Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 877

Capítulo 877: Augustine halls(3)

The nobles were struck silent, much like Alpheo and his companions, when the young Imperator rose from his throne and crossed the dais with unexpected haste, his imperial mantle sweeping like a flame across the marble floor, to embrace Alpheo before the latter could even bend the knee or utter a word of greeting.

A collective gasp rippled through the great hall.

The whole court stared, wide-eyed, at the sight of the two men locked in an awkward embrace beneath the massive mosaic of the Founding of Romelia.

Even Alpheo, who had learned to stand firm before warlords and assassins, found himself momentarily frozen, his arms hovering uncertainly before he managed to return the gesture with all the grace of a soldier trying to dance with a lady.

This was most certainly not how things were done.

There was a code, a sacred choreography of etiquette to follow when monarchs met. The Imperator, being the crowned sovereign of the realm, was to sit while his lesser, even a prince of another country, bent the knee, and received Emperor’s acknowledgment. That was how it was done for generations.

But Mesha, in a span of ten reckless seconds, had swept all that to ruin.

Perfect, Alpheo thought grimly, even as he forced a small, diplomatic smile. Ten seconds in, and I don’t know what the fuck is going on.

He would have preferred, frankly, a bit of time to admire the splendor of the place, the carved columns of white stone streaked with gold veins, the archways of lapis, the intricate mosaics that depicted emperors of old with halos of sunlight. But the young ruler gave him no such reprieve.

The Imperator’s voice, youthful but sharp and full of that kind of earnest confidence that only the very young or the very foolish possessed, rang through the hall, cutting over the whispers.

After giving Alpheo one last affectionate pat on the back, Mesha turned to his audience and raised his voice:

“My august friends,” he began, his tone both mournful and commanding, “we are beset by hard times, brought upon us by wicked men. What was once a united realm, guided by those who made virtue their calling, is now riven by treachery and strife. Our forefathers, those great architects of empire,would weep to see the ruin a few have visited upon the many.”

He paused, letting the words hang in the vaulted air before continuing, his youthful face hardening with practiced solemnity.

“Even now, my elder brother gathers his armies to test the strength of the rope that still binds us together. These are times that demand courage, for only the brave and the steadfast can face the storm that approaches. I look around me,” his gaze swept over the assembled nobles, “and I see men who have answered their duty with eagerness and devotion.”

Then Mesha sighed, his shoulders drooping slightly while shaking his head.

“But duty alone will not save what we hold dear,” he continued, voice lowering, growing more intense. “Our enemies are not bound by the laws of honor or blood. They feast on betrayal, they breathe deceit. Family means nothing to them, for they are creatures of corruption and ambition. To face such wickedness, my friends, we must rise above mere obligation.”

“You have heard the rumors,” he said, his voice carrying easily to the farthest arches of the hall. “The Whore Prince, known already for his debauchery and his weakness of soul, has descended even further into sin. There are whispers he has bound himself to black sorcery, that he has traded his flesh and spirit to unholy powers. His very visage, they say, has been twisted beyond human shape, and now he hides his deformity behind an iron mask…

Just imagine the wickedness he would unleash with a crown,” Mesha’s words managed to crawl the whole court to an halt. “Who among you could stand to stop him once he seized the purple cloak by theft? Who would prevent him from laying his hands upon your daughters, your wives, your hearths? You all know the tales that trail him, the debaucheries, the bargains cut with dark things. Would any of you truly sleep while such a man sits where the law ought to sit?”

A ripple of unease slid through the bench Mesha let the moment thicken, let it press at their consciences until they shifted like sheep under a wolfish moon.

He payed no mind to the exponentially confused look the just-embraced ally was giving him.

Still, no matter the end of this gambit, at least Mesha could boast that he had managed to let Alpheo at a loss of words.

Quite legendary of a thing on its own.

That however was not the end he hoped to achieve.

“Five years ago we faced the same rot,” he continued, voice low now, older than his years. “We cast out the traitor then, a coward who fled with his tail between his legs, back into the gutter with the other rebels. I tell you now: it will not be so again. Once we wrench victory from the hands of those who plundered our peace, we will not only hold, we will reclaim. We will take back what was stolen, what allowed rebels to sleep while the rest of us bled.”

He lifted both hands toward the vaulted ceiling, toward the inlaid mosaic

“It is through the Fingers,” he said, “that our enemies strike at will. They pick at our defenses. They use the geography to take our lives.. If we are to protect the heart of Romelia, the Fingers must fall! When they do, it will no longer be we who crouch behind walls; the usurpers will be the ones forced to guard what they plundered.”

His cadence changed, each word hammered home. “Many of you answered a call you thought was merely defensive. Hear me: this is not a shield we raise to hide behind. It is a hammer we will swing. We shall make the counterstroke. But the counterstroke demands more than duty, more than rote fealty. It demands sacrifice, resolve, a willingness to go beyond the ordinary obligations of men.”

He paused, as he was to the mention of the fallen hero . “We lost one of our greatest,Lord Marthio will solely be missed” he admitted, voice softening. “But his work does not die with him. It is our burden to carry it forward.”

At that, he turned, and for the first time his eyes found the section of the hall where Alpheo stood, he gave him an apologetic look.

“It is for this reason my heart is glad,” he said, and the note of joy surprised even his own nobles. “For in this hall stands Romelia’s truest friend. Who among us is more worthy of that name than the Fox of Yarzat? He has answered our plea; he has come with two thousand five hundred good men, ready to strike at the darkness that crawls toward us. With such a keen mind and such an eager army at our flank, I shall sleep easier knowing justice marches beside us.

To achieve our noble’s duty, however we will have to go far beyond duty.

And it is for this reason that the Crown places 8,000 silverii into a common fund to retake our most sacred castle from the rebels. 8,000 silverii so that the Fingers May Fall and Justice be defended!”

Mesha looked around the hall, eyes glinting beneath the golden light streaming through the mosaic panes.

He had hoped for monetary aid.

He could feel it, he had failed in that regard. His speech, grand as it had been, hung suspended in silence, the nobles exchanging those infuriating, knowing looks of men calculating rather than believing.

Someone had to do something.

And so it fell on him.

The prince-consort of Yarzat rose, the black of his armor gleaming like oil beneath the torchlight, his purple cloak spilling down the marble steps as he took a deliberate pace forward. His voice, when it came, was cool and sharp giving out nothing but solemnity:

“In the name of the crown of Yarzat, I hereby pledge five thousand silverii to the campaign.” He raised his fingers to the sky ”THE FINGERS MUST FALL!”

The words cracked through the hall like a whip.

Heads turned. Fans stilled. Even Mesha froze for a heartbeat, the practiced imperial mask slipping as surprise, no, gratitude, flooded his young face.

Never before had a southern prince stood in Romelia’s throne hall as an ally, and now Alpheo was making history more than in one way.

He could feel it in the air, that sudden shift, the pride of Romelia’s nobles stung like a wound rubbed with salt. He almost smirked at the thought that pride would this time be what could save this rotting state.

Mesha turned, the torchlight gilding his features with renewed hope. “The Crown of Romelia is honored beyond words,” he said, his tone full of theatrical gratitude. “The Fox of Yarzat proves that virtue is not bound by borders.”

That did it. The nobles shifted again, first a murmur, then the inevitable scramble of pride.

A voice rang from the second row:

“The House of Veritia pledges two thousand silverii in support of His Imperial Majesty!” He too rose his fingers to the sky.

That was Lord Lisidor, ever desperate to repair the shame of Harmway, the expedition that had sunk his fortune and his pride. He was pale, but he forced a smile, he after all could not allow the only thing keeping him afloat to fall.

Considering that it was through the crown that his house had kept his power.

Another voice rose, not to be outdone:

“The House of Amviello pledges four thousand silverii!”

That one came from Croxiatus, Mesha’s father-in-law.

Then came a cascade, one after the other, desperate to outbid their rivals:

“The House of Ostrella, three thousand!”

“The House of Vondar, one thousand and five hundred!”

Soon the hall had become a storm of pledges, voices rising in waves, each lord louder than the next, each promise a blade meant to one-up the other.

Mesha stood there at the center of it, perhaps not believing his gambit had worked, but Alpheo saw the boy’s lips curve up into a ruler’s grin, with relief in his eyes.

At last he had a chance at victory.

The spectacle had worked.

Now all that was needed was to understand the reason why it was made in the first place.