Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 812

Chapter 812: Old grudges(3)

He was a fool.

Alpheo realized it with every step he took along the marble halls belonging to Sharjaan, his boots echoing faintly under the high-arched ceilings.

Fool. Fool.

He followed the trail Egil had left behind, a trail that was as loud as it was pitiful. Every servant he passed could point him further along, it was easy to pinpoint , the tall blonde one, they of course noticed him, swaying like a drunk, muttering curses under his breath.

It was a problem that he long had, Egil did not know how to disappear; he could only storm through the world like a cloud with lightning hidden inside.

And still, no matter how close Alpheo drew, it did nothing to lighten the weight on his chest. The guilt pressed down heavier with each step.

He should have realized sooner. He should have known.

He had foolishly assumed that the long years of cooperation with the Romelians, had dulled the bitterness his men once carried. And perhaps that was true for the others, for Jarza, for Asag, for the rest who had made their peace with compromise. But not for Egil. Never for Egil.

How could it be?

Gods, his family, his friends, his entire tribe, had been massacred by Mesha’s father. Burned from the earth by Romelian steel. What madness had possessed Alpheo to think Egil would sit quietly, smiling at the boy who bore that bloodline? What arrogance made him think he could stand beside the heir of his people’s butcher and call him ally?

Did they have any other choice however?

The knowledge that he had hurt his friend gnawed at him. Yet what cut deeper still was the effort Egil had made to hide it. He had not raged at Alpheo, not cursed him, not struck him. He had swallowed it down, tried to bury it beneath forced laughter and drink, as if sparing Alpheo the shame of confrontation. And in doing so, he had only torn himself apart.

Alpheo pushed past the last of the hall’s gilded doors and into the cooler air beyond, his mind racing, his chest tight. He descended the wide steps into the palace gardens, the scent of orange blossoms hanging in the night air, he cared little for it, however, as he searched for his friend.

And there, at the far edge of the garden, he finally found him.

Egil sat slumped against the base of a marble column, his tall frame seeming smaller in the night. His hair hung loose over his face, a wild curtain that did not quite hide the bruises from his scuffle the night before.

He did not look up at Alpheo’s approach, even though he clearly heard him coming.

He sat down beside him and said nothing for a small moment, trying to think of what words to say.

In the end he was spared the trouble of starting the conversation.

“I made myself quite the fool there, didn’t I?” Egil muttered at last. He lifted the urn again, filling the cup he held on his hand and slamming it down his throat. His eyes, rimmed red and swollen, fixed on nothing in particular. He winced a bit. “Who the fuck brings an orange juice urn to a feast?” He spat the drink out before refilling another cup

”I thought I could keep it down, you know? By the Great Horse, I’ve suffered slavery for years. I had chains around my neck, lashes on my back, I’ve eaten filth and slept in gutters, and I endured. You’d think I could endure five damned minutes every year looking at that boy’s face.”

He laughed, short and sharp, though it sounded more like a cough. “But I can’t. Every time I see him, Alph, every time I look at those soft Romelian features, I want to bury my axe in his skull. I want to do to the son what I could not do to the father. Still isn’t it funny? The fool doesn’t even know how the people who killed his father look like.” He chuckled again, hollow this time, shaking his head. “Imagine that. To live so far above the blood you spill, you don’t even know the shade of the ones that gave him the crown.”

Alpheo’s mouth was dry. The only words that came were the most useless: “I am sorry, Egil.”

The horseman turned his head, squinting at him, as if measuring whether that apology was worth anything at all. Then, more softly, he asked, “Can we go back to how it was? I can stomach letting our merchants haggle with them, aye, let them count their coins with Romelian fingers. But me? March beside the son of the man who slaughtered my kin? That’s too much, Alph. Too much.”

Alpheo felt his chest tighten. He knew the answer. Gods, he knew it. But his tongue refused to form the words. He sat in silence, his heart heavy, until Egil turned toward him fully, his eyes glistening in the torchlight.

“I haven’t asked much of you since we met,” Egil said, his voice breaking into something smaller, almost boyish. “Not truly. I’ve followed you across rivers and deserts, through wars and hunger. I’ve taken arrows in my foot and spears to my side, and I’d take them all again without complaint. You know I would.” His big hand trembled against his knee. “But don’t ask me to bear this. Don’t let me lie awake with the knowledge of what’s required of me now. Don’t make me share bread with the butcher’s blood. Just this once, Alph. Make it like it was before.

You’ve done miracles before, do one more for your friend.”

The plea stabbed through Alpheo’s chest. He wanted nothing more than to nod, to give the man hope.

But the truth was a stone in his gut.

He simply could not

“I am at my wit’s end, Egil.” His voice cracked against his will. “I have no more miracles left. I don’t know what to do either.” He looked at him then, eyes wide, desperate, as though begging forgiveness. “The South has already cast us as their enemy. From here on, the only thing keeping their armies from our gates is the very man you hate. I cannot afford to stand without him.”

Egil blinked at the ground, but Alpheo pressed on, words spilling out like blood from a wound.

“I cannot do it, Egil. Not this time. I cannot hope to face six armies alone, it’s….beyond me.” His voice grew softer, pained. “I’m frightened, more frightened than I’ve ever been. Frightened of what they will do to my home, to my people, when they come with torches and chains. Frightened of what will happen to my wife and my child.” His throat tightened, but he forced the words out. “I am afraid, Egil. Terrified of that.

It’s my family , I need to protect them”

The horseman’s gaze hardened, but Alpheo didn’t stop.

“You think me a man of iron, a man who always wins,” Alpheo said, his voice low but trembling. “But I am not. I am brittle, Egil. I am tired. Gods, you weren’t there tonight, but if you had been… you would have seen how close we came to losing everything. One wrong word, one misplaced look, and it would have all gone up in flames.”

His chest heaved as he leaned forward, hollow eyes fixed on his friend. “I am not the miracle you believe me to be. I am not as strong, or as clever, or as brave as you have painted me. I will have to prepare for that eventuality, because when they come, if we fail to stop them, all that will remain will be scraps.”

His voice grew sharper, frantic, as though speaking it aloud could make Egil understand. “They will eat us whole. Nibadur. Sorza. Every carrion prince in the South. They will tear us apart piece by piece, until nothing remains of us but bones and ashes. And we will only be left with the scraps of what we had.”

He paused then, shoulders trembling. When he spoke again it was barely more than a whisper.

“I am a coward, Egil. A craven. I tremble at death, and more than that, I tremble at the thought of watching my world burn. That is who I am. Not the man you think you follow. Just a frightened fool at the end of his rope.

And so I am begging you, from the deepest crevice of my heart, don’t do it.

Don’t drag us all into the fire.”

His hands shook as he reached toward his friend. “I would give you the world if I could. But I cannot.

So I beg you to forgive me for what I must ask of you, vile as it is. We have no other choice. I need you, Egil. Your friends need you. We cannot do this without you. We cannot afford to burn the only ship keeping us afloat. From here on the road will be harder than any we’ve faced, but without the Romelians, what is hardship will turn to doom.”

He bowed his head, his voice breaking. “Forgive me.”

The silence that followed was long and suffocating. Egil did not move, did not answer, only stared at the urn by his side. Then at last he lifted his eyes. They were blank, hollow pools, as though some part of him had already died.

“My life ceased to be mine,” he said slowly after an hiccup, “the day we escaped that camp. From that night on, it has been yours, then and always.”

Alpheo’s heart lurched. “Then please, don’t do it,” he whispered, his eyes desperate on his friend’s.

Egil’s jaw tightened, his voice hardening into iron. “I have the son of my tribe’s butcher before me. Every breath he takes mocks the dead. And I tell you now, I will bury my axe in his skull unless you order me not to.”

Alpheo felt the blood drain from his face. “Please,” he begged, shaking his head, “please, Egil, don’t.”

But the horseman only stared back.

The prince, feller of Herculia, rose to his feet.

He knew what he had to do.

On one side it was his friend, on the other was his dream.

His voice, broke and a tear threatened to come out . “Then hear me, Egil of Enkile. I order you this: you will not touch him. You will not raise hand or blade against him. This is my command for you as your prince.”

And Egil bowed his head in defeat. His eyes, when they met Alpheo’s again, were no longer burning with rage but dulled, empty, stripped of something that had once made him whole.

I have killed it, Alpheo realized that immediately.

His heart broke at the sight.

He had chosen the throne over the bond that had carried them from chains to crowns.

And he knew, with a coldness that hollowed him to the core, that nothing between them would ever be the same again.

He had truly killed his friend.