Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 1034: Oizen Sword(1)

The sparks rising from the fireplace danced in erratic, feverish patterns, mimicking the frantic heartbeat of the man who stood trembling in the shadows. They rose toward the vaulted ceiling like golden fireflies, dying out just before they could touch the cold, indifferent stone of the most private wing of the Oizenian palace.

Across the expanse of an expensive Azanian carpet, plush enough to swallow the sound of a man’s pride, Lord Vasten moved with unsure, stuttering steps. Reaching the center of the room, he collapsed a knee and went into a bow, his forehead nearly touching the intricate weave of the rug.

"Lord Vasten greets His Grace of Oizen," he muttered, his voice thin and brittle. His long hair tumbled forward, a silken curtain he used to mask the raw, naked terror screaming in his eyes.

For generations, the reputation of House Vasten had been a meager, colorless thing. They were the background noise of the Oizenian nobility, a house without grand feats of arms, without the patronage of celebrated poets, and without a single gargoyle of historical significance to their name. They had existed quietly, like koalas clinging to the same ancient tree for centuries, unbothered by the shifting winds of the court or the passage of time. They did not strive for the heights; they simply endured in the middle.

Or at least, that had been the story until Vasten had inherited the title. In the last eighteen months, the name Vasten had undergone a miraculous transformation. He had become the "Hammer of the Border," a valiant commander who seemingly hunted bandit parties with a supernatural efficiency. Every month, a new report of a razed outlaw camp or a string of severed heads arrived at the court, alongside grateful letters from merchants whose caravans had been spared the "ravages" of the Yarzat-sponsored raiders.

To the public, he was a hero. To the mirror, he was a fraud

Very few...actually almost no-one knew that the heads he sent were often those of pre-prepared corpses or luckless drunks, and that the banditry he "suppressed" was actually a choreographed ballet. He was a man who had sold his soul for the intoxicating drug of fame and the cold weight of Yarzat gold, turning a blind eye to the true movements of the enemy in exchange for a reputation he had never earned.

Now, standing in the heart of the palace after an urgent, midnight royal summons, his mind was a storm of panicked , Hows.

How did they find out? Who squealed? Was it one of my men, or one of theirs? He was a greedy man, certainly, but he was not a fool. He knew that in Oizen, there was no mercy for those who collaborated with the "Great Enemy." A rope, a cold cell, and a dishonored grave were all that awaited a traitor. 𝕗𝚛𝚎𝚎𝐰𝗲𝗯𝗻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝕞

"Lord Vasten," a soft voice called out.

Vasten flinched, but then paused. The tone wasn’t the frigid steel of an executioner. It was... strangely gleeful?

The Lord slowly raised his eyes to look upon Prince Sorza. The Prince sat by the fire, looking far more relaxed than a man of his precarious position should. This was the same Sorza who had famously fled the debacle at Apurvio, dooming his entire host to the Fox’s mercy. Had Alpheo pushed his army east that day instead of north, Vasten knew that a quarter of the nobility currently sipping wine in this palace and at home would be eating and sleeping at the Fox’s leisure.

The relief that washed over Lord Vasten was so violent it was almost nauseating. It felt as though a hangman’s noose had been tightened around his throat, only to be miraculously turned into a silk scarf. His knees, which had been turned to water, buckled for a second before he caught himself, the tension leaving his body in a long, shaky exhale that sounded like a dying man’s last rattle.

"Lord Vasten," Prince Sorza began, his voice airy and filled with a misplaced confidence that only a man born to a throne could project. "Your reports have been the only light in a very dark year for Oizen. While other lords complain of ’ghosts’ in the woods and ’shadows’ stealing their grain, you have brought me steel. You have brought me results.

My father once said that House Vasten was a house of sleepers, but it seems you were merely waiting for a war to wake the dragon within."

Sorza gestured toward him with a goblet of deep red wine. "Do not fret I have noted your efficiency. Even the Habadians, who usually look down their long noses at our border lords, have asked for the name of the man who hunts down outlaws as if they were rabbits. You have done more for the morale of this state than a dozen generals."

Vasten finally raised his head, his face slick with a cold sweat that he hoped the Prince would mistake for the heat of the fire. His eyes were wide, darting toward Sorza, but then they snagged on something else.

In the corner of the room, far back in the velvet shadows where the firelight failed to reach, sat another man.

Vasten froze. He didn’t recognize the stranger. Still somehow his eyes made Vasten’s skin crawl. This was not a courtier, nor was it one of Sorza’s usual sycophants.

Vasten quickly tore his gaze away, his heart hammering against his ribs. He turned back to the Prince, bowing so low his hair swept the Azanian carpet again, his voice trembling with a mixture of lingering terror and forced humility.

"Your Grace... I... I am not worthy," Vasten stammered, the words rushing out in a frantic blur. "I am but a humble servant of the Crown. The successes I have had... they are but small things, the result of luck and the bravery of my men. To be praised so highly by your own lips... it is more than a man of my meager standing could ever hope to deserve. I am unworthy of such attention, truly."

He kept his head down, desperately trying to swallow the lump in his throat. He knew that ’unworthy’ was the understatement of the century; he was a traitor eating from the hand of the Fox.

Sorza laughed, a high, brittle sound. "Nonsense! Modesty is for priests, Vasten. My guest here, a representative of our friends to the East wishes to discuss a more... ambitious project for your border patrols.

He is convinced, quite rightly, that you are the perfect candidate to lead a special vanguard into the coming storm."

The stranger in the corner shifted. The sound of his leather boots dragging across the stone floor.

"My apologies," the man said. His voice was a jarring contrast to his face, it was smooth, melodic, and as soothing as a lullaby whispered to a restless child. "I have been remiss in my introductions. Zayneth Quirsio, a humble and loyal servant to His Grace of Habadia."

The name meant nothing to Vasten, but the title of the man’s master, told him everything he needed to know.

One of Habadia’s dogs...

This was not a meeting of lords and honors; that was now clear. The secrecy of the room, tucked away from the prying eyes of the Oizenian court, the business of today apparently was to be unsavory.

He was no lover of honor, so he really had no qualms about it.

He could only hope the rewards for his complicity would be grand enough to outweigh the risk of the noose that seemed to be tightening with every word spoken.

"We have taken a meticulous note of your work, Lord Vasten," Zayneth continued, stepping into the circle of firelight. He held his hands out toward the flames, rubbing them together with a dry, rasping sound. "You have been a busy man. Hunting down bandits with such tireless zeal, protecting the border villages from the ravages of the lawless, and providing the merchant caravans with a shield as they travel south toward the capital."

It wasn’t like he did all of that from the goodness of his heart

He received a handsome bonus for every half-hundred bandit heads he delivered. The villages he "saved" provided him with free fodder for his horses and hot meals for his men, and as for the caravans, well, everyone knew that merchants carried the only thing Vasten truly loved.

It had been a profitable masquerade, but hearing it recited by a Habadian shadow made the charade feel dangerously transparent.Could they possibly know?

"I... I merely performed my duty to the Crown, ser," Vasten stammered.

"Oh, please, I am no ’ser.’ I have no lands to my name," Zayneth said, turning to face him. His expression was meant to be warm, even friendly, but it was betrayed by the deep, bruised rings around his eyes. Looking into his face was like seeking warmth from the surface of a frozen lake. "You may call me Zayneth; I do not mind. Titles are such heavy things to carry into the work we must do."

He stepped closer, the firelight casting long, flickering shadows behind him that seemed to reach for Vasten’s throat.

"After all, we are going to be working much more closely than you might think. In fact, I believe we are destined to become the greatest of friends. Isn’t that right, Your Grace?"

Sorza leaned back in his chair, his eyes gleaming with the reflected fire. "The very best, I’d dare say.Of course if you’d like to have him as one’’

Both men’s eyes went on him. The decision had already been made.

’’I wouldn’t dare say no...I am always eager to have new friends....’’