Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 870

Capítulo 870: Legacy(4)

Egil, first of the Crown’s Hounds, the Butcher of Aracina, brother to Alpheo,looked like a beaten whore with every step he took.

The torchlight caught on his lightly-scarred face, tracing the new lines that shame had carved there. He could feel the eyes of every man in the chamber, Jarza, Asag, Edric, bearing down on him like stones. But it was only one gaze that truly mattered.

Those eyes had once seen something worth saving in him long ago on those sleepless and cold night, bear under the moonlight deprived of dignity and life. Alpheo had pulled him out of the gutter, out of the despair that had been gnawing at his bones, given him a name that carried weight, a purpose that sang of glory. And how had he repaid that?

By spitting in the man’s face.

By raising his hand against the one who had given him everything.

He had told himself he had reasons, anger, pride, righteousness.

All lies… and they disappear like flies in the morning mist, just a mirror that no longer reflected anything worth seeing.

Shame was a pain no blade could dull and a dagger of its own.

“You’re late,” Alpheo said at last. The words were simple, but they struck with the precision of a dagger. There was no anger in his tone, no bitterness, just the cold finality of someone who had moved past guilt, past forgiveness. “Aren’t you going to take your seat?”

Egil’s throat tightened.

It would have been so easy to take it, much easier . But his legs refused.

“I believe,” he began “there’s something I should say first.”

Alpheo’s gaze didn’t move.

Egil drew a breath that trembled on the way out. If anything was to change from this day forward, it had to start here. With him. Just as it had begun that day months ago, when Alpheo had dropped his cup to end a fight neither had wanted but that both partook in .

“I…” The word caught in his throat, then came free, softer. “I’m sorry.”

A faint, disbelieving noise escaped Jarza. Alpheo said nothing as Asag and Edric looked awkward between the two.

“For what?” he asked, his tone measured, unreadable.

“For many things, actually.” Egil’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry for hitting you. For hitting Jarza. For behaving like a child—”

“And a cunt,” Jarza interrupted .

Egil managed a small, bitter smile. “And a cunt,” he echoed, nodding. “But above all… I’m sorry for forcing that choice on you.”

His eyes fell to the table, to the paper spread between them, though what he truly saw were memories of that night, of the moment something sacred between them had broken.

“I spoke as a fool,” he went on quietly. “I talked about my own burdens, my own pain, and never once stopped to think what it meant for you. You were carrying the weight of an impossible task, and I made it heavier. I was supposed to be your brother, but instead I became just another voice dragging you down.”

He lifted his gaze then, the shame stark but steady in his eyes. “You reached out to me, time and time again, and I swatted your hand away like a stray dog’s. So now it’s my turn to reach out and I hope for the sake of me you’ll take it, because if you do…” He hesitated, swallowing hard. “…then everything we built, everything we fought for, will not have fully burnt down from my own hand”

Alpheo’s face remained still as stone, but something in his face morphed.

Even Jarza, the great bear of a man, looked between them with unspoken tension in his eyes.

Then Alpheo stood. The chair legs grated across the stone. He stepped forward slowly, boots echoing once, twice until he was ahead of the man.

As Egil’s long, worn face lifted and met his eyes, a flood of memories crashed through Alpheo’s mind,uninvited, unexpected, and yet, welcome.

They came not as neat recollections but as shards of life,heat, noise, and the smell of sweat and iron.

That iron.

He remembered the four of them naked but for threadbare shirts that clung to their skin like rags on beasts. He remembered the sting of dust on raw flesh, the ache of cold rain crawling down their backs like a thousands ants biting , while they huddled beneath broken walls, freezing and scared. He remembered the hunger that gnawed their bellies until it turned to laughter, and the laughter that turned to silence when dawn came and there was still nothing to eat.

They had been less than men then, feral things, chasing survival through mud and blood, driven by instinct and the stubborn refusal to die.

And now, here he stood, above all that. Above the humiliation, above the dirt and the hunger, above those desperate, animal desires.

He was a sovereign now.

He would not be a primus inter paris, he would be the man above it all.

And yet, as he looked at Egil,at the hollow cheeks, the weary eyes, the coarse stubble shadowing his jaw,something inside him twisted.

His gaze drifted to the thin scar that ran just beneath Egil’s left eye, a pale line that time had failed to fade. He could see the day even though he was not there: the chaos of the plains, the roar of the enemy’s heavy knights bearing down, and Egil at the front, wild and defiant, a beast among men. He had smashed through them like a hammer through rotted wood, cutting through armor and bone until his sword jammed and he tore a man’s throat out with his bare hands.

When he was done he turned around and routed the whole enemy army.

When the battle was over, when the field was a carpet of twitching dead, Egil had stood there drenched in blood, laughing. Not from joy, but from disbelief that he was still alive. That laugh had should have been the birth of a legend, but he was not known as the saviour of the Bleeding Plains.

But instead as the Butcher of Aracina.

Alpheo had loved him then, in the way only men who have crawled through hell together can love, without softness, without shame, only the bond of shared wounds and victories.

He missed him still…

“I know you well enough to know you’re no fool.”

Alpheo’s voice broke the still air like steel scraping against stone, breaking those memories. He didn’t sit. Didn’t look away. His gaze cut through the distance between them, settling on Egil with the weight of a verdict. “You must have heard of the Romelian party. You must’ve guessed what they came for. Did you?”

Egil nodded once. The movement was small, almost timid, a shadow of the man who had once led charges through walls of spears.

Alpheo exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp. “Then you know,” he continued, “that we’re going to fight the Romelians, by fighting beside them.” He took a step closer, boots striking the floor like the tolling of a bell. “Tell me, Egil. Can you bear it? Or will you lash out again? I’ve no room at my back for a man who might not have mine when the ground turns to shit.”

His words hit like stones. Egil stood rigid beneath them, chest tight, shame crawling up his throat like a sickness.

“Can I trust you, Egil?” Alpheo’s tone softened only enough to make the next words cut deeper. “Can I trust you as I did befpre?”

Egil nodded again, once, twice, frantic this time. The gesture was almost desperate, like a drowning man clutching for the rope being thrown to him. Hope flared in his eyes, wild and fragile.

He had spent his youth among a tribe. He’d watched that tribe burn, the screams of the dying etched into his memory. Then, as a man, he had found another brotherhood under Alpheo’s banner. And like a fool, he’d walked away from it. Now, he stood before the only family he had left, begging to be taken back in.

Alpheo studied him for a heartbeat longer, then a slow grin crept onto his face, dry and sharp as desert wind. “Then welcome back, lost brother.”

Before anyone could draw breath, Alpheo’s fist slammed into Egil’s gut.

Egil folded with a strangled grunt, doubling over as the air burst from his lungs. For a moment, he looked like he might vomit on the stone floor. Alpheo caught him by the shoulder before he fell, laughter rumbling from deep in his chest.

“I believe,” Alpheo said, clapping him on the back with the easy violence only soldiers called affection, “you got the better of me in our last scuffle.”

Egil wheezed, struggling to draw breath, but when he finally looked up, there was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there in months, relief.

Alpheo leaned close, his voice low, a rare note of warmth threading through it. “Welcome back, brother.”

He guided him toward the long table, to the empty chair that had sat vacant for three months like a wound that wouldn’t close. Egil sank into it, still winded, a line of drool trembling at his lip. Yet the way his hands gripped the armrests, the way his mouth twitched into a crooked smile, made him look like a child handed a long-lost toy.

The others watched him, their grins rough but real. Jarza muttered something half-mocking about soft hearts and slow brain, but there was no venom in it, he too was hapy to have him back.

Asag leaned back, exhaling, the tension in his shoulders finally bleeding away.

Even Edric’s stony face cracked with a ghost of amusement with relief.

For the first time in what felt like years but that were instead few months, the table was full again.