Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 626: Preparing the stage

The royal court of the Capital of Yarzat stood like a crown upon the land, unattainable to all but a privileged few.

And for those rare enough to pass its gates, it evoked awe not unlike that of the great Cathedral of Romelia—sacred, serene, and silent in its authority.

Yet to truly understand its majesty, one had to escape the clamor of the city. The transition from Yarzat’s raucous streets—where merchants hawked their wares, where the stench of sweat and spice clung to the air, where the clatter of hooves on cobblestone was a ceaseless drum—into the court’s domain was like stepping through a veil.

One moment, chaos.

The next—stillness.

Before beign enveloped by stillness and beauty.

Just beyond the final arch of the city, the stone road stretched forward, smooth and well-kept, flanked on either side by seas of green. The grasses swayed in the wind like water disturbed by a distant ripple, and tall trees—oaks, elms, and willows—offered dappled shade .

And then there was the garden.

A hundred meters from the court’s outer wall, the it started, not simply a garden, but a living picture of color . Winding paths of crushed white stone led through bowing archways of blooming wisteria and into hidden groves of cherry trees whose petals fell like soft rain when stirred by the wind.

This garden was no mere ornament—it was a kingdom within a kingdom. Every bend and bloom bore the order of the sovereign himself. Known for his eccentric tendecies by those close enough to him, the ruler of Yarzat had taken to walking its grounds in the early morning or at twilight.

And yet there was a part of it that few knew, as it had stood unutilized for decades.

The old fighting ground.

For nearly fifty years, it had stood abandoned, dust-laden and ghostly quiet, its silence broken only by the wind dragging leaves across the cracked stone floor. The last event held there had been a modest tournament—forgettable, and forgotten.

That is, until Alpheo found it.

In the early days of his rule, when the shape of his reign was still malleable and his vision untested, Alpheo had wandered the estate like a man seeking answers from its very stones.

Where others saw a relic, Alpheo saw a foundation. And like so many things he touched, he transformed it.

So he reclaimed the forgotten fighting grounds, breathing life into its dust-choked silence. At first, it was merely a place for his soldiers to drill, to sweat, to push their bodies to the brink. But Alpheo was not a man who did anything by halves. He saw the potential for something greater—a way to shatter expectations, to turn the very nature of combat on its head.

The halberd was his answer.

Forged under his exacting direction, it was a weapon of brutal elegance—neither spear nor axe, but something far more dangerous. Its curved blade could hook a man’s leg and send him crashing to the ground. Its spike could punch through armor with the force of a charging bull. Its length allowed for sweeping, deceptive strikes that left opponents stumbling, their defenses in tatters. But the true genius lay not in the steel itself, but in how it was wielded.

Alpheo crafted a fighting style that was entirely foreign to Yarzat’s warriors. Where most relied on the familiar rhythm of sword and shield, or the straightforward thrust of a spear, his halberdiers moved with a fluid, almost predatory grace.

Against spearmen, they were devastating—their armored forms shrugging off desperate jabs as they hooked their enemies’ weapons aside, then cleaved through flesh and bone in a single, seamless motion.

Against swordsmen, they were even worse.

A feinted overhead strike would send a foe’s shield jerking upward—only for the halberd’s blade to shear through an exposed ankle, dropping them like a felled tree before the killing blow descended.

And now, after years of quiet preparation, the old grounds would bear witness not to drills, not to sparring, but to bloodshed in earnest.

A trial by combat.

Lord Gregor—accused—and Lord Talek—the son of the slain Lord Robert—would meet here. The garden court would stand silent, save for the cheers and gasps of nobles craning their necks from balconies above. Blood would mix with rose petals.

Vengeance and law would collide.

Alpheo would have laughed at the absurdity of it all if the situation weren’t so damned inconvenient.

Here he was, the sovereign of Yarzat, bound by a promise to some stubborn old relic of a man, forced to play nursemaid to a reckless boy who seemed determined to decorate the arena sands with his own entrails.

The irony was almost poetic—almost.

That insolent little shit, he seethed inwardly, his polished boots striking the palace stones with more force than necessary as he marched toward the training grounds.

He couldn’t have picked a worse time. The memory of the interrupted feast still burned in his mind—the half-eaten roast boar glistening on its platter, the nobles frozen mid-toast, their goblets suspended in shock as young Talek threw down his challenge with all the subtlety of a warhammer.

And the worst part? The boy had timed it perfectly, he hated conceding that to him.

Before the entire court, with every influential lord bearing witness, Alpheo had been left with no choice but to accept.

A refusal would have been seen as weakness,and injustice. The realization that he’d been outmaneuvered—by Talek, of all people—gnawed at him like a persistent rat.

He had underestimated the boy. For years, he’d dismissed Talek as little more than a soft-spoken lamb, content to linger in the shadows of greater men. But the sight of his father’s butchered remains had apparently sharpened him into something far more dangerous. freёnovelkiss-com

A blade hidden in velvet, now unsheathed.

Now I have to keep that old warhound from turning Robert’s son into matching set of pieces, Alpheo thought grimly. The irony was almost enough to make him laugh. Robert had been a thorn in his side in life, and now, even in death, his legacy was causing headaches.

Damn you, Robert. Even rotting in the ground, you’re still making my life difficult.

He exhaled sharply, forcing the tension from his shoulders. A king’s composure was armor as much as any steel plate, and he couldn’t afford to let his irritation show, even if for now he wasn’t one . By the time he reached the training grounds, his face was once again a mask of calm authority.

Pontus, at least, had not failed him.

The architect had been whining for months about the delayed sewer projects—Alpheo made a mental note to finally grant the man his damned drainage system—but when called upon, he had delivered. The old fighting grounds, once a sad patch of dirt and splintered wood, had been transformed.

Gone was the cramped, fifty-meter square of packed sand, its rickety wooden stands barely fit for peasants. In its place stood an arena worthy of Yarzat’s rising prestige. The space had tripled in size, its foundations reinforced as the area around the sand was made of white stone.

The seating had quadrupled, tiered and sturdy, soon to be packed with nobles clutching their betting slips and gasping at every clash of steel. The central pavilion now loomed tall, its beams strong enough to support banners, torches, and whatever other theatrics Alpheo might require.

"You’ve done a fine work," Alpheo allowed, waving a lazy hand at the renovated arena.

Alpheo’s mouth curled in amusement as Pontus shuffled into view, his bald pate shining like a waxed apple beneath the midday sun. Time had not been kind to the architect’s appearance—if anything, his already unfortunate features had settled into their ugliness with the permanence of a poorly laid foundation.

That prodigious nose, which could have served as a ship’s prow, cast a shadow long enough to provide shade for small animals. His eyebrows, two unruly thickets of hair, threatened to merge into one monstrous unibrow, held apart only by a stubborn strip of flesh that refused to surrender to the encroaching foliage.

Gods above, Alpheo had thought when he had first met the man , looks more like a vulture than man .

Pontus bowed so low his nose nearly scraped the ground. "Your Grace is too generous. Though, had I been granted additional resources—more time, more gold—I might have achieved true greatness."

Alpheo’s grin widened. "Ah, there it is. I’d have been genuinely concerned if you hadn’t found something to complain about.I am sure that next time you will manage to make use of all your skills, do not let a small self-pierceived failure to set you back so much.."

The architect’s left eye twitched—just once, but Alpheo caught it. Normally, this was when Pontus would launch into one of his legendary tirades, progressing through increasingly dramatic stages of outrage like a poorly written tragedy, where he would state that his work was not at fault with his skills but with the funding behind it. But today, the storm passed almost instantly. The man’s face smoothed into unsettling calm.

Alpheo’s surprise clearly washed his expression away.

Either someone’s replaced my architect with an impostor, or he’s about to ask for something truly outrageous.

Pontus cleared his throat and rubbed his hands together with the greasy enthusiasm of a fishmonger about to pawn off yesterday’s catch. "Your Grace, while this arena is certainly impressive, might I suggest that nothing would showcase your benevolence quite like a modern sewage system? Imagine—cobbled streets free of filth, while your great aqueducts carrying fresh water to every corner of the city. Your nobles could stroll without fear of stepping in... well, anything unsavory."

"How touching," Alpheo drawled counting this to be the....maybe eight time, or so?

"But I suspect your sudden concern for the citizens’ footwear has less to do with civic pride and more to do with the fact that sewer constructors names are more renowned than arena renovators."

Pontus didn’t even have the decency to look abashed. "A coincidence, I assure you. Though now that you mention it..."

"No."

The architect’s shoulders slumped dramatically, as if Alpheo had personally condemned him to starvation.

"However," the prince continued, watching with satisfaction as Pontus’s head snapped up like a marionette on strings, "there may be another path to your precious pipes. Gods only know how much you will nag if you’ll not have your way."

Pontus leaned forward, his nose quivering with anticipation. "Your Grace is as wise as he is generous. What must I do?"

Alpheo waited a beat, savoring the moment. "Next summer, we march on Herculia. ’’ he said dropping the news to somebody that was not part of his military council. Their capital’s walls are thick. A long siege awaits." He paused to brush imaginary dust from his sleeve. "Should your... skills prove valuable during the campaign, I might be persuaded to reconsider your sewer proposal for the year after the campaign."

The hope in Pontus’s eyes dimmed slightly—he was many things, but not stupid enough to miss when he was being strung along, as that meant that first, the capital city of Herculia would have to fall, and he knew of it far enough to know the hardship in it.

Still, the mere possibility was enough to reignite his determination. He bowed deeply, his nose nearly brushing his knees this time.

"Then I shall endeavor to ensure Your Grace’s expectations are... thoroughly exceeded.If you would allow me, I would like to go and check on my disciples, to see how they are faring your Grace..."

Given the nod as Pontus retreated, Alpheo turned back to the arena, his smile fading. The architect was a useful tool, but tools could slip. But still men who wanted something badly enough often proved full of surprises.

And he knew how much surprises they would need to achieve that success he envisioned so much.

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