Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 836

Chapter 836: Might of words(3)

What Alpheo had placed on the table was, in truth, was the promise of cutting his fingers for the future and in exchange possibly reiceve an hand back.

On one hand, his promises risked bleeding the treasury in the name of projects that would never match the profitability of the Magna Strata, which by the way ,was still incomplete.

That grand artery had been built with the purpose of funnelling the wealth of Romelian merchants directly toward Yarzat’s beating heart by facilitating movement all years’ round.

The other roads, however, would not serve the crown so directly. Their chief benefit would be for the nobles themselves, easing the flow of goods within their domains.

The crown’s profit, in comparison, would be slimmer in exchange for a big cut of the treasury required for those roads. Yet, Alpheo knew better than most that even such “unprofitable” undertakings were far from useless.

After all, improving a state’s infrastucture always brought good things, such as easier time rallying army around the state, and moving from one place to the other.

As for his second promise, the patrols against banditry, there lay no risk at all.

The bulk of the crownlands, save for the newly conquered Oizenian marches, were already secure and stable, and the White Army, standing ever at readiness, had men enough to spare for such diversions. For the lords, it was relief: the expensive, thankless burden of maintaining patrols lifted from their shoulders. For Alpheo, it was the perfect sleight of hand. What looked like a concession was, in fact, a tightening of the crown’s grip by gifting it a lot of influence in areas that until then saw little of the royal emblem.

Every detachment of his army sent into their lands was more than protection; it reminded all that the prince’s hand stretched everywhere, that the crown’s colors flew above even the remotest hamlets.

It was the starting steps of weaving Yarzat into one big , cultural body.

This was the true heart of one of Alpheo’s future visions: not merely victory in war, but the forging of a national identity. A people who thought of themselves not as lords’ subjects but as Yarzatian.

He was not a blind fool, he very well knew his state was growing far too quickly, expanding like molten metal poured into an ill-shaped mold. Left unchecked, it could crack after his death, bursting into feuds and rebellions. To prevent that, he would build a unity that outlived him, a centralizing force rooted so deeply that no storm could shake it.

Still, Alpheo knew that what he had offered was not enough to close the lords’ mouths. For while he had lined up the benefits neatly before their eyes, none of these men were fools. They could not ignore the whale looming in the chamber, the danger of giving the crown’s soldiers license to march upon their estates.

No lord wished to see royal troops trudge freely across their lands; it was no different than inviting a fox into the henhouse, even if the fox swore to eat only vermin and leave the hens alone.

But who would believe a fox?

It was Damaris who voiced what all were thinking.

“Your Grace… having royal units marching through our demesnes would be… problematic to say the least. I am sure you understand our worries.”

Alpheo smiled, though behind that , he bit down on the bitter taste the man always left in his mouth. He leaned forward, resting his hand upon the carved dome of the chair’s armrest, as if weighing the concern with due gravity.

“Of course I understand, Lord Damaris,none of us here is a fool or has any ill intention” he said smoothly, “and I would not dream of forcing such a burden upon you. That is why I have no quarrel in putting it plainly: my soldiers will not march where they are not invited. Their entry into your lands will be only by your request alone. At the first word of your displeasure, they will leave. Not next week, not after sending word to the capital to receive orders from at once, as soon as your wishes are made known to the commanding ranks, they wil leave.”

A few brows rose at that, and Alpheo pressed the point with calm precision.

“They will even be bound to send word to you, or to your immediate liege, in case of lords that are sworn to higher ones, before setting foot past your borders. Their purpose will be single and unambiguous: to cleanse your fields and roads of bandits and outlaws.

Once done, they will march back out, leaving your lands unscathed and untouched. You will hold absolute authority to dismiss them the moment you choose, without the crown interfering or opinion. And, if you wish, I shall put this into writing and seal it with the crown’s sigil , and swear oath before gods and men.”

The ripple that passed through the chamber was all but telling for Alpheo. Faces that had been taut with suspicion eased, like bowstrings slackening.

For once, they saw no bad card: the crown offering aid, but on their terms, under their command.

Alpheo let the relief settle. He had no fear of the concession; he knew that once the White Army walked their roads, it would leave a deeper mark than any oath could erase. Still, appearances mattered, and the lords needed to believe they had won a safeguard.

Yet he also knew that some of them were not yet fully tamed. A handful of sharp eyes lingered on him, searching for the hidden hook beneath the bait. For their sake, Alpheo had kept a final hand concealed. The card that would silence their doubts entirely and draw them to his side with no room left to wriggle.

He would play it soon, but at tend of the day he was but a slave of theatrics, and such a ending move required an equally pleasant presentation…

For that reason , Alpheo rose for the first time since the council began, his voice carrying with the ease of a man who knew every word would be heard eagerly. That booming voice that had given order to armies to make meat of men, that had felled nations, and that would fell many more in the years to come.

“My lords! ” He raised his hand to attract attention from himself, though he needed no such thing. ”To you I promised gold, and gold I will give. The vermin that rob your fields and caravans will be cut down, their heads offered in payment for the silver they stole. Prosperity will follow in their absence.

Yet gold alone feeds the belly and fattens the purse. It is not enough for people of your high breeding. Men are not swine to be fed on humble substance.

I promised you glory and honor. Glory, that is the echo of your names sung in feast-halls long after the wine has dried. It is the memory of banners carried into battle, of deeds retold by grandchildren yet unborn. And honor is the wreath placed on the brow, the right to stand first among your peers, the unshakable weight that says: here is a man who has done what others would not.

Gold buys the day. Glory and honor buy the ages. And I ask you, my lords , have I not delivered you ample glory already? At the fields of Arduronaven, the Oizen host was broken and humbled. At Aracina, the greedy Shamelik met not triumph, but the iron of Yarzat’s justice. Herculia, which for generations spurned us, now kneels in defeat. Oizen, which raided your fields and mocked your borders, now licks its wounds and fears our banners.

These were not small things. They were victories that lifted the realm entire. Yet I do not presume to be blind. I see the rifts between us, the contrasts that have soured prince and lord alike. A state is strong only when its pillars stand united; if they fall, the whole edifice trembles .

Five years ago, when the northern lords raised banners against the crown , aided by Oizen and Herculia, Yarzat itself was dragged to the brink. We clawed our way back from the grave, aye, but the stones of that broken wall still lie where they fell. I will not see that ruin repeated.

And so, I must name the stone that lies heaviest between us. You feel spurned and rightly so. The national army, the very shield of Yarzat, has long marched without your hands upon the reins. I know well how it cuts at your pride to see common-born captains command the host while your sons stood idle with the knowledge that commoners are attaining great glories and are honored.

And worse: to watch our enemies humbled not by banners bearing your crests, but by men of no name, raised up by my will for their achievments.

Yes that bred anger. And I will not deny it. Here, before you all, I confess our fault. We did not deal true with you, we did not give your houses the honor due. For that, I stand in the wrong and apologise.”

The words tasted like bile. In truth, Alpheo would sooner have swallowed ash and gravel than abase himself before this assembly of leeches. Yet as the syllables left his mouth, he saw their effect ripple like sparks in dry straw. Eyes widened. Shoulders leaned forward.

They wanted to believe what he was now offering.

And so he hid his nausea beneath a mask of earnest contrition and let them drink in the lie that the crown was extending them a favor.

Jarza and Asag watched the chamber shift the moment Alpheo’s confession fell. Jarza’s great shoulders tightened; he exchanged a quick, narrow-eyed look with Asag, the two men communicating in a single, brief silence.

Asag’s jaw flexed; sharing the same worry of his friend.

It couldn’t be, they reasoned, all the words Alpheo had told them in the past were contrary to what they were now hearing…

Alpheo met the weight of every gaze in that room and let a small, steady smile appear. “I am eager to announce,” he said, voice even and brighter then the sun, “that your sons may now take part and win glory and honor in the ranks of Yarzat’s legions.From now and forevermore”