Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 483: Throwing a bait(2)

Alpheo exhaled through his nose, his fingers drumming lightly on the map as he swept his gaze over the gathered men. He had asked the question once already, yet no one had answered. He let the silence settle, a weight in the air as each of them mulled over the matter, brows furrowed in contemplation.

Then, unexpectedly, a voice cut through the stillness—not from one of the grizzled general that witnessed more wars than any in the tent nor the seasoned lords that accompanied Alpheo since his presence in Yarzat, but from the man least expected to speak.

Jared.

Alpheo’s brow rose slightly, not out of disdain but out of surprise. Jared had been silent for most of the war council, always present at his father’s side yet never offering his own input. He was not a man of few words in general, but here, in the presence of hardened commanders and ruthless warriors, he had chosen to observe rather than contribute. Until now.

Jared’s voice was steady, deliberate. "What about their castles?"

Alpheo blinked, confused. "What about them?"

Jared composed himself, glancing around before continuing. His expression was not hesitant, but rather measured, as if choosing his words carefully. "The rebellion, as we well know, is made up of numerous lords. But the ones truly calling the shots, the ones with the real power and influence, are the magnates."

Alpheo leaned back slightly, interested despite himself. "Go on."

Jared nodded. "Until now, we have raided their lands, burned their fields, stolen their food. We have taken from them their tax revenue for this year, perhaps even the next. But is that enough to make them act? Truly act?" His dark eyes scanned the room. "Men like Niketas, Lysandros, Gregor, and Eurenis... they are not fools. They are playing for time, waiting for reinforcements or for a shift in fortune, as your grace have dutifully noted.

They are willing to bear these losses because, in the end, these losses are only political and strategic, which given time they will recover from . A blow to their ability to wage war, yes, but not a strike at their very being."

Shahab rubbed his beard, considering the words. Alpheo narrowed his eyes, beginning to see where this was going.

Jared continued, his voice sharper now. "But what if we stop making this about their lands and their coffers? What if we make it personal?"

A ripple passed through the tent, some shifting in their seats, others exchanging glances. The suggestion hung in the air like an unsheathed blade.

Alpheo watched Jared intently, waiting to see where he would take this. The silence that followed was not out of dismissal—but out of deep, unsettling intrigue.

Alpheo tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady on Jared. "How?" he asked, his tone carrying genuine curiosity rather than skepticism.

Jared did not hesitate. "While the rebels have mustered their armies and retreated, their families remain in their holdings," he said plainly. "Their wives, their children—none of them have been moved. They remain within the thick walls of their ancestral keeps, safe behind high stone and guarded gates."

Alpheo listened intently, his fingers idly tapping against the map.

Jared leaned forward slightly, his voice steady. "Perhaps we should stop wasting our time chasing villages and instead set our eyes on where they truly live. Their castles. Their family seats. If we march our army not against their soldiers but against their homes, we force them to make a choice—remain hidden in the north, waiting for some opportune moment to strike, or turn south to defend what truly matters to them."

The tent fell silent.

The men within sat still, mulling over the proposal, their expressions unreadable. Some narrowed their eyes in consideration, others cast glances at Alpheo, waiting to see his reaction.

Alpheo studied Jared carefully, reassessing the man he had previously regarded as nothing more than his father’s shadow. He saw now the weight of his words, the cunning behind them. The cold logic of it.

After a long moment, Alpheo exhaled, nodding. "That is a very good idea," he admitted. "My compliments my lord. I will take that into serious account when making my decision." ƒreewebηoveℓ.com

Jared’s chest straightened subtly, a flicker of pride in his expression, though he kept himself composed.

Across from him, Shahab’s lips curled into a small smile, clearly amused. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction, not just at his son’s insight but at the recognition it had earned.

For the first time that night, Alpheo felt that the war council had not been a complete waste of his time.

Alpheo leaned back slightly, his fingers pressing against his temples as he thought over Jared’s proposal. The idea had merit—far more than he had initially anticipated. If they continued as they were, burning villages and looting grain stores, they would achieve little beyond temporary disruption.

Time was not a luxury he could afford to waste. Every day spent raiding without engagement brought them closer to disaster. Eventually, either Oizen or Herculia would enter the conflict, and when they did, the delicate balance of power would tip against him. If that happened, no amount of fire or plunder would save his campaign.

He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing at the map before him. The truth behind Jared’s words lay in what was left unsaid. The rebels did not fear for their lands. They did not fear for their peasants.

What they feared was him.

Alpheo was no stranger to the whispers that trailed in his wake—the hushed voices that spoke not of his triumphs on the battlefield, nor of the cunning strategies that had turned the tide of war in his favor, but of something far darker.

It was not the glory of his martial prowess that made men wary, nor the brilliance of his command that kept them up at night.

It was the stain on his name, the shadow of ruthless deeds carried out in places war was never meant to touch.

The late Prince of Yarzat had been the first. He had fallen by one of Alpheo’s man’s blade, slain in what had been called self-defense. That had been the excuse, the justification—one that had been widely accepted because it was convenient. But they all knew the truth, or at least they thought they do, as in that case the killing of Arkawatt had been an incident.

Then there had been Lord Ormund. When the old lord had rebelled, seeking to take the throne for himself, Alpheo had crushed his forces in ambush, cutting down both the lord and his heir in a single stroke. The rebellion had ended before it could truly begin.

And then came the siege of Ormund’s lands. The castle had stood defiant, holding on against all odds. But just as the walls were about to be breached, something curious had happened. Ormund’s widow and his last surviving son had taken poison. Together, mother and child had chosen death rather than capture. A tragic tale. A convenient one.

Even more curious was what had followed. The moment their deaths were confirmed, the castle had surrendered—and its defenders, despite their long resistance, had been spared.

That was the reputation that surrounded him now. It was unspoken, never directly addressed, but always present.

Alpheo was a noble-killer.

And that was precisely what Shahab’s son had been carefully alluding to—never stating it outright, of course. Saying such a thing to Alpheo’s face would do him no favors; a misstep like that could easily be taken as an insult. Instead, Jared had danced around the truth, nudging toward it with deliberate subtlety, letting the weight of his unspoken words settle in the minds of everyone present.

Wars, for most nobles, were a game. A spectacle where noblemen tested their skill, paraded their banners, and clashed swords for honor and prestige. And when a noble died, it was to be treated as a tragedy, an unfortunate accident in the great dance of war.

But Alpheo? Alpheo had killed more nobles than all of them put together.

Now, that same man—the one who had torn apart entire noble lines—was marching toward their homes.

If he were in their position, he too would feel fear. Not for his lands. Not for his subjects. But for his family.

He glanced up, his gaze flickering toward Jared, then toward the rest of the tent.

Yes. This was a plan worth considering.

Alpheo was on the verge of making his decision when a sudden thought cut through his mind like a blade. It was quick—so quick he almost dismissed it—but as it settled, a slow, knowing smile curled onto his lips.

The shift in his expression did not go unnoticed. The men in the tent, at least two out of the three of them had seen that look before.

It was the look of a man who had just grasped something—a thought, an advantage, an answer—that no one else had yet considered.

No one spoke, but their eyes remained fixed on Alpheo, waiting. Expectant.

Because whatever had just crossed his mind, they believed , was something that would be able to change the status quo.