Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 803

Chapter 803: Princely conference(4)

Alpheo allowed himself the best gloating he could ever have had at the sight before him. Sorza’s mask, so carefully worn since the beginning of the talks, had begun to crack.

Anxiety flickered across his rival’s features as he realized that his finely crafted role of the victimized prince was slipping through his fingers.

Until now, Sorza had believed his task simple: to paint himself as the aggrieved lamb, to cast Alpheo as the ravenous wolf, and to drown the gathering in accusations and demands under the guise of “peace.”

But one look at the envoys was enough to tell him that the ground beneath him had shifted. The air of sympathy he had so carefully fostered was beginning to unravel, thread by thread, before his very eyes.

Still, pride and desperation drove him to speak. He opened his mouth, faltered, grimaced, then turned stiffly toward Shaza.

“May I answer?” he asked, his tone strained.

Shaza, with the impassive air of a man who had no desire to become entangled in the quarreling, gave a curt nod. “You may.”

And so Sorza drew himself up and unleashed the sharpest, most carefully wrought argument, the most augmented reply that his mind could muster, so sharp that even Socrates himself would have bowed.

“They are lies! All of them!”

Not a murmur of agreement followed. Instead, silence answered him.

If Sorza had hoped for indignation on his behalf, or even doubt cast upon Alpheo, he received nothing of the sort. Only dispassionate gazes, weighing him as one might weigh a merchant’s coin, testing for fraud.

It was the overseeing prince who finally broke that silence and threw Sorza the lifeline he craved.

“Prince Alpheo,” Shaza intoned gravely, “the accusations you have leveled are not trifles. They strike at the honor of a crown and the conduct of a sovereign state. Strong words indeed… but words nonetheless. You have presented much charge, yet as of now, I see no proof.”

Sorza seized the chance like a starving hound snapping at scraps. He half-rose from his seat, his voice shrill with eagerness. “Yes! Proof! Where is your proof? Do you think you can simply weave tales out of thin air and have them believed?” His words tumbled over themselves, feverish, almost maniacal, as though sheer force of noise might bury the dagger already lodged in his side.

And across from him, Alpheo remained unshaken. Calm, composed, his hands folded lightly before him, he wore the faintest of smiles.

He had, after all, done his homework.

“Proof,” Alpheo said smoothly, his voice slicing clean through Sorza’s tirade like a blade through silk. “Yes. Proof is what you ask for. And proof, Your Graces, is what I shall provide.”

With a clap of his hand, all eyes turned as Aron rose from one of the benches. The young man bore in his arms a heavy stack of letters bound with ribbons and wax, his expression solemn as he stepped into the center of the gathering.

“These,” Alpheo continued, his voice carrying calm authority, “are written admissions of guilt, sworn by the very rebel lords who raised banners against me. Each of them attests to the same charge I have leveled here today: that the Prince of Oizen, together with Herculia, enticed them into rebellion and threatened them with exposure when they tried to repent of their treachery.”

He gestured lightly toward the bundle in Aron’s arms. “They swear by the gods’ names that such was the truth. Swear it, knowing full well that should they be false, their souls would be forfeit for eternity. If Your Graces wish it, the letters can be read aloud for all present.”

A murmur rippled among the envoys, brows lifting, heads turning. But Sorza, who until now had sat stunned, suddenly lurched forward with a burst of shrill defiance.

“All the letters are from defeated lords!” he spat, his voice cracking with vehemence. “Broken men, desperate to save themselves from the gallows or the loss of their lands. They would have written anything you bade them, anything to appease you! Who here can say they were not threatened? Coerced? Forced to scratch lies upon parchment with your sword hanging above their necks?”

The argument held a certain measure of reason, but the air in the tent did not shift back in his favor. The envoys were unconvinced; disbelief still lingered in their eyes. Did after all of them really risked eternal damnation?Without even one fearing for his soul?That was hard to believe…

And Alpheo, smiling faintly, was far from finished. He had prepared for this very protest.

“If Your Grace,” he purred, savoring the unease that settled upon Sorza’s face, “believes these letters insufficient, then he need not trouble himself. For there is yet more.”

At his nod, Aron produced a smaller parchment, sealed in black wax, and placed it reverently in Shaza’s waiting hands.

“That,” Alpheo said, his voice rich with quiet satisfaction, “is the confession of the fallen priest who stirred the peasantry to rebellion, a rebellion conducted, as he himself admitted, in concert with the rebel lords, with Herculia… and with Oizen. The words are his own. No embellishment of mine is needed.”

He let his gaze drift deliberately to Sorza, whose features had drawn tight, the lines of his face slackened by dread. “And before you protest, know this: the man was burned at the stake. His confession brought him no reprieve, no lighter sentence, no chance at life. He had nothing to gain by it, and yet he named you all the same.”

A silence fell so thick it seemed to press upon every ear. Sorza looked as though the years had suddenly borne down upon him, the proud sharpness of his features sagging into weariness.

But defeat was a bitter draught, and he would not drink it willingly. He forced himself upright, his voice cracking with renewed fervor:

“Confession under duress! Every man, when broken by the lash or the rack, will confess to the devil himself if pressed hard enough! Who is to say this priest was not tormented into babbling falsehoods before the pyre took him?”

Alpheo did not rise to anger. Instead, he tilted his head, his smile cool and steady, and spoke with a touch of amused incredulity.

“Ah. But here, Your Grace, your reasoning falters. Priests , even fallen ones , are under law sacred. They may not be harmed nor tortured, lest the wrath of the gods themselves be invoked upon the one who defiles their station. And yet…” He let the words linger, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

Sorza finished the words for him”And yet…. this one was not executed in the public square, as is custom. No, he was burned in a quiet corner, away from the eyes of the people, with only a select few present. Strange, is it not?”

He leaned forward just enough for his voice to grow softer.

“One cannot help but wonder, Your Grace… what passed between you and this priest before the flames consumed him? Why hide such a sentence from prying eyes, unless there was something to conceal?”

The murmur that broke out among the envoys now was louder, more urgent.However the murmurs did not come from the accuse as much as the sight of who had risen to take issue on that.

“Does Your Grace truly mean what he has just said?”

The voice was calm yet heav and aged. It smashed through the murmurs of the envoys like a bell tolling across a square. All eyes turned toward its source , an elder who had risen from the emperor’s retinue. His hair was white, his back straight despite his years, and upon his robe gleamed the star of his office. The golden ornaments at his sleeve, shaped like coiled laurels, made his station unmistakable even before his name was spoken.

For those who did not yet know, he made it plain.

“The trial and the punishment of that priest were administered, overseen, and judged by an Archon appointed by the Holy Father himself.” His tone was measured, but behind it throbbed the weight of divine law.

“Do you still mean what you have implied? That one of the holy house of the gods , no matter how far he had fallen from grace , was tortured under my watch? Do you still press this claim, knowing full well its meaning?”

The elder’s eyes, clear and sharp, fixed unerringly upon Sorza. “For if you do, then you accuse not only Prince Alpheo, but the tribunal of the gods. You accuse me, Archon Vesperian, of turning a blind eye to a crime I was appointed to prevent. Will you stand by such a charge, Prince of Oizen?Do you even know what that actually means?”

Sorza’s face went ashen. His lips parted, closed, parted again. He stammered out fragments that died before they became words, his voice betraying his sudden understanding of what he had said and before whom he had said it. His attempt at defiance had stumbled into sacrilege.

“I… I did not mean… Your Illustriosness, you mistake my intent, I only sought—” He faltered, sweat beading at his brow, his words collapsing under the weight of the Archon’s gaze. “I would never dare suggest—”

But the damage was already done.

It was then that Shaza, perhaps sensing that the proceedings teetered on the verge of disintegration, rose to intervene. He struck his iron-capped staff once against the ground, the sound commanding attention.

“Enough.” His voice was firm, not loud, but carrying with it a finality that stilled the chamber. He looked first at Sorza, then at Alpheo, then allowed his gaze to sweep over the gathering. “What has been presented here today is more than sufficient for one sitting. Letters, testimony, and confessions , all weighty matters. And now, accusations grave enough to shake the very foundations of order itself.”

He paused, his expression carefully neutral, though his tone left no room for further protest. “Such evidence and such claims must be studied in full. They are not to be decided in the heat of debate, nor in the tumult of indignation over recently discovered plots.”

The overseer inclined his head slightly. “Therefore, I decree this session adjourned. We shall take the rest of this day to review the writings, to examine the confessions, and to weigh the words spoken. Tomorrow morning, at first light, we reconvene and we continue this council with clearer minds.”

He struck his staff once more. “Until then, let no further word on the matter be spoken.”

The chamber released a collective breath it hadn’t known it was holding, voices resuming in a low tide as men exchanged glances, some relieved, others unsettled. Sorza sank slowly back into his seat, pale and shaken, while Alpheo allowed himself the faintest flicker of satisfaction before schooling his features to composure.