Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 804

Chapter 804: Intermission

“Fuck… that was tiring,” Alpheo muttered as he tipped the last of his cup back and let the sharp wine burn its way down. The sourness lingered on his tongue, but he savored it, for it felt like the first honest taste he’d had all day.

The first session of the conference had finally ended. In truth, it had lasted no more than a handful of hours, but for Alpheo it might as well have stretched on for a month. . By the end, his shoulders ached more than they had after battle, his mind heavy as lead.

Still, exhaustion did not mean dissatisfaction. Far from it.

“Have you seen that fucker’s face?” Asag barked suddenly, half-laughing, half-shouting, his voice already made loud by the wine. He slammed his palm down on the table, rattling the cups and spilling a little of his own drink down his sleeve. “Gods damn it, that made all the travel worth it!”

The men around him chuckled, raising their cups in agreement.

“I’ve never seen such a deflated face,” Jarza added, tugging his cup toward the wine jug only to find it empty. He scowled, then laughed again as he filled it to the brim. “Not even among the prisoners after battle. You’d think the man had just been beaten bloody on the field again!”

It was clear to all that the day had gone well, better, perhaps, than any of them had dared to hope. His carefully crafted image of a wronged man, the victim-turned-supplicant, had been pierced through and broken for all to see. And in its place was revealed what Alpheo had always known him to be: desperate, weak, and humiliated.

But Alpheo knew better than any of them what it had cost to make this day happen. He did not laugh as loudly, nor drink as deeply. He had been the one to comb through every scrap of information, to construct every line of attack with care, to anticipate every countermove Sorza might make. Every cutting remark, every well-placed question, every turn of phrase that had sent Sorza stumbling,it had all been the product of sleepless nights and the grinding work of preparation.

His men had seen the strike, and they rejoiced in the blow that landed. But only Alpheo knew how much effort it had taken to make sure the blade would cut clean.

“Bah! It is still outside me,the meaning of all this,” Egil grumbled, throwing back his cup and draining it in one rough swallow. He smacked it down on the table, the wine sloshing against the rim. “Who cares about all that prattle? All the fanfare, the speeches, the posturing. Aren’t we winning the war? Why the hell are we wasting breath over who did what?”

The others chuckled faintly, but Alpheo only raised an eyebrow.

“The short answer,” he said slowly, swirling the dregs of his own cup, “is that head of states are all hypocrites. We hide behind a veil of honor because without it, we’d have no excuse for our bloodlust.

Men will not march willingly if told, ‘we kill because we wish to.’ They need a reason, a story that lets them believe their cause is just. And so, whenever war is waged, it must first be draped in reason. That is why today, we battled on who is in the right and who is in the wrong.”

Egil frowned, rubbing his beard. “Hypocrites, eh?” he muttered.

“The princes who backed Ozenia,” Alpheo continued, “had been fed the tale that we were the aggressors. That was the foundation of Sorza’s stance. But now—” he lifted a hand moving it around in circle “—we have stripped that veil away. We laid bare the schemes, the lies, the treacheries of Shamleik. No, it does not make us blameless. But it muddies the waters enough that no man can say with certainty who holds the moral ground. And in such fog, we can maneuver.”

Egil snorted, grabbing a handful of grapes from the bowl at his elbow. “It’s all too tangled, this land-dweller way of thinking. You lot are always twisting words, crafting reasons every time you swing a sword, as if there were some noble meaning behind spilling another man’s guts. Nonsense. Men kill men in every tribe, in every land, in every age. Whether it’s one knife in the dark or thousands of spears on the field, what difference is there?” He popped a grape into his mouth, biting down hard so the juice spurted down his chin.

“No difference at all,” Alpheo admitted with a tired shrug. “I never claimed there was. But once, long ago, men decided there should appear to be a difference. They dressed slaughter in the garb of justice, and each generation rotted it a little further. Now it is so foul, and yet so entrenched, that no ruler can act without it.”

“I see…” Egil muttered, chewing thoughtfully as the pulp of the grape slid down his throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So it’s just a fucking meaningless game men play, mimicking morals they don’t actually possess.” He cracked another grape between his teeth

Alpheo opened his mouth to reply, but Shahab’s voice cut across the table first, smooth and firm.

“All that you need to know, Egil,” he said, leaning forward slightly, “is that it brings us advantage right now.”

Egil turned his head toward him, brow furrowing. “What kind of advantage?” His tone was casual, but Alpheo caught a faint edge beneath it, discontent?

“Well,” Alpheo answered at last, taking up the thread, “until now, we were painted as the aggressor. The guilty. The whole council was poised to measure what we would concede, how much blood and land we must yield to buy peace.

But now the board has shifted.

Now, we can don the victim’s cloak. We can demand instead. There are lands we have a claim on. By shifting the narrative, we make those claims legitimate in the eyes of the other princes.”

He leaned forward, setting his cup down firmly on the table. His voice sharpened, each word clipped with purpose.

“What was once the question of how much we must lose becomes how much we might gain. If we demand concessions, then the debate turns away from what we hold to what they owe us. And when the time comes to bargain, we may relinquish things we never possessed to begin with, appearing magnanimous, while, if fortune favors us, we may still keep hold of the very prizes we sought from the start and more.”

Egil raised his brows, slowly chewing another grape. “So illusions…”

“Not illusions,” Alpheo replied, allowing himself the smallest of smiles. “Perceptions”

Shahab inclined his head at that, while Egil only grunted and reached for his cup again.

“Unfortunately, I am not able enough to understand all these talks,” Egil muttered. He gave a short, humorless laugh and tapped two thick fingers against his temple. “My brain is simple, you see. Born that way. Nothing to be done about it now.Stuck with it for life.”

He pushed himself up from his chair with a grunt, the wood creaking beneath his weight. For a moment, he lingered at the table, his hand resting on the rim of his cup as though he meant to speak again. But no words came. With a flicker of irritation he turned and made his way toward the door, as he left Alpheo’s chamber without a glance back.

The silence he left behind was heavier than his footsteps. It didn’t take a keen mind to see something was gnawing at him. Even the others, still murmuring over their wine, exchanged quick glances before glancing up in worry.

Alpheo shifted, his instincts already carrying him half out of his seat. Whatever troubled Egil, he thought, it was best dealt with swiftly. He was about to follow when a firm hand pressed against his chest, stopping him mid-motion.

He turned to find Jarza beside him, his broad face calm but his eyes sharp. Slowly, the man shook his head.

“Not now,” Jarza said in a low voice, clearly confused by the rest , but knowing enough to make half a decision. “Whatever it is, it’s clear he’s nursing it against you. If you chase after him now, you’ll corner him, and the man will only erupt. You’d get nothing but shouting, and he’d be all the more set against you.”

”Why did something happen?” Alpheo asked, but he received as a reply just an unsure shrug.

Jarza withdrew his hand, straightening as he glanced toward the door Egil had passed through. “Better I go. I’ll see what’s what with him, then come back to you.”

Alpheo’s jaw tightened. He didn’t like the idea of leaving matters unresolved, nor did he enjoy the thought of Egil brooding in silence.

But Jarza’s steady stare pinned him to his seat more firmly than any hand.

For a long heartbeat, Alpheo considered arguing. But then he decided against

“Very well,” Alpheo murmured. “Go.”

Jarza gave a small nod and stepped toward the door, his heavy boots thudding against the stone floor. Alpheo watched him go, the firelight swallowing his figure just as it had Egil’s.

Left behind with only the crackle of the hearth and the fading murmur of the others, Alpheo sat in silence.

Whatever it was that stung Egil, it could wait until tomorrow morning, could it not?