Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 858

Chapter 858: Clash of wills(2)

Alpheo would have laughed at the presumption, if he did not have to deal appropirately with their worries.

Which they were kindly expressing in a orderly fashion.

“What? Our sons must compete with commoners?”

“We were promised positions for our kin!”

“We demand our rights of taxation restored; this is nothing short of a travesty!”

So many rasied their voice in one great rachous clutter.

Alpheo’s stomach turned at that. Their words were filth to him, bile dressed in velvet. He might well have emptied his breakfast on the polished floor, right before their jeweled shoes, just to show them the worth of their protests.

A travesty, they called it. A travesty.

What travesty had they ever known? These lords, whose greatest misfortune was waking one morning to find their cook had served them eggs instead of honeyed cakes. These men, who suffered from the thinness of their silk or the sourness of their wine. They dared to cry foul while scorning those whose lives had been spent as coin to purchase the peace of their estates.

What of the sons of fishermen and farmers that made all of it possible? The boys who marched barefoot until their soles bled, who slept with frost biting their lungs, who rose at dawn to carry weight far heavier than their bellies could stomach?

Heroes. That was what they were. The true sons and daughters of Yarzat.

Alpheo remembered them all. Not their names, perhaps, but their deeds. Men who hurled themselves into the press of steel so that others might live.

Officers who charged into the maw of slaughter, not to taste glory, but to show their brothers which way to go. Soldiers who crawled, guts spilling into the dirt, just far enough to drag a wounded comrade back from the line.

He received after each battle dozens of such reports, each one rewarded in public ceremonies at the end of the war.

It was not the nobles that ought to be shamed at competing with them, but instead the opposite.

They saw only the shining swords, the polished shields, the banners of white and black silk fluttering in victory. Alpheo saw the gears behind it.

His reign was not forged on the whims of pampered lords but upon the backs of those common-born heroes, thanks god by that. His flight into the sky had been purchased by their bodies rotting in ditches and fields, their sacrifice the feathers that gave him wings.

And now these arrogant swine dared sneer, dared spit upon the thought that such men’s children might share a hall with their princelings?

Alpheo’s jaw tightened as he made his answer known at once.

“White and black,” Alpheo said at last as if those two words could explain everything he stood for,

Confusion rippled across the lords’ faces. Brows furrowed, lips twisted, a few even exchanged glances, as if unsure they had heard him correctly.

“White and black,” he repeated, slower, and this time harder. “From the day I first set foot on this land, to the moment I raised my sword in my wife’s name, through every battle where princes were dragged to the dirt and cities fell in ash.

Those were the colors that marched before me. The colors that made friends hailed and enemies falter.”

His eyes shifted to the wall, to the great shield that hung there, emblazoned with his army’s mark. One by one, the nobles followed his gaze, their eyes fastening on the stark emblem that had haunted their foes and some of their fellows.

“Many asked me, when land was granted and honors showered upon me, why I never changed it. Why not choose something worthy of victory? Why not the fox, the name my enemies cursed me with? Why not lion, or eagle, or wolf, beasts that great people have worn since ages past? Why cling to plain colors that shattered armies?”

His expression hardened, voice roughening as he forced down the disgust swelling in him.

“Because those colors are not plain. They are truth. White, for sacrifice. Black, for death.

The White and Black are the creed of the army I raised. They remind every soldier that life and blood are the price of building a realm worth belonging to. That the coin of every march is death, and sacrifice is the reason it is paid.”

He let his gaze linger on them, sharp and merciless. “And that army, the one that carried me here,was not forged by lions or foxes or the sons of noble halls. It was forged from boys who just years before plowed fields and herded cattle on open plains. From sons whose mothers are daughters of shepherds, smiths, and millers .”

A breath hissed out from him, long and tired.

“And you,” his voice sharpened to a point, “you dare sit here and demand that those people, their sons , be denied the right to lift their heads above the dirt and give their lives for something higher than themselves? You call it unworthy for them to rise? Tell me, then, what arguments remain to you about their unowrothiness? Skills?”

He gave them half a heartbeat of silence. “They proved their skill in blood, and in victory that weighs on every stone in this hall.”

“Honor?” He let the word crack like a whip. “I have seen common-born officers throw themselves into the press with a wounded comrade , thier subordinate, clutched in one arm, shielding him with their own body. I have seen them die with blades buried in their backs, so that others might live.

That.Is.Honor.”

He rose a fraction higher in his chair, his presence pressing down on them. “My army was built on those pillars: skill, courage, honor. It is not they who infringe on your sons’ positions. It is you who trample on what they have already earned.”

The silence stretched long as the nobles did not know how to respond to that

At last, Lord Corvan stirred, taking for himself that duty. “Your Grace, we do not doubt their courage. That much has been proven. But it is not proper for noble sons to be made to compete with commoners in this… Academia of yours.”

Alpheo’s eyes narrowed, his lips tightening into something close to contempt. “Not proper?” His voice was calm, yet heavy, like a sword hanging above their necks. “The Academy will shape all who enter it be men worthy of leading the White Army. It will strip weakness, sharpen strength, and temper pride into discipline. Above all, the strength of the White Army must be preserved. That is what guards this realm, not your notions of propriety.”

Disapproval rose within the chamber, but one voice rose above them, shaken, almost aghast. Lord Ilbert.

“Your Grace…” he sputtered, his face reddening, his hand gripping the arm of his chair as though it might anchor him. “You mean to say… our sons are to sit in lessons alongside commoners? With them?”

The word them dripped from his tongue.

Alpheo felt it like a slap. He could have made more arguments but he decided to just make it simple.

He could go on and on about the reasons, but it was better to simply show the means.

“The Crown is set to pay sixty thousand silverii for the construction of this place,” he said flatly, his gaze fixing on Ilbert like a knife-point, as where words would not suffice , coin would. “Tell me, my lord, would you like to match that sum, and build one of your own for your sons?I will even gave it your name, isn’t that honor enough for that willing to match that price?”

The silence that followed was its own kind of music. Ilbert’s mouth opened, but no words came; the fire in his face drained to a sickly pale. And more telling still, none of his peers rushed to support him.

Alpheo let the silence bite before he pressed further. “That is, unfortunately, the truth of things. The Crown’s funds are not infinite. We can build one Academia, no more. But”—he spread his hands, as if offering them a gift—”if the lords of Yarzat were to take it upon themselves to share the cost, then yes, I would be delighted to open a second, one reserved for noble sons alone.”

He let his eyes sweep across the chamber, daring even a single man to meet his gaze. Not one did. Heads lowered. Fingers drummed nervously on oaken chairs. A hall filled with the wealthiest families of the princedom, and not a coin among them offered for the cause.

Greedy bastards.

He leaned back in his seat, his voice carrying a hint of mockery now. “Then I am sure your sons, blessed as they are with high blood, will make short work of a few common-born whelps. Or do you fear otherwise?Surely the member of your great dinasty will have nothing to fear from such curs…no?”

The barb landed deep. He saw it in the tight jaws, the flushed cheeks, the fists gripping chair arms. Pride would choke them before they admitted such fear aloud. The matter was closed.

But not the meeting.

“Your Grace.” Lord Damaris rose, bowing stiffly, but his voice was firm. “There is yet another matter that troubles us.”

“We have heard,” Damaris went on, his hand resting on the paper of terms laid before him, “that under your reforms, every officer below the rank of legate shall be required to fight in the line. To take the field not astride horse, but on foot, like… like a common soldier.”

A ripple of agreement ran through the hall. Several lords nodded vigorously, others muttered under their breath. Then came the voices, sharper now, emboldened by numbers.

“It is improper!” cried one.”Officers are meant to command, not tramp in mud!” said another.”Our sons were born to bear lances, not shields with spear!”

Damaris raised his hand for silence, then finished the thought himself, his chin high, his eyes on the prince.

“A noble, Your Grace, should ride a horse into battle. He was not bred to fight like a peasant footman.”

“That may be,” Alpheo said, voice low but hard as hammered iron, “but your sons are not joining your army. They will fight in mine. And in my army, officers below the legate do not ride into battle on horses.”

He let his words hang a heartbeat, the silence heavier than any shout. Then he drove the knife.

“Or would you rather I rewrite the art of war itself just to soothe your pride? Should I discard discipline, blood-proven methods, simply so a few pampered heirs do not soil their boots in the mud?” His gaze swept the hall, cold as winter steel. “If that is the case, then perhaps the White Army is not suited to your sons. None are forced to serve within it, it is an honor not a duty. I am certain the levy you send from your estates will have plenty of room in their ranks for them. Honor can be found there as well.”

The nobles stirred uneasily, murmurs bristling in the air. Damaris alone did not flinch. He drew himself taller, and with a measured calm that only further stoked Alpheo’s fury, replied:

“Until now, Your Grace, not one compromise has been made.”

The words struck like a slap. Alpheo’s hand tightened on the arm of his chair.

“Not a compromise?” His voice cracked like thunder, startling more than one lord to silence. “Do you call this nothing? I promised that the White Army would open its ranks to your blood, and I have done so. That alone was concession enough. Every letter of these terms drips compromise! And yet you—” He jabbed a finger toward Damaris, then swept it across the hall. “You bark like dogs denied scraps.”

The chamber quivered with the force of his anger, but Damaris did not back down.

“This is a negotiation, Your Grace,” he said coolly, his nose twitching faintly at the word as if it tasted foul on his tongue. “We were promised a share of command. In return, we relinquished our right to tax caravans bearing the Crown’s banner. That was our sacrifice. But if one side of the bargain is not fulfilled—”

”Not fulfilled?” Alpheo’s voice rose booming against the stone walls. He surged to his feet, his cloak spilling like a shadow behind him. “Is that your claim, Lord Damaris? That I, who offered you what you demanded, now stand accused of withholding? Tell me are these your words alone, or do they carry the will of all the lords gathered here?”

His gaze moved across. It landed on Lysandros.

“Lord Lysandros, I am pleased to see you well after so long, especially after my mercy spared your head. Is your support with Lord Damaris?You wish to go against the crown once more?I most certainly would relish in a challenge”

The man stiffened. His hands curled against the arms of his chair, but he dared not raise his eyes especially with his son held as hostage “No, Your Grace. I am content with what you have given.”

Alpheo’s eyes slid to another target. “Lord Ilbert! I recall granting your house ample trade privileges, at no small cost to the treasury. Am I to reconsider that generosity? Or will you also stand with Damaris in this… obstinacy?”

Ilbert swallowed, face pale, and shifted in his seat without speaking. Others followed,lords who had once raised banners in rebellion, lords too weak to defy the crown, lords whose sons sat as hostages under Alpheo. One by one, they lowered their gazes or shook their heads, withdrawing their silent support from Damaris.

When the silence grew heavy, Alpheo allowed himself a sharp breath, then let mockery slide into his tone.

“Oh, how careless of me!” he exclaimed, pressing his open palm to his forehead with feigned embarrassment. “How could I forget? Order cannot be made from shouts and bickering. How very uncouth of me not to do this from the beginning.”

He sank back into his chair, folding his hands with deliberate calm. “Let us be clear, then. Any lord who wishes to renege on his promise to me, any lord who finds the terms I have given unacceptable, please, stand up.

Declare yourselves.”

Despite all those shouts , no one moved.

The silence stretched for as much as Alpheo deemeted it worth.

At last, he sighed. “It seems, then, that Lord Damaris speaks only for himself.” His eyes fixed on the man, cold and unblinking. “And so it shall be remembered.”

He turned back to the hall. “This meeting is concluded, my lords.

I am happy that we have reached a satisfying conclusion for all parties…”

And as not a single voice rose in protest, Alpheo and all finally understood it.

There was truly no substitute to absolute power.