Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 618: The crown blessed union(2)

As the feast carried on—music rising, wine flowing, and the smell of roasted game thick in the air—Alpheo sat slightly reclined, his mind far from the clamor. Eyes half-lidded, he mulled over maps and diplomatic projections in the theater of his thoughts, trying to shape the shifting politics of the Chorsi and their neighbors like a potter with wet, unyielding clay.

So engrossed was he in this mental sculpture that he failed to notice the shadow approaching his side until it spoke.

"Is everything all right, Alph?"

The familiar voice was slurred ever so slightly, warm with wine and honey.

Alpheo blinked, turning his head to find Asag standing over him, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy with the comfortable daze of half-drunken joy. Without waiting for permission, Asag dropped himself into the empty seat beside him—once Egil’s, now claimed by no-one.

"You’ve been awfully quiet. Gods above, you look like someone snuck a corpse into your wine." He tore a piece of honeyed cake from a nearby platter and crammed it in his mouth, speaking through crumbs. "Shouldn’t you be shouting and dancing like the rest of us? It’s our man Jarza’s wedding, after all. You weren’t so gloomy at mine"

Alpheo exhaled through his nose with the ghost of a smile. "I think Jarza has enough people shouting and dancing for him. Besides, someone should consider keeping him alive long enough to perform his husbandly duties. Look at him—if Laedio pours one more cup, the man’s going to be nothing but a hiccup in a puddle."

Asag laughed, spraying a few crumbs onto the table. "That’s true. Poor bastard’s going to need divine intervention just to remember his vows tonight, let alone consummate them. But I wouldn’t worry. Our charming old friend has always had a second wind when it mattered."

He pointed with his cup, directing Alpheo’s gaze across the hall. "Though I must say, while the groom’s turning to wine, the bride seems to be turning into quite the social butterfly. Look at her—cozying up to your wife like they’ve been sisters since the cradle."

Alpheo’s gaze followed, eyes narrowing slightly in bemused interest.

Jasmine was indeed engaged in lively conversation with Varaku—Jarza’s new bride. The two were seated close, almost knee to knee, speaking in low, easy tones. Jasmine’s expression, normally reserved and frostbitten by court protocol, was uncharacteristically warm.

"I wonder how much she speaks of our tongue," Alpheo muttered, leaning on one elbow.

"Enough, it seems," Asag replied. "Though maybe it’s your wife doing all the work. I didn’t think Jasmine even spoke outside of state functions."

Well, it isn’t like she has much to talk about with my companions, the prince noted in his mind.

"She doesn’t even stomach her own lady-in-waiting," he then murmured, almost to himself. "But there she is, laughing like they’ve shared secrets for a decade."

Asag leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, smirking. "Well, it must run in the family, doesn’t it? That ability to charm at first meeting."

Alpheo chuckled quietly, remembering the first time he’d spoken to Torghan. Honest, timid, raw, . Alpheo had liked him immediately, especially since he looked like the type of man who would be loyal if given the opportunity.

"Sounds like you’ve picked the right people to surround yourself with," Asag quipped, reaching lazily for another cup of wine. "Who would’ve thought tribesmen would be so damn charming on a first impression?"

Then, as if noticing something just now, his grin deepened, curling mischievously. "Speaking of first impressions... that’s the boy’s first banquet, isn’t it?"

He gestured with his cup toward the far end of the hall, where a familiar, wiry figure was animatedly gesturing and speaking with a girl whose noble blood was as undeniable as her beauty.

Alpheo followed the gesture and couldn’t help but let a small chuckle escape him. "Looks like Ratto’s spending too much time with Egil."

The fourteen-year-old former cutpurse was currently putting on a theatrical retelling of some obviously exaggerated tale, arms flailing and face twisting for dramatic effect. Across from him sat Lysandra, Jasmine’s younger sister—sixteen summers old, noble to the bone, and genuinely laughing.

"Aiming for the blue blood already, is he?" Asag roared. "Must’ve learned that from you—go straight for the crown jewels!"

Alpheo smirked, entirely unbothered by the match of pickpocket and princess. "He’s got more wit than most boys his age—and the guts to match."

"And she’s what—fifteen?"

"Sixteen," Alpheo corrected.

"Hmm," Asag mused, swirling his wine. "Has your wife started sniffing out marriage prospects for her yet?I suppose she won’t have the opportunity to choose for herself as your wife did , right?"

"Not quite. Though something like that came up recently. "

"Oh?" Asag perked up, eyebrows raised. "Do tell."

Alpheo leaned back, resting an arm on the chair beside him, voice lowering slightly. "Word reached me from my wife a few weeks ago. Seems our little thrashing of the Oizenians rattled the new boy-prince. So much so that he thought the best way to calm things down was to propose a marriage alliance—with her."

Asag nearly choked on his wine.

He stared at Alpheo for a full moment, eyes squinting, trying to gauge whether he was being played. But seeing no jest on the prince’s face, he let out a booming, belly-deep laugh that startled a few nearby guests.

"They invade us twice in three years—we kill the father, kill a quarter of their high nobility , take ransom for the other quarter—and now the new cub wants to marry into your house? Does he think blood washes off with a dowry?"

Alpheo chuckled, amused by the absurdity himself. "He’s young, maybe foolish—or desperate. Still, He’ll be too weak to lift a sword for years, let alone a bride."

"I don’t see any wedding rings, so I take it you turned him down?"

"You suppose correctly," Alpheo nodded. "And truthfully, we’ve bigger plans. Once things are settled with Herculia, my eyes will turn south"

Asag blinked. "...south?"

"To the Oizenian lands.I am looking to redraw our border and make it easier to defend for the future. Specifically, all the way to the Loutum River."

Initially Asag saw nothing wrong with it, then however he remembered were the Loutum river was...

"The Loutum?" he echoed. "That’s the border with the western princedoms. You want to annex the whole damn princedom?’’

"Yes," Alpheo said calmly, pouring himself another drink. "No more patchwork treaties or tit-for-tat vengeance. The Oizenians have proven they won’t be peaceful neighbors. If we are to rise, they must fall. I’ll carve out the land until that river is our new spine. After that, there will be no ’Prince of Oizen.’ That title will exist only on parchment—beneath the crown of ours."

Alpheo took another slow sip from his cup, his gaze still fixed on the festivities before him, though his mind lingered elsewhere. Without turning his head, he asked plainly, "Do you disapprove?" he then asked noticing his friend’s silence

Asag let out a breath that was half a chuckle, half a scoff. "Disapprove? Never," he said, grinning. "I’m just marveling at the fact you’re sitting here, calmly sipping wine, talking about annexing an entire neighbour while the ink on the orders for the next invasion hasn’t even dried."

Alpheo smiled faintly, finally glancing back at him. "Perhaps I am running when I should be walking. But no harm in speaking of the path ahead, is there? Better to measure the road now than to stumble blindly later."

"Ever the planner," Asag muttered, shaking his head with a crooked grin.

"I’m not saying we march on Oizen tomorrow," Alpheo continued, voice measured, almost thoughtful. "But if things go as I intend—if Herculia falls into line and the tribes remain cooperative—it would be foolish not to consider our position. By then, our borders will have stretched like a bowstring pulled tight. And tight strings are easy to defend if properly anchored."

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as the flickering candlelight caught the sharpness in his eyes. "That will be the right time to raise the banner anew. A kingdom. A true one. With rivers for borders and mountains at our back."

"And after that?" Asag asked, intrigued.

"Then we stop." Alpheo said it simply, but with the weight of conviction. "We abandon this constant expansion. We build fortresses along the rivers—the Loutum to the west. We control the passes and choke every road that leads to our heartland.

He took another drink, the vision clearly taking root even as the music and laughter swirled around them. "From there, we govern. We harvest. We trade. We dig in like ticks on the hide of the continent and dare anyone to try and scratch us off, when we have sufficient strength we will push ahead."

Asag gave a slow nod, clearly impressed. "You’ve thought about this a fair deal."

As the laughter of the feast bubbled on around them, Asag lowered his gaze to the dark red swirl at the bottom of his wine cup, as if the depth might reveal some answer hidden in its shadow. He rolled the cup slowly between his fingers.

Then, without a word, he tipped the cup back and drank the last of it. Setting it down with a faint clink, he turned his head and locked eyes with Alpheo, his voice quieter now, but clear.

"How long have we known each other?"

Alpheo blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. "...Four years," he answered after a breath, his mind catching up. "Give or take a few days."

As if summoned by the question, the memory came flooding back to him—vivid and raw despite the time passed. The smell of blood and smoke of the Romelian camp, the chaotic blur of an uprising gone almost to ruin. He remembered standing his ground, leading the charge , in the few times he had in his life and almost dying.

He would’ve died there, gutted in the street like a pig , if it hadn’t been for a slave who appeared out of nowhere, slashing down the Romelian guard from behind with a jagged cut to the spine.

Asag leaned back, his fingers drumming absently on the rim of his empty cup. "You know," he began, not looking at Alpheo just yet, "almost all of us have shared some piece of our past over the years. Egil with his broken family and his obsessive hatred against the Romelian.

Laedio born into slavery. Even Jarza, with his life in Arlania. One by one, you’ve all laid your cards on the table."

He finally turned his head. "Everyone but me."

Alpheo said nothing—just listened, his face unreadable.

"I always meant to," Asag admitted. "I told myself I’d find the time. After a battle, after a march, after a drink. But time always slipped past. And then... Aracina happened."

Alpheo’s eyes narrowed, his mind going back to that brutal siege where he had only seen the aftermath.

Asag continued, his voice more somber now. " I was sure I was going to die. I’d taken quite the wounds and became too weak to lift my blade. And you know what I thought about? Not glory. Not regrets. Just that... I’d never told you. Never showed you."

Still, Alpheo said nothing, only watched him carefully.

Then, slowly, Asag lifted his hand and brushed aside the long, hanging lock of hair that always shielded the right side of his face. For the first time in all the years Alpheo had known him, he saw it fully—a broad, angry scar burned deep into the flesh, twisting the skin from temple to jaw.

"I think," Asag said quietly, eyes steady, "it’s time I told you a little about who I was... before you knew me."

The prince did not speak. He didn’t have to. The silence between them was not empty—but full. Full of understanding. Full of invitation, of weakness...

And above all, full of something far more valuable than any that had been stated

Trust.

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