯s tone silenced him. There was no sense in pushing exhausted men into another assault when they had already been beaten back once today. The city had survived this battle, but battles were not wars. He turned instead to another figure standing a few paces behind¡ªa man draped in dust-stained robe. The chief engineer had been waiting in silence, knowing that his time to speak would come. "How long?" Shamleik asked, his voice sharp and to the point. The engineer bowed his head in deference before answering. "By the end of the week, Your Highness. Then, it will be usable." At last, Shamleik allowed himself a slow nod. Satisfaction crept into his expression, though it did little to smother the simmering anger beneath. He turned his gaze back toward the walls, his mind already moving beyond today¡¯s failure. Let the defenders have their laughter, their taunts, their moment of glory. By the end of the week, Aracina would not be laughing anymore. Prince Shamleik slowly turned to his nephew, his gaze cold yet purposeful. The young man straightened under the weight of his uncle¡¯s stare, standing stiff as a soldier awaiting judgment. For a long moment, the prince simply studied him¡ªthis boy, once a proud commander, now a man clawing for redemption. Then, Shamleik spoke, his voice measured but laced with iron. "You will finally have the chance to avenge your shame," he said, his words deliberate, each one sinking into the nephew like a blade. "And you will do so by bringing this city to me and with it the head of that cur who call himself lord." The young man¡¯s breath hitched, but he did not dare interrupt. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, not in anger, but in restrained anticipation. "The day our preparations are complete," Shamleik continued, his expression unreadable, "you will once again lead my royal footmen onto the enemy¡¯s walls. Personally." For the first time since the battle began, his nephew¡¯s eyes lit up. This was not just an order; it was a return to what had been stolen from him. He bowed his head deeply, his voice steady but carrying the weight of two years of disgrace. "I will not displease you again, my prince." He relished the command, knowing that this was the moment he had waited for. Since his capture, since his defeat, he had been cast aside, stripped of his title as commander of the prince¡¯s elite footmen. He had once stood at the head of three hundred of the finest warriors in Shamleik¡¯s host, men clad in armor meant for kings. But that was before. Now, only one hundred and thirty of them remained, the last remnants of a once-unstoppable force. The others had died in Aracina, on that cursed night of his failure, and the armor that had once belonged to them now graced the Low Prince¡¯s White Army. His humiliation had not ended with his capture¡ªit had been paraded on the backs of his enemies. No longer. He lifted his head, his jaw set with renewed determination. "I swear it, my prince. This time, Aracina will fall." Chapter 491: Developments(1) Chapter 491: Developments(1) Robert moved through the rebel camp, his steps heavy with the weariness of two days of hard marching. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, damp earth, and the lingering smoke of cookfires. The camp sprawled across the field, a sea of tents and banners rippling in the wind, each bearing the colors of different lords who had cast their lot in this war. Men sat in clusters, tending to their weapons,massaging their foot , or gnawing at hardened bread. Some sharpened blades with quiet focus, while others muttered prayers or shared uneasy laughter, trying to shake off the fatigue that clung to them like a second skin. The horses, tethered near the supply wagons, shifted restlessly, snorting as stable hands moved among them. Robert barely spared any of it a glance. He had seen camps like this before, knew the pattern well¡ªwhere the archers clustered, where the sellswords camped apart from the sworn banners, where the wounded lay in rows beneath canvas awnings, tended by priests and healers. He walked with purpose, his gaze fixed ahead, his thoughts already in the tent that awaited him. At last, he came upon it¡ªa great pavilion, larger than the others, its dark fabric lined with golden embroidery that caught the torchlight. It stood beside a towering pole, atop which the Star of the Gods gleamed against the night sky. Robert halted in front of the tent, his eyes lingering on the banner. For a long moment, he simply stood there, staring at it, as if seeking some unspoken answer in its silent folds. The light from the torches cast flickering shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw, the unreadable expression in his eyes. Then, without another moment¡¯s hesitation, he reached forward, pulled back the heavy flap, and stepped inside. The tent was nearly barren, its vast space empty save for a single figure kneeling in the dim glow of candlelight. Elios, the old priest, knelt upon the dirt, his hands clasped together, his head bowed in solemn prayer. His lips moved soundlessly, murmuring words meant only for the gods, his frail frame still as a stone. The air inside the tent was thick with incense, the faint scent of myrrh lingering from some earlier ritual. Robert made no move to disturb him. He simply stepped inside and lowered himself onto the ground, resting his arms on his knees as he sat in silence. He was in no rush. The only sound that broke the quiet was the soft clinking of metal as Robert shifted¡ªhis armor, still strapped to him from the long march, settling against itself. It was a subtle noise, but Elios, even lost in his devotion, clearly noticed it. Still, he did not falter, did not lift his gaze or pause his whispered words. Minutes passed, the air between them heavy with the weight of unspoken thoughts. Then, at last, Elios straightened, his aged joints creaking softly as he rose from his kneeling position. His eyes, deep-set and sharp despite his years, regarded the barely younger man with something between amusement and concern. "It has been some time since I have seen you in prayer," Elios said, his voice carrying the gentle rasp of age. "I had begun to worry that I had caused you to lose your rekindled faith." His tone was light, but beneath it lay the edge of true worry, of a man who had spent years trying to guide another down a righteous path. "And I thank you," he added with a slight nod, "for allowing me to finish without interruption. The gods always deserve our full devotion, no matter who waits outside their house." Robert exhaled slowly, pressing his hands against his knees before pushing himself to his feet. The dirt clung to his armor where he had sat, but he paid it no mind. "When a teacher shows his bad sides," Robert said, stretching his shoulders slightly, "it tends to stick. Maybe I learned a little too much from you." There was something almost teasing in his words, but the weight behind them was real. Elios had been a mentor, a guide¡ªbut like all men, he was flawed. And Robert, for all his doubts and defiance, had been watching, learning, absorbing. Elios¡¯s expression darkened, a shadow of pain flickering across his aged features. His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, the weight of his years seemed to settle heavier upon him. He folded his hands before him, exhaling slowly, as if choosing his next words with great care. "Robert," he said, his voice softer now but no less firm, "we are all human. And as humans, sometimes we must be capable of evil to achieve a greater good." He turned slightly, his gaze drifting toward the tent¡¯s entrance as though looking beyond it¡ªbeyond the camp, beyond the war, to the suffering that stretched across the land. "Have you not seen the despair that festers in every corner of this world? The people abandoned, left to rot, while those entrusted with their well-being grow fat off their misery? They cut the wool, then the skin, and leave the sheep bleeding and dying." He turned back to Robert, his eyes searching. "Tell me, how can you look upon that and call inaction virtue?" Robert let out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked away for a moment. "If you want to defend your belief over who should rule the land," he muttered, "you¡¯re wasting air." His voice carried neither mockery nor anger, just exhaustion¡ªof a man who had long since tired of such arguments. "I¡¯ve seen enough to know that a ruler¡¯s goodness means little. I have watched the princess and her husband¡ªseen the things they have done." He looked back at Elios now, his expression unreadable. "They are not good people, and yet their people prosper. They drink their wine and toast their names." His jaw tightened slightly. "A man can be evil, and still the people may gain from him. They may even love him for it.A good country is not formed on virtue, but on the pain on those from other countries.A man happiness can only start from the pain of another" For a moment, silence stretched between them, tense but not hostile. Then Robert shook his head. "But I didn¡¯t come here for a debate on philosophy." His voice was firm now, cutting through the moment like a blade. He took a step forward, his gaze steady. "I came to ask you some questions." Robert crossed his arms, his gaze unwavering as he fixed Elios with a look of quiet scrutiny. His voice was steady, tinged with a hint of frustration, though measured in tone. "I fail to understand why we are marching south," he said bluntly. "Until now, we have done nothing but evade battle. Yet now, suddenly, we change course." He narrowed his eyes slightly, as if trying to see through whatever veil of secrecy Elios had drawn over the matter. "I may have fallen low, but do not mistake me for a fool. I still have years of war behind me, and I know a shift in tactics when I see one." His brow furrowed. "Something has happened. What is it?" Elios studied him for a moment, then, to Robert¡¯s surprise, he smiled. It was not the kind of smile one gives an old friend, nor a triumphant grin of a man gloating over secrets he held¡ªit was the smile of a man whose faith had been rewarded. "The gods," Elios said, his voice carrying a quiet certainty, "have provided for the righteous." Robert exhaled sharply through his nose"You always talk in riddles." Elios chuckled softly, shaking his head. "No riddle this time," he said. "Normally, I would not share such news so freely, but there has been a great development." He took a step closer, his eyes gleaming with something that Robert could only describe as conviction. "The prince¡¯s host is not as united as it appears." Robert¡¯s brows lifted slightly. Elios continued, his voice lowering ever so slightly. "It seems that many within his ranks do not support him¡ªespecially after discovering his true position." Robert frowned. "His true position?" Elios nodded. "Many nobles are willing to defect to us," he said, his tone confident, as though he were already envisioning the outcome. "They are prepared to turn against the prince, to force him to the negotiating table¡ªto end this war before it drags on for years to come." Robert¡¯s posture stiffened, his instincts prickling with unease as he processed Elios¡¯s words. A shift like this¡ªnobles turning against their prince so suddenly¡ªfelt too convenient. His fingers twitched at his side as a knot of anxiety formed in his gut. His voice was tense when he finally spoke. "And how, exactly, has this... development come about?" He tried to keep his tone neutral, but there was an edge to it, a wariness that Elios could not have missed. Elios, however, seemed entirely at ease. "An envoy sent by Lord Damaris informed us of the prince¡¯s growing isolation," he explained, his voice carrying the same quiet confidence it always did. "He brought word of discontent among the lords, of their unwillingness to fight for a cause that does not serve them¡ª" Robert¡¯s ears rang, drowning out Elios¡¯s words as the realization struck him like a hammer to the skull. Was he truly the only one that realised it? They weren¡¯t seizing an opportunity¡ªthey were marching straight into a trap. As for the reason on why he knew that, it was rather easy. He was made to prepare one long ago. Chapter 492: Developments(2) Chapter 492: Developments(2) Lord Eurenis, a man well into his fifties, with sharp, hawkish features and a knowing smirk, leaned forward, studying Robert with open amusement. His voice, laced with intrigue and mockery, broke through the silence. "Well now," he said, his lips curling into a smirk, "I never imagined I would find the right hand of Prince Arkawatt among us.How long has it been?At least four years since we laid eyes on each other.." Robert met his gaze without reaction. He didn¡¯t scoff, didn¡¯t frown, didn¡¯t even raise an eyebrow. He simply took in a slow, measured breath, as if steeling himself against the weight of old ghosts pressing in from the past. Eurenis chuckled, amused by the lack of response. "Things went very well for you after your prince¡¯s unfortunate demise, didn¡¯t they?" he continued, resting an elbow on the arm of his chair. "A castle, new lands, a fine title¡ªyou were made a lord.I suppose you should have been among the most loyal to the princess or rather to her dog." His eyes glinted as he leaned back, crossing his arms. "And yet, here you are, sitting among those marching against the crown. You must understand our surprise. After all, none of us had any idea you were here." The gathered lords exchanged glances, some curious, others suspicious. Robert slowly exhaled, forcing himself to remain still. He let his gaze drift over to Elios, the man who had vouched for him, despite his doubts. For all his zealous belief in the gods, Elios had at least understood the value of hearing Robert out, but that did not mean he believed him. It was because of him that Robert was here at all. A rare flicker of gratitude passed through him, though he said nothing of it. "Lord Robert," Niketas greeted smoothly. "I have not seen your banner anywhere among the host. One would think a man of your reputation would ride beneath his own colors.I apologize for the lack of company from us, but as lord Eurenis has said, we were not aware of your presence." Robert met his gaze, his expression unreadable. He did not fidget, did not shift uncomfortably like a lesser man caught out of place. Instead, he exhaled slowly through his nose, tilting his head ever so slightly before replying, "That¡¯s because my banner isn¡¯t here." His voice was level, almost indifferent. "My son holds the reins of my house now. I¡¯ve come here for... something personal." Niketas studied him for a moment, but before he could probe further, Robert continued. "I¡¯ve thrown my lot in with this cause, and I will see it to the end." Before anyone could respond, Lord Lysandros scoffed, his patience clearly thinning. He leaned forward, his sharp, predatory gaze sweeping between Robert and Elios. "Enough pleasantries," Lysandros said, his tone edged with irritation, as the constant knowledge that his family could be in danger made him feel jumpy . "I want to know why we were called here¡ªwhy Elios went out of his way to arrange this little gathering just so you could present yourself." His gaze flicked to Elios for the briefest moment before settling back on Robert. "There must be a reason for this, and I expect to hear it." "There is a reason," he conceded "And that reason is to stop you from making a colossal mistake." He let the words settle, let the tension in the room grow thick as the lords processed them. Then, with a measured pause, he added, "A mistake that will ruin any chance of victory before the true war has even begun." The tent was silent now. The weight of his words lingered, pressing heavy against those gathered, as if the very air itself had thickened with their meaning. Robert turned his gaze to Lord Eurenis, his expression unreadable, though his eyes carried a weight that was impossible to ignore. He let the silence stretch, watching the other man, before finally speaking. "Tell me, Lord Eurenis," he said, his voice level, "do you know why I was given titles and fiefs from the crown?" Eurenis furrowed his brow slightly, as if trying to measure the intent behind the question. "Was it not for your long and steadfast loyalty to her father?" he asked. Robert exhaled slowly and shook his head. "She wouldn¡¯t give half a rat¡¯s corpse for her own blood," he said flatly. "Loyalty meant nothing to her. No, the reason for my generous rewards was because I was the one who led Lord Ormund and his eldest son into an ambush that cost them their lives." A quiet tension gripped the tent as the lords stiffened, their expressions shifting from curiosity to unease. Some leaned forward slightly, others exchanged glances, but none interrupted. Robert pressed on. "I was made to act as the princess¡¯ envoy, sent to beg her uncles to raise their men and come to her aid," he continued. "At the time, the city was controlled by mercenaries, the prince consorts¡¯, and she played the role of the desperate ruler, pleading for support." More than a few lords tensed at his words, realization beginning to set in, though Robert did not stop. "Lord Ormund answered the call," he said, his voice taking on a grim edge. "He was invited to take the throne, promised power on the condition that he betrothed his eldest son to her." The lords remained deathly silent. "And so he marched," Robert went on, his tone edged with bitter finality. "But before he could grasp what was promised, he was ambushed by the prince consort and his men, cut down before he ever had the chance to take the crown he had been lured toward.Useless to say instead of a crown he was given a sword to the throat" He let his gaze sweep over the assembled lords, their faces now carved from stone as the weight of his words settled upon them. "Does any of this feel familiar?" he asked, his voice cold and steady. "It should." He let the silence stretch before finishing, "Because it is the same trick being used on you." Lord Lysandros leaned forward, his hands pressing against the wooden table as his sharp eyes bore into Robert. His voice carried the steel of conviction, unshaken by the revelation. "We have proof that says otherwise," he declared. "You expect us to throw all of that away based on your word alone?" Robert didn¡¯t flinch. He had expected resistance. He had expected doubt. His fingers tapped once against his knee before he spoke, his voice unwavering. "I don¡¯t care what proof you have," he said, meeting Lysandros¡¯ gaze without hesitation. "Documents, envoys, oaths are sworn before the gods themselves¡ªit changes nothing. This stinks of the Alpheo¡¯s plans, and I will believe that until the day I die. You should, too." A heavy silence settled over the tent, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows against the canvas walls. The gathered lords exchanged glances, the weight of Robert¡¯s warning hanging thick in the air. For a brief moment, it seemed as if doubt had begun to claw its way into the rebel host¡¯s council. Then, Lysandros straightened, his jaw tightening as he looked around the tent. His eyes hardened as he swept his gaze over his fellow lords before speaking with a voice like tempered steel. "Trap or not, those bastards are going for my family" he said. "Nothing will stop me from marching down onto the Low Prince." His hand curled into a fist against the table. "Nothing." From the side, another voice broke through the tension. Lord Niketas stepped forward, his expression resolute. "The proof we¡¯ve received is too tangible for it to be some mere trick," he stated firmly. "It¡¯s too much for the prince to fake. The lords must understand that they are sorrounded and are jumping from the dead horse to the riding one." Murmurs of agreement stirred among the gathered lords. The tide of the conversation was shifting, and Robert could see it. Yet, despite the tightening noose of their determination, he could not let himself back down. Because if he was right, they were marching toward disaster. They had already set their sights on the march south, their convictions locked in like iron gates. There was no stopping them¡ªnot with words alone. But perhaps... they could be guided. He lifted his gaze, sweeping over the gathered lords, measuring their resolve. Then, with a voice steady as a seasoned commander addressing his men before battle, he spoke. "If you believe this is the truth, then that is your right," Robert said, his tone neither mocking nor patronizing. "If you are certain this path leads to victory, I will not be the one to wrench you from it." He let the words settle for a moment before continuing. "But if there is even the smallest chance that what I say holds truth, even the slimmest possibility that this is a trap, would it not be worth taking some... precautions?" The firelight flickered in their eyes, illuminating the moment of thought his words had earned. "Precautions that, should things turn for the worse, do not cost you the war in one fell swoop." His gaze hardened as he leaned forward, his next words carrying weight. "Let me be the one to lead the vanguard." Chapter 493: The mountain on where the waves shall shatter(1) Chapter 493: The mountain on where the waves shall shatter(1) The morning air hung heavy with the scent of smoke and damp earth as Asag stood motionless atop the battlements, his fingers tracing the rough edges of stone pitted by the harm of a siege. Below him, the city stirred like a wounded beast¡ªthe clang of armor being adjusted, the murmur of exhausted soldiers exchanging quiet words. His gaze swept across the enemy encampment, noting the purposeful movements that signaled fresh preparations for assault. Then he saw it¡ªthe siege tower. A hulking monstrosity of dark timber, its surface slick with freshly treated ox hides that would resist fire and arrows alike. It stood motionless for now,like a giant that would not be bothered by ants, but its very presence sent a ripple of unease through the defenders lining the walls. Even the veterans, who had faced countless assaults without flinching, gripped their weapons tighter at the sight. The first week had been brutal but survivable. The thunderous impacts of battering rams had shaken the gates, yet the ancient timbers, hardened by decades of sun and wind, had held. Each assault had ended the same¡ªwith cauldrons of boiling sand poured onto the attackers, with arrows finding chinks in armor, with the enemy breaking against their defenses like waves against unyielding cliffs. The walls themselves bore witness to their stubborn defiance. Every stone seemed stained with blood, every parapet painted read . When the enemy had managed to gain footholds¡ªwhen their banners had momentarily fluttered atop the battlements¡ªAsag had led the countercharges. His elite troops moved with terrifying precision, their halberds rising and falling in deadly rhythm until the invaders were swept away like autumn leaves before a storm. They had turned even death into a weapon. Fallen Oizenian soldiers were stripped of anything useful¡ªarmor patched and repurposed, weapons redistributed, bodies unceremoniously dumped back over the walls. It was grim, necessary work that left no room for dignity or ceremony. Asag¡¯s jaw tightened as he considered their dwindling resources. A city of 5,500 souls sounded substantial until you needed every able body to hold a wall. The young men had been the first to answer the call¡ªboys who should have been learning trades now stood with spears in hands that still remembered toys. When they proved insufficient, he had turned to the old veterans¡ªmen who had last held weapons decades ago, their joints protesting every movement, their eyes still sharp but their reflexes slowed by time. Now even that wasn¡¯t enough and they found themselves taking even older people. If things continued at that pace, they were soon to visit graveyards Yet against all odds, the city stood. Against rams, against ladders, against the endless tide of soldiers¡ªAracina endured. A cold wind stirred Asag¡¯s cloak as he exhaled slowly. The siege tower would come today¡ªhe could feel it in his bones. When it did, they would face their greatest test yet. Somewhere below, a child¡¯s laughter rang out¡ªa bright, incongruous sound amidst the preparations for war. It had been days since he had heard any....and it felt as if seeing a flower bloom from the snowy peak of a mountain, impervious to the wind and nature, beautiful in its brave nonchalance. Asag¡¯s gaze lingered on the siege tower for one final, calculating moment before turning sharply toward the engineer. The man stood rigid, his posture betraying the tension coiling through him like an overwound spring. His fingers twitched where they were clasped behind his back, nails digging into his own palms. "Report," Asag commanded, the single word cracking through the air like a whip. The engineer¡¯s throat worked as he swallowed. "All preparations are complete, my lord," he said, choosing each word with the care of a man walking through a minefield. "Though..." His voice faltered for just an instant. "The exact positioning remains uncertain. Only the gods can say if our calculations¡ª" "Gods?" Asag interrupted. He stepped closer, close enough to see the sweat beading along the engineer¡¯s hairline. "Tell me, when has divine providence ever stopped an arrow? Stayed a blade? Or perhaps..." His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, "you¡¯re counting on the gods to dig your trenches for you?Isn¡¯t it your job to make sure everything goes well?" The engineer¡¯s jaw clenched, but to his credit, he didn¡¯t shrink back. "The work is done to the best of our ability, my lord. The men have been digging since¡ª" "I don¡¯t care about their blisters," Asag snapped. "I care about results." His hand came up, gesturing toward the approaching siege tower. "That will be here within the hour. If your men have failed..." He let the implication hang in the air between them. A muscle jumped in the engineer¡¯s cheek. He knew the unspoken truth as well as any - if their preparations failed, there would be no glorious last stand. Just slaughter. And men like him, men who knew the art of siegecraft, would find themselves with particularly unpleasant choices when the walls fell. The Oizenians might value his skills, but Asag¡¯s loyalists would ensure he never lived to share them. The distant bellow of a warhorn cut through the morning air, its deep-throated cry rolling across the battlefield like thunder. Every man on the walls stiffened. Below them, the massive siege tower lurched forward, its iron-shod wheels crushing the churned earth as it began its inexorable advance. Asag didn¡¯t flinch at the sound. His attention remained fixed on the engineer for one more heartbeat before turning back to survey the approaching doom. "Cut the support pillars," he ordered, his voice devoid of inflection. "And pray that you won¡¯t need the gods" The engineer opened his mouth then thought better of it. With a sharp nod, he turned and began bellowing orders to the sappers waiting below. The time for calculations was over. Now they would see whose preparations had been more thorough - the attackers who had spent weeks building their engines of war, or the defenders who had spent their nights digging in desperate secrecy. Asag¡¯s hand rested on his sword hilt as he watched the tower advance. Around him, archers nocked arrows, oil pots were positioned along the battlements, and the city¡¯s last reserves took their positions. The moment of truth was coming. And when it arrived, there would be no gods to save them - only steel, and fire, and the will to survive. --------------------- Shawona stood like a statue at the siege tower¡¯s forefront, his blackened plate armor drinking in the pale morning light. Around him, the last of Oizen¡¯s elite - one hundred and fifty men who still wore the royal crest with pride - stood motionless as the war machine lurched forward. Their polished armor whispered with each creaking movement of the massive siege engine, the sound like a death knell counting down their approach. This was no ceremonial command for some pampered noble. When the Prince had ordered him to lead the assault, there¡¯d been no mistaking his meaning. Not from some safe vantage point behind the lines. Not even from the tower¡¯s base. First man up. First blade over the wall. First blood spilled - or first corpse to tumble back down. The thought made Shawona¡¯s gauntleted hands clench into fists. Two years. Two long years of humiliation since that cursed night when these very walls had swallowed him whole. The memory still burned - the surprise attack in darkness, the shame of capture, watching his prized Royal Footmen slaughtered or scattered while he languished in chains. Now barely half his original three hundred remained, their finest armor stripped away to outfit the enemy¡¯s White Army. Every clank of ill-fitting replacement plate was a fresh insult. But today... today the reckoning would come. The siege tower groaned like a living thing as it inched forward, its massive wheels crushing stone and bone alike beneath its weight. Shawona rode the shuddering platform with the balance of a seasoned warrior, his gaze never leaving the battlements ahead. Somewhere up there, he knew Asag would be waiting. The thought sent a fresh wave of fury through his veins. Around him, even the most hardened veterans couldn¡¯t completely hide their tension. A man to his left kept adjusting his grip on his sword. Another muttered prayers to gods Shawona had long since stop trusting The siege tower groaned forward, its massive wheels crushing stone and earth beneath its relentless advance. Shawona stood immovable at its forefront, his armored boots planted firmly on the trembling wooden platform. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels, the creak of stressed timber, the muffled curses of men shifting their weight - all faded beneath the pounding of his own pulse in his ears. His gaze remained locked on the battlements ahead, those cursed stones that had witnessed his humiliation two years past. Then - a shudder. Different this time. "Steady!" he barked, though something primal in his gut tightened in warning. The tower righted itself momentarily, continuing its advance. Then came the second jolt - more violent than the first. The entire structure tilted at a sickening angle, timbers screaming in protest. Shawona¡¯s stomach dropped as the floor beneath him shifted unnaturally. Men crashed into each other, armor clanging like discordant bells. ¡¯¡¯WH-¡¯¡¯ The words died in his throat as the world turned upside down. One moment he was standing firm, the next he was weightless. The platform beneath his feet simply vanished, swallowed by a thunderous roar of splintering wood. The air filled with the shrieks of twisting metal and the terrified cries of men suddenly finding nothing but empty space where solid footing had been. Shawona¡¯s body reacted before his mind could comprehend - arms flailing, legs kicking at nothing. His vision became a chaotic blur of sky and earth trading places, of armored figures tumbling through space like discarded dolls. Someone¡¯s gauntleted hand brushed against his, fingers grasping desperately before being torn away by the merciless pull of gravity. Time stretched thin in that endless moment of falling. Then the ground rushed up to meet him with terrible finality. The last thing Shawona saw before impact was the distant battlements - still standing, still defiant - before darkness swallowed his vision whole. The impact never came. Or if it did, he didn¡¯t feel it. There was only the endless fall, the crushing weight of failure, and the bitter realization that the wall would never be his. Not today. Not ever. And then - nothing. Chapter 494: The mountains on where the waves shatter(2) Chapter 494: The mountains on where the waves shatter(2) Asag had once been a boy who believed in gods. He remembered kneeling before the family shrine, going to the temple at least once a week, his small hands pressed together, whispering evening prayers to the Five Gods Above , with the earnest devotion only a child could muster. The All-Knower¡¯s wisdom, the Bringer of Mercy¡¯s compassion, the Warrior of Wrath¡¯s strength, the Sea-God¡¯s tides, and the Father of Laws¡¯ order - he knew each by heart, believed each would protect him if he proved faithful enough. Night after night he prayed until his knees ached against stone and his voice grew hoarse. He truly believed devotion would earn divine protection, that the gods would smooth his path if he never faltered. They didn¡¯t. When yellow fever came, it took his mother slowly. She¡¯d been strong - broad-shouldered, warm, her hands calloused from fieldwork. The sickness withered her like blighted crops. Asag spooned broth between her cracking lips, wiped sweat from her brow with trembling hands. Every night he knelt before the shrine, whispering to the Bringer of Mercy until his voice broke, weeping until his tears darkened the altar¡¯s wood. "Please," he begged. "Don¡¯t take her." The fever burned through her anyway. Then came the drought. Fields that once rippled gold turned brittle brown. Earth cracked like old bones under a merciless sky. His father - who¡¯d never bowed to anyone - knelt in dust and prayed to the All-Knower for rain. None came. Debt followed. First for seed, then for food, then for one more desperate season, one more gamble that the gods might finally listen. They didn¡¯t. When lenders came to collect, nothing remained but flesh. Asag, eldest, saw how their eyes measured him and his brothers - four strong boys, one girl. A family¡¯s worth reduced to silver. That night his father sat hollow-eyed at the table. No words were needed. At dawn, he and one of his brothers were gone. His father¡¯s once-steady hands trembled around a coin pouch, which must have weighed more than everything he¡¯s ever held in his hands, or at least he believed so . Asag never prayed again. Faith was for those who could afford delusions. The gods didn¡¯t answer. Either they didn¡¯t care or they did not exist, both were as terrifying as the other. He learned the only truth that mattered: The world didn¡¯t care if you believed in it. It would break you anyway. And so he watched them, kneeling on the stone, hands clasped so tightly their knuckles whitened, faces lifted to the heavens in trembling reverence. When the siege tower collapsed¡ªwhen the wooden giant, the supposed unbreakable instrument of their doom, was swallowed by the very earth beneath it¡ªthere had been a single heartbeat of silence. Then, as if gripped by some divine revelation, the men on the walls had thrown themselves into desperate prayer. They believed. They believed the gods had intervened, that She Who Brings Mercy had looked down upon their plight and deemed them worthy of salvation. They saw the shattered ruin of their enemy¡¯s greatest weapon and thought it proof of divine providence, a miracle woven into the fabric of the mortal world. It disgusted him. They called it a miracle. They claimed the gods had reached down and smote their enemies. They believed. Of course they did. Men always needed something to believe in, especially when facing death. And what better comfort than the idea that divine forces favored their cause? That their suffering mattered to powers greater than themselves? That there was meaning in the blood and the mud and the screaming? Asag knew better. There had been no divine hand at work here. No merciful goddess intervening on their behalf. Only careful planning, backbreaking labor, and precise timing. His engineers had spent sleepless nights digging those tunnels, reinforcing them just enough to hold until the crucial moment. This wasn¡¯t a miracle , the gods had nothing to do with it, he had instead everything in it. Simple strategy. Simple murder on a grand scale. By human minds and by human hand. Yet he said nothing to dispel their illusions. Let them believe. Let them kneel and pray and thank their absent gods. He thought as he laid eyes on one man crying with hands toward the sky. Because faith, however misplaced, made men fight harder. A soldier who thought the gods favored him would stand when his body begged to collapse. Would raise his sword when his arms screamed in protest. Would hold the line even as death stared him in the face. Faith was a weapon as sharp as any blade, and Asag would wield it without remorse. His gaze drifted back to the ruined tower, where the last groans of the dying were fading into silence. This victory had bought time - precious, irreplaceable time. But it hadn¡¯t won the war. Somewhere in the enemy camp, sharp minds were already piecing together what had really happened. Engineers would examine the wreckage. Scouts would search for clues. And eventually, inevitably, they would find the tunnels. That couldn¡¯t be allowed. Asag turned sharply, his eyes finding the lead engineer amidst the celebrating soldiers. The man was grinning like a fool, his face alight with the giddy pride of a craftsman who had just seen his creation perform perfectly. There was something almost childlike in his delight, as if he¡¯d pulled off some grand prank rather than orchestrated mass slaughter. "Collapse the mines," Asag ordered when he reached him, his voice low but carrying the unmistakable weight of command. "Every last tunnel. Fill the entrances and pack them tight." The engineer¡¯s grin didn¡¯t fade - if anything, it grew sharper, more feral. There was a particular kind of man who took joy in destruction, even when it was his own carefully built structures being reduced to rubble. With a quick, almost jaunty salute, he turned and vanished into the crowd, already shouting orders to his crew. Asag watched him go, then returned his attention to the field beyond the walls. The enemy would regroup. They would come again, harder and angrier than before. And when they did, he would be ready. Because while faith might move men, it was cold, ruthless calculation that won wars. And Asag had long since stopped believing in anything else. ---------- Shamleik sat rigid in the saddle, his gauntleted hands clenched so tightly around the reins that the leather groaned in protest. The world seemed to narrow to the sight before him - two armored soldiers bearing the broken body of his nephew with terrible solemnity. They moved as if carrying something sacred, their steps measured, their heads bowed. But no amount of reverence could disguise the awful truth: Shawona, firstborn son of his brother, scion of royal blood, now just another corpse on this gods-forsaken battlefield. The body made no sound as they laid it gently upon the earth. No groan of pain, no final rattling breath. Just the dull thud of dead weight meeting hard ground. Shamleik¡¯s throat tightened as he took in the ruin of what had once been a proud warrior. The armor was dented beyond recognition, the once-polished steel now caked with dirt and blood. Shawona¡¯s face, normally so full of fierce vitality, looked strangely peaceful in death - as if he¡¯d simply closed his eyes for rest rather than had them forever stilled by the crushing embrace of earth and timber. A father should never have to bury his son. The thought struck Shamleik like a physical blow, stealing his breath. His brother would be shattered. The man who had sent his firstborn to war would now receive him back as cold meat wrapped in funeral linens. The image rose unbidden in his mind - his brother¡¯s strong hands trembling as they touched his son¡¯s lifeless face, the terrible silence that would follow, the way his voice would break when he finally found words- Shamleik forced the thoughts away. Now was not the time for grief. Not when rage burned so brightly in his chest it threatened to choke him. His gaze lifted to the distant walls where that bastard Asag no doubt stood gloating over his handiwork. The oathbreaker. The traitor. The man who had spat on every law of gods and men by staining his hands with royal blood. The air around him was thick with tension. The assembled lords and commanders stood like statues, their faces carefully blank but their eyes betraying the same fury that coursed through Shamleik¡¯s veins. None spoke. None needed to. The battle had stopped of its own accord when the tower fell. No retreat had been sounded, no orders given. The soldiers had simply... frozen. As if the very earth had turned to ice beneath their feet. They had seen. They all had seen who was leading that assault. And now they stood in that terrible limbo between shock and vengeance, waiting for someone to give voice to the fury that simmered in every heart. They would get that bastard head on a pike. The prince did not allow the silence to stretch. With a sharp tug of his reins, he turned his horse toward the head engineer, fixing him with a glare like tempered steel. "Build two more siege towers," he commanded, his voice a blade, cutting through the heavy air. "I want them ready in a week." The engineer, still pale from watching the last one crumble into ruin, stammered, "Y-your grace , a week is too little time. The wood must be gathered, the supports alone will¡ª" Shamleik¡¯s eyes flashed with a cold, lethal promise as he cut him off. "Then I suggest you move quickly. Shall I count the days on your fingers? Or shall I start removing them now to help you work faster?" The engineer swallowed hard, his face losing what little color it had left. Without another word, he bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the dirt, then turned on his heel and rushed off, his feet kicking up dust as he went. Shamleik let him go, his focus already shifting. He turned next to the gathered lords, his voice rising, not in grief, but in declaration. "Whoever among you can claim his men have slain the wretched mercenary on those walls¡ª" He gestured sharply toward the city, where the defenders still stood, where the man who had taken Shawona¡¯s life still breathed. "¡ªwill be rewarded with lands, gold, and titles. And if he is brought to me alive, his captor shall receive twice as much.¡¯¡¯ His horse snorted, stamping its hooves, as he straightened in the saddle angered by the lack of reaction "You have heard me!" he snarled, his gaze sweeping over the gathered lords. "Stop standing there like damned statues and ready the troops! I want that fucking bastard brought to me in chain and with his knees broken!" Chapter 495: Kindly given by a friend(1) Chapter 495: Kindly given by a friend(1) Robert rode at the head of the vanguard, his gloved hands tightening around the reins as the familiar weight of command settled onto his shoulders. It had been years since he had led men in war¡ªtrue war. The last time he had been at the forefront of an army, it had been under the banner of Prince Arkawatt. The memory felt like something from another life. Back then, he had been surrounded by knights, men of noble blood and rigid discipline, not the band of sellswords that now followed behind him like a pack of half-tamed wolves. Seven hundred mercenaries, bought with the temple¡¯s silver, rode and marched behind him. He had paid careful attention to scouting ahead, ensuring there were no surprises on the road, refusing to repeat the mistake of Lord Ormund, who had ridden blind into an ambush and lost everything. But despite all his efforts, the lack of discipline gnawed at him. It was evident in the way they marched, in the way their formation loosened with every kilometer, in the way they still failed to keep their damn mouths shut. They were men who fought for coin, not honor, and he had already been forced to make an example of some. A good dozen of them now hung from the trees they had once tried to strip bare, left to rot as a warning to the rest after they had broken from the formation to raid villages when they camped for the night. Even with that, he could still hear them¡ªhundreds of voices behind him, talking, laughing, completely oblivious to how their noise could give them away. His jaw clenched as he turned sharply in the saddle, glaring at the men. "Quiet!" he barked, his voice cutting through the chatter like a blade. Reluctantly, silence settled over the column, though Robert could feel the simmering resentment in some of their eyes. He didn¡¯t care. If they were too foolish to understand the importance of silence, then they would die the moment they faced true soldiers. As he faced forward again, his mind drifted to Alpheo, to the disciplined and hardened troops that he commanded. They had been soldiers, not unruly thugs in stolen armor. But Robert had to make do with what he had. He gritted his teeth, the leather of his gloves creaking as he tightened his grip on the reins. Every instinct in his body screamed that this march was a mistake. The rebel lords called him the Low Prince or the Mud Prince, sneering as if he were some unworthy pretender clawing at a throne above his station. But Robert knew better. He knew exactly what that prince was capable of. If they believed him an octopus out of the water, he was instead a leviathan waiting for the ships to pass through his domain, ready to swallow them all in a futile attempt to sate its bottomless hunger. That man was not mud. He was quicksand, waiting for fools to step too far forward before pulling them under. Five minutes. That was how long the silence had lasted. Then, like a creeping sickness, the voices rose again. Whispering at first, then louder, swelling into full conversations, laughter, even the clinking of weapons as men gestured wildly in their talk. Robert¡¯s fingers twitched. He breathed in slowly, forcing himself to stay calm. Let it go. Then he heard a man shouting a crude joke about some tavern girl he¡¯d bedded, followed by the guffaws of half a dozen others. Robert snapped. He yanked his horse around so sharply that it reared up, kicking dust into the air. The sound of its hooves slamming down silenced the nearest mercenaries, but it wasn¡¯t enough. His glare burned as he swept his gaze across the men. ------------------- Torghan crouched low beneath the thick canopy, his breath slow and measured, every muscle in his body coiled tight like a drawn bow. He felt like a predator in the tall grass, watching his prey march unaware into the jaws of death. The stillness before the strike¡ªthe heavy silence of a perfect hunt¡ªwas intoxicating. It had been months since he and his warriors had come to these lands, and in that time, he had watched and listened, taking in the wonders of civilization. The vast cities, the grand castles of stone, the endless fields of golden grain¡ªhe had marveled at how these people lived, at their comforts, their luxuries. And yet, in all their grandeur, he had found little his people could do better. Until now. Hunting. These soft-bellied lords might have fine steel and horses bred for war, but they knew nothing of moving unseen, of becoming the very shadows they feared. Their scouts had ridden ahead, knowing that this stretch of road was perfect for an ambush. And yet, they had failed to see the wolves hidden within the trees. They lingered close to the open road, their horses wary of the dense underbrush. The ground beneath the trees was thick with gnarled roots and uneven earth, treacherous for hooves. Even the bravest among them hesitated to push deeper into the forest. It was their mistake. Torghan¡¯s warriors lay still in the undergrowth, covered in dirt, leaves, and the scent of the wild. Not one of them moved, not even when the pounding of hooves came so close that the very breath of a horse could be felt against their skin. More than once, a hoof landed mere inches from an outstretched arm or a motionless face half-buried in the brush. Still, no sound came. No breath too loud. No sudden twitch of a hand to betray them. They were the trees and the trees were them Torghan smirked to himself. These people called themselves warriors, but they knew nothing of the hunt. The trees were a hunter¡¯s ally, but even they had their limits. As dense as the forest seemed from the road, it was not vast enough to conceal a great army. No more than a thousand warriors could melt into the undergrowth¡ªany more, and the illusion of the forest¡¯s emptiness would break. Stealth required restraint, and so only the best among them were chosen. Torghan had made certain he was one of them. When word spread that the prince was seeking warriors for an ambush, he had been the first to step forward, the first to plead¡ªno,beg¡ªto be put to use. This was what his people were born for. If they could not be counted upon for war, then what good were they to the prince who had sacrificed so much to protect them? He would not allow his people to be seen as beggars or burdens, he had to show them that he and his people were worth the price. This was his chance to prove that to them. To prove himself. His blood roared with excitement, his fingers twitching over the hilt of his axe and javelins. This was to be his first true battle in these lands, his first taste of real war. And yet, as he crouched in the darkness of the trees, feeling the thrum of his warriors¡¯ breaths around him, he knew that many shared his sentiments . The prince had not trusted the Voghondai alone to carry out this strike, nor did Torghan blame him. Alongside his six hundred tribesmen, four hundred of the prince¡¯s own elite footmen hid in the woods, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Unlike the tribesmen, they were clad in steel,pure steel not only chainmail, their helms, of course taken off in order not to catch slivers of moonlight between the trees, rested onto the ground, yet their eyes kept their hunger for bloodshed as he had witnessed when he laid eyes on them for the first time. As after all leading them was the prince himself, so of course they were to prove themselves. Torghan felt his breath steady, his resolve harden. Around him, crouched low in the brush and pressed against the trunks of trees, were young warriors whose blades had never known the taste of flesh, whose hands had yet to be stained with the dark, sticky wetness of real battle. This was their moment, their trial by fire. They had been raised on stories of blood and glory, but stories were nothing compared to the trembling breath before the first strike, to the knowledge that one mistake could be their last. Yet the fear in their eyes was drowned out by something fiercer¡ªeagerness. They were like young wolves, barely restrained, waiting for the scent of the kill. Torghan understood them well. His grip tightened around his javelin, his knuckles whitening as he fought against the overwhelming urge to loose it, to watch it sail through the air and bury itself in the flesh of one of the many unsuspecting men marching below. He could already see the impact in his mind¡¯s eye, could almost hear the wet crunch of bone and the startled cries of the dying. His every muscle coiled, desperate to act, to strike first, his lower parts hardening at the thought. But no. Not yet. His orders had been clear¡ªthe horn would call the hunt. Until then, he had to wait, no matter how much it burned. The silence stretched, thick with the weight of a thousand held breaths. And then, through the stillness of the forest, a sound. A rush of wings. Ravens cut through the air like black knives, startled from the branches as if the gods themselves had cast them forth. And in that moment, the long, shrill wail of the war horn split the sky. The prince had given his command. Torghan let loose a wild grin. His javelin was already soaring, followed quickly by a thousand more. Chapter 496: Kindly given by a friend(2) Chapter 496: Kindly given by a friend(2) The march had grown dull. A few hundred mercenaries, bored from the road, had begun talking in low voices, some about women, others about coin, and many about the sorry state of the war they found themselves in. "Fucking lords don¡¯t know how to keep their own mouth shut" one spat, kicking up dust as he walked. "You hear that one earlier? All that yelling¡ªwho does h-¡¯¡¯ Before his could pronounce the last words the sky darkened. The first javelin took him through the throat with such force it lifted him bodily off the ground before slamming him down like a ragdoll. He landed with a wet crunch, boots kicking spasmodically as arterial blood sprayed in rhythmic pulses across the dusty road. His hands fluttered uselessly at the shaft protruding from his neck, fingers slick with his own lifeblood. Then the storm broke in earnest. The air came alive with the shrieking whistle of hundreds of javelins descending in a lethal rain. Iron points glinted wickedly in the sunlight before finding their marks with sickening precision. A mercenary captain took one through the chest, the impact spinning him halfway around before he collapsed face-first into the dirt, the javelin¡¯s shaft quivering like a mocking flag planted in conquered territory. Panic erupted instantly. "AMBUSH! TO AR¡ª" The warning was cut short as a javelin punched through the caller¡¯s open mouth, shearing off teeth and tongue before exploding out the back of his skull in a shower of bone fragments and brain matter. The road became a slaughterhouse. A young sellsword - barely more than a boy - screamed as a javelin pinned his thigh to the ground, the barbed head anchoring him in place. His cries turned to wet gurgles when a second spear transfixed his abdomen, his hands instinctively clutching at the wound only to find it to be his death Nearby, a mercenary took a javelin through the groin. The man¡¯s scream reached an almost inhuman pitch as he staggered backward, the shaft protruding obscenely between his legs. He collapsed onto his back, legs kicking wildly until a second projectile found his lung, cutting off his agony with merciful finality. The lucky ones died instantly or at least in a matter of a minute or so. Others weren¡¯t so fortunate. A veteran warrior roared in pain as a javelin sheared off his ear before embedding in his shoulder. He snapped the shaft with one hand while drawing his sword with the other - just in time to watch his companion¡¯s head cave from a direct hit, the javelin punching clean through the skull with enough force to send teeth and bone fragments spraying across the road. The stench of blood and voided bowels filled the air as the wounded crawled through the muck, leaving smeared trails of crimson behind them. One man, miraculously untouched, stood frozen in shock until a javelin took him through both feet, nailing him to the ground where he swayed like a macabre scarecrow before collapsing. From the trees, the deadly rain continued unabated. Each new volley found fresh targets among the scrambling mercenaries. A fleeing man took three javelins in the back simultaneously, the force throwing him forward onto his face where he twitched like a speared fish. Another tried to hide behind his shield, only to have a javelin punch straight through the wood and into his arm with a sickening pop. And still, the javelins kept coming. The stench of death clung thick to the air - blood and bile and voided bowels mixing with the earthy scent of churned soil. Where moments before had stood an arrogant column of mercenaries now lay a writhing, screaming mass of the dying. Then the forest answered their suffering with a sound that froze the blood in their veins, for those that still had it though. The war cry began as a low rumble, like distant thunder rolling across the plains. Then it swelled into a primal roar that shook the very leaves from the trees. Not the disciplined battle chant of trained soldiers, but the frenzied howl of predators scenting blood. Six hundred Voghondai warriors gave voice to their bloodlust in a cacophony of shrieking, ululating cries that bypassed reason and struck directly at the lizard brain¡¯s most ancient fear - the certainty of being hunted. From the tree line burst another nightmare made flesh. The Black Stripes moved with terrifying synchronicity, their black-lacquered armor drinking in the sunlight as they crashed forward like a tidal wave of sharpened steel. Where other armies relied on the orderly push of spear formations, the Black Stripes fought like a force of nature, their very doctrine written in broken bones and splintered shields. Their weapons told the story - not the thrust of spears, but the brutal honesty of axes and maces. A spear might kill cleanly, but an axe butchered. A mace didn¡¯t pierce - it crushed, reducing helmets to crumpled metal and the skulls beneath to pulp. And before these instruments of close-quarters carnage ever tasted flesh, the javelins had done their work. Two volleys. That was their creed. The first shattered formations, turning proud warriors into twitching heaps, their shields made useless by embedded shafts. The second broke spirits, filling the air with the screams of the dying until even the bravest soul quailed. Then, and only then, would the killing blow fall - the Black Stripes descending like wolves upon panicked sheep. Beside them came the Voghondai, their tactics eerily similar despite never sharing a word of doctrine. Their war cries rose to a fever pitch as they burst from cover, some still hurling javelins even as they charged, adding to the deadly rain. Their bare chests were painted with ritual scars, their eyes wide with battle-madness. Where the Black Stripes fought with cold precision, the Voghondai killed with the joyous abandon of predators finally unleashed. Together they formed a perfect storm of violence - the hammer of civilization meeting the anvil of savagery. The mercenaries, those few still standing, had only heartbeats to comprehend the horror bearing down upon them before the killing began in earnest. The hunt had reached its crescendo. The mercenaries had no time. No time to think, no time to react, no time to even grasp what was happening before the jaws of the trap snapped shut around them. They tried¡ªsome desperate, instinctive attempt to form a line, to rally, to bring their shields together in some semblance of order. But it was already too late, the enemy was upon them. From the right, the Voghondai came howling, their guttural war cries ripping through the din of battle like the screams of wild beasts. They were fast¡ªtoo fast. Before the mercenaries could properly turn to face them, they were already among them, hacking and stabbing with curved blades and heavy axes, weaving through the disorganized ranks with a hunter¡¯s grace. From the left, the Black Stripes struck like a falling anvil. No wild frenzy¡ªjust methodical, brutal efficiency. A mace caved in a mercenary¡¯s helmet with a dull clang, the face beneath reduced to pulp. An axe sheared through a raised shield, biting deep into the arm beneath. Men died where they stood, their formations collapsing inward as the two forces squeezed them like a vise. The center became a slaughterhouse. Mercenaries shoved against each other, weapons tangled, some swinging wildly, others dropping their blades to flee¡ªonly to be cut down from behind. A veteran sellsword swung his sword in a desperate arc, opening a Voghondai¡¯s cheek¡ªbut the warrior just laughed, licking blood from his teeth before burying his axe in the man¡¯s ribs. Another mercenary stabbed at a Black Stripe¡¯s throat, only for the blade to just lightly pierce the throat being stopped by the mail, for which the soldiers thanked the Romelian blacksmith that had forged it. Before the mercenary could react from the failure, a war-hammer smashed into his jaw, sending teeth skittering across the dirt. The Voghondai meanwhile fought like beasts loosed upon a herd¡ªwild, relentless, and utterly without mercy. "AUKH-HURR! RAGH-HUNH!" Their war cries were not words but guttural, animalistic sounds, more like the bellowing of enraged boars than the battle shouts of men. To the mercenaries, it was terrifying¡ªan unnatural cacophony that made their stomachs clench and their arms weak. One mercenary, his hands shaking, thrust his spear forward, aiming for the throat of a charging Voghondai warrior. The spearhead hower was aimed wrong, and instead of the throat it went further down onto the chest, meeting the chainmail on the way, however instead of flesh parting, there was only the dull, hollow thunk of metal resisting the blow. The Voghondai halted for a split second, staring down at the undamaged links of his armor, his lips curling into a smile With a swift motion, he grabbed the shaft of the spear and yanked, pulling the terrified man off balance. An axe swung in a brutal arc, biting deep into the mercenary¡¯s exposed shoulder. A sickening crunch followed¡ªa wet, snapping sound as bone and tendon gave way. The mercenary shrieked, his arm half-severed, blood jetting down his side in thick, pulsing waves. He collapsed to his knees, his mouth open in a silent scream, before the Voghondai finished him with a second blow to the skull, splitting it like an overripe fruit. To the side, another mercenary swung wildly with a sword, but his blade barely nicked the Voghondai before his opponent¡¯s axe buried itself into his gut. He gasped, blood frothing at his lips as the curved blade was ripped free, sending entrails spilling to the dirt. His body folded forward, his trembling hands clutching at the ropes of his own intestines, eyes wide with horror. " KHUR-HAH!" The sound of Voghondai warriors laughing was worse than their battle cries. They were exhilarated, not just by the killing, but by the armor wrapped around their bodies¡ªthe fine chainmail gifted to them by the prince himself. It had turned away thrust after thrust, proof of its strength, proof that they were now harder to kill than ever before. One warrior, a massive man with a scarred face, let a mercenary stab him in the chest with a dagger, only to chuckle as the blade barely scratched the links of his mail. The mercenary looked up in horror, realizing his mistake a moment too late. The Voghondai seized him by the throat, lifting him from the ground with one hand. The mercenary kicked and struggled, his free hand clawing desperately at the iron grip around his windpipe before being released by the man smashing him to the ground. "Please! I yield! I¡ª" The warrior¡¯s axe then swung up¡ªand then down, stopping the man from begging further in a language that his killed did not understand. The mercenary¡¯s head flopped to the side, his neck half-severed, a choked gurgle escaping his lips as his body went limp. Useless to say, It wasn¡¯t a battle. It was butchery. Chapter 497: Kindly given by a friend(3) Chapter 497: Kindly given by a friend(3) Torghan stood motionless over the dying mercenary, his chest rising and falling in ragged gasps. The man beneath him twitched like a speared boar, fingers scrabbling at the ruin of his throat where Torghan¡¯s axe had bitten deep. Blood pulsed between the mercenary¡¯s fingers in thick, dark rivulets, each weakening spurt marking the ebbing of his life. His boots kicked feebly against the churned earth, carving shallow grooves in the mud as he tried in vain to push himself away from death¡¯s embrace. The killing blow hadn¡¯t been clean. The mercenary¡¯s last desperate parry with his shield had turned what should have been a decapitating strike into a messy wound that would take minutes, not seconds, to claim his life. Torghan watched, fascinated, as the man¡¯s lips moved soundlessly, forming words that would never be spoken. His eyes - wide and white-rimmed with terror - locked onto Torghan¡¯s face, pleading silently for mercy that would never come. A strange heat blossomed in Torghan¡¯s chest, spreading through his limbs like wildfire. His fingers tightened around the axe haft, the leather grip sticky with blood beneath his palms. This was different than hunting beasts The man dying at his feet wasn¡¯t some faceless training dummy or dumb animal - he was a warrior, with a life, with people who would mourn him. And Torghan had ended him. The realization sent a jolt through him, electric and intoxicating. His breath came faster now, his pulse thundering in his ears like war drums. The cacophony of battle around him - the screams, the clang of steel, the wet thuds of blades finding flesh - faded into a distant hum. All that existed was this moment, this kill, this transformation from boy to warrior. Memories flashed through his mind - sitting by the fires as a child, listening wide-eyed to the bloodstained tales of the veteran warriors. The way they¡¯d laughed when he¡¯d first hefted a practice axe, his arms trembling under its weight. All those moments of being lesser, of being untested, washed away in the crimson tide spreading beneath his boots. A gurgling whimper drew his attention back to the dying man. The mercenary¡¯s movements had grown weaker, his struggles more sporadic. His fingers, once clutching desperately at his ruined throat, now twitched feebly in the mud. The light in his eyes was dimming, like a guttering candle in a storm. Torghan tilted his head, studying the man¡¯s face. There was no hatred in those fading eyes - only fear, and beneath that, a terrible sadness. For a heartbeat, Torghan wondered who this man had been. A farmer¡¯s son? A father? Had he marched to war for gold, or honor, or simply because he had no other choice? The moment passed as quickly as it had come. Torghan bared his teeth in something that was neither smile nor snarl, but some primal expression of triumph that had lived in warrior¡¯s hearts since time immemorial. He planted a boot on the mercenary¡¯s chest, feeling the feeble rise and fall of dying breaths beneath his sole, and wrenched his axe free with a wet schlick of parting flesh. The battlefield rushed back into focus with jarring intensity. The air stank of blood and voided bowels, of iron and fear. Torghan¡¯s nostrils flared as he drank it in, his muscles coiling like a spring. He was no longer just another unblooded tribesman - he was a killer now, baptized in the hot blood of his enemy. And by the spirits, it felt good. With a wordless roar that echoed the battle cries of his ancestors, Torghan surged forward into the fray. A spear thrust toward his chest with killing intent. Torghan twisted, feeling the point skitter harmlessly across his breastplate in a shower of sparks. The mercenary¡¯s eyes widened in shock, his grip faltering for just an instant. That instant was all Torghan needed. His axe came down in a arc, shearing flesh and bone with equal ease. The man¡¯s collarbone shattered with an audible crack, his scream cut short as Torghan wrenched the blade free in a spray of crimson. Something warm and wet struck Torghan¡¯s cheek. He didn¡¯t bother wiping it away. Another enemy came at him from the side, sword flashing toward his ribs. Torghan turned into the blow, taking it on the reinforced sleeve of his mail. The impact jolted up his arm, but the rings held - another life saved by the prince¡¯s generosity. The mercenary¡¯s face paled as he realized his mistake. Torghan¡¯s answering grin was all teeth. He slammed his shoulder into the man¡¯s chest, feeling ribs give way beneath the force of the blow. As the mercenary staggered back, gasping for air that wouldn¡¯t come, Torghan¡¯s axe came up in a vicious uppercut. The blade caught the man under the chin with enough force to lift him momentarily off his feet. Flesh parted like overripe fruit, the lower half of the mercenary¡¯s face peeling away in a grotesque flap of skin and muscle. The man collapsed, his ruined mouth working soundlessly, hands clawing at the air as if trying to piece his face back together. Torghan stepped over the twitching body without a second glance. The battle rage was upon him now, thrumming in his veins like liquid fire. He was death incarnate, and the field before him was ripe for the reaping. This armor¡ªthis fine armor, the best he had ever worn¡ªmade him feel untouchable. The enemy¡¯s blades slid off him, their spears failed to pierce him, and he could strike back with a force they had never seen before. It was intoxicating, better than any drink, better than any feast. He turned, taking in the battlefield around him. His people fought like the hunters they were, quick and relentless, leaving bodies in their wake. The Black Stripes on the other side crushed the enemy with sheer force, their axes and maces shattering shields, their javelins still buried in the bodies of the fallen. The chaos of battle had swallowed any semblance of formation. What had started as a pincer movement had devolved into pure, unrestrained slaughter. The mercenaries, trapped and desperate, no longer fought in ranks but in scattered clusters, backs pressed together as they tried to fend off death from both sides. And then, the inevitable happened. The lines fractured completely. Torghan, his axe dripping with the lifeblood of another fallen enemy, found himself shoulder to shoulder with a warrior clad in steel with a black and white wool cloth over it . The man was broad, his armor heavy, his face smeared with grime and sweat. A soldier of the Black Stripes, one of those giant that he had feared when he first arrived in this paradise. For a brief moment, amidst the whirlwind of screams and steel, they locked eyes. They could not speak the same tongue, but they did not need to. Their weapons, their bloodied hands, the adrenaline burning through their veins¡ªit all spoke the same language. The Black Stripe was the first to communicate , he grinned, his teeth bared in the rush of combat as he raised his bloodied mace in the air as he did with his highbrows. They were both drenched in the red of their enemies, both standing in the mire of torn bodies and shattered shields. Warriors. Killers. Torghan exchanged the greeting Then, without another word, they turned, each launching themselves back into the fray. The Black Stripes abandoned their usual tight formations, surging forward in wild charges, axes rising and falling in a brutal rhythm. They were not here to hold lines or maneuver in strict formations. They were here to break men. And break them they did. ----- Alpheo stood motionless beneath the gnarled branches of the ancient oak, its shadows giving him refuge as his warrior spilled blood for him. Below him, the battlefield unfolded like some grotesque theater - the screams of dying men, the metallic tang of blood thick in the air, the desperate clatter of steel against steel as the mercenary line collapsed into chaos. His forces had struck like a hammer against glass, shattering their formation with brutal efficiency. Yet instead of satisfaction, a cold irritation settled in his gut. This should have been a decisive victory. A masterstroke that would break the rebel forces before the real battle even began. Instead, they¡¯d caught barely a portion of them - seven hundred men at most. The rest remained safely with the main army, still marching leisurely down the road, blissfully unaware of the slaughter happening just ahead of them. His fingers twitched at his side. The plan had been perfect. The execution flawless. And yet the prize was... disappointing. Like setting an elaborate trap only to catch a few stray rats while the real deal escaped. A light touch on his shoulder pulled him from his thoughts. Jarza crouched beside him, his weathered face impassive as always. Without speaking, he jutted his chin toward the road below. Alpheo followed his gaze. A single rider stood out amidst the chaos - still mounted, still commanding what remained of the mercenary vanguard. Even from this distance, Alpheo could see the man¡¯s rigid posture, the way he held himself with an authority that marked him as more than just another sellsword. "Tell me that isn¡¯t Robert," Jarza murmured, his voice dripping with dry amusement. Alpheo¡¯s eyes narrowed. The rider¡¯s face was obscured by his helm, but the armor... that damned armor was too familiar Alpheo exhaled through his nose. "What the fuck is he doing here?I thought he must have died in a ditch somewhere by now" Jarza shrugged, the motion barely visible beneath his cloak. "Maybe he¡¯s thrown his lot with anyone willing to fight you?¡¯¡¯ The possibility settled like a stone in Alpheo¡¯s gut. If Robert had been advising the rebels... if he¡¯d been the one organizing these mercenaries... that changed things. Explained things. Above all, the reason why the whole army wasn¡¯t marching together in an ambush, eerely similar to the one that he had used against Ormund. Normally, he always kept fifty men in reserve, a personal guard to make sure no unexpected surprises came crawling out of the trees. But his scouts had already reported that the enemy¡¯s main force was still hours away, marching along at a sluggish pace. That meant they had time. And if Robert was here¡ªalone, exposed¡ªthen perhaps it was better to act now. Quickly , as after all he wanted to understand what the hell was going on. "Take a force," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Capture him. Alive." The last word carried particular emphasis. "I want to have a very long conversation with our old friend to shade light on some things." Jarza gave him a sharp nod. Without another word, he slipped away, already signaling to the men nearby. Alpheo watched as a maniple of soldiers broke off from the trees, moving fast, straight in the direction of their old acquaitance Alpheo settled back against the bark of the tree, arms crossed,while wondering if he was made the fool by a man that he had labeled as a drunk fool. Chapter 498: Kindly given by a friend(4) Chapter 498: Kindly given by a friend(4) Robert sat atop his horse in the middle of a storm that had already drowned his men. The battle was lost. He knew it. He had known it the moment the javelins rained down like a storm of iron and death, the moment the cries of the dying drowned out the clamor of battle. And yet, here he was, barking orders into the abyss, trying to salvage a sinking ship with a bucket full of holes. "Hold the line! Hold the fucking line!" His voice was raw from shouting, but it might as well have been the wind carrying empty words. The mercenaries scattered, retreating in droves, shoving past each other, tripping over corpses, their panic spreading like wildfire. Some still clung to their weapons, but their eyes had already lost the fight. "Form up! Don¡¯t turn your backs!" Robert roared again, spurring his horse forward. A few turned their heads toward him, but the chaos was too thick, the fear too great. They weren¡¯t an army¡ªthey were a rabble, an undisciplined mob that had been promised silver and found only blood waiting for them. He gritted his teeth. He was on a fool¡¯s quest. His gaze flicked across the battlefield. There¡ªone of his men, a hulking brute with a scar across his brow, tried to fend off one of the savages. He thrusted his spear desperately, piercing at the air, but the Voghondai warrior dodged with inhuman ease, his axe flashing once¡ªtwice¡ªand the mercenary¡¯s arm went limp, a spray of crimson painting the earth. The brute fell to his knees, eyes wide, before the final blow split his skull like a melon. Robert turned, catching sight of another desperate scene¡ªtwo mercenaries trying to back away from the Black Stripes. These men weren¡¯t savages like the Voghondai, but they fought with a cruelty that was almost worse. One of them had a mace, and when he swung it against the mercenary¡¯s shield, it didn¡¯t just dent it¡ªit caved it in, sending splinters into the man¡¯s face, his screams short-lived as the next strike shattered his jaw. The last of the pair dropped his weapon, hands raised in surrender, but the Black Stripe soldier just sneered before breaking his skull Robert clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the reins of his horse. The battle was beyond lost¡ªit was a slaughter. The enemy forces had broken through the lines, and the remaining mercenaries weren¡¯t retreating in an orderly fashion; they were running for their lives, tripping over the fallen, shoving their own comrades out of the way in their desperation to escape. For the briefest moment, as chaos churned around him and the screams of dying men filled his ears, Robert wondered¡ªWas this what Lord Ormund felt? Did his old liege¡¯s brother sit atop his horse, surrounded by ruin, watching his army break like shattered glass? Did he know that the tide had already swallowed him before the water even reached his neck? Robert exhaled, tilting his head upward, his breath misting in the cold air. The sky was clear, a cruel contrast to the carnage below. Perhaps this is only right, he thought bitterly. He had betrayed his liege. He had abandoned a sinking ship, and now he found himself standing on another, water already at his ankles. If this is justice, then so be it. His fingers curled around the hilt of his sword. He looked around¡ªthe men were breaking completely now. Fleeing, flailing, dying. To his right, he caught sight of the enemy smashing into the last semblance of a formation. The line bent inward, then collapsed like a broken ribcage, mercenaries trampled underfoot as the warriors carved through them like butchers. Robert didn¡¯t think. He didn¡¯t hesitate. He kicked his horse forward. The beast surged ahead, knocking a fleeing mercenary to the ground, trampling another under its hooves. The chaos barely registered. His heart pounded, his mind already accepting what was to come. He would not die with his back turned. If the gods had any mercy left for a man like him, they would grant it on the battlefield. He gritted his teeth, raised his sword, and charged into the fray. Robert¡¯s eyes flickered to the left just in time to see a mercenary¡¯s skull cave in with a sickening crunch, bone fragments and brain matter spraying outward like a burst wineskin. The man who delivered the blow ripped his warhammer free from the ruined head and turned, locking eyes with Robert. For a brief moment, Robert caught the only visible part of the soldier¡¯s face¡ªhis eyes, wide with something that was not fear, not even anger, but sheer, unshaken greed. Then, to Robert¡¯s disbelief, the man didn¡¯t turn to flee, nor brace to receive the charge. He ran at him. Robert had seen his fair share of desperate men, but this was something else entirely. It took him aback for just a second, but instinct took over, and his grip on his sword tightened. As the footman closed in, Robert swung down, aiming for the soft, exposed flesh of the man¡¯s neck. The soldier¡¯s shield snapped up like a steel wall. The blow that should have taken his head clean off instead sent sparks flying as the edge of Robert¡¯s blade scraped off the iron-rimmed wood. The impact made the footman take a single step back, but he did not falter. Robert pressed forward, guiding his horse into another lunge, delivering a second strike, then a third. Each time, his blade came down with the force of a thunderclap, and each time, the footman held. Robert switched angles, feinting a high blow before hacking downward at the shoulder. The strike landed¡ªbut it was met with an unyielding wall of steel. The breastplate did not even dent, and the chainmail beneath remained untouched. Again and again, he struck, his blade cutting against armor, but never through it. Every slash to the torso merely glanced off, every cut aimed at the arms failed to even scratch the linked rings of mail. The only way through this man was through his neck or his head. The footman knew it but did not attack and take advantage of the fact that he had a blunt weapon. He did not lunge, nor strike, nor even shift his weight forward. He simply stood there, shield raised, blade held back, unmoving as a statue of iron and flesh, except for the small steps he took back. Robert¡¯s brow furrowed. Why wasn¡¯t he¡ª Then he felt it. Hands. Gripping at his back. Clutching at his armor. Tugging him down. His stomach twisted, a cold wave of dread washing over him. "Fuck!" Robert cursed, twisting his body, trying to shake them off. But more hands came, grasping his arms, his legs, pulling him from the saddle. He lashed out, his elbow connecting with a face, the sickening crunch of a nose breaking echoing in his ears. But it wasn¡¯t enough. More hands clamped down like iron shackles, dragging him further from his horse. He realized, too late, what had happened. The footman had never needed to attack. He was bait, a distraction, keeping Robert¡¯s attention locked while his comrades swarmed from behind like wolves onto a wounded stag. Robert snarled, thrashing against the weight of bodies pressing down on him. Boots stamped onto his arms, knees dug into his back, and his sword was wrenched from his grip. He managed to turn his head just in time to see the footman¡ªthe one with the battered shield, its surface scarred with cut after cut from Robert¡¯s blade¡ªstep forward, raising it high. Then he smashed it straight into Robert¡¯s face. A burst of pain. A flash of white. A ringing in his ears. The world swayed, tilting on its axis as Robert struggled to stay conscious. His vision blurred, the faces of his attackers swimming in and out of focus. He barely registered the cold steel pressing against his throat until the footman knelt over him, dagger in hand, his breath heavy from the exertion of battle. "Yield," the man growled, his voice low and rough, the edge of the blade biting into Robert¡¯s skin. Robert¡¯s chest heaved, his mind racing , the sting of the dagger at his throat, the taste of blood in his mouth. "Fucking Yield!" the footman repeated, his tone sharper this time, the blade pressing harder. Robert glared up at the footman, blood filling his mouth, the taste of iron thick on his tongue. His head pounded, his vision blurred at the edges, but still, he managed a wicked grin. Then he spat. A thick glob of blood and spit splattered across the man¡¯s face, streaking down his cheek and onto his beard. "Just a Whore¡¯s son,I don¡¯t yeld to dogs" Robert snarled through clenched teeth, managing a smile. The footman did not flinch. He merely wiped the blood off with the back of his gauntlet, exhaling through his nose, maybe even thinking about fulfilling his wish "Commander wants him alive," another soldier said from behind probably wanting to make sure that his comrade did not do anything unwise ¡¯¡¯I know...¡¯¡¯ the soldier Robert spat on said as he turned the dagger around. ¡¯¡¯Lucky fucker...¡¯¡¯ Robert barely registered it before the footman¡¯s dagger hilt crashed into his forehead. Chapter 499: Old friends Chapter 499: Old friends Robert¡¯s arms ached as two soldiers dragged him forward, his boots scraping against the dirt. His head throbbed, his vision swimming in and out of focus, but he forced himself to stay aware, to listen, to see. The battle had been over after barely less than ten minutes of fighting , and already the field looked more like a hunting ground than a battlefield¡ªone where the prey had scattered before the predator even sank its teeth in. The dead were surprisingly few, their bodies strewn in patches where men had been too slow or too stubborn to flee. The rest had thrown down their weapons the moment they saw the lines collapse. The mercenaries had never been real soldiers; they fought for coin, not for cause. And men who fought for coin knew when to cut their losses. Robert let out a slow, painful breath. His lips curled into a humorless smirk. He knew Alpheo well enough to know that wouldn¡¯t last. That Nomad Lord of his was a hunter, and a damned good one. If Robert closed his eyes, he could almost see it already¡ªthe fleeing mercenaries, thinking they had escaped, only for the hounds to close in, cutting them down in the woods, in the fields, wherever they thought they might find safety. Egil didn¡¯t let prey escape. He was the Crown¡¯s hound, trained to track, to kill, to tear the throat out of whatever poor bastard his master pointed at. They wouldn¡¯t get far, and the thought brought him some solace. He hated mercenaries with all of himself, and it did not help that he was being brought to one in defeat. He can style himself as emperor of the world, but at his bare, he will always be the same fucking sell-sword, he was then. Robert suddendly stumbled as the men hauling him along jostled him forward, his boots dragging furrows in the blood-soaked dirt. Around him, the victors moved with methodical ease¡ªlooting the dead, stripping the corpses of anything of value while others dragged the prisoners aside. Some of the captured mercenaries knelt, hands behind their heads, their faces pale and hollow with shock. Others sat slumped, staring at nothing, their minds still trying to catch up with the swiftness of their defeat. Robert, however, barely looked at them. His eyes were on the soldiers. No matter how many times he saw them, they always sent a shudder through his bones. Their movements were efficient, almost unnatural in their discipline¡ªevery action swift, controlled, done without hesitation. It wasn¡¯t just their training that unsettled him. It was what they had done. He had seen one of those javelins sail through the air, cutting across the battlefield in a perfect arc before finding its mark¡ªnailing the prince,through the chest. Robert could still see it as if it had happened only seconds ago¡ªthe way the body jerked back, how the hands, so full of life a moment before, had suddenly lost all purpose. A shiver crawled down his spine, but he clenched his jaw and forced himself to keep moving. They were dragging him toward the man he least wanted to see¡ªexcept if he had a dagger in his hand. The Prince-Consort of Yarzat. He had been given many names¡ªthe War-Prince, Yarzat¡¯s Little Fox, the Low Prince, the Mud Prince. Robert had never cared which name was used, because they all meant the same thing. They same man who ruined his life. Robert barely had the strength to keep himself upright, but the soldiers hauling him forward didn¡¯t care. Their hands gripped his arms tightly, forcing him to stand straight as they approached the man standing while observing the battlefield, perhaps pleased by another victory. The Prince-Consort of Yarzat observed him in silence, his lips curved in the barest hint of a smirk. Robert could feel the weight of that gaze, not one of anger or triumph¡ªno, something worse. Amusement. Like a cat watching a mouse that had wandered straight into its paws. One of the footmen holding Robert¡¯s arm pressed harder into his bruised flesh and muttered, "Behave yourself, cur.You may be a lord, but he is a prince" Alpheo barely turned his head but lifted a hand lazily. "Now, now, there¡¯s no need for that. He¡¯s an old friend. Ain¡¯t that right?" Robert scoffed. He doubted Alpheo even understood what the word friend meant. The smirk on the war-prince¡¯s lips widened. "How long has it been?" Robert let out a sharp breath through his nose. "Not long enough." Alpheo shook his head slowly . "Ah, still holding a grudge, I see. I should¡¯ve known you were the sentimental type." He leaned slightly forward "I have to admit, I¡¯m surprised to see you still breathing. I always thought you¡¯d end up rotting in some back alley, belly up with more cider than blood in your veins. That would have been the poetic end, don¡¯t you think?" Robert didn¡¯t answer. He refused to give the bastard the satisfaction. Alpheo sighed, tilting his head. "No witty retort? No clever jab?No curse launched at me and those that will follow? You¡¯re not making this as fun as I¡¯d hoped. Come on, Robert, indulge me. It¡¯s been too long.I know you resent me, after all I found your swords among those laid bare at my feet" Still, Robert said nothing. "Alright, let¡¯s try a different game." Alpheo straightened, resting one hand on the pommel of his saddle. "What made you throw your lot in with these so-called rebel lords? I mean, really, this?" He gestured loosely at the battlefield, at the corpses strewn across the ground. "I thought you had better taste than this, if you were to dig your own graves you could have used a shovel." Robert let out a bitter laugh. "You already know the answer." Alpheo clicked his tongue, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "Oh, Robert. You¡¯re two years too late for that. I thought you¡¯d have gotten over it by now.I mean you had the chance to avenge him but you did not go ahead with it " He paused, then gave a small chuckle. "Especially considering the gifts I sent your way." Robert¡¯s jaw clenched. He already knew where this was going. Alpheo continued, voice light and teasing, as if they were discussing the weather. "I mean, it¡¯s not every day a man gets a castle just handed to him. And yet, you left it behind, just like that. Ungrateful, really. How long did you serve Jasmine¡¯s father? Ten years? More? And what did you have to show for it? Certainly not a keep of your own." He sighed, shaking his head dramatically. "You wound me, Robert. I go out of my way to set you up so nicely, and this is how you repay me?" Robert clenched his jaw and spat onto the ground between them. A sharp crack filled the air as one of the soldiers backhanded him across the face. His head snapped to the side, pain bursting through his skull, with the taste of blood filling his tongue. The prince¡¯s smirk never wavered, even as Robert spat blood onto the ground. If anything, the bastard looked amused. "Come now,must we always be at each other¡¯s throats? " He leaned forward in his saddle, one gloved hand resting on his knee. "Please, indulge me this evening. A dinner between old acquaintances. We have so much to catch up on, don¡¯t we?" His dark eyes glinted. "And perhaps, over a fine meal and some even finer wine, you can enlighten me¡ªwhat notions made you throw your lot in with a failed cause?" The old knight or better yet lord felt his hands twitch. He had hated that gaze since the first day he laid eyes on him outside the gates of Yarzat. Back when he was still a mercenary, before the war, before the whore-Princess, before everything. Back then, it was the look of a man who had already measured the weight of his life and found it insignificant. That same gaze bore down on him now, like a cat watching a cornered rat, waiting to see what it might do. He could not harm this man with soldiers. So he would do it with words. Robert turned his head and looked at the soldiers standing around them¡ªbloodied men of the Black Stripes, the remnants of the Voghondai, the prince¡¯s elite footmen, all watching in disciplined silence. He drew in a deep breath, then let his voice ring out over the battlefield. "Yours is the failed cause!" A few of the footmen stiffened. Others simply stared. Robert laughed, shaking his head, his voice rising toward the soldier. "Look around you! You follow a man doomed to defeat! Your War-Prince, your little fox, fights like a mad dog, tearing at the heels of a princedom that has already doomed him!" He turned his gaze back to Alpheo. "You are surrounded! The lords, the Herculieans the Oizenian ¡ªthree armies moving to squeeze the breath from your lungs. And yet you stand here smiling, like a fool who hasn¡¯t yet realized his throat is already cut!" Some of the soldiers shifted. Robert¡¯s grin widened. "How long will it take before your precious ¡¯White Army¡¯ realizes they march to their deaths? That their white and black , will become red of their blood? When will your little mercenary savages understand they are fighting for a man who has already lost? How many of them will die before you admit it,My Prince?!" His breath was heavy, his voice hoarse, but he did not stop staring at the prince. Alpheo merely tilted his head, his smile not fading in the slightest. He didn¡¯t move, didn¡¯t blink, just sat there, watching, waiting. He then let out a chuckle, shaking his head as if Robert had just told the most amusing jest of the night. Then, with a theatrical sigh, he spread his arms wide and declared, "They¡¯re surrounding us? Excellent! Now we can attack in any direction without walking too far!Things have been a bit stale haven¡¯t they my friends?" For a moment, there was silence. Then, like a ripple through the gathered soldiers, laughter broke out¡ªfirst a few chuckles, then a roar of amusement, as after all they had never lost a battle when fighting for their prince. Alpheo let them enjoy the moment before raising a single hand. The laughter faded, but the energy remained, lingering in the air like a storm ready to break. His gaze swept across his men, his voice turning softer, but no less powerful. "Tell me, my brothers at arms ¡ªwhen have you ever tasted defeat at my side?Have your mouth ever been dirtied with such a thing?Has the sweet wine of victory ever been blemished by such distaste? "Never!" came the thunderous reply. Robert clenched his jaw. Alpheo nodded, his dark eyes gleaming with something close to satisfaction. He leaned forward slightly, his voice now carrying the weight of steel beneath the velvet. "And tell me this¡ªdo any of you hold so little faith in me that you would lend your ears to the ramblings of a defeated man?" "No!" The answer came like a war cry, shaking the very air. Alpheo let the moment settle before turning his gaze back to Robert, his smirk now almost pitying. Almost. "See, Robert?" He gestured lazily at the men around them. "These are not mercenaries who run when the wind turns, they are the cliffs upon which the waves shall break. These are warriors who have seen battle at my side, who have watched their enemies crumble before them. And you?" He cocked his head. "You are a man haunted by a past that you may no longer attain, blind to the future and sour of the present. And I shall show you the true strength that you chose to oppose. Be it the last thing you will lay eyes upon" Chapter 500: Bad news Chapter 500: Bad news Alpheo sat at the head of the long wooden table inside his command tent. Around him sat those closest to him¡ªShahab, his son Jared, and finally Jarza and Egil. The meal before them was nothing grand, just simple pasta with a drizzle of oil and herbs, followed by a side of well-cooked meat. Outside the tent, the sounds of the camp carried through¡ªsoldiers laughing, sharpening their weapons, sharing stories of the day¡¯s victory. The battle had been short but decisive. And while they had not caught as many as they¡¯d wanted, they had still won, and with victory came food. Alpheo was no fool. He knew the weight that pressed on his men¡¯s shoulders. They were outnumbered, surrounded on multiple sides, and fighting for a prince that many would say was walking toward his doom. A weaker army would have already broken under the knowledge alone.Of course the White Army was not like any other, and Alpheo had ensured that they marched with stomach filled with good food , knowing well the truth of an old saying: an army marches on its stomach. Before and after battle, the men were given hot rations¡ªboiled pasta and potatoes, simple but filling, with of course a side of meat. It was a small thing, yet in the cold of early morning or after the red haze of battle, it was worth more than gold. Two days had passed since the ambush. The army had long since moved away from the site of battle, the charred remnants of the mercenary vanguard now nothing more than a memory left to rot in the sun. The battlefield had been stripped clean¡ªarmor, weapons, food, even the boots off the dead men¡¯s feet had been taken. Nothing wasted. He had taken 1,200 men for the ambush, a force strong enough to overwhelm the vanguard and the whole army by surprise, but not nearly enough to take on the full rebel host in a pitched battle. Staying there would have been madness. "How much have you gotten out of Lord Robert?" Shahab finally asked, his voice sharp, cutting through the quiet. Alpheo sighed, rolling his shoulders as if the question itself was a burden. "Not much. The old man is proving stubborn¡ªsurprise, surprise." He let out a dry chuckle. "All he¡¯s given me is confirmation of what I already suspected. He managed to convince the rebel lords to give him the vanguard by warning them they were walking into an ambush.Strangely the arrogant bastards relented." "How did he know?" Shahab asked, ¡¯¡¯Oh well it seems like he figured it out....you know that was what we did with lord Ormund, which as you may remember,we made use of him as a central part in." Alpheo said, swirling the wine in his goblet lazily. "The only reason it worked at all was because the rebel scouts did a piss-poor job patrolling the road. They left the forest as it was, thinking it just trees and dirt rather than the perfect place to get slaughtered." Across the tent, Egil let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Good for us." Alpheo smirked, nodding. "Indeed. Still, what fools. If they¡¯d been just a little sharper, they¡¯d have kept their vanguard intact. And if they¡¯d done that..." He trailed off, staring at the rim of his goblet for a moment before finishing his thought. "Then we would have had to fight them at full strength or retreat. Which would have been... unpleasant." There was a pause, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Shahab tapped his fingers against the wooden table, his expression unreadable. He did not say what truly weighed on his mind. That if he had his way, he¡¯d have paid Robert back in full for what he cost him. But there were rules¡ªtedious, fragile rules that bound even him. Torturing a lord, even a captured enemy, was not something he could afford to do, not with so many noble eyes watching his every move. The last thing he needed was to give them a reason to turn against him, especially since they were apparently on the back foot in this conflict. Jarza took a bite from his piece of meat, tearing into it with the ferocity of a man who had expected more. He chewed slowly, his jaw working like a grinding mill, then swallowed and sneered. "We ought to gut the bastard," he said, jabbing his knife into the wooden table hard enough for it to stick. "We were meant to feast on a banquet of corpses, and instead, we got scraps." His voice carried no humor, only disappointment, like a hunter lamenting a wasted chase. Alpheo, still chewing thoughtfully, raised an eyebrow at him. "No sense crying over what¡¯s already done," he said, setting his goblet down with a soft clink. "We¡¯ll just have to take the long road instead.Also don¡¯t ruin the table it¡¯s quite a nice one....." From across the table, Jared¡ªleaned forward, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "May I ask what exactly the long road is, then? What are we to do now?" Alpheo let out a breath and placed his fork down beside his plate. "We wait for the scouts to tell us what the enemy movements are" he said simply, his fingers tapping against the wood. "If the enemy host still intends to march against us, then we meet them. If they don¡¯t... well, then perhaps we take the battle to those among them who are more eager to give us a fight." He leaned back, letting his words settle before continuing, "We will leave a garrison at Florium to ensure that the rebels cannot march south without breaking their lines of supply." His gaze flickered toward Shahab. "And I would like for you to remain in the city with a contingent of troops. Just to make sure that dear Lord Corvan doesn¡¯t get any clever ideas that may entail taking the fight under another banner. By all means I trust the man " He smiled faintly. "But perhaps in his eyes, we¡¯re the ones on the bad foot of this war." Shahab exhaled through his nose, nodding. "With a garrison loyal to the Crown, Corvan will think twice before defecting.Unless of course, he gets their compliance." "Precisely," Alpheo said, nodding approvingly. "Without Florium capitulating, the rebels will have no choice but to siege the town if they wish to continue south¡ªeither toward the capital or toward the Voghondai, if their priests insist on burning it to the ground.Either way they will waste a lot of time why we round up the other front of this war." There was a moment of quiet after that, only the occasional clink of utensils against plates. Outside, the low murmur of the camp carried through the thin walls of the tent. The men were fed, morale was high as they had just won a victory, and despite the situation they were in, Alpheo still brought himself forward with a demeanor of a man confident of his chances. As Jarza tore off another bite of meat, chewing thoughtfully, he let out a low grunt of approval. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he leaned back slightly and looked around the table. "I¡¯ll say this," he began, his voice thick with the remnants of his meal, "the Voghondai proved to be good warriors. Undisciplined? Like a pack of wild dogs. But brave, no doubt about that. Some of our soldiers even warmed up to them and broke bread together." ¡¯¡¯Quite warming, really,¡¯¡¯ Shahab chuckled. ¡¯¡¯We could use more men like that. Give them proper training, a bit more discipline" Alpheo tapped his fingers idly against the wooden table, listening as the conversation played out. His gaze flickered between the men, his expression unreadable. Finally, he leaned forward, setting his fork down with a soft clink. "Their traditions lie in ambush and attrition fighting," he said, his voice calm but thoughtful. "It¡¯s what they¡¯ve fought with for generations, and I¡¯d wager it¡¯s what¡¯s kept them from being trampled underfoot by larger, better-equipped armies. That¡¯s what we should be utilizing them for." Jared raised a brow. "You don¡¯t think they can be trained to fight in ranks?" "Oh, we can train anyone to march and stand in formation," Alpheo said, waving a hand dismissively. "But what¡¯s the point? We already have soldiers for that. What we don¡¯t have¡ªwhat no one else has¡ªare men who can disappear into the trees like ghosts, only to strike at the worst possible moment.Or that truly have the capacity to organize fast and short night¡¯s attacks. That¡¯s a talent that can¡¯t be taught to men with only some months of training." Egil nodded, rubbing his chin in thought. "That would explain why the enemy scouts missed their ambush," he muttered. Alpheo smirked slightly. "Exactly. And I¡¯d rather sharpen that skill than blunt it by forcing them into tight ranks where they¡¯ll fight like caged animals. " Jarza let out a low chuckle. "So, you¡¯re saying we should let the wild dogs remain wild?" Alpheo shrugged. "Wild dogs make for excellent hunters¡ªif you know how to point them in the right-" He stopped mid-sentence as the tent flap rustled, and Vrosk, the head of Alpheo¡¯s personal guards, stepped inside. His broad frame, the hardened lines of his face, and the look in his eye immediately quieted whatever else Jarza had been about to say. "Apologies for the intrusion, Your Grace," he said, his voice rough like gravel. "But a letter has arrived. The bearer said it was urgent." Alpheo let out a quiet breath, setting his knife down beside his plate. Without a word, he extended his hand, and Krosk stepped forward, placing the sealed parchment into his grasp. The wax bore no sigil, which immediately told him everything that he had to know about the sender. Without wasting time he opened it His eyes flicked over the words. His jaw tightened. A muscle in his cheek twitched. The others had been speaking in low tones, but one by one, they fell silent as they noticed the shift in his expression. Alpheo exhaled through his nose, the letter still in his hand as he placed it down onto the table. His fingers tapped against the parchment once, twice, before he finally spoke. "Arduronaven has fallen, and the Herculeians are moving toward Bracum." The words cut through the tent like a blade, as while they were playing around, apparently the enemy was making progress. Chapter 501: Foiled plan Chapter 501: Foiled plan The air inside the tent was thick, the heavy fabric trapping the mingling scents of sweat, damp wool, and the faint acrid stench of burnt wood from the nearby campfires. Two men sat on the ground, backs resting against a wooden crate, their armor scuffed and dirtied from their escape. Though they still wore padded gambesons and metal shirts, they had no weapons¡ªnot even a belt knife. Their swords had been tossed away in the chaos of the route, and whatever was left had been stripped from them the moment they stumbled back into the main host¡¯s camp. A few soldiers stood near the entrance, watching them with uninterested expressions, but their hands never strayed far from their weapons. One of the man exhaled sharply. "You think we¡¯re the only ones that got out?" His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn¡¯t had a drop of water since the battle or better yet the massacre, that the mercenary band they were enlisted in marched into , alongside many others. The other, a broader man with a ragged cut along his cheek, let out a dry chuckle. " Aye. Seems like we took the right path¡ªthrough the woods. Those poor bastards who stuck to the road never made it back." He shook his head, rubbing at his unshaven chin. "Fuck, we shouldn¡¯t have joined that band." The wiry man snorted. "No shit. Captain¡¯s dead, half the company butchered, and the last thing we¡¯re ever going to see is a damn payday." The broader man leaned back, his head knocking softly against the wooden crate. "We should¡¯ve just roamed around, found our way home." There was silence for a moment, the weight of that possibility hanging between them. Finally, the wiry man exhaled through his nose. "Looking back... maybe you¡¯re right. But I didn¡¯t expect us to be the only ones here." He glanced at the entrance of the tent, where the guards remained impassive. Somewhere outside, men were talking, voices hushed but firm. The flap of the tent was soon pulled aside. A man stepped in, his presence alone enough to make both mercenaries straighten their backs. His armor gleamed even under the dim lighting, a polished breastplate inlaid with fine etchings, pauldrons adorned with silver trim, and a deep crimson cloak draped over one shoulder. Lord Niketas. The mercenaries swallowed hard as the nobleman took a slow step forward, his dark eyes studying them as if they were insects pinned to a board. His voice, when he spoke, was calm but edged with steel. "What happened?" The broader mercenary, still rubbing at the cut on his cheek, hesitated for half a breath before launching into it. "A massacre, my lord. That¡¯s what happened." Niketas said nothing, waiting. The wiry man took over, his voice hoarse. "We were marching with the vanguard. Meant to scout ahead, keep the road clear. We had no idea there was an ambush waiting for us in the woods. By the time we heard the first shouts, men were already dropping." He exhaled sharply. "Javelins, arrows¡ªdidn¡¯t even see where half of them came from. One second, we were marching, the next, the whole front line was a damned pincushion." The broader mercenary nodded grimly. "They hit us like wolves, from the trees. No drums, no horns, just shadows moving and then steel flashing in the dark. I saw a man beside me take an axe to the throat before he even raised his shield." He spat onto the dirt floor, as if to rid himself of the memory. "The savages were in the thick of it, cutting men down like it was sport. They just charged straight into the gaps and tore through us." Niketas folded his arms, his expression unreadable. "What about your commander lord Robert?" ¡¯¡¯We have no idea, your lordship...¡¯¡¯ ¡¯¡¯What about your captain?¡¯¡¯ He then asked The wiry man licked his lips. "Dead. Caught a javelin through the guts. Never even had a chance to give proper orders." Seeing nothing more could be taken from them Niketas reached the tent¡¯s entrance but then stopped. He exhaled slowly, as if weighing something in his mind. Then, without turning back, he spoke¡ªhis tone utterly devoid of emotion. "Hang them." The words were simple, cold, final. The mercenaries stiffened. The broader man¡¯s face twisted in disbelief. "W-what?" He took a half-step forward, but the guards were already moving. The wiry man¡¯s breath hitched. "My lord, we got out! We made it back! We can figh¡ª" Niketas turned just enough to glance over his shoulder, his gaze as indifferent as if he were ordering the disposal of rotten meat. "You abandoned your weapons. You abandoned your lord. You abandoned the battle." He stepped forward, pulling the tent flap open. "That makes you deserters." The wiry man struggled as rough hands clamped onto his arms. "No, no! We didn¡¯t run! We¡ª" The broader mercenary thrashed as he was seized, his voice rising to a desperate roar. "We had no choice! The battle was lost!" Niketas didn¡¯t bother to listen. He was already walking away, leaving the tent behind, his mind now set on greater concerns. Outside the tent, Lord Niketas exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cool evening air. The weight of the news pressed against his chest, but he did not let it show. Instead, he turned his gaze to his right-hand man, Sir Edmar. "Send a messenger to the other lords," Niketas commanded, his voice calm yet firm. "They need to know what has happened. And fetch our guest immediately. I have answers, and he ought to hear them before the night grows old." Edmar nodded once, bowing his head in acknowledgment before striding off without hesitation. He moved through the camp swiftly, past the glow of fire pits and the low murmur of soldiers sharing drinks and whispers of the failed ambush. He paid them no heed, his mind solely on his task. But as he neared the tent where Sir Lorren was being kept, fate had already played its hand. The knight did not yet know it, but inside that very tent, there was no man waiting for him. Only silence. The cot was empty, the candle on the small table long extinguished. A half-eaten plate of food sat cold and forgotten. And at the back of the tent, hidden from view, was a cleanly cut opening just large enough for a man to slip through. Sir Lorren was long gone. ------------------- Damn it! Damn it all to hell! What have I done to deserve all of this shit ? Marcus¡ªknown until just a few hours ago as Sir Lorren, fourth son of Lord Vrasio of Derathio¡ªgritted his teeth as he moved through the darkened woods, his every step measured, his breath steady despite the pounding in his chest. That name, that title, had been a carefully woven lie, one he had worn like a second skin for months. Now it was ash in the wind. He had no way of knowing just how much effort had gone into making this deception possible. How Alpheo had first secured the approval of Lord Damaris by dangling the promise of rich spoils from the rebel lords¡¯ confiscated lands. How he had scoured his own vassals for a minor noble of little renown¡ªsave for a sigil and a name that carried just enough weight to be convincing. A name that Marcus had worn as a mask. And everything had been going smoothly. Until that meddling bastard¡ªLord Robert¡ªstuck his nose where it didn¡¯t belong. Marcus clenched his jaw as he pushed forward, his mind racing back to how much easier this was supposed to have been. He and Lucius had each been given their roles. He was to lure the rebels into marching into an ambush under the false belief that they had allies within the royal host willing to defect.Where he would then remain embedded within the rebel camp , maintaining his cover and escaping in the chaos of battle. A clean operation. A perfect trap. But Robert¡¯s interference had ruined everything. The ambush had still succeeded but in a minor key, while also preventing Marcus having his occasion to run away forcing him to abandon his cover sooner than planned. Instead of vanishing amidst the clash of steel and fire, he had been left with no choice but to slip away under far less favorable circumstances. So, with nothing but a small, sharpened piece of metal, he had quietly cut a slit into his tent¡ªslow, careful, precise. A single mistake would mean death. But luck had held, and when the time came, he¡¯d simply stepped out into the night, calm, composed, looking every bit the noble knight he was supposed to be. Luckily his noble cover held up which meant that he could keep his armor No frantic running. No suspicious behavior. And when he reached one of the lesser-guarded exits, the sentries barely gave him a second glance. Why would they? He was still wearing very elegant armor with a sigil¡ªproof enough that he belonged. If there was one thing he had learned about men who wore uniforms, it was that they feared rank more than anything. And for that, Marcus was grateful. Because right now, the only thing keeping him from a noose was the weight of the lie he had worn so well. He moved through the undergrowth with practiced ease, keeping low and mindful of every snapped twig and shifting shadow. He had no choice but to keep moving¡ªno stopping, no second-guessing. The only thing that mattered was making it back to the royal camp before word of his disappearance spread too far. He had failed. That much was undeniable. His original mission¡ªto seed false hope of defection within the rebel ranks and watch them march straight into a slaughter¡ªhad crumbled under Lord Robert¡¯s interference. His carefully built persona had been compromised, and instead of slipping away in the chaos of battle, he had been forced to flee like a common fugitive. But failure did not mean ruin. No, there was still something to salvage. He had spent enough time among the rebel lords to know how they thought, how they didn¡¯t think, and¡ªmost importantly¡ªhow little they trusted one another. They had gathered under a single cause, but that did not make them one force. Their ranks were riddled with personal ambitions, petty grudges, and conflicting visions for the future. There were cracks. And cracks could be widened. If he made it back to Alpheo with this knowledge, then perhaps his failure could be reshaped into something useful. His grace had a way of turning even the smallest advantages into decisive victories¡ªperhaps this would be no different. Marcus exhaled, glancing up at the sky, where streaks of orange and gold began bleeding into the dark. His lips curled into a faint smirk as he thought of his blond friend¡ªhis ever-smiling, sharp-tongued counterpart. What the hell are you up to now, Lucius? Whatever it was, Marcus hoped they would have the chance to speak again. As in the middle of an hostile world, he found in him the only friend that he could trust. Chapter 502: A Rat鈥檚 work Chapter 502: A Rat¡¯s work The streets of Arduronaven trembled beneath the relentless march of armored boots, the air thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and the sickly-sweet promise of victory. At the head of the Herculeian host rode Lord Arnold, his gilded armor ablaze in the midday sun, every polished plate a mirror reflecting the broken city before him. Beside him, Prince Lechlian sat motionless in his saddle, his face an unreadable mask¡ªonly the slight tightening of his gloved hands on the reins betrayed his satisfaction. And then there was Orymus. Eldest son of the executed Lord Vroghios, last true ruler of Arduronaven before the Yarzats had taken his head and his city. Orymus was smiling. Not the measured, diplomatic smile of court, nor the self-satisfied smirk of a nobleman securing power. This was something feral¡ªthe grin of a wolf stepping back into a den it had been driven from, teeth bared, hunger sharp in its eyes. The city sprawled before him, its once-familiar contours flooding his mind. The Garden of the keep, where his sisters had once laughed among the roses, were now clearly left on their own , the beautiful flowers stepped on and overwhelmed by the common grass. Then he saw scenes that he could have witnessed, the gate where his youngest brother had been dragged away in chains along with what remained of his family. He had been powerless then. Now? Now, Arduronaven shuddered beneath his gaze. The great gates had opened without a fight. No barricades, no desperate last stand¡ªjust the hollow groan of hinges and the eerie quiet of a city that had already surrendered. There had been defenders. Six hundred men had stood upon these walls when the Herculeian host first darkened the horizon. Six hundred blades sworn to hold Arduronaven against the storm. Yet now, the army marched through streets littered with corpses¡ªnone of them felled by Herculeian steel. The truth was simple. The defenders were dead. Betrayed. At the edge of the city square, Lucius¡ªknown here only as Captain Darros¡ªwatched with cold amusement as the architect of this carnage moved among the victors. Sir Agolonthios stood amidst the Herculeian officers, head high, posture relaxed. This was the same man who had stood before his soldiers mere days ago, vowing to defend Arduronaven to his last breath. The same man who had clasped the hands of his captains and sworn they would hold. Now, he accepted the approving nods of the very enemies he had been tasked to destroy. Lucius studied him, noting the absence of shame in his bearing, the lack of hesitation in his eyes. Agolonthios carried himself like a man who had made the only logical choice. And perhaps, Lucius mused, from a certain angle, he had. Agolonthios had called his captains to a midnight council along of course to the other ministers of the court , only for Herculeian blades to find their backs . Entire companies had been locked in their barracks, cut down as they slept. By dawn, the few remaining defenders found themselves trapped between Agolonthios¡¯ turncoats and the advancing army. Prince Lechlian had promised the knight a lordship for his cooperation. A fair trade¡ªa city for a title. Yet as Lucius watched Agolonthios bask in his victory, he wondered how long it would be before Lechlian decided a man who betrayed once would betray again. The war raged like a wildfire across the land, consuming everything in its path. The Crown found itself besieged on all sides - the Prince of Oizen¡¯s forces pressing from the south, the Northern Lords rising in rebellion, and now the Herculeian war machine advancing with relentless momentum. Three fronts. Three enemies. And with each passing day, more vassals questioned whether their oaths were worth dying for. Perhaps Agolonthios had simply done the math. Perhaps he¡¯d looked at the tides of war turning inexorably against them, and decided survival was worth more than honor. Lucius could almost respect the cold pragmatism of it - if it weren¡¯t for the six hundred corpses left in the knight¡¯s wake. The price of betrayal had been steep, but the rewards were undeniable. Arduronaven now stood firmly in Herculeian hands, its gates thrown open without a single siege engine needing to be deployed. More importantly, the road to Bracum - the beating heart of Lord Xanthios¡¯ domain - now lay undefended. The Herculeian commanders were already murmuring about pressing their advantage, about striking while the iron was hot. Lucius clenched his jaw until his teeth ached, his fingers twitching with the urge to draw steel. How easy it would be to step forward now, to carve his blade across Agolonthios¡¯ throat and watch the traitor choke on his own blood. To leave his body rotting in the sun as a warning to all who would trade loyalty for power. The image burned bright in his mind - the shock in the knight¡¯s eyes, the crimson spray across the cobblestones, the satisfying thud of a corpse hitting the ground. But discipline held him still. This wasn¡¯t the time. Not yet. Instead, he forced his breathing to slow, channeling the fury into something colder, sharper. The letter had already been sent, its contents carefully coded, its messenger sworn to secrecy. By now, his true master would know everything - the fall of Arduronaven, Agolonthios¡¯ betrayal, the Herculeians¡¯ next moves. Every piece on the board accounted for. A grudging admiration curled through Lucius¡¯ anger. The Prince Consort had seen this coming long before the first sword was drawn. While others had been distracted by the obvious threats, he¡¯d been planting his pieces across the board. Like Lucius himself - disguised as the mercenary captain "Darios," offering his company¡¯s services at a suspiciously low price. Three hundred footmen and fifty archers, all ostensibly loyal only to their pay, unaware that half their wages came from Crown coffers. His orders had been simple. Watch. Learn. Report everything of value¡ªnumbers, morale, alliances. And when the time was right, when the knife was best placed at the enemy¡¯s throat, he would strike. Lucius exhaled slowly, his grip relaxing. The moment would come soon enough. Sir Agolonthios and his ilk would get what they deserved. He would make sure of it. As he was deep into thought about what he was to do next, behind him, the grumbling of his men grew louder, a low murmur of discontent weaving through the ranks like an incoming storm. He didn¡¯t need to turn around to know the cause. "Fucking joke is what this is," growled one of his man kicking a loose cobblestone hard enough to send it skittering across the square. "We march all this way, and for what? To stand around like while the highborns divvy up the spoils?" "No looting, no prisoners, not even a decent fight. What kind of conquest is this?" "The kind where we still get paid," rumbled another though even his voice carried an edge of bitterness. "But aye, I won¡¯t lie¡ªit sticks in the craw. Even a handful of silver from the garrison stores would¡¯ve¡ª" "Would¡¯ve what?" Lucius finally turned, his voice cutting through the grumbling like a whip crack. The men fell silent instantly, shoulders tensing under his cold stare. "Made you feel better about taking a city without risking your necks? Or just given you something shiny to lose at dice tomorrow night?You are getting paid to do nothing, and yet you keep complaining" He let the silence stretch, watching as some of the men shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. These were hard men, killers all, but they knew better than to test him when his voice took on that particular quiet tone. In truth, he understood their frustration. Mercenaries lived by a simple code¡ªblood for gold, steel for silver. A city taken without a proper sack was unnatural, like a feast with no meat or a whorehouse with no women. It went against their very nature. But his thoughts were already elsewhere, drifting northward across the war-torn landscape to a small stone house on the outskirts of the capital. Three months since he¡¯d last seen his wife face, since he¡¯d felt the warmth of her hands on his cheeks, since he¡¯d pressed his lips to the barely noticeable swell of her belly and made promises he wasn¡¯t sure he could keep. Would he be there when the child came? Or would some Herculeian spear find his guts first, leaving his son to grow up fatherless, his wife to¡ª "Captain!" The hissed warning snapped him back to the present. One of the younger sellswords¡ªTomas, barely more than a boy¡ªwas gesturing urgently toward a cluster of Herculeian officers approaching their position. The men immediately straightened, their complaints swallowed back like sour wine. Lucius didn¡¯t bother with false smiles or pleasantries as the officers drew near. He simply crossed his arms and waited, his expression carefully neutral. "Captain Darios," said the lead officer¡ªa florid-faced man with the bearing of someone who¡¯d spent more time counting coins than battlefields. "Your men are to report to the western barracks. The Prince wishes for your company quartered together there for ... administrative purposes." Lucius didn¡¯t miss the way the man¡¯s eyes flickered over his company, nor the subtle tightening of the guards¡¯ hands on their weapons. Administrative purposes. As if any of them were fools enough to believe that. "Understood," he replied flatly. No point in arguing. Not yet. As the officers strode away, the tension among his men thickened like clotting blood. "Administrative purposes my arse¡¯¡¯ someone barked "They mean to keep us leashed like dogs." Lucius rounded on them so fast several men actually stepped back. "Enough," he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. "One more word¡ªone more fucking whisper of dissent¡ªand I¡¯ll gut the lot of you myself. You think this is some back-alley brawl where you can run your mouths without consequence? That florid-faced shit just gave us our orders, and unless you¡¯re looking to decorate the city gates, you¡¯ll follow them." He let his gaze sweep across each face, marking who met his eyes and who looked away. Too many hotheads. Too many loose tongues. If he was going to move against the Herculeians, he¡¯d need to do it soon¡ªbefore one of these idiots got them all killed. "Fall in," he snapped. "We move to the western barracks. And if any of you so much as looks at a Herculeian the wrong way, I¡¯ll personally see you flogged raw." As the men formed up with grudging discipline, Lucius¡¯s mind was already racing ahead. The western barracks were isolated, far from the city¡¯s heart. Convenient for keeping watch on mercenaries, while also being inconvenient for mercenaries to slip away unnoticed. He flexed his fingers, feeling the old scar tissue pull tight across his knuckles. The time for waiting was nearly over. When he made his move, it would need to be swift, brutal, and without warning. Like cutting a man¡¯s throat in his sleep¡ªquick and quiet, leaving no chance for cries or last-minute betrayals. Chapter 503: Shield of Aracina(1) Chapter 503: Shield of Aracina(1) The city of Aracina groaned under the weight of war, its once-proud walls now battered and scarred, its streets humming with the grim rhythm of a people preparing for death. Seventeen days. Seventeen days of iron and fire, of screams in the night and the ceaseless thud of siege engines pounding against stone. The land beyond the walls had become a graveyard¡ªladders splintered into kindling, siege towers reduced to smoldering husks, corpses left to bloat under the merciless sun. The stench of rot and burning pitch clung to the air, thick enough to taste. Inside the city, life had narrowed to the essentials: survival, defiance, and the slow, methodical preparation for the next assault. The medics worked in shifts, their hands slick with blood as they stitched flesh and set broken bones. They were running low on supplies¡ªclean linen for bandages, even the sharp-smelling salves made from crushed herbs and animal fat. Children, too young to fight but old enough to understand fear, darted through the streets like shadows. They carried water skins to the thirsty, bundles of arrows to the archers, their small hands trembling under the weight of war. Some hauled buckets of sand to the walls, where men waited to pour the scalding grains onto the heads of climbers. Others simply stood at their posts, hollow-eyed, staring at the enemy lines as if sheer will alone could turn them back. And above them all, standing where the wind howled loudest, was Asag. The breeze tugged at his hair, threatening to expose the ruin of his right side¡ªthe twisted flesh, the scars that ran like melted wax from temple to jaw. A wound from a time long past , a mark he had learned to hate. He scowled, pressing a gloved hand to his face, forcing the dark strands back into place. He knew what people saw when they looked at him¡ªpity, disgust, sometimes even fear. But today, he had no patience for their stares. Today, there was only the battle ahead. Below, the enemy stirred. The distant clatter of armor, the shouted orders, the slow creak of siege engines being repositioned¡ªall of it carried on the wind like a promise. They would come again. Soon. Asag¡¯s fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. Let them try. He exhaled through his nose, steadying himself. This was the moment for a speech¡ªhe knew that much. He had never been one for words, but he had watched Alpheo enough times to know how to simulate the kind of speech that could stir the hearts of men. It didn¡¯t need to be elegant. It just needed to rouse them. He turned to the gathered soldiers, his voice cutting through the morning air like the sharp edge of a blade, trying to mimick one of the many speeches Alpheo had given. "Men of the Crown!" The effect was instant. Heads snapped up. Conversations died mid-breath. The restless shifting of soldiers at their posts stilled as every eye fixed on him. "You are fathers!" His voice boomed across the battlements. "Brothers! Sons! You are the blood and bone of those who shelter behind these walls¡ªthe husbands, the uncles, the friends who swore to stand between your people and the fire!" He let the words hang, watching as backs straightened, as calloused hands tightened around spear shafts. Some of the younger men swallowed hard. The veterans simply stared, their faces carved from stone. Asag stepped forward, his boots crunching on broken arrow shafts as he gestured toward the enemy host beyond the walls. "Look at them!" His voice turned to gravel. "That rabble of whores-sons and butchers. They come with fire in their hands and greed in their hearts. They would burn your homes. Steal your gold. Murder your brothers where they stand. And your women? Your daughters?" His lip curled. "They would drag them screaming into their tents and call it victory as they rape them." A low growl rippled through the ranks. A spear butt slammed against stone. "For seventeen days, you have held this wall!" Asag roared. "Seventeen days of blood, of sweat, of watching your friends die beside you! And yet¡ªhere you still stand!" He paced along the battlements now, his gaze locking with soldier after soldier. "They thought we would break by now. They thought fear would rot us from within. That we would drop our swords and beg for mercy like whipped dogs!" He spat over the wall. "So tell me¡ªhave you begged?" "NO!" The response came like thunder. "Have you broken like dogs?" "NO!" Louder now, voices raw. "Then why in the hells would today be any different?!" Asag bellowed. "Let them come! Let them climb these walls with their ladders of kindling! Let them batter our gates with their hollow pride! And when they do¡ª" He ripped his sword from its sheath, the steel singing as it caught the dawn light. "¡ªwe will send them back to their mothers in pieces!" The roar that answered him shook the very stones. Shields slammed together like cracking bones. Swords and spears stabbed toward the sky. Even the wounded raised their voices, their bandages darkening with fresh blood as they shouted themselves hoarse. Asag let the fury build, let it feed on itself until it became something living¡ªsomething hungry. Then, with deliberate care, he sheathed his blade. The silence that followed was sharper than any war cry. "You fight like lions," he said, quieter now, but no less fierce. "But remember¡ªyou do not stand alone." He turned, pointing toward the city below, where women still carried water to the wounded, where children still scavenged arrows from the dead. "Every soul behind these walls fights with you. Every prayer whispered in the temples, every stitch sewn by trembling hands¡ªit is all armor for your backs. So when those bastards come again?" His scarred face twisted into something feral. "Make sure they choke on their arrogance before they ever lay a finger on what¡¯s yours." His eyes swept over them, seeing the sweat on their brows, the blood on their tunics, the exhaustion in their limbs. "I stand with you!" He slammed a fist against his chestplate. "This city stands with you! And mark my words¡ªthe Crown stands with you!" A ripple of murmurs spread through the ranks at the mention of the Crown. Some men exchanged glances¡ªdoubtful, weary. Asag cut through it before it could fester. "Help is coming!" he roared. "Even now, the Crown marches to break this siege, to drive these bastards back into the filth they crawled from! And all that is asked of you¡ªall that is needed¡ªis for you to do what you have already done for seventeen days! Hold this wall! Fight like demons! Endure like the unbreakable bastards you are!" He let the words settle, watching as jaws clenched, as fingers tightened around sword grips. "And when they arrive¡ª" His voice dropped, turning dangerous. "¡ªthey will avenge every drop of blood spilled. Every life taken. Every wound carved into your flesh. Every house burned. Every child left weeping. Every widow made. They. Will. Pay." A deep, guttural sound rose from the defenders¡ªnot quite a cheer, not quite a snarl. Something primal. Something hungry. Asag stepped forward, his boots grinding broken arrowheads into the stone. "I know," he said, quieter now, "that the words of princes mean little to men who have bled as you have. That the promises of lords sound hollow when it is your friends lying cold in the dirt." He paused, then bared his teeth. "But I have broken bread with this prince. I have looked into his eyes as I look into yours now. And I swear to you¡ªon my life, on my honor¡ªwhen he comes, he will not just reward you. He will make them suffer." The lie tasted bitter on his tongue. He didn¡¯t believe the Crown would arrive in time. But it didn¡¯t matter. If they couldn¡¯t save Aracina, they would burn the world to avenge it. If not salvation, retribution would suit his corpse more than enough. Beyond the walls, the enemy host stirred. Like a great beast rousing from slumber, banners shifted, formations tightened, and the dull clang of steel being readied echoed across the field. The siege tower loomed in the distance¡ªa monstrous skeleton of blackened wood and iron, crawling forward on groaning wheels. On the battlements, the defenders moved quickly. Archers nocked arrows, their bowstrings humming like wasps. Below, men fed fresh logs into the fires, stoking the cauldrons of sand that had kept the enemy at bay for seventeen brutal days. Asag¡¯s gaze locked onto the siege tower, his jaw tightening. Two days ago, there had been two. One now lay in ashes, its frame collapsed in a roaring pyre before it could touch the walls. A victory¡ªbut one bought in blood. Thirty-nine dead. Thirty wounded of his finest¡ªthe halberdiers he had trained, the men he had trusted to hold the line when all else failed. Their faces flashed in his mind, their last shouts still ringing in his ears. The loss sat like a stone in his gut, a weight he refused to show but could not shake. Now, the second tower advanced. And this time, it would reach them. The moment the enemy came into range, the sky darkened with a storm of arrows. Bows creaked, strings snapped forward, and shafts screamed through the air in a deadly arc. The first volley struck the advancing ranks like a wave crashing against jagged rocks. Men crumpled, some falling instantly with arrows buried deep in their throats or eyes, others staggering forward a few steps before collapsing onto the bloodied earth. But the enemy did not stop. Through gaps in their shields, the next wave surged forward, stepping over the dead and dying, gripping their weapons tightly as they pressed on. Another volley was loosed¡ªthis time faster, more brutal. Arrows slammed into raised shields, punching through gaps in armor, embedding deep into flesh. Screams of agony cut through the air, but there was no hesitation. The enemy marched forward, even as their comrades fell beside them. There was no laughter. In the first days of the siege, the archers had grinned when their targets collapsed, some even calling out bets on who could land the best shot¡ª"Through the eye!" "Right in the gut!"¡ªmocking the enemy¡¯s cries as they clutched at their wounds. There had been something almost exhilarating about it back then, a sense of control in a battle where they had none. But that had been then. Before the endless waves of enemies. Before the walls were streaked with the blood of their own. Before exhaustion weighed on their limbs and turned their bodies numb. Now, there were no cheers. No smirks. Only silence, broken only by the sharp twang of bowstrings, the heavy thud of bodies hitting the ground, and the dull, rhythmic sound of arrows being drawn from quivers. They loosed. Knocked another. Loosed again. And still, the enemy came. Sometimes they would shout for the children on the wall to carry arrows to their exhausted stocks, but for the most part, they stood silent as they did their duty. Chapter 504: Shield of Aracina(2) Chapter 504: Shield of Aracina(2) The enemy archers moved like shadows behind their heavy wooden pavises, the makeshift barricades forming a jagged line across the battlefield. Then¡ªthe telltale twang of bowstrings, the air suddenly alive with the deadly song of arrows in flight. "Arrows!" The defenders ducked behind the crenellations as the deadly hail descended. Arrows thunked into wood, skittered off stone, and occasionally found their mark in flesh. A grizzled veteran grunted as an arrow buried itself in his shoulder, the shaft quivering as he slumped against the parapet, his teeth bared in a snarl of pain. Another man took an arrow clean through the throat¡ªhis hands flew up instinctively, fingers brushing the fletching before he toppled backward, his blood already pooling on the worn stones. There was no time to mourn. No time to even look. Below, the enemy¡¯s foot soldiers surged forward like a dark tide, their ladders hoisted high above their heads. They moved in ragged waves, the front ranks holding shields overhead as arrows rained down upon them. Some fell instantly, shafts protruding from thighs and shoulders, their screams lost in the chaos. Others pushed forward, their boots churning the blood-soaked earth into crimson mud as they charged the walls. The defenders made them pay for every step. Archers loosed volley after volley, their arrows finding gaps in armor, punching through mail. A young attacker¡ªbarely more than a boy¡ªstumbled as an arrow pierced his knee, his scream cut short as a second shaft took him through the eye. Still, the ladders came forward, carried by men who knew death waited atop those walls but climbed anyway. Then¡ªimpact. The first ladder slammed against the stone with a resounding crack, its iron hooks biting into the parapet. Another followed. Then another. The enemy swarmed upward like rats, their gauntleted hands gripping the rungs, their weapons clenched between their teeth. But the defenders were ready. "Now!" Great stones, each the size of a man¡¯s head, were heaved over the edge. They smashed into climbers with sickening crunches, sending bodies tumbling backward, their skulls shattered, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles. One attacker took a stone square in the chest¡ªhis ribs caved inward with an audible snap, his body folding like a rag doll as he plummeted to the ground below. Archers leaned over the walls, picking off climbers at point-blank range. A man halfway up a ladder took an arrow through the cheek¡ªhis scream turned to a wet gurgle as he lost his grip, his body bouncing off the ladder before crumpling in the dirt. Blood slicked the ladder rungs now, making each foothold treacherous, but still, the enemy climbed. And then¡ªthe first hand grasped the battlement. A scarred brute in splinted mail hauled himself over the edge, his axe already swinging. A defender lunged forward, only to have his throat opened from ear to ear. The invader roared in triumph¡ªright before a spear took him through the gut, lifting him clean off his feet before hurling him backward into the mass of climbers below. While the eastern walls became a slaughterhouse of steel and screams, the western side held its breath. The siege tower loomed in the distance, its massive frame creaking as it inched forward, pulled by teams of oxen and men. It moved with dreadful inevitability, its shadow stretching long across the broken ground. Asag watched from his vantage point atop the gatehouse, his knuckles white around the hilt of his sword. He knew better than anyone what this meant. Ladders could be easily be repelled. Archers could pick off climbers. But a siege tower, once lodged against the walls, was a different beast entirely. It would vomit forth a tide of armored killers directly onto the battlements¡ªa bridge of death that could not be burned or broken. Not this time. The fish oil was gone. The chains could not be cut. There was only one option left. Meet them head-on. The defenders stood shoulder to shoulder along the western wall, their ranks thinned by seventeen days of relentless combat. Of the 150 men of his elite, still able to wield weapons, Asag had positioned 100 here - the strongest, the most determined, even if many of them could barely stand without wincing in pain. Their arms were wrapped in blood-crusted bandages, their faces gaunt from exhaustion, their armor dented and scarred from countless battles. Yet not a single one had retreated to the healers¡¯ tents. Not one had chosen the comfort of rest over the grim duty of defending their home. They waited in eerie silence, their weapons gripped tight, their eyes fixed on the approaching siege tower. Some whispered prayers to gods they weren¡¯t sure were listening. Others simply stood motionless, their jaws clenched so tight their teeth ached, their fingers flexing unconsciously around sword hilts and spear shafts. The air smelled of blood and smoke and fear, but beneath it all was something else - a stubborn, unbreakable resolve. Asag felt an unfamiliar tightness in his chest as he surveyed his men. These were no fresh recruits, no green boys who didn¡¯t know which end of a sword to hold. These were hardened veterans who had endured seventeen days of hell - who had watched friends die beside them in a city that they had seen for the first time , who had fought through exhaustion and pain that would have broken lesser men. And yet here they stood, ready to face almost certain death without flinching. The remaining 50 men waited further back, held in reserve by Asag¡¯s command. He knew better than to commit all his forces at once. If the eastern wall faltered, or if the siege tower disgorged too many attackers at once, he would need fresh swords to plug the gaps. These reserves stood like statues, their breathing steady despite the tension coiling in their guts. Some checked and rechecked their armor straps. Others muttered quiet prayers to long-forgotten gods. All of them gripped their weapons with white-knuckled intensity, their eyes darting between the siege tower and their commander. And all the while, the massive siege tower crept closer, its shadow stretching across the blood-soaked earth like the hand of death itself. The ground trembled beneath its ponderous weight as the oxen teams strained against their harnesses, dragging the monstrous structure forward inch by terrible inch. The defenders could hear the creak of its wooden frame, the groan of its wheels as they crushed corpses and broken weapons beneath them. Soon, it would reach the walls. Soon, the real battle would begin. Asag exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around his sword hilt until the leather grip creaked in protest. They had no more fire to burn it. No more to pour down on the attackers. Only steel, flesh, and sheer stubborn will remained. It would have to be enough. With a final, shuddering groan, the siege tower ground to a halt against the battered stones of the western wall. For one breathless moment, there was silence - the calm before the storm. Then, with a thunderous crash, the bridge slammed down onto the parapet, sending splinters and dust flying through the air as it formed a direct pathway from the tower¡¯s belly to the heart of the defenses. The defenders didn¡¯t wait for the enemy to emerge. The moment the bridge fell, the archers loosed their arrows in perfect unison. The air filled with the sharp twang of bowstrings and the deadly hiss of arrows in flight. The first wave of attackers, caught completely unprepared, had no time to raise their shields. The arrows found their marks with sickening precision - punching through chainmail, embedding deep in unprotected throats and faces. One attacker died with an arrow through his open mouth, his battle cry turning to a wet gurgle as he collapsed backward. Another took a shaft to the shoulder, snapping it off with a roar of pain only to be struck again in the gut, doubling over as he crashed to the wooden bridge. Not all arrows found their mark - some glanced harmlessly off helmets or were stopped by well-placed shields - but the initial volley had done its work, leaving the bridge slick with blood and littered with writhing bodies. Yet still they came. The survivors of the first volley pressed forward, shields now raised, their battle cries rising above the din. Behind them, fresh waves of attackers surged from the tower¡¯s depths, their weapons gleaming in the pale light. The moment of relative calm shattered as steel met steel along the narrow parapet, the defenders bracing themselves for the onslaught that would decide the fate of Aracina. And then they charged. The first wave, despite their losses, surged forward over the bridge with the desperation of men who knew there was no turning back. They had come too far. Their only options now were victory or death. They crashed against the defenders like a tidal wave of steel and fury. Shields slammed into shields with bone-rattling force, the impact echoing along the stone walls of the city. The defenders, bracing themselves, held their ground, but the sheer momentum of the charge sent some staggering back. The attackers wasted no time. They drove forward, using their shields like battering rams, shoving and smashing, trying to break through the thin first line that had been purposefully formed from the garrison¡¯s men. These were not the elite Halberdiers of Asag¡ªno, these were city watchmen, conscripts, their job not to overpower but to endure and receive the brunt of the initial assault. Still, the fact that they were defending their city and their family meant that if the Oizenian thought they would find easy targets, then they were about to be proved wrong, as it was not simple praise when Asag had called them lions. Still the attackers pressed harder, as much as their numbers allowed . Step by step, they gained ground, hacking and stabbing, driving their swords over and under shields, using sheer numbers to overwhelm the thin line. A young defender took a blade to the gut, his eyes widening in shock as he crumpled to the ground. His killer barely had time to wrench his weapon free before another defender pierced his throat with a spear However, it was not a case that the first line was made of the city¡¯s enlisted citizens,of the weakest part of the defense as the true backbone of the city¡¯s defense were instead getting ready to make their presence known. As then¡ªfrom the flanks¡ªcame the one and true hammer blow. Chapter 505: Shield of Aracina(3) Chapter 505: Shield of Aracina(3) The battle erupted like a storm breaking¡ªall screaming metal and flashing steel, all blood and fury and the raw, animal desperation of men who know there is no retreat. The attackers came in a howling tide, their blades hungry, their eyes wild with the promise of conquest. They shoved and hacked and died, their bodies piling up like cordwood as they fought for every inch of stone. The defenders met them with teeth bared and shields locked, their backs to their city, their homes, their children. They fought not like soldiers, but like wolves with their den at their backs¡ªcornered, savage, utterly without mercy. Every sword stroke carried the weight of seventeen days of siege. Every spear thrust carried the memory of friends already lost. Then¡ªthe halberdiers struck. They had waited like coiled vipers, their long weapons useless in the initial press, their patience absolute. Now, as the enemy line stretched thin, as the attackers became tangled in their own dead, the halberdiers moved with chilling precision, like a snake that first curled his sleek body around his prey before sinking its maws around it. The halberds sang. The first swing took a mercenary full in the chest, the axe-head shearing through mail like parchment, splitting ribs, bursting lungs in a spray of crimson. The man didn¡¯t even scream¡ªjust gaped like a fish as his legs gave out beneath him. Another halberd hooked downward, its spike punching through the base of a soldier¡¯s neck. The blade bit deep, nearly severing spine from skull, sending the man¡¯s helmet spinning away, his face still locked in a rictus of shock. A third attacker¡ªsome green boy barely old enough to hold a sword¡ªturned to flee. Too late in that wise decision. A halberd¡¯s hook lashed out, catching his ankle, yanking him off his feet. He hit the stone hard, his scream cut short as the follow-through crushed his ribcage like kindling. "Running already?" A defender laughed, bloody spittle flying from his lips from an earlier wound as he smashed his shield into an enemy¡¯s face. Bones crunched. The man dropped like a sack of grain. "Thought you wanted our fucking cityl!" he shouted as he went downward with his dagger Another halberd whirled, its spear-tip punching clean through chainmail, gutting a man like a pig. He stumbled back, hands clutching at the ruin of his belly, his intestines spilling between his fingers. A defender kicked his blade off with a sneer. "Welcome to Aracina, you shit-eating dogs!" he roared. "Hope you like the view!" The enemy line wavered. Their charge had been reckless, fueled by numbers and bloodlust, but now they were caught in a killing ground. The halberdiers worked with machine-like efficiency, their long weapons carving through flesh and bone, turning the wall into a charnel house. Every gap in armor was exploited. Every overextended thrust met with a counter that left men choking on their own blood. Yet still, they came. A giant of a man bellowed a war cry and charged, his shield bristling with arrows. He smashed into a defender, sending the man sprawling, then raised his sword for the killing blow¡ª ¡ªonly to have a halberd¡¯s spike punch clean through his throat from a man that had quickly flanked him. The giant gagged, and dead he went like the other. The stones soon grew slick. The air stank of blood and voided bowels. Men slipped in the carnage, their deaths coming as they struggled to rise. And still¡ªstill¡ªthe defenders held. They fought like men possessed, like demons given flesh. They fought for every cobblestone, every inch of their home. They fought until their arms burned and their vision blurred and their throats ran raw with screams. The battle was certainly not over, as after all the true horror of a siege tower was not in its imposing height or the creaking menace of its slow advance¡ªit was in what it allowed the enemy to do once it reached the walls. A ladder assault was easy to defend again and predictable. Men climbed one by one, vulnerable to arrows, stones, boiling sand, and fire. Even those who reached the top would find themselves faced with a waiting defender, sword or spear already poised to strike them down before they could gain their footing. A ladder meant struggle, a desperate, grueling ascent through death itself. But a siege tower? When the bridge dropped, the enemy didn¡¯t trickle in one by one¡ªthey poured in. No frantic scrambling. No moment of weakness. No isolated fighters easily cut down before reinforcements could arrive. The men inside the tower simply marched forward as if stepping into another room, shield raised, sword ready, throwing themselves straight into the fray. And the worst part? They never stopped coming. The defenders could cut them down, hack and stab and shove them back, but the flood did not end. Each man who fell was replaced by another stepping over his corpse, fresh and eager, surging forward without hesitation. The fight became a war of endurance¡ªwho could last longer? The ones holding the wall, battling exhaustion and dwindling numbers? Or the endless wave of men pouring from the tower, driven by the knowledge that if they hesitated, they would be the ones cast down to the blood-soaked stone below? That was why siege towers were so much deadlier. They didn¡¯t just attack the walls. They swallowed them in numbers until one side broke and the other roared. ------- Asag¡¯s eyes flicked downward, tracking the relentless rhythm of the enemy¡¯s battering ram as it pounded against the city¡¯s gates. Each impact sent vibrations shuddering through the stone beneath his boots¡ªa deep, resonant boom that echoed in his bones. Beneath their wooden mantlet, draped in water-soaked hides to repel fire, the ram crew worked with mechanical precision, driving the iron-capped log forward again and again, their faces slick with sweat in the stifling heat of their shelter. But Asag¡¯s mouth curled into a grim smile. The cauldrons were ready. A soldier at the base of the wall had just enough time to glance upward before the first cascade of scorching grit rained down. His scream was a raw, animal thing, torn from his throat as the molten grains poured into every gap in his armor. It slithered beneath his breastplate, filled his gauntlets, trickled into his boots. He dropped his weapon, clawing at his own skin, but the sand clung like a second layer of flesh, searing deeper with every frantic movement. Beside him, another man tore off his helmet in a blind panic¡ªonly for an arrow to punch through his exposed eye. Others staggered from beneath the shelter, slapping at their armor like men possessed, their shrieks joining the chorus of agony. Some collapsed, rolling in the dirt, but the sand had already done its work. Their skin blistered and blackened, their screams thinning to whimpers as the heat fused their clothing to their bodies. The ram¡¯s crew was broken. Asag didn¡¯t linger on their suffering. His gaze had already shifted¡ªeastward, where the true threat loomed. Where the siege tower had met stone. The battlefield roared around him¡ªa tempest of steel and screams¡ªbut he stood silent at its eye, his face carved from stone. He had long since learned to drown out the chorus of dying men, to let their anguish wash over him like rain against a cliffside. A commander could not afford to feel. A commander could only act. Yet as his gaze fixed upon the eastern wall, something cold and heavy settled in his gut. The siege tower¡¯s maw had opened, disgorging a river of killers onto the battlements. His halberdiers fought like men possessed, their long blades reaping lives with brutal efficiency, their hooks dragging screaming foes into the abyss below. But even demons tire. Even wolves can be overrun. How long? he wondered. How long before they break? "My lord!" The messenger¡¯s voice was a ragged thing, torn from a throat raw with smoke and desperation. The boy stumbled forward, his face streaked with soot and sweat, his chest heaving. "The eastern wall¡ªthey beg for reinforcements!The enemy is gaining ground" Asag¡¯s jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. Damn them. Damn them all to the deepest pits, why can¡¯t they not hold a wall for a day? Still, he had known this would come. The eastern wall was the city¡¯s rotten tooth, weak and crumbling. The loss of the second siege tower had bought them time¡ªbut time was a currency spent quickly in war. Now, the ledger was coming due. "Calion!" His voice cut through the din like a blade. The grizzled sub-centurion turned. He did not speak. He did not need to. "Take forty men. Hold that wall with all that you can give." Calion¡¯s nod was sharp as a headsman¡¯s axe. He turned, barking orders, and like shadows summoned from the earth, warriors peeled away from the fray¡ªsome limping, some bleeding, all gripping their weapons with hands that had long since forgotten fear, all doing their duty, all ready to die for it. Forty souls. Each one that of a giant, but still forty souls. That was all he could spare. By the Gods how low we have fallen, he thought as he watched them go, his chest tight. Around him, the remnants of his reserves stood like ghosts, their armor dented, their eyes hollow. Boys with old men¡¯s faces. Veterans with blood crusted beneath their nails. If the line broke elsewhere, there would be no one left to plug the gap. No miracle waiting in the wings. Only the streets. Only the last, desperate barricades, where men would fight back-to-back in the ruins of their homes, where every alley would become a grave, every square a pyre. This is how cities fall, he thought. Not with a crash, but with a whisper. The wind howled through the battlements, carrying with it the stench of blood and burning flesh. Somewhere beyond the smoke, the sun was setting¡ªits dying light painting the walls in hues of rust and gold, as if the very stones were bleeding. Asag exhaled, slow and measured, and turned back to the slaughter. Hold, he willed his men. Hold, or let the city burn with us and them inside. Chapter 506: Shield of Aracina(4) Chapter 506: Shield of Aracina(4) The eastern wall had become a slaughterhouse of iron and flesh, where the siege tower¡¯s gaping maw disgorged an endless tide of killers onto the blood-slick stones. What began as a foothold now yawned wider with each passing heartbeat, the defenders¡¯ line bending like a bowstring drawn too tight. Steel shrieked against steel in a cacophony of war. The air hung thick with the copper stench of blood and the acrid bite of voided bowels. A veteran defender, his face a mask of grime and exhaustion, swung his notched sword with desperate strength. The blade skittered off an enemy shield¡ª ¡ªjust as a halberd¡¯s axe-head crunched through the attacker¡¯s cervical vertebrae, sending a crimson arc painting the stones. Before the corpse hit the ground, another foe vaulted over it, his spearpoint finding the halberdier¡¯s exposed armpit. The steel slid between ribs like a lover¡¯s kiss, punching through lung and heart. "Hold the fucking line!" The decurion¡¯s roar was raw as flayed flesh, his voice fraying at the edges. His sword moved like a butcher¡¯s cleaver, shearing through a spearman¡¯s fingers before biting deep into a clavicle. Nearby, a boy¡ªbarely old enough to shave¡ªdrove his spear through an invader¡¯s abdomen. The man screamed, clawing at the shaft as he collapsed, dragging the weapon from the youth¡¯s grip. Another attacker surged over the dying man, his sword rising¡ª ¡ªand falling in a silver blur that bit onto his shoulder. The halberdiers most then all fought like cornered beasts, their polearms carving gruesome geometries through the press. One hooked a mercenary¡¯s greave, yanking him into the path of a descending axe that split his skull like overripe fruit. Another shattered a shield with brutal efficiency, the follow-through spike punching through the eye-slit of the man behind it. Yet no matter how many they killed , the enemy still they came. For every corpse that tumbled from the walls, two more armored killers leaped from the siege tower¡¯s belly. Their shieldwall advanced with mechanical precision, each step crushing fallen comrades beneath iron-shod boots. A defender screamed as he was crushed against the merlons, his ribs snapping under the press before a dagger found his kidney. Another went over the edge silently, his body cartwheeling through the air to burst upon the stones below like a dropped melon. Then came the enemy officer¡ªa mountain of plate and malice, his sword-edge glittering with fresh carnage. He batted aside a desperate thrust, then smashed his pommel into a defender¡¯s face. Nasal bones collapsed with a wet crunch. Before the man could stumble, the officer¡¯s blade punched through his chest, the tip emerging bloody from his back. A vicious twist, a wet schlick as steel withdrew, and another life spilled onto the stones. "The wall is ours!" The officer¡¯s triumph cut through the din like a cleaver. And like a dam cracking under floodwaters, the defenders¡¯ line wavered. Here, a spearman took half-step back, his eyes darting toward the inner city. The enemy smelled blood. Their advance became a stampede, shields slamming forward like a battering ram of flesh and iron. The defensive line bowed, buckled¡ª And in that hesitation, the enemy pressed harder, their hold expanding, spreading like rot upon the stone. ---------------- Asag¡¯s hands curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he watched the western wall buckle under the weight of the assault. His jaw clenched so tightly he thought his teeth might crack. The rage inside him was a living thing, a caged beast thrashing against its ribs, howling for release. Not at the messenger, no. The boy was just a vessel, his face pale as parchment, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he waited for orders that might mean salvation or slaughter. Not at his men, who stood like battered statues along the wall, their armor dented, their eyes hollow with exhaustion, yet still gripping their weapons with hands that refused to tremble. This fury was for himself. For his failure, his self -loathing as men around him were dying in his name. The western wall was breaking. He could see it from here¡ªthe way the enemy¡¯s shieldwall pressed forward like a tide of iron and flesh, the way his own warriors were being forced back step by bloody step. He had planned for this. Prepared for this. And still, it wasn¡¯t enough. I should have seen this coming. I should have been better. The messenger shifted, his armor clinking softly. The sound snapped Asag back to the present. The boy¡¯s eyes were wide, pleading. Waiting. Asag turned, his gaze sweeping over what remained of his reserves. Twenty men. That was all. Most bore fresh bandages over wounds that still seeped crimson. Some leaned against the battlements, their chests heaving, their faces gray with pain and exhaustion. None were whole. None were fresh. But they were all he had left. And yet¡ª Even a handful of blades in the right place might turn the tide. His stomach twisted. This wasn¡¯t a gamble. This was desperation. "Ghalrim!" His second-in-command turned sharply, his face a roadmap of old scars and fresh blood. The man had fought in more sieges than most of these boys had seen winters, and though his movements were slower now, his spine was still straight, his eyes still sharp. But even Ghalrim looked at him now with something like dread. "Hold the gate," Asag commanded, his voice like gravel. "If they breach here, fall back to the secondary barricades." Ghalrim¡¯s brow furrowed. "And you?" Asag didn¡¯t answer. He didn¡¯t need to. His eyes locked onto a cluster of warriors along the wall¡ªten men hurling stones down at the enemy below. Their arms trembled with fatigue, their faces slick with sweat and grime, but they worked without complaint, because the alternative was death. Asag strode toward them. "You." A single word, sharp as a blade being drawn. "With me." They hesitated¡ªjust for a heartbeat¡ªbefore dropping their stones and falling into step behind him. Ghalrim moved to block his path. "Commander¡ª" Steel whispered as Asag drew his sword. The blade caught the fading light, the edge gleaming crimson, as if already thirsty for more blood. No more words. No more hesitation. Asag broke into a sprint toward the western wall, his boots pounding against the blood-slick stones. The warriors followed without question, their ragged breaths loud in his ears, their footsteps echoing his own. They would have their answer written in enemy blood before this night was through -------------- Steel clashed against steel, the screams of the dying mixing with the roars of the living as the battle for the western wall raged on. The defenders fought like men possessed, sweat and blood staining their armor, their bodies aching from exhaustion, but they held the line. Yet the enemy pressed harder. More men poured onto the wall from the siege tower, their numbers growing, their foothold widening. A halberdier swung his weapon in a wide arc, catching an enemy soldier in the chest, the axe-head biting through chainmail like it was parchment. The man staggered, blood spraying from the wound, before he was shoved aside by another attacker eager to take his place. "There¡¯s no end to them!" one of the soldiers cried, his voice barely audible over the carnage. Another man, a young enlisted soldier, had lost his nerve, his shield arm trembling as he backed away. Others were doing the same¡ªthe will to fight faltering. Then, through the smoke and chaos, a banner rose. A flag, clean despite the chaos of battle , unmistakable in its colors. The standard of their commander. A halberdier, blood streaking his face, turned and saw it first. His breath caught, then he bellowed, "Reinforcements! Reinforcements are coming!Thanks the gods" Another one more interested in the banner instead shouted, ¡¯¡¯The Lord! The Lord has come!¡¯¡¯ The shout rippled through the ranks, desperate men lifting their heads to see the charging figures. And at the head of them¡ªAsag himself. His sword drawn, his pace unbroken as he led the charge toward the western wall, the banner behind him snapping in the wind like a war cry given form, showing everyone where their commander was. The sight was like a spark to dry kindling into fire. Men who had been on the verge of breaking now stood firm. The enlisted, who had been seconds from retreat, gritted their teeth and stepped forward instead. The halberdiers, weary but unbowed, lifted their weapons with renewed strength. The fight wasn¡¯t over. Their commander was here. And with him, the will to hold the wall was reborn. After all there was a difference between fighting under the orders of a commander and fighting alongside him. For some, the former meant duty¡ªa task to be completed, a command to be obeyed. But the latter? That was a test of honor, of pride. A man could follow an order and still find the strength to run when fear took hold of him. But when the one giving the orders stood beside him, when the man who commanded him bled and killed as he did, suddenly cowardice became unbearable. And no one felt that pressure more than the Halberdiers of the White Army. Among them, a commander was not just a voice barking orders from safety, but a leader bound to his corps, bound to his men. Their victories were his victories, their failures his shame. To fight beside him was to prove the worth of their corps, to ensure that neither their name nor their banner was stained with weakness. And now, Asag was here. Charging into the fray, his blade reflecting the firelight, his banner rising above the carnage like a promise of retribution. A new energy surged through the defenders. What had been a desperate attempt to hold turned into a wave of pure defiance. The men who had moments before doubted, hesitated, feared for their lives now felt only one thing¡ªshame at the thought of failing before their lord. The halberdiers were the first to answer the call. They surged forward, their polearms swinging, axes biting into armor, spears thrusting into gaps between plates. A man tried to raise his shield, but a halberd hooked around his leg and yanked him off his feet, sending him crashing down into the throng below. The enlisted, seeing the unyielding determination of their betters, found their own courage reignited. "Push them back!" someone roared. What had been a defense on the brink of collapse turned into an overwhelming counter-charge. The attackers faltered. They had been so close, so close to breaking through, to finally pushing the defenders off the wall. And yet, in the blink of an eye, their momentum was gone. One moment they had the advantage, the next they were being swallowed by a roaring tide of steel and fury. The only variable that changed, being the presence of one man Chapter 507: Shield of Aracina(5) Chapter 507: Shield of Aracina(5) Eighteen sunrises had come and gone, each greeted not with prayer but with the scree-scree-scree of whetstones on notched steel. Eighteen nights spent curled in armor like crabs in their shells, if they slept at all. The men moved through the smoke like specters now, their eyes sunken into bruised sockets, their armor crusted with layers of gore that would never wash clean. Asag knew sieges. Knew how they sanded men down to their raw, quivering cores. This was no war of glorious charges or heroic last stands¡ªjust the slow, meat-grinder arithmetic of flesh against iron. A butcher¡¯s ledger where the only numbers that mattered were how many bodies it took to fill a gap in the wall. And yet. And yet his men had held. Not for his snarled orders. Not for some abstract notion of honor. But for the baker whose buns had warmed their childhood winters. For the cobbler¡¯s shop where they¡¯d gotten their first proper boots. For the temple steps where they¡¯d stolen clumsy kisses behind their mothers¡¯ backs. These bone-tired ghosts fought for the living memory of a city that still breathed, however faintly. He sprinted along the battlements, his boots slipping on blood-slick stone. Below him, the siege unfolded with the grim choreography of a funeral march: Archers loosed their volleys, arrows rising like a swarm of vengeful hornets before plunging earthward. One found a man¡¯s eye socket¡ªhe danced briefly, fingers fluttering at the protruding shaft like a child trying to catch a butterfly, before pirouetting off the edge. Others ping-ping-pinged off raised shields, the sound like hail on a tin roof. The wall had become a slaughterhouse. Men fought so close they could count their enemy¡¯s missing teeth, could taste the garlic and fear on each other¡¯s breath. A spearman ran an attacker through¡ªonly to have his skull crushed mid-thrust by a mace, the crunch like a walnut under a bootheel. Two soldiers grappled at the precipice, their daggers flashing like mating scorpions, until both disappeared into the void. Every inch of stone was paid for in a currency of ruptured organs and shattered bones. Asag¡¯s knuckles cracked as he tightened his grip on his sword. He was no fresh-faced recruit to seek glory in this butchery. But he knew the precise moment when a commander¡¯s presence could turn the tide - not through skill at arms, but by being the stone that breaks the wave. He turned to his men¡ªthe thirty-five warriors who had followed him through fire and blood to this desperate hour. "With me," he growled , already moving toward the fray. The men straightened at his approach, backs stiffening unconsciously. Let the enemy come. Let them break upon these walls until not one stone stood upon another. They would find no victory here today. Asag thought as he led the charge into a tornado that could easily claim his life as that of many others. Not a single man faltered. Not the fresh recruits, nor his veterans who knew the price of ground given and ground held. Twenty halberdiers formed the core of his force, their polearms¡¯ cruel blades honed to split armor and bone with equal ease. Five of his personal guard flanked him¡ªbattle-hardened killers who had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him in a dozen hells, their loyalty forged in the crucible of shared suffering. The remaining ten had been pulled from the gate garrison, their faces streaked with soot and blood, called upon for one final, brutal push to reclaim the wall. Asag drew in a breath thick with the stench of burning pitch and spilled bowels. The moment stretched, taut as a drawn bowstring. Then his sword flashed upward, catching a shaft of pallid light through the smoke. "CHARGE IN THE NAME OF THE PRINCE!" The roar that answered him shook the very stones beneath their feet. As one, they surged forward¡ªnot as men, but as a force of nature, a thunderclap given flesh and steel. He led the carnage, his borrowed shield strapped tight, his sword hungry for enemy blood. He crashed into the fray where the wall teetered on collapse, where defenders fought back-to-back against the onslaught, their boots slipping in the gore of fallen comrades. The moment Asag¡¯s banner appeared amid the slaughter, the battle¡¯s tide turned. Defenders who had been buckling under the assault suddenly straightened like drought-stricken plants given water. A wave of raw defiance rippled along the battlements as voices, hoarse from days of screaming, found new strength: "The Lord is with us!" bellowed a sub-centurii, his face a mask of blood. "Drive them back!" shrieked a young soldier, his spear suddenly finding renewed vigor. A grizzled Black Stripe spat on the stones and roared, "Send these bastards to the gods!" The enemy, who had smelled victory mere heartbeats ago, now faced something far worse than desperate resistance¡ªthey faced men reborn. Where exhausted defenders had given ground, now halberds rose like a forest of death. The first man foolish enough to challenge Asag was a mountain of muscle and iron¡ªa brute with a shield locked tight to his chest and a short sword thirsty for noble blood. He never stood a chance. Asag moved like a striking viper. He deflected a swing and then with the borrowed shield smashed upward, crushing the man¡¯s nose into a pulp of cartilage and blood. Before the invader could even scream, Asag¡¯s sword punched through his throat, the tip bursting out the back of his neck in a spray of crimson. The brute collapsed, choking on his own lifeblood, as Asag ripped his blade free with a wet schlick. Another attacker came at him, a mace whistling through the air in a murderous arc. Asag twisted aside, the spiked iron head grazing his pauldron with a screech of metal. The second swing came faster¡ªhe barely raised his shield in time. The impact shuddered through his arm, numbing his fingers to the wrist. Gritting his teeth, he countered with a thrust to the gut, but his blade was a bit shallow, catching on mail rings and failing to break through. No matter. He tore the sword free and slammed his shield into the man¡¯s chest, knocking him off-balance. A boot to the knee sent the mace-wielder crashing onto his back. Before the fool could blink, Asag was on him, driving his sword through the soft flesh of his eye and piercing the brain behind it . The man¡¯s death rattle was drowned beneath the battle¡¯s roar as Asag stood, panting, his blade dripping. The lord was not alone in his fury. The halberdiers, now blood-drunk and battle-mad from the presence of their lord, carved through enemy ranks like reapers through wheat. Their polearms rose and fell in terrible rhythm, each swing leaving carnage in its wake. One halberdier¡¯s blade came down in a brutal arc, shearing through pauldron and collarbone alike. The attacker¡¯s scream cut off abruptly as the weapon lodged deep in his ribcage, his body jerking like a marionette with severed strings before being kicked unceremoniously from the wall. Nearby, a fresh-faced soldier - his smooth cheeks clashing grotesquely with the blood splattered across them - struggled against a grizzled veteran. The boy¡¯s arms trembled as his sword locked against his opponent¡¯s dagger, the wicked point inching inexorably toward his exposed throat. His breath came in panicked gasps, eyes wide with the primal terror of a creature staring into death¡¯s maw. Then suddenly - salvation. Asag¡¯s boot connected with the attacker¡¯s knee . As the man toppled, the lord¡¯s sword found its mark, punching through temple with enough force to send teeth skittering across the blood-slick stones. The boy stared, transfixed, at the ruined face of his would-be killer, at the gray matter glistening on Asag¡¯s blade. For a heartbeat, their eyes met - the veteran¡¯s gaze hard as flint, the boy¡¯s brimming with shocked gratitude. Then the moment passed. The young soldier wiped his mouth with a shaking hand, spat blood onto the corpse at his feet, and threw himself back into the fray with the desperate courage of those who have stared down death and lived. The attackers wavered¡ªtheir advance, once an unstoppable tide, now fractured like ice under a hammer¡¯s blow. Moments ago, they had been on the cusp of victory, their blades pressing the defenders to the brink. Now, step by brutal step, they were being driven back. The wall ran slick with blood, its stones hidden beneath a carpet of the dead and dying. The air hung thick with the stench of opened bowels and iron-rich blood, the cacophony of battle reduced to the wet hacking of blades finding flesh and the guttural screams of men who knew they were already dead. And at the heart of the slaughter, Asag fought like a man possessed. His sword arm burned with fatigue, his shield sagged under the weight of countless blows, his breath came in ragged, fire-scorched gasps¡ªyet he did not stop. Could not stop. Did not desire to stop Hesitation is death, he continued shouting in his mind as he spurred forward, death is failure. Because the moment he faltered, the line would break. And so he carved forward, his blade a flicker of steel in the chaos, cutting down any fool who still stood in his path. His men followed, their exhaustion burned away by sheer, desperate fury. What had been an enemy foothold was now a charnel pit. The attackers who had scrambled onto the wall lay butchered, their bodies heaped like discarded refuse. Some still twitched, fingers clutching at fatal wounds. Others stared blankly at the smoke-choked sky, their final expressions frozen in disbelief. The survivors hesitated. "What the hell is happening?!" a soldier shrieked, barely deflecting a halberd strike before another blade took him in the throat. "They were broken¡ªhow are they¡ª?!" Another voice cut short as an axe split his skull. Some fought on, wild-eyed and snarling, refusing to accept defeat. Others wavered, their gazes flicking toward the siege tower¡¯s bridge¡ªcalculating the distance, weighing their chances of escape. The defenders pressed harder, their advance inexorable. Every step the enemy gave up was another step closer to collapse. The bridge, once their path to victory, now became a death trap. Men stumbled back, shields raised in feeble defense, only to be hacked apart where they stood. And then¡ªsilence. Not true silence, but the eerie lull that follows a slaughter. The defenders stood panting, their weapons dripping, their armor splattered with gore. The only sounds were the dying moans of the fallen and the creak of the siege tower¡¯s timbers under the weight of the dead. Yet the battle was not over. A mass of enemies still crowded the bridge, either reinforcement ready to jump on the wall or the defenders that retreated back onto the bridge. Their shields were locked, weapons ready¡ªbut their resolve was lacking. They had seen their brothers cut down. They had watched the defenders, moments from breaking, suddenly rise like vengeful spirits. And now, they hesitated. Asag knew what hesitation would be . He didn¡¯t shout. Didn¡¯t rally his men with pretty words. He simply stepped onto the bridge. His duty could only end in his death. The hollow thud of his boots against the wood cut through the din. For a heartbeat, the enemy only stared, disbelief etched across their bloodied faces, as if looking at a madman. Then the defenders roared. Their commander had not just fought beside them¡ªhe was now leading the charge into the enemy¡¯s teeth, what other display of bravery did they need? With a howl of fury, the defenders surged after him, their exhaustion forgotten, their blades hungry. The enemy on the bridge were taken by suprise. Some turned to flee. Others raised their shields refusing to believe what was happening. None of it mattered. Asag¡¯s sword rose, fell, and the killing began anew. His duty had not ended yet. Chapter 508: Shield of Arancina(6) Chapter 508: Shield of Arancina(6) The battle had shifted¡ªno longer confined to the blood-slick stones of the wall, the fight now raged upon the siege bridge itself, that hated wooden pathway the enemy had paid for in rivers of blood. And leading the charge, like wrath given flesh, was Asag. He was the first. The first to break through the veil of hesitation. The first to plant his boot on enemy-held ground. The first face the invaders saw as death came screaming toward them. His armor¡ªonce polished, now was red . Every dent told a story: here, an axe had glanced off his pauldron; there, a spearpoint had skittered across his breastplate. The sun caught the grooves and scratches, setting them ablaze, so that for one fleeting moment, he looked less like a man and more like some ancient war-god stepped from legend. And behind him, the defenders surged. This was no orderly advance. No tactical maneuver. This was something wilder, something older¡ªthe primal fury of wolves who¡¯d finally been let off their chains. The halberdiers led the way, their polearms gleaming like the teeth of some great beast, their war cries raw and ragged. They followed Asag not because he commanded it, but because he led¡ªbecause he bled where they bled, killed where they killed. The enemy, so confident moments before, flinched. Their hesitation lasted only a heartbeat¡ªbut in war, a heartbeat was all it took. They were not just reclaiming ground. They were making a statement. The bridge belonged to them now. The enemy hesitated, their footing unsure. They had expected to fight their way forward, not to be met with a counterattack that shattered their momentum. The sight of Asag alone had shaken them, but now, with an entire wave of defenders crashing toward them, their morale fractured. Steel met steel in a deafening clash. The aim of the confrontation was simple¡ªtake control of the bridge, hold it, and destroy the chain that kept it connected to the siege tower. If they could sever it, the bridge would collapse, cutting off the enemy¡¯s entry point for good. The fight was no longer just about pushing them back¡ªit was about making sure they never came again. But between Asag¡¯s men and that goal stood the enemy, still fighting with stubborn desperation, unwilling to let their foothold slip. Blades clashed, shields shattered, men grunted and screamed as steel bit through flesh. The bridge had become a butcher¡¯s block, and neither side was willing to be the ones sacrificed upon it. "You bastards are slowing down!" one of Asag¡¯s men barked as he drove his sword through an attacker¡¯s gut, his secondary weapon as the first he had lost down onto the ground, twisting the blade before yanking it free. "What happened? Weren¡¯t you so eager to jump onto our walls a moment ago?" Another soldier, swinging a blood-slicked axe, laughed as he buried it into the shoulder of an enemy before booting the dying man off the bridge. "Come on, you sons of whores! Thought you were here to take our city, not bleed all over our fucking floor!" Asag, cutting down another man with a precise slash to the throat, saw the shift in the enemy. They had started this battle as the attackers, but now they were scrambling. The bridge, once meant to be their entryway into the city, was now the battlefield they were being forced to defend. The weight of that reversal showed in their eyes¡ªin the way their blades wavered, in the way their bodies flinched with hesitation. "Enough!" Asag roared, his voice cutting through the din. "Halberdiers¡ªcut the chain!" The order was simple. The execution, less so. The massive chain that anchored the bridge to the siege tower was thicker than a man¡¯s wrist, its links forged to withstand battering rams and fire. To sever it, they needed time. Space. A moment¡¯s respite in the slaughter. And so Asag gave them one. He rallied his men with a wordless bellow, and like a tide, they crashed forward. Shields slammed into bodies, sending enemies staggering. Swords rose and fell in brutal arcs, hewing through flesh and bone. Step by bloody step, they drove the invaders back, until at last¡ª ¡ªthe chain lay bare. The halberdiers went to work. Their axes rose and fell in perfect rhythm, each blow ringing out like a funeral bell. Sparks flew as steel bit into iron, the sound a screeching wail that set teeth on edge. "Drive them off! Push them back! Throw them to the ground if you have to! The bridge must be ours!" The defenders roared, their renewed purpose burning away any exhaustion in their limbs. Shields were raised, weapons were gripped tighter, and the push began. They surged forward like a wave crashing upon weakened stone, smashing through the remaining enemy ranks with the sheer force of desperation and rage. One enemy tried to hold his ground, swinging wildly at a halberdier, but his blow was parried before the same man threw him off the bridge with the shaft of his halberd Another tried to turn and run, realizing that the battle had turned against them¡ªbut he got only two steps before a spear ran him through from behind, his body falling limply to the side like a discarded doll. In the end the charge was more than successful, nearly completely allowing the garrison to occupy the bridge; now it was time for the second part. Asag planted his feet firmly at the base of the bridge, sword raised, shield braced. Behind him, the halberdiers worked furiously, their heavy weapons hacking at the thick iron chains that kept the bridge tethered to the siege tower. But they needed time¡ªtime Asag and his men had to buy with their blood. "Hold!" Asag roared, his voice raw with command. "No one gets past us!" The defenders closed ranks at his call, forming a solid wall of shields and steel. They were the last line, the barrier between the enemy and their desperate bid for victory. The attackers saw this and knew¡ªthey had to break through, or their foothold would crumble. And so they came, furious and desperate. A soldier lunged at Asag with a spear, aiming low for his gut. Asag did not even twist his body, as it was effectively useless with his armor, but while that was true , arrogance would be his false friend, another spear aimed lower came hitting ;slashing across his inner thigh. Pain flared, hot and sharp, but Asag gritted his teeth and retaliated, his sword cleaving through the man¡¯s shoulder. Blood spattered onto his armor as the body collapsed at his feet. Another came, wielding a sword, swinging with reckless aggression. Asag raised his shield, catching the blow, but the force rattled his bones. Before he could counter, another enemy struck from the side with an axe¡ªwhich while still luckily failed in breaking through succeeded in cutting the wind of the commander. Asag staggered from the blow , but only for a moment, slamming his shield forward to push one attacker back before thrusting his sword into the belly of the other. He had to fight , he had to gain time The more he fought, the more wounds he received. Pain burned through him, each wound stealing more of his strength, but he refused to yield. He could not yield. The entire weight of the battle hung upon his presence. His men fought because he fought. If he stepped back, even for a moment, the momentum they had clawed back from the abyss would shatter. A heavy axe came crashing down toward his head¡ªhe barely raised his shield in time. The impact sent a tremor through his arm, his shield splitting slightly at the edge. ¡¯¡¯Come on!" he snarled, his breath ragged. "You want this city? You have got to take it first!" ------------------------ He did not know how much time passed, as for the most part the sight ahead of him was always the same . The enemy hurled themselves at the shield wall, slamming into it like waves against a cliffside, desperate to break through. He could hear the strained grunts of his men, the clash of weapons, the wet, sickening sound of steel carving through flesh. The defenders held, but barely. He could feel it in their movements, see it in the way they braced just a little harder, how their arms trembled under the weight of each strike. Asag¡¯s breath came ragged, his body battered, his strength waning. But he could not fall. Alpheo... His mind drifted for just a moment, slipping past the blood and smoke. Where was he now? Was he sailing for him, racing to bring salvation? Or was he too caught in his own battle, struggling against another enemy, another siege, another hell? A darker thought crept in. What if he never arrived? What if he died here, nameless among the slain, just another body in the sea of the fallen? The thought sent an unfamiliar chill through him, one that even the heat of battle could not banish. He had always accepted the possibility of death, had worn it like a second skin, but now, standing on the bridge with blood dripping from his armor, he felt something heavier settle over him. His eyes dropped for a moment¡ªjust a flicker, barely a heartbeat. And that was when he saw it. The wound at his side. Blood. A lot of it. A deep gash, torn open from the axe strike he had barely deflected earlier. He had thought himself lucky, thought the steel had glanced away, but the blood seeping through his armor told another story. He had been hit. He touched the gash and winced from the pain. It was real he wasn¡¯t dreaming. Damn it....seems like this is the end of the road His grip tightened on his sword, jaw clenched against the wave of exhaustion threatening to take hold. He had no time to bleed. No time to acknowledge the creeping weakness in his limbs. Then¡ªmovement. The glint of steel in the corner of his vision. A sword, rising toward him, its edge glistening red. In that instant, as death bore down upon him, his mind did not dwell on fear, nor regret. Not on the princedom he fought for, nor the men who looked to him for hope. Not even on the enemy before him. Instead, a hollow thought filled him. I never told him. Never told Alpheo the truth of his scars. The ones that ran deeper than flesh, carved into him by hands long buried in the past. He had never spoken of them, never laid them bare before the only man he had ever trusted. And now, perhaps, he never would. A cruel emptiness swallowed him whole, uncaring of his notions , for pain is the companion of man. Chapter 509: Catastrophe(1) Chapter 509: Catastrophe(1) "In a siege, even the rats have their use." Jarza had told Asag those words the night before he departed for Aracina, a veteran¡¯s wisdom given to a man about to learn the cruel language of siege warfare. It was a simple phrase, but one carved from experience, from battles fought behind crumbling walls and on blood-slicked stones, in his past as a mercenary. It did not need to be said that every man, woman, and child of the city would have their part to play. War did not afford the luxury of bystanders. The young would run with bundles of arrows strapped to their backs, darting through smoke-filled streets to resupply the defenders. Women and the elderly, hands worn by time or untouched by battle, would haul stones to the walls, stack them beside the archers, or kneel by the wounded, pressing cloth to gaping wounds and whispering prayers no god would answer. The city did not simply fight with its swords and spears; it fought with every heartbeat within its walls. And yet, if one wished to witness the true cost of the battle, it was not the walls they needed to look upon. Not the bridges where men fought and fell, nor the gates battered by siege engines. No, the true toll of war lay in the great medical tents erected in the city square. There, away from the clashing steel and the shouts of men, was another kind of battlefield. The air reeked of sweat, blood, and the cloying bitterness of herbs crushed under frantic hands. Military surgeons¡ªAlpheo¡¯s finest, sent to aid the defense¡ªworked tirelessly beneath the dim light of oil candles, their fingers slick with the warmth of another man¡¯s life. They did not wield swords, but knives, saws, and needles, each tool a weapon against death itself. Some patients would scream as wounds were extended for a surgery. Others lay silent, either too weak to cry out or already past the threshold where pain mattered. It was said that warriors earned their place in the songs of the bards, but no song would ever be sung for the hands that stitched flesh back together, for the ones who held down writhing bodies so a blade could do its work, for the exhausted voices whispering, "Stay with me, just a little longer." of people that did not want to die alone And yet, without them, there would be no city left to defend. It had to also be noted, that the medical staff of the White Army was considerably the best one out of their contemporary, made of course possible for the intervention of Alpheo, which shared some of the basic knowledge that he knew about the medical field. Still the White Army was not composed solely of warriors and medics .As behind every soldier standing in the shield wall, every archer loosing an arrow, and every cavalryman charging into battle, there was an intricate network of non-combatants whose work ensured the army could march, fight, and survive. Among them were cobblers, mending the boots of weary soldiers worn thin from endless marches; surgeons, tending to wounds both fresh and festering; cooks, stirring great pots of stew to feed the hungry masses; quartermasters, tirelessly managing supplies and provisions; and coach drivers, guiding wagons filled with the tools of war or food . Fletchers worked ceaselessly, crafting arrows for the archers, ensuring that the sky would never be empty of death. Blacksmiths, though unable to forge full suits of armor or fresh blades while on the move, could still coax fires hot enough to repair dented helmets, reforging weapons made dull and twisted by battle. Even the horses, the lifeblood of the cavalry and supply trains, had their own dedicated caretakers, ensuring their shoes were set firm and their strength maintained. Unlike many other standing armies, the White Army contained no slaves¡ªnot out of any moral stance, but out of simple practicality. Where other armies used enslaved men to carry food and equipment, Alpheo had instead chosen mules and donkeys. These beasts of burden, though requiring greater feed, could carry far more weight than a man, would never collapse from exhaustion in protest, and most importantly, posed no risk of turning their weapons upon their masters in a desperate bid for freedom, as had happened for some others, one of them even becoming a prince. Another difference between the royal standing army and any others was Alpheo¡¯s refusal to permit camp followers¡ªparticularly prostitutes. Alpheo had deemed them a source of disorder, a distraction that corroded discipline and cohesion among the ranks. Beyond the moral concerns, their presence brought with them the shadow of disease and the potential for outbreaks that could cripple an entire campaign before a battle was even fought. Hygiene was something Alpheo held in the highest regard, enforcing strict cleanliness measures that kept sickness at bay. In a world where death could come not just from an enemy¡¯s blade, but from the filth and pestilence festering in poorly managed camps, the White Army stood apart¡ªnot just in discipline, but in the care it took to preserve the lives of its men. ------------- "Hold him down! Hold him down, damn it!" One of the medics shouted as a wounded soldier thrashed violently on the wooden table, his leg a mangled ruin from an axe blow. Two assistants struggled to keep him still, their hands slipping against the sweat and blood covering his body. "He¡¯s losing too much blood¡ªnurse, more pressure on the wound!" Another surgeon snapped as he pressed a wad of clean cloth against a gaping hole in a man¡¯s side. The soldier gasped in pain, his fingers digging into the edge of the cot as if he could squeeze the agony away. "Stop screaming and bite down, you fool, or you¡¯ll break your own damn jaw!" Agalasios the head medics of the surgen himself bellowed, forcing a leather strap between the teeth of a man about to have an arrowhead dug out of his shoulder. "Boiling water! Now!" A woman¡¯s voice cried as she rushed toward one of the great cauldrons, scooping up a ladle and pouring steaming water over a set of bloody instruments. "This one¡¯s not going to make it¡ªmove him off the table, we need space!" A medic grunted, already signaling for another patient to be brought in. The screams of the wounded filled the tent like a terrible symphony, but the surgeons and nurses worked without pause. There was no time for pity, no time for hesitation. . The wounded who could be saved were fought for, their bodies stitched, burned, and bandaged, while those beyond saving were given a sip of strong liquor and a prayer from a priest before being left to fade into silence. The great city square, once a place of commerce and chatter, had been transformed into a sprawling field hospital. At the heart of the chaos was Agalasios, the head of the military surgeons, a man whose hands had seen more suffering than most warriors. He had been with Alpheo since the days of their mercenary campaigns, long before they fought under banners of white and black . His voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the cries of agony as he moved between the wounded, directing procedures, scolding apprentices, and barking orders to the women who worked tirelessly alongside him. Massive cauldrons of boiling water sat at the center of the tent, steam rising in thick clouds as assistants carried buckets back and forth, ensuring that no tool touched a wound before being scrubbed and boiled. Dozens of bars of soap, an uncommon luxury nowdays, were stacked high, used to cleanse hands and instruments before and after every procedure. Water buckets were constantly refilled, for no wound was to be touched with dirty hands, no surgery attempted without ensuring that infection was beaten before it could begin. Thirty trained military surgeons, personally sent by Alpheo to Asag, worked in shifts, their expertise a godsend amidst the carnage. They were not alone¡ªdozens of women from the city had been gathered to assist them, their hands washing wounds, holding men still during painful procedures, and carrying bloodied rags to be burned outside. Together, they formed an assembly line of care, ensuring that no man was left untended, no wound ignored. This was the difference Alpheo had made. In most armies, the wounded were left to fester, their survival dependent more on luck than care. But here, infection was an enemy just as deadly as steel, and it was fought with the same ruthless efficiency. Limbs were lost, men screamed, and the stench of blood and sweat was inescapable¡ªbut far more lived than in any other war camp. Yet the shouts of pain and misery were the same as those of any other army. A boy couldn¡¯t have been more than fourteen. His arm trembling violently, with an arrow lodged deep into the flesh just above his elbow. His breath came in short, panicked gasps, and his wide eyes darted around the medical tent, seeking something¡ªsomeone¡ªthat could make this nightmare disappear. Agalasios exhaled through his nose, stepping forward to examine the wound. His experienced hands moved with certainty, fingers prodding the flesh around the entry point. The arrow hadn¡¯t gone clean through, meaning it would have to be pushed forward rather than pulled out. A nuisance, but nothing he hadn¡¯t seen before. He turned his head slightly and called a name. From the other side of the tent, a woman rushed over, her hands already stained with blood from another patient. As soon as she came into view, the boy¡¯s eyes lit with recognition¡ªshe knew her. "Please Marie, don¡¯t let me die!" he whimpered, his voice shaking. His body squirmed as if trying to escape the inevitable. The woman¡¯s face softened, but before she could speak, Agalasios cut in firmly. "You¡¯re not dying, Mars. You¡¯re lucky¡ªan arrow in the arm is nothing compared to what I¡¯ve seen today." The boy nodded frantically, but tears still welled up in his eyes. Agalasios ignored them. Tears didn¡¯t matter¡ªgetting that arrow out did. Reaching for a pair of iron tongs, Agalasios grasped the wound¡¯s edges and twisted the flesh apart to expose the embedded arrowhead. The meat inside gleamed wet and red, glistening under the torches¡¯ light The boy let out a sharp cry and tried to look down at his own mangled arm, but before he could, the woman placed a firm hand on his forehead and pushed him back down onto the cot. "Stay put" Her voice was kind, but there was no room for argument. Agalasios didn¡¯t look up as he spoke. "You¡¯re lucky," he repeated. "Missed any major artery. You¡¯ll be good as new in two months." The boy let out something between a laugh and a sob, his body shaking. Agalasios turned to the woman. "We¡¯re pushing it forward." She nodded, tightening her grip on the boy. Without hesitation, Agalasios snapped the shaft with a sharp crack, tossing the broken wood aside. Then, using a specialized tool, he clamped onto the remaining part of the arrow, just above the embedded head. He inhaled. Then, in one swift motion¡ª He pushed. The boy screamed¡ªa sound raw and unfiltered, a sound of sheer agony that cut through the tent and made nearby patients shudder. His legs kicked, his free hand clawed at the cot, but the woman held him down, murmuring reassurances he couldn¡¯t hear. The arrowhead slid through the torn flesh, and then¡ªpop¡ªit was free. Agalasios lifted it up, inspecting the metal piece carefully. No missing pieces. That was good. A broken tip left inside would fester, rot, and kill just as surely as a blade to the heart. "You¡¯re safe now," he said, voice even. The boy sobbed in relief. Agalasios turned to the woman. "Sew him up. Douse it in alcohol, then bandage it tight." She nodded, already moving to obey. The boy, exhausted but alive, smiled weakly. He was going to live. And then¡ª Agalasios¡¯ blood turned to ice. His eyes widened as two men staggered into the tent, dragging a figure between them. His armor was still on, though it did little to hide the sheer amount of blood soaking through the right side of his torso and his left arm, which made him look as if he was holding a cap in his arms . He could see it dripping in heavy drops onto the floor, pooling at his feet. Asag. The Commander of the city¡¯s defense. His skin was pale, his lips slightly parted, and though his eyes were still open, they were unfocused, like a man who had seen something beyond the waking world . He was half dead just from looks, yet Agalasios had no choice as the life at risk wasn¡¯t Asag¡¯s alone, but his too. Chapter 510: Catastrophe(2) Chapter 510: Catastrophe(2) Agalasios snapped into motion before his mind could even fully register the sight before him. The tent was already a storm of noise and movement, but his voice cut through it like a whip. "Tavros! Prepare a table and a bed ¡ªNOW!" he bellowed, his words sharp enough to send the young medic sprinting toward an empty cot, flipping aside bloodied linens and clearing space. "Lerna, cleanse the instruments! I want them spotless!" His hand shot toward a girl barely older than the wounded boy he had just treated. She nodded and dashed toward the boiling cauldrons, steam rising as she began scrubbing the iron tools with feverish speed. "Varnes, get me fresh bandages and alcohol!" Every order was barked like a command on the battlefield, and every person who heard it obeyed. Then he turned to the two men who had carried Asag in. "Put him down!" They hesitated for only a heartbeat before obeying, hauling their commander onto the prepared bed- The wooden frame groaned under the weight of Asag¡¯s armor, his limp form sprawling against it. And gods, what a sorry state he was in. Blood soaked through the once-proud steel of his cuirass, the right side of his body a glistening, red ruin. His left arm hung at an awkward angle, the limb completely soaked, fingers twitching with spasms of pain. His chest rose and fell in shallow, unsteady breaths, each one carrying a low, rattling sound. He was still conscious¡ªbarely¡ªbut his gaze was unfocused, his face drained of color. His lips moved as if to speak, but only the faintest of murmurs escaped. "Get that armor OFF!" Agalasios roared, stepping closer as the two men scrambled to remove the plates and buckles binding Asag¡¯s broken body. Meanwhile, he spun on his heel, moving toward one of the large buckets of clean water. His hands, still stained with the blood of the last patient, plunged into the cool liquid. He scrubbed furiously, fingers scraping against the soap beside it, rubbing until the crimson stains ran in swirling rivers down his wrists and into the murky depths. There was no time for hesitation. No time for uncertainty. Outside the tent, the roar of victory shook the very air. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of voices merged into one deafening cheer, the sound rolling through the city like a tidal wave. The walls had held. The enemy had been thrown back. Aracina still stood. But inside the tent, there was no celebration. Agalasios ignored the cheers, his focus razor-sharp on the man dying beneath his hands. The blood pooling beneath Asag didn¡¯t care for victory. The torn flesh, the broken armor, the gasping breath¡ªit all told a different story. And perhaps, so did his own fate. He swallowed hard, his hands steady as he grabbed a scalpel. It wasn¡¯t just Asag¡¯s life that hung in the balance tonight. His did, too. It wasn¡¯t rare to hear stories of surgeons who had failed to save a noble, only to find themselves facing the executioner¡¯s blade instead of a grieving family. Negligence, they would call it. Failure. Even if it was an impossible case, even if the patient was beyond saving the moment they were carried into the tent¡ªsomeone always had to answer for it. And this wasn¡¯t just any noble. This was Asag, the commander of the city¡¯s defense, the man Alpheo himself had entrusted with this siege. And if Alpheo favored Asag as much as he had always suspected, if the Supreme commander of the White Army thought, even for a second, that the failure had been Agalasios¡¯ fault... He didn¡¯t want to think about it. Of course, Alpheo was not a fool. He wasn¡¯t the kind of man to execute a surgeon over a simple failure¡ªnot unless he had undeniable proof of incompetence. But the fear lingered, the same fear that clung to every surgeon who had ever held a noble¡¯s life in their hands. Agalasios wiped his wet hands on his apron, his fingers still slick from the water. The cheers outside still rang in the distance, but in here, all he could hear was the shallow, uneven breathing of the man on the table. "Lord Asag," he called, but there was no response. He turned sharply. "You¡ªkeep him awake. Talk to him and slap him, don¡¯t you fucking dare to let him sleep." A young nurse nodded and stepped closer, her voice soft as she murmured to Asag, trying to keep his consciousness tethered. Agalasios, meanwhile, grabbed a towel and shoved it toward another nurse. "Clean the blood. Now." The nurse obeyed, pressing the cloth against Asag¡¯s side, soaking up the crimson that had pooled around the wound. The fabric turned dark in seconds, and as she wiped away the excess, Agalasios finally got a clear look at the injury. Not as deep as he had feared. His sharp eyes traced the wound. No organs punctured. No exposed bones. The bleeding had been heavy, but the true threat wasn¡¯t the depth¡ªit was how much he had already lost. Agalasios wasted no time. He reached for a bottle of alcohol before pouring it liberally around the wound. The sting must have been unbearable, but Asag only gave the faintest of shudders. His body was too weak to properly react. "Stay with me,my lord " the nurse urged, squeezing Asag¡¯s hand,while shaking him a bit. Agalasios wiped the area dry, tossing the towel aside. "We¡¯re closing this up now. You two. Sew it up." Two more surgeons stepped forward, each gripping their own needle and thread. Agalasios took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders before stepping toward Asag¡¯s left arm. The side wound was closed now, the stitches holding the flesh together, but his work was far from over. The gash on the arm was just as vicious, though luck had been on Asag¡¯s side. His armor had taken the worst of the strike, leaving him only with torn flesh and bruised bone rather than a complete break. Still, Agalasios knew better than to assume. He placed his fingers carefully around the wound, pressing gently along the length of the arm, searching for the telltale shifting of broken bone. Asag gave a low groan, his body twitching beneath the examination, but no sharp edges moved beneath the skin¡ªno grinding, no unnatural shifting. "Not broken," Agalasios muttered, more to himself than anyone else. A relief. But relief did not mean rest. He reached for another needle, threading it quickly before lowering it to the gash. The wound was deep but not fatal¡ªif treated properly. He pushed the needle through flesh, pulling the thread tight as he worked to close the wound. The skin resisted at first, stiff with drying blood, but soon the edges came together, sealed under the careful movements of his hands. Asag shifted slightly, a weak breath escaping his lips. The nurse still held his hand, but his consciousness was slipping. Agalasios worked faster. The last stitch was tied off, and he cut the excess thread with a sharp blade. That part was done. Now came the second issue¡ªbruised bone. Without a proper splint, Asag risked worsening the injury with the slightest wrong movement. Agalasios turned sharply. "Get me a board and bandages¡ªquickly," he barked, and a young assistant rushed to fetch them. As he waited, he pressed his hands against the arm again, this time more firmly. He needed to ensure the bone remained straight. Any misalignment now would mean trouble later, but it would not be life threatening. The assistant returned, placing a sturdy wooden board beside him. Agalasios took it without a word, carefully positioning it along Asag¡¯s arm. With practiced efficiency, he began wrapping the bandages, securing the splint in place, ensuring the arm would remain stable. As Agalasios worked, his hands steady despite the tension gnawing at his insides, he turned sharply to the two soldiers standing nearby¡ªAsag¡¯s guards, the fools who had brought him in half-dead. "You idiots," he snapped, his voice like a whip crack. "What the hell were you doing while he was bleeding out? His wounds are not deep but he¡¯s lost too much blood! If you had dragged him here sooner, I wouldn¡¯t be sewing him together like a butcher stitching up a slaughtered pig!" One of the guards stiffened but did not meet his gaze. The other, older and bearing a fresh cut on his forehead, clenched his jaw before answering. "The Lord refused," he said, his tone carrying respect for the wounded commander. "He wouldn¡¯t leave the fight until the bridge was secured. We tried, but he ordered us to hold the line before we could get him out.The defense would have failed if the lords wasn¡¯t there." Agalasios sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers tightening around the bandage he was wrapping around Asag¡¯s splinted arm. "That stubborn bastard," he hissed, shifting his ire from the soldiers to the unconscious man on the table. "Fool," he muttered under his breath, finishing the last knot with a rough tug. "Stubborn, reckless fool.What good will you be dead?" The soldiers remained silent, shame flickering in their expressions, but they knew there was no point in arguing. The battle was won, but Asag had paid a price for his refusal to fall back. One of the guards, shifting uneasily on his feet, finally spoke. "Will the commander live?" Agalasios exhaled, wiping his bloodstained hands on a cloth. He glanced down at Asag¡ªpale from blood loss, his breath shallow but steady. The worst was done, but the battle for his life wasn¡¯t over yet. "That," Agalasios said, his voice grim, "depends on the gods, it is theirs the hands that shall weave his thread, it is out of our control." And with his they will decided mine too, Agalosios lampooned while throwing one last look at the sorry condition of the commander. Chapter 511: Light of a new day(1) Chapter 511: Light of a new day(1) Asag walked along the city wall, his boots pressing against the cold, unyielding stone that had borne the weight of countless men¡ªmen who had fought, bled, and died upon it for the last three weeks. Two days had passed since they had turned back the enemy¡¯s fiercest assault. It had been a slaughter, a day when the walls had nearly fallen, and yet, they had held. Below, the earth was littered with corpses, the dead heaped atop one another like grotesque offerings to war. Their blood had soaked into the dirt, turning it into a festering graveyard. The defenders had seen to it that every attacker who perished upon their walls was cast back over the edge, their lifeless forms left to rot under the sun. Now, should the enemy come again, they would be forced to wade through the swollen, stinking remains of their own kin¡ªtrudging over death itself to try and claim the city that refused to fall. The Oizenian prince had asked many time for a truce, for time to retrieve the bodies of his fallen. Each time, Asag¡¯s answer had been the same: No. With every refusal, he knew he was stoking the prince¡¯s fury, feeding the bitter humiliation of a man whose once-glorious campaign had turned into a slow, grinding disaster. Perhaps that was one of the few things that he could still smile about; he knew Alpheo would have been proud of it. The Oizenian prince had come to Aracina with 2,800 warriors at his command. Three weeks later, that number had withered, to how many he did not know. Of course the exchange was costly for him too. Five hundred and forty of his men now lay dead, their corpses buried somewhere away from the rest of the people. And that was without counting the wounded¡ªthose who, in any other war, would have been left to rest and recover. But not here. Not now. His forces were stretched thin, and even the half-healed were being forced back onto the battlefield, their wounds reopened with every desperate clash. Asag exhaled, his gaze drifting over the battlefield. The siege was not over. The enemy would come again. And when they did, they would march not only toward the walls of Aracina but through the broken remnants of their own failures. He knew, with a cold certainty that settled deep in his bones, just how close they had come to ruin. The walls had held¡ªbarely¡ªbut the cost had been steep. He himself had nearly been among the dead, cut down in the blood-soaked madness of that cursed attack. The wound on his side and the gash on his arm were proof enough of that. He had bled so much that Agalosios had cursed him half a dozen times over, shouting that only the gods knew how he had survived at all. And yet, despite the pain, despite the heavy toll that battle had taken on his body, he had risen. Agalosios had forced him onto a bed the morning after the fight, threatening to have his guards tie him down if he so much as tried to sit up. But Asag was no fool¡ªhe had felt the weight of his own exhaustion, the leaden weakness that made even lifting a hand a struggle. And so, for that day, he had remained still, though each hour spent staring at the canvas of the medical tent gnawed at his patience. By the second day, he had had enough. Agalosios had pleaded, scowling as he warned him that moving too soon would only reopen his wounds, that another hard fall might be enough to kill him outright. Asag had ignored him. He had a city to defend. He could not afford the luxury of bedrest. When he stepped onto the walls once more, it was with an unsettling realization¡ªthe enemy had not attacked. Not yesterday, not today. At first, it seemed like another stroke of luck, another reprieve granted by fate itself. But Asag had been at war long enough to know that such fortune rarely came without reason. The enemy was not waiting out of kindness. Of course, he could not yet know the truth¡ªthat within the Oizenian camp, the prince had barely held his army together. After the disastrous attack, tempers had flared, and discipline had cracked. The men had come dangerously close to mutiny, cursing their commander for throwing them into another doomed assault. Even some of the lords, had advised against another attack without proper siege equipment. The prince had been left with no choice. He had given his men two days of rest, both to calm their anger and to allow his engineers time to finish up a new siege tower. That fragile peace was a gift to both sides, though neither truly knew just how much they needed it. For the prince, it was a chance to restore order, to rebuild. For Asag and his warriors, it was a moment to breathe¡ªto clean their wounds, reinforce their barricades, prepare for the next storm that would come battering at their gates, and of course make peace with their death. Night had settled over the city like a shroud, draping the bloodstained walls in darkness. The only light came from the flickering torches carried by the patrols that moved like weary ghosts along the ramparts. Each man walked with slow, half dead steps, their breath visible in the cold air, their hands wrapped tightly around the horns at their belts. One sound, one blast into the stillness, and the city would awaken once more to the drums of war. Asag had lain in the quiet of his chamber last night, though rest did not truly come. His body ached, each movement sending dull throbs through his wounds, but pain was a familiar thing¡ªit had long since ceased to trouble him. What had lingered instead was the weight of knowing. Knowing that this night, this fragile silence, might be the last he would ever see. The enemy had not attacked, but he was not fool enough to believe that mercy had stayed their hands. They would come, and when they did, there would be no respite, no hesitation. His eyes closed, but sleep was a distant thing. He had felt this before¡ªthe slow, creeping knowledge that tomorrow may never come, that his name might soon be lost to the carrion birds circling above a battlefield. And yet, there was no fear, no trembling dread. Only certainty. He had walked this path too many times to flinch from it now. I am going to die here , he realized as he walked along the wall . I am going to die in this city¡ªblade in hand or with chains around my ankles and my head on a pike. He strangely smiled at the thought, as he remembered when he had rebelled alongside Alpheo, just few hundred slaves against an half empty camp , truly that was the end that he had expected. So of course every second that he lived now, was a second that was gifted to him. The thought of death coming close did not unnerve him as much as it should have. If he had wished to flee, to abandon these walls and live as a coward, the sea was there¡ªvast, open, uncaring. The enemy had no ships. He could have taken one of the many fishing boats, gathered a handful of men, and slipped away beneath the cover of night. But of course, he would never do such a thing. He had made an oath. Asag let out a slow breath, his gaze turning toward the sea. It stretched endlessly before him, its dark waves rolling under the moonlight, whispering secrets he could not hear. He had asked himself the same question since the first day he arrived here: Will the prince come before the end? There was no movement upon the horizon. No sails. No banners. Only the tide, as steady and indifferent as ever. The next assault will be the last. The thought settled in his chest like cold iron. Of course, it would be the last to take the wall¡ªnot the city. He had planned for that. Barricades had been raised within the streets, wooden obstacles meant to slow the enemy, to buy them a day, maybe two. If those failed, then the city itself would become a weapon. It was mostly wood. Fire would take it easily. And if it burned, then he could only pray the enemy was inside when it did. He stood upon the wall, his silhouette swallowed by the vast night, his gaze fixed upon the countless embers burning in the enemy¡¯s camp. They flickered like fallen stars scattered across the earth, each one a life waiting to be snuffed out. If he had his way, he would lead his men down into that sea of fire and shadow, striking like wolves in the dark, turning sleep into slaughter. But he knew better. A sortie was a gambler¡¯s folly, a reckless roll of the dice when the game was already rigged. His men were weary, their bodies battered, their souls stretched thin from three weeks of blood and fire. A failed attack would cost more than they could afford, and he could not risk his last defenders on a fleeting moment of vengeance. His duty was not to win, but to endure¡ªto drag this siege through the filth and the ash, to force the enemy to wade through blood and corpses until even their victory tasted like defeat. With a slow breath, he turned away, pulling his eyes from the infernal glow beyond the walls. He had stared long enough. The night was long, but the morrow would be longer still. Step by step, he made his way toward the barracks, his mind sinking under the weight of a thousand grim possibilities. Then he froze. Far on the horizon, away from the fields of the dead and beyond the enemy¡¯s reach, a new light stirred in the darkness. Faint at first, like the glimmer of a dream, but growing. It moved with purpose, not the idle flicker of campfires, but the steady march of something greater. For a breathless moment, he simply watched. His heart pounded in his chest, his fingers clenched into fists. He had asked himself this question every night since the siege began, had stared at the empty sea, wondering if the prince would come before the end. And now, at last, there was his answer. Not in words. Not in messengers or promises. But in fire, in steel, in the distant glow of salvation. He had come. Chapter 512: Light of a new day(2) Chapter 512: Light of a new day(2) Asag stood motionless upon the battlements, his hands braced against the cold stone, his gaze fixed on the distant lights dancing across the black expanse of the sea. They shimmered like fallen stars, like the gods themselves had cast a net of fire upon the waves to guide salvation home. Time had ceased to matter¡ªthe ache in his bones, the wound pulsing at his side, the exhaustion that had settled into his marrow like a second skin¡ªall of it faded before that glowing horizon. A soldier approached, his boots scuffing against the worn stone. He hesitated when he saw his commander¡ªthe rigid set of Asag¡¯s shoulders, the hollow intensity in his eyes. "My lord?" the man ventured, his voice rough from smoke and shouting. Asag did not turn. His answer came slow, distant, as if spoken from the depths of a dream. "Keep patrolling, soldier." The words were barely more than a breath, carried away by the salt-tinged wind. The soldier lingered a moment longer, then bowed his head and retreated into the night. Asag moved like a man caught between waking and dreaming. His boots found the worn steps by memory alone, each footfall a measured beat against the silence. Normally, his nights were sad and dutiful inspecting barricades, ensuring the pyres were ready to turn his city to ash rather than let it fall whole into enemy hands. But not tonight. Tonight, the weight of command slipped from his shoulders like a discarded cloak. The specter of defeat, the ever-present dread that had lived in his chest since the first enemy banners crested the horizon¡ªit all dissolved before the undeniable truth burning in the distance. The prince was coming. His brother was coming. A shudder ran through him¡ªnot from the cold, not from pain, but from something deeper, something he had buried beneath duty , steel and war. Hope. It was a fragile thing, that hope. Like the first green shoot breaking through winter-hardened earth. Like the faintest ember still glowing in a bed of ash. And for the first time in eighteen days, Asag allowed himself to breathe. He closed his eyes. A gust of wind tugged at his hair, carrying with it the distant sound of the waves. --------------------- The ships drew closer as time passed , their hulls cutting through the dark waters like silent phantoms. The banners of the royal house fluttered in the night wind, their silken forms catching the moonlight, glimmering with the weight of everything they represented¡ªpower, duty, salvation. Asag stood at the shore of the port, watching, barely breathing. Around him, the murmurs spread like wildfire. Soldiers stirred from their sleep, rubbing weary eyes, shaking off the exhaustion that had shackled them for weeks. Citizens crept forward drawn by the whispers of something that felt almost too impossible to believe. A ship reached the shallows, the first of many, and figures began disembarking, armored men stepping onto the land with the surety of those who had come to claim what was theirs. Step by step, they emerged¡ªrows of disciplined warriors, the same one that had allowed this city to stand for nearly a month But then, amidst the steel and banners, one figure stood apart. The prince. He stepped down onto the shore with all the presence of a man who had never doubted he would be here. The light of the torches from the men sorrounding him caught the silver embroidery of his cloak, the faint sheen of his armor. His face, so painfully familiar, was set in quiet determination. His eyes, sharp as a whetted blade, scanned the shore, searching, knowing exactly who he would find waiting. And then¡ªthere. Their eyes met. Asag felt something inside him shatter. For all the fire, for all the strength he had clung to these past weeks, for all the blood spilled and the nights spent wondering if he would see another dawn¡ªnone of it had broken him. But now, standing there, watching his brother approach, he felt the weight of everything crash into him. The nights spent doubting.The days spent bleeding.The quiet moments where he had accepted death.The certainty that he would never see him again. It was not relief, not exactly. Relief was too small a word for what churned inside him. It was something deeper, something raw, something that made his throat close and his breath hitch. He had held on for so long, and now¡ª Now, he did not have to hold on alone. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails pressing into his palms. His chest ached, his wounds throbbed, but none of it mattered. Alpheo had come. He walked toward him, and the world seemed to slow. The banners of his house fluttered wildly in the night air. For weeks, he had imagined this moment¡ªhad dreamed of it in those rare moments of rest, had whispered it to himself in the darkest hours when the enemy was at the gate and death felt like a breath away. But now, with Alpheo before him, real and alive, the weight of it all came crashing down. The exhaustion, the battle wounds, the nights without sleep, the wounds that should have killed him¡ªall of it pressed onto his shoulders at once. His knees buckled, and without even meaning to, he collapsed onto them. His palms hit the stone . He gasped, as though the mere act of breathing had become too much to bear. It was over. For the first time since the siege began, Asag let his body give in. Let the weariness take him, let himself sink into the relief that coursed through his veins like a long-awaited blessing. He had held. And now, at last, he could rest. But before he could even process the moment, hands were on him. Strong, unwavering hands. "Get up." The voice was sharp, firm¡ªpulling him from the abyss, refusing to let him collapse. The grip tightened, not unkind but insistent. "I will not have one of my most loyal men¡ªmy brother¡ªdemean himself like this." The words struck him harder than any blade had. Asag looked up, his vision swimming with exhaustion, and found Alpheo staring down at him, his face a mixture of relief and sorrow. His heart clenched. "You came," he whispered, his voice hoarse, barely more than breath. Alpheo did not answer right away. Instead, his hands found Asag¡¯s face, grasping his jaw, lifting it so that their eyes met. It was then that Asag saw it¡ªthe grief buried beneath Alpheo¡¯s gaze, the unspoken apology, the unbearable weight of knowing that he had arrived too late to spare his friend the suffering he had endured. "You have fought long and hard," Alpheo murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "You are the hero that we needed." The words felt like a cruel thing. A hero. He had not felt like one when he watched men die around him, when he felt his blood leaving his body, when he had stared at the night sky and believed he would never leave this city alive. "I have no words to undo the time it took," Alpheo continued, his grip tightening, his own voice threatening to break. "No reward will ever be enough to repay what you have given me. The only thing I can offer you is this¡ª" He turned slightly, gesturing to the sea of banners behind him, to the army that had answered his call, to the storm of vengeance that had followed in his wake. "I will show you the banner of Oizen trampled beneath our feet." His voice was steel now, the promise of war woven into every syllable. "I will make them pay for the pain they have caused you tenfold. And I will ensure that all who live know your name¡ªAsag, the Mountain of Aracina." Asag¡¯s breath shuddered from his chest. His body trembled with exhaustion, with pain, with the flood of emotions that he had buried for so long just to survive. He had not wept once during the siege. Not when he had nearly died. Not when he had thought himself abandoned. But now, as he stood before his prince, before his brother, before the one man who had finally come to end this nightmare, he felt the tears prick at the edges of his vision. The walls he had built¡ªstronger than the city¡¯s stones, stronger than the armor he wore¡ªcracked at last. He had not been forgotten. He had not bled in vain. He had held. And now, at last, he was not alone. -------------------- Alpheo strode along the city wall, his cloak billowing behind him, his every step purposeful. The torches lining the battlements cast flickering shadows over his face, making his sharp features appear all the more severe. At his side, Jarza walked in silence, his old, battle-worn eyes scanning the night as if expecting an enemy arrow to come flying at any moment. Behind them, the city still murmured with life. Soldiers moved about, tightening armor straps, sharpening blades, murmuring in low voices as they readied themselves for whatever came next. The wounded lay resting in the mansion that had been converted into a command center, among them Asag¡ªfinally, after weeks of battle, given a place to rest. "What are the troops doing now?" Alpheo asked, his voice as steady as the stone beneath his boots. Jarza didn¡¯t need to ask what he meant. He knew. "They¡¯re nearly finished eating," he answered. "As soon as the last bite is swallowed, they¡¯ll be ready to march." Alpheo gave a slow, thoughtful nod, his gaze shifting beyond the city walls. He rested his hands on the cold stone, staring out into the darkness where the enemy camp sprawled in the distance. Fires dotted the land, glowing embers against the night. The siege camp was still¡ªquiet, unsuspecting. "They¡¯ve grown fat," Alpheo muttered, his voice tinged with something dangerously close to amusement. "Lazy, complacent. Always deciding where to strike, when to attack." He turned slightly, glancing at Jarza with a smirk that did not quite reach his eyes. "Perhaps it¡¯s time to shed some of that fat." "A sortie?" "A feast," Alpheo corrected, his voice low and edged with sharp intent. "And tonight, we will be the ones doing the feasting." He turned back to the camp, his eyes narrowing as if already picturing the chaos they would unleash. "We wait until the moon is high. Then we bleed them." Jarza exhaled, shaking his head. "You do love your dramatics, don¡¯t you?" Alpheo chuckled, but there was no humor in it. Only steel. Only the promise of retribution for a brother that was made to weep. "Everything is prepared. The only thing left is to get the troops behind the gate, so we can deliver our gifts to Shemleik." His lips curled into something between a grin and a snarl. "We hit fast, we hit hard, and most importantly¡ªwe turn their camp into a pit of chaos." Jarza gave a slow nod, his expression grim but approving. "That part shouldn¡¯t be difficult. You throw enough bodies into the fire, and it will burn bright enough for the whole princedom to see." Alpheo¡¯s gaze darkened, his mind already past the walls, inside the enemy camp, seeing it as it would be in mere hours¡ªflames licking at the tents, men screaming, tripping over each other in the dark, cutting down their own in the confusion. "What about the noble levies?" he asked, his voice carrying a tinge of expectation, as if he already knew the answer. Jarza scoffed, rolling his eyes. "They¡¯ll be more of a burden than a boon. They¡¯ll slow us more than anything." Alpheo let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "That is the standard of infantry across the South now. When you eat nothing but cake, everything else tastes like shit." He folded his arms across his chest. "But they will still add to our numbers, and numbers are good when our goal is chaos. Let them stumble, let them panic¡ªif it spreads to the enemy, all the better." Jarza tilted his head, considering the words before letting out a low, dry chuckle. "I suppose if nothing else, they¡¯ll make for excellent bait." Alpheo smirked, his expression as sharp as a drawn blade. "Let¡¯s get them moving. I want to at least end one of our opponents before the week ends....¡¯¡¯ Chapter 513: Burning a banner(1) Chapter 513: Burning a banner(1) "I¡¯m done with soldiering." The words slipped out like a confession, barely louder than the creak of armor against wood. The man leaned into the palisade, his breath fogging in the cold air. His fingers¡ªcalloused, revealing it to be the hand of a farmer¡ªtapped restlessly against the timber. He hated being as a soldier; still, when the lord had ordered for the levy to assemble, he was among the unlucky ones to be chosen, so whether he wanted to or not, he was to serve, it was either that or the rope. "Marching. Bleeding. Taking orders." He spat into the dirt. "Not for me. When this shithole falls, I¡¯m going home. Finding something... quieter." His companion chuckled, rolling his shoulders against the night¡¯s bite. "Yeah? I only came for the loot. Once we crack this city open¡ª" A sound like tearing silk split the dark . Then the sky turned to iron. Javelins fell in a black rain, their barbed tips glinting once before they struck. The soldier¡¯s eyes had just enough time to widen¡ªjust enough¡ªbefore one punched through his chest, shredding mail like parchment. The impact lifted him off his feet, slamming him back. A wet, ragged gasp tore from his lips. Blood welled, thick and dark, spilling down his chest, as his life slowly flew away. Beside him, his friend staggered. A shaft jutted from his gut, the steel buried deep. The pain was a living thing¡ªwhite-hot, gnawing, wrong and too soon ¡ªbut death wouldn¡¯t come yet. Not kindly. Not fast. Fingers shaking, he clawed at his belt and found the horn. Every breath was fire. Every heartbeat a betrayal. But he raised the instrument to his lips. The note that tore free was ragged, wavering¡ªa dying man¡¯s voice given to the night. It shuddered through the camp, a sound that was neither plea nor warning, but both. Then his legs gave out. He crumpled onto his back, the horn rolling from his grasp. Above him, the stars stared down, cold and indifferent. The wood beneath him grew slick, warm. His breath hitched. Slowed. Home. The word flickered in his mind, soft as a guttering candle. He would never see it again. No hearthfire. No laughter. No woman¡¯s arms waiting in the dark. Just the taste of copper, the weight of the earth calling him down. A final shudder. A silence. And the night drank him in without a sound. ------------------ Jarza exhaled sharply, his breath a plume of fire in the frigid air as the dying wail of the horn dissolved into the night. His fingers locked around the hilt of his sword, knuckles whitening, his blood a drumbeat of war in his veins. The alarm had been raised¡ªbut it was already too late. "GO!" His roar cleaved the darkness like an axe through bone. In an instant, the shadows erupted into motion. Dozens of ladders surged forward, borne by men whose eyes gleamed with the promise of slaughter and the prize that went with it. Their boots hammered the earth in unison, a thunderous rhythm punctuated by the clatter of mail and the hungry rasp of steel being drawn. The first wave hit the palisade like a storm tide, ladders slamming against timber with a splintering crash, iron hooks biting deep into the wood. No hesitation. No mercy, no fear or death as they climbed. Boots pounded up the rungs, relentless, each step a defiance of death. The first man to crest the parapet vaulted over in a flash of snarling teeth and bared steel. The Oizenian sentry, unlucky enough to be there, barely turned before a blade opened his throat, silencing him with a wet gurgle. Another guard reeled back, sword half-drawn, only to be driven over the edge with a brutal shove from a shield¡ªhis scream cut short by the crunch of bone on hard earth below , quickly followed by moans of pain. The attackers poured over the wall like a river breaching a dam, a tide of iron and fury crashing into the camp. "ENEMY ATTACK!" "TO ARMS! TO FUCKING ARMS!" The shouts tore through the night, raw with panic, but they were too few, too late. Most of the Oizenians still lay tangled in their bedrolls, sluggish with sleep, their minds struggling to parse the distant clamor of steel and dying men. Some stirred, blinking into the darkness, fingers fumbling for weapons. Others¡ªthose seasoned by war¡ªwere already rolling to their feet, but by then, the enemy was inside, their blades already slick, their boots already planted on bloodied ground. The attackers did not pause. They moved like wolves among sheep, their weapons carving through the few sentries who had mustered near the gate. One Oizenian managed to free his blade¡ªonly for it to be dashed aside with a shield , quickly followed by a mace that split his skull with a swing. Another turned to run, but a javelin took him between the shoulders, lifting him off his feet before dumping him facedown in the dirt, his last breath a silent plea. The way was clear. And beyond it¡ªthe camp lay vulnerable, its heart exposed. They almost gave chase, advancing to take advantage of the night , lulled by the lack of resistance, but of course discipline steered their desires "THE GATE!" one of the attackers from outside shouted at their comrades within, wishing to take part in the fun "OPEN THE GATE!" Two men rushed forward ,while the rest went their merry way to kill the unprepared Oizenians , their hands seizing the thick wooden beam barring the entrance. They heaved, muscles straining, teeth gritted against the weight. With a groaning creak, the beam came loose and was cast aside. The great doors of the Oizenian camp swung open. And outside, waiting in the darkness, stood the full might of Alpheo¡¯s forces, ready to cause havoc upon the enemies of their prince. Fifteen hundred warriors, their steel glinting under the cold moonlight, their faces set craving for blood Jarza grinned, teeth flashing in the dark "Forward men! Kill the invaders! Bring about the Prince¡¯s will" The men didn¡¯t need to be told twice. The night exploded with the sound of pounding boots and the deafening roar of men surging forward. The army rushed through the gates like a tide breaking through a shattered dam, trampling the corpses of the fallen, maces and hammers raised high. The Oizenian camp, once quiet beneath the stars, was now a battlefield drenched in steel and screams. The tired soldiers had been caught in their sleep, but men of war did not need long to understand when death was at their doorstep. Outside the tents, warriors scrambled to arm themselves. Most had only managed to throw chainmail over their linen tunics, the cold steel biting against their bare skin. Helms were clutched in shaking hands, straps left unbuckled, forgotten in the chaos. Bare feet pressed into the dirt, and hands fumbled with spears , maces and swords as the screams of their comrades filled the air. Among them, a knight¡ªthough some would struggle to call him one at this moment¡ªstood amidst the growing storm. There was no time for plate, no time to saddle his horse, no time for anything but action. His tabard clung to him, damp with sweat, his legs bare but for breeches. Yet still, he roared, his voice cutting through the madness. "FORM A LINE! HOLD TOGETHER!" Beside him, a page no older than fourteen raised a small banner, the sigil of his house fluttering weakly in the night wind. It was a simple thing, barely visible against the darkness, but it was enough. Men¡ªwhether they hailed from the towns with allegiances to one lord or the other instinctively obeyed. They moved without thinking, drawn like moths to a flame, gathering around the banner, their shields locking together in shaky unison. Warriors who had been sleeping moments before now stood back-to-back, their weapons clutched in shaking hands, their eyes wide with the animal understanding that to stand alone was to die. They formed ragged circles and half-formed shield walls, their formations as uneven as their breathing, their armor half-fastened and their feet bare against the frozen earth. At the camp¡¯s entrance, the slaughter was absolute. Men died with their swords still sheathed, cut down before they could even raise their hands in defense. But deeper in the camp, where the first wave of attackers had not yet reached, the defenders had precious seconds¡ªjust enough time to gather their wits and their weapons, to plant their feet and prepare to meet death head-on. The lines they formed were pitiful things, trembling like leaves in a storm. Spears wavered in white-knuckled grips, their points dipping and rising with each panicked breath. Chainmail hung loose from shoulders, the cold steel biting into bare skin where straps had been left undone. Helmets dangled from belts, forgotten in the rush, their owners too focused on the encroaching darkness to remember the protection they offered. Eyes darted between comrades, searching for courage and finding only the same terror reflected back at them. Then¡ª The darkness moved. From the void between torches, they came¡ªthe White Army¡¯s vanguard, their advance as silent as a grave being filled. No war cries split the night. No drums marked their steps. Only the steady, rhythmic thud of a thousand boots striking the earth in perfect unison, a sound like a coffin being dragged through wet clay. At their front marched the Black Stripes, their black-and-white woolen front making them seem less like men and more like a single, monstrous entity¡ªa many-limbed nightmare of polished steel and hunger. Jarza rode behind them, his lips peeled back from his teeth in an expression too vicious to be called a smile. The Oizenian levies froze. Where moments before there had been desperate bravado, now there was only the cold grip of terror. Bowels turned to water beneath armor. Spear shafts trembled under the pressure of clenching fingers. Shields tilted at drunken angles as knees threatened to buckle. This was no frenzied charge of farmers¡ªthis was the inexorable approach of doom itself, patient and utterly indifferent to the men standing in its path. Yet the true horror was not what marched toward them¡ª ¡ªbut what stirred at their right, unseen and unchecked, waiting to pounce on the unsuspecting victims. Chapter 514: Burning a banner(2) Chapter 514: Burning a banner(2) The Oizenians barely had time to blink before the nightmare unfolded. As they stood trembling before the silent advance of the Black Stripes¡ªthat wall of polished steel and hungry shadows¡ªtheir ears caught another sound. A series of heavy thuds, boots striking wood, then the shriek of steel being drawn. From their right flank, shadows moved. Men dropped from the walls like spiders descending on silken threads, landing light-footed among barrels and tents. Their swords flashed in the torchlight, already wet. A new horror dawned on the Oizenians¡ªAlpheo hadn¡¯t sent one force. He¡¯d sent three. And now the jaws of the trap snapped shut. And so the first bites were taken The initial assault came from the Black Stripes, their disciplined ranks halting just ten paces from the quivering, barely-formed levy line that stood as the Oizenians¡¯ pathetic last defense. The synchronized stomp of hundreds of armored boots hitting the ground simultaneously sent vibrations through the earth that could be felt in the bones of every defender. Then, without any shouted command that could be heard over the growing chaos, their front ranks moved as one perfectly coordinated unit. Arms snapped forward in unison, and the very air itself seemed to tear apart as a storm of deadly javelins shrieked across the short distance between the forces. The sound was nothing short of unholy - a chorus of death whistles that would haunt the nightmares of any survivors. Iron points punched through wooden shieldboards with wet, splintering cracks that echoed across the battlefield, the barbed heads burying themselves so deep that men physically staggered under the sudden weight, their arms wrenched painfully downward by the embedded shafts. One Oizenian soldier screamed in a voice raw with agony as a javelin pinned his shield directly to his own forearm, the vicious point punching effortlessly through layers of wood, flesh, and chainmail in a single brutal thrust. Another collapsed without uttering a single sound, the weapon¡¯s tip bursting gruesomely from his suddenly ruined mouth in a spray of shattered teeth and arterial blood that painted the men behind him. A second volley followed before the first victims hit the ground. Shields became useless, bristling with shafts like grotesque porcupines. Men dropped them, only to be struck in the chest, the gut, the face. A levy clawed at the javelin lodged in his collarbone, his shrieks rising to a childlike pitch as he stumbled back into his comrades, spreading panic like a plague. Then¡ª Silence. For one heartbeat, the only sounds were the whimpers of the wounded and the drip-drip-drip of blood on trampled grass. Then came the second bite From the right, the shadows struck. The flanking force moved quickly and remorseless. Panic spread faster than blood. Men who had been bracing for the Black Stripes now spun to face this new threat, their formations crumbling like sandcastles before the tide. The Oizenian line¡ªalready wavering¡ªfolded in on itself, its cohesion shattered. Then the Black Stripes, having sent two of their javelins moved. It wasn¡¯t a charge. It was an execution. The silent wall of steel crashed into the Oizenians with the force of a collapsing mountain. The first rank barely had time to flinch before they were erased¡ªshields splintered, bones snapped, men vanished under the press of armor and blades. The silence of the Black Stripes broke only for the wet crunch of metal piercing flesh, the choked gurgles of dying men, the sheer weight of the slaughter as they drove the Oizenians back step by screaming step. What followed wasn¡¯t a battle. It was a harvest. The Oizenians died in droves¡ªsome fighting, some fleeing, most too stunned to do either. The Black Stripes cut through them like scythes through wheat, their discipline unshaken, their advance relentless. Jarza watched from horseback, his lips curled in something too vicious to be called a smile. This wasn¡¯t war. This was butchery. And the night was still young. Screams tore through the air. Some of the Oizenian levies abandoned their posts before a blade had even reached them. Others, driven by nothing but desperation, tried to hold, planting their feet and raising their weapons¡ªonly for the second detachment to fall upon them like a storm. The noble levies, despite their lack of discipline, had one undeniable advantage: momentum. Their charge came minutes after the first strike, but it was enough to seal the Oizenians¡¯ fate. Their flanks buckled under the pressure, their lines twisted in on themselves, confusion turning into chaos. Men who had been preparing to hold suddenly found swords plunging into their sides. Their comrades who had been calling for formation now called for their mothers. The Oizenian line buckled like rotten timber. A levy in a rust-pitted hauberk made the fatal mistake of thrusting his spear at a Black Stripe¡¯s exposed throat. The veteran warrior barely shifted his stance as he batted the shaft aside with his mace, the iron-reinforced wood connecting with the levy¡¯s fingers with a sickening crack. Bones shattered like dry kindling. The man¡¯s scream - high, wet, and childlike - was abruptly silenced when the mace¡¯s spiked head pulverized his teeth down his throat in a spray of blood and enamel. "THAT¡¯S for my fucking pension, you sheep-fucking gutter rat!" the Stripe roared, flecks of bloody spittle flying as he wrenched his weapon free with a wet schlorp. Nearby, two Oizenian spearmen tried desperately to hold their ground. "Oh gods, please-" The first man¡¯s prayer was cut short as a war hammer smashed through his raised shield with the sound of a tree branch snapping in winter. The force snapped his forearm backward at a grotesque angle, sending him crumpling to his knees, mewling pitifully as he cradled his ruined arm like a mother might cradle a stillborn child. His comrade swung wildly, screaming "Die, you black-hearted bast-" before a bearded axe hooked under his chin with surgical precision. The blade ripped upward through palate and sinus cavity, emerging in a shower of bone fragments and brain matter. His dying gurgles were lost beneath the chaos, his body twitching like a landed fish. "Should¡¯ve stayed home plowing your sister like a proper peasant!" the axeman bellowed, planting a boot on the corpse¡¯s chest to wrench his weapon free with a sickening pop. The air hung thick with the stench of voided bowels and copper-rich blood. A young levy - his beard barely more than peach fuzz - vomited violently between ragged sobs as he fumbled with his spear. A Black Stripe loomed over him, hammer raised high. For just a moment, something almost like pity flashed in the veteran¡¯s eyes. "Close your eyes, boy," he muttered, his voice carrying an eerie gentleness. Then the steel came down with a crunch like a melon hitting cobblestones. The Black Stripes didn¡¯t cheer their kills. Didn¡¯t gloat over fallen foes. They simply worked, their weapons rising and falling with the mechanical efficiency of farmers bringing in the harvest. Only their crude banter marked them as human rather than some killing machine: "Oi! This one pissed himself proper!" "Hah! Did you see that one¡¯s head pop? Like stomping a ripe tomato!" "Next! Come on, I haven¡¯t got all night!" And the Oizenians died. And died. And died some more. Five minutes. That was all it took to shatter the Oizenian line like fine crystal beneath a blacksmith¡¯s hammer. The White Army advanced like a single, many-limbed beast of war, their weapons moving in brutal harmony - axes splitting skulls with wet thunks, war hammers caving in ribcages with sounds like green wood splitting, maces reducing faces to unrecognizable pulp. But as the enemy finally broke and ran, the royal host began to fray at the edges. The noble levies, drunk on blood and victory, howled like animals and gave chase, their hunger for slaughter overwhelming any semblance of order. They surged forward in a disorganized mob, hacking at fleeing backs, screaming obscenities that would make a dockside whore blush "Run you cowardly fucks! Run back to your whore mothers!" "I¡¯ll mount your heads on my fucking fenceposts!" "Your wives will thank me for killing you, you limp-dick bastards!" The Black Stripes, drilled since birth to maintain formation at all costs, found themselves torn. Their iron discipline warred with the primal urge to join the slaughter. A few at the flanks wavered, their feet itching to chase down the routed enemy. One grizzled veteran actually took half a step forward before catching himself, his knuckles whitening around his weapon¡¯s grip. Then Jarza¡¯s voice cut through the din like a whip. "AFTER THEM! LEAVE NONE STANDING!" That was all it took. The wall that their discipline had built , broke. Like hounds finally unleashed, they charged, their usual measured advance dissolving into a furious sprint. They still moved with terrifying cohesion¡ªno lone warriors straying too far, no reckless abandon¡ªbut now they ran with the levies, their weapons hungry for the kill. A young Oizenian levy stumbled, his leg wounded, and turned just in time to see a white and black armor bearing down on him. The man¡¯s eyes widened¡ªno mercy in that face, no hesitation. The axe came down. "No¡ª!" The blade silenced him mid-plea. Nearby, a group of Oizenians tried fighting back seeing that they were being caught up , spears bristling outward in a desperate last stand. The levies hit them first, howling like madmen, but their wild swings were met with desperate resistance. Then others arrived. Shields locked, they pushed, their weapons striking with mechanical precision. "Break them! BREAK THEM!" Jarza bellowed from horseback, his sword pointing like a conductor¡¯s baton as he joined in the pursue. And break they did. The Oizenians crumpled, their final stand collapsing under the weight of disciplined fury. Some died on their feet. Others crawled, only to be butchered where they lay. The Black Stripes didn¡¯t cheer¡ªthey didn¡¯t need to. This was their work, and they did it without wasted motion. Of course Jarza would never have allowed this under normal circumstances. The White Army were not some rabble to be let loose like dogs¡ªthey were a weapon, honed and balanced, meant to strike as one unbreakable mass. To scatter them was to waste their strength, to risk them being picked apart by a disciplined counterattack. But this? This was no normal battle. The Oizenians had no hardened core of veterans to rally around, no unbreakable shield wall to reform once the initial shock passed. They were levies¡ªpoor bastards handed spears and told to stand in a line. And now that line had shattered, dissolving into a screaming, stumbling tide of men who only knew how to die, not how to fight. The Yarzats forces, on the other hand, did have that core. Even as their own levies howled and gave chase like wolves after wounded deer, the Black Stripes had instinctively kept their shape, their officers barking sharp commands to prevent them from breaking apart entirely, of course that being before their commander order. But the enemy had no spine left. Jarza watched, teeth bared, as the last semblance of Oizenian resistance crumbled. Men who had been standing shoulder-to-shoulder moments ago were now sprinting in all directions, some throwing down weapons, others tripping over the dead in their panic. There would be no rally. No desperate last stand. Just slaughter. And so, for the first time in years, Jarza let go. "FINISH THEM!" he roared, his voice cutting through the din like a blade through flesh his hunger made deeper by the fact that these were the men who gave throuble to his brother. If he was not a commander he would have gladly joined in the killing, unfortunately he was, which meant that all he could do was watch. "LEAVE NONE WHO CAN LIFT A SWORD!" and of course cheer them on. There was no art to this. No tactics. Just butchery. And Jarza? He watched, satisfied a bit peeved by the lack of action but still happy. The battle was over. Now all that came was the killing of the fleeing sheep. Chapter 515: Burning a banner(3) Chapter 515: Burning a banner(3) The war cry tore through the darkness like a blade through flesh¡ª"Either we win, or we all die!"¡ªas two hundred riders thundered toward the Oizenian camp, their horses¡¯ hooves pounding like the heartbeat of some great beast awakening. The gate yawned open before them, not by chance, not by mistake, but because the Voghondai had already struck like ghosts, their knives slipping between ribs before the first guard could even gasp. Now, the way was clear, and Egil¡¯s cavalry poured through like a river of death unleashed. Inside, chaos reigned. The Voghondai had done their work better than any could have hoped from them. Their part of the camp¡¯s defenses had collapsed in a storm of silent killing¡ªsentries crumpling with slit throats, watchmen dragged into the shadows with muffled gurgles. Now, the raiders moved like wolves among sheep, their axes rising and falling in sprays of crimson. Men died half-asleep, their dreams becoming nightmares in the instant before steel found flesh. Others stumbled from tents, barefoot and bleary-eyed, only to be ridden down before they could so much as lift a weapon. A night attack was never complete without fire. The temptation had been there¡ªto hurl torches onto the oiled canvas, to watch the flames climb and hear the screams rise like some macabre symphony. But the prince had forbidden it. No flames. Not yet. The darkness was their ally, and revealing their position too soon would have been suicide. It had worked. The Oizenians had seen nothing, heard nothing¡ªuntil death was already among them, breathing down their necks, its blade already wet. Coordinating an assault with over two thousand men in pitch-black night should have been impossible. But the Black Stripes had led the vanguard, moving with the eerie precision of men who could march, fight, and kill blindfolded. Striking the right , were the levies, held back just long enough to avoid stumbling into each other like drunken fools. And then, at the rear, the Voghondai¡ªmen who saw better at night than most did at noon¡ªhad scaled the walls unseen, their ladders slamming against the palisade moments before their blades found flesh. Now, the camp was theirs. The Oizenians had seen nothing, heard nothing¡ªuntil death was already among them. The air was thick with choking dust, swirling in great clouds behind the pounding hooves of Egil¡¯s riders. What had once been an enemy formation was now a broken, screaming mass¡ªmen tripping over their own dead, their discipline unraveling into blind panic. The cavalry rode them down without mercy, like wolves falling upon scattered sheep. And among the hunters rode a boy. Ratto. Thirteen summers old, his body still more angles than muscle, his hands barely large enough to properly grip the weapons they now clutched. This was his first real battle¡ªif one didn¡¯t count the starving elders he¡¯d been forced to cut down . There was no room for hesitation here. The world had taught him that lesson early, back when he¡¯d been just another starving rat fighting for scraps in the gutters before fate¡ªor perhaps something darker¡ªhad led him to the mercenary captain who¡¯d given him a blade and a purpose. Now he rode with the rest, his heart hammering against his ribs like a prisoner pounding on his cell door, his knuckles bone-white around the reins. Ahead, a soldier fled, his spear long discarded, his breath coming in ragged, wet sobs as he stumbled through the churned earth. Ratto didn¡¯t think. He simply acted. His arm drew back, the javelin an extension of his will, and with a grunt born more from desperation than strength, he let it fly. The shaft cut through the dusty air with a sound like a dying man¡¯s last gasp before punching clean through the runner¡¯s spine. The iron tip erupted from his chest in a crimson geyser, and he folded like a puppet with its strings cut, his mouth slack, his fingers clawing at nothing as he collapsed face-first into the dirt. Behind him, one of the veteran riders barked a laugh that carried over the din of battle. "Hah! Fine throw for a whelp!" A gauntleted hand clapped Ratto¡¯s shoulder with enough force to nearly knock him from the saddle. "Now let¡¯s see you do it where they can look you in the eyes!" Ratto¡¯s jaw tightened until his teeth ached. He kicked his horse forward, his lance now in hand, its weight both familiar and terrifyingly alien. He¡¯d practiced this motion a hundred times in the training yard¡ªthe perfect angle, the precise grip, the way to brace against the impact. But the yard had no screaming men. No blood spraying hot across his face. No stench of opened bowels hanging thick in the air. Another soldier ran, clutching a bleeding arm, his chainmail glinting dully in the hazy light. Ratto lowered the lance, tucked it tight against his side just as he¡¯d been taught, and rammed it home. The impact jolted through his bones like lightning, the force nearly unseating him as the steel tip ripped through mail links, flesh, and lung with equal ease. The man was lifted clean off his feet, his body sliding down the shaft like meat on a skewer while the boy discarded the lance. His mace was in his grip before he¡¯d even consciously decided to draw it, its iron head already darkened from the straw dummies he¡¯d shattered in practice. Now it would taste real blood. A soldier turned at the last second, his shield coming up in a desperate block¡ªtoo late. Ratto swung with all the fury of his galloping mount behind him. The mace smashed through the shield¡¯s rim with a splintering crack before crushing the man¡¯s helmet like parchment. His skull caved with a wet crunch that Ratto felt more than heard, and he dropped like a sack of stones, his legs kicking spasmodically as his brains seeped into the churned earth. This time, no one cheered. The battlefield, relentless and uncaring, moved on without him, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the corpses he¡¯d made. Somewhere in the distance, a horn sounded. Somewhere closer, a man wept for his mother. Ratto wiped his face with a shaking hand and found it came away red. He was a warrior now. The knowledge tasted like bile in his throat. ------------- He¡¯s got the killing spirit. Egil had witnessed enough green boys in battle to know which would crumble and which would thrive. Ratto, for all his youth and scrappy limbs, was proving himself the latter. From his vantage, Egil watched the lad carve through the retreating enemy with the wild-eyed fervor of someone too young to understand death¡¯s true weight. The javelin throw had been true, the lance strike brutal if unrefined, and that last mace blow? Messy. Overcommitted. But effective. At least the pup¡¯s got fire in his belly. Alpheo would want to hear of this. The commander had hesitated before throwing the boy into the fray, but war had no patience for childhood. Today, Ratto was proving he could be forged into something useful. Egil¡¯s gaze swept across the ruined camp, taking in the chaos with the cold assessment of a man who had seen too many battlefields. The Oizenians had come here thinking themselves conquerors, thinking they could take what wasn¡¯t theirs. Now, they ran like startled deer, their arrogance turned to terror. The Voghondai , the only footman he could see from the rear, moved among them like reapers in the dark. A soldier stumbled, his robes tangling around his legs as he scrambled backward. A Voghondai warrior stepped into his path, his axe a crescent of dull iron in the firelight. The man opened his mouth¡ªto beg, to bargain¡ªbut the blade took him in the throat before a sound could escape. His body folded, his blood soaking into the same earth he had marched upon with such pride. Near the smoldering remnants of a tent, a group of Oizenian levies huddled together, their spears trembling in their hands. They had been farmers, vagabonds, men who had never wanted this fight. But the Voghondai showed no mercy. Their blades rose and fell in brutal rhythm, cutting through flesh and bone with the same indifference as scythes through wheat. A boy¡ªno older than Ratto¡ªcollapsed to his knees, clutching at the ruin of his stomach. A boot to his back sent him sprawling, and a dagger found the base of his skull. This was justice. The Oizenians had come to take their land, their homes, their future. Now, they would leave only corpses behind, of course Egil cared for none of the three, as the real reason , was that he simply enjoyed the bloodshed. Egil¡¯s attention snapped back to the present as a wounded soldier dragged himself through the dirt ahead, fingers raking the earth, his breath coming in wet, panicked gasps. Without breaking stride, Egil ripped a javelin free and let it fly. The weapon hissed through the air before thunking into the man¡¯s back, pinning him to the ground like a butterfly to a board. One final twitch, then stillness. There would be no mercy Egil¡¯s gaze had already moved on. Beyond the chaos, past the scattered remnants of the Oizenian forces, a cluster of riders was breaking away. A dozen, perhaps more, moving different from the rest¡ªno banners, no gleaming armor, some riding bareback as if born to the saddle. They cut through the retreat like shadows, swift and silent, angling for the distant tree line. Egil¡¯s pulse quickened. Men who flee a lost battle with nothing but the horses under them? Those weren¡¯t common soldiers, as those did not know how to ride. Those were men with value. Nobles. Princes..... A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face. "With me!" His voice cut through the din, sharp as a blade. "Anyone who values glory over grunt work, on me!" Not all heard him, but enough did. Riders who heard the call of their commanders peeled away from the slaughter¡ªveterans with keen eyes and fresh bloodlust, their mounts foaming at the bit. Egil didn¡¯t wait for a headcount. He kicked, and his horse surged forward, muscles bunching beneath him as they tore across the field. The wind whipped at his face, carrying the scent of sweat and iron, his fingers already finding another javelin. The hunt was on. And Egil, blissfully unaware, was moments away from realizing he¡¯d just sighted the crown jewel of the night¡ªShameleik himself, Prince of Oizen, fleeing amidst his dwindling guard. Perhaps Egil could make the promise Alpheo had made long ago to the prince¡¯s son true, as the next time they met it wouldn¡¯t be with his son drinking and eating at his leisure, but with the prince himself as hostage . But that revelation would come later. For now? There were throats to cut and lives to end. Chapter 516: Burning a banner(4) Chapter 516: Burning a banner(4) Lord Sorza¡¯s eyes flew open as steel shrieked outside his tent. Not the orderly clamor of training yards¡ªthis was the raw, discordant symphony of battle: blades biting flesh, hooves pounding earth, men screaming their last into the smoke-choked night. He was moving before conscious thought took hold, fingers closing around the dagger beneath his pillow as the tent flaps tore open, fearing the worst. Luckily the worse did not come to fruit. Two guards stood silhouetted against the hellish glow instead. The taller one spoke through gritted teeth: "My lord¡ªthe camp¡¯s overrun. Your father commands your presence. Now." No hesitation. No questions. Sorza rolled from his bed , his bare feet hitting the ground as his free hand snatched his sword belt. Leather hissed as he cinched it tight, the weight of his blade a familiar comfort against his thigh. His cloak billowed behind him like a stormcloud as he plunged into the nightmare beyond. The royal encampment had become a charnel house. Men ran in every direction¡ªsome still lacing gambesons over bare chests, others dragging wounded comrades through the mud. A sergeant bellowed "Enemies to the east!"¡ªjust before a javelin punched through his gut, nailing him to a supply cart like a butterfly pinned to a board. Sorza¡¯s guards closed ranks around him, their swords flickering like silver tongues as they carved a path through the rout. To the north, a cluster of spearmen made their last stand, their formation buckling beneath the weight of armored riders. One horseman wheeled past Sorza, his mace rising and falling in a pulping rhythm¡ªcrunch-squelch-crunch¡ªeach swing leaving another body twitching in the dirt. Then¡ªthrough the smoke and screaming¡ªhe found his father. Prince Shamleik sat astride his midnight charger like a statue of some forgotten war-god carved from winter granite. The royal guard around him looked like they¡¯d dressed in a hurricane¡ªhalf-armored, their usual polish replaced by the sweat-slick desperation of men who knew Death rode close behind. Sorza vaulted onto the nearest horse, its nostrils flaring at the scent of his fear. His father¡¯s gaze locked onto his¡ªno words needed. With a jerk of Shamleik¡¯s reins, the remnants of Oizenian nobility dissolved into the night, their flight marked by the distant cries of the butchery they left behind. The night swallowed them as they rode, their horses¡¯ hooves pounding through the wreckage of what had once been an army. The air hung thick with the stench of blood and burning pitch, the ground churned into a morass of mud and gore beneath them. Sorza kept his gaze fixed ahead, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. They were moving too slowly. Every second they lingered in this graveyard of their own making was another moment for death to find them. Then he felt it¡ªthe weight of eyes upon them. The enemy footmen moved through the ruins of the camp like vultures descending on a fresh kill, their blades flashing as they finished the wounded and cut down those too slow to flee. As the prince¡¯s retinue galloped past, their heads snapped up in eerie unison¡ªa pack scenting blood. The first javelin struck like divine retribution. It took one of the royal guards high in the back, punching through silk and flesh with a wet thunk. The man arched violently, a choked gasp escaping him before he tumbled from his saddle, his horse shrieking as it bolted into the night. Before anyone could react, another shaft hissed through the air¡ªthen another. Two more guards fell, their bodies hitting the dirt with the finality of stones dropped into a well. "Ride!" someone roared, voice cracking with desperation. "For the gods¡¯ sake, ride!" The wooden gate loomed ahead, its timbers smashed open but still standing¡ªthe last barrier between them and the open fields beyond. Sorza leaned low over his horse¡¯s neck, avoiding the javelin by a hair distance, his heart hammering against his ribs as they surged forward. The world narrowed to the drum of hooves, the ragged gasps of the men around him, the distant screams of the dying. For one breathless moment, they were through. Then the cry came. "They¡¯re coming!" Sorza twisted in the saddle, his blood turning to ice. Behind them, spilling from the camp like a tide of shadow, came the hunters. A dozen riders¡ªno, more¡ªtheir armor glinting dully in the moonlight, their spears and swords held low and ready. This was a pack, and they had caught the scent of fleeing royalty. Then, cutting through the chaos like a blade through silk came their response¡ª "Armored riders to the rear! Hold the line!Protect the royals and do you Duty!" Sir Eldmur. The old knight¡¯s voice was steel wrapped in velvet, the same tone that had steadied a thousand men on a dozen battlefields. Even now, fleeing for their lives, that command brought order to the panic. Sorza¡¯s hands tightened on the reins as the first of the enemy riders closed the distance. -------------- Egil rode as if the hounds of hell snapped at his heels, his warhorse¡¯s muscles bunching and releasing like coiled steel springs beneath him. Moonlight glinted off the bared teeth of the White Army¡¯s riders as they fanned out behind him, a scythe of death sweeping across the darkened plains. The wind carried the symphony of their prey¡¯s terror - the panicked shouts of noblemen, the ragged breathing of exhausted mounts, the metallic tang of fear-sweat mixing with the stench of burning canvas from the ruined camp behind them. With a fluid motion born of countless battles, Egil brought the war horn to his lips. Its bone-deep bellow rolled across the landscape like thunder - once, twice, thrice - each note a death knell for those foolish enough to ignore it. Silence answered. "Mercy offered," Egil murmured to the night wind. "Mercy denied." His hand found the first javelin almost lovingly, fingers tracing the notches carved into its shaft - one for each life taken. The weapon felt alive in his grip as he drew back, the muscles in his shoulder and back coiling like a drawn longbow. The release was perfection itself - the shaft singing through the air before finding its mark with a meaty thunk between a guardsman¡¯s shoulder blades. The man arched backward, his scream cut short as he tumbled from his mount, his body cartwheeling grotesquely before slamming into the hard-packed earth. Behind Egil, his riders needed no command. A deadly rain of javelins arced through the moonlit sky, their steel tips winking like falling stars before finding homes in flesh and bone. One noble took a shaft through his elaborately embroidered cloak, the impact spinning him halfway around in his saddle before he toppled sideways. Another projectile found a horse¡¯s flank, sending the screaming beast crashing into its neighbors in a tangle of limbs and splintered lances. Egil¡¯s grin was a predator¡¯s grimace as he selected his next javelin. "Like shooting fish in a barrel," he called to one of the rider behind him, who answered with a dark chuckle. Ahead, panic had taken full hold of the fleeing nobles. Their carefully maintained decorum shattered like glass as survival instincts took over: "For the gods¡¯ sake, someone help me!" wailed a young lordling, his once-fine silks now dark with blood, his screams quickly made worse by the hooves of the horses battering his bones. "They¡¯re catching up to us!" screamed another, his voice cracking with realization Prince Shamleik¡¯s knuckles stood out like bleached bone against the dark leather of his reins. His face - normally the picture of royal composure - had gone ashen beneath his trimmed beard. When he turned to shout at his panicking nobles, spittle flew from his lips with the fury of a man who could taste his own mortality. "Silence your damned wailing and RIDE! If you won¡¯t fight, then at least have the decency to¡ª" The world upended in a blur of pain and confusion. His prized warhorse, bred from imperial stock of Romelia , gave a shrill scream that cut through the night. The animal¡¯s powerful hindquarters collapsed beneath it as if the tendons had been slit. Shamleik had a heartbeat to register the javelin protruding from the beast¡¯s flank before the ground rushed up to meet him. Royal blood meant nothing to the unyielding earth. The prince struck the packed soil shoulder-first, his body rolling like a common drunkard before coming to rest in a cloud of dust. His horse thrashed nearby, its screams growing more desperate as its legs churned uselessly against the dirt. The javelin¡¯s shaft snapped as the animal convulsed, sending fresh rivulets of dark blood coursing down its heaving flanks. Chaos reigned. The fleeing column fractured like glass under a hammerblow. Some riders wheeled about instinctively, their training overcoming their terror. Others saw only opportunity in the disaster - a chance to put more distance between themselves and their pursuers under the pretense of protecting the heir. Young Sorza¡¯s voice cut through the din like a blade. "FATHER!" Sir Eldmur moved immediately . His armored hand shot out, seizing Sorza¡¯s bridle with unshakable strength. "My prince," Sorza¡¯s face contorted seeing the Knight¡¯s look . "I won¡¯t abandon him!" He swung a fist at Eldmur, the blow glancing harmlessly off the knight¡¯s pauldron. "Release me! That¡¯s an order!" Eldmur¡¯s jaw set like iron. He nodded to two of his most trusted guards. What followed was a brutal ballet of loyalty and necessity - strong hands grabbed Sorza¡¯s reins. The young prince fought like a wildcat, his boots connecting with armor and flesh alike, but the guards held firm. "Forgive me, highness," Eldmur murmured as the struggling heir was dragged away into the night. Then, louder: "Theo, Joric - get him away.Make sure he make it safe to the capital.Apologies for the force your grace, but we cannot lose both prince and heir in one night....this night is already a tragedy, but it doesn¡¯t need to become a catastrophe.¡¯¡¯ As the sounds of Sorza¡¯s protests faded, Eldmur turned his warhorse toward the fallen prince. The old knight drew his sword with a whisper of steel, the blade catching the moonlight like a sliver of ice. He did not hesitate, did not falter. His place was with his prince, whether that meant saving him¡ªor dying beside him. (map of battle in the comments) Chapter 517: Victory(1) Chapter 517: Victory(1) Dawn crept over the battlefield, its light revealing the ruin left behind. Where once a proud Oizenian war camp had stood¡ªrows of tents, cookfires, supply wagons, banners swaying in the wind¡ªthere was now nothing but carnage. The wooden walls of the encampment were empty ,taken over by men who had no need for battering rams. Inside, the ground was soaked in blood, a dark, congealed sea where the bodies of the fallen lay strewn without order or mercy. Some had died on their feet, weapons still clutched in stiff hands, eyes wide with the shock of sudden death. Others lay in twisted heaps, trampled by fleeing comrades or crushed under the weight of their own collapsed tents. Armor gleamed dully in the early light, blood and dirt smearing the once-pristine steel. Shields were discarded like forgotten toys. The banners of the Oizenian prince, once carried high and proud into battle, were now torn and trampled, half-buried in the mud beneath the boots of victors. The bodies of those who had tried to flee were scattered beyond the walls, some lying with arrows sprouting from their backs, others fallen mid-stride, cut down before they could even clear the camp¡¯s boundaries. Their faces were frozen in horror, their final moments captured in the contorted grimace of men who had realized¡ªtoo late¡ªthat death had found them and would not let them go . The prisoners, those who had either surrendered or been too wounded to continue fighting, knelt in huddled groups under the watchful eyes of Alpheo¡¯s soldiers. Some wept, others muttered prayers, but most simply stared at the ground, numb with the unsureness of what was to happen. In a single night, the most dangerous variable of the war had been erased. This was the force that had come closest to threatening the capital itself, the one army that might have turned the tide against the Crown. And yet, here it lay in ruin¡ªits soldiers dead, its leaders nowhere to be seen , its camp little more than a shattered graveyard. Alpheo stood among the wreckage, surveying the aftermath. The weight on his shoulders had lightened in a single day. Another night, another battle, another victory. The war was far from over. But for the first time in weeks, Alpheo allowed himself a breath. He had won. He rode slowly through the ruined remains of the Oizenian camp, his steed¡¯s hooves pressing deep into the blood-drenched mud. The morning sun bathed the battlefield in a golden hue, making the carnage glisten as if the gods themselves had wept over the fallen. The air was thick with the mingling scents of sweat, steel, and death, yet to him, it was the fragrance of victory. Around him, his men moved through the camp, some searching the bodies of the dead, others tearing through tents in search of valuables. The victorious always took their due. There were no solemn faces among them, no heavy hearts¡ªonly the ruthless efficiency of warriors rewarding themselves for the blood they had spilled. Yet, among the looters, there was another group¡ªthe garrison of Aracina. These were the men who had fought like cornered wolves, who had stood upon the walls of their city, staring down at this very army with dread for a month. They had watched their comrades die, had fought off the endless assaults, had feared¡ªno, had known¡ªthat their end was near. And now, here they stood, walking through the bloate and rotting carcass of what had once been their doom. They watched the royal soldiers with strange expressions, as if gazing upon creatures of legend. The White Army had done in a single night what they had struggled to do for weeks. It was awe, respect, and perhaps a touch of fear. They had held their city, but it was Alpheo and his men who had broken the back of the enemy. Alpheo smiled as he watched them. They did not partecipate on the attack, not that they were asked to , as Alpheo believed that after a near month of dread, they deserved peace and rewards, both of which he would soon give, of course they were entitled to a piece of the loot. His men rummaged through the ruins with casual confidence, but they were no mere band of brigands. Every coin, every piece of armor, every sword taken would be collected and counted, distributed by the high command so that every soldier would receive his rightful share. There was order in the looting¡ªeven victory was a business. Atop his steed, he turned his gaze over the ruined camp. A battlefield, a graveyard, and a monument to his triumph. He had done it. Not once, but twice, he had shattered the Oizenians. He had not merely won a battle¡ªhe had crushed an entire third of the enemy¡¯s total strength in a single night. No stroke of luck, no divine intervention¡ªthis was his doing. His plan, his warriors, his will. A grin tugged at the corner of his lips as he straightened in the saddle, basking in his own glory. Not bad, Alpheo. Not bad at all. Alpheo¡¯s quiet admiration of the ruined battlefield was interrupted by the sound of hooves beating against the dirt. He turned, his cloak catching the wind, just in time to see Jarza riding toward him at a steady pace. The grizzled commander had the smirk of a man who had just seen fortune smile upon him, but the glint in his eyes suggested that he was still savoring the taste of victory, letting it roll over his tongue like the finest wine. "A fine night to claw our first victory, and what a glorious one at that " Alpheo chuckled, shaking his head as he turned his gaze back to the camp. Smoke still rose from torched tents, the embers of once-proud banners smoldering among the wreckage. The Oizenian army had been laid to waste, its once-imposing presence reduced to little more than scattered corpses and abandoned weapons. "Too easy," Alpheo finally mused, "They grew lazy, soft. Too used to holding the reins of this war, deciding when to attack and when to rest. We reminded them of a simple truth¡ªthere is always a bigger predator lurking in the waters." Jarza let out a short laugh, but there was an edge of seriousness behind it. "The prince," he began, shifting in his saddle, "likely rode off into the night before the first horns finished their cry. Coward fled before he could even see the battle lost." Alpheo snorted. "Typical." Still I would probably do the same, was I in his shoes, Alpheo lampooned wondering if Jarza knew that too.After all until now they only were met with the elegant taste of victory, so who knew what he would do when tasting the mud for the first time?He was certainly no hero to die in the fighting , he was instead the coward who would take the first horse away from death. "But," Jarza continued, his tone growing more amused, "in his haste, he left behind something quite valuable." That piqued Alpheo¡¯s interest. "Oh?" Jarza leaned forward slightly, grinning like a wolf. "His entire baggage train, along with the campaign treasury." For a moment, Alpheo simply stared. Then, his lips parted in a slow, delighted smile. "The treasury, you say?" Jarza nodded, the amusement never leaving his expression. "The men are still emptying it as we speak, quite the catch..." A deep, satisfied breath filled Alpheo¡¯s lungs. If victory had tasted sweet before, this made it even richer. Defeating the Oizenian army had been one thing¡ªbut to strip them of their wealth, their resources, the very coin that kept their war effort alive? That was nothing short of divine justice. "This war just keeps getting better,you would have hardly thought of it a month ago" Alpheo murmured, almost to himself. Jarza grinned. "I¡¯d wager half their lords will be at each other¡¯s throats when they hear of this. Not only did they lose their army , but also their coins." Alpheo exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression growing thoughtful. "A war fought with empty pockets is a war half-lost," he agreed. "Given that they just got kicked out of the picture, I don¡¯t think they will mind if we were to use them to buy more food and recruit more men ." His gaze flicked back toward the looted baggage train, where soldiers moved like ants, pouring over the wagons and crates with eager hands. His lips pressed together in faint amusement, knowing all too well what unchecked greed could do to an army. With a smirk, he turned back to Jarza. "Make sure our men don¡¯t start handing themselves an early bonus. I¡¯d rather not have half the treasury end up in their boots before we can divide it properly." Jarza let out a snort, shaking his head. "Already handled," he assured. "I know my men too well. Leave them to their own devices, and they¡¯d be stuffing coin down their trousers and swearing they found nothing but rations." Alpheo chuckled, satisfied with the answer. Breaking his laughter was however the rhythmic thunder of hooves against the dirt . Alpheo turned, the dawn¡¯s light casting a long shadow as he watched a lone rider pull his horse to a sharp stop before them. Ratto, sat atop his steed, his breath still heavy from the ride. Alpheo let out a chuckle, crossing his arms. "Well, if it isn¡¯t the little thieving kid himself," he mused, his voice laced with amusement. "Tell me, how was your first taste of battle? Did it live up to your grand expectations?" Ratto hesitated for only a moment before answering, his voice quieter than usual. "Eye-opening," he admitted. Alpheo studied him for a moment, noticing the shift in his demeanor.It was good that the kid who once spent his days pilfering pockets and slipping through alleys finally grew up, after all he wouldn¡¯t be of any use to him without some proper changes. "Well, you¡¯ll have plenty of time to think about it later," he said, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. "I doubt Egil sent you galloping all this way just to reminisce. We can do that properly when we celebrate this victory ." Ratto gave a sharp nod, his expression shifting back to focus. "Lord Egil is inside the city," he said. "With those he captured." Alpheo¡¯s brow arched. "Is that so?" he mused. "And why, pray tell, did they not pass through here?I suppose he would be the first to flaunt his achievements in front of us, he is quite the peacock after all." Ratto shifted in his saddle, glancing toward the distant city walls. "Most of the prisoners were in dire need of medical assistance," he explained. "Above all... the enemy prince." A quiet hum left Alpheo¡¯s lips, his fingers tapping idly against his sword hilt. His gaze flickered toward the ruined battlefield before returning to Ratto, suspicion creeping into his expression. "...What?" Chapter 518: Victory(2) Chapter 518: Victory(2) Alpheo stood motionless, his hands resting on the rough wooden edge of the table, staring down at the body laid before him. The candlelight flickered, its glow casting deep shadows along the chamber walls, making the dead seem as if he might yet stir. But there was no breath left in the prince, no ember of life. Only the hollowed-out remains of a man who had once been the most dangerous threat to his princedom . Shemleik¡¯s corpse was still fresh, his flesh yet to turn to the sickly gray of the long-dead. His features remained eerily untouched, his lips parted slightly, as if about to speak some final command that had never left his mouth. His armor had been stripped from him, and he lay bare from the waist up, the remnants of his tunic torn away. Yet Alpheo¡¯s eyes were drawn past the face¡ªpast the illusion of something human¡ªand onto the jagged ruin where once there had been an arm. The limb had been torn open above the elbow, the white of bone protruding grotesquely from the ragged, pulped flesh, glistening wet in the dim torchlight. The tendons, half-severed, curled like broken strings, while the sinew hung loosely around the wound, betraying the violence with which it had been inflicted. It almost looked as though the bone itself was reaching¡ªa mocking, unnatural greeting to the world, as if in its final moments, even his own body had sought to escape his fate. Shit, can¡¯t say I pity him, Alpheo thought as his gaze trailed along the corpse, lingering upon the deep, bruised stain covering the right side of Shemleik¡¯s neck. The flesh was darkened, mottled in shades of purple and black, a clear sign of a concussion. Of course the irony of it all did not escape Alpheo. For years, Shemleik had coveted this city. Aracina. The only maritime city within the crown¡¯s fiefdom. He had dreamt of standing at its gates, of seeing its walls break before him, of being the one to take its streets as his own. It had been the fire that burned within him, the ambition that had driven his every move. And now? Now he lay upon its slabs, his blood seeping into its very stones, his corpse a gift to the city he had sought to claim,and most importantly a prize to the man that he hated most. Alpheo let out a slow breath, his fingers tapping idly against the wooden table. This was the first time he had ever seen the prince of Oizen in the flesh, and the first time he did¡ªhe was already dead. There was a poetic justice in that. Alpheo reached out, his fingers hovering above the ruined arm. He did not touch it. There was no need. The wound spoke plainly enough of the prince¡¯s final moments¡ªthe crushing weight of his own mount, the scream of bone giving way, the desperate, clawing struggle against the earth that had risen up to claim him. How like a prince, Alpheo mused, to reach for glory and find only the dirt. He straightened, folding his arms across his chest. The candlelight danced across Shamleik¡¯s face, casting shifting shadows that almost¡ªalmost¡ªgave the illusion of life. But the prince was gone. His ambitions, his pride, his carefully laid plans¡ªall reduced to this broken thing upon a table. "Fitting," Alpheo murmured, his voice low. "To spend your life coveting a city, only to feed its earth with your bones." Alpheo exhaled softly, his fingers drumming a slow, thoughtful rhythm against the wooden table. "Tell me, Agalosios," he said, tilting his head slightly, "doesn¡¯t this strike you as... poetic?" The healer, who had been standing rigidly by the doorway like a man awaiting sentencing, swallowed hard. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, his knuckles whitening before he finally lowered his head. "Your grace, I..." His voice was rough, as though the words were being dragged from him. "I failed. The damage was too severe. By the time they brought him to me, he had already bled out. There was nothing¡ª" Alpheo waved a hand, cutting him off. "Peace, Agalosios. I don¡¯t blame you for the inevitable. If I wanted to cast stones over this man¡¯s death, I¡¯d aim them elsewhere." As he spoke, his gaze slid deliberately from the healer to Egil, who stood near the far wall with his arms crossed. The usually sharp-tongued rider was uncharacteristically still, his jaw set tight, his fingers tapping restlessly against his biceps. There was no outright guilt in his expression¡ªEgil was too proud for that¡ªbut there was a tension in him, the quiet understanding that he had, perhaps, overstepped. A beat of silence passed before Egil sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Oh, come on, Alph," he muttered, throwing up a hand. "Don¡¯t give me that look. The man was riding in the middle of the formation like some green recruit trying to hide. What fault do I have if one of my javelins or that of my men hit him?¡¯¡¯ Alpheo arched a brow, his smirk deepening. "Ah, so who¡¯s fault is it?" He asked as he took hold of Shamleik¡¯s broken arm to make it point at the cadeveur ¡¯¡¯Is it his?¡¯¡¯ Egil scowled. "I¡¯m just saying¡ªit wasn¡¯t exactly a clear shot. The second I saw a cluster of unarmored nobles, I figured someone important was in there. And when you¡¯re chasing down fleeing enemies, you don¡¯t exactly stop to ask for names before you loose." Alpheo leaned back, folding his arms. "Let¡¯s consider this rationally, Egil. The man was on a single horse, with a hundred and thirty kilometers of open country between him and the nearest ally. No food. No water. No army. And you decided that the only two options were to throw javelins immediately... or let him somehow outrun our cavalry?" Egil¡¯s eye twitched. "When you put it like that, it sounds stupid." "Because it was stupid." Egil groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Look, in the moment, I didn¡¯t have time to sit there and weigh the political ramifications. The idiots had him tucked in the middle like a damned treasure. My job was to thin the herd so we could close in. How was I supposed to know that was the shot that would turn him into a corpse instead of a prisoner?" Alpheo exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Next time, you could perhaps be a little bit patient and wait before pouncing; now our valuable hostage is in a butcher¡¯s slab." Egil threw up his hands. "Fine! Next time I see a prince fleeing for his life, I¡¯ll politely request he identify himself before putting a javelin through his horse. Happy?" Alpheo¡¯s lips quirked. "Ecstatic." A heavy silence settled over the tent, broken only by the faint crackle of torchlight. Egil shifted on his feet, his usual swagger dimmed. He exhaled through his nose, then finally lowered his head¡ªjust a fraction¡ªin concession. "Alright, fine," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Maybe I should¡¯ve... been more careful¡¯¡¯ Alpheo studied him for a beat, then shrugged, his stern fac?ade softening. "And perhaps I exaggerated. The man was trying to flee like a thief in the night. Hard to blame you for treating him like one." Egil glanced up, brow furrowed. "So... did I just hand you a steaming pile of trouble and shit , or what?" Alpheo tilted his hand in a so-so gesture. "Prisoner would¡¯ve been better. Alive, he could¡¯ve been paraded, bargained with, maybe even broken to our side in time." He paused, then reached out, gripping the dead prince¡¯s jaw with idle curiosity, giving it a playful shake. "But dead? Dead still works. He¡¯s a symbol now. A message." Egil snorted. "A message that says... don¡¯t run from Egil?" Alpheo smirked. "More like don¡¯t play with us...." He released the prince¡¯s face with a dismissive tap. "Let¡¯s be honest¡ªenemy or not, I¡¯m not entirely heartbroken. The man rallied lords against me. Sent good men to their graves for his ambition. If anything, I¡¯m just... mildly inconvenienced by his early departure." Egil chuckled, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "So what now?" Alpheo gave a lazy wave. "It is what it is." He clapped Egil on the shoulder. "Besides, you did bag me a few live ones. Nobles scream just as prettily as princes when you squeeze them for ransom." As he said that he turned smoothly on his heels, his cape swaying with the motion, and clapped a firm hand against Agalosios¡¯ back. The physician barely budged under the gesture, though the exhaustion was plain in his face. "You¡¯re in for a nice bonus, my friend," Alpheo said, his voice lighter now, almost teasing. "This must have been a tiring month." Agalosios let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "More than you think." Alpheo tilted his head slightly, studying the man¡¯s worn features. He supposed it was true¡ªAgalosios had been buried in the thankless, endless task of patching up the wounded, fighting off infections, and trying to keep the city¡¯s defenders alive long enough to see the dawn. A grim, exhausting duty. Alpheo smirked. "Then perhaps," he said, "it¡¯s time to visit our other guests." The captured lords and commanders of the Oizenian host were waiting. The thought of facing them¡ªof seeing the realization in their eyes that their grand campaign had ended in utter ruin¡ªfilled him with an elation that he had not felt since the day he had made Arduronaven¡¯s lord kneel before him in defeat. He straightened his shoulders, already stepping forward, his voice casual as he added, "I imagine they¡¯re dying to see us." Egil grinned, his usual bravado creeping back. "Am I forgiven then?" "Don¡¯t push it." Chapter 519: Victory(3) Chapter 519: Victory(3) Alpheo stepped through the entrance of the large medical tent, the heavy canvas flaps parting before him as he strode inside. The air within was nose-wrenching ¡ªstale with the scent of sweat, blood, and damp cloth, mingled with the sharp bite of medicinal herbs. The flickering glow of lanterns cast long shadows against the tent walls, making the place feel smaller, more suffocating. The moment he entered, a hush fell over the tent. All eyes¡ªdozens of them, sunken with exhaustion, fever, or barely concealed rage¡ªsnapped toward his direction. He could feel the weight of their stares, the barely restrained venom in some, the dull, defeated recognition in others. But then, like iron shavings drawn to a lodestone, their gazes slid from him and settled upon Egil, who entered at his side. Alpheo saw it instantly¡ªthe shift in the air, the tensing of jaws, the tightening of fingers over thin sheets or trembling bandaged limbs. It was not him they despised most at this moment, the prince that destroyed any dream they had of a glorious campaign. It was Egil. A bitter kind of amusement curled at the edges of Alpheo¡¯s lips. He allowed himself a slow glance around the tent, taking in the miserable display before him. The nobles who had once commanded with arrogance and certainty now lay in cots, stripped of their fine armor, reduced to weary, broken men swaddled in linen and humiliation. Their wounds told the story of their downfall. Bandaged arms, slings supporting limp shoulders, blood-crusted wrappings binding shattered legs. He noted that nearly all the injuries were to the limbs¡ªan obvious sign. Anyone who had taken a javelin to the chest or the gut had been left behind in the dirt by Egil,as he realised they would not survive. Of course I will have to send someone to retrieve the bodies.... Egil shifted beside him, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. But even without looking at him, Alpheo could feel the tension radiating from his frame. Someone in the tent let out a breath¡ªshaky, bitter. Finally the moment Alpheo was waiting for happened. "Damn you, you wretched cur!" one of the nobles spat, half-rising from his cot before his wound forced him back down with a sharp wince. "You butcher! You filthy noble-slayer!" "Brute!" another voice snarled, his teeth bared like a cornered animal. "Savage!" "Royal murderer!" Their words lashed like whips, fueled by indignation, by pain, by sheer helplessness. Each one carried the weight of centuries of entitlement¡ªthe belief that their blood, their titles, their very existence should have shielded them from such disgrace. Yet here they were, reduced to wounded prisoners in the hands of the very men they had sought to crush. And Egil? He smirked. That damned, insufferable smirk that seemed to exist solely to infuriate men like these. His arms were crossed, his stance casual, as if their anger was nothing more than a mild amusement. His gaze swept over them, brimming with mockery, his scarred face only making the expression more infuriating. Alpheo could practically hear the grinding of teeth. He could see their fingers twitch, their jaws tighten, the sheer rage rolling off them in waves. If they were not bound by injuries, if they had even a sliver of strength left, they would have lunged at Egil then and there. Sensing the situation teetering on the edge of something unpleasant, Alpheo lifted a hand, his voice cutting through the noise with smooth authority. "Enough." His tone was light, almost pleasant¡ªalmost. But it was more than enough to silence the tent, given that the air of fame around the young man , certainly no better than Egil, was certainly not pleasing. He offered them an easy smile, one that did not quite reach his eyes. "I understand your frustrations. Truly, I do, my lords. But let us not forget the situation you find yourselves in." His gaze swept over them, taking in their sorry states. "You are prisoners. And while I assure you that you will be treated with the honor your station demands, let us not pretend that your positions afford you anything beyond that." Silence. Alpheo let his words settle, let the reality of their predicament take root. "You will be allowed to write to your families, to arrange for a ransom. That is, of course,your rights and it is in our interest for you to do so..¡¯¡¯ The words stung¡ªhe could see it in the way their faces twisted. No man, no matter how highborn, wished to be reminded that he was to pay as much gold as his name could summon. Then, after a beat of silence, a voice, quieter than the rest, broke through. "And... the prince?How is his grace¡¯s health?" The question was tentative, hesitant¡ªas if the man already feared the answer. Alpheo turned toward him, his smile softening¡ªjust a little. He shook his head. "Unfortunately," he said, voice laced with mock sorrow, "there was nothing we could do to save his life. His soul has already been claimed by the gods." A deathly stillness fell over the tent. Some closed their eyes, grief washing over them like a tide. Others simply sat there, staring blankly, their faces drained of color. A few muttered quiet curses under their breath, their hands clenched into weak, trembling fists. And of course the information of their prince¡¯s demise stoked once again another line of insults. "You killed the prince, you horse-fucker!" one noble bellowed, his face red with fury, his veins standing out against his pale skin. "Bloodthirsty butcher!" spat another, his hands trembling as he tried to prop himself up on his cot. "You filth! You¡ª"you were supposed to capture him honorably, not send him to the gods!" More voices rose, overlapping in a cacophony of rage. "Brute!" "Savage!" "No better than a highwayman!" And yet, through it all, Egil stood relaxed, arms crossed, his expression one of pure, unbothered amusement. He let them shout, let them scream, before finally¡ªwhen he had clearly had enough¡ªhe sighed, rolling his shoulders as though stretching after a long day¡¯s work. "Oh, come now," he drawled, "this is all very dramatic, isn¡¯t it?We are enemy are we not?" A noble nearly lunged at him, stopped only by the sharp flare of pain that left him groaning back onto his cot. Egil smirked. "Let¡¯s be clear about something, shall we?" His gaze swept over them, gleaming with a sharp, mocking edge. "We gave you a chance to yield. You didn¡¯t take it. So we took it upon ourselves to ensure that the appropriate response was met with the appropriate result." The words were spoken so simply, so casually, that for a moment, the nobles merely gawked at him, stunned by the sheer audacity. Then¡ª "Yield?!" one noble thundered, practically spitting the word. "How dare you speak of yielding when not a single word was exchanged between us!" Egil shrugged. "I sounded the horn three times. You didn¡¯t stop. Seemed pretty clear to me." "The horn?" another noble gaped at him, eyes wild with disbelief. "What in the name of the gods were we supposed to make of that?! Egil merely lifted his brows, his smirk widening. "Not my problem." He gestured around the tent lazily. "But look! Now you¡¯ve yielded, and here you are, still breathing. So, in the end, it worked." A chorus of outrage followed. "Many of our fellows were nailed to the ground by the javelins of your brutes!" a noble roared, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. "And you call that mercy?!" another seethed. And then, turning their anger elsewhere, their furious eyes landed on Alpheo. "How," one noble spat, "how could you allow such creatures into nobility, your grace?" "It is a disgrace," another sneered, pain in his voice. "You sully the very concept of nobility by elevating such beasts." "He is dishonorable!" one man nearly howled, his hands trembling as he pointed a weak, accusatory finger at Egil. "A savage! A brute with no chivalry¡ªno appreciation for the noble laws that bind our society together!" The words hung in the air, thick with venom, thick with contempt. The sound of slow, deliberate clapping filled the tent. Alpheo¡¯s hands met in a steady, rhythmic applause, a sharp contrast to the nobles¡¯ furious outbursts. Each clap echoed, slicing through the thick air of hostility, forcing all eyes to snap toward him. Then, as silence fell, he sighed¡ªa deep, almost mockingly exhausted sigh, as though he were listening to the complaints of petulant children rather than defeated lords. "I fear," he began smoothly, his voice carrying an edge of cold amusement, "that you all have greatly misunderstood the situation." His gaze swept over them, lingering on their wounded forms, their torn and bloodied clothes, their eyes still smoldering with righteous fury. "Victims," he said, almost tasting the word. "You speak as though you are victims. As though some great injustice has been dealt to you. As though you did not march into my lands, raise your armies, trespass my home, burn my fields and dine at the cost of my subjects." He stepped forward, slow and measured, his boots pressing into the dirt floor of the tent. "You colluded with my treacherous lords. You sought to unseat me. You expected an easy road to my capital, a swift and triumphant march through my fields, my rivers, my cities. Yet now¡ªnow that the carriage has stopped, now that the road has been cut short¡ªyou complain. You wail. You curse the very blade you forced into another man¡¯s hand." His eyes gleamed as he turned slightly, gesturing toward Egil. "As for this one?" He tilted his head. "You come here crying and demanding me to punish him, of course I would no such thing . He did what any man would do in the defense of what he calls home.He killed them." The nobles bristled, but Alpheo did not stop. His voice hardened, growing sharper, each word laced with the weight of his authority. "You, however," he continued, "seem to believe that you were owed something different. That we would greet you with open arms. That we would take your blades into our bellies without returning the favor. And now¡ªnow that you lie here, broken, defeated¡ªyou dare speak of honor?" His lips curled into a thin, sharp smile. "I will tell you something about honor." He turned fully to face them, his presence filling the space, commanding their attention. "Where I am from, when an enemy is struck down, we do not cry over it." His voice was calm, almost gentle, but there was something far more dangerous in that very calmness. "We reward the one who did the deed." A tense, suffocating silence followed. Some nobles still glared, their hands trembling with restrained fury. Others averted their eyes, jaws clenched, unable¡ªor unwilling¡ªto meet his gaze. Alpheo let the silence stretch before finally, with a chilling ease, he added: "You may all come whenever you wish. March into my lands again. Raid my villages. Besiege my castles. But do not think for a second that your return journey will be as easy as your arrival" His smile widened, though it did not reach his eyes. "And this time when you finally do crawl back home, once your family paid the price of course, I would like you to deliver a message to your noble fellows." He stepped forward once more, lowering his voice just enough to force them to listen. "Tell them they are welcome to try the shit you just pulled. Any time they like." Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he added, his tone almost mockingly cordial: "Of course, they must be willing to pay the toll for it, as the lot of you will do now. Make sure to also tell it to your new prince, as I fear that his stay in my court may not have been enough for him to learn the lesson. But please do not despair if the lesson wasn¡¯t clear enough, as you shall have two other examples to look upon in the next months. After all you were not the only one trespassing through my domain." Chapter 520: Dealing with starving men(1) Chapter 520: Dealing with starving men(1) The administrative mansion of the city had lain dormant for nearly a month, its halls once filled with the hum of bureaucratic routine now echoing only with the ghosts of unfinished work. The ledgers had gathered dust. The tax scrolls, meant to be unfurled and reviewed, had instead remained untouched, curling at their ends like dying leaves. The grand wooden desks¡ªonce seats of power where the city¡¯s fate was dictated in ink¡ªhad been abandoned in favor of more urgent matters. For the past weeks, governance had not been measured in quill strokes but in iron and blood. There had been no collections of moetary levies, no merchant inspections, no council meetings to bicker about budget. Instead, there had been siege lines, barricades, rationing, and curfews enforced with an iron grip. The laws of trade and commerce had been replaced by the laws of survival. No merchants had come in¡ªnot with the Oizenians breathing down their necks. The streets had been emptied by curfew, the only movement that of sentries patrolling with torches, ready to throw any suspicious soul into the dungeons without question. But now, with the battle won and the enemy obliterated, the gears of governance had to turn once more. To the disappointment of many, there would be no further leave of absence. Their offices had not even been their own for the past weeks. Asag had taken over much of the administrative space, using the mansion as a war council hall and makeshift command center. Clerks had been replaced with soldiers, accountants with messengers relaying war reports, and tax collectors with men preparing to die for the city¡¯s walls. Some of the scribes had hoped, foolishly, that with the arrival of the prince, their forced holiday might continue, as they were in fact getting still paid while not working They were sorely mistaken. Alpheo had ensured otherwise. By the very next morning, the clerks were called back, the ledgers reopened, the inkpots refilled. The prince himself had not seized control of the mansion, despite many expecting him to. He had taken only a single room, one simple space to go through post-battle affairs. The rest of the mansion? That belonged to the clerks once more. And so, reluctantly, the bureaucrats of the city returned to their true battlefield. Not with swords and shields, but with parchment and ink. Alpheo currently sat at the large wooden table, his fingers idly tapping against the surface as his eyes skimmed over the seemingly endless stacks of parchment before him. The aftermath of a battle was never just blood and steel¡ªit was ink and numbers, ledgers and logistics, ransoms and reparations. The battle was won, the enemy scattered, but now came the second conquest¡ªthe conquest of the numbers. Across from him, Jarza leaned lazily against the wall, his expression one of mild disinterest. The man had never been one for paperwork, preferring the thrill of battle over the drudgery of records, but as Alpheo¡¯s effective second-in-command, he had little choice but to endure it. To the side, Asag sat more upright, focused yet relaxed. He still bore the weight of weeks spent in unrelenting vigilance, but his face had lost that terrible, hollow exhaustion from the night before. Alpheo studied him for a moment before speaking. "You look much better than you did yesterday." Asag let out a short, weary chuckle. "That¡¯s because I actually slept." He exhaled deeply, his eyes briefly glazing over as if recalling the torment of the past month. "No more waiting for the Oizenians to strike the gates in the dead of night. No more bolting awake at every strange sound, thinking it¡¯s the beginning of the end." He then offered a smirk. "And the torch you kindly placed inside the city gave a nice light to sleep under." Alpheo raised a brow. "Torch?" Asag gestured vaguely toward the wall. "You know, the one you had set ablaze atop the city gate." For a moment, Alpheo was confused. Then, realization dawned upon him, and he let out a soft chuckle. The royal banner of Oizen, burned for all to see. "Ah, that. You remembered my promise, then?" Asag gave a small nod. "Hard to forget when it was the first thing I saw when I stepped outside." Alpheo allowed himself a smirk before shifting his attention back to the paperwork. He flipped through another set of documents, tallying the damage done, the soldiers lost, the payments required. His gaze flickered back up to Asag. "Did the military governor give you any trouble?" Asag shook his head. "As well-behaved as I could have hoped. No unnecessary disputes, no pointless defiance. He did his job, kept the order." Alpheo hummed in approval, leaning back in his chair. "Perhaps he should be rewarded, then." Asag hesitated, and for a brief moment, something flickered in his eyes¡ªsomething that made Alpheo pause. "What?" Asag exhaled, resting his elbows on the table. "He¡¯s dead. Died on the 13th day of the siege. Arrow to the throat." Jarza, ever one to break uncomfortable moments, let out a small huff and muttered, "Might be best to send some kind of respect for the loss." Alpheo nodded slowly, absorbing the thought. "Perhaps the reward should go to his family instead." And with that, the conversation moved forward Jarza reached across the table and placed a thick, folded parchment in front of Alpheo. The paper was smudged in places, ink hastily scrawled yet still meticulous in detail, listing some names, numbers, and the grim reality of war. "Casualty report," Jarza announced, his voice as casual as if he were discussing the weather. ¡¯¡¯I kindly took the effort of encompassing everything in a single page.¡¯¡¯ Alpheo took it and unfolded the document, his eyes skimming over the tally. "Not too bad," Jarza continued. "Sixty-five dead, forty wounded on our side during the battle. As for Asag, his men took seventy dead and forty wounded." Alpheo nodded slightly, absorbing the numbers. "That makes it one hundred and thirty-five dead, eighty wounded between our ranks," he murmured. His fingers tapped idly against the table as his mind processed the cost. Jarza nodded. "The others¡ªtroops from the noble lords, the tribesmen¡ªtook heavier losses. A hundred and ninety-eight dead, seventy-two wounded." Alpheo exhaled through his nose, setting the report down. The numbers were very light . Three hundred and thirty-three men lost in total. It was a bitter thing, but in war, bitterness was often a lesser poison compared to the alternative. "And how many did we kill?" Alpheo asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear it. Jarza smirked. "Who knows" He said with a shrug. "All I know is that the entire army has been gutted, be it in the field or during their rout.There is literally no more of an army, as those that survived will most surely become deserters at best and bandits at worst.¡¯¡¯ That was the difference. They had lost a few hundred, but in return, they had broken an army. Alpheo leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair as he let the numbers settle in his mind. It was easy to see battle as a glorious charge, a clash of steel and will¡ªbut this? This was war in its truest form. Ink on parchment. Lives reduced to numbers. Still, the numbers favored him. "A fair trade," Alpheo finally said, his voice carrying no sorrow, only the cool acceptance of a commander who understood the price of victory. Jarza tilted his head slightly, rolling his shoulders as if loosening an unseen weight. His eyes flicked to Alpheo with that characteristic glint of mischief, though there was a serious note beneath it. "About that..." he said, drawing out the words. "Perhaps we were a little bit too successful." Alpheo¡¯s brow arched. Too successful? That was not a phrase he often heard. "Explain," he said, his fingers drumming idly against the wooden table. Jarza exhaled through his nose, half amusement, half incredulity. "While we don¡¯t have exact numbers on the dead yet, we sure as hells know how many we took alive." He leaned forward, placing both palms on the table. "Seven hundred and sixty." A beat of silence. From across the room, Asag, who had been sipping from a cup of watered wine, paused mid-drink. He blinked. "Quite a lot." "An understatement," Jarza replied dryly. He crossed his arms. "Seven hundred and sixty mouths to feed, wounds to tend, and hands that might yet grip a weapon. That¡¯s not just a handful of prisoners¡ªit¡¯s a damn headache." Alpheo leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly through his nose. The issue wasn¡¯t that they had taken too many prisoners¡ªafter all, having hundreds of enemy soldiers at their mercy was a testament to their victory. No, the real problem was far more mundane and infinitely more pressing: Feeding them. Even before the battle, his army of 2,600 men was already a heavy burden to maintain. Rations had to be accounted for, water supplies secured, and let¡¯s not forget the animals. Horses, mules, donkeys¡ªthey all needed their share of grain and fodder. The logistics of keeping a fighting force fed and ready were already a strain on their stores. Now, add 760 extra mouths to that tally. It wasn¡¯t just a matter of food, either. More men meant more waste, more sickness, more potential for unrest and more manpower required to guard them. Alpheo drummed his fingers against the table, his sharp mind already racing for a solution. They could not afford to bleed their supplies dry. So of course, they had to get rid of them quickly. Chapter 521: Dealing with starving men(2) Chapter 521: Dealing with starving men(2) The fate of captured soldiers was never a matter of mercy¡ªit was a matter of practicality. The treatment of prisoners varied, dictated not by honor or sentiment, but by cold, hard calculations. Some men were worth their weight in gold¡ªcommanders, knights, nobles, officers of standing¡ªfigures whose return to their own side could fetch a handsome ransom. In those cases, negotiations would be swift, letters sent, deals struck, and a prisoner would find himself returned to his home, provided his family or liege deemed him worth the coin. But for the common soldier? The unremarkable footman, the levied farmer who traded his plow for a spear? No lord would waste a silverii to see such men returned. Why pay for what the land itself provides in endless abundance? After all, peasants were not a rare resource. If a lord needed more men, he had only to send his officers into the villages, have the drums beat, and raise another levy. One peasant dead or captured was as insignificant as a drop in the sea. And so, if ransom was off the table, there was only one true fate for captured commoners: the slave market. The buying and selling of men was a business older than the very concept of kingdoms and empires. And where there was war, there were always those who followed in its wake¡ªnot to fight, not to conquer, but to profit. Armies, no matter how disciplined, always left trails of opportunists in their shadows. Prostitutes, who found no shortage of coin whenever a mass of men were desperate for a fleeting moment of comfort. Merchants, who swarmed battlefields like crows, eager to buy up looted goods before the blood had even dried. And, of course, slavers¡ªthe true vultures of war¡ªwho saw defeated men not as prisoners, but as merchandise. For them, a captured army was a moving goldmine. The moment the battle ended, the calculations began. How much for a strong-backed laborer? Even among peasants, there was value to be assessed. And once the deals were struck, the chains fastened, and the march began, the war was over for the prisoners. Now, they belonged not to their country, not to their gods, not even to themselves¡ªbut to the highest bidder. Of course, their fate was never set in stone¡ªit shifted based on circumstances, dictated by the army¡¯s position, its needs, and the simple reality of logistics. If an army found itself near a wealthy town or city, the solution was simple: sell them. The local merchants, ever eager for cheap labor, would be the first to make offers, calculating profits even as the chains were being fastened. Whether for the backbreaking work of the mines, the endless toil of the fields, or the more refined demands of noble households, there was always a market for warm bodies. Gold would change hands, the army would lighten its burden, and the problem would solve itself with minimal fuss. But if they were far from civilization? If no wealthy buyers were within reach, and time was pressing? Then the matter grew more complicated. Everyday spent marching with hundreds of prisoners in tow meant more mouths to feed, more guards to post, more risks of escape or rebellion. And when the burden grew too great, and no coin could be gained from their suffering, there was only one brutal, time-worn solution: the chopping block. A mass execution was rarely the first choice, not out of mercy, but out of pragmatism. Killing prisoners outright meant throwing away a potential profit, and in war, wasting resources¡ªeven human ones¡ªwas a crime in itself. The nobility, always keen on their purses, frowned upon such decisions, as did many soldiers, especially those who hoped to make some coin by selling their captives later, as a good portion of their loot was obtained from selling slaves. Beyond the economic loss, there was also the stain it left upon an army¡¯s reputation. Thus, selling remained the preferred course. But selling required a marketplace, and at the moment, Alpheo had none. He was too deep too far from a city willing to make such a trade, and too pressed for time to haul nearly eight hundred unwanted souls across the countryside in search of buyers. And so, the question remained: what to do with them? And of course such a problem was also caused by a price that Alpheo paid for his army, as among the many strengths that defined the Black Stripes¡ªdiscipline, cohesion, and experience¡ªone of the most decisive was speed. Unlike the lumbering hosts of feudal lords, bogged down by endless baggage trains and a swarm of camp followers, Alpheo¡¯s forces were built for mobility. His men were drilled to march thirty kilometers a day, then erect a defensible encampment before nightfall, ensuring they remained not just fast but also prepared for sudden engagements. It was a machine of war¡ªlean, efficient, and relentless. And like any well-oiled machine, it required the removal of anything that slowed it down. Dead weight was not tolerated. Merchants, prostitutes, and the usual swarm of leeches that clung to armies like vultures were not welcomed in Alpheo¡¯s host. Where others saw opportunity for profit, he saw dragged feet and wasted time. His policy was clear: they were not to follow. And though the other lords grumbled¡ªtheir soldiers even more so, deprived of drink, dice, and distraction¡ªAlpheo remained deaf to their complaints. He valued speed above all else, and he had no patience for those who would trade it away for a few extra coins. And that very speed had just won him this battle. By striking before the Oizenians even caught wind of his movements, by controlling the seas and moving his entire army ahead of their advance, he had turned the tide of battle before the enemy even realized the storm was coming. He had forced their hand, dictated the pace, and crushed them beneath it. But now, that same speed presented a problem. The battle was over. The victory was secured. And he now had nearly 800 prisoners weighing his army down. The same ruthless efficiency that had allowed him to strike so decisively now worked against him¡ªfor there was no easy way to sell the captives quickly. They were too far from any major market, and hauling them along would slow his forces to a crawl. The irony was not lost on Alpheo. His greatest strength had become his greatest obstacle. Returning to the current situation, a small silence had ensued in the chamber at the report of the current number of prisoners. Jarza exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly as he rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. "Well, there is one obvious solution," he said, his voice measured but firm. "The chopping block." Alpheo drummed his fingers on the table, his expression unreadable. The thought had already crossed his mind, but hearing it spoken aloud made it more real. Executing hundreds of prisoners would do his reputation no favors¡ªthat much was certain. But war was not about reputation. War was about winning. And feeding, guarding, and hauling nearly eight hundred men across his lands was a logistical nightmare he had no time for. If he had been fighting a single enemy, perhaps he could afford to entertain more honorable alternatives, but this war had been fought against three separate foes. Surely, even the most chivalrous of his critics would understand the necessity. His lips parted, ready to give the order¡ª Then he stopped. A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as a thought flickered through his mind, sharp as steel. There was another way. A way to make use of them, to turn the dead weight into something useful. He leaned back in his chair, the glint of amusement in his eyes catching the candlelight. "Actually," he said, voice rich with intrigue, "I just thought of a better use for them.It would be a waste to kill eight hundred strong, able-bodied men. A terrible waste, really." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the wooden surface, his gaze flickering between Jarza and Asag. "Instead," he continued, a smirk creeping onto his lips, "perhaps we should turn them into a gift." Jarza raised an eyebrow. "A gift?" Alpheo nodded, eyes gleaming. "A very generous gift, for the coronation of the new prince," he mused. "After all, the Oizenians will need new hands to rebuild after their humiliating defeat. And since their beloved prince is rotting on a table, someone else will have to take the reins of their wretched kingdom." His smirk widened. "And what better way to start a reign than with a bounty of eight hundred new people?" Asag exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. "So, you propose we send them back? That is your great idea?Wouldn¡¯t they be of much more use dead then alive in the enemy land?¡¯¡¯ ¡¯¡¯Come on you still haven¡¯t heard of the gift, I am sure you will change idea upon hearing it....¡¯¡¯ Jarza let out a confused look , while Asag merely rubbed his jaw, deep in thought. "But of course," Alpheo continued, sitting up, "before we go about organizing this lovely little present, I think we¡¯ll require the expertise of someone well-versed in... handling such work." He gave a pointed glance at the doorway before looking back at his men. "Send for Egil," he ordered, amusement dancing in his voice. "I believe his talents will be needed for this, as this may be a sector that he excels at.." Chapter 522: Dealing with starving men(3) Chapter 522: Dealing with starving men(3) Alpheo drummed his fingers idly against the table as he waited for Egil¡¯s arrival, his gaze lowering once more to the stack of reports before him, which he hadn¡¯t had the chance to finish reading . With a casual flick of his hand, he turned the page, his eyes skimming the newly revealed content. His smirk widened almost immediately. He let out a low chuckle, then whistled. "Well, well," he murmured, tilting his head as he scanned the numbers and figures before him. "Now this is impressive." Jarza, who had compiled the report himself, nodded with a knowing smirk. "It seems our dear prince, in his grand effort to flee with his tail between his legs, forgot something rather important," he said dryly. "Namely, the entirety of the campaign treasury he brought with him." Alpheo exhaled through his nose, amusement flickering in his eyes as he leaned back into his chair. "Oh, how utterly tragic of Shamleik" he mused, voice dripping with mock sympathy. "To think he ran for his life only to leave behind everything along with his life." A bounty. A true bounty. Jarza snorted. "No wonder they broke so fast. Carrying all that gaudy shit must¡¯ve weighed them down." Alpheo laughed at the comment, exhilarated by the situation surrounding him. 7,900 silverii in pure coin. He let that number settle in his mind, rolling it over like a fine piece of wine against his tongue. It was a sum large enough to fund at least two months of campaigns . And that wasn¡¯t even considering the jewelry and other fine luxuries they had stripped from the prince¡¯s private quarters¡ªsilver goblets, gold-threaded fabrics, ornate daggers likely meant more for show than for war. But as lucrative as the coin was, Alpheo knew that wealth wasn¡¯t just measured in silver. He flipped to the next section of the report, eyes glinting as he examined what was arguably an even greater prize¡ªthe spoils of war in steel. By the end of the battle, his army had seized 1,200 pieces of chainmail. Countless helmets, spears, swords, and shields. Enough to outfit an entirely new force should he ever need it. And while footmen¡¯s arms were valuable, the true cream of the loot lay elsewhere. The cavalry¡¯s equipment. Alpheo¡¯s fingers tapped against the list as he read through the final tally: 320 warhorses. 370 steel breastplates. That was a fortune in itself¡ªwarhorses alone were priceless, bred and trained for battle in ways that common mounts could never match. And the breastplates? Full steel, crafted for the elite. To outfit heavy cavalry was expensive, often costing more than the men wearing the armor were worth. And now? Now they belonged to him. Alpheo chuckled, shaking his head as he looked over at Jarza. "I almost feel bad for them." Jarza snorted. "No, you don¡¯t." "No, I don¡¯t," Alpheo agreed, grinning as he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head. "But it¡¯s a nice thought, isn¡¯t it? Empathy is what makes friends, after all." As the last words faded, the gleam in Alpheo¡¯s eyes didn¡¯t. He wasn¡¯t merely counting coin or trophies¡ªhe was thinking of the long-game he played . Because war wasn¡¯t won by what you took. It was won by what you built from what you took. Alpheo¡¯s army moved to a different rhythm than the traditional hosts of the southern princes. Where his rivals built their forces around the earth-shaking charge of armored knights¡ªthose glorious, plated behemoths that noble ballads loved to glorify¡ªAlpheo had crafted something leaner. Faster. Deadlier. His cavalry were not the ponderous warhammers of conventional warfare, but the razor¡¯s edge of a dagger¡ªlight, swift, and lethal in motion. They struck like vipers, fading before the enemy could rally, throwing javelins while keeping the enemy at a distance . They were wolves, not bulls. Yet for all their effectiveness, Alpheo was not blind to the limitations of his forces. There was a place for heavy cavalry in war¡ªthe decisive hammerblow that could shatter enemy formations when the moment demanded it. And though he possessed such a force, they did not ride under his banner alone. The Golden Steed. One hundred knights clad in gilded steel, their lances tipped with the promise of ruin. But they were not his. They were his wife¡¯s. Landless nobles, most of them, sworn to the crown. And now, spread before him on the inventory scrolls, lay the means to change that. 320 warhorses. Prime stock, each beast worth a decade of a footman¡¯s salary. 370 steel cuirasses. Gleaming like silvered mirrors, ready to turn men into moving fortresses. The temptation was palpable. With this windfall, he could raise a heavy cavalry force of his own¡ªknights sworn directly to him. A fist of steel to complement his army¡¯s swiftness. Alpheo exhaled through his nose, leaning back in his chair. If only it were that simple. The ledgers did not lie. His standing army¡ª1,050 professional soldiers, paid year-round¡ªalready strained his coffers to their limits. Wages. Weapons. Provisions. The endless hemorrhage of silver required to keep a professional force battle-ready, fed and with the best equipment of their time. His monthly income of 2,900 silver was stretched thinner than parchment over a candle flame.Plus, there were many other expenses to take care of outside the military. So adding a heavy cavalry wing with all of that? Suicide. A single warhorse costs between 150 to 230 silverii¡ª just to purchase , and on top of that they had to maintain it . Grain. Fodder. Smiths for their shoes.Trimming. And the riders themselves? They expected a fat stipend at the end of the month. Alpheo¡¯s fingers drummed against the table. But waste this opportunity? Never. His thoughts drifted back to the capital, a place he could finally call home. The royal breeding program of that was a shadow of what it should be¡ªunderfunded, mismanaged, a disgrace for a princedom. Still , a slow smile curled his lips. Breeding stock.That is what they were going to be These captured horses were more than battlefield assets¡ªthey were bloodlines. Coursers crossed with local mares could produce a new generation of warhorses. In five years? He might never need to buy another mount again. Jarza, leaning against the wall , arched a brow. "That¡¯s your plotting face." ¡¯¡¯Is it?¡¯¡¯ Alpheo said, touching his face, which was now showing a smile. As Alpheo sat in his chamber, salivating over the possibilities of the future the door swung open. The wooden frame creaked slightly as a familiar figure stepped in, moving with the lazy confidence of a man who had seen too much war to be impressed by anything anymore. The man glanced around before resting his gaze on Alpheo, his expression unreadable. "You asked for me?" Egil¡¯s voice was as rough as ever, like gravel crunching beneath an iron boot. Alpheo nodded, leaning forward as he placed his elbows on the desk. "I have a mission for you." Egil simply tilted his head, waiting. Alpheo wasted no time. He explained the situation with the prisoners¡ªall 760 of them. He told him how selling them quickly was impossible, how keeping them was a drain, and how an alternative solution was needed. Egil listened, arms crossed, his fingers idly tapping against his leather bracer. He gave the matter about five seconds of thought before giving his answer: "If we can¡¯t sell them, a slit throat is the best option." His voice was calm, devoid of hesitation. Jarza let out an amused snort . Alpheo only smirked, shaking his head. "That is exactly what Jarza suggested. And yet... I can¡¯t help but think it would be a waste." Egil raised an eyebrow, but before he could say anything, Alpheo leaned back in his chair and continued. "Instead of simply killing them... perhaps we should make use of them." Now, that caught their attention. "Tell me," Alpheo asked, his eyes gleaming, "do you all know what my biggest complaint in this war is?" The group exchanged glances before shaking their heads. Alpheo¡¯s smile widened, but it was not a pleasant one. It was the smile of a man who saw something others did not. "My biggest problem," he said, "is that I cannot focus on a single foe. True, I have no problem besting them in the field, and yet I am unable to capitalize on it.There are three of them and only one of us " Silence filled the chamber. "Take this situation as an example. We just sent an entire enemy army underground¡ªutterly crushed them. And yet, we cannot press forward into Oizenian lands. We cannot strike while the iron is hot, because we are stretched thin.The moment we march deeper into their lands, the other jackals will strike at our backs. So, we must hold and go take care of the others first." He leaned forward, his fingers drumming against the table. "But what if we didn¡¯t have to? What if we could ensure that someone else fought the war for us, waged battles we ourselves cannot mount?" His men exchanged glances again. They were intrigued but still not quite sure where he was going with this. Then, Asag spoke up, his brow furrowed in confusion. "And... where exactly do the prisoners enter into all of this?" Alpheo turned to him, smiling. "Why, my dear Asag... they will be those soldiers." And from those innocently-muttered word¡ª Hell broke loose. Chapter 523: Dealing with starving men(4) Chapter 523: Dealing with starving men(4) The chamber erupted in a storm of disbelief. Jarza was the first to break the stunned silence, his usually composed features twisting into open incredulity. "Have you lost your godsdamned mind?" The words tore from his throat like a battle cry. "These aren¡¯t stray dogs you can whistle to heel¡ªthese are men who were trying to carve their way through the city not three days past! And you think they¡¯ll suddenly turn around and fight for the hand that broke them?" His fingers curled into fists. "This is madness !" Asag exhaled through his nose, the sound of a man desperately clinging to patience. "Let me understand this," he said, each word precise as a surgeon¡¯s scalpel. "You want to arm seven hundred and sixty men who, until yesterday, would have gladly spit you on a pike. Men who watched their comrades die by our steel. Men who¡ª" His finger jabbed toward the window where the prisoner pens lay, "¡ªare currently dreaming of nothing but slipping a knife between our ribs the first chance they get, for those that at least aren¡¯t dreaming of returning home ." He leaned forward. "And you expect them to march in formation under our banners?" A muscle twitched in Alpheo¡¯s jaw, but before he could respond, Egil let out a bark of laughter¡ªthe sound as warm as a winter gale. "Oh, this is rich," he drawled, rolling his shoulders like a wolf settling before a feast. ¡¯¡¯Because let¡¯s be clear: the moment these bastards get steel in their hands, they¡¯ll turn on us faster than you can say ¡¯treason.¡¯" His grin showed teeth. "But hey, if you¡¯re set on this folly, at least let me give them proper motivation first." A meaningful pat of his sword hilt. "A few examples without heads, tend to have the others value theirs ." Of course Jarza wasn¡¯t finished. "And what of our own men?" he demanded. "You think they¡¯ll stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the same dogs who put arrows in their brothers? Who burned villages under their protection?" His lip curled. "I give it three hours before we have a mutiny on both sides." Alpheo let out a deep sigh, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose as if physically holding back a headache. He let the silence hang for a moment, letting their protests settle in the air like dust after a storm. "Oh ye of little faith," he murmured "Next time," he said, fingers steepled before him, "I¡¯d appreciate it if you let me finish explaining before declaring my plan suicidal." His lips quirked. "Though I suppose I should be grateful you¡¯re all too stubborn to be proper sycophants." At least they spoke their minds. Alpheo knew plenty of rulers who surrounded themselves with flatterers, men who nodded and smiled no matter how absurd or suicidal an order was. That was the kind of idiocy that led to disaster. The last thing he needed was a collection of bootlickers, whispering nothing but agreeable nonsense into his ears. "First," Alpheo continued, rolling a silver coin across his knuckles, "I have no intention of integrating these men into our ranks. The idea of sleeping with seven hundred former enemies camped beside us?" He snorted. "I wouldn¡¯t trust them to muck out my stables, let alone guard my back." Egil rubbed his temples. "Then spit it out plainly, Alph. I¡¯m too tired for riddles." Asag arched a brow. "You¡¯ve been asleep since dawn." "And I plan to resume after this," Egil shot back without missing a beat. Asag chuckled, but Alpheo pressed on. "Men will always find kinship in shared suffering," he said, his voice dropping into something darker. "Villagers bond over hometowns. Soldiers over battles. And slaves?" His fingers stilled the coin. "They bond over the whip, finding fellowships with those sharing their pains ." A heavy silence fell. Eight sets of eyes¡ªeach carrying memories too bitter to voice¡ªmet in understanding. Alpheo broke the moment with a sharp clap of his hands. "Now. Tell me¡ªwhat becomes of a hundred starving men turned loose in foreign lands with steel in their hands?" Asag¡¯s answer came swift as a blade. "They will become wolves." He leaned forward now, voice dripping with amusement. "Now, imagine we do that with seven hundred men. All of them starving. All of them armed.With no way to their home. Tell me, what do you think they¡¯ll turn into?" Jarza let out a low whistle as realization set in. "Bandits." Jarza¡¯s breath hissed through his teeth. "You¡¯re not making them soldiers. You¡¯re unleashing a plague." "And the new Prince of Oizen?" Alpheo¡¯s coin flashed as it spun through his fingers. "He¡¯ll spend his coronation year putting down fires instead of raising armies." Alpheo let the weight of his words settle in the room, watching as the gears turned in their minds. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, fingers tapping lightly against the wooden table, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Consider this," he murmured, leaning forward with the quiet intensity of a predator circling its prey. "What if we don¡¯t just unleash wolves... but give them teeth and claws?" Alpheo¡¯s smile was knife-sharp. "A handful of our men - the right kind of men - moving among them. Men who know how to turn a rabble into a weapon. Who can whisper in the dark about which granaries hold the most grain, which manors are lightly guarded, which roads the tax collectors travel." The implications unspooled before them like a noose. This wasn¡¯t just about creating bandits - it was about creating an insurgency. A cancer that would eat at Oizen from within long before their armies marched. Jarza exhaled sharply. "You¡¯d have them striking supply lines before the war even starts." "Among other things," Alpheo agreed mildly. His gaze drifted to the map spread across the table, fingers tracing invisible paths. "Imagine their new prince trying to rally his lords while his countryside burns. While his tax revenues vanish." Alpheo¡¯s voice dropped to a whisper that carried through the room like a blade being drawn. "I don¡¯t just want them defeated when we meet on the field. I want them already broken. Bleeding. Begging for mercy before our banners even appear on the horizon." Now was the time to set the wheels in motion. "Egil," he began, his voice measured and firm, "I¡¯m tasking you with handling four hundred of the prisoners. Take them in groups of a hundred and drop them along different points of the border¡ªspread out just enough that they won¡¯t immediately tear each other apart, but close enough that the Oizenians will have a damn hard time trying to contain them all at once." Egil nodded slowly, following along, but Alpheo wasn¡¯t finished. "Give them weapons¡ªnothing fine, just enough to make them dangerous. Spears, knives, whatever we can spare." He grinned then, but there was no warmth in it. "And food. Just enough that their bellies ache, but not enough to keep them satisfied. Hunger makes men desperate, and desperation makes them vicious. Let them learn that the only way to eat is to take." Egil folded his arms, his expression unreadable. "And the rest of them?" "Mereth will take care of the remainder," Alpheo replied easily. "I¡¯ll have him move them further into the countryside, where they can cause even more trouble before anyone figures out what¡¯s happening." There was a pause, then Egil sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. When do we move?" Alpheo barely hesitated. "Tomorrow." Egil¡¯s jaw twitched, but he didn¡¯t argue. There was no need for further discussion¡ªhe had his orders, and he would see them done. Alpheo watched him go, then leaned back in his chair, tilting his head up slightly as if speaking to the gods themselves. "Run, little prince," he muttered under his breath, his smirk returning, sharpened like a blade. "Run with your crown slipping from your head." Hearing the words Jarza apparently was reminded of something , as he leaned forward, a sly glint in his eye. "Speaking of crowns..." Alpheo tilted his head, curious. "I meant to give this to you earlier, but with all our scheming, it slipped my mind." He gestured vaguely. "As was reported, the prince fled without his treasury. Apparently, he was so confident in his victory that he planned a little ceremony in Aracina. Something that our dear Asag put a rather violent stop to." Asag raised an eyebrow. "And?" Jarza smirked. "Tell me, what is it that a prince needs for such a ceremony?" Alpheo chuckled, humoring him. "Do enlighten me." Jarza said nothing. Instead, he reached into his cloak and pulled forth a crown¡ªone far grander than the one that once sat upon Jasmine¡¯s head. The golden peaks were jagged, like the open maw of a beast, the silver base trimmed in delicate gold filigree. It gleamed under the dim candlelight, heavy with stolen power. With an easy flick of his wrist, he tossed it through the air. Alpheo barely caught it, fingers tightening around the cold metal. He said nothing, merely turning it over in his hands, running his thumb along the sharp edges of its golden teeth. The weight of it was undeniable. The meaning even more so. A hush fell over the room, thick as the weight of unspoken oaths. The fire in the hearth crackled, the only sound daring to intrude upon the moment. The air itself seemed to hold its breath, as if awaiting the birth of something inevitable. It was beautiful in its way¡ªcold, heavy, a thing meant not for decoration but for dominion. He let the silence stretch, savoring the gravity of it. Then, at last, he lifted his gaze. His voice, when it came, was low, smooth as a dagger slipping between ribs. "Well then," he murmured, the ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his lips, "How would you like to serve a king, instead of a prince?" Chapter 524: Celebrations(1) Chapter 524: Celebrations(1) Night draped itself over Aracina like a velvet mantle, but for the first time in weeks, it was not the harbinger of fear. No, this night was not one of restless watchmen gripping spears atop the walls, nor of anxious whispers behind barred doors. This night, the city roared with life. The streets, which had once been eerily quiet under curfew, were now rivers of laughter and music, flowing from every tavern, every square, every open window. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and wine, a fragrance far sweeter now that it did not carry the tang of smoke and blood. Fires blazed in great iron braziers, their golden tongues licking at the dark, banishing the shadows that had haunted the city for too long. Beneath their flickering light, men and women danced¡ªsome to the frantic rhythm of drums, others locked in slow, swaying embraces, drinking in the relief of survival. At the heart of it all, the soldiers of the Royal Host walked among the people like giants of old, their armor gleaming, their spirits soaring. Children clung to their hands, gazing up at them with wide, awestruck eyes. Women and men alike pressed cups of ale and plates piled high into their hands, eager to feed the warriors who had held the line, who had stood between them and the ruin that had loomed just beyond the gates. And the soldiers, hardened by war, could not help but swell with pride. To fight and win was one thing¡ªbut to return victorious and be hailed as heroes? That was a glory few men ever tasted, and tonight, they drank deep of it. A grand feast stretched through the city, tables laid end to end in the great squares, draped in linen, piled high with the bounty of both survival and conquest. The food came from the city¡¯s own stores, yes¡ªbut much of it had once belonged to the Oizenian army, now repurposed to celebrate their failure. The enemy had marched with enough provisions to feed a siege; now, it fed the very people they had sought to starve. Wine flowed like rivers, laughter rang like bells, and the people of Aracina did what those who survive calamity do best: they lived. Of course the commoners weren¡¯t the only ones celebrating, as within the grand halls of Aracina¡¯s administrative mansion, where once quills scratched against parchment in endless toil, now resounded the clamor of feasting nobles. Goblets brimmed with coder, light and rich as spilled blood, passed from hand to hand in endless toasts. Platters of roasted game, venison glazed in honey, and spiced fowl filled the tables, the scent of the feast mingling with the music. Laughter rang out, loud and unrestrained, as tales of the battle were retold¡ªsome truthfully, others embellished for greater effect. Seated among them, conspicuous by their silence, were the defeated lords of Oizen. Their presence was both a spectacle and a statement. Custom dictated that noble prisoners of war be granted a seat at their captor¡¯s table, sharing in the feast¡ªthough the meal often tasted bitter in their mouths. But beyond custom, their attendance served another purpose: they were trophies on display, to show everybody Alpheo¡¯s triumph. They dined upon the same rich food as their conquerors, their goblets were filled from the same pitchers, yet none could mistake their position. Their armor had been stripped, their fine garments now bore the creases of a campaign gone sour, and their gazes flickered between defiance and quiet resignation. They were not bound in chains, but the weight of their failure shackled them all the same. Some bore the humiliation with dignity, stiff-backed and silent, swallowing both their food and their wounded pride. . A few, the younger and more reckless, scowled openly, fingers tightening around the stems of their goblets as if they wished they were hilts instead, though their bandages and wounds would prevent from doing anything even if armed . Alpheo sat at the head of it all, his expression unreadable as he idly swirled his drink. He made no great speeches, no loud proclamations¡ªthere was no need. The very sight of his enemies seated at his table was victory enough. The nobles of Aracina, lords and knights who had thrown their lot in with Alpheo, basked in their success. To the victors went the spoils. And tonight, the spoils were sweet indeed. Despite the roaring celebration that seemed to shake the very foundations of the city, Alpheo found himself less pleased than he should have been. The entire night was, in many ways, a tribute to him. His name was on every tongue, toasted in every cup, and sung in the streets by the joyous masses. The people of Aracina, who had once trembled at the thought of their walls crumbling beneath the Oizenian onslaught, now hailed him as their savior. More than that, they praised him for keeping a promise¡ªone that Asag had made in his name, but that Alpheo had honored all the same. Every soldier who had bled for the city would receive their due, a sum of 25 silverii each. A fortune to a common man. The payment would be issued monthy for five months , enough time for the war chest to recover, though for now, the knowledge alone was enough to send the city into revelry. And yet, as wine flowed and feasts were laid out, Alpheo could not bring himself to revel in the same carefree indulgence. Victory had come at a price¡ªone that was not counted only in blood, but in silver. Though the spoils of war were vast, he had been made to part with nearly 48% of it, a fact that soured his mood more than he cared to admit. By all rights, the crown was typically entitled to only 30% of the plunder, with another 20% set aside for the troops, and the remaining wealth divided among the noble lords and commanders who had taken part in the battle. Had tradition been followed, the nobles would have walked away with 50% of the loot,of course dividing it between themselves . But Alpheo was not a man who followed tradition blindly. Of the 2,300-strong army that had fought beneath his banner, 1,450 men belonged to his standing forces alone. Another 300 had been left in Florium to hold the line against the rebels. He, and he alone, bore the weight of feeding and paying more than half the entire force. I t was a reality that no amount of noble grumbling could ignore. And so, when the time came to divide the spoils, not a single lord could argue against his claim to the lion¡¯s share. His 52% was set in stone, and no amount of protest could change it. Of course, the nobles thought it was a slight¡ªan insult, even. They believed he had been too greedy, that he had denied them their rightful share. But in the end, what they thought hardly mattered. The fact remained that the loot had been split exactly as he willed it, and that alone was enough to show who had truly won. With nothing much to do Alpheo¡¯s gaze drifted lazily across the banquet hall, scanning the clusters of nobles engaged in feasting and conversation. His eyes caught Asag, seated a few places down, speaking with Lord Damaris¡ªa man Alpheo found to be, if not entirely reliable, at least an acceptable ally. Damaris was no fool, nor was he a man prone to reckless ambition. Asag¡¯s conversation with him was a welcome sight; if nothing else, it meant that at least his fellows were being slowly accepting by the higher society But Alpheo¡¯s attention did not linger long there. Instead, his gaze slid to the man seated beside him, a figure whose very presence at this table had turned heads and drawn whispers. Lord Robert. A man who had turned cloak when the rebellion started. A man who had abandoned his oaths, seeking safety at the feet of what he had believed to be the winning side. A man whose hands, by all accounts, should have been bound in chains, not idly resting on the table beside a goblet of wine. The choice to seat him here¡ªat the prince¡¯s own table, no less¡ªhad confused many. As he was not known as a man of mercy. Robert himself, however, was no fool. He knew well enough that his seat at this table was not a gesture of kindness, as he knew very well that the two did not have any goodwill between them . Which meant only one thing , the prince wanted something from him. He ate little, barely touching the grand feast laid out before him. He drank even less, as the less of little is nothing, while instead those around him drowned themselves in wine. His eyes remained cast downward, his posture stiff, as if he were a guest at his own funeral. And perhaps, in some ways, he was. Alpheo studied Robert with the same cold intensity a hunter might reserve for wounded prey. He leaned back in his chair, rolling the silver rim of his own cup between his fingers, watching Robert the way a man watches a set of dice tumbling in his palm. Lucky man, Alpheo thought. Not for his past choices, certainly. Those had been disastrous. He had wagered on a lost cause. A coward¡¯s bet, and one that had nearly cost him everything. No, Robert¡¯s luck lay in something far simpler. He still had some use. If he hadn¡¯t, if there was no purpose left in him beyond being an example, his corpse would already be rotting beneath the soil outside the city walls, he after all had no value as his land was few and was currently held by his son, who stayed loyal to the crown. He was still worth something. For now. Chapter 525: Celebrations(2) Chapter 525: Celebrations(2) He felt the prince¡¯s gaze before he saw it - that familiar, oppressive weight settling across his shoulders like a mantle of ice. For a brief, defiant moment, Robert met Alpheo¡¯s eyes across the hall, his fingers tightening around the stem of his cup until his knuckles turned white. But the prince¡¯s stare was unrelenting, a predator¡¯s calm assessment of prey that had nowhere left to run. The old lord was the one to look away first. With deliberate slowness, he reached for a crust of bread, tearing off a piece with exaggerated care. The action was pure theater - a pathetic attempt to appear composed when every nerve in his body failed him. The bread turned to ash in his mouth, but he chewed mechanically, his eyes fixed on the whorls of the oak table before him. Then came the scrape of a chair. The hall¡¯s merriment carried on, but not for those who noticed the prince rising from his seat. Conversations wavered, eyes flickering toward him, tracking his steps as he wove through the long banquet table. Some feigned indifference, pretending to be occupied with their goblets or their plates, but others abandoned the pretense entirely, watching him openly. Alpheo¡¯s stride was unhurried. He was in no rush. There was no need for it. Five, six seats away¡ªRobert had not been placed far, but he had not been granted the dignity of true proximity either. A traitor had no right to a place of honor, but Alpheo did like having him put on display, perhapse just to have fun at the expense of Robert¡¯s nerves . When the prince reached his destination, he found himself beside Sir Edric, Jarza¡¯s second-in-command. Edric noticed him immediately, stiffening in his seat before rising swiftly to his feet. "My prince," he greeted with a quick bow of his head, his voice respectful but touched with surprise. Alpheo offered a small, measured smile. "I apologize for disturbing your dinner, Sir Edric, but I¡¯d like to take a seat for a few minutes to speak with my guest." Edric hesitated, his gaze flickering between Alpheo and Robert before nodding. "Of course, my prince. I¡¯ll take a walk around the camp, make sure everything is in order." Alpheo reached out, clapping a hand on Edric¡¯s shoulder before he could move away. "There¡¯s no need," he said smoothly. "Stay. Take my seat until I¡¯m done." The knight hesitated again, clearly torn between protocol and the unexpected command.u? Alpheo met his hesitation with a reassuring look. "It¡¯s all right, Edric," he said, his tone calm, but laced with finality. "Sit." Edric, after a brief moment of deliberation, nodded once. "As you will, my prince." With that, Alpheo slid into the seat beside Robert, his presence casting a shadow over the man¡¯s barely touched meal. Alpheo settled into his chair with the languid grace of a predator at rest, one elbow propped on the table, his chin resting lightly against his knuckles. The torchlight caught the silver threads in his tunic as he turned toward Robert, his expression one of mild amusement¡ªthe look of a cat watching a mouse consider its final, futile escape. "So," he began, his voice a velvet murmur beneath the hall¡¯s raucous din, "does the feast meet your expectations, Lord Robert?I see you haven¡¯t eaten much, does the foot not suit your tastes?" Robert didn¡¯t flinch. His fingers tightened briefly around his goblet before he set it down with deliberate care. "I knew you¡¯d come," he muttered, his voice low enough that only Alpheo could hear. "Tell me, is this purely for your own amusement? Or have you actually deigned to bring purpose to this charade?" Alpheo chuckled, the sound rich and unoffended. "Oh, I¡¯m sure we¡¯ll get to that," he said, waving a hand as if brushing away the very notion of malice. "For now, I¡¯m merely seeking... perspective." Robert arched a brow. "Perspective?" "Indeed." Alpheo shifted slightly, angling himself more fully toward the disgraced lord. "Tell me¡ªany opinions on last night?" Robert exhaled through his nose, tearing off a piece of bread with more force than necessary. He chewed slowly, savoring the delay, before answering with dripping sarcasm. "Oh yes. Magnificent. Worthy of ballads, no doubt." His gaze swept the hall, where nobles toasted and laughed with drunken fervor. "Haven¡¯t you heard as much already? A thousand times tonight?" Alpheo¡¯s smile didn¡¯t waver. "I have. But there¡¯s something uniquely satisfying about hearing it from you." Robert snorted, reaching for his wine again¡ªnot to drink, but to have something to hold. "Get to the point" The prince sighed, as if disappointed by his guest¡¯s lack of patience. "When this war began," he murmured, "when it became clear we¡¯d be facing not one, but three armies, my wife and her esteemed grandfather both urged me to seek terms with Herculia." His fingers traced the rim of his goblet absently. "A sensible path, they said. Pragmatic. One fewer enemy to fight.You can¡¯t take them all...." Robert¡¯s eyes flickered with reluctant interest. "And yet here we are." "Here we are," Alpheo agreed. His smile sharpened. "I declined, as you can surely see" Robert let out a dry laugh. "Is there a purpose to this reminiscence? Or are you simply reveling in your own cleverness? Is there even a point to this idle talk?Don¡¯t you have more important things to do with your time?" For a moment, Alpheo simply studied him¡ªthe lines of tension in Robert¡¯s jaw, the way his fingers flexed around his cup, the barely restrained bitterness in his tone. Then, with a slow exhale, the prince straightened. "If you¡¯d prefer not to speak as old acquaintances," he said, his voice still soft, but edged now with something colder, "then by all means¡ªlet us speak as enemies instead.Some prefer approaching things with touch or instead prefer brutness and distaste" The shift was subtle. The smile didn¡¯t vanish, not entirely¡ªbut the warmth behind it did. What remained was something calculated, deliberate, like the gleam of a blade being slowly drawn from its sheath. Alpheo¡¯s voice was a blade wrapped in silk as he leaned closer, the flickering torchlight carving shadows across his face. "With yesterday¡¯s work," he murmured, "the only true threat lies broken in the dirt." Robert didn¡¯t flinch, but Alpheo noted the minute tightening around his eyes, the way his fingers pressed just slightly harder against the table. "Herculia?" Alpheo continued with a dismissive wave. "A child¡¯s army. Less than Two thousand green boys playing at war. And the rebels?" His lips curled. "Still pounding their heads against Florium¡¯s walls like moths with fire " He sat back, the picture of casual triumph. "By all accounts, the hard part is done." Then, with deliberate slowness, he braced his forearms against the table, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "And yet¡ªdespite all this celebration, all this victory¡ªI find myself utterly furious about your little... telltale." Robert¡¯s breathing hitched¡ªjust once¡ªbefore steadying. "Oh yes," Alpheo purred, his fingertip circling the rim of his goblet like a vulture coasting on a thermal¡ªslow, inevitable. His voice was silk unraveling over a razor. "I haven¡¯t forgotten. That well-placed whisper. That timely warning." A pause, just long enough for Robert to remember how lungs worked. "The little betrayal that stole from me the pleasure of a clean slaughter." His smile was a scalpel¡¯s edge, honed to a cruel, gleaming point. "You cost me men." A sip of wine, deliberate. "You cost me time." The goblet met the table with a click that echoed like a coffin lid settling. "And for what? To delay the inevitable?" He tilted his head, a predator feigning curiosity at the twitch of prey. "No. I think you¡¯ll be my first... demonstration." Alpheo leaned in, close enough for Robert to catch the scent of iron on his breath. "I will have you quartered before the capital gates¡ªnot at dawn, when the crowd is drowsy and pious, but at high noon, when the sun is hungry and the mob is thirsty.A herald will sing your crimes like a lullaby. The people will cheer as your tendons snap. Men will toast your agony with their children on their shoulders. And those children?" His thumb brushed Robert¡¯s cheek, almost tender. "They¡¯ll laugh as the dogs fight over your fingers, for you will receive no burial." Robert exhaled sharply through his nose, his gaze fixed on some distant point across the hall¡ªsomewhere beyond the torchlight, beyond the laughter, as if already measuring the distance to the grave. When he spoke, his voice was a hollow thing, scraped raw. "Is this my last supper, then?" Alpheo didn¡¯t blink. "No. It¡¯s not." he sighed "I¡¯m merciful enough to grant you one final meal with your family before the executions." He leaned in, close enough to count the frantic beats in Robert¡¯s throat. "And because I¡¯m feeling particularly generous that day, I¡¯ll even let you watch your son die before you join him, a son should never see a father die in such a manner" The silence between them stretched, taut as a garrote wire. Around them, the feast roared on¡ªoblivious, drunken, triumphant. Goblets clashed. Meat dripped onto plate. A minstrel sang some bawdy tune about glory. And at its edges, death waited¡ªpatient as a shadow for his due. Robert¡¯s breath hitched, his gaze flickering past Alpheo¡¯s shoulder¡ªseeking, searching, begging. And there he was. Seated among the lesser nobles, his son. Not a boy. Not a child clutching at innocence. A man who had stood on a battlefield, whose hands had known the weight of a sword and the slick of blood yesterday. And yet now, under the weight of Alpheo¡¯s game, he looked small. For days¡ªno, weeks¡ªhe had begged to see his father whe he had heard of what he¡¯d done. And every time, Alpheo had denied him. Not out of cruelty, but calculation. A slow starvation of hope. Robert¡¯s eyes snapped back to Alpheo, burning with something wild, something feral. "You wouldn¡¯t," he rasped, the words fraying at the edges. Alpheo held his gaze. Let the moment stretch. Let the fear twist. Then he exhaled, slow¡ªthe way a wolf might before the kill. "Guess again.... you know better than to be on that" Chapter 526: Celebrations(3) Chapter 526: Celebrations(3) Robert¡¯s breath came fast and uneven, each inhale sharp as a dagger¡¯s edge, his chest rising and falling like a trapped animal¡¯s. His fingers clawed into the table¡¯s edge, knuckles bleaching to bone-white, as if the solid oak could anchor him against the tide of dread rising in his throat. Alpheo watched him. Not just looked¡ªstudied. The way Robert¡¯s pupils dilated, black swallowing blue. The sweat beading along his temple, tracing the same path it had two years ago, when he¡¯d last knelt before him, begging for a mercy for someone that was not him. The same trembling. The same silent pleading hidden behind forced composure. If he¡¯d done it once, he would do it again. "My son¡ª" Robert¡¯s voice shattered like dry parchment, hoarse with the weight of a father¡¯s terror. "He had no part in this. He was loyal. He did not condone my actions. He serves under your banner¡ªhis troops march at your command." Alpheo let the silence fester. Then, with the lazy grace of a man who knew the axe would fall regardless he continued "I know," he admitted, voice smooth as a whetstone dragging along steel. "But you also know, as well as I do... betrayal without pardon is answered with the execution of first and second-line relations." He let the words sink in, each one a nail in a coffin. "Blood for blood. Lineage for lineage. That is the law." Robert swallowed, the muscles in his jaw twitching like a hanged man¡¯s spasms. Alpheo wasn¡¯t finished. "Do you think I care for the stain of blood?" he mused, swirling his wine again. "A prince died yesterday. Foreign nobles with him¡ªmen whose names whose ransoms would have fed my armies. And now?" He glanced at his palm, flexing his fingers as if still feeling the phantom warmth of their lifeblood. "My hands are already drenched. My name already cursed as a Noble Slayer. What¡¯s one more name in the tally?" Robert¡¯s breath hitched¡ªa wet, broken sound. His eyes widened, not with shock, but with the grotesque understanding of a man realizing he¡¯s already dead. Alpheo leaned back, the picture of ease, his throne cradling him like a lover. "What is a small noble," he mused, tapping a single finger against the table¡ªa slow, metronomic beat, like a drum counting down to an execution, "compared to a prince?" Robert¡¯s fingers trembled. His gaze dropped, not in submission, but in defeat. He knew. They both did. There was no morality here. No honor to appeal to. No last-minute reprieve whispered in the shadows. Alpheo had always been a mercenary before a prince. And if there was one lesson mercenaries learned young, it was this: Fear was currency. Ruthlessness, a language. And history only remembered those who spoke both fluently. Robert knew better than most. Alpheo had written entire Chapters in blood. He let the silence stretch between them. He watched, rapt, as Robert¡¯s mind raced through every terrible possibility each more horrifying than the last. The flicker of his eyelids, the minute twitch of his fingers¡ªAlpheo read them all like a scholar parsing scripture. "So tell me, Lord Robert..." A pause, just long enough to make Robert¡¯s breath hitch. "Shall we speak as old acquaintances?" The words curled in the air, warm as a lover¡¯s whisper, cold as a blade pressed to the ribs. "Or as enemies?" Robert¡¯s throat worked around a hard swallow. His gaze flickered again to his son¡ªstill trapped in that gilded cage of laughter, smiling emptily at some noble¡¯s joke, his eyes hollow. "As acquaintances," he rasped, the words raw, scraped from the depths of his pride. "I beg you." "But we are not that anymore, are we?" Robert closed his eyes¡ªjust for a heartbeat, just long enough to betray his despair. When they opened again, the fight had drained from them. "What is it that you want from me?" Alpheo chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering over stone. He reached out, his hand settling on Robert¡¯s shoulder¡ªa mockery of camaraderie, a parody of comfort. To an outsider, it might have looked like an old friend offering solace. To Robert, it felt like the first twist of the knife. "Now we understand each other." Alpheo¡¯s grip was light, but it carried the weight of a manacle. "What I want is simple, Robert. The same thing I asked of you two years ago. The same thing that is expected of a vassal." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a murmur, as if sharing a secret between confidants. "A simple act of submission. Of... service.You were so loyal to Arkawatt, can¡¯t you be the same to me?Am I not worthy of more loyalty?" Robert tensed beneath his touch, every muscle locked in silent rebellion. But he didn¡¯t pull away. His breathing was measured, controlled¡ªbut Alpheo could feel the tremor beneath his fingers, the way his body braced as if for a killing stroke. "Don¡¯t misunderstand me," Alpheo continued, his tone light, almost conversational, as if discussing the weather. "I don¡¯t need you. My victory is already assured." A pause. Then, a laugh¡ªsoft, amused, utterly devoid of mercy. "But I like you, Robert." A lie. Like was too generous a word. What Alpheo enjoyed was the slow unraveling of a proud man. The way Robert¡¯s jaw clenched, the way his breath came just a fraction too quick. The way he had to force himself to stand there, to endure the humiliation, to kneel without kneeling. That was the truth of it. Still, Alpheo sighed, tilting his head as if genuinely troubled. "It would pain me to see you die like this," he admitted, his voice laced with false regret. "So I am extending this... small branch. This one, singular, final chance." Robert stared at him, his eyes dull with exhaustion, sharp with calculation. There was no victory here. No honorable escape. Only survival¡ªand the cost of it. "And what," Robert asked, his voice a whisper, a plea, a surrender, "would you have me do?" Alpheo patted his shoulder, his grin widening into something terrible and delighted. "Oh, I¡¯ll find something for you." His thumb brushed the tense line of Robert¡¯s shoulder, a mockery of reassurance. "After all you need to do something to earn that pardon." Alpheo rose from his seat with the same unhurried grace he had when he had first approached, as if the entire exchange had been nothing more than idle conversation over a casual dinner. At once, Sir Edric, who had been sitting on his seat, immediately straightened and stepped aside, vacating the prince¡¯s seat without hesitation. Alpheo turned back to Robert, his smile returning¡ªlight, easy, entirely at odds with the blade he had just pressed against the man¡¯s throat in the guise of words. "Please, Lord Robert," he said smoothly, as if offering a kindness, "enjoy the feast. And do try to smile. You are, after all, once again on the winning side." Robert didn¡¯t move, didn¡¯t even lift his head. Sir Edric bowed his head as Alpheo approached, stepping back to make way for his prince. With the same ease, Alpheo reclaimed his seat, sinking into it with the air of a man entirely at ease, as if he had not just threatened a man¡¯s family with the same casual grace one might discuss the weather. The moment he settled, he felt eyes on him. Jarza, seated comfortably on his right , was watching him with the sharp gaze of a man who missed little. His lips curled slightly in amusement "Quite the talk you had," he mused, Alpheo smiled, lifting his own cup to his lips. "Just straightening out some matters with an old friend." Jarza hummed in response, his eyes drifting past Alpheo, toward the man in question. Robert was still seated where Alpheo had left him, but now, his head was down, his gaze locked on his plate, as if the food before him had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the room. His shoulders had slumped just slightly, the weight of unspoken defeat pressing down on them. Jarza set his goblet down with deliberate care, the silver ringing softly against polished oak. He studied the fat on his venison, pushing a slice of carrot with one finger. "You¡¯ve ruined supper," he observed, voice flat. "The food gone cold." "Edric could have eaten in my absence," he mused. ¡¯¡¯I had quite the long talk¡¯¡¯ "Don¡¯t." Jarza¡¯s knuckles whitened around his knife. "The lad was sweating through his doublet the whole time. Every lord at this table was measuring him the moment you walked away." He finally looked up, eyes hard. "He¡¯s a good one, you should be a bit more understanding sometimes." ¡¯¡¯That¡¯s quite strange...I believe the opposite to be true¡¯¡¯ "This isn¡¯t about Edric." His thumb rubbed absently at a nick in the table¡¯s edge. "You had your fun, didn¡¯t you?¡¯¡¯ Alpheo¡¯s silence was answer enough. Jarza barked a laugh, though there was no humor in it, and drained his cup in one long swallow. "Do you know what they whisper about you in the barracks?" Alpheo tilted his head slightly, pouring himself another drink. "I¡¯d be disappointed if they weren¡¯t whispering something." "They¡¯re starting to believe you have a god¡¯s blood in you." Jarza¡¯s gaze flicked toward Robert¡¯s hunched form across the hall. "Though, if I recall correctly, it was the Protectors of Warriors who said¡ªthere¡¯s no art in breaking what offers no resistance." Alpheo smirked, swirling the wine in his cup. "It seems victory has made them bold enough to voice such thoughts. Good to know they trust me so much. Warms my heart, really..." Jarza met his prince¡¯s gaze without flinching. The years had carved lines around his eyes, but his hand remained steady as he watched Alpheo reach for the wine. "A man sometimes needs reminding of which lines not to cross," Alpheo mused, pouring slowly, the deep red liquid catching the firelight like molten gold as it filled Jarza¡¯s cup. "Before he forgets why they were drawn in the first place and abuse them ." He set the bottle down, leaning back. "And tell me, is it really so wrong to take pleasure in the act?" Chapter 527: Change of plans(1) Chapter 527: Change of plans(1) The day was alive with the sounds of battle¡ªthe whistle of arrows slicing through the air, the dull thud of them striking flesh, and the desperate shouts of men fleeing for their lives. "Shields up! SHIELDS UP, YOU FOOLS!" The order barely reached the ears of the retreating Herculean soldiers before another volley rained down upon them. Dark silhouettes ran for cover, their armor glinting faintly , their breath ragged and filled with panic. Some made it to the camp; others did not. "Aghh!" A man crumpled forward, an arrow buried deep in his shoulder. Another staggered, gripping at his leg where a shaft had punched clean through his thigh, his blood soaking the cold ground. A third barely had time to scream before an arrow took him in the throat, sending him sprawling face-first into the mud. From the walls of Bracum, triumphant cheers rose into the air. "Run faster, you dogs! Perhaps next time, you¡¯ll bring ladders that don¡¯t snap like twigs!" "How does it feel to taste arrows, Herculean bastards?" Laughter and jeers rained down with the same force as their arrows. The defenders of Bracum had grown bold, their confidence swelling with the failed assault. The Herculeans had come west with grand ambitions, marching in lockstep alongside the Oizenians in what was supposed to be a swift and merciless invasion of Yarzat. With the northern part of the princedom in turmoil, their lords had expected little resistance. And for a time, it seemed they had been right. Arduoronaven had fallen in mere days, its banners stripped down, and the rightful ones being put . The various small holdings of minor nobles around Arduronaven either fell or submitted quickly, seeing the army coming toward them with no rescue on sight . They had tasted victory. But now, here they were. Stuck. Bracum stood like an iron wall against their ambitions, refusing to buckle, refusing to kneel. Prince Lechlian of Herculia sat atop his horse, his expression carved from stone, a mask of barely restrained fury. His hands clenched into fists, his knuckles whitening as the cold night wind whipped at his cloak. Below him, the remnants of his army dragged themselves back toward camp, battered, bloodied, and humiliated. And beyond them, beyond the arrows still embedded in the frozen earth, beyond the corpses sprawled where they had fallen¡ªstood Bracum. A fortress of defiance. A city that refused to kneel. A city that housed the man Lechlian hated with every fiber of his being. Xanthios. His eyes burned as they locked onto the ramparts, where he knew the man would be standing, watching, perhaps even grinning at the failure of Herculia¡¯s first assault. Lechlian knew Xanthios well¡ªbetter than he would have liked. The Lord of Bracum had been a thorn in his side for years, a name he had long despised, but nothing stoked his hatred more than the humiliation he had suffered at the man¡¯s hands. After the catastrophic battle of the Bleeding Plains, when Herculia had been left in ruins, it had been Xanthios who had delivered the final, brutal blow. It was his sword that had severed Lord Vroghios¡¯ head, and it was perhapse not his will but certainly his pleasure that had paraded it high for all to see. And by the end of that wretched week, the head of the Lord of Arduoronaven had been impaled on a pike, his city taken, his lands lost. The bastard had gotten exactly what he wanted. And now, once again, he stood beyond those walls, safe behind his stone and steel, his city intact, his defiance unshaken. Lechlian¡¯s first test of its defenses¡ªhis first real attempt to take what he had come for¡ªhad proven disastrous. The prince exhaled sharply, his breath misting in the night air. The numbers had been against him from the start. When he took Arduoronaven, he had barely 1,600 men to his name¡ªa pathetic fraction of the grand host he had once dreamed of leading into Yarzat. The invasion had been planned with Hushandai support, but even that had not been enough. The lords of Herculia had grown hesitant, wary after last year¡¯s failures. They sent men, but too few, their faith in him brittle as old parchment. Victory in Arduoronaven had given him something to cling to¡ªresources, weapons, hope. He had stripped the city bare, reforged its arms, redistributed them to his surviving warriors, and scraped together another 300 soldiers from what was left. But in the end, 1,900 men were still just 1,900 men. And now, the three hundred he had raised¡ªthe raw recruits, the desperate remnants¡ªlay dead or dying at the foot of Bracum¡¯s walls. He had thrown them in first, using them as a blunt instrument to test the city¡¯s defenses. And they had broken against them. Useless to say, he had found those walls strong. Too strong. Through the crisp daylight, the hurried crunch of boots on dirt rang through the air. A man rushed toward Prince Lechlian, his breath uneven, urgency written across every line of his face. Without hesitation, he dropped to one knee before his liege, fist pressed to his chest. "Your grace" he said, voice tight with exertion. "Sir Ervian has returned from the Oizenian army. He requests an urgent audience with you." Lechlian¡¯s brows immediately pulled together in a sharp furrow. Ervian? Back? That wasn¡¯t right. He had sent the knight with the Oizenian forces to report on their movements, to ensure their so-called allies were keeping their end of the invasion intact. His orders had been clear¡ªwatch, report, remain. He was not meant to return Lechlian exhaled slowly, feeling the dry wind pass through the loose strands of his dark hair, curling around his neck like a whisper of warning. Something was wrong. His fingers curled tighter around the reins of his horse. "Bring him to my tent." The soldier gave a sharp nod, rising swiftly before turning on his heel and disappearing into the camp. Lechlian did not move at first. His sharp gaze drifted toward the city walls once more, toward the banners of Bracum that still flew proudly in the daylight. His lips curled into a sneer before he turned his horse away, heading for his command tent. Whatever news Ervian carried, he had the sinking feeling it was nothing he wanted to hear. ----------------- "Defeated?" he roared, his eyes burning into the kneeling knight before him. "How in the name of the gods is it possible that the Oizenians were defeated?!" His voice rang through the tent,as if not caring if other could hear him, even loud enough that the guards just beyond the entrance exchanged wary glances. Inside, Sir Ervian kept his head low, his armor stained with dust and sweat, his face drawn with exhaustion, he seemed as if he had not eaten in a week "My prince," he started, his voice rough from lack of water and the long ride. "It happened in the dead of night. One moment, the camp was still, the next¡ªhell itself had descended upon us." Lechlian¡¯s nostrils flared, his hands tightening into fists. ¡¯¡¯How the hell were you caught by surprise?Did that fool have no scout?¡¯¡¯ "That¡¯s just it, my prince. We don¡¯t know. No scouts reported the presence of an army, and yet, they came like a storm." Ervian swallowed, the weight of his failure pressing heavily on him. "It couldn¡¯t have been just the garrison from the city¡ªnot after the state they were in. There were too many men, too well-armed, too well-coordinated, it was most certainly the little fox." They all knew the numbers defending the city¡ªknew they had been running on desperation, barely holding on. They should not have had the strength to mount such an attack, let alone overrun an entire Oizenian camp. He took a sharp step forward, looming over Ervian. "You¡¯re telling me an entire army appeared out of thin air?" "It might as well have." Ervian exhaled, shaking his head as if he himself couldn¡¯t believe the words leaving his mouth. "One moment, the Oizenian lords were sitting by their fires, convinced victory was only days away. The next, horns were blaring, and soldiers were running for their weapons.¡¯¡¯ Lechlian¡¯s eyes darkened. "Go on." "The attack came from every side. One after another, cutting off any sense of order. The prince and the lords barely had time to rally their men before the fighting was at our throats." Ervian ran a hand through his sweat-matted hair. "It was chaos. A massacre. The banners of the Oizenians were torn down before most men could even form up. " Lechlian¡¯s grip on the table was white-knuckled. "And the prince? The nobles?" "They fled." Ervian spat the words like they burned his tongue. "Mounted their horses and ran. I broke off from the main road in the night, the pursuers¡ªthank the gods¡ªwent after the others. I rode north as soon as I could, thinking only to find you and warn you before it was too late." Silence filled the tent for a moment, thick and oppressive. Lechlian closed his eyes briefly, inhaling deeply through his nose. The Oizenians had been destroyed. Their great army, their war-hungry prince¡ªgone. A shiver of rage curled in his gut. He had placed too much faith in them. He had thought them strong as steel, instead, they had been shattered like a rotting shield, and now all eyes would turn to him. His own forces were far too small for what came next. "My prince... now that they have struck the Oizenians down , they won¡¯t be stopping there." His voice was steady, but there was a tremor beneath it. "They must be marching toward us even as we speak." The words landed like a hammer blow. The fire of Lechlian¡¯s anger was suddenly smothered by something far worse¡ªcold, gut-wrenching fear. His breath came faster, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. He knew. Gods, he knew. He had faced him before. He had stood before Alpheo on the battlefield, with twice as many men as the bastard could muster. And still¡ªstill¡ªhe had been beaten. Torn apart. Sent scurrying back across the border with nothing but ashes and humiliation to show for it. And now? Now he was the one outnumbered. His army was a pitiful force of 1,900. And that was before the doomed attack on Bracum¡¯s walls, before he had thrown away hundreds of men in a blind attempt to test their strength. What was left? 1,600? 1,500? And That wasn¡¯t an army. That was fodder. Lechlian¡¯s breath hitched as he tried to shove the thought away, but it clung to him like ice in his veins. He had played the game , and he had lost. His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms through his gloves. A faint ringing filled his ears¡ªnot from any sound in the tent, but from the sheer weight of realization crashing down upon him. The Oizenians were gone. Their banners trampled into the dirt, their prince and nobles scattered to the wind like frightened crows. And whoever had done it¡ªwhoever had swept through them with such terrifying precision¡ªwas now turning their sights on him. He had no way out. No reinforcements. No allies left to call upon. All he had was an army that would be crushed the moment the enemy caught them in the open. His throat tightened. Gods, how had it come to this? Chapter 528: Change of plans(2) Chapter 528: Change of plans(2) Prince Lechlian¡¯s gaze lingered on the battered skyline of Arduoronaven, the city he had dreamt of reclaiming with fire in his heart and steel in his hand. Now, as its gates stood open before him and its walls bore the scars of recent conquest, he felt... nothing. No joy.No triumph.Only a quiet, creeping unease curling in his gut like smoke from a dying fire. He rode slowly, almost absently, through the churned mud outside the walls, the hooves of his horse squelching in the thawing earth. He had dreamed of this moment, of reclaiming what was stolen, of erasing the shame left by the defeat of last year . And yet now that the city was his again, now that he had marched through its gates and raised his banner over its keep, he felt only the weight of inevitability pressing down on his shoulders like a wet cloak. He had won it back... but for how long? That question gnawed at him with every step his horse took on the road. He looked over his shoulder at the blackened stone,as the city was still licking its wounds from the siege of last year. Would the Mud Prince come for it and have the city under siege for the third time in two years? Would he take it back as easily as Lechlian had reclaimed it? The prince¡¯s jaw clenched. Not if the gods showed him favor. His best chance¡ªperhaps his only chance , except for the eventuality that he lost against the rebels, which at that point was less like hope and more like praying to the gods for a miracle as the prince appeared invincible, an of course with it then he wouldn¡¯t have the strength left for a siege. The man was clever, yes, brutal even, but not divine. Winter had just passed, and the land was still shaking off the frost. The spring harvest was two, perhaps three months away, and no matter how ruthless Alpheo was, he couldn¡¯t conjure grain from stone, so perhaps if the rebels couldn¡¯t make a proper stand, the royal warehouses would prevent the prince from doing the same. After all what force could wage war on an empty stomach? Lechlian took a breath, deep and cold. Yes. There was still a chance.A narrow, blood-slicked thread of hope. And for now, Arduoronaven was his. ----------- Prince Lechlian¡¯s horse trotted with measured grace down the sloping path toward the eastern gate of Arduoronaven, where the remnants of his Herculian army stood in wait read to depart. Though the wind was still chill despite the late spring , the air in the camp felt light¡ªfilled with a soldier¡¯s simple joy: they were going home. Laughter trickled between ranks. Packs were slung and blades sheathed. The campaign was over, and for most of the men, that meant survival¡ªa precious prize bought with too much blood. But not all shared the cheer. The common-born may have rejoiced at the notion of returning home, with their spoils in tow, while their betters feared the thought of doing that, knowing that they were spitting on a fire hoping for it to extinguish itself. Just behind the prince, another rider kept pace¡ªLord Orymus of House Vathilorn, the newly restored heir of Arduoronaven. His fine armor shone beneath a crisp new cloak, , but his face betrayed his unease. This was not how he had imagined his homecoming would end. "My prince," Orymus urged, spurring forward to ride beside Lechlian. "Must you depart so soon? The city still trembles from its wounds. Your presence here, your army¡ªit gives us strength, deterrence. If you stay just a few weeks longer perhap¡ª" "The decision has already been made," Lechlian said, not turning his head. His voice was firm, clipped. "We came, we conquered, and we¡¯ve reclaimed what was taken from us. The city is now yours, isn¡¯t that enough? " He said depicting a campaign that, though successful, did not achieve the hoped results that were put behind it "But¡ª" "Orymus," Lechlian cut in, finally meeting the young lord¡¯s eyes. "We¡¯ve made gains. You have got your city and vassals. I believe that you got it better than most would were they in your bridle, you had no army and no coin, you had nothing except your blood and my support. Don¡¯t look a horse gift in the mouth¡¯¡¯ Still, Orymus pressed. "The Yarzat , however Your Grace, are still marching, alive and kicking. Alone we may not have the ranks to fight them, but we are not. What of the rebels? If we joined forces¡ªif you marched east and met them near Florium, together you could¡ª" "Enough." The word lashed out like a whip. Lechlian reined in his horse, his armor rattling as he turned fully toward the lord. His eyes were sharp, blazing with frustration long simmering beneath the surface. "Have you even smelled a battlefield, my lord? You did not , so trust your betters when they say that the campaign is over." He spared the young noble a longer explanation. On a map, linking up with the rebels looked clever enough unite their forces and oppose the Royal Army, but in the dirt and blood it was suicide: they would have to march past enemy©\held forts, stretch a supply line thin as spider©\silk, and live off grain the rebels might¡ªor might not¡ªdeliver. One slip, one burnt granary and his whole host would be stranded out in the open, gift©\wrapped for Alpheo¡¯s blade. Better to end the dream now than die chasing it. With that in mind prince Lechlian halted his horse just before the open gate, the columns of his waiting army glinting in the morning light beyond. His cloak billowed slightly as the wind came down from the high walls of Arduoronaven, now firmly back under Herculian control. For now. He turned his head, not with warmth, but with the chilly finality of a man who had already made up his mind. "You have your city, Orymus," he said, his voice low but ironclad. "You wanted your birthright restored. Now it¡¯s yours. And with it, the duty that comes with holding ground." Orymus straightened on his saddle, uncertain but trying not to show it. "I only mean to ask¡ª" Lechlian raised a hand to silence him. "Your duty as lord is not simply to inherit stone and banner. It¡¯s to defend them. You think Bracum or Yarzat will look kindly upon your weakness? No. They will come for your walls with blood and fire. So arm your men, raise a proper garrison. You¡¯ve enough weapons from the city¡¯s stockpiles to field a small host." The young lord swallowed his pride and tried again. "Then... perhaps you could spare some men? A detachment. Just until I find my footing." Lechlian¡¯s gaze flicked toward him with a spark of irritation. "I¡¯m leaving you the mercenary company. They¡¯re yours for the remainder of their contract." Orymus¡¯s mouth went tight, teeth grinding. "That contract ends in two weeks." The prince smiled without mirth. "Then you¡¯ve got two weeks to prove you can manage your affairs." "And when they come for their pay?" Orymus pressed, his voice rising in a rare show of desperation. "What shall I tell them?" Lechlian leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so that only Orymus could hear. "Tell them that once the siege on Bracum has ended they may come to the capital and collect what they¡¯re owed and of course a bonus for the amount of time they fought at the end of the contract . If you wish to keep them further , renegotiate. Extend the contract." The desperation cracked further in Orymus¡¯s voice. "I have no coin. The city¡¯s coffers were plundered before you ever arrived. My city was stripped down to the bones." Lechlian tilted his head, an expression of mock curiosity crossing his face. "Well, you¡¯ve got land now, don¡¯t you? Perhaps offer a piece to their captain. Mercenaries love silver, but land? That sticks. I¡¯m sure a clever man like you can find a few village, you also now have some vassals; ask them for troops and coins. Orymus looked as if he might protest again, but Lechlian had already turned away. The prince¡¯s horse clacked forward, his royal guards following in seamless formation. He raised a hand once more¡ªnot to speak, but to signal the final end of the conversation. "Do what you must, Lord Vathilorn. I have already done what I came to do." And with that, he passed beneath the archway of Arduoronaven, the city¡¯s shadow falling behind him. Orymus remained on the road, eyes fixed on the prince¡¯s retreating figure, the echo of hoofbeats fading into the road north where banners billowed and boots marched in a steady beat toward home. Behind him, all that remained was stone, silence, and the heavy crown of a lord left to hold what others had won. He sat stiffly in his saddle, watching the back of Prince Lechlian vanish into the rising dust of a departing army. The clink of hooves, the jingle of banners, the proud sound of marching¡ªall of it faded as the Herculian host began its long road back to the capital. And he, the newly reinstated Lord of Arduronaven, remained rooted in place, like a man sentenced to watch over a crumbling tomb. Bastard. Orymus thought as he just realized that was handed a castle of sand and was told to shield it from stones. Lechlian had dressed it all up like a gift¡ªnoble title restored, walls returned, the right to rule in his own name once more¡ªbut the young lord knew better. He¡¯d been dumped here. Left holding a city without support, without coin, without any true means of defense. The prince might as well have said, "Here, try not to die before the week is out." And worse than that? He¡¯d been saddled with mercenaries. Mercenaries who, the moment they learned their coin wasn¡¯t flowing, would turn on him like a pack of dogs sniffing a wounded deer. At best, they¡¯d leave¡ªvanish through the woods with whatever they could carry. At worst... gods help him... they¡¯d take the city, sell it to the Mud Prince himself, and send his head as proof of delivery. He ground his teeth, one hand curling into a fist on the reins. Yet even in the depths of his anger, Orymus couldn¡¯t deny one thing: the land idea had teeth. "Land... yes... perhaps even a title, he thought. These men fight for silver, but they are commonborn their leader will jump at the chance of becoming a noble .I have plenty of land now , I am sure I can find a small castle to offer to retain their services.... It was a dangerous gamble. But then again, did he have any other choice? He was finally given back his birthright, his name rang from the ramparts, his banners flew above the towers, and his blood ruled these streets once more. But now came the hardest part¡ªnot taking it, not surviving the war. Now he had to hold it. Alone. Chapter 529: Surprises from an old egg(1) Chapter 529: Surprises from an old egg(1) The Royal Host¡¯s occupation of Aracina was drawing to a close, but its impact would linger on like a good dream ¡ªin both the rutted roads trampled by countless boots and the heavier purses of merchants and shop owners who had profited handsomely from their stay. The city had welcomed them not just with relief, but with the desperate, wine-soaked gratitude of people who had stared annihilation in the face and been spared. When Alpheo¡¯s banners had first appeared on the horizon, the citizens had poured into the streets, offering their thanks, kissing the hands of soldiers, and as for their daughters attracting their attentions. The alternative¡ªa sacked city, its streets running red, its women dragged away in chains¡ªhad been too terrible to contemplate. Aracina had been saved, and salvation, as it turned out, was excellent for business. The city had become a living beast of noise and commerce, its streets pulsing with the rhythm of celebration. Taverns overflowed with laughter and the clatter of tankards, ale spilling across tabletops like spring floods. The brothels, never ones to miss an opportunity, had thrown their doors open wide, their workers laboring well past dawn, fingers growing plump with coin. Blacksmiths¡¯ hammers rang ceaselessly, repairing dented armor, honing notched blades, forging fresh weapons for men who suddenly found themselves with silver to spare. A portion of the spoils¡ªhard-won, blood-purchased¡ªhad been distributed among the ranks, just enough to keep morale high and tongues loose. But not all of it. Alpheo was no green commander, no starry-eyed lordling who believed in the inherent nobility of his men. He knew the hearts of soldiers. Pay them too much, too soon, and they would begin to imagine the war already won, the spoils already theirs. Give a man a full purse while the scent of battle still clung to his clothes, and you would find him drunk in a ditch by morning¡ªor worse, vanished entirely, lured away by dreams of home and hearth. Worse still, they might start to question whether the next fight was worth the risk when their pockets already jingled with coin. Mutiny, Alpheo knew, did not always spring from deprivation. Sometimes it grew from the illusion of satisfaction. So he had doled out the silver like a physician administering a tonic¡ªjust enough to dull the pain, not enough to cure the disease. Yet even with his men content and his coffers carefully managed, one final duty remained before the Royal Host could march to its next battlefield. Now, the army waited beyond the city gates, formations drawn up, banners snapping in the wind, the restless energy of thousands of armed men humming through the ranks like the tension before a storm. They were ready to move. But they would not. Not yet. Because their prince had not yet taken his place among them. At the eastern gates of Aracina, an ornate carriage stood waiting¡ªan absurdly elegant thing amidst the grit of war, like finding a virgin in a brothel. Gilded in bronze filigree, draped in the dark velvet banners of House Oizen, it was a vessel no longer fit for nobility, but for death. Within its velvet-lined interior, laid carefully upon silks that had once been meant for celebrations, rested the corpse of Prince Haldrien of Oizen. Cold. Still. The thin veil of honor and ceremony did little to disguise the truth¡ªthis was not a prince being sent home, but a trophy being returned. Alpheo observed the proceedings with the detached air of a man fulfilling an obligation. He had no love for the dead prince, no sympathy for the house that had sought to break his own. If it were up to him, the body would have been left to rot where it fell, food for crows and worms alike. But war was a game played by noble rules, and the death of a prince demanded theatrics. So he stood, straight-backed and solemn, granting his royal permission for the carriage to depart. A token escort of the Oizenian royal guard ¡ªthose who had surrendered¡ªtrailed behind it, their heads bowed in forced reverence. The coachman flicked the reins. The wheels groaned against the cobbles. Slowly, the black-draped carriage began its journey home, a macabre procession rolling toward a kingdom in mourning. If Alpheo had indulged his truest instincts, he might have strung bells along the carriage¡¯s edges, let them chime all the way to the Oizenian border¡ªnot in honor, but in mockery. A celebration. A crown had fallen. A threat had been erased. Another shadow now lay cold beneath foreign silks, and he hadn¡¯t even needed to raise his sword to make it so. But such a display would have been foolish. So Alpheo kept his satisfaction to himself, allowing only the faintest flicker of amusement to cross his mind as he watched the carriage shrink into the distance. Whatever schemes you wove, Shamleik, he thought, they rot with you in that box. With the spectacle concluded, Alpheo turned without ceremony and mounted his horse in one fluid motion. The leather of his saddle creaked beneath him, his cloak stirring in the warm breeze that swept through the city like a sigh of finality. Behind him, Asag waited atop his own steed, silent as a shadow carved from stone. No words passed between them. None were needed. The weight of what had been done¡ªand what still lay ahead¡ªsettled in the space between them, heavier than any mourning. Together, flanked by thirty of their most trusted knights, they rode through Aracina¡¯s streets. The city, once braced for annihilation, now hummed with the fragile energy of survival. Shopkeepers counted coin. Blacksmiths hammered at fresh steel. Children darted through the crowds, their laughter a stark contrast to the memory of siege bells. They passed through the gates without fanfare. No cheers followed them, as they not know the prince was still in the city. No banners waved them off. Only the steady rhythm of hooves on dirt. As soon as they crested the rise where the royal host sprawled like a sea of steel and canvas, Alpheo let his eyes drift to the man riding beside him. Asag¡¯s gaze, however, lingered behind¡ªdrawn not to the army, but to the city walls shrinking in the distance. Alpheo tilted his head slightly. "Is everything all right?" For a long moment, Asag didn¡¯t answer. The wind carried the scent of trampled grass and smoldering cookfires between them as the silence stretched. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, but edged with something distant¡ªlike a man recounting a dream. "It is. Just... strange." He exhaled slowly, his gaze never leaving the city. "For months, I thought those walls would be my grave. Now, seeing them like this..." He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. "It feels like that fear belonged to someone else entirely." Alpheo followed his gaze, his own expression unreadable. The weight of those words settled between them¡ªthe unspoken truth of how close it had been, how thin the line between survival and slaughter. "I should¡¯ve come sooner," the prince said at last, his voice lower than usual, stripped of its usual certainty. "I let you all bleed longer than you should have." His grip tightened on the reins. "I¡¯ll make it even." Asag shook his head before the words could take root. "You came, Alpheo. You came and pulled us out." He turned then, meeting the prince¡¯s gaze squarely. "That¡¯s more than most ever get. That¡¯s enough." The prince let out a slow breath, the sound catching just slightly¡ªsomething between guilt and gratitude caught in his throat. Then, with visible effort, he straightened in the saddle, the mantle of command settling back onto his shoulders. "Well," he said, his voice regaining its usual measured tone, "in a year¡¯s time, your betrothed will be of age, won¡¯t she?" A faint smile touched his lips. "You¡¯ll have a wedding to look forward to. I¡¯ll make sure there¡¯s something to celebrate. You¡¯ve done what was asked. More than that." He gestured toward the distant horizon. "I¡¯ll carve out a nice piece of land for you. Something fitting, with strong walls and a title to match." Asag exhaled through his nose¡ªthe closest he ever came to a laugh. He already had a castle. Already had scars. And most importantly¡ªhe was alive. What more could a man ask for? He glanced at Alpheo, a rare glint of quiet humor in his eye. "Just make sure it¡¯s not another city about to fall." The tension broke. The two men laughed¡ªa brief, rough sound that carried over the wind like the echo of shared survival. Behind them, Aracina grew smaller, its walls no longer a cage but a memory. Ahead, the army waited, and beyond that¡ªmore battles, more blood, more choices that would weigh heavy in the years to come. But for now, there was this: the sun on their backs, the solid earth beneath their horses¡¯ hooves, and the unspoken understanding that some debts could never truly be repaid¡ªonly honored in the keeping of promises yet unfulfilled. They rode toward the camp without looking back. -------- As the two reached the army, they separated like two rivers breaking from the same lake. Asag turned his mount and led what remained of his third corps southward. They were a skeleton of their former selves, both in flesh and in spirit. Of the two hundred that had held the walls months ago, only 110 now marched unassisted, alive or with wounds still shallow enough to close. Thirty-two more were maimed¡ªsome missing hands, others eyes, one man with a piece of chin missing . The rest... lay beneath Aracina, in shallow graves dug by exhausted hands, or still within the city, wrapped in cloth and prayers. As Alpheo¡¯s eyes swept over them, his stomach twisted. There was no pride in the line Asag led¡ªonly the bitter pang of guilt that weighed heavier with every step of his own steed. He knew how much these corps meant to his commanders. Alpheo had watched these commanders build their men, mold them, live among them. And Alpheo, despite all his victories, knew that their blood had still poured for his delay. He didn¡¯t speak. He just turned his horse and joined the center column of the White Army. There, at the very heart of the great formation, the royal standard fluttered gold and white above his head, catching the morning sun. Behind him rode the Golden Steed, the crown personal cohort¡ªone hundred knights clad in radiant plate and white cloaks edged . Unofficially, they were the bodyguard of the crown, chosen by the prince himself and tasked with protecting the person of the consort. As he took his position, a familiar presence awaited. Jarza sat mounted, a length behind. And around them, the White Army watched. Wherever Alpheo rode, eyes followed. Soldiers lining the column¡¯s flanks stole glances, quieting their conversations. Their prince consort rode in shining armor, a black clock draped across his shoulders, his helm tucked beneath one arm. They didn¡¯t cheer. They didn¡¯t need to. His presence was enough. Many of them were supposed to retire and in any other army, it would have been more than reasonable to see some desertions. But not in this one. Alpheo¡¯s name had held the line. He wasn¡¯t just a prince consort. To them, he was their prince. He had led beside them, buried friends with his own hands. His charisma wasn¡¯t honeyed words or noble airs, but the amount of silver and tales of glory he brought So when he passed, they straightened their backs. Some touched their fists to their chests. And none spoke of leaving. Alpheo leaned slightly in the saddle, his voice low as he muttered when he came close to his second in command, "I¡¯ll have to find a proper gift for Asag. By the end of the year he¡¯ll be wed." Jarza snorted, glancing sideways without turning his head. "You don¡¯t need to overthink it , you could give him a pebble and he¡¯d mount it on his wall like it was a royal relic." Alpheo gave him a long, dry look. Jarza didn¡¯t flinch¡ªhe only raised a single highbrow, his face the picture of bemused indifference. "What?" he asked, as if genuinely curious. Alpheo shook his head, lips twitching into a half-smile. "You do realize soon, you¡¯ll be the only one left unwed." Jarza rolled his eyes skyward, as if asking the heavens why they had cursed him with this company. "Don¡¯t worry," Alpheo continued with mock solemnity. "After the war, I¡¯ll find you a wife. Egil¡¯s got his coming baby, Asag will be married soon enough, and we can¡¯t have you be the only one without children. Gods, you¡¯re already quite old.How much more year you got in ya?" "Old?" Jarza scoffed. "I¡¯m in my prime, thank you." Alpheo grinned. "Yes, and that prime is speeding toward dusk, old friend." Alpheo chuckled softly, the sound light, almost boyish, as his gaze wandered toward the city gates fading behind them¡ªstone walls, worn but proud, slowly shrinking in the distance. A place once damned, now saved. He smiled to himself, but the warmth in his eyes dimmed as he caught the sigh from his side. Jarza exhaled, not loudly, but long and heavy, like a man releasing the last breath of a confession he never meant to say. He stared forward for a beat, then turned slightly, casting a sidelong look at the prince beside him. "You know," he said, voice dry, a little rough. "I actually have a brat of my own ." Chapter 530: Surprises from an old egg(2) Chapter 530: Surprises from an old egg(2) For a moment, Alpheo didn¡¯t speak. He didn¡¯t blink either. He just stared at the man he believed he knew everything about. A slow silence stretched between them, and the clamor of the army behind faded into background noise, like the dull ringing after a blow to the head. Alpheo¡¯s face didn¡¯t twist or scowl¡ªit just stopped, like a clock forgetting how to tick. A stillness took him. His hands went slack on the reins, and his jaw hung slightly open. It was as if his brain had simply refused to accept what it had just heard. He had known Jarza for seven years. Seven years. They¡¯d first spoken through rusted iron bars, on opposite sides of a slaver¡¯s cage, more bone than flesh. Every night, after the chains came off and the lashes cooled, they¡¯d talked. They talked about everything¡ªhome, pain, dreams, death, what they¡¯d eat if they ever saw a kitchen again. They bled together, fought side by side when taking back their freedom , kept each other sane. In a life designed to strip you of all connection, they had made one. And now, after all of that, now, Jarza had dropped this¡ªlike it was nothing. "You have a what?" Alpheo asked, voice low, disbelieving. Jarza didn¡¯t even flinch. "A boy," he repeated plainly. "My son." Alpheo blinked slowly. His voice came quieter this time. "Since when?" Jarza tilted his head slightly, eyes squinting toward the distant hills like he was searching memory itself. "Twelve years ago. He was two when they came for me . Debtors sold me off. I barely said goodbye." A beat passed. Alpheo inhaled, then let out a breath like it had been lodged in his chest for weeks. He looked away, up at the cloudy sky, then back at his old friend. "You¡ªyou¡¯ve had a son this whole time?" he said, his voice sharp now, the disbelief finally bubbling over. "And you never told me? Not once? Not when we were chained in the dark, not when we were shoulder-deep in mud and blood, not when I made you a lord and a general? Jarza shrugged one shoulder. "Didn¡¯t seem important then." "Didn¡¯t seem¡ª" Alpheo bit off the words, jaw clenched. He looked off again, this time at nothing, his mind whirring through years of conversations, all the confessions they¡¯d made, the broken truths whispered over fires or across tents. All of it, and not once had Jarza said he was a father. "You could¡¯ve told me," Alpheo muttered, softer now, wounded more than angry. ¡¯¡¯I could have helped you¡¯¡¯ "I know," Jarza said quietly. They sat in silence for a few seconds, only the wind speaking between them, flapping cloaks and banner threads. The golden standard of the White Host shimmered in the distance. Alpheo finally shook his head, eyes wide again with that same stunned expression. "Gods, I have a nephew." Jarza gave a small smile. "Probably taller than you by now." "And you haven¡¯t seen him in a decade?" "No," Jarza said. The army rolled on ahead and behind them, a tide of armor and pennants kicking dust into the spring air. Alpheo rode in silence for a long while, but his thoughts were anything but still. Jarza¡¯s words echoed in his head like a cracked bell, off-key and hard to ignore. He shook his head. "I feel like you just told me I have two cocks." That got a slight snort from Jarza, but it vanished as quickly as it came. "How the hell did you even care for him?" Alpheo asked, more serious now. "You were a mercenary. Moving from battle to battle. Sleeping under trees and next to corpses more than in beds.Did you keep the boy at your side each time?" Jarza¡¯s voice came rough, low. "You¡¯d be surprised. It¡¯s not as rare as you think. Mercenaries having kids, I mean. Some get a girl pregnant and skip town before the brat¡¯s even got a heartbeat. Others... well, they try." He looked over at Alpheo, one brow raised. "I tried." He turned his eyes back to the horizon, watching the banners flap in the wind. "I gave the boy to a woman named Marla. Cook for our company. Gruff voice, arms like boiled ham, heart too soft for her own good. She¡¯d lost two sons to war. Took mine like he was her own." Alpheo tilted his head. "And you just... what? Paid her?" "From every payday," Jarza said. "Every coin I made. Gave her enough to keep him fed, clothed. Told her to keep him warm through winter and dry through storm. She did. As long as I could pay her, she did." "And then what happened after your capture?" Jarza gave a bitter little laugh, though there was no joy in it. "I don¡¯t know. I¡¯d like to think she took him with her when the company broke up. Maybe found some small town where she could work a tavern hearth. Or maybe... maybe she dropped him in a ditch when the money ran dry. I don¡¯t know. I¡¯ll never do ." He fell quiet, the clink of tack and armor filling the gap. Then he added, barely louder than the wind, "I named him Dorian." Alpheo looked at him again, jaw tight. "Well, I could have helped you find him. if you had only told me" Jarza shrugged. "And say what? That I had a bastard I left with a cook a decade ago and hoped he didn¡¯t die during the first winter of my slavery? That the boy might be alive somewhere, or dead, or working in some butcher¡¯s shop ? What would you have done, Alph? Scoured the world for every cook named Marla and every boy born in some nameless camp? I didn¡¯t even know where to start." "I could¡¯ve sent someone," Alpheo insisted, frustrated. " We have agents, riders¡ª" "No,not where I am from and certainly nothing that you can achieve with just a name" Jarza cut in, voice firmer now. "No, you¡¯ve had enough to carry. I made my peace with it. It was my weight to bear, not yours." Alpheo gritted his teeth, guilt gnawing at the corners of his chest. "He might still be out there." Jarza gave a half-nod, but his eyes were far away. "Maybe. Maybe not. Doesn¡¯t change what is. I was taken by my debtors when he was barely two. Sold off like cattle. By the time I bought back my sword, half the world had changed around me." He breathed deep through his nose. "Some men lose their sons to plague. Some to arrows. I lost mine to time. Same end." The silence between them thickened. The army still moved on, banners trailing like smoke. Alpheo¡¯s voice dropped. "You deserved better." Jarza cracked a small smile. "I had my share of better. A warm bed, a good drink, and a man foolish enough to call me brother.I got more than I deserved." Alpheo glanced at him. "I don¡¯t regret what I¡¯ve had," Jarza finished, "and I won¡¯t cry for what I lost." At that no one said anything. The silence between them was once again companionable, until Jarza, his voice steady but laced with curiosity, tilted his head slightly and asked, "What about your blood? Your real kin, I mean. Your parents." Alpheo¡¯s gaze drifted off toward the horizon,not liking being the one now under questioning, but there was no wonder in his stare¡ªjust dust, memory, and the faint glint of old wounds beneath polished steel. Jarza didn¡¯t press. He already knew the bones of it. Everyone close to Alpheo did. Sold into slavery for four silverii. Not even enough to buy a decent ox. Still, he asked, "Do you ever think of sending a rider back? Maybe not to knock at the door, but... to slit a few throats?" Alpheo¡¯s face didn¡¯t change at first, just hardened like a blade cooling in water. He was quiet for a long while. The rhythm of hooves filled the pause like a drumbeat. "I did," he said at last. "Of course I did.You think I am a saint?" His voice was calm, too calm. "Sent them in the first year I became prince, with the orders for them to bring them back to me . As soon as I had riders of my own, coin to pay them, and steel to lend their hands weight, I sent them" Jarza glanced sideways, silent, listening. "But fate, you see," Alpheo continued, "is a fickle whore. With one hand she gives¡ªcrowns, power, men who¡¯d die for me¡ªand with the other she takes with cruel timing." He paused, eyes distant, remembering. "My village was struck by plague the year before the riders reached it. My mother, my father... gone. One of my brothers. Two sisters. All dead. Dust and rot and prayer." He laughed, but there was no mirth in it¡ªonly something dry and bitter, like ash between the teeth. "They went quickly, they say. I would¡¯ve taken longer. Far longer." Jarza didn¡¯t answer for a time. Then, with a tilt of his chin, he asked, "Still some siblings left though, right? You were the youngest of six." Alpheo nodded slowly. "Three remains. And I feel nothing for them." He turned his head slightly, locking eyes with Jarza. "No hate. No love. No debt. They are ghosts walking in the daylight¡ªtied to me by blood, and nothing more." He looked away again, to the road, to the future always racing away from him. "I won¡¯t lift a finger to hurt them. But I won¡¯t lift one to help them, either. I decided to let them live their hollow little lives, drink piss-warm beer in a nameless village, forget of the boy they sold off for coin, not knowing that he is now a prince. I¡¯ll not punish them for the sins of our parents¡ªbut I¡¯ll not reward them for breathing, either." His voice took on a sharper, almost lyrical cadence as if reciting an oath. "Let them toil. Let their backs break in fields they¡¯ll never own, their children forget them, and the world pass them by. That is the price of irrelevance. That is their inheritance." Jarza gave a slow, thoughtful grunt. "Poetic." Alpheo smirked. "Everything sounds poetic when you have to find meaning for your grief." There was silence between them again, but this time it was a colder one. Not cruel¡ªjust quiet, like the wind blowing through the bones of something long dead. And with that, the two men kept riding, leaving behind not just a city, but ghosts neither of them could quite outrun. Chapter 531: Burning it from the inside Chapter 531: Burning it from the inside Lucius stood at the threshold of the chamber, the heavy oaken door towering before him like a final challenge. The banners of Arduoronaven had once hung proudly above it¡ªred and gold, he had been there when it was torn down. Replaced with nothing. Now, however, that Orymus was back into ruling the city it was put back on. Still the image of the banner being torn down and burnt remained still in his head.. What was a lion without its teeth? Without its pride? This was the room of the new false lord of Arduoronaven. Orymus. The son of a butchered house, now draped in stolen silk and illusions of authority. Lucius had been summoned here, but it was not he who would be on trial. No, the gods had turned their faces toward him. And they were smiling. He adjusted the crimson sash across his chest, tightened the gloves over his hands, and allowed himself a small, wolfish grin. There were moments in war when all fell into place, like the clatter of dice in a lucky gambler¡¯s cup¡ªand this was one such moment. The stars had not merely aligned for Lucius; they had knelt before him. The Herculeans¡ªthose arrogant, bloated wolves in polished armor¡ªhad retreated. Just like that. Like a beaten dog slinking back to its kennel, tail tucked, ears low, eyes darting in shame. Prince Lechlian, had tasted blood and bile on the same day, and had chosen to flee rather than fight the coming storm,perhaps learning from the mistake of his fellow in the south. And as if that divine turn of fate were not enough, the gods¡ªkind, cruel, brilliant bastards that they were¡ªhad not just opened the door. They had gift-wrapped it. Two apples dangled before him, ripe and ready for the picking. The first: Orymus. The heir of Lord Vroghios. The bloodline of a defeated traitor. The very banner under which the Herculeans had launched their war. "We fight to restore the rightful son," they had claimed. "We fight to correct injustice." And now that very son had been handed to him, trembling and alone, like a lamb left at the edge of a wolf¡¯s den. Lucius would take him¡ªnot just as a prisoner, but as a symbol. With Orymus in chains, every word the Herculeans had shouted would fall to ash. Their war, their justification, their righteous cause¡ªundone in an instant. Lechlian prestige would sour even more while that of his grace would soar. The second: Sir Agolonthios. A knight of Yarzat. A traitor. A snake who had once dined with the Prince and had now slithered into enemy halls, wearing false banners, offering false loyalty. Lucius¡¯s jaw tightened at the thought. But now he, too, was in the city. Trapped. Cornered. Lucius would see him dragged before Alpheo himself. Not in chains¡ªno, that was too kind. Bound in the same white silks worn at Yarzat banquets, bloodied, torn, disgraced. A living lesson. He would deliver both of them. Orymus, the false lord. Agolonthios, the traitor. And when he knelt before his prince, he would do so with their heads lowered in shame behind him. And if it was the last thing Lucius ever did, it would be enough. He took a breath, deep and sharp, letting the air bite into his lungs like frost. Then he raised his hand and knocked twice on the door¡ªnot as a guest, not as a subject, but as a man ready to reclaim what had been lost. The gods had given him this moment. Now, it was time to collect. The heavy door creaked open under Lucius¡¯s hand, revealing the dim chamber beyond. The air smelled faintly of ink, old wood, and the subtle bitterness of desperation poorly masked by pride. Lord Orymus stood with his back half-turned, gazing out a narrow window slit that looked over the rooftops of Arduoronaven. He was young¡ªjust twenty-three¡ªbut tried to wear the weight of command like a cloak too large for his shoulders. "You may sit," he said, gesturing to a chair on the other side of a narrow table piled high with rolled maps and half-finished letters. Lucius¡ªgoing by his mercenary alias Marrec , bowed his head slightly and obeyed, his movements practiced and unassuming. He lowered himself into the creaking chair. "I assume you¡¯ve heard," Orymus began, voice measured, "the Herculian main host has retreated. Prince Lechlian and his lords have returned to their own lands." He said the words with the forced calm of someone pretending the city he now ruled wasn¡¯t a ripe fruit hanging alone on a tree in a storm. "I have, my lord," Lucius said, folding his hands before him like a good captain. His face betrayed no emotion. "And what are your orders for the remainder of the contract?" "You and the other companies," Orymus said, turning to face him fully now, "will remain to garrison Arduoronaven until the end of your term¡ªanother two weeks, if I¡¯m not mistaken." Lucius nodded with perfect poise. "And... are we to expect payment from your lordship directly, or should we send a rider to the capital?" Orymus shifted in place, perhaps slightly embarrassed. "When the contract concludes, you may proceed to the court of His Grace. Payment will be waiting for you there." "Of course," Lucius replied smoothly, giving a shallow nod. "His Grace is generous." But inside his head, behind those calm eyes and soldier¡¯s posture, Lucius sneered. If I were a real mercenary, he mused, a proper blade-for-hire and not a hound in my prince¡¯s service, I¡¯d be drawing up plans to storm this city right now. Half the troops will vanish the second they hear there¡¯s no coin here. The other half¡¯ll turn their swords for anyone who dangles gold and a warm bed. And if I wanted to, I could march straight to Yarzat with this city wrapped in ribbon and gifted like a feast-day pig. It was laughable. Amateurish. The young lord had inherited a crown of thorns and was wearing it like a hat of laurels. But, Lucius thought, this can be played. ¡¯¡¯If there isn¡¯t anything more , I would like to take my leave¡¯¡¯ He stood, bowed again, and strode toward the door. Lucius had nearly reached the door when Orymus¡¯s voice halted him. "Captain Marrec¡ªwait a moment." He turned slowly, a flicker of curiosity painted across his face like a man humoring a noble child playing lord. "Yes, my lord?" Orymus cleared his throat, stepping forward with a kind of tentative conviction, like a man about to leap into a river without knowing the depth. "I... was hoping to broach the subject of extending your contract." Lucius tilted his head slightly, like a cat observing a mouse that had just started negotiating for its life. "I see," he said with his usual calm, brushing a fleck of dust off one of his leather vambraces. "Well, I have no objection in principle, provided the terms are as generous as those of His Grace." He let the word generous hang in the air with a hint of irony, just enough for a keen ear to catch it. Orymus gave an awkward smile, one that tried to carry the weight of authority and almost crumbled under it. "Yes, yes, of course. But I was thinking of something... more lasting than mere coin." Lucius blinked once. "More lasting?" The young lord¡¯s expression brightened with the fragile enthusiasm of a gambler who believed¡ªwrongly¡ªthat the next card would turn the game. "Yes. What if you weren¡¯t just a captain? What if you were a lord?" Lucius raised a brow. "A noble?" Orymus nodded eagerly. "Indeed. You¡¯ve proven yourself capable. Intelligent. Disciplined. The kind of man this realm desperately needs. I¡¯ve recently come into possession of several holdings¡ªcastles, lands that were reclaimed during our campaign . Scattered, yes, but rich in potential." He stepped toward the table and unfurled a map, jabbing a finger at a spot near the foothills. "This one, Dunmer¡¯s Hollow, sits astride a trade road and has its own keep. Or here¡ªStonebrook, a river fortress with fertile fields. You¡¯d have your choice, Captain. Choose your seat, swear fealty to me, and you¡¯ll be more than a sword for hire. You¡¯ll be a lord ." Lucius studied him for a long moment. There was silence, save for the distant howl of wind against shuttered windows and the popping of firewood in the hearth. "Tempting," he said at last. "And generous." If he were truly a mercenary¡ªif gold and blood were the only languages he spoke¡ªhe might¡¯ve accepted that offer already. A castle. A title. A name etched in stone instead of mud. But Lucius wasn¡¯t just a sword-for-hire, and this game was far too rich to play blind. He folded his hands neatly on the table and offered a smile¡ªcordial, polite, and ever so slightly sharp. "It¡¯s a generous offer, my lord. No doubt. Though I imagine the task ahead is just as demanding." Orymus reclined in his chair, arms crossed. "They¡¯re fair terms." "Oh, they are," Lucius agreed smoothly. "Which is why I find them... curious. Because a man doesn¡¯t offer his only bread unless he¡¯s in a picky situation , Am I right?" There was a slight pause. Orymus exhaled, a quiet snort through the nose, half-amused, half-irritated. Lucius didn¡¯t flinch. He simply raised one hand in a calming gesture, eyes glinting. "Not a criticism. An opportunity. For both of us." He leaned forward now, the mask of formality thinning just enough to show the wolf¡¯s teeth behind. "Apology for the guessing I am doing here. You¡¯ve been left to hold a city that isn¡¯t yours, with troops that aren¡¯t loyal, and mercenaries who are only two weeks from forgetting your name altogether. And the enemy, I suspect, won¡¯t be as kind as the last one. They¡¯ll come, and they¡¯ll want Arduonaven back." Lucius sat back again, folding one leg over the other. "And when they come, you¡¯ll need men. Men who know how to kill, and more importantly, how not to die screaming. Right now? I am those men." Orymus¡¯s jaw flexed. He said nothing, his silence the kind of stillness that could go either toward agreement or the drawing of a sword. Lucius broke it first, his voice returning to that calm, courtly tone. "I¡¯m willing to sign that contract. I¡¯ll swear my loyalty, wear your colors, and help you hold this city." He paused for effect, then added, "Provided I¡¯m given certain leeways to ensure we both survive long enough to enjoy it." The young lord cocked a brow. "What leeways?" Lucius offered an apologetic smile, the kind that says ¡¯no offense¡¯ right before offense is delivered. "With all due respect, my lord, you don¡¯t seem to have much of a retinue. Not one that¡¯s properly trained. And I mean no slight¡ªevery bird must fly before it fights¡ªbut your garrison looks more suited to farming grain than spilling blood." Orymus¡¯s jaw clenched a little tighter, but he said, "Go on." Lucius bowed his head slightly in thanks. "This castle will need the best it can get if it¡¯s to stand a siege. And so I would ask, in addition to the terms you¡¯ve offered, that I be granted authority to recruit and train the men of the city. Blacksmiths, cobblers, bakers¡ªif they can hold a spear, I¡¯ll turn them into soldiers." He raised his eyes, smile returning like a dagger half-sheathed. "I¡¯ll make them as close to my own troops as they can be. Capable and Ready." ----------------------------- A beat passed. For a long moment, Orymus said nothing. He just stared at the mercenary across from him¡ªno, not mercenary anymore, he supposed. Captain. Commander. Soon, perhaps, a lord. And yet... damn him. Damn him, because he was right. Orymus let his gaze fall to the edge of the table, where his fingers drummed once, twice, three times. Each tap like a nail driven into the coffin of pride. The retainers of his father? Dead in the gutters when Arduonaven fell, bled out on broken cobbles or buried in mass pits. The few that lived had either sold their swords or their honor¡ªsome to the conquering Host and some given to the lord that killed his father. And the vassals? Ha. Bent knees like stalks in the wind¡ªfirst to the Mud Prince when he¡¯d walked through their gates, then again to the Herculean Prince when he did. They¡¯d become so flexible they probably didn¡¯t even notice anymore which crown they were bowing to. So yes. Orymus had little more than a title and the walls of a city he didn¡¯t capture himself. His human resources, if they could be called that, amounted to a traitorous knight with a face so smug it could curdle milk and a small parade of opportunists praying not to be the last rat off the sinking ship. He had thought to give the training of the city¡¯s men¡ªthose strong enough to hold a spear and dumb enough not to know how to use it¡ªto Agolonthios, the knight who had opened Arduonaven¡¯s gates to the Herculeans. Knowing full well that even if the Mud Prince did come, there was nowhere left for the man to run. His name would be known in every court from the Isles to the Sand of Arlania . His betrayal had bought him no future. Only a window or the noose hanging just outside it. But now... faced with this captain and his cool, measured tone... Orymus wasn¡¯t so sure. Agolonthios was a risk. A pawn. But Lucius? Lucius had leverage. Soldiers. Authority. Half the force holding this city¡¯s crumbling walls. Refusing him wouldn¡¯t have been wise Orymus clicked his tongue. "Very well." Lucius straightened ever so slightly in his seat, eyes narrowing. "You¡¯ll have your leeway," Orymus said. "Recruit and train who you will. Turn the baker into a butcher and the cobbler into a killer, for all I care. Just make sure they¡¯re ready." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Because if the Mud Prince comes, I¡¯ll have to count on them not to run at the first trumpet." His gaze hardened. "And I¡¯ll count on you not to run either." Lucius smiled¡ªnot the full grin of a man who was pleased, but that half-smile a knife gives when it¡¯s just been sharpened. "I never run, my lord, I only strive forward." Orymus nodded, though part of him wondered if he¡¯d just shaken hands with the very devil. But what choice did he have? He¡¯d been given a crown of ash and asked to breathe life into it. If the fire came again¡ªand it would¡ªthen better to face it with a devil by his side than to die alone in the cold. Chapter 532: A new prince(1) Chapter 532: A new prince(1) Sorza , the eldest son of Shameliek, passed through the vaulted halls of his father¡¯s court, every step of his boots swallowed by the vast silence. The scent of incense still lingered in the air¡ªthick, cloying, ceremonial¡ªbut the usual sounds were gone. No heralds. No courtiers. No advisors rushing forward to whisper updates or bow low. He walked with the stiff posture of a prince, but inside, Sorza was simply tired. Tired of the road, of the blood, of the silence. The last three days had been a blur of hooves and dust and sleepless dread. Ever since the order to return to the capital had been shouted in his ear like a curse when he has sighted his father falling with his horse, he had ridden day and night. No time to rest, no time to think. Just a rush southward, from battlefield to border, chased by rumors and the shadows of defeat. It wasn¡¯t until they crossed into a friendly city that the madness paused. The governor there, a stout man with silver eyebrows and shaking hands, had received him like a simple governor would with the heir to the princedom. He offered what was due: a real bed with a feather mattress, food that wasn¡¯t salt-hard rations, hot water for bathing, and fresh linen that didn¡¯t smell like horse sweat. Most importantly, he gave him a new horse and fifty well-armored guards to escort him the rest of the way. The governor had said little, just bowed and kept looking at Sorza as if expecting him to break. Perhaps he would have¡ªif he hadn¡¯t already grown used to doing that silently. They were supposed to return together, the nobles who had fled with him. For a time, they had. But one by one, they peeled away. Each lord breaking off from the main road like leaves drifting from a dying tree. Some returned to their holdings to "prepare for future war." Others gave vague excuses¡ª"the roads must be watched," "the people must be reassured." The truth was clearer than glass: none of them wanted to arrive in the capital like beaten dogs, with nothing to show but their shame. So now, Sorza rode alone. No brothers. No father. No lords at his side. Just the steel-hearted company of men sworn to protect him, and the gnawing question he could not ask: Is my father well?Is he even still alive? But deep in his gut, like a sickness he¡¯d swallowed and could not cough up, Sorza began to understand: This hall might soon be his. Whether he wanted it or not. For a brief, strange moment, he stood in the middle of the hall like a man who had forgotten why he walked into a room. He simply... didn¡¯t know what to do. The courtiers were absent. No summons had come. His return to the capital had been one in deliberate silence until he got his act together, he wasn¡¯t to meet anyone. He didn¡¯t resent that, he liked the silence. From time to time servants would appear , but they would without meeting his gaze bow to them. Apparently, some whispers had already started to appear. After all, a prince returning home without his father in the middle of a campaign would spell the worst of things, which unfortunately had become true. Eventually, he turned away from the hallways and made for the west wing. A place where no one expected him to speak or decide or carry a nation¡¯s weight on his back. He sent a passing servant to inform his mother that he wished her in his room The boy bowed awkwardly and ran off down the corridor, leaving Sorza to walk alone through halls that seemed smaller now, almost claustrophobic in their silence. His room was just as he remembered it. He closed the door behind him, sat on the edge of his bed, and exhaled¡ªlong, slow, like letting out air he¡¯d been holding for weeks. Then... nothing. No movement. No words. He just sat there. His eyes wandered across the stone wall before him, stopping on a single crack that ran from one corner of a stone to the next. The wedge of which was barely visible. But it might as well have been a canyon. For in that crack, in its quiet crookedness, Sorza saw a mirror of the last month of his life. One moment he had been sharpening his sword, full of purpose. The Low Prince would taste his vengeance, and Sorza would reclaim his name. It was supposed to be glorious, his chance to avenge his humiliation in having become a prisoner But glory had been replaced with chaos. First came the death of his cousin. A quiet death,gloryless without blood in his sword or armor, without ceremony, like a candle blown out in a dark room. Then the night attack. The screams, the fire, the frenzied retreat through the roads and nameless woods. The blood. And then his father. He didn¡¯t even know what had happened. One minute, the great Prince of Oizen had been at his side, shouting orders, red-faced with fury. The next... gone. Thrown from his horse, lost in the dark. He clenched his jaw, not out of anger, but out of weariness. The kind that seeps into your bones and makes the future feel like a distant shore you¡¯re too tired to swim toward. And through that crack, like some shape just out of reach, came the image of him . The prince of Yarzat. The mud-born bastard with a silver tongue and the eyes of a man who had seen every death twice. Sorza hated that name. Not because it was ugly, but because it came with a weight he couldn¡¯t lift. Alpheo had been his captor, once. There was no malice in the man. That was the cruel part. Just calculation, wrapped in calm. It was like staring at a river that had decided your drowning was inevitable. Sometimes he would make fun of you, but he hadn¡¯t seen any real malice or cruelty in him, just boredom. He feared how Alpheo could inspire loyalty in men who should have hated him, he was a common born and yet he had managed to have nobles serve under him. He hated how he could twist tragedy into theater. How even in retreat, when Sorza thought he had regained some pride, he could still hear that voice in the back of his mind, quiet and patient: Is that all you are? That question stung more than any sword wound. And perhaps that was what haunted Sorza most¡ªnot just the fear of Alpheo the man, but of what he made Sorza feel about himself. Like a boy still playing at war. And now... what? If his father lived, then he was a prisoner and had to be ransomed If he didn¡¯t... The boy who played war would not just be in the court. He would be the court. He swallowed hard. The thought tasted bitter. But there was no one to ask. No one to tell him what came next. So he sat, alone in the silence of his boyhood chamber, staring at a crack in the wall and realizing, slowly, quietly, that his carefree life had ended somewhere on that long road home. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and pressed his hands against his face. The silence in the chamber pressed harder now. Not peaceful, but suffocating. A quiet so thick it made him want to scream, just to hear a sound that wasn¡¯t the echo of his own thoughts. And gods, those thoughts. He rolled it over in his mind like a puzzle whose pieces no longer fit. How had it all unraveled so quickly? And then... the absurdity of it struck him. This entire bloody mess¡ªthis spiral into chaos¡ªhad all started over some miserable little border towns. He scoffed into his palms, the sound hollow, bitter. Not even a trade artery¡ªjust a forgettable cluster of stone walls and barley fields that had the misfortune of sitting in the no-man¡¯s-land between his father¡¯s banners and the Low Prince¡¯s reach. Less than twenty thousand souls, put together And yet it had been enough. Enough to spark a war. Enough to pull and drag Sorza and his kin across fire and blood, to leave his cousin dead and his father... vanished. He lowered his hands and stared at the stone floor beneath him, blinking as if he¡¯d only just begun to see it. All of it¡ªfor that? A bump on the map? A patch of land not even worth a name in court? He could feel it now. The whispers that would come when word reached the capital. The vultures circling not just over what was lost, but over what might now be gained. Ugly times were coming. That much he was certain of. He rubbed his temples, as if he might press the growing headache out of his skull. As if he could hold the oncoming storm at bay with just his hands. But no storm had ever cared for the wishes of a tired man. And this one... this one was going to be long. And loud. And ruthless. The latch on the door gave a soft click, barely more than a whisper, but Sorza looked up at once. Some part of him, buried deep and still alert, had known who it would be. His mother stepped through the doorway, her robes trailing behind her like a shadow too long for the room. The light from the corridor caught her just enough to outline the tiredness etched in her face¡ªthe same tiredness she had worn on the day she was told he was paraded through the streets of Yarzat in chains. For a heartbeat, they simply stared at one another. Then she crossed the room in silence and knelt before him, gathering her son into her arms as though he were still a boy who had scraped his knees on the marble floors. Sorza didn¡¯t hesitate. He leaned into her, letting her pull his head to her shoulder, letting the scent of home¡ªthe familiar perfume she never changed¡ªwrap around him. Her fingers threaded gently into his hair. She whispered nothing, just held him. He closed his eyes. It hurt, more than he thought it would. His chest ached under the weight of it¡ªnot her embrace, but the knowledge of what he would have to say. What he would have to explain. The lies he would have to twist and the truths he would have to bleed. He wished he could hold the silence forever. But silence had never held back reality. Still, for now¡ªfor this one instant¡ªhe allowed himself to remain there. The future could wait. The walls didn¡¯t need to speak yet. Politics could sleep, war could hush, and grief could hide in the shadow of her arms. He knew moments like this would not come again¡ªnot often, perhaps not ever. Not once duty hardened the softness in him. Not once titles and thrones replaced the small kindnesses a son shared with his mother. So he breathed it in. And quietly, painfully, he held on. Chapter 533: A new prince(2) Chapter 533: A new prince(2) For a small moment, Sorza did nothing but let his head rest against his mother¡¯s chest. He didn¡¯t speak. He didn¡¯t move. He simply allowed himself to sink into the warmth of her embrace, like a boy once more, tucked away from the world behind the quiet thrum of a heartbeat he¡¯d known since the beginning. His mother¡ªLady Calethra¡ªhad never been one to hide her affection for her children, not truly. Behind closed doors, within the soft light of chambers where courtiers dared not tread, she had been all things: warmth and will, tenderness and steel. She kissed their foreheads when no one was looking and whispered lullabies when they were children. Yet in public, like all royals, she had learned the armor of restraint. The mask of decorum that the blood of princes demanded. A crown, after all, did not sit well on a heart worn plainly. But tonight, none of that mattered. Tonight, there were no thrones. No gilded titles. No gazes of noblemen or whispers from the gallery. The court was broken. The family frayed. The future uncertain. And in that silence, stripped of all the pretense of royal life, she was not a princess consort, nor a matriarch of ancient blood. She was simply a mother, holding her son like he had not been chased through forests with death at his heels. Like the weight of lineage and legacy had not crushed his shoulders raw. Like he wasn¡¯t walking a path paved in the echoes of his father¡¯s absence. And Sorza¡ªwho had fled through fire and shadow, who had carried the silence of duty on his back for leagues¡ªlet her. For a fleeting breath of time, the world outside the chamber ceased to exist. No war. No politics. No ghosts. Just the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest. And the comfort of knowing that, even now, someone could still hold him like he was not already halfway turned to stone. But he knew the moment would not last. It never did. They stayed like that for a while¡ªlonger than a prince and his mother should, but not nearly as long as either of them needed. Eventually, Sorza drew a long breath, the kind that scrapes its way up from deep in the chest, and slowly pulled back. His mother looked at him eyes still soft, still warm, but touched now with the familiar weight of a woman who had spent half her life managing a court and raising a family in a world full of daggers. "Well?" she asked gently, brushing a few strands of hair from his face. "Tell me. What happened?" He didn¡¯t answer right away. He looked down, his hands clasped loosely between his knees. His voice, when it came, was low¡ªflat at first, like he was reading from a script he didn¡¯t want to believe in. "We lost," he said. A beat passed. His mother said nothing. She waited. "There was a raid in the night," he continued. "They came down like ghosts from the hills. There was screaming everywhere. Some of the lords tried to hold the lines. Others ran." His jaw clenched. "I... I ran along with my father and he nobles." He paused, eyes distant, as if replaying it in his mind. "Then during the rout, we were pursued, and during it they started throwing javelins at us when they understood we were getting away. One of them hit Father¡¯s horse. He fell with it. One minute he was right beside me, shouting, and the next he was gone. The forest swallowed him. I looked back, but the guard didn¡¯t let me go. They said it was too dangerous. That he was probably already dead." His mother¡¯s expression had grown unreadable¡ªstone-like, but not unfeeling. She simply asked, "Do you believe them?" "I don¡¯t know," Sorza admitted. "I... I want to say no. But I haven¡¯t heard a word. No rider. No message. And if he had escaped, surely, he would¡¯ve sent something by now." His mother exhaled slowly, brushing the last of the tears from her eyes. She stood, smoothing out the folds of her dark dress as if shedding the vulnerability of a grieving woman and donning once more the mantle of a royal matron. "There are things you must hear now, Sorza," she said, her voice no longer soft, but clear and composed. "And you may not like them." Sorza¡¯s shoulders stiffened. He already didn¡¯t like them, whatever they were. He knew that tone¡ªit was the one she used when scolding ministers, or preparing her children for brutal truths wrapped in silken words. "Word of the failed campaign has already begun to circulate," she continued. "Whispers in the palace corridors. They say the army returned broken... that the prince did not return at all. And you¡ª" she paused, letting the weight settle, "you rode in alone." Sorza looked down, guilt clenching again like a hand around his ribs. "You cannot stop the rumors. But you can direct them. You can mold the story before it becomes a weapon in someone else¡¯s hand." He raised his eyes, brow furrowed. "How?" "You must step forward. Immediately. Take command of the court, speak with the ministers and the generals. They must see your face. Hear your voice. Understand that the line of succession has not broken¡ªthat the realm still has a spine." He said nothing. She pressed on. "If your father is dead, you are prince now. If he is alive, but captured, then you are his voice, his sword, his heir. Either way, the burden is yours. And it cannot wait." Her words hung heavy in the chamber. The gilded light from the tall windows seemed colder now, as if the sun itself had recoiled from what was being asked of him. Sorza stood, slowly, not quite steady on his feet, as though the very floor had changed beneath him. "So I am to gather the court?" he asked. "You are to command it," she replied. He looked toward the tall doors of his chamber, where beyond them the great halls stretched out like a waiting mouth¡ªready to swallow him whole. "Do you believe they¡¯ll come for us?" she asked. "The prince of Yarzat?" He turned his head slightly, his hand still resting on the bronze handle. Her eyes met his, probing for the kind of certainty only generals and gamblers pretended to have. He shook his head. "Not yet." She frowned. "You sound sure." "I¡¯m not," he admitted. "But I know he¡¯s still fighting two other armies. They still have to fight against two other forces. He can¡¯t afford to bleed himself dry over our bones while Herculia still snarls at his borders." There was a pause. Then: "And after?" Sorza¡¯s jaw tightened. He hated the question. Not because it wasn¡¯t fair, but because it was exactly fair. "After," he said, voice heavier now, "everything changes. If he wins¡ªand only if he wins¡ªHerculia will be weaker than it has ever been. He¡¯ll be at the height of his strength. And we will be alone." The silence thickened between them. "We¡¯ll send riders," he continued, eyes on the stone floor. "To find out what became of Father. If he lives... we prepare a ransom. If he¡¯s dead..." He hesitated, the words clinging to his throat like bitter wine. "...we make peace." There it was. Cold and final. It struck the air like a bell tolling at a funeral. For a moment, he couldn¡¯t look at her. He knew what it meant to say that. What it cost. The stillness that followed said more than any scream could. His mother said nothing about making peace with the man who might have killed her husband. She didn¡¯t flinch, didn¡¯t protest¡ªbut neither did she approve. She simply turned away from him, moving to close the window shutters with hands that had once cradled princes and now only sealed in the gloom. The air in the room thickened again, but this time not with grief. With consequence. But that wasn¡¯t the worst part of it. Not the silence about his father. Not the thought of bowing heads at court. Not even the looming possibility of making peace with the man who had unraveled their campaign with a flick of his sword and the curse of his name. No. The worst part was what Sorza had begun to understand, quietly and with growing certainty. If they were to fight alone, he would never win. Not against him. Not against Alpheo. Even now, in the safety of his childhood palace, with his mother nearby and the doors barred, the thought of the Mud Prince made his hands twitch¡ªmade his breath shorten just a little. Alpheo wasn¡¯t just dangerous. He was unpredictable. He was maddeningly beloved by his men, now soon to be mythologized by his enemies, and worse still, clever enough to make that all matter. To make it work. Sorza stood near the hearth now, the chill of the stone floor biting through his boots. His arms crossed tightly over his chest. "We can¡¯t beat him," he said at last, voice flat. "Not alone." His mother didn¡¯t answer. Her eyes rested on him with the calm stillness of a hawk perched on a branch, listening. "If Father is dead," Sorza continued, "then I will have to look for a wife." This earned a raised brow. His mother blinked once, slowly. "Sorza," she said gently, "there are more important things than weddings right now." He let out a bitter laugh. "That¡¯s the point. A wedding might be the only important thing left." She tilted her head, curious. He sighed and turned his gaze to the high windows where the morning sun struggled through the cloudy glass. "The princess of Yarzat had a younger sister. Barely spoken of, but not invisible. I remember her at a banquet. Quiet. Strange eyes." He looked back at his mother. "If they would agree to marry our houses... if we could become kin..." There it was. The full shape of the thought¡ªnaked and ugly and true. "Then maybe," he finished, "we could hold peace in our hands." His mother said nothing. She studied him a while longer. Her face remained unreadable¡ªneither approval nor protest in her eyes. The cool mask of a royal consort who had seen more wars begun by pride than ended by love. But she didn¡¯t dismiss it either. And that silence... felt almost like permission to break bread with their enemies. Chapter 534: Falling sword(1) Chapter 534: Falling sword(1) Thwack. "You¡¯re dead!" one boy cried, proudly thrusting his wooden stick toward the other¡¯s chest."No I¡¯m not!" the second answered, stumbling back with a grin and raising his own sword-shaped branch like a knight from some old tale ¡¯¡¯You hit the arm¡¯¡¯ "You are!" "Am not!" "You are if I say so¡ªI¡¯m Vrivrian the Red!" "You can¡¯t be , I already called him!" They were no older than ten, cheeks red with the rush of imagined glory, breath quick, eyes bright. Around them, the cobblestones were streaked with sun, and the air smelled faintly of baking bread and smoke from morning fires. Their laughter was high and clear and small enough to be swallowed by the wind. Thwack. Thwack. THWACK. The sound echoed again¡ªlouder now. Heavier. But it wasn¡¯t from their game anymore. It came from the square beyond the alley, where hundreds of men stood in ranks¡ªboots planted in dust, shields raised in tight unison, spears pulled back and slammed forward in the rhythm of war. Thwack.Thwack.THWACK. The cadence of it rose like a chant, not shouted by mouths but beaten into the bones of every man present. Wood cracked against wood. Iron kissed iron. Shields trembled and muscles groaned beneath the strain of repetition. Drills. Relentless, brutal, beautiful drills. And through it all, Lucius walked¡ªcloak tight around his shoulders, one gloved hand resting on the pommel of his sword, the other behind his back. His eyes passed over the soldiers like a man inspecting tools in a forge. Children with sticks, he thought.Men with spears. The same dance. Just bloodier music. One of his man barked a correction. A younger recruit nearly lost his grip and caught the brunt of a drill sergeant¡¯s boot in the thigh for it. Lucius didn¡¯t intervene. He paused only once¡ªat the edge of the square, where he could still hear the children¡¯s voices of a torn time , fading in the wind. "One day," the smaller one said, out of breath, "I¡¯m gonna have a real sword." "And I¡¯ll have a real horse," the other replied. "With armor on its head and eyes that glow." They both nodded, solemn in that way only children could be. Lucius allowed himself the faintest smile, feeling that he had made true of his words. For a moment, as the rhythm of the training yard thundered behind him and the cries of when he was a boy faded into the wind, Lucius felt the weight of the years press on his chest like a hand he could not swat away. He missed his brother. Nine years¡ªit had been nine years since he last saw him. A boy still, when they parted. Just past his twelfth year. Skinny, clever, wild-eyed with dreams that outpaced his legs. The kind of boy who believed that every hill was a kingdom and every cloud a ship. What was he now? Lucius could not say. Could not even be certain if he still breathed beneath the same sky. The road had carried Lucius far¡ªfrom mercenary bands to noble halls, to act in the shadow through smoke-choked battlefields and perfumed palaces where lies wore silk and smiled sweetly. He had taken on false names and real wounds. He had spilled blood and drank wine, and somehow the ache never dulled. The farther he went, the quieter it got¡ªlike the laughter of his brother had been left behind in a field somewhere, and no matter how many horses he rode or wars he fought, it wouldn¡¯t echo back. And his mother... He hadn¡¯t even gotten to say goodbye. He had no idea where she was now. Sold like he was ? Dead? Hidden in some nameless slum where even the sun dared not look? The silence where her voice once lived was a deeper pain¡ªbecause she would have waited for him. Of that, he was certain. He looked up. The sky above Arudonaven was washed in a thin grey veil, the kind that threatened neither storm nor peace. He let out a breath, slow and steady. Perhaps, he thought, when this is done... perhaps His Grace will help me find them. If I serve him well. If I burn this city just right. If I win. It was a foolish hope¡ªbut in truth, it was the only one he had left that still felt like it belonged to a human heart. So Lucius turned back toward the yard, toward the sound of order and steel and shouted names, and buried the ache deep beneath the mask of command. As always. After all, dreams were for those who could afford to sleep. And he still had a fire to build. Lucius didn¡¯t raise his head at the sound of approaching footsteps¡ªhe didn¡¯t need to. He knew that gait, light but rushed, a man still trying to sound important before he truly was. It was Ebran, the junior agent His Grace¡ªPrince Alpheo¡ªhad assigned to assist him on this long assignment behind enemy walls. Young, quick with a blade and quicker with his tongue, but still green. Far too green. Ebran came to a halt beside him, breathing only slightly heavy. "Two hundred and fifty, sir," he said with a half-smile, gesturing toward the yard below where ranks of newly raised recruits were being barked into formation. "That¡¯s what we¡¯ve scraped from this city. I¡¯ve overseen most of their training myself. Not bad, considering." Lucius said nothing. He simply let his eyes drift over the yard as the rhythmic thock of wooden spears striking shields played like a broken war drum. "Though¡ª" Ebran scoffed lightly, "¡ªI wouldn¡¯t trust half of them to stand in a proper shield wall. One fellow tried to catch the spear instead of dodging it. Another keeps sneezing from the leather polish. It¡¯s a joke, really. Lucky we won¡¯t need to actually fight with them." That made Lucius lift his gaze. He didn¡¯t turn, didn¡¯t frown. Just looked¡ªslowly. Ebran faltered under the weight of that glance. "...Sir?" Lucius¡¯s voice came low, quiet, sharp. "Best you not say such things where ears might be lurking. Especially when you¡¯re not clever enough to know whose ears they are." Ebran blinked, mouth opening then closing like a fish in cold water. "I¡ªI just meant¡ª" "I know what you meant," Lucius interrupted, still not looking at him fully. "And I¡¯m telling you not to mean it again." Silence stretched between them, broken only by the clang of training blades below. "These men," Lucius said finally, looking around, making sure they were alone, "may wear Orymus¡¯s colors now. But they¡¯ve already been raised, drilled, and hardened¡ªif only slightly¡ªunder our hands. They will be ready to serve His Grace when the time comes ." He turned fully now, and the breeze stirred his cloak as if to emphasize his words. "You think he sent us to raise a crop just to leave it for another man¡¯s harvest?" Ebran¡¯s lips parted again, but no words came. The younger man shifted on his feet, suddenly very aware of the weight of the city¡¯s high walls around them. Lucius stepped past him, then paused. "If you truly want to serve His Grace, Ebran," he said without looking back, "learn when to speak. And when to keep your damn mouth shut." Then, with that same calm ease he carried into every lie and every battlefield, Lucius strode down toward the yard¡ªtoward the soldiers who thought they served Orymus, and had no idea they were being shaped for another prince entirely. Lucius stood at the edge of the training yard, eyes scanning the rows of recruits one last time before he turned back toward Ebran. "We move tonight," Lucius said, voice flat and unceremonious. Ebran blinked. "Tonight?" Lucius nodded once. "The message has already been sent. His Grace knows. The Herculians are a week¡¯s march away now, further still by the time they realize anything¡¯s happened. They¡¯ve abandoned this city to Orymus like a rotted tooth left in the jaw." He let the words settle, heavy as iron. "Which means we can strike without fear of interruption." Ebran said nothing at first¡ªbut his silence spoke volumes. The faint flicker in his eyes, the way his fingers twitched slightly at his belt. He was hesitating. Lucius saw it. He snorted¡ªsharp, amused, disgusted all at once. "Gods above, is that doubt I see?" Ebran straightened. "No, I just¡ª" Lucius turned toward him fully now, the edge of his cloak catching in the breeze like a banner snapping before battle. His eyes glinted "We have one shot at this. One. We hold the most men in this city¡ªarmed, trained, and loyal to the gold His Grace sends, not the banner they fly. We have surprise. We have control of the gatehouse, and a third of the guard answers to us already. Orymus trusts you enough to let you inspect the inner wall. He let me train his garrison." His voice dropped to a near-whisper, deadly calm. "If you don¡¯t see the blade already at his throat, you¡¯re not fit to hold a dagger." Ebran opened his mouth again, fumbling for reassurance, but Lucius was already shaking his head. "In the future," Lucius said, "we¡¯ll face harder tasks than this. With fewer men. Worse odds. No sleep. No supplies. If this¡ªthis¡ªdaunts you, then you¡¯d best look for another line of work. There¡¯s no room for softness under His Grace. Not where we¡¯re going." "I¡¯m ready," Ebran said quickly, straightening again, this time more firmly. "I swear it." Lucius waved a dismissive hand. "Then don¡¯t swear. Prepare." He turned away, already walking toward the barracks. "If you¡¯ve got time to waste talking," he called back over his shoulder, "then you¡¯ve got time to get your gear." Lucius watched Ebran hurry off, his footsteps fading down the corridor like a breath swallowed by stone. The young man had promise, but promise was worth little in fire. Fire scorched away illusions. Fire revealed what one truly was. For a moment, Lucius remained still, letting the quiet settle around him. The flickering torches along the wall cast long shadows, and in those shadows, unbidden, came the memory. Marcus. The name drifted into his thoughts like a wisp of smoke from an old campfire. He hadn¡¯t thought of him in days. Lucius could still smell the damp pine of the woods where they¡¯d hidden with the bandits . He remembered the sound of wind in the trees, the crack of branches under hooves, And now? Lucius had been given a city to crack open like an egg. But Marcus... He clenched his jaw. Marcus had been sent into the heart of enemy lands, tasked with lighting fires from inside Yarzat¡¯s rebels belly. His task had no spears to command, no soldiers to train. Only shadows and secrets. And betrayal waiting at every turn. Chapter 535: Falling sword(2) Chapter 535: Falling sword(2) It was night in Arudonaven. The city slept beneath a sky of pale silver and restless clouds, its streets quiet save for the occasional creak of wooden shutters in the wind and the distant bark of a hungry dog. The fires in the towers burned low, their light barely brushing the narrow alleys, and the gates stood shut not from fear, but routine. The enemy was far, after all. There was no siege here¡ªno war drums or battering rams at the walls. The Herculeans had retreated like whipped dogs, and with them had gone the tension, the sleeplessness, the constant rhythm of marching boots and shouted orders. The city, lulled by the illusion of safety, had fallen into a kind of half-sleep, its vigilance thinned like watered wine. Lucius stood in the dark, cloaked and still as a stone. This was the hour he had been waiting for. A soldier¡¯s greatest ally wasn¡¯t steel or numbers, but complacency of the enemy . And tonight, Arudonaven gave him that gift with both hands. He had not called upon the city¡¯s recruits. No¡ªhe was no fool. The men trained in the light of day with Ebran¡¯s voice barking orders were of the city, born to its streets, still tied to it by blood and home and fear. They would not partecipate in the coup, but certainly they would not oppose the new regime once the deed was done. But his mercenaries? They would do what he told them . Blades-for-hire with no name but the one they used on contracts, no home but the campfire, and no god but gold. They obeyed him without question if he gave them the coin. Now they would bleed . For his grace. They were already in place. Hidden in the dark folds of the lower districts, tucked into courtyards, stables, cellars¡ªanywhere the city¡¯s flickering torchlight did not reach. There, they waited. No banners. No drums. Just cold steel and silence. Lucius ran a gloved hand across the edge of his cloak, his eyes scanning the narrow street ahead. Tonight, the false calm would end. The siege had not yet begun¡ªat least not in name. But in every other way, the fall of the city had already started. Orymus, for all his youth and inherited titles, had done exactly what Lucius hoped he would. With whispers of Herculean remnants and rebel sightings, the lordling had emptied the keep¡¯s halls to man the walls, spreading his sworn swords thin over ramparts and gatehouses. Even the knight, Agolonthios had been dispatched to patrol the outer perimeters as head of some force. That left only a maniple inside the keep. Fifty men, maybe sixty at best. Enough to hold a gate, not a fortress. And Lucius... Lucius remembered that keep all too well. It rose like a jagged tooth above the city¡¯s heart, squat but solid, its stone blackened in places from an older fire long faded. The last time he stood before it had been as a soldier in the ranks of Yarzat¡¯s host, when they¡¯d brought steel and flame to Arudonaven¡¯s doors. He had watched men die by the dozens trying to breach it. He remembered the way the stairways choked with bodies. How archers rained death from its upper turrets. How the very walls had seemed to bleed, not crumble. Small, yes. But stubborn. A good place to die, some had called it. A better place to hold. And that was the gamble. Lucius exhaled softly through his nose, scanning the dark. The outer walls were manned, the towers lit, the gatehouses watched¡ªbut the center was hollow. A beautiful mistake. One that Lucius intended to exploit fully before the dawn even brushed the horizon. -------------------------- He had already scattered his men like wolves among the sleeping streets. They clung to shadows, tucked in alley mouths and behind shuttered market stalls, every hand gripping a blade, every ear twitching for the signal. The final piece was simple. The keep¡¯s gate. A single open gate, and all the blood and smoke to follow would belong to someone else. And here, fate had granted him more than just a plan. It had granted him reputation. Lucius wasn¡¯t just another sword for hire within Arudonaven. No¡ªhe was the captain. The man Orymus had personally entrusted with the training of the city¡¯s levy. The man who walked the halls of the keep like he owned them. He approached the keep now with deliberate calm, his boots soft on the ancient stone, the moonlight cutting faint silver lines across the yard. The torches at the gate¡¯s flanks burned low, and two guards¡ªhalf-lulled by the night¡¯s stillness¡ªstood lazily at their posts. Their chatter, whatever foolish thing it had been about, died the moment they spotted him. "Stop right there!" One barked, hand going instinctively to his spear haft. "Captain Lucius¡¯¡¯ he said remembering the face¡¯¡¯ it¡¯s late¡ªwhat business may you have here?" Lucius didn¡¯t speak. He didn¡¯t need to. He inhaled, slow and steady, through his nose. Not just to breathe. To shift. To let the mask slide over his face. To become the man they knew His expression grew calm, his posture subtly changed. Not too stiff¡ªnot a soldier on edge. Just a leader with a purpose. Confident. Assured. The kind of man who belonged anywhere he chose to walk. And the moment held, thick and brittle. All he needed was a few more steps, a few more words. And the gate would open. With the pride of a man used to being obeyed¡ªand the steel-spined arrogance of someone who knew he must¡ªLucius stepped forward, chin held high, and announced in a tone that brooked no debate: "I have been summoned to speak with his lordship." The two guards stiffened like dogs hearing an unfamiliar step in the dark. One squinted, the other leaned slightly on his spear, both caught somewhere between suspicion and deference. "At this hour?" one muttered, glancing at the other. "I didn¡¯t see any messengers leave the keep," the other said under his breath. "You?" Lucius, already halfway past the torchlight, halted with a slow, theatrical sigh. "I don¡¯t have all night to answer foolish questions," he said with perfectly feigned irritation. "If you want to explain to Lord Orymus why I arrived late to a private summons, then by all means¡ªkeep me here." He turned, gesturing sharply to the two men flanking him. One of them, playing his part well, stepped forward, arms wrapped around a locked chest braced in polished iron¡ªheavy, mysterious, suggestive of weightier matters than common eyes should see. "The lord awaits," Lucius said, pointing at the chest, his voice dropping to a murmur laced with meaning. "And unless you want to be personally included in this conversation, I suggest you let me pass." The two guards hesitated. The older of them gave a slow, uncertain nod, his eyes darting from Lucius to the chest, and back again. He cleared his throat awkwardly and straightened his spine. "Of course, Captain," he said. "It¡¯s just... the hour, sir. I¡¯ll report your presence to his lordship. So that he may, ah... prepare proper accommodations for you." Lucius¡¯s eyes narrowed, cold and calm. "There is no need," he said smoothly. "As I told you¡ªI was called." "I... still must insist," the guard said, his tone softening in apology. "It is a late hour, Captain. We¡¯re under orders not to let anyone in without notice¡ªsurely you understand..." Lucius did not move. Not forward. Not back. Just stood there in silence, watching him like a man trying to decide if he was looking at a nail or a fly¡ªand whether it was worth crushing. Lucius exhaled¡ªlong, slow, exasperated¡ªas though the mere weight of dealing with incompetents threatened to crack his spine. "If you don¡¯t want me standing out here all night," he said coolly, "then kindly keep it up and send someone inside . The lord has little patience, and I¡¯ve got none left to borrow." The guards glanced at each other again, their shoulders loosening, tension leaking out like breath from a punctured wineskin. The older one even offered a tentative half-smile, taking a step toward the gate, clearly relieved that the situation had been resolved That, of course, was his mistake. Lucius took a step forward, then suddenly halted and tilted his head slightly. "But before you go in," he said, his voice dropping, almost casual, almost amused, "tell your friend over there that if he keeps glaring at me like that..." He raised a gloved hand and pointed just past the younger guard¡¯s shoulder. "...I¡¯ll have his eyes." The younger guard blinked, visibly startled, turning around to see who Lucius was speaking of. He never made it halfway through the turn. THWACK. A wet, muted sound¡ªlike a mallet sinking into ripe fruit. The hilt of a dagger jutted from under his jaw, rammed clean through the soft hinge of his mouth, pinning his tongue in place as blood fountained between his teeth in a gurgling choke. By the time the other guard reacted¡ªmouth just parting for a yell¡ªLucius¡¯s man had already dropped the "chest" with a thud that echoed in the silence. With the smooth, wordless rhythm of practice, he lunged, driving a dagger into the side of the guard¡¯s armpit, angling upward. The blow was surgical. The man went rigid, then slack, before he could even scream. His man caught his fall, cradling him like a brother, whispering in his ear as if this were some intimate mercy. He looked down at the two bodies twitching at his feet. The blood soaked into the gravel. The gate stood ahead. Open.... And not a single soul had yet raised the alarm. Lucius turned to his companion and spoke like he was ordering wine. "Get the others and for the love of the gods, tell Ebran to go ahead with his part and not fuck it up." The putsch had begun. Chapter 536: Falling sword(3) Chapter 536: Falling sword(3) They emerged like a curse given form¡ªone hundred and twenty silent wraiths in steel, blooming from the alleys and the gutters, from the places where honest men did not look. No war cries, no drumbeat of challenge. Only the whisper of boots on stone, the muted rasp of blades slipping free from leather, the creak of gambeson tightening over racing hearts. They moved as a single shadow, pouring through the unguarded gate like black water rushing a breach. The narrow approach to the keep swallowed them whole, their forms ducking beneath the torchlight¡¯s feeble grasp. What they lacked in the polished precision of royal troops, they made up for in the kind of ferocity only found in men who had learned war not on a drill field, but in the alleyways, the border skirmishes, the backroom murders. These were not soldiers. They were butchers. Had they faced Alpheo¡¯s veterans¡ªhardened ranks who slept with swords in hand¡ªthey would have broken like kindling. But fortune favored the wicked tonight. The men stationed here were garrison troops, half-trained and softer for it, their vigilance dulled by peace. For one fleeting, gilded moment, it seemed they might take the keep without a single alarm. That the world would wake to find the gates already sealed, the banners already changed. But silence is a fragile thing. The bell tolled. A single, shrieking note of bronze split the night¡ªhigh, frantic, the kind of sound that claws its way into the skull and lingers. The old alarm bell, rusted from disuse, now screamed like a slaughtered thing, its voice hurling itself at the stars. The keep convulsed awake. Torches flared along the parapets, their light swinging wildly as men stumbled from barracks, still buckling breastplates over sleep-shirts. Shouts tangled in the air¡ªquestions, curses, the raw panic of men who did not yet know the shape of their death. Steel rang as it was torn from scabbards in haste, edges catching the firelight like jagged teeth. Too late. Far too late. The walls fell first. Scarred mercenaries and hard-eyed killers swarmed the battlements, their boots finding purchase on aged stone. The handful of city guards stationed there barely had time to turn before the knives found them. One man fumbled for a fallen lance, only to jerk backward as two javelins punched through his chest, their iron tips glistening as they emerged from his back. Another swung a mace in a wild, desperate arc¡ªuntil a shield smashed into his jaw, followed by a headbutt that dropped him like a sack of grain, his skull cracking against the stone with a sound like splitting mortar. The courtyard was worse. A half-armored soldier lurched forward, sword raised, only to choke as a short blade slipped between his ribs. Another, better prepared, locked blades with one of Lucius¡¯s captains¡ªtheir struggle a whirl of gritted teeth and splattered blood, until the captain drove his dagger up beneath the man¡¯s chin. The body crumpled against a pillar, painting the stone in a wet, black streak. For a heartbeat, defiance flickered. An officer¡ªvoice raw with command¡ªmanaged to rally a dozen men atop a stone stair, his sword raised high. Then the javelin took him. The iron point erupted from his chest in a burst of crimson, the force lifting him onto his toes before he toppled backward, his body rolling down the steps like a broken doll. The men around him scattered, their courage unraveling like old rope. And through it all, Lucius walked. He moved through the carnage as if it were nothing more than a stroll through his own gardens, his expression unreadable. Shadows bent around him. Steel sang in his wake. The keep¡ªancient, proud, built to withstand armies¡ªtrembled beneath the weight of betrayal, its stones drinking the blood of men who had sworn to defend them. The chaos behind him¡ªthe clamor of steel, the cries of dying men, the thunder of boots scrambling across the walls¡ªwas beneath his notice. His gaze remained fixed ahead, cold and steady, as if the path through the keep were nothing more than a stroll through a market square. He walked not like a man amid treachery and war, but like one who owned the place¡ªand was only now coming to collect. Behind him, thirty warriors followed in silence, their footfalls echoing through the high stone corridors like a second, quieter heartbeat to the violence outside. Their faces were grim beneath helmets and cloaks, weapons slick with the blood of guards who had stood between them and destiny. Lucius paid no heed to the dying clamor beyond the inner courtyard. The metallic song of blades, the wet thud of bodies hitting stone¡ªit was all just noise now. The outer walls had fallen with the ease of rotted timber, surprise and savagery doing their work before the defenders could even string their bows. Momentum had taken over. Fear had done the rest. His gaze locked onto the door before him¡ªa heavy, iron-bound monstrosity of oak. The last barrier. The final threshold. Beyond it lay the inner sanctum. The chambers of command. The golden goose. The door, predictably, had been sealed the instant the alarm bell shattered the night. Barred, braced, likely with every piece of furniture they could shove against it. A desperate act. A futile one. Lucius paused before it, tilting his head slightly, as if listening for some secret whispered through the grain. Then, almost idly, he drew his sword¡ªa long, wicked thing, its edge dull in the torchlight but its point needle-sharp. He tapped the flat of the blade against the door twice. Clink. Clink. A craftsman testing his material. A hunter prodding a snare. He turned, his voice flat, devoid of fire or fury. "Smash it." No grand pronouncement. No rallying cry. Just an order, given with the same disinterest as a man requesting his boots be cleaned. Two warriors stepped forward, dragging a compact battering ram between them¡ªno ceremonial piece, just a thick log of blackened oak, its iron-capped head on the front poised for the hit. Lucius took a single step back, his eyes flicking once to the high window above the door. No arrows. No pleas. No last-ditch offers of negotiation. Just silence. It doesn¡¯t matter who¡¯s inside, he mused, resting the tip of his sword against the floor, his arms folded. Kings or cooks, they all scream the same when the door comes down. BOOM. The first strike hit like a landslide. The door shuddered, its hinges screaming, the wood groaning as if in pain. Dust rained from the archway above, the very stone trembling under the force. Somewhere inside, a voice shouted¡ªthin, panicked. Lucius smirked. "Again." His tone was bored. A man ordering another round of ale. BOOM. This time, the sound of splintering wood joined the thunderous impact. A crack split the door¡¯s center, a jagged black line running from lintel to threshold. The voices beyond rose in pitch¡ªcommands, curses, the frantic scrape of furniture being dragged, of blades being drawn in trembling hands. Lucius exhaled through his nose, rolling his sword lazily between his fingers. Behind him, the battle sounds were fading. The outer yard had gone quiet. The walls were his. The defenders were corpses or cowards now. Only this last pocket remained. He leaned against the cold stone of the archway, casting a glance at the ram team. They were sweating, breathing hard, but their eyes were bright with the same fever that had driven them through the night. His thoughts drifted, just for a moment, to Ebran. The boy should be finishing up by now. Ebran had the simpler task¡ªcleanup. The traitor knight who had handed them the city on a silver platter was holed up in some crumbling manor, guarded by a handful of loyal fools. A quick knife in the dark. A body dumped in a ditch. If he can¡¯t handle that, he shouldn¡¯t be in this line of work. BOOM. The door buckled inward, its central beam snapping like a bone. A gaping wound now split its face, darkness pooling beyond. The ram team stepped back, chests heaving, waiting. Lucius pushed off the wall. "Again." This time, he didn¡¯t just say it. He felt it. This wasn¡¯t just a door. It was the last veil between him and the prize. The final gasp of a dying regime. When it fell, he wouldn¡¯t just be stepping into a room. He¡¯d be stepping into power. The ram drew back. The night held its breath. Then¡ª CRACK¡ªCRASH! The door splintered apart with a final, deafening snap, the wooden beams giving way in a cloud of dust and shattered iron. A portion of the frame collapsed inward, and the battered gates of the keep swung open like the jaws of a dying beast. The force of the final blow had sent those behind it stumbling forward¡ªa few servants who¡¯d been foolish or unlucky enough to brace the door were flung into the hall. They fell in twisted heaps, limbs flailing, eyes wide with panic. Lucius¡¯ men surged through like a flood of iron and blood. The clash of steel followed¡ªquick, brutal, efficient. The servants didn¡¯t scream for long. One of the warriors raised his sword high, ready to bring it down on a dazed kitchen boy who had crawled to a corner, hands raised in silent terror. "Stop." The voice sliced through the noise sharper than any blade. Lucius stepped into the hall with the measured gait of a man on a hunt, not a sprint. His cloak fluttered behind him, his boots clicking softly on the tile slick with blood. The warrior hesitated mid-swing, then backed away without a word. Lucius walked up to the trembling figure on the ground¡ªa boy no older than sixteen, dressed in stained linen, his face dirtied with soot and fear. The lad looked up at him like one might look at a wolf deciding whether or not to bite. Lucius crouched slowly, the leather of his gloves creaking as he rested one hand on his knee. "You," he said, voice like warm oil. "Do you know where the royal chambers are?" The boy nodded frantically, too terrified to speak. Lucius tilted his head, then smiled "Congratulations twat! You just bought your life." He reached out and grabbed the boy by the arm, hauling him upright with surprising strength. "Walk," he said. "Lead the way." The boy¡¯s legs nearly gave out beneath him, but Lucius steadied him with an iron grip on his shoulder and gave him a gentle, almost paternal shove forward. Behind them, the thunder of boots echoed through the hall as the rest of Lucius¡¯ men poured into the keep, spreading like wildfire, blades ready and eyes alert, ready to tighten the noose on the dying beast. Chapter 537: Falling sword(4) Chapter 537: Falling sword(4) Lucius moved through the corpse-strewn halls of the keep with the grace of a pride surveying conquered territory Behind him, his mercenaries fanned out like shadows given form¡ªbloodied, breathless, but excited in their victory. The trembling kitchen boy leading them skittered ahead like a startled hare, his wide eyes darting between every archway and alcove. A rat knew its own maze best. Yet even with their guide, the silence gnawed at Lucius. No last desperate charge. No final rallying cry. Just the occasional corpse slumped against the wall, their lifeblood pooling in the grooves between stones. The absence of resistance was louder than any battle cry. They¡¯ve turtled, Lucius mused, his fingers drumming idly against the pommel of his sword. Hunkered down in some last choke point, betting everything on a bottleneck. He could already picture it¡ªsome narrow passage near the lord¡¯s chambers, where a handful of desperate men could hold back an army, forcing attackers to die three at a time in a grinder of steel and flesh. A noble last stand. A fool¡¯s gambit. But Lucius wasn¡¯t worried about the choke point. He was worried about the other possibility. Keeps like these¡ªold, proud, built by lords who valued survival over honor¡ªalways had secrets. A postern gate hidden behind a tapestry. A wine cellar with a door that led nowhere official. A tunnel, forgotten by all but the rats and the ruling family, dug for nights exactly like this one. If he were a lord, he¡¯d have ensured an escape route. And if such a route existed here? Then the prize¡ªthe true prize¡ªmight already be slipping through his fingers. The city was his. The walls had fallen. The garrison was broken. But letting the old turncloak¡¯s whelp vanish into the night? That would turn victory into vexation. He didn¡¯t just want conquest. He wanted theater. A spectacle of chains and submission, a lesson carved into the world¡¯s memory. And for that, he needed the lord. Lucius paused beneath the arched entrance to the great hall, his breath curling in the cold air. Behind him, his men halted¡ªnot out of fear, but something quieter. Awe, perhaps. Or the instinctive reverence of killers standing in a place that had outlived kings. The hall was a relic of another age. Filigree of tarnished bronze curled through the stone like vines of frozen lightning. The vaulted ceiling loomed overhead, its murals flaking but still grand¡ªgods and battles rendered in pigments that had dulled with time. Once, this place had thrummed with feasts and intrigue. Now, it stood as empty as a tomb. Lucius smirked. "Opulence," he murmured, dragging a gloved finger along the cold stone. "Just empty opulence" His voice barely carried, yet it seemed to slither into every corner of the hall, a verdict delivered by the silence itself. He stepped forward, his boots now striking the marble with deliberate force¡ªeach echo a hammerfall, a countdown. His men lingered at the threshold, as if sensing that this moment was not theirs to share. The last time Lucius had stood in this city, he¡¯d been one of a thousand faceless swords. Now he walked in it as a conqueror And then, as he rounded the final curve of corridor, he found it¡ªhis golden goose. A knot of spears and iron will. Thirty men, give or take, jammed tight into the final hallway before the lord¡¯s chambers. Shields locked. Spears leveled. Helms glinting dully in the torchlight. They looked like a wall built from old pride, each man wedged in by desperation and duty. There was no shouting, no grand declarations. Just silence¡ªand the cold determination of men who knew they were going to die and chose to do so standing. Lucius stopped, studying them with the detached calm of a craftsman surveying his final cut. There it is, he thought. The last teeth of the beast. He raised a hand, palm low and flat. His men froze behind him, halting at precisely ten meters¡ªno clatter, no confusion. Clean. Controlled. The defenders didn¡¯t move. But Lucius could feel their eyes¡ªsharp, suspicious, angry. A few of them recognized him. He saw it in the way their jaws clenched, how their grips tightened. They may not have known his name, but they had seen his face before. In backroom betrayals. In sieges. In the fall of friends. Lucius let the silence hang. Then, casually, as if selecting a wine from a rack, he stepped forward¡ªone, two, three deliberate strides. He turned slightly and flicked a hand. One of his men, tall and built like a wall of oak, stepped forward and wordlessly offered his shield. Lucius took it without looking. "Last thing I need," he muttered, slipping his arm through the straps, "is for some glory-starved oaf to open my throat with a lucky throw." The shield was heavy, well-worn¡ªprobably taken from one of the city¡¯s own guards earlier that night. He tapped the base of it against the stone once. The sound rang out like a war drum, low and final. Ahead, the defenders stiffened, the line bracing. Spears lowered an inch. Neither side moved. The tension in the corridor coiled tighter with each breath. The torches on the wall hissed and sputtered like they too felt the weight of what was coming. Lucius tilted his head slightly, studying the faces behind the wall of steel. So many young ones. Some barely men. One looked as though he still had peach fuzz clinging to his jaw. And yet they stood. They waited. Loyal to the last. He gave them that, at least. Loyalty was a rare thing. Priceless, really. And utterly useless tonight. Lucius stood motionless in the torch-lit corridor, his breath slow, measured. The air here was thick¡ªnot just with the scent of oiled leather and cold stone, but with the copper-sharp promise of blood yet to be spilled. The quiet before the storm. Then he spoke. "Lord Orymus." His voice cut through the dark like a knife through silk¡ªnot raised, not strained, but carrying with the effortless weight of a man who had long since stopped asking for things and started taking them. "Are you there?"he called again, tilting his head slightly, as if listening for the scuttle of rats in the walls."Or have your men already dragged you down into some bolt-hole, hoping the shadows will spare you?" The words hung in the air, their echo slithering down the passageway like a dying man¡¯s last breath. For a moment, there was nothing. Just the distant moan of wind against the keep¡¯s outer walls, the faint creak of armor as men shifted their weight. Then¡ª "You." The voice that answered was rough as gravel, bitter as old wine left to sour. It came from behind the shield wall, from the dark at the corridor¡¯s end. "You treacherous bastard. You snake. You turned your cloak faster than a whore drops her skirts for silver." Lucius chuckled¡ªa low, dark sound, like the rumble of distant thunder. Not mocking. Not angry. Amused, if anything. The sound of a man who had waited a long time to watch this particular fire catch. He took a single step forward, the torchlight catching the cold gleam in his eyes, the faint, knife-edge curve of his mouth. "Turned cloak?" he repeated, shaking his head as if disappointed by the simplicity of the insult. "How can I be a turn-cloak if I never wore one? I was never yours to begin with. Nor Lechlian¡¯s. Nor any man¡¯s but His Grace¡¯s." He began to pace, slow and deliberate, his boots whispering against the stone. His voice was calm, almost conversational, but it carried¡ªeach word a hammer driving nails into a coffin. "This city¡ªyour precious city, as you¡¯ve so proudly called it¡ªwas never yours. It belonged to the Crown before your father spat on his oaths and called it ¡¯rebellion.¡¯It was conquered by force of arms, than lost by treachery. And tonight..." He stopped. Let his gaze drift over the line of spears, the battered shields, the faces of men who knew they were already dead. "Tonight, it goes back through treachery" A ripple passed through the defenders. A tightening of grips. A shifting of weight. Lucius saw it¡ªthe doubt, the fear, the slow, creeping realization that they were not just outnumbered, but outplayed. He smiled. "The gates are ours. The walls are ours. Your precious knight-captain? He¡¯s already feeding the crows. " A shrug."You are alone ...¡¯¡¯ He raised a single finger, pointing past the spears, past the defiance, to where he knew Orymus stood in the dark. Not a threat. A verdict. "You are the last flicker of a candle that¡¯s already burned out. The last gasp of a house that¡¯s already fallen." He lowered his hand. The gesture was final. Not dramatic. Just true. For a long moment, the only sound was the hiss of torches, their flames bending as if straining to hear what came next. Lucius tilted his head slightly, his voice dropping to something almost gentle. "I won¡¯t lie to you, my lord. There are only two paths left to you now." Another step forward. Close enough now that the men in the shield wall could see the ice in his gaze. "In chains... or in pieces." He let the words settle. Let them sink into the stone, into the marrow of every man standing against him. Then, softer, as if offering advice to a doomed friend: "Choose chains, and His Grace may be merciful. He spared your brother and sisters, didn¡¯t he?Whosays that he won¡¯t be mercuful again if you surrender?" A pause. A breath. "But this is the last choice you¡¯ll ever make, my lord. The last one that will matter." Then silence. Ten heartbeats. Twenty. Lucius didn¡¯t move. Didn¡¯t blink. He stood like a statue carved from patience itself, watching the flicker of torchlight on the defenders¡¯ faces¡ªseeing the doubt, the fear, the slow erosion of resolve. Thirty. Forty. Fifty. Not a twitch of impatience. Let the lord stew. Let him choke on his pride. Let him dig through every hollow corner of his courage and find it empty. Finally¡ª "I choose steel." The words were raw, ragged. Defiant to the last. Lucius didn¡¯t react. Didn¡¯t flinch. He simply exhaled, long and slow, as if releasing a breath he¡¯d been holding for years. "So be it," he murmured, almost kindly. "Then may you die well. A good death is the last gift any of us can hope for tonight." He turned, walking back to his men with the same measured calm. Behind him, steel whispered from scabbards¡ªa chorus of blades bared in perfect unison, like a serpent uncoiling to strike. The silence shattered. And death stepped forward. And so the last ember of a house that had existed for more than a century extinguished itself in a single night, simply from the crimes and ambitions of one single man, whose faults now followed his son. Chapter 538: Winning without raising steel (1) Chapter 538: Winning without raising steel (1) Four days had passed since the blood had soaked the earth outside Aracina, and the army of Yarzat now marched toward Bracum¡ªslow, steady, but with the kind of vigor that only victory could bring. There was no fear in their steps. No trembling hands clutching weapons in the cold of uncertainty. Instead, the air around them seemed to pulse with something more vibrant, more dangerous: elation. The men marched with the confidence of gods walking among mortals, as if the gods themselves had finally decided to favor Yarzat. And why not? They had just crushed the Prince of Oizen¡¯s army in a night raid so brutal that even the shadows had run from the bloodshed. To say the victory had lifted their spirits would be an understatement¡ªit had sent their spirits soaring. Every soldier had been richly rewarded. The city of Aracina had been a banquet, a celebration disguised as relief. Soldiers roamed the streets like conquering lords, fattened with plunder and flush with pride. The whores had never worked so hard. And why should they? They were the lucky ones¡ªseizing their chance, knowing that gold in a soldier¡¯s pocket meant good business, at least until they could drink, fuck, and sleep off their winnings. But not all of it went to the taverns, nor to the fleshy arms of Aracina¡¯s ladies. Alpheo had made sure of that. A good portion of the loot, actualy most of it ¡ªparticularly that from the royal tents of the perished Oizenian prince ¡ªwas already on its way back to the capital. No one in the army doubted that their prince knew the value of a crown¡¯s worth of treasures, but he also knew the dangers of carrying that kind of wealth around in a war zone. So the wagons had rolled out, making their way back to the capital, where they would be stored until the war was over. Despite the joy in the air, Alpheo¡¯s thoughts drifted elsewhere when they came close to the capital . He couldn¡¯t help but wonder how Basial and Jasmine were faring. That concern soon gave way to a nagging suspicion that gnawed at the back of his mind. The army was drawing closer to the capital, and as night fell, his worst fears were realized. It started with whispers in the darkness¡ªfootsteps too quiet, movements too furtive. Then, a shout. A soldier had spotted them. A group of deserters, mostly some levies from the capital, attempting to slip away in the cover of night, their bags heavy with loot from the battle and of course something more. It seemed that the night they had made their escape, they had raided the tents of their comrades. It was theft, plain and simple. And in an army there was no greater sin that to let down one¡¯s comrades The deserters were caught before they could get far, their stolen treasures still clutched in their hands. They were dragged to the front of the camp, eyes wide with panic as the soldiers gathered around, murmuring angrily. Without a word, the soldiers went to work, applying the usual punishment for desertion. The captives were dragged to nearby trees, their hands nailed to the rough bark, forced into agonizing positions, where they would stand until death would claim then. A death that would come much later. When the camp broke and the army marched forward, Alpheo gave them no heed, no pity for them,as no man would feel gave any to the dead ants he found on the road. On a more positive note instead, for the next three days, there were no more deserters. Not a single man tried to flee. ---------------------- They were currently three days away from Bracum , and of course the necessary preparation were needed to be made, which Alpheo was currently in whilst of doing. He sat at the head of a small, dimly lit table. This was his preferred setting¡ªintimate, private, with only the most trusted members of his retinue around him. The noise of the larger war councils, filled with noble bickering and naive ideas, was a thing of the past. It had taken him some time to realize that such gatherings, with all their pomp and decorum, were often more about status than strategy. Noblemen, especially those who had never got their boot in shit, loved to pontificate. They bickered over matters of pride, while Alpheo¡¯s mind was focused solely on the war at hand. The larger council meetings had been a mess¡ªhe had learned that quickly. A gathering of nobles would often devolve into squabbling over trivial matters. As much as the nobles tried to assert their importance, their opinions were frequently uninformed, naive, and impractical. They didn¡¯t speak of the logistics of supply lines, the exhaustion of their troops, or how to move to get the best out of the situation. To Alpheo, those were the things that mattered. The things that made him different from other. So now, he chose a different path. A war meeting, not with pomp and circumstance, but with those whose judgment he trusted. His commanders, his closest advisors¡ªmen who had proven their mettle in battle, men who didn¡¯t just speak of war but understood it in the marrow of their bones. This was how he would contribute to the war effort. This was how he would lead. A sharp crack echoed in the chamber as Alpheo¡¯s rod snapped down on the map, the tip tapping twice against the ink-ringed shape of Bracum. Dust danced from the parchment as the stick traced a deliberate circle around the besieged city, drawing all eyes inward. The room went still. "With the Oizenians trampled into the dirt," Alpheo began, his voice calm but iron-laced, "all that remains are two thorns. One to the north¡ªour dear rebels¡ªand the other, curled up here..." he rapped the rod once more, "the Herculeians choking Lord Xanthios¡¯ fief." He glanced around the table, watching for any flicker of dissent. "I trust," he said slowly, "no one here finds that choice... unproductive?" Silence answered him. Not a twitch, not a murmur. Just the soft creak of armor as men leaned in over the map. Of course no one disagreed. The Herculeians were the softer fruit¡ªscouts had put their numbers just shy of two thousand. Half-starved, tired, and with their backs on a victory they had achieved through just threachers . The Oizenians were a different breed¡ªbetter supplied, dug in, but of course complacent in their position, hence how they winded up smashed against Alpheo¡¯s heels. But these Herculeians? They were a winded dog waiting to be kicked. Still, Alpheo didn¡¯t smile. He didn¡¯t believe in easy fights. "I know what some of you are thinking," he said, eyes narrowing. "That this¡¯ll be a stomp. A march, a clash, a feast. Maybe you¡¯re right. But let me make something perfectly clear¡ª" he leaned forward, his knuckles pressing into the table, "¡ªwe are not about to sit on our laurels like a gaggle of fat noblemen farting in their bathwater." A few stifled laughs. "When a man stops getting better," Alpheo went on, tapping his temple with the rod, "he stops being good.Remember that." He let the weight of it settle. "We got here¡ªhere¡ªnot because our enemies were weak, but because they were lazy. Because they thought they could do less and still win. That is not a mistake I will make. Nor any of you, if you value your place in this army." He stepped back from the table, leaving the map trembling slightly under the imprint of his words. "So we hit them hard, we hit them smart, and we hit them with everything we have. No glory-chasing. No mercy. And no gods-damned surprises." Jarza looked up from the map, his weather-worn face poised ahead , and met Alpheo¡¯s gaze with a glint of dry amusement in his eyes. "You don¡¯t have to tell us," he said, his voice rough and steady. "We know the mistakes that handed us the day." No edge, no challenge¡ªjust the kind of hard truth only men who¡¯d bled together could share. Around the tent, a few heads dipped in silent agreement. Alpheo gave a slow nod. "I know. But it doesn¡¯t hurt to say it out loud." He let his hand drift over the map between them. "Half the army¡¯s backbone is sitting in this tent. And pride..." He gave a faint, crooked smile. "Pride¡¯s got a way of whispering when no one¡¯s listening." Before the weight of it could settle, Egil leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his broad chest, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth."Aye? If we¡¯re handing out blame for pride, you can start¡ªand end¡ªwith that bastard over there."He jerked a thumb toward Alpheo, laughing. "Save the rest of us the guilt.Pride can only come through achievments after all....." A ripple of chuckles broke the tension, but Alpheo didn¡¯t laugh. Not right away. His brow furrowed slightly, not from offense¡ªbut something deeper. Something heavier. "If that were true," Alpheo said, voice quieter now, "then three years ago we¡¯d have crushed the Oizenians under Arkawatt... even without Asag holding their knights off with nothing but grit and pikes." The laughter faded, leaving behind something sharper. "If that were true," he went on, turning to Egil, "then we wouldn¡¯t have needed you riding back through the fire at the Bleeding Plains to break the Herculeians before they rolled up our flank." Egil¡¯s smile faded, a hand coming up to scratch at his jaw, suddenly very interested in the floor. "And if it were true..." Alpheo placed both palms flat on the table, voice low and steady, "I¡¯d still be here, fighting every season¡ªwithout the lot of you carving the fat off my plans before I bled for them." His eyes flicked to Jarza. "And without Jarza filling in the parts I was too damned blind to see." Jarza said nothing, but his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. That was answer enough.The air shifted. Heavier now. Not with fear or duty¡ªbut with something better. Trust. The kind of trust that only comes from shared scars and nights when death had seemed so close you could hear it breathing. Alpheo broke the silence with a faint smirk, tapping the map with two fingers."Careful," he said, voice light again, "pride¡¯s starting to slither back in." A low rumble of laughter followed, warmer this time¡ªeasier. "Best we get back to it," Alpheo added, straightening. "Before we start carving statues of ourselves and arguing about who gets the biggest sword.I want your thoughts," he said, serious again. "We¡¯re three days out. How do we press this? I know what I think¡ªbut I want to hear from you first." The tent fell into a thoughtful silence as all eyes dropped to the map. The markings were clear enough¡ªBracum to the north, the Herculeian forces dug outside of it, between the approaching army and the city itself. Simple... perhaps too simple. Brows furrowed. Fingers hovered above the parchment. No one spoke, not out of uncertainty in their competence, but because the problem looked almost insultingly easy¡ªand that was often where the knife was hidden. It was Asag who finally gave voice to it, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. "It¡¯s not that we don¡¯t know what to do," he said slowly. "It¡¯s that we¡¯re struggling to believe it¡¯s that straightforward." He jabbed a thick finger toward the inked outline of Bracum. "They¡¯re penned between us and the city. If we time it right, the garrison pushes from the inside while we strike from the other side . Classic pincer. They¡¯re stuck." The others exchanged glances.The all thought of that but was it really that simple? Alpheo clicked his tongue and gave them a look that was half amusement, half exasperation. "Look again," he said, tapping the map with his rod. "They¡¯ve offered themselves up like a roast on a silver platter. You just need to open your eyes and broaden your horizon to the whole map and not just at where the enemy is." The room grew quiet again as every head bent forward, eyes narrowing, fingers tracing lines in the dirt of strategy that they were apparently missing. Chapter 539: Winning without raising steel(2) Chapter 539: Winning without raising steel(2) The silence had settled thickly, like dust in a forgotten room. The men sat still, their gazes fixed on the map sprawled across the table, but their minds clearly not keeping pace. Alpheo didn¡¯t rush them¡ªhe simply watched, fingers drumming once on the wood, his rod resting idle by his hand. These were his finest men, his most trusted, the ones who could usually read between lines with him. But tonight, the spark hadn¡¯t quite caught. A minute passed. Then another. Alpheo blinked slowly, then sighed¡ªnot out of frustration, but resignation. Perhaps he hadn¡¯t nudged them hard enough. "They¡¯ve positioned themselves," he said quietly, voice slicing through the stillness, "in the perfect way to be entrapped." Several heads turned. Confused glances passed. A few eyes darted toward the edge of the map, then back to the center. "Under normal eyes their position can be regarded as standard and normal ," Alpheo continued, standing straighter. "But there¡¯s a flaw. When a man rests his back against a wall, he believes he¡¯s safe. He convinces himself that the only danger lies ahead of him." He paused, letting the weight of the words settle. "But what he forgets¡ªwhat they¡¯ve forgotten¡ªis that a wall can be climbed... or better yet, it can be ignored altogether." He picked up his rod and slowly began to trace the expected path¡ªstraight and true, a direct march to the Herculeian position. Then, halfway through, he curved it. The rod slid east, then dipped behind the enemy formation, taking an indirect, wide arc, before settling just ahead of the city. At first, the silence deepened. Some of them squinted. Others frowned, heads tilting like dogs trying to understand a new command. But then, gradually, the expressions around the table began to shift. Jarza leaned in, brows narrowing. Egil¡¯s mouth curled into the beginnings of a grin. Asag¡¯s fingers twitched toward tracing the path Alpheo had just made. One by one, the gears began to click, slow at first, then faster. They saw it. Not just the maneuver, but the implication. They would be sorrounded pressed between the garrison and Alpheo¡¯s force, with no room to flee, with their only road back to safety cut off. Of course there was only one problem, they were to march straight into enemy-held territory. Asag¡¯s brow furrowed as he leaned over the map, eyes locked on the line Alpheo¡¯s rod had traced just moments ago. "That path," he said, voice low and grounded, "would take us straight through Arduronaven." The others looked up. "That fortress is under Herculeian control," Asag continued, tapping the location with a calloused finger. "Even if we ignore the matter of supplies¡ªwhich, granted, we¡¯ve more than enough for¡ªtheir watchmen would see us long before we¡¯re in position. Their scouts, their towers..." He shook his head. "We¡¯d risk being spotted too early. Instead of springing a trap, we might march straight into one. They¡¯d have time to move. Time to counter. Gods forbid, time to flip the pincer back on us." A murmur passed through the tent. Even Egil, who had started to grin at Alpheo¡¯s earlier words, now leaned back in his seat, arms crossed tight in thought. It was true¡ªon the surface, Alpheo¡¯s proposed route was reckless, even absurd. Moving through enemy-held territory, through a known stronghold no less, was the opposite of subtle. For a man who had made misdirection and unseen movement into an art, it seemed... uncharacteristic. But Alpheo didn¡¯t flinch. Didn¡¯t speak. His fingers gently tapped the map, just once, right over the fortress in question. "This is why speed will be our strength," he said, tapping the map again for emphasis. "We won¡¯t give them the luxury of preparation. If we sever their lines of communication before they know what¡¯s happening, we can complete the maneuver without them realizing we were ever there." He turned slightly, his gaze falling on Egil. "And that part falls to you. You and your riders. I don¡¯t need perfection¡ªjust silence. Keep word from flowing out of Arduronaven, and by the time Lechlian realizes we¡¯ve moved, it¡¯ll be too damn late. Their road to safety will be behind our spears." The mood in the room shifted as heads nodded slowly, the map now looking less like a tangle of roads and walls, and more like a snare tightening with precision. "And if that¡¯s not convincing enough," Alpheo went on, "there¡¯s something else." He looked up, his expression calm but sharp, eyes cutting like a blade through the haze of doubt. "We have men already inside the Lechlian camp. A force¡ªnot massive, but well-placed, loyal, and waiting. They¡¯ve been lying quiet, hiding in plain sight. All they need is to see our banner on the hill, and they¡¯ll rise. And when they do, the Herculeians won¡¯t know who to strike¡ªbecause the blow will already be coming from every side." He let that sit for a breath, then leaned back, folding his arms. "I don¡¯t want to just defeat them," he said quietly, but with that iron conviction only true strategists carried. "I want to erase them. This army of theirs, this last desperate swing¡ªthey scraped the rusted gears of their nation just to make it move. My contacts in the capital confirmed it. This is everything they have left. And if we crush them here..." He smiled, cold and thin. "Then the Herculeians won¡¯t rise again. Not for a long, long time." The moment stretched, then cracked open like thunder. Eyes around the table widened¡ªnot in disbelief, but realization. The pieces fit. The maneuver was risky, yes, but with the information Alpheo had just revealed, it was more than feasible¡ªit was brutal genius. They weren¡¯t threading a needle anymore; they were setting the table for a feast, and the Herculeians were the meat. Alpheo smiled, a quiet satisfaction curling on his lips. Everything was aligning. The hours of scrutiny, , the careful cultivation of contacts within the enemy¡¯s ranks¡ªit was all falling into place like a divine design. Except, of course, he didn¡¯t know it had all been completely pointless. A storm was galloping toward him¡ªnot from the north, not from the Herculeians, but in the form of a folded piece of paper carried by muddy boots. The tent flap shifted, pushed inward by a thick hand. Vrosk entered, massive and square-shouldered, clad in the red and silver of the Royal Guard, uniforms made especially for his bodyguard unit . "Your grace he said, voice low but urgent. "A rider just arrived. He carries a letter." Alpheo¡¯s brow rose. "Does it bear the star?" Vrosk nodded once. "If it didn¡¯t, I wouldn¡¯t have let him ride that close." The "star" was simple¡ªa silver mark at the top of a letter, subtle to most eyes, but to those in the know, it shouted: Read this before you breathe again. Without another word, Alpheo stretched out his hand. "Then bring it to me." He didn¡¯t know yet, but the moment he opened that letter, his plan, was about to tilt. Alpheo broke the seal with a flick of his thumb, the wax cracking like a whisper of doom. He unfolded the parchment and read in silence, eyes scanning the inked words as the room held its breath. Then¡ªhe smiled. It wasn¡¯t the victorious grin of a general with a plan confirmed, nor the proud smirk of a man proven right. No, it was the bewildered, almost amused smile of someone who had just spent an hour building a siege engine to knock down a wall that no longer existed. The tension around the table snapped taut. Egil leaned forward, squinting. "Is that... good news?" Alpheo chuckled, folding the letter in half and resting it gently on the table like a priest laying down a final sermon. "Depends how you look at it." He sighed¡ªlong and deep¡ªrubbing the bridge of his nose as the absurdity of it all settled in. "Turns out all that thinking, all those lovely mental cartwheels I just forced you through... pointless." "What?" Jarza asked, his voice low and sharp. "What do you mean?" "They¡¯re not in Bracum," Alpheo said, looking up at them with a helpless shrug. "They¡¯ve gone. Back to their lands. Tails tucked between their legs." A stunned silence followed. "They didn¡¯t even bother holding the siege. Packed up and left two nights ago, according to the same individuals that would have risen for us in battle .Not a fight, not a word. Nothing." Jarza blinked. "So... they just gave up?" "Looks like it," Alpheo said, leaning back in his chair, letting the absurdity settle over him like a blanket. "No great encirclement. No bold maneuver. No pincer strike. Just a ghost siege, gone in the night." Egil whistled low. "Well... guess they spared us the trouble." "Indeed," Alpheo muttered. "Their end will wait a few more years, I think. They¡¯ve bought themselves time¡ªbut little else." He glanced back down at the folded letter, the grin returning, wry and tired. "Still... would¡¯ve been a damn beautiful trap." Alpheo¡¯s eyes lingered on the folded letter a moment longer before he spoke again, his tone shifting into something sharper, more wry. "Well," he said, tapping the letter with a finger, "there is a silver lining¡ªif you squint hard enough." The others looked up, curiosity flickering in their expressions. "It seems our little friends in disguise," he continued, "the ones planted in Lechlian¡¯s camp, didn¡¯t go to waste after all. Before the Herculeians retreated, they were transferred out of Bracum¡ªto Arduronaven." He let that name hang in the air for a moment, watching the recognition light up in their faces. "And according to this," he said, waving the letter, "by the time this parchment touched our fingers, the city should already be in our hands." A collective blink passed through the table. Alpheo exhaled, long and slow, the kind of sigh that came with victory earned through chaos rather than planning. Jarza leaned in, voice dry. "So... what now?" Alpheo gave a small smirk, sitting up straighter in his chair. "Well, we had three enemies," he said, raising three fingers. "One we broke in the field. One turned tail and ran. And the last?" He closed his fist. "Still breathing. Still kicking. But alone." He looked around the table, eyes glinting. "Not much of an enigma, is it?" A few chuckles rumbled from the others, but Alpheo was already turning toward a nearby satchel for ink and parchment. "I¡¯ll write to Lord Xanthios," he said, dipping a quill. "Have him accept the city¡¯s surrender on our behalf¡ªnothing too flashy, but make sure they know which flag to raise. And once that¡¯s done..." He looked back up, his voice steady, purposeful. "...he¡¯ll meet us in Bracum, and from there, we¡¯ll march. With every sword, spear, and breath we have left. One last time¡ªstraight to the last ember of this cursed war." The fire in the room flared again. The war might¡¯ve twisted, turned, and surprised them at every corner¡ªbut now, at last, its end loomed. And Alpheo intended to be the one to snuff it out. He had after all some favors to pay back. Chapter 540: Alone and divided Chapter 540: Alone and divided This was not how it was supposed to go. That singular thought echoed in the minds of the men now gathered in grim silence¡ªmen once hailed as the architects of rebellion. They were lords of ancient bloodlines, masters of men and land. They had taken up arms against the crown with iron conviction, bolstered by the weight of their silver and the swelling ranks of their supporters. They had entered the war not in fear, but in expectation¡ªexpectation that numbers, coin, and fury would suffice to bend fate to their will. They had been wrong. Blindingly, humiliatingly , gut-wrenchingly wrong. They had expected the War Prince to buckle beneath the weight of what they¡¯d amassed against him¡ªto fracture like glass beneath a hammer. After all, who could stand against such a storm? Against so many blades, so much silver, so many bitter hearts? They had assumed his strength, like theirs, was finite¡ªchained to the laws of war and attrition. But now, reality stood before them in the tent like a bitter sermon. The truth had arrived not with swords drawn, but in words spoken. Cold. Clear. Irrefutable. And it came from the man standing calmly at the center of their tent¡ªa grave news brought to them by such a young envoy The news he carried was simple, but it struck with the force of a thunderclap: They were alone One by one, the pillars of their hope collapsed. The plans they¡¯d made with so much pride, so much whispered cunning, now lay in ruins around them. They had thrown every obstacle they could conceive at Alpheo¡ªthree separate threats from three different fronts¡ªand the war-prince had not only met them, he had dismantled them, as though they were nothing more than old furniture clogging the path. If they weren¡¯t so scared and confused, they would had no choice but admire him It was then that understanding, grim and undeniable, took hold. They were no longer the hunters.They were the hunted. The knowledge settled in their guts like stones. Ignorance, they now realized, had been a mercy. This truth¡ªthis sharp, cutting truth¡ªwas a torment. It was a reminder that no matter how high a frog may leap, it would never match the flight of a falcon. And the falcon... was now diving. Not with rage, nor desperation, but with calm precision¡ªtalons outstretched, eyes fixed on the kill. This¡ªthis¡ªwas the moment that shattered whatever illusions they¡¯d carried into the war. Not the clangor of a lost battle, not the collapse of a stronghold, but the simple, inescapable truth delivered by a single man in a quiet tent: Alpheo was no longer simply winning. He was finishing and he was coming towards them. Lord Niketas stared hard at the young envoy. His jaw was set, his knuckles white against the armrest of his chair, but it was his eyes¡ªpiercing and incredulous¡ªthat spoke the most. "How?" he demanded, his voice low and disbelieving, like a blade being drawn slowly from its sheath. "How can your prince retreat without even a fight?Is that all that his resolves comes down to?" He leaned forward, his gaze narrowing. "Does he not see? If the Mud Prince will somehow emerge victorious, he will come for you , next." His voice grew in force, not yet shouting but vibrating with tightly-coiled fury. He pointed a finger sharply, like a commander stabbing his sword toward an enemy line. "If your prince wish for peace¡ªtrue peace¡ªhe would seize this chance and strike now. While there is still time. If they joined us, if we combined our strength, then we might still stand a chance to halt what is coming." But before he could continue, the young envoy lifted a hand. "Enough, my lord," he said quietly, and yet with a steadiness that made the entire tent fall still. "You speak as though words can yet sway the course of this river. But you are too late." Niketas blinked, taken aback by the calm assurance of the youth before him. "No matter what you say now, the decision has already been made," he said. "Your pleas cannot change what has already passed. His Grace¡ª" he paused, choosing the words carefully, almost gently, "¡ªshould already be back in his homeland by now." A silence stretched through the tent, heavy and suffocating. "All that remains," the envoy went on, "is for me to return to him... and deliver your words. Whatever they may be." He looked around the room, letting his gaze settle briefly on each lord. "But I fear there is little use in it. I am an envoy, nothing more. I hold no sword, I command no banners. I bring messages... I do not bend fates." His voice, though soft, cut clean through the mounting tension like a knife through silk. "And what I carry back may well be a final insult," he added, almost as an afterthought. "Or a last warning to them.Whatever it is will accomplish the same, nothing. I was sent not to negotiate," he continued , his gaze steady, "but only to inform. With the Oizenains defeated in the field, His Grace believes that his involvement in this war has fulfilled its purpose. He has no further stake in prolonging bloodshed where none is required. He did not vanish in secrecy, my lords. I stand here before you precisely because he wished you to hear it from an ally¡¯s lips, rather than a scout¡¯s report or the whispers of fleeing peasants, so that you may see to prepare yourselves as you see fit . This is not a betrayal, but a courtesy, as his grace¡¯s thoughts turn to you." A loud scoff broke the growing tension. Lord Gregor shifted forward, the heavy chain draped across his chest clinking with the movement, his square jaw tightening beneath his thick beard. His eyes glinted¡ªnot with confusion or surprise, but with fury that had long been simmering beneath the surface. "Courtesy?" he barked. "Do not dress cowardice in silks and call it chivalry." The envoy remained silent, unmoving, but Gregor pressed on, his voice rising. "Your prince¡¯s ¡¯interests,¡¯ as you call them, are molded not by ambition, but by fear¡ªfear of a battle he believes he cannot win. A true ally doesn¡¯t slip away under the shroud of night like a fox scenting fire. A true ally would have stood beside us, shoulder to shoulder, sword in hand, not vanished the moment the wind shifted." He leaned over the table now, knuckles pressed hard into the wood. "Tell your lord that next time he sends a message to his allies, he might as well save the ink. A man who runs when the hounds are loosed should not pretend he ever meant to hunt." The young envoy did not flinch. He had expected as much¡ªperhaps even worse. His eyes lowered for a breath, almost as if he allowed the storm to pass over him, and then returned to meet Gregor¡¯s. He said nothing in response. For what was there to say? He had known from the moment he was given the sealed letter and instructed to ride for the rebel camp that the words he would carry back would be nothing more than echoes¡ªdiscontented, bitter, and likely laced with insult. He had accepted that. In truth,he too had wondered what hope the rebels clung to¡ªwhat distant flame they chased in this storm of blood and steel. But even if he shared those thoughts, they were not his to speak. And so, he merely stood there, silent and unmoved. Like a tree in a tempest, knowing full well that winds, no matter how furious, cannot move mountains. The young envoy gave a shallow bow, his wrists still bound but his posture once again composed. "If there is nothing more, my lords," he said, his voice calm, "then I shall take my leave. My task here is done." He turned to go, but before he could take more than a step, Lord Niketas¡¯ voice rang out, low but sharp as a drawn blade. "Tell your prince," Niketas said, eyes locked on the envoy "that his fate is now tied to ours. Whether we rise or fall, he has bound himself to that outcome and has chosen to let fate pick for him. The envoy paused mid-step. He gave Niketas a long, unreadable look¡ªno fear, no disdain, only the faint glimmer of something like understanding... or perhaps pity. Then, with a slow exhale, he lowered his gaze, gave a final bow, and left without a word more, the tent flaps brushing closed behind him. The silence he left in his wake clung to the air like smoke. The lords sat still, the tension thick and heavy, as though the entire tent now bore the weight of the inevitable. Lord Lysandros, usually a tower of steel , looked around with hollow eyes. His voice came quiet and ragged, like wind brushing ash. "What... are we to do now?" No answer came at first. Only the rustle of the tent fabric and the faint creak of wood shifting beneath the weight of despair. Then Niketas stood, slowly, deliberately, his gauntleted hand pressing against the table for support as he rose. His voice, when it came, was cold and steady. "We break the siege," he said¡¯¡¯We have no use to break the city now that we know the truth . The others turned toward him, some wide-eyed, others grim. "We retreat," he continued. "Back to ground, we know. The ground we choose. The final battle is coming, whether we will it or not, and we shall bet all of our fortune on it." Chapter 541: Accepting the city in the fold Chapter 541: Accepting the city in the fold Beneath a pale morning sun and a sky smeared with the soft haze of fading dawn, a modest force stood gathered outside the walls of Arduronaven. A few hundred strong¡ªand a few dozen cavalry, their polished helms catching glints of gold, like fireflies blinking in a sea of iron. Above them, fluttering proud and alone, the banner of House Xanthios snapped in the wind pointing ever forward, unyielding. At the head of the column, Lord Xanthios himself sat astride his horse, its mane black as midnight rain. He was a man of calm dignity, etched in sun and scar, whose eyes now rose to the high towers of the city before him. He searched for the flags of allegiance¡ªone of the turncloak lord¡¯s son, or even better, the falcon sigil of the crown¡¯s house. Yet none flew. The battlements were bare, as if the city itself held its breath, uncertain of its own heart. The silence from the ramparts wasn¡¯t hostile¡ªno arrows loosed, no war horns braying. It was simply... waiting. This small host had come not with fire and sword,as for that their numbers were few. Their purpose was not conquest, but reclamation. Arduronaven, once lost to treachery and grief, was to be returned. They had come to accept surrender¡ªor better yet, transfer, as after all a surrender would deem those inside the walls as enemies . Yet Lord Xanthios could not help the coil of unease still curled within his chest. He had been reported helpless, that the house of the that turncloak¡¯s banner flew once again on the city, with the Herculeian army now marching against his domain. And then, just as suddenly, the cloud scattered. Gone. He had feared that the war would be long. Instead, he received whispers of stunning victory¡ªof Alpheo cutting through his enemies like a blade through snow, and of sieges lifted not by force but by fear. And he, Lord Xanthios, had not even lifted his sword for his prince. The shame of that curdled like old wine in his gut. But now he had his chance. Florium awaited him, free once more. The rebels who had dared lay siege to it had turned tail and vanished, like thieves before the light., much like for the Herculean. And it was there, amid its blood-washed stones and broken gates, that he would finally join Alpheo and march beneath his banner. Strangely, as Lord Xanthios gazed upon the quiet silhouette of Arduronaven, a wave of nostalgia crept upon him¡ªsoft and uninvited. This had once been the cradle of his oldest rival. And yet... it was here that his most satisfying memory had bloomed like a flower in ash. He could still see it clearly: the breach, smoke curling through the gates, soldiers flooding in like a tide of retribution, and at the heart of it, the traitor lord dragged through the rubble-strewn streets. Oh, the joy of that moment. The traitor had walked¡ªno, staggered¡ªto the chopping block with the weight of his sins pressing down on his shoulders like a yoke of stone. And there, before the cries of a city watching its shame come undone, Lord Xanthios had taken up the sword himself. One stroke. One roar of steel through flesh. His brother¡¯s ghost, at last, avenged. And none of it¡ªnone¡ªwould have been possible without the prince He allowed himself a rare smile, worn and slow, but true. To serve under a man like that... it was a gift long denied. Alpheo did not wait. He did not wheedle and warble like Jasmine¡¯s father had for fifteen long, wasted years. That bald, one-eared coward¡ªmore mouth than monarch¡ªhad spent over a decade delivering nothing but promises and pomp, dressing impotence in eloquence. But Alpheo? Alpheo had done more in a single year than that dolt had in his entire reign. And not with empty speeches, but with steel, cunning, and fire. The dream was sweet, almost enough to dull the ache of old regrets. Almost. And then the reverie cracked. With a groan of ancient hinges and the thunderous clunk of drawn bolts, the gates of Arduronaven began to open. Xanthios straightened in the saddle, the wind tugging at his cloak. There was no alarm in his chest, no frantic call for formation. His heart did not quicken with fear of a sortie¡ªno, for he had received the prince¡¯s message. This city was no longer his enemy. It had bent the knee, pledged itself once more to the crown. The gates were not opening for blood, but for return. Out from the yawning gates of Arduronaven came a lone rider, a solitary figure drifting across the quiet plain like a brushstroke of gold against the canvas of a waking dawn. The small army tensed only for a moment¡ªspears lowered ever so slightly, shields flexed in silent readiness¡ªbut Lord Xanthios raised a hand, stilling them. This wasn¡¯t a sortie. There was no thunder of hooves, no clatter of iron fury. Only one man, alone, and unhurried. He was young¡ªperhaps in his twenties¡ªwith a lean frame and a calm, measured gait. His armor was modest, more practical than proud: chainmail kissed with dust, a simple breastplate dulled by honest use. But what struck Xanthios most was the youth¡¯s hair¡ªblonde and curled, cascading across his forehead like tangled sunbeams, as if the lad had come from a painter¡¯s dream rather than a war-scarred city. The young man rode at a dignified pace, his mount slow and sure beneath him. When he reached an appropriate distance from the gathered force, he dismounted with a practiced grace and bowed low from the waist¡ªprecise, but not obsequious. "My lord," the man spoke clearly, his voice carrying through the still air, "I am Lucius, servant of His Grace, Alpheo of House Veloni-Isha." A few murmurs rippled through the assembled soldiers at the name, but Xanthios showed no surprise. He merely narrowed his eyes, studying the boy a moment longer before nodding once, stern and proud. "I am Lord Xanthios of Bracum," he answered, his voice rough like gravel underfoot, but ringing with purpose. "I have come to accept the surrender of this city and return it to the royal fold, where it belongs." Lucius smiled faintly¡ªnot with smugness, but with the quiet satisfaction of a plan fulfilled. "As you can see, my lord," he gestured subtly over his shoulder, where the great gates of Arduronaven stood open like arms awaiting an embrace, "the city welcomes its rightful shield once more.It is ready to be reincorporated under His Grace¡¯s protection." Lord Xanthios turned his eyes once more to the young man. "You are the one," he said, "the man His Grace mentioned in his letter. The one who would deliver the city into royal hands." Lucius, standing tall despite his youth, gave a single, respectful nod. "I am, my lord. The task was entrusted to me¡ªand now fulfilled." Xanthios grunted in approval, his eyes flicking toward the open gate, then back to Lucius. "Then follow me. Let us see what you¡¯ve brought back into the fold." Without another word, he turned his steed toward the city, and Lucius fell into step beside him, calm as a man walking into his own home. Behind them, the small army surged forward, steel flashing in the morning light as they passed through the gates of Arduronaven, boots thudding on cobblestone like a drumbeat of conquest. There was no resistance. Men once posted upon the walls¡ªguards, militia, and a handful of tired mercenaries¡ªstepped aside without protest. They left their posts with quiet nods or vacant stares, not a sword drawn, not a word spoken. It was not surrender. It was transition. Within minutes, Xanthios¡¯ men held the gates, manned the towers, and patrolled the curtain wall as if they¡¯d always belonged there. As they moved through the gatehouse, Xanthios leaned toward Lucius and said, "His Grace has given me full authority over you until we are reunited with him." Lucius, without hesitation, bowed his head slightly. "Then use me as you wish, my lord. My sword and service are yours until His Grace commands otherwise." "Mm." Xanthios stroked his beard, eyes narrowing. "What happened here, truly? I know Arduronaven¡ªstubborn walls, deep store. It should not have fallen so swiftly, not without fire or blood. Yet as soon as the enemy came the city had its gate opened to them." Lucius gave a slight smirk, though it did not reach his eyes. "Because the knight who held it forgot his duty. He traded his post, his men, his honor¡ªfor a title promised by unworthy mouths. A lordship bought with betrayal." "And now?" Xanthios asked, voice cold as frost. Lucius turned his gaze ahead, toward the inner keep, where silence still hung like a shroud. "Now, he will lord over nothing. Unless the worms that shall chew through his coffin will grant him homage." A low chuckle rumbled in Xanthios¡¯ throat, though there was no joy in it¡ªonly a grim, bitter amusement. "Perhaps it is this place itself," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Something in its stone... seems to breed treachery." Lucius said nothing. But the faintest smile touched his lips again, vanishing almost as soon as it appeared. As they passed beneath the arch of the inner gate, the sun casting long spears of golden light through the dust-laced air, Lord Xanthios turned his eyes again to Lucius. His tone now bore the weight of unfinished business. "And what of the turncloak¡¯s spawn?" he asked, voice cutting through the quiet like a drawn blade. "The boy they left behind to guard this place with borrowed titles and a traitor¡¯s name?" Lucius¡¯s expression shifted. The faint glimmer of dry wit that often played on his face drained away like color from a dying flame. "He died," Lucius said plainly. "In battle. During the assault on the keep. He chose the sword over surrender." Xanthios studied him, a pause lingering like a held breath. Then, with a scoff and a tilt of his head, he muttered, "So the son managed what the father never could¡ªdying with some sliver of honor. Pity it was wasted on a house so utterly devoid of anything worth remembering." The words hung there, heavy and unapologetic, like the toll of a bell marking the end of a cursed lineage. Lucius nodded once, as if to accept the judgment, then glanced around at the settling city¡ªnow his no more than it was the dead knight¡¯s. "May I ask, my lord," he said, "what are we to do now?" Xanthios grinned beneath his salt-and-pepper beard, his voice suddenly laced with satisfaction. "I imagine His Grace will know what to do with what you¡¯ve achieved here. A city taken from within¡ªwithout a proper siege, and with barely a drop of our own blood spent? He¡¯ll have plenty to say, I¡¯m sure. And you¡¯ll hear it from his own lips soon enough." Lucius¡¯s eyes flicked upward, a rare flash of surprise breaking through his otherwise measured demeanor. "We are to meet him?" he asked, as if needing the words confirmed by a second breath. Xanthios nodded firmly, eyes already scanning the city square as if plotting the next step before it had even begun. "Aye. Once the city is secured and made to remember who its true lord is, we ride for Florium. That¡¯s where His Grace awaits us. And there¡ª" He paused for effect, letting the moment stretch. "¡ªwe¡¯ll put an end to this war once and for all, as the final battle is soon to come." Chapter 542: News of victory Chapter 542: News of victory The chamber was warm, lit softly by the amber glow of the hearth, the fire crackling with gentle comfort. The princess of Yarzat sat on a cushioned bench beside the window, the velvet curtains drawn back just enough to let in a sliver of starlight. In her arms wriggled a bundle of silk and joy¡ªBasil, her five-month-old son, cheeks like ripe peaches and eyes wide with boundless curiosity. She bounced him gently on her knee, one hand steadying his little back as he squealed with delight, his pudgy legs kicking in excited rebellion against the soft linen of her gown. Before her on a low desk sat a single letter, folded with care, its crimson wax seal stamped with the sun-and-crescent emblem of House Veloni-isha. The seal was hers, and yet it belonged equally to another now¡ªher husband, Alpheo, who had taken her house name when they wed. With Basil nestled on one arm, she reached out with the other and took the letter delicately. Instantly, Basil¡¯s eyes locked onto it like a hawk spotting a shimmering coin. His tiny hands reached out , fingers opening and closing with the kind of desperate ambition only a baby could muster. Jasmine laughed, her voice like the chime of silver bells. "Do you miss your father, little star?" she asked, lowering the letter just slightly as Basil made a heroic, wobbly attempt to grab it. He hummed, a little bubble of sound, half a giggle, half a command, and lunged again with full baby determination, cheeks puffed with effort. Jasmine held it just out of reach and pressed a kiss to his brow. "This isn¡¯t for you,¡¯¡¯ she said softly, trying to settle him back against her. "This one¡¯s for me." But Basil was not so easily swayed. He squirmed in her arms with all the fury of a thwarted general, arms flailing, lips puckering in protest, and Jasmine sighed in half-exasperation, half-adoration. "Willful," she muttered, brushing back a lock of his fine black hair, "just like your father." Though calling Alpheo willful is generous, really. The man would rather smash his head through a wall than walk around it. Gods help me if you take after him too much. Jasmine adjusted Basil on her hip, balancing him with the seasoned grace of a mother who had done it a thousand times in the last five months, even if her spine disagreed. With a gentle motion, she brought the letter closer, only for Basil to let out a sharp mrrrgh!¡ªthe unmistakable protest of a royal infant recently denied a prize. "Oh, hush, you little lion," Jasmine murmured with a smirk, brushing her nose against his round cheek. "Your father is out there fighting a war, and this¡ª" she held the letter up dramatically, "¡ªis the only thing I¡¯ve gotten from him in a month. So, if you don¡¯t mind I¡¯m going to read it." The boy blinked at her, wide-eyed and momentarily still, as though considering whether this was, in fact, a reasonable argument. After a pause¡ªa long, suspicious silence from someone who had very recently tried to eat a curtain tie¡ªBasil seemed to accept the terms and leaned his head against her shoulder with the exaggerated drama of a prince born for audiences. Jasmine smiled faintly, pressing the letter to her chest for a breath before slipping a nail under the wax and snapping the seal with a soft crack. The paper unfurled smoothly, crisp but worn by the journey. Her eyes danced across the script¡ªtight, angular, unmistakably Alpheo¡¯s. To my dearest Jasmine, Warden of our Squirming Little Storm If the gods were just, I¡¯d be writing this letter from your lap rather than some wretched saddle that has, by now, declared war upon my spine. And yet, here I am¡ªmiles away, ink-stained, sunburnt, and smelling faintly of iron and horses, fighting a war that was brought to us Forgive me for the silence these past weeks. The war I fight is not one of glory, nor ambition, nor pride¡ªbut of necessity. It is fought so that you may sleep without fear, so that Basil may grow without ever learning the sound of swords clashing too close to home, unless he was to wish for it. If this letter brings worry to your heart¡ªcast it away immediately, for I come not as a messenger of grim tidings but a herald of triumph. As I write this, my army marches beneath banners heavy with victory. The Oizenian threat¡ªthe great beast that cast its shadow toward our lands¡ªhas been broken. Shattered , by steel, fire, will, and of course a night attack led by yoursss. Their banners are trampled into the mud, their lords scattered like leaves before the wind, dead or sleeping and dining at our leisure. What remains of their force is no army, but frightened men wishing they¡¯d never set foot past our borders. You need not fear for the capital. With Oizen¡¯s spine snapped, the other two flailing limbs should prove little more than a morning¡¯s effort. Do me one favor: when our little lion claws at your letters or gurgles at the firelight, remind him¡ªgently, of course¡ªthat his father is away fighting . One day, the mantle of our house will pass to him, and I expect he¡¯ll wear it proudly¡ªonce he stops trying to eat it. Should you find a spare moment between feeding our ravenous Basil , I beg you to pass along a small¡ªno, grand¡ªbit of news to your mother. Please inform her that the loathsome, pustule-hearted, fork-tongued, rat-breathed, goat-kissing, silver-painted disgrace of a man known as Prince Shamleik of Oizen now lies very dead beneath my feet. I believe it poetic justice that his final view of this world was the heel of my boot. I imagine your mother might crack a smile¡ªjust a small one¡ªknowing that the man who, not once but thrice, dared to call her a whore who destroyed his royal marriage with your father, now feeds the worms of our soil. I can only hope she enjoys the thought as much as I enjoyed the thunk of his crown hitting the mud. There are some heads that simply beg to be separated from their necks, wouldn¡¯t you say?Some of which are still to the north of us As I seal this letter, we are turning our gaze toward the last foreign infestation skulking within our borders. The next confrontation¡ªif one could call it that¡ªshould be little more than a clean-up, a formality. And yet¡ªdespite this coming task being as simple as herding blind sheep¡ªI hope, selfishly, that your heart still worries for me. Just a little. Enough to miss me. Enough to keep a place warm beside your fire. Until then, wait for more joyous news Alpheo Soon-to-Be Collector of Another Foreign Crown, and Always Yours ----------------------- Jasmine let the letter fall gently onto the desk, a much bigger smile present now on her lips . She exhaled, soft and slow, as though she¡¯d been holding her breath since the day rumors of the Oizenian army had first reached Aracina, fearing the worse of cause which would be a siege of the royal capital. Besieged, they had said. And Jasmine, who¡¯d never trembled with fear since she took the throne , had felt ice in her veins at the thought of Basil living his first year beneath enemy banners outside the gate. But now, it seemed, they might need to rename Aracina altogether¡ªperhaps Oizenian Graveyard would be more fitting. After all, it was the second time their armies had bled themselves dry on its stones. And both times, the same smiling madman had been waiting for them at the gates. Her mind drifted, as it always did, back to Alpheo. Even now, a small smirk tugged at her lips despite herself. It was maddening, really. That man¡ªno, her man¡ªcould barely sit through a formal dinner without finding some excuse to escape, leaving her to deal with the guests that did not rouse interest in him. He held a wine goblet like a dagger and had never once remembered which fork to use, many times preferring his hands. And yet... somehow, he always had a full table, and no shortage of men ready to bleed for him. She had to admit it¡ªperhaps with a touch of envy¡ªthat there was very little Alpheo couldn¡¯t do better than her, save for matters of protocol and refinement. And frankly? She would have gladly traded her grace and poise for even half of the skill he possessed when it came to winning hearts. Because that, that was the real sorcery. Alpheo had this maddening, miraculous ability to draw people in¡ªto make them believe in him, fight for him, die for him. It wasn¡¯t just command, or courage, or even charisma. It was something else. Some invisible string he plucked in the souls of men. And Jasmine, for all her wit and sharp mind, knew she¡¯d never had that kind of pull. She had been drawn in herself, after all. She smiled down at Basil, who had now taken to chewing on the corner of a cushion, his tiny brow furrowed in deep concentration. She leaned closer and whispered, "You¡¯re going to be just like him, aren¡¯t you?" The boy blinked, looked up at her, and made a strange triumphant squeal as if agreeing. She smiled, brushing a curl from his forehead. Everything, she thought¡ªthe wild smile, the crooked little nose¡ªall from his father. Well... almost everything. At least he¡¯d gotten her eyes¡ªclear, vivid emeralds that caught the light just so. A small victory, she mused with a smirk, over Alpheo¡¯s tragically plain brown ones. She scooped Basil up into her arms with a soft laugh, lifting him high above her head until his tiny legs kicked with delight. "You," she said, her voice playful but proud, "are going to break many maidens¡¯ hearts, little prince." Basil looked down at her with wide eyes, then flashed a gummy, gleeful smile as if he understood every word and agreed wholeheartedly. His small hands patted the air, and a gurgle of contentment escaped his lips, sealing the promise like a royal decree. Jasmine chuckled, holding him close. "Just try not to shatter them all at once." Chapter 543: A close gift from a friend (1) Chapter 543: A close gift from a friend (1) Riders galloped through the central road of Florium, hooves drumming against cobbled stone like a herald¡¯s war drum, their voices cutting through the morning hum of the city. "The Royal Army is here!" they cried, eyes wild with triumph. "His Grace, Prince Alpheo, has come to bless Florium with his presence!" The shouts flew like sparks in dry grass, igniting the streets with sudden life as the various citizens of Florium went to witness the latest novelty. And then¡ªlike a thundercloud cresting the hills¡ªthe Royal Army arrived in all its glory. They marched in rhythmic perfection, the entire force rolling into the city like a tide of steel and discipline, banners high, glinting beneath the midday sun. Florium¡¯s breath caught in its throat as the people beheld the might of their prince. The boots of two thousand men beat in unison, their movements practiced, almost ceremonial, as they entered the city not as invaders, but as the hand of justice made manifest. At the head of it all came the White Army, the prince¡¯s own chosen vanguard, their appearance unmistakable¡ªeach soldier clad in polished breastplates , the metal catching the sunlight like burning stars. Over their shoulders and wrapped around their waists flowed their iconic woolen coats of black and white, swaying with every step . They marched like statues given motion, faces stoic beneath their steel helms. Their uniforms bore not the gaudy excess of peacetime dress but the clean, austere dignity of warriors who had bled for their banners. Among them strode their officers, easily marked by the single plumed red feather rising from the side of their helms¡ªa subtle, noble distinction of rank. The feathers bent and danced slightly with each movement, contrasting with the cock-like crests worn only by the few of higher command, those rare men who stood but a step below the prince himself¡ªmen who carried the full burden of command with the same pride as their swords. The crowd obviously erupted into cheers as few days before their arrival the city heralds had announced the latest news from the war, namely the defeat of the Oizenian army along with that of the Herculeians, whose retreat was embellished as a military victory. The city, once suffocating under siege and the weight of dread, now opened its gates to a storm dressed in royal colors¡ªa storm that brought hope rather than ruin, as below their happiness was the relief of the knowledge that the siege had been repelled just by the name of his grace. --------------- For a week and a half, Shahab of House Filastin had stood atop the walls of Florium like a statue carved by the gods of war themselves¡ªunmoving, unblinking, unchallenged. And every gods-damned day, he had been presented with the same dismal painting stretched before the city walls. A canvas of cowards. There they were, the rebel lords and their miserable excuse for a siege¡ªcampfires glowing like lazy stars in a field of mud and mediocrity. Their banners hung limp in the breeze, as though even the wind refused to waste its breath on such dreariness. Tents pitched in neat, nervous rows, as if they hoped symmetry would win the city, not steel. They didn¡¯t charge. They didn¡¯t test the gates. They didn¡¯t even scream insults to make the long hours pass quicker. Just watched, and waited, as if a city like Florium would surrender because they were bored into submission. It was enough to make Shahab want to throw a spear down just to remind them what war was. It was really a very dull affair, and for a man of his age it proved to be more unbearable than if there were ten armies besieging the city. And without the prince to turn to , in order to express how things were done some decades ago, he had no choice but to turn to the lord of the city. "In my day," he had proclaimed more than once , "men who clamored for war earned it in blood. Not waiting around like nervous virgins at their own wedding feast." Each day, the same view. The same dull horizon. He began to believe even the pigeons flying from tower to tower were more courageous than the men camped beyond the walls. But today... Ah, today was a gift. A kind one. A prince¡¯s gift. The sun had barely risen when he first heard the sound¡ªnot drums, not horns, but thunder, the kind made by boots and hooves and righteous purpose. Then the riders, bursting down the central roads like messengers of divine reckoning, shouting names that still stirred fire in the bones of old lords like him. "The Royal Army is here!" - "Prince Alpheo himself has arrived!" And then the curtain was pulled back on the world outside the walls. The dull fields where the rebel dogs had camped were no more. Fire and steel had come to cleanse it. A sea of banners marched in from the west, and at their heart flew the colors that once conquered mountains and seared a path through desert and snow alike. The sight hit Shahab¡¯s heart like the first song of a long-awaited lover. Hope, yes¡ªbut more than that: war, as it was meant to be, as they could finally march forward and put an end to all of this farces. The rebels were gone, like smoke after a storm, running instead of putting resistances. The fields now belonged to the prince, and the air itself smelled richer, like it had been starved of glory and now drank deep from its return. And yet even in a man like Shahab, who had lived long enough to see two generations turn into adulthood , he could not help but feel that pang of something dangerously close to envy. Because though his wish had been granted¡ªhis granddaughter, Jasmine, placed upon a throne not by diplomacy nor inheritance but by the blazing tip of Alpheo¡¯s sword¡ªthough he should have felt the quiet satisfaction of a lifetime of planning ripening into legacy... there it was. Envy. The envy of a man watching a miracle march down his streets. Alpheo had not just arrived. He had unveiled himself, like a god stepping down from a storybook. And at the very front, as if leading a dance rather than a warband, came the White Army. Their black-and-white woolen garb flowed behind them in practiced symmetry, not a stitch out of place. They marched not like men but like fate itself, and each step of their boots struck like a drumbeat on the city¡¯s very soul. And at least with the great view , came great music. From within their numbers, bands of soldiers-turned-musicians filled the air with life. These were not hired minstrels or soft-handed court pipers. No, these were warriors who had drilled in sword and shield, and then had been handed a trumpet or a drum. And somehow, some impossible how, they¡¯d been taught music. Each rhythmic stomp, each bellowing call of the trumpet, each sharp crack of the drum had been woven together like a battle hymn rewritten for pageantry. It was the sound of war dressed as art. The sound of thunder trained to march in tempo. And of course¡ªof course¡ªit was said that the prince himself had composed the piece. Not just approved it. Written it. Scrawled the rhythms and marked the beats and arranged the horns to climb in such a way that even stone hearts would leap in their chests. Such vanity! Shahab thought, Only my grandson-in-law would see war as an opportunity to flaunt music around. So not only a prince and a victorious general , he was now even a composer, and the world was learning¡ªcity by city, and army by army ¡ªthat when he lifted his hand, it wasn¡¯t just soldiers that followed. It was music. And mayhem. And miracles. And yet ahead of the great spectacles a furrow of confusion crept in his visage Not from age. Not from awe. From something off. His eyes, sharp still despite their years, drifted to the rider at the parade¡¯s head¡ªthe supposed Little Fox He was dressed just as he should be. The posture was there too: straight, daring, regal. But the steed¡ª Black. The steed was black. Alpheo¡¯s was white. Always white. A creature as proud and arrogant as its master, gifted by his wife. His gaze sharpened like a blade being honed. Then, up¡ªto the plume on the rider¡¯s helm. It waved with every trot, feathered and striking. Red. Alpheo¡¯s was purple. As while he may have been a commoner, he had the vanity of those of higher blood. A color of royalty, he had demanded for himself. A signature. Shahab straightened. His breath stalled mid-draw. The music continued. The soldiers marched. The people cheered. But for him, the parade had stopped. Because the man leading it wasn¡¯t him. And he was right , as his eyes, though old, had not dulled with age , had seen true. For the man basking in the glory of the masses was not Alpheo. No, not the young firebrand who had turned a crumbling war effort into a storm of victories. Not the prince who had outfoxed princes and shattered armies with cunning and steel. Not the man who could march into hell and make devils kneel. Not the man who could speak jests with the same mouth he ordered executions from. It was Asag. Drinking deep from the roaring cheers like wine poured just for him. The first face the citizens of Florium laid eyes upon, the tip of the royal spear returned in triumph. And so the city cheered on, none the wiser. Chapter 544: A gift from a close friend(2) Chapter 544: A gift from a close friend(2) Alpheo rode in silence. The prince did not trail far behind Asag¡ªonly a few paces¡ªbut he might as well have been a ghost to the crowd. Their cheers, deafening and relentless, were not for him today, actually they kinda were, but the crowd did not know that the man in front of him wasn¡¯t the prince that they cheered. And he made no move to claim them. His white steed trotted steadily, regal and composed, yet its rider did not raise a hand, did not nod, did not smile. He watched. Watched as the people of Florium erupted like a tide meeting land, shouting their joy, their relief, their gratitude. Faces red from weeping, others wild with jubilation. Children hoisted upon shoulders. Flowers tossed. And at the heart of this chorus of praise was the man who had no idea how much he was loved by those close to him. Asag. Even from behind, the awe was visible. His back, straight as iron, trembled with the weight of emotion rather than fear. He looked not like a commander, but a man caught between disbelief and wonder¡ªas if every voice that screamed struck him like a foreign language he was only now beginning to understand. His helmet, crested with bold red plumes, was pulled low, masking the worst of the burns that still marred the left side of his face. But even glory could not hide the price he¡¯d paid: his arm, freshly broken, was wrapped in a simple white sling that hung over his chest like a medal. Bandages stitched and stained marked his waist, a testament to wounds earned at Aracina¡ªwounds he never bragged about, never offered in exchange for praise. And behind him rode Alpheo, eyes fixed not on the city, but on him. There was no jealousy in the prince¡¯s gaze. No resentment. Only a deep, unspoken fondness. Something warm that burned at the core of his iron soul. Because Alpheo knew¡ªtruly knew¡ªwhat few others did: Asag, for all his deeds, saw himself as little more than a tool, a blade meant to cut, not to be crowned. The man could crush his enemies with one hand and yet faltered when faced with kindness. He¡¯d walk into fire for the realm but step away from applause like it scalded his skin, and that hurt the prince more than rougher whips he ever suffered. Alpheo loved him , few knew how much. Admired him with the kind of fierce loyalty he reserved for only a few. Because in a world of puffed chests and scheming tongues, Asag bled and asked for no songs. So the prince said nothing. He let the cheers fall like rain upon a man too noble to ask for a drop¡ªand vowed, silently, that no matter how high his own star would rise, he would never let the world forget the burned, broken warrior who once stood against the tide alone and did not yield. The people, wrapped in the fever-dream of their local peace returned, would shout his name like it alone had felled the Oizenians, like his mere presence had turned the tide of war. They would sing of Alpheo the War-Prince, the great mind behind the victory. But few would know¡ªtruly know¡ªthe cost paid in blood and pain for their triumph. Few would speak the name of the man who fought like a lion, battered and burning, holding the line not for glory, but because it was what needed to be done. The name that should¡¯ve been carved beside his own in the memory of this war, instead sank beneath the weight of parade drums and banner-waving joy. Alpheo did not begrudge the praise¡ªbut his heart carried a heaviness that no cheer could drown. He was not blind. He¡¯d seen it. The quiet glances, the fondness in Asag¡¯s eyes that the gruff warrior never dared voice. That simple, wordless devotion made Alpheo¡¯s soul ache¡ªbecause he knew. He knew the mission he¡¯d handed him was near suicidal. And while Alpheo chased the scattered butterflies of rebellion ,failing to catch anything worth sharing, Asag had danced with death, bleeding in the shadows to make this day possible. It should not have been asked of him. And yet, Asag had done it. Not for duty. Not for command. But for him. Alpheo¡¯s hand clenched softly on the reins. No, he would not let that sacrifice fade into silence. He would make it worth it. He would shape a life for Asag that made the struggle mean something. A life with joy, with peace, with someone to wake beside on quiet mornings, and no sword within reach. He had done it once already¡ªwith Egil, another soul who bled for him, now on the cusp of fatherhood, his marriage a celebration that lit up the princedom like a new dawn. And Asag deserved the same, more than any of them. Alpheo had already begun the plans¡ªgrand halls, golden wine, flowers strung like stars, a wedding bound to the same celebration that would mark the end of this long war. And what a celebration it would be. For the war had given him more than victory¡ªit had given him hostages, powerful ones, foreign born invaders¡¯ kin that would buy peace like coin at market. Yes. The war was ending. Alpheo¡¯s gaze drifted from Asag¡ªhis faithful lion, basking unknowingly in the sun of borrowed glory¡ªto the right, where a far more towering figure rode beside him. Jarza, the black giant of Herculia, clad in heavy steel that shimmered in the light like a walking fortress, looked as though he¡¯d stepped out of a fable. His armor added yet more bulk to his already monstrous size, so much so that he could¡¯ve been mistaken for Goliath reborn, if not for the unmistakable grin splitting his face. Beside him, Alpheo¡ªwith his lean frame and understated armor¡ªseemed like a miniature David, though with a crucial flaw. He had no sling , and even if he did, he¡¯d doubt it would get through all that steel. Jarza chuckled, his voice rising above the thunder of the people¡¯s cheers like a drumbeat wrapped in velvet. "You know," he boomed, "I don¡¯t think there¡¯s ever been a prince who marched behind in a parade made in his honor." Alpheo raised an eyebrow and gave a small, knowing smile. "Well, I did promise our dear friend I¡¯d reward his sacrifices. And my word still holds weight¡ªeven when I walk in someone else¡¯s shadow for once." Jarza scoffed lightly. "He probably thinks he doesn¡¯t deserve it." Alpheo let out a small laugh. "Of course he does. That man would probably apologize to the battlefield for bleeding on it." Both men laughed, a moment of genuine mirth between steel titans and murmuring crowds. "Still," Jarza said, his voice dropping to something closer to conversation, "you¡¯ll have a few lords barking over this. You know how they are¡ªpride, arrogance... those are virtues to them. But humbleness?" He shook his head. "A black... what¡¯s it? A smudge, that¡¯s the word. A black smudge on a prince¡¯s name." Alpheo didn¡¯t miss a beat. "Then let them scrub at my record all they like. I plan to cover it in so many victories they¡¯ll forget what color it was to begin with." Jarza grinned. "Bold words." "And profitable ones," Alpheo replied, eyes gleaming. "Once I strip the rebels of their silver, their gold, their lands¡ªwell, I wager even the loudest doubters will be too busy counting their new holdings to remember who walked behind whom in a parade." Jarza threw his head back with laughter. "Aye, there¡¯s nothing quite so sweet as the spoils of your enemy. You¡¯ll be the most beloved ¡¯humble prince¡¯ in all of history." Alpheo smiled, quiet. As even amidst the thunder of drums and the chorus of cheers that rolled through the streets of Florium like waves upon a shore, Alpheo¡¯s thoughts drifted elsewhere¡ªto a small, sun-warmed chamber far from this city of stone and steel, where the only sound that truly mattered came not from horns or fanfare, but from the gentle gurgle of a child and the soft laughter of a woman. Basil. His son. A name far too grand for such a tiny thing, and yet so fitting. There was something terrifying and humbling in the thought that his blood now beat in another heart, that his legacy no longer rode upon swords and victories, but in tiny fingers and midnight cries. And Jasmine, who was from a marriage of convenience, grew on her with a liking that he had never thought possible He missed them more than he allowed himself to admit, still he believed that bringing them victory in this war, would be a gift that would excuse his absence more than a thousand word. And so, under the sun, behind a general basking in stolen glory, the true architect of the war¡¯s turning point rode on, already plotting the next steps¡ªnot just to end the war, but toward peace as after all he had many things to do when he could finally rest his sword on his hip. Chapter 545: Observing the enemy Chapter 545: Observing the enemy It was a sunlit day, one of those early spring afternoons when the air carries both the warmth of the sun and the chill of yesterday¡¯s breeze. The forest canopy above swayed gently, dappling the forest floor in scattered light and shadow. Beneath that leafy ceiling, lying perfectly still in the low underbrush, were two scouts of the White Army¡ªflat to the ground, quiet as a breath. They weren¡¯t dressed like the rest of the army, not even close. No black-and-white wool cloaks, no polished breastplates, no proud crests or gleaming helmets. That was for men on parade routes and battlefields. These two wore plain brown and green, threadbare and dusted with dried mud, their chainmail hidden beneath loose cloth dyed to blend with the bark and moss. The metal links barely whispered when they moved, and even those whispers were rare. A scout who made noise was a dead scout. The older of the two, a man with a greying beard and a long scar that snaked down the side of his face like a dried river, had positioned himself facing a narrow road cutting through the trees. His chin rested on his forearms, elbows nestled in the dirt like roots. Beside him, his younger companion¡ªbarely out of boyhood¡ªfidgeted, not nervously, but with the soft, subtle movement of someone still growing into silence. They had no banners. No horns. Just their eyes, their ears, and the blades by their sides. But even those were not meant for combat. Their swords were shorter than standard, worn low on the back or side, positioned more for cutting foliage or the throats of sleeping guards, should the need arise. But their training never demanded they draw steel unless every other option had failed. They were scouts, not warriors. Their purpose wasn¡¯t glory. It was knowledge. And knowledge, in the right hands, could crush armies. From this vantage point¡ªhidden in a patch of brush that had grown wild from years of disuse¡ªthey watched. Listened. Waited. The road ahead was still, save for the occasional fluttering of a crow or the creak of tree limbs. They had spent hours like this. No bard sang of the man who crawled two miles through mud to count wagons. No toast was raised for the one who memorized the numbers of tents in the enemy army. But every victory¡ªthe kind that brought cities to heel and crowned princes¡ªstood on the shoulders of shadows like these. The warm sun filtered through the trees, but neither spared it a glance. Their eyes were fixed ahead¡ªup the hills, where the enemy had decided to make their stand. Nearly a thousand men toiled in the valley below, felling trees with axe and saw, the dull thuds of wood splintering faintly carried by the wind. The fallen timber was swiftly reworked into sharpened stakes, stacked and arranged like an enormous mouth of wooden fangs, biting toward whatever poor bastards would be made to climb those slopes. Above them, another thousand men moved with slow, brutal rhythm, digging deep into the flesh of the earth. Shovels and pickaxes rose and fell, carving trenches, terracing the slope, and sculpting a fortress from mud and sweat. There was no question about it. The enemy was not just camping. "They¡¯re digging in," the younger scout finally whispered, his voice low but steady. "Fortifying the hill." The older scout turned his head and gave the boy a look sharp enough to shave bark off a tree. They flared with a fire that only years of war¡ªand an endless chain of foolish companions¡ªcould kindle. "No shit," he said, voice dry as sun-baked leather. "What¡¯s next? You gonna tell me they¡¯ve got weapons too? Maybe boots on their feet? Gods help us if they brought food." The younger man¡¯s mouth opened, then closed again. He blinked, swallowed, and lowered his chin to his arm, cheeks reddening like a boy caught stealing apples, deciding that silence, in this case, was the better part of wisdom. The older scout didn¡¯t even sigh. He just turned back to the hill, eyes narrowing into practiced slits as he watched the enemy move like ants across the rise. He missed his old partner¡ªa bastard just as bitter as he was, with a sharp tongue, a keener blade, and the sense to keep his mouth shut when there was nothing worth saying. But that man had done his time, taken his silver, ridden off to retirement from his wounds and land to his name, leaving him here in the brush beside a freckle-faced farmboy still wet behind the ears. The veteran didn¡¯t blame the kid, not really. But it was the tradition for the older one to peck at the younger ones, so that he may learn the job Still if he was to point out at one of his bad point, it was eagerness. And that word had gotten men killed more times than steel ever had. He shifted slightly to ease the cramp in his ribs, then squinted up at the hillside where a thousand men hacked trees to stakes, while another thousand dug trenches and churned the soil with pickaxes and boots. They were preparing to bleed whoever dared climb it. The young scout turned slightly, like he might say something again. "We should go back," the young man said, a little too quickly, as though saying it aloud would make it the truth. "And report this" The older scout remained silent, his one good arm , the one that had not been battered by a mace, rested against his knee. He didn¡¯t even look at the young scout, just continued observing the distant hill with the same hard, unblinking stare. The quiet stretched between them like a tight rope. The youngerone could feel the weight of that silence, knew what it meant, but wasn¡¯t sure if it was worth breaking. He waited for the old man¡¯s voice, to either agree or give a scathing comment. But nothing came. Finally he spoke, his voice rough, as if he¡¯d been holding it back. "You¡¯re right," he said, the words coming out like sandpaper. "Get back and report. Tell them what you¡¯ve seen. But while you¡¯re at it, keep your head down. They¡¯re no idiots." His eyes didn¡¯t shift from the hill. "I¡¯ll stay here." The younger scout, feeling the tension of the moment begin to shift, nodded quickly. "What else are you going to watch?" he asked, already turning to go. The question had slipped out before he could stop it. The old scout finally moved, the rustling of his body hitting the foliage barely audible . He turned his head, his eyes sharpening like a hawk. "I¡¯ll go around the hill," he said, his tone becoming sharp with purpose. "See if they¡¯re fortifying the whole damn thing. I¡¯ll find out if they¡¯ve got defenses along the backside, too. Where they built their camp. ¡¯¡¯ The younger scout hesitated, about to ask if he should wait for him, but the older man already had the answer. "Take my horse with you," the scout added. "If they see them, they will realise they were being watched. If you get caught, slit your throat , trust me, it will be better than whatever awaits you if you are captured..." The younger scout looked at him, eyes wide for a moment, then nodded once. He¡¯d never been in a situation like this before, but he knew enough to trust the man¡¯s instincts. Without another word, he waved him off, gesturing with his left hand, the one not holding the sword, toward the path. "Go on, then. I¡¯ll take care of this." The young man hesitated, his mouth opening to say something again¡ªbut closed it before any words came out. The old man had a way of shutting him down with just a glance. He had work to do. --------------------- For the next few hours, the old scout moved like a shadow beneath the trees, his steps light, precise, and slow as honey in winter. He kept low, hugging the slope, eyes flicking up often toward the crest of the hill where enemy silhouettes moved like ants under a sun too kind for a battlefield. Yet it was harder than he¡¯d hoped. The tree line, dense and sprawling at first glance, thinned far too soon, leaving him too often exposed¡ªforced to crawl on his stomach through tall grass or wait behind stubborn outcrops of stone for a sentry to pass. They were busy, though. And that was the one thing working in his favor. There were hundreds¡ªno, thousands¡ªof them, swarming like ants across the hillside, reshaping it into something mean and cruel. Logs stripped of bark were whittled into stakes, sharpened into teeth. Dirt was moved in wheelbarrows, or shoveled in trenches that coiled like veins around the hill¡¯s bulk. The scout shuddered at the thought of attaking that position, imagining jumping through the trenches and palisades where the enemies would await him with their spears. He was not wrong in his fears, as unfortunately, scouts during battle would still serve as soldiers, as they would fight along the other light rider in service of Egil, so of course that meant that he was not too keen on fighting uphills, making his interest in discovering any potential information about the location more than justified. As he was observing the situation , he shifted his weight to the right . -Crunch- The old scout froze. He looked down. A snapped twig stared up at him like an accusation, cracked clean beneath the weight of his heel. His breath caught in his throat, and he dropped instinctively to one knee, slipping behind the nearest bush. But no shouting came. No sudden sound of charging boots. Just the same old symphony of labor and war preparations. Still, he cursed himself silently. He was too far out to run, too close to risk more missteps. Then¡ªan idea. A mad one. But maybe just mad enough. A grin, crooked and worn by time, slipped across his face. Slowly, he straightened, backing into the woods again. And then he started gathering. Sticks, mostly. Bits of wood. Broken limbs from the very trees the enemy had felled and stripped. Nothing fancy, nothing big enough to look like a weapon¡ªjust enough to fill his arms. When his bundle was decent¡ªunassuming, believable¡ªhe took a deep breath. Then he started walking. Not crawling, not sneaking¡ªwalking. Leisurely. Steady. Like a man with a job to do. Like one of the hundreds that belonged to the chaos on the hill. Toward the enemy lines he went, arms full of firewood, his steps confident, his eyes set forward. If anyone asked, he had his story. He was just another conscript. Another mule with two legs instead of four. All he needed was a few heartbeats. A few blinks of an eye. Maybe, just maybe, madness would serve where stealth could not. ----------------- It worked. Gods help him, it actually worked. Walking with a bundle of sticks tucked in his arms, back straight and pace unhurried, the old scout found himself utterly invisible. Not because no one saw him¡ªon the contrary, several men glanced his way¡ªbut because no one looked. A soldier carrying firewood? Just another cog in the churning war machine. There was no curiosity in their eyes, only exhaustion and the dull glaze of routine. And so he walked. Past men hammering sharpened stakes into the ground, setting them at cruel angles to repel charges. Past trenches being lined with woven branches and mud to hold the earth in place. Past a knot of officers¡ªreal ones, with real armor¡ªdrinking some wine in the shade of a tent. No one stopped him. No one questioned his presence. And so, behind the calm mask of a tired conscript, he observed everything. He noted where the horses were stabled, a few dozen cavalrymen petting their steeds under a tarp. He counted the number of campfires and tents¡ªtoo many to keep track of precisely, but enough to paint a picture in his mind. And all the while, he walked with sticks in his arms and a casual squint in his eyes, as if deciding where to drop them off. Then, when he¡¯d seen enough to sketch the shape of the beast coiled atop the hill, he took a slow turn back toward the woods, still carrying his bundle. Not once did he break stride. And no one, not one soul, called after him. Chapter 546: Reuniting with the crown(1) Chapter 546: Reuniting with the crown(1) The banners of House Bracum fluttered in the breeze, their figure cutting a proud line through the road as Lord Xanthios¡¯ contingent finally joined the royal host. The morning sun was bright, casting golden light over the rolling field just outside the city of Florium, now a sea of tents, pavilions, fires, and soldiers moving like ants. Lucius rode silently behind Lord Xanthios, his sharp eyes drinking in every detail. Despite himself, he couldn¡¯t help but marvel at the sheer scale of it. The royal host¡ªAlpheo¡¯s pride, gathered from loyalist lords and sworn men¡ªstretched far, rows of canvas roofs and standard-bearing poles swaying like tall grass. He began counting, if only to busy his mind in the wait. Each cluster of tents, the size of each division, the way the soldiers moved and the fires burned¡ªall small pieces of a larger picture. Two thousand five hundred men, give or take, though it looked more than less. That was his tally. Add to that the six hundred and twenty men Lord Xanthios brought¡ªsome still weary from the march, but all hardened¡ªand the number swelled to a respectable three thousand soldiers. Three thousand and more. He let the thought linger. That was no small levy. In fact, it was enough to match or even surpass what most princedoms could muster for a proper campaign, where twenty hundreds¡ªtwo thousand¡ªand change was the usual count for lords of decent wealth and influence. Alpheo had done more than rally strength. He had conjured the very image of dominance, the sort of army that bent knees and cowed rebellion before the first sword was drawn, though for this one it seemed that the hard steel would be needed to be put down. Lucius had never fancied himself a general¡ªat most he was a footman. But last year , when he had pledged himself to Alpheo , he was promptly locked in a stone room with parchments, instructors, maps, and a teachers who did everything to make their subject enter his skull with the patience of a smith beating steel. It had been a short education, but not a shallow one. So now, as he rode behind Lord Xanthios and surveyed the vast camp that sprawled across the Florium plains like a sleeping beast, he didn¡¯t see just glory and banners. He saw wheat. He saw salt. He saw pigs on the hoof and barrels of dried fish. Because three thousand men weren¡¯t just swords and shields. They were mouths. Hungry ones. Loud, smelly, demanding ones. And every step they took was weighed in grain and silver. Lucius had learned quickly that the beauty of a grand host was an illusion held together by logistics and luck. The moment the supply lines snapped, the glamour vanished and the men began eyeing each other like cured ham. As such,he didn¡¯t believe Alpheo had raised this proud, terrifying hammer of a force to keep it polished and standing for long. He meant to strike once¡ªand strike true. A final swing of the sword to kill the rebellion where it squirmed, to extinguish the last defiant sparks that hissed in the ashes of civil war. Lucius was certain of that. The war, from what little he¡¯d gleaned, had been fast and furious, a whirlwind of clashes and betrayals, of lords turning coats and heads rolling from battlements. And all of it... expensive. In men. In food. In coin. Which of course made the endeavor be much more awe-inspiring and yet also limiting. As even if Alpheo, in all his brilliance, desired to press his victories onward¡ªinto the valleys of Oizen or the rich lands of Herculia¡ªLucius knew dreams weighed little against the cold burden of rations. Even princes had to eat. And armies, especially victorious ones, always ate like kings. And so Lucius knew that a military campaign of retribution would have to wait for at least the harvest, but more probably at least the summer of next year. Still, there was a battle to fight, a rebellion to end and a welcome to be done. The reunion was not one of trumpets and fanfare¡ªno, this was a more deliberate, private thing, marked not by the thundering of a host, but by the soft drum of hooves and the creak of saddles. From among the forest of tents and fluttering banners that blanketed the plains of Florium, a small band of riders detached itself from the royal camp, weaving through the ordered chaos with purpose. At their head, unmistakable in bearing, was the Prince himself. Lord Xanthios, mounted tall and proud on his iron-grey stallion, nudged the beast forward, trotting to meet his sovereign. Dust swirled beneath him as his company came to a halt, and in that quiet space between heartbeats, his gaze met that of Alpheo ¡ªyoung, radiant in posture if not expression. Xanthios bowed low from the saddle, his head dipping with the precision of a soldier and the reverence of a sworn man."Your Grace," he said, voice steady despite the dust and distance they¡¯d both crossed. Alpheo offered a smile¡ªbrief, then fuller when his eyes drifted to the figure just behind the lord¡¯s right flank. "My dear lord , it is a wonderful pleasure to meet you again. And not just a lord returned," he said, eyes flickering to the familiar curly hair of Lucius, "but one of my finer servant as well. You keep good company, Lord Xanthios, truly." Lucius bowed from horseback, the slight stiffness in his movement betraying more nerves than he let on, as he still wondered what the prince would have done if he had refused him that one last time. He did not want to think about it too much... "I trust the road was not too dull?" Alpheo continued, voice smooth like oiled silk. The older lord chuckled. "No matter how rough the trail, Your Grace, it is always a road worth riding if it leads me back to your banner." He tilted his head with a lopsided grin. "Though I will confess¡ªtaking a few sweets along the way does miracles for a soldier¡¯s temperament." At that, Xanthios clapped his gloved hands once and from behind, another horse approached. Its rider held a length of rope in one hand, and at the other end, stumbling and red-faced, was a man being half-dragged forward, arms bound, eyes full of venom and pain. Lord Xanthios turned to his prince and said nothing more¡ªbecause truly, there were some gifts best left unwrapped with silence and without a presentation. Alpheo¡¯s smile faltered¡ªnot from displeasure, but from the sheer surprised of the gift. His eyes narrowed, and with him, the gazes of all who rode at his back did the same, each man recognizing the foul shape that had been dragged forward like a sack of rotted meat wrapped in noble cloth. The figure tethered by rope was barely more than a man now.Sir Agolonthio, the traitor of Arduronaven. Once polished in pride and iron, now he stood barefoot, his steps faltering on the jagged stone road leading to Florium. His feet were torn and bloody, slick with dirt and a dozen shallow cuts. His once-proud tunic hung in tatters, stiff with dried blood and filth, both his own. His face was a grotesque echo of its former self: one eye swollen shut, his nose bent in the wrong direction, and gaps showed where teeth had been torn from the gum, leaving his mouth looking like a crumbled ruin. His fingertips were the worst¡ªeach nail ripped clean, leaving the raw flesh underneath an angry, weeping red. Alpheo didn¡¯t move for a moment, didn¡¯t blink.Only his lips curled, in the cold satisfaction of justice ripening on the vine. From where he sat astride his white stallion, the prince let out a soft exhale, almost a laugh. Today had been a good day.But now, with Sir Agolonthio of Arduronaven¡ªthe traitor, the worm, the lord who opened the gates to Herculia¡¯s dogs¡ªnow crawling back into his custody and his own death? Today had just become a great one. Like sunlight crawling across the surface of his armr , his voice came soft, warm, almost fond like the purr of a cat "Tell me I¡¯m not dreaming," he said, cocking his head. "Are my eyes deceived? Is that truly the Sir I see before me? The noble, the brave, the stalwart governor of Arduronaven¡ªthat jewel of a city I had taken , which in my blinding generosity entrusted to his care?" His tone dipped, becoming silk soaked in vinegar. "The same city, if memory serves, that fell without even the half-effort it took to win it in the first place?" Agolonthio did not answer. He couldn¡¯t. His mouth hung half-open, the jagged wreck of it twitching around a breath that may have once carried pride. His eyes, though¡ªthose were dead. Glassy, hollow. Like wine spilled and dried on an empty cup. And Alpheo hated that. He leaned slightly forward in the saddle, the light in his eyes cooling from amusement to irritation. "No, no, that won¡¯t do," he murmured. "Eyes like that? Those are for the grave."He turned, glancing back over his shoulder lazily. "Who had their fun with him already?" Lord Xanthios raised a hand, the gesture a quiet claim. "I had him prepared for delivery, Your Grace. Nothing more." "Good," he said. "Then I¡¯m not too late for the real part." He turned his gaze back to the broken man in front of him. "I¡¯d hoped to hear your first scream with my own ears, Agolonthio. There¡¯s something sacred about a man¡¯s first scream, you know. It has the truth of a man in it. But," he gestured vaguely with a gloved hand, "even this...this sight alone...makes it worth having waited so long." He let the words linger, let the silence hold their weight. "Like watching autumn finally break the spine of summer. The sky turns, the green withers, and the rot shows you everything you were too polite to say aloud, and there was so much rot in you that we shall have to clean away with your rolls of meat." His horse shifted slightly beneath him.Alpheo inhaled, slow and pleased. "Yes," he said, voice light again, "I think I¡¯ll rather enjoy this.Of course, I would not wish for there to be any misunderstanding," he began, "when the knife begins to carve its way through your flesh. This is not punishment for the treachery you committed. No." He leaned forward slightly in the saddle, as if sharing a secret between friends. "That act¡ªthat small betrayal you bartered like coin for land and recognition¡ªwas as useless to me as your short life is now. And that, at least, is saying something." He paused to let it linger. His eyes moved down, studying the blood-caked feet, the missing fingernails, the shattered dignity barely hanging on like a ragged coat. "No...the city was taken back with ease," he said, almost as if to himself. "Barely a wound to show for it. I believe you¡¯ve already made the acquaintance of the man who made that possible." He smiled faintly, darkly toward Lucius. "So I won¡¯t waste time with introductions." Then his voice dropped, slow and smooth and laced with quiet fire. "What will matter, Agolonthio¡ªwhat will truly haunt the final rattle of breath in your throat¡ªis that you spat on the royal family. You turned your back to it and the one that holds it¡¯¡¯ He straightened in the saddle. "My wife was the one who proposed your name to govern that city. Do you understand?You made a jester of her" Agolonthio didn¡¯t speak¡ªhe couldn¡¯t.But the twitch in his ruined face said enough. "She will be sad," Alpheo said, almost wistfully. "Yes, I fear she will weep when she hears what has become of you. But take heart." He smiled again¡ªa soft thing, cruel and fatherly. "For I¡¯m certain the gift you shall give her soon...the memory of it...will bring her smile back in time." Then he turned to his left, to the looming, silent figure of Vrosk. "Please," he said, gentle as a feather falling, "show our guest the room he will reside in¡ªof course until he will be cut open ahead of the whole army, slow and methodical." Vrosk bowed his head once and snapped the rope taut. Agolonthio stumbled, knees buckling, blood and spittle threading from his lips as he croaked out¡ª "Puhh...P-pleaff...! Dun...dunnn¨C!" The words slurred, broken, pitiful things from a mouth missing too many teeth to form proper sound. He tried again, only to be dragged forward like a sack of flour, heels digging into the dirt, leaving behind shallow trenches that caught dust and silence. And Alpheo? Alpheo watched him go.And saw it. The fear. Back in the eyes. Where it belonged. Like an ember rekindled.Like a soul remembering it had a body, and the body was breakable. Chapter 547: How to deal with a turtle? (1) Chapter 547: How to deal with a turtle? (1) The sun had dipped just enough for the light to be golden, painting every polished edge and taut canvas of the camp in honey and fire. Around them, the life of an army unfurled in quiet, victorious rhythm: the clatter of dice, the low hum of a hundred songs half-sung. Prince Alpheo and Lord Xanthios walked at a measured pace along the perimeter of the camp. It wasn¡¯t ceremony. It wasn¡¯t patrol. It was something older than either¡ªtwo men sharing the aftertaste of vengeance, like old wine on the tongue. Lord Xanthios¡¯ eyes lingered on the soldiers¡ªhis soldiers, now resting, laughing, polishing blades. It had taken him years to crawl back from disgrace of faling to avenge his brother . And here they were now, his men returned to the field under the prince who had given him his sword again. "I must say," Alpheo murmured as he walked, hands clasped behind his back, "my heart longed to turn eastward first. To deliver Lechlian the due he¡¯s so artfully earned and lend aid to you. But the Oizenians..." He let the name hang in the air like a bad smell. "They barked louder, bit deeper. And well, sometimes the snarling dog needs the boot before the schemer gets the blade." Xanthios gave a solemn nod, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You chose wisely, your grace and you will no rue in me for your choice. The Oizenians were always the sharper edge of the two. Lechlian¡¯s pride is louder, but he never knew how to wield his weapon properly" Xanthios let out a quiet breath, gaze still cast across the sea of tents. "And yet you cut off the serpent¡¯s head. Just like that." Alpheo didn¡¯t respond immediately. They passed a group of soldiers playing cards over a crate, and for a brief second, he watched one of them laugh. Then he looked to Xanthios. "I¡¯ll not deny," he said, voice lower now, "I took no joy in marching past Herculia. My fingers itched to strangle Lechlian¡¯s dreams where they grew. But he¡¯ll get his share. First, I wanted to deal with the thorn buried deepest in our side." He stopped, his boot crunching softly against gravel as he turned to face Alpheo. "Your Grace... forgive the bluntness, but I must ask¡ªwhat of the Oizenian prince? The son of Kaelith. Rumors say¡ª" Alpheo raised an eyebrow, his lips curling faintly, like the question amused him. "You mean Prince Shamleik?" He chuckled, voice like silk gliding across glass. "By now, he should already be resting beneath his home soil, courtesy of his newly crowned son. I suppose he should be quite happy for the promotion." Xanthios blinked. He stared at the prince like he was staring at a legend carved in flesh. "He¡¯s dead?" Alpheo tilted his head. "I simply opened the gate. And fate shoved him through it." Xanthios could do little but exhale¡ªslow, reverent. His eyes swept across the camp again, suddenly realizing the full gravity of where he stood, beside whom he stood. As the two men reached the heart of the camp, where the largest pavilions rose like sails above a sea of smaller tents, Alpheo gave a brief glance toward the richly adorned command tent just ahead. The royal crest flapped lazily in the warm breeze at the entrance, and a pair of guards stepped aside wordlessly at their approach. "I was in the middle of a council when you arrived," Alpheo remarked casually, as though discussing the weather. "My commanders are inside, waiting.I suppose it wasn¡¯t due for them to wait Lord Xanthios halted, his brow furrowing with contrition. "Your Grace, forgive me. I had no intention of disturbing such important matters¡ªI should have waited for a more appropriate moment." Alpheo chuckled softly, lifting his hand with a gentle, dismissive swoop. "Nonsense. You¡¯ve marched far, bled deeper than most, and returned with honor¡ªand a gift besides," he added with a dry grin, no doubt recalling Agolonthios. "If anything, your timing is impeccable. You¡¯ll join us, of course.¡¯¡¯ Xanthios bowed his head deeply, his voice warm. "Then I thank Your Grace for the honor. It is my highest privilege." "Come, then," Alpheo said, his tone shifting into command with the ease of slipping on a glove. He turned toward the tent, his cloak trailing behind him like a streak of dusk, and Lord Xanthios followed without hesitation. The canvas of the tent parted with a practiced flick of Alpheo¡¯s hand. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wax, parchment, and steel¡ªa war room born of dust and fire. A table stood at the center, strewn with maps, stones for markers, and a few scattered goblets of wine and cider. Around it stood only a handful of men, among them of course the commanders of the White Army alongside Lord Shahab and his son Jared. Lord Xanthios entered with measured steps, the dirt of the road still clinging to his boots. His gaze swept the chamber and with a respectful incline of the head, he greeted, "My lords." Those inside turned and greeted him back with nods and murmurs of acknowledgment. It was Jarza who spoke first, the towering black-armored giant grinning wide, his voice like rolling thunder. "It¡¯s been a while since we marched under the same banner, Lord Xanthios. I am quite relieved to see you here¡¯¡¯ Xanthios gave a soft chuckle and a nod, his eyes flicking across the gathered company. Only a few men stood in the circle¡ªtrusted ones, sharp as blades. It was a small group. A private group. And that realization made the honor of standing among them all the greater. But his gaze didn¡¯t linger on the powerful or the pristine.After giving a respectful nod to Jarza , his eyes were drawn almost instantly to the battered form near the edge of the table¡ªAsag. The general stood with one arm in a sling, his side bound tightly in fresh bandages that peeked from beneath his coat. His helmet rested on the table beside him, revealing a face crisscrossed with new scars to add to the ones fire had already carved in his skin. Asag noticed the stare and smiled, wry and crooked. "These," he said, lifting his good arm slightly as if to show off his collection of wounds, "are the little gifts the Oizenians gave me¡ªright before we returned the favor, wrapped in steel and screams.I suppose a dead Prince for a broken army is a just exchange for a ruined face..." Xanthios gave a low, appreciative nod, though his eyes betrayed his slight awe. Alpheo, leaning a hand on the edge of the map-strewn table, let out a small laugh. "It¡¯s nice for old friends to catch up," he said, tone sharpening as easily as a blade being drawn. "But let¡¯s not forget¡ªthere¡¯s still a war to finish, and I¡¯d hate to keep the enemy waiting for their funeral." Alpheo leaned over the war table, the canvas map beneath his fingers rippling faintly in the breeze that slipped through the seams of the command tent. The dusky light of the sinking sun filtered in through the canvas, casting his silhouette like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath. "With the Herculeians retreating¡ªfinally retreating¡ªto their motherland, licking their wounds and dragging their pride behind them," he began, "we stand now with only one front open. One enemy still waving their little banners and calling it courage, though desperation would be much more appropriate." His fingers moved with surgical precision across the map, landing on a mark north of Florium, some thirty leagues away. He tapped the point with his knuckle. "Here. This is where they¡¯ve decided to make their final stand. A modest hill. But it will be the place where we crush the last ember of rebellion." He looked up, his gaze flicking to each of the men gathered around him. "They¡¯ve seen the world around them collapse," he said, voice rising. "The Oizenians, once our most dangerous enemy, scattered and bled dry in the fields of Aracina. Their prince¡ª" he paused for dramatic weight "¡ªburied. And the Herculeians, too, have finally understood that the fires we lit were not sparks, but infernos. They have retreated behind whatever stone was near them" He straightened and placed both hands behind his back. "And now, after all of that, our brave little rebels have decided it¡¯s time to grow cautious." His voice dipped with mocking gravity. "They¡¯ve watched two giants fall and thought, ¡¯Now is the time to dig in our heels.¡¯" He turned to Lord Xanthios, lifting a brow. "Apparently, seeing a nation¡¯s strength razed and another turned back made the rebel lords... reconsider their manhood." The tent chuckled, low and knowing. "Yes," Alpheo said, pace picking up, energy building. "They¡¯ve shrunk their balls and turtled themselves up on a hill, hoping the great storm will pass them by. They believe that if they hunker down like cowards, we¡¯ll lose our taste for blood." He stepped around the table, letting his eyes land on each face like an anvil. "So of course the trouble come now, as after all we¡¯ll have to take their hill. We¡¯ll have to break their backs on it.¡¯¡¯ He stopped beside Asag, glancing at the bandaged arm and the stitched wounds hidden beneath cloth. "Too many have bled for this. Too many like him have carried our standard through hell, all for the greed of few. And now, while our swords are still warm and our fury still fresh, we end this." There was silence in the tent¡ªthick, weighty, full of shared understanding. Chapter 548: How to deal with a turtle?(2) Chapter 548: How to deal with a turtle?(2) Alpheo let his hand rest on the rim of the war table, his fingers tapping it with the rhythm of a clock ticking down to something inevitable. He leaned forward just slightly, letting his voice slip lower, heavier ¡ª no longer commanding the room with volume, but with gravity. "Let me make something very clear," he said, drawing the eyes of every man present. "I wouldn¡¯t feel comfortable assaulting that hill even if I had four thousand men behind me. Not even if they were all fresh, blood-hungry, and blessed by every god up there. That position is a butcher¡¯s slope waiting to be fed. All it takes is one man¡ªjust one¡ªto break. One man to drop his spear, lose his nerve, scream, piss himself, run¡ªand that¡¯s it. The line ripples. It shatters. You can train a soldier in a few weeks, you can drill him day and night, teach him to march and stab and shout the right words... but you need more time to reach the part of him that flees when it hears death coming." He turned his gaze slowly, letting it drift to Jarza, then to Asag, then to Xanthios. " Battle are won when the other side formations break. When order dies. When panic spreads like fire in dry wheat. The killing doesn¡¯t start when armies meet... it starts when one side turns its back." He stood fully upright now, his arms behind his back, posture straight like a blade of polished steel. "That¡¯s why I built the White Army the way I did." He gestured at the room, but also at the world beyond it. At the men in the camps. At the banners that fluttered just outside. He smiled faintly, but there was no joy in it¡ªjust the cold pride of an architect who knew the strength of the structure he¡¯d raised. "Our halberdiers? They weren¡¯t just a solution to shields. They were designed for terror. They come in from the flanks, like wolves from the dark, too close to be stopped, too fast to be braced for. And those halberds¡ªthey split shields like wood, cleave helmets from heads, and open formations like a butcher opening a pig." He snapped his fingers softly. "One break. One scream. And the line folds." He began to walk again, slowly circling. "The uniforms¡ªthey aren¡¯t for decoration. When a man sees rows of soldiers dressed alike, clean, unbroken, precise¡ªhe doesn¡¯t see men. He sees inevitability. He sees fate walking toward him. That uniform is a whisper in the enemy¡¯s mind before the first clash, saying: ¡¯You can¡¯t win.¡¯" Alpheo stopped behind Asag, whose bruised face twitched with an amused grin despite the crusted blood beneath his eye. "And silence. No chants. No war cries. Just footsteps. Just the sound of movement¡ªcalculated, terrifying. Because the mind fills silence with horror. The imagination builds monsters louder than any trumpet ever could." He stepped forward again, planting both hands on the table now, eyes hard. "All this... everything we built... is nulled in battles like this. Where we cannot outflank, cannot outcharge, cannot climb the hill screaming like heroes in song. We will be forced to smash on their shells until our hands are bleeding and breaking" He looked up, meeting Xanthios¡¯ stare, then Jarza¡¯s, then each of the others in turn. He did not like it. Not one bit. An uphill fight was a fool¡¯s errand¡ªany commander with more than a finger¡¯s worth of brain matter knew that. Every step forward would be a wound. Every hillcrest gained would be a corpse to mourn. And though he trusted his army, loved it even¡ªhe would not bleed it dry on a rebel¡¯s whim. So he turned, slowly, letting his eyes sweep across the commanders gathered, waiting for inspiration to strike from the lips of someone brave enough to speak. Jarza, ever the bold one, leaned forward "This reminds me of that mess the Herculeians found themselves in last year," he said, voice gravel-smooth. "You remember, against the peasant uprising ? Same damned thing¡ªrebels holed up on a hill like ticks on a dog, palisades, trenches, the works. They solved it clever. Sent the first line forward¡ªjust lightly enough to taste their blades¡ªthen pulled them back in a feigned retreat. Drew the rebels in with a bit of false hope and panic." He smirked, tapping his knuckle on the table. "Second line stood firm. Spears braced. The rebels rushed in, high on their own piss and momentum, and slammed right into it. Add some cavalry sweeping round the back like a pair of shears... and that was the end of the rebellion." Some of the commanders around the table muttered approvingly, nodding along, but Alpheo only narrowed his eyes, chewing the thought like a piece of stale bread. It had texture, promise, but... it stuck in the teeth. "I¡¯ll grant you, Jarza," Alpheo said slowly, "it worked for them. " His voice darkened, laced with skeptical amusement. "But let¡¯s not forget¡ªthe second line must stand still, unmoving, while their brothers turn and run screaming toward them "Would you trust the noble¡¯s levies to manage that? And to even attempt it, we¡¯d need the rebels to chase the retreating line. That¡¯s the delicate part, isn¡¯t it? And I doubt they¡¯ll be so eager. They¡¯ve got a perfect view from their perch up there. You think they¡¯ll miss the other half of our army lounging just behind the first? They¡¯re dug in like rats in a granary. They won¡¯t waste a step unless they smell a true rout." He turned back to Jarza, smile now in full bloom¡ªsharp, foxlike. "No, I like your idea. I do. But I do not think the enemy¡¯s dumb enough to come galloping down the hill into our waiting arms." With that idea shot down , it was now Asag¡¯s turn . "They¡¯re on their last legs," he muttered, his voice gravelly with pain. "Morale¡¯s bleeding out from their guts, my prince." He glanced around, then leaned forward, the ghost of a grin crawling over his cracked lips. "I¡¯d wager there are men up there already having second thoughts, as they now realise that the horse they are riding is half dead" He paused, letting that sink in, then tapped the hill on the map with his finger. "We offer them pardon. If we can convince a pocket of them to defect they can crack the back of their own formation mid-battle. A little betrayal in the right moment, and their army¡¯ll collapse like wet parchment. We use their confusion to breach the line, drive through while their backs are turned, and once inside let the soldiers have fun with them." A murmur circled the tent, quiet and thoughtful Alpheo, however, remained still. He didn¡¯t speak for a long moment, just stared at the map, brows furrowed, tapping his knuckle against his lip. Then he shook his head, slowly, the way one might do when listening to an old song they wish they could still believe in. "It¡¯s a fine plan¡¯¡¯ he said softly. "But also this one encounters a problem ." He gestured toward the map with a single finger. "For this to work, we would need to convince either one of the major magnates¡ªthe kind of lord with enough sway to drag his bannermen with him¡ªor a whole chorus of smaller ones willing to jump together." His voice turned razor sharp. "The second option is a web of candles in a dry field. One coward with a conscience, or a fool with too much loyalty, and it all goes to ash. They¡¯d rat us out the moment doubt trickled in. We wouldn¡¯t be marching to battle¡ªwe¡¯d be walking into a trap they laid for us, thinking it was ours." He folded his arms. "As for the first option¡ªconvincing a high lord? That means getting a man inside one of the most heavily guarded corners of the enemy camp, into the lord¡¯s tent itself, and having a quiet little chat. Without being seen. Without being heard. Without a whisper of it reaching the wrong ear." His tone dipped lower, more sardonic. "And if, say, a man was caught skulking into such a tent? Then by sunrise, they¡¯d be crying ¡¯spies in the camp,¡¯. And of course, the plan would be revealed by the captured man by then, which meant that they could take advantage of that to lure us in, or at least that would be what I would do ." He turned to Asag, not unkindly, but with the weight of reality in his gaze. "It¡¯s not impossible. But the margin for error is too big and the consequences of failure too big." After the second plan was quietly but firmly dashed against the rocks of reality, no one dared push forward with another. Shahab, usually as sharp-tongued as he was sharp-minded, sat with arms crossed and jaw clenched, his son beside him mirroring his silence, having no plan as he did before the ambush. Lord Xanthios, for all his experience and valor, offered only a furrowed brow and the occasional tap of fingers against the wood of the table¡ªhis mind clearly spinning, not used to such strategy being put forward,as he was the kind of straightforward general of charge first , think second. Egil, on the other hand, seemed to take the lull as permission to resume digging something loose from between his teeth, using the corner of his pinky nail like he was whittling a stick. He looked at no one. There was no spark behind his eyes, as those of a dog waiting for the master to throw the ball, and most certain certainly no clever plan ready to tumble from his lips. Alpheo exhaled slowly, the sigh less of exhaustion and more like a valve releasing pressure before it could snap. "Well," he finally said, the edge of steel still laced beneath his voice. "No need to wring blood from the stone just yet." The tent remained quiet, the sound of canvas flapping in the wind outside underscoring his words. "We don¡¯t need to decide now," he continued, his tone more measured. "A plan will come to us¡ªperhaps once we¡¯ve seen the enemy¡¯s ground with our own eyes. Men often grow cleverer when staring at the hill they must die on." A few weary smirks flickered across the table at that. "In the meantime," Alpheo added, sweeping a hand across the table to gently close the map, "we make camp in front of them." He stood fully then, straightening his shoulders. "We¡¯ll play for time. And perhaps time will reward us with a proper idea." And with that, the meeting began to dissolve, not in triumph nor despair¡ªbut in the tempered patience of men who understood that sometimes, no fish would be caught from the net and that all they could was try another day . Chapter 549: Informations makes might Chapter 549: Informations makes might Outside the dimly lit tent, Alpheo stood with arms behind his back, staring at the canvas like it had personally offended him. From within came the wet, meaty sound of something chewing¡ªno, crunching¡ªfollowed by the unmistakable crack of bone giving way under teeth far too determined. It was not a pleasant sound, and it certainly wasn¡¯t the kind of welcome most would want after a war meeting. He parted the flap with a single motion. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and animal fat. Hunched over a plate stripped bare of dignity was Marcus¡ªsecond-highest among Alpheo¡¯s agents¡ªteeth clamped around a glistening pig bone, now snapped clean through. His face was smeared with grease, his fingers slick and glistening like he¡¯d gone to war with the meal and barely survived it. The gluttony of it all would¡¯ve been obscene, if not for how pathetic he looked. To his right, Lucius stood, arms crossed and expression contorted in a portrait of refined disgust. He leaned ever so slightly away from his companion, as though afraid proximity alone might coat him in lard. The moment Marcus saw Alpheo enter, he rose¡ªabruptly, too fast, the motion nearly sending the tray of bones crashing. He stood at attention, what remained of his dignity scraped together, though the remnants of his feast still glistened on his chin. His tunic clung to a frame that looked thinner than it should¡¯ve¡ªhis cheeks hollow, his jaw tighter than before, and beneath his eyes hung two bruised shadows like the aftermath of a sleepless war. All that feeling of patheticness disappeared when sighting his figure. "I¡¯ve seen better looks from corpses," Egil, who had followed Alpheo after the meeting, muttered, just loud enough to be heard. The prince¡¯s eyes snapped to Egil with the cold sharpness of a dagger¡¯s edge¡ªjust long enough to shut him up without a word being spoken, and perhaps feeling the mistake of having allowed him leash to follow. His gaze then moved on Marcus, as if seeing him for the first time again¡ªnot just a bone-crunching madman fresh from feasting, but the ghost of a mission long thought failed. He had sent Marcus north nearly two months ago, tasked with a delicate, dangerous operation: infiltrate the rebel camp and guide them into an ambush in the southern valleys, into the maw of death laid by his command. And for a moment, the plan was perfect. Under the right spark of chaos, Marcus would slip out during the confusion, vanish with the smoke, and deliver the rebels straight into their funeral pyre. It would have worked, should have worked¡ªif not for Robert. Damn Robert. The man had sniffed something foul in the wind, thrown the whole command into caution, and the rebels never moved an inch south with their true power. That was the last Alpheo had heard of Marcus. For two months, nothing. Not a message. Not a whisper Until today. Until this grease-slicked revenant stumbled back into camp like a man who had chewed his way through hell. "I apologize," Marcus said, lowering his head, voice rough and hoarse from weeks of bad sleep and worse food. "For being gone so long. I had trouble... finding your Grace." Alpheo felt something stir in his chest. Guilt, perhaps. A rare thing for a man whose death of the field were just simple numbers . He had, for a time, believed Marcus dead, believing him caught and flayed somewhere in a rebel pit. "You did your duty," Alpheo said, his voice low, calm. "The fact you¡¯re standing here means more than the silence ever could. Sit. Speak." Marcus nodded, the shadow of exhaustion still dancing behind his eyes. "I watched them," he said. " I broke bread with them on dinner ." He paused, licking dry lips. "They hate each other." Alpheo raised a brow. Marcus leaned in slightly. "The magnates, they despise the priest. He¡¯s not just a voice of the gods to them¡ªhe¡¯s a leash. He preaches unity, purity, but they only hear the mumblings of a mad-man " Alpheo¡¯s eyes narrowed slightly, the first glimmer of interest sharpening his features. "And it¡¯s not just him," Marcus continued. "The great houses¡ªthe ones with real troops and land¡ªthey¡¯re at each other¡¯s throats half the time. They whisper of unity, but all I saw were fractures." Now that is interesting, Alpheo lampooned. The fracturing among the rebel lords? That was expected¡ªinevitable, even. Alpheo had counted on it since the war¡¯s first breath. These weren¡¯t men forged in the fires of shared purpose. They were wolves leashed only by common spite, each snarling at the other from within their gilded corners. With no true central figure to command them, only pride and paranoia kept their lines from unraveling¡ªand both were brittle threads. No, that wasn¡¯t new. But the priest? The notion that the spiritual spine of the rebellion¡ªthe one figure who might¡¯ve bound it with doctrine where swords failed¡ªwas himself resented, despised by the noble houses? Now that was something else. Something useful. Alpheo¡¯s head dipped in a slow nod, his lips curling into the faintest smile. "You¡¯ve served me well, Marcus," he said, the words quiet, but not soft. "Rest. You¡¯ve earned it." Marcus bowed, the motion clumsy with fatigue but full of the old discipline that hadn¡¯t yet rotted away. "I will, Your Grace," he murmured, his voice like gravel scraped across wood. ¡¯¡¯Good dinner, happy to see you kicking!¡¯¡¯ Egil said Alpheo turned on his heel, sweeping aside the tent¡¯s flap as his entourage fell into step behind him like shadows stitched to his back. ¡¯¡¯Wel good dinner then , happy to see you kicking!¡¯¡¯ Egil said as he followed Alpheo out. In moments, they were gone¡ªtheir steps fading into the deeper dark beyond the tent. The silence returned, save for the gentle clatter of bone against plate and the rustling of canvas. Marcus sat back down with a grunt, his ribs protesting the motion, and looked over to Lucius, who still stood arms crossed, eyeing the pig carcass with a frown that could curdle milk. Marcus smirked tiredly. "What? You¡¯re looking at me like I just married the pig." Lucius rolled his eyes and took a seat beside him. "I don¡¯t know if I should be more disturbed by the amount of fat on your chin or the fact that you¡¯re still alive." Marcus chuckled, low and dry. "Yeah, well. I had bet I¡¯d meet you again, didn¡¯t I?" Lucius looked at him, something softer flickering behind his eyes. "You always do.Thought this time you would lose the dice " he continued, tone dry but curious, "how hard was the mission?" Marcus paused, bones in hand, swallowing down a bite of salted flesh with the struggle of a man unused to chewing. He gave a scoff, licking fat from his lips. "Hard?" He let out a huff of air that wasn¡¯t quite a laugh. "It was all going according to plan. I had ¡¯em believing I was just another pompous brat in a fancy cloak, nodding with the rest of those half-witted lords while they dreamed of carving the kingdom like a roast." He tossed a bone to the side, where it clinked against a tin plate. "And then," Marcus continued, raising a greasy finger for dramatic effect, "that old fart had to show up. Silver-haired, wrinkled like a shriveled grape, and with just enough brains left to smell something was off. He starts sniffing around, looking at me like I was a goat dressed as a noble." Lucius chuckled under his breath. Marcus wasn¡¯t done. "Son of a whore. I swear, if it wasn¡¯t for him, we¡¯d have had their entire army marching south with their pants down, ready to walk into Alpheo¡¯s blade blind. But no. Everything went to shit in an hour. I had to run¡ªin daylight¡ªthrough the camp, all the while praying no one would notice that my noble accent slipped every time I talked." Lucius whistled low. "Dramatic." Marcus gave him a look. "And if they¡¯d caught me? They¡¯d have peeled me like an onion just to find out why some lowborn rat was pretending to have a family crest. I¡¯d have been spread across three trees and a dinner table." He let the silence linger a moment, then jabbed his thumb toward Lucius. "And you? What grand horrors did you face while I was being hunted like a fox?" Lucius gave a shrug, deliberately casual. "Took three hundred men. Attacked an unprepared force of two hundred. Caught them asleep. Most surrendered, some died. Didn¡¯t even need to lift my sword much. I¡¯d say it went... smoothly." Marcus blinked at him. There was a beat of pure silence. Then came the stare. Blank, neutral, slow-blinking¡ªthe expression of a man calculating just how badly fate had bent him over. He chewed slowly, deliberately, as if each bite was fueled by spite. "So," he said flatly, "you had a picnic with swords while I was nearly filleted and served with lemon?" Lucius gave a small smirk. "Well, I am a better talker than you." Still Despite it all, both men chuckled¡ªbecause they were alive, battered, exhausted... but alive. And in a war like this, that counted as a luxury. "Well," he muttered, patting his stomach, "at least after this godsdamned war is over, I¡¯m finally getting a long rest. Somewhere with wine, bread that doesn¡¯t fight back, and maybe a woman who isn¡¯t trying to stab me.I still haven¡¯t got a wife" Across from him, Lucius stared. Not blinked. Not nodded. Just stared. Marcus squinted. "What?" Lucius winced, running a hand through his hair like a man bracing for a storm. "So... I had the pleasure of speaking with His Grace earlier." Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? And?" Lucius leaned forward a bit, lowering his voice like someone about to break bad news to a widow. "Do you remember when we helped those rebels against the Herculeians?" Marcus froze. Blinked. "Of course I do,why?" "They were under-equipped, poorly trained¡ª" "Lucius¡ª" "¡ªand generally smelled like goats and bad decisions." Marcus leaned forward, eyes wide, face suddenly pale. "Lucius. Are you telling me... we¡¯re going to help another bandit lord and his flea-bitten parade of idiots?" Lucius chuckled, shaking his head. "No, no. Not at all." Marcus slumped with audible relief, like a sack of flour collapsing into peace. "Thank all the gods." Lucius smiled faintly. "We¡¯re becoming the bandits." There was silence. Absolute silence. Marcus¡¯s mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again, this time with the expression of a man who just learned the gods were real and very, very petty. Chapter 550: End in sight Chapter 550: End in sight The sun hung high in the sky¡ªa merciless, gilded disk that bathed the world in a clarity so sharp it bordered on cruelty. This was not the gentle light of dawn, nor the forgiving glow of dusk, but the pitiless glare of noon, exposing every scar and seam of the land below as if the earth itself had been laid bare for judgment. The heavens offered no reprieve¡ªno clouds, no haze¡ªjust an endless expanse of blue, stretched taut like the skin of a drum awaiting the first thunderous beat of war. The Royal Host crested the ridge like a slow-rising tide of steel, their advance measured, inexorable. They moved with the quiet confidence of wolves who had long since grown accustomed to victory. Sunlight danced along polished helms, transforming each into a fleeting crown. Spears stood rigid against the sky, a forest of defiance aimed at the gods themselves, as if daring them to intervene. And then, the battlefield. It sprawled before them, untouched by the chaos yet inviting it forward like a woman with open legs in a bed. The hills ahead were no longer mere rises ; they had been reshaped into a killing ground , every slope studded with palisades, every approach choked with ditches and sharpened stakes. It was a beast of wood and earth, crouched and waiting, its maw gaping wide to swallow the unwary whole. Yet the Royal Host did not balk. Why would they? Their banners had never known the kiss of defeat. Their steps had never faltered. Their prince had never led them astray. The line halted. The world held its breath. For a heartbeat, there was only silence¡ªa silence so thick it seemed to press against the ears. No shouts, no drums, no blaring horns. Just the creak of leather, the restless stamp of hooves, the quiet rasp of gauntleted fingers tightening around sword hilts. And at the heart of it all, beneath the snapping standard that roared like a challenge in the wind, stood the Prince. He was motionless, a statue carved from the same unyielding resolve that had carried his army this far. The wind plucked at his cloak, as if even the elements sought to pull him back¡ªto whisper caution into his ear. But his gaze remained fixed upon the rebel-held heights, where sunlight glinted off a thousand points of steel. His eyes traced the defenses , the ditches, some shallow enough to stumble over, others deep enough to bury a man alive. The palisades, their stakes blackened by fire to make it easier to work or still oozing sap like fresh wounds. Every detail screamed the same warning, a chorus of instinct and experience rising in his mind: Do not come here. Not here. Not like this. Danger waits. Death waits. And Alpheo agreed wholeheartedly, heeding his mind.. He had no taste for throwing men into the jaws of such a slaughter. Let the glory-hungry lords send their levies charging uphill if they wished¡ªlet them drown the ditches with their peasants¡¯ blood. But his White Army? No. They were not fodder for some vain charge. Courage was one thing. Folly was another. Still, the field before him was more than a slab of dirt. It was a chessboard. And while the rebels had seized the high ground¡ªgiving themselves the defender¡¯s privilege of choosing the terrain and twisting it into a nightmare for any oncoming force¡ªthe attackers had their own kind of power. Initiative. The sweetest morsel that an attacker could make use of . The one on the offensive moved first. They set the tone, dictated the rhythm. A good attacker, a clever one, could make the defenders dance to his tune without them realizing their feet were already moving. But that was theory. This... was a hill and it was not the one he would die on . In the real world, attackers had to march. And marching meant friction. On uneven terrain, over craggy slopes or through muddied ditches, formations broke like waves¡ªlines surged ahead, others lagged behind. A clean advance turned into a staggered mess before the first spear was even thrown. All it took was one break in the rhythm, one stagger in the line, and the defenders would pounce, break the line and route them. Because when defenders saw an army climb uphill, sweating and panting, its neat ranks turned to a drunkard¡¯s procession, they didn¡¯t see valor. They saw lunch. Alpheo exhaled slowly, his jaw tight, his eyes still on the gleaming hills. Both sides held cards. The rebels held the high ground. Alpheo¡¯s advantages were different, but no less potent: the relentless energy of an army in motion, the precision of careful planning, the ability to strike where and when he chose. What he needed now wasn¡¯t brute force, but cunning¡ªa way to turn the enemy¡¯s unshakable position into a trap of their own making. He would not feed his men to the earth. Not today. Not ever. Yet hesitation was its own kind of defeat. Not for the body, but for the spirit of an army. A prince could bleed. A prince could fall. But a prince could never let uncertainty touch his voice or shadow his eyes. Doubt was a sickness, and it spread faster than any plague. One faltering glance from a commander, and suddenly spears grew heavy in trembling hands, shields drooped like weary shoulders, and the whispers slithered through the ranks: Does he truly have a plan? So when the silence behind him stretched a heartbeat too long, Alpheo shattered it. "Jarza." The grizzled captain stepped forward like a shadow given form¡ªa man who spoke only when spoken to, and even then, only in the blunt syllables of war. "Have the troops make camp," Alpheo ordered, his voice calm. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Jarza didn¡¯t nod. Didn¡¯t question. He simply turned and unleashed his voice like a storm breaking over the ranks. Orders ripped through the air, sharp and clear. The army stirred to life¡ªaxes were hefted, horses led to pickets, the first stakes driven into the unyielding ground. Alpheo didn¡¯t turn to watch. His gaze remained locked on those damned hills, their slopes now bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. They seemed to mock him, growing taller with every passing moment, as if the rebels were piling the very earth higher just to spite him. At his side stood Asag. The man was a specter of what he¡¯d once been¡ªhis armor still gleamed, but it hung on a frame that had been whittled down by loss. Of the two hundred hardened warriors who had once followed him without question, only half remained. A hundred blades, still loyal, still lethal¡ªbut their edges had been dulled by grief. Alpheo flicked a glance at him. Asag said nothing. He didn¡¯t need to. He had forged his army to be unstoppable, a force that shattered anything in its path. But even the mightiest hammer could only strike so many times before the wood splintered. The prince dragged his attention back to the hills. The palisades stood like a wall of broken bones. The ditches gaped, hungry. Sunlight glinted off rebel steel¡ªa thousand watching eyes, laughing at him. For a fleeting, bitter moment, he considered hurling Asag¡¯s hundred at them. The thought tasted like ash on his tongue. "You got a plan?" Alpheo exhaled through his nose, his brow furrowed beneath his circlet of bronze. He shook his head slowly, almost reluctantly. "Not really," he muttered. "Nothing solid. Nothing I¡¯d carve into stone, at least." He rubbed the side of his face, the skin dusty with the march. "For now... we make camp. Let the men rest. There¡¯s no use dying with empty stomachs and stiff legs." Asag gave a small grunt, half-agreement, half-doubt. He knew too well what it meant when Alpheo didn¡¯t have a plan¡ªbecause that meant the cogs in the prince¡¯s mind were turning faster than usual. "But..." Alpheo continued, a spark finally dancing behind his tired eyes. "There¡¯s half an idea forming.I am trying to grasp at its legs and pull it to the open" He paused, his gaze locking on the far hills. He looked at the slope not as a warrior now, but as a butcher sizing up the neck of a bull. "The way they¡¯ve positioned themselves¡ªdug in like ticks on that ridge¡ªit¡¯s good ground, sure. But they¡¯ve gone all in on it. Too in. Which means... they¡¯ve only got one way in. And one way out." Asag turned to follow the line of Alpheo¡¯s eyes. He saw it too¡ªthe single road that coiled behind the hill like a snake tailing its den. "What if we cut them off?" Alpheo said. "Choke their lifeline. Let them stew in their hilltop fortress. Siege them¡ªnot with towers or rams, but by bleeding their wagons dry." Asag raised a thick brow. "Siege them into coming out?" Alpheo nodded. "They¡¯ve got to eat. They¡¯ve got to drink. A strong stomach won¡¯t help if you can¡¯t fill it. If we divide the army¡ªjust enough¡ªwe could place men along three sides of that hill, surround it. Leave only the side we came from open. They won¡¯t break through that. But we¡¯ll keep our supply lines safe through it." "And starve them out," Asag muttered, scratching at his small beard. "Exactly," Alpheo said, his voice tightening with the first hints of conviction. "They either rot up there until they can¡¯t stand, or they come charging down in chaos.Both cases are good for us.Of course that will require dividing our forces to cut them from retreating into the night.....¡¯¡¯ Asag¡¯s gaze remained fixed on the distant hilltop defenses, his eyes sharp and skeptical. "Dividing the army, huh?" he muttered, his tone cool and firm. "That¡¯s a gamble. Too much can go wrong when your strength is split." Alpheo didn¡¯t argue. Instead, a faint, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Believe me, I¡¯m not rushing to chisel this into stone just yet. It¡¯s only a rough shape¡ªhalf a plan and a whisper of sense. I¡¯ll bring it to the others, see if this madness has legs before we start marching in circles." After that he turned, his cloak catching the breeze as his gaze swept down the slopes toward the sprawling mass of his army. Already, the camp was coming to life¡ªtents rising like canvas mushrooms, soldiers unpacking gear, driving stakes into the earth, and barking orders in the afternoon light. Beside him, Asag followed his eyes, arms crossed loosely over his battered breastplate. "You must be proud of what you¡¯ve gathered," he said, a faint note of amusement cutting through his gravelly voice. Alpheo didn¡¯t look away. He smirked, brow arched. "Is it that obvious?" Asag gave a one-shoulder shrug. "You¡¯re practically beaming. I thought I saw your chest puffing." Alpheo gave a short laugh, low and sharp like a blade being drawn. "In truth... this war is exactly what I needed. Painful as it¡¯s been, once it¡¯s done¡ªwhen it¡¯s done¡ªmy authority will be something close to untouchable. Who¡¯s going to argue with a man who ended a rebellion, crushed a foreign prince, all in one war?" He paused, the wind picking up his hair as he glanced sideways at Asag, his words now poised to those that offered him that opportunity. "But don¡¯t think I¡¯ll start treating them like I owe them for it, those fuckers caused me quite the trouble....." Chapter 551: Style of engagement Chapter 551: Style of engagement By the end of the day, the sun dipped behind the far hills, casting a long golden veil over the valley, while shadows stretched from tent poles and spears like silent sentinels. The camp had taken shape quickly¡ªefficiently¡ªclearly the fruit of the discipline of Alpheo¡¯s army. Though the full wall was not yet raised, the foundation had been set in a firm perimeter, and ditches had been dug deep enough to snap an ankle or impale the fool who tried leaping across in the dark. The planned palisade had already been driven into place: sharp stakes jutting from the ground like a crude crown around the white army¡¯s claim to the land. It wasn¡¯t the fortress Alpheo would have liked, not yet, but it would do. What the defenses lacked in height, he compensated with vigilance. He had doubled the perimeter guards, posting the most alert, sharp-eyed men in shifts that would rotate at the stroke of every hour. No blind spots, no quiet corners. Torches were strung like stars along the camp¡¯s edges, their flickering lights reflecting off steel helms and watchful eyes. No one was getting close without someone noticing¡ªand raising hell about it. As night wrapped its cloak over the host, torches were lit and fires stoked to keep the chill at bay. And while the soldiers settled into rest or their night duties, Alpheo moved through the quieter paths of the camp, his cloak pulled tightly as the air cooled. In a modest command tent set apart from the others he had called another meeting. Jarza arrived first, nodding curtly as he took his place, followed by Asag, still limping slightly from old wounds but eyes sharp as ever. Then came Shahab and his son and finally Lord Xanthios followed shortly after, stoic as usual . Alpheo didn¡¯t speak at first. He waited until the flap was closed and the air inside had grown still and heavy with anticipation. Then he looked up at the gathered faces¡ªmen who had bled for him, planned for him, killed for him¡ªand cleared his throat. He stood near the center table, his hand resting lightly on the rough surface of the war map, the flickering lamplight casting long shadows across the lines and markers drawn over parchment. "I¡¯ve given it more thought," he begun, his voice cutting through the silence, calm but firm, "and I still believe the ideas we bounced around a few days ago simply aren¡¯t doable. Jarza¡¯s two-line tactic fails if they don¡¯t bite the bait. Asag¡¯s defection gambit would¡¯ve been nice, but there¡¯s too much risk and too little chance. And this"¡ªhe tapped the drawing of the rebel hilltop fortifications¡ª"this cursed mound doesn¡¯t give us much to work with." He looked around the table. "We have to come up with something tonight. Like it or not, we have to present a coherent plan to the rest of the lords tomorrow. The last thing I need is for them to sniff out hesitation and start whispering about me fearing the rebels ." The light flickered across the war map as Alpheo¡¯s finger traced the rebel fortifications with the precision of a surgeon¡¯s blade. How much he hated having a problem ahead of him and not finding the solution.... "Every inch of this position was planned by someone who knows their craft," he murmured, his voice carrying the grudging respect of one warrior for another. "Ditches dug where they hurt most. Palisades angled to funnel attackers into killing zones. No blind spots, no weak flanks¡ªjust one big, bristling porcupine daring us to hug it." His nail tapped the empty space behind the hill. "And our scouts confirmed what we all suspected¡ªtheir cavalry isn¡¯t up there. Which means..." He let the implication hang like a sword over their heads. Egil¡¯s boot scuffed the ground before Alpheo even turned to him. ¡¯¡¯The bastards are out here¡¯¡¯ The horselord sat straighter, his knuckles whitening around the hilt of the dagger at his belt. Every man in the tent could read the tension in his shoulders¡ªthe proud rider being told to hold his stallions back from the charge. "Correct. Now for our response....we¡¯ll split your riders along the flanks," Alpheo replied , watching Egil¡¯s jaw tighten. "Not to throw them at that slaughterhouse of a slope¡ªgods know their hooves would slip on blood before their lances found purchase¡ªbut to keep the enemy¡¯s horsemen from doing what we can¡¯t." He leaned forward, the lamplight carving shadows under his eyes. "Because mark my words, their cavalry isn¡¯t missing. It¡¯s waiting in those wooded draws like wolves circling a campfire." Egil¡¯s nostrils flared, his pride warring with his professionalism. Alpheo softened his tone just enough¡ªthe barest hint of steel sheathed in velvet. "I know this isn¡¯t the thunderous charge you dreamed of, . But when their horsemen come¡ªand they will come¡ªyour riders will be the anvil that breaks them" A beat of silence. Then Egil gave a single, grudging nod¡ªthe sort of agreement that came with unspoken terms, he may not like waiting but he is always happy to give a good pounding. If the enemy cavalry showed, there¡¯d be hell to pay. Shahab¡¯s son , lord Jared broke the quiet with all the subtlety of a dropped gauntlet. "So we¡¯ve got no plan at all then?" The words hung in the air like an accusation. Alpheo¡¯s lips curled "Not no plan," he corrected, stepping forward to loom over the map. "Just one that requires more patience than most warmongers can stomach." His finger began carving invisible lines around the rebel position. "Since they¡¯ve chosen to turtle up like frightened barnacles, we¡¯ll give them exactly what they want¡ªnothing." Everybody leaned in as Alpheo¡¯s hands sculpted the air above the parchment. "Three camps. Here, here, and here." Each stab of his finger drove an imaginary stake into the map. "Far enough apart to avoid concentrated attacks, close enough to strangle every supply route. No food wagons reaching that hill. No water carriers slipping through. No messengers carrying pleas for help." His smile turned feral. "We¡¯ll turn their fortress into a gilded cage.They want to be the turtle , then they can die like one..." The fire popped as the implications settled over the group. Shahab scratched at his beard. "And when they get hungry enough to act?" "Then they choose their poison," Alpheo purred. "Either they rot slowly, watching their men grow weak¡ªor they charge one of our positions." His palm slammed down between the three imagined camps. "And before their war cries fade, the other two forces will be at their backs like a closing bear trap.Either way the end is all the same...." Asag let out a low whistle that spoke volumes. Jarza merely nodded¡ªthe old campaigner had seen sieges break harder men than these rebels. Even Egil¡¯s expression shifted from disappointment to grim approval. Only Xanthios remained thoughtful, his fingers combing through his beard like a man searching for hidden thorns. "It¡¯s a good plan," he conceded. Then his eyes lifted to meet Alpheo¡¯s. "But you know the lords won¡¯t love it." Alpheo arched an eyebrow. "Because it denies them the chance to die heroically in some fool charge?" Xanthios chuckled darkly. "Because in six weeks, the barley won¡¯t harvest itself. Half those proud lords are already counting sacks of grain in their minds." He gestured to the map. "Every day we sit here is a day their peasants aren¡¯t bringing in the crops" "So?What of it?" he asked, amusement thick in his voice, as he did not understand the trouble of it . "Let them leave. I have no interest to have them stay here against their desire.They are grown men , they can make their own choices" He waved a hand dismissively and turned to the gathered men with the gleam of mischief in his eyes. "But if they do, they¡¯d best know they¡¯re walking away from the feast. And I¡¯m not talking about the kind with roasted boar and honeyed wine¡ªI¡¯m talking silver. Gold. Ransoms stacked like firewood. The coin we¡¯ll squeeze from those poison-hearted Oizenain nobles once we have them hogtied and penned like the pigs they are. We¡¯ll be taking those¡ªwith interest." He leaned in now, grinning like a wolf. "And don¡¯t forget the spoils from this fight. If we play our cards right,by the end of this war we¡¯ll be dragging chests down the hill so heavy we¡¯ll need oxen to move them. Enough loot to make even a king drool into his goblet." He straightened, voice louder now. "So yes¡ªthey are more than welcome to pack up, wave us goodbye, and leave their share behind. But I¡¯d remind them: slackers do not eat. Not in my army." A murmur of amused approval spread through the tent. Even the typically stoic Asag gave the faintest hint of a smirk. "Besides," Alpheo added, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve, "we¡¯ll have this done by August. Their imaginary walls broken, their pride shattered, their banners burning. Plenty of time for our noble friends to rush home and pretend they were farmers all along." Jarza¡¯s deep voice cut through the laughter. "Dangerous to let them think they can come and go as they please." Alpheo turned, the firelight carving his face into something ancient and ruthless. "Every neighbor we¡¯ve ever had," he began, voice building like thunder, "has thrown their best at us. Their shining banners. Their prized warriors. Their unbreakable confidence." A pause. "And we¡¯ve broken them all." He moved like a panther between the tables. "Not once. Not twice. Every. Damn. Time." His fist hit the map. "They come howling like wolves¡ªand leave whining like kicked curs." Now his gaze pinned each man in turn. "So if any lord under my command thinks he can stroll away without consequence?" A laugh like steel on stone. "Let him try. I¡¯ll applaud his bravery¡ªit takes special stupidity to piss into the wind and act surprised when it sprays back." He strode to the tent flap, throwing it open to reveal the distant glow of rebel fires atop the hill. "Let them look at those dying embers," he said softly. "That¡¯s the fate of all who rise against the crown. They burn bright for a moment¡ªjust long enough to light their own pyre." Turning back, his final words fell like axe blows: "Any man may leave. But he¡¯d best remember¡ªthe field of betrayal only grows one crop." His smile chilled the blood. "And it¡¯s always harvested by sword-light." Chapter 552: A Parley(1) Chapter 552: A Parley(1) Beneath the afternoon sun small contingent of horsemen began their descent from the high hills. There were less than twenty of them. Not enough for a charge, not enough for a battle. Just enough to speak, to gamble with words rather than blades. Their horses picked their way down the slope with slow, deliberate steps, as if even the beasts knew the weight of the moment they carried on their backs. At the forefront rode the men whose names had already been etched into infamy at least in books of the loyalist. Niketas, the golden lordturned-traitor, wore a breastplate untounched dust or blood , but his eyes still burned with that old, dangerous clarity¡ªthe kind that had rallied thousands behind him in the early days, when rebellion still tasted like hope rather than desperation. Beside him, Gregor rode heavy in the saddle. His broad shoulders hunched forward. He looked less like a man riding to a parley and more like a butcher inspecting the livestock. Then there was Lysander¡ªyoung, cocky, charming in that way that made betrayal seem like a philosophical position. Then there was Eurenis which had nothing much to be said about him, as he had nothing worthwhile to be told. And finally, the priest¡ªElios. Draped in layered cloth of brow. He carried no weapons, making him look like the average priest found in a temple. But none of the royal host watching from below would doubt that he was the most dangerous of the lot, as he was the one who lit the blade of rebellion. Alpheo would have certainly laughed at the thought that his once hopeless situation had been caused by a man of the cloth, however, months of warfare deprived him of that, supplanting it with just the simple tiredness of a war that had lasted too long along with the desire of a father to meet his boy. Together, the rebels descended like a procession of doomed kings, parading themselves before the walls of a world they failed to overthrow. They came not as victors, nor yet as the defeated. They came to parley, one requested by Alpheo , the architect of their ruin. They came hoping¡ªsome perhaps foolishly¡ªthat one final conversation might stave off the inevitable. But even the wind, curling around the spears and tents of the royal camp, seemed to whisper that they were far too late for that. The confrontation that the rebel leaders had expected¡ªa roaring tide of steel and flesh crashing uphill in desperation¡ªsimply never came. For six long, maddening days, they waited atop their fortified heights, watching with sharpened nerves as the royal host did... absolutely nothing offensive. No dramatic charges. No thunderous drums heralding an assault. Nothing, pure silence. Instead, the enemy calmly spread like ivy across the base of the hills. Camps were erected. Ditches dug. Palisades raised. Banners planted. All without so much as a single blade lifted in anger. The rebels had braced for war; what they received was silence. It didn¡¯t take a tactical genius among them to piece together the grim reality: they were being closed in. Alpheo ¡ªcrafty, frustratingly disciplined ¡ªwasn¡¯t here to throw his men into the jaws of the hilltop fortifications. No, he intended to starve the rebellion where it stood, he had after all the time and the patience. And worse still? The rebels had no cavalry to break the noose tightening around them. Their horses, per their last orders, were roaming in the lowlands far behind the royal host, waiting for the signal to hit the enemy¡¯s rear in the chaos of an uphill charge. But that charge never came, and now their riders were effectively useless¡ª while their other allies cut off, out of position, and unable to stem the slow encirclement. Of course, they understood what was happening. They could see the jaws closing. But to sortie now, to commit their infantry and push downhill against a numerically superior, better-fed enemy entrenched in solid camps? That was suicide by pride. They had fortified the hills to be the one on the defense not on the attack.. They tried to provoke a battle . Gregor and Lysander oversaw troops shouting insults day and night¡ªjeers about the prince¡¯s honor, the parentage of his, their courage, their manhood. They even sent heralds with messages wrapped in scorn. The prince¡¯s reply? Silence. Or, on rare occasions, a courier with blank parchment. They used words filled with poison, yet what was that to a man, who had waited years in preparation for his plan to escape the yoke of slavery? They watched the enemy camps spread in three directions, like creeping roots. They¡¯d noticed the distant columns of wagons coming and going to the royal host¡¯s rear, meaning their supply lines remained unbroken. And they had no cavalry to ride out and harass those lines, because their riders¡ªfollowing orders set in stone¡ªwere positioned to attack the rear of an enemy assault, not prevent an enemy siege. Their cavalry, in essence, had become ghosts¡ªuseless and unreachable waiting for a battle that never came . As of yet, the royal banners did not so much as flutter in reply. Alpheo did not stir. Not even when some of his own lords grew restless, demanding action, urging him to strike. He merely listened, and promptly ignored . As at the end of the day his power was absolute, and what good was it if not used whenever wished for? No matter what taunts the rebels shouted, or what provocations were lobbed from the hilltops, they may as well have been screaming at statues. Alpheo would not be baited. Not by rage. Not by pride. Not even by the goading of his own war-hungry nobles. What had drawn them from their fortified heights wasn¡¯t some grand ultimatum or blood-soaked challenge. Just a single parchment, sealed with wax the color of dried blood, bearing nine simple words that cut deeper than any blade: "Let us speak, before the sun climbs too high." No threats. No demands. Just an invitation to their own surrender, wrapped in the courtesy of a dinner invitation. Each rebel leader had privately imagined different scenarios as they rode - negotiation, deception, perhaps even reconciliation. But the bitter truth settled in their stomachs like spoiled wine: they were riding to meet the man who had outplayed them without ever drawing his sword. The architect of their ruin who had built their prison from patience rather than steel. Waiting below stood the royal retinue - twenty lancers positioned with geometric precision, their polished armor making them look like a row of silver nails hammered into the earth by some divine hand. Above them fluttered the royal standard: a falcon in mid-soar against azure silk, encircled by ten clenched iron fists. The symbol seemed to mock them now And at the center... Him. The rebels reined in their mounts, the dry grass crunching beneath hooves like the bones of their ambitions. Two years ago at his wedding feast, they¡¯d seen a boy playing dress-up in noble silks, his smooth cheeks flushed with wine. The figure before them now was different in ways that went beyond the sparse beard clinging stubbornly to his jaw, or his tired eyes, now sprinkling with a tiny bit of pride and arrogance. The cruelest cut wasn¡¯t that they¡¯d lost. It was who they¡¯d lost to. Not some grizzled warlord. But to this... this barely-grown princeling who still looked like he should be sneaking past his tutors to flirt with kitchen maids rather than commanding armies. And that faint, infuriating smile. Not a victor¡¯s gloating smirk, but the quiet amusement of a chessmaster who¡¯d seen the endgame from the first move. The five rebel leaders¡ªNiketas, Gregor, Lysander, Eurenis, and the priest Elios¡ªkept silent as they rode, their thoughts loud in the hollow stillness between them. None dared speak the truth that festered in each of their hearts: How did it come to this? They had stood as three mighty heads of a beast, roaring defiance from all corners of the realm. Three armies strong, three banners high in the sky , three forces raised on their cause¡ªor so they told themselves. And yet now, two of those heads had already been lopped off. Crushed under the heel of the same boy-prince they had once toasted at his wedding with smirks and hollow blessings. That same boy now waited for them. Too young to be the architect of their ruin. And yet here they were, brought to the brink by a lad . It burned. Gods, how it burned. Once, they had hope. Not just hope¡ªconfidence. The kind that swaggered and strutted, the kind that sharpened blades on dreams of victory. That had been a month ago. Now? Now, hope was ash. No fresh wind stirred in their chests. No rallying cry reached their tongues. All that remained was the weight of inevitability pressing down on them like a funeral stone. One month ago, they thought they had a chance. Now they were only wondering when the hammer would fall. For they were truly lost Chapter 553: A Parlay(2) Chapter 553: A Parlay(2) The two factions faced each other across the barren stretch of earth, the setting sun stretching their shadows into grotesque parodies of nobility across the cracked ground. The royal retinue stood motionless as statues, their polished armor reflecting the dying light in flashes of molten gold. Only the occasional stamp of a hoof betrayed they were flesh and blood at all. Yet the air between them thrummed with tension - a silent, predatory energy like wolves circling before the kill. The prince¡¯s personal guard had subtly shifted formation, their mounts edging forward with the quiet precision of men who¡¯d danced this dance before. Their hands rested casually near sword hilts, fingers twitching with the barest anticipation. They didn¡¯t glare - that would have been too obvious. Instead they watched the rebels with the detached interest of butchers surveying livestock. The silence stretched, broken only by the whisper of wind through dry grass and the distant drone of cicadas. Finally, Lord Niketas inclined his head with the precise degree of deference owed to royalty - no more, no less. "Your Grace " he intoned, his voice carrying just enough warmth to avoid outright insult while still tasting of ashes. The others followed suit - Gregor with the stiffness of a man forcing himself to bow, Lysander with theatrical grace that couldn¡¯t quite mask his hesitation, Eurenis with a barely perceptible nod that might as well have been a sneer. Alpheo remained mounted, studying them from beneath the weight of his circlet with the amused detachment of a cat watching mice. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the quiet, dangerous lilt of a blade being drawn slowly from its scabbard. "How curious," he mused, "that you still remember how to bow. The forms of fealty haven¡¯t completely left you, then. And yet..." He leaned forward slightly, the movement causing sunlight to glint off his armor in a deliberate flash. "Not so long ago, you found these same courtesies... what was the word you used? Ah yes - ¡¯tyranny¡¯s velvet glove.¡¯, how curious...." Niketas straightened, his jaw working beneath his carefully maintained composure. "Your Highness, if I may - this rebellion was never about disrespect for the crown, but about-" Alpheo¡¯s laugh cut through the apology like a whipcrack. "Oh please, my lord , spare me the rehearsed lines. I didn¡¯t ride through the stink of burning villages and the screams of dying men to the south and to the east of my reign listen to you justify your treason with pretty words." He dismounted with deliberate slowness, his boots kicking up small clouds of dust as they hit the parched earth. "You seem to misunderstand this gathering," he continued, stepping forward until he stood barely a sword¡¯s length from the rebel lords. "This isn¡¯t a debate where you argue the righteousness of your cause. This isn¡¯t even a negotiation where you bargain for your lives.I am not a tutor discussing philosophy and you are not lawyers defending your case." His smile was a blade¡¯s edge in the fading light. "This is simply the moment where you learn what happens to men who play at rebellion and lose." The rebel leaders shifted uneasily in their saddles, the truth of their position settling over them like a shroud. Niketas swallowed hard before finding his voice again. "Then... why summon us here at all, Your Highness? If not to discuss terms?" Alpheo¡¯s grin widened, revealing just a hint of teeth. "Why, to share some delightful news, of course." He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace before them like a lecturer before dull students. "It seems your dear ally, that pustulent, backstabbing, gold-grubbing whoreson Prince Shameliek of the Oizenians - may the gods piss on his grave - has taken an unfortunate tumble into the afterlife." He paused, savoring the way the color drained from Niketas¡¯ face. "His once-glorious army now decorates the fields outside Aracina . Some face up, some face down - the only difference being which patch of dirt they rot in ." A theatrical sigh. "Such a shame. I¡¯d hoped he¡¯d last long enough to watch me beat you all." At that, a visible twitch went through the rebel lords, the tension now a creeping vine wrapping around spines and throats. Eyes darted to one another, staggered . But it was old Elios who betrayed the deepest reaction. The priest¡¯s breath hissed between yellowed teeth like steam escaping a cracked kettle, his gnarled fingers tightening around his staff until the ancient wood groaned in protest. Alpheo¡¯s gaze settled on him with the predatory focus of a hawk spotting movement in the grass. "Ah, Elios," he purred, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "I see that sharp mind of yours working behind those rheumy eyes. Calculating, doubting, scrambling to find some flaw in my words." He leaned forward, his smile widening. "Tell me, does it sting more to know your precious rebellion is dying¡ªor that it¡¯s being buried by hands younger than your last good piss?" The prince straightened in his saddle, his armor catching the fading light as he addressed them all. "But let me spare you the trouble of wondering. Prince Shameliek is indeed dead¡ªhis corpse currently serving as a feast for crows. His army? Scattered to the winds like chaff. Those who weren¡¯t cut down now decorate my dungeons, their ransom letters already winging their way to their grieving families." He made a show of examining his nails. "As for your other allies... well. Let¡¯s just say the Herculeians remembered they had pressing business elsewhere when they saw my banners approaching. Something about their wives being lonely, I believe." A cold chuckle. "Though I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll be back¡ªjust in time to find Arduronaven¡¯s gates shut in their faces and my archers laughing from the walls." The silence that followed was thicker than blood, heavier than chainmail. Alpheo let it linger, savoring the way their faces twisted as realization set in¡ªlike men slowly understanding they¡¯d boarded a sinking ship. "Now," he continued, his voice dropping into a conversational tone that somehow made his words cut deeper, "let¡¯s speak plainly. Even if¡ªby some miracle of the gods¡ªyou managed to defeat me here today, do you truly think that would be the end of it?" He shook his head slowly, like a disappointed tutor. "I would raise another army. And another. And another. I would strip the gold from temple roofs and the swords from peasant hands if I had to. This princedom has bled before, and it will bleed again¡ªbut it will never break, not when it has me at his lead." His gaze swept across their faces, noting every twitch, every flicker of doubt. "But you? Lose this army, and it¡¯s over. No more noble allies riding to your rescue. No more righteous causes to hide behind. Just a short walk to the headsman¡¯s block and an unmarked grave." He tilted his head. "So I ask again¡ªdo you really think you can win?" The question hung in the air like the pause before an executioner¡¯s axe falls. Around them, the wind whispered through the grass, carrying the distant cries of carrion birds already circling overhead¡ªnature¡¯s impatient witnesses to the death of a rebellion. Not a single rebel lord could meet his eyes. The silence stretched taut between them, thick enough to choke on. Not a single rebel lord dared speak¡ªuntil at last, the old priest Elios broke the stillness with a voice like grinding stone. "You speak of gods as though they keep ledgers," he rasped, his yellowed eyes burning with fervor beneath heavy brows. "But the divine do not tally their favor by the size of your camp or the weight of your coffers." He drew himself up, staff trembling in his grip. "We stand with heaven¡¯s blessing upon us! No matter how vast your armies, how long your shadow falls across this land¡ªwithout the gods¡¯ favor, your victory will turn to ash in your mouth!" He delivered the words like a prophet casting doom, his voice rising to a thunderous crescendo...up and up , only for the pronouncement to die meekly against the indifferent breeze. No lightning split the sky. No earthquake shook the ground. Just the quiet flutter of banners and the distant calls of camp followers going about their evening chores. Alpheo blinked once¡ªslowly. "The gods, you say?" He gestured expansively behind him at the sea of tents, the forest of spears, the countless cookfires twinkling like fallen stars. "How curious. They¡¯ve had ample opportunity to prove their favor, haven¡¯t they?" He began counting off on his fingers with theatrical precision. "When the Oizenians marched to your aid¡ªdid the gods stay their hands? No. They broke like wheat before the scythe." Another finger. "When the Herculeians dug in at Arduronaven¡ªdid divine winds blow them to safety? No. They ran like rats from a flooding sewer." A third finger. "At the northern valleys, when my ambush should have cut your army to ribbons¡ªdid heavenly fire strike us down? Or did my men simply... win?" The prince leaned forward in his saddle, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "So tell me, priest¡ªif your gods are truly with you... why do they keep missing?Am I that little to aim at ?Am I moving too fast?Or perhaps it is what you fear, deep in your mind, unsaid, unspoken but known to all of us?" The silence that followed was deafening. Elios stood rigid, his face a mask of impotent fury. The only sound from him was the audible grinding of teeth¡ªthe frustrated gnash of a zealot whose miracles had failed to materialize. His knuckles whitened around his staff until the ancient wood groaned in protest, but no rebuttal came. Alpheo snorted¡ªthe derisive sound a man makes when a barking dog finally realizes it¡¯s chained. Then he turned his gaze to the rebel lords, his eyes moving from Niketas¡¯ ashen face to Gregor¡¯s clenched jaw to Lysander¡¯s poorly concealed tremor. These were men who had ridden to this parley still clinging to some shred of dignity, some last desperate hope of bargaining from strength. Now they understood. Understood that the boy-prince they¡¯d dismissed as a pampered upstart had outmaneuvered them at every turn. Understood that the gods they¡¯d invoked remained conspicuously absent. Understood¡ªas the royal banners snapped triumphantly overhead¡ªthat this was no negotiation. Only surrender and woe to the vanquished. Chapter 554: A Parlay(3) Chapter 554: A Parlay(3) Gregor¡¯s patience, long eroded by days of stalemated tension, dwindling supplies, and a prince who refused to charge finally gave up its last ghost. His voice cracked the heavy air like a whip. "Your... Grace," he spat the honorific like a curse, "spare us your theatrics. Did you summon us here simply to preen like a cock before the slaughterhouse? Or is there some actual purpose to this farce?" The other rebel lords stiffened as if struck, their collective intake of breath sharp enough to draw blood. Even the horses seemed to tense beneath them, ears flattening at the sudden venom in the air. Alpheo turned his head with deliberate slowness, the movement of a predator who knows his prey has nowhere left to run. The dying sunlight caught the gilding on his armor, setting him aglow like some avenging spirit as his lips curled into a smile that never touched his eyes. "Oh Gregor," he sighed, his voice dripping with false sympathy, "still swinging that dull axe of yours, I see. Tell me, does it ache? Knowing every swing falls short?" He made a show of examining his nails. "No, I didn¡¯t bring you here to mock you - though watching you flail about is admittedly entertaining. I brought you here so you might finally grasp the depth of the hole you¡¯ve dug for yourselves.If you were not lords you were have made fine gravediggers" A murmur rippled through the royal guards behind him, half-suppressed chuckles and approving nods. Alpheo waited for it to die before continuing, his voice dropping into a tone one might use to explain something painfully obvious to a dim child. "You see, unlike with your late friend Shameliek, the Crown still remembers mercy. Even for traitors. Even for fools who thought rebellion was just another game for bored lords to play at between feasts." His hand drifted to rest on his sword hilt, the movement casual yet charged with menace. "But make no mistake - this isn¡¯t desperation speaking. I didn¡¯t come begging. I came offering. Because after crushing two armies and reducing your rebellion to a pack of starving rats clinging to a rock..." He paused, letting the image sink in. "...I find myself with time to spare. And what better way to spend it than being merciful?" The silence that followed was so absolute they could hear the distant cry of a hawk circling high above. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. There was a long silence, the sort that stretches taut like a bowstring. Then¡ªabruptly, like a man stepping through a door without thinking¡ªNiketas spoke. "What are the terms?" Even he blinked in surprise at the speed of his own words, as though his tongue had betrayed his pride. Alpheo regarded Niketas with the measured patience of a cat watching a mouse consider its final move. The fading sunlight caught the gold threading through his gloves as he adjusted them with deliberate precision¡ªeach finger straightened, each seam aligned¡ªlike a magistrate preparing to pass sentence. "Very well," he said at last, his voice carrying the weight of inevitability. "Since you ask so... forthrightly." He nudged his warhorse forward a single step, the beast¡¯s iron-shod hooves crunching deliberately on the dry earth. The royal standard-bearer moved in perfect synchronization, causing the falcon banner to snap sharply in the sudden breeze¡ªa visual punctuation to the prince¡¯s words. "First," he began, holding up a single gauntleted finger, "your men. The common soldiers who followed your treasonous banners will be permitted to return to their homes. Unharmed. Unmolested." His lips quirked. "Assuming, of course, they can still remember the way after this little adventure of yours." "Your officers will surrender their arms and armor¡ªnot as spoils, but as... let¡¯s call it a lesson in humility. They may keep their lives and their limbs, which is more than most rebels can claim when the dust settles." He held up a second finger, the motion slow and ceremonial. "Second¡ªyou, my noble lords, will ride to the capital. Unarmed. Unguarded. And there, beneath the throne built by princes greater than you could ever aspire to be..." His voice dropped to a velvet-wrapped blade, "you will kneel. Not the pretty little court bows you¡¯re accustomed to, but proper kneels¡ªforeheads to the marble, like penitent children who¡¯ve finally learned their lesson." The prince¡¯s gaze swept across their faces, noting each flinch and twitch with quiet satisfaction. "You will confess¡ªpublicly, explicitly, without your usual weasel words¡ªthat this war was born of your own arrogance. Your greed. Your staggering inability to recognize when you were well-governed." He growled the anger at the thought of month war coming in his voice "And then, if you¡¯re very convincing, the Crown might deign to forgive you." A third finger joined the others. "Your heirs will accompany you to the capital, where they¡¯ll remain as... honored guests of the court.They¡¯ll be educated in proper governance, shown the error of their fathers¡¯ ways... and held as surety against any future foolishness." Alpheo¡¯s expression hardened as he raised a fourth finger. "Every temple, every merchant house, every foreign power that lent you coin or comfort¡ªyou will name them all. In writing. With evidence." His smile turned razor-sharp. "And in recompense for their generosity toward traitors, only a quarter of your lands and half your vassals will be returned to the Crown¡¯s keeping." The prince produced a small scroll from his saddlebag, letting it unfurl with theatrical flair. "The sum of twelve thousand silverii from each of you," he announced, "payable over three years. Plus every scrap of treasure, every religious relic, every last copper penny your rebel allies funneled into this doomed enterprise." Finally, he turned his attention to Elios, his voice taking on a particularly poisonous sweetness. "As for you, holy father... you¡¯ll retire. To a nice, quiet temple somewhere far from here. Perhaps by the sea¡ªthe salt air does wonders for aging lungs." His smile didn¡¯t reach his eyes. "Your followers will be... redistributed to more orthodox houses of worship. ¡¯¡¯ Alpheo rolled the scroll back up with a crisp snap. "These," he declared, "are the terms. Generous, given the circumstances. More generous than you deserve." His gaze turned flinty. "And non-negotiable." The rebel lords stood frozen, a collection of statues carved from varying degrees of shock, rage, and resignation. Gregor¡¯s massive hands trembled where they gripped his reins. Niketas had gone pale beneath his weathering. Lysander¡¯s pretty mouth worked soundlessly, as if trying and failing to summon one of his famous silver-tongued retorts. Only Elios remained still, his face an impassive mask¡ªthough the white-knuckled grip on his staff betrayed his turmoil. Alpheo watched them with the quiet satisfaction of a chessmaster who¡¯d just declared checkmate. He could see the calculations running behind their eyes¡ªthe desperate search for alternatives, the cold realization that there were none. No hidden cavalry. No miracle reinforcements. No divine intervention coming to save them. Just the inexorable weight of defeat, settling onto their shoulders like a mantle of lead. Elios opened his mouth, his breath drawing with that familiar fervor of the pulpit, but before he could utter a word, Niketas raised a hand and stepped forward, cutting the priest off with a glance that said enough. The old noble turned to Alpheo. The wind carried the scent of damp earth and trampled grass as Niketas bowed his head, his voice barely rising above the whisper of the breeze. "Your Grace speaks of mercy," he began, each word measured like gold on a merchant¡¯s scale, "yet from all we have witnessed¡ªyour victories stretching across three battlefields, the collapse of our alliances, the utter ruin of our hopes¡ªyou hold no need to bargain. No reason to spare us." His eyes lifted, dark with exhaustion and something perilously close to curiosity. "Why then offer terms at all?" Alpheo stilled, his face an unreadable mask for three heartbeats¡ªfour¡ªbefore his lips curved into a smile that didn¡¯t quite reach his eyes. It was the expression of a man savoring a joke only he understood. "Honestly," he mused, the words laced with cool amusement, "I didn¡¯t think any of you capable of such introspection at this stage." He shifted in his saddle, the polished leather creaking softly as he turned his face toward the heavens, as if consulting some invisible arbiter. "Let me spare you the trouble of dissecting my motives," he continued, his voice dropping into something almost conversational. "The war is won. The rebellion is broken. That is the simple, unchangeable truth of it." His gaze swept back to them, sharp as a honed blade. "No amount of negotiation will alter that scale.You are on your last legs, one small push and you are down...." For a moment, the only sound was the restless shift of horses and the distant cry of a falcon circling high above. Then Alpheo exhaled, the sound almost weary, and something in his posture shifted¡ªnot softening, precisely, but settling, like a sword being sheathed with deliberate care. "The gods have favored me," he said quietly, and for the first time, there was something approaching sincerity in his tone. "Not just on the battlefield, where steel decides all, but in the quieter victories¡ªthe ones that matter more, that at home." His gloved hand flexed briefly on the reins. "Peace is harder won than war, and more precious. Perhaps that is why I¡¯m inclined to... gratitude." He leaned forward then, the movement bringing him into a shaft of sunlight that set his armor ablaze. The rebel lords instinctively tensed, as if bracing for a blow. "Make no mistake," Alpheo murmured, his voice carrying clearly in the hush, "this mercy isn¡¯t for you. It isn¡¯t because you deserve it." His smile returned, beautiful and chilling. "But what better way to honor divine favor than by granting it to those who strove so earnestly to see me in the ground?" He straightened, the motion fluid and regal, the falcon banner behind him stirring as if in agreement. The morning light caught in the embroidery of his surcoat, setting the threads alight like liquid gold. "Don¡¯t mistake this for kindness," he warned, his voice hardening. "Consider it opportunity. And thank whatever gods you wish, for that piety moves me today." Niketas drew a breath that seemed to cost him dearly. The other rebel lords watched him with the tense stillness of men balanced on a knife¡¯s edge, their silence pressing against his back like a physical weight. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but unwavering, the words dragged from some deep reserve of dignity. "Your Grace," he began, then hesitated¡ªa rare stumble for the silver-tongued lord. "Might we... have until tomorrow to confer? To give these terms the consideration they warrant?" Alpheo regarded him for a long moment, the wind tugging playfully at the hem of his cloak, as if even the elements waited on his verdict. Finally, he inclined his head¡ªa single, precise motion, like the fall of a guillotine. "You may," he allowed. "But mark this well." His hand lifted, pointing toward the eastern ridge where the sun would first breach the horizon. "When dawn breaks there, I will have your answer. If it does not come..." He let the implication hang, heavy and sharp. "There will be no more parlays. No more envoys. The next words between us will be written in steel and smoke." His gaze hardened, the amiable mask slipping to reveal the ruthless general beneath. "This is your last moment of civility. Waste it, and the war will speak for you. And I promise you¡ªit does not stammer." With a final, lingering look, he turned his horse, the animal stepping neatly to the side as if sensing its rider¡¯s intent. The royal guard parted before him like wheat before the scythe. "One of our banners will lie trampled in the dirt before this ends," he called back, the words floating over his shoulder like a prophecy. "I have every intention of ensuring it isn¡¯t mine." And with that, he rode away, the falcon standard snapping proudly above him, leaving behind only silence and the slow, sinking realization of a morning yet to come. Chapter 555: A lonesome dinner Chapter 555: A lonesome dinner The prince¡¯s tent glowed with the warm, flickering light of beeswax candles, their golden flames casting dancing shadows across the canvas walls. The air hung heavy with the rich aromas of campaign fare - roasted venison crusted with herbs, steaming pea soup thickened with barley, and the earthy scent of fresh-baked bread still warm from the field ovens. It was no royal banquet, as a matter of fact, it was a bit too low considering to whom it was entitled to. At the center stood a simple oak table, its surface worn smooth by years of use. Two high-backed chairs faced each other like duelists across its width - one occupied by Prince Alpheo, resplendent in a crimson tunic that seemed to drink in the candlelight, his black cloak pooled about him like spilled ink edged with gold. The prince¡¯s long fingers worked methodically at a crust of bread, reducing it to neat, even crumbs with the precision of a surgeon¡¯s scalpel. His gaze remained fixed on the tent¡¯s entrance, not with tension, but with the quiet certainty of a man who knew his guest would arrive - and precisely when. The canvas flap stirred and the guest finally arrived . Lord Robert entered , his once-imposing frame gaunt from captivity, yet still carrying himself with the unbowed dignity of his lineage. His sharp eyes swept the tent - taking in the warm lighting, the carefully prepared meal, the prince waiting like a patient spider at the center of this unexpected web of hospitality. "Lord Robert," Alpheo greeted without looking up, his voice smooth as aged brandy. The knife in his hand flashed as he gestured to the waiting meal. "I trust the walk from your quarters wasn¡¯t too taxing. Shall we dine?" Robert¡¯s jaw worked silently as he lowered himself into the offered chair with the care of a man testing the strength of gallows wood. His hands - once soft with noble idleness, now rough from confinement - hovered over the table before settling like fallen leaves on its surface. "...What is this?" The words emerged hoarse, scraped raw from disuse. Alpheo didn¡¯t answer immediately. Instead, he lifted a spoon with the grace of a priest raising a sacrament, dipped it into the steaming pea soup, and brought it to his lips. The silence stretched as he savored the bite, the only sound the faint clink of silver on porcelain. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the quiet weight of a judge passing sentence. "I bring you glad tidings and good food." Robert¡¯s eyes narrowed. Without breaking their locked gaze, he reached for a slice of venison and tore into it with teeth that had known hunger. Alpheo¡¯s lips quirked in something not quite a smile. He set his spoon aside with deliberate care, the soft clink of metal on ceramic echoing in the charged silence. "Tonight," he murmured, leaning forward just enough to cast his face in candlelight, "you have the rare privilege of sharing my table. The circumstances may be... unconventional, given that officially me and you are enemies. And yet." His shoulders lifted in an elegant shrug. "Here we sit." Robert responded by methodically stripping another piece of meat from the bone, his chewing slow, as if what was being said was beneath his notice. A breath of amusement escaped Alpheo¡¯s lips "I thought this as good a time as any to address certain... unresolved matters between us." His fingers traced the rim of his goblet absently. "Truths that may otherwise go unspoken." The prince leaned back, the candlelight carving his face into planes of gold and shadow. When he spoke again, his voice held nothing but polite curiosity: "Tell me, Lord Robert - what convinced a man of your standing to cast his lot with rebels and traitors?" No anger colored the words. No gloating. Just the calm inquiry of a scholar examining an interesting text. Yet the question hung between them like a drawn blade, waiting to see which of them would first draw blood. The tent¡¯s warm glow seemed to dim as Robert chewed methodically, the rich juices of the venison turning to ash in his mouth. He swallowed, opened his lips to speak¡ª Alpheo¡¯s hand lifted, a single elegant motion that sliced through the moment like a blade. "Spare me the tired ballads about Arkawatt," he drawled, tearing another piece of bread with deliberate care. "That doddering old relic couldn¡¯t hold a state together if you sewed it to his limp hands." The prince¡¯s lip curled slightly. "If you truly wanted vengeance for him, you had your chance when I was still scraping by with mercenary scraps and ambition. But no¡ªyou waited until the crown was nearly on my head to make your move." Robert exhaled through his nose, a sound like wind through ancient ruins. His gnarled fingers traced the rim of his goblet without lifting it. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of confession dragged from deep waters. "Peace," he murmured, the word soft as a prayer. Alpheo¡¯s eyebrow arched. "Peace?" A ghost of a smile touched Robert¡¯s cracked lips. "In Elyos¡¯ settlement... I woke one dawn without reaching for the bottle. No wine. No cider. Just..." His calloused hands spread slightly. "Silence. The kind that doesn¡¯t ache." His gaze drifted to some memory beyond the tent walls. "Sunlight on wheat. Sky so blue it hurt. And for the first time in twenty years... I didn¡¯t curse the morning for coming." The goblet trembled slightly under his fingertips. "I knew what Elyos was," he continued, voice hardening. "Don¡¯t mistake me for a fool. But that place..." His eyes snapped back to Alpheo¡¯s, blazing with sudden intensity. "I would have burned the world to keep it." The prince studied him, motionless as a stalking cat. Then, with deliberate slowness, he set his knife aside. "We held parlay today," he remarked casually, as if discussing the weather. "Offered terms. Even mercy, for those wise enough to take it." His fingers steepled. "I included sparing your precious settlement in those terms." Robert¡¯s breath caught¡ªjust for an instant¡ªbefore his face shuttered again. But Alpheo had seen it: that fleeting spark of hope. With the precision of a headsman¡¯s axe, the prince continued: "They¡¯ll refuse. Elyos with his fanatic¡¯s pride. Niketas with his wounded vanity. Doesn¡¯t matter which." He leaned forward slightly, candlelight carving his face into sharp planes. "And when they do..." The silence stretched, thick with implication. Robert¡¯s fist clenched around his fork, the metal biting into his palm. The venison on his plate sat congealing in its own juices, forgotten. Alpheo smiled¡ªnot unkindly, but with the certainty of a man who has already seen the ending written. "I¡¯ll burn every last stalk of wheat," he murmured. "Every prayer-scratched wall. Every memory of your precious peace." His head tilted slightly. "You should eat, Robert. The meat¡¯s getting cold." "I¡¯ve decided," he continued at last, voice cool and almost ceremonial, "on a task you may perform, if you wish to earn that pardon. For yourself. For your name. Perhaps even," he added, his eyes narrowing slightly, "for someone in that settlement." Robert¡¯s gaze slowly lifted, wary, searching. There was no venom in Alpheo¡¯s tone¡ªbut there was no warmth either. Only the gravity of a man speaking with purpose. "You may save one," Alpheo said. "One soul from what¡¯s to come." Robert blinked. He did not think much about it "I don¡¯t know her name," he said after a moment, and his voice cracked, just slightly. "She¡¯s a child. Small. She works as my servant, in the little house I was given in the settlement." Alpheo¡¯s brow rose faintly. Her. The thought echoed in his mind, like a coin dropped in a still pond. "Interesting," he murmured "You would bargain for a nameless child while your own neck still wears the noose." His lips quirked in something that wasn¡¯t quite amusement. "Tell me, Robert is this some last grasp at nobility?" "Neither," he admitted, his voice rough as unworked stone. "She simply... deserves better than burning." He tilted his head. "And how exactly am I to spare her," he asked, with a mockery as delicate as silk, "if you don¡¯t know her name?" Robert looked down again, chewing on thought more than shame. "I saved her," he murmured. " She had no one. Just clung to me like a pup. I let her stay. She... stayed." He paused. "I don¡¯t know what she is to me, but if you ask around about the servant of Sir Robert, you will find her." Alpheo let out a slow sigh from his nose, as though weary of yet another man tangled in the vines of his own uncertain heart. "For a service well rendered," he said, "I will spare her. And I will find her a place¡ªone without ash on the wind and sermons dripping with treason." He took a sip of water, then added with cool indifference, "Still, did not expect such taste , you still have a wife do you not?" Robert said nothing, not deigning the question with an answer. He did not think of her in that way "What¡¯s the mission?" he instead asked Alpheo didn¡¯t answer right away. Instead, he calmly brought a spoonful of pea soup to his mouth and sipped it with the deliberate leisure of a man entirely unbothered by the weight of curiosity¡ªor consequence¡ªpressing on the other side of the table. He chewed once, twice, swallowed, and only then raised his eyes with a faint glimmer of amusement. "Perhaps," he said, his tone maddeningly gentle, "it would be wiser to eat first." Robert¡¯s jaw clenched. He let out a breath through his nose, sharp and impatient like a kettle just before the whistle. "Is it really that dangerous?" The only answer he received was silence. The prince had expected that to be the last words spoke that night, and yet he was proved wrong. Alpheo¡¯s spoon paused halfway to his mouth. His gaze lifted¡ªnot sharp, not stern, but curious, caught off guard by the unexpected question. Robert had asked it quietly, without heat, almost as though it had escaped him. ¡¯¡¯When¡¯¡¯ he¡¯d asked ¡¯¡¯ will you have enough? When will you look back and feel content with what you¡¯ve taken? With what you¡¯ve done and achieved?" A silence followed¡ªnot of discomfort, but of contemplation. Alpheo set the spoon down gently in the bowl, and for a time he had to think about what words to say. He leaned back in his chair, fingers laced over his lap, eyes drifting toward the candle , where moths danced like restless ghosts. "I didn¡¯t mean to kill Arkawatt," he said at last, voice soft but not remorseful. "Truth is, I had another plan entirely. I was going to hand him Shameliek¡¯s son¡ªfreshly plucked from his horse like a gift on a silver platter. I¡¯d thought it would be a fine trade: a princeling for a lordship. Something civil, something clever." He exhaled through his nose. A slight shake of the head. "But no. Arkawatt ordered me killed before we could even speak. His men didn¡¯t ask questions. So plans turned to ash. And ash, as you know, makes for poor coin." He turned back to Robert then, his expression unreadable¡ªneither regretful nor proud. Just... aware . "As for your question..." he began, his voice low, carrying the weight of a man speaking truths rarely spoken aloud."I would like to tell you that there is a limit. That somewhere ahead, beyond the blood and smoke, there¡¯s a summit waiting. A final height, where I can plant my banner in the stone, look down on all I¡¯ve won, and say, ¡¯This is enough.¡¯" He paused, letting the thought hang, a ghost of a dream that even he seemed reluctant to disturb. "But if I am to be honest with you¡ªand after everything, I believe you¡¯ve earned that much¡ªthen I must tell you a harder truth." Alpheo leaned forward, the dim candlelight brushing the lines of his face, painting shadows that seemed almost alive. "There will never be enough." The words were not boast, nor threat. They came out flat, certain, as immutable as the rising sun. "Ambition," he said, "is a hunger that cannot be satisfied. Feed it victory, and it will crave empires. Give it gold, and it will lust for crowns. It grows, Robert. It evolves. It devours every scrap you offer, and then it asks for more." He exhaled, slow and steady, like a man speaking of an old, faithful enemy. "I remember the boy I was," he said, voice softening, as though speaking to some distant, broken reflection. "Knees in the mud, ribs showing through torn shirts. Watching the light dance behind castle windows and wondering what warmth must feel like. In those days, bread was a king¡¯s feast. A dry roof was a dream worth bleeding for." He shook his head slowly, a grim smile pulling at his lips. "But once you have the bread... you start to dream of the table. Once you sit at the table... you start to dream of the hall. Once you¡¯re in the hall, your eyes stray to the throne. That is the way of it. Always the next fire. Always the next hunger." His voice deepened, his words thick with a weight that seemed to press against the very walls of the tent. "The man who begins with nothing... he is a terrible thing. For he fears no loss, respects no boundary, and bows to no god of moderation. Guilt, mercy, conscience¡ªthose are luxuries for men who have never felt the gnawing emptiness that eats the soul alive. For those of us born in the dark, the flame is not a comfort. It is a conquest." Alpheo¡¯s hand curled into a fist, resting atop the map as if to seize the whole world with it. "The world does not give. It does not forgive. It does not care. It is a forge, and it will burn you or it will shape you¡ªbut it will never weep for you. Only those bold enough to seize fate by the throat and force it to yield will leave their names carved into its bones." His gaze sharpened, pinning Robert like a spear. "You ask me when I will stop. I tell you: there is no stopping. Either I shall stand atop all that I have conquered, or I shall be crushed beneath it. Either I will take everything¡ªor everything, even my life, will be taken from me." He reached for the bread, tearing a piece free with a slow, deliberate motion, and as he did, he spoke one final time, voice a whisper that somehow carried the force of a storm: "Because there is one thing I fear more than death. More than defeat. More than the endless fall into the abyss." He set the bread down, staring into the flickering flame between them. "And that," he said, almost reverently, "is going back to being nobody." The words drifted through the air like smoke, lingering, staining the silence that followed.For a long moment, neither man moved, as if the very tent held its breath. And in the heart of that quiet, it became clear: no matter how high Alpheo climbed, no matter how many crowns he seized or enemies he crushed, the boy from the gutter would always be there, just behind his eyes, whispering¡ª More. Higher. Farther. Always craving more. Chapter 556: Last effort(1) Chapter 556: Last effort(1) The night sky stretched wide and black above the Rebel camp, a velvet tapestry pricked with a thousand cold-burning stars. No moon rose to soften the darkness¡ªjust the glitter of constellations indifferent to the troubles of men. The distant hum of the camp, muffled fires, the low bray of horses, and the rustle of canvas was the only company for the two soldiers patrolling the outer ring. Their boots crunched against frost-stiff grass, the air crisp enough to bite through their cloaks. A weak lantern swayed on a staff between them, casting a jaundiced glow across their armor and the dirt path. "By the gods," muttered the younger of the two, a lanky lad with a crooked nose and a sharp tongue, "if that was supposed to be dinner, then I¡¯d rather chew on my damn boot." The older one, stockier, with a helmet that never quite sat straight, snorted. "That was your boot. Cook just boiled it first and called it ¡¯stew.¡¯" "No, seriously," the younger went on, voice rising as though he were performing for the stars, "I swear there were three beans. Three! I counted. ¡¯¡¯ "Keep whining like that and they¡¯ll serve you a fourth," grunted the older soldier. "Wouldn¡¯t surprise me," said the younger with a bitter laugh. "They¡¯re cutting corners. I¡¯ve seen it. You notice how the bread¡¯s been getting thinner every day? The bread was as deep as my sword¡¯¡¯ The older one didn¡¯t respond at first. He just stared ahead into the dark. "They¡¯re stretching what¡¯s left," he said after a moment. "Trying to make it last." "What do you mean?" "I mean, fool, that we¡¯ve been eating the bottom of the barrel for days. We¡¯re running out. I heard one of the captains whisper it¡ªquiet, like it was a curse. Said the nobles are rationing." The younger soldier blinked. "Rationing? Since when do they ration the rations?" "Since the enemy refused to meet us in battle, and we have no way to get more food" A silence fell between them, punctuated only by the soft, rhythmic clank of their gear. "Well, I wish they¡¯d just get it over with," the younger muttered. "One way or another. This standing around in the cold, guarding sheep tracks and shadows¡ªit¡¯s the worst. I didn¡¯t sign up for this to die of boredom." "You didn¡¯t sign up at all," the older man pointed out. "You got swept up with the rest of the town boys when the lord called banners." The younger made a dismissive gesture. "Yeah, well, I still thought I¡¯d get a bit of glory. Or loot. Or at least a decent meal." "Glory, he says," the older one chuckled darkly. "Listen to me, boy, this is the second time I volunteered as a soldier. You want glory? There¡¯s a field full of corpses somewhere, their eyes still open to the stars, each one thinking they¡¯d get a statue. That¡¯s glory." "Fine," the younger grumbled. "Then I want to go home. My sister was going to have her first child. I missed the wedding, too. And harvest season. I¡¯m tired. My boots stink. The latrines are cursed. And I haven¡¯t seen a woman in four months." "None of us have." The wind whispered low through the trees beyond the camp, carrying the brittle sigh of dry leaves and the cold scent of soil. As the two soldiers walked their slow, circular patrol, still half-bickering about stew and starvation, a sudden crack echoed through the night¡ªthe unmistakable sound of a branch snapping underfoot. Both froze. The younger soldier reached for his sword, fumbling with the hilt. "What was that?" The older one narrowed his eyes toward the brush, holding the lantern higher. "Who¡¯s there?" he barked, voice taut. "Show yourself!" For a moment, there was only the creak of the trees and the thudding of both their hearts. Then, from the shadows, a figure stumbled forward¡ªhalf-shrouded by gloom, limping heavily. Blood streaked down the side of his face, matting graying hair and soaking into a torn collar. "Stay your hands!I am not an enemy! I am Lord Robert," the man rasped, voice raw with pain but still bearing the hard edges of command. "Get someone of rank. Now." The younger soldier blinked, stepping backward. "You¡¯re¡ªwhat? Lord Robert?Who the hell is that, where is your banner?" The older one quickly raised a hand, ignoring the younger one "Alright then, hands up!" he barked, stepping forward. "You¡¯re hurt, aye, but don¡¯t try anything clever or gods help me, you¡¯ll be limping with two legs broken." Robert obeyed, albeit slowly, lifting his arms with visible effort. His breath was ragged. "Looks like lordling cloth," the younger muttered, circling slightly, eyeing the embroidery beneath the muck and tears. "Or used to be. That ain¡¯t farmer¡¯s garb, that¡¯s for damn sure." "Could be a lord," the older one replied, not dropping his guard. " "Either way, keep your mouth shut and run, lad. Go wake the damn brass." The younger soldier didn¡¯t argue. He turned and sprinted toward the central tent,torch swaying wildly in the dark. The older soldier remained, sword half-raised, eyes fixed on the man in front of him¡ªthis limping ghost of a noble, standing under a sky of silent stars and waiting, either to be rescued or killed on the threshold of his own allied camp. -------------------- The canvas walls of the medical tent flapped softly with the wind, carrying the faint scent of boiled herbs and old blood. Inside, under the dim orange glow of a few candles , Robert sat hunched on a low wooden bench, stripped to his linen shirt, the sleeves rolled high and blood-spattered. A surgeon worked briskly at his side, winding a fresh bandage around the right side of his forehead where a gash curved just above the brow¡ªa clean slice, but deep, now tightly bound beneath linen and ointment. Another assistant, kneeling near Robert¡¯s leg, tugged gently at the fabric wrapped about his thigh, tightening the dressing around a wound . Robert barely reacted. Then the flap of the tent was pulled aside. In stepped a small procession¡ªfirst Lord Niketas, behind him came Lord Gregor,, then Lysadros and Eurenis, all who looked as though they had just been roused from sleep. Lastly came Elios, his robes still marked by the dust of travel, his expression more curious than anything else. They froze, briefly, as their eyes adjusted to the light¡ªand then saw him. Before them sat Lord Robert¡ªalive when he should be dead, free when he should be rotting in chains. The last time they¡¯d seen him or better yet heard of him, he¡¯d been dragged away in the chaos of battle, his fate as uncertain as their rebellion¡¯s chances. Now here he was, battered but breathing. Niketas was the first to step forward, slow and deliberate. "By the Gods" he murmured. "Lord Robert." Gregor¡¯s brows lifted. "I thought you were supposed to be rotting in a cell." Robert let out a breath through his nose, his voice dry and faintly sardonic. "Either that or dead, I presume" Elios moved closer, his sharp eyes missing nothing as they scanned Robert¡¯s injuries. The priest¡¯s voice was soft but carried an edge of something unreadable. "It¡¯s good to see you alive" His fingers hovered near Robert¡¯s bandaged forehead. "How bad are these wounds truly?" Robert turned his head slowly, meeting Elios¡¯ gaze with a look that spoke volumes of their complicated history. "They¡¯ll keep," he said flatly, though the way his jaw tightened when he shifted position told another story. He waved off the physician¡¯s hovering hands. "Enough of this. I didn¡¯t crawl through hell just to have my wounds poked at like some fragile maiden." He leaned forward, the candlelight carving deep shadows into his face. "Listen to me, all of you. The prince¡¯s camp is vulnerable tonight in a way it hasn¡¯t been since this war began." His voice dropped to a rasping whisper. "They¡¯re drunk. Not just a few men¡ªthe entire damn camp is swimming in wine." The silence that followed was so complete they could hear the distant hoot of an owl outside. Niketas¡¯ mouth opened, then closed again. Lysander¡¯s usually serene expression cracked with disbelief. Even Gregor looked momentarily stunned. Robert pushed himself upright despite the physician¡¯s protests, his face pale but determined. "I saw it with my own eyes," he continued, his voice gaining strength. "Barrels being rolled through camp, officers singing off-key, sentries using their spears as walking sticks." A grim smile twisted his lips. "Half of them couldn¡¯t tell a sword from a chamber pot right now." Elios was the first to find his voice. "This makes no sense," he said, his tone sharp with suspicion. "Alpheo¡¯s many things, but reckless isn¡¯t one of them. Why would he allow this?" Robert¡¯s smile turned wolfish. "Because the arrogant bastard thinks he¡¯s already won.He thinks that you are cornered and that tomorrow at first light you will surrender" He leaned in closer, the candlelight making his eyes gleam. "And because his precious Jasmine is with child again. He¡¯s declared it a sign from the gods¡ªblessed in war and at home both he had said at the banquet. Arrogant cur" Eurenis sucked in a sharp breath. "He said as much at the parlay yesterday," he murmured, his fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh. "I thought it was just bluster..." "It wasn¡¯t," Robert snapped. "And now his camp is drowning in celebration while we stand here debating." He slammed his fist against the cot, making the physician jump. "This is our chance! The prince is there, surrounded by men too drunk to lift their swords properly. If we move now¡ªtonight¡ªwe can end this war before dawn." The tent seemed to hold its breath. Niketas¡¯ face was a mask of conflicting emotions¡ªhope warring with caution. Gregor looked ready to charge out that very moment. Even Elios¡¯ usual composure had cracked, his fingers twitching at his sides. Robert stood fully now, swaying only slightly as he met each of their gazes in turn. "We take every able-bodied man we have and hit them like a hammer to an anvil. Capture Alpheo if possible and end the war ¡ª" His voice darkened. "But if not... well, a dead prince serves our purposes nearly as well." Niketas straightened, his spine stiffening with sudden purpose. "The scouts," he murmured, voice thick with revelation. "They reported hearing singing from the prince¡¯s camp earlier. Raucous laughter¡ªwe dismissed it as some morale trick." His gaze locked onto Robert¡¯s battered face with something approaching reverence. "But you¡¯re telling us it was genuine?" Robert gave a slow, pained nod that made the bloodied bandage at his temple glisten. "Every last fool of them," he confirmed. "From the lowest stable boy to Alpheo¡¯s own captains¡ªswilling wine like it was the last night before the gods¡¯ judgment." Elios stepped forward, his priestly robes swirling about him like smoke. "This is divine providence!" he declared, raising his hands toward the tent¡¯s ceiling. "The gods have clouded the prince¡¯s mind with hubris, delivering him into our hands like a lamb to slaughter!" His eyes burned with fanatical fire. "We must strike tonight¡ªwhile they drown in their arrogance, we shall baptize them in steel!" A murmur of agreement rippled through the tent. Gregor cracked his massive knuckles with a sound like breaking branches. Lysander¡¯s usually serene face twisted into something feral. Even Eurenis, ever the cautious one, allowed a savage grin to split his beard. The mood had shifted¡ªfrom desperate defense to hungry anticipation. They were wolves again, not cornered prey. Niketas turned back to Robert, his expression softening slightly. "You¡¯ve given us hope where there was none, my friend. But tell me¡ªhow in the name of all that¡¯s holy did you escape? And end up looking like you lost a fight with a mountain lion?" Robert¡¯s answering smile was more of a grimace. "Ah, that," he rasped, shifting painfully on the cot. "Turns out Prince Alpheo enjoys parading his trophies almost as much as he enjoys collecting them." His voice dripped with bitter amusement. "Even invited his prisoners to the feast¡ªlike we were honored guests rather than chained dogs." He held up his bandaged hand, where dark stains were slowly spreading through the linen. "Drank just enough to play the fool, slumped in my chair like a drunkard. When they dragged me back to my cell, the guard was so soused he barely noticed me slipping his dagger." A dark chuckle. "Nearly bit my finger off when I slit his throat, the bastard." The lords leaned in, captivated despite themselves. Even the physician paused in his ministrations to listen. "I ran like all the hells were at my heels," Robert continued, his voice gaining strength with the telling. "Scrambled over the palisade¡ªwould¡¯ve made it clean if not for the blood making my grip slip." He gestured to his battered form. "Hence this... unfortunate state of presentation." Gregor let out a booming laugh that shook the tent flaps. "By the gods, Robert! You¡¯ve got more fight in you than half my knights!" He clapped the wounded lord on the shoulder¡ªgently. Lord Niketas gave a grave nod, the firelight from a nearby brazier glinting in his eyes. "We will act on this immediately," he said, resolute. "You¡¯ve done more than enough for one night, Robert. Rest. You¡¯ve earned it." If that was supposed to please him , it failed, as Robert¡¯s scowl deepened into something almost feral. "Rest? I¡¯ll rest when I¡¯ve plunged a knife into the Mud Prince¡¯s throat." His voice seethed with barely leashed fury. "That bastard paraded me like a jester for a month, made me toast him like I was some long-lost cousin at a wedding feast. I haven¡¯t crawled through hell just to lie down before the fire¡¯s out. I¡¯ll take a sword over a sickbed any day," he growled. "And I mean to personally deliver Alpheo his comeuppance¡ªwhether kneeling in chains or bleeding in the dirt." Lysandros stepped forward, his usual calm replaced by battle fervor. "Then tonight you ride not as a prisoner returned, but as vengeance incarnate." He pressed a fresh wineskin into Robert¡¯s hands. "Drink. You¡¯ll need your strength." Robert accepted it with a nod, taking a long pull before wiping his mouth. The wine left his lips stained dark as blood. "Just point me at the prince¡¯s tent," he said, voice rough with promise. "I¡¯ve a month¡¯s worth of humiliation to repay." Niketas surveyed the transformed faces around him¡ªno longer the defeated commanders of a starving rebellion, but warriors scenting victory. "Sound the alarm," he commanded, his voice ringing with newfound certainty. "Rouse every man who can hold a blade. Tonight, we remind Prince Alpheo that no victory is won until the last sword falls!" As the lords dispersed to prepare their forces, Robert tested his weight on his injured leg, hissing through his teeth but standing firm. He limped to the tent entrance, watching as torches flared to life across the rebel camp like angry stars. His bandaged hand clenched into a fist as in one way or the other, this war was going to an end. Chapter 557: Last effort(2) Chapter 557: Last effort(2) Two thousand three hundred soldiers stood outside beneath a star-pocked sky, their breath rising in pale puffs that vanished into the cold night air. The moon was absent¡ªlost somewhere behind the clouds or perhaps hiding from what was to come¡ªleaving the world in a pitch-dark hush that wrapped around steel and sinew alike. Armor clinked softly as men shifted in place, half-awake, eyes wide and confused. Their weapons¡ªspears, swords, axes, and bows¡ªrose into the blackness, but without the moon to catch them, they gleamed not. It was a silence of iron. The kind that breathes down your neck just before something breaks. They had been roused without warning, torn from thin rolls of hay or the ground, from their restless sleep by barking sergeants and captains with wild urgency in their voices. No answers, no speeches. Only orders. Armor on. Weapons drawn. Stand in formation. And so they stood, lined in ragged blocks outside the crude fortifications they themselves had helped erect in the prior weeks¡ªthose trenches, those stakes, those barricades meant to weather an attack they now understood would never come. The realization came slowly, crawling across the host like a chill wind: we¡¯re not defending anymore. They looked behind them at the earthworks, the ramparts, the watch fires dying low. And then ahead¡ªinto the forested dark where the enemy camp lay, unaware and wine-soaked. Whispers passed from line to line like wildfire through dry grass: "We¡¯re going out?" "I thought we were dug in?" "Gods, what the hell is going on?" But above the murmurs and muffled confusion, there was a charge in the air¡ªa current, crackling and unseen. Boots stamped into the frozen dirt. Leather straps were tightened. Blades were checked again and again Lord Niketas sat tall upon his warhorse, a dark silhouette against the deeper dark, his fur-lined cloak stirring gently with the night wind. Though the cold gnawed at armor and bone alike, he looked unbothered¡ªstone-faced, steady, his eyes fixed downhill where the trees whispered and the enemy slumbered He turned his horse slightly, just enough to see the serried ranks behind him¡ªmen standing still in silence that was almost reverent. Then, with a voice hard as iron but not raised more than needed, he gave the order. "March." The sound of steel boots shifting echoed like distant thunder, dulled by the thick dirt. The soldiers obeyed without a word, without flair. No horns. No songs. Just movement. Quiet and grim. Downhill they began to tread¡ªslow, s¡ªlike a wave of shadows spilling across the slope. Spears leaned forward with the march, like the legs of a vast beast crawling through night. The bulk of the army was on foot, hard-bitten infantry whose breath fogged like ghosts in the air. Shield-men and archers slinging their bows across their backs. No cavalry thunder this time¡ªless than fifty mounted knights alongside 40 squires on horse moved near the flanks, their hooves muffled and careful on the slope. The rest of their horsemen¡ªtwo hundred strong¡ªwere ghosts themselves, scattered or stranded, lost somewhere far off. The last message had come a week ago. Since then, nothing. Not even crows. Only the gods knew where they were now. Lord Niketas squinted into the blackness ahead, his eyes straining to pierce the curtain of night, but it was like staring into ink. He couldn¡¯t see the vanguard, couldn¡¯t make out the men carrying the ladders, couldn¡¯t even hear the clatter of iron over the silence of 2,300 soldiers trying to vanish into the dark. He imagined them there, somewhere ahead¡ªthose few at the very front, hunched beneath the burden of the assault ladders they had managed to cobble together. Not enough by any sound doctrine¡ªhalf a dozen at best, perhaps less. Normally, you¡¯d never dream of launching an assault with so little. They hadn¡¯t prepared for that, hadn¡¯t planned on breaking a fortified royal encampment. Weeks ago, they had dug in for defense, not ambition. But Robert¡¯s voice still rang in Niketas¡¯ skull. The camp is drunk. The prince believes the war already won. If it was true¡ªif¡ªthen those ladders wouldn¡¯t need to be many. They just had to be first. As they pressed forward, the slope grew steeper, and with it came a subtle urgency. Feet picked up pace, weapons rattled quietly against armor, breath came heavier. Then something strange. The torches. Scattered around the enemy camp¡¯s outer line¡ªtorches meant to give warning, to light the approach and blind attackers¡ªnow stood still, flickering soft and lonely in the dark. Unattended. Niketas narrowed his eyes further. No sentries passing by them. No silhouettes moving between the glow, perhapse the gods had truly smiled at them. The first sound wasn¡¯t the crash of steel¡ªit was the wooden thunder of ladders being heaved against the camp walls. Thud. Thud. Thud. The final battle did not start with a charge, a taunt, or a warcry, but with wood thumping against wood. Crude and heavy, the few ladders they had groaned beneath the weight of armored soldiers scrambling up them. The silence shattered as the first enemy sentries atop the walls finally noticed what was happening. Confused at first¡ªthen terrified. One dropped his torch in panic. Another, wide-eyed, reached for his horn. A sharp blast ripped through the air. Then another. And another. The alarm was sounded. The camp had awoken. But it was too late. Lord Niketas surged forward on horseback through the shadowed chaos behind the wall-line, raising his arm high, his voice low but cutting through the confusion like a whip: "Forward! Take the gate! Open it from within!" By then, the first wave of infantry had already crested the ladders and spilled onto the ramparts. The clash of steel rang sharp as they met the few guards there¡ªgroggy, disoriented, unarmored. One soldier tackled a sentry before he could even draw his blade, slamming him down and pushing him off the wall. Another drove a short spear clean through the ribs of a man mid-blow on the horn, silencing him forever. Within moments and a few bodies, the attackers had control of the wall. Torches along the rampart were seized and hurled down into the camp¡¯s inner circle, lighting the chaos below. Shadows scrambled like rats as the first few rebel soldiers dropped rope and waved for those below. The wall was theirs. The gate¡ªjust moments away. Steel screamed and blood spilled as the rebel troops overwhelmed the wall¡¯s defenders , it was an easy job considering they had the numbers and the advantage of surprise. The few royal sentries¡ªhalf-dressed, half-awake¡ªstood little chance. One tried to plead, swordless, only to be met with a spear through the gut. Another turned to flee along the ramparts but was hacked down mid-sprint, his scream echoing into the blackness. The rebels showed no mercy."Not so high and mighty now, are you!?" one spat as he ran a blade through a sentry trying to crawl away. "Tell your prince we do the feasting tonight!" jeered another, kicking a corpse from the parapet. Ladders groaned as more soldiers flooded up and over. Others took ropes and dropped into the interior. The defenders at the wall were not just killed¡ªthey were dismantled, humiliated, made a mockery of by men who had long been on the back foot and now tasted blood. Within minutes, they reached the inner gate mechanisms. A hard shove, a wooden groan, and then¡ª The gates yawned open. And the night devoured the camp. From the darkness outside, 2,300 rebels surged forward like a tide unleashed. Armor clattered, boots thundered, torches flared. The sound of their advance was a thousand-strong drumbeat of steel and vengeance. Inside the camp, confusion reigned. Royal soldiers stumbled from tents half-dressed, weapons forgotten, drunken minds slow to grasp the horror around them. One campfire was kicked into the air by stampeding boots, setting a tent ablaze. Another man ran, shrieking, straight into a rebel spear. Cries of panic rippled through the camp. "They¡¯re inside!" "We¡¯re under attack!" "The wall is lost¡ªfall back! FALL BACK!" But there was nowhere to fall. The rebels poured in, line after line, their cries a mix of fury and triumph. The rout had begun. The camp that had once held so proud a host now drowned in chaos, the banners of the prince fluttering helplessly in the black wind, soon to be trampled underfoot. Steel clashed with fleeing flesh, and the rebel soldiers¡ªdriven by weeks of hunger, hatred, and fear¡ªgave no quarter. They hunted the panicked royals through the narrow camp paths, cutting down men who had scarcely opened their eyes, who still stank of wine and triumph. "Run faster, pigs!" one rebel shouted as he drove a spear clean through a man¡¯s back.¡¯¡¯choke on it!" growled another, hurling an axe after a retreating figure. It was not a battle anymore. It was slaughter. Men tripped over each other trying to escape, only to be carved down from behind. Some threw away their weapons, hands raised, only to be trampled under boots too eager to stop. The rebels shouted curses, crude jokes, and gleeful howls, letting the gory work carry them deeper into the prince¡¯s camp. Then came the light. From the far end of the camp, beyond the tangle of tents and overturned benches, a sudden glow rose into the sky¡ªfirelight, flickering and violent. Thick plumes of smoke began to drift over the encampment, painting the air in haze and ash. Some rebels paused, blinking against the light, their bloodied blades lowered in confusion. "The hells is that?" one muttered."Someone¡¯s found the wine stores early!" another laughed. "Saved a cask for the rest of us, I hope!" Laughter rippled among them. Someone must¡¯ve set a few tents ablaze in their excitement, they thought. A reckless prank, a chaotic flourish to mark the end of the war. None questioned it too deeply. After all, the camp was theirs now. But none of them had reached that far. Not yet. None had passed through to the rear third of the camp. If they had, they might¡¯ve noticed something strange: the back gate was barred, completely blocked off with hastily piled carts, crates, and even snapped beams. For if they had , it would have most certainly changed everything. Because now, with the rear gate sealed shut and only one entrance open¡ªthe same one still crammed with fresh, eager rebels pushing in for glory and loot¡ªthe camp was no longer a battlefield. It was a bottle. And someone had just lit the fuse, while the bugs inside feasted on the remnants of the wine still inside of it. Chapter 558: Last effort(3) Chapter 558: Last effort(3) Lord Gregor brought down his axe with a thunderous grunt, the blade cleaving through collarbone and flesh as if the man were made of paper and meat alone. The soldier gave a short, gurgling scream before collapsing in a heap at his feet, blood spurting in sharp arcs against the dirt. The axe lodged for a moment, stuck in bone, and Gregor ripped it free with a wet crunch and a curse. His warhorse reared beside him, black mane thrashing in the firelight, and slammed its hooves down with terrifying force¡ªcrushing the arms of another soldier who had scrambled too close. The man shrieked, his limbs snapping like dry twigs beneath the beast¡¯s weight. Gregor spat and urged the horse forward again, carving a brutal path through the chaos, his armor shining with blood that wasn¡¯t his . His face was lit by the fires now rising behind the tents, but there was no fear in his eyes¡ªonly the savage joy of the fight. Behind him, just out of the worst of it, stood Robert He was not on the front, but neither was he hiding. His sword was not in its sheath, his breathing slow, measured. His wounds had not healed, his bandages still fresh and pulling taut with every movement. But his eyes... his eyes followed every movement, every retreating royal soldier, every flicker of the fire climbing higher. Gregor didn¡¯t question his distance.Not tonight. He knew why they were here.And he knew who had brought them this chance. If the battle had a name, it was carved into Robert¡¯s suffering.If victory could be claimed, it had begun the moment Robert limped from the trees, half-dead, burning with the words that now set this camp alight. So Lord Gregor, blood-drenched and roaring, let him be.Tonight, the old warrior had earned his silence. Bit by bit, Gregor¡¯s contingent carved its way toward the heart of the camp¡ªthe place where silk tents rose larger and grander, where banners fluttered heavier and poles stood taller. It was the circle where the lords resided, where generals kept maps rolled and wine uncorked. In every camp it was the same: the deeper the gold lining, the closer one stood to command. It had to be said that even as enemy, Gregor was awed by the number of tents in the camp, as after all usually footmen slept on the open air, as only those with some economic capability could buy a tent, which was something not given to a levy when enlisted. So the fact that there were so many tents was something that awed Gregor, as it meant that the crown had lots of money to spend. For if they had the silver for the tents, then it wasn¡¯t so impossible to believe the words that each member of the Black Stripes was equipped with breastplate, greave ,cuiss along with other pieces, which was usually an high-standard equipment that only a well-standing knight could employ. Still he was leading a battle so he had no time to waste in such thought. The clang of steel on steel rang through the alleys of canvas and rope, the rebel soldiers hacking through the remnants of disoriented defenders who stumbled from their beds, half-armored, some still chewing remnants of the prince¡¯s feast. Blood splattered on half-eaten meat and spilled wine. But with every yard gained, the formation thinned. Not all of it was attrition. One by one, twos and threes, soldiers peeled away from Gregor¡¯s line. Drawn by cries, or the glint of treasure in overturned chests, or by the scent of roasted meat left still warm. In the chaos, discipline grew brittle, and temptation had a sharper pull than the orders of any lord. One man ducked into a tent and didn¡¯t come out. Another veered left, looting the pockets of a dead soldiers. Gregor noticed, of course. His jaw tightened with each deserter. But there was no time¡ªno breath to chase strays. Not now. If he spent every moment calling them back, they¡¯d be chewing on their own tongues by sunrise with the lords still safe behind the center line. So he let them go. Deciding to have them hanged later. Those who stayed close, stayed in the fight. And the fight still had meat on the bone. A royal soldier tried to rally a defense near a wagon, his spear trembling in his hands. He barely barked a warning before a rebel drove a hammer into his chest, crumpling the chainmail like tin. As the man gasped and gurgled, the rebel kicked him over, laughing as he wrenched the spear free to toss it aside like broken kindling. ¡°Ain¡¯t you a sight?¡± the mocked, circling him. ¡°All that armor, and you couldn¡¯t even get a fuck ¡®fore dying?¡± The guardsman whimpered, until a second blow smashed his skull in ¡°Here¡¯s your last fucking drink!¡± Not far off, two more royal soldiers tried to form a shield wall at the mouth of a narrow path between tents. They made it five steps before a rebel axeman hurled himself into them with a wordless roar, swinging wide and savage. The first man¡¯s shield split clean through with the blow; the second stumbled back¡ªonly to be seized by two more rebels who yanked off his helmet and jammed a dagger into his throat. A young page, no older than sixteen, tried to run¡ªbarefoot, still wearing his bedclothes, the hem stained with spilled wine. A rebel caught him easily, grabbed a fistful of the boy¡¯s tunic, and jerked him off his feet. The lad begged, The rebel only grinned, crooked teeth flashing in the firelight. He let the boy go only after driving the dagger into his back. Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". The boy dropped without a sound. All across the center of the camp, the same story unfolded in grim variations. Royal soldiers fighting with trembling hands, some putting up fierce but desperate resistance, others throwing down their weapons only to be run through anyway. Camp defenders rallied here and there, in desperate clumps with swords half-raised and shields gripped in panic. They were swatted aside like kindling. Most hadn¡¯t even buckled their cuirasses, and many dropped their blades the moment they saw Gregor¡¯s riders bearing down¡ªhoping for mercy that did not come. The rebels showed no quarter. By all means the battle was going well and yet, Gregor had that roaring feeling that something was wrong. He could not understand the reason, as by all eyes they were winning, coming closer and closer to the centre of the tent. He paused for just a moment, the pulse of battle thudding in his ears like war drums beaten too close. And then he saw it¡ªthe flames. At first, it didn¡¯t raise alarm. Fires were common in night raids. More than a few generals considered it a preferred tactic¡ªspread fire, spread fear, burn the edge of reason from the minds of men. Break morale, break formation, break the spine of an army. But then Gregor¡¯s brow furrowed. The fire... was ahead. .And his company, his rebel vanguard, they were the tip of the spear. No one should have been ahead of them, at least not on their side.... A strange chill crept beneath his armor, licking at the sweat on his back. He squinted into the smoky distance¡ªbut then a different sound reached his ears, cutting through the war-racket like a hot knife. Screams¡ªnot from the front. From behind. Gregor wheeled his warhorse around, his massive frame twisting in the saddle. What he saw at the camp entrance turned his veteran¡¯s blood to ice. The breach they¡¯d fought so hard to create had become a slaughterhouse. His rebels ¨C the brave men who¡¯d followed him into the lion¡¯s den ¨C were now packed together like cattle, their faces contorted in primal fear. Some dropped weapons to claw at their comrades in desperate attempts to flee. Others shoved forward blindly, as if whatever pursued them from behind was worse than the steel awaiting them ahead. They collided like waves in a storm, smashing into each other with curses and chaos.Steel clanged¡ªbut it wasn¡¯t just the steel of conquest. It was panic. The cries weren¡¯t the hollow shouts of dying men¡ªthey were sharp, high, full of fear. Pure, animal terror. Gregor had heard it before.On ambushes.On routs.On nights when no gods were listening. The firelight behind him flickered, casting strange, growing shadows. Something was terribly wrong. Gregor¡¯s jaw tightened. He gripped his axe again. What in all the hells was going on?He didn¡¯t have an answer. And yet he knew something was coming. ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª- Away from the din of slaughter, far from the blood-drenched chaos spilling through the broken gate, the true royal army waited¡ªstill as death, cloaked in night. No full moon graced the heavens that evening, no silver gleam betrayed the trap. Only black sky and darker earth stretched around them, hiding spears and silence in equal measure. Upon a slight ridge veiled by trees and scrub, a small circle of commanders stood mounted and grim. Their armor, dulled to avoid the shine, whispered only when they moved. At their center stood Alpheo, face half-lit by a shaded lantern, his eyes fixed on the horizon¡ªon the flickering glow rising from the camp below, and the mad silhouettes of rebels charging in like starving dogs at feast. He exhaled, the air curling from his lips like smoke.¡±Look at them...¡± he murmured, voice low and almost amused.¡±They claw at the meat without ever seeing the blade hanging over the table.¡± Beside him, Asag leaned on his saddle, the shadows cradling figure and hiding his scars. He tilted his head slightly, watching the unfolding chaos. ¡°My worries seem a bit foolish now,¡± Alpheo muttered, lips barely moving. ¡± But look¡ª¡± he gestured toward the firelit camp, ¡°it worked. Again. Third time by now.¡± He ticked the names off on gloved fingers. ¡°Ormund, baited into an ambush like a child chasing a ball. The ambush in the north , spoiled only by that drunkard turning his coat¡ªironically, the very reason this third one breathes fire now.¡± Asag gave his prince a half-smile. ¡°Even masterminds have their strokes of luck.¡± ¡°I overestimated them,¡± he said. ¡°I thought they would smell the trap. But they galloped in like wedding guests at the wrong hall.¡± Asag gave a short laugh. ¡°Most of the time, it¡¯s the other one delivering the failures. It feels strange being on the lucky end.¡± Alpheo chuckled, soft and wicked. He glanced sideways, his hand resting calmly on the pommel of his sword. ¡°Isn¡¯t it beautiful, though?¡± he said. ¡°The panic will rise slow at first. A whisper in the ranks. Then a scream. Then the crush. And by the time they realize they¡¯re boxed in¡ª¡± He made a tap motion to his neck. ¡°¡ªit¡¯s already too late.¡± Asag squinted toward the camp. ¡°Should we attack now?¡± ¡°Not yet I want them deep. I want them drowning in victory. Looting tents. Stripping armor. Laughing. Relaxed.And of course with no way out ¡± He leaned forward slightly in the saddle, a thin smile creeping across his face.¡±I want the whole head on the chopping block when the axe falls, not just a ear .¡± Asag simply nodded, drawing a slow breath as a distant scream floated up the hill. From the shadows behind them, a thousand and two hundred royal troops stood waiting, spears at rest, swords thirsty, eyes strained in the dark. This traphad not been born in months of planning, but in mere hours, perhaps even less. It had been carved hastily out of necessity and sharpened in secret like a blade beneath the banquet table. Alpheo had long harbored doubts that some of the lords who drank his wine were symphatizers to the others, and yet by know as all realised who the true victors would be , Alpheo still harbored those doubts . Thus, the trap had been forged with as few people knowing of it as possible. Only a handful were told the truth. The rest were simply instructed to be armed and awake this night, no questions answered, only orders handed like stones in their mouths. In a feudal army, that level of secrecy was akin to threading a needle while riding a galloping horse, after all you could not prepare a trap with a whole army without revealing it to everybody . But somehow, Alpheo had managed, it also of course helped that the majority of the preparation were to be done in his camp. Still it worked and now it was time to tighten the snare. Messengers had already bolted off to the other two royal camps, like sparks racing toward powder. Their orders were simple and deadly: March. Now. Meet us at the center. Bring everything. From his vantage on the ridge, Alpheo turned his gaze toward the darkness, away from the embers of the battle, letting his imagination wander¡ªjust for a breath¡¯s time. He imagined himself not as the prince with steel at his back and thousands under his name, but as one of the rebel soldiers¡ªgrimy, tired, perhaps still nursing stew from the day before. A soldier who, in his mind, thought the war might just be won. Would he realize, Alpheo wondered, that the moment he stepped past that gate, the path behind him had closed? Would he feel it, in the marrow of his bones, that he¡¯d stopped walking into a camp and begun walking into a grave? He turned back to the camp, watching it roar with movement and flame, now more than half the rebel army had funneled inside, like ants on honey. He could almost hear their boots striking ground, their jokes and shouts, their steel striking out at pockets of resistance Alpheo¡¯s jaw tightened. Enough had entered. He turned to a nearby aide and said, in the cool, clipped voice of command,¡±Send words. Infantry forward , archers first lines send some volleys and then retreat . Close the noose ¡± The messanger bowed and darted off like a stone from a sling. And the prince watched as his unseen army, hidden behind trees and silence, began to stir like a stormcloud, ready to fall upon its prey and bring a proper end to this war. Chapter 559: Last effort(4) Chapter 559: Last effort(4) Jarza marched forward. Ahead of him, four hundred men moved as one, boots pressed tight to the earth in silence¡ªno clink of loose armor, no stray coughs, no whispered prayers. Only the soft, almost ghostly sound of leather and breath and the brittle tension of men walking toward blood. In the black of a moonless night, they became shadows of themselves. He rode behind them, as was his way¡ªnot leading the spearpoint, but haunting it. Watching. Feeling the rhythm of the line, the shudder of nerves hiding under hardened faces. His horse¡¯s hooves had been wrapped in cloth, muffling each step to little more than a breath against the dirt. Even the animal seemed to understand that this was no time for noise. No time for mistakes. But Jarza¡¯s mind was not on the path ahead. It was behind him. In the camp. At the bait. The thought gnawed at him, steady and patient as rot. He could stomach much¡ªhe was not a man who shied from harsh necessities, his life as a mercenary had seen to it . But this... gods above and below, this chilled him more than any enemy blade. He liked to think himself a pragmatic man. Ruthless, when needed. Sharp-edged as a mountain winter. And yet Alpheo scared him in moments like this. Not his rage, nor his strength¡ªthose were human things, familiar. It was his calm that unnerved Jarza. That cool, clinical willingness to lay men down like cards on a table, knowing full well the deck would be soaked in blood before the night was done. He could never have done it.No amount of gold, no stretch of promised land would have been enough. The illusion had demanded life to breathe. Not just tents. Not just song. It needed laughter. Staggering drunks. The clatter of dice on wooden tables. The sleepy bellow of a sentry half a drink past sober. You can¡¯t fake the scent of warm meat, the sound of false security. And Alpheo knew that. Jarza¡¯s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. He had watched it happen. Had stood silent, a ghost among the living, as Alpheo wove his offers into the ears of petty lords. Men with swollen ambitions and thin spines, eager to barter the flesh of their peasants for a slice of victory. Alpheo hadn¡¯t used his own soldiers¡ªno, never. Those were investments, sharpened steel he wasn¡¯t about to dull.He found others to pay the price. The broken, the desperate, the dispensable. A few barrels of wine, a feast, the promise of rich plunder¡ªand the lambs went willingly to their own slaughter. Jarza thought he had seen cruelty before. In war. In famine. In the slow grinding ruin of sieges.But this¡ªthis was cruelty sharpened into art. He looked up, the distant flicker of firelight blooming against the edge of the night.The trap was almost sprung. He would be the teeth. The blade in the dark. But inside, something twisted and coiled like a wounded thing. I could never do that.Not to my men.Not for land.Not for crowns. He would have liked to believe, once , that Alpheo would never cross that line either. That somewhere, buried beneath the iron, there remained a thread of reluctance.A hesitation. But tonight, that hope seemed thin as mist. He rode on, the cloth-wrapped hooves of his horse whispering over the dirt, his men slipping through the night like drawn knives. No songs on their lips. No banners raised high. Only the grim promise of what they had come to deliver. Bit by bit, the veil began to lift. And Jarza, feeling the weight of every screaming soul left behind, gritted his teeth and rode faster into the dark. The flicker of torchlight broke the edge of the trees like a phantom sunrise, the royal camp glowing warm and open, a firelit illusion of triumph. Jarza could make out their silhouettes¡ªfigures moving carefree, confident, celebrating already, weapons loosened from blood, backs turned to the night. They hadn¡¯t seen his men yet. But the archers had seen them. Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". The rebel force hadn¡¯t even realized they were being watched. So swollen with victory, so drunk on the scent of loot and smoke and blood, they thought themselves conquerors, the climber of the mountain, not realising that all they had climbed was a small hill. The trap¡¯s lid was nearly shut, and still they crowed like roosters at dawn. The torchlight betrayed them, a cruel mirror against the dark. The rebel soldiers had lit up their triumph like a feast¡ªbut they hadn¡¯t noticed that the opposite hill remained shrouded, not a glimmer, not a spark. The dark was still hungry. And by the time they heard the thrum of bowstrings and the first steel hissed through the air¡ªThey still thought they were winning. ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª The gates of the royal camp were yawned wide like the mouth of some ancient beast, and the rebels surged toward it with the glee of men who believed the gods themselves had opened heaven¡¯s vault for them. ¡°Move, move, move! We¡¯ll be left with the horse dung if we don¡¯t get in!¡± someone yelled, pushing against a mass of helms and armor. ¡°Make way! I haven¡¯t stolen a single silver spoon!I ain¡¯t going back as poor wretched ¡± barked another, elbowing his way through. It was a roiling sea of men¡ªa living tide of greed and sweat and steel, crashing at the bottleneck of the gate, they were like a single squirming organism. The smell of blood hadn¡¯t faded from their blades, and yet already they dreamed of silks, of gold buckles and full purses, of the soft beds their boots would trample and the wine skins they¡¯d burst between their teeth. The mass swelled, a press of flesh and steel and breath, all clawing for entry. The shouting grew louder¡ªnot of battle, but of hunger. Loot was meat, and they were the starving. And then¡ª The shouting changed. It twisted, as if the wind itself had turned against them. The first screams cut the air like knives. Not of triumph, but of pain. Not hunger, but terror. Then came the sound¡ªa sickening rush through the sky, like a hundred serpents shrieking at once. Fffft. Fffft. Thunk. ¡°AAGH¡ªMY SHOULDER!¡± ¡°WHAT¡ªWHAT THE HELL¡ª¡± A man in the center of the horde staggered back, eyes wide as he stared at the shaft buried in his gut. He opened his mouth to scream, but only blood came out. Another dropped beside him, struck square in the neck¡ªhis head jerking back as if yanked by invisible wire. Armor clanged, bodies thudded to the dirt, the gate suddenly a choke point not for ambition but for carnage. Someone shrieked¡ª ¡°ARROWS! ARROWS!¡± Too late. The sea of men buckled. Chaos erupted. Some lifted shields, most did not even have the time. Arrows hailed down like vengeful stars, slicing through arms raised in panic, through open helms and unguarded throats. Men pushed in to escape, only to be pinned between their comrades and the blades ahead. Blood sprayed across polished mail, the taste of victory replaced by the stench of death. The trap had been sprung, and those who¡¯d raced for plunder now found themselves drowning in a tide of their own making. ¡°Where are they?! Who¡¯s shooting at us?!¡± The cries rang out from the press of rebel soldiers, frantic and high, tossed between the walls and the writhing bodies like echoes in a tomb. Helms swung wildly, eyes scanned the darkness, but there was nothing to see¡ªonly shadows beyond the reach of the camp¡¯s torches. How could they fight against an enemy they could not see? The light that had led them in now marked them like cattle, their forms bathed in amber firelight while the enemy remained cloaked in black. It was like being hunted by ghosts. ¡°Gods damn it, where are they?¡± someone bellowed, but the question had no answer. The arrows kept falling, and death kept finding them. But the worst was not the unseen. Not yet. The worst came soon after¡ªon the wind first, like thunder muffled by the hills. A rhythm. A pulse. A march of steel and will. And then it emerged from the black. Six hundred and fifty men, not a single torch among them, charging silently, their forms like living statues chiseled from night itself¡ªexcept for one thing: the white visible in the whole darkness. The White Army. A wall of iron and ivory, , their armor kissed by white and black, a ghostly tide of death, descending upon the rebel flank with terrible purpose. The rebels¡ªmost of them levied peasants ¡ªhad heard of them, sure. Stories passed from lips drunk on myth and campfires. Tales of the men who¡¯d broken five armies and left fields soaked in silence. But they¡¯d never seen them. Now they did. And it was far, far too late. The front line didn¡¯t stand a chance. The charge hit the rebel left like a hammer to a wine jar¡ªsplinters of men and steel flew outward, the formation caved in like soft bread beneath a boot. The sheer weight of the advance crushed resistance, blades slicing through ribs and collarbones as shields splintered and screams turned to gurgles. Some tried to run, only to be cut down from behind. Others stood dumbfounded, as if their minds refused to believe that this, this, was real. But it was. And the Royal host gave no quarter. They did not shout. They did not curse. They simply killed¡ªcold and methodical, like winter itself marching on two legs. The night, once their ally, had turned on the rebels.The darkness was no longer their cover. It was the enemy¡¯s throne. In reality there were five hundred of them¡ªnot six-fifty, as the panicked minds of the rebels may had conjured them all to the same coin, in the blur of terror. The other hundred and fifty were noble levies trailing behind, less uniform in their dread countenance. But it didn¡¯t matter. Five hundred was enough. Five hundred was too much. And gods, did they make it count. The White Army didn¡¯t shout battle cries. They didn¡¯t chant slogans or howl the names of princes and lords. Their silence was worse. It was like watching a storm descend, emotionless, pitiless, and inevitable. A rebel soldier lunged forward, shrieking as he swung his short blade at a soldier. The man didn¡¯t parry. He simply stepped in, let the blade scrape off his pauldron, and brought his mace down on the man¡¯s shoulder. There was a wet, popping crunch¡ªthe kind that made nearby soldiers flinch¡ªand the rebel collapsed with a scream, one arm flopping useless like a dead fish as his collarbone had snapped inward. Another man tried to raise his shield to block the hammer of an advancing White¡ªonly for the head of the weapon to crash through the shield and into his face. The sound was like a gourd being stomped, and what had been a head was now pulp running down a shattered mail. One decurio, massive even among the White, wielded his axe as if it weighed nothing. He cleaved through a man in a single stroke¡ªhis axe burying halfway into the victim¡¯s ribcage. The scream that followed was choked, almost confused, as if the man¡¯s lungs didn¡¯t know whether to breathe or beg. Nearby, a rebel dropped to his knees, arms raised. ¡°Mercy! I yield¡ª!¡± The royal soldier didn¡¯t stop. His warhammer struck the man¡¯s face¡ªonce, then again¡ªand again, until the man was unrecognizable, and his skull had caved into itself. Another crushed a man¡¯s knee with the spike of his hammer, letting him crawl for a heartbeat before driving the hammerhead into the back of his spine with such force the body jerked like a puppet mid-seizure, then stilled completely. There was no valor in it. No glory.Just brutality. Raw and mechanical. The rebels began to break, and rightly so after all it was dark, all they could hear were screams and the fact that they were all packed toghether meant that they couldn¡¯t move as they wished. Men sobbed as if they were children. Others dropped their weapons and ran, tripping over the bodies of their comrades or slipping in their blood. It was a massacre.And the White Army moved like they¡¯d done it a thousand times before. Because they had. Chapter 560: Last effort(5) Chapter 560: Last effort(5) It was blackness, a kind of darkness so complete that it didn¡¯t just blind¡ªit suffocated. The moonless sky gave nothing. No stars, no shapes, not even the sheen of steel or the glint of helmets. All the rebel soldiers had were sounds¡ªand those sounds were hellish, provocative and nightmarish. Metal screamed against metal.Men cried out¡ªsome in fury, most in agony.The thudding rhythm of boots stomping mud.The sickening crunch of bodies breaking to the awful machine of war. But no sight.No form.No enemy they could point to and say: There¡ªstrike there. Death was around them and yet invisible And so, thousands stood paralyzed, trying to make sense of a nightmare unfolding in the black, with only bloodcurdling clues to guide them. On a normal day, in full daylight with colors flying and captains shouting, the sheer weight of their numbers might¡¯ve stirred courage. They might¡¯ve rallied and charged following their lords¡¯ directives But this?This was madness.This was dying like cattle and no wanted to die in the dark. On the far edge of the chaos, in the dim glow of dying torches, some men clutched their weapons but did not move. They whispered, shouted at each other:¡±What¡¯s happening? What¡¯s going on in there?¡± ¡±Where is the enemy?¡± ¡°Why are they screaming like that?¡± And then the wind shifted. And with it came the sound. At first, it was like thunder in the distance. A beat. A rumble. Hooves. Not the sharp trot of a scout or the shuffling of a patrol¡ªthis was a charge. A wall of horses cutting the night like razors, fast and deadly. The ground began to tremble. Men turned toward the sound with wide eyes, frozen in the dark, unable to even guess how close it was. And then the second sound came¡ªthe hiss. Dozens of projectiles, javelins, slicing the air like whispers turned into shrieks. Then the thunks, cracks, gasps¡ªbodies dropping, men falling sideways, some not even understanding they were hit until they felt the wet heat pour down their ribs. There were no commands. No horns. No cries of attack. Just the oncoming storm in the shape of hooves and steel.And for the rebels caught in the middle¡ªno way out. The javelins came like whispers of death, unseen in the dark but heard in the split second before they landed¡ªa sharp hiss, then a wet, crunching thud as iron bit into flesh. One man screamed as a shaft buried itself in his thigh, only for another to slam through his neck when he turned. Another clutched his side, moaning, trying to stagger back into the crowd¡ªuntil he collapsed, coughing blood, trampling feet crushing his ribs as others tried to escape what they could not see. Cries of pain erupted, ragged and high-pitched, like pigs at the butcher¡¯s block. All around them, confusion and terror boiled, and men began to push and shove and fall¡ªtrapped in a pit of bodies and rising panic. Then came the sound that split the air. Drums of hooves. Not the scattered trot of scouts. This was a wall of death bearing down at full tilt. Two hundred horsemen, their lances lowered, teeth bared, thundering through the black with only one direction: through and due . Their banners weren¡¯t raised. Their cries were not of war but of raw, merciless violence. The front line barely had time to turn. Some raised shields. Most didn¡¯t. Some tried to run. It made no difference. Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". ¡±Either victory or we all die!¡± Was the last thing they heard as lances tore through men like they were stuffed sacks. Steel tips punctured through bellies, tearing out spines and organs with one thunderous impact. One man was lifted clean off the ground, impaled mid-run, his last breath a choked gurgle as he dangled like meat on a spit. Bones broke like dry wood beneath hooves. Skulls split under iron shoes. One man, trying to crawl away, had his spine crushed beneath a stallion¡¯s weight, his scream cut short as his chest flattened like dough. The riders didn¡¯t stop¡ªthey plowed through, dragging broken bodies on their lances, eyes wide, blood flecking their faces, many of them laughing¡ªnot in joy, but in the fury of it, the madness of war , the beautiful addiction of it. And behind them came the rest¡ªmaces raised, axes gleaming in firelight, finishing what the charge had started. Men were trampled, split, shattered.The living screamed.The dying twitched.And the soil drank deep for it was due for a feast. ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª Egil¡¯s lance shattered with a crack like thunder, splinters flying as it drove deep into a man¡¯s chest¡ªso deep, in fact, that when the body crumpled, it took the shaft with it, snapping it clean in two. He didn¡¯t even flinch. His hand was already reaching for the broad-bladed axe strapped across his back, the weapon sliding free with a heavy, eager sound like steel sighing in hunger. The moment his fingers curled around the haft, he was grinning¡ªnot the grin of a hero, but the crooked, tooth-baring smile of a man who had just been saved from the hell of tedium. ¡°Thank the bastards,¡± he muttered, almost reverently, as he spurred his horse forward. ¡°I thought boredom would kill me before any blade did.¡± The next rebel didn¡¯t even get to scream. Egil¡¯s axe came down like a falling star, splitting helm and skull in a single blow. Bone crunched. Blood fountained. The man¡¯s body jerked like a puppet with its strings cut and hit the ground with a sickening wet slap. Another turned to run¡ªEgil swung low from horseback, the axe catching him at the neck. It didn¡¯t cut cleanly, instead biting deep and dragging half the shoulder with it, a grotesque tear of meat and mail, like peeling the rind off a fruit. He laughed. Gods, how he laughed. ¡°Run, don¡¯t run, scream, piss yourselves¡ªit¡¯s all the same to me!¡± he shouted, as a rebel came at him with a spear. Egil caught the haft mid-thrust with his shield , and the came toward him before butting him in the face with his armored boot so hard the man¡¯s nose vanished in a spray of cartilage and blood. The axe followed, cleaving diagonally through collarbone and out under the opposite arm. Atop his blood-flecked horse, Egil turned his head briefly from the chaos, axe resting heavy in his grip, its edge wet and glistening. Screams rose all around¡ªraw, terrified, human, some gurgling, some clipped short. The smoke, the night, the press of bodies¡ªit was beautiful, in a brutal, wretched way. He glanced to the left, where Jarza¡¯s infantry should be pouring like dark water down a hill, smashing into the rebels with cold precision and silent discipline. Then to the right, where he himself carved his path, each stroke a punctuation in the sentence of someone¡¯s last breath. Behind, the thunder of hooves and gold-gilded banners¡ªMereth, pompous and shining as always, yet his heavy cavalry hit like the fist of a god, smashing through the rebel rear and grinding them beneath steel and hooves in a charge so devastating that only an armored contingent could achieve. Egil chuckled low in his throat, spitting a gob of blood¡ªsomeone else¡¯s¡ªonto the dirt.¡±Fucking genius,¡± he murmured, eyes narrowing with something dangerously close to admiration.¡±That pretty bastard actually did it.¡± Alph. The prince. The strategist. The schemer.With just half of his total strength, the rest probably coming soon, had caught the entire rebel host by the throat and now watched them choke on their own ambition. A perfect encirclement, every angle sealed. Egil swung his axe lazily and caught a man across the jaw, the blade carving the face into a ruin of splintered bone and flapping skin. ¡°Where you gonna run now?¡± he muttered toward the crowd, watching the panic spread. He leaned forward slightly, urging his horse toward the next knot of rebels too dazed to flee. ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¨C In the shadowed rear of the seemingly plundered camp, figures flitted like phantoms, their movements quick, precise¡ªintentional. Gloved hands hurled clay pots against the wooden walls and packed earth, each one shattering with a wet crunch and releasing thick streams of oil that oozed down the surfaces like black blood. The scent of it clung to the air¡ªsharp, flammable, final. Just behind them, two men stood like officers of death at parade¡ªMarcus and Lucius, their cloaks drawn tight, their faces half-lit by torchlight and the distant flicker of battle from beyond the tents. From where they stood, the screams had begun to reach them. Not the kind from surprise or scuffle¡ªthe long, dragging ones that peeled out of a man when hope was already gone but his body hadn¡¯t caught up yet. Lucius smirked, lighting a slim pipe as though the world wasn¡¯t cracking open on the other side of the canvas. ¡°Sounds like they¡¯re having their fun out there.¡± He turned slightly, eyes narrow and amused. ¡°Ever regret it, Marcus? Leaving command, trading standards for shadows? We used to march behind banners. Now we hide behind curtains.¡± Marcus didn¡¯t answer right away. His eyes remained locked on one of the agents spreading oil across the base of a support beam, his brush moving like a painter caressing the edge of a masterpiece. Finally, he said, ¡°I miss the simplicity of it.¡±He scratched at his stubble.¡±Miss when all I had to worry about was the weight of the sword in my hand, not whether I¡¯d be skinned alive for being late to a drop point.¡±He looked over to Lucius.¡±And if I died, at least it would¡¯ve been in the open, with steel, not in some rat pit with a blade under my fingernails.¡± Lucius chuckled.¡±Pretty poetic.¡± ¡±Pretty sad¡± Marcus corrected Just then, one of the agents¡ªa slim young man in oil-slicked clothes¡ªturned. With a quick movement, he raised two fingers, then made a circular gesture, finishing it with a thumbs-down. The meaning was clear. Everything was ready. Lucius puffed his pipe once more.¡±Well. Time to light the match.¡± Marcus stepped forward, rolling his shoulders like a man about to get back into a familiar rhythm.¡±Let¡¯s give ¡¯em a bonfire to remember.¡± Lucius, always the more polished of the two, gave Marcus a sidelong look, eyebrows raised with a smirk creeping into the corner of his lips.¡±Care to do the honors, old friend?¡± he asked, voice calm and half amused, as though they were opening a vintage bottle of wine and not about to commit mass arson and murder. Marcus didn¡¯t hesitate. ¡°Do I want to? Are you shitting me?¡±He rolled his neck until it cracked, rage barely veiled beneath a chuckle.¡±I was forced to walk for days like a dog¡ªno food, no water, sleeping under roots and praying for rain. ¡°He snatched the torch Lucius held out, the firelight licking across his face like some kind of demon¡¯s blessing.¡±Ain¡¯t no one but me that gets to burn these rats. No one.¡± He turned on his heel, boots grinding into the packed earth, then with a grunt and a practiced throw, he hurled the torch across the space¡ªits fiery tail a comet arcing through the dark. It spun once in the air, then landed with a wet hiss in the largest puddle of oil, igniting it with a ravenous roar. Flames screamed to life, racing like starving beasts along the trail of oil, crawling up the walls, devouring tents, spreading toward the center of the camp. The light danced wildly, casting tall, lurching shadows like wraiths tearing through canvas and timber. Lucius, already turning to leave, glanced back. ¡°Perhaps,¡± he said, flicking his pipe out, ¡°we should go. Before we end up crisped like the rest.¡± Marcus stood a moment longer, jaw tight, flames reflected in his eyes like the gaze of a man watching justice take its course.¡±I¡¯d have loved to see one of those fuckers screaming with their skin melting off,¡± he muttered, almost wistfully. ¡°But I think I¡¯ll settle for seeing what¡¯s left of ¡¯em come morning.¡± Chapter 561: Last effort(6) Chapter 561: Last effort(6) On every side of the camp, the night rang with screams. The rebels, drunk on victory before the battle had truly begun, were now dying like flies in a lantern¡¯s flame. The trap had not simply been sprung¡ªit had been perfectly timed, and the carnage it birthed was almost surgical in its efficiency. At the left flank, Jarza¡¯s infantry had torn into them like a thunderclap. The rebels had been scrambling to get inside the camp, pushing and cursing at one another in the pitch-black as they vied to be first to loot the tents. They were out of formation when the silent march of disciplined boots struck them like a wall of iron. Javelins and arrow plunged through backs before men even knew which way to turn. Maces slammed into ribs, caving them in like broken baskets. They had no time to fight. No line. No command. No chance. On the right flank, Egil¡¯s horsemen came like wraiths born from the shadows, the rhythmic sound of hooves and wind-splitting javelins their only herald. Those rebels not already cut down by the first volley were too stunned to form up before lances and axe-heads reaped them like wheat. Their screams were short, gurgled, or never came at all. And then from the rear, the thundering arrival of Sir Mereth and his heavy cavalry. His knights, shimmering even in the faint flicker of torches, cut a golden arc through the night. Their arrival should have inspired awe. It brought only death. The camp, the shining prize they had dreamt of plundering, now burned behind them¡ªits walls slick with oil and flame¡ªand before them, at every approach, the prince¡¯s steel-clad executioners hacked their lines to ribbons. They were like flies in a bottle, and like flies, they dropped. They died in the dark, confused and terrified, most never seeing the men who killed them. What had begun as a scramble for loot had become a massacre, and now the looters became the loot¡ªcut down, crushed, and fed to the fire. What little formation they¡¯d ever had had vanished with the first blood.There was no flank to reinforce.No rear to retreat to.No command left to obey. Like a dog losing his owner during a walk. Only smoke, steel, and the sickening crunch of bones beneath boot and hoof. It had been minutes. Barely enough time to catch your breath after a charge. But for the rebels, that breath had turned into a final gasp. So fast and vicious was the ambush that their line¡ªif it could even be called that¡ªbroke like thin ice under a warhorse¡¯s hoof. Panic didn¡¯t spread. It exploded. Screams turned to sobs. Formations shattered like brittle bone. And the blackness of the night, once a veil they thought might protect them, now became a prison that hid every direction but doom. The enemy came from everywhere¡ªlike ghosts, like wolves from the treeline¡ªfalling upon them from the left, the right, and the back. So, with nowhere else to go¡ªsurrounded, slaughtered, and blind with terror¡ªmen did what desperate men always do: They ran. Not as an army. Not as anything resembling discipline. They moved like stampeding cattle, a blind surge of survival instinct overriding every scrap of training, brotherhood, and command. They trampled the wounded. They trampled each other. They smashed into armor and tents and corpses as though speed alone could save them. Over shouts. Over screams. Over the shrill, useless commands of officers who had lost not just their men¡ªbut their grip on the moment. Some tried slipping through the chaos, ducking low to avoid the arcs of blood-wet blades or crawling like beasts through and due . A few turned toward the woods, toward the dark, toward anywhere that wasn¡¯t here. They weren¡¯t cowards or deserters. They were survivors.The only kind of soldiering left to do was fleeing. Some made it. Lucky ghosts who would later tell stories .Most didn¡¯t. Some tripped and were crushed underfoot. Others screamed for surrender, hands raised high¡ªonly to catch a blade between the ribs before the word left their lips. There were no prisoners so early in the battle tonight. It was awful to be anywhere in there, yet the worst place to be... was the center. Crushed from both flanks, with the rear caved in and the front a wall of flame and oil and screaming horses, the men in the middle were trapped in a nightmare with no exit. Pinned between burning tents and slaughtering steel, they turned wide, blood-slicked eyes toward the only landmark that seemed to offer a shred of hope: The camp. They ran to it¡ªnot as conquerors now, but like beggars chasing a lie.The tents, once a symbol of spoils and victory, now stood crooked and burning. But men still rushed them, arms flailing, shrieking like drowning sailors chasing wreckage in a storm. They thought the camp meant protection. That walls meant safety. That if they could just reach the wine-soaked tables and silk-lined pavilions they had salivated over hours before, it would all make sense again.That someone would be in charge. That someone would know what to do. They were wrong. Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". ¡°Where the fuck do we run?!¡±The cry split the air, high and breaking¡ªa man with a broken helmet, face streaked in soot and blood that wasn¡¯t his own, his voice raw with panic. ¡°Which way?! Left? Right?!¡± ¡°I don¡¯t bloody know!¡± another shouted back, stumbling over a corpse still twitching. ¡°I don¡¯t¡ª¡± ¡°There!¡± someone screamed, pointing through the black haze at the shadowed gates of the camp. ¡°The tents! Get inside! Gods damn you, MOVE!¡± ¡°But it¡¯s burning¡ª!¡± ¡°Then BURN, I don¡¯t care! Just GO!¡± And so they did.Not in ranks. Not in lines. But in a crush of bodies and limbs and shrieking fear. The heart of the rebel force folded inward, like a dying lung, collapsing into its own center. They poured into the inferno as if the fire might cleanse the chaos behind them¡ªas if the tents might forgive them. They became a whirl of ash and screams and crushed bone, crawling, falling, clawing at the canvas walls of the same feast-hall dreams that had lured them here. Like rats into a sinking ship¡¯s hold. Like children into a house already burning. And all around them, the trap closed tighter. The fire, the steel, the night¡ªit all pressed inward. No gods watched them now.Only blades. ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¨C Lord Gregor sat tall on his saddle, his horse¡¯s flanks steaming with sweat and streaked with blood. Around him, the camp was a riot of shadows and screams¡ªbut it was the rear that held his gaze. The flames there were no longer just cooking-fires turned wild. They were walls of fire now, rising higher, stretching wider, devouring tents and men alike. He narrowed his eyes. We were winning, damn it! The enemy had been scattered, butchered like lambs. The camp had fallen. Victory had been tangible, something he could feel in his hands, taste in the sweat on his tongue. So why now¡ªwhy now¡ªwere men howling in panic, why were the flames swallowing half the damned field? He turned toward the entrance, where the rebel troops were swarming like panicked ants, jamming into the narrow gate they had forced open not long ago. They were pushing, screaming, clawing over one another to get out. Horses reared, men fell, trampled, crushed. The entrance that had been a prize was now a bottleneck of death. Gregor¡¯s jaw clenched. His knuckles went pale on the haft of his axe. The enemy had shattered like glass, scattered before their boots. The camp had fallen¡ªtheir prize, their banner, their moment. He could feel it even now, the weight of victory that had once pressed warm into his hands. He could still taste it on his tongue, in the salt of his sweat and the iron on his teeth. And yet... Why were they screaming? Why were the flames encircling, not fleeing? Why had victory turned to panic? He wrenched around in the saddle, eyes scanning the entrance¡ªthe one they¡¯d stormed not long ago with cheers in their throats and fire in their bellies. Now it was a choke point. A trap. The gate had become a mouth, and it was feeding on men. They surged toward it like ants doused in oil, climbing over one another, pushing, clawing, shrieking¡ªnot to attack, but to escape. Horses reared and crushed men under hooves. Shields were discarded. Weapons dropped. No ranks, no command, no order¡ªjust fear. Pure and blinding. Gregor¡¯s jaw clenched. His knuckles went white on the haft of his axe. ¡°It¡¯s always been a trap.¡± He didn¡¯t mean to say it aloud, but the words slipped from his lips like breath from a dying man. And once spoken, they echoed inside him like thunder. They hadn¡¯t stumbled into ambush.They had marched into it, heads high and blades drawn, thinking themselves hunters¡ªwhen all along, they were the prey. The flames were no accident. The chaos, no misstep. This was an oven, and they were the pigs. Slow-roasted in fire and steel. He should have admired it. He would have, had he not been standing in the middle of it. The strategy was brutal in its elegance. Wait until the rebels were packed tight, bellies full of false triumph, eyes full of spoils. Wait until they sang and laughed and threw discipline to the wind. Then slam the jaws shut. Cut off the rear. Seal the flanks. Burn the way back. And let them boil. A masterpiece He might have marveled at it¡ªat the precision, the patience.He might have laughed, even, had it not been his men who now screamed. ¡°How...¡± he growled, eyes wide as the gears turned. ¡°How the fuck did they know?Weren¡¯t they drunk? How could they possibly kn¡ª?¡± And then the thought struck him, hard. It wasn¡¯t like a revelation. It was like a fist to the gut. He slowly turned his head. Not toward the flames. Not toward the gate. But behind him¡ªtoward the man who stood a little apart from the fighting. Wounded. Quiet. Watching. Robert. The elder lord met his gaze, leaning slightly on his saddle as if he were simply waiting for the sun to rise. His face was blank. As if he had been counting down the seconds until they finally understood. Gregor¡¯s breath caught in his throat. ¡°You...¡± he whispered, eyes wide with fury, his grip tightening on his axe. Robert didn¡¯t flinch. Didn¡¯t speak. Just tilted his head, like someone listening to a story they¡¯d already heard a thousand times. Gregor¡¯s lips curled back into a snarl. Now he knew. The trap hadn¡¯t been sprung. It had been invited. ¡°You traitorous cur,¡± Gregor growled, voice trembling with fury. ¡°How could you do this? How could you¡ª¡± He jabbed a thick, trembling finger at him, spittle flying from his mouth. ¡°Three times,¡± he roared. ¡°Three fucking times you betrayed ! And now what¡ªwhat do you think happens to you now? You think you slither your way out of this one too?¡± Robert stood still, hands loose at his sides. His lips curled into something like a weary smile, and for a moment he looked ancient. In reality he was just tired of it all. ¡°I imagine...¡± he said softly, ¡°I¡¯ll be remembered as Robert the Traitor. Seems fair enough, doesn¡¯t it?¡± He turned his head slightly, watching the chaos at the gates as if it were just another battlefield he¡¯d long grown tired of. ¡°So what now, Lord Gregor?I suppose I will not get out alive from this....¡± Gregor looked down at his axe. Looked back at Robert. Then the subtle crunch of hooves drew attention¡ªGregor¡¯s guards closing in, steel drawn, eyes grim. Robert didn¡¯t raise his hands. He didn¡¯t plead. He didn¡¯t run. This was where he would die, spat upon like a traitor. When Gregor¡¯s axe came down, Robert moved, deflecting the blow with a surprising speed, the blade screeching as it skidded off a steel bracer. But before he could turn the steed and make a response ¡ªCRACK¡ª a mace slammed into his back and down from the horse he went like a tree felled by an axe . He hit the dirt hard, coughing blood, one hand twitching. Gregor didn¡¯t wait. He dismounted with a snarl, the heavy thud of his boots lost in the roar of the burning camp. With both hands he raised his axe and brought it down, screaming. ¡°FUCKING! TRAITOR!¡± The blade sunk into Robert¡¯s shoulder, cleaving flesh from bone. Again. ¡°YOU¡ª¡± His forearm came off next, hacked away at the elbow, ragged and twitching in the dirt. ¡°¡ªSNAKE!¡± The next blow cracked ribs. Another mangled the leg, the crunch of knee and femur loud even over the screams outside. In all of it Robert was still alive, breathing and screaming from the pain. Gregor¡¯s face was a contorted mask of hate, his arms slick with blood, gore spattering across his face like war paint as he hit, hit and hit. By the time Gregor finished, Robert was scarcely more than a butchered husk¡ªa mass of torn limbs and pulverized bone. His limbs, o were now no more than meat¡ªhis torso heaving no more, his head twisted at an unnatural angle, jaw slack, eyes wide but empty. There had been no final words. No heroic last thought. No curse, no confession. Death had claimed him mid-breath, before he could even understand he was dying. It was not noble. It was not tragic. It was final. The angered lord stood over the ruin of the man, chest still rising and falling like a bellows, blood dripping from his axe. He gave the pieces one last look¡ªnot of pity, nor remorse, but of sheer, seething contempt. Then he turned, gripped the pommel of his saddle, and hauled himself back onto his warhorse with the ease of a man born for war. ¡°We¡¯re retreating,¡± he snarled, not looking back. ¡°Form up.¡± One of his guards, his face smeared with soot and ash, turned toward the gate and then back again. ¡°My lord... the gate. It¡¯s blocked. Jammed with men.¡± Gregor¡¯s eyes flashed behind the slits of his helmet. ¡°Is your weapon made of wood?¡± The guard blinked. Gregor pointed his gore-drenched axe toward the gate, where chaos still reigned¡ªpanicked rebels pressed shoulder to shoulder ¡°Clear it,¡± he barked, voice as cold as steel. ¡°Cut them down¡ªevery last one.¡± His guards, clearly aknowledging the state of their lord did not even try to raise issue with the order , swords drawn and visors down, they spurred their mounts ahead. Hooves clattered over broken bodies and upended tents as they charged into the jam at the gate. Gregor followed, axe swinging in wide arcs. He cleaved ribs like ripe gourds, bones shattered under the weight of his blows. And at the edge of the swift¨Cmoving tide, in a patch of scorched earth where the fire had not yet claimed it, lay the gutted husk of Robert. Torn limbs fanned out like a grotesque starburst, his shattered torso half-swallowed by embers, and the dark sky overhead bore silent witness. Strands of matted hair curled with smoke, and every stolen breath of wind sent a swirl of ash dancing over the shattered remnants of a man whose last betrayal, despite not of his choice, had cost him everything. By dawn, his remains would be nothing more than cinders mixed with bone dust, swallowed at last by the inferno he had helped unleash. Tonight, mercy died. The last casualty of a war that was finally over. Chapter 562: Last effort(7) Chapter 562: Last effort(7) Elyos staggered through the broken remains of the rebel center, his hands still gripping the wooden effigies of the gods so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His robes, once pristine symbols of purity and devotion, now clung to him with grime, ash, and the stench of burning flesh. Around him, the world collapsed. Smoke coiled upward like snakes into the night sky, swallowing the stars and smothering the moon. Fire licked the edges of tents and wooden palisades, climbing higher, spreading in hungry waves. The screams that had once come from the outer edges were now here¡ªtoo close¡ªlayered and endless, a choir of death. The men he had led in prayer, who had believed in him¡ªwho had whispered oaths of purpose around the campfires when bread was scarce and the cold crept into their bones¡ªwere being butchered. One by one. Each death was a nail in the coffin of the faith he had spent two years building. He saw Calen go down first, a man whose knees had trembled the first time they were ordered to raise a sword¡ªbut who had done it anyway. A axe sheared through his collarbone, and he fell like a puppet whose strings were cut, his eyes still wide in disbelief as if asking Elyos why. He saw Beras, trying to drag a younger boy away before a lance drove straight through both of them. The boy didn¡¯t even scream. Beras did. A strangled, horrified sound. He died last. And others¡ªfaces he¡¯d grown to know like family¡ªdisappeared beneath the steel tide. Elyos¡¯s knees gave way, and he fell, the effigies pressed against his chest like a child clinging to a mother¡¯s embrace. His breath came in short, broken sobs. ¡°No, no... not like this... not like this,¡± he murmured, rocking slightly. ¡°This was supposed to be their holy day¡± His mind refused to focus. Not on the death. Not on the chaos. Not even on the betrayal. But the truth clawed its way in anyway¡ªRobert. Robert, the man whom he had saved from the abyss just months ago. Robert, the man he had seen, shed the skin of his old self and rise again with purpose. His work. His greatest proof that even the blackest soul could be redeemed by divine light. A lie. A mask. That betrayal broke something deeper than a loss in battle. The gods had taken his hopes, crushed them in front of him, and now he cried while his flock was torn apart. The royal soldiers were closing in. They did not look like men. No, in the firelight and smoke, they were beasts. Demons. Cloaked in blood and shadow, eyes gleaming with a hunger not born of survival, but of sport. ¡°Fuck off rebels!¡± one bellowed, swinging a spiked mace that left bone dust in its wake. His laughter was manic. ¡°I bet you lot were promised glory,¡± another shouted, dragging a screaming man by the leg toward himself before jumping upon him like a hound on a carcass. The royal voices echoed around Elyos¡ªmocking, howling, alive. While his men¡ªhis sons¡ªwere dying for a dream now unraveling like so much mist under sunlight. He did not know how much time had passed when Sir Joshen found him kneeling in the dirt, the firelight reflecting off the brass icons still clutched in Elyos¡¯s trembling hands. The knight¡¯s armor was scratched, dented, painted in streaks of blood¡ªsome of it not his own. His sword hung low in his hand, dragging slightly as he walked, a limp beginning to show in his stride. He stopped a few paces from the priest , as he held his horse by the rain and knelt on one knee, out of respect more than exhaustion. His voice, when it came, was a low rumble, heavy with things unsaid. ¡°It¡¯s done,¡± Joshen said plainly, without flinching. ¡°We¡¯ve lost, Father. To all who still draw breath, it¡¯s clear. The camp is fire and slaughter, and the gods have not come to deliver us.¡± He paused, eyes flicking to a heap of still-smoking bodies. ¡°They¡¯ve only come to witness the end.¡± Elyos didn¡¯t speak. He couldn¡¯t. The silence wrapped around him like a shroud. Joshen continued. ¡°There are holes¡ªsmall gaps in their lines. If you leave now, with a fast horse, you¡¯ll reach the treeline before they regroup. But you must move soon. Reinforcements may come, and if they do... the net will close.¡± Still no answer. The priest¡¯s grip tightened on the effigies until his knuckles turned white. Joshen exhaled hard. ¡°I will stay behind with the others and buy what time we can. We can die with swords in hand. Let that be our last offering to the Gods.¡± The knight rose again, stiffly, and turned to go¡ªbut paused. ¡°You must survive, Father. At least you.You will not die a clean death if they catch you¡± Elyos stared into the dark, his eyes unfocused, the weight of Joshen¡¯s words pressing like a hand against his chest. Escape, the word repeated in his skull, over and over like a cruel joke. Escape. Escape. Escape. Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". Run. Flee. Live. What was there to escape to? What meaning did survival hold when the very thing that had given his life meaning¡ªhis cause, his flock, his sacred rebellion¡ªwas collapsing in fire and blood around him? How could he justify riding into the night while the men who had followed him for years were carved apart like swine? He had called them sons. He had wept over their pain, bled with them, shared bread, prayer, and dreams of a better world. And now they were dying. Screaming. Begging. Could he abandon them? Was there still meaning in escape? The effigies felt heavier now. Not with divine power¡ªbut with guilt. Could he survive if all he brought with him was ruin? Around him, the world wailed¡ªsteel clashed, voices shrieked, horses screamed as they fell beneath blades. The ground trembled with the weight of dying dreams. And in that agony, he whispered words from the Book of the Warrior God, his voice low but steady, each syllable pressed with conviction not entirely his own: ¡°Let he who dies with the name of the gods upon his lips not tremble,For the gates of heaven will swing wide to the brave.Woe unto the man whose feet flee before his heart,Who runs not to live, but out of fear alone¡ªFor his steps shall echo forever in the halls of shame and fire shall strip the flesh from his bones.¡± He closed his eyes. How strange, he thought, how funny, in that bitter, cosmic sort of way, that now¡ªof all gods¡ªit would be the Brave One¡¯s voice in his soul. Not She of the Gentle Hands, the goddess of mercy and peace, the one whose warmth he had always turned to in moments of doubt. The goddess he had prayed most He opened his eyes, raising the effigy high above his head until it shimmered in the firelight like a final beacon. ¡°This field,¡± Elyos shouted hoarsely, his voice breaking with pain and faith, hoping that as many as his followers could hear it ¡°this altar of blood and hope¡ªlet it be known to the heavens that all who die upon it shall be received, every last soul! Their names sung, not forgotten!¡± He turned to the fleeing shadows, to the men still alive. ¡°But if I run¡ªif I run¡ªthen I make small their sacrifice. Then I stain it with cowardice.¡± He looked down at his own bloodied robes, then to the sky choked in smoke. ¡°No. I shall not flee. I will walk with them, these sons of mine, down the road of martyrdom.¡± Joshen reappeared, dirt and blood smeared across his face, his eyes saddened by the fervor that took hold of the priest. ¡°Father,¡± he began, ¡°you still have time. You still¡ª¡± Elyos held up a hand. ¡°Don¡¯t tempt me, Joshen. Not you. I thank you¡ªfor your strength, your loyalty, your wisdom. But if you love me, do not ask me to shame myself.¡± Joshen¡¯s lips trembled, caught between protest and sorrow. His eyes burned with everything he could not say. Then he nodded, solemnly. ¡°Then let the gods see the truth of our hearts.¡± He looked at his blade, kissed its bloodied hilt, and whispered, ¡°Let them bear witness to their truest servants.¡± And without another word, he mounted and turned his horse toward the fray. Elyos watched him go. Watched the knight, proud and bold, lower his blade and charge into the hell of steel and flame. Into death. And as the sound of battle devoured Joshen¡¯s form, Elyos stood still, the effigy raised like a torch against despair. They were all going to die tonight. But some deaths were heavier with meaning than a lifetime lived in retreat. ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª Alpheo sat like a statue carved by vanity and victory, perched atop his horse, his cloak fluttering gently behind him in the wind like a banner of effortless triumph. His eyes swept over the battlefield below with the smugness of a wolf after the slaughter. The torch-lit trails of routing soldiers twisted through the dark fields like frantic veins spilling from a wounded beast, and he followed them with the idle curiosity of a man watching ants flee from a kicked anthill. ¡°Look at them,¡± he said, voice velvet with amusement. ¡°Running like they¡¯ve seen the gods themselves rise from the dirt to gut them.¡± Beside him, Asag shifted with a wince, the bandage around his ribs hidden beneath his armor, though the stiffness of his frame betrayed the pain. He hadn¡¯t drawn sword tonight¡ªneither had his men, stationed firmly as the rear guard by Alpheo¡¯s orders. He had watched, listened, and now, with the battle fading into screams and smoke, he leaned in slightly. ¡°You want us to send the rear in?¡± Asag asked, gesturing vaguely toward the fields below. ¡°We could rake through the stragglers. ¡± Alpheo scoffed and made a dramatic swoosh of his hand through the air, as if brushing away a speck of dust on his lapel. ¡°Bah. What¡¯s left out there isn¡¯t an army¡ªit¡¯s shadows and regrets. Mopping them up would be a waste of time . Let them crawl home, broken and bleeding and may the sing songs of how we shattered them.¡± Asag gave a half-chuckle, eyeing the man he followed. ¡°You do love your dramatics.¡± ¡°It¡¯s part of the charm,I suppose¡± Alpheo grinned. But then the wounded lord having noticed light coming from their right, pointed across the rightmost ridge, ¡°There. Do you See them? There¡¯s movement.¡± Alpheo narrowed his eyes, then gave a single, approving nod. ¡°Torghun is here already. Good. Of course he is. Always one step ahead, that one.¡± He paused, looking leftward, the expression twisting into faint irritation. ¡°Left camp¡¯s taking their sweet time though. Probably tripping in the dark...¡± ¡°Think they¡¯ll miss the fun?¡± ¡°There¡¯s barely any fun left,¡± Alpheo smirked, relaxing back into his saddle. ¡°Torghun and his tribesmen will tear apart whatever scraps are left to chase. Honestly, after tonight, we¡¯ll need to think about what to do with all the silence.¡± He gestured to the open plain again, the flames of the battlefield casting monstrous shadows over the dead. ¡°I suppose a new order should be brought to the north, given the great void of power that this night will make.¡± Asag made a low hum of agreement. ¡°You sound disappointed.¡± Alpheo smirked sideways at him, cocking a brow. ¡°Victory always leaves me a little melancholy. Like finishing a good bottle of wine¡ªyou¡¯re pleased, yes, but suddenly you¡¯re also terribly aware it¡¯s over, all you have is your hang-over.¡± Asag let out a short, dry laugh and shook his head, the motion tight from the pain in his side. ¡°Only you could find melancholy in a flawless victory,¡± he said, voice low and amused. ¡°Anyone else would be halfway to drunk with glory by now.¡± Alpheo smirked, eyes still dancing over the torchlit chaos below. A comfortable silence passed between them before Asag tilted his head and asked, ¡°By the way what do you make of the Voghondai? Your opinion, I mean. You¡¯ve used them quite a lot if what Jarza told me after Aracina was correct ¡± Alpheo clicked his tongue thoughtfully. ¡°They¡¯re good. Good in the right hands, at least. Fast on their feet, deadly with a javelin, and gods, do they know how to set a proper ambush. I¡¯d wager there¡¯s no better hunter in these lands than them¡± He turned toward Asag with a small, satisfied grin. ¡°Besides, giving them grain and land in exchange for service is quite the small pay considering what we gained¡± He looked out again at the far-off torches where Torghun¡¯s men moved like stalking panthers. ¡°Torghun in particular¡¯s earned his reward. That gate at Aracina... Egil told me they opened it fast, clean, no fumbling. They broke through like thunder. The job was done before he had even arrived.¡± Asag chuckled, rubbing his chin. ¡°I wonder if Egil likes them just because they¡¯re as ferocious as he is.¡± Alpheo shrugged, a slow, easy roll of the shoulders. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t be a bad reason. We might need that kind of savagery sooner than we¡¯d like. War¡¯s not done with us, and I¡¯d rather have wolves on my leash than sheep in my camp.¡± He paused again, thoughtful, then added, ¡°We¡¯ll keep the eastern continent close. Keep it a pool for strength. Six hundred of our warriors today were Voghondai auxiliaries, and they didn¡¯t break. They fought like they were born for this blood-soaked soil. That¡¯s something I can work with.¡± He flashed a crooked grin. ¡°And I do like having pieces on the board that don¡¯t crack when the game gets cruel.¡± Chapter 563: The beauty of money Chapter 563: The beauty of money The morning sun rose like a triumphant banner over the blackened plains, casting long golden rays over a field choked with the dead. Smoke drifted lazily into the pale sky from the gutted skeleton of the rebel camp, its charred timbers jutting up like accusing fingers toward the heavens. Alpheo¡¯s men moved through the battlefield like ants over a fallen feast. Bodies lay in every direction: some contorted in the last spasms of death, others peacefully still, their expressions strangely calm as if dreaming of better ends. Soldiers stepped around them with practiced disinterest, eyes scanning for glints of metal, buckles, clasps¡ªanything valuable. Steel boot tips nudged open stiff fingers. Gloved hands patted tunics and jerkins, probing for hidden purses or tucked-away medallions. Now and then, a body was rolled over with a grunt and a squelch, the ground still damp from spilled blood and churned earth. ¡°You find anything good?¡± one soldier muttered, crouching over a rebel ¡°Nah,¡± grunted the other, tossing aside a half-cracked helmet. ¡°Just piss and prayers on this one. Poor bastard still had a charm of the Mercy-bringer in his shirt.¡± He held it up¡ªa iron brooch chipped and rusted. ¡°Didn¡¯t help him much, did it?¡± A third soldier, limping slightly, huffed and bent beside them. ¡°Ugh. My arm¡¯s killing me.¡± ¡°You get clipped?¡± asked the first, half-turning with interest. ¡°Yeah, mace to the shoulder. Didn¡¯t even see the prick coming¡ªjust wham! out of nowhere like I owed him money.¡± ¡°You do owe to lots of people .¡± ¡°Not to these dead fuckers!¡± The other laughed. ¡°You get it checked?¡± ¡°Yeah, went to the medical tent after the fighting. Said it¡¯s just a bruise, no crack. Hurts like hell, though. Think he enjoyed poking it.¡± There was an easy rhythm in their movements, a strange mixture of irreverence and grim habit. They searched pouches, pulled off boots, and even occasionally muttered half-heart apologies when they dislodged a particularly mutilated limb. ¡°Hey, you reckon this one¡¯s got a good belt?¡± one said, tugging at a wide leather strap. ¡°Mine snapped a long time ago¡± ¡°Looks better than yours ever was.¡± The banter continued, light and casual, as if they were rifling through haystacks and not fallen men with families or dreams. Every so often, a clerk passed through with some servants pulling a cart behind, where the soldiers threw anything of value they had taken , while the clerks reported what was being thrown in. A report that would later on be compared with that done back at the camp , to make sure there wasn¡¯t anyone handy in the camp. The system was a well-oiled engine, and within it, the soldiers moved with the calm of men who knew the battle was over¡ªand the only thing left was to make sure they got what they¡¯d earned. Even if that meant pulling it from a dead man¡¯s sock. Looting was a business, and like all business in the White Army, it was done with order. There was no need to rush or trample over one another in a frenzied grab. After all, whether you were the first or last to stick your blade in some rebel¡¯s purse, all of it went to the same pile. Coins, rings, brooches, anything worth weighing¡ªit was all pooled together and then carefully redistributed according to the regulations of the army¡¯s quartermasters. That strange blend of military socialism and rigid bureaucracy that made the White Army terrifying not just in war, but in how it functioned afterward. Not that the temptation of filling one pocked didn¡¯t exist. Yet few dared try. The clever little system of ¡°soldier-savings¡± had a way of sucking the thrill out of petty theft. Every man in the army had a ledger, a personal account maintained by clerks who were somehow even more humorless than the army priests. Coins from salary, loot, bonuses¡ªeverything was entered, logged, and could be requested for withdrawal at any time , given that the soldier had their head-squad signature. So, if a man had a few coins in his pocket that weren¡¯t supposed to be there after the body search following the battle? Well, either he was very stupid... or were about to pay a lot out of their own pockets There were always checks. Always the ¡°quick frisk¡± before redistribution. If they found you with silver you hadn¡¯t declared, you might as well have stabbed the general himself. There were no secrets in an army where every copper piece had a paper trail, and every officer remembered exactly how much you had in you. As for the rest¡ªarmor, weaponry, saddles, supplies, ¡ªthose were too bulky to smuggle unless you planned on hiding them in your breeches. The sheer inconvenience of theft meant that cases of smuggling were vanishingly rare. Not worth the risk. Not when you¡¯d get your share anyway , weighed fair and square, and when you had a prince who was known for his generosity over his soldiers and especially hated being scammed. Of course, this meticulous system of coin tracking and ledgers wasn¡¯t for everyone¡ªit was a privilege, or rather a burden, of the Black Stripes alone. For the rest of the army,composed of the other lords¡¯ soldiers, however, things were far simpler and much less forgiving. No ledgers, no personal accounts. Just a swift, impersonal inspection. Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". After every battle, bodychecks were mandatory. Soldiers lined up in dusty rows, arms raised, pouches opened, boots removed. The quartermaster assistants¡ªoften younger boys or injured veterans¡ªmoved through them like wolves sniffing out a kill, fingers quick and ruthless. If something was found¡ªa few silver coins tucked into a sleeve, a gem-studded brooch slipped behind a belt buckle¡ªit was immediately seized. No explanations were accepted. Whether the loot had been found during the chaos or had been in the soldier¡¯s possession since the day before didn¡¯t matter. The rules had been stated before the battle, loudly and clearly, and any violation came with a penalty: a fine cut directly from their share of the spoils once all was tallied. And of course, accompanying the looting were also those tasked with another much less entertaining job. ¡°Still breathing, were ya?¡± A soldier muttered, yanking the blade free from a corpse and giving it a flick. ¡°Not for long.¡± ¡°Mercy¡¯s cheap this morning,¡± said his companion, younger and with barely a scrape on him. He watched another soldier casually end a crawling rebel by piercing his back.. The older one gave a huff. ¡°Mercy¡¯s for priests. We¡¯re just here to clean up the mess.¡± They walked on, weaving between corpses and shattered shields. ¡°You know,¡± the younger said, giving a spear haft a lazy spin as he walked, ¡°I thought this war¡¯d be worse. I mean¡ª¡¯outnumbered three to one,¡¯ the old fuck had said up when we ambushed those bastards. Thought we¡¯d be bleeding from our eyes. But what did we get? Two battles. And both ended quicker than a whore¡¯s promise.¡± He was promptly rewarded with a swift kick to the shin. ¡°Oi! What the hell, Ardon?¡± Ardon narrowed his eyes. ¡°Are you complaining about easy loot and no scars, Merek? Really?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not complaining!¡± Merek yelped, hopping a step. ¡°Just saying¡ªit was easier than expected.¡± Ardon snorted. ¡± You think this happened by accident? It¡¯s all thanks to our prince who thinks three moves ahead while we¡¯re still pulling up our breeches.¡± Merek nodded, rubbing his shin. ¡°Yeah, yeah. Prince Alpheo the Magnificent and all that.¡± ¡°Damn right,¡± Ardon said.¡± I am finally going to retirement a rich and alive, ain¡¯t going to be enough words to express my gratitude for that madman.¡± The pair moved on, dispatching the last of the wounded with practised boredom. All around them, others were doing the same¡ªfinishing off survivors, looting, dragging the worst of the mess into heaps for the burial crews to deal with. And somewhere, in the calm heart of it all, the man that had made all of this possible , was fast asleep while everybody else was at work. Snoring in a silken bed, one arm likely draped lazily behind his head, dreams full of glory he¡¯d already won. ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¨C A few hours had passed since the battle that ended the war, and while there were some still busy with their task, their prince, was instead standing over a copper basin, splashing cold water on his face and blinking away the crust of sleep. He cupped his hands, brought another gulp to his mouth, swished it , and leaned forward to spit it out into the dirt . A voice came muffled from beyond the flap. ¡°May I enter?¡± Alpheo rolled his eyes mid-spit, finishing with a wet ptch! onto the ground. ¡°Do you still really have to ask?¡± The flap rustled, and in stepped Jarza, dressed in his usual understated dusty cloak, which he kept even though he now had the embaressement of the choice. ¡°It¡¯s a matter of courtesy,¡± Jarza replied, stepping inside. ¡°When entering someone else¡¯s room¡ªor tent, in this case¡ªone asks permission.¡± Alpheo waved the basin water at him as if it were proof. ¡°We spent four years in a cell the size of a cupboard. You¡¯ve seen everything I could¡¯ve shown willingly¡ªor unwillingly. What¡¯s the point of modesty now?¡± Jarza gave a noncommittal shrug before resuming his business-mode ¡°We¡¯ve rounded up the prisoners,¡± he reported, matter-of-fact. ¡°A few minor lords¡ªbanner-holding bottom-feeders mostly. But the real catch...¡± He let the words stretch as if he were seasoning them. ¡°were Lord Gregor and the priest.¡± That, at least, woke Alpheo up more than the water had. He straightened, grinning with that smug, sideways tilt of his lips that usually preceded someone else¡¯s misfortune. ¡°Well,¡± Alpheo said, drying his hands on his tunic. ¡°We¡¯ve not only caught the loudest dogs but the priest too? ¡± Alpheo¡¯s grin widened, eyes gleaming. ¡°Then we¡¯ve got our beautiful book, with the list of traitors. names and of course testimonies of which temples aided them and all we have to do is convince the book to open itself. It¡¯s amazing what someone can get out of a priest when they are the one on the other side of the stake.¡± Alpheo reached for a goblet, only to stop halfway with a smirk curling at his lips. ¡°You know, none of this,¡± he gestured to the buzzing tent, and the distant clatter of metal on bodies and camp spoils, ¡°would¡¯ve been possible without dear Robert.¡± He let the words hang in the air like cigar smoke. ¡°Perhaps I¡¯ll reward him with a nice mansion... somewhere quiet, with that little daughter , girl , lover of whatever she is to keep him company in his retirement.¡± But as he lifted the jug of wine to pour himself a drink, he caught something¡ªa flicker in Jarza¡¯s eyes, like the tail-end of a wince. Not sharp, but not subtle either. Alpheo paused, jug hovering. ¡°Haven¡¯t seen you like that in a long time. Is there something I should know?¡± Jarza¡¯s mouth tightened before he answered, tone cool and level, ¡°Robert is dead.¡± Alpheo blinked once, slowly, before setting the jug down with a thoughtful tap against the rim of the goblet. ¡°Oh.¡± He leaned back in his chair, then gave a little sigh as if someone had ruined a well-written ending. ¡°Then I suppose he¡¯s deserving of a state funeral. Have Agalosios clean the body¡ªdress it up a bit.¡± Again, the twitch. Barely perceptible, but there. Alpheo narrowed his gaze. ¡°What is it?¡± Jarza hesitated. Then, with the dry frankness of a man who¡¯d grown too old to pad grim truths:¡±I think it¡¯ll be difficult for anyone to make Robert presentable. They¡¯d need a shovel just to gather what¡¯s left of him.¡± Silence. Alpheo stared. A long, long look. Then, slowly, with a breath that turned into a quiet laugh, he stood. He took the wine jug again and poured¡ªone cup, then the other¡ªand handed one to Jarza. ¡°Well then,¡± he said, voice smooth like wine itself. ¡°To Lord Robert. A toast is something that he at least deserves.¡± He lifted his cup high, the surface of the wine catching the light like a pool of blood. ¡°He may have died in pieces, but let us drink to him whole. He may have been a traitor to his kin, but he was a midwife to our triumph. To Robert and our long story with him.¡± And together, they drained their cups, the taste bitter and sweet, like that of a bad page of a book that they had no choice but to read. Chapter 564: Holder of the star(1) Chapter 564: Holder of the star(1) Alpheo and Jarza walked through the royal camp beneath the rising morning sun, its warm light gilding the canvas tents and casting long shadows across the soft churned dirt. The scent of ash still lingered faintly in the air, but it was overpowered now by the aromas of roasting meat, spiced wine, and the sweat of contented men basking in victory. The camp was alive with a rare energy¡ªa heavy, radiant sort of joy that came not from celebration alone, but from relief, from survival, and from the knowledge that the war was, for all intents and purposes, over. Men moved with a spring in their step, voices light with laughter, and smiles played easily across faces that only days before had been hardened by fatigue. Morale soared as high as the birds circling lazily overhead, coasting with the same effortless grace that the soldiers now moved with through the camp. Soldiers straightened as Alpheo passed, some nodding with deep respect, others giving brief salutes, their eyes gleaming not only with admiration, but satisfaction. Some of them were wounded , arms bandaged, many faces bruised or marked by soot, yet they looked utterly victorious¡ªmen who had passed through hell only to find the gates of paradise ajar on the other side. They had fought hard, and now they would be paid well for it. Anticipation rippled through the camp like a warm breeze. Coin and plunder awaited, the spoils of a clean, decisive victory. For many, especially within the ranks of the Black Stripes, this would mark the end of their campaign¡ªretirement awaited, and with it, rest, land, and the quiet pride of having served well. As the prince and his right hand moved , they witnessed knots of resting warriors, men lounged against logs, dice rattling on boards, cups raised in unison, some singing old songs too poorly to recognize, others humming softly to themselves. Three days of rest had been declared, and it showed in the rhythm of the camp. No one moved in haste¡ªwhat was the rush now? The enemy was shattered. The fires of battle were extinguished. Now there was only loot to be divided, wounds to be treated, tales to be told. They made their way toward the reinforced center of the camp, where a cluster of canvas pavilions and guarded carts held not coin or supply, but something far rarer: prisoners of note. And one in particular whom Alpheo was interested in meeting again. Jarza¡¯s voice broke the comfortable silence, low and deliberate. ¡°There¡¯s talk in the ranks,¡± he said, eyes forward. ¡°A great many believe quartering would be too kind an end for the priest. They want to see him pulled apart slowly, limb by blessed limb. They are really angry over who started this war.¡± Alpheo said nothing at first. His jaw moved faintly, as if tasting the words. He didn¡¯t respond with jest, or disdain, just let the statement simmer in the air between them. Perhaps he¡¯d overestimated the soldiers¡¯ fear of divine wrath. He had imagined the black robes and golden glyphs would afford the priest a veil of dread, if not respect. But instead, it seemed the holy man¡¯s betrayal had cut so deep in his men that even the gods themselves might be deemed complicit. Eventually, Alpheo exhaled slowly and spoke, voice steady. ¡°Unfortunately,¡± he said, ¡°this isn¡¯t our decision. No matter how foul his deeds, no matter how thick the stench of hypocrisy¡ªhe remains a priest. And priests, for better or worse, live under a different set of laws.¡± Jarza scoffed. ¡°Then perhaps they shouldn¡¯t lead armies.¡± ¡°Nor cause wars,¡± Alpheo added smoothly, glancing over with a shadow of a smirk. ¡°Don¡¯t mistake me, Jarza. He will pay. He¡¯ll meet his end. But the manner of it? That lies elsewhere.¡± He reached up and swept back a loose strand of hair ¡°This war of ours... it stopped being just our war the moment foreign lords raised their banners in defiance and crossed our borders. It stopped being local the moment priests threw in their gold, their men, and their damned blessings.¡± They passed a row of tethered horses, their heads low and steaming gently. Alpheo continued, ¡°Now? Now the whole thing¡¯s a spectacle. A parable in the making.¡± Alpheo stopped just short of the prisoner¡¯s tent, the thick canvas wall flapping gently in the breeze like the last veil before judgment. He turned to Jarza, his expression composed but laced with that glint of cunning that always danced in his eyes when politics, not swords, took the lead. ¡°I¡¯ve just danced my way out of a condemnation,¡± he said with a low scoff, as if the very memory of that narrow escape tasted bitter on his tongue. ¡°Just managed to keep the right to harbor tribes that pray to other gods and burn incense in directions that make the Pontifex twitch.¡± He gestured with one hand, vague but expressive, as if he were clearing smoke from the air. ¡°There is absolutely no chance I¡¯ll give that wrinkled old fat fuck in the capital even the faintest excuse to snare me. We have got the best win out of the worst hand of the game, and there is no way I am going to bet it over for the satisfaction of a few men.¡± Jarza raised a brow but said nothing, letting the prince speak himself clean. ¡°So,¡± Alpheo continued, walking again, his voice lilting like a man weaving through a dance of daggers, ¡°my hands? Publicly washed of the affair. I¡¯ll let the Circle of Priests convene and pass judgment. ¡± He made a mock-blessing gesture with two hands ¡°The delegation that fat fuck will sends, will witness a tribunal so just, so pious, so by-the-letter of the heavenly edicts, they¡¯ll write songs about it ¡± He leaned in toward Jarza now, dropping his voice just enough to let the mischief in it simmer. ¡°And of course... behind closed doors, in discreet whispers with the right ears, the verdict will be handed down long before the gavel strikes. I am no betting man, but I don¡¯t mind keeping cards under the table¡± Jarza¡¯s lip curled faintly. ¡°And the verdict?¡± Alpheo spread his hands like a man offering the inevitable. ¡°Death, naturally. By rope, by blade, by holy fire that depend on our prisoner alone. We have a pile of evidence so high it could cast a shadow on the sun. ¡± ¡°How do you plan to get the names of the temples that backed him?¡± Jarza then asked, his brow furrowed just slightly. ¡°I assume torturing a priest before a tribunal of his peers wouldn¡¯t exactly cast us in the best light. Wouldn¡¯t be a good look, even by our generous standards.¡± Alpheo, who had been adjusting the chained glove on his right hand, paused mid-tug. His fingers flexed once, then dropped to his side. He turned slowly, a half-smile playing on his lips¡ªnot the amused kind, but the kind that knew the game two moves ahead. ¡°No,¡± he said with a soft exhale. ¡°No, it would not. We can¡¯t bloody his face before he steps into the holy court. The show must remain clean.¡± He took a few steps forward, speaking more to himself now, though his words were meant for Jarza. ¡°Which is why I¡¯ll be paying our friend a little visit before the tribunal convenes. ¡± He looked up, eyes sharp now, glinting like glass catching sunrise. Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". ¡°I have ways. And I have promises to make. I don¡¯t need his suffering. I just need the list. The temples, the abbots. I want their names. Every last one of them.¡± As he said so Alpheo finally stepped into the tent . The flaps behind him rustled as the light filtered through, soft and golden from the late morning sun. The man who had sparked this great fire of a war, who bewitched men with sermons sharper than swords, and led them into dreams now turned to ash. But now¡ªhe was just a figure slouched in chains, slathered in filth. His once-pristine robes were little more than rags soaked in sweat and clotted blood. Dirt painted his cheeks and neck in thick strokes, and there were bruises blooming like old violets along his jaw and temple. His hands were bound in front of him, limp and idle, but his head was raised¡ªbarely. His eyes, however, lifted. They met Alpheo¡¯s. No rage. No spit. No fire. No hissed prayers or broken-voiced condemnations. Just... silence. A hollow, heavy silence, like that of a church long since emptied of both flock and faith. Alpheo stared at him for a long moment, studying the man who once stirred thousands, who¡¯d sent nobles into rebellion and dragged peasants into death marches. Now, he sat there with the quiet of a beaten dog. There wasn¡¯t even fear¡ªjust resignation. Half-broken, Alpheo thought. They left me a man already halfway through the gates. The prince moved with the grace of someone who didn¡¯t need to rush, whose power filled the room whether he was speaking or not. Two guards followed from outside, brisk and efficient, placing down a simple wooden stool across from the prisoner. It creaked as it hit the floor, sending up a puff of dust. Alpheo didn¡¯t sit right away. He simply looked at Elyos, brushing back a stray hair that had drifted across his brow from the tent¡¯s breeze. ¡°Well,¡± he said, his voice mild, even warm, like a host welcoming a weary traveler. ¡°It seems we finally meet without swords or sermons between us.¡± Then he sat, while leaning forward, elbows on his knees, the edge of a smirk curling at his lips like a cat toying with a half-dead mouse. ¡°Must be said,¡± he said, voice smooth as polished wine glass, ¡°you truly know how to make an impression. I mean, it¡¯s not every day a priest raises war against a prince. ¡± He chuckled lightly, the kind of laugh that never quite reached the eyes. ¡°One way or another, Elyos, your name will end up in the pages of history. Of course... it won¡¯t be in the chapter you were hoping for.¡± Elyos raised his head again, slower this time, weariness clinging to the motion like rust. ¡°Is it habit?¡± he asked, voice dry and cracked like old parchment. Alpheo¡¯s brow arched. ¡°Habit?¡± The priest met his gaze. ¡°Torturing those you defeat.¡± Alpheo let out a full, amused laugh this time, throwing his head back just a touch. ¡°Oh, no, no, no,¡± he said, waving a hand as though dismissing the idea like a foul smell. ¡°If I wanted to torture you, Elyos, you¡¯d be screaming already. And believe me, it would be heard all the way to Romelia.¡± He leaned in, his voice turning quieter, silkier. ¡°Most things I do have purpose. I¡¯m not here to hear a confession or a sermon. I¡¯m here to take something. Call it a transaction. A trade. A deal that is in your interest to take .¡± Elyos blinked, the weight of his chains dragging his posture ever down. ¡°Your Grace,¡± he said flatly, spitting the words out ¡°you have nothing that I may desire.¡± Alpheo gave a slow, theatrical shake of his head, clicking his tongue as if disappointed in a child¡¯s poor arithmetic. ¡°Oh, ¡± he said, spreading his arms in mock lament, ¡°you wound me. There are hundreds of things you want. Or better yet¡ªhundreds of things you¡¯ll want away from my callous hand. You will find that I have no qualms about getting dirty if my coins fall in the mud¡± He leaned closer now, eyes sharp like razors wrapped in velvet. ¡°After all you weren¡¯t alone in this little folly of yours, and all of their fates depend only on you and you alone. I am sure that by now you must have realised the game I play. Certain men cannot be moved by pain alone, so it is more efficient to have them unharmed and forced to watch that pain be given to those that they care about. Now you are a priest, and I presume, or at least hope, that you have no daughters or sons. So, given our situation all that I can think about is of all those dear soldiers that are now in our, I mean my custody.¡± Chapter 565: Holder of the star(2) Chapter 565: Holder of the star(2) Elyos¡¯s eyes darkened, his gaze sharpening into a dagger¡¯s point as he locked onto Alpheo, unblinking. The air between them hung heavy with disdain and something colder¡ªdisgust, perhaps, or the dying embers of what once was idealism. His lips parted with a quiet venom. ¡°Is there truly know no limit to your treachery?¡± Alpheo tilted his head, brows arching with an almost boyish confusion, as if Elyos had just accused him of stealing sweetcakes. ¡°Treachery?¡± he echoed, blinking once, slowly. ¡°You¡¯ll have to clarify, priest. Because if you¡¯re talking about evil, I do wonder what precisely you¡¯re accusing me of.¡± He raised a hand casually, gesturing around them as if the very earth outside the tent bore witness to his innocence. ¡°I captured rebels, Elyos. Men who spat on their oaths and beckoned foreign swords into our soil. I defeated them, as any prince ought. And now I offer them¡ªnot execution, not fire and wheel¡ªbut a chance to save their lives, of course not to them but to you. Surely that¡¯s not treachery. If anything,¡± he said with a thoughtful expression, ¡°I¡¯m being downright charitable, you should be praising me for my mercy.¡± Elyos didn¡¯t waver, he had lost, so now all he could do was cut his losses. He leaned forward slightly, the chains clinking like distant funeral bells. ¡°Before we go ahead with this performance,¡± he said, voice quiet but clear, ¡°I have questions that I want answered.¡± Alpheo¡¯s brow lifted again. He sat back, folding his hands on his knee like a man settling into a story. ¡°Why not?¡± he said with a soft chuckle. ¡°Go on, then. Ask.¡± Elyos didn¡¯t look away, didn¡¯t blink. ¡°Is it true,¡± he said, voice heavy, ¡°that Robert betrayed us?¡± The question floated in the silence, cutting through it like a blade through silk. Alpheo nodded slowly, as if humoring a heavy truth that had long since stopped weighing on him. He rested his elbow on the arm of the stool, fingers tapping idly at his chin. ¡°Yes,¡± he said. ¡°Robert betrayed you.¡± He tilted his head, voice almost absent-minded. ¡°Though I wouldn¡¯t call it a choice, not really. It was either that, or watch his son get the noose.¡± A beat passed. ¡°And, well¡ªhe picked his son.¡± Elyos¡¯s lips tightened. ¡°Is that part of your charity too?¡± he asked, the bitterness coating every syllable.¡±Threatening a father with the death of his son?¡± Alpheo gave a little shrug, a flick of the wrist like he was swatting a fly. ¡°I didn¡¯t think it¡¯d come to that,¡± he said. ¡°He seemed the type to care. Most fathers, not all but most, are at the end of it loving of their progeny. Soft hearts and stubborn pride.¡± He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. ¡°I merely set the stage.¡± Elyos lowered his head slightly, shadows gathering under his brow. ¡°I want to meet him.¡± Alpheo blinked. ¡°Meet him?¡± ¡°I want to look in his eyes,¡± Elyos said. ¡°To see if what you said is true. If his choice was forced. If I must hate him for it, or if I may forgive him .¡± A silence, thick as smoke, settled between them. Alpheo¡¯s lips parted, as if to speak¡ªbut no words came. His face, usually carved with amused disdain or calculated charm, went still for a moment. Finally, he inhaled, and when he exhaled, it came with a strange sourness. ¡°That won¡¯t be possible,¡± he said. Elyos narrowed his eyes. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Because he¡¯s dead.¡± The words slammed into Elyos like a battering ram. He looked away, eyes glazing over with something far too complex for simple grief. He had saved that man once¡ªfrom a cliff, no less, a child trembling between death and life. He remembered the pale face, the small voice, the silent gratitude when he understood life was worth experiencing. And now... ¡°He¡¯s dead,¡± Elyos whispered, mostly to himself. ¡°And I don¡¯t even know how to feel about him.¡± Alpheo watched him in silence for a moment, then stood slowly and poured himself another cup of wine. ¡°There¡¯s no use in feeling anything,¡± he said, taking a long sip. ¡°He¡¯s dead. No hate will revive him, and no love will comfort him. The time for both is past.¡± He turned his gaze back to Elyos, cold and clear. ¡°All that¡¯s left is what you choose to do with the living.¡± Alpheo watched the silence settle over Elyos like fresh ash over embers, the former priest¡¯s gaze sinking once more to the packed dirt floor as if it held answers he¡¯d forgotten to ask. There was something almost childlike in that downcast stare¡ªsomeone who had played too bold a hand, and was now left counting the scattered chips of a lost game. With a low hum and a raised brow, Alpheo crossed one leg over the other and leaned back on the stool like a man watching rain fall on someone else¡¯s funeral. ¡°Mhm,¡± he muttered with a breath, swirling the wine in his cup. ¡°Funny thing¡ªwhen we asked him why he joined your rebellion, he didn¡¯t say anything about glory or revenge or grand visions.He said he¡¯d found peace in that little settlement of yours. Said he wanted to defend it.¡± Elyos didn¡¯t lift his head, but his fingers curled slightly in his lap. Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". Alpheo shrugged, setting the cup aside. ¡°So there you have it. The man may have betrayed your cause in the end, but he didn¡¯t betray you. Not at first. Not where it mattered. If that counts for anything.¡± He raised an eyebrow. ¡°Something to be proud of, perhaps. Not many rebels can say their dream was enough to make someone stay.¡± He gave a slight smile¡ªnot mocking, not cruel. Just mildly amused at how messy meaning could be when blood dried on both sides of the sword. ¡°Still,¡± he added, rising to his feet and dusting off his coat, ¡°if you¡¯re looking for clarity, I suggest the gods would be your directive, wouldn¡¯t they be?¡± Breaking the somber mood, Alpheo clapped his hands together once, brisk and businesslike, as if dusting off the last threads of sentiment. He turned to Jarza with a lilt in his voice, casual and almost cheerful. ¡°Well, now that the tears are wiped and the ghosts are named,¡± he said, ¡°shall we get to the part where history is written?¡± Jarza narrowed his eyes as Alpheo gestured to Elyos¡¯ bound hands. ¡°Would you be so kind,¡± Alpheo said, ¡°as to cut his rope?¡± Jarza didn¡¯t move. His eyes flicked from Alpheo to the withered priest, dirt-smudged and hollow, then back. ¡°Are you sure?¡± he asked, his voice flat, the edge of a soldier asking if he should really hand a snake a stick. Alpheo gave a half-laugh, throwing his arms wide. ¡°Before me stands an unarmed, half-starved old man who¡¯s had more prayers than meals this week. Yes, I think I¡¯ll risk it.¡± Jarza shrugged, drew his knife, and with a swift motion sliced the ropes binding Elyos¡¯ wrists. The priest flexed his fingers slowly, like a man waking from a long sleep, but said nothing. ¡±Don¡¯t try anything funny, old man¡± Jarza muttered as he went back to the prince¡¯s side Alpheo, meanwhile, had already risen, moving with his usual flair across the tent to one of the standing candles whose flame still danced merrily from the breeze of the tent¡¯s flap. He plucked it up and returned, holding it with the reverence of a priest offering a sacrament. ¡°You know,¡± he said thoughtfully, ¡°perhaps I undersold this deal of ours. There is something in it for you too.¡± He stopped before Elyos, holding the candle between them like a strange oracle. ¡°A gift, if you will. A mercy.¡± Elyos looked at him, wary. ¡°What are you playing at?¡± Alpheo grinned. ¡°Put your hand over the flame.¡± The priest blinked. ¡°Why in all the gods¡¯ names would I do that?¡± ¡°To make a point,¡± Alpheo replied smoothly. ¡°To show you what I¡¯ll spare you from.¡± Elyos didn¡¯t move. His jaw tightened. Alpheo sighed. ¡°Very well. Every five seconds you hesitate...¡± He made a lazy circling gesture with the candle. ¡°I¡¯ll have ...twenty of your captured comrades executed.I will make sure to choose the youngest too and bring them your heads.¡± Elyos hissed something under his breath¡ªlikely a curse not fit for scripture¡ªand reached forward with reluctant resolve. His hand hovered, trembled, then finally descended over the flame. The heat licked at his palm immediately, the fire like a hungry tongue tasting salt and guilt. He lasted three, four maybe five seconds¡ªand then yanked his hand back with a sharp wince, cradling it to his chest. His face twisted, not in tears or groans, but in cold fury. Alpheo tilted his head. ¡°There. That,¡± he said, lowering the candle, ¡°is just a taste. Imagine the rest, and ask yourself whether playing martyr still feels so noble. Because that is what you will be sentenced to¡± He gave a theatrical pause, letting the silence stretch, the pain settle, and the horror of his promise hang like the scent of blood in the air. Then he smiled. ¡°Now. Shall we begin?¡± He lowered the candle with a casual flick of the wrist, as though the little theater of flame and flesh had merely been a warm-up, a prologue to the real act. He leaned in slightly, his tone mellowing into something darker, smoother¡ªlike silk laid over a blade. ¡°You do realize, I trust,¡± he began, voice calm as still water, ¡°that there is more than enough evidence to have you declared a heretic.¡± Elyos didn¡¯t respond, his burned hand still pressed against his chest, his breathing steady but tight. Alpheo continued, his words flowing like poisoned honey. ¡°You instigated war. Preached rebellion. Led men into slaughter under banners never meant to be yours. And worst of all¡ª¡± he gestured vaguely toward the entrance of the tent, ¡°you stood on the battlefield, sword by sword against common believers. That alone... that alone is enough to brand you damned in the eyes of your own clergy.¡± He gave a little smile, almost wistful. ¡°And of course, you¡¯ll suffer the same end you so zealously demanded for the crown¡¯s loyal servants. A fine bit of irony, wouldn¡¯t you say?¡± Elyos met his gaze, finally. His eyes weren¡¯t pleading, or afraid, or even defiant. They were simply locked¡ªsilent, focused, burning with a furious clarity. Alpheo nodded, as if satisfied with what he saw. ¡°But,¡± he said with a slow step back, his voice shifting again, now thoughtful, like a man weighing coins, ¡°as much as I would find that ending poetic¡ªcleansing, even¡ªI do understand one thing.¡± He raised a single finger. ¡°Deals, to work, must benefit both sides.¡± He turned, casually strolling to the edge of the tent, pushing open the flap just enough to let a shaft of morning light cut through the gloom. Dust motes danced in the golden air like spirits summoned to hear the bargain. ¡°I want a list,¡± he said, without turning. ¡°Every temple. Every chapterhouse. Every sanctuary that gave you gold , that fed your lies and bought your swords. I want their names, every last one carved into your memory.¡± Then he did turn, sharp now, voice like a hammer striking steel. ¡°In exchange? I won¡¯t burn you at the stake. Nor will I touch a single hair on the heads of your captured band. They¡¯ll live by my mercy. ¡± He paused, letting the promise hang in the air like incense before a sacred altar. ¡°Think carefully, priest. This is your gospel now.¡± And with that, the silence returned, heavy and waiting. Elyos narrowed his eyes, the pain in his hand momentarily forgotten, replaced now by the deeper sting of what he knew was coming. ¡°You¡¯ve said nothing,¡± he rasped, voice low but firm, ¡°about the settlement.¡± Alpheo tilted his head, as if amused that Elyos had taken so long to mention it. ¡°The settlement?¡± he echoed, as if tasting the word. ¡°My soldiers will burn it. Loot it. Strip it down to its bones. It¡¯s their due, after all. Spoils of rebellion¡ªearned in blood.¡± Elyos clenched his jaw, but Alpheo lifted a hand gently, like a bard calming a restless crowd. ¡°Of course,¡± he added, ¡°such... mercy could be extended to the settlers too. I may promise to spare their lives. If that¡¯s what you want.¡± Elyos stared at him for a moment, his lips pressed into a thin line before asking, ¡°And how am I to believe you¡¯ll keep your side, once I¡¯ve kept mine?¡± Alpheo gave a small chuckle, that maddening chuckle that always came just before a cruel truth. ¡°You can¡¯t,¡± he said plainly. ¡°There¡¯s nothing that will make it sure. No parchment, no seal, no priest¡¯s oath. Just my word.¡± He leaned forward, eyes locking with the priest¡¯s like a hunter sizing up a dying beast. ¡°And in times like these, the word of a man may be worth believing in, especially if it is a last hope.¡± Elyos looked at him, unimpressed, unshaken. ¡°Not yours.¡± Alpheo¡¯s smile faded into something colder, sharper. ¡°Then am I to consider the deal void?Am I to leave you to burn?Am I to have each rebel gutted ahead of you?Am I to do the same to the people that followed you, in what was to be their new home?¡± The air stilled. No answer came. Alpheo watched Elyos with something that almost passed for sympathy¡ªalmost. He stepped closer, voice lowering into a tone that was far too casual for the gravity of what was being said. ¡°Let me reassure you of something,¡± he said, brushing a speck of dust from his sleeve as if discussing the weather. ¡°I don¡¯t intend harm upon those temples. No gallows. No fire. Just a fine. Coin, nothing more.After all, it wouldn¡¯t be any good for me to harm them, which to be made possible would have to be interceded by the High Priest, who will swallow all of the treasure inside and leave me only the crumbs. ¡± He glanced sideways at Elyos, his words now a slow, deliberate prod. ¡°In many of your sermons, you loathed greed, did you not? Called it a disease of the soul. So tell me, is it worth sacrificing hundreds of your people... just to protect the purses of men who wear white robes and silver rings?¡± Elyos sat still, but his eyes shifted¡ªtroubled, stormed by the weight of the question. The silence dragged, bitter and brittle, until finally he let out a slow breath, eyes narrowing. ¡°...I accept.¡± Alpheo clapped his hands, a crisp sound that cut through the tent like a blade of cheer. ¡°Wise choice.¡± He smiled¡ªnot with kindness, but with the satisfaction of a merchant closing a profitable deal. ¡°I will keep my part,¡± he said to the priest in a somber tone before turning to Jarza. ¡°Have someone bring ink and paper. He will write the names¡ªevery temple that aided him with funds. Every one.¡± As he walked away, having accomplished what he wanted , he paused by the entrance, his back now to Elyos, voice carrying with deceptive warmth. ¡°You can at least sleep well tonight, knowing that you saved the lives that could be saved, and I can assure you that your treatment will be much more welcoming now that we shook hands.¡± And with that, he left¡ªcloak swaying, boots soft against the earth , quickly followed by his friend. Elyos meanwhile remained where he sat, his burned hand cradled against his chest, staring at the dirt floor with the taste of ash on his tongue. Brought by the defeat and worsened by the hands he shook. And alone again, he wondered... had he just made a deal with evil? Or worse¡ªhad evil simply made a deal with him? Chapter 566: Taste of mud Chapter 566: Taste of mud None of them had ever imagined this. The rebel lords had expected to ride through fire and smoke into glory, to drink victory from gold cups while the fields still smoldered behind them. Instead, they had fled like shadows at dusk¡ªthieves in the night, their banners torn, their triumph crumbling before it had ever begun. What was supposed to be their night of glory had turned into a shameful retreat beneath the sneering moonlight, their once-proud host dissolving before their eyes. Now, they waited in the city of Agripisio. For what only the gods knew. It was an old city, proud in its past, but its walls felt like a cage for the men within who were only awaiting the blade¡¯s descent . The air inside the hall where they had gathered was thick with failure, the silence broken only by the occasional scrape of boots or the wet cough of a wounded man. No toasts. No laughter. Only the faint scent of ash Among them sat Lord Eurenis, his once-gleaming breastplate now cast aside and stained with dirt and blood. A thick bandage wound around his shoulder, the white linen already darkening with a slow, crimson bloom. The arrow that had struck him during the initial clash had torn through flesh and pride in equal measure. He had been leading the left flank then, banners raised high. The arrow found him before the enemy did¡ªa cruel and mocking gift from a battle they barely got to fight, along with another one on his leg. which happened in the same circumstances as the first Now he sat in a carved chair too stiff to lean on, one arm limp at his side, the other gripping a goblet he hadn¡¯t touched. His face was a tight mask of pain, though whether from the wounds or the disgrace, none could say. Around him, the other lords muttered, eyes flickering toward one another with suspicion, blame, and the dawning realization that their war had not just failed¡ªit had collapsed. And in its ruins, they now waited, not as commanders of a revolution... but as men cornered by fate. The weight of defeat pressed on their shoulders like armor made of lead. There was nothing left to say, because deep down, they all knew: they had lost everything. Not just a battle, but the war. Their armies had been broken in a single night, their banners scattered, their soldiers dead or fled. Their leverage¡ªgone. With no force left to put on the field, they had nothing to place on the table but words, and even those had lost their edge. Lord Lysander, eyes rimmed with fatigue, finally broke the silence. ¡°What do we do now?¡± Eurenis, still pale from blood loss and gripping his bandaged shoulder like it held together more than just flesh, let out a slow breath. ¡°We beg the prince for peace. Is there any other road to take?¡± His voice lacked any pride, but carried the dead weight of realism. There was no use pretending otherwise. A few seats down, Lord Niektas said nothing. He didn¡¯t have to. His face told the whole story. He was already playing the scenes in his mind¡ªriding back to his fief, watching the gates close behind him, telling himself it could be held, maybe for a month, maybe two. But he knew the truth. The prince would come. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe in a week. There was no grand last stand, no heroic retreat. Only the creeping dread of siege, or the humiliation of bad terms wrapped in gold seals. A bitter peace would be coming, or at least they hoped Because it was either that¡ªor to burn. As far as they knew, Lord Gregor and the accursed priest Elyos were either dead or in chains. No rider had come bearing better news¡ªonly silence, which in times like these, was rarely kind. And with their disappearance, so too vanished a good portion of their strength . Elyos especially had been the linchpin of their funding, the one who whispered to the temples, who collected their silver not for the lords themselves, but for his own sacred cause. The wealth of the clergy had flowed into his coffers like water into a basin¡ªand now the basin was shattered. Even if, by some miracle, those funds still existed somewhere under the priest¡¯s control, what could they do with it now? Perhaps they could scrape together enough to hire a few bands of mercenaries,. But how many would answer a call from a cause already drowned in defeat? And how quickly? Weeks? Months? They had days. At best. The room was again thick with silence when Lord Eurenis finally snapped. With a cry of frustration, he slammed his bandaged fist onto the table. The impact made the half-filled goblets jump, the pewter pitcher shudder, and a startled servant in the corner flinch. ¡°All of this,¡± he growled, voice a venomous rasp, ¡°because of that damn priest. That zealot. He forced us in this hopeless situation!¡± He stood, breath heaving, anger washing over the dull pain in his shoulder, blaming a person as if not recognizing that he who moved the accused bore the same guilt. ¡°Even with all the odds in our favor¡ªwe outnumbered them, gods be damned!¡ªwe were shattered like green recruits! And now what are we left with?¡± His gaze swept across the grim faces of the others. ¡°Nothing but broken banners and hollow titles. We¡¯re not lords now¡ªwe¡¯re scavengers, hoping to gather what little might remain when the war¡¯s done with us.¡± No one dared speak. No one dared argue. Because every word of it was true. Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". Lord Niketas, who had remained silent for much of the discussion, finally broke the stillness. His voice was calm, but there was an edge of weariness to it, like a man who had already begun mourning the inevitable. ¡°There¡¯s no use in cursing the priest now,¡± he said, arms crossed tightly over his chest. ¡°He¡¯s captured, and if he¡¯s not already dead, he will wish he were soon enough.¡± A few heads turned toward him, but none interrupted. ¡°We may yet be spared,¡± he continued. ¡°Stripped, yes¡ªof lands, titles, coin, and pride. We¡¯ll be left with the rod, no doubt. But not the axe. I wager the prince would rather see us humiliated than martyred. After all, I don¡¯t think he would like wasting half his reign besieging each of our cities.Which would most certainly happen if he believed the axe to be our end.¡± Hearing that, Lord Eurenis shifted in his seat, his jaw tightening as a sharp bolt of pain ran through his bandaged shoulder. He winced, breath hissing through clenched teeth, before managing to speak through the discomfort. ¡°So... we truly have nothing to offer?¡± he asked, his voice laced with bitter disbelief. ¡°No cards, no leverage? Just exposing our necks while telling him that swinging the axe will chip the blade?¡± Lord Lysander, seated to his right, gave a tired nod. ¡°There¡¯s the coin,¡± he said. ¡°What we received from the temple. It¡¯s not much, but it¡¯s something.¡± Eurenis scoffed, adjusting his posture to ease the sting in his shoulder. ¡°That coin was given to us by the priest. It¡¯s his lead through which we followed into this mess. For all we know, The prince will take it over to when they breach our walls. Always if the priest did not already lead him to the golden pot to save his skin or maybe to stop the torture.¡± A silence followed, dense and heavy. Then Niketas spoke, arms resting on the table like weights pinning down his thoughts. ¡°What if we hide it?¡± The others looked at him. ¡°The silver,¡± he said, ¡°bury it. Seal it somewhere only we know. And when we do come to terms¡ªif we¡¯re still alive to do so¡ªwe offer its location in exchange for leniency.¡± There was a beat. A slow, grim nod from Lysander. Eurenis raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. ¡°Of course,¡± Niketas added with a dark note in his tone, ¡°that all hinges on whether the prince doesn¡¯t simply take our castles by force, take us alive and torture the truth from us.¡± A chill passed through the room, and the lords exchanged wary glances. None of them said it aloud, but the name lingered between their thoughts: Alpheo. He wasn¡¯t a man prone to sentiment. If anything, he relished in the art of pressure. Diplomacy, yes. But only after the fear was planted like a dagger between your ribs. ¡°Is there... anything else?¡± Eurenis asked, voice low, almost hoarse. ¡°Anything we can offer? Any reason for him not to put all our heads on pikes?¡± There was a pause before Niketas answered. He didn¡¯t look up. His fingers drummed once on the tabletop, then stopped. ¡°...Our daughters,¡± he said plainly. ¡°They may be of use.¡± The words hung in the air like a blade caught mid-swing. It took a moment for them to fully land, and when they did, it wasn¡¯t with shock¡ªbut with a silence more telling than outrage. No one protested. No one stood. Because no one could deny it anymore. It was over. They were no longer lords with swords in hand, but men seated before the judgment of a victor who had no need to listen. A bull was charging toward them, and all they had left were the red silks of their own bloodlines to wave in front of him, hoping it might calm the beast or at least buy them time. Niketas finally met their eyes, his face grim, unsmiling. ¡°Some perhaps will catch the prince¡¯s eye, of course, I do not know how much that will leash his wrath. From what we know, he doesn¡¯t have any mistresses, and he has been at war for nearly three months; we may make use of that in some way. I believe I speak for everyone when I say that right now saving our skin is more important than saving our face.¡± Chapter 567: A happy meal(1) Chapter 567: A happy meal(1) The scent of roasted meats, spiced wine and cider drifted lazily through the warm air of Alpheo¡¯s command tent, the heavy canvas fluttering now and then in the evening breeze like a silken veil at the entrance of a king¡¯s palace. Inside, a small feast was underway with enough food for both dinner and breakfast , and enough wine to drown the memories of a thousand battles. The war was over in all but name, and the mood among the prince¡¯s inner circle was unmistakably festive. But above all others, it was Alpheo himself who radiated satisfaction. He leaned back in his chair with the air of a man who had not only eaten well but had dined on victory itself. Inside his private tent , under his bed lay the prize that had brought such delight¡ªtwo simple scrolls. One contained a list. The other, a signed confession. It was more than mere parchment. It was leverage. Control. Power hidden behind wax and paper. Alpheo¡¯s eyes had lingered on the names for half an hour ¡ªtemples great and small, from his princedom , all revealed by Elyos in the desperate hope of sparing lives. It had taken less pressure than expected. Alpheo had half-feared the priest would die with clenched teeth, but in the end, even the most fanatical could be made to fold when others¡¯ blood weighed on the scale. These temples... greedy little dens of gold and incense. They fed the rebellion with coin and prayer, thinking themselves untouchable behind holy walls. But holiness doesn¡¯t shield you from scandal. Especially not when I hold your sins in ink and seal. And yet, despite the power he now wielded, he had no intention of launching a holy purge. That would have been the amateur¡¯s move, a foolish gambit. No, Alpheo understood far better than most that open justice had a cost¡ªparticularly when the law dictated that priests be judged by their own kind, and any major inquest required approval from none other than the High Priest himself. He was after all a follower of byzantine deals... And also the moment the High Priest was involved, so too was the division of spoils. Alpheo was a man of big appetite so why divide when you can eat it all alone? Seize their temples, and the High Priest takes his tithe¡ªlikely most of it. Let him call a tribunal, and I lose the narrative, the tempo. And worse, the gold. His plan was far simpler. Letters would be written. Quiet, respectful, and firm. Reminders of names tied to rebellion. Opportunities to repent¡ªdiscreetly. Through generous donations. Silver, not blood. It was a game the temples would play willingly. After all, no priest would risk his position for a gaggle of ambitious underlings, and no shrine could survive the stink of scandal. He picked up his goblet, swirling the dark wine within as he considered the genius of it all. No swords. No fires. Just quills, wax, and whispers. And coin. Enough coin to satisfy the crown. Alpheo reclined further, the murmured laughter and clinking of cups filling the tent around him. The war had given him land and loyalty. But this... this was something far rarer. Enough money to see all of his reforms become reality, and above all to finally build a sewer for his city, as no true capital can be regarded as such without a sewer and an aqueduct. The laughter around the tent crackled like the fire in the brazier, warm and sharp with the afterglow of conquest. The wine flowed, the dishes clattered, and the tension that had coiled in the spines of every man there for months finally began to melt. But it was Jarza, ever watchful, ever grounded, who leaned closer to his prince with a flicker of curiosity behind his scarred brow. ¡°You look happy,¡± he remarked, eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to read more than just joy in Alpheo¡¯s expression. Alpheo didn¡¯t even hesitate. ¡°How could I not?¡± he said, spreading his arms with theatrical grandeur as if embracing the very air. ¡°Ahead of us lies peace¡ªpeace carved in blood and fire, true, but peace all the same.This is peace in our time¡± he said as a private joke only he could understand ¡± The war is dying, Jarza, sputtering out like a spent torch. And in our time¡ªmy time¡ªthere will be calm, at least for us, and for how long I decide the peace to last.¡± He leaned forward, fingers laced under his chin, voice like honey glazed over steel. ¡°With the oizenians, with the prince dead, and half their lords rotting in our cages or bleeding in their beds, the next heir¡ªwhoever they crown¡ª, be it the eldest of any younger one, will be a babe on stilts. He¡¯ll need years to sew a name worth fearing. Meanwhile, our dear nobles are as dangerous as a drowned spider, and their army are nothing but a memory. All that remains of the rebellion now is its echo.¡± ¡°And then,¡± he said, almost in a whisper, ¡°there¡¯s Heculia. Oh, Heculia... fat and golden, like a rabbit too slow to see the knife. I¡¯ve not forgotten her, Jarza. Do you remember the plans we made before this firestorm began? The quiet talks of how to take its head?¡± Jarza nodded, slowly, as if plucking those old memories from beneath dust and steel. ¡°They¡¯re still on the table,¡± Alpheo said, tapping a finger lightly on the wood. ¡°Not this year. No. The fields are bare, our granaries echo, and the next harvest must repay our debt to the Romelians¡ªthe fine lenders that they are. Without their wheat, our grand host would never have been fed, armed, or paid for the last weeks of the war.¡± He smiled, but it was not warm. ¡°But after? When the grain returns, when the coffers swell once more?¡± He paused, raising his goblet as if toasting a ghost yet to come. Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". ¡°Then we strike.¡± And with that, he drank, letting the wine wash down the taste of war and replace it with the tang of ambition yet unrealized. ¡°There is also the matter of retirement,¡±Asag said, including himself in the conversation Alpheo nodded slowly, as if he¡¯d been expecting the topic to rise sooner or later. ¡°Yes,¡± he murmured, swirling the dregs of his wine, ¡°another good reason to wait until next year. We¡¯ll need time to train the new blood. Our soldiers, weathered as they are, cannot march forever¡ªmany deserve to hang up their blades before they fall on them.The Gods only know why they haven¡¯t complained.¡± His gaze swept the table, resting for a moment on each of the men who had marched through the fire at his side¡ªJarza, Asag, Egil, Shahab , Xanthios even Torghan, who was halfway through gnawing on a marrowbone, understanding only half of what was being told. as the level of the dialogue was too high for his bare understanding of the southern tongue. Alpheo¡¯s voice softened, but it lost none of its command. ¡°Perhaps it¡¯s a touch early,¡± he said, swirling the dark wine in his goblet, ¡°but there¡¯s no harm in preparing. I want to know what you would ask for¡ªeach of you. You¡¯ve earned that right. A wish. One apiece. For your service in this... glorious war that shall be sung for decades.¡± The words dropped like stones into a still pond, sending ripples across the banquet table and halting conversation mid-breath. Forks hovered in the air. The fire cracked in the hearth behind them, the only sound left in the wake of his declaration. Jarza tilted his head, the way a hunting hawk might. Asag blinked once, slowly, and Torghan, halfway through tearing into a spiced root, paused with a grunt of confusion. His translators leaned in with a flurry of whispers in his native tongue. When they finished, the Voghondai¡¯s eyes went wide. Alpheo, basking in the light of wine and well-earned triumph, let his eyes drift lazily along the long wooden table, savoring the tension like a vintner admiring a fine cask. At last, he came to rest on Lord Xanthios. He tilted his head ever so slightly, a single brow rising¡ªhalf invitation, half challenge. ¡°Well then,¡± Alpheo murmured, raising his goblet in salute, ¡°what is it that you desire, Lord Xanthios?¡± Xanthios, ever the quiet one, adjusted the folds of his cloak and straightened his back, but did not quite meet Alpheo¡¯s gaze. ¡°My prince,¡± he said in his careful, monk-like tone, ¡°I am unworthy of reward. I sat in my keep for most of the war. I only rode out for the final battle. My contribution was... marginal.¡± Alpheo sighed¡ªa long, theatrical exhale filled with the exhaustion of nobles too modest for their own good. ¡°Then I¡¯ll choose for you when the time comes,¡± he said, waving a dismissive hand like brushing away dust . Xanthios gave a sheepish smile, the kind one wears when hoping not to be noticed further, and wisely fell back into silence. Alpheo, already halfway into his next goblet, turned to the still figure of Asag. The warrior sat like a statue chiseled from storm-black granite, unmoved by wine or mirth, or even the firelight that danced across his weathered features. ¡°And you, Asag?¡± Alpheo leaned forward, his voice tinged with something warmer¡ªrespect, perhaps, or nostalgia. ¡°Surely now is the time to ask. Among us, you¡¯ve earned your place a hundredfold. Aracina still sings your name.¡± Asag did not so much as blink. ¡°I¡¯ve said it before,¡± he replied, his voice like dry earth. ¡°I wish for nothing. The salvation you brought us at Aracina is the only reward I sought.¡± Alpheo held his gaze for a moment, and for the briefest second, something flickered behind his wine-hazed eyes. Except it was per my command that you were stuck there in the first place, he thought, lowering his gaze. But the moment passed, and the prince returned to his favored tone¡ªhalf indulgent monarch, half disappointed schoolmaster. ¡°Was my company always this infested with philosophers and ambitionless men?I would barely recognise you as the man who brought three armies to their knees in three short months.¡± He turned suddenly and pointed a stern finger down the table, voice rising in mock frustration. ¡°The next one will wish for something¡ªor I¡¯ll drag it out of him with a ladle!¡± Laughter broke across the table, and the finger found its mark¡ªEgil, who had been avoiding eye contact with all the subtlety of a child caught sneaking sweets. He stabbed half-heartedly at his food as if it were the source of all his troubles. ¡°Egil,¡± Alpheo said, slowly, as though invoking an ancient ritual. The tall warrior looked up. ¡°Well, Alph,¡± he said with a sheepish grin, glancing toward Alpheo¡¯s own plate, ¡°Ain¡¯t much that I want right now. I have got good lads riding with me, and I had my fill with killing and raiding. Still, if I must choose for something , I must point out that your food looks better than mine.¡± There was a beat of silence. Then Alpheo blinked once. He laughed¡ªa deep, rolling bellow that filled the tent like thunder in a valley. His goblet nearly spilled from the force of it. ¡°Stuff yourself with it,¡± he said, still chuckling. Egil didn¡¯t wait to be told twice. He swept aside his own half-eaten meal like it had personally insulted him and lunged at Alpheo¡¯s roasted leg of lamb with a hunger that bordered on the theatrical. The way he tore into it, one could almost believe he feared the meat might leap from the table and escape into the night. The table erupted with laughter. Even Asag¡¯s lips twitched. Torghanmlet out a booming laugh that startled the servants. It was the kind of laugh that rolled out of his chest like an avalanche¡ªhonest, loud, and just a little terrifying. Alpheo leaned back, satisfied. He raised his cup to the ceiling, grinning like a man surrounded by the strangest, most cherished fools the gods could give him. ¡°Well,¡± he said, eyes gleaming, ¡°at least someone at this table still has earthly desires.¡± The mirth began to settle. Then Alpheo¡¯s gaze swept once more across the table, until it came to rest at the far end¡ªon the Voghondai chieftain seated down and looking at the prince. ¡°Torghan,¡± Alpheo called, drawing out the name like silk pulled through a ring. ¡°You look as though your tongue is heavy with something. I suppose you¡¯ve got something to ask? You¡¯ve served me well... and earned your place among us.¡± The great man did not respond at once, not with words. He¡¯d only caught parts of the prince¡¯s speech. But he understood. The question had weight, and the weight had reached him. He nodded. Once. Slow. Measured. Then, with all the gravity of an ancient tree deciding at last to move, he pushed himself to his feet. The wooden bench groaned beneath him, and the table quieted as eyes turned toward him. Alpheo¡¯s brow lifted, pleasantly intrigued. It appears someone still knows what they want, he thought. And more than that¡ªsomeone who might be very useful for his future. Chapter 568: A happy meal (2) Chapter 568: A happy meal (2) Unlike the towering brutes that came from his tribe ,Torghan was, in truth, still in the shadow of what he might one day become. His frame held the promise of size rather than its full delivery: strong, certainly, but lacking the mountainous bulk for which his kin were known. He was after all but 19. In height he stood below most of his tribesmen, and though his posture was proud, it bore the unmistakable signs of youth¡ªnot the reckless youth of inexperience, but the unfinished kind, like a statue only half-carved from stone. Yet what Torghan lacked in brute mass, he made up for in terrifying efficiency. Most of his kills on the battlefield hadn¡¯t been earned through sheer force or feral power, but rather through a simple, practical truth: his armor was leagues ahead of what the average rebel could pierce. Forged in the forges of the Acheian noble Romelian family , paid for in advance by Alpheo himself, it was a marvel of plates and reinforced mail, fitted tightly to his body and polished until it gleamed with a dusky sheen under the sun. Against it, the long spears and hastily sharpened lances of the rebel levy troops snapped like dry reeds. Rebels had broken against him like surf against a breakwater¡ªnot because he couldn¡¯t be hurt, but because their weapons simply couldn¡¯t touch him. The few lucky strikes that had landed glanced off with a hollow clang, as if they had hit a walking fortress. Alpheo leaned forward on his elbows, the soft clink of his wine cup being set down the only sound in the tent for a moment. He watched Torghan with the glint of amused curiosity¡ªlike a teacher waiting for a student to finish their halting sentence. ¡°Want... husband,¡± he finally said slowly, grinding through the syllables like they were bone and gristle, ¡°for... sister. Good man. Yes?¡± There was a moment of pure silence¡ªan almost comedic pause that floated in the warm air like a held breath. A few of the men around the table blinked, unsure if they¡¯d heard him right. Even Egil stopped shoveling food into his mouth mid-bite. But Alpheo, didn¡¯t laugh. He didn¡¯t scoff, nor raise an amused brow. No¡ªhe leaned back slowly, fingers tenting beneath his chin, his expression settling into the smooth, polished stone of thought. The request wasn¡¯t foolish. Not at all. It was, in fact, shrewd. Torghan and his people held their lands only by the crown¡¯s grace, squatters under royal mercy, and mercy¡ªAlpheo well knew¡ªwas a wine that soured quickly. If the court, which meant him, grew tired of them, if public sentiment shifted, if even a whisper of disloyalty rose... their exile would be swift. Or worse. And the tribes knew it. So what better way to secure their foothold than to graft themselves into the very roots of local nobility? Marriage. A tie not of treaty or contract, but of blood. It was an elegant answer to an old question: how do you make people stop calling you a foreigner? You marry their daughters. You make their grandsons carry your cheekbones. Of course, no landed lord with a name polished over generations would eagerly offer his son or daughter to a brute with dirt still fresh from the steppes beneath her nails. But Alpheo didn¡¯t need the old blood. He had something better: men he trusted , that in the future were to raise in rank. And some of them, well... were still unwed. His eyes swept across the table like a predator choosing its next move. Then they stopped, perched like a hawk on a familiar figure. Jarza. The man looked up just in time to see the glint in Alpheo¡¯s eye. His brows rose like drawbridges, a silent really? painted across his face. For a moment, he seemed ready to resist¡ªbut then his expression softened. Slowly, Jarza closed his eyes and gave a single nod. Consent, silent and noble. He knew what Alpheo was thinking. He wasn¡¯t getting younger. He¡¯d fought in three campaigns under his banner , had more scars than hairs on his chest, and¡ªmost importantly¡ªno heirs to his name, or at least none that could be found . Time, as always, was hungry. And in truth, the idea of a young, healthy wife? It wasn¡¯t unappealing. Besides, Alpheo could sell ice to a fire. If he wanted this match to happen, it would happen, and his permission was more of a welcoming mat rather than the door. Alpheo chuckled softly, turning back to Torghan. He extended his hand with leisurely grace, the rings on his fingers catching the firelight as he pointed squarely at Jarza, his voice light but ceremonious. ¡°This one,¡± he said, eyes glinting. ¡°Is he a good match?¡± Torghan followed the direction of the prince¡¯s finger with exaggerated slowness, as if unsure whether this was a trick or test. When his gaze landed on Jarza, his face split into a proud grin. With a firm nod and a thick accent, he declared, ¡°Good man. Yes. Strong. Tall. Good.¡± Then, to everyone¡¯s mild surprise,Alpheo began to clap. Loudly. And sincerely. ¡°Congratulations!¡± he beamed, clapping like he¡¯d just witnessed a betrothal at a summer fair. ¡°Good bride. Good husband!¡± Around the table, a few chuckles escaped. Alpheo, however having finished clapping , simply watched, quiet for a moment, swirling the wine in his goblet as his thoughts dipped deeper into the waters of lineage and legacy. Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". Jarza¡¯s children wouldn¡¯t carry noble blood¡ªat least not by the old reckoning. Born of a father raised from the mud and a mother from a tribe. No titles in their veins, no ancient banners hanging in the halls of their ancestors. Foreigners, both of them. Outsiders. But blood, Alpheo mused, could be outweighed. By the time those children would come of age, Jarza would be a man carved into the history books. His blade, his deeds, and the glory of this campaign would carry him far beyond the pedigree of some dusty crest. And more importantly, Alpheo had no intention of letting the nobility remain as it had been. If he were to wear a crown¡ªwhen he wore it¡ªhe would bring with it the Roman model. A nobility reshaped in ranks. Titles like High Marshal , as the Romelians called them or perhapse better yet title like , Dux. It was a strong domeneering name, much better than simply High Marshal. Rebellious territories would be given to loyal dogs with teeth, not the other way around. Loyal nobles who answer to a rebel are more dangerous than rebellious nobles answering to a loyal head. He glanced at Jarza again¡ªstill half-embarrassed and red-eared under Torghan¡¯s congratulatory clapping¡ªand gave a faint, amused smile. The mood had grown lively with the announcement of marriage between Jarza and Torghan sister and the general ripple of amusement that had followed, but the prince, ever the conductor of his own grand orchestra, raised a hand gently to regain the rhythm. ¡°One man left,¡± he said, voice smooth and unhurried, yet with a note of finality that immediately hushed the murmurs. His eyes, like twin blades sheathed in charm, slid over the table and landed squarely on Lord Shahab. The old lord, hunched slightly but with eyes still sharp as eagle¡¯s talons, met the prince¡¯s gaze without flinching. Before Alpheo could even open his mouth to speak, Shahab raised a wrinkled, liver-spotted hand and barked, ¡°Don¡¯t even try it.¡± Alpheo¡¯s lips curled into an entertained smirk, but he said nothing, letting the elder continue. ¡°If I¡¯m to be rewarded,¡± Shahab muttered, adjusting the collar of his long robe with one hand while the other gestured vaguely, ¡°then let it be through my grand-daughter. You¡¯ve got nothing that you can give me ¡± Alpheo gave a theatrical shrug of his shoulders, as if to say very well, have it your way. The rest of the table chuckled softly, not because of any insult, but because everyone in that tent knew there was no true animosity between the prince and the old noble. Their verbal jabs were like greeting between the two. Within Alpheo¡¯s inner circle, it was well-known how sharp-tongued Shahab could be. His tongue was iron wrapped in silk¡ªabrasive when he chose, and he almost always chose, especially toward the prince. Yet no one doubted the strength of the bond between the two men. It had been forged not through flattery or pomp, but through a moment far more human and tender. All of them remembered¡ªsome only in whispers, others firsthand¡ªwhen Jasmine was in the final, swollen months of her pregnancy. That time when even the prince¡¯s hands, so confident in war and rule, seemed uncertain when dealing with the matter of court. Shahab had been there. His wisdom, rough-edged though it came, had been a steadying force. So when Shahab dismissed Alpheo¡¯s offer of reward, it wasn¡¯t rejection¡ªit was dignity. And Alpheo, for all his pride and vision, could respect that. And now, as he sat there surrounded by loyal men in a war just won, his thoughts could now move ahead of where his foot lay. He was happy¡ªor at least as happy as a man like him believed he could be. The sort of happiness that didn¡¯t shout, but hummed like a hearthfire at dusk, quiet and steady. Around him, the murmurs of his retainers floated like smoke, but his thoughts wandered elsewhere: to the warm glow of his household, to Jasmine¡¯s laughter ringing soft with that of Basil, to the cradle of a child who carried both his blood and hopes. A family. A home. Companions in arms he trusted not with just his back but with the silence of long nights when victory was not yet assured. Once, he had dreamed of all this in the mud, nameless and cold, chewing bitter roots and the taste of other men¡¯s cruelty. He had sworn then¡ªclutching his chest where pride refused to die¡ªthat if he ever climbed from that mire, he would build something better. And now, here he stood: high above the filth that tried to bury him, cloaked in the scent of triumph, surrounded by loyal hands and titles that once laughed at him. There was steel beneath the satisfaction, of course¡ªhe had not forgotten how fast joy could curdle¡ªbut tonight, with the stars beginning to blink open over the canvas of his war tent, Alpheo allowed himself a rare indulgence: to believe that he had won more than a war. He had won at life. Chapter 569: How to build a crown(1) Chapter 569: How to build a crown(1) Lord Blake lounged in the governor¡¯s chair , or what once had been , once polished by Imperial silk, now worn smooth by salt©\sprayed coats of Free©\Isle raiders. Around him the conquered chamber was remade in his honor, with the banners of his house pinned to the walls along with a shattered eagle standard propped like a trophy beside the hearth. He had stormed this room two years ago, axe in hand, boots striking on the tiles. Tonight, he sat unarmed, yet the air still crackled as if the battle had never ended. His guests downstairs parted and clamored for glory as if they had not come out just months ago of the proudest moments of their lives, for now. Blake closed his eyes a moment and inhaled. The breeze carried tar and kelp, distant gull©\cries, and the rolling thunder of surf against Harmway¡¯s cliffs. It smelled of unruled water, of prize holds bursting with silver, of shackles flung from wrists. Freedom had a fragrance, he decided¡ªcool and metallic, sweeter than any perfume poured in Imperial courts. Three years. In that flicker of time he had coaxed a fractious council that was the Call into a single blade. He had broken the ancient Sea©\Break Treaty with a toast , then hurled his ships at the ¡°oil©\fuckers¡± of the mainland until their coastal watchtowers burned like beacons for every pirate soul. He had seized Harmway¡ªkeystone of the straits¡ªand when the Empire¡¯s proud armada surged to reclaim it, he ground their galleons against reef and fire, sending them to feed the crabs. Glorious years, yes¡ªbut Blake felt them like merely the opening chords of a storm©\song. His heart still beat in half©\frenzied tempo, a drum that refused to slow. He craved thunder on a scale that would make ancestors whisper in their barrows. Let lesser captains rob merchants and brag in taverns; he would unravel empires. Rome-lia had been one giant¡ªwounded, not slain¡ªand across the horizon loomed another, fat with trade and arrogant with peace, crumbling on its own strength . He would gut it, spill its wealth into the sea, and crown the Free Isles kings of every tide. His hand drifted to the small silver amulet at his throat¡ªthe burning sun glyph the Azanian witch had pressed into his palm, the night after that glorious victory . Her dusky voice still echoed: Light the world red, and the Great Sun will lift you higher than any throne,she did not speak much of their tongue, and yet that phrase was said as clear as the sun in the sky. He did not trust sorcery, and would never fall victim to it , it was he who would use it, not the other way around. Blake opened his eyes. Tonight he would feast, toast fallen foes, and chart the first stroke of a war no map yet dared imagine. Tomorrow, smoke would rise on a new horizon for a feat that would unite the Free Captain in one great raiding, With a sigh, Blake turned from the window¡¯s pale glow and faced the witch who lingered in the shadows near his bed. In the half©\light her bent frame looked carved from driftwood, her skin more creased than the leather charts on his desk. She did not know a word of his tongue; the speech between them passed through the lips of Blake¡¯s own bed©\slave, a lithe girl seated at the witch¡¯s elbow¡ªeyes lowered, voice steady. Blake¡¯s stare was hard as flint. ¡°Tell her I want certainty,¡± he said, the girl translating each syllable into the liquid vowels of the distant Azanian coast. The witch¡¯s thin mouth cracked into something between a grin and a wound. She rasped a reply; the girl rendered it softly: ¡°She is sure of what she saw, my lord. The signs spoke clearly, and she has not erred.¡± Blake folded his arms, saying nothing, yet his eyes burned with the hunger of a boy waiting for a fireside tale. The witch began, her voice a dry hiss, every phrase echoed a heartbeat later in the girl¡¯s gentle cadence. ¡°I saw flames,¡± the slave translated, ¡°rising like crimson serpents through a vast palace of white stone. Thousands screamed beneath marble towers as banners curled into ash. Amid the pyre lay a broken crown¡ªgold split, jewels spilled like tears.¡± The old crone¡¯s hands painted the vision in the air; the girl¡¯s hushed words followed the trembling fingers. ¡°A lone figure climbed the ruin,¡± she continued, ¡°a man bearing a torch brighter than noon. He thrust the flame into the heart of the wreckage, and fire devoured throne and throne©\room alike. Columns groaned; statues wept molten faces.¡± Blake¡¯s breath slowed, every detail striking sparks in his mind. ¡°When the night was spent,¡± the witch went on, ¡°and the sun bled across the sky, only embers remained¡ªbut atop that blackened mount gleamed a new crown, wrought in iron lines red as fresh blood, glowing where the shattered circlet once lay.¡± The translation ended, but the tent seemed to hold the words aloft, flickering like candlefire. Blake¡¯s pulse thundered in his ears. A palace in flames, a crown broken, a new diadem born in blood©\bright iron¡ªthese images coiled around his ambition, fusing prophecy with desire. He did not speak at once. Instead he watched the witch¡¯s eyes, twin coals reflecting the blaze she had foretold, and felt the story kindle something fierce and eager in his chest. Like a boy before a roaring hearth. The witch¡¯s cracked lips moved again, her words drifting through the slave¡¯s soft translation like embers on wind. ¡°She says the crown of Azania will break in your hands. And on its ruins a greater circlet will rise¡ªone fit for a greater king. The one who shall rule all water.¡± The phrase hung in the air, thick as incense. A king. Blake felt the words strike something deep and unsteady inside him¡ªa chord he had never dared pluck. His people had spurned crowns for centuries, priding themselves on freedom, on no master above the mast. To dream of kingship had once felt impossible, even treacherous: a chain forged of gold instead of iron. Yet the witch had never erred. Every omen she¡¯d whispered these past two years had flowered into brutal truth¡ªwinds, tides, victories. Why would she falter now? Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". He clenched his fists behind his back, hiding the tremor in his fingers. A crown¡ªbright, heavy, absolute¡ªdanced in his mind¡¯s eye, equal parts promise and peril. Could a man who called himself free dare to wear such a weight? Could he bend pirate fleets and wild captains into a kingdom without breaking the very spirit that made them powerful? The answer was no, but breaking a spirit for a crown was too low of a price to pay In the hush that followed the prophecy, Blake¡¯s jaw tightened. The witch watched him with sightless knowing, the slave with timid patience. The sea wind rattled the window again, as if urging an answer. Still in that moment, beneath all the swagger and storm©\born glory, a flicker of doubt whispered through Blake¡¯s heart¡ªsmall, but sharp as a dagger¡¯s kiss. His voice cut through, roughened by equal parts intrigue and irritation. ¡°Months ago,¡± he reminded the witch, ¡°I spoke of taking Azania to kill that woman you so despise. You dismissed it¡ªsaid neither you nor your Great Sun desired such a venture.¡± The slave translated; the hag answered with a brittle hiss that cracked like dry reeds. Through the girl¡¯s careful tongue it became: ¡°Then, I did not care. The Great Sun spoke of other matters. Now He commands otherwise, and I obey. I have no desire except to serve him and you¡± Blake¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°Why would your God wish ruin on His mightiest disciple? Why bid me bury an axe in Azania¡¯s breast?Do they not bow , pray and sacrifice in his name?¡± The witch¡¯s reply, filtered again through soft lips, crawled across the air like venom: ¡°Those once blessed have sunk into decadence. They cherish silks and scented flesh, forgetting the flame their ancestors carried. Their last sultan was a final chance to restore the old fire¡ªhe died punished by his own arrogance, and his kingdom split. On one side stands a man; on the other, an abomination. All while men resembling beasts gnaw at the feet of both of them.¡± Blake frowned. ¡°Abomination?¡± The crone¡¯s eyes gleamed like coals. ¡°One of my own sisters,¡± the slave recited, almost whispering, ¡°defiled her purer blood by lying with the decadent Sand©\Sultan, moved both by love and ambition . She has birthed a thing neither blessed nor mortal¡ªan affront to the Great Sun, an insult, an abomination, a sin to cleanse.¡± Disgust rippled over Blake¡¯s features. He could stomach sea rot, battle gore, even the scent of burning ships¡ªbut the notion of bedding one of these hissing, bone©\thin witches? His lip curled. ¡°Any man eager to share a bed with your sister must wield madness for a pillow and blindess for a whore ¡± he muttered. The old witch threw back her head and loosed a laugh that crackled like kindling. Through the bed©\slave¡¯s careful voice it became a teasing purr: ¡°My sister is no shriveled hag, and she isn¡¯t a common womb or seed . She is a ripe apple, juicy to the core¡ªone the Sand©\Sultan could not resist biting.¡± Blake¡¯s stare remained ice©\cold, but the woman continued ¡°From that union,¡± the slave translated, ¡°an abomination was born. And this age has already birthed one too many of such creatures¡ªhalf divine, most rotten.¡± Her tone hardened, the slave struggling to keep the intensity. ¡°Sooner or later, these mongrel heirs will clash, each will search to bend his own world to his will, the only difference being how big that world will be for everyone else. The bigger the ambition, the more frightening the change.¡± She stepped nearer, shadow stretching like an omen across the floor. ¡°Slay the abomination,¡± she hissed, the girl echoing in a trembling whisper, ¡°and from that red spring a kingdom will rise. A realm that bestrides sea and sand alike, born under your banner. Ships mastered by steel, deserts commanded by flame¡ªwater and fire bowed beneath your will and pleasure.¡± Blake felt the words sink like iron into water, unsettling the depths of his ambition. A dynasty¡ªhis dynasty¡ªfounded not on plunder alone but on prophecy, on a cleansing fire that would scour an empire and leave him unchallenged. ¡°Break the Fire¡¯s enemy,¡± the translation pressed on, the witch¡¯s eyes glowing with fanatic heat, ¡°carry the crest of the One True God farther than any sail has flown. Be the torch that lights the world, and all kingdoms shall blaze or bow in your wake¡ªuntil only yours remains, brightest and unbroken for a hundred years and more. Deliver victory to your holy father, he commands and bids you to, and your rewards shall be immeasurable.¡± Chapter 570: How to build a crown(2) Chapter 570: How to build a crown(2) Lord Blake strode through the torch©\lit corridors of Harmway¡¯s ancient citadel, boots drumming against tiles still veined with old Imperial mosaics. Gold©\rimmed sconces cast restless shadows that chased him along the walls¡ªa fitting escort for the new ¡°Protector of the Isle,¡± the title the Free Council had coined when they dared not crown him outright. Protector sounded temporary, harmless, polite; in practice it meant he held the same power the former Romelian governor once wielded¡ªplus a tidy thirty©\percent share of every coin, bale, and barrel that crossed the island¡¯s quays. A compromise basically since the older alternative was assigning the important isle to Blake as a fief. A option that for obvious choice was disregarded. Down the grand stair, his ears caught the rise and tumble of laughter¡ªthe banquet hall ahead, alive with raucous voices, clattering tankards, and the jangling of a dozen different sea©\shanties all being sung off©\key at once. He had summoned every captain who mattered in the Middle Sea, announcing the feast months earlier so none could claim ignorance. Tonight the hall was a churning tide of salt©\stained coats, braided beards, and scar©\bright tales of plunder. The smells hit first: roast boar glazed in honeyed rum, skewers of squid still hissing from the spit, and casks of citrus©\spiced ale cracked open in tribute to the isle¡¯s new master. Somewhere a fiddler sawed at wild chords; elsewhere captains bellowed wagers over arm©\wrestling and knife©\throwing, their laughter rattling the rafters. Blake paused at the arched doorway, surveying the chaos he¡¯d engineered. Every pirate, privateer, and bold opportunist within a week¡¯s sail had answered his call¡ªdrawn by free ale, fatter promises, and the magnetic pull of a man who had humbled the Romelian fleet. Tonight, he thought, would stitch their loyalties tighter than any treaty. For men of the sea, nothing bound like shared meat, spilled drink, and tales of gold yet to be taken. He squared his shoulders, smoothed the collar of his salt©\blue coat, and stepped into the roar. Protector, governor, king in waiting¡ªcall him what they liked. Harmway was his deck now, and every captain in the room was a card he intended to play. The banquet had gnawed a sizable notch in Blake¡¯s coffers¡ªbarrels of wine and ciders, whole herds of island boar, and enough citrus to keep a fleet free of scurvy for a season¡ªbut the silver was well spent. By tomorrow, every toast and promise sworn under Harmway¡¯s chandeliers would ripple out with the departing ships, carrying his summons farther and faster than any messenger schooner could hope to match. This was after all a call for war. As he crossed the threshold, the din shifted¡ªvoices spiking in recognition. ¡°Hard©\Gut!¡± someone roared above the crush, and half the hall took up the cry. Tankards thumped tables, fingers pointed, and grins split weather©\beaten faces. Hard©\Gut¡ªa name originally barked in jest at a dockside tavern, now worn as a mark of iron constitution. At sea, where moldy biscuit and brined pork often soured the strongest stomachs, a man with a gut that never twisted was half¨Clegend already. Hard©\Gut meant steady. Meant unyielding. Blake let the nickname roll over him like spray off a bow. He lifted one hand in acknowledgement, the other resting on the gilded buckle of his coat, and the roar swelled to fill the vaulted ceiling. Every gaze in the room¡ªflashing gold teeth, glinting earrings, smoke©\grey eyes¡ªpivoted toward him, and for a breath the feast itself seemed to pause, as though the great hall inhaled on his signal. He smiled, broad and effortless, the lamplight catching on the thin scar that curved along his jaw¡ªa reminder of earlier, hungrier days, the little gift left by the Disgrace of Rock Bottom, which he had now avenged along with that of his family. His gaze swept the uproarious hall like a ship¡¯s lantern scanning a night sea¡ªuntil it locked onto a familiar figure at the honor table near the dais. There, amid a knot of lesser captains, sat Kroll ¡®nine fingers¡¯ , a nickname given to him after he lost his finger at the latest battle against the Imperial Armada. His hulking frame bent over a plate piled scandalously high with roast boar , a long braid of iron©\grey hair swung over one shoulder, and a priceless Romelian gem¡ªprobably stolen¡ªglittered at his ear. The instant Kroll saw Blake watching, his weather©\cracked mouth split in a grin wide enough to shame a shark. Without so much as an apology to the men he¡¯d been regaling, he shoved back his chair¡ªsending it skittering¡ªand strode forward, barreling through the crowd like a longship breaking ice. Tankards tilted, chairs scraped, curses flew; Kroll ignored them all. Blake¡¯s lips curled upward, mirroring the joy on the old raider¡¯s face. When they met in the open space beside a pillar, Kroll wrapped his enormous arms around Blake with the enthusiasm of a bear reunited with an errant cub. The prince¡¯s own arms came up in return, clapping the larger man¡¯s back hard enough to sound like drumbeats over the hall¡¯s din. ¡°Hard©\Gut, you salt©\kissed bastard!¡± Kroll boomed¡ªhalf©\laughter, half©\battle©\shout. Blake¡¯s answering chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. ¡°You old walrus¡ªstill missing the one or have you misplaced any others since we last drank together?¡± A roar of approving laughter rippled around them as the giant of the Free Isles broke their embrace, hands still gripping Blake¡¯s arms, eyes gleaming with shared mischief . Kroll stepped back a pace, eyes roving over Blake as if the man were a prize bull at market. He prodded Blake¡¯s upper arm with the blunt ends of two knuckles and whistled through the gap where a front tooth used to be. ¡°By the depth of the sea , Blake ¡ªwhat have you been eating?¡± he barked, squeezing biceps that strained the seams of Blake¡¯s coat. ¡°Nearly cracked my spine with that hug. You¡¯ve put on fifteen whole kilos, all muscle by the feel!¡± Blake laughed, the sound rolling through the hall like a friendly broadside. ¡°Oysters and Imperial fear,¡± he said, flexing for show, knowing however, too well that it wasn¡¯t food that made him so strong ¡°I¡¯ve never felt stronger. I can lift a man by the neck with one hand and gut his friend with the other¡ªsaves time in a tavern brawl.¡± Kroll threw his head back and roared. ¡°A tidy trick! Teach it to my cabin boys; they still need both hands for a single throat.¡± He slapped Blake¡¯s shoulder¡ªhard enough that nearby plates rattled¡ªand the two moved aside as servants appeared with fresh ale, eager to keep the legends lubricated. Blake took a deep swallow, wiped foam from his beard. ¡°But enough of my vanity. How sail things with you, old walrus? I hear whispers you¡¯ve bled every coast from Romelia to Oizen this season.¡± Kroll¡¯s grin shone beneath the hall¡¯s chandeliers. ¡°Who could complain, eh? These are fat days, friend¡ªships laden with silk, ports soft as butter. Ever since we flattened the Imperial fleet the seas have lain open like a tavern door. I swear, every harbor we nose into seems ripe for the plucking. There are fish who haven¡¯t tasted water as sweet as this freedom.¡± He hooked an arm around Blake¡¯s shoulder, lowering his voice just enough that only the closest revelers could eavesdrop. ¡°We are kings out there, . Kings without crowns, aye, but kings all the same. And the landlubbers know it. They see our sails on the horizon and remember the Empire¡¯s eagles sinking beneath those waves¡ªremember who taught the world that the sea answers to no throne of land .¡± Blake¡¯s smile sharpened, mirrored in the bright steel of his ambitions. Together they turned toward the roaring feast, mugs raised high. Around them, captains toasted, musicians screeched cheerful discord, and the night roared on like a high tide¡ªhungry, reckless, unstoppable. Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". Kroll leaned in, voice dropping beneath the racket of fiddles and sloshing ale. ¡°Heard there¡¯s been great commotion in that little princedom you fancy,¡± he said, tapping a sausage©\thick finger against Blake¡¯s chest. ¡°The one south of the Romelian¡ªYarzat, isn¡¯t it?¡± Blake¡¯s grin narrowed, eyes sharpening. ¡°I¡¯ve kept an ear to their shores.¡± Kroll nodded, braid swaying. ¡°I still remember your dreaming. Fresh off sinking the Romelian eagles, swore you¡¯d one day nip that prince¡¯s coastline and take his capital . And now look¡ªhe¡¯s up to his neck in wars: two foreign princes at his gate and half his own lords snapping at his heels. If ever a time was ripe for your... little ambition, it¡¯s now.¡± A spark flickered in Blake¡¯s gaze, but he only sipped his ale. ¡°I¡¯d have sailed south already, but preparations for another venture occupy my charts.¡± Kroll¡¯s brows climbed like gulls on an updraft. ¡°I know you, Blake. If you turn your back on an easy sheep, it¡¯s because you¡¯re stalking a fatter ram. What beast has caught your eye this time?¡± Blake lowered his goblet, the candle©\flames catching in his eyes like twin sparks from a forge. ¡°We broke one giant already, as you may recall¡± he murmured, voice pitched for Kroll¡¯s ears alone. ¡°Why not fell the other?¡± The mirth drained from Kroll¡¯s face as though a lantern had been snuffed. His jaw tightened; the lines around his salt©\bleached eyes deepened. For an instant the hall¡¯s rowdy glow seemed to dull, the music fading beneath the weight of Blake¡¯s words. Blake¡¯s smile lengthened, half predator, half prophet. He clapped Kroll¡¯s shoulder¡ªan iron gesture meant both to steady and to spur. ¡°Come, old friend,¡± he said, stepping past the stunned raider into the swirling heart of the feast. ¡°Let¡¯s share the tidings. The great crown of sand across the sea has gone unbroken far too long. Time it learned how easily gold crumbles when struck by iron and salt.¡± He strode forward, coat flaring, laughter of captains turning curious as he went¡ªlike a tide leaning to the pull of a new moon. Behind him, Kroll exhaled, the echo of distant surf roaring in his ears. The pirate lord appeared on the hunt again, and the desert empire¡ªsun©\bright, sand©\bound¡ªhad just been marked for ruin as a great tiding was to reach their sandy shores. Chapter 571: How to build a crown (3) Chapter 571: How to build a crown (3) The banquet roared on, a tempest of clattering pewter and bellowed toasts. Whole boars vanished to the bone; casks of amber cider drained like summer ponds. Every swallow, every spilled drop came from Blake¡¯s own coffers¡ªsilver he could have hammered into swords and axes and more ships . Yet he watched the captains gorge without a flicker of regret. This was currency too: wine©\drenched loyalty, the kind no ledger could record. He felt their eyes on him¡ªsharp as grappling hooks thrown across a gap. Some stared openly, lifting brimming cups in silent homage; others only stole glances between mouthfuls, as though half©\afraid the legend might stare back. They saw not merely a man, but the flare of their own myth stitched into living flesh. The raider who broke the Imperial keel. The storm that freed Harmway. The flint that struck flame beneath the sleep©\heavy embers of the Confederation. Blake tasted the weight of their regard like sea©\salt on the wind. Fame, yes¡ªbut more than that. He was the Free Isles¡¯ star, the lodestone that had dragged them from small©\time plunder into an age of hungering horizons. Where their ancestors prowled in shadows, he walked beneath a sky suddenly vast and bright with possibilities. He was their soul. Their blade. And tonight, while the hall shook with revelry, that blade lay sheathed¡ªpolished, silent¡ªwaiting for the next great cutting. Blake tipped his head back, draining the last amber ribbon of ale in one long pull. The hall¡¯s torchlight mirrored in the silver cup¡ªthen, with a flick of his wrist, he cast it clattering across the marble. The sudden ring cut through music and laughter, a clear bell of command. Conversations died midsentence; knives hung motionless over half©\carved meat. He drew one deep breath, the kind that fills a sail from stern to prow, and let his voice boom across the chamber. ¡°Ho! Hear me, all you sons of the seas!¡± If there had been a single gaze wandering moments before, it snapped to him now. A hush rippled outward like a stone tossed into water, spreading from table to table until even the servants froze, pitchers poised in mid©\pour. Hundreds of eyes¡ªhard, hungry, admiring¡ªfixed upon Blake. He felt their stares settle over him like jeweled feathers on a peacock¡¯s spread tail, each glint of awe polishing the curve of his pride. In that silence, the Protector of Harmway stood taller than the pillars, brighter than the braziers¡ªready to crown the night with words sharp enough to cut new destiny from the dark. his voice rolled out over the hall, rich as port and twice as warming.¡±Well, my fine sharks and seabirds¡ªare you enjoying yourselves? Stuffing bellies and swilling my best drinks at another man¡¯s expense?¡± A roar answered him, laughter jangling like tossed chains. He lifted a hand for quiet, though amusement still curled his lips.¡±Aye, I thought so. Food bought with someone else¡¯s coin always tastes sweeter, does it not?¡± One captain slapped his table. ¡°Sweet as a tavern girl¡¯s kiss!¡±Another bellowed, half©\drunk, ¡°Sweeter than the cook¡¯s own backside!¡±The hall erupted¡ªcups banging, voices colliding in a riot of mirth. Blake took a slow step forward, boots ringing on stone. The torches painted him gold, the din falling again beneath the gravity of his grin.¡±Eating and drinking,¡± he declared, ¡°are two of the greatest pleasures the world lays before a man.¡± He paused, eyes scanning the sea of eager faces. ¡°But not the greatest.¡± ¡°What, then?¡± someone shouted from the benches.¡±Fucking!¡± another howled, thumping his fist in time with the cheers that followed. Blake chuckled, nodding as though considering a philosophical point.¡±A fair answer¡ªfood, wine, and the heat of a willing companion rank high indeed. Yet¡±¡ªhe raised a finger, voice sharpening like a blade drawn free¡ª¡±there is one thing finer. One thing that sets the heart ablaze in a way no feast or bed ever could.¡± Silence fell again, hungry. Blake¡¯s smile widened into something incandescent. ¡°Glory.¡± ¡°Glory,¡± he repeated, letting the syllable linger like the aftertaste of rare wine. ¡°It reaches the hollow hunger that food and drink can¡¯t sate¡ªand, mark me, once you¡¯re famous, the good fucks come free and begging.¡± Laughter surged, but he rode over it with a rising cadence. ¡°Glory¡± he continued with a somber tone¡± is the echo of our names when the sea has swallowed our bones. It is what lingers when the tides erase our footprints and the gulls forget our faces. A feast ends with sunrise; a tavern girl laughs tomorrow at another fool. But glory¡ªglory sits on the lips of strangers a hundred years from now, spoken in awe beside hearth©\fires we will never see.¡± He paced before the head table, boots drumming like distant drums of war. ¡°Tonight you drink, eat, and rut at my expense¡ªenjoy it. Yet the greatest gift I lay before you is not wine, nor gold, nor flesh.¡± He swept an arm wide, as though offering the very horizon. ¡°It is the chance to carve your names so deep into history that your descendants will measure themselves against you¡ªnot against dusty ancestors you never met.¡± A low murmur rolled through the room, like the first growl of a waking beast. ¡°Think back to the day we shattered the Romelian fleet,¡± Blake continued, voice curling with promise. ¡°The plunder, the cheers, the smoke of their proud eagles sinking beneath the surf. That was fine sport¡ªriches enough to line pockets and bellies for a season.¡± He leaned forward, eyes blazing. ¡°But compared to what I offer tonight, that victory will look like a child¡¯s first raid on a fishmonger¡¯s stall.¡± He paused, letting the tension tighten¡ªlike a mainsail tugged sharp by a sudden wind. ¡°For I have set my ship on a course that will make the last of empires tremble, that will sear our banners into the skylines of two continents, that will... Let our name linger for a thousand years....We shattered a giant upon the waves,¡± Blake thundered, pacing the length of the high table. ¡°Their proud eagles thought themselves masters of every tide¡ªyet we proved to be the kraken beneath, dragging their galleons into the black throat of the sea.¡± A hush fell, filled only by the hiss of torches. He let the image settle¡ªburning ships, flailing masts, Imperial banners swallowed whole¡ªbefore pressing on. ¡°That day will be sung for centuries,¡± he admitted, then tapped his breastbone with a fist. ¡°And yet my heart aches when I hear good comrades boast they are already ¡®kings of the sea.''¡± His gaze swept the benches, daring contradiction. ¡°Kings? We hold but one slice of ocean wrested from Romelian hands. The middle straits lie ours, aye¡ªbut the world¡¯s waters are wider than any map upon these walls.¡± Blake¡¯s voice dropped to a growl. ¡°We cannot claim a true golden age while another colossus still strides the desert beyond¡ªrich, arrogant, unbroken and unbent. Its caravans fatten on spices we have never tasted; its ports grow lazy beneath suns our sails have yet to shadow. As long as the Sand Empire stands proud upon its dunes, we remain usurpers of half a throne!¡± Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". Faces around the hall drained of color, eyes widening in a ripple¡ªrealization dawning like red dawn on cloudless water. ¡°Our forefathers dreamed of such conquest,¡± Blake went on, ¡°and met only spears and scorching wind. Their ships broke upon unfamiliar waves; their ambitions dried to salt in their mouths. For centuries that hunger slept¡ªwaiting and craving .¡± He straightened, every inch the storm©\crowned lord. ¡°I intend not merely to wake that hunger¡ªno. I will feed it until it rises taller than any mast, fiercer than any gale. We cracked one giant¡¯s spine; now we sail to break the other.¡± Blake sprang onto the nearest trestle like a boarding, boots thudding among platters of half©\devoured boar and puddles of ale. Tankards toppled; gravy splashed. He strode the length of the tabletop, scattering pewter and bone under his heels, every step a drumbeat that hammered the hall into silence. ¡°There is no finer hour,¡± he shouted, voice rolling off the rafters, ¡°to fell the last great giant and raise a new colossus from its smoking bones!¡± He kicked aside a platter, roast onions exploding across the floor. ¡°Look west, brothers! The Sand Empire slits its own throat¡ªcivil war rages from oasis to sea. Two fools hack at each other for the right to rule dunes and mirages, a child one of them even! Their nobles barter loyalty like dice; their desert tribes ride in circles chasing banners that change with every dust storm!¡± Blake stamped forward, the table quaking beneath him. ¡°Hordes of horsemen raid their borders, sacking towns while the would©\be sultans squabble over whose turban shines brightest. The empire¡¯s famed fleet¡ªthose cedar©\hulled leviathans that once shadowed every horizon¡ªlies rotting at anchor, forgotten as corpses left in sun!¡± He spread his arms wide, sweeping the room with blazing eyes. ¡°I have seen it with these eyes! I have taken slaves and silver from their undefended coasts. I have tasted the ripe sweetness that waits beyond those dunes. And I swear to you: break that empire now, and the plunder will drown us in gold. Their palaces will smoke, their minarets will topple, their silk roads will run red and feed our coffers!¡± The captains¡¯ breaths came faster; fists tightened around hilts and tankards. ¡°Imagine!¡± Blake roared, voice climbing like a storm surge, ¡°our masts rising against their desert sunrise! Imagine their caravans seized, their ports aflame, their treasures piled on our decks until keels groan! We will drive iron through their palace gates, split their minarets like rotten spars, and forge their holy gold into links for our anchors! We will do what the Oil fuckers failed to accomplish in a century¡± He kicked aside a goblet, and it clanged to the flagstones like a distant bell of doom. ¡°Do you smell it? That wind from the west¡ªthat is not sand you taste, brothers, but opportunity! While they bleed each other for a jeweled stool, we shall carve a throne from their bones. Their war©\drums beat for us now, calling us to claim what they cannot keep!¡± The hall seethed¡ªcaptains rising, fists hammering tables, cutlasses rattling from belts. ¡°Food, drink, and coin are mere sparks in the night¡ªbut glory is a conflagration that never dies! Sail with me, and the world will remember your banners long after your skulls bleach white beneath the sun. Sail with me, and your sons will swagger in every port, boasting they were born of men who bled the desert drier than it was!¡± He tore a roasted leg from a platter and hurled it into the fire, sending up a burst of greasy flame. ¡°Let them howl prayers to false gods¡ªour answer will be thunder and steel! We will brand our names into their dunes so deep that even centuries of wind cannot erase us.¡± Blake snatched a fallen flagon, ale sloshing over his wrist, and thrust it skyward, the torchlight glinting off the frothing brim. ¡°¡ªand we will teach the desert to fear the tide!¡± The walls of the great hall quaked beneath a tidal roar of voices. Tankards slammed, blades rang from scabbards, and fists pounded rhythm on splintering tables. The captains bellowed his name in a rolling chant¡ª¡±Hard©\Gut! Hard©\Gut! Hard©\Gut!¡±¡ªuntil the very rafters vibrated and dust sifted from the carved beams overhead. Some leapt onto benches, waving axes and cutlasses in wild arcs. Others locked arms, spinning in ragged circles while ale sloshed in shimmering arcs across the rush©\strewn floor. The thunder of their boots beat time like drums of war, each stomp echoing the promise of sails unfurled and blood©\red dawns ahead. Blake stood at the center of that maelstrom, flagon raised, the chant of his name crashing over him like surf on iron cliffs. In their blazing eyes he saw the storm he¡¯d summoned¡ªloyalty sharpened to a spear©\point, greed wedded to glory¡ªand he knew the sea itself would tremble when this host set forth. Chapter 572: Putting an end to the war(1) Chapter 572: Putting an end to the war(1) It was the ninety-fifth day. Ninety-five days since the first horn had cried war and the ground had drunk the blood of friend and foe alike. Ninety-five days since the sun had risen over a princedom uncertain, and men had strapped on steel not knowing whether they¡¯d see another dawn. And now¡ªon this last day¡ªit shone with a brilliance so warm, so forgiving, that one could almost believe the gods themselves had forgotten how close to ruin they all had danced. Outside the great canvas pavilion where the war¡¯s final terms were to be sealed, the royal army stood in rigid rows: 2,700 men , their faces bronzed by hardship and glory. It stood proud, victorious¡ªand alive. And there, beneath the open sky, they waited. They waited for the men in that great tent to lay quill to parchment and seal the tale that would echo for generations. A tale of victory and triumph The laughter was easy now¡ªrolling through the ranks like a new rhythm of life. Men who once wept for lost brothers now shared flasks and grinned through broken teeth. It wasn¡¯t the giddy joy of fools; it was the hardened delight of those who had looked death in the eye and spat back. They laughed because they had earned it. They laughed because they had lived. And soon, there would be silver. It filled their dreams and stirred their chatter: the great wagons of plunder waiting to be counted, parceled, and handed out when the army was disbanded. The loot of nearly three months¡¯ blood and fire, now ripe for the taking. Yes, there had been desperation once. But that seemed a different life now. A fog long lifted. This day¡ªthis golden, final day¡ªshone like a polished blade: sharp, gleaming, and clean. Inside the vast war-tent, its red and gold flaps stirring gently in the breeze like a lion¡¯s mane in repose, sat the man who would bring this long, bloody page to its close. Alpheo sat straight-backed upon a chair not of gold or velvet but of ash-wood carved in the field¡ªfit for a commander, not a king. His sword leaned against his side. When the time came, he would stamp it into the earth like a judge¡¯s gavel and declare war no more. Outside, his army waited in arranged silence, not merely a force but a message in formation. Alpheo had seen to it himself¡ªhis own personal army, gleaming and unflinching, lined the central path that led to the tent. Their presence wasn¡¯t ceremonial it was to give a message . These were the men who¡¯d never broken ranks, who¡¯d borne the prince¡¯s banners through dust, flame, and betrayal. They were the mat upon which the riding traitors would tread. And the traitors came. They trotted their weary horses up the road with the quiet of condemned men headed to their own eulogy. Robes frayed, cloaks dulled by travel and time, their eyes were the eyes of men who had wagered everything and lost. Behind each lord rode their ten allowed retainers¡ªno more. The prince had made that stipulation clear: no army, no blades beyond the ceremonial. This was not a parley of equals. Not that they had any soldiers left to bring. Even their last hope¡ªthose proud lances of heavy cavalry stationed on the outskirts, the ghosts of a force once feared¡ªhad bent the knee days ago. They had traded surrender for safety, and Alpheo had gladly offered it, knowing mercy was often more cutting than steel. One of their men had even ridden ahead under flag of truce to inform the rest: the prince would speak, and you will listen. He will offer you peace¡ªbut on his terms, and his alone. And so the lords rode past the very men who had broken their armies and scattered their dreams, their spines straight not from pride, but from the knowledge that a bowed back would be too honest. The sight of their last cavalry riding away behind them¡ªproud banners lowered, spears bundled like firewood¡ªwas still too fresh, too raw. But what cut deepest was that it had been so easy. Their hopes had shattered not in some glorious last stand, but in a sequence of surrenders, each one quieter than the last. Even now, as their hooves thudded softly upon the road, it felt less like a march to peace and more like a funeral procession for a cause that had died without an heir. And waiting in that tent was the prince who had slain it. They rode single file, like criminals on display, through a gauntlet of steel and eyes sharper still. On either side of the road, the soldiers of Prince Alpheo stood in ranks so perfect they looked carved from granite¡ªimmovable, unblinking, and silent as tombstones. Hundreds of them, blades sheathed but fingers never far from the hilts. Their armor gleamed beneath the late sun, polished by the pride of victory and the sweat of discipline. Their eyes, though¡ªthose eyes burned with a fury that not even peace could quench. The rebel lords felt it with every hoofbeat. That heat. That hate. That barely chained thirst for vengeance. These were the same men whose brothers had bled in the mud while the rebels besieged Florium. The same men who had held lines in rain and fire, watching comrades torn apart by ambitions born in castles now reduced to ash. If Prince Alpheo gave a single nod, the lords knew, the narrow road they trotted would become their grave. The ranks would collapse inward like jaws and the ride would end not in parley, but in slaughter. But no such nod came. They had been given safe passage, yes. Letters sealed in royal wax. A gesture of magnanimity from the man who held their fates in one hand and a war-won crown in the other. But who could trust the mercy of a man you tried to depose? Their horses knew it too. The animals snorted and pawed the ground, nervous from the tension coiled all around like the press of thunder before a storm. Every clink of armor, every creak of leather, was deafening in that unnatural stillness. The lords and their retainers, once draped in silks and pride, now sat hunched in travel-stained cloaks. Their banners were absent¡ªstripped days ago. Their swords dulled, ceremonial things now. And still they rode. Past halberdier who looked them up and down as if measuring where best to strike.Past veterans with jagged scars across their lips who sneered as they passed, as if asking: Is this the mighty rebellion? Is this the high-born scum who thought to unseat him? And the lords¡ªoh, how they felt it. Every step was a humiliation, a branding of failure without the fire. They were not riding to parley. They were riding to beg. To plead for lands, for lives, for something¡ªanything¡ªto salvage from the ashes. They could see the great tent ahead now, its massive frame looming like the judgment hall of some vengeful god. The wind tugged at its banners, bearing the crown¡¯s crest. Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". It snapped with pride while their own sigils¡ªso many of them burned, trampled, forgotten¡ªflapped only in memory. And as they passed the last rank of soldiers, the path narrowed further, funneling them into that final stretch like cattle through a chute. The hooves slowed to a shuffle, then to silence, as the rebel lords reached the mouth of the great tent. Sunlight glinted off the brass bindings of the flaps, dancing along the silk seams like a last mocking salute to pride. One by one, the lords dismounted¡ªnone with the grace or ceremony that once marked their comings. Their boots struck the earth with the heavy finality of gravestones laid. They stood now at the gate of their reckoning. Dust clung to the hems of their cloaks. Their blades, still sheathed but pointless now, clinked faintly as they stepped forward. The horses were taken without a word by royal squires, led away like ghosts departing the scene of a death. The air was thick¡ªnot with heat, but with shame. With memory. With knowing. Behind them, their lesser vassals, the minor lords and distant cousins¡ªthose who once strutted behind banners as if born to command¡ªtried to follow. But the wall of guards stepped in, silent but absolute. ¡°Only Lords Niketas, Eurenis, and Lysandros may enter; His Grace allows only them inside ¡± one of the royal guards said, voice calm but carved in stone. ¡°The rest may wait outside... or be shown to their lodgings until summoned.¡± The words were not shouted. They didn¡¯t need to be. There was no debate left to make. These were not terms. They were facts. A silence passed through the lesser lords like a dying wind. No one argued. Not one dared. They had felt the stares of thousands during their shameful ride; they knew well what waited if they overstepped again. Heads lowered. Shoulders slumped. They stepped aside, like reeds before the tide. Some muttered to themselves. Others stared at their feet. But all eyes turned, in the end, to their suzerains¡ªNiketas with his hawkish glare dulled by dread, Eurenis heavy in body and face, sweat already blooming under his arms, and Lysandros, whose youthful pride had not yet fully withered, but trembled now at the edges. Together, the three approached the tent¡ªslowly, silently¡ªas if walking into a tomb they themselves had sealed. No fanfare. No herald. No shield-bearers before them, nor banner-men behind. Just the long shadow of the tent flaps, yawning open like the jaws of fate. This was the day of their defeat.This was the day their swords became pleas.This was the day the wind carried not their names in glory, but in shame. And they stepped forward. Into silence. Into memory.Into history¡¯s cruelest kind of mercy. Chapter 573: Putting an end to the war(2) Chapter 573: Putting an end to the war(2) The three rebel lords ducked beneath the low lip of the tent flap, shoulders drawn tight, pride bleeding from their heels. Inside, the heat was caught and made thick, but not oppressive¡ªit was the silence that stifled most, wrapped around them like a noose. The tent was massive, wide as a noble¡¯s hall and tall enough for a standard to stand upright in the center. Yet it was almost entirely bare. The earth beneath their boots was covered in a woven carpet of pale red and gold, threadbare in places. At the center of it all stood a single table. Plain. Wooden. Low and narrow¡ªnot nearly grand enough for the gravity of this gathering. It looked absurd in the sea of space, like a raft in the middle of an ocean. On the far side of it sat the man who had brought their ruin. Prince Alpheo. He did not rise. He did not need to. He simply watched them as they entered, chin raised, his youthful face calm¡ªbut carved in iron. He wore no crown, only his black armor , polished and severe. His gloved hands rested easily on the table, one over the other. A half-emptied goblet sat near his elbow, untouched for some time. To his sides, seated as if for judgment, were his close companions. There were guards too, stationed in stillness around the tent¡¯s edge. Not one moved. Not one blinked. And in the center of it all, that little wooden table waited, like an altar for the sacrifices to walk upon it. Lord Eurenis was the first to bow, though the motion came with a wince sharp enough to carve lines deeper into his already aged face. His left leg trembled slightly, stiff and angry like his shoulder, who bore a similar wound. Niketas and Lysander followed suit a heartbeat later. No words were spoken¡ªnone were needed. The gesture itself was admission enough. Prince Alpheo acknowledged them with a single, measured nod¡ªneither mocking nor generous. ¡°Please,¡± Alpheo said, his voice as calm and cool as a winter stream. ¡°Let us not delay. Take your seats, and we shall begin our affairs. Gods only know how much time I wasted playing with your little charade¡± The lords moved, ignoring the jab, their footfalls soft against the carpeted floor. As they passed the long flank of the table, each paused briefly to nod this time toward the commanders seated beside the prince. Some of these men had crossed swords with them not a week ago. Now they sat as judges, silent and statuesque. Their faces betrayed nothing¡ªthough Niketas could swear that all of them were quietly savoring every inch of their humiliation. Then came the chairs¡ªthree of them, simple wood with iron fittings, without cushions or crests. They sat. But not before Niketas gave a slow glance around the vast interior of the tent, his eyes narrowing slightly. There was a face missing. Lord Gregor. No sign of the brute lord, no word of him since the last day of battle, when his heavy knights had charge inside the camp with the van. And more troubling still, no word of the High Hierophant either¡ªthat pious leech who¡¯d caused all of this. Niketas¡¯ lips curled back in distaste. He turned his eyes back toward Alpheo, who remained as still as a painting. His voice, when it came, was soft as polished silk, brushed with a veneer of deference but glinting with carefully veiled concern. ¡°If I may, Your Highness,¡± he began, his tone sliding low and measured, ¡°neither myself nor my esteemed peers have received word of Lord Gregor¡¯s condition since the battle¡¯s close. Nor of the priest. Given their... former station in our cause, may I inquire as to their whereabouts?¡± Prince Alpheo did not even blink. His gaze, hard and unamused, did not flicker from the faces before him as he answered in clipped tones. ¡°Both are guests of mine, presently eating and drinking at my leisure. You¡¯ll be pleased to know they are alive and well, until I decide better, of course.¡± Niketas hesitated for the briefest moment, weighing his words like a man defusing a trap. ¡°And¡ªif it pleases Your Highness¡ªmight it not be appropriate, or at least proper, for Lord Gregor to join us in this parley? As one of the most senior among us, his voice¡ª¡± Alpheo raised a single brow. ¡°His voice?¡± he repeated, as if Niketas had suggested the wind be consulted. ¡°Why?¡± Niketas opened his mouth¡ªbut Alpheo didn¡¯t allow the breath of an answer. ¡°He is my prisoner. A man who charged blindly into a slaughter and thought himself the storm. He has no cards, no power, and no leverage. Why would I afford him the courtesy of attending a negotiation he has no say in?¡± Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". The prince leaned forward slightly, voice calm but laced with a razor¡¯s arrogance. ¡°Tell me, Lord Niketas¡ªif a child kicks a pebble down the road, must he ask the stone¡¯s leave? Must he inquire whether it finds the dirt too coarse, the heel too cruel, the path too long? No.¡± He waved his hand, casually dismissive, like swatting away a gnat. ¡°Gregor¡¯s interests, opinions, words¡ªeven his presence¡ªare utterly useless to me. A waste of air. Of chairs. Of patience.¡± A pause. ¡°To suggest I humor him in this chamber, after the insult of his defiance, is not only foolish¡ªit is unfathomable.¡± Alpheo leaned back, folding one leg over the other with the quiet confidence of a man already writing the next chapter of history. ¡°I do not entertain pebbles, my lord. I step on them.And I would like for our discussion to be quick for as you know, I wish to return to court as fast as I can.Of course I hope you do not misunderstand , as nor should you imagine yourselves better placed than Lord Gregor,¡± he said, his tone sharp as drawn steel. ¡°Your armies are broken. Scattered. Those not rotting under carrion birds are fleeing¡ªdesperate, disarmed, and far beyond your grasp. And your castles?¡± He smiled, not warmly but with the kind of satisfaction one feels when tightening a noose. ¡°Ah yes, your noble fortresses¡ªswollen with your trembling vassals, who as we speak are likely thinking about composing sweet little letters to me, offering their keys in exchange for my mercy and a warm summer devoid of flames. It¡¯s always funny to see the rats swim away from a sinking ship¡± He let the words linger like smoke out of a cigar ¡°No, my lords. This is not a parley between equals.¡± His hand lifted, slicing through the space above the small, empty table like a judge with a gavel. ¡°This is not a negotiation. This is me¡ªlaying out terms you will accept.¡± He reclined in his chair slightly, just enough to show how little strain he was under. ¡°You may dispute a word here, a name there, a tax or a title. I¡¯m not without a sense of theater. But do not delude yourselves¡ªyou will not say no. You lack the muscle, the steel, the coin, and the time.¡± The silence that followed was cavernous, even the breeze outside seeming to hold its breath. Niketas¡¯s fingers clenched slightly against the rim of the chair, though his face remained a well-trained mask. Eurenis shifted stiffly in his seat, his injured leg twitching at the phantom sting of old pride being crushed. Only Lysander held his gaze on the table¡¯s edge, like a man calculating the width of a blade meant for his neck. The three lords did not exchange words, but something moved between them in silence¡ªsomething cold and real. Defeat is bitter, but hopelessness is fatal. Niketas knew that dwelling on the humiliation would gain them nothing. Alpheo had spoken truth¡ªcruel, naked, and absolute. Their armies were gone. Their banners trampled in fields that now bloomed with crows. Their castles were hollow threats, their vassals as fickle as the wind. They had nothing. Or almost nothing. Niketas turned his eyes up to the prince, measuring, weighing, not with defiance but with the subtle desperation of a man grasping at the final straw of leverage. Because the very fact that they were here, seated across from their conqueror, sipping the dregs of formality instead of being dragged in chains¡ªthat meant something. If Alpheo had truly wanted their heads, they would already be decorating pikes along the roadside. And so¡ªNiketas reasoned¡ªthere was a meaning behind this meeting. Peace, a settled one , he wondered , why would he want that instead of pressing the advantage? That was the crack in the armor they needed to dig at. To find what the prince wanted that he couldn¡¯t just take. And offer it¡ªnot as equals, not as threats¡ªbut as the smallest island of value in a sea of loss. Niketas adjusted his cloak slightly, hands clasped in a formality that masked the tension in his knuckles. His voice, when it came, was level¡ªdiplomatic, yet shadowed by the tremor of a man who knew the weight of the sword above his head. ¡°We have come,¡± he began, ¡°with the sincere hope that we may put an end to the bloodshed that has... washed across our lands. We understand, Your Highness, that the advantage lies squarely in your hand. Still...¡± His voice slowed, thinned as he chose his words with careful desperation, ¡°we trust you see that prolonging this conflict serves... no one. Except our enemies¡¯ I-Interest¡± He should¡¯ve stopped there. But he made the mistake of looking. Alpheo¡¯s lips had curled up and up ¡°Our enemies?¡± Alpheo repeated, slowly, as if tasting the phrase on his tongue. He leaned forward slightly, his voice still smooth but now carrying an edge like silk wrapped over steel. ¡°Tell me, Lord Niketas, when did we start having our enemies?¡± He gestured lazily, the motion as casual as it was damning. ¡°You, who gathered your bannermen to stab your prince¡¯s back. You, who rode alongside armies who desired to burn loyal farms, to slaughter towns that bore my colors, and shattered the great work that I have done?¡± His eyes narrowed, glittering. ¡°There is no our in this war. There is only me. And those foolish enough to stand against me.¡± Niketas bit his inner cheek, trying not to react. Alpheo noticed. Of course he noticed. He tapped one finger idly on the wooden table¡ªtap, tap, tap¡ªlike a drummer counting out the final notes of an execution march. ¡°Correct me if I¡¯m wrong,¡± Alpheo murmured, ¡°but I believe what you¡¯re doing is desperately trying to dig a hole in the sand deep enough to bury shit, and praying the stink won¡¯t rise.¡± He let that hang in the air, the smile now fully formed, teeth just shy of bared. ¡°You can dig and dig and dig as much as you want, but it is meaningless. I do so hate to dash hopes,¡± he said, voice soft as velvet and twice as suffocating, ¡°but I fear you won¡¯t find anything to cover yourselves with, my dear lords. No excuse. No clever twist of words.¡± He sat back in his chair, eyes never leaving Niketas. ¡°The only reason I¡¯ve agreed to sit here today, rather than see your heads decorating my war camp, is because I find stepping over roaches... bothersome.¡± The tapping stopped. ¡°But make no mistake,¡± he added, ¡°I will finish the job if you become too annoying to watch crawl.¡± Chapter 574: Putting an end to the war(3) Chapter 574: Putting an end to the war(3) What Alpheo meant, though cloaked in the silk of contempt and delivered like a man swatting flies from his wine, was that while certainly possible to put an end to the war completely through military means, it wasn¡¯t in his immediaty interest, as it was simply too bothersome. Yes, it was bothersome , but only in the way cleaning up after a feast is bothersome. The heavy lifting had already been done¡ªthe armies crushed, the rebellion¡¯s back snapped like a dry twig beneath a boot¡ªbut a few pieces remained on the board: stubborn, proud pieces holed up in high towers and stone keeps. If he truly wished to erase the last embers of resistance, all it would take was time, patience, and blood. Three castles. That was the count. Three lordly fortresses still fluttering traitor banners like a drunk waving a knife in a tavern brawl long since lost. And yes¡ªon paper, they could be taken. The art of siege was as old as war itself, and the White Army knew its lines well. But sieges were hungry, miserable things. Dull when they dragged and deadly when they didn¡¯t. They demanded time and food and laborers with strong backs and stronger stomachs¡ªand more than anything, it swallowed morale, something that would grow dangerously thin with every passing day of a war not over. Alpheo knew this intimately. His army had been bloodied and forged in the fire of this campaign, but it had not come without cost. The granaries they¡¯d marched with were thinning like hair on an old man¡¯s head. For now, his men marched and cheered, fat with loot and thick with glory, but once the silver cooled and the joy turned to blisters, they¡¯d begin to grumble like any good soldier worth his salt. And soon¡ªtoo soon¡ªthe harvest would call them home. Plowshares waited to be lifted from barns. Sons, fathers, brothers all wanted their piece of the reward not just in gold, but in grain, in their own fields, their own beds. To keep them from that, to force them into more war, into dragging siege towers and rotting in trenches while arrows rained from parapets... well, even loyalty had a shelf life. Then there was the White Army. Veterans, most of them. Some had already begun the ceremonies of retirement , preparing to leave the prince¡¯s banner behind with honor. They would not rebel¡ªno, not in this moment of glory¡ªbut they would not smile, either, if called back to mud and starvation and another half-year of tedium and attrition. And dissatisfied old lions were not good to keep in one¡¯s tent too long. So Alpheo, with all his ruthless pragmatism, understood the moment¡¯s weight. Strike now, when fear still lingered in the rebels¡¯ bones. Strike now, while the memory of their rout was fresh and the drums of victory still beat in the hearts of his men. Peace signed today meant a legacy polished and sealed. A war dragged out meant paperwork, casualties, and a growing pile of corpses that no longer served any purpose, plus it wasn¡¯t his desire to see many of his old pals die in such meaningless way when retirement was on the way. But let no one mistake that for mercy. If peace failed¡ªif the traitors grew too bold or too deluded to grasp the rope offered them¡ªthen Alpheo would not hesitate to strangle them with it. He would throw the levies of the noble houses, green and eager for plunder, against those castle walls like waves against a crumbling cliff. He would break sieges the old way: by hurling bodies until gates cracked and towers toppled. Because whether through ink or iron, this war was ending. It was simply a question of whether the rebel lords wished to leave the tent walking¡ªor be carried out nailed to their ramparts. Niketas sat with a diplomat¡¯s face but a storm behind his eyes. The words Alpheo had thrown like daggers danced still in his head¡ªsharp, cruel, and, damnably, plausible. He didn¡¯t know if the prince¡¯s reasons were truth or theater, but he knew that everything Alpheo said aligned with the cold, bitter facts: their armies were broken, their castles isolated, their allies scattered like birds in a storm. And now the war¡¯s architect sat lounging across from them, sipping at his own power as if it were wine. Before he could drift deeper into those uneasy calculations, a voice spoke, Jasmine¡¯s grandfather, and by far the most composed among the prince¡¯s inner circle. ¡°I believe we¡¯ve enjoyed enough of this small talk,¡± Shahab said with a wry, dignified tone that still managed to crack the air like a whip. ¡°Let us get to business before the sun sets and we¡¯re forced to dine together.¡± Alpheo exhaled through his nose and straightened his back like a man easing out of a long recline. ¡°As always, Lord Shahab, you are right ,¡± he said as he planted both hands on the table and leaned forward slightly. ¡°I¡¯d prefer to settle matters today. I have no interest in dragging this farce longer than necessary.¡± The room tensed, just slightly. ¡°The first term,¡± he said, ¡°is simple: the lords seated here, and those they represent, must accept full responsibility for the conflict. No evasions. No mutual blame. This rebellion was your choice, your cause, and now¡ªyour shame.¡± Niketas felt that sting in his stomach, and he saw Eurenis shift uncomfortably beside him, adjusting his wounded leg. ¡°To atone,¡± Alpheo continued, ¡°you will travel to the capital, as guests of the Crown, and publicly renew your oaths of loyalty.¡± A pause. ¡°To the Crown,¡± he repeated slowly, ¡± and of course me.¡± That landed. Like a stone into still water, rippling unease across the lords¡¯ faces. The demand was not unusual¡ªpublic repentance and renewed vows were a common theatre of post-rebellion submission¡ªbut the recipient of that oath was. The prince was not born to crown and coronet. He was not a highborn heir kissed by the temples or anointed in marble halls. He was a commoner, an upstart¡ªone who had climbed his way to power not by birthright, but by blade and brilliance. And now they were being asked to bow their heads to him. Niketas caught the glance shared between Eurenis and Lysander. He knew what they were all thinking. But they also knew better than to speak those thoughts aloud. Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". The man sitting across from them had defeated everything they could throw at him. He had walked through fire and come out unscathed. He was no longer just Alpheo the prince-consort, or the Peasant Prince, the Mud Prince, the Low Prince. ¡ªhe now stood there as the victor. Alpheo watched the lords closely as his first demand hung in the tent like the scent of oil before fire. No protest rose. No sharp breath of outrage or subtle clench of fists. They were beaten men, that much was clear, and they knew when to show their throats. Good, he thought. He gave a single, sharp nod and leaned back slightly, eyes glinting. ¡°Since you seem content to reaffirm your oaths,¡± he said, ¡°let me ensure you¡¯ll have cause to remember them.¡± ¡°To guarantee your renewed loyalty, the two eldest sons of each of you will be sent to the capital. If they are grown, they will come as guests. If not¡ª¡± he paused for effect, ¡°¡ªthen they shall come as wards, where they will be tutored at court.¡± There was a stillness in the tent, like men holding their breath in winter. Alpheo pressed on. ¡°In the event that you have no sons,¡± he added with crisp finality, ¡°then the eldest daughter shall be sent instead¡ªalongside your eldest male nephew. These will be the terms for you three, and for Lord Gregor as well,¡± he said. ¡°The lesser lords will offer a son apiece¡ªor a daughter, if no son lives. ¡± Lord Niketas cleared his throat softly, his voice carefully measured, the tone of a man kneeling in a room full of knives. ¡°We... understand and accept these terms, Your Highness,¡± he said. ¡°Though I would ask, if I may, a kindness¡ª¡± Alpheo arched a brow, intrigued. ¡°Go on.¡± Niketas continued, ¡°That our sons be allowed to remain home for the festivities each year¡± Alpheo considered him, tapping a finger against the edge of the table as if testing the grain of the wood. He did not really found anything wrong with it ¡°That,¡± he said, ¡°can be allowed. Two week , each child will come for a different festivity that I will decide on . No more. And the youngest child will remain. If anyone fails to meet this grace with proper obedience, your sons will be carried in chains, and if the men I send are turned away, they will come back with armies and raze your keeps to the ground.¡± There was a quiet release of breath¡ªone lord¡¯s knuckles unfurling from the edge of the table, another¡¯s shoulders slumping just enough to betray relief. ¡°We are grateful,¡± Niketas said with another slow bow of the head. The prince made no move to answer the thanking, instead he leaned forward fingers interlocked on the table like a merchant about to tally the price. ¡°Now,¡± he said, voice smooth and firm, ¡°we move to matters more... material. Blood has been spilled. Oaths have been broken. And so¡ªland will change hands.¡± The tent seemed to contract with the weight of those words. They expected that , but losing land was always a price hard to bear. ¡°As punishment for your crimes against the Crown,¡± Alpheo continued, his tone untouched by pity, ¡°you will be subject to requisition of land by the Crown. The exact details¡ªwhat holdings, what castles, ¡ªshall be determined at a later date. Lord Shahab will oversee the redistribution personally, and will report directly to me.¡± A flicker of discomfort passed over the lords¡¯ faces, blooming like bruises. Alpheo did not wait for them to recover. ¡°Furthermore,¡± he said, ¡°half the suzerainty you once held over your vassals will be stripped from you. Those houses shall now answer directly to the Crown, its laws, and its demanded levies .¡± Lord Eurenis could no longer bite his tongue. ¡°Your Highness,¡± he said, voice tight but not yet defiant, ¡°many of those houses have sworn allegiance to our banners for generations. Their loyalty¡ª¡± Alpheo¡¯s hand rose, halting the words midair like a sword catching a blow. His smile was faint, more razor than warmth. ¡°Is certainly worth commending, considering they followed you into this folly. They will now swear them to the Crown,¡± he said. ¡°And I hope they tend to that oath more loyally than their leiges did.¡± Eurenis lowered his eyes. Alpheo pressed on. ¡°Besides,¡± he added, ¡°since half of your land will now feed the coffers and granaries of the Crown, it is only right that the number of houses who bow to you be reduced as well. We wouldn¡¯t want rebellious lords to get ambitious just because their suzerains suddenly find themselves... hollowed and gutted.¡± The blow landed, heavy and sure. Niketas¡¯s lips tightened. Eurenis looked down at the grain of the table as if searching for something lost. Lord Lysander sat very still, hands folded in his lap like a scholar preparing for a beating. They had been lords of the land¡ªmasters of great stone walls, rolling fields, and long lines of armored men. Now? Now they were feudal husks waiting to be carved apart, fed back into the machine they had once conspired to break. And yet... what could they do? Refuse? They would ride back to their keeps only to watch the royal banners rise on the horizon like the dawn of a storm, and the very same army that had crushed their rebellion would descend upon their walls. If they were lucky, they¡¯d be given a chance to surrender again¡ªon worse terms. If not, the stones of their castles would be mortared with blood. They could shout. They could scream. They could curse the prince, the gods, their own cowardly vassals. But they were weak. Too weak to threaten. Too weak to resist. Too weak to do anything but endure the lash of this royal settlement and thank the stars they still had their heads. And in the silence that followed, Alpheo sat back, as if satisfied, like a butcher watching the final twitch of a freshly-gutted beast. Chapter 575: Putting an end to the war (4) Chapter 575: Putting an end to the war (4) Alpheo tapped his fingers lightly on the table once more, a rhythm of finality, of tightening nooses. In this negotiation, two sets of terms would weigh the heaviest on the conquered: the Seizure of Land and the War Reparations that they would be forced to pay. ¡°With three of the four pillars of peace now laid before us,¡± he said, voice slow and deliberate, ¡°we come to the last matter. Perhaps the most immediate¡ªreparations.¡± A shift rippled through the three lords, like the quiver of a beast cornered yet too proud to bare its throat. ¡°The Crown,¡± Alpheo continued, ¡°has poured an ocean of coin into maintaining the armies that crushed this insurrection. The feeding, clothing, arming, and marching of men across scorched earth is not a matter of whim¡ªit is blood paid in silver. Not to mention the toll inflicted upon our towns, our roads, and our villages¡ªthe burning, the pillaging, the loss of life where the Oizenian and Herculeian boots trampled through like a plague of foreign locusts.¡± He smiled, cool and calm. ¡°And so, compensation must be made.¡± At that, Lord Lysandros stood sharply, his chair screeching backward across the tent floor like a shriek. ¡°Your Highness, with all due respect,¡± he began, barely leashing his fury behind the ceremonial tone, ¡°those damages were made by foreigners! We didn¡¯t lead the Oizenian raids¡ªwe had no say over the pillaging they did. We held back our men, we only besieged Florium for a few weeks, and even then, we restrained our forces from wrecking the countryside to the minimum.¡± Alpheo turned his gaze toward him, sharp as a whetted dagger. ¡°Oh, how noble,¡± he said dryly. ¡°Only a few weeks of siege, then. A mercy. And perhaps you sent them wine and bread while you were at it?¡± Lysandros scowled. ¡°The Crown recognizes no distinction,¡± Alpheo pressed on, ¡°between the sword that slits a throat and the hand that points the way. You brought them here. You invited the wolves into our sheepfold. Do you believe you are blameless simply because you couldn¡¯t leash the beasts you loosed upon us?¡± The silence that followed was deep, cold, and heavy. ¡°No one forced you to rise in revolt,¡± Alpheo went on. ¡°You weighed your fortunes, rallied your banners, and cast the die. You lost. Now the wounded villages, the orphaned children, the burned storehouses¡ªthey cry out for help from the crown. And since your ambitions sparked the blaze, it is only just that you pay for the buckets.¡± Lysandros clenched his jaw, but slowly, bitterly, sank back into his seat, folding his arms as though to keep the words from spilling out of him like venom. Alpheo¡¯s voice softened to a mockery of courtesy, a nobleman¡¯s elegance with a wolf¡¯s teeth beneath it. ¡°You had no reason,¡± he said, each word clear and deliberate, ¡°no cause to drag the realm into fire and blood. The Crown never trampled your rights. Never infringed upon the sacred privileges of your peerage. When Her Grace first ascended, untested and alone, you prodded¡ªnot out of concern, but to test her resolve and see how far you could go. When the crown called for its lords for war, you did not answer. Upon that provocation the Crown answered not with the sword, but with patience. Mercy.¡± He raised a single brow, the ghost of a smirk twitching at the corner of his lips. ¡°And yet still you rose. You cloaked your ambition in noble outrage, cried misdeeds and tyranny as you roused your banners. And now, here you kneel beneath the rod you provoked¡ªso tell me, lords. Now that your armies are shattered, now that you kneel upon that who you despised. Speak. What transgressions do you accuse us of?¡± Silence throbbed for a moment before Lord Niketas shifted slightly and cleared his throat. ¡°Well, Your Highness,¡± he began carefully, ¡°there was... some concern among our peers regarding the reforms to the governatorial offices within Crown lands. Many of our kin who once held those positions lost¡ª¡± Alpheo¡¯s hand rose, and with it, his voice sliced through the tent like drawn steel. ¡°It is the Crown¡¯s prerogative,¡± he snapped, ¡°to govern its own domains however it sees fit, just as it is the right of the nobility to rule their lands without royal meddling. Or is it your belief that the throne should ask your permission to determine who will govern land that answers to the Crown alone?¡± Niketas opened his mouth, brow furrowed, but Alpheo did not pause for a breath. ¡°Because if so,¡± he said, his tone darkening, ¡°then perhaps you mistake the throne for a council seat in one of your provincial halls.¡± A low, uncomfortable stir passed between the rebel lords. Alpheo stood then, slow and towering, eyes cast like judgment upon their bowed forms. ¡°Tell me, my lords,¡± he said, each syllable like a nail in a coffin, ¡°did any other house complain? Did any other noble call the Crown¡¯s governance unjust? No. Only you. Only the lords gathered here, now stripped of armies, with tongues heavy and backs bent.¡± He leaned slightly forward, voice dropping into a dangerous softness. ¡°You cry tyranny only when your coin purses are lightened, and shout ¡®unjust¡¯ only when your power is challenged. But loyalty is tested not in comfort¡ªbut in discomfort. And while others kept their oaths, you drew swords.¡± Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". A moment of silence followed, heavy and suffocating. No rebuttal came¡ªonly the clink of Niketas¡¯ ringed fingers curling over the edge of the table, whitened with restraint. Alpheo gave a slow, final nod and sat back down, his composure returning like the calm sea after a storm. ¡°A man¡¯s view of the world,¡± he said, ¡°is forever twisted by the shape of his own heart.¡± The lords glanced at each other, brows tense, lips pressed to silence. ¡°You,¡± Alpheo continued, lifting his gaze like the unsheathing of a blade, ¡°let imagined slights fester in the darkness of your halls. Whispered doubts turned to poison. The rustle of change, of a Crown shaping the future, became thunder in your ears. You let fear¡ªthat ancient, soft-bellied coward of the soul¡ªrule you. And fear, my lords, births every injustice, every falsehood, every cowardly stroke of the blade in the night.¡± He stood again, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, the other gesturing with solemn gravity. ¡°It was fear that made you refuse the terms I gave you that day on the hill,¡± he said. ¡°It was fear that made you slink like wolves in the night and strike before dawn, spitting on the truce offered until sunrise. A slight I could¡¯ve brought to this table with righteous fury¡ªbut did not. Not because I forgot. Because I forgave.¡± The tent was silent. Even the guards seemed to hold their breath. ¡°But what did fear win you?¡± he asked, voice rising. ¡°A broken army? Crumbled alliances? Sons and kin buried in shallow graves? You believed you could shake the foundations of the realm¡ªyet it was the Crown, led by courage and not complaint, that stood its ground. That held the line. That shattered a host three times its size and marched across your lands like a storm of purpose.¡± His eyes narrowed now, fire behind the calm of his expression. ¡°And make no mistake¡ªthose who moved against the Crown shall pay. First you. Then your allies. Then the worms hiding in their keep, awaiting pardon they have not earned. Your domains will feel the grip of justice, your names¡ªonce roared in pride¡ªwill now whisper with shame through corridors of history.¡± He leaned forward, voice dropping like the final toll of a bell. ¡°So,bear it. If your pride can take it. Or fight it... raise your blades once more, and let me tear the rest of your world down brick by brick. Those are your choices. One ends in peace, the other in coffins. Which shall it be?¡± The silence after was not mere quiet¡ªit was heavy, pulsing, alive with the sting of humiliation. Lord Niketas looked to his companions, then back to the prince, and lowered his eyes with a breath that might¡¯ve once held defiance, now hollowed by realism. ¡°We...¡± he began, voice hushed, ¡°will pay the reparations for the damages caused by this war.¡± Alpheo gave a single nod, no triumph on his face¡ªonly inevitability. ¡°Then we are nearly done.¡± Alpheo leaned back in his chair, his hands folding neatly before him, the embodiment of a man who had just finished carving his enemy¡¯s fate into stone. ¡°I believe,¡± he said, voice dripping with casual finality, ¡°that all which remains... are mere details.¡± He turned his head slightly, the golden thread of his cloak catching the light, and nodded toward Lord Shahab, the old lion of the east, who watched everything with the air of a man who had seen a hundred wars rise and fall like the tides. ¡°For those,¡± Alpheo said with a small, almost lazy smile, ¡°you shall treat with Lord Shahab. He has a...finer touch for matters of parchment and ink than I do. And fewer sharp edges.¡± The lords gave a series of small, reluctant nods, perhaps even happy that he was leaving. Alpheo pushed himself up from his chair with a smooth, deliberate motion, and as he rose, so too did the silent men that had flanked him throughout the meeting, Egil , Jarza and Asag. They had not spoken a word during the talks, but only stood there with a bit of a menacing aura. It was clear now, though: they had not been needed for menace. Alpheo had wrapped the lords in rings of iron and silk all by himself, tightening the noose with every syllable. ¡°And of course,¡± Alpheo said as he reached the tent¡¯s entrance, turning his head slightly to cast his words like a king dispensing mercy, ¡°to celebrate the end of this foolish war, a feast shall be held the night after this. A true festival, for peace hard-won.¡± He paused, a glint of something sharp in his eye. ¡°As brokers of this peace, you shall all be present ,of course¡± Without another word, he stepped out into the sun, the flaps of the tent snapping in the breeze behind him like banners of victory, leaving the defeated lords to stew in the ashes of their pride and the meticulous dissection of their futures. What a good day it was for the Crown.... Chapter 576: Playing the long game(1) Chapter 576: Playing the long game(1) Alpheo sat back in his chair, the afternoon light filtering into the great private tent, spilling over the plain wooden table where the tools of history lay assembled before him. The air was rich with the scent of oiled leather, old paper, and the faint sharpness of sealing wax warming near. He could have delegated this task to any number of clerks, scribes, or commanders ¡ª but he had made sure it was Aron who delivered the documents personally. There were other matters he would soon discuss with the man, but for now, it was time to put an official end to the bloodshed. In his hands he held the thick, heavy stack of papers: not common parchment, mind you, but paper ¡ª his paper, the proud product of his industry. He leafed slowly through the treaty, each page weighted with clauses and stipulations that would bind the rebellious lords in chains far tighter than any forge could make. At the bottom of the final page lay a neat collection of signatures ¡ª Lord Niketas¡¯ sharp and precise, Lord Eurenis¡¯ almost trembling in its penmanship, and Lord Lysandros¡¯ . Their house sigils were pressed beside each name in orderly, humiliated fashion, the wax impressions standing out like tombstones. Only one sigil was missing: the Crown. Alpheo allowed himself a small smile, a quiet satisfaction that hummed in his chest. He had won once again against terrible odds. He, of course, had never wavered in that belief, but still, it had been a long and bloody war. Now he could finally rest... Rejoicing from that notion, he dipped the quill, sharp and fine, into the inkpot with a practiced flick of his wrist. For a moment, he simply stared at the blank line, savoring it, as if a general would savor the moment before giving a final triumphant order. Then, with a steady hand, he wrote: Alpheo Veloni-isha, Bearer of the Crown¡¯s Will. The ink dried quickly on the fine paper, dark and permanent as a scar. With a languid grace, he reached for a small bar of crimson wax, warming it gently over the flame until it was supple enough to drip thick and steady onto the blank space beside the house seals. The wax pooled in a rich red circle, the color of blood yet also of royal majesty. From a small case he drew his personal seal and pressed it down into the hot wax, feeling the satisfying resistance as it yielded to his authority. When he pulled the stamp away, the mark was perfect: regal, immutable, and above all final. He leaned back again, tossing the now-empty quill onto the table. His eyes danced across the document one final time. Every word was his; every line a snare. Besides the towering terms he¡¯d hammered upon the rebels¡¯ heads¡ªseizures, oaths, hostages¡ªthere sat in clean, crisp script the communal fine: forty-five thousand silverii, to be paid over three years. He allowed himself a slow, indulgent breath, savoring the moment. He recalled with a faint smirk how the rebels had clamored with the desperation of drowning men. Oh, how they had begged for clemency, their voices sweetened with false humility, claiming that the war had bled them dry, that no such wealth remained in their coffers. Alpheo tapped the edge of the treaty against the table, a knowing gleam in his eye. Liars. All of them. He knew exactly how much silver each of these lords had hidden. Every chest buried, every shrine built larger than reason demanded¡ªit was all a map to their greed. And while he could not say so openly, he had it from the lips of a snake: Elyos, the fallen priest, had sung like a canary once cornered, revealing any coin he had received and given away. But to expose that now would be foolish. If he admitted he knew, tradition and law would tie his hands, forcing him to share the wealth equally with the other lords, be if that silver came from the defeated lords or from the treasury hidden in Elioth. He, after all, hated sharing what he considered his. Instead, now he could simply wait for the war to end , before recovering that mountain of silver, and use for the well-being of the state. Alpheo¡¯s tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth in quiet, delighted hunger, a sensation almost like salivation, as he imagined it¡ªchests upon chests of untouched coin flowing into his coffers, to be used to expand his armies, improve the infrastructure, or, more importantly, to fund his retaliations against his enemies. What a lucky day this is, Alpheo noted with a smile as delightful as the sun. Then, with a final, almost affectionate look at the document, Alpheo pressed it against the table with a palm full of strength, as though sealing the fate of an entire generation beneath it. And indeed, he was. As aside from the staggering fine, the rebel lords now found themselves yoked with an even more delightful burden. Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". Henceforth, whenever summoned to war, each would be required to furnish a fixed levy: one hundred footmen and twenty-five archers, all armored, clothed, and fed at their own expense. No more, no less. It was a subtle noose, tightening by degrees. Before, the number of levied troops had been a matter of pride, discretion, or grudging obligation. A lord could march to war with a retinue of three hundred if he sought the king¡¯s favor¡ªor with a paltry fifty if he wished to voice silent dissent. The old ways had allowed the nobility to flex their influence, to bargain with steel and loyalty. More men meant greater prestige; fewer meant a calculated snub. But Alpheo had long despised that prerogative. From the moment he rose, he had envisioned a realm where the crown¡¯s word was law¡ªunyielding, unchallenged. He could not simply announce such a reform outright, of course. The nobility would have balked, perhaps even rebelled in unison. Instead, he had to weave his will into the fabric of power, thread by thread. The rebel lords were merely the first strand. Of course, for the defeated lord, that wasn¡¯t all that was forced upon them, as from now on no one among them could raise additional taxes without the express permission of the Crown, like a father overseeing a spendthrift child. Worse yet¡ªthe true sting¡ªthey could no longer exact tolls or tariffs from any caravan bearing the royal sigil. Alpheo allowed himself a thin smile.That, more than anything, had been his own special addition. It was no whim. It was the first brick in a castle no one else could yet see.The Crown would not itself raise caravans¡ªno, that was the merchants¡¯ task.But Alpheo intended to gather them, bind them, and harness them into something altogether new: a Federation of Trade, a body loyal not to guilds but to the throne itself. In exchange for the use of royal-protected roads and immunity from local tariffs, these merchants would pay a yearly tribute¡ªfixed, reliable, and immune to the tantrums of petty lords. Today a charter. Tomorrow, a tide. One day, Alpheo mused, this federation could spread its veins across other princedoms, seeping into foreign courts, breaking the backs of overmighty trade guilds like that fattened snake, the Trade Guild of Yarzat. I want to unseat them, Alpheo thought. Supplant them. Control the very blood of commerce itself. Of course, he knew such a future was far off, hazy as a mirage at the desert¡¯s edge. It would take cunning, patience, and years of tedious groundwork, wrangling merchants, pruning the unruly, and building new roads. But he had time.And now, thanks to this treaty, he had the silver to begin. Alpheo turned his keen gaze toward Aron, who stood nearby still clutching the ledger, ever the dutiful diplomat even now. Though he had been relieved from his duties across the sea, where he had deftly coaxed Torghan and his tribe into new lands, Aron was not truly free; he had been tasked with overseeing the missives and reports sent by the man who had replaced him. The prince tapped a finger against the treaty resting on his knee and asked, ¡°Has Torghan¡¯s father started his campaign yet?What was his name V-Vakaku?¡± Aron, quick as ever, straightened slightly.¡±From the last missive he is still gathering strength and tending to preparations. The campaign has not yet begun. Also his name would be Varaku, your Grace.¡± Alpheo allowed himself a slow nod. Just in time, he thought. The prince leaned forward, steepling his fingers before his favorite diplomat. ¡°Good. I suppose it is in our interest to see him win. After all, it would do us much good to have a strong force backing us up in that virgin and wild land where only power counts¡±. He rose to his feet with the easy, fluid grace of a man who just came victorious out of a war and paced toward the small map table cluttered with reports and half-drunk goblets of wine.¡±After this little dance with the rebel lords,¡± he said, motioning loosely to the treaty, ¡°we¡¯ve quite the bounty¡ªmore weapons than we have hands to hold them. Chainmail, spears, axes, swords...I¡¯ve got no use for them¡± He turned, a glint in his eye. ¡°Organize some ships. Select five hundred sets of chainmail, six hundred spears, and four hundred axes or swords. Send them across the sea to our allies there .¡±He smirked as he added, ¡°Consider it an investment... to ensure their victory. After the campaign ends, they can pay us with the prisoners they take.¡± Aron, to his credit, only blinked once before nodding.Alpheo grinned wider, like a cat stretching in the sun. ¡°Oh¡ªand throw in some salt. I suppose that is the highest demand from our market outside the steel¡±He chuckled ¡°They can season their meat or their wounds¡ªmakes no difference to me.As long as they can give me more subjects, they can salt the seas with it and ask for more...¡± ¡°As you wish, my prince.¡± Aron said without missing a beat, graced in the joy of finally having something to do after months of inactivity. As men like him found idleness to be a plague, worthy only of being fended off. Chapter 577: Playing the long game(2) Chapter 577: Playing the long game(2) Alpheo sank back into his chair, fingers drumming idly against the worn armrest, his mind already leagues away, across the salt-bitten waves, to lands not yet carved properly into the map. This war ¡ª this reckless, bloody festival of betrayal and broken swords ¡ª had taught him many things, but perhaps none as valuable as this: the power of auxiliary communities. The Voghondai had proven it beyond doubt; with their strange tongues, they had shown themselves worth ten times their number in native levies, not that it was that hard considering also the fact that their equipment was far better than their counterparts. Still , their performance had been nothing short of splendid, proving that an alien arm, one whose fate was tied to your fortune alone, was even better. Of course, their performance did not rely on discipline and cohesion like it was the case for the Black Stripes, but instead on fast and quick brutality and ferocity, that would break the fighting will of their enemies. And so, while the ink of the treaty was still wet and the fires of rebellion still smoldered, Alpheo¡¯s thoughts marched forward. The other continent ¡ª that wild, broken sprawl of tribes and ambition ¡ª would be the forge of his future. He knew the truth as plainly as he knew his own pulse: this would not be the last war.Today he had been outnumbered three to one and triumphed. But what about tomorrow? What about a day when he might face odds five or ten times as grim?No, he could not trust luck or even mere skill to see him through such a storm. Strength must be multiplied, not merely gathered. It must be bred, trained, and set loose. His gaze sharpened as if boring through the tent¡¯s heavy canvas and out across the world itself. It was of utmost importance that Torghan¡¯s tribe did not merely survive ¡ª they must thrive, swell, fatten on victory and blood, gathering men like a river gathers silt. In the short term, it was simple: more men.More shields, more spears, more loyal hands to grip them. If Torghan¡¯s old tribe could conquer their rivals, then so too could Alpheo conquer the invisible battles that loomed ahead ¡ª not just by force of arms, but by reshaping the very bones of the world around him. He smiled slightly, the kind of smile that men once claimed cracked mountains and split kingdoms. ¡°First we grow the roots, then we strangle the tree,¡± he murmured to himself as he leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight as he steepled his fingers before his mouth, thoughtful. He had no foolish dreams of directly ruling the lands beyond the sea. No, the cost of such an enterprise would be monstrous¡ªarmies garrisoned year-round, fleets crossing treacherous waters, coin spent faster than it could ever be earned. For what? A few scattered mines of silver buried deep in hostile mountains? Mines that had already lured Azania to a bitter and bloody end, defeated by the same sharp peaks and sharper spears? What Alpheo desired was far more clever¡ªand far less costly. It was not their rocks and hills he wanted. It was their trade.He would have his merchants weave the web, not his soldiers wield the sword. He would see Yarzat¡¯s coin flood their markets, Yarzat¡¯s steel in their hands, Yarzat¡¯s salt in their kitchens. He would turn them into partners by necessity, not subjects by force.He would draw them in, one by one, until the tribes themselves would come to him, silver in hand, goods in tow, asking for exchange¡ªand then, once his influence was too deeply rooted to be undone, perhaps, perhaps, the mines would come willingly too. But that was for later.Now, they had but one urgent need: to widen the net.To find more tribes. To make more bonds. To build a network as intricate as a spider¡¯s web¡ªand twice as deadly for those who wandered into it unaware. Alpheo glanced toward Aron, whose patient gaze was still upon him. ¡°Soon,¡± Alpheo said, his voice calm but cutting with purpose, ¡°you shall give lessons to a group of men of my choosing. Lessons in the ways of their speech, their customs, their temperaments. I want them ready to step onto those shores and charm every damned savage they meet.¡± Aron straightened at once. ¡°Your Grace,¡± he said, ¡°should we seek to mimic what we have with Torghan¡¯s father?¡± Alpheo nodded, a small, sharp smile tugging at his lips. ¡°Yes. Exactly that. Make more Torghans for me.¡± Gods only know how much I am in need of them, he noted Aron bowed his head slightly but hesitated for a brief moment before adding carefully, ¡°I will obey, Your Grace. But it is my duty to inform you... some, perhaps many, of these missions may fail. I believe our current success with Torghan¡¯s people may be a case of fortune, not the norm.¡± Alpheo hummed, the kind of one a man did when forced to eat something he did not like ¡°I will keep that in mind,¡± he said, his tone kind despite his displeasure .He respected a man who spoke uncomfortable truths more than one who lied with sweet honey. As the prince was busy regarding his plan , the royal diplomat walked forward, summoning all the courage he had by gaining the attention of the prince. After a brief moment of hesitation, he cleared his throat and asked, ¡°Your Grace, if I may be so brazen... might I make a suggestion?¡± Alpheo, glancing up from the table, lifted an eyebrow in slight surprise ¡°Of the two of us, you are the one who passed the most time among them. I¡¯d be a fool to swat away your opinion, arrogant and outrightly foolish. Speak.¡± Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". Aron bowed his head slightly in thanks, composing his thoughts before stepping forward, careful, measured. ¡°If the plan is to introduce more people to our lands, then perhaps instead of urging them to settle directly, it would be wiser to first employ them¡ªthe men, I mean¡ªas mercenaries. Promise them salt and steel for their families in exchange for two years of service under arms. Let them come with a clear task and a clear reward, rather than the uncertain promise of a new life.¡± Alpheo leaned back, folding his arms over his chest, drumming his fingers against the wood of the chair, his sharp mind already turning the idea over like a blade in his hand. ¡°Hmm. A fine plan for filling our ranks, certainly. But how, pray, does that solve the problem of settlement? We might end up with hired swords who leave when their time is up, scattering back to their homelands with our silver and steel.¡± Aron nodded, prepared for this, his eyes gleaming slightly as he stepped closer, daring now to meet the prince¡¯s gaze. ¡°Many among Torghan¡¯s folk have already spoken about the richness of our lands¡ªtheir eyes wide with awe at the bounty of food, the lushness of the fields, the ease of life compared to their barren coasts and windswept plains. They see rivers where once they had only known cracked soil, they see granaries filled with grain heavier than any they¡¯ve ever known.¡± He leaned in slightly, his voice steady but low, the tone of a man spinning a careful web. ¡°They all feared abandoning everything they knew. But those who have crossed already now speak of it as a blessing. They have drunk our wines, eaten bread so soft it collapses in the mouth, slept under roofs that do not leak when it rains.¡± Aron straightened, gaining confidence as he spoke. ¡°The main thing keeping their kin across the sea from coming is fear. Fear of abandoning their memories, their homes, their fathers¡¯ graves¡ªfor the unseen promise of better things. But if they were to arrive here under the pretext of fighting, under the illusion that it is only for a little while, then they would see the truth with their own eyes. The food. The wealth. The safety.¡± He raised a hand slightly, palm up, as if weighing the very idea. ¡°Once they have lived here even briefly, once they have sent word back of the plenty they found¡ªor once we offer a little more reward at the end of their service¡ªmany will choose to stay. To bring their wives and their sons and daughters across the sea. To set down roots, and to call these lands home.¡± He lowered his hand slowly and fell silent, letting the words echo gently in the still air of the tent.For a long moment, the only sounds were the faint stirring of the wind against the heavy canvas walls, as if the very world itself was holding its breath, waiting for Alpheo¡¯s verdict. Listening to Aron proposal, in his mind, Alpheo couldn¡¯t help but think: fuck, that¡¯s good, why didn¡¯t I think of that? He hadn¡¯t considered that angle at all¡ªhow fear of the unknown could chain even the boldest men to their crumbling homes. What Aron said made perfect sense. If he were in their place, asked to abandon everything he¡¯d ever known on the vague promise of a better life, would he not hesitate too? Would he not cling to the scraps of the familiar, no matter how threadbare they were? Alpheo leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking under him as he mulled it over. It was true¡ªright now, with only Torghan¡¯s old tribe , the results might be modest. But once their influence spread, once other tribes were reached and word of fertile fields and overflowing granaries crossed the seas, then the floodgates would open. And there was more: those tribes didn¡¯t use silver; they bartered goods like animals, hides, and tools. Once they arrived here and realized everything was bought and sold with coin, even a pittance of silver would seem a king¡¯s ransom. They could be paid little, and still feel rich¡ªand when the time came to return home, many might prefer to stay, bringing their families to settle and work the land, strengthening the princedom from within. Alpheo gave a low chuckle, sharp and pleased. He turned his keen gaze to Aron and said aloud, ¡°It is a fine plan. A very fine plan. You have my blessing¡ªgo ahead with it.¡± Aron bowed deeply, a flicker of pride lighting his young face. ¡°Being useful to your grace is honor enough.¡± Alpheo smirked, giving him a pointed look, his voice dropping into that rough, sardonic tone he used when pleased. ¡°Being useful,¡± he said, ¡°is reason to be rewarded. Remember that.¡± With a gesture of dismissal, he told him, ¡°You may go.¡± Aron bowed again, this time slower, his mind racing even as he backed out of the tent. Alpheo watched him go, the tent flap rustling shut behind him, leaving the prince alone once more¡ªsmiling faintly to himself, already spinning the future out of the few sharp, glittering words that had just changed the course of his plans. Chapter 578: Sovereign (1) Chapter 578: Sovereign (1) The great tent, vast as a cathedral, rose like a mountain of silk and gold against the fading light of the evening. It was the same tent where the terms of peace had been hammered out, word by word, blow by blow¡ªand now it stood ready to host the feast that would mark the end of the war. Yet, for all its splendor, the air inside was tense, heavy with expectation. The lords of the royal host sat within, their finest garments gleaming in the lamplight¡ªvelvets and furs, brocades stitched with tiny golden threads, swords at their belts and signet rings flashing on their fingers. Men who had bled and killed for the Crown, now gathering to celebrate the victory that would be sung for a hundred years. But though the tables were laid out grandly, with great silver platters and goblets carved with eagles and roses, no food had yet been served, and the jugs of wine and cider remained tightly sealed. The servants, standing at attention along the edges, were motionless, their hands empty, their faces blank. For before bread could be broken and toasts could ring into the rafters, there was still one last thing to do. An old truth held firm here, older than the blood that stained the soil outside: you do not dine with your enemies¡ªnot until they are no longer your enemies. Not until they have bent the knee, in spirit and in form. And Alpheo, seated high on a great chair atop a dais of red cloth, had no intention of letting this pass in silence. No, tonight was not just a feast. Tonight was theater. Tonight was spectacle.Tonight, he would make sure that every man there¡ªand every man who heard of it afterward¡ªknew exactly who had broken whose back. He lounged with a king¡¯s easy grace, clad in dark silks edged in silver thread, a simple circlet resting upon his brow. He wanted them to see him. The man who had led armies, crushed rebellion, and now held his enemies like a hawk with broken prey beneath its talons. Alpheo¡¯s sharp eyes scanned the rows of rebel lords standing stiffly in front of him¡ªfine coats rumpled from travel, boots dusty, faces pale and drawn. They wore the look of men called to the scaffold rather than the banquet hall. Good. Let them feel it. In a moment, he would rise, and one by one they would come forward, kneel, and swear their oaths anew¡ªthis time not merely to the crown, but to him, the hand that had dealt their defeat. Alpheo¡¯s sharp gaze shifted subtly to his right, falling upon the figure of young Lord Talek, newly minted in title but already bearing the heavy, rusted weight of sorrow. The young lord now stood amongst the gathering of the loyalist like a phantom, his body here in the great tent, but his soul lost somewhere between rage, grief, and regret. His clothes hung loose on his frame, his eyes dull, as if the world around him passed by at a distance, half-seen and half-cared for. Since the news had reached him¡ªthe death of his father, Lord Robert, and the appalling state in which his body had been found¡ªTalek had been but a hollow shade of himself, neither speaking nor listening much. Merely existing, and even that poorly. Alpheo, sitting with the casual dignity of a ruler, let his fingers drum once on the polished wood of his chair as he recalled their earlier exchange. He had summoned Talek before the feast, not to gloat, not to scorn, but to offer a mercy that cost him little but bought him much.He had told him, in a voice neither cold nor warm, that Lord Robert would receive a state funeral¡ªa ceremony fit for a hero, not a traitor. For whatever Robert had been in life¡ªa rebel, a usurper in heart¡ªhe had been no coward. And in his own grim, bloody way, it was thanks to Robert¡¯s stubbornness that allowed for Alpheo to carve out such a decisive and memorable victory. Talek had accepted the news with a hollow nod, the kind a man gives when words have lost meaning. Still, Alpheo had noticed¡ªsomething in the set of Talek¡¯s shoulders, a softening in the line of his jaw. As much as he could, the young lord was grateful. It fascinated Alpheo, in an idle, detached sort of way.He found it curious, almost morbidly so, how deeply Talek cared for a father whose presence had been a ghost at best during the last two years. Lord Robert had, by all accounts, abandoned his household matters to chase whatever he searched for , leaving his son to shoulder burdens alone, to grow hard and silent without guidance.And yet here he was¡ªgrieving not like a bitter son, but a loyal one. Perhaps, Alpheo thought, before politics and ambition swallowed the man whole, he had been a good father. Or good enough for the boy to remember him that way.He sighed quietly, the sound lost amidst the low murmurs in the tent. Damn the tragedy of it all. And he could not help but remember¡ªbitterly, vividly¡ªthe night Talek had come to him.The young man , stripped of everything save his tunic, his boots cast aside, dirt smeared across his knees and palms. No guards had needed to drag him. He had come himself, outside the prince¡¯s tent in the dark, the cold air biting at his bare arms, tears staining his cheeks, trembling as he prostrated himself before the man who had bested the rebels. He had begged.Begged, as few noblemen would ever dare. Begged for the life of honor to be repaid in blood. Begged for Lord Gregor¡ªRobert¡¯s killer¡ªto be executed in the name of justice.His voice had broken like a reed underfoot as he pleaded: a son¡¯s grief laid bare, raw and shameful to witness. And Alpheo, with the cold patience of a man who had already measured the weight of consequences, had denied him. Not because he doubted that Gregor deserved death, he was a rebel, and he cared not whether he lived or died and ¡ªindeed, the brute¡¯s desecration of the body had been a foul stain on the whole affair¡ªbut because politics, not justice, ruled the day. If Gregor were executed, every other rebel lord still clinging to some scrap of pride would believe the Crown¡¯s promise of peace a lie.They would scatter like foxes before the hounds, and the war would drag on for months, perhaps years, with blood spilled endlessly to satisfy the thirst of vengeance.No, better to keep the butcher alive and force peace down their throats than to indulge in a moment¡¯s satisfaction. Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". Still, watching Talek now¡ªstanding like a boy lost in a storm¡ªAlpheo felt a flicker of something he did not often grant himself: a sliver of pity.Not enough to change the course of his decisions. Never that.But enough to remember that even in victory, some things were broken that could never be mended. He tapped his fingers once more, a signal to his heralds.The oaths would begin soon.There would be kneeling, and swearing, and then, finally, a celebration loud enough to drive the ghosts away for one night. But Talek¡¯s ghost would walk with him a while longer yet ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª As soon as the time was right Alpheo gave the signal, and immediately the trumpet¡¯s high, clear call rang out across the tent like the cry of a hawk descending upon its prey, silencing the murmured conversations in an instant. All turned as a royal herald stepped forward, his gilded staff striking the ground three times with ceremonial weight. His voice, trained to carry across battlefields and ballrooms alike, rang loud and proud: ¡°His Grace, Alpheo, lord of Arduronaven , lord of Confluendi and Prince consort of her grace Jasmine Veloni-isha, shall now receive the oaths of the Lords!¡± No music played, no laughter stirred. Only the soft shuffling of heavy boots against the rich carpet spread for the ceremony broke the solemnity. First among the defeated to step forward was Lord Niketas, his face carved from stone, unreadable and grim. He moved with the slow, deliberate steps of a man condemned but not yet buried, every inch of his stature battered by defeat yet upheld by pride he could not fully shed. His cloak dragged behind him like a shroud, the colors of his house muted under the canvas light. Before Alpheo¡¯s seat of state¡ªa grand chair adorned with banners of gold and crimson¡ªNiketas halted. Without hesitation but without joy, he bent his knee, the joints creaking almost audibly. His head bowed low, and with ceremony heavy and slow, he took Alpheo¡¯s hand in both of his own, pressing the royal ring to his brow in submission. His voice, though hoarse, rang clear enough for all to hear: ¡°I, Niketas of House Ormedes, do swear by my blood, my honor, and the bones of my ancestors, that I shall henceforth be faithful and true to Her Grace and her consort , Alpheo, and through him to the Crown. I renounce all false alliances, repent my rebellion, and pledge sword, shield, and soul to the service of the realm, until the end of my days or the end of my line.¡± A silence fell, heavy and expectant. Alpheo, his face a mask of stately mercy, lifted his free hand in a gesture of absolution. His voice was firm, carrying over the gathered host with kingly finality: ¡°By the power vested in me by the Crown, I forgive your crimes, Lord Niketas. I welcome you back into the fold of loyal service. Rise, and be restored.¡± Niketas lifted his head slowly, the motion revealing eyes that were hollow¡ªlifeless not from fear, but from the utter shattering of pride.He muttered the formal reply, voice drained of any warmth: ¡°Thank you, Your Grace.¡± Without waiting for dismissal, he rose stiffly and made his way to the rear of the tent, where a seat had been prepared for him among the other lords who had already pledged or were about to. His steps were measured, but heavy with a shame he could barely contain, each stride a visible act of will. Behind him, the herald was already calling the next name, and the ritual of defeat and forgiveness rolled onward, just as Alpheo had designed. The herald¡¯s voice rang out again, sharp and solemn: ¡°Lord Eurenis of House Valden, approach and offer your oath.¡± The tent stirred as Eurenis stepped forward, his movements stiff and slow. He limped, favoring his left leg, the wound from the last clash of the war still raw beneath the polished armor he wore out of pride, or perhaps stubbornness. His face was drawn tight against the pain, but he held his head high, the last ember of his dignity refusing to gutter out. Alpheo watched him come, his expression unreadable, carved from marble and shadow. As with Niketas before him, when Eurenis halted before the throne, Alpheo extended his hand ¡ª the royal ring catching the lamplight like a star clutched between his fingers. Eurenis bowed, heavy and deliberate. His fingers closed around the offered hand, and he bent lower still, bringing the royal ring toward his lips. Then, just as the lips brushed the metal ¡ª The entire tent seemed to gasp in unison. In a flash of motion swift as a hawk striking from the sky, Alpheo withdrew his hand from Eurenis¡¯s reach and lifted it high into the air, the royal ring glittering above them all The lords and knights seated in the tent stiffened as if struck; even the herald faltered, half a syllable dying in his throat. The very air seemed to pulse with the shock of it. Eurenis, still bent forward, remained frozen for an instant, his mouth hanging open in astonishment, before slowly straightening, his confusion plain for all to see. As the prince¡¯s hands remained unkissed so the lord had not been pardoned Chapter 579: Sovereign(2) Chapter 579: Sovereign(2) The murmuring of the gathered lords began almost at once ¡ª soft ripples of whispering voices passing like a restless wind through the great tent.Heads leaned together, hands half-covered mouths, eyes darting between Lord Eurenis and where Alpheo sat. A common thought passed through their minds,Was he gonna kill him before they could get guest¡¯s rights? Eurenis himself stood frozen, confusion clouding his worn features. He looked as though he scarcely understood what offense he had committed, blinking once, twice, under the pressure of a hundred staring eyes. Alpheo, calm as a man at a chessboard, simply studied him for a long breath before speaking, his voice carrying a lightness that barely concealed the iron beneath. ¡°It is,¡± said Alpheo with a slow, almost instructive tone, ¡°the custom, Lord Eurenis, for a man receiving the grace of the crown to kneel... not merely bow... when kissing the royal ring.Do you believe yourself above it?¡± The words were soft ¡ª and yet in the charged air of the tent, they cracked like a whip. Eurenis swallowed, visibly at a loss for a moment, before forcing himself to bow his head even lower.¡±My apologies, Your Grace,¡± he said hoarsely. ¡°I¡ªI meant no slight. My leg, it was wounded in the fighting, and¡ª¡± Before he could stammer further, Alpheo¡¯s hand rose, cutting through the air as sharply as a drawn sword. His finger extended behind him, pointing straight at Lord Asag, who sat with all the silent solidity of a mountain despite his broken arm. ¡°And shall that be your justification?¡± Alpheo said, the softness vanished from his voice, replaced by something steely and undeniable.¡±That you, who took up arms against your lawful sovereign , who spilled blood in rebellion, find your wounded leg excuse enough not to kneel in the presence of the very crown you sought to oppose?¡± The tent went silent once again, as though the very fabric of it strained to hear every word. ¡°Look there,¡± Alpheo continued ¡°Look upon Lord Asag.When I arrived at Aracina ¡ª after twenty-eight days of siege and slaughter ¡ª it was he who stood between ruin and salvation of the entire city.It was he who, with a body battered and torn, still held the walls until the banners of the Crown unfurled upon the horizon.¡± He let the words hang, cold and heavy. ¡°And yet, despite wounds that would have sent lesser men to their graves, the first act that Lord Asag performed after all the great deeds he did for the crown upon my arrival, was to throw both knees to the bloodied earth ¡ª not out of compulsion, but out of honor, and thanks.¡± ¡°So tell me, Lord Eurenis...¡± Alpheo¡¯s gaze pinned him to the spot like a dagger through a parchment. ¡°If a hero of this war, wounded beyond your reckoning, found it fit to kneel in gratitude before his sovereign ¡ªIs it proper that a rebel, who seeks not to celebrate loyalty but to beg pardon for treason, considers himself exempt for a scratch received while fighting against that very Crown?¡± Alpheo let the silence stretch until it was taut and trembling. Lord Eurenis, after a tense moment where silence pressed down upon the tent like a physical weight, lowered his head and said, his voice strained but earnest, understanding that the prince was attempting anything to discredit the lords among their fellows , believed it wiser to relent rather than oppose it , even if doing that brought him pain. ¡°I beg your pardon, Your Grace.¡± Then, with a grimace twisting his features, he slowly, painfully bent his knees, until he knelt properly before Alpheo. A visible tremor ran through him as he leaned forward and kissed the royal ring with reverence, the sound of it soft but clear in the heavy hush. Still kneeling, his forehead nearly brushing the back of Alpheo¡¯s hand, he spoke the ancient oath with a shaking voice, ¡°I, Eurenis of House Velgran, swear by my blood, my honor, and the bones of my ancestors, that I shall henceforth be faithful and true to Her Grace and her consort , Alpheo. I renounce all false alliances, repent my rebellion, and pledge sword, shield, and soul to the service of the realm, until the end of my days or the end of my line.¡± Alpheo, his face a picture of regal solemnity, answered without hesitation, his voice carrying over the gathered lords, ¡°By the power vested in me by the Crown and by the blood of our ancestors, I accept your oath, Lord Eurenis. May your loyalty be steadfast, and your service true, from this day until the end of your line.¡± With a grunt of effort, Eurenis pushed himself upright, the pain of his wound evident despite his attempts to mask it, and made his way to the end of the tent, where Lord Niketas awaited him in silence, offering no words, only a small nod as Eurenis joined him. After that, the ceremony flowed without further blemish.Lord Lysandros approached next, his steps measured and proud, but with no sign of rebellion left in his bearing. He knelt without prompting, kissed the ring, and swore his oath clearly and firmly. Lord Gregor followed who, despite the lingering tension around him for Lord Robert¡¯s death, made a strong and formal declaration of loyalty, kneeling with an almost exaggerated show of submission that drew a few murmurs from the watching nobles. One by one, the minor lords followed, each kneeling, each kissing the ring, each repeating the sacred words that bound them once more to the Crown they had dared to defy. The ceremony moved like a river now ¡ª steady, inevitable ¡ª until all had been accounted for, and a deep exhale seemed to pass through the gathered crowd as the last of them took his place among the forgiven. Alpheo, watching with the satisfaction of a weaver admiring a completed tapestry, finally stood from his elevated seat. The gathered lords rose as one at his movement, their chairs scraping against the floor. In a voice that rang clear and strong through the great tent, Alpheo proclaimed, ¡°Now that oaths have been spoken and forgiveness given, let the bitterness of war be washed away! Let the feast begin!¡± Cheers erupted in the tent, a wave of noise and relief as servants rushed in bearing trays laden with roasted meats, golden loaves, heavy jugs of wine, and gleaming platters piled high with fruits and sweets. The long, grim ceremony was behind them.Now came the part everyone had secretly longed for: the night of wine, laughter, and carefully watched conversations ¡ª where victory would be drunk and defeat would be swallowed with it Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". The dinner had scarcely begun when the strains of music filled the great tent ¡ª a lively but elegant tune plucked from lyres and lutes, the soft thrum of a tambourine keeping the rhythm. Servants wove between the tables like well-trained dancers, setting down steaming platters of roasted meats and baskets overflowing with rich, buttered bread. Yet for all the noise ¡ª the clinking of goblets, the low murmur of nobles exchanging guarded words, the rustle of silken sleeves ¡ª a great many eyes kept darting, again and again, toward a figure seated only a few places away from Prince Alpheo himself. The man stuck out like a dark oak amidst a field of white lilies. His skin was a dusky bronze, kissed deep by a harsher sun than these lands ever knew, and his black hair was braided with small bands of copper. His strong, hawkish features bore the proud, sharp lines of the Azanian peoples, though any who knew better would recognize he was no true Azanian ¡ª but a Voghondai chief, born of the same vast continent. It was Torghan, the very man Alpheo had seen fit to elevate by granting him a seat among the highest of the royal host.Before the war, such a move would have been political folly. Alpheo, ever the cunning player, would have thought twice ¡ª thrice even ¡ª before seating a foreigner so close to him, wary of inflaming the prideful, hawk-eyed lords who already fretted about the favor the Crown might show outsiders over their ¡°noble blood.¡± But now?Now was different. Now the banners of victory fluttered in the winds outside, stitched with the blood and triumph of a campaign fought in the name of the Crown¡¯s right to shield and raise whoever it damn well pleased. Alpheo had no more interest in tiptoeing around their delicate feelings than he had in entertaining the whinings of a child denied a second sweet. It was instead much better to set the pace, and after a great victory to cement that the victors needed to show arrogance and strength of bearing. The Voghondai had fought with a fury that shamed even the most seasoned knights of the realm. If celebrating their chief sent a few noble stomachs curdling into their goblets of wine , Alpheo believed it a unworrying problem. Torghan himself, to his credit, seemed aware of the weight of the glances upon him but bore it with the easy, impervious calm of a man used to being stared at. He said little, ate little, merely inclining his head politely when addressed. Alpheo, meanwhile, lounged back in his chair, goblet in hand, savoring both the wine and the seething discomfort of his highborn company.The nobles might simmer, they might murmur behind their sleeves and whisper behind closed doors, but Alpheo knew ¡ªand how he knew ¡ª that after this war, after this roaring triumph, none among them had the stomach to challenge the might of the Crown over such a petty grievance. The Crown had soared; its light, blinding.And those who dared squint too long against it would find themselves burned. Of course, none of this meant the Crown could act with limitless impunity. Victory was a mighty cloak, but even the finest weave had its tears if stretched too far. Alpheo, for all his cold confidence, was no fool. He knew that there would always be, a limit.A line drawn not by laws or charters, but by the reality of power itself ¡ª the unspoken understanding that a ruler could push and prod and parade, but only so far before the lords, jealously guarding their ancient rights and swollen fortunes, would see fit to sharpen their swords once more. That line, at present, was far off, blurred by the haze of a glorious campaign and the exhaustion of the rebel lords who now supped humbly beneath the Crown¡¯s gaze. Yet Alpheo knew it remained, lurking beyond the revelry like a wolf in the trees. This little play of dominance ¡ª seating Torghan at the high table, letting the nobles stew in their poisoned pride ¡ª this was acceptable. A flex of muscle, a reminder that it was by the grace of the Crown they ate and drank at all. It cost them nothing of real worth, only a few ounces of dignity. But if Alpheo ever dared to reach deeper ¡ª if he sought to reform the laws to siphon their wealth, to crush their autonomy, to replace their ancient privileges with the cold machinery of centralized rule ¡ª then he would find not murmurs, but blades. But for now, though, he could enjoy these small victories, these subtle games of power. As in the meantime he would start by building the foundations for what could be the golden age of the south, dominated by a single power or better yet a single ruler. Chapter 580: Sovereign(3) Chapter 580: Sovereign(3) The feast rolled on, lively as a river after spring rains. The musicians plucked at their lutes and fiddles, filling the great tent with a warm variety of sound, while the scent of roasted meats, spiced peppered stews, and fresh bread mingled thickly in the air. Laughter, heavy with wine, rose here and there, as nobles slowly got in the air of the celebration Alpheo, however, had not come just to dine.Leaning back in his chair with the lazy air of a lion full on meat, he turned his head and let his gaze drift across the long table, finally fixing his eyes on a particular sight: Egil. There, a few seats down, sat the man, stuffing his face with the ferocity of a starving wolf. At that precise moment, Egil was in the middle of conquering an entire chicken leg, grease glistening on his hands and dripping down the side of his face. For a long heartbeat, Egil didn¡¯t notice the princely stare boring into him. Then he did. Egil froze, mid-gnaw, the chicken bone still lodged firmly in his grip. His blue eyes flickered to Alpheo¡¯s, and ¡ª in a flurry of motion ¡ª he dropped the remains of the bird onto his plate, grabbed the nearest linen cloth, and began scrubbing at his greasy mouth and fingers. Alpheo gave a low, amused hum at the spectacle, drumming his fingers lightly against the table before finally speaking, his voice cutting through the murmur of the feast like a knife through soft bread.¡±I have some questions,¡± he said, tone almost casual, ¡°about Ratto.¡± Egil, now looking a bit like a guilty child caught stealing sweets, tossed the ruined towel onto the table and leaned back with a wide, greasy grin. His voice was rich with good humor as he replied,¡±Ah, of course, of course. You must be fretting about the lad ¡ª thrown into my hands like a piglet into the care of a bear.¡±He chuckled, patting his broad chest with a fist.¡±Wondering how he¡¯s faring, are you? If I¡¯ve eaten him yet, or if the boy¡¯s gone mad as it said about the Crown¡¯s hound?!¡± He laughed again, a booming sound that made the silverware rattle, clearly enjoying the chance to jest ¡ª and just as clearly savoring the small, shining moment of attention at the prince¡¯s table. ¡°I know,¡± the prince said, his voice lowering just enough to cut through the noise of the feast, ¡°how much weight I put upon your shoulders.¡± Egil, wiping the last trace of grease from his beard, gave a theatrical sigh, as if carrying the burden of the world.¡±Aye, Alph. No one¡¯s got time to jest anymore.¡±He leaned in a bit, lowering his voice like they were old conspirators sharing a dirty secret.¡±You want to know how the boy¡¯s faring?¡± Alpheo simply nodded, one brow arching. Egil grinned, wide and full of crooked pride.¡±Very well, I¡¯d say. Got himself the gut of a real man now, not that scrawny twig you sent me.¡±He jabbed a thick thumb towards his chest, puffing up.¡±Killed four men, last battle, or so the boys tell it. Not bad at all! ¡®Course,¡± he added with a gleam in his eye, ¡°I killed dozens myself ¡ª but considering he¡¯s not yet seen the hairs on his chest darken proper, I¡¯d call it damned impressive.¡± A small smile curled at Alpheo¡¯s lips.¡±Good to hear,¡± he said simply. Egil smirked, leaning even further across the table like a bear nosing for honey.¡±Mind if I ask something?What¡¯s the plan? You didn¡¯t throw him to me just to let the boy grow muscle swinging a sword. You¡¯ve got something more in that clever little head of yours, I¡¯ll wager.¡± Alpheo chuckled under his breath, lifting his goblet of wine and taking a slow sip before answering, letting the suspense stretch just enough.¡±You presume correctly. But for now,¡± ¡ª he lowered the goblet, his eyes gleaming with quiet satisfaction ¡ª ¡°he¡¯ll remain part of your unit. Learn the rough way. Bleed a little, tire a lot. Build the scars a man needs.¡± Egil¡¯s grin widened, but Alpheo continued, his tone sharpening just slightly, the way a whetstone kisses the edge of a blade. ¡°In the future, though... I¡¯ll pull him from your ranks. Land him a place where he commands men, leads them into the fray, and learns what it means to carry more than just his own life into battle.¡± ¡°Still,¡± Egil replied, wiping the foam of ale from his lips with the back of his hand, ¡°I don¡¯t quite see why you¡¯ve got so much interest in the lad. Since that day he tried to pickpocket Clio, you just had a sort of interest in him. Not that he minded since he basically followed you everywhere like a puppy.¡± Alpheo only hummed, grabbing his cup of cider with a lazy hand and swirling it once before bringing it to his lips. He tilted his head back and emptied it in a long pull, setting the cup down with a heavy clunk.He licked a bit of cider from his lip, then glanced sideways at Egil with a dry smile. ¡°And what is it, do you think, that I am missing?¡± he asked Egil scratched at his stubbled jaw, frowning like a man trying to solve a riddle scrawled on a tavern wall. After a moment of very serious thinking ¡ª which to anyone watching might have been comical ¡ª he threw up his hands. ¡°I¡¯ve got no bloody idea,¡± he confessed, chuckling. Alpheo leaned in, his voice low and yet more than happy to share.¡±Proper human resources,¡± he said, tapping a finger lightly against the table. Egil blinked once, then twice, as if Alpheo had started speaking another language. ¡°The White Army,¡± Alpheo continued, tone smooth as oiled steel, ¡°is suffering a great shortness of proper leadership. I .....well, I¡¯m forced to pluck men from the ranks who¡¯ve barely seen two years of proper service, which while they make for good soldiers, makes for poor officers.¡± He poured himself another cup, speaking all the while.¡±And it¡¯s only going to grow worse when I expand the army even further. So,¡± ¡ª he raised his cup in a small toast ¡ª ¡°right now, I¡¯m watching if all this time and attention I pour into the boy will bear fruit. If he shapes up well, I¡¯ll have gained a good subordinate.¡± He gave a small, self-satisfied shrug.¡±After all, more than half my victories are thanks to the people I surround myself with. No ruler wins alone.¡± Egil, lifting his own mug in response, gave a grin so wide it looked ready to split his face in two.¡±Ah, Alph, you¡¯re warming this heart of mine. How gracious it is to be noted...,¡± he said theatrically, before downing the entire mug in one go. Alpheo chuckled under his breath.¡± If you get any softer, I might have to have you assigned to as the court¡¯s poet.¡± Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". Egil thudded his mug back onto the table with a snort.¡±Bah! If that happens, I¡¯ll write ballads so vulgar , they would kill a priest.¡± Alpheo laughed outright this time, a clear, sharp sound that cut through the rumble of the feast. Egil, after a long gulp from his mug, leaned closer ¡°Still,¡± he said in a more serious tone , wiping the foam from his beard with a sleeve, ¡°why not make use of your wife¡¯s leal vassals? Stuff a few of their sons into the ranks. Get some blood, you can use swinging swords for you.¡± Alpheo arched an eyebrow¡±You think I haven¡¯t considered it?¡± he said, swirling the cider in his cup lazily. ¡°The reason why we¡¯ve got such a bloody shortage is simple: our sub-centurii and decurii keep dying. Dying in the mud, on the front line.¡± He leaned forward, voice dropping to a cool murmur.¡±And you think any noble worth his lands and silver would give me his son for that? Marching on foot, fighting in the dirt like a common levy? No, Egil. They¡¯ll offer me their boys, aye ¡ª but only if I promise them cushioned commander¡¯s seats. They¡¯ll want captains¡¯ cloaks, fancy spurs, command of hundreds... and none of the risk.¡± He gave a thin smile, full of the cold amusement of a man who knew the game far too well.¡±And that¡¯s something I won¡¯t grant unless I know for damn sure that their loyalty lies only with the Crown ¡ª not with some sniveling faction plotting in the corridors.¡± Egil chuckled, shaking his head.¡±Trust,¡± he muttered, ¡°is scarcer than gold these days.¡± Alpheo nodded, finishing his cider in one long pull before setting the cup down with a thunk.¡±True enough. But,¡± he said, eyes glinting, ¡°I do have half a plan brewing in that regard. Something to... mediate the matter.¡± Egil tilted his head, grin spreading like a cat who smelled cream.¡±Oh? What¡¯s that?¡± he asked, voice dripping with curiosity. Alpheo leaned forward slightly, lifting his cup again, the words already on his tongue¡± Since we have the coin now, I was thi¡ª¡± ¡°YOU CURR!¡± Bellowed a voice from the far end of the great tent; interrupting him before he could finish. The music screeched to a halt, plates clattered, and for a moment, the entire world inside the pavilion seemed to freeze. Alpheo was on his feet in an instant, his chair scraping backward with a harsh screech. Around him, the royal guards shifted, their boots thudding as they stepped closer, hands instinctively resting on hilts, ready to form a wall between their prince and any threat. Alpheo¡¯s sharp gaze darted across the tent, searching¡ªand found it, a great congregation of people at the end where the pardoned lords had been seated.The crowd was growing, lords and knights pushing and murmuring, craning their necks to see the source of the disturbance. A knot of dread coiled in Alpheo¡¯s gut. He turned his head swiftly toward where Talek had been seated just a few moments before ¡ª the young lord he had been keeping an eye on all evening ¡ª and found the seat empty. His jaw tightened. His fingers curled into a fist so hard the knuckles whitened as he realized he had been had. ¡°Fuck.¡± Chapter 581: Sovereign (4) Chapter 581: Sovereign (4) The end of the tent had descended into chaos. Plates clattered and shattered on the ground, goblets toppled and spilled wine like blood across the floor. Men shouted over one another, a tangle of angry voices mixing with the heavy thuds of bodies pushing and shoving to get a better look. The long tables trembled under the shifting weight of the crowd, and somewhere a lute screeched in protest as a musician was jostled hard. Alpheo rose sharply from his seat, his voice cracking like a whip over the confusion,¡±WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!?¡± Before he could stride forward, a hand ¡ª firm, calloused, and impossibly steady ¡ª clapped down on his shoulder. Shahab, seated close by, had already sprung into action. His hawkish eyes were fixed coldly on the chaos ahead, but his voice was calm as still water. ¡°Stand there, boy,¡± Shahab murmured, low and stern, like a father warning a reckless son. ¡°We don¡¯t know what¡¯s going on yet. Better send your guards first. Let them put it down before you go stepping into blades. Maybe that¡¯s just what they want.¡± Alpheo didn¡¯t answer, but his body stilled, the weight of Shahab¡¯s words sinking into his gut. His mind flared back to Confluendi when he was victim of an attempted assassination. He had survived that moment by a hair¡¯s breadth. He would not tempt fate again so foolishly. Grinding his teeth, he thrust out his arm and barked,¡±GUARDS! Put it down! NOW! I want whatever madness this is silenced!¡± At once, the royal guards surged forward like a human tide, their polished armor catching the torchlight as they cut a path through the mob, shouting orders and roughly shoving aside anyone who did not move fast enough. Amid the disorder, Jarza, had already drawn his short sword. Without waiting for instruction, he pressed into the fray himself, determined to see the heart of the matter with his own eyes. Alpheo stood behind, tense as a drawn bow, his gaze fixed bitterly on the empty chair where Talek had been sitting just moments before. The seat stared back at him, an accusation in wood and velvet. The prince¡¯s mind raced. Had the damned boy gone and gutted Lord Gregor right there, in the middle of his royal feast? To avenge Robert, to wash his family¡¯s honor in blood? His stomach twisted into a knot as he watched the guards struggle to quell the growing uproar. Plates crashed again, someone cursed, and a sharp cry of pain rose above the din. Damn the boy, he cursed bitterly in his mind, fists tightening at his sides. If Talek had drawn steel and spilled Gregor¡¯s blood ¡ª and it certainly looked like it from the way the tent was seething ¡ª then the matter was no longer a petty quarrel or a drunken squabble. No, it was proper murder, black and simple. The law was clear as daylight: it was death by rope, swinging from the gallows until your feet kick the empty air. And Alpheo, for all his patience, for all his carefully stacked diplomacy, did not give half a shit about the young Lord Talek. He wasn¡¯t sentimental enough for that. But there was one thing that had his blood simmering hotter than the mess Talek had made ¡ª it was the memory of Lord Robert. The old man, thorny and proud though he had been, had dealt honorably. He had bled and died standing firm, and in exchange, Alpheo had given his word ¡ª clear and binding ¡ª that Robert¡¯s son would know mercy. And now the little shit had gone and made a liar of me. Alpheo¡¯s face darkened, his fingers drumming angrily against the hilt of his sword. It wasn¡¯t Talek¡¯s life that bothered him. No, what crawled under his skin like fire ants was the feeling of a promise betrayed , when he had given his word. If the young lord had spilled blood tonight, there would be no easy way out. Mercy had its limits, and even a prince couldn¡¯t simply brush murder under the rug without looking weak ¡ª especially not after the whole tent full of sharp-eyed lords had seen it unfold. The moment the tent calmed enough that no assassins came lunging out of the crowd, Alpheo set forward, the heavy boots of his royal guards thumping around him like a drumroll of judgment. As he advanced, the murmurs fell away one by one, as though the very air of the tent was being sucked dry. By the time he reached the fray, silence gripped the hall like an iron hand. There, at the center of it all, he found the two culprits. Two guards held young Talek ¡ª Robert¡¯s son ¡ª by the arms, his face red with fury but otherwise untouched. Another pair of guards gripped Lord Gregor, who, to Alpheo¡¯s mild relief, was very much alive, albeit with blood streaming from his nose and a furious, half-murderous glare burning from his swollen eyes. Alpheo¡¯s heartbeat, wild a moment ago, settled back into a more manageable boil.At least I won¡¯t have to hang the little shit, he thought grimly, his anger cooling just a hair. He fixed both men with a look sharp enough to draw blood and demanded ¡°What the hells is going on here?¡± Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". Talek, despite being held fast, straightened his back like a proud fool and barked,¡±What happened,¡± he said, voice shaking with emotion, ¡°is a son demanding his due for his father¡¯s murder!¡± There was a slight collective gasp from the onlookers, but before anyone could say a thing, Gregor with his reckless, bull-headed spirit ,snarled through his broken nose, spitting a gob of blood at the floor. ¡°Your father was a traitorous cur!¡± Gregor roared. ¡°He got what was coming to him ¡ª and I¡¯ll gut you too if you ever dare raise a hand against me again!¡± He tried to lunge, but the guards jerked him back roughly, armor clinking as he struggled, looking for all the world like a mad dog held barely in leash. Alpheo pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply as he willed himself not to start screaming. This was not how peace feasts were meant to go. Alpheo, without taking his cold, hawk-like gaze off the two standing before him, flicked his fingers in a sharp motion, calling Jarza to his side. Alpheo leaned slightly toward him and muttered under his breath,¡±Why in the hells does Gregor have a bloody nose? ¡± Jarza scratched his greying beard, looking both exasperated and faintly amused.¡±Well,Alph¡± he began, his voice low enough not to carry to the gathered lords, ¡°the brat marched right up to Gregor, all fire and brimstone, and threw down a gauntlet at his face calling for a duel.¡± Alpheo¡¯s brow rose sharply, confusion flickering across his face.¡±And how does that explain the bloody nose?¡± he asked, voice dangerously calm. Jarza coughed into his fist, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.¡± The lad hurled it like a slingshot stone ¡ª straight at Gregor¡¯s face. And from the look of that dented tin heap, I¡¯d wager the gauntlet was made specially for the occasion, seems quite heavy really.¡± For half a heartbeat, Alpheo just stared at him, processing the absurdity of it all. Had the situation not been so serious ¡ª and the consequences for the realm so grave ¡ª Alpheo might have actually laughed, perhaps even clapped the boy on the back for his accuracy. Instead, he only exhaled through his nose Talek meanwhile, face flushed red with anger, jerked against the arms of the guards and shouted across the tent,¡±As the son of a murdered lord, I claim my right to demand a duel ¡ª to restore the honor stolen from my house and my father!¡± A collective murmur rippled through the tent like a sudden gust of wind rattling banners. Gregor, blood still dripping sluggishly from his nose, snarled back with a feral twist of his mouth,¡±You and your dead father had no honor to begin with, boy! Close your mouth before you embarrass his ghost even more!¡± Talek tried to lunge at him, only the iron grips of the guards keeping him back.¡±Shut your mouth, you son of a whore!¡± he bellowed, voice cracking slightly with the sheer heat of his fury. The tent now buzzed like a nest of angry wasps ¡ª lords leaning forward in their chairs, the lower-ranked knights whispering and craning their necks for a better view. It was Alpheo who shattered the brewing chaos with a voice so low and cold it seemed to cut through the uproar like a drawn sword:¡±Enough. What is this? A theater show? Is this the behavior you show before your prince?¡± The words, soft as they were, fell heavier than any shouted command. The tent went still. Talek, still heaving from rage, tore his glare away from Gregor and dropped his head slightly toward Alpheo. His voice, though still quivering with emotion, was steady enough to carry:¡±Forgive me, Your Grace. But I judged it better to make my claim here, before all the gathered nobility and under the witness of the Crown itself. Else that coward would have found a way to slip away like the rat he is.¡± Gregor spat on the floor, ignoring the gasps that came from some of the more sensitive lords. He straightened and shouted back,¡±Coward? I¡¯ve been on more battlefields than you¡¯ve bedded girls, whelp! The day I run from a challenge is the day I die!¡± Talek, with a savage smile, answered back without hesitation,¡±Good. On either road, you¡¯ll find only death.¡± The words hung in the air, sharp and bitter, as if the very tent walls had heard and recoiled. Alpheo stood tall at the center of the commotion, his gaze sweeping from the bloodied Gregor to the seething Talek. In his heart, he cursed both of them ,yet he knew he had no real choice. Both men wanted the duel ¡ª craved it, even ¡ª and if he dared to forbid it without cause, it would only make him look weak or biased. Worse still, he had no legal ground to stop it. The customs of the realm were as clear as steel: a lord had the right to demand trial by combat to avenge a father¡¯s death if both parties agreed. And these two looked more eager for blood than wolves after a wounded deer. Suppressing the urge to rub his temples, Alpheo straightened and declared in a voice that rang through the tent:¡±The law grants such right to the son of a slain lord. And since both the sender and the recipient of the challenge have shown themselves willing, the Crown shall attest to the sacrality of this duel.¡± A ripple moved through the tent ¡ª not the loud gasping of earlier, but a quiet, tense shifting, as if the whole room collectively exhaled. Alpheo wasn¡¯t finished. He gestured toward Gregor, whose nose was still leaking onto his tunic, and added,¡±Given Lord Gregor¡¯s wounds¡±¡ª he shot a half-amused glance at the bloodied mess of his face along with the other wounds he got when he was captured by his forces ¡°the duel shall be held two months hence, in the capital, under the watchful eye of an Enforcer of the Crown, who shall ensure the fairness and honesty of the combat.¡± He paused, letting his words settle like a stone tossed into still water. ¡°Does any here object?¡± Both Talek and Gregor shook their heads, their faces like carved statues, grim and furious. Alpheo let out a long, weary sigh ¡ª not entirely theatrical ¡ª and finished,¡±Then so be it. The Crown shall condone such a contest... and may the gods bless the just and true.¡± Still if he count not stop it , then he certainly could just fix it Chapter 582: A dead man legacy(1) Chapter 582: A dead man legacy(1) Elyos¡¯s settlement had been a place of prayer,and calming peace ¡ª but now, the smoke rising was the dust of shattered doors and the cries of the conquered. The settlement boiled with chaos as soldiers in worn white and black surcoats stormed through the winding alleys, kicking down doors with iron-shod boots. Some men, wide-eyed with terror, tried to bar their homes from the inside, but the flimsy wood was no match for seasoned soldiers who laughed and battered it down with hilts and shield edges. Inside, they tore apart cupboards and chests, looting anything of value ¡ª silver goblets, old coins hoarded under mattresses. Out in the streets, others dragged women by their hair, their screams slicing the thick air like blades. Mothers clutched their children and were beaten aside; old men were kicked into the dirt when they tried to protest. The pure, sanctimonious calm that had ruled the settlement for the few months they had been there under the heavy hand of its priesthood had been shattered in an instant ¡ª now it was a marketplace of pain and panic, the white-clad soldiers of the Crown claiming their grim harvest with whooping laughter and jeers. Above all, the men serving the crown worked with the energy of those who knew they were allowed ¡ª no, invited ¡ª to take what they pleased. Prince Alpheo had given them a writ of free plunder: they could do anything short of setting fire to the town or killing its inhabitants. And oh, how they were making the most of it. A soldier laughed as he yanked a gold chain from the neck of a shrieking merchant who had gone there to make a donation , tossing the man into the mud for his trouble. Another checked the pockets of a whimpering elder, ignoring the prayers and curses spilling from the old man¡¯s cracked lips. Cries of pain and rage echoed from the side streets, answered only by raucous, drunken singing from some soldiers who had found barrels of wine in a storehouse. One man swung a silver censer above his head like a flail, chasing a cluster of terrified villagers as if it were a great game. The streets of Elyos, once a place of sermons and solemnity, now belonged to the brutal arithmetic of conquest: the victors taking their due, the vanquished choking on the bitter dust of defeat. And hanging over it all, like a ghost none dared speak of, was the understanding:This was mercy.It could have been far, far worse. Through the torn chaos of Elyos, a small figure pushed forward ¡ª a little girl no older than twelve weaving through the forest of crashing boots and screaming villagers. Her linen dress was torn at the hem, her dark hair matted to her forehead from tears and dust. On either side of her, two soldiers in the white surcoats of the Crown marched grimly, hands resting on the pommels of their swords as they kept the mad revelry of their comrades at bay. One of them, a wiry man with a crooked nose, cast an envious look toward a group of soldiers wrestling a protesting merchant to the ground. ¡°Look at that,¡± he grumbled under his breath. ¡°We¡¯re stuck guarding a snot-nosed brat while everyone else is having their fun. This is horseshit.¡± The other soldier, broader and with a scar running down his cheek, didn¡¯t even glance at him. He simply lifted a heavy fist and thumped it into his companion¡¯s shoulder, making the man grunt.¡±Use your head for once,¡± the scarred one muttered. ¡°The prince gave an order. You want to be the next one flogged for disobedience? You know how he gets when you disappoint him and how generous he is to those that please him.¡± The crooked-nosed man snorted, rubbing his arm and throwing a bitter glance down at the child. The girl, wide-eyed and trembling, tried to look anywhere but straight ahead ¡ª but her gaze was inevitably drawn toward two soldiers who, amidst a collapsed stall, were dragging a shrieking woman by her arms. ¡°Hey!¡± barked the crooked-nosed soldier, snapping his fingers in front of the girl¡¯s face. ¡°Don¡¯t look there, you hear me?¡± He crouched low, getting his face to her level, scowling at the way she flinched back from him like a kicked dog. ¡°Better yet¡ªstart talking. Who the hell are you anyway, that you get two babysitters?¡± The girl only whimpered, fat tears spilling down her grimy cheeks, but said nothing. ¡°Great,¡± he muttered, spitting into the dust. ¡°We can¡¯t even ask questions now. Can¡¯t have fun, can¡¯t even ask questions.¡± ¡°Shut your damn mouth,¡± growled the other , grabbing his companion by the arm and pulling him upright. ¡°Whoever she is, the prince wants her. That¡¯s all you need to know. You want to go against that?¡± The crooked-nosed soldier cursed under his breath but fell silent, giving the girl a final scowl before they both nudged her forward, away from the wreckage of Elyos. Step after hesitant step, the child was marched out of the screams and crashing wood, the madness of the plunder fading behind her. ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª- Alpheo stood in the middle of his tent, a cup of cider turning slowly in his hand, his gaze set not on the flapping banners outside, nor the glint of his armor resting nearby, but simply on the grass beneath his boots. A prince in thought ¡ª not of battles, nor treaties, but of a far quieter and far more delicate matter. Jarza stood beside Alpheo with the quiet, looming presence of a statue cast in iron¡ªstill, unshaking, and impossible to ignore. He said nothing, but the weight of his gaze was felt just as much as his hand resting lightly on the hilt of the sword strapped at his side. At last, the flap of the tent shifted. The entrance opened with a faint whistle of wind, and in stepped the small figure he had been waiting for. The girl was little more than a wisp ¡ª a thin, fragile thing in a torn dress, with bare feet stained by the muddy grass of Elyos. Her eyes, wide as saucers, darted about the great expanse of the tent, taking in the sorroundings, until they landed on him. Alpheo offered her the least threatening smile he could summon, softening the angles of his face. He crouched slightly, setting aside his cup on a nearby table. ¡°You are Aina, are you not?¡± he asked gently. The girl, her hands twisting the hem of her dress, nodded fearfully. ¡°Good,¡± Alpheo murmured, reaching behind him and producing a small silver plate. Upon it rested a neatly cut slice of honey-cake, still glistening with honey. He extended the plate toward her, keeping his movements slow, deliberate. ¡°You must be hungry,¡± he said, his voice low and even. ¡°Would you like something sweet?¡± For a moment, the child simply stared ¡ª first at the plate, then at him ¡ª her mouth slightly open, uncertain. Her eyes, which moments before had only known terror, now flickered with something that might have been awe... or perhaps simple disbelief. Alpheo gave a small nod of encouragement. Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". Hesitantly, like a fawn approaching an open hand, the girl shuffled forward and took the plate. She glanced up at him one more time, as if seeking permission, and when she found no anger or command there, she bit into the cake. The first taste made her freeze ¡ª and then she devoured the rest in small, ravenous bites, crumbs clinging to her lips. Alpheo sat himself back on the low stool beside the table. His eyes studied the girl ¡ª no longer trembling as before, but cautious, her shoulders still hunched like a mouse waiting for the cat¡¯s next move. He leaned slightly forward, resting his elbows on his knees.¡±Tell me, Aina... how did you meet Robert?¡± The girl licked some honey from her fingers, hesitant again. But when she finally spoke, her voice came in a whisper, barely louder than the breeze outside.¡±He saved me,¡± she said. ¡°I... He found me. Gave me food. A place to sleep.¡± Her hands gripped the edge of the plate. ¡°He didn¡¯t... hurt me.¡± Alpheo said nothing at first. He only reached for his cup and drank, the taste of cider somehow bitterer than before. Aina¡¯s voice broke the silence. ¡°Are you... are you his friend?¡± Alpheo glanced at her over the rim of his cup. A lie formed quickly and smoothly, like water filling a bowl.¡±Yes,¡± he said. ¡°I was.¡± That seemed to calm her¡ªat first. Until he added, ¡°My name is Alpheo.¡± The change was instant. Her shoulders tensed. Her eyes dropped. Alpheo caught it, and he laughed ¡ª not mockingly, but with a dry, knowing edge.¡±So,¡± he said, ¡°it seems Robert wasn¡¯t as reserved as I thought.¡± He swirled his cup lazily. ¡°He must¡¯ve spoken about me.¡± Aina didn¡¯t answer. Her small hands folded in her lap as he looked at the man that her caretaker loathed with all of himself. They were not in fact friends. Chapter 583: A dead mens legacy(2) Chapter 583: A dead men¡¯s legacy(2) Alpheo took a slow sip from his cup, his eyes never leaving the girl. He set the cup down on a small wooden table beside him, then leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled with a studied air of calm curiosity. ¡°So,¡± he asked gently, ¡°what did Robert say about me?¡± Her small hands stopped mid-motion, and she glanced up at him with wide, searching eyes. There was hesitation there¡ªbut also a raw honesty only a child could hold onto amidst a world turned violent. Then she said it. ¡°A lying, backstabbing, self-righteous cur,¡± she recited in a breath, as if quoting something she¡¯d heard many times before. ¡°A snake.He said many things about you¡± Jarza¡¯s brow arched slightly. Even Alpheo blinked. The girl continued, clearly emboldened now that the door was open. ¡°He said you¡¯d smile to a man¡¯s face while twisting a knife into his back, and that if you ever showed him kindness it was only to see how far he¡¯d fall when you kicked him down later.¡± Alpheo sat back slowly, the ghost of a smile curling at the edge of his mouth ¡ª a strange expression. He gave a soft chuckle, not so much because the words were funny, but because hearing them spoken aloud in a child¡¯s voice. ¡°Well,¡± he said, tilting his head, ¡°it seems Robert wasn¡¯t quite as tight-lipped as I thought.¡± Suddendly Alpheo felt the tension rise beside him ¡ª not in words, but in the quiet, tightly wound coil of Jarza¡¯s posture. The man hadn¡¯t moved a muscle since the girl began to speak, but there was a sharpness in the set of his jaw, and quite the anger. Alpheo, without looking, raised a hand and murmured, ¡°Jarza. Enough.¡± The silence held. Then: ¡°She¡¯s a child,¡± Alpheo said, calm but firm. ¡°And she¡¯s only repeating what Robert told her. What would you do ¡ª run her through for words that aren¡¯t hers?¡± Alpheo turned back to the girl, his eyes now steady and keen. ¡°You¡¯re not dumb,¡± he said, his tone sharper, more direct. ¡°You figured it out, didn¡¯t you? Who I am. Who you¡¯re speaking to. And yet, you didn¡¯t hold back a single word.¡± Aina¡¯s chin trembled, but she didn¡¯t look away. ¡°One has to live under a rock to not understand what is going around. If you¡¯re here,¡± she said, her voice steadying with effort, ¡°then it means only one thing.¡± Her small fingers gripped the edge of the chair as if to keep herself from slipping. ¡°The war was lost.¡± She paused, then asked, ¡°Is Robert all right?¡± Alpheo¡¯s gaze lingered on her. He reached again for his cup, rolling it slowly between his fingers. ¡°He died,¡± he said at last. ¡°Not by my hand. Not even by his enemies, if you believe in such distinctions.¡± He took a sip, then looked down at the girl, his voice quiet but without softness. ¡°He was killed by his own allies. A betrayal, like many others in this war.¡± Aina¡¯s small frame seemed to fold in on itself, as if her bones had lost the will to hold her upright. Her mouth opened but no sound came, and her eyes grew glassy with tears that didn¡¯t yet fall. Alpheo did not offer comfort. ¡°Why... why did you bring me here?¡± she asked, her eyes wide, swollen with confusion and hurt. ¡°What do you want from me?¡± Alpheo leaned back slightly, his cup cradled in his hand, the dregs of cider swirling lazily at the bottom. He did not answer right away, his eyes tracing the girl¡¯s face ¡ª not cruelly, but as one might regard a puzzle with too many missing pieces to solve yet. ¡°Because,¡± he said at last, ¡°for all the ways Robert and I were opposed ¡ª and we were very opposed ¡ª it didn¡¯t mean we never spoke. When two men live in the same world, they often find they can at least talk about it.¡± He set the cup down, the soft clink against the wooden table unusually loud in the still tent. ¡°And he made a deal with me. I gave him my word. He upheld his part, and now I¡¯m upholding mine.¡± Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". Aina blinked rapidly. ¡°He asked you to... to make sure I was safe?¡± Alpheo gave a tired smile ¡ª not one of joy, but of someone who¡¯d grown used to the absurdity of humanity and all its flaws and contradictions. ¡°He did. And I don¡¯t know what he did for you ¡ª what you did for him ¡ª but whatever it was, it stuck. Enough for him to think of you when everything else was falling apart.¡± He let that hang there, watching her reaction closely. ¡°So,¡± he added, voice dry, ¡°here you are. Fed, not burned, unravaged by my men. That¡¯s about as much of a happy ending as this war¡¯s been willing to offer anyone lately.¡± Jarza grunted, arms crossed, looking off to the side with that familiar expression of disbelief ¡ª the one that suggested he still couldn¡¯t figure out why Alpheo bothered with this kind of thing. But Alpheo wasn¡¯t looking at him anymore. He was watching the girl. Because even in a tent full of warriors and nobles and blood debts, sometimes the only thing harder to deal with than enemies... was promises. ¡°You¡¯ve got two choices now,¡± he said quietly, his voice shedding the tones of command it had worn for two months ¡°I don¡¯t know how much Robert told you about himself ... but I know he must have spoken of his family.¡± He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. ¡°I can send you to his son. His name is Talek. You¡¯ll find him rawboned, proud, and angry at more things than he understands. But it seems that despite the distance and silence between them, your Robert ¡ª the one you knew ¡ª loved that boy in his own way. And if Talek has even a fraction of that in him, he¡¯ll care enough to want to know who you are... and what you meant to his father.¡± Alpheo paused for a moment, studying her. ¡°Or,¡± he continued, ¡°I can find a different road for you. Quiet. Peaceful. I can place you with a family that wants a daughter. Where you¡¯ll sleep in a bed without screams, eat in peace, grow into your own life. ¡± Aina didn¡¯t say anything at first. She just sat there, head lowering slowly like a flower bowing to stormwinds, her thin hands fidgeting in her lap. The taste of the cake still lingered faintly in her mouth, sweet and warm ¡ª but it didn¡¯t quite reach her eyes now. She stared at the ground as though it might open up and give her some answer, some direction, some truth that wasn¡¯t soaked in blood. Then her lips parted. ¡°...What¡¯s his name?¡± she whispered. Alpheo blinked. ¡°Talek,¡± he said. ¡°His name is Talek.¡± And in that moment ¡ª that tiny, decisive moment ¡ª he saw the change. She didn¡¯t nod. She didn¡¯t weep. She didn¡¯t even lift her eyes. But something in the stillness of her body, in the sudden resolve of her fingers curling into fists in her lap, told him what he needed to know. He smiled faintly, almost to himself. ¡°Well,¡± he murmured, ¡°it appears you¡¯ve already made your choice.¡± ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª The plate of half-eaten cake remained untouched on the table. The chair where the girl had sat was empty, her small imprint already vanishing from the cushion. Alpheo stood near the flap, arms crossed, eyes lost on the darkened horizon beyond the slit of fabric. The last words the little girl spoke to her caught him quite by a surprise You are not the bad man he described you as ¡°You went out of your way.¡±Jarza said as he scratched the side of his jaw Alpheo didn¡¯t answer. Jarza continued, ¡°Your part of the deal was just to make sure she wasn¡¯t killed in the looting. That¡¯s all. You weren¡¯t bound to cake and conversation. Taking care of her was not part of the agreement.¡± Alpheo glanced over his shoulder, a faint smile tugging at his lip. ¡°Do you disapprove?¡± Jarza scoffed, ¡°Me? I don¡¯t care one bit. If I started worrying about every child who lost her parents to war, I¡¯d have never made it a day as a mercenary. There¡¯s too many ghosts to name.¡± He paused, stepping forward, his voice quieter now. ¡°But I didn¡¯t expect you to bother.¡± Alpheo turned fully now, tilting his head. ¡°You think I¡¯m a bad man?¡± Jarza considered the question for a long moment, then snorted. ¡°No. Not exactly. But you¡¯re certainly not a good one.¡± He tapped his knuckle against the wooden post beside him. ¡°When you want to,¡± he continued, ¡°you can walk into someone¡¯s life looking like a saint... or a devil. Depends which mask you feel like wearing that day.¡± Alpheo let out a low chuckle, rubbing a thumb along his jaw. ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯m bad,¡± he said, voice calm, almost amused. ¡°I don¡¯t go out of my way to cause pain. I don¡¯t wake in the morning thinking of who I¡¯ll ruin.¡± He crossed the tent slowly, picking up his cup and looking into the dark swirl of cider at its base. ¡°I live by a conduct of my own making. A threadbare thing, maybe. But mine. There are precious few things in this world that hold real value ¡ª gold rusts, loyalty falters, beauty fades ¡ª and yet I believe integrity... integrity is one of those rare treasures.¡± He looked up now, his gaze sharp and steady. ¡°Robert died in battle for a cause he cursed. A crown he spat on. And yet, he stood his ground ¡ª not for banners, not for glory, but for the people he cared. For the ones he loved. A man who dies not for ambition, but to shelter someone smaller than himself... that man deserves respect.¡± He took a step closer to Jarza, voice lowering, more intimate now, like an old truth being dusted off in a quiet room. ¡°And in the end, he showed no fear. No remorse. Just worry. For a girl with no claim but kindness. For a boy too stubborn to speak to him.¡± Alpheo set the cup down gently on the table, its soft thud punctuating the air. ¡°Tell me, Jarza...¡± he said, turning fully to face him, the tent lamp casting shadows across his face, ¡°isn¡¯t that something worth respecting?¡± Jarza didn¡¯t speak. He just stared for a beat, then looked away, his jaw tightening ¡ª not from disagreement, but from something more complicated, something that might¡¯ve been agreement, if he ever let it take root. ¡± I was once a good man you know¡± Alpheo finally said in the silence ¡±I always helped out even if it was against my interest.I suppose that was the naive boy in me, still believing in values that were not compatible with the world.¡± ¡±What happened then?¡± ¡±I suppose he met with life and lost himself on the way¡± The wind outside picked up. The tent flaps rustled again. And in the silence, the prince of the realm and his friend stood still, the ghost of a rebel passing silently between them as the last trace he would ever leave in anyone. Chapter 584: Grand return Chapter 584: Grand return The Princess of Yarzat stood still as a statue, draped in pale silks that shimmered in the spring sun, outside the high gates of her court. Behind her rose the stone-boned halls of her city¡¯s keep ¡ª lofty, old, and cool in its shade ¡ª but before her stretched the wide green breath of the capital¡¯s royal expanse, a sea of meadowlike calm that rippled toward the city. Just off the main promenade leading down to the royal court, the Crown Gardens bled into view ¡ª a dreamlike enclave of color and perfume, where willows leaned like gossips and fountains whispered to the breeze, inviting any onlookers to its peace. But there was no peace in the city today. For the last week, the capital had drowned in celebration. The sound of lutes and bells, drunken laughter and the pounding drums of victory was all that could be heard. Banners danced from every rooftop, and children had not stopped screaming for joy since the fires of war had been quenched. Three months the land had burned. Three months of burnt villages, of names crossed from maps and prayers whispered from cellars. But now... now there was only triumph. And none could question who held the laurels. The war was over. Alpheo had won it. The sound of the royal host reached her ears even from this distance ¡ª horns blaring like triumphant angels, and the cheer of the crowd rolling like thunder down the hills. The victory parade marched through the capital¡¯s heart, no doubt with Alpheo at its helm,his black armour with his purple cloak and iron-willed, basking in the radiance of public glory. She could see it already in her mind¡¯s eye ¡ª him smiling that tilted, one , holding up some relic of conquest for the adoring masses to gasp at. Perhaps a broken banner. Or some gaudy trinket taken from the enemy¡¯s halls, polished until it gleamed under the sun like a king¡¯s jewel. The man who wore victory like others wore perfume. He would soak in their praise, drink it like wine, let it spill down his chin for all to see. She knew him better than anyone ¡ª perhaps better than he wished to be known. Alpheo, was a man crafted of performance , a creature who wore brilliance like armor and charm like perfume. But where others saw only the glint of his smile or the daring lilt of his victories, she had long since learned to see beneath the polished surface. And what she saw was not hollow ¡ª no, never that ¡ª but brittle, perhaps. Brittle in the way old stone bears weight without complaint until the day it cracks. He needed recognition ¡ª not as a vanity, but as breath. The praise of others was not merely pleasant to him; it fed him. Every glance of admiration, every whispered ¡°Yarzat¡¯s little fox ,¡± every gasp at his triumphs ¡ª these were not ornaments to him. They were proof. Proof that he was, and that he mattered. He pretended otherwise, of course. He moved through the world with that polished aloofness, that careful disinterest that said: I allow admiration, but I am not hungry for it. But she had watched him too long, and too closely, to believe such illusions. He burned when he succeeded, yes ¡ª but he shone only when seen. When the crowds gathered and his name was on their lips, he basked in it with the restraint of a man who believed that to lean too far into glory was to risk betrayal ¡ª yet still he leaned. She had watched it again and again: at the Battle of the Bleeding Plains, where the Herculeians had doubted him ¡ª and so he bled them, bled until the fields turned to rusted gold, just to earn what should have been given. Perhapse to prove something to himself. And now again, he carved triumph after triumph across the land, as if each enemy he struck down was another word in a sentence that read: You were wrong about me. Smashing the enemy sword until it broke No, he did not require an audience to burn. But still, something in him needed to be seen ¡ª not by all, perhaps not even by many ¡ª but by someone. She believed it came from whatever lay buried in that past of his ¡ª the one he guarded like a wounded animal, snarling at the approach of any who neared it too boldly. She had pried; he had never offered. She suspected it was not shame that drove his silence, but fear ¡ª fear that if the truth was dragged into the open, it would dissolve like dust in sun, and with it, the man himself. As if he thought he was made of sand. And that, if anyone ever truly saw him ¡ª the whole of him, not just the curated face ¡ª he might crumble. Bit by bit. Grain by grain. Jasmine turned her head toward the royal gardens ¡ª a vast stretch of green and bloom that Alpheo had insisted be expanded, adorned, and refined to rival those of any court except the Romelian¡¯s It had once been a modest patch of trimmed hedges , but under his hand it had grown wild with beauty: trellises spilling over with white blossoms, fountains that caught the sun like shards of glass. She found it strange, even now, to imagine him there ¡ª Alpheo, with his restless hunger and fire-wrought stride, a man more often found planning an enemy demise than plucking petals from vines. And yet, he had cared for it. Insisted upon it, spending much silver to make it nobler and more colorfoul. Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". He had paced those paths during its construction with the eyes of a general surveying a battlefield. It was difficult to picture someone so ambitious, so electric with forward-motion, slowing down to walk among flowers. And yet ¡ª that was where she had first spoken with him. She remembered that night, he had not been consort then. Just a rising figure, wrapped in murmurs and contradiction. Even now, she recalled how his gaze had shifted when he asked her what she wanted. That was where she had first glimpsed it ¡ª the ambition that sat behind his eyes like a storm on the horizon. And it was there, perhaps, that she had also realized: if she did not claim this man , someone else would and she would fall under his tower. Soon, the rhythmic beat of hooves broke through the distant din of the city ¡ª not the heavy, uncoordinated thunder of a host, but the clean, measured cadence of a single rider. Jasmine¡¯s gaze lifted toward the horizon where the great green expanse stretched between the Royal Keep and the city beyond, and there, cresting the final hill like a figure painted into legend, came Alpheo ¡ª her husband, the consort-prince, the war-bearer of a land that many had once thought doomed. He rode upon his white stallion, tall in the saddle with his cloak snapping in the breeze like a royal banner, streaked in red and sun-warmed dust. His armor was polished . No laurels adorned his brow, but none were needed. The image of him, solitary and proud, galloping the final stretch toward her, was already more triumph than ceremony could hold. Behind him came the only part of the Royal Host granted the honor to approach the court ¡ª his standing army. Hardened and disciplined, these were not the flowered knights of pageants, but the spine of Alpheo¡¯s power: the White Army, glory-cloaked and steel-eyed, forged in months of fire and blood. Their standards were held high, though their march was quiet, restrained ¡ª this was no parade. It was return. But they would not cross the final threshold. As one, at a silent signal, they halted. Jasmine saw the brief gesture ¡ª Alpheo¡¯s hand raised slightly, then swept back ¡ª and the army responded like a single creature. They turned in perfect unison, cloaks fluttering, and began their march back to the city, to the acclaim of the crowd, to the laughter, to the wine. Their prince, however, did not follow. This last stretch was for him alone. He came forward at a canter now, the white stallion gleaming beneath him, and Jasmine felt the air shift ¡ª the stillness that descends when fate itself arrives not as a trumpet¡¯s blare, but as a man of flesh and bone and maddening ambition, riding toward his wife like a star that refused to fall. He swung down from his stallion with the fluid ease of a man who¡¯d done it a thousand times before, boots crunching against the stone path as he landed. For three long months, Jasmine had not laid eyes upon him ¡ª not in the flesh, not in the scent of sweat and iron and all things wild about war. She had heard the tales, read the reports, felt the tremors of victory that shook her court ¡ª but now here he stood: the Prince returned. And gods, did he look it. The weariness clung to him like an old coat ¡ª not hidden, not masked ¡ª but worn with a quiet pride, the kind that only those who had come back from fire dared to bear. His eyes, dark and heavy, held all the sleepless nights ¡ª but none of that was what struck her first. It was the beard. A thick, unkempt, storm-dark thing that had claimed his jaw like an occupying army. It framed his face with unruly defiance, streaked with dust and perhaps a crumb of travel bread or two. Jasmine¡¯s brows lifted on instinct, even as he approached her. He said nothing ¡ª he didn¡¯t need to. In a few steps, he was before her, and without preamble, he took her in his arms. It wasn¡¯t a regal embrace, nor the soft clasp of courtly lovers. It was rough, tight, the pull of a man anchoring himself back to the world he had fought for. Jasmine¡¯s arms slid around him, a little slower, but just as firm. Alpheo leaned in, aiming for her lips with the confidence of a man who had conquered cities. But Jasmine let out a sudden, musical laugh and deftly put a hand to his chest to stop him. ¡°Absolutely not,¡± she declared, grinning as she tilted her head away. He blinked, surprised. ¡°What?¡± ¡°You stink,¡± she said, the laughter still in her voice as her hand slid up to his chin. With two fingers, she tugged at the wiry curls of his beard, inspecting them with theatrical distaste. ¡°And this? What is this? You¡¯ve returned from war, not from the woods.¡± ¡°I thought it gave me character,¡± he muttered dryly, though his smirk had already returned. ¡°It gives you fleas,¡± she shot back, giving the beard a light tug. ¡°I prefer you shaven. Less barbarian, more prince and civilized.¡± He leaned closer again, whispering, ¡°Perhaps I¡¯ve grown fond of being a barbarian.¡± ¡°And perhaps,¡± she replied, brushing a fleck of dirt from his collar, ¡°You¡¯ve grown fond of not being kissed¡± They stood like that for a moment, faces inches apart, one smelling like horse and road-dust, the other like lilacs . Jasmine¡¯s fingers, delicate yet deliberate, slipped beneath the edge of Alpheo¡¯s tunic, finding the trail of scarred, hardened skin along his belly. Alpheo inhaled, the first true breath he¡¯d taken since stepping foot in the capital. Her hands rested low, thumbs brushing against the lines of his hips. ¡°It¡¯s been months,¡± she said softly, her voice now lower, huskier ¡ª silk draped in smoke. ¡°Months since I¡¯ve had you to myself... And I am very tired of sleeping like a widow.¡± Alpheo chuckled, though it came out more like a growl. ¡°I would have liked to meet Basil first. It¡¯s been month since I¡¯d seen my boy¡± She leaned in close, lips brushing the side of his neck ¡ª just barely. ¡°You can meet Basil later,¡± she murmured, her breath warm against his skin. ¡°He¡¯s not going anywhere.¡± ¡°However since you¡¯re filthy,¡± she said, stepping back at last with a wicked smile¡± here¡¯s what you¡¯ll do: go get a bath. Fetch a servant, have that poor excuse of a beard removed, and when you¡¯re no longer fit to frighten horses...¡± Her eyes glinted, voice dropping further. ¡°...come to our chamber. I¡¯ll be waiting.¡± She turned with a grace that only royalty and well-fed cats could master, leaving Alpheo standing there ¡ª sweaty, roadworn, and suddenly very, very motivated to find a razor. Chapter 585: Catching up(1) Chapter 585: Catching up(1) The White Army had finally returned to the city not as mere men, but as living legends. Through every crooked alley and bustling market square, soldiers of the royal host strutted like peacocks, armor half-unbuckled, cloaks thrown over shoulders with careless pride. Taverns overflowed with drunken laughter and the clatter of mugs, each establishment vying to host as many veterans as its walls could hold. Drinks were pushed into calloused hands with cheers; tankards of ale foamed over in wild toasts to the prince, to the White Army, to victory, and sometimes just to whoever could shout the loudest. Whorehouses hastily nailed new signs to their doors ¡ª ¡°Victory Discount!¡± ¡ª and opened their arms and legs alike to those who had marched for the prince. Soldiers found themselves beloved like long-lost brothers and prized like heroes of old tales, with offers of wine, women, and coin flowing with reckless abandon. Around crowded fires and cracked tavern tables, the soldiers sang and spun their yarns, each tale grander, bloodier, and more impossible than the last. Battles were recounted where one man held a bridge against an army; duels where a common spearman bested a knight three times his size,. The common folk, starved of firsthand knowledge and drunk on patriotism, swallowed every word with wide, gleaming eyes. In truth, much of the detail was wrapped in the colorful exaggerations born from too many victories and too much wine ¡ª but no one cared. All the people knew was this: their prince had marched against three enemies, left the capital surrounded by threats on every side, and now he returned not just victorious but glorious, his foes crushed, his banners flying high. The soldiers¡¯ pockets, heavy with plundered coin, were emptied as fast as they had been filled. They spent their spoils like men who thought the world owed them pleasure ¡ª and for a time, the city agreed. For in those wild, golden days, the White Army were gods walking among men ¡ª and none dared remind them otherwise. As the city outside bathed itself in drunken euphoria and careless celebration, the prince, too, took his share of solace. Alpheo lay sprawled in the great bed of the royal chambers, his head resting against Jasmine¡¯s shoulder. His freshly shaven face, free from the roughness of campaign life, had returned him to that younger, almost boyish look for which he had been so famed. Jasmine¡¯s fingers wove lazily through his hair, combing it back with the slow, absent-minded tenderness of one who was savoring a rare, quiet moment. They said nothing for a long while, only the sound of each other¡¯s breathing filling the dimly lit chamber. At last, Jasmine broke the silence, her voice little more than a whisper above his head.¡±I missed this,¡± she admitted, almost despite herself. Alpheo lifted his head slightly, a mischievous glint in his eyes.¡±Is that so?¡± he said, the corner of his mouth tugging into a grin. Without hesitation, Jasmine pinched his ear sharply.He shrieked ¡ª a short, undignified sound that echoed off the canopy bed¡¯s silk-draped posts.¡±You fool,¡± she said, laughing. ¡°You¡¯re supposed to say you missed me too.¡± He chuckled as he rubbed his reddened ear, the same boyish smirk still playing on his lips. Jasmine sighed and, with a gentler hand now, drew him closer once more.¡±It¡¯s tiring, you know,¡± she murmured, her voice carrying the weight of months spent ruling alone. ¡°Tiring to be alone, to deal with my duties, to balance court and council without your counsel. Without your help.¡± Her fingers paused in his hair, resting atop his crown as if she could will her thoughts into him. In that moment, with his head on her shoulder and the city roaring somewhere beyond the walls, she was not the Princess of Yarzat and he was not her consort returned in triumph. They were simply two people ¡ª husband and wife ¡ª trying to patch the space that months of war and distance had left between them. Alpheo said nothing for a while, but he slipped his hand to hers and squeezed gently, as if to tell her without words that he had heard her ¡ª and that he had missed her too. After some silent moment he stirred against her, lifting his head with a little grin that already hinted at mischief.¡±I have something,¡± he said, his voice low and promising, ¡°something that will cheer you up.¡± Before she could ask, he slid from the bed. The silk sheets whispered off his nakedness, but more importantly revealing his back ¡ª a canvas of scars crisscrossed over the muscles stretched taut beneath. Jasmine¡¯s eyes followed the marks, those old, brutal souvenirs of some punishment he had never explained. More than once she had wanted to ask, to press, but something about the way he guarded that part of himself ¡ª like a wolf guarding a deep wound ¡ª had kept her silent. He crossed the chamber with unhurried steps and knelt at a tall nightstand carved from dark mahogany. He opened a small hidden drawer with a press of his fingers and retrieved a slim, velvet-lined box. Turning back to her, he flicked the lid open to reveal a necklace ¡ª and Jasmine¡¯s breath caught. It was a magnificent thing: a delicate, intricate arrangement of white gold threads twined together like woven vines, with a single teardrop emerald suspended at its heart. The green of it was so vivid it seemed almost alive, burning bright even in the dim candlelight of the chamber. ¡°You know,¡± he said casually, his voice teasing, ¡°when we broke the Oizenian host outside Aracina, I had the pleasure of laying hands on the royal treasure. A pitiful lot compared to what its name... but among the usual trinkets and baubles,¡± he added with a smirk, ¡°I found a few worthy pieces.¡± As he spoke, he circled behind her, the box clicking shut in his hand. Jasmine, catching on, gathered her hair and swept it forward over her shoulder, baring her neck to him with a slight tilt of her head. Alpheo leaned close, the warmth of him brushing against her back, and with slow, careful fingers, he hung the necklace around her neck. The cold kiss of the metal made her shiver. ¡°I chose the best piece for you,¡± he murmured into her ear, fastening the clasp with a quiet, final snap. The emerald rested perfectly against her throat, its green fire catching the light with every movement. Jasmine smiled ¡ª a real smile, one that reached her eyes ¡ª and reached up to touch the pendant. Jasmine turned her head slightly, fingers brushing the necklace where it lay cool and heavy against her skin. ¡°You have good taste¡± she said, the soft praise slipping from her lips with a teasing smile. Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". Alpheo, who was in the act of tossing the velvet box back onto the nightstand with all the grace of a man discarding a glove, turned with a mock bow. ¡°Naturally,¡± he said. ¡°And, fear not, I have not forgotten our Basil either.¡± Jasmine arched a delicate eyebrow. ¡°Oh? Pray tell, did you plunder something else from your vanquished foes?¡± Alpheo chuckled, shaking his head as he returned to her side. ¡°No, no. For him, I paid ¡ª and dearly, I might add. Had it built by our best woodworkers and artiasans. No gift for Basil would be secondhand, no matter how many treasures the Oizenians left strewn at my feet.¡± Jasmine let out a pleased little hum, laying her back against the pile of silken pillows once more and opening her naked arms in silent summons. Alpheo took the invitation, diving back into the bed and landing beside her with a soft thud that jostled the mattress. For a long moment, they simply lay there, the distant echo of festivities humming outside like the sea beyond a cliff. Then Alpheo, voice slightly muffled as he leaned into her warmth, muttered, ¡°Speaking of the Oizenians... seems we¡¯re hosting rather a lot of them these days.¡± Jasmine shifted, threading her fingers through his hair lazily. ¡°Indeed,¡± she said. ¡°It seems half their noble blood is cooling in our dungeons or lounging in our guest towers.The others are envoy¡± Alpheo lifted his head, curiosity flashing in his eyes. ¡°And what is it they want?¡± Jasmine sighed, her tone turning dry with amusement. ¡°Well, losing a prince and two armies tends to cause a bit of... disarray. Many of their noble families have sent letters, desperate to ransom their kin back ¡± Alpheo snorted a laugh against her skin. Jasmine traced idle patterns against Alpheo¡¯s chest, feeling the quiet thrum of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips. She spoke softly, as if weighing each word.¡±Than there is the new prince¡¯s envoy. He sent a diplomat ¡ª a clever one ¡ª to broker a peace between us and their new rule. And...¡± She hesitated, a slight smirk forming on her lips, ¡°he extended a proposal.¡± Alpheo tilted his head, regarding her with the faintest narrowing of his sharp eyes. ¡°What kind of proposal?¡± he asked, suspicion already curling in his voice. ¡°A marriage one,¡± Jasmine replied, almost enjoying the way his body stiffened under her hand. ¡°He requests the hand of my sister. They want us to become kins.¡± Alpheo was already sitting up before she finished, the sheets pooling at his waist. His face, so newly shaven, was a mask of disdain.¡±Refuse,¡± he said simply, coldly, like the snap of a sword drawn in anger. Jasmine blinked, caught for a heartbeat in surprise. She studied his face carefully, searching for any trace of doubt and finding none. ¡°Are you certain?¡± she asked, sitting up beside him. ¡°You yourself heard my grandfather ¡ª he told us plainly. Our greatest weakness is our isolation. Few allies, no strong ties to neighboring rulers. This marriage¡ª¡± ¡°¡ªis a secondary problem,¡± Alpheo cut her off, his voice growing hard, like iron cooling into its shape. His eyes burned with a dark certainty.¡±In none of the futures where we are to thrive do the Oizenians survive alongside us,¡± he said, each word falling like a hammer blow. ¡°The only way we rise is if they fall. And fall utterly. No oaths, no silken promises. Their princedom must become ashes, their name a curse spat into the dust.¡± He stood from the bed, his bare feet silent against the floor as he began to pace, the old scars on his back catching the soft candlelight. His voice deepened, steady and remorseless.¡±Do you forget?¡± he said, glancing at her over his shoulder. ¡°For the first years of our reign, who troubled us most ? It was the Oizenians ¡ª always pressing, always undermining, refusing any offer of peace that we had offered.¡± He turned fully now, his hand slicing the air in emphasis.¡±And not just them. The Herculeians too. These two snakes slithered closest to our heels ¡ª but no longer.¡± His eyes gleamed with a hunger that was almost beautiful to behold. ¡°The Herculeians are already broken. Their fields burn. Their sons rot in shallow graves. And by the time I am finished, the Oizenians will join them. Their towers will crumble. Their songs will be sung only by ghosts. Their banners will be good only for kindling.¡± He came back to the bed, sitting beside Jasmine once more, but there was still a fire in him, a blaze she had seen before ¡ª the fire of a man who would not, could not be stopped.¡±This war is not truly over, Jasmine,¡± he said, softer now but no less fierce. ¡°Not until we stand alone among the ruins, the only power left that matters.¡± Jasmine stared at him, She saw, as she had seen many times before, not just her consort, not just her husband, but the unyielding force that had carried them from the brink of defeat to the edge of dominion. And she knew then, with a certainty as deep as her bones: whatever lay ahead, Alpheo would either carve a world fit for them to rule ¡ª or burn everything trying. Chapter 586: Catching up(2) Chapter 586: Catching up(2) The chamber was warm, filled with the golden light of the setting sun filtering through the tall windows. Alpheo, now properly dressed in a deep blue tunic embroidered with silver thread, knelt down with a bright, boyish grin on his face. His hands clapped together in loud, enthusiastic bursts as he laughed, the sound echoing richly through the chamber. Before him, the tiny figure of Basil crawled with determined wobbles across the thick carpet, his little hands and knees patting the ground with stubborn rhythm. His soft hair, the same dark shade as his father¡¯s, was a ruffled crown atop his round head. His chubby cheeks flushed with the effort, his eyes ¡ª wide, bright, and gleaming with curiosity ¡ª fixed squarely on his target ¡°That¡¯s it, my brave little knight!¡± Alpheo praised, ¡°Come on, Basil! Show your old man how strong you are!¡± Behind him, Jasmine leaned casually against a carved pillar, a hand over her mouth to smother her laughter. Her emerald eyes shone with delight as she watched the reunion unfold. The maid assigned to Basil ¡ª a woman clad in the modest blues of the royal household ¡ª stood respectfully near the door, a faint smile playing at her lips as she silently retreated a few steps to give the royal couple their moment. Basil let out an excited, breathy giggle, one that sounded more like a squeak, and pushed forward with all the might his tiny arms could muster. His crawl was more of a determined wiggle, his bottom swaying side to side with each valiant lurch. As he neared his father, Basil, in a grand gesture of triumph, lifted one pudgy hand and clumsily batted at Alpheo¡¯s shin ¡ª almost knocking himself over in the process. ¡°Oho! A fierce warrior already!¡± Alpheo cried out with a laugh, scooping the boy up in one strong arm before Basil could topple. He lifted the child high into the air, spinning him once before cradling him against his chest, planting a noisy kiss on Basil¡¯s soft forehead. Basil responded with a delighted gurgle, grabbing a handful of Alpheo¡¯s hair with his tiny, merciless fingers and giving it a victorious tug. Outwardly, Alpheo wore a smile ¡ª a big, easy grin made for his son and his wife watching from across the chamber. Yet behind that smile, his mind was far from the warm room, from the tender moment with Basil. It was still chewing relentlessly on the matter discussed only a few hours prior: Sorza¡¯s so-called ¡°proposal¡± for royal marriage. He had refused it, of course ¡ª refused it before Jasmine could even finish uttering the words. There had been no hesitation, no need to ponder, no weighing of options. The idea was almost offensive in its arrogance. First of all, they had absolutely no reason to bend their necks now. Their enemies were like wounded animals: still breathing perhaps, but the grave was already dug and the tombstones all but carved. What peace could Sorza offer that Alpheo could not simply claim by standing still?A marriage proposal now was nothing but a desperate bandage slapped onto a battlefield already lost. Basil squealed happily, tugging again at Alpheo¡¯s tunic. The prince absently shifted the boy to his other arm, nodding and humming nonsense words to him, but in his mind he was already painting grander, bloodier maps. Secondly, and more importantly, there was the question of principle. Enemies were enemies. Alpheo had not spent three months smashing armies just to turn around and call them ¡®family.¡¯ He didn¡¯t care how pretty Sorza tried to wrap it ¡ª kinship between rulers would make annexation, the true goal looming ever larger in Alpheo¡¯s mind, far less palatable. He spun Basil around gently, earning another chorus of giggles from the boy, and caught Jasmine¡¯s eye. She smiled, thinking he was simply reveling in their family reunion.And he was ¡ª in a way.Just not only that. Because even in this tender, glowing moment, Alpheo was dreaming not just of a peaceful court, but of a future where the crowns of Oizen and Herculia were smashed, melted, and reforged into something greater.His future.Their future. One where the south would be blessed with the first kingdom in his history. And Sorza?Sorza would be a memory ¡ª nothing more, a stone for that great castle of Alpheo¡¯s dream. Yet another, quieter fear gnawed at Alpheo¡¯s mind as he played with Basil . The matter of blood. It was easy now, in the first warm bloom of their reign, when victory sang their names and no voice dared to oppose them. But time...time had a habit of corroding even the sturdiest crowns.Their son ¡ª their bright, laughing Basil ¡ª carried half-common blood in his veins. Jasmine was a princess, yes, ruler in her own right, but Alpheo? Alpheo had no ancient pedigree trailing behind him, no lineage of gilded ancestors adorning temple walls. Would they someday prefer a prince with the ¡°proper¡± blood, a child born of an old, royal line ¡ª like one sired from the union of Oizen and Yarzat?Would they, given time and whispers and enough incentive, turn their backs on Basil for a face more palatable to their snobbery? Accepting Sorza¡¯s proposal would not only grant their enemy legitimacy in survival, it would forge blood-ties too dangerous to risk. Sons born from a union of their two houses would carry the weight of royal names ¡ª heirs who could become rallying points for discontent, for division, for rebellion. A poison in the well. Alpheo bounced Basil higher, making the boy squeal with delight, but his own smile was cold beneath its warmth.I will not risk your future, he thought fiercely, not for peace, not for politics, not for any damned treaty. No, the only future worth fighting for was one where no lord could dare question Basil¡¯s right. One where no rival bloodline could be raised against them.And if Oizen must be buried for that future to exist, so be it.If Herculia must be broken bone from bone, so be it. There was no room for divided loyalties. No room for half-measures.The only peace he would allow would be one built upon ashes and silence. He leaned down, setting Basil carefully on the thick carpet once again. The boy squealed and immediately tried to latch onto his father¡¯s boot, but Alpheo chuckled and gently pried his tiny fingers free. ¡°I have something for you, my little boy ,¡± Alpheo said, ruffling Basil¡¯s soft, curly hair. He turned toward a low table nearby, where a polished wooden box waited. With a deliberate flourish ¡ª as if presenting a treasure to an eager court ¡ª he opened it. Inside, nestled on a velvet lining, was a colorful marionette: a tiny soldier, clad in a bright black and white uniform with gold-painted buttons and a tiny sword at its side. The little figure seemed ready to march into battle at the twitch of a string. Basil, seeing the toy, gasped in wonder, tiny fists opening and closing as he babbled with excitement. With a smirk, Alpheo lifted the marionette by its strings and gave it life.The little soldier straightened stiffly, then bowed low, one arm sweeping theatrically across its chest. Basil shrieked with laughter, clapping his hands wildly. Alpheo grinned and made the puppet dance, stamping its feet and swinging its arms in a clumsy jig. Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". Basil, thoroughly enchanted, flung himself forward, trying to grab the magical little man. His fingers brushed the puppet¡¯s boots, and Alpheo deftly lifted it just out of reach, making it tumble backward dramatically.The boy roared with glee, his laughter filling the room with pure, unfiltered joy. Watching from the bed, Jasmine couldn¡¯t help but laugh herself, her hand pressed lightly to her mouth. ¡°You¡¯re quite talented with that,¡± she said warmly. ¡°I had no idea.¡± Alpheo shot her a quick, teasing glance. ¡°When I was a boy, I had a marionette just like this,¡± he said,reminding himself of the life that came before this one, his voice carrying a wistful undertone as he manipulated the puppet to dance once more. ¡± I used to spend hours every day making it bow, duel, parade across the room.¡±He smiled at Basil¡¯s bright, wide eyes.¡±It made me feel like I could command an entire army¡± Basil, determined, made a second attempt to seize the soldier, this time with a loud grunt of effort. Alpheo laughed, letting the marionette tumble into the boy¡¯s eager hands.Basil immediately tried to chew on its head before being stopped by Alpheo. After that failure , the boy clutched the marionette with both chubby hands, giggling as he tried to make it move like his father had. He jerked the strings in wild, random pulls, causing the poor wooden soldier to flop about clumsily, collapsing in a heap more often than it marched. Alpheo watched the boy¡¯s determined little frown with amusement. After a moment, he knelt down beside him, his strong hand enveloping Basil¡¯s tiny one, steadying it.Gently, he guided the boy¡¯s fingers, showing him how to tug and lift the strings with a smoothness that made the marionette stumble back onto its feet and give a clumsy, but recognizable, bow. ¡°You see, little one,¡± Alpheo said, his voice rich with mirth and something deeper, ¡°there¡¯s no use getting angry when the soldier doesn¡¯t obey your will.¡± He glanced at Jasmine, who smiled, already sensing where her husband¡¯s mind was wandering.Alpheo returned his gaze to Basil, still holding the small hand steady in his own. ¡°It¡¯s your fault,¡± he said softly, the edges of his lips curling upward talking in a soft one with matters that should require an hard one . ¡°If the strings are pulled poorly, then it¡¯s not the soldier¡¯s betrayal ¡ª it is simply the master¡¯s failure to command properly.¡± Basil blinked up at him with wide, innocent eyes, clearly not understanding, but fascinated all the same. Alpheo chuckled, ruffling the boy¡¯s soft hair before continuing in a more thoughtful tone.¡±Every action, when stripped to its barest form, calls for a reaction. Whether it¡¯s a doll made of wood or a man made of flesh and ambition ¡ª the principle is the same.¡±He paused, letting his thumb stroke gently over Basil¡¯s small knuckles. ¡°But,¡± he said, his voice dipping lower, taking on the cadence of one pondering something vast and ancient, ¡°the older you grow, the less clear the strings become. A gentle pull that once made a man kneel may later cause him to bare his teeth. A harsh tug that made another bow in fear may make a different one lash out.¡± Basil stared at him, his round face scrunched up, utterly lost. The soldier doll dangled limply in his grasp, forgotten as he puzzled over the flood of words. Alpheo laughed quietly, his hand tapping Basil lightly on the nose.¡±You do not understand now,¡± he said, not unkindly, ¡°but you will.¡± He would make sure of that. With that he leaned back on his heels, looking at both the boy and the marionette with the air of a man who saw far beyond the small, sunny room ¡ª into a future shaped by invisible threads and careful hands.¡±To rule is not to force,¡± he mused, almost to himself. ¡°It is to know when to pull... when to loosen... and when to let the puppet believe it dances of its own will.¡± Jasmine, from her seat, watched her husband¡¯s face as he spoke , the soft tone spoke however, with hard eyes. He then looked at her laughing son, thinking his father was teaching a game. And in Basil¡¯s innocent gaze, still too young to understand, she wondered if perhaps he already glimpsed the weight of the crown that one day might rest upon his head. One that she knew would bear much more heavy by the hands of that who would forge it for him. Chapter 587: A new place(1) Chapter 587: A new place(1) The road ahead wound like a pale ribbon through the green hills, the sun glinting off iron and leather as the company marched toward the great capital . Fifty riders, proud and straight-backed, led the way, their horses snorting and stamping the earth with rhythmic certainty. Behind them, twenty warriors on foot trudged, their boots stirring dust clouds as they bore their boots down on the dirt. At the very tip of the column rode two figures, side by side. One was young and full of restless energy, his broad shoulders squared, his brown hair whipping behind him in the breeze. Torghan, son of the wild hills and newly blooded chieftain, held his reins easily, his every movement betraying the vigor of youth touched at last by the glory of battle. At his side rode Maraya, his sister ¡ª older by a handful of years. Together they rode not just toward the capital but toward something greater ¡ª the formal union that Torghan had fought for through three months of brutal campaign,his weapons proudly tied beneath the royal colors of Prince Alpheo. It had been two weeks since the final clash, since the enemy¡¯s banners were toppled and their coffers spilled open.A glorious affair, his peers said once home. And beyond the songs and stories, there was the true measure of victory: the treasure ¡ªpockets heavy with coins, fine weapons forged in distant lands, sleek horses bred for speed and war ¡ª the rich spoils of conquest, shared with a generosity that only the victorious can afford.For Torghan and his people, it was not merely a bounty of wealth but a gateway to a new way of life. Upon settling into their newly granted lands, they quickly discovered a revelation: here, people with goods, which they discovered they were called ¡®Merchants¡¯ did not trade through barter as they had done in the rugged highlands; here, everything had a price in silver or bronze.And so the joy of returning with full saddlebags was made even sweeter, as coins ¡ª clinking in their hands like a promise ¡ª opened doors that had once seemed closed forever. Salt, that rare and precious treasure in the hills, now could be had for a handful of coins; fabrics dyed in vibrant colors, iron tools ¡ª all within easy reach.To their astonishment and growing delight, the luxuries they had once bartered blood and sweat for now seemed almost laughably affordable. Of course none was happier of what had happened than Torghan , as before the war, his place as chieftain had been precarious ¡ª appointed by the Crown¡¯s decree rather than winning it by the age-old rite of single combat against his peers. Among the proud and stubborn blood of his tribe, this had marked him as a weak man. And though victory had not erased those muttered doubts entirely, the blood spilled by his own hand and the gold now hanging from his people¡¯s saddlebags and belts had silenced many mouths, at least for now. As long as he could bring results, it would be okay. Still, Torghan could feel it ¡ª the weight behind some glances, the tension that lingered like the sharp scent of steel in the air. Tradition was not so easily slain, not even by blood and treasure. The young chieftain sighed as he cast a sidelong glance at his sister as they rode together at the head of their band. Maraya¡¯s face was a mask of coldness, her jaw tight, her eyes fixed on the horizon as if willing herself away from the moment. She had hardly spoken a word to him since they left the coast, her silence as sharp as any blade. He knew it was not just the prospect of marrying a man twice her age that soured her mood ¡ª though that alone was enough to rattle any young woman. It was also the sea crossing she had protested against from the very start, her stubborn spirit bristling at the idea of abandoning their homeland. Yet in the end, their father¡¯s will had prevailed: a final kindness to his brother , a last slap to her , a last attempt to secure a future for his children in this new, sprawling world. Torghan shifted in his saddle and said, with an attempt at lightness, ¡°You know, soon enough we won¡¯t see each other much. You might end up regretting wasting these last moments giving me the cold shoulder.¡± Maraya turned her head sharply toward him, her eyes flashing. ¡°There¡¯s little to say. How could I ever be happy marrying an old man?¡± Torghan let out a short laugh, shaking his head. ¡°Lord Jarza is no crumbling elder with one foot in the grave. He¡¯s a tall, strong man ¡ª a seasoned warrior. Not just any soldier, but one of the most trusted blades at the Prince¡¯s side.¡± He leaned slightly closer. ¡°He has the favor of Alpheo himself. That alone means more here than a lifetime of honor back home.¡± He paused, letting his words hang in the air before adding, more seriously, ¡°We need to weave ourselves into the fabric of this land¡¯s high society, Maraya. Blood, coin, and marriage ¡ª that¡¯s how power moves here. You¡¯ll not just be a bride; you¡¯ll be a bridge between our people and theirs.¡± Maraya said nothing. She kept her gaze forward, lips pressed into a hard line. Torghan sighed and straightened in his saddle, stubbornly refusing to be cowed by her silence. He gestured ahead toward the road that stretched toward the distant shimmer of the capital¡¯s walls.¡±You think this is some quiet, shameful thing? No, Maraya,¡± he said, a grin tugging at his lips. ¡°This marriage will be an affair the whole capital will speak of! The Prince is a generous man. He¡¯ll make a ruckus the likes of which you¡¯ve never seen for the wedding of one of his trusted men.¡± Maraya turned her head just enough to shoot him a sidelong, unimpressed glare. Torghan, undeterred, pointed behind them with a gloved hand.¡±Look behind you, sister. Look at the escort His Grace sent to bring us in!¡± Maraya gave a reluctant glance over her shoulder. The sun gleamed off polished steel and gilded horse armor. Fifty mounted knights rode in disciplined formation, their white cloaks billowing behind them, golden steeds emblazoned on their shields ¡ª the personal guard of the Crown, known far and wide as the Golden Steeds. Even on foot, twenty more squires and men-at-arms marched, their banners snapping smartly in the wind. ¡°See how imposing they are?!¡± Torghan said, a note of pride slipping into his voice. ¡°This is not some backwater arrangement. This marriage ¡ª you ¡ª mean something. The Prince favors this union. He favors us.¡± Maraya huffed, her braid bouncing with the motion.¡±If you¡¯re so taken with this honor, brother, you marry him,¡± she snapped. ¡°Or better yet, find some wrinkled old hag with ¡®noble blood¡¯ and tie yourself to her. See how happy you are then!¡± Torghan barked a laugh, tossing his head back. ¡°You¡¯ve got the tongue of a viper today!¡± he said, shaking his head. ¡°But listen ¡ª listen ¡ª we need this. It¡¯s not enough to have spilled blood on the battlefield. It¡¯s not enough to have raised our axes in the Prince¡¯s name.¡± ¡°We fought for him!¡± Maraya cut him off sharply, her voice rising. ¡°We bled for him. We crushed his enemies. Isn¡¯t that enough to stay safely under his sky?!¡± Torghan¡¯s smile faded a little, becoming grim. ¡°Battles win respect for a season,¡± he said lowly. ¡°But alliances? Blood ties? They last beyond the turn of a year. When the swords are sheathed, it¡¯s who you share your bread with that matters. Not just who you fought beside.¡± Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". Maraya looked away again, her mouth a stubborn line. Torghan saw the stubborn tilt of Maraya¡¯s chin and realized that reason would not win today.So he changed his tack ¡ª dropped reason like a worn sword and took up guilt like a hammer. He slowed his horse until he was close enough that she couldn¡¯t ignore him even if she tried. His voice lowered, rich and heavy, like the coming of a storm.¡±Tell me, sister,¡± he said, his words almost a whisper, ¡°do you want me to annul this marriage? To refuse the prince¡¯s generosity? To throw it in his face and make an enemy of the very man whose favor shields us?¡± Maraya stiffened but said nothing. Torghan pressed on, leaning closer.¡±Shall I invite slaughter on our people? Shall I see the lands we have worked with our blood and sweat ripped from under us? Lands that fed us, that gave us safety when our enemies sought to tear us apart?¡± Her lips parted, but still she said nothing. Only her fingers, gripping the reins white-knuckled, betrayed her rising turmoil. He jabbed the point home.¡±Have you not grown plump from the fruits of this earth?¡± he said, voice now sharp as a blade. ¡°Have you not lain your head each night on a soft bed, your belly full, the cold kept out by walls built by the mercy of this bountiful land ?¡± Maraya¡¯s face cracked ¡ª the first real break in her iron defiance. Her mouth quivered, and her gaze fell, staring at the road ahead as if salvation could be found there. Torghan saw it and hammered the nail deeper. ¡°This is not for us alone, Maraya,¡± he growled, ¡°but for all of them ¡ª our kin, our blood. Would you doom them all to ruin because you could not endure the sacred duty entrusted to your gender? Would your pride cost us everything?¡± Maraya squeezed her eyes shut, as if his words were stones thrown against her soul. Torghan, merciless now, drove the point home.¡±Your son ¡ª and you will have one ¡ª will not be some low hunter scrabbling in the dirt,¡± he said, voice rising. ¡°He will be a lord of men, leading warriors to battle, commanding fields ripe with grain. He will be stronger than father will ever be.¡± He saw her lip tremble. She was cracking, and he pressed harder. ¡°Back in the tribe,¡± he spat, ¡°women would kill for the chance you are spitting on. Their fathers would Kill me, if they thought it would give their daughters even half your fortune!¡± Maraya¡¯s eyes darted toward him. Torghan shook his head, his voice quieter now, but no less fierce.¡±If you will not do it for me,¡± he said, ¡°then do it for them. We all bear our stones, sister. Heavy, back-breaking burdens. But we carry them. We suffer in silence, because we know it is not for ourselves alone ¡ª but for all those who stand behind us.¡± A long silence fell between them, broken only by the clopping of hooves on the dirt road.Maraya said nothing. But the fight had gone out of her shoulders. And Torghan knew, that the battle had been won, though no satisfaction came from it. Chapter 588: A new place(2) Chapter 588: A new place(2) After their conversation, the rest of the day slid into a heavy silence.Maraya said nothing more ¡ª not a word, not a complaint. She only rode with her head bowed, her eyes locked on the trampled road beneath her horse¡¯s hooves, as if the stones and dust were more worthy of her attention than the world around her. Torghan rode beside her, his hands tightening around the reins more than once. Guilt gnawed at the edges of his mind. He was no brute, nor did he take pleasure in breaking his sister¡¯s spirit. But in his heart he knew ¡ª he knew ¡ª that this burden had to be borne. Their tribe¡¯s place in this new land hung by a thread, and this union was the knot that could hold it fast.If he had to play the villain to secure their future, then so be it. And so they rode, until, at last, the familiar walls of Yarzat rose before them ¡ª a sight that stole the breath from their lungs even after all these weeks. As waiting for them, as Torghan had half expected, was not merely an honor guard.No ¡ª the Prince of Yarzat, would never settle for something so mundane as the bride of one of his favorites. Stretching out before the gates was a great phalanx of his personal army , drawn up in gleaming ranks. Their armor caught the setting sun and reflected it like a sea of molten silver, their Pilae standing straight as the trees of a forest.At the head of them, cloaked in a deep purple mantle, sat the Prince himself astride his white stallion, a smile carved into his lips like a man who knew exactly how much awe he commanded. Trumpets sang out, high and clear, and the gates swung open as if the whole city itself were bowing to greet them. Torghan straightened his spine, stealing a glance at Maraya.She too lifted her head, if only for a moment, her face pale, her eyes wide at the splendor laid out before her. The wide road toward the city was lined with thousands of soldiers: rank upon shining rank of footmen in gleaming mail, each raising their javelins skyward in perfect, mechanical unity, the sound of their movement a synchronized whirring of death. Trumpets blared from the towers and battlements, a keening, heroic sound that seemed to shake the banners hanging heavy in the warm breeze.Behind the line of infantry, the royal drummers pounded out a rhythm meant not for merriment but for war: a low, rolling thunder that vibrated through the stones underfoot, up the legs of the horses, and into the hearts of men.The horses of the Golden Steed Knights , the guards of the royal family pawed the earth as they escorted the siblings, their armor glinting like gold torn from the gods themselves. Torghan felt it again ¡ª that electric thrill, the shiver that ran up his spine despite himself.It was not fear. It was not even awe.It was the pure, primal understanding that this ¡ª this monstrous, glittering machine ¡ª could erase him, his people, and their memory from the earth in an afternoon if it so desired. He turned, seeking his sister¡¯s reaction.He caught her face just as it changed ¡ª from stubborn defiance to something more complicated: a swallowing of pride, a dawning understanding.Her mouth parted slightly, her eyes wide, her knuckles white around the reins. And at that moment, Torghan smiled grimly to himself. No words he could have spoken would have struck her heart so deeply as the sight of the White Army assembled here not to wage war ¡ªbut simply to welcome them. If this was what the prince mustered for a handshake, what could he conjure when he was truly enraged? Torghan had witnessed it and fought beside it, but his sister did not . Still both knew that they would never match it. Not in men, not in arms, not in wealth, not in dreams. The road ahead was clear and lined not with choices but with the hard, glittering truth of necessity. He leaned toward Maraya slightly, not bothering much with secrecy as they spoke in their language. ¡°Look around you, sister,¡± he murmured. ¡°This is why we must bow and smile and bend the knee. Because the day we stand against this...¡± he gestured almost imperceptibly at the endless forest of spears, ¡°...is the day we die.¡± Maraya said nothing.She simply looked down at the ground as if searching for a crack to slip into and vanish. Torghan left her to her thoughts.Some lessons could not be taught with words.Some truths had to be crushed into you like iron on an anvil. And as the army roared in thunderous salute, the prince¡¯s banners snapping high above the walls, Torghan felt both the weight and the strange exhilaration of belonging to something greater, something unstoppable. This was Yarzat.This was their future.And they would either ride its tide ¡ª or be drowned beneath it. As they continued their march, at the end of the great road, framed before the gates of Yarzat, sat the figure who commanded it all. The Prince. Maraya¡¯s breath caught for a moment.Despite the grandeur, the prince himself was... not what she had pictured. Alpheo was no towering, thunder-voiced giant. Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". He was almost slight by warrior standards ¡ª a lean, lithe frame that seemed built more for speed than brute force, his youthful face framed by neatly black hair falling to his neck.Not heavily muscled, nor tall ¡ª and yet, somehow, he carried a weight about him, an unseen gravity, as if the air itself bent toward him. A man who needed no size to command obedience. Without missing a beat, Torghan kicked his horse¡¯s sides and slid down, bowing low in his saddle. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched his sister copy the gesture, though less fluidly, and ¡ª to his horror ¡ª stealing a glance upward at Alpheo while she did with a raised highbrow. Torghan nearly grimaced. The prince¡¯s gaze flicked to him first, a familiar and easy smile spreading across his face. ¡°Torghan,¡± Alpheo called out in a tone of camaraderie, ¡°you return to us once again ¡ª and I see you bring more than yourself this time.¡± He turned his head slightly toward Maraya. Torghan, feeling the weight of the moment, straightened himself and with a formal voice announced: ¡°My Prince, Sister.... Maraya¡± Alpheo¡¯s gaze settled on her properly now ¡ª assessing, weighing ¡ª though his smile did not waver.He gave a small nod of approval. Then, turning slightly in the saddle, Alpheo called over his shoulder, where another man sat mounted, tall and broad-shouldered, his face a battlefield of scars and pride. ¡°Jarza!¡± Alpheo said, a laugh in his voice. ¡°Come see ¡ª your bride has arrived!¡± The soldiers nearest the gate thumped their chests in approval.The drummers gave a quick, celebratory roll.Even Jarza allowed a rare, toothy grin to crack across his weathered face as he nudged his horse forward for a better look. Maraya kept her face still, but Torghan could see the fury boiling under her calm mask. Still, there it was.The deed was done.The wheels were turning, and now not even the gods themselves could stop it. Torghan allowed himself the smallest smile of satisfaction. Their place was secured. ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª Maraya¡¯s eyes fixed on the man called Jarza, and despite herself, a ripple of awe ¡ª and unease ¡ª stirred within her. If Alpheo had surprised her by being smaller, Jarza was the exact opposite. The man was huge.Easily a full head taller than her brother Torghan, and thicker by another half in sheer muscle.His shoulders were like the beams that held up longhouses, and his arms were packed with the kind of dense strength that looked as if it could tear a bear in half. He sat on his horse ¡ª a beast larger than any Maraya had ever seen ¡ª like a boulder perched atop a mountain, solid and immovable. In truth, Jarza looked the part of a chieftain ¡ª the kind of man Maraya had imagined his brother to be serving . Alpheo, for all his charm and grace, could have passed for a young clerk or unbloodied young compared to this towering mountain of a man. Jarza¡¯s skin was deeply dark, a rich obsidian hue that reminded her vividly of the Azanian merchants who used to travel to their father¡¯s hall near the border when they were still living on their hills. He even had the same foreign cut to his features ¡ª broad nose, thick lips, and piercing eyes ¡ª though Jarza¡¯s nose had been broken once, maybe twice, and now it bent slightly to the left like a crooked branch.His head was completely bald, the sun glinting off his scalp. As Maraya studied him, Alpheo trotted forward casually on his gleaming white stallion and gave a hearty slap to Jarza¡¯s massive shoulder ¡ª an action that would have likely shattered a lesser man¡¯s bones.Jarza barely moved under the friendly blow, only offering a slight nod of acknowledgment. Then came a familiar voice. From the crowd stepped a man Maraya recognized ¡ª the translator, the one who had spoken at length with her father back when the tribe was whole. First, he said a few words in the clipped, musical syllables of Azanian ¡ª Jarza nodded solemnly ¡ª and then translated into the Mountain Tongue of the Voghondai, so that Maraya and Torghan could understand: ¡°This here is Jarza,¡± the translator proclaimed proudly, ¡°a great warrior and a great friend of our prince!¡± He grinned, pausing for effect, before adding with a playful lilt: ¡°His grace says not be daunted by his size! His heart is as kind and warm as his fists are hard and fast!¡± Maraya didn¡¯t smile back. Her hands tightened around the reins, as she realized that now this was going to be her life. Chapter 589: Life across the seas(1) Chapter 589: Life across the seas(1) Eight months had passed since the Voghondai crossed the sea and planted their banners on the royal lands gifted to them by the Prince of Yarzat, leaving behind the rugged hills that had cradled their ancestors for generations. The decision had not come lightly. It had stirred fierce debates by many firesides. Yet, ask any among those who had boarded the royal fleet, their homes and hopes packed into worn leather sacks, and they would agree on one thing without hesitation ¡ª life had improved beyond their wildest dreams. The new lands seemed kissed by the spirits. At first, the soil appeared no different from the fields of stone and thorns they had left behind, but patience rewarded them. Within a month, what was once green blossomed into great golden seas of grain, waving under the wind like living rivers. Vegetables fattened quickly, fruits dripped from trees with a weight and sweetness they had never known. Compared to the reluctant, stubborn earth of their old hills, where harvest was non-existent , this land felt like a dream bought at a dear but worthy price. If the bounty of the earth was not enough, there was salt ¡ª precious, vital salt. In the old country, it had been weighed as dearly as gold, sparking feuds and blood-debts. Here, while still not cheap, it was within reach of common hands, still costly but more affordable , no longer a luxury that only chiefs and warlords could afford. To those who had long counted every grain, it felt like a miracle. And for the warriors, oh, what gifts they reaped! No longer did they wield rusted axes and leather. Now, fine steel kissed their hands, shining armor clad their shoulders, and the victories they had carved in blood under the royal banner of Alpheo tasted all the sweeter for the spoils they carried home ¡ª heavy sacks of silver, silks, and weapons. The riches of war lined their halls and filled their hearths for their new life was not just one of survival, but of triumph. Yet it was not only those who sailed across the sea who found fortune. Life, in a strange twist of fate, had improved even for the Voghondai who remained behind in the old homeland called however not that , but instead Chorsi. Their departure, which once had seemed a death knell, had in truth become a lifeline. With fewer mouths to feed, and with the salt sent thanks to those that crossed the water the tribes could now preserve the meat from their hunts, curing it against rot and spoil. No longer did they need to slaughter their herds in desperation before the meat could sour; no longer did the scent of decay haunt their camps when winter stretched its cruel hand over the hills. Salt was not the only gift the sea-borne exiles had sent back. A few of the royal herds had been sent as well, animals unfamiliar to the high hills but swift to adapt. Their milk, their meat, and their hides proved a boon, and much to the tribe surprise not a single onee had starved. And survival was only the beginning. With the new weapons ¡ª steel-forged swords, chain-cloth vests that could turn aside a spear thrust, and helms that shone like silver under the sun ¡ª the Chorsi found themselves stronger than they had been in generations. Pride that had been buried under the shame of famine and defeat was rekindled. With steel in their hands and vengeance in their hearts, they turned their gaze upon the hills that had been stolen from them by the Duskwindai , their ancient rivals who had driven them into barren exile. This time, it would be different. What had once seemed the end of the Chorsi was, in truth, the beginning of their rebirth. ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª- Varaku strode with heavy steps through the busy camp the Yarzatian outsiders had thrown up along the coast. His fur cloak dragged in the sand, and the saltwind snapped at the braids of his hair. Around him, the air buzzed with the sound of men heaving and shouting, the foreign tongue sharp against the deeper, rougher speech of his own people. From the bellies of the great wooden turtles ¡ª their monstrous ships ¡ª came iron-chested goods, lowered down by ropes and sweaty men who cursed and strained. The turtles groaned against the tide, their hulls dark and massive like the shells of sea-beasts from old songs. The ground shook faintly with each heavy chest that slammed onto the shore, filled with salt, steel, tools, cloth ¡ª treasures the Voghondai could never have forged or woven alone. Varaku watched it all with a hard stare, arms crossed over his broad chest. His people thrived now because of these trades, but he did not like depending on anyone, much less these soft-fingered men from across the seas. Footsteps stirred the sand behind him. Heavy boots, but too quick, too nervous. Varaku turned on his heel, his sharp gaze falling onto the new envoy. It was Sevarim, the man sent to replace Aron, who had been shrewd but brave ¡ª a man Varaku could respect, even if he still distrusted his smiles. Sevarim, however, was another matter entirely. He was younger, thinner, and moved with the air of someone who did not like where he was ¡ª but dared not say it aloud. His tunic was fine but already dirtied by the salt air, and he winced whenever a wave crashed too close to his boots. His mouth seemed made more for stammering than speaking, and when he bowed awkwardly before Varaku, it was with the look of a dog expecting a cuff. Varaku said nothing for a long moment, only staring at him as if weighing whether it was worth bothering with this thin-skin at all. His mind had already made its judgment: This one would not have lasted a week in the hills, not even among the old women and children. Yet, if he wanted the salt, the steel, the wealth these turtle-men brought ashore, he would have to deal with Sevarim, coward or not. Sevarim approached with a face pulled into something that was supposed to be a smile but looked more like a grimace. He lifted a hand in greeting and, after clearing his throat with a nervous cough, spoke in the mountain tongue of the Voghondai ¡ª or rather, a broken, limping thing that resembled it. ¡°Good...sun...to...you...Chief Varaku,¡± he managed, each word slow and careful as if he was picking stones out of a muddy riverbed. Varaku didn¡¯t answer.He simply looked at him ¡ª a look hard enough to peel bark off a tree ¡ª and then turned his eyes back to the men hauling heavy chests down from the ship¡¯s belly. If Sevarim had expected a friendly reply, he would find none. Sevarim, flustered, snorted sharply through his nose ¡ª more an accident than anything dignified ¡ª and abandoned the mountain tongue altogether. His voice shifted into the quicker, silkier cadences of Azanian, a language of merchants and sharp-minded traders. Beside him, a thin man in Yarzatian colors stepped forward and began to translate, his own voice a trembling echo of Sevarim¡¯s words. ¡°You seem to have...great interest in what is coming ashore, great chief,¡± Sevarim said, tilting his head, trying ¡ª and failing ¡ª to look confident. His eyes darted nervously to the towering Varaku, then quickly back to the chests being dragged across the sand. Varaku¡¯s head tilted a fraction. The muscles in his jaw flexed, once. Then he moved ¡ª fast and sharp, like a snake uncurling ¡ª cutting Sevarim¡¯s slow speech short. ¡°No time for playing tongues,¡± Varaku rumbled in his own deep voice, heavy and cold as river-stone. His words came clipped, final. ¡°I was told to come. For a deal, I am here and yet all that I was shown was your kind bringing things down from their great wooden turtles.¡± Follow new episodes on the "N0vel1st.c0m". The translator scrambled to follow, speaking hurriedly in Sevarim¡¯s ear, but Varaku didn¡¯t wait for them to catch up. ¡°In a few days, we ride for the Duskwindai.¡± His voice lowered into something almost like a growl, filled with the steady promise of violence. ¡°I do not waste my breath on games and riddles. If this is important, then speak ¡ª or I walk back to sharpen blades.¡± He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing the smaller man, making Sevarim stiffen slightly under the weight of it. Varaku¡¯s lips curled, not into a smile but something far sharper. ¡°You know very well when we are marching and since you have called me, it means that what we are to discuss is rather important . And since it should be in your interest too that I win, given that if we were to disappear, you¡¯ll have no one to trade your salt to but ghosts.¡± Sevarim chuckled, though it was clear the laugh was more for himself than anyone else ¡ª thin and a little brittle, like ice cracking underfoot. He brushed invisible dust from his tunic and bowed his head slightly, the motion awkward, as if he hadn¡¯t quite mastered the art of humility. ¡°My apologies, great chief,¡± he said, his voice a smooth hum translated quickly into the mountain tongue by the thin interpreter at his side. ¡°It is good fortune you have not yet departed. Had you left, you would have missed what promises to be... a most pleasant arrangement for you.¡± Varaku made a sound that wasn¡¯t quite a laugh and wasn¡¯t quite a grunt ¡ª a harsh snort that might¡¯ve knocked a lesser man backward. He shifted his weight, his boots grinding against the gritty earth, and jerked his chin toward the camp. ¡°Enough dancing,¡± he said flatly. ¡°Move.¡± Sevarim¡¯s smile stretched wider, trying ¡ª failing ¡ª to look natural. His hands, delicate and soft compared to Varaku¡¯s, fluttered slightly before he swept one out before him in an elegant gesture, as if presenting a fine tapestry instead of a muddy path between supply wagons and crates. ¡°Of course, of course! Let us not stand here like fishmongers haggling over dead stock!¡± he said, laughter bubbling once more at the edge of his words. ¡°Come, come ¡ª let us speak in private, where words can be polished with proper food and drink to soften their edges.¡± He stepped ahead, moving with a theatrical flourish, his boots sinking into the soft coastal soil. Varaku watched him for a moment, unimpressed, before following, the earth itself seeming to protest under his boots .He had no patience for honeyed words or soft hands ¡ª but if this man brought something worth having, Varaku would suffer the performance. For now.