Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 810

Chapter 810: Old grudges(1)

“To eternal friendship!” cried the Emperor of Romelia, his voice carrying through the hall like a peal of laughter after storm. The silver cup in his hand sloshed, crimson wine leaping over its rim and spattering upon the polished wood like blood spilled in jest.

It was a strange sight,an emperor so carefree, so openly merry, as though the mere act of winning a prince like ally was reason enough for celebration. To Alpheo, the display felt almost unsettling.

It reminded him of someone, who however, much to Alpheo’s dismay was not there despite his many attempts to find him….

Of course right at that moment , he did not know then that whatever coin the Emperor had spent that day, would one day return to him ten-thousandfold.

And so yes, indeed the boy-Emperor was right in having such joy, as his new ally would indeed prove more help than he could yet fathom.

Still, when the Romelian lifted his cup, Alpheo and his companions had no choice but to follow. Cups rose, rims clinked, and the toast was shared. In one way or another, they were bound now, ride or die, caught in the same vessel, and that vessel sailed beneath the eagle’s wings.

“You have truly saved us out there, Your Majesty!” Lord Shahab said, his face glowing with cheer, though whether from the wine or from relief, Alpheo could not tell. Likely both. Shahab knew as well as he did that the Romelians had not merely helped them, they had spared them from ruin.

Mesha, still flushed with the triumph of his own boldness, beamed like the youth he was. “Saved you? We are allies now, are we not? Allies do not save one another, they stand together.” His smile was disarming, almost boyish, and yet it carried the pride of one who had accomplished his mission, and with it, the freedom to finally breathe.

Alpheo, ever the more cautious of the three, lifted his cup in turn. “Then allow me to say, we will remember this debt. And we will return it when the hour comes due.”

The Emperor chuckled, tilting his head back as he drank deeply. “We eagerly await that hour,” he said, voice rolling like warm tea.

“And when it comes, may your banner fly beside mine. There will be glory enough for both falcon and eagle.”

Alpheo raised his brow, studying the man even as he sipped. “I fear the falcon will pale when flying beside the eagle,” he said with feigned humility.

“Nonsense!” Mesha broke in before Alpheo could answer, his cheeks red with wine and youthful ardor. “We shall be honored to march at your side, when the time comes.” His words rang with enthusiasm, though in their zeal Alpheo caught something else: expectation.

When the time comes.

Does the boy already anticipate an invasion? Alpheo narrowed his eyes slightly over the rim of his cup, watching Mesha closely. Perhaps the Emperor’s jollity was not born of wine alone.

Alpheo was about to press further, to test whether the emperor’s mirth would spill secrets as easily as his wine, when a voice rose smoothly from beside the imperial ruler.

“Your Majesty, this beverage is truly remarkable.”

It was Doria, the imperial envoy, whom Alpheo had already much contact with. His words seemed harmless, even casual, but to Alpheo’s ears they struck like a pebble tossed into a still pond. Doria leaned forward, his cup glinting in the lamplight as he nudged it toward Mesha.

Within, the liquid gleamed golden, thicker than wine. Alpheo squinted and realized it was orange juice, sweetened with honey.

“Would you care for a cup?” Doria asked without blinking.

To Alpheo’s surprise, Mesha accepted without hesitation.

He set aside the wine he had been drinking so eagerly only moments before and raised the soon to be brought to him honeyed juice instead. A servant hurried at once to fetch more.

The choice baffled Alpheo at first. In his mind, youth craved the trappings of manhood, and none clung tighter to that illusion than the cup of wine, foolishly cherished as proof of one’s maturity. Yet Mesha surrendered it easily, without even the faintest protest.

It did not take a genius to see the strings. Doria had not offered a drink; he had issued a reminder. A gentle but unmistakable call for restraint, a hand pulling the young emperor back from the precipice of saying too much, too freely and too eagerly.

And Mesha, for all his bright defiance earlier, had obeyed.

Alpheo sat back, the realization coiling in his gut. His earlier suspicion now rang sharper, more certain. They expected trouble. Perhaps not tomorrow, but trouble was still to come.

Still, it wasn’t as though Alpheo had much of a choice in that regard.

It was ride or die…

Still, no matter what the painted smiles on his companions’ faces might have suggested, the conference had left every party with a bitter taste.

For the Oizenians, the loss was clear and tangible. Their richest mines ,once the heart of their treasury, were gone, swallowed into Alpheo’s new dominion, along with other lands that he had not even yet set foot upon, but which, by the ink of the treaty, were now his.

For Alpheo, matters were more complicated. On the surface, it was a triumph. He had secured the coastline, seized the artery that fed Oizen’s trade to the sea, and claimed the fertile stretches that were once their garden. He had even tightened Yarzat’s grasp over the land bridge he sought for so long. By the small lens, it was victory.

Yet the larger lens told another story.

The peace had peeled back the veil, showing him what lay ahead. His next war would not be the clean duel of prince against prince; it would be the clash of coalitions, the talons of many sharpened against him.

The moment had passed when he might have sworn that cursed oath, buying time with words, and later broken it under the guise of necessity.

That clever road was gone.

Now he was left to dread not whom he would strike, but who might strike first.

And then there were the Habadians. At first glance, they had nearly snatched triumph from the day, so close to weaving the southern princes into their net. Zayneth had felt victory within reach, the coalition against Alpheo nearly breathing to life before his eyes. But Mesha’s intervention had torn the fabric, and though Habadia had shown its fangs, it had also learned what it would cost to bite: the eagle.

No prince of the south would dare to forget that.

In truth, each side had left with mud on their tongues, humiliated, frustrated, denied.

All except one.

The young emperor, cup of orange juice in hand, had walked out the only victor. With one speech he had shattered Habadia’s immediate dream of a coalition, and with one toast he had bound Alpheo to Romelia’s long-desired alliance. While princes stewed and schemed, Mesha had drunk sweetly, and it was his realm that left stronger than it had entered.

Yes, Alpheo understood , the day belonged not to him, nor to Oizen, nor even to proud Habadia.It belonged to Romelia

Still, he was to lie upon the bed he himself had made.The cards were dealt, and whether cursed or blessed, he would have to play them with the hand he held.

His thoughts drifted in circles, tangled around the the shape of the political isolation he was now in , when suddenly the door swung open.

There, framed by the torchlight, appeared the face Alpheo had longed to see since the previous day.

“Am I late?”

The words slurred from Egil’s lips, carried on a breath of wine that filled the chamber like a cloud.

“Not at all, come, sit with us!” Alpheo exclaimed, his eagerness spilling forth before he even caught the shift in Jarza’s expression.

Egil staggered forward, one hand dragging along the wall for balance as though it were a crutch. When he drew closer, the state of him became plain: his nose bent awkwardly, a smear of purple swelling around his left eye, the whole of his face wearing the evidence of yesterday’s fray.

A glance toward Jarza told the rest, there was no question which of the two had come away the better. Not that it surprised Alpheo; he doubted there was a man in Yarzat, or beyond, who could truly best that mountain of muscle in open contest.

Yet for all that, Alpheo’s heart lifted at the sight of his companion.

“My apologies” Egil muttered, pausing to steady himself before the table. “I tarried longer than I should have.”

Alpheo brushed the words aside with a smile and rose swiftly to meet him, clasping his friend’s broad shoulder in a firm grip, the gesture half-greeting and half-support.

“You’re here now, that’s what matters,” he said warmly, guiding Egil to an open seat as though to shepherd him safely back into their circle.